Keep The Giraffe Burning

by Sladek, John

  It was a warm June day, 27ºC. Most of the people on my bus seemed to be headed for the beach. As I later learned, most of them had no jobs to go to. I stepped off the bus and stood shading my eyes to look up at the hill in Hill Park. Near the top they were setting up the metal walls of our laboratory. The park gates were closed, and guarded by two Marines. Too late, I remembered the pass in my suitcase.

  As I stood there, a man wearing a white armband with crude lettering on it handed me a leaflet.

  ‘I haven’t got any change,’ I said.

  ‘It’s free,’ he said. ‘Read it, mister. Find out what the Face really means. Come to our rally tonight and hear the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’

  ‘The real truth. Not what these government bastards want us to believe. The truth they’re afraid of.’

  I didn’t tell him I was working for the government bastards; it would only have provoked him. He stared at me until I smiled and put the leaflet in my pocket. I forgot all about it for the time being.

  From the window of the bus back to the barracks, I saw several wall graffiti I didn’t understand. But they all seemed to refer to the object. One was a face divided by a bolt of lightning. One was a face surrounded by sun rays. I remember these two only because I’ve seen them so often since, but there were many others. The object in the park had already become the focus of several movements, both political and mystical. Most of them, like the Society of the Peaceful Face, the American Vigilante Volunteers and the Space Brotherhood, either disbanded or merged, but anyhow dropped out of sight. Only two evolved and lived on.

  The Guardians of the Mask emphasized the fact that the object was a white face. They believed it to be only part of the body to come. Any day now, the hands would turn up in, say, Britain, and the feet in Scandinavia, and the rest in other Caucasian countries. (Medical students often played cruel tricks with these pathetic hopes.) Finally the complete Messiah-Fuhrer would assemble himself and lead them into the final, racial Armageddon, in which all but the white race would certainly die.

  The New Universologists on the other hand believed the object to be an oracle. They reckoned it had now been sleeping for nearly a thousand years. Soon it would awaken, to tell them what to do next, to achieve a world of lasting peace and brotherhood.

  Normally both movements might have appealed only to a fringe of unhappy people, but these were far from normal times. The nation was undergoing great economic and political upheavals, and the government almost daily proved itself unequal to the problems of unemployment and unrest. Both movements attracted thousands in this city alone, and perhaps hundreds of thousands more were sympathetic to their causes. Other cities were close behind.

  The Communist Party saw which way the wind blew, and lent some support to the New Universologists (NU), to help them organize. In return, over the next few months, the NU began to lay more stress on workers’ control of industry, and less on miracles. Reacting, ultra-conservative groups threw in their lot – and their considerable money – with the Guardians of the Mask (GM). Up and down the country there were demonstrations and counter-demonstrations, rallies and rally-smashers, protest marches and torchlight processions. And a sense of urgency. A sense that power was now within reach of those who most needed it. Power was just inside the gates of Hill Park.

  Or so they must have thought. At different times, both groups tried storming the park to rescue their idol. The police, even with state police reinforcements, were almost overwhelmed by the second attack. Next day the edge of the park was barricaded with sandbags, and several hundred Marines were billeted inside. From now on until the end of our project, no one could ever be allowed to come into the park.

  The end of our project? It dragged its long, slow, serpent’s body through the summer, with no end in sight. One day in October I looked up at the news clipping on my wall. Not a single vital question had been answered. We knew nothing important, and it looked as though we never would. Our work had disintegrated into endless proofs and disproofs of secondary theories. The serpent had no end, it had swallowed it, and now chewed on itself …

  Who am I, a lab technician, to make this judgement? I speak, not of the scientific facts, but of the human differences within the project. I wasn’t just washing glassware and reading dials, not all the time. I kept my eyes open.

  There was a fundamental split from the very beginning, between Dr Lowell, our project director, and Dr Grauber, head of the medical section. The medical people wanted to move the object to University Hospital and place it under intensive care. Dr Lowell supported the biologists who argued against this, saying that it might be dangerous to uproot it from its present environment. Dr Grauber replied that this was entirely a medical decision, hence his to make. Dr Lowell said that depended entirely on whether or not the object was truly human.

