Текст книги "Options"

Автор книги: Robert Sheckley

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

70

Less than a mile from Jamieson's house, down a narrow path hacked through the jungle, one came to the native settlement of Omandrik. At first glance this was a typical Tamili village, identical to a hundred others that could be found perched precariously along the banks of the Semil River – that lost brown stream that seemed barely to have the energy to flow through the devouring sunburned country to the distant, shallow, reef-strewn waters of the East Java Sea.

But an observant eye, ranging across the village, would take in the small, unmistakable signs of neglect – thatch blown away on many of the huts, taro patches overgrown with weeds, broken-hulled praus scattered along the river-bank. One also noticed indistinct black shapes scurrying between huts – an infestation of rats grown bold enough to raid the forlorn gardens in daylight. This more than any other single thing demonstrated the apathy of the villagers, their weary state of demoralization. A proverb of the coast asserts that the presence of rats in daylight means that the land is abandoned of the gods.

In the centre of the village, in a hut nearly twice the size of the others, Amhdi, the headman, sat cross-legged in front of a battery-operated shortwave radio. The radio gave off a low hiss of static, and its green signal indicator glowed like a panther's eye caught in a moonbeam. This was all the radio was capable of, since it had lost its antenna long before old Amhdi had acquired it. But the static and the wavering green light were marvels enough for the old man. The radio had become his spiritual counsellor. He consulted it every few days and declared that the spirits of the dead whispered advice to him and that the spirit eye revealed marvels that could not be revealed.

Tanine, his priest, had never been able to determine whether the old chief actually believed this nonsense or whether he used the «magic» radio out of a previously unsuspected depth of guile to escape some of the more onerous mandates of the House of the Knife. Standing near the old chief, arms folded, clad in a sombre pegatu with the sacred monkey's skull fastened to his high forehead, the priest decided that the chiefs deception was largely unconscious: a will to escape domination and a will to believe neatly conjoined. Nor could the priest blame his headman, whatever his motive: the years had not been kind to Amhdi, and the House of the Knife had been unable to alleviate his sufferings. The old man's attitude was understandable, not that that would stop the priest from doing what he had to do, for an adept of the Snake-Redeemer had certain duties to fulfil no matter what violence they might do to his own emotions.

"Well, Chief?" the priest asked.

The old man looked up furtively. He turned off the radio; it was difficult to obtain batteries – the precious spirit food – from the violent trader in the big house by the river bend. Besides, he had heard the message, the thin voice of his father, nearly lost in the whispering of a thousand other spirits, pleading, cursing, promising, seeking communication with the living from their black house at the end of the world.

"My wise ancient one has spoken to me," Amhdi said. Never had he referred to his father by name or by relationship.

"And what did he say, O Chief?" the priest asked, no hint of irony evident in the low, controlled voice.

"He has told me what must be done about the strangers."

The priest nodded slowly: This was unusual. The headman detested making decisions, and his spirit voices usually advised him along the comfortable rut of inaction. So the old man was beginning to assert himself? Or could it be that his father, the legendary warrior… No, it could not be. It simply could not be.

The priest waited for his chief to tell him what the wise ancient one had advised about the strangers. But Amhdi seemed reluctant to talk. Perhaps he had sensed that he had gained a momentary advantage in a contest that the priest had thought long resolved.

Nothing could be read on the old man's face except its customary expression of baffled avarice and weak guile.

71

The Man of a Thousand Disguises stirred uneasily, almost awoke, almost recognized himselves.

OUT FOR A SWIM IN THE COLLECTIVE POOL OF THE UNCONSCIOUS

"Name?"

"Proteus."

"Occupation?"

"Shape-changer."

"Sex?"

"Any."

"Brocade?"

"Nexus."

Perseverance brings sublime success. Despite the pain, proceed by contiguities.

Premature closure is false healing. Do not anticipate.

All movement is a search, all expectation is of failure, all searches find completion in their origins. The entire pattern is implicit in the first stitch; the initial brushstroke is the ultimate ornament. But this is forbidden knowledge, since the entire dance must be danced.

Initial movement is always initiation.

Mishkin's presence must be inferred by his absence. Mishkin's engine part is found. All that remains is to find it.

DO NOT GUT ALONG THE LINE

72

The port of Arachnis is situated on a misshapen arm of land extending into the sun-shattered waters of the East Java Sea. It is a typical South Asian city compounded of chaos, and intershot with strict and inexplicable rules of behaviour. The scent of a hundred mingled and exotic spices perturbs the senses of the voyager while he is still many miles at sea. These odours, in their ever-changing combinations, touch hidden sensations in the Westerner that are incalculable in their effect. Memories are elicited of events never experienced by the individual; absurd and impossible sensations are stirred.

