Gravity's Rainbow
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Acclaim and the Zero
- The text opens with a collection of high-praise blurbs from major publications like The New York Times and Time, positioning the novel as a monumental and 'mind-fogging' literary achievement.
- Critics compare Thomas Pynchonâs work to canonical masterpieces such as Moby Dick and Ulysses, suggesting it defines the inward movement of the 20th century.
- The physical act of reading the massive tome is described viscerally by Geoffrey Wolff as an exhausting process involving ink-stained fingers and paper cuts.
- The narrative proper begins with an epigraph from rocket scientist Wernher von Braun regarding the continuity of spiritual existence and the law of transformation.
- The opening scene establishes a bleak, apocalyptic atmosphere of a dark evacuation under the threat of an incoming projectile.
A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.
28&
.»»GRAVITYâS RAINBOW
âIF I WERE BANISHED TO THE MOON TO-
MORROW and could take only five books along,
this would have to be one of them.â
3
âThe New York Times
âIT ISN'T PLAUSIBLE TO CALL A NOVEL
GREAT the week itâs published, because the
future will decide that.â
âNewsweek
âA FUNNY,
DISTURBING,
EXHAUSTING
AND MASSIVE NOVEL, mind-fogging in its
range and permutations, its display of knowledge
and virtuosity ... [Pynchon is] a remarkable
mind and talent.â
âTime
THe Propicious BESTSELLER...
GRAVITYâS RAINBOW
Reyâ oh
... THOMAS PYNCHON!
âOF ALL THE AMERICAN NOVELISTS who
emerged with Pynchon in the 1960's, only Von-
negut, Barth and Heller are his peers.â
âThe New York Times Book Review
-
âINSIDE HIS HEAD IS A MOVIE SCREEN
on which an endless series of very funny and
ghastly one-reelers is being projected.â
i.
âAtlantic Monthly
âMORE
THAN
ANY
OTHER
LIVING
WRITER, including Norman
Mailer, he has
caught the inward movement of our time.â
âSaturday Review
wie
we
âA ScREAMING Comes ACROSS THE SKY...â
THOMAS PYNCHON
{
.-- GRAVITYS RAINBOW!
_ âIl HAVE BEEN TURNING PAGES DAY AND
_
NIGHT, watching my fingers go ink-black, bleed-
ing from paper cuts, reading Gravityâs Rainbow.
Forests have gone to the blade to make paper
Be for this novel. Donât mourn the trees; read the
fe book.â
âGeoffrey Wolff, San Francisco Examiner
_ âMOBY DICK AND ULYSSES... COME TO
MIND most often as one reads Gravityâs Rain-
bow... Gravity's Rainbow marks an advance be-
yond either.â
âSaturday Review
âA PICARESQUE, APOCALYPTIC, ABSURD-
IST NOVEL that creates a complex mythology
to describe our present predicament... our en-
q tire century.â
=
âThe New Yorker
ESE
A Vast ENTERTAINMENT...
GRAVITYâS RAINBOW
S
Bantam Books by Thomas P
_
Ask your bookseller for the boo ks yo
es
_ THE CRYING OF LOT 49 _
-GRAVITYâS RAINBOW â .
_ Gravity's
~ Rainbow
a hens Pynchon
Pac
z = a 9S )
Zonpon
°
b
= z r=) %
es
For Richard Farifia
This low-priced Bantam Book
has been completely reset in a type a
designed for easy re
, and was
from new = It contains tha
pHs 4
text of the
original hard-cover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED,
wt
GRAVITYâS RAINBOW
A Bantam oes panne
arrangement with
hd, iking ed bp
Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Va faeces
a ee March 1973
+eoe+e March
Mah ioe
7a pared coves
Bantam edition Beet 5
March 1974
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Harvard
University
Press:
of the
lishers and the
tees FE Bo
f
drnhers by
m
worms
x age vp Editor,
The Poems
Cam-
brid , Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.
Copyright 1931, 1953, ina Pres of
Harvard Univeral Press,
college.
Little, Brown and Company: From_âBecause I Could Not
Stop for Deathâ from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickin-
son edited by Thomas H. hse =
W. W. Norton & Percy
nc. and Insel Verlag: From
Duino Elegies and So:
by Rainer Maria
Copyri nt
4 » 1873 by Thon
This book p
Shatin cca fermi
by
"For format
âaph or Fig hy c#
or informat
fe
rebeiyg
Presi: vege wie
ng rest
oon?â
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc, Its trade-
mark,
consisting
of the words
âBantam
B.
and
Pa or Ofien Oe oe Se Noe
. Repisrada
te Stata
i
Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York,
York 10019,
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
I
Beyond the Zero
ee
Nature does not know extinction; all it
Pps:
knows is transformation. Everything science
has taught me, and continues to teach me,
strengthens my belief in the continuity of
our spiritual existence after death.
â
âWERNHER VON BRAUN
©
â
O
A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened be-
fore, but there is nothing to compare it to now.
;
It is too late. The Evacuation still proceeds, but itâs all
_
theatre. There are no lights inside the cars. No light any-
' where. Above him lift girders old as an iron queen, and
â
glass somewhere far above that would let the light of day
through. But itâs night. Heâs afraid of the way the glass
will fallâsoonâit will be a spectacle: the fall of a crystal
palace. But coming down in total blackout, without one
_
glint of light, only great invisible crashing.
.
Inside the carriage, which is built on several levels, he
sits in velveteen darkness, with nothing to smoke, feeling
metal nearer and farther rub and connect, steam escaping
__ in puffs, a vibration in the carriageâs frame, a poising, an
__ uneasiness, all the others pressed in around, feeble ones,
second sheep, all out of luck and time: drunks, old. vet-
erans still in shock from ordnance 20 years obsolete, hus-
tlers in city clothes, derelicts, exhausted women with more
_
children than it seems could belong to anyone, stacked
_ about among the rest of the things to be carried out to
_\ Salvation, Only the nearer faces are visible to all, and at
_ that only as half-silvered images in a view finder, green-
__ Stained VIP faces remembered behind bulletproof win-
_ dows speeding through the city... .
__.
They have begun to move. They pass in line, out of the
_ main station, out of downtown, and. begin .pushing into
_
older and more desolate parts of the city. Is this the way
_
out? Faces turn to the windows, but no one dares ask, not
_ Out loud. Rain comes down. No, this is not a disentangle-
_. Inent from, but a progressive knotting intoâthey go in
_ under archways, secret entrances of rotted concrete that
_ only looked like loops of an underpass... certain trestles
__
of blackened wood have moved slowly by overhead, and
_ the smells begun of coal from days far to the past, smells
_ of naphtha winters, of Sundays when no traffic came
_ through, of the coral-like and mysteriously vital growth,
around the blind curves and out the lonely spurs, a sour
smell of rolling-stock absence, of maturing rust, developing
3
The End of the Line
- A train carriage filled with the desperate and the displaced moves through a total blackout toward an uncertain destination.
- The journey transitions from the city center into desolate, ruinous landscapes that feel like a progressive knotting into darkness rather than an escape.
- The passengers, described as 'second sheep' and 'exhausted women,' represent a collective of the forgotten and the out-of-luck.
- The destination is a vast, ancient iron hotel that serves as a terminal for a 'rush of souls' under the watch of silent marshals.
- The atmosphere is defined by sensory decay: the smell of maturing rust, dead rats, and the crushing weight of a final judgment from which there is no appeal.
No, this is not a disentanglement from, but a progressive knotting intoâthey go in under archways, secret entrances of rotted concrete that only looked like loops of an underpass...
O
A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened be-
fore, but there is nothing to compare it to now.
;
It is too late. The Evacuation still proceeds, but itâs all
_
theatre. There are no lights inside the cars. No light any-
' where. Above him lift girders old as an iron queen, and
â
glass somewhere far above that would let the light of day
through. But itâs night. Heâs afraid of the way the glass
will fallâsoonâit will be a spectacle: the fall of a crystal
palace. But coming down in total blackout, without one
_
glint of light, only great invisible crashing.
.
Inside the carriage, which is built on several levels, he
sits in velveteen darkness, with nothing to smoke, feeling
metal nearer and farther rub and connect, steam escaping
__ in puffs, a vibration in the carriageâs frame, a poising, an
__ uneasiness, all the others pressed in around, feeble ones,
second sheep, all out of luck and time: drunks, old. vet-
erans still in shock from ordnance 20 years obsolete, hus-
tlers in city clothes, derelicts, exhausted women with more
_
children than it seems could belong to anyone, stacked
_ about among the rest of the things to be carried out to
_\ Salvation, Only the nearer faces are visible to all, and at
_ that only as half-silvered images in a view finder, green-
__ Stained VIP faces remembered behind bulletproof win-
_ dows speeding through the city... .
__.
They have begun to move. They pass in line, out of the
_ main station, out of downtown, and. begin .pushing into
_
older and more desolate parts of the city. Is this the way
_
out? Faces turn to the windows, but no one dares ask, not
_ Out loud. Rain comes down. No, this is not a disentangle-
_. Inent from, but a progressive knotting intoâthey go in
_ under archways, secret entrances of rotted concrete that
_ only looked like loops of an underpass... certain trestles
__
of blackened wood have moved slowly by overhead, and
_ the smells begun of coal from days far to the past, smells
_ of naphtha winters, of Sundays when no traffic came
_ through, of the coral-like and mysteriously vital growth,
around the blind curves and out the lonely spurs, a sour
smell of rolling-stock absence, of maturing rust, developing
3
4
Gravityâs RAINBOW
through those emptying days brilliant and deep, espe-
cially at dawn, with blue shadows to seal its passage, to try
to bring events to Absolute Zero... and it is poorer the
deeper they go...ruinous secret cities of poor, places
whose names he has never heard . . . the walls break down,
the roofs get fewer and so do the chances for light. The
road, which ought to be opening out into a broader high-
way, instead has been getting narrower, more broken,
comering tighter and tighter until all at once, much too
soon, they are under the final arch: brakes grab and spring
terribly. It is a judgment from which there is no appeal.
The caravan has halted, It is the end of the line. All the
evacuees are ordered out. They move slowly, but without
resistance. Those marshaling them wear cockades the color
of lead, and do not speak. It is some vast, very old and
dark hotel, an iron extension of the track and switchery by
which they have come here. ... Globular lights, painted a
dark green, hang from under the fancy iron eaves, unlit for
centuries ... the crowd moves without murmurs or cough-
ing down corridors straight and functional as warehouse
aisles ... velvet black surfaces contain the movement: the
smell is of old wood, of remote wings empty all this time
just reopened to accommodate the rush of souls, of cold
plaster where all the rats have died, only their ghosts, still
as cave-painting,
fixed stubborn and luminous
in the
walls... the evacuees are taken in lots, by elevatorâa
moving wood scaffold open on all sides, hoisted by old
tarry ropes and cast-iron pulleys whose spokes are shaped
like Ss. At each brown floor, passengers move on and
off ... thousands of these hushed rooms without light. ...
Some wait alone, some share their invisible rooms with
others. Invisible, yes, what do the furnishings matter, at
this stage of things? Underfoot crunches the oldest of city
dirt, last crystallizations of all the city had denied, threat-
ened, lied to its children. Each has been hearing a voice,
one he thought was talking only to him, say, âYou didnât
really believe youâd be saved. Come, we all know who we
are by now. No one was ever going to take the trouble to
save you, old fellow... .â
'
|
There is no way out. Lie and wait, lie still and
be quiet.
Screaming holds across the sky. When it comes, will it
come in darkness, or will it bring its own light? Will the
light come before or after?
Pirate Prentice's Banana Breakfast
- The narrative shifts from a dark, paranoid internal monologue about abandonment and impending destruction to the cold reality of a London morning.
- Captain Geoffrey 'Pirate' Prentice wakes in a chaotic maisonette filled with hungover soldiers and 'wastrels' amidst the winter light of wartime London.
- Pirate demonstrates his quick reflexes by catching his falling co-tenant, Teddy Bloat, with a rolling cot as Bloat tumbles from a gallery.
- The setting is a historically eccentric maisonette near the Chelsea Embankment, featuring a roof with a thick, 'unbelievable' layer of black topsoil created from years of organic decay.
- Despite the wartime shortages, Pirate has successfully cultivated a rooftop banana plantation through a black-market deal involving a German camera and an international pilot.
- The 'Banana Breakfasts' hosted by Pirate have become a legendary social draw for various military personnel across England.
Screaming holds across the sky. When it comes, will it come in darkness, or will it bring its own light?
4
Gravityâs RAINBOW
through those emptying days brilliant and deep, espe-
cially at dawn, with blue shadows to seal its passage, to try
to bring events to Absolute Zero... and it is poorer the
deeper they go...ruinous secret cities of poor, places
whose names he has never heard . . . the walls break down,
the roofs get fewer and so do the chances for light. The
road, which ought to be opening out into a broader high-
way, instead has been getting narrower, more broken,
comering tighter and tighter until all at once, much too
soon, they are under the final arch: brakes grab and spring
terribly. It is a judgment from which there is no appeal.
The caravan has halted, It is the end of the line. All the
evacuees are ordered out. They move slowly, but without
resistance. Those marshaling them wear cockades the color
of lead, and do not speak. It is some vast, very old and
dark hotel, an iron extension of the track and switchery by
which they have come here. ... Globular lights, painted a
dark green, hang from under the fancy iron eaves, unlit for
centuries ... the crowd moves without murmurs or cough-
ing down corridors straight and functional as warehouse
aisles ... velvet black surfaces contain the movement: the
smell is of old wood, of remote wings empty all this time
just reopened to accommodate the rush of souls, of cold
plaster where all the rats have died, only their ghosts, still
as cave-painting,
fixed stubborn and luminous
in the
walls... the evacuees are taken in lots, by elevatorâa
moving wood scaffold open on all sides, hoisted by old
tarry ropes and cast-iron pulleys whose spokes are shaped
like Ss. At each brown floor, passengers move on and
off ... thousands of these hushed rooms without light. ...
Some wait alone, some share their invisible rooms with
others. Invisible, yes, what do the furnishings matter, at
this stage of things? Underfoot crunches the oldest of city
dirt, last crystallizations of all the city had denied, threat-
ened, lied to its children. Each has been hearing a voice,
one he thought was talking only to him, say, âYou didnât
really believe youâd be saved. Come, we all know who we
are by now. No one was ever going to take the trouble to
save you, old fellow... .â
'
|
There is no way out. Lie and wait, lie still and
be quiet.
Screaming holds across the sky. When it comes, will it
come in darkness, or will it bring its own light? Will the
light come before or after?
Beyond the Zero
5
But it is already light. How long has it been light? All
_
this while, light has come percolating in, along with the
cold morning air flowing now across his nipples: it has be-
gun to reveal an assortment of drunken wastrels, some in
uniform and some not, clutching empty or near-empty
bottles, here draped over a chair, there huddled into a cold
fireplace, or sprawled on various divans, un-Hoovered
_ rugs and chaise longues down the different levels of the
- enormous room, snoring and wheezing at many rhythms,
in self-renewing chorus, as London light, winter and elastic
light, grows between the faces of the mullioned windows,
grows among the strata of last nightâs smoke still hung,
fading, from the waxed beams of the ceiling. All these
~
horizontal here, these comrades in arms, look just as rosy
~
as a bunch of Dutch peasants dreaming of their certain
_
resurrection in the next few minutes.
;
His name is Capt. Geoffrey (âPirateâ) Prentice. He is
_ wrapped in a thick blanket, a tartan of orange, rust, and
scarlet. His skull feels made of metal.
_.
Just above him, twelve feet overhead, Teddy: Bloat is
about to fall out of the minstrelsâ gallery, having chosen to
collapse just at the spot where somebody in a grandiose
___
fit, weeks before, had kicked out two of the ebony balus-
ters, Now, in his stupor, Bloat has been inching through
the opening, head, arms, and torso, until all thatâs keeping
a _ him up there is an empty champagne split in his hip
pocket, thatâs got hooked somehowâ
S
By now Pirate has managed to sit up on his narrow
a bachelor bed, and blink about. How awful. How bloody
- awful...above him, he hears cloth rip. The Special
_ Operations Executive has trained him to fast responses. He
3
_ leaps off of the cot and kicks it rolling on its casters in
_ Bloatâs direction. Bloat, plummeting, hits square amidships
_ with a great strum of bedsprings. One of the legs collapses.
_ âGood morning,â notes Pirate. Bloat smiles briefly and
goes back to sleep, snuggling well into Pirateâs blanket.
_
Bloat is one of the co-tenants of the place, a maisonette
erected last century, not far from the Chelsea Embankment,
Corydon Throsp, an acquaintance of the Ressettisâ who
_
wore hair smocks and liked to cultivate pharmaceutical
plants up on the roof (a tradition young Osbie Feel has
lately revived), a few of them hardy enough to survive
fogs and frosts, but most returning,
as fragments of
6
Gravityâs RAINBOW
peculiar alkaloids, to rooftop earth, along with manure
from a trio of prize Wessex Saddleback sows quartered
there by Throspâs successor, and dead leaves off many
decorative trees transplanted to the roof by later tenants,
and the odd unstomachable meal thrown or vomited there
by this or that sensitive epicureanâall got scumbled to-
gether, eventually, by the knives of the seasons, to an
impasto, feet thick, of unbelievable black topsoil in which
anything could grow, not the least being bananas. Pirate,
driven to despair by the wartime banana shortage, de-
cided to build a glass hothouse on the roof, and persuade
a friend who flew the Rio-toâAscensionâtoâFort-Lamy run
to pinch him a sapling banana tree or two, in exchange for
a German camera, should Pirate happen across one on his
next mission by parachute.
Pirate has become famous for his -Banana Breakfasts.
Messmates throng here from all over England, even some
who are allergic or outright hostile to bananas, just to
watchâfor the politics of bacteria, the soilâs stringing of
rings and chains in nets only God can tell the meshes of,
have seen the fruit thrive often to lengths of a foot and a
half, yes amazing but true.
Pirate in the lavatory stands pissing, without a thought
in his head. Then he threads himself into a wool robe he
wears inside out so as to keep his cigarette pocket hidden,
not that this works to well, and circling the warm bodies
of friends makes his way to French windows, slides out-
side into the cold, groans as it hits the fillings in his teeth,
climbs a spiral ladder ringing to the roof garden and stands
for a bit, watching the river. The sun is still below the
horizon. The day feels like rain, but for now the air is
uncommonly clear. The great power station, and the gas-
works beyond, stand precisely: crystals grown in morningâs
beaker, stacks, vents, towers, plumbing, gnarled emissions
of steam and smoke....
âHhabh,â Pirate in a voiceless roar watching his breath
slip away over the parapets, âhhaahhh!â Rooftops dance
in the morning. His giant bananas cluster, radiant yellow,
humid green. His companions below dream drooling of a
Banana Breakfast. This well-scrubbed day ought to be no
worse than anyâ
Will it? Far to the east, down in the pink sky, something
The Arrival of the Rocket
- Pirate Prentice observes the London morning from his rooftop garden, where he cultivates giant bananas in a hothouse despite the wartime winter.
- The industrial landscape of power stations and gasworks is described with crystalline precision as the sun begins to rise.
- A brilliant spark in the eastern sky reveals itself to be the vapor trail of a V-2 rocket, the secret German 'rocket bomb' launched vertically from across the sea.
- Pirate calculates the physics of the missile's flight, noting the 'Brennschluss' or fuel cutoff point as the rocket enters a ballistic arc.
- Realizing there is no time to warn others or seek safety, Pirate experiences a moment of visceral dread and physical tension.
- In a surreal juxtaposition of domesticity and destruction, he decides to spend his final minutes picking bananas in the humid heat of his greenhouse.
The great power station, and the gasworks beyond, stand precisely: crystals grown in morningâs beaker, stacks, vents, towers, plumbing, gnarled emissions of steam and smoke....
6
Gravityâs RAINBOW
peculiar alkaloids, to rooftop earth, along with manure
from a trio of prize Wessex Saddleback sows quartered
there by Throspâs successor, and dead leaves off many
decorative trees transplanted to the roof by later tenants,
and the odd unstomachable meal thrown or vomited there
by this or that sensitive epicureanâall got scumbled to-
gether, eventually, by the knives of the seasons, to an
impasto, feet thick, of unbelievable black topsoil in which
anything could grow, not the least being bananas. Pirate,
driven to despair by the wartime banana shortage, de-
cided to build a glass hothouse on the roof, and persuade
a friend who flew the Rio-toâAscensionâtoâFort-Lamy run
to pinch him a sapling banana tree or two, in exchange for
a German camera, should Pirate happen across one on his
next mission by parachute.
Pirate has become famous for his -Banana Breakfasts.
Messmates throng here from all over England, even some
who are allergic or outright hostile to bananas, just to
watchâfor the politics of bacteria, the soilâs stringing of
rings and chains in nets only God can tell the meshes of,
have seen the fruit thrive often to lengths of a foot and a
half, yes amazing but true.
Pirate in the lavatory stands pissing, without a thought
in his head. Then he threads himself into a wool robe he
wears inside out so as to keep his cigarette pocket hidden,
not that this works to well, and circling the warm bodies
of friends makes his way to French windows, slides out-
side into the cold, groans as it hits the fillings in his teeth,
climbs a spiral ladder ringing to the roof garden and stands
for a bit, watching the river. The sun is still below the
horizon. The day feels like rain, but for now the air is
uncommonly clear. The great power station, and the gas-
works beyond, stand precisely: crystals grown in morningâs
beaker, stacks, vents, towers, plumbing, gnarled emissions
of steam and smoke....
âHhabh,â Pirate in a voiceless roar watching his breath
slip away over the parapets, âhhaahhh!â Rooftops dance
in the morning. His giant bananas cluster, radiant yellow,
humid green. His companions below dream drooling of a
Banana Breakfast. This well-scrubbed day ought to be no
worse than anyâ
Will it? Far to the east, down in the pink sky, something
Beyond the Zero
|
7
has just sparked, very brightly. A new star, nothing less
noticeable. He leans on the parapet to watch. The bril-
bs liant point has already become a short vertical white line.
It must be somewhere out over the North Sea... at least
Is _that far... icefields below and a cold smear of sun....
What is it? Nothing like this ever happens. But Pirate
. knows it, after all. He has seen it in a film, just in the last
_ fortnight... itâs a vapor trail. Already a fingerâs width
higher now. But not from an airplane. Airplanes are not
launched vertically, This is the new, and still Most Secret,
_~ German rocket bomb.
âIncoming mail.â Did he whisper that, or only think it?
He tightens the ragged belt of his robe. Well, the range of
these things is supposed to be over 200 miles. You canât
see a vapor trail 200 miles, now, can you.
_
Oh, Oh, yes: around the curve of the Earth, farther
east, the sun over there, just risen over in Holland, is strik-
tt the rocketâs exhaust, drops and crystals, making them
aoe
blaze clear across the sea....
r
The white line, abruptly, has stopped its climb. That
__would be fuel cutoff, end of burning, whatâs their word...
__ _Brennschluss. We donât have one. Or else itâs classified.
_.
The bottom of the line, the original star, has already be-
_
gun to vanish in red daybreak. But the racket will be here
___
before Pirate sees the sun rise.
âThe trail, smudged, slightly torn in two or three direc
_ tions, hangs in the sky. Already the rocket, gone pure
ballistic, has risen higher. But invisible now.
__. Oughtnât he to be doing something... get on to the
operations room at Stanmore, they must have it on the
Channel radarsâno:
no time,
really.
Less than five
' minutes Hague to here (the time it takes to walk down to
_ the teashop on the comer... for light from the sun to
___ reach the planet of love .. . no time at all). Run out in the
street? Warn the others?
;
_.._. Pick bananas. He trudges through black compost in to
_
the hothouse. He feels heâs about to shit. The missile, sixty
__ miles high, must be coming up on the peak of its trajectory
_ by now... beginning its fall...now....
__ Trusswork is pierced by daylight, milky panes beam
_
beneficently down. How could there be a winterâeven
_
this oneâgray enough to age this iron that can sing in the
8
Gravityâs RAInsow
wind, or cloud these windows that open into another sea-
son, however falsely preserved?
Pirate looks at his watch. Nothing registers. The pores
of his face are prickling. Emptying his mindâa Com-
mando trickâhe steps into the wet heat of his bananery,
sets about picking the ripest and the best, holding up the
skirt of his robe to drop them in. Allowing himself to count
only bananas, moving barelegged among the pendulous
bunches, among these yellow chandeliers, this tropical
twilight. ...
Out into the winter again. The contrail is gone entirely
from the sky. Pirateâs sweat lies on his skin almost as cold
as ice.
He takes some time lighting a cigarette. He wonât hear
the thing come in. It travels faster than the speed of
sound. The first news you get of it is the blast. Then, if
youre still around, you hear the sound
of it coming in.
What if it should hit exactlyâahh, noâfor a split
second you'd have to feel the very point, with the terrible
mass above, strike the top of the skull... .
Pirate hunches his shoulders, bearing his bananas down
the corkscrew ladder.
O
\
pean
Across a blue tile patio, in through a door to the kitchen.
Routine: plug in American blending machine won from
Yank last summer, some poker game, table stakes, B.O.Q.
somewhere in the north, never remember now. ... Chop
several bananas into pieces. Make coffee in urn. Get can of
milk from cooler. Puree ânanas in milk. Lovely. I would
coat all the booze-corroded stomachs of Fave that
. Bit of
marge, still smells all right, melt in skillet. Peel more
bananas, slice lengthwise. Marge sizzling, in go long slices.
Light oven whoomp blow us all up someday oh, ha, ha,
yes. Peeled whole bananas to go on broiler grill soon as it
heats. Find marshmallows. .
In staggers Teddy Bloat with Pirateâs blanket over his
head, slips on a banana peel and falls on his ass, âKill my-
self,â he mumbles,
âThe Germans will do it for you. Guess what I saw from
the roof.â
The Steel Banana Reprieve
- Pirate Prentice harvests bananas from a rooftop greenhouse while contemplating the silent, supersonic threat of incoming V-2 rockets.
- The tension of a potential strike is juxtaposed with the mundane, domestic routine of preparing an elaborate 'Banana Breakfast' for his housemates.
- A reported rocket sighting ends in a 'premature Brennschluss,' meaning the missile fell short, providing a temporary and fragile sense of relief.
- The characters exist in a state of psychological suspension, knowing that while this rocket missed, more are inevitably coming.
- Osbie Feel performs a lewd, satirical song about the war, highlighting the surreal and cynical atmosphere of their communal living situation.
God has plucked it for him, out of its airless sky, like a steel banana.
8
Gravityâs RAInsow
wind, or cloud these windows that open into another sea-
son, however falsely preserved?
Pirate looks at his watch. Nothing registers. The pores
of his face are prickling. Emptying his mindâa Com-
mando trickâhe steps into the wet heat of his bananery,
sets about picking the ripest and the best, holding up the
skirt of his robe to drop them in. Allowing himself to count
only bananas, moving barelegged among the pendulous
bunches, among these yellow chandeliers, this tropical
twilight. ...
Out into the winter again. The contrail is gone entirely
from the sky. Pirateâs sweat lies on his skin almost as cold
as ice.
He takes some time lighting a cigarette. He wonât hear
the thing come in. It travels faster than the speed of
sound. The first news you get of it is the blast. Then, if
youre still around, you hear the sound
of it coming in.
What if it should hit exactlyâahh, noâfor a split
second you'd have to feel the very point, with the terrible
mass above, strike the top of the skull... .
Pirate hunches his shoulders, bearing his bananas down
the corkscrew ladder.
O
\
pean
Across a blue tile patio, in through a door to the kitchen.
Routine: plug in American blending machine won from
Yank last summer, some poker game, table stakes, B.O.Q.
somewhere in the north, never remember now. ... Chop
several bananas into pieces. Make coffee in urn. Get can of
milk from cooler. Puree ânanas in milk. Lovely. I would
coat all the booze-corroded stomachs of Fave that
. Bit of
marge, still smells all right, melt in skillet. Peel more
bananas, slice lengthwise. Marge sizzling, in go long slices.
Light oven whoomp blow us all up someday oh, ha, ha,
yes. Peeled whole bananas to go on broiler grill soon as it
heats. Find marshmallows. .
In staggers Teddy Bloat with Pirateâs blanket over his
head, slips on a banana peel and falls on his ass, âKill my-
self,â he mumbles,
âThe Germans will do it for you. Guess what I saw from
the roof.â
: 3 i
f Beyond the Zero
9
âThat V-2 on the way?â
,
yes.
:
âTI watched it out the window. About ten minutes ago.
Looked queer, didnât it. Havenât heard a thing since, have
you. It must have fallen short. Out to sea or something.â
âTen minutes?â Trying to read the time on his watch.
.
âAt least.â Bloat is sitting on the floor, working the
banana peel into a pajama lapel for a boutonniere.
Pirate goes to the phone and rings up Stanmore after
all. Has to go through the usual long, long routine, but
knows heâs already stopped believing in the rocket he saw.
God has plucked it for him, out of its airless sky, like a
steel banana. âPrentice here, did you have anything like a
pip from Holland a moment ago. Aha. Aha. Yes, we saw
it.â This could ruin a manâs taste for sunrises. He rings off.
_
âThey lost it over the coast. Theyâre calling it premature
__-<Brennschluss.â
_
âCheer up,â Teddy crawling back toward the busted
~' cot, âThere'll be more.â
Good old Bloat, always the positive word. Pirate for a
_
few seconds there, waiting to talk to Stanmore, was think-
ing, Dangerâs over, Banana Breakfast is saved. But itâs
_. only a reprieve. Isnât it. There will indeed be others, each
__~ just as likely to land on top of him. No one either side of
a _the front knows exactly how many more. Will we have to
__
stop watching the sky?
y
Osbie Feel stands in the minstrelsâ gallery, holding one
of the biggest of Pirateâs bananas so that it protrudes out
the fly of his striped pajama bottomsâstroking with his
other hand the great jaundiced curve in triplets against
_
4/4 toward the ceiling, he acknowledges dawn with the
following:
Time to gather your arse up off the floor,
â(have a bana-na)
Brush your teeth and go toddling off to war.
Wave your hand to sleepy land,
Kiss those dreams away,
Tell Miss Grable you're not able,
Not till V-E Day, oh,
Ey'rything'll be grand in Civvie Street
(have a bana-na)
Bubbly wine and girls wiv lips so sweetâ
But thereâs still the German or two to fight,
10
Graviryâs RAInBow
So show us a smile thatâs shiny bright,
And then, as we may have suggested once beforeâ
Gather yer blooming arse up off the floor!
Thereâs a second verse, but before he can get quite into
it, prancing Osbie is leaped upon and thoroughly pum-
meled, in part with his own stout banana, by Bartley
Gobbitch, DeCoverley Pox, and Maurice (âSaxophoneâ)
Reed, among others. In the kitchen, black-market marsh-
mallows
slide languid into syrup atop Pirateâs double
boiler, and soon begin thickly to bubble. Coffee brews.
On a wooden pub sign daringly taken, one daylight raid,
by a drunken Bartley Gobbitch, across which still survives
in intaglio the legend snirE AND sHAFT, Teddy Bloat is
mincing bananas with a great isosceles knife, from beneath
whose nervous blade Pirate with one hand shovels the
blonde mash into waffle batter resilient with fresh hensâ
eggs, for which Osbie Feel has exchanged an equal num-
ber of golf balls, these being even rarer this winter than
real eggs, other hand blending the fruit in, not overvig-
orously, with a wire whisk, whilst surly Osbie himself,
sucking frequently at a half-pint milk bottle filled with
Vat 69 and water, tends to the bananas in the skillet and
broiler. Near the exit to the blue patio, DeCoverley Pox
and Joaquin Stick stand by a concrete scale model.
of the'
Jungfrau, which some enthusiast back during the twenties
spent a painstaking year modeling and casting before find-
ing out it was too large to get out of any door, socking the
slopes of the famous mountain with red rubber hot-water
bags full of ice cubes, the idea being to pulverize the ice
for Pirateâs banana frappĂ©s. With their nightsâ growths of
beard, matted hair, bloodshot eyes, miasmata of foul
breath, DeCoverley and Joaquin are wasted gods urging
on a tardy glacier.
Elsewhere in the maisonette, other drinking companions:
disentangle from blankets (one spilling wind from his,
dreaming of a parachute), piss into bathroom sinks, look at
themselves with dismay in concave shaving mirrors, slap
water with no clear plan in mind onto heads of thinning
hair, struggle into Sam Brownes, dub shoes against rain
later in the day with hand muscles already weary of it,
â
sing snatches of popular songs whose tunes
they dont
The Banana Breakfast Ritual
- A chaotic group of hungover military men and companions prepare an elaborate, banana-centric breakfast in a London maisonette.
- The scene depicts a desperate wartime economy where luxury items like fresh eggs are bartered for rare commodities like golf balls.
- The preparation involves surreal methods, including pulverizing ice for frappés by hitting a concrete model of the Jungfrau with hot-water bags.
- The sensory experience of the cooking serves as a defiant, life-affirming ritual against the grim reality of the Blitz and the threat of 'falling objects.'
- The meal culminates in a massive spread of banana-based dishes, humorously critiqued by the phrase 'Câest magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre.'
Now there grows among all the rooms, replacing the nightâs old smoke, alcohol and sweat, the fragile, musaceous odor of Breakfast: flowery, permeating, surprising, more than the color of winter sunlight, taking over not so much through any brute pungency or volume as by the high intricacy to the weaving of its molecules, sharing the conjurorâs secret by whichâthough it is not often Death is told so clearly to fuck offâthe living genetic chains prove even labyrinthine enough to preserve some human face down ten or twenty generations...
10
Graviryâs RAInBow
So show us a smile thatâs shiny bright,
And then, as we may have suggested once beforeâ
Gather yer blooming arse up off the floor!
Thereâs a second verse, but before he can get quite into
it, prancing Osbie is leaped upon and thoroughly pum-
meled, in part with his own stout banana, by Bartley
Gobbitch, DeCoverley Pox, and Maurice (âSaxophoneâ)
Reed, among others. In the kitchen, black-market marsh-
mallows
slide languid into syrup atop Pirateâs double
boiler, and soon begin thickly to bubble. Coffee brews.
On a wooden pub sign daringly taken, one daylight raid,
by a drunken Bartley Gobbitch, across which still survives
in intaglio the legend snirE AND sHAFT, Teddy Bloat is
mincing bananas with a great isosceles knife, from beneath
whose nervous blade Pirate with one hand shovels the
blonde mash into waffle batter resilient with fresh hensâ
eggs, for which Osbie Feel has exchanged an equal num-
ber of golf balls, these being even rarer this winter than
real eggs, other hand blending the fruit in, not overvig-
orously, with a wire whisk, whilst surly Osbie himself,
sucking frequently at a half-pint milk bottle filled with
Vat 69 and water, tends to the bananas in the skillet and
broiler. Near the exit to the blue patio, DeCoverley Pox
and Joaquin Stick stand by a concrete scale model.
of the'
Jungfrau, which some enthusiast back during the twenties
spent a painstaking year modeling and casting before find-
ing out it was too large to get out of any door, socking the
slopes of the famous mountain with red rubber hot-water
bags full of ice cubes, the idea being to pulverize the ice
for Pirateâs banana frappĂ©s. With their nightsâ growths of
beard, matted hair, bloodshot eyes, miasmata of foul
breath, DeCoverley and Joaquin are wasted gods urging
on a tardy glacier.
Elsewhere in the maisonette, other drinking companions:
disentangle from blankets (one spilling wind from his,
dreaming of a parachute), piss into bathroom sinks, look at
themselves with dismay in concave shaving mirrors, slap
water with no clear plan in mind onto heads of thinning
hair, struggle into Sam Brownes, dub shoes against rain
later in the day with hand muscles already weary of it,
â
sing snatches of popular songs whose tunes
they dont
Beyond the Zero
11
always know, lie, believing themselves warmed, in what
_ patches of the new sunlight come between the mullions,
_
begin tentatively to talk shop as a way of easing into
whatever it is they'll have to be doing in less than an hour,
lather necks and faces, yawn, pick their noses, search
cabinets or bookcases for the hair of the dog that not with-
. out provocation and much prior conditioning bit them last
night.
Now there grows among all the rooms, replacing the
nightâs old smoke, alcohol and sweat, the fragile, musa-
ceous odor of Breakfast: flowery, permeating, surprising,
more than the color of winter sunlight, taking over not so
_ much through any brute pungency or volume as by the
high intricacy to the weaving of its molecules, sharing the
conjurorâs secret by whichâthough it is not often Death is
told so clearly to fuck offâthe living genetic chains prove
even labyrinthine enough to preserve some human face
down ten or twenty generations... so the same assertion-
through-structure allows this war morningâs banana fra-
grance to meander, repossess, prevail. Is there any reason
not to open every window, and let the kind scent blanket
all Chelsea? As a spell, against falling objects... .
__
With
a clattering of chairs, upended
shell
cases,
benches, and ottomans, Pirateâs mob gather at the shores
of the great refectory table, a southern island well across
_ a tropic or two from chill Corydon Throspâs mediaeval
fantasies, crowded now over the swirling dark grain of its
walnut uplands with banana omelets, banana sandwiches,
__ banana casseroles, mashed bananas molded in the shape of
__a British lion rampant, blended with eggs into batter for
_ French toast, squeezed out a pastry nozzle across the
_ quivering creamy reaches of a banana blancmange to spell
_ out the words Câest magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre
_ (attributed
to a French observer during the Charge of the
__ Light Brigade)
which Pirate has appropriated
as_ his
_
motto... tall cruets of pale banana syrup to pour oozing
- over banana waffles, a giant glazed crock where diced
__ bananas have been fermenting since the summer with wild
honey and muscat raisins, up out of which, this winter
âmorning, one now dips foam mugsfull of banana mead...
_ banana croissants and banana kreplach, and banana oat-
_ meal and banana jam and banana bread, and bananas
The Banana Breakfast and Psychic Burdens
- Pirate Prentice hosts an elaborate, surreal breakfast feast centered entirely around bananas in various fermented and cooked forms.
- A sudden phone call from an anonymous, high-pitched voice interrupts the meal to inform Pirate of a 'message' waiting at Greenwich.
- Pirate realizes the morning's silent rocket impact was actually a delivery mechanism for 'incoming mail' addressed to him.
- The narrative reveals Pirateâs unique 'Condition': a psychic talent for entering and managing the exhausting fantasies of important political figures.
- The 'Firm' utilizes Pirate to bleed off the anxiety of world leaders by having him inhabit and maintain their private daydreams.
- As he travels to Greenwich, Pirate experiences a sudden sense of profound isolation, feeling like a stranger watching others from behind glass.
The phone call, when it comes, rips easily across the room, the hangovers, the grabassing, the clatter of dishes, the shoptalk, the bitter chuckles, like a rude metal double-fart, and Pirate knows itâs got to be for him.
Beyond the Zero
11
always know, lie, believing themselves warmed, in what
_ patches of the new sunlight come between the mullions,
_
begin tentatively to talk shop as a way of easing into
whatever it is they'll have to be doing in less than an hour,
lather necks and faces, yawn, pick their noses, search
cabinets or bookcases for the hair of the dog that not with-
. out provocation and much prior conditioning bit them last
night.
Now there grows among all the rooms, replacing the
nightâs old smoke, alcohol and sweat, the fragile, musa-
ceous odor of Breakfast: flowery, permeating, surprising,
more than the color of winter sunlight, taking over not so
_ much through any brute pungency or volume as by the
high intricacy to the weaving of its molecules, sharing the
conjurorâs secret by whichâthough it is not often Death is
told so clearly to fuck offâthe living genetic chains prove
even labyrinthine enough to preserve some human face
down ten or twenty generations... so the same assertion-
through-structure allows this war morningâs banana fra-
grance to meander, repossess, prevail. Is there any reason
not to open every window, and let the kind scent blanket
all Chelsea? As a spell, against falling objects... .
__
With
a clattering of chairs, upended
shell
cases,
benches, and ottomans, Pirateâs mob gather at the shores
of the great refectory table, a southern island well across
_ a tropic or two from chill Corydon Throspâs mediaeval
fantasies, crowded now over the swirling dark grain of its
walnut uplands with banana omelets, banana sandwiches,
__ banana casseroles, mashed bananas molded in the shape of
__a British lion rampant, blended with eggs into batter for
_ French toast, squeezed out a pastry nozzle across the
_ quivering creamy reaches of a banana blancmange to spell
_ out the words Câest magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre
_ (attributed
to a French observer during the Charge of the
__ Light Brigade)
which Pirate has appropriated
as_ his
_
motto... tall cruets of pale banana syrup to pour oozing
- over banana waffles, a giant glazed crock where diced
__ bananas have been fermenting since the summer with wild
honey and muscat raisins, up out of which, this winter
âmorning, one now dips foam mugsfull of banana mead...
_ banana croissants and banana kreplach, and banana oat-
_ meal and banana jam and banana bread, and bananas
12
Gravityâs RaInsow
flamed in ancient brandy Pirate brought back last year
from a cellar in the Pyrenees also containing a clandestine
radio transmitter...
The phone call, when it comes, rips easily across the
room, the hangovers, the grabassing, the clatter of dishes,
the shoptalk, the bitter chuckles, like a rade metal double-
fart, and Pirate knows itâs got to be for him. Bloat, whoâs
nearest, takes it, forkful of bananes glacées poised fashion-
ably in the air. Pirate takes up a last dipper of mead, feels
it-go valving down his throat as if itâs time, time in its
summer tranquility, he swallows.
âYour employer.â
âTtâs not fair,â Pirate moans, âI havenât even done me
morning pushups yet.â
The voice, which heâs heard only once beforeâlast year
at a briefing, hands and face blackened, anonymous
among.a dozen other listenersâtells Pirate now thereâs a
message addressed to him, waiting at Greenwich.
âTt came over in a rather delightful way,â the voice
high-pitched and sullen, ânone of my friends are that
clever. All my mail arrives by post. Do come collect it,
won't you, Prentice.â Receiver hits cradle a violent whack,
connection breaks, and now Pirate knows where this morm-
ingâs rocket landed, and why there was no explosion. In-
coming mail, indeed. He gazes through sunlightâs but-
tresses, back down the refectory at the others, wallowing
in their plenitude of bananas, thick palatals of their
hunger lost somewhere in the stretch of morning between
them and himself. A hundred miles of it, so suddenly.
Solitude, even among the meshes of this war, can when it
wishes so take him by the blind gut and touch, as now,
possessively. Pirateâs again some other side of a window,
watching strangers eat breakfast.
Heâs driven out, away, east over Vauxhall Bridge in a
dented green Lagonda by his batman, a Corporal Wayne.
The morning seems to grow colder the higher the sun
rises. Clouds begin to gather after all. A crew of American
sappers spills into the road, on route to clear some ruin
nearby, singing:
|
Itâs eee
r
{
Colder than the nipple on a witchâs tit!
Beyond the Zero
13
Colder than a bucket of penguin shit!
Colder than the hairs of a polar bearâs ass!
Colder than the frost on a champagne glass!
No, they are making believe to. be narodnik, but I know,
they are of Iasi, of Codreanu, his men, men of the League,
they ...
they kill for himâthey have oath! They try to kill
me... Transylvanian
Magyars,
they know spells... at
night they whisper.... Well, hrrump, heh, heh, here
comes Pirateâs Condition creeping over him again, when
heâs least expecting it as usualâmight as well mention
here that much of what the dossiers call Pirate Prentice is
_ a strange talent forâwell, for getting inside the fantasies
of others: being able, actually, to take over the burden of
managing them, in this case those of an exiled Rumanian
royalist who may prove needed in the very near future. It
is a gift the Firm has found uncommonly useful: at this
_ time mentally healthy leaders and other historical figures
a are indispensable. What better way to cup and bleed
__ them of excess anxiety than to get someone to take over
| ae running of their exhausting little daydreams for them
. . to live in the tame green lights of their tropical refuges,
A
in the breezes through their cabafias, to drink their tall
Re grinls, changing your seat to face the entrances of their
public places, not letting their innocence suffer any more
than it already has... to get their erections for them, at
3
the oncome of thoughts the doctors. feel are gi Piatt
... fear all, all that they cannot afford to fear... remem-
ering the word of P. M. S. Blackett, âYou can oe
run a war
on gusts of emotion.â Just hum the nitwit little tune they
taught you, and try not to fuck up:
- YesâIâmâtheâ
_ Fellow thatâs hav-ing other peop-leâs fan-tasies,
Suffering what they ought to be themselvesâ
No matter if Girlyâs on my kneeâ
If Kruppingham-Jones is late to tea,
I donât even get to ask for whom the bellâs .
[Now over a lotta tubas and close-harmony trombones!
- It never does seem to mat-ter if thereâs daaaanger,
For Dangerâs a roof I fell from long agoâ
The Fantasist-Surrogate
- Pirate Prentice serves as a psychic surrogate, experiencing the repressed fantasies and emotional burdens of others to maintain public order.
- The narrative emphasizes that war cannot be run on 'gusts of emotion,' necessitating the clinical management of human desire and fear.
- A surreal musical sequence depicts Pirate as a 'fellow having other people's fantasies,' suffering the consequences of desires that are not his own.
- Pirate discovers his gift after meeting a derelict in a park who speaks lines directly from one of Pirate's own dreams.
- His ability evolves from dream-sharing to waking episodes, leading to his eventual recruitment by organizations that value his unique psychic utility.
- The text explores the loss of individual identity as Pirate becomes a vessel for the 'unspeakable purposes' of powerful entities.
YesâIâmâtheâ Fellow thatâs hav-ing other peop-leâs fan-tasies, Suffering what they ought to be themselvesâ
Beyond the Zero
13
Colder than a bucket of penguin shit!
Colder than the hairs of a polar bearâs ass!
Colder than the frost on a champagne glass!
No, they are making believe to. be narodnik, but I know,
they are of Iasi, of Codreanu, his men, men of the League,
they ...
they kill for himâthey have oath! They try to kill
me... Transylvanian
Magyars,
they know spells... at
night they whisper.... Well, hrrump, heh, heh, here
comes Pirateâs Condition creeping over him again, when
heâs least expecting it as usualâmight as well mention
here that much of what the dossiers call Pirate Prentice is
_ a strange talent forâwell, for getting inside the fantasies
of others: being able, actually, to take over the burden of
managing them, in this case those of an exiled Rumanian
royalist who may prove needed in the very near future. It
is a gift the Firm has found uncommonly useful: at this
_ time mentally healthy leaders and other historical figures
a are indispensable. What better way to cup and bleed
__ them of excess anxiety than to get someone to take over
| ae running of their exhausting little daydreams for them
. . to live in the tame green lights of their tropical refuges,
A
in the breezes through their cabafias, to drink their tall
Re grinls, changing your seat to face the entrances of their
public places, not letting their innocence suffer any more
than it already has... to get their erections for them, at
3
the oncome of thoughts the doctors. feel are gi Piatt
... fear all, all that they cannot afford to fear... remem-
ering the word of P. M. S. Blackett, âYou can oe
run a war
on gusts of emotion.â Just hum the nitwit little tune they
taught you, and try not to fuck up:
- YesâIâmâtheâ
_ Fellow thatâs hav-ing other peop-leâs fan-tasies,
Suffering what they ought to be themselvesâ
No matter if Girlyâs on my kneeâ
If Kruppingham-Jones is late to tea,
I donât even get to ask for whom the bellâs .
[Now over a lotta tubas and close-harmony trombones!
- It never does seem to mat-ter if thereâs daaaanger,
For Dangerâs a roof I fell from long agoâ
14
Gravity's Rainsow
Tl be out-one-day and never come back,
Forget the bitter you owe me, Jack,
Just piss on mâ grave and car-ry on the show!
He will then actually skip to and fro, with his knees
high and twirling a walking stick with W. C. Fieldsâ head,
nose, top hat, and all, for its knob, and surely capable of
magic, while the band plays a second chorus. Accompany-
ing will be a phantasmagoria, a real one, rushing toward
the screen, in over the heads of the audiences, on little
tracks of an elegant Victorian cross section resembling the
profile of a chess knight conceived fancifully but not vul-
garly soâthen rushing back out again, in and out, the
images often changing scale so quickly, so unpredictably
that youâre apt now and then to get a bit of lime-green in
with your rose, as they say. The scenes are highlights from
Pirateâs career as a fantasist-surrogate, and go back to
when he was carrying, everywhere he went, the mark of
Youthful Folly growing in an unmistakable Mongoloid
point, right out of the middle of his head. He had known
for a while that certain episodes he dreamed could not be
his own. This wasnât through any rigorous daytime analysis
of content, but just because he knew. But then came the
day when he met, for the first time, the real owner of a
dream he, Pirate, had had: it was by a drinking fountain
in a park, a very long, neat row of benches, a feeling of
sea just over a landscaped rim of small cypresses, gray
crushed stone on the walks looking soft to sleep on as the
brim of a fedora, and here comes this buttonless and
drooling derelict, the one you are afraid of ever meeting,
to pause and watch two Girl Guides trying to adjust the
water pressure of the fountain. They bent over, unaware,
the saucy darlings, of the fatal strips of white cotton
knickers thus displayed, the undercurves of baby-fat little
buttocks a blow to the Genital Brain, however pixilated,
The tramp laughed and pointed, he looked back at Pirate
then and said something extraordinary; âEh? Girl Guides
start pumping water... your sound will be the sizzling
night... eh?â staring directly at no one but Pirate now, no
more pretense.... Well, Pirate had dreamed these very
words, morning before âlast, just before
waking, they'd
been part of the usual list of prizes in a
Competition grown
sf
y
a
Beyond the Zero
15
-
erowded and perilous, out of some indoor intervention of
_
charcoal streets...he couldnât remember that well...
scared out of his wits by now, he replied, âGo away, or I
will call a policeman.â
a
It took care of the immediate problem for him. But
~
gooner or later the time would come when someone else
- would find out his gift, someone to whom it matteredâhe
A had a long-running fantasy of his own, rather a Eugéne
; Sue melodrama, in which he would be abducted by an
organization of dacoits or Sicilians, and used for unspeak-
able purposes.
In 1935 he had his first episode outside any condition
of known sleepâit was during his Kipling Period, beastly
Fuzzy-Wuzzies far as eye could see, dracunculiasis and
_ Oriental sore rampant among the troops, no beer for a
month, wireless being jammed by other Powers who would
be masters of these horrid blacks, God knows why, and all
_ folklore broken down, no Cary Grant larking in and out
slipping elephant medicine in the punchbowls out here...
-
not even an Arab With A Big Greasy Nose to perform on,
' as in that wistful classic every tommyâs heard... small
wonder that one fly-blown four in the afternoon, open-
eyed, in the smell of rotting melon rinds, to the seventy-
_ seven-millionth repetition of the outpostâs only Gramo-
phone record, Sandy MacPherson playing on his organ
_ âThe Changing of the Guard,â what should develop for
_
Pirate here but a sumptuous Oriental episode: vaulting
lazily and well over the fence and sneaking in to town, to
___ the Forbidden Quarter. There to stumble into an orgy held
\ by a Messiah no one has quite recognized yet, and to
Inow, as your eyes meet, that you are his John the Baptist,
his Nathan of Gaza, that it is you who must convince him
_ of his Godhead, proclaim him to others, love him both
_
profanely and in the Name of what'he is... it could be
no oneâs fantasy but H. A. Loafâs. There is at least one
_
Loaf
in every outfit, it is Loaf who keeps forgetting that
âthose of the Moslem faith are not keen on having snaps
taken of them in the street... it is Loaf who borrows
oneâs shirt runs out of cigarettes finds the illicit one in your
pocket and lights up in the canteen at high noon, where
esently he is reeling about with a loose smile, addressing
⏠sergeant commanding the red-cap section by his
The Giant Adenoid of London
- Pirate Prentice experiences a vivid, 'sumptuous Oriental episode' involving a messianic encounter in a forbidden quarter, a fantasy later verified by the bumbling H. A. Loaf.
- The 'Firm' monitors Pirateâs trances and psychic abilities, searching for negotiable skills within his subconscious visions.
- Pirate encounters a monstrous, sentient Adenoid the size of St. Paulâs Cathedral sliding through the London fog.
- The creature is a biological transformation of the cell plasma of Lord Blatherard Osmo, a Foreign Office official.
- The narrative shifts into a surreal musical hall number about the Sanjak of Novi Pazar, complete with a chorus line in busbies and jackboots.
- The horror culminates in Lord Osmo being physically assimilated by his own runaway lymphatic growth.
It was a giant Adenoid. At least as big as St. Paulâs, and growing hour by hour. London, perhaps all England, was in mortal peril!
a
Beyond the Zero
15
-
erowded and perilous, out of some indoor intervention of
_
charcoal streets...he couldnât remember that well...
scared out of his wits by now, he replied, âGo away, or I
will call a policeman.â
a
It took care of the immediate problem for him. But
~
gooner or later the time would come when someone else
- would find out his gift, someone to whom it matteredâhe
A had a long-running fantasy of his own, rather a Eugéne
; Sue melodrama, in which he would be abducted by an
organization of dacoits or Sicilians, and used for unspeak-
able purposes.
In 1935 he had his first episode outside any condition
of known sleepâit was during his Kipling Period, beastly
Fuzzy-Wuzzies far as eye could see, dracunculiasis and
_ Oriental sore rampant among the troops, no beer for a
month, wireless being jammed by other Powers who would
be masters of these horrid blacks, God knows why, and all
_ folklore broken down, no Cary Grant larking in and out
slipping elephant medicine in the punchbowls out here...
-
not even an Arab With A Big Greasy Nose to perform on,
' as in that wistful classic every tommyâs heard... small
wonder that one fly-blown four in the afternoon, open-
eyed, in the smell of rotting melon rinds, to the seventy-
_ seven-millionth repetition of the outpostâs only Gramo-
phone record, Sandy MacPherson playing on his organ
_ âThe Changing of the Guard,â what should develop for
_
Pirate here but a sumptuous Oriental episode: vaulting
lazily and well over the fence and sneaking in to town, to
___ the Forbidden Quarter. There to stumble into an orgy held
\ by a Messiah no one has quite recognized yet, and to
Inow, as your eyes meet, that you are his John the Baptist,
his Nathan of Gaza, that it is you who must convince him
_ of his Godhead, proclaim him to others, love him both
_
profanely and in the Name of what'he is... it could be
no oneâs fantasy but H. A. Loafâs. There is at least one
_
Loaf
in every outfit, it is Loaf who keeps forgetting that
âthose of the Moslem faith are not keen on having snaps
taken of them in the street... it is Loaf who borrows
oneâs shirt runs out of cigarettes finds the illicit one in your
pocket and lights up in the canteen at high noon, where
esently he is reeling about with a loose smile, addressing
⏠sergeant commanding the red-cap section by his
16
Gravity's RAInsow -
Christian name. So of course when Pirate makes the mis-
take of verifying the fantasy with Loaf, itâs not very long
at all before higher echelons know about it too. Into the
dossier it goes, and eventually the Firm, in Their tireless
search for negotiable skills, will summon him under White-
hall, to observe him in his trances across the blue baize
fields and the terrible paper gaming, his eyes rolled back
into his head reading old, glyptic old graffiti on his own
sockets. ...
The first few times nothing clicked. The fantasies were
O.K. but belonged to nobody important. But the Firm is
patient, committed to the Long Run as They are, At last,
one proper Sherlock Holmes London evening, the un-
mistakable smell of gas came to Pirate from a dark street
lamp, and out of the fog ahead materialized a giant, organ-
like form. Carefully, black-shod step by step, Pirate ap-
proached the thing. It began to slide forward to meet
him, over the cobblestones slow as a snail, leaving behind
some slime brightness of street-wake that could not have
been from fog. In the space between them was a crossover
point, which Pirate, being a bit faster, reached first. He
reeled back, in horror, back past the pointâbut such
recognitions are not reversible, It was a giant Adenoid. At
least as big as St. Paulâs, and growing hour by hour. Lon-
don, perhaps all England, was in mortal peril!
This lymphatic monster had once blocked the dis-
tinguished pharynx of Lord Blatherard Osmo, who at the
time occupied the Novi Pazar desk at the Foreign Office,
an obscure penance for the previous century of British
policy on the Eastern Question, for on this obscure say
had once hinged the entire fate of Bongos
Nobody knows-where, it inisin thea
Who'd
ever think-it, could start-aupbeneienet
Each Montenegran, and Serbian too,
|
Waitinâ for some-thing, right outa the blueâoh honey
Pack up my Glad-stone, ânâ brush off my suit,
And then light me up my bigfat, cigarâ
If ya want my address, itâs
That O-ri-ent Express,
fâ
To the san-jak of No-vi Pa-zarl
Chorus line of quite nubile young women| naughtily at-
â
tired in Busbies and jackboots dance around for a bit here â
Beyond the Zero
17
while in another quarter Lord Blatherard Osmo proceeds
to get assimilated by his own growing Adenoid, some hor-
rible transformation of cell plasma it is quite beyond
Edwardian medicine to explain . . . before long, tophats are
littering the squares of Mayfair, cheap perfume hanging
ownerless in the pub lights of the East End as the Adenoid
_
continues on its rampage, not swallowing up its victims at
- random, no, the fiendish Adenoid has a master plan, itâs
_
choosing only certain personalities useful to itâthere is a
new election, a new preterition abroad in England here
that throws the Home Office into hysterical and painful
episodes of indecision...no one knows what to do...a
halfhearted attempt is made to evacuate London, black
»
â phaetons clatter in massive ant-cortege over the trusswork
__
bridges, observer balloons are stationed in the sky, âGot it
in Hampstead Heath, just sitting breathing, like... going
in, and out...â âAny sort of sound down there?â âYes, itâs
horrible . . . like a stupendous nose sucking in snot... wait,
now itâs... beginning to...oh, no...oh, God, I can't
describe it, itâs so beastââ the wire is snapped, the trans-
mission ends, the balloon rises into the teal-blue daybreak.
Teams come down from the Cavendish Laboratory, to
_ string the Heath with huge magnets, electric-arc terminals,
black iron control panels full of gauges and cranks, the
Army shows up in full battle gear with bombs full of the
_ latest deadly gasâthe Adenoid is blasted, electric-shocked,
poisoned, changes color and shape here and there, yellow
fat-nodes appear high over the trees... before the flash-
_ powder cameras of the Press, a hideous green pseudopod
\ crawls toward the cordon of troops and suddenly sshhlop!
_
Wipes out an entire observation post with a deluge of
Some disgusting orange mucus in which the unfortunate
men are digestedânot screaming but actually laughing,
4 enjoying themselves. ...
__ Pirate/Osmoâs mission is to establish liaison with the
Adenoid. The situation is now stable, the Adenoid oc-
_ cupies all of St. Jamesâs, the historic buildings are no more,
_ Government offices have been relocated, but so dispersed
that communication among them is highly uncertainâ
_
postmen are being snatched off of their rounds by stiff-
pimpled Adenoid tentacles of fluorescent beige, telegraph
_ wires are apt to go down at any whim of the Adenoid.
_ Each morning Lord Blatherard Osmo must put on his
The Adenoid of St. James
- A sentient, monstrous Adenoid begins a selective rampage across London, consuming specific personalities according to a mysterious master plan.
- The British military and scientific community fail to destroy the creature using magnets, electricity, or poison gas, resulting in the digestion of troops who die laughing.
- The creature eventually stabilizes and occupies the St. James district, forcing the relocation of government offices and disrupting national communications.
- Lord Blatherard Osmo is tasked with daily diplomatic liaisons with the Adenoid, leading to the neglect of critical geopolitical interests in Novi Pazar.
- Pirate Prentice is recruited by 'The Firm' to communicate with the creature via a nasal pidgin language while alienists attempt to treat it with massive quantities of cocaine.
Wipes out an entire observation post with a deluge of some disgusting orange mucus in which the unfortunate men are digestedânot screaming but actually laughing, enjoying themselves.
Beyond the Zero
17
while in another quarter Lord Blatherard Osmo proceeds
to get assimilated by his own growing Adenoid, some hor-
rible transformation of cell plasma it is quite beyond
Edwardian medicine to explain . . . before long, tophats are
littering the squares of Mayfair, cheap perfume hanging
ownerless in the pub lights of the East End as the Adenoid
_
continues on its rampage, not swallowing up its victims at
- random, no, the fiendish Adenoid has a master plan, itâs
_
choosing only certain personalities useful to itâthere is a
new election, a new preterition abroad in England here
that throws the Home Office into hysterical and painful
episodes of indecision...no one knows what to do...a
halfhearted attempt is made to evacuate London, black
»
â phaetons clatter in massive ant-cortege over the trusswork
__
bridges, observer balloons are stationed in the sky, âGot it
in Hampstead Heath, just sitting breathing, like... going
in, and out...â âAny sort of sound down there?â âYes, itâs
horrible . . . like a stupendous nose sucking in snot... wait,
now itâs... beginning to...oh, no...oh, God, I can't
describe it, itâs so beastââ the wire is snapped, the trans-
mission ends, the balloon rises into the teal-blue daybreak.
Teams come down from the Cavendish Laboratory, to
_ string the Heath with huge magnets, electric-arc terminals,
black iron control panels full of gauges and cranks, the
Army shows up in full battle gear with bombs full of the
_ latest deadly gasâthe Adenoid is blasted, electric-shocked,
poisoned, changes color and shape here and there, yellow
fat-nodes appear high over the trees... before the flash-
_ powder cameras of the Press, a hideous green pseudopod
\ crawls toward the cordon of troops and suddenly sshhlop!
_
Wipes out an entire observation post with a deluge of
Some disgusting orange mucus in which the unfortunate
men are digestedânot screaming but actually laughing,
4 enjoying themselves. ...
__ Pirate/Osmoâs mission is to establish liaison with the
Adenoid. The situation is now stable, the Adenoid oc-
_ cupies all of St. Jamesâs, the historic buildings are no more,
_ Government offices have been relocated, but so dispersed
that communication among them is highly uncertainâ
_
postmen are being snatched off of their rounds by stiff-
pimpled Adenoid tentacles of fluorescent beige, telegraph
_ wires are apt to go down at any whim of the Adenoid.
_ Each morning Lord Blatherard Osmo must put on his
18
Gravityâs Rainsow
bowler, and take his briefcase out to the Adenoid to make
his daily dĂ©marche. It is taking up so much of his time heâs
begun to neglect Novi Pazar, and F.O, is worried. In the
thirties balance-of-power thinking was still quite strong,
the diplomats were all down with Balkanosis, spies with
foreign hybrid names lurked in all the stations of the
Ottoman rump, code messages in a dozen Slavic tongues
were being tattooed on bare upper lips over which the
operatives then grew mustaches, to be shaved off only by
authorized crypto officers and skin then grafted over the
messages by the Firmsâ plastic surgeons... their lips were
palimpsests of secret flesh, scarred and unnaturally white,
by which they all knew each other,
Novi Pazar, anyhow, was still a croix mystique on the
palm of Europe, and F.O. finally decided to go to the
Firm for help. The Firm knew just the man.
Every day for 24% years, Pirate went out to visit the St.
James Adenoid. It nearly drove him crazy. Though he was
able to develop a pidgin by which he and the Adenoid
could
communicate,
unfortunately
he wasnât
nasally
equipped to make the sounds too well, and it got to be
an awful chore. As the two of them snuffled back and
forth, alienists in black seven-button suits, admirers of
Dr, Freud the Adenoid clearly had no use for, stood on
stepladders up against its loathsome grayish flank shovel-
ing the new wonderdrug cocaineâbringing hods full of
the white substance, in relays, up the ladders to smear on
the throbbing glandcreature, and into the germ toxins
bubbling nastily inside its crypts, with no visible effects at
all (though who knows how that Adenoid felt, eh?).
But Lord Blatherard Osmo was able at last to devote all of
his time to Novi Pazar. Early in 1939, he was discovered
mysteriously suffocated in a bathtub full of tapioca pud-
ding, at the home of a Certain Viscountess. Some have
seen in this the hand of the Firm. Months passed, World
War II started, years passed, nothing was heard from
Novi Pazar. Pirate Prentice had saved Europe from the
Balkan Armageddon the old men dreamed of, giddy in
their beds with its grandeurâthough not from World War
II, of course. But by then, the Firm was allowing Pirate
only tiny homeopathic doses of peace, just enough to keep. :
his defenses up, but not enough for it to ies him.
The Bureaucracy of War
- Lord Blatherard Osmo dies a bizarre death in a bathtub of tapioca pudding, ending his obsession with Novi Pazar.
- Pirate Prentice is kept in a state of perpetual readiness by the Firm, receiving only small doses of peace to maintain his defenses.
- Teddy Bloat infiltrates a gray stone townhouse near Grosvenor Square on a clandestine mission during his lunch hour.
- The setting is ACHTUNG, a subdivided warren of offices where bureaucrats diligently plot death amidst a atmosphere of desperation and stale smoke.
- Bloat targets the shared office of Tantivy Mucker-Maffick and Tyrone Slothrop, noting the extreme contrast between their organizational habits.
- The office environment is described as a 'paper warren' with typewriters standing like grave markers under merciless yellow light.
It is the dark, hard, tobacco-starved, headachy, sour-stomach middle of the day, a million bureaucrats are diligently plotting death and some of them even know it.
18
Gravityâs Rainsow
bowler, and take his briefcase out to the Adenoid to make
his daily dĂ©marche. It is taking up so much of his time heâs
begun to neglect Novi Pazar, and F.O, is worried. In the
thirties balance-of-power thinking was still quite strong,
the diplomats were all down with Balkanosis, spies with
foreign hybrid names lurked in all the stations of the
Ottoman rump, code messages in a dozen Slavic tongues
were being tattooed on bare upper lips over which the
operatives then grew mustaches, to be shaved off only by
authorized crypto officers and skin then grafted over the
messages by the Firmsâ plastic surgeons... their lips were
palimpsests of secret flesh, scarred and unnaturally white,
by which they all knew each other,
Novi Pazar, anyhow, was still a croix mystique on the
palm of Europe, and F.O. finally decided to go to the
Firm for help. The Firm knew just the man.
Every day for 24% years, Pirate went out to visit the St.
James Adenoid. It nearly drove him crazy. Though he was
able to develop a pidgin by which he and the Adenoid
could
communicate,
unfortunately
he wasnât
nasally
equipped to make the sounds too well, and it got to be
an awful chore. As the two of them snuffled back and
forth, alienists in black seven-button suits, admirers of
Dr, Freud the Adenoid clearly had no use for, stood on
stepladders up against its loathsome grayish flank shovel-
ing the new wonderdrug cocaineâbringing hods full of
the white substance, in relays, up the ladders to smear on
the throbbing glandcreature, and into the germ toxins
bubbling nastily inside its crypts, with no visible effects at
all (though who knows how that Adenoid felt, eh?).
But Lord Blatherard Osmo was able at last to devote all of
his time to Novi Pazar. Early in 1939, he was discovered
mysteriously suffocated in a bathtub full of tapioca pud-
ding, at the home of a Certain Viscountess. Some have
seen in this the hand of the Firm. Months passed, World
War II started, years passed, nothing was heard from
Novi Pazar. Pirate Prentice had saved Europe from the
Balkan Armageddon the old men dreamed of, giddy in
their beds with its grandeurâthough not from World War
II, of course. But by then, the Firm was allowing Pirate
only tiny homeopathic doses of peace, just enough to keep. :
his defenses up, but not enough for it to ies him.
Beyond the Zero
19
3
O
Teddy Bloatâs on his lunch hour, but lunch todayâll be, ack,
a soggy banana sandwich in wax paper, which heâs pack-
ing inside
his stylish kangaroohide musette bag and
âthreaded around the odd necessitiesâmidget spy-camera,
jar of mustache wax, tin of licorice, menthol and capsicum
Meloids for a Mellow Voice, gold-rim prescription sun-
glasses General MacArthur style, twin silver hairbrushes
each in the shape of the flaming SHAEF sword, which
Mother had Garrardâs make up for him and which he con-
siders exquisite.
His objective this dripping winter noon is a gray stone
- town house, neither large nor historic enough to figure in
any guidebook, set back just out of sight of Grosvenor
_ Square, somewhat off the official war-routes and corridors
about the capital. When the typewriters happen to pause
_
(8:20 and other mythical hours), and there are no flights of
_ American bombers in the sky, and the motor trafficâs not
too heavy in Oxford Street, you can hear winter birds
_ cheeping outside, busy at the feeders the girls have put up.
_Flagstones are slippery with mist. It is the dark, hard,
_ tobacco-starved, headachy, sour-stomach middle of the
_ day, a million bureaucrats
are diligently plotting death and
some of them even know it, many about now are already
_ into the second or third pint of highball glass, which pro-
_ duces a certain desperate aura here. But Bloat, going in
_ the sandbagged entrance (provisional pyramids erected
to
_ gratify curious godsâ offspring indeed), canât feel a bit of
it: heâs too busy running through plausible excuses should
he happen to get caught, not that he will, you know. ...
_ Girl at the main desk, gumpopping, good-natured be-
spectacled ATS, waves him on upstairs. Damp woolen
â aides on the way to staff meetings, W.C.s, an hour or two
of earnest drinking, nod, not âreally seeing him, heâs a
well-known face, whatâsâisnameâs mate, Oxford chums
aren't they, that lieutenant works down the hall at
ACHTUNG. ...
!
___ The old house has been subdivided by the slummakers
of war. ACHTUNG is Allied Clearing House, Technical
Bes
20
Gravityâs RAINBOW
Units, Northern Germany. Itâs a stale-smoke paper warren,
at the moment nearly deserted, its black typewriters tall
as grave markers. The floor is filthy lino, there are no
windows:
the electric light is yellow, cheap, merciless.
Bloat looks into the office assigned to his old Jesus College
friend, Lt. Oliver (âTantivyâ) Mucker-Maffick. No oneâs
about. Tantivy and the Yank are both at lunch. Good. Out
wiv the old camera then, on with the gooseneck lamp, now
aim the reflector just so...
\ There must be cubicles like this all over the ETO: only
the three dingy scuffed-cream fiberboard walls and no
ceiling of its own. Tantivy shares it with an American
colleague, Lt. Tyrone Slothrop. Their desks are at right
angles, so thereâs no eye contact but by squeaking around
some go°. Tantivyâs desk is neat, Slothropâs is a godawful
mess. It hasnât been cleaned down to the original wood
surface since 1942. Things have fallen roughly into layers,
over a base of bureaucratic smegma that sifts steadily to
the bottom, made up of millions of tiny red and brown
curls of rubber eraser, pencil shavings, dried tea or coffee
stains, traces of sugar and Household Milk, much cigarette
~
ash, very fine black debris picked and flung from type-
writer ribbons, decomposing library paste, broken aspirins
ground to powder. Then comes a scatter of paperclips,
Zippo flints, rubber bands, staples; cigarette butts and
crumpled packs, stray matches, pins, nubs of pens, stubs of
pencils of all colors including the hard-to-get heliotrope
and raw umber, wooden coffee spoons, Thayer's Slippery
Elm Throat Lozenges sent by Slothropâs mother, Nalline,
all the way from Massachusetts, bits of tape, string, chalk
... above that a layer of forgotten memoranda, empty buff
ration books, phone numbers, unanswered letters, tattered
sheets of carbon paper, the scribbled ukulele chords to a
dozen songs including âJohnny Doughboy Found a Rose
|
in Irelandâ (âHe does have some rather snappy arrange-
ments,â Tantivy reports, âheâs a sort of American George
Formby, if you can imagine such a thing,â but Bloatâs de-
cided heâd rather not), an empty Kreml hair tonic bottle,
lost pieces to different jigsaw puzzles showing parts of the
amber left eye of a Weimaraner, the green velvet folds of
a gown, slate-blue veining in a.
distant cloud, the orange
nimbus of an explosion (perhaps a sunpeHp rivets in the.
j
The Stratigraphy of Slothrop's Desk
- A detailed inventory of Slothrop's desk reveals a chaotic accumulation of office debris, personal effects, and fragments of a fragmented life.
- The physical clutter includes everything from typewriter ribbon debris and broken aspirins to jigsaw puzzle pieces depicting disparate, violent, or erotic imagery.
- Bloat clandestinely photographs a map of London on Slothrop's wall, using a bag of bananas to muffle the sound of his camera.
- The map is covered in a 'firmament' of multicolored gummed stars, each labeled with a woman's name and scattered across the city's geography.
- Observers like Bloat and Tantivy are uncertain if the stars represent real romantic conquests or a random, private obsession.
- The timing of the map's creation coincides with Slothrop's official duties investigating rocket-bomb disaster sites for ACHTUNG.
The stars tacked up on Slothropâs map cover the available spectrum, beginning with silver (labeled âDarleneâ) sharing a constellation with Gladys, green, and Katharine, gold, and as the eye strays Alice, Delores, Shirley, a couple of Sallysâmostly red and blue through hereâa cluster near Tower Hill, a violet density about Covent Garden, a nebular streaming on into Mayfair, Soho, and out to Wembley and to Hampstead Heathâin every direction goes this multicolored, here and there peeling firmament, Marias, Annes, Susans, Elizabeths.
20
Gravityâs RAINBOW
Units, Northern Germany. Itâs a stale-smoke paper warren,
at the moment nearly deserted, its black typewriters tall
as grave markers. The floor is filthy lino, there are no
windows:
the electric light is yellow, cheap, merciless.
Bloat looks into the office assigned to his old Jesus College
friend, Lt. Oliver (âTantivyâ) Mucker-Maffick. No oneâs
about. Tantivy and the Yank are both at lunch. Good. Out
wiv the old camera then, on with the gooseneck lamp, now
aim the reflector just so...
\ There must be cubicles like this all over the ETO: only
the three dingy scuffed-cream fiberboard walls and no
ceiling of its own. Tantivy shares it with an American
colleague, Lt. Tyrone Slothrop. Their desks are at right
angles, so thereâs no eye contact but by squeaking around
some go°. Tantivyâs desk is neat, Slothropâs is a godawful
mess. It hasnât been cleaned down to the original wood
surface since 1942. Things have fallen roughly into layers,
over a base of bureaucratic smegma that sifts steadily to
the bottom, made up of millions of tiny red and brown
curls of rubber eraser, pencil shavings, dried tea or coffee
stains, traces of sugar and Household Milk, much cigarette
~
ash, very fine black debris picked and flung from type-
writer ribbons, decomposing library paste, broken aspirins
ground to powder. Then comes a scatter of paperclips,
Zippo flints, rubber bands, staples; cigarette butts and
crumpled packs, stray matches, pins, nubs of pens, stubs of
pencils of all colors including the hard-to-get heliotrope
and raw umber, wooden coffee spoons, Thayer's Slippery
Elm Throat Lozenges sent by Slothropâs mother, Nalline,
all the way from Massachusetts, bits of tape, string, chalk
... above that a layer of forgotten memoranda, empty buff
ration books, phone numbers, unanswered letters, tattered
sheets of carbon paper, the scribbled ukulele chords to a
dozen songs including âJohnny Doughboy Found a Rose
|
in Irelandâ (âHe does have some rather snappy arrange-
ments,â Tantivy reports, âheâs a sort of American George
Formby, if you can imagine such a thing,â but Bloatâs de-
cided heâd rather not), an empty Kreml hair tonic bottle,
lost pieces to different jigsaw puzzles showing parts of the
amber left eye of a Weimaraner, the green velvet folds of
a gown, slate-blue veining in a.
distant cloud, the orange
nimbus of an explosion (perhaps a sunpeHp rivets in the.
j
Beyond the Zeroâ
an
skin of a Flying Fortress, the pink inner thigh of a pout-
ing pin-up girl...a few old Weekly. Intelligence Sum-
maries from G-2, a busted corkscrewing ukulele string,
boxes of gummed paper stars in many colors, pieces of a
flashlight, top to a Nugget shoe polish can in which Slo-
throp now and then studies his blurry brass reflection, any
number of reference books out of the ACHTUNG library
back down the hallâa dictionary of technical German,
an F.O, Special Handbook or Town Planâand usually,
unless itâs been pinched or thrown away, a News of the
World somewhere tooâSlothropâs a faithful reader.
_
Tacked to the wall next to Slothropâs desk is a map of
London, which Bloat is now busy photographing with his
tiny camera, The musette bag is open, and the cubicle
begins to fill with the smell of ripe bananas. Should he
light a fag to cover this? air doesnât exactly stir in here,
_ they'll know someoneâs been in. It takes him four ex-
oii click zippety click, my how very efficient at this
âs becomeâanyone nips in one simply drops camera
into bag where banana-sandwich cushions fall, telltale
sound and harmful G-loads alike.
__ Too bad whoeverâs funding this little caper wonât spring
_ for color film. Bloat wonders if it mightnât make a differ-
-
ence, though he knows of no one he can ask. The stars
: heen up on Slothropâs map cover the available spectrum,
fs
ning with silver (labeled âDarleneâ) sharing a con-
_
Stellation with Gladys, green, and Katharine, gold, and as
the eye strays Alice, Delores, Shirley, a couple of Sallysâ
mostly red and blue through hereâa cluster near Tower
\ Hill, a violet density about Covent Garden, a nebular
_ Streaming on into Mayfair, Soho, and out to Wembley and
ee
to Hampstead Heathâin every direction goes this
, multicolored, here and there peeling firmament,
» Marias, Annes, Susans, Elizabeths.
__
But perhaps the colors are only random, uncoded, Per-
the girls are not even real, From Tantivy, over weeks
_ of casual questions (we know heâs your schoolmate but itâs
too risky bringing him in), Bloatâs only able to report that
slothrop began work on this map last autumn, about the
ime
he started going out to look at rocket-bomb disasters
or ACHTUNGâhaving evidently the time, in his travels
âamong
places of death, to devote to girl-chasing, If thereâs
22
Gravityâs RAINBOW
a reason for putting up the paper stars every few days the
man hasnât explained itâit doesnât seem to be for pub-
licity, Tantivyâs the only one who even glances at the map
and thatâs more in the spirit of an amiable anthropologistâ
âSome sort of harmless Yank hobby,â he tells his friend
Bloat. âPerhaps itâs to keep track of them all. He does lead
rather a complicated social life,â thereupon going into the
story of Lorraine and Judy, Charles the homosexual con-
stable and the piano in the pantechnicon, or the bizarre
masquerade involving Gloria and her nubile mother, a
quid wager on the BlackpoolâPreston North End game, a
naughty version of âSilent Night,â and a providential fog.
But none of these yarns, for the purposes of those Bloat
reports to, are really very illuminating. ...
Well. Heâs done now. Bag zipped, lamp off and moved
back in place. Perhaps thereâs time to catch Tantivy over
at the Snipe and Shaft, time for a comradely pint. He
moves back down the beaverboard maze, in the weak
yellow light, against a tide of incoming girls in galoshes,
aloof Bloat unsmiling, no time for slap-and-tickle here you
see, he still has his dayâs delivery to make. ...
O
Wind has shifted around to the southwest, and the barom-
eterâs falling. The early afternoon is already dark as eve-
ning, under the massing rainclouds. Tyrone Slothrop is
gonna be caught out in it, too. Today itâs been a long, idiot
chase out to zero longitude, with the usual nothing to
show. This one was supposed to be another premature
airburst, the lumps of burning rocket showering down for
miles around, most of it into the river, only one piece in
any kind of shape and that well surrounded, by the time
Slothrop arrived, with the tightest security heâs seen yet,
and the least friendly. Soft, faded berets against the slate
clouds, Mark III Stens set on automatic, mustaches mouth-
wide covering enormous upper lips, humorlessâno chance
for any American lieutenant to get a look, not today.
~
ACHTUNG, anyhow, is the poor relative of Allied in-
telligence. At least this time Slothropâs not
alone, heâs had
the cold comfort of seeing his opposite number from T.L.,
Slothrop's Last Rocket Hunt
- Bloat dismisses Slothropâs map-making as a harmless American hobby, masking the true complexity of Slothrop's social and sexual life.
- Slothrop attempts to investigate a rocket airburst at zero longitude but is blocked by humorless, high-security British guards.
- A mysterious charred graphite cylinder containing papers is recovered from the crash site and whisked away by a formidable S.O.E. captain.
- The intelligence agency ACHTUNG is depicted as a marginalized 'poor relative' of Allied intelligence, frequently ignored by more powerful branches like S.O.E.
- Slothrop receives orders for a temporary reassignment to a hospital for the 'P.W.E. Testing Programme,' signaling an end to his routine rocket-hunting.
- Despite the bureaucratic friction and the mystery of the cylinder, Slothrop feels a sense of weary detachment from his mission.
Soft, faded berets against the slate clouds, Mark III Stens set on automatic, mustaches mouth-wide covering enormous upper lips, humorlessâno chance for any American lieutenant to get a look, not today.
22
Gravityâs RAINBOW
a reason for putting up the paper stars every few days the
man hasnât explained itâit doesnât seem to be for pub-
licity, Tantivyâs the only one who even glances at the map
and thatâs more in the spirit of an amiable anthropologistâ
âSome sort of harmless Yank hobby,â he tells his friend
Bloat. âPerhaps itâs to keep track of them all. He does lead
rather a complicated social life,â thereupon going into the
story of Lorraine and Judy, Charles the homosexual con-
stable and the piano in the pantechnicon, or the bizarre
masquerade involving Gloria and her nubile mother, a
quid wager on the BlackpoolâPreston North End game, a
naughty version of âSilent Night,â and a providential fog.
But none of these yarns, for the purposes of those Bloat
reports to, are really very illuminating. ...
Well. Heâs done now. Bag zipped, lamp off and moved
back in place. Perhaps thereâs time to catch Tantivy over
at the Snipe and Shaft, time for a comradely pint. He
moves back down the beaverboard maze, in the weak
yellow light, against a tide of incoming girls in galoshes,
aloof Bloat unsmiling, no time for slap-and-tickle here you
see, he still has his dayâs delivery to make. ...
O
Wind has shifted around to the southwest, and the barom-
eterâs falling. The early afternoon is already dark as eve-
ning, under the massing rainclouds. Tyrone Slothrop is
gonna be caught out in it, too. Today itâs been a long, idiot
chase out to zero longitude, with the usual nothing to
show. This one was supposed to be another premature
airburst, the lumps of burning rocket showering down for
miles around, most of it into the river, only one piece in
any kind of shape and that well surrounded, by the time
Slothrop arrived, with the tightest security heâs seen yet,
and the least friendly. Soft, faded berets against the slate
clouds, Mark III Stens set on automatic, mustaches mouth-
wide covering enormous upper lips, humorlessâno chance
for any American lieutenant to get a look, not today.
~
ACHTUNG, anyhow, is the poor relative of Allied in-
telligence. At least this time Slothropâs not
alone, heâs had
the cold comfort of seeing his opposite number from T.L.,
.
;
Beyond the Zero
23
and shortly after that even the manâs section chief, come
_ fussing onto the scene in a â37 Wolseley Wasp, both
turned back too. Ha! Neither of them returning Slothropâs
-
amiable nod. Tough shit, fellas, But shrewd Tyrone hangs
around, distributing Lucky Strikes, long enough to find at
least whatâs up with this Unlucky Strike, here.
What it is is a graphite cylinder, about six inches long
\
and two in diameter, all but a few flakes of its Army-green
-
paint charred away. Only piece that survived the burst.
Evidently it was meant
to. There seem to be papers
stashed inside. Sergeant-major burned his hand picking it
up and was heard to holler Oh fuck, causing laughter
'
among
the lower paygrades.
Everybody
was
waiting
around for a Captain Prentice from S.0.E. (those prickly
bastards take their time about everything), who does
_
presently show up. Slothrop gets a glimpseâwindburned
__ face, big mean mother. Prentice takes the cylinder, drives
away, and thatâs that.
In which case, Slothrop reckons, ACHTUNG can, a bit
_
wearily, submit its fifty-millionth interbranch request to
.
that S.0.E., asking for some report on the cylinderâs con-
tents, and, as usual, be ignored. Itâs O.K., heâs not bitter,
_ §.0.E. ignores everybody, and everybody ignores ACH-
_' TUNG. A-and what does it matter, anyhow? Itâs his last
_ rocket for a while, Hopefully for good.
This morning in his iv basket were orders sending him
a TDY some hospital out in the East End. No explanation
_
beyond an attached carbon copy of a note to ACHTUNG
__ Tequesting his reassignment âas part of the P.W.E. Testing
_ Programme.â Testing? P.W.E. is Political Warfare Execu-
_ tive, he looked that up. Some more of that Minnesota
-Multiphasic shit, no doubt. But it will be a change from
__ this rocket-hunting foutine, which is*beginning to get a
little old.
__.
Once upon a time Slothrop cared. No kidding. He thinks
he did, anyway. A lot of stuff prior to 1944 is getting
_ blurry now. He can remember the first Blitz only as a
_ tong spell of good luck. Nothing that Luftwaffe dropped
came near him. But this last summer they started in with
those buzzbombs. Youâd be walking on the street, in bed
_ just dozing off suddenly here comes this farting sound
_ over the rooftopsâif it just keeps on, rising to a peak
i)
a
The Terror of Rockets
- Slothrop reflects on the psychological shift from the predictable buzzbombs to the silent, terrifying arrival of V-2 rockets.
- The constant threat of death leads to increased drinking, chain-smoking, and a pervasive sense of paranoia.
- Despite the chaos of war, Slothrop finds a reliable anchor in his friendship with the kind and patient Tantivy Mucker-Maffick.
- Slothrop maintains a secret map of London marked with colored stars representing his various romantic encounters.
- The narrative explores the blurred lines between civilian and military life in a city under constant bombardment.
- A chance encounter at the Frick Frack Club triggers Slothrop's paranoia when two of his 'stars' appear together in a suspicious coincidence.
But then last September the rockets came, Them fucking rockets. You couldnât adjust to the bastards. No way.
.
;
Beyond the Zero
23
and shortly after that even the manâs section chief, come
_ fussing onto the scene in a â37 Wolseley Wasp, both
turned back too. Ha! Neither of them returning Slothropâs
-
amiable nod. Tough shit, fellas, But shrewd Tyrone hangs
around, distributing Lucky Strikes, long enough to find at
least whatâs up with this Unlucky Strike, here.
What it is is a graphite cylinder, about six inches long
\
and two in diameter, all but a few flakes of its Army-green
-
paint charred away. Only piece that survived the burst.
Evidently it was meant
to. There seem to be papers
stashed inside. Sergeant-major burned his hand picking it
up and was heard to holler Oh fuck, causing laughter
'
among
the lower paygrades.
Everybody
was
waiting
around for a Captain Prentice from S.0.E. (those prickly
bastards take their time about everything), who does
_
presently show up. Slothrop gets a glimpseâwindburned
__ face, big mean mother. Prentice takes the cylinder, drives
away, and thatâs that.
In which case, Slothrop reckons, ACHTUNG can, a bit
_
wearily, submit its fifty-millionth interbranch request to
.
that S.0.E., asking for some report on the cylinderâs con-
tents, and, as usual, be ignored. Itâs O.K., heâs not bitter,
_ §.0.E. ignores everybody, and everybody ignores ACH-
_' TUNG. A-and what does it matter, anyhow? Itâs his last
_ rocket for a while, Hopefully for good.
This morning in his iv basket were orders sending him
a TDY some hospital out in the East End. No explanation
_
beyond an attached carbon copy of a note to ACHTUNG
__ Tequesting his reassignment âas part of the P.W.E. Testing
_ Programme.â Testing? P.W.E. is Political Warfare Execu-
_ tive, he looked that up. Some more of that Minnesota
-Multiphasic shit, no doubt. But it will be a change from
__ this rocket-hunting foutine, which is*beginning to get a
little old.
__.
Once upon a time Slothrop cared. No kidding. He thinks
he did, anyway. A lot of stuff prior to 1944 is getting
_ blurry now. He can remember the first Blitz only as a
_ tong spell of good luck. Nothing that Luftwaffe dropped
came near him. But this last summer they started in with
those buzzbombs. Youâd be walking on the street, in bed
_ just dozing off suddenly here comes this farting sound
_ over the rooftopsâif it just keeps on, rising to a peak
i)
a
24
Gravity's Ramnsow
and passing over why thatâs fine, then itâs somebody elseâs
worry... but if the engine cuts off, look out Jacksonâitâs
begun its dive, sloshing the fuel aft, away, from the en-
gine burner, and youâve got 10 seconds to get under some-
thing. Well, it wasnât really too bad. After a while you
adjustedâfound yourself making small bets, a shilling or
two, with Tantivy Mucker-Maffick at the next desk, about
where the next doodle would hit. ...
But then last September the rockets came, Them fucking
rockets. You couldnât adjust to the bastards. No way. For
the first time, he was surprised to find that he was really
scared. Began drinking heavier, sleeping less, chain-smok-
ing, feeling in some way heâd been taken for a sucker.
Christ, it wasnât supposed to keep on like this... .
âTI say Slothrop, youâve already got one in your mouthââ
âNervous,â Slothrop lighting up anyway.
âWell not mine,â Tantivy pleads...
âTwo at a time, see?â making them point down like
comicbook
fangs. The lieutenants
stare at each other
through the beery shadows, with the day deepening out-
side the high cold windows of the Snipe and Shaft, and
Tantivy about to laugh or snort oh God across the wood
Atlantic of their table.
Atlantics aplenty thereâve been these three years, often
rougher than the one William, the first transatlantic Slo-
throp, crossed many ancestors ago. Barbarities of dress and
speech, lapses in behaviorâone horrible evening drunken
Slothrop, Tantivyâs guest at the Junior Athenaeum, got
them both 86âd feinting with the beak of a stuffed owl after
the jugular of DeCoverley Pox whilst Pox, at bay on a
billiard table, attempted to ram a cue ball down Slo-
thropâs throat. This sort of thing goes on dismayingly often:
yet kindness is a sturdy enough ship for these oceans,
Tantivy always there blushing or smiling and Slothrop
surprised at how, when itâs really counted, Tantivy hasn't
ever let him down.
He knows he can spill whatâs on his mind. It hasnt
much to do with todayâs amorous report on Norma (dimply
Cedar Rapids subdeb legs), Marjorie (tall, elegant, a build
out of the chorus line at the Windmill) and the strange
events Saturday night at the Frick Frack Club in Soho, a
-haunt of low reputation with moving spotlights of many
Beyond the Zero
25
pastel hues, oFF Limits and NO JITTERBUG DANCING signs
laid on to satisfy the many sorts of police, military and
civilian, whatever âcivilianâ means nowadays, who look in
from time to time, and where against all chance, through
some horrible secret plot, Slothrop, who was to meet one,
walks in sees who but both, lined up in a row, the angle
deliberately just for him, over the blue wool shoulder of
an engineman 3rd class, under the bare lovely armpit of a
lindy-hopping girl swung and posed, skin stained lavender
by the shifting light just there, and then, paranoia flooding
up, the two faces beginning to turn his way....
Both young ladies happen to be silver stars on Slothropâs
map. He mustâve been feeling silvery both timesâshiny,
_
jingling. The stars he pastes up are colored only to go with
how he feels that day, blue on up to golden. Never to rank
_a single oneâhow can he? Nobody sees the map but
_ Tantivy, and Christ they're all beautiful...in leaf or
flower around his wintering city, in teashops, in the queues
babushkaed and coatwrapped, sighing, sneezing, all lisle
legs on the curbstones, hitchhiking, typing or filing with
-pompadours sprouting yellow pencils, he finds themâ
dames, tomatoes, sweater girlsâyes it is a little obsessive
maybe but ... âI know there is wilde love and joy enough
in the world,â preached Thomas Hooker, âas there are
wilde Thyme, and other herbes; but we would have
garden love, and garden joy, of Gods owne planting.â How
Slothropâs garden grows. Teems with virginâs-bower, with
forget-me-nots, with rueâand all over the place, purple
and yellow
as hickeys; a prevalence of love-in-idleness.
He likes to tell them about fireflies, English girls donât
know about fireflies, which is about all Slothrop knows for
sure about English girls.
âThe map does puzzle Tantivy. It cannot be put down
to the usual loud-mouthed American ass-banditry, except
as a fraternity-boy reflex in a vacuum, a reflex Slothrop
canât help, barking on into an empty lab, into a worm-
_holing of echoing hallways, long after the need has van-
_
ished and the brothers gone to WW II and their chances
for death. Slothrop really doesnât like to talk about his
girls: Tantivy has to steer him diplomatically, even now.
_ At first Slothrop, quaintly gentlemanly, didnât talk at all,
till he found out how shy Tantivy was. It dawned on him
Slothrop's Map and Shivers
- Tyrone Slothrop maintains a meticulous map of his sexual conquests in London, which puzzles his colleague Tantivy.
- The map serves as a way for Slothrop to preserve fleeting moments of human connection amidst the cold and the threat of aerial demolition.
- Tantivy realizes Slothrop's isolation, noting that despite his many encounters, he has no one else to talk to in the city.
- Slothrop experiences a sudden, uncontrollable shivering fit that is not caused by the ambient temperature.
- The conversation shifts to the terrifying nature of the V-2 rockets, which travel faster than sound and strike before they can be heard.
- Tantivy attempts to comfort Slothrop by comparing the rockets to giant bullets, though the existential dread of the 'silent' strike remains.
But these things explode first, a-and then you hear them coming in. Except that, if youâre dead, you donât hear them.
Beyond the Zero
25
pastel hues, oFF Limits and NO JITTERBUG DANCING signs
laid on to satisfy the many sorts of police, military and
civilian, whatever âcivilianâ means nowadays, who look in
from time to time, and where against all chance, through
some horrible secret plot, Slothrop, who was to meet one,
walks in sees who but both, lined up in a row, the angle
deliberately just for him, over the blue wool shoulder of
an engineman 3rd class, under the bare lovely armpit of a
lindy-hopping girl swung and posed, skin stained lavender
by the shifting light just there, and then, paranoia flooding
up, the two faces beginning to turn his way....
Both young ladies happen to be silver stars on Slothropâs
map. He mustâve been feeling silvery both timesâshiny,
_
jingling. The stars he pastes up are colored only to go with
how he feels that day, blue on up to golden. Never to rank
_a single oneâhow can he? Nobody sees the map but
_ Tantivy, and Christ they're all beautiful...in leaf or
flower around his wintering city, in teashops, in the queues
babushkaed and coatwrapped, sighing, sneezing, all lisle
legs on the curbstones, hitchhiking, typing or filing with
-pompadours sprouting yellow pencils, he finds themâ
dames, tomatoes, sweater girlsâyes it is a little obsessive
maybe but ... âI know there is wilde love and joy enough
in the world,â preached Thomas Hooker, âas there are
wilde Thyme, and other herbes; but we would have
garden love, and garden joy, of Gods owne planting.â How
Slothropâs garden grows. Teems with virginâs-bower, with
forget-me-nots, with rueâand all over the place, purple
and yellow
as hickeys; a prevalence of love-in-idleness.
He likes to tell them about fireflies, English girls donât
know about fireflies, which is about all Slothrop knows for
sure about English girls.
âThe map does puzzle Tantivy. It cannot be put down
to the usual loud-mouthed American ass-banditry, except
as a fraternity-boy reflex in a vacuum, a reflex Slothrop
canât help, barking on into an empty lab, into a worm-
_holing of echoing hallways, long after the need has van-
_
ished and the brothers gone to WW II and their chances
for death. Slothrop really doesnât like to talk about his
girls: Tantivy has to steer him diplomatically, even now.
_ At first Slothrop, quaintly gentlemanly, didnât talk at all,
till he found out how shy Tantivy was. It dawned on him
26
Gravityâs RAInBOow
then that Tantivy was looking to be fixed up. At about the
same time, Tantivy began to see the extent of Slothropâs
isolation. He seemed to have no one else in London, beyond
a multitude of girls he seldom saw again, to talk to about
anything.
Still Slothrop keeps his map up daily, boobishly con-
scientious. At its best, it does celebrate a flow, a passing
from whichâamong the sudden demolitions from the sky,
mysterious orders arriving out of the dark laborings of
nights that for himself are only idleâhe can save a moment
here or there, the days again growing colder, frost in the
morning, the feeling of Jenniferâs breasts inside cold sweat-
erâs wool held to warm a bit in a coal-smoke hallway he'll
never know the daytime despondency of... cup of Bovril
a fraction down from boiling searing his bare knee as
Irene, naked as he is in a block of glass sunlight, holds up
precious nylons one by one to find a pair that hasnât lad-
dered, each struck flashing by the light through the winter
trellis outside... nasal: hep American-girl voices singing
out of the grooves of some disc up through the thorn
needle of Allisonâs motherâs radiogram... snuggling for
warmth, blackout curtains over all the windows, no light
but the coal of their last cigarette, an English firefly,
bobbing at her whim in cursive writing that trails a bit
behind, words he canât read....
.
âWhat happeried?â Silence from Slothrop. âYour two
Wrens... when they saw you...â then he notices that
Slothrop, instead of going on with his story, has given
himself up to shivering. Has been shivering, in fact, for
some time.
Itâs cold in here, but not that cold. âSlo-
thropââ
âI donât know. Jesus.â Itâs interesting, though. Itâs the
weirdest feeling. He canât stop. He turns his Ike jacket
collar up, tucks hands inside sleeves, and sits that way for
a while,
Presently, after a pause, cigarette in motion, âYou canât
hear them when they come in.â
Tantivy knows which âthey.â His eyes shift away. There
is silence for a bit.
âOf course you canât, they go faster than sound.â
âYes butâthatâs not it,â words are bursting out between
the pulses of shiveringâââthe other kind, those V-1s, you
can hear them. RightP Maybe you have a
chance to get
{
Beyond the Zero
27
out of the way. But these things explode first, a-and then
you hear them coming in. Except that, if youâre dead, you
donât hear them.â
âSame in the infantry. You know that. You never hear
the one that gets you.â
âUh, butââ
âThink of it as a very large bullet, Slothrop. With fins.â
âJesus,â teeth chattering, âyouâre such a comfort.â
Tantivy, leaning anxiously through the smell of hops
and the brown gloom, more worried now about Slothropâs
shaking than any specter of his own, has nothing but
established channels he happens to know of to try and
conjure it away. âWhy not see if we can get you out to
, where some of them have hit. .
âWhat
for? Come:
on, Tuntivy; theyâre completely
destroyed. Arenât they?â
âJ donât know. I doubt even the Germans know. But itâs
the best chance we'll have to one-up that lot over in T.I.
Isn't it.â
Which is how Slothrop got into investigating V-bomb
âincidents.â Aftermaths. Each morningâat firstâsomeone
in Civil Defence routed ACHTUNG a list of yesterdayâs
| hits. It would come round to Slothrop last, heâd detach its
pencil-smeared: buck slip, go draw the same aging Humber
from the motor pool, and make his rounds, a Saint George
after the fact, going out to poke about for droppings of the
Beast, fragments of German hardware that wouldnât exist,
writing empty summaries into his notebooksâwork-ther-
apy. As inputs to ACHTUNG got faster, often heâd show
_ up in time to help the search crewsâfollowing restless-
- muscled RAF dogs into the plaster smell, the gas leaking,
the leaning long splinters and sagging mesh, the prone and
noseless caryatids, rust already at nails and naked thread-
_
surfaces, the powdery wipe of Nothingâs hand across wall-
_ paper awhisper with peacocks spreading their fans down
eueeD lawns to Georgian houses long ago, to safe groves of
holm oak... among the calls for silence following to where
some exposed hand or brightness of skin waited them,
âsurvivor or casualty. When he couldnât help he stayed
clear, praying, at first, conventionally to God, first time
âsince the other Blitz, for life to win out. But too many
were dying, and presently, seeing no point, he stopped.
Yesterday happened to be a good day. They found a
Slothrop's Progress Among Ruins
- Slothrop begins investigating V-bomb impact sites as a form of 'work-therapy' and bureaucratic one-upmanship.
- The search for rocket fragments proves futile, as the destruction is so absolute that no hardware remains to be found.
- A poignant rescue of a young girl from the rubble highlights the emotional toll and the absurdity of survival in the 'secular city.'
- Slothrop develops a growing obsession with the idea of a rocket specifically inscribed with his name.
- The narrative introduces 'operational paranoia' as a psychological response to the invisible, sudden violence of the V-2 strikes.
- Slothrop views the ruins of London as parables on vanity and the indivisible nature of death.
The city around them at once a big desolate icebox, stale-smelling and no surprises inside ever again.
Beyond the Zero
27
out of the way. But these things explode first, a-and then
you hear them coming in. Except that, if youâre dead, you
donât hear them.â
âSame in the infantry. You know that. You never hear
the one that gets you.â
âUh, butââ
âThink of it as a very large bullet, Slothrop. With fins.â
âJesus,â teeth chattering, âyouâre such a comfort.â
Tantivy, leaning anxiously through the smell of hops
and the brown gloom, more worried now about Slothropâs
shaking than any specter of his own, has nothing but
established channels he happens to know of to try and
conjure it away. âWhy not see if we can get you out to
, where some of them have hit. .
âWhat
for? Come:
on, Tuntivy; theyâre completely
destroyed. Arenât they?â
âJ donât know. I doubt even the Germans know. But itâs
the best chance we'll have to one-up that lot over in T.I.
Isn't it.â
Which is how Slothrop got into investigating V-bomb
âincidents.â Aftermaths. Each morningâat firstâsomeone
in Civil Defence routed ACHTUNG a list of yesterdayâs
| hits. It would come round to Slothrop last, heâd detach its
pencil-smeared: buck slip, go draw the same aging Humber
from the motor pool, and make his rounds, a Saint George
after the fact, going out to poke about for droppings of the
Beast, fragments of German hardware that wouldnât exist,
writing empty summaries into his notebooksâwork-ther-
apy. As inputs to ACHTUNG got faster, often heâd show
_ up in time to help the search crewsâfollowing restless-
- muscled RAF dogs into the plaster smell, the gas leaking,
the leaning long splinters and sagging mesh, the prone and
noseless caryatids, rust already at nails and naked thread-
_
surfaces, the powdery wipe of Nothingâs hand across wall-
_ paper awhisper with peacocks spreading their fans down
eueeD lawns to Georgian houses long ago, to safe groves of
holm oak... among the calls for silence following to where
some exposed hand or brightness of skin waited them,
âsurvivor or casualty. When he couldnât help he stayed
clear, praying, at first, conventionally to God, first time
âsince the other Blitz, for life to win out. But too many
were dying, and presently, seeing no point, he stopped.
Yesterday happened to be a good day. They found a
28
Gravity's RaInsow
child, alive, a little girl, half-suffocated under a Morrison
shelter. Waiting for the stretcher, Slothrop held her small
hand, gone purple with the cold. Dogs barked in the
street. When she opened her eyes and saw him her first
words were, âAny gum, chum?â Trapped there for two
days, gumlessâall he had for her was a Thayerâs Slippery
Elm. He felt like an idiot. Before they took her off she
brought his hand over to kiss anyway, her mouth and
.cheek in the flare lamps cold as frost, the city around
them at once a big desolate icebox, stale-smelling and no
surprises inside ever again, At which point she smiled, very
faintly, and he knew thatâs what heâd been waiting for,
wow, a Shirley Temple smile, as if this exactly canceled
all theyâd found her down in the middle of. What a damn
fool thing. He hangs at the bottom of his bloodâs ava-
lanche, 300 years of western swamp-Yankees, and canât
manage but some nervous truce with their Providence. A
détente. Ruins he goes daily to look in are each a sermon
on vanity. That he finds, as weeks wear on, no least
fragment of any rocket, preaches how indivisible is the
act of death... Slothropâs Progress: London the secular
city instructs him: turn any corner and he can find himself
inside a parable.
He has become obsessed with the idea of a rocket with
his name written on itâif theyâre really set on getting him
(âTheyâ embracing possibilities far far beyond Nazi Ger-
many) thatâs the surest way, doesnât cost them a thing to
paint his name on every one, right?
âYes, well, that can be useful,â Tantivy watching him
funny, âcanât it, especially in combat to, you know, pretend
something like that. Jolly useful, Call it epeer ions! para-
noiaâ or something. Butââ
âWhoâs pretending?â lighting a cigarette, Shiling his
forelock through the smoke, âjeepers, Tantivy, listen, I
donât want to upset you but...I mean Iâm four years
overdueâs what it is, it could happen any time, the next
second,
right, be suddenly
... shit... just zero,
just
nothing... and.
Itâs nothing he can see or lay hands reap ote ew gases,
a violence upon the air and no trace afterward
... a Word,
spoken with no warning into your ear, and then silence
forever. Beyond its invisibility, beyond hammerfall and
The Sky's Ominous Promise
- Tyrone Slothrop experiences the arrival of a new, silent German weapon that defies the laws of sound and warning.
- The London atmosphere is depicted as a heavy, imperial presence of smoke and industrial decay under a dying sun.
- Slothrop encounters a strange, involuntary physiological reactionâa 'sneaky hardon'âat the exact moment of the explosion.
- The narrative links Slothropâs current dread to his ancestral history in Massachusetts, specifically a tombstone warning of inevitable death.
- The Slothrop lineage is characterized by a 'peculiar sensitivity' to signs and revelations appearing in the sky.
This smoke is more than the dayâs breath, more than dark strengthâit is an imperial presence that lives and moves.
Beyond the Zero
29
doomcrack, here is its real horror, mocking, promising him
death with German and precise confidence, laughing down
_all of Tantivyâs quiet decencies ...no, no bullet with fins,
Aceâ...not the Word, the one Word âthat rips apart the
dayi en
--
It was Friday evening, last September, just off work,
_ heading for the Bond Street Underground station, his
mind on the- weekend ahead and his two Wrens, that
Norma and that Marjorie, whom he must each keep from
learning about the other, just as he was reaching to pick
his nose, suddenly in the sky, miles behind his back and
up the river memento-mori a-sharp crack andâ a heavy
explosion, rolling right behind, almost like a clap of
thunder.â
But not quite. Seconds later, this time from in
front of him, it happened again: loud and clear, all over.
the city. Bracketed. Not a buzzbomb, not that Luftwaffe.
âNot thunder either,â he puzzled, out loud.
âSome bloody gas main,â a lady with a lunchbox, puffy-
eyed from the day, elbowing him âin the back as she
passed.
âNo itâs the Germans,â her friend with rolled blonde
fringes under a checked kerchief doing some monster
routine here, raising her hands at Slothrop, âcoming to get
him, they especially love fat, plump Americansââ in a
minute shell be reaching out to pinch his cheek and
wobble it back and forth.
âHi, glamorpuss,â Slothrop said. Her name was Cynthia.
He managed to get a telephone number before she was
- waving ta-ta, borne again into the rush-hour crowds.
_
It was one of those great iron afternoons in London: the
yellow sun being teased apart by a thousand chimneys
_ breathing, fawning upward without shame. This smoke is
more than the dayâs breath, more than dark strengthâit is
an imperial presence that lives and moves. People were
crossing the streets and squares, going everywhere. Busses
were grinding off, hundreds of them, down the long con-
crete viaducts smeared with yearsâ pitiless use and no
pleasure, into haze-gray, grease-black, red lead and pale
aluminum, between scrap heaps that. towered high as
âblocks of flats, down side-shoving curves
into roads
clogged with Army convoys, other tall busses and canvas
lorries, bicycles and cars, everyone here with different
~
30
Gravityâs Rainsow
destinations and beginnings, all flowing, hitching now and
then, over it all the enormous gas ruin of the sun among
the smokestacks, the barrage balloons, power lines and
chimneys brown as aging indoor wood, brown growing
deeper, approaching black through an instantâperhaps
the true turn of the sunsetâthat is wine to you, wine and
comfort.
The Moment was 6:43:16 British Double Summer Times
the sky, beaten like Deathâs drum, still humming, and
Slothropâs cockâsay what? yes lookit inside his GI under-
shorts hereâs a sneaky hardon stirring, ready to jumpâ
well great God where'd that come from? -
There is in his history, and likely, God help him, in his
dossier, a peculiar sensitivity to what is revealed in the
sky. (But a hardon?)
On the old schist of a tombstone in the Congregational
churchyard back home in Mingeborough, Massachusetts,
the hand of God emerges from a cloud, the edges of the
figure here and there eroded by 200 years of seasonsâ fire
and ice chisels at work, and the inscription reading:
In Memory of Conftant
Slothrop, who died March
y 4" 1766, iny 29%
year of his age.
Death is a debt to nature due,
Which I have paid, and fo muft you.
Constant saw, and not only with his heart, that stone
hand pointing out of the secular clouds, pointing directly
at him, its edges traced in unbearable light, above the
whispering of his river and slopes of his long blue Berk-
shires, as would his son Variable Slothrop, indeed all of
the Slothrop blood one way or another, the nine or ten
generations tumbling back, branching inward: every one,
except for William the very first, lying under fallen leaves,
mint and purple loosestrife, chilly elm and willow shadows
over the swamp-edge graveyard in a long gradient of rot,
leaching, assimilation with the earth, the stones showing
round-faced angels with the long noses of
dogs, toothy and.
deep-socketed deathâs heads, Masonic
lems, flowery
urns, feathery willows upright and broken, exhausted hour-
rat
The Slothrop Family Necropolis
- The narrative traces the Slothrop lineage through a 'gradient of rot' in a Berkshire graveyard, moving from early settlers to the modern era.
- The family transitioned from tradesmen like fur traders and cordwainers to industrial exploiters of timber and marble, leaving behind a scarred landscape.
- The Slothrop fortune eventually dissolved into paper productsâtoilet paper, banknotes, and newsprintâwhich the text identifies as the mediums for 'shit, money, and the Word.'
- Unlike the mobile American ideal of moving west after exhausting resources, the Slothrops stayed in the east, tethered to their 'signed confessions' of ecological destruction.
- The family's wealth exists in a state of 'infinite series,' perpetually diminishing through trusts and the Great Depression but never quite reaching absolute zero.
The money seeping its way out through stock portfolios more intricate than any genealogy: what stayed at home in Berkshire went into timberland whose diminishing green reaches were converted acres at a clip into paperâtoilet paper, banknote stock, newsprintâa medium or ground for shit, money, and the Word.
30
Gravityâs Rainsow
destinations and beginnings, all flowing, hitching now and
then, over it all the enormous gas ruin of the sun among
the smokestacks, the barrage balloons, power lines and
chimneys brown as aging indoor wood, brown growing
deeper, approaching black through an instantâperhaps
the true turn of the sunsetâthat is wine to you, wine and
comfort.
The Moment was 6:43:16 British Double Summer Times
the sky, beaten like Deathâs drum, still humming, and
Slothropâs cockâsay what? yes lookit inside his GI under-
shorts hereâs a sneaky hardon stirring, ready to jumpâ
well great God where'd that come from? -
There is in his history, and likely, God help him, in his
dossier, a peculiar sensitivity to what is revealed in the
sky. (But a hardon?)
On the old schist of a tombstone in the Congregational
churchyard back home in Mingeborough, Massachusetts,
the hand of God emerges from a cloud, the edges of the
figure here and there eroded by 200 years of seasonsâ fire
and ice chisels at work, and the inscription reading:
In Memory of Conftant
Slothrop, who died March
y 4" 1766, iny 29%
year of his age.
Death is a debt to nature due,
Which I have paid, and fo muft you.
Constant saw, and not only with his heart, that stone
hand pointing out of the secular clouds, pointing directly
at him, its edges traced in unbearable light, above the
whispering of his river and slopes of his long blue Berk-
shires, as would his son Variable Slothrop, indeed all of
the Slothrop blood one way or another, the nine or ten
generations tumbling back, branching inward: every one,
except for William the very first, lying under fallen leaves,
mint and purple loosestrife, chilly elm and willow shadows
over the swamp-edge graveyard in a long gradient of rot,
leaching, assimilation with the earth, the stones showing
round-faced angels with the long noses of
dogs, toothy and.
deep-socketed deathâs heads, Masonic
lems, flowery
urns, feathery willows upright and broken, exhausted hour-
rat
Beyond the Zero
31
glasses, sunfaces about to rise or set with eyes peeking
Kilroy-style over their horizon, and memorial verse running
from straight-on and foursquare, as for Constant Slothrop,
through bouncy Star Spangled Banner meter for Mrs.
Elizabeth, wife of Lt. Isaiah Slothrop (d. 1812):
Adieu my dear friends, I have come to this grave
Where Insatiate Death in his reaping hath brought me.
Till Christ rise again all His children to save,
I must lie, as His Word in the Scriptures hath taught me.
Mark, Reader, my cry! Bend thy thoughts on the Sky,
And in midst of prosperity, know thou mayâst die.
While the great Loom of God works in darkness above,
And our trials here below are but threads of His Love.
To the current Slothropâs grandfather Frederick (d. 1933),
who in typical sarcasm and guile bagged his epitaph from
Emily Dickinson, without a credit line:
Because I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me
Each one in turn paying his debt to nature due and leav-
ing the excess to the next link in the nameâs chain. They
began as fur traders, cordwainers, salters and smokers of
bacon, went on into glassmaking, became selectmen, build-
ers of tanneries, quarriers of marble. Country for miles
around gone to necropolis, gray with marble dust; dust
that was the breaths, the ghosts, of all those fake-Athenian
monuments going up elsewhere across the Republic. Al-
ways elsewhere. The money seeping its way out through
stock portfolios more intricate than any genealogy: what
stayed at home in Berkshire went into timberland whose
diminishing green reaches were converted acres at a clip
_ into paperâtoilet paper, banknote stock, -newsprintâa
_ medium or ground for shit, money, and the Word. They
were not aristocrats, no Slothrop ever made it into the
Social Register or the Somerset Clubâthey carried on
their enterprise in silence, assimilated in life to the dy-
_ namic that surrounded them thoroughly as in death they
- would be to churchyard earth. Shit, money, and the Word,
_ the three American truths, powering the American mobil-
_ ity, claimed the Slothrops, clasped them for good to the
countryâs fate.
; E
rat
32
:
Gravity's RAInBow
But they did not prosper...
about all they did was
persistâthough it all began to go sour for them around
the time Emily Dickinson, never far way, was writing
Ruin is formal, devilâs work,
Consecutive and slowâ
Fail in an instant no man did,
Slipping is crashâs law,
still they would keep on. The tradition, for others, was
clear, everyone knewâmine it out, work it, take all you
can till itâs gone then move on west, thereâs plenty more.
But out of some reasoned inertia the âSlothrops stayed east
in Berkshire, perverseâclose to the flooded quarries and
logged-off hillsides theyâd left like signed confessions across
all that thatchy-brown,
moldering witch-country.
The
profits slackening, the family ever multiplying. Interest
from various numbered trusts was still turned, by family
banks down in Boston every second or third generation,
back into. yet another trust, in long rallentando, in infinite
series just perceptibly, term by term, dying... but never
quite to the zero.
The Depression, âby the time it came, ratified whatâd
been under way. Slothrop grew up in a hilltop desolation
of businesses going under, hedges around the estates of
the vastly rich, half-mythical cottagers from New York
lapsing back now to green wilderness or straw death, all
the crystal windows every single one smashed, Harrimans
and Whitneys gone, lawns growing to hay, and the
autumns no longer a time for foxtrots in the distances,
limousines and lamps, but only the accustomed crickets
again, apples again, early frosts to send the hummingbirds
away, east wind, October rain: only winter certainties.
In 1931, the year of the Great Aspinwall Hotel Fire,
young Tyrone was visiting his aunt and uncle in Lenox.
It was in April, but for a second or two as he was coming
awake in the strange room and the racket of big and little
cousinsâ feet down the stairs, he thought of winter, be-
cause so often heâd been wakened like this, at this hour of
sleep, by Pop, or Hogan, bundled outside
still blinking
through an overlay of dream into uit
âcold
to watch the
- Northern Lights.
Fires, Ghosts, and Sensitive Flames
- The narrative contrasts the fading grandeur of the past with the 'winter certainties' of a changing landscape.
- Young Tyrone recalls the 1931 Great Aspinwall Hotel Fire, confusing the orange glow of the disaster with the terrifying Northern Lights of his childhood.
- The text explores a sense of impending apocalypse, where church steeples are described as white rockets poised for a final countdown.
- A 'sensitive flame' in a bronze fixture acts as a supernatural barometer, reacting to the air pressure of a diverse crowd gathered for a séance.
- A medium, surrounded by soldiers and civilians of various nationalities, channels a message regarding the realm of Dominus Blicero.
- The transition from physical fire to spiritual light suggests a world where traditional signs and meanings are being 'transected' or inverted.
Were the radiant curtains just about to swing open? What would the ghosts of the North, in their finery, have to show him?
rat
32
:
Gravity's RAInBow
But they did not prosper...
about all they did was
persistâthough it all began to go sour for them around
the time Emily Dickinson, never far way, was writing
Ruin is formal, devilâs work,
Consecutive and slowâ
Fail in an instant no man did,
Slipping is crashâs law,
still they would keep on. The tradition, for others, was
clear, everyone knewâmine it out, work it, take all you
can till itâs gone then move on west, thereâs plenty more.
But out of some reasoned inertia the âSlothrops stayed east
in Berkshire, perverseâclose to the flooded quarries and
logged-off hillsides theyâd left like signed confessions across
all that thatchy-brown,
moldering witch-country.
The
profits slackening, the family ever multiplying. Interest
from various numbered trusts was still turned, by family
banks down in Boston every second or third generation,
back into. yet another trust, in long rallentando, in infinite
series just perceptibly, term by term, dying... but never
quite to the zero.
The Depression, âby the time it came, ratified whatâd
been under way. Slothrop grew up in a hilltop desolation
of businesses going under, hedges around the estates of
the vastly rich, half-mythical cottagers from New York
lapsing back now to green wilderness or straw death, all
the crystal windows every single one smashed, Harrimans
and Whitneys gone, lawns growing to hay, and the
autumns no longer a time for foxtrots in the distances,
limousines and lamps, but only the accustomed crickets
again, apples again, early frosts to send the hummingbirds
away, east wind, October rain: only winter certainties.
In 1931, the year of the Great Aspinwall Hotel Fire,
young Tyrone was visiting his aunt and uncle in Lenox.
It was in April, but for a second or two as he was coming
awake in the strange room and the racket of big and little
cousinsâ feet down the stairs, he thought of winter, be-
cause so often heâd been wakened like this, at this hour of
sleep, by Pop, or Hogan, bundled outside
still blinking
through an overlay of dream into uit
âcold
to watch the
- Northern Lights.
_ Beyond the Zero
33
They scared the shit out of him. Were the radiant cur-
tains just about to swing open? What would the ghosts
of the North, in their finery, have to show him?
But this was a spring night, and the sky was gusting red,
warm-orange,
the sirens howling in the valleys from
Pittsfield, Lenox, and Leeâneighbors stood out on their
porches to stare up at the shower of sparks falling down
on the mountainside... âLike
a meteor shower,â they
said, âLike cinders from the Fourth of July...â it was
1931, and those were the comparisons. The embers fell on
and on for five hours while kids dozed and grownups got
to drink coffee and tell fire stories from other years.
But what Lights were these? What ghosts in command?
_ And suppose, in the next moment, all of it, the complete
night, were to go out of control and curtains part to show
us a winter no one has guessed at. ...
_
6:43:16 BDSTâin the sky right now here is the same
unfolding, just about to break through, his face deepening
with its light, everything aboutâto rush away and he to
lose himself, just as his countryside has ever proclaimed ...
slender church steeples poised: up and down all these
autumn hillsides, white rockets about to fire, only seconds
of countdown away, rose windows taking in Sunday light,
elevating and washing the faces above the pulpits defining
âgrace, swearing this is how it does happenâyes the great
bright hand reaching out of the cloud....
O
On the wall, in an ornate fixture of darkening bronze, a
gas jet burns, laminar and gently singingâadjusted to
what scientists
of the last century called a âsensitive
_ flameâ: invisible at the base, as it issues from its orifice,
_ fading upward into smooth blue light that hovers several
inches above, a glimmering small cone that can respond to
_ the most delicate changes in the roomâs air pressure. It
_ registers visitors as they enter and leave, each curious and
_ civil as if the round table held some game of âchance. The
circle of sitters is not at all distracted or hindered. None of
_ your white hands or luminous trumpets here.
5
_ Camerons officers. in parade trews, blue puttees, dress
34
Gravity's RaiInsow
kilts drift in conversing with enlisted Americans.
. . there
are clergymen, Home Guard or Fire Service just off duty,
folds of wool clothing heavy with smoke smell, everyone
grudging an hourâs sleep and looking it... ancient Ed-
wardian ladies in crepe de Chine, West Indians softly
plaiting vowels round less flexible. chains of Russian-Jewish
consonants. . .. Most skate tangent to the holy circle, some
stay, some are
e of again to other rooms, all without break-
ing in on the slender medium who sits nearest the sensitive
flame with his back to the wall, reddish-brown curls tight-
ening close as a skullcap, high forehead unwrinkled, dark
lips moving now effortless, now in pain:
âOnce transected into the realm of Dominus Blicero.
Roland found that all the signs had turned against him. .
Lights he had studied so well as one of you, position âand
movement, now gathered there at the opposite end, all in
dance... irrelevant dance. None of Bliceroâs traditional
progress, no something new... alien.... Roland too be-
came conscious of the wind, as his mortality had never
allowed him. Discovered it so.
...so joyful, thatthe arrow
must veer into it. The wind» had been blowing all year
long, year after year, but Roland had felt only the secular
wind ... he means, only his te
wind. Yet. See
the mind: the windâs everywhere. .
Here the mediumâ breaks off, ist silent awhile .
groan...a
quiet, desperate moment.
âSelena. a
Have you gone, then?â
âNo, my dear,â her cheeks mottled with previous tears,
âTm listening.â
âItâs control, All these things arise from one difficulty:
control. For the first time it was inside, do youâsee. The
control is put inside. No more need to suffer passively
under âoutside forcesâ-âto veer into any wind. As if .
âA market needed no longer be run by the Tnvistle
Hand, but now could create itselfâits own logic, momen-
tum, âstyle, from inside. Putting the control inside was
â ratifying what de facto had happenedâthat you had dis-
pensed with God. But you had taken on a greater, and
more harmful, illusion. The illusion of Âąontrol. That A
could do B. But that was false, Completely. No one can
do. Things only happen, A and B are ria are as
for parts âthat ought âto be inseparable. .:.
Seu
ANE
as
âSat
The Illusion of Control
- A medium channels a message regarding the shift from external divine guidance to the internal 'illusion of control' in human systems.
- The text critiques the modern belief that individuals or markets can direct their own logic, suggesting that 'A doing B' is a false separation of inseparable events.
- The séance is interrupted by the physical reality of war as a rocket bomb explodes nearby, rattling the windows and extinguishing the gas flame.
- Jessica Swanlake, an ATS private, demonstrates an uncanny, trance-like precision by throwing a dart into the dead center of the board amidst the chaos.
- The spiritual circle begins to dissolve into mundane movements and 'white noise' as the medium drifts back to consciousness.
- The scene juxtaposes high-minded metaphysical debate with the gritty, sensory details of wartime London, such as diesel fuel and rationed perfumes.
The windâ had been blowing all year long, year after year, but Roland had felt only the secular wind ... he means, only his wind.
34
Gravity's RaiInsow
kilts drift in conversing with enlisted Americans.
. . there
are clergymen, Home Guard or Fire Service just off duty,
folds of wool clothing heavy with smoke smell, everyone
grudging an hourâs sleep and looking it... ancient Ed-
wardian ladies in crepe de Chine, West Indians softly
plaiting vowels round less flexible. chains of Russian-Jewish
consonants. . .. Most skate tangent to the holy circle, some
stay, some are
e of again to other rooms, all without break-
ing in on the slender medium who sits nearest the sensitive
flame with his back to the wall, reddish-brown curls tight-
ening close as a skullcap, high forehead unwrinkled, dark
lips moving now effortless, now in pain:
âOnce transected into the realm of Dominus Blicero.
Roland found that all the signs had turned against him. .
Lights he had studied so well as one of you, position âand
movement, now gathered there at the opposite end, all in
dance... irrelevant dance. None of Bliceroâs traditional
progress, no something new... alien.... Roland too be-
came conscious of the wind, as his mortality had never
allowed him. Discovered it so.
...so joyful, thatthe arrow
must veer into it. The wind» had been blowing all year
long, year after year, but Roland had felt only the secular
wind ... he means, only his te
wind. Yet. See
the mind: the windâs everywhere. .
Here the mediumâ breaks off, ist silent awhile .
groan...a
quiet, desperate moment.
âSelena. a
Have you gone, then?â
âNo, my dear,â her cheeks mottled with previous tears,
âTm listening.â
âItâs control, All these things arise from one difficulty:
control. For the first time it was inside, do youâsee. The
control is put inside. No more need to suffer passively
under âoutside forcesâ-âto veer into any wind. As if .
âA market needed no longer be run by the Tnvistle
Hand, but now could create itselfâits own logic, momen-
tum, âstyle, from inside. Putting the control inside was
â ratifying what de facto had happenedâthat you had dis-
pensed with God. But you had taken on a greater, and
more harmful, illusion. The illusion of Âąontrol. That A
could do B. But that was false, Completely. No one can
do. Things only happen, A and B are ria are as
for parts âthat ought âto be inseparable. .:.
Seu
ANE
as
âSat
Beyond the Zero
35
âMore Ouspenskian nonsense,â whispers a lady brushing
i by on the arm of a dock worker. Odors of Diesel fuel and
_
Sousâ le Vent mingle as they pass, Jessica Swanlake, a
young rosy girl in the uniform of an ATS private, noticing
the prewar perfume, looks up, hmm, the frock she
_ imagines is about 15 guineas and who knows how many
coupons, probably from Harrods and would do more for me,
_
Sheâs also sure. The lady, suddenly looking back over her
_
shoulder, smiles oh, yes? My gosh, did she hear? Around
/ this place almost certainly.
Jessicaâs been standing near the sĂ©ance table with a
_
handful of darts idly plucked from the board on the wall,
__ her head bent, pale nape and top vertebra visible above
_ the brown wool collar and through some of her lighter
_ brown hair, fallen either side along her cheeks. Brass
_ throats and breasts warm to her blood, quake in the hollow
of her hand. She seems herself, gentling their feathered
vi Ps brushing with fingertips, to have slid into a shallow
ance. ...
'_
.
Outside, rolling from the east, comes the muffled rip of
__ another rocket bomb. The windows rattle, the floor shakes,
es The sensitive flame dives for shelter, shadows across the
_ table sent adance, darkening toward the other roomâ
then it leaps high, the shadows drawing inward again,
_
fully two feet, and disappears completely. Gas hisses on in
_ the dim room. Milton Gloaming, who achieved perfect
__ tripos at Cambridge ten years ago, abandons his shorthand
_ to rise and go shut the gas off.
___ It seems the right moment now for Jessica to throw a
he dart: one dart. Hair swinging, breasts bobbing marvel-
_
ously beneath each heavy wool lapel. A hiss of air, whack:
into the sticky fibers, into the dead center. Milton Gloam-
ng cocks an eyebrow. His mind, always gathering corre-
_ spondences, thinks it has found a new one.
_
The medium, irritable now, has begun to drift back out
_ of his trance. Anybodyâs guess whatâs happening over on
_ the other side. This sitting, like any, needs not only its
congenial circle here and secular, but also a basic, four-
:
Jarroll Eventyr
(the medium), Selena
(the wife and
survivor). Somewhere, through exhaustion, redirection,
36
Gravity's RAINBOW
gusts of white noise out in the aether, this arrangement has
begun now to dissolve. Relaxation, chairs squeaking, sighs
and throatclearings... Milton Gloaming fusses with his
notebook, shuts it abruptly.
Presently Jessica comes wandering over. No sign of
Roger and sheâs not sure he wants her to come looking for
him, and Gloaming, though shy, isnât as horrid as some of
Rogerâs other friends. .
\ âRoger says that now you'll count up all those words
you copied and graph them or something,â brightly to head
off any comment on the dart incident, which sheâd rather
avoid. âDo you do it only for sĂ©ances?â
âAutomatic texts,â girl-nervous Gloaming frowns, nods,
âone or two Quija-board episodes, yes yes... we-we're
trying to develop a vocabulary of curvesâcertain pa-
thologies, certain characteristic shapes you seeââ
âIâm not sure that Iââ
âWell. Recall Zipfâs Principle of Least Effort: if we plot
the frequency of a word P sub n against its rank-order n
on logarithmic axes,â babbling into her silence, even her
bewilderment graceful, âwe should of course get some-
thing like a straight line... however weâve data that sug-
gest
the
curves
for certainâconditions,
well
theyâre
actually quite differentâschizophrenics for example tend
to run a bit flatter in the upper part then progressively
steeperâa sort of bow shape...I think with this chap,
this Roland, that we're on to a classical paranoiacââ
âHa.â That's a word she knows. âThought I saw you
brighten up there when he said âturned against.â â
âAgainst, âopposite,â yes you'd be amazed at the fre-
quency with this one.â
âWhatâs the most frequent word?â asks Jessica. âYour
number one.â
âThe same as itâs always been at these affairs,â â-
the statistician, as if everyone knew: âdeath.â
An elderly air-raid warden, starchy and frail as organ
stands on tiptoe to relight the sensitive flame.
âIncidentally, ah, whereâs your mad ss gentleman
gone off to?â
âRogerâs with Captain Prentice.â Waving Laatisly âThe
usual Mysterious Microfilm Drill. oe in
some distant room, across a crown-
r game with
aes
:
The Statistics of Paranoia
- Gloaming explains the use of Zipfâs Principle of Least Effort to analyze the vocabulary and 'characteristic shapes' of automatic texts from sĂ©ances.
- Statistical analysis of the subject Roland suggests a 'classical paranoiac' profile based on word frequency and specific linguistic curves.
- Despite the complex mathematical modeling of pathologies, the most frequent word in these occult communications remains 'death.'
- The setting at Snoxallâs provides a rare 'node of tranquillity' for characters to gather for purposes outside of the immediate martial interest.
- Pirate Prentice navigates the social and professional hierarchies of the Firm, using a cinematic grin to mask his class-based nervousness.
- The Firmâs ruthless pragmatism is highlighted by their willingness to use anyoneâfrom murderers to 'even women'âto achieve their goals.
âWhatâs the most frequent word?â asks Jessica. âYour number one.â âThe same as itâs always been at these affairs,â â the statistician, as if everyone knew: âdeath.â
36
Gravity's RAINBOW
gusts of white noise out in the aether, this arrangement has
begun now to dissolve. Relaxation, chairs squeaking, sighs
and throatclearings... Milton Gloaming fusses with his
notebook, shuts it abruptly.
Presently Jessica comes wandering over. No sign of
Roger and sheâs not sure he wants her to come looking for
him, and Gloaming, though shy, isnât as horrid as some of
Rogerâs other friends. .
\ âRoger says that now you'll count up all those words
you copied and graph them or something,â brightly to head
off any comment on the dart incident, which sheâd rather
avoid. âDo you do it only for sĂ©ances?â
âAutomatic texts,â girl-nervous Gloaming frowns, nods,
âone or two Quija-board episodes, yes yes... we-we're
trying to develop a vocabulary of curvesâcertain pa-
thologies, certain characteristic shapes you seeââ
âIâm not sure that Iââ
âWell. Recall Zipfâs Principle of Least Effort: if we plot
the frequency of a word P sub n against its rank-order n
on logarithmic axes,â babbling into her silence, even her
bewilderment graceful, âwe should of course get some-
thing like a straight line... however weâve data that sug-
gest
the
curves
for certainâconditions,
well
theyâre
actually quite differentâschizophrenics for example tend
to run a bit flatter in the upper part then progressively
steeperâa sort of bow shape...I think with this chap,
this Roland, that we're on to a classical paranoiacââ
âHa.â That's a word she knows. âThought I saw you
brighten up there when he said âturned against.â â
âAgainst, âopposite,â yes you'd be amazed at the fre-
quency with this one.â
âWhatâs the most frequent word?â asks Jessica. âYour
number one.â
âThe same as itâs always been at these affairs,â â-
the statistician, as if everyone knew: âdeath.â
An elderly air-raid warden, starchy and frail as organ
stands on tiptoe to relight the sensitive flame.
âIncidentally, ah, whereâs your mad ss gentleman
gone off to?â
âRogerâs with Captain Prentice.â Waving Laatisly âThe
usual Mysterious Microfilm Drill. oe in
some distant room, across a crown-
r game with
aes
:
Beyond the Zero
;
37
which chance has very little to do, billows of smoke and
chatter, Falkman and His Apache Band subdued over the
BBC, chunky pints and slender sherry glasses, winter rain
at the windows. Time for closeting, gas logs, shawls against
the cold night, snug with your young lady or old âdutch or,
as here at Snoxallâs, in good company. Hereâs a shelterâ
perhaps a real node of tranquillity among several scattered
throughout this long wartime, where theyâre gathering for
purposes not entirely in the martial interest.
Pirate Prentice feels something of this, obliquely, by way
of class nervousness really: he bears his grin among these
people here like a phalanx. He learned it at the filmsâit
is the exact mischievous Irish grin your Dennis Morgan
chap goes about cocking down at the black smoke vomit-
ing from each and every little bucktooth yellow rat he
shoots down. -
Itâs as useful to him as he is to the Firmâwho, it is well
known, will use anyone, traitors, murderers, perverts, Ne-
groes, even women, to get what They want. They may
notâve been that sure of Pirateâs usefulness at first, but
me as it developed, They were to grow very sure, in-
ee
ae
âMajor-General, you canât actually give your support to
So
âWe're watching him around the clock. He certainly
isnât leaving the premises physically.â
âThen he has a confederate. Somehowâhypnosis, drugs,
I donât knowâtheyâre getting to his man and tranquilizing
him. For Godâs sake, next you'll be consulting horoscopes.â
âHitler does.â
:
âHitler is an inspired man. But you and I are employers,
remember. .
After that first surge of interest, the number of clients
assigned to Pirate tapered off some. At the moment he
carries what he feels is a comfortable case load. But itâs
not what he really wants. They will not understand, the
_ gently bred maniacs of S.0.E. ah very good, Captain
rattling sitreps, shuffling boots, echoes off of Government
eyeglasses jolly good and why not do it actually for us
sometime at the Club. .
Pirate wants Their trust, the good-whisky-and-cured-
. Latakia scent of Their rough love. He wants understand-
38
Gravity's RAINBOW
ing from his own lot, not these bookish sods and rational-
ized freaks here at Snoxallâs, so dedicated to Science, so
awfully tolerant that this (he regrets it with all his heart)
may be the only place in the reach of warâs empire that he
does feel less than a stranger....
âItâs not at all clear,â Roger. Mexicoâs been saying,
âwhat they have in mind, not at all, the Witchcraft Actâs
more than 200 years old, itâs a relic of an entirely different
age, another way of thinking. Suddenly here we are 1944
being hit with convictions right and left. Our Mr. Even-
tyr,â motioning at the medium who's across the room
chatting with young Gavin Trefoil, âcould be fallen upon
at any momentâpouring in the windows, hauling dan-
gerous tough Eventyr away to the Scrubs on pretending - to -
exercise - or - use - a - kind - of - conjuration - to - cause - the -
spirits - of - deceased - persons - to - be - present - in - fact -
at- the - place - where - he - then - was - and - that - those -
spirits - were - communicating - with - living - persons - then -
and - there - present my God what imbecile Fascist rot .. .â
âCareful,
Mexico,
you're losing the old objectivity
againâa man of science shouldnât want to do that, should
he. Hardly scientific, is it.â
âAss. You're on their side. Couldnât you feel it tonight,
coming in the door? Itâs a great swamp of paranoia.â
©
âThatâs my talent, all right,â Pirate as he speaks know-
ing itâs too abrupt, tries to file off the flash with: âI donât
know that Iâm really up to the multiple sort of thing. . . .â
âAh. Prentice.â Not an eyebrow or lip out of place.
Tolerance. Ah.
be
ig:
âYou ought to come down this time and have our Dr.
Groast check it out on his EEG.â
âOh, if Iâm in town,â vaguely. Thereâs a security prob-
lem here. Loose talk sinks ships and he canât be sure, even
about Mexico. There are too many circles to the current
operation, inner and outer. Distribution lists growing nar-
rower as we move ring by ring toward the bullâs eye, In-
structions To Destroy gradually eneomimaiye every scrap,
idle memo, typewriter ribbon.
His best guess is that Mexico only eles then sup-
ports the Firmâs-latest mania, known as
Operation Black
Wing, in a statistical wayâenalyzing whatâ foreign-morale
?
ae
3
|
rE
the
=o
i
er
The Swamp of Paranoia
- Roger Mexico expresses outrage over the revival of the 1735 Witchcraft Act, viewing the legal persecution of mediums as a symptom of 'imbecile Fascist rot.'
- The setting at Snoxallâs is described as a rare, tolerant refuge for 'specialized freaks' and scientists amidst the rigid structures of wartime London.
- Pirate Prentice navigates a landscape of extreme compartmentalization, where security protocols and 'Instructions To Destroy' create narrowing circles of secrecy.
- The narrative introduces PISCES, a psychological warfare agency whose true objectives and targets remain intentionally ambiguous to its own operatives.
- London is depicted as a chaotic hub of intra-Allied surveillance where various governments-in-exile plot against one another, often forgetting the German enemy in favor of internal vendettas.
- The psychological toll of the 'game' is highlighted, as agents lose their souls to unending chatter, distrust, and the demands of total attention.
Itâs a great swamp of paranoia.
38
Gravity's RAINBOW
ing from his own lot, not these bookish sods and rational-
ized freaks here at Snoxallâs, so dedicated to Science, so
awfully tolerant that this (he regrets it with all his heart)
may be the only place in the reach of warâs empire that he
does feel less than a stranger....
âItâs not at all clear,â Roger. Mexicoâs been saying,
âwhat they have in mind, not at all, the Witchcraft Actâs
more than 200 years old, itâs a relic of an entirely different
age, another way of thinking. Suddenly here we are 1944
being hit with convictions right and left. Our Mr. Even-
tyr,â motioning at the medium who's across the room
chatting with young Gavin Trefoil, âcould be fallen upon
at any momentâpouring in the windows, hauling dan-
gerous tough Eventyr away to the Scrubs on pretending - to -
exercise - or - use - a - kind - of - conjuration - to - cause - the -
spirits - of - deceased - persons - to - be - present - in - fact -
at- the - place - where - he - then - was - and - that - those -
spirits - were - communicating - with - living - persons - then -
and - there - present my God what imbecile Fascist rot .. .â
âCareful,
Mexico,
you're losing the old objectivity
againâa man of science shouldnât want to do that, should
he. Hardly scientific, is it.â
âAss. You're on their side. Couldnât you feel it tonight,
coming in the door? Itâs a great swamp of paranoia.â
©
âThatâs my talent, all right,â Pirate as he speaks know-
ing itâs too abrupt, tries to file off the flash with: âI donât
know that Iâm really up to the multiple sort of thing. . . .â
âAh. Prentice.â Not an eyebrow or lip out of place.
Tolerance. Ah.
be
ig:
âYou ought to come down this time and have our Dr.
Groast check it out on his EEG.â
âOh, if Iâm in town,â vaguely. Thereâs a security prob-
lem here. Loose talk sinks ships and he canât be sure, even
about Mexico. There are too many circles to the current
operation, inner and outer. Distribution lists growing nar-
rower as we move ring by ring toward the bullâs eye, In-
structions To Destroy gradually eneomimaiye every scrap,
idle memo, typewriter ribbon.
His best guess is that Mexico only eles then sup-
ports the Firmâs-latest mania, known as
Operation Black
Wing, in a statistical wayâenalyzing whatâ foreign-morale
?
ae
3
|
rE
the
=o
i
er
_ Beyond the Zero
39
data may come in, for instanceâbut someplace out at the
fringes of the enterprise, as indeed Pirate finds himself
here tonight, acting as go-between for Mexico and his
own roommate Teddy Bloat.
He knows that Bloat goes somewhere and microfilms
something, then transfers it, via Pirate, to young Mexico.
. And thence, he gathers, down to âThe White Visitation,â
which houses
a catchall agency known
as PISCESâ
Psychological Intelligence Schemes for Expediting Sur-
render. Whose surrender is not made clear.
Pirate wonders if Mexico isnât into yet another of the
thousand dodgy intra-Allied
surveillance
schemes
that
have sprung up about London since the Americans, and a
_dozen governments in exile, moved in. In which the Ger-
man curiously fades into irrelevance. Everyone watching
over his shoulder, Free French plotting revenge on Vichy
_
traitors, Lublin Communists drawing beads on Varsovian
_ shadow-ministers, ELAS
Greeks
stalking royalists,
un-
ârepatriable dreamers of all languages hoping through will,
fists, prayer to bring back kings, republics, pretenders,
summer anarchisms that perished before the first crops
were in ...some dying wretchedly, nameless, under ice-
', and-snow surfaces of bomb craters out in the East End notâ
âto be found till spring, some chronically drunk or opiated
_ for getting through the dayâs reverses, most somehow
~
losing, losing what souls they had, less and less able to
trust, seized in the gameâs unending chatter, its daily self-
_ criticism,
its demands
for, total attention
...and what
_ foreigner is it, exactly, that Pirate has in ening if it Ssa't
that stateless lascar across his own mirror-glass, that poor-
â est of exiles. .
:
Well: he guesses They have euchred Mexico into some
such Byzantine exercise, probably to do with the Ameri-
cans. Perhaps the Russians, âThe White Visitation,â being
~ devoted to psychological warfare, harbors a few of each, a
_ Behaviorist here, a Pavlovian there, Itâs none of Pirateâs
business. But he notes that with each film delivery, Rogerâs
enthusiasm grows. Unhealthy, unhealthy: he has the sense
of witnessing an addiction. He feels that his friend, his
rovisional wartime friend, is being used for something not
ats decent.
What can he do? If Mexico wanted to talk about it he
aS
Addiction and Imperial Relapses
- Pirate Prentice observes Roger Mexicoâs growing, almost pornographic addiction to mysterious film deliveries from 'The White Visitation.'
- Pirate suspects Mexico is being exploited for a psychological warfare exercise involving Pavlovian or Behaviorist techniques.
- The arrival of Jessica Swanlake, Mexico's girlfriend, evokes a rare moment of protective, paternal affection in Pirate.
- The narrative shifts to Pirateâs 1936 affair with Scorpia Mossmoon, the wife of an ICI plastics expert.
- Pirate reflects on his time 'east of Suez,' where the squalor of colonial service contrasted with his fantasies of a glamorous English life.
- Scorpia represents Pirate's 'Last Fling,' a desperate grasp at youth and connection before the austerity of war and age set in.
Wasnât Mexicoâs face tonight, as he took the envelope, averted? eyes boxing the corners of the room at top speed, a pornography customer's reflex...
_ Beyond the Zero
39
data may come in, for instanceâbut someplace out at the
fringes of the enterprise, as indeed Pirate finds himself
here tonight, acting as go-between for Mexico and his
own roommate Teddy Bloat.
He knows that Bloat goes somewhere and microfilms
something, then transfers it, via Pirate, to young Mexico.
. And thence, he gathers, down to âThe White Visitation,â
which houses
a catchall agency known
as PISCESâ
Psychological Intelligence Schemes for Expediting Sur-
render. Whose surrender is not made clear.
Pirate wonders if Mexico isnât into yet another of the
thousand dodgy intra-Allied
surveillance
schemes
that
have sprung up about London since the Americans, and a
_dozen governments in exile, moved in. In which the Ger-
man curiously fades into irrelevance. Everyone watching
over his shoulder, Free French plotting revenge on Vichy
_
traitors, Lublin Communists drawing beads on Varsovian
_ shadow-ministers, ELAS
Greeks
stalking royalists,
un-
ârepatriable dreamers of all languages hoping through will,
fists, prayer to bring back kings, republics, pretenders,
summer anarchisms that perished before the first crops
were in ...some dying wretchedly, nameless, under ice-
', and-snow surfaces of bomb craters out in the East End notâ
âto be found till spring, some chronically drunk or opiated
_ for getting through the dayâs reverses, most somehow
~
losing, losing what souls they had, less and less able to
trust, seized in the gameâs unending chatter, its daily self-
_ criticism,
its demands
for, total attention
...and what
_ foreigner is it, exactly, that Pirate has in ening if it Ssa't
that stateless lascar across his own mirror-glass, that poor-
â est of exiles. .
:
Well: he guesses They have euchred Mexico into some
such Byzantine exercise, probably to do with the Ameri-
cans. Perhaps the Russians, âThe White Visitation,â being
~ devoted to psychological warfare, harbors a few of each, a
_ Behaviorist here, a Pavlovian there, Itâs none of Pirateâs
business. But he notes that with each film delivery, Rogerâs
enthusiasm grows. Unhealthy, unhealthy: he has the sense
of witnessing an addiction. He feels that his friend, his
rovisional wartime friend, is being used for something not
ats decent.
What can he do? If Mexico wanted to talk about it he
aS
40
Gravityâs RAINBOW
could find a way, security or not. His reluctance is not
Pirateâs own over the machinery of Operation Black Wing.
It looks more like shame. Wasnât Mexicoâs face tonight, as
he took the envelope, averted? eyes boxing the corners of
the room at top speed, a pornography customer's reflex...
hmm. Knowing Bloat, perhaps thatâs what it is, young lady
gamming well-set-up young man, several posesâmore
wholesome than anything this warâs ever photographed...
life, at least....
Thereâs Mexicoâs girl, just entering the room. He spots
her immediately, the clarity around her, the absence of
smoke and noise...is he seeing auras now? She catches
sight of Roger and smiles, her eyes enormous... dark-
lashed, no make-up or none Pirate can see, her hair worn
in a roll down to the shouldersâwhat the hellâs she doing
in a mixed AA battery? She ought to be in a NAAFI can-
teen, filling coffee cups. He is suddenly, dodderer and ass,
taken by an ache in his skin, a simple love for them both
that asks nothing but their safety, and that he'll always
manage to describe as something elseââconcern,â you
know, âfondness. .. .â
In 1936, Pirate
(âa T. S. Eliot Aprilâ she called it,
though it was a colder time of year) was in love with an
executiveâs wife. She was a thin, speedy stalk of a girl
named Scorpia Mossmoon. Her husband Clive was an ex-
pert in plastics, working out of Cambridge for Imperial
Chemicals. Pirate, the career soldier, was having a year or
twoâs relapse or fling outside in civilian life.
He'd got the feeling, stationed east of Suez, places like
Bahrein, drinking beer watered with his own falling sweat
in the perpetual stink of crude oil across from Muharraq,
restricted to quarters after sundowpaâg8% venereal rate
anywayâone sunburned, scroungy unit of force preserving
the Sheik and the oil money against any threat from east of
the English Channel, horny, mad withthe itching of lice
and heat rash (masturbating under these conditions is ex-
quisite torture), bitter-drunk all the time-ââeven so there
had leaked through to Pirate a dim suspicion that sn was
passing him by.
Incredible blabkeanceidaie Scorpia confirmed not a few
Piratical fantasies about the glamorous silken-calved En-
glish realworld heâd felt so shut away from. They got to-
ae
+
we
Beyond the Zero
41
gether while Clive was away on a troubleshooting mission
_
for ICI in, of all places, Bahrein. The symmetry of this
helped Pirate relax about it some. They would attend
parties as strangers, though she never learned to arm her-
self against unexpected sight of him across a room (trying
to belong, as if he were not someoneâs employee). She
found him touching in his ignorance of everythingâpar-
tying, love, moneyâfelt worldly and desperately caring for
this moment of boyhood among his ways imperialized and
set
(he was 33), his pre-Austerity,
in which Scorpia
figured as his Last Flmgâthough herself too young to
_ know that, to know, like Pirate, what the lyrics to âDanc-
_ ing in the Darkâ are really about....
He will be scrupulous about never telling her. But there
are times when itâs agony not to go to her feet, knowing
she won't leave Clive, crying you're my last chance... if
4
: it canât be you then thereâs no more time. ... Doesnât he
_ wish, against all hope, that he could let the poor, Western-
manâs timetable go...but how does a man...
where
' does he even begin, at: age 33.... But thatâs just itâ sheâd
_ have laughed, not so much annoyed (she would have
_
laughed) as tickled by the unreality of the problemâher-
_. self too lost at the manic edge of him, always at engage,
so taking, cleaving her (for more than when jerking. off
_ into an Army flannel in the Persian Gulf was some collar
of loveâs nettles now at him, at his cock), too unappeas-
able for her not to give in to the insanity of, but too in-
sane really even to think of as any betrayal of Clive....
Convenient as hell for her, anyway. Roger Mexico is
now going through much the same thing with Jessica, the
_ Other Chap in this case being known as Beaver. Pirate has
looked on but never talked about it to Mexico. Yes he is
waiting, to see if it will end for Roger the same way, part
of him, never so cheery as at the spectacle of another's
misfortune, rooting for Beaver and all that he, like Clive,
_ stands for, to win out. But another partâan alternate
selffâone that he mustnât be quick to call âdecentââdoes
seem to want for Roger what Pirate himself lost....
__
âYou are a pirate,â sheâd whispered the last dayâneither
of them knew it was the last dayâââyouâve come and
taken me off on your pirate ship. A girl of good family
and the usual repressions. You've raped me. And Iâm the
Pirate, Scorpia, and the Timetable
- Pirate Prentice reflects on his intense, illicit affair with Scorpia, a woman of 'good family' who viewed their tryst as a pirate's abduction.
- The narrative draws a parallel between Pirate's lost love and Roger Mexico's current struggle with Jessica, who remains tied to a rival named Beaver.
- Pirate experiences a conflicted schadenfreude, partially wanting Roger to fail as he did, yet also hoping Roger finds the happiness Pirate lost.
- The 'Government hounds' and the rigid logic of the 'Western-manâs timetable' are depicted as the inevitable forces that crush romantic insanity and enforce compromise.
- The affair ends at Waterloo Station amidst a surreal scene of 'Wonder Midgets' departing for South Africa, marking Pirate's return to military duty.
- Roger and Jessica travel through the rain toward a rendezvous with Pointsman, a Pavlovian administrator whose motives remain opaque and clinical.
Scorpiaâs talc-white face, through the last window, across the last gate, was a blow to his heart.
we
Beyond the Zero
41
gether while Clive was away on a troubleshooting mission
_
for ICI in, of all places, Bahrein. The symmetry of this
helped Pirate relax about it some. They would attend
parties as strangers, though she never learned to arm her-
self against unexpected sight of him across a room (trying
to belong, as if he were not someoneâs employee). She
found him touching in his ignorance of everythingâpar-
tying, love, moneyâfelt worldly and desperately caring for
this moment of boyhood among his ways imperialized and
set
(he was 33), his pre-Austerity,
in which Scorpia
figured as his Last Flmgâthough herself too young to
_ know that, to know, like Pirate, what the lyrics to âDanc-
_ ing in the Darkâ are really about....
He will be scrupulous about never telling her. But there
are times when itâs agony not to go to her feet, knowing
she won't leave Clive, crying you're my last chance... if
4
: it canât be you then thereâs no more time. ... Doesnât he
_ wish, against all hope, that he could let the poor, Western-
manâs timetable go...but how does a man...
where
' does he even begin, at: age 33.... But thatâs just itâ sheâd
_ have laughed, not so much annoyed (she would have
_
laughed) as tickled by the unreality of the problemâher-
_. self too lost at the manic edge of him, always at engage,
so taking, cleaving her (for more than when jerking. off
_ into an Army flannel in the Persian Gulf was some collar
of loveâs nettles now at him, at his cock), too unappeas-
able for her not to give in to the insanity of, but too in-
sane really even to think of as any betrayal of Clive....
Convenient as hell for her, anyway. Roger Mexico is
now going through much the same thing with Jessica, the
_ Other Chap in this case being known as Beaver. Pirate has
looked on but never talked about it to Mexico. Yes he is
waiting, to see if it will end for Roger the same way, part
of him, never so cheery as at the spectacle of another's
misfortune, rooting for Beaver and all that he, like Clive,
_ stands for, to win out. But another partâan alternate
selffâone that he mustnât be quick to call âdecentââdoes
seem to want for Roger what Pirate himself lost....
__
âYou are a pirate,â sheâd whispered the last dayâneither
of them knew it was the last dayâââyouâve come and
taken me off on your pirate ship. A girl of good family
and the usual repressions. You've raped me. And Iâm the
42
Gravity's Ramnsow
Red Bitch of the High Seas....â A lovely game. Pirate
wished sheâd thought it up sooner. Fucking the last (al-
ready the last) dayâs light away down afternoon to dusk,
hours of fucking, too in love with it to uncouple, they
noticed how the borrowed room rocked gently, the ceiling
obligingly came down a foot, lamps swayed from their
fittings, some fraction of the Thameside traffic provided
salty cries over the water, and nautical bells. .. .
.
But back over their lowering sky-sea behind, Govern-
ment hounds were on the trackâdrawing closer, the cut-
ters are coming, the cutters and the sleek hermaphrodites
of the law, agents who, being old hands, will settle for her
safe return, wonât insist on his execution or capture. Their
logic is sound: give him a bad enough wound and he'll
come round, round to the ways of this hard-boiled old egg
of world and timetables, cycling night to compromise
night....
He left her at Waterloo Station. A gala crowd was
there, to see Fred Roperâs Company of Wonder Midgets
off to an imperial fair in Johannesburg, South Africa. Midg-
ets in their dark winter clothes, exquisite little frocks and
nip-waisted overcoats, were running all over the station,
gobbling their bonvoyage chocolates and lining up for
news photos. Scorpiaâs talc-white face, through the last
window, across the last gate, was a blow to his heart. A
flurry of giggles and best wishes arose from the Wonder
Midgets and their admirers. Well, thought Pirate, guess
Tl
go back in the Army....
O
They're bound eastward now, Roger peering over the
wheel, hunched Dracula-style inside his Burberry, Jessica
with bright millions of droplets still clinging in soft net to
her shoulders and sleeves of drab wool. They want to be
together, in bed, at rest, in love, and instead itâs eastward
tonight and south of the Thames to rendezvous with a
certain high-class vivisectionist before the clock of St.
Felix chimes one. And when the mice run down, who
knows tonight but what theyâve run for
P
Her face against the breath-fogged window has become
another dimness, another light-trick of the winter. Beyond
Beyond the Zero
43
her, the white fracture of the rain passes. âWhy does he
go out and pinch all his dogs in person? Heâs an admin-
istrator, isnât he? Wouldnât he hire.a boy or something?â
âWe call them âstaff, â Roger replies, âand I don't
know why Pointsman
does anything he does, heâs a
Pavlovian, love. Heâs a Royal Fellow. What am I sup-
. posed to know about any of those neriret Theyâre as diffi-
cult as the lot back in Snoxallâs.â
Theyâre both of them gaerisl tonight, whippy as sheets
of glass improperly annealed, ready to go smash at any
indefinite touch
in a whining matrix of stressesâ
âPoor Roger, poor lamb, heâs having an awful war.â
âAll right,â his head shaking, a fuming b or p that re-
fuses to explode, âahh, you're so clever arenât you,â raving
'
Roger, hands off the wheel to help the words out, wind-
screen wipers clicking right along, âyou've been able to
shoot back now and then at the odd flying buzz bomb,
you and the boy friend dear old Nutriaââ
âBeaver.â
âQuite right, and all that magnificent esprit you lot are
so justly famous for, but you havenât brought down many
rockets lately have you, haha!â guming his most spiteful
pursed smile up against wrinkled nose and eyes, âany more
than I, any more than Pointsman, well whoâs that make
purer than whom these days, eh mylove?â bouncing up
_ and down in the leather seat.
By now her handâs reaching out, about to touch his
shoulder. She rests her cheek on her own arm, hair spilling,
drowsy, watching him. Canât get a decent argument going
with her. How heâs tried. She uses her silences like strok-
ing hands to divert him and hush their comers of rooms,
_ bedcovers, tabletopsâaccidental spaces....
Even at the
cinema watching that awful Going My Way, the day they
_ met, he saw every white straying of her ungauntleted
hands, could feel in his skin each saccade of her olive, her
amber, her coffee-colored eyes. Heâs wasted gallons of
paint thinner striking his faithful Zippo, its charred wick,
virility giving way to thrift, rationed down to a little stub,
the blue flame sparlkinie about the edges in the dark, the
âee Each new Titost a new face.
And thereâve been the moments, more of them lately
imes when face-to-face there has been no way to
Roger and Jessica's Fragile Union
- Roger Mexico and Jessica Swanlake navigate a volatile relationship strained by the psychological pressures of the war and the V-2 rocket threat.
- The couple experiences moments of profound, 'magical' ego-dissolution where their identities merge into a single, unobservable entity.
- Roger struggles with feelings of inadequacy and spite, comparing his inability to stop rockets to Jessica's more active military role.
- The narrative flashes back to their 'cute meet' in Tunbridge Wells, where Roger picked up Jessica while she was stranded with a broken bicycle.
- Despite their frequent bickering and the 'whining matrix of stresses' surrounding them, their connection represents a rare piece of data Roger cannot rationally dismiss.
Theyâre both of them gaerisl tonight, whippy as sheets of glass improperly annealed, ready to go smash at any indefinite touch in a whining matrix of stressesâ
Beyond the Zero
43
her, the white fracture of the rain passes. âWhy does he
go out and pinch all his dogs in person? Heâs an admin-
istrator, isnât he? Wouldnât he hire.a boy or something?â
âWe call them âstaff, â Roger replies, âand I don't
know why Pointsman
does anything he does, heâs a
Pavlovian, love. Heâs a Royal Fellow. What am I sup-
. posed to know about any of those neriret Theyâre as diffi-
cult as the lot back in Snoxallâs.â
Theyâre both of them gaerisl tonight, whippy as sheets
of glass improperly annealed, ready to go smash at any
indefinite touch
in a whining matrix of stressesâ
âPoor Roger, poor lamb, heâs having an awful war.â
âAll right,â his head shaking, a fuming b or p that re-
fuses to explode, âahh, you're so clever arenât you,â raving
'
Roger, hands off the wheel to help the words out, wind-
screen wipers clicking right along, âyou've been able to
shoot back now and then at the odd flying buzz bomb,
you and the boy friend dear old Nutriaââ
âBeaver.â
âQuite right, and all that magnificent esprit you lot are
so justly famous for, but you havenât brought down many
rockets lately have you, haha!â guming his most spiteful
pursed smile up against wrinkled nose and eyes, âany more
than I, any more than Pointsman, well whoâs that make
purer than whom these days, eh mylove?â bouncing up
_ and down in the leather seat.
By now her handâs reaching out, about to touch his
shoulder. She rests her cheek on her own arm, hair spilling,
drowsy, watching him. Canât get a decent argument going
with her. How heâs tried. She uses her silences like strok-
ing hands to divert him and hush their comers of rooms,
_ bedcovers, tabletopsâaccidental spaces....
Even at the
cinema watching that awful Going My Way, the day they
_ met, he saw every white straying of her ungauntleted
hands, could feel in his skin each saccade of her olive, her
amber, her coffee-colored eyes. Heâs wasted gallons of
paint thinner striking his faithful Zippo, its charred wick,
virility giving way to thrift, rationed down to a little stub,
the blue flame sparlkinie about the edges in the dark, the
âee Each new Titost a new face.
And thereâve been the moments, more of them lately
imes when face-to-face there has been no way to
44
Graviryâs RAINBOW
tell which of them is which. Both at the same time feeling
the same eerie confusion... something like looking in a
mirror by surprise but... more than that, the feeling of
actually being joined...when afterâwho knows? two
minutes, a week? they realize, separate again, whatâs been
going on, that Roger and Jessica were merged into a joint
creature unaware of itself.... In a life he has cursed,
again and again, for its need to believe so much in the
trans-observable, here is the first, the very first real magic:
data he canât argue away.
It was what Hollywood likes to call a âcute meet,â out in
the neat 18th-century heart of downtown Tunbridge Wells,
Roger motoring in the vintage Jaguar up to London,
Jessica at the roadside struggling prettily with a busted
bicycle, murky wool ATS skirt hiked up on a handle bar,
most nonregulation black slip and clear pearl thighs above
the khaki stockings, wellâ
âHere love,â brakes on in a high squeak, âitâs not back-
stage at the old Windmill or something, you know.â
She knew. âHmm,â a curl dropping down to tickle her
â
nose and put a bit more than the usual acid in her reply,
âare they letting little boys into places like that, I didnât
know.â
âWell nobodyâs,â having learned by now to live with
remarks about his appearance, âcalled up the Girl Guides
yet either, have they.â
âTm twenty.â
âHurrah, that qualifies you for a ride, in this Jaguar
here you see, all the way to London.â
âBut Iâm going the other way. Nearly to Battle.â
âOh, round trip of course.â
'
Shaking hair back out of her face, âDoes your mother
know you're out like this.â
ome
âMy mother is the war,â declares Roger Mexico, leaning
over to open the door.
mera
ee
;
;
âThatâs a queer thing to say,â one muddy little shoe
pondering on the running board.
âCome along, love, you're holding up the mission, leave -
the machine where it is, mind your skirt getting in, I
wouldnât want to commit an unspeakable!
act out here in _
the streets of Tunbridge Wellsââ
{
At which moment the rocket falls. Cu; cute, A thud, a
hollow drumroll. Far enough toward the city to be safe,
mee
}
+i"
om
Pa
The Statistician and the Rocket
- A rocket strike near London prompts a romantic encounter between Roger and Jessica, though their intimacy is shadowed by the war's pervasive gloom.
- Roger, a statistician at 'The White Visitation,' feels isolated from his colleagues who possess supernatural talents like clairvoyance and telekinesis.
- The narrative explores Rogerâs reliance on data and numbers as a shield against the chaotic, 'psychical' uncertainty of death.
- The war is personified as a maternal but destructive force that has eroded Rogerâs capacity for hope over six years of conflict.
- The city of London is depicted as 'Deathâs antechamber,' a bureaucratic space where the adventurous capital of childhood has been replaced by paperwork and numbered days.
- The arrival of 'robot bombs' introduces a new, formalised public terror that differs from the previous chaos of the Battle of Britain.
The city he visits nowadays is Deathâs antechamber: where all the paperworkâs done, the contracts signed, the days numbered.
44
Graviryâs RAINBOW
tell which of them is which. Both at the same time feeling
the same eerie confusion... something like looking in a
mirror by surprise but... more than that, the feeling of
actually being joined...when afterâwho knows? two
minutes, a week? they realize, separate again, whatâs been
going on, that Roger and Jessica were merged into a joint
creature unaware of itself.... In a life he has cursed,
again and again, for its need to believe so much in the
trans-observable, here is the first, the very first real magic:
data he canât argue away.
It was what Hollywood likes to call a âcute meet,â out in
the neat 18th-century heart of downtown Tunbridge Wells,
Roger motoring in the vintage Jaguar up to London,
Jessica at the roadside struggling prettily with a busted
bicycle, murky wool ATS skirt hiked up on a handle bar,
most nonregulation black slip and clear pearl thighs above
the khaki stockings, wellâ
âHere love,â brakes on in a high squeak, âitâs not back-
stage at the old Windmill or something, you know.â
She knew. âHmm,â a curl dropping down to tickle her
â
nose and put a bit more than the usual acid in her reply,
âare they letting little boys into places like that, I didnât
know.â
âWell nobodyâs,â having learned by now to live with
remarks about his appearance, âcalled up the Girl Guides
yet either, have they.â
âTm twenty.â
âHurrah, that qualifies you for a ride, in this Jaguar
here you see, all the way to London.â
âBut Iâm going the other way. Nearly to Battle.â
âOh, round trip of course.â
'
Shaking hair back out of her face, âDoes your mother
know you're out like this.â
ome
âMy mother is the war,â declares Roger Mexico, leaning
over to open the door.
mera
ee
;
;
âThatâs a queer thing to say,â one muddy little shoe
pondering on the running board.
âCome along, love, you're holding up the mission, leave -
the machine where it is, mind your skirt getting in, I
wouldnât want to commit an unspeakable!
act out here in _
the streets of Tunbridge Wellsââ
{
At which moment the rocket falls. Cu; cute, A thud, a
hollow drumroll. Far enough toward the city to be safe,
mee
}
+i"
om
Pa
Beyond the Zero
45
but close and loud enough to send her the hundred miles
between herself and the stranger: long-swooping, balletic,
her marvelous round bottom turning to settle in the other
seat, hair in a momentâs fan, hand sweeping Army-colored
skirt under graceful as a wing, all with the blast still
reverberating.
He thinks he can see
a solemn gnarled something,
deeper or changing faster than clouds, rising to the north,
Will she snuggle now cutely against him, ask him to pro-
tect her? He didnât even believe she'd get in the car,
rocket or no rocket, accordingly now puts Pointsmanâs
Jaguar somehow into reverse instead of low, yes, backs
over the bicycle, rendering it in a great crunch useless for
/ anything but scrap.
âTm in your power,â she cries. âUtterly.â
âHmm,â Roger at length finding his gear, dancing among
_ the pedals rrm, snarl, off to London. But Jessicaâs not in
his power,
_
And the war, well, she is Rogerâs mother, sheâs leached
at all the soft, the vulnerable inclusions of hope and praise
scattered, beneath the mica-dazzle, through Rogerâs min-
eral, grave-marker self, washed it all moaning away on
her gray tide. Six years now, always just in sight, just
_
where he can see her. Heâs forgotten his first corpse, or
_
when he first saw someone living die. Thatâs how long itâs
been going on. Most of his life, it seems. The city he
_ visits nowadays is Deathâs antechamber: where all the
paperworkâs done, the contracts signed, the days num-
_
bered. Nothing of the grand; garden, adventurous capital
3 his childhood knew. Heâs become the Dour Young Man of
_ âThe White Visitation,â the spider hitching together his
_ web of numbers. Itâs an open secret that he doesnât get on
- with the rest of his section. How can he? Theyâre all wild
_ talentsâclairvoyants
and mad
magicians;
telekinetics,
astral travelers, gatherers of light. Rogerâs only a satistician.
âNever had a prophetic dream, never sent or got a tele-
âpathic message, never touched the Other World directly.
If anythingâs there it will show in the experimental data
onât it, in the numbers... but thatâs as close or clear as
ell ever get. Any wonder heâs a bit short with Psi Section,
the definitely 3-sigma lot up and down his basement
idor? Jesus Christ, wouldnât you be?
That one clear need of theirs, so patent, exasperates
46
Gravity's RAINBOW
him.... His need too, all right. But how-are you ever
going to put anything âpsychicalâ on a scientific basis with
your mortality always goading, just outside the chi-square
calculations, in between the flips of the Zener cards and
the silences among the mediumâs thick, straining utter-
ances? In his mellower moments he thinks that continuing
to try makes him brave. But most of the time heâs cursing
himself for not working in fire control, or graphing Stap-
dardized Kill Rates Per Ton for the bomber groups...
anything but this thankless meddling into the affairs of
' invulnerable Death... .
They have drawn near a glow over the rooftops. Fire
Service vehicles come roaring by them, heading the same
direction. It is an oppressive region of brick streets and
silent walls.
Roger brakes for a crowd of sappers, fcehghters, neigh-
bors in dark coats over white nightclothes, old ladies who
have a special place in their night-thoughts for the Fire
Service no please youre not going to use that great Hose
on me...oh no...
aren't you even going to take off those
horrid rubber boots . . yesyes thatâ sâ
Soldiers stand euiay few yards, a loose cordon, unmoy-
ing, a bit supernatural. The Battle of Britain was hardly
so formal, But these new robot bombs bring with them
chances for public terror no one has sounded; Jessica notes
a coal-black Packard up a side street, filled with dark-
suited civilians. Their white collars rigid in the shadows.
âWhoâre they?â
He shrugs: âtheyâ is good enough. âNot a friendly lot.â
âLook whoâs talking.â But their smile is old, habitual,
There was a time when his job had her a bit mental;
lovely little scrapbooks on the flying bombs, how sweet. .
And his irritated sigh: Jess donât make me out some al |
fanatical man of science.
Heat beats at their facaa eye-searing yellow when the
streams shoot into the fire. A ladder hooked to the edge of -
the roof sways in the violent drafts, Up top, against the
sky, figures in slickers brace, wave arms, move together to
pass orders. Half a block down, flare lamps illuminate the
rescue work in the charry wet wreckage. From trailer
pumps and heavy units, canvas hoses run fat with pres-
sure, hastily threaded unions sending out stars of cold
|
faa
Love Amidst the Rubble
- Roger and Jessica, veterans of the Battle of Britain, witness the chaotic firefighting and rescue efforts in a war-torn London.
- The couple reflects on how repeated exposure to mass casualties leads to a numbing 'n-value' where tragedy ceases to be personal.
- They view the 'Home Front' as a manipulative fiction designed to prioritize labor and abstraction over human connection.
- In an act of quiet defiance, they illegally occupy an evacuated house in a regulated 'stay-away zone' south of London.
- Their domestic life is defined by fragile, provisional comforts like repaired furniture, stolen chickens, and shared cigarettes.
- A stray dog, the subject of a systematic hunt, navigates the ruins while sensing a new, more clinical threat than the falling bombs.
That, indeed, the Home Front is something of a fiction and lie, designed, not too subtly, to draw them apart, to subvert love in favor of work, abstraction, required pain, bitter death.
46
Gravity's RAINBOW
him.... His need too, all right. But how-are you ever
going to put anything âpsychicalâ on a scientific basis with
your mortality always goading, just outside the chi-square
calculations, in between the flips of the Zener cards and
the silences among the mediumâs thick, straining utter-
ances? In his mellower moments he thinks that continuing
to try makes him brave. But most of the time heâs cursing
himself for not working in fire control, or graphing Stap-
dardized Kill Rates Per Ton for the bomber groups...
anything but this thankless meddling into the affairs of
' invulnerable Death... .
They have drawn near a glow over the rooftops. Fire
Service vehicles come roaring by them, heading the same
direction. It is an oppressive region of brick streets and
silent walls.
Roger brakes for a crowd of sappers, fcehghters, neigh-
bors in dark coats over white nightclothes, old ladies who
have a special place in their night-thoughts for the Fire
Service no please youre not going to use that great Hose
on me...oh no...
aren't you even going to take off those
horrid rubber boots . . yesyes thatâ sâ
Soldiers stand euiay few yards, a loose cordon, unmoy-
ing, a bit supernatural. The Battle of Britain was hardly
so formal, But these new robot bombs bring with them
chances for public terror no one has sounded; Jessica notes
a coal-black Packard up a side street, filled with dark-
suited civilians. Their white collars rigid in the shadows.
âWhoâre they?â
He shrugs: âtheyâ is good enough. âNot a friendly lot.â
âLook whoâs talking.â But their smile is old, habitual,
There was a time when his job had her a bit mental;
lovely little scrapbooks on the flying bombs, how sweet. .
And his irritated sigh: Jess donât make me out some al |
fanatical man of science.
Heat beats at their facaa eye-searing yellow when the
streams shoot into the fire. A ladder hooked to the edge of -
the roof sways in the violent drafts, Up top, against the
sky, figures in slickers brace, wave arms, move together to
pass orders. Half a block down, flare lamps illuminate the
rescue work in the charry wet wreckage. From trailer
pumps and heavy units, canvas hoses run fat with pres-
sure, hastily threaded unions sending out stars of cold
|
faa
Beyond the Zero
ae
spray, bitter cold, that flash yellow when the fire leaps.
Somewhere over a radio comes a womanâs voice, a quiet
Yorkshire girl, dispatching other units to other parts of the
city.
Once Roger and Jessica might have stopped. But theyâre
both alumni of the Battle of Britain, both have been
drafted into the early black mornings and the crying for
mercy, the dumb inertia of cobbles and beams, the pro-
found shortage of mercy in those days.... By the time
one has pulled oneâs nth victim or part of a victim free
of oneâs nth pile of rubble, he told her once, angry, weary,
it has ceased to be that personal ... the value of n may be
_
different for each of us, but Iâm sorry: sooner or later...
â
And past the exhaustion with it there is also this. If they
have not quite seceded from warâs state, at least they've
found
the beginnings
of gentle withdrawal... thereâs
_ never been the space or time to talk about it, and per-
haps no needâbut both know, clearly, itâs better together,
snuggled in, than back out in the paper, fires, khaki, steel
__.of the Home Front. That, indeed, the Home Front is some-
thing of a fiction and lie, designed, not too subtly, to draw
_ them apart, to subvert love in favor of work, abstraction,
- required pain, bitter death.
__
They have found a house in the stay-away zone, under
the barrage balloons south of: London. The town, evacu-
ated in *40, is still âregulatedââstill on the Ministry's
list. Roger and Jessica occupy the place illegally, in a
_ defiance they can never measure unless they're caught.
_ Jessica has brought an old doll, seashells, her auntâs grip
_ filled with lace knickers and silk stockings, Rogerâs man-
_ aged to scare up a few chickens to nest in the empty ga-
_ Tage. Whenever they meet here, one always remembers to
âbring a fresh flower or two. The nights are filled with ex-
plosion and motor transport, and wind that brings them
up over the downs a last smack of the sea. Day begins
_ with a hot cup and a cigarette over a little table with a
weak leg that Roger has repaired, provisionally, with
brown twine. Thereâs never much talk but touches and
looks, smiles together, curses for parting. It is marginal,
hungry, chillyâmost times they're too paranoid to risk a
-but itâs something they want to keep, so much that
<eep it they will take on more than propaganda has
ever asked them for. They are in love. Fuck the war.
48
Gravirtyâs RAInsow >
O
Tonightâs quarry, whose name will be Vladimir (or Ilya,
Sergei, Nikolai, depending on the doctorâs whim), slinks
carefully toward the cellar entrance. This jagged opening
ought to lead to something deep and safe. He has the
memory, or reflex, of escaping into similar darkness from
an Irish setter who. smells of coal smoke and will attack
on sight... once from a pack of children, recently froma
sudden blast of noiselight, a fall of masonry that caught
him on the left hindquarter (still raw, still needs licking).
But tonightâs threat is something new: not so violent, in-
stead a systematic stealth he isnât used to. Life out here is
more direct.
Itâs raining. The wind hardly flickers. It brings a scent
he finds strange, never having been near a laboratory in
his life.
The smell is ether, it emanates from Mr. Edward W. A.
Pointsman,
F.R.C.S.
As the dog vanishes around the
broken remnant of a wall, just as the tip of his tail flicks
away, the doctor steps into the white waiting throat of a
toilet bowl he has not, so intent on his prey, seen. He
bends over, awkwardly, tugging loose the bowl from its
surrounding debris, muttering oaths against all the care-.
less, meaning not himself, particularly, but the owners of
this ruined flat (if they werenât killed in the blast) or
whoever failed to salvage this bowl, which seems, actually,
to be wedged on rather tight. ...
.
Mr. Pointsman drags his leg over to a shattered stair-
case, swings it quietly, so as not to alarm the dog, against
_
the lower half of a fumed-oak newel post. The bow! only
clanks back, the wood shudders. Mocking himâall right.
He sits on stairsteps ascending to open sky and attempts to
pull the damned thing loose of his foot. It will not come.
He hears the invisible dog, toenails softly clicking, gain
the sanctuary of the cellar. He canât reach inside the
toilet bowl even to untie his fucking boot. .|. .
Settling the window of his Balaclava helmet snug and
|
tickling just under his nose, resolved not |to give way to
panic, Mr. Pointsman stands up, has to
wait for blood to
EMA
aA
The Doctor and the Toilet
- Mr. Pointsman, a surgeon and dog-catcher, accidentally wedges his foot into a discarded toilet bowl while stalking a stray in a bombed-out ruin.
- The scene highlights the absurdity and indignity of the war's aftermath, as Pointsman struggles with the porcelain trap amidst the wreckage of a former home.
- Jessica and Roger Mexico observe the grim, surgical precision of V-bomb destruction, which has reduced domestic lives to separate straws and tangled debris.
- Jessica experiences a moment of profound vertigo and pity for a discarded brassiere, seeing it as a symbol of the lost, intimate world of the victims.
- The group prepares for a bizarre hunt involving ether and nets, contrasting the clinical coldness of the men with Jessica's emotional response to the ruins.
The doctor steps into the white waiting throat of a toilet bowl he has not, so intent on his prey, seen.
48
Gravirtyâs RAInsow >
O
Tonightâs quarry, whose name will be Vladimir (or Ilya,
Sergei, Nikolai, depending on the doctorâs whim), slinks
carefully toward the cellar entrance. This jagged opening
ought to lead to something deep and safe. He has the
memory, or reflex, of escaping into similar darkness from
an Irish setter who. smells of coal smoke and will attack
on sight... once from a pack of children, recently froma
sudden blast of noiselight, a fall of masonry that caught
him on the left hindquarter (still raw, still needs licking).
But tonightâs threat is something new: not so violent, in-
stead a systematic stealth he isnât used to. Life out here is
more direct.
Itâs raining. The wind hardly flickers. It brings a scent
he finds strange, never having been near a laboratory in
his life.
The smell is ether, it emanates from Mr. Edward W. A.
Pointsman,
F.R.C.S.
As the dog vanishes around the
broken remnant of a wall, just as the tip of his tail flicks
away, the doctor steps into the white waiting throat of a
toilet bowl he has not, so intent on his prey, seen. He
bends over, awkwardly, tugging loose the bowl from its
surrounding debris, muttering oaths against all the care-.
less, meaning not himself, particularly, but the owners of
this ruined flat (if they werenât killed in the blast) or
whoever failed to salvage this bowl, which seems, actually,
to be wedged on rather tight. ...
.
Mr. Pointsman drags his leg over to a shattered stair-
case, swings it quietly, so as not to alarm the dog, against
_
the lower half of a fumed-oak newel post. The bow! only
clanks back, the wood shudders. Mocking himâall right.
He sits on stairsteps ascending to open sky and attempts to
pull the damned thing loose of his foot. It will not come.
He hears the invisible dog, toenails softly clicking, gain
the sanctuary of the cellar. He canât reach inside the
toilet bowl even to untie his fucking boot. .|. .
Settling the window of his Balaclava helmet snug and
|
tickling just under his nose, resolved not |to give way to
panic, Mr. Pointsman stands up, has to
wait for blood to
EMA
aA
Beyond the Zero.
49
drain, resurge, bounce up and down its million branches
in the drizzly night, percolate to balanceâthen limping,
clanking, he heads back toward the car to get a hand from
young Mexico, who did remember, he hopes, to bring the
electric lantern...
.
Roger and Jessica found him a bit earlier, lurking at the
end of a street of row houses. The V-bomb whose mutila-
_
tion he was prowling took down four dwellings the other
day, four exactly, neat as surgery. There is the soft smell
of house-wood down before its time, of ashes matted
down by the rain. Ropes are strung, a sentry lounges
silent against the doorway of an intact house next to where
â the rubble begins. If he and the doctor have chatted at
all, neither gives a sign now. Jessica sees two eyes of no
particular color glaring out the window of a Balaclava
helmet, and is reminded of a mediaeval knight wearing a
_
casque. What creature is he possibly here tonight to fight
for his king? The rubble waits him, sloping up to broken
rear walls in a clogging, an open-work of laths pointlessly
chevroningâflooring, furniture, glass, chunks of plaster,
long tatters of wallpaper, split and shattered joists: some
_ womanâs long-gathered nest, taken back to separate straws,
flung again to this wind and this darkness. Back in the
wreckage a brass bedpost winks; and twined there some-
oneâs brassiere, a white, prewar confection of lace and
satin, simply left tangled.... For an instant, in a vertigo
_ she canât control, all the pity laid up in her heart flies to
were
a
ss
it, as it would to a small animal stranded and forgotten.
Roger has the boot of the car open. The two men are
rummaging, coming up with large canvas sack, flask of
ether, net, dog whistle. She knows she must not cry: that
the vague eyes in the knitted window won't seek their
Beast any more earnestly for her tears. But the poor lost
flimsy thing...waiting in the night and rain for its
owner, for its room to reassemble round it...
.The night, full of fine rain, smells like a wet dog. Points-
man seems toâve been away for a bit. âIâve lost my mind.
I ought to be cuddling someplace with Beaver this very
âminute, watching him light up his Pipe, and here instead
Tm with this gillie or something, nes spiritualist, statisti-
âa what are you anywayââ
50
Gravity's RaInBsow
âCuddling?â Roger has a tendency to scream, âCud-
dling?â
âMexico.â Itâs the doctor, sighing, toilet bowl on his
foot and knitted helmet askew.
âHello, doesnât that make it difficult for you to walk?
should think it would...
up here, first get it in the door,
this way, and, ah, good,â then closing the door again
around Pointsmanâs ankle, the bowl now occupying Roger's
. seat, Roger half-resting on Jessicaâs lap, âtug now, hard as
ever you can.â
Thinking young prig and mocking ass the doctor rocks
back on his free leg, grunting, the bowl wallowing to and
fro. Roger holds the door and peers attentively into where
the foot vanished. âIf we had a bit of Vaseline, we couldâ
something slippery. Wait! Stay there, Pointsman, donât
move, we'll have this resolved... .â Under the car, impul-
sive lad, in search of the crankcase plug by the time
Pointsman can say, âThere isnât time Mexico, he'll escape,
he'll escape.â
âQuite right.â Up again fumbling a flashlight from his
jacket pocket. âIll flush him out, you wait with the net.
Sure you can get about all right? Nasty if you fell or
something just as he made his break for the open.â
âFor pityâs sake,â Pointsman thumping after him back
into the wreckage. âDonât frighten him Mexico, this isnât
Kenya or something, we need him as close to normative,
you know, as possible.â
Normative? Normative?
âRoger,â calls Roger, giving him short-long-short with
the flash.
tS
âJessica,â murmurs Jessica, tiptoeing behind them.
â
âHere, fellow,â coaxes Roger. âNice bottle of ether here
for you,â opening the flask, waving it in the cellar en-
trance, then switching on his beam. Dog looks up out of
an old rusted pram, bobbing black shadows, tongue
hang-
ing, utter skepticism on his face. âWhy itâs. Mrs, aed
baum!â Roger cries, the same way heâs heard Fred Allen
do, Wednesday nights over the BBC.
âYou vere ekshpecting maybe LessiePâ' replies the ree :
Roger can smell ether fumes quite strongly as he starts
his cautious descent. âCome on mate, il
be over before
you know it. Pointsman just wants to count the old oe |
|
[
x7
ab
gt
3 a (Se
The Farce of the Normative
- Roger Mexico and Dr. Pointsman engage in a chaotic, slapstick attempt to capture a dog for laboratory experimentation.
- Pointsmanâs foot becomes stuck in a bowl, highlighting the physical absurdity and incompetence of the pursuit.
- Mexico uses ether to attempt to sedate the dog, but his clumsy execution leads to him spilling the chemical and falling into a rusted pram.
- The dialogue reveals a tension between Pointsmanâs desire for a 'normative' specimen and Mexicoâs mocking, theatrical attitude toward the scientific mission.
- The scene culminates in a failed pincer movement as the dog evades the two men amidst falling rain and rubble.
Taking the wet sponge between two fingers, he staggers toward the dog, shining the light up from under his chin to highlight the vampire face he thinks heâs making.
50
Gravity's RaInBsow
âCuddling?â Roger has a tendency to scream, âCud-
dling?â
âMexico.â Itâs the doctor, sighing, toilet bowl on his
foot and knitted helmet askew.
âHello, doesnât that make it difficult for you to walk?
should think it would...
up here, first get it in the door,
this way, and, ah, good,â then closing the door again
around Pointsmanâs ankle, the bowl now occupying Roger's
. seat, Roger half-resting on Jessicaâs lap, âtug now, hard as
ever you can.â
Thinking young prig and mocking ass the doctor rocks
back on his free leg, grunting, the bowl wallowing to and
fro. Roger holds the door and peers attentively into where
the foot vanished. âIf we had a bit of Vaseline, we couldâ
something slippery. Wait! Stay there, Pointsman, donât
move, we'll have this resolved... .â Under the car, impul-
sive lad, in search of the crankcase plug by the time
Pointsman can say, âThere isnât time Mexico, he'll escape,
he'll escape.â
âQuite right.â Up again fumbling a flashlight from his
jacket pocket. âIll flush him out, you wait with the net.
Sure you can get about all right? Nasty if you fell or
something just as he made his break for the open.â
âFor pityâs sake,â Pointsman thumping after him back
into the wreckage. âDonât frighten him Mexico, this isnât
Kenya or something, we need him as close to normative,
you know, as possible.â
Normative? Normative?
âRoger,â calls Roger, giving him short-long-short with
the flash.
tS
âJessica,â murmurs Jessica, tiptoeing behind them.
â
âHere, fellow,â coaxes Roger. âNice bottle of ether here
for you,â opening the flask, waving it in the cellar en-
trance, then switching on his beam. Dog looks up out of
an old rusted pram, bobbing black shadows, tongue
hang-
ing, utter skepticism on his face. âWhy itâs. Mrs, aed
baum!â Roger cries, the same way heâs heard Fred Allen
do, Wednesday nights over the BBC.
âYou vere ekshpecting maybe LessiePâ' replies the ree :
Roger can smell ether fumes quite strongly as he starts
his cautious descent. âCome on mate, il
be over before
you know it. Pointsman just wants to count the old oe |
|
[
x7
ab
gt
3 a (Se
âs Beyond the Zero
b
51
of saliva, thatâs all, Wants to make a wee inigion in your
_ cheek, nice glass tube, nothing to bother aout, right?
Ring a bell now and then, Exciting world of te Jabora-
tory, you'll love it.â Ether seems to be getting tohim, He
tries to stopper the flask: takes a step, foot plunge. into a
hole. Lurching sideways, he gropes for something to seady
'. himself. The stopper falls back out of the flask ani in
-
forever among the debris at the bottom of the smasted
_
house. Overhead Pointsman cries, âThe sponge, Mexico,
_
you forgot the sponge!â down comes a round pale collec-
_ tion of holes, bouncing in and out of the light of the flash.
_
âFrisky chap,â Roger making a two-handed grab for it,
_ splashing ether liberally about. He locates the sponge at
_
last in his flashlight beam, the dog looking on from the
pram in some confusion. âHah!â pouring ether to drench
_
the. sponge. and go wisping cold off his hand till the
_
flaskâs empty. Taking the wet sponge between two fingers
vs, he staggers toward the dog, shining the light up from
___under his chin to highlight the vampire face he thinks heâs
4 making. âMomentâof truth!â He lunges. The dog leaps
off at an angle, streaking past Roger toward the entrance
4 while Roger keeps going with his sponge, headfirst into
* the pram, which collapses under his weight. Dimly he
hears
the: doctor above whimper, âHeâs getting away.
Mexico, do hurry.â
. . âHurry.â Roger, clutching the sponge, extricates him-
_ self from the infantâs vehicle, taking it off as if it were a
Bs âshirt, with what seems to him not unathletic skill.
ae
âMexico-o-o,â; plaintive.
__. âRight,â Roger blundering up the cellarâs rubble to the
hi outside again, where he beholds the doctor closing in on
the dog, net held aloft and outspread. Rain falls per-
tently over this tableau. Roger circles so as to make
th Pointsman,a-pincer upon the animal, who now stands
1 paws: planted and. teeth showing near one of the
âPieces of rear wall still standing. Jessica waits halfway
into it, hands in her pockets; smoking, watching.
__ âHere,â hollers the sentry, âyou. You idiots. Keep away
_
from that bit of wall, thereâs nothing to hold it up.â
âDo you have any cigarettes?â asks Jessica.
âHe's going to bolt,â Roger screams.
_.
âFor Godâs sake, Mexico, slowly now.â Testing each
A Failed Dognapping
- Roger Mexico and Dr. Pointsman attempt to capture a stray dog amidst the precarious ruins of a bombed-out building.
- The dog escapes by associating the men's flashlights with the traumatic memory of the 'great blast' and subsequent pain.
- The capture attempt ends in a slapstick failure as the men become tangled in their own net while a wall collapses nearby.
- Pointsmanâs reaction to the failure is uncharacteristically resigned, suggesting a shift in his obsessive scientific focus.
- Roger experiences a moment of paranoia, realizing Pointsman may view him as a 'specimen' rather than a colleague.
- The group departs for 'The White Visitation,' a facility characterized by its strange, Victorian-Gothic architectural confusion.
But sometimesâRoger glances again across Jessicaâs dark wool bosom at the knitted head, the naked nose and eyesâhe thinks the doctor wants more than his good will, his collaboration. But wants him. As one wants a fine specimen of dog. . . .
âs Beyond the Zero
b
51
of saliva, thatâs all, Wants to make a wee inigion in your
_ cheek, nice glass tube, nothing to bother aout, right?
Ring a bell now and then, Exciting world of te Jabora-
tory, you'll love it.â Ether seems to be getting tohim, He
tries to stopper the flask: takes a step, foot plunge. into a
hole. Lurching sideways, he gropes for something to seady
'. himself. The stopper falls back out of the flask ani in
-
forever among the debris at the bottom of the smasted
_
house. Overhead Pointsman cries, âThe sponge, Mexico,
_
you forgot the sponge!â down comes a round pale collec-
_ tion of holes, bouncing in and out of the light of the flash.
_
âFrisky chap,â Roger making a two-handed grab for it,
_ splashing ether liberally about. He locates the sponge at
_
last in his flashlight beam, the dog looking on from the
pram in some confusion. âHah!â pouring ether to drench
_
the. sponge. and go wisping cold off his hand till the
_
flaskâs empty. Taking the wet sponge between two fingers
vs, he staggers toward the dog, shining the light up from
___under his chin to highlight the vampire face he thinks heâs
4 making. âMomentâof truth!â He lunges. The dog leaps
off at an angle, streaking past Roger toward the entrance
4 while Roger keeps going with his sponge, headfirst into
* the pram, which collapses under his weight. Dimly he
hears
the: doctor above whimper, âHeâs getting away.
Mexico, do hurry.â
. . âHurry.â Roger, clutching the sponge, extricates him-
_ self from the infantâs vehicle, taking it off as if it were a
Bs âshirt, with what seems to him not unathletic skill.
ae
âMexico-o-o,â; plaintive.
__. âRight,â Roger blundering up the cellarâs rubble to the
hi outside again, where he beholds the doctor closing in on
the dog, net held aloft and outspread. Rain falls per-
tently over this tableau. Roger circles so as to make
th Pointsman,a-pincer upon the animal, who now stands
1 paws: planted and. teeth showing near one of the
âPieces of rear wall still standing. Jessica waits halfway
into it, hands in her pockets; smoking, watching.
__ âHere,â hollers the sentry, âyou. You idiots. Keep away
_
from that bit of wall, thereâs nothing to hold it up.â
âDo you have any cigarettes?â asks Jessica.
âHe's going to bolt,â Roger screams.
_.
âFor Godâs sake, Mexico, slowly now.â Testing each
52
Gravirtyâs Rainsow
footstep,
move upslope over the ruinâs delicate bal-
ance. Itâs A system of lever arms that can plunge them
into deadly collapse at any moment. They draw near their
quarry
ho scrutinizes now the doctor, now Roger, with
quic
hifts of his head. He growls tentatively, tail keep-
ing
Ap a steady slap against the two sides of the corner
they've backed him into.
As Roger, who carries the light, moves rearward, the
og, some circuit of him, recalls the other light that came
from behind in recent daysâthe light that followed the
/
great blast so seethed through afterward by pain and
âgold. Light from the rear signals death / men with nets
about to leap can be avoidedâ
âSponge,â screams the doctor. Roger flings himself at
the dog, who has taken off in Pointsmanâs direction and
away toward the street whilst Pointsman, groaning, swings
his toiletbowl. foot desperately, misses, momentum carry-â
ing him around a full tum, net up like a radar antenna.
Roger, snoot full of ether, canât check his lungeâas the
doctor comes spinning round again Roger careens on into
him, toilet bow! hitting Roger a painful thump in the leg.
The two men fall over, tangled in the net now covering
them. Broken beams creak, chungs of rain-wet plaster
tumble. Above them the unsupported wall begins to sway.
âGet out of there,â hollers the sentry. But the efforts'of
the pair under the net to move away only rock the wall
more violently.
âWe're for it,â the doctor shivers. Roger seeks his eyes
to see if he means it, but the window of the Balaclava
helmet now contains only a white ear and fringe of hair.
âRoll,â Roger suggests. They contrive to roll a few
yards down toward the street, by which time part of the
wall has collapsed, in the other direction. They manage to
get back to Jessica without
ing any more damage.
âHeâs run down the street, she mentions, helping them
out of the net.
âTtâs all right,â the doctor sighs. âIt nies make any
difference.â
âAh but the eveningâ s young,â from ent
âNo, no. Forget it.â
âWhat will you do for a dog, then.â
They are under way again, Roger at ow wheel, Jessica
P.
:
Beyond the Zero
53
_ between them, toilet bowl out a half-open door, before
_ the answer. âPerhaps itâs a sign. Perhaps I should be .
'
branching out.â
Roger gives him a quick look. Silence, Mexico. Try not
to think about what that means. Heâs not oneâs superior
after all, both report to the old Brigadier at âThe White
Visitationâ on, so far as he knows, equal footing. But
sometimesâRoger glances again across Jessicaâs dark wool
-
bosom at the knitted head, the naked nose and eyesâhe
_ thinks the doctor wants more than his good will, his
- collaboration. But wants him. As one wants a fine speci-
men of dog. ...
â
_
Whyâs he here, then, assisting at yet another dognap-
_ ping? What stranger does he shelter in him so madâ
âWill you be going back down tonight, doctor? The
young lady needs a ride.â
if
âI shanât, Pll be staying in. But you might take the car
__
back. I must talk with Dr. Spectro.â
__- They are approaching now a lengthy brick improvisa-
|. tion, a Victorian paraphrase of what once, long ago, re-
_
sulted in Gothic cathedralsâbut which, in its own time,
_ arose not from any need to climb through the fashioning
0 of suitable confusions toward any apical God, but more in
a derangement of aim, a doubt as to the Godâs actual
locus (or, in some, as to its very existence), out of a cruel
network of sensuous moments that could not be tran-
_ Scended and so bent the intentions of the builders not on
_ any zenith, but back to fright, to simple escape, in what-
b ever direction, from what the industrial smoke, street
_ excrement, windowless warrens, shrugging leather forests
of drive belts, flowing and patient shadow states of the
tats and flies, were saying about the chances for mercy
that year, The grimed brick sprawl is known as the Hospi-
tal of St. Veronica of the True Image for Colonic and
_ Respiratory Diseases, and one ofits residents is a Dr.
evin Spectro, neurologist and casual Pavlovian.
\ Spectro is one of the original seven owners of The Book,
and if you ask Mr. Pointsman what Book, you'll only get
ked at. It rotates,
the mysterious Book, among its co-
A whers on a weekly basis, and this, Roger gathers, is
pectros week to get dropped in on at all hours. Others,
â n, Pointsmanâs weeks, have come the same way to âThe
âA
The Hospital of St. Veronica
- The setting is a grim, industrial hospital for colonic and respiratory diseases, serving as a refuge from the harsh urban decay of war-time London.
- Dr. Kevin Spectro, a neurologist and 'casual Pavlovian,' is introduced as one of the seven mysterious owners of 'The Book.'
- Pointsman and Spectro engage in a late-night dialogue regarding the political and psychological pressures of their work and their superior, Pudding.
- The hospital ward is described as a 'file drawer of pain,' where patients are treated as generic 'Foxes' to be sedated in the dark.
- Pointsman is preoccupied with a specific 'Fox' out in the city, viewing the patient as a 'prize of war' for his psychological experiments.
Out of the blackness of the ward, a half-open file drawer of pain each bed a folder, come cries, struck cries, as from cold metal.
P.
:
Beyond the Zero
53
_ between them, toilet bowl out a half-open door, before
_ the answer. âPerhaps itâs a sign. Perhaps I should be .
'
branching out.â
Roger gives him a quick look. Silence, Mexico. Try not
to think about what that means. Heâs not oneâs superior
after all, both report to the old Brigadier at âThe White
Visitationâ on, so far as he knows, equal footing. But
sometimesâRoger glances again across Jessicaâs dark wool
-
bosom at the knitted head, the naked nose and eyesâhe
_ thinks the doctor wants more than his good will, his
- collaboration. But wants him. As one wants a fine speci-
men of dog. ...
â
_
Whyâs he here, then, assisting at yet another dognap-
_ ping? What stranger does he shelter in him so madâ
âWill you be going back down tonight, doctor? The
young lady needs a ride.â
if
âI shanât, Pll be staying in. But you might take the car
__
back. I must talk with Dr. Spectro.â
__- They are approaching now a lengthy brick improvisa-
|. tion, a Victorian paraphrase of what once, long ago, re-
_
sulted in Gothic cathedralsâbut which, in its own time,
_ arose not from any need to climb through the fashioning
0 of suitable confusions toward any apical God, but more in
a derangement of aim, a doubt as to the Godâs actual
locus (or, in some, as to its very existence), out of a cruel
network of sensuous moments that could not be tran-
_ Scended and so bent the intentions of the builders not on
_ any zenith, but back to fright, to simple escape, in what-
b ever direction, from what the industrial smoke, street
_ excrement, windowless warrens, shrugging leather forests
of drive belts, flowing and patient shadow states of the
tats and flies, were saying about the chances for mercy
that year, The grimed brick sprawl is known as the Hospi-
tal of St. Veronica of the True Image for Colonic and
_ Respiratory Diseases, and one ofits residents is a Dr.
evin Spectro, neurologist and casual Pavlovian.
\ Spectro is one of the original seven owners of The Book,
and if you ask Mr. Pointsman what Book, you'll only get
ked at. It rotates,
the mysterious Book, among its co-
A whers on a weekly basis, and this, Roger gathers, is
pectros week to get dropped in on at all hours. Others,
â n, Pointsmanâs weeks, have come the same way to âThe
âA
54
Gravityâs RAINBOW
White Visitationâ in the night, Roger has heard their
earnest,
conspiratorsâ whispering
in the corridors,
the
smart rattle of all their shoes, like dancing pumps on
marble, destroying oneâs repose, refusing ever to die with
distance, Pointsmanâs
voice and stride always distinct
from the rest. Howâs it going to sound now with a toilet
bowl?
Roger and Jessica leave the doctor at a side entrance,
into which he melts, leaving nothing but rain dripping
from slopes and serifs of an unreadable legend on the
lintel.
They turn southward. Lights on the dash glow warmly.
Searchlights rake the raining sky. The slender machine
shivers over the roads, Jessica drifts toward sleep, the
leather
seat creaking
as she curls about. Windscreen
wipers brush the rain in a rhythmic bright warp. It is
past two, and time for home.
Oo
Inside St. Veronicaâs hospital they sit together, just off the
war-neurosis ward, these habitual evenings. The autoclave
simmers its fine clutter of steel bones. Steam drifts into
the glare of the gooseneck lamp, now and then becoming
very bright, and the shadows of the menâs gestures may
pass through it, knife-edged, swooping very fast. But both
faces are usually reserved, kept well back, in the annulus
of night.
Out of the blackness of the ward, a half-open file drawer
of pain each bed a folder, come cries, struck cries, as from
cold metal. Kevin Spectro will take his syringe and spike
away a dozen times tonight, into the dark, to sedate Fox
(his generic term for any patientârun three times around
the building without thinking of a fox and you can cure
anything). Pointsman will sit each time waiting for their
talking to resume, glad to rest these moments in the half-
darkness, the worn gold-leaf letters shining from the spines
of books, the fragrant coffee mess besieged âby roaches, the
_
winter rain in the downspout just ontenae the window. .
âYou're not looking any better.â
fl
âAh, itâs the old bastard again, heâs got 'me down. This
>
i
Beyond the Zero
55
a
; fighting, Spectro, every day, I donât.
pouting down-
|
ward at his eyeglasses that heâs wiping
0 on his shirt, âthereâs
more to damned Pudding than I can see, heâs always
springing his . .
. senile little surprises. .
.
âTtâs his age. Really.â
âOh, that I can deal with. But heâs so damnedâsuch a
. bastard, he never sleeps, he plotsâ
âNot senility, no, I meant the position heâs working
from, PointsmanP You donât have the priorities he does
quite yet, do youP You canât take the chances he can.
You've treated them that age, surely you know that
strange... smugness. ...â
_ Pointsmanâs own Fox waits, out in the city, a prize of
war. In here the tiny office space is the cave of an oracle:
steam drifting, sybilline cries arriving out of the darkness
... Abreactions of the Lord of the Night....
ie donât like it, Pointsman. Since you did ask.â
âWhy not.â Silence, âUnethical?â
- âFor pityâs sake, is this ethical?â raising an arm then
. toward the exit into the ward, almost a Fascist salute.
' âNo, Iâm only trying to think of ways to justify it, experi-
_ mentally. I canât. Itâs only one man.â
_â âItâs Slothrop. You. know what he is. Even Mexico
thinks... oh, the usual. Precognition. Psychokinesis. They
have their own problems, that lot....
But suppose you
_
had the chance to study a truly classical case of... some
_
pathology, a perfect mechanism...
.â
__
One night Spectro asked: âIf he hadnât been one of
_ Laszlo Jamfâs subjects, would you be all this keen on
him?â
5
âOf course I would.â
fee: Him,â
_ Imagine a missile one hears approaching only after it
explodes. The reversal! A piece of time neatly snipped
~out...a few feet of film run backwards...
the blast of
the rocket, fallen faster than soundâthen growing out of
it the roar of its own fall, catching up to whatâs already
fy death and burning ...a ghost in the sky. .
âsetae was fascinated with âideas of the âopposite:â Call
f
ââ
The Ultraparadoxical Reflex
- Pointsman and Spectro debate the scientific validity of studying Slothrop as a 'perfect mechanism' of pathology.
- The V-2 rocket creates a temporal reversal where the explosion occurs before the sound of its approach is heard.
- Pointsman applies Pavlovian theory to suggest that trauma and 'transmarginal' phases weaken a patient's grasp on opposites.
- Slothrop's apparent precognition is theorized to be a physical reflex to subtle environmental cues rather than extrasensory perception.
- The war is conceptualized as a massive laboratory where the normal order of stimuli is violently inverted.
- Vivid descriptions of the ward reveal the psychological and physical devastation of the rocket strikes on the civilian population.
Imagine a missile one hears approaching only after it explodes. The reversal! A piece of time neatly snipped out...a few feet of film run backwards...
>
i
Beyond the Zero
55
a
; fighting, Spectro, every day, I donât.
pouting down-
|
ward at his eyeglasses that heâs wiping
0 on his shirt, âthereâs
more to damned Pudding than I can see, heâs always
springing his . .
. senile little surprises. .
.
âTtâs his age. Really.â
âOh, that I can deal with. But heâs so damnedâsuch a
. bastard, he never sleeps, he plotsâ
âNot senility, no, I meant the position heâs working
from, PointsmanP You donât have the priorities he does
quite yet, do youP You canât take the chances he can.
You've treated them that age, surely you know that
strange... smugness. ...â
_ Pointsmanâs own Fox waits, out in the city, a prize of
war. In here the tiny office space is the cave of an oracle:
steam drifting, sybilline cries arriving out of the darkness
... Abreactions of the Lord of the Night....
ie donât like it, Pointsman. Since you did ask.â
âWhy not.â Silence, âUnethical?â
- âFor pityâs sake, is this ethical?â raising an arm then
. toward the exit into the ward, almost a Fascist salute.
' âNo, Iâm only trying to think of ways to justify it, experi-
_ mentally. I canât. Itâs only one man.â
_â âItâs Slothrop. You. know what he is. Even Mexico
thinks... oh, the usual. Precognition. Psychokinesis. They
have their own problems, that lot....
But suppose you
_
had the chance to study a truly classical case of... some
_
pathology, a perfect mechanism...
.â
__
One night Spectro asked: âIf he hadnât been one of
_ Laszlo Jamfâs subjects, would you be all this keen on
him?â
5
âOf course I would.â
fee: Him,â
_ Imagine a missile one hears approaching only after it
explodes. The reversal! A piece of time neatly snipped
~out...a few feet of film run backwards...
the blast of
the rocket, fallen faster than soundâthen growing out of
it the roar of its own fall, catching up to whatâs already
fy death and burning ...a ghost in the sky. .
âsetae was fascinated with âideas of the âopposite:â Call
f
ââ
56
Gravityâs RAINBOW
starve them, traumatize, shock, castrate them, send them
over into one of the transmarginal phases, past borders of
their waking selves, past âequivalentâ and âparadoxicalâ
phasesâyou weaken this idea of the opposite, and here
all at once is the paranoid patient who would be master,
yet now feels himself a slave... who would be loved, but
suffers
his worldâs indifference, and, âI think,â Pavlov
writing to Janet, âit is precisely the ultraparadoxical phase
which is the base of the weakening of the idea of the
opposite in our patients.â Our madmen, our paranoid,
maniac, schizoid, morally imbecileâ
Spectro shakes his head. âYou're putting response be-
fore stimulus.â
âNot at all. Think of it. Heâs out there, and he can
feel them coming, days in advance. But itâs a reflex. A
reflex to something thatâs in the air right now. Something
we're too coarsely put together to senseâbut Slothrop
can.
âBut that makes it extrasensory.â
âWhy not say âa sensory cue we just arenât paying atten-
tion to.â Something thatâs been there all along, something
we could be looking at but no one is. Often, in our ex-
periments...I believe M. K. Petrova was first to observe
it... one of the women, quite early in the game really...
the act merely of bringing the dog into the laboratoryâ
especially in our experimental neurosis work... the
sight of the test stand, of the technician, a stray shadow,
the touch of a draft of air, some cue we might never pin
down would be enough to send him over, send him âtrans-
marginal.
âSo, Slothrop. Conceivably. Out in the city, the am-
bience aloneâsuppose we considered the war itself as a
laboratory? when the V-2 hits, you see, first the blast,
then the sound of its falling... the normal order of the
stimuli reversed that way
...so he might turn a particular
corner, enter a certain street, and for no clear reason feel
suddenly . .
Silence comes in, sculptured by spoken dreams, by pain-
voices of the rocketbombed next door, Lord of the Nightâs
children, voices hung upon the wardâs stagnant medicinal
air, Praying to their Master: sooner or later an absentiaâ,
each one, all over this frost and harrowed
city .
. as once again the floor is a giant
li propelling you
|
he :
Beyond the Zero
57
_ with no warning toward your ceilingâreplaying now as
the walls are blown outward, bricks and mortar showering
» down, your sudden paralysis as death comes to wrap and
' stun I donât know guv I must've blacked out when I come
to she was, gone it was burning all around
me head was
full of smoke... and the sight of your blood spurting from
the flaccid stub of artery, the snowy roofslates
fallen
across half your bed, the cinema kiss never completed, you
_
were pinned and stared at a crumpled cigarette. pack for
two hours in pain, you could hear them crying from the
rows either side but couldnât move...the sudden light
filling up the room, the awful silence, brighter than any
_ morning through blankets turned to gauze no shadows at
all, only unutterable two-oâclock dawn... and...
2
... this transmarginal leap, this surrender. Where ideas
__ of the opposite have come together, and lost their opposite-
ness, (And is it really the rocket explosion that Slothropâs
keying on, or is it exactly this depolarizing, this neurotic
- âconfusionâ that fills the wards tonight?) How many times
before itâs washed away, these iterations that pour out,
_ reliving the blast, afraid to let go because the letting go is
âso final how do I know Doctor that I'll ever: come back?
_and the answer trust us, after the rocket, is so hollow, only
mummeryâtrust youPâand both know it....
Spectro
feels so like a fraud but carries on... only because the
pain continues to be real. ...
And those who do let go at last: out of each catharsis
rise new children, painless, egoless for one pulse of the
Between... tablet erased, new writing about to begin,
hand and chalk poised in winter gloom over these poor
human palimpsests
shivering under
their government
blankets, drugged, drowning in tears and snot of grief so
real,
torn from so deep that it surprises, seems more than
he ir OWN. ...
_ How Pointsman lusts after them, pretty children. Those
drab undershorts of his are full to bursting with need
norlessly, worldly to use their innocence, to write on
em new words of himself, his own brown Realpolitik
ams, some psychic prostate ever in aching love prom-
ah hinted but till now... how seductively they lie
ced in their iron bedsteads, their virginal sheets, the
darlings so artlessly erotic....
:
$t.
Veronicaâs Downtown Bus Station, their crossroads
Sos
=
eel
ââ_.
--
â-
~~. poe
ee
ee
eee
e
The Transmarginal Leap
- The narrative explores a state of 'transmarginal' surrender where opposites dissolve and the trauma of rocket explosions leads to a neurotic confusion.
- Dr. Spectro and other medical figures grapple with the hollow promise of recovery, feeling like frauds while witnessing the genuine pain of their patients.
- Patients who 'let go' emerge as egoless children, described as human palimpsests whose identities have been erased and are ready to be rewritten.
- Pointsman is depicted with a predatory lust, desiring to imprint his own 'Realpolitik' dreams onto the innocence of these vulnerable, drugged subjects.
- The setting shifts to a desolate bus station, a crossroads of exile and war where the exhausted and the displaced wait in a vacuum of uncertainty.
- Uniformed men disappear into the 'perfectly black rectangle' of the night, consumed by the war as a stationary, roaring machine.
And those who do let go at last: out of each catharsis rise new children, painless, egoless for one pulse of the Between... tablet erased, new writing about to begin, hand and chalk poised in winter gloom over these poor human palimpsests
he :
Beyond the Zero
57
_ with no warning toward your ceilingâreplaying now as
the walls are blown outward, bricks and mortar showering
» down, your sudden paralysis as death comes to wrap and
' stun I donât know guv I must've blacked out when I come
to she was, gone it was burning all around
me head was
full of smoke... and the sight of your blood spurting from
the flaccid stub of artery, the snowy roofslates
fallen
across half your bed, the cinema kiss never completed, you
_
were pinned and stared at a crumpled cigarette. pack for
two hours in pain, you could hear them crying from the
rows either side but couldnât move...the sudden light
filling up the room, the awful silence, brighter than any
_ morning through blankets turned to gauze no shadows at
all, only unutterable two-oâclock dawn... and...
2
... this transmarginal leap, this surrender. Where ideas
__ of the opposite have come together, and lost their opposite-
ness, (And is it really the rocket explosion that Slothropâs
keying on, or is it exactly this depolarizing, this neurotic
- âconfusionâ that fills the wards tonight?) How many times
before itâs washed away, these iterations that pour out,
_ reliving the blast, afraid to let go because the letting go is
âso final how do I know Doctor that I'll ever: come back?
_and the answer trust us, after the rocket, is so hollow, only
mummeryâtrust youPâand both know it....
Spectro
feels so like a fraud but carries on... only because the
pain continues to be real. ...
And those who do let go at last: out of each catharsis
rise new children, painless, egoless for one pulse of the
Between... tablet erased, new writing about to begin,
hand and chalk poised in winter gloom over these poor
human palimpsests
shivering under
their government
blankets, drugged, drowning in tears and snot of grief so
real,
torn from so deep that it surprises, seems more than
he ir OWN. ...
_ How Pointsman lusts after them, pretty children. Those
drab undershorts of his are full to bursting with need
norlessly, worldly to use their innocence, to write on
em new words of himself, his own brown Realpolitik
ams, some psychic prostate ever in aching love prom-
ah hinted but till now... how seductively they lie
ced in their iron bedsteads, their virginal sheets, the
darlings so artlessly erotic....
:
$t.
Veronicaâs Downtown Bus Station, their crossroads
Sos
=
eel
ââ_.
--
â-
~~. poe
ee
ee
eee
e
58
Gravirtyâs RaInsow
(newly arrived
on
this fake parquetry, chewing-gum
scuffed charcoal black, slicks of nighttime vomit, pale
yellow, clear as the fluids of gods, waste newspapers or
propaganda leaflets no one has read in torn scythe-shaped
pieces, old nose-pickings, black grime that blows weakly
in when the doors open...).
You have waited in these places into the early mom-
ings, synced in to the on-whitening of the interior, you
know the Arrivals schedule by heart, by hollow heart. And
where these children have run away from, and that, in this
city, there is no one to meet them. You impress them with
your gentleness. Youâve never quite decided if they can
see through to your vacuum. They wonât yet look in your
eyes, their slender legs are never still, knitted stockings
droop (all elastic has gone to war), but charmingly: little
heels kick restless against the canvas bags, the fraying
valises under the wood bench. Speakers in the ceiling re-
port departures and arrivals in English, then in the other,
exile lariguages. Tonightâs child has had a long trip here,
hasnât slept. Her eyes are red, her frock wrinkled. Her
coat has been a pillow. You feel her exhaustion, feel the
impossible vastness of all the sleeping countryside at her
back, and for the moment you really are selfless, sex-
less... considering only how to shelter her, you are the
Travelerâs Aid.
Behind you, long, night-long queues of men in uniform
move away slowly, kicking AWOL bags along, mostly
silent, toward exit doors painted beige, but with edges
smudged browner in bell-curves of farewell by the gen-
eration of hands. Doors that only now and then open let
in the cold air, take out a certain draft of men, and close
again. A driver, or a clerk, stands by the door checking
tickets, passes, furlough chits. One by one men step out
into this perfectly black rectangle of night and disappear.
Gone, the war taking them, the man behind already
presenting his ticket. Outside motors are roaring: but less
like transport than like some kind of stationary machine,
very low earthquake frequencies coming in mixed with the
coldâsomehow intimating that out there
your blindness,
after this bright indoors, will be like a sudden blow. ...
Soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen. One by one, gone. Those
who happen to be smoking might last an instant longer,
â
The Octopus and the Pavlovian
- The narrative shifts from a melancholic meditation on the mass departure of soldiers to the clinical, cold world of psychological experimentation.
- Pointsman and Spectro discuss the acquisition of a giant octopus named Grigori for use in their research, highlighting the absurdity of their scientific pursuits.
- Pointsman reveals his deep-seated intolerance for the 'irreversible' nature of animals, recalling a failed attempt to keep a dog that could create messes but not clean them.
- Spectro argues for the octopus as an ideal subject due to its resilience under surgery and its reliable unconditioned responses to prey.
- Pointsman resists the proposal based on bureaucratic constraints and the fact that his research into Slothrop requires auditory stimuli, whereas octopi are primarily visual creatures.
- The exchange underscores the tension between the doctors' cold intellectual curiosity and the chaotic, visceral reality of the war-torn world around them.
What finally irritated him out of all tolerance was that the dog didnât know how to reverse its behavior.
58
Gravirtyâs RaInsow
(newly arrived
on
this fake parquetry, chewing-gum
scuffed charcoal black, slicks of nighttime vomit, pale
yellow, clear as the fluids of gods, waste newspapers or
propaganda leaflets no one has read in torn scythe-shaped
pieces, old nose-pickings, black grime that blows weakly
in when the doors open...).
You have waited in these places into the early mom-
ings, synced in to the on-whitening of the interior, you
know the Arrivals schedule by heart, by hollow heart. And
where these children have run away from, and that, in this
city, there is no one to meet them. You impress them with
your gentleness. Youâve never quite decided if they can
see through to your vacuum. They wonât yet look in your
eyes, their slender legs are never still, knitted stockings
droop (all elastic has gone to war), but charmingly: little
heels kick restless against the canvas bags, the fraying
valises under the wood bench. Speakers in the ceiling re-
port departures and arrivals in English, then in the other,
exile lariguages. Tonightâs child has had a long trip here,
hasnât slept. Her eyes are red, her frock wrinkled. Her
coat has been a pillow. You feel her exhaustion, feel the
impossible vastness of all the sleeping countryside at her
back, and for the moment you really are selfless, sex-
less... considering only how to shelter her, you are the
Travelerâs Aid.
Behind you, long, night-long queues of men in uniform
move away slowly, kicking AWOL bags along, mostly
silent, toward exit doors painted beige, but with edges
smudged browner in bell-curves of farewell by the gen-
eration of hands. Doors that only now and then open let
in the cold air, take out a certain draft of men, and close
again. A driver, or a clerk, stands by the door checking
tickets, passes, furlough chits. One by one men step out
into this perfectly black rectangle of night and disappear.
Gone, the war taking them, the man behind already
presenting his ticket. Outside motors are roaring: but less
like transport than like some kind of stationary machine,
very low earthquake frequencies coming in mixed with the
coldâsomehow intimating that out there
your blindness,
after this bright indoors, will be like a sudden blow. ...
Soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen. One by one, gone. Those
who happen to be smoking might last an instant longer,
â
Beyond the Zero
59
- weak little coal swinging in orange arc once, twiceâno
more. You sit, half-turned to watch them, your soiled
sleepy darling beginning to complain, and itâs no useâ
how can your lusts fit inside this same white frame with
so much, such endless, departure? A thousand children
are shuffling out these doors tonight, but only rare nights
will even one come in, home to your sprung, spermy bed,
the wind over the gasworks, closer smells of mold on wet
coffee grounds, cat shit, pale sweaters with the pits heaped
in a corner, in some accidental gesture, slink or embrace.
This wordless ratcheting queue... thousands going away
_ ... only the stray freak particle, by accident, drifting
against the major flow....
Yet for all his agonizing all Pointsman will score, pres-
ently, is an octopusâyes a gigantic, horror-movie develfish
name of Grigori: gray, slimy, never still, shivering slow-
motion in his makeshift pen down by the Ick Regis
jetty ...a terrible wind that day off the Channel, Points-
_man in his Balaclava helmet, eyes freezing, Dr. Porkye-
_
vitch with greatcoat collar up and fur hat down around
his ears, their breaths foul with hours-old fish, and what
_
the hell can Pointsman do with this animal?
Already, by itself, the answer is growing, one moment
a featureless blastulablob, the next: folding, beginning to
differentiate. . ..
:
One of the things Spectro said that nightâsurely it was
_ that nightâwas, âI only wonder if you'd feel the same
_ way without all those dogs about. If your subjects all
along had been human.â
__
âYou ought to be offering me one or two, then, instead
ofâare you serious?âgiant
octopi.â The doctors
are
watching each other closely.
âI wonder what you'll do.â
©
âSo do I.â
âTake the octopus.â Does he mean âforget Slothropâ? A
charged moment.
But then Pointsman laughs the well-known laugh thatâs
done him yeoman service in a profession where too often
itâs hedge or hang. âIâm always being told to take animals.â
He means that years ago a colleagueâgone nowâtold
him
heâd be more human, warmer, if he kept a dog of his
0
outside the lab. Pointsman triedâGod knows he
60
Gravityâs RaInsow
didâit was a springer spaniel named Gloucester, pleasant
enough animal, he supposed, but the try lasted less than
a month. What finally irritated him out of all tolerance
was that the dog didnât know how to reverse its behavior.
It could open doors to the rain and the spring insects, but
not close them... knock over garbage, vomit on the floor,
but not cleari it upâhow could anyone live with such a
creature?
âOctopi,â Spectro wheedles, âare docile under surgery.
They can survive massive removals of brain tissue. Their
unconditioned response to prey is very reliableâshow
them a crab, WHAM! out wiv the old tentacle, home to
poisoning and supper. And, Pointsman, they donât bark.â
âOh, but. No... tanks, pumps, filtering, special food...
that may be fine up in Cambridge, that lot, but every-
one hereâs so damned tightfisted, itâs the damned Rund-
stedt offensive, has to be....
P.W.E. won't fund anything
now unless it pays off tactically, immediatelyâlast week
you know, if not sooner. No an octopus is much too
elaborate, not even Pudding would buy it, no not even
old delusions-of-grandeur himself,â
âNo limit to the things you can teach them.â
âSpectro, you're not the devil.â Looking closer, âAre
you? You know we're set for sound stimuli, the whole
thrust of this Slothrop scheme has to be auditory, the
reversal is auditory.... Iâve seen an octopus brain or two
in my time, mate, and donât think I havenât noticed those
great blooming optic lobes. EhP You're trying to palm off a
visual creature on me. Whatâs there to see when the
damned things come down?â
âThe glow.â
âEh?â
âA fiery red ball. Falling like a meteor.â
âRot.â
âGwenhidwy saw one the other night. over Deptford.â
âWhat I want,â Pointsman leaning now into the central
radiance of the lamp, his white face more vulnerable than
his voice, whispering across the burning spire of a hypo-
dermic set upright on the desk, âwhat I really need, is not
a dog, not an octopus, but one of your
Foxes. Damn
it. One, little, Fox!â
i
Between the Two Worlds
- Pointsman expresses a desperate, obsessive need for one of the 'Foxes' to further his psychological research.
- Jessica wakes from a nightmare of dolls and lead counterweights to the sound of a distant blast.
- The narrative captures the domestic fragility of Roger and Jessicaâs relationship amidst the winter cold and the blackout.
- Jessica reflects on the vulnerability of their lives, caught between German weapons and British bureaucracy.
- A longing for a world where the violence of war is transformed into harmless 'kind thunder' and mere summer excitement.
- The couple exists in a temporary safety, isolated from the 'high destinies' of the convoys and the larger war effort.
Everything, even the explosions in the distances might stay as long as they were to no purpose... as long as no one had to die... couldnât it be that way?
60
Gravityâs RaInsow
didâit was a springer spaniel named Gloucester, pleasant
enough animal, he supposed, but the try lasted less than
a month. What finally irritated him out of all tolerance
was that the dog didnât know how to reverse its behavior.
It could open doors to the rain and the spring insects, but
not close them... knock over garbage, vomit on the floor,
but not cleari it upâhow could anyone live with such a
creature?
âOctopi,â Spectro wheedles, âare docile under surgery.
They can survive massive removals of brain tissue. Their
unconditioned response to prey is very reliableâshow
them a crab, WHAM! out wiv the old tentacle, home to
poisoning and supper. And, Pointsman, they donât bark.â
âOh, but. No... tanks, pumps, filtering, special food...
that may be fine up in Cambridge, that lot, but every-
one hereâs so damned tightfisted, itâs the damned Rund-
stedt offensive, has to be....
P.W.E. won't fund anything
now unless it pays off tactically, immediatelyâlast week
you know, if not sooner. No an octopus is much too
elaborate, not even Pudding would buy it, no not even
old delusions-of-grandeur himself,â
âNo limit to the things you can teach them.â
âSpectro, you're not the devil.â Looking closer, âAre
you? You know we're set for sound stimuli, the whole
thrust of this Slothrop scheme has to be auditory, the
reversal is auditory.... Iâve seen an octopus brain or two
in my time, mate, and donât think I havenât noticed those
great blooming optic lobes. EhP You're trying to palm off a
visual creature on me. Whatâs there to see when the
damned things come down?â
âThe glow.â
âEh?â
âA fiery red ball. Falling like a meteor.â
âRot.â
âGwenhidwy saw one the other night. over Deptford.â
âWhat I want,â Pointsman leaning now into the central
radiance of the lamp, his white face more vulnerable than
his voice, whispering across the burning spire of a hypo-
dermic set upright on the desk, âwhat I really need, is not
a dog, not an octopus, but one of your
Foxes. Damn
it. One, little, Fox!â
i
Beyond the Zero
61
Oo
Somethingâs stalking through the city of Smokeâgathering
up slender girls, fair and smooth as dolls, by the handful.
' Their piteous cries... their dollful and piteous cries...
_ the face of one is suddenly very close, and down! over the
- staring eyes come cream lids with âstiff lashes, slamming
loudly shut, the long reverberating of lead counterweights
_ tumble inside her head as Jessicaâs own lids now come
flying open. She surfaces in time to hear the last echoes
_
blowing away on the heels of the blast, austere and keen,
_ a winter sound.... Roger wakes up briefly too, mutters
-. something like âFucking madness,â and nods back to sleep.
She reaches out, blind little hand grazing the ticking
_ clock, the worn-plush âstomach of her panda Michael, an
ik
- empty milk bottle holding scarlet blossoms from a spurge
ig in a garden a mile down the road: reaches to where her
cigarettes ought to be but arenât. Halfway out now from
__ under the covers, she hangs, between the two worlds, a
'
white, athletic tension in this cold room. Oh, well . . she
leaves him in their warm burrow, moves shivering vahvehs
yuh in grainy darkness over winter-tight floorboards, slick
i as ice to her bare soles.
__
Her cigarettes are on the parlor floor, left among pillows
_ in front of the fire. Rogerâs clothing is scattered all about.
_ Puffing on a cigarette, squinting with one eye for the
_ smoke, she tidies up, folding his trousers, hanging up his
| shirt. Then wanders to the window, lifts the blackout cur-
pean, tries to see out through frost gathering on the panes,
out into the snow tracked over by foxes, rabbits, long-lost
ogs, and winter birds but no humans. Empty canals of
thread away into trees and town whose name they
still donât know. She cups the cigarettes in her palm, leery
of showing a light though blackout was lifted weeks and
eeks ago, already part of another time and world. Late
motors rush north and south in the night, and air-
es fill the sky then drain away east to some kind of
; "Could they have settled for hotels, AR-E forms, being
q frisked for cameras and binoculars? This house, town,
62
Gravityâs RAINBOW
|
crossed arcs of Roger and Jessica are so vulnerable, to
German weapons and to British bylaws... it doesnât feel
like danger here, but she does wish there were others
about, and that it could really be a village, her village.
The searchlights could stay, to light the night, and bar-
rage balloons to populate fat and friendly the daybreakâ
everything, even the explosions in the distances might
stay as long as they were to no purpose... as long as no
one had to die... couldnât it be that way? only excite-
ment, sound and light, a storm approaching in the sum-
mer (to live in a world where that would be the dayâs
excitement .,.), only kind thunder?
Jessica has floated out of herself, up to watch herself
watching the night, to hover in widelegged, shoulder-
padded white, satin-polished on her nightward surfaces.
Until something falls here, close enough to matter, they do
have their safety: their thickets of silverblue stalks reach-
ing after dark to touch or sweep clouds, the green-brown
masses in uniform, at the ends of afternoons, stone, eyes
on the distances, bound in convoy for fronts, for high
destinies that have, strangely, so little to do with the two
of them here... donât you know thereâs a war on, moron?
yes butâhereâs
Jessica in her sister's hand-me-down
pajamas, and Roger asleep in nothing at all; but where is
the war?
Until it touch them. Until something falls, A doodle
will give time to get to safety, a rocket will hit before
they can hear it coming. Biblical, maybe, spooky as an
old northern fairy tale, but not The War, not the great
struggle of good and evil the wireless reports everyday.
And no reason not just to, well, to keep on....
Roger has tried to explain to her the V-bomb statistics:
the difference between distribution, in angelâs-eye view,
over the map of England, and their own chances, as seen
from down here. Sheâs almost got it: nearly understands
his Poisson equation, yet canât quite put the two togetherâ
put her own enforced calm day-to-day alongside the pure
numbers, and keep them both in sight. Pieces keep slip-
ping in and out.
.
;
âWhy is your equation only for angels, Roger? Why
canât we do something, down here? Couldnât there be an
equation for us too, something to help us find a safer
place?â
The Poisson Distribution of Death
- Roger Mexico uses the Poisson equation to map V-bomb strikes across London, demonstrating that the rockets fall in a statistically predictable pattern.
- Jessica struggles to reconcile the 'angelâs-eye view' of pure mathematical probability with the terrifying, lived reality of the blitz.
- Mexico faces the 'Monte Carlo Fallacy,' explaining that previous strikes in a specific square do not change the probability of future hits.
- The tension between Pointsmanâs rigid Pavlovian determinism and Mexicoâs devotion to the 'domain of zero to one' marks them as ideological opposites.
- Despite his accuracy, Mexico rejects the label of prophet, insisting he is merely plugging numbers into a well-known equation.
The rockets are distributing about London just as Poissonâs equation in the textbooks predicts.
62
Gravityâs RAINBOW
|
crossed arcs of Roger and Jessica are so vulnerable, to
German weapons and to British bylaws... it doesnât feel
like danger here, but she does wish there were others
about, and that it could really be a village, her village.
The searchlights could stay, to light the night, and bar-
rage balloons to populate fat and friendly the daybreakâ
everything, even the explosions in the distances might
stay as long as they were to no purpose... as long as no
one had to die... couldnât it be that way? only excite-
ment, sound and light, a storm approaching in the sum-
mer (to live in a world where that would be the dayâs
excitement .,.), only kind thunder?
Jessica has floated out of herself, up to watch herself
watching the night, to hover in widelegged, shoulder-
padded white, satin-polished on her nightward surfaces.
Until something falls here, close enough to matter, they do
have their safety: their thickets of silverblue stalks reach-
ing after dark to touch or sweep clouds, the green-brown
masses in uniform, at the ends of afternoons, stone, eyes
on the distances, bound in convoy for fronts, for high
destinies that have, strangely, so little to do with the two
of them here... donât you know thereâs a war on, moron?
yes butâhereâs
Jessica in her sister's hand-me-down
pajamas, and Roger asleep in nothing at all; but where is
the war?
Until it touch them. Until something falls, A doodle
will give time to get to safety, a rocket will hit before
they can hear it coming. Biblical, maybe, spooky as an
old northern fairy tale, but not The War, not the great
struggle of good and evil the wireless reports everyday.
And no reason not just to, well, to keep on....
Roger has tried to explain to her the V-bomb statistics:
the difference between distribution, in angelâs-eye view,
over the map of England, and their own chances, as seen
from down here. Sheâs almost got it: nearly understands
his Poisson equation, yet canât quite put the two togetherâ
put her own enforced calm day-to-day alongside the pure
numbers, and keep them both in sight. Pieces keep slip-
ping in and out.
.
;
âWhy is your equation only for angels, Roger? Why
canât we do something, down here? Couldnât there be an
equation for us too, something to help us find a safer
place?â
Beyond the Zero
63
-
âWhy am I surrounded,â his usual understanding self
today, âby statistical illiterates? Thereâs no way, love, not
_as long as the mean density of strikes is constant. Points-
man doesnât even understand that.â
The rockets
are distributing about London
just as
Poissonâs equation in the textbooks predicts. As the data
keep coming in, Roger looks more and more like a prophet.
Psi Section people stare after him in the hallways. Itâs not
precognition, he wants to make an announcement in the
cafeteria or something...have I ever pretended to be
anything Iâm not? all Iâm doing is plugging numbers into
/a well-known equation, you can look it up in the book
and do it yourself. ...
His little bureau is dominated now by a glimmering map,
a window into another landscape than winter Sussex, writ-
_ten names and spidering streets, an ink ghost of London,
'tuled off into 576 squares, a quarter square kilometer
each. Rocket strikes are represented by red circles. The
' Poisson equation will tell, for a number of total hits arbi-
_ trarily chosen, how many squares will get none, how many
_ one, two, three, and so on.
_
An Erlenmeyer flask bubbles on the ring. Blue light
goes rattling, reknotting through the seedflow inside the
glass. Ancient tatty textbooks and mathematical papers lie
Scattered about on desk and floor. Somewhere a snapshot
of Jessica peeks from beneath Rogerâs old Whittaker and
_ Watson. The graying Pavlovian, on route with his tautened
gait, thin as a needle, in the mornings to his lab, where
dogs wait with cheeks laid open, winter-silver drops well-
ing from each neat raw fistula to fill the wax cup or gradu-
ated tube, pauses by Mexicoâs open door. The air beyond
_is blue from cigarettes smoked and as fag-ends later in the
eezing black moming shifts resmoked, a stale and loath-
me atmosphere. But he must go in, must face the habit-
|
morning cup..
-_ Both know how strange their liaison must look. If ever
e Antipointsman existed, Roger Mexico is the man. Not
0 much, the doctor admits, for the psychical research.
ie young statistician
is devoted to number and to
od, not table-rapping or wishful thinking. But in the
domain of zero
to one, not-something
to something,
Yointsman can only possess the zero and the one. He
ee
64
Graviryâs Ramsow
master
L P. Pavlow before him, he imagines the cortex of
| if
abilities. A chance of 0.37 that, by the time he
his
count, 2 given square on his map will have
only
one hit, 0.17 that it will suffer two....
âCant you... tell,â Poimtsman
offering Mexico one of
his Kyprinos Orients, which he guards in secret fag fobs
squares exactly as it should... growing to its predicted
âBut squares that have already had several hits, I
âTm sorry. Thatâs the Monte Carlo Fallacy. No matter
how many have fallen inside a particular square, the
g : EB
E |
ay i
cke
ret tae] rE
F ah
ee
Hise
fat ne
Ha Hi
The Sieve and the Statistic
- Roger Mexico contemplates the breakdown of cause and effect in a postwar world defined by disconnected, random events.
- A vicar compares Mexico's statistical mapping of London to an ancient Roman ritual involving sieves and grass stalks.
- The vicar challenges Mexico on the morality of his work, asking how he will use the 'things that grow' in his network of death.
- Jessica observes Roger's isolation and his struggle to make others understand the mathematical reality he inhabits.
- Captain Prentice suggests that Mexico's nihilism is 'cheap' because his statistical proximity to death is a form of unpaid dues.
- Roger reacts with anger toward the 'Calvinist insanity' of viewing human suffering and survival as a system of exchange or payment.
What will you do with the sieve you've laid over London? How will you use the things that grow in your network of death?
4
Beyond the Zero
y
65
tens the idea of cause and effect itself. What if
-Mexicoâs whole generation have turned out like this? Will
Postwar be nothing but âevents,â newly created one
Smoment to the next? No links? Is it the end of history?
_
âThe Romans,â Roger and the Reverend Dr. Paul de la
Nuit were drunk together one night, or the vicar was,
âthe ancient Roman priests laid a sieve in the road, and
then waited to see which stalks of grass would come up
through the holes.â
: Roger saw the connection immediately. âI wonder,â
reaching for pocket after pocket, why are there never any
_damnedâah here, âif it would follow a Poisson... letâs
see...â
_ âMexico.â Leaning forward, definitely hostile. âThey
used the stalks that grew through the holes to cure the
sick. The sieve was a very sacred item to them. What will
u do with the sieve you've laid over London? How will
you
use the things that grow in your network of death?â
âTI donât follow you.â Itâs just an equation. .
Roger really wants other people to know what heâs talk-
ing about. Jessica understands that. When they donât, his
face often grows chalky and clouded, as behind the
way glass of a railway carriage window as vaguely
silvered barriers come down, spaces slide in to separate
that much more, thinning further his loneliness. She
their very first day, he leaning across to open the
. ee ee
Se ew
his face, between
his red
nail-bitten
To Dnkschchh givestina Ker Fay Wray sae eyes round
aS
Car be, red mouth about to open in a scream, till he
eee net âOli ston.â
i
. .â but what does she want to say? That he
mus always be
lovable, in
need of her and never, as
now,
he hovering satistical cherub whoâs never quite been to
Eilat speaks ss
if he's one of the most fallen. .
âCheap nihilismâ $Captain Pronticeâs name for that. It
us one day by the frozen pond near âThe White Visita-
66
Gravityâs RAINBOW
tion,â Roger off sucking icicles, lying flat and waving his
arms to make angels in the snow, larking.
âDo you mean that he hasnât paid... »â looking up, up,
Pirateâs wind-burned face seeming to âend in the sky, her
own hair finally in the way of his gray, reserved eyes. He
was Rogerâs friend, he wasnât playing or undermining,
didnât know the first thing, she guessed, about such danc-
ing-shoe warsâand anyway didnât have to, because she
was already, terrible flirt... well, nothing serious, but
those eyes she could never quite see into were so swoony,
so utterly terrif, really. .
âThe more V-2s over there waiting to be fired over
here,â Captain Prentice said, âobviously, the better his
chances of catching one. Of course you canât say heâs not
paying a minimum dues. But arenât we all.â
âWell,â Roger nodding when she told him later, eyes
out of focus, considering this, âitâs the damned Calvinist
insanity again. Payment. Why must they always put it in
terms of exchange? Whatâs Prentice want, another kind of
Beveridge Proposal or something? Assign everyone
a
Bitterness
Quotient! lovelyâup before the Evaluation
Board, so many points earned for being Jewish, in a con-
centration camp, missing limbs or vital organs, losing a
wife, a lover, a close friendâ"
âI knew you'd be angry,â she murmured. |
âI'm not angry. No. Heâs right. It is cheap. All right, but.
what does he want thenââ stalking now this stuffed, dim
little parlor, hung about with rigid portraits of favorite
gun dogs at point in fields that never existed save in cer-|
tain fantasies about death, leas more golden as their lin-
seed oil ages, even more autumnal, necropolitical, than pre-
war hopesâfor an end. to all change, for a long static!
afternoon and the grouse forever in blurred takeoff, the
sights taking their lead aslant purple hills to pallid sky, |
the good dog alerted by the eternal scent, the explosion
over his head always just about to comeâthese hopes sc
patently, defenselessly there that Roger even at his most
cheaply nihilistic couldnât quite bring himself to take the
pictures down, turn them to the w: gullg âwhat do you!
all expect from me, working day in
out among raving
lunatics,â Jessica sighing oh gosh, ae g her pretty leg:
up into the chair, âthey believe in survival after death
The Fragility of Peace
- Roger expresses his psychological exhaustion from working with 'lunatics' who believe in supernatural phenomena like teleportation and clairvoyance.
- Jessica feels a deep, maternal urge to protect Roger from external threats, including the war in the sky and the cold neutrality of Mr. Pointsman.
- The narrative describes a haunting wartime landscape where the stillness of snow and the presence of barrage balloons create an atmosphere of vulnerability.
- Jessica reflects on the 'scientist-neutrality' of Pointsman, fearing his capacity to inflict pain without empathy.
- The couple attempts to recall the essence of life before the war, struggling to find a meaningful connection to a past that feels increasingly distant.
- Roger dismisses the pre-war era as 'overwhelmingly silly,' highlighting the disconnect between mundane civilian memories and the current existential crisis.
Hands that could as well torture people as dogs and never feel their pain.
66
Gravityâs RAINBOW
tion,â Roger off sucking icicles, lying flat and waving his
arms to make angels in the snow, larking.
âDo you mean that he hasnât paid... »â looking up, up,
Pirateâs wind-burned face seeming to âend in the sky, her
own hair finally in the way of his gray, reserved eyes. He
was Rogerâs friend, he wasnât playing or undermining,
didnât know the first thing, she guessed, about such danc-
ing-shoe warsâand anyway didnât have to, because she
was already, terrible flirt... well, nothing serious, but
those eyes she could never quite see into were so swoony,
so utterly terrif, really. .
âThe more V-2s over there waiting to be fired over
here,â Captain Prentice said, âobviously, the better his
chances of catching one. Of course you canât say heâs not
paying a minimum dues. But arenât we all.â
âWell,â Roger nodding when she told him later, eyes
out of focus, considering this, âitâs the damned Calvinist
insanity again. Payment. Why must they always put it in
terms of exchange? Whatâs Prentice want, another kind of
Beveridge Proposal or something? Assign everyone
a
Bitterness
Quotient! lovelyâup before the Evaluation
Board, so many points earned for being Jewish, in a con-
centration camp, missing limbs or vital organs, losing a
wife, a lover, a close friendâ"
âI knew you'd be angry,â she murmured. |
âI'm not angry. No. Heâs right. It is cheap. All right, but.
what does he want thenââ stalking now this stuffed, dim
little parlor, hung about with rigid portraits of favorite
gun dogs at point in fields that never existed save in cer-|
tain fantasies about death, leas more golden as their lin-
seed oil ages, even more autumnal, necropolitical, than pre-
war hopesâfor an end. to all change, for a long static!
afternoon and the grouse forever in blurred takeoff, the
sights taking their lead aslant purple hills to pallid sky, |
the good dog alerted by the eternal scent, the explosion
over his head always just about to comeâthese hopes sc
patently, defenselessly there that Roger even at his most
cheaply nihilistic couldnât quite bring himself to take the
pictures down, turn them to the w: gullg âwhat do you!
all expect from me, working day in
out among raving
lunatics,â Jessica sighing oh gosh, ae g her pretty leg:
up into the chair, âthey believe in survival after death
_ Beyond the Zero
.
67
communication mind-to- mind, prophesying, clairvoyance,
i teleportationâthey believe, Jess! andâandââ something
_ is blocking his speech. She forgets her annoyance, comes
_ up out of the fat paisley chair to hold him, and how does
- she know, warm-skirted thighs and mons pushing close to
âheat and rouse his cock, losing the last of her lipstick
across his shirt, muscles, touches, skins confused, high,
_ bloodedâknow so exactly what Roger meant to say?
__
Mind-to-mind, tonight up late at the window while he
a sleeps, lighting another precious cigarette from the coal
_ of the last, filling. with a need to cry because she can see
4 so plainly her limits, knows she can never protect him as
%
much as she mustâfrom what may come out of the sky,
from what he couldnât confess that day (creaking snow
~ lanes, arcades of the ice-bearded and bowing trees... the
- wind shook down crystals of snow: purple and orange
=
blooming on her long lashes), and from Mr.
:
eee
Pointsman, and. from Pointsmanâs...his...a bleakness
4
whenever she meets him. Scientist-neutrality. Hands thatâ
she shivers. There are chances now for enemy shapes out
_ of the snow and stillness, She drops the blackout curtain.
_ Hands that could as well torture people as dogs and never
- feel their pain,
_ Aâ skulk of foxes, a cowardice of curs are tonightâs
traffic whispering in the yards and lanes, A motorcycle out
on the trunk road, snarling cocky as a fighter plane, by-
passes the village, heading up to London, The great bal-
loons drift in the sky, pearl-grown, and the air is so still
that this morningâs brief snow still clings to the. steel
cables, white goes twisting peppermint-stick down thou-
âof feet of night. And the people who might have
asleep in the empty houses here, people blown away,
Bait a forever . .. are they yes of cities that
so vulnerable on ae
bare hillside, so bleached by
the
Starâs awful radiance? or of songs so funny, so ny
ee that they canât be remembered.on waking..
ims of peacetime. .
What was it like? Before the war?â She knows she was
then, a child, but itâs not what she means. Wireless,
Frank Bridge Variations
a hairbrush for the
68
Gravityâs RAINBOW
tangled brain over the BBC Home Service, bottle of Mon-
trachet, a gift from Pirate, cooling at the kitchen window.
âWell, now,â in his cracked old curmudgeonâs voice,
palsied hand reaching out to squeeze her breast in the
nastiest way he knows, âgirly, it depends which war you
mean,â and here it comes, ugh, ugh, drool welling at the
corner of his lower lip and over and down in a silver
string, heâs so clever, heâs practiced all these disgusting
littleâ
.
âDonât be ridic, Iâm serious, Roger. I donât remember.â
Watches dimples come up either side of his mouth as he
considers this, smiling at her in an odd way. IÂąll be like
this when Iâm thirty ... flash of several children, a garden,
a window,
voices Mummy, whatâs...cucumbers
and
brown onions on a chopping board, wild carrot blossoms
sprinkling with brilliant yellow a reach of deep, very
green lawn and his voiceâ
âAll I remember is that it was silly. Just overwhelm-
ingly silly. Nothing happened. Oh, Edward VIII abdicated.
He fell in love withââ
âI know that, I can read magazines. But what was it
like?â
âJust... just damned silly, thatâs all, Worrying about
things that donâtâJess, canât you really remember?â
Games, pinafores, girl friends, a black alley kitten with
white little feet, holidays all the family by the sea, brine,
ee fish, donkey rides, peach taffeta, a boy named
Robin...
âNothing thatâs really gone, that I canât ever find again.â
âOh. Whereas my memoriesââ
âYes?â They both smile.
âOne took lots of aspirin. One was drinking or drunk
much of the time. One was concerned about getting oneâs
lounge suits to fit properly. One despised the upper classes
but tried desperately to behave like them. .
âAnd one cried wee, wee, wee, all the ars Jessica
breaking down in a giggle as he reaches for the spot along
her sweatered flank he knows she canât bear to be tickled :
in. She hunches, squirming, out of the way as he
past, bouncing off the back of the sofa but making a nice
recovery, and by now sheâs ticklish all over, he can ae
an ankle, elbowâ
The Kenosha Kid Variations
- A moment of domestic intimacy and playful tickling between Jessica and her companion is violently shattered by a nearby explosion.
- The sudden blast transforms the atmosphere from warmth to a chilling silence, personified as Death standing patient in the pantry.
- The narrative shifts to Lieutenant Tyrone Slothrop in a London hospital ward, undergoing a drug-induced session with Sodium Amytal.
- Slothropâs consciousness is consumed by a linguistic obsession, repeating and re-punctuating the phrase 'You never did the Kenosha Kid' in various contexts.
- The phrase morphs through different meanings: a dance move, a superior's reprimand, a divine revelation, and a list of sacrificial animals.
- The section concludes with a rhythmic, desperate internal monologue or song reflecting Slothrop's loss of agency under medical and military control.
Death has come in the pantry door: stands watching them, iron and patient, with a look that says try to tickle me.
68
Gravityâs RAINBOW
tangled brain over the BBC Home Service, bottle of Mon-
trachet, a gift from Pirate, cooling at the kitchen window.
âWell, now,â in his cracked old curmudgeonâs voice,
palsied hand reaching out to squeeze her breast in the
nastiest way he knows, âgirly, it depends which war you
mean,â and here it comes, ugh, ugh, drool welling at the
corner of his lower lip and over and down in a silver
string, heâs so clever, heâs practiced all these disgusting
littleâ
.
âDonât be ridic, Iâm serious, Roger. I donât remember.â
Watches dimples come up either side of his mouth as he
considers this, smiling at her in an odd way. IÂąll be like
this when Iâm thirty ... flash of several children, a garden,
a window,
voices Mummy, whatâs...cucumbers
and
brown onions on a chopping board, wild carrot blossoms
sprinkling with brilliant yellow a reach of deep, very
green lawn and his voiceâ
âAll I remember is that it was silly. Just overwhelm-
ingly silly. Nothing happened. Oh, Edward VIII abdicated.
He fell in love withââ
âI know that, I can read magazines. But what was it
like?â
âJust... just damned silly, thatâs all, Worrying about
things that donâtâJess, canât you really remember?â
Games, pinafores, girl friends, a black alley kitten with
white little feet, holidays all the family by the sea, brine,
ee fish, donkey rides, peach taffeta, a boy named
Robin...
âNothing thatâs really gone, that I canât ever find again.â
âOh. Whereas my memoriesââ
âYes?â They both smile.
âOne took lots of aspirin. One was drinking or drunk
much of the time. One was concerned about getting oneâs
lounge suits to fit properly. One despised the upper classes
but tried desperately to behave like them. .
âAnd one cried wee, wee, wee, all the ars Jessica
breaking down in a giggle as he reaches for the spot along
her sweatered flank he knows she canât bear to be tickled :
in. She hunches, squirming, out of the way as he
past, bouncing off the back of the sofa but making a nice
recovery, and by now sheâs ticklish all over, he can ae
an ankle, elbowâ
"Beyond the Zero
69
But a aoe has suddenly struck. A terrific blast quite
close beyond the village: the entire fabric of the air, the
âtime, is changedâthe casement window blown inward,
_ rebounding with a wood squeak to slam again as all the
house still shudders.
Their hearts pound, Eardrums brushed taut by the
4 overpressure ring in pain. The invisible train rushes away
3 close over the rooftop. .
They sit still as the painted dogs now, silent, oddly un-
_ able to touch. Death has come in the pantry door: stands
_ watching them, iron and patient, with a look that says
_ try to tickle me.
;
o
Bai)
Bris 3.
TDY Abreaction Ward
ies
St. Veronicaâs Hospital
âyl
Bonechapel Gate, E1
bey
London, England
Winter, 1944
'
.
_. The Kenosha Kid
_ General Delivery
es Kenosha, Wisconsin, U.S.A.
ie Deer Sir;
e Did I ever bother you, ever, for anything, in your life?
Peisres?
Yours truly,
Lt. Rinse âslothtop
General Delivery.
Kenosha, Wisc., U.S.A.
few days later
one Slothrop, Esq.
:
Y Abreaction Ward
Veronicaâs Hospital
Bor aca Gate, oe
Mr. Slothrop:
_ The Kenosha Kid
Ă©
70
Gravityâs RAInNBow
(2)
Smartass youth: Aw, I did all them old-fashioned
dances, I did the âCharleston,â a-and the âBig Apple,â
too!
Old veteran hoofer: Bet you never did the âKenosha,â
kid!
(2.1)
S.Y.: Shucks, I did all them dances, I did the
âCastle Walk,â and I did the âLindy,â tool
O.V.H.: Bet you never did the âKenosha Kid.â
(3)
Minor employee: Well, he has been avoiding me,
and I thought it might be because of the Slothrop Affair.
If he somehow held me responsibleâ
Superior (haughtily): You! never did the Kenosha Kid
think for one instant that you...
(3.1)
Superior (incredulously): YouP Never! Did the
Kenosha Kid think for one instant that you...?
(4)
And at the end of the mighty day in which he gave
us in fiery letters across the sky all the words weâd ever
need, words we today enjoy, and fill our dictionaries with,
|
the meek voice of little Tyrone Slothrop, celebrated ever
|
after in tradition and song, ventured to filter upward to
the Kidâs attention: âYou never did âthe,â Kenosha Kid!â
These changes on the text âYou never did the Kenosha
Kid!â are occupying Slothropâs awareness as the doctor
â
leans in out of the white overhead to wake him and begin â
the session. The needle slips without pain into the vein
just outboard of the hollow in the crook of his elbow: 10%
_
Sodium Amytal, one cc at a time, as needed.
(5)
Maybe you did fool the Philadelphia,
rag the |
Rochester, josh the Joliet. But you néver did the Kenosha
|
kid.
(6)
(The day of the Ascent and sacrifice, A nation-wide
|
observance. Fats searing, blood dripping
and burning to a |
:
salty brown...) You did the Charlottesville shoat, check,
the Forest
Hills
foal, check.
(Fading now...)
The |
Laredo lamb. Check. Oh-oh. Wait. What's this, Slothrop?
You never did the Kenosha kid. Snap to, Slothrop.
' Beyond the Zero
71
Got a hardon in my fist,
Donât be pissed,
~
Re-enlistâ
l
Snapâto, Slothrop]
Jackson, I donât give a fuck,
Just give me my âruptured duck!â
Snapâto, Slothrop!
~ No one here can love or comprehend me,
They just look for someplace else to send ...M@.00
Tap my head and mike my brain,
Stick that needle in my vein,
Slothrop, snap tol
_ PISCES: We want to talk some more about Boston
|
today, Slothrop. You recall that we were talking last time
bout the Negroes, in Roxbury. Now we know itâs not all
that comfortable for you, but do try, won't you. Nowâ
_ where are you, Slothrop? Can you see anything?
_ Slothrop: Well no, not see exactly...
_ Roaring in by elevated subway, only in Boston, steel
=
and a carbon shroud. over the ancient bricksâ
Ben
os
ii
a
Rhy-thmâs got me,
a
Oh baby dat swing, swing, swing]
Ba
Yeah de rhythm got me
S
Just a-thinkinâ that whole-wide-world-can-sing,
Well I never ever heard-it, sound-so-sweet,
%
Even down around the comer-on, Ba-sin Street,
As now dat de rhythmâs got me, chillun letâs
Swing, swing, swing,
Come on...
chillun, letâs ... swing!
lack Fatiss: white tablecloth, gleaming very sharp
es lined up by the saucers...
tobacco and â
âgageâ
ke richly blended, eye-reddening and tart as wine,
zah gwine smoke a little ob dis hyah sheeit gib de
es in mah brain a process! straighten âem all raht
out, sho nufl
\ 'BISCES: That was âsho nuf,â Slothrop?
âWhite c Come on you guys... donât make
it too...
Vv
college boys, hollering requests to the âcomboâ up
Slothrop's Descent at the Roseland
- Slothrop undergoes a psychological interrogation by PISCES regarding his past experiences in Roxbury and Boston.
- The narrative shifts into a vivid, hallucinatory memory of a jazz club filled with prep-school boys and a thick atmosphere of smoke and music.
- Slothrop experiences a moment of profound alienation when a woman's gaze strips away his identity, rendering his mouth harp a 'jive accessory.'
- In a moment of physical illness at the Roseland Ballroom, Slothrop accidentally drops his silver mouth harp into a toilet bowl.
- The loss of the harp represents a symbolic crossroads where Slothrop must choose to let go of his 'chances of song' or follow the object into the 'lower night.'
- The scene connects Slothrop's personal crisis to the broader racial tensions of prewar Boston and the mythic lies of popular music.
Thereâs no calling it back. Either he lets the harp go, his silver chances of song, or he has to follow.
' Beyond the Zero
71
Got a hardon in my fist,
Donât be pissed,
~
Re-enlistâ
l
Snapâto, Slothrop]
Jackson, I donât give a fuck,
Just give me my âruptured duck!â
Snapâto, Slothrop!
~ No one here can love or comprehend me,
They just look for someplace else to send ...M@.00
Tap my head and mike my brain,
Stick that needle in my vein,
Slothrop, snap tol
_ PISCES: We want to talk some more about Boston
|
today, Slothrop. You recall that we were talking last time
bout the Negroes, in Roxbury. Now we know itâs not all
that comfortable for you, but do try, won't you. Nowâ
_ where are you, Slothrop? Can you see anything?
_ Slothrop: Well no, not see exactly...
_ Roaring in by elevated subway, only in Boston, steel
=
and a carbon shroud. over the ancient bricksâ
Ben
os
ii
a
Rhy-thmâs got me,
a
Oh baby dat swing, swing, swing]
Ba
Yeah de rhythm got me
S
Just a-thinkinâ that whole-wide-world-can-sing,
Well I never ever heard-it, sound-so-sweet,
%
Even down around the comer-on, Ba-sin Street,
As now dat de rhythmâs got me, chillun letâs
Swing, swing, swing,
Come on...
chillun, letâs ... swing!
lack Fatiss: white tablecloth, gleaming very sharp
es lined up by the saucers...
tobacco and â
âgageâ
ke richly blended, eye-reddening and tart as wine,
zah gwine smoke a little ob dis hyah sheeit gib de
es in mah brain a process! straighten âem all raht
out, sho nufl
\ 'BISCES: That was âsho nuf,â Slothrop?
âWhite c Come on you guys... donât make
it too...
Vv
college boys, hollering requests to the âcomboâ up
es
Gravityâs RAINBOW
on the stand. Eastern prep-school voices, pronouncing
asshole with a certain sphinctering of the lips so it comes
out ehisshehwle...they
reel, they roister.
Aspidistras,
giant philodendrons, green broad leaves and jungle palms
go hanging into the dimness...two bartenders, a very.
fair West Indian, slight, with a mustache, and his running-
mate black/as a hand in an evening glove, are moving
endlessly in front of the deep, the oceanic mirror that
swallows most of the room into metal shadows...
the
hundred bottles hold their light only briefly before it
flows away into the mirror... even when someone bends
to light a cigarette, the flame reflects back in there only
as dark, sunset orange. Slothrop canât even see his own
white face.
A woman turns to look at him from a table.
Her eyes tell him, in the instant, what he is. The mouth
harp in his pocket reverts to brass inertia. A weight. A
jive accessory. But he packs it everywhere he goes.
Upstairs in the menâs room at the Roseland Ballroom he
swoons kneeling over a toilet bowl, vomiting beer, ham-
burgers, homefries, chefâs salad with French dressing, half
a bottle of Moxie, after-dinner mints, a Clark bar, a pound
of salted peanuts, and the cherry from some Radcliffe
girlâs old-fashioned. With no warming, as tears stream out
his eyes, PLOP goes the harp into the, aagghh, the loath-
some toilet! Immediate little bubbles slide up its bright
flanks, up brown wood surfaces, some varnished some lip-
worn, these fine silver seeds tripping loose along the harpâs
descent toward stone-white cervix and into lower night....
Someday the U.S. Army will provide him with shirts whose
pockets he can button. But in these prewar days he can
rely only on the starch in his snow-white Arrow to hold
the pocket stuck together enough to keep objects from...
But no, no, fool, the harp has fallen, remember? the low
reeds singing an instant on striking porcelain (itâs raining
against a window somewhere, and outside on top of a
sheet-metal vent on the roof: cold Boston rain) then
quenched in the water streaked with the last bile-brown
coils of his vomit. Thereâs no calling it back. Either
he
lets the harp go, his silver chances of song, or he has to:
follow.
ah)
Follow?. Red, the Negro shoeshine
boy, waits by his
dusty leather seat. The Negroes all over wasted Roxbury
Re
Beyond the Zero
73
wait. Follow? âCherokeeâ comes wailing up from the
dance floor below, over the hi-hat, the string bass, the
» thousand sets of feet where moving rose lights suggest not
_pale Harvard boys and their dates, but a lotta dolled-up
_redskins. The song playing is one more lie about white
crimes. But more musicians have floundered in the chan-
ânel to âCherokeeâ than have got through from end to end.
All those long, long notes... whatâre they up to, all that
time to do something inside of? is it an Indian spirit plot?
-
- Down in New York, drive fast maybe get there for the
_ last set-âon 7th Ave., between 139th and 140th, tonight,
_âYardbirdâ Parker is finding out how he can use the notes
at the higher ends of these very chords to break up the
_ melody into have mercy what is it a fucking machine gun
_ or something man he must be out of his mind 32nd notes
_demisemiquavers say it very (demisemiquaver) fast in a
_ Munchkin voice if you can dig that coming out of Dan
_ Wallâs Chili House and down the streetâshit, out in all
_ kinds of streets (his trip, by â39, well begun: down inside
âhis most affirmative solos honks already the idle, amused
_dum-de-dumming of old Mister fucking Death he self)
_ out over the airwaves, into the society gigs, someday as
_far as what seeps out hidden speakers in the city eleva-
_ tors and in all the markets, his birdâs singing, to gainsay
_ the Manâs lullabies, to subvert the groggy wash of the end-
_lessly, gutlessly over-dubbed strings. . .
. So that prophecy,
_ even up here on rainy Massachusetts Avenue, is beginning
âthese days to work itself out in âCherokee,â the saxes
' downstairs getting now into some, oh really weird shit....
If Slothrop follows that harp down the toilet itâll have
_ to be headfirst, which is not so good, cause it leaves his
ass up in the air helpless, and with Negroes around thatâs
.
ust what a fella doesnât want, his face down in some fetid
own darkness and brown fingers, strong and sure, all
âonce undoing his belt, unbuttoning his fly, strong hands
ding his legs apartâand he feels the cold Lysol air on
uis
thighs as down come the boxer shorts too, now, with
_the colorful bass lures and trout flies on them. He struggles
to work himself farther into the toilet hole as dimly, up
through the smelly water, comes the sound of a whole
k gang of awful Negroes come yelling happily into the
ite menâs room, converging on poor wriggling Slothrop,
oe
ie
ef
'
i
Be
oe
The Subversive Sound of Bird
- The narrative explores the revolutionary musical innovations of Charlie 'Yardbird' Parker, whose complex bebop style subverts traditional melodies.
- Parker's music is framed as a prophetic force that will eventually infiltrate every level of society, from elevators to markets, to counter bland commercialism.
- The scene shifts to a surreal and paranoid hallucination involving Slothrop navigating a literal and metaphorical descent through a toilet.
- The passage reflects deep-seated racial anxieties and stereotypes of the era, manifesting as a frantic, nightmarish encounter in a public restroom.
- Slothrop's struggle represents a loss of dignity and a desperate attempt to preserve his identity against perceived external threats.
- The transition from the high art of jazz to the visceral filth of the setting highlights the novel's preoccupation with the intersection of culture and decay.
âYardbirdâ Parker is finding out how he can use the notes at the higher ends of these very chords to break up the melody into have mercy what is it a fucking machine gun or something man he must be out of his mind
Re
Beyond the Zero
73
wait. Follow? âCherokeeâ comes wailing up from the
dance floor below, over the hi-hat, the string bass, the
» thousand sets of feet where moving rose lights suggest not
_pale Harvard boys and their dates, but a lotta dolled-up
_redskins. The song playing is one more lie about white
crimes. But more musicians have floundered in the chan-
ânel to âCherokeeâ than have got through from end to end.
All those long, long notes... whatâre they up to, all that
time to do something inside of? is it an Indian spirit plot?
-
- Down in New York, drive fast maybe get there for the
_ last set-âon 7th Ave., between 139th and 140th, tonight,
_âYardbirdâ Parker is finding out how he can use the notes
at the higher ends of these very chords to break up the
_ melody into have mercy what is it a fucking machine gun
_ or something man he must be out of his mind 32nd notes
_demisemiquavers say it very (demisemiquaver) fast in a
_ Munchkin voice if you can dig that coming out of Dan
_ Wallâs Chili House and down the streetâshit, out in all
_ kinds of streets (his trip, by â39, well begun: down inside
âhis most affirmative solos honks already the idle, amused
_dum-de-dumming of old Mister fucking Death he self)
_ out over the airwaves, into the society gigs, someday as
_far as what seeps out hidden speakers in the city eleva-
_ tors and in all the markets, his birdâs singing, to gainsay
_ the Manâs lullabies, to subvert the groggy wash of the end-
_lessly, gutlessly over-dubbed strings. . .
. So that prophecy,
_ even up here on rainy Massachusetts Avenue, is beginning
âthese days to work itself out in âCherokee,â the saxes
' downstairs getting now into some, oh really weird shit....
If Slothrop follows that harp down the toilet itâll have
_ to be headfirst, which is not so good, cause it leaves his
ass up in the air helpless, and with Negroes around thatâs
.
ust what a fella doesnât want, his face down in some fetid
own darkness and brown fingers, strong and sure, all
âonce undoing his belt, unbuttoning his fly, strong hands
ding his legs apartâand he feels the cold Lysol air on
uis
thighs as down come the boxer shorts too, now, with
_the colorful bass lures and trout flies on them. He struggles
to work himself farther into the toilet hole as dimly, up
through the smelly water, comes the sound of a whole
k gang of awful Negroes come yelling happily into the
ite menâs room, converging on poor wriggling Slothrop,
oe
ie
ef
'
i
Be
oe
74
Gravity's RaAInBow
jiving around the way they do singing, âSlip the talcum to
me, Malcolm!â And the voice that replies is who but that
Red, shoeshine boy whoâs slicked up Slothropâs black pat-
ents a dozen times down on his knees jes poppinâ dat rag
to beat the band...now Red the very tall, skinny, ex-
travagantly conked redhead Negro shoeshine boy whoâs
just been âRedâ to all the Harvard fellasââSay Red, any
of those Sheiks in the drawer?â âHow âbout another luck-
changinâ phone number there, Red?ââthis Negro whose
true name now halfway down the toilet comes at last to
Slothropâs hearingâas a thick finger with a gob of very
slippery jelly or cream comes sliding down the crack now
toward his asshole, chevroning the hairs along like topo
lines up a river valleyâthe true name is Malcalm, and all
the black cocks know him, Malcolm, have known him all
alongâRed Malcolm the Unthinkable Nihilist sez, âGood
golly he sure is all asshole ainât he?â Jeepers Slothrop,
what a position for you to be in! Even though he has suc-
ceeded in getting far enough down now so that only his
legs protrude and his buttocks heave and wallow just under
the level of the water like pallid domes of ice. Water
splashes, cold as the rain outside, up the walls of the
white bowl. âGrab him âfoâ he gits away!â âYowzahlâ
Distant hands clutch after his calves and ankles, snap his
garters and tug at the argyle sox Mom knitted for him to
go to Harvard in, but these insulate so well, or he has
progressed so far down the toilet by now, that he can
hardly feel the hands at all....
Then he has shaken them off, left the last Negro touch
back up there and is free, slick as a fish, with his virgin
asshole preserved. Now some folks might say whew, thank
God for that, and others moaning a little, aw shucks, but
Slothrop doesnât say much of anything cause he didnât feel
much of anything. A-and thereâs still no sign of his lost
harp. The light down here is dark gray and rather faint.
For some time has been aware of shit, elaborately crusted
along the sides of this ceramic (or by now, iron)
heâs in: shit nothing can flush away, mixed with hardwater
minerals into a deliberate brown barnaclin
acling of his route,
patterns thick with meaning, Burmâ-Shave signs of the
toilet world, icky and sticky, cryptic nd glyptic, these
shapes loom and pass smoothly as he continues on down
Descent into the Waste
- Slothrop navigates a surreal, subterranean sewer system while searching for his lost harmonica.
- The waste encrusted on the walls becomes a readable history, allowing Slothrop to identify the 'signatures' of his Harvard acquaintances.
- He reflects on the personal tragedies and social lives of his peers, including the struggles of Dumpster Villard and the charisma of Jack Kennedy.
- The sewer serves as a literal and metaphorical passage toward the Atlantic, where Slothrop hopes to recover his instrument and find a new musical voice.
- The journey takes a violent turn when a massive surge of waste rushes down the line like a tidal wave, overtaking him.
In its blunt, reluctant touches along the wall (which speak the reverse of its own cohesion) he can, uncannily shit-sensitized now, read old agonies inside poor Dumpster, who'd tried suicide last semester.
74
Gravity's RaAInBow
jiving around the way they do singing, âSlip the talcum to
me, Malcolm!â And the voice that replies is who but that
Red, shoeshine boy whoâs slicked up Slothropâs black pat-
ents a dozen times down on his knees jes poppinâ dat rag
to beat the band...now Red the very tall, skinny, ex-
travagantly conked redhead Negro shoeshine boy whoâs
just been âRedâ to all the Harvard fellasââSay Red, any
of those Sheiks in the drawer?â âHow âbout another luck-
changinâ phone number there, Red?ââthis Negro whose
true name now halfway down the toilet comes at last to
Slothropâs hearingâas a thick finger with a gob of very
slippery jelly or cream comes sliding down the crack now
toward his asshole, chevroning the hairs along like topo
lines up a river valleyâthe true name is Malcalm, and all
the black cocks know him, Malcolm, have known him all
alongâRed Malcolm the Unthinkable Nihilist sez, âGood
golly he sure is all asshole ainât he?â Jeepers Slothrop,
what a position for you to be in! Even though he has suc-
ceeded in getting far enough down now so that only his
legs protrude and his buttocks heave and wallow just under
the level of the water like pallid domes of ice. Water
splashes, cold as the rain outside, up the walls of the
white bowl. âGrab him âfoâ he gits away!â âYowzahlâ
Distant hands clutch after his calves and ankles, snap his
garters and tug at the argyle sox Mom knitted for him to
go to Harvard in, but these insulate so well, or he has
progressed so far down the toilet by now, that he can
hardly feel the hands at all....
Then he has shaken them off, left the last Negro touch
back up there and is free, slick as a fish, with his virgin
asshole preserved. Now some folks might say whew, thank
God for that, and others moaning a little, aw shucks, but
Slothrop doesnât say much of anything cause he didnât feel
much of anything. A-and thereâs still no sign of his lost
harp. The light down here is dark gray and rather faint.
For some time has been aware of shit, elaborately crusted
along the sides of this ceramic (or by now, iron)
heâs in: shit nothing can flush away, mixed with hardwater
minerals into a deliberate brown barnaclin
acling of his route,
patterns thick with meaning, Burmâ-Shave signs of the
toilet world, icky and sticky, cryptic nd glyptic, these
shapes loom and pass smoothly as he continues on down
)
â
sa Beyond the Zero~
75
the long cloudy waste line, the sounds of âCherokeeâ still
pulsing very dimly above, playing him to the sea. He finds
_ he can identify certain traces of shit as belonging definitely
to this or that Harvard fellow of his acquaintances. Some
_
of it too of course must be Negro shit, but that all looks
alike. Hey, hereâs that âGobblerâ Biddle, mustâve been the
_
night we all ate chop suey at Fuâs Folly in Cambridge
cause thereâs bean sprouts around here someplace and even
_
a hint of that wild plum sauce... say, certain senses then
do seem to grow sharper... wow... Fuâs Folly, weepers,
, that was months ago. A-and hereâs Dumpster Villard, he
was constipated that night, wasnât heâitâs black shit mean
âas resin that will someday clarify forever to dark amber.
In its blunt, reluctant touches along the wall (which speak
the reverse of its own cohesion) he can, uncannily shit-
sensitized now, read old agonies inside poor Dumpster,
_ who'd tried suicide last semester: the differential equations
_
that would not weave for him into any elegance, the
mother with the low-slung hat and silk knees leaning
across Slothropâs table in Sidneyâs Great Yellow Grille to
finish for him his bottle of Canadian ale, the Radcliffe
_
girls who evaded him, the black professionals Malcolm
_ touted him on to who dealt him erotic cruelty by the
_ dollar, up to as much as he could take. Or if Mother's
_ check was late, only afford. Gone away upstream, bas-
relief Dumpster lost in the gray light as now Slothrop is
-
going past the sign of Will Stonybloke, of J. Peter Pitt, of
Jack Kennedy, the ambassadorâs sonâsay, where the heck
_ is that Jack tonight, anyway? If anybody couldâve saved
, that harp, betcha Jack could. Slothrop admires him from
- a distanceâheâs athletic, and kind, and one of the most
well-liked fellows in Slothropâ s class. Sure is daffy about
\ that history, though. Jack... might Jack have kept it from
§
g, violated gravity somehow? Here, in this passage
to the Atlantic, odors of salt, weed, decay washing to him
"faintly like the sound of breakers, yes it seems Jack might
' have. For the sake of tunes to be played, millions of pos-
_ sible blues lines, notes to be bent from the official frequen-
_ cies, bends Slothrop hasnât really the breath to do... not
ret but someday... well at least if (when... ) he finds
ee instrument it'll âlie well soaked in, a lot easier to play.
„ A hopeful thought to carry with you down the toilet.
Fo
=
76
Gravity's Rainsow
Down the toilet, lookit me,
What a silly thing ta dol
Hope nobody takes a pee,
Yippy dippy dippy doo...
At which precise point there comes this godawful surge
from up the line, noise growing like a tidal wave, a jam-
packed wavefront of shit, vomit, toilet paper and dingle-
berries in mind-boggling mosaic, rushing down on panicky
Slothrop like an MTA subway train on its own hapless
victim. Nowhere to run. Paralyzed, he stares back over
his shoulder. A looming wall stringing long tendrils of
shitpaper behind, the shockwave is on himâGAAHHHI
he tries a feeble frog kick at the very last moment but
already the cylinder of waste has wiped him out, dark as
cold beef gelatin along his upper backbone, the paper
snapping up, wrapping across his lips, his nostrils, every-
thing gone and shit-stinking now as he has to keep batting
micro-turds out of his eyelashes, itâs worse than being
torpedoed by Japs! the brown liquid tearing along, carry-
ing him helpless . . . seems heâs been tumbling ass over tea-
kettleâthough thereâs no way to tell in this murky shit-
storm, no visual references... from time to time he will
brush against shrubbery, or perhaps small feathery trees.
It occurs to him he hasnât felt the touch of a hard wall
ie he started to tumble, if that indeed is what heâs
oing.
|
At some point the brown dusk around him has begun
to lighten. Like the dawn. Bit by bit his vertigo leavesâ
him. The last wisps of shitpaper, halfway back to slurry,
go...sad, dissolving, away. An eerie light grows on him, |
a watery and marbled light he hopes wonât last for long
because of what it seems to promise to show. But âcon-
tactsâ are living in these waste regions. People he knows.
Inside shells of old, what seem to be fine-packed masonry |
ruinsâweathered cell after cell, many of them roofless. |
Wood fires burn in black fireplaces, water simmers in rusty
institutional-size lima-bean cans, and the steam goes up
the leaky chimneys. And they sit about the worn flag-
stones, transacting some... he canât place it exactly...
something vaguely religious.... Bedrooms are fully fur-
nished, with lights that turn and glow, velvet hung from
walls and ceiling. Down to the last ignored blue beadâ
Slothrop's Descent into the Waste
- Slothrop experiences a surreal, visceral journey through a landscape of human waste and dissolving debris.
- He discovers a hidden civilization of 'contacts' living in intricate, weathered masonry ruins within this subterranean or psychic space.
- The environment is marked by a constant, invisible disaster, likened to a 'Pearl Harbor every morning' that remains unseen.
- A rhythmic, vertical dance of debris occurs in the streets, synchronized to the beat of a traditional American tune.
- Slothrop feels a profound isolation and a refusal to join the communal life of the ruins, fearing a binding 'blood oath.'
- The narrative shifts toward a singular, mythic history where only one of every historical figure or event truly exists.
Decline and fall works silently on this landscape. No sun, no moon, only a long smooth sinewaving of the light.
76
Gravity's Rainsow
Down the toilet, lookit me,
What a silly thing ta dol
Hope nobody takes a pee,
Yippy dippy dippy doo...
At which precise point there comes this godawful surge
from up the line, noise growing like a tidal wave, a jam-
packed wavefront of shit, vomit, toilet paper and dingle-
berries in mind-boggling mosaic, rushing down on panicky
Slothrop like an MTA subway train on its own hapless
victim. Nowhere to run. Paralyzed, he stares back over
his shoulder. A looming wall stringing long tendrils of
shitpaper behind, the shockwave is on himâGAAHHHI
he tries a feeble frog kick at the very last moment but
already the cylinder of waste has wiped him out, dark as
cold beef gelatin along his upper backbone, the paper
snapping up, wrapping across his lips, his nostrils, every-
thing gone and shit-stinking now as he has to keep batting
micro-turds out of his eyelashes, itâs worse than being
torpedoed by Japs! the brown liquid tearing along, carry-
ing him helpless . . . seems heâs been tumbling ass over tea-
kettleâthough thereâs no way to tell in this murky shit-
storm, no visual references... from time to time he will
brush against shrubbery, or perhaps small feathery trees.
It occurs to him he hasnât felt the touch of a hard wall
ie he started to tumble, if that indeed is what heâs
oing.
|
At some point the brown dusk around him has begun
to lighten. Like the dawn. Bit by bit his vertigo leavesâ
him. The last wisps of shitpaper, halfway back to slurry,
go...sad, dissolving, away. An eerie light grows on him, |
a watery and marbled light he hopes wonât last for long
because of what it seems to promise to show. But âcon-
tactsâ are living in these waste regions. People he knows.
Inside shells of old, what seem to be fine-packed masonry |
ruinsâweathered cell after cell, many of them roofless. |
Wood fires burn in black fireplaces, water simmers in rusty
institutional-size lima-bean cans, and the steam goes up
the leaky chimneys. And they sit about the worn flag-
stones, transacting some... he canât place it exactly...
something vaguely religious.... Bedrooms are fully fur-
nished, with lights that turn and glow, velvet hung from
walls and ceiling. Down to the last ignored blue beadâ
f
Beyond the Zero
77
_ clogged with dust under the Capehart, the last dried spider
and complex ruffling of the carpetâs nap, the intricacy of
these dwellings amazes him. It is a place of sheltering
from disaster. Not necessarily the flushings of the Toiletâ
|
these occur here only as a sort of inferred disturbance,
behind this ancient sky, in its corroded evenness of toneâ
_ but something else has been terribly at this country, some-
thing poor soggy Slothrop cannot see or hear...as if
| there is a Pearl Harbor every morning, smashing invisibly
from the sky....
He has toilet paper in his hair and a
| fuzzy thick dingleberry lodged up inside his right nostril.
Ugh, ugh. Decline and fall works silently on this land-
scape. No sun, no moon, only a long smooth sinewaving
of the light. It is a Negro dingleberry, he can tellâstub-
born as a wintertime booger as he probes for it. His finger-
ânails draw blood. He stands outside all the communal
ae and spaces, outside in his own high-desert morning,
_a reddish-brown hawk, two, hanging up on an air current
âto watch the horizon. Itâs cold. The wind blows. He can
âfeel only his isolation. They want him inside there but he
canât join them. Something prevents him: once inside, it
would be like taking some kind of blood oath. They would
ânever release him. There are no guarantees he might not
| be asked to do something... something so...
Now every loose stone, every piece of tinfoil, billet of
wood, scrap of kindling or cloth is moving up and down:
rising ten feet then dropping again to hit the pavement
with a sharp clap, The light is thick and water-green. All
down the streets, debris rises and falls in unison, as if at
| the mercy of some deep, regular wave. Itâs difficult to see
any distance through the vertical dance. The drumming
on the pavement goes for eleven beats, skips a twelfth,
the cycle over... it is the rhythm of some tradi-
âtional American tune.... The streets are all empty of
people. Itâs either dawn or twilight. Parts of the debris that
ci
metal shine with a hard, nearly blue persistence.
1% ;
â Now donât you remember Red Malcolm up a
*
n>
That kid with the Red Devil Lye in his hair .
| iiiters now is Crutchfield or Crouchfield, the westward-
| a
Not âarchetypicalâ westwardman,
but the only.
nderstand, there was only one. There was only one
78
Graviryâs Ramnsow
Indian who ever fought him, Only one fight, one victory,
one loss. And only one president, and one assassin, and
one election, True. One of each of everything. You had
thought of solipsism, and imagined the structure to be
populatedâon
your levelâby only, terribly, one. No
count on any other levels, But it proves to be not quite
that lonely. Sparse, yes, but a good deal better than soli-
tary. One of each of everythingâs not so bad. Half an
Arkâs better than none. This Crutchfield here is browned
by sun, wind and dirtâagainst the deep brown slats of
the barn or stable wall he is wood of a different grain and
finish. He is good-humored, solid-set against the purple
mountainslope, and looking half into the sun. His shadow
is carried strained coarsely back through the network of
wood inside the stableâbeams, lodgepoles, -stall uprights,
trough-trestlework,
rafters, wood
ceiling-slats
the sun
comes through: blinding empyrean even at this failing
hour of the day. There is somebody playing a mouth harp
behind an outbuildingâsome musical glutton, mouth-suck-
ing giant five-note chords behind the tune of
Rep Raver VALLEY
Down this toilet they say you are flushinââ
Wonâtchew light up and set fer a spell?
Cause the toilet it ainât going nowhar,
And the shit hereabouts shore is swell.
Oh, itâs the Red River all right, if you donât believe it
just ask that âRed,â wherever he may be (tell you what
Red means, FDRâs little asshole buddies, they want to
take it all away, women all have hair on their legs, give
it all to them or they'll blow
it up round black iron in the
middle of the night bleeding over Polacks in gray caps
okies niggers yeh niggers especially . . .)
Well, back here, Crutchfieldâs little pard has just come
out of the barn. His little pard of the moment, anyway.
Crutchfield has left a string of broken-hearted little pards
across this vast alkali plain. One little feeb in South
Dakota,
i
One little hustler in San Berdoo,
|
One little chink run away from the railroad
The White Coeksman's Ark
- The narrative explores a sparse, solipsistic reality where only one of each type of person or creature exists.
- Crutchfield, a rugged and sun-browned figure, acts as a sexual collector of these singular entities across a desolate landscape.
- The text features a crude, parodic version of 'Red River Valley' that reflects a paranoid, xenophobic, and chaotic internal monologue.
- Crutchfield's current companion, Whappo, is a 'Norwegian mulatto' dandy with a fetish for horse tack and gazelle-hide chaps.
- The 'one-of-each' rule appears to govern biological life forms in this world, though inanimate objects like silk bandannas remain plentiful.
One of each of everythingâs not so bad. Half an Arkâs better than none.
78
Graviryâs Ramnsow
Indian who ever fought him, Only one fight, one victory,
one loss. And only one president, and one assassin, and
one election, True. One of each of everything. You had
thought of solipsism, and imagined the structure to be
populatedâon
your levelâby only, terribly, one. No
count on any other levels, But it proves to be not quite
that lonely. Sparse, yes, but a good deal better than soli-
tary. One of each of everythingâs not so bad. Half an
Arkâs better than none. This Crutchfield here is browned
by sun, wind and dirtâagainst the deep brown slats of
the barn or stable wall he is wood of a different grain and
finish. He is good-humored, solid-set against the purple
mountainslope, and looking half into the sun. His shadow
is carried strained coarsely back through the network of
wood inside the stableâbeams, lodgepoles, -stall uprights,
trough-trestlework,
rafters, wood
ceiling-slats
the sun
comes through: blinding empyrean even at this failing
hour of the day. There is somebody playing a mouth harp
behind an outbuildingâsome musical glutton, mouth-suck-
ing giant five-note chords behind the tune of
Rep Raver VALLEY
Down this toilet they say you are flushinââ
Wonâtchew light up and set fer a spell?
Cause the toilet it ainât going nowhar,
And the shit hereabouts shore is swell.
Oh, itâs the Red River all right, if you donât believe it
just ask that âRed,â wherever he may be (tell you what
Red means, FDRâs little asshole buddies, they want to
take it all away, women all have hair on their legs, give
it all to them or they'll blow
it up round black iron in the
middle of the night bleeding over Polacks in gray caps
okies niggers yeh niggers especially . . .)
Well, back here, Crutchfieldâs little pard has just come
out of the barn. His little pard of the moment, anyway.
Crutchfield has left a string of broken-hearted little pards
across this vast alkali plain. One little feeb in South
Dakota,
i
One little hustler in San Berdoo,
|
One little chink run away from the railroad
a
Beyond the Zero
79
With his ass just as yellow as Fu Manchu!
One with the clap and one with a goiter,
One with the terminal lepro-see,
Cripple on the right foot, cripple on the left foot,
Crippled up both feet ânâ that makes three!
Well one little fairy, even one bull dyke,
One little nigger, one little kike,
One Red Indian with one buffalo,
And a buffalo hunter from New Mexico...
And on, and on, one of each of everything, heâs the White
Coeksman of the terre mauwais, this Crouchfield, doing it
with both sexes and all animals except for rattlesnakes
(properly speaking, ârattlesnake,â since thereâs only one),
but lately heâs been havinâ these fantasies about that
rattlesnake, too! Fangs just tickling the foreskin... the
pale mouth open wide, and the horrible joy in the crescent
eyes.... His little pard of the moment is Whappo, a
Norwegian mulatto lad, who has a fetish for horsy para-
phernalia, likes to be quirt-whipped inside the sweat-and-
leather tackrooms of their wandering, which is three
weeks old today, pretty long time for a little pard toâve
lasted. Whappo is wearing chaps of imported gazelle hide
_that Crutchfield bought for him in Eagle Pass from a faro
dealer with a laudanum habit who was crossing the great
Rio forever, in the blank fumace of the wild Mexico.
Whappo also sports a bandanna of the regulation magenta
and green (Crutchfield is supposed to have a closetful of
âthese silken scarves back home at âRancho Peligrosoâ and
ânever rides out into the rock-country and riverbed trails
âwithout a dozen or two stashed in his saddlebags. This
must mean that the one-of-each rule applies only to forms
of life, such as little pards, and not to objects, such as
bandannas). And Whappo tops off with a high shiny
âOpera hat of Japanese silk. Whappo is quite the dandy
âthis afternoon in fact, as he comes sauntering out from
the bam.
_ âAh, Crutchfield,â flipping a hand, âhow nice of you to
show up.â
_ âYou knew Id show up, you little rascal,â shit that
_Whappo is such a caution. Always baiting his master in
âhopes of getting a leather-keen stripe or two across those
dusky Afro-Scandinavian buttocks, which combine the
t
Bs
The Optimization of Reality
- A surreal Western landscape features Crutchfield and Whappo anticipating a violent, bloody shootout with the redskin Toro Rojo.
- The narrative shifts to a bustling Mexican plaza where Slothrop observes a dense, seething life that contradicts his expectation of singular archetypes.
- A philosophical dialogue suggests that the world functions as an 'optimization problem' where only one of each type of person can truly be supported.
- The text contrasts the 'real' and 'unnecessary' populations of cities like Boston and London against the calculated designs of a mysterious 'We'.
- A momentary vision of war casualties in the Ardennes transforms into a sanitized, 'Disneyfied' image of babies before returning to a grim, soot-colored urban reality.
The country can best support only one of each.
a
Beyond the Zero
79
With his ass just as yellow as Fu Manchu!
One with the clap and one with a goiter,
One with the terminal lepro-see,
Cripple on the right foot, cripple on the left foot,
Crippled up both feet ânâ that makes three!
Well one little fairy, even one bull dyke,
One little nigger, one little kike,
One Red Indian with one buffalo,
And a buffalo hunter from New Mexico...
And on, and on, one of each of everything, heâs the White
Coeksman of the terre mauwais, this Crouchfield, doing it
with both sexes and all animals except for rattlesnakes
(properly speaking, ârattlesnake,â since thereâs only one),
but lately heâs been havinâ these fantasies about that
rattlesnake, too! Fangs just tickling the foreskin... the
pale mouth open wide, and the horrible joy in the crescent
eyes.... His little pard of the moment is Whappo, a
Norwegian mulatto lad, who has a fetish for horsy para-
phernalia, likes to be quirt-whipped inside the sweat-and-
leather tackrooms of their wandering, which is three
weeks old today, pretty long time for a little pard toâve
lasted. Whappo is wearing chaps of imported gazelle hide
_that Crutchfield bought for him in Eagle Pass from a faro
dealer with a laudanum habit who was crossing the great
Rio forever, in the blank fumace of the wild Mexico.
Whappo also sports a bandanna of the regulation magenta
and green (Crutchfield is supposed to have a closetful of
âthese silken scarves back home at âRancho Peligrosoâ and
ânever rides out into the rock-country and riverbed trails
âwithout a dozen or two stashed in his saddlebags. This
must mean that the one-of-each rule applies only to forms
of life, such as little pards, and not to objects, such as
bandannas). And Whappo tops off with a high shiny
âOpera hat of Japanese silk. Whappo is quite the dandy
âthis afternoon in fact, as he comes sauntering out from
the bam.
_ âAh, Crutchfield,â flipping a hand, âhow nice of you to
show up.â
_ âYou knew Id show up, you little rascal,â shit that
_Whappo is such a caution. Always baiting his master in
âhopes of getting a leather-keen stripe or two across those
dusky Afro-Scandinavian buttocks, which combine the
t
Bs
80
Gravity's Ramnsow
callipygian rondure observed among the races of the Dark
Continent with the taut and noble musculature of sturdy
Olaf, our blond Northern cousin. But this time Crutchfield
only turns back to watching the distant mountains.
Whappo sulks. His top hat reflects the coming holocaust.
What the white man does not have to utter, however
casually, is anything like âToro Rojoâs gonna be riding in
tonight.â Both pardners know about that. The wind, bring-
ing them down that raw Injun smell, ought to be enough
for anybody. Oh God itâs gonna be a shootout and bloody
as hell, The wind will be blowing so hard blood will glaze
on the north sides of the trees. The redskin'll have a dog
with him, the only Indian dog in these whole ashen
plainsâthe cur will mix it up with little Whappo and end
hung on the meathook of an open meat stall in the dirt
plaza back in Los Madres, eyes wide open, mangy coat
still intact, black fleas hopping against the sunlit mortar
and stone of the church wall across the square, blood
darkened and crusting at the lesion in his neck where
Whappoâs teeth severed his jugular (and maybe some
tendons, for the head dangles to one side). The hook
enters in the back, between two vertebrae. Mexican ladies
poke at the dead dog, and it sways reluctantly in the fore-
noon market-smell of platanos for frying, sweet baby
carrots from the Red River Valley, trampled
raw greens of
many kinds, cilantro smelling like animal musk, strong
white onions, pineapples fermenting in the sun, about to
blow up, great mottled shelves of mountain mushroom.
Slothrop moves among the bins and hung cloths, invisible,
among horses and dogs, pigs, brown-uniformed militia,
Indian women with babies
gz
in shawls, servants from
the pastel houses farther up
-hillsi
plaza is
seething with life, and Slothrop is puzzled. Isnât there
supposed to be only one of each?
A. Yes.
|
Q. Then one Indian girl...
I
;
A. One pure Indian. One mestiza. One criolla, Then:
one Yaqui. One Navaho, One Apacheâ
Q. Wait a minute, there was only one Indian to begin
with. The one that Crutchfield killed.
A. Yes.
Look on it as an optimization problem. The country
can best support only one of each.
Beyond the Zero
81
Q. Then what about all the others? Boston. London.
The ones who live in cities. Are those people real, or
what?
A. Some are real, and some arenât.
Q. Well are the real ones necessary? or unnecessary?
A. It depends what you have in mind.
Q. Shit, I donât have anything in mind.
A. We do.
For a moment, ten thousand stiffs humped under the
snow in the Ardennes take on the sunny Disneyfied look
of numbered babies under white wool blankets, waiting to
be sent to blessed parents in places like Newton Upper
Falls. It only lasts
a moment. Then for another moment
it seems that all the Christmas bells in the creation are
about to join in chorusâthat all their random pealing will
be, this one time, coordinated, in harmony, present with
tidings of explicit comfort, feasible joy.
But segway into the Roxbury hillside. Snow packs into
the arches, the crosshatchings of his black rubber soles.
His Arâtics clink when he moves his feet. The snow in this
slum darkness has the appearance of soot in a negative...
it flows in and out of the night.... The brick surfaces by
daylight (he only sees them in very early dawn, aching
inside his overshoes, looking for cabs up and down the
Hill) are flaming corrosion, dense, deep, fallen upon by
frosts again and again: historied in a way he hasnât noticed
- in Beacon Street....
}
-
In the shadows, black and white holding in a panda-
pattern across his face, each of the regions a growth or
mass of scar tissue, waits the connection heâs traveled all
this way to see. The face is as weak as a housedogâs, and
f its owner shrugs a lot.
Slothrop: Where is heP Why didnât he show? Who are
you?
iy
Voice: The Kid got busted. And you know me, Slo-
| Sxop. Remember? Iâm Never.
Slothrop (peering): You, Never? (A pause.) Did the
*
-
Kenosha Kid?
0.
-âKryptosamâ is a proprietary form of stabilized tyrosine, devel-
_ oped by IG Farben as part of a research contract with OKW.
The Secrets of Kryptosam
- IG Farben developed 'Kryptosam,' a proprietary form of stabilized tyrosine used for high-stakes cryptographic communication.
- The substance remains invisible until it reacts with a specific, unidentified component of human seminal fluid to produce melanin.
- Messages are delivered alongside erotic imagery tailored to the recipient's specific psychosexual profile to ensure a physical reaction.
- Pirate Prentice receives a message hidden within a drawing of Scorpia Mossmoon, a woman who embodies his private fetishes.
- The revealed message is a high-level order requiring Pirate to extract an operative, coinciding with the arrival of German rockets.
- The process highlights the invasive surveillance of 'They,' who monitor the most intimate desires of individuals for military utility.
Slowly then, a revelation through the nacreous film of his seed, in Negro-brown, comes his message: put in a simple Nihilist transposition whose keywords he can almost guess.
Beyond the Zero
81
Q. Then what about all the others? Boston. London.
The ones who live in cities. Are those people real, or
what?
A. Some are real, and some arenât.
Q. Well are the real ones necessary? or unnecessary?
A. It depends what you have in mind.
Q. Shit, I donât have anything in mind.
A. We do.
For a moment, ten thousand stiffs humped under the
snow in the Ardennes take on the sunny Disneyfied look
of numbered babies under white wool blankets, waiting to
be sent to blessed parents in places like Newton Upper
Falls. It only lasts
a moment. Then for another moment
it seems that all the Christmas bells in the creation are
about to join in chorusâthat all their random pealing will
be, this one time, coordinated, in harmony, present with
tidings of explicit comfort, feasible joy.
But segway into the Roxbury hillside. Snow packs into
the arches, the crosshatchings of his black rubber soles.
His Arâtics clink when he moves his feet. The snow in this
slum darkness has the appearance of soot in a negative...
it flows in and out of the night.... The brick surfaces by
daylight (he only sees them in very early dawn, aching
inside his overshoes, looking for cabs up and down the
Hill) are flaming corrosion, dense, deep, fallen upon by
frosts again and again: historied in a way he hasnât noticed
- in Beacon Street....
}
-
In the shadows, black and white holding in a panda-
pattern across his face, each of the regions a growth or
mass of scar tissue, waits the connection heâs traveled all
this way to see. The face is as weak as a housedogâs, and
f its owner shrugs a lot.
Slothrop: Where is heP Why didnât he show? Who are
you?
iy
Voice: The Kid got busted. And you know me, Slo-
| Sxop. Remember? Iâm Never.
Slothrop (peering): You, Never? (A pause.) Did the
*
-
Kenosha Kid?
0.
-âKryptosamâ is a proprietary form of stabilized tyrosine, devel-
_ oped by IG Farben as part of a research contract with OKW.
82
Gravity's Rainsow
An activating agent is included which, in the presence of some
component of the seminal fluid to date [1934] unidentified, pro-
motes conversion of the tyrosine into melanin, or skin pigment.
In the absence of seminal fluid, the âKryptosamâ remains invisi-
ble. No other known reagent, among those available to opera-
tives in the field, will alter âKryptosamâ to visible melanin. It is
suggested, in cryptographic applications, that a proper stimulus
be included with the message which will reliably produce tu-
mescence and ejaculation, A thorough knowledge of the ad-
dresseeâs psychosexual profile would seem of invaluable aid.
:
âPror. Dr. Laszio JAMF,
âKryptosamâ (advertising brochure), Agfa, Berlin, 1934
The drawing, on heavy cream paper under the black-
letter inscription GEHEIME KOMMANDOSACHE, is in pen and
ink, very finely textured, somewhat after the style of von
Bayros or Beardsley. The woman is a dead ringer for
Scorpia Mossmoon. The room is one they talked about
but never saw, a room they would have liked to live in
one day, with a sunken pool, a silken. tent draped from
the ceilingâa De Mille set really, slender and oiled girls
in attendance,
a suggestion
of midday light coming
through from overhead, Scorpia sprawled among fat pil-
lows wearing exactly the corselette of Belgian lace, the
dark stockings and shoes he daydreamed about often
enough but neverâ
No, of course he never told her. He never told anyone.
Like every young man growing up in England, he was
conditioned to get a hardon in the presence of certain
fetishes, and then conditioned to feel shame about his new
reflexes. Could there be, somewhere, a dossier, could
They (They)? somehow have managed to monitor every-
thing he saw and read since puberty. .. how else would
They know?
âHush,â she whispers. Her fingers stroke lightly her
long olive thighs, bare breasts swell from the top of her
garment. Her face is toward the ceiling, but her eyes are
looking into Pirateâs own, long, narrow with lust, two points
of light glittering through the thick lashes... âIll leave
©
him. We'll come here and live. We'll neyer stop making |
love. I belong to you, Iâve known that for a long time. .
Her tongue licks out over her little sharpened teeth. Her
furry quim is at the center of all the light, and there is a
taste in his mouth he would feel sla meng
Beyond the Zero
83
Well, Pirate nearly doesnât make it, barely gets his cock |
out of his trousers before heâs spurting all over the place.
Enough sperm saved, though, to rub over the blank scrap
enclosed with the picture. Slowly then, a revelation
through the nacreous film of his seed, in Negro-brown,
- comes his message: put in a simple Nihilist transposition
whose keywords he can almost guess. Most of it he does
in his head. There is a time given, a place, a request for
help. He burns the message, fallen on him. from higher
than Earthâs atmosphere, salvaged from Earthâs prime
meridian, keeps the picture, hmm, and washes his hands.
-
His prostate is aching. There is more to this than he can
_
see. He has no recourse, no appeal: he has to go over
there and bring the operative out again. The message is
tantamount to an order from the highest levels.
Far way, through the rain, comes the crack-blast of
_ another German rocket. The third today. They hunt the
â sky like Wuotan and his mad army.
_
Pirateâs own robot hands being to search drawers and
folders for necessary vouchers and forms. No sleep tonight.
_
Probably no chance even to catch a cup or. cigarette on
route. Why?
O
_ In Germany, as the end draws upon us, the incessant walls
read WAS TUST DU FUR DIE FRONT, FUR DEN SIEGP WAS
HAST DU HEUTE FUR DEUTSCHLAND GETAN? At âThe White
Visitationâ the walls read ice. Graffiti of ice the sunless
_ day, glazing the darkening blood brick and terra cotta as
_ if the house is to be preserved weatherless in some skin
of clear museum plastic, an architectural document, an
_ Old-fashioned apparatus whose use is forgotten. Ice of
varying thickness, wavy, blurred, a legend to be deci-
phered by lords of the winter, Glacists of the region, and
argued over in their journals. Uphill, toward the sea, snow
gathers like light at all windward edges of the ancient
bey, its roof long ago taken at the manic whim of
_ Henry VIII, its walls left to stand and mitigate with saint-
less window-hollows the salt wind, blowing as the seasons
play the grass floor in great cowlicks, green to blonde, to
The Secrets of The White Visitation
- The narrative contrasts the propaganda-covered walls of Germany with the frozen, museum-like atmosphere of 'The White Visitation' in England.
- The estate is described as a decaying architectural relic, isolated from the sea and marked by the ruins of an ancient abbey seized by Henry VIII.
- A 1925 anecdote recounts the escape of an inmate named Reg Le Froyd, who claimed blood kinship with the sea before leaping to his death.
- Following the fall of Poland and Paris, the site is transformed into a high-security military installation with muffled motorcades and lethal guard dogs.
- The facility serves as a psychological warfare hub, broadcasting the 'random thoughts of the mad' to demoralize the German enemy.
âI can hear the Lord of the Sea,â cries Le Froyd, in wonder.
Beyond the Zero
83
Well, Pirate nearly doesnât make it, barely gets his cock |
out of his trousers before heâs spurting all over the place.
Enough sperm saved, though, to rub over the blank scrap
enclosed with the picture. Slowly then, a revelation
through the nacreous film of his seed, in Negro-brown,
- comes his message: put in a simple Nihilist transposition
whose keywords he can almost guess. Most of it he does
in his head. There is a time given, a place, a request for
help. He burns the message, fallen on him. from higher
than Earthâs atmosphere, salvaged from Earthâs prime
meridian, keeps the picture, hmm, and washes his hands.
-
His prostate is aching. There is more to this than he can
_
see. He has no recourse, no appeal: he has to go over
there and bring the operative out again. The message is
tantamount to an order from the highest levels.
Far way, through the rain, comes the crack-blast of
_ another German rocket. The third today. They hunt the
â sky like Wuotan and his mad army.
_
Pirateâs own robot hands being to search drawers and
folders for necessary vouchers and forms. No sleep tonight.
_
Probably no chance even to catch a cup or. cigarette on
route. Why?
O
_ In Germany, as the end draws upon us, the incessant walls
read WAS TUST DU FUR DIE FRONT, FUR DEN SIEGP WAS
HAST DU HEUTE FUR DEUTSCHLAND GETAN? At âThe White
Visitationâ the walls read ice. Graffiti of ice the sunless
_ day, glazing the darkening blood brick and terra cotta as
_ if the house is to be preserved weatherless in some skin
of clear museum plastic, an architectural document, an
_ Old-fashioned apparatus whose use is forgotten. Ice of
varying thickness, wavy, blurred, a legend to be deci-
phered by lords of the winter, Glacists of the region, and
argued over in their journals. Uphill, toward the sea, snow
gathers like light at all windward edges of the ancient
bey, its roof long ago taken at the manic whim of
_ Henry VIII, its walls left to stand and mitigate with saint-
less window-hollows the salt wind, blowing as the seasons
play the grass floor in great cowlicks, green to blonde, to
84
Gravity's RAINBOW
snow. From the Palladian house down in its resentful and
twilit hollow this is the only view: the Abbey or else
gentle, broadly mottled swoops of upland. View of the sea
denied, though certain days and tides you can smell it,
all your vile ancestry. In 1925 Reg Le Froyd, an inmate
at âThe White Visitation,â escapedârushed through the
upper town to stand teetering at the edge of the cliff, hair
and hospital garment flickering in the wind, the swaying
miles of south coast, pallid chalk, jetties and promenades
fading right and left into brine haze. After him came a
Constable Stuggles, at the head of a curious crowd. âDon't
jump!â cries the constable.
âI never thought of that,â Le Froyd continuing to stare
out to sea.
âThen what are you doing here. Eh?â
âWanted to look at the sea,â Le Froyd explains. âIâve
never seen it. I am, you know, related, by blood, to the
sea.â
âOh aye,â sly Struggles edging up on him all the while,
âvisiting your relatives are you, how nice.â
âI can hear the Lord of the Sea,â cries Le Froyd, in
wonder.
âDear me, and whatâs his name?â Both of them wet-
faced, shouting for the wind.
âOh, I donât know,â yells Le Froyd, âwhat would be a
good name?â
âBert,â suggests the constable, trying to remember if itâs
right hand graps left arm above elbow or left hand
grasps...
.
Le Froyd turns, and for the first time sees the man, and
the crowd. His eyes grow round and mild. âBert is fine,â
he says, and steps back into the void.
__
Thatâs all the townsfolk of Ick Regis had from âThe
White Visitationâ in the way of reliefâfrom summers of
staring at the pink or sun-freckled overflow from Brighton,
Flotsam and Jetsam casting each day of wireless history
into song, sunsets on the promenade, lens openings forever
changing for the sea light, blown now brisk, now sedate
about the sky, aspirins for sleepâonly Le| Froydâs leap,
that single entertainment, up till the outbreak
of this war.
At the defeat of Poland, ministerial motorcades were
suddenly observed at all hours of the night, putting in at
Beyond the Zero
85
_ âThe White Visitation,â silent as sloops, exhausts well
- muffledâchromeless black machinery that shone if there
were starlight, and otherwise enjoyed the camouflage of a
face about to be remembered, but through the act of
memory fading too far... . Then at the fall of Paris, a radio
âtransmitting station was set up on the cliff, antennas aimed
at the Continent, themselves heavily guarded and their
landlines back mysteriously over the downs to the house
patrolled night and day by dogs specially betrayed, belted,
â starved into reflex leaps to kill, at any human approach.
Had one of the Very High gone higherâthat is, dottyP
â Was Our Side seeking to demoralize the German Beast by
broadcasting to him random thoughts of the mad, naming
for him, also in the tradition of Constable Stuggles that
famous day, the deep, the scarcely seen? The answer is
yes, all of the above, and more.
Ask them at âThe White Visitationâ about the master
plan of the BBCâs eloquent Myron Grunton, whose melted
toffee voice has been finding its way for years out the fray-
ing rust bouclé of the wireless speakers and into English
dreams, foggy old heads, children at the edges of atten-
tion. ... Heâs had to keep putting his plan off, at first. only
_
a voice alone, lacking the data he really needed, no sup-
port, trying to get at the German soul from whatever
came to hand, P/W interrogations, Foreign Office Hand-
books, the brothers Grimm, tourist memories of his own
(young sleepless Dawes-era flashes, vineyards sunlit very
âgreen bearding the south valley-slopes of the Rhine, at
_ night in the smoke and worsted cabarets of the capital
long frilled suspenders like rows of carnations, silk stock-
ings highlighted each in one long fine crosshatching of
light...). But at last the Americans came in, and the
= arrangement known as SHAEF, and an amazing amount of
: âmoney.
_ The scheme is called Operation Black Wing. My what
4
âa careful construction, five years in the making. No one
- could claim it all as his own, not even Grunton. It was
_ General Eisenhower who laid.down the controlling guide-
line, the âstrategy of truthâ idea. Something âreal,â Ike
A insisted on: a hook on the warâs pocked execution-wall to
g the story from. Pirate Prentice of the $.0.E. came
with the first hard intelligence that there were in-
The Birth of Operation Black Wing
- Myron Grunton, a BBC personality with a 'melted toffee voice,' develops a psychological warfare scheme to destabilize the German psyche.
- Operation Black Wing utilizes the 'strategy of truth' by exploiting intelligence regarding the presence of Herero tribesmen from South-West Africa within Germany's secret weapons program.
- The operation broadcasts unsettling propaganda suggesting that these 'dark, secret children' are now invisible observers watching their former colonial masters in their sleep.
- The project involves a diverse coalition including American funding, S.O.E. intelligence, and psychological data from Lieutenant Slothrop under narcosis.
- As the war nears its end, figures like Mr. Pointsman at 'The White Visitation' feel a sense of professional despair, fearing the peace will arrive before they have fully exploited the war's experimental potential.
Now he stays up past the curfews, and watches his stepfather while he sleeps, invisible, protected by the night which is his own colour.
Beyond the Zero
85
_ âThe White Visitation,â silent as sloops, exhausts well
- muffledâchromeless black machinery that shone if there
were starlight, and otherwise enjoyed the camouflage of a
face about to be remembered, but through the act of
memory fading too far... . Then at the fall of Paris, a radio
âtransmitting station was set up on the cliff, antennas aimed
at the Continent, themselves heavily guarded and their
landlines back mysteriously over the downs to the house
patrolled night and day by dogs specially betrayed, belted,
â starved into reflex leaps to kill, at any human approach.
Had one of the Very High gone higherâthat is, dottyP
â Was Our Side seeking to demoralize the German Beast by
broadcasting to him random thoughts of the mad, naming
for him, also in the tradition of Constable Stuggles that
famous day, the deep, the scarcely seen? The answer is
yes, all of the above, and more.
Ask them at âThe White Visitationâ about the master
plan of the BBCâs eloquent Myron Grunton, whose melted
toffee voice has been finding its way for years out the fray-
ing rust bouclé of the wireless speakers and into English
dreams, foggy old heads, children at the edges of atten-
tion. ... Heâs had to keep putting his plan off, at first. only
_
a voice alone, lacking the data he really needed, no sup-
port, trying to get at the German soul from whatever
came to hand, P/W interrogations, Foreign Office Hand-
books, the brothers Grimm, tourist memories of his own
(young sleepless Dawes-era flashes, vineyards sunlit very
âgreen bearding the south valley-slopes of the Rhine, at
_ night in the smoke and worsted cabarets of the capital
long frilled suspenders like rows of carnations, silk stock-
ings highlighted each in one long fine crosshatching of
light...). But at last the Americans came in, and the
= arrangement known as SHAEF, and an amazing amount of
: âmoney.
_ The scheme is called Operation Black Wing. My what
4
âa careful construction, five years in the making. No one
- could claim it all as his own, not even Grunton. It was
_ General Eisenhower who laid.down the controlling guide-
line, the âstrategy of truthâ idea. Something âreal,â Ike
A insisted on: a hook on the warâs pocked execution-wall to
g the story from. Pirate Prentice of the $.0.E. came
with the first hard intelligence that there were in-
86
Gravityâs Rainsow
deed in Germany real Africans, Hereros, ex-colonials from
South-West Africa, somehow active in the secret-weapons
program. Myron Grunton, inspired, produced on the air
one night completely ad lib the passage that found its
way into the first Black Wing directive: âGermany once
treated
its Africans
like a stern but loving stepfather,
chastising them when necessary, often with death. Remem-
ber? But that was far away in Siidwest, and since then a
generation has gone by. Now the Herero lives in his step-
fatherâs house. Perhaps you, listening, have seen him. Now
he stays up past the curfews, and watches his stepfather
while he sleeps, invisible, protected by the night which is
his own colour. What are they all thinking? Where are the
Hereros tonight? What are they doing, this instant, your
dark, secret children?â And Black Wing has even found
an American, a Lieutenant Slothrop, willing to go under
light narcosis to help illuminate racial problems in his own
country. An invaluable extra dimension, Toward the end,
as more foreign morale data began to come backâYank
pollsters with clipboards and squeaky new shoe-pacs or
galoshes visiting snow-softened liberated ruins to root out
the truffles of truth created, as ancients surmised, during
storm, in the instant of lightning blastâa contact in
American PWD was able to bootleg copies and make
them available to âThe White Visitation.â No one is sure
who suggested the name âSchwarzkommando.â Myron
Grunton had favored âWiitende Heer,â that company of
spirits who ride the heaths of the sky in furious hunt,
with great Wuotan at their headâbut Myron agreed that
was more a northern myth. Effectiveness in Bavaria might
be less than optimum.
;
pate
ae
They all talk effectiveness, an American heresy, perhaps
overmuch at âThe White Visitation.â Loudest of all, usu-
ally, is Mr. Pointsman, often using for ammo statistics pro-
vided him by Roger Mexico. By the time of the Normandy
landing, Pointsmanâs season of despair was well upon him.
He came to understand that the great capenceea pincers
was to be, after all, a success. That this
war, this State
he'd come to feel himself a citizen of, was to be adjourned
and reconstituted
as a peaceâand that, professionally
speaking, he'd hardly got a thing out of it. With funding
available for all manner of radars, magic torpedoes, air-
craft and missiles, where was Pointsman in the scheme of
The Maze of Political Warfare
- Brigadier Pudding oversees the Abreaction Research Facility (ARF), a grim laboratory where dogs are subjected to extreme physiological and psychological experiments.
- The facility is staffed by a motley crew, including a former Pavlovian researcher, and is funded by a 'stingy dribble' of money from the Political Warfare Executive.
- Pudding struggles with the onset of senility, experiencing fragmented memories of World War I that dissolve into 'frozen smoke' as he tries to recall them.
- The narrative describes the 'War-state' as a sprawling, systematic enterprise of death, characterized by a dizzying bureaucracy of overlapping intelligence agencies.
- Pudding feels alienated by the modern 'lush maze' of initials and acronyms like OSS, PWD, and SHAEF, which lack the clarity of his previous military experience.
- The ARF serves as a 'colony' to the metropolitan war, mapping human and animal trauma through data points like saliva drops, voltages, and brain tissue removal.
Fallen trees, dead, smooth gray, swirling grain of tree like frozen smoke . . . ginger . . . thunder . . . no use, no bleeding use, itâs gone, another gone, another, oh dear .
Beyond the Zero
87
things? Heâd had a momentâs stewardship, that was all:
his Abreaction Research Facility (ARF), early on snaring
himself a dozen underlings, dog trainer from the variety
_. stage, veterinary student or two, even a major prize, the
refugee Dr. Porkyevitch, who worked with Pavlov him-
-self at the Koltushy institute, back before the purge trials.
- Together the ARF team receive, number, weigh, classify
by Hippocratic temperament, cage, and presently experi-
ment on as many as a dozen fresh dogs a week. And there
are oneâs colleagues, co-owners of The Book, all nowâ
all those left of the original sevenâworking in hospitals
_/ handling the battle-fatigued and shell-shocked back from
"across the Channel, and the bomb- or rocket-happy this
_
side. They got to watch more abreactions, during these
_. days of heavy V-bombardment, than doctors of an earlier
day were apt to see in several lifetimes, and they are able
\; to suggest ever new lines of inquiry. P.W.E. allows a
___ stingy dribble of money, desperate paper whispering down
- âthe corporate lattice, enough to get by on, enough that
ARF remains a colony to the metropolitan war, but not
_
enough for nationhood. ... Mexicoâs statisticians chart for
_
it drops of saliva, body weights, voltages, sound levels,
metronome
frequencies,
bromide
dosages, number
of
afferent nerves cut, percentages of brain tissue removed,
dates and hours of numbing, deafening, blinding, castra-
-
tion. Support even comes from Psi Section,
a colony
_
dégagé and docile, with no secular aspirations at all.
Old Brigadier Pudding can live with this spiritualist
â gang well enough, heâs tendencies himself in that direc-
! tion, But Ned Pointsman, with his constant scheming after
more moneyâPudding can only stare back at the man, try
ive to be civil. Not as tall as his father, certainly not as whole-
ie some looking. Father was M.O. in Thunder Proddâs regi-
Ment, caught a bit of shrapnel in the thigh at Polygon
~
Wood, lay silent for seven hours before they, without a
word before, in that mud, that terrible smell, in, yes
_ Polygon Wood...
or was thatâwho
was. the ginger-
haired chap who âslept with his hat on? ahhh, come back.
Now Polygon Wood... but itâs fluttering away. Fallen
_
âtrees, dead, smooth gray, swirlinggrainoftreelikefrozen-
Ke moke . . . ginger... thunder...no use, no bleeding use,
âs gone, another gone, another, oh dear .
+ The old Brigadierâs age is uncertain, though he must be
88
Gravity's Rainsow
pushing 80âreactivated in 1940, set down in a new space
not only of battlefieldâwhere the front each day or hour
changes like a noose, like the gold-lit borders of con-
sciousness (perhaps, though it oughtnât to get too sinister
here, exactly like them... better, then, âlike a nooseâ)â
but also of the War-state itself, its very structure. Pud-
ding finds himself wondering, at times aloud and in the
presence of subordinates, what enemy disliked him enough
to assign him to Political Warfare. One is supposed to be
operating in concertâyet too often in amazing disso-
nanceâwith other named areas of the War, colonies of that
Mother City mapped wherever the enterprise is systematic
death: P.W.E. laps over onto the Ministry of Information,
the BBC European Service, the Special Operations Execu-
tive, the Ministry of Economic Warfare, and the F.O.
Political Intelligence Department at Fitzmaurice House.
Among others. When the Americans came in, their OSS,
OWI, and Army Psychological Warfare Department had
also to be coordinated with. Presently there arose the joint,
SHAEF Psychological Warfare Division (PWD), report-
ing direct to Eisenhower, and to hold it all together a
London Propaganda Coordinating Council, which has no
real power at all.
Who can find his way about this lush maze of initials,
arrows
solid and dotted, boxes big and small, names
printed and memorized? Not Ernest Puddingâthatâs for
the New Chaps with their little green antennas out for the
usable emanations of power, versed in American politics
(knowing the difference between the New Dealers of
OWI and the eastern and moneyed Republicans behind
OSS), keeping brain-dossiers on latencies, weaknesses, tea-
taking habits, erogenous zones of all, all who might some-
day be useful.
;
Ernest Pudding was brought up to believe in a literal
Chain of Command, as clergymen of earlier centuries be-
lieved in the Chain of Being. The newer geometries con-
fuse him. His greatest triumph on the battlefield came in
1917, in the gassy, Armageddonite
filth of the Ypres
salient, where he conquered a bight of no manâs land
some 40 yards at its deepest, with a wastage of only
70% of his unit. He was pensioned off around the begin-
ning of the Great Depressionâwent to sit in the study of
The Geometries of Power
- A new generation of political operatives, the 'New Chaps,' meticulously track the psychological and political vulnerabilities of potential assets.
- Brigadier Pudding, a veteran of the WWI Ypres salient, struggles to reconcile his belief in a linear 'Chain of Command' with the chaotic 'newer geometries' of modern intelligence.
- During his retirement, Pudding attempted to map European politics through combinatorial analysis, only to find reality shifting faster than his permutations.
- Pudding now oversees 'The White Visitation,' a bizarre wartime intelligence outpost housed in a former mental asylum.
- The facility is a surreal collection of occultists, behavioral scientists, and stolen dogs, all competing for funding and influence.
- The atmosphere of the station is one of cold, bureaucratic absurdity, where secretaries shiver in drafty halls while subjects guess at Zener cards.
Ernest Pudding was brought up to believe in a literal Chain of Command, as clergymen of earlier centuries believed in the Chain of Being.
88
Gravity's Rainsow
pushing 80âreactivated in 1940, set down in a new space
not only of battlefieldâwhere the front each day or hour
changes like a noose, like the gold-lit borders of con-
sciousness (perhaps, though it oughtnât to get too sinister
here, exactly like them... better, then, âlike a nooseâ)â
but also of the War-state itself, its very structure. Pud-
ding finds himself wondering, at times aloud and in the
presence of subordinates, what enemy disliked him enough
to assign him to Political Warfare. One is supposed to be
operating in concertâyet too often in amazing disso-
nanceâwith other named areas of the War, colonies of that
Mother City mapped wherever the enterprise is systematic
death: P.W.E. laps over onto the Ministry of Information,
the BBC European Service, the Special Operations Execu-
tive, the Ministry of Economic Warfare, and the F.O.
Political Intelligence Department at Fitzmaurice House.
Among others. When the Americans came in, their OSS,
OWI, and Army Psychological Warfare Department had
also to be coordinated with. Presently there arose the joint,
SHAEF Psychological Warfare Division (PWD), report-
ing direct to Eisenhower, and to hold it all together a
London Propaganda Coordinating Council, which has no
real power at all.
Who can find his way about this lush maze of initials,
arrows
solid and dotted, boxes big and small, names
printed and memorized? Not Ernest Puddingâthatâs for
the New Chaps with their little green antennas out for the
usable emanations of power, versed in American politics
(knowing the difference between the New Dealers of
OWI and the eastern and moneyed Republicans behind
OSS), keeping brain-dossiers on latencies, weaknesses, tea-
taking habits, erogenous zones of all, all who might some-
day be useful.
;
Ernest Pudding was brought up to believe in a literal
Chain of Command, as clergymen of earlier centuries be-
lieved in the Chain of Being. The newer geometries con-
fuse him. His greatest triumph on the battlefield came in
1917, in the gassy, Armageddonite
filth of the Ypres
salient, where he conquered a bight of no manâs land
some 40 yards at its deepest, with a wastage of only
70% of his unit. He was pensioned off around the begin-
ning of the Great Depressionâwent to sit in the study of
Beyond the Zero
89
âan empty house in Devon, surrounded by photos of old
comrades, none of whose gazes quite met oneâs own, there
to go at a spot of combinatorial analysis, that favorite
pastime of retired Army officers, with a rattling intense
devotion.
.
It occurred to him to focus his hobby on the European
_ balance of power, because of whose long pathology he
had labored, deeply, all hope of waking lost, in the night-
' mare of Flanders. He started in on
a mammoth work en-
titled Things That Can Happen in European Politics.
Begin, of course, with England. âFirst,â he wrote, âBere-
âshith, as it were: Ramsay MacDonald can die.â By the
time he went through resulting party alignments and pos-
sible permutations of cabinet posts, Ramsay MacDonald
had died. âNever make it,â he: found himself muttering at
_ the beginning of each dayâs workââitâs changing out
- from under me. Oh, dodgyâvery dodgy.â
_
When it had changed as far as German bombs falling
- on England, Brigadier Pudding gave up his obsession and
_again volunteered his services to his country. Had he
known at the time it would mean âThe White Visitationâ
- +. not that heâd expected a combat assignment you know,
__ but wasnât there something mentioned about intelligence
_ work? Instead he found a disused hospital for the mad, a
_ few token lunatics, an enormous pack of stolen dogs,
cliques of spiritualists, vaudeville entertainers,
wireless
_ technicians. Couéists, Ouspenskians, Skinnerites, lobotomy
\ enthusiasts, Dale Carnegie zealots, all exiled by the out-
_ break of war from pet schemes and manias damned, had
) the peace prolonged itself, to differing degrees of failureâ
_
but their hopes now focusing on Brigadier Pudding and
. Possibilities for funding: more hope than Prewar, that
âonly
respond
province, ever offered. Pudding could
â only respond by adopting rather an Old Testament style
_ with everyone, including the dogs, and remaining secretly
baffled and hurt by what he imagined as treachery high
inside Staff.
- Snowlight comes in through tall, many-paned windows,
a dark day, a light burning only here and there among the
brown offices. Subalterns encrypt, blindfolded subjects call
Zener-deck guesses to hidden microphones: âWaves...
Waves...Cross...Star...â
While someone
from Psi
90
Gravityâs RaInsow
Section records them from a speaker down in the cold
basement. Secretaries in woolen shawls and rubber ga-
loshes shiver with the winter cold being inhaled through
the madhouseâs many crevices, their typewriter keys chat-
tery as their pearlies. Maud Chilkes, who looks from the
rear rather like Cecil Beatonâs photograph of Margot As-
quith, sits dreaming of a bun and a cup of tea.
In the ARF wing, the stolen dogs sleep, scratch, recall
shadowy smells of humans who may have loved them,
listen undrooling to Ned Pointsmanâs oscillators and metro-
nomes. The drawn shades allow only mild passages of
light from outdoors. Technicians are moving behind the
thick observation window, but their robes, greenish and
submarine through the glass, flutter more slowly, less
brightly.
... A numbness has taken over, or a felt darken-
ing. The metronome at 80 per second breaks out in wooden
echoes, and Dog Vanya, bound atop the test stand, begins
to salivate. All other sounds are damped severely: the ©
beams underpinning the lab smothered in sand-filled
rooms, sandbags, straw, uniforms of dead men occupying
the spaces between the windowless walls... where the
country bedlamites sat around, scowling, sniffing nitrous
oxide, giggling, weeping at an E-major chord modulating
to a G-sharp minor, now are cubical deserts, stand-rooms,
keeping the metronome sovereign here in the lab, behind
the iron doors, closed hermetically.
The duct of Dog Vanyaâs submaxillary gland was long
ago carried out the bottom of his chin through an incision
and sutured in place, leading saliva outside to the collect-
ing funnel, fixed there with the traditional orange Pavloy-
ian Cement of rosin, iron oxide and beeswax. Vacuum
brings the secretion along through shining tubework to
displace a column of light red oil, moving to the right
along a scale marked off in âdropsââan arbitrary unit,
probably not the same as the actually fallen drops of 1905,
of St. Petersburg. But the number of drops, for this lab
and Dog Vanya and the metronome at 80, is each time
predictable.
Now that he has moved into âequivalentâ phase, the first
âof the transmarginal phases, a membrane, hardly notice-
able, stretches between Dog Vanya and
the outside. In-
side and outside remain just as they were, but the inter- â
The Transmarginal Phase
- In a hermetically sealed lab, Dog Vanya is subjected to Pavlovian conditioning using a metronome and a submaxillary gland incision.
- The dog enters an 'equivalent' phase of transmarginal inhibition where the intensity of the stimulus no longer correlates with the physical response.
- The laboratory environment is described as a sensory-deprived space, muffled by sandbags and the uniforms of dead men to isolate the experiment.
- Personnel like Silvernail and Groast scavenge for cigarettes while avoiding the 'Weekly Briefings' held by the senile Brigadier Pudding.
- Brigadier Pudding delivers rambling, surreal monologues from a pulpit, blending office paranoia with vivid, traumatic memories of World War I.
The metronome at 80 per second breaks out in wooden echoes, and Dog Vanya, bound atop the test stand, begins to salivate.
90
Gravityâs RaInsow
Section records them from a speaker down in the cold
basement. Secretaries in woolen shawls and rubber ga-
loshes shiver with the winter cold being inhaled through
the madhouseâs many crevices, their typewriter keys chat-
tery as their pearlies. Maud Chilkes, who looks from the
rear rather like Cecil Beatonâs photograph of Margot As-
quith, sits dreaming of a bun and a cup of tea.
In the ARF wing, the stolen dogs sleep, scratch, recall
shadowy smells of humans who may have loved them,
listen undrooling to Ned Pointsmanâs oscillators and metro-
nomes. The drawn shades allow only mild passages of
light from outdoors. Technicians are moving behind the
thick observation window, but their robes, greenish and
submarine through the glass, flutter more slowly, less
brightly.
... A numbness has taken over, or a felt darken-
ing. The metronome at 80 per second breaks out in wooden
echoes, and Dog Vanya, bound atop the test stand, begins
to salivate. All other sounds are damped severely: the ©
beams underpinning the lab smothered in sand-filled
rooms, sandbags, straw, uniforms of dead men occupying
the spaces between the windowless walls... where the
country bedlamites sat around, scowling, sniffing nitrous
oxide, giggling, weeping at an E-major chord modulating
to a G-sharp minor, now are cubical deserts, stand-rooms,
keeping the metronome sovereign here in the lab, behind
the iron doors, closed hermetically.
The duct of Dog Vanyaâs submaxillary gland was long
ago carried out the bottom of his chin through an incision
and sutured in place, leading saliva outside to the collect-
ing funnel, fixed there with the traditional orange Pavloy-
ian Cement of rosin, iron oxide and beeswax. Vacuum
brings the secretion along through shining tubework to
displace a column of light red oil, moving to the right
along a scale marked off in âdropsââan arbitrary unit,
probably not the same as the actually fallen drops of 1905,
of St. Petersburg. But the number of drops, for this lab
and Dog Vanya and the metronome at 80, is each time
predictable.
Now that he has moved into âequivalentâ phase, the first
âof the transmarginal phases, a membrane, hardly notice-
able, stretches between Dog Vanya and
the outside. In-
side and outside remain just as they were, but the inter- â
Beyond the Zero
CS
91
faceâthe cortex of Dog Vanyaâs brainâis changing, in
any number of ways, and that is the really peculiar thing
about these transmarginal events. It no longer matters now
how loudly the metronome ticks. A stronger stimulus no
longer gets a stronger response. The same number. of
_ drops flow or fall. The man comes and removes the metrfo-
ahaa
nome to the farthest corner of his muffled room, It is
placed inside a box, beneath a pillow with the machine-
sewn legend Memories of Brighton, but the drops do not
fall off
... then played into a microphone and amplifier so
that each tick fills the room up like a shout, but the drops
do not increase. Every time, the clear saliva pushes the
a line over only to the same mark, the same number of
OpSs....
Webley Silvernail and Rollo Groast go sneaky-Peteing
away down the corridors, nipping into peopleâs offices to
see if there are any smokable fag-ends to be looted. Most
offices right now are empty: all personnel with the patience
or masochism for it are going through a bit of ritual with
the doddering Brigadier.
âThat
old-man
has, no-shame,â
Géza
Rézsavélgyi,
another refugee (and violently anti-Soviet, which creates
a certain strain with ARF) flicking his hands up Brigadier
Puddingward in gay despair, the lilting Hungarian gypsy-
whisper bashing like tambourines all around the room,
provoking, in one way or another, everyone here except
for the aged Brigadier himself, who just goes rambling
on from the pulpit of what was a private chapel once,
back there on the maniac side of the 18th century, and is
now a launching platform for âThe Weekly Briefings,â a
most amazing volley of senile observations, office paranoia,
gossip about the War which might or might not include
violations of security, reminiscences of Flanders... the
coal boxes in the sky coming straight down on you with a
roar...the drumfire so milky and luminous on his birth-
day night . .
. the wet surfaces in the shell craters for miles
giving back one bleak autumn sky... what Haig, in the
_ richness of his wit, once said at mess about Lieutenant
Sassoonâs refusal to fight... the gunners in springtime, in
their flowing green robes... roadsides of poor rotting
Ly
„ horses just before apricot sunrise... the twelve spokes of
a stranded artillery pieceâa mud clock, a mud zodiac,
The Ravings of Brigadier Pudding
- Brigadier Puddingâs memories of the Flanders mud are characterized by a visceral, scatological horror and a lack of 'vertical interest.'
- The Brigadier subjects his subordinates at PISCES to eccentric, sadistic culinary 'surprises' and rambling weekly soliloquies.
- The staff at 'The White Visitation' is divided into distinct, plotting factions, including the dog people and the Psi Section.
- Dr. Rézsavélgyi views the current situation as a struggle for survival through the impending transition to the Postwar era.
- There is a growing desire to replace the 'disease' of charisma and the FĂŒhrer-principle with rationalized, corporate abstractions of power.
The mud of Flanders gathered into the curd-clumped, mildly jellied textures of human shit, piled, duck-boarded, trenched and shell-pocked leagues of shit in all directions.
92
:
Graviryâs RAINBOW
clogged and crusted as it stood
in the sun its many shades
of brown. The mud of Flanders gathered into the curd-
clumped, mildly jellied textures of human shit, piled, duck-
boarded, trenched and shell-pocked leagues of shit in all
directions, not even the poor blackened stump of a treeâ
and the old blithering gab-artist tries to shake the cherry-
wood pulpit here, as if that had been the worst part of
the whole Passchendaele horror, that absence of vertical
interest....
On he goes, gabbing, gabbing, recipes for
preparing beets in a hundred tasty ways, or such cucurbi-
taceous improbabilities as Emest Puddingâs Gourd Sur-
priseâyes, there is something sadistic about recipes with
âSurpriseâ in the title, chap whoâs hungry wants to just
eat you know, not be Surprised really, just wants to bite
into the (sigh) the old potato, and be reasonably sure
thereâs nothing inside but potato you see, certainly not
some clever nutmeg âSurpriselâ, some mashed pulp all
magenta with pomegranates
or something... well but
this is just the doubtful sort of joke that Brigadier Pud-
ding loves to play: how heâs chuckled, as unsuspecting
dinner-guests go knifiing into his notorious Toad-in-the-
Hole, through the honest Yorkshire batter intoâugh! what
is it? a beet rissolé? a stuffed beet rissolé? or perhaps to-
day some lovely pureed samphire, reeking of the séa
(which he obtains once a week from the same fat fish-
mongerâs son wheeling his bicycle, puffing; up the chalk-
white cliff)âmnone of these odd, odd vegetable rissoles do
resemble any ordinary âToad,â but rather the depraved,
half-sentient creatures that Young Chaps from Kings Road
have Affairs With in limericksâPudding has thousands of
these recipes and no shame about sharing any of them
with the lot at PISCES, along with, later in the weekly
soliloquy, a line or two, eight bars, from âWould You
Rather Be a Colonel with an Eagle on Your Shoulder, or
a Private with a Chicken on Your Knee?â then perhaps a
lengthy recitation of all his funding difficulties, all, dating
back to long before the emergence of even the Electra
House group...letter-feuds he has carried on in the
Times with critics of Haig. .
And they all sit there, in fron of the at high, blacked,
lead-crossed windows, allowing him his
y, the dog
people skulking over in one corner, passing notes and
leaning to whisper (they plot, they plot, ee or afoot
©
a
Beyond the Zero
93
they never let up), the Psi Section lot clear over the other
side of the roomâas if we have a parliament of some kind
here...everyone for years has occupied his own unique
pew-seat and angle in to the ravings of reddish and liver-
spotted Brigadier Puddingâwith the other persuasions-in-
exile spread between these two wings: the balance of
power, if any power existed at âThe White Visitation.â
_
Dr. Rézsavélgyi feels that there well might, if the fel-
lows âplay their cards right.â The only issue now is sur-
vivalâon through the awful interface of V-E Day, on into
the bright new Postwar with senses and memories intact.
PISCES must not be allowed to go down under the ham-
mer with the rest of the bawling herd. There must arise,
and damned soon, able to draw them into a phalanx, a
concentrated point of light, some leader or program power-
ful enough to last them across who knows how many years
of Postwar. Dr. Rézsavélgyi tends to favor a powerful
' program over a powerful leader. Maybe because this is
1945. It was widely believed in those days that behind
the Warâall the death, savagery, and destructionâlay the
Fiihrer-principle. But if personalities could be replaced by
abstractions of power, if techniques developed by the
_ corporations could be brought to bear, might not nations
live rationallyP One of the dearest Postwar hopes: that
there should be no room for a terrible disease like cha-
risma ... that its rationalization should proceed while we
had the time and resources. ...
_
Isnât that whatâs really at stake for Dr. RĂ©zsavĂ©lgyi here
_ in this latest scheme, centered on the figure of Lieutenant
Slothrop? All the psychological tests in the subjectâs dossier,
clear back to his college days, indicate a diseased per-
_ sonality. âRosieâ slaps the file with his hand for emphasis.
_ The staff table shudders. âFor exam-ple: his Minneso-ta,
â Mul-tipha-sic Personality Inventory is tremen-dously lopsi-
ded, always in fa-vor of, the psycho-pathic, and, the un-
_ whole-some.â
But the Reverend Dr. Paul de la Nuit is not fond of
the MMPI. âRosie, are there scales for measuring inter-
personal traits?â Hawk's nose probing, probing, eyes low-
ered in politic meekness, âHuman values? Trust, honesty,
âlove? Is thereâforgive me the special pleadingâa re-
ligious scale, by any chance?â
4q No way, padre: the MMPI was developed about 1943.
Testing the Diseased Personality
- Dr. Rézsavélgyi and the staff at 'The White Visitation' debate the psychological profile of Lieutenant Slothrop based on his lopsided MMPI scores.
- The Reverend Dr. Paul de la Nuit critiques modern psychological testing for focusing on soldierly utility while ignoring humane values like trust and love.
- Rézsavélgyi proposes a 'projective' test, similar to a Rorschach, designed to force the subject to impose structure on a shapeless stimulus.
- The ultimate goal of these projective techniques is total psychological control, bypassing the subject's ability to repress or falsify their responses.
- Pointsman reveals the true 'structured stimulus' they intend to use: exposing Slothrop directly to the German rocket.
- The setting of 'The White Visitation' is described as a bizarre architectural folly, featuring unsettling ceiling murals where humans and beasts lack genuine connection.
But with the projec-tive technique, nothing he can do, con-scious or otherwise, can pre-vent us, from fin-ding what we need to know. We, are in control. He cannot help, him-self.
Beyond the Zero
93
they never let up), the Psi Section lot clear over the other
side of the roomâas if we have a parliament of some kind
here...everyone for years has occupied his own unique
pew-seat and angle in to the ravings of reddish and liver-
spotted Brigadier Puddingâwith the other persuasions-in-
exile spread between these two wings: the balance of
power, if any power existed at âThe White Visitation.â
_
Dr. Rézsavélgyi feels that there well might, if the fel-
lows âplay their cards right.â The only issue now is sur-
vivalâon through the awful interface of V-E Day, on into
the bright new Postwar with senses and memories intact.
PISCES must not be allowed to go down under the ham-
mer with the rest of the bawling herd. There must arise,
and damned soon, able to draw them into a phalanx, a
concentrated point of light, some leader or program power-
ful enough to last them across who knows how many years
of Postwar. Dr. Rézsavélgyi tends to favor a powerful
' program over a powerful leader. Maybe because this is
1945. It was widely believed in those days that behind
the Warâall the death, savagery, and destructionâlay the
Fiihrer-principle. But if personalities could be replaced by
abstractions of power, if techniques developed by the
_ corporations could be brought to bear, might not nations
live rationallyP One of the dearest Postwar hopes: that
there should be no room for a terrible disease like cha-
risma ... that its rationalization should proceed while we
had the time and resources. ...
_
Isnât that whatâs really at stake for Dr. RĂ©zsavĂ©lgyi here
_ in this latest scheme, centered on the figure of Lieutenant
Slothrop? All the psychological tests in the subjectâs dossier,
clear back to his college days, indicate a diseased per-
_ sonality. âRosieâ slaps the file with his hand for emphasis.
_ The staff table shudders. âFor exam-ple: his Minneso-ta,
â Mul-tipha-sic Personality Inventory is tremen-dously lopsi-
ded, always in fa-vor of, the psycho-pathic, and, the un-
_ whole-some.â
But the Reverend Dr. Paul de la Nuit is not fond of
the MMPI. âRosie, are there scales for measuring inter-
personal traits?â Hawk's nose probing, probing, eyes low-
ered in politic meekness, âHuman values? Trust, honesty,
âlove? Is thereâforgive me the special pleadingâa re-
ligious scale, by any chance?â
4q No way, padre: the MMPI was developed about 1943.
94
Gravity's RAINBOW
In the very heart of the War. Allport and Vernonâs Study
of Values, the Bernreuter Inventory as revised by Flana-
gan in â35âtests from before the Warâseem to Paul de
la Nuit more humane. All the MMPI appears to test for
is whether a man will be a good or bad soldier.
âSoldiers are much in demand these days, Reverend
Doctor,â murmurs Mr. Pointsman.
âI only hope that we donât put too much emphasis on
his MMPI scores. It seems to me very narrow. It omits
large areas of the human personality.â
âPrecise-ly why,â leaps RĂ©zsavĂ©lgyi, âwe are now pro-
posing, to give, Sloth-rop a complete-ly dif-ferent sort, of
test. We are now design-ing for him, a so-called, âprojec-
tiveâ test. The most famil-iar exam-ple of the type, is the
Rorschach ink-blot. The ba-sic theory, is, that when given
an unstruc-tured stimulus, some shape-less blob of exper-
ience, the subject, will seek to impose, struc-ture on it.
How, he goes a-bout struc-turing this blob, will reflect his
needs, his hopesâwill provide, us with clues, to his
dreams, fan-tasies, the deepest re-gions of his mind.â Eye-
brows going a mile a minute, extraordinarily fluid and
graceful hand gestures, resemblingâmost likely it is de-
liberate, and who can blame Rosie for trying to cash inâ
those of his most famous compatriot, though there're the
inevitable bad side-effects: staff who swear theyâve seen him
crawling headfirst down the north facade of âThe White
Visitation,â for example. âSo we are re-ally, quite, in agree-
ment, Reverend Doctor. A test, like the MMPI, is, in this
respect, not adequate. It is, a struc-tured stimulus. The
sub-ject can fal-sify, consciously, or repress, un-consciously.
But with the projec-tive technique, nothing he can do, con-
scious or otherwise, can pre-vent us, from fin-ding what we
ee to know. We, are in control. res cannot help, him-
self.â
âMust say it doesnât sound like ae cup of tea, Points-
man,â smiles Dr. Aaron Throwster. âYour stimuli are more
the structured sort, arenât they?â
âLetâs say I find a certain shameful faseiintiot.â
âLetâs not. Donât tell me youre going to ehi3 your nate
Pavlovian hand completely out of this.â
âWell, not completely, Throwster, no. âSince you've
brought it up. We also happen to have in mind a very
S
es
Beyond the Zero
95
Bessotned stimulus. Same one, in fact, that got us in-
terested to begin with. We want to expose Slothrop to the
German rocket... .â
Overhead, on the molded plaster ceiling, Methodist ver-
sions of Christâs kingdom swarm: lions cuddle with lambs,
fruit spills lushly and without pause into the arms and
about the feet of gentlemen and ladies, swains and milk-
âmaids. No oneâs expression is quite right. The wee crea-
tures leer, the fiercer beasts have a drugged or sedated
look, and none of the humans have any eye-contact at all.
The ceilings of âThe White Visitationâ arenât the only
erratic thing about the place, either. It is a classic âfolly,â
all right. The buttery was designed as an Arabian harem
in miniature, for reasons we can only guess at today, full
of silks, fretwork and peepholes. One of the libraries
served, for a time, as a wallow, the floor dropped three
âfeet and replaced with mud up to the thresholds for giant
Gloucestershire Old Spots to frolic, oink, and cool their
summers in, to stare at the shelves of buckram books and
wonder if theyâd be good eating. Whig eccentricity is car-
ried in this house to most unhealthy extremes. The rooms
are triangular, spherical, walled up into mazes. Portraits,
studies in genetic curiosity, gape and smirk at you from
every vantage. The W.C.s contain frescoes of Clive and
his elephants stomping the French at Plassy, fountains that
depict Salome with the head of John (water gushing out
ears, nose, and mouth), floor mosaics in which are tes-
-sellated together different versions of Homo Monstrosus,
an interesting preoccupation of the timeâcyclops, hu-
âmanoid giraffe, centaur repeated in all directions. Every-
where are archways, grottoes, plaster floral arrangements,
âwalls hung in threadbare velvet or brocade. Balconies give
out at unlikely places, overhung with gargoyles whose fangs
âhave fetched not a few newcomers nasty cuts on the head.
Even in the worst rains, the monsters only just manage to
droolâthe rainpipes feeding them are centuries out of
âYepair, running crazed over slates and beneath eaves, past
cracked pilasters, dangling Cupids, terra-cotta facing on
every floor, along with belvederes, rusticated joints, pseudo-
palin columns, looming minarets, leaning crooked chim-
from a distance no two observers, not matter how
âlose they stand, see quite the same building in that orgy
The Eccentricity of Pointsmanâs Estate
- The estate is a chaotic monument to Whig eccentricity, featuring triangular rooms, mazes, and libraries repurposed as mud wallows for pigs.
- The architecture is an 'orgy of self-expression' where no two observers see the same building due to centuries of bizarre additions and decay.
- The grounds are guarded by lethal engineered dogs and sentries, marking the transition from aristocratic madness to wartime requisitioning.
- A moral conflict arises between Brigadier Pudding and Pointsman regarding the 'shabby' ethics of psychological conditioning on human subjects.
- The narrative reveals that Dr. Laszlo Jamf performed early conditioning experiments on 'Infant Tyrone' to manipulate sexual reflexes.
- The text draws a parallel between Jamfâs transition from psychology to organic chemistry and KekulĂ©âs historic shift from architecture.
One of the libraries served, for a time, as a wallow, the floor dropped three feet and replaced with mud up to the thresholds for giant Gloucestershire Old Spots to frolic, oink, and cool their summers in.
Beyond the Zero
95
Bessotned stimulus. Same one, in fact, that got us in-
terested to begin with. We want to expose Slothrop to the
German rocket... .â
Overhead, on the molded plaster ceiling, Methodist ver-
sions of Christâs kingdom swarm: lions cuddle with lambs,
fruit spills lushly and without pause into the arms and
about the feet of gentlemen and ladies, swains and milk-
âmaids. No oneâs expression is quite right. The wee crea-
tures leer, the fiercer beasts have a drugged or sedated
look, and none of the humans have any eye-contact at all.
The ceilings of âThe White Visitationâ arenât the only
erratic thing about the place, either. It is a classic âfolly,â
all right. The buttery was designed as an Arabian harem
in miniature, for reasons we can only guess at today, full
of silks, fretwork and peepholes. One of the libraries
served, for a time, as a wallow, the floor dropped three
âfeet and replaced with mud up to the thresholds for giant
Gloucestershire Old Spots to frolic, oink, and cool their
summers in, to stare at the shelves of buckram books and
wonder if theyâd be good eating. Whig eccentricity is car-
ried in this house to most unhealthy extremes. The rooms
are triangular, spherical, walled up into mazes. Portraits,
studies in genetic curiosity, gape and smirk at you from
every vantage. The W.C.s contain frescoes of Clive and
his elephants stomping the French at Plassy, fountains that
depict Salome with the head of John (water gushing out
ears, nose, and mouth), floor mosaics in which are tes-
-sellated together different versions of Homo Monstrosus,
an interesting preoccupation of the timeâcyclops, hu-
âmanoid giraffe, centaur repeated in all directions. Every-
where are archways, grottoes, plaster floral arrangements,
âwalls hung in threadbare velvet or brocade. Balconies give
out at unlikely places, overhung with gargoyles whose fangs
âhave fetched not a few newcomers nasty cuts on the head.
Even in the worst rains, the monsters only just manage to
droolâthe rainpipes feeding them are centuries out of
âYepair, running crazed over slates and beneath eaves, past
cracked pilasters, dangling Cupids, terra-cotta facing on
every floor, along with belvederes, rusticated joints, pseudo-
palin columns, looming minarets, leaning crooked chim-
from a distance no two observers, not matter how
âlose they stand, see quite the same building in that orgy
=
Ă©
>
96
Gravityâs RAINBOW
of self-expression, added to by each succeeding owner,
until the present Warâs requisitioning. Topiary trees line
the drive for a distance before giving way to larch and
elm: ducks, bottles, snails, angels, and steeplechase riders
they dwindle down the metaled road into their fallow
silence, into the shadows under the tunnel of sighing trees.
The sentry, a dark figure in white webbing, stands port-
arms in your masked headlamps, and you must halt for
him. The dogs, engineered and lethal, are watching you
from the woods, Presently, as evening comes on, a few
bitter flakes of snow begin to fall,
O
Better behave yourself or we'll send you back to Dr. Jaméf]
When Jamf conditioned him, he threw away the stimulus.
Looks like Dr, Jamfâs been to see your little thing
today, hasnât he?
âNeil Nosepickerâs Book of 50,000 Insults,
§6.72, âAwful Offspring,â
The Nayland Smith Press,
Cambridga | (Mass.), 1933
Puppinc:, But isnât thisâ
POINTSMAN: Sir?
Puppinc:
Isnât it all rather shabby, Pointsman? Med-
dling with another manâs mind this way?
PoinTsMAN: Brigadier, we're only following in a lon
line of experiment and questioning. Harvard University, ©
the U.S. Army? Hardly shabby institutions,
.
Puppinc: We canât, Pointsman, itâs beastly.
f
PornTsmaN: But the Americans have already been atâ
- him! donât you see? Itâs not-as if we're corrupting a virgin
or somethingâ
.
pepe,
|
Puppinc: Do we have to do it because the Americans _
do it? Must we allow them to corrupt us?
Back around 1920, Dr. Laszlo Jamf opined that if Wat-
son and Rayner could successfully condition their âInfant
Albertâ into a reflex horror of everything furry, even of his
_
own Mother in a fur boa, then Jamf could certainly do the
|
Beyond the Zero
97
same thing for his Infant Tyrone, and the babyâs sexual
reflex. Jamf was at Harvard that year, visiting from Darm-
stadt. It was in the early part of his career, before he
phased into organic chemistry (to be as fateful a change
of field as KekulĂ©âs own famous switch into chemistry from
âarchitecture, a century before). For the experiment he had
a slender grant from the National Research Council (under
âa continuing NRC program of psychological study which
had begun during the World War, when methods were
needed for selecting officers and classifying draftees).
Shoestring funding may have been why Jamf, for his tar-
get reflex, chose an infant hardon. Measuring secretions, as
Pavlov did, would have meant surgery. Measuring âfear,â
the reflex Watson chose, would have brought in too much
subjectivity
(whatâs fear? How much is âa lotâ? Who
decides, when itâs on-the-spot-in-the-field, and there isnât
time to go through the long slow process of referring it up
to the Fear Board?). Instrumentation just wasnât available
in those days. The best he mightâve done was the Larson-
Keeler three-variable âlie detector,â but at the time it was
still only experimental.
But a hardon, thatâs either there, or it isnât. Binary,
elegant. The job of observing it can even be done by a
student.
Unconditioned stimulus = stroking penis with antisep-
tic cotton swab.
Unconditioned response = hardon.
Conditioned stimulus = x.
| Conditioned response = hardon whenever x is present,
stroking is no longer necessary, all you need is that x.
Uh, x? well, whatâs x? Why, itâs the famous âMystery
Stimulusâ
thatâs fascinated generations
of behaviorial-
psychology students, is what it is. The average campus
umor magazine carries 1.05 column inches per year on
the subject, which ironically is the exact mean length Jamf
reported for Infant T.âs erection.
_ Now ordinarily, according to tradition in these matters,
the little sucker would have been de-conditioned. Jamf
would have, in Pavlovian terms, âextinguishedâ the hardon
ren he'd built up, before he let the baby go. Most likely
he did. But as Ivan Petrovich himself said, âNot only must
we speak of partial or of complete extinction of a condi-
The Mystery of Infant Tyrone
- Dr. Jamf utilized an infant's erection as a binary, elegant metric for behavioral conditioning due to limited funding and the subjectivity of measuring fear.
- The 'Mystery Stimulus' (x) was conditioned to trigger a physical response in Infant Tyrone, a subject later revealed to be Tyrone Slothrop.
- Pavlovian theory suggests that 'silent extinction' can exist beyond a zero response, implying a conditioned reflex might remain dormant for decades.
- In 1944, 'The White Visitation' discovers Slothrop and debates whether his ability to map rocket strikes is statistical, precognitive, or psychokinetic.
- The researchers struggle to reconcile Slothrop's sexual map with the physical reality of the V-2 rockets falling across London.
Odd, odd, oddâthink of the word: such white finality in its closing clap of tongue.
Beyond the Zero
97
same thing for his Infant Tyrone, and the babyâs sexual
reflex. Jamf was at Harvard that year, visiting from Darm-
stadt. It was in the early part of his career, before he
phased into organic chemistry (to be as fateful a change
of field as KekulĂ©âs own famous switch into chemistry from
âarchitecture, a century before). For the experiment he had
a slender grant from the National Research Council (under
âa continuing NRC program of psychological study which
had begun during the World War, when methods were
needed for selecting officers and classifying draftees).
Shoestring funding may have been why Jamf, for his tar-
get reflex, chose an infant hardon. Measuring secretions, as
Pavlov did, would have meant surgery. Measuring âfear,â
the reflex Watson chose, would have brought in too much
subjectivity
(whatâs fear? How much is âa lotâ? Who
decides, when itâs on-the-spot-in-the-field, and there isnât
time to go through the long slow process of referring it up
to the Fear Board?). Instrumentation just wasnât available
in those days. The best he mightâve done was the Larson-
Keeler three-variable âlie detector,â but at the time it was
still only experimental.
But a hardon, thatâs either there, or it isnât. Binary,
elegant. The job of observing it can even be done by a
student.
Unconditioned stimulus = stroking penis with antisep-
tic cotton swab.
Unconditioned response = hardon.
Conditioned stimulus = x.
| Conditioned response = hardon whenever x is present,
stroking is no longer necessary, all you need is that x.
Uh, x? well, whatâs x? Why, itâs the famous âMystery
Stimulusâ
thatâs fascinated generations
of behaviorial-
psychology students, is what it is. The average campus
umor magazine carries 1.05 column inches per year on
the subject, which ironically is the exact mean length Jamf
reported for Infant T.âs erection.
_ Now ordinarily, according to tradition in these matters,
the little sucker would have been de-conditioned. Jamf
would have, in Pavlovian terms, âextinguishedâ the hardon
ren he'd built up, before he let the baby go. Most likely
he did. But as Ivan Petrovich himself said, âNot only must
we speak of partial or of complete extinction of a condi-
98
Gravity's Rainsow
tioned reflex, but we must realize that extinction can. pro-
ceed beyond the point of reducing a reflex to zero. We
cannot therefore judge the degree of extinction only by
the magnitude of the reflex or its absence, since there can
still be a silent extinction beyond the zero,â Italics are Mr.
Pointsmanâs,
Can a conditioned reflex survive in a man, dormant,
over 20 or 30 yearsP Did Dr. Jamf extinguish only to
zeroâwait till the infant showed zero hardons in the pres-
ence of stimulus x, and then stop? Did he forgetâor ig-
noreâthe âsilent extinction beyond the zeroâ? If he ig-
nored it, why? Did the National Research Council have
anything to say about that?
When Slothrop was discovered, late in 1944, by âThe
White Visitationââthough many there have always known
him as the famous Infant Tyroneâlike the New World,
different people thought theyâd discovered different things,
Roger Mexico thinks itâs a statistical oddity, But he feels
the foundations of that discipline trembling a bit now,
deeper than oddity ought to drive. Odd, odd, oddâthink
of the word: such white finality in its closing clap of
tongue. It implies moving past the tongue-stopâbeyond
the zeroâand into the other realm. Of course you donât
move past. But you do realize, intellectually, thatâs how
you ought to be moving.
és
Rollo Groast thinks itâs precognition. âSlothrop is able
to predict when a rocket will fall at a particular place, His
survival to date is evidence heâs acted on advance informa-
tion, and avoided the area at the time the rocket was
supposed to fall.â Dr. Groast is not sure how, or even if,
sex comes into it.
a
But Edwin Treacle, that most Freudian of psychical
|
researchers, thinks Slothropâs gift is psychokinesis, Slo-
throp is, with the force of his mind, causing the rockets to
drop where they do. He may not be physically highballing
them about the sky: but maybe he is fooling with. the
electrical
signals inside the rocketâs guidance system.
However heâs doing it, sex does come into Dr. Treacleâs
theory. âHe subconsciously needs to abdlish all trace of
the sexual Other, whom he symbolizes on his map, most
significantly, as a star, that anal-sadistic emblem of class-
room success which so permeates elementary education in
America... .â
a
|
The Poisson Distribution of Desire
- Researchers discover a perfect spatial correlation between the locations of Tyrone Slothropâs sexual encounters and subsequent V-2 rocket strikes.
- The data reveals a temporal anomaly where Slothropâs 'stars' (sexual conquests) precede the rocket strikes by a mean lag of 4.5 days.
- Pointsman theorizes that Slothrop is responding to a 'precursor wraith' or stimulus that exists before the supersonic rocket actually arrives.
- The phenomenon suggests a terrifying level of determinism, implying that human desire and sudden death are linked by invisible, predictable forces.
- Roger Mexico raises the alternative possibility of psychokinesis, suggesting Slothrop might be unconsciously causing the rockets to fall where he has been.
When we find it, we'll have shown again the stone determinacy of everything, of every soul.
98
Gravity's Rainsow
tioned reflex, but we must realize that extinction can. pro-
ceed beyond the point of reducing a reflex to zero. We
cannot therefore judge the degree of extinction only by
the magnitude of the reflex or its absence, since there can
still be a silent extinction beyond the zero,â Italics are Mr.
Pointsmanâs,
Can a conditioned reflex survive in a man, dormant,
over 20 or 30 yearsP Did Dr. Jamf extinguish only to
zeroâwait till the infant showed zero hardons in the pres-
ence of stimulus x, and then stop? Did he forgetâor ig-
noreâthe âsilent extinction beyond the zeroâ? If he ig-
nored it, why? Did the National Research Council have
anything to say about that?
When Slothrop was discovered, late in 1944, by âThe
White Visitationââthough many there have always known
him as the famous Infant Tyroneâlike the New World,
different people thought theyâd discovered different things,
Roger Mexico thinks itâs a statistical oddity, But he feels
the foundations of that discipline trembling a bit now,
deeper than oddity ought to drive. Odd, odd, oddâthink
of the word: such white finality in its closing clap of
tongue. It implies moving past the tongue-stopâbeyond
the zeroâand into the other realm. Of course you donât
move past. But you do realize, intellectually, thatâs how
you ought to be moving.
és
Rollo Groast thinks itâs precognition. âSlothrop is able
to predict when a rocket will fall at a particular place, His
survival to date is evidence heâs acted on advance informa-
tion, and avoided the area at the time the rocket was
supposed to fall.â Dr. Groast is not sure how, or even if,
sex comes into it.
a
But Edwin Treacle, that most Freudian of psychical
|
researchers, thinks Slothropâs gift is psychokinesis, Slo-
throp is, with the force of his mind, causing the rockets to
drop where they do. He may not be physically highballing
them about the sky: but maybe he is fooling with. the
electrical
signals inside the rocketâs guidance system.
However heâs doing it, sex does come into Dr. Treacleâs
theory. âHe subconsciously needs to abdlish all trace of
the sexual Other, whom he symbolizes on his map, most
significantly, as a star, that anal-sadistic emblem of class-
room success which so permeates elementary education in
America... .â
a
|
Beyond the Zero
99
Itâs the map that spooks them all, the map Slothropâs
been keeping on his girls. The stars fall in a Poisson dis-
tribution, just like the rocket strikes on Roger Mexico's -
map of the Robot Blitz.
-But,. well, itâs a bit more than. the distribution. The two
patterns also happen to be identical. They match up square
for square. The slides that Teddy Bloatâs been taking of
Slothropâs map have been projected onto Roger's, and the
two images, girl-stars and rocket-strike circles, demon-
strated to. coincide.
Helpfully, Slothrop has dated most of his stars. A star
always comes before its corresponding rocket strike. The
strike can come as quickly as two days, or as slowly as
ten. The mean lag is about 414 days.
Suppose, Pointsman argues, that Strobeâs stimulus x was
some loud: noise, as it was in the. Watson-Rayner experi-
ment. Suppose that, in Slothropâs case, the hardon reflex
_ wasnât completely extinguished. In-that case he ought to
be getting one on at any loud noise thatâs preceded by
the same kind of ominous buildup he wouldâve found in
Jamfâs labâas dogs to this day find in Pointsmanâs own
>
lab. The points to the V-1: any doodle close enough to
make him jump ought to be giving him an erection: the
sound of the motor razzing louder and louder, then the
cutoff and silence, suspense building upâthen the ex-
plosion. Boing, a hardon. But oh, no. Slothrop instead only
gets erections when this sequence happens in reverse. Ex-
plosion first, then the sound of approach: the V-2.
But the stimulus, somehow, must be the rocket, some
precursor wraith, some rocketâs double present for Slo-
op in the percentage of smiles on a bus, menstrual
__
cycles being operated upon in some mysterious wayâwhat
__ does make the little doxies do it for free? Are there fluctua-
tions in the sexual market, in pornography or prostitutes,
perhaps tying into prices on the Stock Exchange itself,
that we clean-living lot know nothing about? Does news
_ from the front affect the itch between their pretty thighs,
_
does desire grow directly or inversely as the real chance
_ of sudden deathâdamn it, what cue, right in front of our
eyes, that we havenât the subtlety of heart to seeP...
â
But if itâs in the air, right here, right now, then the
_ rockets follow from it, 100% of the time. No exceptions.
_ When we fiind it, we'll have shown again the stone
100
Gravity's Ramnsow
determinacy of everything, of every soul. There will be
precious little room for any hope at all. You can see how
important a discovery like that would be.
They walk down past the snow-drifted kennel runs,
Pointsman in Glastonburys and fawn-colored British warm,
Mexico wearing a scarf Jessicaâs lately knitted him whip-
ping landward a scarlet dragonâs tongueâthis day the
coldest so far of the winter, 39 degrees of frost. Down to
the cliffs, faces freezing, down to the deserted beach.
Waves run up, slide away to leave great crescents of ice
fine
as skin and dazzling in the weak sunlight. The boots
of the two men crunch through to sand or shingle. The
very bottom of the year. They can hear the guns in Flan-
ders today, all the way across the Channel
on the wind. The
Abbeyâs ruin stands gray and crystal up on the cliff.
Last night, in the house at the edge of the stay-away
town, Jessica, snuggling, afloat, just before sleep was to
take them, whispered, âRoger... what about the girls?â
That was all she said. But it brought Roger wide awake.
And bone-tired as he was, he lay staring for another hour,
' wondering about the girls.
Now, knowing he ought to let it go, âPointsman, what if
Edwin Treacle is right? That itâs PK. What if Slothropâsâ
not even consciouslyâmaking them fall where they do?â
âWell. You lotâd have something then, wouldnât you.â
âBut...why should he. If they are falling wherever
heâs beenââ
âPerhaps he hates women.â
âTm serious.â
âMexico. Are you actually worried?â
âI donât know. Perhaps I wondered if it might tie in, in
any way, with your ultraparadoxical phase. Perhaps...I
want to know what youre really looking for.â
Above them now throb a flight of B-17s, bound some-
where uncommon today, well out of the usual corridors of
flight. Behind these Fortresses the undersides of the cold
clouds are blue, and their smooth billows are veined in
blueâelsewhere touched with grayed-out pink or pur-
ple.... Wings and stabilizers are shadowed underneath
in dark gray. The shadows softly feather lighter up around
curves of fuselage or nacelle. Spinners emerge from hooded
dark inside the cowlings, spinning props invisible, the
Pointsman and the Pavlovian Labyrinth
- Pointsman reflects on his obsession with Pavlovian conditioning, viewing scientific texts as illicit, eroticized mandates for his deviant intellectual journey.
- The narrative juxtaposes a conversation about paranoia and a mysterious figure with a vivid, atmospheric description of B-17 bombers flying through a 'zero sky.'
- Pointsmanâs history with 'The Book' is revealed as a clandestine acquisition during a Luftwaffe raid, treating the scientific work with the reverence of forbidden erotica.
- The text explores the dark psychological parallels between scientific experimentation on dogs and the sadistic impulses of 'whip and cane.'
- Pointsman realizes he is trapped in a metaphorical labyrinth of his own making, where he is no longer the master but a subject owned by a mysterious 'Syndicate.'
- The imagery shifts toward a mythological dread, invoking Ariadne and the Minotaur to illustrate Pointsman's fear of the inevitable 'central chamber' of his fate.
And how much of the pretty victim straining against her bonds does Ned Pointsman see in each dog that visits his test stands...and arenât scalpel and probe as decorative, as fine extensions as whip and cane?
100
Gravity's Ramnsow
determinacy of everything, of every soul. There will be
precious little room for any hope at all. You can see how
important a discovery like that would be.
They walk down past the snow-drifted kennel runs,
Pointsman in Glastonburys and fawn-colored British warm,
Mexico wearing a scarf Jessicaâs lately knitted him whip-
ping landward a scarlet dragonâs tongueâthis day the
coldest so far of the winter, 39 degrees of frost. Down to
the cliffs, faces freezing, down to the deserted beach.
