Ian Watson - The Embedding

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The Embedding
IAN WATSON
Copywrite Ian watson 1973
ISBN 0-575-04784-4
e-book ver. 1.0
ONE
CHRIS SOLE DRESSED quickly. Eileen had already called him once. The second time she called him, the postman had
been to the door.
"There's a letter from Brazil," she shouted from the foot of the stairs. "It's from Pierre—"
Pierre? What was he writing for? The news bothered him. Eileen had been so distant and detached since their boy
was born—involved in herself and Peter and memories. It wasn't a detachment he found it particularly easy to break
through any more—or, to be frank, that he cared to. So what effect would this letter from her one-time lover have on
her? He hoped it wouldn't be too troublesome.
The landing window gave a quick hint of black fields, other staff houses, the Hospital half a mile away on top of the
hill. He glanced momentarily—and shivered with morning misgivings. They often attacked him between waking up
and getting to the Hospital.
In the kitchen, three-year-old Peter was making a noisy mess of his breakfast—mashing cornflakes and milk in his
bowl, while Eileen stood skimming through the letter.
Sole sat down opposite Peter and buttered a slice of toast. Casually he examined the boy's face. Didn't these thin
foxy features add up to an image of the Pierre who so many years ago had been photographed as a small boy in a field
of marguerites somewhere in France? Already the boy had the same pointed urgency as Pierre, and the glossy brown
eyes of a dog fox on the prowl.
Sole's own face had a sort of phoney distinction about it. It was too well balanced. Slide a mirror up against his nose
and he wasn't split into two different faces, like most people, but a pair of identical twins. This balance of the features
was initially impressive, but the end result was a cancelling out of one side of the man by the other, more visible as
the years went by.
He glanced at Eileen as she read. She was slightly taller than he was and her eyes had an in-between colour that her
last passport described as grey, but which could easily be blue. They'd seemed bluer in Africa—the blue of swimming
pools and open skies, which the airmail paper now briefly reflected.
Africa. Those hot still evenings when the open louvres brought no air into their flat and the beer came warm from
the overloaded icebox. The brightly-lit university buildings there on the hill, and the yellow glow of the city a dozen
miles away by the sea, with the sticky darkness in between syncopated by the mutter of drums. It had been good then,
that rapport, that togetherness, before the sadness and the contradictions entered in. Before Pierre slipped over the
border into Free Mozambique with Frelimo guerrilla fighters to study the sociology of liberation among the Makonde
people on the far side of the Ruvuma river. Before Sole ever heard of the good and profitable destiny awaiting him in
this English hospital unit. Before that final diffident encounter with Pierre in Paris four years ago, when Eileen had
gone away with the Frenchman for a night and come back the next morning knowing how far their lives had separated
and gone down different tracks.
"It seems he's living with this tribe in the Amazon," she said, "but they're being flooded—fighting with poison
arrows—and taking drugs—"
"Can I read it?"
She held on to the letter a moment longer, her fingers crumpling the paper to give it a touch of ownership; before
surrendering it with a sad lost eroticism of gesture that made him ache, since it wasn't directed at him.
"Shall I read it out?" he asked.
He suspected his voice might rob these lines of the emotional content they possessed for her, so that what had been
a love letter would become a mass of folklore and politics. Why do it then? To make some kind of physical
contribution to the dialogue of Pierre and Eileen —which he hadn't been able to join emotionally, though he reaped
the fruits of the Frenchman's ideas? Or to prove that the ideas were more important—and compete with the evidence
of love Eileen had, in the shape of Peter?
"Eileen?"
"I can't concentrate right now. He's getting milk all over the place. Read it yourself—I'll finish it later—"
Wiping the boy's mouth with a tissue, she stared at his features intently, then guided his hand on the spoon, picking
stray cornflakes up with her other hand and dropping them into her saucer.
Sole cradled his hand round the letter guiltily, like a schoolboy not wanting his answers to be copied, and read.
"You may wonder why I'm using yourselves, Chris and Eileen, to vent my anger on? After so long too! But perhaps
you, Chris, will understand when I say that there are some curious threads that lead through years and countries,
linking dissimilar people, places and events—is this too mystical a thought for a marxist to entertain ?—-and that in
this case it is that zany surrealist poem of Raymond Roussel's that we talked about so often in Africa that is the link
between yourselves and my own discoveries here and now among one particular Amazon tribe.
"These people have Hobson's choice—doomed to be drowned if they stay where they are—or else destroyed by a
life of tin huts, rum, prostitution and illness, if they're 'sensible' enough to move out of the way of the flood that is
even now covering up the whole surface of their world. Need I say nobody cares which option they choose.
