Steel and other stories [SSC] Page 11

  The end arrived.

  One evening, suppering on a pitcherful of stomach-easing seltzers, Athene and her husband sat like rigor-mortised scarecrows in their chairs, their eyes four balls of blood-threaded stupor.

  “What are we to do?” a spirit-broken Ruthlen muttered.

  Athene’s head moved side to side in negating jerks. “I thought the doll—” she started, then allowed her voice to drift away.

  “The doll has done no good,” lamented Ruthlen. “We’re right back where we started. And deeper still by one-thousand-seven-fifty, since you say the doll cannot be exchanged.”

  “It can’t,” said Athene. “It’s—”

  She was caught in mid-word by the noise.

  It was a moist and slapping sound like someone heaving mud against a wall. Mud or—

  “No.” Athene raised her soul-bruised eyes. “Oh, no.”

  The sudden spastic flopping of her sandals on the floor syncopated with the blood-wild pounding of her heart. Her husband followed on his broomstick legs, lips a trembling circle of misgiving.

  “My figure!” Athene screamed, standing a stricken marble in the studio doorway, staring ashen-faced upon the ghastly sight.

  Gardner and the doll were playing Hit the Roses on the Wallpaper, using for ammunition great doughy blobs of clay ripped from Athene’s uncompleted statue.

  Athene and Ruthlen stood in horror-struck dumbness staring at the doll who, in the metal doming of its skull had fashioned new synaptic joinings and, to the jigging and the climbing and the burping, added flinging of clay.

  And, suddenly it was clear—the falling plant, the broken vases and jars on high shelves—Gardner needed help for things like that!

  Ruthlen Beauson seered a grisly future; i.e., the grisly past times two; all the Guignol torments of living with Gardner but multiplied by the presence of the doll.

  “Get that metal monster from this house,” Ruthlen mumbled to his wife through concrete lips.

  “But there’s no exchange!” she cried hysterically.

  “Then it’s me for the can opener!” the poet rasped, backing away on rocklike legs.

  “It’s not the doll’s fault!” Athene shouted. “What good will tearing up the doll do? It’s Gardner. It’s that horrid thing we made together!”

  The poet’s eyes clicked sharply in their sockets as he looked from doll to son and back again and knew the hideous truth of her remark. It was their son. The doll just imitated, the doll would do whatever it was—

  —made to do.

  Which was, precisely, to the second, when the idea came and, with it, peace unto the Beauson household.

  From the next day forth, their Gardner—once more alone—was a model of deportment, the house became a sanctuary for blessed creation.

  Everything was perfect.

  It was only twenty years later, when a college-going Gardner Beauson met a wriggly sophomore and blew thirteen gaskets and his generator that the ugly truth came out.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  THE TRAVELLER

  Silent snows descended like a white curtain as Professor Paul Jairus hurried under the dim archway and onto the bare campus of Fort College.

  His rubber-protected shoes squished aside the thin slush as he walked. He raised the collar of his heavy overcoat almost to the brim of his pulled down fedora. Then he drove his hands back into his coat pockets and clenched them into fists of chilled flesh.

  He strode as rapidly as he could without getting the icy slush on his trousers and ankles. Clouds of steam puffed from his lips as he pressed on. He looked up a moment at the high granite face of the Physical Sciences Center far across the wide campus. Then he lowered his almost colorless face to avoid the cutting wind and hurried on around the curving path, his feet carrying him past the line of skeletal trees whose branches stood brittle and black in the freezing air.

  The wind seemed to push him back from his destination. It almost seemed to Jairus as if it were battling him. But that was pure imagination, of course. Keen desire to be over the preliminary steps only made them seem harder. He was anxious. In spite of endless self-examination and preparation, the thought of what he was soon to witness excited him. Far beyond the power of wind to chill or snow to whiten.

  Or mind to caution.

  Now he was past the edge of the huge building. It shielded Jairus from the wind and he raised his dark eyes. In his pockets, his hands flexed impatiently and he felt a strong inclination to break into a run. He must watch himself. If he appeared too excitable they might change their minds about letting him go. They had responsibilities, after all. He took a deep breath and let the cold air into his lungs. Once the initial fascination had gone he’d be his old rational self. It was the uniqueness of the situation that was upsetting his usual balance. But it was ridiculous to be this anxious.

  He pushed through the revolving door into the building and almost sighed with pleasure as the warm air rushed over him. He took off his hat and shook the drops onto the marble floor. Then he unbuttoned his coat as he turned right and started down the long hallway. His rubbers squeaked as he walked.

  To think, the idea probed at his brain, in less than a half hour it will happen. He shook his head at the inexplicable import of it. . . Never mind, he told himself, control yourself, that’s all. You’ll need self control to resist the pummeling of false sentiment.

  Near the end of the hall he stopped in front of a door, half blond wood, half frosted glass. His eyes moved briefly over the printed words before he pushed in.

  dr. phillips. dr. randall. A blank space, recently scratched out. And, underneath, in neat red letters, the word:

  CHRONO-TRANSPOSITION.

