Eighteen

Shortly afterward, Mike and I were together in the space craft. "Wordsworth says he'd like to come back with us," I said.

"Oh, yeah?" he answered, looking up from his notes. "Who?"

"Wordsworth. The one who gave the poetry recital."

"Oh, him." He went back to transcribing his notes.

"You don't sound too enthused. I thought you were the one who was anxious to bring 'em back alive."

"I still think it's a good idea to bring somebody back."

"Why not Wordsworth?"

"Paul, I'm in the middle of a complicated equation at the moment. I have nothing against bringing him back; but personally, I think we could do better than bring back a poet. If he wants to come, fine; but if we're going to bring somebody back, maybe we could look around for someone a little more useful to bring back too. Okay?" And he went back to writing.

After a while, he seemed to come to a stopping-place, and I said, "I don't actually think we'll be bringing anybody back with us. Wordsworth'd like to come, but he thinks it might be like going beyond the wall, and he's praying over it to see if he can find out."

"Typical."

"Well, there's no real way he can find out for himself, and--oh, by the way, that reminds me. I found out that they have two prohibitions; they can't go beyond the wall, and they can't try to find out about their own bodies."

"Yeah, I know."

"You do? How did you find out?"

"I asked, of course, and they told me."

"Well, he thinks if it's implied by the prohibition, and he decides to come, he might be harmed by the oxygen atmosphere."

"It figures that that's the way his mind'd work. We can write him off, then; he'd never have the courage to try for himself."

"I don't think it's a question of courage."

"Whatever. He might think it's an indirect way of finding out about his body, or he might think that it's an indirect way of going beyond the wall, all right? It might be forbidden, and no only are they not going to do what is forbidden, they won't do anything that might possibly be forbidden. They might find out something."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I don't like people who're scared of finding out things."

"My God, Mike! Think of all that these people know, and all they've found out about us!"

"Oh sure, but none of those things might be forbidden. They won't have anything to do with certain subjects, though. How do they know that these subjects aren't the most important thing they could ever find out? They just might discover that they're not really immortal, for instance."

"Oh, come off it!"

"How do you know? You just take their word for it. And how do they know? They don't because they're not allowed to find out. I just don't like people who blindly accept a religion that forbids them to know what the facts are. If we'd kept all our religious prejudices, we'd still be in the Dark Ages."

"Yeah, but we're not on earth, Mike."

"How well I know that! And we're not on earth because of guys like Galileo, who wouldn't let priests tell them what they could find out and what they couldn't find out!" He paused briefly to let himself calm down.

"Look Paul," he said finally, "you and I don't agree on this, and there's no point in going on with it. I have a lot on my mind."

And that was that. We continued for the rest of the period in silence.

That day, as I went for my walk with St. Peter, I decided I might just as well ask him. "St. Peter?" I said.

"Yes?"

"About Wordsworth. Mike seems to think that he won't come because he's afraid he might possibly be violating one of the prohibitions. Or both."

"He is probably right."

"But why won't the Awesome Friend let you find out about your bodies? Don't you think it might be useful to know about them?"

"You are leading up to something. But to answer your question, we consider the matter this way: He has forbidden so little to us that it is the least we can do to show our gratitude to Him. Perhaps some of the knowledge might be useful, but we do not suffer from the lack of it, and so the sacrifice is no real sacrifice. And you yourselves have confirmed how reasonable it is not to go beyond the wall. Presumably, there is an equally valid reason for the other prohibition."

"But has the Awesome Friend personally told you not to do this?"

"No, as I told you, it is a tradition that He told our first Parent; and it has been handed down since then."

"But how do you know the tradition hasn't been garbled?"

"Has Michael been talking with one of the unfortunate people? This sounds like what they say."

"No," I said, and thought for a moment. "Not that I know of."

"Paul, we do not garble traditions."

"But how do you know? Your ancestors may not have been as smart as you are."

"We do not know in that sense, of course. It is part of our faith. Yes, we have faith here on Acosmia; no one sees the Awesome Friend until he stops changing. Until then, one must believe in Him, or not. Most do. But I think you are not really concerned about the implications of our faith. You are preoccupied about Michael, or I am much mistaken."

"Well, yes, actually. He was the one that brought it up."

"But it is not that about him either. If I interpret what I know of him, he has always had a great deal of faith in what you call 'science,' and would naturally resent our avoiding the investigation of forbidden subjects, thinking of how science made progress on earth by at least apparently flouting the prohibitions imposed by religion."

