Страница:
open counter and was putting bottles on the shelves. We climbed onto three
stools and exchanged expressive glances without a word. Mitchell was just
about to call Mary, but I stopped him and signalled for silence. I was going
to do the test myself.
This was indeed the hardest experiment of all in this insane city.
"Mary," I called hardly audibly.
She swung around as if frightened by the sound of my voice. Her
squinting short-sighted eyes without glasses and the bright light blinding
her from the ceiling might have explained her well-mannered indifference
towards us. She did not recognize me.
But she wore her hairdo the way I liked it- rather plain without any
movie-star effects. And she had on a red dress with short sleeves that I
always preferred. All this could account for something else as well. She
knew about my visit and was expecting me. That was a relief, for a minute I
forgot about any doubts and fears.
"Mary," I said louder.
The answer was a coquettish smile, with head tipped to one side,
symbolically stressing the trained readiness to serve her customer, but that
typified any girl at the bar, not Mary. With the boys she knew, she was
different.
"What's the matter, baby?" I asked. "I'm Don!"
"What's the difference, Don or John?" she responded with a playful
shrug of the shoulders and a glance with meaning, but she failed to
recognize me. "Anything I can do for you?"
"Hey, look at me, will you?" I said rudely.
"What for?" came her surprised respond, but she looked.
I saw two huge bulging eyes-not hers-blue and narrow like the girls in
pictures by Salvador Dali, and always lively, kind or angry. There were the
cold dead eyes of Fritch, the eyes of the girl in the tobacco store, the
eyes of the driver that evaporated on the highway with his car-the glassy
eyes of a doll. A puppet. Not alive, that was it. The test was a failure.
There weren't any live people in that city. Then the instantaneous decision
to run. Anywhere, just to get out of it all before it was too late, before
all this damned horror invaded us completely.
"Follow me!" I shouted, jumping off the stool.
The fat man was disappointed expecting the promised drink, but Mitchell
got the message. A bright kid. When we were out in the street he said, "How
will I find the boss now?"
"You won't find your boss anywhere here," I said. "There aren't any
people here, just make believe, half-people. Let's beat it."
The fat man couldn't get anything through his head, but obediently
followed behind from fear; he obviously didn't relish staying alone in this
weird city. I'm afraid that even Mitchell wasn't fully aware of what was
going on, but at least he didn't argue. He had seen enough bizarre events
along the road today, It was enough for him!
"If we have to clear out, then we will," he remarked philosophically.
"Do you remember where we left the car?"
I looked around, my "corvette" wasn't on the corner. I must have left
it farther down the street. In its place near the curb, about two or three
yards from us was a black police car, headlights ablaze. There were a couple
of policemen in uniform inside, and two more-one with a broken nose, must've
been a former boxer- stood next to the open door. On the other side of the
street, near a sign that read "Commercial Bank" were two more. They were all
following us with intent but hardly alive, penetrating eyes. I didn't like
that at all.
The sergeant said something to those in the car. The concentrated look
on his face was ominous. They were definitely waiting for someone. Maybe us,
shot through my mind. Anything could happen in this upside-down city.
"Hurry up, Mitch," I said looking around, "we seem to be in for it."
"Over that way," he replied and ran, weaving through the cars parked at
the curb.
I slipped around a truck that nearly hit me and got to the other side
of the street some distance away from the suspicious black wagon. Just in
time, too. The sergeant stepped out onto the pavement and raised his hand.
"Hey, you, stop!"
But I had already swung into the side street, a dark canyon-like alley
between houses without signs or windows. The fat guy dashed with surprising
agility and caught up with me, grabbed my hand:
"Look what they're doing!"
I turned around. The policemen had strung out and were crossing the
street on the run. In front was the sergeant breathing heavily and reaching
for his gun. Noticing me turn around, he shouted:
"Stop or I'll shoot!"
I didn't want to see how his gun worked, particularly here when I had
figured out the origin of this town and its population. I was lucky-I heard
the whistle of bullets after I had jumped behind an empty car. The closely
parked chain of cars made it easier for us to manoeuvre. With amazing
nimbleness spurred on by fear, Baker and Mitchell dived, crouching, and
raced across the street.
I knew this side-street. Somewhere along here there should be two
houses with an arched gateway between them. There you could get through to
the next street and catch a passing car or End one: maybe our own. We left
it somewhere nearby on the corner of just such a narrow side-street. Or we
might hide in the repair shop. A week before when Mary and I were walking
past, the shop was empty and there was a "To Let" sign up. I remembered the
shop when we went under the arched gateway. The policemen were stuck some
distance behind.
"This way!" I shouted to my companions and pulled on the door.
The padlock and sign were still hanging there and my jerk didn't open
the door. Then I rammed it with my shoulder, it creaked but held.
Then Mitchell tried with his whole body. The door groaned and collapsed
in a jangle of falling metal.
But there wasn't anything behind it, it didn't lead anywhere. We faced
a dark opening filled with a thick black jelly-like something. At first we
thought it was simply the darkness of an unlighted entrance way out of the
sunlight in this narrow alley. I pushed forward into the darkness, but
jumped back again: it turned out to be elastic like rubber. Now I could see
it perfectly well-a definitely black something, perceptible to the touch,
but awfully dense and resilient, blown up like an automobile tire or
compressed smoke.
Then Mitchell plunged into it, he jumped into the darkness like a
wildcat and rebounded like I had. Actually, it-the something-just threw him
back. It was most likely impenetrable even to a cannon ball. I figured-I was
convinced of this-that the whole inside of the house was the same: no rooms,
no people, darkness pure and simple with the resilience of a net.
"What is it?" Mitchell asked horrified.
He was scared stiff like in the morning on the highway. But there was
no more time to analyse impressions. Our pursuers were getting closer. They
had probably entered the archway. But between us and the dense springy black
substance was a narrow-about a foot wide-space of ordinary darkness, maybe
of the same kind but sort of rarefied to the constituency of fog or gas. A
London smog or pea soup where you don't see more than a yard away. I put out
my hand, it disappeared in it as if cut off. I got up and pressed against
the compressed darkness in the depth of the doorway and heard Baker yell
out, "Where are you guys?"
Mitchell's hand found me and he saw at once how to get out. Together we
pulled the fat travelling salesman through the opening and tried to vanish
into the darkness by pressing as hard as possible so that the treacherous
resilient thing beyond did not throw us out again.
The door to the repair shop where we were hiding was round the corner
of a brick wall that jutted out at this point. The policemen had already
looked down the side street but could not see us, yet even an idiot could
have guessed we couldn't have been able to run the length of the street and
hide.
"They're some place around here," the sergeant said. The wind carried
his words. "Try it along the wall."
Bursts of machine-gun fire followed one after the other. The bullets
did not touch us hidden behind the jutting portion of the wall, but they
whistled by and crunched into the brick knocking out bits of the wall. The
three of us were breathing heavily, tense with nerves at the bursting point.
I was afraid the salesman might give up, so I held him by the throat. If he
squeaks, I thought, I'll have to press harder. By then shots were ringing
out from the other side of the street, the police were firing down entrance
ways and into indentations. I know that type and whispered to Mitchell:
"Give me your pistol!"
I wouldn't have done it in a reasonable city with normal policemen even
in a similar situation, but in this backside-to town all means would do. So
I didn't tremble when I reached in the dark for Mitchell's plaything.
Cautiously, I looked round the jutting wall and slowly raised the gun till I
had the big mug of the sergeant in the sight, then I pressed the trigger.
There was a sharp report and I could clearly see the head of the policeman
jerk from the impact of the bullet. It even seemed to me that I saw a neat
round hole at the bridge of the nose. But the sergeant did not fall, he
didn't even reel.
"I've got'em," he cried out enthusiastically. "They're hiding around
the corner."
"How'd you miss him?" said Mitchell down-heartedly.
I did not answer. I was positive I'd got the policeman square in the
forehead. I simply couldn't have missed. I've shot and won prizes. This
could only mean that these puppets were not afraid of bullets. I was
trembling all over now so I didn't even aim, I just pumped the whole clip
into the big-cheeked sergeant. I could almost physically feel the bullets
plump into the body.
Nothing happened. He didn't even feel them, didn't jerk or try to
escape. Could it be that, inside, he was all that rubber that we were hiding
close to now?
I threw down the useless pistol and left the hiding place. Now nothing
mattered any more, there could be only one end.
At that moment something happened, not exactly sudden, I wouldn't say.
Something had been changing in the situation all along, simply in the heat
of the fight we hadn't noticed properly. The air about was going redder,
little by little, then deep crimson. I drove the last clip of bullets into
the sergeant without being able to see him properly in his murky
surroundings. And when the pistol fell to the ground, I looked at it
automatically, but it wasn't there: under my feet was a thick crimson jelly.
A fog of the same colour had enveloped everything. Only the figures of the
policemen stood dimly at a distance like purple shadows. The fog was
thickening all the time, finally it got as dense jam. But it did not hamper
our breathing or movements in the least.
