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Topics: The Limit of Function. Easter. To Cross Out Everything
I am like a machine set at excessive speed: the bearings are overheated; another minute, and molten metal will begin to drip, and everything will turn to naught Quick – cold water, logic. I pour it by the pailful, but logic hisses on the red-hot bearings and dissipates into the air in whiffs of white, elusive steam.
Of course, it’s clear: in order to determine the true value of a function it is necessary to take it to its ultimate limit And it is clear that yesterday’s preposterous “dissolution in the universe,” brought to its ultimate point, means death. For death is precisely the most complete dissolution of self in the universe. Hence, if we designate love as “L” and death as “D,” then L = f(D). In other words, love and death…
Yes, exactly, exactly. This is why I am afraid of I-330, I resist her, I don’t want to… But why does this “I don’t want” exist within me together with “I want”? That’s the full horror of it – I long for last night’s blissful death again. That’s the horror of it, that even, today, when the logical function has been integrated, when it is obvious that death is implicit in this function, I still desire her, with my lips, arms, breast, with every millimeter of me…
Tomorrow is Unanimity Day. She will, of course, be there too, I’ll see her, but only from a distance. From a distance – that will be painful, because I must, I am irresistibly drawn to be near her, so that her hands, her shoulder, her hair… But I long even for this pain – let it come.
Great Benefactor! How absurd – to long for pain. Who doesn’t know that pain is a negative value, and that the sum of pain diminishes the sum we call happiness? And hence…
And yet – there is no “hence.” Everything is blank. Bare.
Through the glass walls of the house – a windy, feverishly pink, disquieting sunset. I turn my chair away from that intruding pinkness and turn the pages of my notes. And I can see: again I have forgotten that I am writing not for myself, but for you, unknown readers, whom I love and pity – for you who are still trudging somewhere below, behind, in distant centuries.
Well, then – about Unanimity Day, this great holiday. I have always loved it, since childhood. It seems to me that to us it has a meaning similar to that of “Easter” to the ancients. I remember, on the eve of this day I would prepare for myself a sort of hour calendar – then happily cross out each hour: an hour nearer, an hour less to wait… If I were certain that nobody would see it, honestly, I would carry such a little calendar with me even today, watching by it how many hours remain until tomorrow, when I will see – if only from a distance…
(I was interrupted: they brought me a new unif, fresh from the factory. We usually receive new unifs for this day. In the hallway outside – steps, joyful exclamations, noise.)
I continue. Tomorrow I will see the spectacle which is repeated year in, year out, and yet is ever new, and ever freshly stirring: the mighty chalice of harmony, the reverently upraised arms. Tomorrow is the day of the annual elections of the Benefactor. Tomorrow we shall again place in the Benefactor’s hands the keys to the imperishable fortress of our happiness.
Naturally, this is entirely unlike the disorderly, disorganized elections of the ancients, when-absurd to say – the very results of the elections were unknown beforehand. Building a state on entirely unpredictable eventualities, blindly – what can be more senseless? And yet apparently it needed centuries before man understood this.
Needless to say, among us, in this respect as in all others, there is no room for eventualities; nothing unexpected can occur. And the elections themselves are mainly symbolic, meant to remind us that we are a single, mighty, million-celled organism, that – in the words of the ancients – we are the Church, one and indivisible. Because the history of the One State knows of no occasion when even a single voice dared to violate the majestic unison.
