Midax did not surrender to
emotion without a struggle. He coldly, insistently repeated to himself that the
Loller had been nothing but fluff – a vapid superficiality.
To no avail. His flammable inner
nature, combined with the peculiar tension of these days, sapped his
resistance. And the fact that all this was happening to him just when the world
he knew was coming to an end, meant that something had to give; and what gave
was his public spirit, his concentration on what was happening to the world.
Each morning, each trainee looked
at his or her desktop indicator and saw a subtraction. “Day Minus Six”, “Day
Minus Five”, “Day Minus Four”. But for Midax the heavy hints of this countdown,
padlocking each passing day behind him, signalled a private and personal loss
that was even more ominous than the steady public approach of Day Zero. The
loss of a thing he had never had. As though he were urged to “retrieve”
some blazing glory which in fact he had never possessed.
A loss so intense, it tugged
every sensation into its orbit. What in Korm was going on? How could this Pjerl
Lhared person do to him what she had done? How could such a churner-of-insides,
merely by existing, issue a proclamation in his soul? How could her presence
announce, you need me, and nothing else will suffice?
That soul-proclamation kept
insisting that it was the right pattern to lodge in his life. It – the
vision, the warm glory, whatever it was – kept demanding that it be confirmed
in action, validated, proved; all the while threatening him with an aching void
of eternal loss if this vague, incomprehensible demand were not fulfilled.
Up till now, the mystery of women
– the fact that no scientist had succeeded in working out a plausible reason
for their existence – had been, for Midax, merely a matter for intermittent
curiosity. Some theories suggested that women would come into their own in
Universe Seven, and that their appearance in Universe Six was a mere harbinger,
a backward ripple of the main splash, an effect preceding its cause. Doubtless
a vivid and serious question, but never, until now, imperative.
Now, however, bafflement had
become torment. He had to do something.
To start with, he must achieve
communication with Pjerl.
This was an absolute priority; he
must make it happen. The snag was, it was also true that he must not make
it happen! Why? Because, for some reason, in order to have any value the
closeness must occur spontaneously.
Which was all very well if only
he could trust the universe to play ball. Unfortunately, the thing which must
happen, and which he must not make happen, could not be trusted to happen of
itself, either; so it was down to him to make sure that it happened
spontaneously, or in other words to make sure that it happened without
him making it happen.
Small wonder that he was no
longer concentrating properly on the training course.
Instead of behaving like an
obedient student, analysing the cosmological concepts in the syllabus or
speculating on the workings of the plan to defeat the Sparseworld threat, he
found himself “playing back” his brief meeting with Pjerl on the wineshop
threshold, again and again inside his head, wondering if he had not perhaps
missed some fantastic opportunity, and blaming himself for not starting a
proper conversation; yet how much more he might have blamed himself if he had
tried to seize whatever chance might have existed – thus breaking the “law”
which says, You must make things happen without making them happen.
Each time he forced his swimming
head to think it through, he eventually bumped against the impossible. The fact
was, that what he had encountered, going out of that wine-shop door, was none
other than perfection. And perfection demands impossibilities. Nothing else
will do, but for you and she to be melded in faultless rapport, abolishing
distance, abolishing all difficulties, while retaining full individuality....
He thought grimly that it was
probably just as well that he and she moved in different social circles. They
needn’t run into each other often. He was a full member of the Institute,
whereas she was just a member of the general public (albeit with the unusual
status of observer, not only of the Institute but of the Splashers too). She
was not attending the training course regularly or frequently, and anyhow the
great separation loomed: when Hour Zero of Day Zero came for him, he would find
himself cut off from her, on the other side of a mighty glassite wall.
Let him content himself,
therefore, with the thought that he was fighting for her continued existence. It
should be enough, that he was doing his duty in the struggle against
Sparseworld, and therefore benefiting her. Let that be connection enough.
After all, it wasn’t as though
any softer options existed. Time was running out for them all: the Winter of
Simplicity loomed over the entire city of humankind. In these circumstances
what was the point of making personal happiness a priority?