Waves run up, slide away to leave great crescents of ice
fine
as skin and dazzling in the weak sunlight. The boots
of the two men crunch through to sand or shingle. The
very bottom of the year. They can hear the guns in Flan-
ders today, all the way across the Channel
on the wind. The
Abbeyâs ruin stands gray and crystal up on the cliff.
Last night, in the house at the edge of the stay-away
town, Jessica, snuggling, afloat, just before sleep was to
take them, whispered, âRoger... what about the girls?â
That was all she said. But it brought Roger wide awake.
And bone-tired as he was, he lay staring for another hour,
' wondering about the girls.
Now, knowing he ought to let it go, âPointsman, what if
Edwin Treacle is right? That itâs PK. What if Slothropâsâ
not even consciouslyâmaking them fall where they do?â
âWell. You lotâd have something then, wouldnât you.â
âBut...why should he. If they are falling wherever
heâs beenââ
âPerhaps he hates women.â
âTm serious.â
âMexico. Are you actually worried?â
âI donât know. Perhaps I wondered if it might tie in, in
any way, with your ultraparadoxical phase. Perhaps...I
want to know what youre really looking for.â
Above them now throb a flight of B-17s, bound some-
where uncommon today, well out of the usual corridors of
flight. Behind these Fortresses the undersides of the cold
clouds are blue, and their smooth billows are veined in
blueâelsewhere touched with grayed-out pink or pur-
ple.... Wings and stabilizers are shadowed underneath
in dark gray. The shadows softly feather lighter up around
curves of fuselage or nacelle. Spinners emerge from hooded
dark inside the cowlings, spinning props invisible, the
:
Beyond the Zero
101
light of the sky catching all vulnerable surfaces a uniform
bleak gray. The planes drone along, stately, up in the zero
sky, shedding frost as it builds, sowing the sky behind in
white ice-furrows, their own color matching certain de-
grees of cloud, all the tiny windows and openings in soft
blackness, the perspex nose shining back forever warped
and streaming cloud and sun. Inside it is black obsidian.
Pointsman has been talking about paranoia and the âidea
of the opposite.â He has scribbled in The Book exclama-
tion points and how trues all about the margins of Pay-
lovâs open letter to Janet concerning the sentiments dem-
prise, and of Chapter LV, âAn Attempt at a Physiological
Interpretation of Obsessions and of Paranoiaââhe canât
help this bit of rudeness, although the agreement among
the seven owners was not to mark up The Bookâit was
too valuable for that sort of thing, theyâd had to put in a
guinea apiece. It was sold him on the sly, in the dark,
during a Luftwaffe raid (most existing copies had been
destroyed in their warehouse early in the Battle of Britain).
Pointsman never even saw the sellerâs face, the man van-
ishing into the hoarse auditory dawn of the all-clear, leay-
ing the doctor and The Book, the dumb sheaf already heat-
ing up, moistening in his tight hand... yes it might have
been a rare work of erotica, certainly that coarse hand-set
look to the type...the crudities in phrasing, as if Dr.
Horsley Ganttâs odd translation were in cipher, the plain-
text listing shameful delights, criminal transports. ... And
how much of the pretty victim straining against her bonds
does Ned Pointsman see in each dog that visits his test
stands...and arenât scalpel and probe as decorative, as
fine extensions as whip and cane?
ve
Surely the volume preceding The Bookâthe
first
%
Forty-one Lecturesâcame to him at age 28 like a man-
_ date from the submontane Venus he could not resist: to
© abandon Harley Street for a journey more and more
b
deviant, deliciously on, into a labyrinth of conditioned-
- teflex work in which only now, thirteen years along the
__ lew, heâs beginning to circle back, trip across old evidence
a
te having come that path before, here and there to con-
front consequences of his younger, total embrace... . But
she did warn himâdid she not? was he ever listening?â
(= Pid the deferred payment, in its full amount. Venus and
102
Gravityâs RAINBOW
Ariadne! She seemed worth any price, the labyrinth look-
ing, in those days, too intricate for themâthe twilit pimps
who made the arrangement between a version of himself,
a crypto-Pointsman, and his fate... too varied, he thought
then, ever to find him in. But he knows now. Too far in,
preferring not to face it just yet, he knows that they only
wait, stone and sureâthese agents of the Syndicate she
must also payâwait in the central chamber, as he draws
closer.... They own everything: Ariadne, the Minotaur,
even, Pointsman fears, himself. He gets flashes of thenr
these days, naked, athletes poised and breathing about the
chamber, terrible penises up mineral as their eyes, which
glisten with frost or flakes of mica, but not with lust, or
for him. Itâs only a job they have....
âPierre Janetâsometimes the man talked like an Orien-
tal mystic. He had no real grasp of the opposites. âThe act
of injuring and the act of being injured are joined in the
behavior of the whole injury.â Speaker and spoken-of,
master and slave, virgin and seducer, each pair most con-
veniently coupled and inseparableâ The last refuge of the
incorrigible lazy, Mexico, is just sort of yang-yin rubbish.
One avoids all manner of unpleasant lab work that way,
but what has one said?â
âT donât want to get into a religious argument with you,â
absence of sleep has Mexico more cranky than usual, âbut
I wonder if you people arenât a bit tooâwell, strong, on
the virtues of analysis.
I mean, once you've taken it all
apart, fine, I'll be first to applaud your industry. But
other than a lot of bits and pieces lying about, what have
you said?â
It isnât the sort of argument Pointsman relishes either.
But he glances sharply at this young anarchist in his red
scarf. âPavlov believed that the ideal, the end we all
struggle toward in science, is the true mechanical explana-
tion. He was realistic enough not to expect it in his life-â
time. Or in several lifetimes more. But his hope was fora â
long chain of better and better approximations. His faith
ultimately lay in a pure physiological basis for the life of
the psyche. No effect without cause, and ;
clear train of â
linkag es.â
âIts not my forte, of course,â Mexico Riess: wishniga
not to offend the man, but really, âbut thereâs a feeling r.
The Conflict of Causality
- Pointsman and Mexico debate the philosophical foundations of science, contrasting rigid cause-and-effect with more fluid, holistic interpretations.
- Pointsman defends Pavlovian determinism, arguing that the ultimate goal of science is a purely mechanical and physiological explanation of the psyche.
- Mexico suggests that the traditional concept of cause-and-effect may be a 'sterile' assumption that needs to be abandoned for the next scientific breakthrough.
- The tension between the two men escalates into a symbolic opposition, with Mexico viewing Pointsman as his 'Antimexico' or ideological inverse.
- Pointsman reveals his obsession with using Slothrop to prove a physiological basis for seemingly impossible behavior, such as predicting rocket strikes.
- The encounter concludes with a chilling, 'evil' smile from Pointsman that Roger Mexico perceives as a haunting omen of the man's true nature.
The next great breakthrough may come when we have the courage to junk cause-and-effect entirely, and strike off at some other angle.
102
Gravityâs RAINBOW
Ariadne! She seemed worth any price, the labyrinth look-
ing, in those days, too intricate for themâthe twilit pimps
who made the arrangement between a version of himself,
a crypto-Pointsman, and his fate... too varied, he thought
then, ever to find him in. But he knows now. Too far in,
preferring not to face it just yet, he knows that they only
wait, stone and sureâthese agents of the Syndicate she
must also payâwait in the central chamber, as he draws
closer.... They own everything: Ariadne, the Minotaur,
even, Pointsman fears, himself. He gets flashes of thenr
these days, naked, athletes poised and breathing about the
chamber, terrible penises up mineral as their eyes, which
glisten with frost or flakes of mica, but not with lust, or
for him. Itâs only a job they have....
âPierre Janetâsometimes the man talked like an Orien-
tal mystic. He had no real grasp of the opposites. âThe act
of injuring and the act of being injured are joined in the
behavior of the whole injury.â Speaker and spoken-of,
master and slave, virgin and seducer, each pair most con-
veniently coupled and inseparableâ The last refuge of the
incorrigible lazy, Mexico, is just sort of yang-yin rubbish.
One avoids all manner of unpleasant lab work that way,
but what has one said?â
âT donât want to get into a religious argument with you,â
absence of sleep has Mexico more cranky than usual, âbut
I wonder if you people arenât a bit tooâwell, strong, on
the virtues of analysis.
I mean, once you've taken it all
apart, fine, I'll be first to applaud your industry. But
other than a lot of bits and pieces lying about, what have
you said?â
It isnât the sort of argument Pointsman relishes either.
But he glances sharply at this young anarchist in his red
scarf. âPavlov believed that the ideal, the end we all
struggle toward in science, is the true mechanical explana-
tion. He was realistic enough not to expect it in his life-â
time. Or in several lifetimes more. But his hope was fora â
long chain of better and better approximations. His faith
ultimately lay in a pure physiological basis for the life of
the psyche. No effect without cause, and ;
clear train of â
linkag es.â
âIts not my forte, of course,â Mexico Riess: wishniga
not to offend the man, but really, âbut thereâs a feeling r.
Beyond the Zero
103
about that cause-and-effect may have been taken as far as
it will go. That for science to carry on at all, it must look
for a less narrow, a less... sterile set of assumptions. The
next great breakthrough may come when we have the
courage to junk cause-and-effect entirely, and strike off at
some other angle.â
âNoânot âstrike off.â Regress. Youâre 30 years old, man.
There are no âother angles.â There is only forwardâinto
itâor backward.â
Mexico watches the wind tugging at the skirts of Points-
manâs coat. A gull goes screaming away sidewise along
the frozen berm. The chalk cliffs rear up above, cold and
serene as death, Early barbarians of Europe who ventured
close enough to this coast saw these white barriers through
the mist, and knew then where their deed had been taken
to.
_
Pointsman has turned now, and... oh, God. He is smil-
ing. There is something so ancient in its assumption of
brotherhood thatânot now, but a few months from now,
with spring prevailing and the War in Europe endedâ
Roger will remember the smileâit will haunt himâas the
most evil look he has ever had from a human face.
They've paused in their walking. Roger stares back at the
man. The Antimexico. âIdeas of the oppositeâ themselves,
but on what cortex, what winter hemisphere? What ruinous
mosaic, facing outward into the Waste... outward from
the sheltering city...readable only to those who jour-
âney
outside...eyes
in the distance... barbarians...
riders. ...
Ee both have Slothrop,â is what Pointsman has just
said.
_
âPointsmanâwhat are you expecting out of this? Be-
sides glory, I mean.â
<
_ âNo more than Pavloy. A physiological basis for what
Seems very odd behavior. I donât care which of your
'P.R.S. categories it may fit intoâoddly enough none of
you's even suggested telepathy: perhaps heâs tuned in to
omeone over there, someone who knows the German firing
03
shedule ahead of time. Eh? And I donât care if itâs some
terrible Freudian revenge against his mother for trying to
astrate him or something. I am not grandiose, Mexico,
_
|am modest, methodicalââ
104
Gravityâs RAINBOW
âHumble.â
âT have set myself limitations in this. I have only the
reversal of rocket sounds to go on...
his clinical history
of sexual conditioning, perhaps to auditory stimuli, and
what appears to be a reversal of cause-and-effect. Iâm not
as ready as you to junk cause-and-effect, but if it does
need modifyingâso be it.â
âBut what are you after?â
âYou've seen his MMPI. His F Scale? Falsifications,
distorted thought processes. ... The scores show it clearly:
heâs psychopathically deviant, obsessive, a latent para-
noiacâwell, Pavlov believed that obsessions and paranoid
delusions were a result of certainâcall them cells, neurons,
on the mosaic of the brain, being excited to the level
where, through reciprocal induction, all the area around
becomes inhibited. One bright, burning point, surrounded
by darkness. Darkness it has, in a way, called up. Cut off,
this bright point, perhaps to the end of the patientâs life,
from all other ideas, sensations, self-criticisms that might
temper its flame, restore it to normalcy. He called it a
âpoint of pathological inertia.â We're working right now
with a dog... heâs been through the âequivalentâ phase,
where any stimulus; strong or weak, calls up exactly the
same number of saliva drops... and on through the âpara-
doxicalâ phaseâstrong stimuli getting weak responses and
vice versa. Yesterday we got him to go ultraparadoxical.
Beyond. When we turn on the metronome that used to
stand for foodâthat once made Dog Vanya drool like a
fountainânow he turns away. When we shut off the
metronome, oh then he'll turn to it, sniff, try to lick it,
bite itâseek, in the silence, for the stimulus that is not
there. Pavlov thought that all the diseases of the mind
could be explained, eventually, by the ultraparadoxical
phase, the pathologically inert points on the cortex, the
confusion of ideas of the opposite. He died at the very
threshold of putting these things on an experimental basis.
But I live. I have the funding, and the time, and the will.
Slothrop is a strong imperturbable. It won't be easy to
send him into any of the three phases. bats y finally have
to starve, terrorize, I donât know.
int come to
that, But I will find his spots of mers 1 will find what
â
they are if I have to open up his damned skull, and how
â e
| ee
The Point of Pathological Inertia
- Pointsman discusses the psychological profile of Slothrop, identifying him as a latent paranoiac with distorted thought processes.
- He invokes Pavlovian theory to explain mental illness as 'points of pathological inertia' where neurons become isolated and hyper-excited.
- The experimenter describes the 'ultraparadoxical phase' in dogs, where subjects seek stimuli in silence and reject them when present.
- Pointsman admits his obsession with Slothrop and his willingness to use starvation or physical trauma to uncover the secret of the rocket strikes.
- Roger Mexico feels a perverse temptation to help Pointsman, despite his own reliance on the cold logic of probability over the occult.
- The setting reflects a bleak, mathematical landscape of barbed wire and sea-grass, mirroring the clinical coldness of the psychological inquiry.
When we shut off the metronome, oh then he'll turn to it, sniff, try to lick it, bite itâseek, in the silence, for the stimulus that is not there.
104
Gravityâs RAINBOW
âHumble.â
âT have set myself limitations in this. I have only the
reversal of rocket sounds to go on...
his clinical history
of sexual conditioning, perhaps to auditory stimuli, and
what appears to be a reversal of cause-and-effect. Iâm not
as ready as you to junk cause-and-effect, but if it does
need modifyingâso be it.â
âBut what are you after?â
âYou've seen his MMPI. His F Scale? Falsifications,
distorted thought processes. ... The scores show it clearly:
heâs psychopathically deviant, obsessive, a latent para-
noiacâwell, Pavlov believed that obsessions and paranoid
delusions were a result of certainâcall them cells, neurons,
on the mosaic of the brain, being excited to the level
where, through reciprocal induction, all the area around
becomes inhibited. One bright, burning point, surrounded
by darkness. Darkness it has, in a way, called up. Cut off,
this bright point, perhaps to the end of the patientâs life,
from all other ideas, sensations, self-criticisms that might
temper its flame, restore it to normalcy. He called it a
âpoint of pathological inertia.â We're working right now
with a dog... heâs been through the âequivalentâ phase,
where any stimulus; strong or weak, calls up exactly the
same number of saliva drops... and on through the âpara-
doxicalâ phaseâstrong stimuli getting weak responses and
vice versa. Yesterday we got him to go ultraparadoxical.
Beyond. When we turn on the metronome that used to
stand for foodâthat once made Dog Vanya drool like a
fountainânow he turns away. When we shut off the
metronome, oh then he'll turn to it, sniff, try to lick it,
bite itâseek, in the silence, for the stimulus that is not
there. Pavlov thought that all the diseases of the mind
could be explained, eventually, by the ultraparadoxical
phase, the pathologically inert points on the cortex, the
confusion of ideas of the opposite. He died at the very
threshold of putting these things on an experimental basis.
But I live. I have the funding, and the time, and the will.
Slothrop is a strong imperturbable. It won't be easy to
send him into any of the three phases. bats y finally have
to starve, terrorize, I donât know.
int come to
that, But I will find his spots of mers 1 will find what
â
they are if I have to open up his damned skull, and how
â e
| ee
Beyond the Zero
105
they are isolated, and perhaps solve the mystery of why
the rockets are falling as they doâthough I admit that
was more of a sop to get your support.â
âWhy?â A bit uneasy, there, Mexico? âWhy do you need
me?â
âI donât know. But I do.â
âYou're obsessed.â
âMexico.â Standing very still, seaward half of his face
seeming to have aged fifty years in the instant, watching
the tide of three full times leave behind its sterile film of
ice. âHelp me.â
I can't help any one, Roger thinks. Why is he so
tempted? Itâs dangerous and perverse. He does want to
help, he feels the same unnatural fear of Slothrop that
Jessica does. What about the girls? It may be his loneliness
in Psi Section, in a persuasion he canât in his heart share,
nor. quite abandon... their faith, even smileless Gloam-
ingâs, that there must be more, beyond the senses, beyond
_ death, beyond the Probabilities that are all Roger has to
believe in.... Oh Jessie, his face against her bare, sleep-
ing, intricately boned and tendoned back, Iâm out of my
depth in this....
;
_ Halfway between the water and the coarse-sea-grass, a
long stretch of pipe and barbed wire. rings in the wind.
_
The black latticework is propped up by longer slant-
ing braces, lances pointing out to sea. An abandoned and
mathematical look: stripped to the force-vectors holding
it where it is, doubled up in places one row behind
_ another, moving as Pointsman and Mexico begin to move
_
again, backward in thick moiré, repeated uprights in
parallax against repeated diagonals, and the snarls of wire
below interfering more at random. Far away, where it
_ curves into the haze, the openwork wall goes gray. After
last nightâs snowfall, each line of the black scrawl was
_ etched in white. But today wind and sand have blown the
' dark iron bare again, salted, revealing, in places, brief
_ steaks of rust... in others, ice and sunlight turn the con-
_ Struction to electric-white lines of energy.
Farther up, past buried land mines and antitank posts of
_ corroding concrete, up in a pillbox covered with netting
and sod, halfway up the cliff, young Dr. Bleagh and his
_
ânurse Ivy are relaxing after a difficult lobotomy. His
Suspense in the Frozen Uplands
- Dr. Bleagh and Nurse Ivy engage in a flirtatious, crude respite within a derelict pillbox amidst the debris of war and nautical charts.
- A dignified Black man ice-skates on a pond, captivating local children while being observed by Grunton and Treacle as a prototype for Operation Black Wing.
- Pointsman and Roger trudge across a bleak, glazed beach, their figures eventually vanishing into the winter landscape and the historical record.
- The narrative shifts to a cinematic perspective, following a woman in a maisonette through a wide-angle lens as distant rocket explosions rattle the doors.
- Osbie Feel works mysteriously in the kitchen with a harvest of rooftop mushrooms, adding to the surreal and fragmented atmosphere of the wartime setting.
Their footprints behind them a long freezing progress of exhausted stars, the overcast reflecting from the glazed beach nearly white.
Beyond the Zero
105
they are isolated, and perhaps solve the mystery of why
the rockets are falling as they doâthough I admit that
was more of a sop to get your support.â
âWhy?â A bit uneasy, there, Mexico? âWhy do you need
me?â
âI donât know. But I do.â
âYou're obsessed.â
âMexico.â Standing very still, seaward half of his face
seeming to have aged fifty years in the instant, watching
the tide of three full times leave behind its sterile film of
ice. âHelp me.â
I can't help any one, Roger thinks. Why is he so
tempted? Itâs dangerous and perverse. He does want to
help, he feels the same unnatural fear of Slothrop that
Jessica does. What about the girls? It may be his loneliness
in Psi Section, in a persuasion he canât in his heart share,
nor. quite abandon... their faith, even smileless Gloam-
ingâs, that there must be more, beyond the senses, beyond
_ death, beyond the Probabilities that are all Roger has to
believe in.... Oh Jessie, his face against her bare, sleep-
ing, intricately boned and tendoned back, Iâm out of my
depth in this....
;
_ Halfway between the water and the coarse-sea-grass, a
long stretch of pipe and barbed wire. rings in the wind.
_
The black latticework is propped up by longer slant-
ing braces, lances pointing out to sea. An abandoned and
mathematical look: stripped to the force-vectors holding
it where it is, doubled up in places one row behind
_ another, moving as Pointsman and Mexico begin to move
_
again, backward in thick moiré, repeated uprights in
parallax against repeated diagonals, and the snarls of wire
below interfering more at random. Far away, where it
_ curves into the haze, the openwork wall goes gray. After
last nightâs snowfall, each line of the black scrawl was
_ etched in white. But today wind and sand have blown the
' dark iron bare again, salted, revealing, in places, brief
_ steaks of rust... in others, ice and sunlight turn the con-
_ Struction to electric-white lines of energy.
Farther up, past buried land mines and antitank posts of
_ corroding concrete, up in a pillbox covered with netting
and sod, halfway up the cliff, young Dr. Bleagh and his
_
ânurse Ivy are relaxing after a difficult lobotomy. His
106
Gravityâs RAINBow
scrubbed and routinized fingers dart in beneath her sus-
pender straps, pull outward, release in a sudden great
smack and ho-ho-ho from Bleagh as she jumps and laughs
too, trying not too hard to squirm away. They lie on a bed
of faded old nautical charts, maintenance manuals, burst
sandbags and spilled sand, bummed matchsticks and un-
raveled cork-tips from cigarettes long decomposed that
comforted through the nights of â41 and the sudden rush
of heart at any glimpse of a light at sea. âYou're mad,â she
whispers. âIâm randy,â he smiles, and snaps her garter
again, boy-and-slingshot.
In the uplands a line of cylindrical blocks to cripple
the âsilent King Tigers that now will never roll the land
chains away like so many white muffins across the dun
pasture, among the low patches of snow and the pale lime
outcrops. Out on a little pond the black man is down from
London, ice-skating, improbable as a Zouave, riding his
blades tall, dignified, as if born to them and ice not desert.
Small townschildren scatter before him, close enough to
have their cheeks stung by curved wakes of powdered ice
whenever he turns. Until he smile they dare not speak,
only follow, tag, flirt, wanting the smile, fearing it, want-
ing it.... He has a magic face, a face they know. From
the shore, Myron Grunton and Edwin Treacle, both chain-
smoking, brooding over Operation Black Wing and the
credibility of the Schwarzkommando, watch their magic
Negro, their prototype, neither caring to risk the ice, lop-
ing Fen or any style, in front of these children.
The winterâs in suspenseâall the sky a bleak, luminous
gel. Down on the beach, Pointsman fishes a roll of toilet
paper, each sheet stenciled Property or H.M. GovERN-
â
MENT, from a pocket to blow his nose. Roger now and
then pushes hair back under his cap. Neither speaks. So,
the two of them: trudging, hands in and out of pockets,
their figures dwindling, fawn and gray and a lick of
scarlet, very sharp-edged, their footprints behind them a
long freezing progress of exhausted stars, the overcast re-
flecting from the glazed beach nearly white.... We have
lost them. No one listened to those early
conversationsâ
not even an idle snapshot survives. They
walked till that
winter hid them and it seemed the cruel Channel itself
would freeze over, and no one, none of us, could ever com-
ms
eee i
Beyond the Zero
âTOF
pletely find them again. Their footprints filled with ice,
and a little later were taken out to sea.
âyi
âIn silence, hidden from her, the camera follows as she
moves deliberately nowhere longlegged about the rooms,
an adolescent wideness and hunching to the shoulders, her
hair not bluntly Dutch at all, but secured in a modish up-
sweep with an old, tarnished silver crown, yesterdayâs new
perm leaving her very blonde hair frozen on top in a
hundred vortices, shining through the dark filigree. Widest
lens-opening this afternoon, extra tungsten light laid on,
this rainiest day in recent memory, rocket explosions far
away to south and east now and then visiting the maison-
, ette, rattling not the streaming windows but only the
doors, in slow three- and fourfold shudderings, like poor
âspirits, desperate for company, asking to be let in, only a
moment, a touch.
~
Sheâs alone in the house, except for the secret camera-
man and Osbie Feel, whoâs out in the kitchen, doing some-
thing mysterious with a harvest of mushrooms from up on
the roof. They have shiny red-orange cups with raised
patches of whitish-gray veil. Now and then the geometry
of her restlessness brings her to glace in a doorway at his
boyish fussing with the Amanita muscaria (for it is this
âpeculiar relative of the poisonous Destroying Angel that
claims Osbieâs attention, or what passes with him for at-
âtention)âflash him a smile she means to be friendly but
which to Osbie seems
terribly worldly, sophisticated,
wicked. She being the first Dutch girl heâs ever spoken to,
heâs surprised at finding high heels instead of wooden
âshoes, struck in fact a bit witless by her so groomed and
(he imagines) Continental style, the intellect behind the
fair-lashed eyes or dark glasses she affects out on the
street, behind the traces of baby fat, the dimples counter-
sunk each side of her mouth, (In closeup her skin, though
nearly perfect, is seen to be lightly powdered and: rouged,
the eyelashes a touch darkened, brows reshaped a matter
âof two or three empty follicles. .
What can young Osbie possibly have in mind? He is
The Alchemy of Katje and Osbie
- Osbie Feel meticulously processes Amanita muscaria mushrooms into a smokable powder, a ritualistic and chemical transformation.
- Katje, a Dutch woman of sophisticated and 'Continental' style, observes Osbie with a worldly detachment that intimidates him.
- The narrative adopts a cinematic lens, describing Katje's movements and appearance as if they were being captured on celluloid.
- A moment of profound stillness occurs when Osbie opens the oven, freezing Katje in a state of pensive, symbolic immobility.
- The external environment of London is depicted as a 'knotted victim' of rain and rocket blasts, mirroring the internal tension of the characters.
- The scene highlights the artifice of Katjeâs beautyâher makeup, her Harvey Nichols frock, and her poiseâagainst the 'desolate' and 'corrosive' winter day.
Outside, the long rain in silicon and freezing descent smacks, desolate, slowly corrosive against the mediaeval windows, curtaining like smoke the river's far shore.
Beyond the Zero
âTOF
pletely find them again. Their footprints filled with ice,
and a little later were taken out to sea.
âyi
âIn silence, hidden from her, the camera follows as she
moves deliberately nowhere longlegged about the rooms,
an adolescent wideness and hunching to the shoulders, her
hair not bluntly Dutch at all, but secured in a modish up-
sweep with an old, tarnished silver crown, yesterdayâs new
perm leaving her very blonde hair frozen on top in a
hundred vortices, shining through the dark filigree. Widest
lens-opening this afternoon, extra tungsten light laid on,
this rainiest day in recent memory, rocket explosions far
away to south and east now and then visiting the maison-
, ette, rattling not the streaming windows but only the
doors, in slow three- and fourfold shudderings, like poor
âspirits, desperate for company, asking to be let in, only a
moment, a touch.
~
Sheâs alone in the house, except for the secret camera-
man and Osbie Feel, whoâs out in the kitchen, doing some-
thing mysterious with a harvest of mushrooms from up on
the roof. They have shiny red-orange cups with raised
patches of whitish-gray veil. Now and then the geometry
of her restlessness brings her to glace in a doorway at his
boyish fussing with the Amanita muscaria (for it is this
âpeculiar relative of the poisonous Destroying Angel that
claims Osbieâs attention, or what passes with him for at-
âtention)âflash him a smile she means to be friendly but
which to Osbie seems
terribly worldly, sophisticated,
wicked. She being the first Dutch girl heâs ever spoken to,
heâs surprised at finding high heels instead of wooden
âshoes, struck in fact a bit witless by her so groomed and
(he imagines) Continental style, the intellect behind the
fair-lashed eyes or dark glasses she affects out on the
street, behind the traces of baby fat, the dimples counter-
sunk each side of her mouth, (In closeup her skin, though
nearly perfect, is seen to be lightly powdered and: rouged,
the eyelashes a touch darkened, brows reshaped a matter
âof two or three empty follicles. .
What can young Osbie possibly have in mind? He is
108
Gravity's RaInsow
carefully scraping out the inside of each persimmon-colored
mushroom cup and shredding the rest. Dispossessed elves
run around up on the roof, gibbering. He now has a grow-
ing heap of orange-gray fungus, which he proceeds to add
in fistfuls to a pot of steaming water. A previous batch
also simmers atop the stove, reduced to a thick gruel
covered with yellow scum, which Osbie now removes and
purees further in Pirateâs blending machine. Then he
spreads the fungoid mush over a tin cookie sheet. He opens
the oven, removes with asbestos potholders another sheet
covered with dark caked dust, and replaces it with the
one he has just prepared. With a mortar and pestle he
pulverizes the substance and dumps it into an old Huntley
& Palmers biscuit tin, reserving only enough to roll deftly
up in a Rizla liquorice cigarette paper, light, and inhale
the smoke of.
But she happens toâve glanced in just at the instant
Osbie opened the echoing oven. The camera records no
change in her face, but why does she stand now so im-
mobile at the door? as if the frame were to be stopped and
prolonged into just such a lengthwise moment of gold fresh
and tarnished, innocence microscopically masked, her el-
bow slightly bent, hand resting against the wall, fingers
fanned on the pale orange paper as if she touches her own
skin, a pensive touch. ... Outside, the long rain in silicon
and freezing descent smacks, desolate, slowly corrosive
against the mediaeval windows, curtaining like smoke the
river's far shore. This city, in all its bomb-pierced miles:
this inexhaustibly knotted victim...skin
of glistening
roofslates, sotted brick flooded high about each window
dark or lit, each of a million openings vulnerable to the
gloom of this winter day. The rain washes, drenches, fills
the gutters singing, the city receives it, lifting, in a per-
petual shrug... . With a squeak and metal slam the oven
is closed again, but for Katje it will never close. She has
posed before the mirrors too often today, knows her hair
and make-up are perfect, admires the frock they have
brought her from Harvey Nicholls, a sheer crepe that flows
in from padded shoulders down to a deep
point between
her breasts, a rich cocoa shade known as \âniggerâ in this
country, yards and yards of this delicious silk spun and.
thrown, tied loosely at the waist, soft pleats falling to her
tae
Pe
Beyond the Zero
109
knees. The cameraman is pleased at the unexpected effect
âof so much flowing crepe, particularly when Katje passes
âbefore
a window
and the rainlight coming through
changes it for a few brief unshutterings to murky glass,
ccharcoal-saturated, antique and weather-wom, frock, face,
hair, hands, slender calves all gone to glass and glazing,
for the celluloid instant poisedâthe translucent guardian
âof a rainfall shaken through all day by rocket blasts near
-and far, downward, dark and ruinous behind her the
âground which, for the framesâ passage, defines her.
~
» At the images she sees in the mirror Katje also feels a
cameramanâs pleasure, but knows what he cannot: that in-
side herself, enclosed in the soignée surface of dear fabric
and dead cells, she is corruption and ashes, she belongs in
a way none of them can guess cruelly to the Oven...
to
Der Kinderofen ... remembering now his teeth, long, ter-
tible, veined with bright brown rot as he speaks these
words, the yellow teeth of Captain Blicero, the network of
stained cracks, and back in his nightbreath, in the dark
oven of himself, always the coiled whispers of decay....
She recalls his teeth before any other feature, teeth were
to benefit most directly from the Oven: from what is
planned for her, and for Gottfried. He never uttered it
clearly as threat, nor ever addressed to either of them di-
rectly, but rather across her trained satin thighs to the eve-
ningâs guests, or down the length of Gottfriedâs docile spine
(âthe Rome-Berlin Axisâ he called it the night the Italian
âcame and they were all on the round bed, Captain Blicero
\plugged into Gottfriedâs upended asshole and the Italian
at the same time into his pretty mouth) Katje only passive,
bound and gagged and false-eyelashed, serving tonight as
human pillow for the Italianâs whitening perfumed curls
(roses and fat just at the edge of turning rancid) ... each
utterance a closed flower, capable of exfoliation and in-
finite revealing (she thinks of a mathematical function
t will expand for her bloom-like into a power series with
no general term, endlessly, darkly, though never completely
by surprise)
...his phrase Padre Ignacio unfolding into
Spanish inquisitor, black robes, brown arching nose, the
âsuffocating smell of incense + confessor/executioner +
Katje and Gottfried both kneeling, side by side in dark
confessional + children out of old Marchen kneeling, knees
is
The Corruption of the Oven
- Katje perceives a profound internal decay and a sense of belonging to 'the Oven' despite her polished exterior.
- Captain Blicero exerts sadistic control over Katje and Gottfried through elaborate, ritualized sexual degradation.
- The narrative explores the 'Der Kinderofen' motif, linking the characters to dark fairy tales and the threat of total consumption.
- Blicero utilizes synthetic materials and fetishistic costumes, such as a rubberized 'false cunt' with steel blades, to inflict physical and psychological pain.
- Katje recognizes a haunting mirror image of herself in Gottfried, seeing her own mannequin-like stare in his submissive suffering.
- The setting near the V-2 firing sites serves as a backdrop for these power dynamics, blending military authority with occult-like depravity.
Inside herself, enclosed in the soignée surface of dear fabric and dead cells, she is corruption and ashes, she belongs in a way none of them can guess cruelly to the Oven...
tae
Pe
Beyond the Zero
109
knees. The cameraman is pleased at the unexpected effect
âof so much flowing crepe, particularly when Katje passes
âbefore
a window
and the rainlight coming through
changes it for a few brief unshutterings to murky glass,
ccharcoal-saturated, antique and weather-wom, frock, face,
hair, hands, slender calves all gone to glass and glazing,
for the celluloid instant poisedâthe translucent guardian
âof a rainfall shaken through all day by rocket blasts near
-and far, downward, dark and ruinous behind her the
âground which, for the framesâ passage, defines her.
~
» At the images she sees in the mirror Katje also feels a
cameramanâs pleasure, but knows what he cannot: that in-
side herself, enclosed in the soignée surface of dear fabric
and dead cells, she is corruption and ashes, she belongs in
a way none of them can guess cruelly to the Oven...
to
Der Kinderofen ... remembering now his teeth, long, ter-
tible, veined with bright brown rot as he speaks these
words, the yellow teeth of Captain Blicero, the network of
stained cracks, and back in his nightbreath, in the dark
oven of himself, always the coiled whispers of decay....
She recalls his teeth before any other feature, teeth were
to benefit most directly from the Oven: from what is
planned for her, and for Gottfried. He never uttered it
clearly as threat, nor ever addressed to either of them di-
rectly, but rather across her trained satin thighs to the eve-
ningâs guests, or down the length of Gottfriedâs docile spine
(âthe Rome-Berlin Axisâ he called it the night the Italian
âcame and they were all on the round bed, Captain Blicero
\plugged into Gottfriedâs upended asshole and the Italian
at the same time into his pretty mouth) Katje only passive,
bound and gagged and false-eyelashed, serving tonight as
human pillow for the Italianâs whitening perfumed curls
(roses and fat just at the edge of turning rancid) ... each
utterance a closed flower, capable of exfoliation and in-
finite revealing (she thinks of a mathematical function
t will expand for her bloom-like into a power series with
no general term, endlessly, darkly, though never completely
by surprise)
...his phrase Padre Ignacio unfolding into
Spanish inquisitor, black robes, brown arching nose, the
âsuffocating smell of incense + confessor/executioner +
Katje and Gottfried both kneeling, side by side in dark
confessional + children out of old Marchen kneeling, knees
is
110
Gravity's Rainsow
cold and aching, before the Oven, whispering to it secrets
they can
tell no one else + Captain Bliceroâs witch-
paranoia, suspecting them both, Katje despite her NSB
credentials
+ the Oven
as listener/avenger + Katije
kneeling before Blicero in highest drag, black velvet and
Cuban heels, his penis squashed inyisible under a flesh-
colored leather jockstrap, over which he wears a false
cunt and merkin of sable both handcrafted in Berlin by
the notorious Mme. Ophir, the mock labia and bright pur-
ple clitoris molded ofâMadame had been abject, pleading
shortagesâsynthetic rubber and Mipolam, the new poly-
vinyl chloride... tiny blades of stainless steel bristle from
lifelike pink humidity, hundreds of them, against which
Katje, kneeling, is obliged to cut her lips and tongue, and
then kiss blood-abstracts across the golden ungessoed back
of her âbrotherâ Gottfried. Brother in play, in slavery...
she had never seen him before coming to the requisi-
tioned house near the firing sites, hidden in the woods and
parkland of this settled tongue of small farms and estates
that reaches eastward from the royal city, between two
expanses of polder, toward Wassenaarâyet his face, for
that first time, seen in autumn sunlight through the great
west window of the drawing-room, kneeling naked except
for a studded dog collar, masturbating metronomic, at
shouted commands from Captain Blicero, all his fair skin
stained by afternoon a luminous synthetic orange she has
never before associated with skin, his penis a blood mono-
lith, its thickly gasping mouth audible in the carpeted
silence, his face raised to none of them, but as if to some-
thing on the ceiling, or in the sky which ceilings may in
his vision stand_for, eyes-down as he seems most of the
time to beâhis face, ascending, tightening, coming, is so
close to what sheâs been seeing all her life in mirrors, her
own studied mannequinâs stare, that she catches her breath,
feels for a moment the speeded percussion of her heart,
before just such a stare toward Blicero, He is delighted,
âPerhaps,â he tells her, âI will cut your hair.â He smiles at
Gottfried. âPerhaps I'll have him grow his.â The humilia-
tion would be good for the boy each morning at quarters,
ranked with his battery near SchuBstelle!3, where horses
thundered once before the frantic, the losing railbirds of
the old peaceâfailing inspections time after time yet pro-
The Rituals of the Oven
- Captain Blicero maintains a sadistic and ritualized domestic life with Katje and Gottfried, involving cross-dressing and psychological humiliation.
- The trio adopts the 'Hansel and Gretel' fairy tale as a formal, rationalized structure to cope with the chaotic violence of the war outside.
- The constant threat of malfunctioning V-2 rockets creates a nihilistic atmosphere where the launch site is as much a target as the destination.
- Katje views their 'game' as a necessary shelter against the absolute rule of chance and the 'incurable' madness of the falling rockets.
- The power dynamic is complicated by the possibility that Katje is a double agent providing intelligence to the British or the Dutch underground.
Often the rockets, crazed, turn at random, whinnying terribly in the sky, turn about and fall according each to its madness so unreachable and, it is feared, incurable.
110
Gravity's Rainsow
cold and aching, before the Oven, whispering to it secrets
they can
tell no one else + Captain Bliceroâs witch-
paranoia, suspecting them both, Katje despite her NSB
credentials
+ the Oven
as listener/avenger + Katije
kneeling before Blicero in highest drag, black velvet and
Cuban heels, his penis squashed inyisible under a flesh-
colored leather jockstrap, over which he wears a false
cunt and merkin of sable both handcrafted in Berlin by
the notorious Mme. Ophir, the mock labia and bright pur-
ple clitoris molded ofâMadame had been abject, pleading
shortagesâsynthetic rubber and Mipolam, the new poly-
vinyl chloride... tiny blades of stainless steel bristle from
lifelike pink humidity, hundreds of them, against which
Katje, kneeling, is obliged to cut her lips and tongue, and
then kiss blood-abstracts across the golden ungessoed back
of her âbrotherâ Gottfried. Brother in play, in slavery...
she had never seen him before coming to the requisi-
tioned house near the firing sites, hidden in the woods and
parkland of this settled tongue of small farms and estates
that reaches eastward from the royal city, between two
expanses of polder, toward Wassenaarâyet his face, for
that first time, seen in autumn sunlight through the great
west window of the drawing-room, kneeling naked except
for a studded dog collar, masturbating metronomic, at
shouted commands from Captain Blicero, all his fair skin
stained by afternoon a luminous synthetic orange she has
never before associated with skin, his penis a blood mono-
lith, its thickly gasping mouth audible in the carpeted
silence, his face raised to none of them, but as if to some-
thing on the ceiling, or in the sky which ceilings may in
his vision stand_for, eyes-down as he seems most of the
time to beâhis face, ascending, tightening, coming, is so
close to what sheâs been seeing all her life in mirrors, her
own studied mannequinâs stare, that she catches her breath,
feels for a moment the speeded percussion of her heart,
before just such a stare toward Blicero, He is delighted,
âPerhaps,â he tells her, âI will cut your hair.â He smiles at
Gottfried. âPerhaps I'll have him grow his.â The humilia-
tion would be good for the boy each morning at quarters,
ranked with his battery near SchuBstelle!3, where horses
thundered once before the frantic, the losing railbirds of
the old peaceâfailing inspections time after time yet pro-
Beyond the Zero
111
tected by his Captain from Army discipline. Instead, be-
tween firings, day or night, short of sleep, odd hours,
suffering the Captainâs own âHexesziichtigung.â But did
Blicero also cut her hair? She canât remember now. She
knows she wore Gottfriedâs uniforms once or twice (push-
âing her hair, yes, up under his forage cap), looking easily
his double, spending these nights âin the cage,â as Blicero
âhas set the rules, while Gottfried must wear her silk stock-
ings, her lace apron and cap, all her satin and her rib-
boned organdy. But afterward he must always go back
again to the cage, Thatâs how it is. Their Captain allows
no doubt as to which, brother or sister, really is maid-
servant, and which fattening goose.
How seriously is she playing? In a conquered country,
oneâs own occupied country, itâs better, she believes, to
enter into-some formal, rationalized version of what, out-
side, proceeds without form or decent limit day and night,
âthe summary executions, the roustings, beatings, subter-
fuge, paranoia, shame...though
it is never discussed
among them openly, it would seem Katje, Gottfried, and
Captain Blicero have agreed that this Northern and an-
cient form, one they all know and are comfortable withâ
the strayed children, the wood-life in the edible house,
the captivity, the fattening, the Ovenâshall be their pre-
serving routine, their shelter, against what outside none of
them can bearâthe War, the absolute rule of chance,
their own pitiable contingency here, in its midst. .
It isnât safe, even inside, in the house . Thearly every
\day a rocket misfires, Late in October, not far from this
estate, one fell back and exploded, killing 12 of the
ground crew, breaking windows for hundreds of meters all
around, including the west window of the drawing-room
where Katje first saw her golden game-brother. The official
tumor stated that only fuel and oxidizer had gone off. But
Captain Blicero, with a tremblingâshe must say nihilis-
ticâpleasure, said that the Amatol charge in the warhead
had also exploded, making them as much target as launch
âsite.... That they were all condemned. The house lies
west of the Duindigt racecourse, quite the other direction
âfrom London, but no bearing is exemptâoften the rockets,
crazed, turn at random, whinnying terribly in the sky, turn
about and fall according each to its madness so unreach-
me:
-
oe
..
112
Gravityâs Rainsow
able and, it is feared, incurable, When thereâs time to,
their owners destroy them, by radio, in mid-convulsion,
Between rocket launches there are the English raids, Spit-
fires come roaring in low over the dark sea at suppertime,
the searchlights in the city staggering on, the after-hum of
sirens hangs in the sky high above the wet iron seats in the
parks, the AA guns chug, searching, and the bombs fall in
woodland, in polder, among flats thought to be billeting
rocket troops.
It adds an overtone to the game, which changes the
timbre slightly. It is she who, at some indefinite future
moment, must push the Witch into the Oven intended for
Gottfried. So the Captain must allow for the real chance
sheâs a British spy, or member of the Dutch underground.
Despite all German efforts, intelligence inputs still flow
from Holland back to RAF Bomber Command.
in a steady
torrent, telling of deployments, supply routes, of which
dark-green crumble of trees may hide an A4 emplace-
mentâdata changing hour-to-hour, so mobile are the
rockets and their support equipment. But the Spitfires will
settle for a power station, a liquid-oxygen supply, a bat-
tery commanderâs billet... thatâs the intriguing question.
Will Katje feel her obligation canceled
by someday calling
down English fighter-bombers on this very house, her
gameâs prison, though it mean death? Captain Blicero
canât be sure. Up to a point he finds the agony delightful.
Certainly her record with Mussertâs people is faultless, sheâs
credited with smelling out at least three crypto-Jewish
families, she attends meetings faithfully, she works at a
Luftwaffe resort near Scheveningen, where her superiors
find her efficient and cheerful, no shirker. Nor, like so
many of them, using party fanaticism to cover a lack of
ability. Perhaps thereâs the only shadow of warning: her
commitment is not emotional. She appears to have reasons
for being in the Party. A woman with some background in
mathematics, and with reasons,... âWant the Change,â
Rilke said, âO be inspired by the Flamelâ To laurel, to
nightingale, to wind... wanting it, to he taken, to em-
brace, to fall toward the flame growing
to fill all the
senses and.,.not to love because it
no longer pos-
Bile to act... but to be helplessly in a condition of
OVE. +4.
lish
q
Blicero's Solitary Ascent
- Captain Blicero contemplates Katjeâs loyalty, wondering if she would betray their 'charmed house' to English fighter-bombers despite her faultless record with the Party.
- Blicero observes that Katjeâs commitment to the Reich is intellectual and mathematical rather than emotional, suggesting she fears the transformative 'Change' described by Rilke.
- The narrative explores the performative nature of their sexual dynamics, describing Katjeâs participation as 'playing at playing' rather than a true submission to the flame.
- Amidst the collapse of the Reich, Blicero clings to the physical reality of leather, whips, and flesh as the only certainties in a world of failing orders.
- Blicero identifies with the 'newly-dead youth' of Rilkeâs Tenth Elegy, viewing his life as a twenty-year solitary climb into the 'mountains of primal Pain.'
- The passage highlights Blicero's profound isolation, revealing that despite his proximity to others, he remains 'terminally alone' within his own hunger and destiny.
Itâs he, Blicero, who climbs the mountain, has been so climbing for nearly 20 years, since long before he embraced the Reichâs flame, since SĂŒdwest ... alone.
112
Gravityâs Rainsow
able and, it is feared, incurable, When thereâs time to,
their owners destroy them, by radio, in mid-convulsion,
Between rocket launches there are the English raids, Spit-
fires come roaring in low over the dark sea at suppertime,
the searchlights in the city staggering on, the after-hum of
sirens hangs in the sky high above the wet iron seats in the
parks, the AA guns chug, searching, and the bombs fall in
woodland, in polder, among flats thought to be billeting
rocket troops.
It adds an overtone to the game, which changes the
timbre slightly. It is she who, at some indefinite future
moment, must push the Witch into the Oven intended for
Gottfried. So the Captain must allow for the real chance
sheâs a British spy, or member of the Dutch underground.
Despite all German efforts, intelligence inputs still flow
from Holland back to RAF Bomber Command.
in a steady
torrent, telling of deployments, supply routes, of which
dark-green crumble of trees may hide an A4 emplace-
mentâdata changing hour-to-hour, so mobile are the
rockets and their support equipment. But the Spitfires will
settle for a power station, a liquid-oxygen supply, a bat-
tery commanderâs billet... thatâs the intriguing question.
Will Katje feel her obligation canceled
by someday calling
down English fighter-bombers on this very house, her
gameâs prison, though it mean death? Captain Blicero
canât be sure. Up to a point he finds the agony delightful.
Certainly her record with Mussertâs people is faultless, sheâs
credited with smelling out at least three crypto-Jewish
families, she attends meetings faithfully, she works at a
Luftwaffe resort near Scheveningen, where her superiors
find her efficient and cheerful, no shirker. Nor, like so
many of them, using party fanaticism to cover a lack of
ability. Perhaps thereâs the only shadow of warning: her
commitment is not emotional. She appears to have reasons
for being in the Party. A woman with some background in
mathematics, and with reasons,... âWant the Change,â
Rilke said, âO be inspired by the Flamelâ To laurel, to
nightingale, to wind... wanting it, to he taken, to em-
brace, to fall toward the flame growing
to fill all the
senses and.,.not to love because it
no longer pos-
Bile to act... but to be helplessly in a condition of
OVE. +4.
lish
q
Beyond the Zero
113
But not Katje: no mothlike plunge. He must conclude
that secretly she fears the Change, choosing instead only
trivially to revise what matters least, ornament and cloth-
ing, going no further than politic transvestism, not only in
Gottfriedâs clothing, but even in traditional masochist uni-
form, the French-maid outfit so inappropriate to her tall,
longlegged stride, her blondeness, her questing shoulders
like wingsâshe plays at this only... plays at playing.
_
He can do nothing. Among dying Reich, orders lapsing
to paper impotence he needs her so, needs Gottfried, the
straps and whips leathern, real in his hands which still
feel, her cries, the red welts across the boyâs buttocks, their
mouths, his penis, fingers and toesâin all the winter these
are sure, can be depended onâhe can give you no reason
but in his heart he trusts, perhaps only, by now, in the
form, this out of all Marchen und Sagen, trusts that this
charmed house in the forest will be preserved, that no
bombs could ever fall here by accident, only betrayal, only
if Katje really were a spotter for the English and bade
themâand he knows she cannot: that through some magic,
below the bone resonance of any words, a British raid is
the one prohibited. shape of all possible pushes from be-
hind, into the Ovenâs iron and final summer. It will come,
it will, his Destiny ... not that wayâbut it will come....
Und nicht einmal sein Schritt klingt aus dem tonlosen
Los. ... Of all Rilkeâs poetry itâs this Tenth Elegy he most
loves, can feel the bitter lager of Yearning begin to prickle
behind eyes and sinuses at remembering any passage of
:..the newly-dead youth, embracing his Lament, his last
, leaving now even her marginally human touch for-
ever, climbing all alone, terminally alone, up and up into
the mountains of primal Pain, with the wildly alien con-
Stellations overhead.... And not once does his step ring
from the soundless Destiny. . . . Itâs he, Blicero, who climbs
the mountain, has been so climbing for nearly 20 years,
Since long before he embraced the Reichâs flame, since
Siidwest ... alone. No matter what flesh was there to ap-
pease the Witch, cannibal, and sorcerer, flourishing im-
plements of painâalone, alone. He doesnât even know the
Witch, canât understand the hunger that defines him/her,
is only, in times of weakness,. bewildered that it should
coexist in the same body as himself. An athlete and his
SS,
qt: ,
114
Gravity's Rainsow
skill, separate awarenesses....
Young Rauhandel at least
had said so... how many years back into the peace.
Blicero had watched his young friend (even then alneady
so blatantly, so pathetically doomed to some form of East-
ern Front) inside a bar, out in the street, wearing what-
ever tight or awkward suit, whatever fragile shoes, react
in all grace to the football which jokers would recognizing
him toss out of nowhereâthe deathless performances! that
one impromptu boot so impossibly high, so perfectly para-
bolic, the ball soaring miles to pass exactly between the
two tall, phallic electric columms of the Ufa-theatre on the
Friedrichstrasse ... the head-control he could keep up for
city blocks, for hours, the feet articulate as poetry. ... Yet
he could only shake his head, wanting to be a good fellow
when they asked, but unable really to sayââItâs...
it
happens... the muscles do itââ then recalling an old
trainerâs wordsââitâs muscular,â smiling beautifully and
already, by the act, conscripted, already cannon fodder,
the pale bar-light across the grating of his close-shaved
skullââitâs reflexes, you see.... Not me.... Just the re-
flexes.â When did it begin to change for Blicero, among
those days, from lust to simple sorrow, dumb as Rauhan-
delâs amazement with his own talent? He
seen so many
of these Rauhandels, especially since â39, harboring the
same mysterious guests, strangers, often no more bizarre
than a gift for being always where shells were not.
..do
any of them, this raw material, âwant the Changeâ? Do
they even know? He doubts it.... Their reflexes are only
being used, hundreds of thousands at a time, by othersâ
by royal moths the Flame has inspired. Blicero has lost,
years ago, all his innocence on this question. So his Des-
tiny is the Oven: while the strayed children, who never
knew, who change nothing but uniforms and cards of
identity, will survive and prosper long beyond his gases
and cinders, his chimney departure, So, so, A Wandervogel
in the mountains of Pain. Itâs been going on for much too
long, he has chosen the game for nothing if not the kind
of end. it will bring him, nicht wahr? too old these days,
.grippes taking longer to pass, stomach
too often in day-
long agony, eyes measurably blinder with
each examina=
tion, too ârealisticâ to prefer a heroâs death or even @
soldier's. He only wants now âto be out of theâ winter, in-
3
|
The Oven and the Reflexes
- Blicero reflects on the physical grace of young soldiers like Rauhandel, whose athletic talents are merely reflexes being exploited by the state.
- The narrative contrasts the 'raw material' of the youth, who survive through luck and lack of awareness, with Bliceroâs own self-conscious path toward destruction.
- Blicero identifies his destiny with 'the Oven,' seeking a final, dark shelter that transcends the 'foreplay' of war and physical decay.
- The text explores the paradox of the 'Little State,' an entity built upon the very mechanism (the Oven) that is destined to destroy it.
- Bliceroâs time in Southwest Africa and his relationship with a Herero boy are cited as the origins of his understanding of gods as both organizers and destroyers.
- The 'Change' sought by the youth is viewed by Blicero as a naive yearning for freedom, which he finds both haunting and perverse compared to his own desire for the end.
He only wants now âto be out of theâ winter, inside the Ovenâs warmth, darkness, steel shelter, the door behind him in a narrowing rectangle of kitchen-light gonging shut, forever.
114
Gravity's Rainsow
skill, separate awarenesses....
Young Rauhandel at least
had said so... how many years back into the peace.
Blicero had watched his young friend (even then alneady
so blatantly, so pathetically doomed to some form of East-
ern Front) inside a bar, out in the street, wearing what-
ever tight or awkward suit, whatever fragile shoes, react
in all grace to the football which jokers would recognizing
him toss out of nowhereâthe deathless performances! that
one impromptu boot so impossibly high, so perfectly para-
bolic, the ball soaring miles to pass exactly between the
two tall, phallic electric columms of the Ufa-theatre on the
Friedrichstrasse ... the head-control he could keep up for
city blocks, for hours, the feet articulate as poetry. ... Yet
he could only shake his head, wanting to be a good fellow
when they asked, but unable really to sayââItâs...
it
happens... the muscles do itââ then recalling an old
trainerâs wordsââitâs muscular,â smiling beautifully and
already, by the act, conscripted, already cannon fodder,
the pale bar-light across the grating of his close-shaved
skullââitâs reflexes, you see.... Not me.... Just the re-
flexes.â When did it begin to change for Blicero, among
those days, from lust to simple sorrow, dumb as Rauhan-
delâs amazement with his own talent? He
seen so many
of these Rauhandels, especially since â39, harboring the
same mysterious guests, strangers, often no more bizarre
than a gift for being always where shells were not.
..do
any of them, this raw material, âwant the Changeâ? Do
they even know? He doubts it.... Their reflexes are only
being used, hundreds of thousands at a time, by othersâ
by royal moths the Flame has inspired. Blicero has lost,
years ago, all his innocence on this question. So his Des-
tiny is the Oven: while the strayed children, who never
knew, who change nothing but uniforms and cards of
identity, will survive and prosper long beyond his gases
and cinders, his chimney departure, So, so, A Wandervogel
in the mountains of Pain. Itâs been going on for much too
long, he has chosen the game for nothing if not the kind
of end. it will bring him, nicht wahr? too old these days,
.grippes taking longer to pass, stomach
too often in day-
long agony, eyes measurably blinder with
each examina=
tion, too ârealisticâ to prefer a heroâs death or even @
soldier's. He only wants now âto be out of theâ winter, in-
3
|
Beyond the Zero
115
side the Ovenâs warmth, darkness, steel shelter, the door
behind him in a narrowing rectangle of kitchen-light gong-
ing shut, forever. The rest is foreplay.
Yet he cares, more than he should and puzzled that he
does, about the childrenâabout their motives. He gathers
it is their freedom they look for, yearningly as he for the
Oven, and such perversity haunts and depresses him.
_ he returns again and again to the waste and senseless
image of what was a house in the forest, reduced now to
crumbs and sugar-smears, the black indomitable Oven all
that remains, and the two children, the peak of sweet
energy behind them, hunger beginning again, wandering
away into a green blankness of trees.... Where will they
go, where shelter the nights? The improvidence of chil-
dren...and the civil paradox of this their Little State,
whose base is the same Oven which must destroy it....
But every true god must be. both organizer and de-
stroyer. Brought up into a Christian ambience, this was
difficult for him to see until his journey to Siidwest: until
his own African conquest. Among the abrading fires of the
Kalahari, under the broadly-sheeted coastal sky, fire and
water, he learned. The Herero boy, long tormented by
missionaries into a fear of Christian sins, jackal-ghosts,
potent European strand-wolves, pursuing him, seeking to
feed on his soul, the precious worm that lived along his
backbone, now tried to cage his old gods, snare them in|
words, give them away, savage, paralyzed, to this scholarly
white who seemed so in love with language. Carrying in
his kit a copy of the Duino Elegies, just off the presses
when he embarked for Siidwest, a gift from Mother at the
_ boat, the odor of new ink dizzying his nights as the old
_
freighter plunged tropic after tropic... until the constella-
_ tions, like the new stars of Pain-land, had become all un-
_ familiar and the earthâs seasons reversed... and he came
_ ashore in a high-powered wooden boat that had 20 years
earlier brought blue-trousered troops in from the iron
_ toadstead to crush the great Herero Rising. To find, back
* in the hinterland, up in an outstretch of broken mountains
iS between the Namib and the Kalahari, his own faithful
. native, his night-flower.
An impassable waste of rock blasted at by the sun...
es of canyons twisting nowhere, drifted at the bottoms
Blasphemy and the Rocket
- Captain Blicero reflects on his past in Southwest Africa, where he carried Rilke's poetry into a landscape of colonial violence and desert wastes.
- A sexual encounter with a Herero boy reveals a profound cultural divide: the German fears blasphemy against God, while the boy views the act as a divine union of opposites.
- The narrative shifts to the present in the Harz mountains, where Blicero sits alone in a launch-control car preparing a rocket for its ascent.
- The rocket is positioned on a concrete plate triangulated by trees marked with ancient sun-wheels and the Latin phrase 'In Hoc Signo Vinces'.
- Blicero experiences a sense of malaise and impending finality as the liquid-oxygen tank is topped off for the strike against London.
The peril of buggering the boy under the resonance of the sacred Name fills him insanely with lust, lust in the faceâthe maskâof instant talion from outside the fire.
Beyond the Zero
115
side the Ovenâs warmth, darkness, steel shelter, the door
behind him in a narrowing rectangle of kitchen-light gong-
ing shut, forever. The rest is foreplay.
Yet he cares, more than he should and puzzled that he
does, about the childrenâabout their motives. He gathers
it is their freedom they look for, yearningly as he for the
Oven, and such perversity haunts and depresses him.
_ he returns again and again to the waste and senseless
image of what was a house in the forest, reduced now to
crumbs and sugar-smears, the black indomitable Oven all
that remains, and the two children, the peak of sweet
energy behind them, hunger beginning again, wandering
away into a green blankness of trees.... Where will they
go, where shelter the nights? The improvidence of chil-
dren...and the civil paradox of this their Little State,
whose base is the same Oven which must destroy it....
But every true god must be. both organizer and de-
stroyer. Brought up into a Christian ambience, this was
difficult for him to see until his journey to Siidwest: until
his own African conquest. Among the abrading fires of the
Kalahari, under the broadly-sheeted coastal sky, fire and
water, he learned. The Herero boy, long tormented by
missionaries into a fear of Christian sins, jackal-ghosts,
potent European strand-wolves, pursuing him, seeking to
feed on his soul, the precious worm that lived along his
backbone, now tried to cage his old gods, snare them in|
words, give them away, savage, paralyzed, to this scholarly
white who seemed so in love with language. Carrying in
his kit a copy of the Duino Elegies, just off the presses
when he embarked for Siidwest, a gift from Mother at the
_ boat, the odor of new ink dizzying his nights as the old
_
freighter plunged tropic after tropic... until the constella-
_ tions, like the new stars of Pain-land, had become all un-
_ familiar and the earthâs seasons reversed... and he came
_ ashore in a high-powered wooden boat that had 20 years
earlier brought blue-trousered troops in from the iron
_ toadstead to crush the great Herero Rising. To find, back
* in the hinterland, up in an outstretch of broken mountains
iS between the Namib and the Kalahari, his own faithful
. native, his night-flower.
An impassable waste of rock blasted at by the sun...
es of canyons twisting nowhere, drifted at the bottoms
116
Gravityâs RAINBOW
with white sand turning a cold, queenly blue as the after-
noons lengthened.... We make Ndjambi Karunga now,
omuhona ...a whisper, across the burning thom branches
where the German conjures away energies present outside
the firefight with his slender book. He looks up in alarm.
The boy wants to fuck, but he is using the Herero name
of God. An extraordinary chill comes over the white man.
He believes, like the Rhenish Missionary Society who cor-
rupted this boy, in blasphemy. Especially out here in the
desert, where dangers he canât bring himself to name even
in cities, even in daylight, gather about, wings folded,
buttocks touching the cold sand, waiting.... Tonight he
feels the potency of every word: words are only an eye-
twitch away from the things they stand for. The peril of
buggering the boy under the resonance of the sacred
Name fills him insanely with lust, lust in the faceâthe
maskâof instant talion from outside the fire... but to the
boy Ndjambi Karunga is what happens when they couple,
thatâs all: God is creator and destroyer, sun and darkness,
all sets of opposites brought together, including black and
white, male and female...and he becomes, in his in-
nocence, Ndjambi Karungaâ s child (as are all his preterite
clan, relentlessly, beyond their own history) here under-
neath the Europeanâs sweat, ribs, gut-muscles, cock (the
boyâs own muscles staying fiercely tight for what seems
hours, as if he intends to kill, but not a word, only the
long, clonic, thick slices of night that pass over their
bodies) .
What did I make of him? Captain Blicero knows that
the African at this moment is halfway across Germany,
deep in the Harz, and that, should the Oven this winter
close behind him, why they have already said auf Wieder-
â
sehen for the last time. He sits, stomach crawling, glands
stuffed with malaise, bowed over the console, inside the
swarm-painted launch-control car. The sergeants at motor
and steering panels are out taking a se
breakâheâs
alone at the controls. Outside, through the dirty peri-
scope, gnarled fog unloosens from the brigt
zone of frost
that belly-bands the reared and shadowy rocket, where the
|
liquid-oxygen tankâs being topped off.
s press close:
overhead you see barely enough sky for the rocketâs ascent.
The Bodenplatteâconcrete plate laid over strips of steelâ
â
a
ee
BD
ae
„ _
nicht eine Hand voll Erde ins Tal, die alle unsigliche,
a sondern ein erworbenes Wort, reines, den gelben und blaun
Beyond the Zero
117
is set inside a space defined by three trees, blazed so as to
triangulate the exact bearing, 260°, to London. The sym-
bol used is a rude mandala, a red circle with a thick black
cross inside, recognizable as the ancient sun-wheel from
which tradition says the swastika was broken by the early
Christians, to disguise their outlaw symbol. Two nails are
driven into the tree at the center of the cross, Next to one
of the painted blaze-marks, the most westerly, someone
â
has scratched in the bark with the point of a bayonet the
words IN HOC sIGNO viINCcES. No one in the battery will
admit to this act. Perhaps it is the work of the Under-
ground. But it has not been ordered removed. Pale yellow
stump-tops wink around the Bodenplatte, fresh chips and
sawdust mix with older fallen leaves. The smell, childlike,
deep, is confused by petrol and alcohol. Rain threatens,
perhaps, today, snow, The crews move nervously gray-
green. Shiny black India-rubber cables snake away into
the forest to connect the ground equipment with the
Dutch gridâs 380 volts. Erwartung. ...
For some reason he finds it harder these days to remem-
ber. What is framed, dirt-blurry, in the prisms, the ritual,
the daily iteration inside these newly cleared triangles in
the forests, has taken over what used to be memoryâs ran-
dom walk, its innocent image-gathering. His time away,
with Katje and Gottfried, has become shorter and more
precious as the tempo of firings quickens. Though the boy
is in Bliceroâs unit, the captain hardly sees him when
theyre on dutyâa flash of gold helping the surveyors
chain the kilometers out to the transmitting station, the
guttering brightness of his hair in the wind, vanishing
among trees.... How strangely opposite to the Africanâ
a color-negative, yellow and blue. The Captain, in some
sentimental overflow, some precognition, gave his African
boy the name âEnzian,â after Rilkeâs mountainside gentian
of Nordic colors, brought down like a pure word to the
valleys:
Bringt doch der Wanderer auch vom Hange des Bergrands
Mirror Metaphysics and the Oven-Game
- The landscape is marked by freshly cleared forest triangles and the nervous activity of crews preparing for rocket firings.
- Captain Blicero experiences a blurring of memory, where the rigid rituals of duty have replaced his former 'random walk' of innocent image-gathering.
- Blicero reflects on the 'mirror-metaphysics' of his past in Southwest Africa, contrasting his former lover Enzian with the golden-haired Gottfried.
- The Captain perceives a terrible, heaving shape beneath the war's progression, leading toward a final 'Oven-game' involving Gottfried and Katje.
- Katjeâs sudden withdrawal from their sadistic role-play threatens the stability of Bliceroâs constructed 'Oven-state' and his sense of control.
- Despite the disintegration of his prewar symmetries, Blicero desperately seeks to salvage the game by reassigning roles within the context of the war.
Perhaps the black girl is a genius of meta-solutionsâknocking over the chessboard, shooting the referee.
ee
BD
ae
„ _
nicht eine Hand voll Erde ins Tal, die alle unsigliche,
a sondern ein erworbenes Wort, reines, den gelben und blaun
Beyond the Zero
117
is set inside a space defined by three trees, blazed so as to
triangulate the exact bearing, 260°, to London. The sym-
bol used is a rude mandala, a red circle with a thick black
cross inside, recognizable as the ancient sun-wheel from
which tradition says the swastika was broken by the early
Christians, to disguise their outlaw symbol. Two nails are
driven into the tree at the center of the cross, Next to one
of the painted blaze-marks, the most westerly, someone
â
has scratched in the bark with the point of a bayonet the
words IN HOC sIGNO viINCcES. No one in the battery will
admit to this act. Perhaps it is the work of the Under-
ground. But it has not been ordered removed. Pale yellow
stump-tops wink around the Bodenplatte, fresh chips and
sawdust mix with older fallen leaves. The smell, childlike,
deep, is confused by petrol and alcohol. Rain threatens,
perhaps, today, snow, The crews move nervously gray-
green. Shiny black India-rubber cables snake away into
the forest to connect the ground equipment with the
Dutch gridâs 380 volts. Erwartung. ...
For some reason he finds it harder these days to remem-
ber. What is framed, dirt-blurry, in the prisms, the ritual,
the daily iteration inside these newly cleared triangles in
the forests, has taken over what used to be memoryâs ran-
dom walk, its innocent image-gathering. His time away,
with Katje and Gottfried, has become shorter and more
precious as the tempo of firings quickens. Though the boy
is in Bliceroâs unit, the captain hardly sees him when
theyre on dutyâa flash of gold helping the surveyors
chain the kilometers out to the transmitting station, the
guttering brightness of his hair in the wind, vanishing
among trees.... How strangely opposite to the Africanâ
a color-negative, yellow and blue. The Captain, in some
sentimental overflow, some precognition, gave his African
boy the name âEnzian,â after Rilkeâs mountainside gentian
of Nordic colors, brought down like a pure word to the
valleys:
Bringt doch der Wanderer auch vom Hange des Bergrands
118
Graviryâs RAINBOW
âOmuhona. .
- Look at me. Iâm red, and brown..
black, omuhona.â.
âLiebchen, this is the other half of the earth. In Ger-
many you would be yellow and blue.â Mirror-metaphysics.
Self-enchanted by what he imagined elegance, his bookish
symmetries. ... And yet why speak so purposeless to the
arid mountain, the heat of the day, the savage flower from
whom he drank, so endlessly... why lose those words
into the mirage, the yellow sun and freezing blue shad-
ows in the ravines, unless it was prophesying, beyond all
predisaster syndrome, beyond the terror of contemplating
his middle age however glancingly, however impossible
the chance of any âprovidingââbeyond was something
heaving, stirring, forever below, forever before his words,
something then that could see a time coming terrible, at
least as terrible as this winter and the shape to which the
War has now grown, a shape making unavoidable the
shape of one last jigsaw piece: this Oven-game with the
yellowhaired and blueeyed youth and silent doubleganger
Katje (who was her opposite number in Siidwest? what
black girl he never saw, hidden always in the blinding
sun, the hoarse and cindered passage of the trains at night,
a constellation of dark stars no one, no anti-Rilke, had
named
...)âbut 1944 was much too late for any of it to
matter. Those symmetries were all prewar luxury. Nothingâs
left him to prophesy.
Least of all her sudden withdrawal from the game. The
one variation he didnât provide for, perhaps indeed be-
cause he never saw the black girl either. Perhaps the black
girl is a genius of meta-solutionsâknocking over the chess-
board, shooting the referee. But after the act of wound-
ing, breaking, whatâs to become of the little Oven-stateP
Canât it be fixed? Perhaps a new form, one more appro-
priate... the archer and his son, and the shooting of the
apple...yes and the War itself as tyrant king... it can
still be âsalvaged canât it, patched up, roles reassigned, no
need to rush outside where .
Gottfried, in the cage, watches her slip be
bonds and
go. Fair and slender, the hair on his legs pe
y visible in
â
t
sunlight and then as a fine, imponderable
of gold, ia
eyelids already wrinkling in oddly young/old signatures,
flourishes, the eyes a seldom-encountered blue that on g
ae
Meg
igs
Beyond the Zero
119
certain days, in syne with the weather, is too much for
_ these almond fringes and brims over, seeps, bleeds out to
- illuminate the boyâs entire face, virgin-blue, drowned-man
blue, blue drawn so insatiably into the chalky walls of
Mediterranean streets we quietly cycled through in noon-
- times of the old peace.... He canât stop her. If the Cap-
tain asks, he'll tell what he saw. Gottfried has seen her
sneak out before, and there are rumorsâsheâs with the
Underground, sheâs in love with a Stuka pilot she met in
, Scheveningen.... But she must love Captain Blicero too.
Gottfried styles himself a passive observer. He has waited
for his present age, and the conscription notice, to catch
_ him, with an impudent terror like watching the inrush of
_ a curve you mean to take for the first time in a controlled
_ skid, take me, gathering speed till the last possible mo-
_
ment, take me his good-nightsâ one prayer. The danger he
. thinks he needs is still fictional for him: in what he flirts
and teases with, death is not a real outcome, the hero
_ always walks out of the heart of the explosion, sooty-faced
but grinningâthe blast is noise and change, and diving for
_
cover. Gottfried hasnât yet seen a stiff, not up close. He
hears now and then from home that friends have died,
_
heâs. watched long, flabby canvas sacks being handled in
_
the distances into the poisoned gray of the trucks, and the
headlamps cutting the mist... but when the rockets fail,
and try to topple back on you who fired them, and a dozen
of you press down, bodies jammed together in the slit
trenches waiting all sweat-stunk wool and tense with
laughter held in, you only thinkâWhat a story to tell at
mess, to write to Mutti.... These rockets are his pet ani-
_ mals, barely domesticated, often troublesome, even apt to
revert. He loves them in the way he would have loved
â
eres, or Tiger tanks, had he pulled duty somewhere
-
else.
_ Here he feels taken, at true ease. Without the War what
could he have hoped for? But to be part of this adventure
++.Tf you cannot sing Siegfried at least you can carry a
_ Spear, On what mountainslope, from what tanning and
_
adored face did he hear that? All he remembers is the
âwhite sweep upward, the quilted meadows mobbed with
Cloud. ... Now heâs learning a trade, tending the rockets,
when the War. ends he'll study to be an engineer. He
{<Âą
|
mat
ia
-
Gottfried's Captivity and the Rocket
- Gottfried views his conscription and the dangers of the war with a sense of 'impudent terror,' treating the threat of death as a fictional adventure where the hero always survives.
- He develops a deep, domestic affection for the rockets, viewing them as unpredictable pet animals and finding a sense of purpose in the military machine that he lacked in civilian life.
- His relationship with Captain Blicero involves ritualized submission and sexual humiliation, which Gottfried perversely enjoys as a way to make his captivity feel specific and meaningful.
- Despite the open knowledge of his 'arrangement' with Blicero among the battery, Gottfried remains focused on a future where he will leave his 'cage' and become an engineer.
- Gottfried's innocence is characterized by a belief that 'captive children are always freed in the moment of maximum danger,' blinding him to the true lethality of his situation.
He knows, like everyone, that captive children are always freed in the moment of maximum danger.
ae
Meg
igs
Beyond the Zero
119
certain days, in syne with the weather, is too much for
_ these almond fringes and brims over, seeps, bleeds out to
- illuminate the boyâs entire face, virgin-blue, drowned-man
blue, blue drawn so insatiably into the chalky walls of
Mediterranean streets we quietly cycled through in noon-
- times of the old peace.... He canât stop her. If the Cap-
tain asks, he'll tell what he saw. Gottfried has seen her
sneak out before, and there are rumorsâsheâs with the
Underground, sheâs in love with a Stuka pilot she met in
, Scheveningen.... But she must love Captain Blicero too.
Gottfried styles himself a passive observer. He has waited
for his present age, and the conscription notice, to catch
_ him, with an impudent terror like watching the inrush of
_ a curve you mean to take for the first time in a controlled
_ skid, take me, gathering speed till the last possible mo-
_
ment, take me his good-nightsâ one prayer. The danger he
. thinks he needs is still fictional for him: in what he flirts
and teases with, death is not a real outcome, the hero
_ always walks out of the heart of the explosion, sooty-faced
but grinningâthe blast is noise and change, and diving for
_
cover. Gottfried hasnât yet seen a stiff, not up close. He
hears now and then from home that friends have died,
_
heâs. watched long, flabby canvas sacks being handled in
_
the distances into the poisoned gray of the trucks, and the
headlamps cutting the mist... but when the rockets fail,
and try to topple back on you who fired them, and a dozen
of you press down, bodies jammed together in the slit
trenches waiting all sweat-stunk wool and tense with
laughter held in, you only thinkâWhat a story to tell at
mess, to write to Mutti.... These rockets are his pet ani-
_ mals, barely domesticated, often troublesome, even apt to
revert. He loves them in the way he would have loved
â
eres, or Tiger tanks, had he pulled duty somewhere
-
else.
_ Here he feels taken, at true ease. Without the War what
could he have hoped for? But to be part of this adventure
++.Tf you cannot sing Siegfried at least you can carry a
_ Spear, On what mountainslope, from what tanning and
_
adored face did he hear that? All he remembers is the
âwhite sweep upward, the quilted meadows mobbed with
Cloud. ... Now heâs learning a trade, tending the rockets,
when the War. ends he'll study to be an engineer. He
{<Âą
|
mat
ia
-
120
Graviryâs Ramnsow
understands that Blicero will die or go away, and that he
will leave the cage. But he connects this with the end of
the War, not with the Oven. He knows, like everyone,
that captive children are always freed in the moment of
maximum danger. The fucking, the salt length of the
Captainâs weary, often impotent penis pushing into his
meek mouth, the stinging chastisements, his face reflected
in the act of kissing the Captainâs boots, their shine mot-
tled, corroded by bearing grease, oil, alcohol spilled in
fueling, darkening his face to the one he canât recognizeâ
these are necessary, they make specific his captivity, which
otherwise would hardly be different from Army stifling,
Army repression. Heâs ashamed that he enjoys them so
muchâthe word bitch, spoken now in a certain tone of
voice, will give him an erection he cannot will downâ
afraid that, if not actually judged and damned, heâs gone
insane. The whole battery knows of the arrangement:
|
though they still obey the Captain itâs there, in their faces,
felt trembling out along the steel tape-measures, splashing
onto his tray at mess, elbowed into his right sleeve with
each dressing of his squad. He dreams often these days of
a very pale woman who wants him, who never speaksâ
but the absolute confidence in her eyes... his awful cer-
tainty that she, a celebrity everyone recognizes on sight,
knows him and has no reason to speak to him beyond the
beckoning thatâs in her face, sends him vibrating awake in
the nights, the Captainâs exhausted face inches away across
the silk of wrinkled silver, weak eyes staring as his own,
whiskers he suddenly must scrape his cheek against, sob-
bing, trying to tell how she was, how she looked at
him..
The Captainâs seen her, of course. Who hasnâtP His idea
of comfort is to tell the child, âSheâs real. You have no say
in this. You must understand that she means to have you. -
No use screaming awake, bothering me this way.â
âBut if she comes backââ
âSubmit, Gottfried. Give it all wp. See where she takes
you. Think of the first time I fucked you. How tight you
were. Until you knew I meant to come side Your little
rosebud bloomed. You had pot not even by then you
mouthâs innocence, to lose. .
But the boy continues to cry. Katje won't hale him. Pere
:
The Departure of Katje
- Captain Blicero uses psychological and sexual dominance to force the young Gottfried into submission and acceptance of his fate.
- Katje abandons her role in Blicero's perverse household, crossing over the English lines in a final disguise.
- Blicero reacts with violent rage to Katje's desertion, fearing she has exposed his rocket battery to British airstrikes.
- The Dutch resistance, represented by Wim, coldly discards Katje, valuing ammunition and silence over her safety or past service.
- Katje reflects on her failure to pinpoint the rocket site for the resistance, leaving her value and loyalties in question.
- The narrative shifts from the claustrophobic domestic cage to the broader, cold reality of the winter front and guerrilla warfare.
The half-moon shines among hazy clouds, its dark half the color of aged meat.
120
Graviryâs Ramnsow
understands that Blicero will die or go away, and that he
will leave the cage. But he connects this with the end of
the War, not with the Oven. He knows, like everyone,
that captive children are always freed in the moment of
maximum danger. The fucking, the salt length of the
Captainâs weary, often impotent penis pushing into his
meek mouth, the stinging chastisements, his face reflected
in the act of kissing the Captainâs boots, their shine mot-
tled, corroded by bearing grease, oil, alcohol spilled in
fueling, darkening his face to the one he canât recognizeâ
these are necessary, they make specific his captivity, which
otherwise would hardly be different from Army stifling,
Army repression. Heâs ashamed that he enjoys them so
muchâthe word bitch, spoken now in a certain tone of
voice, will give him an erection he cannot will downâ
afraid that, if not actually judged and damned, heâs gone
insane. The whole battery knows of the arrangement:
|
though they still obey the Captain itâs there, in their faces,
felt trembling out along the steel tape-measures, splashing
onto his tray at mess, elbowed into his right sleeve with
each dressing of his squad. He dreams often these days of
a very pale woman who wants him, who never speaksâ
but the absolute confidence in her eyes... his awful cer-
tainty that she, a celebrity everyone recognizes on sight,
knows him and has no reason to speak to him beyond the
beckoning thatâs in her face, sends him vibrating awake in
the nights, the Captainâs exhausted face inches away across
the silk of wrinkled silver, weak eyes staring as his own,
whiskers he suddenly must scrape his cheek against, sob-
bing, trying to tell how she was, how she looked at
him..
The Captainâs seen her, of course. Who hasnâtP His idea
of comfort is to tell the child, âSheâs real. You have no say
in this. You must understand that she means to have you. -
No use screaming awake, bothering me this way.â
âBut if she comes backââ
âSubmit, Gottfried. Give it all wp. See where she takes
you. Think of the first time I fucked you. How tight you
were. Until you knew I meant to come side Your little
rosebud bloomed. You had pot not even by then you
mouthâs innocence, to lose. .
But the boy continues to cry. Katje won't hale him. Pere
:
Beyond the Zero
121
haps sheâs asleep. He never knows. He wants to be her
friend, but they hardly ever speak. Sheâs cold, mysterious,
heâs jealous of her sometimes and at othersâusually when
he wants to fuck her and through some ingenuity of the
Captainâs cannotâat such times he thinks he loves her
desperately. Unlike the Captain, he has never seen her as
âthe loyal sister who'll free him from the cage. He dreams
that release, but as a dark exterior Process that will hap-
pen, no matter what any of them may want. Whether she
goes or stays. So, when Katje quits the game for good, he
is silent.
Blicero curses her. He flings a boot-tree at a precious
TerBorch. Bombs fall to the west in the Haagsche Bosch.
The wind blows, ruffling the ornamental ponds outside.
âStaff cars snarl away, down the long drive lined with
beeches. The half-moon shines among hazy clouds, its dark
half the color of aged meat. Blicero orders everyone down
into the shelter, a cellarful of gin in brown crocks, open-slat
crates of anemone bulbs. The slut has put his battery in
the British crosshairs, the raid can come at any moment!
Everybody sits around drinking oude genever and peeling
cheeses. Telling stories, mostly funny ones, from before
the War. By dawn, they've all drunk and sleeping. Scraps
of wax litter the floor like leaves. No Spitfires come. But
later that morning SchuBstelle 3 is moved, and the requi-
sitioned house is abandoned. And she is gone. Crossed over
the English lines, at the salient where the great airborne
adventure lies bogged for the winter, wearing Gottfriedâs
boots and an old dress, black moiré, calf-length, a size too
\large, dowdy. Her last disguise. From here on she will be
'Katje. The only debt outstanding is to Captain Prentice.
The othersâPiet, Wim, the Drummer, the Indianâhave
call dropped her. Left her for dead. Or else this is her
warning thatâ
âSorry, no, we need the bullet,â Wimâs face in shadows
Her eye canât compensate for bitterly whispering under-
neath the Scheveningen pier, ragged crowd-footfalls on
°
the wood overhead, âevery fucking bullet we can get. We
need the silence. We couldnât spare a man to get rid of
the body. Iâve wasted five minutes with you already
..
âso he will take up their last meeting with technical matters
ihe can no longer share. When she looks around, heâs
~
122
Gravityâs RAINBOW
gone, guerrilla-silent, and she has no way to bring this
together with how he felt last year for a while under the
cool chenille, in the days before he got so many muscles,
_and the scars on shoulder and thighâa late bloomer, a
neutral man goaded finally past his threshold, but sheâd
loved him before that ...she must have....
Sheâs worth nothing to them now. They were after
SchuBstelle 3. She gave them everything else, but kept
finding reasons not to pinpoint the Captainâs rocket site,
and there is too much doubt by now as to how good the
reasons were, True, the site was often moved about. But
she couldâve been placed no closer to the decision-making:
it was her own expressionless servantâs face that leaned in
over their schnapps and cigars, the charts coffee-ringed
across the low tables, the cream papers stamped purple as
bruised flesh. Wim and the others have invested time and
livesâthree Jewish families sent eastâthough wait now,
-
sheâs more than balanced it, hasnât she, in the months out
at Scheveningen? They were kids, neurotic, lonely, pilots
and crews they all loved to talk, and sheâs fed back who
knows how many reamsâ worth of Most Secret flimsies
across the North Sea, hasnât she, squadron numbers, fuel-
ing stops, spin-recovery techniques and turing radii,
power settings, radio channels, sectors, traffic patternsâ
hasnât she? What more do thĂ©y want? She asks this
seriously, as if thereâs a real conversion factor. between
information and lives. Well, strange to say, there is. Writ-
ten down in the Manual, on file at the War Department.
Donât forget the real business of the War is buying and
selling. The murdering and the violence are self-policing,
and can be entrusted to non-professionals. The mass nature
â
of wartime death is useful in many ways. It serves as
spectacle, as diversion from the real movements of the
War. It provides raw material to be recorded into History,
so that children may be taught History as sequences of
violence, battle after battle, and be more prepared for the
adult world, Best of all, mass deathâs a stimulus to just
|
ordinary folks, little fellows, to try 1â grab a piece of that
â
Pie while theyâre still here to gobble it up. The true war is â
a celebration of markets. Organic auleets |
oabokully styled â
âblackâ by the professionals, spring up everywhere. Scrip,
Sterling, Reichsmarks continue to move, severe as classical _
The Celebration of Markets
- Katje reflects on the moral calculus of her espionage, weighing the lives of three Jewish families against the technical intelligence she provided to the Allies.
- The narrative posits that the true essence of war is not violence, but the buying and selling of commodities within global markets.
- Mass death is described as a diversionary spectacle that prepares children for an adult world defined by sequences of violence.
- Human lives, specifically those of the Jewish people, are treated as negotiable currencies alongside cigarettes and luxury goods.
- Pirate Prentice recognizes the danger in Katje's isolation and offers her refuge at 'The White Visitation' as she flees her past.
- The 'true' war operates through both antiseptic marble chambers of finance and the organic, desperate black markets of the people.
The true war is a celebration of markets.
122
Gravityâs RAINBOW
gone, guerrilla-silent, and she has no way to bring this
together with how he felt last year for a while under the
cool chenille, in the days before he got so many muscles,
_and the scars on shoulder and thighâa late bloomer, a
neutral man goaded finally past his threshold, but sheâd
loved him before that ...she must have....
Sheâs worth nothing to them now. They were after
SchuBstelle 3. She gave them everything else, but kept
finding reasons not to pinpoint the Captainâs rocket site,
and there is too much doubt by now as to how good the
reasons were, True, the site was often moved about. But
she couldâve been placed no closer to the decision-making:
it was her own expressionless servantâs face that leaned in
over their schnapps and cigars, the charts coffee-ringed
across the low tables, the cream papers stamped purple as
bruised flesh. Wim and the others have invested time and
livesâthree Jewish families sent eastâthough wait now,
-
sheâs more than balanced it, hasnât she, in the months out
at Scheveningen? They were kids, neurotic, lonely, pilots
and crews they all loved to talk, and sheâs fed back who
knows how many reamsâ worth of Most Secret flimsies
across the North Sea, hasnât she, squadron numbers, fuel-
ing stops, spin-recovery techniques and turing radii,
power settings, radio channels, sectors, traffic patternsâ
hasnât she? What more do thĂ©y want? She asks this
seriously, as if thereâs a real conversion factor. between
information and lives. Well, strange to say, there is. Writ-
ten down in the Manual, on file at the War Department.
Donât forget the real business of the War is buying and
selling. The murdering and the violence are self-policing,
and can be entrusted to non-professionals. The mass nature
â
of wartime death is useful in many ways. It serves as
spectacle, as diversion from the real movements of the
War. It provides raw material to be recorded into History,
so that children may be taught History as sequences of
violence, battle after battle, and be more prepared for the
adult world, Best of all, mass deathâs a stimulus to just
|
ordinary folks, little fellows, to try 1â grab a piece of that
â
Pie while theyâre still here to gobble it up. The true war is â
a celebration of markets. Organic auleets |
oabokully styled â
âblackâ by the professionals, spring up everywhere. Scrip,
Sterling, Reichsmarks continue to move, severe as classical _
Cay
ae
Beyond the Zero
123
ballet, inside their antiseptic marble chambers. But out
here, downâ here among the people, the truer currencies
come into being. So, Jews are negotiable. Every bit as
negotiable as cigarettes, cunt, or Hershey bars. Jews also
carry an element of guilt, of future blackmail, which op-
erates, natch, in favor of the professionals. So Katje here
is hollering into a silence, a North Sea of hopes, and
Pirate Prentice, who knows her from hurried meetingsâin
âcity squares that manage to be barracksfaced and claus-
_trophobic, under dark, soft-wood smells of staircases steep
as ladders, on a gaffrigger by an oily quai and a catâs
amber eyes staring down, in a block of old flats with rain
in the courtyard and a bulky, ancient Schwarzlose stripped
to toggle links and oil pump littered about the dusty
roomâwho has each time seen her as a face belonging
with others he knows better, at the margin of each enter-
| prise, now, confronted with this face out of context, an
âenormous sky all sea-clouds in full march, tall and plum,
âbehind her, detects danger in her loneliness, realizes heâs
never heard her name, not till the meeting by the wind-
mill known as âThe Angel.â ...
She tells him why sheâs aloneâmore or lessâwhy she
canât ever go back, and her face is somewhere else, painted
on canvas, hung with other survivals. back in the house
near Duindigt, only witnessing the Oven-gameâcenturies
passing like the empurpled clouds, darkening an infinitesi-
mal layer of varnish between herself and Pirate, granting
her the shield of serenity she needs, of classic irrele-
vance. ...
âBut where will you go?â Both of them hands in pockets,
scarves tightly wrapped, stones the water has left behind
âshining black wait like writing in a dream, about to make
âsense printed here along the beach, each fragment so
amazingly clear yet...
_ âI don't know. Where would be a good place?â
_
âThe White Visitation,â â Pirate suggested.
ââThe White Visitationâ is fine,â she said, and stepped
into the void....
_
âOsbie, have I gone mad?â a snowy night, five rocket
My
mB,
a)
bombs since noon, shivering in the kitchen, late and can-
âdlelit, Osbie Feel the house idiot-savant so far into an en-
counter with nutmeg this evening that the inquiry seems
124
}
Graviryâs RAINBow
quite proper, the pale cement Jungfrau asquat, phlegmatic
and one gathers nettled in a dim corner.
âOf course, of course,â sez Osbie, with a fluid passage
of fingers and wrist based on the way Bela Lugosi handed
a certain glass of doped wine to some fool of a juvenile
lead in White Zombie, the first movie Osbie ever saw and in
a sense the last, ranking on his All-Time List along with Son
of Frankenstein, Freaks, Flying Down to Rio and perhaps
Dumbo, which he went to see in Oxford Street last night
but midway through noticed, instead of a magic feather,
the humorless green and magenta face of Mr. Emest
Bevin wrapped in the chubby trunk of the longlashed baby
elephant, and decided it would be prudent to excuse him-
self, âNo,â since Pirate meantime has misunderstood what-
ever it was Osbie said, ânot âof course you've gone mad,
Prentice,â that wasnât it at all... .â
âWhat then,â Pirate asks, after Osbieâs lapse has passed
the minute mark.
âAh?â sez Osbie.
Pirate is having second thoughts, is what it is. He keeps
recalling that Katje now avoids all mention of the house in
the forest. She has glanced into it, and out, but the truthâs
crystal sheets have diffracted all her audible wordsâoften
to tearsâand he canât quite make sense of whatâs spoken,
much less infer to the radiant crystal itself. Indeed, why
did she leave SchuBstelle 3? We are never told why. But
now and then, players in a game will, lull or crisis, be
reminded how it is, after all, really playâand be unable
then to continue in the same spirit.... Nor need it be
anything sudden, spectacularâit may come in gentleâand_
regardless of the score, the number of watchers, their
colléctive wish, penalties they or the Leagues may impose,
the player will, waking deliberately, perhaps with Katjeâs
own tough, young isolateâs shrug and stride, say fuck it
and quit the game, quit it cold....
âAll right,â he continues alone, Osbie lost in a moon-
ing doperâs smile, tracking the mature female snow-skin
of the Alp in the corner, he and the frozen peak aboveâ
and the blue night... âitâs a lapse of character then, a
crotchet. Like carrying the bloody Mendoza.â Everyone
else in the Firm packs a Sten you know. The Mendoza
weighs three times as much, no oneâs even seen any 7 âą
Quitting the Game
- Osbie Feel experiences a drug-induced hallucination during a conversation, seeing the face of Ernest Bevin in a screening of Dumbo.
- Pirate Prentice reflects on Katje's trauma and her refusal to discuss her past at the forest house or her reasons for leaving the station.
- The narrative explores the moment a 'player' in a high-stakes game suddenly realizes it is all play and decides to quit the game entirely.
- Pirate justifies his eccentricities and his decision to rescue Katje as a personal 'crotchet,' comparing his loyalty to her to his impractical choice of a heavy Mendoza machine gun.
- Katje confronts Pirate's sense of responsibility toward her, revealing her desire to settle debts and bridge impossible divides between nations.
But now and then, players in a game will, lull or crisis, be reminded how it is, after all, really playâand be unable then to continue in the same spirit.
124
}
Graviryâs RAINBow
quite proper, the pale cement Jungfrau asquat, phlegmatic
and one gathers nettled in a dim corner.
âOf course, of course,â sez Osbie, with a fluid passage
of fingers and wrist based on the way Bela Lugosi handed
a certain glass of doped wine to some fool of a juvenile
lead in White Zombie, the first movie Osbie ever saw and in
a sense the last, ranking on his All-Time List along with Son
of Frankenstein, Freaks, Flying Down to Rio and perhaps
Dumbo, which he went to see in Oxford Street last night
but midway through noticed, instead of a magic feather,
the humorless green and magenta face of Mr. Emest
Bevin wrapped in the chubby trunk of the longlashed baby
elephant, and decided it would be prudent to excuse him-
self, âNo,â since Pirate meantime has misunderstood what-
ever it was Osbie said, ânot âof course you've gone mad,
Prentice,â that wasnât it at all... .â
âWhat then,â Pirate asks, after Osbieâs lapse has passed
the minute mark.
âAh?â sez Osbie.
Pirate is having second thoughts, is what it is. He keeps
recalling that Katje now avoids all mention of the house in
the forest. She has glanced into it, and out, but the truthâs
crystal sheets have diffracted all her audible wordsâoften
to tearsâand he canât quite make sense of whatâs spoken,
much less infer to the radiant crystal itself. Indeed, why
did she leave SchuBstelle 3? We are never told why. But
now and then, players in a game will, lull or crisis, be
reminded how it is, after all, really playâand be unable
then to continue in the same spirit.... Nor need it be
anything sudden, spectacularâit may come in gentleâand_
regardless of the score, the number of watchers, their
colléctive wish, penalties they or the Leagues may impose,
the player will, waking deliberately, perhaps with Katjeâs
own tough, young isolateâs shrug and stride, say fuck it
and quit the game, quit it cold....
âAll right,â he continues alone, Osbie lost in a moon-
ing doperâs smile, tracking the mature female snow-skin
of the Alp in the corner, he and the frozen peak aboveâ
and the blue night... âitâs a lapse of character then, a
crotchet. Like carrying the bloody Mendoza.â Everyone
else in the Firm packs a Sten you know. The Mendoza
weighs three times as much, no oneâs even seen any 7 âą
oe
Beyond the Zero
125
Mexican Mauser bullets lately, even in Portobello Road: it
hasnât the grand Garage Simplicity or the rate of fire and
still he loves it (yes, most likely itâs love these days) âyou
see, itâs a matter of trade-off, inât iâ,â the nostalgia of its
Lewis-style straight pull, and being able to lift the barrel
_off in a second (ever tried to take the barrel off of a
âStenP), and having a double-ended striker in case one
breaks.... âAm I going to let the extra weight make a
difference? Itâs my crotchet, â'm indifferent to weight, or I
-wouldnât have brought the girl back out, would I.â
âI am not your responsibility.â A statue in wine-colored
faconné velvet from neck to wrists and insteps, and how
long, gentlemen, has she been watching from the shad-
âows?
âOh,â Pirate turning sheepish, âyou are, you know.â
âThe happy couple!â Osbie
roars
suddenly,
taking
another pinch of nutmeg like snuff, eyeballs rolling white
as the miniature mountain, Sneezing now loudly about the
kitchen, it strikes him as incredible that he has both these
people inside the same field of vision. Pirateâs face darken-
ing with embarrassment, Katjeâs unchanging, half struck
by light from the next room, half in slate windows.
âShould I have left you, then?â and when she only
compresses her mouth, impatient, âor do you think some-
one over here owed it to you to bring you out?â
âNo.â That reached her. Pirate only asked because heâs
begun to suspect, darkly, any number of Someones Over
Here. But to Katje a debt is for wiping out. Her old, in-
tractable viceâshe wants to cross seas, to connect coun-
âtries between whom there is no possible rate of exchange.
Her ancestors sang, in Middle Dutch,
\
fk
ic heb u liever dan én everswin,
wt
al waert van finen goude ghewracht,
love incommensurate with gold, golden calf, even in this
ease golden swine. But by the middle of the 17th century
oe were no more pigs of gold, only of flesh mortal as
t of Frans Van der Groov, another ancestor, who went
E to. Mauritius with a boatlead of these live hogs and lost
een years toting his haakbus through the ebony for-
e
wandering the swamps and lava flows, systematically
The Dodo and the Matchlock
- Frans Van der Groov, a Dutch ancestor, spends years on Mauritius systematically exterminating the native dodo population with a heavy matchlock rifle.
- The slaughter is driven by an inexplicable compulsion rather than a need for food, as Frans finds the birds' flesh unpalatable and leaves them to rot.
- While Frans descends into isolation and sensory hallucinations in the volcanic landscape, his brother Hendrik remains obsessed with the 'tulipomania' of the era.
- The narrative highlights the technological transition from the clumsy matchlock to the newer snaphaan, though Frans clings to his older, more difficult weapon.
- The act of hunting creates a metaphysical axis between the predator and the prey, culminating in a tense standoff where Frans waits to execute a hatching chick.
- The text explores themes of colonial destruction, the senselessness of extinction, and the strange, intimate bond formed through the act of killing.
There they were, the silent egg and the crazy Dutchman, and the hookgun that linked them forever, framed, brilliantly motionless as any Vermeer.
oe
Beyond the Zero
125
Mexican Mauser bullets lately, even in Portobello Road: it
hasnât the grand Garage Simplicity or the rate of fire and
still he loves it (yes, most likely itâs love these days) âyou
see, itâs a matter of trade-off, inât iâ,â the nostalgia of its
Lewis-style straight pull, and being able to lift the barrel
_off in a second (ever tried to take the barrel off of a
âStenP), and having a double-ended striker in case one
breaks.... âAm I going to let the extra weight make a
difference? Itâs my crotchet, â'm indifferent to weight, or I
-wouldnât have brought the girl back out, would I.â
âI am not your responsibility.â A statue in wine-colored
faconné velvet from neck to wrists and insteps, and how
long, gentlemen, has she been watching from the shad-
âows?
âOh,â Pirate turning sheepish, âyou are, you know.â
âThe happy couple!â Osbie
roars
suddenly,
taking
another pinch of nutmeg like snuff, eyeballs rolling white
as the miniature mountain, Sneezing now loudly about the
kitchen, it strikes him as incredible that he has both these
people inside the same field of vision. Pirateâs face darken-
ing with embarrassment, Katjeâs unchanging, half struck
by light from the next room, half in slate windows.
âShould I have left you, then?â and when she only
compresses her mouth, impatient, âor do you think some-
one over here owed it to you to bring you out?â
âNo.â That reached her. Pirate only asked because heâs
begun to suspect, darkly, any number of Someones Over
Here. But to Katje a debt is for wiping out. Her old, in-
tractable viceâshe wants to cross seas, to connect coun-
âtries between whom there is no possible rate of exchange.
Her ancestors sang, in Middle Dutch,
\
fk
ic heb u liever dan én everswin,
wt
al waert van finen goude ghewracht,
love incommensurate with gold, golden calf, even in this
ease golden swine. But by the middle of the 17th century
oe were no more pigs of gold, only of flesh mortal as
t of Frans Van der Groov, another ancestor, who went
E to. Mauritius with a boatlead of these live hogs and lost
een years toting his haakbus through the ebony for-
e
wandering the swamps and lava flows, systematically
126
Gravity's Rarnpow
killing off the native dodoes for reasons he could not ex-
plain. The Dutch pigs took care of eggs and younger
birds. Evans carefully drew beads on the parents at 10 or
20 meters, the piece propped on its hook, slowly squeez-
ing the trigger, eye focused on the molting ugliness while
closer in the slowmatch, soaked in wine, held in the jaws
of the serpentine, came blooming redly downward, its heat
on his cheek like my own small luminary, he wrote home
to Hendrik the older brother, the ruler of my Sign... un-
covering the priming-powder heâd been keeping shielded
with his other handâsudden flash in the pan, through the
touchhole, and the loud report echoing off the steep rocks,
recoil smashing the butt up along his shoulder (the skin
there at first raw, blistered, then callused over, after the
first summer), And the stupid, awkward bird, never in-
tended to fly or run at any speedâwhat were they good
forPâunable now even to locate his murderer, ruptured,
splashing blood, raucously dying...
.
At home, the brother skimmed the letters, some crisp,
some seastained or faded, spanning years, delivered all at
onceâunderstanding very little of it, only anxious to spend
the day, as usual, in the gardens and greenhouse with his
tulips (a reigning madness of the time), especially one
new variety named for his current mistress: blood-red,
finely tattooed in purple. ... âRecent arrivals all carrying
the new snaphaan... but I stick to my clumsy old match-
lock... donât I deserve a clumsy weapon for such a
clumsy prey?â But Frans got no closer to telling what
kept him out among the winter cyclones, stuffing pieces of
old uniform down after the lead balls, sunburned, bearded
and filthyâunless it rained or he was in the uplands
where the craters of old volcanoes cupped rainfall blue as
the sky in upward offering.
He left the dodoes to rot, he couldnât endure to eat their
flesh. Usually, he hunted alone. But often, after months of
it, the isolation would begin to change him, change his
very perceptionsâthe jagged mountains |in full daylight.
flaring as he watched into freak saffrons,| streaming indi-
gos, the sky his glass house, all the island
vey tulipomania,
The voicesâhe insomniac, southern
s too thick for
constellations teeming in faces and creatures of fable less
likely than the dodoâspoke the words of sleepers, singly,
;
Beyond the Zero
127
coupled, in chorus. The rhythms and timbres were Dutch,
but made no waking sense, Except that he thought they
were warming him...scolding, angry that he couldn't
understand. Once he sat all day staring at a single white
dodoâs egg in a grass hummock. The place was too remote
for any foraging pig toâve found. He waited for scratching,
a first crack reaching to net the chalk surface: an emer-
âgence. Hemp gripped in the teeth of the steel snake, ready
to be lit, ready to descend, sun to black-powder sea, and
destroy the infant, egg of light into egg of darkness, within
its first minute of amazed vision, of wet down stirred cool
by these southeast trades.... Each hour he sighted down
the barrel. It was then, if ever, he might have seen how
the weapon made an axis potent as Earthâs own between
himself and this victim, still one, inside the egg, with the
ancestral chain, not to be broken out for more than its
âblink of worldâs light. There they were, the silent egg and
âthe crazy Dutchman, and the hookgun that linked them
forever, framed, brilliantly motionless as any Vermeer.
Only the sun moved: from zenith down at last behind the
snaggleteeth of mountains to Indian ocean, to tarry night.
The egg, without a quiver, still unhatched, He should
have blasted it then where it lay: he understood that the
bird would hatch before dawn. But a cycle was finished.
He got to his feet, knee and hip joints in agony, head
gonging with instructions from his sleeptalkers droning by,
âoverlapping, urgent, and only limped away, piece at right
er arms.
When loneliness began to drive him into situations like
this, he often returned to a settlement and joined a hunt-
\ing party. A drunken, university hysteria would take hold
of them all, out on night-rampages where they'd be pres-
ently firing at anything, treetops, clouds, leather demon
bats screaming up beyond hearing. Tradewinds moving
upslope to chill their nightsâ sweating, sky lit half crimson
by a volcano, rumblings under their feet as deep as the
batsâ voices were high, all these men were caught in the
spectrum between, trapped among frequencies of their
own voices and words.
This furious host were losers, impersonating a race
Sidon by God. The colony, the venture, was dyingâlike
the ebony trees they were stripping from the island, like
my"
J
*\
wu /
The Conversion of the Dodoes
- A lone observer watches the sun set over Mauritius, sensing the imminent hatching of a bird and the end of a natural cycle.
- The Dutch settlers engage in frantic, drunken hunting parties, driven by a hysteria that targets the island's unique wildlife.
- The settlers view the dodo as a 'Satanic' deformity, believing its extermination is a devotional act required to protect the Earth from corruption.
- The colony is depicted as a failing enterprise, destined to vanish within a human lifetime alongside the species they are eradicating.
- Frans reflects on the tragedy of the dodo, noting that their lack of speech and 'ugly' design prevents them from being included in the settlers' concept of Salvation.
- In a moment of profound loneliness, Frans witnesses a surreal, miraculous gathering of dodoes on the shore, seemingly granted the 'Gift of Speech.'
The act of ramming home the charges into their musketry became for these men a devotional act, one whose symbolism they understood.
Beyond the Zero
127
coupled, in chorus. The rhythms and timbres were Dutch,
but made no waking sense, Except that he thought they
were warming him...scolding, angry that he couldn't
understand. Once he sat all day staring at a single white
dodoâs egg in a grass hummock. The place was too remote
for any foraging pig toâve found. He waited for scratching,
a first crack reaching to net the chalk surface: an emer-
âgence. Hemp gripped in the teeth of the steel snake, ready
to be lit, ready to descend, sun to black-powder sea, and
destroy the infant, egg of light into egg of darkness, within
its first minute of amazed vision, of wet down stirred cool
by these southeast trades.... Each hour he sighted down
the barrel. It was then, if ever, he might have seen how
the weapon made an axis potent as Earthâs own between
himself and this victim, still one, inside the egg, with the
ancestral chain, not to be broken out for more than its
âblink of worldâs light. There they were, the silent egg and
âthe crazy Dutchman, and the hookgun that linked them
forever, framed, brilliantly motionless as any Vermeer.
Only the sun moved: from zenith down at last behind the
snaggleteeth of mountains to Indian ocean, to tarry night.
The egg, without a quiver, still unhatched, He should
have blasted it then where it lay: he understood that the
bird would hatch before dawn. But a cycle was finished.
He got to his feet, knee and hip joints in agony, head
gonging with instructions from his sleeptalkers droning by,
âoverlapping, urgent, and only limped away, piece at right
er arms.
When loneliness began to drive him into situations like
this, he often returned to a settlement and joined a hunt-
\ing party. A drunken, university hysteria would take hold
of them all, out on night-rampages where they'd be pres-
ently firing at anything, treetops, clouds, leather demon
bats screaming up beyond hearing. Tradewinds moving
upslope to chill their nightsâ sweating, sky lit half crimson
by a volcano, rumblings under their feet as deep as the
batsâ voices were high, all these men were caught in the
spectrum between, trapped among frequencies of their
own voices and words.
This furious host were losers, impersonating a race
Sidon by God. The colony, the venture, was dyingâlike
the ebony trees they were stripping from the island, like
my"
J
*\
wu /
128
Gravityâs RAINBOW
the poor species they were removing totally from the earth.
By 1681, Didus ineptus would be gone, by 1710 so would
every last settler from Mauritius. The enterprise here
would have lasted about a human lifetime.
To some, it made sense. They saw the stumbling birds
ill-made to the point of Satanic intervention, so ugly as to
embody argument against a Godly creation. Was Mauritius
some first poison trickle through the sheltering dikes of
Earth? Christians must stem it here, or perish in a second
Flood, loosed this time not by God but by the Enemy.
The act of ramming home the charges into their musketry
became for these men a devotional act, one whose sym-
bolism they understood.
But if they were chosén to come to Mauritius, why had
they also been chosen to fail, and leave? Is that a choosing,
or is it a passing-overP Are they Elect, or are they Pret-
erite, and doomed as dodoes?
Frans could not know that except for a few others on
the island of Reunion, these were the only dodoes in the
Creation, and that he was helping exterminate a race. But
at times the scale and frenzy of the hunting did come
through to trouble his heart. âIf the species were not such
a perversion,â he wrote, âit might be profitably husbanded
to feed our generations. I cannot hate them quite so
violently as do some here. But what now can mitigate
this slaughter? It is too late.... Perhaps a more comely
beak, fuller feathering, a capacity for flight, however brief
details of Design. Or, had we but found savages on
this island, the birdâs appearance might have then seemed
to us no stranger than that of the wild turkey of North
America, Alas, their tragedy is to be the dominant form of
Life on Mauritius, but incapable of speech.â
That was it, right there. No language meant no chance
of co-opting them in to what their round and flaxen in-
vaders were calling Salvation. But Frans, in the course of
morning lights lonelier than most, could not keep from
finally witnessing a miracle: a Gift of Speech ...a Con-
version of the Dodoes. Ranked in thousands on the shore,
with a luminous profile of reef on the
water behind them,
its roar the only sound on the morning, volcanoes at rest,
the wind suspended, an autumn sunrise dispensing light
glassy and deep over them all...they have come from
Beyond the Zero
129
their nests and rookeries, from beside the streams bursting
out the mouths of lava tunnels, from the minor islands
awash like debris off the north coast, from sudden water-
falls and the wasted rain-forests where the axeblades are
trusting and the rough flumes rot and topple in the wind,
from their wet mornings under the shadows of mountain-
stubs they have waddled in awkward pilgrimage to this
assembly: to be sanctified, taken in.... For as much as
they are the creatures of God, and have the gift of ra-
tional discourse, acknowledging that only in His Word
is eternal life to be found ... And there are tears of happi-
ness in the eyes of the dodoes. They are all brothers now,
they and the humans who used to hunt them, brothers in
Christ, the little baby they dream now of sitting near,
roosting in his stable, feathers at peace, watching over him
_and his dear face all night long....
It is the purest form of European adventuring. Whatâs it
all been for, the murdering seas, the gangrene winters and
starving springs, our bone pursuit of the unfaithful, mid-
nights of wrestling with the Beast, our sweat become ice
and our tears pale flakes.
of snow, if not for such mo-
ments as this: the little converts flowing out of eyeâs field,
so meek, so trustingâhow shall any craw clench in fear,
any recreant cry be offered in the presence of our blade,
our necessary blade? Sanctified now they will feed us,
sanctified their remains and droppings fertilize our crops.
Did we tell them âSalvationâ? Did we mean a dwelling
forever in the City? Everlasting lifeP An earthly paradise
ârestored, their island as it used to be given them back?
Probably. Thinking all the time of the little brothers num-
bered among our own blessings. Indeed, if they save us
from hunger in this world, then beyond, in Christâs king-
dom, our salvations must be, in like measure, inextricable.
Otherwise the dodoes would be only what they appear as
in the worldâs illusory lightâonly our prey. God could not
be that cruel.
Frans can look at both versions, the miracle and the
hunt of more years than he can remember now, as real,
equal possibilities. In both, eventually, the dodoes die.
âBut as for faith... he can believe only in the one steel
reality of the firearm he carries. âHe knew that a snap-
haan would weigh less, its cock, flint, and steel give him
my
Rall
~
ead
oe
"
t
:
i
Sanctified Prey and London Angels
- The text explores a surreal, colonial religious fantasy where dodoes are converted to Christianity to justify their slaughter.
- European adventuring is framed as a brutal pursuit that seeks 'sanctification' for the acts of violence and consumption it requires.
- Frans reflects on the dodoes' inevitable death, finding the only true reality in the weight and mechanics of his firearm.
- The scene shifts to a vivid, apocalyptic sunset over London, described as a 'metered winter holocaust' that stains the Thames orange.
- Radar operators observe millions of starlings converging over the city, referring to the concentric rings on their screens as 'angels.'
- Pirate and Osbie Feel discuss a haunting presence amidst the fading, 'destroying' light of the city.
Sanctified now they will feed us, sanctified their remains and droppings fertilize our crops.
Beyond the Zero
129
their nests and rookeries, from beside the streams bursting
out the mouths of lava tunnels, from the minor islands
awash like debris off the north coast, from sudden water-
falls and the wasted rain-forests where the axeblades are
trusting and the rough flumes rot and topple in the wind,
from their wet mornings under the shadows of mountain-
stubs they have waddled in awkward pilgrimage to this
assembly: to be sanctified, taken in.... For as much as
they are the creatures of God, and have the gift of ra-
tional discourse, acknowledging that only in His Word
is eternal life to be found ... And there are tears of happi-
ness in the eyes of the dodoes. They are all brothers now,
they and the humans who used to hunt them, brothers in
Christ, the little baby they dream now of sitting near,
roosting in his stable, feathers at peace, watching over him
_and his dear face all night long....
It is the purest form of European adventuring. Whatâs it
all been for, the murdering seas, the gangrene winters and
starving springs, our bone pursuit of the unfaithful, mid-
nights of wrestling with the Beast, our sweat become ice
and our tears pale flakes.
of snow, if not for such mo-
ments as this: the little converts flowing out of eyeâs field,
so meek, so trustingâhow shall any craw clench in fear,
any recreant cry be offered in the presence of our blade,
our necessary blade? Sanctified now they will feed us,
sanctified their remains and droppings fertilize our crops.
Did we tell them âSalvationâ? Did we mean a dwelling
forever in the City? Everlasting lifeP An earthly paradise
ârestored, their island as it used to be given them back?
Probably. Thinking all the time of the little brothers num-
bered among our own blessings. Indeed, if they save us
from hunger in this world, then beyond, in Christâs king-
dom, our salvations must be, in like measure, inextricable.
Otherwise the dodoes would be only what they appear as
in the worldâs illusory lightâonly our prey. God could not
be that cruel.
Frans can look at both versions, the miracle and the
hunt of more years than he can remember now, as real,
equal possibilities. In both, eventually, the dodoes die.
âBut as for faith... he can believe only in the one steel
reality of the firearm he carries. âHe knew that a snap-
haan would weigh less, its cock, flint, and steel give him
my
Rall
~
ead
oe
"
t
:
i
130
Gravityâs Rainsow
surer ignitionâbut he felt a nostalgia about the haak-
bus...he
didnât mind
the extra weight,
it was
his
crotchet. ...â
Pirate and Osbie Feel are leaning on their roof-ledge, a
magnificent sunset across and up the winding river, the
imperial serpent, crowds of factories, flats, parks, smoky
spires and gables, incandescent sky casting downward
across the miles of deep streets and roofs cluttering and
âsinuous river Thames a drastic stain of burnt orange to
remind a visitor of his mortal transience here, to seal or
empty all the doors and windows in sight to his eyes
that look only for a bit of company, a word or two in the
street before he goes up to the soap-heavy smell of the
rented room and the squares of coral sunset on the floor-
boardsâan antique light, self-absorbed, fuel consumed in
the metered winter holocaust, the more distant shapes
among the threads or sheets of smoke now perfect ash
ruins of themselves, nearer windows, struck a moment by
the sun, not reflecting at all but containing the same de-
stroying light, this intense fading in which there is no
promise of return, light that rusts the government cars at
the curbsides, varnishes the last faces hurrying past the
shops in the cold as if a vast siren had finally sounded,
light that makes chilled untraveled canals of many streets,
and that fills with the starlings of London, converging by
millions to hazy stone pedestals, to emptying squares and
a great collective sleep. They flow in rings, concentric
rings on the radar screens.
The operators
call them
âangels.â
ne:
pepe
âHeâs haunting you,â Osbie puffing on an Amanita
cigarette.
'
âYes,â Pirate ranging the edges of the roof-garden,
irritable in the sunset, âbut itâs the last thing 1 want to
believe. The otherâs been bad enough. .. .â
âWhat dâyou think of her, then.â
<i
;
|
âSomeone can use her, I think,â having decided this
yesterday at Charing Cross Station when
she
left for âThe
White Visitation.â âAn unforeseen dividend, for some-
body.â
atic
âDo you know what they have in mind, down there?â
Only that theyâre brewing up something that involves
a giant octopus, But no one up here in London knows
a
The Fraudulent Schwarzkommando Film
- Gerhardt von Goll, a filmmaker of legendary status, is producing a fraudulent three-minute film featuring 'black rocketeers' in SS uniforms.
- The film uses white personnel in blackface and a single African soldier to create the fictional 'Schwarzkommando' unit for intelligence purposes.
- The footage is designed to be 'antiqued' with fungus and planted in Holland as fake evidence for the Dutch resistance to 'discover.'
- The operation, known as Black Wing, involves a complex web of market operations and exile governments amidst the chaos of the war.
- At 'The White Visitation,' the single available projector is shared between the propaganda team and researchers studying a giant octopus named Grigori.
- The film's legacy is later analyzed by critic Mitchell Prettyplace, who suggests its significance far exceeded von Goll's original intent.
The reel is threaded, the lights are switched off, Grigoriâs attention is directed to the screen, where an image already walks.
130
Gravityâs Rainsow
surer ignitionâbut he felt a nostalgia about the haak-
bus...he
didnât mind
the extra weight,
it was
his
crotchet. ...â
Pirate and Osbie Feel are leaning on their roof-ledge, a
magnificent sunset across and up the winding river, the
imperial serpent, crowds of factories, flats, parks, smoky
spires and gables, incandescent sky casting downward
across the miles of deep streets and roofs cluttering and
âsinuous river Thames a drastic stain of burnt orange to
remind a visitor of his mortal transience here, to seal or
empty all the doors and windows in sight to his eyes
that look only for a bit of company, a word or two in the
street before he goes up to the soap-heavy smell of the
rented room and the squares of coral sunset on the floor-
boardsâan antique light, self-absorbed, fuel consumed in
the metered winter holocaust, the more distant shapes
among the threads or sheets of smoke now perfect ash
ruins of themselves, nearer windows, struck a moment by
the sun, not reflecting at all but containing the same de-
stroying light, this intense fading in which there is no
promise of return, light that rusts the government cars at
the curbsides, varnishes the last faces hurrying past the
shops in the cold as if a vast siren had finally sounded,
light that makes chilled untraveled canals of many streets,
and that fills with the starlings of London, converging by
millions to hazy stone pedestals, to emptying squares and
a great collective sleep. They flow in rings, concentric
rings on the radar screens.
The operators
call them
âangels.â
ne:
pepe
âHeâs haunting you,â Osbie puffing on an Amanita
cigarette.
'
âYes,â Pirate ranging the edges of the roof-garden,
irritable in the sunset, âbut itâs the last thing 1 want to
believe. The otherâs been bad enough. .. .â
âWhat dâyou think of her, then.â
<i
;
|
âSomeone can use her, I think,â having decided this
yesterday at Charing Cross Station when
she
left for âThe
White Visitation.â âAn unforeseen dividend, for some-
body.â
atic
âDo you know what they have in mind, down there?â
Only that theyâre brewing up something that involves
a giant octopus, But no one up here in London knows
a
al ee
4
ext
Beyond the Zero
131
with any precision. Even at âThe White Visitationâ thereâs
this sudden great coming and going, and a swampy am-
biguity as to why. Myron Grunton is noted casting less
than comradely looks at Roger Mexico. The Zouave has
gone back to his unit in North Africa, back under the
Cross of Lorraine, all that the German might find sinister
âin his blackness recorded on film, sweet-talked or coerced
out of him by none less than Gerhardt von Goll, once an
intimate and still the equal of Lang, Pabst, Lubitsch, more
lately meshed in with the affairs of any number of exile
governments, fluctuations in currencies, the establishment
and disestablishment of an astonishing network of market
operations winking on, winking off across the embattled
continent, even as the firefights whistle steel up and down
the streets and the firestorms sweep oxygen up in the sky
and the customers fall smothered like bugs in the presence
of Flit...but commerce has not taken away von Gdllâs
Touch: these days it has grown more sensitive than ever.
In these first rushes the black man moves about in SS
uniform, among the lath and canvas mockups of rocket
and Meillerwagen (always shot through pines, through
snow, from distant angles that donât give away the En-
glish location), the others in plausible blackface, recruited
for the day, the whole crew on a lark, Mr. Pointsman,
Mexico, Edwin Treacle, and Rollo Groast, ARFâs resident
neurosurgeon Aaron Throwster,
all playing the black
rocketeers of the fictional Schwarzkommandoâeven Myron
âGrunton in a nonspeaking role, a blurry extra like the rest
of them. Running time of the film is three minutes, 25
seconds and there are twelve shots. It will be antiqued,
given a bit of fungus and ferrotyping, and transported to
Holland, to become part of the âremainsâ of a counterfeit
tocket-firing site in the Rijkswijksche Bosch, The Dutch
resistance will then âraidâ this site, making a lot of com-
motion, faking in tire-tracks and detailing the litter of
âgg departure. The inside of an Army lorry will be gutted
Molotov cocktails; among ashes, charred clothing,
Bows and slightly melted gin bottles, will be found
fragments of carefully forged Schwarzkommando docu-
ments, and of a reel of film, only three minutes and 25
i
of which will be viewable. Von Goll, with a
face, proclaims it to be his greatest work.
132
Gravity's Rainsow
âIndeed, as things were to develop,â writes noted film
critic Mitchell Prettyplace, âone cannot argue much with
his estimate, though for vastly different reasons than von
Goll might have given or even from his peculiar vantage
foreseen.â
At âThe White Visitation,â because of erratic funding,
there is only one film projector. Each day, about noon,
after the Operation Black Wing people have watched their
fraudulent African rocket troops, Webley Silvernail comes
to carry the projector back down the chilly scuffed-wood
corridors again to the ARF wing, in to the inner room
where octopus Grigori oozes sullenly in his tank. In other
rooms the dogs whine, bark shrilly in pain, whimper for a
stimulus that does not, will never come, and the snow goes
whirling, invisible tattooing needles against the nerveless
window
glass behind the green shades. The reel is
threaded, the lights are switched off, Grigoriâs attention is
directed to the screen, where an image already walks. The
camera follows as she moves deliberately nowhere long-
legged about the rooms,
an adolescent wideness and
hunching to the shoulders, her hair not bluntly Dutch at
all, but secured in a modish upsweep with an old, tarnished
silver crown....
EB
It was very early morning. He stumbled out alone into a
wet brick street. Southward the barrage balloons, surf-
riders on the combers of morning, were glowing, pink and
pearl, in the sunrise.
They've cut Slothrop loose again, heâs back on the
street, shit, last chance for a Section 8 ânâ he blew it....
_ Why didnât they keep him on at that nut ward for as
long as they said they wouldâwasnât it supposed to be a
few weeks? No explanationâjust âCheerio!â and the onion-
skin sending him back to that ACHTUNG. The Kenosha
Kid, and that Crouchfield the Westwardman and his side-
kick Whappo have been all his world for these recent days
... there were still problems to be worked out, adventures
not yet completed, coercions and vast deals to be made on
the order of the old womanâs arrangement for getting het
a
iN
Slothrop's Return to London
- Tyrone Slothrop is unexpectedly released from the St. Veronicaâs psychiatric ward and returned to his duties at ACHTUNG.
- He experiences a growing sense of paranoia, feeling that he is being watched and systematically isolated from his former life.
- Subtle anomalies, such as moved items on his desk and silent moviegoers behind him, suggest a coordinated surveillance effort.
- To escape the feeling of being trapped in his cubicle, Slothrop wanders the East End and Thameside to lose potential followers.
- A chance encounter with Darlene, a nurse from the hospital, leads him to the home of the eccentric and sickly Mrs. Quoad.
- The atmosphere of London is depicted as both beautiful and decaying, marked by barrage balloons and the rank air of the docks.
He feels heâs being gently separated from the life he lived âbefore going into St. Veronicaâs.
132
Gravity's Rainsow
âIndeed, as things were to develop,â writes noted film
critic Mitchell Prettyplace, âone cannot argue much with
his estimate, though for vastly different reasons than von
Goll might have given or even from his peculiar vantage
foreseen.â
At âThe White Visitation,â because of erratic funding,
there is only one film projector. Each day, about noon,
after the Operation Black Wing people have watched their
fraudulent African rocket troops, Webley Silvernail comes
to carry the projector back down the chilly scuffed-wood
corridors again to the ARF wing, in to the inner room
where octopus Grigori oozes sullenly in his tank. In other
rooms the dogs whine, bark shrilly in pain, whimper for a
stimulus that does not, will never come, and the snow goes
whirling, invisible tattooing needles against the nerveless
window
glass behind the green shades. The reel is
threaded, the lights are switched off, Grigoriâs attention is
directed to the screen, where an image already walks. The
camera follows as she moves deliberately nowhere long-
legged about the rooms,
an adolescent wideness and
hunching to the shoulders, her hair not bluntly Dutch at
all, but secured in a modish upsweep with an old, tarnished
silver crown....
EB
It was very early morning. He stumbled out alone into a
wet brick street. Southward the barrage balloons, surf-
riders on the combers of morning, were glowing, pink and
pearl, in the sunrise.
They've cut Slothrop loose again, heâs back on the
street, shit, last chance for a Section 8 ânâ he blew it....
_ Why didnât they keep him on at that nut ward for as
long as they said they wouldâwasnât it supposed to be a
few weeks? No explanationâjust âCheerio!â and the onion-
skin sending him back to that ACHTUNG. The Kenosha
Kid, and that Crouchfield the Westwardman and his side-
kick Whappo have been all his world for these recent days
... there were still problems to be worked out, adventures
not yet completed, coercions and vast deals to be made on
the order of the old womanâs arrangement for getting het
a
iN
- Beyond the Zero
133
pig home over the stile. But now, rudely, hereâs that
âLondon again.
But somethingâs different
.
.
. somethingâs
.
.
. been
changed ... donât mean to bitch, folks, butâwell for in-
stance he could almost swear heâs being followed, or
watched anyway. Some of the tails are pretty slick, but
others he can spot, all right. Xmas shopping yesterday at
that Woolworthâs, he caught a certain pair of beady eyes
in the toy section, past a heap of balso-wood fighter planes
and little-kid-size Enfields. A hint of constancy to what
shows up in the rearview mirror of his Humber, no color
or model he can pin down but something always present
inside the tiny frame, has led him to start checking out
other cars when he goes off on a morningâs work. Things
on his desk at ACHTUNG seem not to be where they
were. Girls have found excuses not to keep appointments.
He feels heâs being gently separated from the life he lived
âbefore going into St. Veronicaâs. Even in movies thereâs
always someone behind him being careful not to talk,
rattle paper, laugh too loud: Slothropâs been to enough
movies that he can pick up an anomaly like that right
away.
The cubicle near Grosvenor Square begins to feel more
and more like a trap. He spends his time, often whole
days, ranging the East End, breathing the rank air of
Thameside, seeking places the followers might not follow.
One day, just as heâs entering a narrow street all an-
cient brick walls and lined with costermongers, he hears his
âname calledâand hubba hubba whatâs this then, here she
comes
all right, blonde hair flying in telltales, white
-wedgies clattering on cobblestones, an adorable tomato in
a nurse uniform, and her nameâs, uh, well, ohâDarlene.
Golly, itâs Darlene. She works at St. Veronicaâs hospital,
lives nearby at the home of a Mrs. Quoad, a lady widowed
long ago and since
suffering
a series
of antiquated
esâ-greensickness,
tetter,
kibes,
purples, impost-
humes and almonds in the ears, most recently a touch of
Scurvy. So, out in search of limes for her landlady, the
fruit beginning to jog and spill from her straw basket and
roll yellowgreen back down the street, young Darlene
comes running her nurseâs cap, her breasts soft fenders for
this meeting on the gray city sea.
\
»
:
>
134
Gravity's Rainsow
-
âYou come back! Ah Tyrone, you're back,â a tear or two,
both of them down picking up citrus, the starch khaki
dress rattling, even the odd sniffle from Slothropâs not
unsentimental nose.
âItâs me love...â
Tire tracks in the slush have turned to pearl, mellow
pearl. Gulls cruise slowly against the high windowless
brick walls of the district.
Mrs. Quoadâs is up three dark flights, with the dome of
faraway St. Paulâs out its kitchen window visible in the
smoke of certain afternoons, and the lady herself tiny in a
rose plush chair in the sitting-room by the wireless, listen-
ing to Primo Scalaâs Accordion Band. She looks healthy
enough. On the table, though, is her crumpled chiffon
handkerchief: feathered blots of blood in and out the con-
volutions like a floral pattern.
âYou were here when I had that horrid quotidian ague,â
she recalls Slothrop, âthe day we brewed the wormwood
tea,â sure enough, the very taste now, rising through his
shoe-soles, taking him along. Theyâre reassembling... it
must be outside his memory...cool clean interior, girl
and woman, independent of his shorthand of stars «++ 80
many fading-faced girls, windy canalsides, bed-sitters, bus-
stop good-bys, how can he be expected to remember? but
this room has gone on clarifying: part of whoever he was
inside it has kindly remained, stored quiescent these
months outside of his head, distributed through the grainy
shadows, the grease-hazy jars of herbs, candies, spices, all
the Compton Mackenzie novels on the shelf, glassy ambro-
types of her late husband Austin night-dusted inside gilded
frames up on the mantel where last time Michaelmas
daisies greeted and razzled from a little Sévres vase she
and Austin found together one Saturday long ago in a
Wardour Street shop. .
âHe was my good health,â she often says. âSince he
passed away Iâve had to become all but an outright witch,
in pure self-defense.â From the kitchen
comes the smell of
limes freshly cut and squeezed, Darleneâs in and out of
the room, looking for different botanicals,
asking where the
cheeseclothâs got to, âTyrone help me just reach down
thatâno next to it, the tall jar, thank you loveââback
into the kitchen in a creak of starch, a flash of pink. âI'm
the only one with a memory around here,â Mrs. Quoad
The Marmalade Surprise
- Slothrop returns to the home of Mrs. Quoad, a woman who claims to have turned to witchcraft for self-defense following her husband's death.
- The setting is a sensory-heavy interior filled with herbs, spices, and memories that seem to exist independently of Slothrop's own fading recollection.
- The narrative highlights a cultural divide between American and British palates, specifically regarding the 'weird' and often stomach-turning tastes of English confections.
- Slothrop is subjected to a series of bizarre treats, including wine jellies flavored with menthol and a bitter, mysterious botanical brew.
- The experience culminates in the 'Marmalade Surprise,' a candy with a repulsive liquid center consisting of mayonnaise and orange peels.
But just as heâs biting in, Darlene gives him, and it, a peculiar look, great timing this girl, sez, âOh, I thought we got rid of all thoseââ
134
Gravity's Rainsow
-
âYou come back! Ah Tyrone, you're back,â a tear or two,
both of them down picking up citrus, the starch khaki
dress rattling, even the odd sniffle from Slothropâs not
unsentimental nose.
âItâs me love...â
Tire tracks in the slush have turned to pearl, mellow
pearl. Gulls cruise slowly against the high windowless
brick walls of the district.
Mrs. Quoadâs is up three dark flights, with the dome of
faraway St. Paulâs out its kitchen window visible in the
smoke of certain afternoons, and the lady herself tiny in a
rose plush chair in the sitting-room by the wireless, listen-
ing to Primo Scalaâs Accordion Band. She looks healthy
enough. On the table, though, is her crumpled chiffon
handkerchief: feathered blots of blood in and out the con-
volutions like a floral pattern.
âYou were here when I had that horrid quotidian ague,â
she recalls Slothrop, âthe day we brewed the wormwood
tea,â sure enough, the very taste now, rising through his
shoe-soles, taking him along. Theyâre reassembling... it
must be outside his memory...cool clean interior, girl
and woman, independent of his shorthand of stars «++ 80
many fading-faced girls, windy canalsides, bed-sitters, bus-
stop good-bys, how can he be expected to remember? but
this room has gone on clarifying: part of whoever he was
inside it has kindly remained, stored quiescent these
months outside of his head, distributed through the grainy
shadows, the grease-hazy jars of herbs, candies, spices, all
the Compton Mackenzie novels on the shelf, glassy ambro-
types of her late husband Austin night-dusted inside gilded
frames up on the mantel where last time Michaelmas
daisies greeted and razzled from a little Sévres vase she
and Austin found together one Saturday long ago in a
Wardour Street shop. .
âHe was my good health,â she often says. âSince he
passed away Iâve had to become all but an outright witch,
in pure self-defense.â From the kitchen
comes the smell of
limes freshly cut and squeezed, Darleneâs in and out of
the room, looking for different botanicals,
asking where the
cheeseclothâs got to, âTyrone help me just reach down
thatâno next to it, the tall jar, thank you loveââback
into the kitchen in a creak of starch, a flash of pink. âI'm
the only one with a memory around here,â Mrs. Quoad
Beyond the Zero
135
sighs. âWe help each other, you see.â She brings out from
behind its cretonne camouflage a great bowl of candles.
âNow,â beaming at Slothrop. âHere: wine jellies. They're
prewar.â
âNow I remember youâthe one with the graft at the
Ministry of Supply!â but he knows, from last time, that no
gallantry can help him now, After that visit he wrote home
âto Nalline: âThe English are kind of weird when it comes
to the way things taste, Mom. They arenât like us. It
might be the climate. They go for things we would never
dream of. Sometimes it is enough to tur your stomach,
boy. The other day I had one of these things they call
âwine jellies.â Thatâs their idea of candy, Mom! Figure
out a way to feed some to that Hitler ânâ I betcha the
war'd be over tomorrow!â Now once again he finds him-
self checking out these ruddy gelatin objects, nodding, he
hopes amiably, at Mrs. Quoad. They have the names of
different wines within on them in bas-relief.
âJust a touch of menthol too,â Mrs. Quoad popping one
into her mouth. âDelicious.â
Slothrop finally chooses one that says Lafitte Rothschild
and stuffs it on into his kisser. âOh yeah. Yeah. Mmm. Itâs
great.â
âIf you really want something peculiar try the Bernkast-
ler Doktor. Oh! Arenât you the one who brought me those
lovely American slimy elm things, maple-tasting with a
touch of sassafrasââ
âSlippery elm. Jeepers Iâm sorry, I ran out yesterday.â
Darlene comes in with a steaming pot and three cups on
a tray. âWhatâs that?â Slothrop a little quickly, here.
âYou donât really want to know, Tyrone.â
âQuite right,â after the first sip, wishing sheâd used
more lime juice or something to kill the basic taste, which
is ghastly-bitter. These people are really insane. No sugar,
natch. He reaches in the candy bowl, comes up with a
black, ribbed licorice drop. It looks safe. But just as heâs
biting in, Darlene gives him, and it, a peculiar look, great
timing this girl, sez, âOh, I thought we got rid of all
thoseââ a blithe, Gilbert & Sullivan ingenueâs thewseâ
"8 ago,â at which point Slothrop is encountering this
dribbling liquid center, which tastes like mayonnaise and
orange peels.
âYou've taken the last of my Marmalade Surprises!â
136
Gravity's RAInBow
cries Mrs. Quoad, having now with conjurorâs speed pro-
duced an egg-shaped confection of pastel green, studded all
over with lavender nonpareils. âJust for that I shanât let you
have any of these marvelous rhubarb creams.â Into her
mouth it goes, the whole thing.
âServes me right,â Slothrop, wondering just what he
means by this, sipping herb tea to remove the taste of the
mayonnaise candyâoops but thatâs a mistake, right, hereâs
his mouth filling once again with horrible alkaloid desola-
tion, all the way back to the soft palate where it digs in,
Darlene, pure Nightingale compassion, is handing him a
hard red candy, molded like a stylized raspberry... mm,
which oddly enough even tastes like a raspberry, though
it canât begin to take away that bitterness. Impatiently, he
bites into it, and in the act knows, fucking idiot, heâs been
had once more, there comes pouring out onto his tongue
the most godawful crystalline concentration of Jeez it
must be pure nitric acid, âOh mercy thatâs really sour,â
hardly able to get the words out heâs so puckered up,
exactly the sort of thing Hop Harrigan used to pull to get
Tank Tinker to quit playing his ocarina, a shabby trick
then and twice as reprehensible coming from an old lady
whoâs supposed to be one of our Allies, shit: he canât even
see itâs up his nose and whatever it is won't dissolve, just
goes on torturing his shriveling tongue and crunches like
ground glass among his molars. Mrs. Quoad is meantime
busy savoring, bite by dainty bite, a cherry-quinine petit
four. She beams at the young people across the candy
bowl. Slothrop, forgetting, reaches again for his tea. There
is no graceful way out of this now. Darlene has brought a
couple-three more candy jars down off the shelf, and now
he goes plunging, like a joumey to the center of some
small, hostile planet, into an enormous bonbon chomp
through the mantle of chocolate to a strongly eucalyptus-
flavored fondant, finally into a core of some very tough
grape gum arabic. He fingemails a piece of this out from
between his teeth and stares at it for a while. It is purple
in color.
âNow you're getting the idealâ Mrs.
Quoad waving at
him a marbled conglomerate of ginger root, butterscotch,
and aniseed, âyou see, you also have to enjoy the way i
looks. Why are Americans so impulsive?â
(sae
:
a)
The Candy Shop Holocaust
- Slothrop endures a series of increasingly bizarre and repulsive British confections offered by Mrs. Quoad and Darlene.
- The candies are described with visceral, chemical intensity, featuring flavors like nitric acid, camphor, and eucalyptus.
- The scene highlights a cultural clash between Slothrop's simple American palate and the complex, often hostile British sweets.
- Many of the candies are shaped like military weaponry, reflecting the pervasive influence of the war on domestic life.
- The women treat Slothrop's physical distress as a game, mocking his lack of 'backbone' during the sensory assault.
Slothropâs head begins to reel with camphor fumes, his eyes are running, his tongueâs a hopeless holocaust.
136
Gravity's RAInBow
cries Mrs. Quoad, having now with conjurorâs speed pro-
duced an egg-shaped confection of pastel green, studded all
over with lavender nonpareils. âJust for that I shanât let you
have any of these marvelous rhubarb creams.â Into her
mouth it goes, the whole thing.
âServes me right,â Slothrop, wondering just what he
means by this, sipping herb tea to remove the taste of the
mayonnaise candyâoops but thatâs a mistake, right, hereâs
his mouth filling once again with horrible alkaloid desola-
tion, all the way back to the soft palate where it digs in,
Darlene, pure Nightingale compassion, is handing him a
hard red candy, molded like a stylized raspberry... mm,
which oddly enough even tastes like a raspberry, though
it canât begin to take away that bitterness. Impatiently, he
bites into it, and in the act knows, fucking idiot, heâs been
had once more, there comes pouring out onto his tongue
the most godawful crystalline concentration of Jeez it
must be pure nitric acid, âOh mercy thatâs really sour,â
hardly able to get the words out heâs so puckered up,
exactly the sort of thing Hop Harrigan used to pull to get
Tank Tinker to quit playing his ocarina, a shabby trick
then and twice as reprehensible coming from an old lady
whoâs supposed to be one of our Allies, shit: he canât even
see itâs up his nose and whatever it is won't dissolve, just
goes on torturing his shriveling tongue and crunches like
ground glass among his molars. Mrs. Quoad is meantime
busy savoring, bite by dainty bite, a cherry-quinine petit
four. She beams at the young people across the candy
bowl. Slothrop, forgetting, reaches again for his tea. There
is no graceful way out of this now. Darlene has brought a
couple-three more candy jars down off the shelf, and now
he goes plunging, like a joumey to the center of some
small, hostile planet, into an enormous bonbon chomp
through the mantle of chocolate to a strongly eucalyptus-
flavored fondant, finally into a core of some very tough
grape gum arabic. He fingemails a piece of this out from
between his teeth and stares at it for a while. It is purple
in color.
âNow you're getting the idealâ Mrs.
Quoad waving at
him a marbled conglomerate of ginger root, butterscotch,
and aniseed, âyou see, you also have to enjoy the way i
looks. Why are Americans so impulsive?â
(sae
:
a)
Beyond the Zero
137
âWell,â mumbling, âusually we donât get any more com-
plicated âthan Hershey bars, see.
'
âOh, try this,â hollers Darlene, âclutching her throat and
swaying against him.
âGosh, it must really be something,â doubtfully taking
this nasty-looking brownish novelty, an exact quarter-scale
replica of a Mills-type hand grenade, lever, pin and every-
thing, one of a series of patriotic candies put out before
sugar was quite so scarce, also including, he notices, peer-
ing into the jar, a .455 Webley cartridge of green and pink
striped taffy, a six-ton earthquake bomb of some silver-
flecked blue gelatin, and a licorice bazooka.
âGo on then,â Darlene actually taking his hand with the
candy in it and trying to shove it into his mouth.
âWas just, you know, looking at it, the way Mrs. Quoad
suggested.â
_
âAnd no fair squeezing it, Tyrone.â
Under its tamarind glaze, the Mills bomb out to be
luscious pepsin-flavored nougat, chock-full of tangy can-
died cubeb berries, and a chewy camphor-gum center. It
is unspeakably awful. Slothropâs head begins to reel with
camphor fumes, his eyes are running, his tongueâs a hope-
less holocaust. Cubeb? He used to smoke that stuff. âPoi-
soned ...â he is able to croak.
âShow a little backbone,â advises Mrs. Quoad.
âYes,â Darlene through tongue-softened sheets of cara-
mel, âdonât you know thereâs a war on? Here now love,
âopen your mouth.â
| Through the tears he canât see it too well, but he can
hear Mrs. Quoad across the table going âYum, yum, yum,â
and Darlene giggling. It is enormous and soft, like a
marshmallow, but somehowâunless something is now
going seriously wrong with his brainâit tastes like gin.
âWhaâs âis,â he inquires thickly.
âA gin marshmallow,â sez Mrs. Quoad.
âAwww...â
âOh thatâs nothing, have one of theseââ his teeth, in
some perverse reflex, crunching now through a hard sour
Qooseberry shell into a wet spurting unpleasantness of, he
hopes itâs tapioca, little glutinous chunks of something all
Saturated with powdered cloves.
ua
„
4 i
The Disgusting English Candy Drill
- Slothrop endures a series of bizarre and repulsive English confections provided by Mrs. Quoad, including gin marshmallows and clove-saturated tapioca.
- The experience of consuming a Meggezone coughdrop is described as a violent, freezing sensory assault that leaves Slothrop's head floating in a 'halo of ice.'
- The narrative introduces the 'Fire of Paradise,' a rare and protean candy with shifting flavors that resembles descriptions of poison gases in military manuals.
- The Fire of Paradise is portrayed as 'operationally extinct' in 1945, found only in obscure shops alongside forgotten mechanical and musical artifacts.
- The scene transitions into a post-confectionary haze where Slothrop and Darlene rest together as the day fades into a cool, watery twilight.
- Mrs. Quoad drifts into a dream of royalty and miracles, imagining a king curing her of 'Kingâs Evil' amidst a thunderstorm in Bournemouth.
The Meggezone is like being belted in the head with a Swiss Alp. Menthol icicles immediately begin to grow from the roof of Slothropâs mouth.
Beyond the Zero
137
âWell,â mumbling, âusually we donât get any more com-
plicated âthan Hershey bars, see.
'
âOh, try this,â hollers Darlene, âclutching her throat and
swaying against him.
âGosh, it must really be something,â doubtfully taking
this nasty-looking brownish novelty, an exact quarter-scale
replica of a Mills-type hand grenade, lever, pin and every-
thing, one of a series of patriotic candies put out before
sugar was quite so scarce, also including, he notices, peer-
ing into the jar, a .455 Webley cartridge of green and pink
striped taffy, a six-ton earthquake bomb of some silver-
flecked blue gelatin, and a licorice bazooka.
âGo on then,â Darlene actually taking his hand with the
candy in it and trying to shove it into his mouth.
âWas just, you know, looking at it, the way Mrs. Quoad
suggested.â
_
âAnd no fair squeezing it, Tyrone.â
Under its tamarind glaze, the Mills bomb out to be
luscious pepsin-flavored nougat, chock-full of tangy can-
died cubeb berries, and a chewy camphor-gum center. It
is unspeakably awful. Slothropâs head begins to reel with
camphor fumes, his eyes are running, his tongueâs a hope-
less holocaust. Cubeb? He used to smoke that stuff. âPoi-
soned ...â he is able to croak.
âShow a little backbone,â advises Mrs. Quoad.
âYes,â Darlene through tongue-softened sheets of cara-
mel, âdonât you know thereâs a war on? Here now love,
âopen your mouth.â
| Through the tears he canât see it too well, but he can
hear Mrs. Quoad across the table going âYum, yum, yum,â
and Darlene giggling. It is enormous and soft, like a
marshmallow, but somehowâunless something is now
going seriously wrong with his brainâit tastes like gin.
âWhaâs âis,â he inquires thickly.
âA gin marshmallow,â sez Mrs. Quoad.
âAwww...â
âOh thatâs nothing, have one of theseââ his teeth, in
some perverse reflex, crunching now through a hard sour
Qooseberry shell into a wet spurting unpleasantness of, he
hopes itâs tapioca, little glutinous chunks of something all
Saturated with powdered cloves.
ua
„
4 i
138
Gravityâs Ramnsow
âMore tea?â Darlene suggests. Slothrop is coughing
violently, having inhaled some of that clove filling.
âNasty cough,â Mrs. Quoad offering a tin of that least
believable of English coughdrops, the Meggezone. âDar-
lene, the tea is lovely, I can feel my scurvy going away,
really I can.â
The Meggezone is like being belted in the head with a
Swiss Alp. Menthol icicles immediately begin to grow from
the roof of Slothropâs mouth. Polar bears seek toenail-holds
up the freezing frosty-grape alveolar clusters in his lungs.
It hurts his teeth too much to breathe, even through his
nose, even, necktie loosened, with his nose down inside
the neck of his olive-drab T-shirt, Benzoin vapors seep
into his brain. His head floats in a halo of ice.
Even an hour later, the Meggezone still lingers, a mint
ghost in the air. Slothrop lies with Darlene, the Disgusting
- English Candy Drill a thing of the past, his groin now
against her warm bottom. The one candy he did not get
to tasteâone Mrs. Quoad withheldâwas the Fire of
Paradise, that famous confection of high price and pro-
tean tasteââsalted plumâ to one, âartificial cherryâ to
another ..
. âsugared violetsâ . .
. âWorcestershire sauceâ
.. âspiced treacleâ... any number of like descriptions,
positive, terseânever exceeding two words in lengthâre-
sembling the descriptions of poison and debilitating gases
found in training manuals, âsweet-and-sour eggplantâ be-
ing perhaps the lengthiest to date. The Fire of Paradise
âtoday is operationally extinct, and in 1945 can hardly be
found: certainly nowhere among the sunlit shops and
polished windows of Bond Street or waste Belgravia. But
every now and then one will surface, in places which deal
usually other merchandise than sweets: at rest, back in-
side big glass jars clouded by the days, along with objects
like itself, sometimes only one candy to a whole jar, nearly
hidden in the ambient tourmalines in German gold, carved
ebony finger-stalls from the last century, pegs, valve-pieces,
threaded hardware from obscure musical instruments, elec-
tronic components of resin and copper that the War,
in its
glutton, ever-nibbling intake, has not yet found and licked
back into its darkness. ... Places where
the motors never
come close enough to be loud, and there are trees outside
along the street. Inner rooms and older faces developing
Beyond the Zero
139
under light falling through a skylight, yellower, later in
the year....
Hunting across the zero between waking and sleep, his
halfway limp cock still inside her, their strengthless legs
bent the same angle... The bedroom deepens into water
and coolness. Somewhere the sun is going down. Just
enough light to see the darker freckles on her back. In the
parlor Mrs. Quoad is dreaming sheâs back in the gardens
at Bournemouth, among the rhododendrons, and a sudden
rain, Austin crying Touch her throat, Majesty. Touch! and
Yrj6âa pretender but the true king, for a very doubtful
branch of the family usurped the throne in 1878 during
the intrigues over BessarabiaâYrj6 in an old-fashioned
frock coat with golden galloons shining at the sleeves,
bending toward her in the rain to cure her forever of
Kingâs Evil, looking exactly as he does in the rotogravure,
his lovely Hrisoula a step or two behind kindly, seriously
waiting, around them the rain thundering down, the Kingâs
white ungloved hand bending like a butterfly to touch the
hollow of Mrs. Quoadâs throat, the miracle touch, gently
+» touch...
The lightningâ
And Slothrop is yawning âWhat time is it?â and Dar-
lene is swimming
up from. sleep. When, with no warning,
the room is full of noon, blinding white, every hair flowing
up from her nape clear as day, as the concussion drives in
on them, rattling the building to its poor bones, beating
in the windowshade, gone all to white and black lattice of
mourning-cards. Overhead, catching up, the rocketâs rush
comes swelling, elevated express down, away into ringing
silence. Outside glass has been breaking, long, dissonant
cymbals up the street. The floor has twitched like a shaken
carpet, and the bed with it. Slothropâs penis has sprung
erect, aching. To Darlene, suddenly awake, heart pound-
ing fast, palms and fingers in fearâs pain, this hardon has
seemed reasonably part of the white light, the loud blast.
By the time the explosion has died to red strong flickering
on the shade, sheâs begun to wonder... about the two
together... but they're fucking now, and what does it
matter, but Godâs sake why shouldn't this stupid Blitz be
good for something?
. And whoâs that, through the crack in the orange shade,
7
~ a
Love Amidst the Blitz
- A V-2 rocket strike interrupts Slothrop and Darlene's sleep, creating a surreal moment where the violence of the explosion triggers a physiological sexual response.
- Darlene reflects on the utility of the Blitz, wondering if the terror of the war can be repurposed for personal intimacy or pleasure.
- The narrative shifts to Roger Mexico and Jessica Swanlake, detailing the intense, almost instantaneous physical and emotional connection of their first encounter.
- Roger experiences a profound, uncontrollable love for Jessica that manifests as a physical sensation of warmth and 'heart-erection' even when they are apart.
- Roger suffers from obsessive jealousy regarding Jessica's other lover, Jeremy (Beaver), agonizing over the technical details of their sexual intimacy.
- Despite the intensity of their bond, the actual time Roger and Jessica have spent together is remarkably brief, measured only in hours.
The floor has twitched like a shaken carpet, and the bed with it. Slothropâs penis has sprung erect, aching.
Beyond the Zero
139
under light falling through a skylight, yellower, later in
the year....
Hunting across the zero between waking and sleep, his
halfway limp cock still inside her, their strengthless legs
bent the same angle... The bedroom deepens into water
and coolness. Somewhere the sun is going down. Just
enough light to see the darker freckles on her back. In the
parlor Mrs. Quoad is dreaming sheâs back in the gardens
at Bournemouth, among the rhododendrons, and a sudden
rain, Austin crying Touch her throat, Majesty. Touch! and
Yrj6âa pretender but the true king, for a very doubtful
branch of the family usurped the throne in 1878 during
the intrigues over BessarabiaâYrj6 in an old-fashioned
frock coat with golden galloons shining at the sleeves,
bending toward her in the rain to cure her forever of
Kingâs Evil, looking exactly as he does in the rotogravure,
his lovely Hrisoula a step or two behind kindly, seriously
waiting, around them the rain thundering down, the Kingâs
white ungloved hand bending like a butterfly to touch the
hollow of Mrs. Quoadâs throat, the miracle touch, gently
+» touch...
The lightningâ
And Slothrop is yawning âWhat time is it?â and Dar-
lene is swimming
up from. sleep. When, with no warning,
the room is full of noon, blinding white, every hair flowing
up from her nape clear as day, as the concussion drives in
on them, rattling the building to its poor bones, beating
in the windowshade, gone all to white and black lattice of
mourning-cards. Overhead, catching up, the rocketâs rush
comes swelling, elevated express down, away into ringing
silence. Outside glass has been breaking, long, dissonant
cymbals up the street. The floor has twitched like a shaken
carpet, and the bed with it. Slothropâs penis has sprung
erect, aching. To Darlene, suddenly awake, heart pound-
ing fast, palms and fingers in fearâs pain, this hardon has
seemed reasonably part of the white light, the loud blast.
By the time the explosion has died to red strong flickering
on the shade, sheâs begun to wonder... about the two
together... but they're fucking now, and what does it
matter, but Godâs sake why shouldn't this stupid Blitz be
good for something?
. And whoâs that, through the crack in the orange shade,
7
~ a
140
Gravity's RAINBow
breathing carefully? Watching? And where, keepers of
maps, specialists at surveillance, would you say the next
one will fall?
O
The very first touch: heâd been saying something mean, a
bit of the usual Mexico self-reproachâah you donât know
me Iâm really a bastard sort of thingââNo,â sheâ went to
put her fingers to his lips, âdonât say that....â As she
reached, without thinking he grabbed her waist, moved
her hand away, pure defenseâbut kept holding her, by
the wrist. They were eyes-to-eyes, and neither would look
away. Roger brought her hand to his lips and kissed it
then, still watching her eyes. A pause, his heart in sharp
knocks against the front of his chest...âOhh...â the
sound rushing out of her, and she came in to hug him,
completely let-go, open, shivering as they held each other.
She told him later that as soon as he took her wrist that
night, she came. And the first time he touched her cunt,
squeezed Jessicaâs soft cunt through her knickers, the
trembling began again high in her thighs, growing, taking
her over. She came twice before cock was ever officially
put inside cunt, and this is important to both of them
though neither has figured out why, exactly.
Whenever it happens, though, the light always gets very
red for them.
Once they met at a cashes? she was wearing a red
sweater with short sleeves, and her bare arms glowed red
by her sides. She hadnât any make-up on, the first time
heâd seen her so. Walking to the car, she takes his hand
and puts it, for a moment, lightly between her moving
âlegs. Rogerâs heart grows erect, and comes, Thatâs really
how it feels. Up sharply to skin level in a V around his
centerline, washing over his nipples...it is love, it is
amazing. Even when she isnât there, after a dream, at a
face in the street that might against eh be Jessica's,
Roger can never control it, heâs in its gr.
About Beaver, or Jeremy, as he is known
to his mother,
Roger tries not to think any more than he has to, Of course
he agonizes over technical matters. She cannot possiblyâ_
Beyond the Zero
141
can she?âbe Doing The Same Things with Jeremy. Does
Jeremy ever kiss her cunt, for example? Could that prig
actuallyâdoes she reach around as they're fucking a-and
slide a mischievous finger, his English rose, into Jeremyâs
asshole? Stop, stop this (but does she suck his cock? Has
âhe ever had his habitually insolent face between her lovely
buttocks?) no use, itâs youthful folly time here and you're
better of up at the Tivoli watching Maria Montez and
Jon Hall, or looking for leopards or peccaries in Regents
/Park Zoo, and wondering if it'll rain before 4:30.
_ The time Roger and Jessica have spent together, totaled
up, still only comes to hours. And all their spoken words
to less than one average SHAEF memorandum. And there
is no way, first time in his career, that the statistician can
make these figures mean anything.
Together they are a long skin interface, flowing sweat,
âclose-as muscles and bones can press, hardly a word be-
-yond her name, or his.
Apart is for all their flip flim-dialogue, scenarios they
make up to play alone for themselves in the nights with
the Bofors door-knocking against her sky, with his wind
humming among the loops of barbed wire down along the
beach. The Mayfair Hotel. âWe are quite the jet-propelled
one arenât we, only half an hour late.â
âWell,â Wrens and NAAFI girls, jeweled young widows
side-glancing on by, âIâm sure you've put the time to good
us
e.â
__
âTime enough for several assignations,â he replies, look-
ing elaborately at his watch, worn WW II styleâon the
inside of his wrist, âand by now, I should say, a con-
firmed pregnancy or two, if not indeedâ
âAh,â she blithely jumps (but upward, not on), âthat
reminds me...
__
âYaaahhh!â Roger reeling back to a potted plant, among
the lilting saxophones of Roland Peachey and his Orchestra
playing âThere, I Said It Again,â and cowering.
âSo, thatâs on your mind. If mind is the word I want.â
_ They-confuse everyone. They look so innocent. People
immediately want to protect them: censoring themselves
âaway from talk of death, business, duplicity when Roger
Jessica are there. Itâs all shortages, pongs and boy
friends, films and blouses...
dS
af
ie
The Intimacy of Roger and Jessica
- The intense physical connection between Roger and Jessica defies statistical measurement or bureaucratic documentation.
- The couple maintains a public persona of 'flip flim-dialogue' and playful scenarios to mask the isolation of their nights.
- Their apparent innocence leads others to protect them from the harsh realities of war, death, and duplicity.
- Private moments are characterized by a profound, almost childlike vulnerability and sensory-rich domesticity.
- Jessica experiences intrusive, spontaneous mental imagery that flashes across her mind during their quiet moments together.
- The narrative contrasts their spontaneous, sometimes reckless behaviorâlike Jessica removing her blouse on a dareâwith the stiff traditions of the era.
They confuse everyone. They look so innocent. People immediately want to protect them: censoring themselves away from talk of death, business, duplicity when Roger and Jessica are there.
Beyond the Zero
141
can she?âbe Doing The Same Things with Jeremy. Does
Jeremy ever kiss her cunt, for example? Could that prig
actuallyâdoes she reach around as they're fucking a-and
slide a mischievous finger, his English rose, into Jeremyâs
asshole? Stop, stop this (but does she suck his cock? Has
âhe ever had his habitually insolent face between her lovely
buttocks?) no use, itâs youthful folly time here and you're
better of up at the Tivoli watching Maria Montez and
Jon Hall, or looking for leopards or peccaries in Regents
/Park Zoo, and wondering if it'll rain before 4:30.
_ The time Roger and Jessica have spent together, totaled
up, still only comes to hours. And all their spoken words
to less than one average SHAEF memorandum. And there
is no way, first time in his career, that the statistician can
make these figures mean anything.
Together they are a long skin interface, flowing sweat,
âclose-as muscles and bones can press, hardly a word be-
-yond her name, or his.
Apart is for all their flip flim-dialogue, scenarios they
make up to play alone for themselves in the nights with
the Bofors door-knocking against her sky, with his wind
humming among the loops of barbed wire down along the
beach. The Mayfair Hotel. âWe are quite the jet-propelled
one arenât we, only half an hour late.â
âWell,â Wrens and NAAFI girls, jeweled young widows
side-glancing on by, âIâm sure you've put the time to good
us
e.â
__
âTime enough for several assignations,â he replies, look-
ing elaborately at his watch, worn WW II styleâon the
inside of his wrist, âand by now, I should say, a con-
firmed pregnancy or two, if not indeedâ
âAh,â she blithely jumps (but upward, not on), âthat
reminds me...
__
âYaaahhh!â Roger reeling back to a potted plant, among
the lilting saxophones of Roland Peachey and his Orchestra
playing âThere, I Said It Again,â and cowering.
âSo, thatâs on your mind. If mind is the word I want.â
_ They-confuse everyone. They look so innocent. People
immediately want to protect them: censoring themselves
âaway from talk of death, business, duplicity when Roger
Jessica are there. Itâs all shortages, pongs and boy
friends, films and blouses...
dS
af
ie
142
Gravityâs Ramsow
With her hair pulled back of her ears, her soft chin in
profile, she looks only g or 10, alone by windows, blinking
into the sun, turning her head on the light counterpane,
coming in tears, childâs reddening wrinkling face about to
cry, going oh, oh...
One night in the dark quilt-and-cold refuge of their
bed, drowsing to and fro himself, he licked Jessica to
sleep. When she felt his first warm breaths touch her labia,
she shivered and cried like a cat. Two or three notes, it
seemed, that sounded together, hoarse, haunted, blowing
with snowflakes remembered from around nightfall. Trees
outside sifting the wind, out of her sight the lorries for-
ever rushing down the streets and roads, behind houses,
across canals or river, beyond the simple park. Oh and
the dogs and cats who went padding in the fine snow....
â,.. pictures, well scenes, keep flashing in, Roger. By
themselves,
I mean Iâm not making them....â A bright
swarm of them is passing by, against the low isotonic
glimmer of the ceiling. He and she lie and breathe
mouth-up. His soft cock drools down around his thigh, the
downhill one, closest to Jessica. The night room heaves a
sigh, yes Heaves, a Sighâold-fashioned comical room, oh
me Iâm hopeless, born a joker never change, flirting away
through the mirrorframe in something green-striped, panta-
looned, and ruffledâmeantime though, it is quaint, most
rooms today hum you know, have been known also to
âbreathe,â yes even wait in hushed expectancy and that
ought to be the rather sinister tradition here, long slender
creatures, heavy perfume and capes in rooms assailed by
midnight, pierced with spiral stairways, blue-petaled per-
golas, an ambience in which no one, however provoked or
out of touch, my dear young lady, ever, Heaves, a Sigh.
It is not done.
But here. Oh, this young lady. Checked gingham. Rag-
ged eyebrows, grown wild. Red velvet. On a dare once,
she took off her blouse, motoring up on the trunk road
near Lower Beeding.
âMy God sheâs gone insane, what is this,
why do they
all come to me?â
âWell, ha, ha,â Jessica twirling the petite of her ard
blouse like a stripper, âyou uh, said I was afraid to. Din
Beyond the Zero
143
you. Called me âcowardly, cowardly custardâ or something,
*s I recallââ No brassiere of course, she never wears one.
âLook here,â glaring sideways, âdo you know you can
get arrested? Never mind you,â just occurring to him,
here, âI'll get arrested!â
âThey'll blame it all on you, la, la.â Lower teeth edging
out in a mean-girlâs smile. âIâm just an innocent lamb and
thisââ flinging a little arm out, striking light from the fair
hairs on her forearm, her small breasts bouncing free, âthis
Roger-the-rake! here, this awful beast! makes me perform,
these degrading...â
Meantime, the most gigantic lorry Roger has ever seen
in his life has manoeuvred steel-shuddering nearby, and
now not only the driver, but also severalâwell, what ap-
pear to be horrid... midgets, in strange operetta uni-
forms actually, some sort of Central European government-
in-exile, all of them crammed somehow into the high-set
cab, all are staring down, scuffling like piglets on a sow
for position, eyes popping, swarthy, mouths leaking spit, to
take in the spectacle of his Jesicca Swanlake scandalously
bare-breasted and himself desperately looking to slow
down. and drop behind the lorryâexcept that now, behind
Roger, pressing him on, in fact, at a speed identical with
the lorryâs, has appeared, oh shit it is; a military police
car. He canât slow down, and if he speeds up, they'll really
get suspicious. ...
âUh, Jessie, please get dressed, um, would you love?â
Making a show of looking for his comb which is, as usual,
lost, suspect is known as a notorious ctenophile.. .
The driver of the huge, loud lorry now tries to get
Rogerâs attention, the other midgets crowding at the win-
dows calling, âHey! Hey!â and emitting oily, guttural
laughs. Their leader speaks English with some liquid, un-
speakably nasty European accent, Lot of winking and
nudging up there now, too: âMeester! Ay, zhu! Wet a
meenehâ, eh?â More laughter. Roger in the rearview mirror
sees English cop-faces pink with rectitude, red insignia
leaning, bobbing, consulting, turning sharply now and
then to stare ahead at the couple in the Jaguar who're
acting soââWhat are they doing, Eagbnns can you make
* out?â
The Scandalous Jaguar Ride
- Roger and Jessica find themselves in a precarious situation as Jessica exposes herself in their Jaguar while driving.
- The couple is trapped between a massive lorry filled with leering foreign midgets and a military police car following closely behind.
- The narrative shifts into a surreal, dreamlike sequence of imagery involving empty rocking chairs and cold, celestial light.
- The scene transitions to Roger waking up alone, discovering a mysterious long hair in his mouth despite not seeing Jessica for weeks.
- Roger's immediate descent into paranoia suggests a supernatural or sinister element at play in his isolated living quarters.
He unreeled the long hair, beaded with saliva, tooth-tartar, mouth-breatherâs morning fur, and stared at it.
Beyond the Zero
143
you. Called me âcowardly, cowardly custardâ or something,
*s I recallââ No brassiere of course, she never wears one.
âLook here,â glaring sideways, âdo you know you can
get arrested? Never mind you,â just occurring to him,
here, âI'll get arrested!â
âThey'll blame it all on you, la, la.â Lower teeth edging
out in a mean-girlâs smile. âIâm just an innocent lamb and
thisââ flinging a little arm out, striking light from the fair
hairs on her forearm, her small breasts bouncing free, âthis
Roger-the-rake! here, this awful beast! makes me perform,
these degrading...â
Meantime, the most gigantic lorry Roger has ever seen
in his life has manoeuvred steel-shuddering nearby, and
now not only the driver, but also severalâwell, what ap-
pear to be horrid... midgets, in strange operetta uni-
forms actually, some sort of Central European government-
in-exile, all of them crammed somehow into the high-set
cab, all are staring down, scuffling like piglets on a sow
for position, eyes popping, swarthy, mouths leaking spit, to
take in the spectacle of his Jesicca Swanlake scandalously
bare-breasted and himself desperately looking to slow
down. and drop behind the lorryâexcept that now, behind
Roger, pressing him on, in fact, at a speed identical with
the lorryâs, has appeared, oh shit it is; a military police
car. He canât slow down, and if he speeds up, they'll really
get suspicious. ...
âUh, Jessie, please get dressed, um, would you love?â
Making a show of looking for his comb which is, as usual,
lost, suspect is known as a notorious ctenophile.. .
The driver of the huge, loud lorry now tries to get
Rogerâs attention, the other midgets crowding at the win-
dows calling, âHey! Hey!â and emitting oily, guttural
laughs. Their leader speaks English with some liquid, un-
speakably nasty European accent, Lot of winking and
nudging up there now, too: âMeester! Ay, zhu! Wet a
meenehâ, eh?â More laughter. Roger in the rearview mirror
sees English cop-faces pink with rectitude, red insignia
leaning, bobbing, consulting, turning sharply now and
then to stare ahead at the couple in the Jaguar who're
acting soââWhat are they doing, Eagbnns can you make
* out?â
+
+ 3 as
~~
; i
f b
144
Gravityâs Rainsow
âAppears to be a man and a woman, sir.â
a
âAss.â And itâs out with the black binoculars.
Through rain,..then through dreaming glass, green
with the evening. And herself in a chair, old-fashioned
bonneted, looking west over the deck of Earth, inferno
red at its edges, and further in the brown and gold
clouds. ...
Then, suddenly, night: The empty rocking chair lit
sharing chalk blue byâis it the moon, or some other light
from the sky? just the hard chair, empty now, in the very
clear night, and this cold light coming down. ...
The images go, flowering, in and out, some lovely, some
just awful... but sheâs snuggled in here with her lamb,
her Roger, and how she loves the line of his neck all at
once soâwhy there it is right there, the back of his
bumpy head like a boy of tenâs. She kisses him up and
down the sour salt reach of skin thatâs taken her so, taken
her nightlit along this high tendoning, kisses him as if
kisses were flowing breath itself, and never ending,
One morningâhe had not seen her for about a fort-
nightâhe woke in his hermitâs cell at âThe White Visita-
tionâ with a hardon, scratchy eyelids and a long pale
brown hair tangled in his mouth. It wasnât one of his own
hairs. It wasnât anybodyâs he could think of but Jessicaâs.
But it couldnât beâhe hadnât seen her. He sniffed a couple
of times, then sneezed. Morning developed out the win-
dow. His right canine ached. He unreeled the long hair,
beaded with saliva, tooth-tartar, mouth-breatherâs morning
fur, and stared at it. How'd it get hereP Eerie, dearie. A
bit of the je ne sais quoi de sinistre, all right. He had to
piss. Shuffling to the lavatory, his graying government flan-
nel tucked limply inside the cord of his pajamas, it came to
him: what if itâs some mauve turn-of-the-century tale of
ghostly revenge and this hair hereâs some First Step...
Oh, paranoia? You shouldâve seen him going through
all
the combinations
as he moved around
doing lavatory
things among the stumbling, farting, razor-soraping, hack-
ing, sneezing and snot-crusted inmates of Psi/Section. Only
_
later in this did he even begin to think of Jessicaâof her
safety. Thoughtful Roger. What if, if sheâd died in the
Paranoia in Psi Section
- Roger experiences a visceral moment of revulsion and panic while navigating the squalid, communal latrine of Psi Section.
- A sudden, terrifying realization takes hold: the 'freaks' of the occult research unit may be telepathically monitoring his every thought and private moment.
- The protagonist's anxiety spirals into a list of occult threats, including brain control, astral projection, and psychic unity with controlling agencies.
- Desperate to escape the perceived surveillance, Roger contemplates volunteering for 're-education' duty in war-torn Germany as a safer alternative.
- The holiday season and his love for Jessica are the only anchors keeping him from total collapse amidst the madness of the war.
Heâs surrounded! theyâve been out there night and day all the war long tapping his brain, telepaths, witches, Satanic operators of all descriptions tuning in on everythingâeven when he and Jessica are in bed.
+
+ 3 as
~~
; i
f b
144
Gravityâs Rainsow
âAppears to be a man and a woman, sir.â
a
âAss.â And itâs out with the black binoculars.
Through rain,..then through dreaming glass, green
with the evening. And herself in a chair, old-fashioned
bonneted, looking west over the deck of Earth, inferno
red at its edges, and further in the brown and gold
clouds. ...
Then, suddenly, night: The empty rocking chair lit
sharing chalk blue byâis it the moon, or some other light
from the sky? just the hard chair, empty now, in the very
clear night, and this cold light coming down. ...
The images go, flowering, in and out, some lovely, some
just awful... but sheâs snuggled in here with her lamb,
her Roger, and how she loves the line of his neck all at
once soâwhy there it is right there, the back of his
bumpy head like a boy of tenâs. She kisses him up and
down the sour salt reach of skin thatâs taken her so, taken
her nightlit along this high tendoning, kisses him as if
kisses were flowing breath itself, and never ending,
One morningâhe had not seen her for about a fort-
nightâhe woke in his hermitâs cell at âThe White Visita-
tionâ with a hardon, scratchy eyelids and a long pale
brown hair tangled in his mouth. It wasnât one of his own
hairs. It wasnât anybodyâs he could think of but Jessicaâs.
But it couldnât beâhe hadnât seen her. He sniffed a couple
of times, then sneezed. Morning developed out the win-
dow. His right canine ached. He unreeled the long hair,
beaded with saliva, tooth-tartar, mouth-breatherâs morning
fur, and stared at it. How'd it get hereP Eerie, dearie. A
bit of the je ne sais quoi de sinistre, all right. He had to
piss. Shuffling to the lavatory, his graying government flan-
nel tucked limply inside the cord of his pajamas, it came to
him: what if itâs some mauve turn-of-the-century tale of
ghostly revenge and this hair hereâs some First Step...
Oh, paranoia? You shouldâve seen him going through
all
the combinations
as he moved around
doing lavatory
things among the stumbling, farting, razor-soraping, hack-
ing, sneezing and snot-crusted inmates of Psi/Section. Only
_
later in this did he even begin to think of Jessicaâof her
safety. Thoughtful Roger. What if, if sheâd died in the
Beyond the Zero
-
145
night, an accident at the magazines... with this hair the
only good-by her ghostly love had been able to push back
through to this side, to the only one who'd ever mattered.
...Some spider-statistician:
his eyes had actually filled
- with tears before the Next Ideaâoh. Oboy. Turn off that
faucet, Dorset, and get hep to this. He stood, half-stooped,
over the washbasin, paralyzed, putting his worry.
for
Jessica on Hold for a bit, wanting very much to look back
over his shoulder, even into the, the old mirror, you know,
see what they're up to, but too frozen to risk even that...
now ...oh yes a most superb possibility has found seedbed
in-his brain, and here it is. What if they are all, all these
Psi Section freaks here, ganged up on him in secret?
O.K.? Yes: suppose they can see into your mind! a-and how
aboutâwhat if itâs hypnotism? Eh? Jesus: then a whole
number of other occult things such as: astral projection;
brain control (nothing occult about that), secret curses for
impotence,
boils, madness,
yaaahhhâvpotions!
(as he
straightens at last and back in his mindâs eyes to his office
now
glances,
very
gingerly,
at the coffee
mess,
oh
God...), psychic-unity-with-the-Controlling-Agency such
that Roger would be he and he Roger, yes yes a number
of these notions rambling through his mind here, none of
them really pleasant, eitherâespecially inside this staff
latrine, with Gavin Trefoilâs face this morning colored
bright magenta, a clover blossom flashing in the wind,
Ronald Cherrycoke hawking fine-marbled amber phlegm
into the basinâwhatâs all this, who are all these people....
Freaks! Freeeeaks! Heâs surrounded! theyâve been out there
_ night and day all the war. long tapping his brain, telepaths,
witches, Satanic operators of all descriptions tuning in on
everythingâeven when he and Jessica are in bed fuck-
Try to hold it down old man, panic if you must but
later, not here.... Faint washroom light bulbs deepen
the thousands of old clustered water and soap spots on the
mirrors to an interfeathering of clouds, of skin and smoke
as he swings his head past, lemon and beige, oilsmoke
black and twilight brown in here, very loosely crumbled,
thatâs the texture....
_.
Lovely morning, World War Two. All he can keep in
:
front of his mind are the words I want a transfer, kind of
146
Gravity's RAINBOW
humming tunelessly at the mirror, yes sir got to put in a
chit right away. I'll volunteer for duty in Germanyâs what
Til do. Dum de dum, de dum. Right, there was an ad only
Wednesday in the classified section of Nazis in the News,
sandwiched between a Merseyside Labour branch that was
looking for a publicist, and a London advertising agency
with positions open immediately on demob, they said. This
ad in the middle was placed by some arm of the G-5-to-be,
trying to round up a few âre-educationâ experts. Vital, vital
stuff. Teach the German Beast about the Magnaâ Carta,
sportsmanship, that sort of thing, eh? Out inside the works
of some neurotic Bavarian cuckoo clock of a village, were-
elves streaking in out of the forests at night to leave sub-
versive handbills at door and windowââAnything!â Roger
groping back to his narrow quarters, âanything at allâs
better than this... .â
Thatâs how bad it was. He knew heâd feel more at home
in mad Germany with the Enemy than here in Psi Section.
The time
of year makes
it even
worse.
Christmas.
Bwweeeaaaagghh, clutching to his stomach. Jessica was all
that made it human or tolerable. Jessica...
He was taken over then, for half a minute, shivering and
yawning in his long underwear, soft, nearly invisible in the
December-dawn enclosure, among so many sharp edges of
books, sheafs and flimsies, charts and maps (and the chief
one, red pockmarks on the pure white skin of lady Lon-
don, watching over all... wait... disease on skin ..
. does
.
she carry the fatal infection inside herself? are the sites
predestined, and does the flight of the rocket actually fol-
low from the fated eruption latent in the city... but he
canât hold it, no more than he understands Pointsmanâs
obsession with the reversal of sound stimuli and please,
please canât we just drop it for a bit...), visited, not
knowing till it passed how clearly he was seeing the honest
half of his life that Jessica was now, how fanatically his
mother the War must disapprove of her beauty, her cheeky
indifference to death-institutions heâd not so long ago be-
lieved inâher unflappable hope (though she hated to
make plans), her exile from childhood (though she re-
fused ever to hold on to memories)....
|
His life had been tied to the past. Heâd seen himself a
point on a moving wavefront, propagating through sterile
The Breaking of the Wave
- Roger Mexico views London through a lens of paranoia, imagining the city's rocket strikes as a latent disease erupting from within its own skin.
- Jessica represents a radical departure from Roger's past, acting as a 'breaking wave' that offers a chance for unpredictable life and joy amidst a history founded on death.
- Despite their intense physical and emotional connection, Jessica feels a deep confusion and a sense of dread regarding Roger's profound bitterness and hatred of the British system.
- Jessica weighs her volatile passion for Roger against the safety and established history of her three-year relationship with Jeremy, her lieutenant.
- The narrative highlights the isolation of wartime romance, where the 'professional incest' and petty politics of the military battery leave Jessica with no one to confide in.
But Jessica was the breaking of the wave. Suddenly there was a beach, the unpredictable... new life.
146
Gravity's RAINBOW
humming tunelessly at the mirror, yes sir got to put in a
chit right away. I'll volunteer for duty in Germanyâs what
Til do. Dum de dum, de dum. Right, there was an ad only
Wednesday in the classified section of Nazis in the News,
sandwiched between a Merseyside Labour branch that was
looking for a publicist, and a London advertising agency
with positions open immediately on demob, they said. This
ad in the middle was placed by some arm of the G-5-to-be,
trying to round up a few âre-educationâ experts. Vital, vital
stuff. Teach the German Beast about the Magnaâ Carta,
sportsmanship, that sort of thing, eh? Out inside the works
of some neurotic Bavarian cuckoo clock of a village, were-
elves streaking in out of the forests at night to leave sub-
versive handbills at door and windowââAnything!â Roger
groping back to his narrow quarters, âanything at allâs
better than this... .â
Thatâs how bad it was. He knew heâd feel more at home
in mad Germany with the Enemy than here in Psi Section.
The time
of year makes
it even
worse.
Christmas.
Bwweeeaaaagghh, clutching to his stomach. Jessica was all
that made it human or tolerable. Jessica...
He was taken over then, for half a minute, shivering and
yawning in his long underwear, soft, nearly invisible in the
December-dawn enclosure, among so many sharp edges of
books, sheafs and flimsies, charts and maps (and the chief
one, red pockmarks on the pure white skin of lady Lon-
don, watching over all... wait... disease on skin ..
. does
.
she carry the fatal infection inside herself? are the sites
predestined, and does the flight of the rocket actually fol-
low from the fated eruption latent in the city... but he
canât hold it, no more than he understands Pointsmanâs
obsession with the reversal of sound stimuli and please,
please canât we just drop it for a bit...), visited, not
knowing till it passed how clearly he was seeing the honest
half of his life that Jessica was now, how fanatically his
mother the War must disapprove of her beauty, her cheeky
indifference to death-institutions heâd not so long ago be-
lieved inâher unflappable hope (though she hated to
make plans), her exile from childhood (though she re-
fused ever to hold on to memories)....
|
His life had been tied to the past. Heâd seen himself a
point on a moving wavefront, propagating through sterile
Beyond the Zero
147
_ historyâa known past, a projectable future. But Jessica
was the breaking of the wave. Suddenly there was a beach,
_ the unpredictable... new life. Past and future stopped at
the beach: that was how heâd set it out. But he wanted to
believe it too, the same way he loved her, past all wordsâ.
believe that no matter how bad the time, nothing was
fixed, everything could be changed and she could always
deny the dark sea at his back, love it away. And (selfishly)
that from a somber youth, squarely founded on Deathâ
along for Deathâs rideâhe might, with her, find his way
,
to life and to joy. Heâd never told her, he avoided telling
himself, but that was the measure of his faith, as this
seventh Christmas of the War came wheeling in another
charge at his skinny, shivering flank. ...
She trips fussing about the dormitory, bothering other
girls for puffs off of stale Woodbines, nylon-repair kits,
sparrow-bright war-wisecracks passing for sympathy. To-
night shell be with Jeremy, her lieutenant, but she wants
_
to be with Roger. Except that, really, she doesnât. Does
_ she? She canât remember ever being so confused. When
sheâs with Roger itâs all love, but at any distanceâany at
all, Jackâshe finds that he depresses and even frightens
her. Why? On top of him in the wild nights riding up and
down his cock her axis, trying herself to stay rigid enough
not to turn to cream taper-wax and fall away melting to
the coverlet coming thereâs only room for Roger, Roger, oh
love to the end of breath. But out of bed, walking talking,
his bitterness, his darkness, run deeper than the War, the
winter: he hates England so, hates âthe System,â gripes
endlessly, says hell migrate when the War's over, stays
inside his paper cynicâs cave hating himself... and does
she want to bring him out, really? Isnât it safer with
_ Jeremy? She tries not to allow this question in too often,
_ but itâs there. Three years with Jeremy. They might as well
_be married. Three years ought to count for something.
Daily, small stitches and easings. Sheâs worn old Beaverâs
_ bathrobes, brewed his tea and coffee, sought his eye across
-parks, day rooms and rainy mud fields when all the
layâs mean, dismal losses could be rescued in the one
lookâfamiliar, full of trust, in a season when the word is
nvoked for quaintness or a minor laugh. And to rip it all
148
GRAVITYâS Rainsow
out? three years? for this erratic, self-centeredâboy, really.
Weepers, heâs supposed to be past thirty, heâs years older
than she. He ought toâve learned something, surely? A
man of experience?
The worst of itâs that she has no one to talk to. The
politics of this mixed battery, the professional incest, the
unwholesome. obsessions with who said what to whom in
the spring of 1942 for Godâs sake, outside of Grafty Green,
Kent, or someplace, and who ought to have answered what
but didnât but told someone else instead thus provoking
hatreds that have thrived wonderfully down to the present
dayâsix years of slander, ambition and hysteria make
confiding anything to anyone around here an act of pur
masochism.
-
âGirl in distress, Jess?â Maggie Dunkirk on the way by,
smoothing her gauntlets. On the Tannoy a BBC swing
band is blaring hotly syncopated Christmas music.
âGot a fag, Mag?â pretty automatic by now, you guess,
Jess?
Wellâ âThought it looked somewhat like a bloody
Garbo film around here, not at all the usual nicotine
starvation, sorry wrong again, ta-ta....â
Oh be on your way. âThinking about me Xmas shop-
âWhat're you getting the Beaver then.â
Concentrating on gartering her nylons, the older pair,
up-in-front-down-in-back mnemonically stirring in wafts
among her fingers, laundry-white puckered elastic being
stretched fine and tangent now to the gentle front curve
of her thigh, suspender-clips glittering silver under or be-
hind her lacquered red fingernails, passing like distant
fountains behind red topiary trees, Jessica replies, âOh.
Mm. A Pipe, I suppose... .â
,
'
Near her battery one night, driving Somewhere in Kent,
Roger and Jessica came upon a church, a hummock in the
dark upland, lamplit, growing out of the earth. It was
Sunday evening, and shortly before vespers. Men in great-
coats, in oilskins, in dark berets they slipped off at the
entrance, American fliers in leather lined with sheep's
wool, a few women in clinking boots and wide-shou
swagger coats, but no children, not a child in sight, just
Advent in the War Zone
- The social atmosphere is defined by six years of slander and hysteria, making any confidence feel like an act of masochism.
- Jessica and Maggie exchange sharp, cynical banter about Christmas shopping and the 'Beaver' while preparing for their duties.
- Roger and Jessica encounter a small church in Kent filled with military personnel from various units seeking solace before vespers.
- Despite Roger's usual 'Scroogery' and vocal atheism, he impulsively suggests they enter the church to hear the music.
- Jessica experiences a profound sense of nostalgia and a fear of losing the innocent memories of childhood carols to the passage of time.
- The church choir is composed of exhausted soldiers whose white robes contrast with the mud and fatigue of their military lives.
Voices piping across frozen downs where the sown mines crowd thick as plums in a pudding.
148
GRAVITYâS Rainsow
out? three years? for this erratic, self-centeredâboy, really.
Weepers, heâs supposed to be past thirty, heâs years older
than she. He ought toâve learned something, surely? A
man of experience?
The worst of itâs that she has no one to talk to. The
politics of this mixed battery, the professional incest, the
unwholesome. obsessions with who said what to whom in
the spring of 1942 for Godâs sake, outside of Grafty Green,
Kent, or someplace, and who ought to have answered what
but didnât but told someone else instead thus provoking
hatreds that have thrived wonderfully down to the present
dayâsix years of slander, ambition and hysteria make
confiding anything to anyone around here an act of pur
masochism.
-
âGirl in distress, Jess?â Maggie Dunkirk on the way by,
smoothing her gauntlets. On the Tannoy a BBC swing
band is blaring hotly syncopated Christmas music.
âGot a fag, Mag?â pretty automatic by now, you guess,
Jess?
Wellâ âThought it looked somewhat like a bloody
Garbo film around here, not at all the usual nicotine
starvation, sorry wrong again, ta-ta....â
Oh be on your way. âThinking about me Xmas shop-
âWhat're you getting the Beaver then.â
Concentrating on gartering her nylons, the older pair,
up-in-front-down-in-back mnemonically stirring in wafts
among her fingers, laundry-white puckered elastic being
stretched fine and tangent now to the gentle front curve
of her thigh, suspender-clips glittering silver under or be-
hind her lacquered red fingernails, passing like distant
fountains behind red topiary trees, Jessica replies, âOh.
Mm. A Pipe, I suppose... .â
,
'
Near her battery one night, driving Somewhere in Kent,
Roger and Jessica came upon a church, a hummock in the
dark upland, lamplit, growing out of the earth. It was
Sunday evening, and shortly before vespers. Men in great-
coats, in oilskins, in dark berets they slipped off at the
entrance, American fliers in leather lined with sheep's
wool, a few women in clinking boots and wide-shou
swagger coats, but no children, not a child in sight, just
Beyond the Zero
149
grownups, trudging in from their bomber fields, balloon-
bivouacs, pillboxes over the beach, through the Norman
doorway shaggy with wintering vines. Jessica said, âOh, I
remember...â but didnât go on. She was remembering
other Advents, and hedges snowy as sheep from her win-
dow, and the Star ready to be pasted up on the sky again.
Roger pulled over, and they watched the scuffed and
dun military going in to evensong. The wind smelled of
fresh snow.
âWe ought to be home,â she said, after a bit, âitâs late.â
âWe could just pop in here for a moment.â
Well, that surprised her, but def, after weeks of his snide
comments? His unbelieverâs annoynance with the others in
Psi Section he thought were out to drive him dotty as they
were, and his Scroogery growing as shopping days till
Xmas dwindledââYou're not supposed to be the sort,â
she told him. But she did want to go in, nostalgia was
heavy in tonightâs snow-sky, her own voice ready to betray
her and run to join the- waits whose carols weâre so apt to
hear now in the distances, these days of Advent dropping
one by one, voices piping across frozen downs where the
sown mines crowd thick as plums in a pudding... often
above sounds of melting snow, winds that must blow not
through Christmas air but through the substance of time
would bring her those child-voices, singing for sixpences,
and if her heart wasnât ready to take on quite all the
stresses of her mortality and theirs, at least there was the
fear that she was beginning to lose themâthat one winter
she would go running to look, out to the gate to find them,
run as far as the trees but in vain, their voices fading....
They walked through the tracks of all the others in the
snow, she gravely on his arm, wind blowing her hair to
snarls, heels slipping once on ice. âTo hear the music,â he
explained.
Tonightâs scratch choir was all male, epauletted shoul-
ders visible under the wide necks of the white robes, and
many faces nearly as white with the exhaustion of soaked
and muddy fields, midwatches, cables strummed by the
nervous balloons sunfishing in the clouds, tents whose lights
inside shone nuclear at twilight, soullike, through the
cross-hatched walls, turning canvas to fine gauze, while
the wind drummed there. Yet there was one black face, the
Imperial Outcomes and Evensong
- A Jamaican corporal serves as a counter-tenor in a cold English church, his voice bridging the gap between his Caribbean memories and the rigid Anglo-American Empire.
- The corporal's singing introduces a sensory, 'minor surrealism' into the Protestant service, blending sacred polyphony with the ghosts of island life and 'girls of the island.'
- The narrative frames the presence of the black man and the mixing of languages (Latin, German, English) not as heresy, but as the inevitable, pathological outcome of Empire.
- The music momentarily softens the nihilism of Roger and Jessica, providing a rare moment of emotional buoyancy amidst the grim atmosphere of the war.
- The setting shifts to the broader 'Warâs evensong,' describing the industrial labor of Wrens and pipefitters on the coast as a dark, canonical ritual of the conflict.
- The Empire is depicted as committing thousands of acts of 'minor surrealism' daily, an unconscious path toward its own eventual suicide.
These are not heresies so much as imperial outcomes, necessary as the black manâs presence, from acts of minor surrealismâwhich, taken in the mass, are an act of suicide, but which in its pathology, in its dreamless version of the real, the Empire commits by the thousands every day, completely unaware of what itâs doing... .
150
Gravityâs RAInBow
counter-tenor, a Jamaican corporal, taken from his warm
island to thisâfrom singing his childhood along the rum-
smoky saloons of High Holborn Street where the sailors
throw mammoth red firecrackers, quarter of a stick of
dynamite man, over the swinging doors and run across the
street giggling, or come walking out with high-skirted girls,
girls of the island, Chinese and French girls... lemon
peels crushed in the gutters of the streets scented the early
mornings where he used to sing, O have you seen my
darlinâ Lola, with a shape like a bottle of Coca-Cola,
sailors running up and down in the brown shadows of
alleys, flapping at neckerchief and pants-leg, and the girls
whispering together and laughing...each moming he
counted out half a pocket full of coins of all nations. From
palmy Kingston, the intricate needs of the Anglo-American
Empire (1939-1945) had brought him to this cold field-
mouse church, nearly in earshot of a northern sea hed
hardly glimpsed in crossing, to a compline service, a pro-
gram tonight of plainsong in English, forays now and then
into polyphony: Thomas Tallis, Henry Purcell, even a
German macaronic from the fifteenth century, attributed to
Heinrich Suso:
In dulct jubilo
Nun singet und seid frohl
Unsers Herzens Wonne
Leit in praesipio,
Leuchtet vor die Sonne
Maitris in gremio.
Alpha es et O.
With the high voice of the black man riding above the
others, no head falsetto here but complete, out of the
honest breast, a baritone voice brought over years of wood-
shedding up to this range... he was bringing brown girls
to sashay among these nervous Protestants, down the an-
cient paths the music had set, Big and Little Anita, Stiletto
May, Plongette who loves it between her tits and will do
it that way for freeânot to mention the Latin, the Ger-
man? in an English church? These are
not heresies so
much as imperial outcomes, necessary as
the black manâs
presence, from acts of minor surrealismâwhich, taken in
the mass, are an act of suicide, but which in its pathology,
Beyond the Zero
151
in its dreamless version of the real, the Empire commits
by the thousands every day, completely unaware of what
itâs doing... . So the pure counter-tenor voice was soaring,
finding its way in to buoy Jessicaâs heart and even Rogerâs
she guessed, risking glances at his face sideways and up
| through brown ghosts of her hair, during recitatives or
releases. He wasnât looking nihilistic, not even cheaply so.
He was...
No, Jessicaâs never seen his face exactly like this, in the
light of a few hanging oil lamps, the flames unguttering
and very yellow, on the nearest the vergerâs two long
fingerprints in fine, pollen V-for-victory up around the belly
of the glass, Rogerâs skin more child-pink, his eyes more
glowing than the lamplight alone can account forâisnât it?
or is that how she wants it to be? The church is as cold as
the night outside. Thereâs the smell of damp wool, of bit-
ter on the breaths of these professionals, of candle smoke
and melting wax, of smothered farting, of hair tonic, of
the burning oil itself, folding the other odors in a maternal
way, more closely belonging to Earth, to deep strata, other
times, and listen...
listen: this is the Warâs evensong, the
Warâs canonical hour, and the night is real. Black great-
coats crowd together, empty hoods full of dense, church-
interior shadows. Over on the coast the Wrens work late,
down inside cold and gutted shells, their blue torches are
newborn stars in the tidal evening. Hullplates swing in the
sky, like great iron leaves, on cables that creak in splinters
of sound. At ease, on standby, the flames of the torches,
softened, fill the round glass faces of the gauges with apri-
cot light. In the pipefittersâ sheds, icicled, rattling when
the gales are in the Straits, hereâs thousands of old used
toothpaste tubes, heaped often to the ceilings, thousands
of somber man-mornings made tolerable, transformed to
mint fumes and bleak song that left white spots across the
_ quicksilver mirrors from Harrow to Gravesend, thousands
of children who pestled foam up out of soft mortars of
mouths, who lost easily a thousand times as many words
among the chalky bubblesâbed-going complaints, timid
_ announcements of love, news of fat or translucent, fuzzy or
gentle beings from the country under the counterpaneâ
uncounted soapy-liquorice moments spat and flushed down
_ to sewers and the slow-scumming gray estuary, the morn-
4
a
The War as Machine
- The morning ritual of brushing teeth serves as a bridge between domestic intimacy and the industrial demands of the War, as empty toothpaste tubes are recycled into military hardware.
- The War is described as a force that thrives on division and complexity rather than unity, functioning as a machine of separate parts despite its propaganda of 'pulling together.'
- A patient at 'The White Visitation' believes he is the physical embodiment of World War II, experiencing physiological shifts that mirror the movements of the front lines.
- The text suggests that the War may not be a conscious entity at all, but rather a vast, absentee force with only a 'cruel, accidental resemblance to life.'
- The narrative warns that while surrogates and young men die in the War's place, the 'true king' or the underlying system survives through a cycle of mock deaths and fresh beginnings.
The War does not appear to want a folk-consciousness, not even of the sort the Germans have engineered, ein Volk ein Fiihrerâit wants a machine of many separate parts, not oneness, but a complexity.
Beyond the Zero
151
in its dreamless version of the real, the Empire commits
by the thousands every day, completely unaware of what
itâs doing... . So the pure counter-tenor voice was soaring,
finding its way in to buoy Jessicaâs heart and even Rogerâs
she guessed, risking glances at his face sideways and up
| through brown ghosts of her hair, during recitatives or
releases. He wasnât looking nihilistic, not even cheaply so.
He was...
No, Jessicaâs never seen his face exactly like this, in the
light of a few hanging oil lamps, the flames unguttering
and very yellow, on the nearest the vergerâs two long
fingerprints in fine, pollen V-for-victory up around the belly
of the glass, Rogerâs skin more child-pink, his eyes more
glowing than the lamplight alone can account forâisnât it?
or is that how she wants it to be? The church is as cold as
the night outside. Thereâs the smell of damp wool, of bit-
ter on the breaths of these professionals, of candle smoke
and melting wax, of smothered farting, of hair tonic, of
the burning oil itself, folding the other odors in a maternal
way, more closely belonging to Earth, to deep strata, other
times, and listen...
listen: this is the Warâs evensong, the
Warâs canonical hour, and the night is real. Black great-
coats crowd together, empty hoods full of dense, church-
interior shadows. Over on the coast the Wrens work late,
down inside cold and gutted shells, their blue torches are
newborn stars in the tidal evening. Hullplates swing in the
sky, like great iron leaves, on cables that creak in splinters
of sound. At ease, on standby, the flames of the torches,
softened, fill the round glass faces of the gauges with apri-
cot light. In the pipefittersâ sheds, icicled, rattling when
the gales are in the Straits, hereâs thousands of old used
toothpaste tubes, heaped often to the ceilings, thousands
of somber man-mornings made tolerable, transformed to
mint fumes and bleak song that left white spots across the
_ quicksilver mirrors from Harrow to Gravesend, thousands
of children who pestled foam up out of soft mortars of
mouths, who lost easily a thousand times as many words
among the chalky bubblesâbed-going complaints, timid
_ announcements of love, news of fat or translucent, fuzzy or
gentle beings from the country under the counterpaneâ
uncounted soapy-liquorice moments spat and flushed down
_ to sewers and the slow-scumming gray estuary, the morn-
4
a
152
Gravityâs RaInsow
ing mouths growing with the day tobacco and fish-furred,
dry with fear, foul with idleness, flooded at thoughts of
impossible meals, settling instead for the weekâs offal in
gland pies, Household Milk, broken biscuits at half the
usual points, and isnât menthol a marvelous-invention to
take just enough of it away each moming, down to be-
come dusty oversize bubbles tessellating tough and stag-
nant among the tar shorelines, the intricate draftsmanship
of outlets feeding, multiplying out to sea, as one by one
these old toothpaste tubes are emptied and retumed to
the War, heaps of dimly fragrant metal, phantoms of
peppermint in the winter shacks, each tube wrinkled or
embossed by the unconscious hands of London, written
over in interference-patterns, hand against hand, waiting
nowâit is true returnâto be melted for solder, for plate,
alloyed for castings, bearings, gasketry, hidden smokeshriek
linings the children of that other domestic incarnation will
never see. Yet the continuity, flesh to kindred metals, home
to hedgeless sea, has persisted. It is not death that sepa-
rates these incarnations, but paper: paper specialties, paper
routines. The War, the Empire, will expedite such barriers
between our lives. The War needs to divide this way, and
to subdivide, though its propaganda will always stress
unity, alliance, pulling together. The War does not appear
to want a folk-consciousness, not even of the sort the
Germans have engineered, ein Volk ein Fiihrerâit wants a
machine of many separate parts, not oneness, but a com-
plexity.... Yet who can presume to say what the War
wants, so vast and aloof is it...so absentee. Perhaps the
War isnât even an awarenessânot a life at all, really.
There may only be some cruel, accidental resemblance to
life. At âThe White Visitationâ thereâs a long-time schiz,
you know, who believes that he is World War II. He gets
no newspapers, refuses to listen to the wireless, but still,
the day of the Normandy invasion somehow his tempera-
ture shot up to 104°. Now, as the pincers east and west
continue their slow reflex contraction, he speaks of dark-
ness invading his mind, of an attrition of, self.... The
Rundstedt offensive perked him up though, gave him a
new lease on lifeââA beautiful Christmas gift,â he con-
fessed to the resident on his ward, âitâs the season of birth,
of fresh beginnings.â Whenever the rockets fallâthose
Beyond the Zero
153
- which are audibleâhe smiles, turns out to pace the ward,
tears about to splash from the corners of his merry eyes,
caught up in a ruddy high tonicity that canât help cheering
_ his fellow patients. His days are numbered. Heâs to die on
_V-E Day. If heâs not in fact the War then heâs its child-
surrogate, living high for a certain term but come the
ceremonial day, look out. The true king only dies a mock
death. Remember. Any number of young men may be
âselected to die in his place while the real king, foxy old
bastard, goes on. Will he show up under the Star, slyly
, genuflecting with the other kings as this winter solstice
draws on us? Bring to the serai gifts of tungsten, cordite,
high-octane? Will the child gaze up from his ground of
golden straw then, gaze into the eyes of the old king who
bends long and unfurling overhead, leans to proffer his
gift, will the eyes meet, and what message, what possible
greeting or entente will flow between the king and the
infant prince? Is the baby smiling, or is it just gasP Which
do you want it to be?
Advent blows from the sea, which at sunset tonight
shone green and smooth as iron-rich glass: blows daily
upon us, all the sky above pregnant with saints and slender
heraldsâ trumpets. Another year of wedding dresses aban-
doned in the heart of winter, never called for, hanging in
quiet satin ranks now, their white-crumpled veils begun
to yellow, rippling slightly only at your passing, spectator
... visitor to the city at all the dead ends.... Glimpsing
in the gowns your own reflection once or twice, halfway
- from shadow, only blurred flesh-colors across the peau de
soie, urging you in to where you can smell the mildewâs
first horrible touch; which was really the ideaâcovering
all trace of her own smell, middleclass bride-to-be perspir-
ing, genteel soap and powder, But virgin in her heart, in
her hopes. None of your bright-Swiss or crystalline season
here, but darkly billowed in the day with cloud and the
snow falling like gowns in the country, gowns of the win-
ter, gentle at night, a nearly windless breathing around
you. In the stations of the city the prisoners are back from
_ Indo-China, wandering their poor visible bones, light as
_ dreamers or men on the moon, among chrome-sprung
prams of black hide resonant as drumheads, blonde wood
__ high-chairs pink and blue with scraped and mush-spattered
Advent in the City
- The atmosphere of Advent is depicted as a heavy, pregnant season where the sky feels laden with both heralds and the threat of German rockets.
- Abandoned wedding dresses in shop windows serve as ghostly reminders of interrupted lives and the creeping decay of mildew and time.
- Soldiers returning from Indo-China and Burma appear as skeletal, ghost-like figures, disconnected from the domestic consumerism of the holiday crowd.
- Italian prisoners of war contrast with the English returnees, engaging in performative flirtation and song while laboring under the seasonal surge of mail.
- The English veterans seek a quiet, 'dead-leaf' somnolence and domestic stability rather than the 'brave new world' or further adventure.
- Despite the looming threat of rocket attacks, the populace persists in holiday rituals, buying toys to light up the faces of their children.
In the stations of the city the prisoners are back from Indo-China, wandering their poor visible bones, light as dreamers or men on the moon.
Beyond the Zero
153
- which are audibleâhe smiles, turns out to pace the ward,
tears about to splash from the corners of his merry eyes,
caught up in a ruddy high tonicity that canât help cheering
_ his fellow patients. His days are numbered. Heâs to die on
_V-E Day. If heâs not in fact the War then heâs its child-
surrogate, living high for a certain term but come the
ceremonial day, look out. The true king only dies a mock
death. Remember. Any number of young men may be
âselected to die in his place while the real king, foxy old
bastard, goes on. Will he show up under the Star, slyly
, genuflecting with the other kings as this winter solstice
draws on us? Bring to the serai gifts of tungsten, cordite,
high-octane? Will the child gaze up from his ground of
golden straw then, gaze into the eyes of the old king who
bends long and unfurling overhead, leans to proffer his
gift, will the eyes meet, and what message, what possible
greeting or entente will flow between the king and the
infant prince? Is the baby smiling, or is it just gasP Which
do you want it to be?
Advent blows from the sea, which at sunset tonight
shone green and smooth as iron-rich glass: blows daily
upon us, all the sky above pregnant with saints and slender
heraldsâ trumpets. Another year of wedding dresses aban-
doned in the heart of winter, never called for, hanging in
quiet satin ranks now, their white-crumpled veils begun
to yellow, rippling slightly only at your passing, spectator
... visitor to the city at all the dead ends.... Glimpsing
in the gowns your own reflection once or twice, halfway
- from shadow, only blurred flesh-colors across the peau de
soie, urging you in to where you can smell the mildewâs
first horrible touch; which was really the ideaâcovering
all trace of her own smell, middleclass bride-to-be perspir-
ing, genteel soap and powder, But virgin in her heart, in
her hopes. None of your bright-Swiss or crystalline season
here, but darkly billowed in the day with cloud and the
snow falling like gowns in the country, gowns of the win-
ter, gentle at night, a nearly windless breathing around
you. In the stations of the city the prisoners are back from
_ Indo-China, wandering their poor visible bones, light as
_ dreamers or men on the moon, among chrome-sprung
prams of black hide resonant as drumheads, blonde wood
__ high-chairs pink and blue with scraped and mush-spattered
154
Gravity's RAINBOW
floral decals, folding-cots and bears with red felt tongues,
baby-blankets making bright pastel clouds in the coal and
stream smells, the metal spaces, among the queued, the
drifting, the warily asleep, come by their hundreds in for
the holidays, despite the warnings, the gravity of Mr.
Morrison, the tube under the river a German rocket may
pierce now, even now as the words are set down, the
absences that may be waiting them, the city addresses that
surely can no longer exist. The eyes from Burma, from
Tonkin, watch these women at their hundred persever-
ancesâstare out of blued orbits, through headaches no
Alasils can ease. Italian P/Ws curse underneath the mail
sacks that are puffing, echo-making in now each hour, in
seasonal swell, clogging the snowy trainloads like mush-
rooms, as if the trains have been all night underground,
passing through the country of the dead. If these Eyeties
sing now and then you can bet itâs not âGiovinezzaâ but
something probably from Rigoletto or La BohĂ©meâindeed
the Post Office is considering issuing a list of Nonaccept-
able Songs, with ukulele chords as an aid to ready identi-
fication. Their cheer and songfulness, this lot, is genuine
up to a pointâbut as the days pile up, as this orgy of
Christmas greeting grows daily beyond healthy limits, with
no containment in sight before Boxing Day, they settle,
themselves, for being more professionally Italian, rolling
the odd eye at the lady evacuees, finding techniques of
balancing the sack with one hand whilst the other goes
playing
âdeadââcioĂ©,
conditionally
aliveâwhere
the
crowds thicken most feminine, directionless... well, most
promising. Life has to go on. Both kinds of prisoner recog-
nize that, but thereâs no mano morto for the Englishmen
back from CBI, no leap from dead to living at mere per-
mission from a likely haunch or thighâno play, for Godâs
sake, about life-and-death! They want no more adventures:
only the old dutch fussing over the old stove or warming
the old: bed, cricketers in the wintertime, they want the
semi-detached Sunday dead-leaf sommolence of a dried
garden. If the brave new world should also come about, a
kind of windfall, why thereâll be time to adjust certainly to
that.... But they want the nearly aie luxury this
week of buying an electric train set for the kid, trying
that way each to light his own set of sleek little faces here,
The War's Electric Nativity
- The arrival of Christmas during wartime transforms mundane objects, as children see Spam tins as tanks and plaster icons as living flesh.
- The elderly endure a 'new winter fermentation' of hope and bitterness, waiting for a miracle that consistently falls short of expectations.
- Wartime scarcity has stripped the population of their finery, reducing their possessions to rags used for insulating the pipes of strangers.
- A secret 'Electric Monopoly' game played by power companies causes clocks to run fast, creating a sense of temporal vertigo for the sleepless.
- The narrative builds toward a 'Nightâs Mad Carnival' where the acceleration of time and the Grid's power surges mimic a looming, violent Nativity.
- The external world remains a desolate landscape of fog, unmasked bus headlamps, and passive barbed wire oxidizing in the cold.
It is the Nightâs Mad Carnival. There is merriment under the shadows of the minute-hands. Hysteria in the pale faces between the numerals.
Beyond the Zero
155
calibrating his strangeness, well-known âphotographs all,
brought to life now, oohs and aahs but not yet, not here
in the station, any of the moves most necessary: the War
has shunted them, earthed them, those heedless destroying
_
signalings of love. The children have unfolded last yearâs
' toys and found reincarnated Spam tins, theyâre. hep this
may be the other and, who knows, unavoidable side to the
Christmas game. In the months betweenâcountry springs
and summersâthey played with real Spam tinsâtanks,
tank-destroyers, pillboxes, dreadnoughts deploying meat-
pink, yellow and blue about the dusty floors of lumber-
rooms or butteries, under the cots or couches of their exile.
Now itâs time again. The plaster baby, the oxen frosted
with gold leaf and the human-eyed sheep are turning real
again, paint quickens to flesh. To believe is not a price
they payâit happens all by itself. He is the New Baby.
On the magic night before, the animals will talk, and the
sky will be milk. The grandparents, whoâve waited each
week for the Radio Doctor asking, What Are Piles? What
Is Emphysema? What Is A Heart Attack? will wait up
beyond insomnia, watching again for the yearly impossible
not to occur, but with some mean residueâthis is the hill-
side, the sky can show us a lightâlike a thrill, a good time
you wanted too much, not a complete loss but still too far
short of a miracle... keeping their sweatered and shawled
vigils, theatrically bitter, but with the residue inside going
through a new winter fermentation every year, each time a
bit less, but always good for a revival at this season.
... All but naked now, the shiny suits and gowns of their
pubcrawling primes long torn to strips for lagging the hot-
water pipes and heaters of landlords, strangers, for hold-
ing the housesâ identities against the winter. The War
needs coal. They have taken the next-to-last steps, at-
tended the Radio Doctor's
certifications
of what they
knew in their bodies, and at Christmas they are naked as
geese under this woolen, murky, cheap old-peopleâs swad-
dling. Their electric clocks run fast, even Big Ben will be
fast now until the new springâs run in, all fast, and no one
else seems to understand or to care. The War needs elec-
tricity. Itâs a lively game, Electric Monopoly, among the
__ power companies, the Central Electricity Board, and other
War agencies,
to keep Grid Time synchronized with
156
Gravityâs RAINBOW |
Greenwich Mean Time. In the night, the deepest con-
crete wells of night, dynamos whose locations are classified
spin faster, and so, responding, the clock-hands next to all
the old, sleepless eyesâgathering in their minutes whining,
pitching higher toward the vertigo of a siren. It is the
Nightâs Mad Camival. There is merriment under the shad-
ows of the minute-hands. Hysteria in the pale faces be-
tween the numerals. The power companies speak of loads,
war-drains so vast the clocks will slow again unless this
nighttime march is stolen, but the loads expected daily do
net occur, and the Grid runs inching ever faster, and the
old faces turn to the clock faces, thinking plot, and the
numbers go whirling toward the Nativity, a violence, a
nova of heart that will turn us all, change us forever to
the very forgotten roots of who we are. But over the sea
the fog tonight still is quietly scalloped pearl. Up in the
city the arc-lamps crackle, furious, in smothered blaze up
the centerlines of the streets, too ice-colored for candles,
to chill-dropleted for holocaust . . . the tall read busses sway,
all the headlamps by regulation newly unmasked now
parry, cross, traverse and blind, torn great fistfuls of wet-
ness blow by, desolate as the beaches beneath the nacre
fog, whose barbed wire that never knew the inward stidg
of current, that only lay passive, oxidizing in the night,
now weaves like underwater grass, looped, bitter cold,
sharp as the scorpion, all the printless sand miles past
cruisers abandoned in the last summers of peacetime that
once holidayed the old world away, wine and olive-grove
and pipe-smoke evenings away the other side of the War,
stripped now to rust axles and brackets and smelling in-
side of the same brine as this beach you cannot really
walk, because of the War. Up across the downs, past the
spotlights where the migrant birds in autumn choked the
beams night after night, fatally held till they dropped ex-
hausted out of the sky, a shower of dead birds, the com-
pline worshipers sit in the unheated church, shivering,
voiceless as the choir asks: where are the joys? "Where else
but there where the Angels sing new songs
and the bells
ring out in the court of the King. Beste thousand-
year sighâeia, wirn wir da! were we but
tired men and their black bellwether reaching as far as
they can, as far from their sheepsâ clothing as the year will
The Empire of Falsehood
- The landscape is littered with the rusted, brine-scented wreckage of pre-war peacetime, highlighting the physical and temporal decay caused by the conflict.
- The text critiques the dehumanizing nature of the state, suggesting that government-issued identities and propaganda have 'snatched' the souls of the citizenry.
- A grotesque imagery of war-time sacrifice is presented through the metaphor of canteen girls sorting through human organs as if they were mundane commodities.
- The narrative attacks the romanticization of war by Hollywood and popular culture, contrasting Disney-esque optimism with the reality of frozen carcasses and falling rockets.
- The 'Empire' is described as a place that has no room for dreams, operating on a 'pre-Cambrian' level of survival and soot-heavy exhaustion.
- Despite the terror of the V-2 rockets and flying bombs, there remains a desperate, ancient human need for a 'communion' that might banish the false boundaries of identity and war.
Is that who you are, that vaguely criminal face on your ID card, its soul snatched by the government camera as the guillotine shutter fellâor maybe just left behind with your heart?
156
Gravityâs RAINBOW |
Greenwich Mean Time. In the night, the deepest con-
crete wells of night, dynamos whose locations are classified
spin faster, and so, responding, the clock-hands next to all
the old, sleepless eyesâgathering in their minutes whining,
pitching higher toward the vertigo of a siren. It is the
Nightâs Mad Camival. There is merriment under the shad-
ows of the minute-hands. Hysteria in the pale faces be-
tween the numerals. The power companies speak of loads,
war-drains so vast the clocks will slow again unless this
nighttime march is stolen, but the loads expected daily do
net occur, and the Grid runs inching ever faster, and the
old faces turn to the clock faces, thinking plot, and the
numbers go whirling toward the Nativity, a violence, a
nova of heart that will turn us all, change us forever to
the very forgotten roots of who we are. But over the sea
the fog tonight still is quietly scalloped pearl. Up in the
city the arc-lamps crackle, furious, in smothered blaze up
the centerlines of the streets, too ice-colored for candles,
to chill-dropleted for holocaust . . . the tall read busses sway,
all the headlamps by regulation newly unmasked now
parry, cross, traverse and blind, torn great fistfuls of wet-
ness blow by, desolate as the beaches beneath the nacre
fog, whose barbed wire that never knew the inward stidg
of current, that only lay passive, oxidizing in the night,
now weaves like underwater grass, looped, bitter cold,
sharp as the scorpion, all the printless sand miles past
cruisers abandoned in the last summers of peacetime that
once holidayed the old world away, wine and olive-grove
and pipe-smoke evenings away the other side of the War,
stripped now to rust axles and brackets and smelling in-
side of the same brine as this beach you cannot really
walk, because of the War. Up across the downs, past the
spotlights where the migrant birds in autumn choked the
beams night after night, fatally held till they dropped ex-
hausted out of the sky, a shower of dead birds, the com-
pline worshipers sit in the unheated church, shivering,
voiceless as the choir asks: where are the joys? "Where else
but there where the Angels sing new songs
and the bells
ring out in the court of the King. Beste thousand-
year sighâeia, wirn wir da! were we but
tired men and their black bellwether reaching as far as
they can, as far from their sheepsâ clothing as the year will
i
~
Beyond the Zero
157
let them stray. Come then. Leave your war awhile, paper
or iron war, petrol or flesh, come in with your love, your
fear of losing, your exhaustion with it. All day itâs been at
you, coercing, jiving, claiming your belief in so much that
_ isnât true. Is that who you are, that vaguely criminal face
âon your ID card, its soul snatched by the government
camera as the guillotine shutter fellâor maybe just left
behind with your heart, at the Stage Door Canteen, where
they're counting the nightâs take, the NAAFI girls, the
girls named Eileen, carefully sorting into refrigerated com-
partments the rubbery maroon organs with their yellow
garnishes of fatâoh Linda come here feel this one, put
your finger down in the ventricle here, isnât it swoony, itâs
still going. ... Everybody you donât suspect is in on this,
everybody but you: the chaplain, the doctor, your mother
hoping to hang that Gold Star, the vapid soprano last
night on the Home Service programme, letâs not forget
_ Mr. Noel Coward so stylish and cute about death and the
1
afterlife, packing them into the Duchess for the fourth year
running, the lads in Hollywood telling us how grand it all
is over here, how much fun, Walt Disney causing Dumbo
the elephant to clutch to that feather like how many
carcasses under the snow tonight among the white-painted
tanks, how many hands each frozen around a Miraculous
Medal, lucky piece of wom bone, half-dollar with the
grinning sun peering up under Libertyâs wispy gown,
clutching, dumb, when the 88 fellâwhat do you think,
itâs a childrenâs story? There arenât any. The children are
away dreaming, but the Empire has no place for dreams
and itâs Adults Only in here tonight, here in this refuge
with the lamps burning deep, in pre-Cambrian exhala-
tion, savory as food cooking, heavy as soot. And 60 miles
up the rockets hanging the measureless instant over the
black North Sea before the fall, ever faster, to orange
heat, Christmas star, in helpless plunge to Earth. Lower
in the sky the flying bombs are out too, roaring like the
Adversary, seeking whom they may devour. Itâs a long
walk home tonight. Listen to this mock-angel singing, let
your communion be at least in listening, even if they are
not spokesmen for your exact hopes, your exact, darkest
terror, listen. There must have been evensong here long
before the news of Christ. Surely for as long as there have
4
158
Gravity's Ramnsow
been nights bad as this oneâsomething to raise the possi-
bility of another night that could actually, with love and
cockcrows, light the path home, banish the Adversary,
destroy the boundaries between our lands, our bodies, our
stories, all false, about who we are: for the one night,
leaving only the clear way home and the memory of the
infant you saw, almost too frail, thereâs too much shit in
these streets, camels and other beasts stir heavily outside,
each hoof a chance to wipe him out, make him only an-
other Messiah, and sure somebodyâs around already taking
bets on that one, while here in this town the Jewish
collaborators are selling useful gossip to Imperial Intelli-
gence, and the local hookers are keeping the foreskinned
invaders happy, charging whatever the traffic will bear,
just like the innkeepers who're naturally delighted with
this registration thing, and up in the capital theyâre won-
dering should they, maybe, give everybody a number,
yeah, something to help SPQR Record-keeping... and
Herod or Hitler, fellas (the chaplains out in the Bulge are
manly, haggard, hard drinkers), what kind of a world is
it (âYou forgot Roosevelt, padre,â come the voices from
the back, the good father can never see them, they harass
him, these tempters, even into his dreams:
âWendell
Willkie!â âHow about Churchill?â ââArry Pollitt!â) for a
baby to come in tippinâ those Toledos at 7 pounds 8 ounces
thinkinâ heâs gonna redeem it, why, he oughta have his
head examined. ...
But on the way home tonight, you wish you'd picked
him up, held him a bit. Just held him, very close to your
heart, his cheek by the hollow of your shoulder, full of
sleep. As if it were you who could, somehow, save him.
For the moment not caring who you're supposed to be
registered as. For the moment anyway, no longer who the
Caesars say you are.
O Jesu parvule,
Nach dir ist mir so weh...
|
So this pickup group, these exiles and horny kids, sullen
civilians called up in their middle age,
men fattening
despite their hunger, flatulent because of it, pre-ulcerous,
hoarse, runny-nosed, red-eyed, sore-throated, piss-swollen
id
The Paradoxical Phase of War
- The narrative juxtaposes the biblical Nativity with the cynicism of modern warfare, equating the Roman occupation of Judea with the bureaucratic and military machinery of the 20th century.
- A weary chaplain reflects on the absurdity of a 'redeemer' entering a world defined by collaborators, intelligence gathering, and the cold indifference of global leaders.
- A group of bedraggled, aging soldiers and exiles performs a choral evensong, offering a raw and 'obligatory little cry' rather than a divine announcement of hope.
- The act of holding a child is presented as a fleeting moment of rebellion against state-imposed identities and the 'registration' of the Caesars.
- The setting shifts to a cold, clinical environment where Pavlovian experiments on stimuli and secretions occur beneath the roar of Lancaster bombers heading toward Germany.
- The 'paradoxical phase' is introduced as a psychological state where weak stimuli elicit disproportionately strong responses, mirroring the fragile mental state of those living under the blitz.
For the moment not caring who you're supposed to be registered as. For the moment anyway, no longer who the Caesars say you are.
158
Gravity's Ramnsow
been nights bad as this oneâsomething to raise the possi-
bility of another night that could actually, with love and
cockcrows, light the path home, banish the Adversary,
destroy the boundaries between our lands, our bodies, our
stories, all false, about who we are: for the one night,
leaving only the clear way home and the memory of the
infant you saw, almost too frail, thereâs too much shit in
these streets, camels and other beasts stir heavily outside,
each hoof a chance to wipe him out, make him only an-
other Messiah, and sure somebodyâs around already taking
bets on that one, while here in this town the Jewish
collaborators are selling useful gossip to Imperial Intelli-
gence, and the local hookers are keeping the foreskinned
invaders happy, charging whatever the traffic will bear,
just like the innkeepers who're naturally delighted with
this registration thing, and up in the capital theyâre won-
dering should they, maybe, give everybody a number,
yeah, something to help SPQR Record-keeping... and
Herod or Hitler, fellas (the chaplains out in the Bulge are
manly, haggard, hard drinkers), what kind of a world is
it (âYou forgot Roosevelt, padre,â come the voices from
the back, the good father can never see them, they harass
him, these tempters, even into his dreams:
âWendell
Willkie!â âHow about Churchill?â ââArry Pollitt!â) for a
baby to come in tippinâ those Toledos at 7 pounds 8 ounces
thinkinâ heâs gonna redeem it, why, he oughta have his
head examined. ...
But on the way home tonight, you wish you'd picked
him up, held him a bit. Just held him, very close to your
heart, his cheek by the hollow of your shoulder, full of
sleep. As if it were you who could, somehow, save him.
For the moment not caring who you're supposed to be
registered as. For the moment anyway, no longer who the
Caesars say you are.
O Jesu parvule,
Nach dir ist mir so weh...
|
So this pickup group, these exiles and horny kids, sullen
civilians called up in their middle age,
men fattening
despite their hunger, flatulent because of it, pre-ulcerous,
hoarse, runny-nosed, red-eyed, sore-throated, piss-swollen
id
-
» Beyond the Zero
159
men suffering from acute lower backs and all-day hang-
overs, wishing death on officers they truly hate, men you
have seen on foot and smileless in the cities but forgot,
men who donât remember you either, knowing they ought
to be grabbing a little sleep, not out here performing for
strangers, give you this evensong, climaxing now with its
rising fragment of some ancient scale, voices overlapping
three- and fourfold, up, echoing, filling the entire hollow
of the churchâno counterfeit baby, no announcement of
the Kingdom, not even a try at warming or lighting this
terrible night, only, damn us, our scruffy obligatory little
cry, our maximum reach outwardâpraise be to God/âfor
you to take back to your war-address, your war-identity,
across the snowâs footprints and tire tracks finally to the
path you must create by yourself, alone in the dark.
Whether you want it or not, whatever seas you have
âcrossed, the way home....
O
Paradoxical phase, when weak stimuli get strong re-
sponses. ... When did it happen? A certain early stage of
sleep: you had not heard the Mosquitoes and Lancasters
tonight on route to Germany, their engines battering apart
the sky, shaking and ripping it, for a-full hour, a few puffs
of winter cloud drifting below the steel-riveted underside
of the night, vibrating with the constancy, the terror, of so
many bombers outward bound. Your own form immobile,
mouth-breathing, alone face-up on the narrow cot next to
the wall so pictureless, chartless, mapless: so habitually
blank. ... Your feet pointed toward a high slit window at
the far end of the room. Starlight, the steady sound of the
bombersâ departure, icy air seeping in. The table littered
with broken-spined
books,
scribbled
columns
headed
Time / Stimulus / Secretion (30 sec) / Remarks, teacups,
saucers, pencils, pens. You slept, you dreamed: thousands
of feet above your face the steel bombers passed, wave
after wave. It was indoors, some great place of assembly.
Many people were gathered. In recent days, at certain
hours, a round white light, quite intense, has gone sliding
along and down in a straight line through the air. Here,
â
eeeâ
-
oe
ee
LS
am âa tee
2
>.
160
Gravity's Ramsow
;
suddenly,
it appears again,
its course linear as always, right
to left. But this time it isnât constantâinstead it lights up
time, is taken by those present as a warningâsomething
wrong, drastically wrong, with the day.... No one knew
The assembly adjourns. On seeing the light jangling this
way, you begin to wait for something terribleânot exactly
an air raid but something close to that. You look quickly
over
at a clock. Itâs six on the dot, hands perfectly straight
up and down,
and you understand
that six is the hour of
the
over by ancient walnut trees, a hill, a wooden fence, hol- ©
low-eyed horses in a field, a cemetery.... Your task, in
these dreams, is often to crossâunder the trees, through
something happens.
into the fallow field just below the graveyard, fullâ of
autumn brambles and rabbits, where the gypsies live.
Sometimes you fly. But you can never rise above a certain
height. You may feel yourself being slowed, coming im-
an
interdiction, from which there is no appeal... and as the
But this evening, this six oâclock of the round light, you
â
have set out leftward instead. With you is a girl identified
The Ghostly Hour of Six
- A sinister twilight atmosphere at six o'clock serves as a premonition of disaster, characterized by a 'round light' and a sense of inescapable interdiction.
- The narrative shifts from a dreamlike state to the reality of wartime London, where Thomas Gwenhidwy delivers news of the death of the character Spectro.
- The text explores the 'paradoxical' nature of consciousness, where a small, reluctant tap at the door wakes a sleeper who had ignored the roar of bomber squadrons.
- A growing population of 'English ghosts' and psychic debris haunt the living, with the medium Carroll Eventyr channeling cryptic messages like 'Foxes' from the deceased.
- The destruction of St. Veronicaâs hospital by a rocket illustrates the terrifying physics of the V-2, where the sound of the approach arrives only after the blast.
- Roger Mexico, the statistician, reduces the human tragedy of the explosion to a mere data point, adding a pin to a map to fulfill his Poisson distribution predictions.
The rocketâs ghost calling to ghosts it newly made.
eeeâ
-
oe
ee
LS
am âa tee
2
>.
160
Gravity's Ramsow
;
suddenly,
it appears again,
its course linear as always, right
to left. But this time it isnât constantâinstead it lights up
time, is taken by those present as a warningâsomething
wrong, drastically wrong, with the day.... No one knew
The assembly adjourns. On seeing the light jangling this
way, you begin to wait for something terribleânot exactly
an air raid but something close to that. You look quickly
over
at a clock. Itâs six on the dot, hands perfectly straight
up and down,
and you understand
that six is the hour of
the
over by ancient walnut trees, a hill, a wooden fence, hol- ©
low-eyed horses in a field, a cemetery.... Your task, in
these dreams, is often to crossâunder the trees, through
something happens.
into the fallow field just below the graveyard, fullâ of
autumn brambles and rabbits, where the gypsies live.
Sometimes you fly. But you can never rise above a certain
height. You may feel yourself being slowed, coming im-
an
interdiction, from which there is no appeal... and as the
But this evening, this six oâclock of the round light, you
â
have set out leftward instead. With you is a girl identified
Beyond the Zero
161
something is going to happen, and you can only wait. The
landscape shines. Wetness on the pavement. Settling a
warm kind of hood around the back of your neck and
shoulders, you are about to remark to your wife, âThis is
the most sinister time of evening.â But thereâs a better
word than âsinister.â You search for it. It is someone's
name. It waits behind the twilight, the clarity, the white
flowers. There comes a light tapping at the door.
You sat bolt upright in bed, your heart pounding in
fright. You waited for it to repeat, and became aware of
the many bombers in the sky. Another knock. It was
Thomas Gwenhidwy, come down all the way from Lon-
don, with the news about poor Spectro. You slept through
the loud squadrons roaring without letup, but Gwenhidwyâs
small, reluctant tap woke you. Something like what hap-
pens on the cortex of Dog during the âparadoxicalâ phase.
Now ghosts crowd beneath the eaves. Stretched among
snowy soot chimneys, booming over air-shafts, too tenuous
themselves for sound, dry now forever in this wet gusting,
stretched and never breaking, whipped in glassy French-
curved chase across the rooftops, along the silver downs,
skimming where the sea combs freezing in to shore. They
gather, thicker as the days pass, English ghosts, so many
jostling in the nights, memories unloosening into the win-
ter, seeds that will never take hold, so lost, now only an
every-so-often word, a clue for the livingââFoxes,â calls
Spectrog across astral spaces, the word intended for Mr.
Pointsman who is not present, who wonât be told because
the few Psi Section whoâre there to hear it get cryptic debris
of this sort every sittingâif recorded at all it finds its way
into Milton Gloamingâs word-counting projectâââFoxes,â a
buzzing echo on the afternoon, Carroll Eventyr, âThe
White Visitationâ âs resident medium, curls thickly tight-
ened across his head, speaking the word âFoxes,â out of
very red, thin lips... half of St. Veronicaâs hospital in the
morning smashed roofless as the old Ick Regis Abbey,
_ powdered as the snow, and poor Spectro picked off, lighted
cubbyhole and dark ward subsumed in the blast and he
never hearing the approach, the sound too late, after the
_
blast, the rocketâs ghost calling to ghosts it newly made.
; Then silence, Another âeventâ for Roger Mexico, a round-
4
162
Gravityâs Rainsow
headed pin to be stuck in his map, a square graduating
from two up to three hits, helping fill out the threes pre-
diction, which latelyâs being lagged behind. ...
A pin? not even that, a pinhole in paper that someday
will be taken down, when the rockets have stopped their
falling, or when the young statistician chooses to end his
count, paper to be hauled away by the charwomen, tom
up, burned. ... Pointsman alone, sneezing helplessly in
his dimming bureau, the barking from the kennels flat now
and diminished by the cold, shaking his head no... in-
side me, in my memory... more than an âeventâ... our
common mortality ... these tragic days. ... But by now he
is shivering, allowing himself to stare across his office space
at the Book, to remind himself that of an original. seven
there are now only two left, himself and Thomas Gwen-
hidwy tending his poor out past Stepney: The five ghosts
are strung in clear escalation: Pumm in a jeep accident,
Easterling taken early in a raid by the Luftwaffe, Dromond
by German artillery on Shellfire Corner, Lamplighter by a
flying bomb, and now Kevin Spectro... auto, bomb, gun,
V-1, and now V-2, and Pointsman has no sense but terrorâs,
all his skin aching, for the mounting sophistication of this,
for the dialectic it seems to imply. . ..
âAh, yes indeed. The mummyâs curse, you idiot. Christ,
Christ, Iâm ready for D Wing.â
Now D. Wing is âThe White Visitationâ âs cover, still
housing a few genuine patients. Few of the PISCES peo-
ple go near it, The skeleton of regular hospital staff have
their own canteen, W.C.s, sleeping quarters, offices, carry-
ing on as under the old place, suffering the Other Lot in
their midst. Just as, for their part, PISCES staff suffer the
garden or peacetime madness of D Wing, only rarely
finding opportunity to swap information on therapies or
symptoms. Yes, one would expect more of a link. Hysteria
.
is, after all, is it not, hysteria. Well, no, come to find out,
it's not. How does one feel legitimist and easy for very
long about the transition? From conspiracies so mild, so
domestic, from the serpent coiled in the teacup, the handâs
paralysis or eyeâs withdrawal at words, words that could
frighten that much, to the sort of thing Spectro found
_
every day in his ward, extinguished now...to what
Pointsman finds in Dogs Piotr, Natasha, Nikolai, Sergei,
The Dialectic of Terror
- Pointsman reflects on the escalating sophistication of death, noting how each colleague has been killed by a progressively more advanced weapon, from jeeps to V-2 rockets.
- The 'White Visitation' facility maintains a tense, segregated existence between the regular hospital staff of D Wing and the psychological warfare specialists of PISCES.
- The narrative explores the shift from domestic, Freudian hysteria to the industrial-scale trauma inflicted by the Blitz and the irreversible 'Abreaction of the Lord of the Night.'
- The V-2 rocket strikes are described as a mockery of reversible time, forcing a reality where death is sudden, unpredictable, and increasingly legitimized by the state.
- Roger Mexico views the distribution of rocket falls through the Poisson dispensation, finding a mathematical majesty in the same 'chance' that terrifies Pointsman.
The five ghosts are strung in clear escalation: Pumm in a jeep accident, Easterling taken early in a raid by the Luftwaffe, Dromond by German artillery on Shellfire Corner, Lamplighter by a flying bomb, and now Kevin Spectro... auto, bomb, gun, V-1, and now V-2.
162
Gravityâs Rainsow
headed pin to be stuck in his map, a square graduating
from two up to three hits, helping fill out the threes pre-
diction, which latelyâs being lagged behind. ...
A pin? not even that, a pinhole in paper that someday
will be taken down, when the rockets have stopped their
falling, or when the young statistician chooses to end his
count, paper to be hauled away by the charwomen, tom
up, burned. ... Pointsman alone, sneezing helplessly in
his dimming bureau, the barking from the kennels flat now
and diminished by the cold, shaking his head no... in-
side me, in my memory... more than an âeventâ... our
common mortality ... these tragic days. ... But by now he
is shivering, allowing himself to stare across his office space
at the Book, to remind himself that of an original. seven
there are now only two left, himself and Thomas Gwen-
hidwy tending his poor out past Stepney: The five ghosts
are strung in clear escalation: Pumm in a jeep accident,
Easterling taken early in a raid by the Luftwaffe, Dromond
by German artillery on Shellfire Corner, Lamplighter by a
flying bomb, and now Kevin Spectro... auto, bomb, gun,
V-1, and now V-2, and Pointsman has no sense but terrorâs,
all his skin aching, for the mounting sophistication of this,
for the dialectic it seems to imply. . ..
âAh, yes indeed. The mummyâs curse, you idiot. Christ,
Christ, Iâm ready for D Wing.â
Now D. Wing is âThe White Visitationâ âs cover, still
housing a few genuine patients. Few of the PISCES peo-
ple go near it, The skeleton of regular hospital staff have
their own canteen, W.C.s, sleeping quarters, offices, carry-
ing on as under the old place, suffering the Other Lot in
their midst. Just as, for their part, PISCES staff suffer the
garden or peacetime madness of D Wing, only rarely
finding opportunity to swap information on therapies or
symptoms. Yes, one would expect more of a link. Hysteria
.
is, after all, is it not, hysteria. Well, no, come to find out,
it's not. How does one feel legitimist and easy for very
long about the transition? From conspiracies so mild, so
domestic, from the serpent coiled in the teacup, the handâs
paralysis or eyeâs withdrawal at words, words that could
frighten that much, to the sort of thing Spectro found
_
every day in his ward, extinguished now...to what
Pointsman finds in Dogs Piotr, Natasha, Nikolai, Sergei,
Beyond the Zero
163
Katinkaâor Pavel Sergevich, Varvara Nikolaevna, and
then ther children, andâ When it can be read so clearly
in the faces of the physicians... Gwenhidwy inside his
fluffy beard never as impassive as he might have wished,
Spectro hurrying away with a syringe for his Fox, when
nothing can really stop the Abreaction of the Lord of the
Night unless the Blitz stops, rockets dismantle, the entire
film runs backward: faired skin back to sheet steel back to
pigs to white incandesence to ore, to Earth. But the reality
is not reversible. Each firebloom, followed by blast then
by sound of arrival, is a mockery (how can it not be
deliberate?) of the reversible process: with each one the
Lord further legitimizes his State, and we who cannot find
him, even to see, come to think of death no more often, -
really, than before...and, with no warning when they
will come, and no way to bring them down, pretend to
carry on as in Blitzless times. When it does happen, we
are content to call it âchance.â Or we have been per-
suaded. There do exist levels where chance is hardly recog-
nized at all. But to the likes of employees such as Roger
Mexico it is music, not without its majesty, this power
m2
m?
m1
series Ne (1 + m + âop + 3 tases fad)
â
terms numbered according to rocketfalls per square, the
Poisson dispensation ruling not only these annihilations no
man can run from, but also cavalry accidents, blood
counts, radioactive decay, number of wars per year....
Pointsman stands by a window, his own vaguely re-
flected face blown through with the driven snow outside
in the darkening day. Far across the downs cries a train
whistle, grainy as late fog: a cockcrow â
* â
°*
a
long whistle, another crow, fire at trackside, a rocket,
another rocket, in the woods or valley...
Well .
.
. Why noé renounce the Book then Ned, give it
up thatâs all, the obsolescent data, the Master's isolated
âmoments of poetry, itâs paper thatâs all, you donât need it,
the Book and its terrible curse... before itâs too late....
Yes, recant, grovel, oh fabulousâbut before whom? Who's
listening? But he has crossed back to the desk and actually
âlaid hands on it....
_
âAss. Superstitious ass.â Wandering, empty-headed...
fe
.] i. %
Bina
The Creeping Decline of Pointsman
- The protagonist reflects on his increasing isolation and the 'creeping' decline of his mental state as colleagues die around him.
- He experiences profound regret over 'unmade moves' and missed human connections, ranging from lost friends to simple social gestures.
- A deep-seated sense of 'creepiness' and social inhibition prevents him from interacting normally with others, particularly women.
- He finds solace in grandiose fantasies of power, prestige, and international recognition as a substitute for genuine intimacy.
- The deaths of his peers are described as patterns on his own cortex going dark, suggesting a loss of his own identity as his social circle vanishes.
- He views his survival not as a blessing but as a 'brute luck' that leaves him wandering a lonely, metaphorical labyrinth.
One by one they are being picked off around him: in his small circle of colleagues the ratio slowly grows top-heavy, more ghosts, more each winter, and fewer living...
Beyond the Zero
163
Katinkaâor Pavel Sergevich, Varvara Nikolaevna, and
then ther children, andâ When it can be read so clearly
in the faces of the physicians... Gwenhidwy inside his
fluffy beard never as impassive as he might have wished,
Spectro hurrying away with a syringe for his Fox, when
nothing can really stop the Abreaction of the Lord of the
Night unless the Blitz stops, rockets dismantle, the entire
film runs backward: faired skin back to sheet steel back to
pigs to white incandesence to ore, to Earth. But the reality
is not reversible. Each firebloom, followed by blast then
by sound of arrival, is a mockery (how can it not be
deliberate?) of the reversible process: with each one the
Lord further legitimizes his State, and we who cannot find
him, even to see, come to think of death no more often, -
really, than before...and, with no warning when they
will come, and no way to bring them down, pretend to
carry on as in Blitzless times. When it does happen, we
are content to call it âchance.â Or we have been per-
suaded. There do exist levels where chance is hardly recog-
nized at all. But to the likes of employees such as Roger
Mexico it is music, not without its majesty, this power
m2
m?
m1
series Ne (1 + m + âop + 3 tases fad)
â
terms numbered according to rocketfalls per square, the
Poisson dispensation ruling not only these annihilations no
man can run from, but also cavalry accidents, blood
counts, radioactive decay, number of wars per year....
Pointsman stands by a window, his own vaguely re-
flected face blown through with the driven snow outside
in the darkening day. Far across the downs cries a train
whistle, grainy as late fog: a cockcrow â
* â
°*
a
long whistle, another crow, fire at trackside, a rocket,
another rocket, in the woods or valley...
Well .
.
. Why noé renounce the Book then Ned, give it
up thatâs all, the obsolescent data, the Master's isolated
âmoments of poetry, itâs paper thatâs all, you donât need it,
the Book and its terrible curse... before itâs too late....
Yes, recant, grovel, oh fabulousâbut before whom? Who's
listening? But he has crossed back to the desk and actually
âlaid hands on it....
_
âAss. Superstitious ass.â Wandering, empty-headed...
fe
.] i. %
Bina
164
Gravityâs RAINBOW
these episodes are coming more often now. His decline,
creeping on him like the cold. Pumm, Easterling, Dro-
mond, Lamplighter, Spectro... what should heâve done
then, gone down to Psi Section, asked Eventyr to get up a
séance, try to get on to one of them at least...perhaps...
yes... What holds him back? âHave I,â he whispers
against the glass, the aspirate, the later plosives clouding
the cold pane in fans of breath, warm and disconsolate
breath, âso much pride?â One cannot, he cannot walk
down that particular corridor, cannot even suggest; no not
even to Mexico, how he misses them... though he hardly
knew. Dromond,
or
Easterling... but...misses
Allen
Lamplighter, who would bet on anything, you know, on
dogs, thunderstorms, tram numbers, on street-comer wind
and a likely skirt, on how far a given doodle would get,
perhaps...oh God... even the one that fell on him....
Pummâs arranger-style piano and drunken baritone, his
adventuring among the nurses.... Spectro... Why cant
he askP When there are a hundred ways to put it....
I should... should have. ... There are, in his history,
so many of these unmade moves, so many âshould havesââ
should have married her, let her father steer him, should
have stayed in Harley Street, been kinder, smiled more at
strangers, even smiled back this afternoon at Maudie
Chilkes... why couldnât he? A silly bleeding smile, why
not, what inhibits, what snarl of the mosaic? Pretty, amber
eyes behind those government spectacles... Women avoid
him. He knows in a general way what it is: heâs creepy.
Heâs even aware, usually, of the times when heâs being
creepyâitâs a certain set to his face-muscles, a tendency
to sweat... but he canât seem to do anything about it,
canât ever concentrate for long enough, they distract him
soâand next thing he knows heâs back to radiating the
old creepiness again... and their response to it is predict-
able, they run uttering screams only they, and he, can
hear, Oh but how heâd like someday to. give them some-
thing really to scream about. .
Hereâs an erection stirring, he'll ee
himself to
sleep again tonight. A joyless constant, an institution in his
life. But goading him, just before the bright peak, what
images will come whirling inP Why, the turrets and blue
waters, the sails and churchtops of Stage
toe yellow
Beyond the Zero
165
telegram, the face of a tall, cognizant, and beautiful
woman turned to watch him as he passes in the ceremonial
limousine,
a woman who will later, hardly by chance, visit
him in his suite at the Grand Hotel...
itâs not all ruby
nipples and black lace cami-knickers, you know. There are
hushed entrances into rooms that smell of paper, satellite
votes on this Committee or that, the Chairs, the Prizes...
what could compare! Later, when you're older, you'll know,
they said. Yes and it grows upon him, each war year equal
to a dozen of peacetime, oh my, how right they were.
As his luck has always known, his subcortical, brute
luck, this gift of survival while other and better men are
snatched away into Death, hereâs the door, one heâs
imagined so often in lonely Thesean brushings down his
polished corridors of years: an exit out of the orthodox-
Pavlovian, showing him vistas of Norrmalm, Sédermalm,
Deer Park and Old City....
One by one they are being picked off around him: in his
small circle of colleagues the ratio slowly grows top-heavy,
more ghosts, more each winter, and fewer living... and
with each one, he thinks he feels patterns on his cortex
going dark, settling to sleep forever, parts of whoever heâs
been now losing all definition, reverting to dumb chem-
Kevin Spectro did not differentiate as much as he be-
tween Outside and Inside. He saw the cortex as an inter-
face organ, mediating between the two, but part of them
both. âWhen you've looked at how it really is,â he asked
once, âhow can we, any of us, be separate?â He is my
Pierre Janet, Pointsman thought. ...
Soon, by the dialectic of the Book, Pointsman will be
alone, in a black field lapsing to isotropy, to the zero, wait-
ing to be last to go.... Will there be time? He has to
survive . .. to try for the Prize, not for his own glory, noâ
but to keep a promise, to the human field of seven he
once was, the ones who didnât make it.... Hereâs a
medium shot, himself backlit, alone at the high window in
the Grand Hotel, whisky glass tipped at the bright sub-
arctic sky and hereâs to you then, chaps, it'll be all of us
up there onstage tomorrow, Ned Pointsman only happened
to survive thatâs all ...t0 stockHoim his banner and cry,
and after Stockholm a blur, a long golden twilight....
Y
âe es
Pointsmanâs Fever-Rondo
- Ned Pointsman reflects on Kevin Spectroâs view of the cortex as an interface that dissolves the boundary between the internal self and the external world.
- Driven by survivor's guilt and a promise to his fallen colleagues, Pointsman fixates on winning the Nobel Prize as a collective victory for his 'human field of seven.'
- Pointsman experiences recurring, vivid dreams of a confrontation with a Minotaur, representing a primal, violent peaking of life that he lacks in his waking reality.
- The dream shifts into a surreal pursuit of a champion Nazi Weimaraner through a devastated, 'Londonized' Germany amidst the debris of rocket blasts.
- This 'fever-rondo' of pursuit serves as a psychological loop where Pointsman seeks a final, transformative meeting of eyes with his elusive quarry.
- The visions culminate in apocalyptic imagery of global destruction, where the act of being hunted or hunting triggers a chemical, ecstatic release in his blood.
Oh yes once you know, he did believe in a Minotaur waiting for him: used-to dream himself rushing into the last room, burnished sword at the ready, screaming like a Commando, letting it all out at lastâsome true marvelous peaking of life inside him for the first and last time.
Beyond the Zero
165
telegram, the face of a tall, cognizant, and beautiful
woman turned to watch him as he passes in the ceremonial
limousine,
a woman who will later, hardly by chance, visit
him in his suite at the Grand Hotel...
itâs not all ruby
nipples and black lace cami-knickers, you know. There are
hushed entrances into rooms that smell of paper, satellite
votes on this Committee or that, the Chairs, the Prizes...
what could compare! Later, when you're older, you'll know,
they said. Yes and it grows upon him, each war year equal
to a dozen of peacetime, oh my, how right they were.
As his luck has always known, his subcortical, brute
luck, this gift of survival while other and better men are
snatched away into Death, hereâs the door, one heâs
imagined so often in lonely Thesean brushings down his
polished corridors of years: an exit out of the orthodox-
Pavlovian, showing him vistas of Norrmalm, Sédermalm,
Deer Park and Old City....
One by one they are being picked off around him: in his
small circle of colleagues the ratio slowly grows top-heavy,
more ghosts, more each winter, and fewer living... and
with each one, he thinks he feels patterns on his cortex
going dark, settling to sleep forever, parts of whoever heâs
been now losing all definition, reverting to dumb chem-
Kevin Spectro did not differentiate as much as he be-
tween Outside and Inside. He saw the cortex as an inter-
face organ, mediating between the two, but part of them
both. âWhen you've looked at how it really is,â he asked
once, âhow can we, any of us, be separate?â He is my
Pierre Janet, Pointsman thought. ...
Soon, by the dialectic of the Book, Pointsman will be
alone, in a black field lapsing to isotropy, to the zero, wait-
ing to be last to go.... Will there be time? He has to
survive . .. to try for the Prize, not for his own glory, noâ
but to keep a promise, to the human field of seven he
once was, the ones who didnât make it.... Hereâs a
medium shot, himself backlit, alone at the high window in
the Grand Hotel, whisky glass tipped at the bright sub-
arctic sky and hereâs to you then, chaps, it'll be all of us
up there onstage tomorrow, Ned Pointsman only happened
to survive thatâs all ...t0 stockHoim his banner and cry,
and after Stockholm a blur, a long golden twilight....
Y
âe es
166
Gravityâs RAINBOW
-
Oh yes once you know, he did believe in a Minotaur
waiting for him: used-to dream himself rushing into the
last room, burnished sword at the ready, screaming like
a Commando, letting it all out at lastâsome true marvel-
ous peaking of life inside him for the first and last time,
as the face turned his way, ancient, weary, seeing none of
Pointsmanâs humanity, ready only to assume him in another
long-routinized nudge of horn, flip of hoof (but this time
there would be struggle, Minotaur blood the fucking beast,
cries from far inside himself whose manliness and violence
surprise him).... This was the dream. The settings, the
face changed, little of it past the structure survived the
first cup of coffee and flat beige Benzedrine pill. It might
be a vast lorry-park just at dawn, the pavement newly
hosed, mottled in grease-browns, the hooded olive trucks
standing each with a secret, each waiting... but he knows
that inside one of these...and at last, sifting among
them, finds it, the identifying code beyond voicing, climbs
up into the back, under the canvas, waits in the dust and
brown light, until through the cloudy oblong of the cab
window a face, a face he knows begins to turn... but the
underlying structure is the turning face, the meeting of
eyes...stalking Reichssieger von Thanatz Alpdrucken,
that most elusive of Nazi hounds, champion Weimaraner
for 1941, bearing studbook number 416832 tattooed inside
his ear along through a Londonized Germany, his liver-
gray shape receding, loping at twilit canalsides strewn
with debris of war, rocket blasts each time missing them,
their chase preserved, a plate etched in firebursts, the map
of a sacrificial city, of a cortex human and canine, the
dogâs ear-leather mildly aswing, top of his skull brightly
reflecting the winter clouds, into a shelter lying steel-clad
-
miles below the city, an opera of Balkan intrigue, in whose
hermetic safety, among whose clusters of blue dissonance
unperiodically stressed heâs unable to escape completely
because of how always the Reichssieger persists, leading,
_
serene, uncancelable, and to the literal pursuit of whom he
thus returns, must return time and again ina fever-rondo,
until at last they are on some hillside
at the end of a long
afternoon of dispatches from Armageddon, âamong scarlet
bangs of bougainvillea, golden pathways where dust is
rising, pillars of smoke far. away over the spidery city
Beyond the Zero
167
theyâve crossed, voices in the air telling of South America
burned to cinders, the sky over New York glowing purple
with the new all-sovereign death-ray, and here at last is
where the gray dog can turn and the amber eyes gaze into
Ned Pointsmanâs own....
Each time, each turning, his own blood and heart are
stroked, beaten, brought jubilantly high, and triggered to
the icy noctiluca, to flare and fusing Thermite as he begins
to expand, an uncontainable light, as the walls of the
chamber turn a blood glow, orange, then white and begin
to slip, to flow like wax, what there is of labyrinth collaps-
ing in rings outward, hero and horror, engineer and
Ariadne consumed, molten inside the light of himself, the
mad exploding of himself...
.
Years ago. Dreams he hardly remembers. The inter-
mediaries come long since between himself and his final
beast. They would deny him even the little perversity of
being in love with his death... .
But now with Slothrop in itâsudden angel, thermo-
dynamic surprise, whatever he is... will it change now?
ae Pointsman get to have a go at the Minotaur after
P
Slothrop ought to be on the Riviera by now, warm, fed,
well-fucked. But out in this late English winter the dogs,
thrown over, are still ranging the back-streets and mews,
sniffing the dustbins, skidding on carpets of snow, fighting,
fleeing, shivering in their wet pools of Prussian blue...
seeking to avoid what cannot be smelled or seen, what
announces itself with the roar of a predator so absolute
they sink to the snow whining and roll over to give it
their soft and open bellies... .
Has Pointsman renounced them in favor of one untried
human subject? Donât think he hasnât doubts as to the
validity of this scheme, at least. Let Vicar de la Nuit worry
about its ârightness,â heâs the staff chaplain. But... what
about the dogs? Pointsman knows them. Heâs deftly picked
the locks of their awareness. They have no secrets. He can
drive them mad, and with bromides in adequate doses he
ean bring them back. But Slothrop..
.
__
So the Pavlovian dithers about his office, feeling restless
and old. He should sleep but he canât. It has to be more
than the simple conditioning of a child, once upon a time.
Ls
âte a
The Symmetry of Sickness
- Pointsman grapples with the ethical and scientific implications of using Slothrop as a human subject in his Pavlovian experiments.
- The narrative contrasts the predictable, 'unlocked' awareness of laboratory dogs with the unpredictable and haunting nature of Slothropâs conditioning.
- Pointsman observes a disturbing symmetry between the V-1 and V-2 rockets, viewing them as mirror-image weapons that reflect a new pathology in history itself.
- The death of Spectro serves as a catalyst for Pointsman to justify his 'modest experiment' as a search for etiology and treatment.
- The boundary between 'Inside' (the mind) and 'Outside' (the world/history) is questioned, suggesting they may be part of the same field.
- Pointsman rationalizes the potential destruction of Slothrop by comparing it to the larger-scale risks and suffering occurring daily in Whitehall.
But out in this late English winter the dogs, thrown over, are still ranging the back-streets and mews, sniffing the dustbins, skidding on carpets of snow, fighting, fleeing, shivering in their wet pools of Prussian blue...
Beyond the Zero
167
theyâve crossed, voices in the air telling of South America
burned to cinders, the sky over New York glowing purple
with the new all-sovereign death-ray, and here at last is
where the gray dog can turn and the amber eyes gaze into
Ned Pointsmanâs own....
Each time, each turning, his own blood and heart are
stroked, beaten, brought jubilantly high, and triggered to
the icy noctiluca, to flare and fusing Thermite as he begins
to expand, an uncontainable light, as the walls of the
chamber turn a blood glow, orange, then white and begin
to slip, to flow like wax, what there is of labyrinth collaps-
ing in rings outward, hero and horror, engineer and
Ariadne consumed, molten inside the light of himself, the
mad exploding of himself...
.
Years ago. Dreams he hardly remembers. The inter-
mediaries come long since between himself and his final
beast. They would deny him even the little perversity of
being in love with his death... .
But now with Slothrop in itâsudden angel, thermo-
dynamic surprise, whatever he is... will it change now?
ae Pointsman get to have a go at the Minotaur after
P
Slothrop ought to be on the Riviera by now, warm, fed,
well-fucked. But out in this late English winter the dogs,
thrown over, are still ranging the back-streets and mews,
sniffing the dustbins, skidding on carpets of snow, fighting,
fleeing, shivering in their wet pools of Prussian blue...
seeking to avoid what cannot be smelled or seen, what
announces itself with the roar of a predator so absolute
they sink to the snow whining and roll over to give it
their soft and open bellies... .
Has Pointsman renounced them in favor of one untried
human subject? Donât think he hasnât doubts as to the
validity of this scheme, at least. Let Vicar de la Nuit worry
about its ârightness,â heâs the staff chaplain. But... what
about the dogs? Pointsman knows them. Heâs deftly picked
the locks of their awareness. They have no secrets. He can
drive them mad, and with bromides in adequate doses he
ean bring them back. But Slothrop..
.
__
So the Pavlovian dithers about his office, feeling restless
and old. He should sleep but he canât. It has to be more
than the simple conditioning of a child, once upon a time.
Ls
âte a
168
Gravity's Ramnsow
How can heâve been a doctor this long and not developed
reflexes for certain conditions? He knows better: he knows
it is more. Spectro is dead, and Slothrop
(sentiments
-
demprise, old man, softly now) was with his Darlene,
only a few blocks from St. Veronicaâs, two days before.
When one event happens after another with this awful
regularity, of course you donât automatically assume that
itâs cause-and-effect. But you do look for some mechanism
to make sense of it. You probe, you design a modest ex-
periment.... He owes Spectro that much. Even if the
Americanâs not legally a murderer, he is sick. The etiology
ought to be traced, the treatment found.
There is to this enterprise, Pointsman knows, a danger
of seduction. Because of the symmetry. ... Heâs been led
before, you know, down the garden path by symmetry: in
certain test results... in assuming that a mechanism must
imply its mirror imageââirradiation,â for example and
âreciprocal inductionâ... and who'd ever said that either
had to exist? Perhaps it will be so this time, too. But how
it haunts him, the symmetry of these two secret weapons,
Outside, out in the Blitz, the sounds of V-1 and V-2, one
the reverse of the other.... Pavlov showed how mirror-
images Inside could be confused. Ideas of the opposite.
But what new pathology lies Outside now? What sickness
- to eventsâto History itselfiâcan create symmetrical op-
posites like these robot weapons? -
*
Sign and symptoms. Was Spectro right? Could Outside
and Inside be part of the same field? If only in fairness...
in fairness... Pointsman ought to be seeking the answer
at the interface
.
.
. oughtnât he .
.
. on the cortex of
Lieutenant Slothrop. The man will sufferâperhaps, in
some clinical way, be destroyedâbut how many others
tonight are suffering in his nameP For pityâs sake, every
day in Whitehall theyâre weighing and taking risks that
make his, in this, seem almost trivial. Almost. Thereâs
something here, too transparent and swift to get a hold
onâPsi Section might speak of ectoplasmsâ+but he knows
that the time has never been better, and that the exact
experimental subject is in his hands, He must seize now, or
be doomed to the same stone hallways, whose termination
he knows. But he must remain openâeven to the possi-
bility that the Psi people are right. âWe may all be right,â
The Medium and the Monster
- A scientist records his dread regarding an experimental subject he deems a 'monster' who must never be allowed to roam free among men.
- Carroll Eventyr reflects on his late-blooming psychic talent, which he perceives as a 'splendid weakness' or a form of victimhood.
- The narrative recounts the moment Eventyr's mediumship first manifested on the Embankment, witnessed by Nora Dodson-Truck.
- Noraâs protective reaction involved drawing a chalk pentagram to shield them from potential evil during the spiritual intrusion.
- Eventyr experiences his gift as a form of surrender, losing consciousness and memory while spirits speak through him.
- Medical observers at 'The White Visitation' debate the neurological origins of his talent, finding only ambiguous spikes on his EEG.
The thought of him lost in the world of men, after the war, fills me with a deep dread I cannot extinguish.
168
Gravity's Ramnsow
How can heâve been a doctor this long and not developed
reflexes for certain conditions? He knows better: he knows
it is more. Spectro is dead, and Slothrop
(sentiments
-
demprise, old man, softly now) was with his Darlene,
only a few blocks from St. Veronicaâs, two days before.
When one event happens after another with this awful
regularity, of course you donât automatically assume that
itâs cause-and-effect. But you do look for some mechanism
to make sense of it. You probe, you design a modest ex-
periment.... He owes Spectro that much. Even if the
Americanâs not legally a murderer, he is sick. The etiology
ought to be traced, the treatment found.
There is to this enterprise, Pointsman knows, a danger
of seduction. Because of the symmetry. ... Heâs been led
before, you know, down the garden path by symmetry: in
certain test results... in assuming that a mechanism must
imply its mirror imageââirradiation,â for example and
âreciprocal inductionâ... and who'd ever said that either
had to exist? Perhaps it will be so this time, too. But how
it haunts him, the symmetry of these two secret weapons,
Outside, out in the Blitz, the sounds of V-1 and V-2, one
the reverse of the other.... Pavlov showed how mirror-
images Inside could be confused. Ideas of the opposite.
But what new pathology lies Outside now? What sickness
- to eventsâto History itselfiâcan create symmetrical op-
posites like these robot weapons? -
*
Sign and symptoms. Was Spectro right? Could Outside
and Inside be part of the same field? If only in fairness...
in fairness... Pointsman ought to be seeking the answer
at the interface
.
.
. oughtnât he .
.
. on the cortex of
Lieutenant Slothrop. The man will sufferâperhaps, in
some clinical way, be destroyedâbut how many others
tonight are suffering in his nameP For pityâs sake, every
day in Whitehall theyâre weighing and taking risks that
make his, in this, seem almost trivial. Almost. Thereâs
something here, too transparent and swift to get a hold
onâPsi Section might speak of ectoplasmsâ+but he knows
that the time has never been better, and that the exact
experimental subject is in his hands, He must seize now, or
be doomed to the same stone hallways, whose termination
he knows. But he must remain openâeven to the possi-
bility that the Psi people are right. âWe may all be right,â
Beyond the Zero
169
he puts in his journal tonight, âso may be all we have
speculated, and more. Whatever we may find, there can
be no doubt that he is, physiologically, historically, a
monster. We must never lose control. The thought of him
lost in the world of men, after the war, fills me with a
deep dread I cannot extinguish. ...â
O
More and more, these days of angelic visit and com-
muniqué, Carroll Eventyr feels a victim of his freak talent.
As Nora Dodson-Truck once called it, his âsplendid weak-
ness.â It showed late in life: he was 35 when out of the
other world, one morning on the Embankment, between
strokes of a pavement artistâs two pastels, salmon darken-
ing to fawn, and a score of lank human figures, rag-
sorrowful in the distances interlacing with ironwork and
river smoke, all at once someone was speaking through
Eventyr, so quietly that Nora caught hardly any of it, not
even the identity of the soul that took and used him. Not
then. Some of it was in German, some of the words she
remembered. She would ask her husband, whom she was
to meet that afternoon out in Surreyâarriving late though,
all the shadows, men and women, dogs, chimneys, very
long and black across the enormous lawn, and she with a
dusting of ocher, barely noticeable in the late sun, making
a fan shape near the edge of her veilâit was that color
she'd snatched from the screeverâs wood box and swiftly,
turning smoothly, touching only at shoe tip and the
creamy block of yellow crumbling onto the surface, never
leaving it, drew a great five-pointed star on the pavement,
just upriver from an unfriendly likeness of Lloyd George
in heliotrope and sea-green: pulling Eventyr by the hand
to stand inside the central pentagon, seagulls in a wailing
diadem overhead, then stepping in herself, an instinctive,
a motherly way, her way with anyone she loved. She'd
drawn her pentagram not even half in play. One couldnât
be too safe, there was always evil....
Had he felt her, even then, beginning to recede...
called up the control from across the Wall as a way of
holding on? She was deepening from his waking, his social
170
Gravityâs Ramnsow
eye like light at the edge of the evening when, for per-
haps a perilous ten minutes, nothing helps: put on your
glasses and light lamps, sit by the west window and still it
keeps going away, you keep losing the light and perhaps
it is forever this time ...a good time of day for learning
surrender, learning to diminish like the light, or like cer-
tain music. This surrender is his only gift. Afterward he
can recall nothing. Sometimes, rarely, there may be tan-
talizingânot words, but halos of meaning around words
his mouth evidently spoke, that only stay behindâif they
doâfor a moment, like dreams, canât be held or developed,
and, presently, go away. Heâs been under Rollo Groastâs
EEG countless times since first he came to âThe White
Visitation,â and allâs normal-adult except for, oh once or
twice perhaps a stray 50-millivolt spike off a temporal
lobe, now left now right, really no pattern to itâindeed a
kind of canals-of-Mars controversy has been in progress for
these years among the different observersâAaron Throw-
ster swears heâs seen slow delta-wave shapes out of the left
frontal and suspects a tumor, last summer Edwin Treacle
_ noted a âsubdued petitmal spike-and-wave alternation,
curiously much slower than the usual three per secondââ
though admittedly Treacle was up in London all the night
before debauching with Allen Lamplighter and his gam-
bling crowd. Less than a week later the buzzbomb gave
Lamplighter his chance: to find Eventyr from the other
side and prove to him to be what others had said: an
interface between the worlds, a sensitive. Lamplighter had
suffered 5-to-2 odds. But so far heâs been silent: nothing
in the soft acetate/metal discs or typed transcripts that
mightnât be any of a dozen other souls... .
They've come, in their time, from as far way as the
institute at Bristol to gape at, to measure and systemati-
cally doubt the freaks of Psi Section. Hereâs Ronald Cherry-
coke, the noted psychometrist, eyes lightly fluttering, hands
a steady inch away framing the brown-wrapped box in
which are securely hidden certain early-War mementos, a
dark-maroon cravat, a broken Schaeffer fountain pen, a
tarnished pince-nez of white gold, all belonging to a Group
Captain âBasherâ St. Blaise, stationed far) away north of
London... as this Cherrycoke, a normal-looking lad, per-
haps a bit overweight, begins now to recite in his lathe-
The Freaks of Psi Section
- The White Visitation serves as a hub for individuals with inexplicable psychic and physiological abilities, known as the Psi Section.
- Psychometrist Ronald Cherrycoke demonstrates his gift by revealing intimate, unrecorded details of a Group Captain's life through physical objects.
- Other members exhibit diverse talents, including Margaret Quartertone's remote voice production and Reverend Dr. Paul de la Nuit's undecipherable automatic writing.
- A growing sense of anxiety permeates the psychic interface, with spirits and 'controls' from the other side becoming increasingly evasive and nervous.
- New 'freaks' continue to arrive at the facility, including seventeen-year-old Gavin Trefoil, who can biologically alter his skin pigmentation at will.
- These supernatural phenomena are being systematically studied and utilized, such as Trefoilâs role as a variable reflector in propaganda filmmaking.
What gathers among them all, that each in his own freak way can testify to but not in language, not even the lingua franca of the offices?
170
Gravityâs Ramnsow
eye like light at the edge of the evening when, for per-
haps a perilous ten minutes, nothing helps: put on your
glasses and light lamps, sit by the west window and still it
keeps going away, you keep losing the light and perhaps
it is forever this time ...a good time of day for learning
surrender, learning to diminish like the light, or like cer-
tain music. This surrender is his only gift. Afterward he
can recall nothing. Sometimes, rarely, there may be tan-
talizingânot words, but halos of meaning around words
his mouth evidently spoke, that only stay behindâif they
doâfor a moment, like dreams, canât be held or developed,
and, presently, go away. Heâs been under Rollo Groastâs
EEG countless times since first he came to âThe White
Visitation,â and allâs normal-adult except for, oh once or
twice perhaps a stray 50-millivolt spike off a temporal
lobe, now left now right, really no pattern to itâindeed a
kind of canals-of-Mars controversy has been in progress for
these years among the different observersâAaron Throw-
ster swears heâs seen slow delta-wave shapes out of the left
frontal and suspects a tumor, last summer Edwin Treacle
_ noted a âsubdued petitmal spike-and-wave alternation,
curiously much slower than the usual three per secondââ
though admittedly Treacle was up in London all the night
before debauching with Allen Lamplighter and his gam-
bling crowd. Less than a week later the buzzbomb gave
Lamplighter his chance: to find Eventyr from the other
side and prove to him to be what others had said: an
interface between the worlds, a sensitive. Lamplighter had
suffered 5-to-2 odds. But so far heâs been silent: nothing
in the soft acetate/metal discs or typed transcripts that
mightnât be any of a dozen other souls... .
They've come, in their time, from as far way as the
institute at Bristol to gape at, to measure and systemati-
cally doubt the freaks of Psi Section. Hereâs Ronald Cherry-
coke, the noted psychometrist, eyes lightly fluttering, hands
a steady inch away framing the brown-wrapped box in
which are securely hidden certain early-War mementos, a
dark-maroon cravat, a broken Schaeffer fountain pen, a
tarnished pince-nez of white gold, all belonging to a Group
Captain âBasherâ St. Blaise, stationed far) away north of
London... as this Cherrycoke, a normal-looking lad, per-
haps a bit overweight, begins now to recite in his lathe-
Beyond the Zero
171
humming Midland accents an intimate résumé of the
Group Captain, his anxieties about his falling hair, his
enthusiasm over the Donald Duck cinema cartoons, an
incident during the Liibeck raid which only he and. his
wingman, now passed on, shared and agreed not to re-
portânothing that violated security: confirmed later, in
fact, by St. Blaise himself smiling a bit openmouthed well
the jokeâs certainly on me and now tell me how'd you do
it? Indeed, how does Cherrycoke do it? How do any of
them? How does Margaret Quartertone produce voices on
dises and wire recorders miles distant without speaking or
physically touching the equipment? And what speakers are
now beginning to assemble? Where are the five-digit
groups coming from which the Reverend Dr. Paul de la
Nuit, chaplain and staff automatist, has been writing for
weeks now, and which, it is felt ominously, no one up in
London quite knows how to decrypt? What do Edwin
Treacleâs recent dreams of flight mean, especially as time-
correlated with Nora Dodson-Truckâs dreams of falling?
What gathers among them all, that each in his own freak
way can testify to but not in language, not even the lingua
franca of the offices? Turbulences in the aether, uncertain-
ties out in the winds of karma, Those souls across the
interface, those we call the dead, are increasingly anxious
and eyasive. Even Carroll Eventyrâs own
control, the
habitually cool and sarcastic Peter Sachsa, the one who
found him that day long ago on the Embankment and
thereafterâwhenever there are messages to be passed
acrossâeven Sachsaâs become nervous. . . .
Lately, as if all tuned in to the same actherealâ Xth
Programme, new varieties of freak have been showing up
at âThe White Visitation,â all hours of the day and night,
silent, staring, expecting to be taken care of, carrying
machines of black metal and glass gingerbread, off on
waxy trances, hyperkinetically waiting only the right
trigger-question to start blithering 200 word a minute
about their special, terrible endowments. An assault, What
are we to make of Gavin Trefoil, for whose gift thereâs
not even a name yet? (Rollo Groast wants to call it auto-
chromatism.) Gavin, the youngest here, only 17, can some-
how metabolize at will one of his amino acids, tyrosine.
This will produce melanin, which is the brown-black pig-
172
Gravityâs Ramnsow
ment responsible for human skin color, Gavin can also
inhibit this metabolizing byâit appearsâvarying the level
of his blood phenylalanine. So he can change his color
from most ghastly albino up through a smooth spectrum
to very deep, purplish, black. If he concentrates he can
keep this up, at any level, for weeks. Usually he is dis-
tracted, or forgets, and gradually drifts back to his rest
state, a pale freckled redheadâs complexion. But you can
imagine how useful he was to Gerhardt yon Gdll during
the shooting of the Schwarzkommando footage: he helped
save literally hours of make-up and lighting work, acting
as a variable reflector. The best theory of how is Rolloâs,
but itâs hopelessly vagueâwe do know that the dermal
cells which produce melaninâthe
melanocytesâwere
once, in each of us, at an early stage of embryonic growth,
part of the central nervous system. But as the embryo
grows, as tissue goes on differentiating, some of these nerve
cells move away from what will be the CNS, and migrate
out to the skin, to become melanocytes. They keep their
original tree-branch shapes, the axon and dendrites of the
typical nerve
cell. But the dendrites are used now to
carry not electric signals but skin pigment. Rollo Groast
believes in some link, so far undiscoveredâsome surviving
cell-memory that will, retrocolonial, still respond to mes-
sages from the metropolitan brain. Messages that young
Trefoil may not consciously know of. âIt is part,â Rollo
writes home to the elder Dr. Groast in Lancashire, in
elaborate revenge for childhood tales of Jenny Greenteeth
waiting out in the fens to drown him, âpart of an old and
clandestine drama for which the human body serves only
as a set of very allusive, often cryptic programme-notesâ
itâs as if the body we can measure is a scrap of this pro-
gramme found outside in the street, near a magnificent
stone theatre we cannot enter. The convolutions of lan-
guage denied us! the great Stage, even darker than Mr.
Tyrone Guthrieâs accustomed murk.... Gilt and mirror-
ing, red velvet, tier on tier of box seats all in shadows too,
as somewhere down in that deep proscenium, deeper than
geometries we know of, the voices utter 'secrets we are
never told... .â
|
âEverything that comes out from CNS we have to file
here, you see. It gets to be a damned nuisance after a
The Drama of the Epidermal
- Melanocytes are revealed to be former nerve cells that migrated from the central nervous system to the skin during embryonic development.
- Rollo Groast theorizes a 'cell-memory' exists where skin cells still respond to subconscious messages from the brain.
- The human body is described as a cryptic set of program notes for a grand, inaccessible theatrical drama occurring within.
- A dialogue between two operatives reveals a grim destiny where all cells must eventually move to the 'Outer Level' and become 'Epidermal.'
- The transition to the skin is portrayed as a loss of feeling and a descent into silence, serving as a biological interface with the outside world.
- The text rejects the hope of a spiritual return to the 'home' of the CNS, defining history instead as an aggregate of 'last moments.'
Itâs as if the body we can measure is a scrap of this programme found outside in the street, near a magnificent stone theatre we cannot enter.
172
Gravityâs Ramnsow
ment responsible for human skin color, Gavin can also
inhibit this metabolizing byâit appearsâvarying the level
of his blood phenylalanine. So he can change his color
from most ghastly albino up through a smooth spectrum
to very deep, purplish, black. If he concentrates he can
keep this up, at any level, for weeks. Usually he is dis-
tracted, or forgets, and gradually drifts back to his rest
state, a pale freckled redheadâs complexion. But you can
imagine how useful he was to Gerhardt yon Gdll during
the shooting of the Schwarzkommando footage: he helped
save literally hours of make-up and lighting work, acting
as a variable reflector. The best theory of how is Rolloâs,
but itâs hopelessly vagueâwe do know that the dermal
cells which produce melaninâthe
melanocytesâwere
once, in each of us, at an early stage of embryonic growth,
part of the central nervous system. But as the embryo
grows, as tissue goes on differentiating, some of these nerve
cells move away from what will be the CNS, and migrate
out to the skin, to become melanocytes. They keep their
original tree-branch shapes, the axon and dendrites of the
typical nerve
cell. But the dendrites are used now to
carry not electric signals but skin pigment. Rollo Groast
believes in some link, so far undiscoveredâsome surviving
cell-memory that will, retrocolonial, still respond to mes-
sages from the metropolitan brain. Messages that young
Trefoil may not consciously know of. âIt is part,â Rollo
writes home to the elder Dr. Groast in Lancashire, in
elaborate revenge for childhood tales of Jenny Greenteeth
waiting out in the fens to drown him, âpart of an old and
clandestine drama for which the human body serves only
as a set of very allusive, often cryptic programme-notesâ
itâs as if the body we can measure is a scrap of this pro-
gramme found outside in the street, near a magnificent
stone theatre we cannot enter. The convolutions of lan-
guage denied us! the great Stage, even darker than Mr.
Tyrone Guthrieâs accustomed murk.... Gilt and mirror-
ing, red velvet, tier on tier of box seats all in shadows too,
as somewhere down in that deep proscenium, deeper than
geometries we know of, the voices utter 'secrets we are
never told... .â
|
âEverything that comes out from CNS we have to file
here, you see. It gets to be a damned nuisance after a
Beyond the Zero
173
while. Most of itâs utterly useless, But you never know
_ when they'll want something. Middle of the night, or dur-
ing the worst part of an ultraviolet bombardment you
know, it makes no difference to them back there.
__âDo you ever get out much to...well, up to the
Outer Level?
(A long pause in which the older operative stares quite
openly, as several changes flow across her featuresâ
amusement, pity, concernâuntil the younger one speaks
again.) I-Iâ'm sorry, I didnât mean to beâ
â(Abruptly) Iâm supposed to tell you, eventually, as
part of the briefing.
âTell me what?
âJust as I was told once. We hand it on, one genera-
-
tion to the next. (There is no piece of business plausible
enough for her to find refuge in. We sense that this has
not. yet become routine for her. Out of decency now, she
tries to speak quietly, if not gently.) We all go up to the
Outer Level, young man. Some immediately, others not
- for a while. But sooner or later everyone out here has to
go Epidermal. No exceptions,
âHas toâ
âIm sorry.
âBut isnât it...I thought it was only aâwell, a level.
A place you'd visit. Isnât it...
?P
âOutlandish scenery, oh yes so did Iâunusual forma-
tions, a peep into the Outer Radiance. But itâs all of us,
you see. Millions of us, changed to interface, to horn, and
no feeling, and silence.
Oh, God. (A pause in which he tries to take it ine
then, in panic, pushes it back.) Noâhow can you say
_ thatâyou canât feel the memory? the tug...weâre in
exile, we do have a home! (Silence from the other.) Back
there! Not up at the interface. Back in the CNS!
_.
â(Quietly) Itâs been a prevalent notion. Fallen sparks,
_ Fragments of vessels broken at the Creation. And someday,
somehow, before the end, a gathering back to home. A
messenger from the Kingdom, arriving at the last moment.
But I tell you there is no such message, no such homeâ
_ only the millions of last moments. . .no more, Our history
is an aggregate of last moments.
» She crosses the complex room dense with its supple
174
Geitae Rainsow
hides, lemon-rubbed teak, rising snarls of incense, bright
optical hardware, faded Central Asian rugs in gold and
scarlet, hanging open-ribbed wrought-ironwork,
a long,
long downstage cross, eating an orange, section by acid
section, as she goes, the faille gown flowing beautifully, its
elaborate sleeves falling from very broadened shoulders till
tightly gathered into long button-strung cuffs all in some
nameless earth toneâa hedge-green, a clay-brown, a touch
of oxidation, a breath of the autumnalâthe light from the
street lamps comes in through philodendron stalks and
fingered leaves arrested in a grasp at the last straining
away of sunset, falls a tranquil yellow across the cut-steel
buckles at her insteps and streaks on along the flanks and
down the tall heels of her patent shoes, so polished as to
seem of no color at all past such mild citrus light where
it touches them, and they refuse it, as if it were a maso-
chistâs kiss. Behind her steps the carpet relaxes ceiling-
ward, sole and heel-shapes disappearing visibly slow out
of the wool pile. A single rocket explosion comes thudding
across the city, from far east of here, east by southeast.
The light along her shoes flows and checks like afternoon
trafic. She pauses, reminded of something; the military
frock trembling, silk filling-yarns shivering by crowded
thousands as the chilly light slides over and off and touch-
ing again their unprotected backs. The smells of burning
musk and sandalwood, of leather and spilled whisky,
thicken in the room.
And heâpassive as trance, allowing her beauty: to
enter him or avoid him, whateverâs to be her pleasure.
How shall he be other than mild receiver, filler of silences?
All the radii of the room are hers, watery cellophane,
crackling tangential as she turns on her heel-axis, lancing
as she begins to retrace her path. Can he have loved her
for nearly a decade? Itâs incredible. This connoisseuse of
âsplendid weaknesses,â run not by any lust or even velleity
but by vacuum: by the absence of human hope. She isâ
frightening. Someone called her an erotic nihilist ... each
of them, Cherrycoke, Paul de la Nuit, even, he would
imagine, young Trefoil, evenâso heâs heardâMargaret
Quartertone, each of them used for the ideology of the
Zero...to make Noraâs great rejection that much more
awesome. For...if she does love him: if all her words,
ne) |
*
Nora and the Erotic Nihilist
- A woman named Nora moves through a room with a calculated, cinematic grace, her elaborate gown and polished shoes reflecting a cold, autumnal light.
- The observer remains passive and entranced, questioning how he has loved a woman defined by a 'vacuum' and a total absence of human hope.
- Nora is described as an 'erotic nihilist' who uses her circle of admirers to reinforce her ideology of the Zero and her commitment to rejection.
- The character Ronald Cherrycoke is highlighted as the most daring of her 'splendid weaklings,' attempting to find a heart within her void.
- The scene shifts into a sensory-heavy memory or metaphor of a darkened cinema, blending the smells of musk and tobacco with the imagery of military personnel and silk.
- The narrative explores the tension between Nora's heartlessness and the desperate, historical scavenging of those who kneel before her.
This connoisseuse of âsplendid weaknesses,â run not by any lust or even velleity but by vacuum: by the absence of human hope.
174
Geitae Rainsow
hides, lemon-rubbed teak, rising snarls of incense, bright
optical hardware, faded Central Asian rugs in gold and
scarlet, hanging open-ribbed wrought-ironwork,
a long,
long downstage cross, eating an orange, section by acid
section, as she goes, the faille gown flowing beautifully, its
elaborate sleeves falling from very broadened shoulders till
tightly gathered into long button-strung cuffs all in some
nameless earth toneâa hedge-green, a clay-brown, a touch
of oxidation, a breath of the autumnalâthe light from the
street lamps comes in through philodendron stalks and
fingered leaves arrested in a grasp at the last straining
away of sunset, falls a tranquil yellow across the cut-steel
buckles at her insteps and streaks on along the flanks and
down the tall heels of her patent shoes, so polished as to
seem of no color at all past such mild citrus light where
it touches them, and they refuse it, as if it were a maso-
chistâs kiss. Behind her steps the carpet relaxes ceiling-
ward, sole and heel-shapes disappearing visibly slow out
of the wool pile. A single rocket explosion comes thudding
across the city, from far east of here, east by southeast.
The light along her shoes flows and checks like afternoon
trafic. She pauses, reminded of something; the military
frock trembling, silk filling-yarns shivering by crowded
thousands as the chilly light slides over and off and touch-
ing again their unprotected backs. The smells of burning
musk and sandalwood, of leather and spilled whisky,
thicken in the room.
And heâpassive as trance, allowing her beauty: to
enter him or avoid him, whateverâs to be her pleasure.
How shall he be other than mild receiver, filler of silences?
All the radii of the room are hers, watery cellophane,
crackling tangential as she turns on her heel-axis, lancing
as she begins to retrace her path. Can he have loved her
for nearly a decade? Itâs incredible. This connoisseuse of
âsplendid weaknesses,â run not by any lust or even velleity
but by vacuum: by the absence of human hope. She isâ
frightening. Someone called her an erotic nihilist ... each
of them, Cherrycoke, Paul de la Nuit, even, he would
imagine, young Trefoil, evenâso heâs heardâMargaret
Quartertone, each of them used for the ideology of the
Zero...to make Noraâs great rejection that much more
awesome. For...if she does love him: if all her words,
ne) |
*
- Beyond the Zero
175
this decade of rooms and conversations meant anything...
_
if she loves him and still will deny him, on the short end
of 5-to-2 deny his gift, deny whatâs distributed in his every
cell... then...
If she loves him. Heâs âtoo passive, he hasnât the nerve
to reach in, as Cherrycoke has tried to....°Of course
Cherrycoke is odd. He laughs too often. Not aimlessly
-
either, but directed at something he thinks everyone else
can see too. All of us watching some wry newsreel, the
beam from the projector falling milky-white, thickening
with smoke from briers and cheroots. Abdullas and Wood-
bines...the lit profiles of military personnel and young
ladies are the edges of clouds: the manly crepe of an over-
seas cap knifing forward into the darkened cinema, the
shiny rounding of a silk leg tossed lazily toe-in between
two seats in the row ahead, the keen-shadowed turbans of
velvet and feathering eyelashes beneath. Among these
nightsâ faint and lusting couples, Ronald Cherrycokeâs
laughing and bearing his loneliness, brittle, easily crazed,
oozing gum from the cracks, a strange mac of most un-
stable plastic.... Of âall her splendid weaklings, it is he
who undertakes the most perilous trips into her void, look-
ing for a heart whose rhythms he will call. It must astonish
her, Nora-so-heartless, Cherrycoke kneeling, stirring her
silks, between his hands old history flowing in eddy-cur-
rentsâscarves
of lime,
aqua,
lavender
passing,
pins,
_ brooches, opalescent scorpions (her birth sign) inside gold
mountings in triskelion, shoe-buckles, broken nacre fans
and theatre programs, suspender-tabs,
dark, lank, pre-
austerity stockings...on his unaccustomed knees, hands
swimming, turning, seeking out her past in molecular
traces so precarious among the flow of objects, the prog-
ress through his hands, she delighted to issue her denials,
covering up his hits (close, often dead on) skillfully as if
_ it were drawing-room comedy....
It's a dangerous game Cherrycokeâs playing here. Often
thinks the sheer volume of information pouring in
through his fingers will saturate, burn him out... she
seems determined to overwhelm him with her history and
s
_ its pain, and the edge of it, always fresh from the stone,
cutting at his hopes, at all their hopes. He does respect
: he knows that very little of this is female theatricals,
The Angel of LĂŒbeck
- Cherrycoke experiences a dangerous psychic saturation while attempting to read the molecular history and painful denials of a woman who has embraced the 'Zero' of final indifference.
- The narrative shifts to a supernatural encounter during a Palm Sunday bombing raid over LĂŒbeck, where Group Captain Basher St. Blaise witnesses a colossal celestial entity.
- The Angel is described as having eyes like embers and wings of ice crystals, towering for miles and causing a momentary, eerie silence in the radio static of the fleet.
- Confronted by this 'strike at heaven,' the pilots jettison their bombs haphazardly, abandoning their earthly mission in a state of spiritual bewilderment.
- St. Blaise suppresses the account in his official debriefing to avoid the scrutiny of literal-minded superiors who pathologize such visions as psychiatric episodes.
- Despite official silence, the legend of the Angel spreads unofficially as a precursor to the era of retaliatory V-weapon terror attacks.
The eyes, which went towering for miles, shifting to follow their flight, the irises red as embers fairing through yellow to white, as they jettisoned all their bombs in no particular pattern, the fussy Norden device, sweat drops in the air all around its rolling eyepiece, bewildered at their unannounced need to climb, to give up a strike at earth for a strike at heaven.
- Beyond the Zero
175
this decade of rooms and conversations meant anything...
_
if she loves him and still will deny him, on the short end
of 5-to-2 deny his gift, deny whatâs distributed in his every
cell... then...
If she loves him. Heâs âtoo passive, he hasnât the nerve
to reach in, as Cherrycoke has tried to....°Of course
Cherrycoke is odd. He laughs too often. Not aimlessly
-
either, but directed at something he thinks everyone else
can see too. All of us watching some wry newsreel, the
beam from the projector falling milky-white, thickening
with smoke from briers and cheroots. Abdullas and Wood-
bines...the lit profiles of military personnel and young
ladies are the edges of clouds: the manly crepe of an over-
seas cap knifing forward into the darkened cinema, the
shiny rounding of a silk leg tossed lazily toe-in between
two seats in the row ahead, the keen-shadowed turbans of
velvet and feathering eyelashes beneath. Among these
nightsâ faint and lusting couples, Ronald Cherrycokeâs
laughing and bearing his loneliness, brittle, easily crazed,
oozing gum from the cracks, a strange mac of most un-
stable plastic.... Of âall her splendid weaklings, it is he
who undertakes the most perilous trips into her void, look-
ing for a heart whose rhythms he will call. It must astonish
her, Nora-so-heartless, Cherrycoke kneeling, stirring her
silks, between his hands old history flowing in eddy-cur-
rentsâscarves
of lime,
aqua,
lavender
passing,
pins,
_ brooches, opalescent scorpions (her birth sign) inside gold
mountings in triskelion, shoe-buckles, broken nacre fans
and theatre programs, suspender-tabs,
dark, lank, pre-
austerity stockings...on his unaccustomed knees, hands
swimming, turning, seeking out her past in molecular
traces so precarious among the flow of objects, the prog-
ress through his hands, she delighted to issue her denials,
covering up his hits (close, often dead on) skillfully as if
_ it were drawing-room comedy....
It's a dangerous game Cherrycokeâs playing here. Often
thinks the sheer volume of information pouring in
through his fingers will saturate, burn him out... she
seems determined to overwhelm him with her history and
s
_ its pain, and the edge of it, always fresh from the stone,
cutting at his hopes, at all their hopes. He does respect
: he knows that very little of this is female theatricals,
176
Gravityâs RAINBOW
really, She has turned her face, more than once, to the
Outer Radiance and simply seen nothing there. And so each
time has taken a little more of the Zero into herself. It
comes down to courage, at worst an amount of self-delud-
ing thatâs vanishingly small: he has to admire it, even if
he canât accept her glassy wastes, her appeals to a day
not of wrath but of final indifference.... Any more than
she can accept the truth he knows about himself, He does
receive
emanations,
impressions...the
cry inside the
stone... excremental
kisses stitched unseen
across
the
yoke of an old shirt...a betrayal, an informer whose
guilt will sicken one day to throat cancer, chiming like
daylight through the fourchettes and quirks of a tattered
Italian glove... Basher St. Blaiseâs angel, miles beyond
designating, rising over Liibeck that Palm Sunday with the
poison-green domes undemeath its feet, an obsessive cross-
flow of red tiles rushing up and down a thousand peaked
roofs as the bombers banked and dived, the Baltic already
lost in a poll of incendiary smoke behind, here was the
Angel: ice crystals swept hissing away from the back edges
of wings perilously deep, opening as they were moved into
new white abyss. ... For half a minute radio silence broke
apart. The traffic being:
St. Blaise: Freakshow Two, did you see that, over.
Wingman: This is Freakshow Twoâaffirmative.
St. Blaise: Good.
si
No one else on the mission seemed toâve had radio com-
munication. After the raid, St. Blaise checked over the
equipment of those who got back to base and found noth-
ing wrong: all the crystals on frequency, the power sup-
plies rippleless as could be expectedâbut others remem-
bered. how, for the few moments the visitation lasted, even
static vanished from the earphones. Some may have heard
a high singing, like wind among masts, shrouds, bedspring
or dish antennas of winter fleets down in the dockyards...
but only Basher and his wingman saw it, droning across:
in front of the fiery leagues of face, the eyes, which went
towering for miles, shifting to follow their flight, the irises
red as embers fairing through yellow to| white, as they
jettisoned all their bombs in no particular pattern, the
fussy Norden.device, sweat drops in the air all around its
rolling eyepiece, bewildered at their unannounced need to
climb, to give up.a strike at earth for a strike at heaven....
Beyond the Zero
477
Group Captain St. Blaise did not include an account of
this angel in his official debriefing, the W.A.A.F. officer
who interrogated him being known around the base as the
worst sort of literal-minded dragon
(she had reported
_
Blowitt to psychiatric for his rainbowed Valkyrie over
Peenemiinde, and Creepham for the bright blue gremlins
scattering like spiders off of his Typhoonâs wings and fall-
ing gently to the woods of The Hague in little parachutes
_
of the same color). But damn it, this was not a cloud.
Unofficially, in the fortnight between the fire-raising at
Liibeck and Hitlerâs order for âterror attacks of a retalia-
tory natureââmeaning the V-weaponsâword of the Angel
got around. Although the Group Captain seemed reluctant,
~
Ronald Cherrycoke was allowed to probe certain objects
along on the flight. Thus the Angel was revealed.
Carroll Eventyr attempted then to reach across to Ter-
ence Overbaby, St. Blaiseâs wingman. Jumped by a skyful
of MEs and no way out. The inputs were confusing. Peter
Sachsa intimated that there were in fact many versions of
the Angel which might apply. Overbabyâs was not as avail-
able as certain others. There are problems with levels, and
with Judgment, in the Tarot sense. ... This is part of the
storm that sweeps now among them all, both sides of
Death. It is unpleasant. On his side, Eventyr tends to feel
wholly victimized, even a bit resentful. Peter Sachsa, on
his, falls amazingly out of character and into nostalgia for
life, the old peace, the Weimar decadence that kept him
fed and moving. Taken forcibly over in 1930 by a blow
from a police truncheon during a street action in Neu-
kélln, he recalls now, sentimentally, evenings of rubbed
darkwood, cigar smoke, ladies in chiseled jade, panne,
attar of damask roses, the latest angular pastel paintings
on the walls, the latest drugs inside the many little table
drawers. More than any mere âKreis,â on most nights full
mandalas came to bloom: all degrees of society, all quar-
ters of the capital, palms down on that famous blood
veneer, touching only at little fingers. Sachsaâs table was
like a deep pool in the forest. Beneath the surface things
were rolling, slipping, beginning to rise.... Walter Asch
(âTaurusâ) was visited one night by something so un-
usual it took three âHieroponsâ (250 mg.) to bring him
back, and even so he seemed reluctant to sleep. They all
\ stood watching him, in ragged rows resembling athletic
Lan
a
a
5
se
:
:
The Sociology of the Dead
- Carroll Eventyr attempts to psychically reach a wingman under attack, only to find the spiritual inputs confusing and fragmented.
- The medium Peter Sachsa experiences a lapse in professional detachment, succumbing to nostalgia for the decadent Weimar era before his violent death.
- A flashback reveals a pre-war sĂ©ance where diverse social classes and future military figures, including Weissmann, gathered around Sachsaâs table.
- Walter Asch experiences a terrifying visitation that requires heavy sedation, highlighting the thin veil between the physical and spiritual realms.
- The Herero aide Enzian reflects on a deep, ancestral connection to the dead that transcends the linear time and space of the living.
- Edwin Treacle proposes a new 'sociology' to study the interaction between the living and the dead, suggesting they are two halves of a single story.
Sachsaâs table was like a deep pool in the forest. Beneath the surface things were rolling, slipping, beginning to rise....
Beyond the Zero
477
Group Captain St. Blaise did not include an account of
this angel in his official debriefing, the W.A.A.F. officer
who interrogated him being known around the base as the
worst sort of literal-minded dragon
(she had reported
_
Blowitt to psychiatric for his rainbowed Valkyrie over
Peenemiinde, and Creepham for the bright blue gremlins
scattering like spiders off of his Typhoonâs wings and fall-
ing gently to the woods of The Hague in little parachutes
_
of the same color). But damn it, this was not a cloud.
Unofficially, in the fortnight between the fire-raising at
Liibeck and Hitlerâs order for âterror attacks of a retalia-
tory natureââmeaning the V-weaponsâword of the Angel
got around. Although the Group Captain seemed reluctant,
~
Ronald Cherrycoke was allowed to probe certain objects
along on the flight. Thus the Angel was revealed.
Carroll Eventyr attempted then to reach across to Ter-
ence Overbaby, St. Blaiseâs wingman. Jumped by a skyful
of MEs and no way out. The inputs were confusing. Peter
Sachsa intimated that there were in fact many versions of
the Angel which might apply. Overbabyâs was not as avail-
able as certain others. There are problems with levels, and
with Judgment, in the Tarot sense. ... This is part of the
storm that sweeps now among them all, both sides of
Death. It is unpleasant. On his side, Eventyr tends to feel
wholly victimized, even a bit resentful. Peter Sachsa, on
his, falls amazingly out of character and into nostalgia for
life, the old peace, the Weimar decadence that kept him
fed and moving. Taken forcibly over in 1930 by a blow
from a police truncheon during a street action in Neu-
kélln, he recalls now, sentimentally, evenings of rubbed
darkwood, cigar smoke, ladies in chiseled jade, panne,
attar of damask roses, the latest angular pastel paintings
on the walls, the latest drugs inside the many little table
drawers. More than any mere âKreis,â on most nights full
mandalas came to bloom: all degrees of society, all quar-
ters of the capital, palms down on that famous blood
veneer, touching only at little fingers. Sachsaâs table was
like a deep pool in the forest. Beneath the surface things
were rolling, slipping, beginning to rise.... Walter Asch
(âTaurusâ) was visited one night by something so un-
usual it took three âHieroponsâ (250 mg.) to bring him
back, and even so he seemed reluctant to sleep. They all
\ stood watching him, in ragged rows resembling athletic
Lan
a
a
5
se
:
:
178
GRAVITYâs RAINBOW
formations, Wimpe the IG-man who happened to be hold-
ing the Hieropon keying on Sargner, a civilian attached
to General Staff, flanked by Lieutenant Weissmann, re-
cently back from South-West Africa, and the Herero aide
heâd brought with him, staring, staring at them all, at
everything ... while behind them ladies moved in a sibilant
weave, sequins and high-albedo stockings aflash, black-
and-white make-up in daintily nasal alarm, eyes wide
going oh.... Each face that watched Walter Asch was a
puppet stage: each a separate routine.
|
... Shows good hands yes droop.and wrists as far up as
muscle relaxant respiratory depression ..
.
...Same...same...
my own face white in mirror three
threethirty four march of the Hours clock ticking room no
canât go in no not enough light not enough no aaahhhâ
.. theatre nothing but Walter really look at head phony
angle wants to catch light good fill-light throw a yellow
geld.
(A pneumatic toy frog jumps up onto a lily pad
trembling: beneath the surface lies a terror... a late cap-
tivity... but he floats now over the head of what would
take him back... his eyes cannot be read. ..
.)
..mba
rara
mâeroto
ondyoze...mbe
mu munine
mâoruroto ayo u nâomuinyo... (further back than this is a
twisting of yarns or cordage, a giant web, a wrenching of
hide, of muscles in the hard grip of something that comes
to wrestle when the night is deep... and a sense, too, of
visitation by the dead, afterward a sick feeling that they
are not as friendly as they seemed to be... he has wak-
ened, cried, sought explanation, but no one ever told him
anything he could believe. The dead have talked with him,
come and sat, shared his milk, told stories of ancestors, or
of spirits from other parts of the veldâfor time and space
on their side have no meaning, all is together).
âThere are. sociologies,â Edwin Treacle, his hair going
all directions, attempts to light a pipeful of wretched left-
oversâautumn leaves, bits of string, fag-ends, âthat we
havenât even begun to look into. The sociology of our own
lot, for example. Psi Section, the S.P.R., the old ladies in
Altrincham trying to summon up the Devil, all of us on
this side, you see, are still only half the story.â
âCareful with that âwe,â â Roger Mexico distracted sedey
The Psychical Community and Leni's Flight
- Characters debate the existence of a 'psychical community' where the living and dead transact as a single subculture.
- The medium Eventyr struggles with his role as an interface to the other side, lacking personal memory of his own trances.
- The narrative shifts to the history of Peter Sachsa and his obsessive love for Leni Pökler, a woman trapped in a loveless marriage.
- Leniâs husband, Franz, is a chemical engineer involved with early rocket development at Reinickendorf.
- Leni eventually flees her domestic life with her daughter Ilse, seeking refuge in a squalid, roach-infested student dormitory.
- The tension between Leni's political activism and Franz's technological obsession leads to a final, desperate domestic break.
Does he know what it means for a woman born under the Crab, a mother, to have all her home in a valise?
Beyond the Zero
ne
_ by a hundred things, chi-square fittings that refuse to jibe,
textbooks. lost, Jessicaâs absence. ...
âIt makes no sense unless we also consider those who've )
_ passed over to the other side. We do transact with them,
donât we? Through specialists like Eventyr and their con-
trols over there. But all together we form a single sub-
culture, a psychical community, if you will.â
âI won't,â Mexico says dryly, âbut yes I suppose some-
one ought to be looking into it.â
âThere are peoplesâthese Hereros for exampleâwho
|
âcarry on business every day with their ancestors. The dead
are as real as the living. How can you understand them
without treating both sides of the wall of death with the
same scientific approach?â
And yet for Eventyr
itâs not the social transaction
Treacle hopes it is: Thereâs no memory on his side: no
personal record. He has to read about it in the notes. of
others, listen to discs. Which means he has to trust the
others. Thats a complicated social setup. He must base
the major part of his life on the probity of men charged
with acting as interface between what he is supposed to be
and himself. Eventyr knows how close he is to Sachsa on
the other side, but he doesnât remember, and heâs been
brought up a Christian,
a Western European, believing in
the primacy of the âconsciousâ self and its memories, re-
garding all the rest as abnormal or trivial, and so he is
troubled, deeply... .
_
The transcripts are a document on Peter Sachsa as much
as on the souls he puts in touch. They tell, in some detail,
of his obsessive love for Leni Pékler; who was married to
a young chemical engineer and also active with the K.P.D.,
shuttling between the 12th District and Sachsaâs sittings.
Each night she came he wanted to cry at the sight of her
captivity. In her smudged eyes was clear hatred of a life
_she would not leave: a husband she didnât love, a child
she had not learned to escape feeling guilty for not loving
enough.
The husband Franz had a connection, too vague for
Sachsa to pass across, with Army Ordnance, and so there
' were also ideological barriers that neither one found energy
enough to climb. She attended street actions, Franz re-â
: ported to the rocket facility at Reinickendorf after swal-
.
me
|
iets
> ,
.
180
Gravityâs RAINBOW
lowing his tea in an early-morning room full of women
he thought were sullen and waiting for him to leave:
bringing their bundles of leaflets, their knapsacks stuffed
with books or political newspapers, filtering through the
slum courtyards of Berlin at sunrise. ...
O
They are shivering and hungry. In the Studentenheim
thereâs no heat, not much light, millions of roaches. A
smell of cabbage, old second Reich, grandmothersâ cab-
bage, of lard smoke that has found, over the years, some
détente with the air that seeks to break it down, smells of
long illness and terminal occupation stir the crumbling walls.
One of the walls is stained yellow with waste from the broken
lines upstairs. Leni sits on the floor with four or five others,
passing a dark chunk of bread. In a damp nest of Die
Faust Hoch, back issues no one will read, her daughter
Ilse sleeps, breathing so shallow it can hardly be seen. Her
eyelashes make enormous shadows on the upper curves of
her cheeks.
They have left for good this time. This room will be,all
right for another day, even two...
after that Leni doesnât
know. She took one valise for both âof them. Does he know
what it means for a woman born under the Crab, a mother,
to have all her home in a valise? She has a few marks with
her, Franz has his toy rockets to the moon. It is really
over.
As she used to dream it, dudes go directly to Peter
Sachsa. If he didnât take her in, heâd at least help her to
find a job. But now that sheâs "really broken away from
Franz...
thereâs something, some nasty aig belliger-
ence that will rise up in Peter now and then.... Lately
she isnât sure about his moods, Heâs under pressure from
levels she guesses to be higher than eee and he isnât
handling it well. .
But Peterâs worst infantile rages are still better iets
the most tranquil evenings of her Piscean
husband, swim-
ming his seas of fantasy, deathwish, rocket-mysticismâ
Franz is just the type they want. They know how to use
that. They know how to use nearly corey What will
happen to the ones they canât useP
The Revolution in Exile
- Leni reflects on the death of the German Revolution and the survival of a 'Revolution-in-exile' during the bleak Weimar years.
- The text explores the manipulation of individuals by higher powers, noting that the system knows how to use 'rocket-mysticism' and fantasy.
- Vanya critiques capitalist expression as various forms of 'pornography'âfrom love to killingâdesigned to lull the public into a state of 'Absolute Comfort.'
- A debate arises regarding the nature of connection versus solitary masturbation, highlighting a cynical view of human intimacy.
- Leni struggles with her own internal fantasies of gentleness and redemption, which she views as a dangerous weakness in her current environment.
- The characters embody a 'slice of Berlin life,' acting as tokens of different social identities while waiting for a reincarnated Rosa Luxemburg.
AN ARMY OF LOVERS CAN BE BEATEN. These things appear on the walls of the Red districts in the course of the night.
180
Gravityâs RAINBOW
lowing his tea in an early-morning room full of women
he thought were sullen and waiting for him to leave:
bringing their bundles of leaflets, their knapsacks stuffed
with books or political newspapers, filtering through the
slum courtyards of Berlin at sunrise. ...
O
They are shivering and hungry. In the Studentenheim
thereâs no heat, not much light, millions of roaches. A
smell of cabbage, old second Reich, grandmothersâ cab-
bage, of lard smoke that has found, over the years, some
détente with the air that seeks to break it down, smells of
long illness and terminal occupation stir the crumbling walls.
One of the walls is stained yellow with waste from the broken
lines upstairs. Leni sits on the floor with four or five others,
passing a dark chunk of bread. In a damp nest of Die
Faust Hoch, back issues no one will read, her daughter
Ilse sleeps, breathing so shallow it can hardly be seen. Her
eyelashes make enormous shadows on the upper curves of
her cheeks.
They have left for good this time. This room will be,all
right for another day, even two...
after that Leni doesnât
know. She took one valise for both âof them. Does he know
what it means for a woman born under the Crab, a mother,
to have all her home in a valise? She has a few marks with
her, Franz has his toy rockets to the moon. It is really
over.
As she used to dream it, dudes go directly to Peter
Sachsa. If he didnât take her in, heâd at least help her to
find a job. But now that sheâs "really broken away from
Franz...
thereâs something, some nasty aig belliger-
ence that will rise up in Peter now and then.... Lately
she isnât sure about his moods, Heâs under pressure from
levels she guesses to be higher than eee and he isnât
handling it well. .
But Peterâs worst infantile rages are still better iets
the most tranquil evenings of her Piscean
husband, swim-
ming his seas of fantasy, deathwish, rocket-mysticismâ
Franz is just the type they want. They know how to use
that. They know how to use nearly corey What will
happen to the ones they canât useP
Beyond the Zero
181
Rudi, Vanya, Rebecca, here we are a slice of Berlin
life, another Ufa masterpiece, token La Bohéme Student,
token Slay, token Jewess, look at us: the Revolution. Of
course there is no Revolution, not even in the Kinos, no
â
German October, not under this âRepublic.â The Revolu-
tion diedâthough Leni was only a young girl and not
_ politicalâwith Rosa Luxemburg. The best there is to be-
lieve in right now is a Revolution-in-exile-in-residence, a
continuity, surviving at the bleak edge over these Weimar
years, waiting its moment and its reincarnated Luxem-
burg....
AN ARMY OF LOVERS CAN BE BEATEN. These things ap-
pear on the walls of the Red districts in the course of the
~
night. Nobody can track down author or painter for any
of them, leading you to suspect theyâre one and the same.
Enough to make you believe in a folk-consciousness. They
_
are not slogans so much as texts, revealed in order to be
thought about, expanded on, translated into action by the
people. ...
âItâs true,â Vanya now, âlook at the forms. of capitalist
expression. Pornographies: pornographies of love, erotic
love, Christian love, boy-and-his-dog, pornographies of
sunsets, pornographies of killing, and pornographies of
deductionâahh, that sigh when we guess the murdererâ
all these novels, these films and songs they lull us with,
they're approaches, more comfortable and less so, to that
Absolute Comfort.â A pause to allow Rudi a quick and sour
grin. âThe self-induced orgasm.â
-
â*AbsoluteâPâ Rebecca coming forward on her bare knees
to hand him the bread, damp, melting from the touch of
her wet mouth, âTwo people areââ
-
âTwo people is what you are told,â Rudi does not quite
smirk. Through her attention, sadly and not for the first
time around here, there passes the phrase male supremacy
«.. why do they cherish their masturbating so? âbut in
nature it is almost unknown. Most of itâs solitary. You
know that.â
__
âI know thereâs coming together,â is all she says. Though
_ they have never made love she means it as a reproach. But
_
he
turns away as we do from those who have just made
Some embarrassing appeal to faith thereâs no way to go
- into any further.
182
Gravity's RaInBow
Leni, from inside her wasted time with Franz, knows
enough about coming alone. At first his passivity kept her
from coming at all. Then she understood that she could
make up anything at all to fill the freedom he allowed her.
It got more comfortable: she could dream such tender-
nesses between them (presently she was dreaming also of
other men)âbut it became more solitary. Yet her lines
will not deepen fast enough, her mouth not learn harden-
ing past a face she keeps surprising herself with, a day-
dreaming childâs face, betraying her to anyone who'll look,
exactly the sort of fat-softened, unfocused weakness that
causes men to read her as Dependent Little Girlâeven in
Peter Sachsa sheâs seen the lookâand the dream is the
same one she went to find while Franz groaned inside his
own dark pain-wishes, a dream of gentleness, light, her
criminal heart redeemed, no more need to run, to struggle,
a man arriving tranquil as she and strong, the street be-
coming a distant memory: exactly the one dream that out
here she can least allow herself. She knows what she has
to impersonate. Especially with Ilse watching her more.
Ilse is not going to be used.
Rebeccaâs been carrying on an argument with Vanya,
half flirting, Vanya trying to keep it all in intellectual code,
but the Jewess reverting, time and again, to the bodily...
so sensual; the insides of her thighs, just above the knee,
smooth as oil, the tenseness of all her muscles, the alert
face, the Judenschnautze feinting, pushing, the flashes of
tongue against thick lips... what would it be like, to be
taken to bed by her? To do it not just with another women,
but with a Jewess.... Their animal darkness. .. sweating
hindquarters, pushing aggressively toward her face, black
hairs darkening in fine crescent around each buttock from
the crevice... the face turned over a shoulder smiling in
coarse delight . . . all by surprise, really, during a momentâs
refuge in a pale yellow room, while the men wandered the
halls outside with drugged smiles... âNo, not that hard.
Be gentle. I'll tell you when to do it harder.
...â Leniâs
fair skin, her look of innocence, and the Jewessâs darker
coloring, her rawness, contrasting with Leniâs delicacy of
structure
and skin,
pelvic bones
stretching cobwebs
smoothly down groins and around belly, the two women
sliding, snarling, gasping...I know thereâs coming to-
Sensuality and Reunited Innocence
- Leni experiences a visceral and aggressive sexual encounter with a Jewish woman, characterized by a stark contrast between their physicalities.
- The narrative explores the fetishistic and intellectualized perceptions of Jewish identity and 'animal darkness' within the context of the era's racial coding.
- Following the encounter, Leni seeks refuge in the communal baths, where she unexpectedly encounters Richard Hirsch, a figure from her childhood.
- The reunion with Richard triggers a wave of nostalgia for a pre-war past, evoking memories of cobblestones, snow, and youthful innocence.
- Despite the passage of time and the trauma of war, Richard perceives Leni not as she is now, but as the vulnerable child he once knew.
- The atmosphere shifts from the raucous and erotic to a moment of communal deference and celebration as friends toast to the pair's reunion.
Leniâs fair skin, her look of innocence, and the Jewessâs darker coloring, her rawness, contrasting with Leniâs delicacy of structure and skin, pelvic bones stretching cobwebs smoothly down groins and around belly, the two women sliding, snarling, gasping...
182
Gravity's RaInBow
Leni, from inside her wasted time with Franz, knows
enough about coming alone. At first his passivity kept her
from coming at all. Then she understood that she could
make up anything at all to fill the freedom he allowed her.
It got more comfortable: she could dream such tender-
nesses between them (presently she was dreaming also of
other men)âbut it became more solitary. Yet her lines
will not deepen fast enough, her mouth not learn harden-
ing past a face she keeps surprising herself with, a day-
dreaming childâs face, betraying her to anyone who'll look,
exactly the sort of fat-softened, unfocused weakness that
causes men to read her as Dependent Little Girlâeven in
Peter Sachsa sheâs seen the lookâand the dream is the
same one she went to find while Franz groaned inside his
own dark pain-wishes, a dream of gentleness, light, her
criminal heart redeemed, no more need to run, to struggle,
a man arriving tranquil as she and strong, the street be-
coming a distant memory: exactly the one dream that out
here she can least allow herself. She knows what she has
to impersonate. Especially with Ilse watching her more.
Ilse is not going to be used.
Rebeccaâs been carrying on an argument with Vanya,
half flirting, Vanya trying to keep it all in intellectual code,
but the Jewess reverting, time and again, to the bodily...
so sensual; the insides of her thighs, just above the knee,
smooth as oil, the tenseness of all her muscles, the alert
face, the Judenschnautze feinting, pushing, the flashes of
tongue against thick lips... what would it be like, to be
taken to bed by her? To do it not just with another women,
but with a Jewess.... Their animal darkness. .. sweating
hindquarters, pushing aggressively toward her face, black
hairs darkening in fine crescent around each buttock from
the crevice... the face turned over a shoulder smiling in
coarse delight . . . all by surprise, really, during a momentâs
refuge in a pale yellow room, while the men wandered the
halls outside with drugged smiles... âNo, not that hard.
Be gentle. I'll tell you when to do it harder.
...â Leniâs
fair skin, her look of innocence, and the Jewessâs darker
coloring, her rawness, contrasting with Leniâs delicacy of
structure
and skin,
pelvic bones
stretching cobwebs
smoothly down groins and around belly, the two women
sliding, snarling, gasping...I know thereâs coming to-
- Beyond the Zero
183
gether ... and Leni waking aloneâthe Jewess out already
in some other room of the placeânever having known the
instant at which she fell into her true infant sleep, a soft
change of state that just didnât happen with Franz.... So
she brushed and batted with fingertips her hair to show
something of how she felt about the nightâs clientele and
strolled down to the baths, stripped without caring what
eyes were on her and slid into the body-warmth, the con-
ventional perfume of it... . All at once, through a shouting
and humidity that might have made it hard to concentrate,
she saw, there, up on one of the ledges, looking down at
her... Yes he was Richard Hirsch, from the Mausigstrasse,
so many years ago... she knew immediately that her face
had never looked more vulnerableâshe could see it in his
eyes....
All round them the others splashed, made love, carried
on comic monologues, perhaps they were friends of hisâ
yes wasnât that Siggi frog-kicking by, we called him âthe
Troll,â he hasnât grown a centimeter since then... since
we ran home along the canal, tripped and fell on the
hardest cobblestones in the world, and woke in the morm-
ings to see snow on the spokes of the wagon wheels, steam
out the old horseâs nose.... âLeni. Leni.â Richardâs hair
pushed all the way back, his body golden, leaning to lift
â
her from the cloudy bath, to sit beside him.
âYou're supposed to be...â sheâs flustered, doesnât know
how to put this. âSomeone told me you hadnât come back
from France. . . .â She stares at her knees.
âNot even the French girls could have kept me in
France.â Heâs still there: she feels him trying to look in her
eyes: and he speaks so simply, heâs so alive, sure that
French girls must be more coercive than English machine
guns...she knows, filled with crying for his innocence,
that he canât have been with anyone there, that French
a still are to him beautiful and remote agents of
ae
In Leni, now, nothing of her long employment shows,
nothing. She is the child he looked at across park path-
âways, or met trudging home down the gassen in the
.
crust-brown light, her face, rather broad then, angled
down, fair eyebrows troubled, bookpack on her back,
hands in apron pockets... some of the stones in the walls
i a
184
;
Gravityâs RAInBow-
were white as paste...she may have seen him coming
the other way, but he was older, always with friends. ...
Now they all grow less raucous around them, more
deferent, even shy, happy for Richard and Leni. âBetter
late than never!â pipes Siggi in his speeded-up midgetâs
voice, reaching on tiptoe to pour May wine in all their
.glasses. Leni goes to get her hair restyled and lightened a
shade, and Rebecca comes with her. They talk, for the
first time, of plans and futures. Without touching, Richard
and she have fallen in love, as they should have then.
Itâs understood he'll take her away with him....
Old Gymnasium friends have been showing up in recent
days, bringing exotic food and wine, new drugs, much
ease and honesty in sexual matters. No one bothers to
dress. They show one another their naked bodies. No one
feels anxious, or threatened about the size of her breasts or
his penis.... It is all beautifully relaxing for everyone.
Leni practices her new name, âLeni Hirsch,â even some-
times when sheâs sitting with Richard at a cafĂ© table in the
morning: âLeni Hirsch,â and he actually smiles, embar-
rassed, tries to look away but canât escape her eyes and
finally he turns full into her own look, laughs out loud, a
laugh of pure joy, and reaches his hand, the palm of his
dear hand, to hold her face. .
On a multi-leveled early eventag of balconies, terraces,
audiences grouped at the different levels, all looking down-
ward, in toward a common center, galleries of young
women with green leaves at their waists, tall evergreen
trees, lawns, flowing water and national solemnity, the
President, in the middle of asking the Bundestag, with his
familiar clogged and nasal voice, for a giant war appropria-
tion, breaks down suddenly: âOh, fuck it...â Fickt es, the
soon-to-be-immortal phrase, rings in the sky, rings over
the land, Ja, fickt es! âIâm sending all the soldiers home.
We'll close down the weapon
factories, we'll dump all the
weapons in the sea. Iâm sick of war. âm ee of waking
up every morning afraid Iâm going to die.â It is suddenly
impossible to hate him any more: heâs as human, as mortal
now, as any of the people. There will be |new elections,
The Left will run
a woman whose name
is never given,
but everyone understands it is Rosa Luxemburg. The other
candidates will be chosen so inept or colorless that no one
An Army of Lovers
- Richard and Leni experience a profound, idealized romance characterized by plans for a shared future and a sense of pure joy.
- A surreal social atmosphere emerges among friends, marked by sexual openness, nudity, and a total lack of bodily anxiety.
- The President undergoes a public breakdown, renouncing war and weapon factories in a moment of radical humanization.
- A political revolution appears imminent, with the Left expected to run a woman widely understood to be Rosa Luxemburg.
- Despite the communal joy, Leni remains haunted by the 'street'âthe constant threat of police informants and the impossibility of rest.
- Leni describes a transcendent state of activism where fear vanishes and one enters the 'grooves' of a pre-choreographed moment of action.
The President, in the middle of asking the Bundestag, with his familiar clogged and nasal voice, for a giant war appropriation, breaks down suddenly: âOh, fuck it...â
184
;
Gravityâs RAInBow-
were white as paste...she may have seen him coming
the other way, but he was older, always with friends. ...
Now they all grow less raucous around them, more
deferent, even shy, happy for Richard and Leni. âBetter
late than never!â pipes Siggi in his speeded-up midgetâs
voice, reaching on tiptoe to pour May wine in all their
.glasses. Leni goes to get her hair restyled and lightened a
shade, and Rebecca comes with her. They talk, for the
first time, of plans and futures. Without touching, Richard
and she have fallen in love, as they should have then.
Itâs understood he'll take her away with him....
Old Gymnasium friends have been showing up in recent
days, bringing exotic food and wine, new drugs, much
ease and honesty in sexual matters. No one bothers to
dress. They show one another their naked bodies. No one
feels anxious, or threatened about the size of her breasts or
his penis.... It is all beautifully relaxing for everyone.
Leni practices her new name, âLeni Hirsch,â even some-
times when sheâs sitting with Richard at a cafĂ© table in the
morning: âLeni Hirsch,â and he actually smiles, embar-
rassed, tries to look away but canât escape her eyes and
finally he turns full into her own look, laughs out loud, a
laugh of pure joy, and reaches his hand, the palm of his
dear hand, to hold her face. .
On a multi-leveled early eventag of balconies, terraces,
audiences grouped at the different levels, all looking down-
ward, in toward a common center, galleries of young
women with green leaves at their waists, tall evergreen
trees, lawns, flowing water and national solemnity, the
President, in the middle of asking the Bundestag, with his
familiar clogged and nasal voice, for a giant war appropria-
tion, breaks down suddenly: âOh, fuck it...â Fickt es, the
soon-to-be-immortal phrase, rings in the sky, rings over
the land, Ja, fickt es! âIâm sending all the soldiers home.
We'll close down the weapon
factories, we'll dump all the
weapons in the sea. Iâm sick of war. âm ee of waking
up every morning afraid Iâm going to die.â It is suddenly
impossible to hate him any more: heâs as human, as mortal
now, as any of the people. There will be |new elections,
The Left will run
a woman whose name
is never given,
but everyone understands it is Rosa Luxemburg. The other
candidates will be chosen so inept or colorless that no one
nn
Beyond the Zero
185
will vote for them. There will be a chance for the Revolu-
tion, The President has promised.
Incredible joy at the baths, among the friends. True joy:
events in a dialectical process cannot bring this explosion
' of the heart. Everyone is in love. ...
AN ARMY OF LOVERS CAN BE BEATEN.
Rudi and Vanya have fallen to arguing street tactics.
- Somewhere water is dripping. The street reaches in, makes
itself felt everywhere. Leni knows it, hates it. The im-
possibility of any rest...needing to trust strangers who
may be working for the police, if not right now then a
little later, when the street has grown for them more deso-
late than they can bear... She wishes she knew of ways
to keep it from her child, but already that may be too late.
FranzâFranz was never much in the street. Always some
excuse. Worried about security, being caught on a stray
frame by one of the leather-coated photographers, who
will be always at the fringes of the action. Or it was,
âWhat'll we do with Ilse? What if thereâs violence?â If
thereâs violence, what'll we do with Franz?
She tried to explain to him about the level you reach,
_ with both feet in, when you lose your fear, you lose it all,
you've penetrated the moment, slipping perfectly into its
grooves, metal-gray but soft as latex, and now the figures
are dancing, each pre-choreographed exactly where it is,
the flash of knees under pearl-colored frock as the girl in
the babushka stoops to pick up a cobble, the man the black
suitcoat and brown sleeveless sweater grabbed by police-
men one on either arm, trying to keep his head up, show-
_ ing his teeth, the older liberal in the dirty beige overcoat,
_ stepping back to avoid a careening demonstrator, looking
_ back across his lapel how-dare-you or look-out-not-me,
his eyeglasses filled with the glare of the winter sky. There
is the moment, and its possibilities.
She even tried, from what little calculus sheâd picked
up, to explain it to Franz as At approaching zero, eternally
approaching,
the slices of time growing thinner and
thinner, a succession of rooms each with walls more silver,
_ transparent, as theâpure light of the zero comes nearer....
But he shook his head. âNot the same, Leni. The im-
_ portant thing is taking a function to its limit. At is just a
_ convenience, so that it can happen.â
The Cause and Effect Man
- Franz and Leni represent a fundamental philosophical clash between rigid causality and intuitive, metaphorical synchronicity.
- Franz dismisses astrology and cinema as mere technical functions or inconveniences, stripping the excitement from life through his instinctual reductionism.
- Leni views the world through 'signs and symptoms,' believing that events move in parallel rather than in a linear series of cause and effect.
- The narrative explores a failed alchemical pursuit of 'patterned paint,' a metaphor for the desire to control chaos into predictable forms like stripes or stars.
- Economic desperation and the cold reality of pre-war Germany force the couple into a life of menial labor and 'furnished dustbins' while Leni is pregnant.
- A surreal encounter at a dark, empty theater suggests a breakdown of the very mechanical reality Franz clings to, replaced by the sound of invisible demolition.
Not produce, she tried, not cause. It all goes along together. Parallel, not series. Metaphor. Signs and symptoms.
nn
Beyond the Zero
185
will vote for them. There will be a chance for the Revolu-
tion, The President has promised.
Incredible joy at the baths, among the friends. True joy:
events in a dialectical process cannot bring this explosion
' of the heart. Everyone is in love. ...
AN ARMY OF LOVERS CAN BE BEATEN.
Rudi and Vanya have fallen to arguing street tactics.
- Somewhere water is dripping. The street reaches in, makes
itself felt everywhere. Leni knows it, hates it. The im-
possibility of any rest...needing to trust strangers who
may be working for the police, if not right now then a
little later, when the street has grown for them more deso-
late than they can bear... She wishes she knew of ways
to keep it from her child, but already that may be too late.
FranzâFranz was never much in the street. Always some
excuse. Worried about security, being caught on a stray
frame by one of the leather-coated photographers, who
will be always at the fringes of the action. Or it was,
âWhat'll we do with Ilse? What if thereâs violence?â If
thereâs violence, what'll we do with Franz?
She tried to explain to him about the level you reach,
_ with both feet in, when you lose your fear, you lose it all,
you've penetrated the moment, slipping perfectly into its
grooves, metal-gray but soft as latex, and now the figures
are dancing, each pre-choreographed exactly where it is,
the flash of knees under pearl-colored frock as the girl in
the babushka stoops to pick up a cobble, the man the black
suitcoat and brown sleeveless sweater grabbed by police-
men one on either arm, trying to keep his head up, show-
_ ing his teeth, the older liberal in the dirty beige overcoat,
_ stepping back to avoid a careening demonstrator, looking
_ back across his lapel how-dare-you or look-out-not-me,
his eyeglasses filled with the glare of the winter sky. There
is the moment, and its possibilities.
She even tried, from what little calculus sheâd picked
up, to explain it to Franz as At approaching zero, eternally
approaching,
the slices of time growing thinner and
thinner, a succession of rooms each with walls more silver,
_ transparent, as theâpure light of the zero comes nearer....
But he shook his head. âNot the same, Leni. The im-
_ portant thing is taking a function to its limit. At is just a
_ convenience, so that it can happen.â
186
Gravityâs RAINBOW
He has, had, this way of removing all the excitement
from things with a few words. Not even well-chosen words:
heâs that way by instinct. When they went to movies he
would fall asleep. He fell asleep during Nibelungen. He
missed Attila the Hun roaring in from the East to wipe
out the Burgundians. Franz loved films but this was how
he watched them, nodding in and out of sleep. âYou're
the cause-and-effect man,â she cried. How did he connect
together the fragments he saw while his eyes were open?
He was
the cause-and-effect man:
he kept at her
astrology without mercy, telling her what she was sup-
posed to believe, then denying it. âTides, radio inter-
ference, damned little else. There is no way for changes
out there to produce changes here.â
âNot produce,â she tried, ânot cause. It all goes along
together. Parallel, not series. Metaphor. Signs and symp-
toms. Mapping on to different coordinate systems, I donât
know...â She didnât know, all she was trying to do was
reach,
But he said: âTry to design anything that way and
have it work.â
They saw Die Frau im Mond. Franz was amused, con-
descending. He picked at technical points. He knew some
of the people who'd worked on the special effects, Leni
saw a dream of flight. One of many possible. Real flight
and dreams of flight go together. Both are part of the
same movement. Not A before B, but all together....
Could anything with him ever have lasted? If the
_ Jewish wolf Pflaumbaum had not set the torch to his own
paint factory by the canal, Franz might have labored out
their days dedicated to the Jewâs impossible scheme of
developing patterned paint, dissolving crystal after patient
crystal, controlling the temperatures with obsessive care
so that on cooling the amorphous swirl might, this time
might, suddenly shift, lock into stripes, polka-dots, plaid,
stars of Davidâinstead of finding one early morning a
blackened waste, paint cans exploded in great bursts of
crimson and bottle-green, smells of charred wood and
naphtha, Plaumbaum wringing his hands
oy, oy, oy, the
sneaking hypocrite. All for the insurance.
P
So Franz and Leni were very hungry for a time, with
Ilse growing in her belly each day. What jobs came along
(oe
zt
ia
Beyond the Zero
187
were menial and paid hardly enough to matter. It was
breaking him. Then he met his old friend from the T.H.
Munich one night out in the swampy suburbs.
_
He'd been out all day, the proletarian husband, out past-
âing up bills to advertise some happy Max Schlepzig film
fantasy, while Leni lay pregnant, forced to turn when the
pain in her back got too bad, inside their furnished dust-
bin in the last of the tenementâs HinterhĂ©fe. It. was well
after dark and bitter cold by the time his paste bucket was
empty and the ads all put up to be pissed. on, torn down,
âswastikaed over. (It may have been a quota film. There
may have been a misprint. But when he arrived at the
theatre on the date printed on the bill, he found the
place dark, chips of plaster littering the floor of the
lobby, and a terrible smashing far back inside the theatre,
the sound of a demolition crew except that there were no
voices, nor even any light that he could see back there...
he called, but the wrecking only went on, a loud creaking
in the bowels behind the electric marquee, which he
noticed now was blank....) He had wandered, bone-
tired, miles northward into Reinickendorf, a quarter of
small factories, rusted sheeting on the roofs, brothels,
sheds, expansions of brick into night and disuse, repair
shops where the water in the vats for cooling the work lay
stagnant and scummed over. Only a sprinkling of lights.
Vacancy, weeds in the lots, no one in the streets: a neigh-
borhood where glass breaks every night. It must have
been the wind that was carrying him down a dirt road,
past the old army garrison the local police had taken over,
among the shacks and tool cribs to a wire fence with a
gate. He found the gate open, and pushed through. Heâd
become aware of a sound, somewhere ahead. One summer
before the World War, heâd gone to Schaffhausen on holi-
day with his parents, and theyâd taken the electric tram
to the Rhine Falls, They went down a stairway and out
on to a little wood pavilion with a pointed roofâall around
them were clouds, rainbows, drops of fire. And the roar of
the waterfall. He held on to both their hands, suspended
in the cold spray-cloud with Mutti and Papi, barely able to
see above to the trees that clung to the fallâs brim in a
green wet smudge, or the little tour boats below that came
up nearly to where the cataract crashed into the Rhine.
â-
Reunion at the Rocket Test
- Franz wanders through a desolate, industrial landscape in Reinickendorf, characterized by stagnant vats, weeds, and broken glass.
- The sound of a rocket test triggers a vivid childhood memory of the Rhine Falls, illustrating Franz's tendency to perceive energy and abstractions as 'revenants.'
- A static rocket test ends in a violent explosion, nearly killing Franz and forcing him to take cover as metal shards fly through the air.
- In the aftermath of the blast, Franz is reunited with his old university friend, Kurt Mondaugen, whom he hasn't seen in nearly eight years.
- The narrative establishes a 'direct chain' of scientific succession from Liebig to Laszlo Jamf, framing the characters' lives within a rigid cause-and-effect structure.
- The two men retreat to a beer hall to celebrate their reunion, bridging their academic past with the gritty reality of their current surroundings.
These were the kinds of revenants that found Franz, not persons but forms of energy, abstractions.
(oe
zt
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Beyond the Zero
187
were menial and paid hardly enough to matter. It was
breaking him. Then he met his old friend from the T.H.
Munich one night out in the swampy suburbs.
_
He'd been out all day, the proletarian husband, out past-
âing up bills to advertise some happy Max Schlepzig film
fantasy, while Leni lay pregnant, forced to turn when the
pain in her back got too bad, inside their furnished dust-
bin in the last of the tenementâs HinterhĂ©fe. It. was well
after dark and bitter cold by the time his paste bucket was
empty and the ads all put up to be pissed. on, torn down,
âswastikaed over. (It may have been a quota film. There
may have been a misprint. But when he arrived at the
theatre on the date printed on the bill, he found the
place dark, chips of plaster littering the floor of the
lobby, and a terrible smashing far back inside the theatre,
the sound of a demolition crew except that there were no
voices, nor even any light that he could see back there...
he called, but the wrecking only went on, a loud creaking
in the bowels behind the electric marquee, which he
noticed now was blank....) He had wandered, bone-
tired, miles northward into Reinickendorf, a quarter of
small factories, rusted sheeting on the roofs, brothels,
sheds, expansions of brick into night and disuse, repair
shops where the water in the vats for cooling the work lay
stagnant and scummed over. Only a sprinkling of lights.
Vacancy, weeds in the lots, no one in the streets: a neigh-
borhood where glass breaks every night. It must have
been the wind that was carrying him down a dirt road,
past the old army garrison the local police had taken over,
among the shacks and tool cribs to a wire fence with a
gate. He found the gate open, and pushed through. Heâd
become aware of a sound, somewhere ahead. One summer
before the World War, heâd gone to Schaffhausen on holi-
day with his parents, and theyâd taken the electric tram
to the Rhine Falls, They went down a stairway and out
on to a little wood pavilion with a pointed roofâall around
them were clouds, rainbows, drops of fire. And the roar of
the waterfall. He held on to both their hands, suspended
in the cold spray-cloud with Mutti and Papi, barely able to
see above to the trees that clung to the fallâs brim in a
green wet smudge, or the little tour boats below that came
up nearly to where the cataract crashed into the Rhine.
â-
188
Gravity's Rainsow
But now, in the winter heart of Reinickendorf, he was
alone, hands empty, stumbling over frozen mud through
an old ammunition dump grown over with birch and wil-
low, swelling in the darkness to hills, sinking to swamp.
Concrete barracks and earthworks 40 feet high towered in
the middle distance as the sound beyond them, the sound
of a waterfall, grew louder, calling from his memory.
These were the kinds of revenants that found Franz, not
persons but forms of energy, abstractions. ...
Through a gap in the breastwork he saw then a tiny
silver egg, with a flame, pure and steady, issuing from
beneath, lighting the forms of men in suits, sweaters, over-
coats, watching from bunkers or âtrenches. It was a rocket,
in its stand: a static test.
The sound began to change, to break now and then.
It didnât sound ominous to Franz in his wonder, only
different. But the light grew brighter, and the watching
figures suddenly started dropping for cover as the rocket
now gave a sputtering roar, a long burst, voices screaming
get down and he hit the dirt just as the silver thing blew
apart, a terrific blast, metal whining through the air where
he'd stood, Franz hugging the ground, ears ringing, no
feeling even for the cold, no way for the momentâ of
knowing if he was still inside his body. ...
Feet approached running. He looked up and saw Kurt
Mondaugen. The wind all night, perhaps all year, had
brought them together. This is what he came to believe,
that it was the wind. Most of the schoolboy fat was re-
placed now by muscle, his hair was thinning, his com-
plexion darker than anything Franz had seen in the street
that winter, dark even in the concrete folds of shadow
and the flames from the scattered rocket fuel, but it was
-Mondaugen sure enough, seven or eight years gone but
they knew each other in the instant. Theyâd lived in the
same drafty mansarde in the Liebigstrasse in Munich.
(Franz had seen the address then as a lucky omen, for
Justus von Liebig had been one of his heroes, a hero of
chemistry. Later, as confirmation, his course in polymer
theory was taught by Professor-Doctor âLalo Jamf, who
was latest in the true succession, Liebig to August Wil-
helm von Hofmann, to Herbert Ganister: to Laszlo Jamf, a
direct chain, cause-and-effect.) They'd ridden the same
Meer n sy
ee
aS
*
%
fin
ry
Be
ci,
te.
eee Beyond the Zero
189
rattling Schnellbahnwagen with its three contact arms
frail as insect legs squeaking along the wires overhead to
âthe T.H.: Mondaugen had been in electrical engineering.
On graduating heâd gone off to South-West Africa, on
âsome kind of radio research project. They had written for
_a while, then stopped.
Their reunion went on till very late, in a Reinickendorf
beer hall, undergraduate hollering among the working-class
drinkers, a jubilant and grandiose past-mortem on the
rocket testâscrawling on soggy paper napkins, all talking
at once around the glass-cluttered table, arguing through
the smoke and noise heat flux, specific impulse, propellant
flow....
âTt was a failure,â Franz weaving; under their electric
bulb at three or four in the morning, a loose grin on his
face, âit failed, Leni, but they talk only of success! Twenty
kilograms of thrust and only for a few seconds, but no
oneâs ever done it before. 1 couldnât believe it Leni I saw
something that, that no one ever did before... .â
He meant to accuse her, she imagined, of conditioning
him to despair. But she only wanted him to grow up.
What kind of Wandervégel idiocy is it to run around all
night in a marsh calling yourselves the Society for Space
Navigation?
:
Leni grew up in Liibeck, in a row of kleinbiirger houses
beside the Trave. Smooth trees, spaced evenly all along the
riverward edge of her cobbled street, arched their long
boughs over the water. From her bedroom window she
could see the twin spires of the Dom rising above the
housetops. Her fetid back-court existence in Berlin was
only a decompression lockâmust be. Her way out of that
fussy Biedermeier strangulation, her dues payable against
better times, after the Revolution.
Franz, in play, often called her âLenin.â There was
never doubt about who was active, who possiveâstill she
had hoped heâd grow beyond it. She has talked to psy-
ehiatrists, she knows about the German male at puberty.
On their backs in the meadows and mountaius, watching
the sky, masturbating, yearning. Destiny waits, a darkness
latent in the texture of the summer wind. Destiny will be-
tray you, crush your ideals, deliver you into the same
detestable Biirgerlichkeit as your father, sucking at his
"
7
i:
Destiny and the Rocket
- Franz and his colleagues celebrate a technically failed rocket test as a monumental success, revealing their obsession with pioneering flight.
- Leni views the Society for Space Navigation as a childish escape from the reality of their impoverished, post-war German existence.
- The narrative explores the 'German male at puberty' and the fear of being crushed by 'BĂŒrgerlichkeit' or middle-class domesticity.
- Franz views Leni as a maternal or angelic savior who can carry him away from the weight of destiny, while she views him as a 'dead weight.'
- Leni seeks refuge at a high-society séance hosted by Peter Sachsa, where affluent guests attempt to contact the spirit of Walter Rathenau.
- The setting highlights the tension between Leni's leftist ideals and the creeping presence of the Nazi party among the wealthy elite.
Destiny will betray you, crush your ideals, deliver you into the same detestable BĂŒrgerlichkeit as your father, sucking at his pipe on Sunday strolls after church past the row houses by the river.
Meer n sy
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*
%
fin
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Be
ci,
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189
rattling Schnellbahnwagen with its three contact arms
frail as insect legs squeaking along the wires overhead to
âthe T.H.: Mondaugen had been in electrical engineering.
On graduating heâd gone off to South-West Africa, on
âsome kind of radio research project. They had written for
_a while, then stopped.
Their reunion went on till very late, in a Reinickendorf
beer hall, undergraduate hollering among the working-class
drinkers, a jubilant and grandiose past-mortem on the
rocket testâscrawling on soggy paper napkins, all talking
at once around the glass-cluttered table, arguing through
the smoke and noise heat flux, specific impulse, propellant
flow....
âTt was a failure,â Franz weaving; under their electric
bulb at three or four in the morning, a loose grin on his
face, âit failed, Leni, but they talk only of success! Twenty
kilograms of thrust and only for a few seconds, but no
oneâs ever done it before. 1 couldnât believe it Leni I saw
something that, that no one ever did before... .â
He meant to accuse her, she imagined, of conditioning
him to despair. But she only wanted him to grow up.
What kind of Wandervégel idiocy is it to run around all
night in a marsh calling yourselves the Society for Space
Navigation?
:
Leni grew up in Liibeck, in a row of kleinbiirger houses
beside the Trave. Smooth trees, spaced evenly all along the
riverward edge of her cobbled street, arched their long
boughs over the water. From her bedroom window she
could see the twin spires of the Dom rising above the
housetops. Her fetid back-court existence in Berlin was
only a decompression lockâmust be. Her way out of that
fussy Biedermeier strangulation, her dues payable against
better times, after the Revolution.
Franz, in play, often called her âLenin.â There was
never doubt about who was active, who possiveâstill she
had hoped heâd grow beyond it. She has talked to psy-
ehiatrists, she knows about the German male at puberty.
On their backs in the meadows and mountaius, watching
the sky, masturbating, yearning. Destiny waits, a darkness
latent in the texture of the summer wind. Destiny will be-
tray you, crush your ideals, deliver you into the same
detestable Biirgerlichkeit as your father, sucking at his
"
7
i:
190
Graviryâs Rainsow
pipe on Sunday strolls after church past the row houses by
the riverâdress you in the gray uniform of another family
man, and without a whimper you will serve out your time,
fly from pain to duty, from joy to work, from commitment
to neutrality. Destiny does all this to you.
Franz loved her neurotically, masochistically, he be-
longed to her and believed that she would carry him on
her back, away to a place where Destiny couldnât reach.
As if it were gravity. He had half-awakened one night
burrowing his face into her- armpit mumbling, âYour
wings...oh, Leni, your wings...â
But her wings can only carry her own weight, and she
hopes Ilseâs, for a while. Franz is a dead weight. Let him
look for flight out at the Raketenflugplatz, where he goes
to be used by the military and the cartels, Let him fly to
the dead moon if he wants to....
Ilse is awake, and crying. No food all day. They ought
to try Peterâs after all. He'll have milk. Rebecca holds out
whatâs left of the end crust sheâs been eating. âWould she
like this?â
Not much of the Jew in her. Why are half the Leftists
she knows Jewish? She immediately reminds herself that
Marx was one, A racial affinity for the books, the theory, a
rabbinical love of loud argument... She gives the crust
to her child, picks her up.
âIf he comes here, tell him you havenât seen me.â
They arrive at Peter Sachsaâs well after dark. She finds a
séance just about to begin. She is immediately aware of
her drab coat and cotton dress (hemline too high), her
scuffed and city-dusted shoes, her lack of jewelry. More
middle-class reflexes... vestiges, she hopes. But most of
the women are old. The others are too dazzling. Hmm.
The men look more affluent than usual. Leni spots a silver
_lapel-swastika here and there. Wines on the tables ate the
great â20s and â21s. Schloss Vollrads, Zeltinger, Pies-
porterâit is an Occasion.
The objective tonight is to get in touch with the late
foreign minister Walter Rathenau. At the Gymnasium,
Leni sang with the other children the
o
ing anti-
Semitic street refrain of the time:
Knallt ab den Juden Rathenau,
Die gottverdammte Judensau ...
The Architecture of Power
- The narrative explores the intersection of corporate interests and political assassination, focusing on the legacy of a murdered minister.
- A gathering of elite figures from the industrial-military complex highlights the cold logic of wartime economics and market preservation.
- The text suggests that history is a curated conspiracy designed to suppress the terrifying truths revealed at the moment of death.
- Characters navigate a world of surveillance and 'theys,' where individual agency is often an illusion maintained by those in power.
- The figure of Rathenau is presented as the visionary behind the modern cartelized state, bridging the gap between government and industry.
The moment of assassination is the moment when power and the ignorance of power come together, with Death as validator.
Beyond the Zero
191
After he was assassinated she sang nothing for weeks, cer-
tain that, if the singing hadnât brought it about, at-least it
had been a prophecy, a spell. ...
There are specific messages tonight. Questions for the
former minister. A gentle sorting-out process is under way.
Reasons of âsecurity. Only certain guests are allowed to go
on into Peterâs sitting room. The preterite stay outside,
gossiping, showing their gums
out. of tension, moving
their hands. ... The big scandal around IG Farben this
week is the unlucky subsidiary Spottbilligfilm AG, whose
entire management are about to be purged for sending to
OKW weapons procurement a design proposal for a new
airborne ray which could tum whole populations, inside a
ten-kilometer radius, stone blind. An IG review board
caught the scheme in time. Poor Spottbilligfilm. It had
slipped their collective mind what such a weapon would
do to the dye market after the next war. The Gétter-
dammerung mentality again. The weapon had been known
as L-5227, L standing for light, another comical German
=
euphemism, like the A in rocket designations which stands
for aggregate,
or IG itself, Interessengemeinschaft,
a
fellowship of interests...and what about the case. of
catalyst poisoning in Pragueâwas it true that the VI b
Group. Staffs at the Chemical Instrumentality for the Ab-
normal have been flown east on emergency status, and that
itâs a complex poisoning, both selenium and tellurium...
the names of the poisons sober the conversation, like a
mention of cancer....
The elite who will sit tonight are from the corporate
Nazi crowd, among them Leni recognizes who but Gene-
raldirektor Smaragd, of an IG branch that was interested,
for a time, in her husband. But then abruptly thereâd been
no more contact. It would have been mysterious, a little
sinister, except that everything in those days could reason-
ably be blamed on the economy. ...
In the crowd her eyes meet Peterâs. âIâve left him,â she
whispers, nodding, as he shakes hands.
âYou can put Ilse to sleep in one of the bedrooms. Can
we talk later?â There is to his eyes tonight a definite
faunish slant. Will he accept that she is not his, any more
than she belonged to Franz?
âYes, of course. Whatâs going on?â
.
He snorts, meaning they haven't told me, They are
192
Gravityâs RAINBOW â
using himâhave been, various theys, for ten years. But
he never knows how, except by rare accident, an allusion,
an interception of smiles. A distorting and forever clouded
mirror, the smiles of clients....
Why do they want Rathenau tonight? What did Caesar
really whisper to his protégé as he fell? Et tu, Brute, the
official lie, is about what youâd expect to get from themâ
it says exactly nothing. The moment of assassination is the
moment when power and the ignorance of power come
together, with Death as validator. When one speaks to the
other then it is not to pass the time of day with et-tu-
Brutes. What passes is a truth so terrible that historyâat
best a conspiracy, not always among gentlemen, to de-
fraudâwill never admit it. The truth will be repressed or
in ages of particular elegance be disguised as something
else. What will Rathenau, past the moment, years into a
new otherside existence, have to say about the old dis-
pensation? Probably nothing as incredible as what he might
have said just as the shock flashed his mortal nerves, as
the Angel swooped in....
But they will see. Rathenauâaccording to the his-
toriesâwas prophet and architect of the cartelized state.
From what began as a tiny bureau at the War Office in
Berlin, he had coordinated Germanyâs economy during the
World War, controlling supplies, quotas and prices, cutting
across and demolishing the barriers of secrecy and prop-
erty that separated firm from firmâa corporate Bismarck,
before whose power no account book was too privileged,
no agreement too clandestine. His father Emil Rathenau
had founded AEG, the German General Electric Company,
but young Walter was more than another industrial heirâ
he was a philosopher with a vision of the postwar State.
He saw the war in progress as a world revolution, out of
which would rise neither Red communism nor an un-
hindered Right, but a rational structure in which business
would be the true, the rightful authorityâa structure based,
not surprisingly, on the one he'd Bet in Germany
for fighting the World War.
Thus the official version. Grandiose en ich. But Gene-
raldirektor Smaragd and colleagues are ies to be told
what even the masses believe. It might almostâif one
were paranoid enoughâseem to be a collaboration here,
between both sides of the Wall, matter and spirit. What
The Ghost of Walter Rathenau
- Walter Rathenau, the industrialist and philosopher, is channeled through a medium to speak to the elite of the German business world.
- Rathenau describes a vision of a postwar state where business serves as the ultimate rational authority, transcending traditional political divides.
- The séance reveals a hidden web of global industrial collaboration that exists behind the public facade of national competition and diversity.
- The spirit warns that the living are trapped on a narrow 'Autobahn' of perception, mistaking their linear path for the total reality of the 'shape'.
- A specific technological and chemical lineage is traced from the discovery of mauve to the development of the drug Oneirine, linking Germany, the US, and Russia.
- The Rapallo Treaty and industrial sales to Russia are framed not as mere diplomacy, but as necessary steps in a larger, predetermined process.
Is it any use for me to tell you that all you believe real is illusion? I donât know whether you'll listen, or ignore it. You only want to know about your path, your Autobahn.
192
Gravityâs RAINBOW â
using himâhave been, various theys, for ten years. But
he never knows how, except by rare accident, an allusion,
an interception of smiles. A distorting and forever clouded
mirror, the smiles of clients....
Why do they want Rathenau tonight? What did Caesar
really whisper to his protégé as he fell? Et tu, Brute, the
official lie, is about what youâd expect to get from themâ
it says exactly nothing. The moment of assassination is the
moment when power and the ignorance of power come
together, with Death as validator. When one speaks to the
other then it is not to pass the time of day with et-tu-
Brutes. What passes is a truth so terrible that historyâat
best a conspiracy, not always among gentlemen, to de-
fraudâwill never admit it. The truth will be repressed or
in ages of particular elegance be disguised as something
else. What will Rathenau, past the moment, years into a
new otherside existence, have to say about the old dis-
pensation? Probably nothing as incredible as what he might
have said just as the shock flashed his mortal nerves, as
the Angel swooped in....
But they will see. Rathenauâaccording to the his-
toriesâwas prophet and architect of the cartelized state.
From what began as a tiny bureau at the War Office in
Berlin, he had coordinated Germanyâs economy during the
World War, controlling supplies, quotas and prices, cutting
across and demolishing the barriers of secrecy and prop-
erty that separated firm from firmâa corporate Bismarck,
before whose power no account book was too privileged,
no agreement too clandestine. His father Emil Rathenau
had founded AEG, the German General Electric Company,
but young Walter was more than another industrial heirâ
he was a philosopher with a vision of the postwar State.
He saw the war in progress as a world revolution, out of
which would rise neither Red communism nor an un-
hindered Right, but a rational structure in which business
would be the true, the rightful authorityâa structure based,
not surprisingly, on the one he'd Bet in Germany
for fighting the World War.
Thus the official version. Grandiose en ich. But Gene-
raldirektor Smaragd and colleagues are ies to be told
what even the masses believe. It might almostâif one
were paranoid enoughâseem to be a collaboration here,
between both sides of the Wall, matter and spirit. What
Beyond the Zero
193
is it they know that the powerless do not? What terrible
je sca behind the appearances of diversity and enter-
prise
Gallows humor. A damned parlor game. Smaragd can-
not really believe in any of this, Smaragd the technician
and manager. He may only: want signs, omens, confirma-
tions of whatâs already in being, something to giggle over
among the HerrenklubââWe even have the Jewâs bless-
ing!â Whatever comes through the medium tonight they
will warp, they will edit, into a blessing. It is contempt
of a rare order,
Leni finds a couch in a quiet corner of a room full of
Chinese ivory and silk hangings, lies on it, one calf dan-
gling, and tries to relax. Franz now will be home from the
rocket-field, blinking under the bulb as Frau Silberschlag
next door delivers Leniâs last message. Messages tonight,
borne on the lights of Berlin... neon, incandescent, stel-
lar... messages weave into a net of information that no
one can escape....
âThe path is clear,â a voice moving Sachsaâs lips and
rigid white throat. âYou are constrained, over there, to
follow it in time, one step after another. But here itâs pos-
sible to see the whole shape at onceânot for me, Iâm not
that far alongâbut many know it as a clear presence...
âshapeâ isnât really the right word.... Let me be honest
with you. Iâm finding it harder to put myself in your
shoes. Problems you may be having, even those of global
implication, seem to many of us here only trivial side-
trips. You are off on a winding and difficult road, which
you conceive to be wide and straight, an Autobahn you
can travel at your ease. Is it any use for me to tell you
that all you believe real is illusion? I donât know whether
you'll listen, or ignore it. You only want to know about
your path, your Autobahn.
âAll right. Mauve: thatâs in the pattern. The invention
of mauve, the coming to your level of the color mauve.
Are you listening, Generaldirektor?â
âI am listening, Herr Rathenau,â replies Smaragd of
IG Farben.
:
âTyrian purple, alizarin and indigo, other coal-tar dyes
are here, but the important one is mauve. William Perkin
discovered it in England, but he was trained by Hofmann,
who was trained by Liebig. There is a succession involved.
}
194
Gravityâs RAINBOW
If it is karmic itâs only in a very limited sense. .. another
Englishman, Herbert
Ganister, and the generation of
chemists he trained.... Then the discovery of Oneirine.
Ask your man Wimpe. He is the expert on cyclized benzyl-
isoquinilines. Look into the clinical effects of the drug. I
donât know. It seems that you might look in that direction.
It converges with the mauve-Perkin-Ganister line. But all
I have is the molecule, the sketch... Methoneirine, as
the sulfate. Not in Germany, but in the United States.
There is a link to the United States. A link to Russia. Why
do you think von Maltzan and I saw the Rapallo treaty
through? It was necessary to move to the east. Wimpe
can tell you. Wimpe, the V-Mann, was always there. Why
do you think we wanted Krupp to sell them agricultural
machinery so badly? It was also part of the process. At the
time I didnât understand it as clearly as I do now. But I
knew what I had to do.
âConsider coal and steel. There is a place where they
meet. The interface between coal and steel is coal-tar.
Imagine coal, down in the earth, dead black, no light, the
very substance of death. Death ancient, prehistoric, spe-
cies we will never see again. Growing older, blacker,
deeper, in layers of perpetual night. Above ground, the
steel rolls out fiery, bright. But to make steel, the coal tars,
darker and heavier, must be taken from the original coal,
Earthâs excrement, purged out for the ennoblement of
shining steel. Passed over.
âWe thought of this as an industrial process. It was
more. We passed over the coal-tars. A thousand different
molecules waited in the preterite dung. This is the sign of
revealing. Of unfolding. This is oné meaning of mauve,
the first new color on Earth, leaping to Earthâs light from
its grave miles and aeons below. There is the other mean-
ing... the succession...
I canât see that far yet. .
âBut this is all the impersonation of life. The real move-
ment is not from death to any rebirth. It . from death to
death-transfigured. The best you can do is! to polymerize
a few dead molecules. But polymerizing is sgt
resurrection,
I mean your IG, Generaldirektor.â
âOur IG, I should have thought,â ina lempengil with
more than the usual ice and stiffness.
âThatâs for you to work out. If you a
to call this a
liaison, do, I am here for as long as you need me. You
The Technology of Death
- The speaker describes the industrial synthesis of steel and coal-tar as a process of extracting 'death-transfigured' from ancient, prehistoric waste.
- The creation of mauve, the first synthetic dye, is presented as a revelation of hidden potential within the 'preterite dung' of coal.
- Industrial growth and the expansion of the Kartell are dismissed as illusionsâa 'clever robot' that masks a deepening structural commitment to death.
- The speaker argues that secular history and cause-and-effect are merely diversionary tactics used to obscure the true power of molecular technology.
- True understanding requires questioning the nature of synthesis and control, as molecules themselves dictate the shapes of towers and the flow of profits.
- The passage concludes with a jarring shift from high-stakes metaphysical discourse to a flippant, anti-Semitic joke during a séance.
The real movement is not from death to any rebirth. It is from death to death-transfigured.
194
Gravityâs RAINBOW
If it is karmic itâs only in a very limited sense. .. another
Englishman, Herbert
Ganister, and the generation of
chemists he trained.... Then the discovery of Oneirine.
Ask your man Wimpe. He is the expert on cyclized benzyl-
isoquinilines. Look into the clinical effects of the drug. I
donât know. It seems that you might look in that direction.
It converges with the mauve-Perkin-Ganister line. But all
I have is the molecule, the sketch... Methoneirine, as
the sulfate. Not in Germany, but in the United States.
There is a link to the United States. A link to Russia. Why
do you think von Maltzan and I saw the Rapallo treaty
through? It was necessary to move to the east. Wimpe
can tell you. Wimpe, the V-Mann, was always there. Why
do you think we wanted Krupp to sell them agricultural
machinery so badly? It was also part of the process. At the
time I didnât understand it as clearly as I do now. But I
knew what I had to do.
âConsider coal and steel. There is a place where they
meet. The interface between coal and steel is coal-tar.
Imagine coal, down in the earth, dead black, no light, the
very substance of death. Death ancient, prehistoric, spe-
cies we will never see again. Growing older, blacker,
deeper, in layers of perpetual night. Above ground, the
steel rolls out fiery, bright. But to make steel, the coal tars,
darker and heavier, must be taken from the original coal,
Earthâs excrement, purged out for the ennoblement of
shining steel. Passed over.
âWe thought of this as an industrial process. It was
more. We passed over the coal-tars. A thousand different
molecules waited in the preterite dung. This is the sign of
revealing. Of unfolding. This is oné meaning of mauve,
the first new color on Earth, leaping to Earthâs light from
its grave miles and aeons below. There is the other mean-
ing... the succession...
I canât see that far yet. .
âBut this is all the impersonation of life. The real move-
ment is not from death to any rebirth. It . from death to
death-transfigured. The best you can do is! to polymerize
a few dead molecules. But polymerizing is sgt
resurrection,
I mean your IG, Generaldirektor.â
âOur IG, I should have thought,â ina lempengil with
more than the usual ice and stiffness.
âThatâs for you to work out. If you a
to call this a
liaison, do, I am here for as long as you need me. You
Beyond the Zero
195
donât have to listen. You think you'd rather hear about
what you call âlifeâ; the growing, organic Kartell. But itâs
only another illusion. A very clever robot. The more dy-
namic it seems to you, the more deep and dead, in reality,
it grows. Look at the smokestacks, how they proliferate,
fanning the wastes of original waste over greater and
greater masses of city. Structurally, they are strongest in
compression. A smokestack can survive any explosionâ
even the shock wave from one of the new cosmic bombsââ
a bit of a murmur around the table at thisââas you all
must know. The persistence, then, of structures favoring
death. Death converted into more death. Perfecting its
reign, just as the buried coal grows denser, and overlaid
with more strataâepoch on top of epoch, city on top of
ruined city. This is the sign of Death the impersonator.
âThese signs are real. They are also symptoms of a
process. The process follows the same form, the same
structure. To apprehend it you will follow the signs. All
talk of cause and effect is secular history, and secular
history is a diversionary tactic. Useful to you, gentlemen,
but no longer so to us here. If you want the truthâI
know I presumeâyou must look into the technology of
these matters. Even into the hearts of certain moleculesâ
it is they after all which dictate temperatures, pressures,
rates of flow, costs, profits, the shapes of towers....
âYou must ask two questions. First, what is the real
ânature of synthesis? And then: what is the real nature of
control?
âYou think you know, you cling to your beliefs. But
sooner or later you will have to let them go....â
A silence, which prolongs itself. There is some shifting
in the seats around the table, but the sets of little fingers
stay in touch.
:
âHerr RathenauP Could you tell me one thing?â It is
Heinz Rippenstoss, the irrepressible Nazi wag and gad-
about. The sitters begin to giggle, and Peter Sachsa to
return to his room. âIs God really Jewish?â
a)
Pumm, Easterling, Dromond, Lamplighter, Spectro are
â
stars on the doctorâs holiday tree. Shining down on this
196
Gravityâs RAINBOW
holiest of nights..Each is a cold announcement of dead
ends, suns that will refuse to stand, but flee south, ever
south, leaving us to north-without-end, But Kevin Spectro
is brightest, most distant of all, And the crowds they
swarm in Knightsbridge, and the wireless carols drone,
and the Undergroundâs a mob-scene, but Pointsmanâs all
alone. But heâs got his Xmas present, fa la la, he won't
have to settle for any Spam-tin dog this year mates, heâs
got his own miracle and human child, grown to manhood
but carrying, someplace on the Slothropian cortex now a
bit of Psychologyâs own childhood, yes pure history, inert,
encysted, unmoved by jazz, depression, warâa survival,
if you will, of a piece of the late Dr. Jamf himself, past
death, past the reckoning of the, the old central chamber
you know....
He has no one to ask, no one to tell. My heart, he feels,
my heart floods now with such virility and hope. ... News
from the Riviera is splendid. Experiments here begin to
run smoothly for a change. From some dark overlap, a
general appropriation or sinking fund someplace, Briga-
dier Pudding has even improved the funding for ARF.
Does he feel Pointsmanâs power too? Is he buying some
insurance?
At odd moments of the day Pointsman, fascinated, dis-
covers himself with an erect penis. He begins making
jokes, English Pavlovian jokes, nearly all of which depend
on one unhappy accident: the Latin cortex translates into
English as âbark,â not to mention the well-known and
humorous relation between dogs and trees (these are bad
enough, and most PISCES folk have the good sense to
avoid them, but they are dazzling witticisms compared
with jokes out of the mainstream, such as the extraordinary
âWhat did the Cockney exclaim to the cowboy from San
Antonio?â). Sometime during the annual PISCES Christmas
Party, Pointsman is led by Maudie Chilkes to a closet full
of belladonna, gauze, thistle tubes, and the scent of surgi-
cal rubber, where in a flash sheâs down on her red knees,
unbuttoning
his trousers,
as he, confused, good God,
strokes her hair, clumsily shaking much
pf
it loose from
its wine-colored ribbonâhere whatâs this, an actual, slick
and crimson, hot, squeak-stockinged slavegirl âgamâ yes â
right among these winter-pale clinical halls, with the dis-
A Moment of Perfect Peace
- Pointsman feels a surge of virility and hope, viewing Slothrop as a 'miracle' and a living piece of psychological history.
- The funding for ARF has unexpectedly improved, leading Pointsman to wonder if Brigadier Pudding is seeking insurance or sensing his growing power.
- Pointsman experiences a strange, physiological arousal linked to his professional obsession, manifesting in bad Pavlovian puns.
- During the PISCES Christmas party, Maudie Chilkes leads Pointsman into a supply closet for a sudden, intense sexual encounter.
- The encounter is described as a 'sudden tropics'âa brief, hallucinatory escape from the cold reality of war and clinical life.
- Despite the intensity of the moment, the connection is fleeting and never repeated, leaving only a memory of peace in a winter of war.
But somehow they're never to have this again, this sudden tropics in the held breath of war and English December, this moment of perfect peace.
196
Gravityâs RAINBOW
holiest of nights..Each is a cold announcement of dead
ends, suns that will refuse to stand, but flee south, ever
south, leaving us to north-without-end, But Kevin Spectro
is brightest, most distant of all, And the crowds they
swarm in Knightsbridge, and the wireless carols drone,
and the Undergroundâs a mob-scene, but Pointsmanâs all
alone. But heâs got his Xmas present, fa la la, he won't
have to settle for any Spam-tin dog this year mates, heâs
got his own miracle and human child, grown to manhood
but carrying, someplace on the Slothropian cortex now a
bit of Psychologyâs own childhood, yes pure history, inert,
encysted, unmoved by jazz, depression, warâa survival,
if you will, of a piece of the late Dr. Jamf himself, past
death, past the reckoning of the, the old central chamber
you know....
He has no one to ask, no one to tell. My heart, he feels,
my heart floods now with such virility and hope. ... News
from the Riviera is splendid. Experiments here begin to
run smoothly for a change. From some dark overlap, a
general appropriation or sinking fund someplace, Briga-
dier Pudding has even improved the funding for ARF.
Does he feel Pointsmanâs power too? Is he buying some
insurance?
At odd moments of the day Pointsman, fascinated, dis-
covers himself with an erect penis. He begins making
jokes, English Pavlovian jokes, nearly all of which depend
on one unhappy accident: the Latin cortex translates into
English as âbark,â not to mention the well-known and
humorous relation between dogs and trees (these are bad
enough, and most PISCES folk have the good sense to
avoid them, but they are dazzling witticisms compared
with jokes out of the mainstream, such as the extraordinary
âWhat did the Cockney exclaim to the cowboy from San
Antonio?â). Sometime during the annual PISCES Christmas
Party, Pointsman is led by Maudie Chilkes to a closet full
of belladonna, gauze, thistle tubes, and the scent of surgi-
cal rubber, where in a flash sheâs down on her red knees,
unbuttoning
his trousers,
as he, confused, good God,
strokes her hair, clumsily shaking much
pf
it loose from
its wine-colored ribbonâhere whatâs this, an actual, slick
and crimson, hot, squeak-stockinged slavegirl âgamâ yes â
right among these winter-pale clinical halls, with the dis-
Beyond the Zero
197
tant gramophone playing rumba music, basses, wood-
â
blocks, wearied blown sheets of tropic string cadences
audible as everyone dances back there on the uncarpeted
floors, and the old Palladian shell, conch of a thousand
rooms, gives, resonates, shifting stresses along walls and
joists ...
. bold Maud, this is incredible, taking the pink
Pavlovian cock in as far as it will go, chin to collarbone
vertical as a sword-swallower, releasing him each time
with some small ladylike choking sound, fumes of expen-
sive Scotch rising flowerlike, and her hands up grabbing
the loose wool seat of his pants, pleating, unpleatingâitâs
happening so fast that Pointsman only sways, blinks a bit
drunkenly you know, wondering if heâs dreaming or has
found the perfect mixture, try to remember, amphetamine
sulphate, 5 mg q 6 h, last night amobarbital sodium 0.2
Gm. at bedtime, this moming assorted breakfast vitamin
capsules, alcohol an ounce, say, per hour, over the past...
how many cc.s is that and oh, Jesus I'm coming. Am I?
yes... well...and
Maud, .dear
Maudie,
swallowing,
wastes not a drop...smiling quietly, unplugged at last,
she returns the unstiffening hawk to its cold bachelor nest
but kneels still a bit longer in the closet of this moment,
the drafty, white-lit moment, some piece by Emesto Le-
cuona, âSiboneyâ perhaps, now reaching them down cor-
ridors long as the sealanes back to the green shoals, slime
stone battlements, and palm evenings of Cuba...a Vic-
torian pose, her cheek against his leg, his high-veined hand
against her face. But no one saw them, then or ever, and
in the winter ahead, here and there, her look will cross his
and she'll begin to blush red as her knees, she'll come to
his room off the lab once or twice perhaps, but somehow
they're never to have this again, this sudden tropics in the
held breath of war and English December, this moment of
perfect peace....
No one to tell. Maud knows somethingâs up all right, the
finances of PISCES pass through her hands, nothing es-
capes her. But he canât tell her... or not everything, not
the exact terms of his hope, heâs never, even to himself...
it lies ahead in the dark, defined inversely, by horror, by
ways all hopes might yet be defeated and he find only his
death, that dumb, empty joke, at the end of this Pavlovianâs
Progress.
Gwenhidwy's Ward of the Lost
- Pointsman grapples with a private, dark hope that he cannot share with his colleague Maud, fearing his life may end as a 'dumb, empty joke.'
- Thomas Gwenhidwy is introduced as a boisterous, alcoholic Welsh doctor with a voice powerful enough to be heard over the roar of Flying Fortress bombers.
- Gwenhidwy oversees a ward of the destituteâincluding refugees and minoritiesâwhose profound intimacy with suffering contrasts with Pointsman's focus on genteel, psychological ailments.
- The medical reality of the ward is grim, characterized by extreme malnutrition, low metabolic rates, and aggressive infections visible under the microscope.
- Gwenhidwy proposes a mystical theory that the Welsh are a lost tribe of Israel and that all humanity consists of 'seeds' scattered from a primal fist.
- The interaction highlights the stark temperamental divide between Pointsmanâs clinical detachment and Gwenhidwyâs empathetic, chaotic connection to the suffering.
His singing voice is incredible, in his spare time he strolls out past the wire-mesh fighter runways looking for bigger planesâfor he loves to practice the bass part to âDiademâ as the Flying Fortresses take off at full power.
Beyond the Zero
197
tant gramophone playing rumba music, basses, wood-
â
blocks, wearied blown sheets of tropic string cadences
audible as everyone dances back there on the uncarpeted
floors, and the old Palladian shell, conch of a thousand
rooms, gives, resonates, shifting stresses along walls and
joists ...
