Читать книгу The Making of the Representative for Planet 8 - Doris Lessing - Страница 6

And Johor nodded, in a way that said: Yes, I can count on you, and she slid out again, letting in the roar of the storm outside, and a flurry of white flakes that did not melt, but lay in a patch on the stone of the floor near the door.

I said to Johor: ‘It is easier to bear the news of the death of a million people than to think that Alsi will die of starvation inside a heap of stinking furs. And I hate that in me, Johor. I have never been able to accept that partiality in us.’

‘You are complaining that we constructed you inadequately,’ he remarked, not without humour.

‘Yes, I suppose I am. I cannot help it. I have never been able to see someone weep and agonize because of the death of someone close, yet respond not at all to some general ill or danger, without feeling I am in the presence of some terrible lack, some deep failure.’

‘You forget that we did not expect for you such ordeals.’

‘Ah, Canopus, you do indeed expect a lot of us poor creatures, who are simply not up to what is needed.’

‘And yet when Alsi stood there just now, and took on so well and so bravely what I asked her, it seemed to me that as a species you are proving to be very capable of what is needed.’

‘Again, one person, one individual is made to represent so many!’

And, as I spoke, I felt now familiar pressures, the announcement deep in myself of something I should be understanding.

And that was when I let myself go away into sleep, having taken in what I could for that time. And when I woke Johor was sitting patiently, waiting for me to resume. I had not done much more than register: Here I am! – and add to it the thought: But the ‘I’ of me is not my own, cannot be, must be a general and shared consciousness – when Johor said: ‘Doeg, tell me what you all learned during that long time when you studied the material of your planet through the new instruments.’

It was very quiet. The raging of the wind had stopped. I imagined how outside the snow would be lying in billows of fresh white. Through the snow Alsi would be pushing her way, waist high, accompanied by those she had been able to rouse, and others would be trudging to the near towns and villages wondering if they would get there before the storm came again and crowded the air with white, white, white …

‘We learned that everything is made up of smaller things. And these of the smaller and finer … these organs of ours, a heart or a liver, which we don’t think of at all, but know are there, doing their work, are composed of all sorts of parts, of every kind of shape– strings and lumps and strips and layers and sponges. And these bits and pieces are made up of cells of all kinds. And these – every one of which has an energetic and satisfactory life of its own, and a death too, for you can observe these deaths, like ours – are composed of clusters of smaller living units, and molecules, and then these are made up again of just so many units, and these, too …’

My eyes, which had in fancy been dissecting a lump of flesh, a heart, seeing it dissolve into a seethe of tiny life, now again perceived Johor, a mound of skins, from which a pallid face showed. But even so, it was unmistakably Johor who sat there, a presence, a strength – a solidity.

‘Johor,’ I said, ‘I sit here feeling myself solid, a weight of matter, dense, with a shape I know every slope and surface of, and my mind is telling me that this is nothing – for I know that through what we have seen with your devices.’

‘What then was there when you came to the minutest item that we can see?’

‘There is a core – of something. Yet that dissolves and dissolves again. And around it some sort of dance of – pulsations? But the spaces between this – core, and the oscillations are so vast, so vast … that I know this solidity I feel is nothing. A shape of mist, I am, a smear of tinted light, as when we see – or saw, for we see only snow now, filling the spaces of sunlight – a spread of light with motes floating there. I am, from a perspective of vision very far from my own proper eyes, not dense or solid at all … But Johor, while I can see what it is you have been leading me to say to you, that this heaviness … for I am so heavy, so heavy, so thick and so heavy I can hardly bear it – this heaviness is nothing at all. A shape of light that has in it particles slightly denser in some places than in others. But what my mind knows is of no use to my lumpishness, Johor. What you see of me, with those eyes of yours that belong to another planet, a differently weighted star – I can imagine, for I have seen cells and molecules disappear into a kind of dance, but …’

‘A dance that you modify by how you observe it. Or think of it,’ he remarked.

The silence that is a listening deepened around us. But the claims of my discomfort and my impatience made me break it. ‘And yet this nothingness, this weight and labour of matter that lies so painfully on us all, is what you work with, Johor, for you sit here, you sit in this freezing place, and what you say is, Don’t let yourselves die yet, make the effort to keep alive – and what you are wanting to keep alive are these bodies, the flesh that disappears when you look at it with different eyes, into a something like motes with the sun on them.’