  ~ * ~

  “You understand clearly then,” said Dr. Phillips in an urgent voice, “you are to make no attempt to affect your surroundings in any way.”

  Jairus nodded.

  “We have to emphasize that,” Dr. Randall spoke from his chair. “It’s the essential point. Any physical imposition on your surroundings might be fatal to yourself. And . . .” He gestured. “…to our program.”

  “I quite understand,” Jairus said. “You can depend on my discretion.”

  Randall nodded once. He held up his hands and drew the fingers together nervously. “I suppose you know about Wade,” he said.

  “I’ve heard rumors,” Jairus replied. “But nothing specific.”

  “Professor Wade was lost in the last transposition,” Dr. Phillips said soberly. “The chamber returned without him. We must assume he is dead.”

  “That was early in September,” Randall said. “It’s taken us over two months to convince the board to let us try again. If we fail this time . . . well, that’s the end of it.”

  “I see,” Jairus said.

  “I hope you do, professor, I hope you do,” Dr. Phillips broke in. “A great deal is at stake.”

  “Well, let’s not depress him anymore,” Randall said with a tired smile. “I think you also know you’re about to see something a lot of people would willingly give their lives to see.”

  “I know it,” Jairus said. I also know a lot of people are fools, he thought.

  “Shall we go then?” Randall asked.

  The footsteps of the three men echoed in the hallway as they walked toward the Apparatus Laboratory. Jairus kept his hands in his coat pockets and did not speak except to make brief replies to their questions. Randall was telling him about the time screen.

  “We’ve discarded the chamber as a dangerous vehicle for travel,” Randall said. “You will travel in a circular energy screen which will render you invisible to the people you’ll see. The screen can be broken by you but I think we’ve made it clear how perilous that can be.”

  “You will please remain within the screen boundaries,” Phillips emphasized. “You must understand that.”

  “Yes,” Jairus said. “I understand it.”

  “As an added measure, though,” Randall said, “you will commu
nicate with us through a chest speaker. This will give us information as you see it. And, also, if you feel any uneasiness, any premonition of danger to yourself—why, you have only to tell us and we’ll bring you back immediately. At any rate your . . . visit, shall we say, will not exceed one hour.”

  An hour, Jairus thought. More than enough time to dispel the fallacies of the ages.

  “With your health, your education, your background,” Randall was saying, “you should have no difficulties.”

  “One thing I’ve wondered,” Jairus said. “What makes you pick out this particular event instead of any other?”

  Randall shrugged. “Maybe because it’s almost Christmas.”

  Sentimental rot, Jairus thought.

  They pushed through the heavy metal doors in the Apparatus Laboratory and Jairus saw graduate students moving around a metal platform set on conductor bars arranged like ties. The white-frocked students were setting up and adjusting what appeared to be colored spotlights all pointed to one spot on the platform.

  Phillips went into the control room and Randall led Jairus to the platform and introduced him to the students. Then he checked the platform and the lights while Jairus stood by, nervous in spite of self-regimentation, heartbeats trembling his lean body.

  Watch it now, he told himself, no emotional involvement. There, that’s better. This is exciting, yes, but only as a scientific accomplishment, remember. The wonder is in the visiting and not the moment I am to visit. Years of study have made that quite clear. It’s nothing.

  That’s what he kept telling himself as he stood there on the platform, his hands shaking, watching the lab disappear as though it were blotted away. Feeling his heart pound violently and being unable to stop the pounding with rational words. Words that were: it’s nothing, nothing. It’s only an execution, only an execution, only . . .

  ~ * ~

  I’m standing on Golgotha.

  It’s about nine o’clock in the morning. The skies are clear. There are no clouds, the sun is bright. This place, the so-called place of the skull, is a bare, unvegetated eminence about a half mile from the walls of Jerusalem. The hill is to the northwest of the city on a high, uneven plain which extends between the walls of the city and the two valleys of Kedron and Hinnom.

  It’s a very depressing location. Something akin to an unkempt city lot in our own times. From where I stand I can see discarded garbage and even animal excrement. A few dogs are foraging in the garbage. Quite depressing.

  The hill is deserted except for two Roman soldiers. They’re putting the upright stakes into the ground, hammering them with mallets into the holes they’ve dug. Looking around I can see a few people straggling up the hill. Apparently they want to get a good spot to watch the execution. You always find those kind of people, I guess.

  It’s warm here. I can feel the heat through the screen. The smell too. It’s most offensive. There are large flies around. They move in and out of the energy screen without seeming to be blocked. I suppose that means people will do the same.

  THAT’S CORRECT, PROFESSOR.

  Wait. I can see a cloud of dust. A procession is coming this way. About ten to fifteen soldiers, I’d judge. And there are three men. Two quite burly ones in the lead. In the rear is a ... is him. He’s . . . oh, the dust is hiding him.

  The two soldiers here are finished with their stakes. They’re putting on their armor. Now they’re buckling on their swords. One of the people asks them how soon it will start. The soldier says soon enough. Now they’re . . .

