by Sladek, John
The medium did not speak. After a moment, Ras said, ‘I thought it wasn’t supposed to work with a skeptic in the room.’
A deep, fat voice came back at once: ‘Don’t be an ass. That’s what these fraud mediums tell you, but don’t listen to them. Actually it only works when there is at least one skeptic in the room.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Some call me God, Allah, Jaweh, the All, the Other, the Great Imponderable, Bingo, Mammon, the Light, names like that. Call me what you like, but call me in time for dinner.’
Ras shuddered at the use of that particular noun. ‘Are you the chief of the anarchists, then?’
‘Why must there be a chief? Maybe we all walk shoulder to shoulder, shank to shank. No leaders.’
‘Not your kind. You need kings to kill, at least. And presidents and bishops and gods – all targets for your bombs.’
‘Go on. I find it fascinating the way reactionaries assume all the bombs and guns are turned against them. Who raises the armies, builds the rockets, buys the bombs, draws the border and declares war, if not your kings and presidents?’
‘I should warn you,’ Ras said through gritted teeth, ‘I am an agent of the FBI.’ The time for caution was past.
‘That is obvious, and needs no warning. But you’d better warn me if you feel a change of heart coming on.’
‘No danger of that, my fat friend!’
‘Ah! But if you say that, you are on the very brink of conversion to anarchy!’
‘But you are the forces of anarchy. You are they who hate and fear the light, they who hate order because it is orderly, life because it is alive.’
‘Am I?’
Suddenly it was all wrong. Ras felt as if he had betrayed himself, to himself. He was the anarchist, and this voice the spirit of Law and Order, of J. Edgar Hoover, of –
‘Damn you!’ he shrieked. ‘Damn you, Chesterton!’
‘Chesterton?’ said the voice as the lights came up. ‘But my dear chap, Chesterton is simply other people.’
Mrs Ross opened her eyes and beamed. ‘My, how successful we have been!’ she said. ‘Two strong emanations! I think I liked the one called Chesterton best, though the late FBI agent was nice too.’
Dr Lane’s Secret Journal (III)
Dr Veck has refused to accept my parapsychological explanation of Hank’s predictions. He’s refused to even discuss them. But I tried Hank out at a séance and also with ESP cards, with interesting results. At the séance I actually spoke with the spirit of Chesterton, and heard him curse himself! This may not be Hank’s influence, of course. Still, there are the ESP scores. His psychosis seems to have brought him near to some crack in the fabric of futurity so that his inner eye sees through! If Dr Veck continues trying to suppress this discovery of national importance, I may have to unleash Hank’s terrible power upon him.
Hank’s terrible power is that he knows the future – which means the future is in some way here already! We need only ask him what to do, and receive the awful impress of his ESPing reply.
PS. I find my concentration on receiving ESP messages is much keener when I restrict my diet to brown foods – brown eggs, bread, sugar and rice – and to iron-rich foods such as molasses. Perhaps the iron sets up induction currents. But I must retain control. Hysteresis is the path to hysteria.
Ratio
‘I haven’t got any “corrected problems” for you this time. In fact I feel like giving all this up. Why don’t you just tell your piano teacher that I can’t find out any more about their bombs. About anything. And I’m not sure I care.’
‘I … see. Well, then, how about the lesson?’
‘The lesson?’
‘I’ve already learned some of it.’ To Ras’s horror, the old man closed his eyes and began reciting from memory the tables of sines and cosines.
Maybe I am an anarchist. The anarchist. But is this law and order? Sitting here listening to a mad old man?
At 4º 15’, Ras lurched from the table.
‘I … haven’t finished.’
‘I know, excuse me, I feel a little sick.’ He stumbled into the dark hallway and snatched at a doorknob at random.
‘No, wait! Don’t open that!’
Ras crashed into a closet full of glass gallon jugs. As he recoiled, one jug tipped and fell, splattering its contents. The smell of stale piss rose about him. ‘My God!’