I don't know how long this lasted, a minute, half an hour or an hour,
but all of a sudden it had rapidly and unnoticeably melted away. When it was
over, a totally different picture opened up to us. There were no policemen,
no houses, no streets, only the brick-like sun-baked desert and the sky with
ordinary clouds scudding along high up. Off in the distance was the hazy
dark ribbon of the highway, and in front of us, all entangled in barbed
wire, was the upturned car of our fat travelling salesman.
"What was it all about? Was it a dream?" he asked.
His voice was so excited it came out hoarse, he could hardly speak, his
tongue wouldn't obey, like people who are regaining the capacity to speak.
"No," and I patted him on the shoulder for encouragement. "I don't want
to console you. This was no dream but complete reality. And we are the only
participants."
Here I was mistaken. There was yet another witness who had watched
events from the sidelines, so to speak. We found him a bit later. It took us
about a quarter of an hour to get to a motel, an ancient structure but with
a nice new shiny concrete-glass-aluminium garage. And Johnson, as usual, was
sitting on the steps of his porch. He jumped up when he saw us and seemed
unnaturally happy.
"Don?" he said not quite convinced. "Where you from?"
"From the inside of hell," I said. "From the branch office, it has here
on the earth."
"You been in this crazy house?" He looked at us with horror in his
eyes.
"Yes, I was there all right," I assured him. "I'll give the whole
story, only give me a drink of something, that is, if you yourself are no
mirage."
No, he wasn't. The iced whiskey wasn't either. It was a great relief to
sit down and hear what it was like from the outside of this city.
Johnson saw it all very suddenly. He was sitting, dozing and all at
once he came to, looked around and froze stiff: to the left where there had
never been anything, except dried up clay, was a twin city. To the right was
Sand City and to the left was Sand City. "I thought this was the end, the
end of the world! I was not drunk, could see straight, no doubling up. I
went into the house, then came back again, but the same thing: me in the
middle of two twin cities, was it a mirage? After all, it might be, this is
a desert, you know. Well, the twin city was here all right, never evaporated
and didn't melt. And worse, there wasn't a single car on the highway.
Then all of a sudden, it got dark and hazy, a fog or something like a
fog, smoke or something, or like a storm cloud grazing the ground, an orange
red." As I listened to Johnson's story, I noticed that every witness gave
the colours a little differently. The fog was purple, or cherry, or crimson
or red. But whatever it was, it lifted finally and then here we were coming
along the road.
Later still, Mary had her own story of the fog. She had really been
waiting for me, and the dress she had on was just like that of the phantom
girl in the fog. She also told us what had happened in the city. I won't
relate it, since I'm sending along a couple of newspaper clippings. You'll
figure it all out better than I can."
I put down the last page of the letter and waited until Irene had
finished reading. We looked at each other and failed to find words. We were
probably both thinking the same thing: is it really possible that our
everyday earthly life can get so close to a fairy tale?
The clipping Martin sent from the Sand City Tribune read:
"A curious meteorological phenomenon occurred yesterday in our city. At
half past seven yesterday evening, when the bars and stores and movie houses
all along State Street were lighted up brightly, a strange reddish fog
descended on the city. Some say the colour was violet. Actually, this was no
ordinary fog because visibility over considerable distances was not
impaired, all things were clearly discernible like on a summer morning of a
cloudless day. True, the fog did thicken to the consistency of an ordinary
Los Angeles smog. They say it's worse than the London fog. No one knows
exactly how long it thickened. Probably not for long because most of the
witnesses we questioned claim that the fog remained transparent all the time
and that it was only the environment-houses, people and even the air-that
took on a deep purple or almost crimson hue, as if one were looking through
red glasses. At first, the people stopped, looked at the sky and since there
was nothing to be seen, calmly continued on their way. The fog did not
affect amusement shows, movies and the like because it wasn't even noticed
there. The event persisted for about an hour and then the fog, if you can
call it a fog, dispersed and the city became its evening self again.
"Meteorologist James Backley, who comes from Sand City and is visiting
here at present, explained that this phenomenon cannot be classed as
meteorological. He described it rather as an enormous rarefied cloud of
minute particles of an artificial dye dispersed in the air, probably brought
in by the wind from some dye works within an area of 100-150 miles radius.
Such a highly atomized and nondispersible accumulation of minute dye
particles is a rare event indeed, but not exceptional and may be carried *
by the wind for many miles.
"The editors believe that the rumours started about some kind of
rose-coloured clouds are completely groundless. The rose clouds are to be
sought in polar and not subtropical regions of the continent. As for the
statement made by Mr. Johnson, the owner of a motel on the federal highway,
that he saw two identical cities on either side of his motel, it comes as no
surprise to the editors or to people acquainted with Mr. Johnson. The
tourist season has not yet started and the motel is empty most of the time.
It seems obvious that a drink or two of whiskey produced these two cities
that eventful day.
"Quite another explanation of these events comes from our sharpshooter
Lammy Cochen, owner of the 'Orion' bar and leader of the 'Wild' Club. He
says it's the work of the Reds. 'Look out for the Reds, for they not only
colour politics, but even the air we breathe.' Doesn't that link up with New
York lawyer Roy Desmond being beaten up as he emerged from a bar in our
city? He refused to answer certain questions relating to the coming
presidential elections. There might be some connection. The police who
immediately came to the site of the disturbance were unable to identify any
of the participants."
Admiral Thompson gave an interview to the "Time and People" magazine:
'PLAGUE GRIPS SAND CITY, SAYS ADMIRAL, ROSE CLOUDS TO BLAME.'
"During the past few days, a little southern town on Route 66 has been
the focus of attention of the whole country. Papers have already * published
reports of the red fog that so suddenly enveloped the city and the story of
the travelling salesman Lesley Baker about the bizarre events in the twin
city. Our reporter interviewed retired Admiral Thompson, a member of the
United States Antarctic expedition and the first eye witness of the rose
clouds in action."
"What do you think about the events in Sand City, sir?"
"Well, I believe that it is the deep concern of the ordinary citizen
about the future of human society."
"You believe that there are grounds for concern?"
"Yes, I do. The 'clouds' are not confining themselves to the copying of
individuals, but they are synthesizing whole strata of society. I will give
only the latest cases: the ocean liner 'Alamade' with its crew and
passengers in toto, the big store in Buffalo on a particularly busy day, the
plastics works in Evansville. It cannot be that all witnesses had the same
dream as if they had lived together for years, and then the duplicate
factory that vanished. No one can convince me that it was all merely a
mirage caused by a temperature gradient in different layers of air. And it
is not of the slightest importance that it persisted for only minutes. The
important thing is that nobody can convincingly demonstrate which one of the
factories disappeared and which remained!"
"When speaking of the events in Sand City at the Apollo Club, you
mentioned the plague. Now in what sense was that?"
"Oh, the most direct. The city must be isolated, subjected to
systematic tests and unabated observations in the future. The problem is the
same: are these real people or are they all duplicates? Unfortunately,
neither the authorities nor society at large are paying anywhere near the
necessary attention to this problem."
"You couldn't be exaggerating a bit, could you, sir?" our reporter
objected. "Do you really accuse the country of indifference to the cosmic
visitors?"
The Admiral replied with irony:
"Well, not if one speaks of rose-cloud skirts and horsemen-from-nowhere
hairdos. Or, say, the congress of spiritualists that declared the clouds to
be the spirits of the dead returning to the world with a gift from almighty
God. That's not indifference! Or take the twelve-hour filibustering speeches
of senators about the 'horsemen' in Congress so as to kill a bill on taxing
big incomes. Or stock brokers using the 'clouds' to play down stocks. Or
preachers proclaming the end of the world. Or perhaps film producers putting
out things like 'Bob Merrile Vanquishes Horsemen From Nowhere'. All of that
is nothing more than a broken sewage main. I have something quite different
in mind...."
"War?"
"With whom? The 'clouds'? I'm not an idiot to think that mankind is
sufficiently armed to combat a civilization that is capable of creating all
manner of atomic structures. I spoke of chasing out the 'clouds', more
precisely of the necessity to find ways and means of contributing to this
aim." The Admiral added: "Powerful as this civilization is, it might have a
weak spot, an Achilles heel. Then why shouldn't we seek it? It seems to me
that our scientists are not energetic enough in making contacts, and not so
much in the sense of reaching an understanding between us human beings and
the strangers, but in the sense of a direct, immediate, so to say, spatial
approach to the cosmic visitors in order to study and observe them. Why is
it that their terrestrial base has not yet been located? I would send out a
number of expeditions, one of the aims being to locate the weak spot that I
am sure they have. The problem is one of vulnerability. Then everything
would take on quite a different aspect."
In this rather loud and outspoken interview the Admiral did not appear
to me to be either a maniac or an eccentric, but simply not a very clever
person. Yet I felt that his consistent, fanatical prejudice might, in the
future, be still more dangerous than the as yet undeclphered actions of our
visitors from space. This was slightly hinted at by the interviewer when he
cautiously pointed out that to include Admiral Thompson in the American
scientific delegation to the Paris international conference might complicate
coordination of its efforts.