It is said that the ancients conducted their elections in some, secret manner, concealing themselves like thieves. Some of our historians even assert that they came to the election ceremonies carefully masked. (I can imagine that fantastically gloomy sight: night, a square, figures in dark cloaks moving stealthily along the walls; the scarlet flame of torches flattened by the wind…) No one has yet discovered the full reason for all this secrecy; it is most likely that elections were connected with some mystical, superstitious, or even criminal rites. But we have nothing to conceal or be ashamed of; we celebrate elections openly, honestly, in broad daylight I see everyone voting for the Benefactor; everyone sees me voting for the Benefactor. And, indeed, how could this be otherwise, since “everyone” and “I” are a single “We.” How infinitely more ennobling, sincere, and lofty this is than the cowardly, stealthy “secrecy” of the ancients! And also – how much more expedient. For even assuming the impossible – some dissonance in the usual monophony – the unseen Guardians are right there, in our ranks. They can immediately take note of the numbers of those who have strayed and save them from further false steps – thus saving the One State from them. And, finally, one more…
Through the wall on the left – a woman hastily unfastening her unif before the glass door of the closet. And for a second, a glimpse of eyes, lips, two sharp rosy points… Then the blind falls, and all that happened yesterday is instantly upon me, and I no longer know what “finally, one more” was meant to be, I want to know nothing about it, nothing! I want one thing – I-330. I want her with me every minute, any minute, always – only with me. And all that I have just written about Unanimity is unnecessary, entirely beside the point, I want to cross it out, tear it up, throw it away. Because I know (this may be blasphemy, but it is true), the only holiday for me is to be with her, to have her near me, shoulder to shoulder. And without her, tomorrow’s sun will be nothing but a small circle cut of tin, and the sky, tin painted blue, and I myself…
I snatch the telephone receiver. “I-330, is it you?”
“Yes, I. You’re calling so late.”
“Perhaps it is not too late. I want to ask you… I want you to be with me tomorrow. Darling…”
I said the last word almost in a whisper. And for some reason, the memory of an incident this morning at the building site flashed before me. In jest, someone had placed a watch under a hundred-ton hammer – the hammer swung, a gust of wind in the face, and a hundred tons delicately, quietly came to rest upon the fragile watch.
A pause. It seems to me that I hear someone’s whisper there, in her room. Then her voice: “No, I cannot. You understand – I would myself… No, no, I cannot. Why? You will see tomorrow.”
Topics: Descent from Heaven. The Greatest Catastrophe in History. The Known Is Ended
Before the ceremony, everyone stood still and, like a solemn, slow canopy, the Hymn swayed over our heads – hundreds of trumpets from the Music Plant and millions of human voices – and for a second I forgot everything. I forgot the disquieting hints of I-330 about today’s celebration; I think I forgot even her. I was the boy who had once wept on this day over a tiny spot on his unif, visible to no one but himself. No one around may see the black, indelible spots I am covered with, but I know that I – a criminal – have no right to be among these frank, wide-open faces. If I could only stand up and shout, scream out everything about myself. And let it mean the end – let it! – if only for a moment I can feel myself as pure and thoughtless as this childishly innocent blue sky.
All eyes were raised. In the unblemished morning blue, still moist with night’s tears – a barely visible speck, now dark, now glowing in the sun’s rays. It was He, the new Jehovah, coming down to us from heaven, as wise and loving-cruel as the Jehovah of the ancients. He came nearer and nearer, and millions of hearts rose higher and higher to meet Him. Now He sees us. And, together with Him, I mentally look down from above on the concentric circles of the platforms, marked by the thin blue dotted lines of our unifs, like cobweb circles spangled with microscopic suns (our gleaming badges). And in a moment, He will sit down in the center of the cobweb, the white wise Spider – the white-robed Benefactor, who has wisely bound us hand and foot with the beneficent nets of happiness.
But now His majestic descent from heaven was completed, the brass tones of the Hymn were silent, everyone sat down – and instantly I knew: all of this was indeed the finest cobweb; it was stretched tautly, it quivered – in a moment it would break and something unthinkable would happen…
Rising slightly in my seat, I glanced around, and my eyes met lovingly anxious eyes running from face to face. Now one number raised his hand, and, with a scarcely noticeable movement of his fingers, he signaled to another. And then – an answering signal. And another… I understood: these were the Guardians. I knew they were alarmed by something; the cobweb, stretched, was quivering. And within me – as in a radio receiver set on the same wave length – there was an answering quiver. On the stage, a poet read a pre-election ode, but I did not hear a single word – only the measured swaying of a hexametric pendulum, and every movement brought nearer some unknown appointed hour. I was still feverishly scanning the rows-face after face, like pages – and still failing to find the only one, the one I sought, I had to find it, quickly, for in a moment the pendulum would tick, and then…
He, it was he, of course. Below, past the stage, the rosy wing-ears slid past over the gleaming glass, the running body reflected as a dark, doubly curved S. He hurried somewhere in the tangled passages among the platforms.