‘I’m sorry. I’m … very retentive, you see.’
When Ras had slammed out of the house, Mr von Jones shrugged, cleared his throat, curled his right foot around a table leg, lifted an eyebrow, coughed. A terrible scene. A terrible young man. Damage had been done and repairs were needed. Mr von Jones counted to ten thousand, to the metronome.
Resist, A Plot Is Brought Home; The Tour
Ras cornered Chug in a café. ‘Listen, I have a –’ He meant ‘confession to make’, but finished ‘plan’. His voice shook, and his eyes reflected the peculiar disagreeable yellow of the Formica tables. ‘We’ll blow up the White House and kill the President.’
Keeping his face straight, Chug nodded. ‘OK. I’ve got an idea for the bomb to do it with.’ On the yellow Formica he sketched his design for an enormous steam-driven duck that could sing ‘Taking a Chance on Love’ while delivering an explosive egg.
Harry Boggs could hardly believe his good luck. But by jingo, there was no doubt about it. This ‘Ras’ and his pal ‘Chug’ were plotting assassination. This was the real thing!
Countdown
The piano teacher had brought along a piano tuner. ‘Listen, Mr von Jones, we’re making the raid today. We have to know the name of our contact man on the inside. I mean, is he still working for us? We haven’t had a report for weeks.’
‘I … a report?’
The two men leaned over him. ‘Mr von Jones? Are you all right?’
‘Look at this, Don. Pupils are different sizes. This guy’s had a stroke.’
‘I’m … fine, really. And I know the young man you mean. But his name just … I didn’t retain it.’
The raid proceeded. The FBI succeeded in arresting all members of the gang except the one called ‘Ras’, who they suspected was the ringleader. The rest were interrogated and packed off to Fort Nixon for retraining as good citizens.
My Struggle
Late that night, the President worked at his memoirs in the small office attached to his bedroom.
… and all of the Negroes wanted to shake my hand!! Combined with the rest of the day’s defeats, the pressures of responsibility for this heaviest office in the land, it was almost enough to shake my faith in my own destiny. But not quite.
I had much to be weary about. Iowa, Kansas and Nebraska were virtually a dustbowl. South Africa and its satellite nations were getting tough about Tanzania. The War still dragged on. The steel and rail strikes still dragged on. The cities – better not spoken of. Yet I had time in the midst of the storm to share a quiet joke with General Hare. I asked if he knew what kind of boat would be a slow boat to China? The answer was, a gravy boat!
The Great Seal enjoyed his joke all over again. It was the only one he’d ever made, unless you counted the Great Wall of Mexico.
The Reagan Room
‘What I want to know,’ said one of the Roosevelts to another as they went off duty, ‘is what he does in the Reagan Room? I’ve seen trays of food go in there, and a doctor.’
The other smiled the famous Roosevelt smile. ‘I thought you knew. He keeps a wounded soldier in there. Some say he just sits and chats with him, gives him encouragement. But others say it’s very odd that he particularly asked for a soldier with a belly wound.’
‘Just a minute!’ The first FDR scowled. ‘That’s the President you’re talking about, mister. Watch yourself!’
‘Now calm down. Listen, even the President might do something he’s not very proud of now and then, right? I mean, he’s only phocine, for Christ’s sake. Try to see this thing in the greater perspective of his brilliant career.’
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‘OK, OK. I just said watch it, that’s all.’
4. The Cockroach
Dr Lane’s Secret Journal (IV)
Hank has tapped out his ESP message in no uncertain terms. I see that Dr Veck is an obstacle to science. My task is clear, for Hank has sent me a picture of Dr Veck lying in a pool of blood. It must be done. I am but the instrument of fate, or of G. K. Chesterton. Perhaps they are one and the same. O my restless, questioning soul, thirsting for truth!
Later. I did it. I killed Veck in the middle of his work on a very interesting paper on socialism and epilepsy. Hank took the news calmly, considering that he is now off drugs.