  ‘How on earth can we find out what it is unless we get it into a proper laboratory? Do you expect my men to do biopsies out here?’ Grauber had to stand on tiptoe to shout this into Lowell’s face. The director was a head taller than Grauber, and, like many big men, bland and almost friendly in an argument. He liked to pose as a big, jolly, absent-minded professor, slow of speech and always fishing for his pipe in one packet of his baggy tweed jacket. In reality he was a ruthless executive. Whatever he knew or didn’t know about science, he knew how to command. Most of us came to respect him, even like him.

  Grauber was generally unliked. I knew him from the hospital, where they called him Napoleon. A cold, logical little man, a brilliant scientist, but he threw tantrums when he didn’t get his way.

  He tore off his pince-nez and shook them under Lowell’s nose – as though he wanted to shake a fist at him. ‘Is that what you expect? Is it? Is it?’

  Lowell sighed. ‘Dr Grauber, I expect you to follow my direction. We’ll get along better if you do, okay?’

  It was not okay. The arguments grew worse as the project dragged on through the summer. The staff were all upset; we all found ourselves taking sides. I would hear:

  ‘Grauber just wants to get control of the project himself. So he wants to drag the thing off to his own lab, and then gradually ease Lowell out of the driver’s seat. I’ve seen his kind before.’

  ‘Are you crazy? Grauber’s ten times the scientist Lowell ever will be. And I’ll tell you something else. He really cares about that “thing” out there. It’s no “thing” to him, it’s a human being in need of medical treatment.’

  There was something in both sides; I didn’t know what to believe. After one shattering evening of this, I quit work early. I had to drag myself on the bus, and then I sat with closed eyes, wishing away my throbbing headache. The engine vibration and bright lights were still getting through to me, so finally I got out and walked.

  It was quiet and dark. Just my footsteps and the occasional streetlight. I noticed my headache going.

  Then I turned a corner and found myself at a rally of the New Universologists. There were maybe fifty people listening, and one white-haired man speaking from the back of a pickup truck. The banner behind him said THE FACE OF PEACE, and showed the sun-ray symbol. Most of the people looked poor, but more or less respectable. One exception was the dirty, unshaven man who was taking pictures.

  ‘… a face of peace,’ said the speaker. ‘Brothers, do you know what peace means? Do any of us know? Have they ever let us find out? Not a chance.

  ‘Of course peace will be hard on same people. Think of all those rich arms manufacturers that’ll have to go out and get an honest job! Think of all the generals who might have to work for a living! Think of the paid-off politicians who get a piece of every big arms contract – on relief! We all know who’s against peace, don’t we? And they’ve got a steel ring around Hill Park right now!

  ‘What are they so afraid of, brothers? I’ll tell you …’

  But he never did tell us, for just then a man in a Halloween mask jumped up and pulled him down off the tuck. There were more men in masks with baseball ba
ts, hitting people in the front of the crowd.

  Someone screamed, ‘The GMs!’

  We ran. I looked back from a safe distance. Two of the invaders were kicking the white-haired man as he lay in the street. Others were tying to turn over the truck. My headache was back, and now I felt sick to my stomach besides.

  At work the Grauber-Lowell arguments went on. Medical staff monitored the object’s temperature, pulse and respiration (dials for me to read), all below normal. They took tissue samples (a biopsy) and found it had human flesh. Radiologists found that the face contained normal human face bones and teeth. The jaw was fused, unworkable. Three of the teeth had metal fillings. All this enabled Grauber to say:

  ‘It’s human, for God’s sake! It’s in a coma. Probably dying!’

  ‘Part-human,’ Lowell replied, lighting his pipe. ‘A symbiosis, I think. And we’re in a unique position to study it in its natural environment. Let’s not plop it in a hospital bed just yet, shall we?’

