Doctor Rat Page 9

  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 t
ails 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—

  “Say, aren’t you the famous Doctor Rat?”

  A voice from the shadows. I move aside, but the voice follows me.

  “Aren’t you—”

  “No, I don’t know the individual.”

  “You sure resemble him.”

  “An unfortunate genetic experiment. If you will please get out of the way, I’m going to the Central Exercise Drum, for the rebel meeting.”

  I mustn’t draw suspicion to myself. I can’t afford to fall into rebel hands again. Goodness, the old drum is really rolling tonight. The crowds are lined up. Even the arthritic and paraplegic rats are crawling into it.

  “Identity check, please.”

  I lower my head and show the rebel emblem tattooed on my ear.

  “Step through the main door and keep to the right.”

  Yes, I’m just one of the many rats taking some time on the wheel. Me, a Learned Mad Doctor? Never. I’ve never done any experimenting. I just clean the toilets here.

  “Come on, keep it moving!”

  I’ll take a few quick rounds and slip out quietly…hopping onto the wire…wow, they’ve got it going fast. I’ve got to run like the dickens to keep from falling…wheel is humming, buzzing, cyclometer clicking out the tempo…what a floor show, rebel generalissimo, oh no say it isn’t so, I left my gland in San Francisco, once again here I go, writing songs in the undertow, Doctor Rat incognito, wearing false mustachio, what an impresario, drum shaking like a volcano, whoa you fucker, I said whoa, can’t stop it, it’s got to flow, rebel plot to overthrow, take this part pianissimo, not so fast, please, adagio, sonofabitch what vertigo, image rising from down below, intuitive signal bright rainbow, whale thinks he’s Fats Domino, if only I had a torpedo…

  I hear you, sea-maids, hear you clearly now, as I swim toward you in the night. You weave my destiny with your song, weave that haunting motif… How do you weave that part, that’s the part I can’t yet understand. When I reach their isle, then I shall know. Swim, Jeffries, swim for all you’re worth, you mustn’t lose them now, now that you’re so near.

  Swimming in the night. Roll over on your back, you’re swimming well. Faint lights of the maiden’s eyes, there upon the reef…

  Who is this beside me? Who swims with me here? Dimitri, is that you?

  “…James… James, wake up…”

  “Yes? Dimitri?”

  “The whales are singing, James. Come quickly…”

  “You don’t see my shoes…no, the hell with them…”

  The whales are singing. Am I still dreaming? No, Dimitri has taken my arm, we’re certainly not dreaming. Or if we are then all of life’s a dream. Stepping out into the sea air…no, it’s not a dream—there they are!

  My god, what voices, what—but this can’t be! They’re singing the second movement! “Dimitri…”

  “Yes, James, it is the same.”

  The same, the same! Lord, I have doubted and now… That’s the bull singing the bass line. Completely aware, they’re completely conscious. As I thought, they are the masters. How do they resolve this passage…there…the sea-maids, the sea-maids. But of course they have the mind for it, of course, why have I ever doubted. What a voice! With what ease he takes that line. All of this is nothing to them, they know what they are, and we have been their executioners.

  Yes, Dimitri, yes my friend, we are the fountain of tears now, now that we know who it is we have slain. We crucified the master singers and they have risen before our eyes, risen from the blank dead oblivion to which we consigned them with our great stupidity. Now we weep as they float before us and sing of their strange joys, their great delight, their deep sorrow.

  So I see the whole of it, they have implanted it in my brain, in my dreams, the code between our races. Music shall save us, will save the planet if anything can, music of such hypnotic power that men will drop their weapons and stare into the sea, into the sky, into the wooded hills. You have shattered me, lord of the sea, lord of storms, you have shattered and baptized me with your song. I shall follow you…serve you…here is the finale…

  How they embellish it, how they’ve made it grow, taking it far beyond us. What weaving, what a spell they weave to lure us on, to make us dream…

  Ring, sea-bells, ring!

  Now dive, dive! I have lived to hear this.

