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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
AFTER TAKEOFF the ship routinely monitored the condition of the sixty people sleeping in its cryonic tanks. One malfunction1 showed, that of person nine. His EEG revealed brain activity.
Shit, the ship said to itself.
Complex homeostatic devices locked into circuit feed, and the ship contacted person nine.
"You are slightly awake," the ship said, utilizing2 the psychotronic route; there was no point in rousing person nine to full consciousness—after all, the flight would last a decade.
Virtually unconscious, but unfortunately still able to think, person nine thought, Someone is addressing me. He said, "Where am I located? I don't see anything."
"You're in faulty cryonic suspension."
He said, "Then I shouldn't be able to hear you."
"'Faulty,' I said. That's the point; you can hear me. Do you know your name?"
"Victor Kemmings. Bring me out of this."
"We are in flight."
"Then put me under."
"Just a moment." The ship examined the cryonic mechanisms4; it scanned and surveyed and then it said, "I will try."
Time passed. Victor Kemmings, unable to see anything, unaware5 of his body, found himself still conscious. "Lower my temperature," he said. He could not hear his voice; perhaps he only imagined he spoke6. Colors floated toward him and then rushed at him. He liked the colors; they reminded him of a child's paint box, the semianimated kind, an artificial life-form. He had used them in school, two hundred years ago.
"I can't put you under," the voice of the ship sounded inside Kemmings' head. "The malfunction is too elaborate; I can't correct it and I can't repair it. You will be conscious for ten years."
The semianimated colors rushed toward him, but now they possessed7 a sinister8 quality, supplied to them by his own fear. "Oh my God," he said. Ten years! The colors darkened.
As Victor Kemmings lay paralyzed, surrounded by dismal9 flickerings of light, the ship explained to him its strategy. This strategy did not represent a decision on its part; the ship had been programmed to seek this solution in case of a malfunction of this sort.
"What I will do," the voice of the ship came to him, "is feed you sensory10 stimulation11. The peril12 to you is sensory deprivation13. If you are conscious for ten years without sensory data, your mind will deteriorate14. When we reach the LR4 System, you will be a vegetable."
"Well, what do you intend to feed me?" Kemmings said in panic. "What do you have in your information storage banks? All the video soap operas of the last century? Wake me up and I'll walk around."
"There is no air in me," the ship said. "Nothing for you to eat. No one to talk to, since everyone else is under."
Kemmings said, "I can talk to you. We can play chess."
"Not for ten years. Listen to me; I say, I have no food and no air. You must remain as you are … a bad compromise, but one forced on us. You are talking to me now. I have no particular information stored. Here is policy in these situations: I will feed you your own buried memories, emphasizing the pleasant ones. You possess two hundred and six years of memories and most of them have sunk down into your unconscious. This is a splendid source of sensory data for you to receive. Be of good cheer. This situation, which you are in, is not unique. It has never happened within my domain15 before, but I am programmed to deal with it. Relax and trust me. I will see that you are provided with a world."
"They should have warned me," Kemmings said, "before I agreed to emigrate."
"Relax," the ship said.
He relaxed, but he was terribly frightened. Theoretically, he should have gone under, into the successful cryonic suspension, then awakened16 a moment later at his star of destination; or rather the planet, the colony planet, of that star. Everyone else aboard the ship lay in an unknowing state—he was the exception, as if bad karma had attacked him for obscure reasons. Worst of all, he had to depend totally on the goodwill18 of the ship. Suppose it elected to feed him monsters? The ship could terrorize him for ten years—ten objective years and undoubtedly19 more from a subjective20 standpoint. He was, in effect, totally in the ship's power. Did interstellar ships enjoy such a situation? He knew little about interstellar ships; his field was microbiology. Let me think, he said to himself. My first wife, Martine; the lovely little French girl who wore jeans and a red shirt open at the waist and cooked delicious crepes.
"I hear," the ship said. "So be it."
The rushing colors resolved themselves into coherent, stable shapes. A building: a little old yellow wooden house that he had owned when he was nineteen years old, in Wyoming. "Wait," he said in panic. "The foundation was bad; it was on a mud sill. And the roof leaked." But he saw the kitchen, with the table that he had built himself. And he felt glad.
"You will not know, after a little while," the ship said, "that I am feeding you your own buried memories."
"I haven't thought of that house in a century," he said wonderingly; entranced, he made out his old electric drip coffee pot with the box of paper filters beside it. This is the house where Martine and I lived, he realized. "Martine!" he said aloud.
