Текст книги "The Complete Short Stories"
Автор книги: James Graham Ballard
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Текущая страница: 46 (всего у книги 113 страниц)
‘What makes you think I do?’
‘Well, if I’d seen, let alone spoken to a visitor from Venus I think I’d be running around in a flat spin, notifying every government and observatory in the world.’
‘I did,’ Kandinski said. ‘As far as I could. No one was very interested.’
Ward shook his head and laughed. ‘It is incredible, to put it mildly.’
‘I agree with you.’
‘What I mean,’ Ward said, ‘is that it’s straight out of one of these science fiction stories of yours.’
Kandinski rubbed his lips with a scarred knuckle, obviously searching for some means of ending the conversation. ‘The resemblance is misleading. They are not my stories,’ he added parenthetically. ‘This caf is the only one which would give me work, for a perhaps obvious reason. As for the incredibility, let me say that I was and still am completely amazed. You may think I take it all calmly, but ever since the landing I have lived in a state of acute anxiety and foreboding. But short of committing some spectacular crime to draw attention to myself I don’t see now how I can convince anyone.’
Ward gestured with his glasses. ‘Perhaps. But I’m surprised you don’t realize the very simple reasons why people refuse to take you seriously. For example, why should you be the only person to witness an event of such staggering implications? Why have you alone seen a Venusian?’
‘A sheer accident.’
‘But why should a space-craft from Venus land here?’
‘What better place than near Mount Vernon Observatory?’
‘I can think of any number. The UN Assembly, for one.’
Kandinski smiled lightly. ‘Columbus didn’t make his first contacts with the North-American Indians at the IroquoisSioux Tribal Conference.’
‘That may be,’ Ward admitted, beginning to feel impatient. ‘What did this Venusian look like?’
Kandinski smiled wearily at the empty tables and picked up his hose again. ‘I don’t know whether you’ve read my book,’ he said, ‘but if you haven’t you’ll find it all there.’
‘Professor Cameron mentioned that you took some photographs of the Venusian space-craft. Could I examine them?’
‘Certainly,’ Kandinski replied promptly. ‘I’ll bring them here tomorrow. You’re welcome to test them in any way you wish.’
That evening Ward had dinner with the Camerons. Professor Renthall, Director of the Hubble, and his wife completed the party. The table-talk consisted almost entirely of good-humoured gossip about their colleagues retailed by Cameron and Renthall, and Ward was able to mention his conversation with Kandinski.
‘At first I thought he was mad, but now I’m not so certain. There’s something rather too subtle about him. The way he creates an impression of absolute integrity, but at the same time never gives you a chance to tackle him directly on any point of detail. And when you do manage to ask him outright about this Venusian his answers are far too pat. I’m convinced the whole thing is an elaborate hoax.’
Professor Renthall shook his head. ‘No, it’s no hoax. Don’t you agree, Godfrey?’
Cameron nodded. ‘Not in Andrew’s sense, anyway.’
‘But what other explanation is there?’ Ward asked. ‘We know he hasn’t seen a Venusian, so he must be a fraud. Unless you think he’s a lunatic. And he certainly doesn’t behave like one.’
‘What is a lunatic?’ Professor Renthall asked rhetorically, peering into the faceted stem of his raised hock glass. ‘Merely a man with more understanding than he can contain. I think Charles belongs in that category.’
‘The definition doesn’t explain him, sir,’ Ward insisted. ‘He’s going to lend me his photographs and when I prove those are fakes I think I’ll be able to get under his guard.’
‘Poor Charles,’ Edna Cameron said. ‘Why shouldn’t he have seen a space-ship? I think I see them every day.’