"Issues seemed so simple in Africa, compared with here in the heart of Brazil. It was so easy to find an honourable
and recognizable role to play in the Mozambique bush. Even the remotest Makonde tribesman knew what the political
issues were, was aware of 'Polities' as such ..."
Damn it, he thought, apprehensive at the mention of Roussel's name. Let Pierre get on trying to reform the world.
Just leave me alone to discover what the world really is, how the mind of Man sees the world!
"But how can these Indians perceive any difference between the other Caraiba—that bastard Portuguese word the
Indians use for any foreigners, including the European-descended Brazilians themselves—and myself? We're all
outsiders, aliens. Frenchmen, Americans. Right Wing, Left Wing. It's all the same. Caraiba.
"Those who are aware of Politics, and the Politics of the Amazon Flood, seem so far away, city men occupied with
city struggles. Even when they move out into the countryside to fight, what have they got to do with the Indians in
their forests? What can they have to do, till the Indians have been destroyed as Indians and become poverty-stricken
civilizados?
"So should I be in favour of a human zoo where these 'quaint savages' can linger on in their interesting savagery?
How much it goes against the grain to say, yes maybe—for the Indians there can be no political reply!
"How glad the Brazilian regime is of this distraction foisted on them by the Americans!—the glory of building the
greatest inland sea on Earth, the only one of Man's works visible from the Moon.
"It is a political project, though its victims know nothing of politics—and cannot be made aware of politics without
introducing a kind of virus that destroys them. That's the paradox that sickens me: my own impotence here. I can only
record the death of this unique people. Mark up the indictment for the future. And to console myself, listen to my tape of
Roussel's crazy poem . . ."
Sole shuddered. A hot African sun used to warm their talk of Roussel and it had seemed so innocent and exciting then,
the dawning idea of his own research. He remembered the view of red corrugated roofs from a rooftop bar. Shining white
plaster walls. Flame trees. A mosque. Peugeots and Volkswagens parked in the dusty street below. The sellers of carvings
squatting in shorts and torn shirts while Moslem women passed by on flip-flop sandals, their bodies wrapped in black
shrouds, with parcels balanced on their heads. The beer bottles on the tin table slimy with condensation, as Pierre and he
talked about a poem that was practically impossible for the human brain to process—which a machine would have to be
built to read . . .
Warm and innocent then—but now that Vidya, Vasilki, Rama and Gulshen and the others were learning their lessons in
the Special Environments at the Hospital. Pierre's triggering of memories of that happy mood came with an accusing force.
As though Eileen had read his thoughts she looked up from the boy and said sharply:
"Chris, there's something I wanted to ask you. You can finish reading the letter later on."
"What?"
"Nothing very important, I don't suppose. Only, I was talking to one of the village women whose husband does
gardening at the Hospital. She said something odd—"
"Yes?"
"That you're teaching the children there bad language."
Shock.
"Bad language? What does she mean? Doesn't she know it's a hospital for kids who can't speak properly—who've
suffered brain damage? Of course they speak bad language."
Glancing at the paragraphs he'd just read, he found himself assaulted by certain phrases that would not leave him
alone.
Such as 'human zoo' and 'political project'.
The words had a faint aura round them on the paper— they blurred into a fog as though his brain was reluctant to
process them. But wouldn't disappear. Their very indistinctness irritated him, brought them nagging to his attention.
Perhaps rain had dripped on to the paper while Pierre was writing, smearing these particular words before they had a
chance to dry.
Eileen was watching her husband calmly.
"I know what the Unit's supposed to be doing. That's what I told her, what you've just said to me. But you know
how these country wives go all mysterious and confidential. She knew the Hospital was up to something else, she
said—something secret and shameful. And what it was, was teaching children bad language—"
"So what does she mean by bad language then? What's her definition?" he demanded.
"I said about the brain damage and speech defects," she shrugged, "but that wasn't what she meant."
Sole drank some coffee swiftly, scalding his mouth, and laughed.
"I wonder what the poor gossipy bitch thinks we're up to? Teaching the kids to lisp out 'fuck' and 'bugger'?"
"No, Chris, I don't feel she was talking about 'fuck' and 'bugger'."
The Victorian wrought-iron pub table by the window was piled with spice jars and cook books—it had cost twenty
pounds at an auction and they'd painted it white together when she was five months pregnant, imagining the child
sitting at it in a high chair while Sole sat opposite, drinking a glass of beer maybe and steering the child's early efforts
at speech.
"The gardener's wife! It's just a bit of nonsense."
But Eileen persisted, touching Peter anxiously as though the boy was threatened by events at the Hospital.
"You used to talk to Pierre about bad language. You didn't mean swearing then. You meant wrong languages."
"Listen Eileen, a child speaks bad language when its brain's damaged. It has difficulties—has to be taught by
roundabout routes."
