“This is a flambé glaze,” Joe said absently. “As I said before, of reduced copper. But in some places it looks almost like ‘dead leaf’ glaze; if I didn’t know better I’d—“
“You pedantic fop,” Mali said savagely. “You miserable nitwit. I’m going up.” She kicked away, rose, unfastened the cable which connected them, and was soon gone, her torch flashing above him. He found himself alone with the pot and the nearby Black Cathedral. Silence. And the utter abstention of activity. No fish moved near him; they seemed to shun the Black Cathedral and its environs. They are wise, he decided. As is Mali.
He took one last, long, lonely look at the dead structure, the cathedral which had never been alive.
Bending over the pot he took hold with both hands and tugged mightily, his torch temporarily put aside. The pot broke into many pieces; the pieces drifted away in the ocean currents and he found himself gazing down at the few stillimprisoned fragments.
Bracing himself he grasped a remaining fragment and tore it forward, where the whole pot had been. The consolidated coral hung back; it kept its seizure of the fragment active. And then, by degrees, the coral released the fragment. It came loose in his hands, and at once he flailed for the surface above.
He held in his hand the remaining two panels of the visual narrative. They ascended with him, held tight.
Presently he broke through to the surface. He slid aside his mask, and floating about, examined the two panels by torch light.
“What is it?” Mali called, swimming toward him with long, lean strokes.
“The rest of the pot,” he said raspingly.
The first panel showed the great black fish swallowing the man who had caught it. The second—and final—panel revealed the great fish once again. This time it devoured and absorbed a Glimmung . . . or rather the Glimmung. Both the man and Glimmung disappeared down the throat of the fish, to be decomposed within its stomach. The man and Glimmung ceased. Only the great black fish remained. It had engulfed all.
“This potsherd—“ he began, and then broke off. There was something that he had failed to see at first glance. That something now gathered his attention; it tugged at him, drawing him restlessly, impotently toward it.
In the latter panel a talk balloon had been incised above the fish’s head. Words filled the talk balloon, words in his own language. He read them haltingly as he bobbed about upon the uneasy water.
Life on this planet is under water, not on the land. Do not get involved with the fat fake calling himself Glimmung. The depths draw from the earth, and within those depths the real Glimmung can be found.
And then, in very small letters, these words at the edge of the terminal panel.
This has been a public-service message.
“It’s insane,” Joe said, as Mali swam up beside him. He felt like dropping the fragment of pot, letting it drift down and down into the dark, heavy water, out of sight once more.
Peering over his shoulder, clinging roundly and wetly to him, Mali read the contents of the talk balloon. “Good god,” she said, and laughed. “It’s like that what is it you have on Earth. Cookies. With messages in them.”
“Fortune cookies,” Joe said savagely.
“I read where someone in a Chinese restaurant on Earth, in the city San Francisco, opened a fortune cookie and the slip said, ‘Abstain from fornication.’ “Again she laughed, a warm, throaty laugh; at the same time she clutched at his shoulder, turning herself about so that she faced him. Now all at once she became calm. And very serious. “It’s going to make a terrible fight,” she said. “To keep the cathedral down there.”
Joe said, “_It_ doesn’t want to come up. The cathedral—it wants to stay down there. This shard is a part of it.” He dropped the fragment of pot and at once it sank into oblivion below him; he watched for a second, saw only ebbing water, and then turned back toward Mali once again. “That was the cathedral talking to us,” he said. It was a somber thought, a thought he did not like.
“Didn’t the pot belong to the Black—“
“No,” he said. “Not from the Black one.” It had to be faced by all of them, himself, the others, and—Glimmung. “I don’t think he knows,” Joe said aloud. “It’s not merely a question of the Book of the Kalends, what they write as fate. It’s not a problem in hydraulic engineering either.”
“The soul,” Mali said faintly.
“What?” he demanded, with anger.
“I guess I don’t mean that,” Mali said after a pause.
