by Ian Wallace
New meaning began to come when, for the first time in repetitious viewings, he saw under ultraviolet a thing about the skydiving aggressor-bird. In this, fight, its plumage was purple.
He advanced upon it studying the arousal-erected feathers. Adjusting his ultraviolet lamp to small-focus intensity, he scrutinized the purple head and the violet eyes.
Faded now by tens of millennia of cave-damp, the crested head-feathers had originally been flame-red, and the eyes murderous blue.
Kali! Ultrasophisticated power!
Fifty thousand years ago?
Soul-shaken, he backed away and cut his lamp for darkness-brooding. He was remembering Point Four: that at the end of the Fishermen’s Cove illusion, Kali had pled with his small dark challenger: “Unify me, and you will win my power—’’
His daylight lamp came on, almost of itself; in this light, the bird feathers (fid maybe seem to have a suggestion of vestigial ruddiness which he hadn’t heretofore noticed. Substituting ultraviolet again, he saw the red-betraying purple unmistakably again; and immediately new meaning leaped from another element of the fresco, one which he had always dismissed as merely a balancing element in the concept of the artist. The predatory bird screamed down from above toward below-leftward where cowered the people; but still farther below to the right, clinging to an escarpment with his observing head just above the cliff edge, a skin-clad speararmed man was watching the attack. Now for the first time, in ultraviolet, Mallory saw head-hair on this man-figure: the purplish hair must originally have been painted red; and the man’s eyes, glowing violet, must originally have been blue.
Almost ill, Mallory switched off the lamp and squatted in darkness on the cave floor. After meditation, he deactivated his brain-scrambler, and he sought and found his own inward light. Then he murmured with deliberate intent to communicate, “Listen, Kali, I have a counter-deal. First, you give me your powers; then I can find a way to unify us. ... But listen, Kali: in this unification, I will be on top, you will be subordinate—”
Presently, feeling no difference, he opened eyes to darkness and chuckled awkwardly, embarrassed in darkness, embarrassing the cave-silence with his noises. And he departed the inner chamber, crawling in darkness back through the irregular tube. Once erect in the main chamber, with the blue lighting on, he tossed a soft goodbye-salute to his bison; whereafter he headed for the telephone near the entrance.
Mallory had progressed as far as he could in this cave, this visit. It was time for him to depart, accept the hospitality of his revered old friend the Vicomte de Mont Veillac for a night, and then return to Sore. What he would do after that he didn’t know yet; but maybe, returning to the Ishtar, he would find some helpful dispatches from colleagues.
15.
Antoine Rochereau, Vicomte de Mont Veillac, was maybe about a hundred years old, now in this (for both men) regrettably late year 2002. When Mallory entered his parlor, Rochereau swayed afoot in centerfloor, then tottered toward the commodore with arms outstretched; Mallory embraced him with affectionate caution for his fragile skeletal frame, wishing that conservatism had not prevented Rochereau from embracing Senility Arrest, grateful nevertheless that the vicomte’s own heart and resolve had arrested senility for his mindbrain. The ancient man’s hands quavered on the moderately younger man’s shoulder blades, and his mouth reached up to kiss Mallory’s cheeks (thirty years ago he had been several inches taller than Mallory). Rochereau squealed for Raoul, who was already there, ordered brandies, which were already there, clawed Mallory’s arm, led Mallory to the vicomte’s own favorite easy chair, sat precariously in a secondary chair nearby. Mallory held respectfully silent during the following three minutes while helpless Rochereau sought and found his breath again.
Looking up at the commodore, the vicomte groped for his brandy and found it and raised it. Mallory found his and raised it: he’d forborne until the vicomte was ready. Rochereau inhaled; Mallory inhaled; they both had sloshed first, of course, but the vicomte’s slosh merely followed from his hand-palsy. Having pretended to sip, Rochereau set his down; Mallory did sip, but sparingly; and while critically Rocherean watched, Mallory once again earned the vicomte’s approval by not swallowing but mouth-holding the sip until rather quickly it soaked into the membranes. Then, hand-warming the brandy, Mallory adjudged, “Armagnac Capuchon, 1991. An excellent year.”
