The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume 4: Trips: 1972-73

  “Thank you,” he said solemnly.

  “Are you enjoying your birthday?”

  “Very much.”

  “I’m amazed that they don’t bore you. I mean, having had so many of them.”

  “I don’t bore easily.” He was awesomely calm, drawing on some bottomless reservoir of patience. He gave her a look that was at the same time warm and impersonal. “I find everything interesting,” he said.

  “That’s curious. I said more or less the same thing to Steiner just a few minutes ago. You know, it’s my birthday too.”

  “Really?”

  “The seventh of January, 1975, for me.”

  “Hello, 1975. I’m—” He laughed. “It sounds absolutely absurd, doesn’t it?”

  “—the seventh of January, 982.”

  “You’ve been doing your homework.”

  “I’ve read your book,” she said. “Can I make a silly remark? My God, you don’t look like you’re a thousand and seventeen years old.”

  “How should I look?”

  “More like him,” she said, indicating Francis Xavier Byrne.

  Nicholson chuckled. She wondered if he liked her. Maybe. Maybe. Nikki risked some eye contact. He was hardly a centimeter taller than she was, which made it a terrifyingly intimate experience. He regarded her steadily, centeredly; she imagined a throbbing mandala surrounding him, luminous turquoise spokes emanating from his heart, radiant red and green spiderweb rings connecting them. Reaching from her loins, she threw a loop of desire around him. Her eyes were explicit. His were veiled. She felt him calmly retreating. Take me inside, she pleaded; take me to one of the back rooms. Pour life into me. She said, “How will you choose the people you’re going to instruct in the secret?”

  “Intuitively.”

  “Refusing anybody who asks directly, of course.”

  “Refusing anybody who asks.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “You said you read my book.”

  “Oh. Yes. I remember: you didn’t know what was happening, you didn’t understand anything until it was over.”

  “I was a simple lad,” he said. “That was a long time ago.” His eyes were alive again. He’s drawn to me. He sees that I’m his kind, that I deserve him. Capricorn, Capricorn, Capricorn, you and me, he-goat and she-goat. Play my game, Cap. “How are you named?” he asked.

  “Nikki.”

  “A beautiful name. A beautiful woman.”

  The emptiness of the compliments devastated her. She realized she had arrived with mysterious suddenness at a necessary point of tactical withdrawal; retreat was obligatory, lest she push too hard and destroy the tenuous contact so tensely established. She thanked him with a glance and gracefully slipped away, pivoting toward Martin Bliss, slipping her arm through his. Bliss quivered at the gesture, glowed, leaped into a higher energy state. She resonated to his vibrations, going up and up. She was at the heart of the party, the center of the mandala: standing flatfooted, legs slightly apart, making her body a polar axis, with lines of force zooming up out of the earth, up through the basement levels of this building, up the eighty-eight stories of it, up through her sex, her heart, her head. This is how it must feel, she thought, when undyingness is conferred on you. A moment of spontaneous grace, the kindling of an inner light. She looked love at poor sappy Bliss. You dear heart, you dumb walking pun. The string quintet made molten sounds. “What is that?” she asked. “Brahms?” Bliss offered to find out. Alone, she was vulnerable to Francis Xavier Byrne, who brought her down with a single cadaverous glance.

  “Have you guessed it yet?” he asked. “The sign.”

  She stared through his ragged cancerous body, blazing with decomposition. “Scorpio,” she told him hoarsely.

  “Right! Right!” He pulled a pendant from his breast and draped its golden chain over her head. “For you,” he rasped, and fled. She fondled it. A smooth green stone. Jade? Emerald? Lightly engraved on its domed face was the looped cross, the crux ansata. Beautiful. The gift of life, from the dying man. She waved fondly to him across a forest of heads and winked. Bliss returned.

  “They’re playing something by Schönberg,” he reported. “Verklärte Nacht.”

  “How lovely.” She flipped the pendant and let it fall back against her breasts. “Do you like it?”

  “I’m sure you didn’t have it a moment ago.”

  “It sprouted,” she told him. She felt high, but not as high as she had been just after leaving Nicholson. That sense of herself as focal point had departed. The party seemed chaotic. Couples were forming, dissolving, re-forming; shadowy figures were stealing away in twos and threes toward the bedrooms; the servants were more obsessively thrusting their trays of drinks and snacks at the remaining guests; the hail had reverted to snow, and feathery masses silently struck the windows, sticking there, revealing their glistening mandalic structures for painfully brief moments before they deliquesced. Nikki struggled to regain her centered position. She indulged in a cheering fantasy: Nicholson coming to her, formally touching her cheek, telling her, “You will be one of the elect.” In less than twelve months the time would come for him to gather with his seven still unnamed disciples to see in the new century, and he would take their hands into his hands, he would pump the vitality of the undying into their bodies, sharing with them the secret that had been shared with him a thousand years ago. Who? Who? Who? Me. Me. Me. But where had Nicholson gone? His aura, his glow, that cone of imaginary light that had appeared to surround him—nowhere.

