Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (548 page)

“That was a stupid damn thing to do,” said Gerald, ambling over and gazing down at Samuelson, who was moaning, stirring.

“He deserves worse,” I said. “Thirwell was coming out. I’m certain of it. And then this bastard opened his mouth.”

“Yeah.” Gerald leaned against the wall, crossed his legs. “So how come you figure he did it?”

“Why don’t you ask him? Be interesting to see how he responds.”

Gerald let out a sardonic laugh. “Man’s an altruist. He was trying to help.” He picked at a rough place on one of his knuckles. “The real question I got is how deep he’s in it. Whether he’s involved with the Magnificence, or if he’s just trying to convince everyone he is, I need to know so I can make an informed decision.”

I did not much care for the edge of coldness in his voice. “And what decision is that, pray?”

Carbajal, staring at me over his shoulder, flashed me a knowing smile.

“He already don’t like you, John,” said Gerald. “Man told me so. Now he’s gonna want your ass on a plaque. And I have to decide whether or not I should let him have you.”

“Oh, really?”

“This is some serious crap, man. I defy Samuelson, we’re gonna have us one helluva situation. Security lined up against Administration.”

Samuelson was trying to sit up; his jaw was swollen and discoloured. I hoped it was broken.

“We could be talkin’ about a war,” Gerald said.

“I think you’re exaggerating,” I said. “Even so, a civil war wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen, not so long as the right side won. There are a number of assholes on station who would make splendid casualties.”

Gerald said, “No comment.”

Samuelson had managed to prop himself up on an elbow. “I want you to arrest him,” he said to Gerald.

I looked at Gerald. “Might I have a few words with him before you decide?”

He met my eyes for a few beats, then shook his head in dismay. “Aw, fuck it,” he said.

“Thanks, friend,” I said.

“Fuck you, too,” he said; he walked a couple of paces away and stood gazing off along the corridor; Carbajal went with him, whispered in his ear and rubbed his shoulders.

“Did you hear what I told you?” Samuelson heaved himself up into a sitting position, cupping his jaw. “Arrest him. Now!”

“Here, let me help you up.” I grabbed a fistful of Samuelson’s jacket, hauled him to his feet, and slammed him into the wall. There. All better, are we?”

Samuelson’s eyes darted left to right, hoping for allies. I bashed his head against the wall to get his attention, and he struggled against my hold.

“Such a tragedy,” I said in my best upper-crust accent. The death of young Thirwell, what?”

The fight went out of him; his eyes held on mine.

“That was as calculated a bit of murder as I’ve seen in many a year,” I told him.

“I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, yes you do! I had him walking the tightrope back. Then you popped in and reminded him of the consequences he’d be facing should he betray the Magnificence. God only knows what he thought you had in store for him.”

“I did no such thing! I was…”

I dug the fingers of my left hand in behind his windpipe; I would have liked to squeeze until thumb and fingers touched, but I only applied enough force to make him squeak. “Shut your gob! I’m not finished.” I adjusted my grip to give him more air. “You’re dirty, Samuelson. You’re the germ that’s causing all the pale looks around here. I don’t know how you got past the screens, but that’s not important. Sooner or later I’m going to have your balls for breakfast. And when I’ve cleaned my plate, I’ll send what’s left of you to the same place you chased Thirwell. Of course you could tell me the names of everyone on Solitaire who’s involved with the Magnificence. That might weaken my resolve. But don’t be too long about it, because I am fucking lusting for you. I can scarcely wait for you to thwart me. My saliva gets all thick and ropy when I think of the times we could have together.” I gave him a shake, listened to him gurgle. “I know what you are, and I know what you want. You’ve got a dream, don’t you? A vast, splendid dream of men in black satin populating the stars. New planets to befoul. Well, it’s just not going to happen. If it ever comes to pass that a ship returns with good news, you won’t be on it, son. Nor will any of your tribe. You’ll be floating out there in the black grip of Jesus, with your blood all frozen in sprays around you and your hearts stuffed in your fucking mouths.” I released him, gave him a cheerful wink. “All right. Go ahead. Your innings.”