  And there was evidence for his side, too. The back of the object was connected to the soil through masses of tiny thread-like roots. Vegetation seemingly living in symbiosis with a human face. Just how the two worked together was unclear. An ultrasonic probe showed clusters of tiny sacs attached to some of these roots. The sacs pulsated together, providing the object’s pseudo-breathing.

  Everyone took sides but me. I tried hard to stay impartial, to wait for the final blaze of truth. At home I tried not to notice the yellowed clipping on the wall. None of the questions were checked off. We knew nothing.

  The last week of October was the worst. Dr Grauber said that the first frost might kill the object, whether or not it was human. Dr Lowell agreed, but argued for moving it to a greenhouse, not a hospital. All over town there were cryptic notices of a massive GM procession, on Halloween, ‘Night of the Mask’. Police leave was cancelled for that night, and still more Marines were brought in. When I arrived for work at dusk, I saw them setting up machine guns on the barricades. Ring of steel, I thought. And for what?

  Someone said Dr Grauber wanted to see me. While I waited outside his office I could hear him and Lowell arguing.

  ‘You admit you know nothing of medicine, Dr Lowell. You’re a biologist. A marine biologist at that. You know about as much about medicine as I know about – pogonophorae.’

  ‘Certainly. But I don’t see –’

  ‘Then I’ll spell it out for you. The face is human, or part-human. If he dies, because you’ve disregarded medical advice – good advice – that’s murder.’

  ‘Oh, come now. You can’t –’

  ‘I can. I’ll have you arrested, Dr Lowell. And brought to trial.’

  ‘You’ll never prove it’s human.’

  ‘No, you’ll probably get off. But think of the headlines. Think of what the publicity will mean to your precious career.’

  ‘God damn you,’ said Lowell pleasantly. ‘I almost think you would, too. Still, I can always fire you.’

  There was a loud click. When Lowell came out, he was putting the broken pieces of his pipe in his pocket. He looked worried, but when he saw me, he smiled.

  ‘Next patient,’ he said.

  Grauber looked sick. He was polishing his pince-nez furiously, perhaps to disguise the trembling of his hands.

  ‘Ah, Anderson is it?’ He never remembered the names or faces of his staff. ‘Sit down, Anderson. I have some rather bad news for you.’

  I sat down. ‘What is it, Doctor?’

  ‘The FBI came to see me earlier, to tell me you’re a security risk.’

  ‘What? Me?’

  ‘They showed me a photograph of you at some rally. One of these odd-ball groups that keeps trying to smash their way into the park. And they searched your room at the barracks and found a certain leaflet.’

  ‘But I can explain –’

  He held up a hand. ‘I’m sure you can. I’m sure you can. But not to me. I don’t understand these new political things. They say you must go, so go you must. I am sorry. Of course we’ll try to keep you on at the hospital, if we can. I’m sure you mean us no harm.’

  ‘No harm? No harm?’ When I got outside, I had to laugh. It’s said Auguste Kekulé laughed when he awoke from his dream to understand the benzene ring. In the words of the song:

  Then I awoke

  Was this some kind of joke?

  It was, and the joke was on me. I had worked four months for the project, washing glassware, reading dials. Keeping an open mind, not taking sides. Waiting for the blaze of truth. And the truth was I had never laid eyes on the Face itself.

  Well, now was the time. Coming up the hill to the park I could see the great GM procession, thousands on thousands of tiny lights like the glittering scales of one huge snake. Pointing to the truth in the park. Over there, in that little tent. What would they do, if they broke in? Carry it away? Fall down and worship, pressing their hideous masks to the ground? Too many questions (Can it speak? Can it think?), and no answers.

  I thought of Kekulé’s dream again. Was there another meaning? The snake devours its tail: All things must turn back to their origins. The circle is zero. Ashes to ashes …

  I took a 500 ml bottle of benzene from the lab, where I had used it to clean the glassware. Kekulé’s benzene, the big zero. When I tore open the flaps of the little tent I could hardly make out the Face. Just a lighter oval in the darkness. I poured the bottle of benzene on it and ignited it. They tell me there was an explosion. My face was burned, and I have lost my sight.