"She also said—"
"Yes?"
"There's a front and a back to the Hospital. The real work goes on in special rooms you can't get into without a pass.
And it isn't curing the children at all but making them sick. That's where the bad language comes in. Or do I say bad
languages, plural? Is that more accurate, Chris? What is going on at the Unit? Is it despicable—or something I can
admire?"
"Damn it, the woman's just describing any hospital! There are always closed wards."
"But it isn't a mental hospital."
Sole shrugged, noticed the blue ghost of a 'human zoo' trying to catch his eye.
"Any hospital dealing with damaged brains is a kind of mental hospital at the same time as it's a physical hospital.
You can't draw a line between the two. Language is a mental thing. Damn it, they hired a linguist in me, not a doctor."
''So they did."
Eileen watched curiously as he folded the airletter, stuffed it back into the envelope and put it in his pocket. She
didn't raise any objection to his taking it away.
As he walked up to the Unit, Sole watched the sky lightening into a calm crisp blue day, sucked in the clean cold air
and blew it out ahead of him as white smoke.
How about being in Alaska, where your spittle hit the ground as a tight ice ball that bounced and rolled? That would
be something.
Or in Brazil?
How about being Pierre? Confident anguished idealistic Pierre.
So difficult to imagine the otherness of another person. Yet wasn't that his own task at the Hospital—to create
otherness? Oh Vidya, and all you others: will you really tell us so much about what humanity is, through our little act
of inhumanity?
Inevitable that somebody somewhere should try out this set of experiments sooner or later. It had cropped up in the
literature for years. The yearning to try it out became a kind of pornography after a while, a sort of scientific
masturbation. To raise children in isolation speaking specially designed languages.
He walked up a gravel drive between lofty skeletons of poplars and bushes like wire sculpture models of mind that
might have been made in the Hospital and thrown out as too simple.
The Unit itself was a large country house with modern functional wings added on at the sides and rear, where it
jutted back into several dozen acres of close-packed firs that stretched half a mile behind the building and along its
flanks in a great green skirt that grew taller and thicker year by year.
Sole had been into the plantation a couple of times but found it hard going. All the low interlocking branches and
uneven sods underfoot. Anyway, there was nothing to see among the trees except more of the same. No dells or
glades in there, no rides cutting through them.
(Fifty feet inside the green gloom, and it's another world. The traveller loses all sense of direction. The monotony
and alienation of endless wastes of savage vegetation bear down on him. To journey a hundred yards he has to crawl
on his belly, humping himself over fallen logs, and wriggling through a network of creepers; or hack a path clear for
himself in the most exhausting and futile manner imaginable . . .)
The elegant central mansion was bracketed incongruously by the concrete wings. Before it, twin stone lions thrust
out their paws on to a lawn pocked with molecasts. Brown eruptions marked the turf like boils on a once-lovely
complexion. Gardener, indeed!
The figure in the purple raincoat striding along the field path was the biochemist Zahl.
Sole thrust Pierre's letter deeper in his pocket, feeling otherwise it might fall out and be lost before he had time to
read it.
Half a dozen cars stood parked on the gravel, and a lowslung United States Air Force ambulance.
The brass nameplate read:
HADDON NEUROTHERAPY UNIT.
He pushed the heavy door open and was assaulted by the hot dry air within. Crossing the hallway between the wards
in the righthand wing and the service areas in the left, where computer room, kitchens, surgery and lab were, he
paused by the Christmas tree at the foot of the great oak staircase leading to the nurses' quarters.
It was losing so many needles in this heat. What a scurf of green it was scattering on the tiles.
A nurse passed behind him, wheeling a trolley stacked with dirty plates from the kids' breakfast, rolling it gently on
rubber wheels, the only noise to mark its passage a faint percussion of china rocking against greasy china.
Paper streamers crisscrossed the corridors and hallway. Balloons, pinned over doorways, seemed to summon
different kinds of attention. Blue attention. Green attention. Red attention. Different areas of the injured brain blowing
empty speech bubbles.
What would the bubbles be filled with?
Accusations? Or the key to reality? The E=MC2 of the mind?
The spring door locked behind him automatically. There was a short corridor with a second door at the end of it. He
chose a second key, unlocked the door and walked through into the rear wing, where fir branches reached out to brush
the windows. A corridor ran right round the outside of the wing.
The window glass bore a fine mesh of wires within it, low voltage electrified, computer monitored as part of the
alarm system.
To look down from the upper windows of the manor house on to this rear wing would show you great opaque
skylights that lit the rooms within the circuit of the corridor—a blank aquarium.
He unlocked his office, switched on the neon strip lights to buck up the weak winter light filtering from overhead,
then as he always did first thing in the morning sat before the monitor screen and switched on.