Samuelson scooted away along the wall, holding his throat. “You’re mad!” He glanced over at Gerald. “The both of you!”

Gerald shrugged, spread his hands. “It’s part of the job description.”

“May we take it,” I said to Samuelson, “that you’re not intending to confess at this time?”

Samuelson noticed, as had I, that a number of people had come out of the common room and were watching the proceedings. “I’ll tell you what I intend,” he said, pulling himself erect in an attempt to look impressive. “I intend to make a detailed report concerning your disregard for authority and your abuse of position.”

“Now, now,” Gerald said, walking toward him. “Let’s have no threats. Otherwise somebody”—his voice built into a shout-“somebody might lose their temper!” He accompanied the shout by slapping his palm against the wall, and this sent Samuelson staggering back another dozen feet or so.

Several of the gathering laughed.

“Come clean, man,” I said to Samuelson. “Do the right thing. I’m told it’s better than sex once those horrid secrets start spilling out.”

“If it’ll make you feel any easier, you can dress up in your black satins first,” Gerald said. “Having that smooth stuff next to your skin, that’ll put a nice wiggle on things.”

“You know, Gerald,” I said. “Maybe these poofs are onto something. Maybe the Magnificence has a great deal to offer.”

“I’m always interested in upgrading my pleasure potential,” he said. “Why don’t you give us the sales pitch, Samuelson?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s hear about all the snarky quivers you get from twisting the arms off a virgin.”

The laughter swelled in volume, inspired by Samuelson’s expression of foolish impotence.

“You don’t understand who you’re dealing with,” he said. “But you will, I promise.”

There, I said to myself, there’s his confession. Not enough to bring into court, but for a moment it was there in his face, all the sick hauteur and corrupted passion of his tribe.

“I bet you’re a real important man with the Magnificence,” said Gerald. “Bet you even got a title.”

“Minister of Scum and Delirium,” I suggested.

“I like it,” said Gerald. “How ’bout Secretary of the Inferior?”

“Grand High Salamander,” said Carbajal, and tittered.

“Master of the Excremental.”

“Stop it,” said Samuelson, clenching his fists; he looked ready to stamp his foot and cry.

Several other titular suggestions came from the crowd of onlookers, and Gerald offered, “Queen of the Shitlickers.”

“I’m warning you,” said Samuelson, then he shouted, “I am warning you!” He was flushed, trembling. All the twitchy material of his inner core exposed. It had been fun bashing him about, but now I wanted to put my heel on him, feel him crunch underfoot.

“Go on,” Gerald said. “Get along home. You’ve done all you can here.”

Samuelson shot him an unsteady look, as if not sure what Gerald was telling him.

Gerald waved him off. “We’ll talk soon.”

“Yes,” said Samuelson, straightening his jacket, trying to muster a shred of dignity. “Yes, indeed, we most certainly will.” He delivered what I suppose he hoped was a withering stare and stalked off along the corridor.

“There goes an asshole on a mission,” said Gerald, watching him round the bend.

“Not a doubt in my mind,” I said.

“Trouble.” Gerald scuffed his heel against the steel floor, glanced down as if expecting to see a mark. “No shit, the man’s trouble.”

“So are we,” I said.

“Yeah, uh-huh.” He sounded unconvinced.

We exchanged a quick glance. We had been through a lot together, Gerald and I, and I knew by the tilt of his head, the wry set of his mouth, that he was very worried. I was about to make a stab at boosting his spirits when I remembered something more pressing.

“Oh, Christ!” I said. “Arlie! I’ve got to get back.”

“Forgot about her, huh?” He nodded gloomily, as if my forgetfulness were something he had long decried. “You know you’re an asshole, don’t you? You know you don’t deserve the love of woman or the friendship of man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Can you handle things here?”

He made a gesture of dismissal. Another morose nod. “Just so you know,” he said.

