Doctor Rat (11 page)

Streams of rats out here now, all freed from their cages, and crawling over everything. I mingle among them. In the dim night lights of the lab, no one will be able to recognize me. I move along, following the crowd.

They’re heading toward the Permanent Record Office. Everybody moving up to the Tattooing Mechanism, Scien. Implements, 1956, Pat. Pend. It has needle points on its tip and ordinarily the points are arranged so that they’ll form an identifying letter. But the rebels have pulled the pins out with their teeth and reinserted them to form their emblem—a circle with a cross in it, like the fine hairs of a telescope. It’s a powerful emblem, unquestionably, with its power to produce the intuitive field, bringing distant things near, in superfine colorchrome tuning. And now they’re tattooing all of the rats in the lab with the emblem.

This will wreck every experiment we’ve got! No one will know whose thymus is being destroyed or where the tumor victims are. The old marks are being obliterated by the cursed wheel. But I’ll submit myself to this tattooing, in order to move inconspicuously around the lab. I must look like all the rest of the rats. The time for being a Learned Mad Doctor is past. My medical training must give way to counterespionage, for which I need a new identity. So then, I’ll take the rebel emblem.

“Next.”

The rat ahead of me moves toward the record stand, where he’s questioned by an examiner.

“Cell block?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Nature of the experiments that were performed on you?”

“They produced hemorrhages in me by passing a needle through my skull, piercing my sinuses.”

“Lower your head, please.”

The rebels leap upon the coiled spring tattooer, stamping their emblem onto the rat’s ear.

“Next.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Nature of the experiments that were performed on you.”

“Oh, nothing much really. A little time in the maze. I liked the food. Really, the treatment has been splendid…”

The examiner eyes me closely.

“…except that they severed my testicles.”

“Lower your head, please.”

The needle points come down, and the rebel emblem pierces my ear. Instantly, I receive an intuitive signal. A perfectly round picture floats in front of my eyes, like a glittering soap bubble. And inside it is the rebel boat,
Triton II,
with all its communications people. How unfortunate that the BBC has joined this revolution!

“Blast!”

“The voice of Captain Black has rung out over the ship’s loudspeaker and we all can see it now—a school of sperm whales off the starboard bow.
Triton II
is wheeling toward them. Sir James picks up his baton and his orchestra is swarming over the deck, setting up their instruments. Our BBC soundmen see to the amplification devices that will be used to power Sir James’s symphony over the water; tremendous speakers are attached to the deck, providing as good a balance as can be expected on such an uncommon stage as the deck of
Triton II,
which is slowing down now, gently gliding toward the whales.

“As we come beside them the ship, by order, is quieted. The whales, in a group, sound, their great curving backs slipping down into the water.”

“Don’t worry, Sir James. They’ll blow again.”

“You heard Captain Black’s voice just then, over the ship’s loudspeaker. The oil slick the whales left behind them is still visible on the water, and
Triton II
closes in on it. The Festival Orchestra is in place, ready to begin Sir James’s
Homage to the Deep
—a work he has constructed from the basic musical elements found in the songs of the whales.

“There, you can see the whale herd now! Just beyond the bow! A greenish ghostly shape is coming toward the surface. Sir James has turned to the Festival Orchestra and is raising his baton.

“Homage to the Deep
begins, just as an enormous whale breaks the surface, blowing his vaporous fishy-smelling blast. The music pours out of the speakers, filling the ocean air. The water is calm, the whales are floating quietly, some twenty of them near the ship as Sir James conducts his titanic score. Cameramen are hanging like monkeys from the deck rails, trying to photograph the whales from every angle, as orchestral bells ring out over the water. The whales are holding close by, as if transfixed…”

This is the moment, and I have met the masters of the sea…slowly the flutes, don’t hurry it here…and so the joy!

Drum, orchestral drum-song, drum to the titans who eye me from below, who hear our creation, who know that we have understood them. Low, sinister wind-song, sing to the titans of dark majesty. We too have come from the depths of this mother, this sea. They hear me, they hear and lie quietly on the waves, amazed, and we plunge ecstatic into the second movement, our long shimmering dive, the double bass diving low, down, down, down. The treasure lies gleaming in the darkness, the bright shining pearl, enormous, reflecting the face of a whale.