‘That’s just what I feel, dear,’ Cameron said, patting his wife’s matronly, brocaded shoulder. ‘Let Charles have his Venusian if he wants to. Damn it, all it’s trying to do is ban Project Apollo. An excellent idea, I have always maintained; only the professional astronomer has any business in space. After the Rainbow tests there isn’t an astronomer anywhere in the world who wouldn’t follow Charles Kandinski to the stake.’ He turned to Renthall. ‘By the way, I wonder what Charles is planning for the Congress? A Neptunian? Or perhaps a whole delegation from Proxima Centauri. We ought to fit him out with a space-suit and a pavilion – "Charles Kandinski – New Worlds for Old".’
‘Santa Claus in a space-suit,’ Professor Renthall mused. ‘That’s a new one. Send him a ticket.’
The next weekend Ward returned the twelve plates to the Site Tycho.
‘Well?’ Kandinski asked.
‘It’s difficult to say,’ Ward answered. ‘They’re all too heavily absorbed. They could be clever montages of light brackets and turbine blades. One of them looks like a close-up of a clutch plate. There’s a significant lack of any real corroborative details which you’d expect somewhere in so wide a selection.’ He paused. ‘On the other hand, they could be genuine.’
Kandinski said nothing, took the paper package, and went off into the caf.
The interior of the Site Tycho had been designed to represent the control room of a space-ship on the surface of the Moon. Hidden fluorescent lighting glimmered through plastic wall fascia and filled the room with an eerie blue glow. Behind the bar a large mural threw the curving outline of the Moon on to an illuminated star-scape. The doors leading to the rest-rooms were circular and bulged outwards like air-locks, distinguished from each other by the symbols cj and.
The total effect was ingenious but somehow reminiscent to Ward of a twenty-fifth-century cave.
He sat down at the bar and waited while Kandinski packed the plates away carefully in an old leather briefcase.
‘I’ve read your book,’ Ward said. ‘I had looked at it the last time I saw you, but I read it again thoroughly.’ He waited for some comment upon this admission, but Kandinski went over to an old portable typewriter standing at the far end of the bar and began to type laboriously with one finger. ‘Have you seen any more Venusians since the book was published?’ Ward asked.
‘None,’ Kandinski said.
‘Do you think you will?’
‘Perhaps.’ Kandinski shrugged and went on with his typing.
‘What are you working on now?’ Ward asked.
‘A lecture I am giving on Friday evening,’ Kandinski said. Two keys locked together and he flicked them back. ‘Would you care to come? Eight-thirty, at the high school near the Baptist chapel.’
‘If I can,’ Ward said. He saw that Kandinski wanted to get rid of him. ‘Thanks for letting me see the plates.’ He made his way out into the sun. People were walking about through the fresh morning air, and he caught the clean scent of peach blossom carried down the slopes into the town.
Suddenly Ward felt how enclosed and insane it had been inside the Tycho, and how apposite had been his description of it as a cave, with its residential magician incanting over his photographs like a down-at-heel Merlin manipulating his set of runes. He felt annoyed with himself for becoming involved with Kandinski and allowing the potent charisma of his personality to confuse him. Obviously Kandinski played upon the instinctive sympathy for the outcast, his whole pose of integrity and conviction a device for drawing the gullible towards him.
Letting the light spray from the fountains fall across his face, Ward crossed the square towards his car.
Away in the distance 2,000 feet above, rising beyond a screen of fir trees, the three Mount Vernon domes shone together in the sun like a futuristic Taj Mahal.
Fifteen miles from Vernon Gardens the Santa Vera highway circled down from the foot of Mount Vernon into the first low scrub-covered hills which marked the southern edge of the desert. Ward looked out at the long banks of coarse sand stretching away through the haze, their outlines blurring in the afternoon heat. He glanced at the book lying on the seat beside him, open at the map printed between its end covers, and carefully checked his position, involuntarily slowing the speed of the Chevrolet as he moved nearer to the site of the Venus landings.
In the fortnight since he had returned the photographs to the Site Tycho, he had seen Kandinski only once, at the lecture delivered the previous night. Ward had deliberately stayed away from the Site Tycho, but he had seen a poster advertising the lecture and driven down to the school despite himself.