. bold Maud, this is incredible, taking the pink
Pavlovian cock in as far as it will go, chin to collarbone
vertical as a sword-swallower, releasing him each time
with some small ladylike choking sound, fumes of expen-
sive Scotch rising flowerlike, and her hands up grabbing
the loose wool seat of his pants, pleating, unpleatingâitâs
happening so fast that Pointsman only sways, blinks a bit
drunkenly you know, wondering if heâs dreaming or has
found the perfect mixture, try to remember, amphetamine
sulphate, 5 mg q 6 h, last night amobarbital sodium 0.2
Gm. at bedtime, this moming assorted breakfast vitamin
capsules, alcohol an ounce, say, per hour, over the past...
how many cc.s is that and oh, Jesus I'm coming. Am I?
yes... well...and
Maud, .dear
Maudie,
swallowing,
wastes not a drop...smiling quietly, unplugged at last,
she returns the unstiffening hawk to its cold bachelor nest
but kneels still a bit longer in the closet of this moment,
the drafty, white-lit moment, some piece by Emesto Le-
cuona, âSiboneyâ perhaps, now reaching them down cor-
ridors long as the sealanes back to the green shoals, slime
stone battlements, and palm evenings of Cuba...a Vic-
torian pose, her cheek against his leg, his high-veined hand
against her face. But no one saw them, then or ever, and
in the winter ahead, here and there, her look will cross his
and she'll begin to blush red as her knees, she'll come to
his room off the lab once or twice perhaps, but somehow
they're never to have this again, this sudden tropics in the
held breath of war and English December, this moment of
perfect peace....
No one to tell. Maud knows somethingâs up all right, the
finances of PISCES pass through her hands, nothing es-
capes her. But he canât tell her... or not everything, not
the exact terms of his hope, heâs never, even to himself...
it lies ahead in the dark, defined inversely, by horror, by
ways all hopes might yet be defeated and he find only his
death, that dumb, empty joke, at the end of this Pavlovianâs
Progress.
198
Graviryâs RaInsow
Now Thomas Gwenhidwy too senses change fibrillating
in the face and step of his colleague. Fat, prematurely
white Santa Claus beard, a listing, rumpled showman, per-
forming every instant, trying to speak a double language,
both Welsh comic-provincial and hard diamond gone-a-
begging truth, hear what you will. His singing voice is
incredible, in his spare time he strolls out past the wire-
mesh fighter runways looking for bigger planesâfor he
loves to practice the bass part to âDiademâ as the Flying
Fortresses take off at full power, and even so you can
hear him, bone-vibrating and pure above the bombers, all
the way to Stoke Poges, you see. Once a lady even wrote
in to the Times from Luton Hoo, Bedfordshire, asking who
was the man with the lovely deep voice singing âDia-
dem.â A Mrs. Snade. Gwenhidwy likes to drink a lot,
grain alcohol mostly, mixed in great strange mad-scientist
concoctions with beef tea, grenadine, cough syrup, bitter
belch-gathering infusions of blue scullcap, valerian root,
motherwort and ladyâs-slipper, whatever's to hand really,
His is the hale alcoholic style celebrated in national leg-
end and song. He is descended directly from the Welsh-
man in Henry V who ran around forcing people to eat his
Leek. None of your sedentary drinkers though. Pointsman
has never seen Gwenhidwy off of his feet or standing
stillâhe fusses endlessly pitch-and-roll avast you scum
down the long rows of sick or dying faces, and even Points-
man has noted rough love in the minor gestures, changes
of breathing and voice. They are blacks, Indians, Ashke-
nazic Jews speaking dialects you never heard in Harley
Street:
they have been bombed
out, frozen, starved,
meanly sheltered, and their faces, even the childrenâs, all
Possess some ancient intimacy with pain and reverse that
amazes Pointsman, who is more polarized upon West End
catalogues of genteel signs and symptoms, headborn ano-
rexias and constipations the Welshman could have little
patience with. On Gwenhidwyâs wards some BMRs run
low as â35, â4o. The white lines go thickening across the
X-ray ghosts of bones, gray scrapings fom
underneath ©
tongues bloom beneath his old wrinkle-black microscope
into clouds of Vincentesque invaders, nasty little fangs ©
achop and looking to ulcerate the vitamin-poor tissue they :
came from. A quite different domain altogether, you see. :
fe
pai
apes
4
Beyond the Zero
199
-*T donât know, manâno, I donât,â flinging a fat slow-
motion arm out of his hedgehog-colored cape, back at the
hospital, as they walk in the falling snowâto Pointsman a
clear separation, monks here and cathedral there, soldiers
and garrisonâbut not so to Gwenhidwy, part of whom
remains behind, hostage. The streets are empty, itâs Christ-
mas day, they are tramping uphill to Gwenhidwyâs rooms
as the quiet snow curtains fall on and on between them-
selves and the pierced wall of the institution marching in
stone parallax away into a white gloom. âHow they per-
sist. The poor, the black. And the Jews! The Welsh, the
Welsh once upon a time were Jewish too? one of the Lost
Tribes of Israel, a black tribe, who wandered overland,
centuries? oh an incredible journey. Until at last they
reached Wales, you see.â
-
âWales...â
, âStayed on, and became the Cymri. What if we're all
Jews, you see? all scattered like seeds? still flying out-
ag from the primal fist so long ago. Man, I believe
Bt
âOf course you do, Gwenhidwy.â
âArenât we then? What about you?â
âI donât know. I donât feel Jewish today.â
âI meant flying outward?â He means alone and forever
separate: Pointsman knows what he means. So, by surprise,
something in him is touched. He feels the Christmas snow
now at crevices of this boots, the bitter cold trying to get
in. The brown wool flank of Gwenhidwy moves at the edge
of his sight, a pocket of color, a holdout against this whit-
ening day. Flying outward. Flying . .. Gwenhidwy, a mil-
lion ice-points falling at a slant across his caped immen-
sity, looking so improbable of extinction that now, from
where itâs been lying, the same yawing-drunk chattering
fear returns, the Curse of the Book, and here is someone
he wants, truly, with all his mean heart, to see preserved
... though heâs been too shy, or proud, ever toâve smiled
at Gwenhidwy without some kind of speech to explain and
cancel out the smile. ...
_ Dogs run barking at their approach. They get the Pro-
fessional Eye from Pointsman. Gwenhidwy is humming
âAberystwyth.â Out comes. the doorkeeperâs
daughter
Estelle with a shivering kid or two underfoot and a Christ-
ve
»„
The City Paranoiac
- Pointsman and Gwenhidwy navigate a bleak, snow-covered London landscape marked by the stench of poverty and the aftermath of V-bomb strikes.
- A rare moment of genuine affection and vulnerability surfaces in Pointsman as he contemplates the potential loss of Gwenhidwy to the ongoing war.
- Gwenhidwy proposes a paranoid theory that V-weapons are being intentionally diverted away from elite government centers like Whitehall toward the East End.
- Pointsman attempts to rationalize the chaos using a Poisson distribution, but Gwenhidwy argues that even 'randomness' can be mimicked by a sentient city.
- The setting is depicted as a living, 'intelligent creature' that has grown over the countryside, counterfeiting economic and demographic forces to protect its core.
Some unaccustomed wind or thermocline along the sky is bringing them down the deep choral hum of American bombers: Deathâs white Gymanfa Ganu.
fe
pai
apes
4
Beyond the Zero
199
-*T donât know, manâno, I donât,â flinging a fat slow-
motion arm out of his hedgehog-colored cape, back at the
hospital, as they walk in the falling snowâto Pointsman a
clear separation, monks here and cathedral there, soldiers
and garrisonâbut not so to Gwenhidwy, part of whom
remains behind, hostage. The streets are empty, itâs Christ-
mas day, they are tramping uphill to Gwenhidwyâs rooms
as the quiet snow curtains fall on and on between them-
selves and the pierced wall of the institution marching in
stone parallax away into a white gloom. âHow they per-
sist. The poor, the black. And the Jews! The Welsh, the
Welsh once upon a time were Jewish too? one of the Lost
Tribes of Israel, a black tribe, who wandered overland,
centuries? oh an incredible journey. Until at last they
reached Wales, you see.â
-
âWales...â
, âStayed on, and became the Cymri. What if we're all
Jews, you see? all scattered like seeds? still flying out-
ag from the primal fist so long ago. Man, I believe
Bt
âOf course you do, Gwenhidwy.â
âArenât we then? What about you?â
âI donât know. I donât feel Jewish today.â
âI meant flying outward?â He means alone and forever
separate: Pointsman knows what he means. So, by surprise,
something in him is touched. He feels the Christmas snow
now at crevices of this boots, the bitter cold trying to get
in. The brown wool flank of Gwenhidwy moves at the edge
of his sight, a pocket of color, a holdout against this whit-
ening day. Flying outward. Flying . .. Gwenhidwy, a mil-
lion ice-points falling at a slant across his caped immen-
sity, looking so improbable of extinction that now, from
where itâs been lying, the same yawing-drunk chattering
fear returns, the Curse of the Book, and here is someone
he wants, truly, with all his mean heart, to see preserved
... though heâs been too shy, or proud, ever toâve smiled
at Gwenhidwy without some kind of speech to explain and
cancel out the smile. ...
_ Dogs run barking at their approach. They get the Pro-
fessional Eye from Pointsman. Gwenhidwy is humming
âAberystwyth.â Out comes. the doorkeeperâs
daughter
Estelle with a shivering kid or two underfoot and a Christ-
ve
»„
200
Gravity's Rainsow
mas bottle of something acrid but very warming inside
the breast after about the first minute itâs down. Smells of
coal smoke, piss, garbage, last nightâs bubble-and-squeak,
fill the hallways. Gwenhidwy is drinking from the bottle,
carrying on a running slap-and-tickle with Estelle and
getting in a fast game of whereâd-he-go-there-he-is with
Arch her youngest around the broad mouton hipline of his
mother who keeps trying to smack him but heâs too fast.
Gwenhidwy breathes upon a gas meter which is frozen
all through, too tight to accept coins, Terrible weather. He
surrounds it, curses it, bending like a screen iover, wings
of his cape reaching to enfoldâGwenhidwy, radiating like
att: eo
Out the windows of the sitting-room are a row of bare
Army-colored poplars, a canal, a snowy trainyard, and
beyond it a long sawtooth pile of scrap coal, still smolder-
ing from a V-bomb yesterday. Ragged smoke is carried
askew, curling, broken and back to earth by the falling
snow.
âItâs the closest yet,â Gwenhidwy at the kettle, the sour
smell of a sulfur match in the air, After a moment, still on
watch over the gas ring, âPointsman, do you want to hear
something really paranoid?â
ns
âYou too?â
âHave you consulted a map of London lately? All this
great me-teoric plague of V-weapons, is being dumped
out here, you see. Not back on Whitehall, where itâs sup-
posed to be, but on me, and I think it is beast-ly?â
âWhat a damned unpatriotic thing to say.â
phd
âOh,â hawking and spitting into the washbowl, âyou
donât want to believe it. Why should you? âHarley Street
lot, my good Jesus Christ.â
came
âtet
Itâs an old game with Gwenhidwy, Royal Fellowâbait-
ing. Some unaccustomed wind or thermocline along the
sky is bringing them down the deep choral hum of Ameri-
can bombers: Deathâs white Gymanfa Ganu. A switching-
locomotive creeps silently across the web of tracks below.
âThey're falling in a Poisson distribution,â says Points-
man in a small voice, as if it was open to challenge.
:
âNo doubt man, no doubtâan excellent point. But all
over the fucking East End, you see.â Arch, or someone,
has drawn a brown, orange, and blue Gwenhidwy carrying
| |
|
|
/ aes
Beyond the Zero
201
a doctorâs bag along a flat horizon-line past a green gas-
works. The bagâs full of gin bottles, Gwenhidwy is smiling,
a robin is peeking out from its nest in his beard, and the
sky is blue and the sun yellow. âBut have you ever thought
of why? Here is the City Paranoiac. All these long cen-
turies, growing over the country-side? like an intelligent
creature. An actor, a fantastic mimic, Pointsman! Count-
erfeiting all the correct forces? the eco-nomic, the demo-
graphic? oh yes even the ran-dom, you see.â
âWhat do you mean âT seeâ? I donât see.â Against the
window, backlit by the white afternoon, Pointsmanâs face
is invisible except for a tiny bright crescent glowing off
each eyeball. Should he fumble behind him for the win-
dow catch? Is the woolly Welshman gone raving mad,
thenP
âYou donât see them,â steam in tight brocade starting
to issue from the steel-blotched swanâs mouth, âthe blacks
and Jews, in their darkness. You canât. You donât hear their
silence. You became so used to talking, and to light.â
âTo barking, anyway.â
âNothing comes through my hos-pital but fail-ure, you
see.â Staring with a fixed, fool-alcoholic smile. âWhat can
I cure? I can only send them back, outside again? Back to
that? It might as well be Europe here, com-bat, splint-ing
and drug-ging them all into some mini-mum condition to
get on with the kill-ing?â
âHere, donât you know thereâs a war on?â Thus Points-
man receives, with his cup, a terrible scowl. In truth, he
is hoping with nitwit irrelevancies to discourage Gwen-
hidwy from going on about his City Paranoiac. Pointsman
would rather talk about the rocket victims admitted today
to the hospital down there. But this is exorcism man, it is
the poet singing back the silence, adjuring the white riders,
and Gwenhidwy knows, as Pointsman cannot, that itâs part
of the plan of the day to sit inside this mean room and cry
into just such a deafness: that Mr. Pointsman is to play
exactly himselfâstylized, irritable, uncomprehending....
âIn some cities the rich live upon the heights, and the
âpoor are found below. In others the rich occupy the shore-
line, while the poor must live inland. Now in London,
here is a gra-dient of wretchedness? increasing as the river
widens to the sea. I am only ask-ing, why? Is it because of
The City Paranoiac
- Gwenhidwy argues that London's urban layout is a physical manifestation of secret fears and class-based expendability.
- He suggests that the poor are concentrated in the east and south as a human shield against threats from the continent.
- Pointsman dismisses Gwenhidwy's theories as clinical paranoia while the latter insists the geography of rocket strikes is intentional.
- Gwenhidwy reveals he is tracking birth rates that strangely mirror the Poisson distribution of the rocket strikes.
- The hospital is described as a cycle of failure where patients are merely patched up to return to the 'killing' of the war.
- The dialogue highlights a fundamental disconnect between Pointsman's clinical detachment and Gwenhidwy's haunting, poetic fatalism.
But what if the Ci-ty were a growing neo-plasm, across the centuries, always chang-ing, to meet exactly the chang-ing shape of its very worst, se-cret fears?
/ aes
Beyond the Zero
201
a doctorâs bag along a flat horizon-line past a green gas-
works. The bagâs full of gin bottles, Gwenhidwy is smiling,
a robin is peeking out from its nest in his beard, and the
sky is blue and the sun yellow. âBut have you ever thought
of why? Here is the City Paranoiac. All these long cen-
turies, growing over the country-side? like an intelligent
creature. An actor, a fantastic mimic, Pointsman! Count-
erfeiting all the correct forces? the eco-nomic, the demo-
graphic? oh yes even the ran-dom, you see.â
âWhat do you mean âT seeâ? I donât see.â Against the
window, backlit by the white afternoon, Pointsmanâs face
is invisible except for a tiny bright crescent glowing off
each eyeball. Should he fumble behind him for the win-
dow catch? Is the woolly Welshman gone raving mad,
thenP
âYou donât see them,â steam in tight brocade starting
to issue from the steel-blotched swanâs mouth, âthe blacks
and Jews, in their darkness. You canât. You donât hear their
silence. You became so used to talking, and to light.â
âTo barking, anyway.â
âNothing comes through my hos-pital but fail-ure, you
see.â Staring with a fixed, fool-alcoholic smile. âWhat can
I cure? I can only send them back, outside again? Back to
that? It might as well be Europe here, com-bat, splint-ing
and drug-ging them all into some mini-mum condition to
get on with the kill-ing?â
âHere, donât you know thereâs a war on?â Thus Points-
man receives, with his cup, a terrible scowl. In truth, he
is hoping with nitwit irrelevancies to discourage Gwen-
hidwy from going on about his City Paranoiac. Pointsman
would rather talk about the rocket victims admitted today
to the hospital down there. But this is exorcism man, it is
the poet singing back the silence, adjuring the white riders,
and Gwenhidwy knows, as Pointsman cannot, that itâs part
of the plan of the day to sit inside this mean room and cry
into just such a deafness: that Mr. Pointsman is to play
exactly himselfâstylized, irritable, uncomprehending....
âIn some cities the rich live upon the heights, and the
âpoor are found below. In others the rich occupy the shore-
line, while the poor must live inland. Now in London,
here is a gra-dient of wretchedness? increasing as the river
widens to the sea. I am only ask-ing, why? Is it because of
202
Graviryâs Rainsow
the ship-ping? Is it in the pat-terns of land use, especially
those relating to the Industrial Age? Is it a case of an-cient
tribal tabu, surviving down all the Eng-lish generations?
No. The true reason is the Threat From The East, you
see. And the South: from the mass of Eu-rope, certainly.
The people out there were meant to go down first. We're
expendable: those in the West End, and north of the river
are not. Oh, I donât mean the Threat has this or that
specific shape. Political, no. If the City Paranoiac dreams,
itâs not accessible to us. Perhaps the Ci-ty dreamed of
another, en-emy city, float-ing across the sea to invade the
es-tuary ...or of waves of darkness... waves of fire....
Perhaps of being swallowed again, by the immense, the
si-lent Mother Con-tinent? Itâs none of my business, city
dreams.... But what if the Ci-ty were a growing neo-
plasm, across the centuries, always chang-ing, to meet
exactly the chang-ing shape of its very worst, se-cret fears?
The raggedy pawns, the disgraced bish-op and cowardly
knight, all we condemned, we irreversibly lost, are left
out here, exposed and wait-ing. It was known, donât deny
itâknown, Pointsman! that the front in Eu-rope someday
must develop like thisP move away east, make the rock-ets
necessary, and known how, and where, the rockets would
fall short. Ask your friend Mexico? look at the densities
on his map? east, east, and south of the river too, where
all the bugs live, thatâs whoâs getting it thick-est, my
friend.â
_
âYou're right, Gwenhidwy,â judicious, sipping his tea,
âthat is very paranoid,â
âItâs true.â He is out with the festive bottle of Vat 69
now, and about to pour them a toast.
âTo the babies.â Grinning, completely mad.
âBabies, Gwenhidwy?â
âAh. Iâve been keep-ing my own map? Plot-ting da-ta
from the maternity wards. The ba-bies born during this
Blitz are al-so fol-lowing a Poisson distribution, you see.â
âWellâto the oddness of it, then. Poor little bastards.â
Later, toward dusk, several enormous water bugs, a very
dark reddish brown, emerge like elves from the wainscot-
ing, and
go lumbering toward
the larderâpregnant
mother bugs too, with baby translucent outrider bugs
flowing along like a convoy escort. At night, in the very
Christmas Bugs and Polythene Skies
- The narrative shifts between the microscopic world of 'Christmas bugs' gnawing through Gwenhidwyâs supplies and the domestic stillness of a family on Boxing Day.
- The bugs are described as 'agents of unification' whose lineage traces back to the manger at Bethlehem, existing in a tranquil, golden world of straw.
- A quiet domestic scene follows, where Roger and Jessicaâs family find a moment of peace between the falling V-2 rockets that haunt London.
- During a pantomime performance of Hansel and Gretel, a German rocket strikes nearby, threatening to shatter the holiday illusion.
- The actress playing Gretel breaks character to lead the audience in a surreal, macabre sing-along that mocks the terror of the war.
- The lyrics of the song blend whimsical imagery with cynical commentary on the mechanical nature of modern life and the looming threat of the rockets.
The crying of the infant reached you, perhaps, as bursts of energy from the invisible distance, nearly unsensed, often ignored. Your savior, you see....
Beyond the Zero
203
late silences between bombers, ack-ack fire and falling
rockets, they can be heard, loud as mice, munching
through Gwenhidwyâs paper sacks, leaving streaks and
- footprints of shit the color of themselves behind. They
-. donât seem to go in much for soft things, fruits, vegetables,
âand such, itâs more the solid lentils and beans theyâre into,
stuff they can gnaw at, paper and plaster barriers, hard
interfaces to be pierced, for they are agents of unification,
you see. Christmas bugs. They were deep in the straw of
the manger at Bethelehem, they stumbled, climbed, fell
glistening red among a golden lattice of straw that must
_ have seemed to extend miles up and downwardâan edible
tenement-world, now and then gnawed through to disrupt
some mysterious sheaf of vectors that would send neighbor
bugs tumbling ass-over-antennas down past you as you
held on with all legs in that constant tremble of golden
stalks. A tranquil world: the temperature and humidity
staying nearly steady, the dayâs cycle damped to only a
soft easy sway of light, gold to antique-gold to shadows,
and back again. The crying of the infant reached you,
perhaps, as bursts of energy from the invisible distance,
nearly unsensed, often ignored. Your savior, you see....
O
Inside the bowl, the two goldfish are making a Pisces sign,
head-to-tail and very still. Penelope sit and peers into their
world. There is a little sunken galleon, a china diver in a
diving suit, pretty stones and shells she and her sisters
have brought back from the sea.
Aunt Jessica and Uncle Roger are out in the kitchen,
hugging and kissing. Elizabeth is teasing Clare in the hall-
way. Their mother is in the W.C. Sooty the cat sleeps in a
chair, a black thundercloud on the way to something else,
who happens right now to look like a cat. Itâs Boxing Day.
The eveningâs very still. The last rocket bomb was an
hour ago, somewhere south. Claire got a golliwog, Penel-
_ope a sweater, Elizabeth a frock that Penelope will grow
into.
The pantomine Roger took them all to see this after-
noon was Hansel and Gretel. Claire immediately took off
204
Graviryâs RAINBOW
~
under the seats where others were moving about by secret
paths, a flash of braid or white collar now and then among
the tall attentive uncles in uniform, the coat-draped backs
of seats. On stage Hansel, who was supposed to be a boy
but was really a tall girl in tights and smock, cowered in-
side the cage. The funny old Witch foamed at the mouth
and climbed the scenery. And pretty Gretel waited by the
Oven for her chance....
Then the Germans dropped a rocket just down the street
from the theatre, A few of the little babies started crying.
They were scared. Gretel, who was just winding up with
her broom to hit the Witch right in the bum, stopped:
put the broom down, in the gathering silence stepped to
the footlights, and sang:
Oh, donât let it get you,
It will if they let you, but thereâs
Something I'll bet you canât seeâ
Itâs big and itâs nasty and itâs right over there,
Itâs waiting to get its sticky claws in your hair!
Oh, the greengrocerâs wishing on a rainbow today,
And the dustman
is tying
his tie...
And it all goes along to the same jolly song,
With a peppermint face in the sky!
âNow sing along,â she smiled, and actually got the audi-
ence, even Roger, to sing:
With a peppermint face in the sky-y,
And a withered old dream in your heart,
You'll get hit with a piece of the pie-ie,
With the pantomime ready to start!
:
Oh, the Tommy is sleeping in a snowbank tonight,
And the Jerries are learning toflyâ
We can fly to the moon, we'll be higher than noon,
In our polythene home in the sky....
Pretty polythene home in the sky,
Pretty platinum pins in your handâ
Oh your motherâs a big fat machine sas
And your fatherâs a dreary young man. .
(Whispered and staccato):
Oh, the, man-a-gerâs suck-ing on a cay. pipe,
And the bank-ers are, eat-ing their, wives, 1
All the worldâs in a daze, while the orchestra plays,
So turn your pockets and get your surpriseâ
_
|
The Culture of Death
- A surreal song lyric introduces themes of societal decay, depicting a world where bankers consume their families and children learn the art of dying.
- Penelope confronts a spectral presence in her father's empty chair, which she perceives not as her parent but as a 'Shell of the Dead' or Qlippoth.
- The narrative suggests that modern government and social conditioning strip the dignity from death, turning parents into demons who abandon their children.
- Roger experiences a profound realization of Jessica's mortality and the fragility of their connection amidst the constant threat of rocket falls.
- The 'War' is personified through the character of Jeremy, representing the oppressive forces of austerity, work, and government that claim human lives.
And those voices you hear, Boy and Girl of the Year, Are of children who are learning to die.
204
Graviryâs RAINBOW
~
under the seats where others were moving about by secret
paths, a flash of braid or white collar now and then among
the tall attentive uncles in uniform, the coat-draped backs
of seats. On stage Hansel, who was supposed to be a boy
but was really a tall girl in tights and smock, cowered in-
side the cage. The funny old Witch foamed at the mouth
and climbed the scenery. And pretty Gretel waited by the
Oven for her chance....
Then the Germans dropped a rocket just down the street
from the theatre, A few of the little babies started crying.
They were scared. Gretel, who was just winding up with
her broom to hit the Witch right in the bum, stopped:
put the broom down, in the gathering silence stepped to
the footlights, and sang:
Oh, donât let it get you,
It will if they let you, but thereâs
Something I'll bet you canât seeâ
Itâs big and itâs nasty and itâs right over there,
Itâs waiting to get its sticky claws in your hair!
Oh, the greengrocerâs wishing on a rainbow today,
And the dustman
is tying
his tie...
And it all goes along to the same jolly song,
With a peppermint face in the sky!
âNow sing along,â she smiled, and actually got the audi-
ence, even Roger, to sing:
With a peppermint face in the sky-y,
And a withered old dream in your heart,
You'll get hit with a piece of the pie-ie,
With the pantomime ready to start!
:
Oh, the Tommy is sleeping in a snowbank tonight,
And the Jerries are learning toflyâ
We can fly to the moon, we'll be higher than noon,
In our polythene home in the sky....
Pretty polythene home in the sky,
Pretty platinum pins in your handâ
Oh your motherâs a big fat machine sas
And your fatherâs a dreary young man. .
(Whispered and staccato):
Oh, the, man-a-gerâs suck-ing on a cay. pipe,
And the bank-ers are, eat-ing their, wives, 1
All the worldâs in a daze, while the orchestra plays,
So turn your pockets and get your surpriseâ
_
|
Beyond the Zero
:
205°
Turn your pockets and get-your surpri-ise,
There was nobody there af-ter alll
And the lamps up the stairway are dying,
Itâs the season just after the ball...
Oh the palm-trees whisper on the beach somewhere,
And the lifesaverâs heaving a sigh,
And those voices you hear, Boy and Girl of the Year,
Are of children who are learning to die. ...
Penelopeâs fatherâs chair, in the corner, next to the table
with the lamp, is empty. It faces her now. She can see the
crocheted shawl over the back, many knots of gray, tan,
black, and brown, with amazing clarity. In the pattern, orâ
_
in front of it, something is stirring: at first no more than
refraction, as if there were a source of heat directly in
front of the empty chair.
âNo,â she whispers out loud. âI donât want to. Youâre
not him. I donât know who you are but you're not my
father. Go away.â
Its arms and legs are silent and rigid. She stares into it.
I only want to visit you.
âYou want to possess me.â
Demonic possessions in this house are not unknown. Is
this really Keith, her father? taken when she was half her
present age, and returned now as not the man she knew,
but. only the shellâwith the soft meaty slug of soul that
smiles and loves, that feels its mortality, either rotted
away or been picked at by the needle mouths of death-by-
governmentâa process by which living souls unwillingly
become the demons known to the main sequence of West-
ern magic as the Qlippoth, Shells of the Dead.... It is
also what the present dispensation often does to decent
men and women entirely on this side of the grave. In
neither process is there any dignity, or any mercy. Moth-
ers and fathers are conditioned into deliberately dying in
certain preferred ways:
giving
, themselves cancer and
heart attacks, getting into motor accidents, going off to
fight in the warâleaving their children alone in the forest.
Theyll always tell you fathers are âtaken,â but fathers
only leaveâthatâs what it, really is. The fathers are all
covering for each other, thatâs all,. Perhaps itâs even better
_ to have this presence, rubbing the room dry as glass,
âslipping in and out of an old chair, than a father who still
206
Graviryâs RAINBOW
hasnât died yet, a man you love and have to watch it
happening to....
In the kitchen, the water in the kettle shakes, creaks
toward boiling, and outside the wind blows. Somewhere,
in another street, a roofslate slides and falls. Roger las
taken Jessicaâs cold hands in to warm against his breast,
feeling them, icy, through his sweater and shirt, folded in
against him. Yet she stands apart, trembling. He wants to
warm all of her, not just comic extremities, wants beyond
reasonable hope. His heart shakes like the boiling kettle.
It has begun to reveal itself: how easily she might go.
For the first time he understands why this is the same as
mortality, and why he will cry when she leaves. He is
learning to recognize the times when nothing really holds
her but his skinny, 20-pushup arms.... If she leaves, then
it ceases to matter how the rockets fall. But the coinci-
dence of maps,
girls, and rocketfalls has entered him
silently, silent as ice, and Quisling molecules have shifted
in latticelike ways to freeze him. If he could be with her
more...if
it happened when they were togetherâin
another time that might have sounded romantic, but in a
culture of death, certain situations are just more hep to
the jive than othersâbut theyâre apart so much. .
If the rockets donât get her thereâs still her lieu tenaae
Damned Beaver/Jeremy is the War, he is every assertion
the fucking War has ever madeâthat we are meant for
work and government, for austerity: and these shall take
priority over love, dreams, the spirit, the senses and the
other second-class trivia that are found among the idle
and mindless hours of the day.... Damn them, they are
wrong. They are insane. Jeremy will take her like the
Angel itself, in his joyless weasel-worded come-along, and
Roger will be forgotten, an amusing maniac, but with no
place in the rationalized power-ritual that will be the
coming peace. She will take her husbandâs orders, she will
become a domestic bureaucrat, a junior partner, and re-
member Roger, if at all, as a mistake thank God she didnât
make. ... Oh, he feels a raving fit co:
onâhow the
bloody hell âcanche sutvive:Qathout herP aie is the British
warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the winter-
ing sparrow he holds inside his hands. She is his deepest
innocence
in spaces of bough and hay before wishes were
The Rationalized Power Ritual
- Roger grapples with the fear that the coming peace will prioritize rationalized bureaucracy over love and the human spirit.
- He envisions Jessica's future as a 'domestic bureaucrat' married to Jeremy, viewing their passionate affair as a mistake avoided.
- The narrative explores the blurring of identities between lovers, where dreams and ghosts become indistinguishable and shared.
- A domestic scene of chaos and illness serves as a metaphor for the 'infection' of the war seeping into personal lives.
- Slothrop observes a vibrant, sensory morning at the Casino Hermann Goering, contrasting the natural beauty of the coast with the rigid military filing of men.
- The transition from war to peace is framed as a joyless victory for the 'weasel-worded' and the mindless rituals of power.
She is the British warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the wintering sparrow he holds inside his hands.
206
Graviryâs RAINBOW
hasnât died yet, a man you love and have to watch it
happening to....
In the kitchen, the water in the kettle shakes, creaks
toward boiling, and outside the wind blows. Somewhere,
in another street, a roofslate slides and falls. Roger las
taken Jessicaâs cold hands in to warm against his breast,
feeling them, icy, through his sweater and shirt, folded in
against him. Yet she stands apart, trembling. He wants to
warm all of her, not just comic extremities, wants beyond
reasonable hope. His heart shakes like the boiling kettle.
It has begun to reveal itself: how easily she might go.
For the first time he understands why this is the same as
mortality, and why he will cry when she leaves. He is
learning to recognize the times when nothing really holds
her but his skinny, 20-pushup arms.... If she leaves, then
it ceases to matter how the rockets fall. But the coinci-
dence of maps,
girls, and rocketfalls has entered him
silently, silent as ice, and Quisling molecules have shifted
in latticelike ways to freeze him. If he could be with her
more...if
it happened when they were togetherâin
another time that might have sounded romantic, but in a
culture of death, certain situations are just more hep to
the jive than othersâbut theyâre apart so much. .
If the rockets donât get her thereâs still her lieu tenaae
Damned Beaver/Jeremy is the War, he is every assertion
the fucking War has ever madeâthat we are meant for
work and government, for austerity: and these shall take
priority over love, dreams, the spirit, the senses and the
other second-class trivia that are found among the idle
and mindless hours of the day.... Damn them, they are
wrong. They are insane. Jeremy will take her like the
Angel itself, in his joyless weasel-worded come-along, and
Roger will be forgotten, an amusing maniac, but with no
place in the rationalized power-ritual that will be the
coming peace. She will take her husbandâs orders, she will
become a domestic bureaucrat, a junior partner, and re-
member Roger, if at all, as a mistake thank God she didnât
make. ... Oh, he feels a raving fit co:
onâhow the
bloody hell âcanche sutvive:Qathout herP aie is the British
warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the winter-
ing sparrow he holds inside his hands. She is his deepest
innocence
in spaces of bough and hay before wishes were
Beyond the Zero
207
given a separate name to warn that they might not come
true, and his lithe Parisian daughter of joy, beneath the
eternal mirror, forswearing perfumes,
capeskin to the
armpits, all that is too easy, for his impoverishment and
more worthy love.
You go from dream to dream inside me. You have pas-
sage to my last shabby comer, and there, among the debris,
you've found life. Iâm no longer sure which of all the words,
images, dreams or ghosts are âyoursâ and which are âmine.â
Itâs past sorting out. We're both being someone new now,
someone incredible. ...
His act of faith. In the street the children are singing:
Hark, the herald angels sing:
Mrs. Simpsonâs pinched our King...
Up on the mantelpiece Sootyâs son Kim, an alarmingly fat
crosseyed Siamese, lurks waiting to do the only thing he
enjoys these days. Beyond eating, sleeping or fucking his
chief obsession is to jump, or topple, on his mother, and
lie there laughing while she runs screaming around the
room. Jessicaâs sister Nancy comes out of the loo to break
up whatâs becoming a full-scale row between Elizabeth
and Claire. Jessica steps away from Roger to blow her
nose, The sound is as familiar to him as a birdâs song,
ip-ip-ip-ip NGUNNGG as the handkerchief comes away
: he sooper dooper,â she says, âthink Iâm catching a
cold.
You're catching the War. Itâs infecting you and I donât
know how to keep it away. Oh. Jess. Jessica. Donât leave
TOs 50%
ae
Ned,
PS
te
2
Un Permâ au Casino
Hermann Goering
You will have the tallest, darkest leading
man in Hollywood.
âMerian C. Coorer to Fay Wray
O
_ This morningâs streets are already clattering, near and far,
with woodsoled civilian feet. Up in the wind is a scaveng-
âing of gulls, sliding, easy, side to side, wings hung out
still, now and then a small shrug, only to gather lift for
this weaving, unweaving, white and slow faro shuffle off
invisible thumbs.
.
.
. Yesterdayâs first glance, coming
along the esplanade in the afternoon, was somber: the sea
in shades of gray under under gray clouds, the Casino
Hermann Goering flat white and the palms in black saw-
tooth, hardly moving.
. But this morning the trees in
the sun now are back iS green. Leftward, far away, the
ancient aqueduct loops crumbling, dry yellow, out along
the Cap, the houses and villas there baked to warm rusts,
gentle corrosions all through Earthâs colors, pale raw to
deeply burnished.
The sun, not very high yet, will catch a bird by the
ends of his wings, turning the feathers brightly there to
curls of shaved ice. Slothrop rattles his teeth at the crowd
of birds aloft, shivering down on his own miniature bal-
cony, electric fire deep in the room barely touching the
backs of his legs. They have filed him high on the white
' sea-facade, in a room to himself. Tantivy Mucker-Maffick
and his friend Teddy Bloat are sharing one down the hall.
He takes back his hands into ribbed cuffs of a sweatshirt,
crosses his arms, watches the amazing foreign morning,
_the ghosts of his breathing into it, feeling first sunwarmth,
wanting a first cigaretteâand perversely he waits for a
sudden noise to begin his day, a first rocket. Aware of all
the time heâs in the wake of a great war gone north, and
that the only explosions around here will have to be cham-
-_pagne corks, motors of sleek Hispano-Suizas,
the odd
|
amorous slap, hopefully. . .
. No London? No Blitz? Can
he get used to it? Sure, and by then it'll be just time to
head back.
âWell, heâs awake? Bloat in uniform, sidling into the
âYoom gnawing on a smoldering pipe, Tantivy behind in
|
a pin-striped lounge suit. âUp at the crack, reconnoitering
the beach for the unattached mamzelle or two, no
âdoubt ,
ie)
211
The Englishmanâs Very Shy
- Slothrop adjusts to the sudden quiet of a post-war environment where the sounds of conflict have been replaced by the mundane noises of luxury.
- His British companions, Bloat and Tantivy, arrive at his lavish quarters, highlighting the disparity between their accommodations and Slothropâs high-status treatment.
- The trio engages in a playful, self-deprecating dialogue regarding the perceived romantic superiority of American soldiers over their reserved British counterparts.
- Bloat and Tantivy perform a comedic song that frames the American 'Yank' as an erotic strategist while lamenting British social inhibition.
- The scene concludes with the group successfully attracting the attention of local women, validating the cross-cultural alliance they joked about.
Though heâs secretly held in re-ve-rent awe / As a sort of e-rot-ic Clausewitz....
O
_ This morningâs streets are already clattering, near and far,
with woodsoled civilian feet. Up in the wind is a scaveng-
âing of gulls, sliding, easy, side to side, wings hung out
still, now and then a small shrug, only to gather lift for
this weaving, unweaving, white and slow faro shuffle off
invisible thumbs.
.
.
. Yesterdayâs first glance, coming
along the esplanade in the afternoon, was somber: the sea
in shades of gray under under gray clouds, the Casino
Hermann Goering flat white and the palms in black saw-
tooth, hardly moving.
. But this morning the trees in
the sun now are back iS green. Leftward, far away, the
ancient aqueduct loops crumbling, dry yellow, out along
the Cap, the houses and villas there baked to warm rusts,
gentle corrosions all through Earthâs colors, pale raw to
deeply burnished.
The sun, not very high yet, will catch a bird by the
ends of his wings, turning the feathers brightly there to
curls of shaved ice. Slothrop rattles his teeth at the crowd
of birds aloft, shivering down on his own miniature bal-
cony, electric fire deep in the room barely touching the
backs of his legs. They have filed him high on the white
' sea-facade, in a room to himself. Tantivy Mucker-Maffick
and his friend Teddy Bloat are sharing one down the hall.
He takes back his hands into ribbed cuffs of a sweatshirt,
crosses his arms, watches the amazing foreign morning,
_the ghosts of his breathing into it, feeling first sunwarmth,
wanting a first cigaretteâand perversely he waits for a
sudden noise to begin his day, a first rocket. Aware of all
the time heâs in the wake of a great war gone north, and
that the only explosions around here will have to be cham-
-_pagne corks, motors of sleek Hispano-Suizas,
the odd
|
amorous slap, hopefully. . .
. No London? No Blitz? Can
he get used to it? Sure, and by then it'll be just time to
head back.
âWell, heâs awake? Bloat in uniform, sidling into the
âYoom gnawing on a smoldering pipe, Tantivy behind in
|
a pin-striped lounge suit. âUp at the crack, reconnoitering
the beach for the unattached mamzelle or two, no
âdoubt ,
ie)
211
212
Gravity's RAInBow
âCouldnât sleep,â Slothrop yawning back down into the
room, birds in the sunlight kiting behind him.
âNor we,â from Tantivy. âIt must take years to adjust.â
âGod,â Bloat really pushing the forced enthusiasm this
morning, pointing theatrically at the enormous bed, col-
lapsing onto it, bouncing vigorously. âThey must have had
advance word about you, Slothrop! Luxury! They gave us
some disused closet, you know.â
;
;
âHey, what are you telling him?â Slothrop forages
around for cigarettes. âI'm some kind of a Van Johnson
or something?â
âOnly that, in the matter of,â Tantivy from the balcony
tossing his green pack of Cravens, âgirls,
you knowââ
âEnglishmen being rather reserved,â
Bloat explains,
bouncing for emphasis.
âOh, raving maniacs,â Slothrop mumbles, heading for
his private lavatory, âbeen invaded by a gang of those
section 8s, all right. .
. .â Stands pleased, pissing no-hands,
lighting up, but wondering a little about that Bloat. Sup-
posed to be oldtime pals with Tantivy. He snaps the
match into the toilet, a quick hiss: yet something about
the way he talks to Slothrop, patronizing? maybe ner-
yous...
.
âYou're expecting me to fix you
guys
up?â he yells over
the crash of the toilet flushing, âI
the minute you
guys get across that Channel, set foot on that France, you
all turn into Valentinos.â
âI hear there was some prewar tradition,â Tantivy hang-
ing plaintive now in the doorway, âbut Bloat and I are
members of the New Generation, we haye to depend on
Yank expertise... .â
ar
Whereupon Bloat leaps from the bed and seeks to en-
lighten Slothrop with a song:
errs
Tae Enuisomanâs Very Say (Fox-tror)
(Bloat):
The Englishmanâs very shy,
Heâs none of your Ca-sa-no-va,
|
At bowling the ladies o-ver,
A-mericans lead the packâ
(3
(Tantivy): | âYou see, your Englishman tends to lack
That recklessness transatlantic,
That women find so romantic
„
Though frankly I canât see why...
ss
-
\
4
=
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
213
(Bloat):
© The polygamous Yank with his girls galore
Gives your Brit-ish rake or carouser fits,
(Tantivy): _ Though heâs secretly held in re-ve-rent awe
As a sort of e-rot-ic Clausewitz....
(Together):
Tf only one could al-ly
A-merican bedroom know-how
With British good looks, then oh how
Those lovelies would swoon and sigh,
Though you and I know the Englishmanâs
very shy.
âWell youâve sure come to the right place,â nods Slo-
throp, convinced. âOnly donât expect me to put it in for
you.
âJust the initial approach,â Bloat says.
âMoi,â Tantivy has meanwhile been screaming down
from the balcony, âMoi Tantivy, you know. Tantivy.â
âTantivy,â replies a dim girl-chorus from outside and
below.
âJai deux amis, aussi, by an odd coincidence. Par um
bizarre coincidence, or something, oui?â
Slothrop, at this point shaving, wanders out with the
foamy badger brush in his first to see whatâs happening,
-and collides with Bloat, whoâs dashing to peer down over
his compatriotâs left epaulet at three pretty girlsâ faces,
upturned, straw-haloed each by a giant sun-hat, smiles
all dazzling, eyes mysterious as the sea behind them.
âT say ou,â inquires Bloat, âot, you know, dĂ©jeuner?â
âGlad I could help you out,â Slothrop mutters, lathering
-Tantivy between the shoulderblades,
âBut come with us,â the girls are calling above the
waves, two of them holding up an enormous wicker
basket out of which lean sleek green wine bottles and
, _ Tough-crusted loaves still from under their white cloth
in little wisps feathering off of chestnut glazes
and paler split-streaks, âcomeâsur la plage
. .
âTl just,â Bloat half out the door, âkeep ins company,
until you .
âSur la plage,â Tantivy a bit dreamy, blinking in the
sun, smiling down at their good-morningâs wishes come
_ true, âoh, it sounds like a painting. Something by an
_ Impressionist. A Fauve. Full of light. . . -
The Souvenir of Honolulu
- Tantivy and Slothrop prepare for a beach outing with a group of French dancers who have brought a picnic of wine and bread.
- Slothrop debuts a garish, glowing Hawaiian shirt sent by his brother, which deeply offends Tantivy's refined British sensibilities.
- Tantivy attempts to hide the shirt under a high-quality Savile Row Norfolk jacket, which Slothrop finds uncomfortably abrasive.
- Despite Tantivy's fears of social ruin, the French girls are immediately enamored with Slothrop's loud, colorful attire.
- The group heads toward the Casino Hermann Goering, a venue still bearing its Nazi-era name and a massive seashell mosaic roof created by Luftwaffe pilots.
Gulls begin to wail, the garment on Slothrop blazes into a refulgent life of its own.
ss
-
\
4
=
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
213
(Bloat):
© The polygamous Yank with his girls galore
Gives your Brit-ish rake or carouser fits,
(Tantivy): _ Though heâs secretly held in re-ve-rent awe
As a sort of e-rot-ic Clausewitz....
(Together):
Tf only one could al-ly
A-merican bedroom know-how
With British good looks, then oh how
Those lovelies would swoon and sigh,
Though you and I know the Englishmanâs
very shy.
âWell youâve sure come to the right place,â nods Slo-
throp, convinced. âOnly donât expect me to put it in for
you.
âJust the initial approach,â Bloat says.
âMoi,â Tantivy has meanwhile been screaming down
from the balcony, âMoi Tantivy, you know. Tantivy.â
âTantivy,â replies a dim girl-chorus from outside and
below.
âJai deux amis, aussi, by an odd coincidence. Par um
bizarre coincidence, or something, oui?â
Slothrop, at this point shaving, wanders out with the
foamy badger brush in his first to see whatâs happening,
-and collides with Bloat, whoâs dashing to peer down over
his compatriotâs left epaulet at three pretty girlsâ faces,
upturned, straw-haloed each by a giant sun-hat, smiles
all dazzling, eyes mysterious as the sea behind them.
âT say ou,â inquires Bloat, âot, you know, dĂ©jeuner?â
âGlad I could help you out,â Slothrop mutters, lathering
-Tantivy between the shoulderblades,
âBut come with us,â the girls are calling above the
waves, two of them holding up an enormous wicker
basket out of which lean sleek green wine bottles and
, _ Tough-crusted loaves still from under their white cloth
in little wisps feathering off of chestnut glazes
and paler split-streaks, âcomeâsur la plage
. .
âTl just,â Bloat half out the door, âkeep ins company,
until you .
âSur la plage,â Tantivy a bit dreamy, blinking in the
sun, smiling down at their good-morningâs wishes come
_ true, âoh, it sounds like a painting. Something by an
_ Impressionist. A Fauve. Full of light. . . -
214
Gravityâs RAInsow
Slothrop goes flicking witch hazel off his hands. The
smell in the room brings back a moment of Berkshire
Saturdaysâbottles of plum and amber tonics, fly-studded
paper twists swayed by the overhead fan, twinges of pain
from blunt scissors.
.
.
. Struggling out of his sweatshirt,
lit cigarette in his mouth, smoke coming out the neck like
a volcano, âHey could I bum one of yourââ
âYou've already got the pack,â cries TantivyââCod
almighty, what is that supposed to be?â
âWhatâs what?â Slothropâs face nothing but innocent as
he slips into and begins to button the object in question.
âYou're joking, of course. The young ladies are waiting,
Slothrop, do put on something civilized, thereâs a good
chapââ
âAll set,â Slothrop on the way past the mirror combing
his hair into the usual sporty Bing Crosby pompadour.
âYou canât expect us to be seen withââ
âMy brother Hogan sent it to me,â Slothrop lets him
know, âfor my birthday, all the way from the Pacific. See
on the back? under the fellows in that outrigger canoe
there, to the left of those hibiscus blossoms, it sez SOUVE-
NIR OF HONOLULU? This is the authentic item, Mucker-
Maffick, not some cheap imitation.â
âDear God,â moans Tantivy, trailing him forlornly out
of the room, shading his eyes from the shirt, which glows
slightly in the dimness of the corridor. âAt least tuck it
in and cover it with something. Here, I'll even lend you
this Norfolk jacket.
.
.
.â Sacrifice indeed: the. coat is
from a Savile Row establishment whose fitting rooms are
actually decorated with portraits of all the venerable
-
sheepâsome nobly posed up on crags, others in pensive,
soft close-upsâfrom whom the original fog-silvered wool
was sheared,
âMust be woven out of that barbed wire,â is Slothropâs
opinion, âwhat girlâd want to get near anything like that?â
âAh, but, but would any woman in her right mind want
to be within ten miles of that-that ghastly shirt, eh?â
__
âWait!â From someplace Slothrop now produces a
gaudy yellow, green and orange display handkerchief, and
over Tantivyâs groans of horror arranges it in his friendâs
jacket pocket so as to stick out in three points. âThere!â
beaming, âthatâs what you call real â
.
iF
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
215
They emerge into sunlight. Gulls begin to wail, the gar-
ment on Slothrop blazes into a refulgent life of its own.
Tantivy squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them, the
girls are all attached to Slothrop, stroking the shirt, nib-
bling at its collar-points, cooing in French.
âOf course.â Tantivy picks up the basket. âRight.â
The girls are dancers. The manager of the Casino Her-
mann Goering, one César Flebétomo, brought in a whole
chorus-line soon as the liberators arrived, though he hasnât
yet found time to change the placeâs occupation name.
Nobody seems to mind it up there, a pleasant mosaic of
tiny and perfect seashells, thousands of them set in plaster,
purple, pink and brown, replacing a huge section of roof
(the old tiles still lie in a heap beside the Casino), put
up two years ago as recreational therapy by a Messer-
schmitt squadron on furlough, in German typeface expan-
sive enough to be seen from the air, which is what they
had in mind. The sun now is still too low to touch the
words into any more than some bare separation from their
ground, so that they hang suppressed, no relation any
more to the men, the pain in their hands, the blisters that
grew black under the sun with infection and bloodâonly
receding as the party now walk down past sheets and pil-
lowcases of the hotel, spread to dry on the slope of the
beach, fine wrinkles edged in blue that will flow away as
the sun climbs, six pairs of feet stirring debris never
combed for, an old gambling chip half bleached by the
sun, translucent bones of gulls, a drab singlet, Wehrmacht
issue, torn and blotted with bearing grease. . . .
They move along the beach, Slothropâs amazing shirt,
Tantivyâs handkerchief,
girlsâ frocks, green
bottles
all
dancing, everyone talking at once, boy-and-girl lingua
franca, the girls confiding quite a lot to each other with
side glances for their escorts. This ought to be good for
a bit of the, heh, heh, early paranoia here, a sort of pick-
_me-up to help face whatâs sure to come later in the day.
But it isnât. Much too good a morning for that. Little
waves are rolling in, breaking piecrustwise along a curve
of dark shingle, farther off foaming among the black rocks
that poke up along the Cap. Out at sea wink twin slivers
âof a boatâs sails being sucked along in the sun and dis-
_ tance, over toward Antibes, the craft tacking gradual,
|
Morning at the Casino
- A group of soldiers and dancers walk along a beach littered with both natural debris and the detritus of war, such as Wehrmacht singlets and gambling chips.
- Slothrop experiences a rare moment of sensory peace, as the Mediterranean morning evokes nostalgic memories of prewar summers at Cape Cod.
- The party settles in a secluded inlet near the Casino for a breakfast of wine and bread, momentarily letting the 'solid forms' of the world fracture and fade.
- The tranquil atmosphere is interrupted when a mysterious blonde woman in a black frock appears on the rocks, seemingly watching Slothrop.
- The scene shifts abruptly from a peaceful picnic to a moment of horror as a massive, malignant octopus emerges from the sea to threaten the girl.
Holy shit itâs movingâan octopus? Yes it is the biggest fucking octopus Slothrop has ever seen outside of the movies, Jackson, and it has just risen up out of the water and squirmed halfway onto one of the black rocks.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
215
They emerge into sunlight. Gulls begin to wail, the gar-
ment on Slothrop blazes into a refulgent life of its own.
Tantivy squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them, the
girls are all attached to Slothrop, stroking the shirt, nib-
bling at its collar-points, cooing in French.
âOf course.â Tantivy picks up the basket. âRight.â
The girls are dancers. The manager of the Casino Her-
mann Goering, one César Flebétomo, brought in a whole
chorus-line soon as the liberators arrived, though he hasnât
yet found time to change the placeâs occupation name.
Nobody seems to mind it up there, a pleasant mosaic of
tiny and perfect seashells, thousands of them set in plaster,
purple, pink and brown, replacing a huge section of roof
(the old tiles still lie in a heap beside the Casino), put
up two years ago as recreational therapy by a Messer-
schmitt squadron on furlough, in German typeface expan-
sive enough to be seen from the air, which is what they
had in mind. The sun now is still too low to touch the
words into any more than some bare separation from their
ground, so that they hang suppressed, no relation any
more to the men, the pain in their hands, the blisters that
grew black under the sun with infection and bloodâonly
receding as the party now walk down past sheets and pil-
lowcases of the hotel, spread to dry on the slope of the
beach, fine wrinkles edged in blue that will flow away as
the sun climbs, six pairs of feet stirring debris never
combed for, an old gambling chip half bleached by the
sun, translucent bones of gulls, a drab singlet, Wehrmacht
issue, torn and blotted with bearing grease. . . .
They move along the beach, Slothropâs amazing shirt,
Tantivyâs handkerchief,
girlsâ frocks, green
bottles
all
dancing, everyone talking at once, boy-and-girl lingua
franca, the girls confiding quite a lot to each other with
side glances for their escorts. This ought to be good for
a bit of the, heh, heh, early paranoia here, a sort of pick-
_me-up to help face whatâs sure to come later in the day.
But it isnât. Much too good a morning for that. Little
waves are rolling in, breaking piecrustwise along a curve
of dark shingle, farther off foaming among the black rocks
that poke up along the Cap. Out at sea wink twin slivers
âof a boatâs sails being sucked along in the sun and dis-
_ tance, over toward Antibes, the craft tacking gradual,
|
216
Gravityâs Rainsow
cockle-frail among low swells whose touch and rowdy hiss
along the chines Slothrop can feel this morning, reminded
of prewar Comets and Hamptons sighted from the beach
at Cape Cod, among land odors, drying seaweed, sum-
mer-old cooking oil, the feel of.sand on sunburn, the
sharp-pointed dune grass under bare feet. .
.
. Closer to
shore a pĂ©dalo full of soldiers and girls moves alongâ
they dangle, splash, sprawl in green and white striped
lounge chairs back aft. At the edge of the water small
kids are chasing, screaming, laughing in that hoarse, help-
lessly tickled little-kid way. Up on the esplanade an old
couple sit on a bench, blue and white and a cream-colored
parasol, a morning habit, an anchor for the day... .
They go as far as the first rocks, finding there an inlet
partly secluded from the rest of the beach, and from the
looming Casino. Breakfast is wine, bread, smiling, sun dif-
fracting through the fine gratings of long dancersâ hair,
swung, flipped, never still, a dazzle of violet, sorrel, saf-
fron, emerald.
,
.
. For a moment you can let the world
go, solid forms gone a-fracturing, warm inside of bread
waiting at your fingertips, flowery wine in long, easy
passage streaming downward around the root of your
tongue....
:
gs cuts in. âI say Slothrop, is she a friend of yours
too?â
Hmm? whatâs happening ... she, what? Here sits Bloat,
mg gesturing over at the rocks and a tide pool: near-
Vee
;
âYou're getting âthe eye,â old man.â.
Well
.
.
. she must have come out of the sea. At this
distance, some 20 meters, she is only a dim figure in a
black bombazine frock that reaches 'to her knees, her bare
legs long and straight, a short hood
of bright blonde hair
keeping her face in shadow, coming up in guiches to
touch her cheeks, Sheâs looking-at Slothrop, all right. He
smiles, sort of waves. She. only continues to stand, the
breeze pushing at her sleeves. He turns back to draw the
cork from a wine bottle, and its, pop arrives as a grace
note for a scream from one of the
ers. Tantivyâs
already halfway to his feet, Bloat gaping out in the girlâs
direction, the danseuses. snapshot in defense reflexes, hair
_ flying, frocks twisted, thighs flashingâ
aos
e
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
â-217
Holy shit itâs movingâan octopus? Yes it is the biggest
fucking octopus Slothrop has ever seen outside of the
movies, Jackson, and it has just risen up out of the water
and squirmed halfway onto one of the black rocks. Now,
cocking a malignant eye at the girl, it reaches out, wraps
one long sucker-studded tentacle around her neck as
everyone watches, another around her waist and begins
to drag her, struggling, back under the sea.
Slothropâs up, bottle in hand, running down past Tan-
tivy whoâs doing a hesitant dance step, hands patting
lounge-suit pockets for weapons that arenât there, more
and more of the octopus revealed the closer he comes
and wow itâs a big one, holycowâskids to a halt along-
side, one foot in the tide pool, and commences belting the
octopus in the head with the wine bottle. Hermit crabs
slide in death-struggle around his foot. The girl, already
half in the water, is trying to cry out, but the tentacle,
flowing and chilly, barely allows her windway enough to
breathe. She reaches out a hand, a soft-knuckled childâs
hand with a manâs steel. ID bracelet on the wrist, and
clutches at Slothropâs Hawaiian shirt, begins tightening
her own grip there, and who was to know that among
her last things would be vulgar-faced hula girls, ukuleles,
and surfriders all in comic-book colors
.
.
. oh God God
please, the bottle thudding again and again wetly into
octopus flesh, no fucking use, the octopus gazes at Slo-
throp, triumphant, while he, in the presence of certain
death, canât quit staring at her hand, cloth furrowing in
tangents to her terror, a shirt button straining at a single
,
last threadâhe sees the name on the bracelet, scratched
silver letters each one clear but making no sense to him
before the slimy gray stranglehold that goes tightening,
liquid, stronger than he and she together, framing the
-
poor hand its cruel tetanus is separating from Earthâ
__
âSlothrop!â Hereâs Bloat ten feet away offering him a
large crab.
âWhat thâ fuck . . .â Maybe if he broke the bottle on
the rock, stabbed the bastard between the eyesâ
. âItâs hungry, it'll go for the crab. Donât kill it, Slothrop.
_
Here, for Godâs sakeââ and here it comes spinning
_ through the air, legs cocked centrifugally outward: dither-
_ ing Slothrop drops the bottle just before the crab smacks
a
The Octopus and the Crab
- A giant octopus emerges from the sea and begins dragging a young woman into the water by her neck and waist.
- Slothrop attempts to rescue her by repeatedly striking the creature with a wine bottle, but his efforts prove ineffective against its strength.
- Teddy Bloat intervenes by providing a large crab, suggesting that the octopus is merely hungry and can be distracted rather than killed.
- Slothrop successfully lures the octopus away from the girl by dangling the crab and eventually throwing it far out into the sea.
- The encounter leaves Slothrop with the strange impression that the octopus possessed a 'mad exuberance' or poor mental health.
- After the rescue, Bloatâs suspicious readiness with the crab and his refusal to make eye contact suggest the event may have been orchestrated.
The octopus gazes at Slothrop, triumphant, while he, in the presence of certain death, canât quit staring at her hand, cloth furrowing in tangents to her terror, a shirt button straining at a single, last thread.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
â-217
Holy shit itâs movingâan octopus? Yes it is the biggest
fucking octopus Slothrop has ever seen outside of the
movies, Jackson, and it has just risen up out of the water
and squirmed halfway onto one of the black rocks. Now,
cocking a malignant eye at the girl, it reaches out, wraps
one long sucker-studded tentacle around her neck as
everyone watches, another around her waist and begins
to drag her, struggling, back under the sea.
Slothropâs up, bottle in hand, running down past Tan-
tivy whoâs doing a hesitant dance step, hands patting
lounge-suit pockets for weapons that arenât there, more
and more of the octopus revealed the closer he comes
and wow itâs a big one, holycowâskids to a halt along-
side, one foot in the tide pool, and commences belting the
octopus in the head with the wine bottle. Hermit crabs
slide in death-struggle around his foot. The girl, already
half in the water, is trying to cry out, but the tentacle,
flowing and chilly, barely allows her windway enough to
breathe. She reaches out a hand, a soft-knuckled childâs
hand with a manâs steel. ID bracelet on the wrist, and
clutches at Slothropâs Hawaiian shirt, begins tightening
her own grip there, and who was to know that among
her last things would be vulgar-faced hula girls, ukuleles,
and surfriders all in comic-book colors
.
.
. oh God God
please, the bottle thudding again and again wetly into
octopus flesh, no fucking use, the octopus gazes at Slo-
throp, triumphant, while he, in the presence of certain
death, canât quit staring at her hand, cloth furrowing in
tangents to her terror, a shirt button straining at a single
,
last threadâhe sees the name on the bracelet, scratched
silver letters each one clear but making no sense to him
before the slimy gray stranglehold that goes tightening,
liquid, stronger than he and she together, framing the
-
poor hand its cruel tetanus is separating from Earthâ
__
âSlothrop!â Hereâs Bloat ten feet away offering him a
large crab.
âWhat thâ fuck . . .â Maybe if he broke the bottle on
the rock, stabbed the bastard between the eyesâ
. âItâs hungry, it'll go for the crab. Donât kill it, Slothrop.
_
Here, for Godâs sakeââ and here it comes spinning
_ through the air, legs cocked centrifugally outward: dither-
_ ing Slothrop drops the bottle just before the crab smacks
a
218
Gravity's RAINBOW
.
against his other palm. Neat catch. Immediately, through
her fingers and his shirt, he can feel the reflex to food.
âO.K.â Shaking Slothrop waves the crab at the octopus.
âChow time, fella.â Another tentacle moves in. Its corru-
gated ooze touches his wrist. Slothrop tosses the crab a
few feet along the beach, and what do you know, that
octopus goes for it all right: dragging along the girl and
Slothrop staggering for a bit, then letting her go. Slothrop
quickly snatches up the crab again, dangling it so the
octopus can see, and begins todance the creature away,
down the beach, drool streaming from its beak, eyes held
by the crab.
In their brief time together Slothrop forms the impres-
sion that this octopus is not in good mental health, though
whereâs his basis for comparing? But there is a mad ex-
uberance, as with inanimate objects which fall off of tables
when we are sensitive to noise and our own clumsiness
and donât want them to fall, a sort of wham! ha-ha you
hear that? here it is again, WHAMI in the cephalopodâs
every movement, which Slothrop is glad to get away from
as he finally scales the crab like a discus, with all his
strength, out to sea, and the octopus, with an eager splash
and gurgle, strikes out in pursuit, and is presently gone.
The frail girl lies on the beach, taking in great breaths
of air, surrounded now by the others. One of the dancers
is holding her in her arms and speaking, râs and nasals
still French, in a language Slothrop, moseying back into
earshot, canât quite place.
Tantivy smiles and flips a small salute. âGood show!â
cheers Teddy Bloat. âI wouldnât have wanted to try that
myself!â
âWhy not? You had that crab. Saaayâwhereâd you get
that crab?â
âFound it,â replies Bloat with a straight face. Slothrop
stares at this bird but canât get eye contact. What thâ
fuckâs going on?
âI better have some of that wine,â Slothrop reckons.
He drinks out of the bottle. Air goes splashing upward
in
lopsided spheres inside the green glass. The girl watches
him. He stops for breath and smiles.
~
âThank you, lieutenant.â Not a tremor in the voice, and
the accent is Teutonic. He can see her face now, soft nose
Paranoia on the Beach
- Slothrop meets Katje Borgesius, a Dutch woman with a 'Teutonic' accent, following a bizarre encounter with an octopus.
- A sense of paranoia begins to settle over Slothrop as he suspects the entire beach scene was a staged event rather than a random occurrence.
- The atmosphere shifts from a simple picnic to a 'Puritan reflex' of seeking hidden orders and conspiracies behind the visible world.
- Ghislaine, a companion of the sober and watchful Bloat, warns Slothrop to be careful, implying the existence of a pre-arranged 'dance.'
- Despite the growing unease and the feeling of being watched, Slothrop remains entangled with Katje, who suggests their meeting was destiny.
Structure and detail come later, but the conniving around him now he feels instantly, in his heart.
218
Gravity's RAINBOW
.
against his other palm. Neat catch. Immediately, through
her fingers and his shirt, he can feel the reflex to food.
âO.K.â Shaking Slothrop waves the crab at the octopus.
âChow time, fella.â Another tentacle moves in. Its corru-
gated ooze touches his wrist. Slothrop tosses the crab a
few feet along the beach, and what do you know, that
octopus goes for it all right: dragging along the girl and
Slothrop staggering for a bit, then letting her go. Slothrop
quickly snatches up the crab again, dangling it so the
octopus can see, and begins todance the creature away,
down the beach, drool streaming from its beak, eyes held
by the crab.
In their brief time together Slothrop forms the impres-
sion that this octopus is not in good mental health, though
whereâs his basis for comparing? But there is a mad ex-
uberance, as with inanimate objects which fall off of tables
when we are sensitive to noise and our own clumsiness
and donât want them to fall, a sort of wham! ha-ha you
hear that? here it is again, WHAMI in the cephalopodâs
every movement, which Slothrop is glad to get away from
as he finally scales the crab like a discus, with all his
strength, out to sea, and the octopus, with an eager splash
and gurgle, strikes out in pursuit, and is presently gone.
The frail girl lies on the beach, taking in great breaths
of air, surrounded now by the others. One of the dancers
is holding her in her arms and speaking, râs and nasals
still French, in a language Slothrop, moseying back into
earshot, canât quite place.
Tantivy smiles and flips a small salute. âGood show!â
cheers Teddy Bloat. âI wouldnât have wanted to try that
myself!â
âWhy not? You had that crab. Saaayâwhereâd you get
that crab?â
âFound it,â replies Bloat with a straight face. Slothrop
stares at this bird but canât get eye contact. What thâ
fuckâs going on?
âI better have some of that wine,â Slothrop reckons.
He drinks out of the bottle. Air goes splashing upward
in
lopsided spheres inside the green glass. The girl watches
him. He stops for breath and smiles.
~
âThank you, lieutenant.â Not a tremor in the voice, and
the accent is Teutonic. He can see her face now, soft nose
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
219
of a doe, eyes behind blonde lashes full of acid green. One
of those thin-lipped European mouths.
âI had almost
stopped breathing.â
âUhâyou're not German.â
Shaking her head no emphatically, âDutch.â
âAnd have you been hereââ
Her eyes go elsewhere, she reaches, takes the bottle
from his hand. She is looking out to sea, after the octopus.
âThey are very optical, arenât they. I hadnât known. It
saw me. Me. I donât look like a crab.â
âI guess not. Youâre a swell-looking lady.â In the back-
ground, delighted Bloat nudges Tantivy. That recklessness
â
transatlantic. Slothrop takes her wrist, finds no problem
now reading that ID bracelet. Sez KATJE BORGESIUS. He
can feel her pulse booming. Does she know him from
_ âsomeplace? strange. A mixture of recognition and sudden
shrewdness in her face .
So it is here, grouped 0 on the beach with strangers, that
_ voices begin to take on a touch of metal, each- word a
hard-edged clap, and the light, though as bright as before,
is less able to illuminate ..
. itâs a Puritan reflex of seeking
other orders behind the visible, also known as paranoia,
filtering in. Pale lines of force whir in the sea air .
. . pacts
-
sworn to in rooms since shelled back to their plan views,
not quite by accident of war, suggest themselves. Oh,
that was no âfoundâ crab, Aceâno random octopus or
girl, uh-uh. Structure and detail come later, but the con-
niving around him now he feels instantly, in his heart.
They all stay a bit longer on the beach, finishing break-
fast. But the simple day, birds and sunlight, girls and
wine, has sneaked away from Slothrop. Tantivy is getting
drunk, more relaxed and funnier as the bottles empty.
He's staked out not only the girl he first had his eye on,
but also the one Slothrop would be no doubt sweet-talking
right now if that octopus hadnât shown up. He is a mes-
senger from Slothropâs innocent, pre-octopus past. Bloat,
on the other hand, sits perfectly sober, mustache un-
ruffled, regulation uniform, watching Slothrop closely. His
-
companion Ghislaine, tiny and slender, pin-up girl legs,
long hair brushed behind her ears falling all the way down
~ her back, shifts her round bottom in the sand, writing
_ marginal commentaries around the text of Bloat. Slothrop,
220
GRAVITYâS Ratnsow
.
who believes that women, like Martians, have antennas
men do not, keeps an eye on her. She looks over only
once, and her eyes grow wide and cryptic. Heâd swear she
knows something. On the way back to the Casino, toting
their empties, and the basket full of the debris of the
morning, he manages a word with her.
âSome picnic, nessay-pah?â
Dimples appear next to her mouth. âDid you know all
the time about the octopus? I thought so because it was
so like a danceâall of you.â
âNo. Honestly, I didnât. You mean you thought it was
just a practical joke or something?â
_
âLittle Tyrone,â she whispers suddenly, taking his arm
with a big phony smile for the others. Little? Heâs twice
her size. âPleaseâbe very careful. . . .â Thatâs all. He has
Katje by the other hand, two imps, contrary, either side.
The beach is empty now except for fifty gray gulls sitting
watching the water. White heaps of cumulus pose out at
sea, hard-surfaced, cherub-blownâpalm leaves stir, all
down the esplanade. Ghislaine drops away, back down the
beach, to pick up prim Bloat. Katje squeezes Slothropâs
arm and tells him just what he wants to hear about now:
âPerhaps, after all, we were meant to meet... .â
|
oO
From out at sea, the Casino at this hour is a blazing bijou
at the horizon: its foil of palms already shadows in the
dwindling light. Deepening go the yellowbrown of these
small serrated mountains, sea colored the soft inside of a
black olive, white villas, perched chateaux whole and
ruined, autumn greens of copses and solitary pines, all
deepening to the nightscape latent across them all day.
Fires are lit on the beach. A faint babble of English voices,
and even occasional songs, reaches across the water to
where Dr. Porkyevitch stands on deck. Below, Octopus
Grigori, having stuffed himself with crab méat, frisks hap-
pily in his special enclosure. The reaching, radius of the
lighthouse on the headland sweeps by, as ty
fishing craft.
head out to sea. Grischa, little friend, you have performed
your last trick for a while.
.
.
. Is there any hope for
Exile and the Casino
- Dr. Porkyevitch and his trained octopus, Grigori, conclude their mission as they watch the French coastline from a departing boat.
- Porkyevitch reflects on his exile from Russia and the ambiguity of his alleged involvement in the Bukharin conspiracy.
- The doctor finds solace in the precision of physiology and the laboratory, contrasting it with the psychological death of those who only have the Party.
- Porkyevitch fears that Pointsman may be capable of unethical actions that have never been documented in scientific journals.
- On shore, the Casino Hermann Goering is restored to the French power grid, hosting a glamorous and chaotic dinner for military officers.
- Slothrop encounters the elegantly dressed Katje Borgesius at the casino while wearing a scandalous hand-painted tie that embarrasses his companion, Tantivy.
For it might, after all, be only another episode in some huge pathological dream of Stalinâs.
220
GRAVITYâS Ratnsow
.
who believes that women, like Martians, have antennas
men do not, keeps an eye on her. She looks over only
once, and her eyes grow wide and cryptic. Heâd swear she
knows something. On the way back to the Casino, toting
their empties, and the basket full of the debris of the
morning, he manages a word with her.
âSome picnic, nessay-pah?â
Dimples appear next to her mouth. âDid you know all
the time about the octopus? I thought so because it was
so like a danceâall of you.â
âNo. Honestly, I didnât. You mean you thought it was
just a practical joke or something?â
_
âLittle Tyrone,â she whispers suddenly, taking his arm
with a big phony smile for the others. Little? Heâs twice
her size. âPleaseâbe very careful. . . .â Thatâs all. He has
Katje by the other hand, two imps, contrary, either side.
The beach is empty now except for fifty gray gulls sitting
watching the water. White heaps of cumulus pose out at
sea, hard-surfaced, cherub-blownâpalm leaves stir, all
down the esplanade. Ghislaine drops away, back down the
beach, to pick up prim Bloat. Katje squeezes Slothropâs
arm and tells him just what he wants to hear about now:
âPerhaps, after all, we were meant to meet... .â
|
oO
From out at sea, the Casino at this hour is a blazing bijou
at the horizon: its foil of palms already shadows in the
dwindling light. Deepening go the yellowbrown of these
small serrated mountains, sea colored the soft inside of a
black olive, white villas, perched chateaux whole and
ruined, autumn greens of copses and solitary pines, all
deepening to the nightscape latent across them all day.
Fires are lit on the beach. A faint babble of English voices,
and even occasional songs, reaches across the water to
where Dr. Porkyevitch stands on deck. Below, Octopus
Grigori, having stuffed himself with crab méat, frisks hap-
pily in his special enclosure. The reaching, radius of the
lighthouse on the headland sweeps by, as ty
fishing craft.
head out to sea. Grischa, little friend, you have performed
your last trick for a while.
.
.
. Is there any hope for
r
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
221
further support from Pointsman, now that Porkyevitch and
His Fabulous Octopus have done their part?
He gave up questioning orders long agoâeven ques-
tioning his exile. The evidence linking him to the Bukharin
conspiracy, whose particulars he has never heard, might
somehow be trueâthe Trotskyite Bloc might have known
of him, by reputation, used him in ways forever secret...
forever secret: there are forms of innocence, he knows,
that cannot conceive of what that means, much less accept
it as he has. For it might, after all, be only another epi-
sode in some huge. pathological dream of Stalinâs, At least
he had physiology, something outside the party ..
. those
who had nothing but the party, who had built their whole
lives upon it, only to be purged, must go through some-
thing very like death .
.
. and never to know anything for
certain, never to have the precision of the laboratory .
. .
itâs been his own sanity, God knows, for twenty years. At
least they can neverâ
No, no they .wouldnât, thereâs never been a case...
unless itâs been hushed up; youâd never read it in the
journals of courseâ
Would Pointsmanâ
He might. Yes.
Grischa, Grischa!
Itâs come true. On us so quickly:
foreign cities, comedians
in broken hats, cancan
«girls,
fountains of fire, a noisy pit band .
.
. Grischa, with the
flags of all the nations curled in your arms
..
. fresh shell-
fish, a warm pirozhok, hot glasses of tea in the evenings,
between performances
.
.
. learn to forget Russia, to take
comfort from what mean, falsified bits of her we wander
-
across...
Now, the sky stretches to admit a singleâ first star. But
Porkyevitch makes no wish. Policy. Signs of arrival do not
interest him, nor even signs of departure.
. .. As the
boatâs engine goes full ahead, their own wake goes lifting,
pink with sunset, to obscure the white Casino on shore.
Electricity is on tonight, the Casino back in Franceâs
power grid. Chandeliers shaggy with crystal needles flare
, overhead, and softer lamps shine among the gardens out-
side. Going in to dinner with Tantivy and the dancers,
' Slothrop is brought to a round-eyed halt by the sight of
222
Graviryâs RaInBow
Katje Borgesius, hair in one of those emerald tiaras, the
rest of her rigged out in a long Medici gown of sea-green
velvet. Her escortâs a two-star general and a brigadier.
âRHIP,â sings Tantivy, shuffling off sarcastic buffaloes
along the carpet, âoh, RHIP indeed.â
âYou're trying to get my goat,â Slothrop smiles, âbut
itâs not working.â
âI can tell.â His own smile freezes. âOh, no, Slothrop,
please, no, weâre going in to dinnerââ
âWell, I know we're going in to dinnerâ
âNo, this is very embarrassing, you've got to take it off.â
âYou like thatP Sheâs genuine hand-painted! Look! Nice
tits, huh?â
âItâs the Wormwood Scrubs School Tie.â
In the main dining room they merge into a great com-
ing and going of waiters, officers and ladies. Slothrop,
young dancer by the hand, caught up in the eddying,
manages at last to slide with her into a pair of seats just
vacated: to find who but Katje his left-hand partner. He
puffs out his cheeks, crosses his eyes, brushes his hair
industriously with his hands by which time the soup has
showed up, which he goes at as if disarming a bomb. Katje
is ignoring him, talking earnestly instead across her general
with some bird colonel about his prewar profession, man-
aging a golf course in Cornwall. Holes and hazards. Gave
one a feel for terrain. But he did like most to be there at
night, when the badgers came out of their sets to play... «
By the time the fish has come and gone, something
funny is happening. Katjeâs knee seems to be rubbing
Slothropâs, velvet-warm, under the table.
Weeell, opines Slothrop, watch this: I will employ some
of that subterfuge, I mean Iâm in that Europe, arenât IP
He raises his wineglass and announces, ââThe Ballad of
Tantivy Mucker-Maffick.ââ Cheers go up, bashful Tantivy
tries not to smile. Itâs a song everyone knows: one of the
Scotsmen goes dashing down the room to the grand piano,
César Flebétomo, twirling his slick mustache in a saber-
point, nips behind a palm in a tub to
. the lights up
a notch, sticks his head back out winking, and hisses for
his maitre dâhĂ©tel. Wine is gargled, thr
are cleared
and a good number of the company commence singing
The Ballad of Tantivy Mucker-Maffick
- Slothrop finds himself seated next to Katje, who initiates secret physical contact under the table during a formal dinner.
- To mask their private communication, Slothrop instigates a rowdy, communal rendition of a drinking song dedicated to his friend Tantivy.
- Amidst the musical chaos, Katje whispers an invitation for Slothrop to meet her in her room after midnight.
- Following the meal, Slothrop pulls Tantivy aside to voice his growing paranoia regarding the suspicious octopus attack on the beach.
- Slothrop suspects the encounter was a staged event, noting that Bloat seemed prepared with a crab to lure the creature away.
- Tantivy remains evasive and uncomfortable when pressed about the potential conspiracy involving their mutual acquaintances.
He raises his wineglass and announces, âThe Ballad of Tantivy Mucker-Maffick.â
222
Graviryâs RaInBow
Katje Borgesius, hair in one of those emerald tiaras, the
rest of her rigged out in a long Medici gown of sea-green
velvet. Her escortâs a two-star general and a brigadier.
âRHIP,â sings Tantivy, shuffling off sarcastic buffaloes
along the carpet, âoh, RHIP indeed.â
âYou're trying to get my goat,â Slothrop smiles, âbut
itâs not working.â
âI can tell.â His own smile freezes. âOh, no, Slothrop,
please, no, weâre going in to dinnerââ
âWell, I know we're going in to dinnerâ
âNo, this is very embarrassing, you've got to take it off.â
âYou like thatP Sheâs genuine hand-painted! Look! Nice
tits, huh?â
âItâs the Wormwood Scrubs School Tie.â
In the main dining room they merge into a great com-
ing and going of waiters, officers and ladies. Slothrop,
young dancer by the hand, caught up in the eddying,
manages at last to slide with her into a pair of seats just
vacated: to find who but Katje his left-hand partner. He
puffs out his cheeks, crosses his eyes, brushes his hair
industriously with his hands by which time the soup has
showed up, which he goes at as if disarming a bomb. Katje
is ignoring him, talking earnestly instead across her general
with some bird colonel about his prewar profession, man-
aging a golf course in Cornwall. Holes and hazards. Gave
one a feel for terrain. But he did like most to be there at
night, when the badgers came out of their sets to play... «
By the time the fish has come and gone, something
funny is happening. Katjeâs knee seems to be rubbing
Slothropâs, velvet-warm, under the table.
Weeell, opines Slothrop, watch this: I will employ some
of that subterfuge, I mean Iâm in that Europe, arenât IP
He raises his wineglass and announces, ââThe Ballad of
Tantivy Mucker-Maffick.ââ Cheers go up, bashful Tantivy
tries not to smile. Itâs a song everyone knows: one of the
Scotsmen goes dashing down the room to the grand piano,
César Flebétomo, twirling his slick mustache in a saber-
point, nips behind a palm in a tub to
. the lights up
a notch, sticks his head back out winking, and hisses for
his maitre dâhĂ©tel. Wine is gargled, thr
are cleared
and a good number of the company commence singing
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
223
Tue BALLAD oF TANTIVy MuckEer-MaAFFIcK
Oh Italian gin is a motherâs curse,
And the beer of France is septic,
Drinking Bourbon in Spain is the lonely domain
Of the saint and the epileptic.
White lightning has fueled up many a hearse
In the mountains where ridge-runners dwellâ
Itâs a brew begot in a poison pot,
And mulled with the hammers of Hell!
(Refrain): OhâTantivyâs been drunk in many a place,
From here to the Uttermost Isle,
And if he should refuse any chance at the booze,
May I die with an hoary-eyed smile!
There are what sound like a hundredâbut most likely
only twoâWelshmen singing, tenor from the south and
bass from the north of the country, you see, so that all
conversation sub rosa or not is effectively drowned out.
-
Exactly what Slothrop wants. He leans in Katjeâs direction.
âMeet me in my room,â she whispers, â306, after mid-
night.â
âGotcha.â And Slothrop is upright in time to join in
again right on bar one:
Heâs been ossified in oceans of grog,
In the haunts of the wobbly whaleâ
Heâs been half-seas over from Durban to Dover,
Wiv four shaky sheets to the gale.
For in London fog or Saharaâs sun,
)
Or the icebound steeps of Zermatt,
Loaded up for a lark to âis Plimsoll mark
Heâs been game to go off on a bat!
Yes, Tantivyâs been drunk in many a place... &e.
_\
After dinner Slothrop
gives Tantivy the high-sign.
_
Their dancers go off arm in arm to the marble lounges
where the toilet stalls are equipped with a network of
_
brass voice-tubes, all acoustic, to make stall-to-stall con-
ie easier. Slothrop and Tantivy head for the nearest
âListen,â Slothrop talking into his highball glass, bounc-
224
Gravityâs Rainsow
ing words off of ice cubes so theyll have a proper chill,
âeither Iâm coming down with a little psychosis here, or
something funny is going on, right?â
Tantivy, who is feigning a relaxed air, breaks off hum-
ming âYou Can Do a Lot of Things at the Sea-side That
You Canât Do in Townâ to inquire, âAh, yes, do you really â
think sopâ
âCome on, that octopus.â
âThe devilfish is found quite coseraaaly on Mediter-
ranean shores. Though usually not so largeâis it the size
that bothers you? Donât Americans likeââ
âTantivy, it was no accident. Did you hear that Bloat?
âDonât kill it!â He had a crab with him, m-maybe inside
that musette bag, all set to lure that critter away with.
And where'd he go tonight, anyhow?â
âI think heâs out on
theâ beach, There's a lot of
drinking.
âHe Sita a lot?â
âNo. »â
âLook, youâre his friendââ
Tantivity moans. âGod, Slothrop, I donât know. I'm
your friend too, but thereâs always, you ma a an element.
of Slothropian paranoia to contend with. .
âParanoiaâs ass. Somethingâs up, a-and you ânow rs
a
Tantivy chews ice, sights along a glass stirring rod, rips
up a small napkin into a snowstorm, all sorts of bar busi-
ness, heâs an old hand. But at last, in a soft voice, âWell,
heâs receiving messages in code.â ~~
âHalâ
âI saw one in his kit this afternoon. Tce: a glimpse. I
didnât try to look closer. He is with Supreme Headquar-
ters, after allâI suppose that could be it.â
âNo, thatâs not it. Now what about thisââ and Slothrop
tells about his midnight date with Katje. For a moment
they might almost be back in the bureau at ACHTUNG,
and the rockets fons and tea in paper Cue and every-
thing right again. .
âAre you going?â
âShouldnât IP You think sheâs dangerous?â
âI think sheâs delightful. If I hadnât Francoise, not to
mention Yvonne to worry about, Iâ = be racing you to her
door.â
.
» But?â
Paranoia and Hidden Structures
- Slothrop and Tantivy discuss the unsettling feeling of being watched and the presence of coded messages within their military circles.
- Tantivy reveals a growing distance and coldness in his friend Bloat, suggesting a shift in loyalty or a hidden agenda.
- The characters reflect on the 'peculiar structures' of power at universities like Oxford and Harvard, where education serves as a front for deeper, unacknowledged networks.
- Slothrop shares his plans for a midnight rendezvous with Katje, receiving a cautious blessing and an offer of support from Tantivy.
- The atmosphere is thick with 'Slothropian paranoia,' as the characters realize they may be useful to others in ways they cannot see or understand.
Either what you've got is contagious, or else they've an eye on me too.
224
Gravityâs Rainsow
ing words off of ice cubes so theyll have a proper chill,
âeither Iâm coming down with a little psychosis here, or
something funny is going on, right?â
Tantivy, who is feigning a relaxed air, breaks off hum-
ming âYou Can Do a Lot of Things at the Sea-side That
You Canât Do in Townâ to inquire, âAh, yes, do you really â
think sopâ
âCome on, that octopus.â
âThe devilfish is found quite coseraaaly on Mediter-
ranean shores. Though usually not so largeâis it the size
that bothers you? Donât Americans likeââ
âTantivy, it was no accident. Did you hear that Bloat?
âDonât kill it!â He had a crab with him, m-maybe inside
that musette bag, all set to lure that critter away with.
And where'd he go tonight, anyhow?â
âI think heâs out on
theâ beach, There's a lot of
drinking.
âHe Sita a lot?â
âNo. »â
âLook, youâre his friendââ
Tantivity moans. âGod, Slothrop, I donât know. I'm
your friend too, but thereâs always, you ma a an element.
of Slothropian paranoia to contend with. .
âParanoiaâs ass. Somethingâs up, a-and you ânow rs
a
Tantivy chews ice, sights along a glass stirring rod, rips
up a small napkin into a snowstorm, all sorts of bar busi-
ness, heâs an old hand. But at last, in a soft voice, âWell,
heâs receiving messages in code.â ~~
âHalâ
âI saw one in his kit this afternoon. Tce: a glimpse. I
didnât try to look closer. He is with Supreme Headquar-
ters, after allâI suppose that could be it.â
âNo, thatâs not it. Now what about thisââ and Slothrop
tells about his midnight date with Katje. For a moment
they might almost be back in the bureau at ACHTUNG,
and the rockets fons and tea in paper Cue and every-
thing right again. .
âAre you going?â
âShouldnât IP You think sheâs dangerous?â
âI think sheâs delightful. If I hadnât Francoise, not to
mention Yvonne to worry about, Iâ = be racing you to her
door.â
.
» But?â
~
â Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
225
But the clock over the bar only clicks once, then pres-
ently again, ratcheting time minutewise into their past.
âEither what you've got is contagious,â Tantivy begins,
âor else they've an eye on me too.â
They look at each other. Slothrop remembers that ex-
cept for Tantivy heâs all alone here. âTell me.â
âI wish I could. Heâs changedâbut I couldnât give you
a single bit of evidence. Itâs been since ..
. I donât know.
Autumn. He doesnât talk politics any more. God, we used
to get into theseâ He won't discuss his plans after heâs
demobbed either, itâs something he used to do all the
time. I thought the Blitz might have got him rattled...
but after yesterday, I think it must be more. Damn it,
it makes me sad.â
âWhat happened?â
âOh. A sort ofânot a threat. Or not a serious one. I men-
tioned, only joking, that I was keen on your Katje. And
Bloat became very cold, and said, âI'd stay clear of that
one if I were you.â Tried to cover it with a laugh, as if
he had his eye on her too. But that wasnât it. I-I donât
have his confidence any more. Iâmâ I feel Iâm only useful
to him in a way I canât see. Being tolerated for as long
as he can use me. The old University connection. I donât
know if you ever felt it at Harvard .
. . from time to time
back in Oxford, I came to sense a peculiar structure that
no one admitted toâthat extended far beyond Turl Street,
âpast Cornmarket into covenants, procuring, accounts due
. .
. one never knew who it would be, or when, or how
they'd try to collect it .
.
. but I thought it only idle,
| aay at the fringes of what I was really up there for, you
OW...
âSure. In that America, itâs the first thing they tell you.
Harvardâs there for other reasons. The âeducatingâ part of
it is just sort of a front.â
âWe're so very innocent here, you see.â
âSome of you, maybe. Iâm sorry about Bloat.â
âT still hope itâs something else.â
âI guess so. But what do we do right now?â
âOh, I'd sayâkeep your date, be careful. Keep me
Posted. Perhaps tomorrow I'll have an adventure or two.
âto tell you about, for a change. And if you need help,â
t
flashing, face reddening a bit, âwell, I'll help you.â
âThanks, Tantivy.â Jesus, a British ally. Yvonne and
=
i
ye
226
Gravityâs Rainsow
Francoise peek in, beckoning them outside. On to the
Himmler-Spielsaal and chemin-de-fer till midnight. Slo-
throp breaks even, Tantivy loses, and the girls win. No sign
of Bloat, though dozens of officers go drifting in and out,
brown and distant as rotogravure, through the evening.
Nor any sight of his girl Ghislaine, Slothrop asks. Yvonne
shrugs: âOut with your friend? Who knows?â Ghislaineâs
long hair and tanned arms, her six-year-old face in a
smile. ..
. If it turns out she does know something, is she
safe?
At 11:59 Slothrop turns to Tantivy, nods at the two
girls, tries to chuckle lewdly, and gives his friend a quick,
affectionate punch in the shoulder. Once, back in prep
school, just before sending him into a game, young Slo-
thropâs football coach socked him the same way, giving
him confidence
for
at least
fifty seconds,
till being
trampled flat on his ass by a number of red-dogging
Choate boys, each with the instincts and mass of a killer
rhino.
âGood luck,â says Tantivy, meaning it, hand already
reaching for Yvonneâs sweet chiffon bottom. Minutes of
doubt, yes yes
.
.
. Slothrop ascending flights of red-
carpeted stairway (Welcome Mister Slothrop Welcome
To Our Structure We Hope You Will Enjoy Your Visit
Here), malachite nymphs and satyrs paralyzed in chase,
evergreen, at the silent landings, upward toward a single
staring bulb at the top....
.
Brig:
At her door he pauses long enough to comb his hair.
Now she wears a white pelisse, with sequins all over,
padded shoulders, jagged white ostrich plumes at the
neckline and wrists. The tiara is gone: in the electricity
her hair is new snowfall, But inside a single scented can-
dle burns, and the suite is washed in moonlight. She pours
brandy in old flint snifters, and as he reaches, their ge
touch. âDidnât know you were .so daffy about that golflâ
Suave, romantic Slothrop.
.
ieee
kind of squinched up, forehead wrinkled.
âHe was pleasant. I was being pleasant to him,â one eye
Slothrop won-
ders if his flyâs open.
|
'
âAnd ignore me. Why?â Clever pounce there, Slo-
thropâbut she only evaporates before the question, re-
forms in another part of the room. ...
Slothrop and the Dutch Milkmaid
- Slothrop ascends the grand, ornate stairways of the Casino Hermann Goering to meet Katje in her suite.
- The encounter is characterized by a mix of romantic tension and Slothrop's clumsy, 'suave' American persona.
- Slothrop discovers a closet full of elaborate costumes and props, realizing her identity may be a constructed performance.
- The dialogue reveals a subtle power dynamic where Katje deflects Slothrop's inquiries about her past in Arnhem.
- The scene concludes with Slothrop singing a fox-trot about the uncertainty of love against a backdrop of a silent, moonlit sea.
He opens her closet, and in moonlight reflected from the mirror finds a crowded maze of satins, taffetas, lawn, and pongee, dark fur collars and trimming, buttons, sashes, passementerie, soft, confusing, womanly tunnel-systems that must stretch back for milesâhe could be lost inside of half a minute.
226
Gravityâs Rainsow
Francoise peek in, beckoning them outside. On to the
Himmler-Spielsaal and chemin-de-fer till midnight. Slo-
throp breaks even, Tantivy loses, and the girls win. No sign
of Bloat, though dozens of officers go drifting in and out,
brown and distant as rotogravure, through the evening.
Nor any sight of his girl Ghislaine, Slothrop asks. Yvonne
shrugs: âOut with your friend? Who knows?â Ghislaineâs
long hair and tanned arms, her six-year-old face in a
smile. ..
. If it turns out she does know something, is she
safe?
At 11:59 Slothrop turns to Tantivy, nods at the two
girls, tries to chuckle lewdly, and gives his friend a quick,
affectionate punch in the shoulder. Once, back in prep
school, just before sending him into a game, young Slo-
thropâs football coach socked him the same way, giving
him confidence
for
at least
fifty seconds,
till being
trampled flat on his ass by a number of red-dogging
Choate boys, each with the instincts and mass of a killer
rhino.
âGood luck,â says Tantivy, meaning it, hand already
reaching for Yvonneâs sweet chiffon bottom. Minutes of
doubt, yes yes
.
.
. Slothrop ascending flights of red-
carpeted stairway (Welcome Mister Slothrop Welcome
To Our Structure We Hope You Will Enjoy Your Visit
Here), malachite nymphs and satyrs paralyzed in chase,
evergreen, at the silent landings, upward toward a single
staring bulb at the top....
.
Brig:
At her door he pauses long enough to comb his hair.
Now she wears a white pelisse, with sequins all over,
padded shoulders, jagged white ostrich plumes at the
neckline and wrists. The tiara is gone: in the electricity
her hair is new snowfall, But inside a single scented can-
dle burns, and the suite is washed in moonlight. She pours
brandy in old flint snifters, and as he reaches, their ge
touch. âDidnât know you were .so daffy about that golflâ
Suave, romantic Slothrop.
.
ieee
kind of squinched up, forehead wrinkled.
âHe was pleasant. I was being pleasant to him,â one eye
Slothrop won-
ders if his flyâs open.
|
'
âAnd ignore me. Why?â Clever pounce there, Slo-
thropâbut she only evaporates before the question, re-
forms in another part of the room. ...
|
|
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
227
âAm I ignoring you?â Sheâs at her window, the sea
below and behind her, the midnight sea, its individual
}
â
7
waveflows impossible at this distance to follow, all inte-
grated into the hung stillness of an old painting seen
across the deserted gallery where you wait in the shadow,
forgetting why you are here, frightened by the level of
illumination, which is from the same blanched scar of
moon that wipes the sea tonight... .
âI donât know. But you're fooling around a lot.â
âPerhaps Iâm supposed to be.â
âAs âPerhaps we were meant to meetâ?â
âOh, you think Iâm more than I am,â gliding to a couch,
tucking one leg under.
âI know. You're only a Dutch milkmaid or something.
Closet full oâ those starched aprons a-and wooden shoes,
right?â
âGo and look.â Spice odors from the candle reach like
nerves through the room.
_
âO.K., I willlâ He opens her closet, and in moonlight
reflected from the mirror finds a crowded maze of satins,
taffetas, lawn, and pongee, dark fur collars and trimming,
buttons, sashes, passementerie, soft, confusing, womanly
tunnel-systems that must stretch back for milesâhe could
be lost inside of half a minute
.
.
. lace glimmers, eyelets
wink, a crepe scarf brushes his face
.
.
. Aha! wait a
minute, the operational scent in here is carbon tet, Jack-
son, and this wardrobe hereâs mostly props. âWell. Pretty
âIf thatâs a compliment, thank you.â
Let Them thank me, babe. âAn Americanism.â
âYou're the first American Iâve met.â
âHmm. You mustâve got out by way of that Amhem,
then, right?â
âMy, you're quick,â her tone warning him not to go after
it. He sighs, ringing the snifter with his fingernail. In the
dark room, with the paralyzed and silent sea at his back,
he tries singing:
Too Soon to Know (Fox-rror)
Itâs still too soon,
Itâs not as if we'd kissed and kindled,
Or chased the moon
228
Gravityâs RAINBOW
Through midnightâs hush, as dancing dwindled
Into quiet seemed
Over secret lawns .
Too soon to know
If all that breathless conversation
A sigh ago
Was more than casual flirtation
Doomed to drift away
Into misty gray...
How can we tell,
What can we see?
Love works its spells in hiding,
Quite past our own deciding...
So whoâs to say
If joyful love is just beginning,
Or if its day
Just turned to night, as Earth went spinning?
Darling, maybe soâ
Itâs TOO SOON TO KNOW.
Knowing what is expected of her, she waits with a
vapid look till heâs done, mellow close-harmony reeds
humming a moment in the air, then reaches out a hand,
melting toward him as he topples in slow-motion toward
her mouth, feathers sliding, sleeves furling, ascending bare
arms finely moongrained slipping around and up his back,
her tacky tongue nervous
as a moth, his hands rasping
over sequins
.
. ..then her breasts flatten against him as
her forearms and hands go away folding up behind her
to find a zipper, bring it snarling down her spineline. ..
.
Katjeâs skin is whiter than the white garment she rises
from. Born again
.
.
. out the window he can almost see
the spot where the devilfish crawled in from the rocks.
She walks like a ballerina on her toes, thighs long and
curving, Slothrop undoing belt, buttons, shoelaces hopping
one foot at a time, oboy oboy, but the ;moonlight only
whitens her back, and there is still a dark side, her ventral
side, her face, that he can no longer see, a terrible beast-
like change coming over muzzle and Idwer jaw, black
pupils growing to cover the entire eye space till whites
are gone and thereâs only the red animal reflection when
the light comes to strike no telling when the lightâ
The Slothropian Run
- Slothrop and Katje engage in a highly stylized, almost cinematic sexual encounter characterized by intense physical transformation and hidden motives.
- The narrative suggests Katje may be acting under the influence or briefing of 'Them,' turning the intimacy into a calculated performance or psychological test.
- A moment of genuine struggle occurs when Slothrop attempts to see Katje's face during climax, which she violently resists to maintain her anonymity or internal state.
- Following the encounter, Katje exhibits an uncharacteristic, deep laughter that Slothrop suspects might be permitted or programmed by her handlers.
- The scene shifts abruptly from high-stakes eroticism to slapstick comedy as Slothropâs thunderous snoring leads to a pillow fight and a seltzer bottle confrontation.
- Slothrop begins to question the 'props' of their environment, wondering if his American reflexes are being deliberately manipulated through vaudevillian tropes.
This is suddenly a struggle, vicious and realâshe will not surrender her faceâand out of nowhere she does begin to come, and so does Slothrop.
228
Gravityâs RAINBOW
Through midnightâs hush, as dancing dwindled
Into quiet seemed
Over secret lawns .
Too soon to know
If all that breathless conversation
A sigh ago
Was more than casual flirtation
Doomed to drift away
Into misty gray...
How can we tell,
What can we see?
Love works its spells in hiding,
Quite past our own deciding...
So whoâs to say
If joyful love is just beginning,
Or if its day
Just turned to night, as Earth went spinning?
Darling, maybe soâ
Itâs TOO SOON TO KNOW.
Knowing what is expected of her, she waits with a
vapid look till heâs done, mellow close-harmony reeds
humming a moment in the air, then reaches out a hand,
melting toward him as he topples in slow-motion toward
her mouth, feathers sliding, sleeves furling, ascending bare
arms finely moongrained slipping around and up his back,
her tacky tongue nervous
as a moth, his hands rasping
over sequins
.
. ..then her breasts flatten against him as
her forearms and hands go away folding up behind her
to find a zipper, bring it snarling down her spineline. ..
.
Katjeâs skin is whiter than the white garment she rises
from. Born again
.
.
. out the window he can almost see
the spot where the devilfish crawled in from the rocks.
She walks like a ballerina on her toes, thighs long and
curving, Slothrop undoing belt, buttons, shoelaces hopping
one foot at a time, oboy oboy, but the ;moonlight only
whitens her back, and there is still a dark side, her ventral
side, her face, that he can no longer see, a terrible beast-
like change coming over muzzle and Idwer jaw, black
pupils growing to cover the entire eye space till whites
are gone and thereâs only the red animal reflection when
the light comes to strike no telling when the lightâ
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
229
She has sunk to the deep bed, pulling him along, into
down, satin, seraphic and floral embroidery, turning im-
mediately to take his erection into her stretched fork, into
a single vibration on which the night is tuning ..
. as
they fuck she quakes, body strobing miles beneath him in
cream and night-blue, all sound suppressed, eyes in cres-
cents behind the gold lashes, jet earrings, long, octahedral,
flying without a sound, beating against her cheeks, black
sleet, his face above her unmoved, full of careful tech-
niqueâis it for her? or wired into the Slothropian Run-
together they briefed her onâshe will move him, she will
not be mounted. by a plastic shell
. ... her breathing has
grown more hoarse, over a threshold into sound . . . think-
ing she might be close to coming he reaches a hand into
her hair, tries to still her head, needing to see her face:
this is suddenly a struggle, vicious and realâshe will not
surrender her faceâand out of nowhere she does begin
to come, and so does Slothrop.
For some reason now, she who never laughs has become
the top surface of a deep, rising balloon of laughter. Later
as sheâs about to go to sleep, she will also whisper,
âLaughing,â laughing again.
He will want to say, âOh, They let you,â but then
again maybe They donât. But the Katje heâs talking to is
already gone, and presently his own eyes have closed.
Like a rocket whose valves, under remote control, open
and close at prearranged moments, Slothrop, at a certain
_ level of his re-entry into sleep, stops breathing through
his nose and commences breathing through his mouth.
| This soon grows to snores that have been known to rattle
storm windows, set shutters to swinging and chandeliers
into violent tintinnabulation, yes indee-eed.
.
.
. At the
first of these tonight, Katje wakes up belts him in the head
with a pillow.
âNone of that.â
âTm a light sleeper. Every time you snore, you get hit
with this,â waving the pillow.
No kidding, either. The routine of snore, get belted
with pillow, wake up, say hmm, fall back to sleep, goes
on well into the morning. âCome on,â finally, âcut it out.â
__ âMouth-breather!â she yells. He grabs his own pillow
_ and swings it at her. She ducks, rolls, hits the deck feint-
ide
?
„
:
230
Graviryâs RAINBOW
ing with her pillow, backing toward the sideboard where
the booze is. He doesnât see what she has in mind till she
throws her pillow and picks up the Seltzer bottle.
The what, The Seltzer Bottle? What shit is this, now?
What other interesting props have They thought to plant,
and what other American reflexes are They after? Whereâs
those banana cream pies, eh?
He dangles two pillows and watches her. âOne more
step,â she giggles. Slothrop dives in goes to hit her across
the ass whereupon she lets him have it with the Seltzer
bottle, natch. The pillow bursts against one marble hip,
moonlight in the room is choked with feathers and down
and soon with hanging spray from jets of Seltzer. Slothrop
keeps trying to grab the bottle. Slippery girl squirms
away, gets behind a chair. Slothrop takes the brandy de-
canter off of the sideboard, unstoppers it, and flings a
clear, amber, pseudopodded glob across the room twice
in and out of moonlight to splash around her neck, be-
tween her black-tipped breasts, down her flanks. âBas-
tard,â hitting him with the Seltzer again. Settling feathers
cling to their skins as they chase around the bedroom,
her dappled body always retreating, often in this light,
even at close range, impossible to see. Slothrop keeps
falling over the furniture. âBoy, when I get my hands on
you!â At which point she opens the door to the sitting
room, skips through, slams it again so Slothrop runs right
into it, bounces off, sez shit, opens the door to find her
waving a big red damask tablecloth at him.
âWhat's this,â inquires Slothrop.
âMagic!â she cries, and tosses the tablecloth over him,
precisely wrinkling âfolds propagating
swift
as crystal
faults, redly through the air. âWatch closely, while I make
one American lieutenant disappear.â
âQuit fooling,â Slothrop flailing around yin to reach
the outside again. âHow can I watch closely when Iâm in
here.â He canât find an edge anyplace and feels a little
panicky,
âThat's the idea,â suddenly inside, next âto him, lips at
his nipples, hands fluttering among the hairs at the back
of his neck, pulling him slowly to deep deem âMy
little chickadee.â
âWhereâd you see that one, hey? Remember when he
gets in bed w-with that gasâ
is
The Disappearing Lieutenant
- Slothrop and Katje engage in a chaotic, playful chase through a bedroom involving seltzer bottles, brandy, and flying feathers.
- Katje traps Slothrop under a large red damask tablecloth, using the fabric to create a womb-like, intimate space where they eventually fall asleep.
- Upon waking, Slothrop realizes someone is in the next room stealing his clothes and small change.
- The thief, wearing distinctive two-tone shoes, escapes the room just as Slothrop manages to free himself from the tablecloth.
- Naked and desperate, Slothrop fashions a makeshift toga from a purple satin bedsheet and pursues the thief through the empty hotel corridors.
The pillow bursts against one marble hip, moonlight in the room is choked with feathers and down and soon with hanging spray from jets of Seltzer.
230
Graviryâs RAINBOW
ing with her pillow, backing toward the sideboard where
the booze is. He doesnât see what she has in mind till she
throws her pillow and picks up the Seltzer bottle.
The what, The Seltzer Bottle? What shit is this, now?
What other interesting props have They thought to plant,
and what other American reflexes are They after? Whereâs
those banana cream pies, eh?
He dangles two pillows and watches her. âOne more
step,â she giggles. Slothrop dives in goes to hit her across
the ass whereupon she lets him have it with the Seltzer
bottle, natch. The pillow bursts against one marble hip,
moonlight in the room is choked with feathers and down
and soon with hanging spray from jets of Seltzer. Slothrop
keeps trying to grab the bottle. Slippery girl squirms
away, gets behind a chair. Slothrop takes the brandy de-
canter off of the sideboard, unstoppers it, and flings a
clear, amber, pseudopodded glob across the room twice
in and out of moonlight to splash around her neck, be-
tween her black-tipped breasts, down her flanks. âBas-
tard,â hitting him with the Seltzer again. Settling feathers
cling to their skins as they chase around the bedroom,
her dappled body always retreating, often in this light,
even at close range, impossible to see. Slothrop keeps
falling over the furniture. âBoy, when I get my hands on
you!â At which point she opens the door to the sitting
room, skips through, slams it again so Slothrop runs right
into it, bounces off, sez shit, opens the door to find her
waving a big red damask tablecloth at him.
âWhat's this,â inquires Slothrop.
âMagic!â she cries, and tosses the tablecloth over him,
precisely wrinkling âfolds propagating
swift
as crystal
faults, redly through the air. âWatch closely, while I make
one American lieutenant disappear.â
âQuit fooling,â Slothrop flailing around yin to reach
the outside again. âHow can I watch closely when Iâm in
here.â He canât find an edge anyplace and feels a little
panicky,
âThat's the idea,â suddenly inside, next âto him, lips at
his nipples, hands fluttering among the hairs at the back
of his neck, pulling him slowly to deep deem âMy
little chickadee.â
âWhereâd you see that one, hey? Remember when he
gets in bed w-with that gasâ
is
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
2315)
âOh, donât ask...â This time it is a good-natured
coordinated quickie, both kind of drowsy, covered with
sticky feathers
.
.
. after coming they lie close together,
too liquefied to move, mm, damask and pile, itâs so cozy
and just as red as a womb in here.
.
.
. Curled holding
her feet in his, cock nestled in the warm cusp between
her buttocks, Slothrop trying earnestly to breathe through
his nose, they drop off to sleep.
Slothrop wakes to morning sunlight off of that Medi-
terranean, filtered through a palm outside the window,
then red through the tablecloth, birds, water running
'
upstairs. For a minute he lies coming awake, no hangover,
still belonging Slothropless to some teeming cycle of de-
parture and return. Katje lies, quick and warm, Sâd against
the S of himself, beginning to stir.
From the next room he hears the unmistakable sound
of an Army belt buckle. âSomebody,â he observes, catch-
ing on quickly, âmust be robbing my pants.â Feet patter
by on the carpet, close to his head. Slothrop can hear
his own small change jingling in his pockets. âThief!â he
yells, which wakes up Katje, turning to put her arms
around him. Slothrop, managing now to locate the hem
he couldnât find last night, scoots from under the table-
cloth just in time to see a large foot in a two-tone shoe,
coffee and indigo, vanish out the door. He runs into the
bedroom, finds everything else he had on is gone too,
down to shoes and skiwvies.
âMy clothes!â running back out past Katje now emerg-
ing from the damask and making a grab for his feet.
â Slothrop flings open the door, runs out in the hall, recol-
lects that he is naked here, spots a laundry cart and grabs
a purple satin bedsheet off of it, drapes it around him in
a sort of toga. From the stairway comes a snicker and the
pad-pad of crepe soles. âAha!â cries Slothrop charging
down the hall. The slippery sheet will not stay on. It
flaps, slides off, gets underfoot. Up the stairs two at a
time, only to find at the top another corridor, just as
empty. Where is everybody?
From way down the hall, a tiny head appears around
a corner, a tiny hand comes out and gives Slothrop the
_ tiny finger. Unpleasant laughter reaches him a split sec-
ond later, by which time heâs sprinting toward it. At the
Stairs, he hears footsteps heading down. The Great Purple
°
}
The Great Purple Kite
- Slothrop pursues a mocking thief into a tree, falling for a calculated trap designed to exploit his 'American reflex' to always climb upward during a chase.
- The tree trunk has been sabotaged with a saw-cut, causing the top to snap and send Slothrop plummeting through the branches.
- During his fall, Slothrop attempts to use a purple sheet as a makeshift parachute before crashing into the middle of a high-society croquet match.
- The gathered senior officers and socialites react with a mixture of confusion and mockery to Slothrop's sudden, undignified appearance.
- The scene highlights the surreal and humiliating nature of Slothrop's journey, as he is treated as an invisible or drunken hallucination by the elite.
About then the point of the tree cracks through, and with a great rustle and whoosh, a whirl of dark branches and needles breaking him up into a few thousand sharp falling pieces, down topples Slothrop.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
2315)
âOh, donât ask...â This time it is a good-natured
coordinated quickie, both kind of drowsy, covered with
sticky feathers
.
.
. after coming they lie close together,
too liquefied to move, mm, damask and pile, itâs so cozy
and just as red as a womb in here.
.
.
. Curled holding
her feet in his, cock nestled in the warm cusp between
her buttocks, Slothrop trying earnestly to breathe through
his nose, they drop off to sleep.
Slothrop wakes to morning sunlight off of that Medi-
terranean, filtered through a palm outside the window,
then red through the tablecloth, birds, water running
'
upstairs. For a minute he lies coming awake, no hangover,
still belonging Slothropless to some teeming cycle of de-
parture and return. Katje lies, quick and warm, Sâd against
the S of himself, beginning to stir.
From the next room he hears the unmistakable sound
of an Army belt buckle. âSomebody,â he observes, catch-
ing on quickly, âmust be robbing my pants.â Feet patter
by on the carpet, close to his head. Slothrop can hear
his own small change jingling in his pockets. âThief!â he
yells, which wakes up Katje, turning to put her arms
around him. Slothrop, managing now to locate the hem
he couldnât find last night, scoots from under the table-
cloth just in time to see a large foot in a two-tone shoe,
coffee and indigo, vanish out the door. He runs into the
bedroom, finds everything else he had on is gone too,
down to shoes and skiwvies.
âMy clothes!â running back out past Katje now emerg-
ing from the damask and making a grab for his feet.
â Slothrop flings open the door, runs out in the hall, recol-
lects that he is naked here, spots a laundry cart and grabs
a purple satin bedsheet off of it, drapes it around him in
a sort of toga. From the stairway comes a snicker and the
pad-pad of crepe soles. âAha!â cries Slothrop charging
down the hall. The slippery sheet will not stay on. It
flaps, slides off, gets underfoot. Up the stairs two at a
time, only to find at the top another corridor, just as
empty. Where is everybody?
From way down the hall, a tiny head appears around
a corner, a tiny hand comes out and gives Slothrop the
_ tiny finger. Unpleasant laughter reaches him a split sec-
ond later, by which time heâs sprinting toward it. At the
Stairs, he hears footsteps heading down. The Great Purple
°
}
232
Graviryâs RaInBow
Kite races cursing down three flights, out a door and onto
a little terrace, just in time to see somebody hop over a
stone balustrade and vanish into the upper half of a thick
tree, growing up from somewhere below. âTreed at last!â
cries Slothrop.
First you have to get into the tree, then you can climb
it easy as a ladder. Once inside, surrounded by pungent
leaflight. Slothrop canât see farther than a couple of limbs.
The tree is shaking though, so he reckons that that thief
is in here someplace. Industriously he climbs on, sheet
catching and tearing, skin stuck by needles, âscraped by
bark. His feet hurt. Heâs soon out of breath. Gradually
the cone of green light narrows, grows brighter. Close to
the top, Slothrop notes a saw-cut or something partway
through the trunk, but doesnât stop to ponder what it
might mean till heâs reached the very top of the tree and
clings swaying, enjoying the fine view of the harbor and
headland, paint-blue sea, whitecaps, storm gathering off
at the horizon, the tops of peopleâs heads moving around
far below. Gee. Down the trunk
he hears the sound of
wood beginning to crack, and feels vibration here in his
slender perch.
âAw, hey .. .â That sneak. He climbed down the tree,
not up! Heâs pe Re there now, watching! .
They knew
Slothrop would choose up, not downâthey were count-
ing on that damned American: reflex all right, bad guy
in a chase always heads upâwhy up? and they sawed
the trunk nearly through, a-and nowâ
They? They?
âWell,â opines Slothrop, âI had better, uh .. .â About
then the point of the tree cracks through, and eich a great
rustle and whoosh, a whirl of dark branches and needles
breaking him up into a few thousand sharp falling pieces,
down topples Slothrop, bouncing from limb to limb, try-
ing to hold the purple sheet over his head for a parachute.
Oof. Nuhh. About halfway to the ground, terrace-level
or so, he happens to look down, and there observes many
senior officers in uniform and plump ladies in white batiste
frocks and flowered hats. They are playing croquet. It
appears Slothrop will land somewhere in (their midst. He
closes his eyes and tries to imagine a tropical island, a
secure room, where this cannot be happening. He opens
them about the time he hits the ground. In ane: silence,
ye Fee
oa
ta
_ before he can even register pain, comes the loud thock
of wood hitting wood. A bright-yellow striped ball comes
rolling past an inch from Slothropâs nose and on out of
sight, followed a second later by a burst of congratula-
tions, ladies enthusiastic, footfalls heading his way. Seems
heâs, unnhh, wrenched his back a little, but doesnât much
feel like moving anyhow. Presently the sky is obscured
by faces of some General and Teddy Bloat, gazing curi-
ously down.
âItâs Slothrop,â sez Bloat, âand heâs wearing a purple
sheet.â
âWhatâs this my lad,â inquires the General, âcostume
theatricals, eh?â He is joined by a pair of ladies beaming
.
at, or perhaps through, Slothrop.
âWhom are you talking to, General?â
âThat blighter in the toga,â replies the General, âwho
is lying between me and my next wicket.â
âWhy how extraordinary, Rowena,â turning to her com-
panion, âdo you see a âblighter in a togaâ?â
âGoodness no, Jewel,â replies blithe Rowena. âI believe
the General has been drinking.â The ladies begin to
giggle.
âIf the General made all his decisions in this state,â
Jewel grasping for breath, âwhy there'd, thereâd be sauer-
kraut in the Strand!â The two of them shriek, very loudly,
for an unpleasant length of time.
;
âAnd your name would be Brunhilde,â the two faces
now a strangled rose, âinstead ofâof Jewellâ They are
clutching each other for dear life. Slothrop glares up at
this spectacle, augmented now by a cast of dozens.
âWe-e-e-ell, you see, somebody swiped all my clothes,
»
and I was just on my way to complain to the manage-
_ mentââ
âBut decided to put on a purple bedsheet and climb
a tree instead,â nods the General. âWellâI dare say we
can fix you up with something. Bloat, you're nearly this
manâs size, arenât youPâ
_ âOh,â croquet mallet over his shoulder, posed like an
advertising display for Kilgour or Curtis, smirking down
_ at Slothrop, âIâve a spare uniform somewhere. Come
Yong Slothrop, you're all right, arenât you. Didnât break
Fr
. an
:
ȉ>
og _ *Yaagghh.â Wrapped in his tattered sheet, helped to
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
233
The Disappearance of Tantivy
- Slothrop is caught in a compromising state, wearing only a purple bedsheet after his clothes and belongings are mysteriously stolen.
- Upon returning to his room, Slothrop discovers it has been scrubbed clean of his identity, including his papers, ID, and personal effects.
- Bloat provides Slothrop with a borrowed uniform, but his demeanor has shifted from friendly to cold and bureaucratic.
- Slothrop realizes with growing dread that all traces of his friend Tantivy Mucker-Maffick have also vanished from the shared quarters.
- The atmosphere of the Casino Hermann Goering transforms from a holiday retreat into a rigid, rationalized extension of military authority.
- Slothropâs attempt to find information about Tantivy leads to a hostile encounter with a high-ranking officer who questions his legitimacy.
The answer's in Bloatâs stare, the room become rationalized, nothing to it of holiday, only Savile Row uniforms, silver hairbrushes and razor arranged at right angles.
ye Fee
oa
ta
_ before he can even register pain, comes the loud thock
of wood hitting wood. A bright-yellow striped ball comes
rolling past an inch from Slothropâs nose and on out of
sight, followed a second later by a burst of congratula-
tions, ladies enthusiastic, footfalls heading his way. Seems
heâs, unnhh, wrenched his back a little, but doesnât much
feel like moving anyhow. Presently the sky is obscured
by faces of some General and Teddy Bloat, gazing curi-
ously down.
âItâs Slothrop,â sez Bloat, âand heâs wearing a purple
sheet.â
âWhatâs this my lad,â inquires the General, âcostume
theatricals, eh?â He is joined by a pair of ladies beaming
.
at, or perhaps through, Slothrop.
âWhom are you talking to, General?â
âThat blighter in the toga,â replies the General, âwho
is lying between me and my next wicket.â
âWhy how extraordinary, Rowena,â turning to her com-
panion, âdo you see a âblighter in a togaâ?â
âGoodness no, Jewel,â replies blithe Rowena. âI believe
the General has been drinking.â The ladies begin to
giggle.
âIf the General made all his decisions in this state,â
Jewel grasping for breath, âwhy there'd, thereâd be sauer-
kraut in the Strand!â The two of them shriek, very loudly,
for an unpleasant length of time.
;
âAnd your name would be Brunhilde,â the two faces
now a strangled rose, âinstead ofâof Jewellâ They are
clutching each other for dear life. Slothrop glares up at
this spectacle, augmented now by a cast of dozens.
âWe-e-e-ell, you see, somebody swiped all my clothes,
»
and I was just on my way to complain to the manage-
_ mentââ
âBut decided to put on a purple bedsheet and climb
a tree instead,â nods the General. âWellâI dare say we
can fix you up with something. Bloat, you're nearly this
manâs size, arenât youPâ
_ âOh,â croquet mallet over his shoulder, posed like an
advertising display for Kilgour or Curtis, smirking down
_ at Slothrop, âIâve a spare uniform somewhere. Come
Yong Slothrop, you're all right, arenât you. Didnât break
Fr
. an
:
ȉ>
og _ *Yaagghh.â Wrapped in his tattered sheet, helped to
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
233
234
Gravity's RAINBOW
his feet by solicitous croqueteers, Slothrop goes a:
Lines
after Bloat, off the turf and into the Casino. They stop
first at Slothropâs room. He finds it newly cleaned, per-
fectly empty, ready for new guests. âHey...â Yanking
out drawers empty as drums: every stitch of clothing
he owns
is gone, including his Hawaiian
shirt. What
the fuck. Groaning, he rummages in the desk. Empty.
Closets empty. Leave papers, ID, everything, taken. His
back muscles throb with pain. âWhat is this, Ace?â going
to check out the number on the door again, everything
now for formâs sake. He knows. Hoganâs shirt bothers
him most of all.
âFirst put on something respectable,â Bloatâs tone full
of headmasterish revulsion. Two subalterns come crashing
in carrying their valises. They halt goggling at! Slothrop.
âHere mate, you're in the wrong theatre of operations,â
cries one. âShow a bit of respect,â the other haw-haws,
âitâs Lawrence of Arabia!â
âShit,â sez Slothrop. Canât even lift his arm, much less
swing it. They proceed to Bloatâs room, where they put
together a uniform.
âSay,â it occurs
to Slothrop, âwhereâs that Mucker-
Maffick this morning?â
;
âTve no
idea, really. Off with his girl. Or girls.
Whereâve you been?â
But Slothropâs looking around, tightening rectal fear
belatedly taking hold now, neck and face beading in a
surge of sweat, trying to find in this room Tantivy shares
with Bloat some trace of his friend. Bristly Norfolk jacket,
pinstripe suit, anything. ...
Nothing. âDid that Tantivy move out, or what?â
âHe may have moved in, with Francoise or Whatâs-her-
name. Even gone back to London early, I donât keep a file
on him, Iâm not the meer
7
bureau.â
âYou're his friend.
â Bloat, with an insolent shrug,
'
for the very first time since they met, now looks Slothrop
in the eyes. âArenât you? What are you?â
|
The answer's in Bloatâs stare, the dira room become >
rationalized, nothing to it of holiday, only
Savile Row uni-
forms, silver hairbrushes
and razor
arr.
ged at right
angles, a shiny spike on an octagonal base impaling half
an inch of pastel flimsies, all edges neatly squared ..,@
piece of Whitehall on the Riviera.
*,
i
ee
Un Permâ
au Casino Hermann Goering
235
Slothrop drops his eyes away. âSee if I can find him,â
_ he mumbles, retreating out the door, uniform ballooning
at the ass and too tight at the waist. Live wiâ the way it
feels mate, you'll be in it for a while. ...
He begins at the bar they talked in last night. It is
empty except for a colonel with a great twisted mustache,
with his hat on, sitting stiffly in front of something large,
fizzing, opaque, and garnished with a white chrysanthe-
mum. âDidnât they teach you at Sandhurst to salute?â this
officer screams. Slothrop, hesitating only a moment, salutes.
âDamned O.C.T.U. must be full of Nazis.â No bartender
in sight. Canât remember whatâ âWell?â
âActually, what I am is, uh, is an American, I-only
~
borrowed the uniform, and well I was looking for a
Lieutenant, or actually Leftenant, Mucker-Maffick. .. .â
*
âYou're a what?â roars the colonel, pulling leaves from
the chrysanthemum with his teeth. âWhat kind of Nazi
foolishness is that, eh?â
âWell, thank you,â Slothrop backing out of the room,
_
saluting again.
_
âThis is incredible!â the echo following him down the
corridors to the Himmler-Spielsaal. âItâs Nazi!â
Deserted in noonâs lull, here are resonant reaches of
mahogany, green baize, hanging loops of maroon velvet.
_
Long-handled wood money rakes lie fanned out on the
tables. Little silyer bells with ebony handles are turned
mouth-down on the russet veneer, Around the tables, Em-
_
pire chairs are lined up precise and playerless, But some
are taller than the rest. These are no longer quite outward
} and visible signs of a game of chance. There is another
enterprise here, more real than that, less merciful, and
_
sytematically hidden from the likes of Slothrop. Who sits
in the taller chairsP Do They have names? What lies on
_ Their smooth baize surfaces?
Brass-colored light seeps in from overhead. Murals line
_the great room: pneumatic gods and goddesses, pastel
Swains and shepherdesses, misty foliage, fluttering scarves.
...Everywhere
curlicued
gilt festoonery
dripsâfrom
moldings, chandeliers, pillars, window frame...
scarred
Parquetry gleams under the skylight... From the ceiling,
_ to within a few feet of the tabletops, hang long chains,
_ with hooks at the ends. What hangs from these hooks?
_ For a minute here, Slothrop, in his English uniform, is
The Forbidden Wing
- Slothrop enters the Himmler-Spielsaal, a deserted casino room filled with mahogany, green baize, and ornate rococo decorations.
- The physical objects in the roomâtaller chairs and hooks hanging from the ceilingâsuggest a hidden, unmerciful enterprise beyond a simple game of chance.
- Slothrop senses the presence of 'Them,' an elite order that uses the world's ordinary objects for purposes entirely different from common understanding.
- The room represents a threshold to a 'Forbidden Wing,' a realm of old paralysis, corruption, and indistinct, powerful figures.
- Feeling the weight of this malevolent atmosphere, Slothrop uses his only 'spell'âa whispered curseâto ground himself against the overwhelming presence.
- He retreats from the room as if backing away from a kingly radiance, caught between fear and a strange desire for the Presence.
Meaning things to Them it has never meant to us. Never. Two orders of being, looking identical... but, but...
Un Permâ
au Casino Hermann Goering
235
Slothrop drops his eyes away. âSee if I can find him,â
_ he mumbles, retreating out the door, uniform ballooning
at the ass and too tight at the waist. Live wiâ the way it
feels mate, you'll be in it for a while. ...
He begins at the bar they talked in last night. It is
empty except for a colonel with a great twisted mustache,
with his hat on, sitting stiffly in front of something large,
fizzing, opaque, and garnished with a white chrysanthe-
mum. âDidnât they teach you at Sandhurst to salute?â this
officer screams. Slothrop, hesitating only a moment, salutes.
âDamned O.C.T.U. must be full of Nazis.â No bartender
in sight. Canât remember whatâ âWell?â
âActually, what I am is, uh, is an American, I-only
~
borrowed the uniform, and well I was looking for a
Lieutenant, or actually Leftenant, Mucker-Maffick. .. .â
*
âYou're a what?â roars the colonel, pulling leaves from
the chrysanthemum with his teeth. âWhat kind of Nazi
foolishness is that, eh?â
âWell, thank you,â Slothrop backing out of the room,
_
saluting again.
_
âThis is incredible!â the echo following him down the
corridors to the Himmler-Spielsaal. âItâs Nazi!â
Deserted in noonâs lull, here are resonant reaches of
mahogany, green baize, hanging loops of maroon velvet.
_
Long-handled wood money rakes lie fanned out on the
tables. Little silyer bells with ebony handles are turned
mouth-down on the russet veneer, Around the tables, Em-
_
pire chairs are lined up precise and playerless, But some
are taller than the rest. These are no longer quite outward
} and visible signs of a game of chance. There is another
enterprise here, more real than that, less merciful, and
_
sytematically hidden from the likes of Slothrop. Who sits
in the taller chairsP Do They have names? What lies on
_ Their smooth baize surfaces?
Brass-colored light seeps in from overhead. Murals line
_the great room: pneumatic gods and goddesses, pastel
Swains and shepherdesses, misty foliage, fluttering scarves.
...Everywhere
curlicued
gilt festoonery
dripsâfrom
moldings, chandeliers, pillars, window frame...
scarred
Parquetry gleams under the skylight... From the ceiling,
_ to within a few feet of the tabletops, hang long chains,
_ with hooks at the ends. What hangs from these hooks?
_ For a minute here, Slothrop, in his English uniform, is
236
Gravity's Rainsow
alone with the paraphernalia of an order whose presence
among the ordinary debris of waking he has only lately
begun to suspect.
There may, for a moment, have been some golden,
vaguely rootlike
or manlike figure beginning to form
among the brown and bright cream shadows and light
here. But Slothrop isnât to be let off so easy. Shortly, un-
pleasantly so, it will come to him that everything in this
room is really being used for something different. Meaning
things to Them it has never meant to us. Never. Two
orders of being, looking identical... but, but...
â
Oh, THE WORLD OVER THERE, itâs
So hard to explain!
Just-like, a dreamâs-got, lost in yer brain!
Dancinâ like a fool through that Forbid-den Wing,
Waitinâ fer thâ light to start shiver-ingâwell,
Who ev-ver said ya couldnât move that way,
Who ev-ver said ya couldnât try?
If-ya find-thereâs-a-lit-tle-pain,
Ya can al-ways-go-back-a-gain, cause
Ya donât-evy-er-real-ly-say, good-by]
Why here? Why should the rainbow edges of what is
almost on him be rippling most intense here in this amply
coded room? say why should walking in here be almost the
same as entering the Forbidden itselfâhere are the same
long rooms, rooms of old paralysis and evil distillery, of
condensations and residues you are afraid to smell from
forgotten corruptions, rooms full of upright gray-feathered
status with wings spread, indistinct faces in dustârooms
full of dust that will cloud the shapes of inhabitants
around the corners or deeper inside, that will settle on
their black formal lapels, that will soften to sugar the
white faces, white shirt fronts, gems and gowns, white
hands that move too quickly to be seen... what game do
They deal? What passes are these, so blurred, so old and
perfect?
!
âFuck you,â whispers Slothrop. Itâs the only spell he
knows, and a pretty good all-purpose oe
at that. His
whisper is baffled by the thousands of tiny rococo sur-
faces. Maybe he'll sneak in tonightâno not at nightâ
but sometime, with a bucket and brush, paint ruck you in~
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
237.
a balloon coming out the mouth of one of those little pink
shepherdesses there... .
He steps back out, backward out the door, as if half,
his ventral half, were being struck in kingly radiance: re-
treating from yet facing the Presence feared and wanted.
Outside, he heads down toward the quay, among fun-
seekers, swooping white birds, an incessant splat of seagull
shit. As I walk along the Bwa-deboolong with an inde-
pendent air... Saluting everybody in uniform, getting it
to a reflex, donât ask for extra trouble, try for invisible...
bringing his arm each time:a bit more stupidly to his side.
Clouds now are coming up fast, out of the sea. No sign
of Tantivy out here, either.
Ghosts of fishermen, glassworkers,
fur traders, rene-
_
gade preachers, hilltop patriarchs and valley politicians
go avalanching back from Slothrop here, back to 1630
when Governor Winthrop came over to America on the
Arbella, flagship of a great Puritan flotilla that year, on
_ which the first American Slothrop had been a mess cook
-
or somethingâthere go that Arbella and its whole fleet,
sailing backward in formation, the wind sucking them east
again, the creatures leaning: from the margins of the un-
known sucking in their cheeks, growing crosseyed with the
effort, in to black deep hollows at the mercy of teeth no
longer the milky molars of cherubs, as the old ships zoom
out of Boston Harbor, back across an Atlantic whose cur-
rents and swells go flowing and heaving in reverse...a
_ redemption of every mess cook who ever slipped and fell
when the deck made an unexpected move, the nightâs stew
collecting itself up out of the planks and off the indignant
shoes of the more elect, slithering in a fountain back into
the pewter kettle as the servant himself staggers upright
again and the vomit he slipped on goes bushing back into
the mouth that spilled it... Presto change-o! Tyrone Slo-
thropâs English again! But it doesnât seem to be redemp-
tion exactly that this They have in mind...
.
_ Heâs. on a broad cobbled esplanade, lined with palms
shifting now to coarse-grained black as clouds begin to
come over the sun. Tantivy isnât out on the beach, eitherâ
nor are any of the girls. Slothrop sits'on a low wall, feet
_ Swinging, watching the front, slate, muddy purple, ad-
vancing from the sea in sheets, in drifts. Around him the
- air is cooling. He shivers. What are They doing?
Slothrop's Ancestral Flight
- Tyrone Slothrop experiences a surreal, reverse-chronological vision of his Puritan ancestry, tracing his lineage back to a mess cook on the 1630 Arbella.
- The narrative uses a 'rewinding' motif where spilled stew and vomit return to their sources, suggesting a grotesque form of redemption or historical undoing.
- A sudden, heavy storm breaks over the Casino, described as 'giant asterisks' on the pavement that invite the reading of cryptic, hidden footnotes of reality.
- Slothrop frantically searches the Casino for his missing companionsâGhislaine, Francoise, and Yvonneâamidst the rehearsals of a Rossini opera.
- He realizes he is surrounded by women hardened by war and occupation who view the sudden disappearance of people as a mundane, tragic inevitability.
- The atmosphere shifts from ancestral hallucination to a paranoid, oppressive present where Slothrop begins to lose his innocence and merge with the displaced masses.
He gets back to the Casino just as big globular raindrops, thick as honey, begin to splat into giant asterisks on the pavement, inviting him to look down at the bottom of the text of the day, where footnotes will explain all.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
237.
a balloon coming out the mouth of one of those little pink
shepherdesses there... .
He steps back out, backward out the door, as if half,
his ventral half, were being struck in kingly radiance: re-
treating from yet facing the Presence feared and wanted.
Outside, he heads down toward the quay, among fun-
seekers, swooping white birds, an incessant splat of seagull
shit. As I walk along the Bwa-deboolong with an inde-
pendent air... Saluting everybody in uniform, getting it
to a reflex, donât ask for extra trouble, try for invisible...
bringing his arm each time:a bit more stupidly to his side.
Clouds now are coming up fast, out of the sea. No sign
of Tantivy out here, either.
Ghosts of fishermen, glassworkers,
fur traders, rene-
_
gade preachers, hilltop patriarchs and valley politicians
go avalanching back from Slothrop here, back to 1630
when Governor Winthrop came over to America on the
Arbella, flagship of a great Puritan flotilla that year, on
_ which the first American Slothrop had been a mess cook
-
or somethingâthere go that Arbella and its whole fleet,
sailing backward in formation, the wind sucking them east
again, the creatures leaning: from the margins of the un-
known sucking in their cheeks, growing crosseyed with the
effort, in to black deep hollows at the mercy of teeth no
longer the milky molars of cherubs, as the old ships zoom
out of Boston Harbor, back across an Atlantic whose cur-
rents and swells go flowing and heaving in reverse...a
_ redemption of every mess cook who ever slipped and fell
when the deck made an unexpected move, the nightâs stew
collecting itself up out of the planks and off the indignant
shoes of the more elect, slithering in a fountain back into
the pewter kettle as the servant himself staggers upright
again and the vomit he slipped on goes bushing back into
the mouth that spilled it... Presto change-o! Tyrone Slo-
thropâs English again! But it doesnât seem to be redemp-
tion exactly that this They have in mind...
.
_ Heâs. on a broad cobbled esplanade, lined with palms
shifting now to coarse-grained black as clouds begin to
come over the sun. Tantivy isnât out on the beach, eitherâ
nor are any of the girls. Slothrop sits'on a low wall, feet
_ Swinging, watching the front, slate, muddy purple, ad-
vancing from the sea in sheets, in drifts. Around him the
- air is cooling. He shivers. What are They doing?
238
Graviryâs RAINBOW
_
He gets back to the Casino just as big globular rain-
drops, thick as honey, begin to splat into giant asterisks
on the pavement, inviting him to look down at the bottom
of the text of the day, where footnotes will explain all. He
isnât about to look. Nobody ever said a day has to be
juggled into any kind of sense at dayâs end. He just runs.
Rain grows in wet crescendo. His footfalls send up fine
flowers of water, each hanging a second behind his flight.
It is flight. He comes in speckled, pied with rain, begins a
frantic search through the great inert Casino, starting again
with the same smoky, hooch-fumed bar, proceeding through
the little theatre, where tonight will play an abbreviated
version of LâInutil Precauzione (that imaginary opera with
which Rosina seeks to delude her guardian in The Barber of
Seville), into its green room where girls, a silkenness of
girls, but not the three Slothrop wants most to see, tease
hair, arrange garters, glue on eyelashes, smile at Slothrop.
No one has seen Ghislaine, Francoise, Yvonne. From
another room the orchestra rehearses a lively Rossini tar-
antella. The reeds are all something like a half tone flat.
At once Slothrop understands that he is surrounded by
women who have lived a good fraction of their lives at war
and under occupation, and for whom people have been
dropping out of sight every day...yes, in one or two
pairs of eyes he finds an old and European pity, a look he
will get to know, well before he loses his innocence and
becomes one of them. .
So he drifts, through âthe bright sack milling gaming
rooms, the dining hall and its smaller private satellites,
busting up téte-a-tétes, colliding with waiters, finding only
strangers wherever he looks, And if you need help, ie
Tll help you....
Voices, music, and shuffling of cards all
grow louder, more oppressive, till he stands looking into
the Himmler-Spielsaal again, crowded now, jewels flash-
ing, leather gleaming, roulette spokes whirling blurringâ
itâs here that saturation hits him, itâs all this playing games,
too much of it, too many games: the nasal, obsessive voice
of a croupier he canât seeâmessieurs, mesdames, les jeux
sont faitsâis suddenly speaking out of, the Forbidden
Wing directly to him, and about what Slothrop has been
playing against the invisible House, perhaps after all for
his soul, all dayâterrified he turns, turns out into the rain
Saturation and Runes
- Tyrone Slothrop experiences a moment of psychological saturation and paranoia at the Casino Hermann Goering, feeling as though he is playing a game for his soul against an invisible House.
- He realizes that his identity and connections to his past have vanished, leaving him isolated and vulnerable in the rain.
- Slothrop finds temporary refuge and intimacy with Katje, finding a brief 'form of grace' in the morning light and domesticity.
- The narrative shifts to Slothrop's technical training, where he struggles to decipher German circuit schematics that use unconventional symbols.
- Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck explains that the German electrical symbols are derived from ancient Norse runes, specifically the 'sigil' or sun rune.
- The use of the broken-line rune is interpreted as a symbol of social fragmentation, discontinuity, and the development of the independent ego.
How did this all turn against him so fast? His friends old and new, every last bit of paper and clothing connecting him to what heâs been, have just, fucking, vanished.
238
Graviryâs RAINBOW
_
He gets back to the Casino just as big globular rain-
drops, thick as honey, begin to splat into giant asterisks
on the pavement, inviting him to look down at the bottom
of the text of the day, where footnotes will explain all. He
isnât about to look. Nobody ever said a day has to be
juggled into any kind of sense at dayâs end. He just runs.
Rain grows in wet crescendo. His footfalls send up fine
flowers of water, each hanging a second behind his flight.
It is flight. He comes in speckled, pied with rain, begins a
frantic search through the great inert Casino, starting again
with the same smoky, hooch-fumed bar, proceeding through
the little theatre, where tonight will play an abbreviated
version of LâInutil Precauzione (that imaginary opera with
which Rosina seeks to delude her guardian in The Barber of
Seville), into its green room where girls, a silkenness of
girls, but not the three Slothrop wants most to see, tease
hair, arrange garters, glue on eyelashes, smile at Slothrop.
No one has seen Ghislaine, Francoise, Yvonne. From
another room the orchestra rehearses a lively Rossini tar-
antella. The reeds are all something like a half tone flat.
At once Slothrop understands that he is surrounded by
women who have lived a good fraction of their lives at war
and under occupation, and for whom people have been
dropping out of sight every day...yes, in one or two
pairs of eyes he finds an old and European pity, a look he
will get to know, well before he loses his innocence and
becomes one of them. .
So he drifts, through âthe bright sack milling gaming
rooms, the dining hall and its smaller private satellites,
busting up téte-a-tétes, colliding with waiters, finding only
strangers wherever he looks, And if you need help, ie
Tll help you....
Voices, music, and shuffling of cards all
grow louder, more oppressive, till he stands looking into
the Himmler-Spielsaal again, crowded now, jewels flash-
ing, leather gleaming, roulette spokes whirling blurringâ
itâs here that saturation hits him, itâs all this playing games,
too much of it, too many games: the nasal, obsessive voice
of a croupier he canât seeâmessieurs, mesdames, les jeux
sont faitsâis suddenly speaking out of, the Forbidden
Wing directly to him, and about what Slothrop has been
playing against the invisible House, perhaps after all for
his soul, all dayâterrified he turns, turns out into the rain
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
239
again where the electric lights of the Casino, in full holo-
_caust, are glaring off the glazed cobbles. Collar up, Bloatâs
hat down over his ears, saying shit every few minutes,
shivering, his back aching from that fall out of that tree,
he goes stumbling along in the rain. He thinks he might
begin to cry. How did this all turn against him so fast?
His friends old and new, every last bit of paper and cloth-
ing connecting him to what heâs been, have just, fucking,
vanished. How can he meet this with any kind of grace?
Only much later, wom out, snuffling, cold and wretched in
his prison of soggy Army wool, does he think of Katje.
He gets back to the Casino near midnight, her hour,
tramping upstairs leaving wet footprints behind, loud as a
washing machineâstops at her door, rain pattering onto
the carpet, afraid.even to knock. Has she been taken too?
_
Whoâs waiting behind the door and what machinery have
They brought with Them? But sheâs heard him, and opens
with a dimpled, chiding smile for being so wet. âTyrone,
I missed you.â
He shrugs, convulsive,
helpless, showering both of
them. âItâs the only place I knew to come.â Her smile
slowly unpurses. Gingerly he steps across the sill then, not
sure if itâs door or high window, into her deep room.
O
- Good mornings of good old lust, early shutters open to the
sea, winds coming in with the heavy brushing of palm
) leaves, the wheezing break to surface and sun of porpoises
| E
out in the harbor.
âOh,â Katje groans, somewhere under a pile of their
batistes and brocade, âSlothrop, you pig.â
~ âOink, oink, oink,â sez Slothrop cheerfully. Seaglare
dances up on the ceiling, smoke curls from black-market
_ cigarettes. Given the precisions of light these mornings,
re are forms of grace to be found in the rising of the
smoke, meander, furl, delicate fade to clarity. ..
.
_ At certain hours the harbor blue will be reflected up on
the whitewashed sea-facade, and the tall windows will be
shuttered again. Wave images will flickerâ there in a
luminous net. By then Slothrop will be up, in British uni-
240
;
Graviryâs RaINsow
â
form, gobbling down croissants and coffee, already busy
at a refresher course in technical German, or trying to
dope out the theory of arrow-stable trajectories, or tracing
nearly with the end of his nose some German circuit sche-
matic whose resistors look like coils, and the coils like
resistorsââWhat bizarre shit,â once he got hep to it, âwhy
would they go and switch it around like that? Trying to
camouflage it, or what?â
âRecall your ancient German runes,â suggests Sir Ste-
phen Dodson-Truck, who is from the Foreign Office P.I.D.
and speaks 33 languages including English with a strong
Oxonian blither to it.
âMy what?â
âOh,â lips compressing, some kind of brain nausea
here, âthat coil symbol there happens to be very like the
Old Norse rune for âS,â sĂ©l, which means âsun.â The Old
High German name for it is sigil.â
âFunny way to draw that sun,â it seems to Slothrop.
âIndeed. The Goths, much earlier, had used a circle
with a dot in the center. This broken line evidently dates
from a time of discontinuities, tribal fragmenting perhaps,
alienationâwhateverâs analogous, in a social sense, to the
development of an independent ego by the very young
child, you see.
Well, no, Slothrop doesnât see, not ceantty. He hears
this sort of thing from Dodson-Truck nearly every time
they get together. The man just materialized one day, out
on the beach in a black suit, shoulders starred with dan-
druff from thinning carrot hair, coming into view against
the white face of the Casino, which trembled over him as
he approached. Slothrop was reading a Plasticman comic.
Katje was dozing in the sun, face-up. But when his foot-
pads reached her hearing, she turned on one elbow to
wave hello. The peer flung himself to full length, Attitude
ae
1, Torpor, Undergraduate. âSa this is Lieutenant Slo-
op
âea Plasticman goes oozing fst of a keyhole,
around a comer and up through piping that leads to a
sink in the mad Nazi scientistâs lab, out
of whose faucet
Plasâs head now, blank carapaced eyes and unplastic iow?
is just emerging. âYeah. Whoâre you, Ace?
Sir Stephen introduces himself, freckles roused by the!
>
on
The Word and the Plot
- Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck arrives on the beach, interrupting Slothropâs comic book reading with an eccentric, linguistic analysis of German rocket terminology.
- Slothrop senses Dodson-Truckâs 'innocence' and a shared love for the Word, despite the man's clear involvement in the overarching conspiracy.
- Slothrop reflects on his ability to 'disengage' from the vast, unseen power structure controlling him, finding a strange comfort in his own helplessness.
- The relationship between Slothrop and Katje is framed as a 'seductress-and-patsy' game where both parties are aware of their roles and the 'real enemy' back in London.
- A haunting realization strikes Slothrop: Katje may not be a willing agent but a fellow victim, possessing a 'futureless look' that suggests she has also been conned.
- The setting shifts to the Himmler-Spielsaal, where Slothrop finds Katje alone, role-playing as a croupier in a moment of quiet, stylized isolation.
But now and then... too insubstantial to get a fix on, there'll be in her face a look, something not in her control, that depresses him, that heâs even dreamed about and so found amplified there to honest fright: the terrible chance that she might have been conned too.
240
;
Graviryâs RaINsow
â
form, gobbling down croissants and coffee, already busy
at a refresher course in technical German, or trying to
dope out the theory of arrow-stable trajectories, or tracing
nearly with the end of his nose some German circuit sche-
matic whose resistors look like coils, and the coils like
resistorsââWhat bizarre shit,â once he got hep to it, âwhy
would they go and switch it around like that? Trying to
camouflage it, or what?â
âRecall your ancient German runes,â suggests Sir Ste-
phen Dodson-Truck, who is from the Foreign Office P.I.D.
and speaks 33 languages including English with a strong
Oxonian blither to it.
âMy what?â
âOh,â lips compressing, some kind of brain nausea
here, âthat coil symbol there happens to be very like the
Old Norse rune for âS,â sĂ©l, which means âsun.â The Old
High German name for it is sigil.â
âFunny way to draw that sun,â it seems to Slothrop.
âIndeed. The Goths, much earlier, had used a circle
with a dot in the center. This broken line evidently dates
from a time of discontinuities, tribal fragmenting perhaps,
alienationâwhateverâs analogous, in a social sense, to the
development of an independent ego by the very young
child, you see.
Well, no, Slothrop doesnât see, not ceantty. He hears
this sort of thing from Dodson-Truck nearly every time
they get together. The man just materialized one day, out
on the beach in a black suit, shoulders starred with dan-
druff from thinning carrot hair, coming into view against
the white face of the Casino, which trembled over him as
he approached. Slothrop was reading a Plasticman comic.
Katje was dozing in the sun, face-up. But when his foot-
pads reached her hearing, she turned on one elbow to
wave hello. The peer flung himself to full length, Attitude
ae
1, Torpor, Undergraduate. âSa this is Lieutenant Slo-
op
âea Plasticman goes oozing fst of a keyhole,
around a comer and up through piping that leads to a
sink in the mad Nazi scientistâs lab, out
of whose faucet
Plasâs head now, blank carapaced eyes and unplastic iow?
is just emerging. âYeah. Whoâre you, Ace?
Sir Stephen introduces himself, freckles roused by the!
>
on
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
241
-
sun, eyeing the comic book curiously. âI gather this isnât
a study period.â
âIs he cleared?â
;
âHeâs
cleared,â Katje smiling/shrugging
at Dodson-
Truck.
j
âTaking a break from that Telefunken radio control. That
âHawaii I.â You know anything about that?â
âOnly enough to wonder where they got the name
from.â
âThe name?â
âThereâs a poetry to it, engineerâs poetry... it suggests
Haverieâaverage, you knowâcertainly you have the two
lobes, donât you, symmetrical about the rocketâs intended
azimuth ... hauen, tooâsmashing someone with a hoe or
aclub...â off on a voyage of his own here, smiling at no
one in particular, bringing in the popular wartime expres-
sion ab-hauen,
quarterstaff
technique,
peasant humor,
_
phallic comedy dating back to the ancient Greeks....
Slothropâs first impulse is to get back to what that Plas is
' into, but something about the man, despite obvious mem-
bership in the plot, keeps him listening... an innocence,
maybe a try at being friendly in the only way he has avail-
_
able, sharing what engages and runs him, a love for the
Word.
âWell, it might be just Axis propaganda. Something to
do with that Pearl Harbor.â
Sir Stephen considers this, seeming pleased. Did They
choose him because of all those word-smitten Puritans
dangling off of Slothropâs family tree? Were They trying
to seduce his brain now, his reading eye too? There are
times when Slothrop actually can find a clutch mechanism
between him and Their iron-cased engine far away up a
| power train whose shape and design he has to guess at, a
clutch he can disengage, feeling then all his inertia of
motion, his real helplessness... it is not exactly unpleas-
ant, either. Odd thing. He is almost sure that whatever
They want, it wonât mean risking his life, or even too much
of his comfort. But he canât fit any of it into a pattern,
thereâs no way to connect somebody like Dodson-Truck
with somebody like Katje....
_. Seductress-and-patsy,
all right, thatâs not so bad a
game. Thereâs very little pretending. He doesnât blame her:
"4
242
Graviryâs Ratnsow
the real enemyâs somewhere back in that London, and this
is her job. She can be versatile, gay, and kind, and he'd
rather be warm here with her than freezing back under
the Blitz. But now and then... too insubstantial to get a
fix on, there'll be in her face a look, something not in her
control, that depresses him, that heâs even dreamed about
and so found amplified there to honest fright: the terrible
chance that she might have been conned too. As much a
victim as he isâan unlucky, an unaccountably futureless
look. ...
One gray afternoon in where but the Himmler-Spielsaal,
where else, he surprises her alone by a roulette wheel.
Sheâs standing, head bent, gracefully hipshot, playing
croupier. An employee of the House. She wears a white
peasant blouse and a rainbow-striped dirndl skirt of satin,
which shimmers underneath the skylight. The ballâs tattoo,
against the moving spokes, gathers a long, scratchy reso-
nance here in the muraled âspace. She doesnât turn till Slo-
throp is beside her. To her breathing there is a grave
slow-beating tremor: she nudges at the shutters of his
heart, opening to him brief flashes of an autumn country
he has only suspected, only feared, outside him, inside
her....
âHey Katje...â Making a long arm, hooking a finger
on a spoke to stop the wheel, The ball drops in a com-
partment whose number they never see. Seeing the num-
ber is supposed to be the point. But in the game behind
the game, it is not the point.
She shakes her head. He understands that itâs something
back in Holland, before Arnhemâan impedance per-
manently wired into the circuit of themselves. How many
ears smelling of Palmolive and Camay has he crooned
songs into, outside-the-bowling-alley songs, behind-the-
Moxie-billboard
songs, Saturday-night open-me-another-
quart songs, all saying, honey, it donât matter where you've
been, letâs not live in the past, right nowâs all there is....
Fine for back there. But not in here, tapping on her
bare shoulder, peering in at her European darkness, be-
wildered with it, himself with his straight hair barely comb-
able and shaven face without a wrinkle such a chaste in-
trusion in the Himmler-Spielsaal all crowded with Ger-
man-Baroque perplexities of shape (a sacrament of hands
The Game Behind the Game
- Slothrop and Katje interact in the decadent, baroque atmosphere of the Casino Hermann Goering, where the gambling equipment serves as a metaphor for predestination.
- The narrative suggests that the 'odds' in this space are not probabilities of the future but fixed frequencies of a past that continues to haunt and control the present.
- Katje is depicted as existing in a 'futureless' state, having already placed all her bets and now simply waiting for the inertia of her life to reach its final room.
- Slothrop begins to realize that his own sense of free will may be an illusion, suspecting that his life has been 'under some Control' similar to a fixed roulette wheel.
- The rocket trajectory is introduced as a bridge between their lives, representing a five-minute lifespan that exists between the launch in Holland and the impact in London.
The odds They played here belonged to the past, the past only. Their odds were never probabilities, but frequencies already observed.
242
Graviryâs Ratnsow
the real enemyâs somewhere back in that London, and this
is her job. She can be versatile, gay, and kind, and he'd
rather be warm here with her than freezing back under
the Blitz. But now and then... too insubstantial to get a
fix on, there'll be in her face a look, something not in her
control, that depresses him, that heâs even dreamed about
and so found amplified there to honest fright: the terrible
chance that she might have been conned too. As much a
victim as he isâan unlucky, an unaccountably futureless
look. ...
One gray afternoon in where but the Himmler-Spielsaal,
where else, he surprises her alone by a roulette wheel.
Sheâs standing, head bent, gracefully hipshot, playing
croupier. An employee of the House. She wears a white
peasant blouse and a rainbow-striped dirndl skirt of satin,
which shimmers underneath the skylight. The ballâs tattoo,
against the moving spokes, gathers a long, scratchy reso-
nance here in the muraled âspace. She doesnât turn till Slo-
throp is beside her. To her breathing there is a grave
slow-beating tremor: she nudges at the shutters of his
heart, opening to him brief flashes of an autumn country
he has only suspected, only feared, outside him, inside
her....
âHey Katje...â Making a long arm, hooking a finger
on a spoke to stop the wheel, The ball drops in a com-
partment whose number they never see. Seeing the num-
ber is supposed to be the point. But in the game behind
the game, it is not the point.
She shakes her head. He understands that itâs something
back in Holland, before Arnhemâan impedance per-
manently wired into the circuit of themselves. How many
ears smelling of Palmolive and Camay has he crooned
songs into, outside-the-bowling-alley songs, behind-the-
Moxie-billboard
songs, Saturday-night open-me-another-
quart songs, all saying, honey, it donât matter where you've
been, letâs not live in the past, right nowâs all there is....
Fine for back there. But not in here, tapping on her
bare shoulder, peering in at her European darkness, be-
wildered with it, himself with his straight hair barely comb-
able and shaven face without a wrinkle such a chaste in-
trusion in the Himmler-Spielsaal all crowded with Ger-
man-Baroque perplexities of shape (a sacrament of hands
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
243
in every last turn each hand must produce, because of
what the hand was, had to become, to make it all come out
exactly this way...
all the cold, the trauma, the departing
flesh that has ever touched it. ...) In the twisted gilt play-
ing-room his secret motions clarify for him, some. The
odds They played here belonged to the past, the past only.
Their odds were never probabilities, but frequencies al-
ready observed. Itâs the past that. makes demands here.
It whispers, and reaches after, and, sneering disagreeably,
gooses its victims.
When They chose numbers, red, black, odd, even, what
âdid They mean by it? What Wheel did They set in motion?
Back in a room, early
in Slothropâs life, a room forbidden
to him now, is something very bad, Something was done
to him, and it may be that Katje knows what. Hasnât he, in
her âfutureless look,â found some link to his own past,
something that connects them closely as lovers? He sees
her standing at the end of a passage in her life, without
any next step to takeâall her bets are in, she has only the
tedium now of being knocked from one room to the next,
a sequence of numbered rooms whose numbers do not
matter, till inertia brings her to the last. Thatâs all.
Naive Slothrop never thought anybodyâs life could end
like that. Nothing so bleak. But by now itâs grown much
less strange to himâheâs been snuggling up, masturbatorily
scared-elated, to the disagreeable chance that exactly such
Control might already have been put over him.
The Forbidden Wing. Oh, the hand of a terrible crou-
pier is that touch on the sleeves of his dreams; all in his
life of what has looked free or random, is discovered toâve
been under some Control, all the time, the same as a fixed
Toulette wheelâwhere only destinations
are important,
attention is to long-term statistics, not individuals: and
pre the House always does, of course, keep turning a
profit...
__
âYou were in London,â she will presently whisper, tum-
ing back to her wheel and spinning it again, face averted,
âwomanly twisting the night-streaked yarn of her past,
âwhile they were coming down. I was in âs Graven-
hageââfricatives sighing, the name spoken with exileâs
lingeringâââwhile they were going up. Between you and
âthe is not only a rocket trajectory, but also a life. You will
y
. se
or
a
244
Gravityâs Rainsow
come to understand that between the two points, in the
five minutes,
it lives an entire life. You haven't even
learned the data on our side of the flight profile, the visible
or trackable. Beyond them thereâs so much more, so much
none of us know..
But it is a curve each of them feels, unmistakably. It is
the parabola. They must have guessed, once or twiceâ
guessed and refused to believeâthat everything, always,
- collectively, had been moving toward that purified shape
latent in the sky, that shape of no surprise, no second
chances, no return. Yet they do move forever under it,
reserved for its own black-and-white bad news certainly as
if it were the Rainbow, and they its children. ...
As the Warâs front moves away from them, and the
Casino becomes more and more a rear area, as the water
grows more polluted and the prices rise, so the personnel
coming down on leave get noisier and more dedicated to
pure assholeryânone of Tantivyâs style about them, his
habit of soft-shoe dancing when drunk, his make-believe
foppishness and shy, decent impulses to conspire, however
marginally, whenever possible, against power and indiffer-
ence.... There hasnât been a word about him. Slothrop
misses him, not just as an ally, but as a presence, a kind-
ness. He continues to believe, here on his French leave,
and at his ease, that the interference is temporary and
paper, a matter of messages routed and orders cut, an
annoyance that -will end when the War ends, so well have
They busted the sod prairies of his brain, tilled and sown
there, and subsidized him not to grow anything of his
own....
No letters from London, not even news of ACHTUNG.
All gone. Teddy Bloat one day just vanished: other con-
spirators, like a chorus line, will show up off and on be-
hind Katje and Sir Stephen, dancing in, all with identical
Corporate Smiles, the multiplication of whose glittering
choppers is to dazzle him, they think, distract him from
what theyâre taking away, his ID, his service dossier, his
past. Well, fuck... you know. He lets it happen. Heâs
more interested, and sometimes a little anxious, about
what they seem to be adding on. At some point, appar-
ently on a whim, though how can a fellow be sure, Slo-
throp decides to raise a mustache. Last mustache he had
The Parabola and the Mustache
- The characters live under the existential weight of the 'parabola,' a purified and inescapable flight path that suggests a destiny with no second chances.
- As the war front recedes, the Casino atmosphere degrades into 'pure assholery,' marked by the absence of Tantivyâs decent and subversive presence.
- Slothrop realizes that 'They' have colonized his mind, tilling his thoughts and subsidizing him to remain passive and intellectually barren.
- A conspiracy of 'Corporate Smiles' begins to systematically erase Slothropâs identity, service records, and past while he remains strangely indifferent.
- Slothrop attempts to reclaim some agency by growing a mustache, leading to a debate with Katje and General Wivern over whether its drooping shape signifies a 'good-guy' or a 'bad-guy.'
- Katje remains a constant presence in Slothrop's bed, acting as a reward or replacement provided by 'Them' for his fading American identity.
They must have guessed, once or twiceâguessed and refused to believeâthat everything, always, collectively, had been moving toward that purified shape latent in the sky, that shape of no surprise, no second chances, no return.
244
Gravityâs Rainsow
come to understand that between the two points, in the
five minutes,
it lives an entire life. You haven't even
learned the data on our side of the flight profile, the visible
or trackable. Beyond them thereâs so much more, so much
none of us know..
But it is a curve each of them feels, unmistakably. It is
the parabola. They must have guessed, once or twiceâ
guessed and refused to believeâthat everything, always,
- collectively, had been moving toward that purified shape
latent in the sky, that shape of no surprise, no second
chances, no return. Yet they do move forever under it,
reserved for its own black-and-white bad news certainly as
if it were the Rainbow, and they its children. ...
As the Warâs front moves away from them, and the
Casino becomes more and more a rear area, as the water
grows more polluted and the prices rise, so the personnel
coming down on leave get noisier and more dedicated to
pure assholeryânone of Tantivyâs style about them, his
habit of soft-shoe dancing when drunk, his make-believe
foppishness and shy, decent impulses to conspire, however
marginally, whenever possible, against power and indiffer-
ence.... There hasnât been a word about him. Slothrop
misses him, not just as an ally, but as a presence, a kind-
ness. He continues to believe, here on his French leave,
and at his ease, that the interference is temporary and
paper, a matter of messages routed and orders cut, an
annoyance that -will end when the War ends, so well have
They busted the sod prairies of his brain, tilled and sown
there, and subsidized him not to grow anything of his
own....
No letters from London, not even news of ACHTUNG.
All gone. Teddy Bloat one day just vanished: other con-
spirators, like a chorus line, will show up off and on be-
hind Katje and Sir Stephen, dancing in, all with identical
Corporate Smiles, the multiplication of whose glittering
choppers is to dazzle him, they think, distract him from
what theyâre taking away, his ID, his service dossier, his
past. Well, fuck... you know. He lets it happen. Heâs
more interested, and sometimes a little anxious, about
what they seem to be adding on. At some point, appar-
ently on a whim, though how can a fellow be sure, Slo-
throp decides to raise a mustache. Last mustache he had
_
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
245
âwas at age 13, he sent away to that Johnson Smith for a
whole Mustache Kit, 20 different shapes from Fu Manchu
to Groucho Marx. They were made of black cardboard,
with hooks that fit into your nose. After a while snot would
soak into these hooks, and theyâd grow limp, and the
mustache would fall off.
âWhat kind?â Katje wants to know, soon as this one is
visible.
âBad-guy,â sez Slothrop. Meaning, he explains, trimmed,
narrow, and villainous.
âNo, that'll give you a negative attitude. Why not raise
a good-guy mustache instead?â
âBut good guys donât haveââ
âOh no? What about Wyatt Earp?â
To which one mightâve advanced the objection that
Wyatt wasnât all that good. But this is still back in the
Stuart Lake era here, before the revisionists moved in, and
Slothrop believes in that Wyatt, all right. One day a Gen-
eral Wivern,; of SHAEF Technical Staff, comes in and sees
it. âThe ends droop down,â he observes.
âSo did that Wyattâs,â explains Slothrop.
;
âSo did John Wilkes Boothâs,â replies the general. âEh?â
Slothrop ponders. âHe was a bad guy.â
âPrecisely. Why donât you twist the ends up?â
âYou mean English style. Well, I tried that: It must be
the weather or something, the old duster just keeps
droopinâ down again, a-and I need to bite those ends off.
Itâs really annoying.â
__
âItâs disgusting,â sez Wivern. âNext time I come round
I shall bring you some wax for it. They make it with a
bitter taste to discourage, ah, end-chewers, you know.â
_.__
So as the mustache waxes, Slothrop waxes the mustache.
Every day thereâs something new like this. Katjeâs always
there, slipped by Them into his bed like nickels under the
pillow for his deciduous Americanism, innocent incisors ânâ
Momworshiping molars just left in a clattering trail back
down these days at the Casino. For some odd reason he
finds himself with hardons right after study sessions. Hm,
thatâs peculiar. There is nothing specially erotic about
reading manuals hastily translated from the Germanâ
brokenly mimeographed, even a few salvaged by the
Polish underground from the latrines at the training site
The Mechanics of Arousal
- Slothrop experiences inexplicable physiological arousal while studying technical rocket manuals and conversion factors.
- Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck secretly monitors and times Slothropâs reactions, acting as a hidden observer in a larger conspiracy.
- Despite his intelligence, Dodson-Truck is characterized as a 'loser' and a mere employee within the organizational hierarchy.
- Slothrop initiates a drinking game called 'Prince' as a subtle, impromptu counter-conspiracy against his handlers.
- The drinking game serves as a metaphor for the narrative's paranoia, where the goal is not to win, but to be the last one who hasn't lost.
There is nothing specially erotic about reading manuals hastily translated from the Germanâbrokenly mimeographed, even a few salvaged by the Polish underground from the latrines at the training site at Blizna, stained with genuine SS shit and piss...
_
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
245
âwas at age 13, he sent away to that Johnson Smith for a
whole Mustache Kit, 20 different shapes from Fu Manchu
to Groucho Marx. They were made of black cardboard,
with hooks that fit into your nose. After a while snot would
soak into these hooks, and theyâd grow limp, and the
mustache would fall off.
âWhat kind?â Katje wants to know, soon as this one is
visible.
âBad-guy,â sez Slothrop. Meaning, he explains, trimmed,
narrow, and villainous.
âNo, that'll give you a negative attitude. Why not raise
a good-guy mustache instead?â
âBut good guys donât haveââ
âOh no? What about Wyatt Earp?â
To which one mightâve advanced the objection that
Wyatt wasnât all that good. But this is still back in the
Stuart Lake era here, before the revisionists moved in, and
Slothrop believes in that Wyatt, all right. One day a Gen-
eral Wivern,; of SHAEF Technical Staff, comes in and sees
it. âThe ends droop down,â he observes.
âSo did that Wyattâs,â explains Slothrop.
;
âSo did John Wilkes Boothâs,â replies the general. âEh?â
Slothrop ponders. âHe was a bad guy.â
âPrecisely. Why donât you twist the ends up?â
âYou mean English style. Well, I tried that: It must be
the weather or something, the old duster just keeps
droopinâ down again, a-and I need to bite those ends off.
Itâs really annoying.â
__
âItâs disgusting,â sez Wivern. âNext time I come round
I shall bring you some wax for it. They make it with a
bitter taste to discourage, ah, end-chewers, you know.â
_.__
So as the mustache waxes, Slothrop waxes the mustache.
Every day thereâs something new like this. Katjeâs always
there, slipped by Them into his bed like nickels under the
pillow for his deciduous Americanism, innocent incisors ânâ
Momworshiping molars just left in a clattering trail back
down these days at the Casino. For some odd reason he
finds himself with hardons right after study sessions. Hm,
thatâs peculiar. There is nothing specially erotic about
reading manuals hastily translated from the Germanâ
brokenly mimeographed, even a few salvaged by the
Polish underground from the latrines at the training site
246
Gravityâs Rainsow
at Blizna, stained with genuine SS shit and piss...or
memorizing
conversion
factors,
inches
to centimeters,
horsepower to Pferdestirke, drawing from memory sche-
matics and isometrics of the snarled maze of fuel, oxidizer,â
steam, peroxide and permanganate lines, valves, vents,
chambersâwhatâs sexy about that? still he emerges from
each lesson with great hardon, tremendous pressure in-
side... some of that temporary insanity, he reckons, and
goes looking for Katje, hands to crabwalk his back and
silk stockings squealing against his hipbones. ...
During the lessons he will often look over and catch
Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck consulting a stopwatch and
taking notes. Jeepers. He wonders what thatâs all about.
Never occurs to him it might have to do with these mys-
terious erections. The manâs personality was chosenâor
designedâto
sidetrack suspicions before they have a
chance to gather speed. Winter sunlight hitting half his
face like a migraine, trouser cuffs out of press, wet and
sandy because heâs up every morning at six to walk along
the strand, Sir Stephen makes perfectly accessible his dis-
guise, if not his function in the conspiracy. For all Slo-
throp knows heâs an agronomist, a brain surgeon, a concert
oboistâin that London you saw all levels of command
seething with these multidimensional geniuses, But as with
Katje, there hangs about Dodson-Truckâs well-informed
zeal an unmistakable aura of the employee and loser. . . .
One day Slothrop gets a chance to check this out. Seems
Dodson-Truck is a chess fanatic. Down in the bar one
afternoon he gets around to asking Slothrop if he plays.
âNope,â lying, ânot even checkers.â
REN
âDamn. Iâve hardly had time till now for a good game.â
âI do know a game,â has something of Tantivy been
sheltering inside all this time? âa drinking game, itâs called
Prince, maybe the English even invented it, cause you have
those princes, rightP and we donât, not that thatâs wrong
understand, but everybody takes a number, a-and you
start off the Prince of Wales has lost his tails, no offense
now, the numbers going clockwise around the table, and
number two has found them, clockwise from that Prince,
or whatever number he wants to call
out actually, he,
thatâs the Prince, six or anything, see, you
pick a Prince
first, he starts it off, then that number two, or whoever
a is
Permâ
au Casino Hermann Goering
247
that Prince called, sez, but first he goes, the Prince does,
Wales, tails, two sir, after saying that about how that
Prince of Wales has lost his tails, and number two answers,
not I, sirâââ
-
'
âYes yes butââ giving Slothrop a most odd look, âI
mean I'm not quite sure I really see, you know, the point
to it all. How does one win?â
Hal How does one win, indeed. âOne doesnât win,â
easing into it, thinking of Tantivy, one small impromptu
counter-conspiracy here, âone loses. One by one. Who-
_ ever's left is the winner.â
âIt sounds rather negative.â
âGarcon.â Drinks here are always on the house for
SlothropâThey are springing for it, he imagines. âSome
of that champagne! Wantcha to just keep it coming, and
any time we run out, go get more, comprendez?â Any
. number of slack-jawed subalterns, hearing the magic word,
drift over and take seats while Slothrop explains the
es.
âTm not sureââ Dodson-Truck begins.
âBaloney. Come on, do you good to get outa that chess
rut,â
âRight, right,â agree the others.
Dodson-Truck stays in his seat, a bit tense.
âBigger glasses,â Slothrop hollers at the waiter. âHow
about those beer mugs over there! Yeah! They'd be just
fine.â The waiter unblasts a jeroboam of Veuve Clicquot
Brut, and fills everybody up.
âWell, the Prince 0â Wales,â Slothrop commences, âhas
lost his tails, and number three has found them. Wales,
tails, three sir!â
.. âNot I, sir,â replies Dodson-Truck, kind of defensive
about it.
âWho, sir?â
âFive, sir.â
âSay what?â inquires Five, a Highlander in parade
trews, with a sly look.
âYou fucked up,â commands princely Slothrop, âso you
got to drink up. All the way now, ânâ no stopping to breathe
or anything.â
On it goes. Slothrop loses Prince position to Four, and
all the numbers change. The Scot is first to drop, making
âa
ee"
â
by ein
Chaos at Casino Hermann Goering
- Slothrop leads a rowdy, high-stakes drinking game involving jeroboams of champagne and complex numerical rules.
- The atmosphere in the casino descends into a frenzied spectacle of excess, featuring pyramids of tankards and fountain-style pouring.
- As the night progresses, the game evolves into 'Rotating Prince,' where the rules become increasingly impossible to follow due to intoxication.
- The scene is punctuated by a vulgar song about royalty and schizophrenia, reflecting the surreal and fractured mental state of the participants.
- The setting becomes a sensory overload of accordion music, fist-fights, and thick smoke as the military personnel lose all discipline.
- Slothrop experiences a sense of physical transmutation, feeling his brain cells turn into champagne bubbles while attempting to maintain his mission.
Slothropâs head is a balloon, which rises not vertically but horizontally, constantly across the room, whilst staying in one place.
a is
Permâ
au Casino Hermann Goering
247
that Prince called, sez, but first he goes, the Prince does,
Wales, tails, two sir, after saying that about how that
Prince of Wales has lost his tails, and number two answers,
not I, sirâââ
-
'
âYes yes butââ giving Slothrop a most odd look, âI
mean I'm not quite sure I really see, you know, the point
to it all. How does one win?â
Hal How does one win, indeed. âOne doesnât win,â
easing into it, thinking of Tantivy, one small impromptu
counter-conspiracy here, âone loses. One by one. Who-
_ ever's left is the winner.â
âIt sounds rather negative.â
âGarcon.â Drinks here are always on the house for
SlothropâThey are springing for it, he imagines. âSome
of that champagne! Wantcha to just keep it coming, and
any time we run out, go get more, comprendez?â Any
. number of slack-jawed subalterns, hearing the magic word,
drift over and take seats while Slothrop explains the
es.
âTm not sureââ Dodson-Truck begins.
âBaloney. Come on, do you good to get outa that chess
rut,â
âRight, right,â agree the others.
Dodson-Truck stays in his seat, a bit tense.
âBigger glasses,â Slothrop hollers at the waiter. âHow
about those beer mugs over there! Yeah! They'd be just
fine.â The waiter unblasts a jeroboam of Veuve Clicquot
Brut, and fills everybody up.
âWell, the Prince 0â Wales,â Slothrop commences, âhas
lost his tails, and number three has found them. Wales,
tails, three sir!â
.. âNot I, sir,â replies Dodson-Truck, kind of defensive
about it.
âWho, sir?â
âFive, sir.â
âSay what?â inquires Five, a Highlander in parade
trews, with a sly look.
âYou fucked up,â commands princely Slothrop, âso you
got to drink up. All the way now, ânâ no stopping to breathe
or anything.â
On it goes. Slothrop loses Prince position to Four, and
all the numbers change. The Scot is first to drop, making
âa
ee"
â
by ein
248
Gravityâs Ratnsow
mistakes at first deliberate but soon inevitable. Jeroboams
come and go, fat, green, tattered gray foil at the necks
giving
.back
the
barâs
electric
radiance.
Corks
grow
straighter, less mushroomy, dates of degorgement move
further into thé war years as the company gets drunker.
The Scot has rolled chuckling from his chair, remaining
ambulatory for some ten feet, where he goes to sleep
against a potted palm. At once another junior officer slides
beaming into his place. The word has osmosed out into
the Casino, and there is presently a throng of kibitzers
gathered around the table, waiting for casualties. Ice is
being hauled in by the giant block, fern-faulted inside,
breathing white off of its faces, to be sledged arid chipped
into a great wet tub for the procession of bottles being run
up from the cellar now in relays. It soon becomes neces-
sary for the harassed waiters to stack empty tankards in
pyramids and pour fountain-style from the top, the bubble-
shot cascades provoking cheers from the crowd. Some
joker is sure to reach in and grab one of the mugs on the
bottom, sending the whole arrangement swaying, every-
body else jumping to salvage what they can before it all
comes down, crashing, soaking uniforms and shoesâso
that it can be set up all over again. The game has switched
to Rotating Prince, where each number called out imme-
diately becomes Prince, and all the numbers shift accord-
ingly. By this time it is impossible to tell whoâs making
mistakes and who isnât. Sasso arise. Half the room.
are singing a vulgar song:
VuLGAR SONG
Last night I poked the Queen of Trsglen ti,
' Tonight Ill poke the Queen of Burgundeeâ
I'm bordering on the State of Schizophren-ia,
But Queenie is so very nice to me.
Itâs pink champagne and caviar for break- a
A spot of Chateaubriand wiv me teaâ
*
Ten-shilling panatelas now are all that I can
smoke,
I laugh so much you'd think the world was' just a silly joke,
So call me what you will, mâ lads, but make way for. the â
bloke
;
Thatâs poked the love-ly lit-tle Queen of
Transyl-vaayn-yaal |
peg.
Un Permâ
au Casino Hermann Goering
249
Slothropâs head is a balloon, which rises not vertically but
horizontally, constantly across the room, whilst staying in
one place. Each brain cell has become a bubble: heâs been
transmuted to black Epernay grapes, cool shadows, noble
cuvées. He looks across at Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck, who
is still miraculously upright though with a glaze about the
eyes. Aha, right, s:posed to be counter-conspiring here, yes
yes uh, now... he gets involved watching another pyra-
midal fountain, this time of sweet Taittinger with no date
on the label. Waiters and off-duty dealers sit like birds
along the bar, staring. Noise in the place is incredible. A
Welshman with an accordion stands on a table playing
âLady of Spain,â in C, just zooming up and down that
wheezebox like a maniac. Smoke hangs thick and swirling.
Pipes glow in the murk. At least three fist-fights are in
progress. The Prince game is difficult to locate any more.
Girls crowd at the door, giggling and pointing. The light
in the room has gone bear-brown with swarming uniforms.
Slothrop, clutching his tankard, struggles to his feet, spins
around once, falls with a crash into a floating crown-and-
anchor game. Grace, he warns himself: grace.... Rois-
terers pick him up by the armpits and back pockets, and
fling him in the direction of Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck.
He makes his way on under a table, a lieutenant or two
falling over him on route, through the odd pond of spilled
bubbly, the odd slough of vomit, till he finds what he
imagines to be Dodson-Truckâs sand-filled cuffs.
âHey,â getting himself threaded among the legs of a
chair, angling his head up to locate Dodson-Truckâs face,
haloed by a hanging fringe-shaded lamp. âCan you walk?â
-
Carefully swinging his eyes down on Slothrop, âNot
sure, actually, that I can stand. .. .â They spend some time
at the business of untangling Slothrop from the chair, then
standing up, which is not without its complicationsâlocat-
ing the door, aiming for it.... Staggering, propping each
other up, they push through a bottle-wielding, walleyed,
unbuttoned, roaring, white-faced and stomach-clutching
mob, in among the lithe and perfumed audience of girls at
the exit, all sweetly high, a decompression lock for the
outside.
» âHoly shit.â This is the kind of sunset âyou hardly see any
more, a 1gth-century wilderness sunset, a few of which
Sunsets and Silent Witnesses
- Slothrop and Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck drunkenly navigate a chaotic, debauched casino environment to reach the outdoors.
- The narrative shifts to a vivid description of a '19th-century wilderness sunset' over the Mediterranean, described as a primal anachronism.
- The text reflects on the historical impulse of Empire to penetrate and 'foul' virgin landscapes and pure horizons.
- Colossal, Buddha-like figures are imagined at the edge of the world, impassively witnessing human destruction like the Angel of LĂŒbeck.
- The RAF's terror raid on LĂŒbeck is framed as a provocative act of seduction that accelerated the retaliatory V2 rocket strikes on London.
- Sir Stephen breaks down in a moment of profound, repressed despair on the beach, while the monumental witnesses look on.
Here it thunders now over the Mediterranean, high and lonely, this anachronism in primal red, in yellow purer than can be found anywhere today, a purity begging to be polluted . . .
peg.
Un Permâ
au Casino Hermann Goering
249
Slothropâs head is a balloon, which rises not vertically but
horizontally, constantly across the room, whilst staying in
one place. Each brain cell has become a bubble: heâs been
transmuted to black Epernay grapes, cool shadows, noble
cuvées. He looks across at Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck, who
is still miraculously upright though with a glaze about the
eyes. Aha, right, s:posed to be counter-conspiring here, yes
yes uh, now... he gets involved watching another pyra-
midal fountain, this time of sweet Taittinger with no date
on the label. Waiters and off-duty dealers sit like birds
along the bar, staring. Noise in the place is incredible. A
Welshman with an accordion stands on a table playing
âLady of Spain,â in C, just zooming up and down that
wheezebox like a maniac. Smoke hangs thick and swirling.
Pipes glow in the murk. At least three fist-fights are in
progress. The Prince game is difficult to locate any more.
Girls crowd at the door, giggling and pointing. The light
in the room has gone bear-brown with swarming uniforms.
Slothrop, clutching his tankard, struggles to his feet, spins
around once, falls with a crash into a floating crown-and-
anchor game. Grace, he warns himself: grace.... Rois-
terers pick him up by the armpits and back pockets, and
fling him in the direction of Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck.
He makes his way on under a table, a lieutenant or two
falling over him on route, through the odd pond of spilled
bubbly, the odd slough of vomit, till he finds what he
imagines to be Dodson-Truckâs sand-filled cuffs.
âHey,â getting himself threaded among the legs of a
chair, angling his head up to locate Dodson-Truckâs face,
haloed by a hanging fringe-shaded lamp. âCan you walk?â
-
Carefully swinging his eyes down on Slothrop, âNot
sure, actually, that I can stand. .. .â They spend some time
at the business of untangling Slothrop from the chair, then
standing up, which is not without its complicationsâlocat-
ing the door, aiming for it.... Staggering, propping each
other up, they push through a bottle-wielding, walleyed,
unbuttoned, roaring, white-faced and stomach-clutching
mob, in among the lithe and perfumed audience of girls at
the exit, all sweetly high, a decompression lock for the
outside.
» âHoly shit.â This is the kind of sunset âyou hardly see any
more, a 1gth-century wilderness sunset, a few of which
250
Gravityâs RAINBOW
got set down, approximated, on canvas, landscapes of the
American West by artists nobody ever heard of, when the
land was still free and the eye innocent, and the presence
of the Creator much more direct. Here it thunders now
over the Mediterranean, high and lonely, this anachronism
in primal red, in yellow purer than can be found any-
where today, a purity begging to be polluted .. . of course
Empire took its way westward, what other way was there
but into those virgin sunsets to penetrate and to foul?
But out at the horizon, out near the burnished edge of
the world, who are these visitors standing . .. these robed
figuresâperhaps, at this distance, hundreds of miles tallâ
their faces, serene, unattached, like the Buddhaâs, bending
over the sea, impassive, indeed, as the Angel that stood
over Liibeck during the Palm Sunday raid, come that day
neither to destroy nor to protect, but to bear witness to a
game of seduction. It was the next-to-last London took
before her submission, before that liaison that would bring
her at length to the eruption and scarring of the wasting
pox noted on Roger Mexicoâs map, latent in this love she
shares with the night-going rake Lord Death... because
sending the RAF to make a terror raid against civilian
Liibeck was the unmistakable long look that said hurry up
and fuck me, that brought the rockets hard and screaming,
the A4s, which were toâve been fired anyway, a bit sooner
instead. ...
i
What have the watchmen of worldâs edge come tonight
to look for? deepening on now, monumental beings, stoical,
on toward slag, toward ash the color the night will stabilize
at, tonight... what is there grandiose enough to witness?
only Slothrop here, and Sir Stephen, blithering along,
crossing shadow after long prison-bar shadow cast by the
tall trunks of palms lining the esplanade. The spaces be-
tween the shadows are washed a véry warm. sunset-red
now, across grainy chocolate beach. There seems to be
nothing happening of any moment. No traffic whispering
in the circular driveways, no milliards of franes being
wagered because of a woman or an entente of nations at.
any of the tables inside. Only the somewhat formal weep-
ing of Sir Stephen, down now on one a
in the sand still.
warm from the day: soft and strangled cries of despair
held in, so testifying to all the repression he ever under-
went that even Slothrop can feel, in his own throat, sympa-
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
251
thetic flashes of pain for the effort it is clearly costing the
âOh yes, yes you know, I, I canât. No. I assumed that
you knewâbut then why should they tell you? They all
know. I'm an office joke, The people even know. Noraâs
been the sweetheart of the psychic crowd for years and
years. Thatâs always good for some bit of copy in the
News of the Worldââ
âOh! Yeah! Noraâthatâs that dame that was caught
that time with the kid who-who can change his color,
right? Wow! Sure, that Nora Dodson-Truck! I knew your
name was familiarâ
But Sir Stephen has gone on:
â...had a son, yes we
came complete with sensitive son, boy about your age.
Frank...I think they sent him to Indo-China. They're
very polite when I ask, very polite but, they won't let me
find out where he is.... Theyre good chaps at Fitzmau-
rice House, Slothrop. They mean well. Itâs been, most of
itâs been my fault.... I did love Nora. I did. But there
were other things.... Important things, I believed they
were. I still do. I must. As she got along, you know...
they do get that way. You know how they are, demanding,
always trying to-to drag you into bed. I couldnât,â shaking
his head, his hair now incandescent orange in this twi-
light, âI couldnât. fd climbed too far. Another branch.
Couldnât climb back down to her. She-she might even
have been happy with a, even a touch now and then. .
Listen Slothrop, your girl, your Katje, sh-sheâs very lovely,
«e
âTh-they think I donât care, any more. âYou can observe
-without passion, Bastards...No I didnât mean that..
Slothrop, we're all such mechanical men. Doing our jobs.
Thatâs all we are. Listenâhow do you think I feel? When
youre off with her after every lesson. Iâm an impotent
manâall I have to look forward to is a book, Slothrop.
A report to write...â
âHey, Aceââ
âDonât get angry. I'm harmless. Go ahead hit me, Ill
_only fall over and bounce right up again. Watch.â He
demonstrates. âI care about you, both of you. I do care,
believe me, Slothrop.â
âO.K. Tell me whatâs going on.â
4
ve ee
The Impotent Recording Eye
- Sir Stephen reveals his humiliating role as an 'office joke' and a neuter observer for the mysterious Fitzmaurice House.
- He confesses to Slothrop that his primary function is to monitor Slothropâs progress and personal life, including his relationship with Katje.
- The dialogue exposes Sir Stephen's profound alienation and impotence, describing himself as a 'mechanical man' stripped of passion and agency.
- Sir Stephen reflects on his failed relationship with Nora Dodson-Truck and the loss of his son, Frank, who was sent away to Indo-China.
- The section concludes with a surreal, bawdy song about a stolen penis, symbolizing the loss of self and bodily autonomy to 'Them.'
- Slothrop, though drunk and weary, begins to realize the depth of the surveillance and the cold, passionless nature of the organization controlling them.
Iâm an impotent manâall I have to look forward to is a book, Slothrop. A report to write...
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
251
thetic flashes of pain for the effort it is clearly costing the
âOh yes, yes you know, I, I canât. No. I assumed that
you knewâbut then why should they tell you? They all
know. I'm an office joke, The people even know. Noraâs
been the sweetheart of the psychic crowd for years and
years. Thatâs always good for some bit of copy in the
News of the Worldââ
âOh! Yeah! Noraâthatâs that dame that was caught
that time with the kid who-who can change his color,
right? Wow! Sure, that Nora Dodson-Truck! I knew your
name was familiarâ
But Sir Stephen has gone on:
â...had a son, yes we
came complete with sensitive son, boy about your age.
Frank...I think they sent him to Indo-China. They're
very polite when I ask, very polite but, they won't let me
find out where he is.... Theyre good chaps at Fitzmau-
rice House, Slothrop. They mean well. Itâs been, most of
itâs been my fault.... I did love Nora. I did. But there
were other things.... Important things, I believed they
were. I still do. I must. As she got along, you know...
they do get that way. You know how they are, demanding,
always trying to-to drag you into bed. I couldnât,â shaking
his head, his hair now incandescent orange in this twi-
light, âI couldnât. fd climbed too far. Another branch.
Couldnât climb back down to her. She-she might even
have been happy with a, even a touch now and then. .
Listen Slothrop, your girl, your Katje, sh-sheâs very lovely,
«e
âTh-they think I donât care, any more. âYou can observe
-without passion, Bastards...No I didnât mean that..
Slothrop, we're all such mechanical men. Doing our jobs.
Thatâs all we are. Listenâhow do you think I feel? When
youre off with her after every lesson. Iâm an impotent
manâall I have to look forward to is a book, Slothrop.
A report to write...â
âHey, Aceââ
âDonât get angry. I'm harmless. Go ahead hit me, Ill
_only fall over and bounce right up again. Watch.â He
demonstrates. âI care about you, both of you. I do care,
believe me, Slothrop.â
âO.K. Tell me whatâs going on.â
4
ve ee
?
252
Gravityâs RAINBOW
_
âI care!â
âFine, fine...â
âMy âfunctionâ is to observe you. Thatâs my function.
You like my function? You like it? Your âfunctionâ... is,
learn the rocket, inch by inch. I have... to send in a daily
log of your progress. And thatâs all I know.â
But thatâs not all. Heâs holding something back, some-
thing deep, and fool Slothrop is too drunk to get at it with
any kind of style. âMe and Katje too? You looking through
the keyhole?â
Sniffing, âWhat differenceâs it make? Iâm the perfect
man for it. Perfect.
I canât even masturbate half the
time ...no nasty jissom getting all over their reports, you
know. Wouldnât want that. Just a neuter, just a recording
eye.... They're so cruel. I donât think they even know,
really...
. They arenât even sadists. ..
. Thereâs just no pas-
sion at all... .â
Slothrop puts a hand on his shoulder. The suit padding
shifts and bunches over the warm bone beneath it. He
doesnât know what to say, what to do: himself, he feels
empty, and wants to sleep.... But Sir Stephen is on his
knees, just about, quaking at the edge of it, to tell Slo-
throp a terrible secret, a fatal confidence concerning:
|
Tue Pents He THoucur Was His Own
(lead tenor);
"Twas the penis, he thought-was, his ownâ
Just a big playful boy of a bone...
With a stout purple head,
Sticking up from the bed,
Where the girlies all played Telephoneâ
(bass):
Te-le-phone....
(inner voices): | But They came through the hole in the
night,
8
icâ
(bass):
BEE oe sweet-talked it clear out of
sightâ
(inner voices):
Out of sight...
|-
(tenor);
Now he sighs all alone,
With a heartbroken moan, |
For the pe-nis, he thought-was, his,
owwwwnl
(inner voices):
Was, his, ownl
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
253
The figures out to sea have been attending, growing
now even more windy and remote as the light goes cold
_ and out..., They are so difficult to reach across toâdiffi-
cult to grasp. Carroll Eventyr, trying to confirm the Liibeck
angel, learned how difficultâhe and his control Peter
Sachsa. both, floundering
in the swamp between
the
worlds, Later on, inâ'London, came the visit from that most
ubiquitous of double agents, Sammy Hilbert-Spaess, whom
everyone had thought in Stockholm, or was at Paraguay?
âHere then,â the kindly scombroid face scanning Even-
tyr, quick as a fire-control dish antenna and even less
mercy, âI thought 'dââ
âYou thought youâd just check in.â
âTelepathic too, God heâs amazing iânât he.â Butâ the
fishy eyes will not let up. It is a rather bare room, the
address behind Gallaho Mews ordinarily reserved for cash
transactions. They have summoned Eventyr up from âThe
White Visitation.â They know in London how to draw
- pentacles too, and cry conjurations, how to bring in exactly
the ones they want....
The tabletop is crowded with
glasses, smudged, whitish, emptied or with residues of
deep brown and red drinks, with ashtrays and with debris
from artificial fowers which old Sammy here has been.
plucking, unpeeling, twisting into mysterious curves and
knots. Train-smoke blows in a partly opened window.
One wall of the room, though blank, has been eroded at,
over years, by shadows of operatives, as certain mirrors in
public easing-places have been by the images of custom-
ers: a surface gathering character, like an old face. .
âBut then you donât actually talk to him,â ah, Sammy's
so good at this, softly-softly, âI mean itâs none of your
telegraphers in the middle of the night having a bit of a
__
chat sort of thing. .
â ~ âNo. No.â Eventyr. understanding now that theyâve been
seeing transcripts of everything that comes through from
_
Peter Sachsaâthat what Eventyr himself gets to read is
already censored. And that it may have been this way for
a while now....
So relax, grow passive, watch for a shape
to develop out âof Sammy's talking, a shape that really
_Eventyr knows already, as we do working out acrosticsâ
heâs called up to London, but they arenât asking to be put
in touch with anyone, so itâs Sachsa himself they're in-
The Interdiction of Eventyr
- The medium Eventyr is summoned to a clandestine meeting in London with the elusive double agent Sammy Hilbert-Spaess.
- Eventyr realizes that his communications with the spirit of Peter Sachsa have been monitored and censored by intelligence operatives.
- The meeting serves as a veiled warning for Eventyr to stop investigating the mysterious circumstances surrounding Sachsa's death.
- A parallel is drawn between Eventyr's relationship with Nora Dodson-Truck and Sachsa's past love for Leni Pökler.
- The narrative suggests that Eventyr is being placed under a sophisticated form of house arrest to suppress dangerous secrets.
- The disappearance of Leni Pökler is linked to a larger, deliberate conspiracy that involves the manipulation of both the living and the dead.
One wall of the room, though blank, has been eroded at, over years, by shadows of operatives, as certain mirrors in public easing-places have been by the images of customers: a surface gathering character, like an old face.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
253
The figures out to sea have been attending, growing
now even more windy and remote as the light goes cold
_ and out..., They are so difficult to reach across toâdiffi-
cult to grasp. Carroll Eventyr, trying to confirm the Liibeck
angel, learned how difficultâhe and his control Peter
Sachsa. both, floundering
in the swamp between
the
worlds, Later on, inâ'London, came the visit from that most
ubiquitous of double agents, Sammy Hilbert-Spaess, whom
everyone had thought in Stockholm, or was at Paraguay?
âHere then,â the kindly scombroid face scanning Even-
tyr, quick as a fire-control dish antenna and even less
mercy, âI thought 'dââ
âYou thought youâd just check in.â
âTelepathic too, God heâs amazing iânât he.â Butâ the
fishy eyes will not let up. It is a rather bare room, the
address behind Gallaho Mews ordinarily reserved for cash
transactions. They have summoned Eventyr up from âThe
White Visitation.â They know in London how to draw
- pentacles too, and cry conjurations, how to bring in exactly
the ones they want....
The tabletop is crowded with
glasses, smudged, whitish, emptied or with residues of
deep brown and red drinks, with ashtrays and with debris
from artificial fowers which old Sammy here has been.
plucking, unpeeling, twisting into mysterious curves and
knots. Train-smoke blows in a partly opened window.
One wall of the room, though blank, has been eroded at,
over years, by shadows of operatives, as certain mirrors in
public easing-places have been by the images of custom-
ers: a surface gathering character, like an old face. .
âBut then you donât actually talk to him,â ah, Sammy's
so good at this, softly-softly, âI mean itâs none of your
telegraphers in the middle of the night having a bit of a
__
chat sort of thing. .
â ~ âNo. No.â Eventyr. understanding now that theyâve been
seeing transcripts of everything that comes through from
_
Peter Sachsaâthat what Eventyr himself gets to read is
already censored. And that it may have been this way for
a while now....
So relax, grow passive, watch for a shape
to develop out âof Sammy's talking, a shape that really
_Eventyr knows already, as we do working out acrosticsâ
heâs called up to London, but they arenât asking to be put
in touch with anyone, so itâs Sachsa himself they're in-
254
Gravityâs RAINBOW
terested in, and the purpose of this meeting is not to
commission Eventyr, but to warn him. To put a part of his
own hidden life under interdiction. Bits, tones of voice,
choices of phrasing now come flying together: â. .
. mustâve
been quite a shock to find himself over there... had a
Zaxa or two of me own to worry about... keep you out of
the street at least... see how you're holding up, old Zaxa
too of course, need to filter out personalities you see from
the data, easier for us that way... .â
Out of the street? Everyone knows how Sachas died.
But no one knows why he was out there that day, what
led up to it. And what Sammy is telling Eventyr here is:
Donât ask.
Then will they try to get to Nora too? If there are
analogies here, if Eventyr does, somehow, map on to Peter
Sachsa, then does Nora Dodson-Truck become the woman
Sachsa loved, Leni Pékler? Will the interdiction extend to
Noraâs smoky voice and steady hands, and is Eventyr to be
kept, for the duration, perhaps for his life, under some
very sophisticated form of house arrest, for crimes that
will never be told himP
Nora still carries on her Adventure, her âIdeology of
the Zero,â firm among the stoneswept hair of the last
white guardians at the last stepoff into the black, into the
radiant. ... But where will Leni be now? Where will she
have wandered off to, carrying her child, and her dreams
that will not grow up? Either we didnât mean to lose herâ
either it was an ellipsis in our care, in what some of us
will even swear is our love, or someone has taken her,
deliberately, for reasons being kept secret, and Sachsaâs
death is part of it too. She has swept. with her wings
another lifeânot husband Franz, who dreamed of, prayed
for exactly such a taking but instead is being kept for
something quite differentâPeter Sachsa, who was passive
in a different way...is there some mistake? Do They -
never make mistakes, or... why is he here rushing with
her toward her own end. (as indeed Eventyr has been â
sucked along in Noraâs furious wake) her body blocking â
from his sight everything that lies ahead, 'the slender girl â
strangely grown oaken, broad, maternal .
\. all he has toâ
go by is the debris of their time sweeping in behind from â
either side, looping away in long helices, into the dusty i
4
Ni
Policemen of the Soul
- The narrative explores the chaotic, centrifugal force of political unrest that physically and emotionally separates lovers in the street.
- Leni Pökler rejects the traditional role of 'Mother' as a state-sanctioned civil-service category used to police the soul.
- Peter Sachsa experiences a sense of impending disaster and a void that predates his own birth while caught in the momentum of the crowd.
- The domestic refuge of the family is contrasted against the 'bathtub stagnancy' of high-society soirées and the cold light of political reality.
- Leni crosses a threshold into political radicalism that Sachsa fears he cannot follow, highlighting the tension between private love and public duty.
âMother,â thatâs a civil-service category, Mothers work for Them! They're the policemen of the soul...
254
Gravityâs RAINBOW
terested in, and the purpose of this meeting is not to
commission Eventyr, but to warn him. To put a part of his
own hidden life under interdiction. Bits, tones of voice,
choices of phrasing now come flying together: â. .
. mustâve
been quite a shock to find himself over there... had a
Zaxa or two of me own to worry about... keep you out of
the street at least... see how you're holding up, old Zaxa
too of course, need to filter out personalities you see from
the data, easier for us that way... .â
Out of the street? Everyone knows how Sachas died.
But no one knows why he was out there that day, what
led up to it. And what Sammy is telling Eventyr here is:
Donât ask.
Then will they try to get to Nora too? If there are
analogies here, if Eventyr does, somehow, map on to Peter
Sachsa, then does Nora Dodson-Truck become the woman
Sachsa loved, Leni Pékler? Will the interdiction extend to
Noraâs smoky voice and steady hands, and is Eventyr to be
kept, for the duration, perhaps for his life, under some
very sophisticated form of house arrest, for crimes that
will never be told himP
Nora still carries on her Adventure, her âIdeology of
the Zero,â firm among the stoneswept hair of the last
white guardians at the last stepoff into the black, into the
radiant. ... But where will Leni be now? Where will she
have wandered off to, carrying her child, and her dreams
that will not grow up? Either we didnât mean to lose herâ
either it was an ellipsis in our care, in what some of us
will even swear is our love, or someone has taken her,
deliberately, for reasons being kept secret, and Sachsaâs
death is part of it too. She has swept. with her wings
another lifeânot husband Franz, who dreamed of, prayed
for exactly such a taking but instead is being kept for
something quite differentâPeter Sachsa, who was passive
in a different way...is there some mistake? Do They -
never make mistakes, or... why is he here rushing with
her toward her own end. (as indeed Eventyr has been â
sucked along in Noraâs furious wake) her body blocking â
from his sight everything that lies ahead, 'the slender girl â
strangely grown oaken, broad, maternal .
\. all he has toâ
go by is the debris of their time sweeping in behind from â
either side, looping away in long helices, into the dusty i
4
Ni
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
255
invisible where a last bit of sunlight lies on the stones of -
the road.... Yes: however ridiculously, he is acting out
Franz PĂ©klerâs fantasy for him, here crouched on her back,
very small, being taken: taken forward into an aether-wind
whose smell... no not that smell last encountered just be-
fore his birth... the void long before he ought to be
remembering ... which means, if itâs here again... then
eeathenstes
They are being pushed: backward by a line of police.
Peter Sachsa is jammed inside it, trying to keep his foot-
_
ing, no escape possible...Leniâs face moving, restless,
against the window of the Hamburg Flyer, concrete roads,
pedestals, industrial towers of the Mark flying away at
_
over a hundred miles an hour the perfect background,
brown, blurred, any least mistake, in the points, in the
roadbed at this speed
and theyâre done for... her skirt is
pulled up in back, the ei bottoms of her thighs, marked
red from the train seat, tum toward him... yes...in
the imminence of disaster, yes, whoeverâs watching yes. Sal
âLeni, where are you?â She was at his elbow not ten
seconds ago. They'd agreed beforehand to try and keep
together. But there are two sorts of movement out hereâ
as often as the chance displacements of strangers, across a
clear skirmish-line from the Force, will bring together
people who'll remain that way ;
for a time, in love that can
even make the oppression seem a failure, so too love, here
in the street, can be taken centrifugally apart again: faces
seen for the last time here, words spoken idly, over your
shoulder, taking for granted
sheâs there, already last
-
wordsââWill Walter be bringing wine tonight? I forgot
toââ itâs a private joke, his forgetting, going around in
some adolescent confusion, hopelessly in love too by now
with the little girl. She is his refuge from society, parties,
clients .. . often she is his sanity. Heâs taken to sitting for
a little while each night beside her bed, late at night,
watching her sleep, with her bottom up in the air and
face in the pillow...the purity, the rightness of it...
But her mother, in her own sleep, grinds her teeth often
these nights, frowns, talks in a tongue he cannot admit he
might, some time or place, know and speak fluently. Just
in this past week... what does he know of politics? but
the can see that she has crossed a threshold, found a
256
Gravity's RaInsow
istekiehiieg of the time, where he might not be able to
followâ
âYou're her mother... what if they arrest you, what
happens to her?â
âThatâs what theyâPeter âcanât you see, they want a
great swollen tit with some atrophied excuse for a human,
bleating around somewhere in its shadows. How can I be
human for her? Not her mother. âMother,â thatâs a civil-
service category, Mothers work for Them! They're the
policemen of the soul...â her face darkened, Judaized by
the words she speaks, not because itâs out loud but be-
cause she means it, and sheâs right. Against her faith,
Sachsa can see the shallows of his own life, the bathtub
stagnancy of those soirees where for years not even the
faces changed
. .
. too many tepid years. .
âBut I love you...â she brushes halve back from his
sweating forehead, they lie beneath a window through
which street- and advertising-light blow constantly, lap-
ping at their skins, at their roundings and shadows, with
spectra colder than those of the astrologersâ Moon....
âYou donât have to be anything you arenât, Peter. I
wouldnât be here if I didnât love who you are. .
Did she goad him into the street, was she the death of
him? In his view from the other side, no. In love, words
can be taken too many ways, thatâs all, But he does sake
he was sent across, for some particular reason. .. .
And Ilse, vamping him with her dark eyes, She can say
his name, but often, to flirt with him, she won't, or she'll
call him Mama.
âNo-no, thatâs Mama. Iâm Peter. Remember? Peter.â
âMama.â
Leni only gazes, a smile held between her lips almost,
he must say, smug, allowing the mix-up in names to fall,
- to set up male reverberations she canât be ignorant of. If
she doesnât want him out in the street, why does she se
keep her silence at such momentsP
âI was only glad she wasnât calling viie\Meima,? Leni
thought sheâd explain. But thatâs too close to ideology, itâs
nothing he can be comfortable with yet. |
He doesnât know
how to listen to talk like that as more than slogans strung
together: hasnât learned to hear with the revolutionary
heart, won't ever, in fact, be given enough time to ati
The Revolutionary Heart and the Rain-Witch
- A flashback depicts Peterâs final moments, exploring the complex emotional and ideological tensions between him, Leni, and Ilse.
- The narrative shifts to the brutal reality of political violence as Schutzmann Joche delivers a fatal blow to Peter during a street confrontation.
- In the present, Sir Stephen vanishes from the Casino Hermann Goering after revealing that Slothropâs physiological responses are being monitored.
- Katje confronts Slothrop in a state of fury, accusing him of sabotaging a larger operation with his 'collegiate' behavior.
- Slothrop experiences a brief, champagne-fueled moment of pure aesthetic love for the rainy landscape before returning to a tense, physical confrontation with Katje.
The Schutzmannâs first clear shot all day ...oh, his timing is perfect, he feels it in arm and out the club no longer flabby at his side but tensed back now around in a muscular curve, at the top of his swing, peak of potential energy...
256
Gravity's RaInsow
istekiehiieg of the time, where he might not be able to
followâ
âYou're her mother... what if they arrest you, what
happens to her?â
âThatâs what theyâPeter âcanât you see, they want a
great swollen tit with some atrophied excuse for a human,
bleating around somewhere in its shadows. How can I be
human for her? Not her mother. âMother,â thatâs a civil-
service category, Mothers work for Them! They're the
policemen of the soul...â her face darkened, Judaized by
the words she speaks, not because itâs out loud but be-
cause she means it, and sheâs right. Against her faith,
Sachsa can see the shallows of his own life, the bathtub
stagnancy of those soirees where for years not even the
faces changed
. .
. too many tepid years. .
âBut I love you...â she brushes halve back from his
sweating forehead, they lie beneath a window through
which street- and advertising-light blow constantly, lap-
ping at their skins, at their roundings and shadows, with
spectra colder than those of the astrologersâ Moon....
âYou donât have to be anything you arenât, Peter. I
wouldnât be here if I didnât love who you are. .
Did she goad him into the street, was she the death of
him? In his view from the other side, no. In love, words
can be taken too many ways, thatâs all, But he does sake
he was sent across, for some particular reason. .. .
And Ilse, vamping him with her dark eyes, She can say
his name, but often, to flirt with him, she won't, or she'll
call him Mama.
âNo-no, thatâs Mama. Iâm Peter. Remember? Peter.â
âMama.â
Leni only gazes, a smile held between her lips almost,
he must say, smug, allowing the mix-up in names to fall,
- to set up male reverberations she canât be ignorant of. If
she doesnât want him out in the street, why does she se
keep her silence at such momentsP
âI was only glad she wasnât calling viie\Meima,? Leni
thought sheâd explain. But thatâs too close to ideology, itâs
nothing he can be comfortable with yet. |
He doesnât know
how to listen to talk like that as more than slogans strung
together: hasnât learned to hear with the revolutionary
heart, won't ever, in fact, be given enough time to ati
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
257
a revolutionary heart from the bleak comradely love of
the others, no, no time for it now, or for anything but one
more breath, the rough breath of a man growing afraid
in the street, not even enough time to lose his fear in the
time-honored way, no, because here comes Schutzmann
Joche, truncheon already in backswing, the section of
Communist head moving into view for him stupidly, so
unaware of him and his power... the Schutzmannâs first
clear shot all day ...oh, his timing is perfect, he feels it
in arm and out the club no longer flabby at his side but
tensed back now around in a muscular curve, at the top
of his swing, peak of potential energy... far below that
gray vein in the manâs temple, frail as parchment, standing
out so clear, twitching already with its next to last pulse-
beat... and, SHIT! Ohâhowâ
How beautiful!
During the night, Sir Stephen vanishes from the Casino.
But not before telling Slothrop that his erections are of
high interest to Fitzmaurice House.
Then in the morning Katje comes storming in madder
than a wet hen, to tell Slothrop that Sir Stephenâs gone.
Suddenly everybody is telling Slothrop things, and heâs
barely awake. Rain rattles at the shutters and windows.
Monday mornings, upset stomachs, good-bys ... he blinks
out at the misted sea, the horizon mantled in gray, palms
gleaming in the rain, heavy and wet and very green. It
may be that the champagne is still with himâfor ten
extraordinary seconds thereâs nothing in his field but simple
love for what heâs seeing.
Then, perversely aware of it, he turns away, back into
the room. Time to play with Katje, now....
Her face is as pale as her hair. A rain-witch. Her hat
brim makes a chic creamy green halo around her face.
âWell, heâs gone then.â Keenness of this order might
work to provoke her. âItâs too bad. Then againâmaybe
itâs good.â
âNever mind him. How much do you know, Slothrop?â
âWhatâs that mean, never mind him? What do you do,
just throw people away?â
âDo you want to find out?â
He stands twisting his mustache. âTell me about it.â
*
258
Gravityâs RAinsow
©
âYou bastard. Youâve sabotaged the whole thing, with
your clever little collegiate drinking game.â
âWhat whole thing, Katje?â
âWhat did he tell you?â She moves a step closer. Slo-
throp watches her hands, thinking of army judo instructors
heâs seen.
It occurs to him heâs naked and also, hmm,
seems to be getting a hardon here, look out, Slothrop. Aud
nobody here to note it, or speculate why. .
âSure didnât tell me you knew any of âthat judo. Must
of taught you it in that Holland, huh? Sureâlittle things,â
singing in | descending childish thirds, âgive you away, you
know. .
âAahhââ exasperated she rushes in, aims a chop at his
head which heâs able to dodgeâgoes diving in under her
arm, lifts her in a firemanâs carry, throws her against the
bed and comes after her. She kicks a sharp heel at his
cock, which is what she shouldâve done in the first place.
Her timing, in fact, is drastically off all through this, else
she would likely be handing Slothropâs ass to him... it
may be that she wants her foot to miss, only scraping
Slothrop along the leg as he swerves now, grabs her by
the hair and twists an arm behind her, pushing her, face-
down, on the bed. Her skirt is up over her ass, her thighs
squirming underneath him, his penis in terrific erection.
âListen, cunt, donât make me lose my temper with you,
got no problems at all hitting women, I'm the Cagney of
the French Riviera, so look out.â
âTH kill youââ
âWhatâand sabotage the whole thingâ
Katje turns her head and sinks her teeth in his forearm,
up near the elbow where the Pentothal needles used to go
in. âOw, shitââ he lets go the arm heâs been twisting, pulls
down underwear, takes her by one hip and pentrates her
from behind, reaching under to pinch nipples, paw at her
clitoris, rake his nails along inside her thighs, Mister Tech-
nique here, not that it matters, theyre both ready to
comeâKatje first, screaming into the pillow, Slothrop a
second or two later. He lies on top of her, sweating, taking
great breaths, watching her face turned |
8), away, not even.
a profile, but the terrible Face That Is Ng Face, gone too
abstract, unreachable: the notch of eye socket, but never
the labile eye, only the anonymous curve of cheek, con-_
â
i
The Mechanics of Intimacy
- Slothrop and Katje engage in a violent, physically aggressive sexual encounter characterized by power struggles and mutual hostility.
- The narrative highlights a profound emotional disconnect, where Slothrop perceives Katje's face as an unreachable, lifeless mask of an 'Other Order of Being.'
- Following their encounter, the dialogue shifts abruptly from physical intimacy to the grim reality of V-2 rocket strikes in London.
- Katje interrogates Slothrop for technical data regarding rocket flight profiles, including boundary-layer temperatures and heat-transfer coefficients.
- The scene transitions into a surreal, ironically scored breakfast where technical computation replaces post-coital tenderness.
- The interaction underscores the theme of human relationships being mediated and distorted by the technology of war.
If you hear the explosion, you know you must be alive.
258
Gravityâs RAinsow
©
âYou bastard. Youâve sabotaged the whole thing, with
your clever little collegiate drinking game.â
âWhat whole thing, Katje?â
âWhat did he tell you?â She moves a step closer. Slo-
throp watches her hands, thinking of army judo instructors
heâs seen.
It occurs to him heâs naked and also, hmm,
seems to be getting a hardon here, look out, Slothrop. Aud
nobody here to note it, or speculate why. .
âSure didnât tell me you knew any of âthat judo. Must
of taught you it in that Holland, huh? Sureâlittle things,â
singing in | descending childish thirds, âgive you away, you
know. .
âAahhââ exasperated she rushes in, aims a chop at his
head which heâs able to dodgeâgoes diving in under her
arm, lifts her in a firemanâs carry, throws her against the
bed and comes after her. She kicks a sharp heel at his
cock, which is what she shouldâve done in the first place.
Her timing, in fact, is drastically off all through this, else
she would likely be handing Slothropâs ass to him... it
may be that she wants her foot to miss, only scraping
Slothrop along the leg as he swerves now, grabs her by
the hair and twists an arm behind her, pushing her, face-
down, on the bed. Her skirt is up over her ass, her thighs
squirming underneath him, his penis in terrific erection.
âListen, cunt, donât make me lose my temper with you,
got no problems at all hitting women, I'm the Cagney of
the French Riviera, so look out.â
âTH kill youââ
âWhatâand sabotage the whole thingâ
Katje turns her head and sinks her teeth in his forearm,
up near the elbow where the Pentothal needles used to go
in. âOw, shitââ he lets go the arm heâs been twisting, pulls
down underwear, takes her by one hip and pentrates her
from behind, reaching under to pinch nipples, paw at her
clitoris, rake his nails along inside her thighs, Mister Tech-
nique here, not that it matters, theyre both ready to
comeâKatje first, screaming into the pillow, Slothrop a
second or two later. He lies on top of her, sweating, taking
great breaths, watching her face turned |
8), away, not even.
a profile, but the terrible Face That Is Ng Face, gone too
abstract, unreachable: the notch of eye socket, but never
the labile eye, only the anonymous curve of cheek, con-_
â
i
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
259
' vexity of mouth, a noseless mask of the Other Order of
Being, of Katjeâs beingâthe lifeless nonface that is the
only face of hers he really knows, or will ever remember.
âHey, Katje,â âs all he sez.
âMm.â But hereâs only her old residual bigeiiess again,
and they are not, after all, to be lovers in parachutes of
sunlit voile, lapsing gently, hand in hand, down to any-
thing meadowed or calm. Surprised?
She has moved away, releasing his cock into the cold
room. âWhatâs it like in London, SlothropP When. the
rockets come down?â
âWhat?â After fucking he usually likes to lie around,
just smoke a cigarette, think about food, âUh, you donât
_ know itâs there till itâs there. Gee, till after itâs there. If it
doesnât hit you, then you're O.K. till the next one. If you
hear the explosion, you know you must be alive.â
âThatâs how you know you're alive.â
âRight.â She sits up, pulling underpants back up and
skirt back down, goes to the mirror, starts rearranging her
hair. âLetâs hear the boundary-layer temperatures. While
youre getting dressed.â
âBoundary-layer temperature T sub e, what is this?
rises exponentially
till Brennschluss,
around 70 miles
range, a-and then thereâs a sharp cusp, 1200 degrees, then
it drops a little, minimum of 1050, till you get out of the
atmosphere, then thereâs another cusp at 1080 degrees.
Stays pretty steady till re-entry,â blablabla. The bridge
music here, bright with xylophones, is based on some old
favorite that will comment, ironically but gently, on what
is transpiringâa tune such as âSchool Days, Schoo! Days,â
or âCome, Josephine, in My Flying Machine,â. or even
âThere'll Be a HOT TIME in the Old Town Tonite!â take
your pickâslowing and fading to a glassed-in porch down-
stairs, Slothrop and Katje téte-a-téte, alone except for a
number of musicians in the corner groaning and shaking
their heads, plotting how to get César Flebétomo to pay
them for a change. Bad gig, bad gig. ... Rain bats against
_glass, lemon and myrtle trees qutside.shake <r the
wind. Over croissants, strawberry jam, real butter, real.
_ coffee, she has him running. through the flight profile in
_ terms
of wall temperature
and Nusselt
heart-transfer
_ coefficients, computing in his head from Reynolds num-
The Ballistics of Desire
- Katje explains the technical and mathematical intricacies of the A4 rocket to Slothrop, framing the weapon's trajectory as a ritualistic, eroticized arc.
- The rocket is personified as 'Der Pfau' (The Peacock), with its ascent viewed as a courtship that ends in a terminal, ballistic submission.
- Katje suggests that both she and the rocket are driven by 'secret lusts' and external forces that neither Slothrop nor their handlers fully comprehend.
- Slothrop immerses himself in a 'pornography of blueprints' and technical papers by German scientists, attempting to memorize the organizational structure of PeenemĂŒnde.
- A sense of impending winter and isolation pervades their interaction as Katje warns Slothrop that he does not truly want her, just as the rocket does not truly 'want' its target.
- The pair reflects on their shared history and the 'Himmler-Spielsaal' while walking along a cold, desolate esplanade by the sea.
Katje has understood the great airless arc as a clear allusion to certain secret lusts that drive the planet and herself, and Those who use herâover its peak and down, plunging, burning, toward a terminal orgasm...
260
Gravityâs RAINBOW
bers she flashes him... equations of motion, damping,
restoring moments ... methods of computing Brennschluss
by IG and radio methods . .. equations, transformations...
âNow jet expansion angles. [ll give you altitude, you
tell me the angle.â
âKatje, why donât you tell me the angle?â
She was pleased, once, to think of a peacock, courting,
fanning his tail... she saw it in the colors that moved in
the flame
as
it rose
off the platform, scarlet, orange,
iridescent green... there were Germans, even SS troops,
who called the rocket Der Pfau. âPfau Zwei.â Ascending,
programmed in a ritual of love...at Brennschluss it is
doneâthe Rocketâs purely feminine counterpart, the zero
point at the center of its target, has submitted. All the rest
will happen according to laws of ballistics. The Rocket is
helpless in it. Something else has taken over. Something
beyond what was designed in.
Katje has understood the great airless arc as a clear
allusion to certain secret lusts that drive the planet and
herself, and Those who use herâover its peak and down,
plunging, burning, toward a terminal orgasm... which is
certainly nothing she can tell Slothrop.
They sit listening to gusts of rain thatâsâ nearly slĂ©et.
Winter gathers, breathes, deepens. A roulette ball goes
rattling, somewhere back in another room. Sheâs running.
Why? Has he come too close again? He tries to remember
if she always needed to talk this way, in draw-shots, re-
bounding first before she could touch him. Fine time to
start asking. Heâs counter-conspiring in the dark, jimmying
doors at random, no telling what'll come out. .
Dark basalt pushes up out of the sea. A Vaporous scrim
hangs across the headland and its chateaux, turning it all to
a grainy antique postcard. He touches her hand, moves
his fingers up her bare arm, reaching. .
âFim Py
âCome on upstairs,â sez Slothrop.
She may have hesitated, but so briefly| that he didnât
notice: âWhat have we been talking os all this time?â
âThat A4 rocket.â
She looks at him for a long time. At first he thinks sheâs
about to laugh at him. Then it looks like shel cry. He
doesnât understand. âOh, Slothrop. No. You donât want
âUn Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
261
me. What they're after may, but you donât. No more than
A4 wants London. But I donât think they know... about
other selves... yours or the Rocketâs...no. No more than
you do. If you canât understand it now, at least remember.
Thatâs all I can do for you.â
They go back up to her room again: cock, cunt, the -
Monday rain at the windows. ... Slothrop spends the rest
of the morning and early afternoon studying Professors
- Schiller on regenerative cooling, Wagner on combustion
equations, Pauer and Beck on exhaust gases and burning
efficiency. And a pornography of blueprints. At noon the
rain stops. Katje is off on chores of âher own. Slothrop
passes a few hours downstairs in the bar, waiters who
catch his eye smiling, holding up bottles of champagne,
wiggling them invitinglyââNo,
merci,
non....â
He's
trying to memorize the organization charts at that Peene-
miinde.
As light begins to spill from the overcast sky, he and
Katje are out taking a walk, an end-of-the-day stroll along
the esplanade. Her hand is gloveless and icy in his, her
narrow black coat making her taller, her long silences help-
ing to thin her for him nearly to fog.... They stop, lean
against a railing, he watching the midwinter sea, she the
blind and chilly Casino poised behind them. Colorless
clouds slide by, endlessly, in the sky.
- âI was thinking of the time I came in on you. That after-
noon.â He canât quite bring himself to get specific out
loud, but she knows he means the Himmler-Spielsaal.
She has looked around sharply. âSo was I.â
!.
Their breaths are torn into phantoms out to sea. She
has her hair combed high today in a pompadour, her fair
eyebrows, plucked
to wings, darkened, eyes rimmed in
black, only the outboard few lashes missed and left
blonde. Cloudlight comes slanting down across her face,
taking away color, leaving little more than a formal snap-
shot, the kind that might appear on a oon ute
âA-and you were so far away then...I couldaât reach
you.
Then. Sosmething like pity comes into her face and goes
again. But her whisper is lethal and bright as sudden wire:
\ âMaybe you'll find out. Maybe
i in one of their bombed-out
Cities beside one of their rivers or forests, even one day in
The Departure of Katje
- A cold, vertiginous encounter on a steep esplanade marks a final moment of intimacy between Slothrop and Katje.
- Katje delivers a lethal, prophetic whisper about the persistence of memory and the inevitability of future loss.
- The environment takes on a surreal, 'Other World' quality, characterized by whitecaps, drypoint trees, and a sudden kazoo band.
- Slothrop experiences a physical and emotional disconnect, unable to fully grasp Katje's European sensibilities or her internal retreat.
- Following a final night of passion, Katje vanishes, leaving Slothrop with only physical traces and a single cigarette.
But her whisper is lethal and bright as sudden wire: 'Maybe you'll find out. Maybe in one of their bombed-out Cities beside one of their rivers or forests, even one day in the rain, it will come to you.'
âUn Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
261
me. What they're after may, but you donât. No more than
A4 wants London. But I donât think they know... about
other selves... yours or the Rocketâs...no. No more than
you do. If you canât understand it now, at least remember.
Thatâs all I can do for you.â
They go back up to her room again: cock, cunt, the -
Monday rain at the windows. ... Slothrop spends the rest
of the morning and early afternoon studying Professors
- Schiller on regenerative cooling, Wagner on combustion
equations, Pauer and Beck on exhaust gases and burning
efficiency. And a pornography of blueprints. At noon the
rain stops. Katje is off on chores of âher own. Slothrop
passes a few hours downstairs in the bar, waiters who
catch his eye smiling, holding up bottles of champagne,
wiggling them invitinglyââNo,
merci,
non....â
He's
trying to memorize the organization charts at that Peene-
miinde.
As light begins to spill from the overcast sky, he and
Katje are out taking a walk, an end-of-the-day stroll along
the esplanade. Her hand is gloveless and icy in his, her
narrow black coat making her taller, her long silences help-
ing to thin her for him nearly to fog.... They stop, lean
against a railing, he watching the midwinter sea, she the
blind and chilly Casino poised behind them. Colorless
clouds slide by, endlessly, in the sky.
- âI was thinking of the time I came in on you. That after-
noon.â He canât quite bring himself to get specific out
loud, but she knows he means the Himmler-Spielsaal.
She has looked around sharply. âSo was I.â
!.
Their breaths are torn into phantoms out to sea. She
has her hair combed high today in a pompadour, her fair
eyebrows, plucked
to wings, darkened, eyes rimmed in
black, only the outboard few lashes missed and left
blonde. Cloudlight comes slanting down across her face,
taking away color, leaving little more than a formal snap-
shot, the kind that might appear on a oon ute
âA-and you were so far away then...I couldaât reach
you.
Then. Sosmething like pity comes into her face and goes
again. But her whisper is lethal and bright as sudden wire:
\ âMaybe you'll find out. Maybe
i in one of their bombed-out
Cities beside one of their rivers or forests, even one day in
262
Gravitryâs RAINBOW
the rain, it will come to you. You'll remember the Himmler-
Spielsaal, and the skirt I was wearing...memory will
dance for you, and you can even make it my voice saying
what I couldnât say then. Or now.â Oh what is it she smiles
here to him, only for that second? already gone. Back to
the mask of no luck, no futureâher faceâs rest state, pre-
ferred, easiest. ...
They are standing among black curly skeletons of iron
benches, on the empty curve of this esplanade, banked
much more steeply than the waking will ever need: vertig-
inous, trying to spill them into the sea and be rid of this.
The day has grown colder. Neither of them can stay bal-
anced for long, every few seconds one or the other must
find a new footing. He reaches and turns up the collar of
her coat, holds her cheeks then in his palms.
. . is he trying
to bring back the color of fleshP He looks down trying to
see into her eyes, and is puzzled to find tears coming up
to fill each one, soaking in among her lashes, mascara
bleeding out in fine black swirls... translucent stones,
trembling in their sockets. ...
Waves crash and drag at the stones of the beach. The
harbor has broken out in whitecaps, so brilliant they canât
be gathering their light from this drab sky. Here it is again,
that identical-looking Other Worldâis he gonna have this
to worry about, now? What thââlookit these treesâeach
long frond hanging, stung, dizzying, in laborious drypoint
against the sky, each so perfectly placed. ...
She has moved her thighs and the points of her hips up
to touch him, through her coatâit might still, after all, be
to help bring him backâher breath a white scarf, her tear-
trails, winter-lit, ice. She feels warm. But itâs not enough.
Never wasânope, he understands all right, sheâs been
meaning to go for a long time. Braced for the wind the
whitecaps imply, or for the tilt of the pavement, they hold
each other. He kisses her eyes, feels his cock again begin
to swell with good old, bad oldâold, anyhowâlust.
Out at sea a single clarinet begins to play, a droll melody
joined in on after a few bars by guitars and mandolins.
Birds huddle bright-eyed on the beach. Katjeâs heart light-
ens, a little, at the sound. Slothrop doesnât yet have the
European reflexes to clarinets, he still
thinks of Benny
Goodman and not of clowns or circusesâbut wait...
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
263
aren't these kazoos coming? Yeah, a lotta kazoos! A Kazoo
Band!
Late that night, back in her room, she wears a red gown
of heavy silk. Two tall candles burn an indefinite distance
behind her. He feels the change. After making love she
lies propped on an elbow watching him, breathing deep,
dark nipples riding with the swell, as buoys ride on the
white sea. But a patina has formed on her eyes: he canât
even see her accustomed retreat, this last time, dimmed,
graceful, to the corner of some inner room....
âKatje.â
âSshh,â raking dreamy fingernails down the morning,
over the CĂ©te dâAzur toward Italy. Slothrop wants to sing,
decides to, but then canât think of anything thatâd work.
He reaches an arm, without wetting his fingers snuffs the
candles. She kisses the pain. It hurts even more. He falls
asleep in her arms. When he wakes she is gone, com-
pletely, most of her never-worn clothes still in the closet,
blisters and a little wax on his fingers, and one cigarette,
stubbed out before its time in an exasperated fishhook. ...
She never wasted cigarettes. She must have sat, smoking,
watching him while he slept... until something,
he'll
never be asking her what, triggered her, made it impossible
to stay till cigaretteâs end. He straightens it out, finishes
it, no point wasting smokes is there, with a war on....
Oo
âOrdinarily in our behavior, we react not singly, but
-complexly, to fit the ever present contents of our environ-
ment. In old people,â Pavlov was lecturing at the age of
83, âthat matter is altogether different. Concentrating on
one stimulus we exclude by negative induction other col-
lateral and simultaneous stimuli because they often do not
suit the circumstances, are not complementary reactions
in the given setting.â
~ Thus [Pointsman never shows these excursions of his to
dy anyone], reaching for some flower on my table,
~ Iknow the cool mosaic of my room
Begin its slow, inhibitory dissolve
3
Inhibition and Institutional Panic
- A character reflects on a discarded cigarette as a sign of a sudden, unexplained departure, highlighting the tension of wartime scarcity.
- The narrative invokes Pavlovâs theories on aging, describing how the elderly focus on a single stimulus while excluding all collateral environment through 'negative induction.'
- A poetic internal monologue illustrates the sensory experience of this cognitive narrowing, likening it to a city's practice blackout where only one 'stubborn bloom' remains lit.
- The 'White Visitation' facility faces a crisis of leadership and funding as Brigadier Pudding withdraws and the Slothrop project begins to unravel.
- While his colleagues succumb to 'well-bred panic' over political inquiries and budgetary deficits, Pointsman remains unnervingly calm and increasingly affluent in appearance.
- The group fears the project is falling apart following Slothrop's recent actions and the loss of key institutional support from figures like Duncan Sandys.
Each light, winking out . . . Except at last for one bright, stubborn bloom / The Wardens cannot quench, Or not this time.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
263
aren't these kazoos coming? Yeah, a lotta kazoos! A Kazoo
Band!
Late that night, back in her room, she wears a red gown
of heavy silk. Two tall candles burn an indefinite distance
behind her. He feels the change. After making love she
lies propped on an elbow watching him, breathing deep,
dark nipples riding with the swell, as buoys ride on the
white sea. But a patina has formed on her eyes: he canât
even see her accustomed retreat, this last time, dimmed,
graceful, to the corner of some inner room....
âKatje.â
âSshh,â raking dreamy fingernails down the morning,
over the CĂ©te dâAzur toward Italy. Slothrop wants to sing,
decides to, but then canât think of anything thatâd work.
He reaches an arm, without wetting his fingers snuffs the
candles. She kisses the pain. It hurts even more. He falls
asleep in her arms. When he wakes she is gone, com-
pletely, most of her never-worn clothes still in the closet,
blisters and a little wax on his fingers, and one cigarette,
stubbed out before its time in an exasperated fishhook. ...
She never wasted cigarettes. She must have sat, smoking,
watching him while he slept... until something,
he'll
never be asking her what, triggered her, made it impossible
to stay till cigaretteâs end. He straightens it out, finishes
it, no point wasting smokes is there, with a war on....
Oo
âOrdinarily in our behavior, we react not singly, but
-complexly, to fit the ever present contents of our environ-
ment. In old people,â Pavlov was lecturing at the age of
83, âthat matter is altogether different. Concentrating on
one stimulus we exclude by negative induction other col-
lateral and simultaneous stimuli because they often do not
suit the circumstances, are not complementary reactions
in the given setting.â
~ Thus [Pointsman never shows these excursions of his to
dy anyone], reaching for some flower on my table,
~ Iknow the cool mosaic of my room
Begin its slow, inhibitory dissolve
3
264
Gravity's Rainsow
Around the bloom, the stimulus, the need
That brighter burns, as brightness, quickly sucked
From objects all around, now concentrates
( Yet less than blinding), focuses to flame.
Whilst there yet, in the roomâs hypnotic evening,
The others lurkâthe books, the instruments,
The old manâs clothes, an old gorodki stick,
Glazed now but with their presences. Their spirits,
Or memories I kept of where they were,
Are canceled, for this moment, by the flame:
The reach toward the frail and waiting flower...
And so, one of themâpen, or empty
Is knocked from where it was, perhaps to roll
Beyond the blank frontiers of memory...
Yet this, be clear, is no âsenile distraction,â
But concentrating, such as younger men
Can easily and laughing dodge, their world
Presenting too much more than one mean lossâ
And out here, eighty-three, the cortex slack,
Excitatory processes eased:'to cinders
_
By Inhibitionâs tweaking, callused fingers,
Each time my room begins its blur I feel
Iâve looked in on some cityâs practice blackout
(Such as must come, should Germany keep on
That road of madness). Each light, winking out .
Except at last for one bright, stubborn bloom '
The Wardens cannot quench, Or not this time.
The weekly briefings at âThe White Visitationâ are all
but abandoned. Hardly anyone sees the old Brigadier
about these days. There is evidence of a budgetary in-
security begun to filter in among the cherub-crusted halls
and nooks of the PISCES facility.
âThe old manâs funking,â cries Myron Grunton, none
too stable himself these days. The Slothrop group are
gathered for their regular meeting in the ARF wing. âHe'll
shoot down the whole scheme, all it'll take is one bad
Lay
A degree of well-bred panic can be observed among
those present. In the background, laboratory assistants
move about cleaning up dog shit and eltiiied instru-
ments. Rats and mice, white and black
ard a few shades
of gray, run clattering on their wheels in a\ hundred cages.
- Pointsman is the only one here maintaining his calm.
He appears unruffled and strong. His lab coats have even
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
265
begun lately
to take-on a Savile Row serenity, suppressed
waist, flaring vents, finer material, rather rakishly notched
lapels. In this parched and fallow time, he gushes affluence.
After the baying has quieted down at last, he speaks,
soothing: âThereâs no danger.â
âNo danger?â screams Aaron Throwster, and the lot of
them are off again muttering and growling.
âSlothropâs knocked out Dodson-Truck and the girl in
one day!â
âThe whole thingâs falling apart, Pointsman!â
âSince Sir Stephen came back, Fitzmaurice House has
âdropped out of the scheme, and thereâs been embarrassing
inquiries down from Duncan Sandysââ
âThat's the P.M.âs son-in-law, Pointsman, not good, not
good!â
is
âWe've already begun to run into a deficitââ
âFunding,â IF you can keep your head, âis available,
and will be coming in before long... certainly before we
run into any serious trouble. Sir Stephen, far from being
âknocked out,â is quite happily at work in Fitzmaurice
House, and is At Home there should any of you wish to
confirm. Miss Borgesius is still active on the program, and
Mr. Duncan Sandys is having all his questions answered.
But best of all; we are budgeted well into fiscal â46 be-
fore anything like a deficit begins to rear its head.â
âYour Interested Parties again?â sez Rollo Groast.
âAh, I noticed Clive Mossmoon from Imperial Chemicals
closeted with you day before yesterday,â Edwin Treacle
,mentions now. âClive and I took an organic chemistry
course or two together back at Manchester. Is ICI one of
our, ah, sponsors, Pointsman?â
âNo,â smoothly, âMossmoon, actually, is working out of
_ Malet Street these days. I'm afraid we were up to nothing
more sinister than a bit of routine coordination over this
Schwarzkommando business.â
âThe hell you were. I happen to know Cliveâs at ICI,
managing some sort of polymer research.â
They stare at each other. One is lying, or bluffing, or
both are, or all of the above. But whatever it is Pointsman
has a slight advantage. By facing squarely the extinction
âof his program, he has gained a great bit of Wisdom: that
if there is a life force operating in Nature, still there is
ee
>
Bureaucracy and Lab Rats
- Pointsman manages a tense meeting by deflecting questions about funding and his suspicious connections to ICI and Clive Mossmoon.
- The survival of the research program is revealed to depend not on natural forces, but on the individual desires and systemic mastery of men.
- Pointsman maintains control through calculated calm, using the distractions and minor oppositions of his colleagues to avoid true scrutiny.
- The narrative shifts from the human conspirators to the laboratory animals, Dog Vanya and Rat Ilya, who share a brief moment of connection.
- The laboratory animals are personified through a gritty, cinematic internal dialogue, expressing awareness of their captors and the lethal stakes of their 'accidents.'
- The section highlights the cold reality of institutional power, where human ambition directly translates into the life or death of experimental subjects.
By facing squarely the extinction of his program, he has gained a great bit of Wisdom: that if there is a life force operating in Nature, still there is nothing so analogous in a bureaucracy.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
265
begun lately
to take-on a Savile Row serenity, suppressed
waist, flaring vents, finer material, rather rakishly notched
lapels. In this parched and fallow time, he gushes affluence.
After the baying has quieted down at last, he speaks,
soothing: âThereâs no danger.â
âNo danger?â screams Aaron Throwster, and the lot of
them are off again muttering and growling.
âSlothropâs knocked out Dodson-Truck and the girl in
one day!â
âThe whole thingâs falling apart, Pointsman!â
âSince Sir Stephen came back, Fitzmaurice House has
âdropped out of the scheme, and thereâs been embarrassing
inquiries down from Duncan Sandysââ
âThat's the P.M.âs son-in-law, Pointsman, not good, not
good!â
is
âWe've already begun to run into a deficitââ
âFunding,â IF you can keep your head, âis available,
and will be coming in before long... certainly before we
run into any serious trouble. Sir Stephen, far from being
âknocked out,â is quite happily at work in Fitzmaurice
House, and is At Home there should any of you wish to
confirm. Miss Borgesius is still active on the program, and
Mr. Duncan Sandys is having all his questions answered.
But best of all; we are budgeted well into fiscal â46 be-
fore anything like a deficit begins to rear its head.â
âYour Interested Parties again?â sez Rollo Groast.
âAh, I noticed Clive Mossmoon from Imperial Chemicals
closeted with you day before yesterday,â Edwin Treacle
,mentions now. âClive and I took an organic chemistry
course or two together back at Manchester. Is ICI one of
our, ah, sponsors, Pointsman?â
âNo,â smoothly, âMossmoon, actually, is working out of
_ Malet Street these days. I'm afraid we were up to nothing
more sinister than a bit of routine coordination over this
Schwarzkommando business.â
âThe hell you were. I happen to know Cliveâs at ICI,
managing some sort of polymer research.â
They stare at each other. One is lying, or bluffing, or
both are, or all of the above. But whatever it is Pointsman
has a slight advantage. By facing squarely the extinction
âof his program, he has gained a great bit of Wisdom: that
if there is a life force operating in Nature, still there is
ee
>
266
Graviryâs RAINBOW
-
nothing so analogous in a bureaucracy. Nothing so mysti-
cal. It all comes down, as it must, to the desires of in-
dividual men. Oh, and women too of course, bless their
empty little heads. But survival depends on having strong
enough desiresâon knowing the System better than the
other chap, and how to use it. Itâs work, thatâs all it is, and
thereâs no room for any extrahuman anxietiesâthey only
weaken, effeminize the will: a man either indulges them,
or fights to win, und so weiter. âI do wish ICI would
finance part of this,â Pointsman smiles.
âLame, lame,â mutters the younger Dr, Groast.
âWhatâs it matter?â cries Aaron Throwster. âIf the old
man gets moody at the wrong time this whole show can
prang.â
âBrigadier Pudding will not go back on any of his
commitments,â Pointsman very steady, calm, âwe have
made arrangements
with him. The details
arenât im-
portant.â
They never are, in these meetings of his. Treacle has
been comfortably sidetracked onto the Mossmoon Issue,
Rollo Groastâs carping asides never get as far as serious
opposition, and are useful in presenting the appearance of
open discussion, as are Throwsterâs episodes of hysteria
for distracting the others.... So the gathering breaks up,
the conspirators head off for coffee, wives, whisky, sleep,
indifference. Webley Silvernail stays behind to secure his
audiovisual gear and loot the ashtrays. Dog Vanya, back
for the moment in an ordinary state of mind if not of kid-
neys
(which are vulnerable after a while to bromide
therapy), has been allowed a short break from the test
stand, and he goes sniffing now over to the cage of Rat
Ilya. Ilya puts his muzzle against the galvanized wire, and
the two pause this way, nose to nose, life and life....
Silvernail, puffing on a hook-shaped stub, lugging a 16 mm
projector, leaves ARF by way of a long row of cages,
exercise wheels strobing under the fluorescent lights. Care-
ful youse guys, here comes da screw. Aw heâs O.K. Looie,
heâs. a regular guy. The others laugh. Den whatâs he doinâ
in here, huh? The long white lights buzz overhead. Gray-
smocked assistants chat, smoke, linger at
various routines.
Look out, Lefty, deyâre cominâ fer you dis time. Watch dis,
chuckles Mouse Alexei, when he picks me up I'm gonna
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
267
shit, rightân his hand! Better not hey, ya know what hap-
_ pened ta Slug, donâtchaP Dey fried him when he did dat,
man, da foist time he fucked up runninâ dat maze. A
hundrit volts. Dey said it wuz a âaccident.â Yeah... sure
it wuz!
From overhead, from a German camera-angle, it occurs
to Webley Silvernail, this lab here is also a maze, iânât it
now ... behaviorists run these aisles of tables and consoles
just like rats ânâ mice. Reinforcement for them is not a
pellet of food, but.a successful experiment. But who
watches from above, who notes their responses? Who hears
the small animals in the cages as they mate, or nurse, or
communicate through the gray quadrilles, or, as now, begin
to sing... come out of their enclosures, in fact, grown to
Webley Silvernail-size (though none of the lab people
seem to be noticing) to dance him down the long aisles
and metal apparatus, with conga drums and a peppy tropi-
a orchestra taking up the very popular beat and melody
of:
Paviovia (BEGUINE)
It was spring in Pavlovia-a-a,
I was lost, ina maze...
Lysol breezes perfumed the air,
Id been searching for days.
I found you, in a cul-de-sac,
â As bewildered as Iâ
We touched noses, and suddenly
My heart learned how to fly!
So, together, we found our way,
Shared a pellet, or two...
Like an evening in some café,
Wanting nothing, but you...
Autumnâs come, to Pavlovia-a-a,
Once again, Iâm aloneâ
Finding sorrow by millivolts,
Back to neurons and bone.
And I think of our moments then,
Never knowing your nameâ
Nothingâs left in Pavlovia,
But the maze, and the game, ...
The Maze of Pavlovia
- Webley Silvernail experiences a surreal, cinematic hallucination where the laboratory becomes a maze where researchers and subjects are equally trapped.
- A chorus of giant rodents performs a musical number, 'Pavlovia,' satirizing the clinical coldness of behavioral conditioning through a romantic lens.
- The narrative draws a grim parallel between the 'V' sign for victory and the 'V-2' gesture of surrender used in propaganda leaflets.
- Silvernail reflects on the futility of liberation, noting that even those outside the cages are 'broken and reassembled' to serve an elite power structure.
- The scene shifts to Brigadier Pudding navigating the dark, gothic corridors of 'The White Visitation' to reach the asylum's D Wing.
- The text highlights a fundamental human curse: the unique knowledge of one's own mortality and the elaborate technological terrors created to suppress that fear.
I would set you free, if I knew how. But it isnât free out here. All the animals, the plants, the minerals, even other kinds of men, are being broken and reassembled every day, to preserve an elite few, who are the loudest to theorize on freedom, but the least free of all.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
267
shit, rightân his hand! Better not hey, ya know what hap-
_ pened ta Slug, donâtchaP Dey fried him when he did dat,
man, da foist time he fucked up runninâ dat maze. A
hundrit volts. Dey said it wuz a âaccident.â Yeah... sure
it wuz!
From overhead, from a German camera-angle, it occurs
to Webley Silvernail, this lab here is also a maze, iânât it
now ... behaviorists run these aisles of tables and consoles
just like rats ânâ mice. Reinforcement for them is not a
pellet of food, but.a successful experiment. But who
watches from above, who notes their responses? Who hears
the small animals in the cages as they mate, or nurse, or
communicate through the gray quadrilles, or, as now, begin
to sing... come out of their enclosures, in fact, grown to
Webley Silvernail-size (though none of the lab people
seem to be noticing) to dance him down the long aisles
and metal apparatus, with conga drums and a peppy tropi-
a orchestra taking up the very popular beat and melody
of:
Paviovia (BEGUINE)
It was spring in Pavlovia-a-a,
I was lost, ina maze...
Lysol breezes perfumed the air,
Id been searching for days.
I found you, in a cul-de-sac,
â As bewildered as Iâ
We touched noses, and suddenly
My heart learned how to fly!
So, together, we found our way,
Shared a pellet, or two...
Like an evening in some café,
Wanting nothing, but you...
Autumnâs come, to Pavlovia-a-a,
Once again, Iâm aloneâ
Finding sorrow by millivolts,
Back to neurons and bone.
And I think of our moments then,
Never knowing your nameâ
Nothingâs left in Pavlovia,
But the maze, and the game, ...
268
Gravityâs Rainsow
They dance in flowing skeins. The rats and mice form
circles, curl their tails in and out to make chrysanthemum
and sunburst patterns, eventually all form into the shape
of a single giant mouse, at whose eye Silvernail poses with
a smile, arms up in a V, sustaining the last note of the
song, along with the giant rodent-chorus and orchestra.
One of PWDâs classic propaganda leaflets these days urges
the Volksgrenadier: setzr V-2 Etn!, with a footnote, ex-
plaining that âV-2â means to raise both arms in âhonor-
able surrenderââmore gallows-humorâand telling how to
say, phonetically, âei ssĂ©rrender.â Is Webleyâs V here for
victory, or ssérrender?
They have had their moment of freedom. Webley has
only been a guest star. Now itâs back to the cages and the
rationalized forms of deathâdeath in the service of the
one species cursed with the knowledge that it will die. ...
âI would set you free, if I knew how. But it isnât free out
here. All the animals, the plants, the minerals, even other
kinds of men, are being broken and reassembled every
day, to preserve an elite few, who are the loudest to
theorize on freedom, but the least free of all. I canât even
give you hope that it will be different somedayâthat
They'll come out, and forget death, and lose Their tech-
nologyâs elaborate terror, and stop using every other form
of life without mercy to keep what haunts men down to a
tolerable levelâand be like you instead, simply
here,
simply alive....â The guest star retires down the cor-
ridors.
Lights, all but a sprinkling, are out at âThe White Visi-
tation.â The sky tonight is deep blue, blue as a Navy great-
coat, and the clouds in it are amazingly white. The wind
is keen and cold. Old Brigadier Pudding, trembling, slips
from his quarters down the back stairs, by a route only
he knows, through the vacant orangery in the starlight,
along a gallery hung to lace dandies, horses, ladies with -
hard-boiled: eggs for eyes, out a small entresol (point of
maximum danger...)
and into a lumber-room, whose
stacks of junk and random blacknesses, even this far from
his childhood, are good for a chill, out again and down a
set of metal steps, singing, he hopes quietly, for courage:
Wash me in the water
i
That you wash your dirty dunnaye
a
And I shall be whiter than the whitewash on the Galle 3
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
269
at last to D Wing, where the madmen of the âg0s persist.
The night attendant is asleep under the Daily Herald. He
is a coarse-looking fellow, and has been reading the leader.
K
is an indication of things to come, next election? Oh,
ear...
But orders are to let the Brigadier pass. The old man
tiptoes by, breathing fast. Mucus rattles back in his throat.
Heâs at the age where mucus is a daily companion, a cul-
ture of mucus among the old, mucus in a thousand mani-
festations, appearing in clots-by total surprise on a friendâs
tablecloth, rimming his breath-passages at night in hard
venturi, enough to darken the outlines of dreams and send
him awake, pleading. .
A voice from some cell too, distant for us to locate in-
tones: âI am blessed Metatron.. I am keeper of the Secret.
I am guardian of the Throne....â
In here, the more dis-
turbing Whig excesses have been Chiseled away or painted
over. No point disturbing the inmates. All is neutral tones,
soft draperies, Impressionist prints on the walls. Only the
marble. floor has been left, and under the bulbs it gleams
like water. Old Pudding must negotiate half a dozen offices
or anterooms before reaching his destination. It hasnât yet
been a fortnight, but there is already something of ritual
to this, of iteration. Each room will hold a single un-
pleasantness for him: a test he must pass. He wonders if
Pointsman hasnât set these up too. Of course, of course he
must ... how did the young bastard ever find out? Have I
been talking in mâ sleep? Have they been slipping in at
night with their truth serums toâand just at the clear
emergence of the thought, here is his first test tonight. In
the first room: a hypodermic outfit has been left lying on
a table. Very clear and shining, with the rest of the room
slightly out of focus. Yes mornings I felt terribly groggy,
couldnât wake, after dreamingâwere they dreams? I was
talking. ... But itâs all he remembers, talking while some-
one else was there listening. ... He is shivering with fear,
and his face is whiter than whitewash.
_In the second antechamber is an empty red tin that held
âcoffee. The brand name is Savarin. He understands that it
_ means to say âSeverin.â Oh, the filthy, the mocking scoun-
âdrel.... But these are not malignant puns against an in-
tended sufferer so much as a sympathetic magic, a repeti-
_ tion high and low of some prevailing form (as, for instance,
I
Zat
i
Brigadier Pudding's Ritual Gauntlet
- The aging Brigadier Pudding navigates a series of seven rooms, each designed as a psychological test or 'unpleasantness' tailored to his past.
- Pudding suspects Pointsman of using truth serums to extract his secrets and curate these specific, tormenting triggers.
- The rooms contain symbolic objectsâa hypodermic needle, a coffee tin, and a human skullâthat evoke deep-seated guilt and repressed memories.
- The gauntlet culminates in a sensory flashback to the horrors of World War I, including the smell of mustard gas and the sound of machine-gun fire.
- Despite his physical frailty and terror, Pudding follows a ritualistic path toward a final encounter in a dimly lit, scented cell.
Now mustard gas comes washing in, into his brain with a fatal buzz as dreams will when we donât want them, or when we are suffocating.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
269
at last to D Wing, where the madmen of the âg0s persist.
The night attendant is asleep under the Daily Herald. He
is a coarse-looking fellow, and has been reading the leader.
K
is an indication of things to come, next election? Oh,
ear...
But orders are to let the Brigadier pass. The old man
tiptoes by, breathing fast. Mucus rattles back in his throat.
Heâs at the age where mucus is a daily companion, a cul-
ture of mucus among the old, mucus in a thousand mani-
festations, appearing in clots-by total surprise on a friendâs
tablecloth, rimming his breath-passages at night in hard
venturi, enough to darken the outlines of dreams and send
him awake, pleading. .
A voice from some cell too, distant for us to locate in-
tones: âI am blessed Metatron.. I am keeper of the Secret.
I am guardian of the Throne....â
In here, the more dis-
turbing Whig excesses have been Chiseled away or painted
over. No point disturbing the inmates. All is neutral tones,
soft draperies, Impressionist prints on the walls. Only the
marble. floor has been left, and under the bulbs it gleams
like water. Old Pudding must negotiate half a dozen offices
or anterooms before reaching his destination. It hasnât yet
been a fortnight, but there is already something of ritual
to this, of iteration. Each room will hold a single un-
pleasantness for him: a test he must pass. He wonders if
Pointsman hasnât set these up too. Of course, of course he
must ... how did the young bastard ever find out? Have I
been talking in mâ sleep? Have they been slipping in at
night with their truth serums toâand just at the clear
emergence of the thought, here is his first test tonight. In
the first room: a hypodermic outfit has been left lying on
a table. Very clear and shining, with the rest of the room
slightly out of focus. Yes mornings I felt terribly groggy,
couldnât wake, after dreamingâwere they dreams? I was
talking. ... But itâs all he remembers, talking while some-
one else was there listening. ... He is shivering with fear,
and his face is whiter than whitewash.
_In the second antechamber is an empty red tin that held
âcoffee. The brand name is Savarin. He understands that it
_ means to say âSeverin.â Oh, the filthy, the mocking scoun-
âdrel.... But these are not malignant puns against an in-
tended sufferer so much as a sympathetic magic, a repeti-
_ tion high and low of some prevailing form (as, for instance,
I
Zat
i
270
Graviryâs RAInBow
no sane demolition man at his evening dishwater will wash
a spoon between two cups, or even between a glass and a
plate, for fear of the Trembler it implies... because itâs a
trembler-tongue he really holds, poised between its two
fatal contacts, in fingers aching with having been so sud-
denly reminded)... . In the third, a file drawer is left ajar,
a stack of case histories partly visible, and an open copy of
Krafft-Ebing. In the fourth, a human skull. His excitement
grows. In the fifth, a Malacca cane. Iâve been in more wars
for England than
I can remember... haven't I paid
enough? Risked it all for them, time after time.... Why
must they torment an old man? In the sixth chamber,
hanging from the overhead, is a tattered tommy up on
White Sheet Ridge, field uniform burned in Maxim holes
black-rimmed as the eyes of Cléo de Mérode, a
own left
eye shot away, the corpse beginning to stink .
. no!
an overcoat, someoneâs old coat thatâs all, mien
on a
a hook
in the wall... but couldnât he smell itP Now mustard
gas comes washing in, into his brain with a fatal buzz
as dreams will when we donât want them, or when we
are
suffocating. A machine-gun
on the German
side
sings dum diddy da da, an English weapon answers
dum dum, and the night tightens coiling round his body,
just before H-Hour. .
At'the seventh cell, âhis knuckles feeble against the dark
oak, he knocks. The lock, remotely, electrically com-
manded, slams open with an edge of echo trailing. He
enters, and closes the door behind him. The cell is in semi-
darkness, with only a scented candle burning back in a
corner that seems miles away. She waits for him in a
tall
Adam chair, white body and black uniform-of- the-night.
He drops to his knees.
âDomina Nocturna...
shining mother and last love. .
your servant Ernest Pudding, reporting as ordered,â
In these war years, the focus of a womanâs face is her
mouth. Lipstick, among these tough and too often shallow
girls, prevails like blood. Eyes have been left to weather
and to tears: these days, with so much death hidden in theâ
sky, out under the sea, among the blobs and smears of
recco photographs, most womenâs eyes are lonly functional.
But Pudding comes out of a different time, and Pointsman
has considered this detail too. The Brigadierâs lady has
|
The Brigadier and the Mistress
- Brigadier Ernest Pudding engages in a ritualistic submissive encounter with a woman costumed as a 'Domina Nocturna' or personification of death.
- The womanâs appearance is meticulously crafted by Pointsman to evoke the aesthetic of beauties from thirty or forty years ago, contrasting with the 'functional' look of modern war-era women.
- Pudding hallucinates or remembers meeting this dark mistress in the mud of No-man's Land during the Great War, believing she is a supernatural entity who claimed him.
- The scene explores the intersection of military hierarchy, personal trauma, and sexual fetishism as Pudding seeks 'pain' and validation through his memories of slaughter.
- The mistress uses his historical accounts of mass death, such as the Spanish Civil War, as currency to decide whether he is worthy of punishment.
Lipstick, among these tough and too often shallow girls, prevails like blood.
270
Graviryâs RAInBow
no sane demolition man at his evening dishwater will wash
a spoon between two cups, or even between a glass and a
plate, for fear of the Trembler it implies... because itâs a
trembler-tongue he really holds, poised between its two
fatal contacts, in fingers aching with having been so sud-
denly reminded)... . In the third, a file drawer is left ajar,
a stack of case histories partly visible, and an open copy of
Krafft-Ebing. In the fourth, a human skull. His excitement
grows. In the fifth, a Malacca cane. Iâve been in more wars
for England than
I can remember... haven't I paid
enough? Risked it all for them, time after time.... Why
must they torment an old man? In the sixth chamber,
hanging from the overhead, is a tattered tommy up on
White Sheet Ridge, field uniform burned in Maxim holes
black-rimmed as the eyes of Cléo de Mérode, a
own left
eye shot away, the corpse beginning to stink .
. no!
an overcoat, someoneâs old coat thatâs all, mien
on a
a hook
in the wall... but couldnât he smell itP Now mustard
gas comes washing in, into his brain with a fatal buzz
as dreams will when we donât want them, or when we
are
suffocating. A machine-gun
on the German
side
sings dum diddy da da, an English weapon answers
dum dum, and the night tightens coiling round his body,
just before H-Hour. .
At'the seventh cell, âhis knuckles feeble against the dark
oak, he knocks. The lock, remotely, electrically com-
manded, slams open with an edge of echo trailing. He
enters, and closes the door behind him. The cell is in semi-
darkness, with only a scented candle burning back in a
corner that seems miles away. She waits for him in a
tall
Adam chair, white body and black uniform-of- the-night.
He drops to his knees.
âDomina Nocturna...
shining mother and last love. .
your servant Ernest Pudding, reporting as ordered,â
In these war years, the focus of a womanâs face is her
mouth. Lipstick, among these tough and too often shallow
girls, prevails like blood. Eyes have been left to weather
and to tears: these days, with so much death hidden in theâ
sky, out under the sea, among the blobs and smears of
recco photographs, most womenâs eyes are lonly functional.
But Pudding comes out of a different time, and Pointsman
has considered this detail too. The Brigadierâs lady has
|
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
271
spent an hour at her vanity mirror with mascara, liner,
shadow, and pencil, lotions and rouges, brushes and tweez-
ers, consulting from time to time a looseleaf album filled
with photographs of the reigning beauties of thirty and
forty years ago, so that her reign these nights may be
authentic if notâit is for her state of mind as-well as hisâ
legitimate. Her blonde hair is tucked and pinned beneath
a thick wig. When she sits with her head down, forgetting
the regal posture, the hair comes forward, over her shoul-
ders, below her breasts. She is naked now, except for a long
sable cape and black boots with court heels. Her only
jewelry is a silver ring with an artificial ruby not cut to
facets but still in the original boule, an arrogant gout of
blood, extended now, waiting his kiss.
His clipped mustache bristles, trembling,
across her
fingers. She has filed her nails to long points and polished
them the same red as her ruby. Their ruby. In this light
the nails are almost black. âThatâs enough. Get ready.â
She watches him undress, medals faintly jingling, starch
shirt rattling. She wants a cigarette desperately, but her
instructions are not to smoke. She tries to keep her hands
still. âWhat are you thinking, Pudding?â
âOf the night we first met.â The mud stank. The Archies
were chugging in the darkness. His men, his poor sheep,
had taken gas that morning. He was alone. Through the
periscope, underneath a star shell that hung in the sky, he
saw her... and though he was hidden, she saw Pudding.
Her face was pale, she was dressed all in black, she stood
in No-manâs Land, the machine guns raked their patterns
all around her, but she needed no protection. âThey knew
you, Mistress. They were your own.â
âAnd so were you.â
âYou called to me, you said, âI shall never leave you.
You belong to me. We shall be together, again and again,
though it may be years between. And you will always be
at my service.ââ
;
He is on his knees again, bare as a baby. His old manâs
flesh creeps coarse-grained in the light from the candle.
Old scars and new welts group here and there over his
skin. His penis stands at present arms. She smiles. At her
âcommand, he crawls forward to kiss her boots. He smells
wax and leather, and can feel her toes flexing beneath his
„
iis
Ss
272
_
Gravityâs RaInsow
-
tongue, through the black skin. From the corner of his
eye, on a little table, he can see the remains of her early
evening meal, the edge of a plate, the tops of two bottles,
mineral water, French wine....
âTime for pain now, Brigadier. You shall have twelve of
the best, if your offering tonight pleases me.â
Here is his worst moment. She has refused him before.
His memories of the Salient do not interest her, She doesnât
seem to care for mass slaughter as much as for myth, and
personal terror... but please... please let her accept....
âAt Badajoz,â whispering humbly, âduring the war in
Spain ...a bandera of Francoâs Legion advanced on the
city, singing their regimental hymn. They sang of the bride
they had taken. It was you, Mistress: they-they were pro-
claiming you as their bride. ...â
Sheâs silent for a bit, making him wait. At last, eyes
holding his, she smiles, the component of evil
in it she has
found he needs taking care of itself as usual: âYes....
Many of them did become my bridegrooms that day,â she
whispers, flexing the bright cane. There seems to be a
winter wind in the room. Her image threatens to shake
apart into separate flakes of snow. He loves to listen to her
speak, hers is the voice that found him from the broken
rooms of the Flemish villages, he knows, he can tell from
the accent, the girls who grew old in the Low Countries,
whose voices went corrupted from young to old, gay to
indifferent, as that war drew out, season into ever more
bitter season.... âI took their brown Spanish bodies to
mine. They were the color of the dust, and the twilight,
and of meats roasted to a perfect. texture... most of them
were so very young. A summer day, a day of love: one of
the most poignant I ever knew. Thank you. You shall have
your pain tonight.â
F
Itâs a part of her routine she can enjoy, at least. Though
she has never read any classic British pornography, she
does feel herself, sure as a fish, well in the local main-
stream. Six on the buttocks, six more across the nipples.
Whack whereâs that Gourd Surprise now? Eh? She likes
the way the blood leaps to cross last nightâs welts. Often
itâs all she can do to keep from moaning herself at each of
his grunts of pain, two voices in a disson
which would
be much less accidental than it sounded.... Some nights
:
_â
The Poetry of Pain
- A woman assumes a dominant, ritualistic role over a high-ranking military official, referred to as the Brigadier.
- The Brigadier seeks physical pain as a form of 'rare decency' and truth to escape the 'paper illusions' and lies of his professional life.
- The encounter involves a highly stylized routine of corporal punishment and degradation that the woman finds herself enjoying.
- The text explores the contrast between the sterile world of military euphemisms and the visceral reality of the human body.
- The scene culminates in an act of extreme submission where the Brigadier finds a distorted sense of purity in filth and physical sensation.
They have stuffed paper illusions and military euphemisms between him and this truth, this rare decency, this moment at her scrupulous feet.
272
_
Gravityâs RaInsow
-
tongue, through the black skin. From the corner of his
eye, on a little table, he can see the remains of her early
evening meal, the edge of a plate, the tops of two bottles,
mineral water, French wine....
âTime for pain now, Brigadier. You shall have twelve of
the best, if your offering tonight pleases me.â
Here is his worst moment. She has refused him before.
His memories of the Salient do not interest her, She doesnât
seem to care for mass slaughter as much as for myth, and
personal terror... but please... please let her accept....
âAt Badajoz,â whispering humbly, âduring the war in
Spain ...a bandera of Francoâs Legion advanced on the
city, singing their regimental hymn. They sang of the bride
they had taken. It was you, Mistress: they-they were pro-
claiming you as their bride. ...â
Sheâs silent for a bit, making him wait. At last, eyes
holding his, she smiles, the component of evil
in it she has
found he needs taking care of itself as usual: âYes....
Many of them did become my bridegrooms that day,â she
whispers, flexing the bright cane. There seems to be a
winter wind in the room. Her image threatens to shake
apart into separate flakes of snow. He loves to listen to her
speak, hers is the voice that found him from the broken
rooms of the Flemish villages, he knows, he can tell from
the accent, the girls who grew old in the Low Countries,
whose voices went corrupted from young to old, gay to
indifferent, as that war drew out, season into ever more
bitter season.... âI took their brown Spanish bodies to
mine. They were the color of the dust, and the twilight,
and of meats roasted to a perfect. texture... most of them
were so very young. A summer day, a day of love: one of
the most poignant I ever knew. Thank you. You shall have
your pain tonight.â
F
Itâs a part of her routine she can enjoy, at least. Though
she has never read any classic British pornography, she
does feel herself, sure as a fish, well in the local main-
stream. Six on the buttocks, six more across the nipples.
Whack whereâs that Gourd Surprise now? Eh? She likes
the way the blood leaps to cross last nightâs welts. Often
itâs all she can do to keep from moaning herself at each of
his grunts of pain, two voices in a disson
which would
be much less accidental than it sounded.... Some nights
:
_â
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
273-
sheâs gagged him with a ceremonial sash, bound him with
a gold-tasseled fourragére or his own Sam Browne. But
tonight he lies humped im the floor at her feet, his withered
ass elevated for the cane, bound by nothing but his need
for pain, for something real, something pure. They have
taken him so far from his simple nerves. They have stuffed
paper illusions and military euphemisms between him and
this truth, this rare decency, this moment at her scrupulous
feet . .
. no itâs not guilt here, not so much as amazementâ
that he could have listened to so many years of ministers,
scientists, doctors each with his specialized lies to tell,
when she was here all the time, sure in her ownership of
his failing body,-his true body: undisguised by uniform, un-
cluttered by drugs to keep from him her communiqués of
vertigo, nausea and pain. ... Above all, pain. The clearest
poetry, the endearment oe greatest worth. .
Pidustruieiete lathes oienees to. kiss..the instrument. She
stands over him-now, legs astride, pelvis cocked forward,
fur cape held apart on her hips. He dares
to gaze
up at her
cunt, that fearful vortex. Her pubic hair has been dyed
black for the occasion. He sighs, and lets escape a small
shameful groan.
;
âAh . . . yes, know.â She laughs. âPoor mortal Brigadier,
I know. It is my last mystery,â stroking with fingemails her
labia, âyou cannot ask a woman to reveal her last mystery,
now, can yourâ
âPlease .
âNo. Not tonight. Kneel here and take what I give you.â
_
Despite himselfâalready a reflexâhe glances quickly
over at the bottles on the table, the plates, soiled with
juices of meat, Hollandaise, bits of gristle
and: bone. .
Her shadow covers his face and upper torso, her-leather
274
Graviryâs RaInsow
Donât touch my skin.â Earlier in this game she was ner-
vous, constipated, wondering if this was anything like
male impotence. But thoughtful Pointsman, anticipating
_
this, has been sending laxative pills with her meals. Now
her intestines whine softly, and she feels shit begin to
slide down and out. He kneels with his arms up holding
the rich cape. A dark turd appears out the crevice, out of
the absolute darkness between her white buttocks. He
spreads his knees, awkwardly, until he can feel the leather
of her boots. He Jeans forward to surround the hot turd
with his lips, sucking on it tenderly, licking along its lower
side... he is thinking, heâs sorry, he canât help it, thinking
of a Negroâs penis, yes he knows it abrogates part of the
conditions set, but it will not be denied, the image of a
brute African who will make him behave. ... The stink of
shit floods his nose, gathering him, surrounding. It is the
smell of Passchendaele, of the Salient. Mixed with the
mud, and the putrefaction of corpses, it was the sovereign
smell of their first meeting, and her emblem. The turd
slides into his mouth, down to his gullet. He gags, but
bravely clamps his teeth shut. Bread that would only have
floated in porcelain waters somewhere, unseen, untastedâ
risen now and baked in the bitter intestinal Oven to bread
we know, bread thatâs light as domestic comfort, secret as
death in bed... Spasms in his throat continue. The pain
is terrible. With his tongue he mashes shit against the roof
of his mouth and ni
gon to chew, thickly now, the only
sound in the room.
. There are two more turds, smaller ones, and when he
has eaten these, residual shit to lick out of her anus. He
prays that she'll let him drop the cape over himself, to be
allowed, in the silk-lined darkness, to stay a while longer
with his submissive tongue straining upward into her ass-
hole. But she moves away. The fur evaporates from his
hands. She orders him to masturbate for her. She has
watched Captain Blicero with Gottfried, and has learned
the proper style.
~
The Brigadier comes quickly. The richâ Goer of semen
fills the room like smoke.
âNow go.â He wants to cry. But he has leaded before,
offered herâabsurdlyâhis life. Tears well and slide from
his eyes. He canât look into hers. âYou have shit all over
The Degradation of Brigadier Pudding
- Brigadier Pudding engages in a visceral, scatological ritual of submission with Katje, who adopts a dominant persona modeled after Captain Blicero.
- The act is framed as a grotesque communion, linking the filth of the ritual to Pudding's traumatic memories of the mud and corpses at Passchendaele.
- Despite the extreme physical and psychological degradation, Pudding views his regular life as exile and finds his only sense of 'home' in these submissive encounters.
- The narrative shifts to the broader geopolitical landscape, noting Wernher von Braunâs 33rd birthday and the encroaching Russian front.
- The transition into spring is marked by the death of Lloyd George and the presence of obsolete coastal defenses, signaling a shift in the era of the war.
- The scene concludes with a sense of impending change, blending the 'watersleep' of winter with the 'firewaking' of a new, more volatile season.
The stink of shit floods his nose, gathering him, surrounding. It is the smell of Passchendaele, of the Salient.
274
Graviryâs RaInsow
Donât touch my skin.â Earlier in this game she was ner-
vous, constipated, wondering if this was anything like
male impotence. But thoughtful Pointsman, anticipating
_
this, has been sending laxative pills with her meals. Now
her intestines whine softly, and she feels shit begin to
slide down and out. He kneels with his arms up holding
the rich cape. A dark turd appears out the crevice, out of
the absolute darkness between her white buttocks. He
spreads his knees, awkwardly, until he can feel the leather
of her boots. He Jeans forward to surround the hot turd
with his lips, sucking on it tenderly, licking along its lower
side... he is thinking, heâs sorry, he canât help it, thinking
of a Negroâs penis, yes he knows it abrogates part of the
conditions set, but it will not be denied, the image of a
brute African who will make him behave. ... The stink of
shit floods his nose, gathering him, surrounding. It is the
smell of Passchendaele, of the Salient. Mixed with the
mud, and the putrefaction of corpses, it was the sovereign
smell of their first meeting, and her emblem. The turd
slides into his mouth, down to his gullet. He gags, but
bravely clamps his teeth shut. Bread that would only have
floated in porcelain waters somewhere, unseen, untastedâ
risen now and baked in the bitter intestinal Oven to bread
we know, bread thatâs light as domestic comfort, secret as
death in bed... Spasms in his throat continue. The pain
is terrible. With his tongue he mashes shit against the roof
of his mouth and ni
gon to chew, thickly now, the only
sound in the room.
. There are two more turds, smaller ones, and when he
has eaten these, residual shit to lick out of her anus. He
prays that she'll let him drop the cape over himself, to be
allowed, in the silk-lined darkness, to stay a while longer
with his submissive tongue straining upward into her ass-
hole. But she moves away. The fur evaporates from his
hands. She orders him to masturbate for her. She has
watched Captain Blicero with Gottfried, and has learned
the proper style.
~
The Brigadier comes quickly. The richâ Goer of semen
fills the room like smoke.
âNow go.â He wants to cry. But he has leaded before,
offered herâabsurdlyâhis life. Tears well and slide from
his eyes. He canât look into hers. âYou have shit all over
Ă©
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
275
your mouth now. Perhaps I'll take a photograph of you like
that. In case you ever get tired of me.â
âNo. No, Iâm only tired of that,â jerking his head back
out of D Wing to encompass the rest of âThe White
_ Visitation.â âSo bloody tired. .
âGet dressed, Remember to wipe your mouth off. Ill
send for you when I want you again.â
Dismissed. Back in uniform, he closes the cell door and
retraces his way in. The night attendant is still asleep.
Cold air hits Pudding like a blow. He sobs, bent, alone,
cheek resting a moment against the rough stone walls of
the Palladian house. His regular quarters have become a
place of exile, and his real home is with the Mistress of
the Night, with her soft boots and hard foreign voice. He
_
has nothing to look forward to but a late-night cup of
broth, routine :papers to sign, a dose of penicillin that
Pointsman has ordered him to take, to combat the effects
of E. coli. Perhaps, though, tomorrow night ... perhaps
then. He canât see how he can hold out much longer. But
perhaps, in the hours just before dawn...
O
The great cuspâgreen equinox and turning, dreaming
fishes to young ram, watersleep to firewaking, bears down
on us. Across the Western Front, up in the Harz in Blei-
cheréde, Wernher van Braun, lately wrecked arm in a
plaster cast, prepares
to celebrate
his 33rd birthday.
Artillery thunders through the afternoon. Russian tanks
âaise dust phantoms far away over the German leas. The
stroks are home, and the first violets have appeared.
At âThe White Visitation,â days along the chalk piece
of seacoast now are fine and clear. The office girls are
bundling
into
fewer
sweaters,
and
breasts
peaking
_ through into visibility again. March has come in like a
lamb. Lloyd George is dying. Stray visitors are observed
- now along the still-forbidden beach, sitting among obso-
_ lescent networks of steel rod and cable, trousers rolled to
âthe knee or hair unsnooded, chilly gray toes stirring the
âshingle. Just offshore, underwater, run miles of secret
iping, oil ready at a valve-twist to be released and roast
276
Gravity's Rainsow
German invaders who belong back in dreams already
old... fuel waiting hypergolic ignition that will not come
unless now as some junior-bureaucratic rag or May up-
rising of the spirit, to Bavarian tunesmith Carl Orffâs lively
O, O, O,
To-tus flore-ol
Iam amore virginali
Totus ardeo...
all this fortress coast alight, Portsmouth to Dungeness,
blazing for the love of spring. Plots to this effect hatch
daily among the livelier heads at âThe White Visitationâ â
the winter of dogs, of black snowfalls of issueless words, is
ending. Soon it will be behind us. But once there, behind
usâwill it still go on emanating its hooded cold, however
the fires burn at sea?
At the Casino Hermann Goering, a new regime has been
taking over. General Wivernâs is now the only familiar
face, though he seems toâve been downgraded. Slothropâs
own image of the plot against him has grown. Earlier the
conspiracy was monolithic, all-potent, nothing he could
ever touch. Until that drinking game, and that scene with
that Katje, and both the sudden good-bys. But nowâ
Proverbs for Paranoids, 1: You may never get to touch
the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
And then, well, he is lately beginning to find his way
into one particular state of consciousness, not a dream cer-
tainly, perhaps what used to be called a âreverie,â though
one where the colors are more primaries than pastels...
and at such times it seems he has touched, and stayed
touching, for a while, a soul we know, a voice that has
more than once spoken through research-facility medium
Carroll Eventyr: the late Roland Feldspath again, longâ
co-opted expert on control systems, guidance equations,
feedback situations for this Aeronautical Establishment
and that. Seems that, for personal reasons, Roland has re-
mained hovering over this Slothropian space, through sun-
light whose energy he barely feels and) through storms
that tickled his back with static electricity
has Roland been
whispering from eight kilometers, the savage height, sta-
tioned as he has been along one of the Last Parabolasâ
The Discipline of Control
- The winter of 'issueless words' at The White Visitation gives way to a spring of new conspiracies and shifting regimes at the Casino Hermann Goering.
- Slothropâs perception of the plot against him evolves from a monolithic, untouchable force to a system of 'creatures' he can finally interact with.
- The ghost of Roland Feldspath, a deceased control systems expert, hovers in the stratosphere as an 'invisible Interdictor' attempting to reach across the veil.
- Feldspath views Slothrop with skepticism, doubting the American's ability to survive the 'monsters of the Aether' or serve as a worthy figurehead.
- The text posits that the German Inflation was a deliberate act of social engineering designed to force young intellectuals into the study of Cybernetics and Control.
- The 'secret rhymes' of the Discipline of Control are revealed as a quest for unity gain and zero changeâa desire for absolute, frozen stability.
Proverbs for Paranoids, 1: You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
276
Gravity's Rainsow
German invaders who belong back in dreams already
old... fuel waiting hypergolic ignition that will not come
unless now as some junior-bureaucratic rag or May up-
rising of the spirit, to Bavarian tunesmith Carl Orffâs lively
O, O, O,
To-tus flore-ol
Iam amore virginali
Totus ardeo...
all this fortress coast alight, Portsmouth to Dungeness,
blazing for the love of spring. Plots to this effect hatch
daily among the livelier heads at âThe White Visitationâ â
the winter of dogs, of black snowfalls of issueless words, is
ending. Soon it will be behind us. But once there, behind
usâwill it still go on emanating its hooded cold, however
the fires burn at sea?
At the Casino Hermann Goering, a new regime has been
taking over. General Wivernâs is now the only familiar
face, though he seems toâve been downgraded. Slothropâs
own image of the plot against him has grown. Earlier the
conspiracy was monolithic, all-potent, nothing he could
ever touch. Until that drinking game, and that scene with
that Katje, and both the sudden good-bys. But nowâ
Proverbs for Paranoids, 1: You may never get to touch
the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
And then, well, he is lately beginning to find his way
into one particular state of consciousness, not a dream cer-
tainly, perhaps what used to be called a âreverie,â though
one where the colors are more primaries than pastels...
and at such times it seems he has touched, and stayed
touching, for a while, a soul we know, a voice that has
more than once spoken through research-facility medium
Carroll Eventyr: the late Roland Feldspath again, longâ
co-opted expert on control systems, guidance equations,
feedback situations for this Aeronautical Establishment
and that. Seems that, for personal reasons, Roland has re-
mained hovering over this Slothropian space, through sun-
light whose energy he barely feels and) through storms
that tickled his back with static electricity
has Roland been
whispering from eight kilometers, the savage height, sta-
tioned as he has been along one of the Last Parabolasâ
oa
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
av
flight paths that must never be takenâworking as one of
the invisible Interdictors of the stratosphere now, bureauc-
ratized hopelessly on that side as ever on this, he keeps
his astral meathooks in as well as can be expected, curled
in the âskyâ so tense with all the frustrations of trying to
. reach across, with the impotence of certain dreamers who
try to wake or talk and cannot, who struggle against
weights and probes of cranial pain that it seems could
not be borne waking; he waits, not necessarily for the aim-
less entrances of boobs like Slothrop hereâ
Roland shivers. Is this the one? This? to be figurehead
for the latest passage? Oh, dear. God have mercy: what
storms, what monsters of the Aether could this Slothrop
ever charm away for anyone?
Well, Roland must make the best of it, thatâs all. If they
get this far, he has to show them what he knows about
Control. Thatâs one of his deathâs secret missions. His
cryptic utterances that night at Snoxallâs about economic
- systems are merely the folksy everyday background chatter
over here, a given condition of being. Ask the Germans
especially. Oh, it is a real sad story, how shoddily their
Schwarmerei for Control was used by the folks in power.
Paranoid Systems of History (PSH), a short-lived periodi-
- cal of the 1920s whose plates have all mysteriously van-
ished, natch, has even suggested, in more than one edi-
torial, that the whole German Inflation was created de-
liberately, simply to drive young enthusiasts of the Cy-
bernetic Tradition into Control work: after all, an economy
inflating, upward bound as a balloon, its own definition of
Earthâs surface drifting upward in value, uncontrolled,
drifting with the days, the feedback system expected to
maintain the value of the mark constant having, humiliat-
ingly, failed.... Unity gain around the loop, unity gain,
r zero change, and hush, that way, forever, these were the
secret rhymes of the childhood of the Discipline of Con-
trolâsecret and terrible, as the scarlet histories say. Di-
verging oscillations of any kind were nearly the Worst
Threat. You could not pump the swings of these play-
grounds higher than a certain angle from the vertical.
_ Fights broke up quickly, with a smoothness that had not
- been long in coming. Rainy days never had much lightning
s
thunder to them, only a haughty glass grayness collect-
The Conservatism of Feedback
- The narrative describes a world of enforced limits where oscillations are suppressed and playgrounds are designed to prevent extreme heights.
- A metaphorical forest represents the boundaries of safety, where destruction and demons exist but are kept at bay by the 'earthworks' of bourgeois stability.
- The technical mechanics of the Rocket's yaw control are compared to a deep social conservatism that steers a middle path between extremes.
- Young engineers fail to recognize the connection between the feedback loops they design and the controlled, limited lives they lead.
- Slothrop begins to dream in German as he is trained by various experts in ordnance and propulsion for his mission into the occupied zones.
- The British Ministry of Supply's historical shift toward liquid-fueled rockets is noted as a result of cordite shortages during the war.
If any of the young engineers saw correspondence between the deep conservatism of Feedback and the kinds of lives they were coming to lead in the very process of embracing it, it got lost, or disguisedânone of them made the connection, at least not while alive.
oa
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
av
flight paths that must never be takenâworking as one of
the invisible Interdictors of the stratosphere now, bureauc-
ratized hopelessly on that side as ever on this, he keeps
his astral meathooks in as well as can be expected, curled
in the âskyâ so tense with all the frustrations of trying to
. reach across, with the impotence of certain dreamers who
try to wake or talk and cannot, who struggle against
weights and probes of cranial pain that it seems could
not be borne waking; he waits, not necessarily for the aim-
less entrances of boobs like Slothrop hereâ
Roland shivers. Is this the one? This? to be figurehead
for the latest passage? Oh, dear. God have mercy: what
storms, what monsters of the Aether could this Slothrop
ever charm away for anyone?
Well, Roland must make the best of it, thatâs all. If they
get this far, he has to show them what he knows about
Control. Thatâs one of his deathâs secret missions. His
cryptic utterances that night at Snoxallâs about economic
- systems are merely the folksy everyday background chatter
over here, a given condition of being. Ask the Germans
especially. Oh, it is a real sad story, how shoddily their
Schwarmerei for Control was used by the folks in power.
Paranoid Systems of History (PSH), a short-lived periodi-
- cal of the 1920s whose plates have all mysteriously van-
ished, natch, has even suggested, in more than one edi-
torial, that the whole German Inflation was created de-
liberately, simply to drive young enthusiasts of the Cy-
bernetic Tradition into Control work: after all, an economy
inflating, upward bound as a balloon, its own definition of
Earthâs surface drifting upward in value, uncontrolled,
drifting with the days, the feedback system expected to
maintain the value of the mark constant having, humiliat-
ingly, failed.... Unity gain around the loop, unity gain,
r zero change, and hush, that way, forever, these were the
secret rhymes of the childhood of the Discipline of Con-
trolâsecret and terrible, as the scarlet histories say. Di-
verging oscillations of any kind were nearly the Worst
Threat. You could not pump the swings of these play-
grounds higher than a certain angle from the vertical.
_ Fights broke up quickly, with a smoothness that had not
- been long in coming. Rainy days never had much lightning
s
thunder to them, only a haughty glass grayness collect-
278
Graviryâs RAINBOW
ing in the lower parts,
a monochrome overlook of valleys
crammed with mossy deadfalls jabbing roots at heaven
not entirely in malign playfulness (as some white surprise
for the elitists up there paying no mind, no...), valleys
thick with autumn, and in the rain a withering, spinsterish
brown behind the gold of it... very selectively blighted
rainfall teasing you across the lots and into the back
streets, which grow ever more mysterious and badly paved
and more deeply platted, lot giving way to crooked lot
seven times and often more, around angles of hedge, across
freaks of the optical daytime until we have passed, fevered,
silent, out of the region of streets itself and into the
countryside, into the quilted dark fields and the wood, the
beginning of the true forest, where a bit of the ordeal
ahead starts to show, and our hearts to feel afraid... but
just as no swing could ever be thrust above a certain
height, so, beyond a certain radius, the forest could be
penetrated no further. A limit was always there to be
brought to. It was so easy to grow up under that dis-
pensation. All was just as wholesome as could be, Edges
were hardly ever glimpsed, much less flirted at or with.
Destruction, oh, and demonsâyes, including Maxwellâsâ
were there, deep in the woods, with other beasts vaulting
among the earthworks of your safety. .
So was the Rocketâs terrible pases aataded, literally,
to bourgeois terms, terms of an equation such as that ele-
gant blend of philosophy and hardware, abstract change
and hinged pivots of real metals which describes motion
under the aspect of yaw control:
wf
,
o<t + 8* oy Pe S)a = â F
5 es
preserving, possessing, steering between Scylla and Cha-
rybdis the whole way to Brennschluss. If any of the young
engineers saw correspondence between the deep conserva-
tism of Feedback and the kinds of lives they were coming
to lead in the very process of embracing! it, it got lost, or
disguisedânone of them made the connection, at least not
while alive: it took death to show it to hagee Feldspath,
death with its very good chances for being Too Late, and
a host of other souls feeling themselves, even now, Rocket-
:
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
279
: like, driving out toward
the stone-blue
lights of the
Vacuum under a Control they cannot quite name... the
illumination out here is surprisingly mild, mild as heavenly
robes, a feelingâ of population and invisible force, si
ments of âvoices,â glimpses into another order of being. .
\
Afterward, Slothrop would be left not so much with any
clear symbol or scheme to it as with some alkaline after-
taste of lament, an irreducible strangeness, a self-sufficiency
nothing could get inside. ...
Yes, sort of German, these episodes here. Well, these
days Slothrop is even dreaming in the language. Folks
have been teaching him dialects, Plattdeutsch for the zone
the British plan to occupy, Thuringian if the Russians hap-
pen not to drive as far as Nordhausen, where the central
rocket works is located. Along with the language teachers
come experts-in ordnance, electronics, and aerodynamics,
and a fellow from Shell International Petroleum named
Hilary Bounce, who is going to teach him about propul-
sion.
It seems that early in 1941, the British Ministry of
Supply let a ÂŁ10,000 research contract to Shellâwanted
Shell to develop a rocket engine that would run on some-
âthing besides cordite, which was being used in those days
to blow up various sorts of people at the rate of oodles ânâ
oodles of tons an hour, and couldnât be spared for rockets.
A team ramrodded by one Isaac Lubbock set up a static-
test facility at Langhurst near Horsham, and began to
experiment with liquid oxygen and aviation fuel, running
their first successful test in August of â42. Engineer Lub-
bock was a double first at Cambridge and the Father of
British Liquid Oxygen Research, and what he didnât know
about the sour stuff wasnât worth knowing. His chief
assistant these days is Mr. Geoffrey Gollin, and it is to
Gollin that Hilary Bounce reports.
âWell, I'm an Esso man myself,â Slothrop thinks he
ought to mention. âMy old short was a gasgobbler all
right, but a gourmet, Any time it used that Shell I had to
drop a whole bottle of that Bromo in the tank just to
settle that poor fucking Terraplaneâs plumbing down.â
âActually,â the eyebrows of Captain Bounce, a 110%
company man, going up and down earnestly to help him
out, âwe handled only the transport and storage end of
Yam
,.
al
Proverbs for Paranoids
- Isaac Lubbock and his team at Langhurst conduct early liquid oxygen rocket tests for the British military.
- Slothrop discovers a suspicious connection between Shell Oil and the V-2 rocket guidance systems used by the Germans.
- The German rocket guidance transmitter is located at the Royal Dutch Shell headquarters in The Hague, exactly twelve kilometers from the launch site.
- Hilary Bounce, a Shell employee, dismisses the connection as a mere coincidence of geography and logistics.
- Slothrop begins to perceive a massive, invisible 'Presence' or conspiracy that others mistake for natural occurrences like clouds.
- The narrative introduces the concept of 'Proverbs for Paranoids,' suggesting that the innocence of individuals is inversely proportional to the power of their masters.
Well, Slothrop can feel this beast in the sky: its visible claws and scales are being mistaken for clouds and other plausibilities . . . or else everyone has agreed to call them other names when Slothrop is listening.
:
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
279
: like, driving out toward
the stone-blue
lights of the
Vacuum under a Control they cannot quite name... the
illumination out here is surprisingly mild, mild as heavenly
robes, a feelingâ of population and invisible force, si
ments of âvoices,â glimpses into another order of being. .
\
Afterward, Slothrop would be left not so much with any
clear symbol or scheme to it as with some alkaline after-
taste of lament, an irreducible strangeness, a self-sufficiency
nothing could get inside. ...
Yes, sort of German, these episodes here. Well, these
days Slothrop is even dreaming in the language. Folks
have been teaching him dialects, Plattdeutsch for the zone
the British plan to occupy, Thuringian if the Russians hap-
pen not to drive as far as Nordhausen, where the central
rocket works is located. Along with the language teachers
come experts-in ordnance, electronics, and aerodynamics,
and a fellow from Shell International Petroleum named
Hilary Bounce, who is going to teach him about propul-
sion.
It seems that early in 1941, the British Ministry of
Supply let a ÂŁ10,000 research contract to Shellâwanted
Shell to develop a rocket engine that would run on some-
âthing besides cordite, which was being used in those days
to blow up various sorts of people at the rate of oodles ânâ
oodles of tons an hour, and couldnât be spared for rockets.
A team ramrodded by one Isaac Lubbock set up a static-
test facility at Langhurst near Horsham, and began to
experiment with liquid oxygen and aviation fuel, running
their first successful test in August of â42. Engineer Lub-
bock was a double first at Cambridge and the Father of
British Liquid Oxygen Research, and what he didnât know
about the sour stuff wasnât worth knowing. His chief
assistant these days is Mr. Geoffrey Gollin, and it is to
Gollin that Hilary Bounce reports.
âWell, I'm an Esso man myself,â Slothrop thinks he
ought to mention. âMy old short was a gasgobbler all
right, but a gourmet, Any time it used that Shell I had to
drop a whole bottle of that Bromo in the tank just to
settle that poor fucking Terraplaneâs plumbing down.â
âActually,â the eyebrows of Captain Bounce, a 110%
company man, going up and down earnestly to help him
out, âwe handled only the transport and storage end of
Yam
,.
al
280
Gravityâs Ramnsow
things then. In those days, before the Japs and the Nazis
you know, production and refining were up to the Dutch
office, at The Hague.â
Slothrop, poor sap, is remembering Katje, lost Katje,
saying the name of her city, whispering Dutch love-words
as they moved down seamornings now another age, another
dispensation. ... Wait a minute, âThatâs Bataafsche Petro-
leum Maatschappij, N.V.?â
âRight.â
Itâs also the negative of a recco photograph of the city,
darkbrown, festooned with water-spots, never.enough time
to let these dry out completelyâ
âAre you blokes aware,â they're trying to teach him
English English too, heaven knows why, and it keeps
coming out like Cary Grant, âthat Jerryâold Jerry, you
knowâhas been in that The Hague there, shooting his
bloody rockets at that London, a-and using, the... Royal
Dutch Shell headquarters building, at the Josef Israelplein
if I remember correctly, for a radio guidance transmitter?
What bizarre shit is that, old man?â
.
Bounce stares at him, jingling his gastric jewelry, not
knowing what to make of Slothrop, exactly.
âI mean,â Slothrop now working himself into a fuss
over something that only disturbs him, dimly, nothing to
kick up a row over, is it? âdoesnât it. strike you as just a
bit odd, you Shell chaps working on your liquid engine
your side of the Channel you know, and their chaps firing
their bloody things at you with your own...
blasted...
Shell transmitter tower, you see.â
âNo, I canât see that it makesâwhat are you getting at?
Surely theyâd simply have picked the tallest building they
could find thatâs in a direct line from their firing sites to
London.â
âYes, and at the right distance too, donât forget thatâ
exactly twelve kilometers from the firing site. Hey? Thatâs
exactly what I mean.â Wait, oh wait. Is that what he
means?
'
|
âWell, Iâd never thought of it that way.â
Neither have I, Jackson. Oh, me neither folks... ..'
Hilary Bounce and his Puzzled Smile. Ahother innocent,
a low-key enthusiast like Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck. But:
Proverbs for Paranoids, 2: The innocence of the crea-~
ae,
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
281
_ tures is in inverse proportion to the immortality of the
Master.
âT hope I havenât said anything wrong.â
âWhyzat?â
âYou lookââ Bounce aspirating what he means to be a
\ warm little laugh, âworried.â
Worried, all right. By the jaws and teeth of some Crea-
ture, some Presence so large that nobody else can see itâ
there! thatâs that monster I was telling you about. âThatâs
no monster, stupid, thatâs clouds! âNo, canât you see? Itâs
-his feetâ Well, Slothrop can feel this beast in the sky: its
visible claws and scales are being mistaken for clouds and
other plausibilities . . . or else everyone has agreed to call
them other names when Slothrop is listening. ...
âItâs only a âwild âcoincidence, Slothrop.â
He will learn to hear quote marks in the speech of
others. It is a bookish kind of reflex, maybe heâs genetically
predisposedâall âthose earlier Slothrops packing Bibles
around the blue hilltops as part of their gear, memorizing
chapter and verse the structures of Arks, Temples, Vision-
ary Thronesâall the materials and dimensions. Data be-
hind which always, nearer or farther, was the numinous
certainty of God.
Well, what more appropriate way for Tyrone to Get It
one cold morning than this:
Itâs a blueprint of a German parts list, reproduced so
crummy he can hardly read the wordsââVorrichtung fiir
die Isolierung, 0011-5565/43,â now what's thisP He knows
the number by heart, itâs the original contract number for
the A4 rocket as a whole. Whatâs an âinsulation deviceâ
doing with the Aggregatâs contract number? And a DE
rating too, the highest Nazi priority there isP Not good.
Either a clerk at OKW fucked up, which is not unheard-of,
or else he just didnât know the number, and put the
rocketâs in as the next best thing. Claim, part and work
- numbers all have the same flagnote, which directs Slothrop
to a Document SG-1. Flagnote on the flagnote sez âGe-
âheime Kommandosache! This is a state secret, in the mean-
ing of § 35 R5138.â
âSay,â he greets General Wivern nipping in through the
_ door, âlike to get ahold of a copy of that Document SG-1.â
. oad
âHaw, haw,â replies the General. âSo would our cchaEs,
:
S| Mpagine,â
The Imipolex G Mystery
- Slothrop discovers a high-priority Nazi document referencing an 'insulation device' with a suspicious contract number.
- The document mentions a mysterious material called Imipolex G that does not appear in standard material lists or trade handbooks.
- General Wivern denies the existence of the 'SG' documents Slothrop is tracking, suggesting a deeper level of secrecy or a cover-up.
- Slothrop adopts a 'shrewd Yankee' persona to hide his growing obsession from his superiors while investigating the anomaly.
- To bypass official channels, Slothrop manipulates Hilary Bounce to gain access to a private Shell International teletype terminal.
- The search for data involves leveraging personal connections and social engineering within the chaotic environment of the Casino.
Scales and claws, and footfalls no one else seems to hear. . .
ae,
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
281
_ tures is in inverse proportion to the immortality of the
Master.
âT hope I havenât said anything wrong.â
âWhyzat?â
âYou lookââ Bounce aspirating what he means to be a
\ warm little laugh, âworried.â
Worried, all right. By the jaws and teeth of some Crea-
ture, some Presence so large that nobody else can see itâ
there! thatâs that monster I was telling you about. âThatâs
no monster, stupid, thatâs clouds! âNo, canât you see? Itâs
-his feetâ Well, Slothrop can feel this beast in the sky: its
visible claws and scales are being mistaken for clouds and
other plausibilities . . . or else everyone has agreed to call
them other names when Slothrop is listening. ...
âItâs only a âwild âcoincidence, Slothrop.â
He will learn to hear quote marks in the speech of
others. It is a bookish kind of reflex, maybe heâs genetically
predisposedâall âthose earlier Slothrops packing Bibles
around the blue hilltops as part of their gear, memorizing
chapter and verse the structures of Arks, Temples, Vision-
ary Thronesâall the materials and dimensions. Data be-
hind which always, nearer or farther, was the numinous
certainty of God.
Well, what more appropriate way for Tyrone to Get It
one cold morning than this:
Itâs a blueprint of a German parts list, reproduced so
crummy he can hardly read the wordsââVorrichtung fiir
die Isolierung, 0011-5565/43,â now what's thisP He knows
the number by heart, itâs the original contract number for
the A4 rocket as a whole. Whatâs an âinsulation deviceâ
doing with the Aggregatâs contract number? And a DE
rating too, the highest Nazi priority there isP Not good.
Either a clerk at OKW fucked up, which is not unheard-of,
or else he just didnât know the number, and put the
rocketâs in as the next best thing. Claim, part and work
- numbers all have the same flagnote, which directs Slothrop
to a Document SG-1. Flagnote on the flagnote sez âGe-
âheime Kommandosache! This is a state secret, in the mean-
ing of § 35 R5138.â
âSay,â he greets General Wivern nipping in through the
_ door, âlike to get ahold of a copy of that Document SG-1.â
. oad
âHaw, haw,â replies the General. âSo would our cchaEs,
:
S| Mpagine,â
282
Gravityâs Rainsow
âQuit fooling.â Every piece of Allied intelligence on the
A4, however classified, gets stuffed into a secret funnel
back in London and all comes out in Slothropâs fancy cell
at the Casino. So far they've held back nothing.
âSlothrop, there are no âSGâ documents.â
First impulse is to rattle the parts list in the manâs face,
but today he is the shrewd Yankee foxing the redcoats.
âOh. Well, maybe I read it wrong,â making believe look
around the paper-littered room, âmaybe it was a â56â or
something, jeepers it was just here...
.â
The General goes away again, Leaving Slothrop with a
ers kind of a, well not an obsession really... not yet
. Opposite the parts listing, over in the Materials column
now, hereâs âImipolex G.â Oh really. Insulation device
made of Imipolex G eh? He kicks around the room looking
for his handbook of German trade names. Nothing even
close to it there... he locates next a master materials list
for the A4 and all its support equipment, and thereâs sure
no Imipolex G in that either. Scales and claws, and foot-
falls no oné else seems to hear. .
âSomething wrong?â Hilary Bounce again, with his nose
in the doorway.
âItâs about this liquid oxygen, need some more of that
specific impulse data, there.â
âSpecific ...do you mean specific thrust?â
âOops, thrust, thrust,â English English to the rescue,
Bounce diverted:
âFor LOX and alcohol itâs about 200. What more do you
need to know?â
âBut didnât you chaps use -
petrol at Langhurst?â
âAmong other things, yes.â
âWell itâs about those other things. Donât you know
thereâs a war on? You canât be proprietary about stuff like
that.â
âBut all our company reports are back in London. Per-
haps my next time outââ
âShit, this red tape. I need it now, Capân!â He goes
around assuming theyâve assigned him a limitless Need To
Know, and Bounce confirms it:
âI could send back by teletype, I suppoie
âNow yer talkinâ!â Teletype? Yes, Hilary Bonine has his
own, private, Shell International N etwork Teletype tee:
hes
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
283
Terminal, just what Slothrop was hoping for, right in his
hotel room, back in the closet behind a rack of Alkit uni-
forms and stiff shirts. Slothrop finesses his way in with the
help of his friend Michele, whom heâs noticed Bounce has
an eye on. âHowdy babe,â up in a brown stocking-hung
garret where the dancing girls sleep, âhow'd you like to
get fixed up with a big oilman tonight?â Some language
problem here, sheâs thinking of getting connected through
metal fittings to a gross man dripping somehow with
crude oil, a sex angle sheâs not sure sheâd enjoy, but they
get that one straightened out, and presently Michele is
raring to go sweet-talk the man away from his teletype
long enough for Slothrop to get on to London and ask
about Imipolex G. Indeed, she has noted Captain Bounce
now and then among her nightly admirers, noted in par-
ticular an item of belly-brass that Slothropâs seen too: a
gold benzene ring with a formĂ©e cross in the centerâthe
IG Farben Award for Meritorious Contributions to Syn-
thetics Research. Bounce got that one back in â32. The in-
dustrial liaison it suggests was indeed dozing at the bottom
of Slothropâs mind when the Rocket Guidance Transmitter
Question arose. It has even, in a way, inspired the present
teletype plot. Who'd know better than an outfit like Shell,
with no real country, no side in any war, no specific face
or heritage: tapping instead out of that global stratum,
most deeply laid, from which all the appearances of cor-
porate ownership really spring?
Okay. Now there is a party tonight over on the Cap,
chez Raoul de la Perlimpinpin, young madcap heir of the
Limoges fireworks magnate Georges
(âPoudreâ)
de la
Perlimpinpinâif âpartyâ is the word for something thatâs
been going on nonstop ever since this piece of France was
liberated. Slothrop is allowedâunder the usual surveil-
lanceâto drop in to Raoulâs whenever the mood strikes
him. Itâs a giddy, shiftless crowd out thereâthey drift in
from all comers of Allied Europe, linked by some network
of family, venery and a history of other such parties whose
complexity his headâs never quite been able to fit around.
-Here and there faces will go by, old American faces from
Harvard
or from SHAEF, names
heâs lostâthey are
revenants, maybe accidental, maybe...~
It is to this party that Michele has seduced Hilary
The Teletype Plot and Raoul's Party
- Slothrop and Michele coordinate a distraction to gain access to a teletype machine to inquire about the mysterious Imipolex G.
- Captain Hilary Bounce is revealed to have ties to IG Farben, suggesting a deep-seated industrial liaison that transcends national borders.
- The narrative explores the concept of global corporate entities like Shell, which operate as a stateless stratum beneath the surface of the war.
- Slothrop attends a perpetual, decadent party hosted by Raoul de la Perlimpinpin, a fireworks heir, while under constant surveillance.
- The party is a surreal gathering of European elites and American 'revenants' from Slothrop's past, fueled by hashish-laced Hollandaise sauce.
- Slothrop adopts a flamboyant, 'debonair' persona as he navigates the chaotic social scene, pursued by a mysterious civilian tail.
Who'd know better than an outfit like Shell, with no real country, no side in any war, no specific face or heritage: tapping instead out of that global stratum, most deeply laid, from which all the appearances of corporate ownership really spring?
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
283
Terminal, just what Slothrop was hoping for, right in his
hotel room, back in the closet behind a rack of Alkit uni-
forms and stiff shirts. Slothrop finesses his way in with the
help of his friend Michele, whom heâs noticed Bounce has
an eye on. âHowdy babe,â up in a brown stocking-hung
garret where the dancing girls sleep, âhow'd you like to
get fixed up with a big oilman tonight?â Some language
problem here, sheâs thinking of getting connected through
metal fittings to a gross man dripping somehow with
crude oil, a sex angle sheâs not sure sheâd enjoy, but they
get that one straightened out, and presently Michele is
raring to go sweet-talk the man away from his teletype
long enough for Slothrop to get on to London and ask
about Imipolex G. Indeed, she has noted Captain Bounce
now and then among her nightly admirers, noted in par-
ticular an item of belly-brass that Slothropâs seen too: a
gold benzene ring with a formĂ©e cross in the centerâthe
IG Farben Award for Meritorious Contributions to Syn-
thetics Research. Bounce got that one back in â32. The in-
dustrial liaison it suggests was indeed dozing at the bottom
of Slothropâs mind when the Rocket Guidance Transmitter
Question arose. It has even, in a way, inspired the present
teletype plot. Who'd know better than an outfit like Shell,
with no real country, no side in any war, no specific face
or heritage: tapping instead out of that global stratum,
most deeply laid, from which all the appearances of cor-
porate ownership really spring?
Okay. Now there is a party tonight over on the Cap,
chez Raoul de la Perlimpinpin, young madcap heir of the
Limoges fireworks magnate Georges
(âPoudreâ)
de la
Perlimpinpinâif âpartyâ is the word for something thatâs
been going on nonstop ever since this piece of France was
liberated. Slothrop is allowedâunder the usual surveil-
lanceâto drop in to Raoulâs whenever the mood strikes
him. Itâs a giddy, shiftless crowd out thereâthey drift in
from all comers of Allied Europe, linked by some network
of family, venery and a history of other such parties whose
complexity his headâs never quite been able to fit around.
-Here and there faces will go by, old American faces from
Harvard
or from SHAEF, names
heâs lostâthey are
revenants, maybe accidental, maybe...~
It is to this party that Michele has seduced Hilary
284
Gravity's Rainsow
Bounce, and for which Slothrop, soon as his reply from
London has come nattering through, in clear, on Bounceâs
machine, now proceeds to dude himself up for. He'll read
, the information through later. Singing,
With my face shined up-like a microphone
And uh Sta-Comb on my hair,
I'm just as suave-as, an ice-cream cone, say,
Iâm Mis-ter Debo-nair. ...
and turned out in a green French suit of wicked cut with
a subtle purple check in it, broad flowered tie won at the
trente-et-quarante table, brown and white wingtip shoes
-with golf. cleats, and white socks, Slothrop tops off now
with a midnight-blue snap-brim fedora and is away, click-
ety clack out the foyer of the Casino Hermann Goering,
looking sharp. As he exits, a wiry civilian, disguised as the
Secret Serviceâs notion of an Apache, eases away from a
niche in the porte-cochere, and follows Slothropâs cab out
"the winding dark road to Raoulâs party.
oO
Turns out that some merrymaker has earlier put a hun-
dred grams of hashish in the Hallandaise, Word of this has
got around. There has been a big run on broccoli. Roasts
lie growing cold on the room-long buffet tables, A third of
the company are already asleep, mostly on the floor. It is
necessary to thread oneâs way among bodies to get to
where anythingâs happening.
What's happening is not clear. There are the usual tight
ittle groups out in the gardens, dealing. Not much spec-
tacle tonight. A homosexual triangle has fizzed over into
pinches and recriminations, so as to block the door to the.
bathroom. Young officers are outside vomiting among the
zinnias. Couples are wandering.
Girls abound, velvet-
bowed,
voile-sleeved,
underfed,
broad-shouldered
and
permed, talking in half a dozen languages, sometimes
brown from the sun here, others pale as
Deathâs Vicar
from more eastern parts of the War. Eager) young chaps
with patent-leather hair rush about trying to vamp the
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
285
ladies, while older heads with no hair at all prefer to wait,
putting out only minimal effort, eyes and mouths across
the rooms, talking business in the meantime. One end of
the salon is occupied by a dance band and an emaciated
crooner with wavy hair and very red eyes, who is singing:
_
Jursa (Fox-tTror)
Ju-lia,
Would you think me pe-cul-iar,
If I should fool ya,
In-to givinâ meâjust-a-little-kiss?
Jool-yaaahh,
No one else could love you tru-lier,
How Id worship and bejewel ya,
If you'd on-ly give-me just-a-litile-kiss!
Ahh Jool-yaaahhhhâ
My poor heart grows un-ru-lier,
No one oolier or droolier,
-
Could I be longing forâ
Whatâs moreâ
Ju-lia,
I would shout hallelujah,
To have my Jool-yaaahh,
In-my-arms forevermore.
Saxophony and Park Lane kind of tune, perfect for cer-
tain states of mind. Slothrop sees Hilary Bounce, clearly a
victim of the hallucinogenic Hollandaise, nodded out on a
great pouf with Michele, whoâs been fondling his IG
Farben trinket for the past two or three hours. Slothrop
waves, but neither one notices him.
Dopers and drinkers struggle together without shame at
the buffet and in the kitchens, ransacking the closets, lick-
ing out the bottoms of casseroles. A nude bathing party
passes through on the way down the sea-steps to the beach.
_ Our host, that Raoul, is roaming around in a ten-gallon
hat. Tom Mix shirt and brace of sixguns with a Percheron
horse by the bridle. The horse is leaving turds on the
Bokhara rug, also on the odd supine guest. It is all out of
_ shape, no focus to it until a sarcastic flourish from the
The Chaos of Waxwing
- A surreal and decadent party unfolds featuring a crooner, drug-addled guests, and a host leading a horse through the salon.
- Slothrop encounters Blodgett Waxwing, a notorious AWOL soldier and document forger wearing a white zoot suit.
- Waxwing entrusts Slothrop with a large envelope of American Army scrip to hide from potential rivals.
- The atmosphere is one of hallucinogenic disorder, where guests demand to be 'green slaves' and 'magenta slaves' in the groves.
- Waxwing is revealed to be a high-stakes black marketeer who risks execution to sneak into Army bases just to watch westerns.
The horse is leaving turds on the Bokhara rug, also on the odd supine guest.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
285
ladies, while older heads with no hair at all prefer to wait,
putting out only minimal effort, eyes and mouths across
the rooms, talking business in the meantime. One end of
the salon is occupied by a dance band and an emaciated
crooner with wavy hair and very red eyes, who is singing:
_
Jursa (Fox-tTror)
Ju-lia,
Would you think me pe-cul-iar,
If I should fool ya,
In-to givinâ meâjust-a-little-kiss?
Jool-yaaahh,
No one else could love you tru-lier,
How Id worship and bejewel ya,
If you'd on-ly give-me just-a-litile-kiss!
Ahh Jool-yaaahhhhâ
My poor heart grows un-ru-lier,
No one oolier or droolier,
-
Could I be longing forâ
Whatâs moreâ
Ju-lia,
I would shout hallelujah,
To have my Jool-yaaahh,
In-my-arms forevermore.
Saxophony and Park Lane kind of tune, perfect for cer-
tain states of mind. Slothrop sees Hilary Bounce, clearly a
victim of the hallucinogenic Hollandaise, nodded out on a
great pouf with Michele, whoâs been fondling his IG
Farben trinket for the past two or three hours. Slothrop
waves, but neither one notices him.
Dopers and drinkers struggle together without shame at
the buffet and in the kitchens, ransacking the closets, lick-
ing out the bottoms of casseroles. A nude bathing party
passes through on the way down the sea-steps to the beach.
_ Our host, that Raoul, is roaming around in a ten-gallon
hat. Tom Mix shirt and brace of sixguns with a Percheron
horse by the bridle. The horse is leaving turds on the
Bokhara rug, also on the odd supine guest. It is all out of
_ shape, no focus to it until a sarcastic flourish from the
286
Gravitryâs RAINBOW
band, and here comes the meanest customer Slothrop has
seen outside of a Frankenstein movieâwearing a white
zoot suit with reet pleats and a long gold keychain that
swings in flashing loops as he crosses the room with a
scowl for everybody, in something of a hurry but taking
the time to scan faces and bodies, head going side to side,
methodical, a little ominous. He stops at last in front of
Slothrop, whoâs putting together a Shirley Temple for
himself,
âYou.â A finger the size of a corncob, an inch from
Slothropâs nose.
âYou bet,â Slothrop dropping a maraschino cherry on
the rug then squashing it as he takes a step backward,
âTm the man all right. Sure. What is it? Anything.â
âCome on.â They proceed outside to a eucalyptus grove,
where Jean-Claude Gongue, notorious white slaver of
MarsfÂąilles, is busy white-slaving. âHey you,â hollering into
the iy âyou wanna be a white slave, huh?â âShit no,â
rs some invisible girl, âI wanna be a green slavelâ
âMagenta!â yells somebody from up in an olive tree, âVer-
milion!â âThink I'll take up dealing dope,â sez Jean-Claude.
âLook,â Slothropâs friend producing a kraft-paper en-
_velope that even in the gloom Slothrop can tell is fat with
American Army yellow-seal scrip, âI want. you to hold
this for me, till I ask for it back. It looks like Italo is going
to get here before Tamara, and Iâm not sure which oneââ
âAt this rate, Tamaraâs gonna get here before tonight,â
Slothrop interjects in a Groucho Marx voice.
~
âDonât try to undermine my confidence
i in you,â advises
the Large One. âYou're the man.â
âRight,â Slothrop tucking envelope inside pocket. âSay,
where'd you get that zoot you're vee therePâ
âWhatâs your size?â
â42, medium.â
Sg shall have one,â and so saying he rumbles off back -
inside.
âA-and a sharp keychain!â Slothrop calls after. What
thâ heckâs going onP He wanders around asking a question
or two. The fella turns out to be Blodgett Waxwing, well-
known escapee from the Caserne at Paris, the
worst stockade in the ETO. Waxwingâs specialty is phony-
ing documents of various sortsâPX ration cards, passports,
Ny
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
287
Soldbiicherâwhilst dealing in Army hardware also as a
sideline. He has been AWOL off and on since the Battle of
the Bulge, and with a death rap for that over his head he
still goes into U.S. Army bases at night to the canteens to
watch the moviesâprovided theyâre westerns, he loves
those shit-kickers, the sound of hoofbeats through a metal
speaker across a hundred yards of oildrums and deuce ânâ
a half ruts in the foreign earth makes his heart stir as if a
breeze blew there, heâs got some of his many contacts to
run him off a master schedule of every movie playing in
every occupation town in the Theatre, and heâs been
known to hot-wire a generalâs jeep just to travel up to that
Poitiers for the evening to see a good old Bob Steele or
Johnny Mack Brown. His picture may hang prominently in
all the guardrooms and be engraved in thousands of snow-
dropsâ brains, but he has seen The Return of Jack Slade
twenty-seven times,
. The story here tonight is a typical WW II romantic in-
_ trigue, just another evening at Raoulâs place, involving a
future opium shipmentâs being used by Tamara as security
against a loan from Italo, who in turn owes Waxwing for a
Sherman tank his friend Theophile i
is trying to smuggle into
Palestine but must raise a few thousand pounds for pur-
poses of bribing across the border, and so has put the tank
up as collateral to borrow from Tamara, who is using part
of her loan from Italo to pay him. But meantime the
opium deal doesnât look like itâs going to come through,
because the middleman hasnât been heard from in several
weeks, along with the money Tamara fronted him, which
she got from Raoul de la Perlimpinpin through Waxwing,
who is now being pressured by Raoul for the money be-
cause Italo, deciding the tank belongs to Tamara now,
showed up last night and took it away to an Undisclosed
Location as payment on his loan, thus causing Raoul to
panic. Something like that.
Slothropâs tail is being made indecent propositions by
two of the homosexuals whoâve been fighting in the bath-
room, Bounce and Michele are nowhere in sight, and
neitherâs that Waxwing. Raoul is talking earnestly to his
_ horse. Slothrop is just settling down next to a girl in a
prewar Worth frock and with a face like Tennielâs Alice,
'
same forehead, nose, hair, when from outside comes this
The Tank at Raoul's
- A character obsessed with Western films navigates the chaotic black-market landscape of occupied Europe.
- The narrative details a convoluted web of debt and collateral involving opium, a Sherman tank, and various underground figures.
- A social gathering at Raoul de la Perlimpinpin's house is interrupted when a stolen tank crashes through the garden.
- The tank's cannon is aimed directly into the party as Tamara emerges to denounce her business associates.
- The scene descends into slapstick violence as the tank fires, causing a massive shockwave and setting the room ablaze.
- Slothrop attempts to board the tank amidst the smoke and chaos, leading to a physical struggle with Tamara.
Its 75 mm cannon swivels until itâs pointing through the French windows right down into the room.
Ny
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
287
Soldbiicherâwhilst dealing in Army hardware also as a
sideline. He has been AWOL off and on since the Battle of
the Bulge, and with a death rap for that over his head he
still goes into U.S. Army bases at night to the canteens to
watch the moviesâprovided theyâre westerns, he loves
those shit-kickers, the sound of hoofbeats through a metal
speaker across a hundred yards of oildrums and deuce ânâ
a half ruts in the foreign earth makes his heart stir as if a
breeze blew there, heâs got some of his many contacts to
run him off a master schedule of every movie playing in
every occupation town in the Theatre, and heâs been
known to hot-wire a generalâs jeep just to travel up to that
Poitiers for the evening to see a good old Bob Steele or
Johnny Mack Brown. His picture may hang prominently in
all the guardrooms and be engraved in thousands of snow-
dropsâ brains, but he has seen The Return of Jack Slade
twenty-seven times,
. The story here tonight is a typical WW II romantic in-
_ trigue, just another evening at Raoulâs place, involving a
future opium shipmentâs being used by Tamara as security
against a loan from Italo, who in turn owes Waxwing for a
Sherman tank his friend Theophile i
is trying to smuggle into
Palestine but must raise a few thousand pounds for pur-
poses of bribing across the border, and so has put the tank
up as collateral to borrow from Tamara, who is using part
of her loan from Italo to pay him. But meantime the
opium deal doesnât look like itâs going to come through,
because the middleman hasnât been heard from in several
weeks, along with the money Tamara fronted him, which
she got from Raoul de la Perlimpinpin through Waxwing,
who is now being pressured by Raoul for the money be-
cause Italo, deciding the tank belongs to Tamara now,
showed up last night and took it away to an Undisclosed
Location as payment on his loan, thus causing Raoul to
panic. Something like that.
Slothropâs tail is being made indecent propositions by
two of the homosexuals whoâve been fighting in the bath-
room, Bounce and Michele are nowhere in sight, and
neitherâs that Waxwing. Raoul is talking earnestly to his
_ horse. Slothrop is just settling down next to a girl in a
prewar Worth frock and with a face like Tennielâs Alice,
'
same forehead, nose, hair, when from outside comes this
288
Gravityâs Rainsow
most godawful clanking, snlifting crunching of wood, girls
come running terrified out of the eucalyptus trees and into
the house and right behind them what comes crashing
now into the pallid lights of the garden butâwhy the
Sherman Tank itself! headlights burning like the eyes of
King Kong, treads spewing grass and pieces of flagstone as
it manoeuvres around and comes to a halt. Its 75 mm can-
non swivels until itâs pointing through the French windows
right down into the room. âAntoine!â a young lady focus-
ing in on the gigantic muzzle, âfor heavenâs sake, not
now....â
A hatch
flies
open
and TamaraââSlothrop
guesses: wasnât Italo supposed to have the tankPâuhâ
emerges shrieking to denounce Raoul, Waxwing, Italo,
Theophile, and the middleman on the opium deal. âBut
now,â she screams, âI have you all! One coup de foudrelâ
The hatch dropsâoh, Jesusâthereâs the sound of a 3-inch
shell being loaded into its breech. Girls start to scream
and make for the exits. Dopers are looking around, blink-
ing, smiling, saying yes in a number of ways. Raoul tries
to mount his horse and make his escape, but misses the
saddle and slides all the way over, falling into a tub
of black-market
Jell-o, raspberry flavor, with whipped
cream on top. âAw, no...â Slothrop having about de-
cided
to make
a
flanking
run
for the
tank when
YYYBLAAANNNGGG! the cannon lets loose an enormous
roar, flame shooting three feet into the room, shock wave
driving eardrums in to middle of brain, blowing everybody
against the far walls.
A drape has caught fire. Slothrop, tripping over party-
goers, canât hear anything, knows his head hurts, keeps
running through the smoke at the tankâleaps on, goes to
undog the hatch and is nearly knocked off by Tamara
popping up to holler at everybody again. After a struggle
which shouldnât be without its erotic moments, for Tamara
is a swell enough looking twist with some fine moves,
Slothrop manages to get her in a come-along and drag her
down off of the tank. But loud noise and all, lookâhe
doesnât seem to have an erection, Hmm, This is a datum
London never got, because nobody was Poe
Tums out the projectile,
a dud, has only torn holes in
several walls, and demolished a large allegorical painting
of Virtue and Vice in an unnatural act. Virtue had one of
Zoot Suits and Imipolex G
- Following a chaotic incident involving a dud projectile and a demolished painting, Slothrop is recognized for his bravery by Blodgett Waxwing.
- Waxwing offers Slothrop a future contact in Nice, warning him that he will soon need a friend as the situation at the villa becomes 'too hot.'
- The narrative traces the history of Slothrop's zoot suit back to Ricky Gutiérrez, a victim of the 1943 Zoot Suit Riots in Los Angeles.
- The text highlights the systemic injustice faced by Mexican-Americans, where zoot-suiters were forced to choose between jail and military service.
- The focus shifts to the technical origins of Imipolex G, a high-temperature aromatic heterocyclic polymer developed by L. Jamf for IG Farben.
- The development of plastics is framed as a 'central canon' of chemistry, moving from natural materials to the synthesis of entirely new molecular structures.
The zoot suit is in a box tied with a purple ribbon. Keychainâs there too. They both belonged to a kid who used to live in East Los Angeles, named Ricky GutiĂ©rrez.
288
Gravityâs Rainsow
most godawful clanking, snlifting crunching of wood, girls
come running terrified out of the eucalyptus trees and into
the house and right behind them what comes crashing
now into the pallid lights of the garden butâwhy the
Sherman Tank itself! headlights burning like the eyes of
King Kong, treads spewing grass and pieces of flagstone as
it manoeuvres around and comes to a halt. Its 75 mm can-
non swivels until itâs pointing through the French windows
right down into the room. âAntoine!â a young lady focus-
ing in on the gigantic muzzle, âfor heavenâs sake, not
now....â
A hatch
flies
open
and TamaraââSlothrop
guesses: wasnât Italo supposed to have the tankPâuhâ
emerges shrieking to denounce Raoul, Waxwing, Italo,
Theophile, and the middleman on the opium deal. âBut
now,â she screams, âI have you all! One coup de foudrelâ
The hatch dropsâoh, Jesusâthereâs the sound of a 3-inch
shell being loaded into its breech. Girls start to scream
and make for the exits. Dopers are looking around, blink-
ing, smiling, saying yes in a number of ways. Raoul tries
to mount his horse and make his escape, but misses the
saddle and slides all the way over, falling into a tub
of black-market
Jell-o, raspberry flavor, with whipped
cream on top. âAw, no...â Slothrop having about de-
cided
to make
a
flanking
run
for the
tank when
YYYBLAAANNNGGG! the cannon lets loose an enormous
roar, flame shooting three feet into the room, shock wave
driving eardrums in to middle of brain, blowing everybody
against the far walls.
A drape has caught fire. Slothrop, tripping over party-
goers, canât hear anything, knows his head hurts, keeps
running through the smoke at the tankâleaps on, goes to
undog the hatch and is nearly knocked off by Tamara
popping up to holler at everybody again. After a struggle
which shouldnât be without its erotic moments, for Tamara
is a swell enough looking twist with some fine moves,
Slothrop manages to get her in a come-along and drag her
down off of the tank. But loud noise and all, lookâhe
doesnât seem to have an erection, Hmm, This is a datum
London never got, because nobody was Poe
Tums out the projectile,
a dud, has only torn holes in
several walls, and demolished a large allegorical painting
of Virtue and Vice in an unnatural act. Virtue had one of
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
289
_ those dim faraway smiles. Vice was scratching his shaggy
head, a little bewildered. The burning drapeâs been put
out with champagne. Raoul is in tears, thankful for his
life, wringing Slothropâs hands and kissing his cheeks,
leaving trails of Jell-o wherever he touches. Tamar is
\ escorted away by Raoulâs bodyguards. Slothrop has just
disengaged himself and is wiping the Jell-o off of his suit
when there is a heavy touch on his shoulder.
âYou were right. You are the man.â
âThatâs nothing.â Errol Flynn frisks his mustache. âI
oe a dame from an octopus not so long ago, how about
atPâ
âWith one difference,â sez Blodgett Waxwing. âThis
really happened tonight. But that octopus didnât.â
âHow do you know?â
â
âI know a lot. Not everything, but a few things you
donât. Listen Slothropâyou'll be needing a friend, and
sooner than you think. Donât come here to the villaâit
may be too hot by thenâbut if you can make it as far as
Niceââ he hands over a business card, embossed with a
chess knight and an address on Rue Rossini. âI'll take the
envelope back. Hereâs your suit. Thanks, brother.â Heâs
gone. His talent is just to fade when he wants to. The
zoot suit is in a box tied with a purple ribbon. Keychainâs
there too. They both belonged to a kid who used to live
in East Los Angeles, named Ricky Gutiérrez. During the
Zoot Suit Riots in 1943, young Gutiérrez was set upon by
a carload of Anglo vigilantes from Whittier, beaten up
while the L.A. police watched and called out advice, then
arrested for disturbing the peace. The judge was allowing
zoot-suiters
to choose
between
jail and
the Army.
Gutiérrez
joined
up,
was
wounded
on
Saipan,
de-
veloped gangrene,
had to have
his arm
amputated,
is home now, married
to a girl who works
in the
kitchen at a taco place in San Gabriel, canât find any
work himself, drinks a lot during the day.... But his
old zoot, and those of thousands of others busted that
summer, hanging empty on the backs of all the Mexican
L.A. doors, got bought up and have found their way over
here, into the market, no harm tuming a little profit, is
$
Qe
My
there, theyâd only have hung there in the fat smoke and
the baby smell, in the rooms with shades pulled down
290
Gravityâs Rainsow
against the white sun beating, day after day, on the dried
palm trees and muddy culverts, inside these fly-ridden and
empty rooms....
O
Imipolex G has proved to be nothing moreâor lessâsin-
ister than a new plastic, an aromatic heterocyclic polymer,
developed in 1939, years before its time, by one L. Jamf
for IG Farben. It is stable at high temperatures, like up to
go00°C., it combines good strength with a low power-loss
factor. Structurally, itâs a stiffened chain of aromatic rings,
hexagons like the gold one that slides and taps above
Hilary Bounceâs navel, alternating here and there with
what are known as heterocyclic rings.
The origins of Imipolex G are traceable back to early
research done at du Pont. Plasticity has its grand tradition
and main stream, which happens to flow by way of du
Pont and their famous employee Carothers, known as The
Great Synthesist.
His classic study of large molecules
spanned the decade of the twenties and brought us directly
to nylon, which not only is a delight to the fetishist and a
convenience to the armed insurgent, but was also, at the
time and well within the System, an announcement. of
Plasticityâs central canon: that chemists were no longer to
be at the mercy of Nature. They could decide now what
properties they wanted a molecule to have, and then go
ahead and build it. At du Pont, the next step after nylon
was to introduce aromatic rings into the polyamide chain,
Pretty soon a whole family of âaromatic polymersâ had
arisen: aromatic polyamides, polycarbonates, polyethers,
polysulfanes. The target property most often seemed to be
strengthâfirst among Plasticityâs virtuous triad of Strength,
Stability and Whiteness
(Kraft, Standfestigkeit, WeiBe:
how often these were taken for Nazi graffiti, and indeed
how indistinguishable they commonly were on the rain-
brightened walls, as the busses clashed gears in the next
street over, and the trams creaked of metal, and the peo-
ple were mostly silent in the rain, with the early evening
darkened to the texture of smoke from a pipe, and the
arms of young passersby not in the sleeves of their coats
a
The Synthesis of Imipolex G
- Chemical engineering shifts from observing nature to actively designing molecules with specific properties like strength and stability.
- L. Jamf develops 'aromatic heterocyclic polymers,' leading to the creation of the mysterious plastic Imipolex G.
- A complex web of international cartels involving Sandoz, IG Farben, and Shell Oil manages the patents and distribution of these new materials.
- Slothrop discovers that Imipolex G is linked to a specific insulation device on rockets being fired via Dutch Shell transmitters.
- The narrative reveals a deep-seated conspiracy where rocket intelligence, corporate interests, and government ministries intersect at Shell Mex House.
The target property most often seemed to be strengthâfirst among Plasticityâs virtuous triad of Strength, Stability and Whiteness.
290
Gravityâs Rainsow
against the white sun beating, day after day, on the dried
palm trees and muddy culverts, inside these fly-ridden and
empty rooms....
O
Imipolex G has proved to be nothing moreâor lessâsin-
ister than a new plastic, an aromatic heterocyclic polymer,
developed in 1939, years before its time, by one L. Jamf
for IG Farben. It is stable at high temperatures, like up to
go00°C., it combines good strength with a low power-loss
factor. Structurally, itâs a stiffened chain of aromatic rings,
hexagons like the gold one that slides and taps above
Hilary Bounceâs navel, alternating here and there with
what are known as heterocyclic rings.
The origins of Imipolex G are traceable back to early
research done at du Pont. Plasticity has its grand tradition
and main stream, which happens to flow by way of du
Pont and their famous employee Carothers, known as The
Great Synthesist.
His classic study of large molecules
spanned the decade of the twenties and brought us directly
to nylon, which not only is a delight to the fetishist and a
convenience to the armed insurgent, but was also, at the
time and well within the System, an announcement. of
Plasticityâs central canon: that chemists were no longer to
be at the mercy of Nature. They could decide now what
properties they wanted a molecule to have, and then go
ahead and build it. At du Pont, the next step after nylon
was to introduce aromatic rings into the polyamide chain,
Pretty soon a whole family of âaromatic polymersâ had
arisen: aromatic polyamides, polycarbonates, polyethers,
polysulfanes. The target property most often seemed to be
strengthâfirst among Plasticityâs virtuous triad of Strength,
Stability and Whiteness
(Kraft, Standfestigkeit, WeiBe:
how often these were taken for Nazi graffiti, and indeed
how indistinguishable they commonly were on the rain-
brightened walls, as the busses clashed gears in the next
street over, and the trams creaked of metal, and the peo-
ple were mostly silent in the rain, with the early evening
darkened to the texture of smoke from a pipe, and the
arms of young passersby not in the sleeves of their coats
a
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
291
but inside somewhere, as if sheltering midgets, or ecstati-
cally drifted away from the timetable into a tactile affair
with linings more seductive even than the new nylon...).
L. Jamf, among others, then proposed, logically, dialec-
tically, taking the parental polyamide sections of the new
chain, and looping them around into rings too, giant
âheterocyclicâ rings, to alternate with the aromatic rings.
This principle was easily extended to other precursor
molecules. A desired monomer of high molecular weight
could be synthesized to order, bent into its heterocyclic
ring, clasped, and strung in a chain along with the more
ânaturalâ benzene or aromatic rings. Such chains would be
known as âaromatic heterocyclic polymers.â One hypo-
thetical chain that Jamf came up with, just before the war,
was later modified into Imipolex G.
Jamf at the time was working for a Swiss outfit called
Psychochemie AG, originally known as the Gréssli Chemi-
cal Corporation, a spinoff from Sandoz (where, as every
schoolchild knows, the legendary Dr. Hofmann made his
important discovery). In the early â20s, Sandoz, Ciba, and
Geigy had got together in a Swiss chemical cartel. Shortly
after, Jamfâs firm was also absorbed. Apparently, most of
GrĂ©ssliâs contracts had been with Sandoz, anyway. As
early as 1926 there were oral agreements between the
Swiss cartel and IG Farben. When the Germans set up
' their cover company in Switzerland, IG Chemie, two years
later, a majority of the Grdssli stock was sold to them, and
the company reconstituted
as Psychochemie AG. The
patent for Imipolex G was thus cross-filed for both the
IG and for Psychochemie. Shell Oil got into it through an
agreement with Imperial Chemicals dated 1939. For some
curious reason, Slothrop will discover, no agreements be-
tween ICI and the 1C seem to be dated any later than
*g9. In this Imipolex agreement, Icy Eye could market the
new plastic inside the Commonwealth in exchange for one
pound and other good and valuable consideration. Thatâs
nice. Psychochemie AG is still around, still doing business
_
at the same old address in the Schokoladestrasse, in that
Zurich, Switzerland.
Slothrop swings the long keychain of his zoot, in some
_ agitation. A few things are immediately obvious. There is
a even more being zeroed in on him from out there than
292
Gravity's RAINBOW
heâd thought, even in his most paranoid spells. Imipolex G
shows up on a mysterious âinsulation deviceâ on a rocket
being fired with the help of a transmitter on the roof of
the headquarters of Dutch Shell, who is co-licensee for
marketing the Imipolexâa rocket whose propulsion system
bears an uncanny resemblance to one developed by British
Shell at around the same time...and oh, oh boy, it just
occurs to Slothrop now where all the rocket intelligence is
being gatheredâinto the office of who but Mr. Duncan
Sandys, Churchillâs own son-in-law, who works out of the
Ministry of Supply located where but at Shell Mex House,
for Christâs sake....
Here Slothrop stages a brilliant Commando raid, along
with faithful companion Blodgett Waxwing, on Shell Mex
House itselfâright into the heart of the Rocketâs own
branch office in London. Mowing down platoons of heavy
security with his little Sten, kicking aside nubile and
screaming WRAC secretaries (how else is there to react,
even in play?), savagely looting files, throwing Molotov
cocktails, the Zootsuit Zanies at last crashing into the final
sanctum with their trousers up around their armpits, smell-
ing singed hair, spilled blood, to find not Mr. Duncan
Sandys cowering before their righteousness, nor open win-
dow, gypsy flight, scattered fortune cards, nor even a test
of wills with the great Consortium itselfâbut only a rather
dull room, business machines arrayed around the walls
calmly blinking, files of cards pierced frail as sugar faces,
frail as the last German walls standing without support
after the bombs have been and now twisting high above,
threatening to fold down out of the sky from the force of
the wind that has blown the smoke away. ... The smell of
firearms is in the air, and thereâs not an office dame in
sight. The machines chatter and ring to each other. Itâs
time to snap down your brims, share a postviolence ciga-
rette and think about escape... do you remember the way
in, all the twists and turns? No. You werenât looking. Any
of these doors might open you to safety, but there may
not be time....
|
But Duncan Sandys is only a name, a function in this,
âHow high does it goPâ is not even the |right kind of
question to be asking, because the organization charts have
all been set up by Them, the titles and names filled in by
Them, because
The Raid on Shell Mex
- Slothrop and Blodgett Waxwing stage a violent, cinematic raid on the London headquarters of the Rocket's branch office.
- The expected confrontation with high-ranking officials or the 'Consortium' ends in an anticlimax of empty rooms and chattering business machines.
- Slothrop realizes that asking 'how high it goes' is a trap designed by 'Them' to keep investigators focused on the wrong hierarchy.
- A technical discovery reveals the existence of the 'S-GerÀt,' a mysterious rocket component with a serial number that defies standard conventions.
- While reading an old newspaper, Slothrop discovers a tribute to his friend Tantivy, who reportedly died a hero's death in battle.
- The news of Tantivyâs death, signed by Theodore Bloat, leaves Slothrop in a state of silent, physical shock.
Proverbs for Paranoids, 3: If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they donât have to worry about answers.
292
Gravity's RAINBOW
heâd thought, even in his most paranoid spells. Imipolex G
shows up on a mysterious âinsulation deviceâ on a rocket
being fired with the help of a transmitter on the roof of
the headquarters of Dutch Shell, who is co-licensee for
marketing the Imipolexâa rocket whose propulsion system
bears an uncanny resemblance to one developed by British
Shell at around the same time...and oh, oh boy, it just
occurs to Slothrop now where all the rocket intelligence is
being gatheredâinto the office of who but Mr. Duncan
Sandys, Churchillâs own son-in-law, who works out of the
Ministry of Supply located where but at Shell Mex House,
for Christâs sake....
Here Slothrop stages a brilliant Commando raid, along
with faithful companion Blodgett Waxwing, on Shell Mex
House itselfâright into the heart of the Rocketâs own
branch office in London. Mowing down platoons of heavy
security with his little Sten, kicking aside nubile and
screaming WRAC secretaries (how else is there to react,
even in play?), savagely looting files, throwing Molotov
cocktails, the Zootsuit Zanies at last crashing into the final
sanctum with their trousers up around their armpits, smell-
ing singed hair, spilled blood, to find not Mr. Duncan
Sandys cowering before their righteousness, nor open win-
dow, gypsy flight, scattered fortune cards, nor even a test
of wills with the great Consortium itselfâbut only a rather
dull room, business machines arrayed around the walls
calmly blinking, files of cards pierced frail as sugar faces,
frail as the last German walls standing without support
after the bombs have been and now twisting high above,
threatening to fold down out of the sky from the force of
the wind that has blown the smoke away. ... The smell of
firearms is in the air, and thereâs not an office dame in
sight. The machines chatter and ring to each other. Itâs
time to snap down your brims, share a postviolence ciga-
rette and think about escape... do you remember the way
in, all the twists and turns? No. You werenât looking. Any
of these doors might open you to safety, but there may
not be time....
|
But Duncan Sandys is only a name, a function in this,
âHow high does it goPâ is not even the |right kind of
question to be asking, because the organization charts have
all been set up by Them, the titles and names filled in by
Them, because
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
293
Proverbs for Paranoids, 3: If they can get you asking
the wrong questions, they donât have to worry about
answers.
Slothrop finds he has paused in front of the blue parts
list that started all this. How high does it go... ahhhh.
The treacherous question is not meant to apply to people
after all, but to the hardware! Squinting, moving a finger
carefully down the columns, Slothrop finds that Vorrich-
tung fir die Isolierungâs Next Higher Assembly.
âS-Gerat, 11/00000.â
If this number is the serial number of a rocket, as its
form indicates, it must be a special modelâSlothrop hasnât
even heard of any with four zeroes, let alone five... nor
an S-Gerdt either, thereâs an I- and a J-Gerit, theyâre in
the guidance... well, Document SG-1, which isnât sup-
posed to exist, must cover that... .
Out of the room: going noplace special, moving to a
slow drumbeat in his stomach muscles see what happens,
be ready.... In the Casino restaurant, not the slightest
impedance at all to getting in, no drop in temperature
- perceptible to his skin, Slothrop sits down at a table
where somebody has left last Tuesdayâs London Times.
Hmmm. Hasnât seen one of them in a while.... Leafing
through, dum, dum, de-doo, yeah, the Warâs still on, Allies
closing in east and west on Berlin, powdered eggs still
going one and three a dozen, âFallen Officers,â MacGregor,
Mucker-Matfiick, Whitestreet, Personal Tributes... Meet
Me in St. Louis showing at the Empire Cinema (recalls
doing the penis-in-the-popcorn-box routine there with one
Madelyn, who was less thanâ)â
Tantivy ...Oh shit no, no waitâ
âTrue charm .
. humble-mindedness ... strength of
character .. 5 fundamental Christian cleanness and good-
mess... we all loved. Oliver.
. his courage, kindness of
heart and unfailing good humour were an inspiration to all
of us... died bravely in battle leading a gallant attempt
to rescue members of his unit who were pinned down by
German artillery . . â And signed by his most devoted
comrade in arms, Theodore Bloat. Major Theodore Bloat
nowâ
Staring out the window, staring at nothing, gripping a
table knife so hard maybe some bones of his hand will
break. It happens sometimes to lepers. Failure of feed-
Slothrop's Escape to Nice
- Slothrop experiences a profound sense of betrayal and emotional numbness after learning of a friend's likely orchestrated death.
- He begins to suspect that the information he receives, including newspaper reports, may be elaborate plants designed to manipulate him.
- Despite his grief, Slothrop discovers a newfound ability to perform social deception, using a false smile to mask his growing list of enemies.
- Executing a successful getaway, Slothrop uses a decoy to shake his tails and steals a car to reach the city of Nice.
- The narrative describes the 'vortex of redeployment' as soldiers are swept across Europe toward the Pacific theater in the wake of the war's end.
- Upon arriving at a dilapidated hotel, Slothrop feels a rare moment of optimistic 'paranoia,' sensing a new direction for his life that defies his past trajectory.
Just for the knife-edge, âhere in the Rue Rossini, there comes to Slothrop the best feeling dusk in a foreign city can bring: just where the skyâs light balances the electric lamplight in the street, just before the first star, some promise âof events without cause, surprises, a direction at right angles to every direction his life has been able to find up till now.
294
Gravityâs Rainsow
back to the brainâno way to know how fiercely they may
be making a fist. You know these lepers. Wellâ
Ten minutes later, back up in his room, heâs lying face-
down on the bed, feeling empty. Canât cry. Canât do
anything.
They did it. Took his friend out to some deathtrap,
probably let him fake an âhonourableâ death... and then
just closed up his file... .
It will occur to him later that maybe the whole story
was a lie. They couldâve planted it easy enough in that
London Times, couldnât they? Left the paper for Slothrop
to find? But by the time he figures that one out, there'll be
no turing around.
At noon Hilary Bounce comes in rubbing his eyes wear-
ing a shit-eating grin. âHow was your evening? Mine was
remarkable,â
âGlad to hear it.â Slothrop is smiling. You're on my list
too, pal. This smile asks from him more grace than any-
thing in his languid American life ever has, up till now.
Grace he always imagined himself short on. But itâs work-
ing. Heâs surprised, and so grateful that he almost starts
crying then. The best part of all is not that Bounce ap-
pears fooled by the smile, but that Slothrop knows now
that it will work for him again. ...
So he does make it to Nice, after a fast escape down
the Corniche through the mountains fishtailing and rubber
softly screeching at the sun-warmed abysses, tails all shaken
back on the beach where he was thoughtful enough to lend
his buddy Claude the assistant chef, about the same height
and build, his own brand-new pseudo-Tahitian bathing
trunks, and while theyâre all watching that Claude, find a
black CitroĂ©n with the keys left in, nothing to it, folksâ
rolling into town in his white zoot, dark glasses, and a
flopping Sydney Greenstreet Panama hat. Heâs not exactly
inconspicuous among the crowds of military and the mam-
zelles already shifted into summer dresses, but he ditches
the car off Place Garibaldi, heads for a bistro on the old-
Nice side of La Porte Fausse and takes time to nab a roll
and coffee before setting out to find the address Waxwing
gave him. It turns out to be an ancient fdur-story hotel
with early drunks lying in the hallways, eyelids like tiny
loaves brushed with a last glaze of setting sun, and sum-
rs
d
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
295
mertime dust in stately evolutions through the taupe light,
summertime ease to the streets outside, April summertime
as the greatâ vortex of redeployment from Europe to Asia
hoots past leaving many souls each night to cling a bit
longer to the tranquillities here, this close to the drain-
_
' hole of Marseilles, this next-to-last stop on the paper cy-
clone that sweeps them back from Germany, down the
river-valleys, beginning to drag some from Antwerp and
the northern ports too now as the vortex grows more sure,
as preferential paths are set up... . Just for the knife-edge,
âhere in the Rue Rossini, there comes to Slothrop the best
feeling dusk in a foreign city can bring: just where the
skyâs light balances the electric lamplight in the street,
just before the first star, some promise âof events without
cause, surprises, a direction at right angles to every direc-
tion his life has been able to find up till now.
-Too impatient to wait for the first star, Slothrop enters
the hotel. The carpets are dusty, the place smells of alco-
hol and bleach. Sailors and girls come ambling through,
together and separate, as Slothrop paranoids from door to
door looking for one that might have something to tell him.
Radios play in the heavy wood rooms. The stairwell doesnât
appear to be plumb, but tilted at some peculiar angle, and
the light running down the walls is of only two colors:
earth and leaf. Up on the top floor Slothrop finally spots an
old motherly femme de chambre on the way into a room
carrying a change of linen, very white in the gloom.
âWhy did you leave,â the sad whisper ringing asâ if
through a telephone receiver from someplace far away,
âthey wanted to help you. They wouldnât have done any-
thing bad... .â Her hair is rolled up, George Washington
style, all the way around. She gazes at 45° to Slothrop,
a patient, parkbench chessplayerâs gaze, very large, arch-
ing kindly nose and bright eyes: she is starch, sure-boned,
the toes of her leather shoes turn up slightly, sheâs wear-
ing red-and-white striped socks on enormous feet that give -
her the look of a helpful critter from one of the other
worlds, the sort of elf who'd not only make shoes while
you slept but also sweep up a little, have the pot on when
_ you awoke, and maybe a fresh flower by the windowâ
_
âI beg your pardon?â
_
âThereâs still time.â
â Âź
Refuge in the Underworld
- Slothrop encounters a surreal, elf-like woman who questions his flight from authorities while he grapples with the denial of his friend Tantivy's death.
- Using a contact card from Waxwing, Slothrop gains entry into a hidden penthouse hub filled with stylish, bickering criminals and black-market activity.
- The underground syndicate provides Slothrop with forged identity papers, passage to Zurich, and a place to sleep, treating the expense as business overhead.
- Slothrop's night is plagued by physical discomfort, bedbugs, and a series of hallucinatory or ghostly visitors at his door.
- The dialogue with 'revenants' like Dumpster Villard and Murray Smile highlights the psychological toll of the war and the blurring of reality and memory.
- The scene concludes in a desolate, early-morning atmosphere of isolation, symbolized by an empty crate blowing through the dark streets.
She thumbs him upstairs and then gives him either the V-for-victory sign or some spell from distant countryside against the evil eye that sours the milk.
rs
d
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
295
mertime dust in stately evolutions through the taupe light,
summertime ease to the streets outside, April summertime
as the greatâ vortex of redeployment from Europe to Asia
hoots past leaving many souls each night to cling a bit
longer to the tranquillities here, this close to the drain-
_
' hole of Marseilles, this next-to-last stop on the paper cy-
clone that sweeps them back from Germany, down the
river-valleys, beginning to drag some from Antwerp and
the northern ports too now as the vortex grows more sure,
as preferential paths are set up... . Just for the knife-edge,
âhere in the Rue Rossini, there comes to Slothrop the best
feeling dusk in a foreign city can bring: just where the
skyâs light balances the electric lamplight in the street,
just before the first star, some promise âof events without
cause, surprises, a direction at right angles to every direc-
tion his life has been able to find up till now.
-Too impatient to wait for the first star, Slothrop enters
the hotel. The carpets are dusty, the place smells of alco-
hol and bleach. Sailors and girls come ambling through,
together and separate, as Slothrop paranoids from door to
door looking for one that might have something to tell him.
Radios play in the heavy wood rooms. The stairwell doesnât
appear to be plumb, but tilted at some peculiar angle, and
the light running down the walls is of only two colors:
earth and leaf. Up on the top floor Slothrop finally spots an
old motherly femme de chambre on the way into a room
carrying a change of linen, very white in the gloom.
âWhy did you leave,â the sad whisper ringing asâ if
through a telephone receiver from someplace far away,
âthey wanted to help you. They wouldnât have done any-
thing bad... .â Her hair is rolled up, George Washington
style, all the way around. She gazes at 45° to Slothrop,
a patient, parkbench chessplayerâs gaze, very large, arch-
ing kindly nose and bright eyes: she is starch, sure-boned,
the toes of her leather shoes turn up slightly, sheâs wear-
ing red-and-white striped socks on enormous feet that give -
her the look of a helpful critter from one of the other
worlds, the sort of elf who'd not only make shoes while
you slept but also sweep up a little, have the pot on when
_ you awoke, and maybe a fresh flower by the windowâ
_
âI beg your pardon?â
_
âThereâs still time.â
â Âź
296
Graviryâs RAINBOW
-
âYou donât understand. Theyâve killed a friend of mine.â
But seeing it in the Times that way, so public... how
could any of that be real, real enough to convince him
Tantivy wonât just come popping in the doorâsome day,
howdyfoax and a bashful smile... hey, Tantivy. Where
were you?
'
;
âWhere was I, Slothrop? Thatâs a good one.â His smile
~ lighting the time again, and the world all free. ...
He flashes Waxwingâs card. The old woman breaks into
an amazing smile, the two teeth left in her head under the
nightâs new bulbs. She thumbs him upstairs and then gives
him either the V-for-victory sign or some spell from distant
countryside against the evil eye that sours the milk. Which-
ever it is, she is chuckling sarcastically.
-
Upstairs is a roof, a kind of penthouse in the middle.
Three young men with Apache sideburns and a young
woman packing a braided leather sap are sitting in front of
the entrance smoking a thin cigarette of ambiguous odor.
âYou are lost, mon ami.â
âUh, well,â out with Waxwingâs card again.
âAh, bien....â They roll aside, and he passes into a
bickering of canary-yellow Borsalini, corksoled comicbook
shoes with enormous round toes, lotta that saddle-stitching
in contrasting colors (such as orange on blue, and the
perennial favorite, green on magenta), workaday groans of
comforted annoyance commonly heard in public toilets,
telephone traffic inside clouds of cigar smoke. Waxwing
isnât in, but a colleague interrupts some loud dealing soon
as he sees the card.
âWhat do you need?â
âCarte dâidentitĂ©, passage to Ziirich, Switzerland.â
âTomorrow.â
âPlace to sleep.â
The man hands over a key to one of the rooms down-
stairs. âDo you have any money?â
âNot much. I donât know when I couldââ
Count, squint, riffle, âHere.â
)
Peat.
.
âItâs all right, itâs not a loan. It comes out of overhead.
Now, donât go outside, donât get drunk, stay away from
the girls who work here.â
âAW
iisâ
,
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
297
âSee you tomorrow.â Back to business.
Slothropâs night passes uncomfortably. There is no posi-
tion he can manage to sleep in for more than ten minutes.
The bugs sally out onto his body in skirmish parties not
uncoordinated with his level of wakefulness. Drunks come
to the door, drunks and revenants.
âRone, you've gotta let me in, itâs Dumpster, Dumpster
Villard.â
âWhat's âatââ
âIt's really bad tonight. Iâm sorry. I shouldnât impose
this way, Iâm more trouble than Iâm worth...
listen...
Tm cold... Ive been a long way....â
A sharp knock. âDumpsterâââ
âNo, no, itâs Murray Smile, I was next to you in basic,
company 84, remember? Our serial numbers are only two
digits apart.â
âI had to let...let Dumpster in... where'd he go?
Was I asleep?â
âDonât tell them I was here. I just came to tell you you
donât have to go back.â
âReally? Did they say it was all right?â
âTtâs all right.â
âYeah, but did they say it was?â Silence. âHey? Mur-
ray?â Silence.
The wind is blowing in the ironwork very strong, and
down in the street a vegetable crate bounces end over end,
wooden, empty, dark. It must be four in the morning.
âGot to get back, shit Iâm late... .â
âNo.â Only a whisper.... But it was her ânoâ that
stayed with him.
âWhozat. Jenny? That you, Jenny?â
âYes itâs me. Oh love Iâm so glad I found you.â
âBut I have to...â Would They ever let her live with
him at the Casino. ct
âNo. I canât.â But âwhat's wrong with her voice?
âJenny, I heard your block was hit, somebody told me,
the day after New Yearâs...a rocket... and I meant to
go back and see if you were all right, but... I just didnât
...and then They took me to that Casino....â
âTtâs all right.â
âBut not if I didnâtââ
âJust donât go back to them.â
ce
Slothrop's First Day Outside
- Slothrop reunites briefly with Jenny, who urges him to abandon his captors and never return to the Casino.
- While hiding from military police, Slothrop experiences a jarring realization about the fanatical and merciless nature of American authority.
- He is provided with a new identity as an English war correspondent named Ian Scuffling to facilitate his escape.
- A mysterious contact explains that they are helping him because he fits into a specific 'pattern' they are playing.
- Slothrop begins a transient existence, moving through anonymous rooms and traveling by train toward Zurich.
- The transition marks a permanent break from his past, leaving him in a state of uncertainty about the meaning of his new 'freedom'.
For possibly the first time he is hearing America as it must sound to a non-American.
,
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
297
âSee you tomorrow.â Back to business.
Slothropâs night passes uncomfortably. There is no posi-
tion he can manage to sleep in for more than ten minutes.
The bugs sally out onto his body in skirmish parties not
uncoordinated with his level of wakefulness. Drunks come
to the door, drunks and revenants.
âRone, you've gotta let me in, itâs Dumpster, Dumpster
Villard.â
âWhat's âatââ
âIt's really bad tonight. Iâm sorry. I shouldnât impose
this way, Iâm more trouble than Iâm worth...
listen...
Tm cold... Ive been a long way....â
A sharp knock. âDumpsterâââ
âNo, no, itâs Murray Smile, I was next to you in basic,
company 84, remember? Our serial numbers are only two
digits apart.â
âI had to let...let Dumpster in... where'd he go?
Was I asleep?â
âDonât tell them I was here. I just came to tell you you
donât have to go back.â
âReally? Did they say it was all right?â
âTtâs all right.â
âYeah, but did they say it was?â Silence. âHey? Mur-
ray?â Silence.
The wind is blowing in the ironwork very strong, and
down in the street a vegetable crate bounces end over end,
wooden, empty, dark. It must be four in the morning.
âGot to get back, shit Iâm late... .â
âNo.â Only a whisper.... But it was her ânoâ that
stayed with him.
âWhozat. Jenny? That you, Jenny?â
âYes itâs me. Oh love Iâm so glad I found you.â
âBut I have to...â Would They ever let her live with
him at the Casino. ct
âNo. I canât.â But âwhat's wrong with her voice?
âJenny, I heard your block was hit, somebody told me,
the day after New Yearâs...a rocket... and I meant to
go back and see if you were all right, but... I just didnât
...and then They took me to that Casino....â
âTtâs all right.â
âBut not if I didnâtââ
âJust donât go back to them.â
ce
298
GRAVITYâS RaInsow
And somewhere, dark fish hiding past angles of refrac-
tion in the flow tonight, are Katje and Tantivy, the two
visitors he wants most to see. He tries to bend the voices
that come to the door, bend them like notes on a har-
monica, but it wonât work. What he wants lies too deep. ...
Just before dawn knocking comes very loud, hard as
steel. Slothrop has the sense this time to keep quiet.
âCome on, open up.â
âMPs, open up.â
American voices, country voices, high-pitched and with-
out mercy. He lies freezing, wondering if the bedsprings
will give him away. For possibly the first time he is hear-
ing America as it must sound to a non-American. Later he
will recall that what surprised him most was the fanaticism,
the reliance not just on flat force but on the rightness of
what they planned to doâ... he'd been told long ago to
expect this sort of thing from Nazis, and especially from
Japsâwe were the ones who always played fairâbut this
pair outside the door now are as demoralizing as a close-up
of John Wayne (the angle emphasizing how slanted his
eyes
are, funny you never noticed before) screaming
âBANZAI!â
âWait a minute Ray, there he goesââ
âHopper! You asshole, come back hereââ
|
âYou'll never get me in a strait jacket agaaaaain....â
Hopperâs voice goes fading around the corner as the MPs
take off in pursuit.
It dawns on Slothrop, literally, through the yellowbrown
window shade, that this is his first day Outside. His first
free morning. He doesnât have to go back. Free? Whatâs
free? He falls asleep at last. A little before noon a young
woman let herself in with a passkey and leaves him the
papers. He is now an English war correspondent named
Ian Scuffling.
âThis is the address of one of our people in Ziirich.
evans wishes you good luck and asks what kept you so
long.â
âYou mean he wants an answer?â
âHe said you'd have to think about it.â
âSa-a-a-ay.â Itâs just occurred to him. âWhy are all you
folks helping me like this? For free and all?â|
ae
âWho knows? We have to play the patterns. There
must be a pattern you're in, right now.â
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
299
âOh
ait
But sheâs already left. Slothrop looks around the place:
in the daylight
itâs mean
and anonymous. Even the
roaches must be uncomfortable here....
Is he off so
quickly, like Katje on her wheel, off on a ratchet of rooms
like this, to be in each one only long enough to gather
wind or despair enough to move on to the next, but no
way backward now, ever again? No time even to get to
know the Rue Rossini, which faces holler from the win-
dows, whereâs a good place to eat, whatâs the name of the
song
everybody's
whistling
these
premature
summer
days....
A week later heâs in Ziirich, after a long passage by
train. While the metal creatures in their solitude, days of
snug and stable fog, pass the hours at mime, at playing
molecules, imitating industrial synthesis as they are broken
up; put together, coupled and recoupled, he dozes in and
out of a hallucination of Alps, fogs, abysses, tunnels, bone-
deep laborings up impossible grades, cowbells in the dark-
ness, in the morning green banks, smells of wet pasture,
âalways out the windows an unshaven work crew on the
way to repair some stretch of track, long waits in marshal-
-ing-yards whose rails run like layers of an onion cut end to
end, gray and desolate places, nights of whistles, coupling,
crashes, sidings, staring cows on the evening hillsides, army
convoys waiting at the crossings as the train puffs by,
never a clear sense of nationality anywhere, nor even of
belligerent sides, only the War, a single damaged land-
scape, in which âneutral Switzerlandâ is a rather stuffy
convention, observed but with as much sarcasm as âlib-
erated Franceâ or âtotalitarian Germany,â âFascist Spain,â
and others. ...
The War has been reconfiguring time and space into its
own image. The track runs in different networks now.
What appears to be destruction is really the shaping of
railroad spaces to other purposes, intentions he can only,
riding through it for the first time, begin to feel the lead-
ing edges of....
He checks in to the Hotel Nimbus, in an obscure street
in the Niederdorf or cabaret section of Ziirich. The roomâs
in an attic, and is reached by ladder. Thereâs also a ladder
outside the window, so he reckons itâll be O.K. When
ay
â
The Information Economy of War
- The landscape of Europe has been reconfigured by the War into a single, damaged entity where national borders and political labels feel like hollow conventions.
- Slothrop arrives in Zurich, a city of specialized subcultures where different cafes cater to specific trades like furs, drugs, or espionage.
- Semyavin, a Russian contact, laments the shift from a world of tangible luxuries like sex and drugs to a world where information is the primary medium of exchange.
- The narrative suggests that the destruction of the old world is actually a reshaping of space and time for new, mysterious purposes.
- Slothrop begins a routine of 'footwork,' shuttling between specific cafes to gather intelligence in a city filled with businessmen, skiers, and displaced foreigners.
- Semyavin predicts a future where human intelligence gathering will be replaced by 'information machines.'
Is it any wonder the worldâs gone insane, with information come to be the only real medium of exchange?
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
299
âOh
ait
But sheâs already left. Slothrop looks around the place:
in the daylight
itâs mean
and anonymous. Even the
roaches must be uncomfortable here....
Is he off so
quickly, like Katje on her wheel, off on a ratchet of rooms
like this, to be in each one only long enough to gather
wind or despair enough to move on to the next, but no
way backward now, ever again? No time even to get to
know the Rue Rossini, which faces holler from the win-
dows, whereâs a good place to eat, whatâs the name of the
song
everybody's
whistling
these
premature
summer
days....
A week later heâs in Ziirich, after a long passage by
train. While the metal creatures in their solitude, days of
snug and stable fog, pass the hours at mime, at playing
molecules, imitating industrial synthesis as they are broken
up; put together, coupled and recoupled, he dozes in and
out of a hallucination of Alps, fogs, abysses, tunnels, bone-
deep laborings up impossible grades, cowbells in the dark-
ness, in the morning green banks, smells of wet pasture,
âalways out the windows an unshaven work crew on the
way to repair some stretch of track, long waits in marshal-
-ing-yards whose rails run like layers of an onion cut end to
end, gray and desolate places, nights of whistles, coupling,
crashes, sidings, staring cows on the evening hillsides, army
convoys waiting at the crossings as the train puffs by,
never a clear sense of nationality anywhere, nor even of
belligerent sides, only the War, a single damaged land-
scape, in which âneutral Switzerlandâ is a rather stuffy
convention, observed but with as much sarcasm as âlib-
erated Franceâ or âtotalitarian Germany,â âFascist Spain,â
and others. ...
The War has been reconfiguring time and space into its
own image. The track runs in different networks now.
What appears to be destruction is really the shaping of
railroad spaces to other purposes, intentions he can only,
riding through it for the first time, begin to feel the lead-
ing edges of....
He checks in to the Hotel Nimbus, in an obscure street
in the Niederdorf or cabaret section of Ziirich. The roomâs
in an attic, and is reached by ladder. Thereâs also a ladder
outside the window, so he reckons itâll be O.K. When
ay
â
300
:
Gravity's RAINBOW
night comes down he goes out looking for the local Wax-
wing rep, finds him farther up the Limmatquai, under a
bridge, in rooms full of Swiss watches, clocks and altim-
eters. Heâs a Russian named Semyavin, Outside boats hoot
on the river and the lake. Somebody upstairs is practicing
on a piano: stumbling, sweet lieder. Semyavin pours gen-
tian brandy into cups of tea heâs just brewed. âFirst thing
you have to understand is the way everything here is
specialized. If itâs watches, you go to one cafĂ©. If itâs
women, you go to another. Furs are subdivided into Sable,
Ermine, Mink, and Others. Same with dope: Stimulants,
Depressants, Psychomimetics. ... What is it you're after?â
âUh, information?â Gee, this stuff tastes like Moxie. ...
âOh. Another one.â Giving Slothrop a sour look. âLife
was simple before the first war. You wouldnât remember.
Drugs, sex, luxury items. Currency in those days was no
more than a sideline, and the term âindustrial espionageâ
was unknown. But Iâve seen it changeâoh, how itâs
changed. The German inflation, that shouldâve been my
clue right there, zeros strung end to end from here to
Berlin. I would have stern talks with myself. âSemyavin,
itâs only a temporary lapse away from reality. A small
aberration, nothing to worry about. Act as you always
haveâstrength of character, good mental health. Courage,
Semyavin! Soon all will be back to normal.â But do you
know what?â
âLet me guess.â
A tragic sigh. âInformation. Whatâs wrong with dope
and women? Is it any wonder the worldâs gone insane,
with information come to be the only real medium of ex-
change?â
âT thought it was cigarettes.â
âYou dream.â He brings out a list of Ziirich cafĂ©s and
gathering spots. Under Espionage, Industrial, Slothrop
finds three. Ultra, Lichtspiel, and Straggeli. They are on
both banks of the Limmat, and widely spaced.
âFootwork,â folding the list in an oversize zoot-suit
pocket.
âIt'll get easier. Someday it'll all be done by machine.
â
Information machines. You are the wave ofthe
future.â
Begins a period of shuttling among
the three cafĂ©s, â
sitting a few hours over coffee at each one, eating once a â
|
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
301
day, Ziirich baloney and risti at the Peopleâs Kitchens...
watching crowds of businessmen in blue suits, sun-black
skiers who've spent the duration schussing miles of glacier
and snow hearing nothing of campaigns or politics, read-
ing nothing but thermometers and weathervanes, finding
their atrocities in avalanches or toppling séracs, their vic-
tories in layers of good powder... ragged foreigners in
oil-stained leather jackets and tattered fatigues, South
Americans bundled in fur coats and shivering in the clear
sunlight, elderly hypochondriacs who were caught out
lounging at some spa when the War began and have been
here since, women in long black dresses who donât smile,
men in soiled overcoats who do...and the mad, down
from their fancy. asylums on weekend furloughâoh, the
mental cases of Switzerland: Slothrop is known to them,
all right, among all the somber street faces and colors only
he is wearing white, shoes zoot ânâ hat, white as the
cemetery mountains here.... Heâs also the New Mark In
Town. Itâs difficult for him to sort out the first wave of
corporate spies from the
Loonies on LzEAvE!
(The Chorus line is divided not into the conventional Boys and
Girls but into Keepers and Nuts, without regard to sex, though all
four possibilities are represented on stage. Many are wearing sun-
glasses with black lenses and white rims, not so much to be fashion-
able as to suggest snow-blindness, the antiseptic white of the
Clinic, perhaps even the darkness of the mind. But all seems
happy, relaxed, informal
.
.
. no sign of repression, not even a
distinction in costume so that at first there is some problem telling
Nuts from Keepers as they all burst in from the wings dancing
and singing):
Here we come foaxâready or not!
Put your mask on, and plot your plot,
We're just laughinâ and droolinâ, allâover
the sleigh,
Like a buncha happy midgets on a holiday!
Oh weâre the LOONIES ON LEAVE, and
We havenât a careâ
Our brains at the cleaners, our souls at the Fair,
7
Just freaks on a fur-lough, away from the blues,
As daffy and sharp asâthe taps on our shoes!
Hey, weâre passinâ the hat forâyour frowns and
your tears,
The Loonies on Leave
- Slothrop arrives in Switzerland wearing a conspicuous white zoot suit that makes him a target for corporate spies and asylum patients.
- A surreal musical number featuring 'Keepers and Nuts' blurs the line between sanity and madness through a chorus of 'Loonies on Leave.'
- The first wave of encounters involves eccentric characters pitching impossible inventions like perpetual motion and 'Entropy Management.'
- These initial encounters serve as a distraction or a test before the arrival of 'the real ones'âserious corporate agents dealing in industrial secrets.
- The atmosphere is one of high-stakes absurdity where scientific breakthroughs and mental illness are presented with the same manic energy.
- Slothrop remains largely unfazed by the initial chaos, waiting for the more substantial intelligence-gathering phase of his journey to begin.
Our brains at the cleaners, our souls at the Fair, Just freaks on a fur-lough, away from the blues, As daffy and sharp asâthe taps on our shoes!
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
301
day, Ziirich baloney and risti at the Peopleâs Kitchens...
watching crowds of businessmen in blue suits, sun-black
skiers who've spent the duration schussing miles of glacier
and snow hearing nothing of campaigns or politics, read-
ing nothing but thermometers and weathervanes, finding
their atrocities in avalanches or toppling séracs, their vic-
tories in layers of good powder... ragged foreigners in
oil-stained leather jackets and tattered fatigues, South
Americans bundled in fur coats and shivering in the clear
sunlight, elderly hypochondriacs who were caught out
lounging at some spa when the War began and have been
here since, women in long black dresses who donât smile,
men in soiled overcoats who do...and the mad, down
from their fancy. asylums on weekend furloughâoh, the
mental cases of Switzerland: Slothrop is known to them,
all right, among all the somber street faces and colors only
he is wearing white, shoes zoot ânâ hat, white as the
cemetery mountains here.... Heâs also the New Mark In
Town. Itâs difficult for him to sort out the first wave of
corporate spies from the
Loonies on LzEAvE!
(The Chorus line is divided not into the conventional Boys and
Girls but into Keepers and Nuts, without regard to sex, though all
four possibilities are represented on stage. Many are wearing sun-
glasses with black lenses and white rims, not so much to be fashion-
able as to suggest snow-blindness, the antiseptic white of the
Clinic, perhaps even the darkness of the mind. But all seems
happy, relaxed, informal
.
.
. no sign of repression, not even a
distinction in costume so that at first there is some problem telling
Nuts from Keepers as they all burst in from the wings dancing
and singing):
Here we come foaxâready or not!
Put your mask on, and plot your plot,
We're just laughinâ and droolinâ, allâover
the sleigh,
Like a buncha happy midgets on a holiday!
Oh weâre the LOONIES ON LEAVE, and
We havenât a careâ
Our brains at the cleaners, our souls at the Fair,
7
Just freaks on a fur-lough, away from the blues,
As daffy and sharp asâthe taps on our shoes!
Hey, weâre passinâ the hat forâyour frowns and
your tears,
302
GRavItyâs Ramnsow
And the fears you thoughtâd never go *wayâ
Oh take it from a loony, lifeâs so dear and swoony,
So just hug it and kiss it to-day]
La-da-da, ya-ta ya-ta ta-ta ke... (They goon
humming the tune behind what follows):
First Nut (or maybe Keeper): Got an amazing deal for you here,
American? I thought so, always tell a face from home, saaay, like
your suit there, go far enough up the glacier ânâ nobodyâd be able
to see yal Well yes now, I know how you feel about these street-
vendors keep coming by, itâs the old threĂ©-card monte on the side-
walk [trucks across the stage for a while, back and forth, waving
â his finger in the air, singing âThree-card monte on-the side, w
over and over in the same obsessive monotone, for as many repe-
titions as he can get away with] and you can spot right away whatâs
wrong, every one promises ya somethinâ fer nothinâ, right? yes
now oddly enough, thatâs the main objection engineers and scien-
tists have always had to the idea of [lowering his voice] perpetual
motion or as we like to call it Entropy Managementâhere, hereâs
our cardâwell, sure, theyâve got a point. At least they had a
point. Up till now. ete
Second Nut or Keeper: Now youâve heard about the two-hundred-
mile-per-gallon carburetor, the razor edge that never gets dull,
the eternal bootsole, the mange pill thatâs good to your glands,
engine thatâll run on sand, ornithopters and robobopstersâyou
heard me, got a little goatee made out of steel woolâjivey, thatâs
fine, but hereâs one for yoâ mind! Are you ready? Itâs Lightning-
Latch, The Door That Opens You!