Bad language, Eileen? Oh yes—the worst, and the best!
The screen flickered and unfogged. In a large undulating playroom two naked dark-skinned children, boy and girl,
were rolling a giant beachball along. They were three or four years old. Another naked girl wandered after them,
dragging a coiled plastic tube, and a second boy brought up the rear, holding his hands out before him, pretending to
be blind and feeling his way.
Sole touched another switch and the sound of voices came from the playroom. However these weren't the children's
voices.
He panned the camera—past the transparent-walled maze—to the great wall-screen that was the source of the
voices. The magnified images of Chris Sole and computer man Lionel Rosson moved on it.
The voices were theirs. And yet, not exactly theirs. The speech computer had taken their voices apart and put them
together again. Otherwise their words wouldn't have flowed naturally. Sole couldn't have framed the sentences he
heard his recorded voice saying, without a great deal of hesitation. They were English sentences, yet so unEnglish. It
was the arrangement of those strings of words that caused the confusion. The words themselves were simple enough.
Such kids' talk. Yet organized as no kids' talk before, so that adults couldn't for the life of them follow it without a
printout of the speech with a maze of brackets breaking it up to re-establish patterns the mind was used to processing.
It was Roussel speech.
Pierre had been appalled and intrigued by the arrogant way Raymond Roussel pushed his poetry past the bounds of
human comprehension. The poem New Impressions of Africa became a sort of mistress for Pierre, one he constantly
quarrelled with, but who continued to fascinate him. Her aristocratic manners repelled him. He wanted to master her,
for the sake of logic and justice. If only he could know her completely, through one long night of understanding, he'd
be free of his temptress. But like all great temptresses, this poem had her hidden wiles—her tricks. She hypnotized.
She induced loss of memory.
The only way of getting near to the heart of her—if only to stab her in the heart and be done with her! — was by
hearing the words she spoke. Yet the maze they formed forever defeated the unaided human mind. If Logic was so easily
put to flight by a poem, what hope was there for the reform of the world itself by logic? This mistress was an elegant bitch,
a Salome who cared not a hoot for the Third World and the Poor—a constant reminder to Pierre of the falsity of the
aesthetic choice in life. Beauty instead of truth.
And right now, unaccountably, she was actually consoling Pierre in the midst of the injustices he witnessed in the
Brazilian jungle!
It was this contradiction that made Sole pull out the letter again in search of a clue.
The words on the stamp read ORDER AND PROGRESS— the motto of Brazil, given a new and insistent reality by the
military regime.
He chose a page where he noticed Roussel's name leering out at him.
". . . I may as well write to you as to anyone else—at least you will appreciate the uniqueness of this particular tribe.
"They call themselves Xemahoa, but they may not be around to call themselves anything for very much longer, in spite o
f
the incredible last stand of their tribal shaman, their Bruxo—a last stand not conducted with bows and poison arrows and
blowpipes however!
"They have so little idea of the enormity of what they are up against; what pawns (oh less than pawns!) they are in their
own jungle home to the Big Players! Their Bruxo's attempts to deal with the coming disaster in his own cultural terms truly
have a pathetic grandeur about them. And oh what a zany similarity to Roussel's poem too! What an amazing similarity to
the mind-sanctuary that our French dilettante built for himself. This is what astonishes me. When I am not livid with rage, I
toy with the idea of somehow translating Nouvelles Impressions d'Afrique into Xemahoa B.
"I say Xemahoa B, since apparently there's a two-tier language situation operating here—and in Xemahoa B, if in
any language on this vicious globe, Roussel's poem might at last be made comprehensible.
"The essence of the Bruxo's enterprise for flood control is this—let me assure you, my dear Chris, you will be
astonished too—and afterwards you will be enraged . . ."
Sole threw the letter down.
My poor Pierre, and so would you be astonished to see me sitting here watching my Indians.
Astonished—and afterwards? How enraged would you be?
To Sole's eyes, they were uniquely beautiful.
Their world was beautiful.
And their speech.
He adjusted the controls to filter out his own and Rosson's voices; tuned the feathermike pickups for whatever the
children might be saying.
But they were silent at the moment.
He had hundreds of hours of their speech on tape. from the earliest babbling through the first whole utterances to the
sentences they were making now—embedded statements about an embedded world. He had walked among them,
played with them, shown them how to use their maze and teaching dolls and oracles—wearing a speech-mask which
snatched the words from his lips as soon as he whispered them, sent them to the computer for sorting and
transforming, before voicing them.
Strictly speaking, he had no need to listen and look in, in this doting way. Monitoring was automatic; all the
children said could be picked up by feathermikes, processed and sorted and stored on tape. Interesting or unexpected
word patterns would be printed out for him.
