Collected Short Fiction, page 746
Jimmy Lincoln stumbled out, stunned, shaken. His eyes felt hot and his tongue was dry. The system? The system? How cynical could you get? The whole revolution phony? All done for show?
No. No. No. No.
He wanted to smash down the King Building with his fists. He wanted to see buildings ablaze, as in the old days when the black man was still fighting for what ought to be his.
I don’t believe it, he thought. Not any of it. I’m not gonna stop fighting for my rights. I’m gonna live to see us overcome. I won’t sell out like the others. Not me!
And then he thought maybe he was being a little dumb. Maybe Powell 43X was right: there wasn’t anything left worth fighting for, and only a dopey kid would take the slogans at face value. He tried to brush that thought out of his head. If Powell 43X was right, everything he had read was a lot of crap. Stokely. Malcolm. All the great martyrs. Just so much ancient history?
He stepped out into the summer haze. Overhead, a hopter-bus was heading for the suburbs. He shook his fist at it; and instantly he felt foolish for the gesture, and wondered why he felt foolish. And knew. And beneath his rebellious fury, began to suspect that one day he’d give into the system too. But not yet. Not yet!
time to do my homework now
machine, spell everything right today’s essay is on black power as a revolutionary force I am James Lincoln, Class 804, Frederick Douglass High School put that heading on the page; yeah the concept of black power as a revolutionary force first was heard during the time of oppression forty years ago, when crap on that, machine we better hold it until I know what I going to say I am James Shabazz age seventeen born august 13 1983 I am black I am afro I am beautiful black is beautiful let’s start over, machine let’s make an outline first black power its origin its development the martyrdoms and lynchings the first black mayors the black congressmen and senators the black cities and then talk about black power as a continuing thing, the never-ending revolution no matter what pols like 43X say, never give in never settle for what they give you never sell out
that’s it, machine
black power black
black is beautiful
Downward to Earth
PART III
WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE
EDMUND GUNDERSEN, a former sector chief on Holman’s World, an Earth colony, returns to the planet as little more than a tourist after Earth has restored it to the control of its indigenes, an intelligent elephantine life form, the nildoror. The planet is now known by its native name of Belzagor.
Gundersen’s return has been dictated by an inner need on his part to learn more about the intelligent species he once treated and abused as animals.
The nildoror understand and sympathize and one of them, Srin’gahar, agrees to carry Gundersen to the nearest nildor encampment, where he can apply for a travel permit.
At the encampment Gunderson meets Vol’himyor, an ancient, many-born nildor, requests permission to go to the nildoror place of rebirth, the mist country. He is invited to spend some time with his hosts before permission is granted—and that night finds himself joining them in an elemental, rituals tic dance.
He is shocked to discover that in so doing is able to share himself completely with the nildoror, in effect becoming one of them.
The nildoror, however, are perfectly willing to accept him and in the morning Gundersen receives his permission and is assigned an escort to the mist country. His understanding of his hosts deepens during the ensuing journey—as does his understanding of the planet. Or at least the dangers of going native. His trail crosses that of two of the planet’s leftover humans, a man and a woman, both dying, having become the hosts to one of Belzagor’s more dangerous life forms.
They ask to be put out of their misery. Gundersen kills them, continues his journey to the mist country.
IX
A WHITE wall of water seemed to descend from the sky. Nothing on Earth could match the triple plunge of the great cataract. Here Madden’s River—or the Seran’nee—dropped five hundred meters, then six hundred, then five hundred, then five hundred more, falling from ledge to ledge in its tumble toward the sea. Gundersen and the five nildoror stood at the foot of the falls, where the entire violent cascade crashed into a broad rock-flanged basin out of which the serpentine river continued its southeasterly course. The sulidor had taken his leave in the night and was proceeding northward by his own route. To Gundersen’s rear behind his right shoulder, lay the coastal plain. The central plateau lay to his left. Before him, by the head of the falls, began the northern plateau, the highlands that controlled the approach to the mist country. Just as a titanic north-south rift cut the coastal plain off from the central plateau, so did another rift running east-west separate both plateau and plain from the highlands ahead.
His party began its ascent. The Shangri-la station, one of the Company’s most important outposts, was invisible from below. It was set back a short way from the head of the falls. Once there had been waystations at the foot of the falls and at the head of the middle cataract but no trace of these structures remained. The jungle had swallowed them utterly in only eight years. A winding road with an infinity of switchbacks led upward.
The swaying rhythm of his mount lulled Gundersen into a doze. He held tightly to Srin’gahar’s pommel-like protrusious and prayed that in his grogginess he would not fall off. Once he woke suddenly and found himself clinging only by his left hand, his body partly slung out over a sheer drop of at least two hundred meters. Another time, drowsy again, he felt cold spray and snapped to attention to see the entire cascade of the falling river rushing past him no more than a dozen meters away. The nildoror paused to eat at the head of the lowest cataract and Gundersen dashed icy water in his face to shatter his sluggishness. They went on. He had less difficulty keeping awake now—the air was thinner and the afternoon breeze was cool. They reached the head of the falls before twilight.