Slothrop: Think I'll go take my nap now. ...
Third N. or K.: Transmogrify common air into diamonds through
Cataclysmic Carbon Dioxide Reducti-o-0-0-0-n-n-n. ...
If he were sensitive about such things, it'd all be pretty
insulting, this first wave. It passes, gesturing, accusative,
pleading. Slothrop manages to stay calm. There is a
pauseâthen on come the real ones, slowly at first but
gathering, gathering. Synthetic rubber or gasoline, elec-
tronic calculators, aniline dyes, acrylics, perfumes (stolen
essences in vials in sample cases), sexual habits of a hun-
dred selected board members, layouts of plants, code-
books, connections and payoffs, ask for it, they can get it.
At last, one day at the Straggeli, Slothrop eating on a
bratwurst and hunk of bread heâs been toting around all
morning in a paper bag, suddenly from noplace appears
one Mario Schweitar in a green frogged' waistcoat, just
popped out of the echoing cuckoo clock of Dubya Dubya
â
Two here, the endless dark corridors at his back, with a j
The Indole Crowd and Imipolex
- Slothrop encounters Mario Schweitar, a Sandoz operative and corporate spy, who offers information on the mysterious Imipolex G.
- Schweitar describes a deep cultural divide within the chemical cartel between the 'indole crowd' and those working on polymers.
- The indole researchers are depicted as an elitist, hallucinating aristocracy rooted in centuries of European ergotism and witchcraft.
- Slothrop learns that his nemesis, Laszlo Jamf, is reportedly dead and buried near the Uetliberg, complicating his quest for answers.
- Faced with a 500-franc bribe he cannot afford, Slothrop is forced to pawn his flamboyant zoot suit for workmen's clothes to lower his visibility.
- The appearance of a mysterious black Rolls-Royce triggers Slothropâs paranoia, reminding him of the rule: 'You hide, they seek.'
They see themselves at the end of a long European dialectic, generations of blighted grain, ergotism, witches on broomsticks, community orgies, cantons lost up there in folds of mountain that havenât known an unhallucinated day in the last 500 yearsâkeepers of a tradition, aristocratsâ
302
GRavItyâs Ramnsow
And the fears you thoughtâd never go *wayâ
Oh take it from a loony, lifeâs so dear and swoony,
So just hug it and kiss it to-day]
La-da-da, ya-ta ya-ta ta-ta ke... (They goon
humming the tune behind what follows):
First Nut (or maybe Keeper): Got an amazing deal for you here,
American? I thought so, always tell a face from home, saaay, like
your suit there, go far enough up the glacier ânâ nobodyâd be able
to see yal Well yes now, I know how you feel about these street-
vendors keep coming by, itâs the old threĂ©-card monte on the side-
walk [trucks across the stage for a while, back and forth, waving
â his finger in the air, singing âThree-card monte on-the side, w
over and over in the same obsessive monotone, for as many repe-
titions as he can get away with] and you can spot right away whatâs
wrong, every one promises ya somethinâ fer nothinâ, right? yes
now oddly enough, thatâs the main objection engineers and scien-
tists have always had to the idea of [lowering his voice] perpetual
motion or as we like to call it Entropy Managementâhere, hereâs
our cardâwell, sure, theyâve got a point. At least they had a
point. Up till now. ete
Second Nut or Keeper: Now youâve heard about the two-hundred-
mile-per-gallon carburetor, the razor edge that never gets dull,
the eternal bootsole, the mange pill thatâs good to your glands,
engine thatâll run on sand, ornithopters and robobopstersâyou
heard me, got a little goatee made out of steel woolâjivey, thatâs
fine, but hereâs one for yoâ mind! Are you ready? Itâs Lightning-
Latch, The Door That Opens You!
Slothrop: Think I'll go take my nap now. ...
Third N. or K.: Transmogrify common air into diamonds through
Cataclysmic Carbon Dioxide Reducti-o-0-0-0-n-n-n. ...
If he were sensitive about such things, it'd all be pretty
insulting, this first wave. It passes, gesturing, accusative,
pleading. Slothrop manages to stay calm. There is a
pauseâthen on come the real ones, slowly at first but
gathering, gathering. Synthetic rubber or gasoline, elec-
tronic calculators, aniline dyes, acrylics, perfumes (stolen
essences in vials in sample cases), sexual habits of a hun-
dred selected board members, layouts of plants, code-
books, connections and payoffs, ask for it, they can get it.
At last, one day at the Straggeli, Slothrop eating on a
bratwurst and hunk of bread heâs been toting around all
morning in a paper bag, suddenly from noplace appears
one Mario Schweitar in a green frogged' waistcoat, just
popped out of the echoing cuckoo clock of Dubya Dubya
â
Two here, the endless dark corridors at his back, with a j
ie
cue
/
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
303
â change of luck for Slothrop. âPsst, Joe,â he begins, âhey,
mister.â
âNot me,â replies Slothrop with his mouth full.
âYou interested in some L.S.D.?â
âThat stands for pounds, shillings, and pence. You got
the wrong cafĂ©, Ace.â
âI think Iâve got the wrong country,â Schweitar a little
mournful. âIâm from Sandoz.â
âAha, Sandoz!â cries Slothrop, and pulls out a chair for
the fella.
Turns out Schweitar is very tight indeed with Psycho-
chemie AG, being one of those free-floating trouble-shoot-
ers around the Cartel, working for them on a per diem
basis and spying on the side.
âWell,â Slothrop sez, âI'd sure like anything they got on
L. Jamf, a-and on that Imipolex G.â
âGaaahââ
âPardon me?â
âThat stuff. Forget it. Itâs not even our line. You ever
try to develop a polymer when thereâs nothing but indole
people around? With our giant parent to the north sending
in ultimatums every day? Imipolex G is the company alba-
tross, Yank. They have vice-presidents whose only job is
_to observe the ritual of going out every Sunday to spit on
old Jamfâs grave. You havenât spent much time with the
indole crowd. Theyâre very elitist. They see themselves at
the end of a long European dialectic, generations of
blighted grain, ergotism, witches on broomsticks, com-
munity orgies, cantons lost up there in folds of mountain
that havenât known an unhallucinated day in the last 500
yearsâkeepers of a tradition, aristocratsââ
âWait a minute... .â Jamf dead? âYou say Jamfâs grave,
now?â It ought to be making more of a difference to him,
except that the man was never really alive so how can he
be reallyâ
âUp in the mountains, toward the Uetliberg.â
âYou everââ
âWhat?â
_ âDid you ever meet him?â
_
âBefore my time. But I know that thereâs a lot of data
on him in the classified files at Sandoz. It would be some
6 job eetting you what you want. .
304
Graviryâs RAINBOW
|
âFive hundred.â
âFive hundred what?â
Swiss francs. Slothrop hasnât got 500 anything, unless
itâs worries. The money from Nice is almost gone. He heads
toward Semyavinâs, across the Gemiise-Briicke, .deciding
he'll walk everywhere from now on, chewing his white
sausage and wondering when he'll see another.
âFirst thing you want to do,â Semyavin advises him, âis
go to a pawnshop and raise a few francs on that, ah,â
pointing to the suit. Aw no, not the suit. Semyavin goes
rummaging in a back room, comes out with a bundle of
workmenâs clothes. âYou should start thinking more about
your visibility. Come back tomorrow, I'll see what else I
can find.â
White zoot in a bundle under his arm, a less visible Ian
Scuffling goes back outside, down into the mediaeval after-
noon of the Niederdorf, stone walls now developing like
baking bread in the failing sun, oboy oboy he can see it
now: gonna turn into another of them Tamara/Italo drills
here, ânâ then heâll bein so deep he'll just never get out....
At the entrance to his street, in the wells of shadow, he
notes a black Rolls parked, motor idling, its glass tinted
and afternoon so dark he canât see inside. Nice car. First
one heâs seen in a while, should be no more than a curios-
ity, except for
Proverbs for Paranoids, 4: You hide, they seek.
;
Zunnggg! diddilung, diddila-ta-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta-ta William
Tell Overture here, back in the shadows, hope nobody was
looking through that one-way glassâzoom, zoom, dodging
around corners, scooting down alleys, no sound of pursuit
but then itâs the quietest engine on the road except for the
King Tiger tank....
Forget that Hotel Nimbus, he reckons. His feet are al-
ready starting to bother him. He gets to the Luisentrasse
and the hockshop just before closing time, and manages
to
raise a little, baloney for a day or two maybe, on the zoot.
So long zoot.
:
This town sure closes up early. What does Slothrop do
tonight for a bed? He has a moment's relapse into opti-
mism; ducks in a restaurant and rings up
desk at the
Hotel Nimbus. âAh, yes,â English English) âcan you pos-
sibly tell me if the British chap whoâs been waiting in the
foyer is still there, you know...
.â
The Odeon and the U-Boat
- Slothrop pawns his zoot suit for survival money and finds himself homeless in a city that closes early.
- A paranoid phone call to the Hotel Nimbus confirms Slothrop's fears that 'They' are tracking his movements.
- He seeks refuge in the Odeon, a legendary café once frequented by figures like Lenin and Einstein, seeking a connection to 'proletarian blood' to escape intellectual sterility.
- Slothrop is approached by Francisco Squalidozzi, an Argentine who uses a fifteen-year-old political cartoon as a coded signal.
- Squalidozzi reveals a surreal plot involving a hijacked German U-boat and a group of Argentines seeking asylum in a post-war Germany.
Whatever it was they all had in common: whatever they'd come to this vantage to score... perhaps it had to do with the people somehow, with pedestrian mortality, restless crisscrossing of needs or desperations in one fateful piece of street.
304
Graviryâs RAINBOW
|
âFive hundred.â
âFive hundred what?â
Swiss francs. Slothrop hasnât got 500 anything, unless
itâs worries. The money from Nice is almost gone. He heads
toward Semyavinâs, across the Gemiise-Briicke, .deciding
he'll walk everywhere from now on, chewing his white
sausage and wondering when he'll see another.
âFirst thing you want to do,â Semyavin advises him, âis
go to a pawnshop and raise a few francs on that, ah,â
pointing to the suit. Aw no, not the suit. Semyavin goes
rummaging in a back room, comes out with a bundle of
workmenâs clothes. âYou should start thinking more about
your visibility. Come back tomorrow, I'll see what else I
can find.â
White zoot in a bundle under his arm, a less visible Ian
Scuffling goes back outside, down into the mediaeval after-
noon of the Niederdorf, stone walls now developing like
baking bread in the failing sun, oboy oboy he can see it
now: gonna turn into another of them Tamara/Italo drills
here, ânâ then heâll bein so deep he'll just never get out....
At the entrance to his street, in the wells of shadow, he
notes a black Rolls parked, motor idling, its glass tinted
and afternoon so dark he canât see inside. Nice car. First
one heâs seen in a while, should be no more than a curios-
ity, except for
Proverbs for Paranoids, 4: You hide, they seek.
;
Zunnggg! diddilung, diddila-ta-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta-ta William
Tell Overture here, back in the shadows, hope nobody was
looking through that one-way glassâzoom, zoom, dodging
around corners, scooting down alleys, no sound of pursuit
but then itâs the quietest engine on the road except for the
King Tiger tank....
Forget that Hotel Nimbus, he reckons. His feet are al-
ready starting to bother him. He gets to the Luisentrasse
and the hockshop just before closing time, and manages
to
raise a little, baloney for a day or two maybe, on the zoot.
So long zoot.
:
This town sure closes up early. What does Slothrop do
tonight for a bed? He has a moment's relapse into opti-
mism; ducks in a restaurant and rings up
desk at the
Hotel Nimbus. âAh, yes,â English English) âcan you pos-
sibly tell me if the British chap whoâs been waiting in the
foyer is still there, you know...
.â
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
305
In a minute on comes a pleasant, awkward voice with
an are-you-there. Oh, so seraphic. Slothrop funks, hangs
up, stands looking at all the people at dinner staring at
himâblew it, blew it, now They know heâs on to Them.
There is the usual chance his paranoiaâs just out of hand
again, but the coincidences are running too close. Besides,
he knows the sound of Their calculated innocence by now,
itâs part of Their style. . ...
Out again in the city: precision banks, churches, Gothic
doorways drilling by... he must avoid the hotel and the
three cafés now, right, right.... The permanent Ziirchers
in early-eyening blue stroll by. Blue as the city twilight,
deepening blue.... The spies and dealers have all gone
indoors. Semyavinâs place is out, the Waxwing circle have
been kind, no point bringing any heat down on them. How
much weight do the Visitors have in this townP Can
Slothrop risk checking in to another hotelP Probably not.
_Itâs getting cold. A wind is coming in now off the lake.
He finds that he has drifted as far as the Odeon, one of
the great world cafés, whose specialty is not listed any-
whereâindeed
has never
been pinned
down.â
Lenin,
Trotsky, James Joyce, Dr. Einstein all sat out at these
tables. Whatever it was they all had in common: whatever
they'd come to this vantage to score... perhaps it had to
do with the people somehow, with pedestrian mortality,
restless crisscrossing of needs or desperations in one fateful
piece of street ... dialectics, matrices, archetypes all need
to connect, once in a while, back to some of that prole-
tarian blood, to body odors and senseless screaming across
a table, to cheating and last. hopes, or else all is dusty
Dracularity, the Westâs ancient curse....
Slothrop finds he has enough spare change for coffee.
He goes sits inside, choosing a seat that'll face the en-
trance. Fifteen minutes and heâs getting the spy-sign from
a swarthy, curly-headed alien in a green suit a couple
tables away. Another front-facer. On his table is an old
~
newspaper that appears to be in Spanish. It is open to a
peculiar political cartoon of a line of middle-aged men
wearing dresses and wigs, inside the police station where
âa cop is holding a loaf of white...no itâs a baby, with
a label on its diaper sez LA REVOLUCION... oh, theyâre all
claiming the infant revolution as their own, all these poli-
ticians bickering like a bunch of putative mothers, and
4
a
306
Gravityâs Ramnsow
somehow this cartoon here is supposed to be some kind of
a touchstone, this fella in the green suit, who turns out to
be an Argentine named Francisco Squalidozzi, is looking
for a reaction... the key passage is at the very end of the
line where the great Argentine poet Leopoldo Lugones is
saying, âNow Iâm going to tell you, in verse, how I con-
ceived her free from the stain of Original Sin... .â It is
the Uriburu revolution of 1930. The paper is fifteen years
old. There is no telling what Squalidozzi is expecting from
Slothrop, but what he gets is pure ignorance. This seems
to be acceptable, and presently the Argentine has loosened
up enough to confide that he and a dozen colleagues,
among them the international eccentric Graciela Imago
Portales, hijacked an early-vintage German U-boat in Mar
del Plata a few weeks ago, and have sailed it back across
the Atlantic now, to seek political asylum in Germany, as
soon as the War's over there. ...
âYou say Germany? You gone goofy? Itâs a mess there,
Jackson!â
âNot nearly the mess we left back home,â the sad
Argentine replies. Long lines have appeared next to his
mouth, lines learned from living next to thousands of horses,
watching too many doomed colts and sunsets south, of
Rivadavia, where the true South begins.... âItâs been a
mess since the colonels took over. Now, with Perén on his
way...our last hope was AcciĂ©n Argentina,â what's he
talking about, Jesus I'm hungry, â...suppressed
it a
month after the coup... now everybody waits. Attending
the street actions out of habit. No real hope. We decided
to move before Perén got another portfolio. War, most
likely. He already has the descamisados, this will give him
the Army too you see...
itâs only a matter of time... we
could have gone to Uruguay, waited him outâitâs a tradi-
tion. But perhaps he will be in for a long time. Montevideo
~
is swarming with failed exiles, and failed hopes. . ..â
3
âYeah, but Germanyâthatâs the last place you want to
âPero chĂ©, no sĂ©s argentino....â
A long look away,
down the engineered scars of Swiss avenues, looking for
the South he left. Not the same Argentine, Slothrop, that â
that Bob Eberleâs seen toasts to Tangerine raised in ev-ry
bar across, now. ... Squalidozzi wants to say: We of all
The Argentine Heart's Labyrinth
- Squalidozzi, an Argentine exile, explains his flight from the rising authoritarianism of PerĂłn and the suppression of political hope in his homeland.
- The narrative explores the 'national tragedy' of Argentina: the transition from the infinite, fenceless pampas to a neurotic obsession with property and complex labyrinths.
- Squalidozzi posits that the Argentine soul feels a deep, guilty longing to return to an 'anarchic oneness' and 'unscribbled serenity' that existed before the fences.
- Slothrop counters these philosophical laments with simplistic American tropes about progress and property rights, largely influenced by Western movies.
- The exiles view the post-war devastation of Germany as a rare, 'extraordinary' opportunity to find a blank slate where the power of the centralized state has been temporarily wiped clean.
We are obsessed with building labyrinths, where before there was open plain and sky.
306
Gravityâs Ramnsow
somehow this cartoon here is supposed to be some kind of
a touchstone, this fella in the green suit, who turns out to
be an Argentine named Francisco Squalidozzi, is looking
for a reaction... the key passage is at the very end of the
line where the great Argentine poet Leopoldo Lugones is
saying, âNow Iâm going to tell you, in verse, how I con-
ceived her free from the stain of Original Sin... .â It is
the Uriburu revolution of 1930. The paper is fifteen years
old. There is no telling what Squalidozzi is expecting from
Slothrop, but what he gets is pure ignorance. This seems
to be acceptable, and presently the Argentine has loosened
up enough to confide that he and a dozen colleagues,
among them the international eccentric Graciela Imago
Portales, hijacked an early-vintage German U-boat in Mar
del Plata a few weeks ago, and have sailed it back across
the Atlantic now, to seek political asylum in Germany, as
soon as the War's over there. ...
âYou say Germany? You gone goofy? Itâs a mess there,
Jackson!â
âNot nearly the mess we left back home,â the sad
Argentine replies. Long lines have appeared next to his
mouth, lines learned from living next to thousands of horses,
watching too many doomed colts and sunsets south, of
Rivadavia, where the true South begins.... âItâs been a
mess since the colonels took over. Now, with Perén on his
way...our last hope was AcciĂ©n Argentina,â what's he
talking about, Jesus I'm hungry, â...suppressed
it a
month after the coup... now everybody waits. Attending
the street actions out of habit. No real hope. We decided
to move before Perén got another portfolio. War, most
likely. He already has the descamisados, this will give him
the Army too you see...
itâs only a matter of time... we
could have gone to Uruguay, waited him outâitâs a tradi-
tion. But perhaps he will be in for a long time. Montevideo
~
is swarming with failed exiles, and failed hopes. . ..â
3
âYeah, but Germanyâthatâs the last place you want to
âPero chĂ©, no sĂ©s argentino....â
A long look away,
down the engineered scars of Swiss avenues, looking for
the South he left. Not the same Argentine, Slothrop, that â
that Bob Eberleâs seen toasts to Tangerine raised in ev-ry
bar across, now. ... Squalidozzi wants to say: We of all
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
307
â magical precipitates out of Europeâs groaning, clouded
adlembic, we are the thinnest, the most. dangerous, the
handiest to secular uses...
. We tried to exterminate our
Indians, like you: we wanted the closed white version of
reality we gotâbut even into the smokiest labyrinths, the
\ furthest stacked density of midday balcony or courtyard
and gate, the land has never let us forget.... But what he
asks aloud is: âHereâyou look hungry. Have you eaten?
I was about to go to supper. Would you do me the honor?â
In the Kronenhalle they find a table upstairs. The eve-
ning rush is tapering off. Sausages and fondue: Slothropâs
starving.
âIn the days of the gauchos, my country was a blank
piece of paper. The pampas stretched as far as men could
imagine, inexhaustible, fenceless. Wherever the gaucho
could ride, that place belonged to him, But Buenos Aires
sought hegemony over the provinces. All the neuroses
about property gathered strength, and began to infect the
countryside. Fences went up, and the gaucho became less
free. It is our national tragedy. We are obsessed with
building labyrinths, where before there was open plain and
sky. To draw ever more complex patterns on the blank
sheet. We cannot abide that openness: it is terror to us.
Look at Borges. Look at the suburbs of Buenos Aires. The
tyrant Rosas has been dead a century, but his cult flour-
ishes. Beneath the city streets, the warrens of rooms and
corridors, the fences and the networks of steel track, the
Argentine heart, in its perversity and guilt, longs for a
return to that first unscribbled serenity... that anarchic
oneness of pampas and sky....â
âBut-but bobwire,â Slothrop with his mouth full of that
fondue, just gobblinâ away, âthatâs progressâyou, you
canât have open range forever, you canât just stand in the
way of progressââ yes, he is actually going to go on for
half an hour, quoting Saturday-afternoon western movies
dedicated to Property if anything is, at this foreigner whoâs
springing for his meal.
Squalidozzi, taking it for mild insanity instead of rude-
ness, only blinks once or twice. âIn ordinary times,â he
wants to explain, âthe center always wins. Its power grows
with time, and that canât be reversed, not by ordinary
~ means. Decentralizing, back toward anarchism, needs ex-
308
Gravityâs Rainsow
traordinary times...
this Warâthis incredible Warâjust
for the moment has wiped | out the proliferation of little
states thatâs prevailed in Germany for a thousand years,
Wiped it clean. Opened it.â
âSure. For how long?â
âIt won't last. Of course not. But for a few months...
perhaps there'll be peace by the autumnâdisctilpeme, the
spring, I still havenât got used to your hemisphereâfor a
moment of spring, perhaps... .â
âYeah butâwhatâre you gonna do, take over land and
try to hold itP They'll run you right off, podner.â
âNo. Taking land is building more fences. We want to
leave it open. We want it to grow, to change. In the
openness of the German Zone, our hope is limitless.â Then,
as if struck on the forehead, a sudden fast glance, not at
the door, but up at the ceilingâ âSo is our danger.â
The U-boat right now is cruising around somewhere off
of Spain, staying submerged for much of the day, spend-
ing nights on the surface to charge batteries, sneaking in
now and then to refuel. Squalidozzi wonât go into the fuel-
ing arrangements in much detail, but there are apparently
connections of many yearsâ standing with the Republican
undergroundâa community of grace, a gift of persistence.
.. Squalidozzi is in Ziirich now contacting governments
that might be willing, for any number of reasons, to assist
his anarchism-in-exile. He must get a message to Geneva
by tomorrow: from there word is relayed to Spain and the
submarine. But there are Peronist agents here in Ziirich.
He is being watched. He canât risk betraying the contact
in Geneva.
âI can help you out,â Slothrop licking off his fingers,
âbut Iâm short of cash andââ
Squalidozzi names a sum that will pay off Mario Schwei-
tar and keep Slothrop fed for months to come.
âHalf in front and Iâm on the way.â
°
The Argentine hands over message, addresses, money,
and springs for the check. They arrange to meet at the
Kronenhalle in three days. âGood luck.â
âYou too.â
A last sad look from Squalidozzi alone |at his table. A
toss of forelock, a fading of light.
The plane is a battered DC-3, chosen for its affinity for
The Illusion of Openness
- Squalidozzi outlines a vision of anarchism-in-exile, seeking to maintain an open, fence-free existence within the German Zone despite the inherent dangers.
- A clandestine network involving a cruising U-boat and the Spanish Republican underground provides the logistical backbone for this revolutionary movement.
- Slothrop accepts a high-stakes courier mission to Geneva to bypass Peronist agents, motivated by a significant cash payout that promises months of security.
- During a moonlit flight over the Alps, Slothropâs wanderlust is met with the grim realization that the world offers no true sanctuary from political reach.
- The appearance of a degraded, weeping Richard Halliburton serves as a symbol for the death of the romantic adventurer ideal in a world dominated by 'Fascist Action.'
- Slothrop concludes that the travelogues and adventure stories of his youth were lies, realizing he has been 'conned' by the myth of the frontier.
He appears to be weeping silently, bending, a failed angel, over all these second-rate Alps, over all the night skiers far below, out on the slopes, crisscrossing industriously, purifying and perfecting their Fascist ideal of Action, Action, Action, once his own shining reason for being.
308
Gravityâs Rainsow
traordinary times...
this Warâthis incredible Warâjust
for the moment has wiped | out the proliferation of little
states thatâs prevailed in Germany for a thousand years,
Wiped it clean. Opened it.â
âSure. For how long?â
âIt won't last. Of course not. But for a few months...
perhaps there'll be peace by the autumnâdisctilpeme, the
spring, I still havenât got used to your hemisphereâfor a
moment of spring, perhaps... .â
âYeah butâwhatâre you gonna do, take over land and
try to hold itP They'll run you right off, podner.â
âNo. Taking land is building more fences. We want to
leave it open. We want it to grow, to change. In the
openness of the German Zone, our hope is limitless.â Then,
as if struck on the forehead, a sudden fast glance, not at
the door, but up at the ceilingâ âSo is our danger.â
The U-boat right now is cruising around somewhere off
of Spain, staying submerged for much of the day, spend-
ing nights on the surface to charge batteries, sneaking in
now and then to refuel. Squalidozzi wonât go into the fuel-
ing arrangements in much detail, but there are apparently
connections of many yearsâ standing with the Republican
undergroundâa community of grace, a gift of persistence.
.. Squalidozzi is in Ziirich now contacting governments
that might be willing, for any number of reasons, to assist
his anarchism-in-exile. He must get a message to Geneva
by tomorrow: from there word is relayed to Spain and the
submarine. But there are Peronist agents here in Ziirich.
He is being watched. He canât risk betraying the contact
in Geneva.
âI can help you out,â Slothrop licking off his fingers,
âbut Iâm short of cash andââ
Squalidozzi names a sum that will pay off Mario Schwei-
tar and keep Slothrop fed for months to come.
âHalf in front and Iâm on the way.â
°
The Argentine hands over message, addresses, money,
and springs for the check. They arrange to meet at the
Kronenhalle in three days. âGood luck.â
âYou too.â
A last sad look from Squalidozzi alone |at his table. A
toss of forelock, a fading of light.
The plane is a battered DC-3, chosen for its affinity for
Baar.
|
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
309
~ moonlight, the kind expression on
its windowed face,
its darkness inside and outside. He wakes up curled among
the cargo, metal darkness, engine vibration through his
bones . . . red light filtering very faint back through a bulk-
head from up forward. He crawls to a tiny window and
looks out. Alps in the moonlight. Kind of small ones,
though, not as spectacular as he figured on. Oh, well....
He settles back down on a soft excelsior bed, lighting up
one of Squalidozziâs corktips thinking, Jeepers, not: bad,
guys just jump in the airplane, go where they want...
why stop at Geneva? Sure, what aboutâwell, that Spain?
no wait, theyâre Fascists. South Sea Islands! hmm. Full of
Japs and Gls. Well Africaâs the Dark Continent, nothing
there but natives, elephants, *nâ that Spencer Tracy....
_
âThereâs nowhere to go, Slothrop, nowhere.â The figure
is huddled against a crate, and shivering. Slothrop squints
through the weak red light. It is the well-known frontis-
piece face of insouciant adventurer Richard Halliburton:
but strangely altered. Down both the manâs cheeks runs a
âterrible rash, palimpsested over older pockmarks, in whose
symmetry Slothrop, had he a medical eye, could have read
drug reaction. Richard Halliburtonâs jodhpurs are torn and
soiled, his bright hair greasy now and hanging. He appears
to be weeping silently, bending, a failed angel, over all
these second-rate Alps, over all the night skiers far below,
out on the slopes, crisscrossing industriously, purifying and
perfecting their Fascist ideal of Action, Action, Action,
once his own shining reason for being. No more. No more.
Slothrop reaches, puts the cigarette out on the deck.
How easy these angel-white wood shavings can go up. Lie
here in this rattling and wrenched airplane, lie still as you
can, damn fool, yup they've conned youâconned you
again. Richard Halliburton, Lowell Thomas, Rover and
Motor Boys, jaundiced stacks of National Geographics up
in Hoganâs room mustâve all lied to him, and there was no
one then, not even a colonial ghost in the attic, to tell him
different... .
Bump, skid, slew, pancake landing, fucking washouts
from kite-flying school, gray Swiss dawn light through little
__ windows and every joint, muscle, and bone in Slothrop is
' Sore. Itâs time to punch back in.
â He gets off of the plane without incident, mingling into
Puritan Mysteries in Zurich
- Slothrop arrives in Geneva at dawn, navigating the slick pavements and green hills of Cointrin to meet an Argentine contact.
- The meeting at CafĂ© lâEclipse involves a clandestine exchange of messages disguised as a currency transaction using a 50-peso note.
- Returning to Zurich by train, Slothrop experiences a deep sense of paranoia, avoiding the main station to evade potential surveillance.
- The sight of the St. Peterhofstatt clock triggers a memory of Slothrop's youth, linking his current fear to the 'Puritan Mysteries' of his Harvard days.
- The narrative explores the concept of 'vanity' as a spiritual void, where the comfort of the past is revealed as elaborate theater masking a dark reality.
- Zurich is depicted as a city of Reformation ghosts, where spies and businessmen operate among stone reminders of a judgmental history.
But now the screen has gone dark, and there is absolutely no more time left. The agents are here for you at last....
Baar.
|
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
309
~ moonlight, the kind expression on
its windowed face,
its darkness inside and outside. He wakes up curled among
the cargo, metal darkness, engine vibration through his
bones . . . red light filtering very faint back through a bulk-
head from up forward. He crawls to a tiny window and
looks out. Alps in the moonlight. Kind of small ones,
though, not as spectacular as he figured on. Oh, well....
He settles back down on a soft excelsior bed, lighting up
one of Squalidozziâs corktips thinking, Jeepers, not: bad,
guys just jump in the airplane, go where they want...
why stop at Geneva? Sure, what aboutâwell, that Spain?
no wait, theyâre Fascists. South Sea Islands! hmm. Full of
Japs and Gls. Well Africaâs the Dark Continent, nothing
there but natives, elephants, *nâ that Spencer Tracy....
_
âThereâs nowhere to go, Slothrop, nowhere.â The figure
is huddled against a crate, and shivering. Slothrop squints
through the weak red light. It is the well-known frontis-
piece face of insouciant adventurer Richard Halliburton:
but strangely altered. Down both the manâs cheeks runs a
âterrible rash, palimpsested over older pockmarks, in whose
symmetry Slothrop, had he a medical eye, could have read
drug reaction. Richard Halliburtonâs jodhpurs are torn and
soiled, his bright hair greasy now and hanging. He appears
to be weeping silently, bending, a failed angel, over all
these second-rate Alps, over all the night skiers far below,
out on the slopes, crisscrossing industriously, purifying and
perfecting their Fascist ideal of Action, Action, Action,
once his own shining reason for being. No more. No more.
Slothrop reaches, puts the cigarette out on the deck.
How easy these angel-white wood shavings can go up. Lie
here in this rattling and wrenched airplane, lie still as you
can, damn fool, yup they've conned youâconned you
again. Richard Halliburton, Lowell Thomas, Rover and
Motor Boys, jaundiced stacks of National Geographics up
in Hoganâs room mustâve all lied to him, and there was no
one then, not even a colonial ghost in the attic, to tell him
different... .
Bump, skid, slew, pancake landing, fucking washouts
from kite-flying school, gray Swiss dawn light through little
__ windows and every joint, muscle, and bone in Slothrop is
' Sore. Itâs time to punch back in.
â He gets off of the plane without incident, mingling into
310
Gravityâs RaiInsow
a yawning, sour flock of early passengers, delivery agents,
airfield workers. Cointrin in the early morning. Shocking
green hills one side, brown city on the other. Pavements
are slick and wet. Clouds blow slowly in the sky. Mont
Blanc sez hi, lake sez howdy too, Slothrop buys 20 ciga-
rettes and a local paper, asks directions, gets in a tram that
comes and with cold air through doors and windows to
wake him up goes rolling into the City of Peace.
:
Heâs to meet his Argentine contact at the CafĂ© lâEclipse,
well off the trolley lines, down a cobblestone street and
into a tiny square surrounded by vegetable and fruit stalls
under beige awnings, shops, other cafés, window-boxes,
clean hosed sidewalks. Dogs go running in and out of the
alleys. Slothrop
sits with coffee, croissants, and news-
paper. Presently the overcast burns off. The sun throws
shadows across the square nearly to where heâs sitting
with all antennas out. Nobody seems to be watching. He
waits. Shadows retreat, sun climbs then begins to fall, at
last his man shows up, exactly as described: suit of Buenos
~
Aires
daytime black, mustache,
goldrim
glasses, and
whistling an old tango by Juan dâArienzo. Slothrop makes
a show of searching all his pockets, comes up with the
foreign bill Squalidozzi told him to use: frowns at it, gets
up, goes over.
Como no, sefor, no problem changing a 50-peso noteâ
offering a seat, coming out with currency, notebooks,
cards, pretty soon the tabletopâs littered with pieces of
paper that eventually get sorted back into pockets so that
the man has Squalidozziâs message and Slothrop has one
to bring back to Squalidozzi. And thatâs that.
.
Back to Ziirich on an afternoon train, sleeping most of
the way. He gets off at Schlieren, some ungodly dark hour,
â
just in case Theyâre watching the Bahnhof in town, hitches
a ride in as far as the St. Peterhofstatt. Its great clock
hangs over him and empty acres ofâ streets in what he
â
now reads as dumb malignity. It connects to Ivy League
quadrangles in his distant youth, clock-towers lit so dim the
hour could never be read, and a temptation, never so
strong though as now, to surrender to the darkening year,
to embrace what he can of real terror to the hour without
a name
(unless itâs...no...NO...): jit was vanity,
vanity as his Puritan forerunners had known it, bones and
wa
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
311
heart alert to Nothing, Nothing underneath the college
saxophones melding sweetly, white blazers lipsticked about
the lapels, smoke from nervous Fatimas, Castile soap
vaporizing off of shining hair, and mint kisses, and dewed
carnations. It was being come for just before dawn by
pranksters younger than he, dragged from bed, blind-
folded, Hey Reinhardt, led out into the autumnal cold,
shadows and leaves underfoot, and the moment then of
doubt, the real possibility that they are something elseâ
that none of it was real before this moment: only elabo-
rate theatre to fool you. But now the screen has gone dark,
jand there is absolutely no more time left. The agents are
here for you at last....
What better place than Ziirich to find vanity again? Itâs
Reformation country, Zwingliâs town, the man at the end
of the encyclopedia, and stone reminders are everywhere.
Spies and big business, in their element, move tirelessly
among the grave markers. Be assured there are ex-young
men, here in this very city, faces Slothrop used to pass in
the quads, who got initiated at Harvard into the Puritan
Mysteries: who took oaths in dead earnest to respect and
to act always in the name of Vanitas, Emptiness, their
ruler... who now according to life-plan such-and-such
have come to Switzerland to work for Allen Dulles and
his âintelligenceâ network, which operates these days under
the title âOffice of Strategic Services.â But to initiates OSS
is also a secret acronym:
as a mantra for times of im-
âmediate crisis they have been taught to speak inwardly
oss...oss, the late, corrupt, Dark-age Latin word for
âbone. .
"Next day, when Slothrop meets Mario Schweitar at BS
Striggeli to front him half his fee, he asks also for the
location of Jamf's grave. And thatâs where they arrange to
close the deal, up in the mountains.
Squalidozzi doesnât show up at the Kronenhalle, or the
Odeon, or anyplace Slothrop will think to look in the days
that follow. Disappearances, in Ziirich, are not unheard of.
But Slothrop will keep going back, just in case. The mes-
âsage is in Spanish, he canât make out more than a word or
âtwo, but he'll hold on to it, there might be a chance to
âa it on. And, well, the anarchist persuasion appeals to
a little. Back when Shays fought the federal troops
Slothrop at Jamf's Grave
- The OSS is depicted as a secret order serving 'Vanitas,' using the Latin word for bone ('oss') as a meditative mantra for crisis.
- Slothrop reflects on his family history, noting his ancestors were 'Regulators' who fought for the living green against the federal government's 'dead white' paper.
- While hiding in a Swiss crypt, Slothrop camps directly on top of the remains of Laszlo Jamf, the scientist who conditioned him as a child.
- Slothrop experiences a psychological breakthrough, overcoming his fear of a spectral visitation from Jamf and feeling he has passed a personal test.
- The landscape of Zurich is described as a 'necropolis' and a 'dream of Atlantis,' emphasizing a sense of isolation and cold beauty.
- Slothrop receives a mysterious envelope from Mario Schweitarâs courier, continuing his pursuit of the secrets behind the plastic Imipolex G.
The first night he was afraid to fall asleep, afraid of a visit from Jamf, whose German-scientist mind would be battered by Death to only the most brute reflexes, no way to appeal to the dumb and grinning evil of the shell that was left.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
311
heart alert to Nothing, Nothing underneath the college
saxophones melding sweetly, white blazers lipsticked about
the lapels, smoke from nervous Fatimas, Castile soap
vaporizing off of shining hair, and mint kisses, and dewed
carnations. It was being come for just before dawn by
pranksters younger than he, dragged from bed, blind-
folded, Hey Reinhardt, led out into the autumnal cold,
shadows and leaves underfoot, and the moment then of
doubt, the real possibility that they are something elseâ
that none of it was real before this moment: only elabo-
rate theatre to fool you. But now the screen has gone dark,
jand there is absolutely no more time left. The agents are
here for you at last....
What better place than Ziirich to find vanity again? Itâs
Reformation country, Zwingliâs town, the man at the end
of the encyclopedia, and stone reminders are everywhere.
Spies and big business, in their element, move tirelessly
among the grave markers. Be assured there are ex-young
men, here in this very city, faces Slothrop used to pass in
the quads, who got initiated at Harvard into the Puritan
Mysteries: who took oaths in dead earnest to respect and
to act always in the name of Vanitas, Emptiness, their
ruler... who now according to life-plan such-and-such
have come to Switzerland to work for Allen Dulles and
his âintelligenceâ network, which operates these days under
the title âOffice of Strategic Services.â But to initiates OSS
is also a secret acronym:
as a mantra for times of im-
âmediate crisis they have been taught to speak inwardly
oss...oss, the late, corrupt, Dark-age Latin word for
âbone. .
"Next day, when Slothrop meets Mario Schweitar at BS
Striggeli to front him half his fee, he asks also for the
location of Jamf's grave. And thatâs where they arrange to
close the deal, up in the mountains.
Squalidozzi doesnât show up at the Kronenhalle, or the
Odeon, or anyplace Slothrop will think to look in the days
that follow. Disappearances, in Ziirich, are not unheard of.
But Slothrop will keep going back, just in case. The mes-
âsage is in Spanish, he canât make out more than a word or
âtwo, but he'll hold on to it, there might be a chance to
âa it on. And, well, the anarchist persuasion appeals to
a little. Back when Shays fought the federal troops
312
GRAVITYâs RAINBOW
across
Massachusetts,
there were
Slothrop Regulators
patrolling Berkshire for the rebels, wearing sprigs of hem-
lock in their hats so you could tell them from the Govern-
ment soldiers. Federals stuck a tatter of white paper in
theirs. Slothrops in those days were not yet so much in-
-volved with paper, and the wholesale slaughtering of
trees. They were
still for the living green, against the
dead white. Later they lost, or traded away, knowledge of
which side they'd been on. Tyrone here has inherited most
of their bland ignorance on the subject.
Back behind him now, wind blows through Jamfâs
crypt. Slothropâs been camped here these past few nights,
nearly out of money, waiting for word from Schweitar.
Out of the wind, huddled inside a couple of Swiss army
blankets he managed to promote, heâs even been able to
sleep. Right on top of Mister Imipolex. The first night he
was afraid to fall asleep, afraid of a visit from Jamf, whose
German-scientist mind would be battered by Death to-only
the most brute reflexes, no way to appeal to the dumb and
grinning evil of the shell that was left... voices twittering
with moonlight around his image, as step by step he, It,
the Repressed, approaches.... waitaminute up out of
sleep, face naked, turning to the foreign gravestones, the
what? what was it... back again, almost to it, up again
.. up, and back, that way, most of the early night.
Thereâs no visit. It seems Jamf is only dead. Slothrop
woke next morning feeling, in spite of an empty stomach
and a runny nose, better than he had in months. Seemed
like heâd passed a test, not somebody elseâs test, but one of
his own, for a change.
The city below him, bathed now in a partial light, is a
necropolis of church spires and weathercocks, white castle-
keep. towers, broad buildings with mansard roofs and
windows glimmering by thousands. This forenoon the
mountains are as translucent as ice. Later in the day they
will be blue heaps of wrinkled satin. The lake is mirror-
smooth but mountains and houses reflec
down there
remain strangely blurred, with edges fine and combed as
rain: a dream of Atlantis, of the Suggenthal. Toy villages,
desolate city of painted alabaster.
...
lothrop hunkers
down here in the cold curve of a mountain trail, packing
and lobbing idle snowballs, not much to do around here
4
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
313
but smoke the last butt of what for all he knows is the
last Lucky Strike in all Switzerland. ...
Footfalls down the trail. Clinking galoshes. It is Mario
Schweitarâs delivery boy, with a big fat envelope. Slothrop
pays him, chisels a cigarette and some matches, and they
part. Back to the crypt Slothrop relights a small pile of
kindling and pine boughs, warms up his hands, and begins
to thumb through the data. The absence of Jamf sur-
rounds him like an odor, one he knows but canât quite
name, an aura that threatens to go epileptic any second.
The information is hereânot as much as he wanted (aw,
how much was that?) but more than he hoped, being one
of those practical Yankees. In the weeks ahead, in those
very few moments he'll be allowed to wallow in his past,
he may even have time to wish he hadnât read any. of
gts). "s
O
Mr. Pointsman has decided to spend Whitsun by the sea.
Feeling a bit megalo these days, nothing to worry about
really, never gets worse than, oh perhaps the impression,
whilst zooming along through the corridors of âThe White
Visitation,â that all the others seem to be frozen in atti-
tudes of unmistakable parkinsonism, with himself the only
alert, unpalsied one remaining. It is peacetime again now,
no room for the pigeons in Trafalgar Square on V-E Night,
everyone at the facility that day mad drunk and hugging
and kissing, except for the Blavatskian wing of Psi Section,
who were off on a White Lotos Day pilgrimage to 19
Avenue Road, St. Johnâs Wood.
Now thereâs time again for holidays. Though Pointsman
does feel a certain obligation to go relax, there is also, of
course, The Crisis, A leader must show self-possession, up
to and including a holiday mood, in the midst of Crisis.
Thereâs now been no word of Slothrop for nearly a
month, since the fumbling asses in military intelligence
lost him in Ziirich. Pointsman is a bit browned-off with the
Firm. His clever strategy appears toâve failed. In first dis-
cussions with Clive Mossmoon and the others, it seemed
foolproof: to let Slothrop escape from the Casino Her-
Pointsman's Blunder and Slothrop's Map
- Pointsman experiences a sense of megalomania and isolation, perceiving others as frozen in 'parkinsonism' while he remains the only alert figure.
- The transition to peacetime allows for holidays, yet Pointsman feels burdened by 'The Crisis' of losing track of Slothrop for nearly a month.
- A failed strategy to let the Secret Service surveil Slothrop has backfired, leaving Pointsman frustrated by funding issues and administrative failures.
- Investigators Speed and Perdoo, tasked with mapping Slothrop's sexual encounters, have become distracted by 'mindless pleasures' and sensory indulgences.
- The narrative compares Slothrop's map of London to Don Giovanni's map of Europe, highlighting the obsessive and erotic nature of the data collection.
- The investigators' descent into triviality is epitomized by a surreal and fetishistic interaction over a cantaloupe.
The absence of Jamf surrounds him like an odor, one he knows but canât quite name, an aura that threatens to go epileptic any second.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
313
but smoke the last butt of what for all he knows is the
last Lucky Strike in all Switzerland. ...
Footfalls down the trail. Clinking galoshes. It is Mario
Schweitarâs delivery boy, with a big fat envelope. Slothrop
pays him, chisels a cigarette and some matches, and they
part. Back to the crypt Slothrop relights a small pile of
kindling and pine boughs, warms up his hands, and begins
to thumb through the data. The absence of Jamf sur-
rounds him like an odor, one he knows but canât quite
name, an aura that threatens to go epileptic any second.
The information is hereânot as much as he wanted (aw,
how much was that?) but more than he hoped, being one
of those practical Yankees. In the weeks ahead, in those
very few moments he'll be allowed to wallow in his past,
he may even have time to wish he hadnât read any. of
gts). "s
O
Mr. Pointsman has decided to spend Whitsun by the sea.
Feeling a bit megalo these days, nothing to worry about
really, never gets worse than, oh perhaps the impression,
whilst zooming along through the corridors of âThe White
Visitation,â that all the others seem to be frozen in atti-
tudes of unmistakable parkinsonism, with himself the only
alert, unpalsied one remaining. It is peacetime again now,
no room for the pigeons in Trafalgar Square on V-E Night,
everyone at the facility that day mad drunk and hugging
and kissing, except for the Blavatskian wing of Psi Section,
who were off on a White Lotos Day pilgrimage to 19
Avenue Road, St. Johnâs Wood.
Now thereâs time again for holidays. Though Pointsman
does feel a certain obligation to go relax, there is also, of
course, The Crisis, A leader must show self-possession, up
to and including a holiday mood, in the midst of Crisis.
Thereâs now been no word of Slothrop for nearly a
month, since the fumbling asses in military intelligence
lost him in Ziirich. Pointsman is a bit browned-off with the
Firm. His clever strategy appears toâve failed. In first dis-
cussions with Clive Mossmoon and the others, it seemed
foolproof: to let Slothrop escape from the Casino Her-
314
Graviryâs RAmnsow
mann Goering, and then rely on Secret Service to keep
him under surveillance instead of PISCES. An economy
move. The surveillance bill is the most excruciating thorn
in the crown of funding problems he seems condemned to
wear for the duration of this project. Damned funding is
going to be his downfall, if Slothrop doesnât drive him
insane first.
Pointsman has blundered, Hasnât even the Tennysonian
comfort of saying âsomeoneâ has blundered. No, it was he
and he alone who authorized the Anglo-American team of
Harvey Speed and Floyd Perdoo to investigate a random
sample of Slothropian sex adventures. Budget was avail-
able, and what harm could it do? They went off practically
skipping, obsessive
as Munchkins,
out into the erotic
Poisson. Don Giovanni's map of Europeâ64o. in Italy,
231 in Germany, 100 in France, 91 in Turkey but, but,
butâin Spain! in Spain, 1003!âis Slothropâs map of Lon-
don, and the two gumshoes become so infected with the
prevailing fondness out here for mindless pleasures that
they presently are passing whole afternoons sitting out in
restaurant gardens dawdling over chrysanthemum salads
and mutton casseroles, or larking at the fruit mongerâsâ
âHey Speed, look, canteloupes! I havenât seen one of them
since the Third Termâwow, smell this one, itâs beautifull
Say, how about a canteloupe, Speed? Huh? Come on.â
âExcellent idea, Perdoo, excellent.â
âUh... Oh, well you pick out the one you want, okay?â
âThe one?â
âYeah. This is the one,â turning it to show him as the
faces of threatened girls are roughly tumed by villains,
âthat I picked out, see?â
âBut but I thought we were both going toââ gesturing
feebly toward what he still cannot quite accept as Perdooâs
melon, in whose intaglio net now, as among craters of the
pale moon, a face is indeed emerging, the face of a cap-
tive woman with eyes cast downward, lids above as smooth
as Persian ceilings. ...
|
âWell, no, I usually, uhââ this is
embarrassing for
Perdoo, itâs like being called on to, to justify eating an
apple, or even popping a grape into your
mouthââjust,
well, sort of, eat them... whole, you know,â chuckling in
The Slothropian Episodic Zone
- Perdoo and Speed wander through a surreal, dead-end landscape in search of women named on Slothropâs map, encountering a grotesque maternal figure.
- The investigation, codenamed SEZ WHO, begins to unravel as the names on the map fail to correspond with real people in London.
- A metaphorical clown appears to mock the investigators, questioning when they will realize the futility or the true nature of their search.
- Pointsman experiences a visceral, nightmare-like realization about the data but reflexively chooses to avoid the implications of the truth.
- The narrative suggests that Slothropâs 'stars' may represent sexual fantasies rather than historical sexual encounters, drawing a parallel to Freudâs early clinical theories.
Pointsman sees it immediately. But he âseesâ it in the way you would walking into your bedroom to be jumped on, out of a bit of penumbra on your ceiling, by a gigantic moray eel, its teeth in full imbecile death-smile, breathing, in its fall onto your open face, a long human sound that you know, horribly, to be a sexual sigh....
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
BLS
_ what he hopes is a friendly way, to indicate politely the
social oddness of this discussionâ
âhbut the chuckle is taken the wrong way by Sdeck:
taken as evidence of mental instability in this slightly buck-
toothed and angular American, who is dancing now from
stoop to English stoop, lank as a street-puppet in the wind.
â Shaking his head, he nevertheless selects his own whole
canteloupe, realizes heâs been left to pay the bill, which is
exorbitant, and goes skipping off after Perdoo, hippety hop
both of them, tra-la-la-la slam right into another dead end:
âJenny? Noâno Jenny here... .â
âA Jennifer, perhaps? Genevieve?â
âGinnyâ (it couldâve been misspelled), âVirginia?â
âIf you gentlemen are looking for a good timeââ Her
grin, her red, maniacally good-morning-and-I-mean-good!
grin, is wide enough to hold them both right, shivering,
smiling, here, and sheâs old enough to be their Motherâ
their joint Mother, combining the worst traits of Mrs.
Perdoo and Mrs. Speedâin fact she is turning now into
just that, even as they watch. These wrecked seas are full
of temptressesâitâs watery and wanton out here all right.
As the two gawking soft-boiled shamuses are drawn along
into her aura, winking right here in the street, brassy with
henna-glare, with passion-flowers on rayonâjust before
the last stumbling surrender into the lunacy of her purple
eyes, they allow themselves, for the sinful tickle of it, a
last thought of the project theyâre supposed to be here
onâSlothropian Episodic Zone, Weekly Historical Obser-
vations (SEZ WHO)âa thought that comes running out in
the guise of a clown, a vulgar, loose-ends clown be-
spangled with wordless jokes about body juices, bald-
headed, an amazing fall of nose-hair out both nostrils
which he has put into braids and tied with acid-green
bowsâa scrabbling dash now out past sandbags and falling
curtain, trying to get back his breath, to garble to them
in a high unpleasant screech: âNo Jenny. No Sally W. No
Cybele, No Angela. No Catherine. No Lucy. No Gretchen.
When are you going to see it? When are you going to
see it?â
No âDarleneâ either. That came in yesterday. They
traced the name as far as the residence of a Mrs. Quoad.
But the flashy young divorcée never, she declared, even
316
Graviryâs Ramnsow
knew that English children were named âDarlene.â She
was dreadfully sorry. Mrs. Quoad spent her days lounging
about a rather pedicured, Mayfair address, and both in-
vestigators felt relieved to be out of the neighborhood. . . .
When are you going to see it? Pointsman sees it im-
mediately. But he âseesâ it in the way you would walking
into your bedroom to be jumped on, out of a bit of penum-
bra on your ceiling, by a gigantic moray eel, its teeth in
full imbecile death-smile, breathing, in its fall onto your
open face, a long human sound that you know, horribly, to
be a sexual sigh....
That is to say, Pointsman avoids the matterâas re-
flexively as he would any nightmare. Should this one turn
out not to be a fantasy but real, well. :.
âThe data, so far, are incomplete.â This ought
to be
prominently stressed in all statements. âWe admit that the
early data seem to show,â remember, act sincere, âa num-
ber of cases where the names on Slothropâs map do not
appear to have counterparts in the body of fact we've
been able to establish along his time-line here in London.
Establish so far, that is. These are mostly all first names,
you see, the, the Xs without the Ys so to speak, ranks
without files. Difficult to know how far into one âfar
enoughâ really is.
âAnd what if manyâeven if mostâof the Slothropian
stars are proved, some distant day, to refer to sexual fan-
tasies instead of real events? This would hardly invalidate
our approach, any more than it did young Sigmund
Freudâs, back there in old Vienna, facing a similar viola-
tion of probabilityâall those Papi-has-raped-me stories,
which might have been lies evidentially, but were certainly
the truth clinically. You must realize: we are concerned,
at PISCES, with a rather strictly defined, clinical version
of truth. We seek no wider agency in this.â
So far, it is Pointsmanâs burden alone. The solitude of a
Fiihrer: he feels himself growing strong in the rays of this
dark companion to his public star now on the rise... but
he doesnât want to share it, no not just yet. |..
Meetings of the staff, his staff, grow worse and worse
than useless. They bog down into endless
arguments about
triviaâwhether or not to rename PISCES! now that the
Surrender has been Expedited, what sort of letterhead, if
The Solitude of Pointsman
- Pointsman adopts a messianic, 'lâĂ©tat c'est moi' leadership style as PISCES faces bureaucratic dissolution and internal triviality.
- The disappearance of Slothrop creates a panic at Shell Mex House due to his extensive knowledge of the A4 rocket and British intelligence.
- A frantic geopolitical race is underway as Soviet and American agencies compete to scavenge rocket technology and personnel from occupied Germany.
- PISCES is crumbling from within as key staff members like Rollo Groast and Myron Grunton defect back to their civilian lives.
- In an attempt to manage political tensions and personal exhaustion, Pointsman organizes a bleak holiday to the seaside for the remaining core group.
- The atmosphere at the beach is a jarring mix of postwar civilian celebration and the lingering, cold tension of the coming Cold War.
Pointsman is finding it much easier of late to slip into a lâĂ©tat c'est moi frame of mindâwho else is doing anything? isnât he holding it all together, often with nothing beyond his own raw will...?
316
Graviryâs Ramnsow
knew that English children were named âDarlene.â She
was dreadfully sorry. Mrs. Quoad spent her days lounging
about a rather pedicured, Mayfair address, and both in-
vestigators felt relieved to be out of the neighborhood. . . .
When are you going to see it? Pointsman sees it im-
mediately. But he âseesâ it in the way you would walking
into your bedroom to be jumped on, out of a bit of penum-
bra on your ceiling, by a gigantic moray eel, its teeth in
full imbecile death-smile, breathing, in its fall onto your
open face, a long human sound that you know, horribly, to
be a sexual sigh....
That is to say, Pointsman avoids the matterâas re-
flexively as he would any nightmare. Should this one turn
out not to be a fantasy but real, well. :.
âThe data, so far, are incomplete.â This ought
to be
prominently stressed in all statements. âWe admit that the
early data seem to show,â remember, act sincere, âa num-
ber of cases where the names on Slothropâs map do not
appear to have counterparts in the body of fact we've
been able to establish along his time-line here in London.
Establish so far, that is. These are mostly all first names,
you see, the, the Xs without the Ys so to speak, ranks
without files. Difficult to know how far into one âfar
enoughâ really is.
âAnd what if manyâeven if mostâof the Slothropian
stars are proved, some distant day, to refer to sexual fan-
tasies instead of real events? This would hardly invalidate
our approach, any more than it did young Sigmund
Freudâs, back there in old Vienna, facing a similar viola-
tion of probabilityâall those Papi-has-raped-me stories,
which might have been lies evidentially, but were certainly
the truth clinically. You must realize: we are concerned,
at PISCES, with a rather strictly defined, clinical version
of truth. We seek no wider agency in this.â
So far, it is Pointsmanâs burden alone. The solitude of a
Fiihrer: he feels himself growing strong in the rays of this
dark companion to his public star now on the rise... but
he doesnât want to share it, no not just yet. |..
Meetings of the staff, his staff, grow worse and worse
than useless. They bog down into endless
arguments about
triviaâwhether or not to rename PISCES! now that the
Surrender has been Expedited, what sort of letterhead, if
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
317
_ any, to adopt. The representative from Shell Mex House,
Mr. Dennis Joint, wants to put the program under Special
Projectiles Operations Group (SPOG), as an adjunct of the
British rocket-scavenging effort, Operation Backfire, which
is based out of Cuxhaven on the North Sea. Every other
_ day brings a fresh attempt, from some quarter, to recon-
stitute or even dissolve PISCES. Pointsman is finding it
much easier of late to slip into a lâĂ©tat c'est moi frame of
mindâwho else is doing anything? isnât he holding it all
together, often with nothing beyond his:own raw will...?
Shell Mex House, naturally, is frantic about Slothropâs
_
disappearance. Hereâs a man running loose who knows
everything itâs possible to knowânot only about the A4,
but about what Great Britain knows about the A4. Ziirich
teems with Soviet agents. What if they've already got
Slothrop? They took Peenemiinde in the spring, it appears
now they will be given the central rocket works at Nord-
hausen, another of the dealings at Yalta.... At least three
_ agencies, VIAM, TsAGI, and NISO, plus engineers work-
ing out of other commissariats, are even now in Soviet-
occupied Germany with lists of personnel and equipment
to be taken east. Inside the SHAEF sphere of influence,
American Army. Ordnance, and a host of competing re-
search teams, are all busy collecting everything in sight.
They've already rounded up von Braun and 500 others,
and interned them at Garmisch, What if they get hold of
Slothrop?
There have also been, aggravating the Crisis, defections:
Rollo Groast assumed back into the Society for Psychical
Research, Treacle setting up a practice, Myron Grunton
again a full-time wireless personality. Mexico has begun to
grow distant. The Borgesius woman
still performs her
-
nocturnal duties, but with the Brigadier ill now (has the
old fool been forgetting his antibioticsP Must Pointsman
do everything?) sheâs beginning to fret. Of course GĂ©za
Rézsavélgyi is still with the project. A fanatic. Rézsavélgyi
_ will never leave.
__
So. A holiday by the sea. For political reasons, the party
is made up of Pointsman, Mexico, Mexico's girl, Dennis
_ Joint, and Katje Borgesius. Pointsman wears rope-soled
shoes, his prewar bowler, and a rare smile. The weather is
' not ideal. An overcast, a wind that will be chilly by mid-
..
re 7
Ora
318
Graviryâs Rainsow
afternoon. A smell of ozone blows up from the Dodgem
cars out of the gray steel girderwork along the promenade,
along with smells of shellfish on the barrows, and of salt
sea. The pebbled beach is crowded with families: shoeless
fathers in lounge suits and high white collars, mothers in
blouses and skirts startled out of war-long camphor sleep,
kids running all over in sunsuits, nappies, rompers, short
pants, knee socks, Eton hats. There are ice cream, sweets,
Cokes, cockles, oysters and shrimps with salt and sauce.
The pinball machines writhe under the handling of fanati-
cal servicemen and their girls, throwing body-english,
cursing, groaning as the bright balls drum down the wood
â
obstacle courses through ka-chungs, flashing lights, thud-
ding flippers. The donkeys hee-haw and shit, the children
walk in it and their parents scream. Men sag in striped
canvas chairs talking business, sports, sex, but most usually
politics. An organ grinder plays Rossiniâs overture to La
Gazza Ladra (which, as we shall see later, in Berlin, marks
a high point in music which everybody ignored, preferring
Beethoven, who never got further than statements of in-
tention), and here without snaredrums or the sonority of
brasses the piece is mellow, full of hope, promising lay-
ender twilights, stainless steel pavilions and everyone ele-
vated at last to aristocracy, and love without payment
of
any kind....
It was Pointsmanâs plan today not to talk shop, but to
let the conversation flow more or less organically. Wait for
others to betray themselves. But there
is shyness, or con-
straint, among them all. Talk is minimal. Dennis Joint is
watching Katje with a horny smile, with now and then a
Suspicious stare for Roger Mexico. Mexico meantime has
his troubles with Jessicaâmore and more often these
daysâand at the moment the two arenât even looking at
each other. Katje Borgesius has her eyes far out to sea,
and there is no telling what is going on with this one. In
some dim way, Pointsman, though he canât see that she
has any leverage at all, is still afraid of her. There is still a
lot he doesnât know. Perhaps whatâs bothering him most
right now is her connection, if any, with
Pirate Prentice.
Prentice has been down to âThe White Visitationâ several
times asking rather pointed questions about her. When
PISCES recently opened its new branch office in London
Paranoia and Social Friction
- A group of characters, including Pointsman, Mexico, and Katje, gather in a seaside setting filled with the mundane sounds of organ grinders and vacationers.
- Pointsman attempts to manipulate the social dynamic to gather intelligence but finds himself overwhelmed by suspicion and personal irritation.
- Tensions simmer between Roger Mexico and Jessica, while Katje remains an enigma to the men observing her.
- Pointsman expresses deep concern over Pirate Prentice's interest in Katje and his potential interference with the Firm's secret files.
- The social gathering dissolves into absurdity as Pointsman behaves erratically, claiming to hallucinate to avoid conversation with Mexico.
- The group's internal paranoia is mirrored by the chaotic, carnivalesque atmosphere of the casino and the looming presence of the 'Fist of the Ape'.
Is it possible for this woman to be in love? Love? Oh, itâs enough to make you scream.
318
Graviryâs Rainsow
afternoon. A smell of ozone blows up from the Dodgem
cars out of the gray steel girderwork along the promenade,
along with smells of shellfish on the barrows, and of salt
sea. The pebbled beach is crowded with families: shoeless
fathers in lounge suits and high white collars, mothers in
blouses and skirts startled out of war-long camphor sleep,
kids running all over in sunsuits, nappies, rompers, short
pants, knee socks, Eton hats. There are ice cream, sweets,
Cokes, cockles, oysters and shrimps with salt and sauce.
The pinball machines writhe under the handling of fanati-
cal servicemen and their girls, throwing body-english,
cursing, groaning as the bright balls drum down the wood
â
obstacle courses through ka-chungs, flashing lights, thud-
ding flippers. The donkeys hee-haw and shit, the children
walk in it and their parents scream. Men sag in striped
canvas chairs talking business, sports, sex, but most usually
politics. An organ grinder plays Rossiniâs overture to La
Gazza Ladra (which, as we shall see later, in Berlin, marks
a high point in music which everybody ignored, preferring
Beethoven, who never got further than statements of in-
tention), and here without snaredrums or the sonority of
brasses the piece is mellow, full of hope, promising lay-
ender twilights, stainless steel pavilions and everyone ele-
vated at last to aristocracy, and love without payment
of
any kind....
It was Pointsmanâs plan today not to talk shop, but to
let the conversation flow more or less organically. Wait for
others to betray themselves. But there
is shyness, or con-
straint, among them all. Talk is minimal. Dennis Joint is
watching Katje with a horny smile, with now and then a
Suspicious stare for Roger Mexico. Mexico meantime has
his troubles with Jessicaâmore and more often these
daysâand at the moment the two arenât even looking at
each other. Katje Borgesius has her eyes far out to sea,
and there is no telling what is going on with this one. In
some dim way, Pointsman, though he canât see that she
has any leverage at all, is still afraid of her. There is still a
lot he doesnât know. Perhaps whatâs bothering him most
right now is her connection, if any, with
Pirate Prentice.
Prentice has been down to âThe White Visitationâ several
times asking rather pointed questions about her. When
PISCES recently opened its new branch office in London
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
319
_ (which some wag, probably that young imbecile Webley
Silvernail, has already dubbed âTwelfth Houseâ) Prentice
began hanging heavily around up there, romancing secre-
taries, trying for a peep into this file or that.... What's
up? What afterlife have the Firm found, this side of V-E
Day? What does Prentice want... whatâs his price? Is he
in love with La Borgesius here? Is it possible for this
woman to be in love? Love? Oh, itâs enough to make you
scream. What would her idea of love be....
âMexico,â grabbing the young statisticianâs arm.
âEh?â Roger interrupted eying a lovely looks a bit like
Rita Hayworth in a one-piece floral number with straps
that X across her lean back...
.
âMexico, I think I am hallucinating.â
âOh, really? You think you are? What are you seeing?â
âMexico, I see...I see... What do you mean, what
am I seeing, you nit? Itâs what Iâm hearing.â
âWell, what are you hearing, then.â A touch of peevish-
ness to Roger now.
âRight now Iâm hearing you, saying, âWhat are you
hearing, then.â And I donât like it!â
âWhy not.â
âBecause: unpleasant as this hallucination is, I find I still
much prefer it to the sound of your voice.â
Now this is odd behavior from anybody, but from
usually correct Mr. Pointsman, it is enough to stop this
mutually-paranoid party in their tracks. Nearby is a Wheel
of Fortune, with Lucky Strike packs, kewpie dolls and
candy bars stuffed among the spokes.
âI say, what dâyou think?â blond, hale-fellow Dennis
Joint nudges Katje with an elbow as broad as a knee. In
his profession he has learned to make instant evaluations
of those with whom he deals. He judges old Katje here to
be a jolly girl, out for a spot of fun. Yes, leadership mate-
rial here, definitely. âHasnât he gone a bit mental sud-
denly?â Trying to keep his voice down, grinning in athletic
paranoia vaguely over in the peculiar Pavlovianâs direc-
tionânot right at him you understand, eye contact might
be suicidal folly given his state of mind....
Meantime, Jessica has gone into her Fay Wray number.
This is a kind of protective paralysis, akin to your own
response when the moray eel jumps you from the ceiling.
4
F
320
.
Gravirtyâs RaInBsow
But this is for the Fist of the Ape, for the lights of electric
New York white-waying into the room you thought was
safe, could never be penetrated... for the coarse black
hair, the tendons of need, of tragic love. ...
âYeah well,â as film critic Mitchell Prettyplace puts it
in his definitive 18-volume study of King Kong, âyou know,
he did love her, folks.â Proceeding from this thesis, it ap-
pears that Prettyplace has left nothing out, every shot in-
cluding out-takes raked through for every last bit of sym-
bolism, exhaustive biographies of everyone connected with
the film, extras, grips, lab people... even interviews with
King Kong Kultists, who to be eligible for membership
must have seen the movie at least 100 times and be pre-
pared to pass an 8-hour entrance exam.... And yet, and
yet: there is Murphyâs Law to consider, that brash Irish
proletarian restatement of GĂ©delâs Theoremâwhen every-
thing has been taken care of, when nothing can go wrong,
or even surprise us... something will, So the permuta-
tions ânâ combinations of Puddingâs Things That Can Hap-
pen in European Politics for 1931, the year of GĂ©delâs
Theorem, donât give Hitler an outside chance. So, when
laws of heredity are laid down, mutants will be born.
Even as determinist a piece of hardware as the A4 rocket
will begin spontaneously generating items like the âS-Ge-
ratâ Slothrop thinks heâs chasing like a grail. And so, too,
the legend of the black scapeape we cast down like Luci-
fer from the tallest erection in the world has come, in the
fullness of time, to generate its own children, running
around inside Germany even nowâthe Schwarzkommando,
whom Mitchell Prettyplace, even, could not anticipate.
At PISCES it is widely believed that the Schwarz-
kommando have been summoned, in the way demons may
be gathered in, called up to the light of day and earth by
the now defunct Operation Black Wing. You can bet Psi
Section was giggling about this for a: while. Who could
have guessed thereâd be real black rocket troops? That a
story made up to scare last yearâs enemy should prove to
be literally trueâand no way now to
stuf
them back in
the bottle or even say the spell backward: no one ever
knew the complete spellâdifferent people |knew different
parts of it, thatâs what teamwork is.... By|the time it oc-
curs to them to look back through the Most Secret docu-
The Unintended Birth of Schwarzkommando
- Mitchell Prettyplaceâs exhaustive 18-volume study of King Kong serves as a metaphor for the failure of total documentation to predict reality.
- The narrative invokes Murphyâs Law and Gödelâs Theorem to argue that even the most deterministic systems spontaneously generate unpredictable mutations.
- Operation Black Wing, originally a propaganda myth designed to scare enemies, has inexplicably manifested as a real group of black rocket troops known as the Schwarzkommando.
- The 'spell' that summoned these troops into existence cannot be reversed because it was created through fragmented teamwork where no single person knew the whole process.
- Bureaucratic chaos and missing documentation at PISCES prevent any clear reconstruction of how the fictional operation became a literal reality.
- The revelation of the Schwarzkommandoâs existence triggered psychological breakdowns and internal revolts among the Freudian and Jungian researchers at Psi Section.
That a story made up to scare last yearâs enemy should prove to be literally trueâand no way now to stuff them back in the bottle or even say the spell backward: no one ever knew the complete spellâdifferent people knew different parts of it, thatâs what teamwork is.
320
.
Gravirtyâs RaInBsow
But this is for the Fist of the Ape, for the lights of electric
New York white-waying into the room you thought was
safe, could never be penetrated... for the coarse black
hair, the tendons of need, of tragic love. ...
âYeah well,â as film critic Mitchell Prettyplace puts it
in his definitive 18-volume study of King Kong, âyou know,
he did love her, folks.â Proceeding from this thesis, it ap-
pears that Prettyplace has left nothing out, every shot in-
cluding out-takes raked through for every last bit of sym-
bolism, exhaustive biographies of everyone connected with
the film, extras, grips, lab people... even interviews with
King Kong Kultists, who to be eligible for membership
must have seen the movie at least 100 times and be pre-
pared to pass an 8-hour entrance exam.... And yet, and
yet: there is Murphyâs Law to consider, that brash Irish
proletarian restatement of GĂ©delâs Theoremâwhen every-
thing has been taken care of, when nothing can go wrong,
or even surprise us... something will, So the permuta-
tions ânâ combinations of Puddingâs Things That Can Hap-
pen in European Politics for 1931, the year of GĂ©delâs
Theorem, donât give Hitler an outside chance. So, when
laws of heredity are laid down, mutants will be born.
Even as determinist a piece of hardware as the A4 rocket
will begin spontaneously generating items like the âS-Ge-
ratâ Slothrop thinks heâs chasing like a grail. And so, too,
the legend of the black scapeape we cast down like Luci-
fer from the tallest erection in the world has come, in the
fullness of time, to generate its own children, running
around inside Germany even nowâthe Schwarzkommando,
whom Mitchell Prettyplace, even, could not anticipate.
At PISCES it is widely believed that the Schwarz-
kommando have been summoned, in the way demons may
be gathered in, called up to the light of day and earth by
the now defunct Operation Black Wing. You can bet Psi
Section was giggling about this for a: while. Who could
have guessed thereâd be real black rocket troops? That a
story made up to scare last yearâs enemy should prove to
be literally trueâand no way now to
stuf
them back in
the bottle or even say the spell backward: no one ever
knew the complete spellâdifferent people |knew different
parts of it, thatâs what teamwork is.... By|the time it oc-
curs to them to look back through the Most Secret docu-
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
321
_ mentation surrounding Operation Black Wing, to try and
get some idea of how this all mightâve happened, they
will find, curiously, that certain critical documents are
either missing or have been updated past the end of the
Operation, and that it is impossible at this late date to re-
construct the spell at all, though there will be the usual
elegant and bad-poetic speculation. Even earlier specula-
tion will be lopped and tranquilized. Nothing will remain,
for example, of the tentative findings of Freudian Edwin
Treacle and his lot, who toward the end even found them-
selves at odds with their own minority, the psychoanalytic
wing of Psi Section. It began as a search for some measur-
able basis for the common experience of being haunted by
the dead. After a while colleagues began to put in chits
requesting they be transferred out. Unpleasantries such as
âItâs beginning to sound like the Tavistock Institute around
-hereâ began muttering up and down the basement halls.
Palace revolts, many of them conceived in ornamentally
_
splendid flashes of paranoia, brought locksmiths and weld-
ers in by droves, led to mysterious shortages of office sup-
plies, even of water and heat... none of which kept Trea-
cle and lot from carrying on in a Freudian, not to mention
Jungian frame of mind. Word of the Schwarzkommandoâs
real existence reached them a week before V-E Day. In-
dividual events, who really said what to whom, have been
lost in the frenzy of accusation, crying, nervous break-
downs, and areas of bad taste that followed. Someone
remembers Gavin Trefoil, face as blue as Krishna, running
through the topiary trees stark naked, and Treacle chasing
with an ax, screaming âGiant apeP Till show you a
giant ape all right!â
Indeed he would show the critter to many of us, though
we would not look. In his innocence he saw no reason why
co-workers on an office project should not practice self-
criticism with the same rigor as revolutionary cells do. He
had not meant to offend sensibilities, only to show the
others, decent fellows all, that their feelings about black-
ness were tied to feelings about shit, and feelings about
shit to feelings about putrefaction and death. It seemed to
him so clear... why wouldnât they listen? Why wouldnât
they admit that their repressions had, in a sense that Eu-
rope in the last weary stages of its perversion of magic has
Pointsman's Descent into Hallucination
- Pointsman experiences a psychological breakdown, losing his grip on reality and hallucinating voices that urge him to manipulate his colleagues.
- The narrative explores the intersection of racial repression and psychological projection, linking fears of 'blackness' to primal anxieties about death and putrefaction.
- Katje feels a profound loss of security as her supposed controller, Pointsman, descends into a state of 'control that is out of control.'
- A mysterious internal voice advises Pointsman to sabotage Roger Mexicoâs relationship with Jessica Swanlake to ensure Mexico remains dedicated to the project.
- The voice suggests using 'Operation Backfire' to exile Jessica to the Zone, framing work as the only 'ointment' for the emotional burns of loss.
- Pointsmanâs outward behavior becomes so erratic that his companions, including Dennis Joint and Jessica, begin to fear for his sanity and seek medical help.
Pointsman is hallucinating. He has lost control. Pointsman is supposed to have absolute control over Katje. Where does this leave her? In a control that is out of control.
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
321
_ mentation surrounding Operation Black Wing, to try and
get some idea of how this all mightâve happened, they
will find, curiously, that certain critical documents are
either missing or have been updated past the end of the
Operation, and that it is impossible at this late date to re-
construct the spell at all, though there will be the usual
elegant and bad-poetic speculation. Even earlier specula-
tion will be lopped and tranquilized. Nothing will remain,
for example, of the tentative findings of Freudian Edwin
Treacle and his lot, who toward the end even found them-
selves at odds with their own minority, the psychoanalytic
wing of Psi Section. It began as a search for some measur-
able basis for the common experience of being haunted by
the dead. After a while colleagues began to put in chits
requesting they be transferred out. Unpleasantries such as
âItâs beginning to sound like the Tavistock Institute around
-hereâ began muttering up and down the basement halls.
Palace revolts, many of them conceived in ornamentally
_
splendid flashes of paranoia, brought locksmiths and weld-
ers in by droves, led to mysterious shortages of office sup-
plies, even of water and heat... none of which kept Trea-
cle and lot from carrying on in a Freudian, not to mention
Jungian frame of mind. Word of the Schwarzkommandoâs
real existence reached them a week before V-E Day. In-
dividual events, who really said what to whom, have been
lost in the frenzy of accusation, crying, nervous break-
downs, and areas of bad taste that followed. Someone
remembers Gavin Trefoil, face as blue as Krishna, running
through the topiary trees stark naked, and Treacle chasing
with an ax, screaming âGiant apeP Till show you a
giant ape all right!â
Indeed he would show the critter to many of us, though
we would not look. In his innocence he saw no reason why
co-workers on an office project should not practice self-
criticism with the same rigor as revolutionary cells do. He
had not meant to offend sensibilities, only to show the
others, decent fellows all, that their feelings about black-
ness were tied to feelings about shit, and feelings about
shit to feelings about putrefaction and death. It seemed to
him so clear... why wouldnât they listen? Why wouldnât
they admit that their repressions had, in a sense that Eu-
rope in the last weary stages of its perversion of magic has
322
Gravityâs Rainsow
lost, had incarnated real and living men, likely (according
to the best intelligence) in possession of real and living
weapons, as the dead father who never slept with you,
Penelope, returns night after night to your bed, trying to
snuggle in behind you...or as your unborn child wakes
you, crying in the night and you feel its ghost-lips at your
breast ... they are real, they are living, as you pretend to
scream inside the Fist of the Ape... but looking over now
at the much more likely candidate, cream-skinned Katje
under the Wheel of Fortune, who is herself getting ready
now to bolt down the beach and into the relative calm of
the switch-back railway. Pointsman is hallucinating. He
has lost control. Pointsman is supposed to have absolute
control over Katje. Where does this leave her? In a control
that is out of control. Not even back in the leather and
pain of gemiitlich Captain Bliceroâs world has she felt as
terrified as now.
Roger Mexico is taking it personally, oh-I-say, only try-
ing to help....
What the somewhat disconnected Mr. Pointsman has
been hearing all this time is a voice, strangely familiar, a
voice he once imagined a face in a well-known new.
photograph from the War to have:
A
âHere is what you have to do. You need Mexico now,
more than ever. Your winter anxieties about the End of
History seem now all well comforted to rest, part of your
biography now like any old bad dream. But like Lord
Acton always sez, History is not woven by innocent hands.
Mexico's girl friend there is a threat to your whole enter-
prise. He will do anything to hold on. Scowling and even
cursing him she will nevertheless seduce him away, into
a civilian fogbank in which you will lose him and never
find himânot unless you act now, Pointsman. Operation
Backfire is sending ATS girls out to the Zone now. Rocket
girls: secretarial and even minor technical duties at the
Cuxhaven test range. You have only to drop a word to
SPOG, through Dennis Joint here, and Jessica Swanlake
is out of your way. Mexico may complain for a while, but
all the more reason for him, given the proper direction, to
Lose Himself In His Work, eh? Remember the eloquent
words of Sir Denis Nayland Smith to young Alan Sterling,
whose fiancée is in the clutches of the insidious: yellow
Bere
i
âyh
1
eee
an)
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
323
âAdversary: âI have been through the sort of fires which
are burning you now, Sterling, and I have always found
that work was the best ointment for the burns.â And we
both know what Nayland Smith represents, mm? donât
we.â
âI do,â sez Pointsman, aloud, âbut I canât really say that
you do, can I, if I donât even know who you are, you
see.â
This strange outburst does not reassure Pointsmanâs com-
panions. They begin to edge away, in definite alarm. âWe
â
_
should find a doctor,â murmurs Dennis Joint, winking at
Katje like a blond crewcut Groucho Marx. Jessica, for-
getting her sulk, takes Rogerâs arm.
âYou see, you see,â the voice starts up again, âshe feels
that sheâs protecting him, against you. How many chances
does one get to be a synthesis, Pointsman? East and West,
together in the same bloke? You can not only be Nayland
Smith, giving a young lad in a funk wholesome advice about
the virtues of work, but you also, at the same time, get to
be Fu Manchu! eh? the one who has the young lady in
his power! Howâs that? Protagonist and antagonist in one.
Id jump at it, if I were you.â
Pointsman is about to retort something like, âBut youâre
not me,â only he sees how the others all seem to be gog-
gling at him. âOh, ha, ha,â he sez instead. âTalking to
myself, here. Littleâsort ofâeccentricity, heh, heh.â
âYang and Yin,â whispers the Voice, âYang and Yin... .â
Signs in the Zone
- Pointsman grapples with internal duality, likened to being both the hero Nayland Smith and the villain Fu Manchu simultaneously.
- The narrative transitions to the 'spring of peace' as the threat of the 'ice-saints'âmythical figures who bring late frostsâpasses without ruining the vintage.
- Slothrop enters the Zone barefoot after his shoes are stolen, finding a red tulip left between his toes as a symbolic reminder of Katje.
- As Slothrop travels, he feels the superstitions of the land and the presence of his own ancestors reasserting themselves in the absence of traditional borders.
- The landscape is littered with the debris of war, including rotting rocket modules and 'paper secrets' dissolving back into the earth.
- Slothropâs journey is marked by strange encounters and desperate trades, such as burning a doll's human hair for warmth and trading its lapis lazuli eyes for food.
Whoever it was left a red tulip between Slothropâs toes. He has taken it for a sign.
Bere
i
âyh
1
eee
an)
Un Permâ au Casino Hermann Goering
323
âAdversary: âI have been through the sort of fires which
are burning you now, Sterling, and I have always found
that work was the best ointment for the burns.â And we
both know what Nayland Smith represents, mm? donât
we.â
âI do,â sez Pointsman, aloud, âbut I canât really say that
you do, can I, if I donât even know who you are, you
see.â
This strange outburst does not reassure Pointsmanâs com-
panions. They begin to edge away, in definite alarm. âWe
â
_
should find a doctor,â murmurs Dennis Joint, winking at
Katje like a blond crewcut Groucho Marx. Jessica, for-
getting her sulk, takes Rogerâs arm.
âYou see, you see,â the voice starts up again, âshe feels
that sheâs protecting him, against you. How many chances
does one get to be a synthesis, Pointsman? East and West,
together in the same bloke? You can not only be Nayland
Smith, giving a young lad in a funk wholesome advice about
the virtues of work, but you also, at the same time, get to
be Fu Manchu! eh? the one who has the young lady in
his power! Howâs that? Protagonist and antagonist in one.
Id jump at it, if I were you.â
Pointsman is about to retort something like, âBut youâre
not me,â only he sees how the others all seem to be gog-
gling at him. âOh, ha, ha,â he sez instead. âTalking to
myself, here. Littleâsort ofâeccentricity, heh, heh.â
âYang and Yin,â whispers the Voice, âYang and Yin... .â
tes,
any mi
ore
* WN .
O
We are safely past the days of the Eis-HeiligenâSt, Pan-
cratius, St. Seryatius, St. Bonifacius, die kalte Sophie...
they hover in clouds above the vineyards, holy beings of
ice, ready with a breath, an intention, to ruin the year
- with frost and cold. In certain years, especially War years,
they are short on charity, peevish, smug in their power:
not quite saintly or even Christian. The prayers of growers,
pickers and wine enthusiasts must reach them, but thereâs
no telling how the ice-saints feelâcoarse laughter, pagan
annoyance, who understands this rear-guard who preserve
winter against the revolutionaries of May?
_.
They found the countryside, this year, at peace by a
scant few days. Already vines are beginning to grow back
over dragonâs teeth, fallen Stukas, burned tanks. The sun
warms the hillsides, the rivers fall bright as wine. The
saints have refrained. Nights have been mild. The frost
didnât come. It is the spring of peace. The vintage, God
granting at least a hundred days of sun, will be fine.
Nordhausen puts less credence in the ice-saints than do
wine regions farther south, but even here the season looks
promising. Rain blows scattering out over the town as
Slothrop comes in in the early morning, bare feet, blister-
ing and reblistering, cooled here in the wet grass. Thereâs
sunlight up on the mountains. His shoes got lifted by some
DP with fingers lighter than dreams, on one of the many
trains sinceâ the Swiss border, someplace rolling across
Bavaria fast asleep. Whoever it was left a red tulip be-
tween Slothropâs toes. He has taken it for a sign. A re-
minder of Katje.
Signs will find him here in the Zone, and ancestors will
reassert themselves. Itâs like going to that Darkest Africa to
study the natives there, and finding their quaint supersti-
tions taking you over. In fact, funny thing, Slothrop just
the other night ran intoâan African, the first one he ever
met in his life. Their discussion on top of the freight car
in the moonlight lasted only a minute or two. Small talk
for the sudden background departure of Major Duane
Marvy over the side bounce-clatter down the cobbled fill
327
328
Gravity's Rainsow
into the valleyâwell, certainly nothing was said then of
any Herero beliefs about ancestors. Yet he feels his own,
stronger now as borders fall away and the Zone enyelops
him, his own WASPs in buckled black, who heard God
clamoring to them in every tum of a leaf or cow loose
among apple orchards in autumn....
Signs of Katje, and doubles too. One night he sat in a
childrenâs play house on an abandoned estate, feeding a
fire from the hair of a blonde doll with lapis lazuli eyes.
He kept those eyes. A few days later he traded them for
a ride and half a boiled potato, Dogs barked far away,
summerwind blew in the birches. He was on one of the
main arterials of the springâs last dissolution and retreat.
Somewhere
nearby,
one
of Major-General
Kammlerâs
rocket units had together found corporate death, leaving in
their crippled military rage piecés, modules, airframe sec-
tions, batteries rotting, paper secrets rained back into
slurry. Slothrop follows. Any clueâs good enough to hop a
train for....
The dollâs hair was human. The smell of it burning is
horrible. Slothrop hears movement from the other side of
the fire. A ratcheting noiseâhe grabs his blanket, ready to
vault away out the empty window frame, expecting a
grenade, Instead one of these little brightly painted Ger-
man toys, an orangutan on wheels comes ki-ki-ki-ing into
the firelight, spastic, head lolling, face in an idiotâs grin,
steel knuckles scraping the floor. It rolls nearly into the
fire before the clockwork runs down, the wagging head
coming to dead center to stare at Slothrop.
He feeds the fire another tuft of golden hair. âEvening.â
Laughter, somewhere. A child, But old laughter.
âCome on out, Iâm harmless.â
The ape is followed by a tiny black crow with a red
beak, also on wheels, hopping, cawing, flapping metal
wings.
âWhy are you burning my dollâs hair?â
âWell, itâs not her own hair, you know.â
âFather said it belonged to a Russian Jewess.â
âWhy donât you come in to the fire?â
|
âHurts my eyes.â Winding again. Nothing moves. But a
_
music box begins to play. The tune is minor and precise.
~ âDance with me.â
;
;
A Dance in the Zone
- Slothrop encounters a mysterious child in a ruined building, signaled by the arrival of mechanical toys and a music box.
- The two engage in a surreal, stately dance amidst debris and bones, though the child's face remains hidden in the darkness.
- The encounter ends abruptly as the music stops and the girl vanishes, leaving Slothrop to reflect on his aimless movement through the Zone.
- Resuming his identity as war correspondent Ian Scuffling, Slothrop reviews intelligence regarding the mysterious substance Imipolex G.
- The investigation points toward Nordhausen and an engineer named Franz Pökler who worked in the SS-run Mittelwerke factory.
- Slothrop travels by train alongside displaced persons who sing a haunting song about ghost trains that belong to the 'bitter night'.
Their feet moved over clouded, crumbled old glass, torn silks, bones of dead rabbits and kittens.
328
Gravity's Rainsow
into the valleyâwell, certainly nothing was said then of
any Herero beliefs about ancestors. Yet he feels his own,
stronger now as borders fall away and the Zone enyelops
him, his own WASPs in buckled black, who heard God
clamoring to them in every tum of a leaf or cow loose
among apple orchards in autumn....
Signs of Katje, and doubles too. One night he sat in a
childrenâs play house on an abandoned estate, feeding a
fire from the hair of a blonde doll with lapis lazuli eyes.
He kept those eyes. A few days later he traded them for
a ride and half a boiled potato, Dogs barked far away,
summerwind blew in the birches. He was on one of the
main arterials of the springâs last dissolution and retreat.
Somewhere
nearby,
one
of Major-General
Kammlerâs
rocket units had together found corporate death, leaving in
their crippled military rage piecés, modules, airframe sec-
tions, batteries rotting, paper secrets rained back into
slurry. Slothrop follows. Any clueâs good enough to hop a
train for....
The dollâs hair was human. The smell of it burning is
horrible. Slothrop hears movement from the other side of
the fire. A ratcheting noiseâhe grabs his blanket, ready to
vault away out the empty window frame, expecting a
grenade, Instead one of these little brightly painted Ger-
man toys, an orangutan on wheels comes ki-ki-ki-ing into
the firelight, spastic, head lolling, face in an idiotâs grin,
steel knuckles scraping the floor. It rolls nearly into the
fire before the clockwork runs down, the wagging head
coming to dead center to stare at Slothrop.
He feeds the fire another tuft of golden hair. âEvening.â
Laughter, somewhere. A child, But old laughter.
âCome on out, Iâm harmless.â
The ape is followed by a tiny black crow with a red
beak, also on wheels, hopping, cawing, flapping metal
wings.
âWhy are you burning my dollâs hair?â
âWell, itâs not her own hair, you know.â
âFather said it belonged to a Russian Jewess.â
âWhy donât you come in to the fire?â
|
âHurts my eyes.â Winding again. Nothing moves. But a
_
music box begins to play. The tune is minor and precise.
~ âDance with me.â
;
;
In the Zone
329
âI canât see you.â
âHere.â Out of the fireâs pale, a tiny frost-flower. He
_ reaches and just manages to find her hand, to grasp her
little waist. They begin their stately dance. He canât even
_
tell if heâs leading.
He never saw her face. She felt like voile and organdy.
âNice dress.â
âI wore it for my first communion.â The fire died pres-
ently, leaving starlight and a faint glow over some town
to the east, through windows whose panes were all gone.
The music box still played, beyond the running time, it
seemed, of an ordinary spring, Their feet moved over
clouded, crumbled old glass, torn silks, bones of dead
rabbits and kittens. The geometrical path took them among
ballooning, ripped arrases, smelling of dust and an older
bestiary than the one by the fire... unicorns, chimaeras
_...and what had he seen festooning the child-sized en-
tranceway? Garlic bulbs? Waitâwerenât they to keep
away vampires? A faint smell reached him exactly then, an
inbreaking of Balkan blood on the air of his north, as he
turned back to her to ask if she really was Katje, the
lovely little Queen of Transylvania. But the music had run
down. She had vaporized from his arms,
Well here he is skidded out onto the Zone like a plan-
chette on a Ouija board, and what shows up inside the
empty circle in his brain might string together into a mes-
sage, might not, he'll just have to see. But he can feel a
sensitiveâs fingers, resting lightly but sure on his days, and
he thinks of them as Katjeâs.
Heâs still Ian Scuffling, war (peace?) correspondent,
_ though back in British uniform these days, with plenty of
time on these trains to hash over in his mind the informa-
tion Mario Schweitar bootlegged for him back there in
Ziirich. There is a fat file on Imipolex G, and it seems to
point to Nordhausen. The engineer on the customer end
of the Imipolex contract was one Franz Pékler. He came to
_ Nordhausen in early 44, as the rocket was going into mass
production. He was billeted in the Mittelwerke, an under-
ground factory complex run largely by the SS. No word
âon where he went when the plant was evacuated in
February and March. But Ian Scuffling, ace reporter, will
_be sure to find a clue down
in the Mittelwerke.
|
330
Gravity's Ramsow
Slothrop sat in the swaying car with thirty other cold
and tattered souls, eyes all pupil, lips cratered with sores,
They were singing, some of them. A lot of them kids. It is
a Displaced Personâs song, and Slothrop will hear it often
around the Zone, in the encampments, out on the road, in
a dozen variations:
{
If you see a train this evening,
Far away against
the sky,
Lie down in your wooden
:
Sleep, and let the train go by.
Trains that pass through empty cities,
Trains that have no place to stay.
locomotive,
No one tends the staring light,
â
Trains have never needed riders,
Trains belong to bitter night.
_
Rights-of-way
lie clear and cold:
What we left them, trains inherit,
Trains go on, and we grow old.
\
Le their cries find only wind.
Trains are meant for night and ruin.
We are meant for song, andâsin.
The Swiss firmâs dossier on L. (for Laszlo) Jamf listed
all his assets at the time he came to work in Zirich. Ap-
parently
he had satâas token
scientistâon
the board
of
directors of the Grdéssli Chemical
ion
as late
as
that back in Germanyâpieces
to be
gatheted
in over the
next year or two by the octopus IGâwas the record
of a
The Slothrop Paper Connection
- A dossier on scientist Laszlo Jamf reveals a complex web of financial transactions involving the IG Farben cartel and American businessman Lyle Bland.
- The narrative details the rise of Hugo Stinnes, a German 'Wunderkind' of finance who built a massive vertical and horizontal super-cartel across multiple industries.
- Stinnes and his associates are credited with engineering the hyperinflation of the German mark to evade war debts, leading to the era of wheelbarrow-bound currency.
- Lyle Bland is linked to the production of 'Notgeld' and 'Mefo bills,' clandestine financial instruments used to fund illegal German rearmament.
- The protagonist discovers his own family's involvement through the Slothrop Paper Company, triggering a visceral, traumatic physical reaction.
- This revelation unearths a repressed memory of a chemical-smelling 'Forbidden Wing' where something was done to him while he was helpless.
It is the breath of the Forbidden Wing...essence of all the still figures waiting for him inside, daring him to enter and find a secret he cannot survive.
330
Gravity's Ramsow
Slothrop sat in the swaying car with thirty other cold
and tattered souls, eyes all pupil, lips cratered with sores,
They were singing, some of them. A lot of them kids. It is
a Displaced Personâs song, and Slothrop will hear it often
around the Zone, in the encampments, out on the road, in
a dozen variations:
{
If you see a train this evening,
Far away against
the sky,
Lie down in your wooden
:
Sleep, and let the train go by.
Trains that pass through empty cities,
Trains that have no place to stay.
locomotive,
No one tends the staring light,
â
Trains have never needed riders,
Trains belong to bitter night.
_
Rights-of-way
lie clear and cold:
What we left them, trains inherit,
Trains go on, and we grow old.
\
Le their cries find only wind.
Trains are meant for night and ruin.
We are meant for song, andâsin.
The Swiss firmâs dossier on L. (for Laszlo) Jamf listed
all his assets at the time he came to work in Zirich. Ap-
parently
he had satâas token
scientistâon
the board
of
directors of the Grdéssli Chemical
ion
as late
as
that back in Germanyâpieces
to be
gatheted
in over the
next year or two by the octopus IGâwas the record
of a
In the Zone
331
transaction between Jamf and Mr. Lyle Bland, of Boston,
_ Massachusetts.
On the beam, Jackson. Lyle Bland is a name he knows,
all right. And a name that also shows up often in the
private records Jamf kept of his own business deals, Seems
_ that Bland, during the early twenties, was heavily involved
with the Hugo Stinnes operation in Germany. Stinnes,
while he lasted, was the Wunderkind of European finance.
Based out of the Ruhr, where his family had been coal
barons for generations, young Stinnes built up a good-
sized empire of steel, gas, electric and water power, street-
cars and barge lines before he was 30. During the World
âWar he worked closely with Walter Rathenau, who was
-
ramrodding the whole economy
then. After the war
Stinnes managed to put the horizontal electrical trust of
_ Siemens-Schuchert together with the coal and iron sup-
plies of the Rheinelbe Union into a super-cartel that was
both horizontal and vertical, and to buy into just about
everything elseâshipyards, steamship lines, hotels, restau-
rants,
forests, pulp mills, newspapersâmeantime
also
_ speculating in currency, buying foreign money with marks
borrowed from the Reichsbank, driving the mark down and
then paying off the loans at a fraction of the original
figure. More than any one financier he was blamed for the
Inflation. Those were the days when you carried marks
around in wheelbarrows to your daily shopping and used
them for toilet paper, assuming you had anything to shit.
Stinnesâs foreign connections went all over the worldâ
Brazil, the East Indies, the United Statesâbusinessmen
; like Lyle Bland found his growth rate irresistible. The
theory going around at the time was that Stinnes was con-
spiring with Krupp, Thyssen, and others to ruin the mark
and so get Germany out of paying her war debts.
Blandâs connection was vague. Jamfâs records mention
that he had negotiated contracts for supplying tons of
private currency known as Notgeld to Stinnes and col-
leagues, as well as âMefo billsâ to the Weimar Republicâ
another of Hjalmar Schachtâs many bookkeeping dodges
to keep official records clear of any hint of weapons pro-
curement banned under the terms of Versailles. Some of
âthese banknote contracts were let to a certain Massa-
332
Gravity's: RAINBOW
chusetts paper mill, on whose board Lyle Bland happenec
to sit.
The name of this contractor was the Slothrop Pape
Company.
He reads his name without that iad surprise. It be
longs here, as do the most minor details during déjA vu
Instead of any sudden incidence of light (even in th
shape of a human being: golden and monitory light), as h
stares at these eight ink marks, there passes a disagreeabl
stomach episode, a dread tangible as vomit beginning t
assert itselfâthe same vertigo that overtook him one daâ
long ago in the Himmler-Spielsaal. A gasbag surrounds hi
head, rubbery, vast, pushing in from all sides, that feelin;
we know, yes, but... He is also getting a hardon, for n
immediate reason, And thereâs that smell again, a smel
from before his conscious memory begins, a soft ant
chemical smell, threatening, haunting, not a smell to b
found out in the worldâit is the breath of the Forbidder
Wing...essence of all the still figures waiting for hin
inside, daring him to enter and find a secret he canno
survive.
Once something was done to him, in a room, while he
lay helpless. .
His erection âhome from a certain distance, like an in
strument installed, wired by Them into his body as :
colonial outpost here in our raw and clamorous world
another office representing Their white Metropolis fa:
away. .
A sad. story, all right. Slothrop, very nervous by now
reads on. Lyle Bland, ehP Well, sure, that fits. He cai
recall dimly once or twice having seen Uncle Lyle. Th
man used to come to visit his father, affable, fair-haired, :
hustler in the regional Jim Fisk style, Bland was alway
picking young Tyrone up and swinging him around by hi
feet. That was O.K.âSlothrop had no special commitmen
at the time to right side up.
From what it sez here, Bland either saw the Stinne
crash coming before most of its other victims, or was jus
naturally nervous. Early in â23 he began to sell off hi
interests in the Stinnes operations. One
of these sales wa
made through Laszlo Jamf to the Grés$li Chemical Cor
poration (later Psychochemie AG). One of the assets trans
The Schwarzknabe Dossier
- Tyrone Slothrop discovers a dossier revealing that his father, Broderick, essentially sold him to industrial interests to fund his Harvard education.
- The documents link Slothrop to the code name 'Schwarzknabe' (Black-boy) and his father to 'Schwarzvater' (Black-father).
- Lyle Bland and Laszlo Jamf are implicated in a long-term surveillance scheme involving the Stinnes operations and the precursor to Psychochemie AG.
- Slothrop realizes his entire life may have been a controlled experiment or a 'colonial outpost' for corporate entities like IG Farben.
- A deep-seated sensory memory links his childhood to the smell of the mysterious plastic Imipolex G, predating its official invention.
- The revelation triggers a profound existential dread, manifesting as a recurring nightmare where the chemist Jamf is defined as 'I'.
Iâve been sold, Jesus Christ Iâve been sold to IG Farben like a side of beef.
332
Gravity's: RAINBOW
chusetts paper mill, on whose board Lyle Bland happenec
to sit.
The name of this contractor was the Slothrop Pape
Company.
He reads his name without that iad surprise. It be
longs here, as do the most minor details during déjA vu
Instead of any sudden incidence of light (even in th
shape of a human being: golden and monitory light), as h
stares at these eight ink marks, there passes a disagreeabl
stomach episode, a dread tangible as vomit beginning t
assert itselfâthe same vertigo that overtook him one daâ
long ago in the Himmler-Spielsaal. A gasbag surrounds hi
head, rubbery, vast, pushing in from all sides, that feelin;
we know, yes, but... He is also getting a hardon, for n
immediate reason, And thereâs that smell again, a smel
from before his conscious memory begins, a soft ant
chemical smell, threatening, haunting, not a smell to b
found out in the worldâit is the breath of the Forbidder
Wing...essence of all the still figures waiting for hin
inside, daring him to enter and find a secret he canno
survive.
Once something was done to him, in a room, while he
lay helpless. .
His erection âhome from a certain distance, like an in
strument installed, wired by Them into his body as :
colonial outpost here in our raw and clamorous world
another office representing Their white Metropolis fa:
away. .
A sad. story, all right. Slothrop, very nervous by now
reads on. Lyle Bland, ehP Well, sure, that fits. He cai
recall dimly once or twice having seen Uncle Lyle. Th
man used to come to visit his father, affable, fair-haired, :
hustler in the regional Jim Fisk style, Bland was alway
picking young Tyrone up and swinging him around by hi
feet. That was O.K.âSlothrop had no special commitmen
at the time to right side up.
From what it sez here, Bland either saw the Stinne
crash coming before most of its other victims, or was jus
naturally nervous. Early in â23 he began to sell off hi
interests in the Stinnes operations. One
of these sales wa
made through Laszlo Jamf to the Grés$li Chemical Cor
poration (later Psychochemie AG). One of the assets trans
_ In the Zone
3
333
ferred in this sale was âall interest in Schwarzknabe enter-
prise. Seller agrees to continue surveillance duties: until
such time: as Schwindel operative can be relieved by pur-
chaser equivalent,
acceptability
to be determined by
seller.â
:
__
Jamfâs codebook happens to be in the dossier, Part of
\the manâs personality structure, after all. âSchwindelâ was
his code name for Hugo Stinnes. Clever sense of humor,
the old fart. Across from âSchwarzknabe,â now, are the
initials âT.S.â
Well, holy cow, Slothrop reckons, that must be me, huh.
Barring the outside possibility of Tough Shit.
Listed. as a âSchwarzknabeâ liability is the unpaid re-
mainder of a bill to Harvard University, about $5000
worth including the interest, âas per agreement.
(oral)
_ with Schwarzvater.â
âSchwarzvaterâ is the code for âB.S.â Which, barring
the outside possibility of Bull Shit, seems to be Slothropâs
_ own father, Broderick. Blackfather Slothrop.
_
Nice way to find out your father made a deal 20 years
ago with somebody to spring for your education. Come to
think of it, Slothrop never could quite put the announce-
âments, all through the Depression, of imminent family
ruin, together with the comfort he enjoyed at Harvard.
Well, now, what was the deal between his fatherâ and
Bland? Iâve been sold, Jesus Christ Iâve been sold to IG
Farben like a side of beef. Surveillance? Stinnes, like every
industrial emperor, had his own company spy system. So
did the IG. Does this mean Slothrop has been under their
_ observationâm-maybe since he was born? Yaahhh...
'_
The fear balloons again inside his brain. It will not be
kept down with a simple Fuck You.... A smell, a forbid-
_den room, at the bottom edge of his memory. He canât
See it, canât make it out. Doesnât want to. It is allied with
the Worst Thing.
He knows what the smell has to be: though according
_to these papers it would have been too early for it, though
he has never come across any of the stuff among the day-
time coordinates of his life, still, down here, back here in
the warm dark, among early shapes where the clocks and
calendars donât mean too much, he knows that whatâs
_ haunting him now will prove to be the smell of Imipolex G.
S
:
334
Gravityâs Rainsow
Then thereâs this recent dream he is afraid of having
again. He was in his old room, back home. A summer
afternoon of lilacs and bees, and warm air through an
open window. Slothrop had found a very old dictionary of
technical German. It fell open to a certain page prickling
with black-face type. Reading down the page, he would
come to JAMF. The definition would read: I.. He woke
begging It noâbut even after waking, he was sure, he
would remain sure, that It could visit him again, any
time It wanted. Perhaps you know that dream too, Per-
haps It has warned you never to speak Its name, If so, you
know about how Slothrop'll be feeling now.
What he does is lurch to his feet, over to the door of
the freight car, which is going up a grade. He drags open
the door, slips outâaction, actionâand mounts a ladder
to the roof. A foot from his face, this double row of shiny
bright teeth hangs in the air, Just what he needs. It is
Major Marvy of U.S. Army Ordnance, leader of Marvyâs
Mothers, the meanest-ass_ technical intelligence team in
this whole fuckinâ Zone, mister, Slothrop can call him
Duane, if he wants. âBoogie, boogie, boogie! Catch all âem
jungle bunnies back âere in âat next car! Sheee-dolâ
âWait a minute,â sez Slothrop, âI think Iâve been asleep
or something.â His feet are cold. This Marvy is really fat.
Pants bloused into shiny combat boots, roll of fat hanging
over a web belt where he keeps his sunglasses and 455
hornrims, hair slicked back, eyes like safety valves that
pop out at you wheneverâas nowâthe pressure in his
head gets too high.
Marvy hitched a lift on a P-47 from Paris far as Kassel,
got coupled onto this train here west of Heiligenstadt. Heâs
headed for the Mittelwerke, like Ian Sceuffling. Needs to
coordinate with some Project Hermes people from Gen-
eral Electric. Sure makes him nervous, those niggers next
door, âHey, ought to be a good story for you people. Warn
the folks back home.â
âAre they GIs?â
âShit no. Kraut. South-West African. Something. You
mean you donât know about that? Come on. Aw. Limey
intelligence sure ainât too intelligent, hahah, no offense
understand. I thought the whole world
knew.â Follows a
lurid taleâwhich sounds like something
SHAEF made up,
Encounter with Major Marvy
- Slothrop escapes a freight car only to encounter Major Marvy, a crude and obese U.S. Army Ordnance officer leading a technical intelligence team.
- Marvy reveals he is heading to the Mittelwerke to coordinate with General Electric's Project Hermes regarding rocket technology.
- The Major shares a paranoid and racist conspiracy theory about 'Schwarzkommando'âAfrican rocket technicians formerly employed by the Nazis.
- Marvy claims these black cadres are now operating independently in the Zone and pose a significant threat if they manage to organize.
- The tension culminates when a tall African man emerges from the shadows, delivering a calm warning before physically ejecting Marvy from the moving train.
A foot from his face, this double row of shiny bright teeth hangs in the air, Just what he needs.
334
Gravityâs Rainsow
Then thereâs this recent dream he is afraid of having
again. He was in his old room, back home. A summer
afternoon of lilacs and bees, and warm air through an
open window. Slothrop had found a very old dictionary of
technical German. It fell open to a certain page prickling
with black-face type. Reading down the page, he would
come to JAMF. The definition would read: I.. He woke
begging It noâbut even after waking, he was sure, he
would remain sure, that It could visit him again, any
time It wanted. Perhaps you know that dream too, Per-
haps It has warned you never to speak Its name, If so, you
know about how Slothrop'll be feeling now.
What he does is lurch to his feet, over to the door of
the freight car, which is going up a grade. He drags open
the door, slips outâaction, actionâand mounts a ladder
to the roof. A foot from his face, this double row of shiny
bright teeth hangs in the air, Just what he needs. It is
Major Marvy of U.S. Army Ordnance, leader of Marvyâs
Mothers, the meanest-ass_ technical intelligence team in
this whole fuckinâ Zone, mister, Slothrop can call him
Duane, if he wants. âBoogie, boogie, boogie! Catch all âem
jungle bunnies back âere in âat next car! Sheee-dolâ
âWait a minute,â sez Slothrop, âI think Iâve been asleep
or something.â His feet are cold. This Marvy is really fat.
Pants bloused into shiny combat boots, roll of fat hanging
over a web belt where he keeps his sunglasses and 455
hornrims, hair slicked back, eyes like safety valves that
pop out at you wheneverâas nowâthe pressure in his
head gets too high.
Marvy hitched a lift on a P-47 from Paris far as Kassel,
got coupled onto this train here west of Heiligenstadt. Heâs
headed for the Mittelwerke, like Ian Sceuffling. Needs to
coordinate with some Project Hermes people from Gen-
eral Electric. Sure makes him nervous, those niggers next
door, âHey, ought to be a good story for you people. Warn
the folks back home.â
âAre they GIs?â
âShit no. Kraut. South-West African. Something. You
mean you donât know about that? Come on. Aw. Limey
intelligence sure ainât too intelligent, hahah, no offense
understand. I thought the whole world
knew.â Follows a
lurid taleâwhich sounds like something
SHAEF made up,
In the Zone
-
335
'
Goebbelsâs less than giddy imagination reaching no further
than Alpine Redoubts and suchâof Hitlerâs scheme for
setting up a Nazi empire in black Africa, which fell
through after Old Blood ânâ Guts handed Rommelâs ass to
_him in the desert. ââHereâs yer ass, General.â âAch du
_-lieber! Mein Arsch! YAHâhahaha...ââ clutching comi-
âeally at the seat of his own large trousers. Well, the black
cadres had no more future in Africa, stayed on in Ger-
many as governments-in-exile without even official recog-
nition, drifted somehow into the ordnance branch of the
German Army, and pretty soon learned how to be rocket
technicians. Now they were
just running loose. Wild.
â Havenât been interned as P/Ws, far as Marvy knows they
havenât even been disarmed. âNot enough we have to
worry about Russkys, frogs, limeysâhey, beg pardon,
buddy. Now we got not just niggers you see, but kraut
niggers. Well, Jesus. V-E Day just about everyplace you
,
had a rocket, you had you a nigger. Never any all-boogie
_
batteries, understand. Even the krauts couldnât be that
daffy! One battery, thatâs 81 men, plus all your support,
your launch-control, power, propellants, your surveyingâ
champ, that'd sure be one heap oâ niggers all in one place.
But are they still all scattered out, like they were? You
find out, you got you a scoop, friend. Cause if they're
gettinâ together now, oh datâs bi-i-i-g trouble! Thereâs at
least two dozen in that carâright down there, look. A-and
theyâre headinâ for Nordhausen, pallâ a fat finger-poke in
the chest with each word, âhah? Whatcha think they have
in mind? You know what I think? They have a plan. Yeah.
, I think itâs rockets. Donât ask me how, itâs just something I
| feel here, in mâheart. A-and you know, thatâs awful dan-
gerous. You canât trust themâ With rockets? They're a
â childlike race. Brains are smaller.â
_âBut our patience,â suggests a calm voice now out of
the darkness, âour patience is enormous, though perhaps
hot unlimited.â So saying, a tall African with a full im-
perial beard steps up grabs the fat American, who has
time to utter one short yell before being flung bodily over
the side. Slothrop and the African watch the Major bounce
down the embankment behind them, arms and legs flying,
out of sight. Firs crowd the hills. A crescent moon has
_Tisen over one ragged crest...
Ly.
er ad
Arrival in Nordhausen
- Slothrop encounters Oberst Enzian, leader of the Schwarzkommando, who dismisses the idea of their existence being a 'story' and claims they are all now free agents.
- The narrative shifts to Nordhausen, a town characterized by a mix of fresh mountain scenery and the muddy, chaotic presence of American and Russian GIs.
- The town's atmosphere is marked by the scars of war, featuring roofless buildings, looted shops, and the lingering presence of liberated slave laborers.
- Slothrop meets Geli Tripping, a young woman singing a melancholic song in a ruined dress shop while playing a balalaika.
- Geli is revealed to be part of a 'harem' maintained by Tchitcherine, a Soviet intelligence officer and another 'rocket maniac' obsessed with the V-2.
Old people in black are bat-flittering among the walls.
In the Zone
-
335
'
Goebbelsâs less than giddy imagination reaching no further
than Alpine Redoubts and suchâof Hitlerâs scheme for
setting up a Nazi empire in black Africa, which fell
through after Old Blood ânâ Guts handed Rommelâs ass to
_him in the desert. ââHereâs yer ass, General.â âAch du
_-lieber! Mein Arsch! YAHâhahaha...ââ clutching comi-
âeally at the seat of his own large trousers. Well, the black
cadres had no more future in Africa, stayed on in Ger-
many as governments-in-exile without even official recog-
nition, drifted somehow into the ordnance branch of the
German Army, and pretty soon learned how to be rocket
technicians. Now they were
just running loose. Wild.
â Havenât been interned as P/Ws, far as Marvy knows they
havenât even been disarmed. âNot enough we have to
worry about Russkys, frogs, limeysâhey, beg pardon,
buddy. Now we got not just niggers you see, but kraut
niggers. Well, Jesus. V-E Day just about everyplace you
,
had a rocket, you had you a nigger. Never any all-boogie
_
batteries, understand. Even the krauts couldnât be that
daffy! One battery, thatâs 81 men, plus all your support,
your launch-control, power, propellants, your surveyingâ
champ, that'd sure be one heap oâ niggers all in one place.
But are they still all scattered out, like they were? You
find out, you got you a scoop, friend. Cause if they're
gettinâ together now, oh datâs bi-i-i-g trouble! Thereâs at
least two dozen in that carâright down there, look. A-and
theyâre headinâ for Nordhausen, pallâ a fat finger-poke in
the chest with each word, âhah? Whatcha think they have
in mind? You know what I think? They have a plan. Yeah.
, I think itâs rockets. Donât ask me how, itâs just something I
| feel here, in mâheart. A-and you know, thatâs awful dan-
gerous. You canât trust themâ With rockets? They're a
â childlike race. Brains are smaller.â
_âBut our patience,â suggests a calm voice now out of
the darkness, âour patience is enormous, though perhaps
hot unlimited.â So saying, a tall African with a full im-
perial beard steps up grabs the fat American, who has
time to utter one short yell before being flung bodily over
the side. Slothrop and the African watch the Major bounce
down the embankment behind them, arms and legs flying,
out of sight. Firs crowd the hills. A crescent moon has
_Tisen over one ragged crest...
Ly.
er ad
â
336
Gravity's Rainsow
The man introduces himself in English, as Oberst En-
zian, of the Schwarzkommando. He apologizes for his show
of temper, notes Slothropâs armband, declines an inter-
view before Slothrop can get in a word. âThereâs no story.
We're DPs, like everybody else.â
âThe Major seemed worried that youâre headed for
Nordhausen.â
âMarvy is going to be an annoyance, I can tell. Still, he
doesnât pose as much of a problem asââ He peers at
Slothrop. âHmm. Are you hi ak
a war correspondent?â
âNi
oO.
â
âA free agent, Iâd guess.â
âDon't know about that âfree,â Oberst.â
âBut you are free. We all are. You'll see. Before long.â
He steps away down the spine of the freighttop, waving
a beckoning German good-by. âBefore long. .
Slothrop sits on the rooftop, rubbing his bare feet. A
friend? A good omen? âBlack rocket troops? What bizarre
shit?
Well good morninâ gang, letâs start it
©
Off with a bang, so long to
:
Double-u Double-u Two-o-o-ol
Now the fightinâs over and we're all in clover
And I'm here ta bring sunshine to youâ '
Hey there Herman the German, stop yer fussinâ
and squirminâ,
i
Donâtcha know you're goinâ home ta stayâ
No, thereâs never a frown, here in Rocket,
Sock-it T own,
Where ev'ry dayâs a beautiful dayâ
(Quit kvetchinâ, Gretchen! )
Go on and haveâ a beautiful daa-aay!
Nordhausen in the morning: the ies is a green salad,
crisp with raindrops. Everything isâ fresh, washed. The
Harz hump up all around, dark slopes bearded to the tops
with spruce, fir and larch. High-gabled houses; sheets of
water reflecting the sky, muddy streets, American and
Russian GIs pouring in and out of the doots of'the. taverns
and makeshift PXs, everybody packing a \sidearm. Mead-
ows and logged-off wedges up on the mountainsides flow
with mottled light as rainclouds blow away over Thuringia.
In the Tone
337
_
Castles perch high over the town, sailing in and out of
torn clouds. Old horses with smudged knobby knees, short-
legged and big-chested, pull wagonloads of barrels, necks
straining at twin collars chained together, heavy horse-
shoes sending mudflowers at each wet clop, down from
the vineyards to the taverns.
Slothrop wanders into a roofless part of town. Old peo-
ple in black are bat-flittering among the walls. Shops and
dwellings here are all long-looted by the slave laborers
liberated from the Dora camp.
Lotta those fags still
around, with baskets and 175 badges out on display, star-
ing moistly from doorways. From the glassless bay win-
dow of a dress shop, in the dimness behind a plaster
dummy lying bald and sprawled, arms raised to sky, hands
curved for bouquets or cocktail glasses they'll never hold
again, Slothrop hears a girl singing. Accompanying herself
on a balalaika. One of those sad little Parisian-sounding
tunes âin 3/4:
Love never goes away,
Never completely dies,
Always some souvenir
Takes us by sad surprise.
You went away from me,
One rose.was left behindâ
Pressed in my Book of Hours,
That is the rose I
find....
Though itâs another year,
Though itâs another me,
Under the rose is a drying tear,
Under my linden tree. ...
Love never goes away,
Not if itâs really true,
It can return, by night, by day,
Tender and green and new
As the leaves from a linden tree, love,
that I left with you.
Her name turns out to be Geli Tripping, and the bala-
_laika belongs to a Soviet intelligence officer named Tchi-
_ tcherine. In a way, Geli does tooâpart-time, anyhow.
338
|
Gravityâs RAINBOW
Seems this Tchitcherine maintains a harem, a girl in every
rocket-town in the Zone. Yup, another rocket maniac. Slo-
throp feels like a tourist.
Geli talks about her young man. They sit in her roofless
room drinking a pale wine known hereabouts as Nord-
hauser Schattensaft. Overhead, black birds with yellow
beaks lace the sky, looping in the sunlight from their
nests up in the mountain castles and down in the city
ruins. Far away, perhaps in the marketplace, a truck con-
voy is idling all its engines, the smell of exhaust washing
over the maze of walls, where moss creeps, water oozes,
roaches seek purchase, walls that baffle the motor sound
so that it seems to come in from all directions.
Sheâs thin, a bit awkward, very young. Nowhere in her
eyes is there any sign of corrosionâshe might have spent
all her War roofed and secure, tranquil, playing with small
forest animals in a rear area someplace. Her song, she
admits, sighing, is mostly wishful thinking. âWhen heâs
away, heâs away. When you came in I almost thought you
were Tchitcherine.â
âNope. Just a hard-working newshound, is all. No rock-
ets, no harems.â
âItâs an arrangement,â she tells him. âItâs so unorga-
nized out here. There have to be arrangements, You'll find
out.â Indeed he willâhe'll find thousands of arrange-
ments, for warmth, love, food, simple movement along
roads, tracks and canals. Even G-5, living its fantasy of
being the only government in Germany now, is just the
arrangement for being victorious, is all. No more or lessâ
real than all these others so private, silent, and lost to
History. Slothrop, though he doesnât know it yet, is as
properly constituted a state as any other in the Zone these
days. Not paranoia. Just how it is. Temporary alliances,
knit and undone. He and Geli reach their arrangement
hidden from the occupied streets by remnants of walls, in
an old fourposter bed facing a dark pier glass. Out the
roof that isnât there he can see a long tree-covered moun-
tain ascending. Wine or her breath, nests
of down in the
hollows of her arms, thighs with the on of saplings in
wind. Heâs barely inside her before she cdmes, a fantasy
about Tchitcherine
in progress,
clear
and_touchingly,
across her facĂ©. This irritates Slothrop, but doesnât keep
him from coming himself.
ÂŁ
Arrangements in the Zone
- The Zone is depicted as a landscape of ruins where nature and machinery coexist amidst the sensory confusion of echoing motor sounds and creeping moss.
- Slothrop encounters Geli, a young woman whose apparent innocence masks the complex 'arrangements' necessary for survival in post-war Germany.
- The narrative suggests that formal governments like G-5 are merely temporary arrangements, no more real than the private, silent alliances formed between individuals.
- Slothrop himself is described as a 'properly constituted state,' reflecting the fragmented and decentralized political reality of the occupied territory.
- The encounter between Slothrop and Geli is marked by her lingering obsession with Tchitcherine and the surreal presence of a pet owl named Wernher who eats candy bars.
Even G-5, living its fantasy of being the only government in Germany now, is just the arrangement for being victorious, is all.
338
|
Gravityâs RAINBOW
Seems this Tchitcherine maintains a harem, a girl in every
rocket-town in the Zone. Yup, another rocket maniac. Slo-
throp feels like a tourist.
Geli talks about her young man. They sit in her roofless
room drinking a pale wine known hereabouts as Nord-
hauser Schattensaft. Overhead, black birds with yellow
beaks lace the sky, looping in the sunlight from their
nests up in the mountain castles and down in the city
ruins. Far away, perhaps in the marketplace, a truck con-
voy is idling all its engines, the smell of exhaust washing
over the maze of walls, where moss creeps, water oozes,
roaches seek purchase, walls that baffle the motor sound
so that it seems to come in from all directions.
Sheâs thin, a bit awkward, very young. Nowhere in her
eyes is there any sign of corrosionâshe might have spent
all her War roofed and secure, tranquil, playing with small
forest animals in a rear area someplace. Her song, she
admits, sighing, is mostly wishful thinking. âWhen heâs
away, heâs away. When you came in I almost thought you
were Tchitcherine.â
âNope. Just a hard-working newshound, is all. No rock-
ets, no harems.â
âItâs an arrangement,â she tells him. âItâs so unorga-
nized out here. There have to be arrangements, You'll find
out.â Indeed he willâhe'll find thousands of arrange-
ments, for warmth, love, food, simple movement along
roads, tracks and canals. Even G-5, living its fantasy of
being the only government in Germany now, is just the
arrangement for being victorious, is all. No more or lessâ
real than all these others so private, silent, and lost to
History. Slothrop, though he doesnât know it yet, is as
properly constituted a state as any other in the Zone these
days. Not paranoia. Just how it is. Temporary alliances,
knit and undone. He and Geli reach their arrangement
hidden from the occupied streets by remnants of walls, in
an old fourposter bed facing a dark pier glass. Out the
roof that isnât there he can see a long tree-covered moun-
tain ascending. Wine or her breath, nests
of down in the
hollows of her arms, thighs with the on of saplings in
wind. Heâs barely inside her before she cdmes, a fantasy
about Tchitcherine
in progress,
clear
and_touchingly,
across her facĂ©. This irritates Slothrop, but doesnât keep
him from coming himself.
ÂŁ
_ In the Zone
;
339
The foolishness begins immediately on detumescence,
â
_ amusing questions like, what kind of word has gone out to
keep everybody away from Geli but me? Or, is it that
something about me reminds her of Tchitcherine, and if
so, what? And, say, whereâs that Tchitcherine right now?
He dozes off, is roused by her lips, fingers, dewy legs
sliding along his. The. sun jumps across their section of
sky, gets eclipsed by a breast, is reflected out of her childâs
eyes... then clouds, rain for which she puts up a green
tarp with tassels sheâs sewn.
on, canopy style... rain
sluices down off the tassels, cold and loud, Night. She
feeds him boiled cabbage with an old heirloom of a spoon
with a crest on it. They drink more of that wine. Shadows
are soft verdigris. The rain has stopped. Somewhere kids
go booting an empty gas can over the cobblestones.
Something comes flapping in out of the sky: talons
scrabble along the top of the canopy. âWhatâs that?â half
awake and sheâs got the covers again, câmon Geli... .
âMy owl,â sez Geli. âWernher. Thereâs a candy. bar in
the top drawer of the chiffonier, Liebchen, would you
mind feeding him?â
_Liebchen indeed. Staggering off the bed, vertical for
the first time all day, Slothrop removes a Baby Ruth from
its wrapper, clears his throat, decides not to ask her how
she came by it because he knows, and lobs the thing up on
the canopy for that Wernher. Soon, lying together again,
they hear peanuts crunching, and a clacking beak.â
âCandy bars,â Slothrop grouches, âWhatâs the matter
with him? Donât you know heâs supposed to be out forag-
ing, for live mice or some shit? You've turned him into a
_
house owl.â
.
âYou're pretty lazy yourself.â Baby fingers creeping
down along his ribs.
âWellâI betâcut
it outâI
bet that Tchitcherine
doesnât have to get up and feed that owl.â
She cools, the hand stopping where it is. âHe loves
Tchitcherine. He never comes to be fed, unless Tchi-
tcherineâs here.â
_
Slothropâs turn to cool. More correctly, freeze. âUh, but,
you donât: mean that Tchitcherine is actually, uh...â
âHe was supposed to be,â sighing,
âOh. When?â
i
âThis morning. Heâs late. It happens.â
"
3
r
Intrigue in the Zone
- Slothrop experiences a moment of panic upon realizing that Geliâs lover, the Soviet officer Tchitcherine, is expected to arrive at any moment.
- Geli reveals her knowledge of Slothropâs true mission, specifically his search for 'Rocket Number 00000' and the mysterious Imipolex G device.
- The conversation introduces the 'Schwarzgerit' (S-Gerit), a specific assembly or component related to the rocket that Slothrop recognizes from his technical data.
- Geli admits to being a 'witch' and having posed for rocket insignia, blurring the lines between military technology and occultism in the Zone.
- Slothropâs internal monologue reflects a deep-seated paranoia, viewing his situation as a 'badger game' or a trap set by those tracking the rocket.
- Despite his fear of Tchitcherineâs violent arrival, Slothrop remains compelled to stay and extract more information about the rocket's secrets.
Paranoids are not paranoids (Proverb 5) because theyâre paranoid, but because they keep putting themselves, fucking idiots, deliberately into paranoid situations.
_ In the Zone
;
339
The foolishness begins immediately on detumescence,
â
_ amusing questions like, what kind of word has gone out to
keep everybody away from Geli but me? Or, is it that
something about me reminds her of Tchitcherine, and if
so, what? And, say, whereâs that Tchitcherine right now?
He dozes off, is roused by her lips, fingers, dewy legs
sliding along his. The. sun jumps across their section of
sky, gets eclipsed by a breast, is reflected out of her childâs
eyes... then clouds, rain for which she puts up a green
tarp with tassels sheâs sewn.
on, canopy style... rain
sluices down off the tassels, cold and loud, Night. She
feeds him boiled cabbage with an old heirloom of a spoon
with a crest on it. They drink more of that wine. Shadows
are soft verdigris. The rain has stopped. Somewhere kids
go booting an empty gas can over the cobblestones.
Something comes flapping in out of the sky: talons
scrabble along the top of the canopy. âWhatâs that?â half
awake and sheâs got the covers again, câmon Geli... .
âMy owl,â sez Geli. âWernher. Thereâs a candy. bar in
the top drawer of the chiffonier, Liebchen, would you
mind feeding him?â
_Liebchen indeed. Staggering off the bed, vertical for
the first time all day, Slothrop removes a Baby Ruth from
its wrapper, clears his throat, decides not to ask her how
she came by it because he knows, and lobs the thing up on
the canopy for that Wernher. Soon, lying together again,
they hear peanuts crunching, and a clacking beak.â
âCandy bars,â Slothrop grouches, âWhatâs the matter
with him? Donât you know heâs supposed to be out forag-
ing, for live mice or some shit? You've turned him into a
_
house owl.â
.
âYou're pretty lazy yourself.â Baby fingers creeping
down along his ribs.
âWellâI betâcut
it outâI
bet that Tchitcherine
doesnât have to get up and feed that owl.â
She cools, the hand stopping where it is. âHe loves
Tchitcherine. He never comes to be fed, unless Tchi-
tcherineâs here.â
_
Slothropâs turn to cool. More correctly, freeze. âUh, but,
you donât: mean that Tchitcherine is actually, uh...â
âHe was supposed to be,â sighing,
âOh. When?â
i
âThis morning. Heâs late. It happens.â
"
3
r
340
-
Gravitryâs Rarnsow
Slothropâs off the bed halfway across the room with a
softoff, one sock on and the other in his teeth, head
through one armhole of his undershirt, fly zipper jammed,
yelling shit.
âMy brave Englishman,â she drawls.
âWhy didnât you bring this up earlier, Geli, huh?â
âOh, come back.
Itâs nighttime, heâs with a woman
someplace. He canât sleep alone.â
âI hope you can.â
âHush. Come here. You canât go out with nothing on
your feet. I'll give youâ a pair of his old boots and tell you
all his secrets.â
âSecrets?â Look out, Slothrop. âWhy should I want to
knowââ
âYou're not a war correspondent.â
âWhy does everybody keep saying that? Nobody be-
lieves me. Of course Iâm a war correspondent.â Shaking
the brassard at her. âCanât you read? Sez âWar Corre-
spondent.â I even have a mustache, here, donât IP Just
like that Emest Hemingway.â
âOh. Then I imagine you wouldnât be looking for
Rocket Number oooo0 after all. It was just a silly idea I
had. Iâm sorry.â
Oh boy, am I gonna get out of here, sez Slothrop'
to
himself, this is a badger game if I ever saw one, man.
Who else would be interested in the one rocket out of
6000 that carried the Imipolex G device?
âAnd you couldnât care less about the Schwarzgerit,
either,â she keeps on. She keeps on.
âThe what?â
âThey also called it S-Gerit.â
Next higher assembly, Slothrop, remember? Wernher,
up on the canopy, is hooting. A signal to that Tchitcherine,
no doubt.
:
Paranoids are not paranoids (Proverb 5) because theyâre
paranoid, but because they keep putting themselves, fuck-
ing idiots, deliberately into paranoid situations.
âNow how on earth,â elaborately uncorking a fresh bot-
tle of Nordhauser Schattensaft, thoppp, best Cary Grant
imitation he can summon up with bowels 6
echoing tight,
©
suavely refilling glasses, handing one to/}her, âwould a
sweet,
young,
thing, like you, know anything,
about
rocket, hahd-weah?â
a
In the Zone
;
341
âT read Vaslayâs mail,â as if itâs a dumb question, which
it is.
-âYou shouldnât be blabbing to random strangers like
.
this. If he finds out, heâll murder you.â
âT like you. I like intrigue. I like playing.â
âMaybe you like to get people in trouble.â
âAll right.â Out with the lower lip.
âO.K., O.K., tell me about it. But I donât know if the
Guardian will even be interested. My editors are a rather
stuffy lot, you know.â
;
Goose bumps crowd her bare little breasts. âI posed
once for a rocket insignia. Perhaps you've seen it. A pretty
young witch straddling an A4. Carrying her obsolete broom
over her shoulder. I was voted the Sweetheart of 3/Art.
Abt. (mot) 485.â
âAre you a real witch?â
.
âI think I have tendencies. Have you been up to the
Brocken yet?â
âJust hit town, actually.â
âTve been up there every Walpurgisnacht since I had
my first period. I'll take you, if you like.â
âTell me about this, this âSchwarzgerit.ââ
âT thought you werenât interested.â
âHow can I know if Iâm interested or not if I donât even
know what Iâm supposed or not supposed to be interested
in?â
âYou must be a correspondent. You have a way with
words.â
Tchitcherine comes roaring through the Sides a
Nagant blazing in his fist. Tchitcherine lands in a para-
âchute and fells Slothrop with one judo chop. Tchitcherine
N drives a Stalin tank right into the room, and blasts Slo-
throp with a 76 mm shell. Thanks for stalling him, Lieb-
~ chen, he was a spy, well, cheerio, Iâm off to Peenemiinde
and a nubile Polish wench with tits like vanilla ice cream,
check you out later.
âT have to go, I think,â Slothrop sez, Sey nbuRaEE needs
a new ribbon, gotta sharpen pencils, you know how it isââ
âI told you, he wonât be here tonight.â
âWhy? Is he out after that Schwarzgerit, eh?â
-- âNo. He hasnât heard the latest. The message came in
from Stettin yesterday.â
âIn clear, of course.â
Interregnum in the Zone
- A mysterious message reveals that the Schwarzgerit is for sale in SwinemĂŒnde for half a million Swiss francs.
- The characters discuss the 'interregnum,' a state where national frontiers and subdivisions have been suspended in the post-war Zone.
- Slothrop and Geli share a bizarre sexual encounter interrupted by a trained owl named Wernher, which Slothrop suspects is a Pavlovian plot.
- Geli reveals she is a 'witch' who trained the bird herself, leading Slothrop to a rare moment of trust and sleep in her arms.
- Slothrop travels through a surreal, 'Sunday-funnies' dawn toward the Mittelwerke, wearing oversized boots stuffed with rags.
- American forces are shown frantically crating V-2 rocket parts to ship them out before the Soviet occupation begins.
Forget frontiers now. Forget subdivisions. There arenât any.
In the Zone
;
341
âT read Vaslayâs mail,â as if itâs a dumb question, which
it is.
-âYou shouldnât be blabbing to random strangers like
.
this. If he finds out, heâll murder you.â
âT like you. I like intrigue. I like playing.â
âMaybe you like to get people in trouble.â
âAll right.â Out with the lower lip.
âO.K., O.K., tell me about it. But I donât know if the
Guardian will even be interested. My editors are a rather
stuffy lot, you know.â
;
Goose bumps crowd her bare little breasts. âI posed
once for a rocket insignia. Perhaps you've seen it. A pretty
young witch straddling an A4. Carrying her obsolete broom
over her shoulder. I was voted the Sweetheart of 3/Art.
Abt. (mot) 485.â
âAre you a real witch?â
.
âI think I have tendencies. Have you been up to the
Brocken yet?â
âJust hit town, actually.â
âTve been up there every Walpurgisnacht since I had
my first period. I'll take you, if you like.â
âTell me about this, this âSchwarzgerit.ââ
âT thought you werenât interested.â
âHow can I know if Iâm interested or not if I donât even
know what Iâm supposed or not supposed to be interested
in?â
âYou must be a correspondent. You have a way with
words.â
Tchitcherine comes roaring through the Sides a
Nagant blazing in his fist. Tchitcherine lands in a para-
âchute and fells Slothrop with one judo chop. Tchitcherine
N drives a Stalin tank right into the room, and blasts Slo-
throp with a 76 mm shell. Thanks for stalling him, Lieb-
~ chen, he was a spy, well, cheerio, Iâm off to Peenemiinde
and a nubile Polish wench with tits like vanilla ice cream,
check you out later.
âT have to go, I think,â Slothrop sez, Sey nbuRaEE needs
a new ribbon, gotta sharpen pencils, you know how it isââ
âI told you, he wonât be here tonight.â
âWhy? Is he out after that Schwarzgerit, eh?â
-- âNo. He hasnât heard the latest. The message came in
from Stettin yesterday.â
âIn clear, of course.â
342
Gravityâs RAINBOW
âWhy not?â
âCouldnât be very important.â
âItâs for sale.â
âThe messagerâ
âThe S-Gerit, you pill. A man in Swinemiinde can get
it. Half a million Swiss francs, if youre in the market. He
waits on the Strand-Promenade, every day till noon. He'll
be wearing a white suit.â
Oh yeah? âBlodgett Waxwing.â
âIt didnât give the name. But I donât think itâs Waxwing.
He sticks close to the Mediterranean.â
âYou get around.â
âWaxwing is already a legend around the Zone. So is
Tchitcherine. For all I know, so are you. What was your
name?â
âCary Grant. Ge-li, Ge-li, Ge-li. ... Listen, Swinemiinde,
thatâs in that Soviet zone, ainât it.â
âYou sound like a German. Forget frontiers now. Forget
subdivisions. There arenât any.â
âThere are soldiers.â
âThatâs right.â Staring at him. âBut thatâs different.â
âOh.â
âYou'll learn. Itâs all been suspended. Vaslay calls it an
âinterregnum.â You only have to flow along with it.â
âGonna flow outa here now, kid. Thanx for the info, and
a tip of the Scuffling hat to yaââ
âPlease stay.â Curled on the bed, her eyes about to spill
over with tears. Aw, shit, Slothrop you sucker... but sheâs
just a little kid. . âCome here. .
The minute he puts it in, though, she goes wicked and
a little crazy, slashing at his legs, shoulders, and ass with
chewed-down
fingernails sharp. as a saw. Considerate
Slothrop is trying to hold off coming till sheâs ready when
all of a sudden something heavy, feathered, and many-
pointed comes crashing down onto the small of his back,
bounces off triggering him and as it turns out Geli too
ZONNGGGI.
eeeece...oh, gee whiz. Wings flap and
Wemherâfor it is heâascends into the darkness.
âFucking bird,â Slothrop screams, âhe! tries that again
rl give him a Baby Ruth right up his ass, boyââ itâs a
plot itâs a plot itâs Pavlovian conditionin ! or something,
âTchitcherine trained him to do that,
Ps.
F
s
x
In the Zone.
343
âWrong! I trained him to do that.â Sheâs smiling at him
so four-year-old happy and not holding a thing back, that
Slothrop decides to believe everything sheâs been telling
him.
âYou are a witch.â Paranoid that he is, he snuggles
down under the counterpane with the long-legged sorcer-
ess, lights a cigarette, and despite endless Tchitcherines
vaulting in over the roofless walls with arsenals of disaster
all for him, even falls asleep, presently, in her bare and
open arms.
oO
Itâs a Sunday-funnies dawn, very blue sky with gaudy
pink clouds in it. Mud across the cobblestones is so slick
it reflects light, so that you walk not streets but these long
streaky cuts of raw meat, hock of werewolf, gammon of
Beast. Tchitcherine has big feet, Geli had to stuff pieces
of an old chemise in the toes of his boots so they'd fit
Slothrop. Dodging constantly for jeeps, ten-ton lorries,
âRussians on horseback, he finally hitches a ride from an
18-year-old American first lieutenant in a gray Mercedes
staff car with dents all over it. Slothrop frisks mustaches,
flashes his armband, feeling defensive. The sunâs already
warm. Thereâs a smell of evergreens on the mountains.
This rail driving, whoâs attached to the tank company
guarding the Mittelwerke, doesnât think Slothrop should
have any trouble getting inside. English SPOG have
come and gone. Right now American Army Ordnance
people are busy crating and shipping out parts and tools
for a hundred Ags. A big hassle. âTrying to get it all
out before the Russians come to take over.â Interregnum.
Civilians and bureaucrats show up every day, high-level
tourists, to stare and go wow. âGuess nobodyâs seen em
this big before. I donât know what it is. Like a burlesque
crowd. Not gonna do anything, just here to look. Most
of them bring cameras. Notice you didnât. We have them
for rent at the main gate, if you're interested.â
One of many hustles. Yellow James the cook has got
him a swell little sandwich wagon, you can hear him in
the tunnels calling, âCome anâ get âem! Hot ânâ cold and
\s\
The Mittelwerke Tourist Hustle
- The Mittelwerke factory has been transformed into a macabre tourist trap where opportunistic entrepreneurs sell rocket-part souvenirs.
- Characters like Yellow James and Nick De Profundis exploit the visitors by selling food and trinkets fashioned from V-2 rocket components.
- A guide named Micro Graham leads wealthy tourists on illicit, dangerous tours into the Dora prison camp tunnels.
- Visitors are warned to guard their thoughts against the 'spiritual rampage' of the dead prisoners who perished in the mountain.
- The tour features surreal exhibits of futuristic space-suits and helmets that appear to be fashioned from the skulls of giants.
- The atmosphere blends high-tech 'Space-Viennese' aesthetics with the grim, grainy reality of the site's horrific history.
At first you may be alarmed, on noticing that they appear to be fashioned from skulls.
In the Zone.
343
âWrong! I trained him to do that.â Sheâs smiling at him
so four-year-old happy and not holding a thing back, that
Slothrop decides to believe everything sheâs been telling
him.
âYou are a witch.â Paranoid that he is, he snuggles
down under the counterpane with the long-legged sorcer-
ess, lights a cigarette, and despite endless Tchitcherines
vaulting in over the roofless walls with arsenals of disaster
all for him, even falls asleep, presently, in her bare and
open arms.
oO
Itâs a Sunday-funnies dawn, very blue sky with gaudy
pink clouds in it. Mud across the cobblestones is so slick
it reflects light, so that you walk not streets but these long
streaky cuts of raw meat, hock of werewolf, gammon of
Beast. Tchitcherine has big feet, Geli had to stuff pieces
of an old chemise in the toes of his boots so they'd fit
Slothrop. Dodging constantly for jeeps, ten-ton lorries,
âRussians on horseback, he finally hitches a ride from an
18-year-old American first lieutenant in a gray Mercedes
staff car with dents all over it. Slothrop frisks mustaches,
flashes his armband, feeling defensive. The sunâs already
warm. Thereâs a smell of evergreens on the mountains.
This rail driving, whoâs attached to the tank company
guarding the Mittelwerke, doesnât think Slothrop should
have any trouble getting inside. English SPOG have
come and gone. Right now American Army Ordnance
people are busy crating and shipping out parts and tools
for a hundred Ags. A big hassle. âTrying to get it all
out before the Russians come to take over.â Interregnum.
Civilians and bureaucrats show up every day, high-level
tourists, to stare and go wow. âGuess nobodyâs seen em
this big before. I donât know what it is. Like a burlesque
crowd. Not gonna do anything, just here to look. Most
of them bring cameras. Notice you didnât. We have them
for rent at the main gate, if you're interested.â
One of many hustles. Yellow James the cook has got
him a swell little sandwich wagon, you can hear him in
the tunnels calling, âCome anâ get âem! Hot ânâ cold and
\s\
344
Gravityâs RAINBOW
drippinâ with greens!â And there'll be grease on the glasses
of half these gobbling fools in another five minutes. Nick
De Profundis, the company lounge lizard, has surprised
everybody by changing, inside the phone booth of factory
spaces here, to an energetic businessman, selling A4 sou-
venirs: small items that can be worked into keychains,
money clips or a scatter-pin for that special gal back
home, burner cups of brass off the combustion chambers,
ball bearings from the servos, and this week the hep item
seems to be SA 100 acorn diodes, cute little mixing valves
looted out of the Telefunken units, and the even rarer SA
102s, which of course fetch a higher price. And thereâs
âMicroâ Graham, whoâs let his sideburns grow and lurks
in the Stollen where the gullible visitors stray: âPssst.â
âPssst?â
âForget it.â
âWell now youâve got me curious.â
âThought you looked like a sport. You taking the tour?â
âT-I only stepped away for a second. Really, â'm going
right back... .â
âFinding it a little dull?â Oily Micro moves in on his
mark. âEver wonder to yourself: âWhat really went on in
here?âPâ
The visitor who is willing to spend extravagant sums is
rarely disappointed. Micro knows the secret doors to rock
passages that lead through to Dora, the prison camp next
to the Mittelwerke. Each member of the party is given
his own electric lantern. There is hurried, basic instruction
on what to do in case of any encounter with the dead.
âRemember they were always on the defensive here.
When the Americans liberated Dora, the prisoners who
were still alive went on a rampage after the materialâ
they looted, they ate and drank themselves
sick. For
others, Death came like the American Army, and liberatedâ
them spiritually. So theyre apt to be on a spiritual ram-_
page now. Guard your thoughts. Use the natural balance -
of your mind against them. They'll be coming at you off-
balance, remember.â
ati
â
A popular attraction is the elegant Raumwaffe space-
suit wardrobe, designed by famous military couturier
Heini of Berlin. Not only are there by
nous dazzling
enough to thrill even the juvenile
leads
of a space-â
oa
r
ae
&
a
In the Zone
â
345
operetta, down to the oddly-colored television images
flickering across their toenails, but Heini has even thought
of silks for the amusing
little Space-Jockeys
(Raum-
Jockeier) with their electric whips, who will someday
zoom about just outside the barrier-glow of the Raketen-
Stadt, astride âhorsesâ of polished meteorite all with the
same stylized face (a high-contrast imago of the horse
that follows you, emphasis on its demented eyes, its teeth,
the darkness under its hindquarters ... .), with the pro-
pulsive gases blowing like farts out their tail endsâthe
juvenile leads giggle together at this naughty bathroom
moment, and slowly, in whatâs hardly more than a sigh
of gravity here; go bobbing, each radiant in a display of
fluorescent plastics, back in to the Waltz, the strangely
communal Waltz of the Future, a slightly, disquietingly
grainy-dissonant chorale implied here in the whirling
silence of faces, the bare shoulderblades slung so space-
Viennese; so jaded with Tomorrow. .. ..
- Then comeâthe Space Helmets! At first you may be
alarmed, on noticing that they appear to be fashioned
from skulls. At least the upper dome of this unpleasant
headgear
âis certainly the skull of some manlike creature
built to a larger scale. .
... Perhaps Titans lived under this
âmountain, and their skulls got harvested like giant mush-
rooms.
.
.
. The eye-sockets are fitted with quartz lenses.
Filters may be slipped in. Nasal bone and upper teeth
have been replaced by a metal breathing apparatus, full
âof slots and grating. Corresponding to the jaw is a built-up
section, almost a facial codpiece, of iron. and ebonite,
perhaps housing a radio unit, thrusting forward in black
fatality. For an extra few marks you are allowed to slip
one of these helmets on. Once inside these yellow caverns,
looking out now through neutral-density orbits, the sound
of your breath hissing up and around the bone spaces,
what you thought was a balanced mind is little help. The
compartment the Schwarzkommando were quartered in
is no longer an amusing travelogue of nativeâ savages
taking on ways of the 2ist century. The milk calabashes
appear only to be made from some plastic. On the spot
where tradition sez Enzian had his Illumination, in the
course of a wet dream where he coupled with a slender
white rocket, there is the dark stain, miraculously still
The Rocket-City Immachination
- Tourists pay to wear metal breathing helmets that simulate the sensory experience of the Schwarzkommando, altering their perception of reality.
- The interior of the rocket compartment transforms from a primitive travelogue into a vivid, high-depth diorama of space travel.
- The Rocket-City is revealed to be a complex, asymmetrical landscape designed specifically to 'Introduce Terror' rather than follow official streamlined visions.
- Observers attempt to relate the alien architecture of the city to mundane memories like wine bottles, old hairdos, and the polymer Imipolex G.
- Security monitors fail to track a specific thought about Imipolex G as the target slips away into the chaotic environment.
- Soldiers on the surface enjoy the 'soft racket' of victory, prioritizing looting, luxury goods, and ignoring civil signs like no-parking zones.
No, this Rocket-City, so whitely lit against the calm dimness of space, is set up deliberately To Avoid Symmetry, Allow Complexity, Introduce Terror.
In the Zone
â
345
operetta, down to the oddly-colored television images
flickering across their toenails, but Heini has even thought
of silks for the amusing
little Space-Jockeys
(Raum-
Jockeier) with their electric whips, who will someday
zoom about just outside the barrier-glow of the Raketen-
Stadt, astride âhorsesâ of polished meteorite all with the
same stylized face (a high-contrast imago of the horse
that follows you, emphasis on its demented eyes, its teeth,
the darkness under its hindquarters ... .), with the pro-
pulsive gases blowing like farts out their tail endsâthe
juvenile leads giggle together at this naughty bathroom
moment, and slowly, in whatâs hardly more than a sigh
of gravity here; go bobbing, each radiant in a display of
fluorescent plastics, back in to the Waltz, the strangely
communal Waltz of the Future, a slightly, disquietingly
grainy-dissonant chorale implied here in the whirling
silence of faces, the bare shoulderblades slung so space-
Viennese; so jaded with Tomorrow. .. ..
- Then comeâthe Space Helmets! At first you may be
alarmed, on noticing that they appear to be fashioned
from skulls. At least the upper dome of this unpleasant
headgear
âis certainly the skull of some manlike creature
built to a larger scale. .
... Perhaps Titans lived under this
âmountain, and their skulls got harvested like giant mush-
rooms.
.
.
. The eye-sockets are fitted with quartz lenses.
Filters may be slipped in. Nasal bone and upper teeth
have been replaced by a metal breathing apparatus, full
âof slots and grating. Corresponding to the jaw is a built-up
section, almost a facial codpiece, of iron. and ebonite,
perhaps housing a radio unit, thrusting forward in black
fatality. For an extra few marks you are allowed to slip
one of these helmets on. Once inside these yellow caverns,
looking out now through neutral-density orbits, the sound
of your breath hissing up and around the bone spaces,
what you thought was a balanced mind is little help. The
compartment the Schwarzkommando were quartered in
is no longer an amusing travelogue of nativeâ savages
taking on ways of the 2ist century. The milk calabashes
appear only to be made from some plastic. On the spot
where tradition sez Enzian had his Illumination, in the
course of a wet dream where he coupled with a slender
white rocket, there is the dark stain, miraculously still
346
Graviryâs RaInsow
wet, and a smell you understand is meant to be that of
semenâbut it is really closer to soap, or bleach. The wall-
paintings lose their intended primitive crudeness and take
on primitive spatiality, depth and brillianceâtransform,
indeed, to dioramas on the theme âThe Promise of Space
Travel.â Lit sharply by carbide light which hisses and
smells like the bad breath of someone quite familiar to
you, the view commands your stare, After a few minutes
it becomes possible to make out actual movement down
there, even at the immense distances implied by the scale:
yes, we're hanging now down the last limb of our tra-
jectory in to the Raketen-Stadt, a difficult night of mag-
netic storm behind us, eddy currents
still shimmering
through all our steel like raindrops that cling to vehicle
windows
.
.
. yes, it is a City: vegetable âHo-ly!âs and
âIsnât that something!âs go away echoing as we crowd
about the bloom of window in this salt underground.
. . .
Strangely, these are not the symmetries we were pro-
grammed to expect, not the fins, the streamlined corners,
pylons, or simple solid geometries of the official vision at
allâthatâs for the ribbon clerks back on the Tour, in the
numbered Stollen. No, this Rocket-City, so whitely lit
against the calm dimness of space, is set up deliberately
To Avoid Symmetry, Allow Complexity, Introduce Tetror
(from the Preamble to the Articles of Immachination )â
but tourists have to connect the lookâof it back to things
they remember from their times and planetâback to the
wine bottle smashed in the basin, the bristlecone pines
outracing Death for millennia, concrete roads abandoned
year ago, hairdos of the late 1930s, indole molecules,
especially polymerized indoles, as in Imipolex Gâ
_
. Waitâwhich one of them was thinking that? Monitors,
get a fix on it, hurry upâ
But the target slips away. âThey handle their own
security down inside,â the young rail is telling Slothrop,
âwe're here for Surface Guard only. Our responsibility
ends at Stollen Number Zero, Power and Light. Itâs really
a pretty soft racket for us.â Life is good, and nobody's
looking forward much to redeployment. There are frau-
leins for screwing, cooking, and doing your laundry. He
can put Slothrop on to champagne, furs) cameras, ciga-
rettes.
.
.
. Canât just be interested in rockets, can he,
thatâs crazy. Heâs right.
-
.
~
In the Zone
347
One of the sweetest fruits of victory, after sleep and
looting, must be the chance: to ignore no-parking signs.
There are struck Ps in circles up all over the place, nailed
on trees, wired on girderwork, but the main tunnel en-
trances are pretty well blocked with vehicles by the time
the dimpled Mercedes arrives. âShit,â hollers the young
tanker, turns off his engine and leaves the German short
at no particular angle on the broad muddy apron. Leaving
keys in the car too, Slothropâs learning to notice items
like this. ...
The entrance to the tunnel is shaped like a parabola.
The Albert Speer Touch. Somebody during the thirties
was big on parabolas anyhow, and Albert Speer was in
charge of the New German Architecture then, and later
he went on to become Minister of Munitions, and nominal
chief customer for the A4. This. parabola here happens
to be the inspiration of a Speer disciple named Etzel
Olsch. He had noted this parabola shape around on Auto-
bahn overpasses, sports stadiums u.s.w., and thought it
was the most contemporary thing heâd ever seen. Imagine
his astonishment on finding that the parabola was also
the shape of the path intended for the rocket through
space. (What he actually said was, âOh, thatâs nice.â)
It was his mother who'd named him after Attila the Hun,
and nobody ever found out why. His parabola has a high
loft to it, and the railroad tracks run in underneath, steel
into shadows. Battened cloth camouflage furls back at the
edges. The mountain goes sloping away above, rock crop-
ping out here and there among the bushes and the trees.
Slothrop
presents
his sooper dooper SHAEF'
pass,
signed off by Ike and even more authentic, by the colonel
heading up the American âSpecial Mission V-2â out of
Paris: A Waxwing specialty of the house. B Company,
47th Armored Infantry, 5th Armored Division appears to
be up to something besides security for this place.. Slo-
throp is shrugged on through. There is a lot of moseying,
drawling, and country humor around here. Somebody
must've been picking his nose. A couple days later Slo-
throp will find a dried piece of snot on the card, a crystal
brown visa for Nordhausen.
In past the white-topped guard towers. Transformers
buzz through the spring morning. Someplace chains rattle
and a tailgate drops. Between ruts, high places, ridges
The Parabola and the Mountain
- Slothrop enters the Mittelwerke, a massive underground rocket factory, using a forged SHAEF pass provided by Waxwing.
- The tunnel entrance is shaped like a parabola, a design choice by Etzel Olsch that mirrors the mathematical trajectory of the V-2 rocket.
- The narrative explores 'TannhÀuserism,' a psychological desire to retreat into the safety and isolation of subterranean spaces.
- The underground facility is described as a place of 'complete agreement about Death,' where the public eye cannot reach.
- Light bulbs are framed as sacred icons for the 'passed over' multitudes, serving as the first targets of destruction during prisoner revolts.
- The German linguistic connection between 'electric socket' and 'Mother' adds a layer of Freudian subtext to the industrial setting.
As darkness is mined and transported from place to place like marble, so the light bulb is the chisel that delivers it from its inertia.
~
In the Zone
347
One of the sweetest fruits of victory, after sleep and
looting, must be the chance: to ignore no-parking signs.
There are struck Ps in circles up all over the place, nailed
on trees, wired on girderwork, but the main tunnel en-
trances are pretty well blocked with vehicles by the time
the dimpled Mercedes arrives. âShit,â hollers the young
tanker, turns off his engine and leaves the German short
at no particular angle on the broad muddy apron. Leaving
keys in the car too, Slothropâs learning to notice items
like this. ...
The entrance to the tunnel is shaped like a parabola.
The Albert Speer Touch. Somebody during the thirties
was big on parabolas anyhow, and Albert Speer was in
charge of the New German Architecture then, and later
he went on to become Minister of Munitions, and nominal
chief customer for the A4. This. parabola here happens
to be the inspiration of a Speer disciple named Etzel
Olsch. He had noted this parabola shape around on Auto-
bahn overpasses, sports stadiums u.s.w., and thought it
was the most contemporary thing heâd ever seen. Imagine
his astonishment on finding that the parabola was also
the shape of the path intended for the rocket through
space. (What he actually said was, âOh, thatâs nice.â)
It was his mother who'd named him after Attila the Hun,
and nobody ever found out why. His parabola has a high
loft to it, and the railroad tracks run in underneath, steel
into shadows. Battened cloth camouflage furls back at the
edges. The mountain goes sloping away above, rock crop-
ping out here and there among the bushes and the trees.
Slothrop
presents
his sooper dooper SHAEF'
pass,
signed off by Ike and even more authentic, by the colonel
heading up the American âSpecial Mission V-2â out of
Paris: A Waxwing specialty of the house. B Company,
47th Armored Infantry, 5th Armored Division appears to
be up to something besides security for this place.. Slo-
throp is shrugged on through. There is a lot of moseying,
drawling, and country humor around here. Somebody
must've been picking his nose. A couple days later Slo-
throp will find a dried piece of snot on the card, a crystal
brown visa for Nordhausen.
In past the white-topped guard towers. Transformers
buzz through the spring morning. Someplace chains rattle
and a tailgate drops. Between ruts, high places, ridges
348
Gravityâs Rainsow
of mud are beginning to dry out in the sun, to lighten and
crumble. Nearby the loud wake-up yawn and stretch of
a train whistle cuts loose. In past a heap of bright metal
spheres
in daylight,
with
a comical
sign PLEEZ
NO
SQUEEZ-A DA OXYGEN-A UNIT, EH? how long, how long
you sfacim-a dis country,
.
.
. In under parabola and
parable, straight into the mountain, sunlight gone, into
the cold, the dark, the long echoes of the Mittelwerke.
There is that not-so-rare personality disorder known as
Tannhduserism. Some of us love to be taken under moun-
tains, and not always with horny expectationsâVenus,
Frau Holda, her sexual delightsâno, many come, actually,
for the gnomes, the critters smaller than you, for the
sepulchral way time stretches along your hooded strolls
down here, quietly through courtyards that go for miles,
with no anxiety about getting lost. .
. no one stares, no
one is waiting to judge you . .. out of the public eye...
even a Minnesinger needs to be alone .
.
. long cloudy-
day indoor walks .
.
. the comfort of a closed place, where
everyone is in complete agreement about Death.
Slothrop knows this place. Not so much from maps he
had to study at the Casino as knowing it in the way you
know someone is there... .
Plant generators are still supplying power. Rarely a
bare bulb will hollow out a region of light. As darkness
is mined and transported from place to place like marble,
so the light bulb is the chisel that delivers it from its
inertia, and has become one of the great secret ikons of
the Humility, the multitudes who are passed over by God
and History. When the Dora prisoners went on their
rampage, the light bulbs in the rocket works were the first
to go: before food, before the delights to be looted out
of the medical lockers and the hospital pharmacy in
Stollen Number
1, these breakable, socketless
(in Ger-
many the word for electric socket is also the word for
Motherâso, motherless too) images were what the âlib-
eratedâ had to take... .
The basic layout of the plant was another inspiration
of Etzel Olsch, a Nazi inspiration like the parabola, but
again also a symbol belonging to the Rocket. Picture the
letters SS each stretched lengthwise a bit. These are the
two main tunnels, driven well over a mile into the moun-
The Architecture of the Rocket
- The Mittelwerke factory tunnels are designed in a shape that mimics both the Nazi SS emblem and the mathematical double integral sign.
- Architect Etzel Ălsch exhibits a 'deathwish' in his designs, creating buildings that appear aesthetically perfect but are engineered to collapse.
- The double integral represents a transition from dynamic motion to static architecture, where time is effectively removed from the equation.
- In the context of the Rocket, integration 'freezes' the vehicle in space, turning a moving weapon into a timeless, unmoving structure.
- The gnomes and apprentices working under Ălsch exist in a precarious, dark environment, laboring under mysterious deadlines or punishments.
The moving vehicle is frozen, in space, to become architecture, and timeless.
348
Gravityâs Rainsow
of mud are beginning to dry out in the sun, to lighten and
crumble. Nearby the loud wake-up yawn and stretch of
a train whistle cuts loose. In past a heap of bright metal
spheres
in daylight,
with
a comical
sign PLEEZ
NO
SQUEEZ-A DA OXYGEN-A UNIT, EH? how long, how long
you sfacim-a dis country,
.
.
. In under parabola and
parable, straight into the mountain, sunlight gone, into
the cold, the dark, the long echoes of the Mittelwerke.
There is that not-so-rare personality disorder known as
Tannhduserism. Some of us love to be taken under moun-
tains, and not always with horny expectationsâVenus,
Frau Holda, her sexual delightsâno, many come, actually,
for the gnomes, the critters smaller than you, for the
sepulchral way time stretches along your hooded strolls
down here, quietly through courtyards that go for miles,
with no anxiety about getting lost. .
. no one stares, no
one is waiting to judge you . .. out of the public eye...
even a Minnesinger needs to be alone .
.
. long cloudy-
day indoor walks .
.
. the comfort of a closed place, where
everyone is in complete agreement about Death.
Slothrop knows this place. Not so much from maps he
had to study at the Casino as knowing it in the way you
know someone is there... .
Plant generators are still supplying power. Rarely a
bare bulb will hollow out a region of light. As darkness
is mined and transported from place to place like marble,
so the light bulb is the chisel that delivers it from its
inertia, and has become one of the great secret ikons of
the Humility, the multitudes who are passed over by God
and History. When the Dora prisoners went on their
rampage, the light bulbs in the rocket works were the first
to go: before food, before the delights to be looted out
of the medical lockers and the hospital pharmacy in
Stollen Number
1, these breakable, socketless
(in Ger-
many the word for electric socket is also the word for
Motherâso, motherless too) images were what the âlib-
eratedâ had to take... .
The basic layout of the plant was another inspiration
of Etzel Olsch, a Nazi inspiration like the parabola, but
again also a symbol belonging to the Rocket. Picture the
letters SS each stretched lengthwise a bit. These are the
two main tunnels, driven well over a mile into the moun-
In the Zone
349
tain. Or picture a ladder with a slight S-shaped ripple in
it, lying flat: 44 runglike Stollen or cross-tunnels, linking
the two main ones. A couple hundred feet of rock moun-
tain, at the deepest, press down overhead.
But the shape is more than an elongated SS. Appren-
tice Hupla comes running in one day to tell the architect.
âMaster!â heâs yelling, âMaster!â Glsch has taken up quar-
ters in the Mittelwerke, insulated from the factory down
a few private drifts that donât appear on any map of the
place. Heâs getting into a grandiose idea of what an archi-
tectâs life should be down here, insisting now on the title
âMasterâ from all his helpers. That isnât his only eccen-
tricity, either. Last three designs he proposed to the
Fuhrer all were visually in the groove, beautifully New
German, except that none of the buildings will stay up.
They look normal enough, but they are designed to fall
down, like fat men at the opera falling asleep into some-
oneâs lap, shortly after the last rivet is driven, the last
forms removed from the newly set allegorical statue. This
is Olschâs âdeathwishâ problem here, as the little helpers
call it: it rates a lot of gossip in the commissary at meals,
and beside the coffee urns out on the gloomy stone load-
ing docks.
.
.
. Itâs well after sunset now, each desk in
this vaulted, almost outdoor bay has its own incandescent
light on. The gnomes sit out here, at night, with only
their bulbs shining conditionally, precariously
.
.
. it all
might go dark so easily, in the next second.
.
. ..Each
- gnome works in front of his drawing board. Theyâre work-
ing late. Thereâs a deadlineâitâs not clear if theyâre work-
ing overtime to meet it, or if they have already failed
and are here as punishment. Back in his office, Etzel
Olsch can be heard singing. Tasteless, low beer-hall songs.
Now he is lighting a cigar. Both he and the gnome
Apprentice Hupla whoâs just run in know that this is an
exploding cigar, put in his humidor as a revolutionary
gesture by persons unknown but so without power that
it doesnât matterââWait, Master, donât light itâMaster,
put it out, please, itâs an exploding cigar!â
âProceed, Hupla, with the intelligence that prompted
your rather rude entrance.â
~â
âButââ
âHupla .
. .â Puffing masterful clouds of cigar smoke.
350
Graviryâs RAINBOW
âTt-itâs about the shape of the tunnels here, Master.â
âDonât. flinch like that, I based that design on the
double lightning-stroke, Huplaâthe SS emblem,â
âBut itâs also a double imtegral sign! Did you know
that?â
âAh, Yes: Summe, Summe, as Leibniz said. Well, isnât
thatââ
BLAM.
All right. But Etzel Glschâs genius was to be fatally
receptive to imagery associated with the Rocket. In the
static space of the architect, he. might've used a double
integral now and then, early in his career, to find volumes
under surfaces whose equations were knownâamasses, mo-
ments, centers of gravity. But âitâs been years since heâs
had to do with anything that basic. Most of his calculating
these days as with marks and pfennigs, not functions of
idealistic r and 0, naive x and y. .. . But in the dynamic
space of the living Rocket, the double integral has a dif-
ferent meaning. To integrate here is to operate on a rate
of change so that time falls away: change is stilled.
âMeters per secondâ will integrate to âmeters.â The mov-
ing vehicle is frozen, in space, to become architecture,
and timeless. It was never launched. It will never fall.
In the guidance, this is what happened: a little pendu-
lum was kept centered by a magnetic field. During launch,
pulling gs, the pendulum would swing aft, off center.
It had a coil attached to it. When the coil moved through
the magnetic field, electric current flowed in the coil. As
the pendulum was pushed off center by the acceleration
of launch, current would fowâthe more acceleration, the
more flow. So the Rocket, on its own side of the flight,
sensed acceleration first. Men, tracking it, sensed position
or distance first. To get to distance from acceleration, the
Rocket had to integrate twiceâneeded a moving coil,
transformers, electrolytic cell, bridge of. diodes, one tetrode
(an extra grid to screen away capacitive coupling inside
©
the tube), an elaborate dance of design precautions to
get to what human eyes saw first of all-rthe distance ©
along the flight path,
There was that backward symmetry again, one that .
Pointsman missed, but Katje didnât. âA life of its own,â
she said, Slothrop remembers her reluctant smile, the
The Calculus of Brennschluss
- The Rocketâs guidance system uses a moving coil and capacitors to perform a double integration of acceleration into distance.
- While humans perceive distance directly, the Rocket must 'sense' its way through an elaborate electronic dance to understand its position.
- Brennschluss, or fuel cutoff, occurs at the precise moment the flight's accumulated charge equals a preset value, leaving the Rocket to its own trajectory.
- The double integral symbol is linked to the architecture of the Mittelwerke tunnels and the ancient rune for the yew tree, representing death.
- The 'Brennschluss Point' is described as a metaphysical interface between different orders of existence, forming a hidden constellation over the Earth.
- Slothrop connects these cold mathematical abstractions back to the physical memory of Katje and the shape of lovers curled in sleep.
Thereâs a Brennschluss point for every firing site. They still hang up there, all of them, a constellation waiting to have a 13th sign of the Zodiac named for it.
350
Graviryâs RAINBOW
âTt-itâs about the shape of the tunnels here, Master.â
âDonât. flinch like that, I based that design on the
double lightning-stroke, Huplaâthe SS emblem,â
âBut itâs also a double imtegral sign! Did you know
that?â
âAh, Yes: Summe, Summe, as Leibniz said. Well, isnât
thatââ
BLAM.
All right. But Etzel Glschâs genius was to be fatally
receptive to imagery associated with the Rocket. In the
static space of the architect, he. might've used a double
integral now and then, early in his career, to find volumes
under surfaces whose equations were knownâamasses, mo-
ments, centers of gravity. But âitâs been years since heâs
had to do with anything that basic. Most of his calculating
these days as with marks and pfennigs, not functions of
idealistic r and 0, naive x and y. .. . But in the dynamic
space of the living Rocket, the double integral has a dif-
ferent meaning. To integrate here is to operate on a rate
of change so that time falls away: change is stilled.
âMeters per secondâ will integrate to âmeters.â The mov-
ing vehicle is frozen, in space, to become architecture,
and timeless. It was never launched. It will never fall.
In the guidance, this is what happened: a little pendu-
lum was kept centered by a magnetic field. During launch,
pulling gs, the pendulum would swing aft, off center.
It had a coil attached to it. When the coil moved through
the magnetic field, electric current flowed in the coil. As
the pendulum was pushed off center by the acceleration
of launch, current would fowâthe more acceleration, the
more flow. So the Rocket, on its own side of the flight,
sensed acceleration first. Men, tracking it, sensed position
or distance first. To get to distance from acceleration, the
Rocket had to integrate twiceâneeded a moving coil,
transformers, electrolytic cell, bridge of. diodes, one tetrode
(an extra grid to screen away capacitive coupling inside
©
the tube), an elaborate dance of design precautions to
get to what human eyes saw first of all-rthe distance ©
along the flight path,
There was that backward symmetry again, one that .
Pointsman missed, but Katje didnât. âA life of its own,â
she said, Slothrop remembers her reluctant smile, the
In the Zone
351
Mediterranean afternoon, the peeling twist of a eucalyptus
trunk, the same pink, in that weakening light, as the
American officerâs trousers Slothrop wore once upon a
time, and the acid, the pungent smell of the leaves...
.
The current, flowing in the coil, passed a Wheatstone
bridge and charged up a capacitor. The charge was the
time integral of the current flowing in the coil and bridge.
Advanced versions of this so-called âIGâ guidance inte-
grated twice, so that the charge gathering on one side
of the capacitor grew directly as the distance the Rocket
had traveled. Before launch, the other side of the cell
had been charged up to a level representing the distance
to a particular point out in space. Brennschluss exactly
here would make the Rocket go on to hit 1000 yards east
of Waterloo Station. At the instant the charge
(Bix)
accumulating in flight equaled the preset charge (Air) on
the other side, the capacitor discharged. A switch closed,
fuel cut off, burning ended. The Rocket was on its own.
That is one meaning of the shape of the tunnels down
here in the Mittelwerke. Another may be the ancient rune
that stands for the yew tree, or Death. The double integral
stood in.Etzel Olschâs subconscious for the method of
finding hidden centers, inertias unknown; as ifâmonoliths
had been left for him in the twilight, left behind by some
corrupted idea of âCivilization,â in which eagles cast in
concrete stand ten meters high at the corners of the sta-
diums where the people, a corrupted idea of âthe Peopleâ
are gathering, in which birds do not fly, in which imagi-
_hary centers far down inside the solid fatality of stone
are thought of not as âheart,â âplexus,â âconsciousness,â
(the voice speaking here grows more ironic, closer to
tears which are not all theatre, as the list goes on
.
. .)
âSanctuary,â âdream of motion,â âcyst of the eternal pres-
ent,â or âGravity's gray eminence among the councils of
the living stone.â. No, as none of these, but instead a
point in space, a point hung precise as the point where
burning must end, never launched, never to fall. And
what is' the specific shape whose center of gravity is the
Brennschluss Point? Donât jump at an infinite number of
possible shapes. Thereâs only one. It is most likely an
interface between one order of things and another. Thereâs
a Brennschluss point for every firing site. They still hang
352
Graviryâs RaInsow
up there, all of them, a constellation waiting to have a
13th sign of the Zodiac named for it .
.
. but they lie so
close to Earth that from many places they canât be seen
at all, and from different places inside the zone where
they can be seen, they fall into completely different pat-
terns....
Double integral is also the shape of lovers curled asleep,
which is where Slothrop wishes he were nowâall the way
back with Katje, even lost as he might feel again, even
more vulnerable than nowâeven (because he still hon-
estly misses her), preserved by accident, in ways he canât
help seeing, accident whose own much colder honesty
each lover has only the other to protect him from...
.
Could he live like that? Would They ever agree to let
him and Katje live like thatP Heâs had nothing to say
to anyone about her. Itâs not the gentlemanly reflex that
made him edit, switch names, insert fantasies into the
yarns he spun for Tantivy back in the ACHTUNG office,
so much as the primitive fear of having a soul captured
by a likeness of image or by a name.
.
.
. He wants to
preserve what he can of her from Their several entropies,
from Their softsoaping and Their money: maybe he thinks
that if he can do it for her he can also do it for himself
.
.
. although thatâs awful close to nobility for Slothrop
and The Penis He Thought Was His Own.
In the sheet-metal ducting that snakes like a spine along
the overhead, plant ventilation moans. Now and then it
sounds like voices. Traffic from somewhere remote. Itâs
not as if they were discussing Slothrop directly, under-
stand. But he wishes he could hear it better. . .
.
b=
Lakes of light, portages of darkness. The concrete fac-
ing of the tunnel has given way to whitewash over chunky
fault-surfaces, phony-looking as the inside of an amuse-
ment-park cave. Entrances to cross-tunnels slip by like
tuned pipes with an airflow at their mouths . . . once upon
a time lathes did screech, playful machinists had shoot-
outs with little brass squirt cans of cutting oil .
. . knuckles
were bloodied against grinding wheels, pores, creases and
quicks were stabbed by the fine splinters of steel . ..
tubeworks of alloy and glass contracted tinkling inâ air â
that felt like the dead of winter, and amber light raced
â
in phalanx among the small neon bulbs. Once, all this
â
did happen. It is hard down here in Mittelwerke to live â
The Uncertainty of the Zone
- Slothrop attempts to protect Katje's identity and soul from external 'entropies' by withholding her name and image from the authorities.
- The Mittelwerke tunnels are described as a haunted, industrial landscape where the past and present blur into a potent, collective nostalgia.
- The physical environment of the factory is decaying, with oxides shrouding metal surfaces and industrial odors lingering in the stagnant air.
- The text explores 'urban fantods,' a specific type of isolation and fear that occurs when traditional history and time-traveling capsules fail.
- In the Zone, the boundary between the living and the dead has dissolved, replaced by a new 'Uncertainty' where people forget their own status.
- The transition to a 'Post-A4 humanity' is marked by a bureaucracy of mass absence and the presence of ghosts that are neither likenesses nor wraiths.
The status of the name you miss, love, and search for now has grown ambiguous and remote, but this is even more than the bureaucracy of mass absenceâsome still live, some have died, but many, many have forgotten which they are.
352
Graviryâs RaInsow
up there, all of them, a constellation waiting to have a
13th sign of the Zodiac named for it .
.
. but they lie so
close to Earth that from many places they canât be seen
at all, and from different places inside the zone where
they can be seen, they fall into completely different pat-
terns....
Double integral is also the shape of lovers curled asleep,
which is where Slothrop wishes he were nowâall the way
back with Katje, even lost as he might feel again, even
more vulnerable than nowâeven (because he still hon-
estly misses her), preserved by accident, in ways he canât
help seeing, accident whose own much colder honesty
each lover has only the other to protect him from...
.
Could he live like that? Would They ever agree to let
him and Katje live like thatP Heâs had nothing to say
to anyone about her. Itâs not the gentlemanly reflex that
made him edit, switch names, insert fantasies into the
yarns he spun for Tantivy back in the ACHTUNG office,
so much as the primitive fear of having a soul captured
by a likeness of image or by a name.
.
.
. He wants to
preserve what he can of her from Their several entropies,
from Their softsoaping and Their money: maybe he thinks
that if he can do it for her he can also do it for himself
.
.
. although thatâs awful close to nobility for Slothrop
and The Penis He Thought Was His Own.
In the sheet-metal ducting that snakes like a spine along
the overhead, plant ventilation moans. Now and then it
sounds like voices. Traffic from somewhere remote. Itâs
not as if they were discussing Slothrop directly, under-
stand. But he wishes he could hear it better. . .
.
b=
Lakes of light, portages of darkness. The concrete fac-
ing of the tunnel has given way to whitewash over chunky
fault-surfaces, phony-looking as the inside of an amuse-
ment-park cave. Entrances to cross-tunnels slip by like
tuned pipes with an airflow at their mouths . . . once upon
a time lathes did screech, playful machinists had shoot-
outs with little brass squirt cans of cutting oil .
. . knuckles
were bloodied against grinding wheels, pores, creases and
quicks were stabbed by the fine splinters of steel . ..
tubeworks of alloy and glass contracted tinkling inâ air â
that felt like the dead of winter, and amber light raced
â
in phalanx among the small neon bulbs. Once, all this
â
did happen. It is hard down here in Mittelwerke to live â
In the Zone
353
âin the present for very long. The nostalgia you feel is
not your own, but itâs potent. All the objects have grown
still, drowned, enfeebled with evening, terminal evening.
Tough skins of oxides, some only a molecule thick, shroud
the metal surfaces, fade out human reflection.
Straw-
colored drive belts of polyvinyl alcohol sag and release
their last traces of industrial odor. Though found adrift
and haunted, full of signs of recent human tenancy, this
is not the legendary ship Marie-Celesteâit isnât bounded
so neatly, these tracks underfoot run away fore and aft
into all stilled Europe, and our flesh doesnât sweat and
pimple here for the domestic mysteries, the attic horror
of What Might Have Happened so much as for our knowl-
edge of what likely did happen ..
. it was always easy,
in open and lonely places, to be visited by Panic wilder-
ness fear, but these are the urban fantods here, that come
to get you when you are lost or isolate inside the way
time is passing, when there is no more History, no time-
traveling capsule to find your way back to, only the late-
ness and the absence that fill a great railway shed after
the capital has been evacuated, and the goat-godâs city
cousins wait for you at the edges of the light, playing
the tunes they always played, but more audible now,
because everything else has gone away or fallen silent...
barn-swallow souls, fashioned of brown twilight, rise to-
ward the white ceilings .
.
. they are unique to the Zone,
they answer to the new Uncertainty. Ghosts used to be
either likenesses of the dead or wraiths of the living. But
here in the Zone categories have been blurred badly. The
status of the name you miss, love, and search for now
has grown ambiguous and remote, but this is even more
than the bureaucracy of mass absenceâsome still live,
some have died, but many, many have forgotten which
they are. Their likenesses will not serve. Down here are
only wrappings left in the light, in the dark: images of
the Uncertainty. ...
Post-A4 humanity is moving, hammering, and shouting
among the tunnels. Slothrop will catch sight of badged
civilians in khaki, helmet liners with cx .stenciled on,
sometimes getting a nod, eyeglasses flashing under a dis-
tant light bulb, most often ignored. Military working par-
ties go at route-step bitching in and out, carrying crates.
Slothrop is hungry and Yellow James is nowhere in sight.
The Underground Rocket Fun House
- Slothrop wanders through the subterranean tunnels of a V-2 rocket factory, experiencing a surreal hallucination of an orgy with lab-coated women.
- The narrative traces the physical layout of the factory, moving backward through the assembly process from tail sections to thrust chambers.
- The industrial environment is depicted as a distorted 'fun house' where metal surfaces warp reflections and insulation resembles snow.
- In the final assembly area, American and Russian soldiers have abandoned hostilities to drink together around a massive beer barrel.
- The soldiers perform 'Rocket Limericks' in a jarring German Storm Trooper style, blending fraternity culture with the grim reality of the weapon's destruction.
Slothrop moseys along looking at his face in them, watching it warp and slide by, just a big underground fun house here folks.
In the Zone
353
âin the present for very long. The nostalgia you feel is
not your own, but itâs potent. All the objects have grown
still, drowned, enfeebled with evening, terminal evening.
Tough skins of oxides, some only a molecule thick, shroud
the metal surfaces, fade out human reflection.
Straw-
colored drive belts of polyvinyl alcohol sag and release
their last traces of industrial odor. Though found adrift
and haunted, full of signs of recent human tenancy, this
is not the legendary ship Marie-Celesteâit isnât bounded
so neatly, these tracks underfoot run away fore and aft
into all stilled Europe, and our flesh doesnât sweat and
pimple here for the domestic mysteries, the attic horror
of What Might Have Happened so much as for our knowl-
edge of what likely did happen ..
. it was always easy,
in open and lonely places, to be visited by Panic wilder-
ness fear, but these are the urban fantods here, that come
to get you when you are lost or isolate inside the way
time is passing, when there is no more History, no time-
traveling capsule to find your way back to, only the late-
ness and the absence that fill a great railway shed after
the capital has been evacuated, and the goat-godâs city
cousins wait for you at the edges of the light, playing
the tunes they always played, but more audible now,
because everything else has gone away or fallen silent...
barn-swallow souls, fashioned of brown twilight, rise to-
ward the white ceilings .
.
. they are unique to the Zone,
they answer to the new Uncertainty. Ghosts used to be
either likenesses of the dead or wraiths of the living. But
here in the Zone categories have been blurred badly. The
status of the name you miss, love, and search for now
has grown ambiguous and remote, but this is even more
than the bureaucracy of mass absenceâsome still live,
some have died, but many, many have forgotten which
they are. Their likenesses will not serve. Down here are
only wrappings left in the light, in the dark: images of
the Uncertainty. ...
Post-A4 humanity is moving, hammering, and shouting
among the tunnels. Slothrop will catch sight of badged
civilians in khaki, helmet liners with cx .stenciled on,
sometimes getting a nod, eyeglasses flashing under a dis-
tant light bulb, most often ignored. Military working par-
ties go at route-step bitching in and out, carrying crates.
Slothrop is hungry and Yellow James is nowhere in sight.
354
Gravity's Rainsow
But there is nobody down here even going to say howdy
to, much less feed, the free lance Ian Scuffling. No, wait,
-
by golly here comes. a delegation of girls in tight pink
lab coats reaching just to the tops of bare thighs, tripping
up the tunnel on stylish gold wedgies âAh, so reizend ist!â
too many to hug at once, âHiibsch, was?â now now ladies
one at a time, they are giggling and reaching to drape
around his neck lush garlands of silvery B nuts and flange
fittings,
scarlet
resistors
and
bright-yellow
capacitors
strung like little sausages, scraps of gasketry, miles of
aluminum shavings as curly-bouncy ânâ bright as Shirley
Templeâs headâhey Hogan ya can keep yer hula girlsâ
and where are they taking him here? into an empty
Stollen, where they all commence a fabulous orgy, which
goes on for days and days, full of poppies, play, singing,
and carrying on.
Moving into Stollen 20 and up, traffic grows heavier.
This was the Aq part of the factory, which the Rocket
shared with V-1 and turboprop assemblies. Out of these
Stollen, the 20s, 30s, and 40s, Rocket components were
fed out crosswise into the two main assembly lines. As
you walk deeper, you retrace the Rocketâs becoming:
superchargers,
center
sections, nose assemblies, power
units, controls, tail sections
.
.
. lotta these tail sections
still around here, stacked alternately fins up/fins down,
row on row identical, dimpled ripply metal surfaces. Slo-
throp moseys along looking at his face in them, watching
it warp and slide by, just a big underground fun house
here folks.
.
.
. Empty dollies with small metal wheels
chain away back down the tunnel: they carry four-bladed
arrowhead shapes that point at the ceilingâoh. Rightâ
the pointed holders mustâve fit inside the expansion noz-
zles of the thrust chambers, sure enough here comes a
bunch of them, big fucking things tall as Slothrop, capital
â
As painted in white near the bumer cups. . .
. Overhead
-
the fat and sinuous white-lagged pipes are lurking, and
~
the steel lamps give no light out of their scorched skullcap
â
_
reflectors
.
.
. down the. tunnelâs centerline run Lally
©
columns, slender, gray, the exposed thr
locked in rust
. of long standing
.
.
. blue shadows wash
through the
spare-parts cages, set on planking and I beams hung from
damp and chimney-sized columns of brick .
.
. glass-
â
In the Zone
355
wool
insulation
lies beside
the
tracks,
heaped
like
âsnow....
Final assembly went on in Stollen 41. The cross-tunnel
is 50 feet deep, to accommodate the finished Rocket.
Sounds of carousing, of voices distinctly unbalanced, come
welling up, reverberating off of the concrete. Personnel
are weaving back up the main tunnel with a glassy and
rubicund. look to their faces. Slothrop squints down into
this long pit, and makes out a crowd of Americans and
Russians gathered around a huge oak beer barrel. A
gnome-size German civilian with a red von Hindenburg
mustache is dispensing steins of what looks to be mostly
head. Ordnance smoke-puffs flicker on nearly every sleeve.
The Americans are singing
Rocker LIMERICKS
There once was a thing called a V-2,
To pilot which you did not need toâ
You just pushed a button,
And it would leave nuttinâ
But stiffs and big holes and debris, too.
The tune is known universally among American fra-
ternity boys. But for some reason it is being sung here
in German Storm Trooper style: notes clipping off sharp
at the end of each line, then a pulse of silence before the
attack on the next line.
[Refrain:] Ja, ja, ja, jal
In Prussia they never eat pussy!
There ainât hardly cats enough,
Thereâs garbage and thatâs enough,
So waltz me around again, Russky!
Drunks are hanging from steel ladders and draped over
catwalks. Beer fumes crawl in the long cavern, among
pieces of olive-drab rocket, some upright, some lying on
their sides.
There was a young fellow named Crockett,
Who had an affair with a rocket.
;
If you saw them out there
Youâd be tempted to stare,
But if you ainât tried it, donât knock it!
Rocket Limericks and Stollen 41
- Slothrop enters the chaotic, beer-soaked atmosphere of Stollen 41, where American and Russian soldiers mingle amidst rocket debris.
- To reach the party floor, Slothrop must descend via a cable hoist operated by a sadistic private who drops him into a terrifying free-fall.
- The American soldiers engage in a rowdy tradition of singing ribald limericks about sexual encounters with V-2 rocket components.
- The Russians present a stark contrast, drinking in silence and appearing confused by the Americans' boisterous behavior.
- Slothrop experiences a moment of disorientation and paranoia, imagining his foot is being held by the mysterious Lyle Bland.
- Despite the danger and the 'miasma of evil' in the cavern, Slothrop is welcomed with a cold shell-case of beer by the revelers.
The cable, brought up taut, sings under Slothropâs hand till he loses his grip on it, falls, and is carried gently upside down and hanging by the foot, in among fun-seekers around the beer keg.
In the Zone
355
wool
insulation
lies beside
the
tracks,
heaped
like
âsnow....
Final assembly went on in Stollen 41. The cross-tunnel
is 50 feet deep, to accommodate the finished Rocket.
Sounds of carousing, of voices distinctly unbalanced, come
welling up, reverberating off of the concrete. Personnel
are weaving back up the main tunnel with a glassy and
rubicund. look to their faces. Slothrop squints down into
this long pit, and makes out a crowd of Americans and
Russians gathered around a huge oak beer barrel. A
gnome-size German civilian with a red von Hindenburg
mustache is dispensing steins of what looks to be mostly
head. Ordnance smoke-puffs flicker on nearly every sleeve.
The Americans are singing
Rocker LIMERICKS
There once was a thing called a V-2,
To pilot which you did not need toâ
You just pushed a button,
And it would leave nuttinâ
But stiffs and big holes and debris, too.
The tune is known universally among American fra-
ternity boys. But for some reason it is being sung here
in German Storm Trooper style: notes clipping off sharp
at the end of each line, then a pulse of silence before the
attack on the next line.
[Refrain:] Ja, ja, ja, jal
In Prussia they never eat pussy!
There ainât hardly cats enough,
Thereâs garbage and thatâs enough,
So waltz me around again, Russky!
Drunks are hanging from steel ladders and draped over
catwalks. Beer fumes crawl in the long cavern, among
pieces of olive-drab rocket, some upright, some lying on
their sides.
There was a young fellow named Crockett,
Who had an affair with a rocket.
;
If you saw them out there
Youâd be tempted to stare,
But if you ainât tried it, donât knock it!
356
Gravirtyâs Ramnsow
Slothrop is hungry and thirsty. Despite the clear and
present miasma of evil in Stollen 41, he starts looking for
some way to go down there and maybe score some of that
lunch. Turns out the only way down is by a cable, hooked
to an overhead hoist. A fat cracker Pfc. lounges at the
controls, sucking on a bottle of wine. âGo ahead, Jackson,
I'll give you a good ride. They taught me how to nm
these in the WPA.â Bracing his mustache in what he
~ figures to be a stiff upper lip, Ian Scuffling climbs on,
one foot through an eye-splice, the other hanging free.
An electric motor whines, Slothrop lets go the last steel
railing and clutches on to the cable as 50 feet of twilit
space appears underneath him. Uh...
Rolling out over Stollen 41, heads milling far below,
beer foam bobbing like torches in the shadowsâsuddenly
the motor cuts off and heâs falling like a rock. Oh fuck,
âToo young!â he screams, voice pitched way too high so
it comes out like a teenager on the radio, which ordinarily
would be embarrassing, but hereâs the concrete floor rush-
ing up at him, he can see every shuttering mark, every
dark crystal of Thuringian sand heâs going to be splashed
overânot even a body nearby to get him off with only
multiple fractures.
.
.
. With about ten feet to go the Pfc.
puts on the brakes. Maniacal laughter from above and
behind. The cable, brought up taut, sings under Slothropâs
hand till he loses his grip on it, falls, and is carried gently
upside down and hanging by the foot, in among fun-
seekers around the beer keg who, used to this form of
arrival by now, only continue their singing:
There was a young fellow named Hector,
Who was fond of a launcher-erector.
But the squishes and pops
Of acute pressure drops
Wrecked Hectorâs hydraulic connector.
Each young American in turn getting to his feet (op-
tional), raising his tankard, and singing about different
ways of Doing It with the A4 or its
related hardware.
Slothrop does not know that they are singing to him,
and neither do they. He eyes the inverted scene with a
certain unease: with his brain appro
the frontiers
of red-out, there comes to him the peculiar notion that
ag
ae
In the Zone
357
itâs Lyle Bland who has hold of his ankle here. So he
is bome stately into the fringes of the party. âHey!â
_ observes a crewcut youth, âi-itâs Tarzan or something! Hal
Halâ Half a dozen Ordnance people, juiced and roaring
happily, grab for Slothrop. After a lot of twisting and
shoving, the foot is freed from its wire loop. The hoist
whines back the way it came, to its prankish operator
and the next fool he can talk into riding it.
There once was a fellow named Moorehead,
Who had an affair with a warhead.
His wife moved away
_.
The very next dayâ
She was always kind of a sorehead.
The Russians are drinking relentlessly and in silence,
shuffling boots, frowning, maybe trying to translate these
limericks. It isnât clear whether the Americans are here
on: Russian sufferance or vice versa. Somebody presses on
Slothrop a shell-case, ice cold, foaming down the sides.
âGee, we weren't expecting the English too. Some party,
huh? Stick aroundâhe'll be along in a minute.â
_ âWhoâs that.â Thousands of these luminous worms are
wriggling all over Slothropâs field of vision, and his foot
is beginning to prickle awake again. Oh, this beer here
is cold, cold and hop-bitter, no point coming up for air,
gulp, till itâs allâhahhhh. His nose comes up drowned
in foam, his mustache white and bubbly too. All at once
comes shouting from the edges of the company. âHere
he is, here he is!â âGive hima beer!â âHi there, Major,
babes, sir!â
There was a technician named Urban,
Who had an affair with a turbine.
âTtâs much nicer,â he said,
âThan a woman in bed,
And itâs sure as hell cheaper than bourbon!â
'
âWhat's happening,â
inquires
Slothrop through: the
head of another beer just materialized in his hand.
âIt's Major Marvy.
This is his going-away party.â
Marvyâs Mothers are all singing âFor Heâs a Jolly Good
Fellow,â now. Which nobody can deny if they know
Major Marvy's Chaotic Send-off
- A rowdy going-away party for Major Marvy is taking place in a subterranean tunnel, fueled by beer and a sense of forced camaraderie.
- Major Marvy, visibly battered from a previous encounter with Slothrop, recognizes him and incites his men to attack.
- Slothrop narrowly escapes the closing crowd by throwing beer and a shell case, fleeing through a tunnel filled with rocket parts and sleeping drunks.
- The pursuit turns into a slapstick disaster when a startled sergeant accidentally shoots a beer barrel, flooding the floor and causing the pursuers to slip.
- Slothrop reaches a paint shop at the end of a ladder, where he literally slides through puddles of paint before encountering a mysterious elderly man in tweed.
- The encounter highlights the surreal and volatile atmosphere of the Zone, where military authority and personal vendettas collide in dark, industrial spaces.
A sergeant with a boyâs face and gray hair, dozing with a grease gun cradled against him, wakes up crying, âKrauts!â lets loose a deafening burst from his weapon straight into the beer barrel.
ag
ae
In the Zone
357
itâs Lyle Bland who has hold of his ankle here. So he
is bome stately into the fringes of the party. âHey!â
_ observes a crewcut youth, âi-itâs Tarzan or something! Hal
Halâ Half a dozen Ordnance people, juiced and roaring
happily, grab for Slothrop. After a lot of twisting and
shoving, the foot is freed from its wire loop. The hoist
whines back the way it came, to its prankish operator
and the next fool he can talk into riding it.
There once was a fellow named Moorehead,
Who had an affair with a warhead.
His wife moved away
_.
The very next dayâ
She was always kind of a sorehead.
The Russians are drinking relentlessly and in silence,
shuffling boots, frowning, maybe trying to translate these
limericks. It isnât clear whether the Americans are here
on: Russian sufferance or vice versa. Somebody presses on
Slothrop a shell-case, ice cold, foaming down the sides.
âGee, we weren't expecting the English too. Some party,
huh? Stick aroundâhe'll be along in a minute.â
_ âWhoâs that.â Thousands of these luminous worms are
wriggling all over Slothropâs field of vision, and his foot
is beginning to prickle awake again. Oh, this beer here
is cold, cold and hop-bitter, no point coming up for air,
gulp, till itâs allâhahhhh. His nose comes up drowned
in foam, his mustache white and bubbly too. All at once
comes shouting from the edges of the company. âHere
he is, here he is!â âGive hima beer!â âHi there, Major,
babes, sir!â
There was a technician named Urban,
Who had an affair with a turbine.
âTtâs much nicer,â he said,
âThan a woman in bed,
And itâs sure as hell cheaper than bourbon!â
'
âWhat's happening,â
inquires
Slothrop through: the
head of another beer just materialized in his hand.
âIt's Major Marvy.
This is his going-away party.â
Marvyâs Mothers are all singing âFor Heâs a Jolly Good
Fellow,â now. Which nobody can deny if they know
358
Gravityâs RAINBOW
whatâs good for them, is the impression one cannot help
receiving. ...
âUh, whereâs he going?â
«â« Away.â
.
âThought he was here to see that GE.â
âSure, who do ya thinkâs pickinâ up the tab fr this?â
Marvy here by subterranean light is even less engaging
than he was in the moonlight on top of that boxcar. The
rolls of fat, bulging eyes and glistening teeth are grayer
here, screened more coarsely. A strip. of adhesive tape
plastered athletically over the bridge of his nose, and a
purple, yellow, and green decoration around one eye
testify to his rapid journey down the railroad embank-
ment the other night. He is shaking hands with his well-
wishers, booming male endearments, paying special atten-
tion to the RussiansââWell, bet you've spiked that with
a little vodka! Hah?â moving on âVlad, fella, howâs yer
ass!â The Russians do not appear to understand, which
leaves them only the fanged smile, the Easter-egg eyes,
to make sense of. Slothrop is just snorting foam out of
his nose when Marvy spots him, and those eyes bug out
in earnest.
âThere he is,â in a great roar, indicating Slothrop with
a trembling finger, âby God the limey sonofabitch go git
him, boys!â Go git him, boys? Slothrop continuing to gaze
a moment here at this finger, illuminated in cute flourishes
and curlicues of cherubic fat.
;
âThere, there, my man,â begins Ian Scuffling, by which
point hostile faces have begun to close in. Hmm.
.
.
. Oh,
thatâs right, escapeâhe sloshes beer at the head nearest,
heaves the empty shell case at another, finds a gap in
the crowd, slithers through and flees, across florid faces
of drunks asleep, vaulting khaki paunches festooned with
splashes of vomit, away down the deep cross-tunnel,
among the pieces of Rocket.
âReveille you hammerheads,â Marvyâs screaming, âdonât
let that âsucker git away!â A sergeant with a boyâs face _
and gray hair, dozing with a grease gun cradled against ©
him, wakes up crying, âKrauts!â lets loose a deafening |
burst from his weapon straight into the beer barrel, which â
destroys the bottom half and sends a great gush of wet
-amber and foam surging among the pursuing Americans, â
=)
Ei
|
Seat
âIn the Zone
359
half of whom promptly slip and go down on their ass.
Slothrop reaches the other end of the Stollen with a good
lead, and goes sprinting up 2 ladder there, taking rungs
|
two at a time. Shotsâ Terrific blasts in this soundbox.
Either Marvyâs Mothers are too drunk, or the darkness is
saving him. He hits the top out of breath.
In the other main tunnel now, Slothrop falls into a jog
down the long mile to the outside, trying not to wonder
if he has the wind to make it. He hasnât gone 200 feet
when the vanguard comes clambering up off of that lad-
der behind him. He dodges into what must be a paint
_ shop, skids on a patch of wet Wehrmacht green, and goes
down, proceeding through big splashes of black, white,
and red before coming to rest against the combat boots
of an elderly man in a tweed suit, with white, water-
buffalo mustaches. âGruss Gott.â
âSay, I think they're trying to kill me back there. Is
there someplaceâââ
The old man winks, motions Slothrop through the
Stollen and on into the other main tunnel.
Slothrop
notices a pair of coveralls streaked with paint, and thinks
to grab them. Past four more Stollen, then a sharp right.
Itâs a metal storage area. âWatch this.â The old man goes
chuckling down the long shop among blue racks of cold-
rolled sheets, heaps of aluminum ingots, sheafs of 3712
bar stock, 1624, 723...
. âThis is going to be good.â
âNot that way, man, thatâs the one theyâre coming
down.â But this oversize elf already has set about hitching
cable from a hoist overhead to a tall bundle of Monel
bars. Slothrop climbs
into those coveralls, combs
his
pompadour down over his forehead, takes out a pocket-
knife and saws off pieces of mustache on both sides.
âYou look like Hitler now. Now they will really want
to kill you!â German humor. He introduces himself as
Glimpf, Professor of Mathematics of the Technische Hoch-
schule, Darmstadt, Scientific Advisor to the Allied Mili-
tary Government, which takes a while. âNowâwe bring
them this way.â
I am in the hands of a raving maniacââWhy not just
â
hide out in here, till they forget it?â But here comes dim
âshouts up-tunnel now: âAll clear in 37 and 38, Chuckie
babes!â âO.K., old hoss, you guys take odds we'll take
The Mittel-werk Express Escape
- Slothrop and the eccentric Professor Glimpf navigate a metal storage area to evade a tunnel-by-tunnel search by American GIs.
- Slothrop adopts a makeshift disguise, cutting his mustache to resemble Hitler, while Glimpf rigs a heavy bundle of Monel bars to collapse and block their pursuers.
- To lure the drunken soldiers into the trap, Slothrop shouts provocative insults at Major Marvy in a mock English accent.
- The duo escapes into total darkness as the lights are cut, eventually stumbling upon a miniature factory tour train.
- Glimpf manages to start the tractor, and they speed through the tunnels on the 'Mittel-werk Express' as confused soldiers watch them pass.
The phantom voices inside it gain confidence from the dark. The bundle of Monel falls with a great crash.
|
Seat
âIn the Zone
359
half of whom promptly slip and go down on their ass.
Slothrop reaches the other end of the Stollen with a good
lead, and goes sprinting up 2 ladder there, taking rungs
|
two at a time. Shotsâ Terrific blasts in this soundbox.
Either Marvyâs Mothers are too drunk, or the darkness is
saving him. He hits the top out of breath.
In the other main tunnel now, Slothrop falls into a jog
down the long mile to the outside, trying not to wonder
if he has the wind to make it. He hasnât gone 200 feet
when the vanguard comes clambering up off of that lad-
der behind him. He dodges into what must be a paint
_ shop, skids on a patch of wet Wehrmacht green, and goes
down, proceeding through big splashes of black, white,
and red before coming to rest against the combat boots
of an elderly man in a tweed suit, with white, water-
buffalo mustaches. âGruss Gott.â
âSay, I think they're trying to kill me back there. Is
there someplaceâââ
The old man winks, motions Slothrop through the
Stollen and on into the other main tunnel.
Slothrop
notices a pair of coveralls streaked with paint, and thinks
to grab them. Past four more Stollen, then a sharp right.
Itâs a metal storage area. âWatch this.â The old man goes
chuckling down the long shop among blue racks of cold-
rolled sheets, heaps of aluminum ingots, sheafs of 3712
bar stock, 1624, 723...
. âThis is going to be good.â
âNot that way, man, thatâs the one theyâre coming
down.â But this oversize elf already has set about hitching
cable from a hoist overhead to a tall bundle of Monel
bars. Slothrop climbs
into those coveralls, combs
his
pompadour down over his forehead, takes out a pocket-
knife and saws off pieces of mustache on both sides.
âYou look like Hitler now. Now they will really want
to kill you!â German humor. He introduces himself as
Glimpf, Professor of Mathematics of the Technische Hoch-
schule, Darmstadt, Scientific Advisor to the Allied Mili-
tary Government, which takes a while. âNowâwe bring
them this way.â
I am in the hands of a raving maniacââWhy not just
â
hide out in here, till they forget it?â But here comes dim
âshouts up-tunnel now: âAll clear in 37 and 38, Chuckie
babes!â âO.K., old hoss, you guys take odds we'll take
360
Gravitryâs Rainsow
evens.â They are not going to forget it, they are making
a tunnel-by-tunnel search instead.
Itâs peacetime, they
canât shoot you in peacetime
.
.
. but theyre drunk...
oh boy. Slothrop is scared shitless.
âWhat do we.do?â
âYou will be the expert in idiomatic English. Say some-
thing provocative.â
Slothrop sticks his head out in the long tunnel and
hollers, in his most English accent, âMajor Marvy sucks!â
âUp this way!â Sounds of galloping GI boots, nailheads
smacking the concrete and a lot of other ominous metal
too going snick...snick...
âNow,â beams mischievous Glimpf, setting the hoist in
motion.
A fresh thought occurs to Slothrop. He puts his head
back out and hollers âMajor Marvy sucks NIGGERS!â
âT think we should hurry,â sez Glimpf.
_.
âAw, I just thought of a good: one about his mother.â
Slack has been disappearing inch by inch from the bight
of cable between the hoist and the bar stock, which
Glimpf has rigged to topple across the doorway, hope-
fully about the time the Americans show up.
Slothrop and Glimpf light out through the opposite exit.
About the time they reach the first curve in the tunnel,
all the lights go out. The ventilation whines on. The
phantom voices inside it gain confidence from the dark.
The bundle of Monel falls with a great crash. Slothrop
touches rock wall, and uses the wall then for guidance
through this absolute blackness. Glimpf is still someplace
in the middle of the tunnel, on the tracks. He is not
breathing hard, but he is chuckling to himself. Behind
are the hollow staggerings of the pursuit, but no light yet.
There is a soft clang and sharp âHimmelâ from the old
professor. Sounds of yelling have grown louder and now
here are the first flashlights, and itâs time to get out of
the bathtubâ
âWhat's: happening? For Christâs sake .
. .â
âCome here.â Glimpf has collided with some kind of
miniature train, just visible now in outlineâit was used
once to show visitors from Berlin around the factory.
They climb aboard the tractor in front, and) Glimpf fiddles
with switches.
f
;
In the Zone
361
_ Well here we go, all aboard, lights mustâve been all that
Marvy cut, sparks are crackling out behind and thereâs
even a little wind now. Good to be rolling.
Ev'ry little Naziâs shootinâ pool or playinâ potsy
On the Mittel-werk Ex-press]
All the funny Fascists: just a-twirlinâ their mustaches
Where we goinâ? Canât you guess?
Headinâ for the country just down the tracks,
Never heard oâ shortages or in-come-tax,
Gonna be good-times, for Minnie and-Max,
On the: Mittel-werk Ex-press!
Glimpf has switched on a headlamp. From side-tunnels
booming by, figures in khaki stare. Whites of eyes give
back the light for an instant before flicking past. A few
people wave. Shouts go dopplering Hey-eyyy-y-y-y like
car horns at the crossings going home at night on the
Boston and Maine.
. ... The Express is rolling at a fair
clip. Damp wind rushes by in a whistle. In the lampâs
backscatter, silhouettes of warhead sections can be made
out, stacked on the two little flatcars the engineâs towing.
Local midgetry scuttle and cringe alongside the tracks,
nearly out of the light. They think of the little train as
their own, and feel hurt whenever the big people come
to commandeer it. Some sit on stacks of crates, dangling
their legs. Some practice handstands in the dark. Their
eyes glow green and red. Some even swing from ropes
secured to the overhead, in mock Kamikaze attacks on
Glimpf and Slothrop, screaming, âBanzai, banzai,â before
vanishing with a giggle. Itâs all in play. Theyâre really
quite an amiableâ
Right behind, loud as megaphones, in massed chorale:
There once was a fellow named Slattery
âOh, shit,â sez Slothrop.
Who was fond of the course-gyro battery.
With that 50-volt shock,
What was left of his cock
Was all slimy and sloppy and spattery.
Ja, ja, ja,-ja,
In Prussia they never eat pussy, u.s.w.
~
The Tunnel Chase
- Slothrop and Glimpf navigate a surreal underground railway while being harassed by 'local midgetry' and a chorus of singing engineers.
- The pursuit intensifies as a group of Americans, led by the boisterous Major Marvy, chases them on a diesel engine.
- A phosphorus flare creates a moment of blinding whiteness, triggering a profound internal realization for Slothrop about his connection to the Rocket.
- The chase reaches a climax as Slothrop uncouples the flatcars, only to find himself hiding behind a potentially live warhead.
- The scene blends slapstick humor and bawdy limericks with a sudden, haunting sense of existential dread and historical momentum.
Slothrop feels a terrible familiarity here, a center he has been skirting, avoiding as long as he can rememberânever has he been as close as now to the true momentum of his time.
f
;
In the Zone
361
_ Well here we go, all aboard, lights mustâve been all that
Marvy cut, sparks are crackling out behind and thereâs
even a little wind now. Good to be rolling.
Ev'ry little Naziâs shootinâ pool or playinâ potsy
On the Mittel-werk Ex-press]
All the funny Fascists: just a-twirlinâ their mustaches
Where we goinâ? Canât you guess?
Headinâ for the country just down the tracks,
Never heard oâ shortages or in-come-tax,
Gonna be good-times, for Minnie and-Max,
On the: Mittel-werk Ex-press!
Glimpf has switched on a headlamp. From side-tunnels
booming by, figures in khaki stare. Whites of eyes give
back the light for an instant before flicking past. A few
people wave. Shouts go dopplering Hey-eyyy-y-y-y like
car horns at the crossings going home at night on the
Boston and Maine.
. ... The Express is rolling at a fair
clip. Damp wind rushes by in a whistle. In the lampâs
backscatter, silhouettes of warhead sections can be made
out, stacked on the two little flatcars the engineâs towing.
Local midgetry scuttle and cringe alongside the tracks,
nearly out of the light. They think of the little train as
their own, and feel hurt whenever the big people come
to commandeer it. Some sit on stacks of crates, dangling
their legs. Some practice handstands in the dark. Their
eyes glow green and red. Some even swing from ropes
secured to the overhead, in mock Kamikaze attacks on
Glimpf and Slothrop, screaming, âBanzai, banzai,â before
vanishing with a giggle. Itâs all in play. Theyâre really
quite an amiableâ
Right behind, loud as megaphones, in massed chorale:
There once was a fellow named Slattery
âOh, shit,â sez Slothrop.
Who was fond of the course-gyro battery.
With that 50-volt shock,
What was left of his cock
Was all slimy and sloppy and spattery.
Ja, ja, ja,-ja,
In Prussia they never eat pussy, u.s.w.
~
362
Gravityâs Rarnsow
âCan you get back and uncouple those cars?â Glimpf
wants to know.
âReckon so.
.
. .â But he seems to fumble at it for
hours, Meantime:
There was a young fellow named Pope,
Who plugged into-an oscilloscope.
The cyclical trace
Of their carnal embrace
Had a damn nearly infinite slope.
âEngineers,â Glimpf mutters. Slothrop gets the cars un-
coupled and the engine speeds up. Wind is tearing at all
Irish pennants,
collarpoints,
cuffs, buckles, and belts.
Back behind them thereâs a tremendous crash and clank,
and a few shouts in the dark.
âThink that stopped âem?â
Right up their ass, in four-part harmony:
There was a young fellow named Yuri,
Fucked the nozzle right up its venturi.
He had woes without cease
From his local police,
And a hell of a time with the jury.
âO.âK., Jocko babes! Got that old phosphorus flare?â
âStand by, good buddy!â
With only that warning, in blinding concussion the Icy
Noctiluca breaks, floods through the white tunnel. For a
minute or two nobody in here can see. There is only the
hurtling on, through amazing perfect whiteness. White-
ness without heat, and blind inertia: Slothrop feels a
terrible familiarity here, a center he has been skirting,
avoiding as long as he can rememberânever has he been
as close as now to the true momentum of his time: faces
and facts that have crowded his indenture to the Rocket,
camouflage and distraction
fall away from the white
moment, the vain and blind tugging at his sleeves itâs
important... please ... look at us .
.
. but itâs already
too late, itâs only wind, only g-loads, and the blood of his
eyes has begun to touch the. whiteness back to ivory, to
brushings of gold and a network of edges to the broken
rock
.
.
. and the hand that lifted him/away sets him
back in the Mittelwerkeâ
co
In the Zone
363
âWhoo-wee! Thereâs âat sucker now!â
Out of the flare, inside easy pistol range, emerges a
lumbering diesel engine, pushing ahead of it the two cars
Slothrop uncoupled,
itself stuffed with bloodshot,
di-
sheveled, bloated Americans, and at an apex, perched lop-
_. sided. on their shoulders, Major Marvy himself, wearing
a-giant white Stetson, and clutching two .45 automatics.
Slothrop ducks down behind a cylindrical object at the
rear of the tractor. Marvy starts shooting, wildly, inspired
by hideous laughter from the others. Slothrop happens to
notice now that what heâs chosen to hide behind, actually,
©
seems to be another warhead. If the Amatol charges are
still. inâsay, Professor, could the shock wave from a .45
bullet at this range succeed in detonating this warhead
here if it struck the casing? e-even if there was no fuze
installed? Well, Tyrone, now that would depend on many
things: muzzle velocity, wall thickness and compositionâ
-Counting at least on a pulled arm muscle and hernia,
_
Slothrop manages to tip and heave the warhead off onto
the track while Marvyâs bullets go whanging and crashing
all over the tunnel. It bounces and comes to rest tilted
against one of the rails. Good.
The flare has begun to die. Shadows are reoccupying
the mouths of. the Stollen. The cars ahead of Marvy hit
the obstacle a solid WHONK! doubling. up in an inverted
Vâdiesel brakes screech in panic yi-i-i-i-ke as the big
engine derails, slews, begins to tip, Americans grabbing
frantically for handholds, each other, empty air. Then
Slothrop and Glimpf are around the last curve of the
integral sign, and there is another huge crash behind
them, screaming that prolongs, echoing, as they see now
the entrance ahead, growing parabola of green mountain-
slopes, and sunlight... .
âDid you have a car when you came?â inquires the
twinkling Glimpf.
peer Slothrop recalls the keys still in that Mercedes.
{
,
2â?
Glimpf eases on the brakes as they coast out under
the parabola into daylight, and roll to a smooth and
_ respectable stop, They flip salutes at the B Company sen-
' tries and proceed to hijack the Mercedes, which is right
Re panere that rail left it.
Escape to the Castle
- Slothrop and Glimpf successfully derail Major Marvy's pursuing train by heaving a warhead onto the tracks.
- The pair escapes the tunnel and hijacks a Mercedes, fleeing north into the Harz Mountains under the threat of American pursuit.
- Slothrop's erratic driving leads to a near-fatal encounter with an American Army truck on a blind mountain curve.
- They arrive at a dilapidated castle that previously served as a decentralized assembly site for V-2 rocket control systems.
- Glimpf expresses professional disdain for his colleague Zwitter's 'Bavarian approach' to electronics.
- The castle is now a ruin filled with thousands of doves, dust, and discarded secret Nazi documents.
Slothrop has the inborn gift of selecting the wrong gear for all occasions, and anyhow heâs jittery, eye in the mirror and out the back of his head aswarm with souped-up personnel carriers and squadrons of howling Thunderbolts.
In the Zone
363
âWhoo-wee! Thereâs âat sucker now!â
Out of the flare, inside easy pistol range, emerges a
lumbering diesel engine, pushing ahead of it the two cars
Slothrop uncoupled,
itself stuffed with bloodshot,
di-
sheveled, bloated Americans, and at an apex, perched lop-
_. sided. on their shoulders, Major Marvy himself, wearing
a-giant white Stetson, and clutching two .45 automatics.
Slothrop ducks down behind a cylindrical object at the
rear of the tractor. Marvy starts shooting, wildly, inspired
by hideous laughter from the others. Slothrop happens to
notice now that what heâs chosen to hide behind, actually,
©
seems to be another warhead. If the Amatol charges are
still. inâsay, Professor, could the shock wave from a .45
bullet at this range succeed in detonating this warhead
here if it struck the casing? e-even if there was no fuze
installed? Well, Tyrone, now that would depend on many
things: muzzle velocity, wall thickness and compositionâ
-Counting at least on a pulled arm muscle and hernia,
_
Slothrop manages to tip and heave the warhead off onto
the track while Marvyâs bullets go whanging and crashing
all over the tunnel. It bounces and comes to rest tilted
against one of the rails. Good.
The flare has begun to die. Shadows are reoccupying
the mouths of. the Stollen. The cars ahead of Marvy hit
the obstacle a solid WHONK! doubling. up in an inverted
Vâdiesel brakes screech in panic yi-i-i-i-ke as the big
engine derails, slews, begins to tip, Americans grabbing
frantically for handholds, each other, empty air. Then
Slothrop and Glimpf are around the last curve of the
integral sign, and there is another huge crash behind
them, screaming that prolongs, echoing, as they see now
the entrance ahead, growing parabola of green mountain-
slopes, and sunlight... .
âDid you have a car when you came?â inquires the
twinkling Glimpf.
peer Slothrop recalls the keys still in that Mercedes.
{
,
2â?
Glimpf eases on the brakes as they coast out under
the parabola into daylight, and roll to a smooth and
_ respectable stop, They flip salutes at the B Company sen-
' tries and proceed to hijack the Mercedes, which is right
Re panere that rail left it.
364
Graviryâs RAInBow
Out on the road, Glimpf gestures them north, watching
Slothropâs driving with a leery eye. They wind snarling
up into the Harz, in and out of mountain shadows, pine
and fir odors enveloping them, screeching around curves
and sometimes nearly off of the road. Slothrop has the
inborn gift of selecting the wrong gear for all occasions,
and anyhow heâs jittery, eye in the mirror and out the
âback of his head aswarm with souped-up personnel car-
riers and squadrons of howling Thunderbolts. Coming
around a blind corner, using the whole width of the pave-
ment to make itâa sharp road-racing trick heâ happens
to knowâthey nearly buy it from a descending American
Army deuce-and-a-half, the words fucking idiot cleariy
visible on the mouth of the driver as they barely scoot
past, heartbeats slamming low in their throats, mud from
the truckâs rear tires slapping over them in a great wing
that shakes the rig and blots out half the windshield.
The sun is well past its zenith when they pull up,
finally, below a forested dome with a small dilapidated
castle on top, hundreds of doves, white teardrops, drip-
ping from its battlements. The green breath of the woods
has sharpened, grown colder.
They climb a switchbacking path strewn with rocks,
among dark firs toward the castle in the sunlight, jagged
and brown above as a chunk of bread left out for all its
generations of birds.
âThis is where you're staying?â
âI used to work here. I think Zwitter might still be
around,â There wasnât enough room in the Mittelwerke
for many of the smaller assembly jobs. Control systems
mainly. So they were put together in beerhalls, shops,
schools, castles, farmhouses all around Nordhausen here,
any indoor lab space the guidance people could find.
Glimpfâs colleague Zwitter is from the T.H. in Munich.
âThe usual Bavarian approach to electronics.â Glimpf be-
gins to frown.
âHeâs bearable, I suppose.â Whatever
mysterious injustices spring from a eet) approad to
electronics now remove Glimpfâs twinkle, and keep him
occupied in surly introspection tthe rest of "ithe way up.
â
Mass liquid cooing, damped in white fiuff, greets them
as they slip in a side entrance to the castle. Floors are
dirty and littered with bottles and scraps of papers. Some
of the papers are stamped with the magenta GEHEIME
In the Zone
365
| KOMMANDOSACHE. Birds fly in and out of broken windows.
'
Thin beams of light come in from chinks and erosions.
Dust motes, fanned by the dovesâ wings, never stop bil-
lowing here. Walls are hung with dim portraits of nobles
in big white Frederick the Great hairdos, ladies with
\ smooth faces and oval eyes in low-necked dresses whose
yards of silk spill out into the dust and wingbeats of the
dark rooms. There is dove shit all over the place.
_ By contrast, Zwitterâs laboratory uptsairs is brightly lit,
well-ordered, crammed with blown glass, work tables,
lights of many colors, speckled boxes, green foldersâa
mad Nazi scientist lab! Plasticman, where are you?
Thereâs only Zwitter: stocky, dark hair parted down the
middle, eyeglass lenses thick as the windows of a bathy-
sphere, the fluorescent hydras, eels, and rays of control
equations swimming seas behind them...
.
But when they see Slothrop, there is immediate clear-
ing there, and glazed barriers come down. Hmm, T.S.,
whatâs this? Who are these people? Whatâs happened to
the apples in old Glimpfâs cheeks? What's a Nazi guidance
expert doing this side of the fence at Garmisch, with his
lab intact?
OH ...thuâs...
Nazis in the woodwork,
Fascists in the walls,
Little Japs with bucktooth grins
A-gonna grab yew bah thâ balls.
Whin this war is over,
How happy Ah will be,
Gearinâ up fer thim Rooskies
And Go-round Number Three... «
O
In the days when the white engineers were disputing the at-
tributes of the feeder system that was to be, one of them came
to Enzian of BleicherĂ©de and said, âWe cannot agree on the
chamber pressure. Our calculations show that a working pres-
_ sure of 40 atii would be the most desirable. But all the data we
know of are grouped around a value of only some 10 atii.â
âThen clearly,â replied the Nguarorerue, âyou must listen to
the data.â
:
âBut that would not be the most perfect or efficient value,â
protested the German.
The Lab and the Schwarzkommando
- Slothrop encounters Zwitter, a Nazi guidance expert whose laboratory remains suspiciously intact and operational despite the war's end.
- A satirical song highlights the cynical transition from fighting the Axis powers to preparing for a third world war against the Russians.
- A parable from the 'Tales of the Schwarzkommando' contrasts German engineering perfectionism with a Herero leader's spiritual reverence for empirical data.
- The Schwarzkommando are revealed as Zone-Hereros, descendants of Africans brought to Germany as specimens, servants, or part of a Nazi colonial shadow-state scheme.
- Living in abandoned mine shafts, these exiles call their communities 'Erdschweinhohle' (Aardvark Hole), a bitter reference to the totem of the poorest Herero outcasts.
How do you presume to compare a number you have only derived on paper with a number that is the Rocketâs own?
In the Zone
365
| KOMMANDOSACHE. Birds fly in and out of broken windows.
'
Thin beams of light come in from chinks and erosions.
Dust motes, fanned by the dovesâ wings, never stop bil-
lowing here. Walls are hung with dim portraits of nobles
in big white Frederick the Great hairdos, ladies with
\ smooth faces and oval eyes in low-necked dresses whose
yards of silk spill out into the dust and wingbeats of the
dark rooms. There is dove shit all over the place.
_ By contrast, Zwitterâs laboratory uptsairs is brightly lit,
well-ordered, crammed with blown glass, work tables,
lights of many colors, speckled boxes, green foldersâa
mad Nazi scientist lab! Plasticman, where are you?
Thereâs only Zwitter: stocky, dark hair parted down the
middle, eyeglass lenses thick as the windows of a bathy-
sphere, the fluorescent hydras, eels, and rays of control
equations swimming seas behind them...
.
But when they see Slothrop, there is immediate clear-
ing there, and glazed barriers come down. Hmm, T.S.,
whatâs this? Who are these people? Whatâs happened to
the apples in old Glimpfâs cheeks? What's a Nazi guidance
expert doing this side of the fence at Garmisch, with his
lab intact?
OH ...thuâs...
Nazis in the woodwork,
Fascists in the walls,
Little Japs with bucktooth grins
A-gonna grab yew bah thâ balls.
Whin this war is over,
How happy Ah will be,
Gearinâ up fer thim Rooskies
And Go-round Number Three... «
O
In the days when the white engineers were disputing the at-
tributes of the feeder system that was to be, one of them came
to Enzian of BleicherĂ©de and said, âWe cannot agree on the
chamber pressure. Our calculations show that a working pres-
_ sure of 40 atii would be the most desirable. But all the data we
know of are grouped around a value of only some 10 atii.â
âThen clearly,â replied the Nguarorerue, âyou must listen to
the data.â
:
âBut that would not be the most perfect or efficient value,â
protested the German.
366
Gravity's Rainsow
âProud man,â said the Nguarorerue. âWhat are these data, if
not direct revelation? Where have they come from, if not from
the Rocket which is to be? How do you presume to compare a
number you have only derived on paper with a number that is
the Rocketâs own? Avoid pride, and design to some compromise
value.â
âfrom Tales of the Schwarzkommando,
collected by Steve Edelman
In the mountains around Nordhausen and Bleicheréde,
down in abandoned mine shafts, live the Schwarzkom-
mando, These days itâs no longer a military title: they
are a people now, Zone-Hereros, in exile for two genera-
tions from South-West Africa. Early Rhenish missionaries
began to bring them back to the Metropolis, that great
dull zoo, as specimens of a possibly doomed race. They
were gently experimented with: exposed to cathedrals,
Wagnerian soirées, Jaeger underwear, trying to get them
interested in their souls. Others were taken back to Ger-
many as servants, by soldiers who went to put down the
great Herero rising of 1904-1906. But only after 1933
did most of the present-day leadership arrive, as part
of a schemeânever openly admitted by the Nazi partyâ
for setting up black juntas, shadow-states for the eventual
takeover of British and French colonies in black Africa,
on the model of Germanyâs plan for the Maghreb. Siid-
west by then was
a protectorate administered by the
Union of South Africa, but the real power was still with
the old German colonial families, and they cooperated.
-There are several underground communities now near
Nordhausen/Bleicheréde. Around here they are known
collectively as the Erdschweinhohle. This is a Herero joke,
a bitter one. Among the Ovatjimba, the poorest of the
Hereros, with no cattle or villages of their own, the totem
animal was the Erdschwein or aardvark. They took their
name from him, never ate his flesh, dug their food from
the earth, just as he does. Considered outcasts, they lived
on the veld, in the open. You were likely to come across
them at night, their fires flaring bravely against the wind,
out of rifle range from the iron tracks:
there seemed no
other force than that to give them locus out in that
emptiness. You knew what they fearedâânot what they
wanted, or what moved them. And you had business up-
The Revolutionaries of Zero
- A woman undergoes a ritual burial in an aardvark hole, seeking a connection to Earth's genesis and the ghosts of her stillborn children.
- The Schwarzkommando, a group of Hereros in the Zone, are divided by a silent political struggle between forces of life and sterility.
- Enzian, the 'Half-breed' leader, oversees a people whose tribal identities and bloodlines have been fractured by European influence and displacement.
- A faction known as the Empty Ones (Otukungurua) has embraced a program of racial suicide, seeking to complete the extermination begun by German colonists.
- The group identifies as inanimate or 'rising' rather than human, viewing a negative birth rate as a revolutionary act against their former masters.
The woman feels power flood in through every gate: a river between her thighs, light leaping at the ends of fingers and toes.
In the Zone
A
367
country, at the mines:
so, presently, as the sputtering
lights slipped behind, âso did all further need to think of
them. ...
But as you swung away, who was the woman alone in
the earth, planted up to her shoulders in the aardvark
.
hole, a gazing head rooted to the desert plane, with an
upsweep of mountains far behind her, darkly folded, far
away in the evening? She can feel the incredible pressure,
miles of horizontal sand and clay, against her belly. Down
the trail wait the luminous ghosts of her four stillborn
children, fat worms lying with no chances of comfort
among the wild onions, one by one, crying for milk more
sacred than what is tasted and blessed in the village
calabashes. In preterite line they have pointed her here,
to be in touch with Earthâs gift for genesis. The woman
feels power flood in through every gate: a river between
her thighs, light leaping at the ends of fingers and toes.
It is sure and nourishing as sleep. It is a warmth. The
more the daylight fades, the further she submitsâto the
dark, to the descent of water from the air. She is a seed
in the Earth. The holy aardvark has dug her bed.
Back in Siidwest, the Erdschweinhéhle was a powerful
symbol of fertility and life. But here in the Zone, its real
status is not so clear.
Inside the Schwarzkommando there are forces, at pres-
ent, who have opted for sterility and death. The struggle
is mostly in silence, in the night, in the nauseas and
crampings of pregnancies or miscarriages. But it is politi-
cal struggle. No one is more troubled with it than Enzian.
He is Nguarorerue here. The word doesnât mean âleaderâ
exactly, but âone who has been proven.â
Enzian is also known, though not to his face, as: Otyi-
kondo, the Half-breed. His father was a European. Not
-that it makes him unique among the Erdschweinhdhlers
here: thereâs German, Slavic and Gypsy blood mixed in
by now too. Over the couple of generations, moved by
accelerations unknown in the days before the Empire,
_ they have been growing an identity that few can see as
ever taking final shape. The Rocket will have a final
shape, but not its people. Eanda and oruzo have lost
âtheir force out hereâthe bloodlines of mother and father
were left behind, in Siidwest. Many of the early emigrants
368
GRAVITYâS Rubee
had even gone over to the faith of the Rhenish Mission-
ary Society long before they left. In each village, as noon
flared the shadows in tightly to their owners, in that
moment of terror and refuge, the omuhona took from his
sacred bag, soul âafter converted soul, the leather cord
kept there since the individualâs birth, and untied the
birth-knot. Untied, it was another soul dead to the tribe.
. So today, in the Erdschweinhéhle, the Empty Ones each
carry one knotless strip of leather: it is a bit of the old
symbolism they have found useful.
They call themselves Otukungurua.
Yes, old: Africa
hands, it ought to be âOmakungurua,â but they are always
carefulâperhaps âitâs less healthy than careâto point out
that oma- applies only to the living and human. Otu-
is for the inanimate and the rising, and this is how they
imagine themselves.
Revolutionaries of the Zero, they
mean to carry on what began among the old Hereros after
the 1904 rebellion failed. _They want a negative birth
rate. The program is racial suicide. They would finish the
extermination the Germans began in 1904. »
A generation
earlier, the declining number of live
Herero births was a topic of medical interest throughout
southern Africa. The whites. looked on as, anxiously,
as
they would have at an outbreak of rinderpest among the
cattle. How provoking, to watch oneâs subject population
dwindling like this, year after year. Whatâs a colony with-
out its dusky natives? Whereâs the fun if they're all going â
to die off? Just a big hunk of desert, no more maids, no
field-hands, no laborers for the construction or the min-
ingâwait, wait a minute there, yes itâs: Karl Marx, that
sly old racist skipping away with his teeth together and
his eyebrows up trying to make believe itâs nothing but
Cheap Labor and Overseas Markets. . .. Oh, no. Colonies
are much, much more. Colonies
are the outhouses of the
European soul, where a fellow can let his pants down
and relax, enjoy the smell of his own shit, Where he can â
fall on his slender prey roaring as loud. as he feels like,
-and guzzle her blood with open joy. Eh? Where
he can
just wallow and rut and let himself go in a softness, a
receptive darkness of limbs, of hair as â as the hair
on his own forbidden genitals. Where the: poppy, and
cannabis and coca grow full and green, and not to the |
Colonies and the European Soul
- The author characterizes colonies as the 'outhouses of the European soul,' where the repression of Christian Europe is discarded in favor of unbridled sensuality and violence.
- White colonizers interpret the declining Herero birth rate through pseudo-scientific medical theories while sensing a deeper, 'sinister' tribal decision to commit collective suicide.
- The Herero people face a choice between 'tribal death,' which maintains their own meaning, and 'Christian death,' which serves the European colonial machine.
- The 'Empty Ones' are a faction of Europeanized Hereros who have embraced the glamour of racial extinction, advocating for sterilization and non-reproductive pleasure.
- The history and survival of the Zone-Hereros is being contested through seduction and pornography rather than overt political struggle.
- The Rocket acts as a centralizing force in the Zone, drawing together disparate political and social opposites into its technological destiny.
Colonies are the outhouses of the European soul, where a fellow can let his pants down and relax, enjoy the smell of his own shit, Where he can â fall on his slender prey roaring as loud as he feels like, and guzzle her blood with open joy.
368
GRAVITYâS Rubee
had even gone over to the faith of the Rhenish Mission-
ary Society long before they left. In each village, as noon
flared the shadows in tightly to their owners, in that
moment of terror and refuge, the omuhona took from his
sacred bag, soul âafter converted soul, the leather cord
kept there since the individualâs birth, and untied the
birth-knot. Untied, it was another soul dead to the tribe.
. So today, in the Erdschweinhéhle, the Empty Ones each
carry one knotless strip of leather: it is a bit of the old
symbolism they have found useful.
They call themselves Otukungurua.
Yes, old: Africa
hands, it ought to be âOmakungurua,â but they are always
carefulâperhaps âitâs less healthy than careâto point out
that oma- applies only to the living and human. Otu-
is for the inanimate and the rising, and this is how they
imagine themselves.
Revolutionaries of the Zero, they
mean to carry on what began among the old Hereros after
the 1904 rebellion failed. _They want a negative birth
rate. The program is racial suicide. They would finish the
extermination the Germans began in 1904. »
A generation
earlier, the declining number of live
Herero births was a topic of medical interest throughout
southern Africa. The whites. looked on as, anxiously,
as
they would have at an outbreak of rinderpest among the
cattle. How provoking, to watch oneâs subject population
dwindling like this, year after year. Whatâs a colony with-
out its dusky natives? Whereâs the fun if they're all going â
to die off? Just a big hunk of desert, no more maids, no
field-hands, no laborers for the construction or the min-
ingâwait, wait a minute there, yes itâs: Karl Marx, that
sly old racist skipping away with his teeth together and
his eyebrows up trying to make believe itâs nothing but
Cheap Labor and Overseas Markets. . .. Oh, no. Colonies
are much, much more. Colonies
are the outhouses of the
European soul, where a fellow can let his pants down
and relax, enjoy the smell of his own shit, Where he can â
fall on his slender prey roaring as loud. as he feels like,
-and guzzle her blood with open joy. Eh? Where
he can
just wallow and rut and let himself go in a softness, a
receptive darkness of limbs, of hair as â as the hair
on his own forbidden genitals. Where the: poppy, and
cannabis and coca grow full and green, and not to the |
In the Zone
â
369
â
colors and style of death, as do ergot and agaric, the
blight and fungus native to Europe. Christian Europe was
always death, Karl, death and repression. Out and down
in the colonies, life can be indulged, life and sensuality
in all its forms, with no harm done to the Metropolis,
nothing to soil those cathedrals, white marble statues,
noble thoughts. ... No word ever gets back. The silences
down here are vast enough to absorb all behavior, no
matter how dirty, how animal it gets... .
Some of the more rational men of medicine attributed
the Herero birth decline to a deficiency of Vitamin E in
the dietâothers to poor chances of fertilization given the
âpeculiarly long and narrow uterus of the Herero female.
But underneath all this reasonable talk, this scientific
speculating, no white Afrikaner could. quite put down
the way it felt...
. Something sinister was moving out
in the veld: he was beginning to look at their faces,
_
especially those of the women, lined beyond the thorn
fences, and he knew beyond logical proof: there was a
tribal mind at work out here, and it had chosen to commit
suicide.
.
.
. Puzzling. Perhaps we weren't as fair as we
might have been, perhaps we did take their cattle and
their lands away
.
. and then the work-camps of course,
the barbed wire and the stockades.
.
. Perhaps they feel
it is a world they no longer want to live in. Typical of
them, though, giving up, crawling away to die... why
won't they even negotiate? We could work out a solution,
some solution. ...
It was a simple choice for the Hereros, bétween two
kinds of death: tribal death, or Christian death. Tribal
death made sense. Christian death made none at all. It
seemed an exercise they did not need. But to the Euro-
peans, conned by their own Baby Jesus Con Game, what
âthey were witnessing among these Hereros was a mystery
potent as that of the elephant graveyard, or the lemmings
tushing into the sea.
Though they donât admit it, the Empty Ones now
exiled in the Zone, Europeanized in language and thought,
split off from the old tribal unity, have found the why
_ of it just as mysterious. But theyâve seized it, as a sick
woman will seize a charm. They calculate no cycles, no
* _.returns, they are in love _ the glamour of a whole
370
Gravity's RaInBow
peopleâs suicideâthe pose, the stoicism, and the. bravery.
These Otukungurua are prophets of masturbating, spe-
cialists in abortion and sterilization, pitchmen for acts oral
and anal, pedal and digital, sodomistical and zoophiliacâ
their approach and their game is pleasure: they are spiel-
ing earnestly and well, and Erdschweinhohlers are lis-
tening.
The Empty Ones can guarantee a day when the last
Zone-Herero will die, a final zero to a collective history
fully lived. It has appeal.
There is no outright struggle for power. It is all seduc-
tion and counterseduction, advertising and pornography,
and the history of the Zone-Hereros is being decided in
bed.
Vectors in the night underground, all trying to flee a
center, a force, which appears to be the Rocket: some
immachination, whether of journey or of destiny, which
is able to gather violent political opposites together in
the Erdschweinhéhle as it gathers fuel and oxidizer in
its thrust chamber: metered, helmsmanlike, for the sake
of its scheduled parabola.
Enzian sits this evening under his mountain, behind
him another day of schemes, expediting, newly invented
paperworkâforms he manages to destroy or fold, Japa-
nese style, before the dayâs end, into gazelles, orchids,
hunter-hawks. As the Rocket grows toward its working
shape and fullness, so does he evolve, himself, into a new
_ configuration. He feels it. Itâs something else to worry
about. Late last night, among the blueprints, Christian
and Mieczislav looked up, abruptly smiled, and fell silent.
A transparent reverence. They study the drawings as if
_ they were his own, and revelations. This is not flattering
to him.
What Enzian. wants to create will have no history. It
will never need a design change. Time, as time is known:
to the other nations, will wither away inside this new
one. The Erdschweinhihle will not be bound, like the
Rocket, to time. The people will find the Center again,
the Center without time, the journey without hysteresis,
where every departure is a return to the ats place, the
only place. .
He has thus himself found a strange ârapprochement
The Eternal Center and Suicide
- Enzian oversees the construction of the Rocket while evolving into a new, unsettling configuration that inspires reverence in his subordinates.
- He envisions a creation that transcends history and time, seeking a 'Center' where every departure is a return to the same place.
- A strange rapprochement forms between Enzian and Josef Ombindi of the Empty Ones, linked by their mutual movement toward stillness.
- Ombindi describes suicide as the ultimate erotic act, claiming it encompasses all sexual deviations in a single, non-repeatable moment.
- Enzian remains uncertain whether Ombindi is engaging in idle talk or actively attempting to 'hustle' him into self-destruction.
- The section concludes with a dark, satirical song lyric that frames suicide as a consumer preference over mundane cultural annoyances.
The Eternal Center can easily be seen as the Final Zero.
370
Gravity's RaInBow
peopleâs suicideâthe pose, the stoicism, and the. bravery.
These Otukungurua are prophets of masturbating, spe-
cialists in abortion and sterilization, pitchmen for acts oral
and anal, pedal and digital, sodomistical and zoophiliacâ
their approach and their game is pleasure: they are spiel-
ing earnestly and well, and Erdschweinhohlers are lis-
tening.
The Empty Ones can guarantee a day when the last
Zone-Herero will die, a final zero to a collective history
fully lived. It has appeal.
There is no outright struggle for power. It is all seduc-
tion and counterseduction, advertising and pornography,
and the history of the Zone-Hereros is being decided in
bed.
Vectors in the night underground, all trying to flee a
center, a force, which appears to be the Rocket: some
immachination, whether of journey or of destiny, which
is able to gather violent political opposites together in
the Erdschweinhéhle as it gathers fuel and oxidizer in
its thrust chamber: metered, helmsmanlike, for the sake
of its scheduled parabola.
Enzian sits this evening under his mountain, behind
him another day of schemes, expediting, newly invented
paperworkâforms he manages to destroy or fold, Japa-
nese style, before the dayâs end, into gazelles, orchids,
hunter-hawks. As the Rocket grows toward its working
shape and fullness, so does he evolve, himself, into a new
_ configuration. He feels it. Itâs something else to worry
about. Late last night, among the blueprints, Christian
and Mieczislav looked up, abruptly smiled, and fell silent.
A transparent reverence. They study the drawings as if
_ they were his own, and revelations. This is not flattering
to him.
What Enzian. wants to create will have no history. It
will never need a design change. Time, as time is known:
to the other nations, will wither away inside this new
one. The Erdschweinhihle will not be bound, like the
Rocket, to time. The people will find the Center again,
the Center without time, the journey without hysteresis,
where every departure is a return to the ats place, the
only place. .
He has thus himself found a strange ârapprochement
In the Zone
371
rs with the Empty Ones: in particular with Josef Ombindi
of Hannover. The Eternal Center can easily be seen as
the Final Zero. Names and methods vary, but the move-
-ment toward stillness is the same. It has led to strange
passages between the two men. âYou know,â Ombindiâs
eyes rolled the other way, looking up at a mirror-image
of Enzian that only he can see, âthereâs
.
.
. well, some-
thing you ordinarily wouldnât think of as eroticâbut itâs
really the most erotic thing there is.â
âReally,â grins Enzian, flirting. âI canât think of what
_ that would be. Give me a clue.â
âItâs a non-repeatable act.â
âFiring a rocket?â
âNo, because thereâs always another rocket. But thereâs
nothingâwell, never mind.â
âHa! Nothing to follow it with, thatâs what you were
going to say.â
âSuppose I give you another clue.â
âAll right.â But. Enzian has already guessed: itâs there
in the way he holds his jaw and is just about to laugh... .
âIt embraces all the Deviations in one single act.â
Enzian sighs, irritated, but does not call him on this use
of âDeviations.â Bringing up the past is part of Ombindiâs
game. âHomosexuality, for example.â No rise. âSadism and
masochism. -Onanism? Necrophilia.
.
. .â
âAll those in the same act?â
All those, and more. Both know by now that whatâs
under discussion is the act of suicide, which also includes
bestiality (âThink how sweet,â runs the pitch, âto show
mercy, sexual mercy to that hurt and crying animalâ),
pedophilia (âIt is widely reported that just at the edge
you grow glaringly youngerâ), lesbianism (âYes, for as the
wind blows through all the emptying compartments the
two shadow-women at last can creep out of their cham-
bers in the dying shell, at the last ashen shoreline, to
meet and embrace .. .â), coprophilia and urolagnia (âThe
final convulsions
.
. .â), fetishism (âA wide choice of
- death-fetishes, naturally
.
. .â). Naturally. The two of
Bu
them sit there, passing a cigarette back and forth, till
its smoked down to a very small stub. Is it idle talk, or
is Ombindi really trying to hustle Enzian here? Enzianâs
$4 3
âgot to be sure before he moves. If he comes out sez,
372
Gravity's RAINBOW
âThis is a hustle, right?â and turns out it isnât, wellâ But
the alternative is so strange, that Enzian is, in some way,
being
SoLD ON SUICIDE
Well I donât care-for, thâ things I eat,
Canât stand that boogie-woogie beatâ
But Iâm sold, on, suicide!
You can keep Der Bingle too, a-
And that darn âbu-bu-bu-boo,â
Cause Iâm sold on suicidel
Oh! I'm not too keen on ration stamps,
Or Mothers who used to be baby vamps,
But Iâm sold, on, suicidel
Donât like either, the Cards or Browns,
Piss on the country and piss on the town,
But Iâm S.O.S., yes well actually this goes on, |
verse after verse, for quite some time. In its complete
version
it represents
a pretty fair renunciation of, the
things of the world. The trouble with it is that by GĂ©delâs
Theorem there is bound to be some item around that one
has omitted from the list, and such an item is not easy |
to think of off the top of oneâs head, so that what one
does most likely is go back over the whole thing, mean-
time correcting mistakes and inevitable repetitions, and |
putting in new items that will surely have occurred to |
one, andâwell, itâs easy to see that the âsuicideâ of the
title might have to be postponed indefinitely]
Conversations between Ombindi and Enzian these days.
are thus a series of commercial messages, with Enzian
not so much mark as unwilling shill, standing in for the
rest of the tip, who may be listening and maybe not.
âAhh, do I see your cock growing, Nguarorerue?P ea.
no, no, perhaps you are only thinking of someone you
loved, somewhere, long ago
.
.
. back in Siidwest, eh?â
To allow the tribal past to disperse, all) memories ought
to be public record, thereâs no point in preserving history
with that Final Zero to look forward to. .
.
. Cynically, |
The Postponed Suicide and Tribal Myth
- The narrator reflects on a 'suicide' poem that is indefinitely postponed because Gödelâs Theorem suggests an infinite list of worldly renunciations.
- Ombindi and Enzian engage in a power struggle of rhetoric, where Ombindi preaches a return to a pre-Christian tribal unity he never actually experienced.
- Ombindiâs vision of a 'Pre-Christian Oneness' is compared to a plastic grail, mixing genuine spiritual longing with cynical, commercialized performance.
- The text explores mystical geography, linking Tibet and Switzerland as spiritual meridians and mourning the lost continental unity of Gondwanaland.
- Enzian feels reduced to a mere name or sound for chanting, hoping his identity still holds enough magic to break the 'traps' of Christian and sexual fetishes.
- The community remains caught between Ombindiâs nostalgic prophecies and the cold, unconsecrated reality of their current existence in the Zone.
The trouble with it is that by Gödelâs Theorem there is bound to be some item around that one has omitted from the list, and such an item is not easy to think of off the top of oneâs head, so that what one does most likely is go back over the whole thing.
372
Gravity's RAINBOW
âThis is a hustle, right?â and turns out it isnât, wellâ But
the alternative is so strange, that Enzian is, in some way,
being
SoLD ON SUICIDE
Well I donât care-for, thâ things I eat,
Canât stand that boogie-woogie beatâ
But Iâm sold, on, suicide!
You can keep Der Bingle too, a-
And that darn âbu-bu-bu-boo,â
Cause Iâm sold on suicidel
Oh! I'm not too keen on ration stamps,
Or Mothers who used to be baby vamps,
But Iâm sold, on, suicidel
Donât like either, the Cards or Browns,
Piss on the country and piss on the town,
But Iâm S.O.S., yes well actually this goes on, |
verse after verse, for quite some time. In its complete
version
it represents
a pretty fair renunciation of, the
things of the world. The trouble with it is that by GĂ©delâs
Theorem there is bound to be some item around that one
has omitted from the list, and such an item is not easy |
to think of off the top of oneâs head, so that what one
does most likely is go back over the whole thing, mean-
time correcting mistakes and inevitable repetitions, and |
putting in new items that will surely have occurred to |
one, andâwell, itâs easy to see that the âsuicideâ of the
title might have to be postponed indefinitely]
Conversations between Ombindi and Enzian these days.
are thus a series of commercial messages, with Enzian
not so much mark as unwilling shill, standing in for the
rest of the tip, who may be listening and maybe not.
âAhh, do I see your cock growing, Nguarorerue?P ea.
no, no, perhaps you are only thinking of someone you
loved, somewhere, long ago
.
.
. back in Siidwest, eh?â
To allow the tribal past to disperse, all) memories ought
to be public record, thereâs no point in preserving history
with that Final Zero to look forward to. .
.
. Cynically, |
RO
ae
Ae
ay
In the Zone
373
_ though, Ombindi has preached this in the name of the
old Tribal Unity, and itâs a weakness in his pitch all
rightâit looks bad, looks like Ombindiâs trying to make
believe the Christian sickness never touched us, when
everyone knows it has infected us all, some to death. Yes
âit is a little bit jive of Ombindi here to look back toward
an innocence heâs really only heard about, canât himself
believe inâthe gathered purity of opposites, the village
_
built like a mandala: ..
. Still he will profess and proclaim
_
it, as an image of a grail slipping through the room,
_
radiant, though the jokers around the table be sneaking
' Whoopee Cushions into the Siege Perilous, under the very
descending arse of the grailseeker, and though the grails
themselves come in plastic these years, a dime a dozen,
â penny a gross, still Ombindi, at times self-conned as any
Christian, praises and prophesies that era of innocence he
just missed living in, one of -the last pockets of Pre-
Christian Oneness left on the planet: âTibet is a special
case. Tibet was deliberately set aside by the Empire as
free and neutral territory, a Switzerland for the spirit
where there is no extradition, and Alp-Himalayas to draw
the soul upward, and danger rare enough to tolerate.
.
Switzerland and Tibet are linked along one of the true
meridians of Earth, true as the Chinese have drawn
meridians of the body.
.
.
. We will have to learn such
new maps of Earth: and as travel in the Interior becomes
more common, as the maps grow another dimension, so
must we. ...â And he tells too of Gondwanaland, before
the continents drifted apart, when Argentine lay snuggled
up to Siidwest .. .' the people listen, and filter back to
cave and bed and family calabash from which the milk,
unconsecrated, is swallowed in cold whiteness, cold as the
_ morth....
So, between these two, even routine greeting does not
pass without some payload of meaningfulness. and the
hope of Blitzing the otherâs mind. Enzian knows that he
is being used for his name. The name has some magic.
But he has been so unable to touch, so neutral for so
long
.
.
. everything has flowed away but the name,
_»Enzian, a sound for chanting. He hopes it will be magic
_ enough for one thing, one good thing when the time
te
_ comes, however short of the Center.
. ... What are these
374
Gravityâs RAINBOW
persistences among a people, these traditions and offices,
but traps? the sexual fetishes Christianity knows how to
flash, to lure us in, meant to remind us of earliest infant
love.
. ... Can his name, can âEnzianâ break their power?
Can his name prevail?
The Erdschweinhéhle is in one of the worst traps of
all, a dialectic of word made flesh, flesh moving toward
something else.
.
.
. Enzian sees the trap clearly, but not
the way out.
.
.
. Sitting now between a pair of candles
just lit, his gray field-jacket open at the neck, beard
feathering down his dark throat to shorter, sparser glossy
black hairs that go running in a whirl, iron aad about
the south pole of his Adamâs apple...
pole...
axis .
axle-tree....
Tree.
. Omumborombanga 7%
> Mukuru
. first ancestor .
3 Adamionit salt sweating, hands
from the working day gone graceless and numb, he has
a minute to drift and remember this time of day back in
Siidwest, above ground, participating in the sunset, out
watching the mist gather, part fog; part dust from the
cattle returning to the kraals to milking and sleep...
his tribe believed long ago that each sunset is a battle.
In the north, where the sun sets, live the one-armed war-
riors, the one-legged and one-eyed, who fight the sun
each evening, who spear it to death until âits blood runs
out over the horizon and sky. But under the earth, in the
night, the sun is born again, to come back each dawn,
new and the same. But we, Zone-Hereros, under the earth,
how long will we wait in this north, this locus of death?
Is it to be reborn? or have we really been buried for the
last time, buried facing north like all the rest of our dead,
and like all the holy cattle ever sacrificed to the ancestors?
North is deathâs region. There may be no gods, but there
is a pattern: names by themselves may have no magic,
but the act of naming, the physical utterance, obeys the
pattern. Nordhausen means dwellings in the north. The
Rocket had to be produced out of a place called Nord-
hausen. The town adjoining was named Bleicheréde as a
validation, a bit of redundancy so that the message would
~ not be lost. The history of the old sar is one of lost
messages. It began in mythical times,
when the sly hare
who nests in the Moon brought death among men, instead
of the Moonâs true message. The true message has never
*
Enzian and the North
- Enzian reflects on the Herero creation myth of the Omumborombanga tree and the cyclical battle of the sun against one-armed warriors in the north.
- The geography of the Zone is interpreted through a 'cryptography of naming,' linking the town of Nordhausen to the Herero association of the north with death.
- Enzian identifies a linguistic connection between the town Bleicheröde and 'Blicker,' an old German name for Death characterized by whiteness and bleaching.
- The Rocket is viewed as a potential vessel to reach the Moon and finally receive the 'true message' that was lost in mythical times.
- Enzianâs personal history is framed as a 'Herod myth,' surviving the German invasion of Southwest Africa despite being the illegitimate child of a Russian sailor.
North is deathâs region. There may be no gods, but there is a pattern: names by themselves may have no magic, but the act of naming, the physical utterance, obeys the pattern.
374
Gravityâs RAINBOW
persistences among a people, these traditions and offices,
but traps? the sexual fetishes Christianity knows how to
flash, to lure us in, meant to remind us of earliest infant
love.
. ... Can his name, can âEnzianâ break their power?
Can his name prevail?
The Erdschweinhéhle is in one of the worst traps of
all, a dialectic of word made flesh, flesh moving toward
something else.
.
.
. Enzian sees the trap clearly, but not
the way out.
.
.
. Sitting now between a pair of candles
just lit, his gray field-jacket open at the neck, beard
feathering down his dark throat to shorter, sparser glossy
black hairs that go running in a whirl, iron aad about
the south pole of his Adamâs apple...
pole...
axis .
axle-tree....
Tree.
. Omumborombanga 7%
> Mukuru
. first ancestor .
3 Adamionit salt sweating, hands
from the working day gone graceless and numb, he has
a minute to drift and remember this time of day back in
Siidwest, above ground, participating in the sunset, out
watching the mist gather, part fog; part dust from the
cattle returning to the kraals to milking and sleep...
his tribe believed long ago that each sunset is a battle.
In the north, where the sun sets, live the one-armed war-
riors, the one-legged and one-eyed, who fight the sun
each evening, who spear it to death until âits blood runs
out over the horizon and sky. But under the earth, in the
night, the sun is born again, to come back each dawn,
new and the same. But we, Zone-Hereros, under the earth,
how long will we wait in this north, this locus of death?
Is it to be reborn? or have we really been buried for the
last time, buried facing north like all the rest of our dead,
and like all the holy cattle ever sacrificed to the ancestors?
North is deathâs region. There may be no gods, but there
is a pattern: names by themselves may have no magic,
but the act of naming, the physical utterance, obeys the
pattern. Nordhausen means dwellings in the north. The
Rocket had to be produced out of a place called Nord-
hausen. The town adjoining was named Bleicheréde as a
validation, a bit of redundancy so that the message would
~ not be lost. The history of the old sar is one of lost
messages. It began in mythical times,
when the sly hare
who nests in the Moon brought death among men, instead
of the Moonâs true message. The true message has never
*
: ee
In
the Zone
375
come. Perhaps the Rocket is meant to take us there some-
day, and then Moon will tell us its truth at last. There are
those down in the ErdschweinhĂ©hle, younger ones whoâve
only known white autumn-prone Europe, who believe
_
Moon is their destiny. But older ones can remember that
_
Moon, like Ndjambi Karunga, is both the bringer of evil
' and its avenger....
And Enzianâs found the name BleicherĂ©de close enough
te âBlicker,â the nickname the early Germans gave to
Death. They saw him white: bleaching and blankness.
The name was later Latinized to âDominus Blicero.â
Weissmann, enchanted, took it as his SS code name. En-
zian was in Germany by then. Weissmann brought the
new name home to his pet, not showing it off so much as
_
indicating to Enzian yet another step to be taken toward
the Rocket, toward a destiny he still cannot see past this
sinister cryptography of naming, a sparse pattern but one
that harshly will not be denied, that cries and nags him
on stumbling as badly as 20 years ago....
Once he could not imagine a life without return. Be-
fore his conscious memories began, something took him, in
and out of his motherâs circular village far out in the
Kakau Veld, at the borders of the land of death, a de-
parture and a return.... He was told about it years later.
Shortly after he was born, his mother brought him back
to her village, back from Swakopmund. In ordinary times
she would have been banished. Sheâd had the child out of
_
wedlock, by a Russian sailor whose name she couldnât
2 Bee nce, But under the German invasion, protocol was
r
s important than helping one another. Though the
âmurderers in blue came down again and again, each time,
somehow, Enzian was passed over. It is a Herod myth his
admirers still like to bring up, to his annoyance. He had
been walking only for a few months when his mother took
him with her to join Samuel Mahereroâs great trek across
the Kalahari.
Of the stories told about these years, this is the most
tragic. The refugees had been on the desert for days.
_ Khama, king of the Bechuanas, sent guides, oxen, wagons
_ and water to help them. Those who arrived first were
_ warned to take water only little by little. But by the time
the
stragglers arrived, everyone else was asleep. No one
The Desert Trek and Disillusionment
- Enzian survives the tragic Herero trek across the Kalahari, where hundreds died from drinking too much water too quickly after extreme dehydration.
- The Herero people face near-extermination by German forces, with survivors forced into labor camps or railroad construction.
- Enzian views his survival as a matter of pure chance rather than divine intervention, concluding that the gods have abandoned his people.
- The relationship between Enzian and his mentor Weissmann is defined by Weissmann's obsession with guilt and a 'love for the last explosion.'
- Enzian reflects on the cold reality of European love, which he finds inextricably linked to masculine technologies, contracts, and power dynamics.
The manâs thirst for guilt was insatiable as the desertâs for water.
: ee
In
the Zone
375
come. Perhaps the Rocket is meant to take us there some-
day, and then Moon will tell us its truth at last. There are
those down in the ErdschweinhĂ©hle, younger ones whoâve
only known white autumn-prone Europe, who believe
_
Moon is their destiny. But older ones can remember that
_
Moon, like Ndjambi Karunga, is both the bringer of evil
' and its avenger....
And Enzianâs found the name BleicherĂ©de close enough
te âBlicker,â the nickname the early Germans gave to
Death. They saw him white: bleaching and blankness.
The name was later Latinized to âDominus Blicero.â
Weissmann, enchanted, took it as his SS code name. En-
zian was in Germany by then. Weissmann brought the
new name home to his pet, not showing it off so much as
_
indicating to Enzian yet another step to be taken toward
the Rocket, toward a destiny he still cannot see past this
sinister cryptography of naming, a sparse pattern but one
that harshly will not be denied, that cries and nags him
on stumbling as badly as 20 years ago....
Once he could not imagine a life without return. Be-
fore his conscious memories began, something took him, in
and out of his motherâs circular village far out in the
Kakau Veld, at the borders of the land of death, a de-
parture and a return.... He was told about it years later.
Shortly after he was born, his mother brought him back
to her village, back from Swakopmund. In ordinary times
she would have been banished. Sheâd had the child out of
_
wedlock, by a Russian sailor whose name she couldnât
2 Bee nce, But under the German invasion, protocol was
r
s important than helping one another. Though the
âmurderers in blue came down again and again, each time,
somehow, Enzian was passed over. It is a Herod myth his
admirers still like to bring up, to his annoyance. He had
been walking only for a few months when his mother took
him with her to join Samuel Mahereroâs great trek across
the Kalahari.
Of the stories told about these years, this is the most
tragic. The refugees had been on the desert for days.
_ Khama, king of the Bechuanas, sent guides, oxen, wagons
_ and water to help them. Those who arrived first were
_ warned to take water only little by little. But by the time
the
stragglers arrived, everyone else was asleep. No one
376
Gravity'sâ Ratnsow
to wam them. Another lost message. They drank till they
died, hundreds of souls. Enzianâs mother was among them.
He had fallen asleep under a cowhide, exhausted from
hunger and thirst. He woke among the dead. It is said
that he was found there by a band:of Ovatjimba, taken
and cared for. They left him back at the edge of his
motherâs village, to walk in alone. They were nomads,
they could have taken any other direction in that waste
country, but they brought him back to the place heâd left.
He found hardly anyone remaining there. Many had gone
on the trek, some had been taken away to the coast and
herded into kraals, or to work on the railroad the Germans
were building through the desert. Many others had died
eating cattle dead of rinderpest.
No. return. Sixty per cent of the Herero people had Beis
exterminated, The rest were being used like animals. En-
zian grew up into a white-occupied world. Captivity, sud-
den death, one-way departures were the ordinary things
of every day. By the time the question occurred to him, he
could find no way to account for his own survival. He
could not believe in any process of selection; Ndjambi
Karunga and the Christian God were too far away. There
was no difference between the behavior of a god and the
operations of pure chance. Weissmann, the European
whose protĂ©gĂ© he became, always believed heâd seduced
Enzian away from religion, But the gods had gone away
themselves:
the gods -had left the people.... He let
Weissmann think what he wanted to. The manâs thirst for
guilt was insatiable as the desertâs for. water.
Itâs been a long time now since the two men have seen
each other. Last time they spoke was during the move from
Peenemiinde down here to the Mittelwerke. Weissmann is
probably dead by now. Even in Siidwest, 20° years ago,
before Enzian could even speak his language, heâd seen
that: a love for the last explosionâthe lifting and the
scream that peaks past fear.... Why should Weissmann
want to survive the war? Surely heâd have found some-
thing splendid enough to match his thirst. It could not
have ended for him rationalized and meek as his hundred
glass bureaus about the SS circuitâlocated in time and
space always just to miss grandeur, only to be in its
vacuum, to be tugged slightly along by its slipstream but
CO
A
aSSA
In the Zone
SOME
finally left to lie still again in a few tarnished sequins of
_
wake. Biirgerlichkeit played to Wagner, the brasses faint
and mocking, the voices of the strings drifting in and out
of phase. ...
At night down here, very often lately, Enzian will wake
âfor no reason. Was it really Him, pierced Jesus, who came
to lean over you? The white faggotâs-dream body, the
slender legs and soft gold European eyes...did you
catch a glimpse of olive cock under the ragged loincloth,
did you want to reach to lick at the sweat of his rough,
his wooden bondage? Where is he, what part of our Zone
ge damn him to the knob of that nervous imperial
There are few such islands of down and velvet for him
to lie and dream on, not in these marble passages of power.
Enzian has grown cold: not so much a fire dying away as
a positive coming on of cold, a bitter taste growing across
'
the palate of loveâs first hopes.... It began when Weiss-
mann brought him to Europe: a discovery that love, among
_
these men, once past the simple feel and orgasming of it,
had to do with masculine technologies, with contracts, with
winning and losing. Demanded, in his own case, that he.
enter the service of the Rocket.... Beyond simple steel
erection, the Rocket was an entire system won, away from
_
the feminine darkness, held against the entropies of lovable
_ but scatterbrained Mother. Nature: that was the first thing
~ he was obliged by Weissmann to learn, his first step to-
ward citizenship in the Zone. He was led to believe that
by understanding the Lge he would come to under-
stand truly his manhood. .
.
âT used to imagine, in some naive way I have lost now,
__ that all the excitement of those days was being put on for
_
me, somehow, as a gift from Weissmann. He had carried
_
me over his threshold and into his house, and this was the
life he meant to bring me to, these manly pursuits, devo-
tion to the Leader, political intrigue, secret re-arming in
naughty defiance of the aging plutocracies all around us
... they were growing impotent, but we were young and
' et
. to be that young and strong, at such a time in
âthe life af a nation! I could not believe so many fair young
te
_ men, the way the sweat and dust lay on their bodies as
_they lengthened the Autobahns day into ringing day: we
The Rocket and Masculine Order
- The Rocket is depicted as a technological system of order won from the 'feminine darkness' and entropy of nature.
- Weissmann uses the Rocket and military service to indoctrinate a young man into a specific vision of manhood and citizenship.
- The narrator recalls a naive devotion to the Nazi era's aesthetic of strength, silk banners, and the physical beauty of young men.
- A comparison is drawn between the absolute certainty of religious faith and the charismatic authority Weissmann exerted over his followers.
- The conversation touches on the 'routinization of charisma' as the initial spiritual fervor of the movement transitions into bureaucratic reality.
- The Schwarzkommando operate a clandestine radio network in the Zone, communicating in Herero while evading constant monitoring by enemies.
Did you ever, in the street, see a man that you knew, in the instant, must be Jesus Christânot hoped he was, or caught some resemblanceâbut knew.
In the Zone
SOME
finally left to lie still again in a few tarnished sequins of
_
wake. Biirgerlichkeit played to Wagner, the brasses faint
and mocking, the voices of the strings drifting in and out
of phase. ...
At night down here, very often lately, Enzian will wake
âfor no reason. Was it really Him, pierced Jesus, who came
to lean over you? The white faggotâs-dream body, the
slender legs and soft gold European eyes...did you
catch a glimpse of olive cock under the ragged loincloth,
did you want to reach to lick at the sweat of his rough,
his wooden bondage? Where is he, what part of our Zone
ge damn him to the knob of that nervous imperial
There are few such islands of down and velvet for him
to lie and dream on, not in these marble passages of power.
Enzian has grown cold: not so much a fire dying away as
a positive coming on of cold, a bitter taste growing across
'
the palate of loveâs first hopes.... It began when Weiss-
mann brought him to Europe: a discovery that love, among
_
these men, once past the simple feel and orgasming of it,
had to do with masculine technologies, with contracts, with
winning and losing. Demanded, in his own case, that he.
enter the service of the Rocket.... Beyond simple steel
erection, the Rocket was an entire system won, away from
_
the feminine darkness, held against the entropies of lovable
_ but scatterbrained Mother. Nature: that was the first thing
~ he was obliged by Weissmann to learn, his first step to-
ward citizenship in the Zone. He was led to believe that
by understanding the Lge he would come to under-
stand truly his manhood. .
.
âT used to imagine, in some naive way I have lost now,
__ that all the excitement of those days was being put on for
_
me, somehow, as a gift from Weissmann. He had carried
_
me over his threshold and into his house, and this was the
life he meant to bring me to, these manly pursuits, devo-
tion to the Leader, political intrigue, secret re-arming in
naughty defiance of the aging plutocracies all around us
... they were growing impotent, but we were young and
' et
. to be that young and strong, at such a time in
âthe life af a nation! I could not believe so many fair young
te
_ men, the way the sweat and dust lay on their bodies as
_they lengthened the Autobahns day into ringing day: we
378
Gravity's RaiInsow
drove among mp iia: silk banners impeccably tailored
as suits of clothes...
the woman seemed to move all doc-
ile, without color...
I thought of them in ranks, down on
all se having their beasts milked into pails of shining
stee
âWas he ever jealous of the other young menâthe way
you felt about them?â
âOh. It was still very physical for me then. But he had
already moved past that part.of it. No. No, I donât think
he minded. ... I loved him then, I could not see into him,
or the things he believed in, but I wanted to. If the
Rocket was his life, then I would belong to the Rocket.â
âAnd you never doubted him? He certainly hadnât the
most ordered personalityââ
âListenâI donât know how to say this... have you ever
been a Christian?â
âWell... at one time.â
âDid you ever, in the street, see a man that you knew,
in the instant, must be Jesus Christânot hoped he was, or
caught some resemblanceâbut knew. The Deliverer, re-
turned and walking among the people, just the way the
old stories promised ...as you approached you grew more
and more certainâyou could see nothing at all to con-
tradict that first amazement... you drew near and passed,
terrified that he would speak to you... your eyes grap-
pled... it was confirmed. And most terrible to all, he
knew. He saw into your soul: all your make-believe ceased
to matter... .â
âThen... whatâs happened, since your first days in
Europe, could be described, in Max Weberâs phrase, al-
most as a âroutinization of charisma.â
|
âOutase,â sez Enzian, which is one of many Herero
words for shit, in this case a large, newly laid cow turd.
â
Andreas Orukambe sits in front of any army-green, â
wrinkle-finished transmitter/receiver rig, off in a rock al-
cove of the room. A pair of rubber headphones covers his â
ears. The Schwarzkommando use the 50 cm bandâthe
>
one the Rocketâs Hawaii II guidance operated on. Who >
but rocket-maniacs would listen in at 53 cm? Schwarz-
kommando can be sure, at least, that they're being moni-
tored by every competitor in the Zone. Transmissions from
the Erdschweinhohle begin around 0300 and run till dawn.
:
vi3
Lae
In the Zone
379
4 âOther Schwarzkommando stations broadcast on their own
schedules. Traffic is in Herero, with a German loan-word
now and then (which is too bad, since these are usually
technical words, and :valuable clues for whoeverâs listen-
ing).
Andreas is on the second dog watch, now, copying
mostly, answering when he has to. Keying any transmitter
-
is an invitation to instant paranoia. There springs into being
an antenna pattern, thousands of square kilometers full of
enemies out in their own night encampments in the Zone,
faceless, monitoring. Though they are in contact with one
5 |
anotherâthe Schwarzkommando try to listen in to as
much as they canâthough there can be no illusion about
their plans for the Schwarzkommando, still they are hold-
ing off, waiting for the optimum time to move in and
destroy without a trace. ... Enzian believes they will wait
for the first African rocket to be fully assembled and ready
for firing: it will look better if they move against a real
threat, real hardware. Meantime Enzian tries to keep
security tight. Here at the home base itâs no problem:
penetration by less than a regiment would be impossible.
But farther out in the Zone, ârocket-towns like Celle, En-
schede, Hachenburgâthey can pick us off out there one
by one, first a campaign of attrition, then a coordinated
raid... leaving then only this metropolis, under siege, to
strangle. ye
et
Perhaps itâs âtheater, but they seem no longer to be
Allies . .. though the history they have invented for them-
selves conditions us to expect âpostwar rivalries,â when in
fact it may all be a giant cartel including winners and
losers both, in an amiable agreement to share what is there
to be shared.... Still, Enzian has played them off, the
quarreling scavengers, one against the other... it looks
genuine enough.... Marvy must be together with the
Russians by now, and with General Electric tooâthrow-
ing him off the train the other night bought usâwhat? a
day or two, and how well have we used the time?
It comes down to this day-to-day knitting and unravel-
ing, minor successes, minor defeats. Thousands of details,
any one of which carries the chance of a fatal mistake.
- Enzian would like to be more out of the process than he
isâto a able to see where itâs going, to know, in real
Enzian and the Global Cartel
- Enzian suspects the Allies are delaying their attack on the Schwarzkommando until a functional African rocket is assembled to justify their intervention.
- The protagonist theorizes that postwar rivalries are a facade for a giant global cartel where winners and losers secretly agree to share resources.
- Enzian struggles with the overwhelming logistical details of leadership, from technical shortages to internal tribal jealousies, fearing a single fatal mistake.
- A deep existential dread haunts Enzian, making him feel like an actor reciting lines written by distant powers in a rebellion destined to fail.
- He experiences a recurring vision of a beautiful, icy northern voyage that represents a forgotten personal history or a return to a silent, ancient culture.
He has the odd feeling, in moments of reverie or honest despair, that he is speaking lines prepared somewhere far away (not far away in space, but in levels of power), and that his decisions are not his own at all, but the flummeries of an actor impersonating a leader.
Lae
In the Zone
379
4 âOther Schwarzkommando stations broadcast on their own
schedules. Traffic is in Herero, with a German loan-word
now and then (which is too bad, since these are usually
technical words, and :valuable clues for whoeverâs listen-
ing).
Andreas is on the second dog watch, now, copying
mostly, answering when he has to. Keying any transmitter
-
is an invitation to instant paranoia. There springs into being
an antenna pattern, thousands of square kilometers full of
enemies out in their own night encampments in the Zone,
faceless, monitoring. Though they are in contact with one
5 |
anotherâthe Schwarzkommando try to listen in to as
much as they canâthough there can be no illusion about
their plans for the Schwarzkommando, still they are hold-
ing off, waiting for the optimum time to move in and
destroy without a trace. ... Enzian believes they will wait
for the first African rocket to be fully assembled and ready
for firing: it will look better if they move against a real
threat, real hardware. Meantime Enzian tries to keep
security tight. Here at the home base itâs no problem:
penetration by less than a regiment would be impossible.
But farther out in the Zone, ârocket-towns like Celle, En-
schede, Hachenburgâthey can pick us off out there one
by one, first a campaign of attrition, then a coordinated
raid... leaving then only this metropolis, under siege, to
strangle. ye
et
Perhaps itâs âtheater, but they seem no longer to be
Allies . .. though the history they have invented for them-
selves conditions us to expect âpostwar rivalries,â when in
fact it may all be a giant cartel including winners and
losers both, in an amiable agreement to share what is there
to be shared.... Still, Enzian has played them off, the
quarreling scavengers, one against the other... it looks
genuine enough.... Marvy must be together with the
Russians by now, and with General Electric tooâthrow-
ing him off the train the other night bought usâwhat? a
day or two, and how well have we used the time?
It comes down to this day-to-day knitting and unravel-
ing, minor successes, minor defeats. Thousands of details,
any one of which carries the chance of a fatal mistake.
- Enzian would like to be more out of the process than he
isâto a able to see where itâs going, to know, in real
380
Gravityâs Rainsow
|
time, at each splitting of the pathway of decision, which
would have been rightâ
and» which wrong. But it is their
time, their space, and he still expects, naively, outcomes
the white continuum grew past hoping for centuries ago.
The detailsâvalves, special tools that may or may not exist,
Erdschweinhohle jealousies and plots, lost operating man-
uals, technicians on the run from both East and West,
food shortages, sick childrenâswirl like fog, each particle
with its own array of forces and directionsâ.
.
. he canât
handle them all at the same time, if he stays too much
with any heâs in danger of losing others. .
. . But itâs not
only the details. He has the odd. feeling, in moments of
reverie or honest despair, that he is speaking lines pre-
pared somewhere far away (not far away in space, but
in levels of power), and that his decisions are not his own
at all, but the flummeries of an actor impersonating a
leader. He has dreamed of being held in the pitiless
emprise of something from which he cannot wake...
he is often aboard a ship on a broad river, leading a
rebellion which must fail: For reasons of policy, the rebel-
lion is being allowed to go on for a bit. He is being
hunted, his days are full of narrow escapes which he finds
exciting, physically graceful ...
. and theâ Plot itself! it
has a stern, an intense beauty, it is music, a symphony
of the North, of an Arctic voyage, past headlands of very
green ice, to the feet of icebergs, kneeling in the grip of
this incredible music, washed in seas blue as blue dye,
an endless North, vast country settled by people whose
old culture and history are walled off by a great silence
from the. rest of the world ...
. the names of their penin-
sulas and seas, their long and powerful rivers are unknown
down in the temperate world
. .. it is a return, this
voyage: he has grown old inside his name, the sweeping
music of the voyage is music he wrote himself, so long
ago that he has forgotten it completely . . . but now it is
finding him again. ...
:
.
âTrouble in Hamburgââ Andreas is scribbling away,
lifting one earpiece back smock damp with
sweat so that
he can be on both ends of the link at on
âSounds like
it might be the DPs again. Got a ba
fading ââ
Since the surrender. there have been these constant
skirmishes between
the German
civilians
and foreign
signal. Keeps
The Zone and the Schwarzkommando
- Post-war Germany is a chaotic landscape of skirmishes between civilians and displaced persons who have looted arsenals.
- The Schwarzkommando, or Zone-Hereros, face racial hostility from Germans who associate them with past colonial occupations.
- A power struggle emerges within the Herero factions as Josef Ombindi and the 'Empty Ones' seek to expand their influence in Hamburg.
- Enzian prepares to travel north, reflecting on the existential fate of his people and whether they are 'chosen' for a terrible destiny.
- The narrative reveals a personal stakes for Enzian: he is the half-brother of Tchitcherine, and their eventual meeting feels predestined.
If choices have never been our own, if the Zone-Hereros are meant to live in the bosom of the Angel who tried to destroy us in SĂŒdwest . . . then: have we been passed over, or have we been chosen for something even more terrible?
380
Gravityâs Rainsow
|
time, at each splitting of the pathway of decision, which
would have been rightâ
and» which wrong. But it is their
time, their space, and he still expects, naively, outcomes
the white continuum grew past hoping for centuries ago.
The detailsâvalves, special tools that may or may not exist,
Erdschweinhohle jealousies and plots, lost operating man-
uals, technicians on the run from both East and West,
food shortages, sick childrenâswirl like fog, each particle
with its own array of forces and directionsâ.
.
. he canât
handle them all at the same time, if he stays too much
with any heâs in danger of losing others. .
. . But itâs not
only the details. He has the odd. feeling, in moments of
reverie or honest despair, that he is speaking lines pre-
pared somewhere far away (not far away in space, but
in levels of power), and that his decisions are not his own
at all, but the flummeries of an actor impersonating a
leader. He has dreamed of being held in the pitiless
emprise of something from which he cannot wake...
he is often aboard a ship on a broad river, leading a
rebellion which must fail: For reasons of policy, the rebel-
lion is being allowed to go on for a bit. He is being
hunted, his days are full of narrow escapes which he finds
exciting, physically graceful ...
. and theâ Plot itself! it
has a stern, an intense beauty, it is music, a symphony
of the North, of an Arctic voyage, past headlands of very
green ice, to the feet of icebergs, kneeling in the grip of
this incredible music, washed in seas blue as blue dye,
an endless North, vast country settled by people whose
old culture and history are walled off by a great silence
from the. rest of the world ...
. the names of their penin-
sulas and seas, their long and powerful rivers are unknown
down in the temperate world
. .. it is a return, this
voyage: he has grown old inside his name, the sweeping
music of the voyage is music he wrote himself, so long
ago that he has forgotten it completely . . . but now it is
finding him again. ...
:
.
âTrouble in Hamburgââ Andreas is scribbling away,
lifting one earpiece back smock damp with
sweat so that
he can be on both ends of the link at on
âSounds like
it might be the DPs again. Got a ba
fading ââ
Since the surrender. there have been these constant
skirmishes between
the German
civilians
and foreign
signal. Keeps
Seah
Sc
In the Zone
381
prisoners freed from the camps. Towns in the north have
been taken over by displaced Poles, Czechs, Russians
who've looted the arsenals and granaries and mean to hold
what theyâve taken. But nobody knows how to feel about
the local Schwarzkommando. Some see only the ragged
pieces of SS uniform, and respond to. that one way or
anotherâothers
take them for Moroccans
or Indians
drifted somehow over the mountains from Italy. Germans
âstill remember the occupation of the Rhineland 20 years
ago by French colonial units, and the posters screaming
SCHWARZE BESATZUNG AM RHEIN! Another stress in the
pattern. Last week in Hamburg, two Schwarzkommando
were shot. Others were badly beaten. The British military
government sent in some troops, but only after the killing
was over. Their main interest seemed to be in enforcing
a curfew.
âTtâs Onguruve.â Andreas hands over the earphones and
swivels to roll out of Enzianâs way.
â... canât tell. if itâs us they want, or the oil refinery
... the voice goes crackling in and out, â... hundred,
maybe two hundred ... so many ..
. âfles, clubs, hand-
gunsââ
oeReT
Bl-bleep and a burst of hissing, then in laps a familiar
voice, âI can bring a dozen men.â
âHannoverâs answering,â Enzian murmurs,
trying to
sound amused.
âYou mean Josef Ombindi.â Andreas is not amused.
Now Onguruve, calling for help, is neutral on the
Empty Ones Question, or tries to be. But if Ombindi can
bring a relief force to Hamburg, he may decide to stay.
Hannover, even with the Volkswagen plant there, is only
a stepping-stone for him. Hamburg would give the Empty
Ones a stronger power base, and this could be the oppor-
tunity. The north ought to be their native element, any-
way...
Til have to go,â handing the phones back to Andreas.
âWhat's wrong?â
âCould be the Russians, trying to draw you out.â
.
âItâs all right. Stop worrying about Tchitcherine. I donât
think heâs up there.â
__
âBut your European saidââ
_ âHim? I donât know how far to trust him. Remember,
J did hear him talking with Marvy on the train. Now
~
5
âa
382
Graviryâs Rainsow
heâs with Tchitcherineâs girl in Nordhausen. I mean, woul
you trust him?â
is
. âBut if Marvyâs chasing him now, it might mean heâ:
worth something.â -
is
âIf he is, we're sure to see him again,â
'
Enzian grabs his kit, swallows two Pervitins for the
road, reminds Andreas of a businessâ detail or two fo:
tomorrow, and climbs theâ long salt and stone ramps tc
the surface.
Outside, he breathes the evergreen air of the Harz.
In the old villages, it would be the time of evening fo!
the milking. The first. star is out, okanumaihi, the little
drinker of sweet milk... .
Dae
_ But this must be a different star; a northern star. There
is no comfort. What has happened to us? If choices have
never been our own, if the Zone-Hereros are meant to live
in the bosom of the Angel who tried to destroy us in
Siidwest
.
.
. then: have we been passed over, or have
we been chosen for something even more terrible?
Enzian has to be in Hamburg before another spearing
of the sun. Security on the trains is troublesome, but the
sentries know him. The long freights are rolling out from
the Mittelwerke day and night, carrying A4 hardware
west to the Americans, north to the English
.
.
. and
soon, when the. new map of the occupation goes into
effect, east to the Russians too.
.
.
. Nordhausen will be
under Russian administration and we should have some
action then .
.
. will it give him a chance at Tchitcherine?
Enzian has never seen the man, but they are meant to
come together, Enzian is his half-brother. They are the
same flesh.
.
His sciatic nerve is throbbing now. Too much sitting.
He goes limping, alone, head still down for the low clear-
ances back down in the ErdschweinhĂ©hleâwho knows
what waits out here for the head held too highP Down
the road to the railway overpass, tall and gray in the
growing starlight, Enzian is heading into the North, ...
er
ul
Just before dawn. A hundred feet below flows a pallid
sheet of cloud, stretching west as far as they can see.
The Specter of the Brocken
- Slothrop and the apprentice witch Geli Tripping ascend the Brocken, a site historically associated with German occultism and recent Nazi rituals.
- The summit is littered with the debris of a 'Black Sabbath,' including beer bottles, swastika banners, and tattooing needles used for ritual marks.
- Slothrop reflects on his own ancestral connection to witchcraft through Amy Sprue, a family renegade executed during the Salem witch trials.
- The narrative contrasts the grotesque propaganda of Nazi-era murals with the actual appearance and playful nature of Geli Tripping.
- At dawn, the pair witnesses the 'Brockengespenst,' a natural phenomenon where their shadows are projected as massive, rainbow-fringed titans onto the clouds.
- The experience of seeing his shadow span provinces makes Slothrop feel like a mythic figure, reinforcing the theme of individuals being dwarfed by or transformed into symbols.
The arm-shadow trails rainbows behind as it moves reaching eastward for a grab at Gottingen.
382
Graviryâs Rainsow
heâs with Tchitcherineâs girl in Nordhausen. I mean, woul
you trust him?â
is
. âBut if Marvyâs chasing him now, it might mean heâ:
worth something.â -
is
âIf he is, we're sure to see him again,â
'
Enzian grabs his kit, swallows two Pervitins for the
road, reminds Andreas of a businessâ detail or two fo:
tomorrow, and climbs theâ long salt and stone ramps tc
the surface.
Outside, he breathes the evergreen air of the Harz.
In the old villages, it would be the time of evening fo!
the milking. The first. star is out, okanumaihi, the little
drinker of sweet milk... .
Dae
_ But this must be a different star; a northern star. There
is no comfort. What has happened to us? If choices have
never been our own, if the Zone-Hereros are meant to live
in the bosom of the Angel who tried to destroy us in
Siidwest
.
.
. then: have we been passed over, or have
we been chosen for something even more terrible?
Enzian has to be in Hamburg before another spearing
of the sun. Security on the trains is troublesome, but the
sentries know him. The long freights are rolling out from
the Mittelwerke day and night, carrying A4 hardware
west to the Americans, north to the English
.
.
. and
soon, when the. new map of the occupation goes into
effect, east to the Russians too.
.
.
. Nordhausen will be
under Russian administration and we should have some
action then .
.
. will it give him a chance at Tchitcherine?
Enzian has never seen the man, but they are meant to
come together, Enzian is his half-brother. They are the
same flesh.
.
His sciatic nerve is throbbing now. Too much sitting.
He goes limping, alone, head still down for the low clear-
ances back down in the ErdschweinhĂ©hleâwho knows
what waits out here for the head held too highP Down
the road to the railway overpass, tall and gray in the
growing starlight, Enzian is heading into the North, ...
er
ul
Just before dawn. A hundred feet below flows a pallid
sheet of cloud, stretching west as far as they can see.
r hs =
In the Zone
â
383
fere are Slothrop and the apprentice witch Geli Tripping,
anding up on top of the Brocken, the very plexus of
erman evil, twenty miles north by northwest of the Mit-
lwerke, waiting for the sun to rise. Though May Day
veâs come and gone and this frolicking twosome are
early a month late, relics of the latest Black Sabbath still
main:
Kriegsbier empties, lace undergarments, spent
fle cartridges, Swastika-banners of ripped red satin, tat-
oing-needles and splashes of blue inkâ âWhat the heck
as that for?â Slothrop wondered.
âFor the devilâs kiss, of course,â Geli snuggling oh-you-
d-silly up to his.armpit there, and Slothrop feeling a
ttle icky and square for not knowing. But then he knows
xt to nothing about witches, even though there was,
. his ancestry, one genuine Salem Witch, one of the last
. join the sus. per coll. crowd dangling, several of them
ack through the centuriesâ couplings, off of the Slothrop
mily tree. Her name was Amy Sprue, a family renegade
med Antinomian at age 23 and running mad over the
erkshire countryside, ahead of Crazy Sue Dunham by
90 years, stealing babies, riding cows in the twilight,
crificing chickens up on Snoddâs Mountain. Lot of ill
ill about those chickens, as you can imagine. The cows
id babies always, somehow, came back all right. Amy
prue was not, like young skipping Dorothyâs antagonist,
mean witch.
She headedâ for Rhode Island, seeking some of that
asylum,
And she thought sheâd stop by Salem on her way,
But they didnât like her style, and they didnât like
her smile,
:
3
âSo she never saw that Narragansett Bay....
âThey busted her for witchery and she got death. An-
her of Slothropâs crazy kinfolks.. When she was men-
oned aloud at all it was with a shrug, too far away really
) be a Family Disgraceâmore of a curiosity. Slothrop
a up not quite knowing what to think about her.
itches were certainly not getting a fair shake in the
irties.
They were depicted as hags who called you
arie, not exactly aâ wholesome lot. The movies had not
4
spared him for this Teutonic version here. Your kraut
2
ers
384
Graviryâs Rainsow
witch, for example, has six toes on each foot and no hz
_
at all on her cunt. That is how the witches look, anyho
in the stairway murals inside the one-time Nazi trar
mitter tower up on the Brocken here, and governme
murals are hardly places to go looking for irresponsik
fantasy, right? But Geli thinks the hairless cunt deriv
from the women von Bayros drew. âAw, you just dot
wanna
shave yours,â crows
Slothrop. âHa! Ha! Son
witch!â
âTll show you something,â she sez, which is why th
are now awake at this ungodly hour, side by side, holdit
hands, very still as the sun begins to clear the horizo
âNow watch,â Geli whispers: âout there.â
As the sunlight strikes their backs, coming in near
flat on, it begins developing on the pearl cloudbank: tv
gigantic shadows, thrown miles overland, past Clausth<
Zelterfeld, past Seesen and Goslar, across where the riv
Leine would be, and reaching toward Weser. ... âI
golly,â Slothrop a little bit nervous, âitâs the Specter.â Yc
got it up around Greylock in the Berkshires too. Arour
these parts it is known as the Brockengespenst.
God-shadows. Slothrop raises an arm. His fingers a
cities, his biceps is a provinceâof course heâ raises :
arm.
Isnât it expected of himP The arm-shadow trai
rainbows behind as it moves reaching eastward for
grab at Gottingen. Not ordinary shadows, eitherâthre
dimensional ones, cast out on the German dawn, yes ar
Titans had to live in these mountains, or under them. . .
Impossibly out of scale. Never to be carried by a rive
Never to look to a horizon and think that it might go «
forever. No trees to climb, no long journeys to take .
.
only their deep images are left, haloed shells lying pro:
above the fogs men move in... .
Geli kicks a leg out straight asa dancer, and tilts h
head to the side. Slothrop raises his middle finger to tl
west, the headlong finger darkening three miles of clot
per second. Geli grabs for Slothropâs cock. Slothrop lea
to bite Geliâs tit. They are enormous, dancing the flo
of the whole visible sky. He reaches underneath her dre
She twines a leg around one of his. The spectra wash re
to indigo, tidal, immense, at all their edges. Under tl
clouds out there itâs as still, and lost, as Atlantis.
Toe
Shadows on the Brocken
- Slothrop and Geli experience the Brocken specter phenomenon at dawn, watching their shadows dance across the clouds like giants.
- Geli reveals the intense, personal hatred between the Soviet officer Tchitcherine and the Schwarzkommando leader Enzian.
- The Brocken mountain serves as a temporary, lawless refuge occupied by low-ranking American and Russian soldiers ignoring the official border.
- Slothrop realizes he is being hunted by a vast, interlocking network of corporate and military interests including Major Marvy and GE.
- The protagonist reflects on his narrow escape from Nazi scientists and Allied intelligence figures who are conspiring to capture him.
The spectra wash red to indigo, tidal, immense, at all their edges. Under the clouds out there itâs as still, and lost, as Atlantis.
2
ers
384
Graviryâs Rainsow
witch, for example, has six toes on each foot and no hz
_
at all on her cunt. That is how the witches look, anyho
in the stairway murals inside the one-time Nazi trar
mitter tower up on the Brocken here, and governme
murals are hardly places to go looking for irresponsik
fantasy, right? But Geli thinks the hairless cunt deriv
from the women von Bayros drew. âAw, you just dot
wanna
shave yours,â crows
Slothrop. âHa! Ha! Son
witch!â
âTll show you something,â she sez, which is why th
are now awake at this ungodly hour, side by side, holdit
hands, very still as the sun begins to clear the horizo
âNow watch,â Geli whispers: âout there.â
As the sunlight strikes their backs, coming in near
flat on, it begins developing on the pearl cloudbank: tv
gigantic shadows, thrown miles overland, past Clausth<
Zelterfeld, past Seesen and Goslar, across where the riv
Leine would be, and reaching toward Weser. ... âI
golly,â Slothrop a little bit nervous, âitâs the Specter.â Yc
got it up around Greylock in the Berkshires too. Arour
these parts it is known as the Brockengespenst.
God-shadows. Slothrop raises an arm. His fingers a
cities, his biceps is a provinceâof course heâ raises :
arm.
Isnât it expected of himP The arm-shadow trai
rainbows behind as it moves reaching eastward for
grab at Gottingen. Not ordinary shadows, eitherâthre
dimensional ones, cast out on the German dawn, yes ar
Titans had to live in these mountains, or under them. . .
Impossibly out of scale. Never to be carried by a rive
Never to look to a horizon and think that it might go «
forever. No trees to climb, no long journeys to take .
.
only their deep images are left, haloed shells lying pro:
above the fogs men move in... .
Geli kicks a leg out straight asa dancer, and tilts h
head to the side. Slothrop raises his middle finger to tl
west, the headlong finger darkening three miles of clot
per second. Geli grabs for Slothropâs cock. Slothrop lea
to bite Geliâs tit. They are enormous, dancing the flo
of the whole visible sky. He reaches underneath her dre
She twines a leg around one of his. The spectra wash re
to indigo, tidal, immense, at all their edges. Under tl
clouds out there itâs as still, and lost, as Atlantis.
Toe
In the Zone
385
But the Brockengespenstphinomen is confined to dawnâs
ander interface, and soon the shadows have come shrink-
g back to their owners.
âSay, did that Tchitcherine everââ
âTchitcherineâs too busy for this.â
.
âOh, and I'm some kind of a drone or something.â
âYou're different.â
âWe-e-e-ll ..
. he ought to see it.â
She looks at him curiously, but doesnât ask whyâher
eth halt on her lower lip, and the warum
(varoom,
Plasticman sound) hovers trapped in her mouth, Just
well. Slothrop doesnât know why. Heâs no help to any-
dy whoâs fixing to interrogate. Last night he and Geli
undered onto a Schwarzkommando picket outside one
the old mine entrances. The Hereros threw questions
him for an hour. Oh, just wandering about you know,
oking for a bit of the odd, what we call âhuman inter-
t,â fascinating of course, we're always interested in what
uu chaps are up to. . . . Geli snickering in the darkness.
hey must have known her. They didnât ask her anything.
When he brought it up later, she wasnât sure just what
is is between Tchitcherine and the Africans, but what-
er it is itâs being carried on with high passion.
âItâs hate, all right,â she said. âStupid, stupid. The warâs
rer. It isnât politics or fuck-your-buddy, itâs old-time,
ire, personal hate.â
âEnzian?â
âT think so.â
They found the Brocken occupied both by American
1d by Russian troops. The mountain lay on what was to
> the border of the Soviet zone of occupation. The brick
id stucco ruins of the radio transmitter and a tourist
ytel loomed up just outside the firelight. Only a couple
platoons here. Nobody higher than noncoms. The offi-
rs were all down in Bad Harzburg, Halberstadt, some-
ace comfortable, getting drunk or laid. There is a cer-
in air of resentment up on the Brocken all right, but
e boys like Geli and tolerate Slothrop, and luckiest of
l, nobody seems to be connected with that Ordnance.
Its only a momentâs safety, though. Major Marvy is
ashing about the Harz, sending thousands of canaries
eardiac episodes, dropping in yellow droves belly-up
q
386
:
Graviryâs Rainsow
out of the trees as he marauds on by hollering Git th
limey âsucker I donât care how many men it takes I wa
a fucking division you hear me boy? Only a matter of tin
before he picks up the trail again. Heâs out of his min
Slothropâs a little daffy, but not like thisâthis is real
unhealthy, this Marvy persecution. Is it possible.
.
yup, the thought has certainly occurred to himâth
Marvyâs in tight with those Rolls Roycers who were aft
him in Ziirich? There may be no limit to their connectior
Marvy is buddies with GE, thatâs Morgan money, there
Morgan money in Harvard, and surely an interlock som
place with Lyle Bland
.
.
. who are they, hey? why «
they want Slothrop? He knows now for sure that Zwitt
the mad Nazi scientist is one of them. And that kind
old Professor Glimpf was only waiting down in the Mitte
werke to pick up Slothrop if he showed. Jesus. If Slothre
hadnât snuck out after dark back down into Nordhause
to Geliâs place, they'd have him locked up by now f
sure, maybe beaten up, maybe dead.
Before they head back down the mountain, they mai
age to chisel six cigarettes and some K-rations off of tl
sentries. Geli knows a friend of a friend who stays out c
a farm in the Goldene Aue, a ballooning enthusiast name
Schnorp, who is heading toward Berlin.
âBut I donât want to go to Berlin.â -
âYou want to go where Marvy isnât, Liebchen.â
Schnorp is beaming, eager enough for company, ju
back from a local PX with an armload of flat white boxe
merchandise he plans to move in Berlin. âNo:trouble,â }
tells Slothrop, âdonât worry. Iâve done this trip hundre
of times. Nobody bothers a balloon.â
He takes Slothrop out in back of. the house, and he
in the middle of a sloping green field is a wicker gondo
beside a great heap of bright yellow and scarlet silk.
âReal unobtrusive getaway,â Slothrop mutters. A gar
of kids have appeared running out of an apple orchai
to help them carry tin jerricans of gtain alcohol out °
the gondola. All shadows are being thrown uphill
by th
afternoon sun. Wind blows from the west. Slothrop giv:
Schnorp a light from his Zippo to get the burner goir
_
while kids straighten out the folds in the gasbag. Schnor
turns up the flame till itâs shooting sideways and with
Escape in the Zone
- Slothrop escapes Major Marvy's pursuit by boarding a hot-air balloon piloted by Schnorp, a black-market enthusiast.
- The departure from the Goldene Aue is marked by a poignant farewell to Geli Tripping, who watches Slothrop ascend.
- Slothrop experiences a growing emotional vulnerability, finding it harder to maintain his cynical detachment the longer he stays in the Zone.
- Schnorp dismisses the concept of political boundaries, asserting that the only reality is the unified, lawless 'Zone.'
- The balloon's cargo consists of high-value custard pies intended for the lucrative black market in Berlin.
- As they drift toward the Russian zone, Marvyâs vehicles arrive at the farm too late to intercept the gaudy, ascending balloon.
Slothrop feels his heart, out of control, inflate with love and rise quick as a balloon.
386
:
Graviryâs Rainsow
out of the trees as he marauds on by hollering Git th
limey âsucker I donât care how many men it takes I wa
a fucking division you hear me boy? Only a matter of tin
before he picks up the trail again. Heâs out of his min
Slothropâs a little daffy, but not like thisâthis is real
unhealthy, this Marvy persecution. Is it possible.
.
yup, the thought has certainly occurred to himâth
Marvyâs in tight with those Rolls Roycers who were aft
him in Ziirich? There may be no limit to their connectior
Marvy is buddies with GE, thatâs Morgan money, there
Morgan money in Harvard, and surely an interlock som
place with Lyle Bland
.
.
. who are they, hey? why «
they want Slothrop? He knows now for sure that Zwitt
the mad Nazi scientist is one of them. And that kind
old Professor Glimpf was only waiting down in the Mitte
werke to pick up Slothrop if he showed. Jesus. If Slothre
hadnât snuck out after dark back down into Nordhause
to Geliâs place, they'd have him locked up by now f
sure, maybe beaten up, maybe dead.
Before they head back down the mountain, they mai
age to chisel six cigarettes and some K-rations off of tl
sentries. Geli knows a friend of a friend who stays out c
a farm in the Goldene Aue, a ballooning enthusiast name
Schnorp, who is heading toward Berlin.
âBut I donât want to go to Berlin.â -
âYou want to go where Marvy isnât, Liebchen.â
Schnorp is beaming, eager enough for company, ju
back from a local PX with an armload of flat white boxe
merchandise he plans to move in Berlin. âNo:trouble,â }
tells Slothrop, âdonât worry. Iâve done this trip hundre
of times. Nobody bothers a balloon.â
He takes Slothrop out in back of. the house, and he
in the middle of a sloping green field is a wicker gondo
beside a great heap of bright yellow and scarlet silk.
âReal unobtrusive getaway,â Slothrop mutters. A gar
of kids have appeared running out of an apple orchai
to help them carry tin jerricans of gtain alcohol out °
the gondola. All shadows are being thrown uphill
by th
afternoon sun. Wind blows from the west. Slothrop giv:
Schnorp a light from his Zippo to get the burner goir
_
while kids straighten out the folds in the gasbag. Schnor
turns up the flame till itâs shooting sideways and with
In the Zone
387
steady roar into the opening of the great silk bag. Chil-
dren visible through the gap break up into wiggly heat
waves. Slowly the balloon begins to expand. âRemember
me,â Geli calls above the rumbling of the burner, âTill I
see you again...â Slothrop climbs in the gondola with
Schnorp. The balloon rises a little off the ground and is
caught by the wind. They start to move. Geli and the
kids have taken hold of the gondola all around its gun-
wales, the bag still not all the way up but gathering
speed, dragging them all as fast as their feet can move,
giggling and cheering, uphill. Slothrop keeps as much
out of the way as he can, letting Schnorp see that the
flameâs pointed into the bag and that lines to the basket
are clear. At last the bag swings vertical, across the sun,
the inside of it going a riotous wreathing of yellow and
scarlet heat. One by one the ground crew fall away, wav-
ing good-by. The last to go is Geli in her white dress,
hair brushed back over her ears into pigtails, her soft chin
and mouth and big serious eyes looking into Slothropâs
for as long as she can before she has to let go. She kneels
- in the grass, blows a kiss. Slothrop feels his heart, out
of control, inflate with love and rise quick as a balloon.
It is taking him longer, the longer heâs in the Zone, to
remember to say aw quit being a sap. What is this place
doing to his brain?
They soar up over a stand of firs. Geli and the children
go dwindling to shadow-strokes on the green lawn. The
hills fall away, flatten out. Soon, looking back, Slothrop
can see Nordhausen: Cathedral, Rathaus, Church of St.
Blasius .
. . the roofless quarter where he found Geli... .
Schnorp nudges and points. After a while Slothrop
makes out a convoy of four olive-drab vehicles dusting
along toward the farm in a hurry. Marvyâs Mothers, by
the looks of things. And Slothrop hanging from this gaudy
beach ball. Well, all rightâ
âTm bad luck,â Slothrop hollers over a little later.
They've found a steady course now northeastward, and
are huddling close to the alcohol flame, collars turned up,
_
with a gradient of must be 50° between the wind at their
backs and the warmth in front. âI shouldâve mentioned
that. You donât even know me, and here we're flying into
_
that Russian zone.â
388
Graviryâs RAINBOW
Schnorp, his hair blown like holidays of hay, does a
wistful German thing with his upper lip: âThere are no
zones;â he sez, which is also a line of Geliâs. âNo zones
but the Zone.â
Before too long Slothrop has begun checking out these
boxes here that Schnorp brought along. There are a dozen
of them, and each contains a deep, golden custard pie,
which will fetch a fantastic price in Berlin. âWow,â cries
Slothrop, âholy shit. Surely I hallucinate,â and other such
eager junior sidekick talk.
âYou ought to have a PX card.â A sales pitc
âRight now I canât afford a ration stamp for an antâs
jockstrap,â replies Slothrop, forthrightly.
âWell, Yl split this one pie here with you,â Schnorp
reckons after a time, âbecause Iâm getting kind of hungry.â
âOboy, oboy.â
Well, Slothrop is just chowing on that piel enjoying
himself, licking custard off his hands, when he happens
to notice off in the sky, back toward Nordhausen, this
funny dark object, the size of a dot. âUhââ
Schnorp looks around, âKot!â comes up with a brass
telescope and braces it blazing on the gunwale. âKot,
Kotâno markings.â
i
âI wonder...â
.
Out of air so blue you can take it between your fingers,
rub, and bring them back blue, they watch the dot slowly
grow into a rusty old reconnaissance plane. Presently they
can hear its engine, snarling and sputtering, Then, as they
watch, it banks and starts a pass.
Along the wind between them, faintly, comes the sing-
ing of Furies:
.
There was a young man named McGuire,
Who was fond. of the pitch amplifier.
But a number of shorts
Left him covered with warts,
â
And set half the bedroom on fire.
ss,
Ja, ja, ja, jal
cane
In Prussia they never eat pussyâ
|
The plane buzzes by a yard or two away, showing its
underbelly. It is a monster, about to give birth. Out of
The Great Pie Skirmish
- Slothrop and Schnorp are interrupted during a meal in their balloon by a pursuing reconnaissance plane.
- The plane is piloted by Major Marvy and a crew of 'beer-sodden Americans' who taunt the balloonists with lewd limericks about technology.
- A surreal aerial battle ensues where Slothrop successfully blinds the pilot by throwing a custard pie into his face.
- The balloon attempts to hide within a dense, icy cloud, but the plane cuts its engine to stalk them in the silence.
- The encounter highlights the chaotic, carnivalesque nature of 'The Zone' where military hardware is used for absurd personal vendettas.
- The scene concludes with a desperate second volley of pies as the plane reappears through the vapor at close range.
He flings it, perfect shot, the plane peeling slowly past and blop gets Marvy right in the face.
388
Graviryâs RAINBOW
Schnorp, his hair blown like holidays of hay, does a
wistful German thing with his upper lip: âThere are no
zones;â he sez, which is also a line of Geliâs. âNo zones
but the Zone.â
Before too long Slothrop has begun checking out these
boxes here that Schnorp brought along. There are a dozen
of them, and each contains a deep, golden custard pie,
which will fetch a fantastic price in Berlin. âWow,â cries
Slothrop, âholy shit. Surely I hallucinate,â and other such
eager junior sidekick talk.
âYou ought to have a PX card.â A sales pitc
âRight now I canât afford a ration stamp for an antâs
jockstrap,â replies Slothrop, forthrightly.
âWell, Yl split this one pie here with you,â Schnorp
reckons after a time, âbecause Iâm getting kind of hungry.â
âOboy, oboy.â
Well, Slothrop is just chowing on that piel enjoying
himself, licking custard off his hands, when he happens
to notice off in the sky, back toward Nordhausen, this
funny dark object, the size of a dot. âUhââ
Schnorp looks around, âKot!â comes up with a brass
telescope and braces it blazing on the gunwale. âKot,
Kotâno markings.â
i
âI wonder...â
.
Out of air so blue you can take it between your fingers,
rub, and bring them back blue, they watch the dot slowly
grow into a rusty old reconnaissance plane. Presently they
can hear its engine, snarling and sputtering, Then, as they
watch, it banks and starts a pass.
Along the wind between them, faintly, comes the sing-
ing of Furies:
.
There was a young man named McGuire,
Who was fond. of the pitch amplifier.
But a number of shorts
Left him covered with warts,
â
And set half the bedroom on fire.
ss,
Ja, ja, ja, jal
cane
In Prussia they never eat pussyâ
|
The plane buzzes by a yard or two away, showing its
underbelly. It is a monster, about to give birth. Out of
ry.
âIn the Zone
389
a little access opening peers a red face in leather helmet
and goggles. âYou limey âsucker,â going past, âwe fixinâ to
hand your ass to you.â
Without planning to, Slothrop has picked up a pie.
âFuck you.â He flings it, perfect shot, the plane peeling
slowly past and blop gets Marvy right in the face. Yeah.
Gloved hands paw at the mess. The Majorâs pink tongue
appears. Custard drips into the wind, yellow droplets fall
in long arcs toward earth. The hatch closes as the recon
plane slides away, slow-rolls,
circles and heads back.
Schnorp and Slothrop heft pies and wait.
âThereâs no cowling around that engine,â Schnorp has
noticed, âso we'll aim for that.â Now they can see the
dorsal side of the plane, its cockpit jammed to capacity
with beer-sodden Americans, singing:
There once was a fellow named Ritter,
Who slept with a guidance transmitter.
It shriveled his cock,
Which fell off in his sock,
And made him exceedingly bitter.
A hundred yards and closing fast. Schnorp grabs Slo-
thropâs arm and points off to starboard. Providence has
contrived to put in their way a big white slope of cloud,
and the wind is bringing them swiftly into it: the seething
critter puts out white tentacles, beckoning hurry . . . hurry
.
.
. and they are inside then, inside its wet and icy
reprieve. ...
âNow theyll wait.â
âNo,â Schnorp cupping an ear, âtheyâve cut the motor.
They're in here with us.â The swaddled silence goes on
for a minute or two, but sure enough:
There once was a fellow named Schroeder,
Who buggered the vane servomotor.
He soon grew a prong
On the end of his schlong,
And hired himself a promoter.
Schnorp is fiddling with the flame, a rose-gray nimbus,
trying for less visibility, but not too much loss of altitude.
They float in their own wan sphere of light, without co-
390
Gravityâs RaiInsow
ordinates. Guacsare of granite smash blindly upward like
fists into the cloud, trying to find the balloon. The plane
is somewhere, with its own course and speed. There is no
action the balloon can take. Binary decisions have lost
meaning in here. The cloud presses in, suffocating. It con-
denses in fat drops on top of the ios âSuddenly, raucous
and hungover:
There was a young man from Decatur,
Who slept with a LOX generator.
His balls and his prick
Froze solid real quick,
And his asshole a little bit later.
Curtains of vapor drift back to reveal the Americans,
volplaning along well inside ten meters and only a little
faster than the balloon.
âNow!â Schnorp: yells, heaving a pie at the exposed
engine. Slothropâs misses and splatters all over the wind-
screen in front of the pilot. By which time Schnorp has
commenced flinging ballast bags at the engine, leaving
one stuck between two of the cylinders. The Americans,
taken by surprise, reach in confusion for sidearms, gre-
nades, machine guns, whatever it is your Ordnance types ,
carry around in the way of light armament. But they have
glided on past, and now the fog closes in again. There
are a few shots.
âShit, man, if they hit that bagââ
âShh. I think we got the wire from the esbuter mag-
neto.â Off in the middle of the cloud can be heard the
nagging whicker of an engine ee to start. Linkage
squeaks desperately.
âOh, fuck!â A muffled |
scream, far away. The inter-
mittent whining grows
fainter until there is silence.
Schnorp is lying on his back, slurping pie, laughing bit-
terly. Half of his inventoryâs been thrown Away, and Slo-
throp feels a little guilty.
âNo, no. Stop worrying. This is like the very earliest
days of the mercantile system. We're back to that again.
A second chance. Passages are long and hazardous. Loss
in transit is a part of life. You have had a glimpse of the
Ur-Markt.â
When the clouds fall away a few minutes later, they ;
The Ur-Markt and Twilight Shadows
- Schnorp and Slothrop escape an American encounter in their balloon by jettisoning cargo and engine parts into the fog.
- Schnorp describes the post-war black market as a return to the 'Ur-Markt,' a primitive mercantile system where loss in transit is an inherent part of life.
- As they drift, Schnorp reflects on the physical speed of the earth's shadow, which breaks the sound barrier as it sweeps across the globe at sunset.
- The narrative shifts to the summer state of 'The Zone,' where survivors dream of food and alternate histories amidst ruins.
- The landscape is marked by the absence of horses and the presence of cows that inadvertently wander into old minefields with explosive results.
- The silence of the Zone is described as a temporary retreat of sound, gathering elsewhere into a future surge of noise.
The godawful blasts go drumming over the farmland, horns, hide and hamburger come showering down all over the place, the dented bells lie quiet in the clover.
390
Gravityâs RaiInsow
ordinates. Guacsare of granite smash blindly upward like
fists into the cloud, trying to find the balloon. The plane
is somewhere, with its own course and speed. There is no
action the balloon can take. Binary decisions have lost
meaning in here. The cloud presses in, suffocating. It con-
denses in fat drops on top of the ios âSuddenly, raucous
and hungover:
There was a young man from Decatur,
Who slept with a LOX generator.
His balls and his prick
Froze solid real quick,
And his asshole a little bit later.
Curtains of vapor drift back to reveal the Americans,
volplaning along well inside ten meters and only a little
faster than the balloon.
âNow!â Schnorp: yells, heaving a pie at the exposed
engine. Slothropâs misses and splatters all over the wind-
screen in front of the pilot. By which time Schnorp has
commenced flinging ballast bags at the engine, leaving
one stuck between two of the cylinders. The Americans,
taken by surprise, reach in confusion for sidearms, gre-
nades, machine guns, whatever it is your Ordnance types ,
carry around in the way of light armament. But they have
glided on past, and now the fog closes in again. There
are a few shots.
âShit, man, if they hit that bagââ
âShh. I think we got the wire from the esbuter mag-
neto.â Off in the middle of the cloud can be heard the
nagging whicker of an engine ee to start. Linkage
squeaks desperately.
âOh, fuck!â A muffled |
scream, far away. The inter-
mittent whining grows
fainter until there is silence.
Schnorp is lying on his back, slurping pie, laughing bit-
terly. Half of his inventoryâs been thrown Away, and Slo-
throp feels a little guilty.
âNo, no. Stop worrying. This is like the very earliest
days of the mercantile system. We're back to that again.
A second chance. Passages are long and hazardous. Loss
in transit is a part of life. You have had a glimpse of the
Ur-Markt.â
When the clouds fall away a few minutes later, they ;
In the Zone
391
find themselves floating quietly under. the sun, shrouds
dripping, gasbag still shiny with the moist cloud. No sign
at all of Marvyâs plane. Schnorp adjusts the flame. They:
begin to rise.
g
Toward. sundown, Schnorp gets thoughtful. âLook. You
can see the edge of it. At this latitude the earthâs shadow
races across Germany at 650 miles an hour, the speed of
a jet aircraft.â The cloud-sheet has broken up into little
fog-blankets the color of boiled shrimp. The balloon goes
drifting, over countryside whose green patchwork the twi-
light is now urging toward black: the thread of a little
river flaming in the late sun, the intricate-angled pattern
~
- of another roofless town...
_
The sunset is red and yellow, like the balloon. On the
horizon the mild sphere goes warping down, a peach on
a china plate. âThe farther south you go,â Schnorp. con-
tinues, âthe faster the shadow sweeps, till you reach the
equator: a thousand miles an hour. Fantastic. It breaks
through the speed of sound somewhere over southern
Franceâaround the latitude of Carcassonne.â
The wind is. bundling them on, north by east. âSouthern
France,â Slothrop remembers then. âYeah, Thatâs where
I broke through the speed of sound. .. .â
kA
The Zone is in full summer: souls are found quiescent
behind the pieces of wall, fast asleep down curled in shell-
craters, out screwing under the culverts with gray shirt-
tails hoisted, adrift dreaming in the middles of fields.
Dreaming of food, oblivion, alternate histories.
.
.
.
â
The silences here are retreats of sound, like the retreat
of the surf before a tidal. wave: sound draining away,
down slopes of acoustic passage, to gather, someplace
else, to a great surge of noise. Cowsâbig lummoxes
splotched black and white, harnessed. now for the plowing
because German horses in the Zone are all but extinctâ
_
will drudge with straight faces right on into minefields,
sown back in the winter. The godawful blasts go drum-
_. ming over the farmland, horns, hide and hamburger come
_- showering down all over the place, the dented bells lie
+ a
392
Gravity's RAINBOW
quiet
in the
clover.
Horses
might have known
to
keep clearâbut the Germans wasted their horses, squan-
dered the race, hearding them into the worst of it,
the swarms
of steel, the rheumatic marshes, the un-
blanketed winter chills of our late Fronts. A few might
have found safety with the Russians, who still care for
horses. You hear them often in the evenings. Their camp-
fires send up rays for miles from behind the stands of
beech, through northern-summer haze thatâs almost dry,
only enough of it to give a knifeâs edge to the firelight,
a dozen accordions and concertinas all going at once in
shaggy chords with a reed-ringing to it, and the songs
full of plaintive stvyehs and znyis with voices of the girl
auxiliaries clearest of all. The horses whicker and move
in the rustling grass. The men and women are kind, re-
sourceful, fanaticalâthey
are the most joyous of the
Zoneâs survivors.
In and out of all the vibrant flesh moves the mad
scavenger Tchitcherine, who is more metal than anything
else. Steel teeth wink as he talks. Under his pompadour
is a silver plate. Gold wirework threads in three-dimen-
sional tattoo among the fine wreckage of cartilage and
bone inside his right knee joint, the shape of it always
felt, painâs hand-fashioned seal, and his proudest battle
decoration, because it is invisible, and only he can feel
it. A four-hour operation, and in the dark. It was the
Eastern Front: there were no sulfa drugs, no anaesthesia.
Of course heâs proud.
He has marched here, with his limp as permanent as
gold, out of coldness, meadows, mystery. Officially he re-
ports to TsAGI, which is the Central Aero and Hydro-
dynamics Institute in Moscow. His orders mention techni-
cal intelligence. But his real mission in the Zone is private,
obsessive, and notâso his superiors have let him know,
in a number of delicate waysâin the peopleâs interest.
Tchitcherine guesses that this, taken literally, may be true
enough. But he is not sure about the interests of those
who warned him. They could have their own reasons for
wanting Enzian liquidated in spite of what they say. Their
differences with Tchitcherine may be over
the timing, or
the motives. Tchitcherineâs motives are not political. The
little State he is building in the German vacuum isâ
Tchitcherine's Private War
- Tchitcherine is a physically reconstructed survivor of the Eastern Front, possessing a silver plate in his head and gold wirework in his knee.
- Though officially a technical intelligence officer for Moscow's TsAGI, his true mission in the Zone is a private, obsessive quest to liquidate Enzian.
- His motivations are rooted in a nihilistic ancestry of assassins rather than the bureaucratic permanence of the Soviet State.
- He rejects the idea of an immortal State, preferring a 'mortal State' defined by individual suffering and the loneliness of those who face absolute power.
- Tchitcherine's past includes a posting in a remote 'bear's corner' of Central Asia, a landscape of irrigation canals, wolves, and false-fronted towns.
- Despite a network of informants, he remains fundamentally isolated by his compulsive need to annihilate his mythical half-brother.
In and out of all the vibrant flesh moves the mad scavenger Tchitcherine, who is more metal than anything else.
392
Gravity's RAINBOW
quiet
in the
clover.
Horses
might have known
to
keep clearâbut the Germans wasted their horses, squan-
dered the race, hearding them into the worst of it,
the swarms
of steel, the rheumatic marshes, the un-
blanketed winter chills of our late Fronts. A few might
have found safety with the Russians, who still care for
horses. You hear them often in the evenings. Their camp-
fires send up rays for miles from behind the stands of
beech, through northern-summer haze thatâs almost dry,
only enough of it to give a knifeâs edge to the firelight,
a dozen accordions and concertinas all going at once in
shaggy chords with a reed-ringing to it, and the songs
full of plaintive stvyehs and znyis with voices of the girl
auxiliaries clearest of all. The horses whicker and move
in the rustling grass. The men and women are kind, re-
sourceful, fanaticalâthey
are the most joyous of the
Zoneâs survivors.
In and out of all the vibrant flesh moves the mad
scavenger Tchitcherine, who is more metal than anything
else. Steel teeth wink as he talks. Under his pompadour
is a silver plate. Gold wirework threads in three-dimen-
sional tattoo among the fine wreckage of cartilage and
bone inside his right knee joint, the shape of it always
felt, painâs hand-fashioned seal, and his proudest battle
decoration, because it is invisible, and only he can feel
it. A four-hour operation, and in the dark. It was the
Eastern Front: there were no sulfa drugs, no anaesthesia.
Of course heâs proud.
He has marched here, with his limp as permanent as
gold, out of coldness, meadows, mystery. Officially he re-
ports to TsAGI, which is the Central Aero and Hydro-
dynamics Institute in Moscow. His orders mention techni-
cal intelligence. But his real mission in the Zone is private,
obsessive, and notâso his superiors have let him know,
in a number of delicate waysâin the peopleâs interest.
Tchitcherine guesses that this, taken literally, may be true
enough. But he is not sure about the interests of those
who warned him. They could have their own reasons for
wanting Enzian liquidated in spite of what they say. Their
differences with Tchitcherine may be over
the timing, or
the motives. Tchitcherineâs motives are not political. The
little State he is building in the German vacuum isâ
In the Zone
393
founded on a compulsive need he has given up trying to
understand, a need to annihilate the Schwarzkommando
and his mythical half-brother, Enzian. He comes from
â
_
Nihilist: stocks: there are in his ancestry any number of
bomb throwers and jubilant assassins. He is no relation
at all to the: Tchitcherine who dealt the Rapallo Treaty
with Walter Rathenau. There was a long-term operator,
a Menshevik turned Bolshevik, in his exile and his return
believing in a State that would outlive them all, where
someone would come to sit in his seat at the table just
as he: had slipped into Trotskyâsâsitters would come: and
go but the seats would remain... well, fine. There is
that kind of State. But then again, there is this other
Tchitcherineâs kind, a mortal State that will persist no
longer than the individuals in it. He is bound, in love
and in bodily fear, to studentsâ who have died under the
wheels of carriages, to eyes betrayed by nights without
|
sleep and arms that have opened maniacally to death by
absolute power. He envies their loneliness, their willing-
ness to go it alone, outside even a military structure,
often without support or love from anyone.
His own
faithful network of frauleins around the Zone is a com-
promise: he knows thereâs too much comfort in it, even
when the intelligence inputs are good. But the perceptible
hazards of love, of attachment, are still light enough for
him to accept, when balanced against what he has to do.
During the early Stalin days, Tchitcherine was stationed
in a remote âbearâs cornerâ (medvezhy ugolok), out in
Seven Rivers country. In the summer, irrigation canals
sweated a blurry fretwork across the green oasis. In the
winter, sticky teaglasses ranked the windowsills, soldiers
played preference and stepped outside only to piss, or to
shoot down the street at surprised wolves with a lately
retooled version of the Moisin. It was a land of drunken
nostalgia for the cities, silent Kirghiz riding, endless trem-
ors in the earth...
. because of the earthquakes, nobody
built higher than one story and so the town looked like a
Wild West movie: a brown dirt street, lined with gran-
diose two- and three-story false fronts.
He had come to give the tribesmen out here, this far
out, an alphabet: it was purely speech, gesture, touch
The New Turkic Alphabet
- Tchitcherine and a small Russian cadre are stationed in Central Asia to impose a Latin-based alphabet on tribes with a purely oral culture.
- The local 'red dZurt' serves as a Likbez center where Kirghiz tribesmen encounter written symbols for the first time amidst the smell of horses and weed-smoke.
- Tchitcherine experiences a profound sense of alienation, viewing the landscape and its people with a cold detachment that he knows will leave no lasting emotional memory.
- The relationships between the exilesâTchitcherine, Galina, and Lubaâare described as a mechanical dialectic, devoid of warmth and structured like military procedures.
- The schoolmarm Galina is depicted as a severe figure defined by chalkdust and toil, while her companion Luba represents a more volatile, predatory energy.
- The arrival of Dzagyp Qulan, a native teacher, highlights the intersection of linguistic imperialism with the physical clutter of Soviet industrial and military expansion.
He will not come to love this sky or plain, these people, their animals. Nor look back, no not even in the worst marsh-bivouacs of his soul, in naked Leningrad encounters with the certainty of his death, of the deaths of comrades, ever keep any memory of Seven Rivers to shelter with.
In the Zone
393
founded on a compulsive need he has given up trying to
understand, a need to annihilate the Schwarzkommando
and his mythical half-brother, Enzian. He comes from
â
_
Nihilist: stocks: there are in his ancestry any number of
bomb throwers and jubilant assassins. He is no relation
at all to the: Tchitcherine who dealt the Rapallo Treaty
with Walter Rathenau. There was a long-term operator,
a Menshevik turned Bolshevik, in his exile and his return
believing in a State that would outlive them all, where
someone would come to sit in his seat at the table just
as he: had slipped into Trotskyâsâsitters would come: and
go but the seats would remain... well, fine. There is
that kind of State. But then again, there is this other
Tchitcherineâs kind, a mortal State that will persist no
longer than the individuals in it. He is bound, in love
and in bodily fear, to studentsâ who have died under the
wheels of carriages, to eyes betrayed by nights without
|
sleep and arms that have opened maniacally to death by
absolute power. He envies their loneliness, their willing-
ness to go it alone, outside even a military structure,
often without support or love from anyone.
His own
faithful network of frauleins around the Zone is a com-
promise: he knows thereâs too much comfort in it, even
when the intelligence inputs are good. But the perceptible
hazards of love, of attachment, are still light enough for
him to accept, when balanced against what he has to do.
During the early Stalin days, Tchitcherine was stationed
in a remote âbearâs cornerâ (medvezhy ugolok), out in
Seven Rivers country. In the summer, irrigation canals
sweated a blurry fretwork across the green oasis. In the
winter, sticky teaglasses ranked the windowsills, soldiers
played preference and stepped outside only to piss, or to
shoot down the street at surprised wolves with a lately
retooled version of the Moisin. It was a land of drunken
nostalgia for the cities, silent Kirghiz riding, endless trem-
ors in the earth...
. because of the earthquakes, nobody
built higher than one story and so the town looked like a
Wild West movie: a brown dirt street, lined with gran-
diose two- and three-story false fronts.
He had come to give the tribesmen out here, this far
out, an alphabet: it was purely speech, gesture, touch
394
Gravityâs Rainsow
among
them, not even
an Arabic
script to replace.
Tchitcherine coordinated with the local Likbez center,
one of a string known back in Moscow as the âred dZurts.â
Young and old Kirghiz came in from the plain, smelling
of horses, sour milk and weed-smoke, inside to stare at
slates filled with chalk marks. The stiff Latin symbols were
almost as strange to the Russian cadreâtall Galina in her
cast-off Army trousers and gray Cossack shirts .
.
. mar-
celled and soft-faced Luba, her dear friend
.
. . Vaslav
Tchitcherine, the political eye
.
.
. all agentsâthough
none thought of it this wayârepresenting the NTA (New
Turkic Alphabet) in uncommonly alien country.
In the mormings after mess, Tchitcherine will usually
mosey down to the red dZurt there, fixing to look in on
that Galina the schoolmarmâwho appeals to what must
be a feminine linkage or two in his personality .
. . well
.
.
. often he'll come outside to find his morning skies
full of sheet-lighting: gusting, glaring. Awful. The ground
shudders just below his hearing. It might be the end of
the world, except that it is a fairly average day, for Cen-
tral Asia. Pulse after heavenwide pulse. Clouds, some in
very clear profile, black and jagged, sail in armadas to-
ward the Asian arctic, above the sweeping dessiatinas of
grasses, of mullein stalks, rippling out of sight, green and
gray in the wind. An amazing wind. But he stands in the
street, out in it, hitching his pants, lapelpoints whipped
rattling against his chest, cursing Army, Party, Historyâ
whatever has put him here. He will not come to love this
sky or plain, these people, their animals. Nor look back,
no not even in the worst marsh-bivouacs of his soul, in
naked Leningrad encounters with the certainty of his
death, of the deaths of comrades, fever keep any memory
-of Seven Rivers to shelter with. No music heard, no sum-
mer journey taken...
. no horse seen cane the steppe
in the last daylight. .
Certainly not Galina. Galina won't even be a proper
âmemory.â Already she is more like the shape of an alpha-
bet, the procedure for field-stripping a Moisinâyes, like re-
membering to hold back trigger with forefinger of left
hand as you remove bolt with right, a set of interlocking
precautions, part of a process among the three exiles
Galina/Luba/Tchitcherine
which
is working
out
its
In the Zone
395
changes, its little dialectic, until it ends, with nothing
past the structure to remember... .
_.
Her eyes hide in iron shadows, the orbits darkened
as if by very precise blows. Her jaw is small, square,
levered forward, the lower teeth more apt to show when
she speaks...
.
.. Hardly ever a smile. Bones in her face
strongly curved and welded. Her aura is chalkdust, laun-
dry soap, sweat. With desperate Luba about the edges,
always, of her. room, at her window, a pretty hawk. Galina
has trained herâbut itâs only Luba who flies, who knows
the verst-long dive, the talon-shock and the blood, while
her lean owner must stay below in the schoolroom, shut
in by words, drifts and frost-patterns of white words.
- Light pulses behind the clouds. Tchitcherine tracks mud
off the street into the Center, gets a blush from Luba, a
kind of kowtow and mopflourish from the comical Chinese
swamper: Chu Piang, unreadable stares from an early
pupil
or
two.
The
traveling
ânativeâ
schoolteacher
Dzagyp Qulan looks up from a clutter of pastel survey
maps, black theodolites, bootlaces, tractor gaskets, plugs,
greasy tierod ends, steel map-cases, 7.62 mm rounds,
crumbs and chunks of lepeshka, about to ask for a ciga-
rette which is already out of Tchitcherineâs pocket and
on route.
He smiles thank you..Heâd better. Heâs not sure of
Tchitcherineâs intentions, much less the Russianâs friend-
ship. DZaqyp Qulanâs father was killed during the 1916
rising, trying to get away from Kuropatkinâs troops and
over the border into Chinaâone of about 100 fleeing
Kirghiz massacred one evening beside a drying trickle of
river that might be traceable somehow north to the zero
âat the top of the world. Russian settlers, in full vigilante
âpanic, surrounded and killed the darker refugees with
shovels, pitchforks, old rifles, any weapon to hand. A
common occurrence in Semirechie then, even that far
from the railroad. They hunted Sarts, Kazakhs, Kirghiz,
and Dungans that terrible summer like wild game. Daily
scores were kept. It was a competition, good-natured but
more than play. Thousands of restless natives bit the
dust. Their names, even their numbers, lost forever. Colors
âof skin, ways of dressing became reasonable cause to jail,
or beat and kill, Even speaking-voicesâbecause rumors
iS
Le â
y
Gj
Cw
PA.
The Silence of Semirechie
- The 1916 Kirghiz uprising is depicted as a brutal massacre where Russian settlers hunted indigenous populations like wild game under the guise of wartime paranoia.
- Western perspectives dismissed native grievances, preferring to view the rebellion as an international conspiracy rather than a reaction to fifty years of Russian rule.
- Despite the Soviet 'Be Kind To The Nationalities' policy, Dzaqyp Qulan remains an outsider, reduced to a 'paper existence' as a token Educated Native Speaker.
- The vast, unalphabetized silences of the Central Asian landscape represent a primal force that Soviet literacy and bureaucracy cannot liquidate or control.
- Galina experiences a psychological transformation, dreaming of herself as a giant whose own 'Central Asian giantness' threatens to annihilate the fragile, tiny cities of her past.
She had to come out here to learn what an earthquake felt like, and how to wait out a sandstorm.
In the Zone
395
changes, its little dialectic, until it ends, with nothing
past the structure to remember... .
_.
Her eyes hide in iron shadows, the orbits darkened
as if by very precise blows. Her jaw is small, square,
levered forward, the lower teeth more apt to show when
she speaks...
.
.. Hardly ever a smile. Bones in her face
strongly curved and welded. Her aura is chalkdust, laun-
dry soap, sweat. With desperate Luba about the edges,
always, of her. room, at her window, a pretty hawk. Galina
has trained herâbut itâs only Luba who flies, who knows
the verst-long dive, the talon-shock and the blood, while
her lean owner must stay below in the schoolroom, shut
in by words, drifts and frost-patterns of white words.
- Light pulses behind the clouds. Tchitcherine tracks mud
off the street into the Center, gets a blush from Luba, a
kind of kowtow and mopflourish from the comical Chinese
swamper: Chu Piang, unreadable stares from an early
pupil
or
two.
The
traveling
ânativeâ
schoolteacher
Dzagyp Qulan looks up from a clutter of pastel survey
maps, black theodolites, bootlaces, tractor gaskets, plugs,
greasy tierod ends, steel map-cases, 7.62 mm rounds,
crumbs and chunks of lepeshka, about to ask for a ciga-
rette which is already out of Tchitcherineâs pocket and
on route.
He smiles thank you..Heâd better. Heâs not sure of
Tchitcherineâs intentions, much less the Russianâs friend-
ship. DZaqyp Qulanâs father was killed during the 1916
rising, trying to get away from Kuropatkinâs troops and
over the border into Chinaâone of about 100 fleeing
Kirghiz massacred one evening beside a drying trickle of
river that might be traceable somehow north to the zero
âat the top of the world. Russian settlers, in full vigilante
âpanic, surrounded and killed the darker refugees with
shovels, pitchforks, old rifles, any weapon to hand. A
common occurrence in Semirechie then, even that far
from the railroad. They hunted Sarts, Kazakhs, Kirghiz,
and Dungans that terrible summer like wild game. Daily
scores were kept. It was a competition, good-natured but
more than play. Thousands of restless natives bit the
dust. Their names, even their numbers, lost forever. Colors
âof skin, ways of dressing became reasonable cause to jail,
or beat and kill, Even speaking-voicesâbecause rumors
iS
Le â
y
Gj
Cw
PA.
396
Gravityâs RaAInsow
of German and Turkish agents swept along these plains
not without help from Petrograd. This native uprisins
was supposed to be the doing of foreigners, an interna
tional conspiracy to open a new front in the war. Moré
Western paranoia, based solidly on the European balance
of power. How could there be Kazakh, KirghizâEast
ernâreasons? Hadn't the nationalities been happy? Hadnâ
fifty years of Russian rule brought progress? enrichment
Well, for now, under the current âdispensation in Mos
cow, Diaqyp Qulan is the son of a national martyr. The
Georgian has come to power, power in Russia, ancien
and absolute, proclaiming Be Kind To The N ationalities
But though the lovable old tyrant does what he can
Dzaqyp Qulan remains somehow as much a ânativeâ
a:
before, gauged day-to-day by these Russians as to hi
degree of restlessness. His sorrel face, his long narrov
eyes and dusty boots, where he goes on his travels anc
what really transpires inside the lonely hide tents Ow
There, among the auls, out in that wind, these are mys:
teries they donât care to enter or touch. They throw
amiable cigarettes, construct him paper existences, usé
him as an Educated Native Speaker. Heâs allowed hi:
function and thatâs as far as it goes ..
. except, now anc
then, a look from Luba suggesting falconhoodâjesses, sky
and earth, voyages.
.
.
. Or from Galina a silence wher
there might have been words... .
Here she has become a connoisseuse of silences. The
great silences of Seven Rivers have not yet- been alpha
betized, and perhaps never will be. They are apt at any
time to come into a room, into a heart, returning to chall
and paper the sensible Soviet alternatives brought ou
here by the Likbez agents. They are silences NTA canno
fill, cannot liquidate, immense and frightening as the er
ments in this bearâs cornerâscaledâ to a larger Earth,
planet wilder and more distant from<the sun...
.
winds, the city snows and heat waves of Galinaâs child
hood were never so vast, so pitiless. She had to come ou
here to learn what an earthquake felt like, and how te
wait out a sandstorm. What would it be like to go bac!
now, back to a city? Often she will dream some daint
pasteboard model, a city-plannerâs city, perfectly detailed
so tiny her bootsoles could wipe out neighborhoods at :
~
In the Zone
397
stepâat the same time, she is also a dweller, down inside
the little city, coming awake in the very late night, blink-
ing up into painful daylight, waiting for the annihilation,
the blows from the sky, drawn terribly tense with the
waiting, unable to name whatever it is approaching, know-
ingâtoo awful to sayâit is herself, her Central Asian
giantness self, that is the Nameless Thing she fears...
.
These tall, these star-blotting Moslem angels
.
.
. O,
wie spurlos zertrate ein Engel den Trostmarkt.
.
.
. He is
constant back there, westward, the African half-brother
and his poetry books furrowed and sown with Teutonic
lettering burntwood-blackâhe waits, smudging the pages
one by one, out across the unnumbered versts of lowland
and of zonal light that slants as their autumns come
around again each year, that leans along the planetâs
withers like an old circus rider, tries to catch their atten-
tion âwith nothing more than its public face, and continues
to fail at each slick, perfect pass around the ring.
But didnât Dzaqyp Qulan, now and thenânot oftenâ
across the paper schoolroom, or by surprise in front of
windows into the green deep open, give Tchitcherine a
certain lookP Didnât the look say, âNothing you do, noth-
ing he does, will help you in your mortalityâ? And, âYou
are brothers. Together, apart, why let it matter this much?
Live. Die someday, honorably, meanlyâbut not by the
Otherâs hand.
.
. .â The light of each common autumn
keeps bringing the same free advice, each time a little
less hopefully. But neither brother can listen. The black
must have found, somewhere in Germany, his own version
of Dzaqyp Qulan, some childish native to stare him out
of German dreams of the Tenth-Elegy angel coming,
Wingbeats already at the edges of waking, coming to
trample
spoorless
the white marketplace
of his own
exile. .. . Facing east, the black face keeping watch from
some winter embankment or earth-colored wall of a fine-
grained stone into low wastes of Prussia, of Poland, the
leagues of meadow waiting, just as Tchitcherine grows
each month now more taut and windsmooth at his west-
ward flank, seeing History and Geopolitics move them
surely into confrontation
as the radios
go screaming
er, new penstocks in the night shudder to the touch
with hydroelectric rage, mounting, across the empty can-
The Inevitable Confrontation
- Tchitcherine and his companion Dzaqyp Qulan traverse the vast, unnumbered versts of the lowland steppes as autumn light cycles endlessly over the planet.
- Dzaqyp Qulan offers a silent, existential warning that neither History nor Geopolitics can save the brothers from their mortality or their mutual obsession.
- Tchitcherineâs half-brother, the 'black' Enzian, keeps a parallel watch from the west, both men being drawn toward a predestined and violent confrontation.
- The landscape is charged with industrial and military tension, featuring screaming radios, hydroelectric rage, and skies filled with falling canopies.
- Tchitcherine rides Snake, a 'methodically homicidal' Appaloosa from Texas with a bizarre history in the global oil and rodeo circuits.
- The journey moves away from the 'kinder zones of Earth' into the backlands, where the horseâs strange markings mirror the vacuum of the void.
Didnât the look say, âNothing you do, nothing he does, will help you in your mortalityâ?
~
In the Zone
397
stepâat the same time, she is also a dweller, down inside
the little city, coming awake in the very late night, blink-
ing up into painful daylight, waiting for the annihilation,
the blows from the sky, drawn terribly tense with the
waiting, unable to name whatever it is approaching, know-
ingâtoo awful to sayâit is herself, her Central Asian
giantness self, that is the Nameless Thing she fears...
.
These tall, these star-blotting Moslem angels
.
.
. O,
wie spurlos zertrate ein Engel den Trostmarkt.
.
.
. He is
constant back there, westward, the African half-brother
and his poetry books furrowed and sown with Teutonic
lettering burntwood-blackâhe waits, smudging the pages
one by one, out across the unnumbered versts of lowland
and of zonal light that slants as their autumns come
around again each year, that leans along the planetâs
withers like an old circus rider, tries to catch their atten-
tion âwith nothing more than its public face, and continues
to fail at each slick, perfect pass around the ring.
But didnât Dzaqyp Qulan, now and thenânot oftenâ
across the paper schoolroom, or by surprise in front of
windows into the green deep open, give Tchitcherine a
certain lookP Didnât the look say, âNothing you do, noth-
ing he does, will help you in your mortalityâ? And, âYou
are brothers. Together, apart, why let it matter this much?
Live. Die someday, honorably, meanlyâbut not by the
Otherâs hand.
.
. .â The light of each common autumn
keeps bringing the same free advice, each time a little
less hopefully. But neither brother can listen. The black
must have found, somewhere in Germany, his own version
of Dzaqyp Qulan, some childish native to stare him out
of German dreams of the Tenth-Elegy angel coming,
Wingbeats already at the edges of waking, coming to
trample
spoorless
the white marketplace
of his own
exile. .. . Facing east, the black face keeping watch from
some winter embankment or earth-colored wall of a fine-
grained stone into low wastes of Prussia, of Poland, the
leagues of meadow waiting, just as Tchitcherine grows
each month now more taut and windsmooth at his west-
ward flank, seeing History and Geopolitics move them
surely into confrontation
as the radios
go screaming
er, new penstocks in the night shudder to the touch
with hydroelectric rage, mounting, across the empty can-
398
Graviryâs Ramnsow
yons and passes, skies in the day go thick with miles ot
falling canopies, white as visions of rich menâs heavenly
dzZurts, gaming now and still awkward, but growing, eack
strewn pattern, less and less at play. ...
Out into the bones of the backlands ride Tchitcherin«
and
his
faithful
Kirghiz companion
DzZaqyp
Qulan
Tchitcherineâs horse is a version of himselfâan Appaloos:
from the United States named Snake. Snake used to be
some kind of remittance horse. Year before last he was ix
Saudi Arabia, being sent a check each month by a zany
(or, if you enjoy paranoid systems, a horribly rational)
Midland, Texas oil man to stay off of the U.S. rodeo cir
cuits, where in those days the famous bucking broncc
Midnight was flinging young men right and left into the
sun-beat fences, But Snake here is not so much Midnight
wild as methodically homicidal. Worse, heâs unpredictable
When you go to ride him he may be indifferent, or docile
as a maiden. But then again, with no warning, seized ou
of the last ruffling of a great sigh, he could manage t
kill you simply as the gesture of a hoof, the serpent tucl
of a head toward the exact moment and spot on th
ground that youll cease to live. No way to tell: fo:
months he can be no trouble at all. So far heâs ignorec
Tchitcherine. But heâs tried for Dzaqyp Qulan three times
Twice dumb luck preserved the Kirghiz, and the thir
time he actually hung on and rode the colt a long tim
down
to
a
fair kind
of obedience.
But each tim
Tchitcherine goes up to Snakeâs jingling picket on th
hillside, he carries, with his leather gear and his bit o
scarred tapestry for the horseâs back, the doubt, the in
consolable chance that the Kirghiz didnât really break hin
last time. That Snake is only waiting his moment. ...
They're riding away from the railroad: farther awa
from the kinder zones of Earth. Black and white star
explode down the Appaloosaâs croup and haunch. At th
center of each of these novae is a stark circle of vacuum
of no color, into which midday Kir,
at the roadside
have taken looks, and grinned away with a turn of =
head to the horizon behind.
|
Strange, strange are the dynamics of oil and the way
of oilmen. Snake has seen a lot of changes since Arabie
Tchitcherine in the Wild East
- The narrative follows a character named Snake on a final, high-stakes journey through the Kirghiz uplands to reach Tchitcherine.
- Tchitcherine is depicted as a soldier living under an official curse, posted to the remote Asian frontier as a form of career 'thinning.'
- Rumors circulate about Tchitcherine's past, including a scandalous affair with a high-ranking Soviet courtesan in a dacha near the capital.
- The text explores the contrast between the 'urban abstractions' of the Soviet state and the listless, dusty reality of the eastern garrison towns.
- Tchitcherine is rumored to have connections with Wimpe, a salesman for an IG Farben subsidiary, hinting at potential espionage or black-market ties.
- The setting is characterized by a sense of purgatory, where characters dream of escape to colonial landscapes or the sea while trapped in the seismic earth of Central Asia.
Waiting, out in sunlight which is not theirs yet, is the . . . The . . . Waiting for them, the unimagined creature of height, and burning . . .
In the Zone
399
m route to Tchitcherine, who may be his other halfâlot
f horse thieves, hard riding, confiscation by this govern-
aent and that, escapes into ever more remote country.
âhis time, the Kirghiz pheasants scattering now at the
ound of hooves, birds big as turkeys, black and white
vith splashes of blood-red all around the eyes, lumbering
or the uplands, Snake is going out into what could be
he last adventure of all, hardly remembering now the
vater-pipes at the oases crawling with smoke, the bearded
â
nen, the carved, nacred and lacquered saddles, the neck-
eins of twisted goat-hide, the women pillioned and wail-
ag with delight up into Caucasian foothills in the dark,
arried by lust, by storm along streaks of faintest trail . . .
mly traces spread back in a wake now over these terminal
rasslands: shadows damping and passing to rest among
he rout of pheasants. Momentum builds as the two riders
lunge ahead. The smell of forests on the night slowly
lisappears. Waiting, out in sunlight which is not theirs
et, isâthe
..
. The. .
. Waiting for them, the unimagined
reature of height, and burning...
.
+
. even now in her grown up dreams, to anxious
salina comes the winged rider, red Sagittarius off the
hildhood placards of the Revolution. Far from rag, snow,
acerated streets she huddles here in the Asian dust with
er buttocks arched skyward, awaiting the first touch of
imâof it... . Steel hooves, teeth, some whistling sweep
f quills across her spine .
.
. the ringing bronze of an
questrian statue in a square, and her face, pressed into
he seismic earth. ...
'âHeâs a soldier,â Luba simply meaning Tchitcherine,
and-far away from home.â Posted out to the wild East,
nd carrying on quiet, expressionless, and clearly under
ome official curse. The rumors are as extravagant as this
ountry is listless. In the dayroom the corporals talk about
âwoman: an amazing Soviet courtesan who wore cami-
oles of white kid and shaved her perfect legs every mom-
ag all the way to the groin. Horse-fucking Catherine,
tmined and brilliant, brought up to date. Her lovers ran
rom ministers down to the likes of Captain Tchitcherine,
oY her truest. While neo-Potemkins ranged the deep
etic for her, skilled and technocratic wolves erecting
i
uA
:
1
400
Gravirtyâs Rainsow
P
settlements out of tundra, entire urban abstractions ot
of ice and snow, bold Tchitcherine was back at the cap
tal, snuggled away in her dacha, where they played :
fisherman and fish, terrorist and State, explorer and edg
of the wavegreen
world. When
official attention
wi:
finally directed their way, it did not mean death fi
Tchitcherine, not even exileâbut a thinning out of care:
possibilities: that happened to be how the vectors ran,
|
those days. Central Asia for a good part of his prin
years, or attachĂ© someplace like Costa Rica (wellâ!
wishes it could be Costa Rica, somedayâa release fro
this purgatory, into shuffling surf, green nightsâhow |
misses the sea, how he dreams of eyes dark and liqu
as his own, colonial eyes, gazing down from balconies |
rotting stone ...).
:
Meanwhile, another rumor tells of his connection wii
the legendary Wimpe, the head salesman for. Ostarzni:
kunde GmbH, a subsidiary of the IG. Because it is coi!
mon knowledge that IG representatives abroad are act!
ally German spies, reporting back to an office in Ber'|
known as âNW7,â this story about Tchitcherine is not |
easy to believe.
If it were literally true, Tchitcheri:
wouldnât be hereâthereâs no possible way his life cou
have been spared in favor of this somnambulism amo
the eastern garrison towns.
Certainly he could have known Wimpe. Their lives, :|
a while, ran close enough in space and time. Wimpe v
a Verbindungsman in the classic style, with a streak |
unhealthy enthusiasm: charming, handsome in a way t)
_ came at you in shelves or terraces of strength: amia)
gray eyes, vertical granite nose, mouth that never qu
ered, chin incapable of fantasies ...
. dark suits, imma:
late leather belts and silver studs, horsehide shoes t|
gleamed under the skylights in the Czarist entrance-h:
and across the Soviet concrete, always dapper, usu<
correct, informed and passionate about organic chemis!/.
his specialty and, itâs been suggested, his faith,
âThink of chess,â in his early days around the capi.
looking for a comparison that Russians might take to, 'r
extravagant game of chess.â Going on|to show, if his av
ence was receptive (he had salesman reflexes,
w
steer automatically along lines of least indifference) I}
The Chemistry of Power
- Wimpe, a dapper German salesman of organic chemistry, views molecular bonding as an extravagant and multidimensional game of chess.
- He describes carbon as the 'Great Catherine' of the periodic table, emphasizing the infinite possibilities of chemical bonding and structural design.
- Tchitcherine, a Soviet official, is drawn into Wimpe's world of 'German dope,' a vast collection of opium alkaloids and patent medicines.
- Wimpe treats chemical modification like high fashion, adding molecular 'ribbons and buckles' to morphine and codeine to create new products.
- The Soviet chain of command eventually intervenes in this 'repressed and bloodless' affair, exiling Tchitcherine to Central Asia as a form of conservative therapy.
- The narrative explores the dangerous indeterminacy of their relationship, set against a backdrop of dingy hotel rooms and the threat of state surveillance.
Each molecule had so many possibilities open to it, possibilities for bonding, bonds of different strengths, from carbon the most versatile, the queen, 'the Great Catherine of the periodic table,' down to the little hydrogens numerous and single-moving as pawns.
400
Gravirtyâs Rainsow
P
settlements out of tundra, entire urban abstractions ot
of ice and snow, bold Tchitcherine was back at the cap
tal, snuggled away in her dacha, where they played :
fisherman and fish, terrorist and State, explorer and edg
of the wavegreen
world. When
official attention
wi:
finally directed their way, it did not mean death fi
Tchitcherine, not even exileâbut a thinning out of care:
possibilities: that happened to be how the vectors ran,
|
those days. Central Asia for a good part of his prin
years, or attachĂ© someplace like Costa Rica (wellâ!
wishes it could be Costa Rica, somedayâa release fro
this purgatory, into shuffling surf, green nightsâhow |
misses the sea, how he dreams of eyes dark and liqu
as his own, colonial eyes, gazing down from balconies |
rotting stone ...).
:
Meanwhile, another rumor tells of his connection wii
the legendary Wimpe, the head salesman for. Ostarzni:
kunde GmbH, a subsidiary of the IG. Because it is coi!
mon knowledge that IG representatives abroad are act!
ally German spies, reporting back to an office in Ber'|
known as âNW7,â this story about Tchitcherine is not |
easy to believe.
If it were literally true, Tchitcheri:
wouldnât be hereâthereâs no possible way his life cou
have been spared in favor of this somnambulism amo
the eastern garrison towns.
Certainly he could have known Wimpe. Their lives, :|
a while, ran close enough in space and time. Wimpe v
a Verbindungsman in the classic style, with a streak |
unhealthy enthusiasm: charming, handsome in a way t)
_ came at you in shelves or terraces of strength: amia)
gray eyes, vertical granite nose, mouth that never qu
ered, chin incapable of fantasies ...
. dark suits, imma:
late leather belts and silver studs, horsehide shoes t|
gleamed under the skylights in the Czarist entrance-h:
and across the Soviet concrete, always dapper, usu<
correct, informed and passionate about organic chemis!/.
his specialty and, itâs been suggested, his faith,
âThink of chess,â in his early days around the capi.
looking for a comparison that Russians might take to, 'r
extravagant game of chess.â Going on|to show, if his av
ence was receptive (he had salesman reflexes,
w
steer automatically along lines of least indifference) I}
In the Zone
401°
eh molecule had so many possibilities open to it, possi-
ilities for bonding, bonds of different strengths, from car-
on the most versatile, the queen, âthe Great Catherine
f the periodic table,â down to the little hydrogens numer-
us and single-moving as pawns ... and the brute oppo-
ition of the chessboard yielding, in this chemical game,
9 dance-figures in three dimensions, âfour, if you like,â
nd a radically different idea of what winning and losing
aeant. .«
. Schwarmerei, his colleagues back home had
auttered, finding excuses to drift away into other conver-
ations. But Tchitcherine would have stayed. Foolish and
omantic, he would have kept listening, even egged the
serman on.
How could they have failed to be observed? By and
y, as the affair in its repressed and bloodless way pro-
eeded, the Soviet chain of command, solicitous as any
gth-century family, would begin toâ take simple steps
9 keep the two apart. Conservative therapy. Central Asia.
tut in the weeks of vague and soft intelligence, before
he watchers quite caught the drift of things... what
eads and tails went jingling inside the dark pockets. of
hat indeterminacy? Since his earliest days as a detail
nan, Wimpeâs expertise had been focused in cyclized
yenzylisoquinolines. Those of major interest being the
pium alkaloids and their many variations. Right. The
pner rooms of Wimpeâs officeâa suite at an older hotelâ
vere full of samples, German dope in amazing profusion,
Nimpe the jinni of the West holding them up, vial after
âal, for little Tchitcherineâs face to wonder at: âEumecon,
2% solution of morphine... Dionine (we add on an
thyl group, here, to the rorphine, as you see) .
folopon and Nealpon, Pantopon and Omnopon, all oe
ures of opium alkaloids as the soluble hydrochlorides . .
md Glycopon, as glycero-phosphates.
. .
. Here is Euco-
lalâa codeine with two hydrogens, a hydroxyl, a hydro-
hlorideââ-gesturing in the air around his basic fistâ
hanging off different parts of the molecule.â Among these
vatent medicines, trappings and detailing were half the
fameââAs the French do with their dresses, nicht wahr?
ribbon here, a pretty buckle there, to help sell a sparer
lesign. .
. Ah, this? Trivalin!â One of the jewels of his
ine. âMorphine, and caffeine, and cocaine, all in solution,
SS,
402
Gravity's RAINBOw
as the valerates, Valerian, jaâroot and rhizome: you m
have older relatives who took it years ago as a net
tonic
.
.
. a bit of passementerie, you might sayâso1
trimming over these bare molecules.â
What did Tchitcherine have to sayP Was Tchitcher
there at all? sitting back in the dingy room while the |
cables slapped and creaked through the walls, and do
in the street, rarely enough to matter, a droshky rattl
whip-snapping over these black old cobblesP Or wh
snow beat at the grimy windows? How far, in the ey
of those who would send him to Central Asia, was 1
far: would his simple presence in these rooms have gott
him death automatically
.
.
. or was there still, even
this stage of things, enough slack to let him reply?
âBut once the pain has been taken care of . . . the si
ple pain... beyond .
.
. below that. zero level of fe
ing ...I have heard .. .â He has heard. Not the subtl
way to get into it, and Wimpe must have known eve
'
standard opener there is. Some military men are o1
blunt, while others are of such reckless blood there
never a question of âholding backâââitâs a positive
sanity, they not only will commit horse against cann
they will lead the charge themselves. Itâs magnificent, t
itâs not war. Wait until.the Eastern Front. By his fi
action, Tchitcherine will have gained his reputation as
suicidal maniac. German field commanders from Finla
to the Black Sea will develop for him a gentlemanly c
taste. It will be seriously wondered if the man has a
sense of military decency at all. They will capture h
and lose him, wound him, take him for killed in acti
and he will go on, headlong, a raving snowman over |
winter marshesâthere'll be no wind adjustment, no fie
change to the bottleneck fairing or deadly ogive of th
Parabellum rounds that can ever. bring him down. He
fond, as was Lenin, of Napoleonâs on sâengage, et pi
on voit, and as for plunging ahead, well, that IG mz
hotel room may have been one of
his
earlier rehears |
Tchitcherine has a way of getting together with un
sirables, sub rosa enemies of order, counterrevolution
odds and ends of humanity: he doesnât plan it, it :
happens, he is a giant supermolecule
with so many 0
bonds available at any given time, and in the drift
The Inelastic Bonds of Tchitcherine
- Tchitcherine is introduced as a reckless military figure whose suicidal bravery on the Eastern Front earns him a reputation for madness among German commanders.
- He is described as a 'supermolecule' with open chemical bonds, naturally attracting social outcasts and counterrevolutionaries in a chaotic, unpredictable dance.
- The narrative shifts to Chu Piang, a Chinese factotum who serves as a living monument to the predatory success of 19th-century British opium trade policy.
- The text satirizes the 'classic hustle' of British imperialism, which created an inelastic demand for opium and then fought wars to protect the 'sacred' right to sell it.
- Chu Piangâs addiction is depicted as a physical ingot of 'Need,' a commodity so pure and stable that it becomes a foundational value for colonial administrators.
- The scene concludes with a surreal image of Victorian tourists observing the addict's misery as if it were a high-priced museum exhibit.
He is a giant supermolecule with so many open bonds available at any given time, and in the drift of things . . . in the dance of things . . . howsoever . . . others latch on.
402
Gravity's RAINBOw
as the valerates, Valerian, jaâroot and rhizome: you m
have older relatives who took it years ago as a net
tonic
.
.
. a bit of passementerie, you might sayâso1
trimming over these bare molecules.â
What did Tchitcherine have to sayP Was Tchitcher
there at all? sitting back in the dingy room while the |
cables slapped and creaked through the walls, and do
in the street, rarely enough to matter, a droshky rattl
whip-snapping over these black old cobblesP Or wh
snow beat at the grimy windows? How far, in the ey
of those who would send him to Central Asia, was 1
far: would his simple presence in these rooms have gott
him death automatically
.
.
. or was there still, even
this stage of things, enough slack to let him reply?
âBut once the pain has been taken care of . . . the si
ple pain... beyond .
.
. below that. zero level of fe
ing ...I have heard .. .â He has heard. Not the subtl
way to get into it, and Wimpe must have known eve
'
standard opener there is. Some military men are o1
blunt, while others are of such reckless blood there
never a question of âholding backâââitâs a positive
sanity, they not only will commit horse against cann
they will lead the charge themselves. Itâs magnificent, t
itâs not war. Wait until.the Eastern Front. By his fi
action, Tchitcherine will have gained his reputation as
suicidal maniac. German field commanders from Finla
to the Black Sea will develop for him a gentlemanly c
taste. It will be seriously wondered if the man has a
sense of military decency at all. They will capture h
and lose him, wound him, take him for killed in acti
and he will go on, headlong, a raving snowman over |
winter marshesâthere'll be no wind adjustment, no fie
change to the bottleneck fairing or deadly ogive of th
Parabellum rounds that can ever. bring him down. He
fond, as was Lenin, of Napoleonâs on sâengage, et pi
on voit, and as for plunging ahead, well, that IG mz
hotel room may have been one of
his
earlier rehears |
Tchitcherine has a way of getting together with un
sirables, sub rosa enemies of order, counterrevolution
odds and ends of humanity: he doesnât plan it, it :
happens, he is a giant supermolecule
with so many 0
bonds available at any given time, and in the drift
In the Zone
403
things . .
. in the dance of things .
.
. howsoever
.
_ others latch on, and the pharmacology of the Tchitcherine
thus modified, its onwardly revealed side-effects, canât
necessarily be calculated ahead of time. Chu Piang, the
Chinese factotum in the red dzurt, knows something of
this. The first-day°Tchitcherine came to report in to the
place, Chu Piang knewâand tripped over his mop, not
so much to divert attention as to celebrate the meeting.
Chu Piang has a bond or two available himself. He is a
living monument to the success of British trade policy
â
back during the last century. This classic hustle is still
famous, even today, for the cold purity of its execution:
bring opium from India, introduce it into Chinaâhowdy
Fong, this hereâs opium, opium, this is Fongâah, so, me
eatee!âno-ho-ho, Fong, you smokee, smokee, see? pretty
soon Fongâs coming back for more and more, so you
create an inelastic demand for the shit, get China to make
it illegal, then sucker China into a couple-three disastrous
wars over the right of your merchants to sell opium, which
by now you are describing as sacred. You win, China
.
loses, Fantastic. Chu Piang being a monument to all this,
nowadays whole tourist caravans come through to look at
him, usually while heâs Under The Influence ..
. âHere
ladies and gentlemen, as you may have observed, the
characteristic sooty-gray complexion.
.
. .â They all stand
peering into his dreamstruck facies, attentive. men with
-
mutton-chop sideburns, holding pearl-gray morning hats
in their hands, the women lifting their skirts away from
where horrid Asian critters are seething microscopically
across the old floorboards, while their tour leader indicates
items of interest with his metal pointer, an instrument
remarkably thin, thinner than a rapier in fact, often flash-
ing along much faster than eyes can really followâââHis
Need, you will notice, retains its shape under all manner
_
of stresses. No bodily illness, no scarcity of supply seems
to affect it a whit .. .â all their mild, their shallow eyes
- following gently as piano chords from a suburban parlor
_.... the inelastic Need turns luminous this stagnant air:
it is an ingot beyond price, from which sovereigns yet may
be struck, and faces of great administrators engraved and
run off to signify. It was worth the trip, just to see this
_ shining, worth the long passage by sleigh, over the frozen
404
Gravity's Ramnsow
steppe in an enormous closed sleigh, big as a ferryboat,
bedizened all over with Victorian gingerbreadâinside are
decks and levels for each class of passenger,
velvet
saloons,
well-stocked
galleys,
a young Dr. Maledetto
whom the ladies love, an elegant menu including every-
thing from Mille-Feuilles 4 la Fondue de la Cervelle to La
Surprise du Vésuve, lounges amply fitted out with stere-
opticons and a library of slides, oak toilets rubbed to a
deep red and hand-carved into mermaid faces, acanthus
leaves, afternoon and garden shapes to remind the sitter
©
of home when he needs it most, hot insides poised here
so terribly above the breakneck passage of crystalline ice
and snow, which may be seen also from the observation
deck, the passing vistas of horizontal pallor, the wheeling
snowfields of Asia, beneath skies of: metal baser by far
than this we have come to watch. ...
Chu Piang is also watching them, as they come, and
stare, and go. They are figures in dreams. They amuse
him. They belong to the opium: they never come if itâs
anything else. He tries not to smoke the hashish out here,
actually, any more than courtesy demands. That chunky,
resinous Turkestan phantasmagoric is fine for Russian,
Kirghiz, and other barbaric tastes, but give Chu the tears
of the poppy any time. The dreams are better, not so geo-
metrical, so apt to turn everythingâthe air, the skyâ
to Persian rugs. Chu prefers situations, journeys, comedy.
Finding the same appetite in Tchitcherine, this stocky,
Latin-eyed emissary from Moscow, this Soviet remittance
man, is enough to make anybody trip over his mop, suds
hissing along the floor and the bucket gong-crashing: in
astonishment. In delight!
Before long these two wretched delinquents are skulk-
ing out to the edges of town to meet. It is a local scandal.
Chu, from some recess within the filthy rags and shreds
that hang from his unwholesome yellow body, produces
|
âa repulsive black gob of the foul-smelling substance,
â
wrapped in a scrap torn from an old Enbek3i Qazaq for
17 August of last year. Tchitcherine brings the pipeâ
being from the West heâs in charge of the
technology of
the thing aâcharred, nasty little implement in red and
yellow repetitions over Britannia metal, bought used for
a handful of kopecks in the Lepersâ Quarter of Bukhara,
Opium Dreams and Molecular Chains
- The narrative describes a luxurious, Victorian-style vessel traversing the frozen Asian landscape, complete with ornate carvings and high-class amenities.
- Chu Piang, a worker on the vessel, prefers the narrative and comedic dreams of opium over the geometric hallucinations of hashish.
- Tchitcherine, a Soviet emissary, forms an unlikely bond with Chu Piang through their shared addiction to the 'tears of the poppy.'
- The two men meet in secret on the outskirts of town, using a crude pipe to consume the substance amidst a landscape of earthquake ruins and starlight.
- The text draws a connection between the raw alkaloids of opium and the corporate-scientific pursuit of synthetic molecules by figures like Laszlo Jamf and du Pont.
- A parallel is suggested between the American 'vice of modular repetition' in chemistry and the search for a non-addictive painkiller.
The two opiomaniacs crouch behind a bit of wall wrecked and tilted from the last earthquake.
404
Gravity's Ramnsow
steppe in an enormous closed sleigh, big as a ferryboat,
bedizened all over with Victorian gingerbreadâinside are
decks and levels for each class of passenger,
velvet
saloons,
well-stocked
galleys,
a young Dr. Maledetto
whom the ladies love, an elegant menu including every-
thing from Mille-Feuilles 4 la Fondue de la Cervelle to La
Surprise du Vésuve, lounges amply fitted out with stere-
opticons and a library of slides, oak toilets rubbed to a
deep red and hand-carved into mermaid faces, acanthus
leaves, afternoon and garden shapes to remind the sitter
©
of home when he needs it most, hot insides poised here
so terribly above the breakneck passage of crystalline ice
and snow, which may be seen also from the observation
deck, the passing vistas of horizontal pallor, the wheeling
snowfields of Asia, beneath skies of: metal baser by far
than this we have come to watch. ...
Chu Piang is also watching them, as they come, and
stare, and go. They are figures in dreams. They amuse
him. They belong to the opium: they never come if itâs
anything else. He tries not to smoke the hashish out here,
actually, any more than courtesy demands. That chunky,
resinous Turkestan phantasmagoric is fine for Russian,
Kirghiz, and other barbaric tastes, but give Chu the tears
of the poppy any time. The dreams are better, not so geo-
metrical, so apt to turn everythingâthe air, the skyâ
to Persian rugs. Chu prefers situations, journeys, comedy.
Finding the same appetite in Tchitcherine, this stocky,
Latin-eyed emissary from Moscow, this Soviet remittance
man, is enough to make anybody trip over his mop, suds
hissing along the floor and the bucket gong-crashing: in
astonishment. In delight!
Before long these two wretched delinquents are skulk-
ing out to the edges of town to meet. It is a local scandal.
Chu, from some recess within the filthy rags and shreds
that hang from his unwholesome yellow body, produces
|
âa repulsive black gob of the foul-smelling substance,
â
wrapped in a scrap torn from an old Enbek3i Qazaq for
17 August of last year. Tchitcherine brings the pipeâ
being from the West heâs in charge of the
technology of
the thing aâcharred, nasty little implement in red and
yellow repetitions over Britannia metal, bought used for
a handful of kopecks in the Lepersâ Quarter of Bukhara,
In the Zone
405
and yes, nicely broken in too by that time. Reckless Cap-
tain Tchitcherine. The two opiomaniacs crouch behind a
bit of wall wrecked and tilted from the last earthquake.
Occasional riders pass by, some noting them and some
not, but all in silence. Stars overhead crowd the sky. Far
into the country, grasses blow, and the waves move on
through, slow as sheep. Itâs a mild wind, carrying the last
smoke of the day, the odors of herds and jasmine, of
standing water, settling dust
.
.
. a wind. Tchitcherine
will never remember. Any more than he can now connect
this raw jumble of forty alkaloids with the cut, faceted,
polished,
and foiled molecules
that salesman Wimpe
showed him once upon a time, one by one, and told the
histories of... . .
âOneirine, and Methoneirine. Variations reported by
Laszlo Jamf in the ACS Journal, year before last. Jamf
-was on loan again, this time as a chemist, to the Ameri-
cans, whose National Research Council had begun a
massive program to explore the morphine molecule and
its possibilitiesâa Ten-Year Plan, coinciding, most oddly,
with the classic study of large molecules being carried
on by Carothers of du Pont, the Great Synthesist. Con-
nection? Of course thereâs one. But we donât talk about
it. NRC is synthesizing new molecules every day, most of
them from pieces of the morphine molecule. Du Pont is
stringing together groups such as amides into long chains.
The two programs seem to be complementary, donât they?
The American vice of modular repetition, combined with
what is perhaps our basic search: to find something that
can kill intense pain without causing addiction.
âResults have not been encouraging. We seem up
against
a dilemma
built into Nature, much like the
Heisenberg situation. There is nearly complete parallelism
between analgesia and addiction. The more pain it takes
away, the more we desire it. It appears we canât have
one property without the other, any more than a particle
physicist can specify position without suffering an uncer-
tainty as to the particleâs velocityââ
âI could have told you that. But whyââ
âWhy. My dear captain. Why?â
âThe money, Wimpe. To pour funds down the latrine
on such a hopeless searchââ
The Economy of Pain
- A pharmaceutical salesman named Wimpe explains the 'Heisenberg situation' of narcotics: the impossibility of separating effective analgesia from the cost of addiction.
- Wimpe argues that while pain is a controllable economic quantity produced by wars and industrial accidents, addiction is an irrational 'phantom' that disrupts economic planning.
- The IG Farben cartel is presented as a structural model for all nations, suggesting that both capitalist and Soviet states operate on the same underlying logic of market control.
- Tchitcherine questions the morality of 'trafficking in pain,' only to be met with a cynical defense of the pharmaceutical industry as a 'noble calling' serving a market of real suffering.
- The narrative shifts to Tchitcherineâs isolation in Central Asia, where his professional history with Wimpe dissolves into unreliable rumors and paranoid suspicions.
We know how to produce real pain. Wars, obviously . . . machines in the factories, industrial accidents, automobiles built to be unsafe, poisons in food, water, and even airâthese are quantities tied directly to the economy.