* * * *

There were no seasons on Solitaire, no quick lapses into cold, dark weather, no sudden transformations into flowers and greenery; yet it seemed that in those days after Thirwell’s suicide the station passed through an autumnal dimming, one lacking changes in foliage and temperature, but having in their stead a flourishing of black satin ribbons and ugly rumours, a gradual decaying of the spirit of the place into an oppressive atmosphere of sullen wariness, and the slow occlusion of all the visible brightness of our lives, a slump of patronage in the bars, the common rooms standing empty, incidences of decline that reminded me in sum of the stubborn resistance of the English oaks to their inevitable change, their profuse and solemn green surrendering bit by bit to the sparse imperatives of winter, like a strong man’s will gradually being eroded by grief.

War did not come immediately, as Gerald had predicted, but the sporadic violences continued, along with the arguments concerning the true intentions and nature of the Strange Magnificence, and few of us doubted that war, or something akin to it, was in the offing. Everyone went about their duties hurriedly, grimly—everyone, that is, except for Bill. He was so absorbed by his own difficulties, I doubted he noticed any of this, and though the focus of hostility had shifted away from him to an extent, becoming more diffuse and general, he grew increasingly agitated and continued to prattle on about having to “do something” and—this a new chord in his simple symphony -that something must be terribly wrong because the barnacles were leaving.

That they were leaving was undeniable. Every hour saw the migration of thousands more, and large areas of the station’s surface had been laid bare. Not completely bare, mind you. There remained a layer of the substrate laid down by the females, greenish silver in colour, but nonetheless it was a shock to see the station so denuded. I gave no real credence to Bill’s contention that we were in danger, but neither did I totally disregard it, and so, partly to calm him, to reassure him that the matter was being investigated, I went back to Jacob Sauter’s notes to learn if such migrations were to be expected.

According to the notes, pre-adult barnacles—Sauter called them “larvae”—free-floated in space, each encapsulated in its own segment of a tube whose ends had been annealed so as to form a ring. Like the adult barnacle, the exterior of the ring was dotted with light-sensitive photophores, and when a suitable place for attachment was sensed, the ring colony was able to orient itself by means of excretions sprayed through pores in the skin of the tube, a method not dissimilar to that utilized by orbital vessels when aligning themselves for re-entry. The slightest change in forward momentum induced secretions to occur along the edge of the colony oriented for imminent attachment, and ultimately the colony stuck to its new home, whereupon the females excreted an acidic substrate that bonded with the metal. The barnacles were hermaphroditic, and the initial metamorphitosis always resulted in female barnacles alone. Once the female colony grew dense, some of the females would become male. When the colony reached a certain density it reproduced en masse. As the larval tubes were secreted, they sometimes intertwined, and this would result in braided ring-colonies, which helped insure variation in the gene pool. And that was all I could find on the subject of migration. If Sauter were to be believed, by giving up their purchase on the station, the barnacles were essentially placing their fate in the hands of God, taking the chance—and given the vastness of space, the absence of ring secretions, it was an extremely slim chance—that they would happen to bump into something and be able to cling long enough to attach themselves. If one were to judge their actions in human terms, it would appear that they must be terrified of something, otherwise they would stay where they were; but it would require an immense logical leap for me to judge them according to those standards and I had no idea what was responsible for their exodus.

Following my examination of Sauter’s notes I persuaded Gerald to accompany me on an inspection tour of Solitaire’s surface. I thought seeing the migration for himself might affect him more profoundly than had the camera views, and that he might then join me in entertaining the suspicion that—as unlikely a prospect as it was—Bill had stumbled onto something. But Gerald was not moved to agreement.

“Man, I don’t know,” he said as we stood on the surface of East Louie, looking out toward the CPC and the administration module. There were a few sparse patches of barnacles around us, creatures that for whatever reason—impaired sensitivity, some form of silicate stubbornness—had not abandoned the station. Now and then one or several would drift up toward the glittering clouds of their fellows that shone against the blackness like outcroppings of mica in anthracite. “What do I know about these damn things! They could be doing anything. Could be they ran out of food, and that’s why they’re moving. Shit! You giving the idiot way too much credit! He’s got his own reasons for wanting this to mean something.”

I could not argue with him. It would be entirely consistent with Bill’s character for him to view the migration as part of his personal apocalypse, and his growing agitation might stem from the fact that he saw his world being whittled down; his usefulness reduced, and thus his existence menaced all the more.