Philip Jose Farmer - Night of Light

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by Philip Jose Farmer

A WORLD GONE BERSERK

Every seven years, the placid planet of Dante’s Joy becomes a waking nightmare of

death, deformity, and madness. To escape, the populace has the choice of Sleeping—lying

drugged in their tomblike houses—or taking the Chance—staying awake and going

abroad while their world goes berserk. They become what their innermost longings

dictate, whether it be a beast locked in the vilest bowels of depravity, or a supreme being

raised to the flowering serenity of truth and tight. Thousands are mutilated, killed,

transformed into monstrous things. John Carmody, a conscienceless exile from Earth,

arrogantly chooses to take the Chance Reeling, shrieking his fear and despair,

Carmody confronts the Night of Light, the unknown and unknowable. . .

A shorter version of this novel appeared in the magazine Fantasy

The Mercury Press, Inc.

Published by arrangement with the author’s agent.

to reproduce this book or portions thereof in

any form whatsoever. For information address

Berkley Publishing Corporation

200 Madison Avenue

New York, N.Y. 10016

SBN 425-03366-x

BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOKS are published by

Berkley Publishing Corporation

200 Madison Avenue

New York, N.Y. 10016

BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOK • TM 757,375

Printed in the United States of America

Berkley Medallion Edition, OCTOBER, 1977

Second Printing

Contents

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART ONE

On earth it would be a fearful thing to see a man chasing down the street after the skin

from a human face, a thin layer of tissue blown about like a piece of paper by the wind.

On the planet of Dante’s Joy the sight aroused only a mild wonder in the few

passersby. And they were interested because the chaser was an Earthman and, therefore, a

curiosity in himself.

John Carmody ran down the long straight street, past the clifflike fronts of towers built

of huge blocks of quartz-shot granite, with gargoyles and nightmare shapes grinning from

the darkened interiors of many niches and with benedictions of god and goddess leaning

from the many balconies.

A little man, dwarfed even more by the soaring walls and flying buttresses, he ran

down the street in frantic pursuit of the fluttering transparent skin that turned over and

over as it sailed upon the strong wind, over and over, showing the eye holes, the earholes,

the sagging empty gaping mouthhole, and trailing a few long and blond hairs from the

line of the forehead, the scalp itself being absent.

The wind howled behind him, seeming to add its fury to his. Suddenly the skin, which

had fluttered just within his reach, shot upwards on a strong draft coming around a

building.

Carmody cursed and leaped, and his fingers touched the thing. But it flew up and

landed on a balcony at least ten feet above him, lodged against the feet of the diorite

image of the god Yess.

Panting, holding his aching sides, John Carmody leaned against the base of a buttress.

Though he had once been in superb condition, as befitted the ex-welterweight amateur

boxing champion of the Federation, his belly was swelling to make room for his

increasing appetite, and fat was building up beneath his chin, like a noose.

It made little difference to him or to anybody else. He was not much to look at,

anyway. He had a shock of blue-black hair, stiff and straight, irresistibly reminding one

of a porcupine’s quills. His head was melon-shaped, his forehead too high, his left eyelid

drooped just enough to give his face a lopsided look, his nose was too long and sharp, his

mouth too thin, his teeth too widely spaced.

He looked up at the balcony, cocking his head to one side like a bird, and saw he

couldn’t climb up the rough but slick wall. The windows were closed with heavy iron

shutters, and the massive iron door was locked. A sign hung from its handle. On it was a

single word in the alphabet of the people of the northern continent of Kareen.

SLEEPING.

Carmody shrugged, smiled indifferently, in contrast to his former wildness to get at

the skin, and walked away. Abruptly the wind, which had died down, sprang into life

again and struck him like a blow from a huge fist.

He rolled with it as he would have rolled with a punch in the ring, kept his footing,

and leaned into it, head down but bright blue eyes looking upwards. Nobody ever caught

him with his eyes shut.

There was a phone booth on the corner, a massive marble box that could hold twenty

people easily. Carmody hesitated outside it but, impelled by the screaming fury of the

wind, he entered. He went to one of the six phones and lifted its receiver. But he did not

sit down on the broad stone bench, preferring to dance around, to shift nervously from

side to side and to keep his head cocked as one eye looked for intruders.

He dialed his number, Mrs. Kri’s boarding house. When she answered the phone, he

said, “Beautiful, this is John Carmody. I want to speak to Father Skelder or Father

Ralloux.”

Mrs. Kri giggled, as he knew she would, and said, “Father Skelder is right here. Just a

second.”

