Orbit 5 - [Anthology] Read online

  Their love affair was now like a piece of sculpture, an object that plainly begins at one point and ends at another, but which may be seen as a single object in space, which may be looked at closely, details expanding, may be examined from different angles, touched, embraced, wept upon.

  The last time in the hotel had been good, so good that he could now remember nothing but an ecstatic feeling of life and death and her cries regularly punctuating the quiet of the room, and his own gasped sounds joining hers in a complex of rhythm, and then nothing but his own engulfment in a torrent of whiteness.

  Caroline Howard. First just a name, and then a name that was a woman, and then a name that was so intertwined with his own existence it became a million things, was a part of him. Just the sound of her name, reflected softly from the stone walls, was enough to bring back a whole series of memories and associations; it must be like the lifetime’s memories of a drowning man. In a fraction of a second it was all there to be seen, touched, tasted, smelled. Caroline Howard Caroline Howard Caroline Howard—a bright orgasm in morning sunlight.

  * * * *

  The time machine operates on an organic, electrochemical basis, with mineral connections. It is operated by means of a circulating substance that is sometimes fluid and sometimes gaseous, passing through an infinite number of stages of creation. This substance becomes finer and finer in form, eventually phasing from the limits of existence to great solidity and density, beginning the cycle again. The implications of this cycle, with the relative nature of its stages, provide the basic crystallizing power of the machine. The apparatus is also provided with gross mechanical parts, cogs, motors and chains, which are essential to the smooth transport of its medium through all the stages of metamorphosis. The machine deals with relationships, patterns and similarities. Some of the implications of the time machine are almost metaphysical in nature.

  It may easily be seen that the machine is not like any other of the mechanical constructions that have been made up to now. While the operation of the machine may be analyzed in detail, the reader of such a description will not be able to understand at all the functions of its cycles. Also the mechanically-minded reader will notice immediately that there are components which he would deem unnecessary and uneconomic, and he will undoubtedly comment too that more components seem to be essential for the machine to work at all, and that in its present state it would be capable of doing absolutely nothing. The time machine is capable, in fact, of operation in a number of different ways. On the other hand it may work in a more general sense for one, or any number of separate observers. Also, the machine may, and does, operate entirely on its own, unobserved; it does this constantly, the separate parts of the construction existing at different and all points of time.

  It is to be understood that time is not a moving stream. Time is a minor quality of the continuum, common only to living creatures, and consists of an involuntary change of attention. The consciousness of a creature is an infinitely restricted series of sense-impressions, operating in three dimensions only. The universe consists of a four dimensional geometric form, which, in cross-section, contains all the physical facts of matter, and is curved so that it eventually rejoins itself, forming a four-dimensional ring shape. Thus, a cross-section of any part of this ring will produce the universe at any particular point in “time.” This “time” is merely the attention of the creature observing the shape about him, and is due to his being able to be aware of only one infinitely small part of the shape. His attention is constantly and involuntarily operating on a different part of the ring, giving the impression of movement and animation to what is in fact a static object, and also giving him the false impression of temporal extension. If one draws a wavy line, and follows this line with one’s eyes, it will appear to move up and down, whereas with a widening of attention the line can immediately be appreciated as an unmoving and complete object. The time that each of us experiences is common only to us, and is an internal psychic operation rather than a measurable physical fact.

  If we stand at one end of a room and walk across to the other, this restricted attention is all that gives the impression of movement. In fact movement is an aspect of time, and to someone lacking this restriction of attention, it would be obvious that the movement was only an impression in the mind of the person concerned and that his body, as it crossed the room, was merely a solid and static object.

  We can see now that time is not the barrier it was once thought to be, and that as a psychic mechanism it may be radically altered, or completely destroyed. It is surprising that this was not realized before; the time-dilation or time-destruction observed by takers of the “mind-expanding” hallucinogenic drugs has been often noted, as well as the more usual distortions of time during various common mental states.

  The time machine, by operating in terms of relationships-of pattern, is able to crystallize the attention of the observer, producing a concrete déjà vu, and in the solidity of its wheels and pistons we find reflected the tangibility of the universe, in all its states of being.