"I'm on the phone," Martine said from the living room.
The ship said, "I will cut in only when there is an emergency. I will be monitoring you, however, to be sure you are in a satisfactory state. Don't be afraid."
"Turn down the rear right burner on the stove," Martine called. He could hear her and yet not see her. He made his way from the kitchen through the dining room and into the living room. At the VF, Martine stood in rapt conversation with her brother; she wore shorts and she was barefoot. Through the front windows of the living room he could see the street; a commercial vehicle was trying to park, without success.
It's a warm day, he thought. I should turn on the air conditioner.
He seated himself on the old sofa as Martine continued her VF conversation, and he found himself gazing at his most cherished possession, a framed poster on the wall above Martine: Gilbert Shelton's "Fat Freddy Says" drawing in which Freddy Freak sits with his cat on his lap, and Fat Freddy is trying to say "Speed kills," but he is so wired on speed—he holds in his hand every kind of amphetamine tablet, pill, spansule, and capsule that exists—that he can't say it, and the cat is gritting21 his teeth and wincing22 in a mixture of dismay and disgust. The poster is signed by Gilbert Shelton himself; Kemmings' best friend Ray Torrance gave it to him and Martine as a wedding present. It is worth thousands. It was signed by the artist back in the 1980s. Long before either Victor Kemmings or Martine lived.
If we ever run out of money, Kemmings thought to himself, we could sell the poster. It was not a poster; it was the poster. Martine adored it. The Fabulous23 Furry24 Freak Brothers—from the golden age of a long-ago society. No wonder he loved Martine so; she herself loved back, loved the beauties of the world, and treasured and cherished them as she treasured and cherished him; it was a protective love that nourished but did not stifle25. It had been her idea to frame the poster; he would have tacked17 it up on the wall, so stupid was he.
"Hi," Martine said, off the VF now. "What are you thinking?"
"Just that you keep alive what you love," he said.
"I think that's what you're supposed to do," Martine said. "Are you ready for dinner? Open some red wine, a cabernet."
"Will an '07 do?" he said, standing26 up; he felt, then, like taking hold of his wife and hugging her.
Going down into the cellar, he began to search among the bottles, which, of course, lay flat. Musty air and dampness; he liked the smell of the cellar, but then he noticed the redwood planks28 lying half-buried in the dirt and he thought, I know I've got to get a concrete slab29 poured. He forgot about the wine and went over to the far corner, where the dirt was piled highest; bending down, he poked30 at a board … he poked with a trowel and then he thought, Where did I get this trowel? I didn't have it a minute ago. The board crumbled31 against the trowel. This whole house is collapsing32, he realized. Christ sake. I better tell Martine.
Going back upstairs, the wine forgotten, he started to say to her that the foundations of the house were dangerously decayed, but Martine was nowhere in sight. And nothing cooked on the stove—no pots, no pans. Amazed, he put his hands on the stove and found it cold. Wasn't she just cooking? he asked himself.
"Martine!" he said loudly.
No response. Except for himself, the house was empty. Empty, he thought, and collapsing. Oh my God. He seated himself at the kitchen table and felt the chair give slightly under him; it did not give much, but he felt it; he felt the sagging33.
I'm afraid, he thought. Where did she go?
He returned to the living room. Maybe she went next door to borrow some spices or butter or something, he reasoned. Nonetheless, panic now filled him.
He looked at the poster. It was unframed. And the edges had been torn.
I know she framed it, he thought; he ran across the room to it, to examine it closely. Faded … the artist's signature had faded; he could scarcely make it out. She insisted on framing it and under glare-free, reflection-free glass. But it isn't framed and it's torn! The most precious thing we own!
Suddenly he found himself crying. It amazed him, his tears. Martine is gone; the poster is deteriorated34; the house is crumbling35 away; nothing is cooking on the stove. This is terrible, he thought. And I don't understand it.
The ship understood it. The ship had been carefully monitoring Victor Kemmings' brain wave patterns, and the ship knew that something had gone wrong. The wave-forms showed agitation36 and pain. I must get him out of this feed-circuit or I will kill him, the ship decided37. Where does the flaw lie? it asked itself. Worry dormant38 in the man; underlying39 anxieties. Perhaps if I intensify40 the signal. I will use the same source, but amp up the charge. What has happened is that massive subliminal41 insecurities have taken possession of him; the fault is not mine, but lies, instead, in his psychological makeup42.
I will try an earlier period in his life, the ship decided. Before the neurotic43 anxieties got laid down.