There was a pause, then a man’s deep voice. “Carmody? What is it?”

“Nothing to get alarmed about,” said Carmody. “I think. . .” He waited for a comment

from the other end of the line. He smiled, thinking of Skelder standing there, wondering

what was going on, unable to say too much because of Mrs. Kri’s presence. He could see

the monk’s long face with its many wrinkles and high cheekbones and hollow cheeks and

shiny bald pate, the lips like a crab’s pincers tightening until they squeezed themselves

out of sight.

“Listen, Skelder, I’ve something to tell you. It may or may not be important, but it is

rather strange.” He stopped again and waited, knowing that the monk was foaming

underneath that seemingly impassive exterior, that he would not care to display it at all

and would hate himself for breaking down and asking Carmody what he had to tell. But

he would break; he would ask. There was too much at stake.

“Well, well, what is it?” he finally snapped. “Can’t you say over the phone?”

“Sure, but I wasn’t going to bother if you weren’t interested. Listen, about five

minutes ago did anything strange happen to you or to anybody around you?”

There was another long pause, then Skelder said in a strained voice, “Yes. The sun

seemed to flicker, to change color. I became dizzy and feverish. So did Mrs. Kri, and

Father Ralloux.”

Carmody waited until he was sure that the monk was not going to comment any

further. “Was that all? Did nothing else happen to you or the others?”

“No. Why?”

Carmody told him about the skin of the unfinished face that had seemed to appear

from the empty air before him. “I thought perhaps you might have had a similar

experience.”

“No; aside from the sick feeling, nothing happened.”

Carmody thought he detected a huskiness in Skelder’s voice. Well, he would find out

later if the monk were concealing something. Meanwhile. . .

Suddenly, Skelder said, “Mrs. Kri has left the room. What is it you really wanted,

Carmody?”

“I really wanted to compare notes about that flickering of the sun,” he replied, crisply.

“But I thought I’d tell you something of what I found out in the temple of Boonta.”

“You ought to have found out just about everything,” interrupted Skelder. “You were

gone long enough. When you didn’t show up last night, I thought that perhaps something

had happened to you.”

“You didn’t call the police?”

“No, of course not,” the monk’s voice crackled. “Do you think that because I’m a

priest I’m stupid? Besides, I hardly think you’re worth worrying about.”

Carmody chuckled. “Love they fellowman as a brother. Well, I never cared much for

my brother—or anybody else. Anyway, the reason I’m late, though only twenty hours or

so behind time, is that I decided to take part in the big parade and the ceremonies that

followed.” He laughed again. “These Kareenans really enjoy their religion.”

Skelder’s voice was cold. “You took part in a temple orgy?”

Carmody haw-hawed. “Sure. When in Rome, you know. However, it wasn’t pure

sensuality. Part of it was a very boring ritual, like all ritual; it wasn’t until nightfall that

the high priestess gave the signal for the melee.”

“You took part?”

“Sure. With the high priestess herself. It’s all right; these people don’t have your

attitude towards sex, Skelder; they don’t think it’s dirty or a sin; they regard it as a

sacrament, a great gift from the goddess; what would seem to you infinitely disgusting,

wallowing in a mire of screaming sex-fiends, is to them pure and chaste and goddess-

blessed worship. Of course, I think your attitude and theirs are both wrong: sex is just a

force that one ought to take advantage of in other people; but I will admit that the

Kareenans’ ideas are more fun than yours.”

Skelder’s voice was that of a slightly impatient and bored teacher lecturing a not-too-

bright pupil. If he was angry, he managed to conceal it.

“You don’t understand our doctrine. Sex is not in itself a dirty or sinful force. After

all, it is the medium designated by God whereby the higher forms of life may be

perpetuated. Sex in animals is as innocent as the drinking of water. And in the holy circle

of matrimony a man and a woman may use this God-given force, may, through its sacred

and tender rapture, become one, may approach that ecstasy, or be given an intimation of

that ecstasy, which is the understanding and perhaps even glimpse of—“

“Jesus Christ!” said Carmody. “Spare me, spare me! What must your parishioners

mutter under their breaths, what groans, every time you climb into the pulpit? God, or

What-ever-it-is, help them!

“Anyway, I don’t give a damn what the doctrine of the Church is. It’s very evident

that you yourself think that sex is dirty, even if it takes place within the permissible bonds

of matrimony. It’s disgusting, and the sooner the necessary evil is over and done with and

one can take a shower, the better.