In the Zone
405
and yes, nicely broken in too by that time. Reckless Cap-
tain Tchitcherine. The two opiomaniacs crouch behind a
bit of wall wrecked and tilted from the last earthquake.
Occasional riders pass by, some noting them and some
not, but all in silence. Stars overhead crowd the sky. Far
into the country, grasses blow, and the waves move on
through, slow as sheep. Itâs a mild wind, carrying the last
smoke of the day, the odors of herds and jasmine, of
standing water, settling dust
.
.
. a wind. Tchitcherine
will never remember. Any more than he can now connect
this raw jumble of forty alkaloids with the cut, faceted,
polished,
and foiled molecules
that salesman Wimpe
showed him once upon a time, one by one, and told the
histories of... . .
âOneirine, and Methoneirine. Variations reported by
Laszlo Jamf in the ACS Journal, year before last. Jamf
-was on loan again, this time as a chemist, to the Ameri-
cans, whose National Research Council had begun a
massive program to explore the morphine molecule and
its possibilitiesâa Ten-Year Plan, coinciding, most oddly,
with the classic study of large molecules being carried
on by Carothers of du Pont, the Great Synthesist. Con-
nection? Of course thereâs one. But we donât talk about
it. NRC is synthesizing new molecules every day, most of
them from pieces of the morphine molecule. Du Pont is
stringing together groups such as amides into long chains.
The two programs seem to be complementary, donât they?
The American vice of modular repetition, combined with
what is perhaps our basic search: to find something that
can kill intense pain without causing addiction.
âResults have not been encouraging. We seem up
against
a dilemma
built into Nature, much like the
Heisenberg situation. There is nearly complete parallelism
between analgesia and addiction. The more pain it takes
away, the more we desire it. It appears we canât have
one property without the other, any more than a particle
physicist can specify position without suffering an uncer-
tainty as to the particleâs velocityââ
âI could have told you that. But whyââ
âWhy. My dear captain. Why?â
âThe money, Wimpe. To pour funds down the latrine
on such a hopeless searchââ
406
Gravity's Ramnsow
A man-to-man touch then on his buttoned epaulet. A
middle-aged
smile
full
of Weltschmerz.
âTrade-off,
Tchitcherine,â whispers the salesman. âA question of bal-
ancing priorities. Research people come cheap enough,
and even an IG may be allowed to dream, to hope against
hope.
.
.
. Think of what it would mean to find such a
drugâto abolish pain rationally, without the extra cost of
addiction. A surplus costâsurely there is something in
Marx and Engels,â soothe the customer, âto cover this.
A demand like âaddiction,â having nothing to do with real
pain, real economic needs, unrelated to production or
labor .
.
. we need fewer of these unknowns, not more.
We know how to produce real pain. Wars, obviously . . .
machines in the factories, industrial accidents, automobiles
built to be unsafe, poisons in food, water, and even airâ
these are quantities tied directly to the economy. We
know them, and we can control them. But âaddictionâ?
What do we know of that? Fog and phantoms. No two
experts will even agree on how to define the word. âCom-
pulsionâP Who
is not compelled? âToleranceâ? âDepen-
denceâ? What do they mean? All we have are the thousand
dim, academic theories. A rational economy cannot de-
pend on psychological quirks. We could not plan...â
What premonition has begun to throb in Tchitcherineâs
right knee? What direct conversion between pain and
goldP
âAre you really this evil, or is it just an actP Are you
really trafficking in pain?â
âDoctors traffick in pain and no one would dream of
critizing their noble calling. Yet let the Verbindungsman
but reach for the latch on his case, and you all start to
scream
and run. Wellâyou wonât find many addicts
among us. The medical profession is full of them, but we
salesmen believe in real pain, real deliveranceâwe are
knights in the service of that Ideal. It must all be real, for
âthe purposes of our market. Otherwise my employerâand
our little chemical cartel is the model for the very struc-
ture of nationsâbecomes lost in illusion and dream, and
one day vanishes into chaos. Your own employer as well.â
âMy âemployerâ is the Soviet State.â
âYes?â Wimpe did say âis the» model,â not âwill be.â
Surprising they could have got this far, if indeed they
4
Inthe Zone
407
didâbeing of such different persuasions and all. Wimpe,
however, being far: more cynical; would have been able to
admit more-of the truth before starting to feel uncom-
fortable. His patience with Tchitcherineâs Red Army ver-
sion of economics may have been wide enough. They did
part amiably. Wimpe was reassigned to the United States
(Chemnyco of New York)» shortly after Hitler became
Chancellor. Tchitcherineâs connection, according to the
garrison gossip, ceased then, forever.
But these are rumors. Their chronology canât be trusted.
Contradictions creep in. Perfect for passing a winter in
Central Asia, if you happen not to be Tchitcherine. If you
are Tchitcherine, though, well, that puts you in more of a
peculiar position. Doesnât it. You have to get through the
winter on nothing but paranoid suspicions about why
you're here....
Itâs because of Enzian, itâs got to be damned Enzian.
Tchitcherine has been to the Krasnyy Arkhiv, has seen the
records, the diaries and logs from the epical, doomed
voyage of Admiral Rozhdestvenski, some
still classified
even after 20 years. And now he knows. And if itâs all in
the archives; then They know; too. Nubile young ladies
and German dope salesmen are reason. enough to send a
man east in any period of history. But They would not be
who or where They are without a touch of Dante to Their
notions of reprisal. Simple talion may be fine for wartime,
but politics between wars demands symmetry and a more
elegant idea of justice, even to the point of masquerading,
a bit decadently, as mercy. It is more complicated than
mass execution, more difficult and less satisfying, but there
~
are arrangements Tchitcherine canât see, wide as Europe,
perhaps as the world, that canât be disturbed very much,
between wars....
It seems that in December, 1904, Admiral Rozhdestven-
ski, commanding a fleet of 42 Russian men-oâ-war, steamed
into the South-West African port of Liideritzbucht. This
was at the height of the Russo-Japanese War. Rozhdest-
venski was on route to the Pacific, to relieve the other
Russian fleet, which had been bottled up for months in
~
Port Arthur by the Japanese. Out of the Baltic, around
Europe and Africa, bound across the whole Indian Ocean
and then north along the final coast of Asia, it was to be
A Conspiracy of Carbon
- Tchitcherine realizes that his past and the contents of the archives have made him a target for a sophisticated, 'elegant' form of political reprisal.
- The narrative shifts to 1904, recounting Admiral Rozhdestvenskiâs ill-fated 18,000-mile naval voyage during the Russo-Japanese War.
- During a grueling coaling stop in South-West Africa, the elder Tchitcherine experiences a psychological break from the 'meaningless power' and deathly atmosphere of the fleet.
- To escape the 'artificial blackness' of the coal dust and the impending doom of the war, the elder Tchitcherine goes AWOL in LĂŒderitzbucht.
- He finds a brief, life-affirming connection with a Herero woman, an act of desertion that predates his eventual death at the Battle of Tsushima.
He only wanted a rest from the working parties, and from the way it looked ... from what the black and white of coal and arc-light were about to say...no color, and the unreality to go with itâbut a familiar unreality, that warms This Is All Being Staged To See What I'll Do So I Mustnât Make One Wrong Move...
4
Inthe Zone
407
didâbeing of such different persuasions and all. Wimpe,
however, being far: more cynical; would have been able to
admit more-of the truth before starting to feel uncom-
fortable. His patience with Tchitcherineâs Red Army ver-
sion of economics may have been wide enough. They did
part amiably. Wimpe was reassigned to the United States
(Chemnyco of New York)» shortly after Hitler became
Chancellor. Tchitcherineâs connection, according to the
garrison gossip, ceased then, forever.
But these are rumors. Their chronology canât be trusted.
Contradictions creep in. Perfect for passing a winter in
Central Asia, if you happen not to be Tchitcherine. If you
are Tchitcherine, though, well, that puts you in more of a
peculiar position. Doesnât it. You have to get through the
winter on nothing but paranoid suspicions about why
you're here....
Itâs because of Enzian, itâs got to be damned Enzian.
Tchitcherine has been to the Krasnyy Arkhiv, has seen the
records, the diaries and logs from the epical, doomed
voyage of Admiral Rozhdestvenski, some
still classified
even after 20 years. And now he knows. And if itâs all in
the archives; then They know; too. Nubile young ladies
and German dope salesmen are reason. enough to send a
man east in any period of history. But They would not be
who or where They are without a touch of Dante to Their
notions of reprisal. Simple talion may be fine for wartime,
but politics between wars demands symmetry and a more
elegant idea of justice, even to the point of masquerading,
a bit decadently, as mercy. It is more complicated than
mass execution, more difficult and less satisfying, but there
~
are arrangements Tchitcherine canât see, wide as Europe,
perhaps as the world, that canât be disturbed very much,
between wars....
It seems that in December, 1904, Admiral Rozhdestven-
ski, commanding a fleet of 42 Russian men-oâ-war, steamed
into the South-West African port of Liideritzbucht. This
was at the height of the Russo-Japanese War. Rozhdest-
venski was on route to the Pacific, to relieve the other
Russian fleet, which had been bottled up for months in
~
Port Arthur by the Japanese. Out of the Baltic, around
Europe and Africa, bound across the whole Indian Ocean
and then north along the final coast of Asia, it was to be
408
Gravityâs RAaInBow
among the most spectacular sea voyages of history: seven
months and 18,000 mlies to an early summer day in the
waters between Japan and Korea, where one Admiral
Togo, who'd been lying in wait, would come sailing out
from behind the island of Tsushima and before nightfall
hand Rozhdestvenskiâs ass to him. Only four Russian ships
would make it in to Vladivostokânearly all the rest would
be sunk by the wily Jap.
Tchitcherineâs father was a gunner on the Admiralâs
flagship, the Suvorov. The fleet paused in Liideritzbucht
for a week, trying to take on coal. Storms lashed through
the crowded little harbor. The Suvorov kept smashing up
against her colliers, tearing holes in the sides, wrecking
many of her own 12-pound guns. Squalls blew in, clammy
coal dust swirled and struck to everything, human and
steel. Sailors worked around the clock, with searchlights
set up on deck at night, hauling coal sacks, half blind in
the glare, shoveling, sweating, coughing, bitching. Some
went crazy, a few tried suicide. Old Tchitcherine, after
two days of it, went AWOL, and stayed away till it was
over. He found a Herero girl whoâd lost her husband in
the uprising against the Germans. It was nothing he had
planned or even dreamed .about before going ashore. What
did he know of Africa? He had a wife back in Saint Peters-
burg, and a child hardly able to roll over. Up till then
Kronstadt was the farthest heâd been from home. He only
wanted a rest from the working parties, and from the way
it looked ... from what the black and white of coal and
arc-light were about to say...no color, and the unreality
to go with itâbut a familiar unreality, that warms This Is
All Being Staged To See What I'll Do So I Mustnât Make
One Wrong Move...on the last day of his life, with
Japanese iron whistling down on him from ships that are
too far off in the haze for him even toâ see,
he will think
of the slowly carbonizing faces of men he thought he
knew, men turing to coal, ancient coal that glistened,
each crystal, in the hoarse sputter: of the Jablochkov
candles, each flake struck perfect...a conspiracy of car-
bon, though he never phrased it as âcarbon,â it was
power he walked away from, the feeling| of too much
meaningless
power,
flowing wrong...he
could
smell
Death in it. So he waited till the master-at-arms turned to
.
In the Zone
409
_ light a cigarette, and then just walked awayâthey were
all too black, artificially black, for it to be easily noticedâ
and found ashore the honest blackness
of: the solemn
Herero. girl, which seemed to him a breath of life after
long confinement, and. stayed with her at the edge of the
flat sorrowful little town, near the railroad, in a one-room
house built. of saplings, packing-cases, reeds, mud. The
rain blew.. The. trains cried and puffed. The man and
woman stayed in bed and drank kari, which is brewed
from potatoes, peas, and sugar, and in Herero means âthe
drink of death.â It was nearly Christmas, and he gave her
a medal he had won in some gunnery exercise long ago in
the Baltic. By the time he left, they had learned: each
otherâs names and a few words in the respective lan-
guagesâafraid, happy, sleep, love... the beginnings of a
new tongue, a pidgin which they were perhaps the only
two speakers of in the world.
But he went back. His future was with the Baltic fleet,
it was something neither he nor the girl questioned. The
storm blew out, fog covered the sea. Tchitcherine steamed
away, shut back down in a dark and stinking compartment
below the Suvorovâs waterline, drinking his Christmas
vodka and yarning about his good times in a space that
didnât rock, back at the edge of the dry veld with some-
thing warm and kind around his penis besides his lonely
fist. He was already describing her as a sultry native
wench. It is the oldest sea story. As he told it he was no
longer Tchitcherine, but a single-faced crowd before and
after, all lost but not all unlucky. The girl may have stood
on some promontory watching the gray ironclads dissolve
one by one in the South Atlantic mist, but even if you'd
like a few bars of Madame Butterfly about here, she was
more probably out hustling, or asleep. She was not going
to have an easy time. Tchitcherine had left her with a
child, born a few months after the gunner went down in
sight of the steep cliffs and green forests of Tsushima, early
in the evening
of 27 May.
The Germans recorded the birth and the fatherâs name
(he had written it down for her, as sailors doâhe had
given her his name) in their central files at Windhoek. A
travel pass was issued for mother and child to return to her
tribal village, shortly after.
A census by the colonial gov-
The Origins of Enzian
- A Russian sailor named Tchitcherine fathers a child with a Herero woman in a desolate town during a brief naval stopover.
- The two develop a private pidgin language of only a few words before he returns to the Baltic fleet, eventually dying at the Battle of Tsushima.
- The child, Enzian, is documented by German colonial authorities in Windhoek and later migrates to Germany in the 1920s.
- Years later, the Soviet Tchitcherine (the sailor's namesake) obsessively reconstructs this history through Admiralty papers and colonial records.
- Tchitcherine views the Rapallo Treaty as a theatrical conspiracy designed solely to reveal his half-brother's existence to him.
- His obsessive documentation backfires when his dossier on Enzian is used by the Soviet bureaucracy to reassign him to a linguistic committee in Baku.
By the time he left, they had learned each otherâs names and a few words in the respective languagesâafraid, happy, sleep, love... the beginnings of a new tongue, a pidgin which they were perhaps the only two speakers of in the world.
.
In the Zone
409
_ light a cigarette, and then just walked awayâthey were
all too black, artificially black, for it to be easily noticedâ
and found ashore the honest blackness
of: the solemn
Herero. girl, which seemed to him a breath of life after
long confinement, and. stayed with her at the edge of the
flat sorrowful little town, near the railroad, in a one-room
house built. of saplings, packing-cases, reeds, mud. The
rain blew.. The. trains cried and puffed. The man and
woman stayed in bed and drank kari, which is brewed
from potatoes, peas, and sugar, and in Herero means âthe
drink of death.â It was nearly Christmas, and he gave her
a medal he had won in some gunnery exercise long ago in
the Baltic. By the time he left, they had learned: each
otherâs names and a few words in the respective lan-
guagesâafraid, happy, sleep, love... the beginnings of a
new tongue, a pidgin which they were perhaps the only
two speakers of in the world.
But he went back. His future was with the Baltic fleet,
it was something neither he nor the girl questioned. The
storm blew out, fog covered the sea. Tchitcherine steamed
away, shut back down in a dark and stinking compartment
below the Suvorovâs waterline, drinking his Christmas
vodka and yarning about his good times in a space that
didnât rock, back at the edge of the dry veld with some-
thing warm and kind around his penis besides his lonely
fist. He was already describing her as a sultry native
wench. It is the oldest sea story. As he told it he was no
longer Tchitcherine, but a single-faced crowd before and
after, all lost but not all unlucky. The girl may have stood
on some promontory watching the gray ironclads dissolve
one by one in the South Atlantic mist, but even if you'd
like a few bars of Madame Butterfly about here, she was
more probably out hustling, or asleep. She was not going
to have an easy time. Tchitcherine had left her with a
child, born a few months after the gunner went down in
sight of the steep cliffs and green forests of Tsushima, early
in the evening
of 27 May.
The Germans recorded the birth and the fatherâs name
(he had written it down for her, as sailors doâhe had
given her his name) in their central files at Windhoek. A
travel pass was issued for mother and child to return to her
tribal village, shortly after.
A census by the colonial gov-
410
Graviryâs RaInsow
ernment to see how many natives they'd killed, taken just
after Enzian was returned by Bushmen to the same vil-
lage, lists the mother as deceased, but her name is in the
records. A visa dated December 1926 for Enzian to enter
Germany, and later an application for German citizenship,
are both on file in Berlin,
It took no small amount of legwork to assemble all these
pieces of paper. Tchitcherine had nothing to start with but
a brief word or two in the Admiralty papers. But this was
in the era of Feodora Alexandrevna, she of the kidskin
underwear, and the access situation was a little better for
Tchitcherine than it is now. The Rapallo Treaty was also
in force, so there were any number of lines openâto Berlin.
That weird piece of paper...in his moments of sickest
personal grandeur it is quite clear to him how his own
namesake and the murdered Jew put together an elabo-
rate piece of theatre at Rapallo, and that the real and only
purpose was to reveal to Vaslav Tchitcherine the existence
of Enzian...the garrison life out east, like certain drugs,
makes these things amazingly clear....
©
But alas, seems like the obsessive is his own undoing.
The dossier that Tchitcherine put together on Enzian (he'd
even got to see what Soviet intelligence had on then
Lieutenant Weissmann and his political adventures in Siid-
west) was reproduced by some eager apparatchik and
stashed in Tchitcherineâs own dossier. And so it transpired,
no more than a month or two later, that somebody equally
anonymous had cut Tchitcherineâs orders for Baku, and he
was grimly off to attend the first plenary session of the
VIsK NTA (Vesoynznyy Tsentralânyy Komitet Novogo
Tyurkskogo Alfavita), where he was promptly assigned
to
the 4 Committee.
4 seems to be a kind of G, a voiced uvular plosive. The
distinction between it and your ordinary G is one Tchi-
tcherine will never learn to appreciate. Come to find out,
all the Weird Letter Assignments have been reserved for
neâer-do-wells like himself. Shatsk, the notorious Leningrad
nose-fetishist, who carries a black satin handkerchief to
Party congresses and yes, more than once has been unable
to refrain from reaching out andâ actually
stroking the
noses of powerful officials, is hereâbanished
to the 6 Com-
mittee, where he keeps forgetting that @ in the NTA, is
The Alphabet Wars
- Tchitcherine finds himself assigned to a committee of 'irredeemables' and eccentrics tasked with creating the New Turkic Alphabet (NTA).
- The linguistic project is sabotaged by the personal obsessions of its members, including a nose-fetishist and a practical joker who once plotted to pie Stalin.
- A petty but intense power struggle erupts between Tchitcherine and Igor Blobadjian over the classification of specific letters and loan-words.
- The bureaucratic conflict escalates into physical sabotage, involving sawed-off chair legs and the clandestine modification of typewriters.
- Tchitcherine attempts to frame his rival by circulating a transliterated Koran, inciting the fury of religious Arabists who oppose the new script.
- The atmosphere is one of hallucinatory absurdity, where the manipulation of phonemes becomes a proxy for political survival and mental instability.
It occurs to him that he is, in reality, locked up in some military nut ward back in Moscow, and only hallucinating this plenary session.
410
Graviryâs RaInsow
ernment to see how many natives they'd killed, taken just
after Enzian was returned by Bushmen to the same vil-
lage, lists the mother as deceased, but her name is in the
records. A visa dated December 1926 for Enzian to enter
Germany, and later an application for German citizenship,
are both on file in Berlin,
It took no small amount of legwork to assemble all these
pieces of paper. Tchitcherine had nothing to start with but
a brief word or two in the Admiralty papers. But this was
in the era of Feodora Alexandrevna, she of the kidskin
underwear, and the access situation was a little better for
Tchitcherine than it is now. The Rapallo Treaty was also
in force, so there were any number of lines openâto Berlin.
That weird piece of paper...in his moments of sickest
personal grandeur it is quite clear to him how his own
namesake and the murdered Jew put together an elabo-
rate piece of theatre at Rapallo, and that the real and only
purpose was to reveal to Vaslav Tchitcherine the existence
of Enzian...the garrison life out east, like certain drugs,
makes these things amazingly clear....
©
But alas, seems like the obsessive is his own undoing.
The dossier that Tchitcherine put together on Enzian (he'd
even got to see what Soviet intelligence had on then
Lieutenant Weissmann and his political adventures in Siid-
west) was reproduced by some eager apparatchik and
stashed in Tchitcherineâs own dossier. And so it transpired,
no more than a month or two later, that somebody equally
anonymous had cut Tchitcherineâs orders for Baku, and he
was grimly off to attend the first plenary session of the
VIsK NTA (Vesoynznyy Tsentralânyy Komitet Novogo
Tyurkskogo Alfavita), where he was promptly assigned
to
the 4 Committee.
4 seems to be a kind of G, a voiced uvular plosive. The
distinction between it and your ordinary G is one Tchi-
tcherine will never learn to appreciate. Come to find out,
all the Weird Letter Assignments have been reserved for
neâer-do-wells like himself. Shatsk, the notorious Leningrad
nose-fetishist, who carries a black satin handkerchief to
Party congresses and yes, more than once has been unable
to refrain from reaching out andâ actually
stroking the
noses of powerful officials, is hereâbanished
to the 6 Com-
mittee, where he keeps forgetting that @ in the NTA, is
In the Zone
411
_@; not Russian F, thus retarding progress and sowing
confusion at every working session. Most of his time is
taken up with trying to hustle himself a transfer to the N
Committee, âOr actually,â sidling closer, breathing heavily,
âjust a plain, N, or even an M, will, do....â The im-
petuous and unstable practical joker Radnichny has pulled
the 9 Committee, 9 being a schwa or neutral wh, where he
has set out on a megalomaniac project to replace every
spceken word vowel in Central Asiaâand why stop there,
why not even a consonant or two? with these schwas here
.». not unusual considering his record of impersonations
and dummy resolutions, and a brilliant but doomed con-
spiracy to hit Stalin in the face with a grape chiffon pie,
in which he was implicated only enough to get him Baku
instead of worse.
Naturally Tchitcherine
gravitates
into this crew of
irredeemables. Before long, if it isnât some scheme of
Radnichnyâs to infiltrate an oil-field and disguise a derrick
as a giant penis, itâs lurking down in Arab quarters of the
city, waiting with the infamous Ukrainian doper Bugnogor-
kov of the glottal K Committee (ordinary K being repre-
sented by Q, whereas C is pronounced with a sort of tch
sound) for a hashish connection, or fending off the nasal
advances of Shatsk. It occurs to him that he is, in reality,
locked up in some military nut ward back in Moscow, and
only hallucinating this plenary session. No one here seems
quite right in the head.
_.
Most distressing of all is the power struggle he has
somehow been suckered into with one Igor Blobadjian, a
| party representative
on the prestigious G Committee.
| Blobadjian is fanatically attempting to steal 1s from
Tchitcherineâs Committee, and change them to Gs, using
Joan-words as an entering wedge. In the sunlit, sweltering
commissary the two men sneer at each other across trays
of zapekanka and Georgian fruit soup.
There is a crisis over which kind of g to use in the word
âstenography.â There is a lot of emotional attachment to the
word around here. Tchitcherine one morning finds all the
pencils in his conference room have mysteriously vanished.
In revenge, he and Radnichny sneak in Blobadjianâs con-
_ ference room next night with hacksaws, files and torches,
and reform the alphabet on his typewriter. It is some fun
412
Gravity's Ramsow
in the moming. Blobadjian runs around in a prolonged
screaming
fit. Tchitcherineâs
in conference,
meeting's
called to order, CRASH! two dozen linguists and bureau-
crats go toppling over on their ass. Noise echoes for a full
two minutes. Tchitcherine, on his ass, notes that pieces of
chair leg all around the table have been sawed off, re-
attached with wax and varnished over again. A professional
job, all right. Could Radnichny be a double agent? The
time for lighthearted practical jokes is past. Tchitcherine
must go it alone. Painstakingly, by midwatch lantern light,
when the manipulations of letters are most apt to produce
other kinds of illumination, Tchitcherine transliterates the
opening sura of the holy Koran into the proposed NTA,
and causes it to be circulated
among the Arabists at the
session, over the name of Igor Blobadjian.
This is asking for trouble, all right. These Arabists are
truly a frenzied bunch. They have been lobbying passion-
ately for a
New Turkic Alphabet made up of Arabic letters.
There are fistfights in the hallways with unreconstructed
Cyrillicists,
and whispers of a campaign to boycott,
throughout the Islamic world, any Latin alphabet. (Actu-â
ally nobody is really too keen on a Cyrillic NTA. Old
Czarist albatrosses
still hang around the Soviet neck.
There is strong native resistance in Central Asia these days
to anything suggesting Russification, and that goes even
for the look of a printed language. The objections to an
Arabic alphabet have to do with the absence of vowel
symbols, and no strict one-to-one relation between sounds
and characters. So this has left Latin, by default. But the
Arabists arenât giving up. They keep proposing reformed
Arabic scriptsâmostly on the model of one ratified at
Bukhara in 1923 and used successfully among the Uzbeks.
Palatal and velar vocalics of spoken Kazakh can be got
round by using diacritical marks.) And there is a strong
religious angle in all this. Using a non-Arabic alphabet is
felt to be a sin against Godâmost of the Turkic peoples
are, after all, Islamic, and Arabic script is the script
of
Islam, it is the script in which the word of Allah came
down on the Night of Power, the script of the Koran
Of the what? Does Tchitcherine know! what heâs doing
with this forgery of his? It is more than| blasphemy, it is
an invitation to holy war. Blobadjian, accordingly, is pur-
4
The Alphabet of Molecules
- The New Turkic Alphabet (NTA) faces intense resistance from Arabists who view the abandonment of Arabic script as a sin against God and the Koran.
- Geopolitical tensions complicate the script choice, as Cyrillic is rejected due to fears of Russification and Latin is viewed as a default but controversial Western imposition.
- Blobadjian is pursued through the industrial ruins of Baku by religious zealots who view the linguistic reforms as an invitation to holy war.
- The setting of Baku is depicted as a hollowed-out industrial shell, where the departure of foreign oil interests has left a vacuum occupied by the marginalized and the broken.
- A metaphysical transition occurs where the structure of language is compared to the structure of molecules, suggesting that both can be manipulated and 'co-polymerized' into global chains.
- The narrative shifts from the political struggle over letters to a surreal, molecular level of existence where human speech and chemical structures mirror one another.
Time for retrospection here, for refining the recent history thatâs being pumped up fetid and black from other strata of Earthâs mind.
412
Gravity's Ramsow
in the moming. Blobadjian runs around in a prolonged
screaming
fit. Tchitcherineâs
in conference,
meeting's
called to order, CRASH! two dozen linguists and bureau-
crats go toppling over on their ass. Noise echoes for a full
two minutes. Tchitcherine, on his ass, notes that pieces of
chair leg all around the table have been sawed off, re-
attached with wax and varnished over again. A professional
job, all right. Could Radnichny be a double agent? The
time for lighthearted practical jokes is past. Tchitcherine
must go it alone. Painstakingly, by midwatch lantern light,
when the manipulations of letters are most apt to produce
other kinds of illumination, Tchitcherine transliterates the
opening sura of the holy Koran into the proposed NTA,
and causes it to be circulated
among the Arabists at the
session, over the name of Igor Blobadjian.
This is asking for trouble, all right. These Arabists are
truly a frenzied bunch. They have been lobbying passion-
ately for a
New Turkic Alphabet made up of Arabic letters.
There are fistfights in the hallways with unreconstructed
Cyrillicists,
and whispers of a campaign to boycott,
throughout the Islamic world, any Latin alphabet. (Actu-â
ally nobody is really too keen on a Cyrillic NTA. Old
Czarist albatrosses
still hang around the Soviet neck.
There is strong native resistance in Central Asia these days
to anything suggesting Russification, and that goes even
for the look of a printed language. The objections to an
Arabic alphabet have to do with the absence of vowel
symbols, and no strict one-to-one relation between sounds
and characters. So this has left Latin, by default. But the
Arabists arenât giving up. They keep proposing reformed
Arabic scriptsâmostly on the model of one ratified at
Bukhara in 1923 and used successfully among the Uzbeks.
Palatal and velar vocalics of spoken Kazakh can be got
round by using diacritical marks.) And there is a strong
religious angle in all this. Using a non-Arabic alphabet is
felt to be a sin against Godâmost of the Turkic peoples
are, after all, Islamic, and Arabic script is the script
of
Islam, it is the script in which the word of Allah came
down on the Night of Power, the script of the Koran
Of the what? Does Tchitcherine know! what heâs doing
with this forgery of his? It is more than| blasphemy, it is
an invitation to holy war. Blobadjian, accordingly, is pur-
4
In the Zone
413
sued through the black end of Baku by a passel of scream-
ing Arabists waving scimitars and grinning horribly. The.
oil towers stand sentinel, bone-empty, in the dark. Hunch-
backs, lepers, hebephrenics and amputees of all descrip-
tions have come popping out of their secret spaces to
watch the fun. They loll back against the rusting metal
flanks of refinery hardware, their whole common sky in a
tessellation of primary colors. They occupy the chambers
and bins and pockets of administrative emptiness left after
the Revolution, when the emissaries from Dutch Shell were
asked to leave, and the English and Swedish engineers all
went home. It is a period now in Baku of lull, of retrench-
ment. All the oil money taken out of these fields by the
Nobels has gone into Nobel Prizes. New wells are going
down elsewhere, between the Volga and the Urals. Time
for retrospection here, for refining the recent history thatâs
being pumped up fetid and black from other strata of
Earthâs mind, .. 3»
âIn here, Blobadjianâquickly.â Close behind, Arabists
are ululating, shrill, merciless, among the red-orange stars
over the crowds of derricks.
Slam. The last hatch is dogged. âWaitâwhat is this?â
âCome. Time for your journey now.â
âBut I donât wantââ.
âYou donât want to be another slaughtered infidel. Too
late, Blobadjian. Here we go... .â
The first thing he learns is how to vary his index of
refraction. He can choose anything between transparent
and opaque. After the thrill of experimenting has worn off,
he settles onâa pale, banded onyx effect.
âIt suits you,â murmur his guides. âNow hurry.â
âNo. I want to pay Tchitcherine what heâs got coming.â
âToo late. You're no part of what heâs got coming. Not
any more.â
~
âBut heââ
âHeâs a blasphemer. Islam has its own machineries for
that. Angels and sanctions, and careful interrogating.
Leave him. He has a different way to go.â
How alphabetic is the nature of molecules. One grows
-
aware of it down here: one finds Committees on molecular
structure which are very similar to those back at the NTA
plenary session. âSee: how they are taken out from the
414
Gravityâs RaInsow
coarse flowâshaped, cleaned, rectified, just as you once
redeemed your letters from the lawless, âthe mortal stream-
ing of human speech. ... These are our letters, our words:
they too can be subcleilatands broken, recoupled, redefined,
co-polymerized one to the other in worldwide chains that
will surface now and then over long molecular sliences,
like the seen parts of a tapestry.â
Blobadjian comes to see that the New Turkic Alphabet
is only one version of a process really much olderâand
less unaware of itselfâthan he has ever had cause to
dream. By and by, the frantic competition between % and
G has faded away to trivial childhood memories. Dim
anecdotes. He has gone beyondâonce a sour bureaucrat
with an upper lip as clearly demarcated as a chimpanzeeâs,
now he is an adventurer, well off on a passage of his own,
by underground current, without any anxiety over where
it may be taking him. He has even lost, an indefinite dis-
tance upstream, his pride in feeling once a little sorry for
Vaslav Tchitcherine, destined never to. see the things
Blobadjian is seeing: .
And print just goes marching on without him. Copy boys
go running down the rows of desks trailing smeared gal-
leys in the air. Native printers get crash courses from ex-
perts airlifted in from Tiflis on how to set up that NTA.
Printed posters go up in the cities, in Samarkand. and
Pishpek, Verney and Tashkent. On sidewalks and walls the
very first printed slogans start to show up, the first Central
Asian fuck you signs, the first kill-the-police-commissioner
signs (and somebody does! this alphabet is really some-
thing!) and so theâ magic that the shamans, out in the
wind, have always known, begins to operate now in a
political way, and Dzaqyp Qulan hears the ghost in his
own lynched father we a scratchy pen in the night, prac-
ticing As and Bs..
But right about now, here come Tchitcherine and ~
DzZaqyp Qulan riding up over some low hills and down into ~
the village theyâve been looking for. The people are gath- â
ered in a circle: thereâs been a feast all day. Fires are
â
smoldering. In the middle of the crowd a small space has
~
been cleared, and two young voices can be'heard even at ~
this distance.
â$0
The New Turkic Alphabet
- Blobadjian undergoes a personal transformation, moving beyond bureaucratic competition into a state of detached, adventurous flow.
- The introduction of the New Turkic Alphabet (NTA) triggers a shift from oral tradition to the political power of the printed word.
- The first printed slogans in Central Asia emerge as a form of modern magic, inciting rebellion and political violence.
- Tchitcherine and Dzaqyp Qulan arrive at a village to witness an 'ajtys', a traditional and highly competitive Kazakh singing-duel.
- The singing-duel serves as a complex social ritual where insults and rhymes are traded in a delicate balance of wit and tension.
- Tchitcherine realizes with a sense of dread that the act of transcribing these oral performances into the NTA will inevitably destroy their essence.
Printed posters go up in the cities, in Samarkand and Pishpek, Verney and Tashkent... the first kill-the-police-commissioner signs (and somebody does! this alphabet is really something!)
414
Gravityâs RaInsow
coarse flowâshaped, cleaned, rectified, just as you once
redeemed your letters from the lawless, âthe mortal stream-
ing of human speech. ... These are our letters, our words:
they too can be subcleilatands broken, recoupled, redefined,
co-polymerized one to the other in worldwide chains that
will surface now and then over long molecular sliences,
like the seen parts of a tapestry.â
Blobadjian comes to see that the New Turkic Alphabet
is only one version of a process really much olderâand
less unaware of itselfâthan he has ever had cause to
dream. By and by, the frantic competition between % and
G has faded away to trivial childhood memories. Dim
anecdotes. He has gone beyondâonce a sour bureaucrat
with an upper lip as clearly demarcated as a chimpanzeeâs,
now he is an adventurer, well off on a passage of his own,
by underground current, without any anxiety over where
it may be taking him. He has even lost, an indefinite dis-
tance upstream, his pride in feeling once a little sorry for
Vaslav Tchitcherine, destined never to. see the things
Blobadjian is seeing: .
And print just goes marching on without him. Copy boys
go running down the rows of desks trailing smeared gal-
leys in the air. Native printers get crash courses from ex-
perts airlifted in from Tiflis on how to set up that NTA.
Printed posters go up in the cities, in Samarkand. and
Pishpek, Verney and Tashkent. On sidewalks and walls the
very first printed slogans start to show up, the first Central
Asian fuck you signs, the first kill-the-police-commissioner
signs (and somebody does! this alphabet is really some-
thing!) and so theâ magic that the shamans, out in the
wind, have always known, begins to operate now in a
political way, and Dzaqyp Qulan hears the ghost in his
own lynched father we a scratchy pen in the night, prac-
ticing As and Bs..
But right about now, here come Tchitcherine and ~
DzZaqyp Qulan riding up over some low hills and down into ~
the village theyâve been looking for. The people are gath- â
ered in a circle: thereâs been a feast all day. Fires are
â
smoldering. In the middle of the crowd a small space has
~
been cleared, and two young voices can be'heard even at ~
this distance.
â$0
In the Zone
415
It is an ajtysâa singing-duel. The boy and girl stand in
the eye of the village carrying on a mocking well - I - sort - of
- like:- you - even - if - thereâs - one - or - two - weird - things -
about - you - for - instanceâkind of game while the tune
darts in and out of qobyz and dombra strummed and
plucked. The people laugh at the good lines. You have
to be on your toes for this: you trade four-line stanzas,
first, second, and last lines all have to rhyme though the
lines donât have to be any special length, just breathable.
Still, itâs tricky. It gets insulting too. There are villages
where some partners havenât spoken to each other for years
after an ajtys. As Tchitcherine and DZzaqyp Qulan ride in,
the girl is making fun of her opponentâs horse, who is just
a littleânothing serious, but kind of heavy-set...
well,
fat, really. Really fat. And itâs getting to the kid. He's
annoyed. He zips back a fast one about bringing all his
friends around and demolishing her and her family too.
Everybody sort of goes hmm. No laughs. She smiles,
tightly, and sings:
3
Youâve been drinking a lot of qumys,
I must be hearing the words of qumysâ
For where were you the night my brother
Came looking for his stolen qumys?
Oh-oh. The brother she mentioned is laughing fit to
bust. The kid singing is not so happy.
âThis could go on for a while.â Dzaqyp Qulan dis-
mounts, and sets about straightening his knee joints. âThat's
him, over there.â
A very old aqynâa wandering Kazakh singerâsits with
a cup of qumys, dozing near the fire.
âAre you sure heâllââ
âHell sing about it. Heâs ridden right through that
country. Heâd betray his profession if he didnât.â
They sit down and are passed cups of the fermented
mareâs milk, with a bit of lamb, lepeshka, a few straw-
berries.... The boy and girl go on battling with their
voicesâand Tchitcherine understands, abruptly, that soon
someone will come out and begin to write some of these
down in the New Turkic Alphabet he helped frame...
and this is how they will be lost.
416
Gravity's RAINBOW
Now and then he glances over at the old aqyn, who only q
appears to be sleeping. In fact he radiates for the singers
â
a sort of guidance. It is kindness, It can be felt as un-
mistakably as the heat from the embers.
Slowly, turn by tum, the coupleâs insults get gentler,
funnier. What might have been a village apocalypse has
gone on now into comic cooperation, as between a pair of
vaudeville comedians. They are out of themselves, playing
it all for the listeners to enjoy. The girl has the last word.
Did I hear you mention a marriage?
Here there has been a marriageâ
This warm circle of song,
Boisterous, loud as any marriage... .
And I like you, even if there are one or two thingsâ
For a little while the feast gathers momentum. Drunks
holler and women talk, and the little kids totter in and out
of the huts, and the wind has picked up some speed. Then
the wandering singer begins to tune his dombra, and the
Asian silence comes back.
âAre you going to get it all?â asks Dzaqyp Qulan.
âIn stenography,â replies Tchitcherine, his g a little
glottal.
Tue Aoyrnâs SONG
I have come from the edge of the world.
I have come from the lungs of the wind,
With a thing I have seen so awesome
Even Dzambul could not sing it.
With a fear in my heart so sharp
It will cut the strongest of metals,
In the ancient tales it is told
In a time that is older than Qorqyt,
Who took from the wood of Syrghaj
The first qobyz, and the first songâ
|
It is told that a land far distant
Is the place of the Kirghiz Light.
=|
In a place where words are unknown,
And eyes shine like candles at night,
The Song of the Kirghiz Light
- A village feast transitions from boisterous comic insults between a couple into a profound silence as a wandering singer begins his performance.
- The aqyn sings of the Kirghiz Light, a divine and terrifying presence located at a tall black rock in a distant, ancient desert.
- The Light is described as an overwhelming force that causes blindness and deafness, stripping a man of his age and returning him to the state of a helpless baby.
- Tchitcherine, a Soviet agent, records the song in stenography and sets off to find the Light, driven by a mission rather than spiritual readiness.
- The narrative reveals that while Tchitcherine will reach the Light, he will not experience the spiritual rebirth it offers because his heart is not prepared.
- The encounter with the Light is juxtaposed against the vast, sleeping ruins of a prehistoric city buried beneath the desert floor.
The roar of Its voice is deafness, / The flash of Its light is blindness. / The floor of the desert rumbles, / And Its face cannot be borne.
416
Gravity's RAINBOW
Now and then he glances over at the old aqyn, who only q
appears to be sleeping. In fact he radiates for the singers
â
a sort of guidance. It is kindness, It can be felt as un-
mistakably as the heat from the embers.
Slowly, turn by tum, the coupleâs insults get gentler,
funnier. What might have been a village apocalypse has
gone on now into comic cooperation, as between a pair of
vaudeville comedians. They are out of themselves, playing
it all for the listeners to enjoy. The girl has the last word.
Did I hear you mention a marriage?
Here there has been a marriageâ
This warm circle of song,
Boisterous, loud as any marriage... .
And I like you, even if there are one or two thingsâ
For a little while the feast gathers momentum. Drunks
holler and women talk, and the little kids totter in and out
of the huts, and the wind has picked up some speed. Then
the wandering singer begins to tune his dombra, and the
Asian silence comes back.
âAre you going to get it all?â asks Dzaqyp Qulan.
âIn stenography,â replies Tchitcherine, his g a little
glottal.
Tue Aoyrnâs SONG
I have come from the edge of the world.
I have come from the lungs of the wind,
With a thing I have seen so awesome
Even Dzambul could not sing it.
With a fear in my heart so sharp
It will cut the strongest of metals,
In the ancient tales it is told
In a time that is older than Qorqyt,
Who took from the wood of Syrghaj
The first qobyz, and the first songâ
|
It is told that a land far distant
Is the place of the Kirghiz Light.
=|
In a place where words are unknown,
And eyes shine like candles at night,
In the Zone
417
And the face of God is a presence
Behind the mask of the skyâ
At the tall black rock in. the desert,
In the time of the final days.
If the place were not so distant,
If words were known, and spoken,
Then the God might be a gold ikon,
Or a page in a paper book.
But It comes as the Kirghiz Lightâ
There is no other way to know It.
The roar of Its voice is deafness,
The flash of Its light is blindness.
The floor of the desert rumbles,
And Its face cannot be borne.
And a man cannot be the same,
After seeing the Kirghiz Light.
For I tell you that I have seen It
In aplace which is older than darkness,
Where even Allah cannot reach.
As you see, my beard is an ice-field,
I walk with a stick to support me,
_ But this light must change us:to children.
And now I cannot walk far,
For a baby must learn to walk.
And my words are reaching your ears
As the meaningless sounds of a baby.
For the Kirghiz Light took my eyes,
Now I sense all Earth like a baby.
It is north, for a six-day ride,
Through the steep and death-gray canyons,
Then across the stony desert
To, the mountain whose peak is a white dzurt.
And if you have passed without danger,
The place of the black rock will find you.
But if you would not be born,
Then stay with your warm red fire,
And stay with your wife, in your tent,
And the Light will never find you,
And your heart will grow heavy 'with age,
And your eyes will shut only to sleep.
418
Gravity's Rainsow
âGot it,â sez Tchitcherine. âLetâs ride, comrade.â Off
again, the fires dying at their backs, the sounds of string
music, of village carousing, presently swallowed behind
the wind.
And on into the canyons. Far away to the north, a white
mountaintop winks in the last sunlight. Down here, it is
already shadowed evening.
Tchitcherine will reach the Kirghiz Light, but not his
birth. He is no aqyn, and his heart was never ready. He
will see It just before dawn, He will spend 12 hours then,
face-up on the desert, a prehistoric city greater than
Babylon lying in stifled mineral sleep. a kilometer below
his back, as the shadow of the tall rock, rising to a point,
dances west to east and Dzaqyp Qulan tends him, anxious
as child and doll, and drying foam laces the necks of the
two horses, But someday, like the mountains, like the
young exiled women in their certain love, in their inno-
cence of him, like the morning earthquakes and the cloud-
driving wind, a purge, a war, and millions after millions of
souls gone behind him, he will hardly be able to remember
It.
But in the Zone, hidden inside the summer Zone, the
Rocket is waiting. He will be drawn the same way
again....
|
Last week, in the British sector someplace, Slothrop, hav-
ing been asshole enough to drink out of an ornamental
pond in the Tiergarten, took sick. Any Berliner these days
knows enough to boil water before drinking, though some
then proceed to brew it with various things for tea, such
as tulip bulbs, which is not good. Word is out that the
center of the bulb is deadly poison. But they keep doing
it. Once Slothropâor Rocketman, as he is soon to be
knownâthought he might warn them about things like
tulip bulbs, Bring in a little American enlightenment. But
he gets so desperate with them, moving behind their
scrims of European pain: he keeps pushing aside gauze â
_
after. wavy em but thereâs ghee still
one, the im-
penetrable. .
uo
bat
.
Slothrop in the Zone
- Slothrop falls violently ill after drinking contaminated water from a pond in the Tiergarten, suffering from severe fever and dysentery.
- The narrative highlights the desperate conditions of post-war Berlin, where residents risk poisoning themselves with tulip bulb tea.
- Isolated in a cellar, Slothrop experiences hallucinations of his mother and the crushing weight of his own displacement.
- He feels a profound alienation from his American identity, watching a U.S. work detail pass by without the strength or will to rejoin them.
- The 'Rocketman' persona begins to emerge as Slothrop's old memories and cultural roots start to fade like 'refugees of forgetfulness.'
- In his delirium, Slothrop fantasizes about Enzian and the Schwarzkommando as a potential means of escape from his physical and spiritual decay.
For a minute he has the truly unbalanced idea of running out in the street and asking them to take him back, requesting political asylum in America.
418
Gravity's Rainsow
âGot it,â sez Tchitcherine. âLetâs ride, comrade.â Off
again, the fires dying at their backs, the sounds of string
music, of village carousing, presently swallowed behind
the wind.
And on into the canyons. Far away to the north, a white
mountaintop winks in the last sunlight. Down here, it is
already shadowed evening.
Tchitcherine will reach the Kirghiz Light, but not his
birth. He is no aqyn, and his heart was never ready. He
will see It just before dawn, He will spend 12 hours then,
face-up on the desert, a prehistoric city greater than
Babylon lying in stifled mineral sleep. a kilometer below
his back, as the shadow of the tall rock, rising to a point,
dances west to east and Dzaqyp Qulan tends him, anxious
as child and doll, and drying foam laces the necks of the
two horses, But someday, like the mountains, like the
young exiled women in their certain love, in their inno-
cence of him, like the morning earthquakes and the cloud-
driving wind, a purge, a war, and millions after millions of
souls gone behind him, he will hardly be able to remember
It.
But in the Zone, hidden inside the summer Zone, the
Rocket is waiting. He will be drawn the same way
again....
|
Last week, in the British sector someplace, Slothrop, hav-
ing been asshole enough to drink out of an ornamental
pond in the Tiergarten, took sick. Any Berliner these days
knows enough to boil water before drinking, though some
then proceed to brew it with various things for tea, such
as tulip bulbs, which is not good. Word is out that the
center of the bulb is deadly poison. But they keep doing
it. Once Slothropâor Rocketman, as he is soon to be
knownâthought he might warn them about things like
tulip bulbs, Bring in a little American enlightenment. But
he gets so desperate with them, moving behind their
scrims of European pain: he keeps pushing aside gauze â
_
after. wavy em but thereâs ghee still
one, the im-
penetrable. .
uo
bat
.
In the Zone
419
So there he is, under the trees in summer leaf, in flower,
many of them blasted horizontal or into chips and splin-
tersâfine dust from the bridle paths rising in the sunrays
by itself, ghosts of horses still taking their early-morning
turns through the peacetime park. Up all night and thirsty,
Slothrop lies on his stomach and slurps up water, just an
old saddle tramp at the water hole here. ... Fool. Vomit-
ing, cramps, diarrhea, and whoâs he to lecture about tulip
bulbs? He manages to crawl as far as an empty cellar, across
the street from a wrecked church, curls up and spends the
next days feverish, shivering, oozing shit that burns like
acidâlost, alone with that sovereign Nazi movie-villain
fist clamping in his bowels jaâyou vill shit now, ja?
Wondering if hell ever see Berkshire again. Mommy,
Mommy! The War's over; why canât I go home now?
Nalline, the reflection from her Gold Star brightening her
chins like a buttercup, smirks by the window and. won't
answer. ...
A terrible time, Hallucinating Rolls Royces and boot-
heels in the night; coming to get him. Out in the street
women in babushkas are lackadaisically digging trenches
for the black iron water pipe thatâs stacked along the curb-
side. All day long they talk, shift after shift, into evening.
Slothrop lies in the space where sunlight visits his cellar
for half an hour before going on to others with mean pud-
dles of warmthâsorry, got to go now, schedule to keep,
see you tomorrow if it doesnât rain, heh heh....
Once Slothrop wakes to the sound of an American work
detail marching down the street, cadence being counted
by a Negro voiceâyo lep, yo lep, yo lep O right O lep
... kind of little German folk tune with some sliding up-
scale on the word ârightâââ-Slothrop can imagine his man-
nered jog of arm and head to the left as he comes down
hard on that heel, the way they teach it in Basic...can
see the manâs smile. For a minute he has the truly un-
balanced idea of running out in the street and asking
them to take him back, requesting political asylum in
âAmerica. But heâs too weak. In his stomach, in his heart.
He lies, listening the tramping and the voice out of ear-
_ shot, the sound of his country fading away.... Fading
like the WASP ghosts, the old-time DPs trailing rootless
â \ 4
now down the roads out of his memory, crowding the
NY
;
Woe
420
Graviryâs Rainsow
rooftops of the freights of forgetfulness, knapsacks and
poor refugee pockets stuffed with tracts nobodyâd read,
looking for another host: given up for good on Rocketman
here. Somewhere between the burning in his head and
the burning in his asshole, if the two can be conveniently
separated, and paced to that dying cadence, he elaborates
a fantasy in which Enzian, the African, finds him againâ
comes to offer him a way out.
Because it seems a while back that they did meet again,
by the reedy edge of a marsh south of the capital. Un-
shaven, sweating, stinking Rocketman restlessly tripping
out to the suburbs, among his people: there is haze over
the sun, and a rotting swamp odor worse than Slothropâs
own. Only two or three hoursâ sleep in the last couple of
days. He stumbles on the Schwarzkommando, busy dredg-
ing for pieces of rocket. Formations of dark birds are
cruising in the sky. The Africans have a partisan look:
pieces here and there of old Wehrmacht and SS uniform,
tattered civilian clothes, only one insigne in common, worn
wherever it will show, a painted steel device in red, white
and blue, thus:
ve)
Zz
Adapted from insignia the German troopers. wore. in
South-West Africa when they camé in 1904 to crush the
Herero Rebellionâit was usĂ©d to pin up half the brim of
a wide-awake hat. For the Zone-Hereros.it
has become
something deep, Slothrop gathers, maybe a little mystical.
â
Though he recognizes the lettersâKlar, Entliiftung, Ziind-
ung, Vorstufe, Haupstufe, the five positions
of the launch-
ing switch in the A4 control carâhe doesnât let on to
â
They sit on a hillside eating bread and sausages. Chil-
dren from the town move by in every direction. Someone
has set up an army tent, someone has brought beer in
kegs. A scratch band, a dozen brasses in tasseled, frayed
â
gold and red uniforms play selections from Die Meister-
singer. Fat-smoke drifts in the air. Choruses of drinkers in â
the distance break from time to time into laughter or a ©
song. Itâs a Rocket-raising: a festival new to this country.
â
Soon it will come to the folk-attention how close Wernher
The Schwarzkommando Rocket-Raising
- Slothrop encounters the Schwarzkommando, a group of African partisans dredging for rocket parts in a marsh near Berlin.
- The group wears a mystical insignia adapted from the German colonial uniforms used during the 1904 Herero Rebellion.
- A festive atmosphere emerges as the group celebrates a 'Rocket-raising,' blending ancient spring rituals with modern rocket technology.
- The Oberst explains their precarious existence in the Zone as a matter of statistical probability rather than certainty.
- The survivors of the von Trotha genocide use the mantra 'Mba-kayere' to signify they have been passed over by death.
- The Schwarzkommando view themselves as standing outside of history due to their near-extermination and unlikely survival.
We have a word that we whisper, a mantra for times that threaten to be bad. Mba-kayere. It means âI am passed over.â
420
Graviryâs Rainsow
rooftops of the freights of forgetfulness, knapsacks and
poor refugee pockets stuffed with tracts nobodyâd read,
looking for another host: given up for good on Rocketman
here. Somewhere between the burning in his head and
the burning in his asshole, if the two can be conveniently
separated, and paced to that dying cadence, he elaborates
a fantasy in which Enzian, the African, finds him againâ
comes to offer him a way out.
Because it seems a while back that they did meet again,
by the reedy edge of a marsh south of the capital. Un-
shaven, sweating, stinking Rocketman restlessly tripping
out to the suburbs, among his people: there is haze over
the sun, and a rotting swamp odor worse than Slothropâs
own. Only two or three hoursâ sleep in the last couple of
days. He stumbles on the Schwarzkommando, busy dredg-
ing for pieces of rocket. Formations of dark birds are
cruising in the sky. The Africans have a partisan look:
pieces here and there of old Wehrmacht and SS uniform,
tattered civilian clothes, only one insigne in common, worn
wherever it will show, a painted steel device in red, white
and blue, thus:
ve)
Zz
Adapted from insignia the German troopers. wore. in
South-West Africa when they camé in 1904 to crush the
Herero Rebellionâit was usĂ©d to pin up half the brim of
a wide-awake hat. For the Zone-Hereros.it
has become
something deep, Slothrop gathers, maybe a little mystical.
â
Though he recognizes the lettersâKlar, Entliiftung, Ziind-
ung, Vorstufe, Haupstufe, the five positions
of the launch-
ing switch in the A4 control carâhe doesnât let on to
â
They sit on a hillside eating bread and sausages. Chil-
dren from the town move by in every direction. Someone
has set up an army tent, someone has brought beer in
kegs. A scratch band, a dozen brasses in tasseled, frayed
â
gold and red uniforms play selections from Die Meister-
singer. Fat-smoke drifts in the air. Choruses of drinkers in â
the distance break from time to time into laughter or a ©
song. Itâs a Rocket-raising: a festival new to this country.
â
Soon it will come to the folk-attention how close Wernher
In the Zone
421
von Braunâs birthday is to the Spring Equinox, and the
same German impulse that once rolled flower-boats through
the towns and staged mock battles between young Spring
and deathwhite old Winter will be erecting strange floral
towers out in the clearings and meadows, and the young
scientist-surrogate will be going round and round with old
Gravity or some such buffoon, and the children will be
tickled, and laugh....
Schwarzkommando struggle knee-deep in mud, engaged
_ entirely with the salvage, with the moment. The A4 theyâre
about to uncover was used in the last desperate battle for
Berlinâan abortive firing, a warhead that didnât explode.
Around its grave they're driving in planks for shoring,
sending back mud in buckets and wood casks along a
human chain to be dumped on shore, near where their
rifles and kits are stacked.
âSo Marvy was right. They didnât disarm you guys.â
âThey didnât: know where to find us. We were a sur-â
prise. There are even now powerful factions in Paris who
donât believe we exist. âhad most of the time I'm not. so
sure myself.â
âHowâs thatPâ -
âWell, I think we're here, but only in a statistical way.
Something like that rock over there is just about 100%
certainâit knows itâs there, so does everybody else. But
our own chances of being right here right now are only a
little better than evenâthe slightest shift in the probabil-
ities and we're goneâschnapp! like that.â
âPeculiar talk, Oberst.â
âNot if you've been where we have. Forty years ago, in
Siidwest, we were nearly exterminated. There was no rea-
son. Can you understand thatP No reason. We couldn't
even find comfort in the Will of God Theory. These were
Germans with names and service records, men in blue
uniforms who killed clumsily and not without
guilt.
Search-and-destroy missions, every day. It went on for
two years. The orders came down from a human being, a
scrupulous butcher named von Trotha, The thumb of
mercy never touched his scales.
âWe have a word that we whisper, a mantra for times
that threaten to be bad. Mba-kayere. You may find that it
will work for you. Mba-kayere. It means âI am passed
over.â To those of us who survived von Trotha, it also
422
Gravityâs Rainsow
means that we have learned to stand outside our history
and watch it, without feeling too much. A little schizoid.
A sense for the statistics of our being. One reason we
grew so close to the Rocket, I think, was this sharp aware-
ness of how contingent, like ourselves, the Ropers 4
could beâhow at the mercy of small things...
dust that
gets in a timer and breaks electrical contact...a film of
grease you canât even see, oil from a touch of human
fingers, left inside a liquid-oxygen valve, flaring up soon
as the stuff hits and setting the whole thing offâ-Ive seen
that happen... rain that swells the bushings in the servos
or leaks into a switch: corrosion, a short, a signal grounded
out, Brennschluss too soon, and what was alive is only an
Aggregat again, an Aggregat of pieces of dead matter, no
longer anything that can move, or that has a Destiny with
a shapeâstop doing that with your eyebrows, Scufiling. I
may have gone a bit native out here, thatâs all. Stay in the
Zone long enough and youll start getting ideas. about
Destiny yourse
A cry from downidn the marsh. Birds swirl upward,
round and black, grains of coarse-cut pepper on this bouilla-
baisse sky. Little kids come skidding to a halt, and the
brass band fall silent in mid-bar. Enzian is on his feet and
loping down to where the others are gathering.
~~.
âWas ist los, meinen Sumpfmenschen?â The others,
laughing, scoop up fistfuls of mud and start throwing them
at their Nguarorerue, who ducks, dodges, grabs him some
of that mud and starts flinging it back. The Germans on
shore stand blinking, politely aghast at this lack of disci-
pline.
Down in the plank enclosure, a couple of muddy trim-
tabs poke up now out of the marsh, with twelve feet of
mud between them. Enzian, spattered and dripping, his
white grin preceding him by several meters, vaults over
the shoring and into the hole, and grabs a shovel. The
moment has become roughly ceremonial: Andreas and
Christian have moved up to either side to help him scrape
and dig till about a foot of one fin-surface is exposed. The
Determination of the Number. The Nguarorerue crouches
â
and. brushes away mud, revealing ipark of
| Le secesion
ao
white 2, and a 7.
âOutase.â And glum faces on the fiaae
;
âSlothropâs got a hunch. âYou expected der FĂ©nffachnull- |
,
The Statistics of Being
- The narrator reflects on the fragile contingency of both human life and the V-2 Rocket, noting how microscopic flaws like a film of grease or a speck of dust can lead to catastrophic failure.
- Enzian and his men engage in a muddy, ceremonial excavation of a buried rocket component in the marsh, revealing serial numbers that fail to match their expectations.
- Slothrop and Enzian discuss the 'SchwarzgerÀt' and the 'quintuple zero,' suggesting these objects may exist only as alphabetical coincidences in intelligence reports rather than physical realities.
- The conversation shifts to the shifting alliances in the Zone, where the occupying powers appear to be forming a 'popular front' against the Schwarzkommando.
- Enzian exhibits a 'schizoid' detachment, viewing the world through the lens of destiny and statistical probability while navigating the chaotic landscape of the post-war Zone.
Birds swirl upward, round and black, grains of coarse-cut pepper on this bouillabaisse sky.
422
Gravityâs Rainsow
means that we have learned to stand outside our history
and watch it, without feeling too much. A little schizoid.
A sense for the statistics of our being. One reason we
grew so close to the Rocket, I think, was this sharp aware-
ness of how contingent, like ourselves, the Ropers 4
could beâhow at the mercy of small things...
dust that
gets in a timer and breaks electrical contact...a film of
grease you canât even see, oil from a touch of human
fingers, left inside a liquid-oxygen valve, flaring up soon
as the stuff hits and setting the whole thing offâ-Ive seen
that happen... rain that swells the bushings in the servos
or leaks into a switch: corrosion, a short, a signal grounded
out, Brennschluss too soon, and what was alive is only an
Aggregat again, an Aggregat of pieces of dead matter, no
longer anything that can move, or that has a Destiny with
a shapeâstop doing that with your eyebrows, Scufiling. I
may have gone a bit native out here, thatâs all. Stay in the
Zone long enough and youll start getting ideas. about
Destiny yourse
A cry from downidn the marsh. Birds swirl upward,
round and black, grains of coarse-cut pepper on this bouilla-
baisse sky. Little kids come skidding to a halt, and the
brass band fall silent in mid-bar. Enzian is on his feet and
loping down to where the others are gathering.
~~.
âWas ist los, meinen Sumpfmenschen?â The others,
laughing, scoop up fistfuls of mud and start throwing them
at their Nguarorerue, who ducks, dodges, grabs him some
of that mud and starts flinging it back. The Germans on
shore stand blinking, politely aghast at this lack of disci-
pline.
Down in the plank enclosure, a couple of muddy trim-
tabs poke up now out of the marsh, with twelve feet of
mud between them. Enzian, spattered and dripping, his
white grin preceding him by several meters, vaults over
the shoring and into the hole, and grabs a shovel. The
moment has become roughly ceremonial: Andreas and
Christian have moved up to either side to help him scrape
and dig till about a foot of one fin-surface is exposed. The
Determination of the Number. The Nguarorerue crouches
â
and. brushes away mud, revealing ipark of
| Le secesion
ao
white 2, and a 7.
âOutase.â And glum faces on the fiaae
;
âSlothropâs got a hunch. âYou expected der FĂ©nffachnull- |
,
âIn the Zone
423
punkt,â he proposes to Enzian a little later, âthe quintuple
zero, right? Haa-aaah!â Gotcha, gotchaâ
Throwing up his hands, âItâs insane. Iâ donât wept
there is one.â
âZero probability?â
âT think it will depend on the garbivet of searchers. Are
your people after it?â
âI donât know. I nie heard by accident: I donât have
any people.â
âSchwarzgerat, Selliurskointwando. Scuffling: suppose
somewhere there were an alphabetical list, someoneâs list,
an input to some intelligence arm, say. Some country,
doesnât matter. But suppose that on- this list, the two
names, Blackinstrument, Blackcommand, just happened to
be there, juxtaposed. 'Thatâs all, an alphabetical :
coinci-
dence. We wouldnât have to be real, and neither would it,
correct?â
The tnarsbis streak away, patched with light under the
calle overcast. Negative shadows flicker white behind the
edges of everything. âWell, this is all creepy enough here,
- Oberst,â sez Slothrop. âYou're not helping.â
Enzian is staring into Slothropâs face, with something
like a smile under his beard.
ââO.K. Who is after it, then?â Being enigmatic, won't
answerâis this bird looking to be needled? âThat Major
Marvy,â opines Slothrop, âa-and that Tchitcherine, too!â
Hal That did it. Like a salute, a boot-click, Enzianâs
face snaps into perfect neutrality. âYou would oblige me,â
he begins, then settles for changing the subject.. âYou
were down in the Mittelwerke. How did Marvyâs people
seem to be getting along with the Russians?â
âAce buddies, seemed like.â
_âT have the feeling that the occupying Powers have just
about reached agreement on a popular front against the
Schwarzkommando, I donât know who you are, or how
your lines are drawn. But they're trying to shut us down.
I'm just back from Hamburg. We had trouble, It was
made to look like a DP raid, but the British military gov-
ernment was behind it; and they had Russian cooperation.â
- âTm sorry. Can I help?â
âDonât be reckless.â Letâs all wait and see. All anyone
>
knows about you is that you keep showing up.â
Toward dusk, the black birds descend, millions of them,
Visions in the Zone
- Slothrop experiences a profound moment of self-doubt, rejecting the idea that his quest for the Schwarzgerat is a noble or holy pursuit.
- The protagonist compares his aimless wandering and moral compromise to the legend of TannhÀuser, suggesting he is trapped in a game designed by others.
- Amidst the physical decay of post-war Berlin, Slothrop suffers from severe illness and the constant threat of violence from other desperate survivors.
- The narrative introduces Greta Erdmann, a fading film star whose former cinematic glamour has been replaced by the harsh, bleaching reality of the ruins.
- The atmosphere is thick with omens, from the unsettling behavior of massive bird flocks to the pervasive scents of woodsmoke and decay.
- Slothrop's chance encounter with Greta begins under the cover of night while he is scavenging for food in a dangerous, pulverized landscape.
The Schwarzgerat is no Grail, Ace, thatâs not what the G in Imipolex G stands for.
âIn the Zone
423
punkt,â he proposes to Enzian a little later, âthe quintuple
zero, right? Haa-aaah!â Gotcha, gotchaâ
Throwing up his hands, âItâs insane. Iâ donât wept
there is one.â
âZero probability?â
âT think it will depend on the garbivet of searchers. Are
your people after it?â
âI donât know. I nie heard by accident: I donât have
any people.â
âSchwarzgerat, Selliurskointwando. Scuffling: suppose
somewhere there were an alphabetical list, someoneâs list,
an input to some intelligence arm, say. Some country,
doesnât matter. But suppose that on- this list, the two
names, Blackinstrument, Blackcommand, just happened to
be there, juxtaposed. 'Thatâs all, an alphabetical :
coinci-
dence. We wouldnât have to be real, and neither would it,
correct?â
The tnarsbis streak away, patched with light under the
calle overcast. Negative shadows flicker white behind the
edges of everything. âWell, this is all creepy enough here,
- Oberst,â sez Slothrop. âYou're not helping.â
Enzian is staring into Slothropâs face, with something
like a smile under his beard.
ââO.K. Who is after it, then?â Being enigmatic, won't
answerâis this bird looking to be needled? âThat Major
Marvy,â opines Slothrop, âa-and that Tchitcherine, too!â
Hal That did it. Like a salute, a boot-click, Enzianâs
face snaps into perfect neutrality. âYou would oblige me,â
he begins, then settles for changing the subject.. âYou
were down in the Mittelwerke. How did Marvyâs people
seem to be getting along with the Russians?â
âAce buddies, seemed like.â
_âT have the feeling that the occupying Powers have just
about reached agreement on a popular front against the
Schwarzkommando, I donât know who you are, or how
your lines are drawn. But they're trying to shut us down.
I'm just back from Hamburg. We had trouble, It was
made to look like a DP raid, but the British military gov-
ernment was behind it; and they had Russian cooperation.â
- âTm sorry. Can I help?â
âDonât be reckless.â Letâs all wait and see. All anyone
>
knows about you is that you keep showing up.â
Toward dusk, the black birds descend, millions of them,
424
Gravity's RAINBOW
â
to sit in the branches of trees nearby, The trees grow
heavy with black birds, branches like dendrites of the
Nervous System fattening, deep in twittering nerve-dusk, in
preparation for some important message... .
Later in Berlin, down in the cellar among fever-dreams
with shit leaking out of him at gallons per hour, too weak
to aim more than token kicks at the rats running by with
eyes fixed earmestly noplace, trying to make believe they
donât have a newer and dearer status among the Berliners,
at minimum points on his mental health chart, when the
sun is gone so totally it might as well be for good, Slo-
thropâs dumb idling heart sez: The Schwarzgerat is no
Grail, Ace, thatâs not what the G in Imipolex G stands for.
And you are no knightly hero. The best you can compare
with is Tannhiuser, the Singing Nincompoopâyouâve been
under one mountain at Nordhausen, been known to sing
a song or two with uke accompaniment, and donâtcha feel
you're in a sucking marshland of sin out here, Slothrop?
maybe not the same thing William Slothrop, vomiting a
good part of 1630 away over the side of that Arbella,
meant when he said âsin.â ... But what youâve done is put
yourself on somebodyâs elseâs voyageâsome Frau Holda,
some Venus in some mountainâplaying her, its, game:..
you know that in some irreducible way itâs an evil game.
You play because you have nothing better to do, but that
doesnât make it right. And where is the Pope whose staffâs
gonna bloom for you?
.
As a matterof fact, he is also just about to run into his
Lisaura: someone he will be with for a while and then
leave again. The Minnesinger abandoned his poor woman
to suicide. What Slothrop will be leaving Greta Erdmann
to is not so clear. Along the Havel in Neubabelsberg she
waits, less than the images of herself that survive in an
indeterminate number of release prints here and there
about the Zone, and even across the sea.... Every kind
technician who ever threw a magenta gel across her key
light for her has gone to war or death, jand she is left
nothing but Godâs indifferent sunlight in all its bleaching
and terror.... Eyebrows plucked to
pen-strokes, long
hair streaked with gray, hands heavy
with rings of all
colors, opacities and uglinesses, wearing her dark prewar
Chanel suits, no hat, scarves, always a flower, she isâ
In the Zone
425
haunted by Central European night-whispers that blow,
like the skin curtains of Berlin, more ghostly around her
arpa wrecked beauty the closer she and Slothrop
draw. .
This i is how they meet. One night Slothrop is out raid-
_
ing a vegetable garden in the park. Thousands of people
living in the open. He skirts their fires, stealthyâ All he
wants is a handful of greens here, a carrot or mangel-
wurzel there, just to keep him going. When they see him
. they throw rocks, lumber, once not long ago an old hand-
grenade that didnât go off but made him shit where he
stood.
â
This evening he is orbiting someplace near the Grosser
Stern. It is long after curfew. Odors of woodsmoke and
decay hang over the city. Among pulverized heads of
stone margraves
and electors, reconnoitering
a likely-
looking cabbage patch, all of a sudden Slothrop picks
up
the scent of an unmistakable no it canât be yes it is itâs a
REEFER! A-and itâs burning someplace close by. Gold-
shot green of the Rifâs slant fields here, vapor-blossoms
resinous and summery, charm his snoot on through bushes
and matted grass, under the blasted trees and whatever
sits in their branches.
Sure enough, in the hollow of an upended trunk, long
roots fringing the scene like a leprechaun outpost, Slo-
throp finds one Emil (âSaĂ©ureâ) Bummer, once the Weimar
Republicâs most notorious cat burglar and doper, flanked
by two beautiful girls, handing around a cheerful little
orange star. The depraved old man. Slothropâs on top
of them before they notice. Bummer smiles, reaches up
an arm, offering the remainder of what theyâve been
smoking to Slothrop, who receives it in long dirty finger-
nails. Oboy. He hunkers down.
âWas ist losPâ sez SĂ©ure. âWe've had a windfall of kif.
Allah has smiled on us, well actually he was smiling at
everybody, we just happened to be in his direct line of
si
.â His nickname, which means âacidâ in German,
developed back in the twenties, when he was carrying
around a little bottle of schnapps which, if he got in a
_ tight spot, he would bluff people into thinking was fuming
nitric acid. He comes out now with another fat Moroccan
reefer. They light up off of Slothropâs faithful Zippo.
The Birth of Rocketman
- Slothrop encounters the notorious cat burglar Saeure Bummer and two women hiding in a hollowed-out tree trunk amidst the ruins of Berlin.
- The group shares a windfall of Moroccan kif, leading to a drug-induced state of heightened perception and creative association.
- While examining looted Wagnerian opera costumes, Slothrop realizes a horned helmet resembles the nose assembly of a V-2 rocket.
- Saeure impulsively names Slothrop 'Raketemensch' (Rocketman), ceremonially dressing him in a velvet cape and the modified helmet.
- Slothrop immediately begins fantasizing about a 'Rocketman Hype' where he is a savior figure provided with endless food and maidens.
- The scene highlights the surreal, improvisational nature of life in 'The Zone,' where identities are fluid and constructed from the debris of war.
âRaketemensch!â screams Saeure, grabbing the helmet and unscrewing the horns off of it. Names by themselves may be empty, but the act of naming. . .
In the Zone
425
haunted by Central European night-whispers that blow,
like the skin curtains of Berlin, more ghostly around her
arpa wrecked beauty the closer she and Slothrop
draw. .
This i is how they meet. One night Slothrop is out raid-
_
ing a vegetable garden in the park. Thousands of people
living in the open. He skirts their fires, stealthyâ All he
wants is a handful of greens here, a carrot or mangel-
wurzel there, just to keep him going. When they see him
. they throw rocks, lumber, once not long ago an old hand-
grenade that didnât go off but made him shit where he
stood.
â
This evening he is orbiting someplace near the Grosser
Stern. It is long after curfew. Odors of woodsmoke and
decay hang over the city. Among pulverized heads of
stone margraves
and electors, reconnoitering
a likely-
looking cabbage patch, all of a sudden Slothrop picks
up
the scent of an unmistakable no it canât be yes it is itâs a
REEFER! A-and itâs burning someplace close by. Gold-
shot green of the Rifâs slant fields here, vapor-blossoms
resinous and summery, charm his snoot on through bushes
and matted grass, under the blasted trees and whatever
sits in their branches.
Sure enough, in the hollow of an upended trunk, long
roots fringing the scene like a leprechaun outpost, Slo-
throp finds one Emil (âSaĂ©ureâ) Bummer, once the Weimar
Republicâs most notorious cat burglar and doper, flanked
by two beautiful girls, handing around a cheerful little
orange star. The depraved old man. Slothropâs on top
of them before they notice. Bummer smiles, reaches up
an arm, offering the remainder of what theyâve been
smoking to Slothrop, who receives it in long dirty finger-
nails. Oboy. He hunkers down.
âWas ist losPâ sez SĂ©ure. âWe've had a windfall of kif.
Allah has smiled on us, well actually he was smiling at
everybody, we just happened to be in his direct line of
si
.â His nickname, which means âacidâ in German,
developed back in the twenties, when he was carrying
around a little bottle of schnapps which, if he got in a
_ tight spot, he would bluff people into thinking was fuming
nitric acid. He comes out now with another fat Moroccan
reefer. They light up off of Slothropâs faithful Zippo.
426
Gravityâs RaINnBow
Trudi, the blonde, and Magda, the sultry Bavarian,
have spent the day looting a stash of Wagnerian opera
costumes. There is a pointed helmet with horns, a full
cape of green velvet, a pair of buckskin trousers.
'
âSaaaay,â sez Slothrop, âthat rig looks pretty sharp!â
ny re for you,â Magda smiles
Ain ~
sch no. You'd get a better deal at the Tausch-
zentrale. .
But SĂ©ure insists. âHavenât you ever noticed, when
you're this Blitzed and you want somebody to show up,
they always do?â
The girls are moving the coal of the reefer about,
watching its reflection
in the shiny helmet changing
shapes, depths, grades of color .
.
. hmm. It occurs to
Slothrop here that without those horns on it, why this
helmet would look just like the nose assembly of the
Rocket. And if he could find a few triangular scraps of
leather, figure a way to sew them on to Tchitcherineâs
-
boots . .
. yeah, a-and on the back of the cape put a big,
scarlet, capital Râ It is as pregnant a moment as when
Tonto, after the legendary ambush, attempts toâ
âRaketemensch!â screams Sdure, grabbing the helmet
and unscrewing the horns off of it. Names by themselves
may be empty, but the act of naming. .
âYou had the same idea?â Oh, strange. âSure carefully
â
reaches up and places the helmetâ on Slothropâs head.
Ceremonially the girls drape the cape around his shoul-
ders. Troll scouting parties have already sent runners
back to inform their people.
âGood. Now listen, Rocketman, Iâm in a bit of trouble.â
â
âHah?â Slothrop has been imagining a full-scale Rocket-
â
man Hype, in which the people bring him food, wine
and maidens in a four-color dispensation in which there â
is a lot of skipping and singing âLa, la, la, la,â and beef- ©
steaks blossoming from these strafed lindens, and roast
â
turkeys thudding down like soft hail on Berlin, sweet
â
potatoes a-and melted marshmallows, etl ebitg up out of -
the ground. .
âDo you have any armies?â Trudi wants
to know. Slo-
throp, or Rocketman, hands over half a she
pack. . 9
and stabs â
The reefer keeps coming around:
|
through this root shelter. Everybody forgets what it is
_In the Zone
427
theyâve been talking about. Thereâs the smell of earth.
Bugs rush through, aerating. Magda has lit one of Slo-
thropâs cigarettes for him and he tastes raspberry lipstick.
Lipstick? Whoâs got lipstick these days? What are all these
people here into, anyway?
Berlin is dark enough for stars, the accustomed stars
but never so clearly arranged. It is possible also to make
up your own. constellations. âOh,â Sdure recalls. âI had.
this problem...â
âTm really hungry,â it occurs to Slothrop.
Trudi is telling Magda about her boy friend Gustav,
who wants to live inside the piano. âAll you could see
was his feet sticking out, he kept saying, âYou all hate
me, you hate this piane!ââ Theyâre giggling now.
âPlucking on the strings,â sez Magda, âright? Heâs so
paranoid.â
Trudi has these big, blonde Prussian legs, Tiny blonde
hairs dance up and down in the starlight, up under her
skirt and back, all through the shadows of her knees,
around under the hollows behind them, this starry jitter-
ing.... The stump towers above and cups them all, a
giant nerve
cell, dendrites extended into the city, the
night. Signals coming in from all directions, and from back
in time too, probably, if not indeed forward....
Saure, who is never able entirely to lay off business,
rolls, flows to his feet, clutching on to a root till his head
decides where it is going to come to rest. Magda, her ear
at its entrance, is banging on Rocketmanâs helmet with a
stick. It gongs in chords. The separate notes arenât right
on pitch, either: they sound very odd together. ...
âI donât know what time it is,â Saure Bummer gazing
around. âWerenât we supposed to be at the Chicago Bar?
â Or was that last night?â
âI forget,â Trudi giggles.
âListen, Kerl, I really have to talk to that American.â
âDear Emil,â Trudi whispers, âdonât worry. He'll be at
the Chicago.â
They decide on an intricate system of disguise. Saure
gives Slothrop his jacket. Trudi wears the green cape.
Magda puts on Slothropâs boots, and he goes in his socks,
| carrying her own tiny shoes in his pockets. They spend
some time gathering plausible items, kindling and greens,
Hallucinations in the Ruins
- A group of characters including Slothrop, Saure, Magda, and Trudi engage in a chaotic, drug-fueled exchange of clothes and identities to create disguises.
- The setting is a surreal, post-war Berlin where the landscape acts as a giant nerve cell receiving signals from the past and future.
- Slothrop experiences physical and sensory distortions, including a painful arousal and vision that ripples like rain as they navigate the Tiergarten.
- The ruins of the city are populated by 'citified' trolls and dryads who have been liberated from their natural habitats by the bombings.
- Slothrop's perception is so warped that he mistakes the charred, shelled-out Reichstag building for a giant ape squatting in the street.
- The environment is characterized by 'tricks' of the eye, where political icons like Stalin appear to Slothrop as former romantic interests from his past.
On closer inspection, the crouching monster turns out to be the Reichstag building, shelled out, airbrushed, fire-brushed powdery black on all blastward curves and projections.
_In the Zone
427
theyâve been talking about. Thereâs the smell of earth.
Bugs rush through, aerating. Magda has lit one of Slo-
thropâs cigarettes for him and he tastes raspberry lipstick.
Lipstick? Whoâs got lipstick these days? What are all these
people here into, anyway?
Berlin is dark enough for stars, the accustomed stars
but never so clearly arranged. It is possible also to make
up your own. constellations. âOh,â Sdure recalls. âI had.
this problem...â
âTm really hungry,â it occurs to Slothrop.
Trudi is telling Magda about her boy friend Gustav,
who wants to live inside the piano. âAll you could see
was his feet sticking out, he kept saying, âYou all hate
me, you hate this piane!ââ Theyâre giggling now.
âPlucking on the strings,â sez Magda, âright? Heâs so
paranoid.â
Trudi has these big, blonde Prussian legs, Tiny blonde
hairs dance up and down in the starlight, up under her
skirt and back, all through the shadows of her knees,
around under the hollows behind them, this starry jitter-
ing.... The stump towers above and cups them all, a
giant nerve
cell, dendrites extended into the city, the
night. Signals coming in from all directions, and from back
in time too, probably, if not indeed forward....
Saure, who is never able entirely to lay off business,
rolls, flows to his feet, clutching on to a root till his head
decides where it is going to come to rest. Magda, her ear
at its entrance, is banging on Rocketmanâs helmet with a
stick. It gongs in chords. The separate notes arenât right
on pitch, either: they sound very odd together. ...
âI donât know what time it is,â Saure Bummer gazing
around. âWerenât we supposed to be at the Chicago Bar?
â Or was that last night?â
âI forget,â Trudi giggles.
âListen, Kerl, I really have to talk to that American.â
âDear Emil,â Trudi whispers, âdonât worry. He'll be at
the Chicago.â
They decide on an intricate system of disguise. Saure
gives Slothrop his jacket. Trudi wears the green cape.
Magda puts on Slothropâs boots, and he goes in his socks,
| carrying her own tiny shoes in his pockets. They spend
some time gathering plausible items, kindling and greens,
ya
428
Gravityâs Rainsow
to fill the helmet with, and Saure carries that. Magda and
Trudi help stuff Slothrop into the buckskin pants, both
girls down on pretty knees, hands caressing his legs and
ass. Like the ballroom in St. Patrickâs Cathedral, there is
none in these trousers here, and sehaehanis's hardon, en-
larging, aches like thunder.
âFine for you folks.â The girls are laughing. Grandiose
Slothrop limps along after everybody, a network of clear
interweaving ripples now like rain all through his vision,
hands turning to stone, out of the Tiergarten, past shell-
struck lime and chestnut trees, into the streets, or what is
serving for them. Patrols of all nations keep coming by,
and this mindless quartet have to hit the dirt often, trying
not to laugh too much. Slothropâs sox are sodden with dew.
Tanks manoeuvre in the street, chewing parallel ridges of
asphalt and stonedust. Trolls and dryads play in the open
spaces. They were blasted back in May out of bridges,
out of trees into liberation, and are now long citified. âOh,
that drip,â say the subdeb trolls about those who are not
as hep, âhe just isnât out-of-the-tree about anything.â
Mutilated statues lie under mineral sedation; frock-coated
marble torsos of bureaucrats fallen pale in the gutters. Yes,
hmm, here we are in the heart of downtown âBerlin, really,
uh, a little, Jesus Christ whatâs thatâ
âBetter watch it,â advises Sdure, âitâs kind of rubbery
through here.â
âWhat is that?â
Well, what it isâisP whatâs âisâPâis that King Kong, or
some creature closely allied, squatting down, evidently
just, taking a shit, right in the street! and everything!
a-and being ignored, by truckload after truckload of
Russian
enlisted
men
in pisscutter
caps and dazed
smiles, grinding right on byâââHey!â Slothrop wants
to shout, âhey lookit that giant ape! or whatever it
is. You guys? Hey...â But he doesnât, luckily. On closer
inspection, the crouching monster turns out to be the
Reichstag building, shelled out, airbrushed, fire-brushed
powdery black on all blastward curves and projections,
chalked over its hard-echoing carbon insides with Cyrillic
initials, and many names of comrades killed
in May.
Berlin proves to be full of these tricks. Thereâs a big
i
In the Zone
429
_ chromo of Stalin that Slothrop could swear is a girl he
| used to date at Harvard, the mustache and hair only in-
cidental as makeup, damn if that isnât whatâs her name...
| but before he can quite hear the gibbering score of little
_ voicesâhurry, hurry, get it in place, heâs almost around
_ the cornerâhere, laid side by side on the pavement, are
these. enormous loaves of bread dough left to rise under
_.
clean white clothsâboy, is everybody hungry: the same
| thought hits them all at once, wow! Raw dough! loaves of
bread for that monster back there...oh, no thatâs right,
| that was a building, the Reichstag, so these arenât bread
_... by now itâs clear that they're human bodies, dug from
beneath todayâs rubble, each inside its carefully tagged
GI fartsack. But it was more than an optical mistake. They
are rising, they are transubstantiated, and who knows, with
summer over and hungry winter coming down, what we'll
be feeding on by Xmas?
What the notorious Femina
is to cigarette-jobbing circles
in Berlin, the Chicago is to dopers. But while dealing at
the Femina usually gets under way around noon, the
Chicago here only starts jiving after the 10:00 curfew.
Slothrop, Sdéure, Trudi and Magda come in a back en-
trance, out of a great massif of ruins and darkness lit only
here and there, like the open country. Inside, M.O.s and
corpsmen run hither and thither clutching bottles of fluffy
white crystalline substances, small pink pills, clear am-
poules the size of pureys. Occupation and Reichsmarks
ruffle and flap across the room. Some dealers are all
chemical enthusiasm, others all business. Oversize photos
of John Dillinger, alone or posed with his mother, his pals,
his tommygun, decorate the walls. Lights and arguing are
kept low, should the military police happen by.
On a wire-backed chair, blunt hair hands picking quietly
at a guitar, sits an American sailor with an orangutan look
to him. In 3/4 time and shit-kicking style, he is singing:
caper
ETI
THE Dorperâ s DREAM
Last night I dreamed I was plugged right in
To a bubblinâ hookah so high,
When all of a sudden some Arab jinni
Jump up just a-winkinâ his eye.
âIâm here to obey all your ishee.â he told me,
Doperland and the Rubble
- The narrative shifts from a surreal hallucination of rising bread dough to the grim reality of human bodies recovered from the ruins of the Reichstag.
- Slothrop and his companions enter 'the Chicago,' a clandestine nightclub for drug dealers that operates after the 10:00 curfew in Berlin.
- The club is a frantic marketplace of pharmaceutical substances, decorated with photos of John Dillinger and populated by manic dealers.
- Seaman Bodine, an American sailor, performs 'The Doperâs Dream,' a folk song about a drug-fueled paradise that ends in a narcotics arrest.
- Bodine laments the tightening security in post-war Berlin, noting that the once-lawless black markets are now heavily patrolled by Russian forces.
They are rising, they are transubstantiated, and who knows, with summer over and hungry winter coming down, what we'll be feeding on by Xmas?
In the Zone
429
_ chromo of Stalin that Slothrop could swear is a girl he
| used to date at Harvard, the mustache and hair only in-
cidental as makeup, damn if that isnât whatâs her name...
| but before he can quite hear the gibbering score of little
_ voicesâhurry, hurry, get it in place, heâs almost around
_ the cornerâhere, laid side by side on the pavement, are
these. enormous loaves of bread dough left to rise under
_.
clean white clothsâboy, is everybody hungry: the same
| thought hits them all at once, wow! Raw dough! loaves of
bread for that monster back there...oh, no thatâs right,
| that was a building, the Reichstag, so these arenât bread
_... by now itâs clear that they're human bodies, dug from
beneath todayâs rubble, each inside its carefully tagged
GI fartsack. But it was more than an optical mistake. They
are rising, they are transubstantiated, and who knows, with
summer over and hungry winter coming down, what we'll
be feeding on by Xmas?
What the notorious Femina
is to cigarette-jobbing circles
in Berlin, the Chicago is to dopers. But while dealing at
the Femina usually gets under way around noon, the
Chicago here only starts jiving after the 10:00 curfew.
Slothrop, Sdéure, Trudi and Magda come in a back en-
trance, out of a great massif of ruins and darkness lit only
here and there, like the open country. Inside, M.O.s and
corpsmen run hither and thither clutching bottles of fluffy
white crystalline substances, small pink pills, clear am-
poules the size of pureys. Occupation and Reichsmarks
ruffle and flap across the room. Some dealers are all
chemical enthusiasm, others all business. Oversize photos
of John Dillinger, alone or posed with his mother, his pals,
his tommygun, decorate the walls. Lights and arguing are
kept low, should the military police happen by.
On a wire-backed chair, blunt hair hands picking quietly
at a guitar, sits an American sailor with an orangutan look
to him. In 3/4 time and shit-kicking style, he is singing:
caper
ETI
THE Dorperâ s DREAM
Last night I dreamed I was plugged right in
To a bubblinâ hookah so high,
When all of a sudden some Arab jinni
Jump up just a-winkinâ his eye.
âIâm here to obey all your ishee.â he told me,
eos
e
430
Gravity's Rainsow
As for words I was trying to grope.
âGood buddy,â I cried, âyou could surely oblige me
By turninâ me on to some dope!â
With a bigfat smile he took ahold of my hand,
And we flew down the sky in a flash,
And the first thing I saw in the land where he took me
Was a whole solid mountain of hash!
All the trees was a-bloominâ with pink ânâ purple pills,
Whur the Romilar River flowed by,
To the magic mushrooms as wild as a riot
So pretty that I wanted to cry.
All the girls come to greet us, so sweet in slow motion,
Morning glories woven into their hair,
Bringinâ great big handfuls of snowy cocaine,
All their dope they were eager to share.
Well we dallied for days, just a-ballinâ and smokinâ,
In the flowering Panama Red,
Just pigginâ on peyote âand nutmeg tea, ©
And those brownies so kind to your head.
Now I couldâve passed that good time forever,
And I really was fixing to stay,
But you know that
,
jinni turned out, tâbe a narco man,
And he busted me right whur I lay.
And he took me back, to,this cold, cold world,
âNâ now m7 prisonâs whurever I be .
And I dream of the days back in Doperland
And I wonder, will I ever go free?
The singer is Seaman Bodine, of the U.S. destroyer
John E. Badass, and heâs the contact Sdure is here to see.
The Badass is docked in Cuxhaven and Bodine is semi-
AWOL, having hit Berlin night before last for the first
~
time since the early weeks of American occupation. âThings
â
are so tight, man,â heâs groaning, âPotsdam, I couldn't
believe it over there. Remember how the Wilhelmplatz _
used to be? âWatches, wine, jewels, cameras, heroin, fur â
coats, everything, in the world, Nobody gave a shit, right? â
You ought to see it now. Russian security all over the â
place. Big mean customers: You couldnât get near it.â
4
âIsnât there supposed to be something going on over â
there?â sez Slothrop. Heâs heard scuttlebutt, âA conference â
or some shit?â
y
âThey're deciding how to cut up pone sez Sdure. â
âAll the Powers. They should call inâ the Germans, a
â
we've been doing that for centuries.â
Rocketman and the Nepalese Hashish
- Slothrop, Bodine, and Saure discuss the Potsdam Conference where world powers are currently partitioning Germany.
- Seaman Bodine reveals he has buried six kilograms of high-grade Nepalese hashish near the conference site and needs Slothrop to retrieve it.
- Saure demonstrates his ability to print nearly authentic Reichsmarks using looted plates and paper to fund their operations.
- Slothrop is seduced by the promise of drugs and money, spending the night in a cellar hideout before facing the reality of the mission.
- The group identifies the target location as a villa in Neubabelsberg, the former center of the German film industry.
- Slothrop reluctantly prepares to inhabit his 'Rocketman' persona to infiltrate the high-security zone for the stash.
Saure begins to crank his clattering wheel, and sheets of Reichsmarks do indeed come fluttering off into the holder, thousands on thousands.
eos
e
430
Gravity's Rainsow
As for words I was trying to grope.
âGood buddy,â I cried, âyou could surely oblige me
By turninâ me on to some dope!â
With a bigfat smile he took ahold of my hand,
And we flew down the sky in a flash,
And the first thing I saw in the land where he took me
Was a whole solid mountain of hash!
All the trees was a-bloominâ with pink ânâ purple pills,
Whur the Romilar River flowed by,
To the magic mushrooms as wild as a riot
So pretty that I wanted to cry.
All the girls come to greet us, so sweet in slow motion,
Morning glories woven into their hair,
Bringinâ great big handfuls of snowy cocaine,
All their dope they were eager to share.
Well we dallied for days, just a-ballinâ and smokinâ,
In the flowering Panama Red,
Just pigginâ on peyote âand nutmeg tea, ©
And those brownies so kind to your head.
Now I couldâve passed that good time forever,
And I really was fixing to stay,
But you know that
,
jinni turned out, tâbe a narco man,
And he busted me right whur I lay.
And he took me back, to,this cold, cold world,
âNâ now m7 prisonâs whurever I be .
And I dream of the days back in Doperland
And I wonder, will I ever go free?
The singer is Seaman Bodine, of the U.S. destroyer
John E. Badass, and heâs the contact Sdure is here to see.
The Badass is docked in Cuxhaven and Bodine is semi-
AWOL, having hit Berlin night before last for the first
~
time since the early weeks of American occupation. âThings
â
are so tight, man,â heâs groaning, âPotsdam, I couldn't
believe it over there. Remember how the Wilhelmplatz _
used to be? âWatches, wine, jewels, cameras, heroin, fur â
coats, everything, in the world, Nobody gave a shit, right? â
You ought to see it now. Russian security all over the â
place. Big mean customers: You couldnât get near it.â
4
âIsnât there supposed to be something going on over â
there?â sez Slothrop. Heâs heard scuttlebutt, âA conference â
or some shit?â
y
âThey're deciding how to cut up pone sez Sdure. â
âAll the Powers. They should call inâ the Germans, a
â
we've been doing that for centuries.â
In the Zone
431
âYou couldnât get a gnat in there now, man,â Seaman
Bodine shaking his head, dexterously rolling a reefer one-
handed on a cigarette paper he has first torn, with straight-
faced bravura, in half.
âAh,â smiles SaĂ©ure, flinging an arm over Slothrop, âbut
what if Rocketman can?â
Bodine looks over, skeptical, âThatâs Rocketman?â
âMore or less,â sez Slothrop, âbut Iâm not sure I want
to go into that Potsdam, right now... .â
âIf you only knew!â cries Bodine. âListen, Ace, right
this minute, hardly 15 miles away, there is six kilos! of
pure, top-grade Nepalese hashish! Scored it from .my
buddy in the CBI, government seals ânâ everything, buried
it myself back in May, so safe nobody'll ever find it with-
out a map. All you got to. do is fly over there or whatever
it is you do, just go in and get it.â
eLuats ol
âA kilo for you,â offers Saure.
âThey can cremate it with me. All those Russians can
stand around the furnace and get loaded.â
âPerhaps,â the most decadent young woman Slothrop
has ever seen in his life, wearing fluorescent indigo eye-
shadow and a black leather snood, comes slithering past,
âthe pretty American is not a devotee of the Green Hershey
Bar, mm? ha-ha-ha...
.â
âA million marks,â Sdure sighs.
âWhere are you going to getââ
Holding up an elfin finger, leaning close, âI print it.â
Sure enough, he does. They all troop out of the Chicago,
half a mile down through rubble piles, over pathways
twisting invisible in the dark to all but Sadure, down at
last in a houseless cellar with filing cabinets, a bed, an
oil-lamp, a printing-press. Magda cuddles close to Slothrop,
her hands dancing over his erection. Trudi has formed an
inexplicable attachment to Bodine. Saure begins to crank
his clattering wheel, and sheets of Reichsmarks do indeed
come fluttering off into the holder, thousands on thousands.
âAll authentic plates and paper, too, The only detail
missing is a slight ripple along the margins. There was a
_
special stamp-press nobody managed to loot.â
' âUh,â Slothrop sez.
âAw, come on,â sez Bodine. âRocketman, jeepers. You
_ donât want to do nothing no more.â
432
Gravirtyâs Ramnsow
They help jog and square the sheets while Saure chops
them up with a long glittering cutter blade. Holding out a
fat roll of 100s, âYou could be back tomorrow. No job is
too tough for the Rocketman.â
A day or two later, it will occur to Slothrop that what
he should have said at that pointâ was, âBut I wasnât
Rocketman, until just a couple hours ago.â But right now
he is beguiled at the prospect of 2.2 pounds of hashish
and a million nearly-real marks. Nothing to walk away
from, or fly or whatever it is, rightP So he takes a couple
thousand in front and spends the rest of the night with
.
round and moaning Magda on Saureâs bed, while Trudi
and Bodine lark in the bathtub, and Saure âslips back on
some other mission, out into the three-oâclock waste that
presses, oceanic, against their buoyed inner space... .
od
Saure to and fro, bloodshot and nagging, with a wreathing
pot of tea. Slothropâs alone in bed. The Rocketman cos-
tume waits on
a table, along with Seaman Bodineâs
treasure mapâoh. Oh, boy. Is Slothrop really going) to
have to go through with this?
Outside, birds whistle arpeggios up the steps, along the
morning. Trucks and jeeps sputter in the distances. Slo-
throp sits drinking tea and trying to scrape dried sperm
off of his trousers while Saure explains the layout. The
package is stashed under an ornamental bush outside a
villa at 2 Kaiserstrasse, in Neubabelsberg, the old movie
capital of Germany. Thatâs across the Havel from Potsdam.
It seems prudent to stay off the Avus Autobahn. âTry to
âget past the checkpoint just after Zehlendorf instead. Come
up on Neubabelsberg by canal.â
âHow come?â
:
âNo civilians allowed on VIP Roadâhere, this one, that
runs on across the river to Potsdam.â
|
âCome on. I'll need a boat, then.â
:
â âHal You expect improvisation from a German? No, no,
thatâsâthatâs Rocketmanâs problem! 1a
âUnnhh.â Seems the villa fronts on the Griebnitz Fee.
âWhy donât I hit it from that side?â
The Inside-Out City
- Slothrop receives forged documents and a dangerous route to infiltrate the Potsdam Conference area via the canal system.
- The protagonist is goaded into the mission by Saure, who uses the 'Rocketman' persona to manipulate him into a 'buccaneering' role.
- Berlin is depicted as a 'City Sacramental,' where the physical destruction reflects an inward and spiritual illness.
- The urban landscape has been inverted: once-rigid boulevards have become organic goat trails through mountains of debris.
- The social order is flipped, with civilians living in the open while uniforms occupy the remaining interior spaces.
- The ruins reveal the 'cobbly insides' of the city, exposing private lives and domestic advertisements to the elements.
The straight-ruled boulevards built to be marched along are now winding pathways through the waste-piles, their shapes organic now, responding, like goat trails, to laws of least discomfort.
432
Gravirtyâs Ramnsow
They help jog and square the sheets while Saure chops
them up with a long glittering cutter blade. Holding out a
fat roll of 100s, âYou could be back tomorrow. No job is
too tough for the Rocketman.â
A day or two later, it will occur to Slothrop that what
he should have said at that pointâ was, âBut I wasnât
Rocketman, until just a couple hours ago.â But right now
he is beguiled at the prospect of 2.2 pounds of hashish
and a million nearly-real marks. Nothing to walk away
from, or fly or whatever it is, rightP So he takes a couple
thousand in front and spends the rest of the night with
.
round and moaning Magda on Saureâs bed, while Trudi
and Bodine lark in the bathtub, and Saure âslips back on
some other mission, out into the three-oâclock waste that
presses, oceanic, against their buoyed inner space... .
od
Saure to and fro, bloodshot and nagging, with a wreathing
pot of tea. Slothropâs alone in bed. The Rocketman cos-
tume waits on
a table, along with Seaman Bodineâs
treasure mapâoh. Oh, boy. Is Slothrop really going) to
have to go through with this?
Outside, birds whistle arpeggios up the steps, along the
morning. Trucks and jeeps sputter in the distances. Slo-
throp sits drinking tea and trying to scrape dried sperm
off of his trousers while Saure explains the layout. The
package is stashed under an ornamental bush outside a
villa at 2 Kaiserstrasse, in Neubabelsberg, the old movie
capital of Germany. Thatâs across the Havel from Potsdam.
It seems prudent to stay off the Avus Autobahn. âTry to
âget past the checkpoint just after Zehlendorf instead. Come
up on Neubabelsberg by canal.â
âHow come?â
:
âNo civilians allowed on VIP Roadâhere, this one, that
runs on across the river to Potsdam.â
|
âCome on. I'll need a boat, then.â
:
â âHal You expect improvisation from a German? No, no,
thatâsâthatâs Rocketmanâs problem! 1a
âUnnhh.â Seems the villa fronts on the Griebnitz Fee.
âWhy donât I hit it from that side?â
In the Zone
433
'~ âYou'll have to go under a couple of bridges first, if you
do. Heavily guarded. Plunging fire. Maybeâmaybe even
mortars. It gets very narrow opposite Potsdam. You won't
have a chance.â Oh, German humorâs a fine way to start
the morning. Saure hands Slothrop an AGO card, a trip
'
ticket, and âa pass printed in English and Russian. âThe
man who forged these has been in and out of Potsdam on
_
them a dozen times since the Conference began. Thatâs
how much faith he has in them. The bilingual pass is spe-
'
cial, just for the Conference. But you mustnât spend time
gawking like a tourist, asking celebrities for autographsââ
âWell say look Emil, if you've got one of these and
theyâre so good, why donât you go?â .
'
âItâs not my specialty. I stick to dealing. Just an old
bottle of acidâand even thatâs make-believe. Buccaneering
is for Rocketmen.â
âBodine, then.â
âHeâs already on his way back to Ciidben: Won't he
_ be upset, when he comes back next week, only to find that
Rocketman, of all people, has shown the white feather.â
âOh.â Shit. Slothrop stares awhile at that map, then
tries to memorize it. He puts on his boots, groaning. He
bundles his helmet in that cape, and the two, conner and
connee, set out through the American sector.
Mareâs-tails are out seething across the blue sky, but
down. here the Berliner: Luft âhangs still, with the odor of
_ death inescapable. Thousands of corpses fallen back: in the
spring still lie underneath these mountains of debris, yel-
low mountains, red and yellow and pale.
Whereâs the city Slothrop used to see back in those
newsreels and that National Geographic? Parabolas werenât
all that New German Architecture went in forâthere were
the spacesâthe necropolism of blank alabaster in the
staring sun, meant to be filled with human harvests rip-
pling out of sight, making no sense without them. If there
is such a thing as the City Sacramental, the city as out-
ward and visible sign of inward and spiritual illness or
health, then there may have been, even here, some con-
tinuity of sacrament, through the terrible surface of May.
_ The emptiness of Berlin this morning is an inverse map-
_ ping of the white and geometric capital before the destruc-
tionâthe fallow and long-strewn fields of rubble, the same
434
Gravityâs Rainsow
weight of too much featureless concrete... except that
here everythingâs been turned inside out. The straight-
ruled boulevards built to be marched along are now wind-
ing pathways through the waste-piles, their shapes organic
now, responding, like goat trails, to laws of least discom-
fort. The civilians are outside now, the uniforms inside.
Smooth facets of buildings have given way to cobbly in-
sides of concrete blasted apart, all the endless-pebbled
rococo just behind the shuttering. Inside is outside. Ceil-
ingless rooms open to the sky, wall-less rooms pitched out
over the sea of ruins in prows, in crowâs-nests. ... Old men
with their tins searching the ground for cigarette butts
wear
their lungs on their breasts. Advertisements
for
shelter, clothing, the lost, the taken, once classified, folded
biirgerlich inside newspapers to be read at oneâs ease in
the lacquered and graceful parlors are now stuck with
Hitler-head stamps of blue, orange, and yellow, out in the
wind, when the wind comes, stuck to trees, door-frames,
planking, pieces of wallâwhite and fading scraps, writing
spidery, trembling, smudged, thousands unseen, thousands
unread or blown away. At the Winterhilfe one-course Sun-
days you sat outside at long tables under the swastika-
draped winter trees, but outside has been brought inside
and that kind of Sunday lasts all week long. Winter is
coming again. All Berlin spends the daylight trying to
make believe it isnât. Scarred trees are back in leaf, baby
birds hatched and learning to fly, but winter's here behind
the look of summerâEarth has turned over in its sleep,
and the tropics are reversed... .
Like the walls of the Chicago Bar brought outside, giant
photographs are posted out in the Friedrichstrasseâfaces
higher than a man. Slothrop recognizes Churchill and
Stalin all right, but isnât sure about the other one. âEmil,
©
whoâs that guy in the glasses?â
âThe American president. Mister Truman.â
âQuit fooling. Truman is vice-president. Roosevelt is
president.â
L|
Sdure raises an eyebrow. âRoosevelt died back in the
â
spring. Just before the surrender.â .
:
ee
They get tangled in a bread queue. Women in worn
plush coats, little kids holding on to frayed hems, men in ~
caps and dark double-breasted suits, unshaven old faces,
©
The Death of a President
- Slothrop wanders through a desolate, post-war Berlin where the physical environment feels like an artificial, high-budget movie set of decay.
- He is shocked to discover from Saure that Franklin D. Roosevelt has died and Harry Truman is now the American president.
- The news triggers a deep sense of personal loss for Slothrop, who viewed FDR as a permanent, almost eternal fixture of his entire upbringing.
- Slothrop experiences a spatial distortion, imagining Roosevelt's death as a clinical dismantling performed by mysterious, masked 'Doctors'.
- The narrative suggests that Roosevelt was a 'being They assembled' and subsequently 'dismantled' once his role in the global theater was complete.
- The atmosphere of the 'Zone' is characterized by a reversal of seasons and a pervasive 'essence of human decay' that Slothrop struggles to accept as real.
Whoever it was, posing in the black cape at Yalta with the other leaders, conveyed beautifully the sense of Deathâs wings, rich, soft and black as the winter cape, prepared a nation of starers for the passing of Roosevelt, a being They assembled, a being They would dismantle.
434
Gravityâs Rainsow
weight of too much featureless concrete... except that
here everythingâs been turned inside out. The straight-
ruled boulevards built to be marched along are now wind-
ing pathways through the waste-piles, their shapes organic
now, responding, like goat trails, to laws of least discom-
fort. The civilians are outside now, the uniforms inside.
Smooth facets of buildings have given way to cobbly in-
sides of concrete blasted apart, all the endless-pebbled
rococo just behind the shuttering. Inside is outside. Ceil-
ingless rooms open to the sky, wall-less rooms pitched out
over the sea of ruins in prows, in crowâs-nests. ... Old men
with their tins searching the ground for cigarette butts
wear
their lungs on their breasts. Advertisements
for
shelter, clothing, the lost, the taken, once classified, folded
biirgerlich inside newspapers to be read at oneâs ease in
the lacquered and graceful parlors are now stuck with
Hitler-head stamps of blue, orange, and yellow, out in the
wind, when the wind comes, stuck to trees, door-frames,
planking, pieces of wallâwhite and fading scraps, writing
spidery, trembling, smudged, thousands unseen, thousands
unread or blown away. At the Winterhilfe one-course Sun-
days you sat outside at long tables under the swastika-
draped winter trees, but outside has been brought inside
and that kind of Sunday lasts all week long. Winter is
coming again. All Berlin spends the daylight trying to
make believe it isnât. Scarred trees are back in leaf, baby
birds hatched and learning to fly, but winter's here behind
the look of summerâEarth has turned over in its sleep,
and the tropics are reversed... .
Like the walls of the Chicago Bar brought outside, giant
photographs are posted out in the Friedrichstrasseâfaces
higher than a man. Slothrop recognizes Churchill and
Stalin all right, but isnât sure about the other one. âEmil,
©
whoâs that guy in the glasses?â
âThe American president. Mister Truman.â
âQuit fooling. Truman is vice-president. Roosevelt is
president.â
L|
Sdure raises an eyebrow. âRoosevelt died back in the
â
spring. Just before the surrender.â .
:
ee
They get tangled in a bread queue. Women in worn
plush coats, little kids holding on to frayed hems, men in ~
caps and dark double-breasted suits, unshaven old faces,
©
In the Zone
435
foreheads white as a nurseâs leg.... Somebody tries to
grab Slothropâs cape, and thereâs a brief tugging match.
âYm sorry,â SĂ©ure offers, when theyâre clear again.
âWhy didnt anybody tell me?â Slothrop was going into
high school when FDR was starting out in the White
House. Broderick Slothrop professed to hate the man, but
young Tyrone thought he was brave, with that polio and
_all. Liked his voice on the radio. Almost saw him once
too, in Pittsfield, but Lloyd Nipple, the fattest kid in
Mingeborough, was standing in the way, and all Slothrop
got to see was a couple wheels and the feet of some guys
in suits on a running-board. Hoover heâd heard of, dimlyâ
something to do with shack towns or vacuum cleanersâ
- but Roosevelt was his president, the only one heâd known.
It seemed heâd just keep getting elected, term after term,
_ forever. But somebody had decided to change that. So he
was put to sleep, Slothropâs president, quiet and neat,
while the kid who once imaged his face on Lloydâs
_ T-shirted shoulderblades was jiving on the Riviera, or in
Switzerland â only half aware of being extin-
-
guished himself. .
âThey said: it was a stroke,â Saure sez. His voice is ar-
_ riving from some quite peculiar direction, let us say from
directly underneath, as the wide necropolis begins now to
_ draw inward, to neck down and stretchout into a Corridor,
»
one known to Slothrop though not by name, a deforma-
tion of space that lurks inside his life, latent as a heredi-
_ tary disease. A band of doctors in white masks that cover
Ld
|
}
|
1
:
|
everything but eyes, bleak and grown-up eyes, move in
âstep down the passage toward where Roosevelt is lying.
They carry shiny black kits. Metal rings inside the black
leather, rings as if to speak, as if a ventriloquist were
playing a trick, help-let-me-out-of- -here....
Whoever it
Was, posing in the black cape at Yalta with: the other lead-
ers, conveyed beautifully the sense of Deathâs wings, rich,
soft and black as the winter cape, prepared a nation of
starers for the passing of Roosevelt, a being They assem-
bled, a being They would dismantle. .
Someone here is cleverly allowing for parallax, scaling,
_ shadows all going the right way and lengthening with the
âdayâbut no, Saure canât be real, no more than these dark-
clothed extras waiting in queues for some hypothetical
436
Gravityâs Rainsow
tram, some two slices of sausage (sure, sure), the dozen
half-naked kids racing in and out of this burned tenement
so amazingly detailedâThey sure must have the budget,
all right. Look at this desolation, all built then hammered
back into pieces, ranging body-size down to powder
(please order by Gauge Number), as that well-remem-
bered fragrance Noon in Berlin, essence of human decay,
is puffed on the set by a hand, lying big as a flabby horse
up some alley, pumping its giant atomizer. ...
(By Sadureâs black-market watch, itâs nearly noon. From
11 to 12 in the morning is the Evil Hour, when the white
woman with the ring of keys comes out of her mountain
and may appear to you. Be careful, then. If you canât
free her from a spell she never -specifies, you'll be pun-
ished. She is the beautiful maiden offering the Wonder-
flower, and the ugly old woman with long teeth who found
you in that dream and said nothing. The Hour is hers.)
_
Black P-38s fly racketing in formation, in moving open-
work against the pale sky. Slothrop and Saure find a café
on the sidewalk, drink watered pink wine, eat bread and
some cheese. That crafty old doper breaks out a âstickâ of
âteaâ and they sit in the sun handing it back and forth,
offering the waiter a hit, who can tell? thatâs how you have
to smoke armies too, these days. Jeeps, personnel carriers,
and bicycles go streaming by. Girls in fresh summer frocks,
orange and green as fruit ices, drift in to sit at tables,
smiling, smiling, checking the area continuously for early
business.
Somehow Siaure has got Slothrop to talking about the
Rocket. Not at all Sdureâs specialty, of course, though heâs
been keeping an ear tuned. If itâs wanted, then it has a
price. âI could never see the fascination. We kept hearing
so much about it on the radio. It was our-Captain Mid-
night Show. But we grew disillusioned. Wanting toâ be-
lieve, but nothing we saw giving us that much faith. Less
and less toward the end. All I know is it brought disaster
down on the cocaine market, Kerl.â
|
âHowâs that?â
d
âSomething in that rocket ueedadie
Po sium pertamigs
nate, right?â
ea
Sa
âTurbopump.â
âWell, without that Purpurstoff you can't deal cotatite
honestly. Forget honesty, there just wasnât any reality. Last
The Doperâs Anti-Target
- Saure and Slothrop navigate the 'Evil Hour' in post-war Berlin, a mystical time of day associated with a shifting, punitive female figure.
- The black market for cocaine has been devastated by the V-2 rocket program, which monopolized the supply of potassium permanganate.
- Without permanganate as a chemical touchstone, the drug market devolved into 'chemical irresponsibility' and elaborate pranks involving fake substances.
- Saure describes the permanganate test as a 'purple target' where the most valuable substance crystallizes on the outer ring, contrasting with the rocket's destructive targets.
- The conversation shifts to the geopolitical value of the Rocket, as Saure reveals that Russian agents like Tchitcherine are aggressively interrogating local connections.
- Slothrop experiences paranoia and a loss of national identity when questioned about his country's intentions for the A4 technology.
An anti-target. Certainly not the A4âs idea of one, eh, Rocketman.
436
Gravityâs Rainsow
tram, some two slices of sausage (sure, sure), the dozen
half-naked kids racing in and out of this burned tenement
so amazingly detailedâThey sure must have the budget,
all right. Look at this desolation, all built then hammered
back into pieces, ranging body-size down to powder
(please order by Gauge Number), as that well-remem-
bered fragrance Noon in Berlin, essence of human decay,
is puffed on the set by a hand, lying big as a flabby horse
up some alley, pumping its giant atomizer. ...
(By Sadureâs black-market watch, itâs nearly noon. From
11 to 12 in the morning is the Evil Hour, when the white
woman with the ring of keys comes out of her mountain
and may appear to you. Be careful, then. If you canât
free her from a spell she never -specifies, you'll be pun-
ished. She is the beautiful maiden offering the Wonder-
flower, and the ugly old woman with long teeth who found
you in that dream and said nothing. The Hour is hers.)
_
Black P-38s fly racketing in formation, in moving open-
work against the pale sky. Slothrop and Saure find a café
on the sidewalk, drink watered pink wine, eat bread and
some cheese. That crafty old doper breaks out a âstickâ of
âteaâ and they sit in the sun handing it back and forth,
offering the waiter a hit, who can tell? thatâs how you have
to smoke armies too, these days. Jeeps, personnel carriers,
and bicycles go streaming by. Girls in fresh summer frocks,
orange and green as fruit ices, drift in to sit at tables,
smiling, smiling, checking the area continuously for early
business.
Somehow Siaure has got Slothrop to talking about the
Rocket. Not at all Sdureâs specialty, of course, though heâs
been keeping an ear tuned. If itâs wanted, then it has a
price. âI could never see the fascination. We kept hearing
so much about it on the radio. It was our-Captain Mid-
night Show. But we grew disillusioned. Wanting toâ be-
lieve, but nothing we saw giving us that much faith. Less
and less toward the end. All I know is it brought disaster
down on the cocaine market, Kerl.â
|
âHowâs that?â
d
âSomething in that rocket ueedadie
Po sium pertamigs
nate, right?â
ea
Sa
âTurbopump.â
âWell, without that Purpurstoff you can't deal cotatite
honestly. Forget honesty, there just wasnât any reality. Last
i
i
Âą |
In the Zone
~
437
winter you couldnât find a cc of permanganate in the whole
fucking Reich, Kerl. Oh you shouldâve seen the buming
that was going on. Friends, understand. But what friend
hasnât wanted toâin terms you can recognizeâpush a pie
in your face? eh?â
âThank you.â Wait a minute. Is he talking about us?
Is he getting ready toâ
âSo,â having continued, âthere crept over Berlin a
is gigantic Laurel and Hardy film, silent, silent ... because
of the permanganate shortage, I donât know what other
economies may have been affected by the A4. This was
not just pie-throwing, not just anarchy on a market, this
was chemical irresponsibility; Clay, talcum, cement, even,
it got this perverse, flour! Powdered milk, diverted from
_the stomachs of little sucklings! Look-alikes that were
worth even more than cocaineâbut the idea was. that
someone should get a sudden noseful of milk, hahahahahlâ
breaking up here for a minute, âand that was worth the
loss! Without the permanganate there was no way to tell
anything for sure. A little novocain to numb the tongue,
something bitter for the taste, and you could be making
enormous profits off of sodium bicarbonate. Permanganate
is the touchstone. Under a microscope, you drop some on
the substance in question, which dissolvesâthen you
watch how it comes out of solution, how it recrystallizes:
the cocaine will appear first, at the edges, then the vege-
table cut, the procaine, the lactose at other well-known
positionsâa purple target, with the outer ring worth the
most, and the bullâs-eye worth nothing. An anti-target.
1) Certainly not the A4âs idea of one, eh, Rocketman. That
machinery of yours was not exactly the doperâs friend.
âWhat do you want it for? Will your country use it against
Russia?â
âTI donât want it. What do you mean, âmy countryâ?â
âIâm sorry. I only meant that it looks like the Russians
want it badly enough. Iâve had connections all over the
city taken away. Interrogated. None of them know any
more about rockets than I do, But Tchitcherine thinks we
: âOboy. Him again?â
_
âYes heâs in Potsdam right now. Supposed to be. Set up
| a headquarters in one of the old film studios.â
âSwell news, Emil. With my luck...â
Rocketman and the Chessboard Zone
- Slothrop, disguised as 'Rocketman,' learns that a mysterious figure named der Springer is operating across the Zone like a knight on a chessboard.
- The mention of the 'SchwarzgerÀt' causes a visible shift in Saure's demeanor, leading him to distance himself from Slothrop's dangerous quest.
- Adopting the alias 'Max Schlepzig,' Slothrop decides to pose as a vaudeville illusionist to navigate the increasingly complex political landscape.
- Slothrop attempts to cross into the Russian-controlled sector at Potsdam, encountering heavily armed sentries and Stalin tanks.
- The tension peaks when a sentry demands Slothrop's boots, implying that a powerful and mocking adversary is monitoring his movements from the other end of a phone line.
- The narrative shifts into a surreal hallucination or premonition of a humiliating Life magazine spread featuring Slothrop in his Rocketman costume.
He is the knight who leaps perpetuallyâacross the chessboard of the Zone, is who he is.
i
i
Âą |
In the Zone
~
437
winter you couldnât find a cc of permanganate in the whole
fucking Reich, Kerl. Oh you shouldâve seen the buming
that was going on. Friends, understand. But what friend
hasnât wanted toâin terms you can recognizeâpush a pie
in your face? eh?â
âThank you.â Wait a minute. Is he talking about us?
Is he getting ready toâ
âSo,â having continued, âthere crept over Berlin a
is gigantic Laurel and Hardy film, silent, silent ... because
of the permanganate shortage, I donât know what other
economies may have been affected by the A4. This was
not just pie-throwing, not just anarchy on a market, this
was chemical irresponsibility; Clay, talcum, cement, even,
it got this perverse, flour! Powdered milk, diverted from
_the stomachs of little sucklings! Look-alikes that were
worth even more than cocaineâbut the idea was. that
someone should get a sudden noseful of milk, hahahahahlâ
breaking up here for a minute, âand that was worth the
loss! Without the permanganate there was no way to tell
anything for sure. A little novocain to numb the tongue,
something bitter for the taste, and you could be making
enormous profits off of sodium bicarbonate. Permanganate
is the touchstone. Under a microscope, you drop some on
the substance in question, which dissolvesâthen you
watch how it comes out of solution, how it recrystallizes:
the cocaine will appear first, at the edges, then the vege-
table cut, the procaine, the lactose at other well-known
positionsâa purple target, with the outer ring worth the
most, and the bullâs-eye worth nothing. An anti-target.
1) Certainly not the A4âs idea of one, eh, Rocketman. That
machinery of yours was not exactly the doperâs friend.
âWhat do you want it for? Will your country use it against
Russia?â
âTI donât want it. What do you mean, âmy countryâ?â
âIâm sorry. I only meant that it looks like the Russians
want it badly enough. Iâve had connections all over the
city taken away. Interrogated. None of them know any
more about rockets than I do, But Tchitcherine thinks we
: âOboy. Him again?â
_
âYes heâs in Potsdam right now. Supposed to be. Set up
| a headquarters in one of the old film studios.â
âSwell news, Emil. With my luck...â
438
Gravity's RAINBOW
âYou donât look too good, Rocketman.â
âThink thatâs horrible? Try this!â and Slothrop proceeds
to ask if Séure has heard anything about the Schwarzgerit.
Saure does not exactly scream Aiyee! and run off down
the street or anything, but squeeeak goes a certain valve all
right, and something is routed another way. âI'll tell you
what,â nodding and shifting in his seat, âyou talk to der
Springer. Ja, you two would get on fine. I am only a re-
tired cat burglar, looking to spend my last several decades
as the sublime Rossini did his: comfortable. Just dont
mention me at all, O.K., Joe?â
âWell, who is that der Springer, and where do I find
him, Emil?â
âHe is the knight who leaps perpetuallyââ
âWow.â
ââ-across the chessboard of the Zone, is who he is. Just
as Rocketman flies over obstacles today.â He laughs nastily.
âA fine pair. How do I know where he is? He could be
anyplace. He is everywhere.â
âZorro? The Green Hornet?â
âLast I heard,
a week or two ago, he was up north on
the Hanseatic run. You will meet. Donât worry.â Abruptly
Saure stands up to go, shaking hands, slipping Rocketman
another reefer for later, or for luck. âI have medical officers
to see. The happiness of a thousand customers is on your
shoulders, young man. Meet me at my place. Gliick.â
So the Evil Hour has worked its sorcery. The wrong
word was Schwarzgerat. Now the mountain has closed
again thundering behind Slothrop, damn near like to crush
his heel, and âit might just be centuries before that White
Woman appears again. Shit.
The name on the special pass is âMax Schlepzig.â Slo-
throp, feeling full of pep, decides to pose as a vaudeville
entertainer. An illusionist. He has had a good apprentice-
ship with Katje, her damask tablecloth ae magical body,
a bed for her salon, a hundred soirées fantastiques. .
Heâs through Zehlendorf by midaftemoon, '
insideâ his
Rocketman rig and ready to cross. The Russian sentries |
wait under a wood archway painted red, toting Suomis or
Degtyarovs, oversize submachine guns with drum maga-
zines. Here comes also a Stalin tank now, lumbering in|
low, soldier in earflapped helmet standing up in the 76°
In the Zone
439
mm mount yelling into walkie-talkie ...uh, well.... On
the other side of the arch is a Russian jeep with a couple
sofficers, one talking earnestly into the mike of his radio
set, and the air. between quickens with spoken Russian âat
the speed of light weaving a net to catch Slothrop. Who
else? He sweeps his cape back with a wink, tips his helmet
and smiles. In a econjurorâs flourish heâs out with card,
ticket ânâ bilingual pass, giving them some line about a
command performance in that Potsdam.
One of the sentries takes the pass and nips into his
kiosk to make a phone call. The others stand staring at
Tchitcherineâs boots. No one speaks. The call is taking a
while. Scarred leather, day-old breads, cheekbones in the
sun. Slothropâs trying to think of a few card tricks he can
do, sort of break the ice, when the sentry sticks his head
out. âStiefeln, bitte.â
Boots? What would they want withâyaaahhh! Boots,
indeed, yes: We know beyond peradventure who has to be
on the other end, donât we. Slothrop âcan hear all the manâs
metal parts jingling withâ glee. In the smoky Berlinâ sky,
somewhere
to the left of the: Funkturm in its steel-wool
distance, appears a full-page photo in Life magazine: it is
of Slothrop, he is in full Rocketman attire, with what ap-
pears to be along, stiff sausage of very large diameter
being âstuffed into his mouth, so forcibly that his eyes are
slightly, crossed, though the hand or agency actually hold-
ing the stupendous wiener is not visible in the photo.
A SNAFU FOR ROCKETMAN, reads the captionââBarely off
the ground, the Zoneâs newest celebrity âfucks up.ââ
We-e-e-ll, Slothrop slides off the boots, the sentry takes
them inside to the telephoneâthe others lean Slothrop up
âagainst the arch and shake him down, finding nothing but
âthe reefer Saure gave him, which they expropriate. Slo-
throp waits in his socks, trying not to think ahead. Glanc-
ing around for cover, maybe. Nothing. Clear field of fire
for 360 degrees. Smells of fresh asphalt patch and gun oil.
The: jeep, crystal verdigris, waiting: the road back to
Berlin, for the moment, deserted....
Providence, hey
â
what'd âyou do, oe out for 4 beer âor some-
gp
Not at all. The boots reappear, smiling sentry right
behind them. âStimmt, Herr. Schlepzig.â What does irony
Slothrop's Canal Escape
- Slothrop narrowly avoids detention at a Soviet checkpoint after a tense inspection of his boots and a search for contraband.
- Succumbing to what he identifies as 'Youthful Folly,' Slothrop adopts a carefree persona and wanders southward away from the military presence.
- The narrative shifts from the tension of the Zone to a pastoral, dreamlike scene along a canal filled with sunbathing women and playing children.
- Driven by an inexplicable urge to keep moving despite the inviting surroundings, Slothrop steals a small rowboat to continue his journey.
- As he rows toward the American sector at sunset, the landscape is littered with the rusted, 'hysterical' wreckage of war-torn vessels.
- The passage concludes with Slothrop attempting to navigate the dangerous border between Soviet and American control points under the cover of dusk.
Wrecks poke up out of the water, red lead and rust ripening in this light, bashed gray hullplates, flaking rivets, unlaid cable pointing hysterical strands to all points of the compass, vibrating below any hearing in the breeze.
In the Zone
439
mm mount yelling into walkie-talkie ...uh, well.... On
the other side of the arch is a Russian jeep with a couple
sofficers, one talking earnestly into the mike of his radio
set, and the air. between quickens with spoken Russian âat
the speed of light weaving a net to catch Slothrop. Who
else? He sweeps his cape back with a wink, tips his helmet
and smiles. In a econjurorâs flourish heâs out with card,
ticket ânâ bilingual pass, giving them some line about a
command performance in that Potsdam.
One of the sentries takes the pass and nips into his
kiosk to make a phone call. The others stand staring at
Tchitcherineâs boots. No one speaks. The call is taking a
while. Scarred leather, day-old breads, cheekbones in the
sun. Slothropâs trying to think of a few card tricks he can
do, sort of break the ice, when the sentry sticks his head
out. âStiefeln, bitte.â
Boots? What would they want withâyaaahhh! Boots,
indeed, yes: We know beyond peradventure who has to be
on the other end, donât we. Slothrop âcan hear all the manâs
metal parts jingling withâ glee. In the smoky Berlinâ sky,
somewhere
to the left of the: Funkturm in its steel-wool
distance, appears a full-page photo in Life magazine: it is
of Slothrop, he is in full Rocketman attire, with what ap-
pears to be along, stiff sausage of very large diameter
being âstuffed into his mouth, so forcibly that his eyes are
slightly, crossed, though the hand or agency actually hold-
ing the stupendous wiener is not visible in the photo.
A SNAFU FOR ROCKETMAN, reads the captionââBarely off
the ground, the Zoneâs newest celebrity âfucks up.ââ
We-e-e-ll, Slothrop slides off the boots, the sentry takes
them inside to the telephoneâthe others lean Slothrop up
âagainst the arch and shake him down, finding nothing but
âthe reefer Saure gave him, which they expropriate. Slo-
throp waits in his socks, trying not to think ahead. Glanc-
ing around for cover, maybe. Nothing. Clear field of fire
for 360 degrees. Smells of fresh asphalt patch and gun oil.
The: jeep, crystal verdigris, waiting: the road back to
Berlin, for the moment, deserted....
Providence, hey
â
what'd âyou do, oe out for 4 beer âor some-
gp
Not at all. The boots reappear, smiling sentry right
behind them. âStimmt, Herr. Schlepzig.â What does irony
440
Gravityâs Ramnsow
sound like in Russian? These birds are too inscrutable for
Slothrop. Tchitcherine wouldâve known enough not to arouse
any suspicion by asking to see those boots. Nah, it
couldnâtâve been him on the phone. This was probably
some routine search for that contraband, was all. Slothrop
is being seized right now by what the Book of Changes
calls Youthful Folly. He swirls his green cape a few more
times, chisels a stubby Balkan army off of one of the
tommyguns, and moseys away, southward. The officerâs
jeep stays where it is, The tank has vanished.
Jubilee Jim, just a-peddlinâ through the country,
Winkinâ at the ladies from Stockbridge up to Leeâ
Buy your gal a brooch for a fancy gown,
Buggy-whip rigs for just a dollar down,
Hey come along evâ rybody, headinâ for the Jubi-leel
Two miles down the road, Slothrop hits that canal
Séiure mentioned: takes a footpath down under the bridge
where itâs wet and cool for a minute: He sets off along the
bank, looking for a boat to hijack. Girls in halters and
shorts lie sunning, brown and gold, all along this dreaming
grass slope. The clouded afternoon is mellowed to wind-
softened edges, children kneeling beside the water with
fishing lines, two birds in a chase across the canal soaring
down and up in a loop into the suspended storm of a
green treetop, where they sit and begin to sing. With dis-
tance the light gathers a slow ecru haze, girlsâ flesh no
longer bleached by the zenith sun now in gentler light
reawakening to warmer colors, faint shadows of ink
muscles, stretched filaments of skin cells saying touch ..
stay....
Slothrop walks onâpast eyes opening,
breaking like kind dawns. Whatâs wrong with him? Stay,
sure, But what keeps him passing by?
There are a few boats, moored to railings, but ahecis
somebody with an eye out. He finally comes on a narrow
flat-bottomed little rig, oars in the locks and ready to go,
nothing but a blanket upslope, a pair of high heels, manâs
jacket, stand of trees nearby. So Slothrop climbs right in,
and casts off. Have funâa little nasty ase can't, but
I can steal your boat! Hal
He hauls till sundown, resting for At stretches, really
out of condition, cape smothering him in a cone of sweat
In the Zone
441
so bad he has
to take it off finally. Ducks drift at a wary
distance, water dripping off of bright orange beaks. Sur-
face of the canal ripples with evening wind, sunset in his
eyes streaking the water red and gold: royal colors. Wrecks
poke up out of the water, red lead and rust ripening in
âthis light, bashed gray hullplates, flaking rivets, unlaid
cable pointing hysterical strands to all points of the com-
vibrating below any hearing in the breeze. Empty
-
ges drift by, loose and forlorn. A stork flies over, going
home, below him suddenly the pallid arch of the Avus
overpass ahead. Any farther and Slothropâs back in the
âAmerican sector. He angles across the canal, debarking on
the opposite bank, and heads south, trying to skirt the
Soviet control point the map puts someplace to his right.
Massive movement in the dusk: Russian guardsmen, green-
capped elite, marching and riding, pokerfaced, in trucks,
on horseback. You can feel the impedance in the fading
day, the crowding, jittering wire loops, Potsdam warning
stay away...stay away....
The closer it comes,
the
denser the field around that cloaked international gather-
ing across the Havel. Bodineâs right: a gnat canât get in.
Slothrop knows it, but just keeps on skulking along, seek-
ing less sensitive axes of suspicion, running zigzags, aimed
innocuously south.
Invisible. It becomes easier to believe in the longer he
can keep going. Sometime back on Midsummer Eve, be-
tween midnight and one, fern seed fell in his shoes. He is
the invisible youth, the armored changeling. Providenceâs
âlittle pal. Their preoccupation is with forms of danger the
War has taught themâphantoms they may be doomed
now, some of them, to carry for the rest of their lives.
Fine for Slothrop, thoughâitâs a set of threats he doesnât
belong to. They are still back in geographical space, draw-
ing deadlines and authorizing personnel, and the only
beings who can violate their space are safely caught and
paralyzed in comic books. They think. They donât now
about Rocketman. here. They keep passing him and he
âTemains alone, blotted to evening by velvet and buckskinâ
âif they do see him his image is shunted immediately out
âto the boondocks of the brain where it remains in exile
" with other critters of the night. ...
_ Presently he cuts right again, toward the sunset. Thereâs
»
ote
F
9
Z
Rocketman and the Potsdam Barrier
- Slothrop attempts to infiltrate the high-security zone surrounding the Potsdam Conference, navigating a landscape of 'jittering wire loops' and international tension.
- Adopting the persona of 'Rocketman,' Slothrop perceives himself as an invisible, armored changeling who exists outside the geographical and bureaucratic threats of the War.
- The narrative describes the Avus autobahn as a psychological and physical barrier where drivers are unknowingly manipulated by 'Them' to form a deadly perimeter.
- Slothrop experiences a moment of high-stakes action as he sprints across the highway, narrowly avoiding an Army truck while shouting his 'Rocketman war-cry.'
- Upon reaching his destination, Slothrop realizes Bodineâs map led him directly into a sealed compound of 150 houses guarded by barbed wire and searchlights.
- The passage highlights the disconnect between the rigid security of the Allied delegates and Slothropâs chaotic, comic-book-inspired movement through the Zone.
They donât now about Rocketman. here. They keep passing him and he âTemains alone, blotted to evening by velvet and buckskinâ if they do see him his image is shunted immediately out to the boondocks of the brain where it remains in exile with other critters of the night.
In the Zone
441
so bad he has
to take it off finally. Ducks drift at a wary
distance, water dripping off of bright orange beaks. Sur-
face of the canal ripples with evening wind, sunset in his
eyes streaking the water red and gold: royal colors. Wrecks
poke up out of the water, red lead and rust ripening in
âthis light, bashed gray hullplates, flaking rivets, unlaid
cable pointing hysterical strands to all points of the com-
vibrating below any hearing in the breeze. Empty
-
ges drift by, loose and forlorn. A stork flies over, going
home, below him suddenly the pallid arch of the Avus
overpass ahead. Any farther and Slothropâs back in the
âAmerican sector. He angles across the canal, debarking on
the opposite bank, and heads south, trying to skirt the
Soviet control point the map puts someplace to his right.
Massive movement in the dusk: Russian guardsmen, green-
capped elite, marching and riding, pokerfaced, in trucks,
on horseback. You can feel the impedance in the fading
day, the crowding, jittering wire loops, Potsdam warning
stay away...stay away....
The closer it comes,
the
denser the field around that cloaked international gather-
ing across the Havel. Bodineâs right: a gnat canât get in.
Slothrop knows it, but just keeps on skulking along, seek-
ing less sensitive axes of suspicion, running zigzags, aimed
innocuously south.
Invisible. It becomes easier to believe in the longer he
can keep going. Sometime back on Midsummer Eve, be-
tween midnight and one, fern seed fell in his shoes. He is
the invisible youth, the armored changeling. Providenceâs
âlittle pal. Their preoccupation is with forms of danger the
War has taught themâphantoms they may be doomed
now, some of them, to carry for the rest of their lives.
Fine for Slothrop, thoughâitâs a set of threats he doesnât
belong to. They are still back in geographical space, draw-
ing deadlines and authorizing personnel, and the only
beings who can violate their space are safely caught and
paralyzed in comic books. They think. They donât now
about Rocketman. here. They keep passing him and he
âTemains alone, blotted to evening by velvet and buckskinâ
âif they do see him his image is shunted immediately out
âto the boondocks of the brain where it remains in exile
" with other critters of the night. ...
_ Presently he cuts right again, toward the sunset. Thereâs
»
ote
F
9
Z
442
Gravity's Rainsow
|
still that big superhighway to get across, Some Germans
havenât been able to get home for.10, 20 years because
they were caught on the wrong side of some Autobahn
when it went through. Nervous and leadfooted now, Slo-
throp comes creeping up to the Avus embankment, listen-
ing to traffic vacuuming by above. Each driver thinks heâs
in control of his vehicle, each thinks he has a separate
destination, but Slothrop knows better. The drivers are out
tonight because They need them where they are, forming
a deadly barrier. Amateur Fritz von
Opels all over the
place here, promising a lively sprint for
throp-âsnarling
inward toward that famous S-curve where maniacs in w.
helmets and dark goggles once witched their wind-faired
machinery around the banked brick in shrieking drifts
(admiring eyes of colonels in dress uniforms, colonelsâ
ladies in Garbo fedoras, all safe. up in their white towers
yet belonging to the dayâs adventure, each waiting for his
sma gh
surfacing
of the
same
mother-violence
under-
nea
Slothrop frees his arms from the cape, lets a lean gray
Porsche whir by, then charges out, the red of its tailli
flashing along his downstream leg, headlights of a
fast-
coming Army truck now hitting the upstream one and
touching the grotto of one eyeball to blue jigsaw. He
swings sideways
as he runs, screaming, âHauptstufelâ
which is the Rocketman war-cry, raises both arms and the
sea-green fan of the capeâs silk lining, hears brakes go on,
keeps running, hits the center mall in a roll, scampering
into the bushes as the truck skids past and stops. Voices
for a while. Gives Slothrop a chance to catch his breath
and get the cape unwound from around his neck. The
truck finally starts off again. The southbound half of the
Avus is slower tonight, and he can jog across easy, down
the bank and uphill again into trees. Hey! Leaps bied
highways in a single bound!
Well, Bodine, your map is perfect here, except for one
trivial detail you sort of, uh, forgot to mention, wonder
why that was....
It turns out somethingâ like 150 houses
in Neubabelsberg have been commandeered and sealed
off as a compound for the Allied delegates to the Potsdam
Conference, and Jolly Jack Tar has to ahed that dope
right in the middle of it. Barbed wire, searchlights, sirens,
a
In the Zone
443
security whoâve forgotten how to smile. Thank goodness,
which is to say Sdure Bummer, for this special pass here.
Stenciled signs with arrows read ADMIRALTY, F.O., STATE
DEPARTMENT, CHIEFSâ
OF STAFF.... The whole joint is lit
up like a Hollywood premiere. Great coming and going of
civilians in suits, gowns, tuxedos, getting in and out of
BMW limousines with flags of all nations next to the
windscreens. Mimeographed handouts clog the stones and
gutters. Inside the sentry boxes are piles of confiscated
âcameras.
They must deal here with a strange collection of those
showbiz types. Nobody seems too upset at the helmet,
cape, or mask. There are ambiguous shrugging phone calls
and the odd feeble question, but they do let Max Schlep-
zig pass. A gang of American newspapermen
comes
through in a charabanc, clutching on to bottles of liberated
Moselle, and they offer him a lift part way. Soon they
have fallen to arguing about which celebrity he is. Some
think he is Don Ameche, others Oliver Hardy. Celebrity?
what is this? âCome on,â sez Slothrop, âyou just donât
know me in this getup. Iâm that Errol Flynn.â Not every-
body believes him, but he manages to hand out a few
autographs anyhow. When they part company, the news-
hounds are discussing the candidates for Miss Rheingold
1946. Dorothy Hartâs advocates are the loudest, but Jill
Darnley has a majority on her side. Itâs all gibberish to
Slothropâit will be months yet before he runs into a
beer advertisement featuring the six beauties, and find him-
self rooting for a girl named Helen Riickert: a blonde with
a Dutch surname who will remind him dimly of some-
one....
The house at 2 Kaiserstrasse is styled in High Prussian
Boorish and painted a kind of barf brown, a color the ice-
cold lighting doesnât improve. It is more heavily guarded
than any other in the compound. Gee, Slothrop wonders
why. Then he sees the sign with the placeâs stenciled alias
on it.
- âOh, no. No. Quit fooling.â For a while he stands in the
Street shivering and cursing that Seaman Bodine for a
bungler, villain, and agent of death. Sign sez THE WHITE
HOUSE. Bodine has brought him straight to the dapper,
bespectacled stranger who gazed down the morning Fried-
be
oi),
oe
â4
The White House at Potsdam
- Slothrop navigates a surreal, high-society atmosphere at the Potsdam Conference, where the ruins of war are masked by Hollywood-style glamour and luxury.
- Disguised in a cape and mask, Slothrop is mistaken for various American celebrities by drunken newspapermen, highlighting the absurdity of identity in the Zone.
- The protagonist discovers that his destination, 2 Kaiserstrasse, is stenciled with the alias 'The White House,' housing the American President.
- Slothrop experiences a moment of desperate fantasy, imagining that surrendering to the authorities might result in a lucrative media contract rather than punishment.
- Evading sentries and wading through the Griebnitz See, Slothrop successfully retrieves a hidden cache of hashish buried beneath a juniper bush.
- The contrast between the high-stakes political conference inside and Slothrop's muddy, drug-seeking mission outside underscores the novel's themes of paranoia and subculture.
The folds of his cape are gone to corroded bronze under the arc-lighting.
In the Zone
443
security whoâve forgotten how to smile. Thank goodness,
which is to say Sdure Bummer, for this special pass here.
Stenciled signs with arrows read ADMIRALTY, F.O., STATE
DEPARTMENT, CHIEFSâ
OF STAFF.... The whole joint is lit
up like a Hollywood premiere. Great coming and going of
civilians in suits, gowns, tuxedos, getting in and out of
BMW limousines with flags of all nations next to the
windscreens. Mimeographed handouts clog the stones and
gutters. Inside the sentry boxes are piles of confiscated
âcameras.
They must deal here with a strange collection of those
showbiz types. Nobody seems too upset at the helmet,
cape, or mask. There are ambiguous shrugging phone calls
and the odd feeble question, but they do let Max Schlep-
zig pass. A gang of American newspapermen
comes
through in a charabanc, clutching on to bottles of liberated
Moselle, and they offer him a lift part way. Soon they
have fallen to arguing about which celebrity he is. Some
think he is Don Ameche, others Oliver Hardy. Celebrity?
what is this? âCome on,â sez Slothrop, âyou just donât
know me in this getup. Iâm that Errol Flynn.â Not every-
body believes him, but he manages to hand out a few
autographs anyhow. When they part company, the news-
hounds are discussing the candidates for Miss Rheingold
1946. Dorothy Hartâs advocates are the loudest, but Jill
Darnley has a majority on her side. Itâs all gibberish to
Slothropâit will be months yet before he runs into a
beer advertisement featuring the six beauties, and find him-
self rooting for a girl named Helen Riickert: a blonde with
a Dutch surname who will remind him dimly of some-
one....
The house at 2 Kaiserstrasse is styled in High Prussian
Boorish and painted a kind of barf brown, a color the ice-
cold lighting doesnât improve. It is more heavily guarded
than any other in the compound. Gee, Slothrop wonders
why. Then he sees the sign with the placeâs stenciled alias
on it.
- âOh, no. No. Quit fooling.â For a while he stands in the
Street shivering and cursing that Seaman Bodine for a
bungler, villain, and agent of death. Sign sez THE WHITE
HOUSE. Bodine has brought him straight to the dapper,
bespectacled stranger who gazed down the morning Fried-
be
oi),
oe
â4
444
Gravity's RAINBOW
richstrasseâto the face that has silently dissolved in to
replace the one Slothrop never saw and now never will.
The sentries with slung rifles are still as himself. The
folds of his cape are gone to corroded bronze under the
arc-lighting, Behind the villa water rushes. Music strikes
up inside and obliterates the sound. An entertainment. No
wonder he got in so easy. Are they expecting this magi-
cian, this late guest? Glamour, fame. He could run in and
throw himself at somebodyâs feet, beg for amnesty. End
up getting a contract for the rest of his life with a radio
network, o-or even a movie studio! Thatâs what mercy is,
isnât it? He turns, trying to be casual about it, and goes
moseying out of the light, looking for a way down to that
water,
The shore of the Griebnitz See is dark, starlit, strung
with wire, alive with roving sentries. Potsdamâs lights,
. piled and scattered, twinkle across the black water. Slo-
throp has to go in up to his ass a few times
to get pastâ
that wire, and wait for the sentries to gather around a
cigarette at one end of their beat before he can make a
dash, cape-flapping and soggy, up to the villa. Bodineâs
hashish is buried along one side of the house, under a cer-
tain juniper bush. Slothrop squats down aud starts scoop-
ing up dirt with his hands.
Inside it is some do. Girls are singing âDonât Sit Under
the Apple Tree,â and if it ainât the Andrews Sisters it may
as well be. They are accompanied by a dance band with
a mammoth reed section. Laughing, sounds of glassware,
multilingual chitchat, your average weekday night here at
the great Conference. The hash is wrapped in tinfoil in-
side a moldering ditty bag. It smells really good. Aw,
jeepersâwhyâd he forget to bring a pipe?
Actually, itâs just as well. Above Slothrop, at eye level,
is a terrace, and espaliered peach trees in milky blossom.
As he crouches, hefting the bag, French windows open
and someone steps out on this terrace
for some air. Slo-
throp freezes, thinking invisible, invisible.... Footsteps
approach, and over the railing leans-ââwell,
this may
sound odd, but itâs Mickey Rooney. Slothrop recognizes
him on sight, Judge Hardyâs freckled madcap son, three-.
dimensional, flesh, in a tux and am-I-losing-my-mind face,
|
= |
a |
A Surreal Encounter in the Zone
- Slothrop, dressed as Rocketman and carrying hashish, has a surreal face-to-face encounter with Mickey Rooney on a villa terrace.
- The encounter highlights the bizarre intersection of pop culture icons and high-stakes political scheming during the post-war occupation.
- While attempting to escape, Slothrop inadvertently wanders toward the Russian sector of the compound and is intercepted by mysterious figures.
- Slothrop is forcibly injected with an anesthetic, losing consciousness as he is captured by unknown assailants.
- The narrative shifts to an Argentine-manned U-boat, introducing a crew of eccentric exiles and literati favorites like Graciela Imago Portales.
- The Argentine group maintains a complex web of internal loyalties and cultural manias while navigating the lawless waters of the Zone.
Slothrop recognizes him on sight, Judge Hardyâs freckled madcap son, three-dimensional, flesh, in a tux and am-I-losing-my-mind face.
444
Gravity's RAINBOW
richstrasseâto the face that has silently dissolved in to
replace the one Slothrop never saw and now never will.
The sentries with slung rifles are still as himself. The
folds of his cape are gone to corroded bronze under the
arc-lighting, Behind the villa water rushes. Music strikes
up inside and obliterates the sound. An entertainment. No
wonder he got in so easy. Are they expecting this magi-
cian, this late guest? Glamour, fame. He could run in and
throw himself at somebodyâs feet, beg for amnesty. End
up getting a contract for the rest of his life with a radio
network, o-or even a movie studio! Thatâs what mercy is,
isnât it? He turns, trying to be casual about it, and goes
moseying out of the light, looking for a way down to that
water,
The shore of the Griebnitz See is dark, starlit, strung
with wire, alive with roving sentries. Potsdamâs lights,
. piled and scattered, twinkle across the black water. Slo-
throp has to go in up to his ass a few times
to get pastâ
that wire, and wait for the sentries to gather around a
cigarette at one end of their beat before he can make a
dash, cape-flapping and soggy, up to the villa. Bodineâs
hashish is buried along one side of the house, under a cer-
tain juniper bush. Slothrop squats down aud starts scoop-
ing up dirt with his hands.
Inside it is some do. Girls are singing âDonât Sit Under
the Apple Tree,â and if it ainât the Andrews Sisters it may
as well be. They are accompanied by a dance band with
a mammoth reed section. Laughing, sounds of glassware,
multilingual chitchat, your average weekday night here at
the great Conference. The hash is wrapped in tinfoil in-
side a moldering ditty bag. It smells really good. Aw,
jeepersâwhyâd he forget to bring a pipe?
Actually, itâs just as well. Above Slothrop, at eye level,
is a terrace, and espaliered peach trees in milky blossom.
As he crouches, hefting the bag, French windows open
and someone steps out on this terrace
for some air. Slo-
throp freezes, thinking invisible, invisible.... Footsteps
approach, and over the railing leans-ââwell,
this may
sound odd, but itâs Mickey Rooney. Slothrop recognizes
him on sight, Judge Hardyâs freckled madcap son, three-.
dimensional, flesh, in a tux and am-I-losing-my-mind face,
|
= |
a |
In the Zone:
445
Mickey Ronney stares at Rocketman holding a bag of
âhashish, a wet apparition in helmet and cape. Nose level
with Mickey Rooneyâs shiny black shoes, Slothrop looks up
into the lit room behindâsees somebody looks a bit like
Churchill, lotta dames in evening gowns cut so low that
_ even from this angle you can see more tits than they got
at Minskyâs...and maybe, maybe he even gets a glimpse
. of that President Truman. He knows he is seeing Mickey
_ Rooney, though Mickey Rooney, wherever he may go,
will repress the fact that he ever saw Slothrop. It is an
_
extraordinary moment.
Slothrop feels he ought to say
something, but his speech centers have failed him in a
drastic way. Somehow, âHey, you're Mickey Rooney,â
seems inadequate. So they stay absolutely still, victoryâs
night blowing by around them, and the great in the yellow
electric room scheming on oblivious.
Slothrop breaks it first: puts a finger to his mouth and
scuttles away, back around the villa and down to the
shore, leaving Mickey Rooney with his elbows on that rail-
ing, still watching.
Back around the wire, avoiding sentires, close to the
' water's edge, swinging the ditty bag by its drawstring,
| some vague idea in his head now of finding another boat
and just rowing back up that Havelâsure!l Why not? It
isnât till he hears distant conversation from another villa
that it occurs to him he might be straying into the Russian
part of the compound.
âHmm,â opines Slothrop, âwell in that case I had bet-
| terââ
Here comes that wiener again. Shapes only a foot
awayâthey might have risen up out of the water. He
spins around, catches sight of a broad, clean-shaven face,
hair combed lionlike straight back, glimmering steel teeth,
eyes black and soft as that Carmen Mirandaâsâ
âYes,â no least accent to his English whispering, âyou
were followed all the way.â Others have grabbed Slothropâs
arms. High in the left one he feels something sharp, al-
most painless, very familiar. Before his throat can stir heâs
| away, on the Wheel, clutching in terror to the dwindling
| white point of himself, in the first windrush of anaesthesia,
hovering coyly over the pit of Death...
4
Snes
446
Gravity's Ramwsow
Oo
A soft night, smeared full of golden stars, the kind of night
back on the pampas that Leopoldo Lugones liked to write
about. The U-boat rocks quietly on the surface. The only
Bas
the generator.
Luz and Felipe are
By the 20 mm mounts, Graciela Imago Portales lounges
wistfully. In her day she was the urban idiot of B.A,
threatening nobody, friends with everybody across the
spectrum, from Cipriano Reyes, who intervened for her
for before
it got busted. She was a particular favorite of the literati.
Borges is said to have dedicated a poem toâ her (âEl labe-
rinto de tu incertidumbre/ Me trama con la disquietante
luna...
.â).
The crow thet hijacked:<hle:ti-laaasetienstaak aaa
kinds of Argentine manias. El Nato goes termarmceh 5 i
in 19th- âcentury gaucho sloeneedclaeeeee are âpitos,â
are âpuchos,â
A ie
ole
nes, pe
ing up to El Reto Bel4uste
acting shipâs engineer, is
from Entre Rios, and a to in the regional
tr
A pretty good Et
Agee,
which is one reason El Nato hasnât made a
yet for
godless Mesopotamian Bolshevik. It is a beh
solidarity, but then itâs only one of several,
rently with Felipe, though sheâs supposed to
dozzi's girlâafter Squalidozzi
on
Ziirich she took up with the poet on
of
recitation of Lugonesâs âPavos Reales,â
balmy
lying to off Matosinhos, For this crew).
seasickness: only the hope of dying from it is
them alive,
lanky
Sbag
i
oie
ij
ar
;
The Argentine Exiles
- Squalidozzi reunites with his Argentine compatriots in Bremerhaven after being pursued across Germany by British Military Intelligence.
- The group debates the wisdom of Squalidozzi's decision to trust an anonymous contact to reach their leader, IbargĂŒengoitia.
- The dialogue highlights the specific linguistic and political weight of Argentine Spanish, shaped by years of state censorship and evasion.
- Squalidozzi recalls a surreal encounter in a Bavarian factory where he hid from a mysterious Rolls Royce.
- Inside the factory, a group of 'zootsters' and gangsters in Caligari gloves watch a flickering American Western film.
- The section concludes with Squalidozzi being offered sanctuary by a massive figure in a white zoot-suit amidst the cinematic shadows.
The conversation in the steel space that night was full of quiet damped ss and palatal ys, the peculiar, reluctant poignancy of Argentine Spanish, brought along through years of frustrations, self-censorship, long roundabout evasions of political truth.
446
Gravity's Ramwsow
Oo
A soft night, smeared full of golden stars, the kind of night
back on the pampas that Leopoldo Lugones liked to write
about. The U-boat rocks quietly on the surface. The only
Bas
the generator.
Luz and Felipe are
By the 20 mm mounts, Graciela Imago Portales lounges
wistfully. In her day she was the urban idiot of B.A,
threatening nobody, friends with everybody across the
spectrum, from Cipriano Reyes, who intervened for her
for before
it got busted. She was a particular favorite of the literati.
Borges is said to have dedicated a poem toâ her (âEl labe-
rinto de tu incertidumbre/ Me trama con la disquietante
luna...
.â).
The crow thet hijacked:<hle:ti-laaasetienstaak aaa
kinds of Argentine manias. El Nato goes termarmceh 5 i
in 19th- âcentury gaucho sloeneedclaeeeee are âpitos,â
are âpuchos,â
A ie
ole
nes, pe
ing up to El Reto Bel4uste
acting shipâs engineer, is
from Entre Rios, and a to in the regional
tr
A pretty good Et
Agee,
which is one reason El Nato hasnât made a
yet for
godless Mesopotamian Bolshevik. It is a beh
solidarity, but then itâs only one of several,
rently with Felipe, though sheâs supposed to
dozzi's girlâafter Squalidozzi
on
Ziirich she took up with the poet on
of
recitation of Lugonesâs âPavos Reales,â
balmy
lying to off Matosinhos, For this crew).
seasickness: only the hope of dying from it is
them alive,
lanky
Sbag
i
oie
ij
ar
;
In the Zone
447
_
Squalidozzi
did show up again though, in Bremerhaven.
_ He had just been chased across what was left of Germany
by British Military Intelligence, with no idea why.
âWhy didnât you go to Geneva, and try to get through
to usPâ
âI didnât want to lead them to Ibargiiengoitia. I sent
someone else.â
âWho?â Beldustegui wanted to know.
âT never got his name.â Squalidozzi scratched his shaggy
head. âMaybe it was a stupid thing to do.â
âNo further contact with him?â
âNone at all.â
_
âThey'll be watching us, then,â Beldustegui
sullen.
âWhoever he is, heâs hot. Youâre a fine judge of character.â
âWhat did you want me to do: take him to a psychiatrist
first? Weigh options? Sit around for a few weeks and
\ think about it?â
âHeâs right,â El Nato raising a large fist. âLet women
do their thinking, their analyzing.
A man must always go
forward, looking Life directly in the face.â
âYou're
disgusting,â
said
Graciela
Imago
Portales.
âYou're not a man, you're a sweaty horse.â
âThank you,â El Nato bowing, in all gaucho dignity.
Nobody was yelling. The conversation in the steel space
that night was full of quiet damped ss and palatal ys, the
peculiar, reluctant poignancy of Argentine Spanish, brought
along through years of frustrations, self-censorship, long
roundabout evasions of political truthâof bringing the
\State to live in the muscles of your tongue, in the humid
intimacy just inside your lips... pero ché, no sé6s argen-
tino....
In Bavaria, Squalidozzi was stumbling through the out-
skirts of a town, only minutes ahead of a Rolls Royce with
a sinister dome in the roof, green Perspex you couldnât see
through. It was just after sunset. All at once he heard
gunshots, hoofbeats, nasal and metallic voices in English,
But the quaint little town seemed deserted. How could
this be? He entered a brick labyrinth that had been a
nica factory. Splashes of bell-metal lay forever un-
Tung in the foundry dirt. Against a high wall that had
recently been painted white, the shadows of horses and
their riders drummed. Sitting watching, from workbenches
448
Gravityâs Ramnsow
:
and crates, were a dozen individuals Squalidozzi recog-
nized right away as gangsters, Cigar-ends glowed, and :
molls whispered back and forth in German. The men ate
sausages, ripping away the casings with white teeth, well
cared for, that flashed in the light from the movie, "They q
were sporting the Caligari gloves which now enjoy a sum-
mer vogue in the Zone: bone white, except for the four
lines in deep violet fanning up each gloveback from wrist
to knuckles. All wore suits nearly as light-colored as the
teeth. It seemed extravagant to Squalidozzi, after Buenos
Aires and Ziirich. The women crossed their legs often:
they were tense as vipers. In the air was a grassy smell, a
smell of leaves burning, that was strange to the Argentine
who, terminally homesick, had only the smell of freshly
brewed maté after a bitter day at the racetrack to con-
nect it with. Crowned window frames gave out on the
brick factory courtyard where summer air moved softly.
-
The filmlight flickered blue across empty windows as if it
were breath trying to produce a note. The images grew
blunt with vengeance. âYay!â screamed all the zootsters,
white gloves bouncing up and down. Their mouths and
eyes were as wide as childrenâs.
The reel ended, but the space stayed dark. An enor-
mous figure in a white zoot-suit stood, stretched, and
ambled right over to where Squalidozzi was crouching,
terrified.
âThey after you, amigo?â
âPleaseââ
âNo, no. Come on, Watch with us. Itâs a Bob Steele.
Heâs a good old boy. You're safe in here.â For days, as it
â
turned out, the gangsters had known Squalidozzi was in
the neighborhood: they could infer to his path, though he â
himself was invisible to them, by the movements of the
police, which were not. Blodgett Waxwingâfor it was
â
heâused the analogy of a cloud mae and the Messâ
trail a high-speed particle leaves. .
|
âI donât understand.â
|
Li
âNot sure I do either, pal. But we have|to keep an eye ©
on everything, and right now all the hepcats are going *
goofy over something called ânuclear physics.â â
|
After the movie, Squalidozzi was introduced to Ger-
hardt- von GĂ©ll, also known by his nom de pĂ©gre, âDer
Springer.â Seems von GĂ©llâs people and Waxwingâs were in
ei
Ric
Sad
The Gaucho Anarchist Film
- Gangsters track the invisible Squalidozzi by observing the movements of the police, likening the effect to a particle trail in a cloud chamber.
- Squalidozzi is introduced to Gerhardt von Göll, a film director turned black marketeer who operates a nomadic convoy through the Zone.
- Von Göll offers to finance an anarchist film project to ensure his own creative independence and 'final cut' authority.
- The group decides to adapt the Argentine epic poem 'Martin Fierro,' treating its protagonist as an anarchist saint and a symbol of gaucho resistance.
- Felipe, the leading theoretician of the movement, adopts a gaucho persona while Graciela works on a screenplay using a horse-scented copy of the poem.
- The narrative transitions into a cinematic treatment of the poem, beginning with a wandering singer arriving at a campfire on a vast, shadowed plain.
âYou look more like a Gaucho Marx,â Graciela drawls, and leaves Felipe to go back to the treatment heâs working on for von Göll, using El Natoâs copy of Martin Fierro, which has long been thumbed into separate loose pages, and smells of horses.
448
Gravityâs Ramnsow
:
and crates, were a dozen individuals Squalidozzi recog-
nized right away as gangsters, Cigar-ends glowed, and :
molls whispered back and forth in German. The men ate
sausages, ripping away the casings with white teeth, well
cared for, that flashed in the light from the movie, "They q
were sporting the Caligari gloves which now enjoy a sum-
mer vogue in the Zone: bone white, except for the four
lines in deep violet fanning up each gloveback from wrist
to knuckles. All wore suits nearly as light-colored as the
teeth. It seemed extravagant to Squalidozzi, after Buenos
Aires and Ziirich. The women crossed their legs often:
they were tense as vipers. In the air was a grassy smell, a
smell of leaves burning, that was strange to the Argentine
who, terminally homesick, had only the smell of freshly
brewed maté after a bitter day at the racetrack to con-
nect it with. Crowned window frames gave out on the
brick factory courtyard where summer air moved softly.
-
The filmlight flickered blue across empty windows as if it
were breath trying to produce a note. The images grew
blunt with vengeance. âYay!â screamed all the zootsters,
white gloves bouncing up and down. Their mouths and
eyes were as wide as childrenâs.
The reel ended, but the space stayed dark. An enor-
mous figure in a white zoot-suit stood, stretched, and
ambled right over to where Squalidozzi was crouching,
terrified.
âThey after you, amigo?â
âPleaseââ
âNo, no. Come on, Watch with us. Itâs a Bob Steele.
Heâs a good old boy. You're safe in here.â For days, as it
â
turned out, the gangsters had known Squalidozzi was in
the neighborhood: they could infer to his path, though he â
himself was invisible to them, by the movements of the
police, which were not. Blodgett Waxwingâfor it was
â
heâused the analogy of a cloud mae and the Messâ
trail a high-speed particle leaves. .
|
âI donât understand.â
|
Li
âNot sure I do either, pal. But we have|to keep an eye ©
on everything, and right now all the hepcats are going *
goofy over something called ânuclear physics.â â
|
After the movie, Squalidozzi was introduced to Ger-
hardt- von GĂ©ll, also known by his nom de pĂ©gre, âDer
Springer.â Seems von GĂ©llâs people and Waxwingâs were in
ei
Ric
Sad
In the Zone
449
the course of a traveling business conference, rumbling
the roads of the Zone in convoy, changing trucks and
busses so often there was no time for real sleep, only
cat-napsâin the middle of the night, the middle of a
field, no telling when, you'd have to pile out, switch ve-
hicles and take off again along another road. No destina-
tions, no fixed itinerary. Most of the transportation was
furnished through the expertise of veteran automotive
jobber Edouard Sanktwolke, who could hot-wire anything
on wheels or caterpillar tracksâeven packed around a
custom-built ebony case full of the rotor arms, each in its
velvet recess, to every known make, model, and year, in
case the targetâs owner had removed that vital part.
Squalidozzi and von Goll hit it off right away. This film
director turned marketeer had decided to finance all his
_ future movies out of his own exorbitant profits. âOnly way
to be sure of having final cuts, Âąverdad? Tell me, Squali-
dozzi, are you too pure for thisP Or could your anarchist
project use:a
little help?â
âIt would depend what you wanted from us.â
âA film, of course. What would you like to doP How
about Martin Fierro?â
Keep the customer happy. Martin Fierro is not just the
gaucho hero of a great Argentine epic poem. On the
U-boat he is considered an anarchist saint. Herndndezâs
poem has figured in Argentine political thinking for years
ânowâeverybodyâs had his own interpretation, quoting
from it often as vehemently as politicians in 19th-century
âItaly used to from I Promessi Sposi. It goes back to the
old basic polarity in Argentina: Buenos Aires vs. the prov-
inces, or, as Felipe sees it, central government vs. gaucho
anarchism, of which he has become the leading theoreti-
cian. He has one of these round-brim hats with balls hang-
ing from it, he has taken to lounging in the hatchways,
waiting for GracielaââGood evening, my dove. Havenât
you got a kiss for the Gaucho Bakunin?â
âYou look more like a Gaucho Marx,â Graciela drawls,
and leaves Felipe to go back to the treatment heâs working
on for von Gdll, using El Natoâs copy of Martin Fierro,
which has long âbeen thumbed into separate loose pages,
and smells of horses, each of whose names El Nato, tear-
fully mamao, can tell you. .
'. A shadowed plain at guindown: An enormous flatness,
{
450
Gravity's RAINBOW
Camera angle is kept low. People coming in, slowly, singly
or in small groups, working their way across the plain, in
to a settlement at the edge of a little river. Horses, cattle,
fires against the growing darkness. Far away, at the hori-
zon, a solitary figure on horseback appears, and rides in,
all the way in, as the credits come on, At some point we see
the guitar slung on his back: he is a payador, a wondering
singer. At last he dismounts and goes to sit with the peo-
ple at the fire. After the meal and a round of cafia he
reaches for his guitar and begins to strum his three lowest
strings, the bordona, and sing:
Aqui me pongo a cantar
al compas de la vigiiela,
que el hombre que lo desvela
una pena estrordinaria,
como la ave solitaria
con el cantar se consuela.
So, as the Gaucho sings, his story unfoldsâa montage of
his early life on the estancia. Then the army comes and
conscripts him. Takes him out to the frontier to kill Indians.
It is the period of General Rocaâs campaign to open the
pampas by exterminating the people who live there: tuin-
ing the villages into labor camps, bringing more of the
©
country under the control of Buenos Aires. Martin Fierro
is soon sick of it. Itâs against everything he knows is right.
He deserts. They send out a posse, and he talks the ser-
geant in command over to his side. Together they flee
across the frontier, to live in the wilderness, to live with
the Indians.
Thatâs Part I. Seven years later, Hernandez wrote a
Return of Martin Fierro, in which the Gaucho sells out:
assimilates back into Christian society, gives up his free-
dom for the kind of constitutional Gesellschaft being
pushed in those days by Buenos Aires. A very moral end- â
ing, but completely opposite to the first.
âWhat should I do?â von Goll seems to! want to know.
âBoth parts, or just Part IPâ
âWell,â begins Squalidozzi.
âI know what you want. But I might get better wiledae :
out of two movies, if the first does well at the box office.
But will it?â
The Gaucho and the Emulsion
- The Argentine epic Martin Fierro serves as a template for a film project, contrasting the protagonist's initial rebellion with his eventual assimilation into society.
- Director Gerhardt von Goll considers splitting the epic into two films, weighing the commercial risk of the first part's anti-social themes against the second's moral ending.
- Von Goll utilizes 'Emulsion J,' a specialized film stock that renders human skin transparent to reveal the underlying anatomy, which he plans to use for a singing-duel scene.
- The director suffers from a megalomaniacal delusion that his previous propaganda films literally brought the Schwarzkommando into physical existence within the Zone.
- The Argentine exiles are infected by von Goll's madness, dreaming of a return to a prehistoric 'Gondwanaland' where South America and Africa were still joined.
My images, somehow, have been chosen for incarnation.
450
Gravity's RAINBOW
Camera angle is kept low. People coming in, slowly, singly
or in small groups, working their way across the plain, in
to a settlement at the edge of a little river. Horses, cattle,
fires against the growing darkness. Far away, at the hori-
zon, a solitary figure on horseback appears, and rides in,
all the way in, as the credits come on, At some point we see
the guitar slung on his back: he is a payador, a wondering
singer. At last he dismounts and goes to sit with the peo-
ple at the fire. After the meal and a round of cafia he
reaches for his guitar and begins to strum his three lowest
strings, the bordona, and sing:
Aqui me pongo a cantar
al compas de la vigiiela,
que el hombre que lo desvela
una pena estrordinaria,
como la ave solitaria
con el cantar se consuela.
So, as the Gaucho sings, his story unfoldsâa montage of
his early life on the estancia. Then the army comes and
conscripts him. Takes him out to the frontier to kill Indians.
It is the period of General Rocaâs campaign to open the
pampas by exterminating the people who live there: tuin-
ing the villages into labor camps, bringing more of the
©
country under the control of Buenos Aires. Martin Fierro
is soon sick of it. Itâs against everything he knows is right.
He deserts. They send out a posse, and he talks the ser-
geant in command over to his side. Together they flee
across the frontier, to live in the wilderness, to live with
the Indians.
Thatâs Part I. Seven years later, Hernandez wrote a
Return of Martin Fierro, in which the Gaucho sells out:
assimilates back into Christian society, gives up his free-
dom for the kind of constitutional Gesellschaft being
pushed in those days by Buenos Aires. A very moral end- â
ing, but completely opposite to the first.
âWhat should I do?â von Goll seems to! want to know.
âBoth parts, or just Part IPâ
âWell,â begins Squalidozzi.
âI know what you want. But I might get better wiledae :
out of two movies, if the first does well at the box office.
But will it?â
In the Zone
.
451
âOf course it will.â
âSomething that anti-social?â
âBut itâs everything we believe in,â Squalidozzi protests.
âBut even the freest of Gauchos end up selling out, you
know. Thatâs how things are.â
Thatâs how Gerhardt von Goll is, anyway. Graciela
knows the man: there are lines of liaison, sinister connec-
tions of blood and of wintering at Punta del Este, through
Anilinas Alemanas, the IG branch in Buenos Aires, on
through Spottbilligfllm AG in Berlin (another IG outlet)
from whom von Goll used to get cut rates on most of his
â
film stock, especially on the peculiar and slow-moving
âEmulsion J,â invented by Laszlo Jamf, which somehow
was able, even under ordinary daylight, to render the
human skin transparent to a depth of half a millimeter,
revealing the face just beneath the surface. This emulsion
was used extensively in von Gdllâs immortal Alpdriicken,
and may even come to figure in Martin Fierro. The only
part of the epic that really has von Goll fascinated is a
singing-duel between the white gaucho and the dark El
Moreno. It seems like an interesting framing device. With
Emulsion J he could dig beneath the skin colors of the
contestants, dissolve back and forth between J and ordinary
stock, like sliding in and out of focus, or wipeâhow he
loved wipes! from one to the other in any number of clever
ways. Since discovering that Schwarzkommando are really
âin the Zone, leading real, paracinematic lives that have
nothing to do with him or the phony Schwarzkommando
footage he shot last winter in England for Operation Black
Wing, Springer has been zooming around in a controlled
ecstasy of megalomania. He is convinced that his film has
somehow brought them into being, âIt is my mission,â he
announces to Squalidozzi, with the profound humility that
only a German movie director can summon, âto sow in the
Zone seeds of reality, The historical moment demands this,
and I can only be its servant. My images, somehow, have
been chosen for incarnation, What I can do for the
Schwarzkommando I can do for your dream of pampas
and sky.... I can take down your fences and your laby-
ârinth walls, I can lead you back to the Garden you hardly
remember. .. .â
_
His madness clearly infected Squalidozzi, who then
4
a
es
452
Gravityâs Ramnsow
eventually returned to the U-boat and infected the others.
It seemed what they had been waiting for. âAfricans!â
daydreamed the usually all-business Belaustegui at a staff
meeting. âWhat if itâs true? What if we've really come
back, back to the way it was before the continents drifted
apart?â
âBack to Gondwanaland,â whispered Felipe. âWhen Rio
de la Plata was just opposite South-West Africa... and
the mesozoic refugees took the ferry not to Montevideo,
but to Liideritzbucht. . . .â
The plan is to get somehow to the Liineburg Heath and
set up a small estancia. Von Géll is to meet them there.
By the gun-mounts
tonight,.
Graciela
Imago Portales
dreams. Is von Géll a compromise they can tolerate? There
are worse foundations than a film. Did Prince Potemkinâs
fake villages survive Catherineâs royal progress? Will the
soul of the Gaucho survive the mechanics of putting him
into light and sound? Or will someone ultimately come by,
von Géll or another, to make a Part II, and dismantle the
dream?
Above and beyond her the Zodiac glides, a north-
hemisphere array she never saw in Argentina, smooth as
an hour-hand.... Suddenly thereâs a long smash of static
out of the P.A., and Beldustegui is screaming, âDer Aall
Der Aallâ The eel, wonders Graciela, the eel? Oh, yes,
the torpedo. Ah, Beldustegui is as bad as El Nato, he feels
his own weird obligation to carry on in German sub-
mariner slang, it is just precisamente a seagoing Tower of
Babel hereâthe torpedo? why is he âscreaming about the
torpedo?
For the good reason that the U-boat has just appeared
on the radar screen of the U.S.S. John E. Badass (smile,
U-boat!
), as a âskunkâ or unidentified pip, and the Badass,
in muscular postwar reflex, is now lunging in at flank
speed. Reception tonight is perfect, the green return âfine-
_
grained as a babyâs skin,â confirms Spyros (âSpiderâ) Telan-
giecstasis, Radarman 2nd Class. You can see
clear out to
the Azores. It is a mild, fluorescent summer evening on the
sea. But whatâs this on the screen now, moving
fast, sweep
â
by sweep, broken as a drop of light from the original pip,
tiny but unmistakable, in toward the unmoving center of
the sweep, closer nowâ
The Oneirine Intersection
- Graciela Imago Portales contemplates the fragility of their cinematic dream as they plan a future on the LĂŒneburg Heath.
- A tense naval encounter begins when the U-boat is detected by the U.S.S. John E. Badass, triggering a 'muscular postwar reflex.'
- The U-boat fires a torpedo, referred to in German slang as 'Der Aal' (the eel), putting the American destroyer in immediate peril.
- The disaster is averted through the intervention of Oneirine, a drug Seaman Bodine spiked into the ship's coffee supply.
- The drug's time-modulation properties cause the torpedo and the ship to intersect in space but fail to meet in time.
- The encounter dissolves into a surreal hallucination where the targets are revealed to be a derelict wreck and a floating corpse.
So, out in the mellow sea-return tonight, the two fatal courses do intersect in space, but not in time.
es
452
Gravityâs Ramnsow
eventually returned to the U-boat and infected the others.
It seemed what they had been waiting for. âAfricans!â
daydreamed the usually all-business Belaustegui at a staff
meeting. âWhat if itâs true? What if we've really come
back, back to the way it was before the continents drifted
apart?â
âBack to Gondwanaland,â whispered Felipe. âWhen Rio
de la Plata was just opposite South-West Africa... and
the mesozoic refugees took the ferry not to Montevideo,
but to Liideritzbucht. . . .â
The plan is to get somehow to the Liineburg Heath and
set up a small estancia. Von Géll is to meet them there.
By the gun-mounts
tonight,.
Graciela
Imago Portales
dreams. Is von Géll a compromise they can tolerate? There
are worse foundations than a film. Did Prince Potemkinâs
fake villages survive Catherineâs royal progress? Will the
soul of the Gaucho survive the mechanics of putting him
into light and sound? Or will someone ultimately come by,
von Géll or another, to make a Part II, and dismantle the
dream?
Above and beyond her the Zodiac glides, a north-
hemisphere array she never saw in Argentina, smooth as
an hour-hand.... Suddenly thereâs a long smash of static
out of the P.A., and Beldustegui is screaming, âDer Aall
Der Aallâ The eel, wonders Graciela, the eel? Oh, yes,
the torpedo. Ah, Beldustegui is as bad as El Nato, he feels
his own weird obligation to carry on in German sub-
mariner slang, it is just precisamente a seagoing Tower of
Babel hereâthe torpedo? why is he âscreaming about the
torpedo?
For the good reason that the U-boat has just appeared
on the radar screen of the U.S.S. John E. Badass (smile,
U-boat!
), as a âskunkâ or unidentified pip, and the Badass,
in muscular postwar reflex, is now lunging in at flank
speed. Reception tonight is perfect, the green return âfine-
_
grained as a babyâs skin,â confirms Spyros (âSpiderâ) Telan-
giecstasis, Radarman 2nd Class. You can see
clear out to
the Azores. It is a mild, fluorescent summer evening on the
sea. But whatâs this on the screen now, moving
fast, sweep
â
by sweep, broken as a drop of light from the original pip,
tiny but unmistakable, in toward the unmoving center of
the sweep, closer nowâ
In the Zone
453
âBakerbakerbakerlâ hollers somebody down in Sonar,
loud and scared, over the phones. It means hostile torpedo
on the way. Coffee messes go crashing, parallel rulers and
dividers sliding across the glass top of the dead-reckoning
âtracer as the old tin can goes heeling over around onto an
evasion pattern that was already obsolete during the
Coolidge administration.
Der Aalâs pale tunnel of wake is set to intersect the
Badassâs desperate sea-squirm about midships. What inter-
venes is the drug Oneirine, as the hydrochloride. The
machine from which it has emerged is the coffee urn in
the mess hall of the John E. Badass. Playful Seaman
Bodineânone otherâhas seeded tonightâs grounds with a
massive dose of Laszlo Jamfâs celebrated intoxicant, scored
on Bodineâs most recent trip to Berlin.
The property of time-modulation peculiar to Oneirine
was one of the first to be discovered by investigators. âIt
is experienced,â writes Shetzline in his classic study, âin a
subjective sense...uh... well. Put it this way. Itâs like
stuffing wedges of silver sponge, right, into, your brain!â
So, out in the mellow sea-return tonight, the two fatal
courses do intersect in space, but not in time. Not nearly
in time, heh heh. What BeldAustegui fired his torpedo at
was a darkrust old derelict, carried passively by currents
and wind, but bringing to the night something of the skull;
an announcement of metal emptiness, of shadow, that has
âspooked even stronger positivists than Bel4ustegui. And
what passed into visual recognition from the small speed-
, ing pip on the Badassâs radar screen proved to be a corpse,
dark in color, perhaps a North African, which the crew on
the destroyerâs aft 3-inch gun mount spent half an hour
blowing to pieces as the gray warship slid by at a safe
distance, fearful of plague.
Now what sea is this you have crossed, exactly, and
what sea is it you have plunged more than once to the
bottom of, alerted, full of adrenalin, but caught really,
buffaloed under the epistemologies of these threats that
paranoid you so down and out, caught in this steel pot,
softening to devitaminized mush inside the soup-stock of
your own words, your waste submarine breath? It took the
âDreyfus Affair to get the Zionists out and doing, finally:
what will drive you out of your soup-kettle? Has it already
The Blackwords of the Zone
- Tchitcherine and his driver Dzabajev discuss the value of freedom while bartering for hashish in the ruins of the Zone.
- Tchitcherine reflects on his affinity for Slothrop, noting a shared appreciation for the 'savoir-vivre' of those who wear bizarre costumes.
- A Sodium Amytal transcript reveals Slothrop's unconscious obsession with the color black, manifesting in strange linguistic coinages like 'Blackdream' and 'Blackrocket'.
- The narrative explores the German mania for 'name-giving,' where language is used to divide and analyze the world into increasingly fine, isolated fragments.
- Despite being a 'pilgrim' in the Zone, Slothrop remains an anomaly because he operates alone and shows no interest in the standard military hardware sought by other scavengers.
Or has he by way of the language caught the German mania for name-giving, dividing the Creation finer and finer, analyzing, setting namer more hopelessly apart from named, even to bringing in the mathematics of combination, tacking together established nouns to get new ones, the insanely, endlessly diddling play of a chemist whose molecules are words.
In the Zone
453
âBakerbakerbakerlâ hollers somebody down in Sonar,
loud and scared, over the phones. It means hostile torpedo
on the way. Coffee messes go crashing, parallel rulers and
dividers sliding across the glass top of the dead-reckoning
âtracer as the old tin can goes heeling over around onto an
evasion pattern that was already obsolete during the
Coolidge administration.
Der Aalâs pale tunnel of wake is set to intersect the
Badassâs desperate sea-squirm about midships. What inter-
venes is the drug Oneirine, as the hydrochloride. The
machine from which it has emerged is the coffee urn in
the mess hall of the John E. Badass. Playful Seaman
Bodineânone otherâhas seeded tonightâs grounds with a
massive dose of Laszlo Jamfâs celebrated intoxicant, scored
on Bodineâs most recent trip to Berlin.
The property of time-modulation peculiar to Oneirine
was one of the first to be discovered by investigators. âIt
is experienced,â writes Shetzline in his classic study, âin a
subjective sense...uh... well. Put it this way. Itâs like
stuffing wedges of silver sponge, right, into, your brain!â
So, out in the mellow sea-return tonight, the two fatal
courses do intersect in space, but not in time. Not nearly
in time, heh heh. What BeldAustegui fired his torpedo at
was a darkrust old derelict, carried passively by currents
and wind, but bringing to the night something of the skull;
an announcement of metal emptiness, of shadow, that has
âspooked even stronger positivists than Bel4ustegui. And
what passed into visual recognition from the small speed-
, ing pip on the Badassâs radar screen proved to be a corpse,
dark in color, perhaps a North African, which the crew on
the destroyerâs aft 3-inch gun mount spent half an hour
blowing to pieces as the gray warship slid by at a safe
distance, fearful of plague.
Now what sea is this you have crossed, exactly, and
what sea is it you have plunged more than once to the
bottom of, alerted, full of adrenalin, but caught really,
buffaloed under the epistemologies of these threats that
paranoid you so down and out, caught in this steel pot,
softening to devitaminized mush inside the soup-stock of
your own words, your waste submarine breath? It took the
âDreyfus Affair to get the Zionists out and doing, finally:
what will drive you out of your soup-kettle? Has it already
454
Gravityâs RAINBOW
happened? Was it tonightâs attack and deliverance? Will
you go to the Heath, and begin your settlement, and wait
there for your Director to come?
O
Under a tall willow tree beside a canal, in a jeep, in the
shade, sit Tchitcherine and his driver Dzabajev, a teenage
Kazakh dope fiend with pimples and a permanently surly
look, who combs his hair like the American crooner Frank
Sinatra, âand who is, at the moment, frowning at a slice of
hashish and telling Tchitcherine, âWell, you should have
taken more than this, you know.â
âT only took what his freedom is worth to him,â explains
Tchitcherine. âWhereâs that pipe, now?â
âHow do you know what his freedom is worth to him?
You know what I think? I think you're going a little Zone-
happy out here.â This Dzabajev is more of a sidekick,
really, than a driver, so he enjoys immunity, up to a point,
in questioning Tchitcherineâs wisdom.
âLook, peasant, you read the transcript in there. That
man is one unhappy loner. Heâs got problems. Heâs more
useful running around the Zone thinking heâs free, but heâd
be better off locked up somewhere, He doesnât even know
what his freedom is, much less what itâs worth. So I get
to fix the price, which doesnât matter to begin with.â
âPretty authoritarian,â sneers young Dzabajev. âWhere's
the matches?â
Itâs sad, though. Tchitcherine likes Slothrop. He feels
that, in any normal period of history, they could easily be
friends. People who dress up in bizarre costumes have a
savoir-vivreânot to mention the sort of personality dis-
orderâthat he admires. When he was a little boy, back in
Leningrad, Tchitcherineâs mother sewed by hand a cos-
tume for him to wear in a school entertainment. Tchi-
tcherine was the wolf. The minute he pu on the head, in
front of the mirror by the ikon, he knew -
elf. He was
the wolf.
The Sodium Amytal session nags at ad
linings of Tchi-
tcherineâs brain as if the hangover were his own. Deep,
deepâturther than politics, than sex or infantile terrors...
,
rs
ve
et
,
vf
Selethe-Zone
455
a plunge into the nuclear blackness.... Black runs all
through the transcript: the recurring color black. Slothrop
never mentioned Enzian by name, nor the Schwarzkom-
mando, But he did talk about the Schwarzgerat. And he
also coupled âschwarz-â with some strange nouns, in the
German fragments that came through. Blackwoman, Black-
rocket, Blackdream.... The new coinages seem to be
made unconsciously, Is there a single root, deeper than
anyone has probed, from which Slothropâs Blackwords only
appear to flower separatelyP Or has he by way of the
language caught the German mania for name-giving, divid-
ing the Creation finer and finer, analyzing, setting namer
more hopelessly apart from named, even to bringing in
the mathematics of combination, tacking together estab-
lished nouns to get new ones, the insanely, endlessly
diddling play of a chemist whose molecules are words. ...
Well, the man is a puzzle. When Geli Tripping first sent
word of his presence in the Zone, Tchitcherine was only
interested enough to keep a routine eye on him, along with
the scores of others. The only strange item, which grew
Stranger as surveillance developed, was that he seemed to
be alone. To date Slothrop has still not recorded, tagged,
discovered, or liberated a single scrap of A4 hardware or
intelligence. He reports neither to SPOG, CIOS, BAFO,
TI, nor any American counterpartâindeed, to no known
Allied office. Yet he is one of the Faithful: the scavengers
now following industriously the fallback routes of A4
batteries from the Hook of Holland all across Lower
Saxony. Pilgrims along the roads of miracle, every bit and
piece a sacred relic, every scrap of manual a verse of
Scripture.
But the ordinary hardware doesnât interest Slothrop. He
is holding out, saving himself for something absolutely
unique. Is it the Blackrocket? Is it the oooo00? Enzian is
looking for it, and for the mysterious Schwarzgerit. There
is a very good chance that Slothrop, driven by his Black-
phenomenon, responding to its needs though they be
hidden from him, will keep returning, cycle after cycle, to
Enzian, until the mission is resolved, the parties secured,
the hardware found. Itâs a strong hunch: nothing Tchi-
tcherine will ever put into writing. Operationally heâs alone
as Slothrop is out hereâreporting, if and when, direct to
The Invisible Kingdom of Flab
- Tchitcherine tracks Slothrop through the Zone, believing the American is subconsciously drawn to Enzian and the mysterious SchwarzgerÀt.
- Despite their shared experiences and potential for camaraderie, Tchitcherine views Slothrop primarily as a tool for his operational mission.
- Slothrop awakens in a sterile, white cubic room after being drugged with Sodium Amytal, discovering some of his hashish has been stolen.
- While drifting in and out of consciousness, Slothrop experiences a poignant, snowy dream of his father and a flock of buntings in the Berkshires.
- Upon waking, Slothrop humorously imagines an 'invisible kingdom of flab' colonizing his body while he sleeps before gathering his gear to leave.
There is an invisible kingdom of flab, a million cells-at-large, and they all know who he isâsoon as heâs unconscious, they start up, every one, piping in high horrible little Mickey Mouse voices, hey fellas! hey câmon, letâs all go over to Slothropâs, the big sap ainât doing anything but laying on his ass, cmon, oboy!
,
rs
ve
et
,
vf
Selethe-Zone
455
a plunge into the nuclear blackness.... Black runs all
through the transcript: the recurring color black. Slothrop
never mentioned Enzian by name, nor the Schwarzkom-
mando, But he did talk about the Schwarzgerat. And he
also coupled âschwarz-â with some strange nouns, in the
German fragments that came through. Blackwoman, Black-
rocket, Blackdream.... The new coinages seem to be
made unconsciously, Is there a single root, deeper than
anyone has probed, from which Slothropâs Blackwords only
appear to flower separatelyP Or has he by way of the
language caught the German mania for name-giving, divid-
ing the Creation finer and finer, analyzing, setting namer
more hopelessly apart from named, even to bringing in
the mathematics of combination, tacking together estab-
lished nouns to get new ones, the insanely, endlessly
diddling play of a chemist whose molecules are words. ...
Well, the man is a puzzle. When Geli Tripping first sent
word of his presence in the Zone, Tchitcherine was only
interested enough to keep a routine eye on him, along with
the scores of others. The only strange item, which grew
Stranger as surveillance developed, was that he seemed to
be alone. To date Slothrop has still not recorded, tagged,
discovered, or liberated a single scrap of A4 hardware or
intelligence. He reports neither to SPOG, CIOS, BAFO,
TI, nor any American counterpartâindeed, to no known
Allied office. Yet he is one of the Faithful: the scavengers
now following industriously the fallback routes of A4
batteries from the Hook of Holland all across Lower
Saxony. Pilgrims along the roads of miracle, every bit and
piece a sacred relic, every scrap of manual a verse of
Scripture.
But the ordinary hardware doesnât interest Slothrop. He
is holding out, saving himself for something absolutely
unique. Is it the Blackrocket? Is it the oooo00? Enzian is
looking for it, and for the mysterious Schwarzgerit. There
is a very good chance that Slothrop, driven by his Black-
phenomenon, responding to its needs though they be
hidden from him, will keep returning, cycle after cycle, to
Enzian, until the mission is resolved, the parties secured,
the hardware found. Itâs a strong hunch: nothing Tchi-
tcherine will ever put into writing. Operationally heâs alone
as Slothrop is out hereâreporting, if and when, direct to
456
Gravirtyâs RAInBow
Malenkovâs special committee under the Council of Peo-â
pleâs Commissars (the TsAGI assignment being more or
less a cover). But Slothrop is his boy. He'll be followed,
all right. If they lose him why they'll find him again. Too ~
bad he canât be motivated personally to go get Enzian. But
Tchitcherine is hardly fool enough to think that all Ameri-
cans are as easy to exploit as Major Marvy, with his re-
flexes about blackness... .
Itâs a shame. Tchitcherine and Slothrop could have
smoked hashish together, compared notes on Geli and
other girls of the ruins. He could have sung to the Ameri-
can songs his mother taught him, Kiev lullabies, starlight,
lovers, white blossoms, nightingales....
âNext time we run across that Englishman,â Dzabajev
looking curiously at his hands on the steering-wheel, âor
American, or whatever he is, find out, will you, where he
got this shit?â
âMake a note of that,â orders Tchitcherine. They both
start cackling insanely there, under the tree.
O
Slothrop comes to in episodes that fade in and out of
. sleep, measured and serene exchanges in Russian, hands at
his pulse, the broad green back of someone just leaving
the room... . Itâs a white room, a perfect cube, though for
a while he canât recognize cubes, walls, lying horizontal,
anything too spatial. Only the certainty, that heâs been
shot up yet again with that Sodium Amytal. That feeling
he knows.
Heâs on a cot, still in Rocketman garb, helmet on the
floor down next to the ditty bag of hashâoh-oh. Though
©
it requires superhuman courage in the face of doubts ©
about whether or not he can really even move, he man-
â
ages to flop over and check out that dope. One of the
tinfoil packages looks smaller. He spends an anxious hourâ
or two undoing the top to reveal, sure enough, a fresh cut, â
raw green against the muddy brown of
the great chunk.
â
Footsteps ring down metal stairs outside, and a heavy door â
slides to below. Shit. He lies in the white cube, feeling
groggy, feet crossed hands behind head, doesnât care espe- _
+i
~
In the Zone
457
cially to go anyplace.... He dozes off and dreams about
birds, a close flock of snow buntings, blown in a falling-
leaf of birds, among the thickly falling snow. Itâs back in
Berkshire. Slothrop is little, and holding his fatherâs hand.
The raft of birds swings, buffeted, up, sideways through
the storm, down again, looking for food. âPoor little guys,â
sez Slothrop, and feels his father squeeze his hand through
its wool mitten. Broderick smiles. âThey're all right.. Their
hearts beat very, very fast. Their blood and their feathers
keep them warm. Donât worry, son. Donât worry....â
Slothrop wakes again to the white room. The quiet. Raises
his ass and does a few feeble bicycle exercises, then lies
slapping on new flab that mustâve collected on his stomach
while he was out. There is an invisible kingdom of flab, a
million cells-at-large, and they all know who he isâsoon
as heâs unconscious, they start up, every one, piping in high
horrible little Mickey Mouse voices, hey fellas! hey câmon,
letâs all go over to Slothropâs, the big sap ainât doing any-
thing but laying on his ass, cmon, oboy! âTake that,â
Slothrop mutters, âa-and that!â
Arms and legs apparently working, he gets up groaning,
puts his helmet on his head, grabs the ditty bag and leaves
by the door, which shudders all over, along with the walls,
when he opens it. Aha!â Canvas flats. Itâs a movie set.
Slothrop finds himself in a dilapidated old studio, dark
except where yellow sunlight comes through small holes in
the overhead. Rusted catwalks, creaking under his weight,
black burned-out klieg lights, the fine netting of spider
webs struck to graphwork by the thin beams of sun....
âDust has drifted into corners, and over the remains of other
sets: phony-gemiitlich love nests, slant-walled and palm-
crowded nightclubs, papier-m4ché Wagnerian battlements,
tenement courtyards in stark Expressionist white/black,
built to no human scale, all tapered away in perspective
for the rigid lenses that stared here once. Highlights are
painted on to the sets, which is disturbing to Slothrop,
who keeps finding these feeble yellow streaks, looking up
sharply, then all around, for sources of light that were
never there, getting more agitated as he prowls the old
shell, the girders 50 feet overhead almost lost in shadows,
tripping over his own echoes, sneezing from the dust he
stirs. The Russians have pulled out all right, but Slothrop
yy
The Anti-Dietrich in Ruins
- Slothrop discovers a dilapidated movie studio filled with Expressionist sets that distort perspective and human scale.
- The abandoned sets feature painted-on highlights that disorient Slothrop, creating a sense of artificial and ghostly light.
- He encounters Margherita Erdmann, a former actress known as the 'Anti-Dietrich' for her passive, doll-like screen presence.
- Erdmann reminisces about her career in pornographic horror films directed by Gerhardt von Goll, where she played the perpetual victim.
- The encounter reveals Erdmann's search for her daughter, Bianca, amidst the post-war chaos of displaced persons.
- Erdmann leads Slothrop to a decaying torture chamber set and insists on reenacting her cinematic bondage.
Highlights are painted on to the sets, which is disturbing to Slothrop, who keeps finding these feeble yellow streaks, looking up sharply, then all around, for sources of light that were never there.
~
In the Zone
457
cially to go anyplace.... He dozes off and dreams about
birds, a close flock of snow buntings, blown in a falling-
leaf of birds, among the thickly falling snow. Itâs back in
Berkshire. Slothrop is little, and holding his fatherâs hand.
The raft of birds swings, buffeted, up, sideways through
the storm, down again, looking for food. âPoor little guys,â
sez Slothrop, and feels his father squeeze his hand through
its wool mitten. Broderick smiles. âThey're all right.. Their
hearts beat very, very fast. Their blood and their feathers
keep them warm. Donât worry, son. Donât worry....â
Slothrop wakes again to the white room. The quiet. Raises
his ass and does a few feeble bicycle exercises, then lies
slapping on new flab that mustâve collected on his stomach
while he was out. There is an invisible kingdom of flab, a
million cells-at-large, and they all know who he isâsoon
as heâs unconscious, they start up, every one, piping in high
horrible little Mickey Mouse voices, hey fellas! hey câmon,
letâs all go over to Slothropâs, the big sap ainât doing any-
thing but laying on his ass, cmon, oboy! âTake that,â
Slothrop mutters, âa-and that!â
Arms and legs apparently working, he gets up groaning,
puts his helmet on his head, grabs the ditty bag and leaves
by the door, which shudders all over, along with the walls,
when he opens it. Aha!â Canvas flats. Itâs a movie set.
Slothrop finds himself in a dilapidated old studio, dark
except where yellow sunlight comes through small holes in
the overhead. Rusted catwalks, creaking under his weight,
black burned-out klieg lights, the fine netting of spider
webs struck to graphwork by the thin beams of sun....
âDust has drifted into corners, and over the remains of other
sets: phony-gemiitlich love nests, slant-walled and palm-
crowded nightclubs, papier-m4ché Wagnerian battlements,
tenement courtyards in stark Expressionist white/black,
built to no human scale, all tapered away in perspective
for the rigid lenses that stared here once. Highlights are
painted on to the sets, which is disturbing to Slothrop,
who keeps finding these feeble yellow streaks, looking up
sharply, then all around, for sources of light that were
never there, getting more agitated as he prowls the old
shell, the girders 50 feet overhead almost lost in shadows,
tripping over his own echoes, sneezing from the dust he
stirs. The Russians have pulled out all right, but Slothrop
yy
458
Gravityâs RAINBOW
isnât alone in here. He comes down a metal staircase
through shredded webs, angry spiders and their dried
prey, rust crunching under his soles, and at the bottom
feels a sudden tug at his cape. Being still a little foggy
from that injection, he only flinches violently. He is held
by a gloved hand, the shiny kid stretched over precise
little knuckles.
A woman in a black Parisian frock, with a
purple-and-yellow iris at her breast. Even damped by the
velvet, Slothrop can feel the shaking of her hand. He
stares into eyes rimmed soft a black ash, separate grains
of powder on her face clear as pores the powder missed or
was taken from by tears. This is how he comes to meet
Margherita Erdmann, his lightless summer hearth, his safe-
passage into memories of the Inflationszeit stained with
dreadâhis child and his helpless Lisaura.
Sheâs passing through: another of the million rootless.
Looking for her daughter, Bianca, bound east for Swine-
miinde, if the Russians and Poles will let her. Sheâs in
Neubabelsberg on a sentimental side-tripâhasnât seen the
old studios in years. Through the twenties and thirties she
worked as a movie actress, at Templehof and Staaken too,
but this place was always her favorite. Here she was di-
rected by the great Gerhardt von Goll through dozens of
vaguely pornographic horror movies. âI knew he was a
genius from the beginning. I was only his creature.â Never
star material, she admits freely, no Dietrich, nor vamp a
la Brigitte Helm. A touch of whatever it was they wanted,
thoughâthey.
(Slothrop:
âThey?â Erdmann:
âI don't
know....â)
nicknamed her the Anti-Dietrich:
not de-
stroyer
of men
but dollâlanguid,
exhausted....
âI
â
watched all our films,â she recalls, âsome of them six or
seven times. I never seemed to move. Not even my face.
Ach, those long, long gauze close-ups... it could have
been the same frame, over and over. Even running awayâ
I always had to be chased, by monsters, madmen, crimi-
nalsâstill
I was soââ bracelets flashingââstolid, so...
monumental.
When
I wasnât running I was
usually â
strapped or chained to something. Come. Ill show you.â
Leading Slothrop now to whatâs left of a torture chamber,
wooden teeth snapped from its rack wheel, plaster masonry
peeling and chipped, dust rising, dead torches cold and
_
lopsided in their sconces. She lets wood chains, most of _
se
In the Zone
459
the silver paint worn away now, slither clattering through
her kid fingers. âThis was a set for Alpdriicken. Gerhardt
in those days was still all for exaggerated lighting.â Silver-
gray collects in the fine wrinkles of her gloves as she dusts
off the rack, and lies down on it. âLike this,â raising her
arms, insisting he fasten the tin manacles to her wrists and
ankles. âThe light came from above and below at the
same time, so that everyone had two shadows: Cainâs and
Abelâs, Gerhardt told us. It was
at the height of his
symbolist period. Later on he began to use more natural
light, to shoot more on location.â They went to Paris,
Vienna. To Herrenchiemsee, in the Bavarian Alps. Von
Goll had dreamed of making, a film about Ludwig II. It
nearly got him blacklisted. The rage then was all for
Frederick.
It was considered unpatriotic to say that a
German ruler could also be a madman. But the gold, the
mirrors, the miles of Baroque ornament drove von Goll
himself a little daft. Especially those long corridors. ...
âCorridor metaphysics,â is what the French call this condi-
tion. Oldtime corridor hepcats will chuckle fondly at de-
scriptions of von Géll, long after running out of film, still
dollying with a boobish smile on his face down the golden
vistas. Even on orthochromatic stock, the warmth of it
survived in black and white, though the film was never
released, of course. Das Wiitend Reich, how could they sit
still for thatP Endless negotiating, natty little men with
Nazi lapel pins trooping through, interrupting the shoot-
ing, walking facefirst into the glass walls. They would
have accepted anything for âReich,â even âK6nigreich,â
but von Goll stood fast. He walked a tightrope. To com-
pensate he started immediately on Good Society, which itâs
said delighted Goebbels so much he saw it three times,
giggling and punching in the arm the fellow sitting next
to him, who may have been Adolf Hitler. Margherita
played the lesbian in the cafe, âthe one with the monocle,
whoâs whipped to death at the end by the transvestite,
remember?â Heavy legs in silk stockings now with a hard,
machined look, slick knees sliding against each other as
the memory moves
in, exciting her. Slothrop too. She
smiles up at his tautening deerskin crotch. âHe was beauti-
ful. Both ways, it didnât matter. You remind me of him a
little. Especially ... those boots.... Good Society was our
Corridor Metaphysics and Cinematic Ghosts
- Margherita Erdmann recounts her history with director Gerhardt von Goll and the filming of 'Good Society' during the Nazi era.
- The narrative explores the tension between artistic vision and political censorship, specifically regarding the unreleased film 'Das WĂŒtend Reich'.
- Slothrop discovers a disturbing connection between his forged identity as Max Schlepzig and Margherita's former co-star and lover.
- Margherita identifies the signature on Slothrop's forged pass as the authentic handwriting of the long-disappeared Schlepzig.
- The encounter suggests a deeper conspiracy, implying that Slothrop's presence and identity are being manipulated by unseen forces.
- The meeting of two paranoid perspectives creates a 'moiré' effect, a new reality formed by the intersection of their individual fears.
The light came from above and below at the same time, so that everyone had two shadows: Cainâs and Abelâs.
In the Zone
459
the silver paint worn away now, slither clattering through
her kid fingers. âThis was a set for Alpdriicken. Gerhardt
in those days was still all for exaggerated lighting.â Silver-
gray collects in the fine wrinkles of her gloves as she dusts
off the rack, and lies down on it. âLike this,â raising her
arms, insisting he fasten the tin manacles to her wrists and
ankles. âThe light came from above and below at the
same time, so that everyone had two shadows: Cainâs and
Abelâs, Gerhardt told us. It was
at the height of his
symbolist period. Later on he began to use more natural
light, to shoot more on location.â They went to Paris,
Vienna. To Herrenchiemsee, in the Bavarian Alps. Von
Goll had dreamed of making, a film about Ludwig II. It
nearly got him blacklisted. The rage then was all for
Frederick.
It was considered unpatriotic to say that a
German ruler could also be a madman. But the gold, the
mirrors, the miles of Baroque ornament drove von Goll
himself a little daft. Especially those long corridors. ...
âCorridor metaphysics,â is what the French call this condi-
tion. Oldtime corridor hepcats will chuckle fondly at de-
scriptions of von Géll, long after running out of film, still
dollying with a boobish smile on his face down the golden
vistas. Even on orthochromatic stock, the warmth of it
survived in black and white, though the film was never
released, of course. Das Wiitend Reich, how could they sit
still for thatP Endless negotiating, natty little men with
Nazi lapel pins trooping through, interrupting the shoot-
ing, walking facefirst into the glass walls. They would
have accepted anything for âReich,â even âK6nigreich,â
but von Goll stood fast. He walked a tightrope. To com-
pensate he started immediately on Good Society, which itâs
said delighted Goebbels so much he saw it three times,
giggling and punching in the arm the fellow sitting next
to him, who may have been Adolf Hitler. Margherita
played the lesbian in the cafe, âthe one with the monocle,
whoâs whipped to death at the end by the transvestite,
remember?â Heavy legs in silk stockings now with a hard,
machined look, slick knees sliding against each other as
the memory moves
in, exciting her. Slothrop too. She
smiles up at his tautening deerskin crotch. âHe was beauti-
ful. Both ways, it didnât matter. You remind me of him a
little. Especially ... those boots.... Good Society was our
460
Gravity's RaInsow
second film, but this one,â this oneP âAlpdriicken, was our
first. I think Bianca is his child. She was conceived. while
we were filming this. He played the Grand Inquisitor who
tortured me. Ah, we were the Reichâs SweetheartsâGreta
Erdmann and Max Schlepzig, Wonderfully Togetherââ
âMax Schlepzig,â repeats Slothrop, goggling, âquit fool-
ing. Max Schlepzig?â
âIt wasnât his real name. Erdmann wasnât mine. But
anything with Earth in it was politically safeâEarth, Soil,
Folk...a code. Which they, staring, knew how to de-
cipher.... Max had a very Jewish name, Something-sky,
and Gerhardt thought it more prudent to give him a new
one,
âGreta, somebody also thought it prudent to name me
Max Schlepzig.â He shows her the pass he got from Saure
Bummer,
She gazes at it, then at Slothrop briefly. Sheâs begun to
tremble again. Some mixture of desire and fear. âI knew
it.â
âKnew what?â
Looking away, submissive. âKnew he was dead. He dis-
appeared in 38. Theyâve been busy, havenât They?â
Slothrop has picked up, in the Zone, âenough about
European passport-psychoses to want to comfort her. âThis
is forged. The nameâs just a random alias, The guy whe
made it probably remembered Schlepzig from-one of his
movies.â
âRandom.â A tragic, actressy smile, beginnings of «
double chin, one knee drawn up as far as these leg irons
will let her. âAnother fairy-tale word. The signature or
your card is Maxâs. Somewhere in Stefaniaâs house on the
_ Vistula I have a steel box full of his letters. Donât you
think I know that Latin z, crossed engineer-style, the flowe1
he made out of the g at the end? You could hunt all the
Zone for your âforger.â They wouldnât let you find him
They want you right here, right now.â
Well. What happens when paranoid meets paranoid? A
crossing of solipsisms, Clearly. The two
patterns create Âą
third: a moiré, a new world of flowing
shadows, inter.
ferences. ... ââWant me hereâ? What for?â
âFor me.â Whispering out of scarlet lips, open, wet.. ..
Hmm, Well, thereâs this hardon, here. He sits on the rack
Cosmology of the Fetish
- Slothrop engages in a sadomasochistic encounter with Margherita Erdmann involving inquisitional props and a velvet-padded whip.
- The narrative explores the internal shift in Slothrop as he begins to own his capacity for cruelty, moving from 'their' sky to 'his' own.
- The text posits a 'cosmology' of fetishes, linking the visual cusp of a lady's stocking to mathematical singularities and architectural peaks.
- This fetishistic 'point' is compared to the nose of an A4 rocket, suggesting a shared essence between erotic desire and total annihilation.
- The act of sex is depicted as a surrogate experience, with Slothrop acting as a replacement for 'Max' and a reminder of Katje.
- The scene blends the visceral reality of the 'Zone' with the cinematic, 'monumental' memory of Margheritaâs past on film.
Itâs easy for non-fetishists to sneer about Pavlovian conditioning and let it go at that, but any underwear enthusiast worth his unwholesome giggle can tell you there is much more hereâthere is a cosmology: of nodes and cusps and points of osculation, mathematical kisses... singularities!
460
Gravity's RaInsow
second film, but this one,â this oneP âAlpdriicken, was our
first. I think Bianca is his child. She was conceived. while
we were filming this. He played the Grand Inquisitor who
tortured me. Ah, we were the Reichâs SweetheartsâGreta
Erdmann and Max Schlepzig, Wonderfully Togetherââ
âMax Schlepzig,â repeats Slothrop, goggling, âquit fool-
ing. Max Schlepzig?â
âIt wasnât his real name. Erdmann wasnât mine. But
anything with Earth in it was politically safeâEarth, Soil,
Folk...a code. Which they, staring, knew how to de-
cipher.... Max had a very Jewish name, Something-sky,
and Gerhardt thought it more prudent to give him a new
one,
âGreta, somebody also thought it prudent to name me
Max Schlepzig.â He shows her the pass he got from Saure
Bummer,
She gazes at it, then at Slothrop briefly. Sheâs begun to
tremble again. Some mixture of desire and fear. âI knew
it.â
âKnew what?â
Looking away, submissive. âKnew he was dead. He dis-
appeared in 38. Theyâve been busy, havenât They?â
Slothrop has picked up, in the Zone, âenough about
European passport-psychoses to want to comfort her. âThis
is forged. The nameâs just a random alias, The guy whe
made it probably remembered Schlepzig from-one of his
movies.â
âRandom.â A tragic, actressy smile, beginnings of «
double chin, one knee drawn up as far as these leg irons
will let her. âAnother fairy-tale word. The signature or
your card is Maxâs. Somewhere in Stefaniaâs house on the
_ Vistula I have a steel box full of his letters. Donât you
think I know that Latin z, crossed engineer-style, the flowe1
he made out of the g at the end? You could hunt all the
Zone for your âforger.â They wouldnât let you find him
They want you right here, right now.â
Well. What happens when paranoid meets paranoid? A
crossing of solipsisms, Clearly. The two
patterns create Âą
third: a moiré, a new world of flowing
shadows, inter.
ferences. ... ââWant me hereâ? What for?â
âFor me.â Whispering out of scarlet lips, open, wet.. ..
Hmm, Well, thereâs this hardon, here. He sits on the rack
In the Zone
461
leans, kisses her, presently unlacing his trousers and peel-
ing them down far enough to release his cock bounding
up with a slight wobble into beni cool studio. âPut ie
helmet on.â
âAre: you very cruel?â
âDonât know.â
âCould you be? Please. Find something to whip me
with. Just a little. Just for the warmth.â Nostalgia. The
pain of a return home. He rummages around through in-
quisitional props, gyves, thumbscrews, leather hamess, be-
fore coming up with a miniature cat-oâ-nine-tails, a Black
Forest elvesâ whip, its lacquered black handle carved in a
bas-relief orgy, the lashes padded with velvet to hurt but
not to draw blood. âYes, thatâs perfect. Now on the insides
of my thighs. .
'
But somebody has already educated him. Something. .
that dreams Prussian and âwintering among their piwedown
in whatever cursive lashmarks wait across the flesh of their
sky so bleak, so incapable of any sheltering, wait to be
summoned....
No. Noâhe
still says
âtheir,â but he
knows
better.
His meadows now,
his sky...his own
cruelty.
All Margheritaâs chains and fetters are chiming, black
skirt furled back to her waist, stockings pulled up tight in
classic cusps by the suspenders of the boned black rig
sheâs wearing underneath. How the penises of Western
men have leapt, for a century, to the sight of this singu-
\lar point at the top of a ladyâs stocking, this transition from
silk to bare skin and suspender! Itâs easy for non-fetishists
to sneer about Pavlovian conditioning and let it go at that,
but any underwear enthusiast worth his unwholesome
giggle can tell you there is much more hereâthere is a
cosmology: of nodes and cusps and points of osculation,
mathematical
kisses... singularities!
Consider cathedral
spires, holy minarets, the crunch of trainwheels over the
points as you watch peeling away the track you didnât
take... mountain peaks rising sharply to heaven, such
as those to be noted at scenic Berchtesgaden
.. . the edges
of steel razors, always holding potent oe . Tose
thorns that prick us by surprise . . . even, according to the
Russian mathematician Friedmann, the infinitely dense
462,
Graviryâs RaInsow
point from which the present Universe expanded.... In
each case, the change from point to no-point carries a
luminosity and enigma at which something in us must
leap and sing, or withdraw in fright. Watching the A4
pointed
at the skyâjust before the last firing-switch
closesâwatching that singular point at the very top of the
Rocket, where the fuze is.... Do all these points imply,
like the Rocketâs, an annihilation? What is that, detonating
in the sky above the cathedral? beneath the edge of the
razor, under the rose?
And whatâs waiting for Slothrop, what unpleasant sur-
prise, past the tops of Gretaâs stockings here? laddering
suddenly, the pallid streak flowing downthigh, over in-
tricacies of knee and out of sight.... What waits past this
whine and crack of velvet lashes against her skin, long red
stripes on the white ground, her moans, the bruise-colored
flower that cries at her breast, the jingling of the hard-
ware holding her down? He tries not to tear his victimâs
stockings, or whip too close to her stretched vulva, which
shivers, unprotected, between thighs agape and straining,
amid movements of muscle erotic, subdued, âmonumentalâ
as any silver memory of her body on film. She comes
once, then perhaps again before Slothrop puts the whip
down and climbs on top, covering her with the wings of
his cape, her Schlepzig-surrogate, his latest reminder of
Katje... and they commence fucking, the old phony rack
groaning beneath them, Margherita whispering God how
you hurt me and Ah, Max... and just as Slothropâs about
to come, the name of her child: strained through her per-
fect teeth, a clear extrusion of pain that is not in play, she
cries, Bianca....
O
... yes, bitchâyes, little bitchâpoor helpless bitch you're -
coming canât stop yourself now I'll whip you again till you.
bleed. ... Thus PĂ©klerâs whole front surface, eyes to knees:
flooded with tonightâs image of the deliciqus victim bound
on her dungeon rack, filling the movie screenâclose-ups
of her twisting face, nipples under the silk gown amaz-
ingly erect, making lies of her announcements of painâ
The Conception of a Movie-Child
- PĂ©kler reflects on the night his daughter Ilse was conceived, fueled by the eroticized violence of the film AlptrĂŒcken.
- The narrative explores how cinematic images of victimization and dominance replaced the reality of his wife, Leni, during their intimacy.
- Pékler views his child not as a biological reality but as a product of the film industry, a 'movie-child' born of collective fantasy.
- The setting shifts to the desolate, surreal landscape of Zwölfkinder, a seaside resort filled with rusted carousel animals and plaster figures.
- Pékler waits in a cellar by the Baltic Sea, haunted by the memory of sixty thousand who passed through this place toward their fate.
- The text juxtaposes the innocence of childhood holidays with the cold, mechanical nature of memory and the 'guerrilla winds' of the Zone.
A film. How else? Isnât that what they made of my child, a film?
462,
Graviryâs RaInsow
point from which the present Universe expanded.... In
each case, the change from point to no-point carries a
luminosity and enigma at which something in us must
leap and sing, or withdraw in fright. Watching the A4
pointed
at the skyâjust before the last firing-switch
closesâwatching that singular point at the very top of the
Rocket, where the fuze is.... Do all these points imply,
like the Rocketâs, an annihilation? What is that, detonating
in the sky above the cathedral? beneath the edge of the
razor, under the rose?
And whatâs waiting for Slothrop, what unpleasant sur-
prise, past the tops of Gretaâs stockings here? laddering
suddenly, the pallid streak flowing downthigh, over in-
tricacies of knee and out of sight.... What waits past this
whine and crack of velvet lashes against her skin, long red
stripes on the white ground, her moans, the bruise-colored
flower that cries at her breast, the jingling of the hard-
ware holding her down? He tries not to tear his victimâs
stockings, or whip too close to her stretched vulva, which
shivers, unprotected, between thighs agape and straining,
amid movements of muscle erotic, subdued, âmonumentalâ
as any silver memory of her body on film. She comes
once, then perhaps again before Slothrop puts the whip
down and climbs on top, covering her with the wings of
his cape, her Schlepzig-surrogate, his latest reminder of
Katje... and they commence fucking, the old phony rack
groaning beneath them, Margherita whispering God how
you hurt me and Ah, Max... and just as Slothropâs about
to come, the name of her child: strained through her per-
fect teeth, a clear extrusion of pain that is not in play, she
cries, Bianca....
O
... yes, bitchâyes, little bitchâpoor helpless bitch you're -
coming canât stop yourself now I'll whip you again till you.
bleed. ... Thus PĂ©klerâs whole front surface, eyes to knees:
flooded with tonightâs image of the deliciqus victim bound
on her dungeon rack, filling the movie screenâclose-ups
of her twisting face, nipples under the silk gown amaz-
ingly erect, making lies of her announcements of painâ
a f
eA
|
In the Zone
463
1 bitch! she loves it... and Leni no longer solemn wife, em-
| bittered source of strength, but Margherita Erdmann un-
| derneath him, on the bottom for a change, as Pékler drives
_ in again, into her again, yes, bitch, yes... .
_\ Only later did he try to pin down the time. Perverse
| curiosity. Two weeks since her last period. He had come
| out of the Ufa theatre on the Friedrichstrasse that night
| with an erection, thinking like everybody else only about
getting home, fucking somebody, fucking her into some
|| submission.
... God, Erdmann was beautiful. How many
_ other men, shuffling out again into depression Berlin, car-
_ ried the same image back from Alpdriicken to some drab
_ fat excuse for a bride? How many shadow-children would
| be fathered on Erdmann that night?
__ It was never a real possibility for Pékler that Leni might
| get pregnant. But looking back, he knew that had to be
|
â the night, Alpdriicken night, that Ilse was conceived. They
| fucked so seldom any more. It was not hard to pinpoint.
_ That's how it happened. A film. How else? Isnât that what
_ they made of my child, a film?
_
He sits tonight by his driftwood fire in the cellar of the
_ onion-topped Nikolaikirche, listening to the sea. Stars hang
_ among the spaces of the great Wheel, precarious to him
as candles and good-night cigarettes. Cold gathers along
_ the strand. Child phantomsâwhite whistling, tears never
. to come, range the wind behind the wall. Twists of faded
ââŹrepe paper blow along the ground, scuttling over his old
shoes. Dust, under a moonâ newly calved, twinkles like
snow, and the Baltic crawls like its mother-glacier. His
heart shrugs in itsâ scarlet net, elastic, full of expectation.
_Heâs waiting for Ilse, for his movie-child, to return to
Zwolfkinder, as she has every summer at this time.
Storks are asleep among two- and three-legged horses,
rusted gearwork and splintered roof of the carousel, their
heads jittering with air-currents and yellow Africa, dainty
black snakes a hundred feet below meandering in the sun-
light across the rocks and dry pans. Oversize crystals of
Salt lie graying, drifted in the cracks of the pavement, in
wrinkles of the dog with saucer eyes in front of the
âtown hall, the beard of the goat on the bridge, the mouth
âof the troll below. Frieda the pig hunts a new place to
nestle and snooze out of the wind. The plaster witch, wire
KY
Pe â
:
464
Gravityâs Ramnsow
mesh visible at her breasts and haunches, leans near the
oven, her poke at corroded Hansel in perpetual arrest.
Gretelâs eyes lock wide open, never a blink, crystal-heavy
lashes batting at the landings of guerrilla winds from the
sea.
If there is music for this itâs windy strings and reed
sections standing in bright shirt fronts and black ties all
along the beach, a robed organist by the breakwaterâitself
broken, crusted with tidesâwhose languets and flues
gather and shape the resonant spooks here, the candle-
flame memories, all trace, particle and wave, of the sixty
thousand who passed, already listed for taking, once or
twice this way. Did you ever go on holiday to Zwélfkinder?
Did you hold your fatherâs hand as you rode the train up
from Liibeck, gaze at your knees or at the other children
like you braided, ironed, smelling of bleach, boot-wax,
caramel? Did small-change jingle in your purse as you
swung around the Wheel, did you hide your face in his
wool lapels or did you kneel up in the seat, looking over
the water, trying to see Denmark? Were you frightened
when the dwarf tried to hug you, was your frock scratchy
in the warming afternoon, what did you say, what did you
feel when boys ran by snatching each otherâs caps and,too
busy for you?
She must have always been a child on somebodyâs list.
He only avoided thinking about it. But all the time she
was carrying her disappearance in her drawn face, her
reluctant walk, and if he hadnât needed her protection so
much he might have seen in time how little she could
protect anything, even their mean nest. He couldnât talk
to herâit was arguing with his own ghost from ten years
ago, the same idealism, the adolescent furyâitems that
had charmed him onceâa woman with spiritlâbut which
he came to see as evidence of her single-mindedness, even,
he could swear, some desire to be actually destroyed....
She went out to her street-theatre each time expecting
not to come back, but he never really knew that. Leftists
and Jews in the streets, all right, noisy, unpleasant to look
at, but the police will keep them channeled, sheâs in no
danger unless she wants to be. ... Later, after she left, he
got a little drunk one forenoon, a little sentimental, and
went out at last, his first and last time, hoping that some-
Safety Among the Ordinates
- Pökler reflects on Leniâs inherent fragility and her self-destructive idealism, realizing too late that she was always carrying her own disappearance within her.
- The narrative contrasts Pöklerâs need for protection with Leniâs inability to protect even their own 'mean nest' from her political obsessions.
- A violent street confrontation reveals the brutal reality of state power, where police use truncheons and firehoses to crush civilians like dolls on slick cobbles.
- Pökler experiences a paralyzing fear during the riot, recognizing that his only safety lies in becoming 'ant-scaled' to avoid the crashing boots of authority.
- To cope with the chaos of the world, Pökler retreats into the abstract safety of mathematics, tracing 'xs and ys' and right angles on graphs rather than facing physical vulnerability.
- His dreams begin to merge the city's geography with the technical specifications of the Rocket, shifting from Cartesian coordinates to the lethal polar azimuth of a weapon.
Pökler knew how to find safety among the indoor abscissas and ordinates of graphs: finding the points he needed not by running the curve itself, not up on high stone and vulnerability, but instead tracing patiently the xs and ys.
464
Gravityâs Ramnsow
mesh visible at her breasts and haunches, leans near the
oven, her poke at corroded Hansel in perpetual arrest.
Gretelâs eyes lock wide open, never a blink, crystal-heavy
lashes batting at the landings of guerrilla winds from the
sea.
If there is music for this itâs windy strings and reed
sections standing in bright shirt fronts and black ties all
along the beach, a robed organist by the breakwaterâitself
broken, crusted with tidesâwhose languets and flues
gather and shape the resonant spooks here, the candle-
flame memories, all trace, particle and wave, of the sixty
thousand who passed, already listed for taking, once or
twice this way. Did you ever go on holiday to Zwélfkinder?
Did you hold your fatherâs hand as you rode the train up
from Liibeck, gaze at your knees or at the other children
like you braided, ironed, smelling of bleach, boot-wax,
caramel? Did small-change jingle in your purse as you
swung around the Wheel, did you hide your face in his
wool lapels or did you kneel up in the seat, looking over
the water, trying to see Denmark? Were you frightened
when the dwarf tried to hug you, was your frock scratchy
in the warming afternoon, what did you say, what did you
feel when boys ran by snatching each otherâs caps and,too
busy for you?
She must have always been a child on somebodyâs list.
He only avoided thinking about it. But all the time she
was carrying her disappearance in her drawn face, her
reluctant walk, and if he hadnât needed her protection so
much he might have seen in time how little she could
protect anything, even their mean nest. He couldnât talk
to herâit was arguing with his own ghost from ten years
ago, the same idealism, the adolescent furyâitems that
had charmed him onceâa woman with spiritlâbut which
he came to see as evidence of her single-mindedness, even,
he could swear, some desire to be actually destroyed....
She went out to her street-theatre each time expecting
not to come back, but he never really knew that. Leftists
and Jews in the streets, all right, noisy, unpleasant to look
at, but the police will keep them channeled, sheâs in no
danger unless she wants to be. ... Later, after she left, he
got a little drunk one forenoon, a little sentimental, and
went out at last, his first and last time, hoping that some-
In the Zone
465
how the pressures of Fate or crowd hydrodynamics might
bring them together again. He found a street full of tan
and green uniforms, truncheons, leather, placards fluttering
unstable in all modes but longitudinal, scores of panicked
civilians. A policeman aimed a blow at him, but Pokler
âdodged, and it hit an old man instead, some bearded old
unreconstructed geezer of a Trotskyite...he saw the
âstrands of steels cable under black rubber skin, a finicky
smile on the policemanâs face as he swung, his free hand
âgrasping his opposite lapel in some feminine way, the
leather glove of the hand with the truncheon unbuttoned
at the wrist, and his eyes flinching at the last possible
moment, as if the truncheon shared his nerves and might
get hurt against the old manâs skull. PĂ©kler made it to a
doorway, sick with fear. Other police came running as
some dancers run, elbows close to sides, forearms thrusting.
-
âout at an angle. They used firehoses to break up the
crowd, finally. Women slid like dolls along the: slick
cobbles and on tram rails, the thick gush catching them by
belly and head, its brute white vector dominating them.
Any of them might have been Leni. Pokler shivered in his
doorway and watched it. He couldnât go out in the street.
Later he thought about its texture, the network of grooves
beween the paving stones. The only safety there was ant-
scaled, down and running the streets of Ant City, boot-
soles crashing overhead like black thunder, you and your
crawling neighbors in traffic all silent, jostling, heading
âdown the gray darkening streets..... PĂ©kler knew how to
find safety among the indoor abscissas and ordinates of
âgraphs: finding the points he needed not by running the
curve itself, not up on high stone and vulnerability, but
instead tracing patiently the xs and ys, P (ati), W
(m/sec), Ti (° K), moving always by safe right angles
along the faint lines. ...
When he began to dream about the Rocket with some
frequency, it would sometimes not be a literal rocket at all,
but a street he knew was in a certain district of the city,
a street on a certain small area of the grid that held some-.
thing he thought he needed. The coordinates were clear
in his mind, but the street eluded him. Over the years, as
the Rocket neared its fullness, about to go operational, the
coordinates switched from the Cartesian x and y of the
)
pa
466
Gravityâs RAINBOW
laboratory to the polar azimuth and range of the weapon
as deployed: once he knelt on the lavatory floor of his old
rooming house in Munich, understanding that if he faced
exactly along a certain compass-bearing his prayer would
be heard: heâd be safe. He wore a robe of gold and
orange brocade, It was the only light in the room. After-
ward he ventured out into the house, knowing people
slept in all the rooms, but feeling a sense of desertion. He
went to switch on a lightâbut in the act of throwing the
switch he knew the room had really been lit to begin with,
and he had just turned everything out, everything. ...
The A4 operational-at-last hadnât crept up on him. Its
coming true was no climax. That hadnât ever been the
point.
âThey're using you to kill people,â Leni told him, as
clearly as she could. âThatâs their only job, and you're
helping them.â
or all use it, someday, to leave the earth. To tran-
scend.â
She laughed. âTranscend,â from PĂ©kler?
âSomeday,â honestly trying, âthey wonât have to kill.
Borders won't mean
anything.
We'll have all i
space. .
âOh you re blind,â spitting it as she spat his Blaidwsus at
him every day, that and âKadavergehorsamkeit,â a beauti-
ful word he can no longer imagine in any voice but
hers. .
But really he did not obey like a corpse. He was politi-
cal, up to a pointâthere was politics enough out at the
rocket field. The Army Weapons Department was showing
an ever-quickening interest in the amateur rocketeers of
the Verein fiir Raumschiffahrt, and the VfR had recently
begun making available to the Army records of their ex-
periments. The corporations and the universitiesâthe
Army saidâdidnât want to risk capital or manpower on
developing anything as fantastic as a rocket. The Army
had nowhere to turn but to private invéntors and clubs
like the VFR.
âShit,â said Leni. âTheyâ re all in on :
together. You
really canât see that, can you.â
'
Within the Society, the lines were Puen clear ensieltl
Without money the VfR was suffocatingâthe Army had
The Rocket and the Dream
- Pökler justifies his work on the A4 rocket by framing it as a means of future transcendence and space exploration rather than a weapon.
- Leni confronts Pökler about his complicity, arguing that the military's sole purpose for the technology is mass destruction.
- The Verein fĂŒr Raumschiffahrt (VfR) faces a choice between chronic poverty and accepting Army funding to build practical hardware.
- Major Weissmann emerges as a new military archetype, a scientist-salesman who manipulates both idealists and pragmatists.
- Pöklerâs refusal to take a political side effectively makes him the military's most reliable ally through his passive obedience.
- The rocket engineers view their work through the lens of game-strategy and spatial logic, detached from the human cost of war.
He went to switch on a lightâbut in the act of throwing the switch he knew the room had really been lit to begin with, and he had just turned everything out, everything.
466
Gravityâs RAINBOW
laboratory to the polar azimuth and range of the weapon
as deployed: once he knelt on the lavatory floor of his old
rooming house in Munich, understanding that if he faced
exactly along a certain compass-bearing his prayer would
be heard: heâd be safe. He wore a robe of gold and
orange brocade, It was the only light in the room. After-
ward he ventured out into the house, knowing people
slept in all the rooms, but feeling a sense of desertion. He
went to switch on a lightâbut in the act of throwing the
switch he knew the room had really been lit to begin with,
and he had just turned everything out, everything. ...
The A4 operational-at-last hadnât crept up on him. Its
coming true was no climax. That hadnât ever been the
point.
âThey're using you to kill people,â Leni told him, as
clearly as she could. âThatâs their only job, and you're
helping them.â
or all use it, someday, to leave the earth. To tran-
scend.â
She laughed. âTranscend,â from PĂ©kler?
âSomeday,â honestly trying, âthey wonât have to kill.
Borders won't mean
anything.
We'll have all i
space. .
âOh you re blind,â spitting it as she spat his Blaidwsus at
him every day, that and âKadavergehorsamkeit,â a beauti-
ful word he can no longer imagine in any voice but
hers. .
But really he did not obey like a corpse. He was politi-
cal, up to a pointâthere was politics enough out at the
rocket field. The Army Weapons Department was showing
an ever-quickening interest in the amateur rocketeers of
the Verein fiir Raumschiffahrt, and the VfR had recently
begun making available to the Army records of their ex-
periments. The corporations and the universitiesâthe
Army saidâdidnât want to risk capital or manpower on
developing anything as fantastic as a rocket. The Army
had nowhere to turn but to private invéntors and clubs
like the VFR.
âShit,â said Leni. âTheyâ re all in on :
together. You
really canât see that, can you.â
'
Within the Society, the lines were Puen clear ensieltl
Without money the VfR was suffocatingâthe Army had
In the Zone
»
467
the money, and was already financing them in round-
about ways. The choice was between building what the
Army wantedâpractical hardwareâor pushing on in
chronic poverty, dreaming of expeditions to Venus.
âWhere do you think the Armyâs getting the money?â
Leni asked. ~
âWhat does it matterP Money is money.â
âNolâ
Major Weissmann was one of several gray eminences
around the rocket field, able to talk, with every appear-
ance of sympathy and reason, to organized thinker and
maniac idealist alike. All things to all men, a brand-new
military type, part salesman, part scientist. Pokler, the
all-seeing, the unmoving, must have known that what
went on in the VfR committee meetings was the same
game being played in Leniâs violent and shelterless street.
All his training had encouraged an eye for analogiesâin
equations, in theoretical modelsâyet he persisted in think-
ing the VfR was special, preserved against the time. And
he also knew at first hand what happens to dreams with
no money to support them. So, presently, Pékler found
that by refusing to take sides, heâd become Weissmannâs
best ally. The majorâs eyes always changed when he
looked at Pékler: his slightly prissy face to relax into what
Pékler had noticed, in random mirrors and display win-
dows, on his own face when he was with Leni. The blank
look of one who is taking another for granted. Weissmann
was as sure of Poklerâs role as PĂ©kler was of Leniâs. But
| Leni left at last. Pékler might not have had the will.
He thought of himself as a practical man. At the rocket
field they talked continents, encirclementsâseeing years
âbefore the General Staff the need for a weapon to break
ententes, to leap like a chess knight over Panzers, infantry,
even the Luftwaffe. Plutocratic nations to the west, com-
munists to the east. Spaces, models, game-strategies. Not
much passion or ideology. Practical men, While the mili-
tary wallowed in victories not yet won, the rocket engi-
neers had to think non-fanatically, about German reverses,
âGerman defeatâthe attrition of the Luftwaffe and its de-
cline in power, the withdrawals of fronts, the need for
weapons
with longer ranges.... But others had the
money, others gave the ordersâtrying to superimpose their
Ty
Me
k
Shed |
The Rocket's Corporate Intelligence
- Engineers at Kummersdorf faced the reality of German military decline while navigating the interference of brainless, powerful men who lacked technical vision.
- PĂ©klerâs personal collapse following Leniâs departure led him to seek refuge in the monastic, mathematical world of rocket development.
- The early days of rocketry were characterized by a lack of specialization, where diverse talents collaborated on cooling and instrumentation problems.
- A 'corporate intelligence' emerged among the team, dissolving class barriers between aristocrats like von Braun and commoners like Pékler.
- The Rocket is depicted as a mysterious, sovereign entity that holds its creators in a state of subservience and constant physical danger.
- As the technology transitioned from research to operational status, the bureaucratic 'paranoias' and power struggles began to imprison the scientific process.
Integral signs weaved like charmed cobras, comical curly ds marched along like hunchbacks through the fire-edge into billows of lace ash.
In the Zone
»
467
the money, and was already financing them in round-
about ways. The choice was between building what the
Army wantedâpractical hardwareâor pushing on in
chronic poverty, dreaming of expeditions to Venus.
âWhere do you think the Armyâs getting the money?â
Leni asked. ~
âWhat does it matterP Money is money.â
âNolâ
Major Weissmann was one of several gray eminences
around the rocket field, able to talk, with every appear-
ance of sympathy and reason, to organized thinker and
maniac idealist alike. All things to all men, a brand-new
military type, part salesman, part scientist. Pokler, the
all-seeing, the unmoving, must have known that what
went on in the VfR committee meetings was the same
game being played in Leniâs violent and shelterless street.
All his training had encouraged an eye for analogiesâin
equations, in theoretical modelsâyet he persisted in think-
ing the VfR was special, preserved against the time. And
he also knew at first hand what happens to dreams with
no money to support them. So, presently, Pékler found
that by refusing to take sides, heâd become Weissmannâs
best ally. The majorâs eyes always changed when he
looked at Pékler: his slightly prissy face to relax into what
Pékler had noticed, in random mirrors and display win-
dows, on his own face when he was with Leni. The blank
look of one who is taking another for granted. Weissmann
was as sure of Poklerâs role as PĂ©kler was of Leniâs. But
| Leni left at last. Pékler might not have had the will.
He thought of himself as a practical man. At the rocket
field they talked continents, encirclementsâseeing years
âbefore the General Staff the need for a weapon to break
ententes, to leap like a chess knight over Panzers, infantry,
even the Luftwaffe. Plutocratic nations to the west, com-
munists to the east. Spaces, models, game-strategies. Not
much passion or ideology. Practical men, While the mili-
tary wallowed in victories not yet won, the rocket engi-
neers had to think non-fanatically, about German reverses,
âGerman defeatâthe attrition of the Luftwaffe and its de-
cline in power, the withdrawals of fronts, the need for
weapons
with longer ranges.... But others had the
money, others gave the ordersâtrying to superimpose their
Ty
Me
k
Shed |
468
Gravityâs Rainsow
lusts and bickerings on something that had its own vitality,
on a technologique they'd never begin to understand. As
long as the Rocket was in research and development, there
was no need for them to believe in it. Later, as the A4
was going operational, as they found themselves with a
real rocket-in-being, the struggles for power would begin
in earnest. Pékler could see that. They were athletic, brain-
less men without vision, without imagination. But they
had power, and it was hard for him not to think of them
as superior, even while holding them in a certain con-
tempt.
But Leni was wrong: no one was using him. Pékler was
an extension of the Rocket, long before it was ever built.
Sheâd seen to that. When she left him, he fell apart. Pieces
spilled into the Hinterhof, down the drains, away in the
wind. He couldnât even go to the movies. Only rarely did
he go out after work and try to fish lumps of coal from
the Spree. He drank beer and sat in the cold room, autumn
light reaching him after impoverishments and fadings,
from gray clouds, off courtyard walls and drainpipes,
through grease-darkened curtains, bled of all hope by the
time it reached where he sat shivering and crying. He
cried every day, some hour of the day, for aâ month, till a
sinus got infected. He went to bed and sweated the fever
out. Then he moved to Kummersdorf, outside Berlin, to
help his friend Mondaugen at the rocket field.
Temperatures, velocities, pressures, fin and body con-
figurations, stabilities and turbulences began to slip in, to
replace what Leni had run away from. There were pine
and fir forests out the windows in the morning, instead of
a sorrowful city courtyard. Was he giving up the world,
entering a monastic order?
One night he set fire to twenty pages of calculations.
Integral signs weaved like charmed cobras, comical curly
ds marched along like hunchbacks âthrough the fire-edge
into billows of lace ash. But that was his only relapse.
At first he helped out in the propulsion group: No one
was specializing yet. That came later, when the bureaus
and paranoias moved in, and the organization charts be-
came plan-views of prison cells.
Kurt Mondaugen, whose
field was radio electronics, could come up with solutions
to cooling problems. Pékler found himself redesigning
\in-
In the Zone
469
strumentation for measuring local pressures. That came in
handy later at Peenemiinde, when they often had to lead
over a hundred measuring tubes from a model no more
than 4 or 5, centimetersâ diameter. PĂ©kler helped in work-
ing out the Halbmodelle solution: bisecting the model
lengthwise and mounting
it flat-side to the wall of the
test chamber, bringing the tubes through that way to all
the manometers outside. A Berlin slum-dweller, he thought,
knew how to think in half-rations... but it was a rare
moment of pride. No one could really claim credit 100%
for any idea, it was a corporate intelligence at work, spe-
cialization hardly mattered, class lines even
less. The
social spectrum ran from von Braun, the Prussian aristo-
crat, down to the likes of Pékler, who would eat an apple
in the streetâyet they were all equally at the Rocketâs
mercy: not only danger from explosions or falling hard-
_ ware, but also its dumbness, its dead weight, its obstinate
and palpable mystery. ...
In those days, most of the funding and attention went
to the propulsion group. Problem was just to get something
off the ground without having it blow up. There were
minor disastersâaluminum motor
casings would bum
through, some injector designs would set up resonant
combustion, in which the burning motor would try to
shriek itself to piecesâand then, in 34, a major one, Dr.
Wahmke decided to mix peroxide and alcohol together
before injection into the thrust chamber, to see what would
happen. The ignition flame backed up through the conduit
_ into the tank. The blast demolished the test stand, killing
Dr. Wahmke and two others. First blood, first sacrifice.
Kurt Mondaugen took it as a sign. One of these German
~
_ mystics who grew up reading Hesse, Stefan George, and
Richard Wilhelm, ready to accept Hitler on the basis of
Demian-metaphysics, he seemed to look at fuel and oxi-
dizer as paired opposites, male and female principles unit-
ing in the mystical egg of the combustion chamber: crea-
tion and destruction, fire and water, chemical plus and
chemical minusâ
_âValency,â PĂ©kler protested, âa condition of the outer
Shells, thatâs all.â
âThink about it,â said Mondaugen.
__
There was also Fahringer, an aerodynamics man, who
~
1
hea
The Mysticism of the Rocket
- Early rocket development at PeenemĂŒnde is marked by violent failure and the 'first sacrifice' of Dr. Wahmke during a fuel experiment.
- Engineers like Kurt Mondaugen view the chemical combustion of fuel and oxidizer through a metaphysical lens of male and female principles.
- Fahringer, an aerodynamics expert, applies Zen philosophy to the rocket, viewing the trajectory as a spiritual act of surrender where the firer and target are one.
- Mondaugen develops an 'electro-mysticism' where the human ego acts as a grid modulating the pure flow between cathode and plate.
- The ultimate spiritual goal in this technological framework is 'signal zero,' a state of serenity free from the interference of personal history.
- The narrative introduces Enzian, a protégé of Weissmann, who exists as a quiet, towering presence amidst the German scientists' obsessive theorizing.
In his electro-mysticism, the triode was as basic as the cross in Christianity.
In the Zone
469
strumentation for measuring local pressures. That came in
handy later at Peenemiinde, when they often had to lead
over a hundred measuring tubes from a model no more
than 4 or 5, centimetersâ diameter. PĂ©kler helped in work-
ing out the Halbmodelle solution: bisecting the model
lengthwise and mounting
it flat-side to the wall of the
test chamber, bringing the tubes through that way to all
the manometers outside. A Berlin slum-dweller, he thought,
knew how to think in half-rations... but it was a rare
moment of pride. No one could really claim credit 100%
for any idea, it was a corporate intelligence at work, spe-
cialization hardly mattered, class lines even
less. The
social spectrum ran from von Braun, the Prussian aristo-
crat, down to the likes of Pékler, who would eat an apple
in the streetâyet they were all equally at the Rocketâs
mercy: not only danger from explosions or falling hard-
_ ware, but also its dumbness, its dead weight, its obstinate
and palpable mystery. ...
In those days, most of the funding and attention went
to the propulsion group. Problem was just to get something
off the ground without having it blow up. There were
minor disastersâaluminum motor
casings would bum
through, some injector designs would set up resonant
combustion, in which the burning motor would try to
shriek itself to piecesâand then, in 34, a major one, Dr.
Wahmke decided to mix peroxide and alcohol together
before injection into the thrust chamber, to see what would
happen. The ignition flame backed up through the conduit
_ into the tank. The blast demolished the test stand, killing
Dr. Wahmke and two others. First blood, first sacrifice.
Kurt Mondaugen took it as a sign. One of these German
~
_ mystics who grew up reading Hesse, Stefan George, and
Richard Wilhelm, ready to accept Hitler on the basis of
Demian-metaphysics, he seemed to look at fuel and oxi-
dizer as paired opposites, male and female principles unit-
ing in the mystical egg of the combustion chamber: crea-
tion and destruction, fire and water, chemical plus and
chemical minusâ
_âValency,â PĂ©kler protested, âa condition of the outer
Shells, thatâs all.â
âThink about it,â said Mondaugen.
__
There was also Fahringer, an aerodynamics man, who
~
1
hea
470
Gravity's RAInBow
went out in the pine woods at Peenemiinde with his Zen
bow and roll of pressed straw to practice breathing, draw
and loosing, over and over. It seemed rather rude at a
time when his colleagues were being driven insane by
what they called âFolgsamkeitfaktor,â a problem with
getting the Rocketâs long axis to follow the tangent, at all
points, to its trajectory. The Rocket for this Fahringer was
a fat Japanese arrow. It was necessary in some way to be-
come one with Rocket, trajectory, and targetâânot to will
it, but to surrender, to step out of the role of firer. The act
is undivided. You are both aggressor and victim, rocket
and parabolic path and...â PĂ©kler never knew what the
man was talking about. But Mondaugen understood. Mond-
augen was the bodhisattva here, returned from exile in
the Kalahari and whatever light had found him there, re-
turned to the world of men and nations to carry on in a
role heâd chosen deliberately, but without ever explaining
why. In Siidwest he had kept no journals, written no let-
ters home. There had been an uprising by the Bondel-
swaartz in 1922, and general turmoil in the country. His
radio experiments interrupted, he sought refuge, along with
a few score other whites, in the villa of a local landowner
named Foppl. The place was a stronghold, cut off on all
sides by deep ravines. After a few months of siege and
debauchery, âhaunted by a profound disgust for every-
thing European,â Mondaugen went out alone into the
bush, ended up living with the Ovatjimba, the aardvark
people, who are the -poorest of the Hereros. They ac-
cepted him with no questions. He thought of himself,
there and here, as a radio transmitter of some kind, and
believed that whatever he was broadcasting at the time
was at least no threat to them. In his electro-mysticism, the
triode was as basic as the cross in Christianity. Think of
the ego, the self that suffers a personal history bound
to
time, as the grid. The deeper and true Self is the flow
between cathode and plate. The constant, pure flow. Sig-
nalsâsense-data, feelings, memories relocatingâare put
onto the grid, and modulate the flow. We live lives that
are waveforms constantly changing with
time, now posi-
tive, now negative. Only at moments of great serenity is
it possible to find the pure, the informationless state of
signal zero.
°
'
«In the Zone
.:
471
âIn the name of the cathode, the anode, and the holy
grid?â said Pokler. :
âYes, thatâs good,â Mondaugen smiled.
Closest to the zero among them all, perhaps, was the
African Enzian, the protégé of Major Weissmann. At the
Versuchsanstalt, behind his back, he was known as Weiss-
mannâs Monster, probably less out of racism than at the
picture the two of them made, Enzian towering a foot
over Weissmann, who was balding, scholarly, peering up
at the African through eyeglass lenses thick as bottles,
skipping now and then to keep up as they stalked over
the asphalt and through the labs and: offices, Enzian
dominating every room and landscape of those early
Rocket days.... Pdklerâs clearest memory of him is his
first, in the testing room at Kummersdorf, surrounded by
electric colorsâgreen nitrogen bottles, a thick tangle of
âred, yellow and blue plumbing, Enzianâs own copper face
with the same kind of serenity that now and then drifted
into Mondaugenâsâwatching in one of the mirrors the
image of a rocket engine beyond the safety partition: inâ
the stale air of that room snapping with last-minute anxie-
ties, nicotine craving, unreasonable prayer, Enzian was
peace....
Pokler moved to Peenemiinde in 1937, along with some
go others. They were invading Gravity itself, and a beach-
head had to be laid down. Never in his life, not even as a
laborer in Berlin, did Pékler work so hard. The vanguard
spent the spring and summer converting a little island, the
_Greifswalder Oie, into a testing station: resurfacing road,
âstringing cable and telephone line, putting up living quar-
ters, latrines and storage sheds, excavating bunkers, mix-
ing concrete, endlessly stevedoring in crates of tools, bags
of cement, drums of fuel, They used an ancient ferryboat
for cargo runs between the mainland and the Oie. Pékler
remembers the worn red plush and scratched lacquer in-
side the dim cabins, the neglected brightwork, the asth-
matic cry of her steam-whistle, odors of sweat, cigarette
smoke and Diesel fuel, the trembling of arm and leg
mouscles, the tired joking, the exhaustion toward the end
of each day, his own new calluses struck to gold by the
The sea was mostly calm and blue that summer, but in
Invading Gravity at PeenemĂŒnde
- Pökler recalls the early days of rocket testing at Kummersdorf, marked by the serene presence of Enzian amidst a chaotic environment of anxiety and nicotine.
- The narrative shifts to 1937, where Pökler and a vanguard of workers establish a beachhead against 'Gravity itself' on the island of Greifswalder Oie.
- The physical toll of the labor is described through the exhaustion of cargo runs on an ancient ferry and the gold-struck calluses of the workers.
- As autumn weather turns violent, Pökler retreats into a solitary, wounded state, haunted by the memory of Leni and his own past failures.
- Pökler indulges in grandiose fantasies of power and success to mask the persistent 'beggar' of his poor Berlin self that continues to haunt him.
- The isolation of the all-male military-industrial environment leads to a psychological 'drifting-away' as the pressure of the rocket design takes hold.
They were invading Gravity itself, and a beachhead had to be laid down.
«In the Zone
.:
471
âIn the name of the cathode, the anode, and the holy
grid?â said Pokler. :
âYes, thatâs good,â Mondaugen smiled.
Closest to the zero among them all, perhaps, was the
African Enzian, the protégé of Major Weissmann. At the
Versuchsanstalt, behind his back, he was known as Weiss-
mannâs Monster, probably less out of racism than at the
picture the two of them made, Enzian towering a foot
over Weissmann, who was balding, scholarly, peering up
at the African through eyeglass lenses thick as bottles,
skipping now and then to keep up as they stalked over
the asphalt and through the labs and: offices, Enzian
dominating every room and landscape of those early
Rocket days.... Pdklerâs clearest memory of him is his
first, in the testing room at Kummersdorf, surrounded by
electric colorsâgreen nitrogen bottles, a thick tangle of
âred, yellow and blue plumbing, Enzianâs own copper face
with the same kind of serenity that now and then drifted
into Mondaugenâsâwatching in one of the mirrors the
image of a rocket engine beyond the safety partition: inâ
the stale air of that room snapping with last-minute anxie-
ties, nicotine craving, unreasonable prayer, Enzian was
peace....
Pokler moved to Peenemiinde in 1937, along with some
go others. They were invading Gravity itself, and a beach-
head had to be laid down. Never in his life, not even as a
laborer in Berlin, did Pékler work so hard. The vanguard
spent the spring and summer converting a little island, the
_Greifswalder Oie, into a testing station: resurfacing road,
âstringing cable and telephone line, putting up living quar-
ters, latrines and storage sheds, excavating bunkers, mix-
ing concrete, endlessly stevedoring in crates of tools, bags
of cement, drums of fuel, They used an ancient ferryboat
for cargo runs between the mainland and the Oie. Pékler
remembers the worn red plush and scratched lacquer in-
side the dim cabins, the neglected brightwork, the asth-
matic cry of her steam-whistle, odors of sweat, cigarette
smoke and Diesel fuel, the trembling of arm and leg
mouscles, the tired joking, the exhaustion toward the end
of each day, his own new calluses struck to gold by the
The sea was mostly calm and blue that summer, but in
472
Gravity's RAINBOW
the autumn the weather turned. Rain swept in from the
north, the temperature plunged, wind tore into storage
tents, giant waves boomed all night long. The water was
white for fifty meters out from shore. Spray feathered land-
ward off the curls of the big breakers, Pékler, billeted at a
fishermanâs cottage, came in from his evening walks be-
hind a fine mask of salt. Lotâs wife. What disaster had he
dared to look back on? He knew.
He reverted that season to childhood, to the wounded
dog. During those wet and solitary walks he brooded
about Leni: he concocted scenarios in which they would
meet again, in some elegant or dramatic settingâaministry,
theatre lobbyâtwo or three jeweled and beautiful women
hanging to him, generals and industrialists springing to
light his American cigarettes and listening to his offhand
solutions to problems Leni would only vaguely under-
stand, The most satisfying of these fantasies would come
while PĂ©kler was on the toiletâheâd tap his feet, fanfares
would whisper through his lips as he felt that pleasant
anticipation. ...
But the burden of his poor Berlin self lingered. He had
spoken of it, listened, probed, and yet it would not dissolve
or flee, it persisted, beggar in all the doorways of his life,
beseeching silently with eyes, with hands quite sure of
their guiltmaking craft. Busywork at Peenemiinde and
good company at Herr Halligerâs inn on the Oieâall
marking time till good firing weatherâand Pokler more
vulnerable than heâd ever been. His cold and womanless
nights, the card and chess games, the all-male beer-drinking
sessions, the nightmares he had to find his own way up
out of because there was no other hand now to shake him
awake, nobody to hold him when the shadows came on
the window shadeâall caught up with him that Novem-
ber, and maybe he allowed it to. A protective reflex. Be-
cause something scary was happening. Because once or
twice, deep in the ephedrine pre-dawns nodding ja, ja,
stimmt, ja, for some design you were carrying not in but
on your head and could feel bobbing, out
past your side-
vision, bobbing and balanced almostâhe ould become
aware of a drifting-away...some assumption of Pékler
into the calculations, drawings, graphs, and even what raw
hardware there was...each time, soon as it happened, he
<
The Magic Number of Feasibility
- Pökler experiences a recurring existential dread while working on rocket calculations, oscillating between the desire for personal identity and the 'impersonal salvation' of the Rocket.
- The PeenemĂŒnde facility advances toward a 2000 m/sec exhaust velocity, a 'magic number' that signals the technical feasibility of the A4 rocket.
- Engineers struggle against the temptation of over-sophistication, often designing 'monster rigs' with excessive moving parts that compromise reliability.
- The military necessity of the project forces a shift from beautiful, complex engineering toward simplicity and dependable field use.
- Guidance testing involves primitive telemetry, such as filming gauge needles during flight and analyzing the 'daily rushes' of falling iron models.
- The text links the German obsession with calculus and cinema through the shared method of breaking continuous motion into a series of static frames.
So he hunted, as a servo valve with a noisy input will, across the Zero, between the two desires, personal identity and impersonal salvation.
472
Gravity's RAINBOW
the autumn the weather turned. Rain swept in from the
north, the temperature plunged, wind tore into storage
tents, giant waves boomed all night long. The water was
white for fifty meters out from shore. Spray feathered land-
ward off the curls of the big breakers, Pékler, billeted at a
fishermanâs cottage, came in from his evening walks be-
hind a fine mask of salt. Lotâs wife. What disaster had he
dared to look back on? He knew.
He reverted that season to childhood, to the wounded
dog. During those wet and solitary walks he brooded
about Leni: he concocted scenarios in which they would
meet again, in some elegant or dramatic settingâaministry,
theatre lobbyâtwo or three jeweled and beautiful women
hanging to him, generals and industrialists springing to
light his American cigarettes and listening to his offhand
solutions to problems Leni would only vaguely under-
stand, The most satisfying of these fantasies would come
while PĂ©kler was on the toiletâheâd tap his feet, fanfares
would whisper through his lips as he felt that pleasant
anticipation. ...
But the burden of his poor Berlin self lingered. He had
spoken of it, listened, probed, and yet it would not dissolve
or flee, it persisted, beggar in all the doorways of his life,
beseeching silently with eyes, with hands quite sure of
their guiltmaking craft. Busywork at Peenemiinde and
good company at Herr Halligerâs inn on the Oieâall
marking time till good firing weatherâand Pokler more
vulnerable than heâd ever been. His cold and womanless
nights, the card and chess games, the all-male beer-drinking
sessions, the nightmares he had to find his own way up
out of because there was no other hand now to shake him
awake, nobody to hold him when the shadows came on
the window shadeâall caught up with him that Novem-
ber, and maybe he allowed it to. A protective reflex. Be-
cause something scary was happening. Because once or
twice, deep in the ephedrine pre-dawns nodding ja, ja,
stimmt, ja, for some design you were carrying not in but
on your head and could feel bobbing, out
past your side-
vision, bobbing and balanced almostâhe ould become
aware of a drifting-away...some assumption of Pékler
into the calculations, drawings, graphs, and even what raw
hardware there was...each time, soon as it happened, he
<
In the Zone
473
would panic, and draw back into the redoubt of waking
Pokler, heart pounding, hands and feet aching, his breath
catching in a small voiced hunhâ Something was out to
get him, something here, among the paper. The fear of
extinction named Pékler knew it was the Rocket, beckon-
ing him in. If he also knew that in something like this
extinction he could be free of his loneliness and his failure,
still he wasnât quite convinced. . . . So he hunted, as a servo
valve with a noisy input will, across the Zero, between the
two desires, personal identity and impersonal salvation.
Mondaugen saw it all. He could see into PĂ©klerâs heart. In
his compassion, not surprisingly, he had no free advice for
his friend. Pékler would have to find his own way to his
zero signal, his true course.
By â*38 the Peenemiinde facility was taking shape, and
Pékler moved over to the mainland. With hardly more to
âgo on than Stoddaâs treatise on steam turbines, and help-
ful data now and then from universities at Hannover,
Darmstadt, Leipzig and Dresden, the propulsion group
were testing a rocket engine of 114 tonsâ thrust, 10 atmo-
|
spheresâ combustion pressure, and 60 secondsâ duration.
They were getting exhaust velocities of 1800 meters per
second, but the value they were aiming for was 2000.
They called it the magic number, and they meant it lit-
erally. As some gamblers on the stock market know when
to place stop orders, feeling by instinct not the printed
numbers but the rates of change, knowing from first and
second derivatives in their skin when to come in, stay or
go, so there are engineering reflexes tuned always to know,
at any moment, what, given the resources, can be em-
bodied in working hardwareâwhat is âfeasible.â On the
âday that a 2000 m/sec exhaust became feasible, the A4
itself suddenly came in reach. The danger then lay in
being seduced by approaches that were too sophisticated.
No one was immune. Hardly a designer there, including
Pokler, didnât come up with at least one monster rig, some
Gorgonâs head writhing with pipes, tubes, complicated
folderol for controlling pressures, solenoids on top of pilot
valves on auxiliary valves on backup valvesâhundreds of
Pages on valve nomenclature were printed as appendices
âto these weird proposals, all promising huge pressure differ-
ences between the inside of the chamber and the nozzle
474
Gravity's RAINBOW
exitâbeautiful, as long as you didnât care much about
those millions of moving parts behaving together too
reliably. But to get a dependable working motor, one the
military could use in the field to kill people, the real
engineering problem now was to keep things as simple as
possible.
The model currently being fired was the A3, christened
not with champagne, but with flasks of liquid oxygen by
the playful technicians. Emphasis had begun to shift from
propulsion to guidance. Telemetry on the flight tests was
still primitive. Thermometers and barometers were sealed
in a watertight compartment with a movie camera. During
flights the camera photographed the needles swinging on
the gauges. After the flight the film was recovered, and
the data played back. Engineers sat around looking at
movies of dials. Meantime Heinkels were also dropping
iron models of the Rocket from 20,000 feet. The fall was
photographed
by Askania
cinetheodolite
rigs on
the
ground. In the daily rushes you would watch the frames
at around 3000 feet, where the model broke through the
speed of sound. There has been this strange connection
between the German mind and the rapid flashing of suc-
cessive stills to counterfeit movement, for \at least two
centuriesâsince Leibniz, in the process of inventing cal-
culus, used the same approach to break up the trajectories
of cannonballs through the air. And now Pékler was about
to be given proof that these techniques had been extended
past images on film, to human lives.
He had returned to his quarters about sundown, too
tired or preoccupied to be much affected by the furnace
of colors in the flower gardens, the daily changes to the
skyline of the Station, even the absence of noise today
from the testing stands. He smelled the ocean, and could â
almost imagine himself as someone who lives year-round
at a seaside resort, but seldom gets to the beach. Now
and then, over in Peenemiinde-West, a fighter plane took
off or landed, the motors softened. by distance to tranquil
purring, A late sea-breeze flickered. He had no warning
other than a smile from a colleague who lived a few
cubicles away and was coming down the barracks stairs as
Pékler was going up. He entered his own cubicle and saw ©
her sitting on the bed, her toes pointed in next to a flow-
The Vacuum of Pökler's Life
- Pökler returns to his quarters at PeenemĂŒnde to find his daughter, Ilse, waiting for him after years of separation.
- The reunion is orchestrated by Major Weissmann, revealing to Pökler that his private life has been under total surveillance by the state.
- Paralyzed by suspicion and the fear of emotional vulnerability, Pökler doubts the girl's identity and uses anger as a shield against love.
- Ilse describes her life in a mountain camp surrounded by barbed wire, where she and other children played in the dirt beneath barracks.
- The narrative hints at the dark reality of Leniâs situation in the camp, involving periodic disappearances with men in black uniforms.
The vacuum of his life threatened to be broken in one strong inrush of love. He tried to maintain it with seals of suspicion, looking for resemblances to the face heâd last seen years ago.
474
Gravity's RAINBOW
exitâbeautiful, as long as you didnât care much about
those millions of moving parts behaving together too
reliably. But to get a dependable working motor, one the
military could use in the field to kill people, the real
engineering problem now was to keep things as simple as
possible.
The model currently being fired was the A3, christened
not with champagne, but with flasks of liquid oxygen by
the playful technicians. Emphasis had begun to shift from
propulsion to guidance. Telemetry on the flight tests was
still primitive. Thermometers and barometers were sealed
in a watertight compartment with a movie camera. During
flights the camera photographed the needles swinging on
the gauges. After the flight the film was recovered, and
the data played back. Engineers sat around looking at
movies of dials. Meantime Heinkels were also dropping
iron models of the Rocket from 20,000 feet. The fall was
photographed
by Askania
cinetheodolite
rigs on
the
ground. In the daily rushes you would watch the frames
at around 3000 feet, where the model broke through the
speed of sound. There has been this strange connection
between the German mind and the rapid flashing of suc-
cessive stills to counterfeit movement, for \at least two
centuriesâsince Leibniz, in the process of inventing cal-
culus, used the same approach to break up the trajectories
of cannonballs through the air. And now Pékler was about
to be given proof that these techniques had been extended
past images on film, to human lives.
He had returned to his quarters about sundown, too
tired or preoccupied to be much affected by the furnace
of colors in the flower gardens, the daily changes to the
skyline of the Station, even the absence of noise today
from the testing stands. He smelled the ocean, and could â
almost imagine himself as someone who lives year-round
at a seaside resort, but seldom gets to the beach. Now
and then, over in Peenemiinde-West, a fighter plane took
off or landed, the motors softened. by distance to tranquil
purring, A late sea-breeze flickered. He had no warning
other than a smile from a colleague who lived a few
cubicles away and was coming down the barracks stairs as
Pékler was going up. He entered his own cubicle and saw ©
her sitting on the bed, her toes pointed in next to a flow-
We
In the Zone
A75
ered carpetbag, skirt pulled over her knees and eyes
anxiously, fatally, looking into his.
âHerr PĂ©kler? I am yourââ
âTlse. Ilse... .â
He must have picked her up, kissed her, drawn the cur-
tain. Some reflex. She was wearing in her hair a ribbon
of brown velvet. He remembered her hair as lighter,
shorterâbut then it does grow, and darken. He looked
slantwise into her face, all his emptiness echoing. The vac-
uum of his life threatened to be broken in one strong inrush
/ -of love. He tried to maintain it with seals of suspicion, look-
ing for resemblances to the face heâd last seen years ago
over her motherâs shoulder, eyes still puffy from sleep
angled down across Leniâs raincoated back, going out a
door heâd thought closed for goodâpretending not to find
resemblances. Perhaps pretending. Was it really the same
faceP heâd lost so much of it over the years, that fat,
' featureless childâs face.... He was afraid now even to
hold her, afraid his heart would burst. He said, âHow long
have you been waiting?â
âSince lunchtime.â Sheâd eaten in the -canteen. Major
Weissmann had brought her up on the train from Stettin,
and they had played chess. Major Weissmann was a slow
player, and they hadnât finished the game. Major Weiss-
mann had bought her sweets, and had asked her to say
hello and sorry he couldnât stay long enough to see
PĂ©klerâ
Weissmann? What was this? A blinking, tentative fury
grew in Pokler. They must have known everythingâall
this time. His life was secretless as this mean cubicle, with
its bed, commode and reading-light.
So, to stand between him and this impossible return, he
chad his angerâto preserve him from love he couldn't
really risk. He could settle for interrogating his daughter.
The shame he felt was acceptable, the shame and cold-
ness. But she must have picked it up, for she sat now
very still, except for nervous feet, her voice so subdued he
missed parts of her answers.
They had sent her here from a place in the mountains,
where it was chilly even in summerâsurrounded by
barbed wire and bright hooded lights that burned all
night long. There were no boysâonly girls, mothers, old
476
Gravity's RaInsow
ladies living in barracks, stacked up in bunks, often two
to a pallet. Leni was well. Sometimes a man in a black
uniform came into the barracks and Mutti would go away
with him, and stay away for several days. When she came
back she didnât want to talk, or even to hug Ilse the way
she usually did. Sometimes she cried, and asked Ilse to
leave her alone. Ilse would go off and play with Johanna
and Lilli underneath the barracks next door. They had
scooped a hideout there in the dirt, fumished with dolls,
hats, dresses, shoes, old bottles, magazines with pictures,
all found out near the barbed wire, the treasure pile, they
called it, a huge refuse dump that always smoldered, day
and night: you could see its red glow out the window from
the top bunk where she slept with Lilli, nights when Leni
was away..
But Pékler was hardly listening: he had the only datum
with any value: that she was somewhere definite, with a
location on the map and authorities who might be con-
tacted. Could he find her again? Fool. Could he somehow
negotiate her release? Some man, some Red, must have
got her into this. .
Kurt Mondaugen was the only one he could trust,
though Pékler knew before they spoke that the role Mond-
augen had chosen would keep him from helping. âThey
call them re-education camps. Theyâre run by the SS. I
could talk to Weissmann, but it might not work.â
He had known Weissmann in Siidwest. They had shaved
the months of siege inside Fopplâs villa: Weissmann was
one of the people who had driven Mondaugen, finally,
away to live in the bush. But they had found a rapproche-
ment here, among the rockets, either for sunblasted holy-
man reasons it was not for Pékler to understand or because
of some
deeper connection which had agi been
ere.
They stood on the roof of one of thé bacaathiy besides:
the Oie across the water six miles away clearly visible,
_
which meant a change in the weather tomorrow. Steel was
being hammered somewhere out in the sunlight, ham-
mered in cadences, purified as the song of some bird. Blue
Peenemiinde shivered around them in
directions, a
dream of concrete and steel masses reflecting the noon
heat. The air rippled like camouflage. Behind it ee
Pékler's Silence and the Moon
- Pékler discovers his daughter Ilse's location but finds himself paralyzed by the bureaucratic and political machinery of the SS-run re-education camps.
- Kurt Mondaugen, Pékler's only confidant, advises a passive waiting game, reflecting a history of moral neutrality and missed opportunities for escape.
- The atmosphere at PeenemĂŒnde is described as a fragile illusion of concrete and steel, where the secret activities of the 'Zone' threaten to dissolve the reality of the characters.
- Ilse is allowed to witness a rocket launch, a gesture Pékler later realizes signifies her total isolation and lack of influence over security.
- The failed rocket launch and the subsequent conversation about the Moon highlight the contrast between the destructive reality of the V-2 and the child's innocent wonder.
- Ilse finds solace in mapping a future on the Moon, specifically choosing the crater Maskelyne B as a site for a hypothetical home away from the war.
At any moment the illusion they stood on would dissolve and they would fall to earth.
476
Gravity's RaInsow
ladies living in barracks, stacked up in bunks, often two
to a pallet. Leni was well. Sometimes a man in a black
uniform came into the barracks and Mutti would go away
with him, and stay away for several days. When she came
back she didnât want to talk, or even to hug Ilse the way
she usually did. Sometimes she cried, and asked Ilse to
leave her alone. Ilse would go off and play with Johanna
and Lilli underneath the barracks next door. They had
scooped a hideout there in the dirt, fumished with dolls,
hats, dresses, shoes, old bottles, magazines with pictures,
all found out near the barbed wire, the treasure pile, they
called it, a huge refuse dump that always smoldered, day
and night: you could see its red glow out the window from
the top bunk where she slept with Lilli, nights when Leni
was away..
But Pékler was hardly listening: he had the only datum
with any value: that she was somewhere definite, with a
location on the map and authorities who might be con-
tacted. Could he find her again? Fool. Could he somehow
negotiate her release? Some man, some Red, must have
got her into this. .
Kurt Mondaugen was the only one he could trust,
though Pékler knew before they spoke that the role Mond-
augen had chosen would keep him from helping. âThey
call them re-education camps. Theyâre run by the SS. I
could talk to Weissmann, but it might not work.â
He had known Weissmann in Siidwest. They had shaved
the months of siege inside Fopplâs villa: Weissmann was
one of the people who had driven Mondaugen, finally,
away to live in the bush. But they had found a rapproche-
ment here, among the rockets, either for sunblasted holy-
man reasons it was not for Pékler to understand or because
of some
deeper connection which had agi been
ere.
They stood on the roof of one of thé bacaathiy besides:
the Oie across the water six miles away clearly visible,
_
which meant a change in the weather tomorrow. Steel was
being hammered somewhere out in the sunlight, ham-
mered in cadences, purified as the song of some bird. Blue
Peenemiinde shivered around them in
directions, a
dream of concrete and steel masses reflecting the noon
heat. The air rippled like camouflage. Behind it ee
In the Zone
477
elseâ seemed to carry on in secret. At any moment the
illusion they stood on would dissolve and they would fall
to earth. Pékler stared across the marshes, feeling helpless.
âT have to do something. Donât I?â
âNo. You have to wait.â
âItâs not right, Mondaugen.â
âN. arâ
âWhat about Ilse? Will she have to go back?â
âI donât know. But sheâs here now.â
So, as usual, Pékler chose silence. Had he chosen some-
| thing else, back while there was time, they all might have
saved themselves. Even left the country. Now, too late,
when at last he wanted to act, there was nothing to act on.
Well, to be honest, he didnât spend much time brooding
about past neutralities. He wasnât that sure heâd outgrown
them, anyway.
They took walks, he and Ilse, by the stormy shoreâfed
ducks, explored the pine forests. They even allowed her
to watch a launching. It was a message to him, but he
didnât understand till later what it meant. It meant that
there was no violation of security: there was no one she
could tell who mattered. The noise of the Rocket ripped
at them. For the first time then she moved close, and held
him. He felt that he was holding on to her. The motor cut
off too soon, and the Rocket crashed somewhere over in
Peenemiinde-West, in Luftwaffe territory. The dirty pillar
of smoke drew the screaming fire engines and truckloads
of workers by in a wild parade. She took in a deep breath,
and squeezed his hand. âDid you make it do that, Papi?â
âNo, it wasnât supposed to. Itâs supposed to fly in a big
curve,â motioning with his hand, the parabola trailing
_ behind encompassing testing stands, assembly buildings,
drawing them together as the crosses priests make in the
9 quarter and divide the staring congregations behind
em. ...
âWhere does it go?â
_
âWherever we tell it to.â
âMay I fly in it someday? Id fit inside, wouldnât IPâ
She asked impossible questions. âSomeday,â PĂ©kler told
__
her. âPerhaps someday to the Moon.â
âThe Moon...â as if he were going to tell her a story.
- When none followed she made up her own. The engineer
478
Gravityâs RaInsow
in the next cubicle had a map of the Moon tacked to his
fiberboard wall, and she spent hours studying it, deciding
where she wanted to live. Passing over the bright rays of
Kepler, the rugged solitude of the Southern Highlands; the
spectacular views at Copernicus and: Eratosthenes, she
chose a small pretty crater in the Sea of Tranquillity called
Maskelyne B. They would build a house right on the rim,
Mutti and she and Pékler, gold mountains out one window
and the wide sea out the other, And Earth green and blue
in the sky....
Should he have told her what the âseasâ of the Moon
really were? Told her there was nothing to breathe? His
ignorance frightened him, his ineptitude as a father....
Nights in the cubicle, with Ilse curled a few feet away in
a canvas army cot, a little gray squirrel under her blanket,
heâd wonder if she wasnât really better off as ward of the
Reich. Heâd heard there were camps, but saw nothing
sinister in it: he took the Government at their word, âre-
education.â Iâve made such a mess of everything... they
have qualified people there...trained personnel... they
know what a child needs... staring up at the electric
scatter from this part of Peenemiinde mapping across his
piece of ceiling priorities, abandoned dreams, favor in the
eyes of the master fantasists in Berlin, while sometimes Ilse
whispered to him bedtime âstories. about the moon she
would live on, till he had transferred silently to a world
that wasnât this one after all: a map without any national
borders, insecure and exhilarating, in which flight was as
natural as breathingâbut I'll fall . . . no, rising, look down,
nothing to be afraid of, this time itâsâ good... yes, firmly
in flight, itâs working...yes....
©
©
Pokler may be only witnessing tonightâor he may really -
be part of it. He hasnât been shown which it is. Look at
this. There is about to be expedited, for Friedrich August
Kekulé von Stradonitz, his dream of 1865, the great Dream
that revolutionized chemistry and made the IG possible.
So that the right material may find its way to the right
dreamer, everyone, everything involved must be exactly
in place in the pattern. It was nice of Jung to give us the
idea of an ancestral pool in which everybody shares the
same dream material. But how it is we are each visited as
individuals, each by exactly and only what he needs?
The Architecture of Dreams
- Pökler grapples with his inadequacy as a father, wondering if his daughter Ilse would be better off in the care of the Reich's 're-education' camps.
- Ilse shares bedtime stories of a lunar paradise, while Pökler finds temporary escape in borderless, exhilarating dreams of flight.
- The narrative shifts to the metaphysical bureaucracy of the IG, suggesting that dreams and archetypes are routed to individuals through a celestial switching-path.
- Friedrich August KekulĂ©âs 1865 dream of the Benzene ring is framed as a pivotal moment that revolutionized chemistry and enabled the rise of the IG.
- KekulĂ©âs background as an architect allowed him to visualize chemical structures, a transition facilitated by the influence of the chemist Liebig.
- The text explores the idea of a 'sorting-demon' or gatekeeper that concentrates energy and ideas into specific rooms of human creation.
Should he have told her what the âseasâ of the Moon really were? Told her there was nothing to breathe?
478
Gravityâs RaInsow
in the next cubicle had a map of the Moon tacked to his
fiberboard wall, and she spent hours studying it, deciding
where she wanted to live. Passing over the bright rays of
Kepler, the rugged solitude of the Southern Highlands; the
spectacular views at Copernicus and: Eratosthenes, she
chose a small pretty crater in the Sea of Tranquillity called
Maskelyne B. They would build a house right on the rim,
Mutti and she and Pékler, gold mountains out one window
and the wide sea out the other, And Earth green and blue
in the sky....
Should he have told her what the âseasâ of the Moon
really were? Told her there was nothing to breathe? His
ignorance frightened him, his ineptitude as a father....
Nights in the cubicle, with Ilse curled a few feet away in
a canvas army cot, a little gray squirrel under her blanket,
heâd wonder if she wasnât really better off as ward of the
Reich. Heâd heard there were camps, but saw nothing
sinister in it: he took the Government at their word, âre-
education.â Iâve made such a mess of everything... they
have qualified people there...trained personnel... they
know what a child needs... staring up at the electric
scatter from this part of Peenemiinde mapping across his
piece of ceiling priorities, abandoned dreams, favor in the
eyes of the master fantasists in Berlin, while sometimes Ilse
whispered to him bedtime âstories. about the moon she
would live on, till he had transferred silently to a world
that wasnât this one after all: a map without any national
borders, insecure and exhilarating, in which flight was as
natural as breathingâbut I'll fall . . . no, rising, look down,
nothing to be afraid of, this time itâsâ good... yes, firmly
in flight, itâs working...yes....
©
©
Pokler may be only witnessing tonightâor he may really -
be part of it. He hasnât been shown which it is. Look at
this. There is about to be expedited, for Friedrich August
Kekulé von Stradonitz, his dream of 1865, the great Dream
that revolutionized chemistry and made the IG possible.
So that the right material may find its way to the right
dreamer, everyone, everything involved must be exactly
in place in the pattern. It was nice of Jung to give us the
idea of an ancestral pool in which everybody shares the
same dream material. But how it is we are each visited as
individuals, each by exactly and only what he needs?
In the Zone
479
-
Doesnât that imply a switching-path of some kind? a
bureaucracy? Why shouldnât the IG go to sĂ©ances? They
ought to be quite at home with the bureaucracies of the
other side. KekulĂ©âs dream hereâs being routed now past
points which may arc through the silence, in bright reluc-
tance to live inside the moving moment, an imperfect, a
human light, over here interfering with the solemn binary
decisions of these agents, who are now allowing the cosmic
Serpent, in the violet splendor of its scales, shining that is
definitely not human, to passâwithout feeling, without
' wonder
(after. you get a little time inâwhatever that
, means over hereâone of these archetypes gets to. look
pretty much like any other, oh you hear some of these new
hires, the seersucker crowd come in the first day, âWow!
Heyâthatâs th-thâ
Tree o Creation!
Huh?
Ain't
itl
Je-eepers!â but they calm down fast enough, pick up the
reflexes for Intent to Gawk, you know self-criticismâs an
amazing technique, it shouldnât work but it does... .) Here,
hereâs the rundown on KekulĂ©âs problem. Started out to
become an architect, tured out instead to be one of the
Atlantes of chemistry, most of the organic wing of that
useful edifice bearing down on top of his head foreverâ
not just under the aspect of IG, but of World, assuming
thatâs a distinction you observe, heh, heh. ... Once again
it was the influence of Liebig, the great professor of chem-
istry on whose name-street in Munich Pokler lived while
he attended the T.H. Liebig was at the University of
Giessen when Kekulé entered as a student. He inspired the
young man to change his field. So Kekulé brought the
mindâs eye of an architect over into chemistry. It was a
critical switch. Liebig himself seems to have occupied the
. Tole of a gate, or sorting-demon such as his younger con-
temporary Clerk Maxwell once proposed, helping to con-
centrate. energy into one favored room of the Creation at
the expense of everything else (later witnesses have sug-
gested that Clerk Maxwell intended his Demon not so
much as convenience in discussing a thermodynamic idea
as a parable about the actual existence of personnel like
Liebig ... We may gain an indication of how far the re-
pression had.grown by that time, in the degree to Ss
|) Clerk Maxwell felt obliged to code |
his warnings .
> deed some theorists, usually the ones who find api:
The Serpent and the System
- The text suggests that scientific theories, like Clerk Maxwellâs Demon and Field Equations, may contain coded warnings about the rise of industrial and thermodynamic control.
- KekulĂ©âs discovery of the benzene ring is depicted as a dream-vision of a serpent biting its own tail, symbolizing a closed and cyclical world.
- This sacred symbol of the cycle is subverted by 'the System' to create the German dye industry and IG Farben, prioritizing linear profit over natural balance.
- The System is described as a parasitic entity that violates the cycle of nature by taking energy without giving back, leading toward an inevitable crash.
- Life within this industrial framework is compared to a bus ride driven by a suicidal maniac who maintains a facade of amiable normalcy while heading for destruction.
Living inside the System is like riding across the country in a bus driven by a maniac bent on suicide... though heâs amiable enough, keeps cracking jokes back through the loudspeaker.
In the Zone
479
-
Doesnât that imply a switching-path of some kind? a
bureaucracy? Why shouldnât the IG go to sĂ©ances? They
ought to be quite at home with the bureaucracies of the
other side. KekulĂ©âs dream hereâs being routed now past
points which may arc through the silence, in bright reluc-
tance to live inside the moving moment, an imperfect, a
human light, over here interfering with the solemn binary
decisions of these agents, who are now allowing the cosmic
Serpent, in the violet splendor of its scales, shining that is
definitely not human, to passâwithout feeling, without
' wonder
(after. you get a little time inâwhatever that
, means over hereâone of these archetypes gets to. look
pretty much like any other, oh you hear some of these new
hires, the seersucker crowd come in the first day, âWow!
Heyâthatâs th-thâ
Tree o Creation!
Huh?
Ain't
itl
Je-eepers!â but they calm down fast enough, pick up the
reflexes for Intent to Gawk, you know self-criticismâs an
amazing technique, it shouldnât work but it does... .) Here,
hereâs the rundown on KekulĂ©âs problem. Started out to
become an architect, tured out instead to be one of the
Atlantes of chemistry, most of the organic wing of that
useful edifice bearing down on top of his head foreverâ
not just under the aspect of IG, but of World, assuming
thatâs a distinction you observe, heh, heh. ... Once again
it was the influence of Liebig, the great professor of chem-
istry on whose name-street in Munich Pokler lived while
he attended the T.H. Liebig was at the University of
Giessen when Kekulé entered as a student. He inspired the
young man to change his field. So Kekulé brought the
mindâs eye of an architect over into chemistry. It was a
critical switch. Liebig himself seems to have occupied the
. Tole of a gate, or sorting-demon such as his younger con-
temporary Clerk Maxwell once proposed, helping to con-
centrate. energy into one favored room of the Creation at
the expense of everything else (later witnesses have sug-
gested that Clerk Maxwell intended his Demon not so
much as convenience in discussing a thermodynamic idea
as a parable about the actual existence of personnel like
Liebig ... We may gain an indication of how far the re-
pression had.grown by that time, in the degree to Ss
|) Clerk Maxwell felt obliged to code |
his warnings .
> deed some theorists, usually the ones who find api:
480
Gravityâs Rainsow
meaning behind even Mrs. Clerk Maxwellâs notorious âIt
is time to go home, James, you are beginning to enjoy
yourself,â have made the extreme suggestion that the Field
Equations themselves contain an ominous forewarningâ
they cite as evidence the disturbing intimacy of the Equa-
tions with the behavior of the double-integrating circuit in
the guidance system of the A4 rocket, the same double-
summing of current densities-that led architect Etzel Olsch
to design for architect Albert Speer an underground fac-
tory at Nordhausen with just that symbolic shape. ..).
Young ex-architect Kekulé went looking among the mole-
cules of the time for the hidden shapes he knew were
there, shapes he did not like to think of as real physical
structures, but as ârational formulas,â showing the relation-
ships that went on in âmetamorphoses,â his quaint 19th-
century way of saying âchemical reactions.â But he could
visualize; He saw the four bonds of carbon, lying in a tetra-
hedronâhe showed how carbon atoms could link up one
to another, into long chains. ... But he was stumped when
he got to benzene. He knew there were six carbon atoms
with a hydrogen attached to each oneâbut he could not
see the shape. Not until the dream: until he was made to
see it, so that others might be seduced by its physical
beauty, and begin to think of it as a blueprint, a basis tor
new compounds, new arrangements, so that there would
be a field of aromatic chemistry to ally itself with secular
power, and find new methods of synthesis, so there would
be a German dye industry to become the IG... +.
Kekulé dreams the Great Serpent holding its own tail in
its mouth, the dreaming Serpent which surrounds the World.
But the meanness, the cynicism with which this dream is
to be used. The Serpent that announces, âThe World is a
closed thing, cyclical, resonant, eternally-returning,â is to
be delivered into a system whose only aim is to violate
â
the Cycle. Taking and not giving back, demanding that
âproductivityâ and âearningsâ keep on increasing with
time, the System removing from the rest of the World
these vast quantities of energy to keep its own tiny desper-
ate fraction showing a profit: and not only most of human-
ityâmost of the World, animal, vegetable
and mineral, is
laid waste in the process, The System may or may not ~
_
understand that itâs only buying time. And that time is an i
\
Li
U
|
|
|
|
I
In the Zone
481
artificial resource to begin with, of no value to. anyone or
anything but the System, which sooner or later must crash
to its death, when its addiction to energy has become-more
than the rest of the World can supply, dragging with it
innocent souls all along the chain of life. Living inside the
System is like riding across the country in a bus driven by
a maniac bent on suicide... though heâs amiable enough,
keeps cracking jokes back through the loudspeaker, âGood
morning folks, this is Heidelberg. here were coming into
now, you know the old refrain, âI lost my heart in Heidel-
/ berg,â well I have a friend who lost both his ears herel
Donât get me wrong, itâs really a nice town, the people
are warm and wonderfulâwhen
they're not dueling.
Seriously though, they treat you just fine, they donât just
give you the key to the city, they give you the bung-
starter!â u.s.w. On you roll, across a countryside whose
light is forever changingâcastles, heaps of rock, moons of
different shapes and colors come and go. There are stops
at odd hours of the mornings, for reasons that are not an-
nounced: you. get out to stretch in lime-lit courtyards
where the old men sit around the table under enormous
eucalyptus trees you Gan smell in the night, shuffling the
ancient decks oily and worn, throwing down swords and
cups and trumps major in the tremor of light while be-
hind them the bus is idling, waitingâpassengers will now
reclaim their seats and much as you'd like to stay, right
here, learn the game, find your old age around this quiet
_table, itâs no use: he is waiting beside the door of the bus
in his pressed uniform, Lord of the Night he is checking
| your tickets, your ID and travel papers, and itâs the wands
of enterprise that dominate tonight ...as he nods you by,
you catch a glimpse of his face, his insane, committed
âeyes, and you remember then, for a terrible few heart-
beats, that of course it will end for you all in blood, in
shock, without dignityâbut there is meanwhile this trip
to be on... over your own seat, where there ought to be
an advertising plaque, is instead a quote from Rilke:
âOnce, only once...â One of Their favorite slogans. No
return, no salvation, no Cycleâthatâs not what They, nor
Their brilliant employee Kekulé, have taken the: Serpent
_to mean. No: what the Serpent means isâhowâs thisâ
that the six carbon atoms of benzene are in fact curled
The Serpent and the Ring
- A surreal bus journey through the night serves as a metaphor for the inevitable, undignified end of all travelers under the gaze of the 'Lord of the Night.'
- The narrative transitions into a lecture by Laszlo Jamf regarding KekulĂ©âs dream of the benzene ring, symbolized by a serpent biting its own tail.
- Jamf posits that the discovery of synthetic chemistry represents a fall from nature, where molecules are no longer found but assembled from 'the debris of the given.'
- The 'Serpent' of chemistry is framed not as a cycle of return, but as a definition of the loss of innocence and a shift into the 'machineries of indifference.'
- Pökler awakens from this academic nightmare to find his daughter Ilse has been taken back by 'Them,' leaving only a note on a sheet of log paper.
- The loss of Ilse drives Pökler toward a brief insanity and thoughts of sabotaging the rocket program against Weissmann.
Who sent this new serpent to our ruinous garden, already too fouled, too crowded to qualify as any locus of innocenceâunless innocence be our ageâs neutral, our silent passing into the machineries of indifference?
\
Li
U
|
|
|
|
I
In the Zone
481
artificial resource to begin with, of no value to. anyone or
anything but the System, which sooner or later must crash
to its death, when its addiction to energy has become-more
than the rest of the World can supply, dragging with it
innocent souls all along the chain of life. Living inside the
System is like riding across the country in a bus driven by
a maniac bent on suicide... though heâs amiable enough,
keeps cracking jokes back through the loudspeaker, âGood
morning folks, this is Heidelberg. here were coming into
now, you know the old refrain, âI lost my heart in Heidel-
/ berg,â well I have a friend who lost both his ears herel
Donât get me wrong, itâs really a nice town, the people
are warm and wonderfulâwhen
they're not dueling.
Seriously though, they treat you just fine, they donât just
give you the key to the city, they give you the bung-
starter!â u.s.w. On you roll, across a countryside whose
light is forever changingâcastles, heaps of rock, moons of
different shapes and colors come and go. There are stops
at odd hours of the mornings, for reasons that are not an-
nounced: you. get out to stretch in lime-lit courtyards
where the old men sit around the table under enormous
eucalyptus trees you Gan smell in the night, shuffling the
ancient decks oily and worn, throwing down swords and
cups and trumps major in the tremor of light while be-
hind them the bus is idling, waitingâpassengers will now
reclaim their seats and much as you'd like to stay, right
here, learn the game, find your old age around this quiet
_table, itâs no use: he is waiting beside the door of the bus
in his pressed uniform, Lord of the Night he is checking
| your tickets, your ID and travel papers, and itâs the wands
of enterprise that dominate tonight ...as he nods you by,
you catch a glimpse of his face, his insane, committed
âeyes, and you remember then, for a terrible few heart-
beats, that of course it will end for you all in blood, in
shock, without dignityâbut there is meanwhile this trip
to be on... over your own seat, where there ought to be
an advertising plaque, is instead a quote from Rilke:
âOnce, only once...â One of Their favorite slogans. No
return, no salvation, no Cycleâthatâs not what They, nor
Their brilliant employee Kekulé, have taken the: Serpent
_to mean. No: what the Serpent means isâhowâs thisâ
that the six carbon atoms of benzene are in fact curled
482
. Graviryâs Ramnsow
around into a closed ring, just like that snake with its tail
in its mouth, -GET IT? âThe aromatic Ring we know to- â
day,â PĂ©klerâs old prof, Laszlo Jamf, at this point in the
spiel removing from his fob a gold hexagon with the Ger-
man formée cross in the center,
a. medal of honor from
IG Farben, joking, in his lovable-old-fart manner, that he
likes to think of the cross not as German so much as stand-
ing for the tetravalency of carbonââbut who,â lifting his
open hands on each beat, like a bandleader, âwho, sent,
the Dream?â It is never clear how rhetorical any of Jamf.
s
questions are. âWho sent this new serpent to our ruinous
garden, already too fouled, too crowded to qualify as any
locus of innocenceâunless innocence be our ageâs neutral,
our silent passing into the machineries of indifferenceâ
something that KekulĂ©âs Serpent had come toânot to
destroy, but to define to us the loss of... we had been
given certain molecules,
certain combinations and not
others... we used what we found in Nature, unquestion-
ing, shamefully perhapsâbut
the Serpent whispered,
~
âThey can be changed, and new molecules assembled from â
the debris of the given. ...â Can anyone tell me what else
â
he whispered to us? Comeâwho knows? You. Tell <
PoĂ©klerââ
His name fell on him like a thunderclap, aad of coUnse
it wasnât Prof.-Dr. Jamf after all, but a colleague from
down the hall who had pulled reveille duty that morning.
Ilse was brushing her hair, and smiling at him.
His daytime work had started to go better. Others were
not so distant, and more apt to look in his eyes. They'd
met Ilse, and been charmed. If he saw anything else in
their faces, he ignored it.
Then one evening he returned from the Oie, a little :
drunk, a little anxious-elated over a firing the next day, â
and found his cubicle empty. Ilse, her flowered bag, the
~
clothing she usually left strewn on the cot, had: all van- â
ished. Nothing left but a wretched sheet of log paper â
(which Pékler found so useful for taming
the terror of
â
_
exponential curves into the linear, the safe), the same kind
sheâd drawn pictures of her Moonhouse - 0
. âPapi, they â
want me back. Maybe they'll let me see yo again, I hope
so. I love you. Ilse.â
â
Kurt Mondaugen found Pékler lying on her cot breath-
â
In the Zone
483
ing what he imagined were colors of her hair on the pil-
low. For a while then he went. a little insane,: talked of
killing Weissmann, sabotaging the rocket program, and
quitting his job and seeking asylum in England. ... Mond-
augen sat, and listened to all of it, touched Pokler once or
twice, smoked his pipe, till at last, at two or three in the
morning, Pékler had talked through a number of unreal
options, cried, cursed, punched a hole into his neighborâs
cubicle, through which he heard the man snoring on ob-
livious. Cooled by then toa vexed engineer-elitismââThey
are fools, they donât even know what sine and cosine are
and theyâre trying to tell meââhe agreed that yes, he must
wait, and let them do what they would do....
âIf I set up a meeting with Weissmann,â Mondaugen did
suggest, âcouldâyou be graceful? calm?â
âNo. Not with him. ... Not yet.â
âWhen you think you are ready, let me know. When
you're ready, youll know how to handle it.â Had he
allowed himself a tone of command? He must have seen
how much PĂ©kler needed to be at someoneâs command.
Leni had learned to subdue her husband with her face,
knew what cruel lines he expected of her mouth, what
tones of voice he needed ... when she left him she left an
unemployed servant who'd go with the first master that
called, just a
|
VICTIM IN A Vacuum!
Nur... ein... Op-ferl
Sehr ins Vakuum,
(âWon't somebody take advantage of me?â)
Wird niemand ausnut-zen mich, auch?.
(âJust a slave with nobody to slave for,ââ)
Nur ein Sklave, ohne Her-rin, (ya-ta ta-ta)
(âA-and who thâ heck wants at be, free?â )
Wer zum Teufel die Freiheit, braucht?
(All together now, all you masochists out there, spe-
cially those of you donât have a partner tonight, alone
with those fantasies that donât look like they'll ever
come trueâwant you just to join in here with your
brothers and sisters, let each other know you're alive
and sincere, try toâ break: through the silences, try to
reach through and connect, .. .)
;
Victims in a Vacuum
- Franz Pökler experiences a breakdown of unreal options and engineer-elitism while seeking asylum, eventually succumbing to a need for external command.
- The narrative explores Pöklerâs psychological dependency, characterizing him as a 'victim in a vacuum' who seeks a master to replace his estranged wife, Leni.
- A surreal musical interlude satirizes the masochism of those who fear freedom and prefer the structure of tragedy or servitude over the void of autonomy.
- The atmosphere of the weapons program shifts toward a state of 'gathering' for war, manifesting as physical anxiety, metallic-tasting coffee, and escalating crises.
- Pökler attempts to rationalize his dread through pseudo-mathematical notes, trying to convince himself that the encroaching war is not a personal conspiracy.
- Leniâs past astrological warnings about the planet Pluto and the 'grim phoenix' of National Socialism underscore the inevitable, staged holocaust approaching.
When she left him she left an unemployed servant who'd go with the first master that called, just a VICTIM IN A Vacuum!
In the Zone
483
ing what he imagined were colors of her hair on the pil-
low. For a while then he went. a little insane,: talked of
killing Weissmann, sabotaging the rocket program, and
quitting his job and seeking asylum in England. ... Mond-
augen sat, and listened to all of it, touched Pokler once or
twice, smoked his pipe, till at last, at two or three in the
morning, Pékler had talked through a number of unreal
options, cried, cursed, punched a hole into his neighborâs
cubicle, through which he heard the man snoring on ob-
livious. Cooled by then toa vexed engineer-elitismââThey
are fools, they donât even know what sine and cosine are
and theyâre trying to tell meââhe agreed that yes, he must
wait, and let them do what they would do....
âIf I set up a meeting with Weissmann,â Mondaugen did
suggest, âcouldâyou be graceful? calm?â
âNo. Not with him. ... Not yet.â
âWhen you think you are ready, let me know. When
you're ready, youll know how to handle it.â Had he
allowed himself a tone of command? He must have seen
how much PĂ©kler needed to be at someoneâs command.
Leni had learned to subdue her husband with her face,
knew what cruel lines he expected of her mouth, what
tones of voice he needed ... when she left him she left an
unemployed servant who'd go with the first master that
called, just a
|
VICTIM IN A Vacuum!
Nur... ein... Op-ferl
Sehr ins Vakuum,
(âWon't somebody take advantage of me?â)
Wird niemand ausnut-zen mich, auch?.
(âJust a slave with nobody to slave for,ââ)
Nur ein Sklave, ohne Her-rin, (ya-ta ta-ta)
(âA-and who thâ heck wants at be, free?â )
Wer zum Teufel die Freiheit, braucht?
(All together now, all you masochists out there, spe-
cially those of you donât have a partner tonight, alone
with those fantasies that donât look like they'll ever
come trueâwant you just to join in here with your
brothers and sisters, let each other know you're alive
and sincere, try toâ break: through the silences, try to
reach through and connect, .. .)
;
484
Gravity's RaInsow
Aw, the sodium lights-arenât, so bright in Berlin,
I go to the bars dear, but nobodyâs inl
:
Oh, I'd much rather bee
a
j
In a Greek trage-dee,
f
Than be a VICTIM IN A. VACUUM to-nitel!
p
Days. passed, much like one another to Pékler. Identical
morning plunges into a routine dreary as winter now. He
learned to keep an outward calm, at least. Learned to feel
the gathering, the moving toward war that is unique to
weapons programs, At first it simulates depression or non-
specific anxiety. There may be esophagal spasms and un-
recoverable dreams. You find you are writing notes to
yourself, first thing in the morning: calm, reasoned assur=|
ances to the screaming mental. case insideâ1. It is a com=
bination, 1.1 It is a scalar quantity. 1.2. Its negative as-
pects are distributed isotropically, 2. It.is not a conspiracy,
2.1 It is not a vector. 2.11 It is not aimed at anybody.
2.12 It is not aimed at me...
u.s.w. The coffee begins to
taste more and more metallic. Each deadline is now a
crisis, each is more intense than the last. Behind this job-
like-any-other-job seems to lie something void, something
terminal, something growing closer, each day, to mani-
festation. .
(âThe new planet Plato, â she had whispered
long ago, lying in the smelly dark, her long Asta Nielsenâ
upper lip gibbous that night as the moon that ruled her,
âPluto is in my sign now, held tight in its claws. It moves
slowly, so slowly and so far away... but it will burst ââ_
It is the grim phoenix which creates its own holocaust .
deliberate resurrection. Staged. Under control. No grabell
no interventions by God. Some are calling it the planet of
National Socialism, Brunhiibner and that crowd, all tryingâ
to suck up to Hitler now. They donât know they are tellingâ
the literal truth. ... Are you awake? Franz.
...â)
As war drew closer: the game of priorities ind politicke
ing grew more eamest, Army vs. Luftwaffe, the. Weapons
Department vs. the Ministry of Munitions, the SS, given
their aspirations, vs. everybody else, and even a simmering
discontent that was to grow over the next
few years into
a palace revolt against von Braun, because of his youth
and a number of test failuresâthough heaven knew, there
were soho enough of those, they were the raw material
rk
%
The Ritual of the Rocket
- Technical progress at PeenemĂŒnde continues despite internal palace revolts and the inherent instability of early rocket testing.
- Pökler engages in a highly ritualized, technical dialogue with the SS officer Weissmann, masking their true power dynamic behind scientific jargon.
- The engineering challenges of heat-flow densities and regenerative cooling serve as a 'code' for Pökler to prove his professional worth and loyalty.
- Pökler realizes that his survival and the safety of his family depend on his ability to inhabit the persona of a dedicated, rocket-obsessed scientist.
- The 'disguise' of the whiz-kid engineer begins to consume Pökler's identity, dictating his behavior and speech beyond his own planning.
- The return of Pökler's daughter, Ilse, is met with profound suspicion as he notices physical discrepancies that suggest she may be a different child.
He found the SS man on guard behind eyeglasses like Wagnerian shields, ready for unacceptable maximaâanger, accusation, a moment of office-violence.
484
Gravity's RaInsow
Aw, the sodium lights-arenât, so bright in Berlin,
I go to the bars dear, but nobodyâs inl
:
Oh, I'd much rather bee
a
j
In a Greek trage-dee,
f
Than be a VICTIM IN A. VACUUM to-nitel!
p
Days. passed, much like one another to Pékler. Identical
morning plunges into a routine dreary as winter now. He
learned to keep an outward calm, at least. Learned to feel
the gathering, the moving toward war that is unique to
weapons programs, At first it simulates depression or non-
specific anxiety. There may be esophagal spasms and un-
recoverable dreams. You find you are writing notes to
yourself, first thing in the morning: calm, reasoned assur=|
ances to the screaming mental. case insideâ1. It is a com=
bination, 1.1 It is a scalar quantity. 1.2. Its negative as-
pects are distributed isotropically, 2. It.is not a conspiracy,
2.1 It is not a vector. 2.11 It is not aimed at anybody.
2.12 It is not aimed at me...
u.s.w. The coffee begins to
taste more and more metallic. Each deadline is now a
crisis, each is more intense than the last. Behind this job-
like-any-other-job seems to lie something void, something
terminal, something growing closer, each day, to mani-
festation. .
(âThe new planet Plato, â she had whispered
long ago, lying in the smelly dark, her long Asta Nielsenâ
upper lip gibbous that night as the moon that ruled her,
âPluto is in my sign now, held tight in its claws. It moves
slowly, so slowly and so far away... but it will burst ââ_
It is the grim phoenix which creates its own holocaust .
deliberate resurrection. Staged. Under control. No grabell
no interventions by God. Some are calling it the planet of
National Socialism, Brunhiibner and that crowd, all tryingâ
to suck up to Hitler now. They donât know they are tellingâ
the literal truth. ... Are you awake? Franz.
...â)
As war drew closer: the game of priorities ind politicke
ing grew more eamest, Army vs. Luftwaffe, the. Weapons
Department vs. the Ministry of Munitions, the SS, given
their aspirations, vs. everybody else, and even a simmering
discontent that was to grow over the next
few years into
a palace revolt against von Braun, because of his youth
and a number of test failuresâthough heaven knew, there
were soho enough of those, they were the raw material
rk
%
i
d
x
|
__
In the Zone
485
|
bf all testing-station politics.... In general, though, the
test results grew more and more > hopeful. It was impossible
| pet to think of the Rocket without thinking of Shicksal, of
growing toward a shape predestined and perhaps a little
rian The crews launched an uncontrolled series of
Ass bringing some of them down by parachute, reaching
height of five miles and nearly to the speed of sound.
ie the guidance people had still a long way to go,
ey had by this point switched over to vanes made of
graphite, brought the yaw oscillations down to five degrees
or so, and grown measurably happier about the Rocket's
stability.
At some. point during the winter, PĂ©kler came âto feel
that he could handle a meeting with Weissmann. He
found the SS man on guard behind eyeglasses like Wag-
nerian shields, ready for unacceptable maximaâanger,
accusation, a moment of office-violence. It was like meeting
a stranger. They had not spoken since the days at Kum-
mersdorf, at the old Raketenflugplatz. In this quarter-
sag at Peenemiinde, Pokler smiled more than he had in
year previous; spoke. of his admiration for Poehl-
annâs work in devising a cooling system for the att
sion.
| âWhat about the hot spots?â Weissmann asked. It was a
reasonable question, but also an intimacy.
_ It came to PoĂ©kler that the man didnât give a damn about
heating problems. This was a game, as Mondaugen had
warnedâritualized as jiu-jitsu. âWe've got heat-flow densi-
ties,â Pokler feeling as he usually did when he sang, âon
the order of three million kcal/m*h°C. Regenerative cool-
fe is the best interim solution right now, but Poehlmann
as a new approachââshowing him with chalk and slate,
trying for the professional mannerâââhe feels that if we
use a film of alcohol on the inside of the chamber, we can
educe the heat transfer by a considerable amount.â
_
âYou'll be injecting it.â
âCorrect.â
_ âHow much fuel is that going to reroute? Howâs it going
. affect the engine efficiency
_PĂ©kler had the figures. âRight now injection is a plumb-
rs. nightmare, but with the delivery schedules as they
486
Gravityâs RAInBow
âWhat about the two-stage combustion process?â
âGives us more volume, better turbulence, but thereâs
also a non-isotropic pressure drop, which cuts into our
efficiency.
... We're trying any number of approaches. If
we could depend on better fundingââ
âAh. Not my department. We could do with a more
generous budget ourselves.â They both laughed then,
gentleman scientists under a stingy bureaucracy, suffering
together.
Pékler understood that he had been negotiating for his
child and for Leni: that the questions and answers were
not exactly code for something else, but in the way of an
evaluation of Pékler personally. He was expected to be-
have a certain wayânot just to play a role, but to live it.
Any deviations
into
jealousy,
metaphysics,
vagueness
would be picked up immediately: he would either be cor-
rected back on course, or allowed to fall. Through winter
and spring the sessions with Weissmann became routine.
Pokler grew into his new disguiseâPrematurely Aged
Adolescent Whizâoften fiinding that it could indeed take
him over, keeping him longer at reference books and firing
data, speaking lines for him he could never have planned in
advance: gentle, scholarly, rocket-obsessed language that
surprised him.
.
In late August he had his second visit, It should have
been âIlse returned,â but PĂ©kler wasnât sure. As before,
she showed up alone, unannouncedâran to him, kissed
him, called him Papi. But...
But her hair, for one thing, was definitely dark brown,
and cut differently. Her eyes wereâ longer, set differently,
her complexion less fair. It seemed sheâd grown a foot
taller, But at that age, they shoot up overnight, donât they?
If it was âthat age. ...â Even as Pokler embraced her, the
perverse whispering began. Is it the same one? Have they
sent you a different child? Why didnât you look closer last
time, Pékler?
This time he asked how long they were going to let her
stay.â
;
ha
Til
âThey'll tell me. And Ill try to let you know.â And
would there be time for him to recalibrate! from his little
squirrel who dreamed of living on the Moon to this dark,
long-legged, Southern creature, whose awkwardness and
The Uncertainty of Ilse
- Pökler is reunited with a girl claiming to be his daughter, Ilse, but is plagued by paranoid doubts about her true identity.
- He suspects his overseer, Weissmann, of manipulating him by potentially replacing the child with look-alikes to test his psychological reactions.
- The narrative uses chess metaphors to describe the power dynamic, where Pökler imagines himself a pawn and his missing wife, Leni, a withdrawn queen.
- Despite his intimate memories of Ilseâs infancy, Pökler finds that the trauma of history and the 'Zone' have eroded his ability to recognize his own kin.
- Pökler receives a surprise two-week furlough and paycheck, a gesture he interprets as a test of his loyalty and his willingness to return to the rocket works.
- The psychological strain of the 'Opponent's' game leaves Pökler feeling empty and unable to distinguish between reality and the elaborate simulations of his captors.
The Opponent knew that Pöklerâs suspicion would always be stronger than any fears about real incest.
486
Gravityâs RAInBow
âWhat about the two-stage combustion process?â
âGives us more volume, better turbulence, but thereâs
also a non-isotropic pressure drop, which cuts into our
efficiency.
... We're trying any number of approaches. If
we could depend on better fundingââ
âAh. Not my department. We could do with a more
generous budget ourselves.â They both laughed then,
gentleman scientists under a stingy bureaucracy, suffering
together.
Pékler understood that he had been negotiating for his
child and for Leni: that the questions and answers were
not exactly code for something else, but in the way of an
evaluation of Pékler personally. He was expected to be-
have a certain wayânot just to play a role, but to live it.
Any deviations
into
jealousy,
metaphysics,
vagueness
would be picked up immediately: he would either be cor-
rected back on course, or allowed to fall. Through winter
and spring the sessions with Weissmann became routine.
Pokler grew into his new disguiseâPrematurely Aged
Adolescent Whizâoften fiinding that it could indeed take
him over, keeping him longer at reference books and firing
data, speaking lines for him he could never have planned in
advance: gentle, scholarly, rocket-obsessed language that
surprised him.
.
In late August he had his second visit, It should have
been âIlse returned,â but PĂ©kler wasnât sure. As before,
she showed up alone, unannouncedâran to him, kissed
him, called him Papi. But...
But her hair, for one thing, was definitely dark brown,
and cut differently. Her eyes wereâ longer, set differently,
her complexion less fair. It seemed sheâd grown a foot
taller, But at that age, they shoot up overnight, donât they?
If it was âthat age. ...â Even as Pokler embraced her, the
perverse whispering began. Is it the same one? Have they
sent you a different child? Why didnât you look closer last
time, Pékler?
This time he asked how long they were going to let her
stay.â
;
ha
Til
âThey'll tell me. And Ill try to let you know.â And
would there be time for him to recalibrate! from his little
squirrel who dreamed of living on the Moon to this dark,
long-legged, Southern creature, whose awkwardness and
ark
In the Zone.
487
need of a father were so touching, so clear even to Pékler,
at this their second (or was it first, or third?) meeting?
Hardly any news of Leni. They had been separated, Ilse
said, during the winter. She'd heard..a rumor that her
_ mother had been moved to a different camp. So,,so. Pres-
ST
a
ey
a
Sa
ae
ent.a-pawn, withdraw the queen: Weissmann, waiting to
see how Pékler would react. This time he had gone too
far; Pékler laced up his shoes and calmly enough went out
looking for the SS man, comered him in his office, de-
nounced him before a panel of kindly, dim governmental
figures, the speech eloquéntly climaxing.as he threw chess-
board. and pieces all into Weissmannâs arrogantly blinking
face... PĂ©klerâs impetuous, yes, a rebelâbut General-
direktor itâs his kind of fire and honestly we needâ
The child had suddenly come into his arms, to kiss him
again. For free, Pokler forgot his troubles and held her to
his heart for a long time, without speaking. .
But that night in the cubicle, only byoathibetaib moon-
wishes this yearâfrom her cot, he was awake wondering,
one daughter one impostor? same daughter twice? two im-
postors? Beginning to work out the combinations for a third:
visit, a.fourth.... Weissmann, those behind âhim, had
thousands of these children available. As the years passed,
as they grew more nubile, would Pékler.even come to fall
in love with oneâwould she reach the kingâs row that way
and become a queen-substitute for lost, for forgotten Leni?
The Opponent knew that Poklerâs suspicion would always
be stronger than any fears about real incest..
. They
could make up new, rules, to complicate the game in-
definitely. How could any man as empty as Pékler felt
that night be flexible enough for that?
Kotâit was ridiculousâhadnât he seen her go by from
every angle in their old city rooms? Carried, asleep, crying,
crawling, laughing, hungry. Often he had come home too
tired to make it to the bed, and had lain on the floor with
his head under the one wood table, curled, beaten, wonder-
ing if he could even sleep. The first time Ilse noticed, she
crawled over and sat staring at him for a long time. She
had never seen him still, horizontal, with his eyes shut. .
He drifted toward sleep. Ilse leaned over and bit him 4 in
the leg, as she bit crusts of bread, cigarettes, shoes, any-
thing that might be food. âIâm your father. âYou're
488
Graviryâs RaAInBow
inert and edible. Pékler screamed and rolled out of the
way. Ilse began to cry. He was too tired to want to think
about discipline. It was Leni finally who calmed her down.
He knew all Ilseâs cryings, her first attempts at words,
the colors of her shit, the sounds and shapes that brought
her tranquillity. He ought to know if this child was his
own or not. But he didnât. Too much had happened be-
tween. Too much history and dream. ...
Next morning his group leader handed Pékler a furlough
chit, and a paycheck with a vacation bonus. No travel
restrictions, but a time limit of two weeks. Translation:
Will you come back? He packed some things, and they got
on the train for Stettin. The sheds and assembly buildings,
the concrete monoliths and steel gantries that were the
map of his life flared backward, shadowing into great
purplish chunks, isolated across the marshland one from
another, in parallax away. Would he dare not to come
back? Could he think so far ahead?
He'd left their destination up to Ilse. She chose Zwélf-
kinder. It was the end of summer, nearly the end of peace-
time. The children knew what was coming. Playing refu-
gee, they crowded the railway carriages, quieter, more
solemn than Pékler had expected. He had to keep fighting
an urge to start babbling each time Ilseâs eyes turned from
the window toward his own. He saw the same thing in all
their eyes: he was strange to them, to her, and growing
stranger, and he knew of no way to reverse it... .
In a corporate State, a place must be made for in-
nocence, and its many uses. In developing an official ver-
sion of innocence, the culture of childhood has proven in-
valuable. Games, fairy-tales, legends from history, all the
paraphernalia of make-believe can be adapted and even
embodied in a physical place, such as at Zwolfkinder,
Over the years it had become a childrenâs resort, almost a
spa. If you were an adult, you couldnât get inside the city
limits without a child escort. There was a child mayor, a
child city council of twelve. Children picked up the papers,
â
fruit peelings and bottles you left in the street, children
gave you guided tours through the Tierpark, the Hoard
of the Nibelungen, cautioning you to silence during the
impressive re-enactment of Bismarkâs elevation,
at the
spring equinox of 1871, to prince and imperial chancellor
The Innocence of Zwélfkinder
- Pékler and Ilse travel to Zwélfkinder, a surreal resort town where children hold all visible positions of authority and social order.
- The state utilizes the 'culture of childhood' to manufacture a specific version of innocence, using fairy tales and legends to mask adult business.
- Adults are prohibited from entering the city limits without a child escort, effectively reversing the traditional power dynamic between generations.
- The town features elaborate, artificial attractions like the Glass Mountain and an Antarctic Panorama, where children perform roles in heavy costumes despite the summer heat.
- Pékler feels a growing estrangement from Ilse, struggling to maintain a facade while the looming threat of war shadows their visit.
- The distance they traveled to reach the resortâ280 kilometersâominously matches the operational range of the A4 rocket.
In a corporate State, a place must be made for innocence, and its many uses.
488
Graviryâs RaAInBow
inert and edible. Pékler screamed and rolled out of the
way. Ilse began to cry. He was too tired to want to think
about discipline. It was Leni finally who calmed her down.
He knew all Ilseâs cryings, her first attempts at words,
the colors of her shit, the sounds and shapes that brought
her tranquillity. He ought to know if this child was his
own or not. But he didnât. Too much had happened be-
tween. Too much history and dream. ...
Next morning his group leader handed Pékler a furlough
chit, and a paycheck with a vacation bonus. No travel
restrictions, but a time limit of two weeks. Translation:
Will you come back? He packed some things, and they got
on the train for Stettin. The sheds and assembly buildings,
the concrete monoliths and steel gantries that were the
map of his life flared backward, shadowing into great
purplish chunks, isolated across the marshland one from
another, in parallax away. Would he dare not to come
back? Could he think so far ahead?
He'd left their destination up to Ilse. She chose Zwélf-
kinder. It was the end of summer, nearly the end of peace-
time. The children knew what was coming. Playing refu-
gee, they crowded the railway carriages, quieter, more
solemn than Pékler had expected. He had to keep fighting
an urge to start babbling each time Ilseâs eyes turned from
the window toward his own. He saw the same thing in all
their eyes: he was strange to them, to her, and growing
stranger, and he knew of no way to reverse it... .
In a corporate State, a place must be made for in-
nocence, and its many uses. In developing an official ver-
sion of innocence, the culture of childhood has proven in-
valuable. Games, fairy-tales, legends from history, all the
paraphernalia of make-believe can be adapted and even
embodied in a physical place, such as at Zwolfkinder,
Over the years it had become a childrenâs resort, almost a
spa. If you were an adult, you couldnât get inside the city
limits without a child escort. There was a child mayor, a
child city council of twelve. Children picked up the papers,
â
fruit peelings and bottles you left in the street, children
gave you guided tours through the Tierpark, the Hoard
of the Nibelungen, cautioning you to silence during the
impressive re-enactment of Bismarkâs elevation,
at the
spring equinox of 1871, to prince and imperial chancellor
'» In the Zone
»
489
.. child police reprimanded you if you were caught alone,
without your child accompanying. Whoever carried on the
real business of the townâit could not have been. chil-
drenâthey were well hidden.
A late summer, a late, retrospective blooming. ... Birds
flew everywhere, the sea warmed, the sun shone on into
the evenings. Random children took your shirt cuff by
mistake, and trudged along for minutes before discovering
you were not their adult, and then wandered off. with
backward smiles. The Glass Mountain twinkledâ rose and
white in the hot sun, the elf king and his queen made a
royal progress every noon with a splendid retinue of
dwarves and sprites, handing out cakes, ices and candies.
At each intersection or square, bands playedâmarches,
folk-dances, hot jazz, Hugo Wolf. Children went streaming
like confetti. At the drinking fountains, where soda water
sparkled deep inside the fanged mouths of dragons, of wild
lions and tigers, the queues of children waited, each for
his moment of danger, leaning halfway into the shadow,
into the smell of wet cement and old water, into the
mouth of the beast, to drink. In the sky, the tall ferris
wheel spun. From Peenemiinde they had come 280 kilom-
eters, which was to be, coincidentally, the operational
range of the Ay.
Among all there was to choose from, Wheel, myths,
jungle animals, clowns, Ilse found her way to the Antarctic
Panorama. Two or three boys hardly older than she wan-
dered through the imitation wilderness, bundled up in
sealskins, constructing cairns and planting flags in the
August humidity. Watching them made Pékler sweat. A
few âsled dogsâ lay suffering in the shade of the dirty
papier-maché sastrugi, on plaster snow that had begun to
crack, A hidden projector threw images of the aurora on
a white scrim. Half a dozen stuffed penguins also dotted
_ the landscape.
âSoâyou want to live at the South Pole. Have you
given up so easily onââKotâidiot, that was a slipââon
the Moon?â Heâd been good up till then about cross-
examining. He couldnât afford to know who she was. In
i
2
the false Antarctic, in ignorance of what had attracted her
_ there, uneasy and dripping sweat, he waited for her
ue 5
\
i
\
answer,
490
Gravity's Rainsow
She, or They, let him off. âOh,â with a shrug, âwho
wants to live on the Moon?â They never brought it up
again.
Back at their hotel, they were handed the key by an
eight-year-old desk clerk, rose inva whining elevator run
by a uniformed child, to-a room still warm from the dayâs
heat. She closed the door, took off her hat and scaled it
over to her bed. Pékler collapsed on his own bed. She
came over to take off his shoes.
âPapi,â gravely unlacing, âmay I sleep next to you to-
night?â One of her hands had come lightly to rest on the
beginning of his bare calf. Their eyes met for half a
second. A number of uncertainties shifted then for Pékler
and locked into sense. To his shame, his first feeling was
pride. He hadnât known he was so vital to the program.
Even in this initial moment, he was seeing it from Their
sideâevery quirk goes in the dossier, gambler, foot-fetish-
ist or soccer fan, itâs all important, it can all be used. Right
now we have to keep them happy, or at least neutralize
the foci of their unhappiness. You may not understand
what their work really is, not at the level of the data, but
you're an administrator after all, a leader, your job is to get
results ... PĂ©kler, now, has mentioned a âdaughter.â Yes,
yes we know itâs disgusting, one never can tell what they
have locked up in there with those equations, but we must
all put off our judgments for now, there'll be time after the
war to get back to the Péklers and their dirty little se-
crets....
.
;
He hit her upside the head with his open hand, a loud
and terrible blow. That took care of his anger. Then; be-
fore she could cry or speak, he had dragged her up on the
bed next to him, her dazed little hands already at the
buttons of his trousers, her white frock already pulled
above her waist. She had been wearing nothing at all
undermeath, nothing all day... how Iâve wanted you, she
whispered as paternal plow found its way into filial fur-
row...and after hours of amazing incest; they dressed in
silence, and crept out into the leading edge of faintest
flesh dawn, everything they would ever need packed in-
side her flowered bag, past sleeping children doomed to |
the end of summer, past monitors and railway guards,
â
down at last to the water and the fishing boats, to a
PĂ©klerâs Choice and the Dossier
- Pékler experiences a moment of profound uncertainty when his supposed daughter, Ilse, makes a sexual advance toward him.
- He immediately views the situation through the lens of the State, suspecting the authorities are manipulating his 'perversities' to keep him productive.
- A dark, incestuous fantasy of escape to Denmark plays out in his mind, serving as a violent and surreal mental diversion from his reality.
- Ultimately, Pékler rejects the cynical interpretation and chooses to believe the girl simply seeks comfort and human connection.
- The narrative highlights the impossibility of verifying identity or truth within the tangled, redundant bureaucracy of the Nazi State.
- PĂ©klerâs decision is framed not as an act of faith, but as a necessary act of conservation to survive the psychological pressure of the program.
A number of uncertainties shifted then for Pékler and locked into sense.
490
Gravity's Rainsow
She, or They, let him off. âOh,â with a shrug, âwho
wants to live on the Moon?â They never brought it up
again.
Back at their hotel, they were handed the key by an
eight-year-old desk clerk, rose inva whining elevator run
by a uniformed child, to-a room still warm from the dayâs
heat. She closed the door, took off her hat and scaled it
over to her bed. Pékler collapsed on his own bed. She
came over to take off his shoes.
âPapi,â gravely unlacing, âmay I sleep next to you to-
night?â One of her hands had come lightly to rest on the
beginning of his bare calf. Their eyes met for half a
second. A number of uncertainties shifted then for Pékler
and locked into sense. To his shame, his first feeling was
pride. He hadnât known he was so vital to the program.
Even in this initial moment, he was seeing it from Their
sideâevery quirk goes in the dossier, gambler, foot-fetish-
ist or soccer fan, itâs all important, it can all be used. Right
now we have to keep them happy, or at least neutralize
the foci of their unhappiness. You may not understand
what their work really is, not at the level of the data, but
you're an administrator after all, a leader, your job is to get
results ... PĂ©kler, now, has mentioned a âdaughter.â Yes,
yes we know itâs disgusting, one never can tell what they
have locked up in there with those equations, but we must
all put off our judgments for now, there'll be time after the
war to get back to the Péklers and their dirty little se-
crets....
.
;
He hit her upside the head with his open hand, a loud
and terrible blow. That took care of his anger. Then; be-
fore she could cry or speak, he had dragged her up on the
bed next to him, her dazed little hands already at the
buttons of his trousers, her white frock already pulled
above her waist. She had been wearing nothing at all
undermeath, nothing all day... how Iâve wanted you, she
whispered as paternal plow found its way into filial fur-
row...and after hours of amazing incest; they dressed in
silence, and crept out into the leading edge of faintest
flesh dawn, everything they would ever need packed in-
side her flowered bag, past sleeping children doomed to |
the end of summer, past monitors and railway guards,
â
down at last to the water and the fishing boats, to a
_In the Zone
491
fatherly old sea-dog in a braided captainâs hat, who wel-
comed them aboard and stashed them below decks, where
she snuggled down in the bunk as they got under way
and sucked him for hours while the engine pounded, till
the Captain called, âCome on up, and take a look at your
new home!â Gray and green, through the mist, itâ was
Denmark. âYes, theyâre a free people here. Good luck to
both of youlâ The three of them, there on deck, stood
hugging....
No. What Pokler did was choose to believe she wanted
comfort that night, wanted not to be alone. Despite Their
game, Their palpable evil, though he had no more reason
to trust âIlseâ than he trusted Them, by an act not of faith,
not of courage but of conservation, he chose to believe
-
that. Even in peacetime, with unlimited resources, he
couldnât have proven her identity, not beyond the knife-
â
edge of zero tolerance his precision eye needed. The years
Ilse would have spent between Berlin and Peenemiinde
were so hopelessly. tangled, for all of Germany, that no
real chain of events could have been established for sure,
not even PĂ©klerâs hunch that somewhere in the Stateâs over-
size paper brain a specific perversity had been assigned
him and dutifully stored. For every government agency,
the Nazi Party set up a duplicate. Committees fissioned,
merged, generated spontaneously, disappeared. No one
would show a man his dossierâ
It was not, in fact, even clear to him that he had made
a choice. But it was in those humming moments in the
room smelling of a.summer day, whose light no one had lit
yet, with her round straw hat a frail moon on the bed-
spread, lights of the Wheel slowly pouring red and green
over and over outside in the dark, and a group of school-
boys singing in the street a refrain from before their time,
their sold-out and cruelly handled timeâJuch-heierasas-sal
o tempo-tempo-ralâthat board and pieces and patterns at
least all did come clear for him, and Poékler knew that
while he played, this would have to be Ilseâtruly his
child, truly as he could make her. It was the real moment
of conception, in which, years too late, he became her
_ father.
_
Through the rest of the furlough, they strolled about
Zwolfkinder, always hand in hand. Lanterns swaying from
The Persistence of Vision
- Pökler experiences a profound moment of paternal connection with Ilse during a game, viewing it as her true spiritual conception.
- The pair explores Zwölfkinder, a surreal amusement park filled with colonial dioramas, mechanical dinosaurs, and patriotic reenactments.
- Ilse is taken away annually, leading Pökler to realize his daughter is being presented to him in 'summertime frames' to create a cinematic illusion of her growth.
- Pökler draws a parallel between his cyclical, 'shuttered' love and the mechanical operations of the PeenemĂŒnde wind tunnel.
- The engineer recognizes how the forces of the Reich and coercion warp his own identity just as supersonic flow deforms the profile of a rocket.
- Upon returning from his furlough in 1943, Pökler discovers the devastation of the British air raid and begins to harbor a dark suspicion.
The only continuity has been her name, and Zwolfkinder, and Pöklerâs loveâlove something like the persistence of vision, for They have used it to create for him the moving image of a daughter.
_In the Zone
491
fatherly old sea-dog in a braided captainâs hat, who wel-
comed them aboard and stashed them below decks, where
she snuggled down in the bunk as they got under way
and sucked him for hours while the engine pounded, till
the Captain called, âCome on up, and take a look at your
new home!â Gray and green, through the mist, itâ was
Denmark. âYes, theyâre a free people here. Good luck to
both of youlâ The three of them, there on deck, stood
hugging....
No. What Pokler did was choose to believe she wanted
comfort that night, wanted not to be alone. Despite Their
game, Their palpable evil, though he had no more reason
to trust âIlseâ than he trusted Them, by an act not of faith,
not of courage but of conservation, he chose to believe
-
that. Even in peacetime, with unlimited resources, he
couldnât have proven her identity, not beyond the knife-
â
edge of zero tolerance his precision eye needed. The years
Ilse would have spent between Berlin and Peenemiinde
were so hopelessly. tangled, for all of Germany, that no
real chain of events could have been established for sure,
not even PĂ©klerâs hunch that somewhere in the Stateâs over-
size paper brain a specific perversity had been assigned
him and dutifully stored. For every government agency,
the Nazi Party set up a duplicate. Committees fissioned,
merged, generated spontaneously, disappeared. No one
would show a man his dossierâ
It was not, in fact, even clear to him that he had made
a choice. But it was in those humming moments in the
room smelling of a.summer day, whose light no one had lit
yet, with her round straw hat a frail moon on the bed-
spread, lights of the Wheel slowly pouring red and green
over and over outside in the dark, and a group of school-
boys singing in the street a refrain from before their time,
their sold-out and cruelly handled timeâJuch-heierasas-sal
o tempo-tempo-ralâthat board and pieces and patterns at
least all did come clear for him, and Poékler knew that
while he played, this would have to be Ilseâtruly his
child, truly as he could make her. It was the real moment
of conception, in which, years too late, he became her
_ father.
_
Through the rest of the furlough, they strolled about
Zwolfkinder, always hand in hand. Lanterns swaying from
492
Gravityâs RAINBOW
the trunks of elephantsâ heads on top of tall pillars lit their
way... over spidery bridges looking down. at snow-leop-
ards, apes, hyenas .. . along the miniature railway, between
the corrugated pipe legs of steel-mesh dinosaurs, down to
the patch of African desert where every two hours exactly
the treacherous natives attacked an encampment of Gen-
eral von Trothaâs brave men in blue, all the parts played
by exuberant boys, and a great patriotic favorite with
children of all ages... up on the giant Wheel so naked; so
void of grace, there for only the clear mission: to lift and
to frighten... .
:
On their last nightâthough he didnât know it, for they
would take her as abruptly and invisibly as beforeâthey
stood looking in again at stuffed penguins and false snow,
and around them the artificial aurora flickered.
âNext year,â squeezing her hand, âwe'll come back
here, if you like.â
âOh yes. Every year, Papi.â
Next day she was gone, taken back into the coming war,
leaving Pokler alone in a country of children, to go back
to Peenemiinde after all, alone. ...
So it has gone for the six years since. A daughter a year,
each one about a year older, each time taking up nearly
from scratch. The only continuity has been her name, and
Zwolfkinder, and PĂ©klerâs loveâlove something like the
persistence of vision, for They have used it to create for
him the moving image of a daughter, flashing him only
these summertime frames of her, leaving it to him to build
the illusion of a single child... what would the time scale
matter, a 24th of a second âor a year (no more, the engi-
neer thought, than in a wind-tunnel, or an oscillograph
whose turning drum you could speed or slow at will. . 2yP
Outside the Peenemiinde wind-tunnel, Pékler has come
to stand at night, next to the the great sphere, 40 feet high,
listening to the laboring pumps as they evacuate the air
from the white sphere, five minutes of growing voidâ
then one terrific gasp: 20 seconds of supersonic flow...
thenâ the fall of the shutter, and the pumps starting up
again... he has listened, and taken it to imply his own
cycle of shuttered love, growing empty over the year for
two weeks in August, engineered with the same care. He
has smiled, and drunk toasts, and traded barracks humor
â~~ See
aia:
In the Zone:
493
. with Major Weissmann, while all the time, behind the
music and the giggling, he could hear the flesh of pieces
moved in darkness and winter across the marshes and
mountain chains of the board...watched run after run
the Halbmodelle results out of the wind tunnel, showing
how the net normal force would be distributed over the
Rocketâs length, for hundreds of different Mach numbersâ
seen the true profile of the Rocket warped and travestied,
a rocket of wax, humped like a dolphin at around caliber
2, necking down toward the tail which was then stretched
'
up, impossibly, in a high point with a lower shoulder aft
-of itâand seen how his own face might be plotted, not in
light but in net forces acting upon it from the flow of
Reich and coercion and love it moved through... and
known that it must suffer the same degradation, as death
will warp face to skull....
In 43, because he was away at Zwolfkinder, Pékler
missed the British air raid on Peenemiinde. Returning to
the station,:as soon as he came in sight of the âforeign
-
workersâ â quarters at Trassenheide razed and smashed,
bodies still beirig dug from the wreckage, a terrible sus-
picion began, and: would not be put down. Weissmann
was saving him for something: some unique destiny. Some-
how the man had known the British would bomb that
night, known even in â39, and so arranged the tradition of
_
an August furlough, year after year but all toward protect-
ing Pékler from the one bad night. Not quite balanced...
a bit paranoid, yes, yes... but the thought purred: on in
his brain, and he felt himself turning to stone.
~
Smoke seeped from the earth, charred trees fell, as he
watched, at no more than a breath from the direction of
the sea. Powdered. dust rose upâ at every footfall, turning
clothes white, faces to masks of dust. The farther up the
peninsula, the less damage. A strange gradient of death
and wreckage, south to north, in which the poorest and
most helpless got it worstâas, indeed, the gradient was to
run east to west, in London a year later when the rockets
began to. fall. Most of the casualties had been among
âforeign workers,â a euphemism for civilian prisoners
. brought in from countries under German occupation. The
wind tunnel and the measuring house were untouched, the
_ pre-production works only slightly damaged. PĂ©klerâs col-
PĂ©klerâs Destiny and the Rocket
- Pékler reflects on a perceived destiny where his absence during a devastating British bombing raid was orchestrated by a higher power or a paranoid design.
- The aftermath of the raid reveals a 'gradient of death' where the poorest and foreign civilian prisoners suffered the most while technical facilities remained largely intact.
- Pékler faces the silent accusation and resentment of his colleagues who survived the trauma while he was away in 'fairyland.'
- The narrative introduces the psychological dominance of Weissmann, a sadistic figure who Pékler believes is grooming him for a state of total possession and 'maximum cruelty.'
- The rocket project moves to Blizna, Poland, to solve the 'airburst problem' where the A4 vehicles disintegrate upon re-entry.
- PĂ©klerâs role shifts from design to the procurement of specialized materials like plastics, a transition marked by the strange influence of Weissmannâs orders.
A strange gradient of death and wreckage, south to north, in which the poorest and most helpless got it worstâas, indeed, the gradient was to run east to west, in London a year later when the rockets began to fall.
In the Zone:
493
. with Major Weissmann, while all the time, behind the
music and the giggling, he could hear the flesh of pieces
moved in darkness and winter across the marshes and
mountain chains of the board...watched run after run
the Halbmodelle results out of the wind tunnel, showing
how the net normal force would be distributed over the
Rocketâs length, for hundreds of different Mach numbersâ
seen the true profile of the Rocket warped and travestied,
a rocket of wax, humped like a dolphin at around caliber
2, necking down toward the tail which was then stretched
'
up, impossibly, in a high point with a lower shoulder aft
-of itâand seen how his own face might be plotted, not in
light but in net forces acting upon it from the flow of
Reich and coercion and love it moved through... and
known that it must suffer the same degradation, as death
will warp face to skull....
In 43, because he was away at Zwolfkinder, Pékler
missed the British air raid on Peenemiinde. Returning to
the station,:as soon as he came in sight of the âforeign
-
workersâ â quarters at Trassenheide razed and smashed,
bodies still beirig dug from the wreckage, a terrible sus-
picion began, and: would not be put down. Weissmann
was saving him for something: some unique destiny. Some-
how the man had known the British would bomb that
night, known even in â39, and so arranged the tradition of
_
an August furlough, year after year but all toward protect-
ing Pékler from the one bad night. Not quite balanced...
a bit paranoid, yes, yes... but the thought purred: on in
his brain, and he felt himself turning to stone.
~
Smoke seeped from the earth, charred trees fell, as he
watched, at no more than a breath from the direction of
the sea. Powdered. dust rose upâ at every footfall, turning
clothes white, faces to masks of dust. The farther up the
peninsula, the less damage. A strange gradient of death
and wreckage, south to north, in which the poorest and
most helpless got it worstâas, indeed, the gradient was to
run east to west, in London a year later when the rockets
began to. fall. Most of the casualties had been among
âforeign workers,â a euphemism for civilian prisoners
. brought in from countries under German occupation. The
wind tunnel and the measuring house were untouched, the
_ pre-production works only slightly damaged. PĂ©klerâs col-
494
Gravityâs RaInsow
â
leagues were outside Scientist Housing, which had been
hitâphantoms moving in morning fog still not bumed
off, washing up in buckets of beer because the water was
still out. They stared at Pokler, failing, enough of them, to
keep accusation out of their faces.»
âI wish I could have missed this,â
âDr. Thiel is dead.â
âHow was fairyland, PĂ©kler?â
âTm sorry,â he said. It wasnât his fault. The others were
âsilent; some watching, some still in shock from the night.
Mondaugen showed up then. âWe're exhausted. Could
you come with me to Pre-production? A lot has to be
sorted out, we need a hand.â They shuffled along, each in
his own dust-cloud. âIt was terrible,â Mondaugen said. âAll
of us have been under some strain.â
âThey sounded like Iâ'd done it.â
„
cs
âYou feeling guilty because you werenât here?â
âI'm wondering why I wasnât here. Thatâs all.â
âBecause you were in ZwĂ©lfkinder,â replied the en-
lightened one. âDonât invent. complications.â
He tried not to. That was Weissmannâs job, wasnât âit,
Weissmann was the sadist, he had: responsibility for com-
ing up with new game-variations, building toward a maxi-
mum cruelty in which Pékler would be unlaid to nerves
vessels and tendons, every last convolution of brain flat-
tened out in the radiance of the black candles, nowhere
to shelter, entirely his masterâs possession . ..; the moment
in which he is defined to himself at last. . ... This is what
Pokler could feel waiting now, a room heâd never sĂ©en, a
ceremony he couldnât memorize in advance. ...
There were false alarms. Pékler was almost sure once
during the winter, during the test series at Blima. They
had moved east into Poland, to fire over land. The shots
from Peenemiinde were all out to sea, and there'd been no
way to observe the re-entry of the A4. Blizna was almost
exclusively an SS project: part of Maj.-Gen. Kammlerâs
empire-building. The Rocket at that point was plagued by
an airburst problem in its terminal phaseâthe vehicle blew
apart before reaching the target. Everyone
had an idea.
It might be an overpressure in the liquid-oxygen tank.
Perhaps, because the Rocket coming down was lighter by
10 tons of fuel and oxidizer, the shift in the center of
ost ee
a
In the Zone
-
495
gravity was making it unstable. Or perhaps the insulation
on the alcohol tank was at fault, somehow allowing resid-
ual fuel to be burned
on re-entry. This was Poklerâs
reason for being there. By then he was no longer in the
propulsion group, or even working as a designerâhe was
in the Materials
office, expediting the procurement of
various plastics for insulation, shock absorption, gasketryâ
exciting stuff. The orders to Blizna were strange enough to
be Weissmannâs work: the day PĂ©kler went out to sit in
the Polish meadows at the exact spot where the Rocket
was supposed to come down, he was certain.
Green rye and low hills for miles: all around, Pékler was
by a small trench, in the Sarnaki target area, pointing his
binoculars south toward Blizna like everybody else: wait-
ing. Erwartung in the crosshairs, with the just-sprung rye
blowing, its gentler nap being brushed up by the wind .
look down at this countryside, down through Rockét-miles
of moming space: the many shades of forest green, Polish
farmhouses white and brown, dark eels of rivers catching
the sun at their curves...and at the very center down
there, in the holy X, Pokler, crucified, invisible at first look,
but in a moment... now beginning to resolve as the fall
gathers momentumâ
-
But how can âhe believe in its reality up there? Insects
whine, the sun is almost warm, he can gaze off at the red
earth and millions of blowing stalks, and fall nearly into a
light trance: in shirtsleeves, with his bony knees pointing
up, the gray suit jacket wrinkled years beyond last pressing
bundled under his ass to soak up the dew. The others
he came out with are dotted here about Ground Zero,
blithe Nazi buttercupsâbinoculars sway from slate-colored
horsehide straps around their necks, the Askania crew
fuss with their equipment, and one of the SS liaison men
(Weissmann isnât here) keeps looking at his watch, then
at the sky, then the watch, the crystal becoming, in brief
flashes on/off, a nacreous circle binding together the hour
and the fleecy sky.
Pokler scratches at a graying 48-hour beard, bites at lips
very chapped, as if he has spent most of the late winter
outside: he has a winter look. Around his eyes, over the
years, has grown a ruinous system of burst capillaries,
shadows, folds, crowsfeet, a ground that by now has
The Ellipse of Uncertainty
- Pökler waits at Ground Zero in the Polish countryside, serving as a human marker for a Rocket test flight.
- The physical environment contrasts the peaceful, pastoral beauty of the Polish meadows with the impending violence of the ballistic impact.
- Pökler reflects on his own aging and the way his 'simple' nature has been exploited by others throughout his career.
- The 'Ellipse of Uncertainty' provides a mathematical safety net, yet Pöklerâs growing paranoia suggests he is being personally targeted by Weissmann.
- The scene culminates in a state of frozen anticipation where math, personal history, and the threat of sudden death converge at the target point.
It is after all his own personal ass whose quivering sphincter is centered right on Ground Zero.
In the Zone
-
495
gravity was making it unstable. Or perhaps the insulation
on the alcohol tank was at fault, somehow allowing resid-
ual fuel to be burned
on re-entry. This was Poklerâs
reason for being there. By then he was no longer in the
propulsion group, or even working as a designerâhe was
in the Materials
office, expediting the procurement of
various plastics for insulation, shock absorption, gasketryâ
exciting stuff. The orders to Blizna were strange enough to
be Weissmannâs work: the day PĂ©kler went out to sit in
the Polish meadows at the exact spot where the Rocket
was supposed to come down, he was certain.
Green rye and low hills for miles: all around, Pékler was
by a small trench, in the Sarnaki target area, pointing his
binoculars south toward Blizna like everybody else: wait-
ing. Erwartung in the crosshairs, with the just-sprung rye
blowing, its gentler nap being brushed up by the wind .
look down at this countryside, down through Rockét-miles
of moming space: the many shades of forest green, Polish
farmhouses white and brown, dark eels of rivers catching
the sun at their curves...and at the very center down
there, in the holy X, Pokler, crucified, invisible at first look,
but in a moment... now beginning to resolve as the fall
gathers momentumâ
-
But how can âhe believe in its reality up there? Insects
whine, the sun is almost warm, he can gaze off at the red
earth and millions of blowing stalks, and fall nearly into a
light trance: in shirtsleeves, with his bony knees pointing
up, the gray suit jacket wrinkled years beyond last pressing
bundled under his ass to soak up the dew. The others
he came out with are dotted here about Ground Zero,
blithe Nazi buttercupsâbinoculars sway from slate-colored
horsehide straps around their necks, the Askania crew
fuss with their equipment, and one of the SS liaison men
(Weissmann isnât here) keeps looking at his watch, then
at the sky, then the watch, the crystal becoming, in brief
flashes on/off, a nacreous circle binding together the hour
and the fleecy sky.
Pokler scratches at a graying 48-hour beard, bites at lips
very chapped, as if he has spent most of the late winter
outside: he has a winter look. Around his eyes, over the
years, has grown a ruinous system of burst capillaries,
shadows, folds, crowsfeet, a ground that by now has
496
Gravirtyâs Rainsow
gathered in the simple, direct eyes of his younger and
poorer days...no. Something was in them, even then,
something others saw and knew they could use, and
found how to. Something PĂ©kler missed. Heâs spent enough
of his life looking into mirrors. He really ought to remem-
ber.....
The airburst, if it happens, will be in visual range.
Abstractions, math, models are fine, but when youâre down
to it and everybodyâs hollering for a fix, this is what you
do: you go and sit exactly on the target with indifferent
shallow trenches for shelter, and you watch it in the silent
firebloom of its last few seconds, and see what you will
see. Chances are astronomically against a perfect hit, of
course, that is why one is safest at the center of the
target area. Rockets are supposed to be like artillery shells,
they disperse about the aiming point in a giant ellipseâ
the Ellipse of Uncertainty. But Pékler, though trusting as
much as any scientist in uncertainty, is not feeling too secure
here. It is after all his own personal ass whose quivering
sphincter is centered right on Ground Zero, And there is
more to this than ballistics. There is Weissmann, Any num-
ber of chemists and materials people know as much about
insulation as Pokler... why should he have been picked,
unless... somewhere... in his brain now two foci sweep to-
gether and become one . .. zero ellipse. ..asingle point...
a live warhead, secretly loaded, special bunkers for every-
one else ... yes thatâs what he wants .:. . all tolerances in the
guidance cooperating toward a perfect shot, right on top
of PĂ©kler... ah, Weissmann, your end game lacks finesseâ
but there were never spectators and judges not in all this
time, and who ever said the end could
not be this brutal?
Paranoia has rushed Pékler, drowned him to the temples
and scalp. He may have shit, he canât tell. His pulse thuds
in his neck. His hands and feet ache. The black-suited
blond enforcers look on. Their metal insignia twinkle. Low
hillsides lie under early sun. All the field glasses stare
south, The Aggregat is on route, nothing can be changed.
No one else here cares for the penetralia of the moment,
or last mysteries:
there have been too sera rational
years. The paper has piled too thick and far.
Pékler cannot
reconcile, not really, his dream of the perfectly victimized
with the need bred into him to take care of businessânor
The Bureaucracy of Destruction
- Pékler struggles to reconcile his internal vision of the 'Perfect Rocket' with the mundane, bureaucratic demands of military testing.
- A failed rocket test at Sarnaki results in a premature airburst, highlighting the technical failures and the cold observation of the SS.
- The narrative shifts to the Mittelwerke underground factory, where production is dispersed to avoid Allied air raids.
- Pékler experiences haunting, surreal dreams where a lightbulb acts as a surrogate for the menacing presence of Weissmann.
- Rumors of internal power shifts emerge as the Schwarzkommando begins to distance itself from the formal SS structure through specialized expertise.
- Weissmann is depicted not as a diabolical figure, but as a harassed civil servant buried under the weight of failing logistics and paperwork.
But inside PĂ©klerâs life, on no record but his soul, his poor harassed German soul, the time base has lengthened, and slowed: the Perfect Rocket is still up there, still descending.
496
Gravirtyâs Rainsow
gathered in the simple, direct eyes of his younger and
poorer days...no. Something was in them, even then,
something others saw and knew they could use, and
found how to. Something PĂ©kler missed. Heâs spent enough
of his life looking into mirrors. He really ought to remem-
ber.....
The airburst, if it happens, will be in visual range.
Abstractions, math, models are fine, but when youâre down
to it and everybodyâs hollering for a fix, this is what you
do: you go and sit exactly on the target with indifferent
shallow trenches for shelter, and you watch it in the silent
firebloom of its last few seconds, and see what you will
see. Chances are astronomically against a perfect hit, of
course, that is why one is safest at the center of the
target area. Rockets are supposed to be like artillery shells,
they disperse about the aiming point in a giant ellipseâ
the Ellipse of Uncertainty. But Pékler, though trusting as
much as any scientist in uncertainty, is not feeling too secure
here. It is after all his own personal ass whose quivering
sphincter is centered right on Ground Zero, And there is
more to this than ballistics. There is Weissmann, Any num-
ber of chemists and materials people know as much about
insulation as Pokler... why should he have been picked,
unless... somewhere... in his brain now two foci sweep to-
gether and become one . .. zero ellipse. ..asingle point...
a live warhead, secretly loaded, special bunkers for every-
one else ... yes thatâs what he wants .:. . all tolerances in the
guidance cooperating toward a perfect shot, right on top
of PĂ©kler... ah, Weissmann, your end game lacks finesseâ
but there were never spectators and judges not in all this
time, and who ever said the end could
not be this brutal?
Paranoia has rushed Pékler, drowned him to the temples
and scalp. He may have shit, he canât tell. His pulse thuds
in his neck. His hands and feet ache. The black-suited
blond enforcers look on. Their metal insignia twinkle. Low
hillsides lie under early sun. All the field glasses stare
south, The Aggregat is on route, nothing can be changed.
No one else here cares for the penetralia of the moment,
or last mysteries:
there have been too sera rational
years. The paper has piled too thick and far.
Pékler cannot
reconcile, not really, his dream of the perfectly victimized
with the need bred into him to take care of businessânor
a
In the Zone
497
see how these may be one and the same. The A4 must,
after all, go out in the field very soon, this failure rate
must be brought down, and so those whoâve come are here,
and if there is a massive failure of vision this morning in
the Polish meadow, if no one, not even the most paranoid,
can see anything at all beyond the stated Requirements, cer-
tainly itâs not unique to this time, this place, where the
eyes cupped against the black binoculars are looking only
for the dayâs âreluctant virginâââas the witty rocketeers
have dubbed their problem rocketsâto announce herself
... to note where, forward to aft, the trouble may be, the
shape of a vapor trail, the sound of the burst, anything
that might help. ...
At Sarnaki, as the records tell it, the rocket came down
that day with:the usual double-blast, a streak of white
condensation in the blue sky: another premature airburst.
Steel fragments fell, a hundred feet away from the Zero
point, slashing into the rye like hail. Pékler saw the explo-
sion, no more than anyone else. He was never sent out
again. The SS people watched him get to his feet, and
stretch, and slowly move off with the others. Weissmann
would get his report. New varieties of torture would be
coming.
But inside PĂ©klerâs life, on no record but his soul, his
poor harassed German soul, the time base has lengthened,
and slowed: the Perfect Rocket is still up there, still de-
scending. He still waitsâeven now, alone at ZwĂ©lfkinder
waiting for âIlse,â-for this summerâs return, and with it an
explosion that will take him by surprise. ...
-
In the spring, when the winds at Peenemiinde had
shifted around to the southwest, and the first birds were
back, Pékler was transferred to the underground factory
at Nordhausen, in the Harz. Work at Peenemiinde, after
the British raid, had begun to fall off. The planâagain
Kammlerâsâwas now to disperse testing and production
around Germany, to prevent another and possibly fatal
Allied attack. PĂ©klerâs duties at the Mittelwerke were rou-
tine: materials, procurement. He slept in a bunk next to a
wall of dynamited stone painted white, with a bulb over
» his head burning all night long. He dreamed that the bulb
was a representative of âWeissmann,
a creature whose
bright filament was its soul. They held long dream-dia-
498
Gravity's Rainsow
logues whose substance Pékler could never remember. The
bulb was explaining the plot to him in detailâit was
more grand and sweeping than Pékler could ever have
imagined, it seemed many nights to be purely music, his
consciousness moving through the soundscape at bay, ob-
serving, compliant, still precariously safe, but not for long.
At the time there were rumors of an estrangement grow-
ing between Weissmann and his âmonster,â Enzian. The
Schwarzkommando by then had grown away from the SS
structure, much as the SS itself had from the German
Army. Their power now lay not in absolute weaponry but
in information and expertise. Pékler was happy to hear
that Weissmann was having his troubles, but at a loss how
to use it to any advantage. When his orders to Nordhausen
had come through, heâd had a flash of despair. Was the
game adjourned then? He might never see Ilse again. But
a memo had come, telling him to report to Weissmann in
his office.
The hair at Weissmannâs temples was graying and dis-
arranged. Pékler saw that one earpiece of his glasses was
held on with a paper clip. His desk was
a
litter of docu-
ments, reports, reference books. It was a surprise to see
him looking less diabolical than harassed as any civil
servant under pressure. His eyes were aimed in Poklerâs
direction, but the lenses distorted them:
âYou understand that this transfer to Nordhausen is
voluntary.â
Poékler understood, with relief and two seconds of actual
love for his protector, that the game was still on. âIt will
be something new.â
âYes?â Partly a challenge, but party interested too.
âProduction. Weâve been so involved here with the re-
search-and-development end. Itâs not a*weapon for us so
much as a âflying laboratory,â as Dr. Thiel said onceââ
âDo you miss Dr. Thiel?â
_
âYes. He wasnât in my section. I didnât know him well.â
âA.shame he got caught in the raid. We i move in an
Ellipse of Uncertainty, donât we?â
Pékler allowed himself a look at si cluttered desk,
quick enough to be taken either for nervousness or as a
comebackâWeissmann, looks like you have your own
Ellipse all rightââOh, I donât have the time usually to
worry. At least the Mittelwerke is underground.â
The Labyrinth of Convenience
- Pökler accepts a voluntary transfer to the Nordhausen production facility, maintaining a facade of professional interest to please his protector, Weissmann.
- The narrative reveals Pökler's profound self-deception, as he admits to 'misfiling' the sensory evidence of the atrocities occurring around him to avoid emotional distress.
- Pökler recognizes that his engineering skills acted as a 'gift of Daedalus,' allowing him to build a mental labyrinth between himself and the suffering of others.
- Upon reuniting with his daughter Ilse, Pökler finally connects the 'darkness in her eyes' to the brutal reality of the Dora concentration camp where she is being held.
- The realization dawns that his daughter was a prisoner only meters away from his workplace, potentially suffering the same violence he chose to ignore.
- Pökler experiences a late, agonizing awakening to his own complicity, realizing that the 'convenience' he was sold by the regime is now being collected as a debt of pain.
Weissmannâs cruelty was no less resourceful than PĂ©klerâs own engineering skill, the gift of Daedalus that allowed him to put as much labyrinth as required between himself and the inconveniences of caring.
498
Gravity's Rainsow
logues whose substance Pékler could never remember. The
bulb was explaining the plot to him in detailâit was
more grand and sweeping than Pékler could ever have
imagined, it seemed many nights to be purely music, his
consciousness moving through the soundscape at bay, ob-
serving, compliant, still precariously safe, but not for long.
At the time there were rumors of an estrangement grow-
ing between Weissmann and his âmonster,â Enzian. The
Schwarzkommando by then had grown away from the SS
structure, much as the SS itself had from the German
Army. Their power now lay not in absolute weaponry but
in information and expertise. Pékler was happy to hear
that Weissmann was having his troubles, but at a loss how
to use it to any advantage. When his orders to Nordhausen
had come through, heâd had a flash of despair. Was the
game adjourned then? He might never see Ilse again. But
a memo had come, telling him to report to Weissmann in
his office.
The hair at Weissmannâs temples was graying and dis-
arranged. Pékler saw that one earpiece of his glasses was
held on with a paper clip. His desk was
a
litter of docu-
ments, reports, reference books. It was a surprise to see
him looking less diabolical than harassed as any civil
servant under pressure. His eyes were aimed in Poklerâs
direction, but the lenses distorted them:
âYou understand that this transfer to Nordhausen is
voluntary.â
Poékler understood, with relief and two seconds of actual
love for his protector, that the game was still on. âIt will
be something new.â
âYes?â Partly a challenge, but party interested too.
âProduction. Weâve been so involved here with the re-
search-and-development end. Itâs not a*weapon for us so
much as a âflying laboratory,â as Dr. Thiel said onceââ
âDo you miss Dr. Thiel?â
_
âYes. He wasnât in my section. I didnât know him well.â
âA.shame he got caught in the raid. We i move in an
Ellipse of Uncertainty, donât we?â
Pékler allowed himself a look at si cluttered desk,
quick enough to be taken either for nervousness or as a
comebackâWeissmann, looks like you have your own
Ellipse all rightââOh, I donât have the time usually to
worry. At least the Mittelwerke is underground.â
In the Zone
499
âThe tactical sites won't be.â
âDo you think I might be sentââ
Weissmann shrugged and favored Pékler with a big
fake smile: âMy dear PĂ©kler, how can anyone predict
where you'll go? We'll see how it all develops.â
_-
Later, in the Zone, with his guilt become a sensual
thing, prickling at his eyes and membranes like an allergy,
it would seem to Pékler that he could not, even by that day
_in Weissmannâs office, have been âignorant of the truth.
That he had known the truth with his senses, but allowed
all the evidence to be misfiled where it wouldnât upset
him. Known everything, but refrained from the only act
that could have redeemed âhim. He should have throttled
Weissmann where he sat, corrugations of skinny throat and
Adam/âs apple sliding under Poklerâs palms, thick eyeglasses
_ sliding off as the weak little eyes go blearing helplessly
after their final darkener. .. .
Pékler helped: with his own blindness. He knew about
Nordhausen, and the Dora camp: he could seeâthe
starved bodies, the eyes of the foreign prisoners being
marched to work at four in the morning in the freezing
cold and darkness, the shuffling thousands in their striped
uniforms. He had known too, all along, that Ilse was living
in a re-education camp. But it wasnât till August, when the -
furlough arrived as usual in its blank kraft envelope, and
Poékler rode northward through the gray kilometers of a
_ Germany he no longer recognized, bombed and burned,
_the wartime villages and rainy purple heath, and found
_ her at last waiting in the hotel lobby at Zwolfkinder with
the same darkness in her eyes (how had he missed it till
now? such swimming orbits of pain) that he could finally
put the two data together. For months, while her father
across the wire or walls did his dutiful hackwork, she had
been prisoner only a few meters away from him, beaten,
perhaps violated. ... If he must curse Weissmann, then he
must also curse himself. Weissmannâs cruelty was no less
resourceful than PĂ©klerâs own engineering skill, the gift of
Daedalus that allowed him to put as much labyrinth as
required between himself and the inconveniences of caring.
They had sold him convenience, so much of it, all on
credit, and now They were collecting.
__ Trying, a bit late for it, to open himself to the pain he
"should have been feeling, he questioned her now. Did she
q
dy
-
500
Gravity's Rainsow
know the name of her camp? Yes, Ilse confirmedâor was
told to answerâthat it was Dora. The night before she
left to come here sheâd seen a hanging. Evening was the
hour for the hangings. Did he want to hear about it? Did
he want to hear about it....
She was very hungry. They spent the first few days eat-
ing, whatever Zwolfkinder had to sell. There was less than
the year before, and it was much more expensive. But the
enclave of innocence still enjoyed a high priority, so there
was something.
Not so many children this year, though. The engineer
and girl had the place practically to themselves. The Wheel
and most of the other rides stood motionless. Petrol short-
age, a child guard informed them. Luftwaffe flights roared
overhead. Nearly every night the sirens cried out, and
they watched the searchlights come on in Wismar and in
Liibeck, and sometimes heard the bombs. What was Pékler
doing in this dream world, this lie? His country waited to
be crushed between invaders from east and west: back at
Nordhausen the hysteria had risen to epic scale, as the
first rockets were about to go out into the field, about to
fulfill engineering prophecies old as peacetime. Why, at
this critical moment, had they let Pékler off? Who élse
these, days was getting furloughs? And what was âIlseâ
doing here, wasnât she supposed to be too old by now for
fairy talesP her new breasts so visible now beneath her
frock, her eyes so nearly empty drifting without real in-
terest toward random boys destined for the Volkssturm,
older boys, no more interested in her. They dreamed of
their orders, of colossal explosions and deathâif they even
saw her it was sidewise, sly...her Father will tame her
... her teeth will bite the pole ... someday I will have a
herd of them for myself... but first I must find my Cap-
tain... somewhere out in the. War... first they must de-
liver me from this little place... .
Who was that, going by just thenâwho was the slender
boy who flickered across her path, so blond, so white he
was nearly invisible in the hot haze that had come to
settle over ZwolfkinderP Did she see him, and did she
know him for her own second shadow? She was conceived
because her father saw a movie called Alpdriicken one
night and got a hardon. Pékler in his horny staring had
Shadows in the Zone
- Pökler and Ilse spend a muted, tense holiday at Zwölfkinder while the Third Reich faces imminent collapse from east and west.
- The amusement park setting is a decaying 'dream world' where rides are motionless due to fuel shortages and the sky is filled with Luftwaffe flights.
- Ilse has matured into a cynical 'professional inmate' who views her existence as a prisoner with cold, detached pragmatism.
- The narrative explores the metaphysical 'Double Light' and Gnostic symbolism, suggesting the characters are shadows of shadows within a cinematic reality.
- A violent outburst occurs when Pökler slaps Ilse to stop her from describing the grim survival tactics she has learned in the camps.
- Pökler realizes that Ilseâs eyes contain the vast, shadowed architecture of a life and a past that he can never truly reclaim or understand.
Ilse gazed back at him, no tears, eyes room after room strung into the shadows of an old prewar house he could wander for years, hearing voices and finding doors, hunting himself, his life as it might have been....
-
500
Gravity's Rainsow
know the name of her camp? Yes, Ilse confirmedâor was
told to answerâthat it was Dora. The night before she
left to come here sheâd seen a hanging. Evening was the
hour for the hangings. Did he want to hear about it? Did
he want to hear about it....
She was very hungry. They spent the first few days eat-
ing, whatever Zwolfkinder had to sell. There was less than
the year before, and it was much more expensive. But the
enclave of innocence still enjoyed a high priority, so there
was something.
Not so many children this year, though. The engineer
and girl had the place practically to themselves. The Wheel
and most of the other rides stood motionless. Petrol short-
age, a child guard informed them. Luftwaffe flights roared
overhead. Nearly every night the sirens cried out, and
they watched the searchlights come on in Wismar and in
Liibeck, and sometimes heard the bombs. What was Pékler
doing in this dream world, this lie? His country waited to
be crushed between invaders from east and west: back at
Nordhausen the hysteria had risen to epic scale, as the
first rockets were about to go out into the field, about to
fulfill engineering prophecies old as peacetime. Why, at
this critical moment, had they let Pékler off? Who élse
these, days was getting furloughs? And what was âIlseâ
doing here, wasnât she supposed to be too old by now for
fairy talesP her new breasts so visible now beneath her
frock, her eyes so nearly empty drifting without real in-
terest toward random boys destined for the Volkssturm,
older boys, no more interested in her. They dreamed of
their orders, of colossal explosions and deathâif they even
saw her it was sidewise, sly...her Father will tame her
... her teeth will bite the pole ... someday I will have a
herd of them for myself... but first I must find my Cap-
tain... somewhere out in the. War... first they must de-
liver me from this little place... .
Who was that, going by just thenâwho was the slender
boy who flickered across her path, so blond, so white he
was nearly invisible in the hot haze that had come to
settle over ZwolfkinderP Did she see him, and did she
know him for her own second shadow? She was conceived
because her father saw a movie called Alpdriicken one
night and got a hardon. Pékler in his horny staring had
i
._ In the Zone.
501
missed the Directorâs clever Gnostic symbolism in the
lighting scheme of the two shadows, Cainâs and Abelâs.
But Ilse, some Ilse, has persisted beyond her cinema
' mother, beyond filmâs end, and so have the shadows of
_ shadows. In the Zone, all will be moving under the Old
' Dispensation, inside the Cainistsâ light and space: not out
of any precious Gollerei, but because the Double Light was
always there, outside all film, and that shucking and jiving
moviemaker was the only one around at the time who
| happened to notice it and use it, although in deep igno-
rance, then and now, of what he was showing the nation of
starers.... So that summer Ilse passed herself by, too
_ fixed at some shadowless interior noon to mark the inter-
|
section, or to care..
She and Pokler hardly talked this time: it was their
mutest holiday together. She walked broodful, her head
'' down, her hair hooding her face, brown legs kicking at
refuse the undermanned garbage detail hadnât picked up.
Was it her time of life, or did she resent being under
_ orders to spend time with a dull and aging engineer at a
place sheâd outgrown years ago?
:
âYou donât really want to be here, do you?â They sat by
| a polluted stream, throwing bread to ducks. Poklerâs stom-
ach was upset from ersatz coffee and tainted meat. His
head ached.
:
.
âItâs here or the camp,â her face stubbornly aside. âI
| eet really want to be anywhere. I donât care.â
âTse.â
\
âDo you like it here? Do you want to be back under
_ your mountain? Do you talk to the elves, Franz?â
âNo, I donât enjoy it where I amââFranz?ââbut I have,
' Thave my job... .â
âYes. So do I, My job is being a prisoner. Iâm a profes-
| sional inmate. I know how to get favors, who to steal
_ from, how to inform, how toââ
___
Any minute sheâd say it... âPleaseâstop it Ilseââ this
_ time Pokler got hysterical and did slap her. Ducks sur-
_
prised at the sharp report about-faced and waddled away.
_ Ilse gazed back at him, no tears, eyes room after room
| strung into the shadows of an old prewar house he could
_ wander for years, hearing voices and finding doors, hunt-
ing himself, his life as it might have been.... He could
The Special Destiny of Pökler
- Pökler attempts to break the cycle of emotional manipulation by telling Ilse she does not have to return, leading to a rare moment of genuine connection.
- As the war nears its end, the Mittelwerke becomes a frantic environment of sleep deprivation and improvised manufacturing due to supply chain collapses.
- Pöklerâs obsession with Weissmann shifts from fear to a realization that the war's chaos has rendered his personal torture a low priority for the SS.
- Weissmann reappears, visibly aged and diminished, to conscript Pökler for a final, highly secretive modification of a single rocket marked with five zeros.
- The project involves mysterious structural changes to the rocket's propulsion section, the purpose of which remains hidden from the engineers.
He veered into the wind of his long isolation, shuddering terribly.
502
Gravity's RAINBOW
not bear indifference from her. Close to losing control,
Pokler committed then his act of courage. He quit the
ame.
; âIf you donât want to come back next year,â even
though ânext yearâ meant so little by that point in Ger-
many, âyou donât have to. It would be better if you
didnât.â
;
She knew immediately what heâd done. She pulled one
knee up, and rested her forehead there, and thought. âTl
come back,â she said very quietly.
âYourâ
âYes. Really.â
He did, then, let everything go, every control. He veered
into the wind of his long isolation, shuddering terribly. He
cried. She took his hands. The floating ducks watched. The
sea cooled under the hazy sun. An accordion played some
where back in the town. From behind the decaying mythi
cal statues, sentenced children shouted to each other.
Summer ended.
Back at the Mittelwerke he tried, and kept trying, tc
get into the Dora camp and find Ilse. It didnât matter any
more about Weissmann, The SS guards each time were
courteous, understanding, impossible to get past.
The work load now was incredible. Pokler was getting
less than two hoursâ sleep a day. News of the war reachec
under the mountain only as rumors and shortages. Procure
ment philosophy had been âtriangularââthree possibk
sources for the same part, in case one one was destroyed
Depending what didnât come from where, or how late i
was, you knew which factories had been bombed, whicl
rail connections taken out. Toward the end you had to try
and fabricate many of the components locally.
When Pékler had time to think, he was met by the
growing enigma of Weissmannâs silence. To provoke him
or the memory of him, Pékler went out of his way to tall
to officers in Major FĂ©rschnerâs security detail, looking for
news. None of them responded to Pékler
as
anything more
than a nuisance. They'd heard rumors
that Weissmanr
was no longer here but in Holland, in command of his owx
rocket battery. Enzian had dropped out of sight, alongs
with many key Schwarzkommando., Pékler grew more anc
more certain that this time the game was really over, tha
âIn the Zoneâ
503
the war had caught them all, given new life-death priori-
ties and no more leisure for torturing a minor engineer.
He was able to relax some, move through the dayâs routine,
wait for the end, even allow himself to hope that the
thousands in Dora would soonâ be free, among them Ilse,
some acceptable Ilse...
.-
But in the spring, he did see Weissmann again. He woke
from a dream of a gentle Zwolfkinder that was also Nord-
hausen, a city of elves producing toy moon-rockets, and
there wasâ Weissmannâs face at the edge of his bunk,
watching him. He seemed to have aged ten years, and
Pokler hardly recognized him.
âThere isnât much time,â Weissmann whispered. âCome
with me.â
;
;
' They moved through the white,: sleepless bustle of the
_ tunnels, Weissmann walking slowly and stiffly, both men
silent. In one of the office spaces, half a dozen others were
waiting, along with some SS and SD. âWe've already ob-
.
tained permission from your groups;â Weissmann said, âto
release you for work on a special project. This will be the
highest possible security. You'll be billeted separately, eat
separately, and speak to no one who is not present in this
room.â They all looked around to see who that might be.
No one they knew. They looked back at Weissmann.
He wanted a modification worked into one rocket, only
one. Its serial number had been removed, âand five zeros
painted in. Pékler knew immediately that this was what
Weissmann had been saving him for: this was to be his
âspecial destiny.â It made no sense to him: he had to de-
velop a plastic fairing, of a certain size, with certain in-
' sulating properties,
for the propulsion section of the rocket.
The propulsion engineer was the busiest on the project,
rerouting steam and fuel lines, relocating hardware. What-
ever the new device was, nobody saw it. According to
the rumor, it was being produced elsewhere, and was nick-
named the Schwarzgerat, because of the high secrecy sur-
rounding it. Even the weight was classified. They were
through inside of two weeks, and the âVorrichtung fiir die
Asolierungâ was-on its way to the field. PĂ©kler reported
âback to his regular supervisor, and the routine went on as
before. He never saw Weissmann again.
The first week in April, with American units supposed
\
ig"
The Awakening of Pékler
- As the American forces approach, the engineers at the secret facility experience a 'graduation feeling' while preparing for the collapse of the government.
