Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (150 page)

I found it at last in the ruins of a great temple in the mid-city. A mighty temple it must have been, for the roof was painted like the sky at night with its stars—that much I could see, though the colors were faint and dim. It went down into great caves and tunnels—perhaps they kept their slaves there. But when I started to climb down, I heard the squeaking of rats, so I did not go—rats are unclean, and there must have been many tribes of them, from the squeaking. But near there, I found food, in the heart of a ruin, behind a door that still opened. I ate only the fruits from the jars—they had a very sweet taste. There was drink, too, in bottles of glass—the drink of the gods was strong and made my head swim. After I had eaten and drunk, I slept on the top of a stone, my bow at my side.

When I woke, the sun was low. Looking down from where I lay, I saw a dog sitting on his haunches. His tongue was hanging out of his mouth; he looked as if he were laughing. He was a big dog, with a gray-brown coat, as big as a wolf. I sprang up and shouted at him but he did not move—he just sat there as if he were laughing. I did not like that. When I reached for a stone to throw, he moved swiftly out of the way of the stone. He was not afraid of me; he looked at me as if I were meat. No doubt I could have killed him with an arrow, but I did not know if there were others. Moreover, night was falling.

I looked about me—not far away there was a great, broken god-road, leading north. The towers were high enough, but not so high, and while many of the dead-houses were wrecked, there were some that stood. I went toward this god-road, keeping to the heights of the ruins, while the dog followed. When I had reached the god-road, I saw that there were others behind him. If I had slept later, they would have come upon me asleep and torn out my throat. As it was, they were sure enough of me; they did not hurry. When I went into the dead-house, they kept watch at the entrance—doubtless they thought they would have a fine hunt. But a dog cannot open a door and I knew, from the books, that the gods did not like to live on the ground but on high.

I had just found a door I could open when the dogs decided to rush. Ha! They were surprised when I shut the door in their faces—it was a good door, of strong metal. I could hear their foolish baying beyond it but I did not stop to answer them. I was in darkness—I found stairs and climbed. There were many stairs, turning around till my head was dizzy. At the top was another door—I found the knob and opened it. I was in a long small chamber—on one side of it was a bronze door that could not be opened, for it had no handle. Perhaps there was a magic word to open it but I did not have the word. I turned to the door in the opposite side of the wall. The lock of it was broken and I opened it and went in.

Within, there was a place of great riches. The god who lived there must have been a powerful god. The first room was a small ante-room—I waited there for some time, telling the spirits of the place that I came in peace and not as a robber. When it seemed to me that they had had time to hear me, I went on. Ah, what riches! Few, even, of the windows had been broken—it was all as it had been. The great windows that looked over the city had not been broken at all though they were dusty and streaked with many years. There were coverings on the floors, the colors not greatly faded, and the chairs were soft and deep. There were pictures upon the walls, very strange, very wonderful—I remember one of a bunch of flowers in a jar—if you came close to it, you could see nothing but bits of color, but if you stood away from it, the flowers might have been picked yesterday. It made my heart feel strange to look at this picture—and to look at the figure of a bird, in some hard clay, on a table and see it so like our birds. Everywhere there were books and writings, many in tongues that I could not read. The god who lived there must have been a wise god and full of knowledge. I felt I had a right there, as I sought knowledge also.

Nevertheless, it was strange. There was a washing-place but no water—perhaps the gods washed in air. There was a cooking-place but no wood, and though there was a machine to cook food, there was no place to put fire in it. Nor were there candles or lamps—there were things that looked like lamps but they had neither oil nor wick. All these things were magic, but I touched them and lived—the magic had gone out of them. Let me tell one thing to show. In the washing-place, a thing said “Hot” but it was not hot to the touch—another thing said “Cold” but it was not cold. This must have been a strong magic but the magic was gone. I do not understand—they had ways—I wish that I knew.

