The Dancer from Atlantis
The Dancer from Atlantis
Poul Anderson
To:
L. Sprague and Catherine de Camp
And the seven angels which had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound.
And the first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth: and the
third part of trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up.
And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea: and the third part
of the sea became blood; and the third part of the creatures which were in the sea, and had life, died; and the third part
of the ships were destroyed.
And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third
part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters; and the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the
waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.
And the fourth angel sounded, and the third part of the sun was smitten, and the third part of the moon, and the third part
of the stars; so as the third part of them was darkened, and the day shone not for a third part of it, and the night likewise.
And I beheld, and heard an angel flying through the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice, Woe, woe, woe, to the inhabiters
of the earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet of the three angels, which are yet to sound!
—Revelation, viii, 6-13
Where is the fair assemblage of heroes,
The sons of Rudra, with their bright horses?
For of their birth knoweth no man other,
Only themselves their wondrous descent.
The light they flash upon one another;
The eagles fought, the winds were raging;
But this secret knoweth the wise man,
Once that Prishni her udder gave them.
Our race of heroes, through the Maruts be it
Ever victorious in reaping of men.
On their way they hasten, in brightness the brightest,
Equal in beauty, unequalled in might.
—Rig-Veda, vii, 56
(Max Müller, tr.)
‘Full moon tonight,’ he said. ‘Come up on deck with me. It should be beautiful.’
‘No, I’m tired,’ she answered. ‘You go. I’d rather stay here’
Duncan Reid made himself look squarely at his wife and say, ‘I thought this was
our
trip.’
Pamela sighed. ‘Of course. Later, dear, please. I’m sorry to be such a rotten sailor, but I am. All the bad weather we’ve
been having till now. Oh, the pills kept me from getting actually sick, but I never felt quite good either.’
He continued to regard her. A dozen years ago, when they married, she was well endowed. Later a waxing plumpness became her
despair, dieting her anguish. He had tried to say, ‘Don’t weep over it. Take more exercise. Mainly, remember you’re still
a damned attractive woman.’ And she was, fair-complexioned, blue-eyed, with soft brown hair and regular features and gentle-looking
mouth. But he was less and less often able to say it successfully.
‘Seems I made a mistake, booking us onto a ship.’ He heard how bitterness tinged his voice, and saw that she did too.
‘Well, you knew I can’t go on your sailboat,’ she retorted. ‘Or backpacking or—’ Her head drooped, as did her tone, ‘Let’s
not start that quarrel again.’
His glance went past her, across the impersonal coziness of their cabin, to the picture of their children on the dresser.
‘Maybe we should,’ he replied slowly. ‘We don’t have to worry about them for a while, what they might overhear. Maybe we should
bring things out into the open at last.’
‘What things?’ She sounded almost frightened. For an instant he saw her immaculate gown and grooming as armor. ‘What are you
talking about?’
He retreated. ‘I … I can’t find words. Nothing obvious. Spats over ridiculous issues, irritations we learned to live with
very early in the game, or imagined we had – I’d, uh, I’d hoped this could be, well, I told you, a second honeymoon—’ His
tongue knotted up on him.
He wanted to cry something like: Have we simply been losing
interest in each other? Then how? Nothing physical, surely; not to such a degree; why, I’m a mere forty, you thirty-nine,
and we still have enough good times to know how many more we might have. But they’ve been getting steadily more rare. I’ve
been busy and you, perhaps, have been bored in spite of your assorted bustling around; after dinner I’ll read a book in my
study while you watch television in the living room, till the first who grows sleepy says a polite good night and goes to
bed.
Why won’t you come on deck with me, Pam? What a night it must be for love! Not that I feel hot especially, but I want to feel
hot, for you. I could, if you’d let me.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, and patted his head. He wished he could tell how real the gesture was. ‘I am tired, though.’
Of me?’ came out before he could stop it.
‘No, no, no. Never.’ She came to him, laid arms around his waist. He patted her back. To him both motions felt automatic.
‘We used to have adventures,’ he said. ‘Remember? Newly wed and poor and making do.’
‘I didn’t think scrimping along in that horrible cramped apartment was an adventure.’ She broke off her words, but also from
him. ‘Let me get my coat, darling.’
‘Not as a, uh, duty,’ he protested, knowing that was the wrong thing to say but: not sure what would have been right.
‘I’ve changed my mind. I could use a stroll.’ Her smile was extremely bright. ‘It’s stuffy in here. And the ventilator’s noisy.’
‘No, please. I understand. You do need rest.’ He stepped to the closet and fetched his own topcoat in one hurried motion.
‘And I’ll be kind of galloping. Want to stretch my legs. You don’t enjoy that.’ He avoided seeing her face as he departed.
Topside he did in fact stride himself breathless around and around the main deck. Once he went up to the forepeak, but left
it after he came upon a young couple necking there. Presently he felt somewhat less churned and stopped by the rail for a
smoke.