"Yes, that's the way he is."

"And this eagerness to search out everything is doubtless a laudable trait on earth--at least in many respects, since you are all half blessed and half unfortunate, and even your priests seem sometimes to use religion for their own ends. But if he has always been this way, perhaps not even this is the reason you are worried about him now."

"No, not really. It's--I don't know, it's that ever since we began this trip and took Michele along, he's changed, and . . . " I didn't know what to add.

"I understand. And has there never been a hint that Michele reciprocates his love for her?"

"His what?"

"Am I mistaken? No, I think not. If I was not mistaken about his attitude toward science, this is much more obvious."

"But--" I said. "But I was under the impression that he hated her. And so is Michele herself."

"I think you are wrong, if I may say so; perhaps because you are her brother. You people, you know, are not really so very different from us; in fact, if I may say so without seeming invidious, you seem to us to be a sort of perverted version of an Acosmian, with emotions that get out of control and blind you to facts; but the emotions seem, by and large, quite similar to ours.

"Now among us, 'love' does not always imply 'liking.' I am referring to the kind of love that would be an indication of the partner one should marry; sexual attraction. 'Love' in this sexual sense is, among us, and I seem to infer from your literature among you also, a sort of inability to be indifferent to another person.

"With us, of course, it occurs only among friends, or if it begins with someone we find not desirable for a partner, it ceases as soon as we discover this, because our emotions never insist contrary to reason. But it is clear from your novels that this inability to be indifferent often fastens itself upon a person quite independently from your reason or will, and often enough upon a person which for some reason you know is not a proper marriage partner. And the result is great trouble of mind, a struggle against one's own feelings, and quite frequently an apparent hatred of the beloved. Am I correct so far?"

"I don't know--I guess so. But I just never thought of Mike that way, especially with Michele. Mike's Chinese."

"And is it forbidden for the Chinese to marry those who are not Chinese?"

"Forbidden? No. But so few of them do that I just never thought about it."

"And perhaps for that very reason, Michele has never considered Michael as a possible husband?"

"I don't think Michele has ever considered anyone that way--at least since college. But you're right, though. I don't think the idea ever crossed her mind that Mike might be in love with her."

"Might it not be, then, that Michael thinks that she has never considered this because of the fact that he is Chinese?"

. . . The light began to dawn. "You mean he might have been prodding her all this time to try to make her realize that he was a man, and could be interesting to her as a man? And all the time we thought it was just witty banter!

"But he did finally provoke her into making a remark that he was foreign-looking, and it hurt him terribly. We couldn't understand it at the time, because he had just insulted her in a worse way--and he's never gotten over it."

"Yes," he said. "Well, it cannot be a comforting sort of life to be constantly beside someone you love, who appears to have a total indifference to you, and then to have your worst fears confirmed: that she looks upon you simply as a foreign object."

"Then that's why he didn't want her to come with us! He didn't want to be put in that situation--and that's why he wouldn't come when he found out that she was coming anyway, and we had to force him into it--and that's why he was so happy the first part of the trip! He was with her! I think you're right!"

"I have some other evidence, Paul, that I have never mentioned to you, because you did not ask me until now. You see, there are many times when I observe Michael when you cannot see him; when he is behind the two of you, for instance. We have eyes all over us, and can see all around us, of course; but Michael evidently does not think of us as of any importance, or as anything but the animals that swim by, except that we can speak and inform him of things he wishes to discover.

"In any case, I often see him do this, looking at Michele, behind you." And St. Peter made himself into a replica of Mike's upper torso in his space suit; he looked over at me with Mike's "head" caricatured, making a deep sigh, and then hung his head and hunched his shoulders. "It seems those gestures are compatible with the attitude of one who greatly desires an unattainable goal, are they not?"

"Poor Mike!" I said. "St. Peter, would you mind leaving me alone for a while? I have to digest this, and try to figure out what I can do--if anything."

"If I may be permitted to add something, Michele does not seem to me to be exactly indifferent to Michael herself, though I do not think she realizes this. It may work itself out by itself, given time. If something should happen that draws her attention to him in a sympathetic way, then I believe she could fall in love with him also. Of course, there might be reasons why it would be better if they did not marry, if they are of different races."

"Well, it wouldn't be easy. People still have funny ideas on that subject, even after all this time; though I don't think Michele does herself--and as far as I'm concerned, if they love each other, I certainly have no objection. Not that my objections, if I had them, ought to make any difference. But--but I'll have to think about all this."