Now we move with you, titans, through the unspeakable depths of Oceanus, whose darkness holds sway, where the sudden lights of the shining fish light up your eternal night. What stars are these that shine upon the bottom of the sea!

I have my triumph and I am old and my victory is dissolution in the greater masters, in their song which so far exceeds my own. But listen, whale-singers, you’ll hear yourself in this winding of the cello through the undersea cavern, where the many-armed squid eyes the heaped jewels of mystery, the treasure that no man shall claim. Now, ring bells, ring in the depths, ring softly and low, calling to the dead, as our second movement seeks transition.

This bright dawn, this shining sea, the cameras, the rolling deck, the dream, the pages of my symphony touched by the playful wind, as we continue through the deep, traveling the bottom, the sand-scuttling hermit of the reef, low with the lowing of the tuba, fulfilling us, low, with the passage of the giant ones, low across the bottom, bellowing low into the caverns, calling low across the strange chamber of the fault, the great deep fault of the very bottom, in which astonishing monsters swim and grin with luminous teeth. What wonder!

The second movement must breathe now, must end its long, low, and airless dive, must climb, climb up through the gloom, climb up from the uttermost darkness, climb through the streaming, the violins truly inspired today, you’ve given me all, given all, as we rise, you all have given me, as we rise, you are the festival rising, rising toward the sun-pearl which shines upon the surface of the sea.

Drums, roll, thunder drums of the reefs and treacherous lagoons, drum as we break the surface, we are the whales! We surface in thunder, and you haven’t lived until you’ve lived upon the surface of the sea, rolling in her waves, in the warm stream, floating as the gods float, fearless and doomed and wild and wise, with the sun upon you, here is our music showered upon you, titans, as you lie magnificent by our ship of peace. We hear and return your song. Wonder of wonders, my life is fulfilled, I am you!

Sea God!

Ring, bells, wildly, joyfully, endlessly, ring, ring, ring!

Ring song, carry to the far horizon, where the white clouds sail slowly toward the isles of unending peace. Oceanus, eternal, supreme!

Sea-horns blow and sea-bells ring. Listen: The weaving sea-maids weave the harmonies which are love, forgetfulness, and the newborn sun. This weaving which I have learned from you, white sea-cows, I weave back to you, in the final movement.

A thousand interruptions, a thousand obstacles have been cleared away, that we might sing to you today, that we might weave around you as you play beside our peace-ship. Play and fear not, the sun-ship will not desert you, will not betray you. We have heard your maidens weaving at the break of day, as the new sun returned, breaking suddenly over the waves of morning, appearing suddenly.

How the sea-horns sound! Whales, we have seen the shining hour as the sea-horns sound! Celebration! Homage to you! Homage to the deep!

Thus the new day dawns. The young whales play beside their mothers. The sea god scatters his elusive jewels, sails on, sails on, and we dive amongst the jewels, rich beyond dreams.

Softly now, sea-bells, as we approach the silence of the day.

Whale blubber!

It burns my ass to see a valuable scientific expedition turned into a rebel propaganda piece.

And speaking of burning, the rebels have ignited the Aeroil Torch and stood it up in the center of the lab, where they’re circling round it, tails entwined. I suppose they look upon the upright flame as some sort of sacred symbol. It’s a very primitive display, I must say, all this whirling and turning. But it’s my duty to subject myself to it, in order to keep in touch with the revolutionary design.

Very well then, against my better scientific judgment, I immerse myself in the barbarous dance, entwining my tail with the others. And round we go together in the light of the flame, our paws lifted, our noses in the air. Our tails are all twisted from the center on out. And twisting together we go turning about, making the rebel wheel. My consciousness is being lowered, and repetitive rhyme patterns are starting to emerge. I’ve got to fight them off, I’m on the verge…

The rats in the Central Exercise Drum are beating their tails, keeping an intoxicating rhythm. Round and round we whirl, going faster, making the wheel. How strange I feel. I could be one of them, easily, if I let myself go. But I must hold on! Doctor Rat knows what’s real!

