The Greatest Tales of Lost Worlds & Alternative Universes. Филип Дик
Читать онлайн книгу.
Straight from the breast of his love he springs
Larry’s voice soared.
His wings and his feathers are sunrise red,
He hails the sun and his golden head,
Good morning, Doc, you are long abed.
This last was a most irreverent interpolation, I well knew. I opened my door. O’Keefe stood outside laughing. The Suwarna, her engines silent, was making fine headway under all sail, the Brunhilda skipping in her wake cheerfully with half her canvas up.
The sea was crisping and dimpling under the wind. Blue and white was the world as far as the eye could reach. Schools of little silvery green flying fish broke through the water rushing on each side of us; flashed for an instant and were gone. Behind us gulls hovered and dipped. The shadow of mystery had retreated far over the rim of this wide awake and beautiful world and if, subconsciously, I knew that somewhere it was brooding and waiting, for a little while at least I was consciously free of its oppression.
“How’s the patient?” asked O’Keefe.
He was answered by Huldricksson himself, who must have risen just as I left the cabin. The Norseman had slipped on a pair of pajamas and, giant torso naked under the sun, he strode out upon us. We all of us looked at him a trifle anxiously. But Olaf’s madness had left him. In his eyes was much sorrow, but the berserk rage was gone.
He spoke straight to me: “You said last night we follow?”
I nodded.
“It is where?” he asked again.
“We go first to Ponape and from there to Metalanim Harbour — to the Nan–Matal. You know the place?”
Huldricksson bowed — a white gleam as of ice showing in his blue eyes.
“It is there?” he asked.
“It is there that we must first search,” I answered.
“Good!” said Olaf Huldricksson. “It is good!”
He looked at Da Costa inquiringly and the little Portuguese, following his thought, answered his unspoken question.
“We should be at Ponape tomorrow morning early, Olaf.”
“Good!” repeated the Norseman. He looked away, his eyes tear-filled.
A restraint fell upon us; the embarrassment all men experience when they feel a great sympathy and a great pity, to neither of which they quite know how to give expression. By silent consent we discussed at breakfast only the most casual topics.
When the meal was over Huldricksson expressed a desire to go aboard the Brunhilda.
The Suwarna hove to and Da Costa and he dropped into the small boat. When they reached the Brunhilda’s deck I saw Olaf take the wheel and the two fall into earnest talk. I beckoned to O’Keefe and we stretched ourselves out on the bow hatch under cover of the foresail. He lighted a cigarette, took a couple of leisurely puffs, and looked at me expectantly.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well,” said O’Keefe, “suppose you tell me what you think — and then I’ll proceed to point out your scientific errors.” His eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Larry,” I replied, somewhat severely, “you may not know that I have a scientific reputation which, putting aside all modesty, I may say is an enviable one. You used a word last night to which I must interpose serious objection. You more than hinted that I hid — superstitions. Let me inform you, Larry O’Keefe, that I am solely a seeker, observer, analyst, and synthesist of facts. I am not”— and I tried to make my tone as pointed as my words —“I am not a believer in phantoms or spooks, leprechauns, banshees, or ghostly harpers.”
O’Keefe leaned back and shouted with laughter.
“Forgive me, Goodwin,” he gasped. “But if you could have seen yourself solemnly disclaiming the banshee”— another twinkle showed in his eyes —“and then with all this sunshine and this wide-open world”— he shrugged his shoulders —“it’s hard to visualize anything such as you and Huldricksson have described.”
“I know how hard it is, Larry,” I answered. “And don’t think I have any idea that the phenomenon is supernatural in the sense spiritualists and table turners have given that word. I do think it is supernormal; energized by a force unknown to modern science — but that doesn’t mean I think it outside the radius of science.”
“Tell me your theory, Goodwin,” he said. I hesitated — for not yet had I been able to put into form to satisfy myself any explanation of the Dweller.
“I think,” I hazarded finally, “it is possible that some members of that race peopling the ancient continent which we know existed here in the Pacific, have survived. We know that many of these islands are honeycombed with caverns and vast subterranean spaces, literally underground lands running in some cases far out beneath the ocean floor. It is possible that for some reason survivors of this race sought refuge in the abysmal spaces, one of whose entrances is on the islet where Throckmartin’s party met its end.
“As for their persistence in these caverns — we know they possessed a high science. They may have gone far in the mastery of certain universal forms of energy — especially that we call light. They may have developed a civilization and a science far more advanced than ours. What I call the Dweller may be one of the results of this science. Larry — it may well be that this lost race is planning to emerge again upon earth’s surface!”
“And is sending out your Dweller as a messenger, a scientific dove from their Ark?” I chose to overlook the banter in his question.
“Did you ever hear of the Chamats?” I asked him. He shook his head.
“In Papua,” I explained, “there is a wide-spread and immeasurably old tradition that ‘imprisoned under the hills’ is a race of giants who once ruled this region ‘when it stretched from sun to sun before the moon god drew the waters over it’— I quote from the legend. Not only in Papua but throughout Malaysia you find this story. And, so the tradition runs, these people — the Chamats — will one day break through the hills and rule the world; ‘make over the world’ is the literal translation of the constant phrase in the tale. It was Herbert Spencer who pointed out that there is a basis of fact in every myth and legend of man. It is possible that these survivors I am discussing form Spencer’s fact basis for the Malaysian legend.1
“This much is sure — the moon door, which is clearly operated by the action of moon rays upon some unknown element or combination and the crystals through which the moon rays pour down upon the pool their prismatic columns, are humanly made mechanisms. So long as they are humanly made, and so long as it IS this flood of moonlight from which the Dweller draws its power of materialization, the Dweller itself, if not the product of the human mind, is at least dependent upon the product of the human mind for its appearance.”
“Wait a minute, Goodwin,” interrupted O’Keefe. “Do you mean to say you think that this thing is made of — well — of moonshine?”
“Moonlight,” I replied, “is, of course, reflected sunlight. But the rays which pass back to earth after their impact on the moon’s surface are profoundly changed. The spectroscope shows that they lose practically all the slower vibrations we call red and infra-red, while the extremely rapid vibrations we call the violet and ultra-violet are accelerated and altered. Many scientists hold that there is an unknown element in the moon — perhaps that which makes the gigantic luminous trails that radiate in all directions from the lunar crater Tycho — whose energies are absorbed by and carried on the moon rays.
“At any rate, whether by the loss of the vibrations of the red or by the addition of this mysterious force, the light of the moon becomes something entirely different from mere modified sunlight — just as the addition or subtraction of one other chemical in a compound of several makes the product a substance with entirely different energies and potentialities.