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InterText Vol. 4, No. 3 / May-June 1994
=======================================
The Watcher by Jason Snell
==============================
The watcher had just passed middle age when it felt it for the
first time, a little breath of cold as it passed by just out of
reach. It was the first cold the watcher had felt in the
millions of years since its coalescence.
Time moved along, balls of mud and gas spinning in their orbits,
the cold touch a long-forgotten memory. The small life-things
still clung to one of the balls of mud, taking hesitant steps
toward their brothers. The watcher continued its silent vigil.
Then, again, the cold breath blew into its heart. Stronger this
time, and the watcher could feel its claws as it passed. A black
icy bird, with a sharp beak and razor-sharp talons. Moving
through the darkness like quicksilver.
The watcher could only sit, as it had for eons. And that was
when it knew the cold would spell the end. It saw
everything--how far the tiny life-things could go. How slowly
they moved. They could never escape the watcher's eye, and that
would be their doom.
The black bird-thing came more often, then, each blast of cold
air dampening the watcher's own brightness. And one day, it did
not turn away as it flew by. It dove into the heart of the
watcher.
A screech of... thankfulness?
The cold claws, scratching through the watcher's body. A pain in
the watcher's heart.
The fire is dying...
The little life-things, moving quickly now. Do they see the
black thing? Do they know the watcher's end is near?
An icy claw reaches the heart. The claw tears it out and feeds
it to the beak.
Inconceivable pain. The watcher makes one final effort, surging
toward the black thing in its heart.
Light flares. The small life-things move faster, but there is
nothing they can do.
In an instant, there are no more balls of mud and gas, and no
more life-things to cling to them. There is no more black
bird-thing.
There is only the watcher, everywhere screaming in pain.
And then, after a time, there is only silence--and the echo of
the watcher's death throes, spreading outward, to its brothers.
Distant star's radiation bursts puzzle scientists
===================================================
JANUARY 22, 1992: A group of scientists reported that for the
last several months, a star about 815 light years away in the
constellation Auriga has begun emitting unusual bursts of
electromagnetic radiation. The star, Yale #2143, is barely
visible to the naked eye or binoculars in the southern sky near
Capella, one of the brightest points in our night sky.
Yale 2143 contains about twice the mass of our solar system and
astronomers have speculated in the past that it may be a
variable star or a member of a binary system. "Otherwise, not
much is known about it," said Robert Hartman of the Kitt Peak
National Observatory in a telephone interview. "But this isn't
normal behavior for a star at its point in its life-cycle so
we're very interested in it."
Normally, a star like Yale 2143 burns white-hot at a temperature
from 7,000 to 10,000 Kelvin and has a life-cycle of several
billion years. "It's larger and hotter than our sun, but
otherwise it's really not that exceptional as stars go," said
Hartman.
So why all the excitement in the astrophysics community about
this nearly invisible and apparently non-descript member of the
heavens?
"Because, quite simply, nothing we've seen has done this
before." The star suddenly began emitting strong irregular
bursts of invisible radio and microwave radiation a few months
ago that are unusually focused around a small number of
wavelengths. Scientists first noticed the bursts when they
interfered with data collection from quasars and other deep-sky
objects. "At first we didn't know where it was coming from, and
then we weren't sure if it was coming from this particular star
or another phenomenon behind it," said Mailika Gibbons, the
graduate assistant credited with first observing the bursts.
"But it quickly became clear that this was a local event,
happening right in our stellar backyard."
Scientists are still collecting data and analyzing the
phenomenon. When asked to speculate about its cause, Dr. Hartman
declined, but emphasized that this event might lead to
significant revision of our understanding of a star's
life-cycle. "The main sequence of a star is presently understood
to be a rather uneventful period. This could reveal it to be a
time when dynamic changes occur."
Novalight by Greg Knauss
============================
May 1992
----------
As soon as the equipment was turned on, it started to record the
message. Originating at a charted but uninteresting star near
the constellation Auriga was a steady, constant stream of
information across a wide swath of the electromagnetic
spectrum--rapidly alternating, millisecond-long blasts. When the
speakers were on, you could hear the rhythm.
The group was quickly and quietly assembled, culled from
universities and government installations. There was a period of
secrecy; there were many variables, many scenarios to consider.
Nothing was released until it became clear there was some sort
of intelligence behind it.
Then the story raced through the scientific community like
wildfire. Something was out there. Somebody was out there.
There was a palpable euphoria within the group. This was the
thing that every one of them had been waiting for all their
lives but had been too realistic to expect, to even hope for.
Aliens--intelligent aliens--were making contact with our
species.
Humanity was being greeted.
June 1992
-----------
The message was divided into three sections, each separated by a
brief silence. After a gap double that length, the entire cycle
would begin again. There were only three amplitudes used in the
entire message, and the group took to calling them on, off, and
none.
The group was much larger now, researchers pulled from projects
around the world. The linguists and anthropologists were
prepared to spend a lot of time arguing about how universal the
concept of binary was, but the debates became academic when the
computers produced results within weeks.
The message was actually a series of pictures, four-bit-deep
animation they rendered in gray, each part a different movie.
Image-recognition software turned the one-dimensional stream of
bits into two-dimensional pictures by running through all the
possibilities of width and height until something sensible
appeared.
The public was fascinated. They released all three animations as
soon as they were decoded, before they had even attempted to
analyze them. Soon they were distributed via videotape, computer
networks, books, and even on postcards. The aliens' message
entered mass consciousness. Conspiracy theories abounded; the
Joint Chiefs of Staff were asked to assess the military threat;
UFO "experts" wrote books on the alien's society and connected
them with Stonehenge and the pyramids at Giza; televangelists
called the whole thing a hoax.
The first series showed machines in orbit around a star, and
thin, spindly spikes of solar plasma rising toward them. The
scene faded to complex pictograms and cutaway views that the
physicists scrambled to decipher.
The second was stranger. While it shared some pictograms with
the first, the concepts being displayed were harder to grasp.
There was no animated prelude and, at over a million frames, it
ran almost twice as long as the first.
The third was pictures of the aliens themselves. Sleek and gray,
with wide, black eyes, a small group performed some ritual the
meaning of which no one in the group would even speculate upon.
Their movements were fluid and exaggerated and almost
indescribably eerie. Occasionally static would leap across a
frame as the computer displayed a damaged portion of the
message. After enough repetitions were collected, a composite
was assembled that removed all the static, but the sense of
dislocation remained.
The anthropologists claimed anthropomorphization, but the aliens
looked distressed somehow.
They looked ashamed.
September 1993
----------------
The first part of the message took over a year to fully
decipher. Though understanding it required intuition and massive
amounts of additional research, the message led the physicists
almost inexorably to what they called solar mining. The
pictograms described what the initial animation played out--a
technique for retrieving fusing material from the core of a
star. The conclusion was wildly hypothetical, resting on
unproven and perhaps untestable theory. But there seemed to be
no mistaking the message.
Unlimited, inexhaustible energy. The first part of the message
was the key to unlimited, inexhaustible energy. The United
Nations and government panels began to research and assess the
possibility of a small mining operation, but even the most
optimistic warned that benefits were still decades, if not
centuries, off. Despite this, research continued. Limitless
energy would be an incredible boon to mankind. A solution to
innumerable problems.
The message was a gift. Not just a greeting, but a tremendous
gift.
Little Sun by Patrick Hurh
==============================
January 1, 1994 01:31:56
--------------------------
Catherine,
This New Year's eve was, except for the locale, rather
uneventful. I heard fireworks or gunfire in the distance,
muffled and faint, drifting from down river. I naively assumed
the noise to be from Leticia or Iquitos although both those
villages are over two hundred miles from here. I looked from my
small porch, but could see nothing. I thought about climbing to
the roof, but the canopy of trees was too thick to see through,
even this close to the river. It was most likely gunfire and
probably from Bolognesi just upstream. I thought about trying to
walk up to Bolognesi then to see if any celebrations were
underway, but I couldn't muster the courage needed to make that
trip in the dark. Of course I am sure that the FUNAI house was
probably just as dark and empty as it has been for the past five
days. Except for sleeping loggers and druggers, Bolognesi is
lifeless after the sun goes down.
I sat out on the porch most of the remaining evening sipping
from a small bottle of whiskey I negotiated from one of the
river port hands in Leticia. I'll have to remember to try and
haggle a larger bottle next time I'm in Leticia, although that
could be awhile; that twenty-eight hours of bug-slapping,
sweat-reeking, and idle staring into swirling brown water was
more than I could take--at least more than I can take just for a
bottle of whiskey. Still, this bottle has almost run dry.
Perhaps without the booze I wouldn't become so melancholy (and
then angry) when I think of you... or perhaps I wouldn't even
think of you so much in the first place. No matter, tonight,
with the cheap whiskey trailing hot into my chest, I was caught
in the endless circle, thinking of you.
Partly because of this night's drunken reveries, and partly
because I need to make writing this journal feel not so
conspicuously like talking to myself, I have decided to address
this journal in your name. At first I wasn't sure if this was a
good idea; I saw myself, months from now, stifling an emotional
hiccup every time I wrote in this book. But now, looking back at
the other sparse journal entries, I realize that this is what I
need to do to keep writing and documenting my thoughts while
here in the Amazon. No one has yet been assigned to replace you
or the other researchers called back to work on the SETI
project. Although I write and take notes everyday on my
experiences here on Rio Javari and, hopefully in the future,
with the neighboring Mayoruna villagers, I think this private
journal will be crucial to my understanding of those
experiences. This will be my scratch pad for my thoughts onto
until they take on enough shape to formalize and send upline to
UIC. I want to do more than be a glorified caretaker of the
equipment left here. Since the research station has been
entrusted to me for the time being, I want to ensure my time
here is put to some useful purpose.
So, without knowing how I really feel about you anymore... or
without even just being able to know you ... I start this new
year by writing your name.
January 13 1993 20:21:11
--------------------------
Catherine,
The first two weeks of the year have been extremely busy. My
delayed luggage containing several pieces of needed equipment,
including the radio antennae, arrived yesterday. I spent that
day assembling the equipment and trying to raise the FUNAI
contact in Leticia but didn't have any luck. I took a quick walk
over to Bolognesi, but the FUNAI house is still empty. At least
the doors are locked and the place hasn't been ransacked. It
would be encouraging, though, to use their radio to contact
Leticia and help troubleshoot my own. Ah well, I missed the
packet transmission last week so I guess if I miss tomorrow's it
won't matter too much. Still, I had such an experience this
morning that I feel I should immediately communicate it to my
peers (if only the damned radio would work!).
I made contact with a Mayoruna Indian today! He was walking
through the main dirt road in Bolognesi as I was standing by the
lumber dock. I was waiting for a good opportunity to talk to the
loggers loading the boat and ask to borrow their radio for a
moment. I admit I was nervous, my Portuguese is not as good as
yours, you know, and I was put off by the loggers' brutal
handling of the ripe-smelling wood. I turned, giving up, when I
saw a bouncing head covered with straight shiny black hair
disappear behind a stack of the huge tires used by the logging
trucks. Instantly realizing that this could be exactly what you
and the research station were here to study, I ran around the
stack of tires and almost tripped over the young, naked man.
He was crouched, with knees splayed wide, over a piece of a
truck's transmission. His dark elbows rested on the inside flesh
of his thighs while his hands forcefully fiddled with
grease-covered gears. As I began to fall over him, he sprang up
and turned to face me solemnly. He was not afraid... and I,
within the relatively familiar context of the lumber dock,
showed no fear either. Thinking back, I probably expressed
extreme pleasure and curiosity on the paleness of my face, much
like the naive white scientists we have both seen on late night
television as they approached some alien race.
The Indian immediately strode by me, bouncing slightly as I had
witnessed before and, if I hadn't stopped him, would probably
have strode out of the town of shacks without a pause. I'm not
sure what I said; it might have been "Hey!" or "You!" or more
likely some grunt that in any language said, "Hold on there!"
But I must have said something, since he stopped and turned
toward me slowly on the balls of his feet. His face presented a
slight scowl and, when he spoke, his head moved sharply forward
like a dog's head barking.
"What!" he coughed, pronouncing it as `wat.' His held his hands
out to the sides of his body. His fingers were poised stiffly
like the whisker-spikes that bobbed from the small bulbs of his
nostrils. "Wat you want?"
I couldn't believe it. Did this Mayoruna actually speak English?
"You speak English?" I exclaimed, not being able to think of
anything else. "Where..." I pointed at him. "Where did you learn
English?"
He seemed to smile at that and said something to the effect of
"I learn English at the fork of Javari." Besides the
characteristic needles jutting from his nostrils, his face also
wore the dark blue tattooed line that united his ears in a
toothy grin.
"At Leticia? The town there?"
"Yes, Letisha... I learn at that place and make much money." His
English was broken and heavily accented but wasn't too bad.
"Now, I go... this boat has no parts." He started to turn, again
quite slowly as if waiting for me to stop him.
"What do you mean, `no parts'? What parts are you looking for? I
have some parts you might want." I spoke the last sentence
quickly, not knowing if I really wanted him to understand.
He looked back at me and smiled widely this time. The blue stain
surrounding his lips accentuated the lines of his stained teeth.
"I find parts for our gun." He took a step toward me. "You have
gun parts?"
I hesitated. I had a small pistol hidden under my hammock
cushion, but I knew I could not admit that.
"No," I stuttered, hoping that this wouldn't be the end of the
conversation. "But I would like to talk with you anyway." My
hand, half folded, unconsciously slapped my chest as I referred
to myself, just as I'd seen him do earlier.
"Now, I go," he repeated as he walked away with his bouncing
gait. "But I think you very smart," he called over his shoulder.
"I think you very holy man. I maybe see you on a new sun." He
broke into a quick trot and darted into the thick undergrowth of
the forest.
I followed him to his point of departure from the road. I was
amazed that he was able to run so quickly and without fear among
the poison brush and dangerous wildlife that surrounded us. But
when I inspected more closely I realized that where he stepped
off the road was a path of trampled spine grass--prickly, but
tolerable with callused feet. I wanted to follow but where would
that have got me? Most likely, lost.
I realize now, in talking to you as a person, Catherine, that I
have described this event much more vividly than my record in
the official log. I will have to go back and cut and paste this
more descriptive perspective into the log; this event deserves
no less. This is exactly what motivated you/us in the first
place. The nomadic Mayoruna tribe settling into a camp near a
logging port and interacting with the relatively technologically
advanced and "more civilized" community of industrialized
loggers. It is unheard of! As I watched that small brown man,
clothed only in a fibrous cloth wound about his waist, strings
dangling to his crotch in a mess of ritual knots about the
foreskin, nostril spikes shaking as he spoke in English--English
for God's sake!-- about `gun parts' and `much money,' I felt so
much like an outsider, a foreigner bearing the guilt of
corrupting his pure soul. Why has his tribe come to this small
spot of western industry to make their camp? Am I witnessing the
effects of civilization on his culture? Or am I, just by being
here and observing, really just studying my own effect on his
life?
I now wish I hadn't drank the last of that whiskey three nights
ago.
January 24, 1994 22:39:26
---------------------------
Catherine,
I reached Leticia today via my radio. The S/N was not too bad
and I talked to a fellow at the FUNAI house there. He said he
was sorry that the house at Bolognesi was shut and boarded, but
with the lack of money this year to fund what is now considered
highbrow cultural research, FUNAI and the surrounding countries
in general are having to scale back their support operations. I
protested this `scaling back' and wondered aloud how the
preservation of the indigenous cultures of the Basin could be
considered "highbrow." The speaker on the other end did not
offer much in reply, but only agreed with me and said something
to the effect of "But what are you gonna do?" Good question.
The radio contact's name is Mohammed. Funny name for a FUNAI
worker in the middle of the Amazon. A convert? I wonder. It
seems strange that a native of this land so rich in tradition
and mystique would embrace another land's religion as his own.
Perhaps not--after all, I was brought up in the Midwest of
America and still, to this day, am heavily influenced by the
doctrine and catechism of the Roman Catholic church, whether I
want to be or not.
Mohammed told me that he would arrange for a radio packet
transmission in a week. I will transmit the data I have so far
plus some e-mail messages that should be able to reach you at
the SETI Institute via the Internet in a few days. He will also
relay a digital packet to my workstation consisting of any
e-mail messages I might have received in the past three weeks
plus a download of the Usenet newsgroups I asked for. I'm not
sure if the UIC news-server has set up the sci.seti.anthro
newsgroup yet, but I requested it anyway. Mohammed seems to be a
nice guy. I hope he is reliable also.
Not much news on the Indian front, I'm afraid. I waited daily by
the docks, expecting to meet Tantu there. I know his name is
Tantu because I finally was able to get the attention of the
dock loggers and I asked them about the strange Indian I had
met. They laughed and told me about Tantu. Apparently he lived
in Leticia for some time and had just recently returned to the
tribe's village. When I asked about the village, the loggers
just shrugged their shoulders and pointed to the east. They said
it had been there for almost two years. One small gnarled man
burst out laughing and whispered something in Portuguese to
another that I couldn't catch. When I asked the foreman what was
so funny, he replied that a lot of the men didn't mind having
the village so close and he turned back to smile at the small
laughing man. I pressed him for an explanation and he simply
said, "The women wear little clothes--the old ones are not so
good, but the young ones..." His face smiled with clenched teeth
and he snorted inwards through his thick, flat nose. The other
loggers began to chuckle and I turned away, trying to smile and
make light of the lewd noises I heard erupt behind me.
Tantu, obviously, never showed up--at least not during the
daylight hours. I amused myself by throwing rocks at the shut
FUNAI house. Somehow the activity seemed to cool me off from the
hot midday temperature. Eventually I came back to the cabin and
sat in the shade of its thick mosquito netting. I wondered about
Tantu and what he meant by "I maybe see you on a new sun." To me
that meant `tomorrow' or `in the morning,' but it obviously must
mean something else to him. Or perhaps his perception of time
and a day's passing is different than mine. I remember you
telling me that the Mayoruna tribe often defined the passage of
time by the coming and going of the days and nights, but also
that they seemed not to place these passings within the contexts
of a larger season or calendar... but I can't remember what else
you had said on the matter.
I wish you were here now, not just because of what you meant to
me in a romantic sense, but also because of what you could tell
me about these people and how I should approach them. I still
don't understand the purpose of sending me here alone, even for
just an interim period. The entire research proposal hinged upon
the team of us--anthropologists, sociologists and research
staff--studying the changing relationships of this taciturn and
nomadic tribe of Indians with encroaching pockets of
industrialization. I was prepared to help project the
fundamentals of societal theory upon this interaction of Indian
village and logger town, the depth of the moral contract, the
absorption and adaptation of the indigenous culture. The culture
that your group were supposed to help make clear to me!
I guess I am bitter about the choices you had to make. I
understand your motives: why wouldn't you choose to this
"mop-up" research study for the grand adventure of discovery
that the nova transmissions have to offer? I, too, felt pride
when I learned you had been chosen to help decipher the culture
of an alien race from the signals that spiked through the EM
universe, as reality for that distant intelligent species....