The wind, rain, fog, and heavy, hacking waves of springtime in the North Pacific had died down. The air was cool, alive with
unnamed sea odors and a low breeze, and it was clear; despite the moon, he had seldom seen as many stars as glittered in
that lucent blackness. The light lay in a shivering road across waters whose crests it made sparkle and whose troughs it made
sheen like molten obsidian. They murmured, those waters, and rushed and hissed and lapped, most softly in their immensity,
and took to themselves the throb of engines and gave back the slight trembling of hull and deck.
His pipe started, Reid cradled the bowl in his hand for a bit of warmth and hearthglow. He had always found peace on the sea.
Lovely and inhuman. Lovely because inhuman? He’d attempted to make Pam see that, but she didn’t care for Robinson Jeffers
either.
He stared at the moon, low to aft. Does it make any difference to you that four men’s footprints have marked you? he wondered.
Recognizing the thought as childish, he looked outward and ahead. But yonder lay the seemingly endless war. And behind, at
home, was the seemingly endless upward ratcheting of hate and fear; and Mark, and Tom (as he, a proud nine years of age, now
insisted on being called), and little, little Bitsy, whom there was so short a time to cherish before they must walk forth
into a world breaking apart beneath them. When you considered those things, what importance had two people, middle-class,
slipping into middle age, other than what was conferred on them by the inverse square law?
Reid’s mouth quirked wryly around the pipestem. He thought: Too bad you can’t quantify the statics and dynamics of being human
in neat vectors, or develop a tensor calculus for the stresses in a marriage. – The smoke rolled pungent over his tongue and
palate.
‘Good evening, sir.’
Turning, Reid identified the moon-whitened shape: Mike Stockton, third engineer. Aboard a passenger-carrying freighter, acquaintanceships
developed fast. However, he hadn’t chanced to see much of this particular officer.
‘Why, hello,’ he said reflexively. ‘Nice night, isn’t it?’
‘Sure is. Mind if I join you? I’m due on watch in a few minutes.’
Am I lonely for everyone to see? wondered Reid. And then: Cut that out. You’re at the point of sniveling. A bit of talk may
well be precisely what you need. ‘Do stay. Think the weather will hold?’
‘The forecasters do. The whole way to Yokohama, if we’re lucky. Will you and your wife be in Japan long?’
A couple of months. We’ll fly back.’ The kids will be okay at Jack and Barbara’s, Reid thought; but still, when we walk in
that door and Bitsy sees her daddy and comes running on her stumpy legs, arms out and laughing—
‘I know the country just enough to envy you.’ Stockton scanned Reid as if, in an amiable fashion, he meant it.
He saw a lanky, rawboned, wide-shouldered six-footer, a long craggy head, jutting nose and chin, heavy black brows over gray
eyes, sandy hair, no-longer-fashionable turtleneck sweater beneath the coat. Even in the tuxedos he must sometimes wear, and
after Pamela’s most careful valeting, Reid managed to appear rumpled.
‘Well, a business trip for me. I’m an architect, you may remember. Quit my job recently to form a partnership.’ Pamela didn’t
like the risk. But she’d liked less the drabness of semi-poverty in their first years, when he refused to accept a subsidy
from her parents; and she’d stuck that out, and now they were in the 20-K bracket and if his try at independence failed (though
he was bloody well resolved it wouldn’t) he could always find another position somewhere. ‘Considering the strong Japanese
influence in homebuilding nowadays,’ Reid went on, ‘I figured I’d sniff around after, well, all right, inspiration at the
source. In provincial villages especially.’
Pam might holler. She wanted her comfort. … No! He’d fallen into an ugly habit of doing her injustice. She’d joined his outings,
and apologized afterward for spoiling them with a humbleness that came near breaking his heart, and finally stayed behind
when he went. Had he tried as hard to interest himself in her bridge games, her volunteer work at the youth center and the
hospital, even her favorite TV programs?
‘You’re from Seattle, aren’t you, Mr. Reid?’ Stockton asked. ‘I’m a native myself.’
‘I’m a mere immigrant, as of five years ago. Chicago previously, since getting out of the Army. Before then, Wisconsin, et
cetera, back to dear old Boston. The American story.’
Reid realized he was babbling of matters that could not imaginably interest the other man. It wasn’t his usual behavior. If
anything, he was too withdrawn unless a few beers or a couple of Scotches had relaxed him. Tonight he was seeking to escape
his thoughts. And why not? If he’d shaken off the
Presbyterian theology of his boyhood, did he have to carry around the associated conscience?
‘Uh, I’d visited Seattle before and liked the place,’ he continued almost helplessly, ‘but at first the only halfway decent
job offer I got was in Chicago. A concrete monstrosity, that town. They said there you’d better wear glasses, whether or not
you needed them, or somebody would unscrew your eyeballs.’