The lecture was delivered in the gymnasium before an audience of forty or fifty people, most of them women, who formed one of the innumerable local astronomical societies. Listening to the talk round him, Ward gathered that their activities principally consisted of trying to identify more than half a dozen of the constellations. Kandinski had lectured to them on several occasions and the subject of this latest instalment was his researches into the significance of the Venusian tablet he had been analysing for the last three years.
When Kandinski stepped onto the dais there was a brief round of applause. He was wearing a lounge suit of a curiously archaic cut and had washed his beard, which bushed out above his string tie so that he resembled a Mormon patriarch or the homespun saint of some fervent evangelical community.
For the benefit of any new members, he prefaced his lecture with a brief account of his meeting with the Venusian, and then turned to his analysis of the tablet. This was the familiar ultimatum warning mankind to abandon its preparations for the exploration of space, for the ostensible reason that, just as the sea was a universal image of the unconscious, so space was nothing less than an image of psychosis and death, and that if he tried to penetrate the interplanetary voids man would only plunge to earth like a demented Icarus, unable to scale the vastness of the cosmic zero. Kandinski’s real motives for introducing this were all too apparent the expected success of Project Apollo and subsequent landings on Mars and Venus would, if nothing else, conclusively expose his fantasies.
However, by the end of the lecture Ward found that his opinion of Kandinski had experienced a complete about-face.
As a lecturer Kandinski was poor, losing words, speaking in a slow ponderous style and trapping himself in long subordinate clauses, but his quiet, matter-of-fact tone and absolute conviction in the importance of what he was saying, coupled with the nature of his material, held the talk together. His analysis of the Venusian cryptograms, a succession of intricate philological theorems, was well above the heads of his audience, but what began to impress Ward, as much as the painstaking preparation which must have preceded the lecture, was Kandinski’s acute nervousness in delivering it. Ward noticed that he suffered from an irritating speech impediment that made it difficult for him to pronounce ‘Venusian’, and he saw that Kandinski, far from basking in the limelight, was delivering the lecture only out of a deep sense of obligation to his audience and was greatly relieved when the ordeal was over.
At the end Kandinski had invited questions. These, with the exception of the chairman’s, all concerned the landing of the alien space vehicle and ignored the real subject of the lecture. Kandinski answered them all carefully, taking in good part the inevitable facetious questions. Ward noted with interest the audience’s curious ambivalence, simultaneously fascinated by and resentful of Kandinski’s exposure of their own private fantasies, an expression of the same ambivalence which had propelled so many of the mana-personalities of history towards their inevitable Calvarys.
Just as the chairman was about to close the meeting, Ward stood up.
‘Mr Kandinski. You say that this Venusian indicated that there was also life on one of the moons of Uranus. Can you tell us how he did this if there was no verbal communication between you?’
Kandinski showed no surprise at seeing Ward. ‘Certainly; as I told you, he drew eight concentric circles in the sand, one for each of the planets. Around Uranus he drew five lesser orbits and marked one of these. Then he pointed to himself and to me and to a patch of lichen. From this I deduced, reasonably I maintain, that—’
‘Excuse me, Mr Kandinski,’ Ward interrupted. ‘You say he drew five orbits around Uranus? One for each of the moons?’
Kandinski nodded. ‘Yes. Five.’
‘That was in 1960,’ Ward went on. ‘Three weeks ago Professor Pineau at Brussels discovered a sixth moon of Uranus.’
The audience looked around at Ward and began to murmur.
‘Why should this Venusian have omitted one of the moons?’ Ward asked, his voice ringing across the gymnasium.
Kandinski frowned and peered at Ward suspiciously. ‘I didn’t know there was a sixth moon…’ he began.
‘Exactly!’ someone called out. The audience began to titter.