“You’re damn right you don’t,” Joe said. “Because it’s not alive.” Despite the message on the potsherd, he said to himself. It’s the semblance of life only. Inertia. Like any physical object it remains where it’s at until enough force is brought to bear against it . . . and then it moves, reluctantly. Below us, he thought, that cathedral contains a mass of infinite enormity, and we will break ourselves trying to move it. We will never recover, none of us, Glimmung included. And–.
It will remain down there, he thought. As it is now. World without end, he thought, as they say in the church. But what a strange cathedral, he thought, to scratch messages on coralencrusted pots. There must be a better way by which it can communicate to us up here, we who live on the land. And yet . . . Glimmung’s way of communicating, his note bobbing around in the water closet of a toilet on Earth . . . that had been equally bizarre. A planetwide propensity, he decided. An ethnic custom, probably sanctioned down through centuries.
Mali said, “It knew you would find that pot.”
“How?”
“In the Book of the Kalends. Buried somewhere in a footnote halfway through, in squirrel agate type.”
“But for example they were wrong,” Joe said, “when they said I would find something in Heldscalla that would cause me to kill Glimmung. So it could only be a guess, and maybe a bad one.” Yet, he thought, it did work out. I did find the pot.
And maybe someday, he thought, the tidal currents of reality will sweep Glimmung and me along so that, at last, I kill him. If enough time elapses. In fact, he reflected, if enough time passes everything will happen. Which in a sense was the way the Kalends’ Book worked.
Worked—and did not work.
Probability, Joe said to himself. A science in itself. Bernoulli’s Theorem, the Bayes-Laplace theorem, the Poisson Distribution, Negative Binomial Distribution . . . coins and cards and birthdays, and at last random variables. And, hanging over it all, the brooding specter of Rudolf Carnap and Hans Reichenbach, the Vienna Circle of philosophy and the rise of symbolic logic. A muddy world, in which he did not quite care to involve himself. In spite of the fact that it pertained immediately to the Book of the Kalends. Muddier by far than the water realm which lapped at him and Mali.
“Let’s get back to the installation,” Mali said, and shivered. She abruptly paddled off, leaving him; he saw, ahead of her, the lights which the robot Willis had previously turned on for their benefit. Those lights still burned; the robot waited for them.
Amalita did not get us, Joe reflected as the two of them paddled toward the staging center with its blaze of lights. And for that he was thankful. It had been as awful as Willis—and Mali—had said. His own corpse . . . he could still see, in his mind, the exposed jawbone as it waggled, white and dead in the current of the Aquatic Sub-World. Amalita’s world, with its own laws. Filled with refuse and everything half dead.
He reached the illuminated staging area with its three hermetically sealed domes. And there was Willis, waiting to help him up.
The robot seemed irritable as Joe and Mali removed their diving gear. “It’s about time, Sir and Lady,” Willis said fussily as it gathered up their equipment. “You disobeyed me and stayed too long.” It corrected itself. “Disobeyed Glimmung, I mean.”
Joe said, “What’s the matter with you?”
“Oh, a goddam radio station,” Willis said; now it worked with Mali’s oxygen tanks. Its strong hands lifted them without effort. “Just consider this.” It stripped her suit from her, gathered up everything, and began to lug it toward the supply locker. “I’m sitting here waiting for you to come up and listening to the radio. They’re playing Beethoven’s ‘Ninth.’ Then there’s a commercial for a hernia belt. Then the Good Friday music from Wagner’s Parsifal. Then an ad for an ointment that cures athlete’s foot. Then a chorale from the Bach cantata Jesu Du Meine Seele. Then an ad for a rectal suppository used in the treatment of piles. Then Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater. Then an ad for a false-teeth dentifrice. Then the ‘Sanctus’ from the Verdi Requiem. Then a laxative ad. Then the ‘Gloria’ section from Haydn’s Mass in Time of War. Then an ad for an analgesic used for female monthly disorders. Then a chorale from the Saint Matthew Passion. Then an ad for cat litter. Then—“ Abruptly the robot ceased speaking. It tilted its head, as if listening.