Yes, I did sleep then, dropped off, went away, and came back remarking: ‘I have often wondered, when I looked at the tiny oscillations and pulsations that compose us, where, then, are our thoughts, Johor? Where, what we feel? For it is not possible that these are not matter, just as we are. In a universe that is all gradations of matter, from gross to fine to finer, so that we end up with everything we are composed of in a lattice, a grid, a mesh, a mist, where particles or movements so small we cannot observe them are held in a strict and accurate web, that is nevertheless nonexistent to the eyes we use for ordinary living – in this system of fine and finer, where then is the substance of a thought?

‘I watch myself, Johor … I feel myself … inside this mass of liquids and tissues and bones and air which is so heavy, so very heavy, but which is nevertheless nothing, scarcely exists – when I feel anger, does anger blow through the interstices of the mesh and web which is what I know myself to be? Or when I feel pain, or love … or … I say these words, and everyone knows what I mean by anger, by wanting, by loss, and all the rest, but do you have instruments on Canopus that can see them? Can you see them, Johor, with those different eyes of yours? Do you see me sitting here, this poor beast Doeg, as a smear of tinted light, changing in colour as rage or fear sweeps through me? Where from, Johor? The substance of our flesh, the matter which makes us, dissolves into – vast spaces, defined by the movements of a dance. But we have not yet put fear or loneliness under instruments.’

I went off to sleep again – into a dream so vivid and satisfying and detailed that it was a world as strongly defined as anything I had known in waking life, on our planet or on any other. The landscape I moved through had something of our planet about it, and yet was not; events, people, feelings – all were known to me, yet not in ordinary life. And I had dreamed this dream before, and recognized it, or rather, the setting of the dream. As I entered the dream I was saying to myself, Yes, I know this place, because I know its flavour. And I woke after some sort of interval, long or short, and the atmosphere of the dream was so strong that I brought it with me, and it lay shimmering in beguiling colours that were the stuff of memory to us now since colour had been taken from our world, over the frosty greys and browns of the inside of the shed. And then the dream faded, and I said: ‘I have been dreaming.’

‘Yes, I know. You have been laughing and smiling, and I have been watching you.’

‘Johor, I could tell you the story of my dream, for it had a structure, a beginning and a development and an end, just like the tales of Doeg, the storyteller, and I could describe the incidents and the adventures and the people in it, some of them I know and some unknown – but I could never describe the atmosphere of the dream, although it is an atmosphere so strong, and unique to this dream, and to this cycle of dreams, that I could never mistake it. From the first moment I enter this particular landscape of dream, or even as I approach it from another dream, I know it, I know the air, the feel, the taste of it. I could not describe to you or to anyone what this atmosphere is. There are no words for it. And yet the realms of emotions and of thoughts are analogous to those of dreams. For an emotion has a flavour and a taste, a feel to it, that is not describable in words, but you can say to anyone “love” or “longing” or “envy” – and they will know exactly what you mean. And the emotions in you that are of the class of “love” will have the same quality, and will be the same to everyone else, so the word “love” is a communication, we know what we mean. And when a thought, which is properly colourless and tasteless, is tinged with grief, or vindictiveness, it has a taste, its own being, so, experiencing this grief-laden or joy-bringing thought, first there is the experience and then the word and I say to you, or to Alsi, “I am thinking a thought that has the quality of joy,” and you and everyone shares my experience. And this flavour or taste is a substance, is matter, is material, for everything is, everything must be; for if the minute dance that dissolves at the core which is no core at the heart of an atom is material, then so must be passion or need or delight. Can you, Johor, see where the pulses of the atom dissolve into patterns of movement of which you can say: This is envy, this is love?

‘How does the material or substance of love modify that minuscule dance? How relate? For it is the physical substance of our bodies, our hearts, that breeds love or hate, or fear or hope – is that not so? – and cannot be separate from it. The wind that is love must arise somewhere in those appalling spaces between the nub of an atom and its electrons that dissolve, like everything else, into smaller and smaller, and become a fluid or a movement – or a door into somewhere else?

‘I can ask you this question, knowing I share this with you, saying love, saying fear – and then I come back to the realm of dreaming, in which I spend a third of my life, which is soaked through and through with emotions, but also with sensations and feelings that have nothing to do with emotions, but are more to be described or suggested as colours suffusing a thing or a place – I can say, “Johor, I have been dreaming,” coming back to this world here, and my dreams will have been more vivid than my waking, and the atmosphere I have spent my sleep-journeyings in will be one I have known all my life, since babyhood, and I cannot find a word that will convey this feel, or taste, or colour, or sensation to you or to anyone else. This is the ultimate solitude, Johor … and yet I wonder, when you say, “I have been watching you sleep – watching you dream –” if you, with those eyes of yours that are made in the planet of a star weighted differently than ours, can say as you watch: “Doeg is moving in that landscape of sleep, that place, meeting these and these people – Doeg is partaking of the substance of that place – I know he is, because I can see the substance of that other place, or time, or pulse, moving in the spaces of the subatomic particles, or movements” … and if this is so, Johor, then it lifts a little of the loneliness of knowing that there is nothing I can say, even to my closest friends, that will convey to them the flavour of a dream.’