In the backyard, Victor scrutinized44 a bee that had gotten itself trapped in a spider's web. The spider wound up the bee with great care. That's wrong, Victor thought. I'll let the bee loose. Reaching up, he took hold of the encapsulated bee, drew it from the web, and, scrutinizing45 it carefully, began to unwrap it.
The bee stung him; it felt like a little patch of flame.
Why did it sting me? he wondered. I was letting it go.
He went indoors to his mother and told her, but she did not listen; she was watching television. His finger hurt where the bee had stung it, but, more important, he did not understand why the bee would attack its rescuer. I won't do that again, he said to himself.
"Put some Bactine on it," his mother said at last, roused from watching the TV.
He had begun to cry. It was unfair. It made no sense. He was perplexed46 and dismayed and he felt a hatred47 toward small living things, because they were dumb. They didn't have any sense.
He left the house, played for a time on his swings, his slide, in his sandbox, and then he went into the garage because he heard a strange flapping, whirring sound, like a kind of fan. Inside the gloomy garage, he found that a bird was fluttering against the cobwebbed rear window, trying to get out. Below it, the cat, Dorky, leaped and leaped, trying to reach the bird.
He picked up the cat; the cat extended its body and its front legs; it extended its jaws48 and bit into the bird. At once the cat scrambled49 down and ran off with the still-fluttering bird.
Victor ran into the house. "Dorky caught a bird!" he told his mother.
"That goddam cat." His mother took the broom from the closet in the kitchen and ran outside, trying to find Dorky. The cat had concealed50 itself under the bramble bushes; she could not reach it with the broom. "I'm going to get rid of that cat," his mother said.
Victor did not tell her that he had arranged for the cat to catch the bird; he watched in silence as his mother tried and tried to pry51 Dorky out from her hiding place; Dorky was crunching52 up the bird; he could hear the sound of breaking bones, small bones. He felt a strange feeling, as if he should tell his mother what he had done, and yet if he told her she would punish him. I won't do that again, he said to himself. His face, he realized, had turned red. What if his mother figured it out? What if she had some secret way of knowing? Dorky couldn't tell her and the bird was dead. No one would ever know. He was safe.
But he felt bad. That night he could not eat his dinner. Both his parents noticed. They thought he was sick; they took his temperature. He said nothing about what he had done. His mother told his father about Dorky and they decided to get rid of Dorky. Seated at the table, listening, Victor began to cry.
"All right," his father said gently. "We won't get rid of her. It's natural for a cat to catch a bird."
The next day he sat playing in his sandbox. Some plants grew up through the sand. He broke them off. Later his mother told him that had been a wrong thing to do.
Alone in the backyard, in his sandbox, he sat with a pail of water, forming a small mound53 of wet sand. The sky, which had been blue and clear, became by degrees overcast54. A shadow passed over him and he looked up. He sensed a presence around him, something vast that could think.
You are responsible for the death of the bird, the presence thought; he could understand its thoughts.
"I know," he said. He wished, then, that he could die. That he could replace the bird and die for it, leaving it as it had been, fluttering against the cobwebbed window of the garage.
The bird wanted to fly and eat and live, the presence thought.
"You must never do that again," the presence told him.
"I'm sorry," he said, and wept.
This is a very neurotic person, the ship realized. I am having an awful lot of trouble finding happy memories. There is too much fear in him and too much guilt56. He has buried it all, and yet it is still there, worrying him like a dog worrying a rag. Where can I go in his memories to find him solace57? I must come up with ten years of memories, or his mind will be lost.
Perhaps, the ship thought, the error that I am making is in the area of choice on my part; I should allow him to select his own memories. However, the ship realized, this will allow an element of fantasy to enter. And that is not usually good. Still—
I will try the segment dealing58 with his first marriage once again, the ship decided. He really loved Marline. Perhaps this time if I keep the intensity59 of the memories at a greater level the entropic factor can be abolished. What happened was a subtle vitiation of the remembered world, a decay of structure. I will try to compensate60 for that. So be it.
"Do you suppose Gilbert Shelton really signed this?" Martine said pensively61; she stood before the poster, her arms folded; she rocked back and forth62 slightly, as if seeking a better perspective on the brightly colored drawing hanging on their living room wall. "I mean, it could have been forged. By a dealer63 somewhere along the line. During Shelton's lifetime or after."
"The letter of authentication," Victor Kemmings reminded her.
"Oh, that's right!" She smiled her warm smile. "Ray gave us the letter that goes with it. But suppose the letter is a forgery65? What we need is another letter certifying66 that the first letter is authentic64." Laughing, she walked away from the poster.