“So,” nodded the vicomte, dodderingly studying his guest Mallory mused: Why do I keep noticing his dodder? Equalize our ages at thirty, and he could at least equal me with my own choice of weapons, I don’t think I am pitying extreme old age, just because in my eighties I'm stabilized in my sixties; I think I am admiring insistent longevity in despite of the merde of senility—the more so because my own longevity is done no matter how hard I may insist. I salute Mont Veillac: if our relative times had been different, he might have been competing with me for command of RP, Rochereau said presently (we’ll elide his breath-pauses), “So you have been in the cave?”
“It is my sanctuary.”
“I know; and it was mine once; and mentally, still it is. I have not been in there for five decades.”
“It is the same Cro-Magnon sanctuary; except for some lighting improvements, it has not changed; disrespectfully it ignores a mere five decades.”
“I am glad. Often I repeat my orders to keep it so. I was even reluctant about the dim blue lighting, but perhaps the Cro-Magnon would regard this as magic and therefore appropriate. I marvel, though, that such a cave should be the sanctuary of an American.”
The truth of the national-origin label, and indeed of the culture-nativity, hit Mallory as being whimsical: his tastes had been international as long as he could remember, and for consistency (but with explicit regret) he had renounced American citizenship soon after his RP had been declared a nation. But he merely said, “I respect every instance of Man performing at the highest ability-level that he can possibly evoke.”
“So: we understand each other, Rourke; we always have, since your first visit here in nineteen fifty-one when in my cave you conceived the idea for your fleet. And both of us have spoken of a five-decade lapse. For some reason I am remembering, not the last time I entered the cave, but the last time I intended to enter—only there was a small stroke which canceled all future entries for me.”
“Perhaps, Antoine, you would finally want to tell me about that.”
“Not about the stroke, but about the intent Two other Americans were involved. Today is—what date? Oh yes, it was fifty years ago, only a few days off the exact date. An American detective-inspector named Horse, and his aide named Vogel—”
Both names pinged for Mallory: Horse distantly, Vogel poignantly. Bypassing Vogel, he pressed, “You said Horse?” “Cheval, yes: Horse. Do you know him?”
“First name Diodoro?”
“Curious name. Yes, I think so.”
“He was once known by a friend of mine in Paris, Mme. Esther d'Illyria.”
“I know Esther. She knew Horse?”
“Yes—but what about him here?”
“It was simple but rather embarrassing. He had phoned ahead from Paris, and of course I offered the hospitality of my house. He would arrive in two days, and I planned on the following day to conduct him personally into the cave, which was his reason for coming. But my stroke contravened, and I had Raoul put him up at the hotel—as my guest, of course. But I never met him—and never since have I entered the cave.”
“C’est grand dommage.”
“Oh well, I know the cave by heart anyway. Perhaps the greater pity is that I never met Horse or his lady aide, because they vanished in the cave.”
Mallory’s heart accelerated. "They were the ones—”
“You heard about them?”
“Raoul told me, years ago; he mentioned no names, it never crossed my mind to discuss it with you.”
“Assez mystérieux, cet évanouissement.”
“And—this lady-aide, she was named Vogel?”
“Oi
seau, yes: Vogel. The discretion of Monsieur Horse with respect to Mademoiselle or Madame Vogel was monumental: he called her his psychologist-aide, and he asked for separate rooms—but adjacent, for police convenience—”
In the midst of his restrained amusement, Rochereau seemed abruptly to weaken, putting a hand to his emaciated forehead. Quickly Mallory leaned toward him: “My friend, you must not exhaust yourself.”
