Уолтер Тевис - The Man Who Fell to Earth

He shook his head, trying to get the feeling of anxiety out of it. It would be ridiculous to betray himself now that the thing was done. And, he realized, he felt like a traitor—a man who has just betrayed a friend.

Newton said, “I suppose we’ll fly.”

He couldn’t help it. “Like Icarus?” he said, wryly.

Newton laughed. “More like Daedalus, I hope. I wouldn’t relish drowning.”

It was Bryce’s turn now to stand. He did not want to sit and be forced to face Newton. “In your plane?” he said.

“Yes. I thought we would go Christmas morning. That is, if Brinnarde can arrange for space at the airport in Chicago then. I suspect there’ll be a rush.”

Bryce was finishing his drink—far more quickly than usual, for him. “Not necessarily on Christmas itself,” he said. “It’s sort of in between the rushed times.” Then he said, not knowing exactly why he should ask it, “Will Betty Jo be going along?”

Newton hesitated. “No,” he said. “Only the two of us.”

He felt a little irrational—as he had felt that other day when the two of them had drunk gin and talked, by the lake. “Won’t she miss you?” he asked. It was, of course, none of his business.

“Probably.” Newton did not seem offended by the question. “I imagine I’ll miss her as well, Doctor Bryce. But she’s not going.” He looked at the fire a moment longer, in silence. “Can you be ready to leave on Christmas morning at eight o’clock? I’ll have Brinnarde pick you up—at the house, if you’d like.”

“Fine.” Head back, he tossed off the rest of the Scotch. “How long will we be staying?”

“At least two or three days.” Newton stood up, began putting on his jacket again. Bryce felt a wave of relief; he had begun to feel as if he could not contain himself anymore. The film…

“I suppose you’ll need a few clean shirts,” Newton was saying. “I’ll take care of the expenses.”

“Why not?” Bryce laughed a little nervously. “You’re a millionaire.”

“Exactly.” Newton said, zipping up his jacket. Bryce was still seated and, looking up, he saw how Newton, suntanned and skinny, towered over him like a statue. “Exactly. I’m a millionaire.”

Then he left, stooping under the door frame, and walked lightly out into the snow….

His fingers shaking with excitement, and his mind ashamed of the fingers for being so excited, Bryce got the air-duct grill off, took out the camera, set it on the couch, and unloaded it. Then he put on his overcoat, put the film carefully in his pocket, and headed through the snow, which was now quite thick on the ground, for the lab. It was all he could do to keep from running.

The lab was empty—thank God he had chased his assistants out earlier! He headed straight for the developing and projection room. He did not stop to turn on the heaters, although the lab had become very cold. He left his overcoat on.

When he took the negative from the gaseous development bin his hands were shaking so much that it was almost impossible for him to get the film into the machine. But he managed it.

Then, when he turned the switch on the projector, and looked at the screen on the far wall, his hands stopped trembling and the breath caught in his throat. He stared at it for a full minute. Then, abruptly, he turned and walked from the projection room into the lab itself—the huge, long room empty now, and very cold. He was whistling through his teeth, and for some reason the tune was, If you knew Susie, like I know Susie …

Then, alone in the lab, he began laughing aloud, but softly. “Yes,” he said, and the word bounced back at him from the distant wall at the end of the room, bounced back somewhat hollowly, over the test tube racks and Bunsen burners, glassware and crucibles and kilns and testing machines. “Yes,” he said, “Yes sir, Rumplestiltskin.”

Before he withdrew the film from the projector he stared again at the image on the wall—the image, framed by the faint outline of an armchair, of an impossible bone structure in an impossible body—no sternum, no coccyx, no floating ribs, cartilaginous cervical vertebrae, tiny, pointed scapulae, fused second and third ribs. My God, he thought, my God. Venus. Uranus, Jupiter, Neptune, or Mars. My God!

And he saw, down in the corner of the film, the small, hardly noticeable image of the words, W. E. Corp. And their meaning, known to him since he had first inquired about the source of that color film, more than a year before, came back to him with a frightening series of implications: World Enterprises Corporation.

They talked very little on the plane. Bryce attempted to read some pamphlets on metallurgical research, but he would find himself fidgeting, his mind wandering. Every now and then he would glance across the narrow lounge to where Newton was sitting, serene, a glass of water in one hand, a book in the other. The book was The Collected Poetry of Wallace Stevens . Newton’s face was placid; he seemed absorbed. The walls of the lounge were decorated with large colored photographs of water birds—cranes, flamingoes, herons, ducks. The other time he had been aboard the plane, on his first trip to the project site, Bryce had admired the pictures for the taste that had put them there; now they made him feel uncomfortable, seemed almost sinister. Newton sipped his water, turned pages, smiled once or twice toward Bryce, but said nothing. Through a small window behind Newton, Bryce could see a rectangle of dirty gray sky.

It took them a little less than an hour to arrive at Chicago, and another ten minutes to land the plane. They stepped out into the confusion of gray, ambiguous trucks, crowds of determined-looking people, and glassy snow, ridged, refrozen and dirty. The wind struck his face like a sackful of small needles. He pulled his chin down into his scarf, turned his overcoat collar up, pulled his hat on tighter. As he did this he looked over at Newton. Even Newton seemed affected by the cold wind, for he put his hands in his pockets and winced. Bryce was wearing a heavy overcoat; Newton had on a wool tweed jacket and wool pants. It was strange to see him dressed that way. I wonder what he would look like in a hat, Bryce thought. Maybe a man from Mars should wear a derby.

A snub-nosed truck towed the plane from the field. The graceful little jet seemed to follow the truck sullenly, as if bitter at the ignominy of being on the ground. Someone shouted, “Merry Christmas!” at someone else, and Bryce realized with a start that the day was, indeed, Christmas. Newton passed him, preoccupied, and he began to follow, walking slowly and with care over the plateaux and craters of ice, like dirty gray stone beneath his feet, with a surface like the surface of the moon.

The terminal building was hot, sweaty, noisy, crowded. In the center of the waiting room, stood a gigantic, revolving Christmas tree, made of plastic, covered with plastic snow, plastic icicles, and evil, winking lights. White Christmas , sung by an invisible, saccharine choir, with bells and electronic organ, rose, at intervals, above the din of the crowd: “I’m dream–ing of a white Chrisss–mass…” That fine old yuletide song. From hidden ducts somewhere was wafted the scent of pine—or of pine oil, like the kind used in public washrooms. Shrill women in furs stood in groups; men walked purposely through the room, carrying briefcases, packages, cameras. A drunk was slumped in an imitation leather armchair, his face blotchy. A child, near Bryce, said to another child, with great intensity, “And you’re one, too.” Bryce did not catch the reply. “May your day be merry and bright, and may all your Chrisss–massss–esss be whiiite!”

“Our car should be in front of the building,” Newton said. Something that suggested pain was in his voice.