"Barlow, C S - Juxtaposed, Yet Infinitely Distant" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barlow C S)

I lowered myself into the indicated chair, wondering how he could possibly resolve such insanity.
(The following revelation has been condensed, for the sake of impatient readers, by omitting many interruptions caused by my reactions to certain of its contents. Other extraneous material, for reasons stipulated earlier, also goes unrepeated).
"At my letter's closing I believe I mentioned my interest in the pentagram's centre, of the cavity we were exposing?" he asked. "It was about eight feet in diameter, and almost perfectly circular, with a seamless wall that descended vertically before, within a foot of the lip, gradually angling inwards towards the horizontal. Like the five mounds, it was covered in swirling carvings which, unlike the them, straightened as we dug, resembling radiant beams emitted from a buried sun. By the afternoon of June 26th we had carefully excavated down to nine feet, the beams within two feet of meeting, when the walls again sharply dropped. At this discovery only I was in the well, watched by our leader, Harry League, at the lip. Knowing I had at last hit bottom, I threw caution to the winds and delved brashly. I almost immediately touched something and looked up at League, about to scream in jubilation, when fate stayed my cry. There came a sudden commotion from above, and he, distracted, didn't notice my emotion. The noise grew and he quickly left to discover its cause, leaving me alone. My only concern lay beneath -- I began scooping sand. Minutes later I had exposed a globe, fully a foot 'round, fashioned from unfamiliar green stone and resting in a shallow cup of granite where the beams became a node."
He stopped. Some raptor screamed raucously over the lake outside. "Then I committed my crime. I was suddenly possessed of an incredibly selfish notion: to keep the sphere for myself. Carefully cradling it (finding it surprisingly light), I climbed to the edge of the well and looked across the site. Everyone had gathered northwestwards where, it seemed, a fight had broken out amongst the Kalmucks. Sinning against my profession, my colleagues, and shaming myself, I dashed unnoticed to my tent, hid the artifact amongst my baggage, and then joined the group. After the dispute's settlement, I showed League the stone cup, acting as sorry as he over its emptiness. At the expedition's end I took -- often illegal -- pains to ensure my secret would remain clandestine throughout our return journey. So, Stephenson. Before you sits a traitorous and egoistic thief. I used to regard with contempt those people barring access to invaluable books and other items held in private collections -- and here I am, kin to them."
He paused again. "Up until the news of my father's deterioration I was obsessed, the thought of the artifact ever on my mind. After, of course, it was almost forgotten; I delayed in Boston only to quickly arrange its covert passage to Scotland. Now to Kathrine. During the dig she became my closest companion, and I doubt there has ever been a closer. When she asked to accompany me here my affirmative reply was immediate. I enjoyed her company immensely and sub-consciously knew I would soon need it. Whilst I suffered my father's worsening condition she was wonderful, angelic. I believe I actually loved her with the same ardour she obviously felt towards me. My father, in his more lucid moments (he was given to reliving his past), adored her, continually hinting that we should marry. It was, indeed, his dying wish. After his death, as during his demise, Kathrine was tremendous -- present when I needed company, absent when I required solitude; instinctively knowing my desires. I became convinced there could be nothing more perfect than having her as my wife. Hmph.
"For weeks all was bliss, until some chance occurrence -- forgotten now -- caused me to recall the globe. Curiosity, the compulsion to know, once more took precedence in my mind. I began my research. I spent whole days and nights here, and, as I learned the globe's secrets -- a slow process involving careful correspondence (my father's extensive library containing no works even mentioning such an artifact) -- I neglected my wife's concerns to the point of actively ignoring them. Most all of my love for her dissipated. Her presence became a hindrance to my pursuits. I could not share my discoveries with her. Then, being somewhat paranoid, for fear of her reaction to my theft, and today because the situation has progressed too far to allow her any part in it. Purely my father's memory, the time involved, and the fact that it would break her heart stayed me from divorce.
"But now the intellectual fever is passed, the hard work over, and I sit simply awaiting results, thinking. I know how she is tortured, and she deserves infinitely better. Tell her, Stephenson, that everything will soon be made clear, she'll have worries no longer -- all will be as was. You'll be lying, but the truth, were it learned, she would consider much worse. Ah, but what is the truth? At last we come to the crux."
He reached over to the covered object and removed the cloth with a matador's flourish. There was the globe as he described it, the cause of so much hurt and excitement.
"It doesn't look like much does it? But believe me, Stephenson ...."
He leaned back, slowly stroking the left ear-flap of the deerstalker. "You are a scientific man believing in the generally acknowledged laws of matter and time. But there are higher sciences, my friend, and I am learning something of them. As I have said, my research necessarily involved communication with others having access to certain literatures. Such letters had to be composed with thought, the wrong word or phrase would have the academic world knocking at my door, accompanied by various occult fanatics. My patience was admirably returned, however, when I was delivered, after considerable fiscal outlay, of a manuscript considerable as the globe's instruction book. For it is a tool, Stephenson, not some simple idol. An copy of a translation, from an unspecified language, into Greek by Theodorus Philetas, the ancient scholar who re-wrote the Necronomicon in the same language from the original Arabic. Perhaps the infamous Mad Arab is the writer?
"But I digress. I made a further, hasty translation into English, and then began to experiment. My first actions were conducted in scepticism and embarrassment, for the manuscript, in no uncertain terms, informed me that the globe was infused with powers unimaginable, and some of the directions as to releasing this potential were more than a little peculiar. But it was the results I achieved that caused me to lock myself in here, free from all distraction, from Kathrine. You see the globe is a library and a transporter unbounded by Einstein's theories. Through it I know of Hastur's servants. Not the human worshippers of this planet, Stephenson, but his actual attendants living on and about the worlds of Aldebaran.
"I learned of their magnificent cities, many moored in the black ether itself; of the further plains of existence they continually explore; of the other entities and races beyond their home-star, some allies, others eon-long foes. It's incredible! Think of it! Perhaps all that is written in the Necronomicon is true? Interstellar races; interdimensional deities! All true! Ah, I see your thought: 'Then the universe must be a terrible place indeed!' Not so, it's not all as abominable as Abd al-Azrad -- I refuse to call him Abdul Al-Hazred -- would have us believe, the globe's records prove this. My mind overflows with such visions... I'm going there, Stephenson, to Aldebaran. You do not believe me? You think I'm deranged? Then look -- my journey has already begun."
He opened the drapes further, allowing more light, and then proceeded to unlace his deerstalker. Foreboding swelled within me. Connerly was obviously lunatic, and his tale utter fantasy, but here he was, about to somehow authenticate it all.
The knot undone, he positioned himself in profile and raised the left flap.
His ear had gone.
Not sliced off, there was no ugly scar, but as if it were miraculously invisible. All that remained was an oval of slightly indented flesh, the perimeter red but unbleeding and sparingly dotted with tiny circles and ellipses -- the ends of veins. The centre was naturally skin-covered where it sank inwards towards the tympanum. Hardly believing my eyes, I could only ask, "Doesn't it hurt?"
He smiled, "Not in the slightest. It's still connected, you see, even though lightyears away. Juxtaposed, yet infinitely distant. Hmm. Let me explain chronologically: three days ago I found a speaking file telling how, by correctly, eh, tuning the globe, I could instantaneously whisk myself to the Aldebaran system and witness firsthand the wonders that would otherwise haunt my imagination till death. The temptation was undeniable. Who before was ever offered such opportunity?
"I proceeded with the adjustments, and, after a further day, sat awaiting the moment of transmission, shaking with anticipation. As you observe, however, I did not suddenly find myself basking in Aldebaran's rays. A key act must have been misperformed or omitted, for, without even a tingle, only the third toe of my right foot was displaced. I felt -- and feel -- it lightly resting on a cool, unseen surface -- most definitely not my slipper's soft sole -- and, with tentative movements, I was aware of it sliding over an alien floor, or lifting into alien air. Partial, where I expected total, success: what can be experienced of other worlds through a toe?! Bitterly disappointed, I once more began the slow tuning process. During this I discerned a strange far-off whistling in my left ear, put up a hand to rub the affliction away... And discovered my head's new asymmetry.
"The whistling was from another world! I was making the crossing piecemeal! For a while I toyed with the notion of completing the second attempt in the hope of wholly rejoining my disembodied appendages, but the possibility that I may further, and more drastically, complicate matters prevented me. The trip was progressing, simply contrary to my designs. Resolved, I delicately paced the room -- endeavouring to find obstructions in the other place that may conceivably restrict my perambulations here. Luckily there were none."
"But how can this be?" I interrupted, my eyes entranced by the side of his head, my mind by his words, "How can your body continue as if whole when split in this astounding manner?"
"I don't know. I tried consulting the sphere on the matter, but it was diverting all its energies towards my voyage. Perhaps two pairs of energy fields bridge the void in some incomprehensible fashion; two fields at Aldebaran, where the side of my head and foot should be, the others here, in place of ear and toe. Whatever sensory information the absent extremities collect is transferred between fields to me. If the toe were trodden on, I would wince; were the ear spoken to, I would hear. There is definitely some kind of force present, for I cannot physically touch either this exposed flesh," he indicated the red oval, "Or that of the stump. Hopefully, these shields also prevent microscopic assault. I only trust that my whole body is to complete the journey -- I do not wish to be left with an arm here or a leg there. And of course I have yet to learn for certain whether ear and toe share the same place."
He released the flap, beaming like a little boy.
"This is too much," I said, "Unbelievable. Do you have confidence in these Aldebarans? What about the Arab's fear of the Mongolian village? The distrust of today's Hastur worshippers? What would happen if something was poked down your left ear? Why -- "
"Stephenson! Stephenson! Slowly! Slowly, man! The Aldebarans aren't some vastly intelligent universal evil snatching up other lifeforms for incomprehensible atrocities, you know. They are a glorious, magnificent race, and I will be twentieth century man's ambassador to them! As for today's Hasturites, they are Tartuffes. They have acquired the name by chance and employ it only as excuse to sate their disgusting appetites in orgiastic ritual, knowing nothing of the true Hastur. The Arab was simply frightened by things totally beyond his understanding -- he could not comprehend, therefore he became afraid. Poking objects down my ear? Hmm. If soundwaves and nerve-pulses can make the crossing... It's not an inviting prospect, I admit.
My stream of questions was not yet dammed. "But where did the globe originate? How, exactly, does it work? Did the ancient cultists travel to Aldebaran? When are you coming back? How do you know you can exist there?"
"The globes are unaware missionaries sent out by the Aldebarans to spread Hastur's Word throughout the stars. They search for life-bearing planets to... well... preach cosmic doctrines; broadcasting their sermons in whatever language is required. The sphere, having established its flock, then selects the most pious and deserving and transports them to Aldebaran as reward for their fervour -- experiencing Heaven whilst alive. 'Ah,' you say, 'Why isn't this globe broadcasting?' I can only guess: for whatever reason, the village was destroyed or deserted, and the sphere forgotten, missed, or deliberately left alone. Over the ensuing centuries it deteriorated, losing its autotomous abilities -- leaving it operable only by application of varying pressures at different, key parts of its surface."
His mood became sombre. "I don't think I will ever be coming back, Stephenson. There will be enough potential experiences their to outlast my life a million times. But now evening's here. I am tired and Kathrine will be frantic. You had better go, my friend. We will speak more tomorrow."
My brain boiled as I descended the stairs. Hastur; Aldebaran; space cities; other realities; talking stones; disconnected -- yet connected -- toes and ears; interstellar battles; alien races... I felt dazed, overloaded with information. The Universe I had spent my life learning and teaching of had abruptly changed -- what once seemed a thing of infinite loneliness was now almost crowded. And Connerly was involved with it all -- gradually departing Earth for a star sixty eight lightyears away!
Kathrine, innocent sacrifice to Connerly's intellectual lusts, was waiting in the hall.
"What did he say? What did he tell you?"
The anguish in her face dragged me back to worldly matters, to her pain, and, momentarily, I could not answer.
"Speak to me, Mr. Stephenson! What is he doing in that Godforsaken study?!"
And I told her Connerly's lies, now my own. All will be clear soon, I said. Everything is all right.
For a short while she herself seemed lost for words. Then her expression changed, became neutrally set; her voice similarly timbred, she said, "That is good news. Did he give indication as to just how soon?"
I had failed the girl, she recognized my prevarication. She had asked me to bring her husband back to his senses, back to her, and instead I assisted him in further hurting her. "A matter of days, surely," I said, feeling the fool in her knowing gaze.
"Thankyou, Mr. Stephenson. A meal has been prepared in the dining room. Forgive me if I do not eat with you, I am not particularly hungry. Good evening."



I lay dozing in a guestroom the butler had directed me to, unable to properly sleep. Pictures -- imaginary and factual -- passed through my mind: Connerly's unbalanced head; primitive tribesmen gathered beneath a desert sun, obeisant to a stone proselytizer; gargantuan armies clashing in the cold void, releasing unimaginable energies in their confrontations; Kathrine's betrayed face ....
After hours of restlessly weaving through these visions I must have eventually slept, for I suddenly awoke to the sound of a clock chiming four. I turned on my back, waiting to fall into slumber once more, when a scream tore through the quiet following the dongs.
It was not borne purely of pain, but of that and frustration; and I knew its source. I donned my dressing gown and started for Connerly's study, intercepting the startled butler in the process. Together we trod the flight of stairs leading to the short corridor.
Silver moonbeams from the skylight slanted down upon the study door, clearly illuminating the distraught figure slumped against it, raven hair obscuring her face, white gown in disarray, back heaving with the power of her grief, fist weakly thudding against oak. How could Connerly ignore this? Sat behind that door, twiddling his toes on another world, while his wife screamed for attention. Such awful single-mindedness.
The butler, whispering, asked what we should do.
I could not face her. She was beyond comfort -- in any case, I, her apostate, was not the one to offer it. I signaled that we should depart.
Three words, almost drowned in sobs, followed us:
"Talk to me."