  * * * *

  He looked up from the book. And saw her. She was talking to two bus men, asking them if they knew whether the London bus had arrived yet. He hurriedly put the book away, and as he stood she saw him. She was wearing her black fur coat, and her face, as she came toward him, was his own face, as familiar as the face he shaved each morning, a face that was more than the sum of all the faces he knew; his own, his parents’, his friends’, more than anything else he would ever find. Her face was troubled. They approached each other slowly, not running with joyful exuberance as they had the last time they had met here, or moving quickly with desperation to clasp each other, to shut off the world in the closeness of each other’s arms as they would later. He took her gently in his arms, and they kissed softly, and then embraced, holding each other tightly. She exhaled his name in a sigh, a drooping inflection that suggested pressure that had been building up suddenly released. Now was right; everything was infinitely right. His face was pressed against her neck, the scent of her hair was filling his nostrils. her body was warm in his arms. Now he was alive, and he did not want to move from this position ever again. His hands ran over her back, and he felt her lips at his neck; he was melting into a state of complete being, a state that had intolerable tensions and unformulated desires, that caused his breath to be exhaled explosively, hearing the sounds he made, they both made, to be like miniature versions of the sounds crushed from their bodies by the dazzling pressure of orgasm. Waves of pressure ran round his body; his head moved, lips brushing her cheek, her ear, her neck. Their heads drew apart, and he looked into her eyes. He felt his head moving with the impossible surging of communication of emotions impossible to communicate. His eyes moved as he tried to take in all the details of her face at once. He smiled, and saw an answering smile on her face, a reflection of his own feelings. They kissed for a long time, and then slowly drew apart.

  “How have things been at home?”

  “Not too good. Difficult.”

  They began to walk out of the coach station, their arms round each other.

  “Do you mind if we go for a drink first? I do feel that I need it.”

  “Of course not.”

  They walk across the road, and into The Shakespeare. They sit at the table with drinks, and she opens her coat to reveal her grey dress. He tells her that he is very fond of the dress, and they tell each other “I love you,” a universal reassurance, always needed. Soft lips against his. Unhappiness in her eyes. In memory, not much is said. A letter is discussed, and one or two sentences are actually verbalized, although in a constantly varying way. “He can accept the whole thing intellectually, and he doesn’t want to stop it, for my sake. He knows I’m seeing you.”

  “I know.”

  “No, I mean today. He saw me off, and watched me drive away in the car.” A feeling of mute horror that stays the same, despite the changing pattern of the words. “What with my period and everythin
g, all my energies are at a low ebb. I’m in the most schizophrenic state. There’s part of me that can’t bear the thought of having an affair, and the rest of me wants nothing but you.” He says nothing. There is nothing but the sound of her voice, and he watches her lips moving, sees the flecks of mascara on her cheeks, feels terror at his innocent power of inflicting pain.

  Later they leave the pub, at one o’clock, and drive off to Groby Pond, the place at which they arrived the last time, his first trip to Leicester, after driving off twelve miles in the wrong direction, laughing at the confusion into which they were both plunged by their mutual proximity. They take a wrong turning this time, and the next time. At Groby Pond was a disused quarry where they had come before, to be alone under an enormous sky, a sky that made no judgments, condemned no one, and was content to be.