I passed on both the clippings together with Martin's letter to Zernov
in the plane. We occupied what amounted to a separate compartment because it
was isolated by the high backs of seats in front and in back. Osovets and
Rogovin were to arrive in Paris in two days, just as the congress got
underway. We had left earlier so as to take part in the press conference of
eye witnesses and to meet the Americans from MacMurdo who did not share
Admiral Thompson's views and who had acquired a certain amount of fresh
experience with the cosmic visitors after the Admiral had left. We had just
had breakfast after taking off from the Moscow airport at Sheremetievo. It
was cool in the plane and all the little local sounds like rustling
newspapers and conversation were drowned out by the subdued roar of the jet
engines. This was just the time for a talk about Martin's letter. While
Zernov was reading and rereading the pages of the letter I whispered to
Irene:
"You remember the letter of course. Try to recall all unclear places
and formulate some questions. Zernov is like a professor at the lectern who
does not like imprecision, misunderstanding."
"Why? Is there such a thing as precise misunderstanding?"
"Naturally. What I don't understand I doubt. The imprecise kind is when
you can't determine the chief unclear point, a stupid question and wide-open
know-nothing eyes."
I hid behind the newspaper preferring not to hear the reply. Anyway, I
would have to formulate all the obscurities by myself. What is the
difference between Martin's werewolves and the memorable doubles? I grouped
them mentally:
empty eyes, lack of understanding of many questions addressed to them,
automatic movements and actions, confused ideas about time, vision unlike
human vision; they were not able to see the sun, the blue sky and were not
surprised at the electric light on the street in the daytime. They did not
appear to have any human memory:
Martin's girl did not simply fail to recognize Martin, she did not
remember him. The bullets from Martin's pistol penetrated these people
without causing any bodily harm. Hence, the inner Structure of their bodies
differed from human beings. Apparently, the "clouds" did not copy people in
this case but only set up externally similar robots with a restricted
programme. Thus, we have the first absurd feature: why was the method of
simulation changed and within what limits was it changed?
But the clouds built models of things too, not only humans. The
duplicate of our tracked vehicle was real. So were all the things in
Martin's city. The drinks could be drunk, the cigarettes smoked and the cars
driven in. And the bullets of the police-guns even went through brick walls.
The houses had real windows and doors, and real cafes dealt in real coffee
and hot dogs, the owner of a real gas station sold real oil and gasoline. At
the same time, real automobiles appeared like phantoms on the highway that
went through the city. They appeared out of nothing, out of emptiness and
disappeared at the other end just as mystically and into the same emptiness
or nothing, into the cloud of dust that had just been raised by the passing
car itself. Not all the doors in the houses led somewhere. Some of them did
not lead anywhere, for beyond was a void-a nonpenetrable and black void like
compressed smoke. So there was some other system of model-building
surrounding things that restricted it in some way. Let us now formulate the
second unclear point: Why another system, for what purposes and in what way
restricted?
Another puzzling thing: Zernov had already allowed for a different
system of simulation in the building of the duplicate airplane on the way to
Moscow from Mirny. Did this coincide with what Martin had described?
"To some extent," replied Zernov, after thinking. "Apparently, the
clouds create different models in unlike ways. Remember the crimson fog in
the plane when you couldn't see across the aisle? In Sand City it isn't even
known exactly whether the fog reached that thickness. The paper writes that
the air was transparent and pure but coloured or lighted red. The type of
model should be connected with the density of the gas. I think that the
people in Martin's phantom city were still less human beings than the
passengers of our duplicate plane. Why? Let's try to figure it out. You
remember, at Karachi, I told you that the people in our airplane were not
modelled to the full extent of their biological complexity but only so far
as their specific functions go. The entire complicated psychic life of the
human being was disconnected, crossed out because the makers of the model
did not need it. But the passengers of our plane were not merely Aeroflot
passengers. You wouldn't say that, socially speaking, they were only linked
by their specific trip, would you? And there were a lot of other things
besides: the year spent together, work, friendly or unfriendly relations
with one's neighbours, plans for the future, musings about coming reunions.
All these factors expanded and complicated their function as passengers.
That is why the creators of the model probably had to refine it and retain
some cells of the memory, certain mental processes. I think that life in the
duplicate plane was very much like our own."
"Or was repeated like a tape recording," I added.
"Hardly. They build models not patterns. Even in Martin's city, life
did not repeat what was occurring in the real Sand City. For example, the
police pursuit. But note that people in this model of the city are still
farther removed from human beings. Only the function is reproduced: the
pedestrian walks, the driver drives a car, the salesman sells or offers
goods, and buyers buy or refuse. That is all. Yet they are not puppets. They
can think, reason, and act, but only within the limits of the function. Tell
the waitress in a cafeteria of the modelled city that you don't like the hot
dogs. She will straightway say that canned hot dogs do not spoil, that the
can was opened hardly fifteen minutes ago, but that if you would like to
have her give you a beefsteak instead, well done or with blood, as you like,
she'll see to it. She can flirt, wisecrack if she's smart, since that too
comes within her professional function. That is why she did not recall
Martin: he was not associated with her work."
"But why did the policemen remember him?" Irene asked. "He didn't rob a
bank, or pick any pockets or get drunk and fight on the street. Where is the
connection with the function?"
"You remember the clipping from the newspaper? During the fog a New
York lawyer was beaten up. The police were late and, unfortunately, did not
find the culprits. You noticed the 'unfortunately', didn't you? The police
of course knew who was to blame but did not plan to find them. But why not
find somebody in place of them? Some kind of drunkards or bums? That was the
purpose of the police at that moment.
In the real Sand City they did not find anyone. In the modelled city,
they came upon Martin and his friends.
"I would have liked to be in his place," I said with envy.
"And get a bullet through your head? The bullets were real."
"And Martin's were too. Maybe he did miss after all?"
"I don't think so," said Zernov, "it is simply that wounds dangerous to
human beings are not dangerous when it comes to these bio-golems. Their
bodies were hardly very much like the human organism."
"And the eyes? They saw Martin."
"Like a crossword puzzle," Irene laughed. "The words fit, but they're
not the words. Certain things dovetail, but a lot doesn't."
"Certainly a crossword puzzle," Zernov added smiling. "What else could
it be? You can't get hold of the policeman and put him on the operating
table to find out what makes him tick. Of course, then we would find out
whether he has the same innards as we. What do we have to resolve the
problem with? A slide rule? A microscope? X-rays? It's a joke. We haven't
got anything so far, except our logic. And words. Incidentally, the eyes are
not the same," he said, referring to my remark. "They saw Martin but they
didn't see the sun. They are not our eyes. Because they were programmed to
exist only within the limits of a certain modelled hour. Time itself was
simulated. And the cars on the highway were modelled in motion within the
limits of the same interval of time and the same region of space. That is
how it came about that they entered the twin city from nowhere and vanished
into no one knows where. A real puzzle," he smiled.
"Camouflage," I added. "Something like our houses. The outside wall is
a real wall and the inside empty, a void, a black nothingness. I'd like to
see it through," I said, sighing. "We're supposed to be eye-witnesses, but
what have we. seen? Not much."
"We'll see some more," put in Zernov mysteriously, "you and I and
Martin too are labelled. They'll show us something new yet, perhaps
accidentally but maybe purposely. I'm afraid they will."
"You're afraid?" I asked in surprise.
"Yes, I'm afraid," Zernov said and fell silent. The plane had cut
through the clouds and was descending towards the distant city shrouded in
haze with the familiar, from childhood, silhouette of the delicate lacework
of the Eiffel Tower. From a distance it looked like an obelisk made of the
finest nylon thread.
In connection with the coming congress, Paris was flooded with
tourists. Our delegation stayed at the Homond Hotel, a small first-class
establishment that was proud of being old-fashioned. The wooden staircases
creaked, the heavy draperies were dust covered and elegant ancient
chandeliers reminded one of Balzac's day. Candles were alight on the tables,
windowsills, at hearth places-not as a tribute to fashion, but as stubborn
competitors of electricity, which was something they had to put up with,
nothing more. The Americans did not like that arrangement, but we did not
seem to feel it. Perhaps because we hardly stayed inside for more than a few
minutes. Irene and I spent the two hours before the press conference taking
our first sights of the city. I gaped at every architectural wonder while
she condescendingly explained when and for whom it was built.
"How come you know Paris so well?" I asked in surprise.
"This is my third visit, and then I was born in Paris. My baby carriage
travelled these very streets. I'll tell you about it some day," she said
mysteriously and laughed out loud. "Even the doorman at the hotel greeted me
like an old acquaintance."
"When?"
"When you paid off the taxicab. Zernov and I went in to the lobby and
the doorman-an old bald-headed lord, you might say-looked us over with
professional indifference, and then suddenly opened his eyes wide, stepped
back and looked at me intently. 'What's the trouble?' I asked in surprise.
But there he stood looking at me, silent. So Zernov asked: 'You probably
recognize mademoiselle?' 'No, no,' he said collecting his wits,
'mademoiselle is simply very much like one of our clients.' But he seemed to
recognize me, though I've never stayed at that hotel. Strange."