"Ultimately," Kemmings said, "we would have to have Gilbert Shelton here to personally testify that he signed it."
"Maybe he wouldn't know. There's that story about the man bringing the Picasso picture to Picasso and asking him if it was authentic, and Picasso immediately signed it and said, 'Now it's authentic.'" She put her arm around Kemmings and, standing on tiptoe, kissed him on the cheek. "It's genuine. Ray wouldn't have given us a forgery. He's the leading expert on counterculture art of the twentieth century. Do you know that he owns an actual lid of dope? It's preserved under—"
"Ray is dead," Victor said.
"What?" She gazed at him in astonishment67. "Do you mean something happened to him since we last—"
"He's been dead two years," Kemmings said. "I was responsible. I was driving the buzzcar. I wasn't cited by the police, but it was my fault."
"Ray is living on Mars!" She stared at him.
"I know I was responsible. I never told you. I never told anyone. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it. I saw it flapping against the window, and Dorky was trying to reach it, and I lifted Dorky up, and I don't know why but Dorky grabbed it—"
"Sit down, Victor." Martine led him to the overstuffed chair and made him seat himself. "Something's wrong," she said.
"I know," he said. "Something terrible is wrong. I'm responsible for the taking of a life, a precious life that can never be replaced. I'm sorry. I wish I could make it okay, but I can't."
After a pause, Martine said, "Call Ray."
"The cat—" he said.
"What cat?"
Silence.
"The presence told me," Kemmings said. "It was God. I didn't realize it at the time, but God saw me commit the crime. The murder. And he will never forgive me."
"God sees everything you do," Kemmings said. "He sees even the falling sparrow. Only in this case it didn't fall; it was grabbed. Grabbed out of the air and torn down. God is tearing this house down which is my body, to pay me back for what I've done. We should have had a building contractor70 look this house over before we bought it. It's just falling goddam to pieces. In a year there won't be anything left of it. Don't you believe me?"
"Watch." Kemmings reached up his arms toward the ceiling; he stood; he reached; he could not touch the ceiling. He walked to the wall and then, after a pause, put his hand through the wall.
Marline screamed.
He has integrated his early fears and guilts into one interwoven grid73, the ship said to itself. There is no way I can serve up a pleasant memory to him because he instantly contaminates it. However pleasant the original experience in itself was. This is a serious situation, the ship decided. The man is already showing signs of psychosis. And we are hardly into the trip; years lie ahead of him.
After allowing itself time to think the situation through, the ship decided to contact Victor Kemmings once more.
"Mr. Kemmings," the ship said.
"I'm sorry," Kemmings said. "I didn't mean to foul74 up those retrievals. You did a good job, but I—"
"Just a moment," the ship said. "I'm not equipped to do psychiatric reconstruction75 of you; I am a simple mechanism3, that's all. What is it you want? Where do you want to be and what do you want to be doing?"
"I want to arrive at our destination," Kemmings said. "I want this trip to be over."
Ah, the ship thought. That is the solution.
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1
malfunction
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| vi.发生功能故障，发生故障，显示机能失常 | |
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utilizing
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的现在分词 ) | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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mechanisms
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| n.机械( mechanism的名词复数 )；机械装置；[生物学] 机制；机械作用 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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sensory
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| adj.知觉的，感觉的，知觉器官的 | |
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stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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deteriorate
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| v.变坏；恶化；退化 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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17
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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gritting
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的现在分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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31
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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40
intensify
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| vt.加强；变强；加剧 | |
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41
subliminal
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| adj.下意识的，潜意识的；太弱或太快以至于难以觉察的 | |
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42
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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43
neurotic
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| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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44
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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46
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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47
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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48
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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50
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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51
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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52
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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53
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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54
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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55
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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56
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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57
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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58
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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59
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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60
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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61
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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62
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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63
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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64
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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65
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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66
certifying
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| （尤指书面）证明( certify的现在分词 )； 发证书给…； 证明（某人）患有精神病； 颁发（或授予）专业合格证书 | |
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67
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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68
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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69
numbly
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| adv.失去知觉，麻木 | |
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70
contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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71
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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72
aborted
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| adj.流产的，失败的v.（使）流产( abort的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）（某事物）中止；（因故障等而）（使）（飞机、宇宙飞船、导弹等）中断飞行；（使）（飞行任务等）中途失败 | |
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73
grid
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| n.高压输电线路网；地图坐标方格；格栅 | |
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74
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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75
reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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