  A man in a lacquered orange wig began furiously to quarrel, almost under Nikki’s nose, with a much younger woman wearing festoons of bioluminescent pearls. Man and wife, evidently. They were both sharp-featured, with glossy, protuberant eyes, rigid faces, cheek-muscles working intensely. Live together long enough, come to look alike. Their dispute had a stale, ritualistic flavor, as though they had staged it all too many times before: they were explaining to each other the events that had caused the quarrel, interpreting them, recapitulating them, shading them, justifying, attacking, defending—you said this because and that led me to respond that way because, no, on the contrary, I said this because you said that—all of it in a quiet screechy tone, sickening, agonizing, pure death.

  “He’s her biological father,” a man next to Nikki said. “She was one of the first of the in vitro babies, and he was the donor, and five years ago he tracked her down and married her. A loophole in the law.” Five years? They sounded as if they had been married for fifty. Walls of pain and boredom encased them. Only their eyes were alive. Nikki found it impossible to imagine those two in bed, bodies entwined in the act of love. Act of love, she thought, and laughed. Where was Nicholson? Duke Alexius, flushed and sweat-beaded, bowed to her. “I will leave soon,” he announced, and she received the announcement gravely but without reacting, as though he had merely commented on the fluctuations of the storm, or had spoken in Greek. He bowed again and went away. Nicholson? Nicholson? She grew calm again, finding her center. He will come to me when he is ready. There was contact between us, and it was real and good.

  Bliss, beside her, gestured and said, “A rabbi of Syrian birth, formerly Muslim, highly regarded among Jewish theologians.”

  She nodded but didn’t look.

  “An astronaut just back from Mars. I’ve never seen anyone’s skin tanned quite that color.”

  The astronaut held no interest for her. She worked at kicking herself back into high. The party was approaching a climactic moment, she felt, a time when commitments were being made and decisions taken. The clink of ice in glasses, the foggy vapors of psychedelic inhalants, the press of warm flesh all about her—she was wired into everything, she was alive and receptive, she was entering into the twitching hour, the hour of galvanic jerks. She grew wild and reckless. Impulsively she kissed Bliss, straining on tiptoes, jabbing her tongue deep into his startled mouth. Then she broke free. Someone was playing with the lights: they grew redder, then gained force and zoomed to blue-white fero
city. Far across the room a crowd was surging and billowing around the fallen figure of Francis Xavier Byrne, slumped loose-jointedly against the base of the bar. His eyes were open but glassy. Nicholson crouched over him, reaching into his shirt, making delicate adjustments of the controls of the chain-mail beneath. “It’s all right,” Steiner was saying. “Give him some air. It’s all right!” Confusion. Hubbub. A torrent of tangled input.

  “—they say there’s been a permanent change in the weather patterns. Colder winters from now on, because of accumulations of dust in the atmosphere that screen the sun’s rays. Until we freeze altogether by around the year 2200—”

  “—but the carbon dioxide is supposed to start a greenhouse effect that’s causing warmer weather, I thought, and—”

  “—the proposal to generate electric power from—”

  “—the San Andreas fault—”

  “—financed by debentures convertible into—”

  “—capsules of botulism toxin—”

  “—to be distributed at a ratio of one per thousand families, throughout Greenland and the Kamchatka Metropolitan Area—”

  “—in the sixteenth century, when you could actually hope to found your own empire in some unknown part of the—”

  “—unresolved conflicts of Capricorn personality—”

  “—intense concentration and meditation upon the completed mandala so that the contents of the work are transferred to and identified with the mind and body of the beholder. I mean, technically, what occurs is the reabsorption of cosmic forces. In the process of construction these forces—”

  “—butterflies, which are no longer to be found anywhere in—”

  “—were projected out from the chaos of the unconscious; in the process of absorption, the powers are drawn back in again—”

  “—reflecting transformations of the DNA in the light-collecting organ, which—”

  “—the snow—”

  “—a thousand years, can you imagine that? And—”

  “—her body—”

  “—formerly a toad—”

  “—just back from Mars, and there’s that look in his eye—”

  “Hold me,” Nikki said. “Just hold me. I’m very dizzy.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Just hold me.” She pressed against cool sweet-smelling fabric. His chest, unyielding beneath it. Steiner. Very male. He steadied her, but only for a moment. Other responsibilities summoned him. When he released her, she swayed. He beckoned to someone else, blond, soft-faced. The mind-reader, Tom. Passing her along the chain from man to man.

  “You feel better now,” the telepath told her.

  “Are you positive of that?”

  “Very.”

  “Can you read any mind in the room?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Even his?”

  Again a nod. “He’s the clearest of all. He’s been using it so long, all the channels are worn deep.”

  “Then he really is a thousand years old?”

  “You didn’t believe it?”

  Nikki shrugged. “Sometimes I don’t know what I believe.”

  “He’s old.”

  “You’d be the one to know.”

  “He’s a phenomenon. He’s absolutely extraordinary.” A pause, quick, stabbing. “Would you like to see into his mind?”

  “How can I?”

  “I’ll patch you right in, if you’d like me to.” The glacial eyes flashed sudden mischievous warmth. “Yes?”

  “I’m not sure I want to.”

  “You’re very sure. You’re curious as hell. Don’t kid me. Don’t play games, Nikki. You want to see into him.”