‘We’re all of us doomed anyway,’ he said.
‘Doomed?’
‘The Wall. The Wall was my idea in the first place.’
‘You influenced future ev–’
‘I influenced my nephew. A long time ago I told my nephew an idea of mine for a Great Wall of Mexico. It was to be a giant decorated sculpture. My nephew much later became a special “creative” adviser to the President. Obviously he has put my idea into effect. Young Bill Filcup was always very enterprising.’
‘But the doom?’
‘Well, you and I, and this hospital-prison, and a lot of other people and places, are the decoration.’
I said I didn’t understand. He laughed.
‘We just haven’t been applied yet,’ he said.
The meaning of all this escapes me. It may be clear one day. From my window I can see the Wall, and the magnificent sunset. I
Harry
Harry thought he smelled something burning.
The U– S– of A–
A movie scenario by ‘Phil Nolan’
Scene I. A peak in Darien. Cortez stands gazing upon the Pacific, which, it is clear from the way his men exchange glances, he has just named. He is silent.
Scene II. Rapidly turning calendar pages: November 28, 29, Brumaire, 1666, Aries, November 30, 31, Ventose, 6379, 125, Thursday, 5427, New Moon.
Scene III. The Delaware River. Washington approaches, throws silver dollar across.
Scene IV. Old Glory flutters in breeze. Offscreen voices hum ‘God Save the King’.
Scene V. Japanese diplomats walking out of League of Nations. Offscreen lugubrious voice: ‘The treacherous Japanese insisted they were a peace-loving people, and we believed them. Then – the stab in the back hat brought Mr and Mrs America to their senses. On December 7, 1941 – (cut to atomic bomb explosion) – Pearl Harbor!’
Scene VI. Statue of Liberty, holding up a sword. Same voice: ‘At last, just as Britain has its Neptunia ruling the waves, just as France has its “La belle dame sans merci”, now America has Mrs Liberty, welcoming the storm-tossed aliens.’ (Karl Rossman passes.) ‘Welcome! Welcome to the melting pot!’
Scene VII. (Animation) Caldron marked MELTING POT. Ladle pours in liquefied ‘masses’. Caldron slowly sags and melts.
A Special Message from the President
The President’s black-and-white image appeared on the television screen surrounded by a black condolence border. He seemed almost too humble to have a clear image. Instead the fuzzy, bleached patches of his face, oddly patterned by liver spots and furrows, gave him the look of a soiled etching.
‘My countrymen, it is a grave announcement that I must make to you this evening. What I am about to say is a block of sadness and grief in the neighbourhood of my heart, as I am sure it will be in yours.
‘Tonight several nuclear explosions occurred at different places along the population barrier between the United States and Mexico. These explosions, let me make this perfectly dear, were accidental. No one is to blame. No one could have avoided them. Certain technical failures in our security system set off a chain of events – and Nature took its course.
‘Still, there’s no denying that many thousands, millions, rather, of people have been killed. Since these bombs were located on top of high-rise retirement ranches and on top of mental hospitals, they have killed many unfortunate persons, and that is to be regretted. It is also regrettable that a lethal zone has been created along our border.’
The black border vanished. Jubilant music swelled behind his voice as our leader intoned: ‘On the positive side, very few of our troops in the area were injured. The Army reports only a dozen casualties. Some of Will Doody’s Funville projects have been destroyed, but I am going to ask Congress to compensate Mr Doody for this terrible loss. As for the Wall itself, it has been badly burned and cratered in spots. Luckily it protects our border yet with a barrier of radiation. For the present, we are vigilant, but safe. And for the future?’
Suddenly the air about the grey President was filled with tiny, bright-coloured fingers; animated elves, fairies, butterflies and bluebirds, tiny pink bats in spangled hose, flying chipmunks and dancing dragonflies. Smiling, he too burst into colour. ‘The future is ours, my countrymen! We will rebuild our Wall taller and stronger and safer than ever, so secure that it will last a thousand years! Come! Help me make this country strong!’ He extended an arm upon which doves and butterflies were alighting already. And as the chorus sang ‘… from sea to shining sea’, twittering bluebirds modestly covered the scene with a Star-Spangled Curtain.