‘When you dream, do you imagine you dream for yourself alone, Doeg? Do you think that when you enter a realm in your sleep it is familiar only to you? That you alone of the peoples of this little planet of yours know that particular realm? You may not be able to find a word to describe it so that others may know where you have been, but others know it, because they too move there as they dream.’

And that is where that colloquy ended, because Alsi came in, with Marl and with Masson, and Zdanye, and with Bratch and with Pedug who had had the care of the Education of the Young before The Ice.

While Johor and I had sat there in that cold shed, waking and dreaming, around the pole that still was free of the snow and the ice, had come the slight movement towards warmth that we now called summer. In a space it would have taken us twenty of our days to walk across was an area of growth, and for the first time a kind of plant we did not know. It was very quick-growing, springing up into its full height in a few days, a frail sappy bush, aromatic, laden with blue flowers – and it covered the whole of this part of our globe, perhaps an eighth or a tenth of it. Klin, who usually worked down there through the year, had been visiting a valley nearer to the middle of the planet, which had been very warm and productive, hoping that it still might be mild enough to grow something, even if only heathers and brackens. But it was not; it was filled with snow, and so he had left it to go back to the polar regions, and had been met by messengers saying that herds of our great beasts were converging from everywhere to reach fields and hillsides covered with a new plant, which filled the air with scents new to us all. And by the time Klin reached ten days’ walking distance from the pole, where tundra and greyness met this brief summer land, he saw that these herds, multitudes of them, covered everything, trampling and rearing and lowing, and making the earth shake with their delight, their intoxication at this marvel – fresh sappy aromatic food. They were drunk with it all, were lumbering around, and tossing up their enormous heads as if the weight of horns there was nothing, and roaring and even prancing, and it broke the heart, said Klin, to see these desperate hungry beasts released there, into a happiness and lightness – if one could call these heavy chargings and buttings light – yet, if you had become used to seeing a landscape filled with heavy melancholy animals, heads drooping, sniffing at the earth fodder with dislike, yet eating it; animals that seemed hardly able to move, and that slid and slipped and fell on icy places when they did move – if this was how, with pain and compassion, you had become used to seeing them – then, by contrast, this sudden energy was a wonderful thing.

But it was not only the herds that longed for freshness and greenness: they were eating, were consuming, what might be useful to our populations. From the towns and villages near the polar regions, people were roused up with promises of new fresh food, and they came blinking and stumbling out from their smelly dark places into the familiar greyness – but saw beyond the thick low snow clouds a pale blue, our frail fleeting summer. And, as they came down towards the pole through bitter tough stems and sprigs of the plants of the tundra, they saw in front of them blue, a blue haze spread over the earth, as if the skies had fallen, or as if the earth had taken to reflecting the skies. And even the weight of the great beasts, crowding and massing everywhere, could not completely hide the loveliness of these blue-flowered plants. And the air was full of a spicy tangy scent, which revived the people, banished their terrible indifference and lethargy. They divided into bands, and drove the beasts off half of the fertile lands – for we did not want to deprive them altogether, we needed their meat, and had been afraid that they too would be extinct soon, so little was there for them to eat. The plants sprang up again at once where the beasts had grazed them to the earth – sheets of pale blue lay everywhere. And the people, flinging off their coats of thick hides, lay among these flowering bushes, weeping with joy, and even rolling, or running about and jumping, as the poor beasts had done – but were not doing now, in their more confined and restricted space, but were eating steadily, and as quickly as they could, filling themselves while they could, for they seemed to know that this bounty would not be permanent – it was already halfway through this ‘summer’ of ours, which no longer grew fruit, or grains, or vegetables, and had recently been growing very little more than sparse grasses. Yet here was this miracle, this marvel, that you could walk for twenty days through green and blue, under blue skies where the clouds of our old world – white and thick and lazy and delightful – moved all day, as if they knew nothing of the dark sullen cloud masses that crammed the horizons.

