He removed his bowler from his head; and placed all these things, with his undergarments, neatly on Flapping Eagle’s prone form, where they wouldn’t get in the way.
And ignoring his protesting corns, he danced.
The Gorf, already locked in to the mind of Flapping Eagle (which was a good deal easier for him than for Mr Jones) was about to receive a surprise.
Mr Jones circled the body of Flapping Eagle slowly, humming a low-pitched note. As he cud this, he turned round and round, stamping his feet at regular intervals. After a while, he stopped feeling giddy. After a longer while, he no longer had to think about what he was doing. His body took over and guided him on his looping path by remote control. After a much longer while he ceased to be conscious of anything—surroundings, body, anything— except the hum, which hung around him like a curtain. Then that died away (though his vocal chords continued to produce the noise) and for a brief second he was not conscious even of being. It was during that instant that the ripples of Flapping Eagle lapped over his own; and Virgil Jones became attuned to the ailing mind.
If you’d been in the right Dimension, you would have seen a thin veil-like mist encasing the two bodies.
Virgil Jones had gone to the rescue.
XXII
THE GORF WAS pleased with the puzzle he had set Flapping Eagle. Having come to the conclusion that the Amerindian’s near-immunity to Dimension-fever sprang from a temporary paralysis of the imagination, the Master of Ordering had decided to fill the gap with his own. The puzzle he constructed was especially satisfying since all its elements, as well as the way out, had been built from Flapping Eagle’s memories; so that it was a perfectly passable counterfeit of a dimension that a more freely-thinking Flapping Eagle might have entered. The Gorf relaxed and prepared to enjoy Flapping Eagle’s attempts to solve it.
These were the elements of the puzzle:
A place called Abyssinia. Its characteristics sprang from the name the Gorf had taken from Flapping Eagle’s mind. It was a huge abyss, a narrow canyon with stone walls reaching up to the sky. And, just to add an intriguing time-factor, it was getting slowly narrower. The cliffs were encroaching on both sides; they even seemed to be coming together overhead, so that in time they would form a tomb of constricting rock.
At the bottom of the canyon with Flapping Eagle were two Abyssinians. They looked like Deggle, creator of the memory. Both of them were long and saturnine. They wore black cloaks and emerald necklaces. But there the resemblance to Deggle ended. (Even so, it served its purpose; Flapping Eagle was utterly unnerved by the spectacle of twin Deggles standing before him, and forgot about Bird-Dog and his own powers long enough to enable the dimension to “set” firmly, like concrete.)
The Two Abyssinians were called Khallit and Mallit. They were engaged in an eternal argument without beginning or end, its very lack of purpose or decision undermining Flapping Eagle’s ability to think clearly.
One more thing: Flapping Eagle was tied hand and foot. He lay beside the two Abyssinians as they squatted around a campfire. They seemed oblivious of his presence, and did not answer when he spoke to them.
A very pleasing puzzle indeed.
Between them, Khallit and Mallit placed a gold coin. Every so often one of them would flip it; it was the only way they ever decided on any element of their eternal wrangle.
At the present moment, they seemed indirectly to be discussing Flapping Eagle.
—There are two sides to every question, Mallit, are there not?
—Well … said Mallit doubtfully. He flipped the coin. —Yes, he said.
Khallit breathed a sigh of relief.
—Then if good is on one side of the coin, bad is on the other. If peace is on one side, war is on the other.
—Arguable, said Mallit.
—For the sake of argument, pleaded Khallit.
—For the sake of argument, agreed Mallit, after tossing the coin.
—Then if life is on one side, death must be on the other, said Khallit.
—Only if, said Mallit.
—For the sake of argument, they said in unison, and smiled at each other.
The walls of the canyon moved in a fraction.
—But here’s a paradox, said Khallit. Suppose a man deprived of death. Suppose him wandering through all eternity, a beginning without an end. Does the absence of death in him mean that life is also absent?
—Debatable, said Mallit. He flipped the coin. Yes, he said.
—So he is, in fact, no more than the living dead?