It was close and dry and dusty in the house of the gods. I have said the magic was gone but that is not true—it had gone from the magic things but it had not gone from the place. I felt the spirits about me, weighing upon me. Nor had I ever slept in a Dead Place before—and yet, tonight, I must sleep there. When I thought of it, my tongue felt dry in my throat, in spite of my wish for knowledge. Almost I would have gone down again and faced the dogs, but I did not.

I had not gone through all the rooms when the darkness fell. When it fell, I went back to the big room looking over the city and made fire. There was a place to make fire and a box with wood in it, though I do not think they cooked there. I wrapped myself in a floor-covering and slept in front of the fire—I was very tired.

Now I tell what is very strong magic. I woke in the midst of the night. When I woke, the fire had gone out and I was cold. It seemed to me that all around me there were whisperings and voices. I closed my eyes to shut them out. Some will say that I slept again, but I do not think that I slept. I could feel the spirits drawing my spirit out of my body as a fish is drawn on a line.

Why should I lie about it? I am a priest and the son of a priest. If there are spirits, as they say, in the small Dead Places near us, what spirits must there not be in that great Place of the Gods? And would not they wish to speak? After such long years? I know that I felt myself drawn as a fish is drawn on a line. I had stepped out of my body—I could see my body asleep in front of the cold fire, but it was not I. I was drawn to look out upon the city of the gods.

It should have been dark, for it was night, but it was not dark. Everywhere there were lights—lines of light—circles and blurs of light—ten thousand torches would not have been the same. The sky itself was alight—you could barely see the stars for the glow in the sky. I thought to myself “This is strong magic” and trembled. There was a roaring in my ears like the rushing of rivers. Then my eyes grew used to the light and my ears to the sound. I knew that I was seeing the city as it had been when the gods were alive.

That was a sight indeed—yes, that was a sight: I could not have seen it in the body—my body would have died. Everywhere went the gods, on foot and in chariots—there were gods beyond number and counting and their chariots blocked the streets. They had turned night to day for their pleasure-they did not sleep with the sun. The noise of their coming and going was the noise of the many waters. It was magic what they could do—it was magic what they did.

I looked out of another window—the great vines of their bridges were mended and god-roads went east and west. Restless, restless, were the gods and always in motion! They burrowed tunnels under rivers—they flew in the air. With unbelievable tools they did giant works—no part of the earth was safe from them, for, if they wished for a thing, they summoned it from the other side of the world. And always, as they labored and rested, as they feasted and made love, there was a drum in their ears—the pulse of the giant city, beating and beating like a man’s heart.

Were they happy? What is happiness to the gods? They were great, they were mighty, they were wonderful and terrible. As I looked upon them and their magic, I felt like a child—but a little more, it seemed to me, and they would pull down the moon from the sky. I saw them with wisdom beyond wisdom and knowledge beyond knowledge. And yet not all they did was well done—even I could see that – and yet their wisdom could not but grow until all was peace.

Then I saw their fate come upon them and that was terrible past speech. It came upon them as they walked the streets of their city. I have been in the fights with the Forest People—I have seen men die. But this was not like that. When gods war with gods, they use weapons we do not know. It was fire falling out of the sky and a mist that poisoned. It was the time of the Great Burning and the Destruction. They ran about like ants in the streets of their city—poor gods, poor gods! Then the towers began to fall. A few escaped—yes, a few. The legends tell it. But, even after the city had become a Dead Place, for many years the poison was still in the ground. I saw it happen, I saw the last of them die. It was darkness over the broken city and I wept.

All this, I saw. I saw it as I have told it, though not in the body. When I woke in the morning, I was hungry, but I did not think first of my hunger for my heart was perplexed and confused. I knew the reason for the Dead Places but I did not see why it had happened. It seemed to me it should not have happened, with all the magic they had. I went through the house looking for an answer. There was so much in the house I could not understand—and yet I am a priest and the son of a priest. It was like being on one side of the great river, at night, with no light to show the way.