After a day on these aromatic pastures, our people were reborn, were their old selves: it was clear that the plants held some vital and powerful principle for health. Klin sent messages to Bratch, who was the Representative for Health, and he came, and sent for his helpers, and soon this plant, which grew again as quickly as it was cut, had made quantities of a kind of hay, that was more dried flowers than foliage, and then – it was a question of deciding how to apportion the life-giving food, for there was not enough of it to provide our people with even a mouthful each.

Who was to be benefited? On what basis was it to be decided?

Klin and Marl and Masson and Pedug and Bratch, standing around inside the shed, telling us all this, were restless; wanted, we could see, not to be there, had in their minds the sight of the fair brief world of the polar summer which they had reluctantly left to confer with me, with other Representatives in the area – and with Johor. But I could see they scarcely looked at him, their eyes seemed to move over and away from him. And this was not only because they had not before seen him so clearly as a being like ourselves, suffering and pallid inside a caul of beast’s skin, but because they did not expect anything from him. Yet no one had said to them: ‘This planet will not be saved, the promises made to us are without a future.’ Before, it was to have been expected that everyone would come up to Johor, saying: ‘Canopus, where are your fleets of Space Travellers, when will you take us all away?’ But no one said this. And Johor stayed quietly sitting on a heap of sacks filled with furze.

‘Why stay here, in this dying place,’ said Marl, ‘even for as long as we need to confer – come, we will go down to the summer, and we can make our decisions there.’

And so we, Johor and I, and all of them, and ten of the other Representatives, pushed our way through the snows around our town, and then stumbled and slid down hillsides, and mountain passes where we believed we would die of the cold, and down again to where ahead of us we could see blue, only blue – blue skies and blue earth – and a keen wind brought to us not the sharpness of cold but warm balmy smells that we had forgotten. And my eyes seemed to be swelling and growing, as they fed on the colours for which they were starved … And yet, even as I stumbled towards the blue and lovely summer ahead, I was saying to myself, I, a smear or haze of particles on which light shines, I, a nothing, a conglomerate of vast spaces defined by a dance my mind cannot comprehend, am running forward into – nothing, for if I saw this summer land as Johor does, with his Canopus eyes, I would see a universe of space in which faint shapes drift and form and dissolve – I, nothing, run forward towards nothing, weeping as I run – and where live the emotions that make these tears, Johor? Where in the great spaces in the faint mist that I am, where in the fluid flowing structure of the dance of atoms, where … and how … and what, Johor?

When we reached the hillsides where green showed under the bushes laden with blue flowers, we flung ourselves down and rolled and, seated above the summer with the snow peaks and half-frozen lands at our backs, looking into a sunlight where drifted cloud shadows and sudden chills and reminders of the winter that would soon come down again over this scented miracle, we talked about what we must do, what we had to do.

We talked. Johor did not, though he sat among us as if he was one of the conferring group.

Our problem was practical: when we had decided who was to benefit from this food, how was it to be conveyed? Movement between villages and towns had ceased, except for teams who dragged in the supplies of dried meat. How were we to carry loads of this light but bulky stuff up into the snow and the ice, and, when it was distributed, were they to cook and eat it, or eat it as it was – for all of us were eating the flowers straight off the bushes without ill-effects, apart from the mild stomach disorders which we had to put up with as an aspect of what we had to expect now. At last Bratch suggested that we should pile the dried plant into the ponds and the water holes, hoping that the enlivening principle in it would be transferred to the water. Some of the water could be carried in containers up into the snow-covered lands, but soon the bogs and marshes would freeze again as the cold came back and we could send down teams with sledges to transport this ice, or even to drag up chunks of it across the snow. And, meanwhile, send messengers everywhere to say that this shallow summer was here, providing vegetable matter for those who could or would make the effort to come and enjoy it.

Some of those who were making the living fence to keep the herds off the part of the harvest we had allocated for the use of our peoples went off to make sure the news reached all the populated centres. As for us, we stayed where we were, using every hour of daylight to pile the hay into the bogs and fens. The weather was not hot enough to make fermentation an immediate problem. The earth-smelling waters of these moorlands soon were emitting the fragrance of the plant, and our nights were spent lying out among the living plants, mostly awake, for we knew that this time of reprieve would soon end. The stars shone down, but not with the hard cold brilliance in blackness of the nights of the expedition up to the other pole: this was a distant mild shining, and they were continually going out as mists and veils blew across our skies.