Epilogue
Ras turned up again in Red Square, conspicuous in a black cape and a tall silk hat. The cane in his hand was a sword cane, naturally, and the whiskers hooked over his ears on spectacle bows. A tourist gaped for a moment, as Ras harangued a crowd of pigeons.
When he’d finished, he produced a round black bomb, lit it and tossed it into the crowd. Its small pop was enough to attract the notice of two yawning policemen, who came over to examine the three dead pigeons.
As, still stifling yawns, they escorted him away, Ras shouted slogans into the faces of other tourists. Probably they knew no English, for they stared sullenly, all but one man, who sought an explanation in his guidebook.
AFTERWORD
When I showed this collection of stories to a friend of mine, Ms Cassandra Knye, she began questioning me closely about my dreams.
‘Burning seems to be one of your obsessions,’ she said. ‘A burning giraffe, a burnt face (in two stories), and even a parched adjutant.’
I said I didn’t understand what she was driving at, so she sat down to write (and doodle) the following interpretation:
In dreams we entertain recurring images, strung together sometimes in surprising ways. Since these stories purport to be surrealistic, it is valid to examine them as strings of dream-images. The conscious mind of Mr Sladek may try to disguise these images by elaborate transformations, but the dream-content shows through. Burning for example occurs throughout the collection: The first story mentions burning giraffes, and the last ends with an explosion. Another (flaming) explosion ends Secret of the Old Custard, while other stories (The Face, The Master Plan and The Locked Room) involve burning or parching.
The Great Wall of Mexico is an interesting disguise of the Great Wall of China (china is of course fired clay): The Emperor who built the Great Wall, Shih Huang Ti, ‘likewise ordered all books antedating him to be burned’. This is according to Jorge Luis Borges, who is mentioned casually in another story, Undecember.
But there are other, more visible connections. If we look at the Elephant with Wooden Leg,
his back is an arched, load-bearing bridge, as in The Design:
With the legs, head and tail restored, the elephant-bridge becomes the tortoise of Aeschylus (in Undecember):
With the trunk and a wheel added, the elephant-bridge becomes a hay-wagon, the dominant symbol of dead weight creaking through Scenes from Rural Life as though it had lost a tyre:
But the hay-wagon easily transforms to the armoured car (in Secret of the Old Custard) which is called a Welcome Wagon (note the two W’s):
The elephant’s wooden leg might equally be a torch for the Statue of Liberty. In The Great Wall, Ms Liberty has lost her torch, and may have handed it to one of the mob in The Face:
The elephant can roll up his trunk, which then equals a snake biting its own tail (as in The Face) or a tyre. The tyre is the centrepiece of a picnic in Heavens Below:
But a tyre implies a wheel, so we next look for that image. It is on the hay-wagon and the Welcome Wagon, but it turns up elsewhere: The wooden leg again may serve as a wheel and axle:
Turned on its side, the wheel and axle becomes a cake with candle (such as the cake in A Game of Jump):
The cake with its candle displaced to one side becomes a kind of clumsy boot (e.g., a Space Shoe):
The shadow of the cake with candle resembles the bomb in Great Wall:
But this bomb requires only a minimal change to become the ball-and-chain of Flatland and The Commentaries and Hammer of Evil:
The cannonball-and-chain calls to mind the Human Cannonball (The Locked Room) of the circus (elephants again!). His cannon is made of the wheel, the wooden leg, and the head of an elephant:
These same transformations may be performed to include the remaining stories.
Cassandra Knye
I feel that Ms Knye has missed the point, somehow.
JTS
ORIGINAL APPEARANCES
‘Another Look’ – Other Times #1, © 1975
‘The Commentaries’ – Ambit #39, © 1969