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For the first time in his life, Tyburn saw the personal power of the Dorsai fighting man, made plain without words. Ian needed no badge upon him, standing as he stood now, to warn that he was dangerous. The men about him were mad dogs; but, patently, Ian was a wolf. There was a difference with the three, which Tyburn now recognized for the first time. Dogs—even mad dogs—fight, and the losing dog, if he can, runs away. But no wolf runs. For a wolf wins every fight but one, and in that one he dies. Why do you want a quarter, Frank? Frenchy grinned, accepting the fag. "I ought to flash it about more often." Hmmmh … I dont think so. It gives me rather a headache. Let’s leave it for a day or two. Nine hours later, just at dusk, a small, gray 1937 sedan in good repair is to be seen approaching the gate of a certain military installation in New Mexico. It stops at the wide gate and two MPs in white helmets approach it. There is a short conversation between them and the driver, and then they march rather stiffly and woodenly back to their small, glassed-in gatehouse. The sedan proceeds on into the interior of the installation. by G. Harry Stine Clinic Director:This is schizophrenia. The boy was close to his mother: a widow after a very unsatisfactory marriage. His illness, which must always have been latent, accelerated when she died. ... He suffers also from an hysterical blindness, and cannot open his eyes. They have remained shut for the ten years of his illness. ... He likes to spend his time in the garden and likes also to be called Father. He never replies when he is so called, but only smiles a little, and turns away. ... I have often noticed that such cases seem unwilling to be cured....I am a gardener,A maker of trials, flowers, hypotheses.I water the earth.I raise perfumes there.Mother told me to stand, and I did so,Stepping towards the window in which she sat.“Now, did you find him, your other half?And mine,” she said, and I shook my head:“No, my time is so short and I’ll take no oath.”“You’ve just taken one, by standing,My dear one,” she said, and she told me how the starsHad said as much, and I concurred and sawHow the crystalware of the polished table,The cabinets of glass things walling the room,The tall roses beyond the glass, the gloss of the table,Had said as much in sunshine from my first tottering.So she lifted my hand and kissed it and said I was to be celibate,And this was great good fortune and I was a good childFor I had a quest and few had as much.The roses nodded.So I became a gardener,A maker of prayers, flowers, hypotheses.A gardener“washed in my fertile sweat,”My hair of an opulent brown“like the Lord’s,That makes you think of fertile fields.”And among the flowers, in the walled garden,“This is life!” she cried,“What a shame, oh what a shame,” she said,“What a shame we have to die,” she cried, allThe flowers pumping their natures into her, and plumpingInto her nostrils, winged wide, she leaning,Leaning back, breathing deeply, blushing deeply,Face shining and deep breath and tall brickHolding the air still and the heat high in a tall room.And I swam in the thunderstorm in the river of blood, oil and cider,And I saw the blue of my recovery open around me in the water,Blood, cider, rainbow, and the apples still warm after sunsetDashed in the cold downpour, and so this mother-worldOpened around me and I lay in the perfumes after rain out of the riverTugging the wet grass, eyes squeezed, straining to the glory,The burst of white glory like the whitest clouds rising to the sunAnd it was like a door opening in the sky, it was like a door opening in the water,It was like the high mansion of the sky, and water poured from the tall frenchwindows.It was like a sudden smell of fur among the flowers, it was like a face at duskIt was like a rough trouser on a smooth leg. Oh, shame,It was the mother-world wet with perfume. It was something about God.And she stood there and I wanted to tell her something and she was gone.It was something about God. She stood smiling on the wet vergeAnd she waited for me to tell her but she was gone.And three gusts of hot dry air came almost without soundThrough the bushes, and she went. Through the bushesOf blown and bruised roses. And she went. And the bushes were blownAnd the gusts were hot, dry air, nearly black with perfume,Alive with perfume. Oh shame. It was like an announcement,Like an invitation, an introduction, an invitation, a quick smile in the dusk.It was like a door opening on a door of flowers that opened on flowers that wereopening.It was like the twist of a rosy fish among lily-pads that were twisting on their deepstems.The rosy goldfish were there in the dusky pond, but she was gone.It was something about God. My hand made a wet door in the waterAnd I thought of something I knew about God. My motherStared at me from the pool over