—Or no less.
—Would you agree that the major difference between the living and the dead is the power to act?
—For the sake of argument, said Mallit.
—So that such a man would be impotent. Helpless.
—Impotent. Helpless, echoed Mallit.
—Incapable of influencing his own life.
—Incapable of influencing his own life.
—Flung eternally between his doubts and his fears.
—Flung.
Their voices were melodious. Flapping Eagle found himself listening raptly. He had never realized the beauty of speech, the appeal of simply speaking and arguing for ever and ever … he felt his mind slipping away and tried to force it back. It was unconscionably difficult.
He suddenly realized what was happening to the canyon. Because there was a great deal less room in it than when he had first arrived. He struggled desperately against his ropes. To no avail. He screamed at Khallit and Mallit.
—Can the dead speak? asked Khallit.
—Doubtful, said Mallit and tossed the coin. —No, he said.
—No, echoed Khallit.
Flapping Eagle realized bleakly that there was no way out. He remembered Virgil Jones’ whisper: there is always a way out. He no longer believed it. He would lie here, listening to the eternal indecision of these two extrapolations of himself until the rock claimed them.
Flapping Eagle closed his eyes.
The Gorf was feeling irritated this time. What good was such a simple, beautiful puzzle if the man wouldn’t make any attempt to solve it? Of course there was a way out. Very simple it was, too. All the man had to do was work it out. The Gorf had a suspicion that Flapping Eagle would never be any good at the Game of Order.
And then his irritation vanished, to be replaced by wonderment, as something happened for which he had made no provision.
A whirlwind suddenly appeared at one end of the canyon.
Khallit looked up and became highly agitated.
—Mallit, he said. Mallit, is that a whirlwind?
Mallit spun a coin without looking up. —No, he said. It is not.
—Mallit, cried Khallit, it is. It is a whirlwind.
Mallit looked up. —It can’t be, he said.
—But it is, it is, cried Khallit.
The whirlwind came closer and closer.
—Fascinating paradox, said Mallit.
—Fascinating, said Khallit doubtfully.
Then the whirlwind was upon them. Like the mere notions they were, the less-than-human constructs of an alien imagination, the force of Virgil Jones’ arrival dispersed them. They returned to the shreds of energy they had once been. On the planet of the Spiral Dancers, people would have said: —they danced the Weakdance to the end.
Flapping Eagle had opened his eyes. The whirlwind stood in front of him and slowed down. It began to look like a man.
—The Whirling Demon! cried Flapping Eagle, using the phrase after seven centuries.
—Hullo, said Virgil Jones.
A few questions from Virgil Jones, and Flapping Eagle was talking about Deggle and mentioned the word “Ethiopia”. The instant he said the word, the Gorfs puzzle dissolved. Because that was the key, the way out. Ethiopia … Abyssinia … I’ll be seeing you … Goodbye. All he had to do was say Goodbye and the puzzle was solved.
It was easy, the Gorf thought sulkily. It was. The people looked like Deggle. The place was named after one half
of his favourite phrase. Even an idiot could have guessed that escape lay through the other half. Even an idiot. That was the trouble with most people. They were so bad at games.
XXIII
THE SEA FELT pure beneath them, its spray salting their cheeks, stinging, refreshing; a sea of mists and clouds, grey curling waves hidden behind the veils; a sea to be lost on, a drifting, unchanged sea.
Flapping Eagle lay breathless on the raft’s rough boards, half-dazed, uncomprehending; Virgil Jones, a naked speck on another man’s horizons, stood by the tattered sail, on guard, the juices of excitement flowing renewed in his veins. The tableau held and was fixed.
—May I call you Virgil? Flapping Eagle’s voice was hesitant.
Virgil Jones felt inordinately pleased.
—Certainly, certainly. Certainly, call me Virgil.
A long silence, in which a bond was sealed.
—What may I call you? Virgil broke the stillness.
Flapping Eagle didn’t answer.
—Mr Eagle? Virgil Jones turned to look at the Axona.
But Flapping Eagle was asleep.
