Part 19 (1/2)
”Why?”
”By way of finding out what you've got there. To get some first-hand knowledge of what the project has accomplished. Or you could say I just want to test the quality of the simulation. Whatever. I'd feel more a part of this thing, more aware of what it' s all about in here, if I could have some direct contact with him. Would it be all right if I did that?”
”Yes. Of course.”
”Do I have to talk to him in Spanish?”
”In any language you like. There's an interface, after all. He'll think it's his own language coming in, no matter what, sixteenth-century Spanish. And he'll answer you in what seems like Spanish to him, but you'll hear it in English.”
”Are you sure?”
”Of course.”
”And you don't mind if I make contact with him?”
”Whatever you like.”
”It won't upset his calibration, or anything?”
”It won't do any harm at all, Harry.”
”Fine. Let me talk to him, then.”
There was a disturbance in the air ahead, a s.h.i.+fting, a swirling, like a little whirlwind. Pizarro halted and watched it for a moment, wondering what was coming next. A demon arriving to torment him, maybe. Or an angel. Whatever it was, he was ready for it.
Then a voice out of the whirlwind said, in that same comically exaggerated Castilian Spanish that Pizarro himself had found himself speaking a little while before, ”Can you hear me?”
”I hear you, yes. I don't see you. Where are you?”
”Right in front of you. Wait a second. I'll show you.” Out of the whirlwind came a strange face that hovered in the middle of nowhere, a face without a body, a lean face, close-shaven, no beard at all, no mustache, the hair cut very short, dark eyes set close together. He had never seen a face like that before.
”What are you?” Pizarro asked. ”A demon or an angel?”
”Neither one.” Indeed he didn't sound very demonic. ”A man, just like you.”
”Not much like me, I think. Is a face all there is to you, or do you have a body too?”
”All you see of me is a face?”
”Yes.”
”Wait a second.”
”I will wait as long as I have to. I have plenty of time.”
The face disappeared. Then it returned, attached to the body of a big, wide-shouldered man who was wearing a long loose gray robe, something like a priest's ca.s.sock, but much more ornate, with points of glowing light gleaming on it everywhere. Then the body vanished and Pizarro could see only the face again. He could make no sense out of any of this. He began to understand how the Indians must have felt when the first Spaniards came over the horizon, riding horses, carrying guns, wearing armor.
”You are very strange. Are you an Englishman, maybe?”
”American.”
”Ah,” Pizarro said, as though that made things better. ”An American. And what is that?”
The face wavered and blurred for a moment. There was mysterious new agitation in the thick white clouds surrounding it. Then the face grew steady and said, ”America is a country north of Peru. A very large country, where many people live.”
”You mean New Spain, which was Mexico, where my kinsman Cortes is Captain-General?”
”North of Mexico. Far to the north of it.”
Pizarro shrugged. ”I know nothing of those places. Or not very much. There is an island called Florida, yes? And stories of cities of gold, but I think they are only stories. I found the gold, in Peru. Enough to choke on, I found. Tell me this, am I in heaven now?”
”No.”
”Then this is h.e.l.l?”
”Not that, either. Where you are -- it's very difficult to explain, actually -- ”
”I am in America.”
”Yes. In America, yes.”
”And am I dead?”
There was silence for a moment.
”No, not dead,” the voice said uneasily.
”You are lying to me, I think.”
”How could we be speaking with each other, if you were dead?”
Pizarro laughed hoa.r.s.ely. ”Are you asking me? I understand nothing of what is happening to me in this place. Where are my priests? Where is my page? Send me my brother!” He glared. ”Well? Why don't you get them for me?”
”They aren't here. You're here all by yourself, Don Francisco.”
”In America. All by myself in your America. Show me your America, then. Is there such a place? Is America all clouds and whorls of light? Where is America? Let me see America. Prove to me that I am in America.”
There was another silence, longer than the last. Then the face disappeared and the wall of white cloud began to boil and churn more fiercely than before. Pizarro stared into the midst of it, feeling a mingled sense of curiosity and annoyance. The face did not reappear. He saw nothing at all. He was being toyed with. He was a prisoner in some strange place and they were treating him like a child, like a dog, like -- like an Indian. Perhaps this was the retribution for what he had done to King Atahuallpa, then, that fine n.o.ble foolish man who had given himself up to him in all innocence, and whom he had put to death so that he might have the gold of Atahuallpa's kingdom.
Well, so be it, Pizarro thought. Atahuallpa accepted all that befell him without complaint and without fear, and so will I. Christ will be my guardian, and if there is no Christ, well, then I will have no guardian, and so be it. So be it.
The voice out of the whirlwind said suddenly, ”Look, Don Francisco. This is America.”
A picture appeared on the wall of cloud. It was a kind of picture Pizarro had never before encountered or even imagined, one that seemed to open before him like a gate and sweep him in and carry him along through a vista of changing scenes depicted in brilliant, vivid bursts of color. It was like flying high above the land, looking down on an infinite scroll of miracles. He saw vast cities without walls, roadways that unrolled like endless skeins of white ribbon, huge lakes, mighty rivers, gigantic mountains, everything speeding past him so swiftly that he could scarcely absorb any of it. In moments it all became chaotic in his mind: the buildings taller than the highest cathedral spire, the swarming ma.s.ses of people, the s.h.i.+ning metal chariots without beasts to draw them, the stupendous landscapes, the close-packed complexity of it all. Watching all this, he felt the fine old hunger taking possession of him again: he wanted to grasp this strange vast place, and seize it, and clutch it close, and ransack it for all it was worth. But the thought of that was overwhelming. His eyes grew gla.s.sy and his heart began to pound so terrifyingly that he supposed he would be able to feel it thumping if he put his hand to the front of his armor. He turned away, muttering, ”Enough. Enough.”
The terrifying picture vanished. Gradually the clamor of his heart subsided.
Then he began to laugh.