"Very well," he said. "I will see you at the beginning of the next day." And he left.

I wandered around the streets of the city, not noticing where I was going. I thought for a moment of going back to the church, but somehow, I felt the need to be in motion; and I was a little nervous about going in there by myself; they might think I was intruding.

My mind was in total confusion, except for one thing: I was furious with St. Peter for knowing so much, and for being so right. They always were so perfectly, disgustingly, confidently, politely right in everything, and so considerate that you never had any grounds for being angry with them.

I tried to think back over the details of the trip so far, to see if I could prove St. Peter wrong so that he would at least turn out to be wrong in something; but everything made sense on the supposition that Mike was in love with Michele and saw (or thought he saw--what was the truth of that?) that she regarded him as just another person, or worse. Even his joking threat to commit suicide didn't elicit from her anything but what anyone else's threat would have. And, come to think of it, maybe it wasn't all that much of a joke, if he really was in love and there was no hope.

But of course there never is no hope in cases like that, though you could never tell how someone as complex as Mike would understand it.

Poor Mike! He could see so clearly Michele's indifference, and be so hurt by it, and yet hadn't the faintest idea that he despised the Acosmians because they were foreign-looking! And he did. But that's how people were, I told myself; I probably did the same thing in my own way. In any case, recognizing it didn't solve anything.

It was interesting what a simple people the Acosmians were, in comparison with our wheels within wheels. In spite of their enormous intelligence, they were perfectly frank and open in everything, because they had nothing to hide, and no emotions leading them in one direction while common sense led them in another. Wordsworth's desire to come and see earth, for instance, would simply vanish if he decided it would be better not to come.

And I discovered that I hated him for it.

Why should they be able to decide exactly what they wanted to do with their lives and be certain that they would achieve every last goal of theirs, and we were almost as certain that our own goals, however noble and laudable, would be forever beyond our grasp? Why should they have been made so much better than we? Just because their Parent didn't sin and ours did? How fair did that make their Awesome Friend?

Suppose I could be sure that anything I wanted to be would be mine eventually, suppose I could be like them, knowing all I wanted to know and not wanting what I couldn't have, and that I'd never die, and just stop changing when I'd got everything I wanted and just be that way forever and ever. What then?

But that was just as hateful an existence as this one. Mike was right. Why bother working for something when you were sure that you'd get it? In a sense, they were like earth children of rich parents, who see that anything is possible, and for that reason never try for anything, and spend their lives getting drunk because nothing is really worth the effort if you're sure you can have it. Wasn't the whole joy of discovering how to control mass the fact that I'd found it out when it wasn't at all certain even that there was anything to find out, and that I might be spending ten years just wasting my time? Let any of them match that for satisfaction!

And St. Peter recognized this; he said that in some respects we were more blessed than they were, for this very reason. But it didn't bother him; he was perfectly content to be as he was. How horrible to be perfectly content!

The place was clearly getting to me. Such wonderful people, so much to be envied--or pitied--and so complacent! If only they'd even be a little self-righteous, if they only had one fault you could actually blame them for! The only thing they had was true virtue, which didn't even flaunt itself, which made it harder to take than ever. Oh, yes, when you were with them, you were charmed by their kindness and consideration; but as soon as you got back by yourself, you saw that you had no leverage on them, no way you could--hurt them. Their very kindness hurt you in your wretchedness so terribly much, and there was nothing you could do that would hurt them in the least! How could any human being relate to someone who could not be hurt? That was the problem. Why was it getting dark?

Suddenly, I came out of my reverie with a shock.

Getting dark?

It was as if a cloud was passing over the sun. But there was no sun here, only the incandescent center of the planet. I looked down; the light was definitely dimming, and dimming fast.

Where was I? I had been wandering aimlessly, thinking to myself, and was in a part of the city I couldn't recognize. I had no idea what direction I had come in, or where to go to get back to the ship. People passed by, but no one I recognized, and I felt embarrassed to ask directions of people who would only be shocked or amused by the way I talked.

And it was growing darker and darker. I looked at my watch 19:43. Ten minutes to eight, earth time. When had I left the ship? Three o'clock, which meant the five hours would be up at eight. In seventeen minutes. I had better ask directions.

I turned to find someone to ask, and then noticed that the rapidly darkening streets were suddenly empty. I saw one person swim by a block over, and I shouted at him, but he was hurrying somewhere, and paid me no attention. Then I saw two more, both swimming for all their might in the same direction, as if they were afraid to be late for something. I shouted again, but they did not seem to hear.