my shoulder and when I turned she was gone.Then the wind blew three hot dry gusts to me through the broken rose-bushesAnd she came to me dusky with perfume and I walked towards herAnd through her, groping for her hand. And it was something about God.And I searched in my head for it with my eyes closed. But it was gone.And I became a gardener, a hypothesiser, one who would consult his sensations,For“we live in sensations and where there are none there is no life,”One with the birds that are blue-egged because they love the sky!With the flocks of giraffes craning towards the heavens!With the peacocks dressed in their love for the high sunAnd in their spectra of the drifting rains, oneWith the great oaks in my keeping that stretched up to touch God!And one who could look up gladly and meet God’s gaze,His wide blue gaze, through my blood, as I think;And God was silent and invisible and I loved him for it,I loved him for his silent invisibility, for his virile restraint,And I was one with my peacocks that sent out their wild crySounding like shrill“help!” and meaning no such thing,While my flocks of deer wrote love in their free legsTheir high springy haunches and bounding turf. And they would pauseAnd look upwards, and breathe through wide nostrils, and all dayIt was wide and firm and in God’s gaze and open: tussock and turf, long lake,Reed-sigh, silence and space, pathway and flower furnaceBanked up and breathing.And the people. And the causeway into the walled garden.And the people walking in so slowly, on their toesThrough the wide doorway, into the cube of still air,Into the perspective of flowers, following each other in groups,Gazing around,“Oh, what shame, to die!” and the great doorwayAnd ourselves, smiling, and standing back, and they changed,Concentrated, concentrating, at the edges of the body, the rimsTighter, clearer, by the sensations of their bodies, solidified, bound,Like the angels, the bodies’ knowledge of the flowers inboundInto its tightening and warming at the heart of flowers, the fire called“Then-shall-ye-see-and-your-heart-shall-rejoice—And-your-bones-shall-sprout-as-the-blade.. ..”And she was gone. And she lay down like the earth after rain.It was love-talk in every grain. And something about God.The brick walls creaked in the wind, grain to grain.And judgement came as the father comes, and she is gone.Clouds swoop under the turf into the pond, the peacock cries“Help!” strutting in its aurora, love talksGrain to grain, gossiping about judgement, his coming. RangesTumble to boulders that rattle to shingles that ease to wide beachesThat flurry to dust that puffs to new dusts that dustTo dusting dust, all talking, allGossiping of glory, and there are peopleIn the gardens, in white shirts, drifting,Gossiping of shame through the gardens.“Oh glory!”Through the gardens. . . . Well, father, is that how you come?Come then.Whose breath is it that flares through the shrubberies?Whose breath that returns? Look at the peopleAll ageing to judgement, allAgreeing to judgement. Look at that womanStill snuffing up the flowers. My mother!Look at her. She bends backwards to the tall flowers, falls.Her flower-laden breath returns to the skies.I think this garden is a prayer,Shall I burn it as an offering?And I think these people are a prayer,I think they are a message.Shall I burn them for their syllable?There is a fire crying“shame!” here already!It mixes dying with flowering.I think we husk out uttering. I thinkWe tip it out. Our perfect syllable,Tripped out over the death-bed, a one,Round, perfectly-falling silence.Look how they seek the glory over these flowers!I wanted to say something about God,My syllable about God. I thinkWe are a prayer. I thinkHe wants his breath back, unhuskedOf all the people, our dying silences,Our great involuntary promiseUnhusked, flying out into the rain, over the battlefields,Switching through shrubberies, into the sky. . . .You press, oh God!You press on me as I press on an eyeball,You press sunsets and autumns and dying flowers,You press lank ageing people in gardens“Oh shameTo die,” you press roses and matchflames like wisps of your fingers,Your great sun cuffs age at us. I will bring,I will bring you in, father, through the bounds of my senses,Face to face, father, through the sockets of my head,Haul you in, father, through my eyes with my fingers,Into my head through my eyes, father, my eyes, oh my eyes. . . .To live in the blind sockets, the glorious blunt passages,Tended by gardeners, nostril, eye, mouth,Bruised face in a white shirt ageing,To be called“Father” and to hear call high“Oh shame, what a shame, to die” as they see the great flowers,To hear the peacock“help!” that means no such thing,And to live unseeing, not watching, without judging, called“Father.” Science fiction has about the same utility as a label, by now, as beatnik” does. To the majority of readers, both words describe