But when I realized that it would mean not the end of our
Mayoruna project but the mutation of it into a one-eyed, blunted
stab into a deep and rich culture, I wilted. I think you sensed
that weakness in me. It drove you further from me. Even before
you had to leave for Colorado, I felt like slinking away from
your shining example. I did slink away... I holed myself with
self-pity and hid myself with anger.
I didn't think the Foundation would fund the Amazon expedition
without you or the others, but still I asked. When my
workstation arrived at my office two weeks later, I still
couldn't believe they were so stupid as to let a Chicago-bred
sociology research assistant continue with this crippled agenda.
Don't get me wrong: I really think you're an asset to the team
studying the nova transmissions, but I find it odd that you
would embark on a mission to study such a distant society when
on this planet, less than a half-mile from where I lay my head
at night, lives and breathes a culture that we understand less
than we comprehend our own: one whose comparison to our own
"modern" society will yield more fruit than the fanciful
conjectures of how an alien race might have lived eight hundred
years earlier.
I know this is a harsh accusation, and that is why I will make
no mention of it when I write to you via e-mail next week. Yet,
I realize when I go back and reread this entry I am no longer
filled with self-pity and the longing to be with you. I believe
I have inspired myself (how's that for a recovered ego?). While
you decipher the secrets of an alien race I will be here
attempting to understand a living, mysterious society and its
role in teaching the rest of us why we are here.
February 19, 1994 08:14:48
----------------------------
Catherine,
Finally, after the boredom of the past weeks, Tantu visited
again. I was almost ready to have the loggers show me the way to
the Mayoruna village to seek him out, when he sauntered into
town again yesterday afternoon. After a brief talk near the
docks, I convinced him to follow me to the cabin where I could
show him some of the gifts that I had brought to ease my
acceptance into the hidden tribe. Tantu followed, again without
fear. I think his times in Leticia must have put him relatively
at ease with Western strangeness.
I stepped on my small porch and was surprised not to hear his
hollow footstep directly behind me. I turned to find that he was
waiting below in front of the first step. I opened my arms in
acceptance and tried to urge him in. He balked and shook his
head slightly. "I have no gifts for you," he called out.
I replied, "Yes, you do, Tantu. Just your presence here is a
gift to me."
He looked at me perplexed and I spoke again, more slowly.
"Tantu, you can wait here and I will bring out my gifts--my
parts--for you to see."
His face smiled and he replied in true Western fashion. "Okay."
I ran inside and grabbed a few of the items I had set out
earlier in anticipation of just this circumstance. I picked up a
mirror, a small pen light and a sheathed machete, then returned
outside.
Without stepping off the porch, I handed the items to Tantu. He
placed them on the ground at his feet and squatted to inspect
them one by one. He looked very much like he did when I almost
tripped over him a few weeks ago.
I sat on a nylon chair at one end of the porch and watched him.
I occasionally offered advice to him, naively forgetting that he
had probably seen most of these items during his time in Leticia
and his exposure to the logging communities. His face was
expressionless, yet I felt as if he were seriously considering
his next words to me rather than investigating my bribes.
After a few minutes, Tantu looked up at me and said, "Thank
you."
"I think these gifts may be very useful to you in your village,"
I said.
He shook his head once, sharply. "I know these things. These
things are... nice." His eyes never left mine as he raised his
arm to point with all of his fingers at the small radio tower at
the side of my cabin. "That is... more nice."
"Do you know what that is?" I asked glancing at the antennae.
"Yes. That is radio tongue. You talk to many others with it." He
lowered his eyes to the items between his feet and then stood
upright.
"Tantu," I said, "would you like to come inside and see the
radio?"
Without a vocalized sound, Tantu nodded and stepped on the
porch. I stood and guided him into the small one room cabin.
What followed inside is both logical and fantastic to me now. I
showed Tantu the radio transmitter equipment and demonstrated
its use, trying to raise Mohammed in Leticia. Mohammed didn't
answer, but another strange voice did. After a few moments of
trying to explain to the person on the other end of the radio
waves that he was talking to a genuine Mayoruna Indian, the
FUNAI operator asked us to change frequencies because we were
broadcasting on a reserved band for FUNAI official
communication. I was a bit irritated, but Tantu did not seem
disturbed. In fact he was more interested in the computer
equipment and jumble of cables that littered my work area. He
went to the table and began to finger some of the components
carefully. After a few moments he looked at me inquisitively, I
switched off the radio and proceeded to show my workstation to
the Indian with the flair of a magician.
Tantu remained mesmerized by the computer's display and the
whirring, clicking hard drive for over an hour. I eventually had
to shut it down because the bank of batteries was almost
depleted. Tantu then stayed at the cabin for another hour,
following me as I went outside to start the generator up and
back inside as I checked on the charging batteries. The entire
time he asked strange questions about the computers and the
display--he even pointed to the cables that connected the
computer to the radio and questioned me about that. Most of his
questions were simple: What did I use the equipment for? What
did the clicking sounds mean? What language did the computer
speak? But after I gave him very rudimentary lectures on the
benefits of computers and how I used them to communicate and
record information, he also asked questions of a spiritual and
supernatural nature: What did I feed the computer? Which spirits
did I talk to? What tribe was I a shaman for? And others, which
confused me almost as much as my answers seemed to confuse him.
I tried to explain to him again the basic concepts of a computer
as a tool and stressed that humans had built--invented--this
machine.
Tantu truly seemed to grasp the basic functions of some of the
components (keyboard, monitor, etc.), but he did so by
personifying them. For instance, at one point I let him press
some keys on the keyboard and watch the corresponding letters
appear on the screen. He was able to understand the cause and
effect relationship and even recognized that the picture of the
letter on a pressed key matched that which was displayed on the
monitor. However, when I unplugged the keyboard to demonstrate
the flow of information from the input device to the computer,
Tantu did not understand why the letters would not still appear
on screen. I tried to explain, and he nodded knowingly then and
said something to the effect of, "Yes, the voice of Keyboard is
very quiet and Keyboard must pull on the tail of Computer to
make Monitor listen." He pulled on the unplugged keyboard cable
to demonstrate. In spite of the metaphorical (and zoological)
overtones, I told him he was basically right. I was too tired of
explaining the operation of the computer and too amazed at the
general situation to try to convince him otherwise.
Finally, he made his way towards the open cabin door as the day
turned to dusk. He looked back at me and told me that he would
come back tomorrow with gifts if I would let him talk to the
spirits. He pointed vaguely at the computer and the radio. I
reminded him that they were not spirits and that he would
probably have to learn to write and read English to use my
equipment. He asked me if I would teach him. I said yes without
thinking.
I wish I would have taken a picture of Tantu while he was here
in the cabin. The sight was so odd. Tantu has shoulder-length
dark hair, trimmed to straight bangs at his eyebrows, but
otherwise unstyled. There is no sign of a beard on his brown
chin, but I know he is well past puberty from the thin growth of
pubic hair (it seems this may be trimmed periodically) and the
way he handles himself.
I've grown used to his "cat whiskers" in one afternoon. They
consist of six- to seven-inch-long stalks or spines of some
dried plant similar to the spine grass that is so prevalent
around the river. The spines seem to cause Tantu little pain
although they look to me to be forcefully stuck into the soft
tissue of each nostril. They truly give his round face a catlike
appearance.
The characteristic blue tattoo around Tantu's lips is actually
the easiest feature to overlook. Its lines flow naturally along
the contours of his lips and sport smaller perpendicular lines
about a quarter of an inch long which give the impression of a
large mouth lined with square teeth. I suppose a simple picture
couldn't capture these facial details, the awed and curious
expression on his face, plus his nearly naked body leaning over
the glowing computer monitor, but it certainly could convey the
entirely strange image of an Indian confronting a modern
computer in a darkened room. Incredible.
I spent the rest of the evening writing the day's events in my
official journals and eating a cold supper. I was too tired to
write in this journal until this morning. Now, I sit here
sipping scalded coffee, listening to the generator, and
wondering if I should have agreed to teach Tantu about computers
or reading English. I'm not sure what impact this could have on
his culture. Would it be more than what Tantu's Leticia
experiences might have already brought to the tribe? I guess
that if Western culture and technology is going to be
assimilated by the Mayoruna, then my teachings would perhaps
accelerate that acculturation by a degree, not spark it
initially. The spark has already been created by Indians such as
Tantu. Besides, maybe it is better that Tantu learn from me than
from the disgusting, exploitative loggers in Bolognesi.
So I guess I will attempt to teach Tantu. I'll have to remember
to tone down my showmanship as I teach, however, and try to
dispel the computer's mystique. Plus I'm going to have to teach
him to say my name correctly; he pronounces it "Kane" rather
than "Ken." Teaching him will be a long process but hopefully
one that will yield an open invitation to their village, which
will be useful when more researchers are assigned here. I would
much rather we were invited and welcomed in Tantu's community
than having to barge in on our own.
In two days I'll receive a radio digital packet transmission
from the outside world. I'm eager to hear up-to-date news from a
perspective other than the Armed Forces network, and to find out
what is going on with the nova transmission studies. I'm also
suffering slight anxiety attacks thinking about receiving e-mail
from you. I'd like to hear from you, but afraid of what I might
read. I have composed an e-mail message to you and saved it with
the other materials I will transmit on Tuesday. When I read over
the message it strikes me as a bit cold and unfeeling. I do
still feel for you, but after what you said when we parted, it
may be best to try to carry on without that emotional baggage.
February 24, 1994 21:48:01
----------------------------
Catherine,
Mohammed stood good to his word and relayed a digital package to
me a few days ago. However, nowhere in that package was a
message from you. I guess my anxieties will have another week to
fortify their ramparts in my ego. Their main battle plan seems
to revolve about my ignorance of the reason for your message's
absence. I'm sure that in all the excitement of the nova
transmissions you may have forgotten to send a note to me;
however, my darker half tells me that you have purposefully
ignored me. There could have been a technical error in the
communication process, of course, but my family's birthday
wishes came through unimpeded, and I gave them the same
information I gave you.
I spent most of the day pouring over the package. My family is
well and sends their best. My father is incredibly proud of me
and my "gumption" to stick it out alone in the Amazon Basin.
Mother claims that he can't shut up about it, even in casual
conversation to mere acquaintances and fellow churchgoers. He's
even bought a subscription to National Geographic again. I hope
he reads them this time around. When I gave him a subscription
four years ago for his birthday, the inside pages never saw
anything but their facing neighbors as the issues accumulated in
a fanned stack on the low coffee table by the settee.
I spent a good deal of time following arcane threads in the
newsgroups that I requested. Most were just flame wars elevated
to a seemingly intelligent level, but it was fun to read the
newsgroups in this isolated environment. It will be a while
before that novelty wears off.
The sci.seti.anthro group was indeed included in the package. I
didn't see any posts or references about you however. What I did
see was a bunch of messages all complaining that the
anthropology and sociology couldn't start until the semiotics
and semanticists figured out the alien pictographs a little
better. I'm going to post a note there to you next week, just in
case there is a problem with your e-mail.
Tantu came by again today, as usual. Today he brought me some
sort of dried gourd that rattles lightly. He said that it was a
"keyboard" from his village. I placed it next to the howler
monkey paw that he had brought the day before. When he saw the
dried and burnt paw, he asked me why I had not eaten it yet. I
told him the truth; that even had I known I was supposed to eat
the paw, I probably wouldn't have. Tantu looked at me oddly then
and crossed to the table on which I had laid out his gifts to
me. In a sudden darting motion he grabbed the paw and threw it
out an open window. When he turned to face me again I was afraid
he was angry, and I'm sure that fear showed on my face. However
he just walked by me and sat down at the computer for another
lesson.
Tantu's three English lessons have followed a consistent
pattern. I begin with the alphabet and after about ten minutes
he becomes obviously confused and begins to ask questions about
the computer and the radio. I had planned to try to teach Tantu
how to read phonetically, but he doesn't seem to want to get
past the alphabet. He can recognize letters and pronounce them,
but he seems to lack the motivation to continue. It is as if he
doesn't understand that the letters are the building blocks,
even though I have shown him how I can assemble words from the
letters. I guess the greatest breakthrough is that he can now
recognize his name when typed on the computer and even type in
the password to the partition I have created for him on the hard
drive.
The biggest surprise of Tantu's training is that he can actually
manipulate the computer quite easily, without being able to
read! He understands directories and folders and can steer
himself to picture files that he likes to view. He likes to zoom
in and out of images, watching how the image is made up of
individual pixels. I have not shown him games yet--I don't want
to be known as the sociologist who enslaved naive cultures with
the shackles of Tetris!
I am very concerned, however, that Tantu will never surpass the
spiritual fraud that I seem to have perpetuated by
shock-treating him with the computer the first time. For
instance, I read aloud to him the mail messages I received from
my family and even some of the newsgroup messages. He was
completely enthused with the idea of mass communication and I
felt a sense of elation that perhaps here was a way I could
motivate Tantu to learn how to read and write English. However,
he immediately asked how the computer could talk to shamen so
far away, and how those shamen could know where we were. I
explained that the shamen were just people and that we
communicated via the radio (slight lie, but close to the truth).
He looked at the radio and smiled knowingly. He said, "The
spirit of the monkey is in your radio."
I asked him what he meant but he would only reply that monkeys
talk the same way my computer does; therefore the monkey spirit
is in my radio. I began to explain that the radio worked on
principles of science, but I had to halt when he asked me to
talk about those principles. I must confess I don't know much
beyond the basics about those electromagnetic principles. Tantu
then smiled again, his whiskers pointing at the cabin's loose
rafters. I realized then how much like a religion my "science"
must sound to him.
March 6, 1994 14:11:48
------------------------
Catherine,
Tantu just left the cabin suddenly and without warning. He was
sitting at the computer staring at the screen when his back
stiffened slightly. Then he simply got up and left. I called out
to him from the porch but he had disappeared. I wouldn't be
surprised except that, from the way he suddenly jumped to
attention, he seemed to have heard something or someone call his
name. I wonder if his hearing is more acute than mine; I
wouldn't doubt it.
I am looking at the screen Tantu was staring at just moments
ago. It's just a jumble of characters... ah, perhaps they are a
jumble because they are meant to be a jumble--indecipherable.
Tantu must have been engaged in what seems to be one of his
favorite past times, composing a very crude sentence, or
sometimes just a word, and using a cipher to encrypt it. He
appears to derive some sort of meaning from the encrypted
letters and symbols; I have witnessed him pondering an encrypted
sentence for minutes or more, sometimes tracing his fingers over
the glass. Just the other day I saw him encrypt an entire Usenet
message and then scroll through it several times, as if looking
for something. I've asked him why he does it, but his answers
are vague and he seems surprised that I should ask. Luckily, I
have access to his partition and can run the cipher in reverse.
The line of letters decrypts as, "It is mine."
I wonder if I am teaching him about greed and envy as well as
English and computers.
Earlier today I upgraded the memory in the computer with chips
that arrived by boat yesterday from Leticia. Tantu watched my
every move as if I were performing a ritual. He seemed
particularly intrigued by the grounding wrist strap. I took the
opportunity to try to show him that the computer was really a
machine and not a spirit manifestation, but I think I failed.
I'm beginning to think it doesn't matter if he believes that
spirits of nature drive the machine rather than human-guided
electrons; in a way, I guess they are the same sort of force. At
least he seemed to understand that, by replacing the chips, the
computer now could hold more "thoughts" in its "fast brain"
without having to resort to the "slow brain." I demonstrated by
showing him how much faster the computer could switch back and
forth between two full-color images of the Chicago skyline. He
seemed elated.
Still no word from you, Catherine. My mail message didn't bounce
back, nor did you respond to my post on sci.seti.anthro. I don't
know what to think. I know you are still with SETI because I
have seen your name mentioned many times in the newsgroup now,
although I have yet to see a message there from you. I am
pleased at the success your team has had deciphering the
transmissions, but why are you ignoring me?
I think I'm better off just not thinking of you. But without any
friends in this place except for Tantu, I have a hard time of
thinking of anything but you. I am going to have to push Tantu
to introduce me to his village. I have hesitated so far--I'm
actually afraid of following Tantu into the forest--but I need
to see a family again, I need to see humans interacting with
each other. A once-a-week feed of flame wars from Usenet is not
enough.
I just noticed that the static wrist band and my old memory
chips are missing. Maybe that is what Tantu meant by, "It is
mine."
Scientists puzzled by alien home star emissions
=================================================
UNITED NATIONS (AP)--Scientists studying Gibbons' Star, the home
star of the aliens who broadcast the message to Earth that was
received two years ago, are puzzled about a stream of subatomic
particles coming from the star.
A representative of the United Nations Committee on
Extraterrestrials said yesterday that researchers around the
world have detected an increase in the levels of neutrinos,
massless subatomic particles, coming from the aliens' star.
"We're not quite sure what to make of the [neutrino] hits," said
Janice Yan, an astronomer coordinating alien research efforts
for the U.N. "They may be coming from the star as a side effect
of the aliens' solar mining operation, or they may some alien
technology that we don't understand yet."
But Mark Hirsch, an astronomy professor at the University of
Hawaii, said that the neutrino emissions may be much more
sinister in nature.
"Traditionally, we see neutrinos right before a star goes nova,"
Hirsch said. "If this were any other star, I'd probably say we
should watch it carefully. But considering this is the aliens'
star, we'll be watching it carefully in any case."
Anton Zallian, an astronomer at the University of California,
raised a stir last week when he told users of the Internet that
he expects the star to go nova in the next few months.
"The neutrino levels continue to go up, and the U.N. doesn't
want to admit the truth," Zallian said. "The aliens' star is
going to go, and it's probably because of their solar mining."
Zallian predicted on the Internet that the star would go nova in
early May, based on calculations he refused to reveal. "I will
explain my methods when I pin down an exact date," he said. "It
will take a few more weeks."
Bright Time, Dark Time by Eric Skjei
========================================
9:29:17 EST, April 20, 1994
Honey is driving down the road. Cole is in the seat beside her.
Outlaw Willie's on the radio. Honey and Cole have their
swimsuits on. Cole has outgrown his car seat, but he's still too
small for the seat belt. Even when he's sitting on his heels,
like he is now, it hangs around him like an oversized coat.
Honey wonders what would happen if they got into a wreck. A
picture of him crashing through the windshield comes to mind and
she shakes her head to get rid of it.
The day is warm but clouds are starting to roll in. When he woke
up this morning Cole had a cough, one with that awful cracking
sound in it. The doctor said he was fine, but she took the day
off anyway. She thought she'd take him to the reservoir for a
little sun. What the hey.
The car's engine misses and smooths out again. Probably needs a
tune-up. Joe's old yellow Camaro, not in such bad shape on the
outside except for the ding in the fender. She had to buy new
tires but couldn't afford the big wide ones, so now it looks
like a fat old lady on toothpick legs. Inside, the floor is full
of candy wrappers and toys that Cole doesn't want to play with
anymore. It still has the California plates on it. She hasn't
gotten around to doing anything about that, even though they're
in Ohio now. Maybe they'll wind up in a place with white plates
or yellow plates. Not Arizona with those ugly red plates. She
thinks about when she was a kid, driving down the road in the
back seat, with her folks, going on vacation, searching for
plates from different states.
