“If you find you don’t enjoy it, after we start, all you have to do is just say so and I’ll stop. I have a lot of good ideas, but that doesn’t mean much. Everybody has good ideas. That doesn’t mean another person would be interested.”
“All right,” Barbara said. “If I change my mind I’ll tell you.” She smiled a little. “Are you satisfied?”
“I don’t want to impose on you,” Carl said. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.
Barbara nodded. “I get that impression.”
12
“WHERE IS HE?” Barbara said. Verne was sitting on the edge of his bed, cleaning his pipe with a match and a strip of toilet paper.
“Where is who?”
“Carl. How many people are there here?”
Verne looked up at her, standing in the doorway. “He’s shaving. Down at the bathroom. Why?”
Barbara came into the room. It was morning, a clear bright morning. Sunlight danced through the windows into the room, over the cots and chairs, the piles of clothing and neckties and men’s shoes. “We’re going hiking,” Barbara said.
“Hiking? What’s that a euphemism for?”
“We’re going up in the hills and he’s going to read his manuscript to me. Didn’t he say anything about it? Wasn’t he jumping up and down and telling about it sixty times?”
“No. He’s been very quiet. What sort of manuscript? What’s going on?”
“It’s a philosophical treatise. A credo. All the many thoughts he’s had about the universe and what makes it go.”
“Does he know what makes it go? I’m beginning to get interested. Am I invited?”
“Not by me. Anyhow, you wouldn’t enjoy it. We’re going to sit and discuss and watch the wind blowing through the trees and the clouds crossing the sky.”
Verne gave her an inscrutable glance. “Really? Is that so? Nothing else?”
“Stop fishing around. Of course nothing else.”
“All right. I gather, however, that you’re taking an interest in our young man.”
“Our?”
“Don’t you remember what we were saying—when was it? Yesterday. Or have you forgotten already?”
“We said a lot.”
“About him. About the young blond-haired boy with blue eyes and an empty head.”
“We said that?”
Verne studied her. “No. Not exactly. But something along those lines. Something about a youth, a virgin youth coming along. I guess you’re all over your spell. You have certainly recovered quickly. No residue? Nothing left of all your fright? I can’t believe you’ve completely forgotten.”
“No. No, I haven’t completely forgotten.”
“Is that why you’re going to hear his thesis? Because of yesterday? Because of what happened—to us?”
“Perhaps.”
They stood looking at each other across the room. Distantly, down the hall, came the sound of water and somebody moving around. Somebody began to whistle.
“Since we’re all going to have to live with each other I’d prefer to know him a little better.” Barbara smiled at Verne. “I already know about you.”
Verne shrugged. “It sounds like a good enough idea to me. Go ahead. I see nothing wrong with it. Except—”
“Except what?”
“If you’re going to hang around him you should try to watch your step. Sometimes you can rather foul up a naive person. The way you talk. You seem to have developed quite a brisk attitude toward childhood foolishness. If you want to get anywhere with Carl, don’t be too harsh on him. He may tax your patience.”
“So?”
“So watch out.” Verne stood up, cocking his head on one side. “He’ll be out in a minute. I see nothing wrong in your going around with him, but if you’re not careful you can queer the whole thing right off the bat. As far as I’m concerned, I’d like to see something work out. After all, I have a stake in this, myself. Or so we seemed to believe the other day. In any case, remember this, when he starts rushing about, kicking his heels and jumping up in the air.”
“I’m glad you approve of us. Thanks for all the benedictions.”
“Not at all. Here he is.”
Carl strode into the room, a shaving mug in one hand, a towel thrown over his shoulder. He was naked to the waist. At the sight of Barbara he stopped abruptly, his face turning red.
“Come in,” Verne said. “It’s just a friend.”
“Hello,” Carl murmured. “I was shaving.”
“Then it’s true,” Barbara said.
“What’s true?” Carl put down his mug and towel and slid into a sports shirt, buttoning it rapidly.
“That you shave.”
Carl grinned sheepishly. “Why not?”
“I understand you’re going up in the hills with this young lady,” Verne said. “Why didn’t you tell me about it? I feel left out.”
“Sorry. I—”
“Am I invited? Can I come along? I wouldn’t mind spending some time out of doors.”
Confused, Carl glanced at Barbara. He twisted helplessly. “You want to come? I’m sorry I didn’t say anything about it. I guess there’s no reason why you can’t come. Are you sure you want to come? It’ll be very dull. If you want to come I guess it’s all right. It’s all right by me.”
Verne pondered. “No. I have some work to do. I think I’ll stick around here. You two young people go on alone. I’ll be all right.”
Barbara moved to the door. “Let’s go. Let’s get started before it heats up.”
“It’s going to be a wonderful day.” Carl sat down on his cot and tied his shoes quickly. He bounced to his feet again. “Well, here we go. Goodbye, Verne. We’ll see you later.”
“Goodbye.”
They went down the hall, downstairs, and out onto the porch. “You see?” Carl said. “Wonderful day. How could we ask for anything better?”
“Where’s your manuscript?”