Even so, an irrational yearning,
in occasional moments, enticed him with the thought that he might rush out the
door again, and this time not come back but plunge into ordinary city life and
swim around in that milieu until –
Until what? The glorious fuzz of
wishful thinking had no real shape.
Musing on his erratic emotions,
he remembered a phrase he had heard a few times among the smart young men of
his old set. A phrase accompanied by sniggers and circular motions of the
finger on the forehead.
The Great Complication.
He had never committed the
gaucherie of asking what it was. It occurred to him now that he had discovered
it for himself.
He took to watching – with a kind
of relief – the digits on the training-calendar march towards zero. And they
weren’t the only indication that this period of emotional torture was rushing
to its close. Those senior trainees whom he knew by sight became fewer and
fewer. Faces visible one day were gone the next, as intakes prior to his own
reached their own Zero Hour and disappeared into the Luminarium.
Deliberately he clutched the
thought that his own course, likewise, was hurtling towards its moment of
truth; forcing himself to concentrate not on the passing banks of social life
but on destiny’s white water foaming ahead. The roar of it must widen and
deepen as it expanded beyond the personal scale. An unimaginable crunch was due
to occur when the appalling greatness of the Sparseworld threat came face to
face with the epic means which had been designed to counter it. Let this crisis
drown the other! Let his Great Complication dissolve amidst the end of his
world.
He developed some skill at this
game, of dwelling upon one fear in order to dispel another. He could be quite
sure that he was not going to abandon the course now. No more bolting from
lessons. He’d had some excuse for the first time he’d absconded; that walk-out
on the first day – it had sprung from his independence of mind. But repetition
was out. Any further backsliding would betoken dishonesty and cowardice.
Day Minus Four. An increase in
rumours. Walking the corridors between sessions. Overhearing conversation
between seniors. Clipped phrases, forcedly hushed; this was their Day
Minus Two.
“Revenants? You’re sure?”
“They had to admit it.”
“You saw them?”
“Saw; didn’t speak.”
“They won’t let us, that’s why.”
“Won’t tell us what death means.”
“More jargon.”
“Shush!” nudged one speaker as
Midax’s presence was noted. Midax walked on past them. He was happy not to hear
more, happy not to understand their twitchy dialogue; instinctively he agreed
with the Institute’s policy which discouraged communication ahead of time. Good
reasons must exist for the policy. Something terrific enough to save the world
must have its own special procedure, to be imparted in correct order.
Besides, the course was confusing
enough as it was; he didn’t want his mind boggled still further by premature
inexpert revelations.
In any case his curiosity was
going to be satisfied very soon. Maybe, to some extent, this very hour.
The conference in the Great Hall
was billed as a gathering of the Institute’s entire personnel – the only such
gathering which those trainees present were likely to see. And the staff had
promised that the occasion was going to clarify something important. The
meaning of a key term, jelling, which had been used frequently but without
definition during the past few days, would be explained.
The Hall was three-quarters full.
He sidled along one of the rows of seats. He wasn’t too far from the front;
only four rows separated him from the dais. He took a place and listened to the
chatter buzzing around him.
The word “jelling” kept being
bandied about. Obviously it still wasn’t understood by most of the people who
used it, though the old hands already talked as though they knew what it was. Midax
looked forward to when he would join this select number. Academically he was
once more keen; it was almost as if he had recovered from the Great
Complication, or Perfection’s Knock (his sense of humour was re-surfacing too).
Then all of a sudden he saw, a
few seats to the right, in the row in front of him, the back of Pjerl’s head. Memory
socked his wits flat. His every other aim, his every other ambition or ideal,
went into eclipse. No! they shouted as they were effaced, turn away
from this force or you’re finished! Such advice was impossible to follow. He
was going to have to approach her, or at any rate try. No. Turn away from
this woman. Forge ahead with your own life. Forge ahead with his own life? Forget
it. Any chance of a last-minute sortie to emotional freedom? Forget it. What
was the use of trying to escape prison when the prison was greater than the
outside? Oh but you must listen. We – the congregation of all your other
principles – hereby launch this last appeal. Get out of the Pjerl current while
you can. But his soul yearned to escape further into the current, so
that appeal was no good.
