James Tiptree Jr. - Up the Walls of the World

Why do I need this stuff, he thinks. Why can’t I take it? All these others, Rick, Costakis, Winona, each in their private misery without relief. Ted Yost. What kind of selfish coward am I?

As so many times before the resolve to throw away his chemical crutches wells up in him. Quitting would be physically rough, but he believes he can take that. But then to go on, to face the daily reality of life, the assaults of pain, to—to—

To remember.

—And as he gazes at the woods, the sunset rays turn rose and red like torches behind the trees, lighting them into dark silhouettes against the fiery sky. Fingers of fire —his gut lurches, he clenches his eyes, gasping, and fumbles the capsule into his mouth. That’s why. Yes, I’m a coward.

Shaking, he goes to the latrine for water, grateful only for his access to relief. How many of the others would resist, if they had this escape from the pain of their lives? He only knows he cannot.

When he comes out the flaming light has faded. Rick’s transistor is playing somewhere, but no one is in sight. Dann strolls around to the pool and finds the two girls in the water again. He sits down to watch.

Fredericka—Frodo—attacks the water with her scrawny arms, thrashing along like a spider. Beside her Valerie swims effortlessly. The warm evening light lingers, harmless now. Presently they climb out and come over to Dann, sharing a towel. Frodo goes through her solicitous routine and sits beside Val on the grass. Their smiles, their every gesture, say Mine. We two together.

Unwelcomely the intuition of their vulnerability comes to Dann. To cherish, to defend their little fortress of union. To love, in the face of the world’s mores and the threat of every egotistical male. So fragile.

As Val combs her hair the two of them start humming, glancing at him mischievously. Presently their voices rise in harmony, parodying an old ridiculous tune. “ You are my sunshine, my only sunshine —”

It’s a lovely moment; the sweet mocking voices touch him dangerously. When the song ends he can only say roughly, “I wouldn’t sit on that grass too long, Frodo.”

“Why not?”

“Chiggers.” He explains the curse of the South and Frodo scrambles into a chair. There is a pause in which a wood-thrush gurgles and trills.

“Doctor Dann,” Valerie says, “you won’t let them do anything to us, will you?”

Behind her Frodo’s dark eyes are peering intently at him out of her monkey face. It comes to Dann that he’s being asked a real question.

“What do you mean, do something to you?”

“Like, keep us here if we do it.”

“Control our heads,” Frodo adds. “Use drugs on us, maybe.”

“What on earth for?”

“So we’d do what they want,” Valerie explains. “Be, be like telephones for them. I mean, if they really want this submarine thing.”

“Good heavens!” Dann chuckles. “Why, no one—you’ve been reading too many thrillers.”

“You honestly, truly think it’s all right?” Val persists.

“I assure you. Why, this is the U.S. navy. I mean—” He doesn’t know what he means, only to assuage the fear in her eyes.

“Nobody would miss us,” says Frodo in a low voice. “Not one of us. I checked. None of us has anybody waiting outside.”

“Goodness. Now, look, you mustn’t worry about such nonsense. I give you my solemn word.”

Val smiles, the trust in her eyes momentarily pierces him. His solemn word, what does that mean? But it has to be all right, he thinks. After all, Noah Catledge—

“It’s not just the Navy,” Frodo says. “That Major Fearing isn’t in the Navy. He despises us.”

“Aren’t you being just a little, ah…”

“No, he really does.” Valerie’s eyes have clouded again. “He hates us.”

“I don’t see how his likes or dislikes could be a threat to you,” Dann says soothingly.

“I do.” Frodo stares at him over Val’s head and draws her finger across her throat. “I bet he’d hate having his mind read.” Her tone is light but she’s scowling ferociously, willing him to understand.

Dann recalls his brush with Fearing, that intensely covert man. His aura of secret power, the invisible fortifications of self. Trust nobody, withhold everything; classic anal type. Frodo is perfectly right; for a man like Fearing to have his mind read would be traumatic. A terrible threat. Dann chuckles, disregarding some subterranean unease. Could Fearing be snooping about to check on Kirk’s enterprise? Comical!

“I really wouldn’t worry,” he says so warmly and firmly he quite believes it. “After all, he can’t do away with me.”

The girls smile back and they chat of other things. But under the surface Dann has an instant of wondering. What could he do if the military decided to treat these people as resources, conscript them in some way? If he had to make some protest, who would listen? Nobody, especially after one look through his prescription records. For that matter, who would miss him if he never showed up again?

—But this is crazy, he tells himself. And sanity returns with the conclusive answer: It’s all nonsense because tomorrow nothing will happen. Nothing ever has. This test will turn out like all the rest, ambiguous at best. He hopes it’s ambiguous for old Noah’s sake. But unseen voices are not going to come out of that submarine, this ragtag of people is not able to read secrets out of anybody’s mind. They’ve got him as crazy as old Noah with his blue lizard science fiction.

Relieved, his smile strengthens. Valerie is telling him how she’s working as a junior nurse while Frodo starts law school at Maryland U. The vision of Frodo as a lawyer diverts him. In the fantasy twilight of Deerfield he wishes them well with all his battered heart.

When they go in he remains, waiting for what he will not admit. The twilight deepens. From back in the woods the frogs tune up. Nothing is going to occur.

But just as the last light goes, she is there.

Tall and so divinely lean as to be almost grotesque, in a sexless grey suit, she is in the water almost before his eyes can separate her from the dusk. He has only an instant glimpse of sharp high breasts and elegant thigh. She makes no splashing; only a straight wake down the pool to him, a swift turn underwater and she’s started back again, the long dark arms reaching rhythmically, a chain of foam at her feet. In the shallow end her jackknife turn makes an ebony angle against the water. Then she is streaking back toward him, only to turn and repeat, again and again and again.

He sits hypnotized. Is this strenuous ritual a professional skill? It doesn’t look like play. Indeed, it has almost an air of self-inflicted penance. Whatever, she gives no friendly sign.

The stars come out, the cicadas start their shrilling. From the far barracks he can hear voices and music. How marvelous that the others wish to stay in their lighted box, leaving him alone here with her. But she is still at it, like a mechanical thing. Swim, turn, swim, turn—God knows how many times, he hasn’t counted. So long… Surely she will go straight in afterwards. He is unreasonably saddened.

At last she climbs out to wrap herself in a pale robe. He summons courage.

“Miss Omali? Margaret?”

She hesitates and then to his delight comes pacing toward him. He jumps up, choking the impulse to comment on her exercise. Instead he points up at the spangled sky.

“Would you like to inspect my friends?”

Her face turns up. “Hey, they’re really bright here.”

“If you’re not too chilly I could tell you about a few of them.”

“All right.” Her aloof voice is amused, more relaxed than he has heard it. Abruptly, she has stretched out in the chaise. He daren’t look.