  * * * *

  The city is devoted to the appreciation of beauty— Rolling architecture is spread out in autumn sunlight— The city has patterned trees set out among the plazas— High towers pillars for the sky—Spotlights are situated along the kerbs to show the human bodies on the pavements to their best advantage—Last year a man was found wearing clothes and was executed—Soft winds blow scents of musk into the market—In the main square is a gigantic golden representation of a single testicle—the sounds of the people are the muted voice of summer holidaymakers—laughter on a tennis court—Parks are rolling grassland with bowers supplied for making love, which must be made aesthetically—the main crime is committing offenses against the soul, for which the penalty is instant, and beautiful, decapitation—Birds shriek into the sun, protesting at the loss of their virgin cruelty —Sleek, fat cats assume poses in the gutters—Men urinate only from the tops of high buildings—The government headquarters consists of five red towers, standing up in the city like the fingers of a bloody hand—All the pubs have yards where one may sit with one’s love and drink together for the last time—the courtyards are like seas—there are no lavatories—illness is forbidden by state decree—Sculptures are designed to be orgasms in steel—In a park in the center of the city is a large brick shed with a light on its side—Serious musicians play only some Mozart and some Berg—Beaches and pavilions glisten like mirrors in the sun—The city beats like a bird’s wing—People float in aerial choreography, like the sinking drowned—Metal is woven in great garlands and shines throughout the city—Capsules of mescalin are set in trays at every point—The city is the city of time—the city knows no time—the city is the city of soft people— the city of flags and paintings that move—the city is the city of the afternoon—mown grass falls from the sky like rain—the City is the city of beautiful decay, where all is young—the city is the city of the sky—the city of eternal surprise—the city of long dark hair—the city of eggs with marble shells—the city is a diffraction grating, and from a height of three hundred feet can be seen only as a blaze of color—it is the city of high parabolas—the city of impossible waterfalls—the city of melting silver blades—the city is the city of brooks—they weave their way everywhere—all the time is the sound of bubbling water . . .

  * * * *

  The time machine utilizes certain objects for its various operations: a skull cap with electrodes, attached to a machine designed for the artificial production of sexual orgasm; the miniature score of Messiaen’s Chronochromie; a magnetic tape, two thousand, four hundred feet long, containing nothing but the voice of a man repeating the word “time”; a reproduction of Dali’s landscape,Persistence of Memory; a bracket clock by Joseph Knibb.

  He enters the time machine, giving himself up to its embrace, feeling his normal consciousness changing, the widening of his perceptions. Colors flow over his body like a smooth sheet of water—blue sparks ignite in his brain—he is conscious of the pattern his body makes in space-time—He moves his finger and sees the resultant wiggling shape, his finger like an electroencephalograph pen—Words float in his mind, picked out in violet fire— Long steel fingers fiddle about in his brain like the legs of robot spiders—he falls asleep and wakes up three hundred times a second—His feet are removed by steel hands and placed neatly under his bed—His arms are broken off with mechanical deftness—his body is taken completely apart by the mechanical fingers, and he slides in pieces through the conveyor belts of the machine.

  * * * *

  They pulled up at the pond, with the front of the car only a few yards from the water’s edge. There were several other cars parked here too; this was a fairly popular beauty spot. A few people were outside their cars, braving the January weather, throwing pieces of bread to the ducks on the water. They sat for a while, he with his arm around her, his face pressed to her hair, stroking her with slow fingers, their voices low as they spoke to each other, both of them weighed down by circumstances so vast that they could not be seen all at one time. She had brought along a bottle of wine, cheap red wine with brandy added, a box of sandwiches, and also a thermos flask of coffee. They filled the cup of the flask with wine, and took it in turns to sip from it. “You realize that these are only delaying tactics on my part? I feel so low. If I really wanted to make love, I wouldn’t want food or anything.” He nodded, for he knew. It was up to her to make the move today. She offered him a small sandwich, but at the moment he was unable to eat; his stomach was locked with tension. But he watched her eating, looking at her as if looking could lock her forever within him, knowing that in time the outlines of her features would fade, until one day, alone, he would remember only a composite picture of her face, not looking as she looked on this day at any time. But still he looked at her intensely, watching the movements of her hands, her glances and her dark eyes.

  They packed away the food, and she came into his arms again. “In a minute we can go and make love.”

  “Do you want a cigarette first?” She took a cigarette, and they stayed smoking for a moment, now and then drinking from the cup.

