Part 6 (1/2)

For I have hooked the Leviathan.

I am the wild a.s.s's colt born to a man.

Lo, my eye has seen it all!

My bosom is like wine that has no vent.

I am a sea with doors, but the doors are stuck.

Watch out! The skin will burst; the doors will break.

”You are Nimrod, I say to my friend, Chib.

And now is the hour when G.o.d says to his angels, If this is what he can do as a beginning, then Nothing is impossible for him.

He will be blowing his horn before The ramparts of Heaven and shouting for The Moon as hostage, the Virgin as wife, And demanding a cut on the profits From the Great Wh.o.r.e of Babylon.”

”Stop that son of a b.i.t.c.h!” the Festival Director shouts. ”He'll cause a riot like he did last year!”

The bolgani begin to move in. Chib watches Luscus, who is talking to the fido man. Chib can't hear Luscus, but he's sure Luscus is not saying complimentary things about him.

”Melville wrote of me long before I was born.

I'm the man who wants to comprehend The Universe but comprehend on my terms.

I am Ahab whose hate must pierce, shatter, All impediment of Time, s.p.a.ce, or Subject Mortality and hurl my fierce Incandescence into the Womb of Creation, Disturbing in its Lair whatever Force or Unknown Thing-in-Itself crouches there, Remote, removed, unrevealed.”

The Director gestures at the police to remove Runic. Ruskinson is still shouting, although the cameras are pointing at Runic or Luscus. One of the Young Radishes, Huga Wells-Erb Heinsturbury, the science-fiction auth.o.r.ess, is shaking with hysteria generated by Runic's voice and with a l.u.s.t for revenge. She is sneaking up on a _Time_ fido man. _Time_ has long ago ceased to be a magazine, since there are no magazines, but became a government-supported communications bureau. _Time_ is an example of Uncle Sam's left-hand, right-hand, hands-off policy of providing communications bureaus with all they need and at the same time permitting the bureau executives to determine the bureau policies. Thus, government provision and free speech are united. This is fine, in theory, anyway.

_Time_ has preserved several of its original policies, that is, truth and objectivity must be sacrificed for the sake of a witticism and science-fiction must be put down. Time has sneered at every one of Heinsturbury's works, and so she is out to get some personal satisfaction for the hurt caused by the unfair reviews.

”_Quid nunc? Cui bono_?

Time? s.p.a.ce? Substance? Accident?

When you die -- h.e.l.l? Nirvana?

Nothing is nothing to think about.

The canons of philosophy boom.

Their projectiles are duds.

The ammo heaps of theology blow up, Set off by the saboteur Reason.

”Call me Ephraim, for I was halted At the Ford of G.o.d and could not tongue The sibilance to let me pa.s.s.

Well, I can't p.r.o.nounce s.h.i.+bboleth, But I can say s.h.i.+t!”

Huga Wells-Erb Heinsturbury kicks the _Time_ fido man in the b.a.l.l.s. He throws up his hands, and the football-shaped, football-sized camera sails from his hands and strikes a youth on the head. The youth is a Young Radish, Ludwig Euterpe Mahlzart. He is smoldering with rage because of the d.a.m.nation of his tone poem, _Jetting The Stuff Of Future h.e.l.ls_, and the camera is the extra fuel needed to make him blaze up uncontrollably. He punches the chief musical critic in his fat belly.

Huga, not the _Time_ man, is screaming with pain. Her bare toes have struck the hard plastic armor with which the _Time_ man, recipient of many such a kick, protects his genitals. Huga hops around on one foot while holding the injured foot in her hands. She twirls into a girl, and there is a chain effect. A man falls against the _Time_ man, who is stooping over to pick up his camera.

”Ahaaa!” Huga screams and tears off the _Time_ man's helmet and straddles him and beats him over the head with the optical end of the camera. Since the solid-state camera is still working, it is sending to billions of viewers some very intriguing, if dizzying, pictures. Blood obscures one side of the picture, but not so much that the viewers are wholly cheated. And then they get another novel shot as the camera flies into the air again, turning over and over.

A bolgan has shoved his shock-stick against her back, causing her to stiffen and propel the camera in a high arc behind her. Huga's current lover grapples with the bolgan; they roll on the floor; a Westwood juvenile picks up the shock-stick and has a fine time goosing the adults around him until a local youth jumps him.

”Riots are the opium of the people,” the police chief groans. He calls in all units and puts in a call to the chief of police of West-wood, who is, however, having his own troubles.

Runic beats his breast and howls

”Sir, I exist! And don't tell me, As you did Crane, that that creates No obligation in you towards me.

I am a man; I am unique.

I've thrown the Bread out the window, p.i.s.sed in the Wine, pulled the plug From the bottom of the Ark, cut the Tree For firewood, and if there were a Holy Ghost, I'd goose him.

But I know that it all does not mean A G.o.d d.a.m.ned thing, That nothing means nothing, That is is is and not-is not is is-not That a rose is a rose is a That we are here and will not be And that is all we can know!”

Ruskinson sees Chib coming towards him, squawks, and tries to escape. Chib seizes the canvas of _Dogmas from a Dog_ and batters Ruskinson over the head with it. Luscus protests in horror, not because of the damage done to Ruskinson but because the painting might be damaged. Chib turns around and batters Luscus in the stomach with the oval's edge.

”The earth lurches like a s.h.i.+p going down, Its back almost broken by the flood of Excrement from the heavens and the deeps, What G.o.d in His terrible munificence Has granted on hearing Ahab cry, Bulls.h.i.+t! Bulls.h.i.+t!

”I weep to think that this is Man And this his end. But wait!