Damon Knight - Orbit 16

Counting each step, Henderson proceeded along the beach. To his right, the barren ocean; to his left, just as barren desert. He walked rhythmically, deliberately.

He stayed on the beach as much as possible. The surf imparted a relative firmness to the sand that made walking easier. But periodically the splashing metronome would become too much to bear. His body’s natural beat would lock into that of the sea. His heart, his breath, his blinking, his steps, resonated with the waves. Then he would forsake the beach for the desert and walk among the dunes.

Only in the darkness could he travel any distance; in the searing daylight he slept. He was not yet weak and could still appreciate the chill night winds as refreshing. But he was fasting, and so he allowed himself regular rest stops. 9,994; 9,995; 9,996; 9,997; 9,998; 9,999; 10,000. Ten thousand steps since his start that evening from the sand castle. He stopped whenever he was precisely ten thousand steps away from his last stop. This way, at the rate of ninety thousand steps a night, he hoped to walk to civilization, whatever low form that might take on this thin margin between sea and desert.

He dropped his shoes and opened his volume of Frierhoff to page 335. “ Kapitel IX—Die Typen der Weltanschauung und ihre Ausbildung in den metaphysischen Systemen. “ It was too bad his college German was so poor. Although he understood some chapter headings and many individual words, he was rarely able to make sense of a complete sentence. But reading did serve as a convenient timer. He would rest for as long as it took him to subvocalize his way through five pages, then he would get up and go on. So he opened his book and read by the lunar light. Fortunately the night skies were always clear, and the sandy white environment provided a uniform ambient illumination. His readings in Die allumfassend Metapher also served as a diary of his trek, an odometer that clicked over five pages for every ten thousand steps, before having to start again from page one.

On reaching page 340 Henderson snapped the book shut, got up, and started to walk. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . .

Sand. A geologist defines it as particles of rock between .05 and 2 millimeters in diameter. The shape of sand grains, transported by water and wind, is a clue to their history. When sand is used in an hourglass, to measure time, it sifts through cycles of movement as top becomes bottom and bottom top. All the sand grains in the universe go through great Hindu cycles, eons long, keeping always the karma of previous ages, holding it in their shape. An angular grain of sand is young, the ancient ones are smooth and polished. All are graded by the rivers and the breezes, separated into uniformity. If you could count all the grains you could count the years of the cosmos, the days of creation.

Henderson thought of all his previous days of walking. He would long ago have lost track of them if it had not been for his book. But knowing that he walked ninety thousand steps each night, he was always able to calculate how many days he had been walking. He did not have to depend on his memory. Someday Die allumfassend Metapher would sit in an honored place on the walnut shelves of his library.

He jarred to a stop, realizing he’d lost track of his counting. His thoughts had been wandering. He’d lost count. Grunting with annoyance, he stood for a moment tapping his fool in a deliberate rhythm. Then, sighing, he sat down and turned to page 340 of Friedriche Frierhoff’s masterwork of philosophy.

When you walk barefoot in sand for even a short distance your feet begin to ache. This is because the natural shape of the sand fits into the curve of the arch so that the whole sole of your foot is in contact with the ground. This is a condition your feet are unused to. Also, notice how your toes throw out little roostertails of sand that fall behind your heels. The motion imparted to those grains is waste energy. Think of how many pounds of sand you lift with your feet on even a ten-mile walk.

Walking again, hungry now, Henderson saw something scuttling along the top of the next sand ridge. A sand lizard! Maybe he could catch it. He slid down the pile he stood on and with long strides tried to climb the steep ridge. The sand underfoot cascaded away in sheets. He struggled to hurry more efficiently. He reached the top of the ridge. There was nothing in sight.

Particles of quartz or feldspar that are larger than sand are called gravel. Particles smaller than sand are dust or the tinier constituents of clay. The parameters of sand differ from country to country.

Windblown sand is all-pervading. It acts as an abrasive and will erode rock somewhat faster than water could. If all the sand in the world were diamond dust, life on Earth would be impossible.

Henderson read the last lines of page 370, the last words of the night. His moonlight stroll had brought him ninety thousand steps closer to where he was going.

He looked for a well-situated dune, one that would provide shade and shelter from the flying dust that intermittently blew, as if, like rosin, to polish him.

He would sleep seven hours and then walk around the dune, or find another, or cool off as best he could in the simmering water. Then, awake, he would lie still and dream of philosophy and sand castles, until night came again.

Don’t you wonder where Henderson is wandering? No doubt most of you do. But don’t, it’s not important. Sand is more important than Henderson. You don’t think so? Well, it’s very simple. Sand, after all, is real, and Henderson is nothing more than a figment of his own imagination.

Friedriche Frierhoff opened his eyes and saw that the beach was empty. He realized that he had succumbed to sleep, though he had tried so hard to stay awake. His readings in the book of the American master, Henderson, had convinced him that he would never truly comprehend his situation until he saw the desert beach in the daytime. Only with the aid of the sun’s direct rays could he hope to jar his world view back into focus. But today’s attempt, his second, had failed like the first. He simply found it impossible to keep from sleeping after a whole night of walking. Perhaps he should stay where he was, attempt to sleep in the cold, without a blanket. No, that probably wouldn’t help, and it wouldn’t bring him any closer to where he was going. He would get up and continue on his way. Perhaps further reading in Henderson’s Sandial would suggest some alternate method of analyzing and resolving his dilemma.

That Henderson! What a frivolous title he had chosen for his masterwork of ontology. Perhaps the man fancied himself a poet as well as a philosopher. We all have our idiosyncrasies. The gemlike perfection of his thought was undeniable.

Friedriche got up and began his nightly wandering. It was too bad his memories of his Gymnasium course in astronomy were so faint. He vaguely feared that the star he chose as the polestar was different each night.

Friedriche walks. He has no illusions about his abilities or his lack of plans. He can only hope that someone will find him. He walks because he finds his predicament boring. He is used to pacing as he thinks, and anyway it keeps him warm. Over the course of a few hours he digests what he has read. Then he sits down to rest and he reads a few more lines of Henderson’s book. Sitting with the book in his lap, he realizes that he has no idea how long he’s been lost. Then he remembers that it doesn’t matter. He reads on slowly, pondering each word.