By the time the messengers had come back, the plants had ceased to spring up again as they were cut; shadow lay more often on the hills and valleys than sun did; and the winds were not balmy, but made us shelter inside our deep coats. And the herds were no longer rearing and charging about, or bellowing, but were silent again. We all of us went to a place where we could look down on a valley crammed with these beasts, who stood with lowered heads above earth where there was no longer any green, or blue, or the soft blowing movement of growing things. We looked at a bull standing close to us, with the group of females that he served, and the calves of that season – there had been very few calves born for many seasons. We saw in the disconsolate, discouraged set of his shoulders that he felt himself a failure – lacking – hurt; for once again he would be commanding a group perpetually hungry, not able to breed, since nature was saying no, there is no future; once again they would have to lower their soft muzzles to the dense earth that is half-vegetable, forcing the unliked stuff into their stomachs that only partially digested it. And the females were anxious to keep their calves near them, and their eyes were red and wild, and they licked and maintained these small replicas of themselves with a desperation that said everything of the emotions that filled them. From horizon to horizon, the herds stood there – waiting. And we, too, now would have to return to our waiting.

There were about forty of us Representatives on that slope above the herds, and a hundred or so of those who had taken the messages to the people. Some people were coming in, in small groups, to take their share of the harvest, which was so sparse now, and they too rolled around in the green and ate the flowers. But only a few had been able to rouse themselves from their torpor and make the journey. We stood, a small multitude, in a hollow between low hills.

Long before those times of The Ice, I had learned to watch the disposition of people, events, what is said and what is not said – so as to understand what was likely to happen – what was already happening, but not yet fully disclosed. Those crowds standing about there, again huddling into the thick skins, watching the skies, where the first snow clouds were massing, were not differentiated in any way, and Johor stood among them, almost unnoticed, though everyone knew that Canopus was among us. Soon we Representatives moved out of the mass of people and up on to a slope. It was because this was expected of us; we could see, feel, sense, that we should do this. But Johor stayed where he was.

And when we stood there, the forty of us, looking at the mass of people, and they stood looking at us, there was a long silence. What was happening? – we all wondered that, for usually the verbal exchanges between the two, represented and Representatives, were brisk enough: practical. Usually it was evident what had to be done by everyone. We had never had to make speeches, or exhort, or persuade, or demand – as I have seen done on other planets, and read about. No, there had always been a consensus, an understanding among us all, and this had meant that it had been a question of: so-and-so will see to this, and such and such will be done – by someone. And it was at these times that a Representative who felt a change was needed would step back into the mass, or someone who felt entitled and equipped would step up into the Representative group. But long silences had not been our style at all. We were looking closely at each other, examining each other: we them, and they, closely and carefully, us. We stood there a very long time. On one side the herds stretched away to the horizon, where the storms were raging black on white. On the other, trampled and fading meadows sent up the faintest reminiscent breath of the now past summer. Over us the skies were grey and low, and a few snow-flakes spun down, and melted at once on faces, on our still exposed hands. And we searched each other’s faces, as if examining our own: What was happening? Well, I know now, but then I did not. I did feel as if I were being elected, but in a capacity previously not experienced. I felt tested, probed, almost handled by those eyes that were so thoughtfully focused on me and the rest of us Representatives. And, looking at them, it was as if I had not seen them before, not properly, not as I was seeing them now. So close we all were to each other, in this desperate and terrible enterprise that would involve us all, and in ways we could only partly know.

And while this long exchange went on, this silence that needed no words at all, Canopus stood there, part of the mass, quite passive and quiet. Yet nearly everyone in that throng, except for Alsi and – I think – Klin, still talked as if they believed Canopus would take us all off and away. That was still what we officially expected; and how – sometimes, but increasingly less frequently – we spoke. But not one of those people that day said to Johor: Canopus, where are your fleets that will take us all away from here, when will you keep your promise to us?

No, and it was not that there was reproach in the air, or anger, or accusation or even grief. That was the remarkable thing: the sober, quiet, responsible feeling among us, that did not admit grief, or mourning, or despair. Far away, deep in the snow-filled lands, where our friends lay in dark holes piled with hides, was the lethargy of grief, of despair. But here, among these few who had made the effort to travel to where the summer was, there was a different feeling altogether. And, after a long time, while we all stood there, looking at each other, it came to an end: we seemed to decide all at once, by some inner process, that it was enough. And everyone went off to the bogs and ponds, to see if they were frozen yet. No, but there was a thickening of the water’s surfaces, and a breeze rippling them made wrinklings, then flakes and then cakes of the thinnest ice; and when we all roused ourselves next morning, where we lay together on the slopes above the water, we saw that the water had frozen over, was white, though with the blackness of bog water under it, and in the water the green and blue plant masses. We had to send out a party to drive off some young beasts from the herds, and kill them, and prepare food, since the harvest was over and no hay remained, nor fresh plants. The smell of blood came on the cold wind to us, and we heard the beasts nearest to us bellow and moan, as they, too, smelled the blood. And we wearily began again on this diet of ours, of meat, and meat, and meat, from which we had enjoyed so brief a respite.