When we returned to the hotel, the doorman did not even look at Irene,
but he smiled and said that we were expected. "Go straight to the rostrum".
The conference was indeed just about to begin in the restaurant hall of
the hotel. The Americans had already arrived and took up the greater part of
the concert stage. Television operators were racing about with their black
boxes. Correspondents and newsmen with cameras, notebooks and tape recorders
were set up at desks. Waiters were offering bottles with multicoloured
labels. We had a table on the stage too, and it had already been well
supplied with all manner of drinks by the Americans. Irene remained in the
hall; no translation was needed since all, or nearly all, present spoke both
French and English. True, my French was not much. I understood fairly well,
but couldn't speak very well, but I figured Zernov's presence would relieve
me of most of the conversation. I was wrong on that score, though. The
newsmen were out to squeeze every ounce of us "witnesses of the phenomenon".
And what is more, I was the author of the film that was making a great
impression on Parisian audiences for the second week now.
The conference was chaired by MacEdou, an astronomer from MacMurdo. He
was already used to the reporters wisecracks about MacEdou from MacMurdo and
"much ado about MacEdou." But he was hard to embarrass. He steered our ship
in the conference storm with the skill of an experienced helmsman. Even his
voice was that of a captain-loud, imperative especially when the questions
got too insistent.
It was not by accident that I referred to the storm. Three hours
previously, journalists met in another Parisian hotel with another "witness
of the phenomenon" and a delegate to the congress, Admiral Thompson. He
refused to take part in our press conference for reasons which he preferred
to tell newsmen in a private talk. The import of the reasons and the gist of
his pronouncements became clear after the first queries were posed.
The delegates specifically questioned gave their answers, all other
queries were handled by MacEdou. I didn't remember everything, but what I
did went like a tape-recording.
"Do you have any information about the press conference of Admiral
Thompson?"
That was the first tennis ball thrown into the hall and it was tossed
back by the chairman as follows:
"I'm sorry to say I know nothing, but honestly speaking, I am not very
worried."
"But that's a sensational statement the Admiral made."
"Very possible."
"He demands preventive measures against the rose clouds."
"You print that in your papers. I would like questions."
"What will you say if some of the UN delegates demand punitive measures
against the newcomers?"
"I am not the minister for war, I can't say anything about such
demands."
"But if you were the minister what would you say?"
"Haven't been thinking along those lines for a career."
Laughter and applause was the reply of the hall. MacEdou made a wry
face, he didn't like theatrical effects. Not even smiling he took his seat
without a word, since the man who had asked the question gave up.
But he was quickly followed by a second one. He did not risk a
collision with the eloquence of MacEdou and picked another victim.
"I would like to ask Professor Zernov a question. Do you agree that the
actions of the rose clouds might endanger humanity?"
"Of course not," Zernov responded at once. "So far the clouds have not
done any harm at all to human beings. Reduction of the terrestrial ice mass
will only improve the climate. No damage has been inflicted either on nature
or on the work of man."
"Do you insist on that view?"
"Absolutely. The only harm done was to a stool that disappeared in
Mirny together with my duplicate, and an automobile that Martin left in the
duplicated Sand City."
"What automobile?"
"When?"
"Where's Martin?"
"Martin's coming tomorrow evening." That was MacEdou.
"Was he in Sand City?"
"Ask him yourself."
"How does Professor Zernov know about Martin's car that vanished?"
MacEdou turned round to Zernov and looked questioningly at him. Zernov
said:
"I have the news directly from Martin himself. I am not empowered to
give the details, however. But I think that one old stool and a second-hand
car is not so much damage to humanity."
"A question for Professor Zernov!" came several cries from the hall.
"What is your attitude towards the Admiral's statement that doubles
represent a 5th column of the invaders and a prelude to a future galactic
war?"
"I feel that the Admiral has been reading too much science fiction of
late and he takes it all for reality."
"A question to Anokhin, author of the film. The Admiral believes that
you are a double and that your film was taken by a double, whereas the
episode of the death of your double in the film was actually the death of
Anokhin himself. Have you proof that this is not true?"
I could only shrug my shoulders. How could I prove it? MacEdou answered
for me:
"Anokhin doesn't need to offer any proof. In science we have the
inviolate principle of 'presumption of an established fact'. Scientists do
not need to verify and prove the falsity of some groundless assertion, let
the author prove that his assertion is true."
There was some more applause. But this time the lanky MacEdou
interrupted the hand-clapping: "This is not a show, gentlemen."
"What does the chairman think about Mr. Thompson?" someone cried out.
"You worked with the Admiral for a whole year in an Antarctic expedition.
What is your impression of him as a scientist and as a man?"
"That's the first reasonable question so far," MacEdou grinned.
"Unfortunately, I cannot satisfy the curiosity of the questioner. The
Admiral and I worked in the same expedition and at the same geographical
site, but in different spheres. He is an administrator and I am an
astronomer. We hardly ever came into contact. He never displayed the least
interest in my astronomical observations and I do not care a bit for his
administrative abilities. I'm pretty sure he himself lays no claim to
scientific titles, at any rate I am not acquainted with any of his
scientific papers. As a person, I hardly know him at all, though I am
convinced that he is honest and is not acting in the interest of politics or
in self-interest. He has not made an oath to anticommunism nor is he taking
part in the presidential campaign. What he preaches is, I believe, based on
a false prejudice and on erroneous conclusions."
"What is your opinion about how humanity should act?"
"Recommendations will be given by the Congress."
"Then I have a question that concerns you as an astronomer. Where do
you think these monsters have come from?"
MacEdou laughed out loud for the first time and quite sincerely.
"I don't find anything so monstrous in them. They resemble horsemen or
the delta-wing of an airplane, sometimes a very large and pretty flower, and
at other times a rose-colour dirigible. Probably aesthetic views differ,
theirs and ours. We'll find out where they have come from when they
themselves desire to answer that question, if of course we are able to pose
it. It may be they are from a neighbouring stellar system. Perhaps the
Andromeda Nebula, or from the nebula in the Triangle constellation. It's
senseless to guess."
"You said: when they answer themselves. So you think contact is
possible?"
"So far not a single attempt at contact has yielded any results. But it
is attainable. Of that I am convinced if they are living intelligent beings
and not biosystems with a specific programme."
"Do you have in view robots?"
"I do not refer to robots. I have in view programmed systems in
general. In that case, contact depends on the programme."
"But what if they are self-programming systems?"
"Then everything depends on how the programme varies under the effects
of external factors. Attempts at contact are also an external factor."
"May I ask Anokhin a question? Did you observe the actual process of
model construction?"
"It can't be observed," I remarked, "because the person is in a
comatose state."
"But a copy of the tracked vehicle appeared right before your eyes. A
huge machine made of metal and plastic. Where did it come from? Out of what
materials was it made?"
"Out of the air," I said.
There was laughter in the hall.
"There is nothing to laugh about," Zernov put in. "That's exactly what
it is: from the air, out of elements unknown to us and delivered in some
kind of novel manner."
"A miracle?" came the question with a measure of mockery.
But Zernov was not taken aback.
" 'Miracles' has been the label, at one time or another, for anything
that could not be accounted for at the given level of knowledge. Our level
likewise allows for the unaccountable, but it also presumes that
explanations will be forthcoming in the course of subsequent development of
scientific progress. And its momentum at present already allows us to
predict, roughly of course, that in the middle or towards the end of next
century it will be possible to reproduce objects by means of waves and
fields. What waves and what fields is a matter for the level of future
knowledge. But I am personally convinced that in that corner of the cosmos,
whence these beings came, science and life have already reached that level."
"What kind of life is it?" asked a woman's voice, or so it seemed to
me, with a hysterical ring to it and obvious horror. "How can we converse
with it if it is a liquid, what sort of contact is possible if it is a gas?"
"Here, drink some water," MacEdou calmly took over. "I don't see you,
but it seems to me that you are overexcited."
"I am simply beginning to believe Mr. Thompson."
"I congratulate Mr. Thompson on another convert. As to thinking
structures consisting of a liquid or colloid, I can say that we exist in a
semiliquid state. The chemistry of our life is the chemistry of carbon and
aqueous solutions."
"And the chemistry of their life?"
"What is the solvent? Ours is water, and theirs?"
"Maybe its fluorine life?"
The answer came from an American on the extreme right.
"Everything that I am going to say is hypothetical. Fluorine life?
Don't know. In that case the solvent might be hydrogen fluoride or fluorine
oxide. Then it's a cold planet. For fluorine creatures a temperature of
minus one hundred degrees is pleasantly cool. To put it mildly, in that
coolish medium, ammonium life is possible too. It is even more realistic
since ammonia occurs in the atmospheres of many of the major planets,
whereas liquid ammonia exists at a temperature of thirty-five degrees below
zero. Almost terrestrial conditions, you might say. And if one gives thought
to the adaptability of the guests to our earthly conditions, the ammonia
hypothesis will appear to be the most probable. But if one presumes that the
strangers themselves create the necessary conditions for their life, any
stools and exchanged expressive glances without a word. Mitchell was just
about to call Mary, but I stopped him and signalled for silence. I was going
to do the test myself.