Shangri-la Station, seemingly unchanged, lay before him—three rectangular unequal block’s of dark shimmering plastic, a somber ziggurat rising on the western bank of the narrow gorge through which the river sped. The formal gardens of tropical plants, established by a forgotten sector chief at least forty years before, looked as though they were being carefully maintained. At each of the building’s setbacks was an outdoor veranda overlooking the river and these, too, were bedecked with plants. Gundersen felt a dryness in his throat and a tightness in his loins.
He asked Srin’gahar, “How long may we stay here?”
“How long do you wish to stay?”
“One day, two—I don’t know.”
“We are not yet in a great hurry,” said the nildor. “My friends and I will make camp in the bush. Come to us when it is time for you to go on.”
The nildoror moved slowly into the shadows. Gundersen approached the station. At the entrance to the garden he paused. The trees here were gnarled and bowed. Long feathery fronds dangled from them. Highland flora was different from that to the south, although perpetual summer ruled here even as in the true tropics behind him. Lights glimmered within the station. Everything out here seemed surprisingly orderly—the contrast with the shambles of the serpent station and the nightmare decay of the fungoid station was sharp. Not even the hotel garden was this well tended. Four neat rows of fleshy, obscene-looking, pink forest candles bordered the walkway that ran toward the building. Slender, stately globeflower trees, heavy with gigantic fruit, formed little groves to left and right. There were hullygully trees and bitterfruits—exotics here, imported from the steaming equatorial tropics—and mighty swordflower trees in full bloom, lifting their long shining stamens to the sky. Elegant glitterivy and spiceburr vines writhed along the ground but not in any random way. Gundersen took a few steps farther in and heard the soft sad sigh of a sensifrons bush, whose gentle hairy leaves coiled and shrank as he went by, opening wearily when he had gone past, shutting again when he whirled to steal a quick glance.
Two more steps and he came to a low tree whose name he could not recall, with glossy red winged leaves that took flight, breaking free of their delicate stems and soaring away; instantly their replacements began to sprout. The garden was magical. Yet there were surprises here. Beyond the glitterivy he discovered a crescent patch of tiger moss, the carnivorous ground cover native to the unfriendly central plateau. The moss had been transplanted to other parts of the planet—a patch of it was growing out of control at the seacoast hotel—but Gundersen remembered that Seena abhorred it, as she abhorred all the productions of that forbidding plateau. Worse yet, looking upward so that he could follow the path of the gracefully gliding leaves, Gundersen saw great masses of quivering jelly, streaked with blue and red neural fibers, hanging from several of the biggest trees—more carnivores, also natives of the central plateau. What were those sinister things doing in this enchanted garden?
A moment later he had a third proof that Seena’s terror of the plateau had faded. Across his path ran one of the plump, thieving otterlike animals that had bedeviled them the time they had been marooned there. It halted a moment, nose twitching, cunning paws upraised, looking for something to seize. Gundersen hissed at it and it scuttled into the shrubbery.
Now a massive two-legged figure emerged from a shadowed corner and blocked his way. Gundersen thought at first it was a sulidor, but he realized it was merely a robot, probably a gardener.
It said resonantly, “Man, why are you here?”
“As a visitor. I’m a traveler seeking lodging for the night.”
“Does the woman expect you?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t. But she’ll be willing to see me. Tell her Edmund Gundersen is here.” The robot scanned him carefully. “I will tell her. Remain where you are and touch nothing.”
GUNDERSEN waited. The twilight deepened and one moon appeared. Some of the trees in the garden became luminous. A serpent—of the sort once used as a source of venom—slid silently across the path just in front of Gundersen and vanished. The wind shifted, stirring the trees and bringing him the faint sounds of a conversation of nildoror somewhere not far inland from the riverbank.
The robot returned and said, “The woman will see you. Follow the path and enter the station.” Gundersen went up the steps. On the porch he noticed unfamiliar-looking potted plants, scattered casually as though awaiting transplantation to the garden. Several of them waved tendrils at him or wistfully flashed lights intended to bring curious prey fatally close. He went in and, seeing no one on the ground floor, caught hold of a dangling ladder-coil and let himself be spun up to the first veranda. He observed that the station was as flawlessly maintained within as without, every surface clean and bright, the decorative murals unfaded, the artifacts from many worlds still mounted properly in their niches. This station had always been a showplace but he was surprised to see it so attractive in these years of the decay of Earth’s presence on Belzagor.
“Seena?” he called.
He found her alone on the veranda, leaning over the rail. By the light of two moons he saw the deep cleft of her buttocks and thought she had chosen to greet him in the nude. But as she turned toward him he realized that a strange garment covered the front of her body. It was a pale, gelatinous sprawl, shapeless, purple-tinged, with the texture and sheen that he imagined an immense amoeba might have. The central mass of it embraced her belly and loins, leaving her hips and haunches bare. Her left breast also was bare but one broad pseudopod extended upward over the right one. The stuff was translucent, and Gundersen plainly could see the red eye of her covered nipple, and the narrow socket of her navel. It was also alive to some degree, for it began to flow, apparently of its own will, sending out slow new strands that encircled her left thigh and, gradually, her right hip.