She looks down at Cole again. He doesn't look anything like Joe
at all. He's got her blond hair and blue eyes, not Joe's fuzzy
red hair and thick neck. Not yet, anyway.
A beeping sound comes from the floor. It beeps again, then
again, then again. "Huh," she says out loud. "It can't be." She
hauls up the purse, fishes around in it, finds the beeper. Yup,
it's her graduate assistant. She checks the readout. Eleven
events in ten seconds.
Her hands start to shake and she grabs the wheel just as the car
drifts over the yellow line. She pulls to the side of the road,
stops. If this is real, she's one of the first to know about it.
Maybe _the_ first. If it's real. She wonders whether they know
in Japan yet. She needs to get back. She's got a lot to do.
She turns to look at Cole. For a second, she'd completely
forgotten he was there. He'll have to wait, as usual. She sighs,
then laughs, feeling like she's going 11,000 miles a second.
Cole laughs too, grinning up at her, happy to play along. She
looks out the windshield. "We're going to take a bath, sweetie,"
she says, wondering if it might have been nothing but background
noise. "An invisible bath, in hundreds of billions of neutrinos.
Good thing we have our bathing suits on." She wonders if it'll
be bright enough to be visible with the naked eye.
She sighs again. Then she twists in her seat to look over her
shoulder and pulls back out onto the road, heading back the way
she came. She reaches for the radio and turns it up real loud.
"Nothing I can do about it now," whines Willie.
Tell me about it, she thinks.
Little Sun Part Two
=======================
March 17, 1994 08:31:22
-------------------------
Catherine,
I've just returned from my first trip to the Mayoruna village!
It happened suddenly after one of Tantu's lessons yesterday
afternoon. The experience remains dreamlike in my mind, perhaps
because I actually slept there, in the village! Not until I
began the return trip through the steaming morning did I even
think about how I would record the experience. It would probably
make more sense to start recording my thoughts in the official
journals, but it seems easier and will probably be a more vivid
account if I write it here first, as if I'm talking to you.
I met Tantu in Bolognesi early in the afternoon, he was by the
boat dock as usual, looking for "parts." I was there to give the
boat hands a stack of letters and packages that I wanted mailed
from Leticia. (Yes, one of them is for you, maybe that
handwritten note will be too hard for you to ignore....) The
crew took the mail and I stepped back and looked for Tantu.
Instead of squatting over discarded, broken log clasps and tabs
of rusted iron, he was standing among a small group of loggers
near where the heavy-timbered dock met the river shore. His head
was bobbing swiftly so I could tell he was talking to them and,
when a logger produced a long package from an orange duffel bag,
Tantu's form bent to the ground to study it.
By the time I had walked over, the group was dispersing. I
shouldered my way through the loggers who were headed back along
the dock to the boat behind me. Tantu was standing with his back
to me, the long package now in his hands. He grasped it near the
center and, when the edge of the rough cloth that bound the
package flipped off one of the protruding ends, I saw the dull
gleam of a rifle barrel.
"Tantu!"
He turned to face me. He pushed the gun at me and said, "See?
Here is our gun." I took the rifle from him. It was heavier than
I thought it would be and I almost dropped it as the weight
shifted inside the scratchy cloth. Tantu grabbed it back and,
holding the gun in one hand, waggled a finger at me. "Careful,"
he said seriously.
"You be careful, Tantu. That is a dangerous weapon. What will
you use it for? Hunting?" I wanted to hear him say yes, but
instead he turned and headed quickly down the path that led to
my cabin. I followed.
When we arrived Tantu placed the gun on the porch and went
inside. I started to follow, but then hesitated and unwrapped
the rifle. It looked in good condition--no missing "parts" that
I could discern. I wanted to check if the rifle was loaded, but
I know almost nothing about rifles, so I put it away.
Tantu was already at the computer, watching it start up. I asked
him if he wanted a lesson and he replied that he did.
We started the lesson as usual but after about ten minutes of
phonetically pronouncing words, Tantu looked up at me and
smiled. "I think I can read now!" He said this with such joy
that I had to agree with him.
"Yes, I think you can. But you still have a lot of work to do."
"No," he said, grabbing my forearm. "Now, you do not know! I can
read the letters and see... pictures! The words do not look like
the pictures, but I see the pictures."
Looking back now, I understand what he meant. But at the time, I
wasn't sure what he was so overjoyed about, only that some
breakthrough had occurred. The written Mayoruna language
consists of crude pictograms, generally outlining some event or
fable. Its "letters" are direct representations of their
meanings and are only roughly standardized into a small handful
of characters. I believe now that Tantu didn't understand the
written English language because it consists of collections of
letter-characters that have no reference to meaning except when
grouped together and mentally pronounced. It must have finally
dawned on him the true phonetic nature of the written word. This
must be why he said what he said next.
"Come, Kane. You must enjoy with us tonight!"
I didn't understand what he meant at first, but moments later,
when we were rapidly trotting over the spine grass path that led
to his village, I realized that this was it, the invitation I'd
been waiting for. And I wasn't prepared at all. No camera, no
paper to take notes, nothing but myself and Tantu. I didn't even
bring the last of my cache of gifts for the village.
"Tantu," I said to the naked back in front of me. "Tantu, I have
no gifts for your village.... Come back with me to the cabin so
I can get some."
"Kane," he said after a moment and without breaking his stride,
"this will be your gift." He raised the rifle with one hand over
his head. The burlap covering fell to the ground. I bent down
and picked it up. When I had straightened, Tantu was well ahead
of me.
"Tantu! Wait! I didn't give you the rifle. That rifle... that
gun is yours." For some reason I was desperate to cleanse myself
of the weapon. "Tantu, that gun is yours!"
He turned his head and barked, "Yes, I know! Thank you!" Before
I had a chance to respond he lifted the rifle and placed the end
of the stock directly in the center of his chest and bent
backward at the waist. His body recoiled slightly with the gun
as it fired a round into the tree branches overhead. I jumped at
the cracking sound.
Immediately rustling appeared in the thick plant life around us
and I caught the color of brown skin as it disappeared behind
the foliage. A loud crashing noise erupted to my right. I spun
my head and just caught sight of an Indian man scrambling away
from where he had landed after dropping from a huge low-branched
tree. The Indians must have been all around us for minutes as we
had walked the path. I would have never known had it not been
for Tantu's surprise shot in the air.
"Are they from your village?" I turned to ask. But Tantu was
gone. I just caught sight of him taking a turn in the path
ahead. I ran after him, my panic building quickly.
I turned the corner and just managed to avoid running into
Tantu's back. He was walking slowly forward into a large
clearing; the rifle raised over his head casually, supported by
one small arm. A few indigenous men were gathered in the
clearing in front of a small fire. They too were waving their
arms as if each of them carried a rifle aloft. Their cheeks were
painted red and their faces were somber, yet they still wore a
joyful countenance.
Other men stood near a circle of thatched huts that ringed the
periphery of the clearing. They did not look as cheerful as the
others and, as we strode slowly toward the men at the fire,
several more appeared from the doorways of the surrounding huts.
I glanced between the two sets of men and sensed a distinct
tension. I reached out to touch Tantu's back; he turned quickly
and caught my wrist with his free hand and raised the two
together over his head. Because of my height, the feeling was
odd--I could feel his arm strain, outstretched as it was, while
my arm hung limply by the side of my head. I tried to jerk my
arm back, but Tantu held it there with surprising strength. I
felt like comically waving at the staring men to alleviate the
tension.
As Tantu led me in this manner about the fire and talked in
indecipherable bursts to the gathered men, I looked more deeply
into the dark fringes of the clearing. Despite the growing
twilight, I spied young children crouched there and, clumped
about the opening of the largest hut, a group of four women
spitting into the open mouths of dried gourds. Tantu swung me
around again and released my hand. I held my breath for a
response from the seemingly disturbed men that had formed a
loose circle around us at the fire.
If there was one, however, I didn't notice it, for at that
moment a cry like a bird of prey thwarted sliced through the
clearing. I turned my head with the others and saw a party of
Mayoruna hunters emerge from the dense brush. Two of them
carried the fur-covered forms of inert howler monkeys on their
backs. An answering cry from the spitting women filled the air
and suddenly a flurry of activity erupted. From the edges of the
small village children and adolescents convened on the hunters,
their joy evident through the bounce in their steps and the
chatter of their voices. After a moment, the men surrounding us
went forward to greet them also.
Tantu started forward and I called to him so he would not forget
me. He turned and gestured for me to follow. He was heading for
the open doorway of the large hut rather than attempting to
approach the successful hunters. I followed him into the hut,
noticing that the women sitting in front of it were chewing on
some type of root and spitting a white juice into numerous dried
gourds set about the ground around them. One of the gourds
looked curiously like the top of a human skull.
The hut was dark but, as my eyes adjusted, enough twilight was
able to penetrate the double filter of the trees outside and the
loose thatched roof above to recognize the shapes of several
Indians sitting on the ground and a dark central mass ahead of
us. Tantu approached the dark form and held the gun horizontally
in front of him. He spoke a few words and then sat down on the
ground. I felt his hand around my calf as he motioned for me to
join him. I did, surprised to feel the soft toughness of grass
mats beneath me rather than the hard dirt I had anticipated.
"This is our head man... our chief," Tantu whispered to me. I
actually looked about me for an instant until I realized he was
referring to the dark shape in front of us. The form spoke in a
deep voice and the noise from outside the hut seemed to fade
away. My eyes started to pick out details of the chief's form
and my mind attempted to fill in the dark spots.
The head man was a withered man sitting in a grass hammock that
hung low to the ground. I remember thinking that the hammock
must have been hung so low so that the chief could easily climb
in and out of it. The chief was as naked as all the Indians
around me; his gnarled legs draped over the edge of the hammock
and his feet were folded against the floor so that the outsides
of his ankles scraped the grass matting. I saw, or imagined I
saw, numerous warts protruding from the loose skin of his legs,
some as large as the end of my thumb. His face was hidden in
shadow, but I could make out the characteristic wide shape of
his head and the long white glow of his spine whiskers.
In a pause of his speech to us--and it was a speech lasting
almost half an hour--I asked Tantu in a whisper to translate the
chief's message. Tantu whispered back that the chief was telling
them of the great sorrow that he felt he had brought to the
tribe. "What sorrow?" I asked.
"The sorrow of being both head man and shaman for the village.
Now that he is dead, we have no one to lead."
After the chief's voice subsided, Tantu and the others stood up.
I stood up with them and followed them out of the hut. By now
night had fallen. In the clearing, the fire had been built up
and I could see that a meal had been in preparation.
"Tantu," I said. "If what the chief said was true, shouldn't the
rest of the villagers been there to listen?"
Tantu turned to me and said, "The chief... he tells this story
many times a day."
"You mean it is just a story? He's not really dying?"
Tantu looked at me puzzled. "No, it is true. He is dead. We must
find a new shaman." He moved away from me and toward two young
women who were stripping the monkeys of their fur.
I looked down at my feet then and found myself staring into the
gourds of white juices that I had seen the women spit. I picked
one up and swirled the contents around in the base of the gourd.
In the firelight I could see that the juice consisted of a very
fluid liquid, which I assumed to be the women's saliva, and a
mash of plant fibers. I took it over to Tantu and asked him what
it was.
"Beer!" he barked at me. Then he smiled and said, "Do you like
beer? This will not be good for a few days, but you can try it
now."
"No thanks," I said quickly, recalling the sound the women made
when they spit. "I'll wait." I gave the gourd to him. He smiled
and took a drink of it.
When he was finished he produced one of the white roots that the
women had been chewing on. It looked like a manioc root, the
kind the Indians also make a sort of pancake out of. "Here," he
said, offering it to me. "The beer... masato... is made of
this." I took the root. "Chew on it," he said and then knelt
back down to watch the young women work.
I put the root in my mouth and began to chew on it lightly. It
was a bit pungent but not a bad taste. I returned to the area
around the fire and watched the various activities around me. It
was then that I noticed the children looking at me.
Several children, male and female, would walk up behind my back
and watch me. When I would turn to greet them they would giggle
and run away. This occurred several times before I sat down
about ten yards from the hot fire. Four of the children then sat
down around me. They stared at me with smooth skinned faces and
glinting eyes. None of them wore the spine whiskers or the blue
mouth tattoo. I smiled at them and tried to think of something
to give them or do for them. The children simply stared at me.
Finally I settled on a trick my uncle used to play on me. I
doubled the thumb of my left hand within a fist and positioned
my right hand so that it looked like my right thumb was actually
the continuation of my left. Then with the same sneaky
expression of a thousand goofy uncles I performed the
time-honored trick of removing my left thumb. The children
screamed and ran away.
I laughed then and leaned back so that I lay on the ground and
could look up into the thin canopy of tree branches overhead.
The flickering light from the fire reflected on the broad leaves
and shone hypnotically back down at me. I must have lain there
for some time because the next thing I remember is Tantu
prodding me with his foot to rouse me for the meal.
The meal was quick and I actually ate very little. For the
number of villagers present there really wasn't that much food.
I limited myself to the manioc pancakes and didn't drink
anything. I spent most of the time trying to watch how the
Indians interacted with each other, trying to identify
influences of western society on their interaction. About all I
noticed was Tantu taking his new rifle with him wherever he
went. I was relieved to see him reprimanding the young children
when they attempted to touch it.
It was then that I noticed the first RAM necklace. One of the
children, a young boy, was fingering the beads of one of the
necklaces which Tantu wore about his neck. Whenever the child
would tug on the beads Tantu would let out a sharp bark. Finally
Tantu pushed the boy away and scolded him. When Tantu removed
his hand from his neck I looked closely to see what had so
attracted the child. I expected to see a jaguar tooth or a worn
stone. Instead I saw a silicon chip still attached into a broken
piece of epoxy circuit board. Tantu must have taken my discarded
computer memory, broken them into pieces and woven them into his
necklace. The sight made a chill run down my spine. I looked at
the necklaces of some of the other villagers. To my surprise I
found that at least four other men had similar necklaces. All of
them were seated in an area between myself and Tantu.
I stood up and asked to speak with Tantu. He basically ignored
me until I pulled on his necklace. Then he turned and smiled at
me. I noticed that several of the other necklaced men turned
their heads to look at me.
"You like it?" Tantu asked. "I made you one also... It is my
gift to you."
My first reaction was to refuse the gift. But as he produced the
necklace and held it up to me in front of the other men, I
realized I was obligated to accept the necklace. I couldn't
embarrass Tantu in front of his tribe. I reached for the limp
ring of fiber and silicon but suddenly Tantu jerked it back,
yelling something in Mayoruna and then in English, "Careful!"
I took my hand back. Tantu dug around in the folds of his waist
belt and pulled out the grounding wrist strap that I had used
when installing the memory in my cabin. He wound it carefully
around his right wrist with great deliberation, then clipped the
end to one of the chips on his necklace. He stood up, said a few
words in Mayorunan, and draped the necklace over my head.
Sensing the ceremony of the event, I bowed my head and attempted
to say thank you in Mayorunan. I only heard a few chuckles at my
mispronunciation and I sat back down, this time next to Tantu.
Throughout the next hour Tantu told a story in Mayorunan,
occasionally gesturing at me, at the chips hung around his neck,
and himself. I caught the words for "shaman," "spirits," and
"monkey," I attempted to speak to him during his numerous pauses
but whenever I would begin, he cut me off with another loud
sentence.
By the time he was done, more men had joined our small circle.
Some of them did not wear chip necklaces, but seemed eager to
hear Tantu's story. I became drowsy with the heat of the fire
and the drone of Tantu's voice. I hoped my drowsiness wouldn't
be noticed, but Tantu had to shake my shoulder to gain my
attention when he was ready to leave the fire.
He pulled me to one of the huts and told me that I could sleep
in the hammock. He made a big fuss over assuring me it was safe.
I was not up to the walk through the jungle to Bolognesi and
from there back to my cabin, so I agreed to sleep there. I
attempted once more to talk to Tantu about the necklaces, but he
left me in the hut, ignoring my attempts at discussion.
I slept fitfully--as did the rest of the village. It seemed the
site was never quiet. Some villagers slept while others tended
the fire and moved about the huts. When the active ones would
retire it seemed that others roused themselves to take their
place. It was as if the night was respected as a time to rest,
but that resting did not necessarily entail uninterrupted sleep.
My dreams were filled with the sounds and sights of the Mayoruna
village. I often woke thinking it to be dawn, only to find
darkness outside the door of the hut.
Sometime during the very early morning I dreamt that the
Mayoruna chief was talking to me. Not in Mayoruna, but in clear,
unaccented English. I was standing before his hammock in the
large, dark hut. I could feel rough grass beneath my bare feet
and I realized that I was no longer wearing my Vibram-soled
boots. Now the chief was lying in his hammock and I assumed he
was asleep; however, moments later I heard a voice address me. I
was convinced it was his voice, though I'm not sure because the
figure did not even seem to breathe.
"Do you follow our path?" he questioned slowly.
In my dream I was not afraid and did not find it odd to reply
aloud. "What path is that?"
"The path of the Little Sun."
I thought a moment before answering.
"I do not know that path," I said finally.
"Then you do not follow the path."
"Where does the path lead?" I hurriedly questioned, trying to
prolong the unearthly dialogue.
"To the beginning, to the Nascente... It is a long journey and
we must move quickly."
"If you must move quickly, why have you stopped here for so
long? Why do you not move on?"
"We have not stopped moving. I lead always to the Source, the
Nascente. I have not halted; perhaps you have begun moving...
perhaps you follow the path..."
The next words I spoke woke me with a start. I said, "I am not
moving at all!" I looked about me and realized I was in the
chief's hut. His dark, prone form lay before me in the low slung
hammock, apparently still asleep.
I backed out of the hut then, fright crawling up my neck, and
walked quickly to the dying fire. I looked about me, but for
once in the night, no one seemed to be awake. I stared at the
fire for a long while. Perhaps the root I had chewed earlier was
some sort of psychoactive and it had triggered my
already-troubled mind into a state of wakeful dreaming.
Whatever had caused my dream, I felt drained and exhausted. I
left the fire and peered into the hut that I thought I had first
slept in. It was hard to remember exactly which hut that was.
But the center hammock was empty and I climbed into its rough
fibers. I fell asleep quickly and dreamlessly until light, when
the sound of the waking Mayoruna village roused me.
I forgot about the dream until I stepped on a patch of spine
grass near the dead fire. The bristles scraped at my feet and I
realized I had lost not only my boots but also my socks. The
memory of the dream rushed upon me then and my mind reeled with
its flood. Even now, as I recount this to you, Catherine, I am
overcome with the tingling feeling that I really did converse
with the Mayoruna chief.
After attempting to find Tantu, I came back to the ashes of the
central fire. There, charred and half melted, were my boots. I
poked at them with a twig and finally lifted them with my hands.
They were completely ruined. Who would do such a thing? Why they
would burn them, I have no idea. Perhaps it was one of the
village's men who seemed at odds with Tantu and his rifle when
we first entered the village?
I finally left the village after again trying unsuccessfully to
find Tantu. I also stopped at the chief's hut, but his hammock
was empty. In his place were a few dried gourds. I could see the
milky residue of the masato beer from the night before.