The ancient smiled thin: “I am sorry. We dine at eight, that is three hours; my talking-strength will be good then. I eat sparingly, you will have a feast; you can mumble at me juicily around your joints while abstemiously and avidly I listen fingertips-to-fingertips—”
He had touched a bell button on his chair arm (the single chime was charming), and the venerable Raoul was here, and Mallory was standing. Raoul said, “Monsieur le Commodore, be so good as to wait a bit, and I will show you to your rooms.” The steward then bowed before the vicomte, allowed the ancient to clutch his sum, put his own arm under the shoulders of his patron, helped him erect, paused facing the vicomte toward the commodore.
Rochereau murmured, “Monsieur, you command my chateau. Pray command.” He nodded and was helped from the room.
Having subsided into the vicomte’s easy chair, Mallory meditatively nursed Armagnac, considering the old salon well known to him: heavily tapestried and carpeted and furnished in a worn seventeenth-century mode, large and square but not vast, high-ceiled but not lofty-ceiled in a simple sort of baroque, with a generous but sedately plastered fireplace that was dead now in June. The dining room, Mallory knew, was vaulted and timbered; but as to this salon, which was where he lived, the vicomte was elegant-plain, accepting the design of his ancestors, who had eyes for the practicalities of warmth in winter. Even here in southern France, that was a noteworthy consideration....
Raoul reentered and stood silently with an eyebrow up. He looked a middle-class distinguished sixty; Mallory knew that he crowded seventy. Since the age of ten he had served the master as a kitchen-boy, as a driver, as adviser, as steward; either before or after Rochereau, he would die for Rochereau.
Mallory raised his chin to meet Raoul’s eyes. “Confidentially, how is your master?”
The steward raised his big chin, looking down at the commodore's eyes. “Sir, I know that you love him. Perhaps he has one year remaining, perhaps five.”
“So I surmised. What will you do then, Raoul?”
“Is the commodore ready to be shown his rooms?”
Shut off. Okay. Grinning, Mallory told him, “Pray fill my brandy glass about half full, and give me an hour here; then come back.”
Raoul nodded slightly, disappeared, returned quickly with a half-gone gallon jug, bent with it over Mallory’s glass, brought the liquor level just a bit higher than half, stood erect, nodded, departed. During the process, Mallory had been reading the jug label’s irregular handwriting: “C’est l'Armagnac des Capuchons 1991, mis en bouteille pour le vicomte de Mont Veillac.” Mallory wondered how many of these jugs there might be; he might be pulling on the last.... No matter, he was going to stretch this admirably.
The hour alone Mallory spent brooding on everything without really trying for solutions, knowing that the brain firelessly cooks what isn’t being directly noticed. Fifty-four years ago, he could not have meditated like this. Now for many decades he had been able to meditate like this, and it never proved to be time lost When Raoul then returned, his eyes were on Mallory’s brandy glass, and he allowed his face to express fleeting pleasure when he saw that the level was down only just below half. Mallory arose: “I am ready now.” The steward led him up the decaying staircase and around the precarious balcony of the dining salon; he opened a door, stood just outside, bowed slightly, and emitted, “Pardon.” Mallory entered; Raoul closed the door from outside, having asked absolutely no questions about the commodore’s lack of baggage other than the shoulder purse containing flimsy pajamas, one pair of undershorts, one pair of socks, one handkerchief, an empty wine bottle (which Mallory would not leave in the cave), and no cheese—along with two small devices resembling radio headphones.
Mallory’s rooms were: a tiny salon with an easy chair and table and sofa, a decent-sized bedroom, a commode (which contained a w.c.), and a lavatory (where you really washed your hands). He had brought up his brandy-remnant. For the sake of using what he was given, he sat for half an hour in the easy chair bird-sipping Armagnac; setting it aside, then, he went into the bedroom and lay in his clothes on his back on the four-poster bed, contemplating the brocaded red canopy, expecting sleep to come—which it did. In due course, Raoul would be knocking.
It was a formal dinner for two at a heavy mahogany table three meters long and two wide and stretchable, with lighted candelabra and with the vicomte at one end and the commodore at the other. Mallory brought with him what was left of his brandy, but set it to one side because of course there were wines: first sparkling Burgundy, then rosé with the soup, then Chablis with the fish, then still Burgundy with the meat. After the sparkling Burgundy, Raoul whispered into Mallory’s ear, and for the remaining wines and food the commodore moved down to a place immediately at the vicomte’s left, Rochereau’s right ear not being very good and neither of his ears nor his voice good enough for a three-meter separation: ends-of-table ceremony had been satisfied, now let’s eat and talk closely. . . .
Having solid respect for the vicomte’s continuing mentality and attention span, around food and wine Mallory crisped all the story. During this feast, the ancient merely nibbled at a wafer of cold roast duck; and the only wine he touched after the sparkling Burgundy was the rosé, stretching the single half-glass for the whole time.
Mallory talked without interruption, he was glad of the chance, he reviewed what he told as he talked; but he made no comment, he offered no hypotheses, he merely reported the experiences. When the narration was done, the feast was done; Mallory had tucked away a rich dessert, an amazing sugar-cream right out of Chantilly, and thoughtfully Raoul brought him his brandy glass, which Mallory had left at table-end. An ounce remained in the bottom; it ought to be enough for now.
Silence, while Raoul cleared the table without so much as a dink or a footpad.
The vicomte said: “I have paid no mind to this Kali or indeed to the REM Device, having felt that political and social events went entirely out of control sometime during the deuxième guerre mondiale. I attend only to those things which I can control or which are decorative. Nevertheless, perhaps I can bring you an old man’s assurance with respect to the internal coherency of what you tell me. Even the parts which thus far remain incoherent have for me a feeling of coherency-potential. In my view, Rourke, you are on the right track—for whatever that view may be worth to you.” Suddenly Mallory tossed off the remaining half-ounce of Armagnac; in his brain and belly it glowed; Raoul, as though sensing the destruction d. distance, appeared at the door, facially inquiring; Mallory nodded, measuring two centimeters with thumb and forefinger; Raoul disappeared, reappeared with the jug, poured just two centimeters, departed.
Mallory said low, “All of a sudden, my thoughts have gone-back fifty years—to Horse and Vogel.”
“Ah,” delicately invited the vicomte.
“Do you know about time-flutter?”
“I have heard of the theory, but the details—”
“Briefly, Antoine, it is a derivative of Henri Bergson’s theory that subjective duration does not proceed at the same rate as objective sidereal time. The theory has how been tested somewhat—”
“Difficult enough to devise a test!”
“Exactly; and of course, the tests have been indirect and inferential, but speculative measurements have been applied. Well: it appears that the exact second of a subject’s event-apprehension may not be the same as the second inferred by a later observer—it may be an earlier or a later second. And when a way was found to measure this at intervals as much later as two days or three days, there could be more than one second variation one way or
another; and the progressive widening of the error margin seems to be geometrical.”
“Bien; entendu. And the present application?”
“It is that this particular date in June 2002 is not necessarily the precise anniversary of the same calendar date in June 1952: the anniversary may vary one way or another by as much error as several days. Conversely, a given event in 1952 may find its subjective anniversary in 2002 several days off the sidereal calendar. What I am saying is: this calendar date to 2002, right now, could be the subjective anniversary of the two-people burial in the cave in 1952, even though that calendar date was several days earlier than today.”
“Épatant!”
“And—they or their bodies were not found, when you searched?”
“There were no people, there were no bodies; Raoul personally sifted the rubble, which entirely choked off the crawl-passage so that they could not possibly have escaped that way. And from that chamber there is absolutely no other egress. Nor have Horse or Vogel been seen again to my knowledge.”
Mallory meditated, studying his brandy. He then asked, to a transparent attempt to seem offhand, “This Miss Vogel— was her first name possibly Lilith?”
“Horse did not give her Christian name. ... If she was Christian... But, my friend, you are ill?”
Mallory forced a ghastly grin. “Guère une maladie, mon ami. Un peu de gaz—à l’estomac.” He eyed his friend: of course Antoine knew that Rourke was concerned about some long-ago lady-friend; hadn’t Rourke picked a specific rare name for the question?