  Now was the time to leave the car, and they went round to the boot, where she had stored an enormous bundle of blankets out of the house so that they should at least be comfortable. As he helped her with the bundle, he was very conscious of the people about, as if they knew that it was full of blankets. Last time they had climbed over a wide green gate that led to the quarry, but now they could see a car parked by the gate, full of people looking out at the sheet of silver that was Groby Pond. This time, they decided, they should go over a stile a little further down, set into a low stone wall. They walked along, he with one arm clasping the bundle, the other round her, his fingers buried in the fur of her collar. The last time they had been here they had gone over the green gate, ignored a small path leading to the left towards a brick shed and some other buildings in a little dip, and had taken the right-hand path up to the top of the quarry, and had lain in the brambles in this incredibly open place, in which it seemed there was nothing but a huge sky and great vistas of grey stone cliffs. Later they would go through the gate and would turn left, down the small path, and they would never go over this stile again. He pushed the blankets under the bottom rung and climbed over, helping her as she followed. There was a tortuous path leading downwards through the trees and undergrowth, in the direction of a brook. They began to go down the path, he leading the way and holding onto her hand, sliding, being whipped by branches and circumnavigating patches of mud. Laughing they came to a little river of mud, and clambered across it. Now the way ahead looked even more impenetrable, and even less likely to lead up to the top of the quarry. He suggested that she wait here, while he would go on to see what was ahead.

  * * * *

  His perspective changes—He rushes along corridors of people, the same people, in quanta of time, each one slightly different from the last, like a cine film—A mad express, lights reflecting from the walls of life.

  The time machine poses problems.

  Why? Why did they take this path, that second time, when later they would find a much easier way to get to their little shed? Why did they not brave the stare
s of the people in the car, and avoid this tortuous journey? Why, the first time, did they go over the green gate but completely ignore the path that led to their refuge? The shed at Groby Pond was so important to them. They even called it their “den.” It was a little enclosed world of three sides, in which they could shut out the knowledge of pain and the niceties of balance that were necessary for them to stay whole. They could observe this world outside through an open fourth side, only partly masked by stringy bushes, and could hear its water bubbling nearby. Why did they, then, choose not to go down the small path on these two occasions? It is not only in love, but in all life that people often act with the blind illogicality of the insane. What is this quality called “time” that makes them act so? How can one assess an adulterous love affair seen now in terms of shape?

  * * * *

  He emerged into a clearing. There were some brick buildings to the right, a couple of sheds and a cottage with boarded-up windows. He went over to try the doors but found them locked. He found that he was concentrating on this moment of being alone, living it with a perverse kind of enjoyment, like the enjoyment of being cold just before stepping into a warm bath. He turned. Behind him was a shed with three sides. It was about five feet high and very roomy. The front was half-concealed by straggly bushes and the darkness inside should hide the glimmer of two bodies, unless someone got too close. He walked across to the shed, and went inside. He was rather disappointed by the interior, which was gloomy and damp. He came out of the shed again, wondering whether or not it would be suitable. He decided to use the opportunity of this solitude to urinate, smiling, as he unzipped his fly, at this unexpected modesty of his, and feeling rather ashamed of it at the same time. Hearing her coming, he forced the process even faster and barely finished before she appeared from behind the buildings. Feeling a little like a guilty schoolboy, he zipped up his trousers and went towards her. “I’ve found a place,” he said, “but you may find it a bit sordid.” She walked across to the shed and looked inside. “Why, it’s perfect. But will we be seen from the road?” He stepped back until he was a long way away. He could see her now only as a vague patch of lightness in the shed. “No,” he called, “it’s fine!” He came back, and picking up the bundle of blankets he carried it inside the shed. He put the bundle down, and then took her in his arms. They kissed, their bodies pressed together, and his general tension was suddenly transformed into sexual desire, his body responding to hers with a swiftness that spoke of their long absence. They drew apart, and she squatted on the floor and began to unroll the bundle. Inside were two large blankets, and he was amused to see that she had even had the forethought to bring a red towel with her. They spread out the ground-sheet, and arranged the blankets into an improvised double bed. He took off his sweater and arranged it to serve as a pillow. Now when they spoke their voices were hushed, and quietly they both took off their shoes, lifted the blankets, and slid side by side into their bed in the shed at Groby Pond, while outside the brook bubbled past.