Virgil lumbered across the raft and sat by the sleeping form.
—Don’t thank me for your life, he said to it. I’m grateful to you, more than I can say. Don’t thank me for coming here; it was a debt paid, a world remembered. Don’t thank me for anything; and don’t be afraid.
The sea curled over the edges of their frail craft, and fell away; curled, and fell away, as the old bull elephant watched over the body of the young-old buck.
—I have some food, said Flapping Eagle, in some surprise. He had reached into the pocket of his ragged trousers and found two old sea-biscuits. He passed one to Virgil Jones, who hid his nakedness behind Flapping Eagle’s old coat. They ate slowly.
—Just call me Flapping Eagle, said Flapping Eagle, and then added: Virgil.
They looked at each other as they munched.
—Everything you’ve ever done, said Virgil, has been a preparation for Calf Mountain, in a way.
Flapping Eagle noticed a difference in Virgil; he was calm rather than stagnant. There seemed to be a surge of strength in him which was very reassuring. Flapping Eagle realized how mutually dependent they had become, and it was a pleasurable realization.
—Everything I ever did, said Virgil, was just the same, in away.
—What sort of thing, asked Flapping Eagle.
—O, said Virgil, I travelled, like you.
The sea whispered secrets to the raft.
—A life, said Virgil, always contains a peak. A moment, you follow, that makes it all worthwhile. Justifies it. At any rate, that’s what I find. You’re either moving towards it or away from it. Or for an instant you’re at it and you’re … full.
They were becalmed. Flapping Eagle sat up, looking at the stillness with equanimity. Virgil’s large tongue licked contentedly at the outskirts of his mouth: patrolling the frontiers.
—Have you ever thought about the phrase: petrified with fear? asked Virgil. Turned to stone, you see.
Flapping Eagle half-turned, half-spoke, but Virgil was far away in a train of thought.
—That’s what they’re like in K, you see, he continued. Petrified. And why? He heaved his shoulders, tossing the weight from them. Why, because of the damned dimensions. (He frowned.) You remember my saying you should fix your mind on one thing, like Bird-Dog. It’s the only defence. The effect is much stronger in K, you know. Much nearer to Grimus. It drove them out of their wits … they found the only way to keep the bloody thing at bay was to be single-minded. To a fault. Obsessive. That’s the word. Obsessions close the mind to the dimensions. That’s what K’s like. Obsessive. You can probably understand why. Petrified with fear. It’s a fearful thing to be a stranger within oneself. People don’t like their own complexities. Tragic, really.
Flapping Eagle asked: What about? Obsessive. What about?
—O, said Virgil, anything. Doesn’t matter. Cleaning the floor, whatever. Carry it to its extreme and it serves to protect. Mrs O’Toole’s obsession with constancy may well be her best protection. As I said, the Effect is spreading, you know. It spreads.
He was silent.
—Often they fix themselves a time in their lives to mull over. Live the same day over and over again. Displaced persons are like that, you know. Always counterfeiting roots. Still. If a false front’s thick enough, it serves. To protect.
There was no time; they sat, stood, moved, slept. At some point, Flapping Eagle had asked:
—What about yourself, Virgil?
—What about me? replied Virgil.
—You were saying every life has a peak … what about you?
—O yes, said Virgil. Long past it.
The silence settled again. Then Virgil said:
—Once. Then. Before. The terror of the titties, eh?
Flapping Eagle asked: —Were you married?
—O, said Virgil, yes. Eventually. Roughly. Temporarily.
There was a wind. The rudimentary sail was full; they moved from anywhere to nowhere across the infinite sea.
—Towards infinity, said Virgil Jones, where all paradoxes are resolved.
—Virgil, asked Flapping Eagle, am I getting better?
—Better?
—The Dimension-fever, said Flapping Eagle. Everything seems to be smooth just at the moment. Am I mending?
—I don’t know, said Virgil. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Usually one meets a few monsters. You know the sort of thing.
—No, said Flapping Eagle.
—At any rate, said Virgil, trying to sound confident, between us, we should be able to handle them.
