Terry Bisson - Necronauts

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Necronauts

Terry Bisson

A DF Books N.E.R.D’s Release

First published in Playboy, July 1993

From the collection

Bears Discover Fire and Other Stories

ElectricStory.com and the ES design are trademarks of ElectricStory.com, Inc.

These stories are works of fiction. All characters, events, organizations, and locales are either the

product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously to convey a sense of realism.

Necronauts

The first time I died was an eye-opener. Literally.

I got a call from a researcher at Duke. He said he had seen my paintings in the

National Geographic and Smithsonian magazines and wanted to engage me as

illustrator for an expedition he was planning.

I explained that I was blind and had been for eighteen months.

He said he knew; he said that was why they wanted me.

* * * *

The next morning, I was dropped in front of the university's Psy Studies Institute by

my ex. You can tell a lot about a space by its echoes, and the one I entered was drab

and institutional, like a hospital waiting room.

Dr. Philip DeCandyle's hand was moist and cold, two qualities that don't always go

together. I form a mental picture of those I am dealing with and I saw an overweight,

soft man, almost six feet tall; later I was told I was not far off.

After introducing himself, DeCandyle introduced the woman standing beside him as

Dr. Emma Sorel. She was only a little shorter, with a high-pitched voice and a cold,

tentative touch that told me she was more skilled at withdrawing from the world than

engaging it; a common quality in a scientist, but curious for an explorer. I wondered

what sort of expedition these two could be planning.

“We're both very excited that you could come, Mr. Ray,” said Dr. DeCandyle. “We

saw the work you did for the undersea Mariana Trench expedition, and your paintings

prove that there are some things that the camera just can't capture. It's not just a

technical problem of lack of light. You were able to convey the grandeur of the ocean

depths; its cold, awesome terror.”

He did all the talking. It was my introduction to a manner of speech that struck me as

exaggerated, almost comical—before I had experienced the horrors to which he held

the key.

“Thank you,” I said, nodding first to his position and then to hers, even though she

had said nothing yet. “Then you both undoubtedly also know that I lost my eyesight

on the expedition, as a result of a decompression incident.”

“We do,” said Dr. DeCandyle. “But we also read the feature in the Sun ; and we

know that you have continued to paint, even though blind. And to great acclaim.”

This was true. After the accident, I learned that my hand hadn't lost the confidence

that almost forty years of training and work had built. I didn't need to see to paint. The

papers called it a psychic ability, but to me it was no more remarkable than the

sketcher who watches his subject and not his pad. I had always been precise in how I

lined up and laid on my colors; the fact I was still able to sense their shape and

intensity on my canvas had more to do with moisture and smell, I suspected, than

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