In a few days the waters were solid ice, and we cut out great chunks, and piled these on to sledges, or tied ropes around them, and everywhere could be seen long lines of us bent over the toil and labour of transporting the ice blocks – white against white, for everywhere it was white again, snow covering all the earth, snow-heavy clouds above us, the snowy mountain peaks ahead. And the wind spun the snow off the drifts to meet the white eddies from the skies.

Heading in every direction went the plodding lines of white figures, and our team climbed straight up through the frozen passes and into the middle areas of our planet where, far ahead, we could see rearing up into a grey sky the white mass of our wall which, as we neared it, seemed like a vast water wave that had frozen in the moment before it fell. The jagged fanged crest stretched from horizon to horizon, overtopping a wall which was white now, all iced over, and with snow packed to half its height.

When we approached our own town, with our sledges piled with the ice we had brought with us, people went ahead to rouse up the sleepers. But again, only a few came staggering out, groaning and complaining, hardly able to see because of the glare after their long sojourn in half-dark. We pressed them: Try this ice we have brought – suck it, take it inside and melt it down, drink the water, see if you, too, will become invigorated and refreshed. And some did, and were enlivened, and did not return to their terrible death-in-sleep. For many were dying as they slept, and could not be revived, not with all the skills of Bratch.

About a quarter of the population of our town stood in the deep snow of the central square, and Klin and Marl and Alsi and Masson and Pedug and Bratch were there, and I, and Johor. And again there was the long silence, which went on for as long as it was necessary for – what? But it was not broken at all, but seemed to confirm and to feed us all. And, when this process had gone on, and on, something happened that was different from the other silence down on the slopes on the polar land. Johor stepped out a little way from the crowd, and stood there, quite still, looking at us all. It was as if he were giving us an opportunity for something … for what? His eyes went from face to face, and we could see how wan and worn he was, as unhealthy as the rest of us, in spite of our little excursion into summer.

Oh, it was so dark there, so dark, with the storms driving all around us, the thick low clouds above, the sombre ice wall rearing up behind us, and the darkness was an expression of what I was feeling then, for on Johor’s face, which was humble in his patience in enduring, there was a look that said he had hoped for something from us all that was not yet there … he could see in the faces now turned towards him what he had stepped out by himself to evoke, but had hoped not to evoke. They were crowding around him, and saying: ‘Johor, are the space-fleets coming? When? How long must we wait?’ – Yet these things were being said in voices quite at odds with the questions: as if a part of the questioners was asking, a part that even the questioners themselves were half-aware of or not aware of at all – suddenly everyone seemed to me to be asleep or even drugged or hypnotized, for these muttering questions were like those coming out of sleep. Yes, it seemed to me as I stood there, slightly to one side, as Johor was, looking at the faces, that I was among sleepwalkers who did not know what they were saying, and would not remember when they woke. And I was wondering if these queries had always sounded so to Johor: ‘Where are your space-fleets, Canopus, when will you save us?’ And I wondered more than that, in the sharp moment of clarity, when everyone around me seemed to be an automaton, was it possible that this was how we all usually looked and sounded to Canopus: automata, bringing out these words or those, making these actions or those, prompted by shallow and surface parts of ourselves – for it was clear to me, as I stood there, that these demands and pleas were quite automatic, made by sleepwalkers. Even Alsi, who had had moments with me and with Johor of showing she knew quite well no such thing was going to happen, was leaning forward, asking with the others: ‘When, Johor? When?’

Johor said nothing, but gazed steadily back at them, and smiled a little.

And soon, in the same automatic, even indifferent way, they turned away from him, and began walking about the cleared space between the piles of dingy snow, and saying to each other: ‘Let us clear the snow away. How can the space-fleets land? There is nowhere for them to set themselves down.’ And they all began a hurrying scurrying activity, Alsi too, pushing the snow back off this space between the houses, piling it up, clearing paths – yet there was not room here for even Johor’s Space Traveller to land comfortably, and certainly not one of the great interconstellation ships that would be needed to transfer large numbers. And yet there they all were, rushing about, working furiously, frowning, concentrated … and still I was seeing them as Johor must be – as if they had been set into action by some quite superficial and unimportant stimulus. I was watching Alsi most particularly, with sorrowful disbelief, but with a patient expectation that soon she would come to herself – and it struck me that this was the look I saw often on Johor’s face as he watched me.

