Cutshaw’s cigarette glowed bright. “Why did Nature make fleas and dinosaurs? Or putting it your way, why did Foot?”
“I don’t know,” responded Kane. “But the concepts aren’t analogous. In the first case, you see, we have all the pieces of the puzzle; or at least as much of the data as seems to bear upon the problem. But in the second we’re merely speculating on causes and motives unknown. We don’t know why Nature—or God—created dinosaurs or fleas. Yet we concede that there might be a reason which is not yet quite apparent; such as a necessary condition for the evolution of man. Why did God make the planet Mars? To me, it’s senseless and superfluous. But I might change my mind about that when you get there.”
There followed a very extended pause. Cutshaw’s cigarette tip flared briefly, and at last he spoke in a whisper. “Kane, you sadistic bastard!”
Then Cutshaw was gone. Kane closed his eyes. Or ceased to dream—he didn’t know which. He thought he saw Cutshaw in the room again that night, and asked him, “Are you crazy?” Cutshaw answered him immediately: “I don’t know.” And again was gone.
Kane awakened, but not in bed. He was sitting on the floor in a corner of the room. He could not fathom how he had gotten there. He remembered fainting, remembered the dream. And remembered he’d come to some shocking awareness only seconds before he’d fainted. What it was, he couldn’t recall. Nor did he feel inclined to try. He dressed in his blues and went to his office. It was only four A.M.
Kane flipped psychology books from his shelves, skimming rapidly for some reference that would tend to confirm his theory. By dusk he’d not found it. But then he noticed a title was missing. And he remembered—Madness in Hamlet. Faintly, he smiled. And knew he was right. Kane leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette and relaxed. Smoke curled up from the cigarette as he looked, with remembered affection, at the pied beauty of dawn. Sunrise and sunset, he’d loved them as a boy. They had filled him with a sense of glory, made him feel somehow closer to God; a God he could touch, and see and breathe. “Peace I leave you, My peace I give you…” He remembered the words from the Mass and wondered what had happened to that peace. Then tried to forget the answer. His glance scanned the wood that hemmed in the courtyard. Trees turning bare; birds singing fitfully, flitting from branch to branch. Suddenly, he thought he detected movement somewhere deep inside the wood; something that looked like a woman, again, a woman gowned in black. But when he stared at the figure directly, he saw nothing, nothing at all. Am I in the madhouse, wondered Kane, or is the madhouse in me?
He thought once more of his theory, and was vaguely nagged by a formless feeling that the theory somehow related to him. He deliberately refused to pursue it. But from time to time, as he brooded, putting an ear to the sounds of awakening, he found himself thinking of Gregory Peck. He irritably wondered why.
Cutshaw came in at seven, irrupting unannounced in his customary fashion. “Good morrow, Killer Cat!” he blared. “I’ve come to help you pack!”
“That won’t be needed,” answered Kane.
“Think I’d demand a tip, you swine? Fie, fie on your couth!”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You’re not what?” Manfred Cutshaw feigned surprise as though his life depended upon it.
“I’m not leaving. I’ve changed my mind.”
“Hud, don’t tease!”
“No. You win.” Colonel Kane feigned quiet anger as though his life depended upon it. “Go ahead. Gloat all you want. But every day away from the jungle is another day of heaven. What’s the price? Name your deal!”
“Hud, don’t rush me! Please! Don’t rush me! Foot! Can’t a man have a moment to weep?”
“Come on, come on! What’s the price?”
“Hud, you know nothing of gracious living.”
“And you know nothing of simple honesty. Now name it, Cutshaw, name it! Name the price!” demanded Kane.
“So ridiculously modest that you’ll lick my hand appreciatively. I wouldn’t ask for a thing, in fact, but as Social Director and Games Leader I must provide the men with their minimal needs for self-expression.” He whipped out a paper from his pocket, began to unfold it with loving care. “The preliminary list of particulars, Hud!”
“Come on, come on! Let’s hear it!”
“Yes! First on the agenda—Spoor is ready to cast!”
“Cast?”