The walk back here was slow and almost painful without my boots.
I hadn't realized before how pampered my feet are. At least I
have a pair of Reeboks in one of my trunks. Still, without the
boots I feel more exposed to the dangerous environment around
me.
The fantastic events of the last day are still with me. I feel
charged, yet reluctant to record every detail in the journals. I
wish you were here so I could talk the events over with you. I
need someone to converse with, someone who can talk back to me
and offer an opinion besides my own on what my experience--my
dream--really could mean. I cannot believe that after this much
time, UIC has not assigned other researchers to this station. On
the other hand I'm almost afraid to relate these events to my
peers. I failed to make any scientific observations, notes, or
photos. And what is probably my own personal highlight of the
trip, the dream, will probably be scoffed at as pure
fabrication! I will have to go back to the village soon and make
better record of the social fabric and indications of western
influence. But how do I explain (or even mention) the necklaces?
April 19, 1994 21:05:23
-------------------------
Catherine,
It looks like this journal is the closest I will come to
actually talking to you. Today's radio packet once again
contained plenty of news about the aliens, the Hebron massacre,
the price of grain, my uncle Greg, the family dog and even the
weather--but nothing from you. Maybe it's because Tantu hasn't
been by in two days, but it suddenly hit me. You're gone from my
life completely. I can see your life continue on in the
sci.seti.anthro posts and in the news about solar mining and the
undeciphered parts of the alien message. Yet my life is
invisible to you. I don't even feel like you're ignoring me. I
feel like I'm dead to you.
During one of Tantu's lessons, I read on Usenet that someone
from the University of California announced that he thinks the
alien star is going to explode on May 14. I'm sure the Christian
fundamentalists are having fun with that one. I can't believe
the stance some of them have taken over this whole alien race
thing. It seems like after the lenient sentencing of the
abortion protest shootings, these people have decided to take an
even more inane "literal" translation of the Bible. If there is
only room for one intelligent species in their universe, perhaps
they should question if humans are that one intelligent species!
"God created one true people!" they yell. I wonder if they
realize that only they created their one true God.
Tantu seemed to fixate on the announcement, asking me to explain
it to him repeatedly. He wanted to know "how many cycles" until
May 14, so I took the opportunity to introduce him to the
calendar program and how we measure time. It confused him until
I displayed two months and counted out the "cycles" for him one
by one. He then smiled and counted them himself. "What happens
when computer has no more days?" Tantu asked, pointing at the
end of the month.
I put that off for another lesson, and I'm almost glad that
Tantu hasn't been by lately. He's progressing quickly and his
patience with the computer is increasing, but he scares me with
his ritualistic approach and the way he treats me if other
villagers are around. I'm sure the tension I experience when I
am with him is contributing to my bad dreams also.
I had the dream again last night. I was speaking to the chief of
the Mayoruna and, once again, I can't remember what we talked
about except that it involved "walking the path to Nascente." At
least this time I woke up in my cabin and not in the chief's
hut. I don't know what it means and when I talk about it with
Tantu I receive no other response than a disquieting look that
seems to say, "Why shouldn't you be talking to the chief in your
dreams?"
I've made eight trips to the village so far. I've tried to be
diligent and record as much of the social interaction as I can.
The village is run like an open commune with a shallow
hierarchy. In fact, the hierarchy seems to consist of just the
chief and two Indian men beneath him. One of the two men is
Tantu and that is where the real tension seems to lie. He and
the other "second" seem to be in a low-key power struggle.
Low-key, but pervasive. Tantu's competitor is taller and the
blue tattoo that surrounds his mouth is exceptionally thick and
bright. I have come to think of him as Blue Mouth because I
don't know his name. Both men have a small group of followers
who interact normally with each other when Tantu and Blue Mouth
aren't around, but who become antagonistic when forced to take
sides by a leader's presence. All of Tantu's followers wear some
piece of western technology around their necks--usually a
fragment of my computer--and they respectfully ask for more
`parts' when ever I visit.
I have rarely seen the chief. He keeps inside the large hut most
of the time and I hesitate to enter again. When I ask Tantu
about the chief he always replies that the chief is dead and
should not be angered.
I have learned a little about Tantu's background. I know that he
learned English while living with missionaries in Leticia. I've
tried to ask him about the mission, with hopes of locating his
previous teacher via radio, but he refuses to talk about his
time there. Once he glared at me with barely muted hatred. I
have tried not to talk about it since then.
I know that Tantu has purchased more rifles from the loggers.
The other men in his group sometimes carry them in the village
and I once saw a young woman inspecting one while Tantu looked
on. I have not heard a shot from the village though, at least
not yet.
Most of these things--the necklaces, the power struggle between
Blue Mouth and Tantu's techno-Indians, the rifles--I have barely
mentioned in the technical journals I send upline. I feel like
I'm responsible for this fast influx of dangerous change. I
cannot bring myself to confess my involvement to my peers and
mentors, so I write down only the mundane and send it upline. I
can tell by the feedback that they aren't impressed. I haven't
been telling them anything new, and with all the attention the
SETI groups have been receiving, my filtered work here must seem
like an ant farm.
May 2, 1994 11:14:21
----------------------
Catherine,
Tantu came by earlier this morning to tell me that the Mayoruna
chief has left. He wanted me to come with him to the village to
"enjoy the return." I took this to mean that the ailing chief
had finally died during the night. When I asked Tantu if this
was the case he didn't seem to understand. He carefully repeated
that the chief has "gone over" and that he wanted me to "enjoy
the return." I agreed, but told him I wanted to prepare myself
first. Tantu went back to the village agitated that I didn't
drop everything and return with him.
It's odd... Tantu did not seem disturbed at all by the chief's
death. He actually looked excited, almost eager. I wonder if,
now that the chief has gone on, if Tantu believes he will become
the next chief. Surely it will either be him or Blue Mouth. They
are the only ones who seem ready for the task, although they are
both very young. I almost hope Blue Mouth wins. It would help
relieve my sense of guilt. Especially after Tantu's reaction
yesterday to my explanation of the possibility of a nova. He
obviously saw the nova as an omen of his ascent to power in the
village. I wonder if he has told any others in the village about
it.
I am concerned about going to the village for the chief's
funeral celebration. I have done a little more research and also
witnessed firsthand evidence of the Mayoruna death rituals. They
recycle almost the entire body, putting the last of the spirit's
earthly remains to work for them. Several parts of the body are
eaten, including some of the bones which are ground up and used
to make a type of hot broth. Often the skull is cleaned out and
used as a container for liquids, and I have seen necklaces made
of what look like human vertebrae. I'm not sure I am up to this
type of ritual. I remember my glimpses of the chief's
wart-covered legs and my stomach turns. I hope I will not be
made to feel obliged to eat anything I do not readily recognize
or find repulsive.
I will take my new digital camera along and also a small pouch
of crackers and dried beef. I cannot think of anything else that
will be of use. I may have to spend the night in the village
again tonight. Hopefully with the chief "gone over" I will not
dream myself into his hut again.
May 3, 1994 13:48:42
----------------------
Catherine,
Just got back from the village and I am exhausted. I do not
think I slept more than three hours last night. Like the first
overnight trip to the Mayoruna village, this last trip is
clouded in my memory. The smoky heat of fires, strange tastes of
unidentifiable foods, and hours of dizzy observation of the
villagers have combined to reduce my recollection to quick
flashes of images, smells and sounds.
When I arrived in the village it was nearly empty. Only a
handful of women were there preparing food and caring for
children. Even with the children, it was strangely quiet. I
looked in several of the huts but only found empty hammocks and
the natural litter of habitation.
Returning to the women, who sat away from the smoldering central
fire on this hot day, I tried to communicate as best I could my
wonder at where all the men of the village had gone. One of the
woman pointed further to the east and I looked in that
direction. I spotted a trampled path jutting from the main
clearing. As I stepped upon it I noticed that the machete wounds
on the surrounding vegetation were fresh and new.
I followed the trail for about twenty minutes. I was glad that
it was still mid-afternoon and that I could see easily in front
of me. Soon I became aware of human voices ahead, some speaking,
others sounding as if they were singing or barking. I increased
my pace and made sure my camera was handy and powered on.
Soon I broke into a small natural clearing filled with about
more than a dozen Indian men. Some seemed to be sleeping, curled
into balls on the jungle floor while others talked to themselves
loudly, occasionally calling out in crude imitations of animal
noises. Only three men were standing: one of them was Tantu.
When he spotted me he stepped around the others' bodies and
approached me quickly. He looked angry.
"I wait for you. You not come for many cycles, Kane," he said
seriously. Then he smiled. "But now you are here. Now you can
see how we talk to the spirits. You can see our radio." He
grabbed me by the forearm and pulled me towards the other two
standing men. One was holding a small box made from
loosely-bound twigs. I asked Tantu about the other men in their
trancelike states. He told me that some were talking to their
animal ancestors and others were preparing for their great
hunts.
I panicked then for a moment, picturing some sort of mass
suicide. I asked Tantu if these men were "going over." He said,
"No. They are just looking over. Some of us need help from our
fathers. Some of us talk to the animals we will hunt on a new
sun."
"Why?" I asked with apprehension.
"To make good peace with the animals so their spirits do not
hunt us after we kill them."
His answer did not completely allay my fears, but for some
reason I felt confident that any danger these men might face was
not a new one.
We reached the two men in the center of the clearing and I saw
that the small box contained a slick, wet-looking animal--a
frog. "What is this?" I asked, but Tantu did not reply. Instead
he took the box while one of the other men bent over and pulled
a twig from the ground. Carefully he reached into the box with
the twig and stroked the animal's back. A thick, clear syrup
clung to the twig.
Quickly, Tantu handed the box to the third Indian and pulled out
a small sharp knife. Before I could stop him he cut into his own
forearm, dangerously near the arteries and veins on the inside
of his wrist. The man with the twig grabbed Tantu's wrist and
pulled open the wound with his free hand. With the other he
dripped the frog syrup off the end of the twig and into the
bleeding gash.
I think I was shocked into silence because I don't remember
making any other protestations as the two Indians continued to
scrape fluid from the frog's back and place it directly into
Tantu's bloodstream. I knew some tribes used poisonous mucous
from a particular frog for their darts or arrows, but I suddenly
realized I didn't know if the Mayoruna had such a practice, or
if this was one of those frogs. I continued to watch in a kind
of paralyzing horror: maybe this was some sort of suicide
ritual. When they were finished they wrapped a thick green leaf
around the cut and tied it off with a piece of fibrous twine.
Tantu turned to look at me. There was a thin trail of saliva
oozing from one corner of his mouth and his eyes started to
glaze over. He asked me to join them then, but I balked as the
other two Indians approached me. "No," I protested. "I am not
one of you."
The Indians hesitated and Tantu spoke again, obviously angered
again with me. "You only taste it, Kane. Only I do this..." He
shook his bound wrist at me and then fell to the ground slowly,
as if through water.
I went over to him, concerned for his life, when one of the last
two Indians caught me by the shoulder. He held out the twig to
me and smiled. I reached out and took hold of his wrist lightly
and pulled it to my mouth. I placed my tongue as lightly as I
could on the twig and then pushed the twig back away. The
Indian, apparently satisfied, turned away from me. I bent back
down to examine Tantu and, as I did so, spit out as much of the
saliva in my mouth as I could. The other two Indians didn't seem
to notice.
Tantu was curled in a loose fetal position and seemed to be sick
to his stomach. He eyes were closed tightly and when I tried to
pull on his arm he did not respond. His arm snapped back to his
chest when I released it. His breathing was deep and regular.
The two Indians that had administered the frog potion to Tantu
were inhaling some sort of powder out of a small pouch. I
immediately thought of cocaine, but after inhaling the
substance, both men wandered quietly to the outskirts of the
clearing and sat on the ground. One of them leaned against a
tree and seemed to immediately go to sleep.
After a time, I began to wander around the clearing, taking
pictures and trying to listen to the soft ramblings of the
hallucinating Indians. This is the last cognizant thing I
remember. My vision through the camera's viewfinder was
extremely clear and I think I probably stared through it for
quite some time. I remember at one point the batteries drained.
I became sick and had to lay down. My vision had now begun to
blur and I think some of the other Indians were actually moving
around then. At least I heard the crashing of bodies through the
dense foliage. I remember seeing close up images of howler
monkeys playing in the trees overhead. One fell to the ground
and when I went over to it, I saw that its hands and feet were
burnt and charred.
I recall being nudged and prodded along the trail to the main
village and sitting in front of the fire where men and women
seemed to address me in foreign tongues--not Mayoruna, but
French, German, Chinese and others.
At some point, I ate. If I ate some of the chief's body last
night, it did not seem to upset me. For some reason, I accepted
all these odd sights and tastes. I felt secure in the midst of
the villagers for the first time. Even the heat and he rain did
not seem to bother me, although today it is so oppressively hot
and I cannot seem to drink enough water to satiate my thirst.
One image stands out in my mind clearly: it is Tantu and Blue
Mouth standing on opposite sides of the fire yelling at each
other. Tantu is pointing at me with three outstretched fingers;
his other arm is pointed to the sky overhead. Blue Mouth is
grasping something long and snakelike in one hand and shaking it
madly.
Whatever happened that night between the two did not resolve
their differences because, when I woke late in the morning, I
saw two very tired-looking men standing outside of the hut Tantu
was sleeping in. They wore silicon about their necks and held
rifles in their crossed arms.
After checking my clothes and body for insects (I had slept on
the ground like a fool), I went to Tantu's hut to check on him.
The guards there would not let me enter although they seemed to
respect my approach. I could just see Tantu's form lying in a
hammock from the doorway.
I hobbled back to the cabin and--after splashing some water on
my face--began to write this. Straining to remember what
happened last night has tired me even further. I must sleep.
Novalight Part Two
======================
May 1994
----------
The message stopped, suddenly and completely. The computers were
recording the 488th repetition when things went silent, in the
middle of the third part.
Speculation appeared in the papers and newscasts and none of it
meant anything. The group suffered through a myriad of useless,
unanswerable questions until it convinced the reporters that the
best thing--the only thing--everyone could do was to wait.
Novalight
-----------
The nova lit the evening sky almost like a full moon. And it was
documented all the way because, after the message had stopped,
every radio astronomer on the planet had been watching that
piece of sky.
What they ended up with was the most complete record of any
celestial event in the history of man--a near perfect picture of
a supernova, from initial appearance to slow fade three months
later. It was beautiful and terrifying and almost infinitely
sad.
The aliens were dead, every one of them. Their technology and
their culture and their art and their ideas, all totally gone.
An entire species had been wiped out in a single moment,
hundreds of years before we had even begun to record their
message. The nova pictures were startlingly beautiful if one
didn't imagine the billions of intelligent beings that had been
consumed, broken down into atoms.
The message, only a third translated, was the only record we had
of them, strange gray shapes moving across a computer screen,
tracing out an engineering project we couldn't yet begin to
undertake. A gift for our future.
Linguists, anthropologists and physicists worked feverishly with
the new information they had from the nova. Within months, they
had deciphered the second part of the message. With the nova
still bright in the sky, the conclusion was obvious.
The nova was an _accident_, an industrial accident, almost
certainly caused by solar mining. The second part of the message
depicted the sudden and total breakdown of a star from its
normal life-cycle to complete collapse in the space of a few
years. The message was stylized and iconic, much less intuitive
than the first part, but its physics were exactingly precise.
The core of the star lost stability--the computer simulation
showed a number of processes, any or all of which may have been
finally responsible--and the star collapsed in on itself,
compressing to an infinitely hot ball before exploding, shedding
layers in sequence and boiling off its planets.
It was over. Mankind's first contact with extraterrestrial life
began and ended with a single message--a greeting that
translation turned into a gift, a gift that disaster turned into
a warning.
Stellar explosion continues to be heard around the world
==========================================================
MAY 16, 1994: Tensions continue to mount worldwide as the
effects of yesterday's supernova explosion of Gibbons' Star are
felt. Many nations' militaries have been placed on alert due to
the nova's impact on many types of radio communications, and
airports, shipping and other transportations systems are
struggling to cope with the phenomenon. Delays are frequent, and
some transport and communication systems aren't functioning at
all.
Last night, the nova had an apparent brightness of a half- or
three-quarter moon. It roughly follows the path of the sun
across the sky and is highly visible during daytime hours. While
experts say the nova should present no immediate health danger
from radiation or other effects, they are advising the public to
be cautious until more information is available.
Public reaction has been enormous. On the west coast of the
United States where the nova appeared in the late evening,
streets were crowded with people even before the news officially
broke. In Tokyo, Japan, nearly everything ground to halt when
the nova appeared high overhead. There have been reports of
large religious gatherings in Delhi, India, and street parties
in Washington, D.C.
Most experts have refused to comment on the accuracy of
University of California astronomer Anton Zallian's prediction
of the explosion, but preliminary observations seem to indicate
that this nova is much larger than it should be. "Stars that
size can explode, but theoretically they can't supernova," said
one researcher. "This is much brighter and more powerful than it
ought to be." At this time, there have been no estimates
released regarding how long the nova may be visible in the sky.
Tracks by Daniel K. Appelquist
==================================
The day that star exploded, I was out back killing my dog. I
looked up and there it was, outshining everything in the sky,
exposing me and my crime to the world, lighting me harsher than
sunlight could have. When I looked back down the dog was dead,
its head having been held under the water too long. I looked
down and it looked back up at me with those sad eyes, eyes
brightened by that exploding star. Eyes that said "I wasn't such
a bad dog--you didn't give me a chance. Now you've killed me.
Let that be on your head, on your neck like a flea that you'll
never gonna be able to scratch off."
And I said "Fuck you," because I knew that he was right. Though
the truth is that he was a bad dog. At night, he yelped and
yelped and you never heard the end of it. Putting a pillow over
your head was no help, because this mongrel made the most
piercing, tortured sound you ever heard. It traveled through
walls, doors, pillows, blankets, ear plugs--any substance known
to man. It could be heard for blocks.
And this dog was mean, too. He had mauled a kid once; he
endlessly jumped our neighbors, frightened small children and
elderly women, ate like a horse, and refused to admit that the
kitchen was not his personal shit-hole. He was a dumb, mean
son-of-a-bitch, and I wasn't sorry to see him go, even if I was
a bit surprised at myself for having the balls to do it.
Over the fence next door I heard a clang, the sound of metal
against metal. For a second I thought I'd been caught, but I
realized it was just old man Davis building his damned track.
Davis was a hoot. This guy had been building a track--a real,
regulation railroad track--through his back yard ever since I'd
been living there. Strangest shit you ever saw.
"Where does he get the supplies?" I asked my friend Harvey once
at the Brass Knuckles, this little bar down on H Street. I
remember the air was smoky and old Harvey was working on a
cigar.
"He steals 'em! That's the kicker," Harvey replied, taking
another giant puff, leaning back and behaving like a rich
landowner instead of the shit insurance salesman he was. "He
steals every last bit of it. Most of it's scrap, of course,
stuff that's lying around. I've heard he steals from the Metro
tunnels. He goes down there with a flashlight when the trains
aren't running, cuts himself a length of track or whatever, then
comes back up."