  “Maybe.” Grudgingly.

  “You do. Believe me, you do. Here. Relax, let your shoulders slump a little, loosen up, make yourself receptive, and I’ll establish the link.”

  “Wait,” she said.

  But it was too late. The mind reader serenely parted her consciousness like Moses doing the Red Sea and rammed something into her forehead, something thick but insubstantial, a truncheon of fog. She quivered and recoiled. She felt violated. It was like her first time in bed, in that moment when all the fooling around at last was over, the kissing and the nibbling and the stroking, and suddenly there was this object deep inside her body. She had never forgotten that sense of being impaled. But of course it had been not only an intrusion but also a source of ecstasy. As was this. The object within her was the consciousness of Nicholson. In wonder she explored its surface, rigid and weathered, pitted with the myriad ablations of re-entry. Ran her trembling hands over its bronzy roughness. Remained outside it. Tom the mind reader gave her a nudge. Go on, go on. Deeper. Don’t hold back. She folded herself around Nicholson and drifted into him like ectoplasm seeping into sand. Suddenly she lost her bearings. The discrete and impermeable boundary marking the end of her self and the beginning of his became indistinct. It was impossible to distinguish between her experiences and his, nor could she separate the pulsations of her nervous system from the impulses traveling along his. Phantom memories assailed and engulfed her. She was transformed into a node of pure perception: a steady cool isolated eye, surveying and recording. Images flashed. She was toiling upward along a dazzling snowy crest, with jagged Himalayan fangs hanging above her in the white sky and a warm-muzzled yak snuffling wearily at her side. A platoon of swarthy-skinned little men accompanied her, slanty eyes, heavy coats, thick boots. The stink of rancid butter, the cutting edge of an impossible wind: and there, gleaming in the sudden sunlight, a pile of fire-bright yellow plaster with a thousand winking windows, a building, a lamasery strung along a mountain ridge. The nasal sound of distant horns and trumpets. The hoarse chanting of lotus-legged monks. What were they chanting? Om? Om? Om! Om, and flies buzzed around her nose, and she lay hunkered in a flimsy canoe, coursing silently down a midnight river in the heart of Africa, drowning in humidity. Brawny naked men with purple-black skins crouching close. Sweaty fronds dangling from flamboyantly excessive shrubbery; the snouts of crocodiles rising out of the dark water like toothy flowers; great nauseous orchids blossoming high in the smooth-shanked trees. And on shore, five white men in Elizabethan costume, wide-brimmed hats, drooping sweaty collars, lace, fancy buckles, curling red beards. Errol Flynn as Sir Francis Drake, blunderbuss dangling in crook of arm. The white men laughing, beckoning, shouting to the men in the canoe. Am I slave or slavemaster? No answer. Only a blurring and a new vision: autumn leaves blowing across the open doorways of straw-thatched huts, shivering oxen crouched in bare stubble-strewn fields, grim long-mustachioed men with close-cropped hair riding diagonal courses toward the horizon. Crusaders, are they? Or warriors of Hungary on their way to meet the dread Mongols? Defenders of the imperiled Anglo-Saxon realm against the Norman invaders? They could be any of these. But always that steady cool eye, always that unmoving consciousness at the center of every scene. Him, eternal, all-enduring. And then: the train rolling westward, belching white smoke, the plains unrolling infinityward, the big brown fierce-eyed bison standing in shaggy clumps along the right-of-way, the man with turbulent shoulder-length hair laughing, slapping a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table, picking up his rifle—.50-caliber breech-loading Springfield—he aims casually through the door of the moving train, he squeezes off a shot, another, another. Three shaggy brown corpses beside the tracks, and the train rolls onward, honking raucously. Her arm and shoulder tingled with the impact of those shots. Then: a fetid waterfront, bales of cloves and peppers and cinnamon, small brown-skinned men in turbans and loincloths arguing under a terrible sun. Tiny irregular silver coins glittering in the palm of her hand. The jabber of some Malabar dialect counterpointed with fluid mocking Portuguese. Do we sail now with Vasco da Gama? Perhaps. And then a gray Teutonic street, wind-swept, medieval, bleak Lutheran faces scowling from leaded windows. And then the Gobi steppe, with horsemen and campfires and dark tents. And then New York City, unmistakably New York City, with square black automobil
es scurrying between the stubby skyscrapers like glossy beetles, a scene out of some silent movie. And then. And then. Everywhere, everything, all times, all places, a discontinuous flow of events but always that clarity of vision, that rock-steady perception, that solid mind at the center, that unshakeable identity, that unchanging self—

  —with whom I am inextricably enmeshed—

  There was no “I,” there was no “he,” there was only the one ever-perceiving point of view. But abruptly she felt a change of focus, a distancing effect, a separation of self and self, so that she was looking at him as he lived his many lives, seeing him from the outside, seeing him plainly changing identities as others might change clothing, growing beards and moustaches, shaving them, cropping his hair, letting his hair grow, adopting new fashions, learning languages, forging documents. She saw him in all his thousand years of guises and subterfuges, saw him real and unified and centered beneath his obligatory camouflages—