Cutshaw looked vaguely frimmled. “If I were looking for an echo, Hud, I’d go to Grand Canyon. I said ‘Cast!’, dummy, ‘Cast!’ Spoor has finished Julius Caesar!”
Chapter 12
General Syntax, on the telephone, paused for a look at the mouthpiece, not quite believing he’d heard correctly. Then he continued talking to Kane, making mysterious penciled notes on a yellow pad beside the phone.
He said, “Dalmatians, wolfhounds, chows, and—and what? … Pekinese. Uh-huh … No, no, that’s—no … I understand, that’s sort of—well—yes—therapy. I mean, you clearly know what you’re doing. You’re—well—I’ve seen, you know, and Lastrade (pause) Lastrade has given carte blanche. You—what?… No, no, no, no. That’s very (pause) easy. No. The Superman suit we can make, but the—well, the pulleys and paints. Why do you need the pulleys and paints?… Oh. Oh, I see. He wants to to do the Slovik ceiling like the Sistine … Chapel. Yes. Now what about the flying belt? There’s an experimental model or two, but they aren’t too easy to get, you see, and … Oh? T-Tinker Bell? You’re doing a performance of Peter (pause) Pan. Well, it’s—look—won’t he sort of—well—sort of fly over the wall? … Oh. Oh, I see. He—he promised he wouldn’t do that…”
* * *
Six days later Captain Groper gripped the second-story balustrade with unbelieving hands. He had eyes but would not see; he had ears but would not hear—not the creaking of the pulleys nor the scaffold heaving before him, bearing Corfu and buckets of paint ever upward toward the ceiling like an obscene and mad benediction. Corfu, stirring paint, looked with bemusement at the Captain. “Buon giorno, Captain Frogface!” he greeted him as he passed.
From below came the yapping of dogs. Groper looked down at an office near Kane’s. Tethered outside it, with Krebs standing guard, was a yipping, howling, barking clot of dogs of various breeds. Kane stepped out of his office, munching a sandwich with nonchalance, just as the door beside the mound of dogs flew open, revealing Spoor. He gestured into the office, commanded, “Out! You hear me? Out!”
A rather large chow padded despondently out of the room. Spoor called angrily after him, “And tell your stupid agent not to waste any more of my time!”
Kane stepped in to him, chewing. Spoor eyed him with outrage. “Can you imagine? He lisps! Here I am casting Julius Caesar and they send me a dog who lisps!” Then he turned and called into the room, “Alterman! Out! Hear me? Out!”
Out came Captain Alterman. He wore grieving disappointment and a blue-and-red “Superman” costume. “But why?” he pouted. “Why?”
Spoor looked plainly exasperated, but tried to lower his voice. “Colonel Kane, do me a favor,” he said; “a small but important favor. Kindly explain to this idiot that in the plays of William Shakespeare there can be no part for Superman!”
“There could be!” pouted Alterman. “There could be, the way I explained it.”
“The way you explained it!” erupted Spoor. He whirled on Kane. “Know what he wants? Do you know? When the conspirators pull out their knives, he wants to rescue Julius Caesar! Sure! Swoop down and grab him! Yes! Hurdling mighty temples at a single, incredible bound! Alterman, what in the hell is wrong with you? Tell him, Colonel, tell him!”
“Can’t be done,” said Kane to Alterman in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
“What a pussycat!” beamed Spoor, patting the colonel’s cheek with affection. Then he swiftly turned on Alterman. “See, you stubborn? Eh? Do you see? Also, stupid, you’re not a dog!”
Paint splattered down on the trio. Lieutenant Spoor pointed up at Corfu, who was busily brushing away. “That
man is crazy!” he declared.
Zook pounced on Kane. “So there you are,” he said angrily, “invisible giant brain!”
Spoor shook his head with sadness. “Another planet heard from. Krebs,” he called, “who’s next?” A large Dalmatian raced into his office. Spoor followed him in and closed the door, muttering, “Television actors! Always in a hurry!”
Kane turned to Zook. “What’s the trouble?” he calmly asked him.