"You're crazy," I remarked, taking Harvey as seriously as I ever
did. "How could that guy carry all that track, or any track at
all? Track's heavy stuff. He's gotta have it delivered."
"Suit yourself," Harvey retorted blandly while sucking another
gout of smoke. "But my source is _reliable_."
So anyway, here was this guy out in his yard at night,
installing another length of the mysterious track. Was it art?
Certainly he couldn't be expecting them to build a Metro line
through here and he was just preparing. Or perhaps he thought
they would pay a premium for his plot of land, which already had
a regulation track on it, ready for use. Peering over the fence,
I could see that the track did indeed look good. No third rail,
though, but I wasn't about to tell Davis that. Davis, being my
neighbor, hated me because of my damned dog.
So this particular night, after drowning my hound, I walked back
into the low porch of my one bedroom row-house, where I would
never have to put up with the smell of fresh dog shit again, and
gave my friend Harvey a call.
"Hey Harvey! Do you... Yes... Uh huh... Just so, it was...
Yeah... Right... And then I... Uh huh? Okay." _Click_. Harvey
never was one to let a guy get a word in edgewise. Not when he
could be spouting the shit he spouts instead. Harvey had said
that a friend had told him that they'd seen on the news that the
new light was a supernova, that a star was exploding somewhere
in space, that all those aliens were dead. I was going to ask
Harvey if he thought there was any danger being outside, what
with the radiation and all, but Harvey cut me off to tell me
that it was perfectly safe, or at least that's what this guy at
the deli counter had said. Some shit. Imagine a star exploding
like that, taking all the light it was gonna give out over the
next billion or whatever years, and spending it all at once,
like it was at Vegas or Atlantic City or something.
Still, the star brought with it something strange, a thrill that
crept into the street, infiltrated even the low-life scum that
populated some of the tenements down by the old post office,
where the sneakers were slung over the telephone wire. I
couldn't remember seeing much of those kids--they were usually
in and out in a flash, with their oversized pants and hats,
crazy-looking kids. But who am I to judge? This crazy star
business brought them out onto the street. Goddamn if they
weren't all out there, gawking and laughing. I hadn't imagined
that there were this many of them, hanging out in that old
building with half the windows boarded up. Thought I'd heard a
gunshot once from inside when I was walking past, but I stopped
and listened and I didn't hear anything more, so I kept walking.
That night, though, they were all outside. It would have made me
nervous, except that for some reason, I knew it was safe. I knew
they weren't gonna hassle anybody. I knew they weren't gonna
bother an old man as he walking toward the bus stop, past the
abandoned cars, out to the street to catch a bus over to meet
his friend Harvey at a bar down on H Street. They were too busy
talking, like they never really knew nothing about each other.
Talking, and looking up at that bright star, gawking, wondering.
Waiting for the bus, an old man caught my eye, hooks where his
hands might have been. He swaggered over to me, a big burly
fellow, about twice my size. I froze, unsure whether I was being
attacked--should I stand my ground? Run? The man asked me for
directions to the train station. "Going to visit my mother," he
said. "Haven't seen her in fifteen years, but I just got the
urge." His eyes had the look of a man who hadn't seen much joy.
"We might die any time, you know." He looked up, knowingly.
"Gotta take our joy where we can." He took the next bus, my bus,
following my hasty directions. "There's nothing in this world
but pain," the man said. I told him about the kids in front of
the crack house, laughing, looking up at the sky. "I used to
think that way too," he said. "Look where it got me." He lifted
up his hooks as if they were the final answer, as if they were
supposed to signify something, as if there were nothing else in
the world. "I lost these on a railroad track in '67. Train cut
'em right off."
"I'm... I'm sorry," was all I could say.
I got off at H Street and Harvey was waiting for me there. I
told him about the kids in front of the crack house, and the man
with the hooks, and old man Davis making his tracks. He was
silent through all this, which is strange for Harvey. He's
always talking, always got something on his mind, something to
say, something to tell you. All he said through this whole thing
was "Yeah--that crazy old man'll be building his tracks 'til
Doomsday," which was an awful strange thing for Harvey to say,
because he never talks about Doomsday or anything else like
that. Harvey's real cheerful.
"Something bothering you, Harvey?"
The crowd in the bar at H street was different that night,
different from the way it had been the million and one times I'd
been there before. A bit younger, more lively. Some guys in the
corner, over by the piano, were trying to sing. That was no real
surprise, but after the song, they started up with a new one.
Soon some other voices joined them.
Harvey wouldn't tell me why he wasn't being himself, so I told
him what I'd done before, how I finally killed my damned dog.
That brightened his face a bit.
"Well, damned good for you!" he said. "I'll buy you a drink for
that." And he did. Always stuck to his word, Harvey did. "I saw
a woman die yesterday," Harvey blurted out. "I can't get it out
of my fucking head. She was just standing there, just standing
there."
"Whoa, Harvey! What the hell are you talking about? Who? Where?"
Harvey had given me no warning.
"I can't keep it in any more. I can't keep it in any more." He
kept repeating this phrase. "She was standing there," he sobbed.
"On the tracks. And the train just come by and took her right
along with her. It looked like she didn't even notice, like she
didn't even care."
"Harvey, calm down. Where was this? I didn't hear nothing about
it."
Harvey just rested his head in his hands on the bar. "It doesn't
matter," he sighed. "It doesn't matter. She's gone now. Gone."
He downed another shot. "Did you ever notice, when you're riding
in a train, and you're looking out the window at the other set
of tracks out there...?" His voice turned all dreamy, like he
wasn't really talking to me at all. "Did you ever notice how
everything rushes by so quickly, but that track just stays
there, like it ain't moving at all? That track just keeps going
and going, while everything changes around it so quick."
I took Harvey out of the bar, out onto the street. "Easy,
Harvey. Easy."
Harvey quickly turned on me. "What do _you_ know about tracks?
Fuck you!" He tore away from me and ran off raggedly down the
street, weaving in and out of light poles and fireplugs like
some kind of slalom skier.
What was up with him? All I could think of was his story, about
the woman on the tracks. What possesses a person to do something
like that, to make such a final decision?
On the corner of the street, there was a man with no arm, with a
sign around his neck: "Homeless please help." He looked hungry
and afraid. He wasn't wearing anything more than a T-shirt and
some ripped up jeans, and he was shivering. His eyes caught the
light from the star and it seemed to me that he turned into a
monster, some kind of sci-fi nightmare creature, with eyes that
were gonna burn a hole straight through me. I just walked on by,
to the gentle sound of jingling change.
I kept walking, damning myself and everyone else I could think
of, trying to keep those eyes and those thoughts out of my mind.
Finally, I broke into a run. I didn't know where I was going
until I found myself back on my street, struggling to open the
front door like there was something after me, something evil.
I'd never been so afraid, and I can't think of _what_ I was
afraid of.
It was when I closed the door that I heard it. My mind still
wasn't working right. The noise was building, grinding, metal
against metal. It was coming from out back, so I crept out there
real slow. I peered over the fence and there was old man Davis,
standing by his tracks. As I watched, the tracks shook back and
forth before him and I swore I heard the sound of an engine
getting nearer. With a crash, this train was coming through old
man Davis's yard, gunning through there like a bat out of hell.
Car after car appeared on one side of the yard and disappeared
on the other. That train kept on coming and making that awful
noise, and I didn't know whether it was a dream. I don't know
when it stopped--I don't remember anything more from that night,
but we never saw old man Davis again.
A few weeks later, the building manager came around asking
questions about him, but I didn't know any more than anyone else
and I didn't tell no one about what I saw. I guess he didn't
have any family, because they threw his stuff out into the
street. The star was still in the sky, but those crackhead kids
were back to their old tricks and Harvey was back to being as
much of an asshole as ever.
"They just tore out those tracks old man Davis spent so much
time putting down," I remember telling him. "Then they paved it
all over for the new tenants. It's a shame. A damned shame."
Harvey just laughed. "What a nut!" he said, his face all screwed
up, like it was the funniest thing he ever heard. "What a
fucking nut."
"Yeah," I said. Yeah.
Little Sun Part Three
=========================
May 14, 1994 22:39:13
-----------------------
Catherine,
The nova didn't appear today as predicted by your fellow
researcher. I waited outside on my porch for about two hours in
anticipation. According to the radio it should have been visible
overhead at midday, but... nothing. Perhaps the sun blocked it
out, but the radio has not reported its appearance anyplace
else.
I am of course concerned for what this means to your research,
although I have seen the widespread debate and skepticism about
this scientist's prediction. However, my first thoughts are
consumed with how this nonevent will affect Tantu and his
village.
Tantu stopped by during late afternoon. He was very upset. It
seems he told--announced, really--the entire village of the
coming of the "Little Sun." He claimed that this would be a
message from the spirits to show the villagers he was the chosen
one to lead the Mayoruna to the Nascente. When the nova did not
appear, Blue Mouth and his followers pronounced Tantu a fake and
a liar.
Tantu yelled all this at me, clearly blaming me for his own
haste and greed. I tried to be as honest as I could and explain
that sometimes this was the way things happened with science...
that he shouldn't place so much faith in it. This did not seem
to help. He looked at me incredulously like I was uttering
blasphemy. The only thing I could say that seemed to calm him
was that the date and time may have simply been calculated
incorrectly, that the nova--the "Little Sun"--may yet appear.
I felt almost evil telling him this--the prediction could have
been off by months, or even years. Since I could not make Tantu
realize that he had deliberately led his village to think of
science as a faith, I simply encourage him further in his plot
for power? Still, what was I to do? Tell him the truth? Tell him
that I secretly hoped the nova would never appear?
Yes, I think that is the truth. Without the physical nova,
Catherine, there's a chance your research would become suspect
and mocked. And without the "Little Sun," Tantu's techno-fetish
leadership doesn't have a prayer. These things would satisfy my
vengeful thoughts of your betrayal and cleanse my conscience of
the guilt of inadvertently corrupting Tantu's tribe. Admitting
this is not easy, but perhaps it is the first step towards
understanding myself.
May 16, 1994 16:08:57
-----------------------
Catherine,
The nova appeared today! It appeared early this morning, rising
maybe an hour and a half after the sun. It was incredibly bright
for an object so far away. Later in the day, the moon was
visible through the foliage, and I think the nova is brighter
than its crescent, even during daylight! Despite my misgivings
about what the nova could mean, it has filled me with awe and
excitement.
Of course I immediately turned on the radio to see if there was
coverage of the event but the radio was useless. Nothing but
static with rare snatches of signal. Perhaps it is the nova
itself that is creating the interference. If that's true, maybe
I can raise Leticia when the nova has set.
Later, with the star high overhead, I picked my way through the
forest to the Mayoruna village. I was very anxious about what I
would find, but I was immensely curious also.
The village was a beehive of activity. Blue Mouth and a few of
his followers were huddled together on one side of the village,
surrounded by angry men who held spears and blow-gun reeds. But
the vast majority of villagers were not paying them much
heed--women were hurriedly rushing between huts carrying the
cups of dried gourds. Shouts and sounds of laughter could be
heard from the nearest huts.
I crossed the compound to the old chief's hut where there was a
large crowd of men talking loudly. As I passed by Blue Mouth's
group a few of his men shouted and stared at me defiantly. Their
faces and shoulders looked bruised and swollen, as if they'd
been beaten.
Tantu was in the large hut. As I approached, the talking men
clustered about the doorway parted and I entered. Tantu was
sitting in the hammock. A man I recognized him as the one who
had administered the frog potion to Tantu days earlier, rubbed
white paste into Tantu's shoulders gingerly. I could see gashes
in his skin and dried blood in his hair. Tantu's face was
bruised and one eye was almost swollen shut.
Tantu smiled when he recognized me and stood to greet me.
"Kane! It has happened! The Little Sun is here..."
"Yes," I replied. "It has happened... but it has brought a lot
of pain also." I pointed to his face and the white paste drying
on his shoulders.
"This is good, Kane. This is because we were bad to not believe
it would happen." He looked at me as if I should have known
that.
"What? This is... your punishment?" I tried not to raise my
voice too loud. Suddenly, I thought of Blue Mouth and his men
outside. "Did those others do this to you when the nova--the
Little Sun--didn't appear?" I looked around at the faces of
other Indians in the hut: many of them displayed cuts and
bruises. "Did they do this to all of you?"
"We were bad to not believe the Little Sun would come," Tantu
explained again, smiling. I leaned forward and examined Tantu's
eye; it looked very painful, but in the dim light it was
difficult to tell if any permanent damage had been done. "When
Little Sun leaves the sky, we will be forgiven."
"And what happens when the Little Sun comes tomorrow?" I said
without thinking.
Tantu's smile disappeared. "The Little Sun will come here
again?"
I looked around the hut. All eyes were on me. "Yes," I said. "It
could come every day for the next few months...." I paused, not
knowing what to say. "They really don't know how long the nova
will be active or visible."
"Who is they?" Tantu asked.
I tried to think of a way to explain it, but I was starting to
get sick of the whole situation. I felt guilty and responsible,
not for the beatings, but for Tantu and the village's perception
of the nova. I had made the supernova into a false god.
"I don't know, Tantu. Just some scientists...." In the hut, all
the faces were watching me expectantly, as if I were supposed to
perform some ritual or feat of magic. "I have to go," I said,
and started to leave.
"Kane." Tantu stopped me with a hand on my back. "I am chief now
of the tribe. I want you to be our shaman."
I froze then. It had all come down to this... I didn't know what
to say. I knew I couldn't refuse, but I don't think there was
anything I could say. Tantu began to speak again, but all I
heard was the blood rushing through my head. I brushed his hand
off and left the hut.
I heard a muffled yell from the hut and then nothing more as I
marched away from that crowd and out of the village. I wanted to
get away from Tantu and the hysterical religion I had helped
instigate. I walked faster, swatting at the leaves and branches
along the trail as I went. I felt sick to my stomach.
Behind me, I heard a gunshot.
May 18, 1994 04:21:37
-----------------------
Catherine,
I am kept awake now by my dreams and thoughts of what I have
done. In the afternoons I become drowsy with the heat and
humidity, and it is during these times that I try and rest. My
dreams are filled with visions of the lacerated flesh of the
Mayoruna and Tantu's swollen eye. Each morning, when the nova
appears in the strip of sky over the river, I see Blue Mouth
punishing the Mayoruna again because the Little Sun has not yet
forgiven them.
I have stayed inside almost the entire time since I returned
from the village. Yesterday evening I went to Bolognesi, hoping
to find some diesel fuel for the generator and perhaps a way to
contact Mohammed in Leticia. I haven't been able to raise anyone
on the radio, even though the static isn't as bad at night.
Bolognesi was virtually empty when I arrived, making the trip
almost useless. I found a dock foreman and asked where everyone
had gone. He was sitting atop a stack of crates with a rifle
over his shoulder and a pistol beside him, smoking cigarettes
and watching the nova. He said they heard no boats or planes
would be coming while the radios weren't working, so the boat
men had left for Leticia when they learned they wouldn't be
paid. He and a few men were staying to guard the shipments and
lumber that were still here and earn a reward, or take what they
could if it turned out to be a long wait. He said they had heard
shots from the east, in the direction of the Mayoruna village,
and had seen Indians peering at them from the jungle. He didn't
have any diesel, so I returned to the cabin, increasingly
agitated.
I am afraid to go back to the village. I am afraid to go
outside. Soon I will run out of fuel, then batteries.
May 20, 1994
--------------
Catherine,
Tantu and his followers came to my cabin today. They ransacked
the place and took almost everything--that is why I am writing
this by hand--I think I am just lucky to be alive.
I heard gunshots from the east last night. So I knew something
was happening. Then at about noon today Tantu appeared at my
door with five other men. All of them carried guns, and Tantu's
eye looked infected.
Tantu approached me and asked me again to be his tribe's shaman.
I think I must have chuckled at the absurdity of the situation
because he stepped forward and grabbed me by the shoulders and
demanded that I use the radio to tell the Little Sun to leave.
He stared at me and yelled something incomprehensible.
I removed myself from his grip slowly, assured him that I would
help with his eye and I went over to one of my small trunks. I
pulled out a first aid kit and walked back toward him.
Tantu looked at the box, clearly dismayed. He pointed his rifle
at my chest and demanded I use the radio. I tried to explain
that I couldn't, that there wasn't enough electricity and that
the nova prevented it from working anyway, but he wouldn't
listen. He pushed me across the room and started to search the
cabin. I moved to stop him, but I suddenly realized that other
guns were pointed in my direction. I backed off to a corner.
Tantu tore through my belongings, moving from shelf to box to
trunk with increasing frustration. Just when I thought he would
give up, his body froze. Slowly he stood up from the trunk where
I had stored the first aid kit. In his hand was a beaded rosary
that my mother had given me. Tantu stared at it and then glared
at me. His hand began to shake then and he suddenly erupted,
tearing the rosary apart. Black plastic beads flew across the
room. Tantu threw what was left at my face.
He then went through a fit of rage and yelling. Most of it was
in Mayoruna and incomprehensible to me, but several times he
broke into English and called me a liar and a shit. He yelled
out the words "Jesus Christ" with fierce hatred. He shook his
gun and then pointed it at me. I thought he was going to kill me
and I shut my eyes.
Instead, Tantu barked out commands to the other men and they
began to dismantle my computer and radio equipment. They roughly
carried it outside in loads. When I protested, Tantu struck me
across the jaw with the butt of his rifle. I collapsed to the
floor.
When they left Tantu said nothing to me. He just walked outside,
off the porch, and back towards Bolognesi. I peeked out the
doorway and saw his small group of followers pulling and pushing
the small generator trailer behind him. It was piled with my
computer, radio, and a rough jumble of cables.
Now I am here writing on the blank pages of computer manuals
like a pathetic idiot. But I can't go to the village, and I fear
to follow Tantu toward Bolognesi.
May 22, 1994
--------------
Catherine,
I learned of your death today in a hissing report over the AM
transistor radio. You've been dead for a week and I didn't know
until now. I feel so empty. I was dead to your life and now...
now you are dead to mine.
I didn't feel empty when I heard the report this morning,
though. I was full of screaming rage and hatred of the zealots
and murderers that drove that bombed the SETI research center.
But now the red has faded from my eyes. I look around me at the
remnants of the cabin interior. I finished destroying what Tantu
and his men hadn't destroyed in their rampage earlier. There is
almost nothing of any value left... at least nothing that I can
make myself care about.
I threw the broken rosary and the transistor radio out into the
river as far as I could. The radio bobbed for a moment before
being pulled under by the Javari's strong current. I then went
to the Mayoruna village. I wasn't sure what would happen there.
I was a mixture of rage and loneliness, and beyond caring
It didn't matter, because the village was gone. Empty huts and
discarded gourds were all that were left. And the bodies... the
gunshot bodies of Blue Mouth and his followers.
Blue Mouth was draped over the body of another in a makeshift
funeral pyre. The fire had never really caught and the bodies
has smoldered for some time before cooling. Now they were
half-burnt, bloated and crawling with insects.
I returned here. After seeing that, your death somehow fits in
neatly.... It's as if there is nothing left for me now.