Then I saw the dead god. He was sitting in his chair, by the window, in a room I had not entered before and, for the first moment, I thought that he was alive. Then I saw the skin on the back of his hand—it was like dry leather. The room was shut, hot and dry—no doubt that had kept him as he was. At first I was afraid to approach him—then the fear left me. He was sitting looking out over the city—he was dressed in the clothes of the gods. His age was neither young nor old—I could not tell his age. But there was wisdom in his face and great sadness. You could see that he would have not run away. He had sat at his window, watching his city die—then he himself had died. But it is better to lose one’s life than one’s spirit—and you could see from the face that his spirit had not been lost. I knew, that, if I touched him, he would fall into dust—and yet, there was something unconquered in the face.

* * * *

That is all of my story, for then I knew he was a man—I knew then that they had been men, neither gods nor demons. It is a great knowledge, hard to tell and believe. They were men—they went a dark road, but they were men. I had no fear after that—I had no fear going home, though twice I fought off the dogs and once I was hunted for two days by the Forest People. When I saw my father again, I prayed and was purified. He touched my lips and my breast, he said, “You went away a boy. You come back a man and a priest.” I said, “Father, they were men! I have been in the Place of the Gods and seen it! Now slay me, if it is the law—but still I know they were men.”

He looked at me out of both eyes. He said, “The law is not always the same shape—you have done what you have done. I could not have done it my time, but you come after me. Tell!”

I told and he listened. After that, I wished to tell all the people but he showed me otherwise. He said, “Truth is a hard deer to hunt. If you eat too much truth at once, you may die of the truth. It was not idly that our fathers forbade the Dead Places.” He was right—it is better the truth should come little by little. I have learned that, being a priest. Perhaps, in the old days, they ate knowledge too fast.

Nevertheless, we make a beginning. it is not for the metal alone we go to the Dead Places now—there are the books and the writings. They are hard to learn. And the magic tools are broken—but we can look at them and wonder. At least, we make a beginning. And, when I am chief priest we shall go beyond the great river. We shall go to the Place of the Gods—the place newyork—not one man but a company. We shall look for the images of the gods and find the god ASHING and the others—the gods Lincoln and Biltmore and Moses. But they were men who built the city, not gods or demons. They were men. I remember the dead man’s face. They were men who were here before us. We must build again.

First published in
The New Yorker
, April 2, 1938

That was the second year of the Third World War,

The one between Us and Them.

Well we’ve gotten used.

We don’t talk much about it, queerly enough.

There was all sorts of talk the first years after the Peace,

A million theories, a million wild suppositions,

A million hopeful explanations and plans,

But we don’t talk about it now. We don’t even ask.

We might do the wrong thing. I don’t guess you’d understand that.

But you’re eighteen, now. You can take it. You’d better know.

You see, you were born just before the war broke out.

Who started it? Oh, they said it was Us or Them

And it looked like it at the time. You don’t know what that’s like.

But anyhow, it started and there it was,

Just a little worse, of course, than the one before,

But mankind was used to that. We didn’t take notice.

They bombed our capital and we bombed theirs.

You’ve been to the Broken Towns? Yes, they take you there.

They show you the look of the tormented earth.

But they can’t show the smell or the gas or the death

Or how it felt to be there, and a part of it.

But we didn’t know. I swear that we didn’t know.

I remember the first faint hint there was something wrong,

Something beyond all wars and bigger and strange,

Something you couldn’t explain.

I was back on leave—

Strange, as you felt on leave, as you always felt—

But I went to see the Chief at the hospital

And there he was, in the same old laboratory,

A little older, with some white in his hair

But the same eyes that went through you and the same tongue.

They hadn’t been able to touch him—not the bombs

Nor the ruin of his life’s work nor anything.

He blinked at me from behind his spectacles

And said, “Huh. It’s you. They won’t let me have guinea pigs

Except for the war work, but I steal a few.

And they’ve made me a colonel—expect me to salute.

Damn fools. A damn-fool business. I don’t know how.

Have you heard what Erickson’s done with the ductless glands?

The journals are four months late. Sit down and smoke.”

And I did and it was like home.

He was a great man.

You might remember that—and I’d worked with him.

Well, finally he said to me, “How’s your boy?”

“Oh—healthy,” I said. “We’re lucky.”