Yet he found it intensely healthy to look in on them. A kind of therapy. Already, his dark sense of alienation had largely
lifted.
Sole's wasn't the only world hidden away beneath Haddon Unit. There were two other worlds with their children in
them—the Logic World run by Dorothy Summers and Rosson; and the 'Alien' World invented by Jannis the psychologist.
The life support systems for the three worlds were automated as well as the speech programmes. There'd be less and less
reason to go down there in person as the kids grew older and more capable of managing. It might even be less and less
desirable. The Gods will have to ration their appearances, joked Sam Bax, Director of Haddon.
Competent, bouncy Sam Bax, thought Sole. Leave him to handle politics. The money-getting, the Institutes and
Foundations, the military tie-up, the security. It's none of my business. Let Pierre bother himself about the politics of Brazil.
Don't pull me into it. Just let me get on with my bloody work! The children of my mind are here, my Rama, my brave
Vidya, my beloved Gulshen, my darling Vasilki. Don't make the Gods withdraw from the scene too soon, Sam.
On the screen, Vidya opened his eyes and stared at the shapes of Sole and Rosson. Giant lips moved silently, fleshy and
foot-long—and spoke bad language at him.
By night, as the children slept, their speech would be reinforced by the whispering of feathermikes, by the hypnothrob of
sleepteaching.
In the canteen at lunchtime, another vicious bitchy brush with Dorothy.
Sole sat at the same table with her, chewed a piece of gristly stew and thought how indigestible Dorothy was herself,
emotionally. She betrayed little of Sole's dangerous love for his children. Fortunate for her charges that her partner in
the enterprise, Rosson, was the warm human being he was.
"Dorothy, do you ever worry about when the kids grow up?" Sole blurted out rashly. "What's going to happen to
them for the next forty or fifty years?"
She pursed her lips.
"Their sex drive can be controlled, I suppose—"
"I don't mean sex, I mean what about them as people. What's going to happen? We don't ask that question, do we?"
"Need we ask it? I'm sure there'll be space for them."
"But what sort of space? Outer Space? Space in a thermos bottle tossed in the cosmic sea in the direction of the
nearest star? A crew for a starship?"
Dorothy Summers didn't seem to encounter any gristle or else swallowed what she did.
"I told Sam it was a mistake appointing married people," she said tartly. "I don't imagine your having a child of your
own helps objectivity."
Sole thought instinctively of Vidya—-before he remembered that 'his' child was called Peter ...
"Do you have any idea how large the world's population is?" she demanded. "I mean, can you visualize it? All the
children that are going to be born before today's over—or wiped out before tonight by accident! Do you think it
matters one scrap that a dozen hoys and girls are brought up—lavishly, I might add—in somewhat unusual
circumstances? Don't come whining to me, my friend, if you get cold feet on a winter's morning." Sole smiled
uncomfortably.
"Can you visualize what the fate of these brats might have been had they not come here? Haddon is Aladdin's Cave
so far as they're concerned. Instead of the rubbish heap!"
"Aladdin's Cave? May they discover the Open Sesame for us poor mortals then—"
"Indeed, Chris, yes in-deed. I'll tell you one thing—if they don't find it for us, then somebody else will. The Russians
have some pretty queer things going on in their mental hospitals—besides using them to keep their intellectuals locked up!"
"What awful stew this is," said Sole, hoping to escape from her clutches; but she pinned him tight as a piece of meat on
her fork, for she'd seen Sam Bax heading their way with his own plate of stew. Dorothy blandly reported the conversation
to him as soon as he sat down.
Sam nodded sympathetically.
"Have you heard the story about the American spinster and her Venus Fly Trap, Chris?'
And Sam proceeded to tell a sick-funny story that deftly put Dorothy down as the spinster she was and Sole as the
sentimentalist. The situation was glossed over—apparently Sam wanted his staff to be on the best of terms today.
"This woman lived in a New York skyscraper where they wouldn't let her keep any pets, not even a goldfish," Sam
explained in a jolly, steamrolling manner, between forkfuls of stew. "So she bought a plant to keep her company. A Venus
Fly Trap. The Fly Trap can count up to two so it can obviously think after a fashion—"
"A plant can count?" sniffed Dorothy suspiciously.
"Truly! One tap on the tripwire of this botanic gin-trap—say a grain of sand falls on it—and there's no reaction. But give
two taps, like a fly would when it lands and stamps its feet—and the jaws snap shut. That's genuine counting—thinking, of
a sort. Well, this woman's apartment was so clean and airconditioned and high above the city streets, there weren't any flies
ever—so she had to feed it cat food to keep it happy. This went on for two years till one day she found a fly in the kitchen.
