Дэймон Найт - Orbit 5

It is to be understood that time is not a moving stream. Time is a minor quality of the continuum, common only to living creatures, and consists of an involuntary change of attention. The consciousness of a creature is an infinitely restricted series of sense-impressions, operating in three dimensions only. The universe consists of a four dimensional geometric form, which, in cross-section, contains all the physical facts of matter, and is curved so that it eventually rejoins itself, forming a four-dimensional ring shape. Thus, a cross-section of any part of this ring will produce the universe at any particular point in “time.” This “time” is merely the attention of the creature observing the shape about him, and is due to his being able to be aware of only one infinitely small part of the shape. His attention is constantly and involuntarily operating on a different part of the ring, giving the impression of movement and animation to what is in fact a static object, and also giving him the false impression of temporal extension. If one draws a wavy line, and follows this line with one’s eyes, it will appear to move up and down, whereas with a widening of attention the line can immediately be appreciated as an unmoving and complete object. The time that each of us experiences is common only to us, and is an internal psychic operation rather than a measurable physical fact.

If we stand at one end of a room and walk across to the other, this restricted attention is all that gives the impression of movement. In fact movement is an aspect of time, and to someone lacking this restriction of attention, it would be obvious that the movement was only an impression in the mind of the person concerned and that his body, as it crossed the room, was merely a solid and static object.

We can see now that time is not the barrier it was once thought to be, and that as a psychic mechanism it may be radically altered, or completely destroyed. It is surprising that this was not realized before; the time-dilation or time-destruction observed by takers of the “mind-expanding” hallucinogenic drugs has been often noted, as well as the more usual distortions of time during various common mental states.

The time machine, by operating in terms of relationships of pattern, is able to crystallize the attention of the observer, producing a concrete déjà vu, and in the solidity of its wheels and pistons we find reflected the tangibility of the universe, in all its states of being.

He looked up from the book. And saw her. She was talking to two bus men, asking them if they knew whether the London bus had arrived yet. He hurriedly put the book away, and as he stood she saw him. She was wearing her black fur coat, and her face, as she came toward him, was his own face, as familiar as the face he shaved each morning, a face that was more than the sum of all the faces he knew; his own, his parents’, his friends’, more than anything else he would ever find. Her face was troubled. They approached each other slowly, not running with joyful exuberance as they had the last time they had met here, or moving quickly with desperation to clasp each other, to shut off the world in the closeness of each other’s arms as they would later. He took her gently in his arms, and they kissed softly, and then embraced, holding each other tightly. She exhaled his name in a sigh, a drooping inflection that suggested pressure that had been building up suddenly released. Now was right; everything was infinitely right. His face was pressed against her neck, the scent of her hair was filling his nostrils. her body was warm in his arms. Now he was alive, and he did not want to move from this position ever again. His hands ran over her back, and he felt her lips at his neck; he was melting into a state of complete being, a state that had intolerable tensions and unformulated desires, that caused his breath to be exhaled explosively, hearing the sounds he made, they both made, to be like miniature versions of the sounds crushed from their bodies by the dazzling pressure of orgasm. Waves of pressure ran round his body; his head moved, lips brushing her cheek, her ear, her neck. Their heads drew apart, and he looked into her eyes. He felt his head moving with the impossible surging of communication of emotions impossible to communicate. His eyes moved as he tried to take in all the details of her face at once. He smiled, and saw an answering smile on her face, a reflection of his own feelings. They kissed for a long time, and then slowly drew apart.

“How have things been at home?”

“Not too good. Difficult.”

They began to walk out of the coach station, their arms round each other.

“Do you mind if we go for a drink first? I do feel that I need it.”

“Of course not.”

They walk across the road, and into The Shakespeare. They sit at the table with drinks, and she opens her coat to reveal her grey dress. He tells her that he is very fond of the dress, and they tell each other “I love you,” a universal reassurance, always needed. Soft lips against his. Unhappiness in her eyes. In memory, not much is said. A letter is discussed, and one or two sentences are actually verbalized, although in a constantly varying way. “He can accept the whole thing intellectually, and he doesn’t want to stop it, for my sake. He knows I’m seeing you.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean today. He saw me off, and watched me drive away in the car.” A feeling of mute horror that stays the same, despite the changing pattern of the words. “What with my period and everything, all my energies are at a low ebb. I’m in the most schizophrenic state. There’s part of me that can’t bear the thought of having an affair, and the rest of me wants nothing but you.” He says nothing. There is nothing but the sound of her voice, and he watches her lips moving, sees the flecks of mascara on her cheeks, feels terror at his innocent power of inflicting pain.

Later they leave the pub, at one o’clock, and drive off to Groby Pond, the place at which they arrived the last time, his first trip to Leicester, after driving off twelve miles in the wrong direction, laughing at the confusion into which they were both plunged by their mutual proximity. They take a wrong turning this time, and the next time. At Groby Pond was a disused quarry where they had come before, to be alone under an enormous sky, a sky that made no judgments, condemned no one, and was content to be.

The city is devoted to the appreciation of beauty— Rolling architecture is spread out in autumn sunlight— The city has patterned trees set out among the plazas— High towers pillars for the sky—Spotlights are situated along the kerbs to show the human bodies on the pavements to their best advantage—Last year a man was found wearing clothes and was executed—Soft winds blow scents of musk into the market—In the main square is a gigantic golden representation of a single testicle—the sounds of the people are the muted voice of summer holidaymakers—laughter on a tennis court—Parks are rolling grassland with bowers supplied for making love, which must be made aesthetically—the main crime is committing offenses against the soul, for which the penalty is instant, and beautiful, decapitation—Birds shriek into the sun, protesting at the loss of their virgin cruelty —Sleek, fat cats assume poses in the gutters—Men urinate only from the tops of high buildings—The government headquarters consists of five red towers, standing up in the city like the fingers of a bloody hand—All the pubs have yards where one may sit with one’s love and drink together for the last time—the courtyards are like seas—there are no lavatories—illness is forbidden by state decree—Sculptures are designed to be orgasms in steel—In a park in the center of the city is a large brick shed with a light on its side—Serious musicians play only some Mozart and some Berg—Beaches and pavilions glisten like mirrors in the sun—The city beats like a bird’s wing—People float in aerial choreography, like the sinking drowned—Metal is woven in great garlands and shines throughout the city—Capsules of mescalin are set in trays at every point—The city is the city of time—the city knows no time—the city is the city of soft people— the city of flags and paintings that move—the city is the city of the afternoon—mown grass falls from the sky like rain—the City is the city of beautiful decay, where all is young—the city is the city of the sky—the city of eternal surprise—the city of long dark hair—the city of eggs with marble shells—the city is a diffraction grating, and from a height of three hundred feet can be seen only as a blaze of color—it is the city of high parabolas—the city of impossible waterfalls—the city of melting silver blades—the city is the city of brooks—they weave their way everywhere—all the time is the sound of bubbling water . . .