“Yes,” he said,

And a frown went over his face. “He might even grow up,

Though the intervals between wars are getting shorter.

I wonder if it wouldn’t simplify things

To declare mankind in a permanent state of siege.

It might knock some sense in their heads.”

“You’re cheerful,” I said.

“Oh, I’m always cheerful,” he said. “Seen these, by the way?”

He tapped some charts on a table.

“Seen what?” I said.

“Oh,” he said, with that devilish, sidelong grin of his,

“Just the normal city statistics—death and birth.

You’re a soldier now. You wouldn’t be interested.

But the birth rate’s dropping—”

“Well, really, sir,” I said,

“We know that it’s always dropped, in every war.”

“Not like this,” he said. “I can show you the curve.

It looks like the side of a mountain, going down.

And faster, the last three months—yes, a good deal faster.

I showed it to Lobenheim and he was puzzled.

It makes a neat problem—yes?” He looked at me.

“They’d better make peace,” he said. “They’d better make peace.”

“Well, sir,” I said, “if we break through, in the spring—”

“Break through?” he said. “What’s that? They’d better make peace.

The stars may be tired of us. No, I’m not a mystic.

I leave that to the big scientists in bad novels.

But I never saw such a queer maternity curve.

I wish I could get to Ehrens, on their side.

He’d tell me the truth. But the fools won’t let me do it.”

His eyes looked tired as he stared at the careful charts.

“Suppose there are no more babies?” he said. “What then?

It’s one way of solving the problem.”

“But, sir—” I said.

“But, sir!” he said. “Will you tell me, please, what is life?

Why it’s given, why it’s taken away?

Oh, I know—we make a jelly inside a test tube,

We keep a cock’s heart living inside a jar.

We know a great many things and what do we know?

We think we know what finished the dinosaurs,

But do we? Maybe they were given a chance

And then it was taken back. There are other beasts

That only kill for their food. No, I’m not a mystic,

But there’s a certain pattern in nature, you know,

And we’re upsetting it daily. Eat and mate

And go back to the earth after that, and that’s all right.

But now we’re blasting and sickening earth itself.

She’s been very patient with us. I wonder how long.”

Well, I thought the Chief had gone crazy, just at first,

And then I remembered the look of no man’s land,

That bitter landscape, pockmarked like the moon,

Lifeless as the moon’s face and horrible,

The thing we’d made with the guns.

If it were earth,

It looked as though it hated.

“Well?” I said,

And my voice was a little thin. He looked hard at me.

“Oh—ask the women,” he grunted. “Don’t ask me.

Ask them what they think about it.”

I didn’t ask them,

Not even your mother—she was strange, those days—

But, two weeks later, I was back in the lines

And somebody sent me a paper—

Encouragement for the troops and all of that—

All about the fall of Their birth rate on Their side.

I guess you know, now. There was still a day when we fought

And the next day, the women knew. I don’t know how they knew,

But they smashed every government in the world

Like a heap of broken china, within two days,

And we’d stopped firing by then. And we looked at each other.

We didn’t talk much, those first weeks. You couldn’t talk.

We started in rebuilding and that was all,

And at first, nobody would even touch the guns,

Not even to melt them up. They just stood there, silent,

Pointing the way they had and nobody there.

And there was a kind of madness in the air,

A quiet, bewildered madness, strange and shy.

You’d pass a man who was muttering to himself

And you’d know what he was muttering, and why.

I remember coming home and your mother there.

She looked at me, at first didn’t speak at all,

And then she said, “Burn those clothes. Take them off and burn them

Or I’ll never touch you or speak to you again.”

And then I knew I was still in my uniform.

Well, I’ve told you, now. They tell you now at eighteen.

There’s no use telling before.

Do you understand?

That’s why we have the Ritual of the Earth,

The Day of Sorrow, the other ceremonies.

Oh yes, at first people hated the animals

Because they still bred, but we’ve gotten over that.

Perhaps they can work it better, when it’s their turn,

If it’s their turn—I don’t know. I don’t know at all.