Inellan had begun to speak from
the lectern.
“....It is therefore appropriate
that the Luminarium is shaped like a hothouse, if for ‘heat’ we read
‘complexity’....
(She’s just over there and how can
I avoid spending this evening wondering what I should have done?)
“....though in the case of heat
the excitation and movement is merely physical whereas in the case of
complexity it is developmental....”
(How can one possibly balance the
risk? The risk of doing something and the risk of doing nothing; the risk of
doing something now which may cause such ruin as to ensure that I can do
nothing later....)
“....it is, therefore,
appropriate to describe the functioning of the Luminarium using the simile of
the hothouse. Heat, after all, implies....”
Inellan, thought Midax, you’re too fond
of the word “appropriate”. It’s starting to annoy me. And I’m already on the
edge; so you’d better cut the polysyllabic guff, or.... Midax passed a hand
across his throat.
Then his fingers clenched as his
flailing thoughts hit upon a plan. Pity to waste a healthy rage! And since he
had to stick with the course insofar as he was so committed to it by now, that
he no longer could leave of his own free will, and since, on the other hand, if
he did not leave he was going to be irrevocably separated from Pjerl because in
four days’ time he was due to enter the Luminarium whereas she as a mere
observer wouldn’t go in –
He must arrange to leave not of
his own free will.
He must get himself expelled.
Thus while Inellan spouted on, one brain in the sea of faces before him was drawing a cross-bow shaft of insult, tighter
and tighter each time the word “appropriate” fell from the Lecturer’s lips. “....In this way we can see that
it is appropriate that all the so-called double-ell rays, the life-light rays
which our engineering skill has trapped inside the Luminarium, should, in their
zigging and zagging, trace waves in which the candidates will sink their
perceptions, until the process becomes invisible and the vistas.... jell. It is therefore similarly
appropriate that....”
“APPROPRIATE GARBAGE,” Midax let
fly.
Inellan stood blinking. The
audience began to buzz, some in approval, some in indignation at the verbal
custard pie which had been hurled in their lecturer’s face.
“Hear, hear,” someone cried.
“It’s that Splasher,” someone
else spluttered; “throw him out!”
"No - he's said what I wanted to say!"
Midax, half-satisfied, peered
around: he sensed that there might be a substantial number on his side. He
certainly could hear some supporters. Not exactly what he wanted – not a help
towards expulsion – and yet it was gratifying to have touched a common chord....
However, the voice of support was
drowned in further blasts from the Lecturer’s microphone:
“Appropriate behaviour always consists,
in this and other areas, of observing those patterns which facts make, and conforming
our wants to them.”
“WAFFLE!” insisted Midax with another shout. And
definitely, this time, a sizeable fraction of the audience seemed to agree. The hour for open criticism must have struck, as
far as he could judge from other verbal missiles hurled from the floor. Midax was obviously not the only
trainee who had found the course to be lacking in logic and structural rigour. Maybe,
with his shouted sarcasm, he had just nailed the whole mystery-mongering
morass. He had issued a clear rallying call for those who were willing to
insist upon proper underpinning of the course, proper clear proof of the Institute’s
grandiose claims. And if the call was answered, what then would become of his
plan to get expelled? Could he abandon his new following?
Next thing he noticed, was that
he need not worry about having caused any successful revolt: despite the murmurs of approval and the hear-hears, not a
single figure actually went so far as to stand up explicitly to second his rallying call.
The murmurs began to die down. Expecting
censure, Midax watched the Lecturer, but the Lecturer instead of looking at him
was recognizing someone at the back of the hall, another member of staff who
had just stood up: a tall, stringy woman. Midax realized it was Examiner Jaekel
as her charmless, leathery voice cracked out:
“Inellan, remind him that he was
born a universe too soon!”