something exotic, ultramodern, oddball, egghead, and probably unwashed. To the respective and only slightly overlapping in-groups, the labels have a proud, bold, modern feel, full of truth, beauty, and the Keatsian assurance of “all ye know, and all ye need to know.” "Yeah," Ratlit said. "Just before he collapsed" ENCHANTMENT He went away in the company of Leni, the only woman he had not been forced to sleep with while he was there. They drove in a darkened car for about four hours and at last stopped in front of a big white building. Leni took him inside. Come back, he said fervently. Come back.” And then, “Please.” No need to give you every detail. Student romance is not the most interesting of subjects. You know how things go, in chords and flashes. He glanced in disgust at the sculpture, then, evidently, decided to forget it. They wouldnt believe a word he said. They’d find the most convincing reasons for disregarding the evidence of the corn, the fruit, the untouched fiddle. They would subject him to psychiatric tests: intelligence, co-ordination, memory; physical tests—every possible prying and prodding. Where was he born, what was his full name, who were his father and mother? Unbelieving, refusing to believe, but so politely, gently, insistently: Yes, yes of course, we understand; but try and think back, Mr. Uh Er Ash. Try to recall your childhood... No matter how indistinct the boundary between fantasy and science fiction, there are clearly defined areas on either side—and this story is undoubtedly pure fantasy, quite outside the limits of what I ordinarily call “SF” . . .* * * * Transformation: mapping a math structure from one place to another. We have been here one hundred thirty-three days owing to an oversight. Although now we are not sure what is oversight, what is plan. Perhaps the plan is for us to stay here permanently, or if not permanently at least for a year, for three hundred sixty-five days. Or if not for a year for some number of days known to them and not known to us, such as two hundred days. It may be that they are pleased with us, with our behavior, not in every detail but in sum. Perhaps the whole thing is very successful, perhaps the whole thing is a experiment and the experiment is very successful. I do not know. But I suspect that the only way they can persuade sun-loving creatures into their pale green sweating reinforced concrete rooms under the ground is to say that the system is twelve hours on, twelve hours off. And then lock us below for some number of days known to them and not known to us. We eat well although the frozen enchiladas are damp when defrosted and the frozen devils food cake is sour and untasty. We sleep uneasily and acrimoniously. I hear Shotwell shouting in his sleep, objecting, denouncing, cursing sometimes, weeping sometimes, in his sleep. When Shotwell sleeps I try to pick the lock on his attaché case, so as to get at the jacks. Thus far I have been unsuccessful. Nor has Shotwell been successful in picking the locks on my attaché case so as to get at the .38. I have seen the marks on the shiny surface. I laughed, in the latrine, pale green walls sweating and the air conditioning whispering, in the latrine. I write descriptions of natural forms on the walls, scratching them on the tile surface with a diamond. The diamond is a two and one-half carat solitaire I had in my attaché case when we went down. It was for Lucy. The south wall of the room containing the console is already covered. I have described a shell, a leaf, a stone, animals, a baseball bat. I am aware that the baseball bat is not a natural form. Yet I described it. The baseball bat, I said, “is typically made of wood. It is typically one meter in length or a little longer, fat at on end, tapering to afford a comfortable grip at the other end. The end with thehandhold typically offers a slight rim, or lip, at the nether extremity, to prevent slippage.” My description of the baseball bat ran to 4500 words, all scratched with a diamond on the south wall. Does Shotwell read what I have written? I do not know. I am aware that Shotwell regards my writing-behaviour as strange. Yet it is no stranger than his jacks-behaviour, or the day he appeared in black bathing trunks with the .25 caliber Beretta strapped to his right calf and stood over the console, trying to span with his two arms outstretched the distance between the two locks. He could not do it, I had already tried, standing over the console with my two arms outstretched, the distance is too great. I was moved to comment but did not comment, comment would have provoked counter-comment, comment would have led God knows where. They had in their infinite patience, in their infinite foresight, in their infinite wisdom already imagined a man standing over the console with his two arms outstretched, trying to span with his two arms outstretched the distance between the locks..
