Gardner Dozois - Horse Of Air.pdf - Gardner Dozois - widez2

HORSEOf AIR

GARDNERR. DOZOIS

GARDNER R. Dozois was bornJuly 23, 1947 , inSalem,Massachusetts , his ancestry conveniently half

Irish and the remainder an amalgamation of French, Scottish, Dutch and American Indian. He spent three

years of army service as a military journalist inNuremberg,Germany , and since then he has worked as

journalist, radio and TV broadcaster,busboy , IBM card filer, and editorial reader for Dell and Award

Books and UPD Magazines. Along theway he took part in amateur theatrics and dabbled in

photography, anthropology, sociology, natural history and history, exercising his body in bicycling and

swimming and his mind in worrying, and he began to write.

His first storywas sold in 1966, and the total now exceeds a baker's dozen. In addition to the science

fiction magazines, he has contributed stories to severalvolumes of the Orbit series, Quark 7, New

Dimensions 1 and ll , and Universe l. His short story "A Dream at Noonday," was a finalist in the 1970

Nebula Award balloting. Dozois is the editor of a collection of stories, A Day in the Life (1972). He is a

member of Science Fiction Writers of America and the SFWA Speakers' Bureau, and he has been a

guest instructor at the Clarion Writers' Workshop.

In the 1971 Nebula Award balloting his name appeared on the final

ballottwice: with his novelette "A Special Kind of Morning" and with his short story "Horse of Air."

Sometimes when the weather isgood I sit and look out over the ` city, fingers hooked through the mesh.

Page 1

-The mesh is weather-stained, beginning to rust. As his fingers scrabble at it, chips of rust flake off,

staining his hands the color of crusted blood. The heavy wire is hot and smooth under his fingers, turning

rougher and drier at a rust spot. If he presses his tongue against the wire, it tastes slightly of lemons. He

doesn't do that very often

The city is quieter now. You seldom see motion, mostly birds if you do. AS I watch, two pigeons strut

along the roof ledge of the low building several stories below my balcony, stopping every now and then

to pick at each other's feathers. They look fatter than ever. I wonder what they eat these days. Probably

it is better not to know. They have learned to keep away from me anyway, although the mesh that

encloses my small balcony floor to ceiling makes it difficult to get at them if they do land nearby.I'm not

_° really hungry, of course, but they are noisy and leave droppings. , Idon't really bear any malice toward

them.It's not a personal thing; I do it for the upkeep of the place.

(I hate birds.1 will kill any- of them I can reach. I do it with my

beltbuckle, snapping it between the hoops of wire.) -

-He hates birds because they have freedom of movement, because they can fly, because they- can shift

their viewpoint from spot to spot in linear space, while he can do so only- in time and .memory , and that

imperfectly. They can fly here and look at him .and then fly away, while he has no volition: if he wantsto

look at them, he must wait until they decide to come to him. Ile flicksa .piece of plaster at them, between

the hoops

Startled by something, the pigeons explode upward with a whir of feathers. I watch them fly away:

skimming along the side of a building, dipping with an air current. They are soon lost in the maze of low

roofs that thrust up below at all angles and heights, staggering toward theApartmentTowers in the middle

distance. The Towers stand untouched by the sea of brownstones that break around their flanks, like

aloof monoliths wading ina surf of scummy brown brick. Other towers march off in curving lines toward

the horizon, becoming progressively smaller until they vanish at the place where a misty sky merges with a

line of low hills. If I press myself against the mesh at the far right side of the balcony, I can see the nearest

Tower to my own, perhaps sis hundred yards away, all of steel and concrete with a vertical line of

windows running down the middle and rows of identical balconies on either side.

Nearest to me on the left is a building that rises about a quarter of the way up my Tower's flank:

patterns of dark-brown and light red bricks, interlaced with fingers of mortar, weathered gray roof

shingles, a few missing here and there in a manner reminiscent of broken teeth; a web of black chimney

and sewage pipes crawling up and across the walls like metallic creepers.All covered with the pale

splotches of bird droppings. 'ChiTowersare much cleaner; not so many horizontal surfaces. Windows are

broken in the disintegrating buildings down there; the dying sunlight glints from fangs of shattered glass.

Curtains hang in limp shreds that snap and drum when a wind comes up. If you squint, you can see that

the wind has scattered broken twigs and rubbish all over the floors inside. No, I am much happier in one

of the towers.

Page 2

(I hate the Towers. I would rather live anywhere than here.)