This sensory onslaught cannot fail to have its impact upon the voyager accustomed to the tepid reception afforded by the bland cities of the West. Effortlessly, the East penetrates the outer, rational, prosaic surface of the voyager's personality, shaping and changing him, subjecting him to fragments of vision, moments of horror and illumination, to inimitable languors and abrupt passions. The approach to Arachnis is the first step into a dream.

Of course, all of this is unacknowledged by the sturdy Western traveller. It was not even considered by the two men and a woman who, at sunset, sailed their steam launch into the crescent-shaped inner harbour of Arachnis. Their ignorance was childish and touching, but it was no defence against the unthinkable world that was engulfing them.

They docked in gathering darkness. Their plans had long been made. Provision had been made for everything, for all the anticipated permutations of chance. Everything had been calculated except the incalculable.

The Arab and the girl stayed on the boat and guarded the object in the burlap bag.

The fat man left the boat and walked away from the harbour into the walled city, past the Street of Bird Sellers, the Street of Dogs, the Street of Forgetfulness, the Street of Many Doors… Droll, the names they had, if one was in the mood for that sort of thing.

The fat man did not feel well. The motion of the boat had given him a queasiness that had not yet passed. His system had been subjected to various shocks, and he was not a man to adapt easily.

Still, the work was nearly finished. It was amusing to remember how it had begun. An elderly man had contacted him. The elderly man wanted a certain object – an engine part – delivered to a certain man, a relative, marooned on a planet called Harmonia, unable to return until he received the part for his disabled spaceship. The problem had seemed straightforward enough – a simple matter of logistics. But there had been unforeseen complications, which had mounted until finally there seemed no way of delivering the engine part – not until the young relative became an old man or a dead man. Therefore, businessman that he was, the elderly gentleman had looked into other channels. And he had come upon the fat man.

That, at least, was his story. It was as good as any other story, and almost as likely.

And now the thing was nearly done. Already the fat man had put behind him the unresolved complications he had encountered while dealing with Jamieson, and by extension, with the local chief, his priest, and the mysterious white man in the jungle.

Everybody was mysterious until you knew their motivations (every situation was complicated as long as you stayed within its frame of reference). But people didn't realize that a man could walk away, simply leave a situation unresolved, its riddles unanswered.

It required will power to do that and even more will power not to pursue unproductive questions such as: How had the engine part come to that unlikely village in southern Asia? Who was the white man in the jungle and why was he so interested in the part? Why had the chief come to a decision now, after years of indecision? Why had Jamieson, a shrewd trader, let the engine part go for so small a price? Why had no one interfered with the fat man and his helpers during their departure? And so on and so on, ad infinitum.

But the fat man had resisted the commonplace traps baited with curiosity. He knew that mystery is only a lack of data and that for all questions there are only a small number of answers, infinitely repeated, typically banal. Curiosity kills. One simply had to leave behind all the enticing problems, the delicious irrationalities, and move on at the proper time – as he had done.

Everything was going very well indeed. The fat man was pleased. He only wished that the nagging hollowness in his stomach would pass. That and the vertigo.

The Street of Monkeys, the Street of Twilight, the Street of Memory. What strange names these people chose! Or had the Tourist Board done the inventing? It didn't matter, he had memorized his route long ago, he knew exactly how to proceed. He walked without haste through the bazaar, past stacks of swords, baskets of green and orange nuts, piles of fat, silvery fish, past cotton cloth dyed the colours of the rainbow, past a group of grinning black men beating on drums while a golden youth performed a dance, past jugglers and fire-eaters, past a man who sat quietly holding a gorilla on a leash.

The heat was unusual even for the tropics, as were the smells – of spices, kerosene, charcoal, cooking oil, dung – and the sounds – chattering alien voices, squeak of a water wheel, groaning of cattle, high-pitched bark of dogs, jingle of brass jewellery.

There were other sounds, not to be identified: other scenes, not to be understood or assimilated. A man in a black headband was making a slow, deep incision in a boy's thigh with an inlaid shell knife while a crowd watched and giggled. Five men solemnly pounded their fists against a strip of corrugated iron, the blood running down their arms. There was a man with a blue stone in his turban that gave off wisps of white smoke.

And yet overall there remained that sense of vertigo that made everything turn and fall slowly to the left – and the hollowness, as if he had lost something large and intimate from within him. Business was not much fun when you were unwell: see a doctor in Singapore next week, meanwhile walk past the Street of Thieves, Street of Deaths, Street of Forgetfulness – damn their pretentiousness – down the Street of the Maze, Street of Desire, Street of Fish, Fulfilment, Nuts, Two Demons, Horses, and only a few more blocks to Ahlid's house.