“Hell, you know the trouble! You caused the trouble! Pretend to give me the belt and then one of your stooges takes it away!”
Kane had procured for him the flying belt. Developed by the Army, it was worn like a shoulder harness and could propel a man in the air for a space of from three to four minutes at most. After that, it required recharging. Its guidance system, fortunately, was simple and safe to manage.
Kane turned to Alterman, the candidate most likely to have pilfered the belt from Zook. “Captain, did you take the belt?”
“No, not him!” interjected Zook. “It was the brain you all call Bemish! Yeah, he robbed it from me! Stole it! And for what, I ask you, what? To take a flying leap at walls! I want it back, you hear me, back!”
All of them looked to the door on hearing a muffled yelp of pain. Out, then, raced the Dalmatian, almost bowling over Zook. Spoor was at the door, looking outraged and chagrined. He was also gripping his wrist. “He bit me! Can you imagine? Told him he was rotten and he bit me!” Spoor shook a threatening fist at the dogs. “Maybe instead I’ll use penguins! You hear, you little bums? I said penguins; yes, penguins! A penguin never bit nobody!”
Bemish flew past them, wearing Zook’s belt. He was four feet off the ground, and how he zoomed, and how he hurtled, until a plastery crash and crunching announced the terminal point of his flight to be a staunchly resisting wall. Krebs raced to his aid, followed by Fromme, who’d burst out of the dorm.
Zook raced to the spot, bawling, “Bemish, take it off!”
Bemish lay sprawled on the ground, his sturdy helmet white with plaster. Fromme stood over him, pushing at Krebs and shouting, “Back! You vultures, stand back! Give the man air! Give the man air!”
Groper had seen enough. He went to his room and closed the door. Then lay on his bed and counted the years until he’d be eligible for retirement. It seemed a long, long time.
Kane entered his office feeling giddy and elated; felt that wash of airy freedom that accompanies decision and the following of a plan. Beyond the completion of that plan he could not see; nor did he care to. It was sufficient to be moving forward, to be reaching for something palpable. And good. That was important, very important: he was striving, with maximum hazard, for something clearly and obviously good; not merely by Caesar’s standards, or by God’s, but by both. By both. Very important. Something else was very important; some haunting, ultimate end hovering over all of the others, making them somehow intermediate. But still, he couldn’t remember.
Outside, it began to rain. Kane thought back to that night in the jungle, to that night of his wild decision. Something back there. Or in a dream. He didn’t know; he didn’t know. Domine non sum dignus. Sunday mornings at the altar, holding the cruets for the priest. He felt an aching, poignant yearning for some end that was out of sight. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem. What was today? Was it Saturday? Tomorrow he’d go to Mass. Early, when it was quiet; no squalling babies rending his peace. Abruptly, without reason, he wanted to laugh; then to cry. But he knew himself incapable.
Cutshaw burst in on him, wrapped from head to foot in a gaudily striped towel. He clutched a child’s pail and shovel. “Let’s go to the beach!” he announced to Kane.
“That is impossible and you know it.”
“Foot, you’re moody!”
“Moreover, it’s raining.”
“Sure, it’s raining! That’s the point, you dummy, the point! Judas, everyone goes when it’s bright!”
“Is going to the beach some new demand?” asked Kane.
“Since when have I made demands!” squawked Cutshaw, leaping onto the couch. He slapped his shovel against the wall. “By the way, have you fixed this freaking wall?”
“No.”
“See? Do you hear me complaining? I want a sucker,” he demanded plaintively.
“A what?”
“A sucker! A common sucker! Is that wrong? Is it a sin?”
“Cutshaw, kindly come down off that couch.”
“So! Once a priest, always a priest! Well, what is the use in goodness, Hud, if I cannot have a sucker! You’re Anthony Quinn or Jack Palance! There isn’t a chance that you’re Pat O’Brien! Pat O’Brien would have given me candy! Yes! Pat O’Brien would have given me suckers!”
“Captain, I’ll give you a sucker tomorrow.”
“Hell, I don’t want one. Think you can bribe me? Listen, how do you like this towel?”