-He hates the Towers. As the sun starts to dip below the horizon, settling down into the concrete

labyrinth like a hog into a wallow, he shakes his head blindly and makes a low noise at the back of his

throat. The shadows of buildings are longer now, stretching in toward him from the horizon like accusing

fingers. A deep gray gloom is gathering in the corners and angles of walls, shot with crimson sparks from

the foundering sun, now dragged under and wrapped in chill masonry. His hands go up and out, curling

again around the hoops of the mesh. He shakes the mesh

violently, throwing his weight against it. The mesh groans in metallic agony but remains solid. A few chips

of concrete puff from the places where the ends of the meshare anchored to the walls. He continues to

tear at the mesh until his hands bleed, half-healed scabs torn open again. Tiny blood droplets spatter the

heavy wire. The blood holds the deeper color of rust-

If you have enough maturity to keep emotionalism out of it, the view from here can even be

fascinating. The sky is clear now, an electric, saturated blue, and the air is as sharp as a jeweler's glass

Not like the old days. Without factories and cars to keep it fed, even the eternal smog has dissipated.

The sky reminds me now of an expensive aquarium filled with crystal tropical water, me at the bottom: I

almost expect to see huge eyes peering in from the horizon, maybe a monstrous nose pressed against the

glass. On a sunnyday you can see for miles.

Butit is even more beautiful when it rains. The rain invests the still landscape with an element of

motion: long fingers of it brushing across the rooftops or marching down in zigzag sheets, the droplets

stirring and rippling the puddles that form in depressions, drumming against the flat concrete surfaces,

running down along the edges of the shingles, foaming and sputtering from down- .spouts- The Towers

stand like lords, swirling rain mists around them as a fine gentleman swirls his jeweled cloak. Pregnant

gray clouds scurry by behind the Towers, lashed by wind. The constant stream of horizontals past the

fixed vertical fingers of the Towers creates contrast, gives the eye something to follow,increases the relief

of motion. Motion is heresy when the world has become a still life.But it soothes, the old-time religion.

There are no atheists in foxholes,nor abstainers when the world begins to flow.But does that prove the

desirability of God or the weakness of men? I drink when the world flows, but unwillingly, because I

know the price. I have to drink, but I also have to pay. I will pay later when the motion stops and the

world returns to lethargy, the doldrums made more unbearable by the contrast known a moment before.

That is another cross that I am forced to bear.

Butit is beautiful, and fresh-washed after.And sometimes there is a rainbow. Rain is the only aesthetic

pleasure I have left, and I savor it with the unhurried leisure of the aristocracy.

-When the rain comes, he flattens himself against the mesh, arms spread wide as if crucified there,

letting the rain hammer against his face. The rain rolls in runnels down his skin, mixing with sweat,

counterfeiting tears. Eyes closed, he bruises his open mouth against the mesh, trying to drink the rain. His

tongue dabs at the drops that trickle by his mouth, licks out for the moisture oozing down along the links

of wire. After the storm, he sometimes drinks the small puddles that gather on the balcony ledge, lapping

them noisily and greedily, although the tap in the kitchen works, and he is never thirsty-

Always something to look at from here.Directlybelow are a number of weed-overgrown yards,

chopped up unequally by low brick walls, nestled in a hollow square formed by the surrounding

brownstones. There is even a tree in one corner, though it is dead and its limbs are gnarled and

Page 3

splintered. The yardswere never neatly kept by the rabble that lived there, even in the old days: they are

scattered with trash and rubbish, middens of worn-out household items and broken plastic toys, though

the weeds have covered much. There was a neat, brightflower bed in one of the further yards, tended by

a bent and leather-skinned foreign crone of impossible age, but the weeds have overgrown that as well,

drowning the rarer blossoms. This season there were more weeds, fewer flowers-they seem to survive

better, though God knows they have little else to recommend them, being coarse and ill smelling.

In the closestyard an old and ornate wicker-back chair is still standing upright; if I remember

correctly, a pensioner bought it at a rummage sale and used it to take the sun, being a parasite good for

nothing else. Weeds are twining up around the chair; itis half hidden already. Beyond is a small concrete

court where hordes of ragged children used to play ball. Its geometrical white linesare nearly obliterated

now by rain and wind-drifted gravel. If you look

sharpat this clearing, sometimes you can see the sudden flurry of a small darting body through the weeds;

a rat or a cat, hard to tell at this distance.

Once;months ago, I saw a man and a woman there, my first clear indication that there are still people

alive and about. They entered the court like thieves, crawling through a low window, the man lowering

the girl and then jumping down after. They were dressed in rags, and the man carried a rifle and a

bandolier

After reconnoitering , the man forced one of the rickety doors into a brownstone, disappearing inside.

After awhile he came out dragging a mattress-filthy, springs jutting through fabric-and carried it into the

ball court. They had intercourse there for the betterpart of the afternoon, stopping occasionally while the

man: prowled about with the rifle. I remember thinking that it was too bad the gift of motionhad been

wasted on such as these. They left at dusk. I had not tried to signal them, leaving them undisturbed to

their rut, although I was somewhat sickened by the coarse brutality of the act. There is such a thing as

noblesse oblige.