She thought she'd give her Trap a treat so she caught the fly and fed it to it. Trap closed. Trap digested the fly. A few
hours after that the Trap died of food poisoning. Live prey! It died of reality!"
"Or of DDT," sniffed Dorothy.
"Of the perils of a controlled environment, I prefer to think! There's a moral in that for us. Any danger the kids face
isn't concerned with their being in those three worlds down below—but in being brought out of them."
Sam forked up the rest of his stew then sat back surveying Sole and Dorothy Summers amiably.
"More important than this little argument between you two people, however, is—tomorrow." He wiped his mouth
with the paper napkin, screwed it into a ball and dropped it neatly in the centre of his plate. "We're receiving a visit
from one of our American colleagues, which I gather the powers-that-be consider rather important."
He fished in his pocket.
"I've got a working paper this man's written on your subject, Chris, Would you glance through it before then?"
Sam passed the xeroxed sheets over.
Thomas R. Zwingler: A Computer Analysis of Latent Verbal Disorientation in Long-Flight Astronauts. Part One:
Distortion of Conceptual Sets.
Dorothy craned her neck to read the title too.
"My God," she sniffed. "The pomposity of it."
Sam shook his head.
"I don't think you'll find Tom Zwingler so pompous in person."
"Where did you meet him?" Sole asked.
"A seminar in the States last year," Sam answered vaguely. "Tom Zwingler's a floater—attached to a number of
agencies. Sort of experiment co-ordinator."
"What agencies?" Sole pressed, annoyed at his own recent display of vulnerability. "Rand? Hudson? NASA?"
"I gather he's on the salary roll of the National Security Agency. Communications Division."
"You mean espionage?" Dorothy raised an eyebrow sarcastically.
"Hardly that, judging from this paper, Dorothy. A communications man."
"A half-way house man," smiled Dorothy. "Like our Chris?"
Sam frowned. He rose bulkily from his seat.
"Tomorrow afternoon then, two-thirty. We'll give him a run-down on the present state of the art at Haddon. Right?"
Sole nodded.
"I suppose so," sniffed Dorothy ungraciously.
TWO
THE POLICE CAPTAIN flew in by helicopter, a war-surplus Huey Iroquois Slick, in the midst of a downpour, and
wanted to interview Charlie Faith immediately.
Jorge Almeida, Charlie's Brazilian adviser, put his head round the door—a slim serious individual with hot dark
eyes and a light milk chocolate skin suggesting perhaps an Indian grandparent.
"Visitors, Charlie," he called against the rattle of rain on the tin roof.
Jorge was proud with a truly Brazilian pride of this Amazon Project now opening up half of a country that was itsel
f
half a continent, but which had lain dormant for so long: had remained a subconscious landscape, peopled by fantasies
of El Dorado and lost cities and giant anacondas that could outrun a horse. Jorge despised these fantasies almost as
much as he despised the savages haunting the jungle like ghosts of this dreamscape. From the safe, hitherto
uninvolved distance of Amazonia he tacitly supported the military regime that had sworn to tame and civilize this
land. His own talents had been approved by two years at the National Civil Engineering Laboratory in Lisbon, and
resentment lurked in his soul at being subordinate to a yanqui engineer, however temporary the arrangement. Charlie
wasn't blind to this, but they were stuck with each other and usually made the best of it.
Charlie's head throbbed with a trace of hangover hardly improved by the drumming on the roof and he was having
trouble maintaining radio contact with the Project Control Centre nine hundred kilometres north at Santare m.
Damn visitors, he thought. More bloody priests.
He was a small, once muscular man, whose muscles had turned to flab since his days in the army; whose hair had
thinned out since then, till it lay plastered stickily over his scalp in short brown fronds—a wet, serrated, dying leaf.
The knobbly upturned end of his nose stood out from his features, softened with large greasy pores and slightly too
large—as though he'd spent a few years with a finger up each nostril stretching them. Capillary breakdown had started
to lay red spiders over his cheekbones some time ago.
His daydreams, as well as his daily radio call, focussed on that two-bit town Santarem—the exit point from this hole
in the jungle. A strange anomaly of a place was Santarem: a hangover from the American Civil War. Confederate
soldiers who refused to go along with General Lee's surrender settled there and their descendants lived there to this
day, hard by other leftovers of American presence through the years—Henry Ford's settlement Fordlandia, now
derelict, his Belterra, also abandoned: two reminders of the great rubber boom that had reared a rococo palace to opera
in the heart of Amazonia, at Manaus, and brought La Pavlova a thousand miles upstream to dance for the rubber
barons. Nowadays Santarem was filled with a fresh influx of Americans, to advise on the building of the great
primary dam that would stretch sixty-five kilometres across from Santarem to Alenquer, with a twinbasin lock set in
the hard rock, deepwater harbour, turbines and transmission lines; and oversee the construction of the dozen
subsidiary dams of the future inland sea that would soon balance, on the globe, the Great Lakes of the northern
hemisphere.