I had never seen an Acosmian in a hurry, since St. Peter and Cleopatra had guided the ship to the city. Something odd was going on, definitely.

It was really dark now; down below, the center of the planet barely glowed a sickly red. A small animal swam beside me and brushed up against me for comfort. I put my hand down automatically and patted it, and it swam away, looking for a place to hide, like a dog in a thunderstorm.

It was the animal's behavior that really terrified me. Something really unusual was happening, and here I was alone in a deserted part of the city, which was now so dark I could hardly see the buildings across the way. I looked at my watch again, and the LED numerals glowed in the darkness: 19:45. Already it was pitch dark. I couldn't even see my hand, only the bright numbers, which suddenly flipped over to 19:46.

Fourteen minutes. Possibly an hour and fifteen minutes of air left; and I didn't know where I was, or what direction to turn. I could wander for hours or days in this huge city without coming to an end--no, not days, or even hours. I could wander for an hour and fifteen minutes, and then I'd just hang there, suspended, and rot inside my space suit.

Maybe if I went where the others were headed, I could find someone to help me. I tried to do a 180 degree turn, and hoped I'd got it right; I couldn't see anything at all. I activated my propulsion, and tried not to panic. Thirteen minutes.

Suddenly, I crashed into the wall of a building. At what angle? Wasn't I supposed to be going down a street? "Help!" I shouted, and my voice rang inside my helmet. "Help! Oh God, help me! Dear God, my God, help me! Help, someone!"

Silence.

I fought with the panic. Eleven minutes. Try to go somewhere, anywhere; you won't find anyone here. Where are they all? Why isn't anyone around anywhere? Ten minutes.

I headed just a little off from the building I had hit--or so I thought--and activated my propulsion very slowly. Now that I was moving, the terror abated somewhat; at least I was doing something. Probably the wrong thing, but what difference did it make? It was better than just staying there to die. Eight minutes.

I brushed lightly against the side of a building, and kept going slowly, feeling the wall with my fingertips. It disappeared. An intersection. I was going down a street. Please God it was toward someone and not away from them. Five minutes.

Another building. I was still going down the street. More buildings. Three minutes. The wall disappeared. Another intersection. One minute. Another wall beside me. 20:00. One hour of air left. I felt the wall with my hand; it felt rough, like lava. It looked like lava, too; reddish-black against my dark grey-looking glove. Fifty-nine minutes of life.

I had seen the wall! It wasn't as dark as it had been; it was getting lighter! My heart leaped so hard in my chest I thought my ribs would break. If it only got light as quickly as it had got dark, I'd be back in brightness in fifteen minutes! And it was! I could already see the other side of the street I was moving down! Fifty-five minutes.

It was still too dim to be able to tell if anything was familiar, so I kept going, straining my eyes. It grew lighter, and I began to be able to distinguish the fantastic buildings; first their shapes, then a hint of their color. Nothing looked familiar. Fifty minutes--forty-nine.

Then it became completely light again, and I wandered in an utterly deserted city, so teeming with people just moments ago, and now absolutely empty, waste, and void. There were only the little animals, which came out of buildings and crannies, and swam about, bewildered at what happened. Thirty minutes.

No one at all. There were strange clubs, larger buildings, but no one in them. Not a soul in any house; I went in several, realizing that it was impolite, but this was an emergency, and they'd understand. Unless they were the unfortunate people. No one. Fifteen minutes of life left.

Suddenly the street opened out into a huge square, and there was the church! At last! I knew where I was; I had been in a quarter of the city directly opposite where the ship was. I had even been down this street once before, but didn't recognize it, because I had traveled it in the other direction. The ship was only ten minutes away. Twelve minutes left.

It was beginning to be a little difficult to breathe. I put the propulsion on to full, and sped down the empty street toward the ship, winding in and out of the little avenues I now knew so well, all empty, which was fortunate, since I flew by with no concern about hitting anything. I did strike a few animals in my way, which swam away astonished. I almost laughed once, and the intake of breath with so little oxygen almost made me faint. Three minutes.

I let myself in at the airlock, closed the door, and let the hydrogen out and the air in. That took three minutes, and I had two left. As soon as I dared, standing knee-deep in liquid hydrogen, I ripped off my helmet, breathed a mixture of hydrogen and oxygen, and fainted.