Eye in the Sky (1957) (12 page)

Behind the wheel, McFeyffe drove
reflexively, his body hunched, sunk down so that he seemed almost asleep.
“Like I said,” he muttered, rousing himself. “They’re that
way.”

“It means something,”
Hamilton persisted. The swish-
swish of the
windshield wipers lulled him; he lay sleepily against Silky and closed his
eyes. The girl smelled faintly
of cigarette smoke and perfume. A good
smell
…
he enjoyed it. Against his
cheek her hair was dry, light, scratchy. Like certain weed spores.

McFeyffe
said, “You know this Second Bab stuff?” His
voice lifted,
desperate and harsh. “It’s a lot of hot air.
A nut cult; a bunch of crackpots. It’s nothing but a bunch
of
Arabs coming over here with their ideas. Isn’t that
right?”

Neither
Hamilton nor Silky answered.

“It won’t last,” McFeyffe
said.

Peevishly, Silky said,
“I
want
to know where we’re going.” Squeezing closer to Hamilton, she said,
“Are
you really married?”

Ignoring her, Hamilton said to
McFeyffe, I know
what you’re afraid
of.”

“I’m not afraid of
anything,” McFeyffe said.

“You sure are,” Hamilton
said. And he, too, in spite
of himself, was
uneasy.

Ahead of them San Francisco grew
larger and closer, until the car was passing between houses and along
streets which showed no sign of life, no motion
or sound
or light. McFeyffe seemed to know exactly where he wished to
go; he made turn after turn, until the car was moving along narrow side
streets. Suddenly he slowed the car. Raising himself, up, he peered through the
windshield. His face was stiff with apprehension.

“This is awful,” Silky
complained, burying her head in Hamilton’s coat. “What is this slum? I
don’t get it.”

Stopping the car, McFeyffe pushed
the door open and stepped out onto the empty street. Hamilton followed him, and
the two of them stood together. Silky stayed
behind,
listening to insipid dinner music on the car radio.
The tinny sound
drifted out into the darkness, mixing with the fog that drifted among the
closed-up stores
and hulking, shabby
buildings.

“Is that it?” Hamilton
asked, at last

“Yeah.”
McFeyffe nodded. Now, faced with the reality
of it, he showed no
emotion.

The
two men faced a dingy, run-down store, a decrepit board structure whose yellow
paint had peeled away,
exposing the
rain-soaked wood beneath. Heaps of trash and newspapers littered the entrance.
By the light of the
street lamp,
Hamilton made out the notices pasted on the windows. Tracts, yellow and
fly-specked, were smeared
and
arranged haphazardly. Beyond was a dingy curtain
and, past that, rows of
ugly metal chairs. Behind the
chairs, the
interior of the store was in darkness. Erected
above the entrance of the store was a hand-lettered sign,
aged and tattered. It read:

Non-Babiist Church

All
Welcome

With
a ragged groan, McFeyffe pulled himself together
and started toward the
sidewalk.

“Better let it go,”
Hamilton said, following.

“No.”
McFeyffe shook his head. “I’m going in.” Rais
ing his black
umbrella, he stepped up to the entrance of the store; in a moment he was
hammering methodically on the door with the umbrella handle. The sound echoed
up and down the empty street, a hollow, vacant noise. Somewhere in an alley, an
animal stirred among the ash cans, startled.

The man who eventually opened the door
a crack was a tiny, bent figure. Timidly, he peeped out through a pair of
steel-rimmed glasses. His cuffs were threadbare and unclean; his yellow, watery
eyes darted warily. Trembling, he gazed without recognition at McFeyffe.

“What do you want?” he quavered
in a thin, whining
voice.

“Don’t you know me?”
McFeyffe said. “What’s happened, Father? Where’s the church?”

Fumbling, muttering, the dried-up
old man began to tug the door shut “Get away from here. A couple of good-for-nothing
drunks. Get away or I’ll call the po
lice.”

As
the door swung shut, McFeyffe stuck his umbrella
into the opening,
jamming it. “Father,” he implored, “this is terrible. I can’t
understand it. They stole your church. And you’re—small. It isn’t
possible.” His voice ebbed, broken with disbelief. “You used to be
…”
He
turned helplessly to Hamilton. “He used to be big. Bigger
than me.”