When I listened to the radio's news report this morning after
the anchor recited your name in a list of the dead, I heard who
claimed responsibility for the bombing. My parents give money to
that group.
If I leave quickly I may be able to catch Tantu and the Mayoruna
before they become completely immersed in the rain forest.
They'll be traveling slow, dragging that generator with them. It
should make them easy to track. I may not last long in the
forest, but if I return to the world I used to know, I won't
last even that long.
Goodbye, Catherine.
Maybe I will see you on a new sun.
_Kenneth James Mayhew_
This Lighted Dark by Chris Kmotorka
=======================================
Mama Tippet calls all this a sign, another thing coming as sure
as the Lord has risen. All I know is it's a thing that's driving
the world crazy. Animals round here don't seem to know day from
night no more and things as never seen another since God done
put 'em on the planet is passing each other and scaring each and
each alike. Two moons, two daytimes, and ain't nothin knowing
what to make of it.
The hounds is having a hell of a good time with it all. Running
possum and coon half blind with the light, not a shadow of
darkness unexplained. Their path both clear and free. Seems me
and these dogs is the only things not drove crazy by all this
strange going on. But I'll be damned of the rest of 'em ain't
just about tossed it all in the creek.
I went to see Mama Tippett to ask if she could help me locate
something of mine that done run off. Blame it all on this here
astronomical aberration is what I do. But Mama Tippett is looped
these days, too. Giving me the hellfire and brimstone rap afore
I even get a chance to explain it all to her. Telling me the
meek shall inherit the Earth, but they have to escape that
what's holding 'em back first. Telling me this here is the time
when all that will happen. When all the meek and mild'ns will be
seeking their vengeance. The hand of the Lord comes quietly she
says. I simply thanked her and backed on out and got the dogs
running again. Somewhere on this mountain I'm going to find what
it is I'm looking for. And when I do.... Let's just say it had
better be alone. And it better smell alone, too.
I hear Blue. She's not on a scent. Not yet. But I can hear her,
keeping tabs on the others, rounding them up, keeping things in
order. A real-take charge gal, that bitch. Finest dog I ever
had. Probably never find another like her. Keenest nose on this
mountain. I could probably make a decent price on her if I ever
decided to sell her off. Should probably get a litter out of her
before long. Just hate to have her down for any length of time.
Hell of a lead dog. Absolute music to the ears to hear her work.
Every year it's harder to think why I want to keep things the
way they are. And now, waiting for a sign from the dogs that
they've found she's out here, I wonder how long I'll be able to
keep my life steady and sure.
I know she's been thinking on this for a long time now. Known it
a long, long time. Could see it in her eyes. Hear it in her
voice, in the way she moans at night. Taste it in the things she
cooks. I don't know what it is she expected. Maybe if I knew
what she was thinking when I brought her up here I'd have some
idea of why she was so dissatisfied with it all. Maybe I'd be
able to see it from her view. But as it is, all I know is what I
am, the way I always been, and that's just what she got, just
what she should have expected to get. No more, no less. I never
once presented myself in any way but the truth. The essence of
my being. The straight perfume. If that ain't what she was
looking to be smelling till death do us part, then she shouldn't
have latched on to the bottle, so to speak.
I suppose I can't help but think of her as a liar, now what with
all that's happening. Said "I do," and here she is operating on
a definite "I don't" basis. Took off for who knows what.
Straight through the woods as if she'd have a chance out there
alone, as if I wouldn't find her just as easy as if she had
headed off down the road with her hip cocked, her thumb
strutting, and her suitcase by her side. Me, I almost prefer it
this way. Give the dogs a chance to get a run. Work 'em up. Like
to keep an edge on 'em. Nothing worse than a dog that lost its
edge.
She couldn't have picked a more foolish time to be running. I
guess she was figuring she'd have time while I was out, take
advantage of this lighted dark. No sense being alone in the
woods in the real dark. She'd never get nowhere then. Simply
find her huddled up, staving off the creeping crawlies. Course,
she had no way of knowing hunting would be a bust. Everything
run crazy, no challenge, not knowing whether the dogs is running
coon or deer. Ain't no sense in taking deer now, not with it so
light out. No way of sneaking something that big around in the
broad night light.
Come home and she's gone. Not in the smokehouse. Not in the
outhouse. Sure as hell not in the main house. Drawers pulled
out, clothes hanging down. And of all things, the cloth missing
right off the kitchen table. Who knows what that's all about.
The dogs was all razzed up, just itching. Had to run 'em on
something. No way of knowin' how long she was gone. Day or two.
Probably one. Would have taken her a while to get her nerve up.
I can see her now, nails all chewed up on those red and
roughed-up hands of hers. Sitting there all flustered, leaning
forward, rocking back and forth, knocking her knees together,
weighing it all out best she can. Finally getting up the nerve
and rushing around like a wounded pig, knocking into every which
thing. Pulling out underwear, stuffing it all on the table,
finally wrapping it all up in the oilcloth, not knowing how else
to carry it all.
It ain't gonna be a problem. It's just taking longer than I
expected. Expected her to have lit out on the road. Lost a bit
of time on that one. Brung the dogs back and they finally picked
her up back by the spring. Probably shouldn't have taken so much
time before heading out. Eating and all. Just never expected her
to get so far. Never would've guessed she moved like this.
Don't know where she's headed. Doubt she does. Only thing this
way is mountain and forest and Kincaid's place. Damn well better
not be heading for Kincaid's. Ain't no reason for her to be
'round that son of a bitch.
Kincaid's been eyeing her for a long time. Ain't no secret in
that. Seen her looking at him one time in the grocery. All I
could do to keep from taking her out right there and then. As it
was, I slapped the dope from her hands, watched it spill all
over, puddle up at her shoes while she just stood there
wide-eyed and about to wet herself. Kincaid stiffened, started
to step forward. I just turned around and faced him and smiled
pretty as could be. He backed right off. Just dropped his eyes
to the floor and walked out. Left his groceries right on the
counter. Ended up doing most of my shopping right from his stuff
there. Said to her, you like looking at that? Some little
polecat too scared to say a thing when he sees something he
don't like? She didn't say nothing either. Kindred spirits, I
said. Drug her on out to the pickup and back home.
Through the woods I trail the dogs. Faint thrill of
anticipation. Of finding what I never wish to find. Night has
fallen. Two moons in the sky, east and west, replace the sun.
There is no darkness to speak of. I have not slept in two days,
but I feel no exhaustion. So many hours in the day. Time enough
to sleep when darkness finally comes.
Into a clearing. I halt. There in the midst of the field a buck
stands alert. Listening to the hounds. Glad for their increasing
distance. I take the rifle up from the crook of my arm and hold
the deer in my sights. The tawny coat bristles in the slight
chill of the evening breeze. A muscle twitch runs from shoulder
to knee and nostrils flare. A snort like horse's coughing breaks
the silence and he lowers his head to graze once more. I slide
the safety catch into place and I lower the rifle. A slight
smile and I half yell hup-deer and in one sleek moment he breaks
to his left, nearly dropping himself to the ground, and
disappears into the wood in a blur of white tail flash and
crashing vegetation. I laugh and walk on. There is no hurry.
There is no secret where the dogs will lead now.
I brought her to the mountain a bride of sixteen. A blush still
on her. Skin still soft with baby fat. For three years she has
sullenly gone about her duties as I see them. Not once a whisper
of thanks for providing for her. For saving her from spending
her life with a crazy mama and a drunked-up daddy. Three years
and nary a child to show for it. A woman can't be too much good
to a man if she can't do what she's called to do, whether it be
tending a house or bringing up a son or two. I barely get one,
and damn near nothing of the other. One malformed bloody mess of
a miscarriage nearly two years ago and not a hint of nothing
since. Meanwhile, she's just going about her business and biding
her time for God knows what to come. For a sign, I suppose. Two
moons to light the way. As good a sign as any.
The baying of the hounds rises to a fever pitch. They strangle
on their voices. The hunt is on and they have their prey. What
the hell holds them back, I wonder. But I know: years of
training, generations of dogs bred to withstand the temptation
to tear it all apart. To seek and find, but not destroy. To
stand at the ready, their whole bodies, their entire beings
aquiver with it all. The stench of bloodlust driving them mad,
waiting for the master to come along and dispatch it all with a
bullet. The sudden explosion of the report the climax of a
heated onslaught. Over. An instant.
I walk over the rise and look down over the black geometry that
is Kincaid's field and feel that rush in my belly again. That
wicked half sense of fear and anticipation. Blue leads. She
swings the dogs in a wide, perfect arc down the slope of the
hill around to the house. Seven shapes, black against the
grasses, moldy green in the odd night light. The rising pitch of
baying hounds. The intensity increases. I see her come running
from around the back of the house, hand holding up the hem of
her dress. Blue is nearly on her as I walk down slow, easing my
way down to claim what's rightfully mine.
About a hundred yards out, she makes it to the door and slips
in. Blue nearly knocking herself senseless crashing into it. A
half scream above the rising howl of dogs. I yell up to the
house, "You'd best come out here Sher-lynn," and the front
window slides up about six inches. Kincaid.
"What you want, Harris?" he yells out. Too much of a
chicken-shit to come out and face what he's got coming.
"I want what's mine, Kincaid, and I aim to have it. Now send her
on out here so as we can talk."
I'm trying to yell over the hounds all this time and it's making
things edgy. Too much tension. More than we could want anyhow.
All I want is to have her come out. Talk some sense to her and
get on with it all. The damn gun's getting heavy and my hands is
getting nervous. All this waiting.
"Send her out, Kincaid. So as we can talk. We need to talk this
over."
"Ain't no harm gonna come to her, is there, Harris?" I'm
surprised how sure of himself he sounds.
"Harm's already been done, Kincaid. All we can do now is hope to
make less of it. You hear me?"
"You get them dogs offa there and she'll come out to the porch.
You can talk from where you stand."
I called up the dogs as best I could. But they was running at
fever. The whole thing was anticlimactic for them. You just
don't run a dog to its prey and then not do something to satisfy
'em. It just don't work that way. But I got Blue to come down
off the porch and the rest followed her. They was trotting back
and forth the length of the porch. An occasional whine. A low
growl. Finally, I yelled back up at the house.
"Okay, Sher-lynn. The dogs is off the porch. Now get your ass
out here."
Kincaid again. "Don't try nothing, Harris. I'm watching from
right here."
The door began to open slowly and Sher-lynn's hand come out
first. Way slow. She slipped out, half her body showing, a wary
eye shifting between me and the dogs. Finally she come right out
and stood there in front of the door, not quite letting it close
behind her.
"What you think you doing, girl?" I asked.
"I's leaving you, Tilton Harris. Sure as shine is clear." She
wasn't anywhere near as confident as she wanted to sound.
"What makes you think you can up and leave, girl? We's married,
if you ain't forgot."
"Ain't not forgetting that, Tilton. I remember that every minute
of every day. I'd sure like to start forgetting it, though."
"That ain't goin to be so easy, child. Cause you're coming back
with me. Sure as shine is clear. Sure as blood is red."
I started walking toward the door and I heard a rifle click in
the house. Sher-lynn heard it, too, because I saw her turn her
head toward the window and her eyes get real big. I hupped up
the dogs and they rushed up the porch and were on her in no
time. Pinned her back up against the door. No way for her to
open it. All she could do was stand there, hands fluttering up
about her face, and scream like it was the end of the world.
Next thing I know there's a gunshot. I hit the ground, thinking
Kincaid was shooting at me, but as soon as I looked back up
toward the house I seen Blue laid out on the dirt patch afront
the porch. Blown off the porch by the shot. The other dogs were
yelping and hollering, swarming all over Blue. Crazy with the
smell of blood.
I leaped up, stumbled and caught myself and lifted up my rifle.
I levered off a round through the window and heard something
heavy hit the floor and Kincaid's rifle discharged. But no
bullet came out of the cabin. Hit a wall or the ceiling.
Sher-lynn's just screaming and the dogs are yapping and I'm
standing there unable to move. Somehow I know Kincaid ain't
going to be firing back out that window.
After a few seconds, I move toward the door. Sher-lynn's
screaming out a name--Nathan. Must be Kincaid, I'm thinking,
cause it sure as hell ain't me. I push her out of the way and
swing open the door and enter rifle first and ready, but there
lay Kincaid, tumbled back in a chair and a hole ripped right
through his throat. Blood was pooling everywhere. And then
Sher-lynn's there at my elbow and her screaming gets even
louder. She ain't screaming nothing that makes sense now. It's
just noises. Terror and grief and who knows what. The dogs are
going crazy over Blue, and Sher-lynn's screaming, and Kincaid's
laying there dead--just as well dead--and I'm standing there not
knowing what to do, just knowing I need some quiet. Everything
was moving too loud and too fast and I couldn't much take it any
longer.
I backed out of the cabin, pushing Sher-lynn along with me and
she won't stop screaming. She's yelling "You kilt him, you kilt
him!" Like I don't already know that. Calling me up for murder.
Calling down God and the law, calling them down from wherever to
take me off. Finally I turned and held the rifle out
straightarmed away from me and pulled the trigger. Her head
jerked back and her eyes rolled up as if she was looking for the
top of her skull and she fell back slow and straight, like a
felled tree. When the report from the rifle stopped echoing in
my ears all that was left was the baying of the damned dogs. I
pointed the gun to the sky and fired, yelling at the dogs, hup
dogs, get, get, and fired again and they scattered and took off
up the hill toward the wood. I walked over to where Blue lay and
she was still breathing, but it wasn't a gentle breath. There
was a death rattle in her breath and every lowering of her chest
was followed by a coughing up of bubbling blood. I lowered the
rifle just behind her ear, cocked the lever, and put out of her
misery.
No sound but my labored breathing, nothing around but me and the
death that surrounds me. And I stood in the silence of this
lighted dark. And I walked off into it, not knowing where I was
going, or for how long. Only knowing I could not stay here.
Maybe Mama Tippet is right. Maybe it is a time of judgment.
Maybe there is a second coming, some kind of judgment come down
for us all. I don't know. I only know I will walk until I find
darkness and a time for sleep has come.
Wine and Cheese by Robert Hurvitz
=====================================
Harold was running late. He had seen a matinee with his
housemate, done a large pile of laundry, and finally gone down
to the burrito place for some dinner. By the time he was home
and ready to go to his boss' six o'clock wine and cheese party,
it was past seven. He hurried to his car and drove off, sweating
slightly.
Parking was worse than he thought it would be--he ended up
blocking a fire hydrant three blocks from his destination. He
walked briskly, casting nervous glances from side to side. His
boss had mentioned that he had heard gunfire in this
neighborhood. Harold clenched his jaw and quickened his pace.
Almost at the front door, he realized that he'd forgotten to set
the Club on his steering wheel. After a few moments' hesitation,
he decided that he was too late already, so he trudged up the
front steps and rang the bell.
"Hi!" His boss' wife, Paula, opened the door. Her eyes were red
and she held a long-stemmed glass in her hand. "You must be one
of Freddy's friends from work," she said, laughing a little.
"Uh, yes. My name is Harold. Sorry I'm late." He motioned
vaguely with his hands.
"Oh!" She clapped her free hand on his shoulder and pulled him
into the house. "So you're Harry! Freddy's told me about you.
Please come in and have some wine." She pushed him toward the
living room and shut the front door with her foot. Harold
guessed she was drunk.
He walked into the living room and looked around. There were a
handful of people he didn't recognize, but all the rest were
from work. His boss, Fred Wasserman, ambled out of the kitchen.
"Harry! So you decided to show up?" Harold had never seen Fred
in anything but a suit and tie: jeans and a Grateful Dead
T-shirt made him look like a regular guy. "Here, let me take
your coat."
Harold shrugged out of his leather jacket, which he had
anxiously bought with his Christmas bonus. Fred took it and
said, "The wine's in the kitchen," then disappeared into the
hallway.
Fred and Paula
----------------
At least it hadn't rained. It had been overcast and cold for the
three days that Fred and Paula had been hiking, but, as they
kept telling each other, at least it hadn't rained. They'd been
looking forward to this vacation for a month and they were
determined to have a good time. They marched on through the
forest.
Around the time they were beginning to think seriously about
dinner, they found a pleasant clearing and decided to regard it
as a sign from God to set up camp. They pitched their tent and
had dinner; by the time they were done it was very dark, very
cold, and the clouds were starting to disperse overhead. The
wind was methodically seeping its way through their layers of
clothing. They huddled together next to their small, faithful
campfire.
"Well, we might freeze to death, but at least we'll be able to
see the stars," Fred said.
Paula smiled slightly, leaned a little more into him, and looked
up at the sky. The clouds had thinned out enough to let a few
stars peek through.
They weren't sure how long it took them to notice how bright the
ambient light was, especially with only a crescent moon. For a
while they were enjoying the beauty of nature, trying to ignore
the cold. Then suddenly they realized they were staring at a
bright point of light in the sky, just above the trees. They
watched in silence for several moments; the light didn't move or
change intensity. They looked at each other, confused, then they
both laughed because they knew they were going to ask each other
the same question.
Paula looked back up, and Fred became enraptured by her face.
The intense starlight illuminated her skin, her eyes and her
lips in a way he had never seen before. Her face seemed
amazingly soft and natural, as if the whole time he'd known her
she'd been covered with a coat of makeup and only now had taken
it off.
"You know what?" she said. "I think it's that nova."
He stared at her. "What?"
"That nova." She motioned to the light overhead. "It must be
that supernova."
"Oh. Yeah. Hey, Paula, will you marry me?"
It was her turn to stare. "What?"
"Will you marry me?"
"Fred..." She started to smile.
"Hmm?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I will."
Nodding to his co-workers, who politely nodded back, Harold
crossed the living room to the kitchen. Plenty of wine still
available: although half a dozen empty bottles lay in the
recycling bin, several reds and whites were lined up on the
counter, waiting to be uncorked.
"Hello, Harold. Want some wine?"
Harold lifted his eyes from a particularly delicious-looking
Merlot and tried to be social. There were four people in the
kitchen, only one of whom he knew.
"Hi, John." John was the Accounts Payable manager. They didn't
talk much in the office, partly because their cubicles were on
different floors, but also because of their twenty-year age
difference and the disparaging comments John made when they'd
both tried to get a date with an attractive temp. Harold looked
away. "That Merlot looks pretty interesting. Do we just help
ourselves?"
"Glasses and corkscrew are on the counter." John looked around
at the three others: a good-looking, dark-haired woman in her
mid-twenties standing next to him and an older couple. "Anyone
else want some?" asked John. "This'll be your best chance to
meet Harry, tech support extraordinaire."
Harold frowned and picked up the corkscrew.
The man in the older couple cleared his throat. "I think I could
use a refill." He placed his empty glass on the counter. "My
name's Vic, and this lovely lady is my wife, Abby. We live next
door."
Abby nodded. "How do you do?"
The cork came out with a wet, resonant pop and Harold said, "I'm
doing all right." He poured himself a glass, then one for Vic.
He held up the opened bottle for the dark-haired woman at John's
side. "How about you?"
She shook her head, holding up a glass of white. "No, thanks.