Ah, but the wheel, the wheel! Here comes the rebel picture, of the crew on the
Triton II,
having a meal. And Jonathan Downing, that slippery eel, conducting an interview with his usual zeal. Downing, you fucker, crawl back in your creel!

“Captain Black, have you ever seen whales remain beside a ship the way they did this afternoon during the concert?”

“No, Mr. Downing, I have not. In the old whaling days the harpoonist used to spear the calf first, because he knew the mother would never leave her little one. That way they had a clear shot at her—but no, I’ve never seen whales remain that close to a ship for that long under any circumstances.”

“Thank you, Captain. We’re moving through the ship’s lounge now, where the members of the Festival Orchestra are quietly celebrating the musical triumph they had today on the sea. Here is Dimitri Rakoczi, the first violinist. Mr. Rakoczi, what are you and Sir James aiming for now that your first whale-concert has succeeded so remarkably?”

“We must perform regular concerts, following the whales as they migrate. Stay with them and play them all the music of the world. We believe it’s the only human accomplishment that could be of any possible interest to them. Only the complexities of our musical forms could show them that we are not altogether barbarous.”

“I don’t see Sir James among the celebrants in the lounge tonight…”

“He is an old man, Mr. Downing. He retires early.”

“But what vigor he shows in conducting! He seems like a young man then.”

“During work hours he can exhaust any of us.”

“You all seem in such close rapport with him…”

“We have experienced the same fascination—our flautist, for example, spent three months serenading a captive whale.”

“…Jonathan, could we have you on deck for a moment? We’ve picked up something on the underwater microphones…”

“…moving now with our audio engineer to the little sound studio constructed on deck, beneath waterproof hatches. The sea is still calm, with a brilliant moon upon it…”

“The whales are singing—try the headphones.”

“…more volume, please…yes, that’s it… I think we should call Mr. Rakoczi…”

“…try that on-deck speaker…”

“Here, Mr. Rakoczi, over here, please…the whales are…take the headphones, sir… Jim, can we get some lights out here and a cover camera… Dimitri Rakoczi is listening now…and now he’s removing the headphones…”

“I must get Sir James.”

“The whales are singing, are they not, Mr. Rakoczi?”

“They’re singing
Homage to the Deep.”

“…Mr. Rakoczi hurrying away toward Sir James’s cabin…the deck speakers have been switched on and the whales can be heard quite clearly… We’re taping this, aren’t we, Jim?… Other members of the orchestra coming on deck, drawn by the singing…here is the third mate. Mr. Cox…”

“Sonar says we’re goin’ to have a blast any moment, to starboard.”

“…our cameras swinging to starboard…there where the moon is…their backs glistening, their spouts blowing, the whales are surfacing…and…”

“All hands on deck, please…all hands…”

“The deck of our ship is vibrating with the sounds of the whales! They’re singing the loudest, most incredible—Mr. Cox, what do you make of this?”

“The hair is standin’ up on me neck, sir, and I believe I ain’t the only—”

“…Jon, can we get a lifeboat lowered down there?… Gary wants to get some footage at sea level…”

“Mr. Cox, can you arrange…”

“Follow me, sir.”

“Our camera crew heading toward the lifeboats…the deck is crowded now…like an altar in the moonlight, on which a hundred men and women stand, their cigar and cigarette lights barely moving, so still, so rapt are they in the whales’ song…”

Intoxicating wheel of whirling rats, I’d rather face a dozen cats, let me out I’m going bats…

Phew…slipping away from the King Rat wheel. You are, I’m quite certain, familiar with the phenomenon of the King Rat wheel. Through the centuries men have found such formations—a gang of rats in a field, their tails all entwined.

Yes, it’s a rare old ecstatic dance, and it is my belief that such historical formations were the rudimentary beginnings of revolutionary activity. Often the rats get so excited their tails become hopelessly entangled. But tonight the rebel lieutenants are squirting oil on the tails, to avoid any knotting. Jumping on the oil can, giving a squirt…

I’d better not fool around with these intuitive wheels anymore. They’re too primitive a force and tend to aggravate my unscientific tendency for writing songs. Let me just slip away here, past the—