James Tiptree Jr. - Up the Walls of the World

And Oh God, worse, she knows him now, his shame. I let them burn. The unending instant comes back to him: the smoke and turmoil, the hands gripping his arms that he could have pulled away from, the terrible pause, just long enough, if—if—

If I’d had the guts.

His heart is clenched around a knife-blade, he wishes only that it would finally burst and let him die. An aeon passes so… and then, incredibly, the anguish dims, the cutting edge slides away. The first pearly ease of chemical unreality is sliding into his brain.

His eyes water with gratitude, he takes long shuddering breaths. Presently he cautiously gets up and resumes dressing. Heaven for a shilling; de Quincy knew.

By the time he is splashing water on his face in the latrine he can wonder almost coolly, why, really, so much pain? Other doctors habituated. He never had quite; he has had to hide it and watch that his medical judgment wasn’t affected. But it seems to be worse now, much worse. As if he were some kind of a receiver. Crazy!

Safe in his chemical armor he goes back to his room, playing with the thought. He doesn’t believe it for a minute. But it’s a fact, he could fancy he can still feel them. From around him, emanations of Rick’s complex misery, Ted Yost’s steady grief, Costakis’ painful self-hatred. And from the barracks next door, Winona’s despair, the two girls’ fear-filled struggle in a world that doesn’t want them. Quiet desperation, Thoreau said. But it’s worse than that. These ordinary people hurt. They can’t bear their lives. And there’s no escape.

No escape either from the most hurtful life of all: Margaret. Even behind his magic shield he daren’t dwell on that. But it’s curious; he seems to understand certain things now, as if he’d shared—don’t think it. Yet he senses the answer to the puzzle of her child. She must have tried the one thing she could try. And it was no good. Dann can almost feel the intrusive physicality, the hurtful warmth and contact of the baby. Mother-love is sensual. She couldn’t take that. She can only bear distance, be like a machine. Even color is dangerous; those neutral clothes, that snow-bound apartment. And no reminders of Africa, never. To her, he thinks, neither white nor black is beautiful. To become a machine… hideous.

The sun is gilding the green leaves, people are stirring. In the world of dreams I have taken a part, to sleep for an hour and hear no word/Of true love’s truth or of light love’s art; only the song of a secret bird. Who, Swinburne? Dann wants no part of love nor secret birds, he hopes only for the world of dreams. He gets up and puts a couple of emergency capsules loose in his pocket. People are in the corridor; it’s time for breakfast.

The bus carries them through a meaninglessly beautiful morning. The others are strained and silent. At breakfast only Winona makes a brief try at normalcy. The two girls pick at their food, heads down. Ted and Rick say nothing. Little Costakis’ eyes keep up a wary vigil; he jerks his head cryptically and rearranges his knife and fork. Old Noah makes a hopeful reference to “last night’s psychic experience” and is met by heavy silence. What the hell visited them, what did they hallucinate?

It comes to Darin that he’s irrational. He accepts that he and Margaret experienced—something; but it hasn’t disturbed his conviction that this is all nonsense. The inconsistency amuses him in a remote way. He takes more coffee. All nonsense; hold onto that.

At the far end of the table is the still presence at whom he dare not look. To mutilate a child…

The doors bang and Lieutenant Kirk is with them, proclaiming the imminent arrival of the cable crew. He has had a bright idea. In lieu of the missing biomonitors, why can’t they use some of Deerfield’s polygraph equipment? “Really sophisticated stuff,” he grins significantly.

“No, no,” says Noah impatiently. “Quite unsuitable. Dan, tell him.”

Dann rouses and finds pleasure in explaining that security-type “sophistication” would not be comparable to the multichannel qualitative EEG feedback transcribers Noah has developed. Kirk frowns and goes off to institute another search. Dann winks at Frodo; how reassuring that Deerfield can’t keep track of a dozen crates.

As they get up he risks a glance down the table. Margaret’s gaze passes over him, severe, unchanging. The beauty of her. Does she despise him now? His own face changes uncontrollably.

When they get back to the barracks a Navy communications van and a cable trailer are pulling up. A pickup is parked nearby, holding what looks like a mobile transformer. Two men are hauling wire up the outside pole.

Dann wanders off, thinking; preposterous. God knows how many miles of cables, equipment, man-hours, money—just to isolate eight harmless Americans from setting eyes on the rest of Deerfield. And the whole fantasia is considered routine. There seem to be aspects of his country he had not encountered before. He shakes his head in genial wonderment, safe in his opiate cocoon.

And even more surreal—somewhere off Norfolk an actual submarine is moving out, containing Rick’s unhappy brother. Waiting for this absurd test. Surely he is privileged to view an epic madness. Poor Noah, when all this peters out. Enjoy it while it lasts.

But as he gazes at the limp volleyball net, some residue of last night, or perhaps a curious tension in the air, pierces him.

What if the tests—succeed?

The memory of a sliding glass of water erupts in his head, his knees feel weak. And last night—last night he actually, undeniably fell into another’s mind, and she knew his. A clammy coldness invades him. Is it now so inconceivable that these people could pull numbers out of a distant mind? And if they do? He has taken nothing seriously, he has never considered that they might be in real danger here in this paranoid place—He should—Traitorously his hand has brought a capsule to his lips. He swallows, waits.

“Dann! Dann!” Noah is shouting. The missing biomonitors have arrived.

Unreality closes back around him. He goes inside to find the dayroom in a tangle of wires and opened crates. Men are carrying the recorders into the cubicles which will serve as test stations. The new doors now close off the corridor.

“Help me get these right, Dann. I want the placement of everything as close as possible to the configuration we had. We don’t know what may be important.”

With Costakis’ help Dann goes from room to room, making the final adjustments, trying to remember relative positions of chairs, cabinets, walls. It’s surprising how well Noah has recreated the laboratory setup. “Get it right, Dann,” the old man urges. Dann has forgotten his cold moment and feels only a benevolent glow for the old maniac. Kendall Kirk is being obnoxiously helpful about getting the wires taped out of the way. His Labrador watches from outside the screen door.

Presently it’s time to call the subjects in for their base-line runs. Safe in his official persona Dann beams and nods, refusing to notice their tension, the arousal readings on the tapes. This is just another day in Noah’s fantasy-lab.

As Val goes out she whispers, “Remember.”

Remember what? He brushes it away.

When he is unhooking Rick the boy says suddenly, “Listen. I’m not going to tell them anything. They can shove it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Navy. That fucking Fearing. I tell you, Ronnie’s scared. I’m not going along.”

“But Noah Catledge isn’t in the Navy,” Dann says confusedly, still bemused by good will for the old man. “This is his test just like all the others. It would be a shame to let him down now.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Rick mutters. His tone sounds indecisive.