S, I-330 – there is some thread that links them (all the time I’ve sensed this thread between them; I still don’t know what it is; some day I’ll disentangle it). I fastened my eyes on him; like a ball of cotton he rolled farther and farther, the thread trailing behind him. Now he stopped, now…
Like a lightning-quick, high-voltage discharge: I was pierced, twisted into a knot. In my row, at no more than forty degrees from me, S stopped, bent down. I saw I-330, and next to her – the revoltingly thick-lipped, grinning R-13.
My first impulse was to rush there and cry out, “Why are you with him today? Why didn’t you want me to…?” But the invisible, beneficent cobweb tightly bound my hands and feet; with teeth clenched, I sat as stiff as iron, my eyes fixed on them. As now, I remember the sharp physical pain in my heart. I thought: If nonphysical causes can produce physical pain, then it is clear that…
Unfortunately, I did not bring this to conclusion. I recall only that something flashed about a “soul,” and then the absurd ancient saying, “His heart dropped into his boots.” And I grew numb. The hexameters were silent. Now it will begin… But what?
The customary five-minute pre-election recess. The customary pre-election silence. But now it was not the usual prayerlike, worshipful silence: now it was as with the ancients, when our Accumulator Towers were still unknown, when the untamed sky had raged from time to time with “storms.” This silence was the silence of the ancients before a storm.
The air – transparent cast iron. It seemed one had to open the mouth wide to breathe. The ear, tense to the point of pain, recorded, somewhere behind, anxious whispers, like gnawing mice. With lowered eyes, I saw before me all the time those two, I-330 and R, side by side, shoulder to shoulder – and on my knees, my hateful, alien, shaggy, trembling hands…
In everyone’s hand, the badge with the watch. One. Two. Three… Five minutes… From the stage – the slow, cast-iron voice:
“Those in favor will raise their hands.”
If only I could look into His eyes as in the past – directly and devotedly: “Here I am, all of me. Take me!” But now I did not dare. With a great effort, as though all my joints were rusty, I raised my hand.
The rustle of millions of hands. Someone’s stifled “Ah!” And I felt that something had already begun, was dropping headlong, but I did not know what, and did not have the strength – did not dare-to look…
“Who is against?”
This always has been the most solemn moment of the ceremony: everyone continued sitting motionless, joyously bowing his head to the beneficent yoke of the Number of Numbers. But this time, with horror, I heard a rustling again, light as a sigh – more audible than the brass trumpets of the Hymn. Thus a man will sigh faintly for the last time in his life and all the faces around him turn pale, with cold drops on their foreheads.
I raised my eyes, and…
It took one-hundredth of a second: I saw thousands of hands swing up – “against” – and drop. I saw the pale, cross-marked face of I-330, her raised hand. Darkness fell on my eyes.
Another hair’s breadth. A pause. Silence. My pulse. Then, all at once, as at a signal from some mad conductor, shouts, crashing on all the platforms, the whirl of unifs swept in flight, the figures of the Guardians rushing about helplessly, someone’s heels in the air before my eyes, and near them someone’s mouth wide open in a desperate, unheard scream. For some reason, this etched itself in memory more sharply than anything else: thousands of silently screaming mouths, as on some monstrous movie screen.