‘I can understand the Venusian not wishing to introduce any difficulties,’ Ward said, ‘but this seems a curious way of doing it.’
Kandinski appeared at a loss. Then he introduced Ward to the audience. ‘Dr Ward is a professional while I am only an amateur,’ he admitted. ‘I am afraid I cannot explain the anomaly. Perhaps my memory is at fault. But I am sure the Venusian drew only five orbits.’ He stepped down from the dais and strode out hurriedly, scowling into his beard, pursued by a few derisory hoots from the audience.
It took Ward fifteen minutes to free himself from the knot of admiring white-gloved spinsters who cornered him between two vaulting horses. When he broke away he ran out to his car and drove into Vernon Gardens, hoping to see Kandinski and apologize to him.
Five miles into the desert Ward approached a nexus of rock-cuttings and causeways which were part of an abandoned irrigation scheme. The colours of the hills were more vivid now, bright siliconic reds and yellows, crossed with sharp stabs of light from the exposed quartz veins. Following the map on the seat, he turned off the highway onto a rough track which ran along the bank of a dried-up canal. He passed a few rusting sections of picket fencing, a derelict grader half-submerged under the sand, and a collection of dilapidated metal shacks. The car bumped over the potholes at little more than ten miles an hour, throwing up clouds of hot ashy dust that swirled high into the air behind him.
Two miles along the canal the track came to an end. Ward stopped the car and waited for the dust to subside. Carrying Kandinski’s book in front of him like a divining instrument, he set off on foot across the remaining three hundred yards. The contours around him were marked on the map, but the hills had shifted several hundred yards westwards since the book’s publication and he found himself wandering about from one crest to another, peering into shallow depressions only as old as the last sand-storm. The entire landscape seemed haunted by strange currents and moods; the sand swirls surging down the aisles of dunes and the proximity of the horizon enclosed the whole place of stones with invisible walls.
Finally he found the ring of hills indicated and climbed a narrow saddle leading to its centre. When he scaled the thirty-foot slope he stopped abruptly.
Down on his knees in the middle of the basin with his back to Ward, the studs of his boots flashing in the sunlight, was Kandinski. There was a clutter of tiny objects on the sand around him, and at first Ward thought he was at prayer, making his oblations to the tutelary deities of Venus. Then he saw that Kandinski was slowly scraping the surface of the ground with a small trowel. A circle about 20 yards in diameter had been marked off with pegs and string into a series of wedgeshaped allotments. Every few seconds Kandinski carefully decanted a small heap of grit into one of the test-tubes mounted in a wooden rack in front of him.
Ward put away the book and walked down the slope. Kandinski looked around and then climbed to his feet. The coating of red ash on his beard gave him a fiery, prophetic look. He recognized Ward and raised the trowel in greeting.
Ward stopped at the edge of the string perimeter. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘I am collecting soil specimens.’ Kandinski bent down and corked one of the tubes. He looked tired but worked away steadily.
Ward watched him finish a row. ‘It’s going to take you a long time to cover the whole area. I thought there weren’t any gaps left in the Periodic Table.’
‘The space-craft rotated at speed before it rose into the air. This surface is abrasive enough to have scratched off a few minute filings. With luck I may find one of them.’ Kandinski smiled thinly. ‘262. Venusium, I hope.’
Ward started to say: ‘But the transuranic elements decay spontaneously…’ and then walked over to the centre of the circle, where there was a round indentation, three feet deep and five across. The inner surface was glazed and smooth. It was shaped like an inverted cone and looked as if it had been caused by the boss of an enormous spinning top. ‘This is where the spacecraft landed?’
Kandinski nodded. He filled the last tube and then stowed the rack away in a canvas satchel. He came over to Ward and stared down at the hole. ‘What does it look like to you? A meteor impact? Or an oil drill, perhaps?’ A smile showed behind his dusty beard. ‘The F-109s at the Air Force Weapons School begin their target runs across here. It might have been caused by a rogue cannon shell.’