- Pékler receives a travel permit and a note, presumably from Weissmann, promising a reunion with his daughter as payment for his work on the mysterious Schwarzgerat.
- Venturing into the Dora concentration camp for the first time, Pékler is confronted with the visceral reality of the 'invisible kingdom' of death and suffering that supported his scientific work.
- Overwhelmed by the sight of corpses and the dying, Pékler realizes that his abstract mathematical vacuums and labyrinths were merely the other side of this atrocity.
- In a final act of desperate empathy and guilt, Pékler gives his gold wedding ring to a dying, anonymous woman in the camp, hoping it might buy her a small measure of survival.
- The narrative shifts to Berlin, where Slothrop and Margherita navigate a ruined landscape guarded by scorched tanks in the Russian sector.
The odors of shit, death, sweat, sickness, mildew, piss, the breathing of Dora, wrapped him as he crept in staring at the naked corpses being carried out now that America was so close, to be stacked in front of the crematoriums, the menâs penises hanging, their toes clustering white and round as pearls.
âIn the Zoneâ
503
the war had caught them all, given new life-death priori-
ties and no more leisure for torturing a minor engineer.
He was able to relax some, move through the dayâs routine,
wait for the end, even allow himself to hope that the
thousands in Dora would soonâ be free, among them Ilse,
some acceptable Ilse...
.-
But in the spring, he did see Weissmann again. He woke
from a dream of a gentle Zwolfkinder that was also Nord-
hausen, a city of elves producing toy moon-rockets, and
there wasâ Weissmannâs face at the edge of his bunk,
watching him. He seemed to have aged ten years, and
Pokler hardly recognized him.
âThere isnât much time,â Weissmann whispered. âCome
with me.â
;
;
' They moved through the white,: sleepless bustle of the
_ tunnels, Weissmann walking slowly and stiffly, both men
silent. In one of the office spaces, half a dozen others were
waiting, along with some SS and SD. âWe've already ob-
.
tained permission from your groups;â Weissmann said, âto
release you for work on a special project. This will be the
highest possible security. You'll be billeted separately, eat
separately, and speak to no one who is not present in this
room.â They all looked around to see who that might be.
No one they knew. They looked back at Weissmann.
He wanted a modification worked into one rocket, only
one. Its serial number had been removed, âand five zeros
painted in. Pékler knew immediately that this was what
Weissmann had been saving him for: this was to be his
âspecial destiny.â It made no sense to him: he had to de-
velop a plastic fairing, of a certain size, with certain in-
' sulating properties,
for the propulsion section of the rocket.
The propulsion engineer was the busiest on the project,
rerouting steam and fuel lines, relocating hardware. What-
ever the new device was, nobody saw it. According to
the rumor, it was being produced elsewhere, and was nick-
named the Schwarzgerat, because of the high secrecy sur-
rounding it. Even the weight was classified. They were
through inside of two weeks, and the âVorrichtung fiir die
Asolierungâ was-on its way to the field. PĂ©kler reported
âback to his regular supervisor, and the routine went on as
before. He never saw Weissmann again.
The first week in April, with American units supposed
\
ig"
504
Gravityâs Rainsow
to be arriving at any moment, most of the engineers were
packing, collecting addresses of co-workers, drinking fare-
well toasts, drifting through the emptying bays. There was.
a graduation feeling in the air. It was hard not to whistle
âGaudeamus igitur.â Suddenly the cloistered life was about
to come to an end.
A young SS guard, one of the last to leave, found
Pékler in the dusty cafeteria, handed him an envelope,
and. left without a word. It was the usual furlough form,
superseded now by the imminent death of the Govern-
mentâand a travel permit to ZwĂ©olfkinder. Where the
dates should have been, someone had written, almost
illegibly, âafter hostilities end.â On the back, in the same
hand (Weissmannâs?) a note to PĂ©kler. She has been re-
leased. She will meet you there. He understood that this
was payment for the retrofit work heâd done on the 00000.
How long had Weissmann been keeping him deliberately
on ice, all so heâd have a plastics man he could depend
on, when the time came?
On the last day, Pékler walked out the south end of the
main tunnels. Lorries were everywhere, all engines idling,
farewell in the spring air, tall trees sunlit green on the
mountainsides. The Obersturmbannfiihrer was not at his
post when Pékler went into Dora. He was not looking for
Ilse, or not exactly. He may have felt that he ought to
â
look, finally. He was not prepared. He did not know. Had
the data, yes, but did not know, with senses or heart. ...
The odors of shit, death, sweat, sickness, mildew, piss,
the breathing of Dora, wrapped him as he crept in staring
at the naked corpses being carried out now that America
was so close, to be stacked in front
of the crematoriums,
the menâs penises hanging, their toes clustering white and
round as pearls. ..each face so perfect, so individual; the
lips.stretched back.into death-grins, a whole silent audience
caught at the punch line of the joke...and the living,
stacked ten to a straw mattress, the weakly crying, cough-
ing, losers.... All his vacuums, his labyrinths, had been
the other side of this. While he lived, and drew marks on
paper, this invisible kingdom had kept on, in the darkness
outside... all this time. ..
. Pékler vomited. He cried some.
The walls did not dissolveâno prison wall ever did, not
from tears, not at this finding, on every pallet, in every â
â
âIn the Zone
505
cell, that the faces are ones he knows after all, and holds
dear as himself, and cannot, then, let them return to that
silence. ... But what can he ever do about itP How can
he ever keep them? Impotence, mirror-rotation of sorrow,
works him terribly as runaway heartbeating, and with
hardly any chances left him for good rage, or for turn-
ing....
Where it was darkest and smelled the worst, Pékler
found a woman lying, a random woman. He sat for half
' an hour holding her bone hand. She was breathing. Be-
fore he left, he took off his gold wedding ring and put it
on the womanâs thin finger, curling her hand to keep it
. from sliding off. If she lived, the ring would be good for
: few meals, or a blanket, or a night indoors, or a ride
ome....
O
Back to Berlin, with a terrific thunderstorm blowing over
the city. Margherita has brought Slothrop to a rickety
wood house near the Spree, in the Russian sector. A
burned-out KG6nigstiger tank guards the entrance, its paint
scorched, treadsâ mangled and blasted off of the drive
sprocket, its dead monster 88 angled down to point at the
gray river, hissing and spiculed with the rain.
.
Inside are bats nesting in the rafters, remains of beds
- with a moldy smell, broken glass and bat shit on the bare
! wood floor, windows boarded up except where the stove
is vented through because the chimneyâs down. On a rock-
_ ing chair lies a moleskin coat, a taupe cloud. Paint from
some long-ago artist is still visible over the floor in wrin-
Kled splashes of aged magenta, saffron, steel blue, reverse
deformations of paintings whose whereabouts are unknown.
_ Back in a corner hangs a tarnished mirror, birds and flow-
ers painted in white all around its frame, reflecting Mar-
gherita and Slothrop and the rain out the open door. Part
of the ceiling, blown away when the King Tiger died, is
covered now with soggy and stained cardboard posters âall
_ of the same cloaked figure in the broad-brimmed hat, with
its legend per FEIND HORT zU. Water drips through in half
a dozen places.
The Anti-Paranoid Void
- Slothrop and Margherita take refuge in a derelict, rain-soaked building filled with the remnants of an artist's past and propaganda posters.
- After a rare meal of potatoes and wine, Slothrop experiences a profound existential shift away from his previous obsessions.
- The narrative introduces 'anti-paranoia,' a state where the protagonist feels the terrifying lack of connection between events and his own life.
- Slothrop realizes he is losing his mind as the 'Listening Enemy' posters become mere pasteboard rather than symbols of a grand conspiracy.
- Venturing back into the ruined city at midnight, Slothrop navigates a landscape of surreal debris, from discarded piano keys to mud that feels like flesh.
If there is something comfortingâreligious, if you wantâabout paranoia, there is still also anti-paranoia, where nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of us can bear for long.
â
âIn the Zone
505
cell, that the faces are ones he knows after all, and holds
dear as himself, and cannot, then, let them return to that
silence. ... But what can he ever do about itP How can
he ever keep them? Impotence, mirror-rotation of sorrow,
works him terribly as runaway heartbeating, and with
hardly any chances left him for good rage, or for turn-
ing....
Where it was darkest and smelled the worst, Pékler
found a woman lying, a random woman. He sat for half
' an hour holding her bone hand. She was breathing. Be-
fore he left, he took off his gold wedding ring and put it
on the womanâs thin finger, curling her hand to keep it
. from sliding off. If she lived, the ring would be good for
: few meals, or a blanket, or a night indoors, or a ride
ome....
O
Back to Berlin, with a terrific thunderstorm blowing over
the city. Margherita has brought Slothrop to a rickety
wood house near the Spree, in the Russian sector. A
burned-out KG6nigstiger tank guards the entrance, its paint
scorched, treadsâ mangled and blasted off of the drive
sprocket, its dead monster 88 angled down to point at the
gray river, hissing and spiculed with the rain.
.
Inside are bats nesting in the rafters, remains of beds
- with a moldy smell, broken glass and bat shit on the bare
! wood floor, windows boarded up except where the stove
is vented through because the chimneyâs down. On a rock-
_ ing chair lies a moleskin coat, a taupe cloud. Paint from
some long-ago artist is still visible over the floor in wrin-
Kled splashes of aged magenta, saffron, steel blue, reverse
deformations of paintings whose whereabouts are unknown.
_ Back in a corner hangs a tarnished mirror, birds and flow-
ers painted in white all around its frame, reflecting Mar-
gherita and Slothrop and the rain out the open door. Part
of the ceiling, blown away when the King Tiger died, is
covered now with soggy and stained cardboard posters âall
_ of the same cloaked figure in the broad-brimmed hat, with
its legend per FEIND HORT zU. Water drips through in half
a dozen places.
506
Gravity's Ramnsow
Greta lights a kerosene lamp. It warms the rainlight
with a handful of yellow. Slothrop builds a fire in the stove
while Margherita ducks down under the house, where it
turns out thereâs a great stash of potatoes. Jeepers, Slothrop
hasnât seen a potato for months. Thereâs onions in a sack
too, and even wine. She cooks, and they both sit there
just pigging on those spuds. Later, without parap
or talk, they fuck each other to sleep. But a few hours
later Slothrop wakes up, and lies there wondering where
heâs going.
Well, to find that Siure Bummer, soon as this rain lets up,
give the man his hashish. But what then? Slothrop and
the S-Geridt and the Jamf/Imipolex mystery have grown to
be strangers. He hasnât really thought about them for a
while. Hmm, when was that? The day he sat with Saéure
in the café, smoking that reefer...oh, that was day be-
fore yesterday, wasnât it? Rain drips, soaking into the
floor, and Slothrop perceives that he is losing his mind.
If there is something comfortingâteligious, if you wantâ
about paranoia, there is still also anti-paranoia, where |
nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of |
us can bear for long, Well right now Slothrop feels him-
self sliding onto the anti-paranoid part of his cycle, feels |
the whole city around him going back roofless, vulnerable, |
uncentered as he is, and only pasteboard images now of |
the Listening Enemy left between him and the wet sky.
|
Either They have put him here for a reason, or heâs |
just here. He isnât sure that he wouldnât, actually, rather |
have that reason...
ree
=
The rain lets up at midnight. He leaves Margherita to |
creep out in the cold city with his five kilos, having kept |
for himself the one Tchitcherine plundered from. Russian
troops are singing in their billets. The salt ache of ac
cordion music cries on in back of them. Drunks materialize,
merry and pissing in the center grooves of cobbled alleys.
Mud occupies some streets like flesh. res craters brim
with rainwater, gleaming in the lights of midwatch work
créws clearing "debris. Shattered Biedermeier chair, mate-
less boot, steel eyeglass frame, dog collar (eyes at the
edges of the twisting trail watching her
for blazing),
wine cork, splintered broom, bicycle with one wheel miss-
ing, discarded copies of Tégliche Rundschau, chalcedony
In the Zone
507
doorknob dyed blue long ago with ferrous ferrocyanide,
scattered piano keys (all white, an octave on B to be
_ exactâor H, in the German nomenclatureâthe notes of
'| the rejected Locrian mode), the black and amber eye from
| some stuffed animal. ... The strewn night. Dogs, spooked
| and shivering, run behind walls whose tops are broken
|. like fever charts. Somewhere a gas leak warps for a minute
| into the death and after-rain smells. Ranks of blackened
|, window-sockets run high up the sides. of gutted apart-
| ment buildings. Chunks of concrete are held aloft by iron
â| reinforcing rod that curls like black spaghetti, whole enor-
â| mnous heaps wiggling ominously overhead at your least
| passing brush by.... The smooth-faced Custodian of the
â| Night hovers behind neutral eyes and smile; coiled and
â| pale over the city, humming its hoarse lullabies. Young
-/) men spent the Inflation like this, alone in the street, no place
to go into out of the black winters. Girls stayed up late on
Stcops or stitting on benches in lamplight by the rivers,
|
waiting for business, but the young men had to walk by,
.. ignored, hunching overpadded shoulders, money with no
| relation to anything it could buy, swelling, paper cancer in
| their billfolds. ...
The Chicago Bar is being guarded outside by two of
| their descendants, kids in George Raft suits, many sizes too
' big, too many ever to grow into. One keeps coughing, in
uncontrolled dying spasms. The other licks his lips and
| Stares
at Slothrop. Gunsels. When he mentions Saure
|
Bummerâs name, they move together in front of the door,
: _ shaking their heads. âLook, Iâm supposed to deliver him a
| package.â
âDonât know him.â
|
âCan I leave a message?â
|
âHeâs not here.â The cougher makes a lunge. Slothrop
| sweeps aside, gives him a quick veronica with his cape,
| sticks his foot out and trips the kid, who lies on the ground
| cursing, all tangled up in his long keychain, while his
|
pardner goes pawing inside of his flapping suitcoat for
| what Slothrop surmises to be a sidearm, so him Slothrop
| Kicks in the balls, and screaming âFickt nicht mit der
| Raketemensch!â so they'll remember, kind of a hiyo Silver
| here, he flees into shadows, among the heaps of lumber,
_
stone and earth.
Da
)
The Ruins of the Chicago Bar
- Slothrop navigates a surreal, post-war urban landscape where ruins are described as 'black spaghetti' and the atmosphere is thick with the ghosts of the Great Inflation.
- He encounters two young 'gunsels' guarding the Chicago Bar, leading to a violent confrontation where Slothrop uses his cape and a kick to escape.
- During his flight, Slothrop shouts the defiant slogan 'Fickt nicht mit der Raketemensch!' (Don't fuck with the Rocketman) to establish his legend.
- The environment shifts into a hallucinatory state where junked vehicles resemble sinister 'Saturday Evening Post' faces that eventually smooth into timeless masks.
- Slothrop reaches Saure Bummerâs ransacked cellar, discovering bizarre artifacts like a wickerware suit and resin footgloves.
- The search concludes with the discovery of a white knight chesspiece made of a mysterious plastic, containing a hidden message for the Rocketman.
The smooth-faced Custodian of the Night hovers behind neutral eyes and smile; coiled and pale over the city, humming its hoarse lullabies.
In the Zone
507
doorknob dyed blue long ago with ferrous ferrocyanide,
scattered piano keys (all white, an octave on B to be
_ exactâor H, in the German nomenclatureâthe notes of
'| the rejected Locrian mode), the black and amber eye from
| some stuffed animal. ... The strewn night. Dogs, spooked
| and shivering, run behind walls whose tops are broken
|. like fever charts. Somewhere a gas leak warps for a minute
| into the death and after-rain smells. Ranks of blackened
|, window-sockets run high up the sides. of gutted apart-
| ment buildings. Chunks of concrete are held aloft by iron
â| reinforcing rod that curls like black spaghetti, whole enor-
â| mnous heaps wiggling ominously overhead at your least
| passing brush by.... The smooth-faced Custodian of the
â| Night hovers behind neutral eyes and smile; coiled and
â| pale over the city, humming its hoarse lullabies. Young
-/) men spent the Inflation like this, alone in the street, no place
to go into out of the black winters. Girls stayed up late on
Stcops or stitting on benches in lamplight by the rivers,
|
waiting for business, but the young men had to walk by,
.. ignored, hunching overpadded shoulders, money with no
| relation to anything it could buy, swelling, paper cancer in
| their billfolds. ...
The Chicago Bar is being guarded outside by two of
| their descendants, kids in George Raft suits, many sizes too
' big, too many ever to grow into. One keeps coughing, in
uncontrolled dying spasms. The other licks his lips and
| Stares
at Slothrop. Gunsels. When he mentions Saure
|
Bummerâs name, they move together in front of the door,
: _ shaking their heads. âLook, Iâm supposed to deliver him a
| package.â
âDonât know him.â
|
âCan I leave a message?â
|
âHeâs not here.â The cougher makes a lunge. Slothrop
| sweeps aside, gives him a quick veronica with his cape,
| sticks his foot out and trips the kid, who lies on the ground
| cursing, all tangled up in his long keychain, while his
|
pardner goes pawing inside of his flapping suitcoat for
| what Slothrop surmises to be a sidearm, so him Slothrop
| Kicks in the balls, and screaming âFickt nicht mit der
| Raketemensch!â so they'll remember, kind of a hiyo Silver
| here, he flees into shadows, among the heaps of lumber,
_
stone and earth.
Da
)
508
Gravity's RaInsow
He takes a trail he thinks Sadure led them along the
other nightâkeeps losing it, wandering into windowless
mazes, tangles of barbed wire holidayed by the death-
storms of last May, then into a strafed and pitted lorry-
park he canât find his way out of for half an hour, a rolling
acre of rubber, grease, steel, and spilled petrol, pieces of
vehicles pointing at sky or earth no differently than in a
peacetime American
junkyard, fused into odd, brown
Saturday Evening Post faces, except that they are not
folksy so much as downright sinister...yes
itâs really
the Saturday Evening Post, all right: they are the faces
of the tricorned messengers coming in from out of the
long pikes, down past the elms, Berkshire legends, travelers
lost at the edge of the Evening. Come with a message.
They unwrinkle, though, if you keep looking. They smooth
out into timeless masks that speak their entire meaning, all
of it right out on the surface.
It takes an hour to find Saureâs cellar. But itâs âdork and
itâs empty. Slothrop goes in, lights the light. Looks like
either a bust or a gang war: printing press vanished,
clothes tossed all around, and some very strange clothes at
that, there is, for example, a wickerware suit, a yellow
wickerware suit actually, articulating along armpit, elbow,
knee and groinlines...oh, hmm, well, Slothrop runs a
quick search of his own here, looking inside shoes, not
really shoes, some of them, but footgloves with individual
toes, not, however, sewn but cast from some unpleasant
variegated resin such as bowling balls are made of...
behind the peeling scraps of wallpaper, up in the rolled-up
windowshade, among the hatchings of one or two phony
Reichsmarks let spill by the lootersâfifteen minutes of
this, finding nothing... and the white object on the table
watching him out of its staring shadows the whole time.
He feels its stare before he spots it finally: a chesspiece
two inches high. A white knight, molded out of plasticâ
a-and waitâll Slothrop finds out what kind of plastic, boy!
Itâs a horseâs skull: the eye-sockets are hollow far down
into the base. Inside one of them is a tightly rolled ciga-
rette paper with a message from Saure. |\âRaketemensch!
Der Springer asks me to give you this, is symbol. Keep
itâby it shall he know you. I am at Jacobistrasse 42,ge
Hof, number 7. As B/4, Me. IPâ Now âAs B/4â was John
Dillingerâs old signoff, Everybody in the Zone this summer
The Schizoid Throat of Berlin
- Slothrop navigates the ruins of the British sector, passing the colossal, silent wreckage of the Brandenburg Gate.
- The narrative adopts a cinematic, futuristic tone, framing Slothrop as a 'swashbuckling Rocketman' touring the high-desert traces of a fallen European order.
- The architecture of the Jacobistrasse tenements is described as a predatory, sentient entity with parabolic arches resembling a gullet waiting to swallow visitors.
- The text explores the 'preterite' population of Berlinâsolitary figures kept in these ruins by the unexplained economic or emotional needs of higher powers.
- Slothrop reaches Saure Borge's hideout, a dark room filled with smoke, straw pallets, and a desperate muse leaning over a concert grand piano.
Chunks of the Gate still lie around in the streetâleaning shell-spalled up in the rainy sky, its silence is colossal, haggard as he pads by flanking it, the Chariot gleaming like coal, driven and still, it is the 30th century and swashbuckling Rocketman has just landed here to tour the ruins, the high-desert traces of an ancient European order....
508
Gravity's RaInsow
He takes a trail he thinks Sadure led them along the
other nightâkeeps losing it, wandering into windowless
mazes, tangles of barbed wire holidayed by the death-
storms of last May, then into a strafed and pitted lorry-
park he canât find his way out of for half an hour, a rolling
acre of rubber, grease, steel, and spilled petrol, pieces of
vehicles pointing at sky or earth no differently than in a
peacetime American
junkyard, fused into odd, brown
Saturday Evening Post faces, except that they are not
folksy so much as downright sinister...yes
itâs really
the Saturday Evening Post, all right: they are the faces
of the tricorned messengers coming in from out of the
long pikes, down past the elms, Berkshire legends, travelers
lost at the edge of the Evening. Come with a message.
They unwrinkle, though, if you keep looking. They smooth
out into timeless masks that speak their entire meaning, all
of it right out on the surface.
It takes an hour to find Saureâs cellar. But itâs âdork and
itâs empty. Slothrop goes in, lights the light. Looks like
either a bust or a gang war: printing press vanished,
clothes tossed all around, and some very strange clothes at
that, there is, for example, a wickerware suit, a yellow
wickerware suit actually, articulating along armpit, elbow,
knee and groinlines...oh, hmm, well, Slothrop runs a
quick search of his own here, looking inside shoes, not
really shoes, some of them, but footgloves with individual
toes, not, however, sewn but cast from some unpleasant
variegated resin such as bowling balls are made of...
behind the peeling scraps of wallpaper, up in the rolled-up
windowshade, among the hatchings of one or two phony
Reichsmarks let spill by the lootersâfifteen minutes of
this, finding nothing... and the white object on the table
watching him out of its staring shadows the whole time.
He feels its stare before he spots it finally: a chesspiece
two inches high. A white knight, molded out of plasticâ
a-and waitâll Slothrop finds out what kind of plastic, boy!
Itâs a horseâs skull: the eye-sockets are hollow far down
into the base. Inside one of them is a tightly rolled ciga-
rette paper with a message from Saure. |\âRaketemensch!
Der Springer asks me to give you this, is symbol. Keep
itâby it shall he know you. I am at Jacobistrasse 42,ge
Hof, number 7. As B/4, Me. IPâ Now âAs B/4â was John
Dillingerâs old signoff, Everybody in the Zone this summer
In the Zone
509
is using it. It indicates to people how you feel about cer-
tain things... .
Saure has included a map showing how to get to where
he is, Itâs clear back in the British sector. Groaning, Slo-
throp pushes on back out in the mud and early morning.
Around the Brandenburg Gate, a slight drizzle starts up
_
again. Chunks of the Gate still lie around in the streetâ
leaning shell-spalled up in the rainy sky, its silence is
colossal, haggard as he pads by flanking it, the Chariot
gleaming like coal, driven and still, it is the 30th century
and swashbuckling Rocketman has just landed here to
tour the ruins, the high-desert traces of an ancient Euro-
pean order....
The Jacobistrasse and most of its quarter, slums, sur-
vivedâ the street-fighting intact, along with its interior
_ darkness, a masonry of shadows that will persist whether
the sun is up or down. Number 12 is an entire block of
tenements dating from before the Inflation, five or six
stories and a mansarde, five or six Hinterhdfe nested one
inside the otherâboxes of a practical jokerâs gift, nothing
in the center but a last hollow courtyard smelling of the
same cooking and garbage and piss decades old. Ha, ha!
Slothrop moseysâ toward the first archway. Streetlight
throws his caped shadow forward into a succession of these
arches, each labeled with a faded paint name, Erster-Hof,
Zweiter-Hof, Dritter-Hof u.s.w., shaped like the entrance
to the Mittelwerke, parabolic, but more
like an open
mouth and gullet, joints of cartilage receding waiting,
waiting to swallow... above the mouth two squared eyes,
organdy whites, irises pitch black, stare him down...
it
- laughs as it has for years without stopping, a blubbery
and percussive laugh, like heavy china rolling or bumping
under the water in the sink. A brainless giggle, just big
old geometric. me, nothinâ tâ be nervous about, cmon in.
...But the pain, the twenty, twentyfive years of pain
paralyzed back in that long throat . . . old outcast, passive,
addicted to survival now, waiting the years out, waiting
for vulnerable saps like Slothrop here to expose itself to,
laughing and crying and all in silence... paint peels from
the Face, burned, diseased, long time dying and how can
Slothrop just walk down into such a schizoid throat? Why,
because it is what the guardian and potent Studio wants
from him, natiirlich: Slothrop is the character juvenile
Tris
510
Gravityâs RaiInsow
tonight: whatâs kept him moving the whole night, him and
the others, the solitary Berliners who come out only in
these evacuated hours, belonging and going noplace, is
Their unexplained need to keep some marginal population
in these wan and preterite places, certainly for economic
though, who knows, maybe emotional reasons too....
Saureâs on the move too, though inside, prowling his
dreams, It looks like one big room, dark, full of tobacco
and kif smoke, crumbled ridges of plaster where walls
have been knocked out, straw pallets all over the floor, a
couple on one sharing a late, quiet cigarette, somebody
snoring on another... glossy Bosendorfer Imperial con-
cert grand piano over which Trudi, wearing only an army
shirt, leans,
a desperate muse, bare legs long and stretch-
ing, âPlease come to bed Gustav, it'll be light soon.â The
only answer
is a peevish strumming among the lower
strings. Sdure is on his side, quite still, a shrunken child,
face long worked at by leaps from second-story windows,
âfirst rubdownsâ under gloved and womanish sergeantsâ
fists in the precinct stations, golden light in the afternoons
over the racetrack at Karlshorst, black light from the pave-
ments of boulevards at night finely wrinkled like leather
stretched over stone, white light from satin dresses, glasses
stacked shining in front of bar mirrors, sans-serif Us at the
entrances
to underground stations pointing in smooth
magnetism at the sky to bring down steel angels of exalta-
tion, of languid surrenderâa face that in sleep is awe-
somely old, abandoned to its cityâs history....
His eyes ââopenâfor an instant Slothrop is only shadowed
green folds, highlighted helmet, light-values still to be put
together. Then comes the sweet nodding smile, everythingâs
O.K., ja, howdy Rocketman, was ist los? Though the un-
regenerate old doper is not quite kindly enough to keep
from opening the ditty bag right away and peering in,
eyes like two pissholes in a snowbank, to see what he has,
âI thought you'd be in the slam or something. e,
Out with a little Moroccan pipe and Saure sets to Sation-
ing a fat crumb of that hashish, ornate the populs
rumba
A little something fides Moroc-co,
With just a lit-tle bit of sock-o,
Rocketman and the SchwarzgerÀt
- Slothrop reunites with the drug-addled Saure Bacher in the Zone, finding him recovering from a counterfeiting bust involving the middleman Springer.
- The dialogue reveals a complex web of black-market economics, involving shifting currencies like American yellow-seal scrip and Sterling speculation.
- Saure offers to procure the SchwarzgerÀt for Slothrop through Springer, but at the exorbitant price of ten thousand pounds sterling.
- Slothrop realizes that Saureâs use of nostalgic American idioms suggests he is not part of the 'Them' conspiracy, as 'They' seek to extinguish memory rather than evoke it.
- The encounter ends with Saure falling back into a drug-induced stupor while Slothrop retires with Trudi, leaving the logistics of the deal and his forged identity unresolved.
If you kill us, donât eat us. If you eat, donât digest. Let us come out the other end again, like diamonds in the shit of smugglers....
510
Gravityâs RaiInsow
tonight: whatâs kept him moving the whole night, him and
the others, the solitary Berliners who come out only in
these evacuated hours, belonging and going noplace, is
Their unexplained need to keep some marginal population
in these wan and preterite places, certainly for economic
though, who knows, maybe emotional reasons too....
Saureâs on the move too, though inside, prowling his
dreams, It looks like one big room, dark, full of tobacco
and kif smoke, crumbled ridges of plaster where walls
have been knocked out, straw pallets all over the floor, a
couple on one sharing a late, quiet cigarette, somebody
snoring on another... glossy Bosendorfer Imperial con-
cert grand piano over which Trudi, wearing only an army
shirt, leans,
a desperate muse, bare legs long and stretch-
ing, âPlease come to bed Gustav, it'll be light soon.â The
only answer
is a peevish strumming among the lower
strings. Sdure is on his side, quite still, a shrunken child,
face long worked at by leaps from second-story windows,
âfirst rubdownsâ under gloved and womanish sergeantsâ
fists in the precinct stations, golden light in the afternoons
over the racetrack at Karlshorst, black light from the pave-
ments of boulevards at night finely wrinkled like leather
stretched over stone, white light from satin dresses, glasses
stacked shining in front of bar mirrors, sans-serif Us at the
entrances
to underground stations pointing in smooth
magnetism at the sky to bring down steel angels of exalta-
tion, of languid surrenderâa face that in sleep is awe-
somely old, abandoned to its cityâs history....
His eyes ââopenâfor an instant Slothrop is only shadowed
green folds, highlighted helmet, light-values still to be put
together. Then comes the sweet nodding smile, everythingâs
O.K., ja, howdy Rocketman, was ist los? Though the un-
regenerate old doper is not quite kindly enough to keep
from opening the ditty bag right away and peering in,
eyes like two pissholes in a snowbank, to see what he has,
âI thought you'd be in the slam or something. e,
Out with a little Moroccan pipe and Saure sets to Sation-
ing a fat crumb of that hashish, ornate the populs
rumba
A little something fides Moroc-co,
With just a lit-tle bit of sock-o,
In the Zone
511
âOh. Well, Springer blew the whistle on our counter-
feiting operation. Kind of a little temporary hitch, you
understand.â
âJ donât. You're supposed to be ace buddies.â
âNot nearly. And he moves in higher orbits.â It is some-
thing very complicated having to do with American yellow-
-
seal scrip being discontinued in the Mediterranean theatre,
-
with the reluctance of Allied forces here to accept Reichs-
/
marks. Springer has a balance-of-payments problem too,
and heâs been speculating heavily in Sterling, and...
âBut,â sez Slothrop, âbut, uh, whereâs my million marks,
then, Emil?â
:
Saure sucks yellow flame flowing over the edge of the
bowl. âIt is gone where the woodbine twineth.â Exactly
what Jubilee Jim Fisk told the Congressional committee
â investigating his and Jay Gouldâs scheme to corner gold
in 1869. The words are a réminder of Berkshire. With
nothing more than that to go on, it occurs to Slothrop that
Saure canât possibly be on the Bad Guysâ side. Whoever
-
They are, Their game has been to extinguish, not remind.
âWell, I can sell by the ounce from what I have,â Slo-
throp reckons. âFor occupation scrip. Thatâs stable, isnât
pit?â
â How can I~
âYou arenât angry. You really arenât.â
âRocketman is above all that shit, Emil.â
âI have a surprise for you. I can get you the Schwarz-
gerat you asked about.â
âYou?â
âSpringer. I asked him for you.â
âQuit fooling. Really? Jeepers, thatâs so swell of youl
âTen thousand. pounds sterling.â
Slothrop loses a whole lungful of smoke.
âThanks
Emil....â He tells SaĂ©ure about the run-in with Tchi-
_tcherine, and also about how he saw that Mickey Rooney.
âRocketman! Spaceman! Welcome to our virgin planet.
We only want to be left in some kind of peace here, O.K.?
If you kill us, donât eat us. If you eat, donât digest. Let us
| come out the other end again, like diamonds in the shit
\
of smugglers... .â
âLookââremembering now the tip that that Geli gave
him long ago in Nordhausenââdid your pal Springer
512
GRAVITYâS RaInsow
mention he was hanging out in Swinemiinde these days,
anyplace like that?â
âOnly the price of your instrument, Rak, Half the money
in front. He said it would cost him at least that much to
track it down.â
âSo he doesnât know where it is. Shit, he could have us
all on the hook, bidding us up, hoping somebodyâs fool
enough to front him some dough.â
âUsually he delivers. You didnât have any trouble, did
you, with that pass he forged?â
âYaaahhhââ Oh. Oh, wow, aha, yes been meaning to
ask you about this little Max Schlepzig item hereâ âNow
then.â But meantime Trudi has abandoned Gustav in the
piano and comes over now to sit and rub her cheeks against
the nap of Slothropâs trousers, dear naked legs whispering
together, hair spilling, shirt half unbuttoned, and Sdure
has at some point rolled over and gone groaning back into
sleep. Trudi and Slothrop retire to a mattress well away
from the Bosendorfer. Slothrop settles back sighing, takes
his helmet off and lets big sweet and saftig Trudi have her
way with him. His joints are aching with rain and city
wandering, heâs half blitzed, Trudi is kissing him into an
amazing comfort,
itâs an open house here, no favored
senses or organs, all are equally at play...for possibly
the first time in his life Slothrop does not feel obliged to
have a hardon, which is just as well, because it does not
seem to be happening with his penis as much as with...
oh mercy, this is embarrassing but... well his nose actu-
ally seems to be erecting, the mucus beginning to flow yes
a nasal hardon here and Trudi has certainly noticed all
right, how could she help but .. . as she slides her lips over
the throbbing snoot and sends a yard of torrid tongue up
one of his nostrils... he can feel each pink taste-bud
as
she penetrates even farther, pulling aside the vestibule walls
and nose-hair now to accommodate her head, then shoul-
ders and... well sheâs halfway in, might as wellâpulling
up her knees, crawling using the hair for hand and foot-
holds she is able to stand at last inside the great red hall
which is quite pleasantly lit, no walls or\ ceiling she can
really discern but rather a fading to seashell and springtime
grades of pink in all directions. ...
eee
They fall asleep in the roomful of snoring, with low-
Musical Dialectics and Nasal Fantasies
- Slothrop experiences a surreal, hallucinatory sexual encounter with Trudi where physical boundaries dissolve and his senses are displaced.
- The setting is an 'open house' of the senses, reflecting a temporary liberation from traditional bodily obligations and anxieties.
- Gustav and Saure engage in a heated debate over the merits of Beethoven's tragic German dialectic versus Rossini's lighthearted Italian sublimity.
- Saure argues that Rossini represents a 'centripetal movement' of love and connection that transcends the machinery of greed and power.
- The philosophical discussion is grounded in the grim reality of post-war Berlin and the news of composer Anton Webern's accidental death.
- The transition from the 'Evil Hour' to morning coffee highlights the juxtaposition of high art theory with the mundane survival of the 'Zone'.
The point is, a person feels good listening to Rossini. All you feel like listening to Beethoven is going out and invading Poland.
512
GRAVITYâS RaInsow
mention he was hanging out in Swinemiinde these days,
anyplace like that?â
âOnly the price of your instrument, Rak, Half the money
in front. He said it would cost him at least that much to
track it down.â
âSo he doesnât know where it is. Shit, he could have us
all on the hook, bidding us up, hoping somebodyâs fool
enough to front him some dough.â
âUsually he delivers. You didnât have any trouble, did
you, with that pass he forged?â
âYaaahhhââ Oh. Oh, wow, aha, yes been meaning to
ask you about this little Max Schlepzig item hereâ âNow
then.â But meantime Trudi has abandoned Gustav in the
piano and comes over now to sit and rub her cheeks against
the nap of Slothropâs trousers, dear naked legs whispering
together, hair spilling, shirt half unbuttoned, and Sdure
has at some point rolled over and gone groaning back into
sleep. Trudi and Slothrop retire to a mattress well away
from the Bosendorfer. Slothrop settles back sighing, takes
his helmet off and lets big sweet and saftig Trudi have her
way with him. His joints are aching with rain and city
wandering, heâs half blitzed, Trudi is kissing him into an
amazing comfort,
itâs an open house here, no favored
senses or organs, all are equally at play...for possibly
the first time in his life Slothrop does not feel obliged to
have a hardon, which is just as well, because it does not
seem to be happening with his penis as much as with...
oh mercy, this is embarrassing but... well his nose actu-
ally seems to be erecting, the mucus beginning to flow yes
a nasal hardon here and Trudi has certainly noticed all
right, how could she help but .. . as she slides her lips over
the throbbing snoot and sends a yard of torrid tongue up
one of his nostrils... he can feel each pink taste-bud
as
she penetrates even farther, pulling aside the vestibule walls
and nose-hair now to accommodate her head, then shoul-
ders and... well sheâs halfway in, might as wellâpulling
up her knees, crawling using the hair for hand and foot-
holds she is able to stand at last inside the great red hall
which is quite pleasantly lit, no walls or\ ceiling she can
really discern but rather a fading to seashell and springtime
grades of pink in all directions. ...
eee
They fall asleep in the roomful of snoring, with low-
In the Zone
513
pitched twangs out of the piano, and the rainâs million-
legged scuttle in the courtyards outside. When Slothrop
wakes up itâs at the height of the Evil Hour, Trudi is in
some other room with Gustav rattling coffee cups, a tor-
toise-shell cat chases flies by the dirty window. Back beside
the Spree, the White Woman is waiting for Slothrop. He
isnât especially disposed to leave. Trudi and Gustav come
in with coffee and half a reefer, and everybody sits around
- gabbing.
Gustav is a composer. For months he has been carrying
on a raging debate with Saure over who is better, Bee-
thoven or Rossini. Saure is for Rossini. âI'm not so much
for Beethoven qua Beethoven,â Gustav argues, âbut as he
represents the German dialectic, the incorporation of more
and more notes into the scale, culminating with dodeca-
_ phonic democracy, where all notes get an equal hearing.
Beethoven was one of the architects of musical freedomâ
he submitted to the demands of history, despite his deaf-
ness. While Rossini was retiring at the age of 36, woman-
izing and getting fat, Beethoven was living a life filled
with tragedy and grandeur.â
âSoPâ is Sdureâs customary answer to that one. âWhich
would you rather do? The point is,â cutting off Gustav's
usually indignant scream, âa person feels good listening to
Rossini. All you feel like listening to Beethoven is going
out and invading Poland. Ode to Joy indeed. The man
didnât even have a sense of humor. I tell you,â shaking his
' skinny old fist, âthere is more of the Sublime in the snare-
drum part to La Gazza Ladra than in the whole Ninth
_ Symphony. With Rossini, the whole point is that lovers
always get together, isolation is overcome, and like it or
not that is the one great centripetal movement of the
World. Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and
the abuse of power, love occurs. All the shit is transmuted
to gold. The walls are breached, the balconies are scaledâ
listen!â It was a night in early May, and the final bombard-
ment of Berlin was in progress. Sdéure had to shout his
head off. âThe Italian girl is in Algiers, the Barberâs in the
crockery, the magpieâs stealing everything in sight! The
World is rushing together. .. .â
This rainy moming, in the quiet, it seems that Gustavâs
_ German Dialectic has come to its end. He has just had
: Ă©
Po
514
Gravityâs RAINBOW
the word, all the way from Vienna along some musiciansâ
grapevine, that Anton Webern is dead. âShot in May, by
the Americans.
Senseless, accidental if you believe in
accidentsâsome mess cook from North Carolina, some
late draftee with a .45 he hardly knew how to use, too late
for WW II, but not for Webern. The excuse for raiding
the house was that Webernâs brother was in the black
market. Who isnât? Do you know what kind of myth thatâs
going to make in a thousand years? The young barbarians
coming in to murder the Last European, standing at the
far end of whatâd been going on since Bach, an expansion
of musicâs polymorphous perversity till all notes were
truly equal at last.... Where was there to go after We-
bern? It was the moment of maximum freedom. It all had
to come down. Another GĂ©tterdiammerungââ
âYoung fool,â SaĂ©ure now comes cackling in from out in
Berlin, trailing a pillowcase full of flowering tops just in
from that North Africa. Heâs a messâred-drenched eyes,
fatbaby arms completely hairless, fly open and half the
buttons gone, white hair and blue shirt both streaked with.
some green horrible scum. âFell in a shell-hole. Here,
quick, roll up some of this.â
âWhat do you mean, âyoung fool,â â inquires Gustav.
âI mean you and your musical mainstreams,â
cries
Saure. âIs it finally overP Or do we have to start da capo
with Carl Orff?â
âI never thought of that,â sez Gustav, and for a moment
it is clear that Sdure has heard about Webern too, and
trying in his underhanded way to cheer Gustav up.
|
ee wrong with Rossini?â hollers Saure, lighting up.
âFE
>
âUgh,â screams Gustav, âugh, ugh, Rossini,â and they're
at it again, âyou wretched antique. Why doesnât anybody
go to concerts any more? You think itâs because of the
war? Oh no, I'll tell you why, old manâbecause
the halls
are full of people like you! Stuffed full! Half asleep, nod-
ding and smiling, farting through their dentures, hawking
and spitting into paper bags, dreaming up ever more
ingenious plots against their childrenânot just their own, â
_ but other peopleâs children too! just sitting around, at the â
concert with all these other snow-topped old rascals, just a
nice background murmur of wheezing, belching, intestinal
The Death of Webern
- The characters reflect on the accidental killing of composer Anton Webern by an American soldier, framing it as the symbolic murder of the 'Last European.'
- Gustav argues that Webern's music represented the 'moment of maximum freedom' and the logical conclusion of a musical lineage starting with Bach.
- SĂ€ure Boscage interrupts the mourning with a stash of North African cannabis, challenging Gustav's elitist views on musical mainstreams.
- A heated debate ensues between the merits of complex modernism and the 'shameless' pleasure of Rossini's predictable, popular melodies.
- Gustav characterizes concert-goers as a decaying, malicious generation of 'snow-topped old rascals' who use music as a backdrop for their own stagnation.
- The scene shifts to the practice of papyromancy, where SĂ€ure attempts to divine the future by analyzing the physical construction of hand-rolled reefers.
The young barbarians coming in to murder the Last European, standing at the far end of whatâd been going on since Bach, an expansion of musicâs polymorphous perversity till all notes were truly equal at last.
514
Gravityâs RAINBOW
the word, all the way from Vienna along some musiciansâ
grapevine, that Anton Webern is dead. âShot in May, by
the Americans.
Senseless, accidental if you believe in
accidentsâsome mess cook from North Carolina, some
late draftee with a .45 he hardly knew how to use, too late
for WW II, but not for Webern. The excuse for raiding
the house was that Webernâs brother was in the black
market. Who isnât? Do you know what kind of myth thatâs
going to make in a thousand years? The young barbarians
coming in to murder the Last European, standing at the
far end of whatâd been going on since Bach, an expansion
of musicâs polymorphous perversity till all notes were
truly equal at last.... Where was there to go after We-
bern? It was the moment of maximum freedom. It all had
to come down. Another GĂ©tterdiammerungââ
âYoung fool,â SaĂ©ure now comes cackling in from out in
Berlin, trailing a pillowcase full of flowering tops just in
from that North Africa. Heâs a messâred-drenched eyes,
fatbaby arms completely hairless, fly open and half the
buttons gone, white hair and blue shirt both streaked with.
some green horrible scum. âFell in a shell-hole. Here,
quick, roll up some of this.â
âWhat do you mean, âyoung fool,â â inquires Gustav.
âI mean you and your musical mainstreams,â
cries
Saure. âIs it finally overP Or do we have to start da capo
with Carl Orff?â
âI never thought of that,â sez Gustav, and for a moment
it is clear that Sdure has heard about Webern too, and
trying in his underhanded way to cheer Gustav up.
|
ee wrong with Rossini?â hollers Saure, lighting up.
âFE
>
âUgh,â screams Gustav, âugh, ugh, Rossini,â and they're
at it again, âyou wretched antique. Why doesnât anybody
go to concerts any more? You think itâs because of the
war? Oh no, I'll tell you why, old manâbecause
the halls
are full of people like you! Stuffed full! Half asleep, nod-
ding and smiling, farting through their dentures, hawking
and spitting into paper bags, dreaming up ever more
ingenious plots against their childrenânot just their own, â
_ but other peopleâs children too! just sitting around, at the â
concert with all these other snow-topped old rascals, just a
nice background murmur of wheezing, belching, intestinal
In the Zone
515
gurgles, scratching, sucking, croaking, an entire opera house
crammed full of them right up to standing room, they're
-doddering in the aisles, hanging off the tops of the highest
balconies, and you know what they're all listening to,
Saure? eh? They're all listening to Rossini! Sitting there
drooling away to some medley of predictable little tunes,
leaning forward elbows on knees muttering, âCâmon, c'mon
then Rossini, letâs get all this pretentious fanfare stuff
out of the way, letâs get on to the real good tunes! Be-
havior as shameless as eating a whole jar of peanut butter
at one sitting. On comes the sprightly Tancredi tarantella,
and they stamp their feet in delight, they pop their teeth
and pound their canesââAh, ah! thatâs more like it!â
âItâs a great tune,â yells Saure back. âSmoke another
one of these and Ill just play it for you here on the Bosen-
dorfer.â
To the accompaniment of this tarantella, which really i
is
a good tune, Magda has come in out of the morning rain,
and is now rolling reefers for everybody. She hands Saure
one to light. He stops playing and peers at it for a long
time. Nodding now and then, smiling or frowning.
Gustav tends to sneer, but Saure really turns out to be
an adept at the difficult art of papyromancy, the ability to
prophesy through contemplating the way people roll reef-
ersâthe shape, the licking pattern, the wrinkles and folds
or absence thereof in the paper. âYou will soon be in
love,â sez Saure, âsee, this line here.â
âItâs long, isnât it? Does that meanââ
âLength is usually intensity, Not time.â
âShort but sweet,â Magda sighs, âFabelhaft, wasPâ Trudi
comes over to hug her. They are a Mutt and Jeff routine,
Trudi in heels is a foot or so taller. They know how it
looks, and travel around in the city together whenever
they can, by way of intervening, if only for a minute, in
peopleâs minds.
âHow do you like this shit?â sez Saure.
âHiibsch,â allows Gustav. âA trifle stahlig, and perhaps
_the SiGaitenimal hint ok 2 Bodengeschmack behind its
' K6rper, which is admittedly siiffig.â
âTI would rather have said spritzig,â Sdure disagrees, if
_ that indeed is what it is. âGenerally more bukettreich
. than last yearâs harvests, wouldnât you say?â
acs
bi
4
v
en
=
G
Post-War Berlin Chaos
- Characters engage in a highly stylized, pseudo-intellectual debate over the qualities of their narcotics, mimicking the language of wine connoisseurs while deeply intoxicated.
- The arrival of military police and American advisors forces a frantic escape, highlighting the constant state of surveillance and paranoia in the occupied city.
- Slothrop experiences a sense of cultural alienation as he hears American patriotic music, which he mentally equates to the propaganda songs of the fallen regime.
- The narrative shifts to a panoramic view of Berlin, depicting a surreal mix of military occupation, civilian survival, and the lingering remnants of pre-war luxury.
- Slothrop returns to Margherita, encountering her volatile emotional state and the domestic tension born from the instability of their environment.
The truth is they are both so blitzed that neither one knows what heâs talking about, which is just as well, for at this point comes a godawful hammering at the door and a lot of achtungs from the other side.
In the Zone
515
gurgles, scratching, sucking, croaking, an entire opera house
crammed full of them right up to standing room, they're
-doddering in the aisles, hanging off the tops of the highest
balconies, and you know what they're all listening to,
Saure? eh? They're all listening to Rossini! Sitting there
drooling away to some medley of predictable little tunes,
leaning forward elbows on knees muttering, âCâmon, c'mon
then Rossini, letâs get all this pretentious fanfare stuff
out of the way, letâs get on to the real good tunes! Be-
havior as shameless as eating a whole jar of peanut butter
at one sitting. On comes the sprightly Tancredi tarantella,
and they stamp their feet in delight, they pop their teeth
and pound their canesââAh, ah! thatâs more like it!â
âItâs a great tune,â yells Saure back. âSmoke another
one of these and Ill just play it for you here on the Bosen-
dorfer.â
To the accompaniment of this tarantella, which really i
is
a good tune, Magda has come in out of the morning rain,
and is now rolling reefers for everybody. She hands Saure
one to light. He stops playing and peers at it for a long
time. Nodding now and then, smiling or frowning.
Gustav tends to sneer, but Saure really turns out to be
an adept at the difficult art of papyromancy, the ability to
prophesy through contemplating the way people roll reef-
ersâthe shape, the licking pattern, the wrinkles and folds
or absence thereof in the paper. âYou will soon be in
love,â sez Saure, âsee, this line here.â
âItâs long, isnât it? Does that meanââ
âLength is usually intensity, Not time.â
âShort but sweet,â Magda sighs, âFabelhaft, wasPâ Trudi
comes over to hug her. They are a Mutt and Jeff routine,
Trudi in heels is a foot or so taller. They know how it
looks, and travel around in the city together whenever
they can, by way of intervening, if only for a minute, in
peopleâs minds.
âHow do you like this shit?â sez Saure.
âHiibsch,â allows Gustav. âA trifle stahlig, and perhaps
_the SiGaitenimal hint ok 2 Bodengeschmack behind its
' K6rper, which is admittedly siiffig.â
âTI would rather have said spritzig,â Sdure disagrees, if
_ that indeed is what it is. âGenerally more bukettreich
. than last yearâs harvests, wouldnât you say?â
acs
bi
4
v
en
=
G
»
516
Gravity's RaInBow
âOh, for an Haut Atlas herbage it does have its Art.
Certainly it can be described as kernig, evenâas can often
be said of that sauber quality prevailing in the Oued Nfis
regionâauthentically pikant.â
âActually I would tend to suspect an origin es ents
along the southern slope of Jebel Sarho,â Saure sezâânote
the Spiel, rather glatt and blumig, even the suggestion of a
Fiille in its wiirzig audacityââ
âNo
no no, Fiille is overstating it, the El Abid Emerald
we had last month had Fiille. But this is obviously more
zart than that.â
The truth is they are both so blitzed that neither one
knows what heâs talking about, which is just as well, for
at this point comes a godawful hammering at the door and
a lot of achtungs from the other side. Slothrop screams
and heads for the window, out onto the roof and over,
scrambling down a galvanized pipe to the next streetward
courtyard. Back in Sdureâs room the heat come busting in.
Berlin police supported by American MPs in an adviser
status.
âYou will show me your papers!â hollers the leader of
the raid.
Sdure smiles and holds up a pack of Zig-Zags, just in
from Paris.
Twenty minutes later, somewhere in the American sec-
tor, Slothrop is ambling past a cabaret where blank-faced
snowdrops are lounging in front and inside, and a radio or
phonograph somewhere is playing an Irving Berlin medley.
Slothrop goes hunching paranoiacally along the street, hereâs
âGod Bless America,â a-and âThis Is the Army, Mister
Jones,â and they are his countryâs versions of the Horst
Wessel Song, although it is Gustav. back at the Jacobi-
strasse who raves (nobody gonna pull an Anton Webern
on him) to a blinking American lieutenant-colonel, âA
parabola! A trap! You were never immune
over there from
the simple-minded German symphonic are, tonic to domi-
nant, back again to tonic. Grandeur! Gesellschaft!â
âTeutonic?â sez the colonel. âDominant The warâs over,
fella. What kind of talk is that?â
In from the soggy fields of the Mark comes a
id
drizzle blowing. Russian cavalry are crossing the
stendamm, driving a herd of cows to slaughter lowing aad
ie
|
de
In the Zone
517
âmuddy, eyelashes beaded with the fine rain, In the Soviet
sector, girls with rifles slung across bouncing wool-covered
breasts are waving the traffic around with bright orange
pennants. Bulldozers growling, trucks straining push over
âteetering walls, and little kids cheer at each wet crash.
Silver tea-services ring on fronded terraces where water
âdrips, waiters in lean black coats wheel and tilt their
heads. An open victoria splashes by, two Russian officers
/ covered with medals sitting with their ladies in silk frocks
âand great floppy-brimmed hats trailing ribbons
in the
breeze. On the river, ducks with green heads glittering
_ drift among shock-waves of one anotherâs passage. Wood-
smoke scatters out the dented pipe of Margheritaâs house.
âInside the door, the first thing Slothrop sees is a high-
heeled shoe come flying straight at his head, He twitches
âout of the way in time: Margherita is kneeling on the bed,
breathing rapidly, staring. âYou left me.â
âHad some chores.â He rummages in covered cans on a
shelf over the stove, finds dried clover tops for tea,
âBut you left me alone.â Her hair blows in a gray-black
cloud around her face, She is prey to interior winds he
never felt.
âOnly for a little while. Do you want teaPâ Starting out-
_ side with an empty can.
_-
âWhatâs a little while? For Godâs sake, havenât you been
valonePâ
.
»
âSure.â Dipping up water from a rain barrel outside the
door. She lies, shaking, her face working, helpless.
'
Slothrop puts the can on to boil. âYou were sleeping
pretty soundly, Isnât it safe here? Is that what you mean?â
âSafe,â A terrible laughter. He wishes she wouldn't. 'The
_water has begun to creak, âDo you know what they were
doing to me? What they were piling on my breasts? The
names they were calling me?â
_ âWho, Greta?â
_ âWhen you left I woke up. I called to you but you
didnât come back. When they were sure you'd left, they
came in... .â
}
âWhy didnât you try to stay awake?â
âI was awake!â Sunlight, switched on, breaks through.
At the harsh lighting she turns her face away.
Ke While he makes tea, she sits on the bed, cursing him in
Ff
Thy
ge
â
Tremors in the Zone
- Greta Erdmann suffers from intense psychological trauma and hallucinations, feeling persecuted by unseen entities when left alone.
- Slothrop experiences a guilt-ridden dream where his father, Broderick, reveals the death of the President and is accused of selling his son to IG Farben.
- The relationship between Slothrop and Greta becomes a cycle of mutual trembling, where touch is used as an insatiable but insufficient sedative.
- Slothrop feels increasingly trapped by his responsibility for Greta's safety, leading him to retreat into reflexive lies and isolation by the river.
- The environment of post-war Berlin is reflected in the 'goofy' fish they catch, symbolizing a landscape of desperation and last choices.
The dark stain steams into the wood planks. Faraway clover rises, disperses: a ghost....
ie
|
de
In the Zone
517
âmuddy, eyelashes beaded with the fine rain, In the Soviet
sector, girls with rifles slung across bouncing wool-covered
breasts are waving the traffic around with bright orange
pennants. Bulldozers growling, trucks straining push over
âteetering walls, and little kids cheer at each wet crash.
Silver tea-services ring on fronded terraces where water
âdrips, waiters in lean black coats wheel and tilt their
heads. An open victoria splashes by, two Russian officers
/ covered with medals sitting with their ladies in silk frocks
âand great floppy-brimmed hats trailing ribbons
in the
breeze. On the river, ducks with green heads glittering
_ drift among shock-waves of one anotherâs passage. Wood-
smoke scatters out the dented pipe of Margheritaâs house.
âInside the door, the first thing Slothrop sees is a high-
heeled shoe come flying straight at his head, He twitches
âout of the way in time: Margherita is kneeling on the bed,
breathing rapidly, staring. âYou left me.â
âHad some chores.â He rummages in covered cans on a
shelf over the stove, finds dried clover tops for tea,
âBut you left me alone.â Her hair blows in a gray-black
cloud around her face, She is prey to interior winds he
never felt.
âOnly for a little while. Do you want teaPâ Starting out-
_ side with an empty can.
_-
âWhatâs a little while? For Godâs sake, havenât you been
valonePâ
.
»
âSure.â Dipping up water from a rain barrel outside the
door. She lies, shaking, her face working, helpless.
'
Slothrop puts the can on to boil. âYou were sleeping
pretty soundly, Isnât it safe here? Is that what you mean?â
âSafe,â A terrible laughter. He wishes she wouldn't. 'The
_water has begun to creak, âDo you know what they were
doing to me? What they were piling on my breasts? The
names they were calling me?â
_ âWho, Greta?â
_ âWhen you left I woke up. I called to you but you
didnât come back. When they were sure you'd left, they
came in... .â
}
âWhy didnât you try to stay awake?â
âI was awake!â Sunlight, switched on, breaks through.
At the harsh lighting she turns her face away.
Ke While he makes tea, she sits on the bed, cursing him in
Ff
Thy
ge
â
518
GRAVITYâs RAINBOW
German and Italian, in a voice always just at the edge of
ers apart. He hands her a cup. She knocks it out of his
and.
âLook, take it easy, all right?â He sits down next to her
and blows on his tea. The cup she refused stays on its
side where it is. The dark stain steams into the wood
planks. Faraway clover rises, disperses: a ghost.... After
a while she takes his hand,
âTm sorry I left you alone.â
She starts to cry.
And cries all day. Slothrop falls asleep, keeps drifting
up to her sobs, and to feel her, always in touch, some part
of her, some part of him.... In a dream from this time,
his father has come to find him. Slothrop has been wander-
ing at sundown by the Mungahannock, near a rotting old
paper mill, abandoned back in the nineties. A heron rises
in silhouette against luminous and dying orange. âSon,â a
falling tower of words tumbling over and over themselves,
âthe president died three months ago.â Slothrop stands
and curses him. âWhy didnât you tell me? Pop, I loved
him. You only wanted to sell me to the IG. You sold me
out.â The old manâs eyes fill with tears. âOh son.
.
.â itry-
ing to take his hand. But the sky is dark, the heron gone,
the empty skeleton of the mill and the dark increase of the
river saying it is time to go... then his father is gone too,
no time to say good-by, though his face stays, Broderick
who sold him out, long after waking, and the sadness Slo-
throp brought into it, fool loudmouth kid. Margherita is
leaning over him, brushing tears from his face with the
tips of her nails. The nails are very sharp, and pause
often when they approach his eyes.
âTâ'm afraid,â she whispers. âEverything. My face in the.
mirrorâwhen I was a child, they said not to look in the
mirror too often or Iâd see the Devil behind the glass...
and...â glancing back at the white-flowered mirror be-
hind them, âwe have to cover it, please, canât we cover
it... thatâs where they... especially at nightââ
âEasy.â He moves to put as much of
their bodies in
touch as he can. He holds her. The tremor is strong, and
maybe uncalmable: after a while Slothrop has started to
tremble too, in phase. âPlease, take it easy.â Whatever
possesses her needs touch, to drink touch insatiably.
In the Zone
519
The depth of this frightens him. He feels responsible for
âher safety, and often trapped. At first they stay together
days at a clip, till he has to go out dealing, or foraging.
He doesnât sleep much. He finds himself by reflex telling
liesââItâs
all right,â âThereâs nothing to worry about.â
Sometimes he manages to be alone out by the river, fish-.
ing with a piece of string and one of her hairpins. They
manage a fish a day, on lucky days two. They are goofy
fish, anything swimming in Berlin waters these days has to
be everybodyâs last choice. When Greta cries in her sleep
for longer than he can listen to, he has to wake her. They
will try to talk, or to screw, though heâs less and less often
in the mood, and that makes her worse because she feels
heâs rejecting her, which indeed he is. Whippings seem to
comfort her, and they let him off the hook. Sometimes heâs
too tired even for that. She keeps provoking him. One
night he puts in front of her a broiled fish, an unwhole-
some yellow loach with brain damage. She canât eat it,
she'll get sick.
z
âYou have to eat,â
She moves her head aside, first one side, then the other.
âOh boy, what a sad story, listen cunt, you ainât the only
oneâs ever sufferedâyou been out there lately?â
_
âOf course. I keep forgetting how you must have suf-.
fered.â
âShit you Germans are crazy, you all think the worldâs
against you.â
âTm not German,â just remembering, âI'm a Lombard.â
âClose enough, sweetheart.â
With a hiss, nostrils wide, she grabs the little table and
wrenches
it away, plates, silverware,
fish flying splot
âagainst the wall where it commences to drip down toward
the woodwork, still, even in death, getting all the lousy
breaks. They sit in their two straight chairs, a meter and a
half of perilously empty space between. It is the warm,
Tomantic summer of â45, and surrender or not, the culture
of death still prevails: what Grandmother called âa crime
of passionâ has become, in the absence of much passion
over anything today, the technique of preference in re-
Solving interpersonal disputes.
|
_ âClean it up.â
She flicks a pale bitten thumbnail from _one of her top
vy)
The Culture of Death
- Slothrop and Margherita Erdmann engage in a volatile, abusive domestic dynamic in the ruins of post-war Berlin.
- The narrative suggests that the 'culture of death' from the war has persisted, turning interpersonal disputes into acts of ritualized violence.
- Margherita actively provokes Slothrop into physical cruelty, seeking out trauma and degradation as a form of psychological release.
- Slothrop begins to experience a breakdown of reality, seeing omens of his own death and paranoid hallucinations across the city.
- The house serves as a fragile buffer against the 'earthquake' of the outside world, though the violence within mirrors the chaos without.
It is the warm, romantic summer of â45, and surrender or not, the culture of death still prevails.
In the Zone
519
The depth of this frightens him. He feels responsible for
âher safety, and often trapped. At first they stay together
days at a clip, till he has to go out dealing, or foraging.
He doesnât sleep much. He finds himself by reflex telling
liesââItâs
all right,â âThereâs nothing to worry about.â
Sometimes he manages to be alone out by the river, fish-.
ing with a piece of string and one of her hairpins. They
manage a fish a day, on lucky days two. They are goofy
fish, anything swimming in Berlin waters these days has to
be everybodyâs last choice. When Greta cries in her sleep
for longer than he can listen to, he has to wake her. They
will try to talk, or to screw, though heâs less and less often
in the mood, and that makes her worse because she feels
heâs rejecting her, which indeed he is. Whippings seem to
comfort her, and they let him off the hook. Sometimes heâs
too tired even for that. She keeps provoking him. One
night he puts in front of her a broiled fish, an unwhole-
some yellow loach with brain damage. She canât eat it,
she'll get sick.
z
âYou have to eat,â
She moves her head aside, first one side, then the other.
âOh boy, what a sad story, listen cunt, you ainât the only
oneâs ever sufferedâyou been out there lately?â
_
âOf course. I keep forgetting how you must have suf-.
fered.â
âShit you Germans are crazy, you all think the worldâs
against you.â
âTm not German,â just remembering, âI'm a Lombard.â
âClose enough, sweetheart.â
With a hiss, nostrils wide, she grabs the little table and
wrenches
it away, plates, silverware,
fish flying splot
âagainst the wall where it commences to drip down toward
the woodwork, still, even in death, getting all the lousy
breaks. They sit in their two straight chairs, a meter and a
half of perilously empty space between. It is the warm,
Tomantic summer of â45, and surrender or not, the culture
of death still prevails: what Grandmother called âa crime
of passionâ has become, in the absence of much passion
over anything today, the technique of preference in re-
Solving interpersonal disputes.
|
_ âClean it up.â
She flicks a pale bitten thumbnail from _one of her top
vy)
520
Gravityâs RAINBOW
teeth and laughs, that delightful Erdmann laugh. Slothrop,
shaking, is about to say, âYou donât know how close you
areââ Then, by chance, he happens to get a look at her
face. Of course she knows how close she is. âO.K., O.K.â
He throws her underwear around the room till he finds the
black girdle heâs looking for. The metal clips of the sus-
penders raise dark little curved welts over fading earlier
bruises on her buttocks and thighs. He has to draw blood
before she cleans up the fish. When sheâs finished she
kneels and kisses his boots. Not exactly the scenario she
wanted but close enough, sweetheart.
-
Getting closer every day, and heâs afraid. Heâs never
seen anything like it. When he goes out to the city she
begs to be tied with her stockings, star-fashion, to the
bedposts. Sometimes she'll leave the house, and stay away
for days, coming home with stories about Negro MPs beat-
ing her with nightsticks, screwing her in the asshole, how
much she loved it, hoping to trigger some race/sex reac-
tion, something a little bizarre, a little different....
Whatever it is with her, heâs catching it. Out in the
ruins he sees darkness now at the edges of all the broken
shapes, showing from behind them. Light nests in Mar-
gheritaâs hair like black doves. He will look at his chalk
hands, and along the borders of each finger, darkness will
gutter and leap. In the sky over the Alexanderplatz he has
seen Oberst Enzianâs KEZVH mandala, and the face of
Tchitcherine on more than one random snowdrop. Across
the facade of the Titaniapalast, in red neon through a mist
one night he saw DIE, sLoTHROP. One Sunday out at
-Wannsee, an armada of sails all bent the same way, pa-
tiently, dreamlike into the wind, passing forever against
the other shore, a crowd of little kids in soldier hats folded
from old army maps plotted to drown and sacrifice him. He
escaped only by murmuring Hauptstufe three times.
The house by the river is an enclosure that acts as a
spring-suspension for the day and the weather, allowing
only mild cycling of light and heat, down
into evening, up
again into morning to the midday peak ut all damped to
a gentle sway from the earthquake of the day outside.
When Greta hears shots out in the increasingly distant
streets, she will think of the sound stages of her early
career, and will take the explosions as cue calls for the
Sx
x
:
In the Zone
521
titanic sets of her dreams to be smoothly clogged with a
thousand extras: meek, herded by rifle shots, ascending
and descending, arranged into patterns that will suit the
Directorâs ideas of the picturesqueâa river of faces, made
up yellow and white-lipped for the limitations of the film
stock of the time, sweating yellow migrations taken over
and over again, fleeing nothing, escaping nowhere. ...
Itâs early morning now. Slothropâs breath is white on
the air. He is just up fromâa dream. Part I of a poem, with
woodcuts accompanying the textâa woman is attending a
dog show which is also, in some way, a stud service. She
has brought her Pekingese, a female with a sickeningly
-cute name, Mimsy or Goo-Goo or something, here to be
serviced. She is passing the time in a garden setting, with
some other middle-class ladies like herself, when from_
, some enclosure nearby she hears the sound of her bitch,
coming. The sound goes on and on for much longer than
seems
appropriate, and she suddenly realizes that the
sound is her own voice, this interminable cry of dog-
pleasure. The others, politely, are pretending not to notice.
She feels shame, but is helpless, driven now by a need to
go out and find other animal species to fuck. She sucks the
penis of a multicolored mongrel who has tried to mount
her in the street. Out in a barren field near a barbed-wire
fence, winter fires across the clouds, âa tall horse compels
her to kneel, passively, and kiss his hooves, Cats and minks,
hyenas and rabbits, fuck her inside automobiles, lost at
night in the forests, out beside a waterhole in the desert.
_
As Part II begins, she has discovered sheâs pregnant. Her
husband, a dumb, easygoing screen door salesman, makes
âan agreement with her: her own promise is never stated,
âbut in return, nine months from now, he will take her
where she wants to go. So it is that close to the end of
her term he is out on the river, an American river, in a
rowboat, hauling on the oars, carrying her on a journey.
The key color in this section is violet.
Part III finds her at the bottom of the river. She has
drowned. But all forms of life fill her womb. âUsing her as
Mermaidâ (line 7), they transport her down through these
green river-depths. âIt was down, and out again./ Old
Squalidozzi, ploughman of the deep,/ At the end of his
dayâs sowing/ Sees her verdigris belly among the weedsâ
ye)
Waa
-
}
Slothropâs River Dream
- Slothrop wakes in the cold morning from a disturbing, surreal dream structured like a poem with woodcuts, full of grotesque sexuality, shame, and animal imagery.
- The dream transforms a middle-class womanâs visit to a dog show into a mythic descent: pregnancy, a river journey, drowning, and rebirth through a flood of creatures from her womb.
- Color motifs organize the dreamâs movement, shifting from violet in the river-journey section to green in the underwater and sunlit aftermath.
- The drowned woman becomes a strange generative figure, carried through river depths by marine life and discovered by the Neptune-like Squalidozzi, who witnesses life spilling from her body.
- Slothrop cannot shake the dream; he fishes silently by the Spree as fog, invisible warplanes, and barking dogs restore the wartime atmosphere around him.
- The section then cuts to a grotesque interior scene aboard the RĂŒcksichtslos, where military hierarchy, pornography, and Nazi racial aesthetics are rendered in a bleakly comic, acid-green setting.
This dream will not leave him. He baits his hook, hunkers by the bank, drops his line into the Spree.
Sx
x
:
In the Zone
521
titanic sets of her dreams to be smoothly clogged with a
thousand extras: meek, herded by rifle shots, ascending
and descending, arranged into patterns that will suit the
Directorâs ideas of the picturesqueâa river of faces, made
up yellow and white-lipped for the limitations of the film
stock of the time, sweating yellow migrations taken over
and over again, fleeing nothing, escaping nowhere. ...
Itâs early morning now. Slothropâs breath is white on
the air. He is just up fromâa dream. Part I of a poem, with
woodcuts accompanying the textâa woman is attending a
dog show which is also, in some way, a stud service. She
has brought her Pekingese, a female with a sickeningly
-cute name, Mimsy or Goo-Goo or something, here to be
serviced. She is passing the time in a garden setting, with
some other middle-class ladies like herself, when from_
, some enclosure nearby she hears the sound of her bitch,
coming. The sound goes on and on for much longer than
seems
appropriate, and she suddenly realizes that the
sound is her own voice, this interminable cry of dog-
pleasure. The others, politely, are pretending not to notice.
She feels shame, but is helpless, driven now by a need to
go out and find other animal species to fuck. She sucks the
penis of a multicolored mongrel who has tried to mount
her in the street. Out in a barren field near a barbed-wire
fence, winter fires across the clouds, âa tall horse compels
her to kneel, passively, and kiss his hooves, Cats and minks,
hyenas and rabbits, fuck her inside automobiles, lost at
night in the forests, out beside a waterhole in the desert.
_
As Part II begins, she has discovered sheâs pregnant. Her
husband, a dumb, easygoing screen door salesman, makes
âan agreement with her: her own promise is never stated,
âbut in return, nine months from now, he will take her
where she wants to go. So it is that close to the end of
her term he is out on the river, an American river, in a
rowboat, hauling on the oars, carrying her on a journey.
The key color in this section is violet.
Part III finds her at the bottom of the river. She has
drowned. But all forms of life fill her womb. âUsing her as
Mermaidâ (line 7), they transport her down through these
green river-depths. âIt was down, and out again./ Old
Squalidozzi, ploughman of the deep,/ At the end of his
dayâs sowing/ Sees her verdigris belly among the weedsâ
ye)
Waa
-
}
522
Gravity's RAInsow
(lines 10-13), and brings her back up. He is a classically-
bearded Neptune figure with an old serene face. From out
of her body streams a flood now of different creatures,
octopuses,
reindeer, kangaroos, âWho can
say all the
life/ That left her womb that day?â Squalidozzi can only
catch a glimpse of the amazing spill as he bears her back
toward the surface. Above, it is a mild and sunlit green
lake or pond, grassy at the banks, shaded by willows. In-
sects whine and hover. The key color now is green, âAnd
there as it broke to sun/ Her corpse found sleep in the
water/ And in the summer depths/ The creatures took
their way/ Each to its proper love/ In the height of after-
noon/ As the peaceful river went... .â
This dream will not leave him. He baits his hook,
hunkers by the bank, drops his line into the Spree. Pres-
ently he lights up an army cigarette, and stays still then
for a long while, as the fog moves white through the river-
bank houses, and up above the warplanes go droning
somewhere invisible, and the dogs run barking in the back-
streets.
.
O
When emptied of people, the interior is steel gray. When
crowded, itâs green, a comfortable acid green. Sunlight
comes in through portholes in the higher of the bulkheads
(the Riicksichtslos here lists at a permanent angle of
23°27â), and steel washbowls line the lower bulkheads. At
the end of each sub-latrine are coffee messes and hand-
cranked peep shows. You'll find all the older, less glam-
orous, un-Teutonic-looking women in the enlisted menâs
machines. The real stacked and more racially golden
tomatoes go to the officers, natiirlich. This is some of that
Nazi fanaticism.
:
The Riicksichtslos itself is the issue of another kind of
fanaticism: that of the specialist. This vessel here is a
Toiletship, a triumph of the German mania for subdivid-
ing. âIf the house is organic,â argued the crafty early
Toiletship advocates, âfamily lives in the house, familyâs
organic, house is outward-and-visible sign, you see,â be-
hind their smoked glasses and under their gray crewcuts
The Fanaticism of the Toiletship
- The Riicksichtslos is introduced as a unique 'Toiletship,' a product of German specialization and the obsessive subdivision of organic systems.
- The vessel's existence stems from a Machiavellian argument that if a house is organic, its bathroom must be too, extending this logic to the Navy.
- The ship remains a one-of-a-kind relic because steel quotas were diverted from the Navy to the A4 rocket program under Degenkolb's influence.
- American corporate scouts from GE are already inspecting the vessel, highlighting the post-war scramble for specialized German technology.
- The narrative shifts to the internal paranoia of the inspectors, Charles and Steve, who are trapped in a cycle of mutual suspicion and career anxiety.
- The section concludes with a surreal, ribald song about Texas mosquitoes, contrasting the grim reality of the 'Zone' with distorted memories of home.
The Riicksichtslos itself is the issue of another kind of fanaticism: that of the specialist.
522
Gravity's RAInsow
(lines 10-13), and brings her back up. He is a classically-
bearded Neptune figure with an old serene face. From out
of her body streams a flood now of different creatures,
octopuses,
reindeer, kangaroos, âWho can
say all the
life/ That left her womb that day?â Squalidozzi can only
catch a glimpse of the amazing spill as he bears her back
toward the surface. Above, it is a mild and sunlit green
lake or pond, grassy at the banks, shaded by willows. In-
sects whine and hover. The key color now is green, âAnd
there as it broke to sun/ Her corpse found sleep in the
water/ And in the summer depths/ The creatures took
their way/ Each to its proper love/ In the height of after-
noon/ As the peaceful river went... .â
This dream will not leave him. He baits his hook,
hunkers by the bank, drops his line into the Spree. Pres-
ently he lights up an army cigarette, and stays still then
for a long while, as the fog moves white through the river-
bank houses, and up above the warplanes go droning
somewhere invisible, and the dogs run barking in the back-
streets.
.
O
When emptied of people, the interior is steel gray. When
crowded, itâs green, a comfortable acid green. Sunlight
comes in through portholes in the higher of the bulkheads
(the Riicksichtslos here lists at a permanent angle of
23°27â), and steel washbowls line the lower bulkheads. At
the end of each sub-latrine are coffee messes and hand-
cranked peep shows. You'll find all the older, less glam-
orous, un-Teutonic-looking women in the enlisted menâs
machines. The real stacked and more racially golden
tomatoes go to the officers, natiirlich. This is some of that
Nazi fanaticism.
:
The Riicksichtslos itself is the issue of another kind of
fanaticism: that of the specialist. This vessel here is a
Toiletship, a triumph of the German mania for subdivid-
ing. âIf the house is organic,â argued the crafty early
Toiletship advocates, âfamily lives in the house, familyâs
organic, house is outward-and-visible sign, you see,â be-
hind their smoked glasses and under their gray crewcuts
In the Zone
523
not believing a word of it, Machiavellian and youthful,
not quite ripe yet for paranoia, âand if the bathroomâs
part of the houseâhouse-is-organic!
ha-hah,â
singing,
chiding, pointing out the broad blond-faced engineer, hair
parted in the middle and slicked back, actually blushing
and looking at his knees among the good-natured smiling
_ teeth of his fellow technologists because heâd been about
to forget that point (Albert Speer, himself, in a gray suit
with a smudge of chalk on the sleeve, all the way in the
âback leaning akimbo the wall and looking remarkably like
American cowboy actor Henry Fonda, has already for-
gotten about the house being organic, and nobody points
at him, RHIP). âThen the Toiletship is to the Kriegsmarine
as the bathroom is to the house. Because the Navy is
organic, we all know that, hahah!â [General, or maybe
_ Admiral, laughter.] The Riicksichtslos was intended to be
the flagship of a whole Geschwader of Toiletships. But the
steel quotas were diverted clear out of the Navy over to
the A4 rocket program.. Yes, that does seem unusual, but
Degenkolb was heading up the Rocket Committee by then,
remember, and had both power and will to cut across all
branches of the service. So the Ricksichtslos is one-of-a-
kind, old warship collectors, and if you're in the market
you better hurry âcause GEâs already been by to have a
look. Lucky the Bolshies didnât get it, huh, Charles?
Charles, meantime, is making on his clipboard what look
like studious notes, but are really observations of the
passing âscene such as They are all looking at me, or
|
|
;
| Lieutenant Rinso is plotting to murder me, and of course
the ever-reliable Heâs one of them too and I'm going to
get him some night, well by now Charlesâs colleague here,
Steve, has forgotten about the Russians, and discontinued
his inspection of a flushing valve to take a really close
look at that Charles, you canât pick your search team, not
if you're just out of school and here I am, in the asshole
of nowhere, not much more than a gofer to thisâwhat is
he, a fag? What am JP What does GE want me to be? Is
this some obscure form of company punishment, even,
good God, permanent exile? I'm a career man, they can
keep me out here 20 years if they want, ânâ nobody'll ever
know, they'll just keep writing it off to overhead. Sheilal
Howâm I gonna tell Sheila? We're engaged. This is her
524
Gravity's Ranmow
picture (hair waved like choppy seas falling down Rita
Hayworth style, eyes that if it were a color snap would
have yellow lids with pink rims, and a mouth like a hot
dog bun on a billboard). Took her out to Buf-falo Bayou,
Lookinâ for a little funâ
Big old bayou mosquito, oh my you
Shoulda seen what he donel
Poked his head up, under her dress,
Give a little grin and, well I guess,
Things got rough on Buf-falo Bayou,
Skeeter turn yer meter, down,
Allârightânow!
Ya ta, ta-ta, ya-ta-ta, ta-ta
Lookinâ for a little fun,
Ev-rybody!
Oh ya know, when you're young and wholesome
[âEvârybody,â in this case a Toiletshipload of bright hornrimmed
shoe-pacâd young fellas from Schenectady, are singinâ along behind
this recitative here] and a good church-goinâ kid, itâs sure a mourn-
ful thing to get suddenly ganged by a pack of those Texas mosquitoes,
it can set you back 20 years. Why, thereâs boys just like you wan-
derinâ around, you mayâve seen one in the street today and never
known it, with the mind of a infant, just because those mosquitoes
got to him and did their unspeakable thing. And weâve laid down
insecticides, a~-and bombed the bayous with citronella, and itâs no
good, folks. They breed fastern we can kill âem, aad. are we just
gonna tuck tail and let them be there out in Buffalo Bayou where my
gal Sheila had to look at the loathsome behavior
of thoseâthings,
we Ag wa allow them even to exist?
âaAnd,
Things got rough on, Buf-falo pes
Skeeter turn yer meter,
Hubba hubbaâ
44
Skeeter turn yer meter, downl
Well, you canât help but wonder whoâs really the more
paranoid of the two here. Steveâs sure got a lot of gall
badmouthing Charles that way. Among the hilarious graffiti
of ae mathematicians,
d
â
a
A aera
(cabin)
(cabin) = log cabin ie e= 7 fsectbats
that sort of flee, they go poking away
the narrow
sausage-shaped latrine now, two y
old men, their
feet fade and cease to ring on the dloping steel deck, their
forms grow more transparent with distance until itâs im-
The Toiletship RĂŒcksichtslos
- The narrative shifts from a paranoid rant about breeding insects in Buffalo Bayou to a surreal description of a specialized German naval vessel.
- The Toiletship RĂŒcksichtslos is a bizarre, camouflaged craft dedicated entirely to latrine facilities, serving as a mobile psychological and physical relief station for the fleet.
- The ship's interior design reflects a hierarchy of absurdity, from mirrors reflecting into infinity for common sailors to red velvet and 'Horrible Disaster' photography for officers.
- Commanding officers are subjected to a strange mix of luxury and propaganda, featuring sunken tubs alongside wall-to-wall photographs of Hitler at play.
- The ship functions as a self-contained society where men live inside their stalls, complete with libraries, radios, and custom-illustrated toilet paper featuring Allied leaders.
- The vessel represents a grotesque intersection of military discipline, scatological obsession, and the surreal bureaucracy of the Third Reich.
Shipâs company actually lived each man inside his stall, each with his own key and locker, pin-ups and library shelves decorating the partitions.
524
Gravity's Ranmow
picture (hair waved like choppy seas falling down Rita
Hayworth style, eyes that if it were a color snap would
have yellow lids with pink rims, and a mouth like a hot
dog bun on a billboard). Took her out to Buf-falo Bayou,
Lookinâ for a little funâ
Big old bayou mosquito, oh my you
Shoulda seen what he donel
Poked his head up, under her dress,
Give a little grin and, well I guess,
Things got rough on Buf-falo Bayou,
Skeeter turn yer meter, down,
Allârightânow!
Ya ta, ta-ta, ya-ta-ta, ta-ta
Lookinâ for a little fun,
Ev-rybody!
Oh ya know, when you're young and wholesome
[âEvârybody,â in this case a Toiletshipload of bright hornrimmed
shoe-pacâd young fellas from Schenectady, are singinâ along behind
this recitative here] and a good church-goinâ kid, itâs sure a mourn-
ful thing to get suddenly ganged by a pack of those Texas mosquitoes,
it can set you back 20 years. Why, thereâs boys just like you wan-
derinâ around, you mayâve seen one in the street today and never
known it, with the mind of a infant, just because those mosquitoes
got to him and did their unspeakable thing. And weâve laid down
insecticides, a~-and bombed the bayous with citronella, and itâs no
good, folks. They breed fastern we can kill âem, aad. are we just
gonna tuck tail and let them be there out in Buffalo Bayou where my
gal Sheila had to look at the loathsome behavior
of thoseâthings,
we Ag wa allow them even to exist?
âaAnd,
Things got rough on, Buf-falo pes
Skeeter turn yer meter,
Hubba hubbaâ
44
Skeeter turn yer meter, downl
Well, you canât help but wonder whoâs really the more
paranoid of the two here. Steveâs sure got a lot of gall
badmouthing Charles that way. Among the hilarious graffiti
of ae mathematicians,
d
â
a
A aera
(cabin)
(cabin) = log cabin ie e= 7 fsectbats
that sort of flee, they go poking away
the narrow
sausage-shaped latrine now, two y
old men, their
feet fade and cease to ring on the dloping steel deck, their
forms grow more transparent with distance until itâs im-
In the Zone
525
possible to see them any more. Only the empty compart-
ment here, the S-curved spokes on the peep-show ma-
chines, the rows of mirrors directly facing, reflecting each
other, frame after frame, back in a curve of very great
radius. Out to the end of this segment of curve is con-
sidered part of the space of the Riicksichtslos. Making it a
rather fat ship. Carrying its right-of-way along with it.
âCrew morale,â whispered the foxes at the Ministry meet-
ings, âsailorsâ superstitions, Mirrors at high midnight. We
know, donât wePâ
The officersâ latrines, by contrast, are done in red velvet.
The decor is 1930s Safety Manual. That is, all over the
walls, photograffiti, are pictures of Horrible Disasters in
German Naval History. Collisions, magazine explosions,
U-boat sinkings, just the thing if you're an officer trying
to take a shit. The Foxes have been busy. Commanding
officers get whole suites, private shower and sunken bath-
tub, manicurist (BDM volunteers, mostly), steam room,
massage table. To compensate though, all the bulkheads,
and the overhead, are occupied by enormous photographs
of Hitler at various forms of play. The toilet paper! The
toilet paper is covered square after square with caricatures
of Churchill, Eisenhower,
Roosevelt, Chiang Kai-shek,
there was even a Staff Caricaturist. always on duty to
custom-illustrate blank paper for those connoisseurs who
are ever in search of the unusual. Wagner and Hugo Wolf
were patched into speakers from up in the radio shack.
Cigarettes. were free. It was a good life on board. the
Toiletship Riicksichtslos, as it plied its way from Swine-
miinde to Helgoland, anyplace it was needed, camouflaged
in shades of gray, turn-of-the-century style with sharp-
shadowed prows coming at you from midships so you
couldnât tell which way she was headed. Shipâs company
actually lived each man inside his stall, each with his own
key and locker, pin-ups and library shelves decorating the
partitions ,.. and there were even one-way mirrors so you
could sit at your ease, penis dangling toward the ice-cold
seawater in your bowl, listen to your VE-301 Peopleâs
Receiver, and watch the afternoon rush, the busy ringing
of feet and talk, card games inside the group toilets, deal-
ers enthroned on real porcelain receiving visitors, some of
_
them lined up back outside the compartment
(quiet
~
526
Gravity's RAINBOW
queues, all business, something like the queues in banks),
toilet-lawyers dispensing advice, all kinds of visitor coming
and going, the U-boat crews hunching in, twitching eyes
nervously every second or two at the. overhead, destroyer
sailors larking at the troughs (gigantic troughs! running
the whole beam of the ship, even, legend has it, off into
mirror-space, big enough to seat 40 or 50 aching assholes
side by side, while a constant river of salt flushing water
roared by undemeath), lighting wads of toilet paper, is
what they especially liked to do, setting them flaming
yellow in the water upstream and cackling with glee as
one by one down the line the sitters leaped off the holes
screaming and clutching their blistered asses and inhaling
the smell of singed pubic hair. Not that the crew of the
Toiletship itself were above a practical joke now and then.
Who can ever forget the time shipfitters. Hépmann and
Kreuss, at the height of the Ptomaine Epidemic of 1943,
routed those waste lines into the ventilation system of the
executive
officerâs stateroom? The exec, being an old
Toiletship hand, laughed good-naturedly at the clever
prank and transferred Hépmann and Kreuss to icebreaker
duty, where the two Scatotechnic Snipes went on to erect
vaguely turd-shaped monoliths of ice and snow all across
the Arctic. Now and then one shows up on an ice floe
drifting south in ghostly grandeur, exciting the admiration
of all.
A good ship, a good crew, Merry Xmas and turn to.
Horst Achtfaden, late of the Elektromechanische Werke,
Karlshagen (another cover name for the testing station at
Peenemiinde), has really no time for naval nostalgia. With
the technical spies of three or four nations after him, he
has had the disastrous luck toâve been picked up by the
Schwarzkommando, who for all he knows now constitute
a nation of their own. They have interned him in the
Chiefsâ Head, He has watched voluptuous Gerda and her _
Fur Boa go through the same number 178 times (he has
_
jimmied the coin box and figured a way to override it)
since they put him in here, and the thrill is gone. What do
they want? Why are they occupying a derelict in the
middle of the Kiel Canal? Why donât the British do some-
thing about this?
eae
|
Look at it this way, Achtfaden. This Toiletship hereâs
The Turbulence of History
- The narrative transitions from the crude, scatological pranks of the 'Toiletship' crew to the existential dread of Horst Achtfaden, a rocket technician.
- Achtfaden is currently held captive by the Schwarzkommando in a derelict ship, haunted by the repetitive loop of a peep-show film.
- The text proposes that history functions like a wind tunnel, where tensor analysis and fluid dynamics might identify critical 'nodes' of human events.
- The year 1904 is identified as a pivotal historical node, linking the birth of Enzian, the Herero genocide, the removal of cocaine from Coca-Cola, and the birth of modern aerodynamics.
- Achtfaden reflects on the 'primitive terror' of supersonic flow and the paradox where the act of measurement interferes with the observation of the phenomenon.
- The passage suggests that individuals are caught in an 'insatiate flow' of time and history, unable to swim upstream against the present dispensation.
If tensor analysis is good enough for turbulence, it ought to be good enough for history.
~
526
Gravity's RAINBOW
queues, all business, something like the queues in banks),
toilet-lawyers dispensing advice, all kinds of visitor coming
and going, the U-boat crews hunching in, twitching eyes
nervously every second or two at the. overhead, destroyer
sailors larking at the troughs (gigantic troughs! running
the whole beam of the ship, even, legend has it, off into
mirror-space, big enough to seat 40 or 50 aching assholes
side by side, while a constant river of salt flushing water
roared by undemeath), lighting wads of toilet paper, is
what they especially liked to do, setting them flaming
yellow in the water upstream and cackling with glee as
one by one down the line the sitters leaped off the holes
screaming and clutching their blistered asses and inhaling
the smell of singed pubic hair. Not that the crew of the
Toiletship itself were above a practical joke now and then.
Who can ever forget the time shipfitters. Hépmann and
Kreuss, at the height of the Ptomaine Epidemic of 1943,
routed those waste lines into the ventilation system of the
executive
officerâs stateroom? The exec, being an old
Toiletship hand, laughed good-naturedly at the clever
prank and transferred Hépmann and Kreuss to icebreaker
duty, where the two Scatotechnic Snipes went on to erect
vaguely turd-shaped monoliths of ice and snow all across
the Arctic. Now and then one shows up on an ice floe
drifting south in ghostly grandeur, exciting the admiration
of all.
A good ship, a good crew, Merry Xmas and turn to.
Horst Achtfaden, late of the Elektromechanische Werke,
Karlshagen (another cover name for the testing station at
Peenemiinde), has really no time for naval nostalgia. With
the technical spies of three or four nations after him, he
has had the disastrous luck toâve been picked up by the
Schwarzkommando, who for all he knows now constitute
a nation of their own. They have interned him in the
Chiefsâ Head, He has watched voluptuous Gerda and her _
Fur Boa go through the same number 178 times (he has
_
jimmied the coin box and figured a way to override it)
since they put him in here, and the thrill is gone. What do
they want? Why are they occupying a derelict in the
middle of the Kiel Canal? Why donât the British do some-
thing about this?
eae
|
Look at it this way, Achtfaden. This Toiletship hereâs
In the Zone
527
_a wind tunnelâs all it is. If tensor analysis is good enough
for turbulence, it ought to be good enough for history.
There ought to be nodes, critical points ... there ought to
be super-derivatives of the crowded and insatiate flow
_ that can be set equal to zero and these critical points
found. ... 1904 was one of themâ1904 was when Admiral
Rozhdestvenski sailed his fleet halfway around the world
to relieve Port Arthur, which put your present captor
Enzian on the planet, it was the year the Germans all but
wiped out the Hereros, which gave Enzian some peculiar
ideas about survival, it was the year the American Food
and Drug people took the cocaine out of Coca-Cola, which
gave us an alcoholic and death-oriented generation of
â Yanks ideally equipped to fight WW II, and it was the
year Ludwig Prandtl proposed the boundary layer, which
â
really got aerodynamics into business and. put you right
here, right now. 1904, Achtfaden. Ha, ha! Thatâs a better
joke on you than any singed asshole, all right. Lotta good
it does you. You canât swim upstream, not under the pres-
ent dispensationâ anyhow, all you can do is attach the
number to it and suffer, Horst, fella. Or, if you can tear
yourself away from Gerda and her Fur Boa, hereâs a
thoughtâfind a non-dimensional coefficient for yourself.
This is a wind-tunnel youre in, remember? You're an
aerodynamics man. Soâ
Coefficients, ja, ja.... Achtfaden flings himself discon-
solately on the scarlet VD toilet way down at the very
| end of the row. He knows about coefficients. In Aachen
- once, for a while, he and his colleagues could stand in the
forward watchtower: look out into the country of the
* barbarians through Hermann and Wieselsbergerâs
tiny
window. Terrific compressions, diamond shadows writhing
like snakes. Often the sting was bigger than the model
itselfâthe very need to measure interfered with the ob-
servations. That should have been a clue right there. No
one wrote then about supersonic flow. It was surrounded
by myth, and by a pure, primitive terror. Professor Wagner
of Darmstadt predicted that at speeds above Mach 5, air
_ would liquefy. Should pitch and roll frequencies happen
to be equal, the resonance would throw the projectile into
violent oscillations.
It would corkscrew to destruction.
âLunar motion,â we called it. âBingen pencilsâ we would
} a
The Aerodynamics of Guilt
- Engineers at PeenemĂŒnde grapple with the 'Lunar motion' of projectiles, where resonance and oscillation lead to catastrophic destruction.
- The transition from theoretical aerodynamics to the reality of supersonic flight is described as a source of persistent, unshakeable terror.
- Dimensionless coefficients like the Mach number are contrasted with human variables such as hunger, paranoia, and guilt.
- The narrative predicts a future where guilt becomes a commodity, turning extermination camps into tourist attractions for 'guilt enthusiasts.'
- Achtfaden and his colleagues justify their work by compartmentalizing the flight profile into segments of responsibility.
- The text suggests that bureaucratic tools like typewriters in government offices can be more lethal than the rockets themselves.
âThey pray not only for their daily bread,â Stresemann had said, âbut also for their daily illusion.â
In the Zone
527
_a wind tunnelâs all it is. If tensor analysis is good enough
for turbulence, it ought to be good enough for history.
There ought to be nodes, critical points ... there ought to
be super-derivatives of the crowded and insatiate flow
_ that can be set equal to zero and these critical points
found. ... 1904 was one of themâ1904 was when Admiral
Rozhdestvenski sailed his fleet halfway around the world
to relieve Port Arthur, which put your present captor
Enzian on the planet, it was the year the Germans all but
wiped out the Hereros, which gave Enzian some peculiar
ideas about survival, it was the year the American Food
and Drug people took the cocaine out of Coca-Cola, which
gave us an alcoholic and death-oriented generation of
â Yanks ideally equipped to fight WW II, and it was the
year Ludwig Prandtl proposed the boundary layer, which
â
really got aerodynamics into business and. put you right
here, right now. 1904, Achtfaden. Ha, ha! Thatâs a better
joke on you than any singed asshole, all right. Lotta good
it does you. You canât swim upstream, not under the pres-
ent dispensationâ anyhow, all you can do is attach the
number to it and suffer, Horst, fella. Or, if you can tear
yourself away from Gerda and her Fur Boa, hereâs a
thoughtâfind a non-dimensional coefficient for yourself.
This is a wind-tunnel youre in, remember? You're an
aerodynamics man. Soâ
Coefficients, ja, ja.... Achtfaden flings himself discon-
solately on the scarlet VD toilet way down at the very
| end of the row. He knows about coefficients. In Aachen
- once, for a while, he and his colleagues could stand in the
forward watchtower: look out into the country of the
* barbarians through Hermann and Wieselsbergerâs
tiny
window. Terrific compressions, diamond shadows writhing
like snakes. Often the sting was bigger than the model
itselfâthe very need to measure interfered with the ob-
servations. That should have been a clue right there. No
one wrote then about supersonic flow. It was surrounded
by myth, and by a pure, primitive terror. Professor Wagner
of Darmstadt predicted that at speeds above Mach 5, air
_ would liquefy. Should pitch and roll frequencies happen
to be equal, the resonance would throw the projectile into
violent oscillations.
It would corkscrew to destruction.
âLunar motion,â we called it. âBingen pencilsâ we would
} a
528
Gravirtyâs Rainsow
call the helical contrails in the sky. Terrified. The Schlieren
shadows danced. At Peenemiinde the test section measured
40 X 40 cm, about the size of a tabloid page. âThey pray
not only for their daily bread,â Stresemann had said, âbut
also for their daily illusion.â We, staring through the thick
glass, had our Daily Shockâthe only paper many of us
read,
You come inâjust hit town, here in the heart of down-
town Peenemiinde, hey, whatcha do for fun around here?
hauling your provincial valise with a few shirts, a copy of
the Handbuch, perhaps Cranzâs Lehrbuch der Ballistik.
You have memorized Ackeret, Busemann, von K4rm4n and
Moore, some Volta Congress papers. But the terror will not
go away. This is faster than sound, than the words she
spoke across the room so full of sunlight, the jazz band
on the radio when you could not sleep, the hoarse Heils
among the pale generators and from the executive-crammed
galleries overhead...the Gomerians whistling from the
high ravines
(terrific falls, steepness, whistling straight
down the precipice to a toy village lying centuries, miles
below...) as you sat out on the counter of the KdF ship
alone, apart from the maypole dancing on the white deck,
the tanned bodies full of beer and song, paunches in
sunsuits, and you listened to Ur-Spanish, whistled not
voiced, from the mountains around Chipuda... Gomera
was the last piece of land Columbus touched before
America. Did he hear them too, that last night? Did they
have a message for him? A warning? Could he understand
the prescient goatherds in the dark, up in the Canarian
holly and the faya, gone dead green in the last sunset of
Europe?
In aerodynamics, because youâve only got the thing on
paper at first, you use dimensionless coefficients: ratios of
this to thatâcentimeters, grams, seconds neatly all cancel-
ing out above and below. This allows you to use models,
arrange an airflow to measure what you're interested in,
_
and scale the wind-tunnel results all the way up to reality,
without running into too many unknowns, because these
coefficients are good for all dimensions. Traditionally they
are named after peopleâReynolds, Prandtl, PĂ©clet, Nus-
selt, Machâand the question here is, how about an Acht-
faden number? Howâs chances for that?
Not good. The parameters breed like mosquitoes in the ;
In the Zone
529
bayou, faster than he can knock them off. Hunger, com-
promise, money, paranoia, memory, comfort, guilt. Guilt
gets a minus sign around Achtfaden though, even if it is
becoming quite a commodity in the Zone. Remittance men
from all over the world will comeâto Heidelberg before
long, to major in guilt. There will be bars and nightclubs
catering
especially
to
guilt enthusiasts.
Extermination
camps will be turned into tourist attractions, foreigners
with cameras will come piling through in droves, tickled
and shivering with guilt. Sorryânot for Achtfaden here,
shrugging at all his mirror-to-mirror replications chaining
out to port and starboardâhe only worked with it up to
the point where the air was too thin to make a difference.
What it did after that was none of his responsibility. Ask
Weichensteller, ask Flaum, and Fibelâthey were the re-
'
entry people. Ask the guidance section, they pointed it
where it was going... .
âDo you find it a little schizoid,â aloud now to all the
Achtfaden fronts and backs, âbreaking a flight profile up
into segments of responsibility? It was half bullet, half
artow. It demanded this, we didnât. So. Perhaps you used
a rifle, a radio, a typewriter. Someâ typewriters in White-
hall, in the Pentagon, killed more civilians than our little
A4 could have ever hoped to. You are-either alone abso-
lutely, alone with your own death, or you take part in the
. larger enterprise, and you share in the deaths of others.
Are'we not all one? Which is your choice,â Fahringer now,
_ buzzing and flat through the filters of memory, âthe little
cart, or the great one?â mad Fahringer, the only one of the
.
Peenemiinde
club who refused
to wear
the exclusive
pheasant-feather badge in his hatband because he couldnât
bring himself to kill, who could be seen evenings on the
beach sitting in full lotos position staring into the setting
sun, and who was first at Peenemiinde to fall to the SS,
taken away one noon into the fog, his lab coat a flag of
surrender,
presently obscured by the black uniforms,
leather and metal of his escort. Leaving behind a few joss
sticks, a copy of the Chinesische Blatter fiir Wissenschaft
_und Kunst, pictures of a wife and children no one had
known about... was Peenemiinde his mountain, his cell
and fasting? Had he found his way free of guilt, fashion-
hy) sable guilt?
RaW âAtmen ...atman...not only to breathe, but also the
The Interface of the Thunder
- Fahringer, a pacifist scientist at PeenemĂŒnde, attempts to bridge the gap between spiritual mysticism and rocket engineering.
- The text explores the philosophical choice between individual isolation and the collective enterprise of shared death.
- Achtfaden recalls a 'koan' regarding the unchanging speed of the exhaust jet as a form of divine breath or 'atman' within the rocket.
- The sensation of flight is described as a temporary escape from the 'enslavement' of gravity, found only at the edge of a storm.
- In the present, Achtfaden is confronted by the Schwarzkommando, who demand information about the mysterious SchwarzgerÀt.
- Despite his attempts to minimize his role, the Africans recognize that his expertise in aerodynamics is essential to their mission.
Does no one recognize what enslavement gravity is till he reaches the interface of the thunder?
In the Zone
529
bayou, faster than he can knock them off. Hunger, com-
promise, money, paranoia, memory, comfort, guilt. Guilt
gets a minus sign around Achtfaden though, even if it is
becoming quite a commodity in the Zone. Remittance men
from all over the world will comeâto Heidelberg before
long, to major in guilt. There will be bars and nightclubs
catering
especially
to
guilt enthusiasts.
Extermination
camps will be turned into tourist attractions, foreigners
with cameras will come piling through in droves, tickled
and shivering with guilt. Sorryânot for Achtfaden here,
shrugging at all his mirror-to-mirror replications chaining
out to port and starboardâhe only worked with it up to
the point where the air was too thin to make a difference.
What it did after that was none of his responsibility. Ask
Weichensteller, ask Flaum, and Fibelâthey were the re-
'
entry people. Ask the guidance section, they pointed it
where it was going... .
âDo you find it a little schizoid,â aloud now to all the
Achtfaden fronts and backs, âbreaking a flight profile up
into segments of responsibility? It was half bullet, half
artow. It demanded this, we didnât. So. Perhaps you used
a rifle, a radio, a typewriter. Someâ typewriters in White-
hall, in the Pentagon, killed more civilians than our little
A4 could have ever hoped to. You are-either alone abso-
lutely, alone with your own death, or you take part in the
. larger enterprise, and you share in the deaths of others.
Are'we not all one? Which is your choice,â Fahringer now,
_ buzzing and flat through the filters of memory, âthe little
cart, or the great one?â mad Fahringer, the only one of the
.
Peenemiinde
club who refused
to wear
the exclusive
pheasant-feather badge in his hatband because he couldnât
bring himself to kill, who could be seen evenings on the
beach sitting in full lotos position staring into the setting
sun, and who was first at Peenemiinde to fall to the SS,
taken away one noon into the fog, his lab coat a flag of
surrender,
presently obscured by the black uniforms,
leather and metal of his escort. Leaving behind a few joss
sticks, a copy of the Chinesische Blatter fiir Wissenschaft
_und Kunst, pictures of a wife and children no one had
known about... was Peenemiinde his mountain, his cell
and fasting? Had he found his way free of guilt, fashion-
hy) sable guilt?
RaW âAtmen ...atman...not only to breathe, but also the
530
Gravityâs RaInsow
soul, the breath of God...â one of the few times Acht-
faden can remember talking with him alone, directly,
âatmen is a genuinely Aryan verb. Now tell me about the
speed of the exhaust jet.â
âWhat do you want to know? 6500 feet per second.â
âTell me how it changes.â
âTt remains nearly constant, through the burning.â
âAnd
yet the relative airspeed changes
drastically,
doesnât itP Zero up to Mach 6, Canât you see whatâs hap-
pening?â
âNo, Fahringer.â
âThe Rocket creating its own great wind .no wind
without both, Rocket and atmosphere... but âinside the
venturi, breathâfurious and blazing breathâalways flows
at the same unchanging speed . .. canât you really see?â
Gibberish. Or else a koan that Achtfaden isnât equipped
to master, a transcendent puzzle that could lead him to
some moment of light... almost as good as;
âWhat is it that flies?
âLos|
Rising from the Wasserkuppe, rivers Ullster and Rese
tilting around into map-shapes, green valleys and moun-
tains, the four he has left below gathering up the white
shock cords, only one looking up, shading his eyesâBert
Fibel? but what does the name matter, from this vantage?
Achtfaden
goes looking for the thunderstormâunder,
through the thunder playing to a martial tune inside his
headâcrowding
soon
in gray
cliffs to the right, the
strokes of lightning banging all the mountains blue, the
cockpit briefly filled with the light... right at the edge.
Right here, at the interface, the air will be rising, You
follow the edge of the storm, with another senseâthe
flight-sense, located nowhere, filling all your nerves...
as
__
long as you stay always right at the edge Siete: fair
lowlands and the madness of Donar it does not fail you,
whatever it is that flies, this carrying drive towardâis it
freedom? Does no one recognize what enslavement gravity _
is till he reaches the interface of the thunder?
|
No time to work out puzzles.
Here come the Schwarz-
kommando. Achtfaden has wasted too much time with â
luscious Gerda, with memories, Here they come clattering
_
down the ladders, fast oogabooga talk he canât even guess
_
at, itâs a linguistic âwilderness here, and heâs afraid. What do
_
In the Zone
531
_
they want? Why wonât they leave him in peaceâthey
_
have their victory, what do they want with poor Acht-
faden?
:
They want the Schwarzgerit. When Enzian actually
pronounces the word aloud, itâs already redundant. It was
there in his bearing, the line of his mouth. The others back
him, rifles slung, half a dozen African faces, mobbing the
mirrors with their darkness, their vein-heavy red-white-
and-blue eyes.
âT only was assigned to part of it. It was trivial. Really.â
âAerodynamics isnât trivial,â Enzian calm, unsmiling.
âThere were others from Gessnerâs section. Mechanical
design. I always worked out of Prof.-Dr. Kurzwegâs shop.â
âWho were the others?â
âI donât remember.â
âSo:
âDonât hit me. Why should I hide anything? Itâs the
truth. They kept us cut off. I didnât know anybody at
Nordhausen. Just a few in my own work section. I swear it.
The S-Gerat people were all strangers to me. Until that
first day we all met with Major Weissmann, I'd never seen
any of them. No one used real names. We were given
code-names. Characters from a movie, somebody said. The
other aerodynamics people were âSpĂ©rriâ and âHawasch.â I
was called âWenk.ââ
âWhat was your job?â
âWeight control. All they wanted from me was the shift
-, in C@ for a device of a given weight. The weight was
. classified top secret. Forty-something kilos. 45? 46?â
:
âStation numbers,â raps Andreas from over Enzianâs
â shoulder.
-
âT canât remember. It was in the tail section. I do re-
_
member the load was assymmetrical about the longitudinal
_
axis. Toward Vane III. That was the vane used for yaw
controlââ
âWe know that.â
âYou'd have to talk to âSpĂ©rriâ or âHawasch.â They'd be
-
ie the ones who worked that problem out. Talk to Guidance.â
Re Why did I sayâ
| âWhy did you say that?â
âNo, no, it wasnât my job, thatâs all, guidance, warhead,
e OPQ
opulsion .
. ask them. Ask the others.â
âYou meant something else, Who worked on guidance?â
â|
The Secrets of Nordhausen
- Achtfaden reveals the compartmentalized nature of the S-GerÀt project, where scientists used movie character code-names to maintain anonymity.
- The interrogation focuses on the technical specifics of the rocket's tail section, including weight control and asymmetrical loading near the yaw control vane.
- Achtfaden betrays his former colleague, Klaus Narrisch, providing a name to the Schwarzkommando in exchange for his own safety.
- The narrative shifts to a desolate, dust-covered cafeteria, symbolizing the collapse of the German scientific machinery and the end of the war.
- Slothrop and Margherita begin a barge journey toward SwinemĂŒnde, navigating a landscape of wreckage and Russian demolition crews.
Telephone jacks on black rubber cords dangle from brackets overhead, each connection hanging over its own desk, all the desks perfectly empty, covered with salt-dust sifted from the ceiling, no phones to plug in, no more words to be said.
In the Zone
531
_
they want? Why wonât they leave him in peaceâthey
_
have their victory, what do they want with poor Acht-
faden?
:
They want the Schwarzgerit. When Enzian actually
pronounces the word aloud, itâs already redundant. It was
there in his bearing, the line of his mouth. The others back
him, rifles slung, half a dozen African faces, mobbing the
mirrors with their darkness, their vein-heavy red-white-
and-blue eyes.
âT only was assigned to part of it. It was trivial. Really.â
âAerodynamics isnât trivial,â Enzian calm, unsmiling.
âThere were others from Gessnerâs section. Mechanical
design. I always worked out of Prof.-Dr. Kurzwegâs shop.â
âWho were the others?â
âI donât remember.â
âSo:
âDonât hit me. Why should I hide anything? Itâs the
truth. They kept us cut off. I didnât know anybody at
Nordhausen. Just a few in my own work section. I swear it.
The S-Gerat people were all strangers to me. Until that
first day we all met with Major Weissmann, I'd never seen
any of them. No one used real names. We were given
code-names. Characters from a movie, somebody said. The
other aerodynamics people were âSpĂ©rriâ and âHawasch.â I
was called âWenk.ââ
âWhat was your job?â
âWeight control. All they wanted from me was the shift
-, in C@ for a device of a given weight. The weight was
. classified top secret. Forty-something kilos. 45? 46?â
:
âStation numbers,â raps Andreas from over Enzianâs
â shoulder.
-
âT canât remember. It was in the tail section. I do re-
_
member the load was assymmetrical about the longitudinal
_
axis. Toward Vane III. That was the vane used for yaw
controlââ
âWe know that.â
âYou'd have to talk to âSpĂ©rriâ or âHawasch.â They'd be
-
ie the ones who worked that problem out. Talk to Guidance.â
Re Why did I sayâ
| âWhy did you say that?â
âNo, no, it wasnât my job, thatâs all, guidance, warhead,
e OPQ
opulsion .
. ask them. Ask the others.â
âYou meant something else, Who worked on guidance?â
â|
532
Gravity's Rainsow
âT told you, I didnât know any of their names.â The
dust-covered cafeteria in the last days: The machinery in
the adjoining halls, that once battered eardrums pitiless as
a cold-chisel day and night, is silenced. The Roman nu-
merals on the time clocks stare from the walls of the bays,
among the glass windowpanes. Telephone jacks on black
rubber cords dangle from brackets overhead, each connec-
tion hanging over its own desk, all the desks perfectly
empty, covered with salt-dust sifted from the ceiling, no
phones to plug in, no more words to be said. ... The face
of his friend across the table, the drawn and sleepless
face now too pointed, too lipless, that once vomited beer
on Achtfadenâs hiking boots, whispering now, âI couldnât
go with von Braun... not to the Americans, it would only
just keep on the same way...I want it really to be over,
thatâs all... good-by, âWenk.ââ
âStuff him down the waste lines,â Andreas suggests.
They are all so black, so sure. ...
I must be the last one... somebodyâs sure to have him
by now... what can these Africans do with a name...
they could have got it from anybody... .
âHe was a friend. We knew each other before the war,
at Darmstadt.â
ete:
âWe're not going to hurt him. We're not going to hurt
you. We want the S-Gerit.â
âNarrisch. Klaus Narrisch.â A new parameter for his
self-coefficient now: betrayal.
;
As he leaves the Riicksichtslos, Achtfaden can hear be-
hind him, metallic, broadcasting from another world,
ripped by static, a radio voice. âOberst Enzian. Mâoka- |
manga.
Mâokamanga.
Mâokamanga.â There
is urgency
and gravity in the word. He stands by the canalside,
among steel wreckage and old men âin the dusk, waiting
for a direction to go. But where is the electric voice now
that will ever call for him?
|
ea
|
They have set out by barge along the Spree-Oder Canal,
headed at last for Swinemiinde, Slothrop to see what Geli.
Trippingâs clew will lead him to in the way of a Schwarz-
O
In the Zone
533
gerat, Margherita to rendezvous with a yachtful of refugees
from the Lublin regime, among whom ought to be her
_
daughter Bianca. Stretches of the canal are still blockedâ
in the night Russian demolition crews can be heard blast-
ing away. the wrecks with TNIâbut Slothrop and Greta
can summon, like dreamers, draft shallow enough to clear
whatever the War has left in their way. Off and on it
rains. The sky will begin to cloud up about noon, turning
the color of wet cementâthen wind, sharpening, colder,
- then rain that must be often at the edge of sleet, blowing
at them head-on up the canal, They shelter under tarps,
among bales and barrels, tar, wood and straw smells.
| When the nights are clear, peepers-and-frogs nights, star-
streaks and shadows at canalside will set travelersâ eyes to
jittering. Willows line the banks. At midnight coils of fog
_ Tise to dim out even the glow of the bargeeâs pipe, far
away up, or down, the dreaming convoy. These nights,
fragrant and grained as pipesmoke, are tranquil and good
_
for sleep, The Berlin madness is behind, Greta seems less
| afraid, perhaps all they needed was to be on the move.
.
But one afternoon, sliding down the long mild slope: of
the Oder toward the Baltic Sea, they catch sight of a little
| red and white resort town, wiped through in broad
_
smudges by the War, and she clutches to Slothropâs arm.
âTe been here...â
âYeah?â
âJust before the Polish invasion...I was here with
Sigmund ... at the spa....â
On shore, behind cranes and steel railings, rise fronts of
what were restaurants, small factories, hotels, burned now,
windowless, powdered with their own substance. The
_ name of the town is Bad Karma. Rain from earlier in the
day has streaked the walls, the pinnacles of waste and the
coarse-cobbled lanes. Children and old men stand on shore
waiting to take lines and warp the barges in. Black dump-
lings of smoke are floating up out of the stack of a white
river steamer. Shipfitters are slamming inside its hull. Greta
_
Stares at it. A pulse is visible in her throat. She takes her
__ head. âI thought it was Biancaâs ship, but it isnât.â
In close to the quay, they swing ashore, grabbing on to
_ an iron ladder held in the old stone by rusted bolts, each
_ one staining the wall downward in a wet sienna fan, On
hoy
ae
ie:
|
The Shadows of Bad Karma
- Slothrop and Greta travel by barge down the Oder toward the Baltic, initially finding peace in the tranquil, foggy nights away from Berlin.
- The atmosphere shifts as they arrive at Bad Karma, a resort town scarred by war and haunting memories for Greta.
- Greta experiences a visceral panic upon seeing a white river steamer, momentarily mistaking it for a ship belonging to Bianca.
- The pair explores the deserted, sand-colored arcade of the Spa, where the ruins are overgrown with lilacs and the fountains still leap.
- They encounter a mysterious, lightless-eyed woman in black standing by a central spring, whose presence terrifies Greta.
- The encounter triggers a desperate flight as Greta breaks away from Slothrop, overwhelmed by the 'malaise of a Europe dead and gone.'
In the ruins lilacs bleed their color, their surplus life out over the broken stone and brick.
In the Zone
533
gerat, Margherita to rendezvous with a yachtful of refugees
from the Lublin regime, among whom ought to be her
_
daughter Bianca. Stretches of the canal are still blockedâ
in the night Russian demolition crews can be heard blast-
ing away. the wrecks with TNIâbut Slothrop and Greta
can summon, like dreamers, draft shallow enough to clear
whatever the War has left in their way. Off and on it
rains. The sky will begin to cloud up about noon, turning
the color of wet cementâthen wind, sharpening, colder,
- then rain that must be often at the edge of sleet, blowing
at them head-on up the canal, They shelter under tarps,
among bales and barrels, tar, wood and straw smells.
| When the nights are clear, peepers-and-frogs nights, star-
streaks and shadows at canalside will set travelersâ eyes to
jittering. Willows line the banks. At midnight coils of fog
_ Tise to dim out even the glow of the bargeeâs pipe, far
away up, or down, the dreaming convoy. These nights,
fragrant and grained as pipesmoke, are tranquil and good
_
for sleep, The Berlin madness is behind, Greta seems less
| afraid, perhaps all they needed was to be on the move.
.
But one afternoon, sliding down the long mild slope: of
the Oder toward the Baltic Sea, they catch sight of a little
| red and white resort town, wiped through in broad
_
smudges by the War, and she clutches to Slothropâs arm.
âTe been here...â
âYeah?â
âJust before the Polish invasion...I was here with
Sigmund ... at the spa....â
On shore, behind cranes and steel railings, rise fronts of
what were restaurants, small factories, hotels, burned now,
windowless, powdered with their own substance. The
_ name of the town is Bad Karma. Rain from earlier in the
day has streaked the walls, the pinnacles of waste and the
coarse-cobbled lanes. Children and old men stand on shore
waiting to take lines and warp the barges in. Black dump-
lings of smoke are floating up out of the stack of a white
river steamer. Shipfitters are slamming inside its hull. Greta
_
Stares at it. A pulse is visible in her throat. She takes her
__ head. âI thought it was Biancaâs ship, but it isnât.â
In close to the quay, they swing ashore, grabbing on to
_ an iron ladder held in the old stone by rusted bolts, each
_ one staining the wall downward in a wet sienna fan, On
hoy
ae
ie:
|
534
Gravityâs Rainsow
Margheritaâs jacket a pink gardenia has begun to shake.
It isnât the wind. She keeps saying, âI have to see... .â
Old men are leaning on railings, smoking pipes, watch-
ing Greta or looking out at the river. They wear gray
clothes, wide-bottom trousers, wide-brim hats with rounded
crowns. The market square is busy and neat: tram tracks
gleam, thereâs a smell of fresh hosing down. In the ruins
lilacs bleed their color, their surplus life out over the
broken stone and brick.
Except for a few figures in black, sitting out in the sun,
the Spa itself is deserted. Margherita by now is spooked
as badly as she ever was in Berlin. Slothrop tags along,
in his Rocketman turnout, feeling burdened. The Sprudel-
hof is bounded on one side by a sand-colored arcade: sand
columns and brown shadows. A strip just in front is
planted to cypresses. Fountains in massive stone bowls are
leaping:
jets 20 feet high, whose shadows across the
smooth paving of the courtyard are thick and nervous.
But whoâs that, standing so rigid by the central spring?
And why has Margherita turned to stone? The sun is out,
there are others watching, but even Slothrop now is bris-
tling along his back and flanks, chills flung one on, the
' fading cluster of another, up under each side of his jaw
...the woman is wearing a black coat, a crepe scarf cov-
ering her hair, the flesh of thick calves showing through
her black stockings as nearly purple, she is only leaning
over the waters in a very fixed way and watching them
as they try to approach... but the smile... across ten
meters of swept courtyard, the smile growing confident in
the very white face, all the malaise of a Europe dead and
gone gathered here in the eyes black as her clothing, black
and lightless. She knows them. Greta has turned, and tries
to hide her face in Slothropâs shoulder. âBy the well,â is
she
whispering
this?
âat sundown,
that woman in
-black. ...â
s
20
âCome on. Itâs all right.â Back to Berlin talk. âSheâs just
a patient here.â Idiot, idiotâbefore he can stop her sheâs
pulled away, some quiet, awful cry in the back of her
throat, and tured and begun to run, a \desperate tattoo
of high heels across the stone, into the shadowed arches of
the Kurhaus.
Mae
Si:
âHey,â Slothrop, feeling queasy, accosts the woman in
black. âWhatâs the big idea, lady?â
The Arrival of the Anubis
- Slothrop loses track of Margherita Erdmann in the ruins of a spa, encountering a stranger who has seemingly replaced the woman he was following.
- Margherita eventually reappears at a riverside café, acting as though her previous disappearance and the mysterious woman by the spring never happened.
- She reveals she has been watching for a specific boat, the Anubis, which carries her daughter Bianca and a group of wealthy revelers.
- The Anubis is described as a 'moving village' of affluent passengers seeking an undefined escape through the post-war lowlands.
- As Slothrop attempts to board the departing yacht, a prankster pulls the ladder, causing him to fall into the river and nearly drown.
- Stripped of his Rocketman gear by the current, Slothrop narrowly avoids the ship's screws and clings to a line to stay with the vessel.
It is a moving village: all summer it has been sailing these lowlands just as Viking ships did a thousand years ago, though passively, not marauding: seeking an escape it has not yet defined clearly.
534
Gravityâs Rainsow
Margheritaâs jacket a pink gardenia has begun to shake.
It isnât the wind. She keeps saying, âI have to see... .â
Old men are leaning on railings, smoking pipes, watch-
ing Greta or looking out at the river. They wear gray
clothes, wide-bottom trousers, wide-brim hats with rounded
crowns. The market square is busy and neat: tram tracks
gleam, thereâs a smell of fresh hosing down. In the ruins
lilacs bleed their color, their surplus life out over the
broken stone and brick.
Except for a few figures in black, sitting out in the sun,
the Spa itself is deserted. Margherita by now is spooked
as badly as she ever was in Berlin. Slothrop tags along,
in his Rocketman turnout, feeling burdened. The Sprudel-
hof is bounded on one side by a sand-colored arcade: sand
columns and brown shadows. A strip just in front is
planted to cypresses. Fountains in massive stone bowls are
leaping:
jets 20 feet high, whose shadows across the
smooth paving of the courtyard are thick and nervous.
But whoâs that, standing so rigid by the central spring?
And why has Margherita turned to stone? The sun is out,
there are others watching, but even Slothrop now is bris-
tling along his back and flanks, chills flung one on, the
' fading cluster of another, up under each side of his jaw
...the woman is wearing a black coat, a crepe scarf cov-
ering her hair, the flesh of thick calves showing through
her black stockings as nearly purple, she is only leaning
over the waters in a very fixed way and watching them
as they try to approach... but the smile... across ten
meters of swept courtyard, the smile growing confident in
the very white face, all the malaise of a Europe dead and
gone gathered here in the eyes black as her clothing, black
and lightless. She knows them. Greta has turned, and tries
to hide her face in Slothropâs shoulder. âBy the well,â is
she
whispering
this?
âat sundown,
that woman in
-black. ...â
s
20
âCome on. Itâs all right.â Back to Berlin talk. âSheâs just
a patient here.â Idiot, idiotâbefore he can stop her sheâs
pulled away, some quiet, awful cry in the back of her
throat, and tured and begun to run, a \desperate tattoo
of high heels across the stone, into the shadowed arches of
the Kurhaus.
Mae
Si:
âHey,â Slothrop, feeling queasy, accosts the woman in
black. âWhatâs the big idea, lady?â
In the Zone
535
But her face has changed by now, it is only the face of
another woman of the ruins, one he would have ignored,
passed over. She smiles, all right, but in the forced and
business way he knows. âZigaretten, bitte?â He gives her
a long stub heâs been saving, and goes looking for Mar-
gherita.
He finds the arcade empty. All the doors of the Kurhaus
are locked. Overhead passes a skylight of yellow panes,
many of them fallen out. Down the corridor, fuzzy patches -
of afternoon sun stagger along, full of mortar dust. He
climbs a broken flight of steps that end in the sky. Odd
chunks of stone clutter the way, From the landing at the
top, the Spa stretches to country distances: handsome trees,
graveyard clouds, the blue river. Greta is nowhere in
sight. Later he will figure out where it was she went. By
_
then they will be well on board the Anubis, and it will
_
only make him feel more helpless.
He keeps looking for her till the darkness is down and
heâs come back by the river again. He sits at an open-air
café strung with yellow lights, drinking beer, eating
spaetzle and soup, waiting. When she materializes it is a
shy fade-in, as Gerhardt von Géll must have brought her
on a time or two, not moving so much as Slothropâs own
vantage swooping to her silent closeup stabilized presently
across from him, finishing his beer, bumming a cigarette.
Not only does she avoid the subject of the woman by the
spring, she may have lost the memory already.
âI went up in the observatory,â is what she has to say
finally, âto look down the river. Sheâs coming. I saw the
boat sheâs on. Itâs only a kilometer away.â
âThe what now?â
-
âBianca, my child, and my friends. I thought theyâd
have been in Swinemiinde long ago. But then nobodyâs on
timetables any more... .â
Sure enough, after two more bitter cups of aco coffee
and another cigarette, here comes a cheerful array of
lights, red, green, and white, down the river, with the
âfaint wheeze of an accordion, the thump of a string bass,
_
and the sound of women laughing. Slothrop and. Greta
walk down to the quay, and through mist now beginning
_to seep up off the river they can make out an ocean-going
_ yacht, nearly the color of the mist, a gilded winged jackal
_ under the bowsprit, the weather-decks crowded with chat-
ia)
AeA
536
Gravity's Rainsow
tering affluent in evening dress. Several people have
spotted Margherita. She waves, and they point or wave
back, and call her name. It is a moving village: all sum-
mer it has been sailing these lowlands just as Viking ships
did a thousand years ago, though passively, not maraud-
ing: seeking an escape it has not yet defined clearly.
_
The boat comes in to the quay, the crew lower an
access ladder. Smiling passengers halfway down are al-
ready stretching out gloved and ringed hands to Mar-
gherita.
âAre you coming?â
âUh... Well, should I?â
She shrugs and turns her back, steps gingerly off the
landing and on board, skirt straining and glossy a moment
in the yellow light from the café. Slothrop dithers, goes to
follow herâat the last moment some joker pulls the
ladder up and the boat moves away, Slothrop screams,
loses his balance and falls in the river. Head first: the
Rocketman helmet is pulling him straight down, He tugs
it off and comes up, sinuses burning and vision blurred,
the white vessel sliding away, though the churning screws
are moving his direction, beginning to suck at the cape, so
he has to get rid of that, too, He backstrokes away and
then cautiously around the counter, lettered in black:
ANuBIS Swinoujgcie, trying to keep away from those screws.
Down the other side he spots a piece of line hanging, and
manages to get over there and grab hold. The band up on
deck is playing polkas. Three drunken ladies in tiaras and
pearl chokers are lounging at the lifelines, watching Slo-
throp struggle up the rope. âLetâs cut it,â yells one of
them, âand see him fall in again!â âYes, letâs!â agree her
companions. Jesus Christ. One of them has produced a
huge meat cleaver, and is winding up all right, amid much
vivacious laughing, at about which point somebody grabs
hold of Slothropâs ankle. He looks down, observes sticking
out a porthole two slender wrists in silver and sapphires,
lighted from inside like ice, and the oily river rushing by
underneath.
\
ee
âIn here.â A girlâs voice. He slides back down while she
tugs on his feet, till heâs sitting in the porthole. From
above comes a heavy thump, the rope goes falling and the
ladies into hysterics. Slothrop squirms on inside, water
Intrigue Aboard the Anubis
- Slothrop narrowly escapes a group of drunken socialites attempting to cut his climbing rope with a meat cleaver.
- He is rescued by Stefania Procalowska, the wife of the ship's owner, who provides him with dry clothes and shelter.
- Stefania reveals the sordid history of Margherita Erdmann, including her career in 'dirty movies' and her obsession with her daughter Bianca's career.
- The narrative details a disturbing film scene from 'AlpdrĂŒcken' that allegedly led to Bianca's conception during a real-life assault on set.
- Stefania describes the twisted family dynamics involving Margheritaâs husband, Miklos Thanatz, and their history of performing for SS troops.
He looks down, observes sticking out a porthole two slender wrists in silver and sapphires, lighted from inside like ice, and the oily river rushing by underneath.
536
Gravity's Rainsow
tering affluent in evening dress. Several people have
spotted Margherita. She waves, and they point or wave
back, and call her name. It is a moving village: all sum-
mer it has been sailing these lowlands just as Viking ships
did a thousand years ago, though passively, not maraud-
ing: seeking an escape it has not yet defined clearly.
_
The boat comes in to the quay, the crew lower an
access ladder. Smiling passengers halfway down are al-
ready stretching out gloved and ringed hands to Mar-
gherita.
âAre you coming?â
âUh... Well, should I?â
She shrugs and turns her back, steps gingerly off the
landing and on board, skirt straining and glossy a moment
in the yellow light from the café. Slothrop dithers, goes to
follow herâat the last moment some joker pulls the
ladder up and the boat moves away, Slothrop screams,
loses his balance and falls in the river. Head first: the
Rocketman helmet is pulling him straight down, He tugs
it off and comes up, sinuses burning and vision blurred,
the white vessel sliding away, though the churning screws
are moving his direction, beginning to suck at the cape, so
he has to get rid of that, too, He backstrokes away and
then cautiously around the counter, lettered in black:
ANuBIS Swinoujgcie, trying to keep away from those screws.
Down the other side he spots a piece of line hanging, and
manages to get over there and grab hold. The band up on
deck is playing polkas. Three drunken ladies in tiaras and
pearl chokers are lounging at the lifelines, watching Slo-
throp struggle up the rope. âLetâs cut it,â yells one of
them, âand see him fall in again!â âYes, letâs!â agree her
companions. Jesus Christ. One of them has produced a
huge meat cleaver, and is winding up all right, amid much
vivacious laughing, at about which point somebody grabs
hold of Slothropâs ankle. He looks down, observes sticking
out a porthole two slender wrists in silver and sapphires,
lighted from inside like ice, and the oily river rushing by
underneath.
\
ee
âIn here.â A girlâs voice. He slides back down while she
tugs on his feet, till heâs sitting in the porthole. From
above comes a heavy thump, the rope goes falling and the
ladies into hysterics. Slothrop squirms on inside, water
:
In the Zone
B37
squeegeeing off, falls into an upper bunk next to a girl
maybe 18 in a long sequined gown, with hair blonde to
the point of pure whiteness, and the first cheekbones Slo-
_
throp can recall getting a hardon looking at. Something
has definitely been happening to his brain out here, all
right....
oe (83, ees
âMmm.â They look at each other while he continues to
drip water all over. Her name, it tums out, is Stefania
Procalowska. Her husband Antoni is owner of the Anubis
here.
Well, husband, all right. âLook at this,â sez Slothrop,
âTm soaking wet.â
âT noticed. Somebodyâs evening clothes ought to fit you.
Dry off, Pll go see what I can promote. You can use the
_ head if you want, everythingâs there.â
He strips off the rest of the Rocketman rig, takes a
shower, using lemon verbena soap in which he finds a
couple âof Stefaniaâs white pubic hairs, and is shaving when
she gets back with dry clothes for him.
âSo you're with Margherita.â
âNot sure about that âwith: She find that kid of hers?â
âOh indeedâtheyâre already deep into it with Karel.
This month heâs posing as a film producer. You know
Karel. And of course she wants to get Bianca into the
films worse than anything.â
= eas
Stefania shrugs a lot, and every sequin dances. âMar-
_ gherita wants her to have a legitimate career. Itâs guilt.
She never felt her own career was anything more than a
string of dirty movies. I suppose you heard about how she
got pregnant with Bianca.â
âMax Schlepzig, or something.â
âOr something, right. You never saw Alpdriicken? In
that one scene, after the Grand Inquisitor gets through,
the jackal men come in to ravish and dismember the
captive baroness. Von Goll let the cameras run right on.
The footage got cut out for the release prints of course,
_ but found its way into Goebbelsâs private collection. Iâve
seen itâitâs frightening. Every man in the scene wears a
âblack hood, or an animal mask... back at Bydgoszcz it
; became an amusing party game to speculate on who the
538
Graviryâs Rainsow
childâs father was. One has to pass the time. Theyâd run
the film and ask Bianca questions, and she had to answer
yes or no.â
âYup.â Slothrop goes on dousing his face with bay rum.
âOh, Margherita had her corrupted long before she
came to stay with us. I wouldnât be surprised if little
Bianca sleeps with Karel tonight. Part of breaking into the
business, isnât itP Of course it willhave to be all businessâ
thatâs the least a mother can do, Margheritaâs problem was
that she always enjoyed it too much, chained up in those
torture rooms. She couldnât enjoy it any other way. You'll
see. She and Thanatz. And whatever Thanatz brought in
his valise.â
âThanatz.â
âAh, she didnât tell you.â Laughing. âMiklos Thanatz,
her husband. They get together off and on. Toward the
end of the war they had a little touring show for the boys
at the frontâa lesbian couple, a dog, a trunk of leather
costumes and implements, a small band. They entertained
the SS troops. Concentration camps... the barbed-wire
circuit, you know. And then later, in Holland, out at the
rocket sites. This is the first time since the surrender theyâve
been together, so I wouldnât actually expect to see too
much of her... .â
âOh, yeah, well, I didnât know that.â Rocket sites? The
hand of Providence creeps among the stars, giving Slothrop
the finger.
âWhile they were away, they left Bianca with us, at
Bydgoszcz. She has her bitchy moments but sheâs really a
charming child. I never played the father game with her.
I doubt she had a father. It was parthenogenesis, sheâs
pure Margherita, if pure is the word I want.â
The evening clothes fit perfectly. Stefania leads Slothrop
up a companionway and out on deck. The Anubis moves
now through starlit countryside, the horizon broken now
and then by silhouettes of a windmill, haycocks, a row of
pig arks, some line of trees set on a low hill for the
wind.... There are ships we can dream across terrible
rapids,
against
currents...our
desire |is wind
and
motor....
i
âAntoni.â She has brought Slothrop to an enormous
figure in Polish cavalry fatigues and with a lot of maniacal
teeth.
Anubis Orgy
- Slothrop learns that Margherita and her lover have reunited after the surrender, while Bianca had been left in othersâ care at Bydgoszcz.
- Stefania escorts Slothrop onto the Anubis, a dreamlike vessel moving through starlit countryside, where Antoni welcomes him to a bizarre multinational company.
- The shipâs bar explodes into a grotesque cabaret of song, decadence, and apocalyptic party imagery, explicitly likening the gathering to the Titanic.
- The scene repeats the same patterns of aristocratic excess, drugs, sex, and theatrical corruption Slothrop has encountered before, making the Zone feel like one endless party of collapse.
- Slothrop glimpses Margherita and Bianca through the crowd and recognizes his own dangerous vulnerability amid the shipâs moral and emotional chaos.
The hand of Providence creeps among the stars, giving Slothrop the finger.
538
Graviryâs Rainsow
childâs father was. One has to pass the time. Theyâd run
the film and ask Bianca questions, and she had to answer
yes or no.â
âYup.â Slothrop goes on dousing his face with bay rum.
âOh, Margherita had her corrupted long before she
came to stay with us. I wouldnât be surprised if little
Bianca sleeps with Karel tonight. Part of breaking into the
business, isnât itP Of course it willhave to be all businessâ
thatâs the least a mother can do, Margheritaâs problem was
that she always enjoyed it too much, chained up in those
torture rooms. She couldnât enjoy it any other way. You'll
see. She and Thanatz. And whatever Thanatz brought in
his valise.â
âThanatz.â
âAh, she didnât tell you.â Laughing. âMiklos Thanatz,
her husband. They get together off and on. Toward the
end of the war they had a little touring show for the boys
at the frontâa lesbian couple, a dog, a trunk of leather
costumes and implements, a small band. They entertained
the SS troops. Concentration camps... the barbed-wire
circuit, you know. And then later, in Holland, out at the
rocket sites. This is the first time since the surrender theyâve
been together, so I wouldnât actually expect to see too
much of her... .â
âOh, yeah, well, I didnât know that.â Rocket sites? The
hand of Providence creeps among the stars, giving Slothrop
the finger.
âWhile they were away, they left Bianca with us, at
Bydgoszcz. She has her bitchy moments but sheâs really a
charming child. I never played the father game with her.
I doubt she had a father. It was parthenogenesis, sheâs
pure Margherita, if pure is the word I want.â
The evening clothes fit perfectly. Stefania leads Slothrop
up a companionway and out on deck. The Anubis moves
now through starlit countryside, the horizon broken now
and then by silhouettes of a windmill, haycocks, a row of
pig arks, some line of trees set on a low hill for the
wind.... There are ships we can dream across terrible
rapids,
against
currents...our
desire |is wind
and
motor....
i
âAntoni.â She has brought Slothrop to an enormous
figure in Polish cavalry fatigues and with a lot of maniacal
teeth.
In the Zone
539
âAmerican?â pumping
Slothropâs hand. âBravo. You
nearly complete the set. We are the ship of all nations
now. We've even got a Japanese on board. An ex-liaison
man from Berlin who didnât quite get out by way of
Russia. Youll find a bar on the next deck. Anything
wandering aroundââhugging Stefania to himââexcept
this one, is fair game.â
Slothrop salutes, gathers they would like to be alone,
and finds the ladder to the bar. The bar is hung with
festive garlands of flowers and light bulbs, and crowded
with dozens of elegantly-decked guests, who have just
now, with the band accompanying, broken into this up-
tempo song:
WELCOME Axoarp!
,
Welcome aboard, gee, itâs a fabulous. or-gy
That you just dropped in on, my friendâ
We canât recall just how it star-ted,
But thereâs only one way it can end!
The behavior is bestial, hardly Marie-Celestial,
But you'll fit right in with the crowd,
If you jettison all of those prob-lems,
And keep it hysterically loud!
There are mo-thers, with their lo-vers,
Stealing rot-ters, from their daught-ers,
_ Big erec-tions, predilec-tions
_ That you wouldnât believe,
So put your brain on your sleeve,
And come a-
board the Titanic, thingsâll really be manic,
| Folks'll panic the second that sunken iceberg is knocked,
Naughty ânâ noisy, and very Walpurgisnacht,
_ Thatâs how the party will end,
_
Soâwelcome aboard, welcome aboard, my friend!
l
Well hereâs couples moaning together in the lifeboats, a
_drunkâs gone to sleep in the awning over Slothropâs head,
fat fellows in white gloves with pink magnolias in their
âhair are dancing tummy-to-tummy and murmuring to-
âgether in Wendish. Hands grope down inside satin gowns.
aiters with brown skins and doe eyes circulate with
trays on which you are likely to find any number of sub-
oo and paraphernalia. The band is playing a medley
HFS
be
|
_
hb
|
a
540
Graviryâs Ratnsow
of American fox-trots. The Baron de Mallakastra sifts 2
sinister white powder into the highball of Mme. Sztup. It
is the same old shit that was going on back at Raoul de la
Perlimpinpinâs place, and for all Slothrop knows itâs the
same party.
:
He gets a glimpse of Margherita and her daughter, but
there is a density of orgy-goers around them that keeps
him at a distance. He knows heâs vulnerable, more thar
he should be, to pretty little girls, so he reckons itâs just as
well, because that Biancaâs a knockout, all right: 11 or 12,
dark and lovely, wearing a red chiffon gown, silk stock-
ings and high-heeled slippers, her hair swept up elaborate
and flawless and interwoven with a string of pearls to
show pendant earrings of crystal twinkling from her tiny
lobes... help, help. Why do these things have to keep
coming down on him? He can see the obit now in Time
magazineâDied, Rocketman, pushing 30, in the Zone,
of lust.
=
The woman who tried to chop Slothrop down with the
cleaver is now seated on a bitt, holding a half-liter of
some liquid which has already seeped into and begun to
darken the orchid gamishing it. She is telling everybody a
story about Margherita. Her hair has been combed or
styled in a way that makes it look like a certain cut of
meat. Slothropâs drink, nominally Irish whisky and water,
arrives and he moves in to listen.
â,..her Neptune is afflicted. Whose isnât? some will
ask. Ah. But as residents on this planet, usually. Greta
lived, most of the time, on Neptuneâher affliction was
more direct, purer, clearer than we know it here.
âShe found Oneirine on a day when her outpost in En-
gland, the usual connection for Chlordyne, failed. Beside
the Thames, as geraniums of light floated in the sky too
slow to tellâbrass light, tanned-skin and mellow peach
light, stylized blooms being drafted on and on among the
clouds, to fade here, to regenerate thereâas this happened
to the dayâs light, he fell. A fall of hours, less extravagant
than Luciferâs, but in the same way part of a deliberate
pattern. Greta was meant to find Oneirine. Each plot
carries its signature. Some are Godâs, some masquerade as
Godâs. This is a very advanced kind of forgery. But still
thereâs the same meanness and mortality to it as a bes |
|
|
The Charisma of the Rocket
- A woman with meat-styled hair recounts Greta's discovery of the drug Oneirine, framing it as a fated 'fall' within a complex, forged cosmic plot.
- The narrative suggests that certain historical encounters are overseen by 'sentient' environments, such as theater marquees acting as witnesses.
- Miklos Thanatz introduces the A4 rocket as a 'baby Jesus' figure, possessing a 'Max Weber charisma' that defies state bureaucratization.
- Thanatz describes the rocket as an irrational force that the State both resisted and allowed to happen, drawing in an increasing number of followers.
- The rocket is explicitly sexualized and deified, described as a 'virile roar' and a 'phallic' entity thrusting into the sky.
I think of the A4 as a baby Jesus, with endless committees of Herods out to destroy it in infancy.
540
Graviryâs Ratnsow
of American fox-trots. The Baron de Mallakastra sifts 2
sinister white powder into the highball of Mme. Sztup. It
is the same old shit that was going on back at Raoul de la
Perlimpinpinâs place, and for all Slothrop knows itâs the
same party.
:
He gets a glimpse of Margherita and her daughter, but
there is a density of orgy-goers around them that keeps
him at a distance. He knows heâs vulnerable, more thar
he should be, to pretty little girls, so he reckons itâs just as
well, because that Biancaâs a knockout, all right: 11 or 12,
dark and lovely, wearing a red chiffon gown, silk stock-
ings and high-heeled slippers, her hair swept up elaborate
and flawless and interwoven with a string of pearls to
show pendant earrings of crystal twinkling from her tiny
lobes... help, help. Why do these things have to keep
coming down on him? He can see the obit now in Time
magazineâDied, Rocketman, pushing 30, in the Zone,
of lust.
=
The woman who tried to chop Slothrop down with the
cleaver is now seated on a bitt, holding a half-liter of
some liquid which has already seeped into and begun to
darken the orchid gamishing it. She is telling everybody a
story about Margherita. Her hair has been combed or
styled in a way that makes it look like a certain cut of
meat. Slothropâs drink, nominally Irish whisky and water,
arrives and he moves in to listen.
â,..her Neptune is afflicted. Whose isnât? some will
ask. Ah. But as residents on this planet, usually. Greta
lived, most of the time, on Neptuneâher affliction was
more direct, purer, clearer than we know it here.
âShe found Oneirine on a day when her outpost in En-
gland, the usual connection for Chlordyne, failed. Beside
the Thames, as geraniums of light floated in the sky too
slow to tellâbrass light, tanned-skin and mellow peach
light, stylized blooms being drafted on and on among the
clouds, to fade here, to regenerate thereâas this happened
to the dayâs light, he fell. A fall of hours, less extravagant
than Luciferâs, but in the same way part of a deliberate
pattern. Greta was meant to find Oneirine. Each plot
carries its signature. Some are Godâs, some masquerade as
Godâs. This is a very advanced kind of forgery. But still
thereâs the same meanness and mortality to it as a bes |
|
|
In the Zone
541
made check. It is only more complex. The members have
names, like the Archangels. More or less common, humanly-
given names whose security can be broken, and the names
learned. But those names are not magic. Thatâs the key,
thatâs the difference. Spoken aloud, even with the purest
magical intention, they do not work.
_
âSo he fell from their grace. So there was no Chlordyne.
So she happened to meet V-Mann Wimpe in the street, in
Berlin, under a theatre marquee whose sentient bulbs may
have looked on, a picturesque array of extras, witnesses to
grave and historic encounters. So she had come to Onei-
rine, and the face of her afflicted home planet was re-
arranged in the instant.â
Oneirine Jamf Imipolex A4....
âThat silly bitch,â observes a voice at Slothropâs elbow,
. âtells it worse every time.â
âBeg pardon?â Slothrop looks around and finds Miklos
âThanatz, full beard, eyebrows feathering out like trailing
edges of hawksâ wings, drinking absinthe out of a souvenir
stein on which, in colors made ghastly by the carnival
lights on deck, bony and giggling Death is about to sur-
prise two lovers in bed.
There is no problem steering him onto the subject of the
RocketââT think of the A4;â sez he, âas a baby Jesus, with
endless committees of Herods out to destroy it in infancyâ
Prussians, some of whom in their innermost hearts still
felt artillery to be a dangerous innovation. If youâd been
,out there .â.. inside the first minute, you saw, you grew
docile under its...it really did possess a Max Weber
charisma .. . some joyfulâand deeply irrationalâforce the
âState bureaucracy could never routinize, against which it
could not prevail...they did resist it, but they also
allowed it to happen. We canât imagine anyone choosing
a role like that. But every year, somehow, their numbers
grow.â
But the tour with General Kammlerâs rocketeers is what
Slothrop,
perversely,
wantsâwants?âto
know
about,
âWell Iâve been to that Nordhausen, sure, seen the bits and
pieces. But never a fully-assembled A4. That must really
be something, huh?â
_ Thanatz is holding out his stein for a refill. The waiter,
dpan, dribbles water down a spoon to turn the absinthe
)
veh
bod
oe
r
â
542
Gravity's Rainsow
milky green while Thanatz caresses his buttocks, then
moves away. It is not clear if Thanatz has been thinking
about his answer. âYes, fueled, alive, ready for firing...
fifty feet high, trembling... and then the fantastic, virile
roar. Your ears nearly burst. Cruel, hard, thrusting into the
virgin-blue robes of the sky, my friend. Oh, so phailic,
Wouldnât you say?â
TU
âHmm, ja, you would have got on with them out at the
batteries, they were sedate, like you. More studious than
your infantry or Panzer types, attentive to the point of
fanaticism. Oh, with notable exceptions of course. One
lives for notable exceptions. ... There was a boy.â Drunk
reminiscence? Is he faking this? âHis name was Gottfried.
Godâs peace, which I trust heâs found. For us I hold no
such hope. We are weighed in the balance and found want-
ing, and the Butcher has had His thumb in the scales...
you think Iâm jaded. So did I, until that terrible week. It
was a time of dissolution, falling back across the Nieder-
sichsisch oil fields. Then I understood I was but a dewy
child. The battery commander had become a screaming
maniac. He called himself âBlicero.â Heâd begun to talk the
way the captain in Wozzeck sings, his voice breaking sud-
denly up into the higher registers of hysteria. Things were
falling apart, and he reverted to some ancestral version of
himself, screamed at the sky, sat hours in a rigid trance,
with his eyes rolled clear up into his head. Breaking with-
out warning into that ungodly coloratura. White blank
ovals, the eyes of a statue, with the gray rain behind them.
He had left 1945, wired his nerves back into the pre-
Christian earth we fled across, into the Urstoff of the
primitive German, Godâs poorest and most panicked crea-
ture. You and I perhaps have become over the generations
so Christianized, so enfeebled by Gesellschaft and our
obligation to its celebrated âContract,â which never did
exist, that we, even we, are appalled by reversions like
that. But deep, out of its silence, the Urstoff wakes, and
sings...
and on the last day... it is shameful . . . through
that whole terrible day, I had an erection... donât judge
me... it was out of my control... everything was out of
controlââ
ff
About here they are interrupted by Margherita and
The Urstoff and the Lollipop
- A character reminisces about the psychological collapse of a battery commander named Blicero during the German retreat.
- The narrative explores the idea of the 'Urstoff,' a primitive, pre-Christian German essence that awakens as modern societal structures fail.
- The speaker confesses to a shameful, involuntary physical arousal during the chaos and dissolution of the war's final days.
- The scene shifts to a surreal performance by Bianca, who mimics Shirley Temple in a grotesque, hyper-infantilized display.
- Margherita forces Bianca into a humiliating public spectacle, blurring the lines between stage performance and genuine abuse.
- The onlookers react with a mixture of drunken applause, mockery, and a voyeuristic desire for the child's punishment.
He had left 1945, wired his nerves back into the pre-Christian earth we fled across, into the Urstoff of the primitive German, Godâs poorest and most panicked creature.
oe
r
â
542
Gravity's Rainsow
milky green while Thanatz caresses his buttocks, then
moves away. It is not clear if Thanatz has been thinking
about his answer. âYes, fueled, alive, ready for firing...
fifty feet high, trembling... and then the fantastic, virile
roar. Your ears nearly burst. Cruel, hard, thrusting into the
virgin-blue robes of the sky, my friend. Oh, so phailic,
Wouldnât you say?â
TU
âHmm, ja, you would have got on with them out at the
batteries, they were sedate, like you. More studious than
your infantry or Panzer types, attentive to the point of
fanaticism. Oh, with notable exceptions of course. One
lives for notable exceptions. ... There was a boy.â Drunk
reminiscence? Is he faking this? âHis name was Gottfried.
Godâs peace, which I trust heâs found. For us I hold no
such hope. We are weighed in the balance and found want-
ing, and the Butcher has had His thumb in the scales...
you think Iâm jaded. So did I, until that terrible week. It
was a time of dissolution, falling back across the Nieder-
sichsisch oil fields. Then I understood I was but a dewy
child. The battery commander had become a screaming
maniac. He called himself âBlicero.â Heâd begun to talk the
way the captain in Wozzeck sings, his voice breaking sud-
denly up into the higher registers of hysteria. Things were
falling apart, and he reverted to some ancestral version of
himself, screamed at the sky, sat hours in a rigid trance,
with his eyes rolled clear up into his head. Breaking with-
out warning into that ungodly coloratura. White blank
ovals, the eyes of a statue, with the gray rain behind them.
He had left 1945, wired his nerves back into the pre-
Christian earth we fled across, into the Urstoff of the
primitive German, Godâs poorest and most panicked crea-
ture. You and I perhaps have become over the generations
so Christianized, so enfeebled by Gesellschaft and our
obligation to its celebrated âContract,â which never did
exist, that we, even we, are appalled by reversions like
that. But deep, out of its silence, the Urstoff wakes, and
sings...
and on the last day... it is shameful . . . through
that whole terrible day, I had an erection... donât judge
me... it was out of my control... everything was out of
controlââ
ff
About here they are interrupted by Margherita and
In the Zone
543
Bianca, playing stage mother and reluctant child. Whis-
pers to the bandleader, funseekers crowding eagerly around
a cleared space where Bianca now stands pouting, her
little red frock halfway up her slender thighs, with black
lace petticoats peeping from beneath the hem, surely itâs
going to be something sophisticated, bigcity, and wicked,
but whatâs she doing with her finger posed aside of one
dimpled cheek like thisâat which point comes the bandâs
intro, and pre-vomit saliva begins to gush into Slothropâs
mouth, along with a horrible doubt into his brain about
how he is going to make it through the next few minutes.
Not only is her song âOn the Good Ship Lollipop,â but
she is also now commencing, without a trace of shame, to
âgrunt her way through it, in perfect mimickry of young
Shirley Templeâeach straining baby-pig inflection, each
curl-toss, unmotivated smile, and stumbling toe-tap... her
delicate bare arms have begun to grow fatter, her frock
shorterâis somebody fooling with the lightsP But the
billowings of asexual child-fat have not changed her eyes:
they remain as they were, mocking, dark, her own....
Much applause and alcoholic bravo-ing when itâs finally
over. Thanatz abstains, fatherly head wagging, great eye-
brows in a frown. âSheâs never going to be a woman if
this goes on... .â
âAnd now, liebling,â Margherita with a rare, and some-
what phony, smile, âletâs hear âAnimal Crackers in My
Soup
ââSuper Animals in My Crack,â hollers a humorist
from the crowd.
â
âNo,â groans the child.
âBiancaââ
âYou bitch,â spike heel ringing on the steel deck. Itâs an
act. âHavenât you humiliated me enough?â
âNot nearly enough,â pouncing on her daughter, grabbing
her by the hair and shaking her. The little girl has fallen
to her knees, struggling; trying to get away.
âOh, delightful,â cries the meat-cleaver lady, âGretaâs
going to punish her.â
âHow Id like to,â murmurs a striking mulatto girl in a
strapless gown, pushing forward to watch, tapping Slo-
thropâs cheek with her jeweled cigarette holder as satin
haunches whisper across his thigh. Someone has provided
}
Decadent Shipboard Orgy
- A lavish, depraved party aboard the vessel collapses into a collective sexual frenzy, presented as both grotesque spectacle and social ritual.
- Greta/Margherita redirects her stored-up pain into a violent punishment of Bianca, turning private trauma into public performance for the aroused crowd.
- Slothrop is swept into the scene, less as a controlling agent than as another body carried along by the groupâs momentum and excess.
- The episode emphasizes disconnection beneath apparent communal climax: everyone seems joined, yet the moment is chaotic, coercive, and morally vacant.
- The Japanese liaison man remains apart, silently observing from another deck, making his detachment stand out against the surrounding frenzy.
- Afterward, the party casually resumes drinking, drugs, and conversation, underscoring the numb normalization of cruelty and indulgence.
Not masturbating or anything, just watching, watching the river, the night...
In the Zone
543
Bianca, playing stage mother and reluctant child. Whis-
pers to the bandleader, funseekers crowding eagerly around
a cleared space where Bianca now stands pouting, her
little red frock halfway up her slender thighs, with black
lace petticoats peeping from beneath the hem, surely itâs
going to be something sophisticated, bigcity, and wicked,
but whatâs she doing with her finger posed aside of one
dimpled cheek like thisâat which point comes the bandâs
intro, and pre-vomit saliva begins to gush into Slothropâs
mouth, along with a horrible doubt into his brain about
how he is going to make it through the next few minutes.
Not only is her song âOn the Good Ship Lollipop,â but
she is also now commencing, without a trace of shame, to
âgrunt her way through it, in perfect mimickry of young
Shirley Templeâeach straining baby-pig inflection, each
curl-toss, unmotivated smile, and stumbling toe-tap... her
delicate bare arms have begun to grow fatter, her frock
shorterâis somebody fooling with the lightsP But the
billowings of asexual child-fat have not changed her eyes:
they remain as they were, mocking, dark, her own....
Much applause and alcoholic bravo-ing when itâs finally
over. Thanatz abstains, fatherly head wagging, great eye-
brows in a frown. âSheâs never going to be a woman if
this goes on... .â
âAnd now, liebling,â Margherita with a rare, and some-
what phony, smile, âletâs hear âAnimal Crackers in My
Soup
ââSuper Animals in My Crack,â hollers a humorist
from the crowd.
â
âNo,â groans the child.
âBiancaââ
âYou bitch,â spike heel ringing on the steel deck. Itâs an
act. âHavenât you humiliated me enough?â
âNot nearly enough,â pouncing on her daughter, grabbing
her by the hair and shaking her. The little girl has fallen
to her knees, struggling; trying to get away.
âOh, delightful,â cries the meat-cleaver lady, âGretaâs
going to punish her.â
âHow Id like to,â murmurs a striking mulatto girl in a
strapless gown, pushing forward to watch, tapping Slo-
thropâs cheek with her jeweled cigarette holder as satin
haunches whisper across his thigh. Someone has provided
}
544
Gravityâs RAINBOW
Margherita with a steel ruler and an ebony Empire chair.
She drags Bianca across her lap, pushing up frock and
petticoats, yanking down white lace knickers. Beautiful
little-girl buttocks
rise like moons. The tender crevice
tightens and relaxes, suspender straps shift and stretch as
Bianca kicks her legs, silk stockings squeak together, erotic
and audible now that the group have fallen silent and
found the medium of touch, hands reaching out to breasts
and crotches, Adamâs apples bobbing, tongues licking lips
.-,Whereâs the old masochist and monument Slothrop
knew back in Berlin? Itâs as if Greta is now releasing all
the pain sheâs stored up over the past weeks onto her
childâs naked bottom, the skin so finely grained that white
centimeter markings and numerals are being left in mirror-
image against the red stripes with each blow, crisscrossing,
building up a skew matrix of pain on Biancaâs flesh. Tears
go streaming down her inverted and reddening face, mix-
ing with mascara, dripping onto the pale lizard surfaces of
her motherâs shoes... her hair has loosened and spills to
the deck, dark, salted with the string of little seed pearls.
The mulatto girl has backed up against Slothrop, reaching
behind to fondle his erection, which has nothing between
it and the outside but somebodyâs loosely-pleated tuxedo
trousers. Everyone is kind of aroused, Thanatz is sitting
up on the bar having his own as yet unsheathed penis
mouthed by one of the white-gloved Wends. Two of the
waiters kneel on deck lapping at the juicy genitals of a
blonde in a wine velvet frock, who meantime is licking
ardently the tall and shiny French heels of an elderly lady
in lemon organza busy fastening felt-lined silver manacles
to the wrists of her escort, a major of the Yugoslay artillery
in dress uniform, who kneels with nose and tongue well
between the bruised buttocks of a long-legged ballerina
from Paris, holding up her silk skirt for him with docile
fingertips while her companion, a tall Swiss divoreée in
tight-laced leather corselette and black Russian boots, un-
does the top of her friendâs gown and skillfully begins to |
lash at her bared breasts with the stems!
of half a dozen
roses, red as the beads of blood which spring up and soon >
are shaking off the ends of her stiff nipples to splash into :
the eager mouth of another Wend whoâs being jerked off |
by a retired Dutch banker sitting on the deck, shoes and
|
:
In the Zone
545
socks just removed by two adorable schoolgirls, twin
sisters in fact, in identical dress of flowered voile, with
each of the bankerâs big toes inserted now into a downy
little furrow as they lie forward along his legs kissing his
shaggy stomach, pretty twin bottoms arched to receive in
their anal openings the cocks of the two waiters who have
but lately been, if you recall, eating that juicy blonde in
that velvet dress back down the Oder River a ways....
As for Slothrop, he ends up coming between the round
shuddering tits of a Viennese girl with hair the color of a
lionessâs pelt and emerald eyes with lashes thick as fur, his
sperm surging out into the hollow of her arched throat
and among all the diamonds of her necklace, burning age-
Jessly through the haze of his seedâand it feels, at least,
like everybody came together, though how could that be?
He does notice that the only person not connected, aside
from Antoni and Stefania, seems to be the Jap liaison man,
whoâs been sitting alone, one deck up, watching. Not
masturbating or anything, just watching, watching the
river, the night... well, theyre pretty inscrutable, you
know, those Japs.
There is a general withdrawing from orifices after a
while, drinking, doping and gabbing resume, and many
begin to drift away to catch some sleep. Here and there
a couple or threesome linger. A C-melody saxophone
player has the bell of his instrument snuggled between the
widespread thighs of a pretty matron in sunglasses, yes
sunglasses at night, this is some degenerate company Slo-
throp has fallen in with all rightâthe saxman is playing
âChattanooga Choo Choo,â and those vibrations are just
driving her wild. A girl with an enormous glass dildo in-
side which baby piranhas are swimming in some kind
of decadent lavender medium amuses herself between
the buttocks of a stout transvestite in lace stockings and a
dyed sable coat. A Montenegran countess is being fucked
simultaneously in her chignon and her navel by a pair of
octogenarians who wear only jackboots and are carrying
on some sort of technical discussion in what seems to be
ecclesiastical Latin.
The sun is still hours away, down the vast unreadable
underslope of Russia. Fog closes in, and the engines slow.
Wiecks slide away under the keel of the white ship.
Aboard the Anubis
- The scene opens in a surreal, decadent orgy aboard the Anubis, presenting Slothrop as adrift among grotesque aristocrats, performers, and sexual spectacle.
- As the ship moves through fog over a river littered with wreckage and corpses, the imagery shifts from obscene comedy to ominous, mythic dread.
- Slothrop wakes from a fading dream about Llandudno, Alice in Wonderland, and the White Rabbit, suggesting that crucial meanings keep slipping away from him as he returns to the mechanical noise of the ship.
- Bianca appears, anxious that Margherita will discover her, revealing jealousy, paranoia, and emotional neglect within their strange family dynamic.
- The passage contrasts childish imagery, theatrical costumes, and sexual exploitation, making Bianca seem both playful and vulnerable in a deeply corrupted environment.
Under the bowsprit, the golden jackal, the only being aboard that can see through the fog, stares ahead, down the river, toward SwinemĂŒnde.
In the Zone
545
socks just removed by two adorable schoolgirls, twin
sisters in fact, in identical dress of flowered voile, with
each of the bankerâs big toes inserted now into a downy
little furrow as they lie forward along his legs kissing his
shaggy stomach, pretty twin bottoms arched to receive in
their anal openings the cocks of the two waiters who have
but lately been, if you recall, eating that juicy blonde in
that velvet dress back down the Oder River a ways....
As for Slothrop, he ends up coming between the round
shuddering tits of a Viennese girl with hair the color of a
lionessâs pelt and emerald eyes with lashes thick as fur, his
sperm surging out into the hollow of her arched throat
and among all the diamonds of her necklace, burning age-
Jessly through the haze of his seedâand it feels, at least,
like everybody came together, though how could that be?
He does notice that the only person not connected, aside
from Antoni and Stefania, seems to be the Jap liaison man,
whoâs been sitting alone, one deck up, watching. Not
masturbating or anything, just watching, watching the
river, the night... well, theyre pretty inscrutable, you
know, those Japs.
There is a general withdrawing from orifices after a
while, drinking, doping and gabbing resume, and many
begin to drift away to catch some sleep. Here and there
a couple or threesome linger. A C-melody saxophone
player has the bell of his instrument snuggled between the
widespread thighs of a pretty matron in sunglasses, yes
sunglasses at night, this is some degenerate company Slo-
throp has fallen in with all rightâthe saxman is playing
âChattanooga Choo Choo,â and those vibrations are just
driving her wild. A girl with an enormous glass dildo in-
side which baby piranhas are swimming in some kind
of decadent lavender medium amuses herself between
the buttocks of a stout transvestite in lace stockings and a
dyed sable coat. A Montenegran countess is being fucked
simultaneously in her chignon and her navel by a pair of
octogenarians who wear only jackboots and are carrying
on some sort of technical discussion in what seems to be
ecclesiastical Latin.
The sun is still hours away, down the vast unreadable
underslope of Russia. Fog closes in, and the engines slow.
Wiecks slide away under the keel of the white ship.
546
Gravity's Rainsow
Springtime corpses caught in the wreckage twist and flov
as the Anubis moves by overhead, Under the bowsprit, the
golden jackal, the only being aboard that can see througl
the fog, stares ahead, down the river, toward Swine
moiinde,
O
Slothrop hereâs been dreaming about Llandudno, where
he spent a rainy furlough once drinking bitter in bec
with a tug skipperâs daughter. Also where Lewis Carrol
wrote that Alice in Wonderland. So, they put up a statue
of the White Rabbit in Llandudno. White Rabbitâs beer
talking to Slothrop, serious and crucial talk, but on the
way up to waking he loses it all, as usual. He lies staring
at ducts and raceways overhead, asbestos-covered elbows
pipes, gages, tanks, switchboards, flanges, unions, valve
wheels and all their thickets of shadow. Itâs noisy as hell
Sunlight filters down the hatches, so that must mean itâs
morning. In a corner of his vision now, he catches a fluttes
of red,
âYou mustnât tell Margherita, Please.â That Bisse Hai
down to her hips, cheeks smudged, eyes hot. âShe'll kill
me,â
âWhat time is it?â
âThe sunâs been up for hours, Why do you want to
know?â
Why does he want to know. Hmm. Maybe he'll go back
to sleep, here. âYour mother upset with you, or some-
thing?â
âOh, sheâs gone out of her mind, she just accused me
of having an affair with Thanatz. Madness, of course we're
good friends, but thatâs all... if she paid any attention be
me sheâd know that,â
âShe sure was paying attention to your ass there, kid.â
âOh, dear,â lifting her dress, turning so she can also
watch âSlothrop back over a shoulder. âI can still feel that.
Did she leave marks?â
;
can
âWell, you'll have to come closer.â
She moyes toward him, smiling, pointing toes ree
âI watched you sleep. You're very pretty, you
Mother also said youâre cruel.â
|
|
|
In the Zone
547
al
j
! _ âWatch this.â He leans to bite her gently on one cheek
| of her ass. She squirms, but doesnât move away.
|
âMm. Thereâs a zipper there, could you...â She shrugs,
|. twists as he unzips her, red.taffeta slides down and off and
sure enough thereâs one or two lavender bruises starting to
|
show up on her bottom, which is perfectly shaped, smooth
|. as cream. Small as she is, sheâs been further laced into a
_ tiny black corset, which compresses her waist now to the
diameter of a brandy bottle and pushes pre-subdeb breasts
up into little white crescents, Satin straps, adorned with
_ intricately pornographic needlework, run down each thigh
| to hold up stockings with tops of dark Alencon lace. The
bare backs of her legs come brushing softly across Slo-
| thropâs face. He starts taking giant, ass-enthusiast bites
_ Now, meantime reaching around to play with cuntlips and
»
clit,. Biancaâs little feet shifting in a nervous dance and
_ scarlet nails digging sharp as needles underneath her
_ stocking tops and into her legs as he goes planting hickeys,
_
red nebulae across her sensitive spaces. She smells like
_ soap, flowers, sweat, cunt. Her long hair falls to the level
_ of Slothropâs eyes, fine and black, the split ends whisper-
_ ing across the small of her white back in and out of in-
_
visibility, like rain...she has turned, and sinks to her
__ knees to undo his pleated trousers. Leaning, brushing hair
| back behind her ears, the little girl takes the head of Slo-
__thropâs cock into her rouged mouth. Her eyes glitter
' through fer lashes, baby rodent hands race his body
|| unbuttoning, caressing. Such a slender child: her throat
swallowing, strummed to a moan as he grabs her hair,
| twists it
... she has him all figured out. Knows exactly when
_ to take her mouth away and stand up, high-heeled Parisian
| slippers planted to either side of him, swaying, hair softly
| waving forward to frame her face, repeated by the corset
| darkly framing her pubic mound and belly. Raising bare
|
|
arms, little Bianca lifts her long hair, tosses her little head
to let the mane shiver down her back, needle-tipped fin-
.
Bers drifting then down slowly, making him wait, down
over the satin, all the shiny hooks and laces, to her thighs.
Then her face, round with baby-fat, enormous night-
shadowed eyes comes swooping in as she kneels, guides his
| Penis into her and settles slow, excruciating till he fills
her, stuffs her full....
i
Now something, oh, kind of funny happens here. Not
of 4 a
i
Slothrop and Bianca's Encounter
- Slothrop engages in a visceral and surreal sexual encounter with the young Bianca aboard the Anubis.
- The narrative shifts into a hallucinatory perspective where Slothrop feels physically miniaturized and trapped inside his own anatomy during the act.
- The climax is described through the metaphor of a rocket launch, equating the physical release with the 'kingly voice of the Aggregat.'
- Post-coital intimacy reveals Bianca's desire to hide from the world and her belief that her childhood status offers a form of invisibility.
- Slothrop experiences a rare moment of genuine emotional connection and discovery, feeling he could almost cry from the intensity.
- The scene concludes with a somber realization that Slothrop will eventually abandon her, marking him as one of the 'lost' souls of the Zone.
He was somehow, actually, well, inside his own cock. If you can imagine such a thing.
|
|
|
In the Zone
547
al
j
! _ âWatch this.â He leans to bite her gently on one cheek
| of her ass. She squirms, but doesnât move away.
|
âMm. Thereâs a zipper there, could you...â She shrugs,
|. twists as he unzips her, red.taffeta slides down and off and
sure enough thereâs one or two lavender bruises starting to
|
show up on her bottom, which is perfectly shaped, smooth
|. as cream. Small as she is, sheâs been further laced into a
_ tiny black corset, which compresses her waist now to the
diameter of a brandy bottle and pushes pre-subdeb breasts
up into little white crescents, Satin straps, adorned with
_ intricately pornographic needlework, run down each thigh
| to hold up stockings with tops of dark Alencon lace. The
bare backs of her legs come brushing softly across Slo-
| thropâs face. He starts taking giant, ass-enthusiast bites
_ Now, meantime reaching around to play with cuntlips and
»
clit,. Biancaâs little feet shifting in a nervous dance and
_ scarlet nails digging sharp as needles underneath her
_ stocking tops and into her legs as he goes planting hickeys,
_
red nebulae across her sensitive spaces. She smells like
_ soap, flowers, sweat, cunt. Her long hair falls to the level
_ of Slothropâs eyes, fine and black, the split ends whisper-
_ ing across the small of her white back in and out of in-
_
visibility, like rain...she has turned, and sinks to her
__ knees to undo his pleated trousers. Leaning, brushing hair
| back behind her ears, the little girl takes the head of Slo-
__thropâs cock into her rouged mouth. Her eyes glitter
' through fer lashes, baby rodent hands race his body
|| unbuttoning, caressing. Such a slender child: her throat
swallowing, strummed to a moan as he grabs her hair,
| twists it
... she has him all figured out. Knows exactly when
_ to take her mouth away and stand up, high-heeled Parisian
| slippers planted to either side of him, swaying, hair softly
| waving forward to frame her face, repeated by the corset
| darkly framing her pubic mound and belly. Raising bare
|
|
arms, little Bianca lifts her long hair, tosses her little head
to let the mane shiver down her back, needle-tipped fin-
.
Bers drifting then down slowly, making him wait, down
over the satin, all the shiny hooks and laces, to her thighs.
Then her face, round with baby-fat, enormous night-
shadowed eyes comes swooping in as she kneels, guides his
| Penis into her and settles slow, excruciating till he fills
her, stuffs her full....
i
Now something, oh, kind of funny happens here. Not
of 4 a
i
548
Gravityâs Rarnsow
that Slothrop is really aware of it now, while itâs going
onâbut later on, it will occur to him that he wasâthis
may sound odd, but he was somehow, actually, well, in-
side his own cock. If you can imagine such a thing. Yes,
inside the metropolitan organ entirely, all other colonial
tissue forgotten and left to fend for itself, his arms and
legs it seems woven among vessels and ducts, his sperm
roaring louder and louder, getting ready to erupt, some-
where below his feet... maroon and evening cuntlight
reaches him in a single ray through the opening at the
top, refracted through the clear juices flowing up around
him. He is enclosed. Everything is about to come, come
incredibly, and heâs helpless here in this exploding em-
prise...red flesh echoing...an extraordinary sense of
waiting to risé....
She .posts, his pretty horsewoman, face to the overhead,
quivering up and down, thightop muscles strung hard as
cable, baby breasts working out the top of her garment
...Slothrop pulls Bianca to him by her nipples and bites
each one very hard. Sliding her arms around his neck,
hugging him, she starts to come, and so does he, their
own flood taking him up then out of his expectancy, âout
the eye at towerâs summit and into her with a singular
detonation of touch. Announcing the void, what could it
be but the kingly voice of the Aggregat itself?
Somewhere in their lying-still are her heart, buffeting, a
chickadee in the snow, her hair, draping and sheltering
both their faces, little tongue at his temples and eyes on
and on, silk legs rubbing his flanks, cool leather of her
shoes against his legs and ankles, shoulderblades rising like
wings whenever she hugs him. What happened back there?
Slothrop thinks he might cry.
They have been holding each other. Sheâs been talking
about hiding out.
âSure. But we'll have to get off sometime, Swinemiinde,
someplace.â
|
âNo. We can get away. Iâm a child, I know how to hide.
â
I can hide you too.â
He knows she can. He knows. Right ie right now, â
under the make-up and the fancy underwear, she exists,
love, invisibility... For Slothrop this is some discovery.
But her arms about his neck are shifting now, apprehen-
:
paculn the Zone
549
sive. For good reason. Sure he'll stay for a while, but
eventually he'll go, and for this he is to be counted, after
all, among the Zoneâs lost. The Popeâs staff is always going
to remain barren, like Slothropâs own unflowering cock.
So when he disentangles himself, it is extravagantly. He
creates a bureaucracy of departure, inoculations against
forgetting,
exit
visas
stamped
with
love-bites... but
coming back is something heâs already forgotten about.
Straightening his bow tie, brushing off the satin lapels of
his jacket, buttoning up his pants, back in uniform of the
day, he turns his back on her, and up the ladder he goes.
The last instant their eyes were in touch is already behind
him
Alone, kneeling on the painted steel, like her mother
she knows how horror will come when the afternoon is
brightest. And like Margherita, she has her worst visions
in black and white. Each day she feels closer to the edge
of something. She dreams often of the same journey: a
passage by train, between two well-known cities, hit by
that same nacreous wrinkling the films use to suggest rain
out a window. In a Pullman, dictating her story. She feels
able at last to tell of a personal horror, tell it clearly in a
way others can share. That may keep it from taking her
past the edge, into silver-salt dark closing ponderably slow
at her mindâs flank ... when she was growing out her fringes,
in dark rooms her own unaccustomed hair, beside her
eyes, would loom like a presence. ... In her ruined towers
now the bells gong back and forth in the wind. Frayed ropes
dangle or slap where her brown hoods no longer glide
above the stone. Her wind keeps even dust away. It is old
daylight: late, and cold. Horror in the brightest hour of
afternoon .
. . sails on the sea too small and distant to mat-
ter... water too steel and cold....
Her look nowâthis
deepening arrestâhas
already
broken Slothropâs seeing heart: has broken and broken,
that same look swung as he drove by, thrust away into
twilights of moss and crumbling colony, of skinny clouded-
cylinder gas pumps, of tin Moxie signs gentian and bitter-
Sweet as the taste they were there to hustle on the weath-
ered sides of barns, looked for how many Last Times up in
the rearview mirror, all of them too far inside metal and
combustion, allowing the daysâ targets more reality than
7
The Bureaucracy of Departure
- Slothrop experiences a ritualistic and extravagant disentanglement from a lover, characterized by a 'bureaucracy of departure' and a sudden emotional amnesia.
- The woman left behind experiences a profound, monochromatic horror that mirrors her mother's visions, feeling herself drifting toward a 'silver-salt dark' edge of sanity.
- A recurring dream of a train journey serves as a metaphor for her attempt to articulate personal horror in a way that might prevent her total psychological collapse.
- Slothropâs memories of past women are filtered through a distinctly American landscape of rusting hayrakes, tin Moxie signs, and the 'failure of perception' inherent in constant travel.
- The narrative connects individual romantic loss to a broader generational tragedy, where young people 'lindy-hop into the pit' under the indifferent gaze of the old.
- Slothrop is ultimately portrayed as a prisoner of his own background, bound by 'city-reflexes' and social markers that act as 'red-ring manacles' on his soul.
He creates a bureaucracy of departure, inoculations against forgetting, exit visas stamped with love-bites... but coming back is something heâs already forgotten about.
paculn the Zone
549
sive. For good reason. Sure he'll stay for a while, but
eventually he'll go, and for this he is to be counted, after
all, among the Zoneâs lost. The Popeâs staff is always going
to remain barren, like Slothropâs own unflowering cock.
So when he disentangles himself, it is extravagantly. He
creates a bureaucracy of departure, inoculations against
forgetting,
exit
visas
stamped
with
love-bites... but
coming back is something heâs already forgotten about.
Straightening his bow tie, brushing off the satin lapels of
his jacket, buttoning up his pants, back in uniform of the
day, he turns his back on her, and up the ladder he goes.
The last instant their eyes were in touch is already behind
him
Alone, kneeling on the painted steel, like her mother
she knows how horror will come when the afternoon is
brightest. And like Margherita, she has her worst visions
in black and white. Each day she feels closer to the edge
of something. She dreams often of the same journey: a
passage by train, between two well-known cities, hit by
that same nacreous wrinkling the films use to suggest rain
out a window. In a Pullman, dictating her story. She feels
able at last to tell of a personal horror, tell it clearly in a
way others can share. That may keep it from taking her
past the edge, into silver-salt dark closing ponderably slow
at her mindâs flank ... when she was growing out her fringes,
in dark rooms her own unaccustomed hair, beside her
eyes, would loom like a presence. ... In her ruined towers
now the bells gong back and forth in the wind. Frayed ropes
dangle or slap where her brown hoods no longer glide
above the stone. Her wind keeps even dust away. It is old
daylight: late, and cold. Horror in the brightest hour of
afternoon .
. . sails on the sea too small and distant to mat-
ter... water too steel and cold....
Her look nowâthis
deepening arrestâhas
already
broken Slothropâs seeing heart: has broken and broken,
that same look swung as he drove by, thrust away into
twilights of moss and crumbling colony, of skinny clouded-
cylinder gas pumps, of tin Moxie signs gentian and bitter-
Sweet as the taste they were there to hustle on the weath-
ered sides of barns, looked for how many Last Times up in
the rearview mirror, all of them too far inside metal and
combustion, allowing the daysâ targets more reality than
7
550
Gravityâs RAINBOW
anything that might come up by surprise, by Murphyâs
Law, where the salvation could be.... Lost, again and
again, past poor dam-busted and drowned Becket, up and
|
down the rut-brown slopes, the hayrakes rusting in the |
afternoon, the sky purple-gray, dark as chewed gum, the |
mist starting to make white dashes in the air, aimed earth- |
ward a quarter, a half inch... she looked at him once, of |
course he still remembers, from down at the end of a
lunchwagon counter, grill smoke working onto the win-
|
dows patient as shoe grease against the rain for the plaid, |
hunched-up leaky handful inside, off the jukebox a quick |
twinkle in the bleat of a trombone, a reed section, planting
swing notes precisely into the groove between silent mid- |
point and next beat, jumping it pah (hm) pah (hm) pah|
so exactly in the groove that you knew it was ahead but}
felt it was behind, both of you, at both ends of the counter, |
could feel it, feel your age delivered into a new kind of |
time that may have allowed you to miss the rest, the}
graceless expectations of old men who watched, in bifocal |
and mucus indifference, watched you lindy-hop into the)
pit by millions, as many millions as necessary. .
.
. Of course
Slothrop lost her, and kept losing herâit was an American |
requirementâout the windows of the Greyhound, passing |
into beveled stonery, green and elm-folded on into a fail-|
ure of perception, or, in a more sinister sense, of will (you|
used to know what these words mean), she has moved on, |
untroubled, too much Theirs, no chance of a beige sum- |
mer spook at her roadside. .
Leaving Slothrop in his cityareflexes and Harvard crew |
soxâboth happening to be red-ring manacles, comicbook |
irons (though the comic book was virtually uncirculated,
found by chance near nightfall by a hopper at a Berk-|â
shire sandbank. The name of the -heroâor beingâwas)
Sundial. The frames never enclosed himâor itâfor long
enough to tell. Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again, |
came from âacross the wind,â by which readers under.
stood âacross some flow, more or less
sheet and vertical: |
a wall in constant motionââover there was a differentâ
world, where Sundial took care of business they would
never understand).
1
Distant, yes these are pretty distant Sure they are. Toc »
much closer and it begins âto hurt to bring her back. But)
there is this Eurydice-obsession, this bringing back on
The Voyeur and the Kamikaze
- The narrative explores the 'Eurydice-obsession,' questioning the drive to retrieve the real person from the 'Zone' versus accepting a mere facsimile or image.
- Bianca is presented as a figure existing between the cinematic world of her putative fathers and the reality of the observer, ultimately remaining unreachable.
- Slothrop encounters Ensign Morituri, a Japanese naval officer who admits to watching others not for sexual thrill, but to alleviate his profound loneliness.
- Morituri explains his paradoxical social philosophy: joining in with others actually makes him feel more alone than observing them from a distance.
- The Ensign reveals his history as a 'Kamikaze school' washout who was rejected for his poor attitude and sent on a circuitous route through Russia and Switzerland.
- The scene shifts to a tense atmosphere on the ship's fantail, where the characters eat breakfast under the shadow of approaching thunder and cumulonimbus clouds.
âYou think I am a voyeur. Yes you do. But it isnât that. There is no thrill, I mean, But when I watch people, I feel less alone.â
550
Gravityâs RAINBOW
anything that might come up by surprise, by Murphyâs
Law, where the salvation could be.... Lost, again and
again, past poor dam-busted and drowned Becket, up and
|
down the rut-brown slopes, the hayrakes rusting in the |
afternoon, the sky purple-gray, dark as chewed gum, the |
mist starting to make white dashes in the air, aimed earth- |
ward a quarter, a half inch... she looked at him once, of |
course he still remembers, from down at the end of a
lunchwagon counter, grill smoke working onto the win-
|
dows patient as shoe grease against the rain for the plaid, |
hunched-up leaky handful inside, off the jukebox a quick |
twinkle in the bleat of a trombone, a reed section, planting
swing notes precisely into the groove between silent mid- |
point and next beat, jumping it pah (hm) pah (hm) pah|
so exactly in the groove that you knew it was ahead but}
felt it was behind, both of you, at both ends of the counter, |
could feel it, feel your age delivered into a new kind of |
time that may have allowed you to miss the rest, the}
graceless expectations of old men who watched, in bifocal |
and mucus indifference, watched you lindy-hop into the)
pit by millions, as many millions as necessary. .
.
. Of course
Slothrop lost her, and kept losing herâit was an American |
requirementâout the windows of the Greyhound, passing |
into beveled stonery, green and elm-folded on into a fail-|
ure of perception, or, in a more sinister sense, of will (you|
used to know what these words mean), she has moved on, |
untroubled, too much Theirs, no chance of a beige sum- |
mer spook at her roadside. .
Leaving Slothrop in his cityareflexes and Harvard crew |
soxâboth happening to be red-ring manacles, comicbook |
irons (though the comic book was virtually uncirculated,
found by chance near nightfall by a hopper at a Berk-|â
shire sandbank. The name of the -heroâor beingâwas)
Sundial. The frames never enclosed himâor itâfor long
enough to tell. Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again, |
came from âacross the wind,â by which readers under.
stood âacross some flow, more or less
sheet and vertical: |
a wall in constant motionââover there was a differentâ
world, where Sundial took care of business they would
never understand).
1
Distant, yes these are pretty distant Sure they are. Toc »
much closer and it begins âto hurt to bring her back. But)
there is this Eurydice-obsession, this bringing back on
oh
In the Zone
551
of...though how much easier just to leave her there, in
fetid carbide and dead-canary soups of breath and come
âout and have comfort enough to try only for a reasonable
fascimileââWhy bring her back? Why try? Itâs only the
difference between the real boxtop and the one you draw
âfor Them.â No. How can he believe that? Itâs what They
want him to believe, but how can heP No difference be-
âtween a boxtop and its image, all right, their whole econ-
âomyâs based on that... but she must be more than an
~
âimage, a product, a promise to pay....
~/ Of all her putative fathersâMax Schlepzig and masked
extras on one side of the moving film, Franz Pékler and
certainly other pairs of hands busy through trouser cloth,
that Alpdriicken Night, on the otherâBianca is closest,
this last possible moment
below
decks here behind
the ravening jackal, closest to you who came in blinding
color, slouched alone in your own seat, never threatened
along any rookwise row or diagonal all night, you whose
interdiction from her motherâs water-white love is abso-
lute, you, alone, saying sure I know them, omiited, chuck-
ling: count me in, unable, thinking probably some: hooker
_...She favors you, most of all, You'll never get to see her.
So somebody has to tell you.
Oo
Halfway up the ladder, Slothrop is startled by a bright
âset of teeth, beaming out of a dark hatchway. âI was
âwatching. I hope you donât mind.â Seems to be that Nip
âagain, who introduces himself now as Ensign Morituri, of
the Imperial Japanese Navy.
_ âYeah, I...â why is Slothrop drawling this way? âsaw
ya watching .. . last night too, mister. . ..â
_ âYou think I am a voyeur. Yes you do. But it isnât that.
There is no thrill, I mean, But when I watch people, I feel
Tess alone.â
_âW'1
hell, Ensign... why donâtcha just...join
in?
They're always lookinâ fer .
.. company.â
- âOh, my goodness,â grinning one of them big poly-
hedral Jap grins, like they do, âthen I would feel more
e.
) Tables and chairs have been set out under orange-and-
552.
Gravity's Rarmnsow
red-stripe awnings on the fantail, Slothrop and Morituri
have got the place almost to themselves, except for some
girls in two-piece swimsuits out to catch some sun before
it goes away. Cumulonimbus are building up dead ahead.
You can hear thunder in the distance. The air is coming
awake.
A steward brings coffee, cream, porridge and fresh
oranges. Slothrop looks at the porridge, doubtful. âI'll take
â
it,â Ensign Morituri grabbing the bowl.
âOh, sure.â Slothrop notices now how this Nip also has
this wide handle-bar mustache. âAha, aha. âm hep to you.
A porridge fan! Shameful. A latent Anglophileâyeah,
youre blushing.â Pointing and hollering ha, ha, ha.-
âYou've found me-out. Yes, yes. Iâve been on the wrong
side for six years.â
âEver try to get away?â
âAnd find out what you people are really like? Oh, my
golly. What if phile changes then to phobe? Where would
I be?â He giggles, spits an orange pit over the side. Seems
he put in a. few weeksâ training on that Formosa, in
Kamikaze school, but they washed him out. No one ever
told him why, exactly. Something to do with his attitude.
âI just didnât have a good attitude,â he sighs. âSo they
sent me back here again, by way of Russia and Switzer-
land. This time with the Propaganda Ministry.â He would
sit most of the day watching Allied footage for what could
be pulled and worked into newsreels to make the Axis look
good and the other side look bad. âAll I know about Great
Britain comes from that raw material.â
âLooks like German movies have warped other outlooks
around here too.â
iB
âYou mean Margheritaâs. Did you know, thatâs how we
met! A mutual friend at Ufa. I was on holiday at Bad
Karmaâjust before the Polish invasion. The little town
where you joined us. It was a spa. I watched you fall in
the water. Then you climbed aboard. I: also watched Mar-
gherita watching you. Please donât be offended, âSlothrop,
but it might be better to stay away anit her right now.
âNot at all. I know something creepy/is going on.â He
tells Morituri about the incident in the Sprudelhof, and
Margheritaâs flight from the apparition in black.
lisa
The Ensign nods, grim, twisting half his mustache up:
The Shadows of Bad Karma
- Ensign Morituri describes his wartime role editing Allied footage for the Propaganda Ministry to manipulate public perception.
- Morituri warns Slothrop to stay away from Margherita, hinting at a dark history involving her mental instability and paranoia.
- The narrative reflects on the 'hidden machinery' of the days leading up to war, suggesting that the truth is more visible before the conflict begins.
- Margheritaâs past reveals a failed Hollywood career followed by a period of intense psychological distress and fear of sleep.
- Driven by the fear of being 'found out' as Jewish in Nazi Germany, Margherita suffers from psychosomatic ailments that no specialist can cure.
- The setting shifts to Bad Karma, a spa town filled with 'sleepwalkers' seeking cures in radium-infused mud just before the invasion of Poland.
Wars have a way of overriding the days just before them. In the looking back, there is such noise and gravity.
552.
Gravity's Rarmnsow
red-stripe awnings on the fantail, Slothrop and Morituri
have got the place almost to themselves, except for some
girls in two-piece swimsuits out to catch some sun before
it goes away. Cumulonimbus are building up dead ahead.
You can hear thunder in the distance. The air is coming
awake.
A steward brings coffee, cream, porridge and fresh
oranges. Slothrop looks at the porridge, doubtful. âI'll take
â
it,â Ensign Morituri grabbing the bowl.
âOh, sure.â Slothrop notices now how this Nip also has
this wide handle-bar mustache. âAha, aha. âm hep to you.
A porridge fan! Shameful. A latent Anglophileâyeah,
youre blushing.â Pointing and hollering ha, ha, ha.-
âYou've found me-out. Yes, yes. Iâve been on the wrong
side for six years.â
âEver try to get away?â
âAnd find out what you people are really like? Oh, my
golly. What if phile changes then to phobe? Where would
I be?â He giggles, spits an orange pit over the side. Seems
he put in a. few weeksâ training on that Formosa, in
Kamikaze school, but they washed him out. No one ever
told him why, exactly. Something to do with his attitude.
âI just didnât have a good attitude,â he sighs. âSo they
sent me back here again, by way of Russia and Switzer-
land. This time with the Propaganda Ministry.â He would
sit most of the day watching Allied footage for what could
be pulled and worked into newsreels to make the Axis look
good and the other side look bad. âAll I know about Great
Britain comes from that raw material.â
âLooks like German movies have warped other outlooks
around here too.â
iB
âYou mean Margheritaâs. Did you know, thatâs how we
met! A mutual friend at Ufa. I was on holiday at Bad
Karmaâjust before the Polish invasion. The little town
where you joined us. It was a spa. I watched you fall in
the water. Then you climbed aboard. I: also watched Mar-
gherita watching you. Please donât be offended, âSlothrop,
but it might be better to stay away anit her right now.
âNot at all. I know something creepy/is going on.â He
tells Morituri about the incident in the Sprudelhof, and
Margheritaâs flight from the apparition in black.
lisa
The Ensign nods, grim, twisting half his mustache up:
In the Zone
553
so it points in a saber at one eye. âShe didnât tell you
what happened
there?
Golly,
Jack, you
had better
know. ...â
Ensicn Morirunriâs Story
Wars have a way of overriding the days just before
them. In the looking back, there is such noise and gravity.
But we are conditioned to forget. So that the war may
have more importance, yes, but still...isnât the hidden
machinery easier to see in the days leading up to the
event? There are arrangements, things to be expedited...
and often the edges are apt to lift, briefly, and we see
things we were not meant to....
They'd tried to talk Margherita out of going to Holly-
wood: She went, and she failed. Rollo was there when
she returned, to keep the worst from happening. For a
month he impounded sharp objects, kept her at ground
level and away from chemicals, which meant she didnât
sleep much. She would drop off and wake up hysterical.
Afraid to go to sleep. Afraid she wouldnât know how to
get back.
Rollo did not have a keen mind. He meant well, but
after a month of her he found he couldnât take any more.
Actually it surprised everyone that heâd lasted so long.
Greta was handed over to Sigmund, hardly improved, but
perhaps no worse.
ae.
| The trouble with Sigmund was the place he happened
to be living in, a drafty, crenelated deformity overlooking
a cold little lake in the Bavarian Alps. Parts of it must
have dated back to the fall of Rome. That was where
Sigmund brought her.
She had got the idea somewhere that she was part
Jewish. Things in Germany by then, as everyone knows,
were very bad. Margherita was terrified of being âfound
out.â She heard Gestapo in every puff of air that slipped
in, among any of a thousand windways of dilapidation.
Sigmund spent whole nights trying to talk it away. He
was no better at it than Rollo. It was around this time
that her symptoms began.
However
psychogenic
these pains,
tics, hives and
nauseas, her suffering was real. Acupuncturists came down
if
âSy
554
Gravity's Rainsow
by Zeppelin from Berlin, showing up in the middle of the
night with little velvet cases full of gold needles. Viennese
analysts, Indian holy men, Baptists from America troopec
in and out of Sigmundâs castle, stage-hypnotists and Co.
lombian curanderos slept on the rug in front of the fire
place. Nothing worked. Sigmund: grew alarmed, and be-
fore long as ready as Margherita to hallucinate. Probably
it was she who suggested Bad Karma. It had a reputatior
that summer for its mud, hot and greasy mud with traces
of radium, jet black, softly bubbling. Ah. Anyone whoâs
been sick in that way can imagine her hope. That muc
would cure anything.
Where was anybody that summer before the War?
Dreaming. The spas that summer, the summer Ensign
Morituri came to Bad Karma, were crowded with sleep-
walkers. Nothing for him to do at the Embassy. They
suggested a holiday till September. He should have known
something was up, but he only went on holiday to Bad
Karmaâspent the days drinking Pilsener Urquelle in the
café by the lake in the Pavilion Park. He was a stranger,
half the time drunk, silly beer-drunk, and he hardly spoke
their language. But what he saw must have been going on
all over Germany. A premeditated frenzy.â
Le
Margherita and Sigmund moved along the same mag-
nolia-shaded paths, sat out in rolling-chairs to hear con-
certs of patriotic music... when it rained they fidgeted
over card games in one of the public rooms
of their Kur-
haus. At night they watched the fireworksâfountains,
spark-foaming rockets, yellow starbursts high over Poland.
That oneiric season. . . . There was no one in all the spas
to read anything in the patterns the fires made. They
were only gay lights, nervous as the fantasies that flickered
from eye to eye, trailing the skin like the ostrich fans of
50 years ago.
i
When did Sigmund first notice her absences, or when
did they become for him more than routine? Always she
gave him plausible stories: a medical appointment, a chance
meeting with an old friend, drowsiness in the mud-baths,
while time raced by. It may have been unaccustomed sleep
that got him suspicious at last, because of what her wake-
fulness had put him through in the South. The stories about.
the children in the local newspapers could have made no
A Premeditated Frenzy
- Sigmund and Margherita live a superficial, dreamlike existence in a German spa town amidst a backdrop of patriotic music and fireworks.
- The Ensign Morituri, an isolated and bewildered foreigner, observes the couple and feels a kinship with their shared sense of alienation.
- Sigmund begins to notice Margherita's frequent, poorly explained absences and physical signs of distress, such as tremors and torn clothing.
- While Sigmund remains oblivious to local news, Morituri reads the newspapers and begins to connect Margherita's behavior to sinister local events.
- The atmosphere of the spa is described as an 'oneiric season' where the guests ignore the dark undercurrents of the pre-war German climate.
At night they watched the fireworksâfountains, spark-foaming rockets, yellow starbursts high over Poland.
554
Gravity's Rainsow
by Zeppelin from Berlin, showing up in the middle of the
night with little velvet cases full of gold needles. Viennese
analysts, Indian holy men, Baptists from America troopec
in and out of Sigmundâs castle, stage-hypnotists and Co.
lombian curanderos slept on the rug in front of the fire
place. Nothing worked. Sigmund: grew alarmed, and be-
fore long as ready as Margherita to hallucinate. Probably
it was she who suggested Bad Karma. It had a reputatior
that summer for its mud, hot and greasy mud with traces
of radium, jet black, softly bubbling. Ah. Anyone whoâs
been sick in that way can imagine her hope. That muc
would cure anything.
Where was anybody that summer before the War?
Dreaming. The spas that summer, the summer Ensign
Morituri came to Bad Karma, were crowded with sleep-
walkers. Nothing for him to do at the Embassy. They
suggested a holiday till September. He should have known
something was up, but he only went on holiday to Bad
Karmaâspent the days drinking Pilsener Urquelle in the
café by the lake in the Pavilion Park. He was a stranger,
half the time drunk, silly beer-drunk, and he hardly spoke
their language. But what he saw must have been going on
all over Germany. A premeditated frenzy.â
Le
Margherita and Sigmund moved along the same mag-
nolia-shaded paths, sat out in rolling-chairs to hear con-
certs of patriotic music... when it rained they fidgeted
over card games in one of the public rooms
of their Kur-
haus. At night they watched the fireworksâfountains,
spark-foaming rockets, yellow starbursts high over Poland.
That oneiric season. . . . There was no one in all the spas
to read anything in the patterns the fires made. They
were only gay lights, nervous as the fantasies that flickered
from eye to eye, trailing the skin like the ostrich fans of
50 years ago.
i
When did Sigmund first notice her absences, or when
did they become for him more than routine? Always she
gave him plausible stories: a medical appointment, a chance
meeting with an old friend, drowsiness in the mud-baths,
while time raced by. It may have been unaccustomed sleep
that got him suspicious at last, because of what her wake-
fulness had put him through in the South. The stories about.
the children in the local newspapers could have made no
. In the Zone
555
impression, not then, Sigmund only read headlines, and
- rarely at that, to fill up a dead moment.
Morituri saw them often. They would meet and bow,
exchange Heil Hitlers, and the Ensign would be permitted
a few minutes to practice his German. Except for waiters
and barmen, they were the only people he spoke with.
Out at the tennis courts, waiting in line at the pump room
under the cool colonnade, at an aquatic corso, a battle of
flowers, a Venetian féte, Sigmund and Margherita hardly
changed, he with hisâMorituri thought of it as his Ameri-
can Smile, around the amber âstem of his dead pipe. .
. his
head like a flesh Christmas ornament... how long ago it
was...sShe with her yellow sunglasses and Garbo hats.
The flowers were all that changed about her day to day:
' morning glory, almond blossom, foxglove. Morituri grew
to look forward so to these daily meetings. His wife and
daughters clear on the other side of the world, himself
exiled in a country that bewildered and oppressed him. He
needed the passing zoogoersâ civility, the guidebook words.
He knows he stared back, every bit as curious. In their
European slickness, they all fascinated him: the white-
plumed old ladies in the lying-out chairs, the veterans of
the Great War-like serene hippopotamuses soaking in the
steel baths, their effeminate secretaries chattering shrill as
monkeys across the Sprudelstrasse, while far down the
arches of lindens and chestnuts you could hear the endless
_ Toar of carbon dioxide at the bubbling spring, coming out
of solution in great shuddering spheres... but Sigmund
and Margherita fascinated him most of all. âThey seemed
as alien here as I was. We each have antennas, donât we,
_ tuned to recognize our own... .â
One forenoon, by accident, he met Sigmund, alone, a
tweed statue on his walking stick in front of the Inhala-
torium, looking as if heâd lost his way, no real place to go,
no desire. Without premeditation, then, they began to
talk. The time was right. They moved off presently, stroll-
ing through the crowds of sick foreigners, while Sigmund
told of his troubles with Greta, her Jewish fantasy, her
absences. The day before, he had caught her out in a lie.
_ Sheâd come in very late. Her hands had taken a fine tremor
that wouldnât stop. Heâd begun to notice things. Her
shoes, beaded with drying black mud. A seam in her dress
556
Gravityâs Rainsow
widened, nearly ripped, though sheâd been losing weight.
But he hadnât the courage to have it out with her.
Morituri, who had been reading the papers, for whom
the connection had sprung up like a monster from the
tamed effervescences of the Trinkhalle, but who did not
have the words, German or otherwise, to tell Sigmund,
Morituri, the Beer Ensign, began to follow her then. She
never looked back, but she knew he was there. At the
weekly ball in the Kursaal he felt, for the first time, a
reticence among them all. Margherita, eyes ke was ac-
customed to seeing covered with sunglasses naked now,
burning terribly, never took her gaze from him; The Kur-
Orchestra played selections from The Merry Widow and
Secrets of Suzanne, out-of-date music, and yet, when bits
of it found Morituri years later in the street, over the
radio, they never failed to bring back the unwritten taste
of that night, the three of them at the edge of a deepness
none could sound...some last reprise of the European
thirties he had never known... which are also for him a
particular room, a salon in the afternoon: lean girls in
gowns, mascara all around their eyes, the men with faces
shaven very smooth, film-star polished .. . not operetta but
dance music here, sophisticated, soothing, a bit âmodem,â
dipping elegantly in the up-to-date melodic lines... an
upstairs room, with late sunlight coming in, deep carpets,
voices saying nothing heavy or complex, smiles informed
and condescending. He was awakened that morning in a
soft bed, he looks forward to an evening at a cabaret
dancing to popular love songs played in just such a man-
nered and polished style. His afternoon salon with its held
tears, its smoke, its careful passion has been a way-station
between the comfortable morning and the comfortable
night: it was Europe, it was the smoky, citied fear of
death, and most perilous it was Margheritaâs scrutable
eyes, that lost encounter in the Kursaal, black eyes among
those huddled jewels and nodding old
generals, in the
roar from the Brodelbrunnen outside, filing the quiet
spaces in the music as machinery was soon âto fill the sky.
Next evening, Morituri followed her out for the last time.
Down the worn paths, under the accustomed trees, past
the German goldfish pool that reminded him of home,
across the golf links, the dayâs last white-mustached men
The Twilight of Bad Karma
- Morituri follows Margherita through a haunting European landscape that evokes a fading, sophisticated era of the 1930s.
- The atmosphere at the Kursaal ball shifts toward a collective reticence, marked by Margheritaâs intense, unmasked gaze.
- A sense of impending doom and 'citied fear of death' permeates the setting, as the sounds of machinery begin to replace the music.
- The pursuit leads to a black mud pool where Margherita confronts a young boy with 'hair like cold snow.'
- The encounter reveals a dark, ritualistic violence rooted in historical exile and ethnic hatred.
- Morituri remains a paralyzed observer, unbuttoning his jacket in preparation for a conflict he dreads to join.
Twilight came down on Bad Karma that night pallid and violent: the horizon was a Biblical disaster.
556
Gravityâs Rainsow
widened, nearly ripped, though sheâd been losing weight.
But he hadnât the courage to have it out with her.
Morituri, who had been reading the papers, for whom
the connection had sprung up like a monster from the
tamed effervescences of the Trinkhalle, but who did not
have the words, German or otherwise, to tell Sigmund,
Morituri, the Beer Ensign, began to follow her then. She
never looked back, but she knew he was there. At the
weekly ball in the Kursaal he felt, for the first time, a
reticence among them all. Margherita, eyes ke was ac-
customed to seeing covered with sunglasses naked now,
burning terribly, never took her gaze from him; The Kur-
Orchestra played selections from The Merry Widow and
Secrets of Suzanne, out-of-date music, and yet, when bits
of it found Morituri years later in the street, over the
radio, they never failed to bring back the unwritten taste
of that night, the three of them at the edge of a deepness
none could sound...some last reprise of the European
thirties he had never known... which are also for him a
particular room, a salon in the afternoon: lean girls in
gowns, mascara all around their eyes, the men with faces
shaven very smooth, film-star polished .. . not operetta but
dance music here, sophisticated, soothing, a bit âmodem,â
dipping elegantly in the up-to-date melodic lines... an
upstairs room, with late sunlight coming in, deep carpets,
voices saying nothing heavy or complex, smiles informed
and condescending. He was awakened that morning in a
soft bed, he looks forward to an evening at a cabaret
dancing to popular love songs played in just such a man-
nered and polished style. His afternoon salon with its held
tears, its smoke, its careful passion has been a way-station
between the comfortable morning and the comfortable
night: it was Europe, it was the smoky, citied fear of
death, and most perilous it was Margheritaâs scrutable
eyes, that lost encounter in the Kursaal, black eyes among
those huddled jewels and nodding old
generals, in the
roar from the Brodelbrunnen outside, filing the quiet
spaces in the music as machinery was soon âto fill the sky.
Next evening, Morituri followed her out for the last time.
Down the worn paths, under the accustomed trees, past
the German goldfish pool that reminded him of home,
across the golf links, the dayâs last white-mustached men
In the Zone
557
struggling up out of traps and hazards, their caddies stand-
ing at allegorical attention in the glow of the sunset, the
bundled clubs.in Fascist silhouette.... Twilight came
down on Bad Karma that night pallid and violent: the
horizon was_a Biblical disaster. Greta had dressed all in
black, a hat with a veil covering most of her hair, purse
slung by a long strap over one shoulder. As choices of a
destination narrowed to one, as Morituri ran into snares the
night began to lay out for him, prophecy filled him like
the river wind: where she had been on her absences, how
the children in those headlines hadâ
They had arrived at the edge of the black mud pool:
that underground presence, old as Earth, partly enclosed
- back at the Spa and a name given to. ... The offering was
to be.a boy, lingering after all the others had gone. His
hair was cold snow. Morituri could only hear fragments of
what they said. The boy wasnât afraid of her at first. He
might not have recognized her from his dreams. It would
have been his only hope. But they had made that im-
possible, his German overseers. Morituri stood by in his
uniform, waiting, unbuttoning the jacket so that he could
move, though he didnât want to. Certainly they were all
repeating this broken act from an earlier time....
Her voice began its rise, and the boy his trembling.
âYou have been in exile too long.â It was a loud clap in
the dusk. âCome home, with me,â she cried, âback to your
people.â Now he was trying to break away, but her hand,
her gloved hand, her claw had flown out and seized his
arm.
âLittle piece of Jewish shit. Donât try to run away
from me.â
.
âNo...â: but at re very end rising, in a provocative
| question.
âYou know Enh I am, too. My home is the form of
Light,â burlesquing it now, in heavy Yiddish dialect,
actressy and false, âI wander all the Diaspora looking for
strayed children. I am Israel. I am the Shekhinah, queen,
daughter, bride, and mother of God. And I will take you
back, you fragment of smashed vessel, even if I must pull
_ you by your nasty little circumcised penisââ
eNO...
_
So Ensign Morituri, committed then the only known
act of heroism in his career. Itâs not even in his folder.
>)
B
Z a
The Shekhinah and the Zone
- Margherita Erdmann performs a grotesque, theatrical burlesque of the Shekhinah while attempting to seize a child, blending religious mysticism with violent intent.
- Ensign Morituri performs a rare, unrecorded act of heroism by intervening to save the boy from Margherita's grasp.
- The encounter is described as a doomed, transient moment of 'Gray Nazi statuary,' lacking the immortality of classical art and mirroring the collapse of the Reich.
- Morituri reflects on his decision not to report Margherita's murderous nature to the police, recognizing that official custody would be equally horrific.
- Slothrop questions the safety of the child Bianca, leading Morituri to suggest that Margherita views Slothrop as a radioactive, resurrected figure from her past.
- The narrative links the folklore of spa radiations and 'holy waters' to a dark, maternal mythology of 'sheltering mud and glowing pitchblende.'
I am the Shekhinah, queen, daughter, bride, and mother of God. And I will take you back, you fragment of smashed vessel, even if I must pull you by your nasty little circumcised penisâ
In the Zone
557
struggling up out of traps and hazards, their caddies stand-
ing at allegorical attention in the glow of the sunset, the
bundled clubs.in Fascist silhouette.... Twilight came
down on Bad Karma that night pallid and violent: the
horizon was_a Biblical disaster. Greta had dressed all in
black, a hat with a veil covering most of her hair, purse
slung by a long strap over one shoulder. As choices of a
destination narrowed to one, as Morituri ran into snares the
night began to lay out for him, prophecy filled him like
the river wind: where she had been on her absences, how
the children in those headlines hadâ
They had arrived at the edge of the black mud pool:
that underground presence, old as Earth, partly enclosed
- back at the Spa and a name given to. ... The offering was
to be.a boy, lingering after all the others had gone. His
hair was cold snow. Morituri could only hear fragments of
what they said. The boy wasnât afraid of her at first. He
might not have recognized her from his dreams. It would
have been his only hope. But they had made that im-
possible, his German overseers. Morituri stood by in his
uniform, waiting, unbuttoning the jacket so that he could
move, though he didnât want to. Certainly they were all
repeating this broken act from an earlier time....
Her voice began its rise, and the boy his trembling.
âYou have been in exile too long.â It was a loud clap in
the dusk. âCome home, with me,â she cried, âback to your
people.â Now he was trying to break away, but her hand,
her gloved hand, her claw had flown out and seized his
arm.
âLittle piece of Jewish shit. Donât try to run away
from me.â
.
âNo...â: but at re very end rising, in a provocative
| question.
âYou know Enh I am, too. My home is the form of
Light,â burlesquing it now, in heavy Yiddish dialect,
actressy and false, âI wander all the Diaspora looking for
strayed children. I am Israel. I am the Shekhinah, queen,
daughter, bride, and mother of God. And I will take you
back, you fragment of smashed vessel, even if I must pull
_ you by your nasty little circumcised penisââ
eNO...
_
So Ensign Morituri, committed then the only known
act of heroism in his career. Itâs not even in his folder.
>)
B
Z a
558
Gravityâs RaInsow
She had gathered the boy struggling, one glove busy be-
tween his legs. Morituri rushed forward. For a moment
the three of them swayed, locked together. Gray Nazi
statuary: its name may have been âThe Family.â None of
the Greek stillness: no, they moved. Immortality was not
the issue. Thatâs what made them different. No survival,
beyond
the
sensesâ
taking
of itâno
handing-down.
Doomed as dâAnnunzioâs adventure at Fiume, as the Reich
itself, as the poor creatures from whom the boy now tore
loose and ran off into the evening.
Margherita collapsed by the edge of the great lightless
pool, Morituri knelt beside her while she cried. It was
terrible. What had brought him there, what had under-
stood and moved in so automatically, fell back now to
sleep. His conditioning, his verbal, ranked and uniformed
self took over again. He knelt shivering, more afraid than
heâd ever been in his life. It was she who led their way
back to the Spa.
She and Sigmund left Bad Karma that night. The boy
may have been too frightened, the light too faint, Mori-
turi himself may have had strong protectors, for God
knows he was visible enough thereâbut no police came.
âIt never occurred to me to go to them. In my heart, I
knew she had murdered. You may condemn me for it. But
I saw what I'd be handing her over to, and it came to
the same thing, in official custody or not, you see.â The
next day was 1 September. There was no longer any way
for children to vanish mysteriously.
The forenoon has gone dark. Rain spits in under the
awning. The bowl of porridge has stayed all untouched
in front of Morituri.. Slothrop is sweating, staring at the
bright remains of an orange. âListen,â it has occurred to
his agile brain, âwhat about Bianca, then? Is she going
to be safe with that Greta, do you think?â
Frisking his great mustache, âWhat do you mean? Are
you asking, âCan she be saved?ââ
mn
âOh, pip, pip, old Jap, come off itââ_â!
âLook, what can âyou save her from?â His eyes are pry-
ing Slothrop away from his comfort. Rain is drumming
now on the awnings, spilling in clear lacework from the
edges.
Sn
ee
In the Zone
559
âBut wait a minute. Oh, shit, that woman yesterday, in
that Sprudelhofââ
âYes. Remember Greta also saw you coming up out of
the river. Now think of all the folklore among these peo-
ple about radioactivityâthese travelers from spa to spa,
season after season.
Itâs grace.
Itâs the holy waters of
Lourdes.
This mysterious
radiation
that can
cure
so
muchâmight it be the ultimate cure?â
Whe?
âI watched her face as you came aboard. I was with
âher at the edge of one radioactive night. I know what she
saw this time. One of those childrenâpreserved, nourished
by the mud, the radium, growing taller and stronger while
slowly, viscous and slow, the currents bore him along
underground, year by year, until at last, grown to man-
hood, he came to the river, came up out of the black
radiance of herself to find her again, Shekhinah, bride,
queen, daughter. And mother. Motherly as sheltering mud
and glowing pitchblendeââ
Almost-directly overhead, thunder suddenly breaks in a
blinding egg of sound. Somewhere inside the blast, Slo-
throp has murmured, âQuit fooling.â
âAre you going to risk finding out?â
Who is this, oh sure itâs a Jap ensign, looking at me like
this. But where are Biancaâs arms, her defenseless mouth.
... Well in a day or two we'll be in Swinemiinde, right?â
talking to keep fromâget up from the table then, you
assholeâ
âWe'll all just keep moving, thatâs all. In the end it
doesnât matter.â
âLook, youâve got kids, how can you say that? Is that
all you want, just to âkeep movingâ?â
âT want to see the war over in the Pacific so that I can
go home. Since you ask. Itâs the season of the plum rains
now, the Bai-u, when all the plums are ripening. I want
only to be with Michiko and our girls, and once Iâm there,
never to leave Hiroshima again. I think you'd like it there.
Itâs a city on Honshu, on the Inland Sea, very pretty, a
_ perfect size, big enough for city excitement, small enough
. for the serenity a man needs. But these people are not
returning, they are leaving their homes you seeââ
But one of the knots securing the rain-heavy awning to
dS)
:
„
Disappearances in the Zone
- Ensign Morituri expresses a poignant desire to return to his family in Hiroshima, contrasting his domestic longing with the chaos of the ship.
- A sudden structural failure of the ship's awning forces Slothrop and Morituri to flee below deck, where they are separated by a crowd of revelers.
- Slothrop navigates a surreal party atmosphere, acquiring a 'kick me' sign and various party favors while searching for Bianca.
- Margherita Erdmann locks herself in the head in a state of hysteria, accusing Slothrop of harming her daughter, Bianca.
- Slothrop discovers Bianca's discarded red frock in the engine room, finding only her scent and a trace of his own semen.
- The ship's social environment is depicted as a decadent and chaotic mix of upper-class drunks and cocaine users who ignore the unfolding crisis.
I'm a child, I know how to hide, and I can hide you.
In the Zone
559
âBut wait a minute. Oh, shit, that woman yesterday, in
that Sprudelhofââ
âYes. Remember Greta also saw you coming up out of
the river. Now think of all the folklore among these peo-
ple about radioactivityâthese travelers from spa to spa,
season after season.
Itâs grace.
Itâs the holy waters of
Lourdes.
This mysterious
radiation
that can
cure
so
muchâmight it be the ultimate cure?â
Whe?
âI watched her face as you came aboard. I was with
âher at the edge of one radioactive night. I know what she
saw this time. One of those childrenâpreserved, nourished
by the mud, the radium, growing taller and stronger while
slowly, viscous and slow, the currents bore him along
underground, year by year, until at last, grown to man-
hood, he came to the river, came up out of the black
radiance of herself to find her again, Shekhinah, bride,
queen, daughter. And mother. Motherly as sheltering mud
and glowing pitchblendeââ
Almost-directly overhead, thunder suddenly breaks in a
blinding egg of sound. Somewhere inside the blast, Slo-
throp has murmured, âQuit fooling.â
âAre you going to risk finding out?â
Who is this, oh sure itâs a Jap ensign, looking at me like
this. But where are Biancaâs arms, her defenseless mouth.
... Well in a day or two we'll be in Swinemiinde, right?â
talking to keep fromâget up from the table then, you
assholeâ
âWe'll all just keep moving, thatâs all. In the end it
doesnât matter.â
âLook, youâve got kids, how can you say that? Is that
all you want, just to âkeep movingâ?â
âT want to see the war over in the Pacific so that I can
go home. Since you ask. Itâs the season of the plum rains
now, the Bai-u, when all the plums are ripening. I want
only to be with Michiko and our girls, and once Iâm there,
never to leave Hiroshima again. I think you'd like it there.
Itâs a city on Honshu, on the Inland Sea, very pretty, a
_ perfect size, big enough for city excitement, small enough
. for the serenity a man needs. But these people are not
returning, they are leaving their homes you seeââ
But one of the knots securing the rain-heavy awning to
dS)
:
„
560
Graviryâs Rarnsow
its frame has given way, white small-stuff unlacing rapidly,
whipping around in the rain. The awning sags, funneling
a igh at Slothrop and Morituri, and they flee below
ecks,
They get separated in a crowd of newly-risen roisterers.
There is hardly a thing now in Slothropâs head but getting
to Bianca. At the end of the passageway, across a score of
empty faces, he spots Stefania in white cardigan and slacks,
beckoning. It takes him five minutes to thread his way to
her, by which time heâs picked up a brandy Alexander, a
party hat, a sign taped to his back urging whoever reads
it, in Low Pomeranian, to kick Slothrop, lipstick smudges
in three shades of magenta, and a black Italian maduro
someone has thoughtfully already lit,
âYou may look like the soul of conviviality,â Stefania
greets him, âbut it doesnât fool me. Under that cheerful
mask is the face of a Jonah.â
âYou mean, uh, the, uhââ
)
âI mean Margherita. Sheâs locked herself in the head.
Hysterical.
Nobody can bring her out.â
âSo you're looking at me. How about Thanatz?â
âThanatz has disappeared, and so has Bianca.â
âOh, shit.â
.
âMargherita thinks youâve done away with her.â
âNot me.â He gives her a quick rundown of Ensign
Morituriâs tale. Some of her Ă©lan, her resilience, go away.
She bites a fingernail.
âYes, there were rumors. Sigmund, before he vanished,
leaked just enough to titillate people, but never got spe-
cific. That was his style. Listen, Slothrop. Do you think
Biancaâs in any danger?â
âTll try to find out.â He is interrupted here by a swift
kick in the ass,
;
âUnlucky you,â crows a voice behind them. âIâm the
only one on board who reads Low Pomeranian.â
âUnlucky you,â Stefania nods.
âAll I wanted was a free ride to Swinemiinde.â
But like Stefania sez, âThereâs only one free ride. Mean-
time, start working off the fare for this one. Go see Mar-
gherita.â
âYou want me toâcome on.â
âWe donât want anything to happen.â
In the Zone
561
One of the General Orders aboard this vessel. Nothing
shall happen. Well, Slothrop politely sticks the rest of his
cigar between Mme. Procalowskaâs teeth and leaves her
puffing on it, fists jammed in her sweater pockets.
.
Bianca isnât in the engine room. He moves around in
pulsing bulblight, among asbestos-packed masses, burning
himself once or twice where insulationâs missing, looking
into pale recesses, shadows, wondering about his own in-
sulation here. Nothing but machinery, noise. He heads for
the ladder. A scrap of red is waiting for him... no, only
sher frock, with a damp trace of his own semen still at the
hem... this loud humidity has kept it there. He crouches,
holding the garment, smelling her smell. I'm a child, I
_know how to hide, and I can hide you. âBianca,â he calls,
âBianca, come out.â
Gathered about the door to the head, he finds an assort-
ment of upper-class layabouts and drunks blocking the
passageway along with a litter of bottles and glassware,
and a seated circle of cocaine habitués, crystal birds fly-
ing up into forests of nose hair off the point of a gold and
ruby dagger, Slothrop pushes through, leans on the door
and calls Margheritaâs name.
âGo away.â
;
âYou donât have to come out. Just let me in.â
âI know who you are.â
âPlease.â
âThey were very clever, sending you as poor Max. But
it wonât work now.â
|
âTm through with Them. I swear it. I need you, Greta.â
Bullshit. For what?
âThey'll kill you, then. Go away.â
_.
âI know where Bianca is.â
âWhat have you done with her?â
âJustâwill you let me in?â After a full minuteâs silence,
she does. A funseeker or two tries to push in, but he slams
the door and locks it again. Greta is wearing nothing but
a black chemise. Strokes of black hair curl high on her
thighs. Her face is white, old, strained.
âWhere is she?â
. âHiding.â
âFrom me?â
_
âFrom Them.â
The Many Identities of Greta
- Slothrop confronts Margherita (Greta) on the Anubis, using information about her daughter Bianca to gain entry to her room.
- Greta expresses deep paranoia, accusing Slothrop of being an agent of 'Them' and claiming he was 'made' by the river.
- The narrative explores Greta's history as an actress who adopted numerous identities, contrasting her ease of transformation with the identity struggles of her peers.
- Greta's past roles include a cowgirl in a film set in New Mexico, where she displayed a fearless, almost mystical connection with a horse named Snake.
- The passage concludes with a macabre memory of Greta lying with a frozen corpse in Berlin, imagining a dialogue with the dead about a land beneath the black mud.
She lay down beside it and put her arms around it. There was frost. The body rolled toward her and the wrinkles stayed frozen in the cloth.
In the Zone
561
One of the General Orders aboard this vessel. Nothing
shall happen. Well, Slothrop politely sticks the rest of his
cigar between Mme. Procalowskaâs teeth and leaves her
puffing on it, fists jammed in her sweater pockets.
.
Bianca isnât in the engine room. He moves around in
pulsing bulblight, among asbestos-packed masses, burning
himself once or twice where insulationâs missing, looking
into pale recesses, shadows, wondering about his own in-
sulation here. Nothing but machinery, noise. He heads for
the ladder. A scrap of red is waiting for him... no, only
sher frock, with a damp trace of his own semen still at the
hem... this loud humidity has kept it there. He crouches,
holding the garment, smelling her smell. I'm a child, I
_know how to hide, and I can hide you. âBianca,â he calls,
âBianca, come out.â
Gathered about the door to the head, he finds an assort-
ment of upper-class layabouts and drunks blocking the
passageway along with a litter of bottles and glassware,
and a seated circle of cocaine habitués, crystal birds fly-
ing up into forests of nose hair off the point of a gold and
ruby dagger, Slothrop pushes through, leans on the door
and calls Margheritaâs name.
âGo away.â
;
âYou donât have to come out. Just let me in.â
âI know who you are.â
âPlease.â
âThey were very clever, sending you as poor Max. But
it wonât work now.â
|
âTm through with Them. I swear it. I need you, Greta.â
Bullshit. For what?
âThey'll kill you, then. Go away.â
_.
âI know where Bianca is.â
âWhat have you done with her?â
âJustâwill you let me in?â After a full minuteâs silence,
she does. A funseeker or two tries to push in, but he slams
the door and locks it again. Greta is wearing nothing but
a black chemise. Strokes of black hair curl high on her
thighs. Her face is white, old, strained.
âWhere is she?â
. âHiding.â
âFrom me?â
_
âFrom Them.â
562
Gravityâs Rainsow
A quick look at him. Too many mirrors, razors, scissors,
lights. Too white. âBut youâre one of Them.â
âQuit it, you know Iâm not.â
âYou are. You came up out of the river.â
â
âWell, thatâs cause I fell in, Greta.â
âThen They made you.â
Ă©
He watches her playing, nervous, with strands of her
hair. The Anubis has begun to rock some, but the sickness
rising in him is for his head, not his stomach. As she
begins to talk, nausea begins to fill him: a glowing black
mudslide of nausea....
O
It was always easy for men to come and tell her who to
be. Other girls of her generation grew up asking: âWho
am IPâ For them it was a question full of pain and strug-
gle. For Gretel it was hardly even a question. She had
more identities than she knew what to do with. Some of
these Gretels have been only the sketchiest of surfacesâ
others are deeper. Many have incredible gifts, antigravity,
dreams of prophecy... comatic images surround their
faces, glowing in the air; the light itself is actually crying
tears, weeping in this stylized way, as she is borne along
through the mechanical cities, the meteorite walls draped
in midair, every hollow and socket empty as a bone, and
the failing shadow that shines black all around it... or is
held in staring postures, long gowns, fringe and alchemical
symbol, veils flowing from leather skullcaps padded con-
centric as a bike-racerâs helmet, with crackling-tower and
obsidian helix, with drive belts and rollers, with strange
airship passages that thread underneath archés, solemnly,
past louvers and giant fins in the city mist... .
In Weisse Sandwiiste von Neumexiko she played a cow-
girl. First thing, they'd asked, âCan you roads
âOf course,â
she'd answered, Never been closer than ro
time of war to any horse in her life, but she needed the
work. When the moment came to saddle up, it never. oc-
curred to her to be afraid of the beast pressing up between
dside ditches in
her thighs.
It was an American horse named Snake.
|
In the Zone
563
_
Trained or not, it could have run away with her, even
_
killed her. But they pranced the screen full of the Sagit-
tarian fire, Gretel and that colt, and her smile never drew
back.
Here is one of the veils she has shed, a thin white scum,
a caustic residue from one recent night in Berlin. âWhile
you were asleep, I left the house. I went out in the street,
without my shoes. I found a corpse. A man. A weekâs
gray beard and old gray suit....â It was lying still and
very white behind a wall. She lay down beside it and put
her arms around it. There was frost. The body rolled
toward her and the wrinkles stayed frozen in the cloth.
She felt its bristled face rub her own cheek. The smell was
no worse than cold meat from the icebox. She lay, holding
it, till morning.
|
âTell me how it is in your land.â What woke her? Boots
in the street, an early steamshovel. She can hardly hear
her tired whispering.
Corpse answers: âWe live very far beneath the black
mud, Days of traveling.â Though she couldnât move its
limbs easily as a dollâs, she could make it say and think
exactly what she wished.
For an instant too she did wonderânot quite in wordsâ
if thatâs how her own soft mind might feel, under the
fingers of Those who...
âMm, itâs snug down here. Now and then you can pick
up something from Themâa distant rumbling, the im-
â plied silhouette of some explosion, conducted here through
__
the earth overhead ... but nothing, ever, too close, Itâs so
_
dark that things glow. We have flight. Thereâs no sex. But
there are fantasies, even many of those we used to attach
to sexâthat we once modulated its energy with....â
As the dizzy debutante Lotte Liistig, she found herself
during a flood, disguised as a scrubwoman, proceeding
_ downriver in a bathtub with rich playboy Max Schlepzig.
Every girlâs dream. Name of the movie was Jugend Herauf!
. (a lighthearted pun, of course, on the then popular phrase
_ âJuden heraus!â), Actually, all the bathtub scenes were
_
process shotsâshe never did get to go out on the river in
, the bathtub with Max, all that was done with doubles,
AM
a)
Scars and Cinematic Doubles
- Greta reflects on the subterranean existence of the 'Them' and the detachment of physical sensation from traditional sexual energy.
- A memory of a film production reveals the artifice of cinema, where doubles and stuntmen replaced actors in a murky, leaden-colored bathtub scene.
- The narrative explores the blurring of identity between Greta and her daughter Bianca, who is perceived as a ghostly, silver extension of her mother's ego.
- Thanatz reads Greta's whip scars like a palmist, finding exaltation and hope in the patterns of her physical suffering.
- Greta experiences specific, mystical visions of pyramids and sacrificial cities at the peak of physical pain during her lashings.
Thanatz would sit with her lying across his knees, and read the scars down her back, as a gypsy reads a palm.
In the Zone
563
_
Trained or not, it could have run away with her, even
_
killed her. But they pranced the screen full of the Sagit-
tarian fire, Gretel and that colt, and her smile never drew
back.
Here is one of the veils she has shed, a thin white scum,
a caustic residue from one recent night in Berlin. âWhile
you were asleep, I left the house. I went out in the street,
without my shoes. I found a corpse. A man. A weekâs
gray beard and old gray suit....â It was lying still and
very white behind a wall. She lay down beside it and put
her arms around it. There was frost. The body rolled
toward her and the wrinkles stayed frozen in the cloth.
She felt its bristled face rub her own cheek. The smell was
no worse than cold meat from the icebox. She lay, holding
it, till morning.
|
âTell me how it is in your land.â What woke her? Boots
in the street, an early steamshovel. She can hardly hear
her tired whispering.
Corpse answers: âWe live very far beneath the black
mud, Days of traveling.â Though she couldnât move its
limbs easily as a dollâs, she could make it say and think
exactly what she wished.
For an instant too she did wonderânot quite in wordsâ
if thatâs how her own soft mind might feel, under the
fingers of Those who...
âMm, itâs snug down here. Now and then you can pick
up something from Themâa distant rumbling, the im-
â plied silhouette of some explosion, conducted here through
__
the earth overhead ... but nothing, ever, too close, Itâs so
_
dark that things glow. We have flight. Thereâs no sex. But
there are fantasies, even many of those we used to attach
to sexâthat we once modulated its energy with....â
As the dizzy debutante Lotte Liistig, she found herself
during a flood, disguised as a scrubwoman, proceeding
_ downriver in a bathtub with rich playboy Max Schlepzig.
Every girlâs dream. Name of the movie was Jugend Herauf!
. (a lighthearted pun, of course, on the then popular phrase
_ âJuden heraus!â), Actually, all the bathtub scenes were
_
process shotsâshe never did get to go out on the river in
, the bathtub with Max, all that was done with doubles,
AM
a)
564
Gravityâs RAINBOW
and in the final print it survives only as a very murky
long shot. The figures. are darkened and deformed, resem-
bling apes, and the quality of the light is peculiar, as if
the whole scene were engraved on dark metal such as lead.
Gretaâs double was actually an Italian stunt man named
Blazzo in a long blonde wig. They carried on a romance
for a while. But Greta wouldnât go to bed with him, unless
he wore that wig/
Out on the river the rain lashes: the rapids can now be
heard approaching, still impossible to see, but real, and
inevitable. And the doubles both experience an odd, tick-
lish fear now that perhaps they are really lost, and that
there is really no camera on shore behind the fine gray
scribbling of willows... all the crew, sound-men, grips,
gaffers have left...or never even arrived...and what
was that the currents just brought to knock against our
snow-white cockle shell? and what was that thud, so
stiffened and so mute?
Bianca is usually silver, or of no color at all; thousands
of times taken, strained through glass, warped in and out
the violet-bleeding interfaces of Double and Triple Protars,
Schneider
Angulons,
Voigtlinder
Collinears,
Steinheil
Orthostigmats, the Gundlach Tumer-Reichs of 1895. For
Greta it is her daughterâs soul each time, an inexhaustible
soul,... This scarf of an only child, tucked in waist-high,
always out vulnerable to the wind. To call her an exten-
sion of her motherâs ego is of course to invite the bitterest
sarcasm. But itâs possible, now and then, for Greta to see
Bianca in other children, ghostly as a double exposure...
clearly yes very clearly in Gottfried, the young pet and
protégé of Captain Blicero.
âPull down my straps for a moment, Is it dark enough?
Look. Thanatz said they were luminous. That he knew
each one by heart. Theyâre very white today, aren't they?
Hmm. Long and white, like cobwebs.
ic
re on my ass
too. Around the insides of my thighs....ââ
Many times,
afterward, after the blood had stopped and
he had put on.
the alcohol, Thanatz would sit with her âlying across his
knees, and read the scars down her back, as a gypsy reads
a palm. Life-scar, heart-scar. Croix mystique. What for-
In the Zone
565
- tunes and fantasies! He was so exalted, after the whip-
pings. So taken away by the idea that they would win
out, escape. He'd fall asleep before the wildness and hope
had quite left him. She loved him most at those moments,
\just before sleep, her own dorsal side aflame, his little
head heavy on her breast, while scar-tissue formed silently
on her, cell by cell, in the night. She felt almost safe....
Each time the lash struck, each attack, in her helpless-
ness to escape, there would come to her a single vision,
/ only one, for each peak of pain. The Eye at the top of
the pyramid, The sacrificial city, with figures in rust-
colored robes, The dark woman waiting at the end of the
_
street. The hooded face of sorrowing Denmark, leaning out
over Germany. The cherry-red coals falling through the
night. Bianca in g Spanish dancerâs costume, stroking the
barrel of a gun..
Out by one rocket site; in the pine woods, Thanatz and
Gretel found an old road that no one used any more.
Pieces of pavement were visible here and there among the
green underbrush. It seemed that if they followed the road
they would come to a town, a station or outpost...
it
wasn't at all clear what they would find. But the place
would be longâ deserted.
They held hands. Thanatz wore an old jacket of green
suede, with patches on the sleeves. Gretel wore her camelâs-
hair coat and a white kerchief. In places, pine needles
were drifted across the old roadway, so deep as to silence
their footsteps.
They came to a slide where years ago the road had
.
been washed away. Gravel spilled salt-and-pepper down-
hill toward a river they heard but couldnât see. An old
automobile,
a Hannomag Storm, hung there, nose-down,
one door smashed open. The lavender-gray metal shell had
_ been picked clean âas the skeleton of a deer. Somewhere in
these woods was the presence that had done this. They
skirted the wreck, afraid to come too near the spidered
glass, the hard mortality in the shadows of the front seat.
_ Remains of houses could be glimpsed, back in the trees.
. There was now a retreat of the light, though it was still
before noon, and the forest grew no thicker here. In the
P middle of the road, giant turds showed up, fresh, laid in
»),
ny a
Blicero's Mythical Kingdom
- Thanatz and Gretel explore a desolate, abandoned road near a rocket site, discovering the skeletal remains of a Hanomag Storm automobile.
- The pair realizes they are walking through the fresh ruins of a great city, despite the forest's attempt to reclaim the landscape.
- An invisible, terrifying presence or 'monitor' halts their progress, forcing them to retreat from the unknown path ahead.
- Upon returning to the clearing, they find Captain Blicero descending into a state of final, inhuman madness.
- Blicero begins to perceive the geography of Germany as a private, mythical 'Ur-Heimat' rather than a physical country.
- The survivors are held captive by Bliceroâs personal reality, navigating the war-torn landscape as a series of isolated islands.
It was not Germany he moved through. It was his own space. But he was taking us along with him!
In the Zone
565
- tunes and fantasies! He was so exalted, after the whip-
pings. So taken away by the idea that they would win
out, escape. He'd fall asleep before the wildness and hope
had quite left him. She loved him most at those moments,
\just before sleep, her own dorsal side aflame, his little
head heavy on her breast, while scar-tissue formed silently
on her, cell by cell, in the night. She felt almost safe....
Each time the lash struck, each attack, in her helpless-
ness to escape, there would come to her a single vision,
/ only one, for each peak of pain. The Eye at the top of
the pyramid, The sacrificial city, with figures in rust-
colored robes, The dark woman waiting at the end of the
_
street. The hooded face of sorrowing Denmark, leaning out
over Germany. The cherry-red coals falling through the
night. Bianca in g Spanish dancerâs costume, stroking the
barrel of a gun..
Out by one rocket site; in the pine woods, Thanatz and
Gretel found an old road that no one used any more.
Pieces of pavement were visible here and there among the
green underbrush. It seemed that if they followed the road
they would come to a town, a station or outpost...
it
wasn't at all clear what they would find. But the place
would be longâ deserted.
They held hands. Thanatz wore an old jacket of green
suede, with patches on the sleeves. Gretel wore her camelâs-
hair coat and a white kerchief. In places, pine needles
were drifted across the old roadway, so deep as to silence
their footsteps.
They came to a slide where years ago the road had
.
been washed away. Gravel spilled salt-and-pepper down-
hill toward a river they heard but couldnât see. An old
automobile,
a Hannomag Storm, hung there, nose-down,
one door smashed open. The lavender-gray metal shell had
_ been picked clean âas the skeleton of a deer. Somewhere in
these woods was the presence that had done this. They
skirted the wreck, afraid to come too near the spidered
glass, the hard mortality in the shadows of the front seat.
_ Remains of houses could be glimpsed, back in the trees.
. There was now a retreat of the light, though it was still
before noon, and the forest grew no thicker here. In the
P middle of the road, giant turds showed up, fresh, laid in
»),
ny a
566
Gravirtyâs RaInsow
twists like strands of ropeâdark and knotted. What could
have left them?
At the same instant, she and Thanatz both realized that
for hours now they must have been walking through the
ruin of a great city, not an ancient ruin, but brought down
inside their lifetime. Ahead of them, the path curved on,
into trees. But something stood now between them and
whatever lay around the curve: invisible, impalpable...
some monitor, Saying, âNot one step farther. Thatâs all.
Not one. Go back now.â
;
It was impossible to move any farther into it. They
were both terrified. They tumed, feeling it at their backs,
and moved away quickly.
Back at the SchuB8stelle they found Blicero in his final
madness. The trunks in the cold little clearing were
stripped of bark, bleeding with beads of gum from the
rocket blasts.
âHe could have banished us. Blicero was a local deity.
He wouldnât even have needed a piece of paper. But he
wanted us all to stay. He gave us the best there was, beds,
- food, liquor, drugs. Something was being planned, it in-
volved the boy Gottfried, that was as unmistakable as the
smell of resin, first thing those blue hazy mornings. But
Blicero would tell us nothing.
âWe moved into the Heath. There were oilfields, and
blackened earth. Jabos flew over in diamond shapes, hunt-
ing us. Blicero had grown on, into another animal...a
werewolf... but with no humanity left in its eyes: that
had faded out, day after day, and been replaced by gray
furrows, red veins in patterns that werenât human. Islands:
clotted islands in the sea. Sometimes eyen the topographic
lines, nested on a common point, âIt is the map of my
Ur-Heimat,â imagine a shriek so quiet itâs almost a whisper,
âthe Kingdom of Lord Blicero, A white land.â I had a
sudden understanding: he was seeing the world now in
mythical regions: they had their maps, real mountains,
ârivers, and colors. It was not Germany he
moved through.
It was his own space. But he was taking us along with
him! My cunt swelled with blood at the danger, the chances
for our annihilation, delicious never knowing when it
would come down because the space and time were
In the Zone
567
_Bliceroâs own. ... He did not fall back along roads, he did
ânot cross bridges or lowlands. We sailed Lower Saxony,
island to island. Each firing-site was another island, in a
white sea. Each island had its peak in the center... was.
âit the position of the Rocket itself? the moment of liftoff?
A German Odyssey. Which one would be the last, the
home island?
âT keep forgetting to ask Thanatz whatever became of
Gottfried. Thanatz was. allowed to stay with the battery.
But I was taken away: driven in a Hispano-Suiza with
Blicero himself, out through the gray weather to a petro-
chemical plant that for days had stalked us in a wheel at
our horizon, black and broken towers in the distance,
clustered together, a flame that always burned at the top
of one stack. It was the Castle: Blicero looked over, about
âto speak, and I said, âThe Castle.â The mouth smiled
quickly, but absent: the wrinkled wolf-eyes had gone even
beyond these domestic moments of telepathy, on into its
animal north, to a persistence on the hard edge of death
I canât imagine, tough cells with the smallest possible
flicker inside, running on nothing but ice, or less. He
called me Katje. âYoull see that your little trick wonât
work again. Not now, Katje.â I wasnât frightened. It was
madness I could understand, or else the hallucinating of
the very old. The silver stork flew wings-down into our
wind, brow low and legs back, Prussian occipital knot
behind: on its shiny surfaces now appeared black swirls
âof limousines and staff cars in the driveway of the main
office. I saw a light plane, a two-seater, at the edge of the
parking lot. The faces of the men inside seemed familiar.
I knew them from films, the power and the gravity were
thereâthey were important men, but I only recognized
one: Generaldirektor Smaragd, from Leverkusen. An el-
derly man who used a cane, a notorious spiritualist before
the War, and, it seemed, even now. âGreta,â he smiled,
groping for my hand. âAh, weâre all here.â But his charm
was shared by none of the others. They'd all been waiting
for Blicero. A meeting of nobles in the Castle. They went
into the board room. I was left with an assistant named
Drohne, high forehead, graying hair, always fussing with -
his necktie. Heâd seen every one of my films. We moved
off into the machinery. Through the windows of the board
4
Ss
The Castle of Plastics
- Blicero transports the narrator to a petrochemical plant resembling a castle, marking a transition into a cold, 'animal north' state of mind.
- A meeting of high-ranking figures, including Generaldirektor Smaragd, takes place in a boardroom, resembling a spiritualist séance rather than a business meeting.
- The group focuses on a mysterious, shining plastic object in the center of the table, identified as a component for the 'F-GerÀt'.
- The narrator experiences a sense of liberation and crossing a frontier into Blicero's 'native space' where normal social constraints vanish.
- The setting is defined by the industrial production of synthetic materials like Polystyrene and methyl methacrylate, described with religious and sexual undertones.
The mouth smiled quickly, but absent: the wrinkled wolf-eyes had gone even beyond these domestic moments of telepathy, on into its animal north, to a persistence on the hard edge of death I canât imagine.
In the Zone
567
_Bliceroâs own. ... He did not fall back along roads, he did
ânot cross bridges or lowlands. We sailed Lower Saxony,
island to island. Each firing-site was another island, in a
white sea. Each island had its peak in the center... was.
âit the position of the Rocket itself? the moment of liftoff?
A German Odyssey. Which one would be the last, the
home island?
âT keep forgetting to ask Thanatz whatever became of
Gottfried. Thanatz was. allowed to stay with the battery.
But I was taken away: driven in a Hispano-Suiza with
Blicero himself, out through the gray weather to a petro-
chemical plant that for days had stalked us in a wheel at
our horizon, black and broken towers in the distance,
clustered together, a flame that always burned at the top
of one stack. It was the Castle: Blicero looked over, about
âto speak, and I said, âThe Castle.â The mouth smiled
quickly, but absent: the wrinkled wolf-eyes had gone even
beyond these domestic moments of telepathy, on into its
animal north, to a persistence on the hard edge of death
I canât imagine, tough cells with the smallest possible
flicker inside, running on nothing but ice, or less. He
called me Katje. âYoull see that your little trick wonât
work again. Not now, Katje.â I wasnât frightened. It was
madness I could understand, or else the hallucinating of
the very old. The silver stork flew wings-down into our
wind, brow low and legs back, Prussian occipital knot
behind: on its shiny surfaces now appeared black swirls
âof limousines and staff cars in the driveway of the main
office. I saw a light plane, a two-seater, at the edge of the
parking lot. The faces of the men inside seemed familiar.
I knew them from films, the power and the gravity were
thereâthey were important men, but I only recognized
one: Generaldirektor Smaragd, from Leverkusen. An el-
derly man who used a cane, a notorious spiritualist before
the War, and, it seemed, even now. âGreta,â he smiled,
groping for my hand. âAh, weâre all here.â But his charm
was shared by none of the others. They'd all been waiting
for Blicero. A meeting of nobles in the Castle. They went
into the board room. I was left with an assistant named
Drohne, high forehead, graying hair, always fussing with -
his necktie. Heâd seen every one of my films. We moved
off into the machinery. Through the windows of the board
4
Ss
568
Gravityâs RAINBow
room I saw them at a round conference table, with some-
thing in the center.
It was gray, plastic, shining, light
moving on its surfaces. âWhat is it?â I asked, vamping
Drohne. He took me out of earshot of the others. âI think
itâs for the F-Gerit,â he whispered.â
âFPâ sez Slothrop, âF-Gerat, you sure of that?â
âSome letter.â
a Sg
âAll right, S. They are children at the threshold of lan-
guage with these words they make up. It looked to me
like an ectoplasmâsomething they had forced, by their
joint will, to materialize on the table. No oneâs lips were
moving. It was a séance. I understood then that Blicero
had brought me across a frontier. Had injected me at last
into his native space without a tremor of pain. I was free.
Men crowded behind me in the corridor, blocking the way
back. Drohneâs hand was sweating on my sleeve. He was a
plastics connoisseur. Flipping his fingernail against a large
clear African mask, cocking his earââCan you hear it?
The true ring of Polystyrene...â and going into raptures
for me over a heavy chalice of methyl methacrylate, a
replica of the Sangraal.... We were by a tower reactor.
A strong paint-thinner smell was in the air. Clear rods of
some plastic came hissing out through an extruder at the
bottom of the tower, into cooling channels, or into a
chopper. The heat was heavy in the room. I thought of
something very deep, black and viscous, feeding this fac-
tory. From outside I héard motors. Were they all leaving?
Why was I here? Plastic serpents crawled endlessly to left
and right. The erections of my escort tried to craw] out
the openings in their clothes. I could do whatever I
wanted, Black radiant and deep. I knelt and began un-
buttoning Drohneâs trousers. But two others took me by theâ
arms and dragged me off into a warehouse area. Others
followed, or entered from other doors. Great curtains of
â
styrene or vinyl, in all colors, opaque and transparent, hung
row after row from overhead, They flared like the northern
â
lights. I felt that somewhere beyond them was an audience, ©
waiting for something to begin. Drohne and the men_
stretched me out on an inflatable plastic mattress. Allâ
around, I watched a clear crumbling of the air, or of the
light. Someone
said âbutadiene, and I heard beauty
dying. ... Plastic rustled and snapped around us, closing
The Allure of Imipolex
- The narrator is abducted into a warehouse filled with styrene and vinyl curtains, where they are subjected to a ritualistic dressing in a black polymer called Imipolex.
- Imipolex is described as a 'material of the future' that possesses a sentient, highly eroticized quality, inducing intense physical arousal and psychological submission.
- During the experience, the narrator undergoes a mental evacuation, losing the ability to distinguish between memories and hallucinations as they descend into a void.
- The narrator is eventually abandoned naked in a desolate, waste-filled landscape, discovering that their companions have fled and left behind a profound, personal silence.
- The scene shifts to the bridge of the Anubis, where Procalowski navigates a violent, unnatural storm characterized by flickering light and distorted time.
Someone said âbutadiene,â and I heard beauty dying.
568
Gravityâs RAINBow
room I saw them at a round conference table, with some-
thing in the center.
It was gray, plastic, shining, light
moving on its surfaces. âWhat is it?â I asked, vamping
Drohne. He took me out of earshot of the others. âI think
itâs for the F-Gerit,â he whispered.â
âFPâ sez Slothrop, âF-Gerat, you sure of that?â
âSome letter.â
a Sg
âAll right, S. They are children at the threshold of lan-
guage with these words they make up. It looked to me
like an ectoplasmâsomething they had forced, by their
joint will, to materialize on the table. No oneâs lips were
moving. It was a séance. I understood then that Blicero
had brought me across a frontier. Had injected me at last
into his native space without a tremor of pain. I was free.
Men crowded behind me in the corridor, blocking the way
back. Drohneâs hand was sweating on my sleeve. He was a
plastics connoisseur. Flipping his fingernail against a large
clear African mask, cocking his earââCan you hear it?
The true ring of Polystyrene...â and going into raptures
for me over a heavy chalice of methyl methacrylate, a
replica of the Sangraal.... We were by a tower reactor.
A strong paint-thinner smell was in the air. Clear rods of
some plastic came hissing out through an extruder at the
bottom of the tower, into cooling channels, or into a
chopper. The heat was heavy in the room. I thought of
something very deep, black and viscous, feeding this fac-
tory. From outside I héard motors. Were they all leaving?
Why was I here? Plastic serpents crawled endlessly to left
and right. The erections of my escort tried to craw] out
the openings in their clothes. I could do whatever I
wanted, Black radiant and deep. I knelt and began un-
buttoning Drohneâs trousers. But two others took me by theâ
arms and dragged me off into a warehouse area. Others
followed, or entered from other doors. Great curtains of
â
styrene or vinyl, in all colors, opaque and transparent, hung
row after row from overhead, They flared like the northern
â
lights. I felt that somewhere beyond them was an audience, ©
waiting for something to begin. Drohne and the men_
stretched me out on an inflatable plastic mattress. Allâ
around, I watched a clear crumbling of the air, or of the
light. Someone
said âbutadiene, and I heard beauty
dying. ... Plastic rustled and snapped around us, closing
Bean:
_
In the Zone
569
âus in, in ghost white. They took away my clothes and
dressed me in.an exotic costume of some black polymer,
very tight at the waist, open at the crotch. It felt alive on
me. âForget leather, forget satin,â shivered Drohne. âThis is
Imipolex, the material of the future.â I canât describe its
perfume, or how it feltâthe luxury. The moment it touched
them it brought my nipples up swollen and begging to be
bitten. I wantedâto feel it against my cunt. Nothing I ever
wore, before or since, aroused me quite as much as Imi-
- polex. They promised me brassieres, chemises, stockings,
gowns of the same material. Drohne had strapped on a
gigantic Imipolex penis over his own. I rubbed my face
against it, it was so delicious.... There was an abyss be-
tween my feet. Things, memories, no way to distinguish
them any more, went tumbling downward through my
head. A torrent. I was evacuating all these, out into some
' voidâ... from my vertex, curling, bright-colored hallucina-
tions went streaming... baubles, amusing lines of dia-
logue, objets dâart...I was letting them all go. Holding
none. Was this âsubmission,â thenâletting all these go?
âI donât know how long they kept me there. I slept, I
woke. Men appeared and vanished. Time had lost mean-
ing. One morning I was outside the factory, naked, in the
rain. Nothing grew there. Something had been deposited
in a great fan that went on for miles, Some tarry kind of
waste. I had to walk all the way back to the firing site.
_They were all gone. Thanatz had left a note, asking me to
âtry to get to Swinemiinde. Something must have happened
âat the site. There was a silence in that clearing Id felt
only once before. Once, in. Mexico. The year I was in
_ America. We were very deep in the jungle. We came on a
flight of stone steps, covered with vines, fungus, centuries
âof decay. The others climbed to the top, but I couldnât. It
was the same as the day with Thanatz, in the pine forest.
I felt a silence waiting for me up there. Not for them, but
for me alone ...my own personal silence... .â
f }
O
;
_Up on the bridge of the Anubis, the storm paws loudly on
glass, great wet flippers falling at random in out of
the night whap! the living shape visible just for the rain-
.
3 er * :
;
att
.
570
Gravity's RAINBOW
bow edge of the soundâit takes a certain kind of maniac,
at least a Polish cavalry officer, to stand in this pose be-
hind such brittle thin separation, and stare each blow full
in its muscularity. Behind Procalowski the clinometer bob
goes to and fro with his shipâs rolling: a peadulum in a
dream. Stormlight has turned the lines of his face black,
black as his eyes, black as the watchcap cocked so tough
and salty aslant the furrows of his forehead. Light clusters,
clear, deep, on the face of the radio gear... fans up softly
off the dial of the pelorus...
spills out portholes onto the
white river. Inexplicably, the afternoon has been going on
for longer than it should. Daylight has been declining for
too many hours. Corposants have begun to flicker now in
the rigging. The storm yanks at rope and cable, the cloudy
night goes white and loud, in huge spasms. Procalowski
smokes a cigar and studies charts of the Oder Haff.
All this light. Are the Russian lookouts watching from
shore, waiting in the rain? Is this arm of the passage being
kept in grease-pencil, X by dutiful X, across some field of
Russian plastic, inside where cobwebs whiten the German
windows nobody needs to stand at, where phosphor grass
ripples across the A-scopes and the play you feel through
the hand-crank in the invisible teeth is the difference bs-
tween hit and miss.... Vaslavâis the pip you see there
even a shipP In the Zone, in these days, there is endless
simulationâstanding waves in the water, large drone-birds,
so well-known as to have nicknames among the operators,
wayward balloons, flotsam from other theatres of war
(Brazilian oildrums, whisky cases stenciled for Fort-Lamy),
observers from other galaxies, episodes of smoke, moments
of high albedoâyour real targets are hard to come by.
Too much confusion out here for most replacements and
late draftees. Only the older scope hands can still maintain
a sense of the appropriate: over the watches of their Dura-
tions, jittering electric green for what must have seemed,
at first, forever, they have come to understand distribu-
tion... they have learned.a visual mercy.
|
How probable is the Anubis in this estuary
tonight? Its
schedule has lapsed, fashionably, unavoably it should
have been through Swinemiinde weeks ago,
but the Vistula
was under Soviet interdiction to the white ship. The Rus-
sians even had a guard posted on board for a while, till
The Anubis in the Zone
- Radar operators in the Zone struggle to distinguish real targets from a chaotic sea of simulations, drones, and atmospheric interference.
- Experienced scope hands develop a 'visual mercy,' a refined intuition for probability and distribution amidst the electronic noise.
- The white ship Anubis evades Soviet interdiction, navigating a lawless northern estuary while caught in a web of shifting international agendas.
- Life aboard the Anubis is a grotesque mix of aristocratic debauchery, seasickness, and military trauma under the flicker of lightning.
- Slothrop realizes he is being manipulated by unseen forces, serving as both bait and seeker in a conspiracy involving the S-GerÀt and Imipolex G.
- The protagonist faces the humiliation of discovering that 'They' understand his subconscious needs better than he understands himself.
The white ship settles, like the soul of a kerosene lamp just lit, into its evening routine.
570
Gravity's RAINBOW
bow edge of the soundâit takes a certain kind of maniac,
at least a Polish cavalry officer, to stand in this pose be-
hind such brittle thin separation, and stare each blow full
in its muscularity. Behind Procalowski the clinometer bob
goes to and fro with his shipâs rolling: a peadulum in a
dream. Stormlight has turned the lines of his face black,
black as his eyes, black as the watchcap cocked so tough
and salty aslant the furrows of his forehead. Light clusters,
clear, deep, on the face of the radio gear... fans up softly
off the dial of the pelorus...
spills out portholes onto the
white river. Inexplicably, the afternoon has been going on
for longer than it should. Daylight has been declining for
too many hours. Corposants have begun to flicker now in
the rigging. The storm yanks at rope and cable, the cloudy
night goes white and loud, in huge spasms. Procalowski
smokes a cigar and studies charts of the Oder Haff.
All this light. Are the Russian lookouts watching from
shore, waiting in the rain? Is this arm of the passage being
kept in grease-pencil, X by dutiful X, across some field of
Russian plastic, inside where cobwebs whiten the German
windows nobody needs to stand at, where phosphor grass
ripples across the A-scopes and the play you feel through
the hand-crank in the invisible teeth is the difference bs-
tween hit and miss.... Vaslavâis the pip you see there
even a shipP In the Zone, in these days, there is endless
simulationâstanding waves in the water, large drone-birds,
so well-known as to have nicknames among the operators,
wayward balloons, flotsam from other theatres of war
(Brazilian oildrums, whisky cases stenciled for Fort-Lamy),
observers from other galaxies, episodes of smoke, moments
of high albedoâyour real targets are hard to come by.
Too much confusion out here for most replacements and
late draftees. Only the older scope hands can still maintain
a sense of the appropriate: over the watches of their Dura-
tions, jittering electric green for what must have seemed,
at first, forever, they have come to understand distribu-
tion... they have learned.a visual mercy.
|
How probable is the Anubis in this estuary
tonight? Its
schedule has lapsed, fashionably, unavoably it should
have been through Swinemiinde weeks ago,
but the Vistula
was under Soviet interdiction to the white ship. The Rus-
sians even had a guard posted on board for a while, till
In the Zone
571
the Anubian ladies vamped them off long enough to single
up all linesâand so the last reprise of Polish homeland
was on, across these watar-meadows of the north, radio
messages following them in clear one day and code the
next, an early and shapeless situation, dithering between
executionerâs silence and the Big Time. There are inter-
national reasons for an Anubis Affair right now, and also
reasons against, and the arguments go on, too remote to
gather, and orders are changed hour to hour.
Pitching and rolling furiously, the Anubis drives north-
_ward. Lightning
flickers
all around the horizon, and
thunder that reminds the military men on board of drum-
fire announcing battles theyâre not sure now if they sur-
vived or still dream, still can wake up into and die....
Weather decks shine slick and bare. Party litter clogs the
drains. Stale fat-smoke goes oozing out the galley porthole
into the rain. The saloonâs been set up for baccarat, and
filthy movies are showing in. the boiler room. The second
dog watch is about to come on. The white ship settles,
like the soul of a kerosene lamp just lit, into its evening
routine.
=
Partygoers stagger fore and aft, evening clothes deco-
rated with sunbursts of vomit. Ladies lie out in the rain,
nipples erect and heaving under drenched silk. Stewards
skid along the decks with salvers of Dramamine and bicar-
bonate. Barfing aristocracy sag all down the lifelines. Here
comes Slothrop now, down a ladder to the main deck,
bounced by the rolling off of alternate manropes, feeling
none too keen. Heâs lost Bianca. Gone fussing through the
ship doubling back again and again, canât find her any
more than his reason for leaving her this morning.
It matters, but how much? Now that Margherita has
wept to him, across the stringless lyre and bitter chasm of
a shipâs toilet, of her last days with Blicero, he knows as
well as he has to that itâs the S-Ger&t after all thatâs fol-
lowing him, it and the pale plastic ubiquity of Laszlo
Jamf. That if heâs been seeker and sought, well, heâs also
baited, and bait. The Imipolex question was planted for
him by somebody, back at the Casino Hermann Goering,
with hopes it would flower into a full Imipolectique with
its own potency in the Zoneâbut They knew Slothrop
would jump for it. Looks like there are sub-Slothrop needs
~
A
Be
572
Gravity's RAINBOW
;
They know about, and he doesnât: this is humiliating on
the face of it, but now thereâs also the even more annoy-
ing question, What do I need that badly?
Even a month ago, given a day or two of peace, he
might have found his way back to the September after-
noon, to the stiff cock in his pants sprung fine as a dowserâs
wand trying to point up at what was hanging there in the
sky for everybody. Dowsing Rockets is a gift, and he had
it, suffered from it, trying to fill his body to the pores and
follicles with ringing prurience . . . to enter, to be filled...
to go hunting after... to be shown... to begin to scream
...to open arms legs mouth asshole eyes nostrils without
a hope of mercy to its intention waiting in the sky paler
than dim commercial Jesus....
But nowadays, some kind of space he cannot go against
has opened behind Slothrop, bridges that might have led
back are down now for good. He is growing less anxious
about betraying those who trust him. He feels obligations
less immediately. There is, in fact, a general loss of emo-
tion, a numbness he ought to be alarmed at, but canât
quite...
;
Can't...
'
Russian transmissions come crackling out of shipâs radio,
and the static blows like sheets of rain. Lights have begun
to appear on shore. Procalowski throws a master switch
and cuts off all the lights of the Anubis. St. Elmoâs fire will
be seen spurting at moments from crossends, from sharp
points, fluttering white as telltales about the antennas and
stays.
The white ship, camouflaged in the storm, will slip by
Stettinâs great ruin in silence. Rain will slacken for a
moment to port and reveal a few last broken derricks and
â
charred warehouses so wet and gleaming you can almost
smell them, and a beginning of marshland you can smell,
where no one lives. And then the shore again will be in-
visible as the open seaâs. The Oder Haff
will
grow wider
around the Anubis. No patrol boats will
be out tonight.
â
Whitecaps will come slamming in out of the darkness, and ©
break high over the bow, and brine stream from the golden ©
jackal mouth... Count Wafna lurch aft in nothing but his â
white bow tie, hands full of red, white, and blue chips that â
spill and clatter on deck, and he'll never cash them in... i
:
4
|
q
Slothrop's Fall from the Anubis
- Slothrop experiences a profound emotional numbness and a loss of connection to his past, signaling a disintegration of his identity.
- The ship Anubis navigates a storm in the Oder Haff, running dark to evade detection while passing the ruins of Stettin.
- The narrative shifts into a surreal montage of the passengers' decadent and traumatic memories, including the Iron Guard's terror in Bucharest.
- In a moment of sudden chaos, Slothrop believes he sees Bianca falling overboard and lunges to save her.
- Slothrop slips and is thrown into the freezing sea, abandoned by the ship and its 'Fascist cargo' without a cry for help.
- He is eventually pulled from the water by Germans on a stripped-down fishing vessel, marking a new transition in his journey.
He hits, without a call for help, just a meek tearful oh fuck, tears that will add nothing to the whipped white desolation that passes for the Oder Haff tonight.
572
Gravity's RAINBOW
;
They know about, and he doesnât: this is humiliating on
the face of it, but now thereâs also the even more annoy-
ing question, What do I need that badly?
Even a month ago, given a day or two of peace, he
might have found his way back to the September after-
noon, to the stiff cock in his pants sprung fine as a dowserâs
wand trying to point up at what was hanging there in the
sky for everybody. Dowsing Rockets is a gift, and he had
it, suffered from it, trying to fill his body to the pores and
follicles with ringing prurience . . . to enter, to be filled...
to go hunting after... to be shown... to begin to scream
...to open arms legs mouth asshole eyes nostrils without
a hope of mercy to its intention waiting in the sky paler
than dim commercial Jesus....
But nowadays, some kind of space he cannot go against
has opened behind Slothrop, bridges that might have led
back are down now for good. He is growing less anxious
about betraying those who trust him. He feels obligations
less immediately. There is, in fact, a general loss of emo-
tion, a numbness he ought to be alarmed at, but canât
quite...
;
Can't...
'
Russian transmissions come crackling out of shipâs radio,
and the static blows like sheets of rain. Lights have begun
to appear on shore. Procalowski throws a master switch
and cuts off all the lights of the Anubis. St. Elmoâs fire will
be seen spurting at moments from crossends, from sharp
points, fluttering white as telltales about the antennas and
stays.
The white ship, camouflaged in the storm, will slip by
Stettinâs great ruin in silence. Rain will slacken for a
moment to port and reveal a few last broken derricks and
â
charred warehouses so wet and gleaming you can almost
smell them, and a beginning of marshland you can smell,
where no one lives. And then the shore again will be in-
visible as the open seaâs. The Oder Haff
will
grow wider
around the Anubis. No patrol boats will
be out tonight.
â
Whitecaps will come slamming in out of the darkness, and ©
break high over the bow, and brine stream from the golden ©
jackal mouth... Count Wafna lurch aft in nothing but his â
white bow tie, hands full of red, white, and blue chips that â
spill and clatter on deck, and he'll never cash them in... i
:
4
|
q
In the Zone
573
_the Countess Bibescue dreaming by the foâcâsle of Bucha-
rest four years ago, the January terror, the Iron Guard on
the radio screaming Long Live Death, and the bodies of
Jews and Leftists hung on the hooks of the city slaughter-
houses, dripping on the boards smelling of meat and hide,
having her breasts sucked by a boy of 6 or 7 in a velvet
Fauntleroy suit, their wet hair flowing together indistin-
guishable as their moans now, will vanish inside sudden
whiteness exploding over the bow . .
. and stockings ladder,
and silk frocks over rayon slips make swarming moirés...
hardons go limp without warning, bone buttons shake in
terror... lights be thrown on again and the deck become
~
a blinding mirror... and not too long after this, Slothrop
_ will think he sees her, think he has found Bianca againâ
dark eyelashes plastered shut and face running with rain,
he will see her lose her footing on the slimy deck, just as
the Anubis starts a hard roll to port, and even at this
stage of thingsâeven in his distanceâhe will lunge after
her without thinking much, slip himself as she vanishes
under the chalky lifelines and gone, stagger trying to get
back but be hit too soon in the kidneys and be flipped that
easy over the side and itâs adios to the Anubis and all its
screaming Fascist cargo, already no more ship, not even
black sky as the rain drives down his falling eyes now in
- quick needlestrokes, and he hits, without a call for help,
just a meek tearful oh fuck, tears that will add nothing to
the whipped white desolation that passes for the Oder
Haff tonight....
O
The voices are German. Looks like a fishing smack here,
stripped for some reason of nets and booms. Cargo piled
on deck. A pink-faced youth is peering down at Slothrop
from midships, rocking in, rearing back. âHeâs wearing
evening clothes,â calling in to the pilot house. âIs that
good or bad? You're not with the military government, are
yourâ
âJesus, kid, â'm drowning. Ill sign a form if you want.â
Well, thatâs Howdy Podner in German. The youth reaches
out a pink hand whose palm is crusted with barnacles, and
The Queen of Coastal Trade
- Slothrop is rescued from the Baltic Sea by Otto and his mother, Frau Gnahb, who operate a black market smuggling vessel.
- Frau Gnahb identifies herself as the 'queen of the coastal trade' and recognizes the man Slothrop is seeking, Der Springer.
- Slothrop travels with the smugglers to SwinemĂŒnde, a port city heavily damaged by the recent Russian assault.
- During the journey, Slothrop experiences a surreal dream or visitation from Bianca, reflecting his deepening immersion in the European 'Zone.'
- Upon arrival, Slothrop prepares to meet Der Springer, using a chess piece given to him by SĂ€ure Bummer as a token of identity.
- The narrative highlights the opportunistic nature of the post-war black market where fuel, coffee, and 'solid cargo' move through the wreckage.
âMy mother,â the pink boy crouching beside him with an apologetic and helpless look. âThe terror of the high seas.â
In the Zone
573
_the Countess Bibescue dreaming by the foâcâsle of Bucha-
rest four years ago, the January terror, the Iron Guard on
the radio screaming Long Live Death, and the bodies of
Jews and Leftists hung on the hooks of the city slaughter-
houses, dripping on the boards smelling of meat and hide,
having her breasts sucked by a boy of 6 or 7 in a velvet
Fauntleroy suit, their wet hair flowing together indistin-
guishable as their moans now, will vanish inside sudden
whiteness exploding over the bow . .
. and stockings ladder,
and silk frocks over rayon slips make swarming moirés...
hardons go limp without warning, bone buttons shake in
terror... lights be thrown on again and the deck become
~
a blinding mirror... and not too long after this, Slothrop
_ will think he sees her, think he has found Bianca againâ
dark eyelashes plastered shut and face running with rain,
he will see her lose her footing on the slimy deck, just as
the Anubis starts a hard roll to port, and even at this
stage of thingsâeven in his distanceâhe will lunge after
her without thinking much, slip himself as she vanishes
under the chalky lifelines and gone, stagger trying to get
back but be hit too soon in the kidneys and be flipped that
easy over the side and itâs adios to the Anubis and all its
screaming Fascist cargo, already no more ship, not even
black sky as the rain drives down his falling eyes now in
- quick needlestrokes, and he hits, without a call for help,
just a meek tearful oh fuck, tears that will add nothing to
the whipped white desolation that passes for the Oder
Haff tonight....
O
The voices are German. Looks like a fishing smack here,
stripped for some reason of nets and booms. Cargo piled
on deck. A pink-faced youth is peering down at Slothrop
from midships, rocking in, rearing back. âHeâs wearing
evening clothes,â calling in to the pilot house. âIs that
good or bad? You're not with the military government, are
yourâ
âJesus, kid, â'm drowning. Ill sign a form if you want.â
Well, thatâs Howdy Podner in German. The youth reaches
out a pink hand whose palm is crusted with barnacles, and
574
Graviryâs RAInBow
hauls him on up, ears freezing, salty snot pouring out his
nose, flopping onto a wood deck that reeks with genera- |
tions of fish and is scarred bright from more solid cargo. â
The boat gets under way again with this tremendous surge -
of acceleration. Slothrop is sent rolling wetly aft. Behind â
them a great roostertail foams erect against the rain.
Maniacal laughter blows aft from the pilot house. âHey
â
who, or what, is in command of this vessel, here?â
âMy mother,â the pink boy crouching beside him with
an apologetic and helpless look. âThe terror of the high
seas.â
This apple-cheeked lady is Frau Gnahb, and her kidâs
name is Otto, When sheâs feeling affectionate she calls him
âthe Silent Otto,â which she thinks is very funny, but it
dates her. While Slothrop gets out of the tuxedo and hangs
it up inside to dry, wrapping himself in an old army
blanket, mother and son tell him how they run black
market items all along the Baltic coast. Who else would be
out tonight, during a stormP He has a trustworthy face,
Slothrop does, people will tell him anything. Right now_
seems theyâre headed for Swinemiinde to take on cargo for
a run tomorrow up the coast of Usedom.
âDo you know a man in a white suit,â quoting Geli
Tripping from a few eras back, âwhoâs supposed to be on
the Strand-Promenade
in that Swinemiimde every day
around noon?â
Frau Gnahb takes a pinch of snuff, and beams. âEvery-
body does. Heâs the white knight of the black market, as
I
am queen of the coastal trade.â
âDer Springer, right?â
âNobody else.â
Nobody else. Up in his pants pocket Slothrop is still
packing around the chesspiece old Saéure Bummer gave
him. By it shall Springer know him. Slothrop falls asleep â
in the pilot house, gets in two or three hours, during which â
Bianca comes to snuggle in under his blanket with him.
âYoure really i in that Europe now,â she grins, hugging him. |
âOh my gooâness,â Slothrop keeps saying,
his voice exactly
like Shirley Templeâs, out of his control,
It sure is em-â
barrassing. He wakes to sunlight, gulls squealing, smell of â
number 2 fuel oil, the booming of wine barrels down
racketing planks to shore. They are docked in Swine-
In the Zone
575
miinde, by the sagging long ash remains of warehouses.
Frau Gnahb is supervising some offloading. Otto has a tin
can of honest-to-God Bohnenkaffee simmering, âFirst Iâve
had in a while,â Slothrop scorching his mouth.
âBlack market,â purrs the Silent Otto. âGood business to
be in.â
âI was in it for a while... .â Oh, yes, and heâs left the
last of that Bodine hashish, hasnât he, several fucking
ounces in fact, back on the Anubis, wasnât that clever. See
the sugar bowl do the Tootsie Roll with the big, bad,
Devilâs food cakeâ
âNice morning,â Otto remarks.
Slothrop puts his tux back on, wrinkled and shrunken
and almost dry, and debarks with Otto to find Der
Springer. It seems to be Springer whoâs chartered todayâs
trip up the coast. Slothrop keeps looking around for the
Anubis, but sheâs nowhere in sight. In the distances, gan-
tries huddle together, skeletal, presiding over the waste
that came upon this port so sudden. The Russian assault
in the spring has complicated the layout here. The white
ship could be hiding behind any of these heaps of dock-
yard wreckage. Come out, come out....
The storm has blown away, the breeze is mild today
and the sky lies overhead in a perfect interference-pattern,
mackerel gray and blue. Someplace military machines are
rooting and clanking. Men and women are hollering near
.and far in Russian. Otto and Slothrop dodge them down
âalleys flanked by the remains of half-timbered houses,
stepped out story by story, about to meet overhead after
centuries of imperceptible toppling. Men in black-billed
âcaps sit on stoops, watching hands for cigarettes. In a little
square, market stalls are set up, wood frames and old,
stained
canvas
shimmering when
the
breeze
passes
through. Russian soldiers lean against posts or benches
talking to girls in dirndls and white knee-socks, all nearly
still as statues. Market wagons stand unhitched with
tongues tilted to the ground and floors covered with bur-
lap and straw and traces of produce. Dogs sniff among the
-mud negatives of tank treads. Two men in dark old blue
âuniforms work their way along with hose and broom,
cleaning away garbage and stone-dust with salt water
| pumped up from the harbor. Two little girls chase round
The Meeting with Der Springer
- Otto and Slothrop navigate the ruins of SwinemĂŒnde, a landscape of half-timbered houses and Russian soldiers, to find a mysterious contact.
- They encounter Gerhardt von Göll, known as 'Der Springer,' a film director who views reality through the lens of cinematic control.
- Von Göll dismisses the death of Margherita Erdmann and the tragic fate of Anton Webern as necessary parts of a larger, rhythmic pattern.
- The director uses a chess metaphor to describe his freedom, claiming he has transcended the 'two dimensions' of pawns and kings to become the Knight.
- Slothrop attempts to gather information about Bianca while grappling with von Göll's unsettling, detached philosophy on life and art.
No dramatic call to the front officeâjust waking up one day, and knowing that Queen, Bishop, and King are only splendid cripples, and pawns, even those that reach the final row, are condemned to creep in two dimensions, and no Tower will ever rise or descendâno: flight has been given only to the Springer!
In the Zone
575
miinde, by the sagging long ash remains of warehouses.
Frau Gnahb is supervising some offloading. Otto has a tin
can of honest-to-God Bohnenkaffee simmering, âFirst Iâve
had in a while,â Slothrop scorching his mouth.
âBlack market,â purrs the Silent Otto. âGood business to
be in.â
âI was in it for a while... .â Oh, yes, and heâs left the
last of that Bodine hashish, hasnât he, several fucking
ounces in fact, back on the Anubis, wasnât that clever. See
the sugar bowl do the Tootsie Roll with the big, bad,
Devilâs food cakeâ
âNice morning,â Otto remarks.
Slothrop puts his tux back on, wrinkled and shrunken
and almost dry, and debarks with Otto to find Der
Springer. It seems to be Springer whoâs chartered todayâs
trip up the coast. Slothrop keeps looking around for the
Anubis, but sheâs nowhere in sight. In the distances, gan-
tries huddle together, skeletal, presiding over the waste
that came upon this port so sudden. The Russian assault
in the spring has complicated the layout here. The white
ship could be hiding behind any of these heaps of dock-
yard wreckage. Come out, come out....
The storm has blown away, the breeze is mild today
and the sky lies overhead in a perfect interference-pattern,
mackerel gray and blue. Someplace military machines are
rooting and clanking. Men and women are hollering near
.and far in Russian. Otto and Slothrop dodge them down
âalleys flanked by the remains of half-timbered houses,
stepped out story by story, about to meet overhead after
centuries of imperceptible toppling. Men in black-billed
âcaps sit on stoops, watching hands for cigarettes. In a little
square, market stalls are set up, wood frames and old,
stained
canvas
shimmering when
the
breeze
passes
through. Russian soldiers lean against posts or benches
talking to girls in dirndls and white knee-socks, all nearly
still as statues. Market wagons stand unhitched with
tongues tilted to the ground and floors covered with bur-
lap and straw and traces of produce. Dogs sniff among the
-mud negatives of tank treads. Two men in dark old blue
âuniforms work their way along with hose and broom,
cleaning away garbage and stone-dust with salt water
| pumped up from the harbor. Two little girls chase round
576
Gravity's Ramnsow
and round a guagly red kiosk plastered with chromos of
Stalin. Workers in leather caps, blinking, morning-faced,
pedal down to the docks with lunchboxes slung on handle
bars. Pigeons and seagulls feint for scraps in the gutters.
Women with empty string bags hurry by light as ghosts.
A lone sapling in the street sings with a blockful of birds
you canât see.
Just as Geli said, out on the steel-littered promenade,
kicking stones, watching the water, eyes idly combing the
beach for the odd watch or gold eyeglass frame, waiting
for whoever will show up, is The Man. About 50, bleak
and neutral-colored eyes, hair thick at the sides of his head
and brushed back.
Slothrop flashes the plastic knight. Der Springer smiles
and bows.
âGerhardt von Gdll, at your service.â They shake hands,
though Slothropâs is prickling in an unpleasant way.
Gulls cry, waves flatten on the strand. âUh,â Slothrop
sez, âI have this kind of trick ear, you'll have toâyou say
Gerhardt von what now?â This mackerel sky has begun to
look less like a moirĂ©, and more like a chessboard. âI guess
we have a friend in common. Well, that Margherita Erd-
mann. Saw her last night. Yup... .â
âSheâs supposed to be dead.â He takes Slothropâs arm,
and they all begin to stroll along the promenade.
.
'âW-well you're supposed to be a movie director.â
âSame thing,â lighting American cigarettes for every-
body. âSame problems of control. But more intense. As to
some musical ears, dissonance is really a higher form of
consonance. Youâve heard about Anton Webern? Very sad.â
âTt was a mistake. He was innocent.â
âHa. Of course he was. But mistakes are part of it tooâ_
everything fits. One sees how it fits, jaP learns patterns,
adjusts to rhythms, one day you are no longer an actor,
but free now, over on the other side of the camera. No
dramatic call to the front officeâjust waking up one day,
and knowing that Queen, Bishop, and âKing are only
splendid cripples, and pawns, even those; that reach the -
final row, are condemned to creep in two dimensions, and
no Tower will ever rise or descendâno: flight has been
given only to the. Springer!â
hg
âRight, Springer,â sez Otto.
Four Russian privates come wandering out of a bank of â
yo
In the Zone
577
ruined hotel-fronts, laughing across the promenade, over
the wall down to the water where they stand throwing
smooth stones, kicking waves, singing to each other. Not
much of a liberty town, Swinemiinde. Slothrop fills von
Goll in on Margherita, trying not to get personal. But some
of his anxiety over Bianca must be coming through. Von
Goll shakes his arm, a kindly uncle. âThere now. I wouldnât
worry. Biancaâs a clever child, and her mother is hardly a
destroying goddess.â
'
âYou're a comfort, Springer.â
The Baltic, restless Wehrmacht gray, whispers along
the beach, Von Goll tips an invisible Tyrolean to old ladies
in black who've come out in pairs to get some sun. Otto
goes chasing seagulls, hands out in front of him silent-
moyie style looking to strangle, but always missing his
bird. Presently they are joined by a party with a lumpy
nose, stoop, weekâs growth of orange and gray whiskers,
and oversize leather trenchcoat with no trousers on under-
neath, His name is Narrischâthe same Klaus Narrisch that
aerodynamics man
Horst Achtfaden
fingered
for the
Schwarzkommando, the very same. He is carrying by the
neck an unplucked dead turkey. As they thread their way
among chunks big and little of Swinemiinde and the battle
for it last spring, townspeople begin to appear out of the
ruins, and to straggle close on von Gollâs landward flank, all
eying this dead bird. Springer reaches inside his white suit
| Jacket, comes out with a U.S, Army .45, and makes a
_ casual show of checking its action. His following promptly
- dwindles by a half.
:
_
âThey're hungrier today,â observes Narrisch.
âTrue,â replies the Springer, âbut today there are fewer
of them.â
âWow,â it occurs to Slothrop, âthatâs a shitty thing to
say.â
Springer shrugs. âBe compassionate. But donât make up
fantasies about them. Despise me, exalt them, but remem-
ber, we define each other. Elite and preterite, we move
through a cosmic design of darkness and light, and in all
humility, I am one of the very few who can comprehend
it in toto. Consider honestly therefore, young man, which
âside you would rather be on. While they suffer in per-
petual shadows, itâs... alwaysââ
er
The Black Market Design
- Slothrop encounters Gerhardt von Göll (the Springer) and Klaus Narrisch amidst the ruins of SwinemĂŒnde.
- The Springer uses a firearm to intimidate starving townspeople who are eyeing Narrisch's dead turkey.
- Von Göll explains his cynical worldview, defining the 'Elite' and 'Preterite' as necessary components of a cosmic design fueled by the black market.
- The group prepares to travel up the coast with a surreal cargo including chorus girls, vodka, and performing chimpanzees.
- A tension-filled atmosphere persists as Slothrop realizes he is being watched and judged by the Springer's entourage.
- The scene culminates in a dark, musical celebration of the black market's power over morality and survival.
Elite and preterite, we move through a cosmic design of darkness and light, and in all humility, I am one of the very few who can comprehend it in toto.
In the Zone
577
ruined hotel-fronts, laughing across the promenade, over
the wall down to the water where they stand throwing
smooth stones, kicking waves, singing to each other. Not
much of a liberty town, Swinemiinde. Slothrop fills von
Goll in on Margherita, trying not to get personal. But some
of his anxiety over Bianca must be coming through. Von
Goll shakes his arm, a kindly uncle. âThere now. I wouldnât
worry. Biancaâs a clever child, and her mother is hardly a
destroying goddess.â
'
âYou're a comfort, Springer.â
The Baltic, restless Wehrmacht gray, whispers along
the beach, Von Goll tips an invisible Tyrolean to old ladies
in black who've come out in pairs to get some sun. Otto
goes chasing seagulls, hands out in front of him silent-
moyie style looking to strangle, but always missing his
bird. Presently they are joined by a party with a lumpy
nose, stoop, weekâs growth of orange and gray whiskers,
and oversize leather trenchcoat with no trousers on under-
neath, His name is Narrischâthe same Klaus Narrisch that
aerodynamics man
Horst Achtfaden
fingered
for the
Schwarzkommando, the very same. He is carrying by the
neck an unplucked dead turkey. As they thread their way
among chunks big and little of Swinemiinde and the battle
for it last spring, townspeople begin to appear out of the
ruins, and to straggle close on von Gollâs landward flank, all
eying this dead bird. Springer reaches inside his white suit
| Jacket, comes out with a U.S, Army .45, and makes a
_ casual show of checking its action. His following promptly
- dwindles by a half.
:
_
âThey're hungrier today,â observes Narrisch.
âTrue,â replies the Springer, âbut today there are fewer
of them.â
âWow,â it occurs to Slothrop, âthatâs a shitty thing to
say.â
Springer shrugs. âBe compassionate. But donât make up
fantasies about them. Despise me, exalt them, but remem-
ber, we define each other. Elite and preterite, we move
through a cosmic design of darkness and light, and in all
humility, I am one of the very few who can comprehend
it in toto. Consider honestly therefore, young man, which
âside you would rather be on. While they suffer in per-
petual shadows, itâs... alwaysââ
er
578
Gravity's Rainsow
4
Bricur Days (Fox-Tror)
âbright days for the black mar-ket,
That silver ânâ gold makes-it shinel
From the Cor-al Sea to, the sky, blue, Baltic,
Moneyâs the mainspring, that makes it all tickâlike a
Blinkinâ beacon, thereâs a pricetag peekinâ
From each dĂ©colletage dee-vineâ
Be she green or scar-let, even Momâs a har-lot, itâs the
Good Lordâs grand design...
A-and itâs sunny days-for, the black, black ma(a)rket,
Cause silver and gold makes it shii-iinel
Narrisch and Otto joining in here on three-part har-
mony, while the idle and hungry of Swinemiinde look on,
whitefaced as patient livestock. But their bodies are only
implied: wire racks for prewar suits and frocks, too an-
cient, too glassy with dirt, with passage.
Leaving the promenade, they pause at a street corner
while a detachment of Russian infantry and horsemen
marches by. âGee, theyâre pouring in,â notes Otto. ââWhereâs
the circus?â
âUp the coast, kid,â sez Narrisch.
âWhat's up the coast,â inquires Slothrop.
âLook out,â warns Narrisch, âheâs a spy.â
âDonât call me âkid,â â Otto snarls.
~
âSpyâs ass,â sez Slothrop.
âHeâs all right,â Springer pats them all on the shoulders,
Herr Gemiitlich here, âthe wordâs been out on him for a
while. He isnât even armed.â To Slothrop: âYou're wel-
come to come along with us, up the coast. It might be
interesting for you.â But Slothrop is no dummy. He notices
how he is getting funny looks from everybody now, includ-
ing that Springer.
4
Among the cargo headed up the coast are six chorus
girls, wearing feathers and spangles under old cloth coats
to save trunk space, a small pit band at different levels of â
alcoholic slumber, manymany cases of vodka, and a troupe
of
performing
chimpanzees.
Otto's
suautical-piratical
mother has one of these chimps comered jinside the pilot â
house, where they are going at it, the Frau with her in-
sults, the chimp reaching now and then trying to slap her
with his floppy banana peel. Ulcerous impresario G, M. B.~
In the Zone
579
Haftung is trying to get Ottoâs attention. He has a record
of always making his appeals to the wrong personnel.
âThatâs Wolfgang in there! He'll murder her!â Wolfgangâs
his prize chimp, somewhat unstable, does a fair Hitler
imitation but has this short attention span.
âWell,â vaguely, âheâd better watch out for my Mom.â
Framed here in her lozenge of hatchway, itâs much
clearer just how extensively this old woman has been
around: she is leaning, lifting, big sweet smile just as
toothy as can be, peg into that Wolfgang, cooing at him:
âDeine Mutter .
âSay, sheâs never seen one of those critters before,â
Slothrop turning to Otto, surprising the youth with a face-
ful of, call it amiable homicide, âhas sheââ
âAch, sheâs fantastic. She knows by instinctâexactly
how to insult anybody. Doesnât matter, animal, vegetableâ
I even saw her insult a rock once.â
âAw, nowââ
âReally! Ja. A gigantic clummmp of -felsitic debris, last
year, off the coast of Denmark, she criticized its,â just
about to fall into one of those mirthless laughs we edge
away from, âits crystalline structure, for twenty minutes.
Incredible.â
Chorus girls have already pried open a case of vodka.
Haftung, brushing hair that grows only in memory across
the top of his head, rushes over to scream at them. Boys
and girls, all ages, tattered and thin, trail across the brow,
\stevedoring. Against the fair sky, chimps swing from spars
and antenna, above them seagulls glide by and stare. Wind
ses, soon a whitecap here and there will start to flicker
âout in the harbor. Each child carries a bale or box of a
âdifferent shape, color, and size. Springer stands by, pince-
nez clipped in front of agate eyes, checking off his inven-
tory in a green morocco book, snails in garlic sauce, one
gross... three cases cognac...
tennis balls, two dozen...
one Victrola... film, Lucky Pierre Runs Amok, three reels
-.. binoculars, sixty... wrist-watches...u.s.w., a check-
mark for each child.
iJ _ Presently all has been stowed below decks, chimps
| asleep, musicians wake up, girls surround Haftung and
call him names, and pinch his cheeks. Otto makes his way
si the side, hauling in lines as the children cast them
Bars
The Pirate Queen's Departure
- The crew and passengers of the Anubis prepare for departure as a diverse group of children load an eclectic inventory of luxury goods and contraband.
- Otto describes his mother, Frau Gnahb, as a woman with an instinctive talent for insulting anything, including the crystalline structure of inanimate rocks.
- Frau Gnahb takes command of the vessel with a reckless, violent energy that sends the passengers and chorus girls sprawling across the deck.
- The ship narrowly avoids collisions with ferries and sunken wrecks as Frau Gnahb deliberately steers toward obstacles to terrify those on board.
- Frau Gnahb bellows a vulgar sea chanty declaring herself the 'Pirate Queen of the Baltic Run' whom even the Flying Dutchman fears.
- The scene captures the chaotic, carnivalesque atmosphere of the Zone, where survival depends on the whims of eccentric and potentially 'unbalanced' figures.
âReally! Ja. A gigantic clummmp of -felsitic debris, last year, off the coast of Denmark, she criticized its,â just about to fall into one of those mirthless laughs we edge away from, âits crystalline structure, for twenty minutes. Incredible.â
In the Zone
579
Haftung is trying to get Ottoâs attention. He has a record
of always making his appeals to the wrong personnel.
âThatâs Wolfgang in there! He'll murder her!â Wolfgangâs
his prize chimp, somewhat unstable, does a fair Hitler
imitation but has this short attention span.
âWell,â vaguely, âheâd better watch out for my Mom.â
Framed here in her lozenge of hatchway, itâs much
clearer just how extensively this old woman has been
around: she is leaning, lifting, big sweet smile just as
toothy as can be, peg into that Wolfgang, cooing at him:
âDeine Mutter .
âSay, sheâs never seen one of those critters before,â
Slothrop turning to Otto, surprising the youth with a face-
ful of, call it amiable homicide, âhas sheââ
âAch, sheâs fantastic. She knows by instinctâexactly
how to insult anybody. Doesnât matter, animal, vegetableâ
I even saw her insult a rock once.â
âAw, nowââ
âReally! Ja. A gigantic clummmp of -felsitic debris, last
year, off the coast of Denmark, she criticized its,â just
about to fall into one of those mirthless laughs we edge
away from, âits crystalline structure, for twenty minutes.
Incredible.â
Chorus girls have already pried open a case of vodka.
Haftung, brushing hair that grows only in memory across
the top of his head, rushes over to scream at them. Boys
and girls, all ages, tattered and thin, trail across the brow,
\stevedoring. Against the fair sky, chimps swing from spars
and antenna, above them seagulls glide by and stare. Wind
ses, soon a whitecap here and there will start to flicker
âout in the harbor. Each child carries a bale or box of a
âdifferent shape, color, and size. Springer stands by, pince-
nez clipped in front of agate eyes, checking off his inven-
tory in a green morocco book, snails in garlic sauce, one
gross... three cases cognac...
tennis balls, two dozen...
one Victrola... film, Lucky Pierre Runs Amok, three reels
-.. binoculars, sixty... wrist-watches...u.s.w., a check-
mark for each child.
iJ _ Presently all has been stowed below decks, chimps
| asleep, musicians wake up, girls surround Haftung and
call him names, and pinch his cheeks. Otto makes his way
si the side, hauling in lines as the children cast them
Bars
580
ps
Gravityâs RaInsow
off. As the last one is flung away, its eye-splice still in
midair framing a teardrop vista of gutted Swinemiinde,
Frau Gnahb, sensing the release from land through her
feet, gets under way in the usual manner, nearly losing a
chimp over the fantail and sending Haftungâs half-dozen
lovelies sprawling in a winsome tangle of legs, bottoms
and breasts,
Crosscurrents tug a the boat as it moves out the widen-
ing funnel of the Swine, toward the sea. Just inside the
breakwaters, where it foams through breaches bombed
underwater in the spring look out, Frau Gnahb, with no
change of expression, swings her wheel full over, goes
barreling straight at the Sassnitz ferry whoosh veers away
just in time, cackling at passengers staggering back from
the rail, gaping after her. âPlease, Mother,â silent Otto
plaintive in the window of the pilot house. In reply the
good woman commences bellowing a bloodthirsty
SEA CHANTY
I'm the Pirate Queen of the Baltic Run, and nobody
fucks with meâ
.
And those who've tried are bones and skulls, and lie
beneath the sea.
And the little fish like messengers swim in and out
their eyes,
Singing, âFuck ye not with Gory Gnahb and her
desperate enterprise!â
I'll tangle with a battleship, I'll massacre a sloop,
Iâve sent a hundred souls to hell in one relentless
swoopâ
Iâve seen the Flying Dutchman, and each time we pass,
he cries,
Ă©
ist
âOh, steer me clear of Gory Gnahb, and her desperate
enterprise!â
yo
Whereupon she grips her wheel and aecelerates. They
find themselves now leaping toward the side of a half-
sunken merchantman: black concave iron splashed with
red-lead, each crusted rivet and pitted plate closing in,
looming overâ The woman is clearly unbalanced. Slo- |
throp shuts his eyes and hangs on to a chorus girl. With a
Ă©
In the Zone
â581
whoop from the pilot house, the little boat is put over
hard to port, missing collision by maybe a few coats of
paint. Otto, caught daydreaming of death, staggers wildly
by heading over the side. âItâs her sense of humor,â he
points out, on the way past. Slothrop reaches out grabs
him by the sweater, and the girl grabs Slothrop by the
tail of his tuxedo.
âShe gets into something a little illegal,â Otto a mo-
ment later catching his breath, âyou see what happens. I
donât know what to do with her.â
âPoor kid,â the girl smiles.
âAw,â sez Otto.
Slothrop leaves them, always happy to see young people
get together, and joins von Goll and Narrisch on the fan-
tail. Frau Gnahb has angled, wallowing, around to the
northwest.
Presently they are heading up the coast,
through white-streaked, salt-smelling Baltic.
âWell. Where we going, fellas?â jovial Slothrop wants
to know.
Narrisch stares. âThat is the isle of Usedom,â von Goll
explains, gently. âIt is bounded on one side by the Baltic
Sea. It is also bounded by two rivers. Their names are the
Swine, and the Peene. We were just on the Swine River.
We were in Swinemiinde. Swinemiinde means âmouth of
the Swine River.ââ
âAll right, all right.â
âWe are headed around the island of Usedom, to a
place that is at the mouth of the Peene River.â
âLetâs see, so that would be called... wait... Peene-
miinde, right?â
âVery good.â
~âSoPâ There is a pause. âOh. Oh, that Peenemiinde.â
Narrisch, as it turns out, used to work up there. Heâs
apt to brood some at the idea of Russians occupying the
place.
âThere was a liquid-oxygen plant I had my eye on,
too,â Springer a little down with it himself, âI wanted to
âstart a chainâwerre still angling - for the one in Volken-
Tode, at the old Goering Institute.â
-âThereâs a bunch of those LOX generators under Nord-
Beaton,â Slothrop trying to be helpful.
âThanks, The Russians have that too, you'll recall.
pis
oe
Heading Toward PeenemĂŒnde
- Slothrop joins von Göll and Narrisch on a boat navigating the Baltic coast toward the infamous rocket site, PeenemĂŒnde.
- The group discusses the chaotic Russian occupation of the Zone, characterized by a 'strip-it-and-pack-it-home' approach to looting.
- Von Göll reveals he planted a false rumor about possessing the S-GerÀt to bait the interest of the mysterious Colonel Tchitcherine.
- Slothrop shares intelligence regarding Tchitcherineâs personal obsession with Enzian, which seems to outweigh his interest in rocket hardware.
- The conversation shifts into a dramatic, soap-opera-like speculation about Tchitcherineâs psychological motivations and his past in Central Asia.
- The men discuss Geli Trippingâs intent to find Tchitcherine, hinting at deeper mystical or conspiratorial plans involving the 'Kirghiz Light.'
Tchitcherine is a complex man. Itâs almost as if...he thinks of Enzian as... another part of himâa black version of something inside himself. A something he needs toâ... liquidate.
In the Zone
â581
whoop from the pilot house, the little boat is put over
hard to port, missing collision by maybe a few coats of
paint. Otto, caught daydreaming of death, staggers wildly
by heading over the side. âItâs her sense of humor,â he
points out, on the way past. Slothrop reaches out grabs
him by the sweater, and the girl grabs Slothrop by the
tail of his tuxedo.
âShe gets into something a little illegal,â Otto a mo-
ment later catching his breath, âyou see what happens. I
donât know what to do with her.â
âPoor kid,â the girl smiles.
âAw,â sez Otto.
Slothrop leaves them, always happy to see young people
get together, and joins von Goll and Narrisch on the fan-
tail. Frau Gnahb has angled, wallowing, around to the
northwest.
Presently they are heading up the coast,
through white-streaked, salt-smelling Baltic.
âWell. Where we going, fellas?â jovial Slothrop wants
to know.
Narrisch stares. âThat is the isle of Usedom,â von Goll
explains, gently. âIt is bounded on one side by the Baltic
Sea. It is also bounded by two rivers. Their names are the
Swine, and the Peene. We were just on the Swine River.
We were in Swinemiinde. Swinemiinde means âmouth of
the Swine River.ââ
âAll right, all right.â
âWe are headed around the island of Usedom, to a
place that is at the mouth of the Peene River.â
âLetâs see, so that would be called... wait... Peene-
miinde, right?â
âVery good.â
~âSoPâ There is a pause. âOh. Oh, that Peenemiinde.â
Narrisch, as it turns out, used to work up there. Heâs
apt to brood some at the idea of Russians occupying the
place.
âThere was a liquid-oxygen plant I had my eye on,
too,â Springer a little down with it himself, âI wanted to
âstart a chainâwerre still angling - for the one in Volken-
Tode, at the old Goering Institute.â
-âThereâs a bunch of those LOX generators under Nord-
Beaton,â Slothrop trying to be helpful.
âThanks, The Russians have that too, you'll recall.
pis
oe
582
Gravityâs Rainsow
Thatâs a problem: if it werenât so against Nature I'd say
they donât know what they want. The roads heading east
are jammed day and night with Russian lorries, full of
materiel, All kinds of loot. But no clear pattern to it yet,
beyond strip-it-and-pack-it-home.â
âJeepers,â clever Slothrop here, âdo you reckon theyâve
found that S-Gerdt yet, huh, Mr. von GĂ©ll?â
âAh, cute,â beams the Springer.
âHeâs an OSS man,â groans Narrisch, âtell you, we ought
to rub him out.â
âS-Geratâs going for ÂŁ10,000 these days, half of that in
front. You interested?â
âNope. But I did hear at Nordhausen that you already
have it.â
âWrong.â
âGerhardtââ
ââHeâs all right, Klaus.â The look is one Slothropâs had
before, from auto salesmen signaling their partners got a
real idiot here, Leonard, now donât spook him please? âWe
planted the story deliberately in Stettin. Wanted to see how
a Colonel Tchitcherine will respond.â
âFuck. Him again? He'll respond, all right.â
âWell, thatâs what we're going up to Peenemiinde today
to find out.â
âOh, boy.â Slothrop goes on to tell about the run-in at
Potsdam, and how Geli thought Tchitcherine didnât care
about Rocket hardware nearly so much as working out
some plot against that Oberst Enzian. If the two marke-
teers are interested, they donât show it.
The talk has drifted on into that kind of slack, nam
recapitulating that Slothropâs mother Nalline loved to float
away on in the afternoonsâHelen Trent, Stella Dallas,
Mary Noble Backstage Wife. ...
âTchitcherine is a complex man. Itâs almost as if...he
thinks of Enzian as... another part of himâa black ver-â
sion of something inside himself. A something he needs to
â
.. . liquidate.â
|
NArriscH: Do you think there might
be
some... some
political reason?
tagcat
|
von G6tx (shaking his head): I just donât know, Klaus.
Ever since what happened in Central Asiaâ
se
NArriscH: You meanâ
;
In the Zone
583
von G6.u: Yes...the Kirghiz Light. You know, itâs
-funnyâheâs never wanted to be thought of as an im-
perialistâ
_
Narriscu: None of them do. But thereâs the girl. ...
' von GOLL: Little Geli Tripping. The one who thinks
sheâs a witch.
NArriscH: But do you really think she means to go
through with thisâthis plan of hers, to find Tchitcherine?
von GOuL: I think... They...do....
NArriscH: But Gerhardt, she is in love with himâ
von G6xii: He hasnât been dating her, has he?
NArriscH: You canât be implyingâ
_
âSay,â splutters Slothrop, âwhat thâ heckâre you guys
talkinâ about, anyway?â
âParanoia,â Springer snaps reproachfully (as folks will
snap when interrupted at a game they enjoy). âYou
wouldnât understand that.â
âWell excuse me, got to go vomit now,â a klassic kome-
back among
charm-school
washouts
like our
Tactful
Tyrone here, and pretty advanced stuff on dry land, but
not out here, where the Baltic is making it impossible not
to be seasick. Chimps are all doing their vomiting hud-
dled under a tarp. Slothrop joins at the rail a miserable
lot of musicians and girls, They instruct him in fine points
such as not vomiting into the wind, and timing it for when
the ship rolls toward the sea, Frau Gnahb having expressed
the hope that no one would get any vomit on her ship with
the. kind of glacial smile Dr. Mabuse used to get, espe-
cially on a good day. She can be heard in the pilot house
now, bellowing her sea chanty, â666666,â goes Slothrop
over the side.
And this is how their desperate enterprise goes a-rollick-
ing up the coast of Usedom, under a hazy summer sky. On
shore, the green downs roll up in two gentle steps: above
them is a chain of hills thick with pines and oaks. Little
resort towns with white beaches and forlorn jetties wheel
abeam rheumatically slow. Military-looking craft, probably
Russian PT boats, will be seen now and then lying dead in
the
water. None challenge the Frauâs passage. The sun is
âin and out, turning the decks a stark momentâs yellow
around everyoneâs shadow. Thereâs a late time of day when
all shadows are thrown along the same east-northeast bear-
ns
i
7
ae
Arrival at Rocket Noon
- Slothrop and a group of musicians and girls endure severe seasickness aboard Frau Gnahb's ship while navigating the Baltic coast.
- The narrative introduces 'Rocket Noon,' a specific time of day when shadows align with the historical flight paths of test rockets fired from PeenemĂŒnde.
- The geography of the PeenemĂŒnde site is described as a 'skull' or 'corroded face' in profile, resembling a Wilhelm Busch cartoon.
- The landscape is marked by the ruins of war, featuring burned-out buildings and ash images of camouflage nets seared into the concrete.
- The passage concludes with a mystical vision of 'The Fool' or 'Slick,' an Edwardian silhouette riding a bicycle across the sky during the rush hour of Rocket Noon.
- The setting is established as the early, 'innocent' period of the Zone in 1945, where the remnants of engineering and destruction coexist.
Thereâs a late time of day when all shadows are thrown along the same east-northeast bearing as the test rockets were always fired out to sea from PeenemĂŒnde.
In the Zone
583
von G6.u: Yes...the Kirghiz Light. You know, itâs
-funnyâheâs never wanted to be thought of as an im-
perialistâ
_
Narriscu: None of them do. But thereâs the girl. ...
' von GOLL: Little Geli Tripping. The one who thinks
sheâs a witch.
NArriscH: But do you really think she means to go
through with thisâthis plan of hers, to find Tchitcherine?
von GOuL: I think... They...do....
NArriscH: But Gerhardt, she is in love with himâ
von G6xii: He hasnât been dating her, has he?
NArriscH: You canât be implyingâ
_
âSay,â splutters Slothrop, âwhat thâ heckâre you guys
talkinâ about, anyway?â
âParanoia,â Springer snaps reproachfully (as folks will
snap when interrupted at a game they enjoy). âYou
wouldnât understand that.â
âWell excuse me, got to go vomit now,â a klassic kome-
back among
charm-school
washouts
like our
Tactful
Tyrone here, and pretty advanced stuff on dry land, but
not out here, where the Baltic is making it impossible not
to be seasick. Chimps are all doing their vomiting hud-
dled under a tarp. Slothrop joins at the rail a miserable
lot of musicians and girls, They instruct him in fine points
such as not vomiting into the wind, and timing it for when
the ship rolls toward the sea, Frau Gnahb having expressed
the hope that no one would get any vomit on her ship with
the. kind of glacial smile Dr. Mabuse used to get, espe-
cially on a good day. She can be heard in the pilot house
now, bellowing her sea chanty, â666666,â goes Slothrop
over the side.
And this is how their desperate enterprise goes a-rollick-
ing up the coast of Usedom, under a hazy summer sky. On
shore, the green downs roll up in two gentle steps: above
them is a chain of hills thick with pines and oaks. Little
resort towns with white beaches and forlorn jetties wheel
abeam rheumatically slow. Military-looking craft, probably
Russian PT boats, will be seen now and then lying dead in
the
water. None challenge the Frauâs passage. The sun is
âin and out, turning the decks a stark momentâs yellow
around everyoneâs shadow. Thereâs a late time of day when
all shadows are thrown along the same east-northeast bear-
ns
i
7
ae
584
Gravitys Ramsow
ing as the test rockets were always fired out to sea from
Peenemiinde. The exact clock time, which varies through
the year, is known as Rocket Noon... and the sound that
must at that moment fill the air for its devout can only be
compared with a noontime siren the whole town believes
in... and guts resonate, hard as stone....
Before you sight it, you can féel the place. Even draped
over a gunwale, cheek against a fender smelling of tar, eyes
tearing and insides sloshing as the sea, Even barren and
scorched as Rossokovsky and the White Russian Army left
it in the spring. Itâs a face. On the maps, itâs a skull or a
corroded face-in profile, facing southwest: a small marshy
lake for the eye-socket, nose-and-mouth cavity cutting in
at the entrance to the Peene, just below the power station
...the draftsmanship is a little like a Wilhelm Busch
cartoon face, some old fool for mischievous boys to play
tricks on. Tapping his tanks for grain alcohol, scratching
great naughty words across fields of his fresh cement, or
even sneaking in to set off a rocket in the middle of the
night....
Low, burned-out buildings now, ash images of camou-
flage nets burned onto the concrete (they had only a min-
ute to glow, like a biirgerâs silk mantleâto light this
coastal indoors, this engineersâ parlor full of stodgy shapes
and neutral tones... didnât it only flare? no need to put
right, nothing monitory, no new levels to be reached...
but who would that be, watching so civil and mild over
the modeltop? face all in these chromo sunset colors, eyes
-
inside blackrim lenses which, like the flaring nets, now are
seen to have served as camouflage for who but the Bicycle
Rider in the Sky, the black and fatal Edwardian silhouette
on the luminous breast of sky, of todayâs Rocket Noon,
two circular explosions inside the rush hour, in the death-
scene of the skyâs light. How the rider twirls up there,
terminal and serene. In the Tarot he is known as The Fool,
but around the Zone here they call him Slick. Itâs 1945.
Still early, still innocent. Some of it is).
Charred helpless latticework: what was
wooden now.
only settles, without strength. Green human
shapes flash in
the ruins. The scale is very confusing, along here. The
troops look larger than they should. A zoo? a shooting
gallery? Why, some of both. Frau Gnahb wallows in closer
Arrival at PeenemĂŒnde
- Frau Gnahbâs boat navigates the marshy shoreline of PeenemĂŒnde, revealing a landscape where nature is aggressively reclaiming a ruined military industrial site.
- The ruins of the Development Works and various rocket test stands are described as 'stations of the cross,' marking the historical site of the V-2 rocket's birth.
- Despite the heavy destruction of barracks and runways, wildlife like white-tailed eagles, swans, and pheasants thrive amidst the pocked concrete and charred trees.
- The atmosphere is one of 'summer calm' and 'quiet idleness,' contrasted with the skeletal remains of the Luftwaffe's former territory.
- The arrival concludes with a sudden shift in tension as Major Zhdaev and a cordon of armed Soviet troops intercept and detain the Springer.
- The scene highlights the transition from the lethal technology of the war to the chaotic, opportunistic occupation of the Zone in 1945.
Barracks have had their roofs blown away: spinal and ribwise and sunwhite the bones of these creatures that must have held in their time half the Jonahs of falling Europe.
584
Gravitys Ramsow
ing as the test rockets were always fired out to sea from
Peenemiinde. The exact clock time, which varies through
the year, is known as Rocket Noon... and the sound that
must at that moment fill the air for its devout can only be
compared with a noontime siren the whole town believes
in... and guts resonate, hard as stone....
Before you sight it, you can féel the place. Even draped
over a gunwale, cheek against a fender smelling of tar, eyes
tearing and insides sloshing as the sea, Even barren and
scorched as Rossokovsky and the White Russian Army left
it in the spring. Itâs a face. On the maps, itâs a skull or a
corroded face-in profile, facing southwest: a small marshy
lake for the eye-socket, nose-and-mouth cavity cutting in
at the entrance to the Peene, just below the power station
...the draftsmanship is a little like a Wilhelm Busch
cartoon face, some old fool for mischievous boys to play
tricks on. Tapping his tanks for grain alcohol, scratching
great naughty words across fields of his fresh cement, or
even sneaking in to set off a rocket in the middle of the
night....
Low, burned-out buildings now, ash images of camou-
flage nets burned onto the concrete (they had only a min-
ute to glow, like a biirgerâs silk mantleâto light this
coastal indoors, this engineersâ parlor full of stodgy shapes
and neutral tones... didnât it only flare? no need to put
right, nothing monitory, no new levels to be reached...
but who would that be, watching so civil and mild over
the modeltop? face all in these chromo sunset colors, eyes
-
inside blackrim lenses which, like the flaring nets, now are
seen to have served as camouflage for who but the Bicycle
Rider in the Sky, the black and fatal Edwardian silhouette
on the luminous breast of sky, of todayâs Rocket Noon,
two circular explosions inside the rush hour, in the death-
scene of the skyâs light. How the rider twirls up there,
terminal and serene. In the Tarot he is known as The Fool,
but around the Zone here they call him Slick. Itâs 1945.
Still early, still innocent. Some of it is).
Charred helpless latticework: what was
wooden now.
only settles, without strength. Green human
shapes flash in
the ruins. The scale is very confusing, along here. The
troops look larger than they should. A zoo? a shooting
gallery? Why, some of both. Frau Gnahb wallows in closer
In the Zone
585
to land, proceeds up the marshy shoreline at half speed.
Signs of occupation increase: lorry-parks, tents, a corral
teeming with horses pied, sorrel, snow-white, red as blood.
Wild summer ducks up exploding, wet and showery, out
of green reedsâthey swing aft over the boat and descend
in its wake, where they bob quacking in two-foot excur-
sions. High in the sunlight, a white-tailed eagle is soaring.
Smoothlipped bomb and shell craters hold blue sea water.
Barracks have had their roofs blown away: spinal and rib-
wise and sunwhite the bones of these creatures that must
have held in their time half the Jonahs of falling Europe.
But trees, beech and pine, have begun to grow in again
where spaces were cleared and leveled for housing -or
officesâup through cracks in the pavement, everywhere
life may gain purchase, up rushes green summer â45, and
the forests are still growing dense on the upland.
Passing now the great blackened remains of the De-
velopment Works, most of it strewn at ground level. In
series, some ripped and broken, others largely hidden by
the dunes, Narrisch reverently telling them one by one,
come the concrete masses of the test stands, stations of the
cross, VI, V, III; IV, I, IX, VIII, I, finally the Rocketâs
Own, from which it stood and flew at last, VII and X.
Trees that once screened these from the sea now are only
stalks of charcoal.
Pulling around the northern curve of the peninsula, test-
stand wall and earthworks recedingâmoving now past
\Peenemiinde-West, the Luftwaffeâs old territory. Far away
to starboard, the cliffs of the Greifswalder Oie shimmer
through the blue haze. Concrete launching-ramps used to
test the V-1 or buzzbomb point at the sea. Runways
pocked with craters, heaped with rubble and: wrecked
Messerschmitts swing by, down the peninsula: over the
skullâs arc, south again toward the Peene, thereâabove the
tolling hills, miles off the port bow, the red brick tower
of the cathedral in Wolgast, and closer in the half-dozen
stacks of the power station, smokeless over Peenemiinde,
have survived the lethal compression-loads of March. ...
White swans drift in the reeds, and pheasants fly over the
tall pines inland. A truck motor snarls somewhere into life,
_ Frau Gnahb brings her boat around in a tight turn,
through an inlet, to the dock. The summer calm lies over
4 o =
Td
7
_
586
Gravisyâs Rainsow
everything: rolling-stock inert on its tracks, one soldier
sitting against an orange-topped oil drum trying to play
an accordion. Maybe only fooling around. Otto lets go of
his chorus girlâs hand. His mother cuts the engines, and he
steps broadly to the dock and jogs along, making fast.
Then thereâs a brief pause: Diesel fumes, marsh birds,
quiet idleness. ...
Somebodyâs staff car, racketing around the corner of a
cargo shed, slides to a stop, bouncing forth out of its rear
door a major even fatter than Duane Marvy, but with a
kindlier and dimly Oriental face. Gray hair like sheepâs
wool comes twisting down all around his head. âAh! von
Golllâ arms outstretched, wrinkled eyes shiny withâis it
real tearsP âvon Goll, my dear friend!â
âMajor Zhdaev,â Springer nods ambling over the brow,
as behind the major now this truckload of troops in fatigues
seems to be pulling up here, kind of odd they should be
toting those submachine guns and carbines just for some
stevedoring. ...
Right. Before anyone can move, they've leaped out and
made a cordon around Zhdaev and the Springer, pieces at
the ready. âDo not be alarmed,â Zhdaev waving and beam-
ing, strolling backward to the car. with his arm around
the Springer, âwe are detaining your friend for a bit. You
may proceed with your work and go. We'll see that he
gets safely back to Swinemiinde.â
âWhat the devil,â Frau Gnahb comes growling out of
the pilot house. Haftung shows up, twitching, putting
hands in various pockets and taking them out again: âWho
are they arresting? What about my contract? Will anything
happen to us?â The staff car pulls away. Enlisted men
begin filing on board.
âShit,â ponders Narrisch.
;
âYou think itâs a bust?â
âT think Tchitcherine is responding with interest. Just as
you said.â
âAw, nowââ
â
'
âNo, no,â hand on sleeve, âheâs right. Youâre harmless.â |
âThanks.â
âs
sf
L
ue
|
âI warned him, but he laughed.
âAnother
leap, Narrisch.
I have to keep leaping, donât IPâ â
pai
âWell what do you want to-do now, cut him loose?â
There is some excitement amidships. The Russians have |
Chaos on the SwinemĂŒnde Docks
- Soviet soldiers board the vessel to conduct arrests, leading to a confrontation with the crew and the mysterious Tchitcherine's interests.
- A chaotic diversion erupts when a tarp is removed to reveal drunken, vomiting chimpanzees who have broken into the ship's vodka supply.
- The scene descends into a farce as chimps, chorus girls, and musicians stampede off the boat, overwhelming the frustrated Red Army personnel.
- Frau Gnahb and Narrisch seize the opportunity to use the animal-induced mayhem as a 'diversionary feint' to sneak away and rescue Der Springer.
- Slothrop, Narrisch, and Otto successfully hide in a cargo shed boxcar while the boat departs, leaving the soldiers to chase the escaped animals.
The Russians have thrown back a tarp to reveal the chimps, who are covered with vomit, and have also broken into the vodka.
586
Gravisyâs Rainsow
everything: rolling-stock inert on its tracks, one soldier
sitting against an orange-topped oil drum trying to play
an accordion. Maybe only fooling around. Otto lets go of
his chorus girlâs hand. His mother cuts the engines, and he
steps broadly to the dock and jogs along, making fast.
Then thereâs a brief pause: Diesel fumes, marsh birds,
quiet idleness. ...
Somebodyâs staff car, racketing around the corner of a
cargo shed, slides to a stop, bouncing forth out of its rear
door a major even fatter than Duane Marvy, but with a
kindlier and dimly Oriental face. Gray hair like sheepâs
wool comes twisting down all around his head. âAh! von
Golllâ arms outstretched, wrinkled eyes shiny withâis it
real tearsP âvon Goll, my dear friend!â
âMajor Zhdaev,â Springer nods ambling over the brow,
as behind the major now this truckload of troops in fatigues
seems to be pulling up here, kind of odd they should be
toting those submachine guns and carbines just for some
stevedoring. ...
Right. Before anyone can move, they've leaped out and
made a cordon around Zhdaev and the Springer, pieces at
the ready. âDo not be alarmed,â Zhdaev waving and beam-
ing, strolling backward to the car. with his arm around
the Springer, âwe are detaining your friend for a bit. You
may proceed with your work and go. We'll see that he
gets safely back to Swinemiinde.â
âWhat the devil,â Frau Gnahb comes growling out of
the pilot house. Haftung shows up, twitching, putting
hands in various pockets and taking them out again: âWho
are they arresting? What about my contract? Will anything
happen to us?â The staff car pulls away. Enlisted men
begin filing on board.
âShit,â ponders Narrisch.
;
âYou think itâs a bust?â
âT think Tchitcherine is responding with interest. Just as
you said.â
âAw, nowââ
â
'
âNo, no,â hand on sleeve, âheâs right. Youâre harmless.â |
âThanks.â
âs
sf
L
ue
|
âI warned him, but he laughed.
âAnother
leap, Narrisch.
I have to keep leaping, donât IPâ â
pai
âWell what do you want to-do now, cut him loose?â
There is some excitement amidships. The Russians have |
In the Zone
587
_ thrown back a tarp to reveal the chimps, who are covered
with vomit, and have also broken into the vodka. Haftung
blinks and shudders. Wolfgang is on his back, sucking at a
gurgling bottle he is clutching with his feet. Some of the
chimps are docile, others are looking for a fight.
âSomehow ...â Slothrop does wish the man would quit
talking this way, âI owe himâthat much.â
âWell I don't,â Slothrop dodging a sudden plume of
yellow chimpanzee vomit. âHe ought to be able to take
care of himself.â
âHis talkâs grandiose enough. But heâs not paranoid in
his heartâin this line of work, thatâs a disaster.â
One of the chimps now bites a Soviet corporal in the
leg. The corporal screams, unslinging his Tokarev and
firing from the hip, by which time the chimp has leaped
for a halyard. A dozen more of the critters, many carrying
vodka bottles, head en: masse for the gangplank. âDonât
let them get away,â Haftung hollers. The trombone player
sticks his head sleepily out a hatch to ask whatâs happen-
ing and has his face walked over by three sets of pink-
soled feet before grasping the situation. Girls, spangles
aflame in the afternoon sun, feathers all quivering, are
being chased forward and aft by drooling Red Army person-
nel. Frau Gnahb pulls on her steam whistle, thereby spook-
ing the rest of the chimps, who join the stampede to
shore. âCatch them,â Haftung pleads, âsomebody.â Slo-
throp finds himself between Otto and Narrisch, being
pushed ashore over the brow by soldiers chasing after
chimps or girls, or trying to wrangle the cargo ashore.
Among splashes, cursing, and girlish shrieks from the other
side of the boat, chorus girls and musicians keep appear-
_ing and wandering back and forth. It is difficult to per-
ceive just what the fuck is happening here.
âListen.â Frau Gnahb leaning over the side.
Slothrop notices a canny squint. âYou have a plan.â
âYou want to pull a diversionary feint.â
âWhat? What?â
âChimps, musicians, dancing girls. Decoys
all over.
While the three of you sneak in and grab Der Springer.â
âWe can hide,â Narrisch looking around gangster-eyed.
âNobody'll notice. Ja, jal! The boat can take off, as if we
âwere on board!â
,
âNot me,â sez Slothrop.
Âą
Bi,
1
5
z
~y
f
=
q
»
588
Gravityâs Ramnsow
âHal Halâ sez Frau Gnahb.
âHa! Halâ sez Narrisch.
âTil lie to at the northeast corner,â this madmother con-
tinues, âin the channel between the little island and that
triangular part thatâs built up on the foreshore.â
âTest Stand X.â
âCatchy name. I think hereâll be enough of a tide by
then, Light a fire. Otto! Cast me off now.â
âZu Befehl, Muttilâ
Slothrop and Narrisch go dash behind a cargo shed, find
a boxcar, and hide inside. Nobody notices. Chimps are
running by in several directions. The soldiers chasing them
seem by now to be really pissed off. Someplace the clari-
net player is blowing scales on his instrument. The boatâs
motor sputters up into a growl, and screws go churning
away. A while later, Otto and his girl come climb in the
boxcar, out of breath.
âWell, Narrisch,â Slothrop might as well ask, âwhereâd â
they take him, do you think? eh?â
âFrom what I could see, Block Four and that whole
complex to the south were deserted. My guess is the as-
sembly building near Test Stand VII. Under that big
ellipse. There are underground tunnels and roomsâideal
for a headquarters. Looks like most of it survived pretty
well, even though Rossokovsky had orders to level the
lace.â
a âYou got a piece?â Narrisch shakes his head no. âMe
neither. What kind of a black-market operator are you,
anyway? no piece.â
r
âI used to be in inertial guidance. You expect me to
revert?â
âW-well what are we supposed to use, then? Our wits?â
_
Out the slats of the car, the sky is darkening, the clouds
turning orange, tangerine, tropical. Otto and his girl are
murmuring in one comer. âScrub that one,â Narrisch with
©
sour mouth. âFive minutes away from his mother, heâs a
â
Casanova.â
)
Otto is earnestly explaining his views jon the Mother
Conspiracy. Itâs not often a sympathetic |girl will listen.
â
The Mothers get together once a year, in'secret, at these
giant conventions, and exchange information.
Recipes,
games, key phrases to use on their children, âWhat did ;
a
|
ca
frs
ie
ms
The Mother Conspiracy
- Characters discuss the likely location of a headquarters in the underground tunnels of a deserted assembly building near Test Stand VII.
- Narrisch and his companion realize they are unarmed black-market operators entering a dangerous zone with only their wits.
- Otto shares a surreal theory about a global 'Mother Conspiracy' where mothers meet secretly to exchange psychological manipulation tactics.
- The theory describes a sadistic 'Mother of the Year' competition involving mock executions and psychological torture of children.
- The group disembarks into the twilight of PeenemĂŒnde, encountering a surreal landscape featuring an ape and musicians hiding bananas in their instruments.
- The party begins an inland trek along railroad tracks, fueled by vodka and wild berries as night falls over the Baltic coast.
They put the traditional flowered hat on her head, and hand her the orb and scepter, which in this case are a gilded pot roast and a whip, and the orchestra plays Tristan und Isolde.
1
5
z
~y
f
=
q
»
588
Gravityâs Ramnsow
âHal Halâ sez Frau Gnahb.
âHa! Halâ sez Narrisch.
âTil lie to at the northeast corner,â this madmother con-
tinues, âin the channel between the little island and that
triangular part thatâs built up on the foreshore.â
âTest Stand X.â
âCatchy name. I think hereâll be enough of a tide by
then, Light a fire. Otto! Cast me off now.â
âZu Befehl, Muttilâ
Slothrop and Narrisch go dash behind a cargo shed, find
a boxcar, and hide inside. Nobody notices. Chimps are
running by in several directions. The soldiers chasing them
seem by now to be really pissed off. Someplace the clari-
net player is blowing scales on his instrument. The boatâs
motor sputters up into a growl, and screws go churning
away. A while later, Otto and his girl come climb in the
boxcar, out of breath.
âWell, Narrisch,â Slothrop might as well ask, âwhereâd â
they take him, do you think? eh?â
âFrom what I could see, Block Four and that whole
complex to the south were deserted. My guess is the as-
sembly building near Test Stand VII. Under that big
ellipse. There are underground tunnels and roomsâideal
for a headquarters. Looks like most of it survived pretty
well, even though Rossokovsky had orders to level the
lace.â
a âYou got a piece?â Narrisch shakes his head no. âMe
neither. What kind of a black-market operator are you,
anyway? no piece.â
r
âI used to be in inertial guidance. You expect me to
revert?â
âW-well what are we supposed to use, then? Our wits?â
_
Out the slats of the car, the sky is darkening, the clouds
turning orange, tangerine, tropical. Otto and his girl are
murmuring in one comer. âScrub that one,â Narrisch with
©
sour mouth. âFive minutes away from his mother, heâs a
â
Casanova.â
)
Otto is earnestly explaining his views jon the Mother
Conspiracy. Itâs not often a sympathetic |girl will listen.
â
The Mothers get together once a year, in'secret, at these
giant conventions, and exchange information.
Recipes,
games, key phrases to use on their children, âWhat did ;
a
|
ca
frs
ie
ms
| ae
In the Zone
589
yours use to say when she wanted to make you feel
ââTve worked my fingers to the bone!â â sez the girl.
âRight! And she used to cook those horrible casseroles,
w-with the potatoes, and onionsââ
âAnd ham! Little piece of hamââ
âYou see, you see? That canât be accidental!.They have
a contest, for Mother of the Year, breast-feeding, diaper-
changing, they time them, casserole competitions, jaâthen,
toward the end, they actually begin to use the children.
The State Prosecutor comes out on stage. âIn a moment,
Albrecht, we are going toâ bring your mother on. Here is a
Luger, fully loaded. The State will guarantee you absolute
_ immunity from prosecution. Do whatever you wish to doâ
anything at all. Good luck, my boy.â The pistols are loaded
with blanks, natiirlich, but the unfortunate child does not
know this. Only the mothers who get shot at qualify for
the finals. Here they bring in psychiatrists, and judges sit
with stopwatches to see how quickly the children will
crack, âNow then, Olga, wasnât it nice of Mutti to break up
your affair with that long-haired poet?â âWe understand
your mother and you are, ah, quite close, Hermann. Re-
member the time she caught you masturbating into her
glove? Eh?â Hospital attendants stand by to drag. the
children off, drooling, screaming, having clonic convul-
sions. Finally there is only one Mother left on stage. They
put the traditional flowered hat on her head, and hand her
_ the orb and scepter, which in this case are a gilded pot
9
roast and a whip, and the orchestra plays Tristan und
Isolde.â
O
They come out into the last of the twilight. Just a sleepy
summer evening in Peenemiinde. A flight of ducks passes
overhead, going west. No Russians around. A single bulb
burns over the entrance to the cargo shed. Otto and his
girl wander hand in hand along the dock. An ape comes
âscampering up to take Ottoâs free hand. To north and
south the Baltic keeps unrolling low white waves. âWhatâs
appening,â asks the clarinet player. âHave a banana,â
590
Gravityâs Rainsow
tuba player with his mouth full has a good-sized bunch
stowed in the bell of his ax.
Night is down by the time they get started. They head
inland, Springerâs crashout party, along the railroad tracks.
Pine trees tower to either side of the cinder embankment.
Ahead fat pinto rabbits scurry, only their white patches
visible, no reason to suppose rabbits is what they are.
âOttoâs friend Hilde comes gracefully down out of the
woods with his cap that sheâs filled to the brim with round
berries, dusty blue, sweet. The musicians are packing
vodka bottles in every available pocket. Thatâs tonightâs
meal, and Hilde kneeling alone at the berry bushes: has
whispered grace for them all. In the marshes now you can
hear the first peepers start up, and the high-frequency
squeals of a bat out hunting, and some wind in the upper
trees. Also, from farther away, a shot or two.
âAre they firing at my apes?â Haftung chatters. âThatâs
2000 marks apiece. How am I ever going to get that back?â
A family of mice go dashing across the tracks, and right
over Slothropâs feet. âI was expecting just a big cemetery.
I guess not.â
âWhen we came we only cleared out what we needed
to,â Narrisch recalls. âMost of it. stayedâthe forest, the
life...there are probably still deer up in there, some-
place. Big fellows with dark antlers. And the birdsâ
snipes, coots, wild geeseâthe noise from the testing drove
them out to sea, but they'd always come back in when it
was quiet again.â
â Before they reach even the airfield they have to scatte:
twice into the woods, first for a security patrol, then for a
steam-engine come puffing up from Peenemiinde-East, its
headlight cutting through a fine night-haze, some troops
with automatics hanging on to steps and ladders. Steel
grinding and creaking by in the night, the men shooting
the breeze as they pass, no feeling of tension to it. âThey
â
might be after us anyway,â Narrisch whispers, âCome on.â
Through a patch of woods, and then cautiously out onto
the open airfield. A sharp sickle of moon
has risen, Apes
scuttle along in the bonelight, arms dangling. Itâs a ner-
vous passage. Everybodyâs a perfect target, thereâs no cover
except for airplanes strafed where they stood into relicsâ
rusted stringers, burned paint, gullwings driven back into ©
the earth. Lights from the old Luftwaffe complex glow to
a
Infiltration at Test Stand VII
- Slothrop and his companions navigate the eerie, moonlit landscape of PeenemĂŒnde, where nature persists despite the industrial ruins of rocket testing.
- The group observes the remnants of the Luftwaffe complex, including strafed aircraft and active security patrols, highlighting the site's transition from a war zone to a contested post-war space.
- A sense of existential detachment is felt by Slothrop as he hears a distant radio broadcast, realizing the world's news continues regardless of his presence.
- The team discovers Major Marvy's car at the massive assembly building, indicating their target is within reach but heavily guarded.
- Narrisch coordinates a chaotic diversionary plan involving chimpanzees and a group of women to distract the guards while he and Slothrop attempt a rescue.
A sharp sickle of moon has risen, Apes scuttle along in the bonelight, arms dangling.
590
Gravityâs Rainsow
tuba player with his mouth full has a good-sized bunch
stowed in the bell of his ax.
Night is down by the time they get started. They head
inland, Springerâs crashout party, along the railroad tracks.
Pine trees tower to either side of the cinder embankment.
Ahead fat pinto rabbits scurry, only their white patches
visible, no reason to suppose rabbits is what they are.
âOttoâs friend Hilde comes gracefully down out of the
woods with his cap that sheâs filled to the brim with round
berries, dusty blue, sweet. The musicians are packing
vodka bottles in every available pocket. Thatâs tonightâs
meal, and Hilde kneeling alone at the berry bushes: has
whispered grace for them all. In the marshes now you can
hear the first peepers start up, and the high-frequency
squeals of a bat out hunting, and some wind in the upper
trees. Also, from farther away, a shot or two.
âAre they firing at my apes?â Haftung chatters. âThatâs
2000 marks apiece. How am I ever going to get that back?â
A family of mice go dashing across the tracks, and right
over Slothropâs feet. âI was expecting just a big cemetery.
I guess not.â
âWhen we came we only cleared out what we needed
to,â Narrisch recalls. âMost of it. stayedâthe forest, the
life...there are probably still deer up in there, some-
place. Big fellows with dark antlers. And the birdsâ
snipes, coots, wild geeseâthe noise from the testing drove
them out to sea, but they'd always come back in when it
was quiet again.â
â Before they reach even the airfield they have to scatte:
twice into the woods, first for a security patrol, then for a
steam-engine come puffing up from Peenemiinde-East, its
headlight cutting through a fine night-haze, some troops
with automatics hanging on to steps and ladders. Steel
grinding and creaking by in the night, the men shooting
the breeze as they pass, no feeling of tension to it. âThey
â
might be after us anyway,â Narrisch whispers, âCome on.â
Through a patch of woods, and then cautiously out onto
the open airfield. A sharp sickle of moon
has risen, Apes
scuttle along in the bonelight, arms dangling. Itâs a ner-
vous passage. Everybodyâs a perfect target, thereâs no cover
except for airplanes strafed where they stood into relicsâ
rusted stringers, burned paint, gullwings driven back into ©
the earth. Lights from the old Luftwaffe complex glow to
a
In the Zone
591
the south. Trucks purr now and then along the road at the
far edge of the airfield. Thereâs singing from the barracks,
and someplace a radio. The evening news from some-
where. Too far to hear the words or even the language,
only the studious monotone: the news, Slothrop, going on
without you....
They make it across the tarmac to the road, and crouch
in a drainage ditch, listening for traffic. Suddenly, to their
left, yellow runway lights come on, a double row of them
chaining to the sea, brightness bouncing up and down a
couple-three times before it settles in. âSomebody coming
in,â Slothrop guesses.
c âMore likely going out,â snaps Narrisch. âWe'd better
uITy.
Back in the pine woods now, heading up a road of
packed dirt toward Test Stand VII, they start to pick up
stray girls and chimpanzees. Pine smells wrap them: old
needles lie at the margins of the road. Downhill, lights
appear as the trees begin thinning out, then the test-stand
area comes in view. The assembly building is something
like a hundred feet highâit blocks out the stars. Thereâs
a tall bright band where sliding doors are open, and light
scatters outside. Narrisch grabs Slothropâs arm. âIt looks
like the majorâs car. And the motorâs running.â Lotta
searchlights, too, set up on fences topped with barbed
wireâalso what look like a division of security roaming
around.
âGuess this is it,â Slothrop a little nervous.
âSsh.â Sound of a plane, a single-engine fighter, circling
to make its approach low over the pines. âNot much time.â
Narrisch gathers the others around and issues his orders.
Girls are to go in from the front, singing, dancing, vamp-
ing the woman-hungry barbarians. Otto will try to knock
out the car, Haftung will get everybody rounded up and
ready to rendezvous with the boat.
âTits ânâ ass,â mutter the girls, âtits ânâ ass. Thatâs all we
are around here.â
âAh, shaddap,â snarls G. M. B. Haftung, which is his
usual way of dealing with the help.
âMeanwhile,â continues Narrisch, âSlothrop and I will
go in after Springer. When we have him, we'll try to get
them to shoot. That will be your signal to run like hell.â
âOh, definitely some shooting,â sez Slothrop, âa-and how
The Tenuous Approach to Center
- Slothrop and Narrisch attempt a farcical infiltration of Test Stand VII using fake Molotov cocktails made of vodka bottles and ostrich feathers.
- The duo represents the ill-equipped 'tankers' of the Zone, contrasting with the coming era of professional 'Holy-Center-Approachers' and magicians.
- Kurt Mondaugenâs Law of Personal Density is introduced, linking a person's 'solidity' to their temporal bandwidth or connection to past and future.
- Slothrop experiences a literal thinning of his persona, losing his sense of purpose and memory as his 'Now' becomes increasingly narrow.
- Narrisch remains single-mindedly focused on the technical mission, unable to perceive the mystical or horrific dimensions of the site that others like Greta Erdmann have witnessed.
The more you dwell in the past and in the future, the thicker your bandwidth, the more solid your persona.
592
Gravityâs RaInBow
about this?â He has just had a brilliant idea: fake Molotov
cocktails, a switch on Siure Bummerâs old routine. He
holds up a vodka bottle, pointing and grinning.
âBut that stuff wonât even hardly burn.â
âBut they'll think
itâs gasoline,â beginning to pluck
ostrich feathers from the costume of the nearest girl. âAnd
just imagine how secure it will make us feel.â
âFelix,â the clarinet player asks the tuba player, âwhat
have we fallen among?â Felix is eating a banana, and
living for the moment. Presently he has wandered off in
the woods with the rest of the band, where they can be
heard moving around in circles, tootling and blatting at
each other. Hilde and Slothrop are making Phony Phire-
bombs, the other girls have taken off, Zitz und Arsch,
downslope.
âSo we'll present a plausible threat,â Narrisch whispers,
âwe'll need matches. Whoâs got matches?â
âNot me.â
âMe either.â
âGee, my lighterâs out of flints.â
âKot,â Narrisch throwing up his hands, âKot,â walking
off into the trees, where he collides with Felix and his
tuba. âYou donât have any matches either.â
âI have a Zippo,â replies Felix, âand two Corona Coro-
nas, from the American officersâ club inââ
A minute
later, Narrisch and Slothrop, hands each
cupped around the coal of one Havanaâs finest, are sneaky-
Peteing like two cats in a cartoon off toward Test Stand
VII, with vodka-bottle bombs stuck in their belts and
ostrich-feather wicks trailing behind in the sea breeze. The
plan is to climb the pine-topped sand-and-scrub embank-
ment around the test stand, and come in on the Assembly
â
Building from behind.
Now Narrisch hereâs a guidance man, a guidance man
~
is he. And evry day at Rocket Noon, thereâs death, and
revelry.... But Narrisch has managed, in his time, to
avoid nearly all of it.
In fact, no two people have been so ill-equipped to â
approach a holy Center since the days of Tehitcherine and â
Dzaqyp Qulan, hauling ass over the steppe, into the Nort, |
to find their Kirghiz Light. Thatâs about ten yearsâ gap. âi
Giving this cee about the same vulnerability to record-
In the Zone
593
breakers as baseball, a sport also well-spidered with white
suggestions of the sinister.
Holy-Center-Approaching is soon to be the number one
Zonal pastime. Its balmy heyday is nearly on it. Soon more
champions, adepts, magicians of all ranks and orders will
be in the field than ever before in the history of the game.
The sun will rule all enterprise, if it be honest and sport-
ing. The Gauss curve will herniate toward the excellent.
_
And tankers the likes of Narrisch and Slothrop here will
have already been weeded out.
Slothrop, as noted, at least as early as the Anubis era,
has begun to thin, to scatter. âPersonal density,â Kurt
Mondaugen in his Peenemiinde office not too many steps
away from here, enunciating the Law which will one day
ae name, âis directly proportional to temporal band-
-
width.
âTemporal bandwidthâ is the width of your present,
your now. It is the familiar âAtâ considered as a dependent
variable. The more you dwell in the past and in the future,
the thicker your bandwidth, the more solid your persona.
But the narrower your sense of Now, the more tenuous
you are. It may get to where you're having trouble remem-
bering what you were doing five minutes ago, or evenâas
Slothrop nowâwhat you're doing here, at the base of this
colossal curved embankment. ...
âUh,â he tums slackmouth
to Narrisch, âwhat are
| we...â
âWhat are we what?â
âWhat?â
âYou said, âWhat are we...,â then you stopped.â
âOh. Gee, that was a funny thing to say.â
_As for Narrisch, heâs too locked in to business. He has
never seen this great Ellipse any other way but the way
he was meant to. Greta Erdmann, on the contrary, saw
the rust-covered eminences here bow, exactly as they did
once, in expectancy, faces hooded, smooth cowlings. of
Nothing . . . each time Thanatz brought the whip down on
- her skin, she was taken, off on another penetration toward
the Center: each lash, a little farther in...
till someday,
she knows, she will have that first glimpse of it, and from
_ then on it will be an absolute need, a ruling target...
_wh-wh-wh-whack the boneblack trestling of water towers
The Fading of Slothrop
- Slothrop experiences a deepening state of 'Preterition,' a spiritual and mental fragmentation where significant visions no longer take hold.
- The narrative voice pleads for forgiveness for Slothropâs numbness and his inability to feel the weight of the historical moment.
- Accompanied by Narrisch, Slothrop navigates a landscape of bleak water towers and 'bruise-purple' sunsets reminiscent of PeenemĂŒnde.
- The duo infiltrates 'the Egg,' a former German rocket development site now repurposed as a Russian motor pool.
- The physical environment is described as a 'ceremonial plexus' of ruins, including assembly buildings and cooling ducts from the V-2 program.
- A sense of loss pervades the scene as the characters confront the 'broken moonlight' and the vanishing possibility of a transformative encounter with the Rocket.
Forgive him his numbness, his glozing neutrality. Forgive the fist that doesnât tighten in his chest, the heart that canât stiffen in any greeting...
In the Zone
593
breakers as baseball, a sport also well-spidered with white
suggestions of the sinister.
Holy-Center-Approaching is soon to be the number one
Zonal pastime. Its balmy heyday is nearly on it. Soon more
champions, adepts, magicians of all ranks and orders will
be in the field than ever before in the history of the game.
The sun will rule all enterprise, if it be honest and sport-
ing. The Gauss curve will herniate toward the excellent.
_
And tankers the likes of Narrisch and Slothrop here will
have already been weeded out.
Slothrop, as noted, at least as early as the Anubis era,
has begun to thin, to scatter. âPersonal density,â Kurt
Mondaugen in his Peenemiinde office not too many steps
away from here, enunciating the Law which will one day
ae name, âis directly proportional to temporal band-
-
width.
âTemporal bandwidthâ is the width of your present,
your now. It is the familiar âAtâ considered as a dependent
variable. The more you dwell in the past and in the future,
the thicker your bandwidth, the more solid your persona.
But the narrower your sense of Now, the more tenuous
you are. It may get to where you're having trouble remem-
bering what you were doing five minutes ago, or evenâas
Slothrop nowâwhat you're doing here, at the base of this
colossal curved embankment. ...
âUh,â he tums slackmouth
to Narrisch, âwhat are
| we...â
âWhat are we what?â
âWhat?â
âYou said, âWhat are we...,â then you stopped.â
âOh. Gee, that was a funny thing to say.â
_As for Narrisch, heâs too locked in to business. He has
never seen this great Ellipse any other way but the way
he was meant to. Greta Erdmann, on the contrary, saw
the rust-covered eminences here bow, exactly as they did
once, in expectancy, faces hooded, smooth cowlings. of
Nothing . . . each time Thanatz brought the whip down on
- her skin, she was taken, off on another penetration toward
the Center: each lash, a little farther in...
till someday,
she knows, she will have that first glimpse of it, and from
_ then on it will be an absolute need, a ruling target...
_wh-wh-wh-whack the boneblack trestling of water towers
594
Gravity's Rarnsow
above, bent to the great rim, visible above the trees in
light thatâs bleak and bruise-purple as Peenemiinde sun-
sets in the chill slow firing-weather...a long look from
the top of some known Low Country dike into a sky flow-
ing so even and yellowed a brown that the sun could be
anywhere behind it, and the crosses of the turning wind-
mills could be spoke-blurs of the terrible Rider himself,
Slothropâs Rider, his two explosions up there, his celestial
cyclistâ
No, but even That only flickers now briefly across a bit
of Slothropian lobe-terrain, and melts into its surface, van-
ishing. So here passes for him one more negligence... and
likewise groweth his Preterition sure.... There is no good
reason to hope for any turn, any surprise I-see-it, not from
Slothrop. Here he is, scaling the walls of an honest cere-
monial plexus, set down on a good enough vision of whatâs
shadowless noon and what isnât. But oh, Egg the flying
Rocket hatched from, navel of the 50-meter radio sky, all
proper ghosts of placeâforgive him his numbness, his
glozing neutrality. Forgive the fist that doesnât tighten in
his chest, the heart that canât stiffen in any greeting... .
Forgive him as you forgave Tchitcherine at the Kirghiz
Light. ... Better days are coming.
Slothrop is listening to faraway peripatetic tuba and
clarinet being joined in on now by trombone and tenor
sax, trying to pick up a tune...and to the bursts of
laughter from soldiers and girls...sounds like a party
~
down there...maybe even some stag dames... âSay,
why donât we, uh... what was yourââ Narrisch, leather
scarecrow, trying to ignore Slothropâs behavior, has de-
cided to dismantle his fire-bomb: he uncorks the vodka
â
and waves it under his nose before taking a belt. He
beams, cyinical, salesmanwise, up at Slothrop. âHere.â A
silence under thé white-wall..
â
âOh, yes I was thinking it was gasoline, but thes itâs
fake, so itâs really vodka, right?â
But just over the embankment, down in the arena, what
might that have been just now, waiting in this broken
moonlight, camouflage paint from fins to point crazed into
jigsaw...is it, then, really never to find you again? Not
even in your worst times of night, with pencil words on
â
your page only At from the things they stand for? And in-
In the Zone
595
side the victim is twitching, fingering beads, touching
wood, avoiding any Operational Word. Will it really never
come to take you, now?
Near the water towers, they have started to climb, up
toward the rim. Sand leaks into their shoes and hisses away
down the slope. At the top, back through the trees, they
get a quick look at the lighted runway, the fighter now
landed, surrounded by groundcrew shadows fueling, ser-
_ vicing, turning her around. Down the penninsula lights glow
in patches, curves, zigzags, but over on this side, from the
old Development Works south, itâs pitch black.
They push through pine branches and down again, into
the Egg, sacked of its German hardware, long converted to
a Russian motor pool. The corner of the huge Assembly
Building, as they come down, rises to face them across a
hundred yards of jeeps and lorries. Down to the right is a
three- or four-level test frame with a round, kind of quon-
set top, and underneath the frame is a long pit shaped like
a shallow V. âCooling duct,â according
to Narrisch.
ee ie probably under there. We have to go in through
ere.
They have come halfway down the slope to a pump
house, built into the earthworks, for the cold water that
used to carry off the tremendous heat from the test firings.
It is stripped now, hollow and dark inside. Slothrop isnât
two steps over the doorsill when he walks into somebody.
âBeg your pardon,â though it comes out less than
y.
.
âOh, thatâs all right.â Russian accent. âI donât mind at
all.â He backs Slothrop outside again, oh, a mean looking
junior sergeant here about 8 or g feet high.
âWell, nowââ at which point Narrisch comes walking
into them.
âOh.â Narrisch blinks at the sentry. âSergeant, donât you
hear that music? Why arenât you back at the Assembly
Building, with your comrades? There are, I understand, a
number of eager frauleins entertaining them,â nudge
nudge, âin a most enchanting state of deshabille, too.â
__ âT suppose thatâs all perfectly divine,â replies the sentry,
âfor some people.â
.
_.
âKot...â So much for tactics.
_. âAnd besides, this is out of bounds, you big sillies.â
u
The Pump House Rescue
- Slothrop and Narrisch encounter a strangely sensitive and campy Russian sentry while attempting to infiltrate a dark, hollowed-out facility.
- After a clumsy physical altercation, the duo disarms the sentry and enters the pump house to find Gerhardt von Goll (Springer).
- They discover Springer in a drug-induced state of euphoria, being interrogated by a blonde auxiliary taking shorthand notes.
- Slothrop identifies the drug as Sodium Amytal and attempts to evacuate the babbling Springer as the Russian authorities close in.
- The escape leads into a long, exposed corridor where they are caught between pursuing gunfire and the sudden appearance of Major Zhdaev.
âHand over that gun there, Ivan, or I turn you into a human flare!â
In the Zone
595
side the victim is twitching, fingering beads, touching
wood, avoiding any Operational Word. Will it really never
come to take you, now?
Near the water towers, they have started to climb, up
toward the rim. Sand leaks into their shoes and hisses away
down the slope. At the top, back through the trees, they
get a quick look at the lighted runway, the fighter now
landed, surrounded by groundcrew shadows fueling, ser-
_ vicing, turning her around. Down the penninsula lights glow
in patches, curves, zigzags, but over on this side, from the
old Development Works south, itâs pitch black.
They push through pine branches and down again, into
the Egg, sacked of its German hardware, long converted to
a Russian motor pool. The corner of the huge Assembly
Building, as they come down, rises to face them across a
hundred yards of jeeps and lorries. Down to the right is a
three- or four-level test frame with a round, kind of quon-
set top, and underneath the frame is a long pit shaped like
a shallow V. âCooling duct,â according
to Narrisch.
ee ie probably under there. We have to go in through
ere.
They have come halfway down the slope to a pump
house, built into the earthworks, for the cold water that
used to carry off the tremendous heat from the test firings.
It is stripped now, hollow and dark inside. Slothrop isnât
two steps over the doorsill when he walks into somebody.
âBeg your pardon,â though it comes out less than
y.
.
âOh, thatâs all right.â Russian accent. âI donât mind at
all.â He backs Slothrop outside again, oh, a mean looking
junior sergeant here about 8 or g feet high.
âWell, nowââ at which point Narrisch comes walking
into them.
âOh.â Narrisch blinks at the sentry. âSergeant, donât you
hear that music? Why arenât you back at the Assembly
Building, with your comrades? There are, I understand, a
number of eager frauleins entertaining them,â nudge
nudge, âin a most enchanting state of deshabille, too.â
__ âT suppose thatâs all perfectly divine,â replies the sentry,
âfor some people.â
.
_.
âKot...â So much for tactics.
_. âAnd besides, this is out of bounds, you big sillies.â
u
596
Graviryâs RAINBOW
Sighing. Narrisch raises his bottle aloft, brings it down,
or up, thunk on the sentryâs nape, dislodging the manâs
helmet liner, is what happens. âNaughty,â the Russian,
somewhat nettled, stoops to retrieve his headgear. âReally
I ought to put you both under apprehension.â
âEnough chit-chat,â snarles Slothrop, brandishing his
glowing cigar and âMolotov cocktail.â âHand over that gun
there, Ivan, or I turn you into a human flare!â
âYou're mean,â sulks the sentry, unslinging his Deg-
tyarov a little too quicklyâSlothrop dodges aside, aims his
usual swift kick to the groin, which misses, but does knock
loose the weapon, which Narrisch is thoughtful enough to
dive for. âBeasts,â whimpers the Russian, âoh, nasty, aw-
ful .
. .â scampering off into the night.
âTwo minutes,â Narrisch already inside the pump house.
Slothrop grabs the automatic from him and follows at a
run, accelerating down a sloping corridor. Their feet ring
faster, sharper, on the concrete, down to a metal door:
behind it they can hear Springer singing and babbling like
a drunk. Slothrop pushes off his safety and Narrisch goes
busting in. A pretty blonde auxiliary in black boots and
steel-rimmed glasses is sitting here taking down shorthand
notes of everything she hears from Springer, who leans
happily grandiose against a cold-water pipe four feet high
that runs the length of the room.
âDrop that pencil,â orders Slothrop. âAll right, where's
that Major Zhdaev?â
âHeâs in conference. If youâd care to leave your nameââ
âDope,â Narrisch screams, âthey have given him some
kind of dope! Gerhardt, Gerhardt, speak to me!â
Slothrop recognizes the symptoms. ii
ode that Sodium
Amytal. Itâs O.K. Letâs go.â
âI expect the Major to be back any moment. Theyâre
upstairs in the guardroom, smoking. Is there a number
where he can reach you?â
Slothrop has: slid under one of Springerâs arms, Narrisch
under the other, when thereâs this loud hammering on the
door.
âSmoking? Smoking what?â
)
âThis way, Slothrop.â
âOh.â They hustle Springer out another door, which
Slothrop bolts and wrassles a heavyâ filing âcabinet up
In the Zone
597
against, then they drag Springer up a flight of steps into
a long, straight corridor, lit by six or seven bulbs, the
spaces between which are very dark. Along either side,
floor to ceiling, run thick bundles of measurement cabling.
âWe're done for,â Narrisch wheezes. Itâs 150 yards to
the measurement bunker, and no cover but the shadows
between the bulbs. All these birds gotta do is spray a
pattern.
âShe baffs at nothing, the heterospeed,â cries Gerhardt
von Goll.
r
âTry to walk,â Slothrop scared shit, âcome on, man, itâs
our ass!â Smashing echoes after them down the tunnel. A
mufied burst of automtic fire. And another. All at once,
two faint pools of light ahead, Zhdaev materializes, on the
way back to his office. He has a friend with him, who
smiles when he sees Slothrop 40 yards away, a big steel
smile. Slothrop lets go of Springer and runs up into the
next light, piece at the ready. The Russians are blinking at
him in a puzzled way. âTchitcherine! Hey.â
They stand facing, each at his lit circle. Slothrop recalls
that he has the drop on them. He smiles in half-apology,
tips the muzzle at them, moves closer. Zhdaev and Tchi-
tcherine, after a discussion which seems unnecessarily long,
decide they will raise their hands.
âRocketman!â
âHow dy. â?
âWhat are you doing in a Fascist uniform like that?â
âYou're right. Think I'll join the Red Army, instead.â
Narrisch leaves Springer sagging against a row of sleek
rubber and silver-mesh cables, and comes up to help dis-
arm the two Russians. Troops back down the tunnel are
still busy busting the door down.
âYou guys want to undress, here? Say Tchitcherine,
howd you like that hashish, by the way?â
âWell,â taking off his trousers, âwe were all up there in
the budka just now smoking some... Rocketman, your
timing is fantastic. Zhdaev, isnât he something?â
Slothrop slides out of his tux. âJust see you donât geta
|
_hardon here now, fella.â
âTm serious. Itâs your Schwarzphinomen.â
âQuit fooling.â
~
âYou donât even know about it. It choreographs you.
The SchwarzphÀnomen Uniform Swap
- Slothrop, disguised as 'Rocketman,' intercepts Tchitcherine and Zhdaev in a tense standoff within a tunnel complex.
- The group engages in a chaotic exchange of clothes to confuse pursuing Soviet troops, with Slothrop donning Tchitcherineâs uniform.
- Tchitcherine introduces the concept of the 'SchwarzphĂ€nomen,' suggesting a mystical choreography or dark phenomenon guides Slothropâs actions.
- Slothrop successfully bluffs his way past Soviet soldiers by using the tied-up Tchitcherine as a mouthpiece to redirect the search party.
- The escape party, including a drunken Gerhardt von Goll, struggles to flee the test site and reach a getaway vehicle.
- The scene concludes with a moment of crude absurdity as the group physically hauls the dead-weight von Goll up a sand embankment.
Mineâs always trying to destroy me. We should be exchanging those, instead of uniforms.
In the Zone
597
against, then they drag Springer up a flight of steps into
a long, straight corridor, lit by six or seven bulbs, the
spaces between which are very dark. Along either side,
floor to ceiling, run thick bundles of measurement cabling.
âWe're done for,â Narrisch wheezes. Itâs 150 yards to
the measurement bunker, and no cover but the shadows
between the bulbs. All these birds gotta do is spray a
pattern.
âShe baffs at nothing, the heterospeed,â cries Gerhardt
von Goll.
r
âTry to walk,â Slothrop scared shit, âcome on, man, itâs
our ass!â Smashing echoes after them down the tunnel. A
mufied burst of automtic fire. And another. All at once,
two faint pools of light ahead, Zhdaev materializes, on the
way back to his office. He has a friend with him, who
smiles when he sees Slothrop 40 yards away, a big steel
smile. Slothrop lets go of Springer and runs up into the
next light, piece at the ready. The Russians are blinking at
him in a puzzled way. âTchitcherine! Hey.â
They stand facing, each at his lit circle. Slothrop recalls
that he has the drop on them. He smiles in half-apology,
tips the muzzle at them, moves closer. Zhdaev and Tchi-
tcherine, after a discussion which seems unnecessarily long,
decide they will raise their hands.
âRocketman!â
âHow dy. â?
âWhat are you doing in a Fascist uniform like that?â
âYou're right. Think I'll join the Red Army, instead.â
Narrisch leaves Springer sagging against a row of sleek
rubber and silver-mesh cables, and comes up to help dis-
arm the two Russians. Troops back down the tunnel are
still busy busting the door down.
âYou guys want to undress, here? Say Tchitcherine,
howd you like that hashish, by the way?â
âWell,â taking off his trousers, âwe were all up there in
the budka just now smoking some... Rocketman, your
timing is fantastic. Zhdaev, isnât he something?â
Slothrop slides out of his tux. âJust see you donât geta
|
_hardon here now, fella.â
âTm serious. Itâs your Schwarzphinomen.â
âQuit fooling.â
~
âYou donât even know about it. It choreographs you.
598
Gravityâs RaInsow
Mineâs always trying to destroy me. We should be ex-
changing those, instead of uniforms.â
The disguise business
grows complicated.
Zhdaevâs
jacket with the gold-starred pogoni on the shoulders gets
draped around the Springer, who is now humming every-
one a Kurt Weill medley. Zhdaev puts on Springerâs white
suit, and then him and Tchitcherine get tied up with their
own belts, a-and neckties. âNowâthe idea,â Slothrop ex-
plains, âbeing that you, Tchitcherine, will be posing as me,
and the major thereââ At which point the door back
down the tunnel comes blasting open, two figures with
wicked Suomi subs, drums on them as big as that Gene
Krupaâs, come flying through. Slothrop stands in the light
in Tchitcherineâs uniform, and waves dramatically, pointing
at the two hogtied officers. âMake it good,â he mutters to
Tchitcherine, âIâm trusting you now, but look out I have
a great passive vocabulary, I'll know what you're saying.â
Itâs O.K. with Tchitcherine, but confusing. âI'm sup-
posed to be who, now?â
âOh, shit... look, just tell them to go check out the
pump house up there, itâs urgent.â Slothrop gestures and
lip-synchs while Tchitcherine talks. It seems to work. The
two actually salute, and go back through the door they
just shot down.
âThose apes,â Tchitcherine shakes his head. âThose
black apes! How did you know, Rocketman? Of course
you didnât, but the Schwarzphinomen did. A great touch.
Two of them, looking at me through the window. And I
thoughtâwell, you know: I thought fit about what you
thought Id think. .
But by this time Slothrop i
is way ak of earshot. Springer
by now is able to stumble at a fast walk. They get as far
as the measurement bunker without running into anybody.
Out a door of bulletproof glass, behind their own reflec-
tions, is the old test frame, windows broken out, camou-
flage in German Expressionist ripples streaming eray and
black all over it. The two soldiers are
sure enough up
there poking around that pump house,
fi
fhding nothing.
Presently they disappear inside again, and Narrisch opens ~
the door. âHurry.â They edge outside, into the arena.
It takes a while to get back up the slope and into the
woods. Otto and Hilde show up. They've finessed Zhdaevâs
car and driver out of a rotor arm. So there are four of i
e
In the Zone
599
them now to try and lift warbling payload Gerhardt von
Goll up these few crummy feet of sand embankment here,
gotta be the most ill-designed propulsion system this test
_ stand has seen in a while. Otto and Hilde tug at Springerâs
arms, Narrisch and Slothrop push from the ass end. About
halfway up Springer blows a tremendous fart that echoes
for minutes across the historic ellipse, like now to do for
you folks my anal impression of the A4....
âOh, fuck you,â Slothrop snarls.
âAn erect green steed of planetoid and bone,â nods the
Springer in reply.
Music and chatter back by the Assembly Building have
all died away now, and an unpleasant calm has replaced
them. Up over the top at last and into the woods, where
_ Springer rests his forehead against a tree trunk and com-
_ Inences vomiting violently.
âNarrisch, we're risking our ass for this slobPâ
__
But Narrisch is busy helping squeeze his friendâs stom-
ach. âGerhardt, are you all right? What can I do?â
âBeautiful,â chokes Springer, vomit trickling down his
chin. âAhh. Feels great!â
Along come chimps, musicians, dancing girls. Drifting
in to rendezvous, Over the last dune and down to the
packed cinder triangle of Test Stand X, and the sea. The
musicians for a while play a kind of march tune. Past the
foreshore, the tide has left them a strip of sand. But Frau
Gnahb is nowhere in sight. Haftung is holding hands with
an ape. Felix shakes spit out of his tuba. A honey-haired
chorus girl, whose name he never does get, piss her arms
around Slothrop. âTm scared.â
âMe too.â He hugs her.
»
All hell breaks looseâsirens whoop-whooping, search-
lights starting to probe the woods up above, truck motors
and shouted commands. The crashout party move off the
cinders, and crouch in marsh grass.
âWe've
collected one automatic and two sidearms,â
Narrisch whispers. âTheyll be coming at us from the
south. It'll only take one of us to go back up and hold
them.â He nods and begins checking his hardware.
via âYou're crazy,â hisses Slothrop, âtheyll kill you.â Com-
motion now from over by Test Stand VII, Headlights are
appearing, one after another, along the road up there.
', Narrisch taps Springer on the chin. It isnât clear if
The Escape from PeenemĂŒnde
- A chaotic group of musicians, chimps, and refugees attempts a desperate nighttime escape from the PeenemĂŒnde test stands.
- Narrisch chooses to stay behind as a rearguard, sacrificing himself to hold off the approaching security forces.
- The group identifies Frau Gnahb's rescue boat through a blinking Morse code signal that Otto interprets as his own name.
- Searchlights and gunfire erupt as the military closes in on the marshy shoreline.
- Slothrop is forcibly dragged onto the departing boat by his companions while he screams for the abandoned Narrisch.
- The scene concludes with the boat making a high-speed extraction under heavy rifle fire from the dunes.
When searchlights move by, pine trunks uphill flare, deeply shining, terrible...and at everyone's back, the Baltic shakes and streams.
In the Zone
599
them now to try and lift warbling payload Gerhardt von
Goll up these few crummy feet of sand embankment here,
gotta be the most ill-designed propulsion system this test
_ stand has seen in a while. Otto and Hilde tug at Springerâs
arms, Narrisch and Slothrop push from the ass end. About
halfway up Springer blows a tremendous fart that echoes
for minutes across the historic ellipse, like now to do for
you folks my anal impression of the A4....
âOh, fuck you,â Slothrop snarls.
âAn erect green steed of planetoid and bone,â nods the
Springer in reply.
Music and chatter back by the Assembly Building have
all died away now, and an unpleasant calm has replaced
them. Up over the top at last and into the woods, where
_ Springer rests his forehead against a tree trunk and com-
_ Inences vomiting violently.
âNarrisch, we're risking our ass for this slobPâ
__
But Narrisch is busy helping squeeze his friendâs stom-
ach. âGerhardt, are you all right? What can I do?â
âBeautiful,â chokes Springer, vomit trickling down his
chin. âAhh. Feels great!â
Along come chimps, musicians, dancing girls. Drifting
in to rendezvous, Over the last dune and down to the
packed cinder triangle of Test Stand X, and the sea. The
musicians for a while play a kind of march tune. Past the
foreshore, the tide has left them a strip of sand. But Frau
Gnahb is nowhere in sight. Haftung is holding hands with
an ape. Felix shakes spit out of his tuba. A honey-haired
chorus girl, whose name he never does get, piss her arms
around Slothrop. âTm scared.â
âMe too.â He hugs her.
»
All hell breaks looseâsirens whoop-whooping, search-
lights starting to probe the woods up above, truck motors
and shouted commands. The crashout party move off the
cinders, and crouch in marsh grass.
âWe've
collected one automatic and two sidearms,â
Narrisch whispers. âTheyll be coming at us from the
south. It'll only take one of us to go back up and hold
them.â He nods and begins checking his hardware.
via âYou're crazy,â hisses Slothrop, âtheyll kill you.â Com-
motion now from over by Test Stand VII, Headlights are
appearing, one after another, along the road up there.
', Narrisch taps Springer on the chin. It isnât clear if
600
Gravity's Ramnsow
Springer knows who he is. âLebe wohl,â anyway, Springer.
... Nagants stuck in overcoat pockets, automatic cradled
in his arms, Narrisch takes off at a crouching run along
the beach, and doesnât look back.
âWhereâs the boat?â Haftung in a white panic. Ducks,
alarmed, are quacking at each other down here. Wind
moves in the grass.
When. searchlights move by, pine
trunks
uphill flare, deeply shining, terrible...and at
everyone's back, the Baltic shakes and streams.
Shots from uphillâthen, maybe from Narrisch in reply,
a burst of automatic fire. Otto is holding his Hilde close.
âAnybody read Morse Code?â the girl next to Slothrop
wants to know, âbecause thereâs been a light going over
there, see, at the tip of that little island? for a few min-
utes now.â Itâs three dots, dot, dot, three more dots. Over
and over.
âHmm, SEES,â ponders Felix.
âMaybe theyâre not dots,â sez the tenor-sax player,
âmaybe theyâre dashes.â
âThatâs funny,â sez Otto, âthat would spell OTTO.â
âThatâs your name,â sez Hilde.
~
âMother!â screams Otto, running out in the water and
waving at the blinking light. Felix commences booming
tuba notes across the water, and the rest of the band joins
in. Reed shadows come stabbing across the sand, as the
spotlights swoop down. A boat engine roars into hearing.
âHere she comes,â Otto jumping up and down in the
marsh.
âHey, Narrisch,â Slothrop squinting, trying to find him
back there in light that was always too weak, âcome on.
Fall back.â No answer. But more shooting.
Running-lights off, the boat comes barreling in at flank
speed, Frau Gnahb has decided to ram Peenemiinde? no,
now she puts everything full astermnâbearings shriek,
screw-foam geysers, the boat slews around to a stop.
âGet on board,â she bellows.
:
Slothropâs been hollering for Narrisch. Frau Gnahb
leans on her steam-whistle. But no answer. âShit, I've got to
get himââ Felix and Otto grab Slothrop from behind,
drag him back to the boat kicking and cursing. âThey'll kill
him, you assholes, lemme goââ Dark shapes come spilling
over the dune between here and Test Stand VII, orange
In the Zone
601
flickers at their midsections, the sound of rifle fire follow-
ing a second later.
âThey will kill us.â Otto heaves Slothrop over the side,
and tumbles in after. Spotlights find and skewer them now.
The firing is louderânipples and spatters in the water,
slugs hammering into the boat.
âEverybody here?â the Frauâs fangs bared in a grin.
âFine, fine!â A last ape reaches up, Haftung catches his
hands, and he dangles, feet in the water, for several yards
as they light out, all ahead full, till he can finally clamber
up and over. Gunfire follows out to sea, out of range, at
last out of earshot.
âHey Felix,â sez the tenor sax player, âyou think thereâs
any gigs in Swinemiinde?â
John Dillinger, at the end, found a few secondsâ strange
mercy in the movie images that hadnât quite yet faded
from his eyeballsâClark Gable going off unregenerate to
fry in the chair, voices gentle out of the deathrow steel
so long, Blackie...turning down a reprieve from his
longtime friend now Governor of New York William
Powell, skinny chinless condescending jerk, Gable just
wanting to get it over with, âDie like ya liveâall of a
sudden, donât drag it outââ even as bitchy little Melvin
Purvis, staked outside the Biograph Theatre, lit up the
fatal cigar and felt already between his lips the penis of
official commendationâand federal cowards at the signal
took Dillinger with their faggotsâ precision... there was
still for the doomed man some shift of personality in
effectâthe way you've felt for a little while afterward in
âthe real muscles of your face and voice, that you were
Gable, the ironic eyebrows, the proud, shining, snakelike
headâto help Dillinger through the bushwhacking, and a
little easier into death.
_ Narrisch now, huddled inside a broken few meters of
concrete drainage pipe, after doubling back under the
wall of Test Stand VII, bracing curled now in the smell of
old storm water, trying not to breathe loud enough to
âsmack echoes into any betrayalâNarrisch hasnât been to
movi since Der Mitide Tod. Thatâs so long ago heâs
en its ending, the last Rilke-elegiac shot of weary
= leading the two lovers away hand in hand through
oe he
Sacrifice and Cinematic Mercy
- Slothrop and his companions narrowly escape a hail of gunfire by fleeing out to sea under the cover of darkness.
- The narrative reflects on John Dillingerâs final moments, suggesting he found a 'strange mercy' by inhabiting the persona of Clark Gable from the film he had just watched.
- Narrisch, a guidance engineer, hides in a drainage pipe at Test Stand VII, facing his imminent death without the comfort of cinematic myth.
- Narrisch contemplates his career choices, having turned down stable offers from the Americans and Soviets for the empty promises of glamour from Gerhardt von Göll.
- The engineer accepts his role as a minor sacrifice in the larger, opaque strategy of the S-GerÀt, viewing his death as a logical extension of wartime thinking.
- The text explores how individuals are drawn into 'high historical moments' through minor technical contributions that later attract vast, unforeseen interests.