The Gorf had made a decision. No more meddling. But he might speed things up a bit; he was getting bored. Though Mr Jones’ presence was very interesting.
XXIV
LAND ROSE UP from the sea to meet them, but it was unlike any soil or earth either of them had ever seen. It was not so much solid as not-liquid, a viscous, glutinous stuff. At one second it seemed insubstantial as air, at another it acquired the consistency of treacle, at another it lay smooth as glass. It seemed to smoke, or steam, a little.
Virgil Jones knew where they were. It was the nearest they would get to escape, and also the most dangerous of the Inner Dimensions. They stood at the very fringes of Flapping Eagle’s awareness, close to the point at which his senses merged with the void. This was unmade ground, the raw materials of the mind. If they bent it right, it would lead them wherever they wished to go; if they failed to master it, they could drift on its wisps out of Flapping Eagle’s existence. To put it another way, they would die.
The raft had lodged—or stuck—in the land. Gingerly, they placed feet upon the colourless, formless substance. Flapping Eagle looked nervous.
—We’re in very deep, said Virgil and explained.
—Now then, he said, we’ll need to concentrate as hard as we can. Try and imagine the topography of this Dimension, since it seems to be topographic. It’s a series of concentric circles.
—A series of concentric circles, repeated Flapping Eagle.
—We’re on the outermost circle. We need to get to the centre.
—We need to get to the centre, repeated Flapping Eagle.
—Once we’re in the centre, we’ll need to climb. The waking state lies directly above the centre. Do you understand?
—Yes, said Flapping Eagle.
—If we concentrate hard enough we can use this stuff to make a passage. We’ll be able to move through it to the centre without being affected by the Dimensions.
Virgil Jones had taken on a new dimension himself. He was crisp, authoritative. Flapping Eagle settled down to shape the stuff of his mind.
The passage, or tunnel, took shape around them. It was dark grey, suffused with dirty yellow light. In mounting excitement, Flapping Eagle realized that he was shaping it into a passable facsimile of the red tunnel down which Bird-Dog had fled at the beginning of the fever. His strength began to flo
od back; the malleable not-land stretched into a longer and longer tunnel. Virgil Jones, watching, felt an enormous relief. And finally at the very far end of the tunnel they saw a tiny beckoning pinprick of light.
—Time to go, said Virgil Jones.
Flapping Eagle didn’t speak. All his efforts were plunged into holding the tunnel, preserving its existence until it set. So Virgil Jones, ever co-operative, concentrated on creating a means of transport. A moment later (he derived a sizeable pleasure from the speed) they were the proud possessors of two bicycles.
—I’m sorry, he apologized, the mysteries of the internal combustion engine have always been beyond me.
The tunnel had set. They mounted their anachronistic steeds and headed into its depths, towards the siren light.
For all his recent achievements, for all his new-found confidence, Virgil seemed to Flapping Eagle to be a worried man.
—Virgil, he asked, you wouldn’t hold anything back from me, would you?
—My dear fellow, admonished Virgil Jones. My dear fellow.
—Well, then. You wouldn’t know what’s at the other end of this tunnel, would you?
—My dear fellow, repeated Virgil Jones; and then, after a pause, he added quietly: That depends entirely on you.
—Explain?
—In all probability, said Virgil, there will be nothing at all.
—And that’s what worries you?
Virgil Jones coughed. —You seem to be an unusual fellow, he said. Perhaps you won’t need … He stopped.
—What? asked Flapping Eagle.
—The monsters, said Virgil Jones.
When he had explained, Flapping Eagle knew what had to happen.
The cure for Dimension-fever is a complex thing. It involves more than mere survival, more than just the ability to find one’s way through the labyrinth. If that is all a sufferer has to offer, the fever can recur and recur. Once exposed to it, the sufferer’s resistance is lowered; he can expect further and perhaps worse attacks to set in without warning. Even the cure is sometimes not total; it does, however, insulate the sufferer from the worst the Effect can produce. That is, if it doesn’t kill him.