“Get away,” the little
creature buzzed warningly.

“Can’t we come in?”
McFeyffe asked, making no move to take away his umbrella. “Please let us
in. Where else can we go? I have a heretic here
…
he
wants to be
converted.”

The little man hesitated. Grimacing
anxiously, he peered out at Hamilton. “You? What’s the matter? Can’t you
come back tomorrow? It’s after midnight; I was
sound asleep.” Releasing the door, he stepped reluctantly
aside.

“This
is all there is,” McFeyffe said to Hamilton, as the
two of them entered. “Did you ever see it
before?
It was made of stone, big as—” He gestured futilely. “The big
gest of them all.”

“It’ll cost you ten
dollars,” the little man said, ahead of them. Bending down, he lugged a
clay urn from under the counter. On the counter were heaps of tracts
and pamphlets; several slid to the floor, but he
didn’t notice. “In advance,” he added.

Fumbling in his pockets, McFeyffe
gazed about him. “Where’s the organ? And the candles? Don’t you even
have candles?”

“Can’t afford that sort of
business,” the little man said, scurrying toward the rear. “Now, just
what is it you want? You want me to convert this heretic?” He caught hold
of Hamilton’s arm and scrutinized him. “I’m Father O’Farrel. You’ll have
to kneel down, young man. And bow your head.”

Hamilton said, “Has it always
been like this?”

Momentarily pausing, Father
O’Farrel said, “Like what? What do you mean?”

A wave of compassion touched
Hamilton. “Let it go,” he said.

“Our organization is very
old,” Father O’Farrel told him hesitantly. “Is that what you mean? It
goes back centuries.” His tone wavered. “Back before even the First
Bab. I’m not positive of the exact date of origin. They say it’s—” He
faltered. “We don’t have much authority. The First Bab, of course, that
was 1844. But
even before that—”

“I want to talk to God,”
Hamilton said.

“Yes, yes,” Father
O’Farrel agreed. “So do I, young man.” He patted Hamilton’s arm; the
pressure was light, almost unfelt. “So does everybody.”

“Can’t you help me?”
Hamilton said. “It’s very difficult,” Father O’Farrel said. He disappeared
into a back closet, a chaotic storeroom. Wheezing and groping, he reappeared
carrying a wicker basket of assorted bones, fragments, bits of dried hair and
skin. “This is everything we’ve got,” he gasped, setting the basket
down. “Maybe you can get some use out of these. You’re welcome to help
yourself.”

As Hamilton gingerly lifted a few
pieces out, McFeyffe said in a shattered voice, “Look at them. Phonies.
Junk
—
curios.”

“We do what we can,”
Father O’Farrel said, pressing his hands together.

Hamilton said, “Is there any
way we can get up
there?”

For the first time, Father O’Farrel
smiled. “You’d have to be dead, young man.”

Gathering up his umbrella, McFeyffe
moved toward the door. “Let’s go,” he said heavily to Hamilton.
“Let’s get out of here; I’ve had enough.”

“Wait,”
Hamilton said.

Halting, McFeyffe asked, “Why
do you want to talk
to God? What good will
it do? You can see the situation. Look around.”

Hamilton said, “He’s the only
one who can tell us what’s happened.”

After
a pause, McFeyffe said, “I don’t care what’s hap
pened. I’m leaving.”

Working rapidly, Hamilton laid out a
circle of bones and teeth, a ring of relics. “Give me a hand,” he
said to McFeyffe. “You’re in this, too.”

“What you’re after,”
McFeyffe said, “is a miracle.”

“I know,” Hamilton said.

McFeyffe walked back. “It won’t
do any good. It’s hopeless.” He stood gripping his great black umbrella.
Father O’Farrel paced about restlessly, bewildered by what was happening.

“I want to know how this
business got started,” Hamilton said. “This Second Bab, this whole
mess. If I can’t find out there—” Reaching, he seized the great black
umbrella from McFeyffe, and, taking a deep breath, raised it. Like the spread
of a leathery vulture, the struts and fabric of the umbrella opened above him;
a few drops of stagnant moisture dripped down.