I said to him: ‘Very well, I understand, it is not yet time – though I don’t know for what it isn’t yet time.’

We two were still standing quietly to one side, watching. We were not far from the shed behind the runs of the snow animals. We went there over the rutted and stained snow, past piles of the ice blocks that had the flowers and leaves of the summer plants, green and blue, frozen into them. The interior of the shed was crammed. Alsi had heaped it with sacks of the dried plant.

The floor of the shed was now iced over, and it was ice and not frost that gleamed from the low dried-plant ceiling. We sank into the sweet-smelling sacks, and pulled our coats close. A small white animal came running out from behind sack piles: Alsi had freed her pets into the shed, and they were living there, happily, and had bred, for some fluffy little beasts came out, looked at us, and chose the sacks we sat on as a playground. They had such confidence and such pleasure in everything, such charm – and what came welling up out of me was the cry: ‘And they will soon all be gone, all gone, and yet another species will have vanished from life and the living …’ And I began on another cycle of pleas and of plaints, of grief – of sorrowing rebellion. ‘And what your answer will be I know, for there is no other; you will say, Johor, that this charm, this delightfulness, will vanish here and reappear elsewhere – on some place or planet that we have never heard of and that perhaps you have not heard of either! Charm is not lost, you say, the delicious friendliness that is the ground of these little animals’ nature cannot be lost, for these are qualities that life must re-create – the vehicles that contain them, here, now, for us – yes, they will be gone soon, the little creatures will be dead, all of them, all – but we are not to mourn them, no, for their qualities will be reborn – somewhere. It does not matter that they are going, the individual does not matter, the species does not matter – Alsi does not matter, and nor does Doeg, nor Klin and Masson, nor Marl and Pedug and the rest, for when we are extinguished, then …’ And as I reached this place in my chant, or dirge, I hesitated and my tongue stopped, hearing what I had said. I understood, yet did not, could not, yet.

I said, in the same thick, mechanical, even dead voice that I had heard used by the others outside, as they questioned Johor: ‘Yet we, the Representatives, we will be saved, so you say, I have been hearing you say – is that not what you said … yes, what else have you been saying … no, no, you have not said it, but then I haven’t said anything like that either … yet if that is not what you have been meaning, intending me to hear …’ I stopped my thick stupid mumbling and sat very quiet for a long time, a long long time. The little creatures tired of their tumbling play and lay close by me and Johor on the sacks, snuggling into the thick pelts. The two parents and four little ones, all licking our hands, sending out trills and murmurs of greeting, as to friends – their human friends. Soft blue eyes blinked at us, blinked more slowly, shut, opened showing the blue, then went out, as they slumbered there, curled into small white mounds.