  SOMETHING WRONG?

  No, no, I’m just watching. I’m sorry. I should be talking. It’s a little hard to remember.

  Well, apparently, the legend about Simon of Cyrene is factual. The last man . . . him, dropped to the earth on his knees. Those cross beams . . . they must weigh almost two hundred pounds. The man can’t get up. Now the soldiers are beating him. He can’t rise. Too weak, I guess. Some other soldiers are forcing a passerby to lift the cross beam from the man’s shoulders. The man stands. He follows behind Simon. I’ll assume it’s Simon of Cyrene. It can’t be proved, of course.

  Now the procession is quite close. I can see the two thieves. They’re large men, hairy armed with long, dirty robes on their bodies. They don’t seem to be having any trouble with their burdens. One of them is even laughing, it appears. Yes, he is. He just said something to one of the soldiers and the soldier laughed too.

  They’re almost here. I can . . .

  I can see Jesus.

  He’s bent over but I can see he’s quite tall. Over six feet I’d say. But he’s quite thin. He’s obviously been fasting. His face and hands are almost white from dust. He’s stumbling. He just coughed from the dust in his lungs. His robe is dirty too. There are stains on it. Apparently . .. they’ve been throwing dung at him.

  His face is without expression. Very stolid. His eyes look lifeless. He stares ahead of himself as he moves on. His beard is uncombed and tangled, so is his hair. He looks as if he’s half dead already. As a matter of fact he looks…quite ordinary. Yes he . . .

  PROFESSOR JAIRUS?

  They’re here now. I’m standing about seven yards away from the stakes. I can see the three men quite clearly. I can even see the wounds around the head of Jesus. Again I can only assume. That the wounds were made by a crown of thorns, I mean. One can’t be sure. The gouges appear to be still oozing blood. His temples and hair are caked with it. There’s even a line of blood running down his left cheek. He looks terrible, quite terrible. I wonder if the man knows what it’s like to be crucified.

  They’re stripping his clothes off.

  They’re also taking off the clothes of the two . . . thieves, I suppose they are. They might be murderers, one can’t say. At any rate, they’re all having their clothes taken from them. They’re naked now.

  He’s thin, my God, he’s thin. What brainless sort of faith prescribes starvation for a man?

  Excuse my comments, gentlemen. I’m liable to make them without thinking. I have rather definite opinions on this moment and this man.

  Jesus is quite emaciated. Muscular though. Quite well built. A little flesh and he’d look. . . almost excellent. Now I can see his face a little better. It’s . . . rather handsome. Yes, under ideal circumstances this man might be extremely handsome. One might then understand his magnetic control over people, his seeming. . . aura of supernatural prescience.

  WHAT’S HAPPENING, PROFESSOR?

  The soldiers are forcing the three men on their backs. Their arms are being extended along the cross beams. Are they to be lashed or . . .

  They were—I mean they are being. . . Uh! Good God, can you hear the sound of it? Oh my God. Right through their palms! Sickening practice. These ancients certainly have their foul ways.

  This crucifixion business—a horrible thing. A man can last three or four days if his constitution is strong enough—if he survives the impeded circulation, the headaches, the hunger, the wracking cramps, hemorrhage, syncope of the heart. Either hunger or thirst will get them, probably thirst.

  I hope to heaven they don’t practice crurifragium, that brutal beating to death with mallets. History says nothing of it in this case but how can anyone know? Except—the idea occurs—except me.

  WHAT’S HAPPENING?

  They’re being raised. The soldiers are lifting them with the cross beams. The thieves are jumping up in order to avoid torn palms. They’re roaring with anger and pain.

  He can’t get up. They’re—oh God!—they’re pulling him up by his nailed palms! His face has gone white. But he doesn’t cry out. His lips are pressed together, they’re drained of color. He refuses to cry out. The man’s a fanatic.

  IS THE PLACE CROWDED, PROFESSOR?

  No, no, there’s no one around. The soldiers are keeping people away. There are a few people but none closer than thirty yards. A few men. And, yes, some women. Three I see together. They could possibly be the three mentioned by Matthew and Mark.

  But no one e
lse. I see no man who could be John. No woman who could be the mother of Jesus. And surely I’d recognize Mary of Magdalene. No one but those three women. No one seems to care, that is. The rest, apparently, are here for the . . . the show. Good God how this scene has been garbled and obscured by pious gilding. I can—I can hardly express how dreary it all is, how common and ordinary. Not that killing a man this way is ordinary but. . . well, where are the portents, the signs, the miracles?

  Biblical drivel.

  WHAT’S HAPPENING, JAIRUS?

  Well, he’s been put up. The cross is, of course, not at all as pictured in religious rite. It’s really a low wooden structure resembling a letter T. The stem was already in the ground as I’ve said and the cross beam was put on top of it and nailed and lashed. The feet of the three men are only inches from the ground. That serves the purpose as well as if it were many feet.