Baret and Selda
I remember that I lived nearly two months--or so it seemed--in thatother world. I was assigned an apartment near to Edvar's--Selda wasbetween us. Edvar instructed me in the details of the life I was tolead. But he was a rather cold sort: his interests were ancient historyand archeology, and he would spend his mornings at work in the Libraryof History or in his study, the rest of his time flying about the worldon curious expeditions of discovery--examining the soil, I suppose, andinvestigating the customs and records of other cities.
Selda devoted most of her time to me. It was she who took me from placeto place, showing me the natural beauties of that world. There were, yousee, not only gentle slopes and hill-tops. There were mountainous cragsas high and as wild as the Alps, forests as impenetrably deep and stillas the jungles of the Amazon, and rivers that rushed and tumbled overrocks, or fell for thousands of feet from mountain cliffs.
The first time I went with her, she took me to a gigantic peak thatoverlooked the sea. There was, of course, a small level place for theairship to land. We left it there, and climbed on foot the last hundredyards or so. Our way lay through the heavy snow, but it was not too coldto be more than gloriously bracing, exhilarating. We wore our usualcostume of trunks and tunic.
We stood at the top and looked out over the grandest horizon I had everseen. To the east there lay the sea, deep and very blue in the sunlight.The shore was just a dark line far away and below us. There was a longstrip of grass and field bordering the sea for miles, and behind thatthe forest. Toward the north, the mountains crept out from under theforest and moved down to the sea, rising until they became a vastwilderness of cliffs and rocks, and hid the sea, with peak after peakrising as far as the eye could reach into the snow and the mist. Thenthe hills sloped down westward into a series of wooded valleys, throughwhich ran the wide river I had seen at my awakening, coming down fromthe mountains and through the valleys until it flattened broadly outinto the low plains in the south and moved eastward to the sea.Everywhere in the valleys and over the plains, I knew that cities werescattered, lonely and tall like the one they called Richmond. But wewere so high in the mountains that they were invisible to us--perhaps akeen eye could have found them, tiny white dots crouching upon theearth.
I turned to Selda--and caught my breath. The wind, swooping up from thesea, whipped her thin covering against her body and fluttered it likethe swift wings of a butterfly behind her. Her short, dark hair, too,was lifted and blown back from her forehead, revealing the clean, softprofile of her face. I had never seen a girl who stood so clean, sostraight. I watched her until she turned, too, and met my eyes. In themI thought I detected something startled and unfathomable.
"My God!" I cried across the wind, "you are beautiful!" She frowned alittle, but her eyes still looked searchingly into mine. I steppedforward, facing her. But I didn't touch her. I was afraid to touchanything so clean.
"You belong here, Selda," I added. "The wind is a part of you, and themountains, and the sea. You shouldn't have to live in the midst of allthose people in the city. You belong here." She smiled faintly, lookingup at me.
"You belong here more than I do, Baret," she said. "You came to us, notfrom the city, but from the hills."
* * * * *
We stood there, examining each other's eyes, for a long while. I wantedto take her in my arms, but I didn't. I looked away at last, back at thesea, puzzled and disturbed. I had never been aware of anything so fineas this before, nor of anything so painful. Suddenly I found myselfwanting to be something, to do something--not for myself, but for her.It was strange.
"Come," she said at last, "we had better go back."
"I'd like to stay here forever," I answered moodily, glancing around alast time at the versatile horizon.
"So would I," she admitted. Then, in a low voice, she added, "But onecan't. One has to follow one's program."
We returned to the airship, raid rose into the cool, thin air. I stoodbehind her on the way back, watching her slender body as she guided theplane. Once in a while she would turn her head and look up at me overher shoulder, then quickly look away again.
"Why is it," I asked her as we passed over the valleys and the river onour way home, "why is it that these hills have such a cultivatedlook--as though they had been laid out?" She glanced back, and smiled.
"They _have_ been laid out," she said. "The hills, and the rivers, andthe tallest mountains have all been constructed by our landscape artistsin order to achieve their various effects. Even the line of the sea hasbeen determined and arranged by the artists."
"But why?" I said. "Wasn't it a frightful waste of energy?"
"It didn't seem so to us," she answered. "We had no further need tocultivate the land except in small patches, when we learned the secretof artificial food. And we wanted to have perfect beauty about us. So weremodeled the outlines of the earth, and eliminated the insects and theharmful animals and the weeds. We made the land clean and fine as it hadnever been before."
"It must have been a terrific labor."
"It pleased us. Our instinct is to arrange and remodel things, to orderour life so that we know what it is and what it will always be." Shepaused for a moment, and added in a low voice, "One is necessarily adeterminist here."
We said no more until our arrival in Richmond.
It is not my purpose to detail here all that happened during the time Ispent on that world. Most of it had to do with Selda, and our dailyexpeditions about the world. This is not, after all, a love story, butthe account of a very strange experience; and, too, none of it was real.
During my last week, a series of strange moods and happeningscomplicated my life. One day, after a visit to the sea with Selda, wewere walking back to our plane across the sand. Without any warning,surrounded by the brilliant morning sunlight and the miles of sea andbeach, I struck my knee against something hard and immovable, and,flinging out my hand to catch myself from falling, I clung to a hardsurface like an iron railing. For a moment I was stunned and confused.The sunlight seemed to fade, and there was a vague hint of darkness allabout me, with black walls looming up on all sides. It was as though Istood in two worlds at once, transfixed between night and day. Then thedarkness went away, the sunlight brightened. I looked around, and foundSelda watching me curiously, a little alarmed.
"What happened, Baret?" she asked, puzzled. I shook my head inbewilderment.
"I seemed to stumble--" I said. There was nothing underfoot but the softsand, and where I had flung my hand against a sort of railing, there wasnothing either. We went back to the airship in silence, both of usconfused.
* * * * *
After that, with increasing frequency, there would come interruptions,like iron bars striking dark, jagged holes in the tissue of life. Fromtime to time I heard inexplicable noises--the whirring of motors, theskid-skid of tires on invisible streets, the rumble of carts aroundcorners of a world where there were no carts. Again and again thosemoments of confusion would come over me, when I seemed to be lookinginto two worlds at once, one superimposed upon the other, one bright,the other dark with faint points of light in the distance. Once, walkingalong the corridor beyond my room in Richmond, I collided with a man.For a moment the corridor faded completely. I stood on a street withdark houses about me. Overhead was the glow of a street-lamp, and amilk-cart was just rattling away around a corner. A man with afrightened face stood before me, his hat on the pavement, his eyesstaring. We looked at each other in astonishment. I started to speak.Then he reached for his hat quickly, and brushed by me, muttering closeto my ear.
"For God's sake, look where you're going...."
I stood in the corridor again, staring. Down the corridor, coming towardme, was a single figure--Selda. Behind me there was nobody. I went tomeet Selda, dazed and uneasy. I could still hear, close to my ear, anecho of that muffled, hoarse voice that I had never heard before.
That was two days before t
he end. We were leaving the city on that finalbright morning, when a representative of the Bureau stopped us. I lookedat him inquiringly.
"I have come to tell you, Baret," he said, "that your departure isscheduled for this evening." I drew back, startled, and looked at Selda.
"My departure?" I repeated in a low voice, hardly understanding. "Sosoon?" I had forgotten that one day I should have to leave.
"It has been arranged," he said impersonally.
We bowed slightly to each other, and he went away. Selda and I steppedaboard our ship in silence.
That time we flew up the river until we came to the foothills of themountains in the north. We landed in a little clearing by the river atthe foot of a waterfall hundreds of feet high, towering over us. Theforest stood about us on all sides, coming down to the river's brim onthe opposite bank and meeting it not far from us on the near bank. Theprecipice, covered with moss and small bushes, stood above us.
* * * * *
We sat a long while in silence, before I said bitterly:
"So I must go."
She didn't look at me, but answered quietly, "Yes, you must go."
"I don't want to go," I cried, "I want to stay here!"