  “It’s bright midmorning, with a gentle sea wind. Off the port bow the whales are sunning themselves and staying close by us. The Festival Orchestra has gathered at the railing and our floating sound stage has once again been set up. The musicians have completed their tuning up, and now, following the lead of Sir James, the first notes of Oceanus ring out over the water…”

  “Sir James, we have radio contact with the British whaling ship Discovery. They’ve requested room for a shoot.”

  “Captain Black, you can tell them to go to hell!”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  “The orchestra has broken off its playing. In the distance perhaps you can hear the droning of a twin-screw engine, and now upon the horizon we can see her approaching. The orchestra crowds the railing, and as the whaling ship comes nearer, the horizon produces another dot, which our boatswain has now identified as the factory ship that follows the catcher ship.”

  “She’s got everything in her. Blubber boilers, oil separators, liver plant, bone saw, meat packers…”

  “Dive! Dive!”

  “Dimitri Rakoczi has leaned over the rail and is shouting at the whales, but they…”

  “Their eyesight’s poor. That’s how they get caught. They don’t see the catcher ship until it’s too late.”

  “Sir James has moved back to the bow and is lifting his baton…the members of the orchestra are hurriedly returning to their places…”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you will, please, Distress and Flight.”

  “The violins scream across the water, followed by horribly shrieking cellos. Distress and Flight is the panic song the whales use to signal danger. And indeed the first notes have sent them diving in a frightened turbulence of water. You can hear the sound of their blowholes taking in a tremendous quantity of air, and down they plunge…down…one after another…”

  “They’re leaving fast…we’ve got them on sonar…they’re going away…go on, go on…”

  Oh Jesus, woe is me, caught in a mad symphony, wheel is turning, I’ve got to flee, leaving the rebel company…out the door now, one—two—three!

  Free. Paws on the old terra firma. Run, Doc, run away from here before you get sucked in again!

  Running along, running away from my insane song, down this alley, quick through here, nobody coming the way is clear…

  Orange orange orange orange. No rhymes. Cannot be rhymed. In under this cage rack. Pull myself together before I have another attack. Possibilities for sound similarities endless. Infinite combinations. Waste my scientific career. It’s happened before, I refer you to the literature. Scientists who include in the middle of their tomes insane little ditties. Common malady. Pure scientific objectivity compensated for by childish subjectivity. Mannlicher, the cat specialist, drove cats insane, only to become insane himself, carried away reciting an endless ditty about autonomic response. In perfect hexameter.

  The profession is fraught with danger.

  But what could be more dangerous than outright anarchy among the basic models! The whole lab is reverberating with the sound of rebel music. They’re hooked in with every laboratory in
the country, stirring mass discontent.

  Carefully I peek my nose out from under the rack. Well, there’s a vulgar display.

  The rebels have seized the bacteria-destroying lamp and are spotlighting the center of the operating table. A showy bunch. Campaigning. Trying to send their own signal out over the Intuitive Broadcasting Network. Sympathy pictures. Different rats posing with their paws and tails cut off, and their eyeballs gone. There’s one without any ears. I know the experiment. It was essential for national security.

  The ultraviolet bulb highlights the various deformities and transmits them to millions of viewers across the intuitive world. Laboratories everywhere are receiving the message:

  “What was the nature of the experiment performed on you by these so-called doctors?”

  “They sewed my mother’s adrenal gland to my ovary.”

  “Were you told why this was done to you?”

  “No explanation was given.”

  Why, that’s untrue! I described the experiment clearly in my Newsletter, if you’d taken the time to investigate. There was no cover-up attempted. You’ll find the volume on the library bookshelf. Go and see for yourself. I had to eat a few pages here and there, but there’s very little missing, I assure you.

  “Nature of the experiment performed on you?”

  “Excuse me, this witness is my son. He can’t speak for himself. They destroyed his mind in the maze.”

  “Were you told why this was done?”

  “The Newsletter said it was for a better insight into the social relationships of human beings.”

  That is correct. My Newsletter makes this clear. We have gained tremendous insights, especially through the use of the Adams Leaping Platform. Professor Adams has watched countless rats leap from the platform to a small tower. The results have significance for years to come. We stand in perilous times, my friends. Such experiments as these will bear fruit throughout the land and around the world.