Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 (2 page)

 
          
 
The blood's red ring is bleached. About it,
for an instant, a blueness. A roaring seems to begin. He. He. He ... I—

 
          
 
Tell me if anything is ever done This then, I—

 
          
 
He stares from the window, sorting the motions
of the birds. Spring has come to
Rome
. But the sun is falling and the shadows
lengthen. He sorts the colors, the shades, the textures. Had I this city to
build, I would have done differently. ... He regards the clouds.

 
          
 
But then it might never have been done He
leans his head back against the wall, runs his fingers through his beard, tugs
at his lower lip. There were so many things. ... To fly, to go beneath the
seas, to build palaces and marvelous devices, to channel rivers, to plumb all
the laws of nature, to merge the scientific and the esthetic, striving
perpetually within me, getting in each other's ways ... Yet there were many
things done for Ludovico, only all of them trifles. The Great Horse

 
          
 
... He would have liked to have seen that
carried to completion. Sad, how the opportunities invariably arose at the wrong
times. Or if things did seem to be going right, that something always came to
cancel them. So many things that might be of use. It is as if the world resists
And now ... The Magnificent Giuliano de Medici dead this March past... There is
little to hold me here now, and this new French king has spoken of the manor of
Cloux, near
Amboise
, a pleasant place— and no duties. . . .
Perhaps the rest would be good, to think, to pursue my studies. I may even
paint a little

 
          
 
He turns from the window, retreats. There is a
white circle on that field of blue, though the moon is not yet risen. He might—
I—

 
          
 
Tell me if anything is ever done....

 
          
 
. . . And she sings the lament as he lies
bleeding.

 
          
 
The beast is returned to the sea. She brushes
away insects. She cradles his head in her lap. There is no movement. He does
not seem to breathe.

 
          
 
Yet some warmth is in him still....

 
          
 
She finds more words.... Trees and mountains,
streams and plains, how can this thing be? He whose sons and sons' sons have
hunted among you since before the hills were made ... He who has spoken with
the powers beneath the sea ... How can he pass as men have passed into the land
of dreams? Rend yourselves, hide yourselves, spill yourselves over, weep . . .
if the son of the land can walk it no more.

 
          
 
Her voice carries across the meadow, is lost
among the trees.... Pain, pain, pain... I—

 
          
 
Drunk again. Who cares? Perhaps I am as
worthless as they say, a dirty Swiss madman. ... I saw and I spoke. It is they
who are mad, who do not listen. . . . Yet... Nothing I have said has been taken
right. Suppose it is always to be so? Suppose . . . Damn Voltaire! He knew what
I meant. He knew I never intended that we all go live in the woods! Out to show
his wit at the price of an idea ... Natural, within society, is what I
said—over and again Only in society can man have knowledge of good and evil. In
nature he is merely innocent. He knew! I'll swear he knew, damned mocker! And
damn all popularizers of a man's work! The perversity of costumed dandies
playing at the simple ... Th6rese! I miss you tonight.... Where is that bottle?
There ... Seek goodness and God and order in nature and in the heart... and in
the bottle, I should have added. The room swims well tonight. There are
times—damn these moments—when it all seems worthless, all, all that I have done
and all else in this mad world. Who cares? At times, I seem to see so clearly.
. . . But . . . The faith of a Savoyard Vicar is not mine tonight.... There
have been times when I feared that I was truly mad, times else when I doubted
some thought or other Now I fear that it does not matter whether I am mad or
sane, right or wrong. Does not matter in the least. My words are cast into the
Fohn, strewn, effectless, gone. . . . The wind blows on, the world goes as it
will, coursing the same route it would have taken had I never been at all. . .
. Bacche, benevenies gratus et optatus, per quern noster animus fit
letificatus. ... It does not matter that I saw and spoke. It does not matter
that those who scorned me may be right. It does not matter....

 
          
 
Head resting on outflung arm, he regards the
bottom of the bottle. We see it go white in the flickering light, and all
around it blue. . . . We spin. We—

 
          
 
Aiee! she cries, shaking, the lament done, the
blood drying, the body still and pale. And again, as she throws herself upon
him and clings to the once-warm form. Air rushes from my lungs with a noise
like a sob. The pain!

 
          
 
The pain ...

 
          
 
. . . But there is nothing left. My hopes—the
dreams of a fool ... I welcomed this thing when it came.

 
          
 
The old order, into which I, Marie Jean
Antoine Nicholas Caritat, was born Marquis de Condorcet, had had its day and
darkened it Long ago had I seen that, and I welcomed the Revolution. But three
years past was I seated in the Legislative Assembly. And the terror .. . But
one year past, because I favored
Gironde
,
did I fall from grace and flee the Jacobins. . . Laughable. Here I sit, their
prisoner. I know what must come next, and they shall not have it of me.
Laughable—for still do I believe Everything I said in the Sketch

 
          
 
... That man may one day be free from want and
war, that the increase and the spread of knowledge, the discovery of the laws
of social behavior, may bring man toward perfection ... Laughable—to believe
this and plot to cheat the guillotine this way ... Yet, moderation is not the
way of revolution, a thing we humanists who get involved often learn too late I
still believe, yet these things seem farther off than once they did. . . . Let
us hope that that is all there is to it. ... I am weary. The entire business
tedious ... I find that I am of no further use here. ... It is time to write an
ending and close the book. . ..