“What’s this?” McFeyffe
demanded, stepping past the circle of relics to grope for his umbrella.

“Grab on.” Holding tightly
to the handle of the umbrella, Hamilton said to Father O’Farrel, “Is
there water
in that jug?”

“Y-yes,”
Father O’Farrel said, peering into an earthen
ware urn. “Some, at the bottom.”

“As you toss the water,”
Hamilton said, “recite that
up-going
part.”

“Up-going?”
Perplexed, Father O’Farrel retreated. “I—”

“Et
resurrexit.
You remember.”

“Oh,”
Father O’Farrel said. “Yes, I believe so.” Nod
ding, he
dubiously dipped his hand into the urn of holy
water and began sprinkling it onto the umbrella. “I sin
cerely
doubt if this will work.”

“Recite,”
Hamilton ordered.

Uncertainly, Father O’Farrel
murmured,
“‘Et resur
rexit tertia
die secundum scripturas, et ascendit in coe
lum, sedet ad dexteram partis, et iterum venurus est cum
gloria
judicare vinos et mortuos, cujas regni non erit finis …’”

In Hamilton’s hands the umbrella
quivered. Gradually, laboriously, it began to ascend. McFeyffe gave a
terrified bleat and hung on for his life. In a moment the
tip of the umbrella was bumping against the low
ceiling
of the store; Hamilton and McFeyffe dangled absurdly, their feet
waving in the dusty shadows.

“The skylight,” Hamilton
gasped. “Open it.”

“Rushing to get the pole,
Father O’Farrel scurried about like a disturbed mouse. The skylight was pushed
aside; wet night air billowed in, displacing the
staleness
of years. Released, the umbrella shot upward; the tum
ble-down wooden building disappeared below. Cold
fog
plucked at Hamilton and McFeyffe as they rose higher and higher. Now they were
level with Twin
Peaks. Now they were above
the great city of San Fran
cisco, suspended by the handle of the
umbrella over a
dish of winking yellow
lights.
“What—” McFeyffe shouted, “what if we let
go?”

“Pray for strength!”
Hamilton shouted back, closing
his eyes and
clutching frantically at the shaft of the um
brella. Up and up the
umbrella shot, gaining velocity
each
instant. For a brief interval, Hamilton dared to open
his eyes and peer upward.

Above
lay a limitless expanse of ominous black clouds.
What existed beyond? Was He waiting?

Up and up rose the umbrella, into
the dark night. It
was too late to back
out, now.

VII

As
they
ascended, the chaotic
darkness began to fade.
The layer of clouds dribbled moistly past them;
with a wet slither the umbrella burst through. Instead of the chill black of
night, they were rising in a dull medium of indiscriminate gray, an unformed
expanse of color
less, shapeless nothing.

Below
lay the Earth.

It was the best view Hamilton had
ever had of the Earth. In many ways it met his expectations. It was round and
quite clearly a globe. Suspended in its medium, the globe hung quietly, a
somber but impressive object

Especially
impressive because it was unique. Shocked,
Hamilton realized that no
other planets were heaving into view. He peered up apprehensively, gazed around
him, gradually and reluctantly absorbing what his eyes
made out.

The Earth was alone in the
firmament. Around it wheeled a blazing orb, much smaller, a gnat buzzing
and flickering around a giant, inert bulb of
matter. That,
he realized with a thrill of dismay, was the sun. It was
tiny.
And—it
moved!

Si
muove.
But not Terra.
Si muove—
the
sun!
Fortunately, the glowing,
burning bit of phosphorescence was on the far side of the mighty Terra. It
moved slowly; its total revolution was a twenty-four hour per
iod. On this side came a smaller, almost unnoticed
speck.
A corroded wad of waste material that dully plodded
along, trivial and dispensable.
The moon.

It
wasn’t far off; the umbrella was going to carry him
almost within
touching distance. Incredulous, he gazed at it, until it fell away into the
gray medium. Was science, then, in error? Was the whole scheme of the universe
mistaken? The vast and overwhelming structure
of
the Copernican heliocentric system all wrong?