“My gosh. I forgot it. Wait.” Carl went back into the building. “I’ll run up and get it.”
He clattered up the stairs. A few minutes later he returned, breathless and excited, holding a brown package under his arm.
“Is that it?” Barbara asked.
“That’s it. Imagine forgetting it. I would have noticed, but not for a while.”
“All right,” Barbara said. “Let’s head for the woods.”
It took quite a long time to reach the woods. They left the Company property, passing beyond the strip that was the final marker, and began to climb. The woods were near the top of a long row of hills. Trees, crooked and bent, like ancient people too old to follow after the others who had left.
Carl and Barbara crossed a plowed strip and entered the first grove of trees, panting with exertion as they walked.
“Stop,” Barbara gasped.
“Already?”
“I have to get my breath.”
They stopped, turning to look back down. Below them, stretched out across the floor of the valley, was the Company, the towers and buildings, slag heaps, pits, open furnaces. Roads crossed here and there, roads and paths.
“How small it looks,” Carl said. “From here it looks so small, I thought it was much larger. I guess it really isn’t so much after all. I’ve never been outside of the grounds before, not since I first came. Now I’m standing on the outside again after years. It feels strange to look down at it from beyond.”
“It does feel strange.”
“Well, let’s go.” Carl started on, into the woods. “We have to find a place to sit down.”
“Is it safe?” Barbara looked around them.
“Is what safe?”
“The woods. It looks so dark and hostile. Are there any animals or anything?”
Carl laughed. “Not any more. Company men went in and beat out everything, all the animals and snakes and birds they could find.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Company policy in a new location.”
Barbara peered in between
the trees. The woods were silent and dark. Nothing stirred. “I feel like Gretel. You’re sure it’s safe?”
“Come on.” Carl went off first, leading the way, “I personally guarantee your safety.”
He disappeared into the trees. Barbara followed slowly after him, her hands in the pockets of her slacks. She gazed up at the trees above her. At the masses of dark brush and weeds on all sides. Great roots twisted through the damp soil. Old roots. Bigger than the trees themselves.
“Coming?” Carl halted.
Barbara came up to him. “Yes.”
“We better stay together.”
“All right.”
They tramped up the hill to the top. For a time they were on level ground. Then the hill sank abruptly, sliding down into a canyon below. Scrub plants grew in bunches at the bottom. The soil was dry and sandy. Carl and Barbara stood gazing down.
“Maybe we can read here. At the top.” Barbara walked around, looking for a place. “How about over there under that tree?”
Carl stood with his hands on his hips, his brown paper package at his feet. “Isn’t this something? We’re at the top of the world. This is high. Do you know how high this is? We’re on one of the highest plateaus in the world. This is old land.” He waved his hand at the canyon and the hills beyond. “Very old land. This is the original continent. These hills have been weathered through millions of years.”
“Oh?” Barbara sat down gingerly, at the foot of a great tree. She lit a cigarette.
Carl continued to stand. Hills and valleys, narrow canyons and flat stretches surrounded them on all sides, as far as the eye could see. In the distance, the mountains took on a bluish tint, an indistinct hue. The mountains went up, higher and higher. The highest were lost in the rolls of white clouds scattered across the sky.
“I feel like God,” Carl announced.
“Why?”
“To be here. At the top of the world.” He waved his whole arms, like a symphony conductor. “Look! I’m creating the world. Here it comes. Hold on tight.”
His whole body moved as he swayed back and forth, as if he were conducting some heavy masterpiece of the middle eighteenth century. He frowned, concentrating. He blond hair hung down, slapping against his forehead. Back and forth he swayed, eyes shut, jaw set.
Barbara watched silently, smoking and resting.
“Look! It’s here!” Carl stepped back, throwing up his arms as if to protect himself. “Get back.”
“What’s here?”
“The world. I just made it. It’s still hot. We’ll have to wait for a while until it cools off” He came over to her, grinning down, his hands in his pockets. “Well? What do you think of it? Any suggestions?”
“For what?”
“Suggestions as to how it should be.” He considered. “What’ll I do with it? I have to put things on it. Men. I want human beings running around. No world’s complete without people. Let’s see.” He folded his arms solemnly. “I wonder if there’s anything better than men that’s come along recently. Maybe there’s something new. I better get hold of the monthly bulletins and study them.”
Barbara shook her head.
“What’s the matter?” Carl squatted down. His grin faded a little, shading into embarrassment. “Am I acting silly again?”
“No. It’s all right.”
“Wait.” Carl went back to get his manuscript. “I left it behind again. You see? I forgot it. That shows something. It’s very important, the way I keep leaving it behind me.”
“What does it show?”
“It shows I don’t really want it. It shows I want to get rid of it. It’s a secret unconscious wish.”
Barbara smiled. “Really?”
“It’s true! I forget on purpose. That’s what forgetting is. An unconscious act, getting rid of something you don’t want. That’s what Freud says.”
He sat down beside her and began to unfasten the cord from around his package.
“You certainly have it all tied up,” Barbara observed.