This was indeed the hardest experiment of all in this insane city.
"Mary," I called hardly audibly.
She swung around as if frightened by the sound of my voice. Her
squinting short-sighted eyes without glasses and the bright light blinding
her from the ceiling might have explained her well-mannered indifference
towards us. She did not recognize me.
But she wore her hairdo the way I liked it- rather plain without any
movie-star effects. And she had on a red dress with short sleeves that I
always preferred. All this could account for something else as well. She
knew about my visit and was expecting me. That was a relief, for a minute I
forgot about any doubts and fears.
"Mary," I said louder.
The answer was a coquettish smile, with head tipped to one side,
symbolically stressing the trained readiness to serve her customer, but that
typified any girl at the bar, not Mary. With the boys she knew, she was
different.
"What's the matter, baby?" I asked. "I'm Don!"
"What's the difference, Don or John?" she responded with a playful
shrug of the shoulders and a glance with meaning, but she failed to
recognize me. "Anything I can do for you?"
"Hey, look at me, will you?" I said rudely.
"What for?" came her surprised respond, but she looked.
I saw two huge bulging eyes-not hers-blue and narrow like the girls in
pictures by Salvador Dali, and always lively, kind or angry. There were the
cold dead eyes of Fritch, the eyes of the girl in the tobacco store, the
eyes of the driver that evaporated on the highway with his car-the glassy
eyes of a doll. A puppet. Not alive, that was it. The test was a failure.
There weren't any live people in that city. Then the instantaneous decision
to run. Anywhere, just to get out of it all before it was too late, before
all this damned horror invaded us completely.
"Follow me!" I shouted, jumping off the stool.
The fat man was disappointed expecting the promised drink, but Mitchell
got the message. A bright kid. When we were out in the street he said, "How
will I find the boss now?"
"You won't find your boss anywhere here," I said. "There aren't any
people here, just make believe, half-people. Let's beat it."
The fat man couldn't get anything through his head, but obediently
followed behind from fear; he obviously didn't relish staying alone in this
weird city. I'm afraid that even Mitchell wasn't fully aware of what was
going on, but at least he didn't argue. He had seen enough bizarre events
along the road today, It was enough for him!
"If we have to clear out, then we will," he remarked philosophically.
"Do you remember where we left the car?"
I looked around, my "corvette" wasn't on the corner. I must have left
it farther down the street. In its place near the curb, about two or three
yards from us was a black police car, headlights ablaze. There were a couple
of policemen in uniform inside, and two more-one with a broken nose, must've
been a former boxer- stood next to the open door. On the other side of the
street, near a sign that read "Commercial Bank" were two more. They were all
following us with intent but hardly alive, penetrating eyes. I didn't like
that at all.
The sergeant said something to those in the car. The concentrated look
on his face was ominous. They were definitely waiting for someone. Maybe us,
shot through my mind. Anything could happen in this upside-down city.
"Hurry up, Mitch," I said looking around, "we seem to be in for it."
"Over that way," he replied and ran, weaving through the cars parked at
the curb.
I slipped around a truck that nearly hit me and got to the other side
of the street some distance away from the suspicious black wagon. Just in
time, too. The sergeant stepped out onto the pavement and raised his hand.
"Hey, you, stop!"
But I had already swung into the side street, a dark canyon-like alley
between houses without signs or windows. The fat guy dashed with surprising
agility and caught up with me, grabbed my hand:
"Look what they're doing!"
I turned around. The policemen had strung out and were crossing the
street on the run. In front was the sergeant breathing heavily and reaching
for his gun. Noticing me turn around, he shouted:
"Stop or I'll shoot!"
I didn't want to see how his gun worked, particularly here when I had
figured out the origin of this town and its population. I was lucky-I heard
the whistle of bullets after I had jumped behind an empty car. The closely
parked chain of cars made it easier for us to manoeuvre. With amazing
nimbleness spurred on by fear, Baker and Mitchell dived, crouching, and
raced across the street.
I knew this side-street. Somewhere along here there should be two
houses with an arched gateway between them. There you could get through to
the next street and catch a passing car or End one: maybe our own. We left
it somewhere nearby on the corner of just such a narrow side-street. Or we
might hide in the repair shop. A week before when Mary and I were walking
past, the shop was empty and there was a "To Let" sign up. I remembered the
shop when we went under the arched gateway. The policemen were stuck some
distance behind.
"This way!" I shouted to my companions and pulled on the door.
The padlock and sign were still hanging there and my jerk didn't open
the door. Then I rammed it with my shoulder, it creaked but held.
Then Mitchell tried with his whole body. The door groaned and collapsed
in a jangle of falling metal.
But there wasn't anything behind it, it didn't lead anywhere. We faced
a dark opening filled with a thick black jelly-like something. At first we
thought it was simply the darkness of an unlighted entrance way out of the
sunlight in this narrow alley. I pushed forward into the darkness, but
jumped back again: it turned out to be elastic like rubber. Now I could see
it perfectly well-a definitely black something, perceptible to the touch,
but awfully dense and resilient, blown up like an automobile tire or
compressed smoke.
Then Mitchell plunged into it, he jumped into the darkness like a
wildcat and rebounded like I had. Actually, it-the something-just threw him
back. It was most likely impenetrable even to a cannon ball. I figured-I was
convinced of this-that the whole inside of the house was the same: no rooms,
no people, darkness pure and simple with the resilience of a net.
"What is it?" Mitchell asked horrified.
He was scared stiff like in the morning on the highway. But there was
no more time to analyse impressions. Our pursuers were getting closer. They
had probably entered the archway. But between us and the dense springy black
substance was a narrow-about a foot wide-space of ordinary darkness, maybe
of the same kind but sort of rarefied to the constituency of fog or gas. A
London smog or pea soup where you don't see more than a yard away. I put out
my hand, it disappeared in it as if cut off. I got up and pressed against
the compressed darkness in the depth of the doorway and heard Baker yell
out, "Where are you guys?"
Mitchell's hand found me and he saw at once how to get out. Together we
pulled the fat travelling salesman through the opening and tried to vanish
into the darkness by pressing as hard as possible so that the treacherous
resilient thing beyond did not throw us out again.
The door to the repair shop where we were hiding was round the corner
of a brick wall that jutted out at this point. The policemen had already
looked down the side street but could not see us, yet even an idiot could
have guessed we couldn't have been able to run the length of the street and
hide.
"They're some place around here," the sergeant said. The wind carried
his words. "Try it along the wall."
Bursts of machine-gun fire followed one after the other. The bullets
did not touch us hidden behind the jutting portion of the wall, but they
whistled by and crunched into the brick knocking out bits of the wall. The
three of us were breathing heavily, tense with nerves at the bursting point.
I was afraid the salesman might give up, so I held him by the throat. If he
squeaks, I thought, I'll have to press harder. By then shots were ringing
out from the other side of the street, the police were firing down entrance
ways and into indentations. I know that type and whispered to Mitchell:
"Give me your pistol!"
I wouldn't have done it in a reasonable city with normal policemen even
in a similar situation, but in this backside-to town all means would do. So
I didn't tremble when I reached in the dark for Mitchell's plaything.
Cautiously, I looked round the jutting wall and slowly raised the gun till I
had the big mug of the sergeant in the sight, then I pressed the trigger.
There was a sharp report and I could clearly see the head of the policeman
jerk from the impact of the bullet. It even seemed to me that I saw a neat
round hole at the bridge of the nose. But the sergeant did not fall, he
didn't even reel.
"I've got'em," he cried out enthusiastically. "They're hiding around
the corner."
"How'd you miss him?" said Mitchell down-heartedly.
I did not answer. I was positive I'd got the policeman square in the
forehead. I simply couldn't have missed. I've shot and won prizes. This
could only mean that these puppets were not afraid of bullets. I was
trembling all over now so I didn't even aim, I just pumped the whole clip
into the big-cheeked sergeant. I could almost physically feel the bullets
plump into the body.
Nothing happened. He didn't even feel them, didn't jerk or try to
escape. Could it be that, inside, he was all that rubber that we were hiding
close to now?
I threw down the useless pistol and left the hiding place. Now nothing
mattered any more, there could be only one end.
At that moment something happened, not exactly sudden, I wouldn't say.
Something had been changing in the situation all along, simply in the heat
of the fight we hadn't noticed properly. The air about was going redder,
little by little, then deep crimson. I drove the last clip of bullets into
the sergeant without being able to see him properly in his murky
surroundings. And when the pistol fell to the ground, I looked at it
automatically, but it wasn't there: under my feet was a thick crimson jelly.
A fog of the same colour had enveloped everything. Only the figures of the
policemen stood dimly at a distance like purple shadows. The fog was
thickening all the time, finally it got as dense jam. But it did not hamper
our breathing or movements in the least.