A vast sea would embrace the Amazon. Estimates were, it would cost half a billion dollars to map the whole region
adequately from the air. But only half that sum to flood it and erase the embarrassments of geography forever.
Charlie's own subdam consisted of ten kilometres of tamped-down earth faced with bright orange plastic carved out
of the middle of the jungle. A lake fifteen thousand kilometres square would back up behind it, nowhere too deep for
the big timber dredges to haul out the wealth of trees it drowned. A million trees. A billion trees. Who knew the
number? Hardwoods, mahoganies, cedars, steel-woods. Silk-cotton trees and garlic trees and chocolate trees. Balsa,
cashews, laurels. So many trees. So much land. And so much water. All useless to mankind, up till the present.
Damned rain, thought Charlie. Rots the soul. But at least it was speeding up the filling of the lake, bringing
measurably closer the time when he could get the hell out of here.
"Who are they, priests from the camp?"
"No, it's a political police captain and a couple of his sidekicks. It's queer, I've never seen—"
He looked worried; flashed a quick grin of bravado,
"Careful what you say, hey Charlie? Remember, you're a long way from home."
Charlie regarded the Brazilian dubiously.
"Is that meant to be a bit of friendly advice? I guess I'm okay politically."
"They came by helicopter. Can you hurry up, Charlie? They're impatient people."
"Damn it, I'm on the air. Oh never mind, I can't hear nothing but static anyway. Santarem, d'you read me?
Reception's terrible. I'm signing off now—call you back later, okay? Over and out. Get a bottle of brandy, Jorge, huh?
I'll see them in here—"
Jorge was turning to leave when a hand shoved the door fully open and propelled him into the room. Three men
pushed their way in and looked round, at radio, dam models, drip buckets, hammock with dirty sheet on it, open
charts and records, stacks of Playboys.
The Captain wore a crisp olive uniform with a jaunty red spotted neckerchief, black leather boots, a holstered pistol.
But if he had a reasonably military air about him, his two companions looked more like capangas, the thugs hired by
landowners and developers in the Brazilian outback. A ratty vicious-seeming halfcaste. And a massive Negro with
teeth almost as black as his skin and web-creamy eyes of bloodshot curds and whey. They wore the same style boots
with stained khaki trousers and sweatshirts. The Negro crooked a submachine gun under his arm. Ratface had an
automatic rifle with burnished bayonet attached to it.
Jorge was heading around the Negro when a sharp rap of the gun across his ribs halted him.
"Stay here and listen, Almeida—it concerns you as well. Mr Faith, I suppose you don't speak Portuguese?"
The Captain spoke good English with an American accent, but his smile held no real humour in it, only a kind of
gloating chilly anticipation.
"Sorry, I understand some. Jorge usually translates for me."
"We shall speak English then."
"Jorge was just going for drinks. You could drink a glass of brandy?"
"Excellent. We shall have some brandy. But not my pilot."
Charlie stared from Ratface to Negro, confused.
"Which one's the pilot?"
"Neither of these, obviously. My pilot stays with his machine to look after it." The Captain spoke to his men
quickly, they grinned broken greedy grins and the Negro let Jorge past.
"So you're wondering to what you owe this interruption of your useful work? For which we Brazilians are truly
indebted to yourself, need I say, and to your companions in all these filthy jungle holes. Uncivilized here—such a far
cry from Rio or Sao Paulo?"
"Fact is, I came direct from Santarem—never saw those cities."
"That's a shame. Let's hope you have a chance to spend some of your bounty in our fine cities and enjoy real
Brazilian hospitality after this vile jungle. It's wonderful that you are flooding it, Mr Faith. Minerals, civilization, the
new wealth—"
Was this character and his two thugs planning to roll him for his wad of dollars and cruzeiros? It hardly seemed to
merit a special helicopter trip. Yet Charlie recalled that business of customs clearance for essential technical
equipment at Santarem, when officials had rolled the whole outfit to the tune of several grand under the guise of
customs fees. He hoped it wasn't his turn.
Jorge reappeared with bottle and tumblers, slopped a few fingers of spirit into them and handed them round.
The Captain accepted the brandy from Jorge and sniffed it with a gesture of connoisseurship wasted on that
particular juice. The Negro and Ratface drained theirs straight down then wandered about the room rifling through
papers and looking into drawers and cupboards while the Captain talked.