The eeriness of this clinging garment left him taken aback. Except for it, she appeared to be the Seena of old. She had gained some weight and her breasts were heavier, her hips broader. She was a handsome woman in the last bloom of youth. But the Seena of old would never have allowed such a bizarreness to touch her skin.
She regarded him steadily. Her lustrous black hair tumbled to her shoulders, as in the past. Her face was unlined. She faced him squarely and without shame, her feet firmly planted, her arms at ease, her head held high.
“I thought you were never coming back here, Edmund,” she said. Her voice had deepened, indicating some inner deepening as well. When he had last known her she had tended to speak too quickly, nervously pitching her tone too high. Now, calm and perfectly poised, she spoke with the resonance of a fine cello. “Why are you back?”
“It’s a long story, Seena. I can’t even understand all of it myself. May I stay here tonight?”
“Of course. How needless to ask!”
“You look so good, Seena. Somehow I expected—after eight years—”
“A hag?”
“Well, not exactly.” His eyes met hers and he was shaken abruptly by the rigidity he found in her fixed and inflexible gaze—its beadiness reminded him terrifyingly of the expression in the eyes of Dykstra and his woman at the last jungle station. “I don’t know what I expected,” he said.
“Won’t you kiss me?” she asked.
“I understand you’re a married woman.”
She winced and tightened one fist. The thing she was wearing reacted also, deepening in color and shooting a pseudopod up to encircle, though not to conceal, her bare breast.
“Where did you hear that?”
“At the coast. Van Beneker told me you married Jeff Kurtz.”
“Yes. Not long after you left, as a matter of fact.”
“I see. Is he here?”
She ignored his question. “Don’t you want to kiss me? Or do you have a policy about kissing other men’s wives?”
HE FORCED a laugh. Awkwardly, self-consciously, he reached for her, taking her lightly by the shoulders and drawing her toward him. She was a tall woman. He inclined his head, trying to put his lips to hers without having any part of his body come in contact with the amoeba. She pulled back before the kiss.
“What are you afraid of?” she asked.
“What you’re wearing makes me nervous.”
“The slider?”
“If that’s what it’s called.”
“It’s what the sulidoror call it,” Seena said. “It comes from the central plateau. It clings to one of the big mammals there and lives by metabolizing perspiration. Isn’t it splendid?”
“I thought you hated the plateau.”
“Oh, that was a long time ago. I’ve been there many times. I brought the slider back on the last trip. It’s as much of a pet as it is something to wear. Look.”
She touched it lightly and it went through a series of color changes, expanding as it approached the blue end of the spectrum, contracting toward the red. At its greatest extension it formed a complete tunic covering Seena from throat to thighs. Gundersen became aware of something dark and pulsing at the heart of it, resting just above her loins, hiding the public triangle—its nerve-center, perhaps.
“Why do you dislike it?” she asked. “Here. Put your hand on it.”
He made no move. She took his hand in hers and touched it to her side; he felt the slider’s cool dry surface and was surprised that it was not slimy. Easily Seena moved his hand upward until it came to the heavy globe of a breast and instantly the slider contracted, leaving the firm warm flesh bare to his fingers. He cupped it a moment and, uneasy, withdrew his hand.
Her nipple had hardened—her nostrils had flared.
He said, “The slider’s very interesting. But I don’t like it on you.”
She pouted.
“Very well.” She touched herself at the base of her belly, just above the organism’s core. It shrank inward and flowed down her leg in one swift, rippling movement, gliding away and collecting itself at the far side of the veranda. “Is that better?” Seena queried, naked now, sweat-shiny, moist-lipped.
The coarseness of her approach startled him. Neither he nor she had ever worried much about nudity but there was a deliberate sexual aggressiveness about this kind of self-display that seemed out of keeping with what he regarded as her character. They were old friends, yes. They had been lovers for several years. They had been married in all but the name for many months of that time—but even so the ambiguity of their parting should have destroyed whatever intimacy had once existed. And leaving the question of her marriage to Kurtz out of it, the fact that they had not seen one another for eight years seemed to him to dictate the necessity of a more gradual return to physical closeness. He felt that by making herself pantingly available to him within minutes of his unexpected arrival she was committing a breach not of morals but of esthetics.
“Put something on,” he said quietly. “And not the slider. I can’t have a serious conversation with you while you’re waving all those jiggling temptations in my face.”
“Poor conventional Edmund. All right. Have you had dinner?”
“No.”
“I’ll have it served out here. And drinks. I’ll be right back.”
SHE entered the building. The slider remained behind on the veranda; it rolled tentatively toward Gundersen, as though offering to climb up and be worn by him for a while, but he glared at it and enough feeling got through to make the plateau creature move hurriedly away. A moment later a robot emerged, bearing a tray on which two golden cocktails sat. It offered one drink to Gundersen, set the other on the railing and noiselessly departed.