  But I have seen enough.

  THE MASTER PLAN

  Author’s Note.

  This story is told in nine parenthetical ‘layers’:

  The general’s last word.

  A present tense account of the ‘Battle of the Corridor’ as he perceives it.

  A past tense account of the past few days in the hospital.

  A medico-military report on ‘the subject’s’ life, career and emotional state.

  His top-secret monograph on The Master Plan.

  Brief extracts from scenes of his childhood, youth and young manhood.

  An ‘Item Description’ of Woman as he sees her.

  His dreams.

  A sub-dream ‘reality’ which permits him an overview of all of the above.

  SH (Yes, that was a kind of command: QUIET – HOSPITAL ZONE. The General’s dry eyes flicker, and he lets them close against the fluorescent whiteness.

  He stands naked in the corridor, swaying slightly. When he opens his eyes he sees that the light has robbed him of his shadow. A little more gloom, he complains reasonably. And some eerie Muzak, please. (Miss R. B. Glaski and Miss T. N. Nye were his two-day nurses. The punning part of his backbrain relabelled them Miss Glass and Miss Nylon, and then went on to further barbarisms: Intern Al Hemorrhage, etc. Only the surgeon, Dr Godden, seemed to escape.

  One night the General awoke with a high fever (The subject was born in Avalon, Iowa, in 1925, and there lived with both parents (and an older sister) until 1944, when drafted into the Army Air Force. The subject married Miss Ruth Matthias in 1946. Their only child, a boy, died at birth two years later.

  9. Attended the following schools: University of Minnesota (USAFROTC), 1946-50: B.S. (Math.) Fort Buechner Flight School, Amis, Texas, 1951-2. The War College Annexe, Port Smith, Virginia: M.S., Ph.D. The Air Defense Academy, Casper, Wyoming, 1958-9. L’Ecole Supérieure de la Science Militaire, Antwerp, 1966.

  The subject is an Associate Fellow of the Potomac Institute for Advanced Studies, Washington, D.C. (It may seem presumptuous to call the Master Plan both beautifully simple and elegant, but such is done in the certain knowledge that it is the only means of carrying on wars of any kind whatever; that it will supersede everything from the meanest counterinsurgency campaign to the most ambitious and brilliant global showdown. The Plan is a complete, self-contained system of programming which does not admit of lesser plans. Strategy and tactics are drawn into its circle of radiance and there transmuted. (In hi
s room with the door shut, and The Lone Ranger turned up loud. Even then, he could hear Dad shouting at her. She’d be better off dead than coming to him like this. He’d rather kill any daughter of his who came home in trouble. The razor blade slipped through the sheet of balsa and into his finger and right out again. (ITEM DESCRIPTION: (He was late to work at the hybrid seed corn plant, so now he had to drive through the late-maze that must be insoluble. ‘They’re making a movie of my life,’ he explained to the doctor. ‘It must be in the next room, but I think it’s too late to see it.’ ‘On TV,’ the doctor said, motioning him to the second butcher’s block. On the first lay an oddly familiar figure, split open. It lay face down, like someone making love. The cleaver) Blood the colour of dirty brick fell to the razor-nicked edge of the table. ‘Hi-yo, Silver!’) The subject was a jet ace twice in Korea, and was awarded the DFC in 1953. Later that year, the subject suffered a nervous collapse, and was retired from flight duty.) conscious of a presence by the bed. Ruth? Out of the question – the night nurse, maybe. He did not roll over to look, but held himself rigid. After a while, he slept again. Dreamlessly.

  The next morning Captain Savage made the first of his many little visits. He was not only attached to the General’s staff, he was for the moment the entire staff, his only link with the Pentagon. The two set about preparing the General’s monograph on the Master Plan.

  Captain Savage was a fussy, pedantic little clerk, complete to the pair of silver-rimmed glasses gripping his nose like calipers. His sharp face grew animated when he was talking of numbers, and his hands – when they were not making a priestly gesture, fingertips together – were forever busy counting and naming things.