I'm still working on this. But I do think it's time I got some
more cheese. If you'll excuse me..." She smiled and walked out
of the kitchen. Both John and Harold watched her leave.
Harold tilted his head toward the door and asked, "Who's your
friend, John?"
"Her name's Jennifer. She's a friend of Paula's." John smiled.
"It's always nice to meet Paula's friends." He raised his
eyebrows and nodded.
Harold nodded back and took a sip of Merlot. He looked
appraisingly at the glass. "Good wine."
"Yes," said Abby. "Fred and Paula have such good taste. Such
nice friends. I'm so glad they moved in here. Some of the others
who came by..." Her smile faded away as she shook her in
disapproval.
"How long have they been living here?" Harold asked.
"Oh," Vic said, "At least four months now."
"Closer to five," Abby added. "I'm so glad they moved in. This
neighborhood needs more people like them. These last few
years..." She shook her head again. "It's gone downhill,
really."
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, then Abby laughed.
"Gee, I didn't mean to get so melancholy!" She put her hand to
her forehead. "Whew! Too much wine for me." She laughed again.
"A regular lush, eh?" John said. He picked up his wine glass. "I
think I'll get a few finger foods." He bowed slightly and
gestured with the glass before heading out of the kitchen.
Abby sighed. "Such nice people," she said, nodding and smiling.
John
------
John entered through the front door of the corporate office,
briefcase in hand, and smiled up at the clock that read 11:00.
He felt excited, happy. His feet barely moved; he floated across
the empty reception area toward the long line of cubicles. The
handle of his briefcase throbbed in his hand.
Halfway to the end of the hall, to the bright, glowing windows
of his manager's private office, he looked into a cube and saw a
ten-year-old boy sitting in front of a monitor, tapping
deliberately at a keyboard. It didn't seem the least bit odd
that it was his old friend from fifth grade, Michael Buckler,
aged not a day.
"Hi, Michael!" John said.
Michael glanced at John. "You're late. Fred wants to see you."
John's heart started beating faster. "Good. I want to see him."
The ten-year-old nodded. "Lunch afterward?"
John looked at his watch: 12:00. "Sure." He turned and continued
down the hall, which now stretched out to infinity before him.
The more he walked the further away Fred's office seemed to be.
He stopped, hunkered down, and opened his throbbing briefcase.
In it was a life-like rubber mask of his face. He gingerly
picked it up and fitted it completely over his head. Smoothing
out the wrinkles, he stood up and, after taking a few steps,
reached the door to Fred's office.
Fred sat behind his desk, arms folded severely across his chest,
crushing his tie. The light from his black, halogen lamp cast
sharp shadows against his face.
John tossed his briefcase onto Fred's credenza. Fred's mouth
dropped and his arms began unfolding.
"Fred," John said intently, "I quit."
Fred's hands fiercely gripped the edge of the desk. "You--you--"
The sound of splintering wood filled the office. "You--"
The sudden buzzing of the alarm clock cut through the quiet
bedroom, jarring John awake. He lay motionless on the bed for a
moment, breathing quickly, then shut off the alarm.
He felt different somehow. He turned his head and saw a note on
his wife's pillow. His entire body seemed to sink down into the
bed, break through the bottom, crash through floor, and bury
itself somewhere deep in the cold dirt below their house.
He stared at the note, licked his lips, blinked. Then he
struggled out of bed and took a shower. The note was still there
when he trudged back into the room. Sighing, he picked it up:
his eyes danced over the words, glanced away, came back again,
until he finished reading.
John stood in the bedroom for a long time, not aware he was
crying, and then dressed for work.
He wandered into the backyard and sat on a stone bench.
Everything outside appeared sharper, harsher, as if the sun were
more intense that morning. He looked up and saw a of light
shining away, right above the horizon, a little behind the
morning sun. He stared at it, transfixed, as it climbed into the
sky. His mind stalled and hours passed until it kicked back into
gear.
As he left his house, he blinked at the afterimage of the light
that had seared itself into his eyes. When he arrived at work
the accounting supervisor shook his head and glanced at the
clock in the reception area that read 11:00. "Isn't it nuts,
John? One little supernova and traffic's screwed up completely.
I didn't get here until 10:30 myself. Absolutely nuts."
John nodded and headed off to his cubicle.
Five minutes of anecdotes about the neighborhood from Vic and
Abby were more than Harold could handle. Fortunately, Fred,
leading an entourage of three Human Resources people and their
significant others, came into the kitchen to get some wine. When
the HR group asked Harold if he was having a wonderful time,
Harold assured them that he was. As they refilled their glasses,
he excused himself and exited the kitchen.
The kitchen's earlier escapees, Jennifer and John, were standing
by the snack table with Paula, Grace, Michelle, and Tony. Grace
was the company's system administrator. Michelle was the
receptionist and Tony was her fiancé. Harold took a sip
of wine and walked toward them.
"You were born in '68?" John was saying to Jennifer. "Let's
see... in 1968 I was living in L.A. and, yeah, that's when I saw
the Doors in concert. Amazing show. I think I can safely say it
was the best concert I've ever seen."
"The Doors?" Harold said. "Isn't that the band with the dead
singer?"
John looked at him and paused. "Why, yes, Harold. I'm surprised
you've heard of them, considering you hadn't even been born when
Jim Morrison was alive." There were a few chuckles.
"Yeah, well, I saw the movie, by Oliver Stone. Wasn't very
good."
Jennifer laughed.
Paula reached out and touched Jennifer's arm. "Hey, I want to
talk to you." She turned to John and said, "Excuse us." She
smiled at Harold, and the two of them walked away.
"Shucks," said Grace. "Just when it was starting to get
interesting."
John frowned and picked up his empty wine glass. Clearing his
throat, he retreated to the kitchen.
Grace took a bite of cheese-topped cracker and looked over at
Harold. "I didn't know you and John were such good friends. The
two of you've been talking up a storm since you came in."
"Yeah," Harold said. "It's a very well-kept secret. In fact, not
even John or I know about it." Harold surveyed the food. There
were several varieties of cheese as well as an assortment of
crackers, breads, and pita wedges. He noticed that Grace was not
holding a glass. "You're not drinking?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Never on Sundays."
Michelle laughed and said, "Don't worry. That means more for
us." She lifted up her glass and took a sip.
Tony smiled sheepishly.
"There you go," Grace said. "Anyway, why'd it take you so long
to get here? I was the first one to show up, you know. I had to
hang out with Fred and Paula all alone for half an hour before
anyone else showed up." She ate the rest of her cracker. "So
where were you?"
"I had some errands to run. Nothing too exciting."
"Errands never are."
The doorbell rang and Paula got up to answer. Jennifer stayed in
her chair and stared out the window. John re-emerged from the
kitchen, looked around, and seated himself on a couch near
Jennifer. Harold sighed and sipped at his wine.
Grace looked back and forth between Harold and John, then smiled
innocently. "Is round three about to begin?" she asked.
Harold squinted. "I'm glad someone's enjoying this. I guess." He
drank some more wine.
Jennifer
----------
The phone rang, but Jennifer was in no mood to answer it. She'd
been out with a few friends earlier, but she couldn't stop
thinking about her father. It had became too much of an effort
to keep up her facade, so she'd excused herself and gone home.
The phone let out a second ring.
It's amazing my friends still put up with me, she thought.
This happens every time I go out. They must be sick of it.
There was a third ring and the answering machine took the call.
"Hi. Can't answer the phone just now, so leave a message.
Thanks." Beep.
"Hi, Jen. It's your brother, David. It's about nine right now.
Just calling to see how you're doing. Hope you're out having
fun." A pause. "Well, guess I'll call--"
Jennifer picked up the phone. "Hi--"
Feedback burst from the answering machine speaker. Growling, she
slapped the machine's buttons. It beeped a few times and stopped
howling. "Sorry about that."
"Sorry about what? The noise, or that you're screening your
calls?"
"Hey, at least I answered, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," David said. "You're in a bad mood, aren't
you?" He paused. "About Dad?"
Jennifer sighed. "I don't know how you do it. I can't get over
it."
Four months before, their father had checked into Kaiser for an
appendectomy. The operation went well, but the next day while he
was asleep he developed an aneurysm, which burst. There was a
half hour of confusion until a doctor arrived--by then, their
father had died.
Lawyers were still gathering information for a malpractice suit.
Their father had been a partner in a Los Angeles law firm and
lived in Beverly Hills, and while neither of them would have to
worry about money for a long while, settling the estate was
immensely complicated. David inherited all of the house because
Jennifer felt she couldn't set foot in it again.
"Jesus, Jen," David said. "It's not something I got over.
It's--I don't know--it's just something I accepted, I guess. I
don't think I'll ever get over it, but I have to keep living my
own life, you know? Otherwise I'll just go nuts."
Jennifer realized she was winding the phone cord around her
finger, and she shook it loose. "David, I feel like everything's
changed. The whole world's changed--my world has changed.
Nothing seems real anymore. There's nothing... solid.
Everything's hollow, just trying to hide the... the pain of
reality."
"Wow," David said. "Heavy."
Jennifer smiled a little. "See?"
"Jen, I hope you don't get offended when I say this, but you
have to get out more, be around people. Sitting in your
apartment alone all the time, not answering the phone, isn't
good for you. I've been worried about you."
"Please, David, don't. You don't have to worry. I'll be okay.
It's just taking a while."
"What about going back to school? You mentioned a college up
there with a masters program--what happened to that?"
"Oh, it's still there. I haven't gotten around to filling out
the forms." Jennifer sighed. "I don't know."
Through the open window, she suddenly heard car horns and
shouts, the indecipherable noise of many people talking at once.
"Hey, Dave, something's going on outside. I'll call you back in
ten, fifteen minutes, okay?"
"Huh? Well, okay."
"Bye." She hung up the phone, went to the window, and looked
out. Cars were stopped, some with their doors open and the
drivers and passengers standing in the street, others honking
and flashing their high beams. People were staring at the sky,
pointing west toward the ocean, and shouting.
She left the window and went downstairs, out onto the sidewalk.
A brilliant point of light shone in the sky, not far from the
moon. It was painful to look at directly. People kept glancing
at it, then back at everyone else, at completely baffled but
happy faces.
People talked excitedly, asked each other questions, laughed.
Traffic was stopped--there were groups wandering in the street,
half the cars were parked. Eventually, those who were honking
gave up and got out of their cars to look up at what was causing
the commotion.
Jennifer realized she was smiling, maybe because everyone else
was smiling. A warm feeling slowly started to grow inside her.
The word "nova" began to be heard as soon as everyone realized
it wasn't a plane or a UFO, and soon everyone was saying it,
laughing, pointing at the sky, smiling. There was a shout and
someone began to spray champagne over part of the crowd.
The warm glow spread all the way through her, and Jennifer felt
her whole body tingling with something she hadn't felt in a long
time. She stayed outside on the sidewalk well past midnight,
talking to passers-by. even after the star disappeared below the
horizon.
As Harold sauntered over to join Jennifer and John, Fred came
out of the kitchen and headed over to the hallway to meet the
new arrivals.
"Tim! Sarah! Glad you could make it. Here, let me take your
coats. The wine's in the kitchen," he said as he disappeared
into the hallway.
Harold sat down on the hardwood floor and put his back against
the couch. Tim and Sarah nodded at Harold, who politely nodded
back, and exchanged greetings with John. "So," Tim said to John,
"I hope all this wine won't give you a hangover, make you late
for our meeting tomorrow morning."
John laughed. "I thought that was the general idea here.
Hangover excuses for everybody."
Harold leaned forward and said to Jennifer, "So, hey, how do you
know Paula?"
Jennifer turned, surprised. "Through school. We're in the same
program."
"And that is...?"
"Anthropology."
John joined in with, "Which university?"
"Oh, it's a small private college. You probably haven't heard of
it. They have a very progressive curriculum."
Paula came back over and sat in a chair next to Jennifer.
"What does that mean?" John asked, smiling. "You don't have to
study?"
"No." Jennifer didn't smile back. "They take a more holistic
approach to education. They look at interactions between what we
study and the real world, to make sure nothing we do screws up
the community, unlike most of academia, which stomps around
studying things and then leaves them in a shambles."
"Yeah!" Paula said. "That's telling him, Jen."
Jennifer grinned. "Hey," she said, glancing at Paula, "I'm on a
roll."
Paula reached over and patted her on the knee, then said to John
and Harold, "Enough about us. Hey, Harry, say something about
yourself. What did you major in?"
Harold scratched his head. "Okay. I was a bio major, graduated
last June."
"So, naturally," John said, "you pursued a career in tech
support."
"Well, I took some computer classes, and biology wasn't
something I saw myself doing for the rest of my life, you know?
Besides, I'd just graduated and needed to pay rent." He
shrugged. "Either that or get evicted."
"Ah," John said. He looked at Jennifer. "Is it safe for me to
assume, then, that you're a part-time student? You have a
regular job, to keep from, ah... "--he glanced at
Harold--"getting evicted?"
"No, I'm full-time. I take on temp jobs and get financial aid."
"From the school?" John asked with a wry smile. "Or from the
parents?"
"A little from both." She pursed her lips and looked at Paula.
"Have you been talking about me?"
"No," said Paula, and hiccuped. "No, of course not."
Grace walked up and sat on the couch between John and Harold.
"Hi, guys," Grace said. "What have I missed?"
Jennifer grabbed her glass and said, "Maybe I should get some
more wine."
"Nonsense," Paula said. "You and I have been drinking the house
dry, and, look, Grace hasn't even had any yet. What's wrong,
Grace? Don't you like our wine selection?"
"Oh, sure," Grace said quickly. "Sure I do. It's fine--I just
don't feel like drinking, is all."
"No?" said Paula, giggling a little. "Why? Is the memory of your
last hangover still too recent?"
Grace smiled, nodded. "You could say that." She tilted her head
to the side. "It was about a year ago, When the supernova first
appeared. Almost a month before had I started working with these
two bozos." She stuck her thumbs out to her sides, pointing at
John and Harold. "It was at a silly supernova party, and, yeah,
I drank a little bit too much."
"That long ago, huh? Wow. Must have been some hangover."
"Yeah," Grace said, nodding. "It was."
Grace
-------
Noise. So many loud things going on at once it overwhelmed her.
Grace stood in the doorway of the system administrator's house
in the heart of Silicon Valley. A banner reading "Welcome To The
End Of The World!" hung on the opposite wall. People stumbled in
one door and out another, laughing and spilling drinks.
She walked into the living room, sorting through the noise. They
Might Be Giants blasted from the stereo, on top of which five of
their compact disks were propped in front of a "Now Playing..."
sign. Four televisions, their volumes up to compete with the
stereo, played taped episodes of Doctor Who, Star Trek, Star
Trek: The Next Generation, and Blake's 7. Groups were
clustered around the sets, quoting lines and cheering each other
on. A blender in the kitchen grated away at full force. More
people gathered around the pool table and amused themselves by
making fun of drunk players, the billiard balls snapping as they
hit each other, ricocheting.
The blender stopped and Greg--the owner of the house and the
party's host--walked into the living room holding a pitcher in
one had and a stack of plastic cups in the other. "Hey!" he
shouted, spotting her. "Grace!" He held out the stack of cups:
she took the top one and he filled it from the pitcher. "Drink
up, for tomorrow we die!"
"What am I drinking?"
"Margarita!" In the kitchen, the blender started up again. "Oh,
hey, you can put your coat on my bed. It's down the hall, last
door on the right. The door on the left's the bathroom." He
strode away, topping off other peoples' cups.
Sipping her drink, she found his room right where he said it
was. There was already a huge pile of jackets on the bed, so she
draped her coat over a chair. She gulped some more or her
margarita and went back to the party.
In the kitchen, some guy dressed in black with a ponytail
reigned over the blender, filling it with ice, mix, and tequila,
whipping it all up, then pouring the result into the emptied
pitchers which were constantly returned and picked up by
peripatetic party guests. It struck her as an alcoholic ballet,
and she felt it was only proper when one of the pitcher-carriers
refilled her cup.
"Hello!"
Grace turned around and saw an overweight man with a bushy beard
standing next to the snack table. He wore a plaid flannel shirt
and seemed to be in his late twenties. He held a over-flowing
plastic cup and was swaying a little on his feet.
"My name's Phil. Whaddya think of the party?" Phil's eyes were
caught in a cycle of staring at the snacks, her breasts, then
finally glancing up at her face before starting over again.
Grace decided to consider it amusing.
"Pretty good." Grace washed down some salsa with her margarita.
She could feel a slight buzz coming on. "It certainly is loud,
isn't it?"
"Yeah!" Phil said with a quick laugh. More of his drink sloshed
out of his cup.
Shouts rang out from the living room. "Outside! A toast! To the
supernova!" Hordes of people streamed in from the living room
and out the back door, sweeping Grace and Phil along with them.
"A toast!"
Grace lost Phil in the crowd. There must have been fifty or
sixty people outside, milling around in the back yard. About a
dozen carried pitchers, and they made sure everyone's cup was
full.
"Okay, listen up!" It was Greg making the toast. He climbed up
on a picnic table and lifted up his cup towards the supernova,
just visible between the clouds, beneath the gibbous moon.
Everyone followed suit. "Praised are you, O supernova, tireless
bringer of light! We raise our glasses in honor of the alien
civilizations you have wiped out and the _wonderful_ excuse for
a party you give us. To the end of the world!" People shouted,
cheered, howled. Greg lowered the cup to his lips, drained it,
and everyone else followed suit.
Grace smiled and stared into her empty cup. The buzz was going
pretty strong.
The man standing next to her, she noticed, was the margarita
master himself, ponytail and all. He had pale skin, thin lips,
and a pitcher in his left hand. He swished it around, said, "Not
much left," and poured the last of its contents into her cup and
his own.
"I had an interesting thought," he said. "The earth and the sun
have been around for five billion years, give or take a few,
right? So, if there's an apocalyptic nuclear disaster or
something similar that completely wipes out everything on the
planet, then whatever sort of life evolves after that--say,
giant sentient cockroaches--it'll probably take about the same
amount of time for them to get to our current level of
technology as it has for us."
"Yeah," said Grace, blinking. "So?"
"So, about five billion years from now, they'd be doing what
we're doing. They'd know that the sun was ten billion years old
and that at any moment it would be going giant, thereby wiping
them out. There'd be no way around it." He drained his cup.
"Pretty wild, huh?"
"Yeah. That's funny," she said. "I wonder what their worldview
would be like."
Ponytail shrugged. "Hey, wanna go play pool? Looks like the
table's open."
Over the next couple of hours, Grace played eight ball and hung
out by the pool table, drinking constantly--her cup was never
empty for long. She kept trying to put it someplace out of the
way and lose it, but it invariably made its way back to her
hand, full.
She suddenly realized that her eyes were closed, and she opened
them to find herself leaning against a wall in the dining room.
How long she'd been like that, she didn't know. She laughed and
looked around. It seemed like even more people had arrived at
the party, but she may have only been seeing double. She didn't
know. She didn't care. She thought it was funny.
Greg was in the living room, talking to someone holding a
pitcher. She clumsily grabbed a cup that she hoped was hers and
deliberately made her way towards Greg, step by step.