Ward stooped down and felt the surface of the pit, running his fingers thoughtfully over the warm fused silica. ‘More like a 500-pound bomb. But the cone is geometrically perfect. It’s certainly unusual.’
‘Unusual?’ Kandinski chuckled to himself and picked up the satchel.
‘Has anyone else been out here?’ Ward asked as they trudged up the slope.
‘Two so-called experts.’ Kandinski slapped the sand off his knees. ‘A geologist from Gulf-Vacuum and an Air Force ballistics officer. You’ll be glad to hear that they both thought I had dug the pit myself and then fused the surface with an acetylene torch.’ He peered critically at Ward. ‘Why did you come out here today?’
‘Idle curiosity,’ Ward said. ‘I had an afternoon off and I felt like a drive.’
They reached the crest of the hill and he stopped and looked down into the basin. The lines of string split the circle into a strange horological device, a huge zodiacal mandala, the dark patches in the arcs Kandinski had been working telling its stations.
‘You were going to tell me why you came out here,’ Kandinski said as they walked back to the car.
Ward shrugged. ‘I suppose I wanted to prove something to myself. There’s a problem of reconciliation.’ He hesitated, and then began: ‘You see, there are some things which are self-evidently false. The laws of common sense and everyday experience refute them. I know a lot of the evidence for many things we believe in is pretty thin, but I don’t have to embark on a theory of knowledge to decide that the Moon isn’t made of green cheese.’
‘Well?’ Kandinski shifted the satchel to his other shoulder.
‘This Venusian you’ve seen,’ Ward said. ‘The landing, the runic tablet. I can’t believe them. Every piece of evidence I’ve seen, all the circumstantial details, the facts given in this book… they’re all patently false.’ He turned to one of the middle chapters. ‘Take this at random – "A phosphorescent green fluid pulsed through the dorsal lung-chamber of the Prime’s helmet, inflating two opaque fan-like gills…" Ward closed the book and shrugged helplessly. Kandinski stood a few feet away from him, the sunlight breaking across the deep lines of his face.
‘Now I know what you say to my objections,’ Ward went on. ‘If you told a 19th century chemist that lead could be transmuted into gold he would have dismissed you as a mediaevalist. But the point is that he’d have been right to do so—’
‘I understand,’ Kandinski interrupted. ‘But you still haven’t explained why you came out here today.’
Ward stared out over the desert. High above, a stratojet was doing cuban eights into the sun, the spiral vapour trails drifting across the sky like gigantic fragments of an apocalyptic message. Looking around, he realized that Kandinski must have walked from the bus-stop on the highway. ‘I’ll give you a lift back,’ he said.
As they drove along the canal he turned to Kandinski. ‘I enjoyed your lecture last night. I apologize for trying to make you look a fool.’
Kandinski was loosening his boot-straps. He laughed unreproachfully. ‘You put me in an awkward position. I could hardly have challenged you. I can’t afford to subscribe to every astronomical journal. Though a sixth moon would have been big news.’ As they neared Vernon Gardens he asked: ‘Would you like to come in and look at the tablet analysis?’
Ward made no reply to the invitation. He drove around the square and parked under the trees, then looked up at the fountains, tapping his fingers on the windshield. Kandinski sat beside him, cogitating into his beard.
Ward watched him carefully. ‘Do you think this Venusian will return?’
Kandinski nodded. ‘Yes. I am sure he will.’
Later they sat together at a broad roll-top desk in the room above the Tycho. Around the wall hung white cardboard screens packed with lines of cuneiform glyphics and Kandinski’s progressive breakdown of their meaning.
Ward held an enlargement of the original photograph of the Venusian tablet and listened to Kandinski’s explanation.