“I’m protecting it. It has to be safe from all harm. You see, if my unconscious wants me to get rid of it I have to fight all the harder consciously to protect it.”
He folded the cord up and put it in his pocket. He removed the brown paper carefully.
“How does it look?” He held the package up.
“It looks fine.”
“Well, that’s half the battle.” Carl slid the first few pages under. “Now the question arises as to just how it sounds.”
He stroked the paper for a time, not saying anything but just sitting and holding his manuscript with his large, pale hands. Presently he reached up and pushed his hair back from his forehead.
“I’m ready,” Barbara said. “Any time.”
Carl nodded. “All right. It’s quite a strange place here, isn’t it? So silent. Not a sound. No one at all, anywhere around us. We might be the only two people left in the world. Like in those English doom stories that were popular in the thirties. Where the world has come to an end. Except for a young man and a young woman. No one else left but them. Civilization in ruins. Apes and bats running all over. Empty cities. And just the two of them, to rebuild the world.”
“Do they?”
“Well, they have to get married first.”
Barbara laughed.
“Why are you laughing?” Carl turned toward her.
“No reason.”
“I used to read a lot of those stories. I have made a study of them. As near as I can tell, the first one of that type was written about nineteen-ten by George Allen England. It was a huge book called Darkness and Dawn. Nobody today remembers it.”
“How did you come across it?”
“Oh, I found a copy in an old book store. That was a long time ago. When I was about thirteen. I don’t remember very much about it. Except that the girl had long hair. And that—that their clothing had rotted away during all the years they were in suspended animation. And when she got up all her clothes fell away in pieces.”
“Well, that’s something to file away in your mind.”
Carl nodded. “I guess so. Funny I remember that.”
“Maybe sometime it’ll turn out to be useful. A bit of information like that.”
Carl gazed at her owlishly. Barbara smiled at him, her cigarette held loosely against her lips. She blew smoke lazily toward him. The smoke circled around him, dissolving in the air.
“Cigarette smoke looks so odd here,” Carl said.
“Why?”
“We’re so far from things like that. Cigarettes and radios and movies and bathtubs. All the things that go to make up our world.” He gestured back the way they had come. “There it is down there. Our world. Like a little postage stamp, a little square behind us. And someday it’ll be gone.”
“I guess so.”
“And soon. Only a few days. They’ll be here in a few days. And that’ll be the end.”
“Why? Are they going to burn it all up?”
“It doesn’t matter. For us, it’s the end.”
Barbara shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Whatever they do, it’s the end for us. Because it won’t be ours anymore. To do with as we want. It’s only your world and my world as long as we have power over it. In a few days the power will pass from us into other hands. Then we’ll leave. The three of us.”
Barbara stubbed out her cigarette. “Do we have to talk about it? It depresses me.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s so much like death.”
Carl grunted. “It is, isn’t it? But death is strange. You never know where it’ll come from.” He looked up at the sky. “For instance, a bird might drop half a clam shell down on us and kill one of us.”
“Does that happen?”
“Once in a long while.”
“Why would a bird be carrying a clam shell, for God’s sake?” She lit a new cigarette.
“They take them up high to drop them on something. A stone,
something hard. To break them open.”
“We’re a long way from the ocean.”
“That’s true. I guess it won’t happen, then.”
They were silent for a time, each of them deep in thought.
Finally Carl roused himself. He shuffled through the pages of his manuscript. “I guess I could start.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll just read parts here and there. I don’t want to bore you. It’s all the philosophical notions I’ve picked up, from time to time. As soon as you’re tired of hearing them, just nod to me and I’ll stop.”
“Okay.”
Carl folded a leaf back, clearing his throat. He wiped his upper lip nervously. “Shall I start?”
“Yes, start.”
Carl began to read, slowly, carefully, his voice low and intent.
After he had read for a long time he suddenly put the manuscript down and gazed over at Barbara.
Barbara stirred. “Go on.”
“How does it seem to you?”
“Fine.”
“I’m skipping quite a lot, of course. I mainly want to give you the conclusions.”
“So far it sounds fine.”
“I’ll read you some more, then.”
Carl read on. Above them, great clouds drifted across the sky, covering the sun. The air turned cold.
When Carl stopped to turn a page Barbara reached out and touched his arm.
“What is it?” Carl blinked.
“I’m freezing.”
“You are?”
“I sure am.” She scrambled to her feet. “The fog’s in.”
Carl gaped up at her. “Are you going?”
“I think we should go back. We can read some more later on.” She held out her hand. “I’ll help you up.”
Carl was crestfallen. “I’m afraid you were bored.”
“Bored, hell! I’m cold and damp, and I’m beginning to get hungry.”
“Hungry? Really?” He got up slowly, gathering together all his papers and string and wrappers. Barbara caught hold of his hand, pulling him toward her. “Thanks.”
Her hand was firm and small. He could feel her hard nails against his skin. He let go suddenly.
“What’s the matter?” Barbara said.
“Nothing.” Carl wrapped up his manuscript and tied the cord around it. He pushed it under his arm and turned toward her. “All finished.”