Greg and the pitcher-bearer watched her as she staggered over to
them, then as she raised her hand and wiped the sweat off her
forehead. When she came nearer, Greg said, "Hey, Grace, you
doing okay?"
"Oh yeah," she mumbled. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just fine. Who's your
friend with the pitcher?"
"This is Bill." Greg grinned at him. "Bill, this is Grace."
She draped her arm on his shoulder, letting him support her
weight, and held out her cup. "Hiya, Bill," she said. "Fill 'er
up, please."
Bill obliged as Greg said, "Uh, Grace, maybe you've had
enough..."
"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. No, I haven't even started, yet."
She took a healthy swallow and smiled.
Bill cleared his throat. "Well, I was just telling Greg how
ironic it would be if the Big One hit tomorrow, what with this
end-of-the-world party going on tonight."
"Oh, yeah," Grace said. "What's-his-name, he was talking about
that. Something about cockroaches."
Bill frowned. "Uh, cockroaches?"
"No, Grace," said Greg. "No cockroaches here. We're talking
earthquakes."
"Yeah," said Bill. He looked at Grace, who was still hanging
onto his shoulder. "Were you here back in '89, for the Loma
Prieta quake?"
"No. East Coast. Missed all the fun." She drank some more of her
margarita.
A couple of other guys joined the conversation. "I was here
during the earthquake," said one. "I'd just moved here a month
before to start a job at Amdahl. Great way to be introduced to
California, huh? Funny thing was everybody else in my apartment
complex had stuff break or pipes burst or something, but nothing
happened to me--a few CDs fell over on the shelf, that was it."
Grace stopped smiling. Her stomach didn't feel well at all. She
stood up straight, taking her arm off Bill, and inhaled deeply,
trying to get everything to settle down.
"I was in a little conference room," said another guy, "up on
the ninth floor of our building. I was in a meeting with this
woman, see, and everything starting shaking. We looked at each
other as if to say `Oh, God, this is it!' and I thought, `This
is who they'll find me with, when they dig my body out of the
rubble.' I wondered what my wife would think." He laughed.
"Crazy, what can go through your mind during a disaster, huh?"
Grace closed her eyes and continued drawing deep breaths. She
could sense she was fighting a losing battle, so she opened her
eyes, mumbled something and headed off to the bathroom as
quickly and carefully as she could. She thought, down the hall,
last door on the... right? Or the left?
She stumbled along the hallway, one hand on the wall to keep
herself from falling, the other on her mouth. The door on the
right was open, and she staggered through it and saw she was in
the bedroom. She tried to turn around, but the room was
spinning, the ceiling falling forward and down, the floor
slipping behind her. The best she could do was stand still and
run her hands through her hair.
"Grace..."
Her nausea overcame the last of her resolve. She tipped forward,
onto the bed, onto the hundreds of jackets, and lost the battle.
She then rolled off and landed on the floor. The last thing she
saw before passing out was Greg standing in the doorway, looking
on in horror.
The next morning, she barely managed to get to her car and drive
home. On Monday, she showed up to work just long enough to turn
in her letter of resignation.
Their host Fred joined the growing group on the couch and
chairs. "Hello! What's going on here?"
"Oh, Fred, you missed it!" Paula said gleefully. "I got Grace to
admit she's still recovering from a hangover she had during the
supernova!" Grace looked away.
"Is that so?" Fred said, turning to Grace. She nodded. "Hmm," he
continued. "You know, that was when I proposed to Paula, when it
appeared. We were out in the woods, camping. It was all very
romantic."
Paula laughed. "Oh yeah. There we were, freezing our asses off,
and all filthy and smelly after three days of hiking. Very
romantic."
"Well, I meant the supernova."
"Yeah, yeah. That was. And then, to sustain the romance, we
hurried back to the car and drove to Las Vegas, so we could get
married."
Fred frowned, and Paula reached over and squeezed his hand. "Oh,
come on, Fred, that's my favorite part of the story!"
John cleared his throat. "Jennifer, did you do anything
interesting during the supernova?"
Tim and Sarah walked over to the group. "Trading supernova
stories, eh?" Tim asked, smiling. He motioned politely with his
wine glass for Jennifer to begin.
She sighed. "Nothing exciting happened to me. It was during one
of those directionless phases, you know? I didn't know what I
wanted to do. Then, bang!, there was the supernova and I
decided to go back to school. And now here I am." She looked
around at everyone. "Quid pro quo, John."
He furrowed his brow and cleared his throat again. "Oh, there's
not much to say. I had a very boring supernova experience."
"Oh, come now, John," Tim said. "I remember you showed up late
for work that morning. You must have something to tell."
John shifted on the couch, glanced at Tim. "Not really. I'd gone
to sleep early and didn't even see the damned thing the night
before. I woke up and tried to go to work, but the traffic was
miserable. There must have been something in those supernova
rays that made people drive slowly and bump into each other."
"That's it?" Tim asked, a little smile on his face.
"Yep."
"What about you, Harold?" Paula asked. "Tell us your supernova
story."
"My story?"
"Yeah. It's got to be better than John's, at least."
"Okay, okay. Let's see... It was toward the end of Spring
Semester, and I was busy writing final papers and cramming for
exams and all. The night before my last final, though, my
roommate dragged me up into the hills to celebrate his finishing
his finals, and he promptly disappeared into the bushes with his
girlfriend, leaving me all alone with nothing to do but stare at
the supernova. That's my clearest memory of it. Needless to say,
I didn't do very well on my final the next morning."
Paula laughed. "That has to be one of the best supernova stories
I've heard."
Harold smiled. "Really."
Harold
--------
The metallic crunch and the hiss of the escaping carbon dioxide
made Harold's mouth water. He took a few gulps of Coke and
stared back down at the textbook, at the same page he'd been
staring at for twenty minutes. His last final of the semester
was the next morning and all he wanted was for it and the
academic year to be over.
He wasn't completely ready for the exam. Math had always been
his weakest subject, and there were several key chapters he
needed to review. Plus, he'd been averaging three hours of sleep
each the past three days and he desperately wanted to catch at
least five hours that night. He rubbed his eyes, took another
sip of Coke, and turned the page.
The dorm room door banged open and Harold's roommate, Mike,
bounded in.
"A-ha! Yes! I'm done!!" Mike tossed his backpack on the floor,
jumped up in the air, let out a another whoop and collapsed on
his bed. "I'm done, Harry! Summer, here I come!"
"That's great, Mike. Tomorrow afternoon I'll be just as happy as
you." He stretched his arms out, arching his back, and then
downed some more Coke.
"Oh yeah, you've still got one more to go." Mike swung his legs
over the side of the bed and sat up. "But, man, you've been
studying your ass off-- you've got nothing to worry about,
you'll do fine. Listen, Christine's coming over with her
roommate--you met her, didn't you? Jill?"
"They're coming over here? Mike, I need to study."
"No, wait, I'm gonna drive us all up to the lookout so we can
get a good view of the nova, you know, and rejoice about the end
of finals!"
"Ah. Sure." Harold hunched over his book. "Sounds like a plan."
"Yeah. And, you know, I want you to come along, Harold."
"No, I'm staying right here. I _really_ have to do some more
studying."
"Aw, man..."
Harold looked up, exasperated. "Tomorrow night. I'll do it
tomorrow night, okay?"
"Tomorrow night? I'm not gonna be here! I'm jetting after lunch.
Come on, man! You gotta come along. Really, you've studied more
than enough for the test. And Jill's gonna be coming along, too.
You've met her, right? She's a total babe. It'll be just me and
Christine and you and Jill."
Harold ran his hand through his hair. "I really should study."
"Hey, I swear, it'll only be for a half hour, forty-five minutes
tops. We'll go up there, bask in the supernova--every day you
wait, you know, it just fades away that much more! It'll be
hella romantic, man. Then I'll bring you back, you can do your
last little bit of studying, and tomorrow you'll ace the exam. I
tell you, this is exactly what you need."
"Well..."
There was a knock at the door.
"That's them, man. You in or out?" Mike skipped over and opened
the door. "Christine! Hey! Time to party!" He gave her a big
hug.
Harold looked up from his desk. Rolling her eyes, Jill stepped
around them and into the room. She had long black hair and had
on jeans and a jacket. Harold _did_ remember her.
"Hey, Harold." Jill sat down on Mike's bed. "Still studying?"
"Um, yeah. I've got my last final tomorrow morning." Harold
paused, looked over at Jill, then closed his book. "But I'm
getting pretty burned out. I think maybe I should take a little
break."
The next thing he knew, Harold was in the back seat of Mike's
car with Jill, heading up the windy, hillside roads to Lookout
Point. Fifteen minutes later they parked in a clearing and
everyone piled out.
"It's kinda chilly," Christine said, rubbing her arms.
"I've got a sweatshirt somewhere in the trunk." Mike went around
to the back of the car. "You two go on ahead. We'll catch up."
Harold and Jill walked up the road, around a bend, and then they
were at Lookout Point. There was another group of people off to
one side but they were keeping pretty quiet. The two of them
headed further from the road and sat down on a rocky
outcropping.
The lights of the city stretched out before them, twinkling in
the rising heat. Strings of white and yellow outlined the
streets and clusters of rectangles where houses and buildings
squatted; splashes of red, blue, green and yellow shown from
store signs and traffic lights. The full moon was rising in the
east and seemed larger than it should be. At the west horizon
was the supernova, an intensely bright pinprick of light.
Harold took a deep breath. "It's beautiful out," he said.
"Yeah. Aren't you glad you came?"
"Definitely." He sat there for a moment, stargazing. "I read
that the supernova is about eight hundred light years away. So,
it took that light eight hundred years to get here." He laughed
a little. "Spending a few minutes appreciating it is the least I
can do."
Jill hugged her knees. "We'll always remember it."
They sat a moment, and Harold gestured up at the sky. "You know,
that supernova is ours. It belongs to our generation. It's
something we'll tell our kids about."
"The Summer Recess Supernova?"
"Exactly. And I can tell, you know, I can tell that this is
going to be our most memorable summer."
"I hope so. My boyfriend and I going to take a trip together.
There'll definitely be some serious celebrating going on."
Harold's hand clenched into a fist. "Oh?"
"Yeah. I wish he were here now, you know? But he's got two
finals tomorrow, so he's in the library, studying."
Harold's fist unclenched. "Oh." He stared out at the supernova.
Jill looked back at the road. "Hmm... I guess Mike and Christine
are taking their time getting here, huh?"
"Guess so." Harold lowered his gaze to the city lights and
sighed. "Man, I knew this would happen."
The party wound down quickly. People wandered back and forth
between the kitchen and the living room, emptying the last of
the wine bottles into their glasses and polishing off the
remaining edibles. Vic and Abby had already left, as had the
Human Resource group.
Harold was standing by the snack table, wondering if he should
have one last bite of brie, when he heard, "Bye, Harold. Nice
meeting you." He looked around and saw Jennifer, smiling, wave
at him as she disappeared into the hallway. "Bye," he said,
walking after her.
He reached the hall as she was buttoning up her coat. "Hey," he
said. "Need a ride?"
She shook her head. "No, thanks. I drove." She finished fiddling
with her coat and picked up her purse. "I got a great parking
spot, right out in front."
"Lucky you. I had to park blocks away."
She started towards the door. "Well, hey, be careful. See ya."
She walked out the door.
Harold sighed and walked back into the living room, where he
found John hovering over the snack table, eating the last of the
brie.
"Get her phone number?" John asked.
"Yeah," he lied. "I did." Harold looked past John and found the
party's host. "Hey, Fred, thanks for having me over. It was
fun."
"Good! Glad you had a good time."
Harold went back to the hallway, donned his jacket, and headed
outside. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared down
at the sidewalk as he walked to his car. Why do I bother going
to things? Swapping nova stories... Jeez. At least Jennifer was
there. Could've been worse, I guess. Fred could have pulled out
an acoustic guitar and played folk songs all night.
Three blocks. He reached the fire hydrant and stopped. His mouth
dropped open and he blinked a few times as he stared at the
empty asphalt. Fire hydrant, curb, empty asphalt. No car. His
car was gone.
Harold let out a strangled cry and looked around. He ran his
hands through his hair. Oh, man, he thought despairingly,
not tonight! Why would this have to happen to me? Tonight?
He kicked the hydrant and winced as pain shot up through his
leg. After a few moments, he turned back towards Fred's house,
intending to call the police. A taxi came down the street;
Harold stopped, swallowed and flagged it down. He gave the
driver directions and went home, the whole time staring out the
window at an empty space in the sky, expecting another
supernova.
Novalight Part Three
========================
August 1998
-------------
It wasn't over.
A second nova appeared, not as bright and as powerful as the
first, but as beautiful and terrible all over again. It had the
same spectral progression as the other nova, the same radiation
flares, and was in the same piece of the sky. No barrage of
information had preceded this one--nobody tapping out a message
before being consumed by fire.
Reporters flooded the group with phone calls, asking why they
hadn't warned them about this.
They hadn't warned them because they hadn't known it was coming.
The astrophysicists gave press conferences re-explaining
everything they had said four years ago, but this time they
started hearing questions they couldn't answer. What were the
odds of two novae occupying the same portion of space? Are they
related? Will there be more?
One could start a panic, answering questions like that.
The group went over the second part of the message again and
re-ran the models they'd built, expanding them beyond a single
solar system. They input information about the nova's five
nearest neighbors and coded them into the model.
Eventually, it happened in the computer, too.
The neighboring stars felt the effects of the nova, felt it and
suffered for it. It was something beyond radiation or simple
shock waves or even some hypothetical space-time compression.
The simulation somehow duplicated it, but they didn't have a
real theory as to how it happened.
There was a harmonic in the original nova that seemed incidental
when they first ran the models, something that went on deep in
the star's core. It started subtly, then built until the center
of the star literally tore itself apart, allowing the surface to
collapse inward. The sudden compression caused the nova.
In the model, that same harmonic showed up in the neighboring
stars. It wasn't immediate, but it built over time. After being
exposed to the original nova, the harmonic began in the new
star, eventually causing it to collapse and explode as well.
Distance played a factor. The star closest to the first nova
suffered the first collapse--almost exactly like the second nova
that burned in the sky--while the furthest didn't show any
significant change until it was showered by the remains of the
second star.
Like dominos.
October 2041
--------------
The sky is on fire.
Novae have been blossoming across the horizon for months, the
number increasing exponentially. Even our sun is showing signs
of internal deterioration and collapse, following the cycle laid
out in the second part of the message. The physicists say we
have another century or so before it goes nova as well. By then,
it will be a blessing. The radiation will have done enough
damage.
We decoded the third part of the message, not that it makes much
of a difference. Abstract concepts are the hardest things to
express across cultures, much less across species, but the
linguists are fairly sure of what they have. The group is
divided about whether to announce what we found, because it all
seems so sad.
The message we received from the aliens, almost fifty years ago
now, isn't a greeting. We were naive to think so. It's not a
gift, either, or a warning.
Fluid, exaggerated movements mime an act of horror. A small
group of aliens gracefully disassembles a sphere, carefully
sliding out interlocking puzzle pieces, dropping each to the
floor to shatter. Halfway through, the sphere can no longer
support itself and it collapses, falling and splintering, shards
sending dizzying reflections to play off the muted walls.
An alien stands a moment, staring at the shattered wreck at its
feet, and drops to its knees to begin shifting among the pieces,
hopelessly trying to fit them back together. The pieces large
enough to pick up crumble to sand as it fumbles for them and the
alien is eventually left moving long, slender fingers through a
pile of dust.
Finally, it scoops up a handful of the dust and slowly lets it
drain through its fingers.
The aliens didn't send us a greeting, or a gift, or a warning.
They sent us an apology.
About the Writers
===================
Greg Knauss (greg@cwi.com) is a longtime contributor to
_InterText_ who works as a programmer at CaseWare, Inc. in
Irvine, California.
Eric Skjei (75270.1221@compuserve.com) is a senior technical
writer at Autodesk in Marin County, California.
Patrick Hurh (hurh@admail.fnal.gov) is a mechanical design
engineer at Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory in Batavia,
Illinois, and would like to thank Petru Popescu for his book
_Amazon Beaming_ (Viking Penguin 1991), which provided education
and inspiration for "Little Sun."
Daniel K. Appelquist (dan@porsche.visix.com) is the editor of
_Quanta,_ a longtime contributor to _InterText_ and a technical
writer at Visix software in Reston, Virginia.
Chris Kmotorka (ckmotorka@pimacc.pima.edu) is a writing
instructor at Pima Community College in Tucson, Arizona.
Robert Hurvitz (hurvitz@netcom.com) is a longtime contributor to
_InterText_ who, when last heard from, said he was heading for
Seattle.
Jason Snell (jsnell@etext.org) is editor of _InterText_ and an
assistant editor at _MacUser,_ and lives in Berkeley,
California.
Geoff Duncan (gaduncan@halcyon.com) is an assistant editor of
_InterText_ and lives near Seattle, Washington.
The editors of _InterText_ would like to thank everyone who
participated in this project. Thanks to Aviott John and Chris
Kmotorka for their work on material not included in this issue.
Special thanks to Bram Boroson, Joseph Snider and Robert Orr for
their heavenly guidance.
FYI
=====
..................................................................
InterText's next issue will be released July 15, 1994.
..................................................................
Back Issues of InterText
--------------------------
Back issues of InterText can be found via anonymous FTP at:
> network.ucsd.edu (128.54.16.3) in /intertext
and
> ftp.etext.org in /pub/Zines/InterText
You may request back issues from us directly, but we must handle
such requests manually, a time-consuming process.
If you have CompuServe, you can read InterText in the Electronic
Frontier Foundation Forum, accessible by typing GO EFFSIG. We're
located in the "Zines from the Net" section of the EFFSIG forum.
On GEnie, we're located in the file area of SFRT3, the Science
Fiction and Fantasy Roundtable.
On America Online, issues are available in Keyword: PDA, in
(Mac users): Software Libraries->Ezine Libraries->Writing->InterText
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On the World-Wide Web, point your WWW browser to:
> http://ftp.etext.org/Zines/InterText/intertext.html
Gopher Users: find our issues at
> ftp.etext.org in /pub/Zines/InterText
The InterText Staff
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Editor Assistant Editor
Jason Snell Geoff Duncan
jsnell@etext.org gaduncan@halcyon.com
...................................................................
Assistant Editor Send subscription requests, story
Susan Grossman submissions, and correspondence
c/o intertext@etext.org to intertext@etext.org
...................................................................
InterText Vol. 4, No. 3. InterText (ISSN 1071-7676) is published
electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this
magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold and
the entire text of the issue remains intact. Copyright 1994,
Jason Snell. Individual stories Copyright 1994 their original
authors. All further rights to stories belong to the authors.
InterText is produced using Aldus PageMaker, Microsoft Word,
and Pete Keleher's Alpha on Apple Macintosh computers.
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When your seven worlds collide, whenever I'm by your side,
Dust from a distant sun will shower over everyone...
..
This text is wrapped as a setext. For more information send
email with the single word "setext" (no quotes) in the Subject:
line to <fileserver@tidbits.com>, or contact the InterText
staff directly.