‘As you see from this,’ Kandinski explained, ‘in all probability there are not millions of Venusians, as every one would expect, but only three or four of them altogether. Two are circling Venus, a third Uranus and possibly a fourth is in orbit around Neptune. This solves the difficulty that puzzled you and antagonizes everyone else. Why should the Prime have approached only one person out of several hundred million and selected him on a completely random basis? Now obviously he had seen the Russian and American satellite capsules and assumed that our race, like his now, numbered no more than three or four, then concluded from the atmospheric H-bomb tests that we were in conflict and would soon destroy ourselves. This is one of the reasons why I think he will return shortly and why it is important to organize a world-wide reception for him on a governmental level.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Ward said. ‘He must have known that the population of this planet numbered more than three or four. Even the weakest telescope would demonstrate that.’
‘Of course, but he would naturally assume that the millions of inhabitants of the Earth belonged to an aboriginal sub-species, perhaps employed as work animals. After all, if he observed that despite this planet’s immense resources the bulk of its population lived like animals, an alien visitor could only decide that they were considered as such.’
‘But space vehicles are supposed to have been observing us since the Babylonian era, long before the development of satellite rockets. There have been thousands of recorded sightings.’
Kandinski shook his head. ‘None of them has been authenticated.’
‘What about the other landings that have been reported recently?’ Ward asked. ‘Any number of people have seen Venusians and Martians.’
‘Have they?’ Kandinski asked sceptically. ‘I wish I could believe that. Some of the encounters reveal marvellous powers of invention, but no one can accept them as anything but fantasy.’
‘The same criticism has been levelled at your space-craft,’ Ward reminded him.
Kandinski seemed to lose patience. ‘I saw it,’ he explained, impotently tossing his notebook on to the desk. ‘I spoke to the Prime!’
Ward nodded non-committally and picked up the photograph again. Kandinski stepped over to him and took it out of his hands. ‘Ward,’ he said carefully. ‘Believe me. You must. You know I am too big a man to waste myself on a senseless charade.’ His massive hands squeezed Ward’s shoulders, and almost lifted him off the seat. ‘Believe me. Together we can be ready for the next landings and alert the world. I am only Charles Kandinski, a waiter at a thirdrate caf, but you are Dr Andrew Ward of Mount Vernon Observatory. They will listen to you. Try to realize what this may mean for mankind.’
Ward pulled himself away from Kandinski and rubbed his shoulders.
‘Ward, do you believe me? Ask yourself.’
Ward looked up pensively at Kandinski towering over him, his red beard like the burning, unconsumed bush.
‘I think so,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, I do.’
A week later the 23rd Congress of the International Geophysical Association opened at Mount Vernon Observatory. At 3.30 P.M., in the Hoyle Library amphitheatre, Professor Renthall was to deliver the inaugural address welcoming the 92 delegates and 25 newspaper and agency reporters to the fortnight’s programme of lectures and discussions.
Shortly after 11 o’clock that morning Ward and Professor Cameron completed their final arrangements and escaped down to Vernon Gardens for an hour’s relaxation.
‘Well,’ Cameron said as they walked over to the Site Tycho, ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea of what it must be like to run the Waldorf-Astoria.’ They picked one of the sidewalk tables and sat down. ‘I haven’t been here for weeks,’ Cameron said. ‘How are you getting on with the Man in the Moon?’
‘Kandinski? I hardly ever see him,’ Ward said.
‘I was talking to the Time magazine stringer about Charles,’ Cameron said, cleaning his sunglasses. ‘He thought he might do a piece about him.’
‘Hasn’t Kandinski suffered enough of that sort of thing?’ Ward asked moodily.
‘Perhaps he has,’ Cameron agreed. ‘Is he still working on his crossword puzzle? The tablet thing, whatever he calls it.’
Casually, Ward said: ‘He has a theory that it should be possible to see the lunar bases. Refuelling points established there by the Venusians over the centuries.’
‘Interesting,’ Cameron commented.