“However, I’ve gotten way off the track, which is that to the Kareenans these

outbreaks of religio-sexual frenzy are manifestations of their gratitude to the Creator—I

mean Creatrix—for being given life and the joys of life. Normally, they behave quite

stuffily—“

“Look, Carmody, I don’t need a lecture from you; after all, I am an anthropologist, I

know perfectly well what the perverted outlook of these natives is, and—“

“Then why weren’t you down here studying them?” said Carmody, still chuckling.

“It’s your anthropological duty. Why send me down? Were you afraid you’d get

contaminated just watching? Or were you scared to death that you might get religion,

too?”

“Let’s drop the subject,” said Skelder, emotionlessly. “I don’t care to hear the

depraved details; I just want to know if you found out anything pertinent to our mission.”

Carmody had to smile at that word mission.

“Sure thing, Dad. The priestess said that the Goddess herself never appears except as a

force in the bodies of her worshipers. But she maintains, as did a lot of the laymen I

talked to, that the goddess’s son, Yess, exists in the flesh, that they have seen and even

talked to him. He will be in this city during the Sleep. The story is that he comes here

because it was here that he was born and died and raised again.”

“I know that,” said the monk, exasperatedly. “Well, we shall see when we confront

this imposter what he has to say. Ralloux is working on our recording equipment now so

it’ll be ready.”

“OK,” replied Carmody indifferently. “I’ll be home within half an hour, provided I

don’t run across any interesting females. I doubt it; this city is dead—almost literally so.”

He hung up the phone, smiling again at the look of intense disgust he could imagine

on Skelder’s face. The monk would be standing there for perhaps a minute in his black

robes, his eyes closed, his lips working in silent prayer for the lost soul of John Carmody,

then he would whirl and stalk upstairs to find Ralloux and tell him what had happened.

Ralloux, clad in the maroon robe of the Order of St Jairus, puffing on his pipe as he

worked upon the recorders, would listen without much comment, would express neither

disgust nor amusement over Carmody’s behavior, would then say that it was too bad that

they had to work with Carmody but that perhaps something good for Carmody, and for

them, too, might come out of it. In the meantime, as there was nothing they could do to

alter conditions on Dante’s Joy or change Carmody’s character, they might as well work

with what they had.

As a matter of fact, thought Carmody, Skelder detested his fellow-scientist and co-

religionist almost as much as he did Carmody. Ralloux belonged to an order that was

very much suspect in the eyes of Skelder’s older and far more conservative organization.

Moreover, Ralloux had declared himself to be in favor of the adoption of the Statement of

Historical Flexibility, or Evolution of Doctrine, the theory then being offered by certain

parties within the Church, and advocated by them as worthy of being made dogma. So

strong had the controversy become that the Church was held to be in danger of another

Great Schism, and some authorities held that the next twenty-five years would see

profound changes and perhaps a crucial break-up in the Church itself.

Though both monks made an effort to keep their intercourse on a polite level, Skelder

had lost his temper once, when they were discussing the possibility of allowing priests to

marry—a mere evolution of discipline, rather than doctrine. Thinking of Skelder’s red

face and roaring jeremiads, Carmody had to laugh. He himself had contributed to the

monk’s wrath by pointed comments now and then, hugely enjoying himself,

contemptuous at the same time of a man who could get so concerned over such a thing.

Couldn’t the stupid ass see that life was just a big joke and that the only way to get

through it was to share it with the Joker?

It was funny that the two monks, who hated each other’s guts, and he, who was

disliked by both of them and who was contemptuous of them, should be together in this

project. “Crime makes strange bedfellows,” he had once said to Skelder in an effort to

touch off the rage that always smoldered in the man’s bony breast. His comment had

failed of its purpose, for Skelder had icily replied that in this world the Church had to

work with the tools at hand and Carmody, however foul, was the only one available. Nor

did he think it a crime to expose the fraudulency of a false religion.

“Look, Skelder,” Carmody had said, “you know that you and Ralloux were jointly

commissioned by the Federation’s Anthropological Society and by your Church to make

a study of the so-called Night of Light on Dante’s Joy and also, if possible, to interview

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byPhilipJoseFarmerAWORLDGONEBERSERKEverysevenyears,theplacidplanetofDante’sJoybecomesawaking ightmareofdeath,deformity,andmadness.Toescape,thepopulacehasthechoiceofSleeping—lyingdruggedintheirtomblikehouses—ortakingtheChance—stayingawakeandgoingabroadwhiletheirworldgoesberserk.Theybecomewhattheiri...

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Philip Jose Farmer - Night of Light

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