I don't know how long this lasted, a minute, half an hour or an hour,
but all of a sudden it had rapidly and unnoticeably melted away. When it was
over, a totally different picture opened up to us. There were no policemen,
no houses, no streets, only the brick-like sun-baked desert and the sky with
ordinary clouds scudding along high up. Off in the distance was the hazy
dark ribbon of the highway, and in front of us, all entangled in barbed
wire, was the upturned car of our fat travelling salesman.
"What was it all about? Was it a dream?" he asked.
His voice was so excited it came out hoarse, he could hardly speak, his
tongue wouldn't obey, like people who are regaining the capacity to speak.
"No," and I patted him on the shoulder for encouragement. "I don't want
to console you. This was no dream but complete reality. And we are the only
participants."
Here I was mistaken. There was yet another witness who had watched
events from the sidelines, so to speak. We found him a bit later. It took us
about a quarter of an hour to get to a motel, an ancient structure but with
a nice new shiny concrete-glass-aluminium garage. And Johnson, as usual, was
sitting on the steps of his porch. He jumped up when he saw us and seemed
unnaturally happy.
"Don?" he said not quite convinced. "Where you from?"
"From the inside of hell," I said. "From the branch office, it has here
on the earth."
"You been in this crazy house?" He looked at us with horror in his
eyes.
"Yes, I was there all right," I assured him. "I'll give the whole
story, only give me a drink of something, that is, if you yourself are no
mirage."
No, he wasn't. The iced whiskey wasn't either. It was a great relief to
sit down and hear what it was like from the outside of this city.
Johnson saw it all very suddenly. He was sitting, dozing and all at
once he came to, looked around and froze stiff: to the left where there had
never been anything, except dried up clay, was a twin city. To the right was
Sand City and to the left was Sand City. "I thought this was the end, the
end of the world! I was not drunk, could see straight, no doubling up. I
went into the house, then came back again, but the same thing: me in the
middle of two twin cities, was it a mirage? After all, it might be, this is
a desert, you know. Well, the twin city was here all right, never evaporated
and didn't melt. And worse, there wasn't a single car on the highway.
Then all of a sudden, it got dark and hazy, a fog or something like a
fog, smoke or something, or like a storm cloud grazing the ground, an orange
red." As I listened to Johnson's story, I noticed that every witness gave
the colours a little differently. The fog was purple, or cherry, or crimson
or red. But whatever it was, it lifted finally and then here we were coming
along the road.
Later still, Mary had her own story of the fog. She had really been
waiting for me, and the dress she had on was just like that of the phantom
girl in the fog. She also told us what had happened in the city. I won't
relate it, since I'm sending along a couple of newspaper clippings. You'll
figure it all out better than I can."
I put down the last page of the letter and waited until Irene had
finished reading. We looked at each other and failed to find words. We were
probably both thinking the same thing: is it really possible that our
everyday earthly life can get so close to a fairy tale?
The clipping Martin sent from the Sand City Tribune read:
"A curious meteorological phenomenon occurred yesterday in our city. At
half past seven yesterday evening, when the bars and stores and movie houses
all along State Street were lighted up brightly, a strange reddish fog
descended on the city. Some say the colour was violet. Actually, this was no
ordinary fog because visibility over considerable distances was not
impaired, all things were clearly discernible like on a summer morning of a
cloudless day. True, the fog did thicken to the consistency of an ordinary
Los Angeles smog. They say it's worse than the London fog. No one knows
exactly how long it thickened. Probably not for long because most of the
witnesses we questioned claim that the fog remained transparent all the time
and that it was only the environment-houses, people and even the air-that
took on a deep purple or almost crimson hue, as if one were looking through
red glasses. At first, the people stopped, looked at the sky and since there
was nothing to be seen, calmly continued on their way. The fog did not
affect amusement shows, movies and the like because it wasn't even noticed
there. The event persisted for about an hour and then the fog, if you can
call it a fog, dispersed and the city became its evening self again.
"Meteorologist James Backley, who comes from Sand City and is visiting
here at present, explained that this phenomenon cannot be classed as
meteorological. He described it rather as an enormous rarefied cloud of
minute particles of an artificial dye dispersed in the air, probably brought
in by the wind from some dye works within an area of 100-150 miles radius.
Such a highly atomized and nondispersible accumulation of minute dye
particles is a rare event indeed, but not exceptional and may be carried *
by the wind for many miles.
"The editors believe that the rumours started about some kind of
rose-coloured clouds are completely groundless. The rose clouds are to be
sought in polar and not subtropical regions of the continent. As for the
statement made by Mr. Johnson, the owner of a motel on the federal highway,
that he saw two identical cities on either side of his motel, it comes as no
surprise to the editors or to people acquainted with Mr. Johnson. The
tourist season has not yet started and the motel is empty most of the time.
It seems obvious that a drink or two of whiskey produced these two cities
that eventful day.
"Quite another explanation of these events comes from our sharpshooter
Lammy Cochen, owner of the 'Orion' bar and leader of the 'Wild' Club. He
says it's the work of the Reds. 'Look out for the Reds, for they not only
colour politics, but even the air we breathe.' Doesn't that link up with New
York lawyer Roy Desmond being beaten up as he emerged from a bar in our
city? He refused to answer certain questions relating to the coming
presidential elections. There might be some connection. The police who
immediately came to the site of the disturbance were unable to identify any
of the participants."
Admiral Thompson gave an interview to the "Time and People" magazine:
'PLAGUE GRIPS SAND CITY, SAYS ADMIRAL, ROSE CLOUDS TO BLAME.'
"During the past few days, a little southern town on Route 66 has been
the focus of attention of the whole country. Papers have already * published
reports of the red fog that so suddenly enveloped the city and the story of
the travelling salesman Lesley Baker about the bizarre events in the twin
city. Our reporter interviewed retired Admiral Thompson, a member of the
United States Antarctic expedition and the first eye witness of the rose
clouds in action."
"What do you think about the events in Sand City, sir?"
"Well, I believe that it is the deep concern of the ordinary citizen
about the future of human society."
"You believe that there are grounds for concern?"
"Yes, I do. The 'clouds' are not confining themselves to the copying of
individuals, but they are synthesizing whole strata of society. I will give
only the latest cases: the ocean liner 'Alamade' with its crew and
passengers in toto, the big store in Buffalo on a particularly busy day, the
plastics works in Evansville. It cannot be that all witnesses had the same
dream as if they had lived together for years, and then the duplicate
factory that vanished. No one can convince me that it was all merely a
mirage caused by a temperature gradient in different layers of air. And it
is not of the slightest importance that it persisted for only minutes. The
important thing is that nobody can convincingly demonstrate which one of the
factories disappeared and which remained!"
"When speaking of the events in Sand City at the Apollo Club, you
mentioned the plague. Now in what sense was that?"
"Oh, the most direct. The city must be isolated, subjected to
systematic tests and unabated observations in the future. The problem is the
same: are these real people or are they all duplicates? Unfortunately,
neither the authorities nor society at large are paying anywhere near the
necessary attention to this problem."
"You couldn't be exaggerating a bit, could you, sir?" our reporter
objected. "Do you really accuse the country of indifference to the cosmic
visitors?"
The Admiral replied with irony:
"Well, not if one speaks of rose-cloud skirts and horsemen-from-nowhere
hairdos. Or, say, the congress of spiritualists that declared the clouds to
be the spirits of the dead returning to the world with a gift from almighty
God. That's not indifference! Or take the twelve-hour filibustering speeches
of senators about the 'horsemen' in Congress so as to kill a bill on taxing
big incomes. Or stock brokers using the 'clouds' to play down stocks. Or
preachers proclaming the end of the world. Or perhaps film producers putting
out things like 'Bob Merrile Vanquishes Horsemen From Nowhere'. All of that
is nothing more than a broken sewage main. I have something quite different
in mind...."
"War?"
"With whom? The 'clouds'? I'm not an idiot to think that mankind is
sufficiently armed to combat a civilization that is capable of creating all
manner of atomic structures. I spoke of chasing out the 'clouds', more
precisely of the necessity to find ways and means of contributing to this
aim." The Admiral added: "Powerful as this civilization is, it might have a
weak spot, an Achilles heel. Then why shouldn't we seek it? It seems to me
that our scientists are not energetic enough in making contacts, and not so
much in the sense of reaching an understanding between us human beings and
the strangers, but in the sense of a direct, immediate, so to say, spatial
approach to the cosmic visitors in order to study and observe them. Why is
it that their terrestrial base has not yet been located? I would send out a
number of expeditions, one of the aims being to locate the weak spot that I
am sure they have. The problem is one of vulnerability. Then everything
would take on quite a different aspect."
In this rather loud and outspoken interview the Admiral did not appear
to me to be either a maniac or an eccentric, but simply not a very clever
person. Yet I felt that his consistent, fanatical prejudice might, in the
future, be still more dangerous than the as yet undeclphered actions of our
visitors from space. This was slightly hinted at by the interviewer when he
cautiously pointed out that to include Admiral Thompson in the American
scientific delegation to the Paris international conference might complicate
coordination of its efforts.
I passed on both the clippings together with Martin's letter to Zernov
in the plane. We occupied what amounted to a separate compartment because it
was isolated by the high backs of seats in front and in back. Osovets and
Rogovin were to arrive in Paris in two days, just as the congress got
underway. We had left earlier so as to take part in the press conference of
eye witnesses and to meet the Americans from MacMurdo who did not share
Admiral Thompson's views and who had acquired a certain amount of fresh
experience with the cosmic visitors after the Admiral had left. We had just
had breakfast after taking off from the Moscow airport at Sheremetievo. It
was cool in the plane and all the little local sounds like rustling
newspapers and conversation were drowned out by the subdued roar of the jet
engines. This was just the time for a talk about Martin's letter. While
Zernov was reading and rereading the pages of the letter I whispered to
Irene:
"You remember the letter of course. Try to recall all unclear places
and formulate some questions. Zernov is like a professor at the lectern who
does not like imprecision, misunderstanding."
"Why? Is there such a thing as precise misunderstanding?"
"Naturally. What I don't understand I doubt. The imprecise kind is when
you can't determine the chief unclear point, a stupid question and wide-open
know-nothing eyes."
I hid behind the newspaper preferring not to hear the reply. Anyway, I
would have to formulate all the obscurities by myself. What is the
difference between Martin's werewolves and the memorable doubles? I grouped
them mentally:
empty eyes, lack of understanding of many questions addressed to them,
automatic movements and actions, confused ideas about time, vision unlike
human vision; they were not able to see the sun, the blue sky and were not
surprised at the electric light on the street in the daytime. They did not
appear to have any human memory:
Martin's girl did not simply fail to recognize Martin, she did not
remember him. The bullets from Martin's pistol penetrated these people
without causing any bodily harm. Hence, the inner Structure of their bodies
differed from human beings. Apparently, the "clouds" did not copy people in
this case but only set up externally similar robots with a restricted
programme. Thus, we have the first absurd feature: why was the method of
simulation changed and within what limits was it changed?
But the clouds built models of things too, not only humans. The
duplicate of our tracked vehicle was real. So were all the things in
Martin's city. The drinks could be drunk, the cigarettes smoked and the cars
driven in. And the bullets of the police-guns even went through brick walls.
The houses had real windows and doors, and real cafes dealt in real coffee
and hot dogs, the owner of a real gas station sold real oil and gasoline. At
the same time, real automobiles appeared like phantoms on the highway that
went through the city. They appeared out of nothing, out of emptiness and
disappeared at the other end just as mystically and into the same emptiness
or nothing, into the cloud of dust that had just been raised by the passing
car itself. Not all the doors in the houses led somewhere. Some of them did
not lead anywhere, for beyond was a void-a nonpenetrable and black void like
compressed smoke. So there was some other system of model-building
surrounding things that restricted it in some way. Let us now formulate the
second unclear point: Why another system, for what purposes and in what way
restricted?
Another puzzling thing: Zernov had already allowed for a different
system of simulation in the building of the duplicate airplane on the way to
Moscow from Mirny. Did this coincide with what Martin had described?
"To some extent," replied Zernov, after thinking. "Apparently, the
clouds create different models in unlike ways. Remember the crimson fog in
the plane when you couldn't see across the aisle? In Sand City it isn't even
known exactly whether the fog reached that thickness. The paper writes that
the air was transparent and pure but coloured or lighted red. The type of
model should be connected with the density of the gas. I think that the
people in Martin's phantom city were still less human beings than the
passengers of our duplicate plane. Why? Let's try to figure it out. You
remember, at Karachi, I told you that the people in our airplane were not
modelled to the full extent of their biological complexity but only so far
as their specific functions go. The entire complicated psychic life of the
human being was disconnected, crossed out because the makers of the model
did not need it. But the passengers of our plane were not merely Aeroflot
passengers. You wouldn't say that, socially speaking, they were only linked
by their specific trip, would you? And there were a lot of other things
besides: the year spent together, work, friendly or unfriendly relations
with one's neighbours, plans for the future, musings about coming reunions.
All these factors expanded and complicated their function as passengers.
That is why the creators of the model probably had to refine it and retain
some cells of the memory, certain mental processes. I think that life in the
duplicate plane was very much like our own."
"Or was repeated like a tape recording," I added.
"Hardly. They build models not patterns. Even in Martin's city, life
did not repeat what was occurring in the real Sand City. For example, the
police pursuit. But note that people in this model of the city are still
farther removed from human beings. Only the function is reproduced: the
pedestrian walks, the driver drives a car, the salesman sells or offers
goods, and buyers buy or refuse. That is all. Yet they are not puppets. They
can think, reason, and act, but only within the limits of the function. Tell
the waitress in a cafeteria of the modelled city that you don't like the hot
dogs. She will straightway say that canned hot dogs do not spoil, that the
can was opened hardly fifteen minutes ago, but that if you would like to
have her give you a beefsteak instead, well done or with blood, as you like,
she'll see to it. She can flirt, wisecrack if she's smart, since that too
comes within her professional function. That is why she did not recall
Martin: he was not associated with her work."
"But why did the policemen remember him?" Irene asked. "He didn't rob a
bank, or pick any pockets or get drunk and fight on the street. Where is the
connection with the function?"
"You remember the clipping from the newspaper? During the fog a New
York lawyer was beaten up. The police were late and, unfortunately, did not
find the culprits. You noticed the 'unfortunately', didn't you? The police
of course knew who was to blame but did not plan to find them. But why not
find somebody in place of them? Some kind of drunkards or bums? That was the
purpose of the police at that moment.
In the real Sand City they did not find anyone. In the modelled city,
they came upon Martin and his friends.
"I would have liked to be in his place," I said with envy.
"And get a bullet through your head? The bullets were real."
"And Martin's were too. Maybe he did miss after all?"
"I don't think so," said Zernov, "it is simply that wounds dangerous to
human beings are not dangerous when it comes to these bio-golems. Their
bodies were hardly very much like the human organism."
"And the eyes? They saw Martin."
"Like a crossword puzzle," Irene laughed. "The words fit, but they're
not the words. Certain things dovetail, but a lot doesn't."
"Certainly a crossword puzzle," Zernov added smiling. "What else could
it be? You can't get hold of the policeman and put him on the operating
table to find out what makes him tick. Of course, then we would find out
whether he has the same innards as we. What do we have to resolve the
problem with? A slide rule? A microscope? X-rays? It's a joke. We haven't
got anything so far, except our logic. And words. Incidentally, the eyes are
not the same," he said, referring to my remark. "They saw Martin but they
didn't see the sun. They are not our eyes. Because they were programmed to
exist only within the limits of a certain modelled hour. Time itself was
simulated. And the cars on the highway were modelled in motion within the
limits of the same interval of time and the same region of space. That is
how it came about that they entered the twin city from nowhere and vanished
into no one knows where. A real puzzle," he smiled.
"Camouflage," I added. "Something like our houses. The outside wall is
a real wall and the inside empty, a void, a black nothingness. I'd like to
see it through," I said, sighing. "We're supposed to be eye-witnesses, but
what have we. seen? Not much."
"We'll see some more," put in Zernov mysteriously, "you and I and
Martin too are labelled. They'll show us something new yet, perhaps
accidentally but maybe purposely. I'm afraid they will."
"You're afraid?" I asked in surprise.
"Yes, I'm afraid," Zernov said and fell silent. The plane had cut
through the clouds and was descending towards the distant city shrouded in
haze with the familiar, from childhood, silhouette of the delicate lacework
of the Eiffel Tower. From a distance it looked like an obelisk made of the
finest nylon thread.
In connection with the coming congress, Paris was flooded with
tourists. Our delegation stayed at the Homond Hotel, a small first-class
establishment that was proud of being old-fashioned. The wooden staircases
creaked, the heavy draperies were dust covered and elegant ancient
chandeliers reminded one of Balzac's day. Candles were alight on the tables,
windowsills, at hearth places-not as a tribute to fashion, but as stubborn
competitors of electricity, which was something they had to put up with,
nothing more. The Americans did not like that arrangement, but we did not
seem to feel it. Perhaps because we hardly stayed inside for more than a few
minutes. Irene and I spent the two hours before the press conference taking
our first sights of the city. I gaped at every architectural wonder while
she condescendingly explained when and for whom it was built.
"How come you know Paris so well?" I asked in surprise.
"This is my third visit, and then I was born in Paris. My baby carriage
travelled these very streets. I'll tell you about it some day," she said
mysteriously and laughed out loud. "Even the doorman at the hotel greeted me
like an old acquaintance."
"When?"
"When you paid off the taxicab. Zernov and I went in to the lobby and
the doorman-an old bald-headed lord, you might say-looked us over with
professional indifference, and then suddenly opened his eyes wide, stepped
back and looked at me intently. 'What's the trouble?' I asked in surprise.
But there he stood looking at me, silent. So Zernov asked: 'You probably
recognize mademoiselle?' 'No, no,' he said collecting his wits,
'mademoiselle is simply very much like one of our clients.' But he seemed to
recognize me, though I've never stayed at that hotel. Strange."
When we returned to the hotel, the doorman did not even look at Irene,
but he smiled and said that we were expected. "Go straight to the rostrum".
The conference was indeed just about to begin in the restaurant hall of
the hotel. The Americans had already arrived and took up the greater part of
the concert stage. Television operators were racing about with their black
boxes. Correspondents and newsmen with cameras, notebooks and tape recorders
were set up at desks. Waiters were offering bottles with multicoloured
labels. We had a table on the stage too, and it had already been well
supplied with all manner of drinks by the Americans. Irene remained in the
hall; no translation was needed since all, or nearly all, present spoke both
French and English. True, my French was not much. I understood fairly well,
but couldn't speak very well, but I figured Zernov's presence would relieve
me of most of the conversation. I was wrong on that score, though. The
newsmen were out to squeeze every ounce of us "witnesses of the phenomenon".
And what is more, I was the author of the film that was making a great
impression on Parisian audiences for the second week now.
The conference was chaired by MacEdou, an astronomer from MacMurdo. He
was already used to the reporters wisecracks about MacEdou from MacMurdo and
"much ado about MacEdou." But he was hard to embarrass. He steered our ship
in the conference storm with the skill of an experienced helmsman. Even his
voice was that of a captain-loud, imperative especially when the questions
got too insistent.
It was not by accident that I referred to the storm. Three hours
previously, journalists met in another Parisian hotel with another "witness
of the phenomenon" and a delegate to the congress, Admiral Thompson. He
refused to take part in our press conference for reasons which he preferred
to tell newsmen in a private talk. The import of the reasons and the gist of
his pronouncements became clear after the first queries were posed.
The delegates specifically questioned gave their answers, all other
queries were handled by MacEdou. I didn't remember everything, but what I
did went like a tape-recording.
"Do you have any information about the press conference of Admiral
Thompson?"
That was the first tennis ball thrown into the hall and it was tossed
back by the chairman as follows:
"I'm sorry to say I know nothing, but honestly speaking, I am not very
worried."
"But that's a sensational statement the Admiral made."
"Very possible."
"He demands preventive measures against the rose clouds."
"You print that in your papers. I would like questions."
"What will you say if some of the UN delegates demand punitive measures
against the newcomers?"
"I am not the minister for war, I can't say anything about such
demands."
"But if you were the minister what would you say?"
"Haven't been thinking along those lines for a career."
Laughter and applause was the reply of the hall. MacEdou made a wry
face, he didn't like theatrical effects. Not even smiling he took his seat
without a word, since the man who had asked the question gave up.
But he was quickly followed by a second one. He did not risk a
collision with the eloquence of MacEdou and picked another victim.
"I would like to ask Professor Zernov a question. Do you agree that the
actions of the rose clouds might endanger humanity?"
"Of course not," Zernov responded at once. "So far the clouds have not
done any harm at all to human beings. Reduction of the terrestrial ice mass
will only improve the climate. No damage has been inflicted either on nature
or on the work of man."
"Do you insist on that view?"
"Absolutely. The only harm done was to a stool that disappeared in
Mirny together with my duplicate, and an automobile that Martin left in the
duplicated Sand City."
"What automobile?"
"When?"
"Where's Martin?"
"Martin's coming tomorrow evening." That was MacEdou.
"Was he in Sand City?"
"Ask him yourself."
"How does Professor Zernov know about Martin's car that vanished?"
MacEdou turned round to Zernov and looked questioningly at him. Zernov
said:
"I have the news directly from Martin himself. I am not empowered to
give the details, however. But I think that one old stool and a second-hand
car is not so much damage to humanity."
"A question for Professor Zernov!" came several cries from the hall.
"What is your attitude towards the Admiral's statement that doubles
represent a 5th column of the invaders and a prelude to a future galactic
war?"
"I feel that the Admiral has been reading too much science fiction of
late and he takes it all for reality."
"A question to Anokhin, author of the film. The Admiral believes that
you are a double and that your film was taken by a double, whereas the
episode of the death of your double in the film was actually the death of
Anokhin himself. Have you proof that this is not true?"
I could only shrug my shoulders. How could I prove it? MacEdou answered
for me:
"Anokhin doesn't need to offer any proof. In science we have the
inviolate principle of 'presumption of an established fact'. Scientists do
not need to verify and prove the falsity of some groundless assertion, let
the author prove that his assertion is true."
There was some more applause. But this time the lanky MacEdou
interrupted the hand-clapping: "This is not a show, gentlemen."
"What does the chairman think about Mr. Thompson?" someone cried out.
"You worked with the Admiral for a whole year in an Antarctic expedition.
What is your impression of him as a scientist and as a man?"
"That's the first reasonable question so far," MacEdou grinned.
"Unfortunately, I cannot satisfy the curiosity of the questioner. The
Admiral and I worked in the same expedition and at the same geographical
site, but in different spheres. He is an administrator and I am an
astronomer. We hardly ever came into contact. He never displayed the least
interest in my astronomical observations and I do not care a bit for his
administrative abilities. I'm pretty sure he himself lays no claim to
scientific titles, at any rate I am not acquainted with any of his
scientific papers. As a person, I hardly know him at all, though I am
convinced that he is honest and is not acting in the interest of politics or
in self-interest. He has not made an oath to anticommunism nor is he taking
part in the presidential campaign. What he preaches is, I believe, based on
a false prejudice and on erroneous conclusions."
"What is your opinion about how humanity should act?"
"Recommendations will be given by the Congress."
"Then I have a question that concerns you as an astronomer. Where do
you think these monsters have come from?"
MacEdou laughed out loud for the first time and quite sincerely.
"I don't find anything so monstrous in them. They resemble horsemen or
the delta-wing of an airplane, sometimes a very large and pretty flower, and
at other times a rose-colour dirigible. Probably aesthetic views differ,
theirs and ours. We'll find out where they have come from when they
themselves desire to answer that question, if of course we are able to pose
it. It may be they are from a neighbouring stellar system. Perhaps the
Andromeda Nebula, or from the nebula in the Triangle constellation. It's
senseless to guess."
"You said: when they answer themselves. So you think contact is
possible?"
"So far not a single attempt at contact has yielded any results. But it
is attainable. Of that I am convinced if they are living intelligent beings
and not biosystems with a specific programme."
"Do you have in view robots?"
"I do not refer to robots. I have in view programmed systems in
general. In that case, contact depends on the programme."
"But what if they are self-programming systems?"
"Then everything depends on how the programme varies under the effects
of external factors. Attempts at contact are also an external factor."
"May I ask Anokhin a question? Did you observe the actual process of
model construction?"
"It can't be observed," I remarked, "because the person is in a
comatose state."
"But a copy of the tracked vehicle appeared right before your eyes. A
huge machine made of metal and plastic. Where did it come from? Out of what
materials was it made?"
"Out of the air," I said.
There was laughter in the hall.
"There is nothing to laugh about," Zernov put in. "That's exactly what
it is: from the air, out of elements unknown to us and delivered in some
kind of novel manner."
"A miracle?" came the question with a measure of mockery.
But Zernov was not taken aback.
" 'Miracles' has been the label, at one time or another, for anything
that could not be accounted for at the given level of knowledge. Our level
likewise allows for the unaccountable, but it also presumes that
explanations will be forthcoming in the course of subsequent development of
scientific progress. And its momentum at present already allows us to
predict, roughly of course, that in the middle or towards the end of next
century it will be possible to reproduce objects by means of waves and
fields. What waves and what fields is a matter for the level of future
knowledge. But I am personally convinced that in that corner of the cosmos,
whence these beings came, science and life have already reached that level."
"What kind of life is it?" asked a woman's voice, or so it seemed to
me, with a hysterical ring to it and obvious horror. "How can we converse
with it if it is a liquid, what sort of contact is possible if it is a gas?"
"Here, drink some water," MacEdou calmly took over. "I don't see you,
but it seems to me that you are overexcited."
"I am simply beginning to believe Mr. Thompson."
"I congratulate Mr. Thompson on another convert. As to thinking
structures consisting of a liquid or colloid, I can say that we exist in a
semiliquid state. The chemistry of our life is the chemistry of carbon and
aqueous solutions."
"And the chemistry of their life?"
"What is the solvent? Ours is water, and theirs?"
"Maybe its fluorine life?"
The answer came from an American on the extreme right.
"Everything that I am going to say is hypothetical. Fluorine life?
Don't know. In that case the solvent might be hydrogen fluoride or fluorine
oxide. Then it's a cold planet. For fluorine creatures a temperature of
minus one hundred degrees is pleasantly cool. To put it mildly, in that
coolish medium, ammonium life is possible too. It is even more realistic
since ammonia occurs in the atmospheres of many of the major planets,
whereas liquid ammonia exists at a temperature of thirty-five degrees below
zero. Almost terrestrial conditions, you might say. And if one gives thought
to the adaptability of the guests to our earthly conditions, the ammonia
hypothesis will appear to be the most probable. But if one presumes that the
strangers themselves create the necessary conditions for their life, any