Sirens of Titan - Kurt Vonnegut [60]
Rumfoord and his dog dematerialized abruptly.
On the space ship out of Mars and bound for Mercury, on the space ship carrying Unk and Boaz, the automatic pilot-navigator decreed that it be day in the cabin again.
It was the dawn following the night in which Unk had told Boaz that the thing in Boaz’s pocket couldn’t hurt anybody any more.
Unk was asleep on his bunk in a sitting position. His Mauser rifle, loaded and cocked, lay across his knees.
Boaz was not asleep. He was lying on his bunk across the cabin from Unk. Boaz had not slept a wink. He could now, if he wanted to, disarm and kill Unk easily.
But Boaz had decided that he needed a buddy far more than he needed a means of making people do exactly what he wanted them to. During the night, he had become very unsure of what he wanted people to do, anyway.
Not to be lonely, not to be scared—Boaz had decided that those were the important things in life. A real buddy could help more than anything.
The cabin was filled with a strange, rustling, coughing sound. It was laughter. It was Boaz’s laughter. What made it so strange was that Boaz had never laughed in that particular way before—had never laughed before at the things he was laughing at now.
He was laughing at the ferocious mess he was in—at the way he had pretended all his army life that he had understood everything that was going on, and that everything that was going on was just fine.
He was laughing at the dumb way he had let himself be used—by God knows who for God knows what.
"Holy smokes, buddy," he said out loud, "what we doing way out here in space? What we doing in these here clothes? Who’s steering this fool thing? How come we climbed into this tin can? How come we got to shoot somebody when we get to where we’re going? How come he got to try and shoot us? How come?" said Boaz. "Buddy," he said, "you tell me how come?"
Unk woke up, swung the muzzle of his Mauser around to Boaz.
Boaz went right on laughing. He took the control box out of his pocket, and he threw it on the floor. "I don’t want it, buddy," he said. "That’s O.K. you went and tore its insides out. I don’t want it."
And then he yelled, "I don’t want none of this crap!"
8
IN A HOLLYWOOD NIGHT CLUB
HARMONIUM—The only known form of life on the planet Mercury. The harmonium is a cave-dweller. A more gracious creature would be hard to imagine.
—A Child’s Cyclopedia of Wonders and Things to Do
THE PLANET MERCURY sings like a crystal goblet. It sings all the time.
One side of Mercury faces the Sun. That side has always faced the Sun. That side is a sea of white-hot dust.
The other side faces the nothingness of space eternal. That side has always faced the nothingness of space eternal. That side is a forest of giant blue-white crystals, aching cold.
It is the tension between the hot hemisphere of day-without-end and the cold hemisphere of night-without-end that makes Mercury sing.
Mercury has no atmosphere, so the song it sings is for the sense of touch.
The song is a slow one. Mercury will hold a single note in the song for as long as an Earthling millennium. There are those who think that the song was quick, wild, and brilliant once—excruciatingly various. Possibly so.
There are creatures in the deep caves of Mercury.
The song their planet sings is important to them, for the creatures are nourished by vibrations. They feed on mechanical energy.
The creatures cling to the singing walls of their caves.
In that way, they eat the song of Mercury.
The caves of Mercury are cozily warm in their depths.
The walls of the caves in their depths are phosphorescent. They give off a jonquil-yellow light.
The creatures in the caves are translucent. When they cling to the walls, light from the phosphorescent walls comes right through them. The yellow light from the walls, however, is turned, when passed through the bodies of the creatures,