Teasing little outbreaks of
laughter began to caper through the hall. Inellan blinked in relief, and took
the cue:
“Yes, as my colleague the
Examiner has just pointed out, and as I myself have pointed out before, a demand
for explanations – stress laid upon causes and reasons – is (or rather will be)
more appropriate to Universe Seven than to our Universe Six. For the concept of
causation implies some step, some gap, between causer and caused. And such gaps
are rare in a universe such as ours, sustained, as ours is, by immediate pulse
of reality.”
Blast the man to shreds, fumed Midax. He’s got the very
days and nights on his side, the thumping beat of the Time-Tree supporting our
existence without the need for a single cause.
From another back corner of the
hall, a thin male voice sounded.
“A little less exactitude,
Lecturer Inellan.”
Help had come to Midax from a
direction not previously imagined, yet instantly recognizable. For the words
had been uttered by none other than the grey voice of Assigner Alsair,
Sovereign of Serenth. Prestige wrought
its spell; heads silently turned to where the austere old Head of State sat in
his corner, his mien expressive of freezing impartiality.
Midax was too astounded to feel
relieved. Alsair the rare-spoken, friendless legend, the remote and lofty
co-ordinator of Serenth, had just supported him against Inellan!
Alsair was more than merely the
Sovereign of Sycrest. Since the death of Icdon he was sovereign of all known
people in existence.
The audience hung on the Assigner's words as he continued:
“We ought to take some notice
of the concept of causation. After all, our land of Sycrest, the most complex
known country in this universe, is so rare and special, we ought to consider
the possibility that within it may lurk some fore-shadow of Universe Seven.”
Silence stretched awkwardly. The
Lecturer, rebuked, bowed his head. Then he replied:
“Of course, Assigner.
“Actually, of course,” (turning
the flank of the argument), “both views are right.
“In maintaining our Institute and
in perfecting our plans, we have been following in the footsteps of our mighty
predecessors. Carrying out their purposes, we form, with them, a duet of cause
and effect. I admit this.
“I would merely add,
nevertheless, that we obtain more by seeing than by delving; we
have visions rather than analyses; our land of Sycrest may be special but there
is no getting away from the fact that we live in a predominantly
result-centred, teleological universe. Instead of seeking causes, which push
from behind, we submit to destiny, which pulls from ahead.”
No comeback this time, from Head
of State or anyone else. Inellan had triumphed.
The lecture resumed its
interrupted course; Midax listened in a state of apathy. He had not succeeded
in getting himself expelled from the Institute; he had merely made a fool of
himself. His protest from the floor had been squashed. His one articulate
supporter, Alsair himself, had been squashed too, though more respectfully. How
to approach Pjerl after this?
Besides,
wondered Midax, even had he triumphed as a heckler, how could that have
helped him to devise a form of greeting which could do justice to the occasion
– possibly the last time he would ever see her? (“Hello, I’m Midax Rale. You’re
Pjerl Lhared, aren’t you?” What scintillating stuff.) He reviewed endless
combinations of words.... tried guessing her replies.... previewing
conversations as though the utmost caution were necessary even for saying
Hello. It was as though he had lost all his courage. In fact, that was
precisely the case.
Lecturer Inellan carried on quite
a while longer before he ran out of voice, but presently the booming from the
dais ceased and chatter broke out on all sides. People rose for the interval or
leaned over to make comments to their neighbours. Taking an anxious look around,
Midax saw that Pjerl appeared to be sitting quietly. It’s now or never. He
stood up, feeling sick, and began edging into her field of view.
At that moment a young
straight-backed fellow strode up and buttonholed Midax. “You’re the
ex-Splasher, aren’t you? My name is Jolld, Jolld Tontrar. I’d like a word with
you. I’m from an earlier class but I had to repeat some of the course, so I’m
in your class now.”
“So you are. I recognize you,”
said Midax politely while his blood fizzed with impatience.
The youngster continued to speak,
illustrating his every point with a finger-stabbing gesture. “I think that
although you’re wrong” (stab) “in what you say, you had a jolly good try”
(stab), “shaking up old Inellan with your notions of the importance of caus-ay-”
(stab) “-tion, and there’s definitely no harm in giving ’em a whirl” (stab),
“since your own background gives you the wherewithal to get off that road any
time you like – d’you see? Aristocratic dilettantism” (stab), “with its
concept of style” (prolonged stab), “always brings us back to seeing
that what emerges is more important than what causes a thing. D’you
see?”
I don’t care enough to try, thought Midax. “You quite approve
of the Splashers, it seems.”
“I do, in fact I admire them,”
admitted Jolld. “They’ve got style, but then so have we. That Light-Tank, for
instance! Wow. Jumping the gun a bit, if you ask me – creating pockets of U7
style in a U6 medium – but then – ”
“Jolld, excuse me a minute. I
have got to go and sort something out. Thanks for sharing your insights with
me.”
His smile became bitter as the
satisfied Jolld moved off. It was no joke, it was the truth, that style was
winning out over substance all along the line.
For instance, right at this
moment, as Midax edged towards Pjerl, he must forbid his feelings to show. In
fact, in his effort to “make it happen spontaneously” he was even manoeuvring
so as deliberately not to be the first to make eye contact –
Yes, he was gazing past her
and waiting for her to notice him before he himself took the risk of seeming to
notice her.
Which, of course, might turn out
to be a self-defeating mistake: if he edged so far, he was making it
happen. And that being so, then her recognition of him would be thus robbed of
value by the spontaneity-rule. Fount take it all! Why not just speak and take
the consequences?
Too late – it was she who spoke –
“Hello Midax,” her greeting hit
him with gut-liquefying impact.
As when one looked into the
blinding sun, the experience was not anything to which he could give any form,
outline or proper perspective.
He heard himself say, “Hello
Pjerl...”
She spoke again, pelting him with
further golden syllables:
“It’s a long way from the
wine-shop, isn’t it?”
“A long way from the boat, too,”
he responded, grabbing the only association of ideas that was ready to hand. Hastily
he then explained, “I saw you on a barge the other day, with my former crowd.”
“My former crowd too,” Pjerl
said.
What was that? What had The Power
said then?
“‘Former’? Aren’t you going back
to them?” he gulped.
“No,” said Pjerl, and the word
opened the floodgates of hope.
“But, I thought,” he sought to
control his clogged-up voice, “when I saw you here, that you were – um – just
here for the occasion – in your capacity as observer – ”
“Not any more. I’ve joined the
Institute properly; in fact I’m in your class now, Midax.”
Life was suddenly as sweet as it
could be. He fervently renewed his dedication to the training course. He was so
happy, at this moment, that his one thought was to retire and gloat safely over
his winnings –
“Good! Welcome!” he said to her. “And
now – I must go – please excuse me as I need to make some preparations for the
next session – for reasons too boring to explain.” Too boring indeed for a real
gambler, who might instead have had the guts to pursue a winning streak.
Pjerl smiled, “See you.” The
copper gleams of her hair inclined in acknowledgement of his welcome. For an
instant, then, he saw her face as a face instead of as an overpowering
fuzz of beauty. Just for a moment – objectively – Pjerl Lhared was, to him, a
personable young lady, with a good figure, good looks, warm and lively mind,
and vivacious attractive manner. Then the moment fled into the past and the
opportunity for saner joy was lost as his vision dug blind-deep once more into
the well of glory.
He wandered to his room, lay down
and let his head swim among the weeds of recollection. Every word he had
uttered chugged past in review, for checking and re-checking in case of gaffes.
Her words re-eddied all the while, shimmering around him in repeating
waves, in case they might reveal (on second or third or millionth glance) any
cause for hope or despair. Each word a headache, but never mind – at the price
of some headaches, his luck had come cheap! Fantastic luck! Oh, the disaster
that might have been! Suppose he had succeeded in getting himself
expelled from the Institute.... he would have lost his only reason for
existence.
Whereas now – in mystery and in
baffled wonder – his whole heart lived.
>>>next chapter>>>