‘They’re sited near Copernicus,’ Ward went on. ‘I know Vandone at Milan is mapping Archimedes and the Imbrium, I thought I might mention it to him at his semester tomorrow.’
Professor Cameron took off his glasses and gazed quizzically at Ward. ‘My dear Andrew, what has been going on? Don’t tell me you’ve become one of Charles’ converts?’
Ward laughed and shook his head. ‘Of course not. Obviously there are no lunar bases or alien space-craft. I don’t for a moment believe a word Kandinski says.’ He gestured helplessly. ‘At the same time I admit I have become involved with him. There’s something about Kandinski’s personality. On the on hand I can’t take him seriously—’
‘Oh, I take him seriously,’ Cameron cut in smoothly. ‘Very seriously indeed, if not quite in the sense you mean.’ Cameron turned his back on the sidewalk crowds. ‘Jung’s views on flying saucers are very illuminating, Andrew; they’d help you to understand Kandinski. Jung believes that civilization now stands at the conclusion of a Platonic Great Year, at the eclipse of the sign of Pisces which has dominated the Christian epoch, and that we are entering the sign of Aquarius, a period of confusion and psychic chaos. He remarks that throughout history, at all times of uncertainty and discord, cosmic space vehicles have been seen approaching Earth, and that in a few extreme cases actual meetings with their occupants are supposed to have taken place.’
As Cameron paused, Ward glanced across the tables for Kandinski, but a relief waiter served them and he assumed it was Kandinski’s day off.
Cameron continued: ‘Most people regard Charles Kandinski as a lunatic, but as a matter of fact he is performing one of the most important roles in the world today, the role of a prophet alerting people of this coming crisis. The real significance of his fantasies, like that of the ban-the-bomb movements, is to be found elsewhere than on the conscious plane, as an expression of the immense psychic forces stirring below the surface of rational life, like the isotactic movements of the continental tables which heralded the major geological transformations.’
Ward shook his head dubiously. ‘I can accept that a man such as Freud was a prophet, but Charles Kandinski—?’
‘Certainly. Far more than Freud. It’s unfortunate for Kandinski, and for the writers of science fiction for that matter, that they have to perform their tasks of describing the symbols of transformation in a so-called rationalist society, where a scientific, or at least a pesudo-scientific explanation is required a priori. And because the true prophet never deals in what may be rationally deduced, people such as Charles are ignored or derided today.’
‘It’s interesting that Kandinski compared his meeting with the Venusian with Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus,’ Ward said.
‘He was quite right. In both encounters you see the same mechanism of blinding unconscious revelation. And you can see too that Charles feels the same overwhelming need to spread the Pauline revelation to the world. The AntiApollo movement is only now getting under way, but within the next decade it will recruit millions, and men such as Charles Kandinski will be the fathers of its apocalypse.’
‘You make him sound like a titanic figure,’ Ward remarked quietly. ‘I think he’s just a lonely, tired man obsessed by something he can’t understand. Perhaps he simply needs a few friends to confide in.’
Slowly shaking his head, Cameron tapped the table with his glasses. ‘Be warned, Andrew, you’ll burn your fingers if you play with Charles’ brand of fire. The mana-personalities of history have no time for personal loyalties – the founder of the Christian church made that pretty plain.’
Shortly after seven o’clock that evening Charles Kandinski mounted his bicycle and set off out of Vernon Gardens. The small room in the seedy area where he lived always depressed him on his free days from the Tycho, and as he pedalled along he ignored the shouts from his neighbours sitting out on their balconies with their crates of beer. He knew that his beard and the high, ancient bicycle with its capacious wicker basket made him a grotesque, Quixotic figure, but he felt too preoccupied to care. That morning he had heard that the French translation of The Landings from Outer Space, printed at his own cost, had been completely ignored by the Paris press. In addition a jobbing printer in Santa Vera was pressing him for payment for 5,000 anti-Apollo leaflets that had been distributed the previous year.