(I hate them. If I had agun I would kill them. Atfirst I watch, greedily as they make love, excited,

afraid of scaring them away if they should become aware of me watching.But as the afternoon wears on,

I grow drained, and then angry, and begin to shout at' them, telling them to get out, get the hell out. They

ignore me. Their tanned skin is vivid against asphalt as they strain together. Sweat makes their locked

limbs glisten in the thick sunlight. The rhythmic rise and fall of their bodies describes parabolic lines

through the crusted air. I scream at them and tear at the mesh, voice thin and impotent. Later they make

love again, rolling from the mattress in their urgency, sprawling among the lush weeds, coupling like

leopards. I try to throw plaster at them, but the angle is wrong. As they leave the square, the man gives

me the finger.)

Thinking of those two makes me think of the other animals that howl through the world,

masquerading as men. On the far left, hidden by the nearest brownstones but winding into sight further

on, is a highway. Once it was a major artery of the city, choked

witha chrome flood of traffic. Now it is empty. Once or twice at thebeginning I would see an ambulance

or a fire engine, once a tank. A few weeksago I saw a jeep go by, driving square in the middle of the

highway, ridden by armed men. Occasionally I have seen men and women trudge past, dragging their

possessions behind them on a sledge. Perhaps the wheel is on the way out.

Against one curb is the overturned, burned-out hulk of a bus: small animals use it for a cave now, and

Page 4

weeds are beginning.to lace through it. I saw itburning, a week after the Building Committee came. I sat

on the balcony and watched its flames eat up at the sky, although it was too dark to make out what was

happening around it; thestreet lights had been the first things to go. There were other blazes in the

distance, glowing like campfires, like blurred stars. I remember wondering that night what was happening,

what the devil was going on.But I've figured it out now.

It was the niggers. I hate to say it.I've been a liberal man all my life.But you can't deny the truth. They

are responsible for the destruction, for the present degeneration of the world. It makes me sad to have to

say this. I had always been on their side in spirit, I was more than willing to stretch out a helping hand to

those less fortunate thanmyself . I always said so; I always said that. Ihad high hopes for them all.But they

got greedy, and brought us to this. We should have known better, we should have listened to the

so-called racists, we should have realized that idealism is a wasting disease, a cancer. We should have

remembered that bloodwill tell. A hard truth: it was the niggers. I have no prejudice; I speak the cold

facts. I had always wished them well.

(I hate niggers. They are animals. Touching one would make me vomit.)

-He hates niggers. He has seen them on the street corners with their women, he has seen them in their

juke boxed caves with their feet in sawdust, he has heard them speaking in a private language half

devised of finger snaps and motions of liquid hips, he has felt the inquiry of their eyes, he has seen them

dance. He envies them for having a culture separate from the bland familiarity of his own,

heenvies their tang of the exotic. He envies their easy sexuality. He fears their potency. He fears that in

climbing up they will shake him down. He fears generations of stored-up hate. He hates them because

their very existence makes him uncomfortable. He hates them because sometimes they have seemed to

be happy on their tenement street corners, while he rides by in an air-conditioned car and is not. He hates

them because they are not part of the mechanism and yet still have the audacity to exist. He hates them

because they have escaped-

Dusk has come, hiding a world returned to shame and barbarism. It occurs to me that I may be one

of the few members of the upper class left. Therabble were always quick to blame their betters for their

own inherent inferiority and quick to vent their resentment in violence when the opportunity arose. The

otherApartmentTowersare still occupied , I think; I can see the lights at night, as they can see mine, if

there is anyone left there to see. So perhaps there are still a few of us left. Perhaps there is still some

hope for the world after all.

Although what avail to society is their survival if they are as helpless asI ? We may be the last hope of

restoring order to a land raped by Chaos, and weare being wasted . We are born to govern, to regulate,

prepared for it by station, tradition and long experience: leadership comes as naturally to us as drinking

and fornication come to the masses of the Great Unwashed. We are being wasted, our experience and

foresight pissed away by fools who will not listen.

Andwe dwindle. I speak of us as a class, as a corporate "we."But there are fewer lights in the other

Towers every month. Last night I counted less than half thenumber I could see a year ago. On evenings

when the wind grows bitter with autumn cold, I fear that I will soon be the only one left with the courage

to hold out. It would be so easy to give in to despair; the quietus of hopelessness is tempting.But it is a

siren goddess, made of tin.Can't the others see that? To give up is to betray their blood.But still the lights

dwindle. At times I have the dreadful fancy that I will sit here one

Page 5

Gardner Dozois - Horse Of Air.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: