back to index or more wind, Mr Peebold.
To the tower, then, it's time. I can remember everything about
that day,
even those words. It was a beautiful evening, and the three of us
had spent
the afternoon talking and quarrelling, drowsing in the warm
summer of the
Greenland veldt. Even then, we felt the cool shadow of our
friend, the
fourth of us, who sat, mute and alone, beneath a tree. Always
with us, as
we have always been together; but now he was his own statue, a
supple
monument to remind the three that remained. We had been together
for five
years before he became thus, an artist whose passion for infinite
madness
was so soon rewarded.
I walked over to the tree, and bent over to hold his hand. He
blinked,
and I crouched down beside him, putting my head next to his,
aligning,
looking where he looked. Then we stood up, silently, slowly, his
hand
holding tight as he caught sight through my eyes. I matched him
pace for
steady pace, holding my head as he held his. The tower was a
kilometer
distant, towards the sea's edge, and we looked at the delicate
black-web
bowl that pointed at the sky, ready for the night.
As we walked towards it, watching our friends running ahead,
getting to the
tower while we were still ten minutes away, I wondered what he
really saw,
whether he was still wandering the chaotic caverns of the old
machines. If
he wasn't, did he see us as friends still, who kept him close and
part of
the old team, took him with us wherever, played and talked to
him?
Sometimes, I thought he must hate us for so constantly taunting
him, now
and again making him hear our shouts and chatter and laughter
like today,
reminding him what he has lost. And then for me to hold hands
like this,
linking our illict links, and looking for him. What it must be to
see the
world so fitfully, and always through someone else's eyes, a
spectator
alone. I cannot look at him when we are so linked. I could not,
as I could
never let myself kiss him.
We got to the tower, and as we climbed the first step he let go
my hand and
walked inside quickly, without hesitation. He knew his way
around; we might
have built it together but it was always his observatory. He'd
all but
lived here, amongst the old machines, and one day he'd all but
died. I
stood there alone, looking at the grey wood walls of the tower
against the
deep blue evening sky, against the darkening grass and trees,
remembering
things perhaps I ought not.
Then I went in, and climbed to the observing room. The other two
were
already busy, lost in the joy of working the machines, letting
them talk to
each other and out towards the old satellites that still drew
their dutiful
paths in the sky above. Tonight was special; across the globe
fully half
the world was listening to our broadcast, ten million souls
linked by the
distant sea of the ionosphere above us. Ancestor radio; so long
ago the
only link between the distances, now the one gift of the machines
we cannot
give back. Tonight it reclaims a little more of its old glory and
we
justify a little more of the faith we had in ourselves a
millenium ago.
None of us understood those days, for all we talked about them;
we couldn't
see our mistakes when they were five years from killing us but
sent our
devices a thousand years into the future. What were we trying to
do?
When they sent that starprobe away from Earth, the books say, it
was one of
the terrible times. There was furious argument about such a
wasteful
action, when even they could feel their great shining world
shaking itself
apart. Yet in the dark and lonely centuries that followed, the
mission
survived, even when the last man walked away he made sure the
computers
still ran and the starprobe kept its course.
Then we came along, the four of us, young and bored and full of
devilish
intrigue. The machinery had not been forgotten, but it was left
alone. At
first, nobody minded as we tinkered and built, but then we found
the links.
Those were as forbidden as fire, the old laws ignored purely
because nobody
thought any remained. Some did; we found them, and the machine
that built
them into us. One morning we took it in turns to lay down in the
coffin and
emerge, half an hour later, with wire in our veins and new cold
life in our
heads.
Oh, it was tremendous. The smooth machines woke under our hands,
the black
slabs that we'd never understood. We understand them now and the
things
that live within them; brilliant minds, playful, pleading,
offering all the
knowledge and beauty of the old days, so compelling and
satisfying and so
dangerous. That these things were toys, pastimes, given to
children, is
unbelievable; perhaps if we could understand that, we would know
so much
more.
Perhaps that's what he knows, perhaps that's what he found and
couldn't let
go. He'd not left the machines alone, particularly when he found
the music.
We'd always thought he'd be a good composer, but with the
machines he went
far beyond; he used them to amplify his designs and produce music
that had
us in awe. It frightened us, but he seemed so confident, so
positive, so
blissfully enthralled.
Then we came into the observatory, ten days after we'd got the
links, to
find him, apparently asleep, holding on to one of the smooth
machines. We
woke him up: his eyes opened and he seemed about to say
something. Nothing
happened. The machines couldn't help; they said he was blind and
deaf, but
about his mind they said they didn't know. Of course, the
families were
horrified; we had our links removed and took such punishment as
they gave
us, but mostly they left us alone.
Since then we've stayed here. Ten years. The others didn't
replace their
links, but I did and he did, and with a careful, patient learning
I fixed
it so that now and again he could hear, and, once in a while, I
could let
him see. I didn't care to use the links other than that, twice
since then
he's placed his hands on the mission controls and sat, silent as
always,
feeling the links out into space.
It didn't take long after the accident for the story to spread;
our
occasional shortwave transmissions, politely reporting the
progress of the
starprobe as it neared its destination, became more and more
popular. First
it was just youngsters, probably because we were perverse heros
due to the
terrible things we'd done, but in a quiet world not used to
novelty we
provided a certain fascination. Lately, we'd started giving talks
about the
miundred years ago, the starprobe could have
tugged itself into orbit around a far planet, unfurled its
banners and
started to pass back what it found to the ghosts of its makers.
It might
not; it might not have survived the long dark years. We wouldn't
know until
tonight, us and half the world.
(c) rg
back to index or more wind, Mr Peebold.