A beggar clutched at his sleeve. "The smallest coin, compassionate one, that I may live one more day."

"I never give to beggars," the fat man said.

"Never at all?"

"No. It is a matter of principle."

"Then take this," the beggar said, and pressed into the fat man's hand a shrivelled fig.

"Why do you give this to me?" asked the fat man.

"A matter of caprice. I am too poor to afford principles."

The fat man moved on, holding the fig, unwilling to drop it while the beggar could still see him, his head spinning now, his legs beginning to tremble.

He came to a fortune-telling booth. An aged crone blocked his way.

"Learn your fortune, great sir! Learn what will become of you!"

"I never have my fortune told," the fat man said. "A matter of principle." But then he remembered the beggar. "Besides, I cannot afford it."

"You have the price in your hand!" the crone said. She took the fig from him and led him to her booth. She took a bronze jar and spilled its contents on to the counter. In the jar there were twenty or thirty coins of many shapes, sizes, and colours. She studied them intently and looked at the fat man.

"I see change and becoming," she said. "I see resistance, then yielding, then defeat, then victory. I see completion and beginning again."

"Can't you be more specific?" asked the fat man. His forehead and cheeks were burning. His throat was dry and it was painful to swallow.

"Of course, I can," the old woman said. "But I won't, since compassion is a virtue and you are an attractive man."

She turned away abruptly. The fat man picked up a small coin of hammered iron from the counter and walked away.

Street of Initiation, Street of Ivory.

A woman stopped him. She was neither young nor old. She had strong features, dark eyes rimmed with kohl, lips painted with ochre. "My darling," she said, "my full moon, my palm tree! The price is cheap, the pleasure is unforgettable."

"I think not," the fat man said.

"Think of the pleasure, my beloved, the pleasure!"

And, strangely, the fat man knew that he would enjoy this dirty, diseased woman of the streets, enjoy her more than the predictable and sterile couplings he had experienced in the past. Onset of romanticism! But it was out of the question, syphilis was rampant in this place, he didn't have the time, he couldn't stop now.

"Some other time," he said.

"Alas! That will never be!"

"You can never tell."

She looked boldly into his eyes. "Sometimes you can tell. It will never be."

"Take this to remember me by," the fat man said and pushed the iron coin into her hand.

"It is wise of you to pay," she said. "Soon you will see what you have bought."

The fat man turned away and continued to walk mechanically. His joints ached.

Definitely, he was not well. Street of the Razor, Street of the End, and now he had come to the house of the merchant Ahlid.

73

The fat man knocked at the great brass-studded door of Ahlid's house. A servant let him in and took him through an inner courtyard to a cool, dim, high-ceilinged room. The fat man felt relieved to sit on soft brocaded cushions and to sip iced mint tea from a frosted silver glass. But he still felt strange and out of sorts, and the vertigo had not left him. His condition annoyed him. It was most inconvenient.

Ahlid entered the room, a quiet, slender man in his fifties. The fat man had saved his life during a time of riots in Mukhtail. Ahlid had been grateful, and more important, reliable. They had done business together in Aden, Port Sudan, and Karachi. They had not met since Ahlid had moved to Arachnis some years ago.

Ahlid inquired about the fat man's health and listened with grave concern to his indispositions.

"It seems that I cannot take this climate," the fat man said. "But it is of no concern. How are you, my friend, and how is your wife and child?"

"I am well enough," said Ahlid. "Despite the unsettled times, I manage to earn a sufficient living. My wife died two years ago of a snakebite suffered in the bazaar. My daughter is well enough; later you will meet her."

The fat man murmured his regrets. Ahlid thanked him and said, "One learns how to live with Death in this city. Death is present everywhere in the world, of course, and in due time takes everyone; but in other cities he is less publicly evident. Elsewhere, Death makes his customary rounds of the hospitals, goes for a drive on the highway, takes a stroll around town to visit the needy, and generally comports himself like a respectable citizen. To be sure, he arranges a few surprises now and again; but in general he does his work as expected and tries not to disrupt the reasonable hopes and expectations of sober and respectable men.

"But here in Arachnis, Death behaves in quite a different way. Perhaps he is affected by the fierce sun and the marshy land, perhaps they are responsible for making him moody, capricious, and unrelenting. Whatever the causes, Death is ubiquitous and unexpected here, taking delight in sudden surprises and reversals, visiting all parts of the city, not even respecting the mosques and palaces where a man might expect some small measure of security. Here, Death is no longer a good citizen. Here he is a cheap dramatist."

"I beg your pardon," the fat man said. "I seem to have dozed off. The heat… What have we been talking about?"

"You had inquired about my daughter," said Ahlid. "She is seventeen years old. Perhaps you would like to meet her now?"

"Delighted, delighted," said the fat man.

Ahlid led him through dark corridors, up a wide staircase, then through a gallery whose narrow, slit windows looked down upon an interior patio with a fountain. They came to a door. Ahlid knocked, and opened it.

The room was brilliantly lighted. The floor was of black marble, into which a great number of white lines had been let. The lines crossed and recrossed each other at irregular intervals like a tangle of twine. In the centre of the room sat a grave, dark-eyed girl, dressed in white, stitching on a little embroidery frame.

"Charming," said the fat man. The girl did not look up. The tip of her tongue stood out as she concentrated on her design. The pattern of her embroidery was poorly executed, chaotic.

"She is docile," said Ahlid.

The fat man rubbed his eyes. With an effort he sat upright in his chair. He was in Ahlid's salon again, seated on brocade cushions. Ahlid was writing in an account book. In front of the fat man there was a half-eaten cup of sherbet.

The fat man said, "Please excuse my lapses. I have not been well. Perhaps it would be best if we discussed business."

"Just as you please," Ahlid said.

"I have come here," the fat man said, "to arrange, with your help, and at a mutually agreeable price, to… I have a certain object in my possession, of no intrinsic importance except to the man who… I wish to transport a certain engine part to a certain place, and I am confident that I, or rather, you, can accomplish… I seem to be having difficulty in expressing myself. This thing that I wish to accomplish…"

"My friend," said Ahlid, "isn't it time that we talked seriously?"

"Yes? I can assure you…"

"Isn't it time that we talked about what you would like to do with the little time remaining to you?" Ahlid asked.

The fat man managed to smile. "I will admit that I am indisposed. But no one can know…"

"Please," said Ahlid. "My friend, my benefactor, I am very sorry to have to tell you that you have the plague."

"Plague? Don't be ridiculous. I grant that I am not well. I will consult a doctor."

"I have already summoned my own doctor," Ahlid said. "But I know the signs of the plague well. All of us in Arachnis know it, for plague is entwined throughout our lives."

"That is quite incredible," said the fat man.

"Why would I deceive you?" Ahlid said. "I tell you this because I am sure of it. Must you waste your valuable time denying it?"

The fat man sat silently for a long time. Then he said, dully, "I knew when I came ashore here that I was seriously ill. Ahlid, how long do I have?"

"Perhaps three weeks, perhaps a month, even two."

"No more than that?"

"No more."

"I see," said the fat man. "Well, then… Is there a hospital here?"

"None worthy of the name. You will stay here with me."

"Out of the question," said the fat man. "The risk of contagion…"

"No one escapes contagion in Arachnis," Ahlid said. "Listen to me: you have come home to live a little while and then die. This is your home, I am your family."

The fat man smiled vaguely and shook his head.

"You do not understand," Ahlid said. "Death is a part of life. Therefore, there can be no rejection of it. What cannot be rejected must be accepted. What we cannot overcome we must submit to. And since we are men, our submission must be as strong as our rejection. You are very fortunate that you have been granted this chance to prepare yourself for Death and to do so here, in a cool and pleasant house – in your own house. It is not a bad thing."

"No, it is not," said the fat man. "But it will be a depressing time for you."

"Your death will not depress me any more than will my own," said Ahlid. "You and I will talk together in the days ahead. You will make your preparations. And you will help me."

"How?"

"My acceptance of my own death is still very imperfect," said Ahlid. "Through you, I hope to learn what you must learn: how to submit strongly."

"And your daughter?"

"The thread of her life is slender. Surely, you have noticed that? She also must learn."

"Very well," the fat man said. "It is all very strange, and yet it is not strange at all… I am at the moment less startled by the imminence of my death than by the fact that you have become a philosopher."

Ahlid shook his head. "I am a worldly man and a frightened man. But I am a man. I will look at what is in front of me."

"And I, too," said the fat man, "It has taken us many years to pay attention to what is important."

"That is not strange at all," Ahlid said. "If all men paid due attention to the great and important questions who would be left to make iced sherbet?"

"You are right again," said the fat man. "Now I would like to lie down for a while. Then we will talk more."

Ahlid rang a bell. "The servant and I will assist you to your bedroom. The doctor will be here before you awaken. He cannot cure you, but he can ease pain. Do you wish me to do anything about the business you were talking about?"

"No," said the fat man. "I don't care about that any more."

"Then we will speak of it no more. In one way or another, business matters always seem to solve themselves."

The servant came, and the fat man was helped to a cool white bedroom. He realized that he was happy. Truly, nothing upon the earth could be predicted.