And just as on a screen – somewhere far below, for a second – O’s whitened lips. Pressed to the wall of a passage, she stood shielding her stomach with crossed arms. Then she was gone, swept away, or I forgot her because…
This was no longer on a screen – it was within me, in my constricted heart, in my hammering temples. Over my head on the left, R-13 jumped suddenly up on the bench – spluttering, red, frenzied. In his arms – I-330, her unif torn from shoulder to breast, red blood on white… She held him firmly around the neck, and he, repulsive and agile as a gorilla, was carrying her up, away, bounding in huge leaps from bench to bench.
As during a fire in ancient days, everything turned red before me, and only one impulse remained – to jump, to overtake them. I cannot explain to myself where I found such strength, but, like a battering ram, I tore through the crowd, stepping on shoulders, benches – and now I was upon them; I seized R by the collar: “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare, I say. Let her go. This very moment!” (My voice was inaudible – everyone shouted, everyone ran.)
“Who? What is it? What?” R turned, his sputtering lips shaking. He must have thought he had been seized by one of the Guardians.
“What? I won’t have it, I won’t allow it! Put her down – at once!”
He merely slapped his lips shut in anger, tossed his head, and ran on. And at this point – I am terribly ashamed to write about it, but I feel I must, I must record it, so that you, my unknown readers, may learn the story of my sickness to the very end – at this point I swung at his head. You understand – I struck him! I clearly remember this. And I remember, too, the feeling of release, the lightness that spread throughout my body from this blow.
I-330 quickly slipped down from his arms.
“Get away,” she cried to R. “Don’t you see, he’s… Get away, R, go!”
Baring his white, Negroid teeth, R spurted some word into my face, dived down, disappeared. And I lifted I-330 into my arms, pressed her firmly to myself, and carried her away.
My heart was throbbing – enormous – and with each heartbeat, a rush of such a riotous, hot wave of joy. And who cared if something somewhere had been smashed to bits – what did it matter! Only to carry her so, on and on…
It is with difficulty that I hold the pen in my hand: I am so exhausted after all the dizzying events of this morning. Is it possible that the sheltering, age-old walls of the One State have toppled? Is it possible that we are once again without house or roof, in the wild state of freedom, like our distant ancestors? Is there indeed no Benefactor? Against… On Unanimity Day? I am ashamed, I am pained and frightened for them. But then, who are “they”? And who am I? “They,” “We” – do I know?
She sat on the sun-heated glass bench, on the topmost platform, where I had brought her. Her right shoulder and below – the beginning of the miraculous, incalculable curve – bare; the thinnest, serpentine, red trickle of blood. She did not seem to notice the blood, the bared breast… no, she saw it all – but this was precisely what she needed now, and if her unif were buttoned up, she would rip it open herself, she…
“And tomorrow…” she breathed greedily through gleaming, clenched, sharp teeth. “No one knows what tomorrow will be. Do you understand – I do not know, no one knows – tomorrow is the unknown! Do you understand that everything known is finished? Now all things will be new, unprecedented, inconceivable.”
Below, the crowds were seething, rushing, screaming. But all that was far away, and growing farther, because she looked at me, she slowly drew me into herself through the narrow golden windows of her pupils. Long, silently. And for some reason I thought of how once, long ago, I had also stared through the Green Wall into someone’s incomprehensible yellow eyes, and birds were circling over the Wall (or was this on some other occasion?).
“Listen: if nothing extraordinary happens tomorrow, I will take you there – do you understand?”
No, I did not understand. But I nodded silently. I was dissolved, I was infinitely small, I was a point…
There is, after all, a logic of its own (today’s logic) in this condition: a point contains more unknowns than anything else; it need but stir, move, and it may turn into thousands of curves, thousands of bodies.
I was afraid to stir: what would I turn into? And it seemed to me that everyone, like me, was terrified of the slightest movement.
At this moment, as I write this, everyone sits in his own glass cage, waiting for something. I do not hear the humming of the elevator usual at this hour, I hear no laughter, no steps. Now and then I see, in twos, glancing over their shoulders, people tiptoe down the corridor, whispering…
What will happen tomorrow? What will I turn into tomorrow?
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