I came out of the time of deep inward pondering which I was not able to monitor or direct, for it had its own laws and necessities, and I said: ‘I remember how the thought came into me that I, Doeg, was in the shape I am, with the features I have, because of a choice among multitudes. I set in front of myself a mirror, and I looked at my features – nose from my mother, eyes from my father, shape of head from one, set of body from the other, with memories of grandparents and great-grandparents. I looked, saying: her hands came down to him, and then to her and so to me, and his hair shows on that head and grew again on my grandmother, and so me – and I thought how that couple, my parents, could have given birth to – how many? – children, thousands, perhaps millions, every one slightly different – it was the slight difference that intrigued me in this private game of mine, and I imagined as I stood there looking at my face, my body, how stretching behind me, to each side of me, in every direction away from me, stood slight modifications of me, some very similar indeed, some hardly at all. I filled a town with these variations of myself, then a city, then, in my mind, whole landscapes. Doeg, Doeg, Doeg again, and mentally I greeted these nonexistent never-to-exist people, people who had not come into life because I had come in this precise shape of body and face, with this particular set of mannerisms – I said to these people, all of whom resembled me more or less, closely or only slightly, being the same height, or a little taller or a little shorter, with variations of the same hair, eyes in an allotment of possibilities – I said to them: Look, here you are, in me … for the feeling of me, of I, that feeling I am here, Doeg, would have been your feeling had the chances of the genes fallen differently, and if you, your particular shape and mould, had been born instead of me. What was born, then, to those repositories of a million years of the dicing of the genes, was a feeling, a consciousness, was the self-awareness: here I am. And this awareness was later given the name Doeg – though I have used many names in my life. That particular feeling was born into this shape and style and set of inherited attributes, and could have been born into any one of that multitude of others, the possibilities who, in my mind’s eye, stand, and stood, like ghosts, smiling perhaps a little wryly, watching me who chanced to succeed. But they are me and I am them, for it was the feeling of me that was born …’ And I lapsed out, went away then, for a time, and came back with: ‘… And yet you say, Johor, and of course as soon as you say it, it is true, it must be true, that this precious thing, what I hold on to when I say: I am here, Doeg, this is the feeling I am, and have, and what I recognize in sleep, and will recognize as myself when I die, leaving all this behind, this precious little thing, so little, for awaking in a thick dark night out of a sleep so deep it takes a long time to know where and who you are, all there is of you, of your memories, of your life, of your loves, of your family and children and your friends – all that there is this little feeling, here I am, the feeling of me – and yet it is not mine at all, but is shared, it must be, for how can it be possible that there are as many shades and degrees of me-ness as there are individuals on this planet of ours? No, it must be that though I do not know it, this consciousness, here I am, this is I, this is me, this sensation that I cannot communicate to anyone, just as none of us may communicate to anyone else at all the atmosphere of a dream, no matter how familiar the dream, and how close it is to you, or how often it comes during a long life – this sensation, or taste, or touch, or recognition, or memory – this me-ness – is nevertheless known very well to others. But they may not know who else shares this particular taste or feel – this class or grade or kind of quality of consciousness. Meeting me, they do not know that I share what they are, their feeling of themselves; and I, meeting them, being with them, cannot know that we are the same. Nor can we know how many we are, or how few – nor how many grades or types or kinds of these states of consciousness there are. This planet of ours: are there a million different me’s here? Half a million? Ten? Five? Or do we all share the same quality of self-consciousness? No, that is hard to believe – yet why not? – since we know so little of what we are, what, invisibly, we really are. It is as possible that there are a million different qualities of the consciousness that is all we are when we wake into a dark out of a deep sleep, and are unable to move for a while, let alone know where and why we are – as there are ten or five. But perhaps, Johor, when you look at this planet with your Canopus eyes, you do not see us as individuals at all, but as composites of individuals who share a quality that makes them, makes us, really, one. You look at us all and see not the swarming myriads, but sets of wholes, as we, looking into the waters of our lake, or up into the skies, saw there groups and swarms and shoals and flocks, each consisting of a multitude of individuals thinking themselves unique, but each making, as we could see with our superior supervising eyes, a whole, an entity, moving as one, living as one, behaving as one – thinking as one. Perhaps what you see of us is just that, a conglomerate of groups, or collectives, but these collectives need not be – it seems to me as I sit here thinking these thoughts, Johor, with you saying not a word – yet I would not be able to have these thoughts or anything like them were you not here – it seems to me that the wholes or groups or collectives need not be geographically close or contiguous, but that perhaps an individual who has precisely the same feeling of herself or himself as I do when waking in the dark out of a deep dream, knowing nothing of his or her past, or history, all memories gone too, for just that brief space – this individual might be one I never meet, might be living in a city on the other side of the planet where I have not been nor ever will go now. Might be someone, even, that I dislike, or have a repulsion for, just as easily as someone I feel drawn towards – for this business of antipathy and likeness is a chancy thing, and sometimes it is hard to tell the difference between attraction and repulsion, liking and disliking. But what a dimension that adds to the business of living, Johor, this idea of mine – this idea of yours? – that as I go about my work and my business, looking after this or that, doing what has to be done, meeting a hundred people in a day, then of these people it is possible I am meeting, not strangers, not the unknown, but myself. Myself, all I know truly of myself, which is the feeling here I am, I am here, – all that is left of you when you wake in a thick dark with your limbs too weighty with sleep to move, and unable to remember what you are and what you are doing here or in what room you are waking. You said to me, Johor, that the terrible feeling of isolation and loneliness that comes over me when I understand that never, no matter how I tried, could I convey to any other being the atmosphere, the reality, the real nature of a dream landscape, those landscapes where we wander in our sleep and which are more real than our waking – this isolation must be softened, must be banished, by knowing that others too, must use these landscapes in their sleep, and meet me there, as I meet them, though we will never, perhaps – or seldom – know it when we meet in the day, and so, too, my loneliness is softened when I reflect that in saying I, here I am, here is what I am