"My name is Flores de Oliviera Paixao, Mr Faith. Captain in the Security Police. The Negro is Olimpio, the other
one Orlando. Please remember their names, you may see a lot of them and need to ask their help."
Olimpio glanced round and grinned at the mention of his name, but Orlando just carried on rummaging through
Charlie's things with quick furtive scrabbles of his free hand. Whenever the halfcaste's bayonet caught the light,
Charlie felt a cold squirming sensation in his guts that stopped him arguing about the cavalier way they were treating
his room. His mind wandered back to the Nam and the same species of bayoneted rifle in his own hands as he rooted
through a jungle hut. The blade had bathed in the guts of a dark-skinned rat of a youth very like Orlando, who went
for Charlie with a knife thinking he was saving his sister. Ah, but the sister—cowering in a corner with big doe eyes,
tiny cone-shaped breasts pushing at her shirt, the long black pigtails of a schoolgirl. Likely as not she'd never been
near a school. She was beautiful. Orlando scrabbled vaguely and stupidly through Charlie's equipment like a ghost of
that thin boy, who had somehow seized the American soldier's weapon from his hands in that hut a decade ago and
lived on to threaten Charlie with it now, instead of dying.
"Mr Faith?"
Was it his imagination, or was the rain easing up? The outline of one of the slumbering bulldozers waiting on the
cement apron outside was sharpening. Soon bulldozers and graders and rubber-rollers and tampers could all be floated
downstream to Santarem; and he could be flown out of this hole . . .
"Yes, Captain?"
"You may he aware that not everyone in our fine cities is quite so hospitable to Americans nor so concerned with
the values of civilization. There are alien beings loose in our society. You know who I mean?"
"I guess I do. The Reds. The Urban Guerrillas."
"How should that affect us?" Jorge asked nervously. "That's a thousand kilometres away from here, beyond the
jungle. Terrorists operate along the coastal strip and in the cities—"
"How much you know, Almeida!"
Jorge emptied his own brandy and shrugged.
"It's common knowledge."
The Captain nodded.
"These people loot and assassinate and kidnap for ransom and plant bombs that kill and maim innocent people—
under the banner of socialism. Of caring for the common man. How do they care about people by planting bombs in
crowded shops? But that's the Communist ideal —to break down civilization in blood and disorder. Then step in with
the vain promise of a better world. You'll understand this, Mr Faith—I hear you're a Vietnam veteran? Happily
Communists haven't done so well lately. They cannot kidnap ambassadors so easily. Their leaders are in prison. Their
exploits no longer claim world interest. Failed men is what they are. But vicious in failure, like rats in a trap. It is the
acts they plan in their despair that bring me here, Mr Faith."
Paixao took a thin cigar from an inside pocket, inspected it doubtfully before slipping it between his teeth. Ratface
hurried to his side with a flickering lighter.
"Reliable information is in our hands that in their rage and despair, and to buy themselves some of the notoriety
they hanker after, the terrorists intend attacking these wonderful dams. But we're not sure exactly which dams, or
when, or how, Mr Faith. Our informants weren't sure. Or I assure you they would have told. Ilha das Flores prison is
persuasive that way."
The rain was certainly slackening off—but its ringers still tapped out a rhythm on Charlie's skull.
"Yeah, I can believe they would have told," sweated Charlie.
It wasn't so much the hints of torture which Paixao dropped with such a contemplative smile, as the spook boy with
the bright bayonet that worried him, however.
"Some terrorists are certainly coming to harm the Project. But how? By damaging the lockgates at Santarem while
some foreign-flag vessel is passing through? By killing some American engineers? I doubt they will try to kidnap
anyone. Santarem isn't the town to hide out in. Nor the jungle either—this isn't the Sierra Maestra in Cuba. Those city
men can't hope to hide with the labourers or rubber tappers along the rivers. Too stupid and venal, those. Someone
would betray. Nor do you melt away into the interior of the jungle without killing yourself—unless you happen to be
an Indian, and I hear they're so primitive they eat soil for supper. Indians want nothing to do with our urban terrorists.
Maybe they put a few poison arrows in the backs of our road-builders— but for their own private reasons, to be left
alone to eat dirt, not be inoculated with the filth of Mao or Marx."
"I heard that gangs have been attacking towns up north. What d'you call 'em—flagelados?"
摘要：

TheEmbeddingIANWATSONCopywriteIanwatson1973ISBN0-575-04784-4e-bookver.1.0ONECHRISSOLEDRESSEDquickly.Eileenhadalreadycalledhimonce.Thesecondtimeshecalledhim,thepostmanhadbeentothedoor."There'saletterfromBrazil,"sheshoutedfromthefootofthestairs."It'sfromPierre—"Pierre?Whatwashewritingfor?Thenewsbother...

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