“Where did you get it?”
“Pat O’Brien. Any further idiot questions, Hud? Or did that one win the prize?”
“No further questions,” said Kane.
“Thank Foot! Want to play jacks?”
“No.”
“Christ, you don’t want to do anything! What about riddles? Can I ask you a riddle?”
“Yes.”
“Big freaking deal! Now listen to this. Are you ready?” asked Cutshaw.
“Yes. Yes, I’m ready.”
“What is red, reads the New York Times, has fourteen legs and wears a sombrero?”
“I give up.”
“Took you long enough! I gave up on that one three days ago, Lothar! Now listen, here’s another. How many times can you break a shish kebab skewer in half?”
“How many times?” answered Kane.
Cutshaw leaped from the couch, springing nimbly onto the desk in his customary fashion and squatting in front of Kane. “I’ll put it another way,” he said. “Everything has parts. The skewer has parts. Now, how many times can I break it in half? An infinite number of times or a limited number of times? If it’s an infinite number of times, then the skewer must be infinite. Which is moose piss, let’s face it. But if I can only cut the skewer in half for a limited number of times—if I get down to a piece of skewer that can no longer be cut in half—I mean, assuming I were Foot and could do anything I wanted—then I’m down to a piece of skewer that has no parts—no parts at all; that is absolutely simple. And Hudkins, that is moose piss! If it has no parts, it can’t exist! Am I right? Am I right? No! I see it in your eyes! You think I’m a crazy old man!”
“Not at all,” responded Kane. He found the problem rather intriguing. “You have merely failed to distinguish,” he said, “between the real and mental orders. Mentally—or theoretically—there isn’t any limit at all on how many times you can halve that skewer. But in the real order of things—or, in other words, practically speaking—you would finally come to a point where, when you cut the skewer in half, the halves would convert themselves into energy.”
“Foot, you are wise!” breathed Cutshaw, probing Kane’s eyes with a look like hope. He’s been testing me, Kane decided. “Do you believe in the Resurrection?” asked the astronaut intently.
“Yes,” answered Kane.
“That Christ rose from the dead?”
“Yes.”
“But the guards might have fallen asleep while cunning caribou stole his body!”
“Pilate was warned of that possibility,” said Kane. “And the penalty for sleeping on duty for Roman soldiers happened to be death.”
“They could always plead insanity,” said Cutshaw, his face a mask of sobriety.
Kane’s stomach muscles tightened. “Temporary?” he probed.
Something stirred in Cutshaw’s eyes: something vaguely like a smile. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe.” Then he fell into another temper. “Enough of these quips and quiddities! To the matter, Hud, the matter! Sir, I speak of Captain Fell!”
“What about him?”
“What about him? Are you m
ad? Are you a stone?”
“Are you referring to his drinking?”
“I’m referring to his general coolth as well as a certain lack of class! Lieutenant Klenk came to him yesterday with a strange and wondrous malady, but do you know what that quack prescribed? Aspirin, Huddy, aspirin!”
“What was the malady?”
“I blush to say it.”
“Say it.”
“Very well, I will. Lieutenant Klenk has a tipped uterus.”
“I see.”
“I daresay you do. But how does that help Lieutenant Klenk? How does that comfort him in his agony? What shall I tell him? ‘Listen, Klenkie, easy—I have spoken to the Colonel and, while his kidney doubtless pulsates sympathetically with yours, he says to stuff your uterus with aspirin, seeing as Fell is erratic but fair?’ Is that the drill? Is that what I tell him?”
“Not at all.”
“Let’s go to the beach.”
“Cutshaw, it’s raining.”
“Tell that to Klenk and see if it comforts him. Look, why can’t we talk? Why can’t we be friends?”
“I am your friend,” said Kane.
“You’re my albatross, my millstone, my flaming white elephant! Tell me, why! Why won’t you tell me!”
“Tell you what?”
“Why sometimes I cry. It’s a pain in the ass.”
“Yes, it is,” murmured Kane.
“That’s why I love you. You’re so freaking agreeable. Do you think cannibals think they’re grand?”