 
          
 
We make the final preparations. At the moment
of pain, I—he ... We see through a blue haze dimly a pale circle upon the
wall....

 
          
 
Now, now again, ever and always ... The pain
and the broken body she clutches, breathing into the mouth, beating upon my
breast, rubbing his hands and neck ... As if by this to call back, as if by
this to share her spirit in her breath ...

 
          
 
The ground is sharp beneath our shoulders, and
there is pain as the breath rattles forth The blood will flow if I move again.
He must stay very still.... The sun drops spears upon our eyelids....

 
          
 
. . . Gilbert Van Duyn cast a final glance
over his speech. A crutch, he thought. I already know what I am going to say,
know exactly where I might depart from the text, and how. . . . Not really that
important. The thing is already distributed. All I have to do is get up and say
the words. Still. . . Addressing the General Assembly of the United Nations is
hardly the same as talking to a classroom full of students. I was less nervous
in
Stockholm
, that day, eight years ago. . . . Strange,
that the Prize means so much. . . . Without it, someone else would be reading
this—or something very like it. . . . And it probably would not have made that
much difference. ... The main thing is to get it said. ... He ran his hand
through what remained of his hair. How will the voting go, I wonder? They all
say it should be close. ... I just hope the ones we are concerned about can
take a longer view, be willing to see beyond the surface inequities. . . . God!
I really hope so....

 
          
 
The speaker was nearing the end of his
introduction. A soft undercurrent of murmurs the texture of half a hundred
tongues still flowed across the hall, fading as the moments ticked by. Soon,
soon now ... He glanced at the speaker, the clock on the wall, his own
hands....

 
          
 
The speaker concluded, turned his head,
gestured. Gilbert Van Duyn rose and moved to the microphone. He smiled as he
placed the papers before him. A momentary pause ... He began to speak....

 
          
 
Dead silence.

 
          
 
Not only the murmuring, but every small sound
within the hall had ceased. Not a cough nor the scraping of a chair, not the
rattle of a briefcase nor the scratch of a match; not a rustle of paper, the
clink of a water tumbler, the closing of a door nor the sound of a footstep.
Nothing.

 
          
 
Gilbert Van Duyn paused and looked up.

 
          
 
Nor was there any movement.

 
          
 
Total stillness, as in a snapshot . . . Not a
body stirred. Cigarette smoke hung motionless in the air.

 
          
 
He turned his head, seeking some small
activity— anything—within the assembly.

 
          
 
His eyes passed over the figure within the
tableau several times before the expression and the stance registered, before
the object clasped in both hands and thrust forward came suddenly to his
notice.

 
          
 
Then he froze.

 
          
 
The man, in the delegation from one of the
smaller, warmer nations, had obviously sprung to his feet but a moment
before—his chair still tilted backward, an upset folder still hanging at an
impossible angle before him, spilling still papers into the air.

 
          
 
The man held a pistol, pointed directly at
him, a thin wisp of unmoving smoke twisted to the left of its muzzle.

 
          
 
Slowly then, Gilbert Van Duyn moved. He left
his notes, drew away from the microphone, stepped down, crossed back, made his
way toward the place where the man stood with the pistol, eyes narrowed, teeth
bared, brows tightened.

 
          
 
When he came up beside him, he stood for a
moment, then reached out cautiously, touched the man's arm.

 
          
 
. . . Stiff, unyielding, statuelike. It did
not feel like flesh beneath his fingers, but some substance much denser, more
rigid. But then, even the cloth of the sleeve felt stiffer than it should have.

 
          
 
Turning, he touched the next nearest man. The
sensations were the same. Even the shirtfront behaved as if it were of a
coarse, heavily starched material.

 
          
 
Gilbert Van Duyn regarded the papers, still
unnaturally suspended before the gunman. He touched one. The same rigidity ...
He tugged at it. It cracked soundlessly.

 
          
 
He extracted an automatic pencil from a
delegate's pocket, held it before him, released it. It hung in the air,
motionless.

 
          
 
He glanced at his watch. The second hand was
not moving. He shook it, put it to his ear. Nothing.

 
          
 
Returning to the gunman, he sighted along the
barrel of the pistol. There could be no doubt. It was aimed directly at the
spot he had recently vacated.

 
          
 
... And what was that up ahead?

 
          
 
He straightened, made his way forward,
regarded the pellet about six feet out from the muzzle. It was the bullet,
almost hanging there, creeping forward at a barely perceptible velocity.