"Why?" she asked me, averting her face.
"Don't you know?" I said swiftly. "Haven't you understood long ago thatI love you?" She shook her head.
"Love is something that we don't know here--not until we have beenmarried and lived with our men. Sometimes not then." But she looked atme, and I thought there were tears in her eyes. Suddenly the impulse Ihad been resisting ever since the morning on the mountain becameinsupportable, and I caught her in my arms almost roughly. Her face wasclose to mine, and she closed her eyes. I kissed her, forgettingeverything but the knowledge that I had stumbled upon the sort of lovethat doesn't pass away, no matter how long a man lives.
After a while, though, she drew away as if she resisted not my desire,but her own.
"No--" she said in a low voice, "no...."
"But Selda!" I stammered, "I love you--I want to marry you." She shookher head.
"No," she said again, "didn't you understand? I am scheduled to marryEdvar."
At first I didn't know what she meant.
"Scheduled?" I repeated dully. "I don't understand."
"It has been arranged for years. Don't you remember what Edvar told youabout our marriages here, the very first day you came? I was destined tomarry Edvar long before any of us were born, before our parents, even,were born. It's the way they order our lives."
"But I love you," I cried in amazement. "And you love me, too. I knowyou love me."
"That means nothing here," she said. "It happens sometimes. One has toaccept it. Nothing can be done. We live according to the machinery ofthe world. Everything is known and predetermined."
* * * * *
Suddenly, in the midst of what she was saying, close behind me theresounded even above the roaring of the waterfall a raucous noise like thehooting of a taxi horn. It was followed by a shrieking of brakes, and ahoarse voice near by shouted something angry and profane. A rush of airswept by me, and I heard faintly the sound of a motor moving away, witha grinding of gears. I looked at Selda.
"Did you hear that?"
She nodded, with wide, frightened eyes. "Yes. It's not the first time."Suddenly she rose, frowning, as if with pain. "Come," she added, "now wemust go back."
There was nothing else to do. We went back silently to the airship, andturned its nose toward the city.
But when I left her at her apartment, promising to see her later, I hadone last hope in my mind. I went to the Bureau.
The Bureau was a vast system of halls and offices, occupying two floorsof the great building. I was sent from one automatic device toanother--there were no human clerks--in search of the representative whohad spoken to me before. Finally I found him in his apartment, down thecorridor only a hundred feet or so from my own. He was pouring over ametal sheet on his table, where innumerable shifting figures were thrownby some hidden machine, and he was calculating with a set of hundreds ofbuttons along its edges. He spoke to me without pausing or looking up,and throughout my interview he continued with his figuring as if it hadbeen entirely automatic--as perhaps it was.
"What is it, Baret?" he said I felt like a small child before theprincipal of the school.
"I have come to ask you whether it is necessary for me to go," Ianswered. He nodded slightly, never looking up.
"It is necessary," he said. "Your visit was pre-arranged and definite."I made a gesture of remonstrance.
"But I don't want to go," I insisted. "I like this place, and I amwilling to fall into its life if I can remain under any conditions."
"It is impossible," he objected angrily.
"I have never been told why or how I came here. You said you would tellme that."
"I have never been told myself. It is a matter known to the men whohandled it."
"If I went to them, surely they could find some way to let me stay?"
"No," he said coldly, "the thing was as definite as every event thattakes place here. We do not let things happen haphazardly. We do notalter what has been arranged. And even if it were possible to let youstay--which I am inclined to doubt--they would not permit it."
* * * * *
"Why not?" I asked dully.
"Because there is no place for you. Our social system has been plannedfor hundreds of years ahead. Every individual of today and everyindividual of the next six generations has his definite place, hisprogram, his work to do. There is no place for you. It is impossible tofit you in, for you have no work, no training, no need that you canfill. You have no woman, and there are no women for your children oryour children's children. You are unnecessary. To fit you in, one wouldhave to disrupt the whole system for generations ahead. It isimpossible."
I thought a moment, hopelessly.
"If I made a place?" I suggested. "Suppose I took someone else's place?"He smiled, a faint, cold smile.
"Murder? It is impossible. You are always under the control of theBureau in some way, whether you are aware of it or not."
* * * * *
I turned away, a little dazed. The whole thing was inevitable and clearas he put it. I knew there was nothing to be done.
I left his apartment, and went down the corridor to the landing stage.No one interfered with my movements, and my commands were notquestioned. I ordered a plane, and gave my name to the girl in charge.
"Your destination?" she asked.
I said, "I am only going for pleasure."
"Your return?"
"Expect me in an hour."
I had watched Selda pilot the planes for so many weeks that I wasfamiliar with the controls. I rose swiftly, circled the building, andheaded north toward the mountains. I hadn't the courage to see Seldaagain. It was only a little while before I came to the place by theriver where we had spent the morning. I slowed down, and flew over it,just above the waterfall.
There was a landing-spot by the river just beyond the top of the fall. Icame to rest there, and left the machine.
I stood looking at the river for a moment. I don't remember that anythoughts or emotions came to my mind. I simply stood there, a littledazed, and very quiet, with a vague picture of Selda before my eyes. Itwas a dream-like moment.
Then I slipped over the river's bank, into the water, and the swiftcurrent, catching me up and whirling me around dizzily, carried metoward the edge of the waterfall.
And So to Work
I glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was five minutes to eight: timeto leave, if I was to get a decent breakfast before I went to theoffice. I found an old hat in the closet and put it on. It would dountil I had time to buy another.
Last night--and this morning. Last night, after supper, I had dropped bythe Club for a drink. And met Melbourne. This morning I woke in thewater of the la
ke, and came home, and dressed. And went to work. Twelvehours--and in that time I had lived two months. I had fallen in love,and died. Now I must go to work.
As I left the apartment, and turned west away from the Drive, toward thestreet cars, I was whistling over and over a brief snatch of music. Wasit Grieg? Or some composer never heard on earth?
There were people on the street now. They went by with frowning, intentfaces--on their way to work. And cars rolling by, pausing at the crossstreets with little squealings of brakes.
Everything was so simple now. I went over it all as I waited for thestreet car, and as I rode down town. It was strange that Melbourne hadnever foreseen that one possibility among so many.
We had sat down in our chairs, and then the adventure had begun. Ihad felt the sensation of moving about, of going from place to place.When I was a child I used to have dreams of walking about thehouse and about the streets. I would wake up on the stairs, or at thedoor--sleep-walking. Reflexes did it. I had left the chair, under theinfluence of the story in the Chamber of Life, and gone out of the room.I remembered now all those brief moments, when I had seemed poised onthe brink of the real world--the stumbling against some hard object, theface under the street-lamp, the taxi, the voices. I had been goingthrough the dark streets, with closed eyes, going toward theDrive--sleep-walking. And when I slipped over the bank of the river, inthe dream, and down into the water--in reality I had gone over the sideof the Drive, and down into the cold lake.
It had been dawn.
* * * * *
I left the car, and walked down the street, lost in the midst of thecrowds hurrying about me. It was all over, gone like one of those olddreams of my childhood. I could never forget it--never forget Selda--butit was gone. It had never existed. It had been cruel of Melbourne, crueland ironic, to put Selda in the dream. But perhaps he had never realizedthat it would last over into reality.
I had no hope of seeing her again, even in the Chamber. I knew I couldnever find Melbourne's home: I had paid no attention to the way thetaxi-driver took. And I wasn't very much interested now. It was only adream. I had lost the only girl I had ever loved, in a dream.
I pushed open the door of the Norfolk Lunch. It was late--I had only alittle while for breakfast. I sat down at one of the tables, and spoketo the waiter in much the usual manner.
"Hello, Joe. I'm in a hurry--bring me bacon and eggs, as usual."
"Coffee, Mr. Barrett?"
"Yes, coffee too. And hurry it up."
It wouldn't do to be late at the office, where I, too, was a maker ofsometimes cruel dreams.
THE END
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