Die like ya liveâall of a sudden, donât drag it outâ even as bitchy little Melvin Purvis, staked outside the Biograph Theatre, lit up the fatal cigar and felt already between his lips the penis of official commendation.
In the Zone
601
flickers at their midsections, the sound of rifle fire follow-
ing a second later.
âThey will kill us.â Otto heaves Slothrop over the side,
and tumbles in after. Spotlights find and skewer them now.
The firing is louderânipples and spatters in the water,
slugs hammering into the boat.
âEverybody here?â the Frauâs fangs bared in a grin.
âFine, fine!â A last ape reaches up, Haftung catches his
hands, and he dangles, feet in the water, for several yards
as they light out, all ahead full, till he can finally clamber
up and over. Gunfire follows out to sea, out of range, at
last out of earshot.
âHey Felix,â sez the tenor sax player, âyou think thereâs
any gigs in Swinemiinde?â
John Dillinger, at the end, found a few secondsâ strange
mercy in the movie images that hadnât quite yet faded
from his eyeballsâClark Gable going off unregenerate to
fry in the chair, voices gentle out of the deathrow steel
so long, Blackie...turning down a reprieve from his
longtime friend now Governor of New York William
Powell, skinny chinless condescending jerk, Gable just
wanting to get it over with, âDie like ya liveâall of a
sudden, donât drag it outââ even as bitchy little Melvin
Purvis, staked outside the Biograph Theatre, lit up the
fatal cigar and felt already between his lips the penis of
official commendationâand federal cowards at the signal
took Dillinger with their faggotsâ precision... there was
still for the doomed man some shift of personality in
effectâthe way you've felt for a little while afterward in
âthe real muscles of your face and voice, that you were
Gable, the ironic eyebrows, the proud, shining, snakelike
headâto help Dillinger through the bushwhacking, and a
little easier into death.
_ Narrisch now, huddled inside a broken few meters of
concrete drainage pipe, after doubling back under the
wall of Test Stand VII, bracing curled now in the smell of
old storm water, trying not to breathe loud enough to
âsmack echoes into any betrayalâNarrisch hasnât been to
movi since Der Mitide Tod. Thatâs so long ago heâs
en its ending, the last Rilke-elegiac shot of weary
= leading the two lovers away hand in hand through
oe he
602
Gravity's RaInsow
the forget-me-nots. No help at all from that quarter. To-
night Narrisch is down to the last tommygun of his career,
foreign and overheated... and blisters on his hands he
won't have to worry about tomorrow. No sources of mercy
available beyond the hard weapon, the burning fingersâa
cruel way to go out for a good guidance man who always
put in fair time for fair wages.... He had other offers
...couldâve gone east with the Institute Rabe, or west to
America and $6 a dayâbut Gerhardt von GĂ©ll promised
him glamour, jackpots, a flashy dame on his arm, say, why
not on both arms?âafter poor linear Peenemiinde, who
could blame him?
It wasnât ever necessary to see around the entire Plan...
really thatâs asking too much of anyone... not true? This
S-Gerat strategy heâs going out of his way to die for to-
night, what does he know of the Springerâs full intentions
in the affair? It is reasonable to Narrisch that he, being
smaller, he should be the sacrifice, if it helps Springer
survive, even survive another day... wartime thinking,
ja, ja...
but too late
to change.....
Did the S-Gerat program at Nordhausen in its time ever
hint that so many individuals, nations, firms, communities
of interest would come after the factP Of course he was
flattered then at being chosen to work on the modification
to the guidance, minor as it was... hardly worth the spe-
cial treatment ...-still, it was his first high historical mo-
_
ment and he sourly figured it to be his last, up until meet-
ing with Springerâs recruiting team, back during the rainier
part of June.... Conferences in cafés and entrances to
churchyards around Braunschweig (stucco arches, vines
dripping onto thin collars) without an umbrella but with
that light, belled hope insideâa field, crowded with lines
of force, to expand, to fill, to keep him in good health and
spirits... Berlin}
The Chicago
Cabaret!
âCocaineâor
cards?â (an old movie line the gunsels loved to use that
summer) ...the Big Time!
But the ringing bright thing inside brought him here,
instead: here, down in a pipe, to only a handful more of
minutes. ...
The idea was always to carry along a fixed quantity, A.
Sometimes youâd use a Wien bridge, tuned to a certain
frequency At, whistling, heavy with omen, inside the elec-
The Precision of Brennschluss
- The narrative contrasts the chaotic allure of the Chicago cabaret and 'gangstering' with the rigid, electric discipline of rocket engineering.
- Rocket guidance is described as a 'reflex arc' where radio signals act as an external nervous system, steering the craft back from 'radiant inattention.'
- The engineers of the Design Group are depicted as a 'roughshod elite' who viewed their hardware with a brutal, soldierly sense of captivity and prohibition.
- Mathematical variables A and B serve as metaphors for the inevitable convergence of fate and the physical moment of engine cutoff (Brennschluss).
- The protagonist reflects on a lost era of technological clarity where paranoia was reserved for the enemy and the machinery dictated one's place in the world.
How could you've kept from lapsing, up here, into that radiant inattention, so caught up in the wind, the sheer altitude...the unimaginable fires at your feet?
602
Gravity's RaInsow
the forget-me-nots. No help at all from that quarter. To-
night Narrisch is down to the last tommygun of his career,
foreign and overheated... and blisters on his hands he
won't have to worry about tomorrow. No sources of mercy
available beyond the hard weapon, the burning fingersâa
cruel way to go out for a good guidance man who always
put in fair time for fair wages.... He had other offers
...couldâve gone east with the Institute Rabe, or west to
America and $6 a dayâbut Gerhardt von GĂ©ll promised
him glamour, jackpots, a flashy dame on his arm, say, why
not on both arms?âafter poor linear Peenemiinde, who
could blame him?
It wasnât ever necessary to see around the entire Plan...
really thatâs asking too much of anyone... not true? This
S-Gerat strategy heâs going out of his way to die for to-
night, what does he know of the Springerâs full intentions
in the affair? It is reasonable to Narrisch that he, being
smaller, he should be the sacrifice, if it helps Springer
survive, even survive another day... wartime thinking,
ja, ja...
but too late
to change.....
Did the S-Gerat program at Nordhausen in its time ever
hint that so many individuals, nations, firms, communities
of interest would come after the factP Of course he was
flattered then at being chosen to work on the modification
to the guidance, minor as it was... hardly worth the spe-
cial treatment ...-still, it was his first high historical mo-
_
ment and he sourly figured it to be his last, up until meet-
ing with Springerâs recruiting team, back during the rainier
part of June.... Conferences in cafés and entrances to
churchyards around Braunschweig (stucco arches, vines
dripping onto thin collars) without an umbrella but with
that light, belled hope insideâa field, crowded with lines
of force, to expand, to fill, to keep him in good health and
spirits... Berlin}
The Chicago
Cabaret!
âCocaineâor
cards?â (an old movie line the gunsels loved to use that
summer) ...the Big Time!
But the ringing bright thing inside brought him here,
instead: here, down in a pipe, to only a handful more of
minutes. ...
The idea was always to carry along a fixed quantity, A.
Sometimes youâd use a Wien bridge, tuned to a certain
frequency At, whistling, heavy with omen, inside the elec-
In the Zone
603
tric corridors... while outside, according to the tradition
in these matters, somewhere a quantity B would be gath-
ering, building, as the Rocket gathered speed. So, up till .
assigned Brennschluss velocity, âv?,â electric-shocked as
any rat into following this very narrow mazeway of clear
spaceâyes, radio signals from the ground would enter the
Rocket body, and by reflexâliterally by electric signal
traveling a reflex arcâthe control surfaces twitch, to steer
you back on course the instant you'd begin to wander off
(how could you've kept from lapsing, up here, into that
radiant inattention, so caught up in the wind, the sheer
altitude...the unimaginable fires at your feet?) ...so,
for that tightly steered passage, all was carried on in the
sharpest, most painful anticipation, with B always grow-
ing, as palpably cresting as the assault of tidal wave that
ills
every small creature and hones the air down to a
cold stir.
... Your quantity Aâshining, constant A, carried
as they must have once packed far overland at night the
Grail, in their oldtime and military bleakness of humor...
and one morning a wide upper lip steelwool gray with the
one. dayâs growth, the fatal, the terrible sign, he shaved
smooth every day, it meant that this was the Last Dayâ
and, too, with only the grim sixth sense, as much faith as
clear reception, that the B of Many Subscripts just over
the electric horizon was really growing closer, perhaps this
time as âBiy,â the precession angle of the gyro, moving
invisibly but felt, terrifically arousing, over the metal frame
toward angle Aj, (which is how they have set you the
contacts: to close, you must see, at that exact angle). Or
as âBir,â another integrating, not of gyro rate but of the
raw current flow itself, bled from the moving coil inside
the poles, the âfetteredâ pendulum... they thought this
way, Design Group, in terms of captivity, prohibition...
there was an attitude toward oneâs hardware more brutal
and soldierly than. most engineersâ got the chance to
be.... They felt quite the roughshod elite, Driwelling,
and Schmeil, with the fluorescent lights shining on his
bared forehead night after night.... Inside their brains
they shared an old, old electro-decorâvariable capacitors
of glass, kerosene for a dielectric, brass plates and ebonite
covers, Zeiss galvanometers with thousands of fine-threaded
adjusting screws, Siemens milliammeters set on slate sur-
: ny
}
Ă© ye
604
Graviryâs RAInBOow
faces, terminals designated by Roman numerals, Standard
Ohms of manganese wire in oil, the old Giilcher Thermo-
sdule that operated on heating gas, put out 4 volts, nickel
and antimony, asbestos funnels on top, mica tubing. ...
Wasn't that life more decent than gangstering? A cleaner
sort of friendship... less devious, anyway.... There we
saw how we had to fit in... the machinery itself deter-
mined that... everything was so clear then, paranoia was
all for the enemy, and never for oneâs own. ...
âWhat about the SSP
âOh, they were the enemy, I'd say... . [Laughter.]
No, Klaus, donât drift away, please, not onto dreams of
kindly Soviet interrogation that will end
in some ermine
bed, some vodka-perfumed stupor, you know thatâs fool-
B, B-sub-N-for-Narrisch, is nearly hereânearly about to
burn through the last whispering veil to equal âAââto
equal the only fragment of himself left by them to go
through the moment, the irreducible doll of German sty-
rene, shabbier, less authentic than any earlier self...a
negligible quantity in this last light...this tattoo of
huntersâ boots, and rifle bolts in oiled keyways....
O
Here come Enzian, Andreas, and Christian, coming on like
Smith, Klein,
ânâ French, crashing into the basement
roomâfield-gray kit, newspaper shoes, rolled trouser-cuffs,
hands and bare forearms shining with motor oil and gear
grease, toting carbines in a show of force. But no Empty
Ones here to see them, Itâs too late. Just the mute bed, and
the brown ellipse her blood made on the torn ticking. And
washing-blue in grainy splashes in the comers, under the
bed... ther signature, their challenge.
âWhere is sheââ Christian is just this, side of berserk.
One word astray and he'll be off to kill the first Empty
One he finds. Maria, his sister, is, was, may beâ
i
âWe'd
better,â Enzian
already back| out the door,
âwhereâs, uh... her husband, you know... .â
âPavel.â Christian wants to see his eyes, but Enzian
won't turn.
„
„
pi
Separations in the Zone
- Enzian and his Schwarzkommando unit discover a crime scene where Maria, Christian's sister, has been forced into an abortion by the 'Empty Ones.'
- The Empty Ones are described as vulture-like figures who monitor pregnancies to enforce their ideology of racial extinction and sterility.
- The narrative explores the 'red-shifting' of the Zone, where different factions and realities are accelerating away from a common center into isolated worlds.
- Enzian realizes that his dream of a 'mythical return' to a unified identity or homeland is becoming impossible as the social fabric disintegrates.
- The physical landscape is a chaotic ruin of 'reconfigured' industrial waste, where British security and displaced persons exist in congruent but separate dimensions.
Each alternative Zone speeds away from all the others, in fated acceleration, red-shifting, fleeing the Center.
604
Graviryâs RAInBOow
faces, terminals designated by Roman numerals, Standard
Ohms of manganese wire in oil, the old Giilcher Thermo-
sdule that operated on heating gas, put out 4 volts, nickel
and antimony, asbestos funnels on top, mica tubing. ...
Wasn't that life more decent than gangstering? A cleaner
sort of friendship... less devious, anyway.... There we
saw how we had to fit in... the machinery itself deter-
mined that... everything was so clear then, paranoia was
all for the enemy, and never for oneâs own. ...
âWhat about the SSP
âOh, they were the enemy, I'd say... . [Laughter.]
No, Klaus, donât drift away, please, not onto dreams of
kindly Soviet interrogation that will end
in some ermine
bed, some vodka-perfumed stupor, you know thatâs fool-
B, B-sub-N-for-Narrisch, is nearly hereânearly about to
burn through the last whispering veil to equal âAââto
equal the only fragment of himself left by them to go
through the moment, the irreducible doll of German sty-
rene, shabbier, less authentic than any earlier self...a
negligible quantity in this last light...this tattoo of
huntersâ boots, and rifle bolts in oiled keyways....
O
Here come Enzian, Andreas, and Christian, coming on like
Smith, Klein,
ânâ French, crashing into the basement
roomâfield-gray kit, newspaper shoes, rolled trouser-cuffs,
hands and bare forearms shining with motor oil and gear
grease, toting carbines in a show of force. But no Empty
Ones here to see them, Itâs too late. Just the mute bed, and
the brown ellipse her blood made on the torn ticking. And
washing-blue in grainy splashes in the comers, under the
bed... ther signature, their challenge.
âWhere is sheââ Christian is just this, side of berserk.
One word astray and he'll be off to kill the first Empty
One he finds. Maria, his sister, is, was, may beâ
i
âWe'd
better,â Enzian
already back| out the door,
âwhereâs, uh... her husband, you know... .â
âPavel.â Christian wants to see his eyes, but Enzian
won't turn.
„
„
pi
In the Zone
605
Pavel and Maria meant to have the child. Then Josef
Ombindi and his people started their visiting. They have
leamed their vulturehood from the Christian missionaries.
They keep lists of all the women of child-bearing age. Any
pregnancy is an invitation to hover, to tune in, to swoop.
They will use threats, casuistry, physical seductionâthereâs
an arsenal of techniques. Washing-blue is the abortifacient
of choice.
âThe refinery,â suggests Andreas Orukambe.
âReally? I thought heâd sworn off that.â
âMaybe not now.â The girlâs brother stares him hard as
fists. Enzian, old bastard, you really are out of touch....
They remount their motorcycles and head off again.
Blasted drydocks, charcoal ribs of warehouses, cylindrical
chunks of submarine that never got assembled, go ripping
by in the darkness. British security are about, but thatâs
another, encapsulated world. The British G-5 occupy their
own space and Zone congruent but not identical to what
these serious Schwarzkommando astride bikes) unmuffled
go blasting on through tonight.
Separations
are
proceeding.
Each
alternative
Zone
speeds away from all the others, in fated acceleration, red-
shifting, fleeing the Center. Each day the mythical return
Enzian dreamed of seems less possible. Once it was neces-
sary to know uniforms, insignia, airplane markings, to
observe boundaries. But by now too many choices have
been made. The single root lost, way back there in the
May desolation. Each bird has his branch now, and each
one is the Zone.
A crowd of DPs is milling by the ruin of an omamental
fountain, a score of them, eyes of ash, smudged into faces
white as salt. The Hereros go swerving by them, halfway
up a shallow flight of long steps dovetailing into the grade
of the street, teeth slamming together upper and lower,
cycle frames squeaking shrill, up and down the steps past
wordless plosions of Slavic breath. Ashes and salt. A sound-
truck appears around a wall a hundred meters away: the
voice, University-bred and long tired of the message, re-
Gites, âClear the streets. Go to your homes.â Clear theâgo
to your what? There must be a mistake, it must be for
some other town. .
\ Whir underneath an oil pipeline up on trestles running
ees
.
606
Gravityâs RAINBOW
down leftward to the water now, huge bolted flanges over
head softened by rust and oily dirt. Far out in the harbo
rides an oil tanker, rocking serene as a web of stars...
Zoom uphill slantwise toward a rampart of wasted, knotted
fused, and scorched girderwork, stacks, pipes, ducting
windings, fairings, insulators reconfigured by all the bomb
ing, grease-stained pebblery on the ground rushing by :
mile a minute and wait, wait, say what, say âreconfigured,
now?â
There doesnât exactly dawn, no but there breaks, a:
that light you're afraid will break some night at too deey
an hour to explain awayâthere floods on Enzian wha
seems to him an extraordinary understanding. This ser
pentine slag-heap he is just about to ride into now, thi
ex-refinery, Jamf Olfabriken Werke AG, is not a ruin a
all, It is in perfect working order. Only waiting for the
right connections to be set up, to be switched on.
. .. modi
fied, precisely, deliberately by bombing that was neve
hostile, but part of a plan both sidesâââsides?ââhad al.
ways agreed on... yes and now what if weâall right
say we are supposed to be the Kabbalists out here, say
thatâs our real Destiny, to be the-scholar-magicians of 'the
Zone, with somewhere in it a Text, to be picked to pieces.
annotated, explicated, and masturbated till itâs all squeezec
limp of its last drop... well we assumedânatiirlich!â
that this holy Text had to be the Rocket, orururumo oru-
nene the high, rising, dead, the blazing, the great one
(âoruneneâ is already being modified
by the Zone-Herere
children to âomunene,â the eldest brother) ... our Torah.
What else? Its symmetries, its latencies, the cuteness of it
enchanted and seduced us while the real Text persisted,
somewhere else, in its darkness, our darkness... even this
far from Siidwest we are not to be spared the ancient
tragedy of lost messages, a curse that will never leave
ASS
ois
But, if Iâm riding through it, the Real Text, right now,
if this is it...or if I passed it today somewhere in the
_ devastation of Hamburg, breathing the ash-dust, missing
it completely... if what the IG built on
this site were not
at all the final shape of it, but only an arrangement of
fetishes, come-ons to call down special tools in the form
of 8th AF bombers yes the âAlliedâ planes all would have
The Real Text of Technology
- The protagonist realizes that the bombed-out refinery is not a ruin but a machine in perfect working order, waiting to be activated.
- A theory emerges that the Allied bombing was not an act of hostility but a deliberate industrial process designed to 'code' the landscape into a specific shape.
- The war is reframed as a theatrical distraction from the true drivers of history: the competing needs of different technologies like plastics and electronics.
- The 'holy Text' of the Zone is revealed to be not just the Rocket itself, but the entire interconnected system of global industrial power.
- A counter-argument warns against deifying technology as an abstract force, insisting that specific human elites remain responsible for the destruction.
- The survivors are urged to seek out hidden power networks and unknown scales of measurement that exist outside of traditional education.
It means this War was never political at all, the politics was all theatre, all just to keep the people distracted... secretly, it was being dictated instead by the needs of technology.
606
Gravityâs RAINBOW
down leftward to the water now, huge bolted flanges over
head softened by rust and oily dirt. Far out in the harbo
rides an oil tanker, rocking serene as a web of stars...
Zoom uphill slantwise toward a rampart of wasted, knotted
fused, and scorched girderwork, stacks, pipes, ducting
windings, fairings, insulators reconfigured by all the bomb
ing, grease-stained pebblery on the ground rushing by :
mile a minute and wait, wait, say what, say âreconfigured,
now?â
There doesnât exactly dawn, no but there breaks, a:
that light you're afraid will break some night at too deey
an hour to explain awayâthere floods on Enzian wha
seems to him an extraordinary understanding. This ser
pentine slag-heap he is just about to ride into now, thi
ex-refinery, Jamf Olfabriken Werke AG, is not a ruin a
all, It is in perfect working order. Only waiting for the
right connections to be set up, to be switched on.
. .. modi
fied, precisely, deliberately by bombing that was neve
hostile, but part of a plan both sidesâââsides?ââhad al.
ways agreed on... yes and now what if weâall right
say we are supposed to be the Kabbalists out here, say
thatâs our real Destiny, to be the-scholar-magicians of 'the
Zone, with somewhere in it a Text, to be picked to pieces.
annotated, explicated, and masturbated till itâs all squeezec
limp of its last drop... well we assumedânatiirlich!â
that this holy Text had to be the Rocket, orururumo oru-
nene the high, rising, dead, the blazing, the great one
(âoruneneâ is already being modified
by the Zone-Herere
children to âomunene,â the eldest brother) ... our Torah.
What else? Its symmetries, its latencies, the cuteness of it
enchanted and seduced us while the real Text persisted,
somewhere else, in its darkness, our darkness... even this
far from Siidwest we are not to be spared the ancient
tragedy of lost messages, a curse that will never leave
ASS
ois
But, if Iâm riding through it, the Real Text, right now,
if this is it...or if I passed it today somewhere in the
_ devastation of Hamburg, breathing the ash-dust, missing
it completely... if what the IG built on
this site were not
at all the final shape of it, but only an arrangement of
fetishes, come-ons to call down special tools in the form
of 8th AF bombers yes the âAlliedâ planes all would have
»
In the Zone
607.
een, ultimately, IG-built, by way of Director Krupp,
ough his English interlocksâthe bombing was the exact
dustrial process of conversion, each release of energy
laced exactly in space and time, each shockwave plotted
1 advance to bring precisely tonight's wreck into being
ms decoding the Text, thus coding, recoding, derecod-
ig the holy Text... If it is in working order, what is it
ant to do? The engineers who built it as a refinery
ever knew there were any further steps to be taken.
heir design was âfinalized,â and they could forget it.
It means this War was never political at all, the politics
as all theatre, all just to keep the people distracted...
cretly, it was being dictated instead by the needs of tech-
ology... by a conspiracy between human beings and
chniques, by something that needed the energy-burst of
ar, crying, âMoney be damned, the very life of [insert
ame of Nation] is at stake,â but meaning, most likely,
awn is nearly here, I need my nightâs blood, my funding,
imding, ahh more, more.... The real crises were crises
f allocation and priority, not among firmsâit was only
aged to look that wayâbut among the different Technol-
zies,
Plastics,
Electronics,
Aircraft,
and
their needs
hich are understood only by the ruling elite...
Yes but Technology only responds (how often this
âgument has been iterated, dogged and humorless as a
aussian
reduction, among
the younger Schwarzkom-
ando especially), âAll very well to talk about having a
onster by the tail, but do you think weâdâve had the
ocket if someone, some specific somebody with a name
id a penis hadnât wanted to chuck a ton of Amatol 300
iles and blow up a block full of civilians? Go ahead,
pitalize the T on technology, deify it if it'll make you
el less responsibleâbut it puts you in with the neutered,
âother, in with the eunuchs keeping the harem of our
olen Earth for the numb and joyless hardons of human
tans, human elite with no right at all to be where they
ae
We have to look for power sources here, and distribu-
on networks we were never taught, routes of power our
achers never imagined, or were encouraged to avoid...
e have to find meters whose scales are unknown in the
orld, draw our own schematics, getting feedback, making
=
Enzian's Paranoid Zone Odyssey
- Enzian experiences a drug-induced paranoid epiphany, questioning if the industrial ruins of the Zone are mere 'dummy functions' hiding a deeper planetary mission.
- Fueled by Nazi surplus Pervitin, Enzian descends into a manic state of 'stimulant talk,' characterized by rapid-fire speech and internal terror.
- The narrative shifts into a frantic, drug-addled song that captures the lawless, hallucinatory energy of 'Zoominâ through the Zone.'
- Enzianâs journal entries reveal a deep insecurity about his own voice and leadership, fearing he is an obnoxious 'Berliner Schnauze' who provides nothing of use.
- The landscape of the refinery becomes a surreal wastefield populated by supernatural entities like the Moss Creature and a mile-high Water Giant.
- Despite his internal crisis and the breakdown of social structures like money, Enzian attempts to maintain the 'mark of a great leader' through cold, pragmatic decision-making.
Up here, on the surface, coaltars, hydrogenation, synthesis were always phony, dummy functions to hide the real, the planetary mission yes perhaps centuries in the unrolling.
608
GRAvITYâs RAINBOW
connections, reducing the error, trying to learn the real
function... zeroing in on what incalculable plot? Up
here, on the surface, coaltars, hydrogenation, synthesis
were always phony, dummy functions to hide the real,
the planetary mission yes perhaps centuries in the unroll-
i
. this ruinous plant, waiting for its Kabbalists and
new alchemists to discover the Key, teach the mysteries to
others...
And if it isnât exactly Jamf Olfabriken Werke? what if
itâs the Krupp works in Essen, what if itâs Blohm & Voss
right here in Hamburg or another make-believe âruin,â in
another cityP Another countryye YAAAGGGGHHHHHI!
Well, this is stimulant talk here, yes Enzianâs been
stuffing down Nazi surplus Pervitins these days like pop-
corn at the movies, and by now the bulk of the refineryâ
named, incidentally, for the famous discoverer of Onei-
rineâis behind them, and Enzian is on into some other
paranoid terror, talking, talking, though each manâs wind
and motor cuts him off from conversation.
Sortofa
Just a daredevil Desox-yephedrine Daddy
ee
ee
With mâpockets full oâ happee daze,
ia behind
Zoominâ through the Zone, where the wild
this, here
dogs roam,
Givinâ all mâdreams away . LF
Took the tubes outa my radi-yo,
Donât mean a thing to meâ
Wouldnât spend a nickel on the Stars ânâ
Stripes, cause
Tm doinâ my own fer free...
Mouth keeps goinâ, nobody listeninâ,
Gabbinâ at a terrible paceâ
Aw, you're so sly, but I wave good-by,
With a shit-eatinâ grin on mâfacel
|
Donâtcha ephedrine of me, my honey,
Swoon just to hear my nameâ
In the curfew cells when afl
the lights are
gone, oh,
©
7
Evry thingâll be the same
(Just light the candles).
Ey-rythingâll be the same....
In the Zone
609
Last night in his journal, Enzian wrote: âThe Mouth
itely has been too-much in service. Too little coming out
f use to anybody. A defense. Oh God, oh God. Then they
sally are getting at me. Please I donât want to pontificate
1is way... 1 know what my voice sounds likeâheard it
t Peenemiinde years ago on Weissmannâs Dictaphone...
hrome and Bakelite...too
high, obnoxious,
Berliner
chnauze... how they must wince inside whenever I
egin to speak....
*âT could go tomorrow. I know how to be alone. It
oesnât frighten me as much as they do. They take end-
sslyâbut they never use what they take. What do they
ink they can take from me? They donât want my patri-
rchy, they donât want my love, they donât want my in-
mation, or my work, or my energy, or what I own...
donât own anything. Thereâs no money any moreâno-
odyâs seen any out here for months, no
it canât be
loney ... cigarettesP I never have enough cigarettes....
âIf I left them, where could I go?â
Back among the reservoir tanks now, into the evening
ind, skidding on this synthetic wastefield, all of it un-
raded blackness .. . Christianâs motor seems to be missing
ow and then, dithering toward a stall. Spot decision: if
e breaks down let him walk. That way less trouble if
avelâs there, if heâs not there pick up Christian on the
âay back and see about getting a truck out to repair it...
eep it simple, thatâs the mark of a great leader, Enzian.
Christian doesnât break down, though, and Pavel turns
ut to be there, sort of. Well, not âthereâ the way Enzian
1 his current state of mind would consider for very long.
ut present, all right, along with an amazing collection
f friends who always seem to show up whenever he comes
) sniff Leunagasolin, such as, oh, the Moss Creature here,
rightest green you can imagine, more burning than
uorescent, lurking over in a corner of the field tonight,
1y, Stirring like an infant now and then... or how about
1Âą Water Giant, a mile-high visitor made all of flowing
ater who likes to dance, twisting from the waist, arms
lowing loosely along the sky. When the Ombindi people
ok Maria off to find their doctor in Hamburg, voices
egan callingâvoices of the Fungus Pygmies who breed
| the tanks at the interface between fuel and water-bottom
The Interface and Meta-Shock
- Pavel experiences surreal hallucinations of 'Fungus Pygmies' living at the interface of fuel and water, who communicate through musical riffs and Bing Crosby-esque imagery.
- The narrative explores 'meta-shock,' a state of psychological displacement deeper than cultural shock, occurring within the industrial waste cycles of the refinery.
- Pavel is caught between the internal politics of the Schwarzkommando, specifically the 'Tribal Suicide Question' and the feud between Enzian and the Russians.
- A moment of lethal tension occurs as Christian aims a rifle at Pavel, creating a 'branching' of possibilities that fundamentally alters the nature of the Zone.
- Enzian intervenes to save Pavel, yet acknowledges that the mere potential of the act has shifted their reality into a new, irreversible state.
- Pavel is found in a state of chemical euphoria, sniffing synthetic gasoline and becoming a 'happy customer' of the IG Farben industrial complex.
Suddenly, this awful branching; the two possibilities already beginning to fly apart at the speed of thoughtâa new Zone in any case, now, whether Christian fires or refrainsâjump, chooseâ
In the Zone
609
Last night in his journal, Enzian wrote: âThe Mouth
itely has been too-much in service. Too little coming out
f use to anybody. A defense. Oh God, oh God. Then they
sally are getting at me. Please I donât want to pontificate
1is way... 1 know what my voice sounds likeâheard it
t Peenemiinde years ago on Weissmannâs Dictaphone...
hrome and Bakelite...too
high, obnoxious,
Berliner
chnauze... how they must wince inside whenever I
egin to speak....
*âT could go tomorrow. I know how to be alone. It
oesnât frighten me as much as they do. They take end-
sslyâbut they never use what they take. What do they
ink they can take from me? They donât want my patri-
rchy, they donât want my love, they donât want my in-
mation, or my work, or my energy, or what I own...
donât own anything. Thereâs no money any moreâno-
odyâs seen any out here for months, no
it canât be
loney ... cigarettesP I never have enough cigarettes....
âIf I left them, where could I go?â
Back among the reservoir tanks now, into the evening
ind, skidding on this synthetic wastefield, all of it un-
raded blackness .. . Christianâs motor seems to be missing
ow and then, dithering toward a stall. Spot decision: if
e breaks down let him walk. That way less trouble if
avelâs there, if heâs not there pick up Christian on the
âay back and see about getting a truck out to repair it...
eep it simple, thatâs the mark of a great leader, Enzian.
Christian doesnât break down, though, and Pavel turns
ut to be there, sort of. Well, not âthereâ the way Enzian
1 his current state of mind would consider for very long.
ut present, all right, along with an amazing collection
f friends who always seem to show up whenever he comes
) sniff Leunagasolin, such as, oh, the Moss Creature here,
rightest green you can imagine, more burning than
uorescent, lurking over in a corner of the field tonight,
1y, Stirring like an infant now and then... or how about
1Âą Water Giant, a mile-high visitor made all of flowing
ater who likes to dance, twisting from the waist, arms
lowing loosely along the sky. When the Ombindi people
ok Maria off to find their doctor in Hamburg, voices
egan callingâvoices of the Fungus Pygmies who breed
| the tanks at the interface between fuel and water-bottom
610
Gravityâs RAINBOW
began to call to him. âPavel! Omunene!l Why donât you
come back, to see us? We miss you. Why have you stayed
away?â Not much fun for them down here at the Inter-
face, competing with the bacteria who cruise by in thei
country of light, these cellular aristocracy, approaching the
wall of hydrocarbons each for his share of Godâs abun:
danceâleaving their wastes, a green murmur, a divergently
unstable gabbling, a slime that grows with the days thicker,
more poisonous. It is a depressing thing indeed to be
pygmy clustered together with thousands of others, hun-
dreds of thousands, and have to live on the other side of
all this. You say other side? What do you mean? What
other side? You mean in the gasoline? (Clustered Pygmies,
playfully and to some well-known swing riff:) No-no, no,
no! â-You mean in the water, then? (C.P.:) No-no, no,
no! âWell you gotta tell me please, fore I drop my
BVDs! We mean, explain the Pygmies, gathering theit
little heads into a symmetrical cauliflower pattern, and
settling into a soft, wistful a cappella like kids around the
campfire with Bing Crosby in a baseball cap (yes these
Leunahalluziationen have been known to get weird all
right, weirder than cultural shock, even, this here is meta-
shockâs what it is, 3-sigma white faces in a ritual whose
mystery is deeper. than north light over the Kalahari...)
we mean on the other side of the whole thing, the whale
bacteria-hydrocarbon-waste cycle. We can see the Inter-
face from here. Itâs a long rainbow, mostly indigo, if thatâs
any helpâindigo and Kelly green (Bing, directing, raises
up all these brainwashed little Irish faces in a moving
firelit
crescendo)
green...gasoline... between...
sub-
marine...
fading, because by then Pavel was on his way
out to the refinery, forget this 214 weeks of self-imposed
torture, Ombindiâs men after him down by the glasswool
boiler pipes, men and women both trying to caress him,
pressure from both sides ofthe Tribal Suicide Question,
Enzian complaining, too entangled with the Rocket, too
-encrimsoned in his feud with the Russian, to care much
about anyone outside himself ..
. and here Pavel was trying
to stay away from this, from the breath lof Mukuru, only
trying to be a good. manâ
The Moss Creature stirs. It has crept an alarming |
tance closer since Pavel last looked. A sudden overflow
a
Ne
âIn the Zone
611
smooth cherry-red down the mountainside to his right
(were there mountains? Where did the mountains come
from?) and at once he knows, beyond deception or hope,
that he has slipped into the North, that inhaling the breath
of the first ancestor has taken him over into the terrible
land, as he must have known it would, step by step over
these last years, impossible to tum (what is turn? donât
know which way to begin to move... donât know how to
move...) too late, miles and changes too late.
â
And now his head in Christianâs steel notch at 300 yards.
Suddenly, this awful branching; the two possibilities al-
ready beginning to fly apart at the speed of thoughtâa
new Zone in any case, now, whether Christian fires or re-
frainsâjump, chooseâ
,
Enzian tries his bestâknocks the barrel aside, has a few
unpleasant words for the young revenger. But both men
saw the new branches. The Zone, again, has just changed,
and they are already on, into the new one....
They ride on up to where Pavelâs sniffing synthetic gaso-
line on the side of the lampless beige hill, under the tanks
snailing whitely to heaven, here he is, one of the IGâs
happiest customers...
.
Does Pavel know something the rest of us donât? If the
IG wanted this to be a cover-up for something else, why
not the breath of MukuruP
Enzian can project himself back in the Erdschweinhéhle
_ Starting a new file on the IGâsee it getting fatter and
_ fatter as the interlocks develop, the books are audited,
the witnesses comeânot forward but sideways at least,
always in shadows.... And if it should prove not to be
the Rocket, not the IGP Why then hel have to go on
- won't he, on to something elseâthe Volkswagen factory,
the pharmaceutical companies... and if it isnât even in
Germany then he'll have to start in America, or in Russia,
and if he dies before they find the True Text to study,
then there'll have to be machinery for others to carry it
on....
Say, thatâs a swell ideaâcall the whole Erd-
_schweinhohle together, get up there say, My people, I have
had a vision...no no but there will need to be more
staff, if itâs to be that big a search, quiet shifting of re-
sources away from the Rocket, diversifying while making
it look like an organic growth... and who to bring in on
2.)
The Expanding Search
- Enzian contemplates the infinite expansion of his investigation, moving beyond the Rocket to global corporate and political structures.
- The search for the 'True Text' necessitates a bureaucratic machinery that must outlive its founders and diversify its resources.
- Internal tribal tensions rise as Enzian faces the 'Final Zero' doctrine of Ombindi and the Empty Ones.
- Christian confronts Enzian with a violent emotional outburst, accusing him of being a detached ego who views people only as equations.
- Slothrop awakens on Von Göll's boat in SwinemĂŒnde to find the girls gone and the Springer pressuring him into further service.
- The narrative highlights a cynical world where every action is commodified and every person has a price.
And if he dies before they find the True Text to study, then there'll have to be machinery for others to carry it on....
Ne
âIn the Zone
611
smooth cherry-red down the mountainside to his right
(were there mountains? Where did the mountains come
from?) and at once he knows, beyond deception or hope,
that he has slipped into the North, that inhaling the breath
of the first ancestor has taken him over into the terrible
land, as he must have known it would, step by step over
these last years, impossible to tum (what is turn? donât
know which way to begin to move... donât know how to
move...) too late, miles and changes too late.
â
And now his head in Christianâs steel notch at 300 yards.
Suddenly, this awful branching; the two possibilities al-
ready beginning to fly apart at the speed of thoughtâa
new Zone in any case, now, whether Christian fires or re-
frainsâjump, chooseâ
,
Enzian tries his bestâknocks the barrel aside, has a few
unpleasant words for the young revenger. But both men
saw the new branches. The Zone, again, has just changed,
and they are already on, into the new one....
They ride on up to where Pavelâs sniffing synthetic gaso-
line on the side of the lampless beige hill, under the tanks
snailing whitely to heaven, here he is, one of the IGâs
happiest customers...
.
Does Pavel know something the rest of us donât? If the
IG wanted this to be a cover-up for something else, why
not the breath of MukuruP
Enzian can project himself back in the Erdschweinhéhle
_ Starting a new file on the IGâsee it getting fatter and
_ fatter as the interlocks develop, the books are audited,
the witnesses comeânot forward but sideways at least,
always in shadows.... And if it should prove not to be
the Rocket, not the IGP Why then hel have to go on
- won't he, on to something elseâthe Volkswagen factory,
the pharmaceutical companies... and if it isnât even in
Germany then he'll have to start in America, or in Russia,
and if he dies before they find the True Text to study,
then there'll have to be machinery for others to carry it
on....
Say, thatâs a swell ideaâcall the whole Erd-
_schweinhohle together, get up there say, My people, I have
had a vision...no no but there will need to be more
staff, if itâs to be that big a search, quiet shifting of re-
sources away from the Rocket, diversifying while making
it look like an organic growth... and who to bring in on
2.)
612
Gravityâs Rainsow
it? Christianâcan he use the boy now, Christianâs anger,
will IÂą use Christian regardless to help suppress Ombindi
. because if the Schwarzkommando mission in the Zone
has been truly revealed just now, then there'll have to be
something done about Ombindi, Empty Ones, doctrine of
the Final Zero. More staff will mean more Zone-Hereros,
not fewerâmore information coming in about the enemy,
more connections made will mean a greater threat to the
people, will mean that tribal numbers will have to in-
crease.
Is there an alternative? no...he would rather
ignore Ombindi but the needs of this new Search will not
allow
him that comfort now... the search will rule. ...
Somewhere, among the wastes of the World, is the key
that will bring us back, restore us to our Earth and to our
freedom.
Andreas has been talking with Pavel, who is still out
with his strangely lighted companions, playing at this and
that. Presently, with love and subterfuge, he gets the
address of Ombindiâs medical connection.
Enzian knows who he is. âSaint Pauli. Letâs go. Your
machine running a little rough, Christian?â
âDonât sweet-talk me,â Christian explodes, âyou donât
care about me, you donât care about my sister, sheâs dying
out there and you just keep plugging her into your equa-
tionsâyouâplay this holy-father routine and inside that.
ego you donât even hate us, you donât care, youre not
even connected any moreââ He swings his fist at Enzianâs
face. Heâs crying.
Enzian stands there and lets him. It hurts, He lets it.
His meekness isnât all politics, either. He can feel enough
of the bone truth in what Christian saidâmaybe not all of
it, not all at once, but enough,
âYou just connected. Can we go after her, now?â
O
)
Here is the good Frau, leaning over Slothrop from way
down at the foot of the bed: her eye bright and cocky asâ
a parrotâs, a big white boss of eye cantilevered on old
prickly arms and legs, a black kerchief above the roll, of
her pompadaus in mourning for all her Hanseatic dead,
i
2
i.
In the Zone
608
sd grecatlh heaving iron Sects, under waves of the Baltic
keel-edged and gray, dead under the fleets of waves, the
prairies of the sea....
Next thing is Gerhardt von Gdllâs foot nudging Slothrop
in a less than tender way. The sun is up, and all the girls
have gone. Otto grouches around deck with a broom and
swab, removing yesterday's chimpanzee shit. Swinemiinde.
The Springer is his old chipper self; âFresh eggs and
coffee in the pilot houseâfall to. Weâre due out of here in
15 minutes.â
âWell just belay that âwe,â Ace.â
âBut I need your help.â Springerâs. wearing a suit of fine
tweed this morning, very Savile Row, fits perfectlyâ
âNarrisch needed your help.â
âYou donât know what you're talking about.â His eyes
are steelies that never lose, His laugh, subtitled Humoring
the Fools, is MitteleuropiĂ©isch and mirthless, âAll right, all
right. How much do you want?â
âfiverythingâs got a price, right?â But heâs not being
noble here, no, what
it is is that his own price has just
occurred to him, and he needs to shim the talk here, give it
a second to breathe and develop,
âverything.â
âWhat's the deal?â
âA minor piracy. Pick up one package for me while I
cover you.â He looks at his watch, hamming it up.
âO.K., get me a discharge, I'll come with you.â
âA what? A discharge? For you? Hal Hal Halâ
) "You ought to laugh more, Springer. It makes you look
ion cute.â
P
âWhat kind of a discharge, Slothrop? Honorable, per-
dhispe? Ah, ah-hal Hal Halâ Like Adolf Hitler, Springer is
easily tickled by what the Germans call Schadenfreude,
the feeling of joy at anotherâs misfortune.
âQuit fooling, Iâm serious.â
âOf course you are, Slothrop!â More giggling.
Slothrop
waits, watches, sucking on an egg though he
feels anyt
but sly this morning,
h, you see, was supposed to go with me today.
âNow I'm stuck with you, Ha! Hal Where
do you want it
delivered, thisâhaâthis discharge?â
- âCuxhaven.â Slothrop has been having lately this dim
dF)
Piracy and Cinematic Reality
- Slothrop negotiates with Springer for a military discharge in exchange for assistance with a 'minor piracy' mission.
- Springer exhibits a cruel sense of humor, finding joy in Slothrop's misfortune and the absurdity of his request.
- The narrative shifts to a sea voyage led by Frau Gnahb, pursuing a target through the squally Baltic waters near RĂŒgen.
- Springer discusses the high value of technical experts in the post-war landscape, noting that Russians and Americans are competing for rocket scientists.
- A philosophical reflection occurs on the nature of reality versus film, suggesting a future where technology makes life indistinguishable from cinema.
- The group navigates through mist and chalk cliffs, searching for a specific quarry amidst the deteriorating weather of the Greifswalder Bodden.
Someday, when the film is fast enough, the equipment pocket-size and burdenless and selling at peopleâs prices, the lights and booms no longer necessary, then...then...
In the Zone
608
sd grecatlh heaving iron Sects, under waves of the Baltic
keel-edged and gray, dead under the fleets of waves, the
prairies of the sea....
Next thing is Gerhardt von Gdllâs foot nudging Slothrop
in a less than tender way. The sun is up, and all the girls
have gone. Otto grouches around deck with a broom and
swab, removing yesterday's chimpanzee shit. Swinemiinde.
The Springer is his old chipper self; âFresh eggs and
coffee in the pilot houseâfall to. Weâre due out of here in
15 minutes.â
âWell just belay that âwe,â Ace.â
âBut I need your help.â Springerâs. wearing a suit of fine
tweed this morning, very Savile Row, fits perfectlyâ
âNarrisch needed your help.â
âYou donât know what you're talking about.â His eyes
are steelies that never lose, His laugh, subtitled Humoring
the Fools, is MitteleuropiĂ©isch and mirthless, âAll right, all
right. How much do you want?â
âfiverythingâs got a price, right?â But heâs not being
noble here, no, what
it is is that his own price has just
occurred to him, and he needs to shim the talk here, give it
a second to breathe and develop,
âverything.â
âWhat's the deal?â
âA minor piracy. Pick up one package for me while I
cover you.â He looks at his watch, hamming it up.
âO.K., get me a discharge, I'll come with you.â
âA what? A discharge? For you? Hal Hal Halâ
) "You ought to laugh more, Springer. It makes you look
ion cute.â
P
âWhat kind of a discharge, Slothrop? Honorable, per-
dhispe? Ah, ah-hal Hal Halâ Like Adolf Hitler, Springer is
easily tickled by what the Germans call Schadenfreude,
the feeling of joy at anotherâs misfortune.
âQuit fooling, Iâm serious.â
âOf course you are, Slothrop!â More giggling.
Slothrop
waits, watches, sucking on an egg though he
feels anyt
but sly this morning,
h, you see, was supposed to go with me today.
âNow I'm stuck with you, Ha! Hal Where
do you want it
delivered, thisâhaâthis discharge?â
- âCuxhaven.â Slothrop has been having lately this dim
dF)
614
Graviryâs RAInsow
fantasy about trying to contact the Operation Backfire
people in Cuxhaven, to see if theyll help get him out.
They seem to be the only English connection to the
Rocket any more. He knows already it wonât work. He and
Springer arrange a date anyhow.
âBe at a place called Putziâs. Itâs down the Dorum road.
Local dealers will be able to tell you where.â
So itâs out once againâout past the molesâ wet embrace,
into the Baltic, crest to crest, and into nimbus piling sheet
on sheet bounces the jolly pirate bark, into a day already
squally and bitter, and getting worse. Springer stands out-
side the pilot house hollering in above the sound of heavy
seas that splash back over the bow and down the decks.
âWhere do you make her?â
âIf itâs Copenhagen sheâs bound for,â Frau Gnahbâs
windburned face, permanent smile-creases all around her
eyes and mouth, â like the sun, âcanât have more
than an hour on us.
Visibility this morning is too low to see the coast of
Usedom. Springer joins Slothrop at the rail looking. at
nothing, breathing the closing smell of gray weather.
âHeâs all right, Slothrop., Heâs seen worse. Two months
ago in Berlin we got ambushed, right outside the Chicago.
He walked through crossfire from three Schmeissers to
offer our competitors a deal. Not a scratch.â
âSpringer, he was going round and round with half the
Russian Army up there.â
âThey won't tall him. They know who he is. He worked
in guidance, he was Schillingâs best man, he knows more
about integrating circuits than anybody they'll find outside
of Garmisch now. The Russians âare offering fantastic
salariesâbetter than the Americansâand they'll let him
stay in Germany, work at Peenemiinde or the Mittelwerke,
just like he used to. He can even escape, if thatâs what he
wants, we have very good connections for thatââ
âBut what if they did shoot him?â
âNo. They werenât supposed to.â
âSpringer, this ainât the fuckinâ movies now, come on.â
âNot yet. Maybe not quite yet. You'd
better enjoy it
while you can. Someday, when the film is fast enough, the
equipment pocket-size and burdenless and selling at peo-
pleâs prices, the lights and booms no longer necessary,
â
ag
In the Fong
615
hen...then...â We now come.in sight of mythical
Rtigen off our starboard bow. Its chalk cliffs are brighter
han the sky. There is mist in the firths, and among the
yreen oaks. Along the beaches drift pearl patches of fog.
Our captain, Frau Gnahb, heads into the Greifswalder
Bodden, to comb the long firths for her quarry. After an
10ur (comical basoon solos over close-ups of the old rec-
eant
guzzling
some
horrible.
fermented
potato-mash
obotomy out of a jerrican, wiping her mouth on her
leeve, belching)
of fruitless search,
our modern-day
sirates head out to sea again, and up the eastern coast of
he. island.
Light rain has been falling. Otto breaks out slickers, and
2 Thermos of hot soup. Clouds, a dozen shades of gray, go
cudding along the sky. Great misty heaps of rock, steep
liffs, streams in deep gorges, gray and green and spires
f white chalk in the rain, go passingâthe Stubbenkam-
ner, the Kingâs Seat, and presently, off to port, Cape
Arkona where waves crash at the base of the cliffs and on
op the groves of white-trunked trees are blowing....
[he ancient Slavs put up a temple here, to Svetovid, their
30d of fertility and war. Old Svetovid did business under
yuite a number of aliases! Three-headed Triglav, five-
veaded Porevit, SEVEN-faced Rugevit! Tell that to your
b0ss next time he talks about âwearing two hats!â Now, as
Arkona slides away off our port. quarterâ
âThere she is,â Otto calls from the top of the pilot
iouse. Far far away, hauling out to sea from behind the
Wissow Klinken (the pale limestone latchkey with which
Providence today i
is probing the wards of Slothropâs heart),
"a visible in the rain, dips a tiny white ghost of a
âCat, a bearing,â Frau Gnahb grabbing the wheel and
racing her feet. âWe want a collision course!â Otto
rouches by the pelorus, shivering.
âHere, Slothrop.â
Luger? Box of rounds? âWhat...â
âCame this morning with the egg delivery.â
_ âYou didnât mentionââ
âHe may be a little exercised. But heâs a realist. Your
riend Greta and I knew him in Warsaw, in the old days.â
âSpringerâtell me Springer, now, what ship is that?â
yy) .
â
Ps
Be
Collision Course with the Anubis
- The narrative follows Slothrop and a crew led by Frau Gnahb and Springer as they navigate a stormy sea near the cliffs of RĂŒgen.
- Springer reveals a connection to the mysterious ship Anubis and hands Slothrop a weapon, sparking a confrontation about hidden agendas and conspiracies.
- Slothrop suspects he is being set up, but Springer insists the encounter with the Russian-controlled vessel was not pre-planned for him.
- Frau Gnahb, driven by a manic glee rather than profit, ignores a warning gunshot and prepares to ram the larger vessel.
- The scene culminates in a violent collision as Frau Gnahb slams her boat into the side of the Anubis amidst a heavy squall.
Gleeful Frau Gnahb, humming through her teeth, spins the wheel, spokes blurring, prow swinging over aiming for midships.
In the Fong
615
hen...then...â We now come.in sight of mythical
Rtigen off our starboard bow. Its chalk cliffs are brighter
han the sky. There is mist in the firths, and among the
yreen oaks. Along the beaches drift pearl patches of fog.
Our captain, Frau Gnahb, heads into the Greifswalder
Bodden, to comb the long firths for her quarry. After an
10ur (comical basoon solos over close-ups of the old rec-
eant
guzzling
some
horrible.
fermented
potato-mash
obotomy out of a jerrican, wiping her mouth on her
leeve, belching)
of fruitless search,
our modern-day
sirates head out to sea again, and up the eastern coast of
he. island.
Light rain has been falling. Otto breaks out slickers, and
2 Thermos of hot soup. Clouds, a dozen shades of gray, go
cudding along the sky. Great misty heaps of rock, steep
liffs, streams in deep gorges, gray and green and spires
f white chalk in the rain, go passingâthe Stubbenkam-
ner, the Kingâs Seat, and presently, off to port, Cape
Arkona where waves crash at the base of the cliffs and on
op the groves of white-trunked trees are blowing....
[he ancient Slavs put up a temple here, to Svetovid, their
30d of fertility and war. Old Svetovid did business under
yuite a number of aliases! Three-headed Triglav, five-
veaded Porevit, SEVEN-faced Rugevit! Tell that to your
b0ss next time he talks about âwearing two hats!â Now, as
Arkona slides away off our port. quarterâ
âThere she is,â Otto calls from the top of the pilot
iouse. Far far away, hauling out to sea from behind the
Wissow Klinken (the pale limestone latchkey with which
Providence today i
is probing the wards of Slothropâs heart),
"a visible in the rain, dips a tiny white ghost of a
âCat, a bearing,â Frau Gnahb grabbing the wheel and
racing her feet. âWe want a collision course!â Otto
rouches by the pelorus, shivering.
âHere, Slothrop.â
Luger? Box of rounds? âWhat...â
âCame this morning with the egg delivery.â
_ âYou didnât mentionââ
âHe may be a little exercised. But heâs a realist. Your
riend Greta and I knew him in Warsaw, in the old days.â
âSpringerâtell me Springer, now, what ship is that?â
yy) .
â
Ps
Be
616
Graviryâs RAINBOW
Springer hands him some binoculars. In fine gold lettering,
behind the golden jackal on the wraith-white bow, is the
name he already knows. âO.... K.,â trying to see through
the rain into Springerâs eyes, âyou knew I was aboard.
You're setting me up, now, right?â
âWhen were you on board?â
.
âCome onââ
~âT.ookâNarrisch was going after the package today.
Not you. We didnât even know you. Do you have to see
conspiracies in everything? I donât control the Russians,
and I didnât deliver himââ
âYou're really pushing that innocence today, ainât you?â
âQuit bickering,
idiots,â hollers Frau Gnahb, âand
clearâfor action!â
Lazy and spectral pitches the Anubis, growing no
clearer as they close with her. Springer reaches a mega-
phone out of the pilot house, and bawls, âGood day,
Procalowskiâpermission to come aboard.â
The answer is a gunshot. Springer hits the deck, slicker
in rattling yellow flow, lies on his back with the mega-
phone pointing up funneling rain in his mouth: âWe'll
have to without permission, thenââ Motioning Slothrop
over, âGet ready to board.â To Frau Gnahb, âWe'll want
to lash on.â
âFine but,â one look at the evil leer now lighting up
Ottoâs motherâs face and itâs clear that she didnât come out
today for money, âwhen do I get to, to ram her?â
Alone on the sea with the Anubis. Slothrop has begun
to sweat, unpleasantly. The green rocky coast of Riigen
backdrops them, rising and falling through the squall.
Zonggg another shot rattlesnaking off of a bulkhead.
âRam,â orders the Springer. The storm comes down in
earnest. Gleeful Frau Gnahb, humming through her teeth,
spins the wheel, spokes blurring, prow swinging over
aiming for midships. The blank side of the Anubis rushes
inâis the Frau gonna bust on through it like a paper
hoop? Faces behind portholes, cook peeling potatoes out-
side the galley, drunk in a frock coat sleeping on the rainy
deck and sliding as the ship rolls... ahâ-ja, ja, a huge
blue-flowered bowl of shredded potatoes at her elbow, a
window, cast-iron flowers on spiral vine all painted white,
a mild smell of cabbage and dishrags from under the
sink, an apron bow snug and tight above her kidneys and
In the Zone
617
lambs about her legs and ja little, oh, ja, here comes
littlkeâahâhere comes herecomes LITTLEâAHHâ
OTTO! slams her boat into the Anubis, a most likin
earsplitting Otto. .
âStand by.â Springerâ s on his feet. Procalowski is turning
away and increasing engine speed. Frau Gnahb moves up
again on the yachtâs starboard quarter, wallowing in her
wake. Otto passes out grappling hooks, long in Hanseatic
service, iron, pitted, functional-looking, as Mutti puts it
all head full. Couples have wandered out under awnings on
the Anubis to watch the fun, pointing, laughing, gaily
waving. Girls, their nude breasts beaded with rain, blow
kisses while the band plays a Guy Lombardo arrangement
of âRunning Between the Raindrops.â
Up the slippery ladder goes salty and buccaneering
Slothrop, hefting his grappling hook, letting out line, keep-
ing an eye on that Ottoâwind up, spin like a lasso,
wheeeeâclank. Springer and Otto at bow and stern are
grappling on at the same time, hauling in as the vessels
hit, bounce, hit, .. but the Anubis, softwhite, has slowed,
sprawled, allowed... Otto gets line around chocks for-
ward and up around the scrimshawed railing of the
yachtâthen dashes aft, sneakers splashing, ribbed foot-
prints left behind then rained out, to repeat the lashing
there. A newly-arranged river roars, white and violent,
backward between the two ships. Springer is already up
on the yachtâs main deck. Slothrop tucks Luger in belt
and follows.
Springer with the classic gangster head-move gestures
him up the bridge. Slothrop moves through groping hands,
_
greetings in broken Russian, puffs of alcoholic breath,
_
around to the ladder on the port sideâclimbing, edgingâ
quietly onto the bridge. But Procalowski is only sitting in
the captainâs chair smoking one of Springerâs amis with
his cap tilted back, and Springerâs just at the punch line
to one of his giant repertoire of German toilet jokes.
âWhat the devil, Gerhardt,â Procalowski waving a
thumb. âThe Red Armyâs working for you too?â
:
âHello again, Antoni.â The three silver stars on each of
his epaulets twinkle howdy, but itâs no good.
âIT donât know you.â To the Springer: âAll right. Itâs in
_
the engine room. Starboard side, down behind the genera-
tor,â which is Slothropâs cue to leave.
Ambush on the Anubis
- Slothrop and the crew of the Frau Baad board the yacht Anubis using grappling hooks while passengers watch with detached amusement.
- The boarding party encounters Captain Procalowski, who reveals the location of a hidden item in the engine room to Springer.
- As Slothrop descends into the engineering spaces to retrieve the object, the ship's power fails, plunging the vessel into darkness.
- In the pitch black, Slothrop is intercepted and brutally assaulted by an unseen assailant who uses precise, agonizing strikes.
- The attacker disarms Slothrop and forces him to continue his descent into the engine room under the threat of further violence.
It feels like the pointed toe of a dancing-pump, in out of nowhere to hover a second and stroke the soft underside of his chinâthen it flicks up, slamming his teeth shut on his tongue.
In the Zone
617
lambs about her legs and ja little, oh, ja, here comes
littlkeâahâhere comes herecomes LITTLEâAHHâ
OTTO! slams her boat into the Anubis, a most likin
earsplitting Otto. .
âStand by.â Springerâ s on his feet. Procalowski is turning
away and increasing engine speed. Frau Gnahb moves up
again on the yachtâs starboard quarter, wallowing in her
wake. Otto passes out grappling hooks, long in Hanseatic
service, iron, pitted, functional-looking, as Mutti puts it
all head full. Couples have wandered out under awnings on
the Anubis to watch the fun, pointing, laughing, gaily
waving. Girls, their nude breasts beaded with rain, blow
kisses while the band plays a Guy Lombardo arrangement
of âRunning Between the Raindrops.â
Up the slippery ladder goes salty and buccaneering
Slothrop, hefting his grappling hook, letting out line, keep-
ing an eye on that Ottoâwind up, spin like a lasso,
wheeeeâclank. Springer and Otto at bow and stern are
grappling on at the same time, hauling in as the vessels
hit, bounce, hit, .. but the Anubis, softwhite, has slowed,
sprawled, allowed... Otto gets line around chocks for-
ward and up around the scrimshawed railing of the
yachtâthen dashes aft, sneakers splashing, ribbed foot-
prints left behind then rained out, to repeat the lashing
there. A newly-arranged river roars, white and violent,
backward between the two ships. Springer is already up
on the yachtâs main deck. Slothrop tucks Luger in belt
and follows.
Springer with the classic gangster head-move gestures
him up the bridge. Slothrop moves through groping hands,
_
greetings in broken Russian, puffs of alcoholic breath,
_
around to the ladder on the port sideâclimbing, edgingâ
quietly onto the bridge. But Procalowski is only sitting in
the captainâs chair smoking one of Springerâs amis with
his cap tilted back, and Springerâs just at the punch line
to one of his giant repertoire of German toilet jokes.
âWhat the devil, Gerhardt,â Procalowski waving a
thumb. âThe Red Armyâs working for you too?â
:
âHello again, Antoni.â The three silver stars on each of
his epaulets twinkle howdy, but itâs no good.
âIT donât know you.â To the Springer: âAll right. Itâs in
_
the engine room. Starboard side, down behind the genera-
tor,â which is Slothropâs cue to leave.
618
Graviryâs RAINBOW
At the bottom of the ladder he meets Stefania coming
along the passageway. âHi. Sorry we have to meet again
this way.â
âHello, Iâm Stefania,â shuttering a fast smile as she
passes, âthereâs liquor next deck up, enjoy yourself,â al-
ready gone, out in the rain. What?
.. Slothrop steps down through a hatchway, starts to climb
down toward the engineering spaces. Somewhere above
him three bells strike, slowly, a little hollow, with a slight
echo. Itâs late... late. He remembers where he is.
Just as he touches the deck, all the lights go out. Air
blowers whine down in stillness. The engine room is down
one more deck. Will he have to do this in the dark?
âT canât,â out loud.
âYou can,â replies a voice close to his ear. He can feel
its breath. He is smashed expertly at the base of the neck.
Light loops through the pitch dark. His left arm has gone
numb, âIll leave you the other one,â the voice whispers,
âfor climbing down to the engine room.â
âWaitââ It feels like the pointed toe of a dancing-
pump, in out of nowhere to hover a,second and stroke the
soft underside of his chinâthen it flicks up, slamming his
teeth shut on his tongue.
The pain is awful. He tastes blood. Sweat gathers next
to his eyes.
âMove, now.â When he hesitates he is pinched on the
back of the neck. Oh, it hurts... he holds to the ladder,
night-blind, starting to cry ... then he thinks of the Luger,
but before he can get to it heâs been kicked viciously be-
tween hip and groin. The gun falls to the steel deck.
Slothrop is down on one knee, groping, when the shoe
descends lightly on his fingers. âYou will need this hand
for holding on to the ladder, remember? Remember?â
Then the shoe is lifted, but only to kick him under the
armpit. âUp, up.â
Slothrop gropes to the next ladder, makes
his stiff one-
armed way down onto it. He feels the steel hatch-opening
rise around him. âDonât try to come back|
up till you've
done what you have to do.â
ater
|
âThanatz?â Slothropâs tongue hurts. The name comes
out clumsily. Silence. âMorituri?â No answer. Slothrop
moves one foot up one rung.
âNo, no. Iâm still here.â
Slothrop's Descent and Departure
- Slothrop navigates a dark, claustrophobic ship compartment, experiencing sensory overload and a near-breakdown.
- He encounters a surreal and disturbing array of tactile sensations, including wet silk, hair, and the smell of the sea.
- Upon finding a mysterious brown paper bundle, Slothrop is confronted by haunting, 'dead-white and scarlet' visual hallucinations.
- The narrative shifts to a farewell on the Frauâs boat, where Springer celebrates with champagne as the vessels part ways.
- Slothrop disembarks at Stralsund, feeling the physical and emotional weight of his isolation and the rolling sea.
- The section concludes with Slothropâs internal plea for redemption or a sign, symbolized by the blooming staff of a Pope.
Icy little thighs in wet silk swing against his face.
618
Graviryâs RAINBOW
At the bottom of the ladder he meets Stefania coming
along the passageway. âHi. Sorry we have to meet again
this way.â
âHello, Iâm Stefania,â shuttering a fast smile as she
passes, âthereâs liquor next deck up, enjoy yourself,â al-
ready gone, out in the rain. What?
.. Slothrop steps down through a hatchway, starts to climb
down toward the engineering spaces. Somewhere above
him three bells strike, slowly, a little hollow, with a slight
echo. Itâs late... late. He remembers where he is.
Just as he touches the deck, all the lights go out. Air
blowers whine down in stillness. The engine room is down
one more deck. Will he have to do this in the dark?
âT canât,â out loud.
âYou can,â replies a voice close to his ear. He can feel
its breath. He is smashed expertly at the base of the neck.
Light loops through the pitch dark. His left arm has gone
numb, âIll leave you the other one,â the voice whispers,
âfor climbing down to the engine room.â
âWaitââ It feels like the pointed toe of a dancing-
pump, in out of nowhere to hover a,second and stroke the
soft underside of his chinâthen it flicks up, slamming his
teeth shut on his tongue.
The pain is awful. He tastes blood. Sweat gathers next
to his eyes.
âMove, now.â When he hesitates he is pinched on the
back of the neck. Oh, it hurts... he holds to the ladder,
night-blind, starting to cry ... then he thinks of the Luger,
but before he can get to it heâs been kicked viciously be-
tween hip and groin. The gun falls to the steel deck.
Slothrop is down on one knee, groping, when the shoe
descends lightly on his fingers. âYou will need this hand
for holding on to the ladder, remember? Remember?â
Then the shoe is lifted, but only to kick him under the
armpit. âUp, up.â
Slothrop gropes to the next ladder, makes
his stiff one-
armed way down onto it. He feels the steel hatch-opening
rise around him. âDonât try to come back|
up till you've
done what you have to do.â
ater
|
âThanatz?â Slothropâs tongue hurts. The name comes
out clumsily. Silence. âMorituri?â No answer. Slothrop
moves one foot up one rung.
âNo, no. Iâm still here.â
In the Zone
619
As he edges downward, shaking, rung by rung, feeling
prickles back into his arm, How can he go down? How
can he go up? He tries to concentrate on the pain. His
feet strike steel plate finally. Blindness. He moves to star-
board, colliding at every step with shin-high edges, sharp
projections ...I donât want to.... how can1...reach down
behind. ... bare hands ...what if...
A sudden whine to his rightâsomething mechanicalâ
he jumps, breath sucking very cold between teeth, nerves
in back and arms off and on, skittering...he reaches a
cylindrical barrier...might be the. generator... stoops
and begins toâ His hand closes on stiff taffeta. He jerks it
away, tries to get up, slams his head against something
sharp... he wants to crawl back toward the ladder, but
has lost all sense of direction now... he squats, turning in
a circle, slowly ...let it end letitend.... But his hands,
pawing the deck, return to slippery satin.
âNo,â Yes: hooks and eyes. He breaks
a. fingernail,
trying to lose them but they follow... lacing that moves,
snake-sure, entangling, binding each finger... .
_
âNo....â He rises to a crouch, moves forward into some-
thing hanging from the overhead. Icy little thighs in wet
silk swing against his face. They smell of the sea. He
tums away, only to be lashed across the cheek by long wet
hair. No matter which way he tries to move now...
cold
nipples...the deep cleft of her buttocks, perfume and
shit and the smell of brine .. . and the smell
of ... of...
When the lights come back on, Slothrop is on his knees,
breathing carefully. He knows he will have to open his
eyes. The compartment reeks now with suppressed lightâ
with mortal possibilities for lightâas the body, in times
of great sadness, will feel its real chances for pain: real
and terrible and only just under the threshold.... The
brown paper bundle is two inches from his knee, wedged
behind the generator. But itâs whatâs dancing dead-white
and scarlet at the edges of his sight... and are the lad-
ders back up and out really as empty as they look?
Back on the Frauâs boat, Springer is out with a bottle
of champagne courtesy of the Anubis, untwisting the
bright wires and firing the cork in a farewell salvo. Slo-
thropâs hands are shaking and he spills most of his. Antoni
and Stefania watch from the bridge as the two vessels pull
.
S
620
Gravity's Rainsow
apart, Baltic sky visible through the backs of their eyes.
Her white hair in filaments of foam, her cheeks sculptured
fog... cloud-man, fog-wife, they dwindle, aloof, silent,
back into the heart of the storm.
The Frau heads south, along the other coast of Riigen,
into the straits by way of the Bug. The storm keeps pace,
as night comes down. âWe'll put in at Stralsund,â her
scrawled face streaming with lube-green shadow, yellow
light, as the oil-lantern sways in the pilot house.
Slothrop reckons he'll get off there. Head for that Cux-
haven. âSpringer, you think you'll have those papers for
me on time?â
âI canât guarantee anything,â sez Gerhardt yon Goll.
At Stralsund, on the quai, in the lamplight and the rain,
they say good-by. Frau Gnahb kisses Slothrop, and Otto
gives him a pack of Lucky Strikes. The Springer looks up
from his green notebook and nods auf Wiedersehen over
his pince-nez. Slothrop walks away, over the brow, into
the wet Hafenplatz, sea-legs trying to balance rolling heâs
left behind, past booms and masts and strung tackle of
derricks, past a crew on the night shift offloading the
creaking lighters into wood wagons, bowed gray horses
kissing the grassless stones.,.good-bys in âhis pockets
warming his empty hands....
O
Where is the Pope whose staff will bloom for me?
Her mountain vamps me back, with silks and scents,
Her oiled, athletic slaves, her languid hints
Of tortures transubstantiate
to sky,
To purity of lightâof bonds that sing,
And whips that trail their spectra as they fall.
At weatherâs mercy now, I find her call
At every turn, at nightâs foregathering. °
I've left no sick Lisauraâs fate behind.
I made my last confession as I knelt,
Agnostic, in the radiance of his jewel...
|
Here, underneath my last and splintering wind,
No song, no lust, no memory, no guilt:
No pentacles, no cups, no holy Fool....
|
Brigadier Pudding died back in the middle of June of a
massive E. coli infection, whining, at the end, âMe little
The Ghosts of The White Visitation
- Brigadier Pudding dies of a massive infection, marking the end of an era and leaving Katje to wander the decaying, 'ash-colored' corridors of the laboratory.
- Katje discovers film reels in a music room, realizing she is being forgotten by Pointsman as he focuses on London industrialists.
- Watching the footage, Katje confronts her own image used as a conditioning stimulus for Octopus Grigori, revealing the cold mechanics of her exploitation.
- The discovery of the film highlights the transition of 'The White Visitation' from a site of active psychological warfare to a hollow, weather-beaten ruin.
- The narrative shifts into a surreal, drug-fueled film treatment by Osbie Feel titled 'Doperâs Greed,' featuring an absurd cast including Basil Rathbone and a midget sheriff.
She sees a white-haired girl in Pirate Prenticeâs Chelsea maisonette, a face so strange that she has recognized the mediaeval rooms before she does herself.
620
Gravity's Rainsow
apart, Baltic sky visible through the backs of their eyes.
Her white hair in filaments of foam, her cheeks sculptured
fog... cloud-man, fog-wife, they dwindle, aloof, silent,
back into the heart of the storm.
The Frau heads south, along the other coast of Riigen,
into the straits by way of the Bug. The storm keeps pace,
as night comes down. âWe'll put in at Stralsund,â her
scrawled face streaming with lube-green shadow, yellow
light, as the oil-lantern sways in the pilot house.
Slothrop reckons he'll get off there. Head for that Cux-
haven. âSpringer, you think you'll have those papers for
me on time?â
âI canât guarantee anything,â sez Gerhardt yon Goll.
At Stralsund, on the quai, in the lamplight and the rain,
they say good-by. Frau Gnahb kisses Slothrop, and Otto
gives him a pack of Lucky Strikes. The Springer looks up
from his green notebook and nods auf Wiedersehen over
his pince-nez. Slothrop walks away, over the brow, into
the wet Hafenplatz, sea-legs trying to balance rolling heâs
left behind, past booms and masts and strung tackle of
derricks, past a crew on the night shift offloading the
creaking lighters into wood wagons, bowed gray horses
kissing the grassless stones.,.good-bys in âhis pockets
warming his empty hands....
O
Where is the Pope whose staff will bloom for me?
Her mountain vamps me back, with silks and scents,
Her oiled, athletic slaves, her languid hints
Of tortures transubstantiate
to sky,
To purity of lightâof bonds that sing,
And whips that trail their spectra as they fall.
At weatherâs mercy now, I find her call
At every turn, at nightâs foregathering. °
I've left no sick Lisauraâs fate behind.
I made my last confession as I knelt,
Agnostic, in the radiance of his jewel...
|
Here, underneath my last and splintering wind,
No song, no lust, no memory, no guilt:
No pentacles, no cups, no holy Fool....
|
Brigadier Pudding died back in the middle of June of a
massive E. coli infection, whining, at the end, âMe little
In the Zone
621
Mary hurts.
over and over. It was just before dawn,
as he had \
Thed Katje stayed on at âThe White Visita-
_
tionâ for a while, roaming the demobbed corridors, smoky
and still at the ends of all the emptied lattices of cages in
the laboratory, herself part of the ash-colored web, the
thickening dust and fly-pocked windows.
One day she found the cans of film, stacked carelessly.
by Webley Silvernail in what had been a music room, oc-
cupied now only by a disintegrating Wittmaier harpsi-
chord no one played, quills and stops broken shamefully,
strings left to sharp, flat, or corrode in the busy knives of
weather pushing relentlessly into all the rooms. Pointsman
happened that day to be up in London, working out of
Twelfth House, lingering at alcoholic luncheons with his
various industrialists. Was he forgetting her? Would she
be free? Was she, already?
Out of apparently nothing more than the emptiness of
âThe White Visitation,â she finds a projector, threads a
reel and focuses the image on a water-stained wall, next to
a landscape of some northern coomb, with daft aristocrats
larking about. She sees a white-haired girl in Pirate Pren-
ticeâs Chelsea maisonette, a face so strange that she has
recognized the mediaeval rooms before she does herself.
When did theyâah, the day Osbie Feel was processing
the Amanita mushrooms.... Fascinated,
she stares
at
twenty minutes of herself in pre-Piscean fugue. What on
earth did they use it for? The answer to that oneâs in the
can too, and it isnât long before she finds itâOctopus
Grigori in his tank, watching the Katje footage. Clip after
clip: flickering screen and cutaways to Octopus G., star-
ingâeach with its typewritten date, showing the improve-
ment in the creatureâs conditioned reflex.
Spliced on at the end of all this, inexplicably, is what
seems to be a screen test of Osbie Feel, of all people.
There is a sound track. Osbie is improvising a scenario for
a movie heâs written, entitled:
Doprrâs GREED
âWe open with Nelson Eddy in the background, singing:
Doperâs greed,
Oh, doperâs greed]!
622
Gravityâs Rainsow
Itâs the most disgustinâ thing I ever seed!
i
When you're out there feelinâ fine,
It'll turn you into swine,
If you ever get a taste of DOPERâS GREED!
âNow into town ride two trail-weary cowboys, Basil
Rathbone and S. Z. (âCuddlesâ) Sakall. At the entrance to
town, barring their way, stands the Midget who played
the lead in Freaks. The one with the German accent. He is
the town sheriff. He is wearing an enormous gold star that
nearly covers his chest. Rathbone and Sakall rein up, with
uneasy smiles on their faces.
âRATHBONE: That canât possibly be real, can it?
âSAKALL: Hoo, hoo! Of course thatâs real, you wretched
eddict, you vent ânâ chewed too much oâ that veird cectus,
beck down the trail. You should hey smucked that nice
veed Thad, I tuld youâ
âRATHBONE (with his nervous
5 Sickly Smile): PleaseâI
donât need a Jewish mother. I know whatâs real, and what
isnât real.
â(The Midget, meanwhile,
is posturing: in different
tough-hombre attitudes, and waving a brace of elgane
Colts about. )
âSAKALL: Vhen you been out on the Ps i Bet
know vhich trail too, donât you you sniveling punkâfor as
long as I have, you know ah real midget sheriff from ah
hallucinated vun.
âRATHBONE: I hadnât known either class existed. You
must obviously have seen midget sheriffs all over this
Territory, else you would hardly have invented the cate-
gory. O-or would you? You know, you're just dodgy
enough to try anything.
âSaKALL: You forgot âYou old rescal.â
âRATHBONE: You old rascal.
âThey laugh, draw their guns, and eee
a few play-
ful shots. The Midget is rushing back and forth, furious,
emitting high-pitched German-accented Westernisms like
âThis town ainât big enough for both of us!â
âSAKALL: Vell, vere both seeing him. That means heâs
real,
âRATHBONE: Joint hallucination is not unknown in our
world, podner.
Doperâs Greed and Coded Escapes
- A surreal film featuring Basil Rathbone and S. Z. Sakall debating the reality of a midget sheriff serves as a coded message for Katje.
- The film's dialogue explores themes of joint hallucination and drug-induced perception, culminating in a decision to kill the 'reality' they are debating.
- Katje decodes the screen test as a prophecy where Rathbone represents Osbie and Sakall represents the manipulative Pointsman.
- Interpreting the film as a sign of the grand scheme's eventual collapse, Katje finds the courage to walk away from 'The White Visitation.'
- Katje's escape mirrors her past flight toward Pirate Prentice, highlighting her recurring search for safety amidst wartime chaos.
- The narrative shifts to Osbie Feel in a drug-fueled state, celebrating the end of his wartime stash with a chaotic, three-day binge.
Joint hallucination is not unknown in our world, podner.
622
Gravityâs Rainsow
Itâs the most disgustinâ thing I ever seed!
i
When you're out there feelinâ fine,
It'll turn you into swine,
If you ever get a taste of DOPERâS GREED!
âNow into town ride two trail-weary cowboys, Basil
Rathbone and S. Z. (âCuddlesâ) Sakall. At the entrance to
town, barring their way, stands the Midget who played
the lead in Freaks. The one with the German accent. He is
the town sheriff. He is wearing an enormous gold star that
nearly covers his chest. Rathbone and Sakall rein up, with
uneasy smiles on their faces.
âRATHBONE: That canât possibly be real, can it?
âSAKALL: Hoo, hoo! Of course thatâs real, you wretched
eddict, you vent ânâ chewed too much oâ that veird cectus,
beck down the trail. You should hey smucked that nice
veed Thad, I tuld youâ
âRATHBONE (with his nervous
5 Sickly Smile): PleaseâI
donât need a Jewish mother. I know whatâs real, and what
isnât real.
â(The Midget, meanwhile,
is posturing: in different
tough-hombre attitudes, and waving a brace of elgane
Colts about. )
âSAKALL: Vhen you been out on the Ps i Bet
know vhich trail too, donât you you sniveling punkâfor as
long as I have, you know ah real midget sheriff from ah
hallucinated vun.
âRATHBONE: I hadnât known either class existed. You
must obviously have seen midget sheriffs all over this
Territory, else you would hardly have invented the cate-
gory. O-or would you? You know, you're just dodgy
enough to try anything.
âSaKALL: You forgot âYou old rescal.â
âRATHBONE: You old rascal.
âThey laugh, draw their guns, and eee
a few play-
ful shots. The Midget is rushing back and forth, furious,
emitting high-pitched German-accented Westernisms like
âThis town ainât big enough for both of us!â
âSAKALL: Vell, vere both seeing him. That means heâs
real,
âRATHBONE: Joint hallucination is not unknown in our
world, podner.
In the Zone
623
âSaKaLL: Who sez itâs joint hallucination? Hoo, hoo! If it
vas any kind of hallucinationâIâm not saying it is, nowâ
it vould be peyote. Or jimson veed, mebbe. ...
âThis interesting conversation goes on for an hour and
a half. There are no cuts. The Midget is active the whole
time, reacting to the many subtle and now and then
dazzling points presented. Occasionally the horses will shit
in the dust. It is not clear if the Midget knows that his
reality is being discussed. Another of this filmâs artful
ambiguities. Finally, Rathbone and Sakall agree that the
only way to settle the argument is to kill the Midget, who
gathers their intention and runs off screaming down the
street. Sakall laughs so hard he falls off his horse into the
horse trough, and we get a final closeup of Rathbone smil-
ing, in his uncertain way. Fade up song:
When you're out there feelinâ fine,
Ill turn you into swine,
If you ever get a taste of Doperâs Greed!â
There is a brief epilogue to this, with Osbie trying to
point out that of course the element of Greed must be
worked somehow into the plot line, in order to justify the
title, but the film runs out in the middle of an âuh...â
Katje by now is in a bewildered state, but she knows a
message when she sees it. Someone, a hidden friend at
âThe White Visitationââperhaps Silvernail himself, whoâs
been less than fanatically loyal to Pointsman and his lotâ
has planted Osbie Feelâs screen test deliberately here,
where they knew she'd find it: She rewinds and runs the
film again. Osbie is looking straight into the camera:
Straight at her, none of your idle doperâs foolery here, heâs
acting. Thereâs no mistake. It is a message, in code, which
after not too long she busts as follows. Say that Basil
Rathbone stands for young Osbie himself. S. Z. Sakall may
be Mr. Pointsman, and the Midget sheriff the whole dark
grandiose Scheme, wrapped in one small package, dimin-
ished, a clear target. Pointsman argues that itâs real, but
Osbie knows better. Pointsman ends up in the stagnant
trough, and the plot/Midget vanishes, frightened, into the
dust. A prophecy. A kindness. She returns to her open cell,
_
gathers a few belongings in a bag, and walks out of âThe
»
7
|
-s
-
.
624
Gravityâs RAINBOW
White Visitation,â past the unclipped topiary hedges,
growing back into reality, past peacetimeâs returned mad-
men sitting gently in the sun. Once, outside Scheveningen,
she walked the dunes, past the waterworks, past the blocks
of new flats replacing the torn-down slums, concrete still
wet inside its shuttering, with the same hope of escape in
her heartâmoved,
a vulnerable shadow, so long ago,
toward her rendezvous with Pirate by the windmill called
âThe Angel.â Where is he now? Is he still living in Chel-
seaP Is he even alive?
Osbie is at home, anyway, chewing spices, smoking
reefers, and shooting cocaine. The last of his wartime stash,
One grand eruption. Heâs been up for three days. He
beams at Katje, a sunburst in primary colors spiking out
from his head, waves the needle heâs just taken out of his
vein, clamps between his teeth a pipe as big as a saxo-
phone and puts on a deerstalker cap, which does not affect
the sunburst a bit.
âSherlock Holmes. Basil Rathbone. I was right,â out of
breath, letting her bag fall with a thump.
The aura pulses, bows modestly, He is also steel, he is
rawhide and sweat. âGood, good. Thereâs the son of Frank-
enstein in it, too. I wish we could have been more direct,
butââ
âWhereâs Prentice?â
âOut scouting up some transportation.â He leads her to
a back room fitted out with telephones, a cork board with
notes pinned all over, desks littered with maps, schedules,
An Introduction to Modern Herero, corporate histories,
spools of recording wire. âNot very organized around here
yet. But itâs coming along, love, itâs coming.â
Is this what she thinks it isP Wakened from how many
times and pushed away because it won't do to hope,- not
this much? Dialectically, sooner or later, some counter-
force would have had to arise. ..she must not have been
political enough: never enough to keep faith that it would
.
. even with all the power on the other side, that it really
would. ...
y
Osbie has pulled up folding chairs: hands her now a
mimeographed sheaf, rather fat it is, âOne or two things,
here, you should know. We hate to rush you. But the ae
trough is waiting,â
The Counterforce and the Labyrinth
- A female character arrives at a chaotic headquarters, realizing that a tangible counterforce against the prevailing power structures has finally emerged.
- Osbie Feel presents a collection of intelligence and documents, signaling the group's transition from disorganized scouting to active resistance.
- The narrative shifts into a surreal, museum-like structure that functions as a living, expanding labyrinth of history, art, and sensory indulgence.
- Pirate Prentice navigates this 'Parliament of Life,' where individuals are divided by their choices and move through metaphorical corridors.
- The environment blends high-stakes political subversion with a whimsical, dreamlike atmosphere featuring massive pastry carts and endless taffy-pulling.
In the Parliament of Life, the time comes, simply, for a division. We are in the corridors we have chosen, moving toward the door.
624
Gravityâs RAINBOW
White Visitation,â past the unclipped topiary hedges,
growing back into reality, past peacetimeâs returned mad-
men sitting gently in the sun. Once, outside Scheveningen,
she walked the dunes, past the waterworks, past the blocks
of new flats replacing the torn-down slums, concrete still
wet inside its shuttering, with the same hope of escape in
her heartâmoved,
a vulnerable shadow, so long ago,
toward her rendezvous with Pirate by the windmill called
âThe Angel.â Where is he now? Is he still living in Chel-
seaP Is he even alive?
Osbie is at home, anyway, chewing spices, smoking
reefers, and shooting cocaine. The last of his wartime stash,
One grand eruption. Heâs been up for three days. He
beams at Katje, a sunburst in primary colors spiking out
from his head, waves the needle heâs just taken out of his
vein, clamps between his teeth a pipe as big as a saxo-
phone and puts on a deerstalker cap, which does not affect
the sunburst a bit.
âSherlock Holmes. Basil Rathbone. I was right,â out of
breath, letting her bag fall with a thump.
The aura pulses, bows modestly, He is also steel, he is
rawhide and sweat. âGood, good. Thereâs the son of Frank-
enstein in it, too. I wish we could have been more direct,
butââ
âWhereâs Prentice?â
âOut scouting up some transportation.â He leads her to
a back room fitted out with telephones, a cork board with
notes pinned all over, desks littered with maps, schedules,
An Introduction to Modern Herero, corporate histories,
spools of recording wire. âNot very organized around here
yet. But itâs coming along, love, itâs coming.â
Is this what she thinks it isP Wakened from how many
times and pushed away because it won't do to hope,- not
this much? Dialectically, sooner or later, some counter-
force would have had to arise. ..she must not have been
political enough: never enough to keep faith that it would
.
. even with all the power on the other side, that it really
would. ...
y
Osbie has pulled up folding chairs: hands her now a
mimeographed sheaf, rather fat it is, âOne or two things,
here, you should know. We hate to rush you. But the ae
trough is waiting,â
In-the Zone
625
And presently, his modulations having flowed through
the rooms in splendid (and for a while distracting) dis-
plays of bougainvillea red and peach, it seems he has
stabilized for the moment into the not-quite-worldly hero of
a lost Victorian childrenâs book, for he answers, after her
hundredth version of the same question, âIn the Parliament
of Life, the time comes, simply, for a division. We are
a in the corridors we have chosen, moving toward the
oor.
O
Dear Mom, I put a couple of people in Hell today....
âFragment, thought to be from
the Gospel of Thomas
(Oxyrhynchus papyrus number classified)
Who would have thought so many would be here? They
keep appearing, all through this disquieting structure,
gathered in groups, pacing alone in meditation, or study-
ing the paintings, the books, the exhibits. It seems to be
some very extensive museum, a place of many levels, and
new wings that generate like living tissueâthough if it all
does grow toward some end shape, those who are here
inside canât see it. Some of the halls are to be entered at
oneâs peril, and monitors are standing at all the approaches
to make this clear. Movement among these passages is
without friction, skimming and rapid, often headlong, as on
perfect roller skates, Parts of the long galleries are open
to the sea. There are cafés to sit in and watch the sun-
setsâor sunrises, depending on the hours of shifts and
symposia. Fantastic pastry carts come by, big as pantechni-
cons: one has to go inside, search the numberless shelves,
each revealing treats gooier and sweeter than the last ...
chefs stand by with ice-cream scoops at the ready, awaiting
only a word from the saccharomaniac client to swiftly mold
and rush baked Alaskas of any size and flavor to the ovens
... there are boats of baklava stuffed with Bavarian cream,
_
topped with curls of bittersweet chocolate, broken al-
_ monds, cherries as big as ping-pong balls, and popcorn in
melted marshmallows and butter, and thousands of kinds
7
626
Gravity's RAINBOW
of fudge, from liquorice to divinity, being slapped out on
the flat stone tables, and taffy-pulling, all by hand, that
sometimes extends around corners, out windows, back in
another corridorâer, excuse me, sir, could you hold this
for a moment? thank youâthe joker is gone, leaving Pirate
Prentice here, newly arrived and still a bit puzzled with it
all, holding one end of a candy clew whose other end
could be anywhere at all... well, he might as well follow
it... prowling along looking quite wry, reeling in taffy by
the yard, occasionally stuffing a bit in his mouthâmm,
peanut butter and molassesâwell, its labyrinthine path
turns out, like Route One where it passes through the heart
of Providence, toâve been set up deliberately to give the
stranger a tour of the city. This taffy trick is a standard
orientation device here it seems, for Pirate now and then -
will cross the path of some other novice... often theyll
have a time getting their strands of taffy disentangled,
which has also been planned as a good, spontaneous way
for the newcomers to meet. The tour now takes Pirate out
into an open courtyard, where a small crowd has formed
around one of the Erdschweinhdhle delegates in a rip-
roaring argument with some advertising executive over
what else but the Heresy Question, already a pebble in the
shoe of this Convention, and perhaps to be the rock on
which it will founder.
Street-entertainers go by: self-
taught tumblers doing amazing handsprings on pavement
that seems dangerously hard and slippery, choirs of kazoos
playing Gilbert & Sullivan medleys, a boy and girl who
dance not along the level street but up and down, usually
at the major flights of steps, whenever thereâs a queue to
be waited through, ...
Gathering up his ball of taffy, which by now is growing
quite cumbersome, Pirate passes Beaverboard Row, at it is
known: comprising the offices of all the Committees, with
the name of each stenciled above the doorwayâA4 .. . 1G
. OIL FIRMS
.
.
. LOBOTOMY
.
.
. SELF-DEFENSE
.
.
.
HERESY...
;
âNaturally you're seeing this all through a soldierâs eyes,â
sheâs very young, insouciant, wearing a silly small young-
womanâs hat of the period, her face clean and steady
enough for the broad-shouldered, high-waisted, no-neck
profile theyâre all affecting these days. She moves along
The Convention of the Zone
- Pirate navigates a surreal, orchestrated tour of the city where strangers are guided together by strands of taffy.
- The atmosphere is a chaotic mix of street performers, kazoo choirs, and bureaucratic rows housing committees for everything from Lobotomy to Heresy.
- Pirate encounters a spirited young woman whose youthful energy and 'contagious spirit' contrast with the rigid military perspective.
- The 'Heresy Question' looms over the gathering as a potential point of collapse for the entire convention.
- Father Rapier, the Devilâs Advocate, warns that once technical control systems reach a 'critical mass,' human freedom becomes an obsolete concept.
- The narrative juxtaposes the frantic joy of the jitterbugging youth with the looming shadow of the 'Cosmic Bomb' and total technological surveillance.
Once the technical means of control have reached a certain size, a certain degree of being connected one to another, the chances for freedom are over for good.
7
626
Gravity's RAINBOW
of fudge, from liquorice to divinity, being slapped out on
the flat stone tables, and taffy-pulling, all by hand, that
sometimes extends around corners, out windows, back in
another corridorâer, excuse me, sir, could you hold this
for a moment? thank youâthe joker is gone, leaving Pirate
Prentice here, newly arrived and still a bit puzzled with it
all, holding one end of a candy clew whose other end
could be anywhere at all... well, he might as well follow
it... prowling along looking quite wry, reeling in taffy by
the yard, occasionally stuffing a bit in his mouthâmm,
peanut butter and molassesâwell, its labyrinthine path
turns out, like Route One where it passes through the heart
of Providence, toâve been set up deliberately to give the
stranger a tour of the city. This taffy trick is a standard
orientation device here it seems, for Pirate now and then -
will cross the path of some other novice... often theyll
have a time getting their strands of taffy disentangled,
which has also been planned as a good, spontaneous way
for the newcomers to meet. The tour now takes Pirate out
into an open courtyard, where a small crowd has formed
around one of the Erdschweinhdhle delegates in a rip-
roaring argument with some advertising executive over
what else but the Heresy Question, already a pebble in the
shoe of this Convention, and perhaps to be the rock on
which it will founder.
Street-entertainers go by: self-
taught tumblers doing amazing handsprings on pavement
that seems dangerously hard and slippery, choirs of kazoos
playing Gilbert & Sullivan medleys, a boy and girl who
dance not along the level street but up and down, usually
at the major flights of steps, whenever thereâs a queue to
be waited through, ...
Gathering up his ball of taffy, which by now is growing
quite cumbersome, Pirate passes Beaverboard Row, at it is
known: comprising the offices of all the Committees, with
the name of each stenciled above the doorwayâA4 .. . 1G
. OIL FIRMS
.
.
. LOBOTOMY
.
.
. SELF-DEFENSE
.
.
.
HERESY...
;
âNaturally you're seeing this all through a soldierâs eyes,â
sheâs very young, insouciant, wearing a silly small young-
womanâs hat of the period, her face clean and steady
enough for the broad-shouldered, high-waisted, no-neck
profile theyâre all affecting these days. She moves along
In the Zone
627
beside him taking long and graceful steps, swings her
arms, tosses her headâreaches over to grab some of his
taffy, and touching his hand as she does so.
âFor you itâs all a garden,â he suggests.
âYes, Perhaps you're not such a stick after all.â
Ah, they do bother him, these free women in their teens,
their spirits are so contagious,
Tl tell you itâs just âout, âray,
Where did the swing
âjuss
band come from?
eri:
A
Sheâs bouncing up
Spirit is so âcon, âtay, âjuss,
and down, she
Nobody knows their a-ges...
wants to be
jitterbugged, he sees
Walkinâ through bees of hon âney,
hie
ee
Throwinâ away âthat âmon, âney,
Laughinâ at things so âfun âny,
_ Spiritâs cominâ through âto, âyoul
Nev âver, âmind, whatcha hear from your car,
Take a lookit just âhow âkeen âthey are,
Nev âver, âanind, âwhat, your calendar say,
Evârybodyâs nine months old today] Hey,
Pages are turninâ pages,
Nobodyâs in âtheir, âca, âges,
Spiritâs just so âcon, âta, âgiousâ
Just let the Spirit âmove, âfor, âyoul
The only office not physically touching the others on
Beaverboard Row, intentionally set apart, is a little cor-
rugated shack, stovepipe coming out the top, pieces of
automobile lying around rusted solid in the yard, piles of
wood under rain-colored and failing canvas,
a house
trailer with its tires and one wheel tilted forlorn in the
spanging of the cold rain at its weathered outsides...
DEVIL'S ADVOCATEâs what the shingle sez, yes inside is a
Jesuit here to act in that capacity, here to preach, like his
colleague Teilhard de Chardin, against return. Here to say
that critical mass cannot be ignored. Once the technical
means of control have reached a certain size, a certain
degree of being connected one to another, the chances for
freedom are over for good. The word has ceased to have
meaning. Itâs a potent case Father Rapier makes here, not
_ without great moments of eloquence, moments when he
himself is clearly moved...no need even to be there, at
628
Gravityâs RaInsow
the office, for visitors may tune in from anywhere in the
Convention to his passionate demonstrations, which often
come in the midst of celebrating what hep humorists here
are already calling âCritical Massâ (get it? not too many
did in 1945, the Cosmic Bomb was still trembling in its
earliness, not yet revealed to the People, so you heard the
term only in the very superhepcat-to-hepcat exchanges).
âI think that there is a terrible possibility now, in the
World. We may not brush it away, we must look at it. It
is possible that They will not die. That it is now within
the state of Their art to go on foreverâthough we, of
course, will keep dying as we always have. Death has
been the source of Their power. It was easy enough for
us to see that. If we are here once, only once, then clearly
we are here to take what we can while we may. If They
have taken much more, and taken not only from Earth but
also from usâwell, why begrudge Them, when theyâre
just as doomed to die as we are? All in the same boat,-all
under the same shadow...
yes... yes. But is that really
true? Or is it the best, and the most carefully propagated,
of all Their lies, known and unknown?
âWe have to carry on under the possibility that we die
only because They want us to: because They need our
terror for Their survival. We are their harvests. ...
âTt must change radically the nature of our faith. To
ask that we keep faith in Their mortality, faith that They
also cry, and have fear, and feel pain, faith They are only
pretending Death is Their servantâfaith in Death as the
master of us allâis to ask for an order of courage that I
know is beyond my own humanity, though I cannot speak
for others.... But rather than make that leap of faith,
perhaps we will choose instead to tum, to fight: to de-
mand, from those for whom we die, our own immortality.
They may not be dying in bed any more, but maybe They
can still die from violence. If not, at least we can learn to
withhold from Them our fear of Death. For every kind of
vampire, there is a kind of cross. And at least the physical
things They have taken, from Earth and from us, can be
dismantled, demolishedâreturned to where it all came
from,
âTo believe that each of Them will personally die is also
to believe that Their system will dieâthat some chance of
The Lie of Shared Mortality
- A priest posits the terrifying possibility that the elite 'They' have achieved immortality while the masses continue to die.
- The text suggests that human death is a manufactured necessity, serving as a 'harvest' of terror that sustains the power of the elite.
- The speaker argues that if the elite are truly immortal, the nature of faith must shift from accepting death to active, violent resistance.
- Withholding the fear of death is presented as a 'cross' to the 'vampires' who rule the world through the illusion of shared mortality.
- Pirate Prentice enters a room filled with strange figures and sounds of sadistic games, highlighting a shift from philosophical dread to a gritty, absurd reality.
- The introduction of St.-Just Grossout reveals the internal paranoia of 'the Firm' and its attempts to infiltrate the Schwarzkommando.
We have to carry on under the possibility that we die only because They want us to: because They need our terror for Their survival.
628
Gravityâs RaInsow
the office, for visitors may tune in from anywhere in the
Convention to his passionate demonstrations, which often
come in the midst of celebrating what hep humorists here
are already calling âCritical Massâ (get it? not too many
did in 1945, the Cosmic Bomb was still trembling in its
earliness, not yet revealed to the People, so you heard the
term only in the very superhepcat-to-hepcat exchanges).
âI think that there is a terrible possibility now, in the
World. We may not brush it away, we must look at it. It
is possible that They will not die. That it is now within
the state of Their art to go on foreverâthough we, of
course, will keep dying as we always have. Death has
been the source of Their power. It was easy enough for
us to see that. If we are here once, only once, then clearly
we are here to take what we can while we may. If They
have taken much more, and taken not only from Earth but
also from usâwell, why begrudge Them, when theyâre
just as doomed to die as we are? All in the same boat,-all
under the same shadow...
yes... yes. But is that really
true? Or is it the best, and the most carefully propagated,
of all Their lies, known and unknown?
âWe have to carry on under the possibility that we die
only because They want us to: because They need our
terror for Their survival. We are their harvests. ...
âTt must change radically the nature of our faith. To
ask that we keep faith in Their mortality, faith that They
also cry, and have fear, and feel pain, faith They are only
pretending Death is Their servantâfaith in Death as the
master of us allâis to ask for an order of courage that I
know is beyond my own humanity, though I cannot speak
for others.... But rather than make that leap of faith,
perhaps we will choose instead to tum, to fight: to de-
mand, from those for whom we die, our own immortality.
They may not be dying in bed any more, but maybe They
can still die from violence. If not, at least we can learn to
withhold from Them our fear of Death. For every kind of
vampire, there is a kind of cross. And at least the physical
things They have taken, from Earth and from us, can be
dismantled, demolishedâreturned to where it all came
from,
âTo believe that each of Them will personally die is also
to believe that Their system will dieâthat some chance of
In the Zone
â629
renewal, some dialectic, is still operatingâin History. To
affirm Their mortality is to affirm. Return. I have been
pointing out certain obstacles in the way. of affirming
Return....â It sounds like a disclaimer, and the priest
sounds afraid. Pirate and the girl have been listening to
him as they linger outside a hall Pirate would enter. It
isnât clear if she will come in with him. No, he rather
thinks not. It is exactly the sort of room he was afraid it
would be. Jagged holes in the walls, evidently where fix-
tures have been removed, are roughly plastered over. The
others, waiting for him it seems, have been passing the
time with games in which pain is the overt commodity,
such as Charley-Charley, Hits ânâ Cuts, and Rock-Scissors-
and-Paper. From next door comes a sound of splashing
water and all-male giggling that echoes a bit: off of the
tiles. âAnd now,â a fluent wireless announcer can be heard,
âitâs time for? DropâThe Soap!â Applause and shrieks of
laughter, which go on for a disagreeably long time.
âDrop the Soap?â Sammy Hilbert-Spaess ambles over to
the thin dividing wall, puts his nose around the end of it
to have a look.
âNoisy neighbors,â remarks German film director Ger-
hardt von Goll. âDoesnât this sort of thing ever stop?â
âHullo, Prentice,â nods
a. black man
Pirate doesnât
recognize, âwe seem to be old school tie.â What is this,
who are all theseâ His name is St.-Just Grossout. âFor
most of the Duration, the Firm had me trying to infiltrate
the Schwarzkommando. I never saw anyone else trying to.
It sounds a bit paranoiac, but I think I was the only
one....â This forthright breach of security, if thatâs what
it is, takes Pirate a little aback.
âDo you think you couldâwell, give me a sort of sitrep
on all this?â
âOh, Geoffrey. Oh, my.â Here comes Sammy Hilbert-
Spaess back from watching the shower-room frolic, shak-
ing his head, pouched and Levantine eyes continuing to
stare straight down his nose, âGeoffrey, by the time you
get any summary, the whole thing will have changed. We
could shorten them for you as much as you like, but youâd
be losing so much resolution it wouldnât be worth it, really
it wouldnât. Just look around you; Geoffrey. Have a nice
look, and see whoâs here.â
The Nature of Freedom Drill
- Pirate Prentice encounters Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck, who has undergone a radical transformation into a state of samurai-like peace.
- The political informer Jeremiah 'Merciful' Evans introduces a chaotic, mocking energy, highlighting the diverse and often antagonistic backgrounds of the group.
- Sir Stephen describes his psychological imprisonment as a 'Nature of Freedom' drill, questioning if any of his actions are truly autonomous.
- The group is presented as a collection of 'narks' and killers, forcing Pirate to confront his own history of violence and betrayal.
- Pirate realizes he has been assigned to this specific group as a form of reckoning, where the 'worst part' is overcoming the initial shame.
- The setting is characterized by a sense of clinical insanity and 'metallic time,' where the characters are trapped in a cycle of existential koans.
Iâve been given the old Radio-Control-Implanted-In-The-Head-At-Birth problem to mull overâas a kind of koan, I suppose.
In the Zone
â629
renewal, some dialectic, is still operatingâin History. To
affirm Their mortality is to affirm. Return. I have been
pointing out certain obstacles in the way. of affirming
Return....â It sounds like a disclaimer, and the priest
sounds afraid. Pirate and the girl have been listening to
him as they linger outside a hall Pirate would enter. It
isnât clear if she will come in with him. No, he rather
thinks not. It is exactly the sort of room he was afraid it
would be. Jagged holes in the walls, evidently where fix-
tures have been removed, are roughly plastered over. The
others, waiting for him it seems, have been passing the
time with games in which pain is the overt commodity,
such as Charley-Charley, Hits ânâ Cuts, and Rock-Scissors-
and-Paper. From next door comes a sound of splashing
water and all-male giggling that echoes a bit: off of the
tiles. âAnd now,â a fluent wireless announcer can be heard,
âitâs time for? DropâThe Soap!â Applause and shrieks of
laughter, which go on for a disagreeably long time.
âDrop the Soap?â Sammy Hilbert-Spaess ambles over to
the thin dividing wall, puts his nose around the end of it
to have a look.
âNoisy neighbors,â remarks German film director Ger-
hardt von Goll. âDoesnât this sort of thing ever stop?â
âHullo, Prentice,â nods
a. black man
Pirate doesnât
recognize, âwe seem to be old school tie.â What is this,
who are all theseâ His name is St.-Just Grossout. âFor
most of the Duration, the Firm had me trying to infiltrate
the Schwarzkommando. I never saw anyone else trying to.
It sounds a bit paranoiac, but I think I was the only
one....â This forthright breach of security, if thatâs what
it is, takes Pirate a little aback.
âDo you think you couldâwell, give me a sort of sitrep
on all this?â
âOh, Geoffrey. Oh, my.â Here comes Sammy Hilbert-
Spaess back from watching the shower-room frolic, shak-
ing his head, pouched and Levantine eyes continuing to
stare straight down his nose, âGeoffrey, by the time you
get any summary, the whole thing will have changed. We
could shorten them for you as much as you like, but youâd
be losing so much resolution it wouldnât be worth it, really
it wouldnât. Just look around you; Geoffrey. Have a nice
look, and see whoâs here.â
630
Gravityâs RAINBOW
Pirate is surprised to find Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck
more fit than he ever looked in his life. The man is actively
at peace, in the way of a good samuraiâeach time he en-
gages Them fully expecting to die, without apprehension
or remorse. It is an amazing change. Pirate begins to feel
hope for himself. âWhen did you tum?â He knows Sir
Stephen wonât be offended at his asking. âHow did it
happen?â
âOh, no, donât let this one fool you?â who in the world
is this, with this greasy pompadour combed nearly as high
again as his face, through which shows the peened, the
tenderized soul of a fighter whoâs not only taken dives, but
also thought heavily about them all the way down, It is
Jeremiah (âMercifulâ) Evans, the well-known political in-
former from Pembroke. âNo, our little Stevieâs not ready
for sainthood quite yet, are we my fine chap?â Slapping
him, playful, clubbing slaps on the cheek: âEh? eh? eh?â
âNot if theyâve thrown me in wiv vâ likes oâ you,â replies
the knight, churlishly. But itâs hard to say really whoâs
provoking whom, for Merciful Evans now bursts into
song, and a terrible singer he is, a discredit to his people,
in factâ
,
Say a prayer for the common informer,
He came out of a quim, just like yoooouoâ
Yes be kind what you chortle,
For narks are as mortal
As any, Kilkenny to Kew...
And the next time you sigh in your comfort,
Ask yourself how heâs doing, todayâ
Is it worse being sold,
For those handfuls of gold,
;
Than to sigh all your real-life, away?
âI donât know that Iâm going to like it in here,â Pirate,
an unpleasant suspicion growing on him, looking about
nervously,
âThe worst partâs the shame,â Sir Stephen tells him.
âGetting through that. Then your next stepâwell, I talk
like an old hand, but thatâs really only as far as Iâve come,
up through the shame. At the moment Iâm
involved with
the âNature of Freedomâ drill you know, wondering if any
action of mine is truly my own, or if I always do only what
1
RS
+ 7
In the Zone
631
_ They want me to do... regardless of what I believe, you
see...Ive been given the old Radio-Control-Implanted-
In-The-Head-At-Birth problem to mull overâas a kind of
koan, I suppose. Itâs driving me really, clinically insane. I
rather imagine thatâs the whole point of it. And who
knows what comes nextP Good God. I donât find out, of
course, till I break through this one. :.. I donât mean to
discourage you so soonââ
âNo, no, I've been wondering something elseâare all
you lot my Group or something? Have I been assigned
here?â
âYes. Are you beginning to see why?â
-
âTm afraid I am.â With everything else, these are, after
all, people who kill each other: and Pirate has always been
one of them. âI'd been hoping forâoh, itâs foolish, a bit
of mercy... but I was at the all-night cinema, around the
corner from Gallaho Mews, the intersection with the extra
street, the one you canât always see because it comes in.at
such a strange angle... I had a bad stretch of time to get
through, poison, metallic time... it smelled as sour as a
burned pot... all I wanted was a place to sit a while, and
they donât care who you are really, what you eat or how
long you sleep or whoâwhom you get together with. ...â
âPrentice, really itâs all right,â itâs St.-Just Grossout,
whom the others call âSam Juicedâ when they want âto
shout him down, during the passages in here when there
is nothing for it but a spot of rowdyism.
âIT... just canât...I mean if it is true, then,â a laugh
| it hurts him, deep in his windpipe, to make, âthen I de-
. fected for nothing, didnât IP I mean, if I havenât really
defected at all... .â
The word reached him during a government newsreel.
FROM CLOAK-AND-DAGGER TO CROAK-AND-STAG-
GER, the sequin title twinkled to all the convalescent souls
gathered for another long night of cinema without sched-
_ uleâshot of a little street-crowd staring in a dusty show-
window, someplace so far into the East End that no one
except those who lived there had ever heard of it...
_ bomb-tilted ballroom floor of the ruin slipping uphill be-
| hind like a mountain meadow, but dodgy as a trampoline
~ to walk upon, conch-twisting stucco columns tiled inward,
7 brass elevator cage drooping from the overhead. Right out
The Descent of Pirate Prentice
- Pirate Prentice witnesses a newsreel featuring Lucifer Amp, a former SOE operative now living as a verminous public spectacle in the East End.
- A mysterious visitor informs Pirate that no one ever truly leaves 'the Firm' alive, reinforcing the inescapable nature of the intelligence world.
- Pirate realizes he is surrounded by double agents who view their betrayal and lack of self-trust as a perverse form of freedom.
- The group warns Pirate that the Firm already knows his whereabouts and will demand a report, whether he provides it voluntarily or not.
- Pirate experiences a profound emotional breakdown as he accepts his new status among the Preterite, the passed-over and unredeemable.
- The realization dawns that he may die in obscurity, despised and untrusted, without ever having achieved vindication or true connection.
âI canât even trust myself? can I. How much freer than that can a man be? If heâs to be sold out by anyone? even by himself you see?â
1
RS
+ 7
In the Zone
631
_ They want me to do... regardless of what I believe, you
see...Ive been given the old Radio-Control-Implanted-
In-The-Head-At-Birth problem to mull overâas a kind of
koan, I suppose. Itâs driving me really, clinically insane. I
rather imagine thatâs the whole point of it. And who
knows what comes nextP Good God. I donât find out, of
course, till I break through this one. :.. I donât mean to
discourage you so soonââ
âNo, no, I've been wondering something elseâare all
you lot my Group or something? Have I been assigned
here?â
âYes. Are you beginning to see why?â
-
âTm afraid I am.â With everything else, these are, after
all, people who kill each other: and Pirate has always been
one of them. âI'd been hoping forâoh, itâs foolish, a bit
of mercy... but I was at the all-night cinema, around the
corner from Gallaho Mews, the intersection with the extra
street, the one you canât always see because it comes in.at
such a strange angle... I had a bad stretch of time to get
through, poison, metallic time... it smelled as sour as a
burned pot... all I wanted was a place to sit a while, and
they donât care who you are really, what you eat or how
long you sleep or whoâwhom you get together with. ...â
âPrentice, really itâs all right,â itâs St.-Just Grossout,
whom the others call âSam Juicedâ when they want âto
shout him down, during the passages in here when there
is nothing for it but a spot of rowdyism.
âIT... just canât...I mean if it is true, then,â a laugh
| it hurts him, deep in his windpipe, to make, âthen I de-
. fected for nothing, didnât IP I mean, if I havenât really
defected at all... .â
The word reached him during a government newsreel.
FROM CLOAK-AND-DAGGER TO CROAK-AND-STAG-
GER, the sequin title twinkled to all the convalescent souls
gathered for another long night of cinema without sched-
_ uleâshot of a little street-crowd staring in a dusty show-
window, someplace so far into the East End that no one
except those who lived there had ever heard of it...
_ bomb-tilted ballroom floor of the ruin slipping uphill be-
| hind like a mountain meadow, but dodgy as a trampoline
~ to walk upon, conch-twisting stucco columns tiled inward,
7 brass elevator cage drooping from the overhead. Right out
632
Gravityâs Rainsow
in front was a half-naked, verminous and hairy creature,
approximately human, terribly pale, writhing behind the
crumbled remains of plate glass, tearing at sores on his
face and abdomen, drawing blood, scratching and picking
with
dirt-black
fingernails.
âEvery day in Smithfield
Market, Lucifer Amp makes a spectacle of himself. Thatâs
\not so surprising. Many a demobilized soldier and sailor has
turned to public service as a means of keeping at least
body and soul together, if nothing else. What is unusual is
that Mr. Amp used to work for the Special Operations
Executive... .â
âIt's quite good fun, actually,â as the camera moves in
for a close-up of this individual, âonly took me a week to
pick up the knack of it....â
âDo you feel a sense of belonging now, that you hadnât
when you came, orâhave they still not accepted you out
here?â
âTheyâoh the people, the people have been just won-
derful. Just grand. No, no problems there at all.â
At which point, from the bishopwise seat behind Pirate,
came an alcohol smell, and warm breath, and a pat on the
shoulder. âYou hear? âUsed to work.â Thatâs tich, that is.
No one has ever left the Firm alive, no one in historyâ
and no one ever will,â It was. an upper-class accent, one
Pirate might have aspired to once in his rambling youth.
By the time he decided to look back, though, his visitor
was gone,
âThink of it as a handicap, Prentice, like any other, like
missing a limb or having malaria... one can still live .
one learns to get round it, it becorties part of the dayââ
âBeing a dââ
âItâs all right. âBeing aâ?â
âBeing a double agent? âGot roundâ?â He looks at the
others, computing. Everyone here seems to be at letistra
a
double agent.
âYes... you're down here now, down here with us,â
whispers. Sammy. âGet your shame and your sniffles all out
of the way, young fellow, because we donât make a prac-
tice of indulging that for too long.â
âItâs a shadow,â cries Pirate, ert working iid a
shadow, forever.â
Ă©
âBut think of the free-dom?â sez Merciful Evans, âI
In the Zone
-
633
canât even trust myself? can I. How much freer than that
can a man be? If heâs to be sold out by anyone? even by
himself you see?â
:
âI donât want thatââ
âYou donât have a choice,â Dodson-Truck replies. âThe
Firm know perfectly well that youâve come here. They'll
expect a full report from you now. Either voluntary or
some other way.â
âBut I wouldnât...Iâd never tell themââ The smiles
they are putting on for him now are deliberately cruel, to
â help him through it a bit. âYou donât, you really donât trust
me?â
âOf course not,â Sammy sez. âWould youâreallyâtrust
any of us?â
âOh, no,â Pirate whispers. This is one of his own in
progress. Nobody elseâs. But itâs still a passage They can
touch quite as easily as that of any client. Without expect-
ing to, it seems Pirate has begun to cry. Odd. He has never
_
cried in public like this before. But he understands where
he is, now. It will be possible, after all, to die in obscurity,
without having helped a soul: without love, despised, never
trusted, never vindicatedâto stay down among the Pret-
erite, his poor honor lost, impossible to locate or to
redeem.
__
He is crying for persons, places, and things left behind:
for Scorpia Mossmoon, living in St. Johnâs Wood among
sheet-music, new recipes, a small kennel of Weimaraners
whose racial purity she will go to extravagant lengths to
preserve, and husband Clive who shows up now and then,
Scorpia living only a few minutes away by Underground
but lost to Pirate now for good, no chance for either of
them to turn again... for people he had to betray in the
course of business for the Firm, Englishmen and foreigners,
for Ion so naive, for Gongylakis, for the Monkey Girl and
the pimps in Rome, for Bruce who got burned...
for
nights up in partisan mountains when he was one with the
smell of living trees, in full love with the at last undeniable
beauty of the night... for a girl back in the Midlands
named Virginia, and for their child who never came to
' pass... for his dead mother, and his dying father, for the
innocent and the fools who are going to trust him, poor
' faces doomed as dogs who have watched us so amiably
)
a a
Pirate Prentice's Cold Future
- Pirate Prentice mourns a litany of lost connections, from former lovers and betrayed colleagues to the unborn child he never had.
- He envisions a future of cold isolation where he witnesses the birth of the 'Cosmic Bomb' and interacts with high-level assassins.
- Pirate realizes his own life is under a permanent contract, with his name appearing on a daily hit list managed by 'Them.'
- Katje enters the scene, presenting her 'dead'âthose whose deaths she is responsible forâas her only valid credentials.
- The group discusses the nature of guilt and genocide, referencing an ancestor who hunted dodoes to extinction.
- Sir Stephen intervenes in a brewing conflict, warning Pirate that he must become 'case-hardened' to survive their environment.
He tries to face it, though it fills him with a terror so pure, so cold, he thinks for a minute he'll pass out.
In the Zone
-
633
canât even trust myself? can I. How much freer than that
can a man be? If heâs to be sold out by anyone? even by
himself you see?â
:
âI donât want thatââ
âYou donât have a choice,â Dodson-Truck replies. âThe
Firm know perfectly well that youâve come here. They'll
expect a full report from you now. Either voluntary or
some other way.â
âBut I wouldnât...Iâd never tell themââ The smiles
they are putting on for him now are deliberately cruel, to
â help him through it a bit. âYou donât, you really donât trust
me?â
âOf course not,â Sammy sez. âWould youâreallyâtrust
any of us?â
âOh, no,â Pirate whispers. This is one of his own in
progress. Nobody elseâs. But itâs still a passage They can
touch quite as easily as that of any client. Without expect-
ing to, it seems Pirate has begun to cry. Odd. He has never
_
cried in public like this before. But he understands where
he is, now. It will be possible, after all, to die in obscurity,
without having helped a soul: without love, despised, never
trusted, never vindicatedâto stay down among the Pret-
erite, his poor honor lost, impossible to locate or to
redeem.
__
He is crying for persons, places, and things left behind:
for Scorpia Mossmoon, living in St. Johnâs Wood among
sheet-music, new recipes, a small kennel of Weimaraners
whose racial purity she will go to extravagant lengths to
preserve, and husband Clive who shows up now and then,
Scorpia living only a few minutes away by Underground
but lost to Pirate now for good, no chance for either of
them to turn again... for people he had to betray in the
course of business for the Firm, Englishmen and foreigners,
for Ion so naive, for Gongylakis, for the Monkey Girl and
the pimps in Rome, for Bruce who got burned...
for
nights up in partisan mountains when he was one with the
smell of living trees, in full love with the at last undeniable
beauty of the night... for a girl back in the Midlands
named Virginia, and for their child who never came to
' pass... for his dead mother, and his dying father, for the
innocent and the fools who are going to trust him, poor
' faces doomed as dogs who have watched us so amiably
)
a a
634
Graviryâs Ramnsow
from behind the wire fences at the city pounds... cries
for the future he can see, because it makes him feel so
desperate and cold. He is to be taken from high moment
to high moment, standing by at meetings of the Elect,
witnessing a test of the new Cosmic BombââWell,â a wise
old face, handing him the black-lensed glasses, âthereâs
\ your Bomb ...â turning then to see its thick yellow explod-
ing down the beach, across the leagues of Pacific waves...
touching famous
assassins, yes actually touching their
human hands and faces... finding out one day how long
ago, how early in the game the contract on his own life
was let. No one knows exactly when the hit will comeâ
every morning, before the markets open, out before the
milkmen, They make Their new update, and decide on
whatâs going to be sufficient unto the day. Every morning
Pirateâs name will be on a list, and one moming it will be
close enough to the top. He tries to face it, though it fills
him with a terror so pure, so cold, he thinks for a minute
he'll pass out. Later, having drawn back a bit, gathering
heart for the next sortie, it seems to him heâs done with the
shame, just as Sir Stephen said, yes past the old shame
and scared now, full of worry for nothing but his own ass,
his precious, condemned, personal ass.
âTs there room here for the dead?â He hears the ques-
tion before he can see her asking it. He isnât sure how she
came into this room. From all the others now flow impres-
sions of male jealousy, a gruff sort of women-on-ships-is-
bad-luck chill and withdrawal. And hereâs Pirate left alone
with her and her question. He holds out to her the ball of
taffy heâs been carrying, boobish as young Porky Pig hold-
ing out the anarchistâs ticking bomb to him. But thereâs to
be no sweetness. They are here instead to trade some pain
and a few truths, but all in the distracted style of the
period:
âCome now,â what sort of idiotic trouble does she think
sheâs in now? âyou're not dead. I'll wager nt even figura-
tively so.â
âI meant, would I be allowed to bring â dead in with
me,â Katje explains, âThey are my credentials, after all.â
âI rather liked Frans van der Groov. Your
ancestor. The
dodo chap.â
Itâs not quite what she meant by her dead. âI mean the
In the Zone
635
ones who owe their deadness directly.to me. Besides, if
Frans were ever to walk in here youâd only stand around,
âall of you, making sure he understood just how guilty he
was. The poor manâs world held an inexhaustible supply of
dodoesâwhy teach him about genocide?â
âYou could tell him a thing or two about that, couldnât
you, girly?â sneers Evans, the tone-deaf Welsh stoolie.
Pirate is moving against Evans, forearms out from his
sides saloon-fighter-style, when Sir Stephen intervenes:
âThere'll be talk like. this all the time, Prentice, we're a
case-hardened lot. Youâd better start learning to make it
work for you here. No telling how long were in for, is
there? The young woman has grown herself all the pro-
tection she needs, it seems to me. She doesnât want you to
fight for her.â |
Well, heâs right. Sheâs put her warm hand on Pirateâs
arm, shaking her head twice with embarrassed small
laughs, âIâm glad. to see you anyway, Captain Prentice.â
âNo one else is. Think about it.â
She only raises her eyebrows. It was a shitty thing to
say. Remorse, or some late desire to be pure, rush into his
blood like dope.
âButââ astonished to feel himself beginning to collapse,
like a stack of rifles, around her feet, caught in her gravita-
tion, distances abolished, waveforms unmeasurable, âKatje
... 4f I could never betray youââ
He has fallen: she has lost her surface. She is staring at
âEven if the price for that were... betraying others,
hurting... or killing othersâthen it wouldnât matter who,
or how many, no, not if I could be your safety, Katje, your
perfectââ
_ â âBut those, those are the sins that might never happen.â
Here they are bargaining like a couple of pimps. Do they
have any idea what they sound like? âThatâs easy enough
to pledge, doesnât cost you a thing.â
âThen even the sins I did commit,â he protests, âyes
I'd do them overââ
.
âBut you canât do that, eitherâso, you get off just as
_ cheap. Hm?â
:
.
âT can erence patterns,â more grim than she really wants
im
to
be.
>
ie
The Medium of Bad Faith
- Captain Pirate Prentice attempts to pledge his absolute loyalty to Katje, offering to betray or kill others to ensure her safety.
- Katje dismisses his grand gestures as 'cheap' bargains, noting that pledging against hypothetical sins costs him nothing in reality.
- The two characters acknowledge their shared history of 'credentials' and bad faith, realizing they must build their future using their past sins as their only available material.
- Katje recounts the story of her brother Louis, who fell into a life of religious obsession and political extremism with the Rexist movement before disappearing in Antwerp.
- The conversation highlights a lack of 'marvelous excuses' or institutional solidarity, such as that found in the Church, to shield them from their own actions.
- The passage concludes with the grim realization that shame cannot be escaped in 'the Zone' and must instead be lived with as a daily, painful reality.
But thatâs the only medium we've got now, he cries, a gift for bad faith. We'll have to build everything with it, as the prosecutors deal you your freedom.
In the Zone
635
ones who owe their deadness directly.to me. Besides, if
Frans were ever to walk in here youâd only stand around,
âall of you, making sure he understood just how guilty he
was. The poor manâs world held an inexhaustible supply of
dodoesâwhy teach him about genocide?â
âYou could tell him a thing or two about that, couldnât
you, girly?â sneers Evans, the tone-deaf Welsh stoolie.
Pirate is moving against Evans, forearms out from his
sides saloon-fighter-style, when Sir Stephen intervenes:
âThere'll be talk like. this all the time, Prentice, we're a
case-hardened lot. Youâd better start learning to make it
work for you here. No telling how long were in for, is
there? The young woman has grown herself all the pro-
tection she needs, it seems to me. She doesnât want you to
fight for her.â |
Well, heâs right. Sheâs put her warm hand on Pirateâs
arm, shaking her head twice with embarrassed small
laughs, âIâm glad. to see you anyway, Captain Prentice.â
âNo one else is. Think about it.â
She only raises her eyebrows. It was a shitty thing to
say. Remorse, or some late desire to be pure, rush into his
blood like dope.
âButââ astonished to feel himself beginning to collapse,
like a stack of rifles, around her feet, caught in her gravita-
tion, distances abolished, waveforms unmeasurable, âKatje
... 4f I could never betray youââ
He has fallen: she has lost her surface. She is staring at
âEven if the price for that were... betraying others,
hurting... or killing othersâthen it wouldnât matter who,
or how many, no, not if I could be your safety, Katje, your
perfectââ
_ â âBut those, those are the sins that might never happen.â
Here they are bargaining like a couple of pimps. Do they
have any idea what they sound like? âThatâs easy enough
to pledge, doesnât cost you a thing.â
âThen even the sins I did commit,â he protests, âyes
I'd do them overââ
.
âBut you canât do that, eitherâso, you get off just as
_ cheap. Hm?â
:
.
âT can erence patterns,â more grim than she really wants
im
to
be.
>
ie
636
Gravity's RAINBOW
âOh, think...â her fingers are lightly in his hair, âthink
of the things you've done. Think of all your âcredentials,â
and all of mineââ
âBut thatâs the only medium we've got now,â he cries,
ay gift for bad faith. We'll have to build everything with
. deal it, as the prosecutors deal you your freedom.â
. âPhilosopher.â She is smiling. âYou were never like
that.â
i
âIt must have come from always being in motion. Iâve
never felt this stillness... .â They are touching now, with-
out urgency, still, neither of them, quite over the surprise.
... My little brotherâ (Pirate understands the connection
she has made) âleft home at 18. I liked to watch him
sleeping at night. His long eyelashes...so innocent... I
watched for hours.... He got as far as Antwerp. Before
long he was loitering around parish churches with the rest
of them. Do you know what I mean? Young, Catholic
males. Camp followers. They got to depend on alcohol,
many of them, at an early age. They would choose a
particular priest, and become his faithful dogâliterally
wait all night at his doorstep in order to talk to him fresh
from his bed, his linen, the intimate smells that had not yet
escaped the folds of his garment... insane jealousies,
daily jostling for position, for the favors of this Father or
that. Louis began to attend Rexist meetings. He went out
to a-soccer field and heard Degrelle tell the crowd that
they must let themselves be swept away by the flood, they
must act, act, and let the rest take care of itself. Soon my
brother was out in the street with his broom, along with
the other guilty sarcastic young men with their brooms in
their hands... and then he had joined Rex, the ârealm of
total souls,â and the last I heard he was in Antwerp living
with an older man named Philippe. I lost track of him.
We were very close at one time. People took us for twins.
â
When the heavy rocket attacks began against Antwerp I
knew it could not be an accident. .. .â
Yes well Pirateâs Chapel himself, âBut âPve wondered
about the solidarity of your Church .
. . you) kneel, and she
takes care of you... when you are acting
politically, to
have all that common momentum, taking
you upwardââ
âYou never had that either, did you.â Sheâs been py
really at himâânone of the marvelous excuses. We
dic
everything ourselves.â
In the Zone
637
_
No, thereâs no leaving shame after allânot-down hereâ
it has to be swallowed sharp-edged and ugly, and lived
with in pain, every day.
Without considering, he is in her arms. âTt isnât for com-
fort. But if he is to keep dragging himself up the ratchetâs
teeth one by one he does need to pause in human touch
for a bit. âWhat did it look like out there, Katje? I saw an
organized convention. Someone else saw it as a gar-
den... .â But he knows what she'll say.
âThere was nothing out there. It was a barren place.
I'd been most of the day looking for a sign of life. Then
at last I heard you
all in here.â So they have wandered to
a balcony, a graceful railing, no one can see them from
inside or out: and below them in the streets, streets they
have both lost now, are the People. There passes for
Pirate and Katje a brief segment of a much longer chron-
icle, the anonymous How I Came to Love the People. âHer
name was Brenda; her faceâ was the bird under the pro-
tecting grin of the car in the rain that morming, she knelt
and performed fellatio on me, and I ejaculated on her
breasts. Her name was Lily, she was 67 last August, she
reads off the labels of beer bottles to herself out loud, we
coupled in the standard English position, and she patted
me on the back and whispered, âGood friend.â His name
was Frank, his hair curled away from his face, his eyes
were rather sharp but pleasant, he stole from American
Army depots, he bum-fucked me and when he came in-
side me, so did I. Her name was Frangibella, she was
_
black, her face was broken out, she wanted. money for
dope, her openness was a viper writhing in my heart, I
_
performed cunnilingus upon her. His name was Allan, his
_
buttocks were tanned, I said, where did you find the sun,
he answered, the sun is just around the corner, I held him
over the pillow and buggered him and he cried with love
till I; my piston pungently greased, exploded at last. Her
name was Nancy, she was six, we went behind a wall
near a crater full of ruins, she rubbed and rubbed against
me, her milky little thighs reaching in and out of my own,
her eyes were closed, her fair little nostrils moved upward,
' backward forever, the slope of debris rushed down, steeply,
_ just beside us, we teetered at the edge, on and on, ex-
_ quisitely. Her name wasââ well, all these and many more
pass for our young couple here, enough to make them
a
Loving the People
- Pirate seeks a moment of human contact with Katje, not exactly for comfort but as a pause from the psychological strain of surviving.
- Katje describes the outside world as barren and lifeless until she heard the people gathered inside, contrasting emptiness with human presence.
- The narrative shifts into a disturbing imagined chronicle of anonymous intimacy, suggesting a grotesque fantasy of âloving the Peopleâ one by one.
- Pirate mocks distant bureaucratic or institutional powers, but his attempt at humor fails under the weight of guilt and alienation.
- Katje warns that âthe Peopleâ will never love them back, placing both of them permanently on the side of the condemned or compromised.
- The scene ends with Pirate looking upward into an oppressive illusion of sky, while Katje clings to him in a fragile truce with horror.
âBut the People will never love you,â she whispers, âor me. However bad and good are arranged for them, we will always be bad.
In the Zone
637
_
No, thereâs no leaving shame after allânot-down hereâ
it has to be swallowed sharp-edged and ugly, and lived
with in pain, every day.
Without considering, he is in her arms. âTt isnât for com-
fort. But if he is to keep dragging himself up the ratchetâs
teeth one by one he does need to pause in human touch
for a bit. âWhat did it look like out there, Katje? I saw an
organized convention. Someone else saw it as a gar-
den... .â But he knows what she'll say.
âThere was nothing out there. It was a barren place.
I'd been most of the day looking for a sign of life. Then
at last I heard you
all in here.â So they have wandered to
a balcony, a graceful railing, no one can see them from
inside or out: and below them in the streets, streets they
have both lost now, are the People. There passes for
Pirate and Katje a brief segment of a much longer chron-
icle, the anonymous How I Came to Love the People. âHer
name was Brenda; her faceâ was the bird under the pro-
tecting grin of the car in the rain that morming, she knelt
and performed fellatio on me, and I ejaculated on her
breasts. Her name was Lily, she was 67 last August, she
reads off the labels of beer bottles to herself out loud, we
coupled in the standard English position, and she patted
me on the back and whispered, âGood friend.â His name
was Frank, his hair curled away from his face, his eyes
were rather sharp but pleasant, he stole from American
Army depots, he bum-fucked me and when he came in-
side me, so did I. Her name was Frangibella, she was
_
black, her face was broken out, she wanted. money for
dope, her openness was a viper writhing in my heart, I
_
performed cunnilingus upon her. His name was Allan, his
_
buttocks were tanned, I said, where did you find the sun,
he answered, the sun is just around the corner, I held him
over the pillow and buggered him and he cried with love
till I; my piston pungently greased, exploded at last. Her
name was Nancy, she was six, we went behind a wall
near a crater full of ruins, she rubbed and rubbed against
me, her milky little thighs reaching in and out of my own,
her eyes were closed, her fair little nostrils moved upward,
' backward forever, the slope of debris rushed down, steeply,
_ just beside us, we teetered at the edge, on and on, ex-
_ quisitely. Her name wasââ well, all these and many more
pass for our young couple here, enough to make them
a
638
Graviryâs RAINBOW
understand that horny Anonymousâs intentions are nothing
less than a megalomaniac master plan of sexual love with
every individual one of the People in the Worldâand
that when every one, somewhat miraculously, is accounted
for at last, that will be a rough definition of âloving the
People.â
âTake that, you frauds out there in the Branches,â Pirate
âwants to strike a humorous note, but doesnât. He is holding
Katje now as if, in a moment, music will start, and they
would dance.
âBut the People will never love you,â she whispers, â
me. However bad and good are arranged for them, we will
always be bad. Do you know where that puts us?â
He does smile, crookedly as a man being theatrical about
something for the very first time. Knowing it for a movie
thereâs to be no going back from, in the same terminal class
as reaching for a gun, he turns his face upward, and looks
up through all the faintly superimposed levels above, the
milieux of every sort of criminal soul, every unpleasant
commercial color from aquamarine to beige, desolate as
sunlight on a day when you'd rather have rain, all the
clanging enterprise and bustle of all those levels, extending
further than, Pirate or Katje can see for thĂ© moment, âhe
lifts his long, his guilty, his permanently enslaved face to
the illusion of sky, to the reality of pressure and weight
fromâ overhead, the hardness and absolute cruelty of it,
while she presses her own face into the easy lowland be-
tween his shoulder and pectoral, a look on her face of
truce, of horror come to a détente with, and as a sunset
proceeds, the kind that changes the faces of buildings to
light gray for a while, to an ashy soft chaff of light bleat-
ing over their outward curves, in the strangely forgelike
glow in the west, the anxiety of pedestrians staring in the
tiny storefront window at the dim goldsmith behind his
fire at his work and paying them no attention, afraid be-
cause the light looks like itâs going to go away forever this
time, and more afraid because the failure of light is not a
private thing, everyone else in the street has seen it too...
as it grows darker, the orchestra inside this room does, as a
matter of fact, strike up a tune, dry and astringent... and
candelabra have been lighted after all... there is Veal
Florentine ripening in the ovens tonight, there are drinks
on the House, and drunks in the hammocks,
.
Dancing the Bad Dream Away
- The narrative transitions from a twilight scene of collective anxiety to a surreal, astringent dance where characters attempt to dissolve their fears through movement.
- Pirate and others find a temporary, fragile connection within the 'dancing Preterition,' a community of the passed-over and forgotten.
- Slothrop awakens in a ruined locksmithâs shop, surrounded by keys for lost locks, symbolizing the fragmented and inaccessible nature of the post-war landscape.
- The setting shifts to the open, misty water-meadows of Eastern Europe, evoking a sense of ancient Viking voyages across a frontierless sea.
- A massive, chaotic migration of diverse nationalitiesâPoles, Sudetens, Balts, and othersâstreams across the 'Imperial cauldron' in a state of numb displacement.
- The refugees, some still in striped prison-camp pajamas, move with an indifference born of deep instability and physical wasting.
Slothrop wakes up in a burned-out locksmithâs shop, under racks of sooty keys whose locks have all been lost.
638
Graviryâs RAINBOW
understand that horny Anonymousâs intentions are nothing
less than a megalomaniac master plan of sexual love with
every individual one of the People in the Worldâand
that when every one, somewhat miraculously, is accounted
for at last, that will be a rough definition of âloving the
People.â
âTake that, you frauds out there in the Branches,â Pirate
âwants to strike a humorous note, but doesnât. He is holding
Katje now as if, in a moment, music will start, and they
would dance.
âBut the People will never love you,â she whispers, â
me. However bad and good are arranged for them, we will
always be bad. Do you know where that puts us?â
He does smile, crookedly as a man being theatrical about
something for the very first time. Knowing it for a movie
thereâs to be no going back from, in the same terminal class
as reaching for a gun, he turns his face upward, and looks
up through all the faintly superimposed levels above, the
milieux of every sort of criminal soul, every unpleasant
commercial color from aquamarine to beige, desolate as
sunlight on a day when you'd rather have rain, all the
clanging enterprise and bustle of all those levels, extending
further than, Pirate or Katje can see for thĂ© moment, âhe
lifts his long, his guilty, his permanently enslaved face to
the illusion of sky, to the reality of pressure and weight
fromâ overhead, the hardness and absolute cruelty of it,
while she presses her own face into the easy lowland be-
tween his shoulder and pectoral, a look on her face of
truce, of horror come to a détente with, and as a sunset
proceeds, the kind that changes the faces of buildings to
light gray for a while, to an ashy soft chaff of light bleat-
ing over their outward curves, in the strangely forgelike
glow in the west, the anxiety of pedestrians staring in the
tiny storefront window at the dim goldsmith behind his
fire at his work and paying them no attention, afraid be-
cause the light looks like itâs going to go away forever this
time, and more afraid because the failure of light is not a
private thing, everyone else in the street has seen it too...
as it grows darker, the orchestra inside this room does, as a
matter of fact, strike up a tune, dry and astringent... and
candelabra have been lighted after all... there is Veal
Florentine ripening in the ovens tonight, there are drinks
on the House, and drunks in the hammocks,
.
In the Zone
639
And all the worldâs busy, this twi-lightl
Who knows what morning-streets, our shoes have known?
Who knows, how many friends, weâve left, to cry alone?
We have a moment together,
We'll hum this tune for a
day...
_Evâryoneâs dancing, in twi-light,
Dancing the bad dream a-way....
And they do dance: though Pirate never could before,
very well... they feel quite in touch with all the others as
they move, and if they are never to be at full ease, still itâs
not parade rest any longer...so they dissolve now, into
the race and swarm of this dancing Preterition, and their
faces, the dear, comical faces they have put on for this
ball, fade, as innocence fades, grimly flirtatious, and striving
to be kind. ...
O
Fog thickens down the throats of the narrow gassen. In the
air is a a smell_of salt water. The cobbled streets are wet
with last nightâs rain. Slothrop wakes up in a burned-out
locksmithâs shop, under racks of sooty keys whose locks
have all been lost. He stumbles out, finds a pump in a
courtyard between brick walls and casement windows no-
body stares out of, puts his head under the spout and
pumps the pump, soaking his head for as long as he thinks
he needs to. A ginger cat, meowing for breakfast, comes
stalking him, doorway to doorway. âSorry, Ace.â Doesn't
look like breakfast for either of them.
. He hitches up Tchitcherineâs pants and heads out of
town, leaving the blunt towers, the domes of copper cor-
roded green swimming up in the mist, the high gables and
red tiles, gets a ride with a woman driving an empty farm
- wagon. The horseâs sandy forelock bobs and blows, and
the fog settles in behind.
This morning it looks like what Vikings must have seen,
sailing this great water-meadow south, clear to Byzantium,
all eastern Europe their open sea: the farmland rolls gray
and green as waves... ponds and lakes seem to have no
clear boundaries... the sight of other people against this
ocean sky, even ike een comes welcome as sails after
-, long days of passage. .
640
Gravityâs Rarinsow
The Nationalities are on the move. It is a great frontier-
less streaming out here. Volksdeutsch from across the
Oder, moved out by the Poles and headed for the camp
at Rostock, Poles fleeing the Lublin regime, others going
back home, the eyes of both parties, when they do meet,
hooded behind cheekbones, eyes much older than what's
forced them into moving, Estonians, Letts, and Lithuanians
âtrekking north again, all their wintry wool in dark bundles,
shoes in tatters, songs too hard to sing, talk pointless,
Sudetens and East Prussians shuttling between Berlin and
the DP camps in Mecklenburg, Czechs and Slovaks, Croats
and Serbs, Tosks and Ghegs, Macedonians, Magyars,
Vlachs, Circassians, Spaniols, Bulgars stirred and streaming
over the surface of the Imperial cauldron, colliding, shear-
ing alongside for miles, sliding away, numb, indifferent to
all momenta but the deepest, the instability too far below
their itchy feet to give a shape to, white wrists and ankles
incredibly wasted poking from their striped prison-camp
pajamas, footsteps light as waterfowlâs in this inland dust,
caravans of Gypsies, axles or linchpins failing, horses dy-
ing, families leaving the vehicles beside the roads for
others to come live in a night, a day, over the white hot
Autobahns, trains full of their own hanging off the cars
that lumber overhead, squeezing aside for army convoys
when they come through, White Russians sour with pain
on the way west, Kazakh ex-P/Ws marching east, Wehr-
macht veterans from other parts of old Germany, foreign-
ers to Prussia as any Gypsies, carrying their old: packs,
wrapped in the army blankets they kept, pale green farm-
worker triangles sewn chest-high on each blouse bobbing,
drifting, at a certain hour of the dusk, like candleflames in
religious processionâsupposed to be heading today for
Hannover, supposed to pick potatoes along the way,
theyâve been chasing these nonexistent potato fields now
for a monthââPlundered,â a one-time bugler limps along
with a long splinter of railroad tie for a cane, his instru-
ment, implausibly undented and shiny, swinging from
one'shoulder, âstripped by the SS, Bruder, ja, every fucking
potato field, and what for? Alcohol. Not to drink, no,
alcohol for the rockets. Potatoes we could! have been eat-
ing, alcohol we could have been drinking. Itâs unbeliey-
able.â âWhat, the rockets?â âNol The SS, picking pota-
The Detritus of a Destroyed Order
- A chaotic migration of displaced persons, including Gypsies, White Russians, and Wehrmacht veterans, flows across the German landscape.
- Soldiers and refugees search for nonexistent potato fields, only to learn the crops were seized by the SS to produce rocket fuel.
- The road is filled with a surreal collection of salvaged bourgeois possessions, from grandfather clocks and violins to surgical tools and lingerie.
- The narrator describes the moving population as the 'precipitate' of a chemical process, hauling the remains of a European order that is gone forever.
- Slothrop drifts through these hungry crowds, overwhelmed by the intense, desperate individuality of the faces he encounters.
- Survival depends on scavenging the 'throwaway fraction' of occupying powers, such as potato peels and melon rinds for makeshift stills.
So the populations move, across the open meadow, limping, marching, shuffling, carried, hauling along the detritus of an order, a European and bourgeois order they donât yet know is destroyed forever.
640
Gravityâs Rarinsow
The Nationalities are on the move. It is a great frontier-
less streaming out here. Volksdeutsch from across the
Oder, moved out by the Poles and headed for the camp
at Rostock, Poles fleeing the Lublin regime, others going
back home, the eyes of both parties, when they do meet,
hooded behind cheekbones, eyes much older than what's
forced them into moving, Estonians, Letts, and Lithuanians
âtrekking north again, all their wintry wool in dark bundles,
shoes in tatters, songs too hard to sing, talk pointless,
Sudetens and East Prussians shuttling between Berlin and
the DP camps in Mecklenburg, Czechs and Slovaks, Croats
and Serbs, Tosks and Ghegs, Macedonians, Magyars,
Vlachs, Circassians, Spaniols, Bulgars stirred and streaming
over the surface of the Imperial cauldron, colliding, shear-
ing alongside for miles, sliding away, numb, indifferent to
all momenta but the deepest, the instability too far below
their itchy feet to give a shape to, white wrists and ankles
incredibly wasted poking from their striped prison-camp
pajamas, footsteps light as waterfowlâs in this inland dust,
caravans of Gypsies, axles or linchpins failing, horses dy-
ing, families leaving the vehicles beside the roads for
others to come live in a night, a day, over the white hot
Autobahns, trains full of their own hanging off the cars
that lumber overhead, squeezing aside for army convoys
when they come through, White Russians sour with pain
on the way west, Kazakh ex-P/Ws marching east, Wehr-
macht veterans from other parts of old Germany, foreign-
ers to Prussia as any Gypsies, carrying their old: packs,
wrapped in the army blankets they kept, pale green farm-
worker triangles sewn chest-high on each blouse bobbing,
drifting, at a certain hour of the dusk, like candleflames in
religious processionâsupposed to be heading today for
Hannover, supposed to pick potatoes along the way,
theyâve been chasing these nonexistent potato fields now
for a monthââPlundered,â a one-time bugler limps along
with a long splinter of railroad tie for a cane, his instru-
ment, implausibly undented and shiny, swinging from
one'shoulder, âstripped by the SS, Bruder, ja, every fucking
potato field, and what for? Alcohol. Not to drink, no,
alcohol for the rockets. Potatoes we could! have been eat-
ing, alcohol we could have been drinking. Itâs unbeliey-
able.â âWhat, the rockets?â âNol The SS, picking pota-
In the Zone
641
toes!â looking around for his laugh. But there are none
here to follow the brass and flourish of his less solemn
heart. They were infantrymen, and know how to snooze
between footfallsâat some hour of the morning they will
fall out by the side of the road, a momentâs precipitate out
of the road chemurgy of these busy nights, while the in-
visible boiling goes on by, the long strewn vorticesâ
pinstripe suits with crosses painted on the back, ragged
navy and army uniforms, white turbans, mismatched socks
or none, Tattersall dresses, thick-knitted shawls with babies
inside, women in army trousers split at the knees, flea-
bitten and barking dogs that run in packs, prams piled
high with light furnishings
in scarred
veneer,
hand-â
mortised drawers that will never fit into anything again,
looted chickens alive and dead, horns and violins in weath-
ered black cases, bedspreads, harmoniums, grandfather
clocks,
kits full of tools for carpentry, watchmaking,
leatherwork, surgery, paintings of pink daughters in white
frocks, of saints bleeding, of salmon and purple sunsets
over the sea, packs stuffed with beady-eyed boas, dolls
smiling out of violently red lips, Allgeyer soldiers an inch
and a quarter to the man painted cream, gold and blue,
handfuls of hundred-year-old agates soaked in honey that
sweetened greatgrandfather tongues long gone to dust,
then into sulfuric acid to char the sugar in bands, brown
to black, across the stone, deathless piano performances
_ punched on Vorsetzer rolls, ribboned black lingerie, flow-
ered and grape-crested silverware, faceted lead-glass de-
canters, tulip-shaped Jugendstil cups, strings of amber
| beads
.
.
. so the populations move, across the open
meadow, limping, marching, shuffling, carried, hauling
along the detritus of an order,
a European and bourgeois
_ order they donât yet know is destroyed forever.
When Slothrop has cigarettes heâs an easy mark, when
somebody has food they share itâsometimes a batch of
_ vodka if thereâs an army concentration nearby, the GI cans
can be looted for all kinds of useful produce, potato peels,
melon rinds, pieces of candy bars for sugar, no telling
what's going to go into these DP stills, what you end up
g is the throwaway fraction, of some occupying
wer. Slothrop drifts in and out of dozens of these quiet,
hungry, scuffling migrations, each time getting hard Benze-
642
Gravityâs Rainsow
â
drine jitters off of the facesâthere arenât any he can really
ignore, is the problem, theyâre all too strong, like faces of
a racetrack crowd, each one urging No, meâlook at me,
be touched, reach for your camera, your weapon, your
cock.... Heâs stripped all the insignia off Tchitcherineâs
uniform, trying for less visibility, but very few people
.
seem to care much about insignia, ...
\. Much of the time heâs alone. He'll come on farmhouses,
deserted in the night, and will sleep in the hay, or if
thereâs a mattress (not often) ina bed. Wake to sun glit-
tering off some small lake surrounded by green salted with
blossoms of thyme or mustard, a salad hillside, sweeping
up to pines in the mist. Sapling tomato-frames and purple
foxgloves in the yards, huge birdsâ nests built up under
the eaves of the thatched roofs, bird-choruses in the morn-
ing, and soon, one day, as the summer turns ponderously
in the sky, the clang of cranes, on the move.
At a farmhouse in a river valley far south of Rostock,
he comes in to shelter out of the midday rain, falls asleep
in a rocking-chair on the porch, and dreams about Tantivy
Mucker-Maffiick, his friend from long ago. He has come
back, after all and against the odds. Itâs somewhere out in
the country, English country, quilted in darkened green
and amazingly bright straw-yellow, of very old standing
rocks on high places, of early indenture to death and taxes,
of country girls who walk out at night to stand naked on
the tor and sing. Members of Tantivyâs family and many
friends have come, all in a mood of quiet celebrating, be-
cause of Tantivyâs return. Everybody understands itâs only
a visit: that he will be âhereâ only in a conditional way.
At some point it will fall apart, from thinking about it too
much, There is a space of lawn cleared for dancing, with
a village band and many of the women dressed in white.
After a spell of confusion about the dayâs schedule of
events, the meeting takes placeâit seems to be under-
ground, not exactly a grave or erypt, nothing sinister,
crowded with relatives and friends around Tantivy who
looks so real, so untouched by time, very clear and full of
color... âWhy, Slothrop.â
|
e:
âOhâwhereâve you been, gate?â
\
rer âHere.â â
i
;
js
!
âae âHereâ > Pâ
Slothrop's Dream of Tantivy
- Slothrop travels alone through the German countryside, stripped of his military insignia and seeking shelter in deserted farmhouses.
- The landscape is described with a mix of natural beauty and agricultural decay, featuring bird-choruses, mist-covered pines, and drunken cows.
- While sheltering from the rain, Slothrop falls into a vivid dream of his deceased friend, Tantivy Mucker-Maffick, returning to an idealized English countryside.
- The dream encounter reveals a 'conditional' existence for the dead, who remain present but removed from the spectrum of the living.
- Slothrop's plea for companionship and protection is gently rejected by the serene, distant apparition of his friend.
- Upon waking, Slothrop continues his journey through a haunted but amiable landscape of creaking oak and wandering livestock.
He is smiling: but his serenity and distance are the stretch of an impotent cry past Slothropâs reach.
642
Gravityâs Rainsow
â
drine jitters off of the facesâthere arenât any he can really
ignore, is the problem, theyâre all too strong, like faces of
a racetrack crowd, each one urging No, meâlook at me,
be touched, reach for your camera, your weapon, your
cock.... Heâs stripped all the insignia off Tchitcherineâs
uniform, trying for less visibility, but very few people
.
seem to care much about insignia, ...
\. Much of the time heâs alone. He'll come on farmhouses,
deserted in the night, and will sleep in the hay, or if
thereâs a mattress (not often) ina bed. Wake to sun glit-
tering off some small lake surrounded by green salted with
blossoms of thyme or mustard, a salad hillside, sweeping
up to pines in the mist. Sapling tomato-frames and purple
foxgloves in the yards, huge birdsâ nests built up under
the eaves of the thatched roofs, bird-choruses in the morn-
ing, and soon, one day, as the summer turns ponderously
in the sky, the clang of cranes, on the move.
At a farmhouse in a river valley far south of Rostock,
he comes in to shelter out of the midday rain, falls asleep
in a rocking-chair on the porch, and dreams about Tantivy
Mucker-Maffiick, his friend from long ago. He has come
back, after all and against the odds. Itâs somewhere out in
the country, English country, quilted in darkened green
and amazingly bright straw-yellow, of very old standing
rocks on high places, of early indenture to death and taxes,
of country girls who walk out at night to stand naked on
the tor and sing. Members of Tantivyâs family and many
friends have come, all in a mood of quiet celebrating, be-
cause of Tantivyâs return. Everybody understands itâs only
a visit: that he will be âhereâ only in a conditional way.
At some point it will fall apart, from thinking about it too
much, There is a space of lawn cleared for dancing, with
a village band and many of the women dressed in white.
After a spell of confusion about the dayâs schedule of
events, the meeting takes placeâit seems to be under-
ground, not exactly a grave or erypt, nothing sinister,
crowded with relatives and friends around Tantivy who
looks so real, so untouched by time, very clear and full of
color... âWhy, Slothrop.â
|
e:
âOhâwhereâve you been, gate?â
\
rer âHere.â â
i
;
js
!
âae âHereâ > Pâ
In the Zone
643
âYes, like that, you've got itâonce or twice removed
like that, but I walked in the same streets as you, read the
same
news, was narrowed
to the same spectrum of
colors... .â
âThen didnât youââ
âI didnât do anything. There was a change.â
The colors in hereâstone
facing, flowers worn by
guests, the strange chalices on the tablesâcarry an under-
breath of blood spilled and turned black, of gentle car-
bonizing in the blank parts of the cities at four oâclock on
Sunday afternoon ... it makes crisper the outlines of Tan-
tivyâs suit, rather a gigolo suit of unspeakably foreign
cut, certainly nothing he ever would have thought of wear-
ing....
âI guess we donât have much time...I know this is
shitty, and really selfish but I'm so alone now, and...I
heard that just after it happens, sometimes, you'll sort of
hang around for a while, sort of look after a friend who's
âhere.â
âSometimes.â He is smiling: but his serenity and dis-
tance are the stretch of an impotent cry past Slothropâs
reach.
âAre you ooking after me?â |
âNo, Slothrop. Not you. .
Slothrop sits ee the old weathered rocker looking out at
a rolling line of hills and the sun just come down out of
the last of the rainclouds, turning the wet fields and the
haycocks to gold. Who passed by and saw his sleeping, his
face white and troubled nodded on the breast of his muddy
uniform?
As he moves on he finds these farms haunted, but
- amiably. The oakwork creaks in the night, honest and
wooden. Unmilked cows low painfully in distant fields,
others come in and get drunk on fermented silage, barging
_ around into the fences and piles of hay where Slothrop
' dreams, uttering moos with drunken umlauts on them.
Up on the rooftops the black and white storks, long throats
_ eurved to the sky, heads upside down and looking back-
_ wards, clatter their beaks in greeting and love. Rabbits
me
scurrying at night to eat whatever's good in the
aes Trees, nowâSlothropâs intensely alert to trees,
_
finally. When he comes in among trees he will spend time
Slothrop, Trees, and the Lemming
- Slothrop experiences a spiritual awakening regarding nature, viewing trees as sentient creatures rather than mere industrial resources.
- He reflects on his family's history of profiting from the timber industry, characterizing their destruction of forests as a form of inherited insanity.
- A pine tree seemingly communicates with Slothrop, suggesting he commit an act of industrial sabotage by stealing an oil filter from a logging tractor.
- Slothrop encounters Ludwig, a young boy obsessively searching for a runaway pet lemming named Ursula who is allegedly heading for the Baltic Sea.
- Despite his skepticism about lemming behavior and Ludwig's sanity, Slothrop joins the search, leading them through dangerous ruins and marshes.
- Slothrop begins to suspect that the lemming may be a hallucination and that Ludwigâs reckless search is actually a manifestation of a suicidal impulse.
Slothropâs family actually made its money killing trees, amputating them from their roots, chopping them up, grinding them to pulp, bleaching that to paper and getting paid for this with more paper.
In the Zone
643
âYes, like that, you've got itâonce or twice removed
like that, but I walked in the same streets as you, read the
same
news, was narrowed
to the same spectrum of
colors... .â
âThen didnât youââ
âI didnât do anything. There was a change.â
The colors in hereâstone
facing, flowers worn by
guests, the strange chalices on the tablesâcarry an under-
breath of blood spilled and turned black, of gentle car-
bonizing in the blank parts of the cities at four oâclock on
Sunday afternoon ... it makes crisper the outlines of Tan-
tivyâs suit, rather a gigolo suit of unspeakably foreign
cut, certainly nothing he ever would have thought of wear-
ing....
âI guess we donât have much time...I know this is
shitty, and really selfish but I'm so alone now, and...I
heard that just after it happens, sometimes, you'll sort of
hang around for a while, sort of look after a friend who's
âhere.â
âSometimes.â He is smiling: but his serenity and dis-
tance are the stretch of an impotent cry past Slothropâs
reach.
âAre you ooking after me?â |
âNo, Slothrop. Not you. .
Slothrop sits ee the old weathered rocker looking out at
a rolling line of hills and the sun just come down out of
the last of the rainclouds, turning the wet fields and the
haycocks to gold. Who passed by and saw his sleeping, his
face white and troubled nodded on the breast of his muddy
uniform?
As he moves on he finds these farms haunted, but
- amiably. The oakwork creaks in the night, honest and
wooden. Unmilked cows low painfully in distant fields,
others come in and get drunk on fermented silage, barging
_ around into the fences and piles of hay where Slothrop
' dreams, uttering moos with drunken umlauts on them.
Up on the rooftops the black and white storks, long throats
_ eurved to the sky, heads upside down and looking back-
_ wards, clatter their beaks in greeting and love. Rabbits
me
scurrying at night to eat whatever's good in the
aes Trees, nowâSlothropâs intensely alert to trees,
_
finally. When he comes in among trees he will spend time
644
Graviryâs RAINBOW
touching them, studying them, sitting very quietly near
them and understanding that each tree is a creature,
carrying on its individual life, aware of whatâs happening
around it, not just some hunk of wood to be cut down.
Slothropâs family actually made its money killing trees,
amputating them from their roots, chopping them up,
grinding them to pulp, bleaching that to paper and getting
âpaid for this with more paper. âThatâs really insane.â He
shakes his head. âThereâs insanity in my family.â He looks
up. The trees are still. They know heâs there. They prob-
ably also know what heâs thinking. âIâm sorry,â he tells
them. âI canât do anything about those people, theyâre all
out of my reach. What can I do?â A medium-size pine
nearby nods its top and suggests, âNext time you come
across
a logging operation out here, find one of their
tractors that isnât being guarded, and take its oil filter
with you. Thatâs what you can do.â
Partial List of Wishes on Evening Stars for This Period:
Let me find that chicken coop the old lady told me about.
Let Tantivy really be alive.
Let this fucking zit on my back go away.
Let me go to Hollywood when this is over so that âRita
Hayworth can see me and fall in love with me.
Let the peace of this day be here tomorrow when I wake up.
Let that discharge be waiting for me in Cuxhaven.
Let Bianca be all right, a-andâ
Let me be able to take a shit soon.
Let that only be a meteor falling.
Let these boots hold out at least to Liibeck.
Let that Ludwig find his lemming and be happy and leave
me in peace.
Well, Ludwig. Slothrop finds him one morning by the
shore of some blue anonymous lake, a surprisingly fat kid
of eight or nine, gazing into the water, crying, shuddering
all over in rippling fat-waves. His lemmingâs name is
Ursula, and she has run away from home. Ludwigâs been
chasing her all the way north from Pritzwalk. Heâs pretty
sure sheâs heading for the Baltic, but heâs afraid shell
mistake one of these inland lakes for the sea, and jump
into that insteadâ
rat
âOne lemming, kid?â
In the Zone
645
ve had her for two years.â he sobs, âsheâs been fine,
sheâs never tried toâ I donât know. Something just came
over her.â
âQuit fooling. Lemmings never do anything alone. They
need a crowd. It gets contagious. You see, Ludwig, they
overbreed, it goes in cycles, when there are too many of
them they panic and run off looking for food. I learned
that in college, so I know what I'm talking about. Harvard.
Maybe that. Ursulaâs just out after a boy friend or some-
thing.â
âShe would. have let me know.â
âTm sorry.â
âRussians arenât sorry about eee!
âTm not a Russian.â
âIs that why you took off all: your insigniarâ
They look at each other. âUh, well; you need a hand
finding that lemming?â
This Ludwig, now, may not be completely Right in the
Head. He is apt to drag Slothrop up out of sleep in the
middle of the night, waking half the DP encampment,
spooking the dogs and babies, absolutely sure that âUrsula
is out there, just beyond the circle of the fire, looking in at
him, seeing him but not the way she used to. He leads
Slothrop into detachments of Soviet tankers, into heaps of
ruins high-crested as the sea, that collapse around. and,
given a chance, on top of you the minute you step in,
also into sucking marshes where the reeds pull away in
your fingers when you try to grab them, and the smell is
of protein disaster. This is either maniac faith, or some-
thing a little darker: it does dawn on Slothrop at last that
if thereâs any impulse to suicide around here it ainât Ur-
sulaâs, itâs that Ludwigâsâwhy, the lemming may not even
exist.
:
Still... hasnât Slothrop, once or twice, seen something?
scooting along ahead down gray narrow streets lined with
token saplings in one or another of these Prussian garri-
son-towns, places whose whole industry and meaning was
soldiering, their barracks and stone walls deserted nowâ
.
or-or crouching by the edge of some little lake, watching
clouds, white sails of gaff-riggers against the other: shore
âso green, foggy, and far away, getting secret instruction
from waters whoseâ movements in lemming-time are oce-
_
William Slothrop and the Preterite
- The narrative introduces William Slothrop, a 17th-century ancestor who fled the Winthrop machine in Boston to live a life of mobility and pig-driving.
- William develops a deep spiritual connection with his swine, viewing their innocence and eventual slaughter as a tragic parable of human betrayal.
- He interprets the miracle of Jesus walking on water through a 'lemming point of view,' suggesting the miracle required the sacrifice of the many who drowned.
- William authors a heretical tract titled 'On Preterition,' arguing for the holiness of the 'second Sheep'âthose passed over by God for salvation.
- His theology posits that the Elect cannot exist without the Preterite, suggesting Judas Iscariot serves as the necessary counterpart to Jesus.
- The text explores the concept of 'action and reaction' in spiritual terms, where every grace is balanced by a corresponding horror or sacrifice.
Without the millions who had plunged and drowned, there could have been no miracle.
In the Zone
645
ve had her for two years.â he sobs, âsheâs been fine,
sheâs never tried toâ I donât know. Something just came
over her.â
âQuit fooling. Lemmings never do anything alone. They
need a crowd. It gets contagious. You see, Ludwig, they
overbreed, it goes in cycles, when there are too many of
them they panic and run off looking for food. I learned
that in college, so I know what I'm talking about. Harvard.
Maybe that. Ursulaâs just out after a boy friend or some-
thing.â
âShe would. have let me know.â
âTm sorry.â
âRussians arenât sorry about eee!
âTm not a Russian.â
âIs that why you took off all: your insigniarâ
They look at each other. âUh, well; you need a hand
finding that lemming?â
This Ludwig, now, may not be completely Right in the
Head. He is apt to drag Slothrop up out of sleep in the
middle of the night, waking half the DP encampment,
spooking the dogs and babies, absolutely sure that âUrsula
is out there, just beyond the circle of the fire, looking in at
him, seeing him but not the way she used to. He leads
Slothrop into detachments of Soviet tankers, into heaps of
ruins high-crested as the sea, that collapse around. and,
given a chance, on top of you the minute you step in,
also into sucking marshes where the reeds pull away in
your fingers when you try to grab them, and the smell is
of protein disaster. This is either maniac faith, or some-
thing a little darker: it does dawn on Slothrop at last that
if thereâs any impulse to suicide around here it ainât Ur-
sulaâs, itâs that Ludwigâsâwhy, the lemming may not even
exist.
:
Still... hasnât Slothrop, once or twice, seen something?
scooting along ahead down gray narrow streets lined with
token saplings in one or another of these Prussian garri-
son-towns, places whose whole industry and meaning was
soldiering, their barracks and stone walls deserted nowâ
.
or-or crouching by the edge of some little lake, watching
clouds, white sails of gaff-riggers against the other: shore
âso green, foggy, and far away, getting secret instruction
from waters whoseâ movements in lemming-time are oce-
_
646
Gravity's RAINBOW
anic, irresistible, and slow ae solid-looking enough at
least to walk out on safely. .
âThatâs what Jesus meant,â whispers the ghost of Slo-
stropâs first American ancestor William, âventuring out on
the Sea of Galilee. He saw it from the lemming point of
view. Without the millions who had plunged and drowned,
there could have been no miracle. The successful loner
\.
was only the other part of it: the last piece to the jigsaw
puzzle, whose shape had already been created by the
Preterite, like the last blank space on the table.â
âWait a minute. You people didnât have jigsaw puzzles.â
âAw, shit.â
William Slothrop was a peculiar bird. He took off from
Boston, heading west in true Imperial style, in 1634 or -5,
sick and tired of the Winthrop machine, convinced he
could preach as well as anybody in the hierarchy even if
he hadnât been officially ordained. The ramparts of the
Berkshires stopped everybody else at the time, but not
William. He just started climbing. He was one of the
very first Europeans in. After they settled in Berkshire, he
and his son John got a pig operation goingâused to drive
hogs right back down the great escarpment, back over the
long pike to Boston, drive them just like sheep or cows.
By the time they got to market those hogs were so skinny
it was hardly worth it, but William wasnât really in it so
much for the money as just for the trip itself. He enjoyed
the road, the mobility, the chance encounters of the dayâ
Indians, trappers, wenches, hill peopleâand most of all
just being with those pigs. They were good company.
Despite the folklore and the injunctions in his own Bible,
William came to love their nobility and personal freedom,
their gift for finding comfort in the mud on a hot dayâ
pigs out on the road, in company together, were every-
thing Boston wasnât, and you can imagine what the end
of the journey, the weighing, slaughter and dreary pigless
return back up into the hills mustâve been like for William.
Of course he took it as a parableâknew that the squeal-
ing bloody horror at the end of the pike was in exact
balance to all their happy sounds, their untroubled pink :
eyelashes and kind eyes, their smiles, their
grace in cross-_
country movement. It was a little early for Isaac Newton,
but feelings about action and reaction were in the air.
|
In the Zone
647
William must've been waiting for the one pig that wouldnât
die, that would validate all the ones who'd had to, all his
Gadarene swine who'd rushed into extinction like lem-
mings, possessed not by demons but by trust for men,
which the men kept betraying... possessed by innocence
they couldnât lose... by faith in William as another variety
of pig, at home with the Earth, sharing the same gift of
life...
He wrote a long tract about it presently, called On
Preterition. It had to be published in England, and is
among the first books toâve been not only banned but also
ceremonially burned in Boston. Nobody wanted to hear
about all the Preterite, the many God passes over when
>
he chooses a few for salvation. William argued holiness
for these âsecond Sheep,â without whom thereâd be no
elect. You can bet the Elect in Boston were pissed off
about that. And it got worse. William felt that what Jesus
was for the elect, Judas Iscariot was for the Preterite.
Everything in the Creation has its equal and opposite
counterpart. How can Jesus be an exception? could we
feel for him anything but horror in the face of the un-
natural, the extracreational? Well, if he is the son of man,
and if what we feel is not horror but love, then we have
to love Judas too. Right? How William avoided being
burned for heresy, nobody knows. He mustâve had con-
nections. They did finally 86 him out of Massachusetts
Bay Colonyâhe thought about Rhode Island for a while
but decided he wasnât that keen on antinomians either. So
finally he sailed back to Old England, not in disgrace so
much as despondency, and thatâs where he died, among
memories of the blue hills, green maizefields, get-togethers
over hemp and tobacco with the Indians, young women
in upper rooms with their aprons lifted, pretty faces, hair
spilling on the wood floors while underneath in the stables
horses kicked and drunks hollered, the starts in the very
early mornings when the backs of his herd glowed like
pearl, the long, stony and surprising road to Boston, the
rain on the Connecticut River, the snuffling good-nights of
a hundred pigs among the new stars and long grass still
warm from the sun, settling down to sleep....
Could he have been the fork in the road America never
took, the singular point she jumped the wrong way from?
1y
s
â
al
fl
The Slothropite Heresy
- The narrative explores the theological 'heresy' of William Slothrop, who argued for the necessity of loving Judas Iscariot as a corollary to loving Jesus.
- William's exile from the Massachusetts Bay Colony represents a lost 'fork in the road' for American identity, suggesting a path of mercy rather than judgment.
- Tyrone Slothrop reflects on the 'Zone' as a temporary anarchist space where social hierarchies, nationalities, and the divide between the 'elect' and 'preterite' might vanish.
- Ludwig, a young boy searching for his lost lemming Ursula, serves as a guide through a surreal, wide-angle landscape of the post-war Zone.
- The search for the lemming ends in a pathetic misunderstanding when Ludwig mistakes a dead fox collar on a pile of contraband coats for his pet.
- The sequence highlights the desperation of love and the fragility of hope in a world defined by displacement and 'extracreational' horror.
Could he have been the fork in the road America never took, the singular point she jumped the wrong way from?
In the Zone
647
William must've been waiting for the one pig that wouldnât
die, that would validate all the ones who'd had to, all his
Gadarene swine who'd rushed into extinction like lem-
mings, possessed not by demons but by trust for men,
which the men kept betraying... possessed by innocence
they couldnât lose... by faith in William as another variety
of pig, at home with the Earth, sharing the same gift of
life...
He wrote a long tract about it presently, called On
Preterition. It had to be published in England, and is
among the first books toâve been not only banned but also
ceremonially burned in Boston. Nobody wanted to hear
about all the Preterite, the many God passes over when
>
he chooses a few for salvation. William argued holiness
for these âsecond Sheep,â without whom thereâd be no
elect. You can bet the Elect in Boston were pissed off
about that. And it got worse. William felt that what Jesus
was for the elect, Judas Iscariot was for the Preterite.
Everything in the Creation has its equal and opposite
counterpart. How can Jesus be an exception? could we
feel for him anything but horror in the face of the un-
natural, the extracreational? Well, if he is the son of man,
and if what we feel is not horror but love, then we have
to love Judas too. Right? How William avoided being
burned for heresy, nobody knows. He mustâve had con-
nections. They did finally 86 him out of Massachusetts
Bay Colonyâhe thought about Rhode Island for a while
but decided he wasnât that keen on antinomians either. So
finally he sailed back to Old England, not in disgrace so
much as despondency, and thatâs where he died, among
memories of the blue hills, green maizefields, get-togethers
over hemp and tobacco with the Indians, young women
in upper rooms with their aprons lifted, pretty faces, hair
spilling on the wood floors while underneath in the stables
horses kicked and drunks hollered, the starts in the very
early mornings when the backs of his herd glowed like
pearl, the long, stony and surprising road to Boston, the
rain on the Connecticut River, the snuffling good-nights of
a hundred pigs among the new stars and long grass still
warm from the sun, settling down to sleep....
Could he have been the fork in the road America never
took, the singular point she jumped the wrong way from?
1y
s
â
al
fl
648
Graviryâs RaiInsow
Suppose the Slothropite heresy had had the time to con-
solidate and prosper? Might there have been fewer crimes
in the name of Jesus, and more merey in the name of
Judas Iscariot? It seems to Tyrone Slothrop that there
might be a route backâmaybe that anarchist he met in
Ziirich was right, maybe for a little while all the fences
are down, one road as good as another, the whole space
of the Zone cleared, depolarized, and somewhere inside
the waste of it a single set of coordinates from which to
proceed, without elect, without preterite, without even
nationality to fuck it up. ... Such are he vistas of thought
that open up in Slothropâs head as he tags along after
Ludwig. Is he drifting, or being led? The only control in
the picture right now is the damned lemming. If she exists.
The kid shows Slothrop photos heâs packing in his wallet:
Ursula, eyes bright and shy, peeking out from under a
pile of cabbage leaves ... Ursula in a cage decked with a
giant ribbon and swastikaâd seal, first prize in a Hitler
Youth pet show... Ursula and the family cat, watching
each other carefully across a tiled stretch of floor... Ur-
sula, front paws dangling and eyes drowsy, hanging out
the pocket of Ludwigâs Nazi cub-scout uniform. Some part
of her is always blurred, too quick for the shutter. Even
knowing when she was a baby what they'd be in for
someday, still Ludwig has always loved her. He may be
thinking that love can stop it from happening.
Slothrop will never find out. He loses the fat young
lunatic in a village near the sea. Girls in full skirts and
flowered kerchiefs are out in the woods gathering mush-
rooms, and red squirrels flash through the beeches. Streets
curve on into town, foreshortening too fastâitâs wideangle,
smalltown space here. Lamps are clustered up on the
poles. Street cobbles are heavy and sand-colored. Dray-
horses stand in the sun flourishing their tails.
:
Down an alleyway near the Michaeliskirche, a little
girl comes tottering under an enormous pile of contraband
fur coats, only her brown legs visible. Ludwig lets out a
scream, pointing at the coat on top. Something small and
gray is worked into its collar. Artificial yellow eyes gleam
unwholesomely. Ludwig runs hollering} Ursula, Ursula,
grabbing for the coat. The little girl lets out a flurry of
curses.
H
âYou killed my lemming!â
In the Zone
649
âLet go, idiot.â A tug-of-war among the blurry patches
of sun and shadow in the alley. âIt isnât a lemming, itâs a
gray fox.â
Ludwig stops yelling long enough to look. âSheâs right,â
Slothrop points out.
â{'m sorry,â Ludwig snivels. âIâm a little upset.â
âWell, could you help me carry these as far as the
church?â
âSure.â
They each take an armful of furs and follow her through
the bumpy gassen of the town, in a side entrance, down
several flights to a subbasement of the Michaeliskirche.
There in the lamplight, the first face Slothrop sees, in-
clined over a Sterno fire tending a simmering pot, is âthat
of Major Duane Marvy.
O
YAAAGGGGHHHHâ Slothrop hefts his armload of coats,
ready to throw them and flee, but the Majorâs just all
smiles. âHi there, comrade. You're just in time for some
o Duane Marvyâs Atomic Chili! Whyntcha pull up a pew
ânâ sit down? Yaah-ha-ha-ha! Little Whatâs-her-name here,â
chuckling and copping a feel as the girl deposits her de-
livery with the enormous stash of furs that occupies most
of this room, âsheâs kind of indiscreet sometimes. I hope
you donât feel like that weâ re doing anything illegal, I
mean in your zone and eve:
,
âNot at all, Major,â trying for a Russain accent, which
comes out like Bela Lugosi. Marvy is out with his pass
anyhow, most of which is hand-written, with here and
there a seal stamped onto it. Slothrop squints at the Cyrillic
handwriting at the bottom and makes out Tchitcherineâs
signature. âAh. I have coordinated with Colonel Tchi-
tcherine on one or two occasions.â
_ âHeyâd ya hear what happened up in Peenymunde?
Buncha âsuckers just come in hijacked Der Springer. right
out fm under the Colonelâs nose. Yeah. You know Der
Springer? Bad ass, comrade. That âsucker got so many
arns in the far donât leave much for free-enterprisers like
me ânâ old Bloody Chiclitz.â
Old Bloody Chiclitz, whose mother, Mrs. Chiclitz, named
âą
âa
The Black Market Subbasement
- Slothrop is led into the subbasement of the Michaeliskirche, which has been converted into a massive depot for stolen furs.
- He encounters Major Duane Marvy and the industrialist Clayton 'Bloody' Chiclitz, who are operating a black market ring under the guise of official business.
- Slothrop attempts to maintain his Russian disguise while learning that the legendary 'Der Springer' has been hijacked from Colonel Tchitcherine.
- Chiclitz is revealed as a grotesque war profiteer who made his fortune selling racist and violent toys in America.
- The men discuss their plans to capitalize on the post-war transition, including Chiclitz's bizarre scheme to play the 'Royal Baby' in naval ceremonies.
- The scene highlights the intersection of military corruption, industrial greed, and the emerging interest in V-weapon technology.
He dreams of the generations of cannon fodder, struggling forward on their knees, one by one, to kiss his stomach while he gobbles turkey legs and ice-cream cones and wipes his fingers off in the polliwogsâ hair.
In the Zone
649
âLet go, idiot.â A tug-of-war among the blurry patches
of sun and shadow in the alley. âIt isnât a lemming, itâs a
gray fox.â
Ludwig stops yelling long enough to look. âSheâs right,â
Slothrop points out.
â{'m sorry,â Ludwig snivels. âIâm a little upset.â
âWell, could you help me carry these as far as the
church?â
âSure.â
They each take an armful of furs and follow her through
the bumpy gassen of the town, in a side entrance, down
several flights to a subbasement of the Michaeliskirche.
There in the lamplight, the first face Slothrop sees, in-
clined over a Sterno fire tending a simmering pot, is âthat
of Major Duane Marvy.
O
YAAAGGGGHHHHâ Slothrop hefts his armload of coats,
ready to throw them and flee, but the Majorâs just all
smiles. âHi there, comrade. You're just in time for some
o Duane Marvyâs Atomic Chili! Whyntcha pull up a pew
ânâ sit down? Yaah-ha-ha-ha! Little Whatâs-her-name here,â
chuckling and copping a feel as the girl deposits her de-
livery with the enormous stash of furs that occupies most
of this room, âsheâs kind of indiscreet sometimes. I hope
you donât feel like that weâ re doing anything illegal, I
mean in your zone and eve:
,
âNot at all, Major,â trying for a Russain accent, which
comes out like Bela Lugosi. Marvy is out with his pass
anyhow, most of which is hand-written, with here and
there a seal stamped onto it. Slothrop squints at the Cyrillic
handwriting at the bottom and makes out Tchitcherineâs
signature. âAh. I have coordinated with Colonel Tchi-
tcherine on one or two occasions.â
_ âHeyâd ya hear what happened up in Peenymunde?
Buncha âsuckers just come in hijacked Der Springer. right
out fm under the Colonelâs nose. Yeah. You know Der
Springer? Bad ass, comrade. That âsucker got so many
arns in the far donât leave much for free-enterprisers like
me ânâ old Bloody Chiclitz.â
Old Bloody Chiclitz, whose mother, Mrs. Chiclitz, named
âą
âa
650
Graviryâs Rainsow
him Clayton, has been lurking behind a stack of mink
capes with a .45 aimed at Slothropâs stomach. âSay heâs
O.K., buddy,â Marvy calls. âYâall bring us sâmore that
champagne why donâtcha.â Chiclitz is about as fat as
Marvy and wears hornrimmed glasses, and the top of his
âheadâs as shiny as his face. They stand there with their
arms around each otherâs shoulders, two smiling fat men.
. âIvan, you're lookinâ at 10,000 calories a day, right here,â
âindicating the two paunches with his thumb, and winking.
âChiclitz here goam be the Royal Baby,â and they both
collapse with laughter. But it is true. Chiclitz has actually
figured out a way to cash in on redeployment. He is about
to wangle with Special Services. the exclusive contract for
staging the equator-crossing festivities for every troop ship
that changes hemispheres. And Chiclitz himself will be
the Royal Baby on as many as he can, thatâs been written
in. He dreams of the generations of cannon fodder, strug-
gling forward on their knees, one by one, to kiss his stom-
ach while he gobbles turkey legs and ice-cream cones and
wipes his fingers off in the polliwogsâ hair. Officially he is
one of the American industrialists out here with the
T-Force, scouting German engineering, secret weaponry
in particular. Back home he owns a toy factory in Nutley,
New Jersey. Who can ever forget the enormously success-
ful Juicy Jap, the doll that you fill with ketchup then
bayonet through any of several access slots, whereupon
it flies to pieces, 82 of them, realistically squishy plastic,
all over the room? or-or Shufflinâ Sam, the game of skill
where you have to shoot the Negro before he gets back
over the fence with the watermelon, a challenge to the
reflexes of boys and girls of all ages? Right now business
is taking care of itself, but Chiclitz has his eyes on the
future. Thatâs why heâs running this fur operation, with
the Michaeliskirche serving as a depot for the whole
region. âRetrenchment. Got to get capitalized, enough to
see me through,â splashing champagne into gold com-
munion chalices, âtill we see which way itâs gonna go.
Myself, I think thereâs a great future in these V-weapons.
Theyâre gonna be really big.â
The old church smells of spilled wine,| American sweat,
and recently burned cordite, but these
are raw newer
intrusions that havenât done away with the prevailing
Chili, Champagne, and Rocket Ruins
- Chiclitz reveals a bizarre ambition to transport his child laborers to Hollywood to work as extras for Cecil B. De Mille.
- Major Marvy mocks Chiclitz's dream, suggesting the children would be exploited as cinematic galley slaves rather than singers.
- Slothrop survives a 'test of manhood' involving Marvyâs Atomic Chili by ignoring the machismo and drinking champagne while the others suffer.
- The trio drives recklessly through the Zone in a Ford staff car, terrorizing locals while singing and shouting warnings.
- They arrive at a stripped A4 rocket battery site where nature is already reclaiming the abandoned military technology.
- The site serves as a reminder of the rapid transition from active warfare to a scavenged, post-war landscape.
Forget-me-nots are growing violent blue violent yellow among the snarl of cables and hoses.
650
Graviryâs Rainsow
him Clayton, has been lurking behind a stack of mink
capes with a .45 aimed at Slothropâs stomach. âSay heâs
O.K., buddy,â Marvy calls. âYâall bring us sâmore that
champagne why donâtcha.â Chiclitz is about as fat as
Marvy and wears hornrimmed glasses, and the top of his
âheadâs as shiny as his face. They stand there with their
arms around each otherâs shoulders, two smiling fat men.
. âIvan, you're lookinâ at 10,000 calories a day, right here,â
âindicating the two paunches with his thumb, and winking.
âChiclitz here goam be the Royal Baby,â and they both
collapse with laughter. But it is true. Chiclitz has actually
figured out a way to cash in on redeployment. He is about
to wangle with Special Services. the exclusive contract for
staging the equator-crossing festivities for every troop ship
that changes hemispheres. And Chiclitz himself will be
the Royal Baby on as many as he can, thatâs been written
in. He dreams of the generations of cannon fodder, strug-
gling forward on their knees, one by one, to kiss his stom-
ach while he gobbles turkey legs and ice-cream cones and
wipes his fingers off in the polliwogsâ hair. Officially he is
one of the American industrialists out here with the
T-Force, scouting German engineering, secret weaponry
in particular. Back home he owns a toy factory in Nutley,
New Jersey. Who can ever forget the enormously success-
ful Juicy Jap, the doll that you fill with ketchup then
bayonet through any of several access slots, whereupon
it flies to pieces, 82 of them, realistically squishy plastic,
all over the room? or-or Shufflinâ Sam, the game of skill
where you have to shoot the Negro before he gets back
over the fence with the watermelon, a challenge to the
reflexes of boys and girls of all ages? Right now business
is taking care of itself, but Chiclitz has his eyes on the
future. Thatâs why heâs running this fur operation, with
the Michaeliskirche serving as a depot for the whole
region. âRetrenchment. Got to get capitalized, enough to
see me through,â splashing champagne into gold com-
munion chalices, âtill we see which way itâs gonna go.
Myself, I think thereâs a great future in these V-weapons.
Theyâre gonna be really big.â
The old church smells of spilled wine,| American sweat,
and recently burned cordite, but these
are raw newer
intrusions that havenât done away with the prevailing
In the Zone
-
651
Catholic odorâincense, wax, centuries of mild bleating
from the lips of the flock. Children come in and go out,
bringing furs and taking them away, chatting with Lud-
wig and presently inviting him along to check out the
freight cars down at the marshaling yards.
There are about 30 kids on Chiclitzâs payroll. âMy
dream;â he admits, âis to bring all these kids back. to
America, out to Hollywood. I think thereâs a future for
them in pictures. You heard of Cecil B. De Mille, the
producer? My brother-in-lawâs pretty close to him. I think
I can teach them to sing or something,
a childrenâs
chorus, negotiate a package deal with De Mille. He can
use them for the real big numbers, religious scenes, orgy
scenesâ"
âHa!â cries Marvy, dribbling champagne, eyeballs bulg-
ing. âYou're dreaming all right, old buddy! You sell those
kids to Cecil B. De Mille itâs f'damn sure they ainât goam
be singinâ, He'll use them little âsuckers for galley slaves!
Yaah-ha-haâyeah they'll be chained to thâ oars, just
haulinâ ass, rowinâ old Henry Wilcoxon away into thâ
sunset to fight them Greeks or Persians or somebody.â
âGalley slaves?â Chiclitz roars. âNever, by God. For
De Mille, young fur-henchmen canât be rowing!â
Out at the edge of town are the remains of an A4 bat-
tery, left where it stood as the troops fled south, trying to
escape British and Russian pincers. Marvy and Chiclitz
are going to have a look, and Slothrop is welcome to come
along. But first there is the matter of Duane Marvyâs
Atomic Chili, which turns out to be a test of manhood.
The champagne bottle is there within easy reach, but
drinking from it will be taken as a sign of weakness. Once
Slothrop would have been suckered in, but now he doesnât
even have to think it over. While the two Americans,
blinded, noses on fire and leaking incredible quantities of
snot, undergo what the authoritative A Cheapskateâs Guide
to the Zone aptly describes as âa GĂ©tterdâmmerung of the
mucous membranes,â Slothrop sits guzzling champagne
like soda pop, nodding, smiling, and mumbling da, da
now and then for authenticityâs sake.
They ride out to the site in a green, grinning Ford staff
car, Marvy soon as he slides behind the wheel turns into
a fanged dipsomaniacâeeeeerrrrr leaving rubber enough
, ae
â
vi
652
Gravity's Rainsow
to condom a division, zero to 70 before the echoâs died,
trying to run down bicyclists right ânâ left, stampeding the
livestock, whilst Bloody Chiclitz, whooping happily, a
champagne bottle in each fist, urges him onâMarvy bel-
lowing âSan Antonya Rose,â his favârite song, Chiclitz
screaming out the window admonitions like âFuck not
with the Kid, lest instead of fucker thou become fuckee,â
which takes a while and draws only a few bewildered
Fascist salutes from old ladies and little children at the
roadside.
The site is a charred patch becoming green with new
weeds, inside a copse of beech:and some alder. Camou-
flaged metal stands silent across a ghostly crowd of late
dandelions, gray heads nodding together waiting for the
luminous wind that will break them toward the sea, over
to Denmark, out to all points of the Zone. Everythingâs
been stripped. The vehicles are back to the hollow design
envelopes of their earliest specs, though thereâs still a
faint odor of petrol and grease. Forget-me-nots are grow-
ing violent blue violent yellow among the snarl of cables
and hoses. Swallows have built a nest inside the control
car, and a spider has begun filling in the web of the
Meillerwagen boom with her own.
âShit,â sez Major
Marvy. âFuckinâ Rooskies done stole everthing, no offense,
comrade.â They go kicking through green and purple
weeds, rusted food tins, old sawdust and chips of wood.
Surveying stakes, each with a tatter of white nailed on
top, still chain away toward the guide-beam transmitter
12 kilometers away. Eastward. So it mustâve been the
Russians they were trying to stop. ...
Red, white, and blue winks from the dusty deck of the
control car. Slothrop drops to one knee. The Schwarz-
kommando mandala: KEZVH. He looks up to see Marvy
giving him a sly fat smile.
âWhy shore. I shoulda known. You donât have no in-
signia on. Sheeeee... you're-you're like thâ Soviet CIC!
Ainâtcha.â Slothrop stares back. âHey. Hey, who're you
tryinâ to git? Huh?â The smile vanishes. âSa-a-a-y, I shore
hope it ainât Colonel Tchitcherine, now, Heâs a good
Rooskie, you know.â
;
.
âI assure you,â holding up the mandala, cross to vam-
pire, âmy only interest is in dealing with the problem of
these black devils.â
:
Slothrop's Deception in the Zone
- Slothrop adopts a false identity as a Soviet intelligence officer to navigate a tense encounter with Major Marvy and Bloody Chiclitz.
- The American businessmen reveal their violent, racist intentions to massacre the Schwarzkommando camp at midnight.
- Slothrop successfully bluffs his way into obtaining the location of the Schwarzkommando by claiming he is on a reconnaissance mission.
- As he treks toward the camp, Slothrop experiences a moment of existential crisis, questioning his diversion from his original mission.
- The narrative shifts into a surreal, musical-inspired internal monologue as Slothrop struggles to maintain focus on the Imipolex G mystery.
- The landscape is described with vivid, painterly detail, contrasting the natural beauty of the meadow with the impending violence of the Zone.
I spint all day today cleaninâ my Coltâs,â caressing the sidearm in its holster. âGoam make me a coonskin cap outa one oâ thim âsuckers, ânâ I donât have to tell you what partâs goam be danglinâ down there in back, do I? Hah?
652
Gravity's Rainsow
to condom a division, zero to 70 before the echoâs died,
trying to run down bicyclists right ânâ left, stampeding the
livestock, whilst Bloody Chiclitz, whooping happily, a
champagne bottle in each fist, urges him onâMarvy bel-
lowing âSan Antonya Rose,â his favârite song, Chiclitz
screaming out the window admonitions like âFuck not
with the Kid, lest instead of fucker thou become fuckee,â
which takes a while and draws only a few bewildered
Fascist salutes from old ladies and little children at the
roadside.
The site is a charred patch becoming green with new
weeds, inside a copse of beech:and some alder. Camou-
flaged metal stands silent across a ghostly crowd of late
dandelions, gray heads nodding together waiting for the
luminous wind that will break them toward the sea, over
to Denmark, out to all points of the Zone. Everythingâs
been stripped. The vehicles are back to the hollow design
envelopes of their earliest specs, though thereâs still a
faint odor of petrol and grease. Forget-me-nots are grow-
ing violent blue violent yellow among the snarl of cables
and hoses. Swallows have built a nest inside the control
car, and a spider has begun filling in the web of the
Meillerwagen boom with her own.
âShit,â sez Major
Marvy. âFuckinâ Rooskies done stole everthing, no offense,
comrade.â They go kicking through green and purple
weeds, rusted food tins, old sawdust and chips of wood.
Surveying stakes, each with a tatter of white nailed on
top, still chain away toward the guide-beam transmitter
12 kilometers away. Eastward. So it mustâve been the
Russians they were trying to stop. ...
Red, white, and blue winks from the dusty deck of the
control car. Slothrop drops to one knee. The Schwarz-
kommando mandala: KEZVH. He looks up to see Marvy
giving him a sly fat smile.
âWhy shore. I shoulda known. You donât have no in-
signia on. Sheeeee... you're-you're like thâ Soviet CIC!
Ainâtcha.â Slothrop stares back. âHey. Hey, who're you
tryinâ to git? Huh?â The smile vanishes. âSa-a-a-y, I shore
hope it ainât Colonel Tchitcherine, now, Heâs a good
Rooskie, you know.â
;
.
âI assure you,â holding up the mandala, cross to vam-
pire, âmy only interest is in dealing with the problem of
these black devils.â
:
In the Zone
653
Back comes the smile, along with a fat hand on Slo-
thropâs arm. âYou all set to go round ânâ round with thim,
whin yâr comrades git here?â
âRound, and round? I am not sure that Iââ
âYou know. Come on. Why all thim boogiesâtâs camped
outside oâ town! Hey, Ivan, god-damn âatâs goam be
fun.
I spint all day today cleaninâ my Coltâs,â caressing the
sidearm in its holster. âGoam make me a coonskin cap
outa one oâ thim âsuckers, ânâ I donât have to tell you what
partâs goam be danglinâ down there in back, do Uh? Hah?â
Which tickles Bloody Chiclitz so much he like to chokes
laughing.
âActually,â Slothrop making it up as he goes along,
âmy mission is coordinating intelligence,â whatever that
means, âin operations such as this.
I am down here, in
fact, to reconnoiter the enemy position.â
âEnemy's right,â Chiclitz nods. âThey got guns and
everything. Only thing a coon beg to have in his hands
-
is a broom!â
Marvy is frowning. âYou, you ainât expecting us to go
out there with you, now. We can tell you how to git there,
comrade, but youre crazy to go out there alone. Why
donâtcha waitâll tonight? Scheduled to stort about mid-
night, ainât itP You can wait till then.â
âTt is essential that I gather certain information in ad-
vance,â pokerface, pokerface, good, good... âI do not
have to tell you how important this is.. tar pregnant
Lugosi pause, âto all of us.â
Well, that gets him directions out to the Schwarzkom-
mando and a lift back into town, where the businessmen
pick up a couple of those Eager Friuleins and go roister-
ing off into the sunset. Slothrop stands in their exhaust,
muttering.
Next time it won't be any custard pie, you asshole. ...
Takes him an hour to get out to the camp on foot
across a wide meadow whose color is deepening now as if
green dye flowed and seeped into its nap... he is aware
of each single grassbladeâs shadow reaching into the shad-
ows east of it... pure milk-colored light sweeps up in a
bell-curve above the sun nearly down, transparent white
flesh, fading up through many blues, powdery to dark
steel at the zenith... why is he out here, doing this? Is
.this Ursula the lemmingâs idea too, getting mixed up in
|
654
Gravityâs RAINBOW
other peopleâs private feuds when he was supposed to
be... whatever it was...
uh..
Yeah! yeah what happened to âImipolex G, all that Jamf
a-and that S-Gerit, sâposed to be a hardboiled private eye
here, gonna go out all alone and beat the odds, avenge
my friend that They killed, get my ID back and find that
.
piece of mystery hardware but now aw itâs JUST LIKEâ
LOOK-INâ FAWR A NEEDLE IN A HAAAAY-STACK!
Sssssâsearchinfrasomethinâ fulla
(Something) got ta have yooooul
Feet whispering through weeds and meadow grass, hum-
ming along exactly the breathless, chin-up way Fred
Astaire did, reflecting on his chances of ever finding Ginger
Rogers again this side of their graceful mortality, .
Then, snapping backâno no, wait, youâre supposed to
be planning soberly now, weighing your options, deter-
mining your goals at this critical turning point in your.
Yaâta-ta, LOOKINâ FR A NEEDLE IN Aâ
Nonono come on, Jackson, quit fooling, you got to con-
centrate,...
The S-Gerit nowâO.K. if I can find that
S-Gerat ânâ
1 ee Jamf was hooked in, if I can find that out,
yeah yeah Imipolex now.
âsearchinâ for a (hmm) cellar full oâ saffron...
Aw.
At about which point, as if someoneâs simple longing as
made it appear, comes a single needle-stroke through the
sky: the first star.
Let me be able to warn them in time.
They jump Slothrop among the trees, lean, bearded
blackâthey bring him in to the fires where someone is
playing a thumb- -harp whose soundbox is carved from a
piece of German pine, whose reeds are cut from springs of
a wrecked Volkswagen. Women in white cotton skirts
printed with dark blue flowers, white fee. braided
aprons, and black kerchiefs are busy with
pots and tin-
ware. Some are wearing ostrich-egg-shell necklaces knife-
hatched in red and blue. A great cut of beef drips from a
wooden spit over a fire.
The Rocket as Mandala
- Slothrop reunites with the Zone Hereros, a group of displaced Africans living in the ruins of Germany, to warn them of an impending threat.
- The Hereros view their movements through the Zone not as tactical maneuvers, but as a spiritual journey guided by the deity Mukuru.
- Slothrop shares intelligence regarding the S-GerÀt, Imipolex G, and the mysterious Captain Blicero, which triggers a significant reaction from the group.
- Andreas Orukambe explains the Herero mandala, mapping village social structures and spiritual concepts onto the four-letter technical diagram found by Slothrop.
- The group interprets the V-2 rocket's four fins as a cross or mandala, seeing the weapon as a destiny they were meant to find after surviving colonial genocide.
- The synthesis of oppositesâmale and female, birth and fireâis central to their technological mysticism and their connection to the 'Aggregat'.
The four fins of the Rocket made a cross, another mandala.
654
Gravityâs RAINBOW
other peopleâs private feuds when he was supposed to
be... whatever it was...
uh..
Yeah! yeah what happened to âImipolex G, all that Jamf
a-and that S-Gerit, sâposed to be a hardboiled private eye
here, gonna go out all alone and beat the odds, avenge
my friend that They killed, get my ID back and find that
.
piece of mystery hardware but now aw itâs JUST LIKEâ
LOOK-INâ FAWR A NEEDLE IN A HAAAAY-STACK!
Sssssâsearchinfrasomethinâ fulla
(Something) got ta have yooooul
Feet whispering through weeds and meadow grass, hum-
ming along exactly the breathless, chin-up way Fred
Astaire did, reflecting on his chances of ever finding Ginger
Rogers again this side of their graceful mortality, .
Then, snapping backâno no, wait, youâre supposed to
be planning soberly now, weighing your options, deter-
mining your goals at this critical turning point in your.
Yaâta-ta, LOOKINâ FR A NEEDLE IN Aâ
Nonono come on, Jackson, quit fooling, you got to con-
centrate,...
The S-Gerit nowâO.K. if I can find that
S-Gerat ânâ
1 ee Jamf was hooked in, if I can find that out,
yeah yeah Imipolex now.
âsearchinâ for a (hmm) cellar full oâ saffron...
Aw.
At about which point, as if someoneâs simple longing as
made it appear, comes a single needle-stroke through the
sky: the first star.
Let me be able to warn them in time.
They jump Slothrop among the trees, lean, bearded
blackâthey bring him in to the fires where someone is
playing a thumb- -harp whose soundbox is carved from a
piece of German pine, whose reeds are cut from springs of
a wrecked Volkswagen. Women in white cotton skirts
printed with dark blue flowers, white fee. braided
aprons, and black kerchiefs are busy with
pots and tin-
ware. Some are wearing ostrich-egg-shell necklaces knife-
hatched in red and blue. A great cut of beef drips from a
wooden spit over a fire.
Inthe Zone
655
Enzian isnât there, but Andreas Orukambe is, nervous as
wire, wearing a navy pullover and army fatigue trousers.
He remembers Slothrop. âWas ist los?â
Slothrop tells him. âSupposed to be here at: midnight.
Donât know how many there are, but maybe you'd better
clear out.â
âMaybe.â Andreas is smiling. âHave you eaten?â
The argument, go or stay, proceeds over supper. It is
not the tactical decision-making Slothrop was taught in
officer school. There seem to be other considerations, some-
thing the Zone Hereros know about and Slothrop doesnât.
âWe have to go where we go,â Andreas explains to him
later. âWhere Mukuru wants us to go.â
âOh. Oh, I thought you were out here looking for some-
thing, like everybody else. The ooo00, what about that?â
âThat is Mukuruâs. He hides it where he wants us to
seek.â
Gt:
39]
âLook, I have a line on that S-Gerit.â He gives them
Greta Erdmannâs storyâthe Heath, the gasoline works, the
name Bliceroâ
That rings a bell. A gong, in fact. Everybody looks at
everybody else. âNow,â Andreas very careful, âthat was
the name of the German who commanded the battery that
used the S-Gerat?â
âT donât know if they used it. Blicero took the woman to
a factory where it was either put together, or a part of it
was made, from some plastic called Imipolex G.â
âAnd she didnât say where.â
âOnly âthe Heath.â See if you can find her husband,
Miklos Thanatz. He may have seen the actual firing, if
there was one. Something out of the ordinary went on
about then, but I never got
to find out what.â
âThank you.â
âItâs O.K. Maybe you can tell me something now.â He
brings out the mandala he found. âWhatâs it mean?â
Andreas sets it on the ground, turns it till the K points
northwest. âKlar,â touching each letter, âEntliiftung, these
are the female letters. North letters, Inâ our villages the
women lived in huts on the northern half of the circle, the
men on the south, The village itself was a mandala. Klar
is fertilization and birth, Entliiftung is the breath, the soul.
_Ziindung and Vorstufe are the male signs, the activities,
â)
rn
eh
ls
a
656
Graviryâs RaInBow
fire and preparation or building. And in the center, here,
Hauptstufe. It is the pen where we kept the sacred cattle.
The souls of the ancestors. All the same here. Birth, soul,
fire, building. Male and female, together.
âThe four fins of the Rocket made a cross, another man-
dala. Number one pointed the way it would fly. Two for
pitch, three for yaw and roll, four for pitch. Each oppo-
. site pair of vanes worked together, and moved in opposite
senses. Opposites together, You can see how we might feel
it speak to us, even if we donât set one up on its fins and
worship it. But it was waiting for us when we came north
to Germany so long ago... even confused and uprooted
as we were then, we knew that our destiny was tied up
with its own. That we had been passed over by von
Trothaâs army so that we would find the Aggregat.â
Slothrop gives him the mandala, He hopes it will work
like the mantra that Enzian told him once, mba-kayere (I
am passed over), mba-kayere...a spell against Marvy
tonight, against Tchitcherine. A mezuzah. Safe passage
through a bad night....
oO
4
1
The Schwarzkommando have got to Achtfaden, but Tchi-
tcherine has been to Narrisch. It cost him Der Springer
and three enlisted men in sick bay with deep bites. One
severed artery. Narrisch trying to go out Audie Murphy
style. A knight for a bishopâNarrisch under narcohyp-
nosis raved about the Holy Circle and the Rocketfin Cross,
But the blacks donât know what else Narrisch knew:
(a) there was a radio link from the ground to the S-
Gerat but not the other way round.
(b) there was an interference problem between a servo-
actuator and a special oxygen line running aft to the
device from the main tank.
x
(c) Weissmann not only coordinated the S-Gerat proj-
ect at Nordhausen, but also commanded
battery that
fired Rocket 00000.
.
.
Total espionage. Bit by bit this âmospic is growing.
Tchitcherine, bureauless, carries it around in
his
brain.
Every chip and scrap belongs. More precious than Ra-
ak
a.
The Growing Mosaic of S-Gerat
- Slothrop uses a mandala as a protective spell against his pursuers, Marvy and Tchitcherine, hoping for safe passage through the night.
- Tchitcherine extracts technical secrets about the S-Gerat from Narrisch under narcohypnosis, including details on radio links and oxygen line interference.
- The investigation reveals that Weissmann coordinated the S-Gerat project and commanded the battery that fired the mysterious Rocket 00000.
- Tchitcherine suspects an asymmetrical load inside the rocket complicates its control, suggesting a unique and potentially unstable propulsion design.
- A tense alliance exists between the American Major Marvy and the Russian Tchitcherine, driven by a shared hunt for the Schwarzkommando.
- Tchitcherine experiences deep paranoia regarding his personal vendetta against his half-brother Enzian and the possibility of a Soviet court-martial.
Tchitcherine, bureauless, carries it around in his brain. Every chip and scrap belongs.
656
Graviryâs RaInBow
fire and preparation or building. And in the center, here,
Hauptstufe. It is the pen where we kept the sacred cattle.
The souls of the ancestors. All the same here. Birth, soul,
fire, building. Male and female, together.
âThe four fins of the Rocket made a cross, another man-
dala. Number one pointed the way it would fly. Two for
pitch, three for yaw and roll, four for pitch. Each oppo-
. site pair of vanes worked together, and moved in opposite
senses. Opposites together, You can see how we might feel
it speak to us, even if we donât set one up on its fins and
worship it. But it was waiting for us when we came north
to Germany so long ago... even confused and uprooted
as we were then, we knew that our destiny was tied up
with its own. That we had been passed over by von
Trothaâs army so that we would find the Aggregat.â
Slothrop gives him the mandala, He hopes it will work
like the mantra that Enzian told him once, mba-kayere (I
am passed over), mba-kayere...a spell against Marvy
tonight, against Tchitcherine. A mezuzah. Safe passage
through a bad night....
oO
4
1
The Schwarzkommando have got to Achtfaden, but Tchi-
tcherine has been to Narrisch. It cost him Der Springer
and three enlisted men in sick bay with deep bites. One
severed artery. Narrisch trying to go out Audie Murphy
style. A knight for a bishopâNarrisch under narcohyp-
nosis raved about the Holy Circle and the Rocketfin Cross,
But the blacks donât know what else Narrisch knew:
(a) there was a radio link from the ground to the S-
Gerat but not the other way round.
(b) there was an interference problem between a servo-
actuator and a special oxygen line running aft to the
device from the main tank.
x
(c) Weissmann not only coordinated the S-Gerat proj-
ect at Nordhausen, but also commanded
battery that
fired Rocket 00000.
.
.
Total espionage. Bit by bit this âmospic is growing.
Tchitcherine, bureauless, carries it around in
his
brain.
Every chip and scrap belongs. More precious than Ra-
ak
a.
In the Zone
657
venna, something goes erecting against this starch-colored
sky, .
Radio link + oxygen = afterburner of some kind. Ordi-
narily it would. But Narrisch also spoke of an asymmetry,
a load inside near vane 3 that complicated roll and yaw
control almost impossibly.
Now wouldnât an afterburner there also give an asym-
metrical burning pattern, and heat fluxes greater than the
structure could take? Damn, why hasnât he picked up any
of the propulsion people? Do the Americans have them
Major Marvy, bowie knife in his teeth and two Thomp-
sons propped on either hip, as dumbfounded in the clear-
ing as the rest of the attack party, is in no mood to talk.
Instead he is sulking, and drinking vodka out of Dzaba-
jevâs bottomless canteen. But had any propulsion engineers
assigned to the S-Gerit showed up at Garmisch, Marvy
would have let him know. Thatâs the arrangement. West-
ern intelligence, Russian trigger-fingers.
Oh, he smells Enzian...even now the black may be
looking in out of the night. Tchitcherine lights a cigarette,
greenbluelavender flare settling to yellow...he holds the
flame longer than necessary, thinking let him. He won't.
I wouldn't. Well... maybe I would. ...
But itâs come a quantum-jump closer tonight. They are
going to meet. It will be over the S-Gerit, real or fanta-
ar working or wastedâthey will meet face to face.
Then.
hisiankiies whoâs
the mysterious
Soviet
intelligence
agent that Marvy talked to? Paranoia for you here, Tchi-
tcherine. Maybe Moscowâs been tipped to your vendetta.
If they are gathering evidence for a court-martial, it won't
be any Central Asia this time. It'll be Last Secretary to the
embassy in Atlantis. You can negotiate narcotics arrests for
all the drowned Russian sailors, expedite your own fatherâs
visas to far Lemuria, to the sun-resortsâ of Sargasso where
the bones come up to lie and bleach and mock the passing
ships. And just before he rides out on the rioon current,
brochures tucked between ribs, travelerâs checks wadded
in a skull-socket, tell him of his black sonâtell him about
âthe day with Enzian in the creeping edge of autumn, cold
as the mortal cold of an orange kept under shaved ice on
658
Graviry'sRameow
rm
ca
29
the terrace of the hotel im Barcelona, si me quieres
escribir you already know where I'll be staying . . . cold at
oe of your peeling-thumb, terminally-approaching
âListen,â Marvy by now a little drunk and peevish,
âwhen we gonna git those âsuckers?â
\\. âItâs coming, you can be sure.â
What's this? A political debate now? Not enough bumil-
iation missing the Schwarzkommando, no, you didnât think |
âYor > Tea iazins base aan peiiaeenaTaa
doing out here, by the way?â
ad
â
A friendly
~
om
â4
The Emergence of the Rocket-State
- Tchitcherine experiences a moment of clarity regarding the interconnectedness of global industrial giants like GE, Siemens, and IG Farben.
- The text suggests the existence of a 'Rocket-cartel' that transcends national borders, political ideologies, and even the knowledge of leaders like Stalin.
- This meta-state is described as a sovereign entity, comparable to the Church of Rome, with the Rocket serving as its central soul and unifying force.
- Tchitcherine realizes his own tragic limitation: he is destined to remain at the edges of revelation, never fully crossing into the heart of the conspiracy.
- The realization dawns that almost every scavenger in the Zone is an agent of this cartel, leaving only Tchitcherine and his brother Enzian as outsiders.
- The narrative shifts toward Cuxhaven, moving from the intense paranoia of the cartel's discovery to a misty, decelerating landscape of 'zonal shapes'.
Oh, a State begins to take form in the Stateless German night, a State that spans oceans and surface politics, sovereign as the International or the Church of Rome, and the Rocket is its soul.
In the Zone
659
_ of GE, full of poison and sluggish hate. Tchitcherine listens
with only one ear. An episode of vertigo is creeping on
him. Didnât Narrisch, under the drug, mention a Siemens
representative at the S-Gerit meetings in Nordhausen?
yes. And an IG man, too. Didnât Carl Schmitz of the IG
sit on Siemensâs board of directors?
No use asking Marvy. He is too drunk by now to stay
on any subject. âYa know I was purty ignorant whin Uh
come out here, Sheeit, I used tâthink I. G. Farben was
somebodyâs name, you know, a fellaâhello, this I. G.
Farben? No, this is his wife, Mizzus Farben! Yaaah-ha-ha-
ha!â
Bloody Chiclitz is off on his Eleanor Roosevelt routine.
âThe othuh day, my son Idiotâuh, Elliotâand I, were
baking cookies. Cookies to send to the boys overseas. When
the boys received the cookies we sent them, they would
bake cookies, and send some back to us. That way, every-
body gets his cookies!â
Oh, Wimpe. Old V-Mann, were you right? Is your IG
to be the very model of nations?
So it comes to Tchitcherine here in the clearing with
these two fools on either side of him,-among the debris
of some numberless batteryâs last stand, cables paralyzed
where winch-operators levered them to stillness, beer bot-
tles lying exactly where they were thrown by the last men
on the last night, everything testifying so purely to the
_ shape of defeat, of operational death.
âSay, there.â It appears to be a very large white Finger,
addressing him. Its Fingernail is beautifully manicured: as
it rotates for him, it slowly reveals a Fingerprint that
might well be an aerial view of the City Dactylic, that
city of the future where every soul is known, and there
is noplace to hide. Right now, joints moving with soft,
hydraulic sounds, the Finger is calling Tchitcherineâs atten-
tion toâ
.
ik A Rocket-cartel. A structure cutting across every
agency human and paper that ever touched it. Even to
Russia... Russia bought from Krupp, didnât she, from
âSiemens, the IG....
;
_
Are there arrangements Stalin wonât admit... doesnât
even know about? Oh, a State begins to take form in the
âStateless German night, a State that spans oceans and sur-
. SG
er
660
Gravity's Rainsow
face politics, sovereign as the International or the Church
of Rome, and the Rocket is its soul. IG Raketen. Circus-
bright, poster reds and yellows, rings beyond counting, all
going at once. The stately Finger twirls among them all,
Tchitcherine is certain. Not so much on outward evidence
he has found moving through the Zone as out of a per-
sonal doom he carries with himâalways to be held at the
-edges of revelations. It happened first with the Kirghiz
Light, and his only illumination then was that fear would
always keep him from going all the way in. He will never
get further than the edge of this meta-cartel which has
made itself known tonight, this Rocket-state whose borders
he cannot cross. ...
He will miss the Light, but not the Finger. Sadly, most
sadly, everyone else seems to be in on it. Every scavenger
out here is in IG Raketenâs employ. All except for himself,
and Enzian. His brother, Enzian. No wonder They're after
the Schwarzkommando... and....
.
And when They find out Iâm not what They think...
and why is Marvy looking at me like this now, his eyes
bulging ... oh, donât panic, donât feed his insanity, heâs just
this side of ... of ...
O ;
To Cuxhaven, the summer in deceleration, floating on to
Cuxhaven. The meadows hum. Rain clatters in crescent
swoops through the reeds, Sheep, and rarely a few dark
northern deer, will come down to browse for seaweed at
the shore which is never quite sea nor quite sand, but
held in misty ambivalence by the sun.... So
is
borne, afloat on the water-leas. Like signals set out for
travelers, shapes keep repeating for him. Zonal shapes he
will allow to enter but wonât interpret, not any more. Just
as well, probably. The most persistent of these, which seem
to show up at the least real times of the
day, are the stair-
step gables that front so many of these ancient north.
German buildings, rising, backlit, a strangely wet gray a:
if risen out of the sea, over these
ht and very
low
horizons. They hold shape, they endure, like monument:
to Analysis, Three hundred years ago mathematicians
wer
learning to break the cannonballâs rise and fall into stair
The Calculus of the Pig-Hero
- The architectural stair-step gables of North Germany serve as a visual metaphor for the mathematical legacy of calculus and the analysis of flight.
- Calculus and film are described as 'pornographies of flight,' reducing continuous motion into discrete, static increments of space and time.
- Slothrop encounters a group of children in a coastal town near Wismar who recount the legend of Plechazunga, a 10th-century pig-hero who routed Vikings.
- The town's traditional Schweinheldfest is in jeopardy because the long-time performer of the pig-hero was drafted and never returned from the war.
- Due to his size, Slothrop is recruited by the local children to don a surreal, German Expressionist pig costume and participate in the festival.
- The festival represents a lingering connection to old gods like Thor, persisting beneath the surface of Christianized traditions and wartime exhaustion.
This analytic legacy has been handed down intactâit brought the technicians at PeenemĂŒnde to peer at the Askania films of Rocket flights, frame by frame, Îx by Îy, flightless themselves... film and calculus, both pornographies of flight.
660
Gravity's Rainsow
face politics, sovereign as the International or the Church
of Rome, and the Rocket is its soul. IG Raketen. Circus-
bright, poster reds and yellows, rings beyond counting, all
going at once. The stately Finger twirls among them all,
Tchitcherine is certain. Not so much on outward evidence
he has found moving through the Zone as out of a per-
sonal doom he carries with himâalways to be held at the
-edges of revelations. It happened first with the Kirghiz
Light, and his only illumination then was that fear would
always keep him from going all the way in. He will never
get further than the edge of this meta-cartel which has
made itself known tonight, this Rocket-state whose borders
he cannot cross. ...
He will miss the Light, but not the Finger. Sadly, most
sadly, everyone else seems to be in on it. Every scavenger
out here is in IG Raketenâs employ. All except for himself,
and Enzian. His brother, Enzian. No wonder They're after
the Schwarzkommando... and....
.
And when They find out Iâm not what They think...
and why is Marvy looking at me like this now, his eyes
bulging ... oh, donât panic, donât feed his insanity, heâs just
this side of ... of ...
O ;
To Cuxhaven, the summer in deceleration, floating on to
Cuxhaven. The meadows hum. Rain clatters in crescent
swoops through the reeds, Sheep, and rarely a few dark
northern deer, will come down to browse for seaweed at
the shore which is never quite sea nor quite sand, but
held in misty ambivalence by the sun.... So
is
borne, afloat on the water-leas. Like signals set out for
travelers, shapes keep repeating for him. Zonal shapes he
will allow to enter but wonât interpret, not any more. Just
as well, probably. The most persistent of these, which seem
to show up at the least real times of the
day, are the stair-
step gables that front so many of these ancient north.
German buildings, rising, backlit, a strangely wet gray a:
if risen out of the sea, over these
ht and very
low
horizons. They hold shape, they endure, like monument:
to Analysis, Three hundred years ago mathematicians
wer
learning to break the cannonballâs rise and fall into stair
bis
yah
In the Zone
661
steps of range and height, Ax and Ay, allowing them to
grow smaller and smaller, approaching zero as armies of
eternally shrinking midgets galloped upstairs and down
again, the patter of their diminishing feet growing finer,
smoothing out into continuous sound. This analytic legacy
has been handed down intactâit
brought
the tech-
nicians at Peenemiinde to peer at the Askania films of
Rocket flights, frame by frame, Ax by Ay, flightless them-
selves... film and calculus, both pornographies of flight.
Reminders of impotence and abstraction, the stone Trep-
pengiebel shapes, whole and shattered, appear now over
the green plains, and last a while, and go away; in their
shadows children with hair like hay are playing Himmel
and Holle, jumping village pavements from heaven to hell
to heaven by increments, sometimes letting Slothrop have
a turn, sometimes vanishing back into their dark gassen
where elder houses, many-windowed and sorrowing, bow
perpetually to the neighbor across the way, nearly touch-
ing overhead, only a thin lead of milk sky between,
At nightfall the children roam the streets carrying round
paper lanterns, singing Laterne, Laterne, Sonne,
Mond und
Sterne... spheres in country evenings, pale as souls, sing-
ing good-by to another summer. In a coastal town, near
Wismar, as heâs falling to sleep in a little park, they sur-
round Slothrop and tell him the story of Plechazunga, the
Pig-Hero who, sometime back in the 10th century, routed
a Viking invasion, appearing suddenly out of a thunder-
bolt and chasing a score of screaming Norsemen back into
the sea, Every summer since then, a Thursday has been
set aside to celebrate the townâs deliveranceâThursday
being named after Donar or Thor, the thunder-god, who
sent down the giant pig. The.old gods, even by the 1oth
century, still had some pull with the people. Donar hadn't
âquite been tamed into Saint Peter or Roland, though the
ceremony did come to be held at the townâs Roland-statue
near the Peterskirche.
.
This year, though, itâs in jeopardy, Schraub the shoo-
maker, who has taken the role of Plechazunga for the past
80 years, got drafted last winter into the Volksgrenadier
and never came back. Now the white lanterns come crowd-
âing around Tyrone Slothrop, bobbing in the dark. Tiny
fingers prod his stomach.
662
Gravity's Rainsow
âYou're the fattest man in the world.â
âHeâs fatter than anyone in the village.â
âWould you? Would you?â
âTm not that fatââ
âTold you somebody would come.â
âAnd taller, too.â
ââ-waitaminute, would I what?â
âBe Plechazunga tomorrow.â
âPlease,â
Being a soft touch these days, Slothrop gives in. The}
roust him up out of his grass bed and down to the city
hall. In the basement are costumes and props for the
Schweinheldfestâshields, spears, horned helmets, shaggy
animal skins, wooden Thorâs hammers and ten-foot light-
ning bolts covered with gold leaf. The pig costume is a
little: startlingâpink, blue, yellow, bright sour colors, a
German Expressionist pig, plush outside, padded with
straw inside, It seems to fit perfectly. Hmm.
The crowd next morning is sparse and placid: old people
and children, and a few silent veterans. The Viking in-
vaders are all kids, helmets sloping down over their eyes,
capes dragging the ground, shields as big as they are, and
weaponry twice as high. Giant Plechazunga images with
white stock and red and blue cornflowers woven onto the
wire-mesh frames, line the square. Slothrop waits hidden
behind the Roland, a particularly humorless, goggle-eyed,
curly-headed, pinch-waisted specimen. With Slothrop is
an arsenal of fireworks and his assistant Fritz, whoâs about
8, and a Wilhelm Busch original. Slothrop is a little ner-
vous, unaccustomed as he is to pigherofestivals. But Fritz
is an old hand, and has thoughtfully brought along a
glazed jug of some liquid brain damage flavored with dill
and coriander and distilled, unless -Haferschleim means
something else, from oatmeal.
ia
Oy
baer)
âHaferschleim, Fritz?â
He takes another belt, sorry he
asked,
;
s
:
â
We
Lane
agi
âHaferschleim, ja.â
bey
ii
ee
âWell, Haferschleim is better than none, ho, ho... .â
Whatever it is, it seems to work swiftly
on. the nerve cen-
ters. By the time all the Vikings, to a solemn brass chorale
from the local band, have puffed and struggled up to the
statue, formed ranks, and demanded the townâs surrender,
The Pig Hero and the Black Market
- Slothrop participates in a local festival while wearing a pig costume, aided by a young boy named Fritz and a potent oatmeal-based alcohol.
- A chaotic fireworks display serves as Slothrop's cue to perform his role as 'the wrath of Donar,' leading to a celebratory chase through the town.
- The festive atmosphere is characterized by sensory details of food, music, and communal celebration by the sea.
- The mood shifts abruptly as the crowd begins to form 'vortices' indicative of black market trading involving coffee, gold, and cigarettes.
- Slothrop experiences a surge of paranoia as he observes the impersonal, multilingual commerce of displaced persons and hustlers.
- The peaceful day is interrupted by the arrival of police in 'black ânâ white charabancs,' ready to suppress the illegal trading with truncheons.
Wobbling, grinning hugely, Slothrop hollers his line: âI am the wrath of Donarâand this day you shall be my anvil!â
662
Gravity's Rainsow
âYou're the fattest man in the world.â
âHeâs fatter than anyone in the village.â
âWould you? Would you?â
âTm not that fatââ
âTold you somebody would come.â
âAnd taller, too.â
ââ-waitaminute, would I what?â
âBe Plechazunga tomorrow.â
âPlease,â
Being a soft touch these days, Slothrop gives in. The}
roust him up out of his grass bed and down to the city
hall. In the basement are costumes and props for the
Schweinheldfestâshields, spears, horned helmets, shaggy
animal skins, wooden Thorâs hammers and ten-foot light-
ning bolts covered with gold leaf. The pig costume is a
little: startlingâpink, blue, yellow, bright sour colors, a
German Expressionist pig, plush outside, padded with
straw inside, It seems to fit perfectly. Hmm.
The crowd next morning is sparse and placid: old people
and children, and a few silent veterans. The Viking in-
vaders are all kids, helmets sloping down over their eyes,
capes dragging the ground, shields as big as they are, and
weaponry twice as high. Giant Plechazunga images with
white stock and red and blue cornflowers woven onto the
wire-mesh frames, line the square. Slothrop waits hidden
behind the Roland, a particularly humorless, goggle-eyed,
curly-headed, pinch-waisted specimen. With Slothrop is
an arsenal of fireworks and his assistant Fritz, whoâs about
8, and a Wilhelm Busch original. Slothrop is a little ner-
vous, unaccustomed as he is to pigherofestivals. But Fritz
is an old hand, and has thoughtfully brought along a
glazed jug of some liquid brain damage flavored with dill
and coriander and distilled, unless -Haferschleim means
something else, from oatmeal.
ia
Oy
baer)
âHaferschleim, Fritz?â
He takes another belt, sorry he
asked,
;
s
:
â
We
Lane
agi
âHaferschleim, ja.â
bey
ii
ee
âWell, Haferschleim is better than none, ho, ho... .â
Whatever it is, it seems to work swiftly
on. the nerve cen-
ters. By the time all the Vikings, to a solemn brass chorale
from the local band, have puffed and struggled up to the
statue, formed ranks, and demanded the townâs surrender,
f
Bais ir aH
In the Zone
663
_Slothrop finds his brain working with less than the usual
keenness. At which point Fritz strikes his match, and
all hell breaks loose, rockets, Roman candles, pinwheels
andâPLECCCHHAZUNNGGA! an enormous charge of
black powder blasts him out in the open, singeing his ass,
taking the curl right out of his tail. âOh, yes, thatâs right,
uh...â Wobbling, grinning hugely, Slothrop hollers his
line: âI am the wrath of Donarâand this day you shall
be my anvil!â Away they all go in a good roaring chase
through the streets, in a shower of white blossoms, little
kids squealing, down to the water, where everybody starts
splashing and ducking everybody else. Townspeople break
out beer, wine, bread, Quark, sausages. Gold-brown Kar-
toffelpuffer are lifted dripping hot from oil smoking in
black skillets over little peat fires. Girls commence strok-
ing Slothropâs snout and velvet flanks. The town is saved
for another year.
A peaceful, drunken day, full of music, the smell of salt
water, marsh, flowers, frying onions, spilled beer and fresh
fish, overhead little frost-colored clouds blowing along the
blue sky. The breeze is cool enough to keep Slothrop from
sweating inside this pig suit. All along the shoreline, blue-
gray woods breathe and shimmer. White sails move out in
the sea.
.
Slothrop returns from the brown back room of a pipe-
smoke-and-cabbage cafĂ©, and.an hourâs game of hammer-
and-forge withâevery boyâs dreamâTWO healthy young
ladies in summer dresses and woodsoled shoes to find the
crowd begun to coagulate into clumps of three and four.
Oh, shit. Not now, come on.... Tight aching across his
asshole, head and stomach inflated with oat mash and
summer beer, Slothrop sits on a pile of nets and tries, fat
chance, to will himself alert.
These little vortices appearing in a crowd out here
usually mean black market. Weeds of paranoia begin to |
bloom, army-green among the garden and midday tran-
quillities. Last of his line, and how far-fallenâno other
Slothrop ever felt such fear in the presence of Commerce,
Newspapers already lie spread out on the cobbles for buy-.
ers to dump out cans of coffee on, make sure itâs all Bohn-
enkaffee, and not just a thin layer on top of ersatz. Gold
watches and rings appear abruptly sunlit out of dusty
664
Gravity's RAINBOW
pockets. Cigarettes go flashing hand to hand among the
limp and filthy and soundless Reichsmarks.
Kids play
underfoot while the grownups deal, in Polish, Russian,
north-Baltic, Plattdeutsch. Some of the DP style here, a
little impersonal, just passing through, dealing on route,
in motion, almost as an afterthought... where'd they all
come from, these gray hustlers, what shadows
in the
Gemiitlichkeit of the day were harboring them?
Materializing from their own weird office silence, the
coppers show up now, two black ânâ white charabancs full
of bluegreen uniforms, white armbands, little bucket hats
with starburst insignia, truncheons already unsheathed,
black dildos in nervous hands, wobbling, ready for action.
The eddies in the crowd break up fast, jewelry ringing to
the pavement, cigarettes scattered and squashed under the
feet of stampeding civilians, among the instant litter of
watches, war medals, silk-stuffs, rolls of bills, pinkskinned
potatoes all their eyes staring in alarm, elbow-length kid
gloves twisted up fingers clutching at sky, smashed light
bulbs, Parisian slippers, gold picture-frames around still-
~
lifes of cobbles, rings, brooches, nobody gonna claim any
of it, everybody scared now.
No wonder. The cops go at busting these proceedings
the way they mustâve handled anti-Nazi street actions
before the War, moving in, mmm ja, with these flexible
clubs, eyes tuned to the finest possibilities of threat, smell-
ing of leather, of the wool-armpit rankness of their own
fear, jumping little kids three-on-one, shaking down girls,
old people, making them take off and shake out even
boots and underwear, jabbing and battering in with tire-
less truncheonwork among the crying kids and screaming
women. Beneath the efficiency and glee is nostalgia for the
old days. The War mustâve been lean times for crowd con-
trol, murder and mopery was the best you could do, one
suspect at a time. But now, with the White Market to be
~
protected, here again are whole streets full of bodies eager
for that erste Abreibung, and you can bet! the heat are
happy with it.
Presently they have Russian reinforcements, three truck-
loads of young Asiatics in fatigues who donât seem to know
where they are exactly, just shipped in from someplace
~
very cold and far to the east. Out of their slatsided rigs
Chaos in the White Market
- A chaotic street scene erupts as civilians stampede, abandoning a wealth of black-market goods and personal treasures to escape a police crackdown.
- The police forces exhibit a nostalgic brutality, employing tactics reminiscent of pre-war anti-Nazi actions to suppress the crowd with 'tireless truncheonwork.'
- Russian reinforcements, consisting of young Asiatic soldiers, arrive to compress the crowd toward the water, escalating the tension and violence.
- Slothrop, dressed in his pig suit as Plechazunga, attempts to protect civilians but is swept away in the panic after gunfire breaks out.
- A young girl rescues Slothrop from the fray, warning him that the Russians are targeting him as a deserter.
- The segment concludes with Slothrop in hiding, sharing a moment of quiet intimacy with his rescuer while her mother carves turnips nearby.
Beneath the efficiency and glee is nostalgia for the old days.
664
Gravity's RAINBOW
pockets. Cigarettes go flashing hand to hand among the
limp and filthy and soundless Reichsmarks.
Kids play
underfoot while the grownups deal, in Polish, Russian,
north-Baltic, Plattdeutsch. Some of the DP style here, a
little impersonal, just passing through, dealing on route,
in motion, almost as an afterthought... where'd they all
come from, these gray hustlers, what shadows
in the
Gemiitlichkeit of the day were harboring them?
Materializing from their own weird office silence, the
coppers show up now, two black ânâ white charabancs full
of bluegreen uniforms, white armbands, little bucket hats
with starburst insignia, truncheons already unsheathed,
black dildos in nervous hands, wobbling, ready for action.
The eddies in the crowd break up fast, jewelry ringing to
the pavement, cigarettes scattered and squashed under the
feet of stampeding civilians, among the instant litter of
watches, war medals, silk-stuffs, rolls of bills, pinkskinned
potatoes all their eyes staring in alarm, elbow-length kid
gloves twisted up fingers clutching at sky, smashed light
bulbs, Parisian slippers, gold picture-frames around still-
~
lifes of cobbles, rings, brooches, nobody gonna claim any
of it, everybody scared now.
No wonder. The cops go at busting these proceedings
the way they mustâve handled anti-Nazi street actions
before the War, moving in, mmm ja, with these flexible
clubs, eyes tuned to the finest possibilities of threat, smell-
ing of leather, of the wool-armpit rankness of their own
fear, jumping little kids three-on-one, shaking down girls,
old people, making them take off and shake out even
boots and underwear, jabbing and battering in with tire-
less truncheonwork among the crying kids and screaming
women. Beneath the efficiency and glee is nostalgia for the
old days. The War mustâve been lean times for crowd con-
trol, murder and mopery was the best you could do, one
suspect at a time. But now, with the White Market to be
~
protected, here again are whole streets full of bodies eager
for that erste Abreibung, and you can bet! the heat are
happy with it.
Presently they have Russian reinforcements, three truck-
loads of young Asiatics in fatigues who donât seem to know
where they are exactly, just shipped in from someplace
~
very cold and far to the east. Out of their slatsided rigs
In the Zone
665
like soccer players coming on field, they. form a lige âand
start to clear the street by compressing the crowd toward
the water. Slothrop is right in the middle of all this,
shoved stumbling backward, pig mask cutting off half his
âvision, trying to shield whom he canâa few kids, an old
lady who was busy earlier moving cotton yardage. The
first billy-clubs catch him in the straw padding over his
stomach, and donât feel like much. Civilians are going
down right and left, but Plechazungaâs holding his own.
Has the morning been only a dress rehearsal?. Is Slothrop
expected to repel real foreign invaders now? A tiny girl is
clutching to his leg, crying the Schweinheldâs name in a
confident voice. A grizzled old cop, years of home-front
high living and bribes in his face, comes swinging a club at
Slothropâs head. The Swine-hero dodges and kicks with
his free leg. As the cop doubles over, half a dozen yelling
civilians jump on, relieving him of hat and truncheon.
Tears, caught by the sun, leak out of his withered eyes.
Then gunfire has started somewhere, panicking everybody,
carrying Slothrop half off his feet, the kid around his leg
torn loose and lost in the rush forever.
Out of the street onto the quai. The police have quit
hitting people and begun picking up loot off of the street,
but now the Russians are moving in, and enough of them
are looking straight at Slothrop. Providentially, one of the
girls from the café shows up about now, takes his hand
and tugs him along.
âThereâs a warrant out for you.â
âA what? Theyâre doing pretty good without any paper-
work.â
âThe Russians vines your uniform. They think you're a
deserter.â
âThey're right.â
.
She takes Slothrop home with her, in his pig suit. He
never hears her name. She is about seventeen, fair, a young
face, easy to hurt. They lie behind a sperm-yellowed bed-
sheet tacked to the ceiling, very close on a narrow bed
with lacquered posts, Her mother is carving turnips in the
_
kitchen. Their two hearts pound, his for his danger, hers
- for Slothrop. She tells how her parents lived, her father
a printer, married during his journeymanship, his wonder-
years now stretched out to ten, no word where heâs been
The Word Made Printer's Ink
- The narrative explores the history of a fugitive father who survived through the solidarity of the Buchdrucherverband, a printers' union that resisted Nazi alignment.
- Slothrop reflects on the 'Puritan hopes for the Word,' viewing printer's ink as a sacred, biological defense against a cold and illusory world.
- A contrast is drawn between the daughter's desire for a life of perpetual flight and Slothropâs paranoid longing for immobility and peace.
- The setting of 'The Zone' is characterized by metal-throated loudspeakers, curfews, and the constant threat of house-to-house searches for deserters.
- Slothrop is forced to flee again, disguised in a pig suit and carrying rolls provided by a mother whose husband's clothes have all been bartered for food.
It touches Slothropâs own Puritan hopes for the Word, the Word made printerâs ink, dwelling along with antibodies and iron-bound breath in a good manâs blood.
666
Gravityâs Ramnsow
since â42, when they had a note from Neukdlln, where he
had dossed down the night with a friend. Always a friend,
God knows how many back rooms, roundhouses, print
shops he slept single nights in, shivering wrapped in back
numbers of Die Welt am Montag, sure of at least shelter,
like everybody in the Buchdrucherverband, often a meal,
almost certainly some kind of police trouble if the stay
lasted too longâit was a good union. They kept the Ger-
man Wobbly traditions, they didnât go along with Hitler
though all the other unions were falling into line. It
touches Slothropâs own Puritan hopes for the Word, the
Word made printerâs ink, dwelling along with antibodies
and iron-bound breath in a good manâs blood, though the
World for him be always the World on Monday, with its
cold cutting edge, slicing away every poor illusion of
comfort the bourgeois takes for real...did he run off
leaflets against his countryâs insanity? was he busted,
beaten, killed? She has a snapshot of him on holiday,
someplace Bavarian, waterfalled, white-peaked, a tanned
and ageless face, Tyrolean hat, galluses, feet planted per-
petually set to break into a run: the image stopped, pre-
served here, the only way they could keep him, running
room to room down all his cold Red suburbs, freemasonâs
night to night... their aproned and kitchen way of going
evening or empty afternoon in to study the Axâs and Ayâs
of his drifterâs spirit, on the runâstudy how he was chang-
ing inside the knife-fall of the shutter, what he might've
been hearing in the water, flowing like himself, forever,
in lost silence, behind him, already behind him.
Even now, lying bedside a stranger in a pig disguise,
her father is the flying element of Slothrop, of whoever
else has lain here before, flightless, and heard the same
promise: âI'd go anywhere with you.â He sees them walk-
ing a railroad trestle, pines on long slanted mountains all
around, autumn sunlight and cold, purple rainclouds, mid-
afternoon, her face against some tall concrete structure,
the light of the concrete coming down obli
both sides
of her cheekbones, blending into her skin, blending with
its own light. Her motionless figure above him in a black
greatcoat, blonde hair against the sky, himself at the top
of a metal ladder in a trainyard, gazing up at her, all
their shining steel roads below crisscrossing and peeling
In the Zone
667
off to all parts of the Zone. Both of them on the run, 'Thatâs
what she wants. But Slothrop only wants to lie still with
her heartbeat awhile... isnât that every paranoidâs wish?
to perfect methods of immobility? But they're coming,
house to house, looking for their deserter, and. itâs Slothro
who has to. go, she who has to stay. In the streets loud-
speakers, buzzing metal throats, are proclaiming an early
curfew tonight. Through some window of the town, lying
in some bed, already browsing at the edges of the flelds
of sleep, is a kid for whom the metal voice with its foreign
accent is a sign of nightly security, to be part of the wild
fields, the rain on the sea, dogs, smells of cooking from
strange windows, dirt roads... part of this unrecoverable
summer, ...
âThere's no moon,â she whispers, her eyes flinching but
not looking away.
âWhat's the best way out of town?â
She knows a hundred. His heart, his fingertips hurt with
shame. âI'll show you.â
âYou donât have to.â
âI want to,â
Her mother gives Slothrop a couple of hard rolls to
stash inside his pig suit. She'd find him something else to
wear, but all her husbandâs clothes have been traded for
food at the Tauschzentrale. His last picture of her is
framed in the light of her kitchen, through the window, a
fading golden woman, head in a nod over a stove with a
single pot simmering, flowered wallpaper deep-orange and
red
behind her averted face.
The daughter leads him over low stone walls, along
drainage ditches and into culverts, southwesterly to the
outskirts of the town. Far behind them the clock in the
Peterskirche strikes nine, the sightless Roland below con-
tinuing to gaze across the square. White flowers fall one
by one from the images of Plechazunga, Stacks of a power
station rise, ghostly, smokeless,
painted on the sky. A wind-
mill creaks out in the scusharvele,
The city gate is high and skinny, with stairsteps to
- nowhere on top. The road away goes curving through
the
ogival opening, out into the night meadows.
âI want to go with you.â But she makes no move to
step through the arch with him.
\
i
Departure from the City Gate
- Slothrop leaves the town and a young girl behind, passing through a skinny city gate into the night meadows.
- The girl, a printer's assistant, accepts his departure with a sense of cyclical inevitability, viewing him as a 'May bug' who might return in another form.
- Slothrop continues his aimless journey through the open country, impersonating flight while having lost the ability to stay in one place.
- He encounters a friendly, fat pink pig in the woods and shares a moment of snout-to-snout connection using his pig mask.
- The pair searches for food, leading to a chaotic scene where Slothrop attempts to steal eggs from a farmhouse chicken coop.
- The narrative emphasizes the sensory details of the Zone, from the resonant music of river rocks to the 'Achtung' cries of a protective rooster.
He puts on the pig mask. She stares for a minute, then moves up to Slothrop and kisses him, snout-to-snout.
In the Zone
667
off to all parts of the Zone. Both of them on the run, 'Thatâs
what she wants. But Slothrop only wants to lie still with
her heartbeat awhile... isnât that every paranoidâs wish?
to perfect methods of immobility? But they're coming,
house to house, looking for their deserter, and. itâs Slothro
who has to. go, she who has to stay. In the streets loud-
speakers, buzzing metal throats, are proclaiming an early
curfew tonight. Through some window of the town, lying
in some bed, already browsing at the edges of the flelds
of sleep, is a kid for whom the metal voice with its foreign
accent is a sign of nightly security, to be part of the wild
fields, the rain on the sea, dogs, smells of cooking from
strange windows, dirt roads... part of this unrecoverable
summer, ...
âThere's no moon,â she whispers, her eyes flinching but
not looking away.
âWhat's the best way out of town?â
She knows a hundred. His heart, his fingertips hurt with
shame. âI'll show you.â
âYou donât have to.â
âI want to,â
Her mother gives Slothrop a couple of hard rolls to
stash inside his pig suit. She'd find him something else to
wear, but all her husbandâs clothes have been traded for
food at the Tauschzentrale. His last picture of her is
framed in the light of her kitchen, through the window, a
fading golden woman, head in a nod over a stove with a
single pot simmering, flowered wallpaper deep-orange and
red
behind her averted face.
The daughter leads him over low stone walls, along
drainage ditches and into culverts, southwesterly to the
outskirts of the town. Far behind them the clock in the
Peterskirche strikes nine, the sightless Roland below con-
tinuing to gaze across the square. White flowers fall one
by one from the images of Plechazunga, Stacks of a power
station rise, ghostly, smokeless,
painted on the sky. A wind-
mill creaks out in the scusharvele,
The city gate is high and skinny, with stairsteps to
- nowhere on top. The road away goes curving through
the
ogival opening, out into the night meadows.
âI want to go with you.â But she makes no move to
step through the arch with him.
\
i
668
Gravityâs RAINBOW
âMaybe Ill be back.â Itâs no drifterâs lie, both of them
are sure that someone will be, next year at about: this
time, maybe next
yearâs Schweinheld,
someone
close
enough...and if the name, the dossier are not exactly
the same, well, who believes in those? Sheâs a printerâs
skid, she knows the medium, she even learned from him
how to handle a Winkelhaken pretty good, how to setâ up
a line and take it down, âYou're a May bug,â she whispers,
and kisses him good-by, and stands watching him go, a
sniffing still girl in pinafore and army boots by the iso-
lated gate. âGood night. . . .â
Docile girl, good night. What does he have for her
but a last snapshot of a trudging pig in motley, merging
with the stars and woodpiles, something to put beside
that childhood still of her father? He impersonates flight
though his heart isnât in it and yet heâs lost all knowledge
of staying....Good night, itâs curfew, get back inside,
back in your room ..
. good night... .
He keeps to open country, sleeping when heâs too tired
to walk, straw and velvet insulating him from the cold,
One morning he wakes in a hollow between a stand of
beech and a stream.
It is sunrise and bitter cold, and
there seems to be a warm tongue licking roughly at his
face. He is looking here into the snout of another pig,
very fat and pink pig. She grunts and smiles amiably,
blinking long eyelashes.
âWait. How about thisPâ He puts on the pig mask. She
stares for a minute, then moves up to Slothrop and kisses
him, snout-to-snout. Both of them are dripping with dew.
He follows her on down to the stream, takes off the mask
again and throws water at his face while she drinks beside
him, slurping, placid. The water is clear, running lively,
cold. Round rocks knock together under the stream, A
resonant sound, a music. It would be worth something to
sit day and night, in and out, listening to these sounds of
water and cobbles unfold. ...
|
Slothrop is hungry. âCome on. We got |to find break-
fast.â Beside a small pond near a farmhouse, the pig
discovers a wood stake driven into the ground. She begins
snuffing around it. Slothrop kicks aside loose earth and
finds a brick cairn, stuffed with potatoes ensiled last year.
âFine for you,â as she falls to eagerly, âbut I canât eat that
In the Zone
669
stuff.â Sky is shining in the calm surface of the water.
Nobody seems to be around. Slothrop wanders off to check
._ the farmhouse. Tall white daisies grow all over the yard.
â Thatch-hooded windows upstairs are dark, no smoke comes
from the chimneys. But the chicken-house in back is occu-
pied. He eases a big fat white hen up off of her nest,
reaches gingerly for the.eggsâPKAWW she flies into a
dither, tries to peck Slothropâs arm off, friends come shoot-
ing in from outside raising a godawful commotion, at
which point the hen has worked her wings through the
wood slats so she canât get back in and is too fat below
the wingpits to get the rest of the way out. So, there she
©
hangs, flapping and screaming, while Slothrop grabs three
eggs then tries to push her wings back inside for her. It
is.a frustrating job, especially trying to keep the eggs
balanced. The rooster is in the doorway hollering Achtung,
Achtung, discipline in his harem is shot to hell, noisy
white tumbleweed hens are barrelassing all over the inside
of the coop, and blood is flowing from Slothrop in half a
dozen places.
Then he hears. a dog barkingâtime to give up on this
henâcomes outside sees a lady in her Wehrmacht auxiliary
outfit 30 meters away leveling a shotgun and the dog
charging in growling, teeth bared, eyes on Slothropâs
throat. Slothrop goes scrambling around the henhouse just
as the gun kicks off a good-morning blast. About then the
pig shows up and chases off the dog. Away they go, eggs
cradled in pig mask, lady yelling, hens raising hell, pig
galloping along beside. Thereâs a final shotgun blast, but
by then theyâre out of range.
About a mile farther on they pause,
for Slothropâs
breakfast. âGood show,â thumping the pig affectionately,
She crouches, catching her breath, gazing at him while
he eats raw eggs and smokes half a cigarette. Then they
set off again.
Soon they have begun to angle toward the sea. The pig
seems to know where sheâs going. Far away on another
road, a great cloud of dust hangs, crawling southward,
maybe a Russian horse convoy. Fledgling storks are try-
ing out their wings over the haystacks and fields. Tops of
solitary trees are blurred green, as if smudged accidentally
by a sleeve. Brown windmills turn at the horizon, across
miles of straw-sprinkled red earth.
Bi
The Pig and the Tinfoil Forest
- Slothrop and Frieda the pig narrowly escape a farmstead after a chaotic confrontation with a shotgun-wielding woman and a guard dog.
- The duo travels through a pastoral landscape toward the Baltic coast, passing through fields of storks and windmills.
- They spend a night in a forest draped with British 'window' (radar-jamming tinfoil), creating a surreal, tinsel-covered landscape.
- Slothrop experiences a strange, protective bond with the pig, who watches over him as he sleeps under the metallic 'crownfire.'
- They arrive at Zwölfkinder, a decaying and childless coastal city dominated by a rusting Ferris wheel.
- Slothrop meets Pökler, the pig's owner, and the two men settle into a basement to play a game of chess.
The pig and Slothrop settled down to sleep among pines thick with shreds of tinfoil, a cloud of British window dumped to fox the German radars in some long-ago raid, a whole forest of Christmas trees, tinsel rippling in the wind, catching the starlight, silent, ice-cold crownfire acres wild over their heads all night.
In the Zone
669
stuff.â Sky is shining in the calm surface of the water.
Nobody seems to be around. Slothrop wanders off to check
._ the farmhouse. Tall white daisies grow all over the yard.
â Thatch-hooded windows upstairs are dark, no smoke comes
from the chimneys. But the chicken-house in back is occu-
pied. He eases a big fat white hen up off of her nest,
reaches gingerly for the.eggsâPKAWW she flies into a
dither, tries to peck Slothropâs arm off, friends come shoot-
ing in from outside raising a godawful commotion, at
which point the hen has worked her wings through the
wood slats so she canât get back in and is too fat below
the wingpits to get the rest of the way out. So, there she
©
hangs, flapping and screaming, while Slothrop grabs three
eggs then tries to push her wings back inside for her. It
is.a frustrating job, especially trying to keep the eggs
balanced. The rooster is in the doorway hollering Achtung,
Achtung, discipline in his harem is shot to hell, noisy
white tumbleweed hens are barrelassing all over the inside
of the coop, and blood is flowing from Slothrop in half a
dozen places.
Then he hears. a dog barkingâtime to give up on this
henâcomes outside sees a lady in her Wehrmacht auxiliary
outfit 30 meters away leveling a shotgun and the dog
charging in growling, teeth bared, eyes on Slothropâs
throat. Slothrop goes scrambling around the henhouse just
as the gun kicks off a good-morning blast. About then the
pig shows up and chases off the dog. Away they go, eggs
cradled in pig mask, lady yelling, hens raising hell, pig
galloping along beside. Thereâs a final shotgun blast, but
by then theyâre out of range.
About a mile farther on they pause,
for Slothropâs
breakfast. âGood show,â thumping the pig affectionately,
She crouches, catching her breath, gazing at him while
he eats raw eggs and smokes half a cigarette. Then they
set off again.
Soon they have begun to angle toward the sea. The pig
seems to know where sheâs going. Far away on another
road, a great cloud of dust hangs, crawling southward,
maybe a Russian horse convoy. Fledgling storks are try-
ing out their wings over the haystacks and fields. Tops of
solitary trees are blurred green, as if smudged accidentally
by a sleeve. Brown windmills turn at the horizon, across
miles of straw-sprinkled red earth.
Bi
670
Gravity's RaInBow
A pig is a jolly companion,
Boar, sow, barrow, or giltâ.
A pig is a pal, who'll boost your morale,
Though mountains may topple and tilt.
When theyâve blackballed, bamboozled, pe burned you,
When theyâve turned on you, Tory and
. Though you may be thrown over by Tabby r=
Rover,
You'll never go wrong with a pig, a pig,
You'll never go wrong with a pig! ©
By nightfall they have entered a wooded stretch. Fog
drifts in the hollows. A lost unmilked cow complains some-
where in the darkness. The pig and Slothrop settled down
to sleep among pines thick with shreds of tinfoil, a cloud
of British window dumped to fox the German radars in
some long-ago raid, a whole forest of Christmas trees,
tinsel rippling in the wind, catching the starlight, silent,
ice-cold crownfire acres wild over their heads all night.
Slothrop keeps waking to find the pig snuggled in a bed
of pine needles, watching over him. Itâs not for danger,
or out of restlessness. Maybe sheâs decided Slothrop needs
. looking after. In the tinfoil light sheâs very sleek and con-
vex, her bristles look smooth as down. Lustful thoughts
come filtering into Slothropâs mind, little peculiarity here
you know, hehheh, nothing he ean't-handle. ... They fall
asleep under the decorated trees, the pig a wandering
eastern magus, Slothrop in his costume a gaudy present
waiting for morning and a child to claim him.
Next day, about noon, they enter a slow-withering city,
alone on the Baltic coast, and perishing from an absence
of children. The sign over the city gate, in burned bulbs
and empty sockets, reads zw6LFKINDER. The great wheel,
dominating the skyline for miles out of town, leans a little
askew, grim old governess, sun catching long streaks of
rust, sky pale through the iron lattice that droops its long
twisted shadow across the sand and into ie33 plum sea.
Wind cat-howls in and out the doorless halls and houses.
âFrieda.â A voice calling from the blue shadow behind
a wall. Grunting, smiling, the pig stands |
her groundâ
look who I brought home. Soon a thin âfreckled. man,
blond, nearly bald, steps out into the sun. Glancing at
Slothrop, nervous, he reaches to scratch Frieda between
the ears. âI am PĂ©kler. Thank Lowe for Pees her bake:
t
In the Zone
671
âNo, noâshe brought me.â
âVes,â
*
Pokler is living in the basement of the town hall. He
has some coffee heating on a driftwood fire in the stove.
âDo you play chess?â
Frieda kibitzes. Slothrop, who tends to play more by
superstition than strategy, is obsessed with protecting his
knights, Springer and Springerâwilling to lose anything
else, thinking no more than a move or two ahead if that,
he alternates long lethargic backing and filling with bursts
of idiot razzle-dazzle that have Pokler frowning, but not
with worry. About the time Slothrop loses his queen,
âSa-a-a-y, waitaminute, did you say PĂ©kler?â
Zip the man is out with a Luger as big as a houseâ
really fast guyâwith the muzzle pointing right at Slo-
thropâs head. For a moment Slothrop, in his pig suit,
thinks that Pékler thinks that he, Slothrop, has been fool-
ing around with Frieda the Pig, and that there is about
to be a shotgun, or Luger, wedding hereâin fact the
phrase unto thee I pledge my trough has just arrived in
his brain when he realizes that what PĂ©klerâs actually
saying is, âYou'd better leave. Only two more moves and
Idâve had you anyway.â
âLemme at least tell you my story,â blithering fast as
he can the Ziirich information with PĂ©klerâs name on it,
the Russian-American-Herero search for the S-Gerit, won-
dering meantime, in parallel sort of, if that Oberst Enzian
wasnât right about going native in the Zoneâbeginning to
get ideas, fixed and slightly, ah, erotic notions about
Destiny are you Slothrop? eh? tracing back the route
Frieda the pig brought him along, trying to remember
forks where they might have turned another way. ...
âThe Schwarzgerit.â PĂ©kler shakes his head. âI donât
know what it was. I was never that interested. Is that
really all you're after?â
Slothrop thinks that over. Their coffee cups take sun-
light from the window âand bounce it back up to the ceil-
ing, bobbing ellipses of blue light. âDonât know. Except
for this kind of personal tie-in with Imipolex G....â
- âJtâs an aromatic polyimide,â PĂ©kler putting the gun
back in his shirt.
âTell me about it,â sez Slothrop.
The Tyranny of the Bond
- Slothropâs chess game with Pökler is interrupted by a sudden confrontation involving a Luger and a realization of Pökler's identity.
- Pökler reveals his indifference toward the SchwarzgerÀt, focusing instead on the chemical properties of Imipolex G as an aromatic polyimide.
- The narrative blurs the identities of Ilse and Bianca, suggesting a haunting, spectral connection between the two girls born of cinematic and physical acts.
- Pökler recounts Laszlo Jamfâs late-career obsession with the ionic bond, which he viewed as superior to the 'mutable' and 'soft' covalent bond.
- Jamfâs scientific philosophy is revealed as a hatred for the 'sharing' of electrons, preferring the absolute clarity of capture and polarization.
- The text explores the intersection of cinema, chemistry, and destiny within the lawless landscape of the Zone.
That something so mutable, so soft, as a sharing of electrons by atoms of carbon should lie at the core of life, his life, struck Jamf as a cosmic humiliation.
In the Zone
671
âNo, noâshe brought me.â
âVes,â
*
Pokler is living in the basement of the town hall. He
has some coffee heating on a driftwood fire in the stove.
âDo you play chess?â
Frieda kibitzes. Slothrop, who tends to play more by
superstition than strategy, is obsessed with protecting his
knights, Springer and Springerâwilling to lose anything
else, thinking no more than a move or two ahead if that,
he alternates long lethargic backing and filling with bursts
of idiot razzle-dazzle that have Pokler frowning, but not
with worry. About the time Slothrop loses his queen,
âSa-a-a-y, waitaminute, did you say PĂ©kler?â
Zip the man is out with a Luger as big as a houseâ
really fast guyâwith the muzzle pointing right at Slo-
thropâs head. For a moment Slothrop, in his pig suit,
thinks that Pékler thinks that he, Slothrop, has been fool-
ing around with Frieda the Pig, and that there is about
to be a shotgun, or Luger, wedding hereâin fact the
phrase unto thee I pledge my trough has just arrived in
his brain when he realizes that what PĂ©klerâs actually
saying is, âYou'd better leave. Only two more moves and
Idâve had you anyway.â
âLemme at least tell you my story,â blithering fast as
he can the Ziirich information with PĂ©klerâs name on it,
the Russian-American-Herero search for the S-Gerit, won-
dering meantime, in parallel sort of, if that Oberst Enzian
wasnât right about going native in the Zoneâbeginning to
get ideas, fixed and slightly, ah, erotic notions about
Destiny are you Slothrop? eh? tracing back the route
Frieda the pig brought him along, trying to remember
forks where they might have turned another way. ...
âThe Schwarzgerit.â PĂ©kler shakes his head. âI donât
know what it was. I was never that interested. Is that
really all you're after?â
Slothrop thinks that over. Their coffee cups take sun-
light from the window âand bounce it back up to the ceil-
ing, bobbing ellipses of blue light. âDonât know. Except
for this kind of personal tie-in with Imipolex G....â
- âJtâs an aromatic polyimide,â PĂ©kler putting the gun
back in his shirt.
âTell me about it,â sez Slothrop.
_
. ee
'
672
Gravityâs RaiInsow
Well, but not before he has told something of his Ise
and her summer returns, enough for Slothrop to be taken
again by the nape and pushed against Biancaâs dead flesh.
... Ilse, fathered on Greta Erdmannâs silver and passive
image, Bianca, conceived during the filming of the very
scene that was in his thoughts as Pékler pumped in the
gore: Seger of spermâhow could they not be the same
c
Sheâs still with you, though harder to see these days,
nearly invisible as a glass of gray lemonade in a twilit
room...
still she is there, cool and acid and sweet, wait-
ing to be swallowed down to touch your deepest cells, to
work among your saddest dreams.
O
Pokler does manage to tell a little about Laszlo Jamf,
but keeps getting sidetracked off into talking about the
movies, German movies Slothrop has never heard of,
much less seen... yes hereâs some kind of fanatical movie
hound all rightâ âOn D-Day,â he confesses, âwhen I
heard General Eisenhower on the radio announcing the in-
vasion of Normandy, I thought it was really Clark Gable,
have you ever noticed? the voices are identical... .â
In the last third of his life, there came over Laszlo
Jamfâso it seemed to those who from out in the wood
lecture halls watched his eyelids slowly granulate, spots
and wrinkles grow across
his image, disintegrating it
toward old ageâa hostility, a strangely personal hatred,
for the covalent bond. A conviction that, for synthetics to
have a future at all, the bond must be improved onâ
some students even read âtranscended.â That something
so mutable, so soft, as a sharing of electrons by atoms of
carbon should lie at the core of life, his life, struck Jamf
as a cosmic humiliation. Sharing? How âmuch stronger,
how everlasting was the ionic bond:
e electrons are
not shared, but captured. Seized! and held! polarized plus
and minus, these atoms, no ambiguities... how he came
to love that clarity: how stable it was, such mineral stub-
bornness!
.
eae
a
âWhatever lip-service we may pay to Reason,â he told
The Lion and the Metropolis
- Professor Jamf posits that every individual contains an internal 'lion' that is either tamed by corporate procedure and mathematics or remains a wild, absolute predator.
- Pökler projects this primal 'lion' onto the actor Rudolf Klein-Rogge, specifically his roles as the mad inventor in Metropolis and Attila the Hun.
- The narrative explores a collective German dream of a Corporate City-state where technology is power and engineers serve a singular, benevolent leader.
- Pökler finds a dark, ritualistic delight in the idea of total surrender to a 'technologique' that values power for the sake of collapse and the Void.
- The 'Zeitgeist' of the era, marked by inflation and depression, fuels a fascination with destruction and grandiloquent, barbaric beauty.
- Pökler's internal life and cinematic obsessions create a rift between him and his wife, as he prioritizes dream-logic over her cause-and-effect reality.
He found delight not unlike a razor sweeping his skin and nerves, scalp to soles, in ritual submissions to the Master of this night space and of himself, the male embodiment of a technologique that embraced power not for its social uses but for just those chances of surrender, personal and dark surrender, to the Void, to delicious and screaming collapse.
In the Zone
673
PĂ©klerâs class back at the T.H., âto moderation and com-
promise, nevertheless there remains the lion. A lion in
each one of you. He is either tamedâby too much mathe-
matics, by details of design, by corporate proceduresâor
he stays wild, an eternal predator.
âThe lion does not know subtleties and half-solutions.
He does not accept sharing as a basis for anything! He
takes, he holds! He is not a Bolshevik or a Jew. You will
never hear relativity from the lion. He wants the absolute.
Life and death. Win and lose. Not truces or arrangements,
but the joy of the leap, the roar, the blood.â
If this be National Socialist chemistry, blame that some-
thing-in-the-air,
the Zeitgeist. Sure, blame
it, Prof.-Dr.
Jamf was not immune. Neither was his student Poékler.
But through Inflation and Depression, PĂ©klerâs idea of âthe
lionâ came to have a human face attached to it, a movie
face natiirlich,
that of the actor Rudolf Klein-Rogge,
whom Pékler idolized, and wanted to be like.
Klein-Rogge was carrying nubile actresses off to rooftops
when King Kong was still on the tit with no motor skills
to speak of. Well, one nubile actress anyway, Brigitte
Helm in Metropolis. Great movie. Exactly the world Pék-
ler and evidently quite a few others were dreaming about
those days, a Corporate City-state where technology was
the source of power, the engineer worked closely with the
administrator, the masses labored unseen far underground,
and ultimate power lay with a single leader at the top,
fatherly and benevolent and just, who wore magnificent-
looking suits and whose name Pokler couldnât remember,
being too taken with Klein-Rogge playing the mad in-
ventor that Pékler and his codisciples under Jamf longed
to beâindispensable to those who ran the Metropolis, yet,
at the end, the untamable lion who could let it all. crash,
girl, State, masses, himself, asserting his reality against
them all in one last roaring plunge from rooftop to
Street... .
â
_ A curious potency. Whatever it was the real visionaries
were picking up out of the hard tessitura of those days
and city streets, whatever Kathe Kollwitz saw that brought
her lean Death down to hump Its women from behind,
and they to love it so, seemed now and then to have
touched Pékler too, in his deeper excursions into the Mare
674
Graviryâs RaInsow
Nocturnum. He found delight not unlike a razor sweeping
his skin and nerves, scalp to soles, in ritual submissions to
the Master of this night space and of himself, the male
embodiment of a technologique that embraced power not
for its social uses but for just those chances of surrender,
personal and dark surrender, to the Void, to delicious and
screaming collapse....To Attila the Hun, as a matter of
fact, come west out of the steppes to smash the precious
structure of magic and incest that held together the king-
dom of the Burgundians. Pékler was tired that night, all
day out scavenging for coal. He kept falling asleep, wak-
ing to images that for a half a minute he could make no
sense of at allâa close-up of a face? a forest? the scales
of the Dragon? a battle-scene? Often enough, it would
resolve into Rudolf Klein-Rogge, ancient Oriental thana-
tomaniac Attila, head shaved except for a topknot, bead-
strung,
raving with grandiloquent gestures and those
enormous bleak eyes. ..
. Pékler would nod back into sleep
with bursts of destroying beauty there for his dreams to
work on, speaking barbaric gutturals for the silent mouths,
smoothing the Burgundians into something of the meek-
ness, the grayness of certain crowds in the beerhalls back
at the T.H..
.and wake againâit went on for hoursâ
into some further progression of carnage, of fire and
smashing. .
On the ay home, by tram and foot, his wife bitched
at PĂ©kler for dozing off, ridiculed his engineerâs devotion
to cause-and-effect. How could he tell her that the dra-
matic connections were really all there, * his dreams?
How could he tell her anything?
Klein-Rogge is remembered most of all hr his role as
Dr. Mabuse. You were meant to think of Hugo Stinnes,
the tireless operator behind the scenes of apparent Infla-
tion, apparent history: gambler, financial wizard, arch-
gangster...a fussy biirgerlich mouth, jowls, graceless
moves, a first impression of comic technocracy . . . and yet,
when the rages came over him, breaking through from
beneath the rationalized look, with his glacial eyes become
windows into the bare savanna, then the real Mabuse sur-
faced, vital and proud against the gray forces surround-
ing him, edging him toward the doom he mustâve known
he couldnât escape, the silent inferno of guns, grenades,
Mabuse and the Inorganic Future
- The character of Dr. Mabuse represents a savage, charismatic throwback to mythic power, contrasting with the gray, bureaucratic inertia of the Weimar Republic.
- Mabuse is framed as a 'financial wizard' and 'arch-gangster' whose madness and vitality defy the mundane dreariness of inflation-era Germany.
- Professor Laszlo Jamf and other figures yearn for a form of death that contains joy and defiance, rejecting the 'bourgeois' acceptance of mortality.
- Jamfâs lectures propose a radical shift from organic chemistry (CâH) to inorganic bonds (SiâN) as a way to move beyond human frailty and mortality.
- Despite his dramatic prophecies of an inorganic future, Jamf himself remained within the realm of organic life and eventually moved to America.
- The text explores the tension between the 'white light' of mythic destruction and the faceless, routine-driven existence of the modern state.
Silicon, boron, phosphorusâthese can replace carbon, and can bond to nitrogen instead of hydrogenâmove beyond life, toward the inorganic.
674
Graviryâs RaInsow
Nocturnum. He found delight not unlike a razor sweeping
his skin and nerves, scalp to soles, in ritual submissions to
the Master of this night space and of himself, the male
embodiment of a technologique that embraced power not
for its social uses but for just those chances of surrender,
personal and dark surrender, to the Void, to delicious and
screaming collapse....To Attila the Hun, as a matter of
fact, come west out of the steppes to smash the precious
structure of magic and incest that held together the king-
dom of the Burgundians. Pékler was tired that night, all
day out scavenging for coal. He kept falling asleep, wak-
ing to images that for a half a minute he could make no
sense of at allâa close-up of a face? a forest? the scales
of the Dragon? a battle-scene? Often enough, it would
resolve into Rudolf Klein-Rogge, ancient Oriental thana-
tomaniac Attila, head shaved except for a topknot, bead-
strung,
raving with grandiloquent gestures and those
enormous bleak eyes. ..
. Pékler would nod back into sleep
with bursts of destroying beauty there for his dreams to
work on, speaking barbaric gutturals for the silent mouths,
smoothing the Burgundians into something of the meek-
ness, the grayness of certain crowds in the beerhalls back
at the T.H..
.and wake againâit went on for hoursâ
into some further progression of carnage, of fire and
smashing. .
On the ay home, by tram and foot, his wife bitched
at PĂ©kler for dozing off, ridiculed his engineerâs devotion
to cause-and-effect. How could he tell her that the dra-
matic connections were really all there, * his dreams?
How could he tell her anything?
Klein-Rogge is remembered most of all hr his role as
Dr. Mabuse. You were meant to think of Hugo Stinnes,
the tireless operator behind the scenes of apparent Infla-
tion, apparent history: gambler, financial wizard, arch-
gangster...a fussy biirgerlich mouth, jowls, graceless
moves, a first impression of comic technocracy . . . and yet,
when the rages came over him, breaking through from
beneath the rationalized look, with his glacial eyes become
windows into the bare savanna, then the real Mabuse sur-
faced, vital and proud against the gray forces surround-
ing him, edging him toward the doom he mustâve known
he couldnât escape, the silent inferno of guns, grenades,
In the Zone
675
streets full of troops attacking his headquarters, and his
own madness
at the end of the secret tunnel... . And who
brought him down but matinee idol Bernhardt Goetzke as
State Prosecutor von Wenk, Goetzke who played tender,
wistful bureaucratic Death in Der Miide Tod, here too
running true to form, too tame, too gentle for the jaded
Countess he covetedâbut Klein-Rogge jumped in, with all
claws out, drove her effeminate husband to suicide, seized
her, threw her on his bed, the languid bitchâtook her!
while gentle Goetzke sat in his office, among his papers
and sybaritesâMabuse trying to hypnotize him, drug him,
bomb him to death in his own officeânothing worked,
each time the great Weimar inertia, files, hierarchies, rou-
tines, kept saving him. Mabuse was the savage throwback,
the charismatic flash no Sunday-afternoon Agfa plate could
ever bear, the print through the rippling solution each
time flaring up to the same annihilating white (Piscean
depths Pékler has cruised dream and waking, beneath him
images of everyday Inflation dreariness, queues, stock-
brokers, boiled potatoes in a dish, searching with only
gills and gutâsome nervous drive toward myth he doesnât
|
even know if he believes inâfor the white light, ruins of
Atlantis, intimations of a truer kingdom)....
Metropolitan inventor Rothwang, King Attila, Mabuse
der Spieler, Prof.-Dr.â Laszlo Jamf, all their yearnings
aimed the same way, toward a form of death that could
be demonstrated to hold joy and defiance, nothing of
bourgeois Goetzkian death, of self-deluding, mature ac-
âceptance, relatives in the parlor, knowing faces the chil-
dren can always read....
âYou have the two choices,â Jamf cried, his last lecture
of the year: outside were the flowery strokings of wind,
girls in pale-colored dresses, oceans of beer, male choruses
intensely, movingly lifted as they sang Semper sit in flores/
Semper sit in flo-ho-res
... âstay behind with carbon and
hydrogen, take your lunch-bucket in to the works every
morning with the faceless droves who canât wait to get
in out of the sunlight or move beyond. Silicon, boron,
_phosphorusâthese can replace carbon, and can bond to
-mitrogen âinstead of hydrogenââ a few snickers here, not
unanticipated by the playful old pedagogue, be he always
sin flower: his involvement in getting Weimar to subsidize
me
Phe oS
676
Gravityâs RAINBOW
the IGâs Stickstoff Syndikat was well knownââmove be-
yond life, toward the inorganic. Here is no frailty, no
mortalityâhere is Strength, and the Timeless.â Then his
well-known finale, as he wiped away the scrawled CâH
on his chalkboard and wrote, in enormous letters, SiâN.
The wave of the future. But Jamf himself, oddly, did
not move on. He never synthesized those new inorganic
rings or chains he had prophesied so dramatically. Had
he only remained behind in the trough, academic genera-
tions swelling away just ahead, or had he known some-
thing Pokler and the others didnât? Were his exhortations
in the lecture hall some kind of eccentric joke? He stayed
with CâH, and took his lunchbucket to America. Pokler
lost touch with him after the Technische Hochschuleâ
so did all his old pupils. He was now under the âsinister
influence of Lyle Bland, and if he was still seeking to
escape the mortality of the covalent bond, Jamf was doing
it in the least obvious way there was.
Oo
:
If that Lyle Bland hadnât joined the Masons, he'd still
probably be up to those nefarious tricks of his. Just as
there are, in the World, machineries committed to injustice
as an enterprise, so too there seem to be provisions active
for balancing things out once in a while. Not as an enter-
prise, exactly, but at least in the dance of things. The
Masons, in the dance of things, turned out to be one of
these where Bland was concerned.
Imagine the fellowâs plightâgot soâ much money he
donât know what to do with it all. Donât go screaming,
âGive it to me!â either. Heâs given it to you, though in
roundabout ways you might need a good system of search
to unsnarl. Oh, has he given it to you. By way of the
Bland Institute and the Bland Foundation, the man has
had his meathooks well into the American day-to-day since
1919. Who do you think sat on top of the! patent for that
â
100-miles-per-gallon carburetor, eh? sure you've heard that â
storyâmaybe even snickered along with paid anthropolo-
gists who called it Automotive Age Myth or some shitâ
well, turns out the item was real, all right, and it was Lyle â
The Machineries of Control
- Lyle Bland utilized his immense wealth to manipulate American life through foundations that suppressed innovations like the 100-miles-per-gallon carburetor.
- Bland orchestrated cultural engineering campaigns, including the 'Killer Weed' propaganda and the dissemination of jokes designed to increase male genital obsession and labor efficiency.
- The text suggests that Bland viewed FDR's presidency as a 'synthesis' of old and new money that facilitated a new era of systemic social control.
- Bland's involvement with the Business Advisory Council and the Alien Property Custodian allowed him to profit from confiscated German patents and secret corporate alliances.
- The narrative posits a cosmic balance where even nefarious figures like Bland are eventually neutralized by 'the dance of things,' such as his joining the Masons.
Who do you think sat on top of the patent for that 100-miles-per-gallon carburetor, eh? sure you've heard that storyâmaybe even snickered along with paid anthropologists who called it Automotive Age Myth or some shitâwell, turns out the item was real, all right.
676
Gravityâs RAINBOW
the IGâs Stickstoff Syndikat was well knownââmove be-
yond life, toward the inorganic. Here is no frailty, no
mortalityâhere is Strength, and the Timeless.â Then his
well-known finale, as he wiped away the scrawled CâH
on his chalkboard and wrote, in enormous letters, SiâN.
The wave of the future. But Jamf himself, oddly, did
not move on. He never synthesized those new inorganic
rings or chains he had prophesied so dramatically. Had
he only remained behind in the trough, academic genera-
tions swelling away just ahead, or had he known some-
thing Pokler and the others didnât? Were his exhortations
in the lecture hall some kind of eccentric joke? He stayed
with CâH, and took his lunchbucket to America. Pokler
lost touch with him after the Technische Hochschuleâ
so did all his old pupils. He was now under the âsinister
influence of Lyle Bland, and if he was still seeking to
escape the mortality of the covalent bond, Jamf was doing
it in the least obvious way there was.
Oo
:
If that Lyle Bland hadnât joined the Masons, he'd still
probably be up to those nefarious tricks of his. Just as
there are, in the World, machineries committed to injustice
as an enterprise, so too there seem to be provisions active
for balancing things out once in a while. Not as an enter-
prise, exactly, but at least in the dance of things. The
Masons, in the dance of things, turned out to be one of
these where Bland was concerned.
Imagine the fellowâs plightâgot soâ much money he
donât know what to do with it all. Donât go screaming,
âGive it to me!â either. Heâs given it to you, though in
roundabout ways you might need a good system of search
to unsnarl. Oh, has he given it to you. By way of the
Bland Institute and the Bland Foundation, the man has
had his meathooks well into the American day-to-day since
1919. Who do you think sat on top of the! patent for that
â
100-miles-per-gallon carburetor, eh? sure you've heard that â
storyâmaybe even snickered along with paid anthropolo-
gists who called it Automotive Age Myth or some shitâ
well, turns out the item was real, all right, and it was Lyle â
In the Zone
â
677
Bland who sprang for those academic hookers doing the
snickering and the credentialed lying. Or how about the
great Killer Weed advertising campaign of the thirties,
who do you think worked hand-in-glove
(or, as grosser
individuals have put it, penis-in-mouth) with the FBI on
that one? And remember all those guy-goes-to-the-doctor-
can't-get-a-hardon jokes? Planted by Bland, yupâhalf a
dozen basic variations, after having done depth studies for
the National Research Council that indicated an unac-
ceptable 36% of the male work force wasnât paying enough
attention
to their cocksânot enough genital obsession
there, and it was undermining the efficiency of the organs
doing the real work.
Psychological studies became, in fact, a Bland specialty.
His probe into the subconscious of early-Depression Amer-
ica is considered
a classic, and widely credited with
improving the plausibility of Rooseveltâs
âelectionâ
in
1932. Though many of his colleagues found a posture of
hatred for FDR useful, Bland was too delighted to go
through the motions. For him, FDR was exactly the man:
Harvard, beholden to all kinds of money old and. new,
commodity and retail, Harriman and Weinberg: an Ameri-
can synthesis which had never occurred before, and which
opened the way to certain grand possibilitiesâall grouped
under the term âcontrol,â which seemed to be a private
code-wordâmore in line with the aspirations of Bland and
others. A year later Bland joined the Business Advisory
Council set up under Swope of General Electric, whose
ideas on matters of âcontrolâ ran close to those of Wal-
ter Rathenau, of German GE. Whatever Swopeâs outfit
did, it did in secret. Nobody got to see its files. Bland
wasnât about to tell anybody, either.
He had gotten to be buddies, after World War I, with
the office of the Alien Property Custodian. Their job was
to dispose of confiscated German interests in the U.S. A
lot of Midwestern money was involved here, which is
what got Bland embroiled in the Great Pinball Difficulty,
and so into the Masons. Seems that through something
called the Chemical Foundationâcover names in those
days had no style to themâthe APC had sold Bland a few
of Laszlo Jamfâs early patents, along with the U.S. agency
of Glitherius Paint & Dye, a Berlin firm. A few years later,
St.
678
Gravityâs RAInsow
in 1925, in the course of being put together, the IG
bought back 50% of American Glitherius from Bland, who
was using his end of it as a patent-holding company.
Bland got cash, securities, and controlling interest in a
Glitherius subsidiary in Berlin being run by a Jew named
Pflaumbaum, yesyes, the same Pflaumbaum Frank Pékler
worked for till the placed bummed down and Pokler went
back out on the streets. (Indeed, there were those who
could see Blandâs hand in that disaster, though the Jew
got blamed, fucked under by the courts, attached till he
was bankrupt, and, in the fullness of time, sent east along
with many others of his race. We would also have to
show some interlock between Bland and the Ufa movie-
distribution people who sent Pékler out with his advertis-
ing bills to Reinickendorf that night, to his fateful meeting
with Kurt Mondaugen and the Verein fiir Raumschiffahrt
ânot to mention separate connections for Achtfaden, Nar-
risch, and the other S-Gerit peopleâbefore we'd have a
paranoid structure worthy of the name. Alas, the state of
the art by 1945 was nowhere near adequate to that kind
of data retrieval. Even if it had been, Bland, or his suc-
cessors and assigns, couldâve bought programmers by the
truckload to come in and make sure all the information
fed out was harmless. Those like Slothrop, with the great-
est interest in discovering the truth, were thrown back on
dreams,
psychic
flashes, omens,
eryptographies,
drug-
epistemologies, all dancing on a ground of terror, contra-
diction, absurdity.)
After the Plaumbaum fire, lines of power among Bland
» and his German colleagues had to be renegotiated. It
dragged on for a few years. Bland found himself in De-
pression in St. Louis, talking with one Alfonso Tracy,
Princeton â06, St. Louis Country Club, moving into petro-
chemicals in a big way, Mrs. Tracy dithering in and out
of the house with yardage and armloads of flowers, pre- â
paring for the annual Veiled Prophet Ball, Tracy himself
preoccupied with the appearance of some individuals down
from Chicago in flashy pinstripe suits, two-tone shoes and
snap-brim fedoras, all talking in accents staccato as a
Thompson.
pg
âOh, do I need a good electronics man,â Tracy moaned. .i
âWhat do you do with these wops? The whole i
The Architecture of Paranoia
- The narrative explores the intricate, often invisible 'paranoid structures' connecting corporate interests like Lyle Bland with German industries and the V-2 rocket program.
- Lyle Bland is depicted as a puppet master whose influence spans from the suspicious burning of Pflaumbaum's business to international petrochemical deals.
- Characters like Slothrop are forced to rely on irrational methodsâdreams, omens, and drug-induced epistemologiesâbecause formal data retrieval is controlled by the powerful.
- The scene shifts to Depression-era Missouri, where Alfonso Tracy, a terrified Princeton elite, seeks Bland's help to manage threats from organized crime.
- Blandâs ability to provide 'engineers on tap' highlights the commodification of technical expertise for surveillance and control across borders.
- The setting of Mouthorgan, Missouri, reveals a massive, windowless Masonic hall serving as a front for a vast warehouse of pinball machines and vice.
Those like Slothrop, with the greatest interest in discovering the truth, were thrown back on dreams, psychic flashes, omens, cryptographies, drug-epistemologies, all dancing on a ground of terror, contradiction, absurdity.
678
Gravityâs RAInsow
in 1925, in the course of being put together, the IG
bought back 50% of American Glitherius from Bland, who
was using his end of it as a patent-holding company.
Bland got cash, securities, and controlling interest in a
Glitherius subsidiary in Berlin being run by a Jew named
Pflaumbaum, yesyes, the same Pflaumbaum Frank Pékler
worked for till the placed bummed down and Pokler went
back out on the streets. (Indeed, there were those who
could see Blandâs hand in that disaster, though the Jew
got blamed, fucked under by the courts, attached till he
was bankrupt, and, in the fullness of time, sent east along
with many others of his race. We would also have to
show some interlock between Bland and the Ufa movie-
distribution people who sent Pékler out with his advertis-
ing bills to Reinickendorf that night, to his fateful meeting
with Kurt Mondaugen and the Verein fiir Raumschiffahrt
ânot to mention separate connections for Achtfaden, Nar-
risch, and the other S-Gerit peopleâbefore we'd have a
paranoid structure worthy of the name. Alas, the state of
the art by 1945 was nowhere near adequate to that kind
of data retrieval. Even if it had been, Bland, or his suc-
cessors and assigns, couldâve bought programmers by the
truckload to come in and make sure all the information
fed out was harmless. Those like Slothrop, with the great-
est interest in discovering the truth, were thrown back on
dreams,
psychic
flashes, omens,
eryptographies,
drug-
epistemologies, all dancing on a ground of terror, contra-
diction, absurdity.)
After the Plaumbaum fire, lines of power among Bland
» and his German colleagues had to be renegotiated. It
dragged on for a few years. Bland found himself in De-
pression in St. Louis, talking with one Alfonso Tracy,
Princeton â06, St. Louis Country Club, moving into petro-
chemicals in a big way, Mrs. Tracy dithering in and out
of the house with yardage and armloads of flowers, pre- â
paring for the annual Veiled Prophet Ball, Tracy himself
preoccupied with the appearance of some individuals down
from Chicago in flashy pinstripe suits, two-tone shoes and
snap-brim fedoras, all talking in accents staccato as a
Thompson.
pg
âOh, do I need a good electronics man,â Tracy moaned. .i
âWhat do you do with these wops? The whole i
A
In the Zone
679
was bad, and now they won't take it back. If I step out
of line, they'll murder me. They'll rape Mabel, they'll go
back to Princeton some dark night a-and castrate my kid!
You know what I think it is, Lyle? A plot!â
' Vendettas, jeweled gauntlets, subtle poisons come in-
filtrating this well-mannered parlor with the picture of
Herbert Hoover on the piano, the pinks in the Nieman-
Marcus bowl, the Bauhaus-style furniture like alabaster
slabs of a model city (you expect little HO trains to come
whirring out from under the davenport, cans ânâ reefers
on and on across the carpetâs ash-colored lowland...).
Alfonso Tracyâs long face, creased either side of the nose
and on around the mustache line, dragged down by wor-
ries, thirty years without a genuine smile (âEven Laurel
& Hardy doesnât work for me any more!â), morose with
fright in his easy chair. How could Lyle Bland not be
touched?
âGot just the fella,â sez he, touching Tracyâs arm, com-
passionate. Always good to have an engineer on tap. This
one did some just top-notch electronic-surveillance designs
once for the then-fledgling FBI, on a contract the Bland
Institute landed a few years ago and subbed part of
out to Siemens over there in Germany. âHave him in
tomorrow on the Silver Streak. No problem, Al.â
âCome on out and have a look,â sighs Tracy. They hop
in the Packard and drive out to the green little river
town of Mouthorgan, Missouri, which is a railroad station,
a tanning factory, a few frame houses, and dominating
the area a gigantic Masonic hall, not a window on the
whole massive monolith,
After a lot of rigmarole at the door, Bland is finally
allowed in and led through velvet poolrooms, elaborate
polished-wood gambling setups, chrome bars, soft bed-
rooms, on to a large warehouse section in back, which is
crammed
ten high with more
pinball machines
than
Blandâs ever seen in one place in his life, Oh Boys, Grand
3lams, World Serieses, Lucky Lindies as far as the eye
2an reach.
âAnd every one is fucked up,â sez melancholy Tracy.
âLook at this.â Itâs a Folies-BergĂ©res: four-color lovelies
loing the cancan all over it, zeros happening to coincide
with eyes, nipples, and cunts, one of your racy-type games
: 7
The Sentient Pinball Exile
- Bland and Tracy encounter a collection of broken and rigged pinball machines, specifically a 'Folies-Bergéres' game that malfunctions with hostile intent.
- The narrative shifts to reveal that the pinball bearings are actually sentient beings from the planetoid Katspiel, trapped in eternal exile on Earth.
- These 'spherical souls' are doomed to be manipulated by the thumbs of various American players, many of whom have since been drafted and maimed in WWII.
- The text draws a parallel between the physical trauma of the pinball game and the brutal 'M-1 thumb' injuries suffered by soldiers during rifle inspections.
- The pinball machine is depicted as a site of mechanical agony where gravity and rigged solenoids prevent the 'balls' from ever finding rest or returning home.
Third ball gets stuck somehow against a solenoid and (helphelp, itâs hollering, wounded high little voice, oh Iâm being electrocuted...)
A
In the Zone
679
was bad, and now they won't take it back. If I step out
of line, they'll murder me. They'll rape Mabel, they'll go
back to Princeton some dark night a-and castrate my kid!
You know what I think it is, Lyle? A plot!â
' Vendettas, jeweled gauntlets, subtle poisons come in-
filtrating this well-mannered parlor with the picture of
Herbert Hoover on the piano, the pinks in the Nieman-
Marcus bowl, the Bauhaus-style furniture like alabaster
slabs of a model city (you expect little HO trains to come
whirring out from under the davenport, cans ânâ reefers
on and on across the carpetâs ash-colored lowland...).
Alfonso Tracyâs long face, creased either side of the nose
and on around the mustache line, dragged down by wor-
ries, thirty years without a genuine smile (âEven Laurel
& Hardy doesnât work for me any more!â), morose with
fright in his easy chair. How could Lyle Bland not be
touched?
âGot just the fella,â sez he, touching Tracyâs arm, com-
passionate. Always good to have an engineer on tap. This
one did some just top-notch electronic-surveillance designs
once for the then-fledgling FBI, on a contract the Bland
Institute landed a few years ago and subbed part of
out to Siemens over there in Germany. âHave him in
tomorrow on the Silver Streak. No problem, Al.â
âCome on out and have a look,â sighs Tracy. They hop
in the Packard and drive out to the green little river
town of Mouthorgan, Missouri, which is a railroad station,
a tanning factory, a few frame houses, and dominating
the area a gigantic Masonic hall, not a window on the
whole massive monolith,
After a lot of rigmarole at the door, Bland is finally
allowed in and led through velvet poolrooms, elaborate
polished-wood gambling setups, chrome bars, soft bed-
rooms, on to a large warehouse section in back, which is
crammed
ten high with more
pinball machines
than
Blandâs ever seen in one place in his life, Oh Boys, Grand
3lams, World Serieses, Lucky Lindies as far as the eye
2an reach.
âAnd every one is fucked up,â sez melancholy Tracy.
âLook at this.â Itâs a Folies-BergĂ©res: four-color lovelies
loing the cancan all over it, zeros happening to coincide
with eyes, nipples, and cunts, one of your racy-type games
: 7
680
Gravityâs RaInsow
here, a little hostile toward the ladies but all in fun! âYou
got a nickel?â Chungg, boing there goes the ball just
missing a high-scoring hole, hmm looks like a permanent
warp there ahnnnggghk knocks a flasher worth 1000 but
only 50 lights up on the boardââYou see?â Tracy screams
.as the ball heads like a rock for the bottom, outside
chance to get with a flipper zong flipper flips the other
fucking way, and the board lights up Tix7.
âTilt?â Bland scratching his head. âYou didnât evenââ
âThey're all like that,â Tracy watering with frustration.
âYou try it.â
The second ball isnât even out of the chute before Bland
gets another TILT, again without having applied any En-
glish. Third ball gets stuck somehow against a solenoid and
(helphelp, itâs hollering, wounded high little voice, oh
'm
being electrocuted...)
dingdingding, gongs and racing
numbers up on the board, 400,000, 675,000 bong a mil-
lion! greatest Folies-Bergéres score in history and climbing,
the poor spherical soul against the solenoid thrashing,
clonic, horrible (yes theyâre sentient all right, beings from
the planetoid Katspiel, of veryvery elliptical orbitâwhich
is to say it passed by Earth only once, a long time ago,
nearly back at the grainy crepuscular Edge, and nobody
knows where Katspiel is now or when, or if, itl be back.
Itâs that familiar division between return and. one-shot
visitation.
If Katspiel had enough energy to leave the
sunâs field forever, then it has left these kind round beings
in eternal exile, with no chance of ever being gathered
back home, doomed to masquerade as ball bearings, as
steelies in a thousand marble gamesâto know the great
thumbs of Keokuk and Puyallup, Oyster Bay, Inglewood
âDanny DâAllesandro and Elmer Ferguson, Peewee Bren-
nan and Flash Womack... where are they now? where
do you think? they all. got drafted, some are dead on
Iwo, some gangrenous
in the snow
im
the forest of
Arden, and their. thumbs, first rifle inspection in Basic,
GIâd, driven deep back into childhood | as little finger
sweat-cams off M-1 operating handle, thumb pushing down
follower still deep in breech, bolt sshhOCK! whacks thumb
oh shit yes it hurts and good-by to another unbeatable and
legendary thumb, gone for good back to the summer dust,
bags of chuckling glass, bigfooted basset hounds, smell of
pe
a
ah
âae
ae
-
In the Zone
681
steel playground slides heating in the sun), well here
come these cancan girls now, Folies-Bergéres maenads,
moving in for the kill, big lipstick smiles around blazing
choppers, some Offenbach galop come jigging in now out
of the loudspeakers that are implicit in this machineâs
design, long gartered legs kicking out over the agony of
this sad spherical permanent AWOL, all his companions
in the chute vibrating their concern and love, feeling his
pain but helpless, inert without the spring, the hustlerâs
hand, the drunkâs masculinity problems, the vacuum hours
of a gray cap and an empty lunchbox, needing these to
run their own patterns down the towering coils, the deep
holes with their promises of rest that only kick you
wobbling out again, always at the mercy of gravity, find-
ing now and then the infinitesimally shallow grooves of
other runs, great runs (twelve heroic minutes in Virginia
Beach, Fourth of July, 1927, a drunken sailor whose ship
went down at Leyte Gulf... flipped up off the board,
your first three-dimensional trip is always your best, when
you came down again it wasnât the same, and every time
you'd pass anywhere near the micro-dimple you made
when you fell, you'd get a rush... sobered, a few, having
looked into the heart of the solenoid, seen the magnetic
serpent and energy in its nakedness, long enough to be
changed, to bring back from the writhing lines of force
down in that pit an intimacy with power, with glazed
badlands of soul, that set them apart foreverâcheck out
the portrait of Michael Faraday in the Tate Gallery in
London, Tantivy Mucker-Maffick did once, to fill up a
womanless and dreary afternoon, and wondered then how
eyes of men could grow so lambent, sinister, so educated
among the halls of dread and the invisible...) but now
the voices of the murder-witness coquettes grow shrill,
with more of a bladeâs edge, the music changes key,
tching higher and higher, the ruffled buttocks bumping
kward more violently, the skirts flipping redder and
Jeeper each time, covering more of the field, eddying to
blood, to furnace finale, and howâs the Katspiel Kid gonna
yet out of this one?
Well, wouldnât you know it, just as things look worst,
Providence plants a shortâstatatatah! the lights go out
leaving a diminishing red glow on the shaven cheeks and
ae
The Solenoid and the Dollar
- A mystical encounter with the 'magnetic serpent' of the solenoid leaves certain men forever changed by an intimacy with raw power and dread.
- A chaotic, violent dance performance by 'murder-witness coquettes' reaches a fever pitch before a sudden electrical short silences the machinery.
- The characters Alfonso Tracy and Bland discuss the cyclical nature of the black market and the persistence of profit despite the war.
- A surreal, musical reprise celebrates the 'ever-lovinâ War' as an eternal engine for making another dollar, regardless of who wins or loses.
- A massive, diverse cast of archetypes and pinball machine figures joins in a grand chorus, symbolizing a complex, synchronized ensemble of commerce and chance.
- The narrative questions whether the apparent randomness of these systems is a deliberate simulation by 'Them' or a genuine, redemptive malfunction.
looked into the heart of the solenoid, seen the magnetic serpent and energy in its nakedness, long enough to be changed, to bring back from the writhing lines of force down in that pit an intimacy with power, with glazed badlands of soul, that set them apart forever
pe
a
ah
âae
ae
-
In the Zone
681
steel playground slides heating in the sun), well here
come these cancan girls now, Folies-Bergéres maenads,
moving in for the kill, big lipstick smiles around blazing
choppers, some Offenbach galop come jigging in now out
of the loudspeakers that are implicit in this machineâs
design, long gartered legs kicking out over the agony of
this sad spherical permanent AWOL, all his companions
in the chute vibrating their concern and love, feeling his
pain but helpless, inert without the spring, the hustlerâs
hand, the drunkâs masculinity problems, the vacuum hours
of a gray cap and an empty lunchbox, needing these to
run their own patterns down the towering coils, the deep
holes with their promises of rest that only kick you
wobbling out again, always at the mercy of gravity, find-
ing now and then the infinitesimally shallow grooves of
other runs, great runs (twelve heroic minutes in Virginia
Beach, Fourth of July, 1927, a drunken sailor whose ship
went down at Leyte Gulf... flipped up off the board,
your first three-dimensional trip is always your best, when
you came down again it wasnât the same, and every time
you'd pass anywhere near the micro-dimple you made
when you fell, you'd get a rush... sobered, a few, having
looked into the heart of the solenoid, seen the magnetic
serpent and energy in its nakedness, long enough to be
changed, to bring back from the writhing lines of force
down in that pit an intimacy with power, with glazed
badlands of soul, that set them apart foreverâcheck out
the portrait of Michael Faraday in the Tate Gallery in
London, Tantivy Mucker-Maffick did once, to fill up a
womanless and dreary afternoon, and wondered then how
eyes of men could grow so lambent, sinister, so educated
among the halls of dread and the invisible...) but now
the voices of the murder-witness coquettes grow shrill,
with more of a bladeâs edge, the music changes key,
tching higher and higher, the ruffled buttocks bumping
kward more violently, the skirts flipping redder and
Jeeper each time, covering more of the field, eddying to
blood, to furnace finale, and howâs the Katspiel Kid gonna
yet out of this one?
Well, wouldnât you know it, just as things look worst,
Providence plants a shortâstatatatah! the lights go out
leaving a diminishing red glow on the shaven cheeks and
ae
682
Gravityâs RaiInsow
chins of the two operators cringing before the girlsâ de-
stroying kooch-dance, the solenoid jitters to silence, the
chrome ball, released, rolls traumatized back to the com-
fort of its friends.
âTheyâ re all like this?â
âOh, was I took,â groans Alfonso Tracy.
âIt comes and goes,â consoles Bland, and here we get a
reprise of Gerhardt von GĂ©llâs âBright Days for the Black
Market,â with allowances made for time, place and color:
There'll al-waysâbe another dollar,
Any way it hap-pens!
If they catch ya nap-pinâ,
Wake up-with, the dew on the grass
*nâ you can hand âem their assâ
You can make another dollar,
Third eye up on that py-ra-mid,
Oh give a listen kid,
Itâs just winkinâ at you, singinâ, âPiss on through!â
Thereâs a will, thereâ Ss a way,
Doesnât happen, evry day,
But if ya got-the-brains, those Tid matt cing
ll never whistle your dreams away, heyâ
Just flip another dollar,
Heads or tails it'll be all right,
You can lose the fight, but
That ever-lovinâ War goes on and on, ya know,
Just follow that dollar and vo-dee, o-do-dol
All the baggy-pants outfielders, doughboys in khaki,
cancan girls now sedate, bathing beauties even more so,
cowboys and cigar-store Indians, google-eyed Negroes,
apple-cart urchins, lounge lizards and movie queens, card-
sharps, clowns, crosseyed lamppost drunks, flying aces,
motorboat captains, white hunters on safari and Negroid
apes, fat men, chefs in chefsâ hats, Jewish
usurers, XXX
jug-clutching hillbillies, comic-book cats
dogs and mice,
prizefighters and mountaineers, radio stars,
midgets, ten-in-
one freaks, railroad hobos, marathon dascars, swing bands,
high-society partygoers, racehorses and jockeys, taxidanc-.
ers, Indianapolis drivers, sailors ashore and wahines in
hula skirts, .sinewed Olympic runners, tycoons holding big
In the Zone
683
round bags with dollar signs, all join in on a second grand
chorus of the song, all the boards of the pinball machines
flashing on and off, primary colors with a touch of acid to
them, flippers flipping, bells ringing, nickels pouring out
of the coinboxes of the more enthusiastic, each sound
and move exactly in its place in the complex ensemble.
Outside the temple, the organization reps from Chicago
lurk, play morra, drink Canadian blends out of silver hip-
flasks, oil and clean .38s and generally carry on in their
loathsome ethnic way, Popish inscrutability in every sharp
crease and shadowy jowl. No way to tell if someplace in
the wood file cabinets exists a set of real blueprints telling
exactly how all these pinball machines were rewiredâa
randomness deliberately simulatedâof if it has happened
at real random, preserving at least our faith in Malfunc-
tion as still something beyond Their grasp...a
faith that
each machine, individually, has simply, in innocence, gone
on the blink, after the thousands of roadhouse nights,
end-of-the-world
Wyoming
thunderstorms
that
come
straight down on your hatless head, truckstop ampheta-
mines, tobacco smoke clawing at insides of eyelids, homi-
cidal grabs after some way out of the yearâs never-slack-
ening shit...have
players
forever
strangers
brought
about, separately, alone, each of these bum machines?
believe it: they've sweated, kicked, cried, smashed, lost
their balance foreverâa single Mobility you never heard,
a unity unaware of itself, a silence the encyclopedia his-
â
tories have blandly filled up with agencies, initials, spokes-
men and deficits enough to keep us from finding them
again... but for the moment, through the elaborate the-
atrical foofooraw of Mob ânâ Masons, it has concentrated
here, in the back of the Mouthorgan temple, an elegant
chaos to bend the ingenuity of Blandâs bought expert,
Silver-Streaking Bert Fibel.
Last we saw of Fibel he was hooking, stretching, and
running shock cord for that Horst Achtfaden back in his
gliding days, Fibel who stayed on the ground, and saw his
friend on to Peenemiindeâsaw him on? isnât that a slice
of surplus paranoia there, not quite justified is itâwell,
call it Toward a Case for Blandâs Involvement with Acht-
faden Too, if you want. Fibel worked for Siemens back
_ when it was still part of the Stinnes trust. Along with his
Masonic Plots and Mechanical Chaos
- The breakdown of various machines is attributed to the collective, unconscious despair and physical toll of thousands of isolated, struggling individuals.
- Silver-Streaking Bert Fibel, a technical genius with ties to Siemens and Vereinigte Stahlwerke, is tasked by Lyle Bland to repair the 'elegant chaos' of broken machinery.
- Fibel's presence in Massachusetts serves a dual purpose: working for General Electric while conducting surveillance on a young Tyrone Slothrop for IG Farben.
- Lyle Bland is inducted into the Masons as a reward for Fibel's repairs, gaining business contacts and access to a secretive, fraternal world.
- The narrative explores the pervasive theory that the United States is a Masonic plot controlled by the Illuminati, citing the symbolism on the dollar bill.
- The text links historical anarchists and explorers like Dr. Livingstone to Masonic influence, suggesting a global web of conspiracy that fills the voids of history.
It is difficult to look for long at the strange single eye crowning the pyramid which is found on every dollar bill and not begin to believe the story, a little.
In the Zone
683
round bags with dollar signs, all join in on a second grand
chorus of the song, all the boards of the pinball machines
flashing on and off, primary colors with a touch of acid to
them, flippers flipping, bells ringing, nickels pouring out
of the coinboxes of the more enthusiastic, each sound
and move exactly in its place in the complex ensemble.
Outside the temple, the organization reps from Chicago
lurk, play morra, drink Canadian blends out of silver hip-
flasks, oil and clean .38s and generally carry on in their
loathsome ethnic way, Popish inscrutability in every sharp
crease and shadowy jowl. No way to tell if someplace in
the wood file cabinets exists a set of real blueprints telling
exactly how all these pinball machines were rewiredâa
randomness deliberately simulatedâof if it has happened
at real random, preserving at least our faith in Malfunc-
tion as still something beyond Their grasp...a
faith that
each machine, individually, has simply, in innocence, gone
on the blink, after the thousands of roadhouse nights,
end-of-the-world
Wyoming
thunderstorms
that
come
straight down on your hatless head, truckstop ampheta-
mines, tobacco smoke clawing at insides of eyelids, homi-
cidal grabs after some way out of the yearâs never-slack-
ening shit...have
players
forever
strangers
brought
about, separately, alone, each of these bum machines?
believe it: they've sweated, kicked, cried, smashed, lost
their balance foreverâa single Mobility you never heard,
a unity unaware of itself, a silence the encyclopedia his-
â
tories have blandly filled up with agencies, initials, spokes-
men and deficits enough to keep us from finding them
again... but for the moment, through the elaborate the-
atrical foofooraw of Mob ânâ Masons, it has concentrated
here, in the back of the Mouthorgan temple, an elegant
chaos to bend the ingenuity of Blandâs bought expert,
Silver-Streaking Bert Fibel.
Last we saw of Fibel he was hooking, stretching, and
running shock cord for that Horst Achtfaden back in his
gliding days, Fibel who stayed on the ground, and saw his
friend on to Peenemiindeâsaw him on? isnât that a slice
of surplus paranoia there, not quite justified is itâwell,
call it Toward a Case for Blandâs Involvement with Acht-
faden Too, if you want. Fibel worked for Siemens back
_ when it was still part of the Stinnes trust. Along with his
684
Gravity's Rainsow
design work he also put in some time as a Stinnes intelli-
gence agent. There are also still loyalties to Vereinigte
Stahlwerke in effect, though Fibel happens to be working
now at the General Electric plant in Pittsfield, Massachu-
setts. Itâs in Blandâs interest to have an agent in the Berk-
shires, can you guess why? Yup! to keep an eye on
adolescent Tyrone Slothrop, is why. Nearly ten years after
the original deal was closed, IG Farben is still finding it
easier to subcontract the surveillance of young Tyrone
back to Lyle Bland.
This stonefaced kraut Fibel is a genius with solenoids
and switches. How all this machinery got âout of the
glue,â as they say over there, is a sinful waste of time
even to think aboutâhe dives into topologies and color-
codes, the odor of rosin flux goes seeping into the pool-
rooms and saloons, a Schnipsel here and there, a muttered
also or two, and before you know it heâs got most of
them working again. You can bet thereâs a lotta happy
Masons in Mouthorgan, Missouri.
In return for his good deed, Lyle Bland, who couldnât
care less, is made a Mason. He finds good fellowship,
all
kinds of comfort designed to remind him of his virility,
and even a number of useful business contacts. Beyond
this, all is just as tight as that Business Advisory Council.
Non-Masons stay pretty much in the dark about What
Goes On, though now and then something jumps out,
exposes itself, jumps giggling back again, leaving you with
few details but a lot of Awful Suspicions. Some of the
American Founding Fathers were Masons, for instance:
There is a theory going around that the U.S.A. was and
still is a gigantic Masonic plot under the ultimate control
of the group known as the Illuminati. It is difficult to look
for long at the strange single eye crowning the pyramid
which is found on every dollar bill âand not begin to
believe the story, a little. Too many anarchists in 19th-
centuty EuropeâBakunin, Proudhon, Salverio Frisciaâ
â
were Masons for it to be pure chance. Lovers of global
conspiracy, not all. of them Catholic, can
count on the
Masons for a few good shivers and voids when all else
fails. One of the best of the classic Weird Mason Stories
â
has Doctor Livingstone (living stoneP oh, yes) come wan- â
dering into aânative village in, not even the heart, but the 2
io
yen
gw hl
In the Zone
685
subconscious of Darkest Africa, a place, a tribe heâs never
seen before:
fires in the silence, unfathomable
stares,
Livingstone ambles up to the village chief and flashes him
a Masonic high signâthe chief recognizes it, returns it,
all smiles, and orders every fraternal hospitality laid on
for the white stranger. But recall that Dr. Livingstone,
like Wernher von Braun, was born close to the Spring
Equinox, and so had to confront the world from that most
singular of the Zodiacâs singular points. ... Well, and keep
in mind where those Masonic Mysteries came from in
the first place. (Check out Ishmael Reed. He knows more
about it than you'll ever find here. )
We must also never forget famous Missouri Mason
Harry Truman: sitting by virtue of death in office, this
every August 1945, with his control-finger poised right on
Miss. Enola Gayâs atomic clit, making ready to tickle
100,000 little yellow folks into what will come down as a
fine vapor-deposit of fat-cracklings wrinkled into the fused
rubble of their city on the Inland Sea....
By the time Bland joined up, the Masons had long, long
degenerated into just another businessmenâs club, A real
shame. Business of all kinds, over the centuries, had
atrophied certain sense-receptors and areas of the human
brain, so that for most of the fellows taking part, the
present-day rituals were no more, and even maybe a
little less, than hollow mummery. Not for all of them,
though. Now and then you found a throwback. Lyle
Bland happened to be one.
The magic in these Masonic rituals is very, very old.
And way back in those days, it worked. As time went on,
and it started being used for spectacle, to consolidate what
were only secular appearances of power, it began to lose
ats zip. But the words, moves, and machinery have been
more or less faithfully carried down over the millennia,
through the grim rationalizing of the World, and so the
magic is still there, though latent, needing ouly to touch
the right sensitive head to reassert itself.
Bland found himself coming home to Beacon Hiil after
meetings late at night, unable to sleep. He would lie down
in his study on the davenport, not thinking about any-
thing in particular, and come back with a jolt, his heart
pounding terribly, knowing heâd just been somewhere,
eft,
The Latent Magic of Masons
- The text explores the hidden, ancient power of Masonic rituals, suggesting they are more than mere social clubs for businessmen.
- It links historical figures like Dr. Livingstone and Harry Truman to Masonic influence, framing Truman's atomic decision through a dark, ritualistic lens.
- Lyle Bland is introduced as a 'throwback' who possesses the rare sensitivity required to reactivate the latent magic within these old rituals.
- Bland experiences a terrifying out-of-body journey, rising above his physical form and realizing he can never return to his former life.
- As Bland descends further into his astral travels, his physical life on State Street and his marriage begin to wither and atrophy.
- The narrative suggests that while the world has rationalized away the supernatural, the 'machinery' of ancient magic remains waiting for the right host.
Lyle Bland rose up out of his body, about a foot, face-up, realized where he was and gaahh! whoosh back in again.
In the Zone
685
subconscious of Darkest Africa, a place, a tribe heâs never
seen before:
fires in the silence, unfathomable
stares,
Livingstone ambles up to the village chief and flashes him
a Masonic high signâthe chief recognizes it, returns it,
all smiles, and orders every fraternal hospitality laid on
for the white stranger. But recall that Dr. Livingstone,
like Wernher von Braun, was born close to the Spring
Equinox, and so had to confront the world from that most
singular of the Zodiacâs singular points. ... Well, and keep
in mind where those Masonic Mysteries came from in
the first place. (Check out Ishmael Reed. He knows more
about it than you'll ever find here. )
We must also never forget famous Missouri Mason
Harry Truman: sitting by virtue of death in office, this
every August 1945, with his control-finger poised right on
Miss. Enola Gayâs atomic clit, making ready to tickle
100,000 little yellow folks into what will come down as a
fine vapor-deposit of fat-cracklings wrinkled into the fused
rubble of their city on the Inland Sea....
By the time Bland joined up, the Masons had long, long
degenerated into just another businessmenâs club, A real
shame. Business of all kinds, over the centuries, had
atrophied certain sense-receptors and areas of the human
brain, so that for most of the fellows taking part, the
present-day rituals were no more, and even maybe a
little less, than hollow mummery. Not for all of them,
though. Now and then you found a throwback. Lyle
Bland happened to be one.
The magic in these Masonic rituals is very, very old.
And way back in those days, it worked. As time went on,
and it started being used for spectacle, to consolidate what
were only secular appearances of power, it began to lose
ats zip. But the words, moves, and machinery have been
more or less faithfully carried down over the millennia,
through the grim rationalizing of the World, and so the
magic is still there, though latent, needing ouly to touch
the right sensitive head to reassert itself.
Bland found himself coming home to Beacon Hiil after
meetings late at night, unable to sleep. He would lie down
in his study on the davenport, not thinking about any-
thing in particular, and come back with a jolt, his heart
pounding terribly, knowing heâd just been somewhere,
eft,
686
Graviryâs Rainsow
but unable to account for the passage of time, The old
American Empire clock beat in the resonant hallway. The
Girandole mirror, passed on by generations of Blands,
gathered images in its quicksilver pool that Lyle couldn't
bring himself to face. In another room, his wife, varicose
and religious, groaned in her sleep. What was happening
to him?
Next meeting night, home on his back on the ac-
customed davenport, Wall Street Journal with nothing in
it he didnât already know, Lyle Bland rose up out of his
body, about a foot, face-up, realized where he was and
gaahh! whoosh back in again. He lay there, more terrified
than heâd ever been, even at Belleau Woodânot so much
because heâd left his body, but because he knew that this
was only a first step. The next step would be to roll over
in mid-air and look back. Old magic had found him. He
was off on a journey. He knew he couldnât keep from
going on with it.
It took him a month or two before he could make
the turn. When it happened, he felt it as a turn not so
much in space as in his own history. Irreversible. The
Bland who came back to rejoin the inert white container
heâd seen belly-up on the sofa, thousands of years beneath
him, had changed forever.
Before very long, he was spending most of his time on
that davenport, and hardly any at all down on State
Street., His wife, who never questioned anything, moved
vaguely through the rooms, discussing only household
affairs, sometimes getting an answer if Bland happened
to be inside his body, but most often not. Odd-looking
people began to show up at the door, without phoning.
Creeps, foreigners with tinted, oily skin, wens, sties, cysts,
wheezes, bad
teeth,
limps,
staring
orâworseâwith
Strange Faraway Smiles. She let them in the house, all
of them, and the study doors were closed |\gently behind
them, in her face. She could hear nothing
but a murmur
of voices, in what she guessed to be some foreign tongue.
â
They were
instructing her husband in
techniques of
voyage.
There have happened, though ase in devigrashiodl }
space, journeys taken northward on very blue, fire-blue
seas, chilled; crowded by floes, to the final walls of ice.
â
The Living Earth and Astral IG
- Mysterious foreign instructors visit Bland to teach him 'techniques of voyage' that transcend physical travel.
- The text redefines polar exploration, suggesting that those who returned failed, while those who died in the ice achieved a secret victory.
- Bland hallucinates a deep history where Earth is a sentient 'mindbody' rather than a lifeless rock.
- Gravity is reimagined as an eerie, messianic force that gathers the molecules of dead species for alchemical transmutation.
- The 'coal-tar Kabbalists' exploit these organic remains to create synthetic materials, which the instructors dismiss as mere shells of the dead.
- Ordinary people are left to seek meaning in plastic trivia, hoping to find a secret mathematical function behind the mundane world.
To find that Gravity, taken so for granted, is really something eerie, Messianic, extrasensory in Earthâs mindbody ...
686
Graviryâs Rainsow
but unable to account for the passage of time, The old
American Empire clock beat in the resonant hallway. The
Girandole mirror, passed on by generations of Blands,
gathered images in its quicksilver pool that Lyle couldn't
bring himself to face. In another room, his wife, varicose
and religious, groaned in her sleep. What was happening
to him?
Next meeting night, home on his back on the ac-
customed davenport, Wall Street Journal with nothing in
it he didnât already know, Lyle Bland rose up out of his
body, about a foot, face-up, realized where he was and
gaahh! whoosh back in again. He lay there, more terrified
than heâd ever been, even at Belleau Woodânot so much
because heâd left his body, but because he knew that this
was only a first step. The next step would be to roll over
in mid-air and look back. Old magic had found him. He
was off on a journey. He knew he couldnât keep from
going on with it.
It took him a month or two before he could make
the turn. When it happened, he felt it as a turn not so
much in space as in his own history. Irreversible. The
Bland who came back to rejoin the inert white container
heâd seen belly-up on the sofa, thousands of years beneath
him, had changed forever.
Before very long, he was spending most of his time on
that davenport, and hardly any at all down on State
Street., His wife, who never questioned anything, moved
vaguely through the rooms, discussing only household
affairs, sometimes getting an answer if Bland happened
to be inside his body, but most often not. Odd-looking
people began to show up at the door, without phoning.
Creeps, foreigners with tinted, oily skin, wens, sties, cysts,
wheezes, bad
teeth,
limps,
staring
orâworseâwith
Strange Faraway Smiles. She let them in the house, all
of them, and the study doors were closed |\gently behind
them, in her face. She could hear nothing
but a murmur
of voices, in what she guessed to be some foreign tongue.
â
They were
instructing her husband in
techniques of
voyage.
There have happened, though ase in devigrashiodl }
space, journeys taken northward on very blue, fire-blue
seas, chilled; crowded by floes, to the final walls of ice.
â
In the Zone
687
Our judgment lapsed fatally: we paid more attention to
the Pearys and Nansens who returnedâand worse, we
named what they did âsuccess,â though they failed. Because
they came back, back to fame, to praise, they failed. We
only wept for Sir John Franklin and Salomon Andrée:
mourned their cairns and bones, and missed among the
poor frozen rubbish the announcements of their victory.
By the time we had the technology to make such voyages
easy, we had long worded over all ability to know victory
or defeat.
What did Andrée find in the polar silence: what should
we have heard?
Bland, still an- apprentice, hadnât yet shaken off his
fondness for hallucinating. He knows where he is when
heâs there, but when he comes back, he imagines that he
has been journeying underneath history: that history is
Earthâs mind, and that there are layers, set very deep,
layers of history analogous to layers of coal and oil in
Earthâs body. The foreigners sit in his parlor, hissing over
him, leaving offensive films of sebum on everything they
touch, trying to see him through this phase, clearly im-
patient with what they feel are the tastes of a loafer and
vulgarian. He comes back raving about the presences
he has found out there, members of an astral IG, whose
missionâas indeed Rathenau implied through the medium
of Peter Sachsaâis past secular good and evil: distinctions
like that are meaningless out there. ...
âYess, yess,â all staring at him, âbut then why keep
saying âmind and bodyâ? Why make that distinction?â
Because itâs had to get over the wonder of finding that
Earth is a living critter, after all these years of thinking
about a big dumb rock to find a body and psyche, he feels
like a child again, he knows that in theory he must not
attach himself, but still he is in love with his sense of
wonder, with having found it again, even this late, even
knowing he must soon let it go....To find that Gravity,
taken so for granted, is really something eerie, Messianic,
extrasensory in Earthâs mindbody ... having hugged to its
holy center the wastes of dead species, gathered, packed,
transmuted, realigned, and rewoven molecules to be taken
up again by the coal-tar Kabbalists of the other side, the
ones Bland on his voyages has noted, taken boiled off,
ay
,
âsa
688
Gravity's RAINBOW
teased apart, explicated to every last permutation of use-
ful magic, centuries
past exhaustion
still, finding new
molecular pieces, combining and recombining them into
new syntheticsââForget them, they are no better than
the Qlippoth, the shells of the dead, you must not waste
your time with them, ...â
The rest of us, not chosen for enlightenment, left on the
outside of Earth, at the mercy of a Gravity we have only
begun to learn how to detect and measure, must go on
blundering inside our front-brain faith in Kute Korres-
pondences, hoping that for each psi-synthetic taken from
Earthâs soul there is a molecule, secular, more or less
ordinary and named, over hereâkicking endlessly among
the plastic trivia, finding in each Deeper Significance and
trying to string them all together like terms of a power
series hoping to zero in on the tremendous and secret
Function whose name, like the permuted names of God,
cannot be spoken... plastic saxophone reed sounds of
unnatural timbre, shampoo bottle ego-image, Cracker Jack
prize one-shot amusement, home appliance casing fairing
for winds of cognition, baby bottles tranquilization, meat
packages disguise of slaughter, dry-cleaning bags infant
strangulation, garden hoses feeding endlessly the desert
.. but to bring them together, in their slick persistence
and our preterition...to make sense out of, to find the
meanest sharp sliver of truth in so much replication,
so
tnuch waste. .
Lucky Bland, to be free of it. One night he called his
whole family together around the davenport in the study.
Lyle, Jr. came in from Houston, shivering with first-stage
grippe from contact with a world where air-conditioning
is not so essential to life. Clara drove down from Ben-
nington and Buddy rode the MTA in from Cambridge.
âAs you know,â Bland announced, âI have been taking
these little trips lately.â He was wearing a, simple white
smock, and holding a red rose. He looked unearthly, all
were later to agree: his skin and eyes had a clarity which
is seldom encountered, except on certain spring days, at
certain latitudes, just before sunrise. âI have found,â he
continued, âthat each time out, I have been traveling
farther and farther. Tonight, I am going out for good.
That is, I am not coming back. So I wanted to say good-by
Bland's Departure and Medical Second Thoughts
- The narrative reflects on the overwhelming waste and slick persistence of modern material culture, from baby bottles to meat packaging.
- Lucky Bland gathers his family to announce his permanent departure from the physical world, claiming his 'trips' have taken him further each time.
- Bland passes away peacefully on a davenport after ensuring his family's financial security through a prestigious law firm.
- The setting shifts to a windy night in Cuxhaven, where the atmosphere is marked by military idleness and the groaning of machinery.
- Doctors Muffage and Spontoon, two respectable Londoners, navigate the scarred landscape of the Krupp works while questioning their current mission.
- The doctors express professional hesitation regarding a procedure they haven't performed since its 'vogue' in mental institutions decades prior.
Tonight, I am going out for good. That is, I am not coming back.
688
Gravity's RAINBOW
teased apart, explicated to every last permutation of use-
ful magic, centuries
past exhaustion
still, finding new
molecular pieces, combining and recombining them into
new syntheticsââForget them, they are no better than
the Qlippoth, the shells of the dead, you must not waste
your time with them, ...â
The rest of us, not chosen for enlightenment, left on the
outside of Earth, at the mercy of a Gravity we have only
begun to learn how to detect and measure, must go on
blundering inside our front-brain faith in Kute Korres-
pondences, hoping that for each psi-synthetic taken from
Earthâs soul there is a molecule, secular, more or less
ordinary and named, over hereâkicking endlessly among
the plastic trivia, finding in each Deeper Significance and
trying to string them all together like terms of a power
series hoping to zero in on the tremendous and secret
Function whose name, like the permuted names of God,
cannot be spoken... plastic saxophone reed sounds of
unnatural timbre, shampoo bottle ego-image, Cracker Jack
prize one-shot amusement, home appliance casing fairing
for winds of cognition, baby bottles tranquilization, meat
packages disguise of slaughter, dry-cleaning bags infant
strangulation, garden hoses feeding endlessly the desert
.. but to bring them together, in their slick persistence
and our preterition...to make sense out of, to find the
meanest sharp sliver of truth in so much replication,
so
tnuch waste. .
Lucky Bland, to be free of it. One night he called his
whole family together around the davenport in the study.
Lyle, Jr. came in from Houston, shivering with first-stage
grippe from contact with a world where air-conditioning
is not so essential to life. Clara drove down from Ben-
nington and Buddy rode the MTA in from Cambridge.
âAs you know,â Bland announced, âI have been taking
these little trips lately.â He was wearing a, simple white
smock, and holding a red rose. He looked unearthly, all
were later to agree: his skin and eyes had a clarity which
is seldom encountered, except on certain spring days, at
certain latitudes, just before sunrise. âI have found,â he
continued, âthat each time out, I have been traveling
farther and farther. Tonight, I am going out for good.
That is, I am not coming back. So I wanted to say good-by
In the Zone
689
to you all, and let you know that you'll be provided
for.â Heâd been to see his friend Coolidge (âHotâ) Short,
of the State Street law firm of Salitieri, Poore, Nash, De
Brutus, and Short, and made sure all the family finances
were in perfect order. âI want you to know that I love
you all. I'd stay here if i could, but I have to go. I hope
you can understand.
One by one, his family came up to say good-by. Hugs,
kisses, handshakes done, Bland sank back into that daven-
portâs last embrace, closed his eyes with a dim smile. .
After a bit he felt himself beginning to rise. Those watch-
ing disagreed about the exact moment.
Around 9:30
Buddy left to see The Bride of Frankenstein, and Mrs.
|
Bland covered the serene face with a dusty chintz drape
sheâd received from a cousin who had never understood
her taste.
O
A windy night. The lids of GI cans blow clanging across
the parade ground. Sentries in their idleness are practicing
Queen Anne salutes. Sometimes gusts of wind come that
rock the jeeps on their springs, even the empty deuce ânâ
a halfs and civilian bobtail rigsâshock absorbers groan,
deeply, in discomfort ...in the peaks of wind, living pine
trees move, lined above the last sand dropoff into the
North Sea... .
Walking at a brisk pace, but out of step, across the
lorry-scarred spaces of the old Krupp works here, Doctors
Muffage and Spontoon look anything but conspiratorial.
You take them immediately for what they seem: a tiny
beachhead of London respectability here in benighted
Cuxhavenâtourists in this semicivilized colony of sulfa
shaken into the wells of blood, syrettes and tourniquets,
junkie M.O.s and sadistic corpsmen, a colony they were
spared for the Duration, thank heaven, Muffageâs brother
being highly placed in a certain Ministry, Spontoon hav-
ing been technically disqualified because of a strange
hysterical stigma, shaped like the ace of spades and nearly
the same color, which would appear on his left cheek at
moments of high stress, accompanied by severe migraine.
690
Gravityâs RAINBOW |
Only a few months ago they felt themselves fully mobi-
lized as any British civilian, and thus amenable to most
Government requests. About the present mission, though,
both now are deep in peacetime second thoughts. How
quickly history passes these days.
âI canât think why he asked us,â Muffage stroking his
full Imperial (a gesture that manages only to look com-
pulsive), speaking in a voice perhaps too melodious for a
man of his mass, âhe must know I havenât done one of
these since 27.â
âI assisted at a few whilst I was interning, â Spontoon
recalls. âThat was during the great vogue they had at
mental institutions, you know.â
âI can name you a few National Institutions where itâs
still in vogue.â The medicos share a chuckle, full of that
British Weltschmerz that looks so uncomfortable on the
faces of the afflicted. âSee here, then, Spontoon, you'd
rather assist me, is that it?â
âOh, either way you know. I mean itâs not as if there'll
be some chap with a book standing there, you know,
writing it all down.â
âI wouldnât be too sure. Weren't you listening? Didnât
you notice anything
..
âEnthusiastic.â
âObsessional.
I wonder if Pointsman isnât losing his
grip,â sounding
here remarkably like , James Mason:
âL(h)oo-ssing(?) hiss khrip.â
They are looking at each other now, separate night
scapes of Marston shelters and parked vehicles flowing
darkly by together behind each face. The wind carries
smells of brine, of beach, of petrol. A distant radio tuned
to the General Forces Programme featitiens Sandy Mae-
Pherson at the soni
âOh, all of us. â Spontoon begins, âbut ete it lapse.
âHere we are.â
The bright office is hung with Bite Ae sausage-
limbed Petty Girl pin-ups. A coffee mes
reebsoie in the
â
e-dubbing. A
corner. Thereâs also a smell of rancid
corporal sits with his feet on a desk, cr i inâ an
American Bugs Bunny comic book.
â
te.
âSlothrop,â in answer to Muffageâsâ inquiry, Soya âaie
the Yank in the, the pig suit. Well, heâs in and out all the
b
i
Mouthtripping in the Zone
- Two medical officers, Muffage and Spontoon, discuss the deteriorating mental state of their colleague Pointsman while navigating a military landscape.
- The duo encounters a corporal who describes the American soldier Slothrop as a 'dotty' figure wandering the Zone in a colorful pig suit.
- The search for General Wivern leads the officers to an alcohol dump where military personnel are fraternizing with German civilians.
- The crowd is consuming 75% ethanol rocket fuel from tank cars using various makeshift containers like mess cups and wastebaskets.
- General Wivern is found leading a raucous, musical celebration centered around the hope for an end to wartime austerity.
- The scene culminates in a surreal, choreographed song-and-dance number about 'mouthtripping' and the joys of postwar consumption.
From a tank car whose contents, ethanol, 75% solution, are announced in stark white stenciling along the side, spigots protrude here and there, under which an incredible number of mess cups, china mugs, coffeepots, wastebaskets, and other containers are being advanced and withdrawn.
690
Gravityâs RAINBOW |
Only a few months ago they felt themselves fully mobi-
lized as any British civilian, and thus amenable to most
Government requests. About the present mission, though,
both now are deep in peacetime second thoughts. How
quickly history passes these days.
âI canât think why he asked us,â Muffage stroking his
full Imperial (a gesture that manages only to look com-
pulsive), speaking in a voice perhaps too melodious for a
man of his mass, âhe must know I havenât done one of
these since 27.â
âI assisted at a few whilst I was interning, â Spontoon
recalls. âThat was during the great vogue they had at
mental institutions, you know.â
âI can name you a few National Institutions where itâs
still in vogue.â The medicos share a chuckle, full of that
British Weltschmerz that looks so uncomfortable on the
faces of the afflicted. âSee here, then, Spontoon, you'd
rather assist me, is that it?â
âOh, either way you know. I mean itâs not as if there'll
be some chap with a book standing there, you know,
writing it all down.â
âI wouldnât be too sure. Weren't you listening? Didnât
you notice anything
..
âEnthusiastic.â
âObsessional.
I wonder if Pointsman isnât losing his
grip,â sounding
here remarkably like , James Mason:
âL(h)oo-ssing(?) hiss khrip.â
They are looking at each other now, separate night
scapes of Marston shelters and parked vehicles flowing
darkly by together behind each face. The wind carries
smells of brine, of beach, of petrol. A distant radio tuned
to the General Forces Programme featitiens Sandy Mae-
Pherson at the soni
âOh, all of us. â Spontoon begins, âbut ete it lapse.
âHere we are.â
The bright office is hung with Bite Ae sausage-
limbed Petty Girl pin-ups. A coffee mes
reebsoie in the
â
e-dubbing. A
corner. Thereâs also a smell of rancid
corporal sits with his feet on a desk, cr i inâ an
American Bugs Bunny comic book.
â
te.
âSlothrop,â in answer to Muffageâsâ inquiry, Soya âaie
the Yank in the, the pig suit. Well, heâs in and out all the
b
i
In the Zone.
-
691
time. Completely dotty. What are you lot a M.L.6 or
something?â
âCanât discuss it,â raps Spontoon. Fancies himself a bit
of a Nayland Smith, Spontoon does. âDâyou know where
we might find a General Wivern?â
âThis time of night? Down at the alcohol dump, most
likely. Follow the tracks, head for all the noise. If I
weren't on duty, I'd be there mâself.â
âPig suit,â frowns Muffage.
âBig bloody pig suit, yellow, pink, and blue, on my
oath,â replies the corporal. âYou'll know him when you
â
see him. You wouldnât have a cigarette, one of you gentle-
men, by any chance.â
Sounds of carousing reach them as they trudge along
ric!
tracks, past empty triple flats and tank cars. âAlcohol
um:
âFuel for their Nazi rockets, Iâm told. If they ever get
one in working order.â
Under a cold umbrella of naked light bulbs are gath-
ered a crowd of Army personnel, American sailors, NAAFI
girls, and German friuleins. Fraternizing, every last one of
them, shamefully, amid noise which becomes, as Muffage
and Spontoon reach the edge of the gathering, a song, at
whose center, with a good snootful, each arm circling a
smiling and disheveled young tootsie, ruddy face under
these lights gone an apoplectic mauve, and leading the
glee, is the same General Wivern they last saw in Points-
manâs: office back at Twelfth House. From a: tank car
whose contents, ethanol, 75% solution, are announced in
stark white stenciling along the side, spigots protrude here
and there, under which an incredible number of mess cups,
china mugs, coffeepots, wastebaskets, and other containers
are being advanced and withdrawn.
Ukuleles, kazoos,
harmonicas, and any number of makeshift metal noise-
makers accompany the song, which is an innocent salute
âto Postwar, a hope that the end of shortages, the end of
Austerity, is near:
Itâsâ
Mouthtrip-ping timel
-
Mouthtrip-ping timel
(
Time to open up that icebox doorâ
Se
692
Graviryâs Rainsow
Oh yes itâs
Mouthtrip-ping time,
Mouthtrip-ping time,
And once you've eaten some, you'll come, for morel
Ah, mouthtrip-ping time,
Mouthtrip-ping time!
Itâs something old, but also very new-w-wâ
Lifeâs so sublime,
In mouthtrip-ping timeâ
We hope you're all mouthtrip-ping, toooooo!
Next chorus is soldiers ânâ sailors all together for the first
eight bars, girls for the second, General Wivern singing
the next eight solo, and tutti to finish it up. Then comes a
chorus for ukuleles and kazoos and so on while everyone
dances, black neckerchiefs whipping about like the mus-
taches of epileptic villains, delicate snoods unloosening to
allow stray locks of hair to escape their tight rolls, skirt-
hems raised to expose flashing knees and slips edged in
prewar Cluny lace a frail flight of smoky bat-wings here
under the white electricity . .
. on the final chorus the boys
circle clockwise, girls anticlockwise, the ensemble opening
out into a rose-pattern, from the middle of which dissi-
patedly leering tosspot General Wivern, tankard aloft, is
hoisted briefly, like an erect stamen.
About the only one not participating here, aside from
the two prowling surgeons, is Seaman Bodine, whom we
left, you recall, carrying on in the bathtub
at Sdure
Bummerâs place back in Berlin. Impeccable tonight in dress
whites, straight-faced and sober, he trudges among the
|
merrymakers, thickly sprouting hair from jumper sleeves
i
and V-neck, so much of it that last week he spooked and
lost a connection just in from the CBI theatre with close to _
a ton of bhang, who mistook him for a seagoing version of
the legendary yeti or abominable snowman. To make up
some of what he blew on that one, Bodine iis tonight pro-
moting the First International Runcible Spoon Fight, be-
tween his shipmate Avery Purfle and an English Com-
â
mando named St. John Bladdery. âPlace at bets, yes yes
the odds are even, 50/50,â announces suave croupier
|
Bodine, pushing through the gathered bodies, many of
â
them far from upright, one shaggy hand clutching a wad
of occupation scrip. With the other, from time to time, he
will tug the big collar of his jumper around and blow his
_
The Zone's Chaotic Carnival
- A surreal, choreographed dance sequence unfolds involving 'epileptic villains' and a dissipated General Wivern hoisted like a floral stamen.
- Seaman Bodine, described as a yeti-like figure sprouting excessive hair, navigates the crowd while promoting a 'Runcible Spoon Fight' to recoup lost drug money.
- Albert Krypton, a corpsman from the U.S.S. John E. Badass, deals codeine and cocaine amidst the revelry of the occupation forces.
- The narrative highlights the black market economy of the 'Zone,' where soldiers trade occupation scrip for opiates and play marbles with balls of opium.
- Krypton, high on his own 'Krypton Blue' mixture, experiences a paranoid encounter with MPs before retreating to a dispensary filled with opera music and a giant plush pig.
Impeccable tonight in dress whites, straight-faced and sober, he trudges among the merrymakers, thickly sprouting hair from jumper sleeves and V-neck, so much of it that last week he spooked and lost a connection just in from the CBI theatre with close to a ton of bhang, who mistook him for a seagoing version of the legendary yeti or abominable snowman.
692
Graviryâs Rainsow
Oh yes itâs
Mouthtrip-ping time,
Mouthtrip-ping time,
And once you've eaten some, you'll come, for morel
Ah, mouthtrip-ping time,
Mouthtrip-ping time!
Itâs something old, but also very new-w-wâ
Lifeâs so sublime,
In mouthtrip-ping timeâ
We hope you're all mouthtrip-ping, toooooo!
Next chorus is soldiers ânâ sailors all together for the first
eight bars, girls for the second, General Wivern singing
the next eight solo, and tutti to finish it up. Then comes a
chorus for ukuleles and kazoos and so on while everyone
dances, black neckerchiefs whipping about like the mus-
taches of epileptic villains, delicate snoods unloosening to
allow stray locks of hair to escape their tight rolls, skirt-
hems raised to expose flashing knees and slips edged in
prewar Cluny lace a frail flight of smoky bat-wings here
under the white electricity . .
. on the final chorus the boys
circle clockwise, girls anticlockwise, the ensemble opening
out into a rose-pattern, from the middle of which dissi-
patedly leering tosspot General Wivern, tankard aloft, is
hoisted briefly, like an erect stamen.
About the only one not participating here, aside from
the two prowling surgeons, is Seaman Bodine, whom we
left, you recall, carrying on in the bathtub
at Sdure
Bummerâs place back in Berlin. Impeccable tonight in dress
whites, straight-faced and sober, he trudges among the
|
merrymakers, thickly sprouting hair from jumper sleeves
i
and V-neck, so much of it that last week he spooked and
lost a connection just in from the CBI theatre with close to _
a ton of bhang, who mistook him for a seagoing version of
the legendary yeti or abominable snowman. To make up
some of what he blew on that one, Bodine iis tonight pro-
moting the First International Runcible Spoon Fight, be-
tween his shipmate Avery Purfle and an English Com-
â
mando named St. John Bladdery. âPlace at bets, yes yes
the odds are even, 50/50,â announces suave croupier
|
Bodine, pushing through the gathered bodies, many of
â
them far from upright, one shaggy hand clutching a wad
of occupation scrip. With the other, from time to time, he
will tug the big collar of his jumper around and blow his
_
In the Zone
693
nose on it, grommets on the hem of his T-shirt blinking,
light bulbs dancing overhead in the wind heâs raised, âhis
own several shadows thrashing in all directions and merg-
ing with others.
âGreetings, gate, need an opiate?â Tiny red eyes in a
vast pink Jell-o of a face, and an avaricious smile, It is
Albert Krypton, corpsman striker of the U.S.S. John E.
Badass, who now produces from inside a secret jumper
pocket a glass vial full of white tablets. âCodeine, Jackson,
itâs beautifulâhere.â
_ Bodine sneezes violently and wipes the snot away with
his sleeve. âNot for any fucking cold, Krypton. Thanks,
You seen Avery?â
.
âHeâs in great shape. He was getting in some last-minute
practice down the goat hole when I came over.â
âListen, old buddy,â begins theâ enterprising tar. This
decrypts into 3 ounces of cocaine. Bodine comes up with
a few squashed notes. âMidnight, if you can. Told him Iâd
see him out at Putziâs after the fight.â
âSolid. Hey, you checked under the barracks lately?â
Seems the CBI returnees get together to play marbles with
opium balls. You can pick up hundreds if you're any good.
Corpsman Krypton pockets his money and leaves Bodine
flexing his thumb and thinking about it, moves on copping
feels, pausing to drink from a shell case of grain alcohol
and grapefruit juice, whilst dealing the odd tablet of
codeine. He has a brief paranoid episode as two red-hatted
MPs show up, stroking their billy clubs and giving him, he
fancies, pregnant looks. He slides into the night, peeling
away, banking through dark sky. He is coming on to a_
proprietary mixture known as the Krypton Blue, and so it
is a giddy passage to the dispensary, not without moments
of deep inattention.
Inside, his connection, Pharmacist Birdbury, is conduct-
ing the last act of La Forza del Destino crackling in from
Radio Luxembourg, and singing along. His mouth snaps
shut as Krypton comes taxiing in. With him is what ap-
_
pears to be a gigantic, multicolored pig, the plush nap of
_
its coat reversed here and there, which widens the possible
range of colors. âMicrograms,â Krypton striking his head
dramatically,
âthatâs. right, micrograms, not milligrams.
Birdbury, gimme something, Iâve ODâd.â
.
'
âSsh.â The dispenserâs high forehead wrinkling in and
Ba ns
=
Cocaine Suspicions and the Escape
- Krypton and Birdbury engage in a tense drug deal involving three ounces of cocaine while a plush pig named Albert looks on.
- The conversation reveals the growing folklore surrounding 'Rocketman' and his legendary status within the Zone.
- Military Police (MPs) raid the location searching for Slothrop, leading to a chaotic confrontation in the dark.
- Albert Krypton and the pig manage a narrow escape through a pharmacy warehouse, causing a massive crash of glass and medicine.
- The group flees toward the docks, with Krypton losing trails of cocaine from his leg as they head toward a 'runcible spoon fight.'
- The scene highlights the paranoid, drug-fueled atmosphere of the post-war Zone where identities and loyalties are constantly questioned.
Cocaine suspicions, nagging and mean as rats... shining bottles of a thousand voices from the radio, the drape and hand of the pigâs shag coat as Krypton reaches out to stroke...
694
Gravityâs RAINBOW
out of operatical cross-furrows. Krypton goes back in
among the shelves, and watches the lighted room through
a bottle of paregoric till the operaâs over. Comes back in
time to hear the pig asking, âWell where else would he
head for?â
.
âI got it third-hand,â Birdbury laying down the hype-
dermic heâs been using as a baton. âAsk Krypton here, he
gets around a bit.â
âGreetings, gate,â sez Albert, âletâs inoculate.â
âI hear Springer is supposed to be coming in tonight.â
âFirst Iâve heard. But go on out to Putziâs, why donât
you. Thatâs where all that sort of thing goes on.â
The pig looks up at a clock on the wall. âGot a. funny
schedule tonight, is all.â
âLook here, Krypton, thereâs a bigwig from SPOG due
in here any moment, so whatever it was, you know. .
They haggle over the three ounces .of cocaine, the pig
politely withdrawing to leaf through an old News of the
World. Presently, taping the last of the crystal-stuffed
bottles to his bare leg, Krypton invites everyone to the
_
runcible spoon fight. âBodineâs holding some big money,
folks in from all over the Zoneââ
âSeaman Bodine?â inquires the amazed plush pig.
âThe king of Cuxhaven, Porky.â
âWell I ran him an errand once in Berlin. Tell him
Rocketman sez howdy.â
Krypton, bellbottom pulled up, opening one bottle just
to see what he has, pauses, gogeling. âYou mean that â
Krypton snuffs a big fingerful of the flaky white into :
nostrils right
ânâ left. The world goes clarifying. Bitter snot ©
begins to form in a stubbom fist at the back of his throat. j
Already the Potsdam Pickup is part of the folklore of the â
Zone. Would this pig here be trying to cash in on the â
glory of Rocketman (whose existence Krypton has never |
been that sure of)? Cocaine suspicions,
ging and mean |
as rats...
shining bottles of a thousand el
voices from |
the radio, the drape and hand of the pigâs shag coat as |
Krypton reaches out to stroke...
no, itâs clear that the pig
_
isnât looking for anything, isnât a cop, isnât dealing, or abou
to hustle anybody. ... âJust wanted to see how it felt, you
know,â sez Krypton.
In the Zone
695
âSure.â Now the doorway is suddenly full of red hats,
eather and brass. Krypton stands very still, the top to the
pen cocaine bottle in one hand.
âSlothrop?â sergeant in command comes edging into the
oom, hand resting on his sidearm, The pig looks over at
sirdbury, whoâs shaking his head no, not me, as if he
neans it.
âWasn't me, either,â Krypton feels he ought to mention.
âWell somebody blew. the whistle,â the pig mutters,
ooking really hurt. «
âStand by,â whispers Albert. To the MP: âExcuse me,â
noseying straight over to the wall switch, which he flicks
ff, Slothrop at once dashing through all the shouting past
irdburyâs desk wham into a tall rack of medicines his
ttaw stomach bounces: him off of, but which then falls
ver on somebody else with a stupendous glass crash and
creamâon down a pitchblack aisle, arms out to guide
im, to the back exit, where he meets Krypton.
âThanks.â
-.
âQuick.â
Outside they cut eastward, toward the Elbe and the
ocks, pounding along, skidding in mudpuddles, stumbling
ver lorry-ruts, wind sweeping among the Quonsets to bat
1em in the face, cocaine falling in little white splashes
om undermeath Kryptonâs left bellbottom. Behind them
1Âą posse are hollering and shining flashlights, but donât
em to know where they've gone. Good. âFollow the
ellow-brick road,â hums Albert Krypton, on pitch, âfol-
w the yellow-brick road,â whatâs this, is he actually, yes
e's skipping....
Presently, out of breath, they arrive at the pier where
Âą Badass and its division, four haze-gray piglets, are tied
p, to find the runcible spoon fiight just under way at the
nter of a weaving, cheering crowd of civilian and military
runks. Stringy Avery Purfle, sideburns slick as sealâs fur in
@ pallid light, Adamâs apple working in and out at a
rvous four or five cycles a minute, shuffles around his
ponent, the serene and oxlike St. John Bladdery, both
ith runcible spoons in the on-guard position, filed edges
âight.
Krypton stashes Slothrop in a garbage bin and goes
oking for Seaman Bodine. After a number of short, glit-
â
ring feints, Purfle dodges in, quick as a fighting-cock.
7.
ers: 5
The Runcible Spoon Duel
- A surreal and violent duel takes place between Purfle and Bladdery using sharpened runcible spoons as weapons.
- The fight occurs amidst a crowd of intoxicated and unconscious onlookers who fail to grasp the lethal stakes of the encounter.
- Krypton attempts to alert Seaman Bodine to Slothrop's presence in a pig suit, but Bodine dismisses the 'Rocketman' as a fake.
- The combatants reach a moment of mutual realization that their lives are being risked for a crowd that doesn't care and a promoter focused only on money.
- The duel ends not in a death blow, but in a reluctant truce as the fighters choose survival over the 'romantic tunes' of death just as military police arrive.
And still they linger in their embrace, Death in all its potency humming them romantic tunes, chiding them for moderate little men...
In the Zone
695
âSure.â Now the doorway is suddenly full of red hats,
eather and brass. Krypton stands very still, the top to the
pen cocaine bottle in one hand.
âSlothrop?â sergeant in command comes edging into the
oom, hand resting on his sidearm, The pig looks over at
sirdbury, whoâs shaking his head no, not me, as if he
neans it.
âWasn't me, either,â Krypton feels he ought to mention.
âWell somebody blew. the whistle,â the pig mutters,
ooking really hurt. «
âStand by,â whispers Albert. To the MP: âExcuse me,â
noseying straight over to the wall switch, which he flicks
ff, Slothrop at once dashing through all the shouting past
irdburyâs desk wham into a tall rack of medicines his
ttaw stomach bounces: him off of, but which then falls
ver on somebody else with a stupendous glass crash and
creamâon down a pitchblack aisle, arms out to guide
im, to the back exit, where he meets Krypton.
âThanks.â
-.
âQuick.â
Outside they cut eastward, toward the Elbe and the
ocks, pounding along, skidding in mudpuddles, stumbling
ver lorry-ruts, wind sweeping among the Quonsets to bat
1em in the face, cocaine falling in little white splashes
om undermeath Kryptonâs left bellbottom. Behind them
1Âą posse are hollering and shining flashlights, but donât
em to know where they've gone. Good. âFollow the
ellow-brick road,â hums Albert Krypton, on pitch, âfol-
w the yellow-brick road,â whatâs this, is he actually, yes
e's skipping....
Presently, out of breath, they arrive at the pier where
Âą Badass and its division, four haze-gray piglets, are tied
p, to find the runcible spoon fiight just under way at the
nter of a weaving, cheering crowd of civilian and military
runks. Stringy Avery Purfle, sideburns slick as sealâs fur in
@ pallid light, Adamâs apple working in and out at a
rvous four or five cycles a minute, shuffles around his
ponent, the serene and oxlike St. John Bladdery, both
ith runcible spoons in the on-guard position, filed edges
âight.
Krypton stashes Slothrop in a garbage bin and goes
oking for Seaman Bodine. After a number of short, glit-
â
ring feints, Purfle dodges in, quick as a fighting-cock.
7.
ers: 5
696
Gravity's RAaInsow
With a high slash that Bladdery tries to parry in third,
Purfle rips through the Commandoâs blouse and draws
blood. But when he goes to jump back, it seems thoughtful
Bladdery has brought his combat boot down on the
Americanâs low dress shoe, nailing him where he stands.
Promoter Bodine and his two combatants are burning
crystals of awareness in this poisoned gray gathering: a
good half of the crowd are out in the foothills of uncon-
sciousness, and the rest are not exactly sure whatâs going
on. Some think that Purfle and Bladdery are really mad at
each other. Others feel that it is meant to be comedy, and
they will laugh at inappropriate moments. Now and then
the odd beady eyes will appear up in the night super-
structures of the warships, staring, staring... .
Purfle and Bladdery have made simultaneous thrusts and
are now corps d corpsâwith a scrape and clank the run-
cible spoons are locked, and elbows tense and set. The
outcome rests with scrawny Purfleâs gift for trickery, since
Bladdery appears ready to hold the position all night.
âRocketmanâs here,â Krypton tugging at Bodineâs damp
wrinkled collar, âin a pig suit.â
âNot now, man. You got the, ahââ
âBut but the heatâs after him, Bodine, where can we
hide him?â
âWho cares, itâs some asshole, is all, A fake. locketiaatl
wouldnât be here.â
Purfle yanks his runcible-spoon hand back, leaning to
the side, twisting his own weapon to keep its tines inter-
locked with those of Bladderyâs, pulling the commando
off-balance long enough to release his own foot, then deftly
unlinking the spoons and dancing away. Bladdery recovers
his footing and moves heavily
in pursuit, probing in with a
series of jabs then shifting the spoon to his other hand and
surprising Purfle with a slash that grazes the sailorâs neck,
missing the jugular, but not by much. Blood drips into the
white jumper, black under these arclights. Sweat and cold
shadows lie darkly in the menâs armpits. Purfle, made
reckless by the pain, goes flying at Bladdery, a flurry of
blind wild pokes and hackings, Bladdery hardly needing
to move his feet, weaving from the knees up like a great
assured pudding, finally able to grab Purfleâs spoon hand
at the wrist and twirl him about, like jitterbugging a
girl,
around in front of him, his own knife-edge now up and bi-
»
-
7
te Te
AP
b
toy
alle
7)
9)
Epa
In the Zone
697
secting Purfleâs Adamâs apple, ready to slice in. He looks
up, around, wheezing, sweaty, seeking some
locus of
power that will thumb-signal him what to do.
Nothing: only sleep, vomiting, shivering, a ghost and
flowered odor of ethanol, solid Bodine counting his money.
Nobody really watching. âIt then comes to Bladdery and
Purfle at once, tuned to one another at the filed edge of
thisâ runcible spoon and the negligible effort it will take to
fill their common world with death, that nobody said any-
thing about a fight to the finish, right? that each will get
part of the purse whoever wins, and so the sensible course
is to break it up now, jointly to go hassle Bodine, and find
some Band-Aids and iodine. And still they linger in their
embrace, Death in all its potency humming them romantic
tunes, chiding them for moderate little men... So far and
no farther, is that it? You call that living?
An MP car, horn and siren and lights all going, ap-
proaches. Reluctantly, Purfle and Bladdery do relax, and,
sighing out of puffed cheeks, part. Bodine, ten feet away,
tosses over the heads of the awakening crowd a fat packet
of scrip which the Commando catches, riffle-splits, and
gives half of to Purfle, whoâs already on route to the gang-
plank of his gray mother the John E. Badass, where the
quarterdeck watch are looking more lively, and even a
card game in the shipâs laundry breaking up so everybody
can go watch the big bust. Drunkards ashore begin to mill,
sluggish and with no sense of direction. From beyond the
pale of electric light comes a rush of girls, shivering,
aroused, beruffled, to witch St. John Bladdery away under
cover of pretty-pastel synthetics and amorous
squeals.
Bodine and Krypton, hipwriggling and cursing their way
through the crowd, stumbling over wakers and sleepers,
stop by the dumpster to collect Slothrop, who rises from a
pile of eggshells, beer cans, horrible chicken parts in yel-
low gravy, coffee grounds and waste paper spilling or
clattering off of him, raises his mask, and smiles howdy at
Bodine.
âRocketman, holy shit, it really is. Whatâs happening,
o! buddy?â
âBeen double-crossed, need a ride to Putziâs.â Lorries
have been showing up, into whose canvas shadows MPs
are beginning to load everybody slower-moving than they
are. Now two civilians, one with a beard, come charging
i Py we ee ee
The Red Cross Hijacking
- A chaotic military bust unfolds at the pier as MPs begin loading civilians and stragglers into lorries.
- Slothrop, disguised in a pig suit, emerges from a dumpster filled with garbage to reunite with Bodine and Krypton.
- The trio hijacks a Red Cross Clubmobile at gunpoint to escape pursuing civilians and military police.
- A Red Cross volunteer is taken hostage and becomes hysterical upon discovering the sailors are carrying illicit drugs.
- Seaman Bodine maintains a cold, violent pragmatism, threatening the volunteer with a pistol to ensure their getaway.
Slothrop with a great clank and crunch rolls out of the garbage and at a dead run follows Bodine and Krypton, chickenfat flowing away, eggshells flying off behind him.
»
-
7
te Te
AP
b
toy
alle
7)
9)
Epa
In the Zone
697
secting Purfleâs Adamâs apple, ready to slice in. He looks
up, around, wheezing, sweaty, seeking some
locus of
power that will thumb-signal him what to do.
Nothing: only sleep, vomiting, shivering, a ghost and
flowered odor of ethanol, solid Bodine counting his money.
Nobody really watching. âIt then comes to Bladdery and
Purfle at once, tuned to one another at the filed edge of
thisâ runcible spoon and the negligible effort it will take to
fill their common world with death, that nobody said any-
thing about a fight to the finish, right? that each will get
part of the purse whoever wins, and so the sensible course
is to break it up now, jointly to go hassle Bodine, and find
some Band-Aids and iodine. And still they linger in their
embrace, Death in all its potency humming them romantic
tunes, chiding them for moderate little men... So far and
no farther, is that it? You call that living?
An MP car, horn and siren and lights all going, ap-
proaches. Reluctantly, Purfle and Bladdery do relax, and,
sighing out of puffed cheeks, part. Bodine, ten feet away,
tosses over the heads of the awakening crowd a fat packet
of scrip which the Commando catches, riffle-splits, and
gives half of to Purfle, whoâs already on route to the gang-
plank of his gray mother the John E. Badass, where the
quarterdeck watch are looking more lively, and even a
card game in the shipâs laundry breaking up so everybody
can go watch the big bust. Drunkards ashore begin to mill,
sluggish and with no sense of direction. From beyond the
pale of electric light comes a rush of girls, shivering,
aroused, beruffled, to witch St. John Bladdery away under
cover of pretty-pastel synthetics and amorous
squeals.
Bodine and Krypton, hipwriggling and cursing their way
through the crowd, stumbling over wakers and sleepers,
stop by the dumpster to collect Slothrop, who rises from a
pile of eggshells, beer cans, horrible chicken parts in yel-
low gravy, coffee grounds and waste paper spilling or
clattering off of him, raises his mask, and smiles howdy at
Bodine.
âRocketman, holy shit, it really is. Whatâs happening,
o! buddy?â
âBeen double-crossed, need a ride to Putziâs.â Lorries
have been showing up, into whose canvas shadows MPs
are beginning to load everybody slower-moving than they
are. Now two civilians, one with a beard, come charging
i Py we ee ee
-
698
Gravirtyâs RAINBOW
down the pier, hollering, âA pig suit, a pig suit, there,
look,â and, âYouâSlothropâstay where you are.â
Not about to, Slothrop with a great clank and crunch
rolls out of the garbage and at a dead run follows Bodine
and Krypton, chickenfat flowing away, eggshells flying off
behind him, A Red Cross Clubmobile or canteen truck is
parked down at the next nest of destroyers, its light spilling
neatly square on the asphalt, a pretty girl with a Deanna
Durbin hairdo framed inside against stacks of candy bars,
cigarettes, chock-shaped sandwiches in waxed paper.
âCoffee, boys?â she smiles, âhow about some sand-
wiches? We're sold out of everything tonight but ham,â
then seeing Slothrop, âoh, dear, Iâm sorry... .â
âKeys to the truck,â Bodine coming up with a Cagney
sneer and nickel-plated handgun, âc'mon,â cocking the
hammer.
Tough frown, shoulderpadded shrug. âIn the ignition,
Jackson.â Albert Krypton climbs in the back to keep her
company while Slothrop and Bodine jump in front and
get under way in a tight, screeching U-tum it as the two
civilians come running up.
âNow who thâ hellâs zat,â Slothrop looking ache out die
window at their shouting shapes diminishing, âdid you
check that one bird with the ace of spades on his cheek?â
Bodine swerves past the disturbance around the John E.
Badass and gives everybody the obligatory finger. Slothrop
slouches back in the seat, putting the pig mask up like a
knightâs beaver, reaching over to pry a pack of cigarettes
out of Bodineâs jumper pocket, lighting one up, weary, ©
wishing he could just sleep. ... In back of him suddenly â
the Red Cross girl shrieks, âMy God, whatâs that?â
âLook,â Krypton patiently, â âyou get some on the end of â
your finger, right, then you close off one half of your
nose, a-andââ
âItâs cocaine!â the girlâs voice rising to an alarming in-
tensity, âis what it is! Itâs heroin! You're
dope fiends! and
you've kidnapped me! Oh. my God! This is a, donât you
realize, its a Red Cross Clubmobile! Itâs
the property of
the Red Cross! Oh, you canât do this! Iâm with the Red
Cross! Oh, help me, somebody! Theyâre dope fiends! Oh,
please! Help! Stop and let me out! Take the truck if youâ
want, take everything in it, but oh please ssi tââ
sf
â
oeS
_ In the Zone
699
âSteer a minute,â Bodine turning around and pointing
his shiny pistol at the girl.
âYou canât shoot me,â she screams, âyou hoodlum, who
do you think you are, hijacking Red Cross property! Why
donât you justâgo somewhere andâsniff your dope andâ
leave us alone!â
âCunt,â advises Seaman Bodine, in a calm and reason-
able tone, âyou are wrong. I can shoot you. Right? Now,
you happen to be working for the same warm and wonder-
ful organization that was charging fifteen cents for coffee
and doughnuts, at the Battle of the fucking Bulge, if you
really wanna get into who is stealing what from who.â
âWhom,â she replies in a much smaller voice, lower lip
quivering kind of cute and bitchy it seems to Slothrop,
checking it out in the rear-view mirror as Bodine takes
over the wheel again.
âOho, what's this,â Krypton watching her ass, âwhat
have we here,â shifting under its khaki skirt as she stands
with long legs braced for their rattling creaking 60 or 70
miles an hour and Bodineâs strange cornering techniques,
which look to be some stylized form of suicide.
âWhat's your name?â Slothrop smiling, an avuncular pig.
âShirley.â
âTyrone. Howdy.â
âTra-la-la,â Krypton now looting the cash register, gob-
bling Hershey bars and stuffing his socks with packs of
smokes, âlove in bloom.â About then Bodine slams on the
brakes and goes into a great skid, ass end of their truck
slewing toward an icy-lit tableau of sentries in white-sten-
ciled helmet liners, white belts, white holsters, a barricade
across the road, an officer runing toward a jeep hunched
up and hollering into a walkie-talkie.
âRoadblock? What the shit,â Bodine grinding it into
reverse, various goodies for the troops crashing off of their
shelves as the truck lurches around. Shirley loses her foot-
ing and staggers forward, Krypton grabbing for her as
Slothrop leans to take the handgun off the dashboard,
finding her half-draped over the front seat when he gets
back around to the window. âWhere the fuck is low now?
What is it, a Red Cross gearbox, you got to put a nickel
in someplace to get it in gear, hey Shirley?â
âOh, goodness,â Shirley squirming over into the front
Escape from the Roadblock
- Slothrop, Bodine, and Krypton flee a military roadblock in a stolen Red Cross truck with a girl named Shirley.
- The group engages in cynical banter about the Red Cross's history of charging soldiers for supplies during the war.
- Krypton loots the truck's supplies and pressures Shirley into trying cocaine while they evade gunfire.
- Slothrop realizes he is being pursued by military police or 'snowdrops' even within the British sector.
- The tension rises as Slothrop admits the pursuit is specifically for him and involves a 'different drill' than simple smuggling.
- The characters head toward a meeting with a mysterious figure named Springer at a location called Putzi's.
âWhat's it, a Red Cross gearbox, you got to put a nickel in someplace to get it in gear, hey Shirley?â
_ In the Zone
699
âSteer a minute,â Bodine turning around and pointing
his shiny pistol at the girl.
âYou canât shoot me,â she screams, âyou hoodlum, who
do you think you are, hijacking Red Cross property! Why
donât you justâgo somewhere andâsniff your dope andâ
leave us alone!â
âCunt,â advises Seaman Bodine, in a calm and reason-
able tone, âyou are wrong. I can shoot you. Right? Now,
you happen to be working for the same warm and wonder-
ful organization that was charging fifteen cents for coffee
and doughnuts, at the Battle of the fucking Bulge, if you
really wanna get into who is stealing what from who.â
âWhom,â she replies in a much smaller voice, lower lip
quivering kind of cute and bitchy it seems to Slothrop,
checking it out in the rear-view mirror as Bodine takes
over the wheel again.
âOho, what's this,â Krypton watching her ass, âwhat
have we here,â shifting under its khaki skirt as she stands
with long legs braced for their rattling creaking 60 or 70
miles an hour and Bodineâs strange cornering techniques,
which look to be some stylized form of suicide.
âWhat's your name?â Slothrop smiling, an avuncular pig.
âShirley.â
âTyrone. Howdy.â
âTra-la-la,â Krypton now looting the cash register, gob-
bling Hershey bars and stuffing his socks with packs of
smokes, âlove in bloom.â About then Bodine slams on the
brakes and goes into a great skid, ass end of their truck
slewing toward an icy-lit tableau of sentries in white-sten-
ciled helmet liners, white belts, white holsters, a barricade
across the road, an officer runing toward a jeep hunched
up and hollering into a walkie-talkie.
âRoadblock? What the shit,â Bodine grinding it into
reverse, various goodies for the troops crashing off of their
shelves as the truck lurches around. Shirley loses her foot-
ing and staggers forward, Krypton grabbing for her as
Slothrop leans to take the handgun off the dashboard,
finding her half-draped over the front seat when he gets
back around to the window. âWhere the fuck is low now?
What is it, a Red Cross gearbox, you got to put a nickel
in someplace to get it in gear, hey Shirley?â
âOh, goodness,â Shirley squirming over into the front
700
Gravity's RaInBsow
between them, grabbing the shift, âlike this, you drip.â
Gunshots behind them.
âThank you,â sez Bodine, and, leaving rubber in a
pungent smoking shriek, theyâre off again.
âYou're really hot, Rocketman, wow,â Krypton lying in
back offering ankle and taped cocaine bottle to Shirley
with a smile,
âDo tell.â
âNo thanks,â sez Shirley. âTd noally better not.â
âC'mon...
aw.
âWere those snowdrops back there?â Slothrop squinting
into the lampshine ahead, âGIsP What're GIs doing here
in the British sector, do you know?â
âMaybe not,â Bodine guesses, âmaybe only Shore Patrol,
c'mon, let's not get any more paranoid than we
tO...
âSok, see, I'm doing cou it and Iâm not growing
(snuff) fangs or anything.
âWell; I just donât know. "Shirley kneeling backwards,
breasts propped on the back of the seat, one big smooth
country-girl hand on Slothropâs shoulder for balance.
âLook,â Bodine sez, âis it currency, or dope, or what?
I just like to know what to expect, cause if the heatâs
re)
ees
~
âOnly on me, far as I know. This is nothing to do with
dealing, itâs a whole different drill.â
âSheâs the rose of no-manâs laaaand,â sings Albert Kryp-
ton, coaxing.
âWhy you going to PutziâsPâ
âGot to see that Springer.â
âDidnât know he was coming in.â
âWhy does everybody keep saying that?â
âRebebber, dow,â Shirley talking with only one nostril
here, âdot too buch, Albert, just a teensy bit.â
âJust that nobodyâs seen him for a while.â
âBe inhaling now, good, good, O.K., now. Umm, thereâs
a little still, uh, kind of a booger thatâs blocking it...do
it again, right. Now the other one.â
|
.
âAlbert, you said only one.â
âLook, Rocky, if you do get base
âDonât want to think.â
âJeepers,â sez Shirley.
eaSe
Se
EE
NID
Fe
5 oe
whe
In the Zone
701
âYou like thatP Here, just do a little more.â
âWhat'd you do?â
âNothing. Wanted to talk to somebody at that SPOG.
Find out what was happening. We were just supposed to
talk, you know, off the record, tonight in the dispensary.
Neutral ground. Instead The Man shows up. Now there
are also these other two creeps in civvies.â
âYou a spy, or something?â
__
âWish I was even that. Oh boy. I shouldâve known
better.â
~
;
âWell it sounds pretty bad.â And Seaman Bodine drives
along not liking it much, brooding, growing sentimental.
âSay,â presently, âif they do, well, catch up with you, I
could get in touch with your Mom, or something.â
âMyââ A sharp look. âNo, no, no...â
âWell, somebody.â
âCanât think of a soul.â
âWow, Rocketman. .. .â
Putziâs turns out to be a sprawling, half-fortified manor
house dating from the last century, off the Dorum road
and seaward down a sandy pair of wheel-tracks with reeds
and tough dune grass growing in between, the house
perched like a raft atop a giant comber of.a sandhill that
sweeps upward from a beach whose grade is so subtle
that it becomes water only by surprise, tranquil, salt-pale,
stretching miles into the North Sea like clouds, here and
there more silver, long cell or skin shapes, tissue-thin,
stilled under the moon, reaching out toward Helgoland,
The place never got requisitioned. Nobody has ever
seen the owner, or even knows if âPutziâ is anybody real.
Bodine drives the truck right on into what used to be the
stable and.they all get out, Shirley hoorahing in the moon-
light, Krypton mumbling oboy, oboy through big mouth-
fuls of that frau bait. There is some password and security
hassle at the door, on account of the pig getup, but Slo-
throp flashes his white plastic knight and that works. In-
side they find a brightly lit and busy combination bar,
opium den, cabaret, casino and house of ill repute, all
its rooms swarming with soldiers, sailors, dames, tricks,
winners, losers, conjurors, dealers, dopers, voyeurs, homo-
sexuals, fetishists, spies and folks just looking for company,
all talking, singing or raising hell at a noise level the
Ee
The Sanctuary of Putzi's
- Slothrop and Bodine arrive at Putziâs, a surreal, isolated manor house on the North Sea coast that serves as a lawless, multi-purpose den of vice.
- The house exists in a state of permanent, timeless celebration, seemingly detached from the specific victories or defeats of the war.
- Slothrop experiences a crushing psychological breakdown, hearing a mocking internal or external voice that taunts him with his own doom and insignificance.
- The voice suggests that Slothrop's quest is a futile game controlled by higher powers who may never intend for him to find his discharge or the truth.
- Bodine finds a traumatized Slothrop hiding in a closet and introduces him to Solange, a masseuse, to help him recover from his paranoid episode.
- The section concludes with Bodineâs cynical observation that 'everything is some kind of a plot,' reinforcing the theme of inescapable conspiracy.
Itâs a floating celebration no oneâs thought to adjourn: a victory party so permanent, so easy at gathering newcomer and old regular to itself, that who can say for sure which victory? which war?
In the Zone
701
âYou like thatP Here, just do a little more.â
âWhat'd you do?â
âNothing. Wanted to talk to somebody at that SPOG.
Find out what was happening. We were just supposed to
talk, you know, off the record, tonight in the dispensary.
Neutral ground. Instead The Man shows up. Now there
are also these other two creeps in civvies.â
âYou a spy, or something?â
__
âWish I was even that. Oh boy. I shouldâve known
better.â
~
;
âWell it sounds pretty bad.â And Seaman Bodine drives
along not liking it much, brooding, growing sentimental.
âSay,â presently, âif they do, well, catch up with you, I
could get in touch with your Mom, or something.â
âMyââ A sharp look. âNo, no, no...â
âWell, somebody.â
âCanât think of a soul.â
âWow, Rocketman. .. .â
Putziâs turns out to be a sprawling, half-fortified manor
house dating from the last century, off the Dorum road
and seaward down a sandy pair of wheel-tracks with reeds
and tough dune grass growing in between, the house
perched like a raft atop a giant comber of.a sandhill that
sweeps upward from a beach whose grade is so subtle
that it becomes water only by surprise, tranquil, salt-pale,
stretching miles into the North Sea like clouds, here and
there more silver, long cell or skin shapes, tissue-thin,
stilled under the moon, reaching out toward Helgoland,
The place never got requisitioned. Nobody has ever
seen the owner, or even knows if âPutziâ is anybody real.
Bodine drives the truck right on into what used to be the
stable and.they all get out, Shirley hoorahing in the moon-
light, Krypton mumbling oboy, oboy through big mouth-
fuls of that frau bait. There is some password and security
hassle at the door, on account of the pig getup, but Slo-
throp flashes his white plastic knight and that works. In-
side they find a brightly lit and busy combination bar,
opium den, cabaret, casino and house of ill repute, all
its rooms swarming with soldiers, sailors, dames, tricks,
winners, losers, conjurors, dealers, dopers, voyeurs, homo-
sexuals, fetishists, spies and folks just looking for company,
all talking, singing or raising hell at a noise level the
Ee
702
Gravityâs Rainsow
â
â
houseâs silent walls seal off completely from the outside.
Perfume, smoke, alcohol, and sweat glide through the
~
house in turbulences too gentle to feel or see. Itâs a floating
celebration no oneâs thought to adjourn: a victory party so
ermanent, so easy at gathering newcomer and old regu-
âbe to itself, that who can say for sure which victory?
which war?
|
Springer is nowhere in sight, and from what Slothrop
can gather from random questioning won't be by till later,
if at all. Now this happens to be the very delivery date
for that discharge they arranged sailing in with Frau
Gnahb to Stralsund. And tonight, of all nights, after a
week of not bothering him, the police decide to come
after Slothrop. Oh yes, yes indeed NNNNNNNN Good
â
Evening Tyrone Slothrop We Have Been Waiting For
â
You. Of Course We Are Here. You Didn't Think We Had
â
Just Faded Away, No, No Tyrone, We Must Hurt You
Again If You Are Going To Be That Stupid, Hurt You
Again and Again Yes Tyrone You Are So Hopeless So Stupid
And Doomed. Are You Really Supposed To Find Anything?
What If It Is Death Tyrone? What If We Donât Want
You To Find Anything? If We Donât Want To Give You
Your Discharge You'll Just Go On Like This Forever
Won't You? Maybe We Want You Only To Keep On.
You Donât Know Do You Tyrone. What Makes You Think
You Can Play As Well As We Can? You Canât. You Think
You're Good But You're Really Shit And We All Know It.
That Is In Your Dossier, (Laughter. Humming.)
Bodine finds him sitting inside a coat closet, chai
on a velvet ear of his mask. âYou look bad, Rocky. This is
Solange. Sheâs a masseuse.â She is smiling, quizzical, a
â
child brought to visit the weird pig in his cave.
âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry.â
âLet me take you down to the baths,â the womanâs
voice a soapy sponge already caressing at his
troubles, âtt
8
very quiet, restful. .
âTil be around all night,â Bodine sez. âTl tell you if j
Springer shows.â
âThis is some kind of a shee right?â Siokiuci sucking
saliva from velvet pile.
âEverything is some kind of a plot, man,â Bodine laugh
ing,
Y
4
b
4
3
The Network of Plots
- Slothrop realizes the Zone contains a multitude of overlapping plots beyond his own personal paranoia, resembling a complex transit system.
- He adopts a new philosophy of 'minimum grace,' deciding to ride these various narrative branches to see where they lead rather than resisting them.
- Bodine searches for a customer in a decadent underground club featuring bizarre floor shows and illicit cocaine deals.
- The narrative introduces the 'Iron Toad,' a legendary test of manhood involving an electrified toilet fixture connected to the European power grid.
- Pissing on the Toad creates a literal and metaphorical connection between the individual and the 'planetary pool of electrons.'
- The Major survives his encounter with the Toad's electric surge, emerging in a state of groggy, self-congratulatory triumph.
Often enough to matter, the current will be thereâpiranha-raid and salmon-climb up the gold glittering fall of piss, your treacherous ladder of salts and acids, bringing you back into touch with Mother Ground.
In the Zone
:
703
âAnd yes but, the arrows are pointing all different ways,â
Solange illustrating with a dance of hands, red-pointed
fingervectors. Which is Slothropâs first news, out loud, that
the Zone can sustain many other plots besides those polar-
ized upon himself... that these are the els and busses of
an enormous transit system here in the Raketenstadt, more
tangled even than Bostonâsâand that by riding each
branch the proper distance, knowing when to transfer,
keeping some state of minimum grace though it might
often look like heâs headed the wrong way, this network
of all plots may yet carry him to freedom. He understands
that he should not be so paranoid of either Bodine or
Solange, but ride instead their kind underground awhile,
see where it takes him....
Solange leads Slothrop off to the baths, and Bodine con-
tinues to search for his customer, 21% bottles of cocaine
clinking and clammy against his bare stomach under his
skivvy shirt. The Major isnât at any of the poker or crap
games, nor attending the floor show wherein one Yo-
lande, blonde and shining all over with baby oil, dances
table to table picking up florin pieces and sovereigns, often
hot from the flame of some jokerâs Zippo, between the
prehensile lips of her cuntânor is he drinking, nor, ac-
cording to Monika, Putziâs genial, cigar-smoking, mate-
lassĂ©-suited madame, is he screwing. He hasnât been by to
hassle the piano player for âSan Antonio Rose.â It takes
Bodine half an hour before colliding with the man finally,
realing out the swinging doors of a pissoir, groggy from a
confrontation
with
the
notorious
Ejisenkréte,
known
throughout the Zone as the ultimate test of manhood, be-
fore which bemedaled and brevetted Krautkillers, as well
as the baddest shit-on-my-dick-or-blood-on-my-blade es-
capees from the grossest of Zonal stockades, all have been
known to shrink, swoon, chicken out; and on occasion
vomit, yes right where they stood. For it is indeed an
Iron Toad, faithfully rendered, thousand-warted and some
say faintly smiling, a foot long at its longest, lurking at
the bottom of a rank shit-stained toilet and hooked up to
the European Grid through a rheostat control rigged to
deliver varying though not lethal surges of voltage and
current. No one knows who sits behind the secret rheo-
stat (some say itâs the half-mythical Putzi himself), or if it
704
Gravityâs Ramnsow
isnât in fact hooked up to an automatic timer, for not every-
body gets caught, reallyâyou can piss on the Toad with-
out anything at all happening. But you just never know.
Often enough to matter, the current will be thereâpi-
ranha-raid and salmon-climb up the gold glittering fall of
piss, your treacherous ladder of salts and acids, bringing
you back into touch with Mother Ground, the great, the
planetary pool of electrons making you one with your
prototype, the legendary poor drunk, too drunk to know
anything, pissing on some long-ago third rail and ful-
minated to charcoal, to epileptic night, his screams not even
his own but the electricityâs, the amps speaking through
his already shattering vessel, shattered too soon for them
even to begin to say it, voice their terrible release from
silence, nobody listening anyhow, some watchman poking
down the track, some old man unable to sleep out for a
walk, some city drifter on a bench under a million June
bugs in green nimbus around the streetlight, his neck re-
laxing and tightening in and out of dreams and maybe it
was only a cat screwing, a church bell in a high wind, a
window being broken, no direction to:
it, not even alarm-
ing, replaced swiftly by the old, the coal-gas and Lysol,
silence. And somebody else finds him next morning, Or
you can find him any night at Putziâs if youâre man enough
to go in piss on that Toad. The Major has got off this time
with only a mild jolt, and is in a self-congratulating mood.
âUgly âsucker tried his best,â wrapping an arm about
Bodineâs neck, âbut got his warty olâ ass handed
to him
tonight, damn âf he didnât.â
âGot your âsnow,â Major Marvy. Half a bottle shy, sorry,
|
itâs the best I could do.â
âThat's all reet, sailor. I know so many nose habits be-
_
tween here ânâ Wiesbaden you'd need three fon ânâ that
|
wouldnât last the âsuckers a day.â He pays off Bodine, full
price, overriding Bodineâs offer to prorate for whatâs
missing. âCall it a little lagniappe, goodbuddy, thatâs
|
Duane Marvyâs way oâ doinâ thangs. Damn that olâ toadâs
|
got my pecker to feelinâ pretty good now. Damn f I
~
wouldnât like to stick it inside one them little whores. Heyl
Boats, where can I find me some pussy around here?â â
The sailor shows him how to get downstairs to the
â
whorehouse, They take you into a kind of private steam
Major Marvy at Putzi's
- Major Marvy completes a drug transaction for 'snow' with Bodine, displaying a boisterous and overbearing American persona.
- Marvy visits a local brothel and steam bath, where he interacts with the madame and requests a woman of color.
- Manuela, a sex worker from the Asturias, adopts a Valencian persona to satisfy Marvy's crude racial and sexual stereotypes.
- The narrative contrasts Marvy's loud, transactional behavior with Manuela's internal history of survival through the Spanish Civil War.
- The steam bath is described as a surreal, disorienting space where physical dimensions and identities become blurred in the fog.
She watches Marvyâs face as he pays Monika, watches him in this primal American act, paying, more deeply himself than when coming, or asleep, or maybe even dying.
704
Gravityâs Ramnsow
isnât in fact hooked up to an automatic timer, for not every-
body gets caught, reallyâyou can piss on the Toad with-
out anything at all happening. But you just never know.
Often enough to matter, the current will be thereâpi-
ranha-raid and salmon-climb up the gold glittering fall of
piss, your treacherous ladder of salts and acids, bringing
you back into touch with Mother Ground, the great, the
planetary pool of electrons making you one with your
prototype, the legendary poor drunk, too drunk to know
anything, pissing on some long-ago third rail and ful-
minated to charcoal, to epileptic night, his screams not even
his own but the electricityâs, the amps speaking through
his already shattering vessel, shattered too soon for them
even to begin to say it, voice their terrible release from
silence, nobody listening anyhow, some watchman poking
down the track, some old man unable to sleep out for a
walk, some city drifter on a bench under a million June
bugs in green nimbus around the streetlight, his neck re-
laxing and tightening in and out of dreams and maybe it
was only a cat screwing, a church bell in a high wind, a
window being broken, no direction to:
it, not even alarm-
ing, replaced swiftly by the old, the coal-gas and Lysol,
silence. And somebody else finds him next morning, Or
you can find him any night at Putziâs if youâre man enough
to go in piss on that Toad. The Major has got off this time
with only a mild jolt, and is in a self-congratulating mood.
âUgly âsucker tried his best,â wrapping an arm about
Bodineâs neck, âbut got his warty olâ ass handed
to him
tonight, damn âf he didnât.â
âGot your âsnow,â Major Marvy. Half a bottle shy, sorry,
|
itâs the best I could do.â
âThat's all reet, sailor. I know so many nose habits be-
_
tween here ânâ Wiesbaden you'd need three fon ânâ that
|
wouldnât last the âsuckers a day.â He pays off Bodine, full
price, overriding Bodineâs offer to prorate for whatâs
missing. âCall it a little lagniappe, goodbuddy, thatâs
|
Duane Marvyâs way oâ doinâ thangs. Damn that olâ toadâs
|
got my pecker to feelinâ pretty good now. Damn f I
~
wouldnât like to stick it inside one them little whores. Heyl
Boats, where can I find me some pussy around here?â â
The sailor shows him how to get downstairs to the
â
whorehouse, They take you into a kind of private steam
In the Zone
705
bath first, you can screw right there if you want, doesnât
cost any extra. The madameâhey]! ha, ha! looks like some
kind of a dyke with that stogie in her face! raises an eye-
brow at Marvy when he tells her he wants a nigger, but
thinks she can get hold of one.
âIt isnât the House of All Nations, but we do aim for
variety,â running the tortoise end of her cigar-holder down
a call-sheet, âSandra is engaged for the moment. An ex-
hibition. In the meantime, here is our delightful Manuela,
to keep you company.â
Manuela is wearing only a high comb and black-lace
mantilla, shadow-flowers falling to her hips, a professional
smile for the fat American, who is already fumbling with
uniform buttons.
âHubba, hubba! Hey, sheâs pretty sunburned herself.
AinâtchaP You got a leetle mulatto in there, a leetle May-
heecano, honey? You sabe espafiolP You sabe fucky-fucky?â
âSi,â deciding tonight to be from the Levante, âI am
Spanish. I from Valencia.â
âVa-len-cia-a-a,â sings Major Marvy, to the well-known
tune of the same name, âSefiorita, fucky-fucky, sucky-
sucky sixty-ni-i-ine, la-lalala la-la la-la laaa...â dancing
her in a brief two-step about the grave center of the wait-
ing madame.
Manuela doesnât feel obliged to join in. Valencia was
one of the last cities to fall to Franco, She herself is really
from the Asturias, which knew him first, felt his cruelty
two years before the civil war even began for the rest of
Spain. She watches Marvyâs face as he pays Monika,-
watches him in this primal American act, paying, more
deeply himself than when coming, or asleep, or maybe
even dying. Marvy isnât her first, but almost her first,
American. The clientele here at Putziâs is mostly British.
During the Warâhow many camps and cities since her
capture in â38Pâit was German. She missed the Inter-
national Brigades, shut away up in her cold green moun-
_ tains and fighting hit-and-run long after the Fascists had
occupied all the northâmissed the flowers, children, kisses,
_ and many tongues of Barcelona, of Valencia where sheâs
| never been, Valencia, this eveningâs home.... Ya salimos
_ de Espafia.... Paâ luchar en otros frentes, ay, Manuela,
| ay, Manuela....
a
706
Graviryâs Rainsow
She hangs his uniform neatly in a closet and follows her
trick into heat, bright steam, the walls of the seething
room invisible, feathered hairs along his legs, enormous
buttocks and back beginning to come up dark with the
dampness. Other souls move, sigh, groan unseen amon
the sheets of fog, dimensions in here under the
meaninglessâthe room could be any size, an entire cityâs
breadth, paved with birds not entirely gentle in twofold
rotational symmetry, a foot-darkened yellow and blue, the
only colors to its watery twilight,
âAaabbh, hot damn,â Marvy slithering fatly down, sleek
with sweat, over the tiled edge into the scented water. His
toenails, cut Army-square, slide under last. âCome on,
everybody in the pool,â a great happy bellow, seizing
Manuelaâs ankle and tugging. Having taken a fall or two
on these tiles, and seen a girl friend go into traction,
Manuela comes
along gracefully, falling hard enough
astraddle, bottom hitting his stomach a loud smack, to hurt
him, she hopes. But he only laughs again, loudly aban-
doned to the warmth and buoyancy and sounds encom-
passingâanonymous fucking, drowsiness, ease. Finds hita-
self with a thick red hardon, and slips it without ado into
the solemn girl half-hidden inside her cloud of damp black
Spanish lace, eyes anyplace but on his, aswing now
through the interior fog, dreaming of home.
Well, thatâs all reet. He isnât fucking her eyes, is he?
Heâd rather not have to look at her face anyhow, all he
wants is the brown skin, the shut mouth, that sweet and
nigger submissiveness. She'll do anything he orders, yeah
he can hold her head under the water till she drowns, he
can bend her hand back, yeah, break her fingers like that
cunt in Frankfurt the other week. Pistol-whip, bite till
blood comes
.
.
. visions go swarming, violent, less erotic
than you thinkâmore occupied with thrust, impact, pene-
tration, and such other military yalues. Which is not to say
he isnât enjoying himself innocently as you
do. Or that
Manuela doesnât find herself too, in some
casual
way, liking the ride up and down the stubborn red shaft
of Major Marvy, though her mind is on a thousand other
â
things now, a frock of Sandraâs that she covets, words to _
various songs, an itch below her left shoulderblade, a tall
English soldier she saw as she came through the bar around
The Raid at Putzi's
- Major Marvy engages in a violent and dehumanizing sexual encounter with Manuela, characterized by his aggressive military values and fantasies of physical harm.
- The encounter is abruptly interrupted by a raid on the bathhouse, causing Marvy to panic over the large quantity of cocaine hidden in his uniform.
- Finding his uniform stolen, Marvy discovers a velvet pig costume and dons it as a desperate disguise to evade the military police.
- The disguise proves to be a trap as Marvy is immediately apprehended by authorities who appear to be specifically looking for someone in a pig suit.
- Marvy is mistaken for a specific target by a civilian and a doctor, leading to his swift and forceful detention.
He checks out this plush or velvet rig, finds it to be a pig costume complete with mask, considers slyly that no MP would bother an innocent funseeking pig.
706
Graviryâs Rainsow
She hangs his uniform neatly in a closet and follows her
trick into heat, bright steam, the walls of the seething
room invisible, feathered hairs along his legs, enormous
buttocks and back beginning to come up dark with the
dampness. Other souls move, sigh, groan unseen amon
the sheets of fog, dimensions in here under the
meaninglessâthe room could be any size, an entire cityâs
breadth, paved with birds not entirely gentle in twofold
rotational symmetry, a foot-darkened yellow and blue, the
only colors to its watery twilight,
âAaabbh, hot damn,â Marvy slithering fatly down, sleek
with sweat, over the tiled edge into the scented water. His
toenails, cut Army-square, slide under last. âCome on,
everybody in the pool,â a great happy bellow, seizing
Manuelaâs ankle and tugging. Having taken a fall or two
on these tiles, and seen a girl friend go into traction,
Manuela comes
along gracefully, falling hard enough
astraddle, bottom hitting his stomach a loud smack, to hurt
him, she hopes. But he only laughs again, loudly aban-
doned to the warmth and buoyancy and sounds encom-
passingâanonymous fucking, drowsiness, ease. Finds hita-
self with a thick red hardon, and slips it without ado into
the solemn girl half-hidden inside her cloud of damp black
Spanish lace, eyes anyplace but on his, aswing now
through the interior fog, dreaming of home.
Well, thatâs all reet. He isnât fucking her eyes, is he?
Heâd rather not have to look at her face anyhow, all he
wants is the brown skin, the shut mouth, that sweet and
nigger submissiveness. She'll do anything he orders, yeah
he can hold her head under the water till she drowns, he
can bend her hand back, yeah, break her fingers like that
cunt in Frankfurt the other week. Pistol-whip, bite till
blood comes
.
.
. visions go swarming, violent, less erotic
than you thinkâmore occupied with thrust, impact, pene-
tration, and such other military yalues. Which is not to say
he isnât enjoying himself innocently as you
do. Or that
Manuela doesnât find herself too, in some
casual
way, liking the ride up and down the stubborn red shaft
of Major Marvy, though her mind is on a thousand other
â
things now, a frock of Sandraâs that she covets, words to _
various songs, an itch below her left shoulderblade, a tall
English soldier she saw as she came through the bar around
In the Zone
707.
suppertime, his brown forearm, shirt rolled to the elbow,
against the zinc top of the table. .
Voices in the steam. Alarms, many feet clopping in
shower shoes, silhouettes moving by, a gray cloudy evacu-
ation. âWhat in thee hell,â Major Marvy about to come,
rising on his elbows distracted, squinting in several direc-
tions, rapidly getting a softoff.
âRaid,â a voice going past. âMPs,â shivers somebody
else,
âGaaabh!lâ screams Major Marvy, who has just recalled
the presence of 244 ounces of cocaine in his uniform
pockets. He rolls, walrus-heavy, Manuela sliding away and
off his limpening nervous penis, hardly aroused but enough
of a professional to feel the price includes a token puto and
sinvergiienza now. Scrambling up out of the water, skid-
ding on the tiles, Duane Marvy, bringing up the rear,
emerges into an ice-cold changing-room to find the last
of the bathers fled, the closets stone-empty except for one
multicolored velvet something or other. âHey whereâs my
uniform!â stomping on the floor, fists at his sides, face very
red. âOh you motherless bastards,â thereupon throwing
several bottles and ashtrays, breaking two windows, attack-
ing the wall with an ornate umbrella stand, feeling better
for it in his mind. He hears combat boots crashing over-
head and in rooms nearby, girls screaming, a phonograph
record knocked screeching into silence.
He checks out this plush or velvet rig, finds it to be a
pig costume complete with mask, considers slyly that no
MP would bother an innocent funseeking pig. As humor-
less limey voices move closer through the rooms of Putziâs,
he rips frantically at silk lining and straw padding to make
room for his own fat. And, struggled at last inside, whew,
zipped up, mask hiding face, safe, clownish-anonymous,
pushes out through bead curtains, then upstairs to the bar,
only to run spang into a full division of the red-hatted
*suckers coming his way, all in step, swear to God.
âHereâs our elusive swine, gentlemen,â pocked face,
blunt and ragged mustache, pointing a pistol right at his
head, others moving up quickly, A civilian comes pushing
through, spade-shape blazing dark on his smooth cheek.
âRight. Dr. Muffage is outside with the ambulance, and
we'd like two of your chaps for a moment, sergeant, till
we're all secure.â
708
Graviryâs RaAInsow
âCertainly, sir.â Wrists weak from steam and comfort
gathered skillfully behind his back before he can even get
mad enough to start yelling at themâcold steel, ratcheting
like a phone number being dialed late at night, with no
hope in hell of any answer ever. ...
~âGoddamn,â he finally gets out, mask mufflng his voice,
giving it an echo that hurts his ears, âwhatân thee hellâs
wrong with you, boy? Donât you know who I am?â
But oh-oh, waitaminuteâif theyâve found the uniform,
Marvy ID and cocaine in the same set of pockets, maybe
it isnât such a hot idea to tell them his name just yet. .
âLeftenant Slothrop, we presume. Come along, now.â
He keeps silent. Slothrop, O.K., we'll just wait, see what
the score is, square the dope thing later, play dumb, say
it mustâve been planted. Maybe even find him a Jewish
lawyer good enough to nail the âsuckers for false arrest.
Heâs escorted out the door and into the idling ambulance.
The bearded driver gives him only a quick over-the-
shoulder glance, then lets in the clutch. Before he can think
to struggle, the other civilian and the MPs have quickly
strapped Marvy at knees and chest to a stretcher.
A pause by an Army lorry to let the MPs off again. Then
they continue on. Toward Cuxhaven. Marvy thinks. Noth-
ing but night, moon-softened blackness out the window.
Canât tell. ...
âSedation now?â Ace of Spades crouches beside him,
shining a pocket flashlight over ampoules in his kit, rattling
syringes and points.
âMm. Yes, we're almost there.â
âI donât see why they couldnât have age us hospital
space for this.â
The driver laughs. âOh yes, I can just see that.â
Filling the hypodermic slowly, âWell we are under
orders ... I mean thereâs nothingââ
âDear chap, itâs not the most respectable operation.â
âHey,â Major Marvy tries to raise his igs âOperation?
Whatâs this, boy?â
:
âSsh,â ripping away part of one pigsuit! sleeve, =a
Marvyâs arm.
âI donât want no needleââ but itâs already in the vein â
and discharging as the other man seeks to calm him. ay
i
mean you really got the wrong fella, you know?â
4
The Mistaken Identity of Major Marvy
- Major Marvy is apprehended by British agents who mistake him for Lieutenant Slothrop due to a uniform swap.
- Despite Marvy's attempts to assert his true identity, his voice is muffled by a pig mask and dismissed by his captors.
- The captors, working under the direction of Pointsman, are conducting a clandestine and 'not respectable' medical operation.
- Marvy is forcibly sedated with a hypodermic needle and ether as he is driven to a desolate beach near Cuxhaven.
- The agents, Spontoon and Muffage, prepare surgical instruments on a sterile cloth, indicating a grim fate for the captive.
- The scene highlights the chaotic loss of identity in the Zone, where bureaucratic errors lead to irreversible physical consequences.
Panic strikes him, deeper than the sedative has reached, and he begins to buck truly in terror against the straps, feeling small muscles along his chest stretch into useless twinges of pain, oh God; beginning to scream now with all his might, no words, only cries.
708
Graviryâs RaAInsow
âCertainly, sir.â Wrists weak from steam and comfort
gathered skillfully behind his back before he can even get
mad enough to start yelling at themâcold steel, ratcheting
like a phone number being dialed late at night, with no
hope in hell of any answer ever. ...
~âGoddamn,â he finally gets out, mask mufflng his voice,
giving it an echo that hurts his ears, âwhatân thee hellâs
wrong with you, boy? Donât you know who I am?â
But oh-oh, waitaminuteâif theyâve found the uniform,
Marvy ID and cocaine in the same set of pockets, maybe
it isnât such a hot idea to tell them his name just yet. .
âLeftenant Slothrop, we presume. Come along, now.â
He keeps silent. Slothrop, O.K., we'll just wait, see what
the score is, square the dope thing later, play dumb, say
it mustâve been planted. Maybe even find him a Jewish
lawyer good enough to nail the âsuckers for false arrest.
Heâs escorted out the door and into the idling ambulance.
The bearded driver gives him only a quick over-the-
shoulder glance, then lets in the clutch. Before he can think
to struggle, the other civilian and the MPs have quickly
strapped Marvy at knees and chest to a stretcher.
A pause by an Army lorry to let the MPs off again. Then
they continue on. Toward Cuxhaven. Marvy thinks. Noth-
ing but night, moon-softened blackness out the window.
Canât tell. ...
âSedation now?â Ace of Spades crouches beside him,
shining a pocket flashlight over ampoules in his kit, rattling
syringes and points.
âMm. Yes, we're almost there.â
âI donât see why they couldnât have age us hospital
space for this.â
The driver laughs. âOh yes, I can just see that.â
Filling the hypodermic slowly, âWell we are under
orders ... I mean thereâs nothingââ
âDear chap, itâs not the most respectable operation.â
âHey,â Major Marvy tries to raise his igs âOperation?
Whatâs this, boy?â
:
âSsh,â ripping away part of one pigsuit! sleeve, =a
Marvyâs arm.
âI donât want no needleââ but itâs already in the vein â
and discharging as the other man seeks to calm him. ay
i
mean you really got the wrong fella, you know?â
4
Inthe Zoneâ
709
âOf course, Leftenant.â
âHey, hey, hey. No. Not me, Iâm a major: â He should be
more emphatic about this, more convincing. Maybe itâs the
*sucking pig mask in the way. Only he can hear his voice,
now given back entirely to himself, flatter, metallic...
they canât hear him. âMajor Duane Marvy.â They donât
believe him, donât believe his name: Not even his name. ...
Panic strikes him, deeper than the sedative has reached,
and he begins to buck truly in terror against the straps,
feeling small muscles along his chest stretch into useless
twinges of pain, oh God; beginning to scream now with all
his might, no words, only cries, as loud as the strap across
his chest will let him.
âFor pityâs. sake,â the driver sighs. âCanât you shut him
up, Spontoon?â
_
Spontoon. has sided ripped the pig mask away, and
teplaces it now with one of gauze, which he holds on with
one hand while dripping ether with the otherâwhenever
the thrashing head comes within range: âPointsman has
taken leave of his senses,â he feels obliged to say, irritated
out of all patience, âSf he calls this a âcalm imperturbable. id
2 âall right, we're onthe strand now. No one in sight.â
Muffage drives down toward the water, the sand just solid
enough to hold the ambulance, everything very white in
the small moon, which is at its âzenith .
. perfect ice.
âOh,â Marvy moans. âOh fuck. Oh no. Oh Jesus,â the
words in long drugged diminuendo, struggles against: his
bonds weakening as Muffage parks them at last, an oliye-
:
derelict tiny on this broad beach, the enormous slick
|
ii ie away moonward, to the threshold of the north
âPlenty of time,â Muffage lookttig at his watch. âWe're
catching the C-47 at one. They said they could hold up
for a bit.â Sighs of comfort before turning to their task.
âThat manâs connections,â Spontoon shaking âhis head,
ving the instruments from their disinfectant solution
oy
laying them on a sterile cloth beside the stretcher. âMy,
vy. Letâs hope he never turns to a life of crime, eh?â
âFuck,â groans Major Marvy softly, âoh, fuck me, will
| Both men have scrubbed, and donned masks and rubber
ae Muffage has switched on a oe light which stares
Castration and Dreaming in the Zone
- Muffage and Major Marvy perform a crude, field-expedient castration on a patient dressed in a velvet costume.
- The severed testicles are preserved in alcohol as 'souvenirs' for the character Pointsman, highlighting the clinical cruelty of the wartime medical staff.
- Slothrop and Solange share a psychic connection through their dreams of Bianca and Ilse, envisioning a city-sized apartment complex and a child lost on a freight train.
- The narrative explores the 'Zone' as a place of drifting humility where small chances for mercy exist despite the surrounding chaos.
- A subplot involving stolen American uniforms, cocaine, and forged papers unfolds as characters like Bodine and Krypton navigate the black market of Cuxhaven.
- Tchitcherine continues his pursuit of Weissmannâs battery, observing the landscape with a rationalism that ignores potential prophetic omens.
As if they are musical strings he might, a trifle moon-mad, strum here on the empty beach into appropriate music, his hand hesitates: but then, reluctantly bowing to duty, he severs them at the proper distances from the slippery stone.
Inthe Zoneâ
709
âOf course, Leftenant.â
âHey, hey, hey. No. Not me, Iâm a major: â He should be
more emphatic about this, more convincing. Maybe itâs the
*sucking pig mask in the way. Only he can hear his voice,
now given back entirely to himself, flatter, metallic...
they canât hear him. âMajor Duane Marvy.â They donât
believe him, donât believe his name: Not even his name. ...
Panic strikes him, deeper than the sedative has reached,
and he begins to buck truly in terror against the straps,
feeling small muscles along his chest stretch into useless
twinges of pain, oh God; beginning to scream now with all
his might, no words, only cries, as loud as the strap across
his chest will let him.
âFor pityâs. sake,â the driver sighs. âCanât you shut him
up, Spontoon?â
_
Spontoon. has sided ripped the pig mask away, and
teplaces it now with one of gauze, which he holds on with
one hand while dripping ether with the otherâwhenever
the thrashing head comes within range: âPointsman has
taken leave of his senses,â he feels obliged to say, irritated
out of all patience, âSf he calls this a âcalm imperturbable. id
2 âall right, we're onthe strand now. No one in sight.â
Muffage drives down toward the water, the sand just solid
enough to hold the ambulance, everything very white in
the small moon, which is at its âzenith .
. perfect ice.
âOh,â Marvy moans. âOh fuck. Oh no. Oh Jesus,â the
words in long drugged diminuendo, struggles against: his
bonds weakening as Muffage parks them at last, an oliye-
:
derelict tiny on this broad beach, the enormous slick
|
ii ie away moonward, to the threshold of the north
âPlenty of time,â Muffage lookttig at his watch. âWe're
catching the C-47 at one. They said they could hold up
for a bit.â Sighs of comfort before turning to their task.
âThat manâs connections,â Spontoon shaking âhis head,
ving the instruments from their disinfectant solution
oy
laying them on a sterile cloth beside the stretcher. âMy,
vy. Letâs hope he never turns to a life of crime, eh?â
âFuck,â groans Major Marvy softly, âoh, fuck me, will
| Both men have scrubbed, and donned masks and rubber
ae Muffage has switched on a oe light which stares
710
Gravity's Rainsow
down, a soft radiant eye. The two work quickly, in silence,
two wartime pros used to field expediency, with only an
occasional word from the patient, a whisper, a white
pathetic grope in his ether-darkness after the receding
point of light thatâs all he has left of himself.
Itâs a simple procedure. The crotch of the velvet costume
is tom away. Muffage decides to dispense with shaving
the scrotum. He douses it first with iodine, thew squeezes
in turn each testicle against the red-veined and hairy bag,
makes the incision quickly and cleanly through skin and
surrounding membranes, popping the testicle itself out
through the wound and welling blood, pulling it out with
the left hand till the cords hard and soft are strung visible
under the light. As if they are musical strings he might, a
trifle moon-mad, strum here on the empty beach into ap-
propriate music, his hand hesitates: but then, reluctantly
bowing to duty, he severs them at the proper distances
from the slippery stone, each incision then being bathed
in disinfectant, and the two neat slits, side by side, finally
sutured up again. The testicles are plopped into a bottle of
alcohol.
âSouvenirs for Pointsman,â Muffage sighs, stripping off
the surgical gloves. âGive that one another shot. It might
be better if he sleeps through, and someone back in London
explains this to him.â
Muffage starts up the motor, backs in a half-circle and
slowly heads back up toward the road, the vast sea lying
still behind,
:
Back at Putziâs, Slothrop curls in a wide crisp-sheeted
bed beside Solange, asleep and dreaming about Zwolf-â
kinder, and Bianca smiling, he and she riding on the wheel, â
their compartment become a room, one heâs never seen, a |
room in a great complex of apartments big as a city, whose
corridors can be driven or bicycled along like streets: trees
lining them, and birds singing in the trees. .
4
And âSolange,â oddly enough, is dreaming of Bianca
too, though under a different aspect: itâs of| her own child,
Ilse, riding lost through the Zone on a long freight tr
that never seems to come to rest. She isnât unhappy, nor is
she searching, exactly, for her father. But Leniâs early
dream for her is coming true. She will not be used. There
is change, and departure: but there is also help when
looked for from the strangers of the day, and hiding, out
In the Zone
711
among the accidents of this drifting Humility, never quite
to be extinguished, a few small chances for mercy... .
Upstairs, one MdĂ©llner, valise full of his nightâs treasures
âan American majorâs uniform and papers, and 244 ounces
of cocaineâexplains to the shaggy American sailor that
Herr von Goll is a very busy man, attending to business in
the north, as far as he knows, and has not commissioned
him to bring to Cuxhaven any kind of papers, no military
discharges, passportsânothing. Heâs sorry. Perhaps the
sailorâs friend is mistaken. Perhaps, again, itâs only a tem-
porary delay. One appreciates that forgeries take time.
Bodine watches him leave, unaware of whatâs inside that
valise. Albert Krypton has drunken himself unconscious.
Shirley comes wandering in, bright-eyed and restless, wear-
ing a black garter belt and stockings. âHmm,â she sez, wi
a certain look.
âHmm,â sez Seaman Bodine.
âAnd anyway, it was only ten cents at the Battle of the
Bulge.â
oO
So: he has traced Weissmannâs battery from Holland, across
the salt marshes and lupine and bones of cows, to find this.
Lucky heâs not superstitious. Heâd be taking it for a pro-
phetic vision. There is of course a perfectly rational ex-
planation, but Tchitcherine has never read Martin Fierro.
He watches from his temporary command post in a copse
of jumpers on a low hill. Through the binoculars he sees
two men, one white, one black, holding guitars. Towns-
people are gathered in a circle, but these Tchitcherine can
crop out, leaving in his elliptical field a scene with the
same structure as the male-female singing contest in the
middle of a flat grassland in Central Asia well over a
decade agoâa coming-together of opposites that signaled
then his own approach to the Kirghiz Light. What does it
signal this time?
Over his head, the sky is streaked and hard as marble.
He knows. Weissmann installed the S-Gerat and fired the
00000 somewhere close by. Enzian canât be far behind. It
will be here.
But he has to wait. Once that would have been un-
The Counterforce and the Light
- Tchitcherine observes a musical gathering that mirrors a mystical encounter with the Kirghiz Light from his past in Central Asia.
- The protagonist suspects a 'counterforce' in the Zone is manipulating events, including the disappearance of Major Marvy and the protection of the Schwarzkommando.
- Tchitcherine investigates the Rocket-cartel and the influence of Gerhardt von Göll, suspecting a vast corporate conspiracy.
- A meeting with Mravenko in Berlin reveals that the Soviet authorities are monitoring Tchitcherine and consider his 'usefulness' a potential death sentence.
- Despite the danger from his own government, Tchitcherine abandons plans to return to Moscow to pursue a final confrontation with Enzian.
- The narrative highlights the precarious nature of survival in the Zone, where being 'useful' to a system often leads to being discarded.
Usefulness out here ends as quickly as a communiqué.
In the Zone
711
among the accidents of this drifting Humility, never quite
to be extinguished, a few small chances for mercy... .
Upstairs, one MdĂ©llner, valise full of his nightâs treasures
âan American majorâs uniform and papers, and 244 ounces
of cocaineâexplains to the shaggy American sailor that
Herr von Goll is a very busy man, attending to business in
the north, as far as he knows, and has not commissioned
him to bring to Cuxhaven any kind of papers, no military
discharges, passportsânothing. Heâs sorry. Perhaps the
sailorâs friend is mistaken. Perhaps, again, itâs only a tem-
porary delay. One appreciates that forgeries take time.
Bodine watches him leave, unaware of whatâs inside that
valise. Albert Krypton has drunken himself unconscious.
Shirley comes wandering in, bright-eyed and restless, wear-
ing a black garter belt and stockings. âHmm,â she sez, wi
a certain look.
âHmm,â sez Seaman Bodine.
âAnd anyway, it was only ten cents at the Battle of the
Bulge.â
oO
So: he has traced Weissmannâs battery from Holland, across
the salt marshes and lupine and bones of cows, to find this.
Lucky heâs not superstitious. Heâd be taking it for a pro-
phetic vision. There is of course a perfectly rational ex-
planation, but Tchitcherine has never read Martin Fierro.
He watches from his temporary command post in a copse
of jumpers on a low hill. Through the binoculars he sees
two men, one white, one black, holding guitars. Towns-
people are gathered in a circle, but these Tchitcherine can
crop out, leaving in his elliptical field a scene with the
same structure as the male-female singing contest in the
middle of a flat grassland in Central Asia well over a
decade agoâa coming-together of opposites that signaled
then his own approach to the Kirghiz Light. What does it
signal this time?
Over his head, the sky is streaked and hard as marble.
He knows. Weissmann installed the S-Gerat and fired the
00000 somewhere close by. Enzian canât be far behind. It
will be here.
But he has to wait. Once that would have been un-
712
Gravity's Rainsow
bearable. But since Major Marvy dropped out of sight,
Tchitcherine has been a little more cautious. Marvy was.a
key man. There is a counterforce in the Zone. Who was
the Soviet intelligence man who showed up just before the
fiasco in the clearing? Who tipped the Schwarzkommando
off to the raid? Who got rid of Marvy?
'
Heâs been trying hard not to believe too much in the
Rocket-cartel.
Since his illumination that night, Marvy
drunk, Bloody Chiclitz declaiming on the virtues of Herbert
Hoover, Tchitcherine has been watching for evidence.
Gerhardt von Géll, with his corporate octopus wrapping
every last negotiable item in the Zone, must be in it, con-
sciously or otherwise. Tchitcherine last week was on the
point of flying back to Moscow. Heâd seen Mravenko, one
of the VIAM people, briefly in Berlin. They met in the
Tiergarten, two officers ostensibly strolling in the sun.
Work crews shoveled cold patch into holes in the pave-
ment, banging it flat with shovels. Bicycle riders ratcheted
by, skeleton-functional as their machines. Small clusters
of civilians and military were back under the trees, sitting
on fallen trunks or lorry wheels, stirring through bags and
valises, dealing. âYou're in trouble,â Mravenko said.
|
Heâd been a remittance man too, back in the thirties,
and the most maniacal, systemless chess player in Central
Asia. His tastes ran low enough to include even blindfold
chess, which Russian sensibilities find unutterably gross.
Tchitcherine sat down at the board each time more upset
than the last, trying to be amiable, to jolly the madman
>
into some kind of rational play. Most often heâd lose. But
it was either Mravenko or the Semirechie winter.
âDo you have any idea whatâs going on?â
-
Mravenko laughed. âDoes anybody? Molotov isnât tellingâ
Vishinsky. But they know things about you. Remember
the Kirghiz Light? Sure you do. Well, they found out about ;
that. I didnât tell them, but they got to somebody.â
âItâs ancient history. Why bring it up nowPâ
4
âYou're regarded as âuseful,â â ny
fora ng
They looked at each other, then, for a long time. It
wa
a death sentence. Usefulness out here ends as quickly
as
a communiqué. Mravenko was afraid, and not entirely
fe
Tchitcherine, either.
)
âWhat will you do, Mravenko?Pâ
J
In the Zone
713
âTry not to be very useful. Theyâre not perfect, though.â
- Both men knew this was meant to be comfort, and isnât
: working too well. âThey donât really know what makes
you useful. They go on statistics. I donât think you were
| supposed to survive the War. When you did, they had to
_ look at you more closely.â
_.
âMaybe I'll survive this, too.â And that was when he got
_the idea of flying to Moscow. But just about then word
came in that Weissmannâs battery couldnât be traced any
_ further than the Heath. And the renewed hope of meeting
_ Enzian stopped him from goingâthe seductive hope thatâs
leading him further each day from any chance of continu-
| ing on past the other side of that meeting. He never sup-
posed he would. The real question is: will they get him
before he gets EnzianP All he needs is a little more time
|
.
-
. his only hope is if they're looking for Enzian too, or
| the S-Gerat, and using him the same way he thinks heâs
) using Slothrop....
_.
The horizon is still clear: has been all day. Cypress-
| shaped junipers stand in the rust and hazy distances, still
| as monuments, The first purple flowers are showing on the
heather. It is not the busy peace of late summer, but the
peace of a burial ground. Among the prehistoric German
/
tribes, thatâs what this country was: the territory of the
+ dead.
_.
A dozen nationalities, dressed as Argentine estancieros,
crowd around the soup-kitchen commissary. El Nato is
' standing on the saddle of his horse, Gaucho style, looking
âoff into the German pampas. Felipe is kneeling out in the
jsun, making his noontime devotionals to the living pres-
ence of a certain rock back in the wasteland of La Rioja,
jon the eastern slopes of the Andes. According to an Ar-
â| gentine legend from the last century, Maria Antonia Correa
âfollowed her lover into that arid land, carrying their new-
born child, Herders found her a week later, dead. But the
âinfant had survived, by nursing from her corpse. Rocks
near the site'of the miracle have since been the objects of
yearly pilgrimages. But Felipeâs particular rock embodies
âalso an intellectual system, for he believes (as do M. F.
Beal and others) in a form of mineral consciousness not
âtoo much different from that of plants and animals, except
for the time scale. Rockâs time scale is a lot more stretched
Mineral Consciousness and Zone Settlements
- A diverse group of Argentine expatriates and extras inhabit a desolate German landscape that resembles a burial ground.
- Felipe practices a form of devotion to 'mineral consciousness,' viewing rocks as sentient beings with a vastly stretched time scale.
- The group uses cinematic language to describe history, viewing human events as a mere fraction of a much longer, silent geological narrative.
- Graciela Imago Portales reflects on the nature of money and the precarious reality of their community within the occupied Zone.
- The settlement consists of functional, 'real' movie sets that serve as a temporary refuge for displaced persons and dreamers.
- The community faces an uncertain future under the watchful eye of a military government and the threat of feral, conditioned guard dogs.
Rockâs time scale is a lot more stretched out. 'We're talking frames per century,' Felipe like everybody else here lately has been using a bit of movie language, 'per millennium!'
J
In the Zone
713
âTry not to be very useful. Theyâre not perfect, though.â
- Both men knew this was meant to be comfort, and isnât
: working too well. âThey donât really know what makes
you useful. They go on statistics. I donât think you were
| supposed to survive the War. When you did, they had to
_ look at you more closely.â
_.
âMaybe I'll survive this, too.â And that was when he got
_the idea of flying to Moscow. But just about then word
came in that Weissmannâs battery couldnât be traced any
_ further than the Heath. And the renewed hope of meeting
_ Enzian stopped him from goingâthe seductive hope thatâs
leading him further each day from any chance of continu-
| ing on past the other side of that meeting. He never sup-
posed he would. The real question is: will they get him
before he gets EnzianP All he needs is a little more time
|
.
-
. his only hope is if they're looking for Enzian too, or
| the S-Gerat, and using him the same way he thinks heâs
) using Slothrop....
_.
The horizon is still clear: has been all day. Cypress-
| shaped junipers stand in the rust and hazy distances, still
| as monuments, The first purple flowers are showing on the
heather. It is not the busy peace of late summer, but the
peace of a burial ground. Among the prehistoric German
/
tribes, thatâs what this country was: the territory of the
+ dead.
_.
A dozen nationalities, dressed as Argentine estancieros,
crowd around the soup-kitchen commissary. El Nato is
' standing on the saddle of his horse, Gaucho style, looking
âoff into the German pampas. Felipe is kneeling out in the
jsun, making his noontime devotionals to the living pres-
ence of a certain rock back in the wasteland of La Rioja,
jon the eastern slopes of the Andes. According to an Ar-
â| gentine legend from the last century, Maria Antonia Correa
âfollowed her lover into that arid land, carrying their new-
born child, Herders found her a week later, dead. But the
âinfant had survived, by nursing from her corpse. Rocks
near the site'of the miracle have since been the objects of
yearly pilgrimages. But Felipeâs particular rock embodies
âalso an intellectual system, for he believes (as do M. F.
Beal and others) in a form of mineral consciousness not
âtoo much different from that of plants and animals, except
for the time scale. Rockâs time scale is a lot more stretched
714
Gravity's Ramnsow
out. âWe're talking frames per century,â Felipe like every-
body else here lately has been using a bit of movie lan-
guage, âper millennium!â Colossal. But Felipe has come
to see, as those who are not Sentient Rocksters seldom do,
that history as itâs been laid on the world is only a fraction,
an outward-and-visible fraction. That we must also look to
the untold, to the silence around us, to the passage of the
next rock we noticeâto its aeons of history under the long
and female persistence of water and air (who'll be there,
once or twice per century, to trip the shutter?), down to
the lowland where your paths, human and mineral, are
most likely to cross. ...
Graciela Imago Portales, dark hair parted in the middle
and drawn back from her forehead, wearing a long black
riding skirt and black boots, sits shuffling cards, stacking
herself flushes, full houses, four of a kind, just for her own
amusement. The supernumeraries have brought next to
nothing
to play with. She knew it would come to this:
she'd thought once that by using it only in games, money
would
lose its reality. Wither away. Has it, or is she play-
ing a game with herself? It seems Beldustegui has been
has its value, its probable success against other moments
in other hands, and the shuffle for him is always moment-
to-moment. He canât afford to remember other permuta-
he loses, hel go on to something else.
back. Sheâs glad of that. Heâs a source of
:
doesnât know, if the moment
came, how
st
she'd be.
Often at night shell break through a
membrane
of
alcohol and optimism to see really how much she needsâ
The sets for the movie-to-be help some. The buildings
Hh;
In the Zone
715
are mares not a false front in sight, The boliche is stocked
with real liquor, the pulperia with real food, The sheep,
cattle, horses, and corrals are real, The huts are weather-
proof "and are being slept in, When von Goll leavesâif he
ever comesânothing
will be struck. Any of the extras who
want to stay are ras. Many of them only want to rest
up awhile for more DP trains, more fantasies of what home
was like before the destruction, and some dream of getting
somewhere, They'll move on. But will others come? And
what will the military government think of a community
like this in the middle of their garrison state?
It isnât the strangest village in the Zone, ponainone has
over by army dow, Dobermans wt Shepherds, each one
conditioned to
on sight any human except the one who
trained him, But the trainers are dead men now, or Jost.
The dogs have Lge out in packs, ganged cows in the flelds
and br
carcasses miles overland, back to the
pod
ve broken into supply depots Rin-Tin-Tin
style and looted K-rations, frozen hamburger, cartons of
bars. Bodies of neighboring villagers and eager
Pies
litter all the
roaches to the gang
obody can
get near it,
expeditionary
force came
armed with rifles and grenades, but the dogs all scattered
in the night, slender
as wolves, and no one could bring
himself to destroy the 8 Ayo
No one wanted
to
occupy the village, either. So they went away, And the
nla ed
If there are lines of power among them-
Pee
hha
alties, jealousies, no one knows. Someday
in troops, But the dogs may not know of
a
Âą no German anxleties about encirclement
Be lv ently in
th
ight
ofthe one
manta
Stranger, There may be no way
of distin-
sg okt the Me gee
ens
livetâ~
hunger or thirst or sex. For all they know, kill-the-
The Feral Dogs and Pointsman's Fall
- A pack of highly trained military dogs has gone feral in the post-war landscape, looting supply depots and terrorizing the countryside with wolf-like efficiency.
- The dogs possess a deep-seated, violent instinct to kill any 'Stranger,' a behavior rooted in their past trauma of electric shocks and physical abuse.
- Military staff are considering a 'feasibility study' to use the dogs' memories of their original trainers to incite sectarian conflict among the packs, effectively letting them destroy each other.
- Mr. Pointsman, now in official disgrace following the castration of Major Marvy, has been relegated to a small office to conduct this cynical canine study.
- While Pointsman's career withers, elites like Clive Mossmoon and Sir Marcus Scammony dismissively discuss his fate while plotting corporate pranks for the postwar market.
- The narrative highlights a transition from the raw, traumatized violence of the 'Zone' to the cold, decadent bureaucracy of the emerging postwar order.
If there are heresiarchs among the dogs, they are careful about suggesting out loud any extra-canine source for these sudden eruptions of lust to kill that take them over.
Hh;
In the Zone
715
are mares not a false front in sight, The boliche is stocked
with real liquor, the pulperia with real food, The sheep,
cattle, horses, and corrals are real, The huts are weather-
proof "and are being slept in, When von Goll leavesâif he
ever comesânothing
will be struck. Any of the extras who
want to stay are ras. Many of them only want to rest
up awhile for more DP trains, more fantasies of what home
was like before the destruction, and some dream of getting
somewhere, They'll move on. But will others come? And
what will the military government think of a community
like this in the middle of their garrison state?
It isnât the strangest village in the Zone, ponainone has
over by army dow, Dobermans wt Shepherds, each one
conditioned to
on sight any human except the one who
trained him, But the trainers are dead men now, or Jost.
The dogs have Lge out in packs, ganged cows in the flelds
and br
carcasses miles overland, back to the
pod
ve broken into supply depots Rin-Tin-Tin
style and looted K-rations, frozen hamburger, cartons of
bars. Bodies of neighboring villagers and eager
Pies
litter all the
roaches to the gang
obody can
get near it,
expeditionary
force came
armed with rifles and grenades, but the dogs all scattered
in the night, slender
as wolves, and no one could bring
himself to destroy the 8 Ayo
No one wanted
to
occupy the village, either. So they went away, And the
nla ed
If there are lines of power among them-
Pee
hha
alties, jealousies, no one knows. Someday
in troops, But the dogs may not know of
a
Âą no German anxleties about encirclement
Be lv ently in
th
ight
ofthe one
manta
Stranger, There may be no way
of distin-
sg okt the Me gee
ens
livetâ~
hunger or thirst or sex. For all they know, kill-the-
716
Gravityâs Rarnsow
stranger was born in them. If any have remembered
âthe
blows, the electric shocks, the rolled-up newspapers no one
read, the boots and prods, their pain is knotted in now with
the Stranger, the-hated. If there are heresiarchs among the
dogs, they are careful about suggesting out loud any extra-
canine source for these sudden eruptions of lust to kill that
take them over, even the pensive heretics themselves, at
any first scent of the Stranger. But in private they point to
the remembered image of one human, who has visited only
at intervals, but in whose presence they were tranquil and
affectionateâfrom whom came nourishment, kind scratches
and strokings, games of fetch-the-stick, Where is he now?
Why is he different for some and not for others?
There is a possibility, among the dogs, latent so far be-
cause itâs never been seriously tested, of a crystallizing into
sects, each around the image of âits trainer, A feasibility
study, in fact, is going on even now at staff level in G-5,
to see whether original trainers might not be located, and
this crystallizing begun. One sect might try to protect its
trainer against attacks from others. Given the right com-
binations and an acceptable trainer-loss figure, it might
be cheaper to let the dogs finish themselves off than to
send in combat troops. The study has been contracted to,
of all people, Mr. Pointsman, who is now restricted to one
small office at Twelfth House, the rest of the space having
been taken over by an agency studying options for national-
izing coal and steelâgiven him more out of sympathy than
anything else. Since the castrating of Major Marvy, Points
man has been officially in disgrace. Clive Mossmoon and
Sir Marcus Scammony sit in their club, among discarded
back copies of British Plastics, drinking the knightâs fa-
vorite, Quimportoâa weird prewar mixture of quinine,
beef-tea and portâwith a dash of Coca-Cola and a peeled
onion. Ostensibly the meeting is to finalize plans for the
Postwar Polyvinyl Chloride Raincoat, a source of great
corporate fun these days (âImagine the look on some poor
bastardâs face when the whole sleeve simply falls out of
the shoulderââ âO-or how about mixing in Something that â
will actually dissolve in the rain?â). But Mossmoon really
wants to discuss Pointsman: âWhat shall we do with
PointsmanPâ
;
âI found the most darling boots in Portobello Road,â
â
|
In the Zone
FLT:
pipes Sir Marcus, whom itâs always hard to get around to
talking business. âThey'll look stunning on you. Blood-red
cordovan and halfway up your thighs. Your naked thighs.â
âWe'll give it a go,â replies Clive, neutral as can be
(though itâs a thought, old Scorpiaâs been so damned
bitchy lately). âI could use a spot of relaxation after try-
ing to explain Pointsman away to the Higher Levels.â
âOh, the dog chap. I say, have you ever thought about
a Saint Bernard? Big, shaggy darlings.â
âOn occasion,â Clive keeps at it, âbut mostly I think
about' Pointsman.â
. âNot your sort, darling. Not at all. And he is getting on,
poor chap.â
âSir Marcus,â last resort, usually the willowy knight de-
mands to be called Angelique, and there seems no other
way to get his attention, âif this show prangs, we're going
to see a national crisis. 've got Ginger Groupers jamming
my switchboard and my mailbox day and nightââ
âMm, Id like to jam your male box, Cliveyââ
ââand.
1922
Committee
coming
in the windows.
Bracken and Beaverbrook go on, you know, it isnât as if
the election put them out of a job or somethingââ
âDear chap,â smiling angelically, âthere isnât going to
be any crisis, Labour wants the American found as much
as we do. We sent him out to destroy the blacks, and itâs
obvious now he wonât do the job. What harm can he
cause, roaming around Germany? For all we know heâs
taken ship for South America and all those adorable little
mustachios. Let it be for a while. Weâve got the Army,
when the time. is right. Slothrop was a good try at a
moderate solution, but in the end itâs always the Army,
isnât it?â
âHow can you be so sure the Americans will ever con-
done that?â
A long disagreeable giggle. âClive, youâre such a little
boy. You donât know the Americans. I do. I deal with
them. They'll want to see how we do with our lovely
black animalsâoh dear, ex Africa semper aliquid novi,
âtheyâre so big, so strongâbefore they try it on their own,
ah, target groups. They may say a good many harsh
things if we fail, but there'll be no sanctions.â
âAte we going to fail?â
/
The Sovereignty of the Operation
- Clive Mossmoon expresses anxiety over a potential national crisis and political fallout regarding the missing American, Slothrop.
- Sir Marcus dismisses these fears, revealing that Slothrop was merely a moderate experiment and that the Army remains the ultimate solution.
- The dialogue exposes a cynical geopolitical strategy where the British and Americans use 'target groups' as experimental subjects for control.
- Mossmoon experiences a sense of relief by surrendering his individual identity to the 'Operation,' a transcendent and cold bureaucratic machine.
- The narrative contrasts the genuine, redemptive love found between men in the trenches of WWI with the hollow, power-driven decadence of the current elite.
- The text concludes that in the modern era, death has become a collaborator and true power is exercised through sterile, paper-based manipulation.
In this latest War, death was no enemy, but a collaborator. Homosexuality in high places is just a camal afterthought now, and the real and only fucking is done on paper.
In the Zone
FLT:
pipes Sir Marcus, whom itâs always hard to get around to
talking business. âThey'll look stunning on you. Blood-red
cordovan and halfway up your thighs. Your naked thighs.â
âWe'll give it a go,â replies Clive, neutral as can be
(though itâs a thought, old Scorpiaâs been so damned
bitchy lately). âI could use a spot of relaxation after try-
ing to explain Pointsman away to the Higher Levels.â
âOh, the dog chap. I say, have you ever thought about
a Saint Bernard? Big, shaggy darlings.â
âOn occasion,â Clive keeps at it, âbut mostly I think
about' Pointsman.â
. âNot your sort, darling. Not at all. And he is getting on,
poor chap.â
âSir Marcus,â last resort, usually the willowy knight de-
mands to be called Angelique, and there seems no other
way to get his attention, âif this show prangs, we're going
to see a national crisis. 've got Ginger Groupers jamming
my switchboard and my mailbox day and nightââ
âMm, Id like to jam your male box, Cliveyââ
ââand.
1922
Committee
coming
in the windows.
Bracken and Beaverbrook go on, you know, it isnât as if
the election put them out of a job or somethingââ
âDear chap,â smiling angelically, âthere isnât going to
be any crisis, Labour wants the American found as much
as we do. We sent him out to destroy the blacks, and itâs
obvious now he wonât do the job. What harm can he
cause, roaming around Germany? For all we know heâs
taken ship for South America and all those adorable little
mustachios. Let it be for a while. Weâve got the Army,
when the time. is right. Slothrop was a good try at a
moderate solution, but in the end itâs always the Army,
isnât it?â
âHow can you be so sure the Americans will ever con-
done that?â
A long disagreeable giggle. âClive, youâre such a little
boy. You donât know the Americans. I do. I deal with
them. They'll want to see how we do with our lovely
black animalsâoh dear, ex Africa semper aliquid novi,
âtheyâre so big, so strongâbefore they try it on their own,
ah, target groups. They may say a good many harsh
things if we fail, but there'll be no sanctions.â
âAte we going to fail?â
/
718
Gravityâs RAINBOW
âWe're all going to fail,â Sir Marcus primping his curls,
âbut the Operation wonât.â
Yes. Clive Mossmoon feels himself rising, as from a bog
of trivial frustrations, political fears, money problems: de-
livered onto the sober shore of the Operation, where all
is firm underfoot, where the self is a petty indulgent ani-
mal that once cried in its mired darkness. But here there is
no whining, here inside the Operation. There is no lower
self. The issues are too momentous for the lower self to
interfere. Even in the chastisement room sat Sir Marcusâs
estate, âThe Birches,â the foreplay is a game about who
has the real power, whoâs had it all along, chained and
corseted though he be, outside these shackled walls. The
humiliations of pretty âAngeliqueâ are calibrated against
their degree of fantasy. No joy, no real surrender. Only
the demands of the Operation. Each of us has his place,
and the tenants come and go, but the places remain....
It wasnât always so. In the trenches of the First World
War, English men came to love one another decently, with-
out shame or make-believe, under the easy likelihoods of
their sudden deaths, and to find in the faces of other
young men evidence of otherwordly visits, some poor hope
that may have helped redeem even mud, shit, the decay-
ing pieces of human meat... . It was the end of the world,
it was total revolution (though not quite in the way Walter
Rathenau had announced): every day thousands of the
aristocracy new and old, still haloed in their ideas of right
and wrong, went to the loud guillotine of Flanders, run
day in and out, on and on, by no visible hands, certainly
not those of the peopleâan English class was being
decimated, the ones who'd volunteered were dying for
â
those whoâd known something and hadnât, and despite it
â
all, despite knowing, some of them, of the betrayal, while
©
Europe died meanly in its own wastes, men loved. But the
life-cry of that love has long, since hissed away into no
more than this idle and bitchy faggotry. In this latest War,
death was no enemy, but a collaborator. Homosexuality in
high places is just a camal afterthought now, and the real
and only fucking is done on paper. ...
â
%
;
a
The Eagle of Tooting
- Slothrop awakens from a surreal dream involving a kazoo and Hollywood icons to the real-world sound of Pirate Prentice flying overhead.
- Pirate Prentice pilots a hijacked, Kelly-green P-47 Thunderbolt toward Berlin on a mission to find a 'minnesinger' for the Pope.
- Despite the lack of an active emergency, Pirate pushes the aircraft to its mechanical limits, performing dangerous aerial maneuvers like loops and Immelmanns.
- The narrative reflects on the scattered locations of other agents like Osbie Feel, Webley Silvernail, and Katje as they navigate the 'strange peace' of the post-war Zone.
- Pirate contemplates the nature of 'ad hoc arrangements' versus formal missions, suggesting that spontaneous connections are the only cure for wartime loneliness.
- The transition from gray wartime camouflage to vibrant green symbolizes a shift in Pirate's identity and his defiance toward the emerging bureaucratic air traffic controls.
Gray was for the War. Let them chase. Catch me if you can.
O
ette Davis and Margaret Dumont are in the curly-Cuvil-
Ă©s drawing-room of somebodyâs palatial home. From out-
de the window, at some point, comes the sound of a
azoo, playing a tune of astounding tastelessness, probably
Who Dat Man?â from A Day at the Races (in more
rays than one). It is one of Groucho Marxâs vulgar friends.
he sound is low, buzzing, and guttural. Bette Davis
veezes, tosses her head, flicks her cigarette. âWhat,â she
quires, âis that?â Margaret Dumont smiles, throws out
er chest, looks down her nose. âWell it sounds,â she
»plies, âlike a kazoo.â
For all Slothrop knows, it was a kazoo. By the time heâs
wake, the racket has faded in the morning. Whatever it
vas, it woke him up. What it was, or is, is Pirate Prentice,
2 a more or less hijacked P-47, on route to Berlin. His
rders are terse and clear, like those of the others, agents
f the Pope, Pope got religion, go out ânâ find that min-
esinger, heâs a good guy after all. ...
Well, itâs an older Jug, one with a greenhouse canopy.
âhe barred field of sight gives Pirate twinges of memory
1 his neck muscles. The plane seems permanently out of
rim to him, though he still fiddles now and then with
ifferent tabs. Right now heâs trying the War Emergency
âower to see how it works, even though there seems to be
o War, no Emergency, keeping an eye on the panel,
yhere RPMs, manifold pressure, and cylinder-head tem-
erature are all nudging their red lines. He eases it down
nd flies on, and presently is trying a slow roll over Celle,
hen a loop over Brunswick, then, what the hell, an Immel-
aann over Magdeburg. On his back, molars aching in a
rin, he starts his roll a hair too slow, just this side of
ne-thirty, and nearly stalls it, jolts over a set of surprise
ointsâfinish it as an ordinary loop or go for the Immel-
nann?âalready reaching for. ailerons, forget the damn
udder, a spin isnât worth worrying about... but at the
ast second does give the pedal just a âtouch anyway, a
ainor compromise (Iâm nearly forty, good God, is it hap-
ening to me too?) and rolls himself upright again. It had
0 be the Immelmann.
721
722
Graviryâs Rainsow,
Oh Iâm the Eagle of Tooting,
Bombing and shooting,
And nobodee can bring me down!
Old Kaiser Bill, youâre over the hill,
Cause Iâm cominâ into your home town!
Tell all the frauleins and mademoiselles
To keep a light in the window forme...
Cause Iâm the Eagle of Tooting, just rooty-toot-tooting.
And flyinâ on to victo-ree]
By now, Osbie Feel ought to be in Marseilles, already
trying to contact Blodgett Waxwing. Webley Silvernail is
on route to Ziirich. Katje will be going to Nordhausen...
Katje....
No, no, she hasnât told him everything sheâs been up to.
Itâs none of his business. However much she told him,
thereâd always be the bit of mystery to her. Because of
what he is, because of directions he canât move in. But
how is it both of them kept from vanishing from each
other, into the paper cities and afternoons of this strange
peace, and the coming Austerity? Could it be thereâs some-
thing about ad hoc arrangements, like the present mission,
that must bring you in touch with the people you need to
be with? that more formal adventures tend, by their na-
ture, to separation, to loneliness? Ah, Prentice. ... What's
this, a runaway prop? no, no, check the fuel-pressureâ
hereâs the gauge needle wobbling, rather low, tankâs run
Little in-flight annoyance for Pirate here, nothing seri-
ous.... Out of his earphones now and then, ghost-voices
.
will challenge or reprimand him: air traffic people down in
their own kingdom, one more overlay on the Zone, an-
tennas strung in the wilderness like redoubts, radiating
half-spheres of influence, defining invisible corridors-in-the-
sky that are real only for them. The Thunderbolt is painted
Kelly green. Hard to miss. Pirateâs idea. Gray was for the
War. Let them chase. Catch me if you can.
Gray was for the War. So, it seems, was Pirateâs odd
talent for living the fantasies of others. Since V-E Day,
nothing. But itâs not the end of his psychic difficulties. He
is still being âhaunted,â in the same marginal and uncer-
tain way, by Katjeâs ancestor Frans van der Groovy, dodo
killer and soldier of fortune. The man never quite arrives,
nor quite leaves. Pirate is taking it personally. He is the
The Row and the Game
- Pirate Prentice finds himself haunted by the psychic residue of Frans van der Groovy, a dodo-killing ancestor of Katje, suggesting a spiritual link mediated by the Firm.
- The narrative explores a mystical exegesis of windmills, where wind is viewed as a middle term for a cosmic, mandala-like motion that unites opposites.
- The landscape below the Thunderbolt aircraft reveals a history of mass death, from ancient earthworks to villages decimated by the Black Plague.
- Gustav and Saure engage in a heated aesthetic debate over musical theory, specifically the transition from traditional tonality to the twelve-tone 'Row'.
- Saure dismisses Gustav's avant-garde aspirations as just another game, preferring the 'light and kindness' of Rossini while consuming massive quantities of cocaine.
- The setting of Saureâs place is depicted as a micro-ecosystem where 'cryptozoa' thrive undisturbed in a litter of drug vials and debris.
Each wind had its own cross-in-motion, materially there or implied, each cross a unique mandala, bringing opposites together in the spin.
722
Graviryâs Rainsow,
Oh Iâm the Eagle of Tooting,
Bombing and shooting,
And nobodee can bring me down!
Old Kaiser Bill, youâre over the hill,
Cause Iâm cominâ into your home town!
Tell all the frauleins and mademoiselles
To keep a light in the window forme...
Cause Iâm the Eagle of Tooting, just rooty-toot-tooting.
And flyinâ on to victo-ree]
By now, Osbie Feel ought to be in Marseilles, already
trying to contact Blodgett Waxwing. Webley Silvernail is
on route to Ziirich. Katje will be going to Nordhausen...
Katje....
No, no, she hasnât told him everything sheâs been up to.
Itâs none of his business. However much she told him,
thereâd always be the bit of mystery to her. Because of
what he is, because of directions he canât move in. But
how is it both of them kept from vanishing from each
other, into the paper cities and afternoons of this strange
peace, and the coming Austerity? Could it be thereâs some-
thing about ad hoc arrangements, like the present mission,
that must bring you in touch with the people you need to
be with? that more formal adventures tend, by their na-
ture, to separation, to loneliness? Ah, Prentice. ... What's
this, a runaway prop? no, no, check the fuel-pressureâ
hereâs the gauge needle wobbling, rather low, tankâs run
Little in-flight annoyance for Pirate here, nothing seri-
ous.... Out of his earphones now and then, ghost-voices
.
will challenge or reprimand him: air traffic people down in
their own kingdom, one more overlay on the Zone, an-
tennas strung in the wilderness like redoubts, radiating
half-spheres of influence, defining invisible corridors-in-the-
sky that are real only for them. The Thunderbolt is painted
Kelly green. Hard to miss. Pirateâs idea. Gray was for the
War. Let them chase. Catch me if you can.
Gray was for the War. So, it seems, was Pirateâs odd
talent for living the fantasies of others. Since V-E Day,
nothing. But itâs not the end of his psychic difficulties. He
is still being âhaunted,â in the same marginal and uncer-
tain way, by Katjeâs ancestor Frans van der Groovy, dodo
killer and soldier of fortune. The man never quite arrives,
nor quite leaves. Pirate is taking it personally. He is the
The Counterforce
723
Dutchmanâs compatible host, despite himself. What does
Frans see in him? Has it to doâof course it doesâwith
the Firm?
He has warped a skein of his dreams into Pirateâs own,
heretical dreams, exegeses of windmills that turned in
shadow at the edges of dark fields, each arm pointing at
a spot on the rim of a giant wheel that turned through the
sky, stop and go, always exactly with the spinning cross:
windâ was a middle term, a convention to express what
really moved the. cross...and this applied to all wind,
everywhere on Earth, shrieking between the confectionery
pink and yellow mountains of Mauritius or stirring the
tulips at home, red cups in the rain filling bead by clear
bead with water, each wind had its own cross-in-motion,
materially there or implied, each cross a unique mandala,
bringing opposites together in the spin (and tell me now,
Frans, whatâs this wind Iâm in, this 25,o00-foot wind?
What millâs that, grinding there below? What does. it
grind, Frans, who tends the stone?).
Far beneath the belly of the Thunderbolt, brushed on
the green countryside, pass the time-softened outlines of
ancient earthworks, villages abandoned during the Great
Dying, fields behind cottages whose dwellers were scythed
down without mercy by the northward march of black
plague. Behind a scrim, cold as sheets over furniture in a
forbidden wing of the house, a soprano voice sings notes
that never arrange themselves into a melody, that fall apart
in the same way as dead proteins. . .
âItâs as clear as the air,â rants Gustav the composer, âif
you werenât an old fool youâd see itâI know, I know,
thereâs an Old Foolsâ Benevolent Association, you all know
each other, you vote censures against the most trouble-
some under-7os and my nameâs at the head of the list. Do
you think I âcare? You're all'on a different frequency.
Thereâs no way you'll get interference from us. Weâre too
far separated. We have our own problems.â
Cryptozoa of many kinds scurry through crumbs, pubic
_
hairs, wine-splashes, tobacco ash and shreds, a litter of
_
dram cocaine vials, each with a red Bakelite top bearing
_ the seal of Merck of Darmstadt. The bugsâ atmosphere
ends about an inch from the floor, an ideal humidity, dark-
ness,
stability of temperature. Nobody bothers
them.
724
Gravity's Rainsow
There is an unspoken agreement about not stomping on
bugs in Saureâs place.
âYou're caught in tonality,â screams Gustav. âTrapped.
Tonality is a game. All of them are. You're too old. You'll
never move beyond the game, to the Row. The Row is
enlightenment.â
âThe Row is a game too.â Saure sits grinning with an
ivory spoon, shoveling incredible piles of cocaine into his
nose, going through his whole repertoire: arm straight
out swinging in a giant curve zoom precisely to the nostril
heâs aiming at, then flicking in the lot from two feet away
without losing a crystal .. . then a whole bunch gets tossed
up in the air like a piece of popcorn and nose-gobbled
ngkok on target, inside where itâs smooth as a Jo block,
not a cilium in sight there since the Liebknecht funeral,
if not before . .
. hand-to-hand shifts of spoon two or three
times, faster than ivory ever moved in air...
rails disap-
pearing in a wink without benefit of a tube to guide them.
âSound is a game, if you're capable of moving that far,
you adenoidal closet-visionary. Thatâs why I listen to
Spohr, Rossini, Spontini, â'm choosing my game, one full
of light and kindness. You're stuck with that stratosphere
stuff and rationalize its dullness away by calling it âen-
lightenment.â You donât what what enlightenment is, Kerl,
you're blinder than I am.â
Slothrop moseys down the trail to a mountain stream
where heâs left his harp to soak all night, wedged between
a couple of rocks in a quiet pool.
âYour âlight and kindnessâ are the jigging of the doomed,â
sez Gustav. âYou can smell mortality in every one of those
bouncy little tunes.â Surly, he decapitates a vial of cocaine
with his teeth, and spits the red debris in among the shim-
mering bugs.
:
y
Through the flowing water, the holes of the old Hohner
Slothrop found are warped one by one, squares being bent
like notes, a visual blues being played by â0
clear stream.
There are harpmen and dulcimer players in
all the rivers,
wherever water moves. Like that Rilke prophesied,
And though Earthliness forget you,
To the stilled Earth say: I flow.
To the rushing water speak; I am.
The Ghost of the Harmonica
- Slothrop retreats into the mountains, living in solitude and becoming a spiritual medium through his music.
- After playing abandoned bagpipes, Slothrop receives mysterious food offerings from unseen locals who perceive him as a ghost or pure sound.
- He recovers a harmonica from a stream, which is revealed to be the same one he lost years earlier in a Boston ballroom toilet.
- Slothrop undergoes a physical and spiritual transformation, living naked among nature and ignoring the geopolitical chaos of post-war Europe.
- Despite his changing identity, he remains obsessively tethered to the 'ghost-feather' of America and the hope of returning home.
It happens to be the same one he lost in 1938 or -9 down the toilet at the Roseland Ballroom, but thatâs too long ago for him to remember.
724
Gravity's Rainsow
There is an unspoken agreement about not stomping on
bugs in Saureâs place.
âYou're caught in tonality,â screams Gustav. âTrapped.
Tonality is a game. All of them are. You're too old. You'll
never move beyond the game, to the Row. The Row is
enlightenment.â
âThe Row is a game too.â Saure sits grinning with an
ivory spoon, shoveling incredible piles of cocaine into his
nose, going through his whole repertoire: arm straight
out swinging in a giant curve zoom precisely to the nostril
heâs aiming at, then flicking in the lot from two feet away
without losing a crystal .. . then a whole bunch gets tossed
up in the air like a piece of popcorn and nose-gobbled
ngkok on target, inside where itâs smooth as a Jo block,
not a cilium in sight there since the Liebknecht funeral,
if not before . .
. hand-to-hand shifts of spoon two or three
times, faster than ivory ever moved in air...
rails disap-
pearing in a wink without benefit of a tube to guide them.
âSound is a game, if you're capable of moving that far,
you adenoidal closet-visionary. Thatâs why I listen to
Spohr, Rossini, Spontini, â'm choosing my game, one full
of light and kindness. You're stuck with that stratosphere
stuff and rationalize its dullness away by calling it âen-
lightenment.â You donât what what enlightenment is, Kerl,
you're blinder than I am.â
Slothrop moseys down the trail to a mountain stream
where heâs left his harp to soak all night, wedged between
a couple of rocks in a quiet pool.
âYour âlight and kindnessâ are the jigging of the doomed,â
sez Gustav. âYou can smell mortality in every one of those
bouncy little tunes.â Surly, he decapitates a vial of cocaine
with his teeth, and spits the red debris in among the shim-
mering bugs.
:
y
Through the flowing water, the holes of the old Hohner
Slothrop found are warped one by one, squares being bent
like notes, a visual blues being played by â0
clear stream.
There are harpmen and dulcimer players in
all the rivers,
wherever water moves. Like that Rilke prophesied,
And though Earthliness forget you,
To the stilled Earth say: I flow.
To the rushing water speak; I am.
The Counterforce.
725
It is still possible, even this far out of it, to find and
make audible the spirits of lost harpmen. Whacking the
water out of his harmonica, reeds singing against his leg,
picking up the single blues at bar 1 of this morningâs seg-
ment, Slothrop, just suckinâ on his harp, is closer to being a
spiritual medium than heâs been yet, and he doesnât even
know it...
The harp didnât show up right away. His first days in
these mountains, he came across a set of bagpipes, left
behind in April by some Highland unit. Slothrop has a
knack for doping things out. The Imperial instrument was
a cinch. In a week he mastered that dreamy tune Dick
Powell sang in the movies, âIn the Shadows Let Me Come
_
and Sing to You,â and spent most of his time playing that,
WHANGdediddle de-dee, WHANG de dumâde-doooooo
.. over and over, on the bagpipes. By and by he began
to notice that offerings of food were being left near the
lean-to heâd put up. Mangel-wurzels, a basket of cherries,
even fresh fish. He never saw who was leaving them.
Either he was supposed to be a bagpiperâs ghost, or just
purely sound itself, and he knew enough about solitudes
and night-voices to figure what was going on. He quit
playing the bagpipes, and next day he found the harp. It
happens to be the same one he lost in 1938 or -9 down
the toilet at the Roseland Ballroom, but thatâs too long ago
for him to remember.
Heâs kept alone. If others have seen him or his fire, they
haven't tried to approach. Heâs letting hair and beard
grow, wearing a dungaree shirt and trousers Bodine liber-
ated for him from the laundry of the John E. Badass.
But he likes to spend whole days naked, ants crawling up
his legs, butterflies lighting on his shoulders, watching the
life on the mountain, getting to know shrikes and caper-
caillie, badgers and marmots. Any number of directions
he ought to be moving in, but heâd rather stay right here
for now. Everyplace heâs been, Cuxhaven, Berlin, Nice,
Ziirich, must be watched now. He could still make a try
at finding Springer, or Blodgett Waxwing. Why does he.
have this obsession with getting papersP What thâ fuck
are papers, anyhow? He could try one of the Baltic ports,
wait around for Frau Gnahb to put in, and get over to
that Denmark or that Sweden. DPs, offices burned, records
.
726
Gravity's RAINBOW
lost foreverâpapers might not mean so much in Europe
... waitaminute, so much as where, Slothrup? Huh? Amer-
ica? Shit. Cmonâ
Yup, still thinking thereâs a way to get back. Heâs been
changing, sure, changing, plucking all the albatross of
self now and then, idly, half-conscious as picking his nose
âbut the one ghost-feather his fingers always brush by is
America. Poor asshole, he canât let her go. Sheâs whispered
love me too often to him in his sleep, vamped insatiably
his waking attention with come-hitherings, incredible prom-
ises. One dayâhe can see a dayâhe might be able finally
to say sorry, sure and leave her... but not just yet. One
more try, one more chance, one more deal, one more
transfer to a hopeful line. Maybe itâs just pride. What if
thereâs no place for him in her stable any more? If she has
turned him out, shell never explain. Her âstallionsâ have
no rights. She is immune to their small, stupid questions.
She is exactly the Amazon Bitch your fantasies have called
her to be.
Then thereâs Jamf, the coupling of âJamâ and âIâ in the
primal dream. Who can he go to with if? it will not bear
that much looking into, will it? If he gets too close, there
will be revenge. They might warn him first, They might
not.
Omens grow clearer, more specific. He watches flights of
birds and patterns in the ashes of his fire, he reads the
guts of trout heâs caught and cleaned, scraps of lost paper,
graffiti on the broken walls where facing has been shot
away to reveal the brick nda in specific
shapes that may also be read. .
One night, on the wall of a " public shithouse stinking
and ripe with typhoid, he finds among initials, dates, hasty
pictures of penises and mouths open to receive them,
Werewolf stencils of the dark man with the high shoulders
and the Homburg hat, an official slogan: wmusT pu V-2;
DANN ARBEITE. If you want the V-2, then work. Good Eve-
ning Tyrone Slothrop...no, no, wait, itâs;O.K., over on
the other wall theyâve also painted wiusr pu V-4, DANN
ARBEITE. Lucky. The brimming voices recede, the joke
clarifies, he is only back with Goebbels
the manâs in-
- ability to let a good thing be. But it had taken an effort
_to walk around and look at that other wall. Anything
Slothrop's Fourfold Dissolution
- Slothrop experiences a growing sense of paranoia and isolation, feeling abandoned by his former lover and haunted by the mysterious Jamf.
- He begins obsessively reading omens in nature and urban decay, interpreting bird flights, trout guts, and graffiti as specific messages directed at him.
- The discovery of the graffiti 'ROCKETMAN WAS HERE' triggers a crisis of identity, leading Slothrop to suspect his own past selves are conspiring against him.
- Slothrop adopts a personal sigil that he eventually realizes is a schematic of the A4 rocket seen from below, linking his identity to the weapon.
- The narrative explores 'fourfold expressions' and cosmic symbols, suggesting that Slothrop is becoming a 'living intersection' or a crossroads between worlds.
- Time begins to lose its serial structure for Slothrop as he tunes into 'the Other Side,' where events exist in an eternal, non-linear moment.
Might be he was starting to implicate himself, some yesterday version of himself, in the Combination against who he was right then.
726
Gravity's RAINBOW
lost foreverâpapers might not mean so much in Europe
... waitaminute, so much as where, Slothrup? Huh? Amer-
ica? Shit. Cmonâ
Yup, still thinking thereâs a way to get back. Heâs been
changing, sure, changing, plucking all the albatross of
self now and then, idly, half-conscious as picking his nose
âbut the one ghost-feather his fingers always brush by is
America. Poor asshole, he canât let her go. Sheâs whispered
love me too often to him in his sleep, vamped insatiably
his waking attention with come-hitherings, incredible prom-
ises. One dayâhe can see a dayâhe might be able finally
to say sorry, sure and leave her... but not just yet. One
more try, one more chance, one more deal, one more
transfer to a hopeful line. Maybe itâs just pride. What if
thereâs no place for him in her stable any more? If she has
turned him out, shell never explain. Her âstallionsâ have
no rights. She is immune to their small, stupid questions.
She is exactly the Amazon Bitch your fantasies have called
her to be.
Then thereâs Jamf, the coupling of âJamâ and âIâ in the
primal dream. Who can he go to with if? it will not bear
that much looking into, will it? If he gets too close, there
will be revenge. They might warn him first, They might
not.
Omens grow clearer, more specific. He watches flights of
birds and patterns in the ashes of his fire, he reads the
guts of trout heâs caught and cleaned, scraps of lost paper,
graffiti on the broken walls where facing has been shot
away to reveal the brick nda in specific
shapes that may also be read. .
One night, on the wall of a " public shithouse stinking
and ripe with typhoid, he finds among initials, dates, hasty
pictures of penises and mouths open to receive them,
Werewolf stencils of the dark man with the high shoulders
and the Homburg hat, an official slogan: wmusT pu V-2;
DANN ARBEITE. If you want the V-2, then work. Good Eve-
ning Tyrone Slothrop...no, no, wait, itâs;O.K., over on
the other wall theyâve also painted wiusr pu V-4, DANN
ARBEITE. Lucky. The brimming voices recede, the joke
clarifies, he is only back with Goebbels
the manâs in-
- ability to let a good thing be. But it had taken an effort
_to walk around and look at that other wall. Anything
i The C ounterforce
727
couldâve been back there. âIt was dusk. Plowed fields,
- power lines, ditches and distant windbreaks went for miles.
He felt brave and in control. But then another message
caught his eye:
ROCKETMAN Was HERE
His first thought was that heâd written it himself and
forgot. Odd that that shouldâve been his first thought, but
it was. Might be he was starting to implicate himself,
some yesterday version of himself, in the Combination
against who he was right then. In its sluggish coma, the
albatross stirred.
Past Slothrops, say averaging one a day, ten thousand
of them, some more powerful than others, had been going
over every sundown to the furious host. They were the
_
fifth-columnists, well inside his head, waiting the moment
to deliver him to the four other divisions outside, closing
gel
i
So, next to the other graffiti, with a piece of rock, he
scratches this sign:
Slothrop besieged. Only after heâd left it half a dozen
more places did it dawn on him that what he was really
drawing was the A4 rocket, seen from below. By which
time he had become tuned to other fourfold expressionsâ
variations on Frans van der Groovâs cosmic windmillâ
swastikas, gymnastic symbols FFFF in a circle symmetri-
cally upside down and backward, Frisch Fromm Frohlich
Frei over neat doorways in quiet streets, and crossroads,
where you can sit and listen in to traffic from the Other
Side, hearing about the future (no serial time over there:
events are all there in the same eternal moment and so
certain messages donât always âmake senseâ back here:
they lack historical structure, they sound fanciful, or
insane).
_
The sand-colored churchtops rear up on Slothropâs hori-
zons, apses out to four sides like rocket fins guiding the
ae
9
728
Gravity's RAINBOW
|
streamlined spires ...chiseled in the sandstone he finds
waiting the mark of consecration, a cross in a circle. At
last, lying one afternoon spread-eagled at his ease in the
sun, at the edge of one of the ancient Plague towns he
becomes a cross himself, a crossroads, a living intersection
where the judges have come to set up a gibbet for a
common criminal who is to be hanged at noon. Black
hounds and fanged little hunters slick as weasels, dogs
whose breeds have been lost for 700 years, chase a female
in heat as the spectators gather, itâs the fourth hanging
this spring and not much spectacle here except that this
one, dreaming at the last instant of who can say what
lifted smock, what fat-haunched gnadige Frau Death may
have come sashaying in as, gets an erection,
a tre-
mendous darkpurple swelling, and just as his neck breaks,
he actually comes in his ragged loin-wrapping creamy as
the skin of a saint under the purple cloak of Lent, and
one drop of sperm succeeds in rolling, dripping hair to
hair down the dead leg, all the way down, off the edge of
the crusted bare foot, drips to earth at the exact center
of the crossroad where, in the workings of the night, it
changes into a mandrake root. Next Friday, at dawn, the
Magician, his own moving Heiligenschein rippling infrared
to ultraviolet in spectral rings around his shadow over the
dewy grass, comes with his dog, a coal-black dog who hasnât
been fed for a few days. The Magician digs carefully all
around the precious root till itâs held only by the finest
root-hairsâties it to the tail of his black dog, stops his
own ears with wax then comes out with a piece of bread
to lure the unfed dog rrrowf! dog lunges for bread, root is
torn up and lets loose its piercing and fatal scream. The
dog drops dead before heâs halfway to breakfast, his holy-
light freezes and fades in the million dewdrops. Magician
takes the root tenderly home, dresses -it in a little white
outfit and leaves money with it overnight: in the morning
the cash has multiplied tenfold. A delegate from the Com-
mittee on Idiopathic Archetypes comes to visit. âInflation?â
the Magician tries to cover. up with some flowing hand-
moves. â âCapitalâ? Never heard of that.â âNo, no,â replies
the visitor, ânot at the moment. Were
trying to think
ahead. Weâd like very much to hear about the basic struc-
ture of this. How bad was the scream for instance?â âHad
The Mandrake and the Crossroad
- A vivid, grotesque depiction of a mandrake root's birth from the final, involuntary ejaculation of a dying man at a crossroad.
- The Magician performs a ritualistic harvest of the mandrake using a starving black dog to endure the root's fatal, piercing scream.
- The mandrake functions as a supernatural wealth-generator, drawing the attention of a bureaucratic delegate from the Committee on Idiopathic Archetypes.
- Slothrop experiences a moment of profound, paranoid synthesis where he sees his own history reflected in the detritus of the world.
- The narrative shifts from the mystical and preterite debris of the Zone to a moment of emotional release as Slothrop witnesses a rainbow.
- Roger Mexico makes a high-speed departure down the Autobahn in a vintage Horch, signaling a transition in the character focus.
Slothrop sees a very thick rainbow here, a stout rainbow cock driven down out of pubic clouds into Earth, green wet valleyed Earth, and his chest fills and he stands crying, not a thing in his head, just feeling natural.
728
Gravity's RAINBOW
|
streamlined spires ...chiseled in the sandstone he finds
waiting the mark of consecration, a cross in a circle. At
last, lying one afternoon spread-eagled at his ease in the
sun, at the edge of one of the ancient Plague towns he
becomes a cross himself, a crossroads, a living intersection
where the judges have come to set up a gibbet for a
common criminal who is to be hanged at noon. Black
hounds and fanged little hunters slick as weasels, dogs
whose breeds have been lost for 700 years, chase a female
in heat as the spectators gather, itâs the fourth hanging
this spring and not much spectacle here except that this
one, dreaming at the last instant of who can say what
lifted smock, what fat-haunched gnadige Frau Death may
have come sashaying in as, gets an erection,
a tre-
mendous darkpurple swelling, and just as his neck breaks,
he actually comes in his ragged loin-wrapping creamy as
the skin of a saint under the purple cloak of Lent, and
one drop of sperm succeeds in rolling, dripping hair to
hair down the dead leg, all the way down, off the edge of
the crusted bare foot, drips to earth at the exact center
of the crossroad where, in the workings of the night, it
changes into a mandrake root. Next Friday, at dawn, the
Magician, his own moving Heiligenschein rippling infrared
to ultraviolet in spectral rings around his shadow over the
dewy grass, comes with his dog, a coal-black dog who hasnât
been fed for a few days. The Magician digs carefully all
around the precious root till itâs held only by the finest
root-hairsâties it to the tail of his black dog, stops his
own ears with wax then comes out with a piece of bread
to lure the unfed dog rrrowf! dog lunges for bread, root is
torn up and lets loose its piercing and fatal scream. The
dog drops dead before heâs halfway to breakfast, his holy-
light freezes and fades in the million dewdrops. Magician
takes the root tenderly home, dresses -it in a little white
outfit and leaves money with it overnight: in the morning
the cash has multiplied tenfold. A delegate from the Com-
mittee on Idiopathic Archetypes comes to visit. âInflation?â
the Magician tries to cover. up with some flowing hand-
moves. â âCapitalâ? Never heard of that.â âNo, no,â replies
the visitor, ânot at the moment. Were
trying to think
ahead. Weâd like very much to hear about the basic struc-
ture of this. How bad was the scream for instance?â âHad
The Counterforce
|
729
âmrears plugged up, couldnât hear it.â The delegate flashes a
fraternal business smile. âCanât say as I blame you....
Crosses, swastikas, Zone-mandalas, how can they not
speak to Slothrop? Heâs sat in Saure Bummerâs kitchen, the
air streaming with kif moirés, reading soup recipes and
finding in every bone and cabbage leaf paraphrases of
himself ...news flashes, names of wheelhorses that will
pay him off for a certain getaway.... He used to pick and
shovel at the spring roads of Berkshire, April afternoons
heâs lost, âChapter 81 work,â they called it, following the
scraper that clears the winter's crystal attack-from-within,
its white necropolizing ... picking up rusted beer cans,
rubbers yellow with preterite seed, Kleenex wadded to
brain shapes hiding preterite snot, preterite tears, news-
papers, broken glass, pieces of automobile, days when in
superstition and fright he could make it all fit, seeing
clearly in each an entry in a record, a history: his own,
his winterâs, his countryâs... instructing him, dunce and
drifter, in ways deeper than he can explain, have been
faces of children out the train windows, two bars of dance.
music somewhere, in some other street at night, needles
and branches of a pine tree shaken clear and luminous
against night clouds, one circuit diagram out of hundreds
in a smudged yellowing sheaf, laughter out of a cornfield
in the early morning as he was walking to school, the
idling of a motorcycle at one dusk-heavy hour of the sum-
mer... and now, in the Zone, later in the day he became
a crossroad, after a heavy rain he doesnât recall, Slothrop
sees a very thick rainbow here, a stout rainbow cock
driven down out of pubic clouds into Earth, green wet
valleyed Earth, and his chest fills and he stands crying,
â
not a thing in his head, just feeling natural. ...
O
Double-declutchingly,
heel-and-toe,
away
goes
Roger
Mexico. Down the summer Autobahn, expansion joints
booming rhythmic under his wheels, he highballs a pre-
Hitler Horch 870B through the burnt-purple rolling of the
- Liineburg Heath. Over the windscreen mild winds blow
down on him, smelling of junipers. Heidschnucken sheep
The Illusion of Peace
- Roger drives through the LĂŒneburg Heath in a salvaged Horch, surrounded by surreal landscapes and a floorboard littered with jars of toxic-looking baby food.
- The narrative contrasts the natural beauty of the German countryside with the lingering decay of war, such as rusting barrage-balloon cables and metal ash.
- Roger sings a melancholic song to a memory of Jessica, questioning if any trace of their connection remains on the 'superhighways of July.'
- Jessica attempts to move on, viewing the end of the war as a return to normalcy and focusing on trivialities like her new haircut.
- Roger rejects the notion of peace, viewing the official end of hostilities as mere propaganda designed to mask the continued flow of power and impoverishment.
- Despite the 'Counterforce' efforts, Roger remains haunted by the fate of Slothrop, who is being hunted and corrupted across the Zone.
No, weâre not. Itâs another bit of propaganda. Something the P.W.E. planted.
The Counterforce
|
729
âmrears plugged up, couldnât hear it.â The delegate flashes a
fraternal business smile. âCanât say as I blame you....
Crosses, swastikas, Zone-mandalas, how can they not
speak to Slothrop? Heâs sat in Saure Bummerâs kitchen, the
air streaming with kif moirés, reading soup recipes and
finding in every bone and cabbage leaf paraphrases of
himself ...news flashes, names of wheelhorses that will
pay him off for a certain getaway.... He used to pick and
shovel at the spring roads of Berkshire, April afternoons
heâs lost, âChapter 81 work,â they called it, following the
scraper that clears the winter's crystal attack-from-within,
its white necropolizing ... picking up rusted beer cans,
rubbers yellow with preterite seed, Kleenex wadded to
brain shapes hiding preterite snot, preterite tears, news-
papers, broken glass, pieces of automobile, days when in
superstition and fright he could make it all fit, seeing
clearly in each an entry in a record, a history: his own,
his winterâs, his countryâs... instructing him, dunce and
drifter, in ways deeper than he can explain, have been
faces of children out the train windows, two bars of dance.
music somewhere, in some other street at night, needles
and branches of a pine tree shaken clear and luminous
against night clouds, one circuit diagram out of hundreds
in a smudged yellowing sheaf, laughter out of a cornfield
in the early morning as he was walking to school, the
idling of a motorcycle at one dusk-heavy hour of the sum-
mer... and now, in the Zone, later in the day he became
a crossroad, after a heavy rain he doesnât recall, Slothrop
sees a very thick rainbow here, a stout rainbow cock
driven down out of pubic clouds into Earth, green wet
valleyed Earth, and his chest fills and he stands crying,
â
not a thing in his head, just feeling natural. ...
O
Double-declutchingly,
heel-and-toe,
away
goes
Roger
Mexico. Down the summer Autobahn, expansion joints
booming rhythmic under his wheels, he highballs a pre-
Hitler Horch 870B through the burnt-purple rolling of the
- Liineburg Heath. Over the windscreen mild winds blow
down on him, smelling of junipers. Heidschnucken sheep
730
Gravity's RAINBOW
out there rest as still as fallen clouds, The bogs and broom
go speeding by. Overhead the sky is busy, streaming, a
living plasma.
The Horch, army-green
with one
discreet
daffodil
painted halfway up its bonnet, was lurking inside a lorry
at the Elbeward edge of the Brigade pool at Hamburg,
shadowed except for its headlamps, stalked eyes of a
friendly alien smiling at Roger. Welcome there, Earthman.
Once under way, he discovered the floor strewn with roll-
ing unlabeled glass jars of what seems to be baby food,
weird unhealthy-colored: stuff no human baby could pos-
sibly eat and survive, green marbled with pink, vomit-
beige with magenta inclusions, all impossible to identify,
each cap adorneed with a smiling, fat, cherubic baby,
seething under the bright glass with horrible botulism
.
toxins ânâ ptomaines...now and then a new jar will be
produced, spontaneously, under the seat, and roll out,
against all laws of acceleration, among the pedals for his
feet to get confused by. He knows he ought to look back
underneath there to find out whatâs going on, but canât
quite bring himself to.
Bottles roll clanking on the floor, under the bonnet a
hung-up tappet or two chatters its story of discomfort.
Wild mustard whips past down the center of the Auto-
bahn, perfectly two-tone, just yellow and green, a fateful
river seen only by the two kinds of rippling light. Roger
sings to a girl in Cuxhaven who still carries Jessicaâs name:
I dream that I have found us both again,
With spring so many strangersâ lives away,
And we, so free,
Out walking by the sea,
;
With someone elseâs paper words to say...
They took us at the gates of green return,
Too lost by then to stop, and ask them whyâ
Do children meet again?
Does any trace remain,
Along the superhighways of July?
|
;
|
|
Driving now suddenly into such a bright gold bearding of
slope and field that he nearly forgets to steer around the
banked curve....
.
aie
- The Counterforce
731
A week before she left, she came out to âThe White
Visitationâ for the last time. Except for the negligible
rump of PISCES, the place was a loony bin again. The
barrage-balloon cables lay rusting across the sodden mead-
ows, going to flakes, to ions and earthâtendons that sang
in the violent nights, among the sirens wailing in thirds
smooth as distant wind, among the drumbeats of bombs,
now lying slack, old, in hard twists of metal ash. Forget-
me-nots boil everywhere underfoot, and ants crowd, bus-
tlng with a sense
of kingdom. Commas, brimstones,
painted ladies coast on the thermoclines along the cliffs.
Jessica has cut fringes since Roger saw her last, and is
going through the usual anxietyââIt looks utterly hor-
rible, you donât have to say it... .â
âItâs utterly swoony,â sez Roger, âI love it.â
âYou're making fun.â.
site why are we talking about haircuts for God's
sake
While somewhere, out beyond the Channel, a barrier
difficult as the wall of Death to a novice medium, Leften-
ant Slothrop, corrupted, given up on, creeps over the face
of the Zone. Roger doesnât want to give him up: Roger
wants to do what's right. âI just canât leave the poor twit
out there, can I? Theyâre trying to destroy himââ
But, âRoger,â sheâd smile, âitâs spring. We're at peace.â
No, weâre not. Itâs another bit of propaganda. Something
the P.W.E. planted. Now gentlemen as you've seen from
the studies our optimum time is 8 May, just before the
traditional Whitsun exodus, schools letting out, weather
projections for an excellent growing season, coal require-
ments beginning their seasonal decline, giving us a few
monthsâ grace to get our Ruhr interests back on their feetâ
no, he sees only the same flows. of power, the same
impoverishments heâs been thrashing around in since "39.
His girl is about to. be taken away to Germany, when she
ought to be demobbed like everyone else. No channel up-
wardâ that will show either of them any hope of escape.
Thereâs something still on, donât call it a âwarâ if it makes
you nervous, maybe the-death rateâs gone down a point or
two, beer in cans is back at last and there were a lot of
people in Trafalgar Square one night no so long ago...
but Their enterprise goes on.
The End of a Wartime Fling
- The transition from war to peace dissolves the bond between Roger and Jessica, as the danger that united them disappears.
- Jessica views the war as a temporary condition that allowed for their romance, whereas Roger remains psychologically trapped in its 'strange version.'
- The 'Old Beaver' Jeremy represents the return to institutional order and safety, contrasting with Roger's chaotic, 'incendiary' nature.
- Jessica begins to perceive Roger and Slothrop as 'rocket-creatures' whose identities are uncomfortably tied to the terror of the Blitz.
- The 'Counterforce' of their love is defeated by the 'enterprise' of the higher powers who dictate the new post-war reality.
The day the rockets stopped falling, it began to end for Roger and Jessica.
- The Counterforce
731
A week before she left, she came out to âThe White
Visitationâ for the last time. Except for the negligible
rump of PISCES, the place was a loony bin again. The
barrage-balloon cables lay rusting across the sodden mead-
ows, going to flakes, to ions and earthâtendons that sang
in the violent nights, among the sirens wailing in thirds
smooth as distant wind, among the drumbeats of bombs,
now lying slack, old, in hard twists of metal ash. Forget-
me-nots boil everywhere underfoot, and ants crowd, bus-
tlng with a sense
of kingdom. Commas, brimstones,
painted ladies coast on the thermoclines along the cliffs.
Jessica has cut fringes since Roger saw her last, and is
going through the usual anxietyââIt looks utterly hor-
rible, you donât have to say it... .â
âItâs utterly swoony,â sez Roger, âI love it.â
âYou're making fun.â.
site why are we talking about haircuts for God's
sake
While somewhere, out beyond the Channel, a barrier
difficult as the wall of Death to a novice medium, Leften-
ant Slothrop, corrupted, given up on, creeps over the face
of the Zone. Roger doesnât want to give him up: Roger
wants to do what's right. âI just canât leave the poor twit
out there, can I? Theyâre trying to destroy himââ
But, âRoger,â sheâd smile, âitâs spring. We're at peace.â
No, weâre not. Itâs another bit of propaganda. Something
the P.W.E. planted. Now gentlemen as you've seen from
the studies our optimum time is 8 May, just before the
traditional Whitsun exodus, schools letting out, weather
projections for an excellent growing season, coal require-
ments beginning their seasonal decline, giving us a few
monthsâ grace to get our Ruhr interests back on their feetâ
no, he sees only the same flows. of power, the same
impoverishments heâs been thrashing around in since "39.
His girl is about to. be taken away to Germany, when she
ought to be demobbed like everyone else. No channel up-
wardâ that will show either of them any hope of escape.
Thereâs something still on, donât call it a âwarâ if it makes
you nervous, maybe the-death rateâs gone down a point or
two, beer in cans is back at last and there were a lot of
people in Trafalgar Square one night no so long ago...
but Their enterprise goes on.
732
Gravity's RAInBow
The sad fact, lacerating his heart, laying open his empti-
ness, is that Jessica believes Them. âThe Warâ was the
* condition she needed for being with Roger. âPeaceâ allows
her to leave him. His resources, next to Theirs, are too
meager. He has no words, no technically splendid em-
brace, no aa
fit that can ever hold her. Old Beaver,
not surprisingly, will be doing air-defense liaison over
there, so they'll be together in romantic Cuxhaven. Ta-ta
mad Roger, itâs been grand, a wartime fling, when we came
it was utterly incendiary, your arms open wide as a
Fortressâs wings, we had our military secrets, we fooled
the fat old colonels right and left but stand-down time
must come to all, yikes! I must run sweet Roger really itâs
been dreamy....
He would fall at her knees smelling of glycerine and
rose-water, he would lick sand and salt from her ATS
brogans, offer her his freedom, his next 50 yearsâ pay from
a good steady job, his poor throbbing brain. But itâs too
late. We're at Peace. The paranoia, the danger, the tune-
less whistling of busy Death next door, are all put to
sleep, back in the War, back with her Roger Mexico
Years. The day the rockets stopped falling, it began to end
for Roger and Jessica. As it grew clear, day after safe day,
that no more would fall ever again, the new world crept
into and over her like springânot so much the changes
she felt in air and light, in the crowds at Woolworthâs, as
a bad cinema spring, full of paper leaves and cotton-wool
blossoms and phony lighting...no, never again will she
stand at their kitchen sink with a china cup squeaking in
her fingers, its small crying-child sound defenseless, meekly
resonating BLOWN OUT OF ATTENTION AS THE
' ROCKET FELL emg: to a clatter of points white and
blue across the floor. .
Those death-rockets-1 now are in the past. This time she'll
be on the firing end, she and Jeremyâisnât that how it
was always meant to be? firing them out to sea: no death,
only the spectacle, fire and roar, the excitement without
the killing, isnât that what she prayed for? back in the
fading house, derequisitioned now, occupied again by |
human extensions of ball-fringe, dog pictures, Victorian
chairs, secret piles of News of the World in the upstairs
closet.
The Counterforce
733
Sheâs meant to go. The orders come from higher than
she can reach. Her future is with the Worldâs own, and
Roger's only with this strange version of the War he still
carries with him. He canât move, poor dear, it won't let
him go. Still passive as he'd been under the rockets.
Roger the victim. Jeremy the firer. âThe War's my mother,â
he said the first day, and Jessica has wondered what ladies
in black appeared in his dreams, what ash-white smiles,
what shears to.come snapping through the room, through
their winter ...so much of him she never: got to know
...so much unfit for Peace. Already sheâs beginning to
think of their time as a chain of explosions, craziness
ganged to the rhythms of the War. Now he wants to go
rescue Slothrop, another rocket-creature,
a vampire whose
sex life actually fed on the terror of that Rocket Blitzâ
ugh, creepy, creepy. They ought to lock him up, not set
_him free. Roger must care more about Slothrop than about
her, they're two of a kind, aren't they, wellâshe hopes
they'll be happy together. They.can sit and drink beer,
tell rocket stories, scribble equations for each other. How
jolly. At least she won't be leaving him in a vacuum. He
won't be lonely, hell have something
to occupy the
time. .
She has wandered away from him, down the beach. The
sun is so bright today that the shadows by her Achilles
tendon are drawn sharp and black as seams up the heel
of a silk stocking. Her head, as always, is bent forward,
away, the bare nape heâs never stopped loving, will never
see again, unprotected as her beauty, her innocence of
- how forever in peril it moves through the World. She may
know a little, may think of herself, face and body, as
âprettyâ <.. but he could never tell her all the rest, how
many other living things, birds, nights smelling of grass
and rain, sunlit moments of simple peace, also gather in
what she is to him. Was. He is losing more than single
Jessica: heâs losing a full range of life, of being for the
first time at ease in the Creation. Going back to winter
now, drawing back into his single envelope. The effort it
5 to extend any further is more than he can make
one.
He hadnât thought heâd cry when she left. But he cried.
Snot by the cubic yard, eyes like red carnations. Presently,
The Pain of Separation
- Roger Mexico experiences a profound sense of loss as Jessica wanders away, feeling he is losing his connection to the entire 'Creation.'
- The emotional toll of their parting manifests physically for Roger, resulting in uncontrollable crying and psychosomatic pain.
- Milton Gloaming interrupts Roger's mourning with intelligence regarding the surveillance of Tyrone Slothrop.
- The text details the complex bureaucratic struggle between Nazi Party offices and the German military for control over industrial intelligence.
- It is revealed that the IG Farben conglomerate created a specific department, 'Sparte IV,' dedicated solely to the surveillance of Slothrop.
- The narrative highlights how technology and intelligence become 'braid-crowned' prizes fought over by competing political and military factions.
The sun is so bright today that the shadows by her Achilles tendon are drawn sharp and black as seams up the heel of a silk stocking.
The Counterforce
733
Sheâs meant to go. The orders come from higher than
she can reach. Her future is with the Worldâs own, and
Roger's only with this strange version of the War he still
carries with him. He canât move, poor dear, it won't let
him go. Still passive as he'd been under the rockets.
Roger the victim. Jeremy the firer. âThe War's my mother,â
he said the first day, and Jessica has wondered what ladies
in black appeared in his dreams, what ash-white smiles,
what shears to.come snapping through the room, through
their winter ...so much of him she never: got to know
...so much unfit for Peace. Already sheâs beginning to
think of their time as a chain of explosions, craziness
ganged to the rhythms of the War. Now he wants to go
rescue Slothrop, another rocket-creature,
a vampire whose
sex life actually fed on the terror of that Rocket Blitzâ
ugh, creepy, creepy. They ought to lock him up, not set
_him free. Roger must care more about Slothrop than about
her, they're two of a kind, aren't they, wellâshe hopes
they'll be happy together. They.can sit and drink beer,
tell rocket stories, scribble equations for each other. How
jolly. At least she won't be leaving him in a vacuum. He
won't be lonely, hell have something
to occupy the
time. .
She has wandered away from him, down the beach. The
sun is so bright today that the shadows by her Achilles
tendon are drawn sharp and black as seams up the heel
of a silk stocking. Her head, as always, is bent forward,
away, the bare nape heâs never stopped loving, will never
see again, unprotected as her beauty, her innocence of
- how forever in peril it moves through the World. She may
know a little, may think of herself, face and body, as
âprettyâ <.. but he could never tell her all the rest, how
many other living things, birds, nights smelling of grass
and rain, sunlit moments of simple peace, also gather in
what she is to him. Was. He is losing more than single
Jessica: heâs losing a full range of life, of being for the
first time at ease in the Creation. Going back to winter
now, drawing back into his single envelope. The effort it
5 to extend any further is more than he can make
one.
He hadnât thought heâd cry when she left. But he cried.
Snot by the cubic yard, eyes like red carnations. Presently,
y
734
Gravity's Rainsow
every time his left foot hit the ground walking he'd get
a jolt of pain through half his skull. Ah, this must be what
they mean by the âpain of separation!â Pointsman kept
showing up with armloads of work. Roger found himself
unable to forget Jessica, and caring less about Slothrop.
But one day Milton Gloaming popped in to deliver him
from his unmoving. Gloaming was just back from a jaunt
through the Zone. Heâd found himself on a task force
with one Josef Schleim, a defector of secondary brilliance,
who had once worked for the IG out of Dr. Reithingerâs
office, VOWIâthe Statistical Department of NW7. There,
Schleim had been assigned to the American desk, gather-
ing for the IG economic intelligence, through subsidiaries
and licensees like Chemnyco, General Aniline and Film,
Ansco, Winthrop. In â36 he came to England to work for
Imperial Chemicals, in a status that was never to be free
from ambiguities. Heâd heard of Slothrop, yes indeed...
recalled him from the old days. When Lyle Bland went
out on his last transmural journey, thereâd been Green
Reports flapping through the IG offices for weeks, Geheime
Kommandosache, rumors
coupling and uncoupling like
coal-tar molecules under pressure, all to do with who was
likely to take over the Slots surveillance, now. that
Bland was gone.
This was toward the besitiritied of the great struggle for
the IGâs intelligence machinery. The economic department
of the foreign office and the foreign department of the
economic office were both after it. So were the military,
in particular the Wehrwirtschaftstab, a section of the Gen-
eral Staff that maintained OKWâs liaison with industry.
The IGâs own liaison with OKW was handled by Ver-
mittlungsstelle W, under Drs. Dieckmann and Gorr. The
picture was further confused by the usual duplicate Nazi
Party offices, Abwehr-Organizations, set up throughout
German industry after 1933. The. Nazisâ watchdog over
the IG was called âAbteilung Aâ and was set up in the
same office building asâin fact, it appeared perfectly
congruent withâthe IGâs own Army
liaison
group, Ver-
mittlungsstelle W. But Technology, alas, braid-crowned
and gold-thighed maiden, always comes up
for grabs like
this. Most likely the bitching and bickering of Army vs.
Party was what finally drove Schleim over the hill, more
The Counterforce
735).
than any moral feelings about Hitler. In any case, he re-
members Slothrop surveillance being assigned to a newly
created âSparte IVâ under Vermittlungsstelle W. Sparte I
was handling nitrogen and gasoline, II dyes, chemicals,
buna rubber, pharmaceuticals,
III film and fibers. IV
handled Slothrop and nothing else, exceptâSchleim had
heard tellâone or two miscellaneous patents acquired
through some dealings with IG Chemie in Switzerland. An
analgesic whose name he couldnât recall, and a new plastic,
some name like Mipolam... âPolimex,â or something. ...
âSounds like that wouldâve come under Sparte II,â was
Gloamingâs only comment at the time.
âA few directors were upset,â Schleim agreed. âTer
Meer was a Draufgangerâhe and Horlein both, go-ahead
fellows. They might have got it back.â
âDid the Party assign an Abwehr man to this Sparte
Iv?â
âThey must have, but I donât know if he was SD or SS.
_
There were so many of them around. I can remember
some sort of rather thin chap with thick eyeglasses coming
out of the office there once or twice. But he wore civilian
clothes. Couldnât tell you his name.â
Well now whatân the bloddy âell. ...
âSurveillance?â Roger is fidgeting heavily, with his hair,
his necktie, ears, nose, knuckles, âIG Farben had Slothrop
under surveillance? Before the War? What for, Gloaming.â
âOdd, isnât itPâ Cheerio boing out the door without
another word, leaving Roger alone with a most disagree-
able light beginning to grow, the leading edge of a revela-
tion, blinding, crescent, at the periphery of his brain. IG
Farben, eh? Mr. Pointsman has been chumming, almost
exclusively these days, with upper echelon from ICI. ICI
has cartel arrangements with Farben. The bastard. Why,
he must have known about Slothrop all along. The Jamf
business was only a front for...-well say what the hell
is going on here?
_
Halfway up to London (Pointsman has repossessed the
Jaguar, so Rogerâs on a motorcycle from the PISCES pool,
which consists now only of the cycle and one Morris with
virtually-no clutch) it occurs to him that Gloaming was
sent around deliberately by Pointsman, as some obscure
tactic in this Nayland Smith campaign he seems to be into
The Leading Edge of Revelation
- Roger Mexico discovers a potential link between IG Farben and Slothrop's pre-war surveillance, suggesting a deeper conspiracy than previously imagined.
- Mexico realizes that Pointsman has likely known about the Slothrop connection all along, using the 'Jamf business' as a convenient front.
- The realization dawns that Pointsman is manipulating everyone around him, including using his connections with ICI and cartel arrangements with Farben.
- Roger suspects that Gloaming's visit was a deliberate tactic by Pointsman to provoke a specific reaction or revelation.
- The protagonist experiences a moment of profound betrayal, realizing Pointsman may even be influencing Jessica's military orders to keep her away.
- Roger arrives at Twelfth House in a state of homicidal fury, navigating a decaying urban landscape marked by death and military overflights.
Cheerio boing out the door without another word, leaving Roger alone with a most disagreeable light beginning to grow, the leading edge of a revelation, blinding, crescent, at the periphery of his brain.
The Counterforce
735).
than any moral feelings about Hitler. In any case, he re-
members Slothrop surveillance being assigned to a newly
created âSparte IVâ under Vermittlungsstelle W. Sparte I
was handling nitrogen and gasoline, II dyes, chemicals,
buna rubber, pharmaceuticals,
III film and fibers. IV
handled Slothrop and nothing else, exceptâSchleim had
heard tellâone or two miscellaneous patents acquired
through some dealings with IG Chemie in Switzerland. An
analgesic whose name he couldnât recall, and a new plastic,
some name like Mipolam... âPolimex,â or something. ...
âSounds like that wouldâve come under Sparte II,â was
Gloamingâs only comment at the time.
âA few directors were upset,â Schleim agreed. âTer
Meer was a Draufgangerâhe and Horlein both, go-ahead
fellows. They might have got it back.â
âDid the Party assign an Abwehr man to this Sparte
Iv?â
âThey must have, but I donât know if he was SD or SS.
_
There were so many of them around. I can remember
some sort of rather thin chap with thick eyeglasses coming
out of the office there once or twice. But he wore civilian
clothes. Couldnât tell you his name.â
Well now whatân the bloddy âell. ...
âSurveillance?â Roger is fidgeting heavily, with his hair,
his necktie, ears, nose, knuckles, âIG Farben had Slothrop
under surveillance? Before the War? What for, Gloaming.â
âOdd, isnât itPâ Cheerio boing out the door without
another word, leaving Roger alone with a most disagree-
able light beginning to grow, the leading edge of a revela-
tion, blinding, crescent, at the periphery of his brain. IG
Farben, eh? Mr. Pointsman has been chumming, almost
exclusively these days, with upper echelon from ICI. ICI
has cartel arrangements with Farben. The bastard. Why,
he must have known about Slothrop all along. The Jamf
business was only a front for...-well say what the hell
is going on here?
_
Halfway up to London (Pointsman has repossessed the
Jaguar, so Rogerâs on a motorcycle from the PISCES pool,
which consists now only of the cycle and one Morris with
virtually-no clutch) it occurs to him that Gloaming was
sent around deliberately by Pointsman, as some obscure
tactic in this Nayland Smith campaign he seems to be into
\
736
Gravityâs RAINBOW
(Pointsman owns a matched set of all the books in Sax
Rohmerâs great Manichaean saga, and is apt these days to
pop in at any time, usually while Roger is sleeping or
trying to take a quiet, shit, and actually stand there, in
front of the toilet, reading aloud a pertinent text). Nothing
is beyond Pointsman, heâs worse than old Pudding was, no
shame at all. He would use anyoneâGloaming, Katje
Borgesius, Pirate Prentice, no one is (Jessica) exempt from
his (Jessica? ) Machiavellianâ
Jessica. Oh. Yes ofcourseofcourse Mexico you fucking
idiot
...no wonder the 137th gave him the runaround.
No wonder her orders came from Too High. He had even,
lamb frolicking about the spit, asked Pointsman to see
what he could do, . .. Fool. Fool.
He arrives at Twelfth House on Gallaho Mews in a
_ homicidal state of mind. Bicycle thieves run down the
back streets, old pros wheeling them three abreast at a
good pace. Young men with natty mustaches preen in the
windows. Children loot the dustbins. Courtyard corners
are drifted with official papers, the shed skin of a Beast at
large. A tree has inexplicably withered in the street to
a shingly black corpse. A fly lands belly-up on the front
fender of Rogerâs motorcycle, thrashes ten seconds, folds
its veined and sensitive wings, and dies. Quick as that.
First one Roger has ever seen. P-47s fly over in squadron
box formations, four checkmarks apiece RedWhiteBlue-
Yellow on the unamended. form of the whitish sky, squad-
ron after squadron: it is either some military review, or
another war. A plasterer is busy around the corner, smooth-
ing over a bomb-scarred wall, plaster heaped on his hawk
luscious as cream cheese, using an unfamiliar trowel in-
herited from a dead friend, still, these first days, digging
holes like an apprentice, the shiny knife-edge not yet
broken to his hand, the curl of it a bit more than his own
strength could have ever brought it to... Henry was a
larger bloke....The fly, who was not sip unfolds its
wings and zooms off to fool somebody else.
All right Pointsman
stomping into Twelth House,
rattling the corkboards down the seven hallways and
flights, receptionists making long arms fon
|the tole
dammit now where are youâ
- Not in his office. But Géza Rézsavélgyi is, and tries to
Confrontation in Pointsman's Office
- Roger Mexico aggressively searches for Pointsman, engaging in a hostile and absurdist confrontation with the assistant Géza Rézsavélgyi.
- The scene devolves into slapstick comedy as Rézsavélgyi attempts to defend himself with a broken chair base that resembles a cross.
- A secretary intervenes by hitting Roger with tax records, leading to a cruel moment where Roger intentionally smashes her rhinestone-encrusted glasses.
- The narrative shifts to describe a mysterious 'shadow-corner' in the office where Pointsman claims he is the only place he feels truly alive.
- This 'optic anomaly' is a source of gossip and mockery among government officials, who joke about the room being haunted or requiring psychic investigation.
Pointsman had only looked apologetic, not for himself but to something for Rézsavélgyi, and said gently; 'This is one spot in the room where I feel alive.'
\
736
Gravityâs RAINBOW
(Pointsman owns a matched set of all the books in Sax
Rohmerâs great Manichaean saga, and is apt these days to
pop in at any time, usually while Roger is sleeping or
trying to take a quiet, shit, and actually stand there, in
front of the toilet, reading aloud a pertinent text). Nothing
is beyond Pointsman, heâs worse than old Pudding was, no
shame at all. He would use anyoneâGloaming, Katje
Borgesius, Pirate Prentice, no one is (Jessica) exempt from
his (Jessica? ) Machiavellianâ
Jessica. Oh. Yes ofcourseofcourse Mexico you fucking
idiot
...no wonder the 137th gave him the runaround.
No wonder her orders came from Too High. He had even,
lamb frolicking about the spit, asked Pointsman to see
what he could do, . .. Fool. Fool.
He arrives at Twelfth House on Gallaho Mews in a
_ homicidal state of mind. Bicycle thieves run down the
back streets, old pros wheeling them three abreast at a
good pace. Young men with natty mustaches preen in the
windows. Children loot the dustbins. Courtyard corners
are drifted with official papers, the shed skin of a Beast at
large. A tree has inexplicably withered in the street to
a shingly black corpse. A fly lands belly-up on the front
fender of Rogerâs motorcycle, thrashes ten seconds, folds
its veined and sensitive wings, and dies. Quick as that.
First one Roger has ever seen. P-47s fly over in squadron
box formations, four checkmarks apiece RedWhiteBlue-
Yellow on the unamended. form of the whitish sky, squad-
ron after squadron: it is either some military review, or
another war. A plasterer is busy around the corner, smooth-
ing over a bomb-scarred wall, plaster heaped on his hawk
luscious as cream cheese, using an unfamiliar trowel in-
herited from a dead friend, still, these first days, digging
holes like an apprentice, the shiny knife-edge not yet
broken to his hand, the curl of it a bit more than his own
strength could have ever brought it to... Henry was a
larger bloke....The fly, who was not sip unfolds its
wings and zooms off to fool somebody else.
All right Pointsman
stomping into Twelth House,
rattling the corkboards down the seven hallways and
flights, receptionists making long arms fon
|the tole
dammit now where are youâ
- Not in his office. But Géza Rézsavélgyi is, and tries to
The Counterforce
737
give Roger a hard time. âYou are ma-king a spec-tacle of
your-self, young man.â
âShurrup you Transylvanian twit,â snarls Roger, âI'm
looking for the boss, see, one funny move out of you and
itâs your last taste of O-negative, Jackson, those fangs
won't even be able to gum oatmeal when Iâm through wiv
youââ Alarmed RoĂ©zsavĂ©lgyi; retreating around the water
cooler, tries to pick up a swivel chair to defend himself
with. The seat falls off, and Rézsavélgyi is left with only
the base, which happens, embarrassingly, to be shaped
like a cross.
âWhere is he,â Mexican standoff, Roger gritting his
teeth do not succumb to hysteria, it is a counter-produc-
tive luxury you cannot, in your present great vulnerability,
afford. ....âCome on you sod, tell me or you'll never see
the inside of a coffin againââ
In runs a short but spunky secretary, bit of a chubbette
here, and commences belting Roger in the shins with the
excess-profits tax records from 1940 to "44 of an English
steel firm which happened to share a patent with Ver-
einigte Stahlwerke for an alloy used in the liquid-oxygen
couplings for the line running aft to the S-Gerat in A4
number oooo0o. But Rogerâs shins are not set up for this
kind of information. The secretaryâs glasses fall off. âMiss
Miiller-Hochleben,â reading her nametag, âyou look beastly
without your glasses. Put ssem back on, at vuncelâ this
comic Nazi routine being inspired by her surname.
âI canât find them,â German accent all right, âI donât
see too well.â
âWell, we'll see if we canât help you hereâah! whatâs
_ this? Miss Miiller-Hochleben!â
âTa. hy a)
âWhat do they look like, these eyeglasses?â
âThey are whiteââ
âWith clever little rhinestones all around the rims, Frau-
lein? eh?â
:
âJa, ja, und mitââ
âAnd running down all the earpieces too, a-and feathers?â
âOstrich feathers. . . .â
âMale ostrich feathers, dyed a stunning peacock blue,
sprouting off the edges?â
â
\
â
}
3
iS a
y
738
Gravityâs RAInsow |
âThat is my eyeglasses, ja,â sez the groping secretary,
âwhere are they, please?â
âRight here!â bringing his foot down CRUNCH, smash-
ing them to bright arctic gatherings all over Pointsmanâs
rug.
âT-say,â offers RĂ©zsavĂ©lgyi from a far comer: the one
corner of the room, by the way, which is not brightly lit,
yes kind of an optic anomaly here, just a straight, square
room, no odd-shaped polyhedrons in Twelfth House . . . and
still, this strange, unaccountable prism of shadow in the
comer .., more than one visitor has popped in to find Mr.
Pointsman not at his desk where he ought to be but stand-
ing in the shadow-cornerâmost disturbingly facing into it.
... RĂ©zsavĂ©lgyi is not himself that fond of the Corner, heâs
tried it a few times but only came out shaking his head:
âMis-ter Pointsman, I-donât like it in there, at all. What
poss-ible kind, of a thrill can an-yone get, from such an
unwholesome experience. Eh?â raising one crookedly wist-
ful eyebrow. Pointsman had only looked apologetic, not
for himself but to something for Rézsavélgyi, and said
gently; âThis is one spot in the room where I feel alive,â
well bet your ass one or two. memos went up toward
Ministerial level over that one. If they reached âthe Minister
himself, it was probably as office entertainment. âOh yes,
yes,â shaking his wise old head of sheepâs wool, high,
almost Slavic cheekbones crinkling his eyes up into an
inattentive but polite laughter, âyes Pointsmanâs famous
Corner, yes... wouldnât be surprised if it was haunted,
eh?â Reflex laughs from the underlings present, though
only grim smiles from the overlings. âGet the S.P.R. in, to
have a look,â giggles someone with a cigar. âThe poor
bloke will think heâs back in the War again.â âHear, hear,â
and, âThatâs a good one, all right,â ring through the layer-
ing smoke. Practical jokes are all the rage among these
particular underlings, a kind of class tradition.
âYou say what,â Roger has been screaming for a while,
âT-say,â sez RĂ©zsavilgyi, again.
zt
âYou say, âI sayâ? Is that itP Then you should have said,
âI say, âI say.âââ
*
biche
/
pe
âT did.â
6 Oe
âNo, noâyou said, âI say,â once, is what youââ
âA-ha! But I said it again. I-said it . .. twice.â
he
The Counterforce Hallucinations
- A chaotic scene unfolds involving a linguistic argument between Roger and Rézsavölgyi that spirals into a breakdown of individual identity.
- The environment becomes increasingly surreal and cruel, marked by the mistreatment of FrĂ€ulein MĂŒller-Hochleben amidst a backdrop of practical jokes.
- Rézsavölgyi experiences a visual and spatial distortion where the physical room loses its solidity and begins to flow like liquid fabric.
- The narrative shifts into a vivid, tropical hallucination of a crash-landing on a stereotypical, kitschy island paradise.
- The sequence concludes with a moment of unsettling recognition as a masked pilot reveals familiar eyes to Rézsavölgyi.
The wallsâthey donât appear to be... well, solid, actually. They flow: a coarse, a viscous passage, rippling like a standing piece of silk or nylon.
y
738
Gravityâs RAInsow |
âThat is my eyeglasses, ja,â sez the groping secretary,
âwhere are they, please?â
âRight here!â bringing his foot down CRUNCH, smash-
ing them to bright arctic gatherings all over Pointsmanâs
rug.
âT-say,â offers RĂ©zsavĂ©lgyi from a far comer: the one
corner of the room, by the way, which is not brightly lit,
yes kind of an optic anomaly here, just a straight, square
room, no odd-shaped polyhedrons in Twelfth House . . . and
still, this strange, unaccountable prism of shadow in the
comer .., more than one visitor has popped in to find Mr.
Pointsman not at his desk where he ought to be but stand-
ing in the shadow-cornerâmost disturbingly facing into it.
... RĂ©zsavĂ©lgyi is not himself that fond of the Corner, heâs
tried it a few times but only came out shaking his head:
âMis-ter Pointsman, I-donât like it in there, at all. What
poss-ible kind, of a thrill can an-yone get, from such an
unwholesome experience. Eh?â raising one crookedly wist-
ful eyebrow. Pointsman had only looked apologetic, not
for himself but to something for Rézsavélgyi, and said
gently; âThis is one spot in the room where I feel alive,â
well bet your ass one or two. memos went up toward
Ministerial level over that one. If they reached âthe Minister
himself, it was probably as office entertainment. âOh yes,
yes,â shaking his wise old head of sheepâs wool, high,
almost Slavic cheekbones crinkling his eyes up into an
inattentive but polite laughter, âyes Pointsmanâs famous
Corner, yes... wouldnât be surprised if it was haunted,
eh?â Reflex laughs from the underlings present, though
only grim smiles from the overlings. âGet the S.P.R. in, to
have a look,â giggles someone with a cigar. âThe poor
bloke will think heâs back in the War again.â âHear, hear,â
and, âThatâs a good one, all right,â ring through the layer-
ing smoke. Practical jokes are all the rage among these
particular underlings, a kind of class tradition.
âYou say what,â Roger has been screaming for a while,
âT-say,â sez RĂ©zsavilgyi, again.
zt
âYou say, âI sayâ? Is that itP Then you should have said,
âI say, âI say.âââ
*
biche
/
pe
âT did.â
6 Oe
âNo, noâyou said, âI say,â once, is what youââ
âA-ha! But I said it again. I-said it . .. twice.â
he
The Counterforce
739
âBut that was after I asked you the questionâyou canât
tell me the two âI sayâs were both part of the same state-
ment,â unless, âthatâs asking me to be unreasonably,â unless
itâs really true that, âcredulous, and around you thatâs a
form of,â that we're the same person, and that the whole
exchange was ONE SINGLE THOUGHT yaaagggbhh
and that means, âinsanity, RĂ©zsavolgyiââ
âMy glasses,â snivels Fraulein Miiller-Hochleben, now
crawling around the room, Mexico scattering the glass
splinters with his shoe so that now and then the unfortu-
nate girl will cut a hand or a knee, beginning to trail dark
little feathers of blood for inches at a time, eventually
âassuming she were
to last long enoughâdotting in
_Pointsmanâs rug like the train of a Beardsley gown.
âYou're doing fine, Miss Miller-Hochleben!â cries Roger
encouragingly, âand as for you, youââ but is stopped on
noticing how Rdézsavélgyi now is nearly invisible in the
shadow, and how the whites of his eyes are actually
glowing white, jittering around in the air, winking-out-
coming-back ... it is costing Rdézsavélgyi an effort to stay
in this shadow-corner. It is not, at all, his sort of place.
For one thing, the rest of the room seems to be at more
of a distance, as through the view-finder on a camera. And
the wallsâthey donât appear to be... well, solid, actually.
They flow: a coarse, a viscous passage, rippling like a
standing piece of silk or nylon, the color watery gray but
now and then with a surprise island in the flow, some color
absolutely foreign to this room:
saffron spindles, palm-
) green ovals, magenta firths rmmmning comblike into jagged
comicbook-orange chunks of island as the wounded fighter-
_ plane circles, jettisons the tanks, then the silver canopy,
sets the flaps to just above a stall; wheels up as the blue
(suddenly, such a violent blue!) rushes in just before
impact throttle closed uhhnnhh! oh shit the reef, we're
going to smash up on theâoh. Oh, thereâs no reef? We-
we're safeP We are! Mangoes, I see mangoes on that tree
over there! a-and thereâs a girlâthereâs
a lotta girlsl
-Lookit, theyâre all gorgeous, their tits point straight out,
_and theyâre all swinginâ those grass skirts, playinâ ukuleles
âand singing (though why are the voices so hard and
â ot so nasally like the voices of an American chorus
\
er
)â
740
Gravirtyâs Rainsow
White man welcome ta Puke-a-hook-a-look-i I-i-i-island!
One taste oâ my pa-paya and y'll never wanna go
a-waaaay!
Moon like a yel-low ba-na-na,
Hanginâ over, my ca-ba-na,
And lotsa hula, hula games to playâ
Oh the stars are fallinâ over Puke-a-hook-a-look-i Island,
And the lava down the mountainâs runninâ scrump-shus as
a cherry pieâ
Even Sweet Leilani in the Little Grass Shack
Loves a coconut monkey and a missionary snack,
Looky-looky, sugar cookie, youâre on Puke-a-hook-a-look-i
1-i-i-islandl
O-boy, o-boyâgo-ing to nail me, one, of those lit-tle is-land
love-lies, spend, the rest... of my life, eat-ing pa-pay-as,
fra-grant as the cunt, of young paradiseâ
When paradise was young. The pilot is turning to
Rézsavolgyi, who is still strapped in safety harness behind
him. The face is covered with helmet, goggles that reflect
too much light, oxygen maskâa face of metal, leather,
isinglass. But now the pilot is raising the goggles, slowly,
and whose eyes are these, so familiar, smiling hello, I know
you, donât you know me? Donât you really know me?
Rézsavilgyi screams and backs out of the corner, shiver-
ing, blinded now in the overhead lights, Fraulein Miller-
Hochleben is crawling around and around in the same
circle, faster and faster, nearly a blur, croaking hysteri-
cally. Both have reached the exact level Rogerâs subtle
psychological campaign here was intended to work them
up to. Quietly but firmly: âRight. Now for the last time,
where is Mr. Pointsman?â
âMossmoonâs office,â they reply, in unison.
Mossmoonâs office is a roller-skate ride away from White-
hall, and guarded by room after room of sentinel girls,
each of them wearing a frock of a radically different color
from the others (and this goes on for a while, so you can
imagine what 3-sigma colors these are to begin with, if
that many can be so âradically different,â
you know, like
thatâoh, colors such as lizard, evening
star, pale Atlantis
to name a few), and whom Roger ro
2s, bribes, threat-
ens, double-talks and (sigh) yes punches his way through
till finally âMossmoon,â pounding on this gigantic oak
Roger Mexico's Defiant Stand
- Roger Mexico successfully concludes a psychological campaign to extract Pointsman's location from Rézsavilgyi and Fraulein Miller-Hochleben.
- Roger aggressively navigates a gauntlet of colorful sentinels to reach the high-level meeting where Pointsman is hiding.
- Interrupting a gathering of powerful, decorated men, Roger physically desecrates their space by jumping on their polished table.
- In a visceral act of rebellion against the establishment, Roger urinates on the executives and their prestigious symbols of authority.
- Roger delivers a chilling ultimatum to Pointsman, promising to haunt and sabotage him at every turn, regardless of the personal cost.
- The scene highlights the 'Counterforce' ethos, using absurdity and bodily functions to challenge the rigid structures of power.
Roger has unbuttoned his fly, taken his cock out, and is now busy pissing on the shiny table, the papers, in the ashtrays and pretty soon on these poker-faced men themselves.
740
Gravirtyâs Rainsow
White man welcome ta Puke-a-hook-a-look-i I-i-i-island!
One taste oâ my pa-paya and y'll never wanna go
a-waaaay!
Moon like a yel-low ba-na-na,
Hanginâ over, my ca-ba-na,
And lotsa hula, hula games to playâ
Oh the stars are fallinâ over Puke-a-hook-a-look-i Island,
And the lava down the mountainâs runninâ scrump-shus as
a cherry pieâ
Even Sweet Leilani in the Little Grass Shack
Loves a coconut monkey and a missionary snack,
Looky-looky, sugar cookie, youâre on Puke-a-hook-a-look-i
1-i-i-islandl
O-boy, o-boyâgo-ing to nail me, one, of those lit-tle is-land
love-lies, spend, the rest... of my life, eat-ing pa-pay-as,
fra-grant as the cunt, of young paradiseâ
When paradise was young. The pilot is turning to
Rézsavolgyi, who is still strapped in safety harness behind
him. The face is covered with helmet, goggles that reflect
too much light, oxygen maskâa face of metal, leather,
isinglass. But now the pilot is raising the goggles, slowly,
and whose eyes are these, so familiar, smiling hello, I know
you, donât you know me? Donât you really know me?
Rézsavilgyi screams and backs out of the corner, shiver-
ing, blinded now in the overhead lights, Fraulein Miller-
Hochleben is crawling around and around in the same
circle, faster and faster, nearly a blur, croaking hysteri-
cally. Both have reached the exact level Rogerâs subtle
psychological campaign here was intended to work them
up to. Quietly but firmly: âRight. Now for the last time,
where is Mr. Pointsman?â
âMossmoonâs office,â they reply, in unison.
Mossmoonâs office is a roller-skate ride away from White-
hall, and guarded by room after room of sentinel girls,
each of them wearing a frock of a radically different color
from the others (and this goes on for a while, so you can
imagine what 3-sigma colors these are to begin with, if
that many can be so âradically different,â
you know, like
thatâoh, colors such as lizard, evening
star, pale Atlantis
to name a few), and whom Roger ro
2s, bribes, threat-
ens, double-talks and (sigh) yes punches his way through
till finally âMossmoon,â pounding on this gigantic oak
The Counterforce
âJAI
door, carved like the stone doorways of certain temples,
âPointsman, the jigâs up! In the name of whatever marginal
decency enables you to get through the day without being
shot dead by the odd armed stranger, open this door.â
This is quite a long speech, and the door actually opens
halfway through, but Roger finishes it up anyhow. Heâs
looking into a room of incandescent lemon-lime subdued
drastically, almost to the milky point of absinthe-and-
water, a room warmer than this tableful of faces really
deserves, but perhaps itâs Rogerâs entrance that deepens
the color a bit now as he runs and jumps on the polished
table, over the polished head of a director of a steel com-
pany, skidding 20 feet down the waxed surface to confront
the man at the end, who sits with a debonair
(well,
snotty) smile on his face. âMossmoon, Iâm on to you.â Has
he actually come inside, in among the hoods, eye-slits, gold
paraphernalia, the incense and the thighbone scepter?
âThatâs not Mossmoon,â Mr. Pointsman clearing his
throat as he speaks, âMexico do come down off the table
won't you... gentlemen, one of my old PISCES
col-
leagues, brilliant but rather unstable, as you mayâve noted
âoh, Mexico, reallyââ
Roger has unbuttoned his fly, taken his cock out, and is
now busy pissing on the shiny table, the papers, in the
ashtrays and pretty soon on these poker-faced men. them-
selves, who, although executive material all right, men of
hair-trigger minds, are still not quite willing to admit that
this is happening, you know; in any world that really touches,
at too many points, the one they're accustomed to... and
actually the fall of warm piss is quite pleasant as it sweeps
by, across ten-guinea crayats, creative-looking little beards,
|
up into a liver-spotted nostril, across a pair of Army-issue
steel-rim eyeglasses, slashing up and down starched fronts,
Phi Beta Kappa keys, Legions of Honour, Orders of Lenin,
Tron Crosses, V.C.s, retirement watchchains, Dewey-for-
President lapel pins, half-exposed service revolvers, and
even a sawed-off shotgun under the shoulder there....
âPointsman,â the cock, stubborn, annoyed, bucks like
an airship among purple clouds (very dense purple, as pile
velvet that color) at nightfall when the sea-breeze promises
a difficult landing, âIâve saved you for last. Butâgoodness,
I donât seem to have any urine left, here. Not even a drop.
s
742
Gravity's RAINBOW
I'm so sorry. Nothing left for you at all. Do you under-
stand? If it means giving my life,â the words have just
come out, and maybe Rogerâs exaggerating, but maybe
not, âthere will be nothing anywhere for you. What you
get, I'll take. If you go higher in this, Pll come and get
you, and take you back down. Wherever you go. Even
should you find a spare moment of rest, with an under-
standing woman in a quiet room, I'll be at the window.
Til always be just outside. You will never cancel me. If
you come out, I'll go in, and the room will be defiled for
you, haunted, and you'll have to find another. If you stay
inside I'll come in anywayâI'll stalk you room to room till
I corner you in the last. You'll have the last room, Points-
man, and you'll have to live in it the rest of your scum,
prostituted life.â
Pointsman wonât look at him. Wonât meet his eyes.
Thatâs what Roger wanted. The security police show up as
an anticlimax, although aficionados of the chase scene,
those who cannot look at the Taj Mahal, the Uffizi, the
Statue of Liberty without thinking chase scene, chase
scene, wow yeah Douglas Fairbanks scampering across
that moon minaret thereâthese enthusiasts may find inter-
est in the following:
Roger dives under the table to unbutton his fly and
the zealous flatties leap at each other over the top of the
table, colliding and cursing, but Roger has gone scuttling
down the horsehide, hobnailed, pinstriped, Mom âs-argyle-
socked sublevel of these conspirators above, a precarious
passage, any one foot could kick untelegraphed and wipe
him outâtill he arrives back at the bald steel-magnate,
reaches up, grabs him by the necktie or the cock, which-
ever itâs easiest to get a hold on, and drags the man down
under the table.
âRight. Now, we're going to get but of
here, and you're
my hostage, get it?â He emerges dragging the livid execu-
tive by his necktie or cock, pulling him like a childâs sleigh
strangling and apoplectic out the door, past the modally
unusual rainbow of sentinel-ladies now intimidated-looking
at least, sirens already wailing in the street MANIAC AS-
SAULTS OIL PARLEY Ousted After ââing
on Conferees and â
heâs out of the elevator by now running down a back >
corridor to a central-heating complex zoom! over the heads
Creative Paranoia and the Counterforce
- Roger Mexico confronts Pointsman with a psychological curse, vowing to haunt him and occupy his mental space forever.
- A chaotic escape ensues as Roger evades security by dragging a high-ranking executive hostage through a corporate building.
- Roger abandons his former life and possessions, embracing a state of 'anger unlimited' as he flees into the streets of London.
- Pirate Prentice introduces Roger to the concept of the 'We-system' as a necessary counterbalance to the 'They-system' of institutional power.
- The narrative defines 'creative paranoia' not as a search for truth, but as a method of organizing data into a functional resistance.
I'll stalk you room to room till I corner you in the last. You'll have the last room, Pointsman, and you'll have to live in it the rest of your scum, prostituted life.
742
Gravity's RAINBOW
I'm so sorry. Nothing left for you at all. Do you under-
stand? If it means giving my life,â the words have just
come out, and maybe Rogerâs exaggerating, but maybe
not, âthere will be nothing anywhere for you. What you
get, I'll take. If you go higher in this, Pll come and get
you, and take you back down. Wherever you go. Even
should you find a spare moment of rest, with an under-
standing woman in a quiet room, I'll be at the window.
Til always be just outside. You will never cancel me. If
you come out, I'll go in, and the room will be defiled for
you, haunted, and you'll have to find another. If you stay
inside I'll come in anywayâI'll stalk you room to room till
I corner you in the last. You'll have the last room, Points-
man, and you'll have to live in it the rest of your scum,
prostituted life.â
Pointsman wonât look at him. Wonât meet his eyes.
Thatâs what Roger wanted. The security police show up as
an anticlimax, although aficionados of the chase scene,
those who cannot look at the Taj Mahal, the Uffizi, the
Statue of Liberty without thinking chase scene, chase
scene, wow yeah Douglas Fairbanks scampering across
that moon minaret thereâthese enthusiasts may find inter-
est in the following:
Roger dives under the table to unbutton his fly and
the zealous flatties leap at each other over the top of the
table, colliding and cursing, but Roger has gone scuttling
down the horsehide, hobnailed, pinstriped, Mom âs-argyle-
socked sublevel of these conspirators above, a precarious
passage, any one foot could kick untelegraphed and wipe
him outâtill he arrives back at the bald steel-magnate,
reaches up, grabs him by the necktie or the cock, which-
ever itâs easiest to get a hold on, and drags the man down
under the table.
âRight. Now, we're going to get but of
here, and you're
my hostage, get it?â He emerges dragging the livid execu-
tive by his necktie or cock, pulling him like a childâs sleigh
strangling and apoplectic out the door, past the modally
unusual rainbow of sentinel-ladies now intimidated-looking
at least, sirens already wailing in the street MANIAC AS-
SAULTS OIL PARLEY Ousted After ââing
on Conferees and â
heâs out of the elevator by now running down a back >
corridor to a central-heating complex zoom! over the heads
- The Counterforce
743
of a couple of black custodians who are passing back and
forth a cigarette rolled from some West African narcotic
herb, stuffs his hostage into a gigantic furnace which is
banked for the spring (too bad), and flees out the back
way down an aisle of plane trees into a small. park, over
a fence zippety zop, fastfoot Roger and the London cops.
Thereâs nothing back at âThe White Visitationâ he really
needs. Nothing he canât let go. Clothes on his back and
the pool motorcycle, a pocket full of spare change and
anger unlimited, what more does a 30-year-old innocent
need to make his way in the city? âIâm fucking Dick Whit-
tington!â it occurs to him zooming down Kings Road, âI've
come to London! Iâm your Lord Mayor. ...â
Pirate is home, and apparently expecting Roger. Pieces
of his faithful Mendoza lie about the refectory table, shin-
ing with oil or bluing, wads, patches, rods, bottles occupy
his hands, but his eager eyes are on Roger.
âNo,â cutting into a denunciation of Pointsman when
Milton Gloamingâs name comes up, âitâs a minor item, but
stop right there. Pointsman didnât send him. We sent him.â
âWe.â
â
âYou're a novice paranoid, Roger,â first time Prentice
has ever used his Christian name and it touches Roger
|
enough to check his tirade. âOf course a well-developed
They-system is necessaryâbut itâs only half the story. For
every They there ought to be a We. In our case there is.
Creative paranoia means developing at least as thorough
a We-system as a They-systemââ
âWait, wait, first whereâs the Haig and Haig, be a gra-
cious host, second what is a âThey-system, I donât pull
Chebychevâs Theorem on you, do IPâ
âI mean what They and Their hired psychiatrists call
âdelusional systems.â Needless to say, âdelusionsâ are alwaysâ
officially defined. We donât have to worry about questions
of real or unreal. They only talk out of expediency. Itâs
the system that matters. How the data arrange themselves
inside it. Some are consistent, others fall apart. Your idea
that Pointsman sent Gloaming takes a wrong fork. Without
any contrary set of delusionsâdelusions about ourselves,
_which Iâm calling a We-systemâthe Gloaming idea might
have been.all rightââ
„
.
âDelusions about ourselves?â
\
i
The Chaos of the We-system
- The characters discuss the concept of a 'We-system' as a counter-narrative to the established 'They-systems' of power.
- Unlike the rational and interlocking systems of the enemy, the We-system is defined by its irrationality and lack of cohesion.
- Osbie Feel and others celebrate their rejection of rational arrangements, embracing a chaotic, drug-fueled defiance.
- Nora Dodson-Truck undergoes a messianic delusion, believing her literal identity is the Force of Gravity against which the Rocket struggles.
- The narrative describes the cruel practical jokes and supernatural humiliations Nora faces as she descends into her obsession.
- The group at Pirateâs maisonette unites through a 'counterforce traveling song,' signaling a communal but fragmented resistance.
âThatâs exactly it,â Osbie screams, belly-dancing Porky into a wide alarming grin, âThey're the rational ones. We piss on Their rational arrangements.â
- The Counterforce
743
of a couple of black custodians who are passing back and
forth a cigarette rolled from some West African narcotic
herb, stuffs his hostage into a gigantic furnace which is
banked for the spring (too bad), and flees out the back
way down an aisle of plane trees into a small. park, over
a fence zippety zop, fastfoot Roger and the London cops.
Thereâs nothing back at âThe White Visitationâ he really
needs. Nothing he canât let go. Clothes on his back and
the pool motorcycle, a pocket full of spare change and
anger unlimited, what more does a 30-year-old innocent
need to make his way in the city? âIâm fucking Dick Whit-
tington!â it occurs to him zooming down Kings Road, âI've
come to London! Iâm your Lord Mayor. ...â
Pirate is home, and apparently expecting Roger. Pieces
of his faithful Mendoza lie about the refectory table, shin-
ing with oil or bluing, wads, patches, rods, bottles occupy
his hands, but his eager eyes are on Roger.
âNo,â cutting into a denunciation of Pointsman when
Milton Gloamingâs name comes up, âitâs a minor item, but
stop right there. Pointsman didnât send him. We sent him.â
âWe.â
â
âYou're a novice paranoid, Roger,â first time Prentice
has ever used his Christian name and it touches Roger
|
enough to check his tirade. âOf course a well-developed
They-system is necessaryâbut itâs only half the story. For
every They there ought to be a We. In our case there is.
Creative paranoia means developing at least as thorough
a We-system as a They-systemââ
âWait, wait, first whereâs the Haig and Haig, be a gra-
cious host, second what is a âThey-system, I donât pull
Chebychevâs Theorem on you, do IPâ
âI mean what They and Their hired psychiatrists call
âdelusional systems.â Needless to say, âdelusionsâ are alwaysâ
officially defined. We donât have to worry about questions
of real or unreal. They only talk out of expediency. Itâs
the system that matters. How the data arrange themselves
inside it. Some are consistent, others fall apart. Your idea
that Pointsman sent Gloaming takes a wrong fork. Without
any contrary set of delusionsâdelusions about ourselves,
_which Iâm calling a We-systemâthe Gloaming idea might
have been.all rightââ
„
.
âDelusions about ourselves?â
\
i
ji
744
Graviryâs RaInsBow
âNot real ones.â
âBut officially defined.â
âOut of expediency, yes.â
âWell, youâre playing Their game, then.â
âDonât let it bother you. You'll find you can operate
quite well. Seeing as we haven't won yet, it isnât really
much of a problem.â
Roger is totally confused. At this point, in wanders who
but Milton Gloaming with a black man Roger recognizes
now as one of the two herb-smokers in the furnace room
under Clive Mossmoonâs office. His name is Jan Otyiyumbu,
and heâs a Schwarzkommando liaison man. One of Blodgett
Waxwingâs apache lieutenants shows up with his girl,
whoâs not walking so much as dancing, very fluid and
slow, a dance in which Osbie Feel, popping out of the
kitchen now with his shirt off (and a Porky Pig tattoo on
his stomach? How long has Feel had that?) correctly iden-
tifies the influence of heroin.
Itâs a little bewilderingâif this is a âWe-system,â why
isnât it at least thoughtful enough to interlock in a reason-
able way, like They-systems do?
âThatâs exactly it,â Osbie screams, belly-dancing Porky
into a wide alarming grin, âThey're the rational ones. We
piss on Their rational arrangements. Donât we . .
. Mexico?â
âHoorah!â cry the others. Well taken, Osbie.
Sir Stephen Dodson-Truck sits by the window, cleaning
a Sten. Outside, blowing over its dorsal and summer still-
ness, London today can feel advance chills of Austerity.
There isnât a word in Sir Stephenâs head right now. He is
completely involved with the weapon. He no longer thinks
about his wife, Nora, although sheâs out there, in some
room,
still surrounded by her planetary psychics, and
aimed herself now toward a peculiar fate. In recent weeks,
in true messianic style, it has come clear to her that her
real identity is, literally, the Force of Gravity. I am Grav-
ity, I am That against which the Rocket must struggle,
to which the prehistoric wastes submitâ and are trans-
muted to the very substance of History. .|.. Her wheeling â
freaks, her seers, teleporters, astral travelers and tragic â
human interfaces all know of her visitation, but none see
any way for her to turn. She must prove herself nowâfind
deeper forms of renunciation, deeper than Sabbatai Zvi's
apostasy before the Sublime Porte. It is a situation not
The Counterforce
:
745
without its chances for a grood practical joke now and then
âpoor Nora will be suckered into sĂ©ances that wouldn't
fool your great-aunt,
visits from the likes of Ronald
Cherrycoke in a Jesus Christ getup, whistling down the
wires into a hidden ultraviolet baby spot where he will
start fluorescing in most questionable taste, blithering odd
bits of Gospel together, reaching down from his crucified
âaltitudes to. actually cop feels of Noraâs girdled behind
... highly offended, she will flee into hallways full of
clammy invisible handsâpoltergeists will back toilets up
on her, ladylike turds will bob at her virgin vertex, and
screaming ugh, ass dripping, girdle around her knees, she
will go staggering into her own drawing-room to find no
refuge even there, no, someone will have caused to materi-
alize for her a lesbian elephant soixante-neuf, slimy trunks
pistoning symmetrically in and out of juicy elephant
vulvas, and when she tums to escape this horrible exhibi-
tion she'll fnd some playful ghost has latched the door
behind her, and anotherâs just about to sock her in the face
-
with a cold Yorkshire pudding. ...
In Pirateâs maisonette,
everyone
is singing now
a
counterforce traveling song, with Thomas Gwenhidwy,
who has not fallen to the dialectic curse of Pointsmanâs
Book after all, accompanying on what seems to be a rose-
wood crwth:
They've been sleeping on your shoulder,
Theyâve been crying in your beer,
And Theyâve sung you all Their sad lullabies,
And you thought They wanted sympathy and didnât care
for souls,
â
And They never were about to put you wise.
But Iâm telling you today,
_
That it ainât the only way,
:
And thereâs shit you won't be eating any moreâ
Theyâve been paying you to love it,
But the time has come to shove it,
And it isnât a resistance, itâs a war.
âTs a war,â Roger sings, driving into Cuxhaven, won-
dering offhand how Jessica has cut her hair for Jeremy,
and âhow that insufferable prig would look with a thrust ©
chamber wrapped around his head, âitâs a war. . mS
*
The War and the Shivers
- Roger sings a defiant song about transitioning from passive resistance to active war against 'Them' and their manipulative system.
- The U.S. Army conducts sweeps across Thuringia to confiscate weapons, driven by a fear of 'Werewolf' insurgents and the scarcity of winter resources.
- A fundamental link is established between food and weaponry in the governmental mind, noting that potato crops were diverted to fuel rockets.
- Pfc. Eddie Pensiero, a drug-using soldier and company barber, possesses a unique ability to 'read' and analyze different types of shivers as if they were complex signals.
- Eddie's shivering is described as a sophisticated sensory experience involving frequency modulation and Fourier-analysis of human discomfort.
Theyâve been paying you to love it, / But the time has come to shove it, / And it isnât a resistance, itâs a war.
The Counterforce
:
745
without its chances for a grood practical joke now and then
âpoor Nora will be suckered into sĂ©ances that wouldn't
fool your great-aunt,
visits from the likes of Ronald
Cherrycoke in a Jesus Christ getup, whistling down the
wires into a hidden ultraviolet baby spot where he will
start fluorescing in most questionable taste, blithering odd
bits of Gospel together, reaching down from his crucified
âaltitudes to. actually cop feels of Noraâs girdled behind
... highly offended, she will flee into hallways full of
clammy invisible handsâpoltergeists will back toilets up
on her, ladylike turds will bob at her virgin vertex, and
screaming ugh, ass dripping, girdle around her knees, she
will go staggering into her own drawing-room to find no
refuge even there, no, someone will have caused to materi-
alize for her a lesbian elephant soixante-neuf, slimy trunks
pistoning symmetrically in and out of juicy elephant
vulvas, and when she tums to escape this horrible exhibi-
tion she'll fnd some playful ghost has latched the door
behind her, and anotherâs just about to sock her in the face
-
with a cold Yorkshire pudding. ...
In Pirateâs maisonette,
everyone
is singing now
a
counterforce traveling song, with Thomas Gwenhidwy,
who has not fallen to the dialectic curse of Pointsmanâs
Book after all, accompanying on what seems to be a rose-
wood crwth:
They've been sleeping on your shoulder,
Theyâve been crying in your beer,
And Theyâve sung you all Their sad lullabies,
And you thought They wanted sympathy and didnât care
for souls,
â
And They never were about to put you wise.
But Iâm telling you today,
_
That it ainât the only way,
:
And thereâs shit you won't be eating any moreâ
Theyâve been paying you to love it,
But the time has come to shove it,
And it isnât a resistance, itâs a war.
âTs a war,â Roger sings, driving into Cuxhaven, won-
dering offhand how Jessica has cut her hair for Jeremy,
and âhow that insufferable prig would look with a thrust ©
chamber wrapped around his head, âitâs a war. . mS
*
746
Gravity's Rainsow
|
Light one up before you mosey out that door,
Once you cuddled âem and kissed âem,
But weâre bringinâ down Their system,
And it isnât a resistance, itâs a war....
O
These pine limbs, crackling so blue and watery, donât seem
to put out any heat at all, Confiscated weapons and ammo
lie around half-crated or piled loose inside the C-Company
perimeter. For days the U.S. Army has been out sweeping
Thuringia, busting into houses in the middle of the night.
A certain lycanthropophobia fear of Werewolves occupies
minds at higher levels. Winter is coming. Soon there won't
be enough food or coal in Germany. Potato crops toward
the end of the War, for example, all went to make alcohol
for the rockets. But there are still small-arms aplenty, and
ammunition to fit them. Where you cannot feed, you take
away weapons. Weapons and food have been firmly linked
in the governmental mind for as long as either has been
around.
.
On the mountainsides, patches will flash up now and
then, bright as dittany in July at the Zippoâs ceremonial
touch. Pfc. Eddie Pensiero, a replacement here in the
89th Division, also an amphetamine enthusiast, sits hud-
dling nearly on top of the fite, shivering and watching the
divisional patch on his arm, which ordinarily resembles a
cluster of rocket-noses seen out of a dilating asshole, all
in black and olive-drab, but which now looks like some-
thing even stranger than that, which Eddie will think of
in a minute.
.
Shivering is one of Eddie Pensieroâs favorite pastimes.
Not the kind of shiver normal people get, the goose-on-
the-grave passover and gone, but shivering that doesnât
stop. Very hard to get used to at first. Eddie is a con-
noisseur of shivers. He is even able, in some strange way,
to read them, like Siure Bummer reads reefers, like Miklos
Thanatz reads whip-scars, But the gift
isnât limited just
to Eddieâs own shivers, oh no, theyârd other peopleâs
_
shivers, too! Yeah they come in one by one, they come in
all together in groups (lately heâs been growing in his
The Counterforce
747
brain a kind of discriminator circuit, learning how to sep-
arate them out), Least interesting of these shivers are the
ones with a perfectly steady frequency, no variation to
them at all. The next-to-least interesting are the freqency-
modulated kind, now faster now slower depending on in-
formation put in at the other end, wherever that might be.
Then you have the irregular waveforms that change both
in frequency and in amplitude. They have to be Fourier-
analyzed into their harmonics, which is a little tougher.
There is often coding involved, certain subfrequencies, cer-
tain power-levelsâyou have to be pretty good to get the
hang of these.
âHey Pensiero.â It is Eddieâs Sergeant, Howard (âSlowâ)
Lerner. âGetcher ass offa dat fire.â
âAww, Sarge,â chatters Eddie, âcâmon. I wuz just tryinâ
ta get wawm.â
âNo ick-skew-siz, Pensiero! One oâ thâ koinels wants his
hair cut, right now, anâ yer it!â
âAhh, youse guys,â mutters Pensiero, crawling over to
his sleeping bag and looking through his pack for comb
and scissors. He is the company barber. His haircuts,
which take hours and often days, are immediately recog-
nizable throughout the Zone, revealing as they do the
hhair-by-hair singlemindedness of the âbennyâ habituĂ©.
The colonel is sitting, waiting, under an electric bulb.
The bulb is receiving its power from another enlisted man,
who sits back in the shadows hand-pedaling the twin
generator cranks.
It is Eddieâs friend
Private Paddy
(âElectroâ) McGonigle, an Irish lad from New Jersey, one
of those million virtuous and adjusted city poor you know
from the moviesâyouâve seen them dancing,
singing,
hanging out the washing on the lines, getting drunk at
wakes, worrying about their children going bad, I just
donât know any more Faather, heâs a good. bây but heâs
runninâ with a crool crowd, on through every wretched
Hollywood lie down to and including this yearâs big hit,
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. With his crank here young
Paddy is practicing another form of Eddieâs gift, though
heâs transmitting not receiving. The bulb appears to burn
steadily, but this is really a succession of electric peaks
and valleys, passing by at a speed that depends on how
fast Paddy is cranking. Itâs only that the wire inside the
The Rhythm of the Light
- Private Paddy McGonigle provides power for a light bulb by hand-cranking a generator, creating a 'train of imperceptible light and dark' that mimics a steady glow.
- The physical exertion of cranking becomes a subconscious circuit where Paddyâs body acts as a biological source of electrical power.
- Eddie Pensiero combs the hair of a silent, high-ranking colonel with obsessive precision while distracted by the distant sound of a mouth harp.
- The colonel reflects on the strangely colored sunsets, wondering if volcanic ash or a massive explosion in the East is diffracting the light into a coded message.
- The dialogue shifts between the crude, ethnic banter of the enlisted men and the colonelâs haunting, poetic observations about war and his Wisconsin home.
- The colonel compares the snow-covered cars of his childhood to 'Graves Registration,' linking domestic memory to the omnipresence of death in the war.
Itâs only that the wire inside the bulb unbrightens slow enough before the next peak shows up that fools us into seeing a steady light.
The Counterforce
747
brain a kind of discriminator circuit, learning how to sep-
arate them out), Least interesting of these shivers are the
ones with a perfectly steady frequency, no variation to
them at all. The next-to-least interesting are the freqency-
modulated kind, now faster now slower depending on in-
formation put in at the other end, wherever that might be.
Then you have the irregular waveforms that change both
in frequency and in amplitude. They have to be Fourier-
analyzed into their harmonics, which is a little tougher.
There is often coding involved, certain subfrequencies, cer-
tain power-levelsâyou have to be pretty good to get the
hang of these.
âHey Pensiero.â It is Eddieâs Sergeant, Howard (âSlowâ)
Lerner. âGetcher ass offa dat fire.â
âAww, Sarge,â chatters Eddie, âcâmon. I wuz just tryinâ
ta get wawm.â
âNo ick-skew-siz, Pensiero! One oâ thâ koinels wants his
hair cut, right now, anâ yer it!â
âAhh, youse guys,â mutters Pensiero, crawling over to
his sleeping bag and looking through his pack for comb
and scissors. He is the company barber. His haircuts,
which take hours and often days, are immediately recog-
nizable throughout the Zone, revealing as they do the
hhair-by-hair singlemindedness of the âbennyâ habituĂ©.
The colonel is sitting, waiting, under an electric bulb.
The bulb is receiving its power from another enlisted man,
who sits back in the shadows hand-pedaling the twin
generator cranks.
It is Eddieâs friend
Private Paddy
(âElectroâ) McGonigle, an Irish lad from New Jersey, one
of those million virtuous and adjusted city poor you know
from the moviesâyouâve seen them dancing,
singing,
hanging out the washing on the lines, getting drunk at
wakes, worrying about their children going bad, I just
donât know any more Faather, heâs a good. bây but heâs
runninâ with a crool crowd, on through every wretched
Hollywood lie down to and including this yearâs big hit,
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. With his crank here young
Paddy is practicing another form of Eddieâs gift, though
heâs transmitting not receiving. The bulb appears to burn
steadily, but this is really a succession of electric peaks
and valleys, passing by at a speed that depends on how
fast Paddy is cranking. Itâs only that the wire inside the
7
e
F
jl
748
Gravityâs RaInsow
â
bulb unbrightens slow enough before the next peak shows
up that fools us into seeing a steady light. Itâs really a
train of imperceptible light and dark. Usually impercepti-
ble. The message is never conscious on Paddyâs part. It is
sent by muscles and skeleton, by that circuit of his body
which has learned to work as a source of electrical power.
Right now Eddie Pensiero is shivering and not paying
much attention to that light bulb. His own message is
interesting enough. Somebody close by, out in the night,
is playing a blues on a mouth harp. âWhutâs dat?â Eddie
wants to know, standing under the white light behind the
silent colonel in his dress uniform, âhey, McGonigleâyou
hear sumpânPâ
âYeah,â jeers Paddy from behind the generator, âI hear
yer dischodge, flyinâ away, witâ big wings cominâ outa thâ
ass end, Datâs whut I hear! Yuk, yuk!â
âAw, itâs thâ bunk!â replies Eddie Pensiero, âY-you donât
hear no dischodge, ya big dumbheaded Mick.â
âHey, Pensiero, ya know whut a Eye-talian submarine
sounds like, on dat new sonar? Huh?â
âUh... whut?â
âPinnnggguinea- -guinea-guinea wopwopwop! Datâs whet!
Yuk, yuk, yu KIâ
âFuck youse,â sez Eddie, and commences combing ths
colonelâs silver-black hair.
The moment the comb contacts his head, the colonel
begins to speak. âOrdinarily, we'd spend no more than 24
hours on a house-to-house sweep. Sundown to sundown,
house to house. Thereâs a quality of black and gold to
either end of it, that way, silhouettes, shaken skies pure as
a cyclorama. But these sunsets, out here, I donât know.
Do you suppose something has exploded somewhere?
Reallyâsomewhere in the East? Another Krakatoa? An-
other name at least that exotic... the colors are so differ-
ent now. Volcanic ash, or any finely-divided substance,
- suspended in the atmosphere, can diffract the colors
strangely. Did you know that, sonP Hard to believe, isnât
it? Rather a long taper if you donât mind, and just short
of combable on top. Yes, Private, the colo change, and
how! The question is, are they chan
according to
_
something? Is the sunâs everyday spectrum being modu-
lated? Not at random, but ae by this unknown
_The Counterforce
749
debris in the prevailing winds? Is there information for
us? Deep questions, and disturbing ones.
âWhere are you from, son? Iâm from Kenosha, Wiscon-
sin. My folks have a little farm back there. Snowfields and
fenceposts all the way to Chicago. The snow covers the
old cars up on blocks in the yards ..
. big white bundles...
it looks like Graves Registration back there in Wisconsin.â
âHeh, heh... .â
âHey Pensiero,â calls Paddy McGonigle, âya still hearinâ .
dat sound?â
âYeah uh I tink itâs a mouth-organ,â Pensiero busily
combing up single hairs, cutting each one a slightly differ-
ent length, going back again and again to touch up here
and there...God is who knows their. number. Atropos
is who severs them to different lengths. So, God under the
aspect of Atropos, she who cannot be turned, is in posses-
sion of Eddie Pensiero tonight.
âI got your mouth organ,â jeers Paddy, âright herel
Look! A wop clarinet!â
Each long haircut is a passage. Hair is yet another kind
of modulated frequency. Assume a state of grace in which
all hairs were once distributed perfectly even, a time of
innocence when they fell perfectly straight, all over the
colonelâs head. Winds of the day, gestures of distraction,
sweat, itchings, sudden surprises, three-foot falls to the edge
of sleep, watched skies, remembered shames, all have since
written on that perfect grating. Passing through it tonight,
restructuring it, Eddie Pensiero is an agent of History.
Along with the reworking of the colonelâs head runs the
shiver-bome bluesâlong runs in number 2 and 3 hole
correspond, tonight anyway,
to passages
in the deep
reaches of hair, birch trunks in a very humid summer night,
approaches to a stone house in a wooded park, stags
paralyzed beside the high flagged walks. ...
Blues is a matter of lower sidebandsâyou suck a clear
note, on pitch, and then bend it lower with the muscles of
your face. Muscles of your face have been laughing, tight
with pain, often trying not to betray any emotion, all your
life. Where you send the pure note is partly a function of
that. Thereâs that secular basis for blues, if the spiritual
angle bothers you....
:
âI didnât know where I was,â relates the colonel. âI kept
The Agent of History
- Eddie Pensiero acts as a divine agent of Atropos, using a haircut to restructure the colonel's personal history and physical state.
- The act of cutting hair is likened to a musical passage, where the physical distribution of hair reflects a lifetime of shame, distraction, and surprise.
- The blues is described as a physical manifestation of facial muscles shaped by a lifetime of suppressed emotion and laughter.
- The colonel recounts a surreal, hallucinatory descent through concrete ruins under a sky filled with purple, fetus-like shapes.
- The narrative shifts into a satirical dialogue between 'Mister Information' and 'Skippy' regarding the wartime preservation of old machinery and the Karmic Hammer.
Muscles of your face have been laughing, tight with pain, often trying not to betray any emotion, all your life.
_The Counterforce
749
debris in the prevailing winds? Is there information for
us? Deep questions, and disturbing ones.
âWhere are you from, son? Iâm from Kenosha, Wiscon-
sin. My folks have a little farm back there. Snowfields and
fenceposts all the way to Chicago. The snow covers the
old cars up on blocks in the yards ..
. big white bundles...
it looks like Graves Registration back there in Wisconsin.â
âHeh, heh... .â
âHey Pensiero,â calls Paddy McGonigle, âya still hearinâ .
dat sound?â
âYeah uh I tink itâs a mouth-organ,â Pensiero busily
combing up single hairs, cutting each one a slightly differ-
ent length, going back again and again to touch up here
and there...God is who knows their. number. Atropos
is who severs them to different lengths. So, God under the
aspect of Atropos, she who cannot be turned, is in posses-
sion of Eddie Pensiero tonight.
âI got your mouth organ,â jeers Paddy, âright herel
Look! A wop clarinet!â
Each long haircut is a passage. Hair is yet another kind
of modulated frequency. Assume a state of grace in which
all hairs were once distributed perfectly even, a time of
innocence when they fell perfectly straight, all over the
colonelâs head. Winds of the day, gestures of distraction,
sweat, itchings, sudden surprises, three-foot falls to the edge
of sleep, watched skies, remembered shames, all have since
written on that perfect grating. Passing through it tonight,
restructuring it, Eddie Pensiero is an agent of History.
Along with the reworking of the colonelâs head runs the
shiver-bome bluesâlong runs in number 2 and 3 hole
correspond, tonight anyway,
to passages
in the deep
reaches of hair, birch trunks in a very humid summer night,
approaches to a stone house in a wooded park, stags
paralyzed beside the high flagged walks. ...
Blues is a matter of lower sidebandsâyou suck a clear
note, on pitch, and then bend it lower with the muscles of
your face. Muscles of your face have been laughing, tight
with pain, often trying not to betray any emotion, all your
life. Where you send the pure note is partly a function of
that. Thereâs that secular basis for blues, if the spiritual
angle bothers you....
:
âI didnât know where I was,â relates the colonel. âI kept
y
750
Gravityâs Ramsow
climbing downward, along these big sheared chunks of
concrete. Black reinforcing rod poking out... black rust.
There were touches of royal purple in the air, not bright
enough to blur out over their edges, or change the sub-
stance of the night. They dribbled down, lengthening out,
one by oneâever seen a chicken fetus, just beginning? oh
of course not, you're a city boy. Thereâs a lot to learn, out
on the farm. Teaches you what a chicken fetus looks like,
so that if you happen to be climbing around a concrete
mountain in the dark, and see one, or several, up in the
sky reproduced in purple, youll know what they look
likeâthatâs a heap better than the city, son, there you
just move from crisis to crisis, each one brand-new, noth-
ing to couple it back onto. ...â
Well, there he is, cautiously edging along the enormous
ruin, his hair at the moment looking very oddâbrushed
forward from one occipital spot, forward and up in great
long points, forming
a black sunflower
or sunbonnet
around his face, in which the prominent feature is the
colonelâs long, crawling magenta lips. Things grab up for
him out of crevices among the debris, sort of fast happy
lunge out and back in, thin pincer arms, nothing personal,
just thought I'd grab a little night air, ha, hal When they
miss the colonelâas they always.seem to doâwhy they
just zip back in with a gamblerâs ho-hum, well, maybe
next time....
Dammit, cut off from my regiment here, gonna be cap-
tured and cremated by dacoits! Oh Jesus there they are
now, unthinkable Animals running low in the light from
the G-5 version of the city, red and yellow turbans,
scarred dope-fiend faces, faired as the front end of a *37
Ford, same undirected eyes, same exemption from the
Karmic Hammerâ
/
A â37 Ford, exempt from the K.H.? Câmon quit fooling,
They'll all end up in junkyards same as thâ rest!
Oh, will they, Skippy? Why are there so many on the
roads, then?
ai
hy
W-well gee, uh, Mister Information, th-thâ War, I mean
thereâs no new cars being built right now so we all have to
keep our Old Reliable in tiptop shape cause thereâs not too
many mechanics left here on the home front, a-and we
shouldnât hoard gas, and we should keep that A-sticker
prominently displayed in the lower rightâ
âThe Counterforce
751
Skippy, you little fool, you are off on another of your
senseless and retrograde journeys. Come back, here, to the
points. Here is where the paths divided. See the man back
there. He is wearing a white hood. His shoes are brown.
He has a nice smile, but nobody sees it. Nobody sees it
because his face is always in the dark. But he is a nice
man. He is the pointsman. He is called that because he
throws the lever that changes the points. And we go to
Happyville, instead of to Pain City. Or âDer Leid-Stadt,â
thatâs what the Germans call it. There is a mean poem
about the Leid-Stadt, by a German man named Mr. Rilke.
©
But we will not read it, because we are going to Happy-
ville. The pointsman has made sure we'll go there, He
hardly has to work at all. The lever is very smooth, and
easy to push. Even you could push it, Skippy. If you
knew where it was. But look what a lot of work he has
done, with just one little push. He has sent us all the way
to Happyville, instead of to Pain City, That is because he
knows just where the points and the lever are. He is the
only kind of man who puts in very little work and makes
big things happen, all over the world. He could have sent
you on the right trip back. there, Skippy. You can have
your fantasy if you want, you probably donât deserve any-
thing better, but Mister Information tonight is in a kind
mood. He will show you Happyville. He will begin by
reminding you of the 1937 Ford. Why is that dacoit-faced
auto still on the roads? You said âthe War,â just as you
rattled over the points onto the wrong track. The War was
the set of points. Eh? Yesyes, Skippy, the truth is that the
War is keeping things alive. Things. The Ford is only
one of them. The Germans-and-Japs story was only one,
rather surrealistic version of the real War. The real War is
always there. The dying tapers off now and then, but the
War is still killing lots and lots of people. Only right now
it is killing them in more subtle ways. Often in ways that
are too complicated, even for us, at this level, to trace.
But the right people are dying, just as they do when
armies fight. The ones who stand up, in Basic, in the
middle of the machine-gun pattem. The ones who do not
have faith in their Sergeants. The ones who slip and show
a momentâs weakness to the Enemy. These are the ones
the War cannot use, and so they die. The right ones sur-
vive. The others, itâs said, even know they have a short
The Pointsman of Happyville
- A mysterious figure known as the Pointsman controls the levers of fate, diverting travelers from 'Pain City' toward the deceptive 'Happyville.'
- The narrative suggests that the 'real War' is a permanent, subtle state of existence that transcends specific historical conflicts like WWII.
- The War acts as a Darwinian filter, systematically eliminating those who show weakness, lack faith in authority, or fail to adapt to the 'machine-gun pattern.'
- Mister Information presents a cynical vision of a world where the 'right' people survive and the 'wrong' ones are efficiently removed to create a peaceful utopia.
- The protagonist enters a subterranean realm under a mountain, guided by a joke-telling, crab-like robot through a surreal landscape of anthropomorphic houses.
- The transition into Happyville is marked by a narrow escape from a dacoit assassin, highlighting the violent tension underlying this supposed sanctuary.
The real War is always there. The dying tapers off now and then, but the War is still killing lots and lots of people.
âThe Counterforce
751
Skippy, you little fool, you are off on another of your
senseless and retrograde journeys. Come back, here, to the
points. Here is where the paths divided. See the man back
there. He is wearing a white hood. His shoes are brown.
He has a nice smile, but nobody sees it. Nobody sees it
because his face is always in the dark. But he is a nice
man. He is the pointsman. He is called that because he
throws the lever that changes the points. And we go to
Happyville, instead of to Pain City. Or âDer Leid-Stadt,â
thatâs what the Germans call it. There is a mean poem
about the Leid-Stadt, by a German man named Mr. Rilke.
©
But we will not read it, because we are going to Happy-
ville. The pointsman has made sure we'll go there, He
hardly has to work at all. The lever is very smooth, and
easy to push. Even you could push it, Skippy. If you
knew where it was. But look what a lot of work he has
done, with just one little push. He has sent us all the way
to Happyville, instead of to Pain City, That is because he
knows just where the points and the lever are. He is the
only kind of man who puts in very little work and makes
big things happen, all over the world. He could have sent
you on the right trip back. there, Skippy. You can have
your fantasy if you want, you probably donât deserve any-
thing better, but Mister Information tonight is in a kind
mood. He will show you Happyville. He will begin by
reminding you of the 1937 Ford. Why is that dacoit-faced
auto still on the roads? You said âthe War,â just as you
rattled over the points onto the wrong track. The War was
the set of points. Eh? Yesyes, Skippy, the truth is that the
War is keeping things alive. Things. The Ford is only
one of them. The Germans-and-Japs story was only one,
rather surrealistic version of the real War. The real War is
always there. The dying tapers off now and then, but the
War is still killing lots and lots of people. Only right now
it is killing them in more subtle ways. Often in ways that
are too complicated, even for us, at this level, to trace.
But the right people are dying, just as they do when
armies fight. The ones who stand up, in Basic, in the
middle of the machine-gun pattem. The ones who do not
have faith in their Sergeants. The ones who slip and show
a momentâs weakness to the Enemy. These are the ones
the War cannot use, and so they die. The right ones sur-
vive. The others, itâs said, even know they have a short
752
Gravity's RAINBOW
life expectancy. But they persist in acting the way they
do. Nobody knows why. Wouldnât it be nice if we could
eliminate them completely? Then no one would have to
be killed in the War. That would be fun, wouldnât it,
Skippy?
Jeepers, it sure would, Mister Information! Wow, I-I
canât wait to see Happyvillel
Happily, he doesnât have to wait at all. One of the
dacoits comes leaping with a whistling sound, ecru silk
cord strung buzzing tight between his fists, eager letâs-get-
to-it grin, and just at the same moment a pair of arms
comes up out of a fissure in the ruins, and gathers the
colonel down to safety just in time. The dacoit falls on his
ass, and sits there trying to pull the cord apart, muttering
oh shit, which even dacoits do too.
âYou are under the mountain,â a voice announces. Stony
cave-acoustics in here. âPlease remember from this point
on to obey all pertinent regulations.â
His guide is a kind of squat robot, dark gray plastic
with rolling headlamp eyes. It is shaped something like a
crab, âThatâs Cancer in Latin,â sez the robot; âand in
Kenosha, too!â It will prove to be addicted to one-liners
that never quite come off for anyone but it.
âHere is Muffin-tin Road,â announces the robot, ânote
the smiling faces on all the houses here.â Upstairs win-
dows are eyes, picket fence is teeth, Nose is the front door.
âSa-a-a-y,â asks the colonel, taken by a sudden thought,
âdoes it ever snow here in Happyville?â
âDoes what ever snow?â
âYou're evading.â
âTm evading-room vino from Visconsin,â sings this boor-
ish machine, * âand you oughta see the nurses run! So what
else is new, Jackson?â The squat creature is actually chew-
ing gum, a Laszlo Jamf variation on polyvinyl chloride,
very malleable, even sending out detachable molecules
which, through an ingenious Osmo-elektrische Schalter-
werke, developed by Siemens, is transmitting, in code, a
damn fair approximation of Beeman's reeiaie flavor to the
robot crabâs brain.
âMister Information always answers spittle
âFor what heâs making,
Iâ'd even question answers.
Does it ever snow? Of course it snows in
1
Happyville. Lotta
snowmenâd sure be sore if it didnât!â
The Legend of Byron the Bulb
- A boorish, gum-chewing robot crab engages in a surreal dialogue with a colonel about the snowy landscapes of Wisconsin and Happyville.
- The colonel uses a metaphorical riddle about a house's nose to terrify the robot, causing it to flee into a sandstone-colored district.
- Laszlo Jamf appears as a preserved, elderly figure in a lavender bow tie, meeting the colonel on a mission of mutual ignorance.
- The narrative shifts to a specific, immortal Osram light bulb that has survived since the 1920s through statistical perfection.
- This sentient bulb, named Byron, was originally destined for manufacture in Budapest before being reassigned to Berlin.
- The story of Byron the Bulb begins as a loop of feedback, dictating the physical actions of those around it.
This bulb is immortal! Itâs been around, in fact, since the twenties, has that old-timery point at the tip and is less pear-shaped than more contemporary bulbs.
752
Gravity's RAINBOW
life expectancy. But they persist in acting the way they
do. Nobody knows why. Wouldnât it be nice if we could
eliminate them completely? Then no one would have to
be killed in the War. That would be fun, wouldnât it,
Skippy?
Jeepers, it sure would, Mister Information! Wow, I-I
canât wait to see Happyvillel
Happily, he doesnât have to wait at all. One of the
dacoits comes leaping with a whistling sound, ecru silk
cord strung buzzing tight between his fists, eager letâs-get-
to-it grin, and just at the same moment a pair of arms
comes up out of a fissure in the ruins, and gathers the
colonel down to safety just in time. The dacoit falls on his
ass, and sits there trying to pull the cord apart, muttering
oh shit, which even dacoits do too.
âYou are under the mountain,â a voice announces. Stony
cave-acoustics in here. âPlease remember from this point
on to obey all pertinent regulations.â
His guide is a kind of squat robot, dark gray plastic
with rolling headlamp eyes. It is shaped something like a
crab, âThatâs Cancer in Latin,â sez the robot; âand in
Kenosha, too!â It will prove to be addicted to one-liners
that never quite come off for anyone but it.
âHere is Muffin-tin Road,â announces the robot, ânote
the smiling faces on all the houses here.â Upstairs win-
dows are eyes, picket fence is teeth, Nose is the front door.
âSa-a-a-y,â asks the colonel, taken by a sudden thought,
âdoes it ever snow here in Happyville?â
âDoes what ever snow?â
âYou're evading.â
âTm evading-room vino from Visconsin,â sings this boor-
ish machine, * âand you oughta see the nurses run! So what
else is new, Jackson?â The squat creature is actually chew-
ing gum, a Laszlo Jamf variation on polyvinyl chloride,
very malleable, even sending out detachable molecules
which, through an ingenious Osmo-elektrische Schalter-
werke, developed by Siemens, is transmitting, in code, a
damn fair approximation of Beeman's reeiaie flavor to the
robot crabâs brain.
âMister Information always answers spittle
âFor what heâs making,
Iâ'd even question answers.
Does it ever snow? Of course it snows in
1
Happyville. Lotta
snowmenâd sure be sore if it didnât!â
The Counterforce
753
âT recall, back in Wisconsin, the wind used to blow
right up the walk, like a visitor who expects to be let in.
Sweeps the snow up against the front door, leaves it drifted
there... . Ever get that in Happyville?â
âOld stuff,â sez the robot.
âAnybody ever open his front door, while the wind was
-
doing that, eh?â
âThousands of times.â
âThen,â pounces the colonel, âif the door is the houseâs
nose, and the door is open, a-and all of those snowy-white
crystals are blowing up from Muffin-tin Road in a big
cloud right into theââ
âAagghh!â screams the plastic robot, and scuttles way
into a narrow alley. The colonel finds himself alone in a
brown and wine-aged district of the city: sandstone and
adobe colors sweep away in a progress of walls, rooftops,
streets, not a tree in sight, and whoâs this come strolling
down the Schokoladestrasse? Why, itâs Laszlo Jamf him-
self, grown to a prolonged old age, preserved like a °37
Ford against the Worldâs ups and downs, which are never
more than damped-out changes in smile, wide-pearly to
wistfully gauze, inside Happyville here. Dr. Jamf is wear-
ing a bow tie of a certain limp grayish lavender, a color
for long dying afternoons through conservatory windows,
minor-keyed lieder about days gone by, plaintive pianos,
pipesmoke in a stuffy parlor, overcast Sunday walks by
canals... here the two men are, dry-scratched precisely,
attentively on this afternoon, and the bells across the canal
are tolling the hour: the men have come from very far
away, after a journey neither quite remembers, on a mis-
sion of some kind. But each has been kept ignorant of the
otherâs role....
Now it turns out that this light bulb over the colonelâs
head here is the. same identical Osram light bulb that
Franz Pékler used to keep next to in his bunk at the under-
ground rocket works at Nordhausen. Statistically (so Their
story goes), every n-thousandth light bulb is gonna be
perfect, all the delta-qâs piling up just right, so we shouldnât
be surprised that this oneâs still around, burning brightly.
_ But the truth is even more stupendous. This bulb is im-
mortal! Itâs been around, in fact, since the twenties, has
that old-timery point at the tip and is less pear-shaped
yn
i
A
than more contemporary bulbs. Wotta history, this bulb, if
te
t
754
Gravirtyâs Ramnsow
only it could speakâwell, as a matter of fact, it can speak.
It is dictating the muscular modulations of Paddy Mc-
Gonigleâs cranking tonight, this is a loop here, with feed-
back through Paddy to the generator again. Here it is,
Tae Story oF BYRON THE BULB
Byron was toâve been manufactured by Tungsram in
Budapest. He would probably have been grabbed up by
the ace salesman GĂ©za RoĂ©zsavĂ©lgyiâs father Sandor, who
covered all the Transylvanian territory and had begun to
go native enough to where the home office felt vaguely
paranoid about him throwing some horrible spell on the
whole operation if they didnât give him what he wanted.
Actually he was a salesman who wanted his son to be a
doctor, and that came true. But it may have been the bad
witch-leery auras around Budapest that got the birth of
Byron reassigned at the last minute to Osram, in Berlin.
Reassigned, yes. There is a Bulb Baby Heaven, amiably
satirized as if it was the movies or something, well Big
Business, ha, hal But donât let Them fool you, this is a
bureaucracy first, and a Bulb Baby Heaven only as a sort
of sideline. All overheadâyes, out of its own pocket the
Company is springing for square leagues of organdy, hogs-
heads of IG Farben pink and blue Baby Dye, hundred-
weights of clever Siemens Electric Baby Bulb Pacifiers,
giving the suckling Bulb the shape of a 110-volt current
without the least trickle of power. One way or another,
these Bulb folks are in the business of providing the
appearance of power, power against the night, without the
reality.
bi
Actually, B.B.H. is rather shabby. The brown rafters
drip cobwebs. Now and then a roach shows up on the
floor, and all the Babies try to roll over to look (being
Bulbs they seem perfectly symmetrical, Skippy, but donât
©
forget the contact at the top of the thread), going uh-guhl
uhhhh-guhl, glowing feebly at the bewildered roach sitting
paralyzed and squashable out on the bare boards, rushing,
reliving the terror of some sudden blast of| current out of
nowhere and high overhead the lambent, all-seeing Bulb.
In their innocence, the Baby Bulbs donât know what to
anake of this roachâs abreactionâthey feel his fright, but
The Bulb Baby Crusade
- Bulb Baby Heaven is described as a shabby corporate bureaucracy that provides the appearance of power without its reality.
- The infant lightbulbs exist in a state of innocent curiosity, attempting to befriend a terrified cockroach that they perceive through their collective glow.
- Byron the Bulb is an 'old soul' trapped in a baby bulb's body, suffering from mechanical ailments like screw-thread corrosion and tungsten spasms.
- Byron views his fellow bulbs as 'saps' and attempts to radicalize them through song and a vision of a revolutionary future.
- Byron plots a 'Strobing Tactic' to synchronize 20 million bulbs across Europe to trigger mass epileptic fits in humans as a display of power.
One way or another, these Bulb folks are in the business of providing the appearance of power, power against the night, without the reality.
t
754
Gravirtyâs Ramnsow
only it could speakâwell, as a matter of fact, it can speak.
It is dictating the muscular modulations of Paddy Mc-
Gonigleâs cranking tonight, this is a loop here, with feed-
back through Paddy to the generator again. Here it is,
Tae Story oF BYRON THE BULB
Byron was toâve been manufactured by Tungsram in
Budapest. He would probably have been grabbed up by
the ace salesman GĂ©za RoĂ©zsavĂ©lgyiâs father Sandor, who
covered all the Transylvanian territory and had begun to
go native enough to where the home office felt vaguely
paranoid about him throwing some horrible spell on the
whole operation if they didnât give him what he wanted.
Actually he was a salesman who wanted his son to be a
doctor, and that came true. But it may have been the bad
witch-leery auras around Budapest that got the birth of
Byron reassigned at the last minute to Osram, in Berlin.
Reassigned, yes. There is a Bulb Baby Heaven, amiably
satirized as if it was the movies or something, well Big
Business, ha, hal But donât let Them fool you, this is a
bureaucracy first, and a Bulb Baby Heaven only as a sort
of sideline. All overheadâyes, out of its own pocket the
Company is springing for square leagues of organdy, hogs-
heads of IG Farben pink and blue Baby Dye, hundred-
weights of clever Siemens Electric Baby Bulb Pacifiers,
giving the suckling Bulb the shape of a 110-volt current
without the least trickle of power. One way or another,
these Bulb folks are in the business of providing the
appearance of power, power against the night, without the
reality.
bi
Actually, B.B.H. is rather shabby. The brown rafters
drip cobwebs. Now and then a roach shows up on the
floor, and all the Babies try to roll over to look (being
Bulbs they seem perfectly symmetrical, Skippy, but donât
©
forget the contact at the top of the thread), going uh-guhl
uhhhh-guhl, glowing feebly at the bewildered roach sitting
paralyzed and squashable out on the bare boards, rushing,
reliving the terror of some sudden blast of| current out of
nowhere and high overhead the lambent, all-seeing Bulb.
In their innocence, the Baby Bulbs donât know what to
anake of this roachâs abreactionâthey feel his fright, but
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755
donât know what it is. They just want to be his friend. Heâs
interesting and has good moves. Everybody's excited ex-
cept for Byron, who considers the other Bulb Babies a
bunch of saps. It is a constant struggle to turn their
thoughts on anything meaningful. Hi there Babies, I'm
' Byron-the-Bulb! Here to sing a little song to you, that
goesâ
Light-up, and-shine, youâin-cande-scent Bulb Ba-bies!
Looks-like ya got ra-bies
Just lay there foaminâ and a-screaminâ like a buncha
little demons,
Iâm delivinâ unto you a king-dom of roa-ches,
And no-thinâ ap-proaches
That joyful feelinâ when-youâre up-on the ceilinâ
Lookinâ downânight and dayâon the king-dom you
sur-vey,
They'll come out *nâ love ya till the break of dawn,
But they run like hell when that light comes on!
So shine on, Baby Bulbs, you're the wave of the fu-ture,
And Iâm here to recruit ya,
._ In mi great crusade,
Just sing along Babiesâcome-on-and-join-the-big-
pa-radel
Trouble with Byronâs heâs an old, old soul, trapped in-
side the glass prison of a Baby Bulb. He hates this place,
lying on his back waiting to get manufactured, nothing to
listen to on the speakers but Charleston music, now and
then an address to the Nation, what kind of a setupâs that?
_ Byron wants to get out of here and into it, needless to say
heâs been developing all kinds of nervous ailments, Baby
Bulb. Diaper Rash, which is a sort of corrosion on his
screw threads, Bulb Baby Colic, a tight spasm of high re-
âsistance someplace among the deep loops of tungsten
wire, Bulb Baby Hyperventilation, where it actually feels
âoe his vacuumâs been broken though there is no organic
asis. ..\.
§
âWhen M-Day finally does roll around, you can bet
_Byronâs elated. He has passed the time hatching some
really insane grandiose plansâheâs gonna organize all the
Bulbs, see, get him a power base in Berlin, heâs already
hep to the Strobing Tactic, all you do is develop the knack
_ (Yogic, almost) of shutting off and on at a rate close to
756
Gravityâs Rainsow
the human brainâs alpha rhythm, and you can actually
trigger an epileptic fit! True. Byron has had a vision against
the rafters of his ward, of 20 million Bulbs, all over
Europe, at a given sychronizing pulse arranged by one of
his many agents in the Grid, all these Bulbs beginning to
strobe together, humans thrashing around the 20 million
rooms like fish on the beaches of Perfect Energyâ Atten-
tion, humans, this has been a warning to you. Next time,
a few of us will explode. Ha-ha. Yes we'll unleash our
Kamikaze squads! Youâve heard of the Kirghiz Light? well
thatâs the ass end of a firefly compared to what we're
gonnaâoh, you havenât heard of theâoh, well, too bad.
Cause a few Bulbs, say a million, a mere 5% of our num-
ber, are more than willing to flame out in one grand burst
instead of patiently waiting out their design hours.... So
Byron dreams of his Guerrilla Strike Force, gonna get
Herbert Hoover, Stanley Baldwin, all of them, right in the
face with one coordinated blast... .
Is Byron in for a rude awakening! There is already an
organization, a human one, known as âPhoebus,â the in-
ternational light-bulb cartel, headquartered in Switzerland.
Run pretty much by International GE, Osram, and Asso-
ciated Electrical Industries of Britain, which are in turn
owned 100%, 29% and 46%, respectively, by the General
Electric Company in America. Phoebus fixes the prices
and determines the operational lives of all the bulbs in the
world, from Brazil to Japan to Holland (although Philips
in Holland is the mad dog of the cartel, apt at any time
to cut loose and sow disaster throughout the great Com-
bination). Given this state of general repression, there
seems noplace for a newborn Baby Bubb to start but at the
bottom.
But Phoebus doesnât know yet that Byron is immortal.
He starts out his career at an all-girl opium den in Charlot-
tenburg, almost within sight of the statue. of Wernher
Siemens, burning up in a sconce, one among many bulbs
witnessing the more languorous forms of [Republican dec-
adence. He gets to know all the bulbs in the place, Benito
the Bulb over in the next sconce whoâs always planning an
escape, Bernie down the: hall in the toilet, who has all
kinds of urolagnia jokes to tell, his mother Brenda in the
kitchen who talks of hashish hush puppies, dildos rigged
The Immortality of Byron the Bulb
- Byron the Bulb dreams of a guerrilla strike force where millions of light bulbs flame out simultaneously to sabotage the global power structure.
- The international light-bulb cartel known as Phoebus, headquartered in Switzerland, strictly enforces planned obsolescence to maintain market control.
- While stationed in a Berlin opium den, Byron witnesses the 'deaths' of his fellow bulbs, eventually coming to terms with his own unique immortality.
- Byron learns the lessons of Love and Silence, realizing that his eternal nature separates him from the transient lives of ordinary bulbs.
- The Phoebus Surveillance Room identifies Byron as a statistical anomaly after he surpasses the 600-hour operational limit mandated by the cartel.
- Byron is placed under constant monitoring by white-robed watchers who ensure no bulb exceeds the mean operating life and threatens the global economy.
But on through the burning hours he starts to learn about the transience of others: learns that loving them while theyâre here becomes easier, and also more intenseâto love as if each design-hour will be the last.
756
Gravityâs Rainsow
the human brainâs alpha rhythm, and you can actually
trigger an epileptic fit! True. Byron has had a vision against
the rafters of his ward, of 20 million Bulbs, all over
Europe, at a given sychronizing pulse arranged by one of
his many agents in the Grid, all these Bulbs beginning to
strobe together, humans thrashing around the 20 million
rooms like fish on the beaches of Perfect Energyâ Atten-
tion, humans, this has been a warning to you. Next time,
a few of us will explode. Ha-ha. Yes we'll unleash our
Kamikaze squads! Youâve heard of the Kirghiz Light? well
thatâs the ass end of a firefly compared to what we're
gonnaâoh, you havenât heard of theâoh, well, too bad.
Cause a few Bulbs, say a million, a mere 5% of our num-
ber, are more than willing to flame out in one grand burst
instead of patiently waiting out their design hours.... So
Byron dreams of his Guerrilla Strike Force, gonna get
Herbert Hoover, Stanley Baldwin, all of them, right in the
face with one coordinated blast... .
Is Byron in for a rude awakening! There is already an
organization, a human one, known as âPhoebus,â the in-
ternational light-bulb cartel, headquartered in Switzerland.
Run pretty much by International GE, Osram, and Asso-
ciated Electrical Industries of Britain, which are in turn
owned 100%, 29% and 46%, respectively, by the General
Electric Company in America. Phoebus fixes the prices
and determines the operational lives of all the bulbs in the
world, from Brazil to Japan to Holland (although Philips
in Holland is the mad dog of the cartel, apt at any time
to cut loose and sow disaster throughout the great Com-
bination). Given this state of general repression, there
seems noplace for a newborn Baby Bubb to start but at the
bottom.
But Phoebus doesnât know yet that Byron is immortal.
He starts out his career at an all-girl opium den in Charlot-
tenburg, almost within sight of the statue. of Wernher
Siemens, burning up in a sconce, one among many bulbs
witnessing the more languorous forms of [Republican dec-
adence. He gets to know all the bulbs in the place, Benito
the Bulb over in the next sconce whoâs always planning an
escape, Bernie down the: hall in the toilet, who has all
kinds of urolagnia jokes to tell, his mother Brenda in the
kitchen who talks of hashish hush puppies, dildos rigged
The Counterforce
â
757
to pump floods of paregoric orgasm to the capillaries of
the womb, prayers to Astarte and Lilith, queen of the
night, reaches into the true Night of the Other, cold and
naked on linoleum floors after days without sleep, the
dreams and tears become a natural state....
One by one, over the months, the other bulbs burn out,
and are gone. The first few of these hit Byron hard. Heâs
âstill a new arrival, still hasnât accepted his immortality.
But on through the burning hours he starts to learn about
the transience of .others: learns that loving them while
theyre here becomes easier, and also more intenseâto
love as if each design-hour will be the last. Byron soon
enough becomes
a Permanent Old-Timer.
Others can
recognize his immortality on sight, but itâs never discussed
except in a general way, when folklore comes flickering in
from other parts of the Grid, tales of the Immortals, one in
a kabbalistâs study in Lyons whoâs supposed to know
magic, another in Norway outside a warehouse facing
arctic whiteness with a stoicism more southerly bulbs be-
gin strobing faintly just at the thought of. If other Im-
mortals are out there, they remain silent. But it is a silence
with much, perhaps, everything, in it.
After Love, then, Byronâs next lesson is Silence.
As his burning lengthens toward 600 hours, the monitors
in Switzerland begin to keep more of an eye on Byron.
The Phoebus Surveillance Room is located under a little-
known Alp, a chilly room crammed full of German electro
hardware, glass, brass, ebonite, and silver, massive terminal
blocks shaggy with copper clips and screws, and a cadre
of super-clean white-robed watchers who wander meter to
meter, light as snowdevils, making sure that nothingâs
going wrong, that through no bulb shall the mean operat-
ing life be extended. You can imagine what it would do
to the market if that started happening.
Byron passes Surveillanceâs red-line at 600 hours, and
immediately, as a matter of routine, he is checked out for
filament resistance, burning temperature, vacuum, power
consumption. Everythingâs normal. Now Byron is to be
checked out every 50 hours hereafter. A soft chime will
go off in the monitoring station whenever itâs time.
__
At 800 hoursâanother routine precautionâa Berlin
agent is sent out to the opium den to transfer Byron. She
The Abduction of Byron
- Byron the Bulb is forcibly removed from his post by a Berlin agent under the orders of the Committee on Incandescent Anomalies.
- A collective wave of silent terror and impotence ripples through every lightbulb in Europe as they witness the capture of one of their own.
- Byron is relocated to a glassblower's basement in Neukölln, a designated 'control point' where suspicious, long-lasting bulbs are monitored.
- Upon reaching the 1,000-hour mark, Phoebus dispatches a hit man to destroy Byron and recycle his materials, enforcing the law of planned obsolescence.
- The execution is thwarted when a street urchin named Hansel Geschwindig steals Byron, trapping the bulb in an 'infinite regress' of sockets rather than allowing him the release of reincarnation.
- The Phoebus cartel initiates a cold, bureaucratic search for the missing immortal bulb, treating the anomaly as a data point in their consumer statistics.
The word goes out along the Grid. At something close to the speed of light, every bulb, Azos looking down the empty black Bakelite streets, Nitralampen and Wotan Gs at night soccer matches, Just-Wolframs, Monowatts and Siriuses, every bulb in Europe knows whatâs happened.
The Counterforce
â
757
to pump floods of paregoric orgasm to the capillaries of
the womb, prayers to Astarte and Lilith, queen of the
night, reaches into the true Night of the Other, cold and
naked on linoleum floors after days without sleep, the
dreams and tears become a natural state....
One by one, over the months, the other bulbs burn out,
and are gone. The first few of these hit Byron hard. Heâs
âstill a new arrival, still hasnât accepted his immortality.
But on through the burning hours he starts to learn about
the transience of .others: learns that loving them while
theyre here becomes easier, and also more intenseâto
love as if each design-hour will be the last. Byron soon
enough becomes
a Permanent Old-Timer.
Others can
recognize his immortality on sight, but itâs never discussed
except in a general way, when folklore comes flickering in
from other parts of the Grid, tales of the Immortals, one in
a kabbalistâs study in Lyons whoâs supposed to know
magic, another in Norway outside a warehouse facing
arctic whiteness with a stoicism more southerly bulbs be-
gin strobing faintly just at the thought of. If other Im-
mortals are out there, they remain silent. But it is a silence
with much, perhaps, everything, in it.
After Love, then, Byronâs next lesson is Silence.
As his burning lengthens toward 600 hours, the monitors
in Switzerland begin to keep more of an eye on Byron.
The Phoebus Surveillance Room is located under a little-
known Alp, a chilly room crammed full of German electro
hardware, glass, brass, ebonite, and silver, massive terminal
blocks shaggy with copper clips and screws, and a cadre
of super-clean white-robed watchers who wander meter to
meter, light as snowdevils, making sure that nothingâs
going wrong, that through no bulb shall the mean operat-
ing life be extended. You can imagine what it would do
to the market if that started happening.
Byron passes Surveillanceâs red-line at 600 hours, and
immediately, as a matter of routine, he is checked out for
filament resistance, burning temperature, vacuum, power
consumption. Everythingâs normal. Now Byron is to be
checked out every 50 hours hereafter. A soft chime will
go off in the monitoring station whenever itâs time.
__
At 800 hoursâanother routine precautionâa Berlin
agent is sent out to the opium den to transfer Byron. She
758
Gravityâs RAINBow
is wearing asbestos-lined kid gloves and seven-inch spike
heels, no not so she can fit in with the crowd, but so that
she can reach that sconce to unscrew Byron. The other
bulbs watch, in barely subdued terror. The word goes out
along the Grid. At something close to the speed of light,
every bulb, Azos looking down the empty black Bakelite
streets,
Nitralampen
and Wotan
Gs
at night soccer
matches, Just-Wolframs, Monowatts and Siriuses, every
bulb in Europe knows whatâs happened. They are silent
with impotence, with surrender in the face of struggles
they thought were all myth. We canât help, this common
thought humming through pastures of sleeping sheep,
down Autobahns and to the bitter ends of coaling piers in
the North, thereâs never been anything we could do....
Anyone shows us the meanest hope of transcending and
the Committee on Incandescent Anomalies comes in and
takes him away. Some do protest, maybe, here and there,
but itâs only information, glow-modulated, harmless, noth-
ing close to the explosions in the faces of the powerful
that Byron once envisioned, back there in his Baby ward,
in his innocence.
He is taken to Neukdélln, to a basement room, the home
of a glassblower who is afraid of the night and who will
keep Byron glowing and on watch over all the flint bowls,
the griffins and flower-ships, ibexes in mid-leap, green
spider-webs, somber ice-deities. This is one of many so-
called âcontrol points,â where suspicious bulbs can be
monitored easily.
haw
8
In less than a fortnight, a gong sounds along the ice
and stone corridors of the Phoebus headquarters, and faces
swivel over briefly from their meters. Not too many gongs
around here. Gongs are special. Byron has passed 1000
hours, and the procedure now is standard: the Committee
on Incandescent Anomalies sends a hit man to Berlin.
But here something odd happens. Yes, damned odd. The
plan is to smash up Byron and send him back right there
in the shop to cullet and batchâsalvage the tungsten, of
courseâand let him be reincarnated in the glassblowerâs
next project (a balloon setting out on a journey from the
top of a white skyscraper). This wouldn't
be too bad a
deal for Byronâhe knows as well as Phoebus does how
many hours he has on him. Here in the shop heâs watched
The Counterforce
759
enough glass being melted back into the structureless pool
from which all glass forms spring and re-spring, and
wouldnât mind going through it himself. But he is trapped
on the Karmic wheel. The glowing orange batch is a taunt,
a cruelty. Thereâs no escape for Byron, heâs doomed to an
infinite regress of sockets and bulbsnatchers. In zips young
Hansel
Geschwindig,
a Weimar
street
urchinâtwirls
Byron out of the ceiling into a careful pocket and Ge-
sssschhhhwindig! out the door again. Darkness invades the
dreams of the glassblower. Of all the unpleasantries his
dreams grab in out of the night air, an extinguished light
is the worst. Light, in his dreams, was always hope: the
basic, mortal hope. As the contacts break helically away,
hope turns to darkness, and the glassblower wakes sharply
tonight crying, âWho? Who?â
Phoebus isnât exactly thrown into a frenzy. Itâs hap-
pened before. There is still a procedure to follow. It
means more overtime for some employees, so thereâs that
vague, full-boweled pleasure at the windfall, along with an
equally vague excitement at the break in routine. You
want high emotion,
forget Phoebus.
Their stonefaced
search parties move out into the streets. They know more
or less where in the city to look. They are assuming that
no one among their consumers knows of Byronâs immortal-
ity. So the data for Non-immortal Bulbsnatchings ought to
apply also to Byron. And the data happen to hump up in
poor sections, Jewish sections, drug, homosexual, prostitute,
and magic sections of the capital. Here are the most logi-
cal bulbsnatchers, in terms of what the crime is. Look at
all the propaganda, Itâs a moral crime. Phoebus discov-
eredâone of the great undiscovered discoveries of our
timeâthat consumers need to feel a sense of sin. That
guilt, in proper invisible hands,
is a most powerful
weapon. In America, Lyle Bland and his psychologists had
figures, expert testimony and money (money in the Puri-
tan senseâan outward and visible O.K. on their inten-
tions) enough to tip the Discovery of Guilt at the cusp
between scientific theory and fact. Growth rates in later
years were to bear Bland out (actually what bore Bland
out was an honorary pallbearer sextet of all the senior
members of Salitieri, Poore, Nash, De Brutus and Short,
plus Lyle, Jr., who was sneezing. Buddy at the last min-
DS) a
is
The Bulbsnatching Heresy
- The Phoebus cartel exploits the 'Discovery of Guilt,' turning the act of bulbsnatching into a moral crime against the Grid.
- Lyle Bland and his psychologists weaponize consumer sin, framing the refusal to consume power as a grand heresy.
- Byron the Bulb begins a picaresque journey through the underworld, passing from a prostitute to a cost-accountant's rectum and into the Elbe estuary.
- Byron is recovered on the island of Helgoland by an old priest who has been divinely informed of the bulb's immortality.
- The priestâs quest to canonize the 'saint' who created the immortal bulb is derailed in NĂŒrnberg when his valise is stolen.
- The thief, a Lutheran transvestite named Mausmacher, takes Byron to a Nazi torchlight rally while dressed in stolen Roman Catholic regalia.
Phoebus discoveredâone of the great undiscovered discoveries of our timeâthat consumers need to feel a sense of sin.
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759
enough glass being melted back into the structureless pool
from which all glass forms spring and re-spring, and
wouldnât mind going through it himself. But he is trapped
on the Karmic wheel. The glowing orange batch is a taunt,
a cruelty. Thereâs no escape for Byron, heâs doomed to an
infinite regress of sockets and bulbsnatchers. In zips young
Hansel
Geschwindig,
a Weimar
street
urchinâtwirls
Byron out of the ceiling into a careful pocket and Ge-
sssschhhhwindig! out the door again. Darkness invades the
dreams of the glassblower. Of all the unpleasantries his
dreams grab in out of the night air, an extinguished light
is the worst. Light, in his dreams, was always hope: the
basic, mortal hope. As the contacts break helically away,
hope turns to darkness, and the glassblower wakes sharply
tonight crying, âWho? Who?â
Phoebus isnât exactly thrown into a frenzy. Itâs hap-
pened before. There is still a procedure to follow. It
means more overtime for some employees, so thereâs that
vague, full-boweled pleasure at the windfall, along with an
equally vague excitement at the break in routine. You
want high emotion,
forget Phoebus.
Their stonefaced
search parties move out into the streets. They know more
or less where in the city to look. They are assuming that
no one among their consumers knows of Byronâs immortal-
ity. So the data for Non-immortal Bulbsnatchings ought to
apply also to Byron. And the data happen to hump up in
poor sections, Jewish sections, drug, homosexual, prostitute,
and magic sections of the capital. Here are the most logi-
cal bulbsnatchers, in terms of what the crime is. Look at
all the propaganda, Itâs a moral crime. Phoebus discov-
eredâone of the great undiscovered discoveries of our
timeâthat consumers need to feel a sense of sin. That
guilt, in proper invisible hands,
is a most powerful
weapon. In America, Lyle Bland and his psychologists had
figures, expert testimony and money (money in the Puri-
tan senseâan outward and visible O.K. on their inten-
tions) enough to tip the Discovery of Guilt at the cusp
between scientific theory and fact. Growth rates in later
years were to bear Bland out (actually what bore Bland
out was an honorary pallbearer sextet of all the senior
members of Salitieri, Poore, Nash, De Brutus and Short,
plus Lyle, Jr., who was sneezing. Buddy at the last min-
DS) a
is
760
Gravity's RaInsow
ute decided to go see Dracula. He was better off). Of all
the legacies Bland left around, the Bulbsnatching Heresy
was perhaps his grandest. It doesnât just mean that some-
body isnât buying a bulb. It also means that same some-
body is not putting any power in that socket! It is a sin
both against Phoebus and against the Grid. Neither one is
about to let that get out of hand.
So, out go the Phoebus flatfoots, looking for the snatched
Byron. But the urchin has already left town, gone to Ham-
burg, traded Byron to a Reeperbahn prostitute so he can
shoot up some morphineâthe young womanâs customer to-
night is a cost-accountant who likes to have light bulbs
screwed into his asshole, and this john has also brought a
little hashish to smoke, so by the time he leaves heâs for-
gotten about Byron still there in his assholeâdoesnât ever,
in fact, find out, because when he finally gets around to
sitting down (having stood up in trolleys all the way
home) itâs on his own home toilet and plop! there goes
Byron in the water and flusssshhhh! away down âthe waste
lines to the Elbe estuary. He is just round enough to get
through smoothly all the way. For days he floats over the
North Sea, till he reaches Helgoland, that red-and-white
Napoleon pastry tipped in the sea. He stays there for a
while at a hotel between the Hengst and the Ménch, till
being brought back one day to the mainland by a very old
priest whoâs been put hep to Byronâs immortality in the
course of a routine dream about the taste of a certain
1911 Hochheimer ...suddenly -hereâs the great Berlin
Eispalast, a booming, dim iron-trussed cavern, the smell of
women in the blue shadowsâperfumes, leathers, fur skat-
ing-costumes,
ice-dust in the air, flashing legs, jutting
haunches, desire in grippelike flashes, helplessness at the
end of a crack-the-whip, rocketing through beams of sun-
light choked with the powdered ice, and a voice in the
blurred mirror underfoot saying, âFind the one who has
performed this miracle. He is a saint. Expose him. Expedite
his canonization. ...â The name is on a list the old man
presently draws up of about a thousand) tourists whoâve
been in and out of Helgoland since Byron
was found on
the beach. The priest begins a search tol tain, footpath,
and Hispano-Suiza, checking out each of the tourists on
his list. But he gets no farther than Niimberg, where his
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761
valise, with Byron wrapped inside in an alb, is ripped off
â
by a transsectite, a Lutheran named Mausmacher who
likes to dress up in Roman regalia. This Mausmacher, not
content with standing in front of his own mirror making
papal crosses, thinks it will be a really bizarre kick to go
out to the Zeppelin field to a Nazi torchlight rally in full
drag, and walk around blessing people at random. Green
torches flaring, red swastikas, twinkling brasses and Father
Mausmacher, checking out tits ânâ asses, waistlines ânâ
baskets, humming a clerical little tune, some Bach riff,
smiling as he moves through the Sieg Heils and choruses
of âDie Fahne Hoch.â Unknown to him, Byron slides out
of the stolen vestments onto the ground. He is then walked
past by several hundred thousand boots and shoes, and
not one so much as brushes him, natch. He is scavenged
next day (the field now deathempty, columned, pale,
streaked with long mudpuddles, morning clouds length-
ening behind the gilded swastika and wreath)
by a
poor Jewish ragpicker, and taken on, on into another 15
years of preservation against chance and against Phoebus.
He will be screwed into mother (Mutter) after mother, as
the female threads of German light-bulb sockets
are
known, for some reason that escapes everybody.
The cartel have already gone over to Contingency Plan
B, which assumes a seven-year statute of limitations, after
which Byron will be considered legally burned out. Mean-
while, the personnel taken off of Byronâs case are busy
tracking a long-lived bulb that once occupied a socket on
the porch of an army outpost in the Amazon jungle,
Beatriz the Bulb, who has just been stolen, mysteriously,
by an Indian raiding party.
Through his years of survival, all these various rescues
of Byron happen as if by accident. Whenever he can, he
tries to instruct any bulbs nearby in the evil nature of
Phoebus, and in the need for solidarity against the cartel.
-
He has come to see how Bulb must move beyond its role
as conveyor of light-energy alone. Phoebus has restricted
Bulb to this one identity. âBut there are other frequencies,
above and below the visible band. Bulb can give heat.
Bulb can provide energy for plants to grow, illegal plants,
inside closets, for example. Bulb can penetrate the sleeping
eye, and operate among the dreams of men.â Some bulbs
1 MN
aE
eLigly
va ve
he .
The Subversive Life of Byron
- Byron the Bulb survives a Nazi rally and is rescued by a Jewish ragpicker, continuing his fifteen-year defiance of the Phoebus cartel.
- The cartel shifts to a contingency plan, assuming Byron will be legally 'burned out' after a seven-year statute of limitations.
- Byron attempts to radicalize other light bulbs, preaching solidarity and the potential for bulbs to operate on invisible frequencies and influence human dreams.
- The Phoebus cartel and the electrical Grid maintain a delicate, profit-driven balance between bulb longevity and power consumption.
- Phoebus engages in complex global conspiracies, including an arrangement with the Meat Cartel to limit tallow for candles and controlling the world's tungsten supply.
- The narrative highlights the intersection of industrial policy, corporate greed, and the secret, sentient resistance of inanimate objects.
Bulb can penetrate the sleeping eye, and operate among the dreams of men.
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761
valise, with Byron wrapped inside in an alb, is ripped off
â
by a transsectite, a Lutheran named Mausmacher who
likes to dress up in Roman regalia. This Mausmacher, not
content with standing in front of his own mirror making
papal crosses, thinks it will be a really bizarre kick to go
out to the Zeppelin field to a Nazi torchlight rally in full
drag, and walk around blessing people at random. Green
torches flaring, red swastikas, twinkling brasses and Father
Mausmacher, checking out tits ânâ asses, waistlines ânâ
baskets, humming a clerical little tune, some Bach riff,
smiling as he moves through the Sieg Heils and choruses
of âDie Fahne Hoch.â Unknown to him, Byron slides out
of the stolen vestments onto the ground. He is then walked
past by several hundred thousand boots and shoes, and
not one so much as brushes him, natch. He is scavenged
next day (the field now deathempty, columned, pale,
streaked with long mudpuddles, morning clouds length-
ening behind the gilded swastika and wreath)
by a
poor Jewish ragpicker, and taken on, on into another 15
years of preservation against chance and against Phoebus.
He will be screwed into mother (Mutter) after mother, as
the female threads of German light-bulb sockets
are
known, for some reason that escapes everybody.
The cartel have already gone over to Contingency Plan
B, which assumes a seven-year statute of limitations, after
which Byron will be considered legally burned out. Mean-
while, the personnel taken off of Byronâs case are busy
tracking a long-lived bulb that once occupied a socket on
the porch of an army outpost in the Amazon jungle,
Beatriz the Bulb, who has just been stolen, mysteriously,
by an Indian raiding party.
Through his years of survival, all these various rescues
of Byron happen as if by accident. Whenever he can, he
tries to instruct any bulbs nearby in the evil nature of
Phoebus, and in the need for solidarity against the cartel.
-
He has come to see how Bulb must move beyond its role
as conveyor of light-energy alone. Phoebus has restricted
Bulb to this one identity. âBut there are other frequencies,
above and below the visible band. Bulb can give heat.
Bulb can provide energy for plants to grow, illegal plants,
inside closets, for example. Bulb can penetrate the sleeping
eye, and operate among the dreams of men.â Some bulbs
1 MN
aE
eLigly
va ve
he .
762,
Gravity's RAINBOW
listened attentivelyâothers thought of ways to fink to
Phoebus. Some of the older anti-Byronists were able to
fool with their parameters in systematic ways that would
show up on the ebonite meters under the Swiss mountain:
there were even a few self-immolations, hoping to draw
the hit men down.
\
Any talk of Bulbâs transcendence, of course, was clear
subversion. Phoebus based everything on bulb efficiencyâ
the ratio of the usable power coming out, to the power put
in. The Grid demanded that this ratio stay as small as
possible. That way they got to sell more juice. On the
other hand, low efficiency meant longer burning hours, and
that cut into bulb sales for Phoebus. In the beginning
Phoebus tried increasing filament resistance, reducing the
hours of life on the sly and graduallyâtill the Grid noticed
a fall-off in revenues, and started screaming. The two
parties by and by reached an accord on a compromise
bulb-life figure that would bring in enough money for
both of them, and to go fifty-fifty on the costs of the anti-
bulbsnatching campaign. Along with a more subtle attack
against those criminal souls who forswear bulbs entirely
and use candles. Phoebusâs long-standing arrangement with
the Meat Cartel was to restrict the amount of tallow in
circulation by keeping more fat in meat to be sold regard-
less of cardiac problems that might arise, and redirecting
most of what was trimmed off into soap production. Soap
in those days was a booming concern. Among the con-
sumers, the Bland Institute had discovered deep feelings
about shit. Even at that, meat and soap were minor inter-
locks of Phoebus. More important were items like tungsten.
Another reason why Phoebus couldnât cut down bulb life
too far. Too many tungsten filaments would eat into avail-
able stockpiles of the metalâChina being the major world
source, this also brought in very delicate questions of
Eastern policyâand disturb the arrangement between
General Electric and Krupp about how much tungsten
carbide would be produced, where and when and what the
prices would be. The guidelines settled on
were $37â$90 a
pound in Germany, $200-$400 a pound in
the U.S. This
directly governed the production of machine tools, and
thus all areas of light and heavy industry. When the War
came, some people thought it unpatriotic of GE to have
â
The Impotence of Infinite Knowledge
- Byron the Bulb discovers the global industrial conspiracy governing machine tool production and light bulb lifespans.
- Despite gaining near-omniscience through the electrical grid, Byron realizes he is powerless to organize a revolution.
- Byron is condemned to an eternal existence of growing anger and frustration, eventually finding a perverse pleasure in his own impotence.
- The narrative shifts to a surreal landscape where Laszlo Jamf departs and a colonel awaits a symbolic 'restoration' of harmony in the grid-like city of Happyville.
- A barber named Eddie Pensiero holds his scissors with lethal intent as the colonel exposes his jugular in an act of impatient surrender.
- A mysterious woman arrives on a stolen bicycle, representing a 'drained and captured land' devoid of usable power.
He is condemned to go on forever, knowing the truth and powerless to change anything.
762,
Gravity's RAINBOW
listened attentivelyâothers thought of ways to fink to
Phoebus. Some of the older anti-Byronists were able to
fool with their parameters in systematic ways that would
show up on the ebonite meters under the Swiss mountain:
there were even a few self-immolations, hoping to draw
the hit men down.
\
Any talk of Bulbâs transcendence, of course, was clear
subversion. Phoebus based everything on bulb efficiencyâ
the ratio of the usable power coming out, to the power put
in. The Grid demanded that this ratio stay as small as
possible. That way they got to sell more juice. On the
other hand, low efficiency meant longer burning hours, and
that cut into bulb sales for Phoebus. In the beginning
Phoebus tried increasing filament resistance, reducing the
hours of life on the sly and graduallyâtill the Grid noticed
a fall-off in revenues, and started screaming. The two
parties by and by reached an accord on a compromise
bulb-life figure that would bring in enough money for
both of them, and to go fifty-fifty on the costs of the anti-
bulbsnatching campaign. Along with a more subtle attack
against those criminal souls who forswear bulbs entirely
and use candles. Phoebusâs long-standing arrangement with
the Meat Cartel was to restrict the amount of tallow in
circulation by keeping more fat in meat to be sold regard-
less of cardiac problems that might arise, and redirecting
most of what was trimmed off into soap production. Soap
in those days was a booming concern. Among the con-
sumers, the Bland Institute had discovered deep feelings
about shit. Even at that, meat and soap were minor inter-
locks of Phoebus. More important were items like tungsten.
Another reason why Phoebus couldnât cut down bulb life
too far. Too many tungsten filaments would eat into avail-
able stockpiles of the metalâChina being the major world
source, this also brought in very delicate questions of
Eastern policyâand disturb the arrangement between
General Electric and Krupp about how much tungsten
carbide would be produced, where and when and what the
prices would be. The guidelines settled on
were $37â$90 a
pound in Germany, $200-$400 a pound in
the U.S. This
directly governed the production of machine tools, and
thus all areas of light and heavy industry. When the War
came, some people thought it unpatriotic of GE to have
â
The Counterforce
763
given Germany an edge like that. But nobody with any
power. Donât worry.
Byron, as he burns on, sees more and more of this pat-
tern. He learns how to make contact with other kinds of
electric appliances, in homes, in factories and out in the
streets. Each has something to tell him. The pattern gath-
ers in his soul (Seele, as the core of the earlier carbon fila-
ment was known in Germany), and the grander and
clearer it grows, the more desperate Byron gets. Someday
he will know everything, and still be as impotent as be-
fore. His youthful dreams of organizing all the bulbs in
the world seem impossible nowâthe Grid is wide open,
all messages can be overheard, and there are more than
enough traitors out on the line. Prophets traditionally donât
last longâthey are either killed outright, or given an
accident serious enough to make them stop and think, and
most often they do pull back. But on Byron has been
visited an even better fate. He is condemned to go on
forever, knowing the truth and powerless to change any-
thing. No longer will he seek to get off the wheel. His
anger and frustration will grow without limit, and he will
find himself, poor perverse bulb, enjoying it....
Laszlo Jamf walks away down the canal, where dogs
are swimming now, dogs in packs, dogs heads bobbing
down the scummy canals... dogsâ heads, chess knights,
also may be found invisible in the air over secret airbases,
in the thickest fogs, conditions of temperature, pressure
and humidity form Springer-shapes the tuned flyer can
feel, the radars can see, the helpless passengers can al-
most glimpse, now and then, out the little window, as
through sheets of vapor... it is the kind Dog, the Dog no
man ever conditioned, who is there for us at beginnings
and ends, and journeys we have to take, helpless, but not
quite unwilling. ... The pleats in Jamf's suit go weaving
|
away like iris leaves in a backyard wind. The colonel is
left alone in Happyville. The steel city waits him, the even
cloud-light raising a white streak down each great build-
ing, all of them set up as modulations on the perfect grid
of the streets, each tower cut off at a different heightâ
and where is the Comb that will move through this and
764
Gravityâs RaiInsow
restore the old perfect Cartesian harmony? where are the
great Shears from the sky that will readjust Happyville?
There is no need to bring in blood or violence here, But
the colonel does have his head tilted back now in what
may truly be surrender: his throat is open to the pain-
radiance of the Bulb. Paddy McGonigle is the only other
witness, and he, a one-man power system with dreams of
his own, wants the colonel out of the way as much as
anyone. Eddie Pensiero, with the blues flooding
his shak-
ing muscles, the down, mortal blues, is holding
his scissors
in a way barbers arenât supposed to. The points, shudder-
ing in the electric cone, are aiming downward. Eddie
Pensieroâs fist tightens around the steel loops his fingers
have slid out of, The colonel, with a last tilt of his head,
exposes his jugular, clearly impatient with theâ
O
â
She comes riding into town on a stolen bicycle: a white
kerchief at her crown, fluttering behind in points, a dis-
tinguished emissary from a drained and captured land,
herself full of ancient title, but nothing in the way of usable
power, not even a fantasy of it. Sheâs wearing a lean white
dress, a tennis dress from prewar summers, falling now not
in knife-edge pleats but softer, more accidental, half-crisp,
touches of blue in its deeper folds, a dress for changes in
the weather, a dress to be flowed upon by shadows of
leaves, by a crumble of brown and sun-yellow moving
across it and on as she coasts preoccupied but without
private smiles, under the leafy trees that line the road of
hard-packed dirt. Her hair isâ: wound, in braids, up on her
head, which she holds not too high nor what used to be
called âgravely,â but toward (say against) a particular
future, for the first time since the Casino Hermann Goering
_..,and sheâs not of our moment, our time, at all.
The outermost sentry peers from his rusty-boned cement
ruin, and for two full pedal-swings they are both, he and
Katje, out in the daylight, blending with
packed earth,
rust, blobbing perforations of sunlight cold
gold and slick
as glass, the fresh wind in the trees, Hyperthyroidal Afri-
can eyes, their irises besieged as early cornflowers by the
The Allegory of Paranoia
- Katje travels through a surreal landscape of dirt roads and leafy trees, seemingly detached from the current moment and moving toward a specific future.
- She experiences a psychological tension between the primal terror of the dark groves and her own history of ritualistic, carnal submission to 'grove-dwelling beasts.'
- The narrative shifts into a theatrical hallucination featuring a chorus of Herero men dressed as sailors who perform a choreographed musical number.
- Katje discovers she is being personified in this performance as 'Paranoia,' a brassy, silver-clad figure in the style of Diamond Lil.
- The scene concludes with Katje feeling a sense of aesthetic disappointment, as she would have preferred a classical Isadora Duncan routine over the 'jazzy vulgarity' of the performance.
Pan was a lousy lover. Today, in public, they have no more than nervous glances for each other.
764
Gravityâs RaiInsow
restore the old perfect Cartesian harmony? where are the
great Shears from the sky that will readjust Happyville?
There is no need to bring in blood or violence here, But
the colonel does have his head tilted back now in what
may truly be surrender: his throat is open to the pain-
radiance of the Bulb. Paddy McGonigle is the only other
witness, and he, a one-man power system with dreams of
his own, wants the colonel out of the way as much as
anyone. Eddie Pensiero, with the blues flooding
his shak-
ing muscles, the down, mortal blues, is holding
his scissors
in a way barbers arenât supposed to. The points, shudder-
ing in the electric cone, are aiming downward. Eddie
Pensieroâs fist tightens around the steel loops his fingers
have slid out of, The colonel, with a last tilt of his head,
exposes his jugular, clearly impatient with theâ
O
â
She comes riding into town on a stolen bicycle: a white
kerchief at her crown, fluttering behind in points, a dis-
tinguished emissary from a drained and captured land,
herself full of ancient title, but nothing in the way of usable
power, not even a fantasy of it. Sheâs wearing a lean white
dress, a tennis dress from prewar summers, falling now not
in knife-edge pleats but softer, more accidental, half-crisp,
touches of blue in its deeper folds, a dress for changes in
the weather, a dress to be flowed upon by shadows of
leaves, by a crumble of brown and sun-yellow moving
across it and on as she coasts preoccupied but without
private smiles, under the leafy trees that line the road of
hard-packed dirt. Her hair isâ: wound, in braids, up on her
head, which she holds not too high nor what used to be
called âgravely,â but toward (say against) a particular
future, for the first time since the Casino Hermann Goering
_..,and sheâs not of our moment, our time, at all.
The outermost sentry peers from his rusty-boned cement
ruin, and for two full pedal-swings they are both, he and
Katje, out in the daylight, blending with
packed earth,
rust, blobbing perforations of sunlight cold
gold and slick
as glass, the fresh wind in the trees, Hyperthyroidal Afri-
can eyes, their irises besieged as early cornflowers by the
The Counterforce
765
crowding fields of white... Qoga-booga! Gwine jump on
dis drum hyah! Tell de resâ ob de trahb back in de village,
yowzah!
â
;
So, DUMdumdumdum, DUMdumdumdum, O.K., but
still thereâs no room in her demeanor for even curiosity (of
course werenât there going to be drums, a chance for
violence? A snake jumping off of a limb, a very large
©
presence ahead among the thousand bowing treetops, a
scream inside herself, a leap upward into primal terror,
surrendering to it and soâshe has dreamtâregaining her
soul, her long-lost self. ..). Nor will she waste more than
token glances now on the German lawns rushing so deeply
away into green hazes or hills, the pale limbs of marble
balusters beside sanitarium walks that curve restlessly, in a
fever, a stifling, into thickets of penis-budded sprig and
thorn so old, so without comfort that eyes are drawn,
seized by the tear-glands and dragged to find, to find at all
cost, the path that has disappeared so suddenly... or to
look behind to hold on to some trace of the spa, a corner
of the Sprudelhof, the highest peak of the white-sugar
bandstand, something to counteract Panâs whisper inside
the dark grove Come in... forget them. Come in here....
No. Not Katje. She has been into the groves and thickets.
She has danced naked and spread her cunt to the horns of
grove-dwelling beasts. She has left the moon in the soles
of her feet, taken its tides with the surfaces of her brain.
Pan was a lousy lover. Today, in public, they have no
more than nervous glances for each other.
What does happen now, and this is quite alarming, is
that out of nowhere suddenly appear a full dancing-chorus
of Herero men. They are dressed in white sailor suits de-
signed to show off asses, crotches, slim waists and shapely
pectorals, and they are carrying a girl all in silver lamé, a
loud brassy dame after the style of Diamond Lil or Texas
Guinan. As they set her down, everyone begins to dance
and sing:
Paâraânooooiiiia, Pa-ra-noial
Ainât it grand ta see, that good-time face, again!
Pa-ra-noi-ya, boy oh boy, yer
Just a bit of you-know-what
From way back when!
Even Goya, couldnât draw ya,
766
GRaVITYâs Ramnsow
1
Not the way you looked, just kickinâ in that doorâ
-
Call a lawyer, Paranoia,
Lemme-awill my ass to you, for-ever-morel
Then Andreas and Pavel come out in tap shoes (liber-
â
ated from a rather insolent ENSA show that came through
in July) to do one of those staccato tap-and-sing numbers:
Pa- ra- noiâ (clippety-clippety-clippety cllya,]op! )
Pa- ra- noiâ (shufflestomp! shufflestomp! shufflestomp!
[and] el[ya,lop! clickety cl[Ainât]ick) it grand (clop) _ .
ta (clop) see (clippyclop) yer good-time face again! ete.
Well, Katje realizes long before the first 8 bars of all this
that the brazen blond bombshell is none other than her-
self: she is doing a dance routine with these black sailors-
ashore. Having gathered also that she is the allegorical
figure of Paranoia (a grand old dame, a little wacky but
pure heart), she must say that she finds the jazzy vulgarity
of this music a bit distressing. What she had in mind was
more of an Isadora Duncan routine, classical and full of
gauzes, andâwell, white. What Pirate Prentice briefed her
on was folklore, politics, Zonal strategiesâbut not black-
ness, When that was what she most needed to know about.
How can she pass now through so much blackness to re-
deem herself? How can she expect to find Slothrop? among
such blackness (subvocalizing the word as an old man
might speak the name of a base public figure, letting it
gutter out into real blackness: into being spoken no more).
There is that stubborn, repressive heat to her thoughts. It
is none of your heavy racist skin-prickling, no, but a feeling
of.one more burden, along with the scarcity of food in the
Zone, the chicken-coop, cave or basement lodgings at sun-
fall, the armed-occupation phobias and skulkings as bad
as Holland last year, comfortable in here at least, lotos-
snuggly, but disastrous out in the World of
Reality she still
believes in and will never give up hoping to rejoin some-
day. All thatâs not bad enough, no, now she must also
endure blackness,
Her ignorance of it |'must see her
through.
isa
With Andreas she is charming, she radiates that sensu-
ality peculiar to women who are concerned with an absent
loverâs safety. But then she must see Enzian. Their first
â
The Meeting of Blicero's Lovers
- Katje encounters the Schwarzkommando and struggles with her internal biases and ignorance regarding 'blackness' in the Zone.
- The meeting between Katje and Enzian is charged with their shared history as former lovers of the elusive Captain Blicero.
- Enzian perceives Katje as the 'Golden Bitch' from Bliceroâs letters, viewing her as a fragile, fading figure who might vanish if approached too aggressively.
- Katje initially mistakes Enzianâs quiet demeanor for weakness or lack of force, only to realize it is a form of vulnerable decency.
- The two characters navigate a complex emotional landscape of mutual loss, shame, and the shared trauma of Bliceroâs descent into madness.
- Their conversation reveals the grim reality of Bliceroâs final days in Holland, characterized by isolation and physical decay.
She knows her own precarious thinness, her leukemia of soul, and she teases with it.
766
GRaVITYâs Ramnsow
1
Not the way you looked, just kickinâ in that doorâ
-
Call a lawyer, Paranoia,
Lemme-awill my ass to you, for-ever-morel
Then Andreas and Pavel come out in tap shoes (liber-
â
ated from a rather insolent ENSA show that came through
in July) to do one of those staccato tap-and-sing numbers:
Pa- ra- noiâ (clippety-clippety-clippety cllya,]op! )
Pa- ra- noiâ (shufflestomp! shufflestomp! shufflestomp!
[and] el[ya,lop! clickety cl[Ainât]ick) it grand (clop) _ .
ta (clop) see (clippyclop) yer good-time face again! ete.
Well, Katje realizes long before the first 8 bars of all this
that the brazen blond bombshell is none other than her-
self: she is doing a dance routine with these black sailors-
ashore. Having gathered also that she is the allegorical
figure of Paranoia (a grand old dame, a little wacky but
pure heart), she must say that she finds the jazzy vulgarity
of this music a bit distressing. What she had in mind was
more of an Isadora Duncan routine, classical and full of
gauzes, andâwell, white. What Pirate Prentice briefed her
on was folklore, politics, Zonal strategiesâbut not black-
ness, When that was what she most needed to know about.
How can she pass now through so much blackness to re-
deem herself? How can she expect to find Slothrop? among
such blackness (subvocalizing the word as an old man
might speak the name of a base public figure, letting it
gutter out into real blackness: into being spoken no more).
There is that stubborn, repressive heat to her thoughts. It
is none of your heavy racist skin-prickling, no, but a feeling
of.one more burden, along with the scarcity of food in the
Zone, the chicken-coop, cave or basement lodgings at sun-
fall, the armed-occupation phobias and skulkings as bad
as Holland last year, comfortable in here at least, lotos-
snuggly, but disastrous out in the World of
Reality she still
believes in and will never give up hoping to rejoin some-
day. All thatâs not bad enough, no, now she must also
endure blackness,
Her ignorance of it |'must see her
through.
isa
With Andreas she is charming, she radiates that sensu-
ality peculiar to women who are concerned with an absent
loverâs safety. But then she must see Enzian. Their first
â
The Counterforce
767
meeting. Each in a way has been loved by Captain Blicero.
Each had to arrive at some way of making it bearable, just
bearable, for just long enough, one day by one....
âOberst.
I am happyââ her voice breaks. Genuinely.
Her head inclines across his desk no longer than is neces-
âsary to thank, to declare her passivity. The hell sheâs
happy.
He nods, angles his beard at a chair. This, then, is the
Golden Bitch of Bliceroâs last letters from Holland. Enzian
formed no image of her then, too taken up, too gagged
with sorrow at what was happening to Weissmann. She
seemed then only one of the expected forms of horror that
must be populating his world. But, ethnic when he least
wants to be, Enzian came after a while to think of her as
the great Kalahari rock painting of the White Woman,
white from the waist down, carrying bow and arrows,
trailed by her black handmaiden through an erratic space,
stone and deep, figures of all sizes moving to and fro....
But here is the true Golden Bitch. Heâs surprised at how
young and slender she isâa paleness as of having begun to
leak away from this world, likely to vanish entirely at any
too-reckless grab. She knows her own precarious thinness,
her leukemia of soul, and she teases with it. You must want
her, but never indicate itânot by eyes or moveâor she
will clarify, dead gone as smoke above a trail moving into
the desert, and you'll never have the chance again.
âYou must have seen him more recently than I.â He
- speaks quietly. She is surprised at his politeness. Disap-
pointed: she was expecting more force. Her lip has begun
to lift. âHow did he seem?â
âAlone.â Her brusque and sideways nod. Gazing back at
him with the best neutrality she can be sure of in the circs.
âShe means, You were not with him, when he needed you.
âHe was always alone.â
She understands then that it isnât timidity, she was
wrong. It is decency. The man wants to be decent. He leaves
himself open. (So does she, but only because everything that
might hurt has long been numbed out. Thereâs small risk for
Katje.) But Enzian risks what former lovers risk whenever
the Beloved is present, in fact or in word: deepest possibili-
ties for shame, for sense of loss renewed, or humiliation
and mockery. Shall she mockP Has he made that: too easyâ
\
ae
iets
768
Gravity's RaiInBow
and then, turning, counted on her for fair play? Can she be as
honest as he, without risking too much? âHe was dying,â
she tells him, âhe looked very old, I donât even know if he
left Holland alive.â
âHeââ and this hesitation may be (a) in consideration
of her feelings, or (b) for reasons of Schwarzkommando
security, or (c) both of the above... but then, hell, the
Principle of Maximizing Risk takes over again: âhe got as
far as the Liineberg Heath. If you didnât know, you ought
to.â
âYou've been looking for him.â
âYes, So has Slothrop been, though I donât think Slothrop
knows that.â
âSlothrop and Iââ she looks around the room, her eyes
skitter off metal surfaces, papers, facets of salt, cannot
come to rest anywhere. As if making a desperate surprise
confession: âEverything is so remote now. I donât really
know why they sent me out here. I donât know any more
who Slothrop really was. Thereâs a failure in the light. I
canât see. Itâs all going away from me,...â
It isnât yet time to touch her, but Enzian reaches out gives
a friendly chin-up tap on the back of her hand, a military
now-see-here. âThere are things to hold to. None of it may
look real, but some of it is. Really.â
âReally.â They both start laughing. Hers is weary-Euro-
pean, slow, head-shaking. Once she would have been
assessing as she laughed, speaking of edges, deeps, profit
and loss, H-hours and points of no returnâshe would
have been laughing politically, in response to a power-
predicament, because there might be nothing else to do.
But now sheâs only laughing. As she once laughed with
Slothrop, back at the Casino Hermann Goering.
So sheâs only been talking with Enzian about:a common
friend. Is this how the Vacuum feelsP_
_-
âSlothrop and Iâ didnât work too well. Should she have
said âBlicero and IâP What would suis bee got her into
with the African?
âBlicero and I,â he begins softly, pene her over
- burnished cheekbones, cigarette smolderin
sect in his curled
right hand, âwe were only close in certain ways. There were
doors I did not open. Could not. Around here, I play an
omniscient. â'd say donât give me away, but it wouldn't
The Last Heart of Enzian
- Katje and Enzian share a moment of weary connection while discussing their mutual history with Slothrop and the elusive Blicero.
- Katje expresses a profound sense of dissociation, feeling that her identity and her mission have become remote and unrecognizable.
- Enzian reflects on his past love for a younger Blicero, viewing his former self as a 'cripple' that he cannot bring himself to abandon.
- Enzian describes his current existence as a detached leader of the Raketen-Stadt, possessing 'Unlimited Access' but lacking a human connection.
- The dialogue reveals the 'Vacuum' of the Zone, where political power and military structures have replaced genuine human existence.
- Enzian admits that Blicero represents the last possibility of a 'heart' in which his true self might still exist.
There is no heart, anywhere now, no human soul left in which I exist. Do you know what that feels like?
768
Gravity's RaiInBow
and then, turning, counted on her for fair play? Can she be as
honest as he, without risking too much? âHe was dying,â
she tells him, âhe looked very old, I donât even know if he
left Holland alive.â
âHeââ and this hesitation may be (a) in consideration
of her feelings, or (b) for reasons of Schwarzkommando
security, or (c) both of the above... but then, hell, the
Principle of Maximizing Risk takes over again: âhe got as
far as the Liineberg Heath. If you didnât know, you ought
to.â
âYou've been looking for him.â
âYes, So has Slothrop been, though I donât think Slothrop
knows that.â
âSlothrop and Iââ she looks around the room, her eyes
skitter off metal surfaces, papers, facets of salt, cannot
come to rest anywhere. As if making a desperate surprise
confession: âEverything is so remote now. I donât really
know why they sent me out here. I donât know any more
who Slothrop really was. Thereâs a failure in the light. I
canât see. Itâs all going away from me,...â
It isnât yet time to touch her, but Enzian reaches out gives
a friendly chin-up tap on the back of her hand, a military
now-see-here. âThere are things to hold to. None of it may
look real, but some of it is. Really.â
âReally.â They both start laughing. Hers is weary-Euro-
pean, slow, head-shaking. Once she would have been
assessing as she laughed, speaking of edges, deeps, profit
and loss, H-hours and points of no returnâshe would
have been laughing politically, in response to a power-
predicament, because there might be nothing else to do.
But now sheâs only laughing. As she once laughed with
Slothrop, back at the Casino Hermann Goering.
So sheâs only been talking with Enzian about:a common
friend. Is this how the Vacuum feelsP_
_-
âSlothrop and Iâ didnât work too well. Should she have
said âBlicero and IâP What would suis bee got her into
with the African?
âBlicero and I,â he begins softly, pene her over
- burnished cheekbones, cigarette smolderin
sect in his curled
right hand, âwe were only close in certain ways. There were
doors I did not open. Could not. Around here, I play an
omniscient. â'd say donât give me away, but it wouldn't
_
The Counterforce
AMOS.
matter. Their minds are made up. I am the Berlin Snoot
supreme, Oberhauptberlinerschnauze Enzian. I know it all,
and they donât trust me. They gossip in a general way
about me and Blicero, as yarns to be spunâthe truth
wouldnât change either their distrust or my Unlimited
Access. They'd only be passing a story along, another
story. But the truth must mean something to you.
âThe Blicero I loved was a very young man, in love
with empire, poetry, his own arrogance. Those all must
have been important to me once, What I am now grew
from that. A former self is a fool, an insufferable ass, but
heâs still human, youâd no more turn him out than you'd
turn out any other kind of cripple, would you?â
He seems to be asking her for real advice. Are these the
sort of problems that occupy his time? What about the
Rocket, the Empty Ones, the perilous infancy of his
nation?
âWhat can Blicero matter to you?â is what she finally
asks.
-
He doesnât have to think for long. He has often imagined
the coming of a Questioner. âAt this point, I would take
you to a balcony. An observation deck. I would show you
the Raketen-Stadt, Plexiglass maps of the webs we main-
tain across the Zone. Underground schools, systems for
distributing food and medicine. ... We would gaze down
on staffrooms, communications centers, laboratories, clinics.
I would sayââ
âAll this will I give you, if you will butââ
âNegative. Wrong story. I would say: This is what I
have become. An estranged figure at a certain elevation
and distance...â who looks out over the Raketen-Stadt in
the amber evenings, with washed and darkening cloud
sheets behind himââwho has lost everything else but this
vantage. There is no heart, anywhere now, no human
ao left in which I exist. Do you know what that feels
ee
He is a lion, this man, ego-madâbut despite everything,
Katje likes him. âBut if he were still aliveââ
âNo way to know. I have letters he wrote after he left
your city. He was changing. Terribly. You ask what he
could matter to me. My slender white adventurer, grown
twenty years sick and oldâthe last heart in which I might
Transcendence and the City Darkness
- Enzian reflects on the transcendence of a missing figure, possibly Weissmann, who has moved beyond pain and sin into a realm of total control or death.
- A contrast is drawn between being 'transcended' and merely 'elevated,' with the latter described as a hollow, unbelieving state of existence.
- Enzian confronts Katje with the idea that her freedom is the saddest story of all, leading to an emotional breakdown that surprises her.
- Katje attempts to use flirtation and social performance as a shield to avoid confronting a deep, internal 'city-darkness' that mirrors the malignant dead.
- The narrative explores the 'Qlippoth,' souls who lost their humanity in a traumatic crossing and became hollow, predatory forces in the void.
- Enzian adopts a 'Suave Older Exotic' mask to interact with Katje, eventually tasking her with the simple goal of locating the vanished Slothrop.
She is stunned to see tears instead running, running over his cheeks. âYou've only been set free,â his voice then breaking on the last word, his face brushing forward a moment into a cage of hands.
=
770
Gravirtyâs Ratnsow
have been granted some beingâwas changing, toad to
prince, prince to fabulous monster. ... âIf he is alive,â he
may have changed by now past our recognition. We could
have driven under him in the sky today and never seen.
Whatever happened at the end, he has transcended. Even
if heâs only dead. Heâs gone beyond his pain, his sinâ
driven deep into Their province, into control, synthesis and
control, further thanââ well, he was about to say âweâ
but âIâ seems better after all, âI havenât transcended. Iâve
only been elevated. That must be as empty as things get:
itâs worse than being told you wonât have to die by some-
one you canât believe in....
âYes he matters to me, very much, He is an old self, a
dear albatross I cannot let go.â
âAnd me?â She gathers that he expects her to sound like
a woman of the iggos. âAnd me,â indeed. But she can
think of no other way offhand to help him, to allow him a
moment of comfort. ...
;
âYou, poor Katje. Your story is the saddest of all.â She
looks up to see exactly how his face will be mocking her.
She is stunned to see tears instead running, running over
his cheeks. âYou've only been set free,â his voice then
breaking on the last word, his face brushing forward a
moment into a cage of hands, then uncaging again for a
try at her own gay waltztime gallows laugh. Oh, no, is he
about to go goofy on her.too? What she needs right now
in her life, from some man in her life, is stability, mental
health and strength of character, Not this. âI told Slothrop
he was free, too. I tell anybody who might listen. I will tell
them as I tell you: you are free. You are free... .â
âHow can my story be sadder that that?â Shameless girl,
she isnât humoring him, sheâs actually flirting with him
now, any technique her crepe-paper and _ spider-italics
young ladyhood ever taught her, to keep from having to
move into his blackness. Understand it isnât his blackness,
â
but her ownâan inadmissible darkness she is making be-
lieve for the moment is Enzianâs, something beyond even
the center of Panâs grove, something
not pastoral at all,
but of the city, a set of ways in which
the natural forces
are turned aside, stepped down, rectified or bled to ground
â
and come out very like the malignant dead: the Qlippoth
that Weissmann has âtranscended,â souls whose journey
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771
âacross was so bad that they lost all their kindness back in
the blue lightning (the long sea-furrows of it rippling),
and tumed to imbecile killers and jokers, making unintelligi-
ble honks in the emptiness, sinewed and stripped thin as
ratsâa city-darkness that is her own, a textured darkness
in which flows go in all directions, and nothing begins, and
nothing ends, But as time passes things get louder there.
It is shaking itself into her consciousness.
âFlirt if-you want,â Enzian now just as smooth as that
Cary Grant, âbut expect to be taken seriously.â Oh, ho.
Hereâs whatcha came for, folks.
Not necessarily. His bitterness (all properly receipted in
German archives which may, however, be destroyed now)
runs too deep for her, really. He must have learned a
thousand masks (as the City will continue to mask itself
against invasions we often do not see, whose outcomes we
never learn, silent and unnoticed revolutions in the ware-
house districts where the walls are blank, in the lots where
the weeds grow thick), and this, no doubt, this Suave
Older Exotic, is one of them.
âI donât know what to do.â She gets up in a long, long
shrug and begins to stalk gracefully in the room. Her old
style: a girl about 16 who thinks everyone is staring at her.
Her hair falls like a hood. Her arms often touch.
âYou donât have to come into this any further than
locating Slothrop,â he finally gets around to telling her.
âAll you have to do is tag along with us, and wait till he
shows up again, Why bother yourself with the rest?â
âBecause I feel,â her voice, perhaps by design, very
small, âthat âthe restâ is exactly what I ought to be doing.
I donât want to get away with some shallow win. I donât
just want toâI donât know, pay him back for the octopus,
or something, Donât I have to know why heâs out here,
what I did to him, for ThemP How can They be stopped?
|
How long can I get away with easy work, cheap exits?
Shouldn't I be going all the way in?â
Her masochism [Weissmann wrote from The Hague] is reassurance
for her. That she can still be hurt, that she is human and can cry
at pain. Because, often, she will forget. I can only try to guess how
- terrible that must be.
. So, she needs the whip. She raises her
ass not in surrender, buts in crepe
ure your fears of impotence,
and mine: can it still...
will it fail. .. . But of true submission,
The Sadness of Survival
- Katje questions her own desire for suffering, wondering if her pursuit of pain is a way to avoid deeper, more difficult truths about her past.
- Weissmann reflects on Katjeâs masochism as a desperate attempt to feel human and maintain a sense of self through physical sensation.
- A tense exchange reveals Katje's survival is viewed as a 'life-sentence' rather than a reward, highlighting her isolation from those she loves.
- The narrative shifts to the surreal introduction of a Polish undertaker who seeks to be struck by lightning while wearing a DIY conductive suit.
- The characters remain fundamentally strangers to one another, 'condemned to separate rows' even when sharing the same history and trauma.
Beaming, strangers, la-la-la, off to listen to the end of a man we both loved and we're strangers at the films, condemned to separate rows, aisles, exits, homegoings.
The Counterforce
771
âacross was so bad that they lost all their kindness back in
the blue lightning (the long sea-furrows of it rippling),
and tumed to imbecile killers and jokers, making unintelligi-
ble honks in the emptiness, sinewed and stripped thin as
ratsâa city-darkness that is her own, a textured darkness
in which flows go in all directions, and nothing begins, and
nothing ends, But as time passes things get louder there.
It is shaking itself into her consciousness.
âFlirt if-you want,â Enzian now just as smooth as that
Cary Grant, âbut expect to be taken seriously.â Oh, ho.
Hereâs whatcha came for, folks.
Not necessarily. His bitterness (all properly receipted in
German archives which may, however, be destroyed now)
runs too deep for her, really. He must have learned a
thousand masks (as the City will continue to mask itself
against invasions we often do not see, whose outcomes we
never learn, silent and unnoticed revolutions in the ware-
house districts where the walls are blank, in the lots where
the weeds grow thick), and this, no doubt, this Suave
Older Exotic, is one of them.
âI donât know what to do.â She gets up in a long, long
shrug and begins to stalk gracefully in the room. Her old
style: a girl about 16 who thinks everyone is staring at her.
Her hair falls like a hood. Her arms often touch.
âYou donât have to come into this any further than
locating Slothrop,â he finally gets around to telling her.
âAll you have to do is tag along with us, and wait till he
shows up again, Why bother yourself with the rest?â
âBecause I feel,â her voice, perhaps by design, very
small, âthat âthe restâ is exactly what I ought to be doing.
I donât want to get away with some shallow win. I donât
just want toâI donât know, pay him back for the octopus,
or something, Donât I have to know why heâs out here,
what I did to him, for ThemP How can They be stopped?
|
How long can I get away with easy work, cheap exits?
Shouldn't I be going all the way in?â
Her masochism [Weissmann wrote from The Hague] is reassurance
for her. That she can still be hurt, that she is human and can cry
at pain. Because, often, she will forget. I can only try to guess how
- terrible that must be.
. So, she needs the whip. She raises her
ass not in surrender, buts in crepe
ure your fears of impotence,
and mine: can it still...
will it fail. .. . But of true submission,
772
Gravityâs RaAInsow
of letting go the self and passing into the All, there is nothing,
not with Katje. She is not the victim I would have chosen to end
this with. Perhaps, before the end, there will be another. Perhaps
I dream. ... I am not here, am I, to devote myself to her fantasies!
âYou are meant to survive. Yes, probably. No matter
how painful you want to make it for yourself, still youre
always going to come through. You're free to choose exactly
how pleasant each passage will be. Usually itâs given as a
reward. I wonât ask for what. Iâm sorry, but you seem
really not to know. Thatâs why your story is saddest of all.â
âRewardââ sheâs getting mad. âItâs a life-sentence. If
you call that a reward, then what are you calling me?â
âNothing political.â
âYou black bastard.â
âExactly.â He has allowed her to speak the truth. A clock
chimes in the stone comer. âWe have someone who was
with Blicero in May. Just before the end. You donât have
toââ
âCome and listen, yes, Oberst. But I will.â
He rises, crooks her his official and gentlemanly arm,
smiling sideways and feeling like a clown. Her own smiling
is upward like mischievous Ophelia just having glimpsed
the country of the mad and itching now to get away from
court.
Feedback, smile-to-smile, adjustments, waverings: what
it damps out to is we will never know each other. Beam-
ing, strangers, la-la-la, off to listen to the end of a man we
both loved and we're strangers at the films, condemned to
separate rows, aisles, exits, homegoings.
Far away in another corridor a loud drill-bit strains,
smokes, just before snapping. Cafeteria trays and steelware
rattle, an innocent and kind sound behind familiar regions
of steam, fat at the edge of souring, cigarette smoke, wash-
water, disinfectantâa cafeteria in the middle of the As
There are things to hold on to....
ne
You will want cause and effect. All right. Thanatz was
washed overboard in the same storm that took Slothrop
from the Anubis. He was rescued by a Polish undertaker
|
The Counterforce
773
in a rowboat, out in the storm tonight to see if he can get
struck by lightning. The undertaker is wearing, in hopes it
will draw electricity, a complicated metal suit, something
like a deep-sea diverâs, and a Wehrmacht helmet through
~
which he has drilled a couple of hundred holes and in-
©
serted nuts, bolts, springs and conductive wands of many
shapes so that he jingles whenever he nods or shakes his
head, which is often. Heâs a digital companion all right,
everything gets either a yes or a no, and two-tone checker-
boards of odd shape and texture indeed bloom in the rainy
night around him and Thanatz. Ever since reading about
Benjamin Franklin in an American propaganda leaflet,
kite, thunder and key, the undertaker has been obsessed
with this business of getting hit in the head by a lightning
bolt. All over Europe, it came to him one night in a flash
(though not the kind he wanted), at this very moment,
are hundreds, who knows maybe thousands, of people
walking around, who have been struck by lightning and
survived. What stories they could telll
What the leaflet neglected to mention was that Benja-
min Franklin was also a Mason, and given to cosmic forms
of practical jokesterism, of which the United States of
America may well have been one.
Well, itâs a matter of continuity. Most peopleâs lives
have ups and downs that are relatively gradual, a sinuous
curve with first derivatives at every point. They're the
ones who never get struck by lightning. No real idea of
cataclysm at all. But the ones who do get hit experience
a singular point, a discontinuity in the curve of lifeâdo
you know what the time rate of change is at a cusp? In-
finity, thatâs what! A-and right across the point, itâs minus
infinity! Howâs that for sudden change, eh? Infinite miles
per hour changing to the.same speed in reverse, all in the
gnatâs-ass or red cunt hair at the At. across the point.
Thatâs getting hit by lightning, folks. You're way up there
on the needle-peak of a mountain, and donât think there
aren't lammergeiers cruising there in the lurid red altitudes
around, waiting for a chance to snatch you off. Oh yes.
They are piloted by bareback dwarves with little plastic
-
masks around their eyes that happen to be shaped just
like the infinity symbol: 00. Little men with wicked eye-
brows, pointed ears and bald heads, although some of
The Geometry of Lightning
- The text explores the concept of 'discontinuity' in life, comparing the experience of being struck by lightning to a mathematical cusp where the rate of change reaches infinity.
- Those who survive such cataclysms are described as being snatched by 'bareback dwarves' riding lammergeiers, who transport them to a world that looks identical to the original but is fundamentally different.
- A secret subculture of lightning-strike survivors exists, potentially organized around cryptic Masonic or Franklinian principles of 'cosmic practical jokesterism.'
- This subculture maintains a facade of normalcy through a newsletter called 'A Nickel Saved,' which contains coded messages accessible only to those who have experienced the 'needle-peak' of the cusp.
- The narrative suggests that the world is layered with 'look-alikes' that only the 'lightning-heads' can perceive, marking a transition from congruent reality to something more sinister.
You're way up there on the needle-peak of a mountain, and donât think there aren't lammergeiers cruising there in the lurid red altitudes around, waiting for a chance to snatch you off.
The Counterforce
773
in a rowboat, out in the storm tonight to see if he can get
struck by lightning. The undertaker is wearing, in hopes it
will draw electricity, a complicated metal suit, something
like a deep-sea diverâs, and a Wehrmacht helmet through
~
which he has drilled a couple of hundred holes and in-
©
serted nuts, bolts, springs and conductive wands of many
shapes so that he jingles whenever he nods or shakes his
head, which is often. Heâs a digital companion all right,
everything gets either a yes or a no, and two-tone checker-
boards of odd shape and texture indeed bloom in the rainy
night around him and Thanatz. Ever since reading about
Benjamin Franklin in an American propaganda leaflet,
kite, thunder and key, the undertaker has been obsessed
with this business of getting hit in the head by a lightning
bolt. All over Europe, it came to him one night in a flash
(though not the kind he wanted), at this very moment,
are hundreds, who knows maybe thousands, of people
walking around, who have been struck by lightning and
survived. What stories they could telll
What the leaflet neglected to mention was that Benja-
min Franklin was also a Mason, and given to cosmic forms
of practical jokesterism, of which the United States of
America may well have been one.
Well, itâs a matter of continuity. Most peopleâs lives
have ups and downs that are relatively gradual, a sinuous
curve with first derivatives at every point. They're the
ones who never get struck by lightning. No real idea of
cataclysm at all. But the ones who do get hit experience
a singular point, a discontinuity in the curve of lifeâdo
you know what the time rate of change is at a cusp? In-
finity, thatâs what! A-and right across the point, itâs minus
infinity! Howâs that for sudden change, eh? Infinite miles
per hour changing to the.same speed in reverse, all in the
gnatâs-ass or red cunt hair at the At. across the point.
Thatâs getting hit by lightning, folks. You're way up there
on the needle-peak of a mountain, and donât think there
aren't lammergeiers cruising there in the lurid red altitudes
around, waiting for a chance to snatch you off. Oh yes.
They are piloted by bareback dwarves with little plastic
-
masks around their eyes that happen to be shaped just
like the infinity symbol: 00. Little men with wicked eye-
brows, pointed ears and bald heads, although some of
774
Gravityâs RAINBOW
them are wearing outlandish headgear, not at all the usual
Robin Hood green fedoras, no these are Carmen Miranda
hats, for example, bananas, papayas, bunches of grapes,
pears, pineapples, mangoes, jeepers even watermelonsâ
and there are World War I spike-top Wilhelmets, and baby
bonnets and crosswise Napoleon hats with and without Ns
on them, not to mention little red suits and green capes,
well here they are leaning forward into their cruel birdsâ
ears, whispering like jockeys, out to nab you, buster, just
like that sacrificial ape off of the Empire State Building,
except that they wonât let you fall, theyll carry you away,
to the places they are agents of. It will look like the world
you left, but it'll be different. Between congruent and
identical there seemsâ to be another class of look-alike that
only finds the lightning-heads. Another world laid down on
the previous one and to all appearances no different.
Ha-ha! But the lightning-struck know, all right! Even if
they may not know they know. And thatâs what this under-
taker tonight has set out into the storm to find.
Is he interested in all those other worlds who send their
dwarf reps out on the backs of eaglesP Nope. Nor does he
want to write a classic of anthropology, with the lightning-
struck grouped into a subculture, even secretly organized,
handshakes with sharp cusp-flicks of fingernails, private
monthly magazine A Nickel Saved (which looks perfectly
innocent, old Ben Franklin after inflation, unless you know
the other half of the proverb: â.. . is a stockpile of nickel.â
Making the real quote nickel-magnate Mark Hannaâs:
âYou have been in politics long enough to know that no
man in public owes the public anything.â So the real title
is Long Enough, which Those Who Know, know. The text
of each issue of the magazine, when transformed this way,
yields many interesting messages). To outsiders itâs just a
pleasant little club newsletterâJed Plunkitt held a bar-
becue for the Iowa Chapter the last weekend in April.
Heard about the Amperage Contest, Jed. Tough luck! But
come next Barbecue, youâll be back good as new....
Minnie Calkins (Chapter 1.793) got married Easter Sun-â
day to a screen-door salesman from California. Sorry to say
heâs not eligible for Membershipâat least not yet. But
with all those screen doors around, well sure keep our
fingers crossed!
... Your Editor has been receiving many,
The Counterforce
775
many âWha hoppen?ââs concerning the Spring Convention
in Decatur when all the lights failed during the blessing.
Glad to report now that trouble was traced finally to a
giant transient in the line, âKind of an electrical tidal
wave,â sez Hank Faffner, our engineer-on-the-scene. âEvery
bulb in the place burned out, a ceilingful of sooty, sterile
eggs.â Quite a poet, Hank! Now if you can only find out
where that spike came fromâ
But does the Polish undertaker in the rowboat care
about busting this code, about secret. organizations or
recognizable subcultures? No, he doesnât. The reason he is
seeking these people out is that he thinks it will help him
in his job. Can you dig that, gates? He wants to know how
people behave before and after lightning bolts, so he'll
know better how to handle bereaved families.
âYou are perverting a great discovery to the uses of
commerce,â sez Thanatz, stepping ashore. âYou ought to
be ashamed of yourself.â He is no more than five minutes
into the empty town at the edge of the marsh when nockle
KKAHH-UHNN! nocklenockle nockle an enormous blast
of light and sound hits the water back where the under-
taker, peeved. at what he takes to be no gratitude, is haul-
ing away.
âOh,â comes his faint voice-âOh, ho. Oh-ho-ho-ho!â
-
âNobody lives here but us.â A solid figure, a whispering
silhouette, charcoal-colored, has materialized in Thanatzâs
path. âWe do not harm visitors. But it would be. better if
you took another way.â
They are 175sâhomosexual prison-camp inmates. They
have come north from the Dora camp at. Nordhausen,
north till the land ended, and have set up an all-male
community between this marsh and the Oder estuary.
Ordinarily, this would be Thanatzâs notion of paradise,
except that none of the men can bear to be out of Doraâ
Dora was home, and they are homesick. Their âliberationâ
was a banishment. So here in a new location they have
made up a hypothetical SS chain of commandâno longer
restricted to what Destiny allotted then for jailers, they
have now managed to come up with some really mean ass
imaginary Nazi playmates, Schutzhaftlingsfiihrer to Block-
fiihrer, and chosen an internal hierarchy for themselves
too: Lager and Blockaltester, Kapo, Vorarbeiter, Stuben-
The Sacred Hierarchy of Dora
- A Polish undertaker seeks to understand human behavior during electrical transients to improve his commercial handling of the bereaved.
- A group of homosexual former inmates from the Dora concentration camp have established an all-male community in the northern marshes.
- Suffering from a perverse form of homesickness, the survivors have reconstructed a hypothetical SS chain of command to govern their new lives.
- The community has elevated the 'Laufer' or messenger to a sacred status, viewing him as a carrier of holy strategies between the visible camp and invisible oppressors.
- The prisoners have chosen the malignant specter of Blicero as their ultimate imaginary oppressor, mirroring the structure of the Mittelwerke rocket works.
- This phantom organization illustrates how the trauma of the camp and the mystery of the A4 rocket have fused into a new, religious form of subjugation.
Their âliberationâ was a banishment. So here in a new location they have made up a hypothetical SS chain of commandâno longer restricted to what Destiny allotted then for jailers, they have now managed to come up with some really mean ass imaginary Nazi playmates.
The Counterforce
775
many âWha hoppen?ââs concerning the Spring Convention
in Decatur when all the lights failed during the blessing.
Glad to report now that trouble was traced finally to a
giant transient in the line, âKind of an electrical tidal
wave,â sez Hank Faffner, our engineer-on-the-scene. âEvery
bulb in the place burned out, a ceilingful of sooty, sterile
eggs.â Quite a poet, Hank! Now if you can only find out
where that spike came fromâ
But does the Polish undertaker in the rowboat care
about busting this code, about secret. organizations or
recognizable subcultures? No, he doesnât. The reason he is
seeking these people out is that he thinks it will help him
in his job. Can you dig that, gates? He wants to know how
people behave before and after lightning bolts, so he'll
know better how to handle bereaved families.
âYou are perverting a great discovery to the uses of
commerce,â sez Thanatz, stepping ashore. âYou ought to
be ashamed of yourself.â He is no more than five minutes
into the empty town at the edge of the marsh when nockle
KKAHH-UHNN! nocklenockle nockle an enormous blast
of light and sound hits the water back where the under-
taker, peeved. at what he takes to be no gratitude, is haul-
ing away.
âOh,â comes his faint voice-âOh, ho. Oh-ho-ho-ho!â
-
âNobody lives here but us.â A solid figure, a whispering
silhouette, charcoal-colored, has materialized in Thanatzâs
path. âWe do not harm visitors. But it would be. better if
you took another way.â
They are 175sâhomosexual prison-camp inmates. They
have come north from the Dora camp at. Nordhausen,
north till the land ended, and have set up an all-male
community between this marsh and the Oder estuary.
Ordinarily, this would be Thanatzâs notion of paradise,
except that none of the men can bear to be out of Doraâ
Dora was home, and they are homesick. Their âliberationâ
was a banishment. So here in a new location they have
made up a hypothetical SS chain of commandâno longer
restricted to what Destiny allotted then for jailers, they
have now managed to come up with some really mean ass
imaginary Nazi playmates, Schutzhaftlingsfiihrer to Block-
fiihrer, and chosen an internal hierarchy for themselves
too: Lager and Blockaltester, Kapo, Vorarbeiter, Stuben-
776
Gravityâs RAINBOW
,
dienst, Laufer (who is a runner or messenger, but also
happens to be the German name for a chess bishop...
if
you have seen him, running across the wet meadows in
very early morning, with his red vestments furling and
fluttering darkened almost to tree-bark color among the
watery downs, you will have some notion of his real pur-
pose here inside the communityâhe is carrier of holy
strategies, memoranda of conscience, and when he ap-
proaches over the reedy flats of morning you are taken
by your bowed nape and brushed with the sidebands of a
Great Momentâfor the Laufer is the most sacred here, it
is he who takes messages out to the ruinous interface be-
tween the visible Lager and the invisible SS).
At the top of the complex is Schutzhaftlingsfihrer Bli- â
cero. The name has found it way this far east, as if carry-
ing on the manâs retreat for him, past the last stand in the
Liineburg Heath. He is the Zoneâs worst specter. He is
malignant, he pervades the lengthening summer nights.
Like a cankered root he is changing, growing toward
winter, growing whiter, toward the idleness and the
famine. Who else could the 175s have chosen for their â
very highest oppressor? His power is absolute. And donât
think he isnât really waiting, out by the shelled and rusty
gasworks, under the winding staircases, behind the tanks
â
and towers, waiting for the dawnâs first carmine-skirted
runner with news of how the night went. The night is his
dearest interest,so he must be told.
This phantom SS command here is based not so much
on the one the prisoners knew at Dora as on what they
inferred to be the Rocket-structure next door at the Mittel-
â
werke. The A4, in its way, was also concealed behind an
uncrossable wall that separated real pain and terror from
â
summoned
deliverer.
Weissmann/Bliceroâs
presence
crossed
the
wall, warping,
shivering
into
the fetid
bunkrooms, with the same reach toward another shape as
words trying to make their way through dreams. What the
175s heard from their real SS guards thereâ was enough to â
elevate Weissmann on the spotâthey, his own brother-
â
elite, didnât know what this man was up
to. When prison-
â
ers came in earshot, the guards stopped
whispering. But
their fear kept echoing: fear not of Weissmann personally, â
but of the time itself, a time so desperate that he could
:
The Debris of Blicero
- Weissmann, known as Blicero, wielded a desperate power in the Mittelwerke that terrified even his fellow SS guards.
- Thanatz remains haunted by the memory of the Rocket's launch and his uncertain knowledge of Blicero's current status.
- A local spokesman suggests Blicero is still alive and on the run, possessing a 'prefabricated power base' awaiting his return.
- Abandoned by the luxury ship Anubis, Thanatz finds himself among the 'preterite'âthe discarded people and memories of the war.
- The text suggests that the 'key' to the world is found among its wastes and debris rather than among the elite who discard everything of value.
- Thanatz faces a terrifying 'interface' at the gasworks, where the boundary between the living and the dead becomes porous.
The white Anubis, gone on to salvation. Back here, in her wake, are the preterite, swimming and drowning, mired and afoot, poor passengers at sundown who've lost the way, blundering across one anotherâs flotsam.
776
Gravityâs RAINBOW
,
dienst, Laufer (who is a runner or messenger, but also
happens to be the German name for a chess bishop...
if
you have seen him, running across the wet meadows in
very early morning, with his red vestments furling and
fluttering darkened almost to tree-bark color among the
watery downs, you will have some notion of his real pur-
pose here inside the communityâhe is carrier of holy
strategies, memoranda of conscience, and when he ap-
proaches over the reedy flats of morning you are taken
by your bowed nape and brushed with the sidebands of a
Great Momentâfor the Laufer is the most sacred here, it
is he who takes messages out to the ruinous interface be-
tween the visible Lager and the invisible SS).
At the top of the complex is Schutzhaftlingsfihrer Bli- â
cero. The name has found it way this far east, as if carry-
ing on the manâs retreat for him, past the last stand in the
Liineburg Heath. He is the Zoneâs worst specter. He is
malignant, he pervades the lengthening summer nights.
Like a cankered root he is changing, growing toward
winter, growing whiter, toward the idleness and the
famine. Who else could the 175s have chosen for their â
very highest oppressor? His power is absolute. And donât
think he isnât really waiting, out by the shelled and rusty
gasworks, under the winding staircases, behind the tanks
â
and towers, waiting for the dawnâs first carmine-skirted
runner with news of how the night went. The night is his
dearest interest,so he must be told.
This phantom SS command here is based not so much
on the one the prisoners knew at Dora as on what they
inferred to be the Rocket-structure next door at the Mittel-
â
werke. The A4, in its way, was also concealed behind an
uncrossable wall that separated real pain and terror from
â
summoned
deliverer.
Weissmann/Bliceroâs
presence
crossed
the
wall, warping,
shivering
into
the fetid
bunkrooms, with the same reach toward another shape as
words trying to make their way through dreams. What the
175s heard from their real SS guards thereâ was enough to â
elevate Weissmann on the spotâthey, his own brother-
â
elite, didnât know what this man was up
to. When prison-
â
ers came in earshot, the guards stopped
whispering. But
their fear kept echoing: fear not of Weissmann personally, â
but of the time itself, a time so desperate that he could
:
-The Counterforce
777
now move through the Mittelwerke as if he owned it, a
time which was granting him a power different from that
of Auschwitz or Buchenwald, a power they couldnât have
borne themselves... .
|
On hearing the name of Blicero now, Thanatzâs asshole
tightens a notch. Not that he thinks the name was planted
here or anything. Paranoia is not a major problem for
Thanatz., What does bother him is being reminded at allâ
reminded that heâs had no word, since the noon on the
Heath when ooo00 was fired, of Bliceroâs statusâalive or
dead, powerlord or fugitive. He isnât sure which he pre-
fers. As long as the Anubis kept moving, there was no
need to choose: the memory would have been left so far
behind that one day its ârealityâ wouldnât matter any more,
Of course it happened. Of course it didnât happen.
âWe think heâs out there,â the town spokesman is telling
Thanatz, âalive and on the run. Now and then we hear
somethingâit could fit Blicero easily enough. So we wait.
He will find us. He has a prefabricated power base here,
waiting for him.â
âWhat if he doesnât stay?â pure meanness, âwhat if he
laughs at you, and passes by?â
âThen I canât explain,â the other beginning to step back-
ward, back out into the rain, âitâs a matter of faith.â
Thanatz, who has sworn that he will never seek out
Blicero again, not after the ooo00, feels the flat of terrorâs
blade. âWho is your runner?â he cries.
âGo yourself,â a filtered whisper.
âWher epâ
Ne
âThe gasworks,â
âBut I have a message forââ
âTake it yourself... .â
The white Anubis, gone on to salvation. Back here, in
her wake, are the preterite, swimming and drowning,
mired and afoot, poor passengers at sundown who've lost
the way, blundering across one anotherâs flotsam, the
scrapings, the dreary junking of memoriesâall they have
to hold toâchurning, mixing, rising, falling. Men over-
board and our common debris. ...
_
Thanatz remains shaking and furious in the well-estab-
lished rain, under the sandstone arcade. I should have
sailed on, he wants to scream, and presently does. âI
778
Graviryâs RAINBOW
wasnât supposed to be left with you discards... .â Whereâs
â
the court of appeals that will hear his sad story? âI lost my
footing!â Some mess cook slipped in a puddle of elite
vomit and spilled a whole galvanized can full of creamed
yellow chicken nausea all over that starboard weather
deck, Thanatz didnât see it, he was looking for Margherita,
... Too bad, les jeux sont faits, nobodyâs listening and the
Anubis is gone. Better here with the swimming debris,
Thanatz, no telling what'll come sunfishing by, ask that
Oberst Enzian, he knows
(there is a key, among the
wastes of the World... and it wonât be found on board
the white Anubis because they throw everything of value
over the side).
SoâThanatz is out by the gasworks, up against a tar
wall, mackerel eyes bulging out of wet cool collar-shadows,
all black and white, really scared, breath smoking out
comers of his mouth as green dawn begins to grow back
among the gassen. He wonât be here, heâs only dead only
dead? Isnât this an âinterfaceâ here? a meeting surface for
.two worlds... sure, but which twoP Thereâs no counting
on any positivism to save him, that didnât even work ied
in Berlin, before the War, at Peter Sachsaâs sittings. .
only got in the way, made others impatient with hia. âA
screen of words between himself and the numinous was
always just a tactic... it never let him feel any freer.
These days thereâs even less point to it. He knows Blicero
exists.
It wasnât a dream. Donât you wish it could be. Another
fever that sooner or later will break, releasing you into the
cool reality of a room... you donât have to perform that
long and complicated mission after all, no, you see it was
only the fever... it wasnât real....
This time it is real, Blicero, alive or dead, is real.
Thanatz, a little crazy now with fear, wants to go provoke
him, he canât wait any more, he has to see what it will take
to get Blicero across the interface. What screaming ass-
wiggling surrender might bring him back. .
All it brings is the Russian police. Thereâs a working
agreement about staying inside the limits of the 175-Stadt
that of course no one told Thanatz about! The gasworks
used to be a notorious hustling spot till the Russians made
a series of mass busts. A last fading echo of the 175-Stadt
Thanatz and the Preterite Circuit
- Thanatz confronts the undeniable reality of Blicero, realizing his past tactics of evasion no longer offer freedom or psychological escape.
- A desperate attempt to provoke Blicero leads instead to Thanatz's arrest by Russian police in a former hustling district.
- A chance encounter with Polish guerrillas results in a violent rescue that leaves Thanatz abandoned in a displaced persons (DP) encampment.
- Thanatz enters a cycle of bureaucratic processing, being stamped, numbered, and moved across occupation zones by various Allied powers.
- Stripped of identity and resources, he experiences the brutal vulnerability of the 'preterite,' suffering theft, illness, and violence.
- The narrative emphasizes that in the post-war Zone, without documentation, one is doomed to be moved in lots of 2,000 possibly forever.
He is rubber-stamped on hands, forehead, and ass, deloused, poked, palpated, named, numbered, consigned, invoiced, misrouted, detained, ignored.
778
Graviryâs RAINBOW
wasnât supposed to be left with you discards... .â Whereâs
â
the court of appeals that will hear his sad story? âI lost my
footing!â Some mess cook slipped in a puddle of elite
vomit and spilled a whole galvanized can full of creamed
yellow chicken nausea all over that starboard weather
deck, Thanatz didnât see it, he was looking for Margherita,
... Too bad, les jeux sont faits, nobodyâs listening and the
Anubis is gone. Better here with the swimming debris,
Thanatz, no telling what'll come sunfishing by, ask that
Oberst Enzian, he knows
(there is a key, among the
wastes of the World... and it wonât be found on board
the white Anubis because they throw everything of value
over the side).
SoâThanatz is out by the gasworks, up against a tar
wall, mackerel eyes bulging out of wet cool collar-shadows,
all black and white, really scared, breath smoking out
comers of his mouth as green dawn begins to grow back
among the gassen. He wonât be here, heâs only dead only
dead? Isnât this an âinterfaceâ here? a meeting surface for
.two worlds... sure, but which twoP Thereâs no counting
on any positivism to save him, that didnât even work ied
in Berlin, before the War, at Peter Sachsaâs sittings. .
only got in the way, made others impatient with hia. âA
screen of words between himself and the numinous was
always just a tactic... it never let him feel any freer.
These days thereâs even less point to it. He knows Blicero
exists.
It wasnât a dream. Donât you wish it could be. Another
fever that sooner or later will break, releasing you into the
cool reality of a room... you donât have to perform that
long and complicated mission after all, no, you see it was
only the fever... it wasnât real....
This time it is real, Blicero, alive or dead, is real.
Thanatz, a little crazy now with fear, wants to go provoke
him, he canât wait any more, he has to see what it will take
to get Blicero across the interface. What screaming ass-
wiggling surrender might bring him back. .
All it brings is the Russian police. Thereâs a working
agreement about staying inside the limits of the 175-Stadt
that of course no one told Thanatz about! The gasworks
used to be a notorious hustling spot till the Russians made
a series of mass busts. A last fading echo of the 175-Stadt
The Counterforce
779
Chorale goes skipping away down the road singing some
horrible salute to faggotry such as
Yumsy-numsy ânâ poopsie-poo,
If Iâm a degenerate, so are yOu. oo
âNowadays all we get are you tourists,â sez the natty
civilian with the white handkerchief in his breast-pocket,
snickering in the shadow of his hat brim. âAnd, of course,
the odd spy.â
âNot me,â Thanatz sez.
âNot you, eh? Tell me about it.â
Something of a quandary, all right. In less than half a
day, Thanatz has moved from no need to worry or even
think about Blicero, to always needing some formulation of
him at hand to please any stray curious cop. This is one
of his earlier lessons in being preterite: he won't escape
any of the consequences he sets up for himself now, not
unless itâs by accident.
For example, at the outskirts of Stettin, by accident, a
Polish guerrilla group, just arrived back from London,
mistakes the police car for one transporting an anti-Lublin
journalist to prison, shoots out the tires, roars in, kills the
driver, wounds
the civilian
interrogator,
and escapes
lugging Thanatz like a sack of potatoes.
âNot me,â Thanatz sez.
âShit. Heâs right.â
They roll him out of the car door into
a DP encamp-
ment a few miles farther on. He is herded into a wire
enclosure along with 1,999 others being sent west to
Berlin.
-
For weeks he rides the freights, hanging in shifts to the
outside of his assigned car while inside someone else sleeps
on the straw space he vacated. Later they change places.
It helps to stay awake. Every day Thanatz sees half a
dozen DPs go on the nod and fall off the train, and some-
times itâs funny to watch, but too often itâs not, though
DP humor is a very dependent thing. He is rubber-
stamped on hands, forehead, and ass, deloused, poked,
palpated, named, numbered, consigned,
invoiced, mis-
routed, detained, ignored. He passes in and out the paper
grasp of Russian, British, American and French body-job-
780
GrRaviryâs Rarsow
bers, round and round the occupation circuit, getting to
recognize faces, coughs, pairs of boots on new owners.
Without a ration card or Soldbuch, you are doomed to
be moved, in lots of 2,000, center to center, about the
Zone, possibly forever. So, out among the ponds and fence-
posts of Mecklenburg somewhere, Thanatz discovers that
he is exempt from nothing. His second night on the rails
his shoes
are
stolen. He comes
down with a deep
bronchial cough and a high fever, For a week no one
comes to look at him. For two aspirins he has to suck
off the orderly in charge, who has grown to enjoy rough-
bearded cheeks flaming at 103° against his thighs, the
furnace breath under his balls. In Mecklenburg Thanatz
steals a cigarette butt from a sleeping one-armed veteran,
and is beaten and kicked for half an hour by people whose
language he has never heard before, whose faces he never
gets a look at. Bugs crawl over him only slightly irritated
that heâs in their way. His daily bread is taken away by
another DP smaller than he is, but with the look of some
right to it, a look Thanatz at best can only impersonateâ
and heâs afraid to go after the little rag-coated liver-
colored back, the munching haystack head... and others
are watching: the woman who tells everyoneâ that Thanatz
molests her little girl at night (Thanatz can never meet
her eyes because yes he wants to, pull down the slender
pretty pubescentâs oversize GI trousers stuff penis between
pale little buttocks reminding him so of Bianca take bites
of soft-as-bread insides of thighs pull long hair throatback
Bianca make her moan move her head how she loves it)
and a beetlebrowed Slav too, who has forced Thanatz to
go hunting cigarette butts for him after lights out, to give
up his sleep not so much to the chance of finding a real
butt as to the Slavâs right to demand itâthe Slav is watch-
ing tooâin fact, a circle of enemies have all observed
the taking of the bread and Thanatzâs failure to go after
it. Their judgment is clear, a clarity in their eyes Thanatz
never saw back on the Anubis, an honesty he canât avoid,
cart't shrug off... finally, finally he has to face, literally
- with his own real face, the pare ei 49 the bs light
of.
Little by little his memory of that last pockets
on
the Heath grows clearer. The fevers fire-polish, the pain
Thanatz and the Eyes of Blicero
- Thanatz exists in a state of social degradation among other displaced persons, unable to defend his meager rations from those he perceives as having a greater right to them.
- His internal world is plagued by pedophilic impulses and memories of Bianca, which are mirrored by the accusations and exploitation he faces from his peers.
- Through a process of fever and pain, Thanatz experiences a sharpening of memory that reveals surreal, impossible reflections in the eyes of Captain Blicero.
- The narrative questions the nature of Bliceroâs gaze, suggesting his eyes act as a fragmented map of the past or a reflection of hidden, darker identities.
- The text concludes with a direct challenge to Thanatzâs moral standing, equating his own submissive and predatory desires with the atrocities committed by Blicero.
Could it be that Bliceroâs eyes, in which Greta Erdmann saw maps of his Kingdom, are for Thanatz reflecting the past?
780
GrRaviryâs Rarsow
bers, round and round the occupation circuit, getting to
recognize faces, coughs, pairs of boots on new owners.
Without a ration card or Soldbuch, you are doomed to
be moved, in lots of 2,000, center to center, about the
Zone, possibly forever. So, out among the ponds and fence-
posts of Mecklenburg somewhere, Thanatz discovers that
he is exempt from nothing. His second night on the rails
his shoes
are
stolen. He comes
down with a deep
bronchial cough and a high fever, For a week no one
comes to look at him. For two aspirins he has to suck
off the orderly in charge, who has grown to enjoy rough-
bearded cheeks flaming at 103° against his thighs, the
furnace breath under his balls. In Mecklenburg Thanatz
steals a cigarette butt from a sleeping one-armed veteran,
and is beaten and kicked for half an hour by people whose
language he has never heard before, whose faces he never
gets a look at. Bugs crawl over him only slightly irritated
that heâs in their way. His daily bread is taken away by
another DP smaller than he is, but with the look of some
right to it, a look Thanatz at best can only impersonateâ
and heâs afraid to go after the little rag-coated liver-
colored back, the munching haystack head... and others
are watching: the woman who tells everyoneâ that Thanatz
molests her little girl at night (Thanatz can never meet
her eyes because yes he wants to, pull down the slender
pretty pubescentâs oversize GI trousers stuff penis between
pale little buttocks reminding him so of Bianca take bites
of soft-as-bread insides of thighs pull long hair throatback
Bianca make her moan move her head how she loves it)
and a beetlebrowed Slav too, who has forced Thanatz to
go hunting cigarette butts for him after lights out, to give
up his sleep not so much to the chance of finding a real
butt as to the Slavâs right to demand itâthe Slav is watch-
ing tooâin fact, a circle of enemies have all observed
the taking of the bread and Thanatzâs failure to go after
it. Their judgment is clear, a clarity in their eyes Thanatz
never saw back on the Anubis, an honesty he canât avoid,
cart't shrug off... finally, finally he has to face, literally
- with his own real face, the pare ei 49 the bs light
of.
Little by little his memory of that last pockets
on
the Heath grows clearer. The fevers fire-polish, the pain
The Counterforce
781
removes impurities. An image keeps recurringâa muddy
brown almost black eyeball reflecting a windmill and a
jagged reticule of tree-branches in silhouette... doors at
the sides of the windmill open and shut quickly, like loose
shutters in a storm...
in the iris sky one cloud, the shape
of a clamshell, rises very purple around the edges, the
puff from an explosion, something light ocher at the hori-.
zon... closer in it seems snarling purple around a yellow
thatâs brightening, intestines of yellow shadowed in violet
spilling outward, outward in a bellying curve toward us.
There are, oddly (not to cut this picturesque scene off,
but) oddly enough, get this,
no windmills on the Liine-
burg Heath! Thanatz even checked around real fast just
to make sure, nope, no windmills, O.K., so, how come Bli-
ceroâs eye, looking out on the Heath, is reflecting a wind-
mill, huh? Well, to be honest, now it isnât reflecting a
windmill, itâs reflecting a bottle of gin. No bottle of gin
out here on the Heath either. But it was reflecting a wind-
mill. Whatâs this? Could it be that Bliceroâs eyes, in which
Greta Erdmann saw maps of his Kingdom, are for Thanatz
reflecting the past? That would be strange. Whatever went
on on those eyeballs when you werenât looking would just
be lost. Youâd only have fragments, now and then. Katje,
looking back over her shoulder at fresh whip-marks. Gott-
fried in the morning lineup, body all over Wandervogel-
limp, wind blowing his uniform in great ripples back
from the bough-curves of his thighs, hair flying in the
wind, saucy sideways smile, mouth a little open, jaw for-
ward, eyelids down. Bliceroâs own reflection in the oval
mirror, an old faceâhe is about to don a wig, a Dragon
Lady pageboy with bangs, and he pauses, looking in, face
asking what? what did you say? wig held âto the side and
slightly lower so as to be another face in heavy wig-shad-
ows nearly invisible... but looking closer you can see
bone-ridges and fat-fields begin to emerge now, an ice-
glaze white bobbing, a mask hand-held, over the shadows
in the hollow hood-spaceâtwo faces looking back now,
and Thanatz, are you going to judge this man? Thanatz,
havenât you loved the whip? Havenât you longed for the
brush and sigh of ladiesâ clothes? Havenât you wanted to
murder a child you loved, joyfully kill something so help-
Jess and innocent? As he looks up at you, at the last pos-
782
Gravityâs Ramnsow
sible minute, trusting you, and smiles, purses his lips to
make a kiss just as the blow falls across his skull... isnât
that best of all? The cry that breaks in your chest then,
the sudden, solid arrival of loss, loss forever, the irreversi-
ble end of love, of hope...no denying what you finally
. (but so much fear at taking it in, the serpent face
âat opening your arms and legs and letting it enter you,
into your true face it'll kill you if itâ)
He is telling the Schwarzkommando this now, all this
and more. After a week of shouting I know, of crying I've
seen the Schwarzgerdét whenever a black face appears
behind the flowing wire fences, at the cinderbanks or the
crossings, word has got around. One day they come for
him: he is lifted from the straw as black with coal-dust as
theyâlifted easy as an infant, a roach flicked in kindness
off of his faceâand transported shivering, gathered moan-
ing south to the Erdschweinhéhle where now they are all
sitting around a fire, smoking and munching, eyes riveted
on blue Thanatz, who has been gabbing for seven hours
nonstop. He is the only one privileged, in a way, to tell
ee! much of the story, heâs the fella who lost out, the
oser,
Just a fool-who-never-wins, at love,
Though-he-plays, most-evâ, ry night...
A loser-to-the-Ones, Above,
Who stack-the-cards, of wrong, and right... .
Oh the loser never bets-it-all, and-he never-plays,
to win,
He knows if-once, you donât-succeed, you can al-ways
lose-again|
Just'a loser at-the-game, of love...
â
Spending night after night a-lo-o-o-onel
He lost Gottfried, he lost Bianca, and he is only beginning,
this late into it, to see that they are the same loss, to the
same winner. By now heâs forgotten the sequence in time.
Doesnât know which child he lost een
evenâhornet
clouds of memory welling upâeven
if they arenât two
names, different names, for the same child... . but then in
the crash of othersâ flotsam, sharp edges, and high-spin
velocities you understand, he finds he canât hold on to this
thought for long: soon heâs floundering in the open
The Loser's Lament
- Thanatz is rescued by the Schwarzkommando and brought to the Erdschweinhöhle, where he recounts his traumatic history over a seven-hour monologue.
- He reflects on the nature of loss, realizing that the children he lostâGottfried and Biancaâmay actually be the same singular loss to the same 'winner.'
- The text characterizes Thanatz as a perpetual loser to the 'Ones Above' who rig the game of life and love against him.
- Thanatz recalls a vulnerable moment with Blicero, who appeared stripped of his power and unable to articulate his own despair or needs.
- The narrative shifts through 'contributed scenes' of memory and loss, ranging from Kamikaze pilots in the Philippines to Greta Erdmannâs subterranean visions.
- Thanatz grapples with the existential reality of others, questioning if mortal faces are true souls or merely 'attractive sculpture' like sunlit clouds.
The cry that breaks in your chest then, the sudden, solid arrival of loss, loss forever, the irreversible end of love, of hope...no denying what you finally.
782
Gravityâs Ramnsow
sible minute, trusting you, and smiles, purses his lips to
make a kiss just as the blow falls across his skull... isnât
that best of all? The cry that breaks in your chest then,
the sudden, solid arrival of loss, loss forever, the irreversi-
ble end of love, of hope...no denying what you finally
. (but so much fear at taking it in, the serpent face
âat opening your arms and legs and letting it enter you,
into your true face it'll kill you if itâ)
He is telling the Schwarzkommando this now, all this
and more. After a week of shouting I know, of crying I've
seen the Schwarzgerdét whenever a black face appears
behind the flowing wire fences, at the cinderbanks or the
crossings, word has got around. One day they come for
him: he is lifted from the straw as black with coal-dust as
theyâlifted easy as an infant, a roach flicked in kindness
off of his faceâand transported shivering, gathered moan-
ing south to the Erdschweinhéhle where now they are all
sitting around a fire, smoking and munching, eyes riveted
on blue Thanatz, who has been gabbing for seven hours
nonstop. He is the only one privileged, in a way, to tell
ee! much of the story, heâs the fella who lost out, the
oser,
Just a fool-who-never-wins, at love,
Though-he-plays, most-evâ, ry night...
A loser-to-the-Ones, Above,
Who stack-the-cards, of wrong, and right... .
Oh the loser never bets-it-all, and-he never-plays,
to win,
He knows if-once, you donât-succeed, you can al-ways
lose-again|
Just'a loser at-the-game, of love...
â
Spending night after night a-lo-o-o-onel
He lost Gottfried, he lost Bianca, and he is only beginning,
this late into it, to see that they are the same loss, to the
same winner. By now heâs forgotten the sequence in time.
Doesnât know which child he lost een
evenâhornet
clouds of memory welling upâeven
if they arenât two
names, different names, for the same child... . but then in
the crash of othersâ flotsam, sharp edges, and high-spin
velocities you understand, he finds he canât hold on to this
thought for long: soon heâs floundering in the open
The Counterforce
783
again. But he'll remember that he held it for a little, saw
its texture and color, felt it against the side of his face
as he woke from a space of sleeping near itâthat the two
_
children,
Gottfried
and
Bianca,
are
the
same....
He lost Blicero, but it wasnât quite as real. After the last
firing, the unremembered night-hours to Hamburg, the
hop from Hamburg to Bydgoszcz in a purloined P-51
Mustang was so clearly Procalowski-down-out-of-the-sky-
in-a-machine, that Thanatz came to imagine he had dis-
_ posed of Blicero too only in that same very conditional,
metallic way. And sure enough, the metal has given way
to flesh, and sweat, and long chattering night encounters,
Blicero cross-legged stammering down at his crotch I
cuh-cuh-cuh-cuhâ âCan't,â Blicero? âCouldnâtâ? âCareâ?
âCryâ? Blicero that night was offering all his weapons, laying
down all maps of his revetments and labyrinths.
Thanatz was really asking: when mortal faces go by,
sure, self-consistent and never seeing me, are they real?
Are they souls, really? or only attractive sculpture, the
sunlit faces of clouds?
And: âHow can I love them?â
But thereâs no answer from Blicero. His eyes go casting
runes with the windmill silhouettes. A number of con-
tributed scenes do now flash by for Thanatz. From Ensign
Morituri, a banana-leaf floor somewhere near Malabacat
in the Philippines, late *44, a baby squirms, rolls, kicks in
drops of sunlight, raising dust off the drying leaves, and
the special-attack units roar away overhead, Zeros bearing
comrades away, finally as fallen cherry-blossomsâthat fa-
vorite Kamikaze imageâin the spring . . . from Greta Erd-
mann, a world below the surface of Earth or mudâit
©
crawls like mud, but cries like Earth, with layer-pressed
generations of gravities and losses theretoâlosses, failures,
last moments followed by voids stringing back, a series of
hermetic caves caught in the suffocated layers, those for-
ever lost... from someone, who'll ever know who? a flash
of Bianca in a thin cotton shift, one arm back, the smooth
powdery hollow under the arm and the leaping bow of
"one small breast, her lowered face, all but forehead and
cheekbone in shadow, turning this way, the lashes now
whose lifting you pray for...will she see you? a sus-
The Rocket's Unifying Event
- The Angel Thanatz provides a nonstop intelligence briefing that illuminates the nature of the Rocket for the Erdschweinhöhlers.
- The Schwarzkommando factionsâEmpty, Neutral, and Greenâreconcile their ideological differences to focus on the assembly and transport of the A4 Rocket.
- Enzian and his rival Josef Ombindi reach a tentative truce, granting the Empty Ones control over security for the upcoming journey.
- The collective effort is described as a fragile, momentary unity that may only last for a fraction of a day but serves as a necessary 'Event'.
- The narrative shifts to a surreal commentary on a 'typical American teenager' whose father is constantly attempting to murder him.
- The journey toward the 'Kingdom-of-Death' begins as the rocket sections are moved onto dollies for transport across the Zone.
Whether you believed or not, Empty or Green, cunt-crazy or politically celibate, power-playing or neutral, you had a feelingâa suspicion, a latent wish, some hidden tithe out of your soul, somethingâfor the Rocket.
The Counterforce
783
again. But he'll remember that he held it for a little, saw
its texture and color, felt it against the side of his face
as he woke from a space of sleeping near itâthat the two
_
children,
Gottfried
and
Bianca,
are
the
same....
He lost Blicero, but it wasnât quite as real. After the last
firing, the unremembered night-hours to Hamburg, the
hop from Hamburg to Bydgoszcz in a purloined P-51
Mustang was so clearly Procalowski-down-out-of-the-sky-
in-a-machine, that Thanatz came to imagine he had dis-
_ posed of Blicero too only in that same very conditional,
metallic way. And sure enough, the metal has given way
to flesh, and sweat, and long chattering night encounters,
Blicero cross-legged stammering down at his crotch I
cuh-cuh-cuh-cuhâ âCan't,â Blicero? âCouldnâtâ? âCareâ?
âCryâ? Blicero that night was offering all his weapons, laying
down all maps of his revetments and labyrinths.
Thanatz was really asking: when mortal faces go by,
sure, self-consistent and never seeing me, are they real?
Are they souls, really? or only attractive sculpture, the
sunlit faces of clouds?
And: âHow can I love them?â
But thereâs no answer from Blicero. His eyes go casting
runes with the windmill silhouettes. A number of con-
tributed scenes do now flash by for Thanatz. From Ensign
Morituri, a banana-leaf floor somewhere near Malabacat
in the Philippines, late *44, a baby squirms, rolls, kicks in
drops of sunlight, raising dust off the drying leaves, and
the special-attack units roar away overhead, Zeros bearing
comrades away, finally as fallen cherry-blossomsâthat fa-
vorite Kamikaze imageâin the spring . . . from Greta Erd-
mann, a world below the surface of Earth or mudâit
©
crawls like mud, but cries like Earth, with layer-pressed
generations of gravities and losses theretoâlosses, failures,
last moments followed by voids stringing back, a series of
hermetic caves caught in the suffocated layers, those for-
ever lost... from someone, who'll ever know who? a flash
of Bianca in a thin cotton shift, one arm back, the smooth
powdery hollow under the arm and the leaping bow of
"one small breast, her lowered face, all but forehead and
cheekbone in shadow, turning this way, the lashes now
whose lifting you pray for...will she see you? a sus-
784
Graviryâs RAINBOW
pension forever at the hinge of doubt, this perpetuate
doubting of her loveâ
.
They'll help him through it. The Erdschweinhdhlers
will sit up all night with this nonstop intelligence briefing.
He is the angel they've hoped for, and itâs logical he
should come now, on the day when they have their Rocket
all assembled at last, their single A4 scavenged all summer
piece by piece clear across the Zone from Poland to the
Low Countries. Whether you believed or not, Empty or
Green, cunt-crazy or politically celibate, power-playing or
neutral, you had a feelingâa suspicion, a latent wish,
some hidden tithe out of your soul, somethingâfor the
Rocket. It is that âsomethingâ that the Angel Thanatz
now illuminates, each in a different way, for everybody
listening,
By the time heâs done, they will all know what the
Schwarzgerat was, how it was used, where the 00000 was
fired from, and which way it was pointed. Enzian will
smile grimly, and groan to his feet, the decision already
made for him hours ago, and say, âWell, letâs have a look
at the timetables now.â Erdschweinhohle rival, Empty One
Josef Ombindi, grips him by the forearmââIf thereâs any-
thing...â Enzian nods. âSee if you can work us out a
tight security watch, âkurandye.â He hasnât called Ombindi
that for a while. Nor is it a small concession to give the
Empty Ones control of the watch lists, at least for the
duration of this journey...
... which has already begun, as one and a half levels
below, men and women are busy with tackle, lines, and
harness easing rocket sections each onto its dolly, more
Schwarzkommando waiting in leather and blueflowered
files up the ramps to the outside, along the present and
future vectors strung between wood rails and grooves,
Empty, Neutral and Green all together now, waiting or
hauling or supervising, some talking for the first time since
the dividing along lines of racial life and racial death
began, how many years ago, reconciled
for aa in the only
|
Event that could have brought them together (I couldn't,
Enzian knows, and shudders at whatâs 1s to happen
after itâs overâbut maybe itâs only meant |to last its frac-
tion of a day, and why canât that be enough? try to let it
be enough...).
aN
i
The Counterforce~
|
785
Christian comes past, downhill adjusting a web belt,
not quite swaggeringânight before last his sister Maria
visited him in a dream to tell him she wished no revenge
against anyone, and wanted him to trust and love the
Neuarorerueâso their eyes now meet not quite amused.
nor quite yet in a challenge, but knowing more together
than they ever have so far, and Christianâs hand at the
moment of passing cocks out half in salute, half in cele-
bration, aimed toward the Heath, northwesterly, Kingdom-
of-Deathward, and Enzianâs goes out the same way, iya,
*kurandyel! as, at some point, the two palms do slide and
brush, do touch, and it is touch and trust enough, for this
moment....
O
Unexpectedly, this country is pleasant, yes, once inside it,
quite pleasant after all. Even though there is a villain
here, serious as death. It is. this typical American teen-
agerâs own Father, trying episode after episode to kill
his son. And the kid knows it. Imagine that. So far heâs
managed to escape his fatherâs daily little death-plotsâ
but nobody has said he has to keep escaping.
Heâs a cheerful and a plucky enough lad, and doesnât hold
any of this against his father particularly. That olâ Broder-
ickâs just a murderinâ fool, golly what'll he come up with
nextâ
Itâs a giant factory-state here, a City of the Future full
of extrapolated 1930s swoop-facaded and balconied sky-
scrapers,
lean chrome
caryatids with bobbed hairdos,
classy airships of all descriptions drifting in the boom and
hush of the city abysses, golden lovelies sunning in roof-
gardens and turning to wave to you as you pass. It is
the Raketen-Stadt.
Down below, thousands of kids are running in windy
courtyards and areaways, up and down flights of steps,
_skulleaps on their heads with plastic propellers spinning
_ in the wind rattling and blurred, kids running messages
among the plastic herbage in and out of the different soft-
plastic officesâHereâs a memo for you Tyrone, go and find
the Radiant Hour (Weepers! Didnât know it was lostl
SN
et ee
o âeet
zi
a
i
an
The Raketen-Stadt Fantasy
- The setting is a surreal 'City of the Future' called Raketen-Stadt, characterized by 1930s Art Deco aesthetics, chrome caryatids, and moving buildings.
- The narrative shifts into a frantic, cartoonish quest where Tyrone Slothrop must rescue the 'Radiant Hour' from sinister colleagues of 'the Father.'
- The environment functions like a complex game of chess where buildings move along grids and certain paths are restricted to specific players.
- Slothrop assembles a motley 'rescue team' including the tough Myrtle Miraculous, a zoot-suited man named Maximilian, and a mechanical chess-player named Marcel.
- The tone blends childhood innocence, such as propeller beanies and water pistols, with sudden, lethal violence and high-concept philosophical debates.
Travel here gets complicatedâa system of buildings that move, by right angles, along the grooves of the Raketen-Stadtâs street-grid.
The Counterforce~
|
785
Christian comes past, downhill adjusting a web belt,
not quite swaggeringânight before last his sister Maria
visited him in a dream to tell him she wished no revenge
against anyone, and wanted him to trust and love the
Neuarorerueâso their eyes now meet not quite amused.
nor quite yet in a challenge, but knowing more together
than they ever have so far, and Christianâs hand at the
moment of passing cocks out half in salute, half in cele-
bration, aimed toward the Heath, northwesterly, Kingdom-
of-Deathward, and Enzianâs goes out the same way, iya,
*kurandyel! as, at some point, the two palms do slide and
brush, do touch, and it is touch and trust enough, for this
moment....
O
Unexpectedly, this country is pleasant, yes, once inside it,
quite pleasant after all. Even though there is a villain
here, serious as death. It is. this typical American teen-
agerâs own Father, trying episode after episode to kill
his son. And the kid knows it. Imagine that. So far heâs
managed to escape his fatherâs daily little death-plotsâ
but nobody has said he has to keep escaping.
Heâs a cheerful and a plucky enough lad, and doesnât hold
any of this against his father particularly. That olâ Broder-
ickâs just a murderinâ fool, golly what'll he come up with
nextâ
Itâs a giant factory-state here, a City of the Future full
of extrapolated 1930s swoop-facaded and balconied sky-
scrapers,
lean chrome
caryatids with bobbed hairdos,
classy airships of all descriptions drifting in the boom and
hush of the city abysses, golden lovelies sunning in roof-
gardens and turning to wave to you as you pass. It is
the Raketen-Stadt.
Down below, thousands of kids are running in windy
courtyards and areaways, up and down flights of steps,
_skulleaps on their heads with plastic propellers spinning
_ in the wind rattling and blurred, kids running messages
among the plastic herbage in and out of the different soft-
plastic officesâHereâs a memo for you Tyrone, go and find
the Radiant Hour (Weepers! Didnât know it was lostl
SN
et ee
o âeet
zi
a
i
an
786
Graviryâs RaInsow
Sounds like olâ Popâs up to somma those tricks again!), so
itâs out into the swarming corridors, full of larking dogs,
bicycles, pretty subdeb secretaries on roller skates, prod-
uce carts, beanies whirling forever in the lights, cap-gun
or water-pistol duels at each corner, kids dodging behind
the sparkling fountains WAIT thatâs a real gun, this is a
real bullet zinnnggg! good try, Pop, but you're not quite
as keen as The Kid today]
Onward to rescue the Radiant Hour, which has been
abstracted from the dayâs 24 by colleagues of the Father,
for sinister reasons of their own. Travel here gets com-
plicatedâa system of buildings that move, by right angles,
along the grooves of the Raketen-Stadtâs street-grid. You
can also raise or lower the building itself, a dozen floors
per second, to desired heights or levels underground, like
a submarine skipper with his periscopeâalthough certain
paths arenât available to you. They are available to others,
but not to you. Chess. Your objective is not the Kingâ
there is no Kingâbut momentary targets such as the
Radiant Hour.
Bing in pops a kid with beanie spinning, hands Slothrop
another message and spins off again. âThe Radiant Hour
is being held captive, if you want to see her on display
to
all interested customers be present at this address 11:30
a.m.ââin the sky a white clockface drifts conveniently
by, hmm only half an hour to gather together my rescue
team. Rescue team will consist of Myrtle Miraculous flyinâ
in here in a shoulderpadded maroon dress, the curlers still
up in her hair and a tough frown fer dragginâ her outa
Slumberland... next a Negro in a pearl-gray zoot and
Inverness cape name of Maximilian, high square pomaded
head and a superthin mustache come zooming here out
of his âfrontâ job, suave manager of the Club Oogabooga
where Beacon Street aristocracy rubs elbows evry night
with Roxbury winos ânâ dopefiends, yeah hi Tyrone, heah
Ah is! Hâlo Moitle baby, hyeah, hyeah, hyeah! Whutâs de
big rush, mah man? Adjusting his carmation, lookinâ round
thâ room, everybodyâs here now except for that Mar-cel
but hark the familiar music-box theme
yes
itâs that old-
' timery sweet Stephen: Foster music and
sure enough in
through the balcony window now comes Marcel, a me-
chanical chess-player dating back to the Second Empire,
The Counterforce
787
actually built a century ago for the great conjuror Robert-
Houdin, very serious-looking French refugee kid, funny
haircut with the ears perfectly outlined in hair that starts _
abruptly a quarter-inch strip of bare plastic skin away,
black patent-shiny hair, hornrim glasses, a rather remote
manner, unfortunately much too literal with humans (imag-
ine what happened the first time Maximilian come hi-de-
hoing in the door with one finger jivinâ in the air sees
metal-ebonite-and-plastic young Marcel sitting there and
say, âHey man gimme some skin, man!â well not only does
Marcel give him a heavy time about skin, skin in all its
implications, oh no thatâs only at the superficial level, next
|
we get a long discourse on the concept of âgive,â that goes
on for a while, then, then he starts in on âMan.â Thatâs
really an exhaustive one. In fact Marcel isnât anywhere
near finished with it yet). Still, his exquisite 19th-century
brainworkâthe human art it took to build which has been
flat lost, lost as the dodo birdâhas stood the Floundering
Four in good stead on many, many go-rounds with the
©
Paternal Peril.
But where inside Marcel is the midget Grandmaster,
the little Johann Allgeier? whereâs the pantograph, and
the magnets? Nowhere. Marcel really is a mechanical
chessplayer. No fakery inside to give him any touch of
â
humanity at all. Each of the FF is, in fact, gifted while
at the same time flawed by his giftâunfit by it for human
living. Myrtle Miraculous specializes in performing mira-
cles. Stupendous feats, impossible for humans. She has
lost respect for humans, they are clumsy, they fail, she
âdoes want to love them but love is the only miracle thatâs
âbeyond her. Love is denied her forever. The others of
cher class are either homosexuals, fanatics about law ânâ
order, off on strange religious excursions, or as intolerant
of failure as herself, and though friends such as Mary
Marvel and Wonder Woman keep inviting her to parties
to meet eligible men, Myrtle knows itâs no use.... As for
Maximilian, he has a natural sense of rhythm, which
âmeans all rhythms, up to and including the cosmic. So he
âwill never be where the fathomless manhole awaits, where
âthe safe falls from the high window shrieking like a bomb
âhe is a pilot through Earthâs baddest minefields, if we
âonly stay close to him, be where he is as much as we
i
AG
The Floundering Four's Chaos
- The narrative introduces the Floundering Four, a group of gifted but deeply flawed individuals whose powers render them unfit for normal human life.
- Marcel is a truly mechanical chess player, lacking any internal human 'fakery' or soul, yet possessing an exquisite 19th-century intellect.
- Myrtle Miraculous performs impossible feats but is cursed by an inability to experience love, viewing humans with a mix of pity and contempt.
- Maximilian possesses a cosmic sense of rhythm that allows him to avoid danger, yet this gift prevents him from ever experiencing true depth or risk.
- The team operates through a 'chaos of peeves' and hallucinations rather than cooperation, making their survival seem like a matter of blind fortune.
- Slothrop views this dysfunctional coalition with a 'loud dissonance' of conflicting hopes, embodying the struggle of the 'glozing neuters' who cannot choose a side.
Decisions are never really madeâat best they manage to emerge, from a chaos of peeves, whims, hallucinations and all-round assholery.
The Counterforce
787
actually built a century ago for the great conjuror Robert-
Houdin, very serious-looking French refugee kid, funny
haircut with the ears perfectly outlined in hair that starts _
abruptly a quarter-inch strip of bare plastic skin away,
black patent-shiny hair, hornrim glasses, a rather remote
manner, unfortunately much too literal with humans (imag-
ine what happened the first time Maximilian come hi-de-
hoing in the door with one finger jivinâ in the air sees
metal-ebonite-and-plastic young Marcel sitting there and
say, âHey man gimme some skin, man!â well not only does
Marcel give him a heavy time about skin, skin in all its
implications, oh no thatâs only at the superficial level, next
|
we get a long discourse on the concept of âgive,â that goes
on for a while, then, then he starts in on âMan.â Thatâs
really an exhaustive one. In fact Marcel isnât anywhere
near finished with it yet). Still, his exquisite 19th-century
brainworkâthe human art it took to build which has been
flat lost, lost as the dodo birdâhas stood the Floundering
Four in good stead on many, many go-rounds with the
©
Paternal Peril.
But where inside Marcel is the midget Grandmaster,
the little Johann Allgeier? whereâs the pantograph, and
the magnets? Nowhere. Marcel really is a mechanical
chessplayer. No fakery inside to give him any touch of
â
humanity at all. Each of the FF is, in fact, gifted while
at the same time flawed by his giftâunfit by it for human
living. Myrtle Miraculous specializes in performing mira-
cles. Stupendous feats, impossible for humans. She has
lost respect for humans, they are clumsy, they fail, she
âdoes want to love them but love is the only miracle thatâs
âbeyond her. Love is denied her forever. The others of
cher class are either homosexuals, fanatics about law ânâ
order, off on strange religious excursions, or as intolerant
of failure as herself, and though friends such as Mary
Marvel and Wonder Woman keep inviting her to parties
to meet eligible men, Myrtle knows itâs no use.... As for
Maximilian, he has a natural sense of rhythm, which
âmeans all rhythms, up to and including the cosmic. So he
âwill never be where the fathomless manhole awaits, where
âthe safe falls from the high window shrieking like a bomb
âhe is a pilot through Earthâs baddest minefields, if we
âonly stay close to him, be where he is as much as we
i
AG
788
Graviryâs RAINBOW
canâyet Maximilianâs doom is never to go any further into
danger than its dapperness, its skin-exciting first feel....
Fine crew this is, getting set to go off after the Radiant
âsay what? whatâs Slothropâs own gift and Fatal Flaw?
Aw, câmonâuh, the Radiant Hour, collecting their equip-
eae Myrtle zooming to and fro materializing this and
that:
The Golden Gate Bridge (âHow about that one?â âUh,
letâs see the other one, again? with the, you know, uh...â
âThe Brooklyn?â ââkind of old-fashioned lookingââ âTh
Brooklyn Bridge?â âYeah, thatâs it, with the pointed...
whatever they are...â).
The Brooklyn Bridge (âSee, for a chase-scene, Myrtle,
we ought to observe proportionsââ âDo tell.â âNow if we
were gonna be in high-speed automobiles, well, sure, we
might use the Golden Gate... but for zooming through
the air now, we need something older, more intimate,
humanââ).
A pair of superlatively elegant Rolls Royces
(âQuit
fooling, Myrtle, we already agreed, didnât we? No auto-
mobiles ...â).
A small plastic babyâs steering wheel (âAw all right, I
know you donât respect me as a leader but listen canât
we be reasonable ...â).
Any wonder itâs hard to feel much confidence in these
idiots as they go up against Pernicious Pop each day?
Thereâs no real direction here, neither lines of power nor
cooperation. Decisions are never really madeâat best they
manage to emerge, from a chaos of peeves, whims, hallu-
cinations and all-round assholery. This is less a fighting
team than nest full of snits, blues, crotchets and grudges,
not a rare or fabled bird in the lot. Its survival seems,
after all, only a mutter of blind fortune groping through
the heavy marbling of skies one Titanic-Night at a time.
Which is why Slothrop now observes his coalition with
hopes for success and hopes for disaster about equally
high (and no, that doesnât cancel out to apathyâit makes
a loud dissonance that dovetails inside you sharp as
knives). It does annoy him that he can be so divided, so
perfectly unable to come down on one side or another,
Those whom the old Puritan sermons denounced as âthe
glozing neuters of the worldâ have no easy road to haul
The Counterforce
789
down, Wear-the-Pantsers, just cause you canât see it doesnât
mean itâs not there! Energy inside is just as real, just as
binding and inescapable, as energy that shows. Whenâs
the last time you felt intensely lukewarm? eh? Glozing
neuters are just as human as heroes and villains. In many
ways they have the most grief to put up with, donât they?
Why donât you, right now, wherever you are, city folks
or out in the country, snuggled in quilts or riding the bus,
just turn to the Glozing Neuter nearest you, even your own
reflection in the mirror, and... just...
sing,
How-dy neighbor, how-dy pardl
Ainât it lone-ly, say ainât it hard,
Passinâ by so silent, day-after-day, with-out, even
a smile-or, a friendly word to say? Oh, let me
Tell ya bud-dy, tell ya ace,
Thingsâre fal-linâ, on their faceâ
Maybe we should stick together part oâ the way, and
Skiesâll be bright-er some day]
Now ev rybodyâ
As the 4 suit up, voices continue singing for a while,
depending how much each one happens to careâMyrtle
displaying generous expanses of nifty gam, and Maximilian
leering up beneath the fast-talking young tomatoâs skirts,
drawing bewildered giggles from adolescent Marcel, who
may be a bit repressed.
âNow,â Slothrop with a boobish, eager-to-please smile,
âtime for that Pause that Refreshes!â And heâs into the
- icebox before Myrtleâs âOh, Jesusâ has quite finished echo-
f
ing...the light from the cold wee bulb turning his face
to summerlight blue, Broderick and Nallineâs shadow-
child, their unconfessed, their monster son, who was born
with hydraulic clamps for hands that know only how to
reach and grab... and a heart that gurgles audibly, likeâ
a funny fatmanâs stomach... but look how lost, how un-
arrested his face is, was, that 114 seconds in the glow
from the folksy old icebox humming along in Kelvinator-
Bostonian dialect, âWhy cummawn in, Târone, itâs nice
and friendly heeah in my stummick, gawt lawtsa nice
"things, like Mawxies, ânâ big Baby Rooths....â Walking
now in among miles-down-the-sky shelves and food-moun-
tains or food-cities of Iceboxland (but look out, it can get
The Fascism of Iceboxland
- The narrative explores the 'Glozing Neuter,' the average person who endures the most grief by remaining lukewarm and silent in the face of heroes and villains.
- Slothrop enters the refrigerator, which is personified as a 'friendly' yet deceptive space speaking in a Kelvinator-Bostonian dialect.
- The icebox is described as a manifestation of 'thermodynamic elitism,' a system designed to freeze time and preserve a 'cube of changelessness' against natural cycles.
- The scene devolves into a surreal landscape of food-mountains where Slothrop confronts the taboo of putting bananas in the refrigerator, violating United Fruit's commercial mandates.
- The passage ends with a sudden, claustrophobic shift as Slothrop is trapped inside the icebox, his fate left to the whims of the characters outside.
The Gridâs big function in this System is iceboxery: freezing back the tumultuous cycles of the day to preserve this odorless small world, this cube of changelessness.
The Counterforce
789
down, Wear-the-Pantsers, just cause you canât see it doesnât
mean itâs not there! Energy inside is just as real, just as
binding and inescapable, as energy that shows. Whenâs
the last time you felt intensely lukewarm? eh? Glozing
neuters are just as human as heroes and villains. In many
ways they have the most grief to put up with, donât they?
Why donât you, right now, wherever you are, city folks
or out in the country, snuggled in quilts or riding the bus,
just turn to the Glozing Neuter nearest you, even your own
reflection in the mirror, and... just...
sing,
How-dy neighbor, how-dy pardl
Ainât it lone-ly, say ainât it hard,
Passinâ by so silent, day-after-day, with-out, even
a smile-or, a friendly word to say? Oh, let me
Tell ya bud-dy, tell ya ace,
Thingsâre fal-linâ, on their faceâ
Maybe we should stick together part oâ the way, and
Skiesâll be bright-er some day]
Now ev rybodyâ
As the 4 suit up, voices continue singing for a while,
depending how much each one happens to careâMyrtle
displaying generous expanses of nifty gam, and Maximilian
leering up beneath the fast-talking young tomatoâs skirts,
drawing bewildered giggles from adolescent Marcel, who
may be a bit repressed.
âNow,â Slothrop with a boobish, eager-to-please smile,
âtime for that Pause that Refreshes!â And heâs into the
- icebox before Myrtleâs âOh, Jesusâ has quite finished echo-
f
ing...the light from the cold wee bulb turning his face
to summerlight blue, Broderick and Nallineâs shadow-
child, their unconfessed, their monster son, who was born
with hydraulic clamps for hands that know only how to
reach and grab... and a heart that gurgles audibly, likeâ
a funny fatmanâs stomach... but look how lost, how un-
arrested his face is, was, that 114 seconds in the glow
from the folksy old icebox humming along in Kelvinator-
Bostonian dialect, âWhy cummawn in, Târone, itâs nice
and friendly heeah in my stummick, gawt lawtsa nice
"things, like Mawxies, ânâ big Baby Rooths....â Walking
now in among miles-down-the-sky shelves and food-moun-
tains or food-cities of Iceboxland (but look out, it can get
790
Graviryâs RAINBOW
pretty Fascist in here, behind the candy-colored sweet
stuff is thermodynamic elitism at its clearestâbulbs can
be replaced with candles and the radios fall silent, but the
Gridâs big function in this System is iceboxery: freezing
back the tumultuous cycles of the day to preserve this
odorless small world, this cube of changelessness), climb-
ing over the celery ridges where the lettered cheese glasses
loom high and glossy in the middle distance, slippinâ on
the butter dish, pigginâ on the watermelon down to the
rind, feelinâ yellow and bright as you skirt the bananas,
gazing down at verdigris reaches of mold across
the
crusted terrain of an old, no longer identifiable casserole
âbananas! who-whoâs been putting bananasâ
In-the-re-frig er a-torl
O no-no-no, no-no-nol
Chiquita Banana sez we shouldnât! Somethinâ awfulâll hap-
pen! Who would do that? It couldnât be Mom, and
Hoganâs in love with Chiquita Banana, Tyroneâs come in
the room plenty of times found his brother with banana
label glued on his erect cock for ready reference, lost in
masturbatory fantasies of nailing this cute but older Latin
lady while sheâs wearing her hat, gigantic fruit-market hat
and a big saucy smile
|Ay, ay, how passionate you
Yankees are! ...a-and it couldnâtâve been Pop, no Pop
wouldnât, but if it (is it getting cold in hereP) wasnât any
of us, then (whatâs happening to the Spike Jones record
of âRight in the Fithrerâs Faceâ playing back out in the
living room, whyâs the sound fading?) ... unless I did it
without knowing (look around, something's squeaking on
its hinges) and maybe that means Iâm going crazy (whatâs
this brightening the bulblight, whatâsâ) SLAM well who-
ever it is thatâs been wantonly disregarding United Fruitâs
radio commercials has also just closed young Tyrone in
that icebox, and now he'll have to count on Myrtle to get
him out. Embarrassing as heck,
âGood thinking, boss man.â
âGee, M.M., I donât know what happened...
âDo you ever? Grab on to my cape.
Whooshâ
âWhew. Well,â sez Slothrop, âuh, are we all... ?â
The Raketen-Stadt Spectacle
- Slothrop and his companions navigate the Raketen-Stadt in a mobile building, subject to the arbitrary traffic clearances of a mysterious Central Control.
- The group's dynamics are defined by Myrtle's exasperation with Slothrop's indecisiveness and Maximilian's drunken philosophical rants.
- As the mobile building accelerates, children swarm the structure like ants, some of whom act as spies for psychological warfare efforts.
- The narrative reveals that the central conflict between the '4' and the 'Father-conspiracy' is merely one of many struggles in a much larger world.
- A vast, dingy amphitheater filled with hundreds of thousands of spectators overlooks the arena, where life continues in a cycle of scavenging and waiting.
- The scene shifts the focus from the protagonists to the anonymous massesâold women cooking scraps and young men waiting in the coldâwho watch the 'episodes' of the struggle unfold.
Little kids boil up like ants on the webby arches of viaducts high over the city dripping stone like Spanish moss petrified in mid-collapse, kids up over the airy railings and onto the friendly back of the sleek city-cruising monster.
790
Graviryâs RAINBOW
pretty Fascist in here, behind the candy-colored sweet
stuff is thermodynamic elitism at its clearestâbulbs can
be replaced with candles and the radios fall silent, but the
Gridâs big function in this System is iceboxery: freezing
back the tumultuous cycles of the day to preserve this
odorless small world, this cube of changelessness), climb-
ing over the celery ridges where the lettered cheese glasses
loom high and glossy in the middle distance, slippinâ on
the butter dish, pigginâ on the watermelon down to the
rind, feelinâ yellow and bright as you skirt the bananas,
gazing down at verdigris reaches of mold across
the
crusted terrain of an old, no longer identifiable casserole
âbananas! who-whoâs been putting bananasâ
In-the-re-frig er a-torl
O no-no-no, no-no-nol
Chiquita Banana sez we shouldnât! Somethinâ awfulâll hap-
pen! Who would do that? It couldnât be Mom, and
Hoganâs in love with Chiquita Banana, Tyroneâs come in
the room plenty of times found his brother with banana
label glued on his erect cock for ready reference, lost in
masturbatory fantasies of nailing this cute but older Latin
lady while sheâs wearing her hat, gigantic fruit-market hat
and a big saucy smile
|Ay, ay, how passionate you
Yankees are! ...a-and it couldnâtâve been Pop, no Pop
wouldnât, but if it (is it getting cold in hereP) wasnât any
of us, then (whatâs happening to the Spike Jones record
of âRight in the Fithrerâs Faceâ playing back out in the
living room, whyâs the sound fading?) ... unless I did it
without knowing (look around, something's squeaking on
its hinges) and maybe that means Iâm going crazy (whatâs
this brightening the bulblight, whatâsâ) SLAM well who-
ever it is thatâs been wantonly disregarding United Fruitâs
radio commercials has also just closed young Tyrone in
that icebox, and now he'll have to count on Myrtle to get
him out. Embarrassing as heck,
âGood thinking, boss man.â
âGee, M.M., I donât know what happened...
âDo you ever? Grab on to my cape.
Whooshâ
âWhew. Well,â sez Slothrop, âuh, are we all... ?â
_ The Counterforce
i
OE
âThat Radiant Hourâs probably light-years away by
â
now,â sez Myrt, âand you have a snot icicle hanging outa
your nose.â Marcel springs to the controls of the mobile
building, keys in to Central Control a request for omni-
directional top-speed clearance, which sometimes comes
through and sometimes not, depending on a secret process
among the granters of permission, a process it is one of
the 4âs ongoing mandates to discover and impart to the
world. This time they get Slow Crawl, Suburban Vectors,
lowest traffic status in the Raketen-Stadt, involved only
once in recorded history, against a homosexual child-
murdering Indian liked to wipe off his organ afterwards
on the Flag and so onââShit!â hollers Maximilian at
Slothrop, âSlow Crawl, Suburban Vectors! whut thâ fuck
we sâposed to do man, swim or some shit?â
âUh, Myrtle...â
Slothrop
approaches
gold-snooded
M.M. a little deferent, âuh, do you think you could...â
Jesus they run through this. same routine every timeâ
âdoesnât Myrtle wish Sniveling Slothrop would cut this
wishy-washy malarkey ânâ be a man fer oncel She lights
a cigarette, lets it droop from one corner of her mouth,
juts out the opposite hip and sighs, âOn the beam,â exas-
perated already with this creepâ
~ And Los! the miracle is done, theyâre now zipping along
the corridor-streets of the Raketen-Stadt like some long-
necked sea monster, Little kids boil up like ants on the
webby arches of viaducts high over the city dripping stone
like Spanish moss petrified in mid-collapse, kids up over
the airy railings and onto the friendly back of the sleek
city-cruising monster. They climb window to window, too
full of grace ever to fall. Some of them, naturally, are
spies: that honey-curled little cutie in the blue checked
pinafore and blue knee-socks, up there under the gargoyle
at the window listening in to Maximilian, who began
drinking heavily as soon as the building started to move,
and is now carrying on a long denunciation of Marcel
under the thin scholarly disguise of trying to determine if
the Gallic Genius can truly be said to have any âsoul.â
âYoung lady under gargoyle is taking it all down in short-
hand. These are valuable data for the psychological war-
fare effort.
.
For the first time now it becomes apparent that the 4
792
Gravirtyâs Rainsow
and the Father-conspiracy do not entirely fill their world.
Their struggle is not the only, or even the ultimate one.
Indeed, not only are there many other struggles, but
there are also spectators, watching, as spectators will do,
hundreds of thousands of them, sitting around this dingy
yellow amphitheatre, seat after seat plunging down in rows
and tiers endless miles, down to the great arena, brown-
yellow lights, food scattered on the stone slopes up higher,
broken buns, peanut shells, bones, bottles half-filled with
green or orange sweet, fires in small wind-refuges, set in
angles where seats have been chiseled away, shallow de-
pressions in the stone and a bed of cherry embers where
old women are cooking hashes of the scavenged bits and
crumbles and gristly lumps of food, heating them in thin
frying pans of gray oil-water bubbling, as the faces of chil-
dren gather around to wait for food, and in the wind the
dark young man, the slippery young knife who waits for
your maid outside the iron gate each Sunday, who takes
her away to a park, a strangerâs automobile and a shape
of love you can never imagine, stands now with his hair
untended in the wind, his head averted from the fire,
feeling the cold, the mountain cold, at his temples and
high under his jaw... while beside other fires the women
gossip, one craning over now and then to look miles down-
ward at the stage, to see if a new episodeâs come on yet
âcrowds of students running by dark as ravens, coats
draped around shoulders, back out into a murky sector of
seats which traditionally are never entered (being reserved
for the Ancestors), their voices fading still very intense,
dramatic, trying to sound good or at least acceptable. The
women go on, playing cards, smoking, eating. See if you
âean borrow a blanket from Roseâs fire over there, itâs
gonna be cold tonight. Heyâand a pack of Armies while
you're outâand come right back, hear me? Of course the
cigarette machine turns out to be Marcel, who else, in
another of his clever mechanical disguises, and inside one
pack is a message for one of the spectators. âIâm sure you
wouldnât want Them to know about the summer of 1945.
Meet me in the Male Transvestitesâ Toilet, level L16/39C,
station Metatron, quadrant Fire, stall Malkuth. You know
what time. The usual Hour. Donât be late.â
a
Whatâs this? Whatâre the antagonists doing hereâin-
filtrating their own audience? Well, theyâre not really. Itâs
The Labyrinthine Rocket-Capital
- A surreal, nightly spectacle unfolds in a massive structure where the boundaries between the audience and the antagonists blur into a singular, chaotic ecosystem.
- Characters like Maximilian and Myrtle operate in deep cover, posing as musicians and technicians while navigating a world of bizarre propaganda and mechanical disguises.
- Slothrop lurks in a high-stakes, subterranean restroom, monitoring illicit deals and waiting to see if a cryptic blackmail message regarding the summer of 1945 will be answered.
- The narrative highlights a breakdown of traditional categories, where 'Outside' and 'Inside' interpierce so rapidly that neither holds hegemony over the other.
- Slothropâs mission becomes increasingly fragmented as he attempts to contact an Argentine anarchist U-boat via low-frequency radio, his original motivations lost to time and memory.
Outside and Inside interpiercing one another too fast, too finely labyrinthine, for either category to have much hegemony any more.
792
Gravirtyâs Rainsow
and the Father-conspiracy do not entirely fill their world.
Their struggle is not the only, or even the ultimate one.
Indeed, not only are there many other struggles, but
there are also spectators, watching, as spectators will do,
hundreds of thousands of them, sitting around this dingy
yellow amphitheatre, seat after seat plunging down in rows
and tiers endless miles, down to the great arena, brown-
yellow lights, food scattered on the stone slopes up higher,
broken buns, peanut shells, bones, bottles half-filled with
green or orange sweet, fires in small wind-refuges, set in
angles where seats have been chiseled away, shallow de-
pressions in the stone and a bed of cherry embers where
old women are cooking hashes of the scavenged bits and
crumbles and gristly lumps of food, heating them in thin
frying pans of gray oil-water bubbling, as the faces of chil-
dren gather around to wait for food, and in the wind the
dark young man, the slippery young knife who waits for
your maid outside the iron gate each Sunday, who takes
her away to a park, a strangerâs automobile and a shape
of love you can never imagine, stands now with his hair
untended in the wind, his head averted from the fire,
feeling the cold, the mountain cold, at his temples and
high under his jaw... while beside other fires the women
gossip, one craning over now and then to look miles down-
ward at the stage, to see if a new episodeâs come on yet
âcrowds of students running by dark as ravens, coats
draped around shoulders, back out into a murky sector of
seats which traditionally are never entered (being reserved
for the Ancestors), their voices fading still very intense,
dramatic, trying to sound good or at least acceptable. The
women go on, playing cards, smoking, eating. See if you
âean borrow a blanket from Roseâs fire over there, itâs
gonna be cold tonight. Heyâand a pack of Armies while
you're outâand come right back, hear me? Of course the
cigarette machine turns out to be Marcel, who else, in
another of his clever mechanical disguises, and inside one
pack is a message for one of the spectators. âIâm sure you
wouldnât want Them to know about the summer of 1945.
Meet me in the Male Transvestitesâ Toilet, level L16/39C,
station Metatron, quadrant Fire, stall Malkuth. You know
what time. The usual Hour. Donât be late.â
a
Whatâs this? Whatâre the antagonists doing hereâin-
filtrating their own audience? Well, theyâre not really. Itâs
The Counterforce
793
somebody elseâs audience at the moment, and these nightly
spectacles are an appreciable part of the darkside-hours
life of the Rocket-capital. The chances for any para-_
dox here, really, are less than you think.
Maximilian is way down in the bottom of the orchestra
pit posing as the C-melody saxophone player, complete
with Closet Intellectual Book, The Wisdom of the Great
Kamikaze.
Pilots, with illustrations by Walt Disneyâ
screaming, hairy-nosed, front teeth in white dihedral, slant-
eyed (long, elaborate curlicued shapes) round black lico-
rice dog-nosed Japs, zoominâ through ev'ry page! and any
time heâs not playing that saxophone, you can be sure
Maximilian will be, to the casual observer, immersed in
this diffuse, though rewarding, work. Myrtle meantime is
back in the candycane control room, manning the switch-
â
board and ready to swoop in at any time to save the
others, who are sure (through their own folly if nothing
else) to be in deep trouble soon. And Slothrop himself
lurks in the Transvestitesâ Toilet, in the smoke, the crowds,
the buzzing fluorescent lights, piss hot as melted butter,
making notes of all the dealing going on among the stalls;
bowls ânâ urinals (youâve got to look butch but not. that
butch and another thing no metal showing at any vital
spots, she'll knock off ten marks for every one she sees,
and the only bonuses she gives are spelled out here: blood
drawn no first try, thatâs an extra 20â) wondering if the,
cigarette-pack message got through and if they ll come in
person or if Pop'll send a hit man to try for a first-round
|
KO.
Well, there is the heart of it: the monumental yellow
structure, out there in the slum-suburban night, the never-
sleeping percolation of life and enterprise through its shell,
âOutside and Inside interpiercing one another too fast, too
finely labyrinthine, for either category
to have much
hegemony any more. The nonstop revue crosses its stage,
crowding and thinning, surprising and jerking tears in an
endless ratchet:
Tue Low-FREQUENCY LISTENER
The German U-boats communicated on a wave length
of 28,000 meters, which is down around 10 kc. A half-
_ wave antenna for thatâd halfta be g miles high, or long, and
eal
yes.
ee.
794
Gravityâs RAINBOW
even folded here and there it is still some antenna. It is.
located at Magdeburg. So is the headquarters of the Ger-
man branch of Jehovahâs Witnesses. So, for a time, is
Slothrop, attempting
to get through to the Argentine
anarchist U-boat, now in unknown waters. The reason why
is no longer clear to him. He was either visited again in
some way by Squalidozzi, or he came upon Squalidozzi
one day by accident, or he found, in some lint-picking
attentionless search through pockets, rags or bedroll, the
message he was given, back at the green edge of Aries,
at the CafĂ© lâEclipse long ago in Geneva. All he knows is
that finding Squalidozzi, right now, is his overriding need.
The Keeper of the Antenna is a Jehovahâs witness
named Rohr. Heâs just out of the Ravensbriick camp after
being in since 36 (or â37, he canât remember). With that
much camp time in, heâs politically reliable enough for
the local G-5 to put him, nights, in control of the network
of longest wavelength in the Zone. Although this could be
accidental, more likely there is some eccentric justice
lately begun to operate out here which it would behoove
Slothrop to look into. There are rumors of a War Crimes
Tribunal under way in Niimberg. No one Slothrop has
listened to is clear whoâs trying whom for what, but re-
member that these are mostly brains ravaged by antisocial
and mindless pleasures.
But the only peopleâif anyâapt to be communicating
these days on 28,000 meters (the distance from Test Stand
VII at Peenemiinde to the HafenstraBe in Greifswald,
where Slothrop in early August may see a particular
newspaper photo), except for freak Argentine anarchists,
are the undenazified Nazis still wandering around in un-
accounted-for submarines holding their own secret ship-
board tribunals against enemies of the Reich. So the closest
thing in the Zone to an early Christian is put on to listenâ
for news of unauthorized crucifixions.
âSomeone the other night was dying,â Rohr tells him,
âI donât know if he was inside the Zone or out at sea. He
wanted a priest. Should I have got on) and told him
about priestsP Would heâve found any c
comfort in that?
Itâs so painful sometimes. Weâre really
trying to be Chris-
tians. .
âMy folks were ConyrĂ©gutiondndes Slothrop offers, âI
The Keeper and the Letter
- Slothrop encounters Rohr, a Jehovahâs Witness and concentration camp survivor who monitors long-wave radio frequencies for the military government.
- The radio network operates on a massive 28,000-meter wavelength, a frequency associated with both PeenemĂŒnde and rogue Nazi submarines.
- Rohr reflects on the spiritual burden of his post, specifically the pain of hearing a dying man's plea for a priest over the airwaves.
- Slothrop experiences a fading of his own identity and family history, struggling to recall his parents as they dissolve into static and 'Pernicious Pop.'
- A letter from Nalline Slothrop to Joseph Kennedy reveals the anxiety of the American elite and a desperate desire to believe in a divine or political 'Plan.'
- Nallineâs descent into alcoholism and her vision of the 'Heavenly City' falling apart mirror the general breakdown of order and certainty in the post-war world.
Sometimes I thinkâah, Joe, I think theyâre pieces of the Heavenly City falling down.
794
Gravityâs RAINBOW
even folded here and there it is still some antenna. It is.
located at Magdeburg. So is the headquarters of the Ger-
man branch of Jehovahâs Witnesses. So, for a time, is
Slothrop, attempting
to get through to the Argentine
anarchist U-boat, now in unknown waters. The reason why
is no longer clear to him. He was either visited again in
some way by Squalidozzi, or he came upon Squalidozzi
one day by accident, or he found, in some lint-picking
attentionless search through pockets, rags or bedroll, the
message he was given, back at the green edge of Aries,
at the CafĂ© lâEclipse long ago in Geneva. All he knows is
that finding Squalidozzi, right now, is his overriding need.
The Keeper of the Antenna is a Jehovahâs witness
named Rohr. Heâs just out of the Ravensbriick camp after
being in since 36 (or â37, he canât remember). With that
much camp time in, heâs politically reliable enough for
the local G-5 to put him, nights, in control of the network
of longest wavelength in the Zone. Although this could be
accidental, more likely there is some eccentric justice
lately begun to operate out here which it would behoove
Slothrop to look into. There are rumors of a War Crimes
Tribunal under way in Niimberg. No one Slothrop has
listened to is clear whoâs trying whom for what, but re-
member that these are mostly brains ravaged by antisocial
and mindless pleasures.
But the only peopleâif anyâapt to be communicating
these days on 28,000 meters (the distance from Test Stand
VII at Peenemiinde to the HafenstraBe in Greifswald,
where Slothrop in early August may see a particular
newspaper photo), except for freak Argentine anarchists,
are the undenazified Nazis still wandering around in un-
accounted-for submarines holding their own secret ship-
board tribunals against enemies of the Reich. So the closest
thing in the Zone to an early Christian is put on to listenâ
for news of unauthorized crucifixions.
âSomeone the other night was dying,â Rohr tells him,
âI donât know if he was inside the Zone or out at sea. He
wanted a priest. Should I have got on) and told him
about priestsP Would heâve found any c
comfort in that?
Itâs so painful sometimes. Weâre really
trying to be Chris-
tians. .
âMy folks were ConyrĂ©gutiondndes Slothrop offers, âI
The Counterforce
795
think.â Itâs getting harder to remember either of them, as
Broderick progresses into Pernicious Pop and Nalline into
ssshhhghhh ... (into what? What was that word? What-
ever it is, the harder he chases, the faster it goes away).
Mom Storsroprâs LETTER TO AMBASSADOR KENNEDY
Well hi Joe howâve ya been. Listen: Jew-zeppyâwe're
getting edgy about our youngest again. Would you try
bothering a few of those jolly old London connections just
once more? (Promisel!!l) Even if itâs old news it'll be good
news for Poppy and I. I still remember what you said
when the awful word about the PT boat came in, before
you knew how Jack was. I'll never forget your words then.
Itâs every parentâs dream, Joe, that it is.
Oh, and Hozay (whoops, donât mind that, the pen just
skidded as you can seel Naughty Nallineâs on her third
martini, we'll have you know). Poppy and I heard your
wonderful speech at the GE plant over in Pittsfield the
other week. Youâre in the groove, Mister K! How truel
we've got to modemize in Massachusetts, or it'll just keep
getting worse and worse. They're supposed to be taking a
strike vote here next week. Wasn't the WLB set up to
prevent just that? It isnât starting to break down, is it,
Joe? Sometimes, you know these fine Boston Sundays,
when the sky over the Hill is broken into clouds, the way
white bread appears through a crust you hold at your
thumbs and split apart.... You know, donât you? Golden
clouds? Sometimes I thinkâah, Joe, I think theyâre pieces
of the Heavenly City falling down. Iâm sorryâdidnât mean
this to get so gloomy all so sudden, itâs just... but it
isnât beginning to fall apart, is it, my old fellow Harvard-
parent? Sometimes things arenât very clear, thatâs
all.
Things look like theyâre going against us, and though it
always turns out fine at the end, and we can always look
back and say oh of course it had to happen that way,
otherwise so-and-so wouldnât have happenedâstill, while
itâs happening, in my heart I keep getting this terrible
fear, this empty place, and itâs very hard at such times
really to believe in a Plan with a shape bigger than I
can seeé....
Oh, anyway. Grumpy old thoughts away! Shoo! Martini
Linguistic Mysteries and Prophecies
- Saure Bummer mocks Slothrop's American idioms, specifically questioning the logical redundancy of the phrase 'ass backwards.'
- Slothrop finds himself unable to explain the linguistic quirks of his own language when confronted by Saure's literalist critique.
- A flashback reveals Saure's past as a cat burglar and his encounter with Minnie Khlaetsch, an astrologer who could not pronounce umlauts.
- Minnie's mispronunciation of 'cute robber' as 'helicopter' (Hubschrauber) creates a surreal moment of unintended prophecy in 1920s Berlin.
- The cry of 'helicopter' is heard by a paranoid student who interprets it as a vision of future aerial surveillance and police control.
- This student, influenced by the accidental prophecy, eventually becomes the character 'Spörri,' linking the past to the novel's wider conspiracy.
But she canât pronounce those umlauts, so it comes out 'Hubschrauber! Hubschrauber!' which means 'Helicopter! Helicopter!'
796
Gravity's Ramnsow
Number Four, cominâ up!
Jackâs a fine boy. Really I love Jack like Hogan anc
Tyrone, just like a son, my own son. I even. love him lik
I donât love my sons, ha-hal (she croaks) but then Iâm :
wicked old babe, you know that. No hope for the likes o
Gis
On THE PurasE âAss BACKWARDSâ
âSomething I have never understood about your lan
guage, Yankee pig.â Sdure has been calling him âYankee
pigâ all day now, a hilarious joke he will not leave alene
often getting no further than âYankââ before collapsin;
into some horrible twanging phthisic wheeze of a laugh
coughing up alarming ropy lungers of many colors anc
marbling effectsâgreen, for example, old-statue green aâ
leafy dusk.
âSure,â replies Slothrop, âyou wanna learn English, me
teachee you English. Ask me anything, kraut.â It i:
exactly the kind of blanket offer thatâs always geeting
Slothrop in trouble.
|,
âWhy do you speak of certain reversalsâmachinery
connected wrong, for instance, as being âass backwardsâ!
I canât understand that. Ass usually is backwards, righti
You ought to be saying âass forwards,â if backwards i:
what you mean.â
âUh,â sez Slothrop.
;
âThis is only one of many American Mysteries,â Saure
sighs, âI wish somebody could clear up for me. Not you,
obviously.â
bit
i
SaĂ©ure got a lotta gall picking on other peopleâs lan-
guage like this. One night, back when he was a second-
story man, he had the incredible luck to break into the
affluent home of Minnie Khlaetsch, an astrologer of the
Hamburg School, who was, congenitally it seems, unable
to pronounce, even perceive, umlauts oyer vowels. That
night she was just coming on to, what would prove to be an
overdose of Hieropon, when Saure, who back in. those
days was a curly-haired and good-looking kid, surprised
her in her own bedroom with his hand âaround an ivory
chess Laufer with a sarcastic smile on its face, and filled
with good raw Peruvian. cocaine still full of the Earthâ
The Counterforce
797
Donât call for help,â advises Saure flashing his phony
scid bottle, âor that pretty face goes flowing off of its
sones like vanilla pudding.â But Minnie calls his bluff,
starts hollering for help to all the ladies of the same age
in her building who feel that same motherly help-help-
yut-make-sure-thereâs-time-for-him-to-rape-me ambivalence
about nubile cat burglars. What she means to scream is
âHiibsch Rauber! Hiibsch Rauber!â which means âCute-
looking robber! Cute-looking robber!â But she canât pro-
nounce those umlauts, So it comĂ©s out âHubschrauberl
Hubschrauber!â which means
âHelicopter!
Helicopter!â
well, itâs 1920-something, and nobody in earshot even
knows what the word means, Liftscrewer, whatâs thatPâ
nobody except one finger-biting paranoid aerodynamics
student in a tenement courtyard far away, who heard the
scream late in Berlin night, over tramclashing, rifle shots
in another quarter, a harmonica novice who has been
trying to play âDeutschland, Deutschland Uber Allesâ for
the past four hours, over and over missing notes, fucking
up the time, the breathing ti... berall...es... indie...
ie ...then longlong pause, oh come on asshole, you can
find itâWelt sour, ach, immediately corrected ... through
all this to him comes the cry Hubschrauber, liftscrewer, 2
helix through cork air over wine of Earth falling bright,
yes he knows exactlyâand can this cry be a prophecy? a
warming (the sky full of them, gray police in the hatch-
ways with ray-guns cradled like codpieces beneath each
whirling screw we see you from above there is nowhere
to go itâs your last alley, your last stormcellar) to stay in-
side and not interfere? He stays inside and does not inter-
fere. He goes on to become âSpĂ©rriâ of Horst Achtfadenâs
confession to the Schwarzkommando. But he didnât go to
see what Minne was hollering about that night. She
wouldâve ODâd except for her boy friend Wimpe, an up-
and-coming IG salesman covering the Eastern Territory,
who'd blown into town after unexpectedly dumping all of
his Oneirine samples on a party of American tourists back
in hilltop Transylvania looking for a new kind. of thrills
itâs me Liebchen, didnât expect to be back soâbut then
he saw the sprawled satin creature, read pupil-size and
skin-tint, swiftly went to his leather case for stimulant and
âsyringe. That and an ice-filled bathtub got her back O.K.
The Doper's Cadenza
- Seaman Bodine and Saure engage in a linguistic debate over the logic of the phrase 'ass backwards' versus 'backwards ass.'
- Bodine entertains himself with niche vocal impressions of character actors like William Bendix and Sam Jaffe, styling himself a 'white-hat' in the navy of life.
- Saureâs obsessive, discordant attempts to master a hypothetical Rossini violin concerto drive his partner Trudi to a breaking point.
- Trudi abandons the household amidst a surreal backdrop of an 82nd Airborne mass jump, leaving Saure to process his grief through ritualistic drug use.
- Saureâs devotion is expressed through 'sacramental kif' smoked in papers inscribed with prayers for Trudi's return.
- Bodine attempts to mitigate the household tension by composing a pop-style 'counter-cadenza' to mock and mask Saureâs abrasive violin practice.
One morning Trudi just goes stomping away into an 82nd Airborne mass jump over the conquered city, a million fleecy canopies in the sky, falling slow as white ash behind around the silhouette of her good-by stomp.
The Counterforce
797
Donât call for help,â advises Saure flashing his phony
scid bottle, âor that pretty face goes flowing off of its
sones like vanilla pudding.â But Minnie calls his bluff,
starts hollering for help to all the ladies of the same age
in her building who feel that same motherly help-help-
yut-make-sure-thereâs-time-for-him-to-rape-me ambivalence
about nubile cat burglars. What she means to scream is
âHiibsch Rauber! Hiibsch Rauber!â which means âCute-
looking robber! Cute-looking robber!â But she canât pro-
nounce those umlauts, So it comĂ©s out âHubschrauberl
Hubschrauber!â which means
âHelicopter!
Helicopter!â
well, itâs 1920-something, and nobody in earshot even
knows what the word means, Liftscrewer, whatâs thatPâ
nobody except one finger-biting paranoid aerodynamics
student in a tenement courtyard far away, who heard the
scream late in Berlin night, over tramclashing, rifle shots
in another quarter, a harmonica novice who has been
trying to play âDeutschland, Deutschland Uber Allesâ for
the past four hours, over and over missing notes, fucking
up the time, the breathing ti... berall...es... indie...
ie ...then longlong pause, oh come on asshole, you can
find itâWelt sour, ach, immediately corrected ... through
all this to him comes the cry Hubschrauber, liftscrewer, 2
helix through cork air over wine of Earth falling bright,
yes he knows exactlyâand can this cry be a prophecy? a
warming (the sky full of them, gray police in the hatch-
ways with ray-guns cradled like codpieces beneath each
whirling screw we see you from above there is nowhere
to go itâs your last alley, your last stormcellar) to stay in-
side and not interfere? He stays inside and does not inter-
fere. He goes on to become âSpĂ©rriâ of Horst Achtfadenâs
confession to the Schwarzkommando. But he didnât go to
see what Minne was hollering about that night. She
wouldâve ODâd except for her boy friend Wimpe, an up-
and-coming IG salesman covering the Eastern Territory,
who'd blown into town after unexpectedly dumping all of
his Oneirine samples on a party of American tourists back
in hilltop Transylvania looking for a new kind. of thrills
itâs me Liebchen, didnât expect to be back soâbut then
he saw the sprawled satin creature, read pupil-size and
skin-tint, swiftly went to his leather case for stimulant and
âsyringe. That and an ice-filled bathtub got her back O.K.
\
os
|
798
Gravityâs RAINBOW
a
ââAssâ is an intensifier,â Seaman Bodine now offers, âas
in âmean ass,â âstupid assâ-âwell, when something is very
backwards, by analogy you âd say âbackwards ass. Sy
âBut âass backwardsâ is âbackwards
assâ backwards, _
Saure objects.
âBut gee that donât make it mean forwards,â blinks
Bodine with a sincere little break in his voice as if some-
bodyâs just about to hit himâactually this is a bit of
private fun for the spirited salt, it is a William Bendix
imitation. Let the others do Cagney and Cery Grant,
Bodine specializes in supporting roles, he can do a perfect
Arthur Kennedy-as-Cagneyâs-kid-brother, how about that?
O-or Cary Grantâs faithful Indian water-bearer, Sam Jaffe.
He is a white-hat in the navy of life, and that extends
to vocal impressions of the fake film-lives of strangers.
Saure meantime is into something like this with instru-
mental soloists, or trying, teaching himself kind of by trial
and error, currently ee-ee-aw-aw-ing his way through some
hypothetical Joachim playing his own cadenza from the
long-suppressed Rossini violin concerto (op. posth.), and
in the process driving the household mad. One morning
Trudi just goes stomping away into an 82nd Airborne mass
jump over the conquered city, a million fleecy canopies
in the sky, falling slow as white ash behind around the
silhouette of her good-by stomp. âHeâs driving me crazy.â
âHi Trudi, where you going?â âI just told youâcrazylâ
and donât think this wretched old horny dopefiend doesnât
love her, because he does, and donât think he isnât praying,
writing down his wishes carefully on cigarette papers, roll-
ing up in them his finest sacramental kif and smoking
them down to a blister on the lip, which is the dopefiendâs
version of wishing on an evening star, hoping in his heart
sheâs just off on another stomp, please only a stomp, let
it be over inside the day just one more time, he writes o
each good-nightâs reefer, thatâs all, I won't ask ee
Lr
try not to, you know me, donât judge me too hard, p leasg
. but how many more of these stomps
can there be?
One. s going to be the last. Still he keeps jon ee-ee-aw-aw-
ing with the Rossini, radiating his mean, lean, a
edge street-longevity, no he canât seem to stop it, itâs
old manâs habit, he hates himself but it just comes on
him
Ho ribttor vhabeaticatied he brings to the problem, e
The Counterforce
â
799
canât stop drifting back into the catchy cadenza... .Sea-
man Bodine understands, and is trying to help. To set up
a useful interference, he has composed his own counter-
cadenza, along the lines of those other pop tunes with
classical names big around 1945 (âMy Prelude to a Kiss,â
âTenement Symphonyâ)âevery chance he gets, Bodine
will croon it to the new weekly arrivals, Lalli just in from
Liibeck, Sandra whoâs run away from the Kleinbiirger-
strasse, hereâs vile Bodine with his guitar ambling pelvis-
wiggling down the hallway after each naughty defector,
each choice little sexcrime fantasy made flesh, singing
and picking a moving rendition of:
My Doperâs CaDENZA
Tf you hear, a âboxâ so sweet,
Play-inâ tunes-with, a peppy beat,
Thatâs just MY DOPERâS, CADEN-ZA-A-A-A]
Mel-o-dees, that getcha so,
Where'd they come from? I donât know!
(h-ha) Itâs just MY DOPERâS CADEN-ZA(A)A-A-Al
This is
Now I know itâs not as keen as old Rossini
the oa
[snatch of La Gazza Ladra here],
ps Rn
Nor as grand as Bach, or Beethoven-or-Br
(bubububooloo] oo [sung to opening of Beethoven Sth,
with full band]),
â
But Iâd give away the fames, of a hundred
Harry James .
.
. wait, fame? of a hundred
Jame? Jameses ... uh... fameses? Hmm
[scherzoso]
L-hi-hif this little-song, can-bring, you-to-my
jpn
the
arms!
Dum de dum, de-dum de dee,
Oh, itâs better than a symphoneeâ
It's MY DOPERâS CADENZA, to yoooouuu!
These days, the tenement is known as âDer Platz,â and
is nearly filled up, all the way in to the last central court-
yard, with friends of Sdureâs. The change is unexpectedâ
a lot more vegetation seems to be growing now in the
The Evolution of Der Platz
- The tenement known as 'Der Platz' has transformed into a communal living space filled with ingenious light ducts and water systems.
- The complex is littered with remnants of military-grade narcotics, from morphine syrettes to Benzedrine tins, reflecting a culture of addiction.
- Residents are secretly hollowing out an 'anti-police moat' beneath the city streets, leading to occasional, surreal tram accidents.
- A sense of paranoid isolationism pervades the community, where even a passing bus is scrutinized as a potential police infiltration.
- The narrative shifts from a domestic scene of a child learning the word 'sunshine' to a tense, aggressive interrogation regarding American slang.
The space directly below the Jacobistrasse, slowly, paranoiacally, is hollowed, sculpted, carefully shored up under the thin crust of street so the odd tram won't find itself in unscheduled plunge.
The Counterforce
â
799
canât stop drifting back into the catchy cadenza... .Sea-
man Bodine understands, and is trying to help. To set up
a useful interference, he has composed his own counter-
cadenza, along the lines of those other pop tunes with
classical names big around 1945 (âMy Prelude to a Kiss,â
âTenement Symphonyâ)âevery chance he gets, Bodine
will croon it to the new weekly arrivals, Lalli just in from
Liibeck, Sandra whoâs run away from the Kleinbiirger-
strasse, hereâs vile Bodine with his guitar ambling pelvis-
wiggling down the hallway after each naughty defector,
each choice little sexcrime fantasy made flesh, singing
and picking a moving rendition of:
My Doperâs CaDENZA
Tf you hear, a âboxâ so sweet,
Play-inâ tunes-with, a peppy beat,
Thatâs just MY DOPERâS, CADEN-ZA-A-A-A]
Mel-o-dees, that getcha so,
Where'd they come from? I donât know!
(h-ha) Itâs just MY DOPERâS CADEN-ZA(A)A-A-Al
This is
Now I know itâs not as keen as old Rossini
the oa
[snatch of La Gazza Ladra here],
ps Rn
Nor as grand as Bach, or Beethoven-or-Br
(bubububooloo] oo [sung to opening of Beethoven Sth,
with full band]),
â
But Iâd give away the fames, of a hundred
Harry James .
.
. wait, fame? of a hundred
Jame? Jameses ... uh... fameses? Hmm
[scherzoso]
L-hi-hif this little-song, can-bring, you-to-my
jpn
the
arms!
Dum de dum, de-dum de dee,
Oh, itâs better than a symphoneeâ
It's MY DOPERâS CADENZA, to yoooouuu!
These days, the tenement is known as âDer Platz,â and
is nearly filled up, all the way in to the last central court-
yard, with friends of Sdureâs. The change is unexpectedâ
a lot more vegetation seems to be growing now in the
800
Gravityâs RaInsow
tenement dirt, an ingenious system of home-carpentered
light ducts and mirrors adjusted throughout the day send
sunlight, for the first time, down into these back courts,
revealing colors never seen before... thereâs also a rain-
structure, to route the rain among flumes, funnels, splash-
reflectors, waterwheels,
nozzles, and weirs
to make a
system of rivers and waterfalls to play in this summer...
the only rooms that can still be locked from the inside
are reserved for isolates, fetishists, lost stumblers-in out of
the occupation who need loneliness like the dopefiend
needs his dope... speaking of which, everywhere in the
complex now you can find army dope of all kinds stashed,
from cellars to mansarde floors are littered with wire loops
and plastic covers from 1%-grain syrettes of morphine tar-
trate squeezed toothpaste-tube empty, broken amyl nitrite
containers looted from anti-gas kits, olive-drab
tins of
Benzedrine ... work is proceeding on an anti-police moat
around the entire tenement: to keep from drawing atten-
tion, this moat here is the first in history being dug from
inside out, the space directly below the Jacobistrasse,
slowly,
paranoiacally,
is hollowed,. sculpted,
carefully
shored up under the thin crust of street so the odd tram
won't find itself in unscheduled plungeâthough it has
been known to happen, out in the late night with interior
tram-lights warm-colored
as
clear broth,
out
on
the
Peripheral runs through long stretches of unlighted park
or along singing fences of storage depots all at once like a
mouth pursing MF the blacktop buckles and youâre down
in some dripping paranoidsâ moat, the night-shift staring
in with huge denizen-of-the-underground eyes, faced not
with you so much as with the agonizing problem of de-
ciding is this a real bus, or are these âpassengersâ really
police agents in disguise well itâs a touchy business,
touchy.
papel
Wy
Somewhere in Der Platz now, early morning, some-
bodyâs two-year-old, a baby as fat as a suckling pig, has
just learned the word âSonnenschein.â âSunshine,â sez the
baby, pointing, âSunshine,â running into the other room.
âSunshine,â croaks some grownup morning-voice.
âSunshine!â hollers the baby, tottering off.
âSunshine,â a smiling-girl voice, maybe his mother.
The Counterforce
801
âSunshine!â the baby at the window, showing her, show-
ing anybody else who'll look, exactly.
Smt ânâ SHINOLA
âNow,â Saure wants to know, âyou will tell me about
the American expression âShit from Shinola.â a
âWhat is this,â screams Seaman Bodine, âIâm being set
tasks now? This is some Continuing Study of American
Slang or some shit? Tell me you old fool,â grabbing Saure
by throat and lapel and shaking him asymmetrically,
âyou're one of Them too, right? Come on,â the old man
Raggedy Andy in his hands,
a bad moming of suspicion
here for the usually mellow Bodine, âStop, stop,â snivels
the amazed Saure, amazement giving way, that is, to a
sniveling conviction that the hairy American gob has lost
his mind. ...
Well. You've heard the expression âShit from Shinola.â
As in, âAw, he donât know Shit from Shinola! *bout that.â
Or, âMarineâyou donât know Shit from Shinola!â And
you get sent to the Onion Room, or worse. One implica-
tion is that Shit and Shinola are in wildly different cate-
gories. You would envisionâmaybe
just because they
smell differentâno way for Shit and Shinola to coexist.
Simply impossible. A stranger to the English language,
a German dopefiend such as Saure, not knowing either
word, might see âShitâ as a comical interjection, one a
lawyer in a bowler hat, folding up papers tucking them
in a tan briefcase might smiling use, âSchitt, Herr Bum-
mer,â and he walks out of your cell, the oily bastard,
forever...or Scchhit! down comes a cartoon guillotine
on one black & white politician, head bouncing downhill,
lines to indicate amusing little spherical vortex patterns,
and you thought yes, like to see that all right, yes cut it
off, one less rodent, schitt ja! As for Shinola, we pass to
universitarians Franz Pékler, Kurt Mondaugen, Bert Fibel,
Horst Achtfaden and others, their Schein-Aula is a shim-
mering, Albert Speer-style alabaster open-air stadium with
giant cement birds of prey up at each comer, wings
shrugged forward, sheltering under Âąach wing-shadow a
hooded German face... from the âoutside, the Hall is
- golden, the white gold precisely of one lily-of-the-valley
Shit, Shinola, and Mortality
- The text explores the linguistic and cultural divide between 'Shit' and 'Shinola,' using a German perspective to reinterpret the words as comical or architectural.
- The 'Schein-Aula' is described as a cold, blue, Speer-style stadium that represents a facade of academic and nationalistic serenity.
- The author posits that the white porcelain toilet is an emblem of 'Official Death,' designed to distance white culture from the physical reality of their own mortality.
- A historical intersection is imagined at the Roseland Ballroom involving Malcolm X, John F. Kennedy, and Tyrone Slothrop, linked by the act of a shoeshine.
- The narrative shifts to a surreal scene in a transvestite's toilet where Slothrop, dressed as Fay Wray, is approached by an orangutan.
Shit is the presence of death, not some abstract-arty character with a scythe but the stiff and rotting corpse itself inside the whitemanâs warm and private own asshole, which is getting pretty intimate.
The Counterforce
801
âSunshine!â the baby at the window, showing her, show-
ing anybody else who'll look, exactly.
Smt ânâ SHINOLA
âNow,â Saure wants to know, âyou will tell me about
the American expression âShit from Shinola.â a
âWhat is this,â screams Seaman Bodine, âIâm being set
tasks now? This is some Continuing Study of American
Slang or some shit? Tell me you old fool,â grabbing Saure
by throat and lapel and shaking him asymmetrically,
âyou're one of Them too, right? Come on,â the old man
Raggedy Andy in his hands,
a bad moming of suspicion
here for the usually mellow Bodine, âStop, stop,â snivels
the amazed Saure, amazement giving way, that is, to a
sniveling conviction that the hairy American gob has lost
his mind. ...
Well. You've heard the expression âShit from Shinola.â
As in, âAw, he donât know Shit from Shinola! *bout that.â
Or, âMarineâyou donât know Shit from Shinola!â And
you get sent to the Onion Room, or worse. One implica-
tion is that Shit and Shinola are in wildly different cate-
gories. You would envisionâmaybe
just because they
smell differentâno way for Shit and Shinola to coexist.
Simply impossible. A stranger to the English language,
a German dopefiend such as Saure, not knowing either
word, might see âShitâ as a comical interjection, one a
lawyer in a bowler hat, folding up papers tucking them
in a tan briefcase might smiling use, âSchitt, Herr Bum-
mer,â and he walks out of your cell, the oily bastard,
forever...or Scchhit! down comes a cartoon guillotine
on one black & white politician, head bouncing downhill,
lines to indicate amusing little spherical vortex patterns,
and you thought yes, like to see that all right, yes cut it
off, one less rodent, schitt ja! As for Shinola, we pass to
universitarians Franz Pékler, Kurt Mondaugen, Bert Fibel,
Horst Achtfaden and others, their Schein-Aula is a shim-
mering, Albert Speer-style alabaster open-air stadium with
giant cement birds of prey up at each comer, wings
shrugged forward, sheltering under Âąach wing-shadow a
hooded German face... from the âoutside, the Hall is
- golden, the white gold precisely of one lily-of-the-valley
ea
ee
802
Gravityâs Rainsow
petal in 4 oâclock sunlight, serene at the top of a small,
artificially-graded hill. It has a talent, this Seeming-Hall,
for posing up there in attractive profiles, in front of noble
clouds, to suggest persistence, through returns of spring,
hopes for love, meltings of snow and ice, academic Sun-
day tranquillities, smells of grass just crushed or cut or
later turning to hay... but inside the Schein-Aula all is
blue and cold as the sky overhead, blue as a blueprint or
a planetarium. No one in here knows which way to look.
Will it begin above usP Down thereP Behind us? In the
middle of the airP and how soon.... |
Well thereâs one place where Shit ânâ Shinola do come
together, and thatâs in the menâs toilet at the Roseland
Ballroom, the place Slothrop departed from on his trip
down the toilet, as revealed in the St. Veronica Papers
(preserved, mysteriously, from that hospitalâs great holo-
caust). Shit, now, is the color white folks are afraid of.
-
Shit is the presence of death, not some abstract-arty char-
acter with a scythe but the stiff and rotting corpse itself
inside the whitemanâs warm and private own asshole,
which is getting pretty intimate. Thatâs what that white -
toiletâs for. You see many brown toilets? Nope, toiletâs
the color of gravestones, classical columns of mausoleums,
that white porcelainâs the very emblem of Odorless and
Official Death. Shinola shoeshine polish happens to be the
color of Shit. Shoeshine boy Malcolmâs in the toilet slappinâ
on the Shinola, working off whitemanâs penance on his sin ~
of being born the color of Shit ânâ Shinola. It is nice to
think that one Saturday night, one floor-shaking Lindy-
hopping Roseland night, Malcolm looked up from some
Harvard kidâs shoes and caught the eye of Jack Kennedy
(the Ambassadorâs son), then a senior, Nice to think that
â
young Jack may have had one of them Immortal Light-
bulbs then go on overheadâdid Red suspend his rag-
popping just the shadow of a beat, just enough gap in the â
moirĂ© there to let white Jack see through, not through to â
but through through the shine on his classmate Tyrone â
Slothropâs shoesP Were the three ever lined up that way
âsitting, squatting, passing through? Eventually Jack and
Malcolm both got murdered. Slothropâs fate is not so clear. ©
It may be that They have something different in mind for
Slothrop.
4
The Counterforce
803
AN INCIDENT IN THE TRANSVESTITES TOILET
A small ape or orangutan, holding something behind
his back, comes sidling unobserved among net-stockinged
legs, bobby sox rolled down to loop under ankle bones,
subdeb beanies tucked into rayon aquamarine waist-sashes.
_
- Finally he reaches Slothrop, who is wearing a blonde wig
and the same long flowing white cross-banded number
Fay Wray wears in her screentest scene with Robert Arm-
strong on the boat (considering his history in the Roseland
toilet, Slothrop may have chosen this gown not only out
of some repressed desire to be sodomized, unimaginably,
by a gigantic black ape, but also because of an athletic
innocence to Fay that heâs never spoken of except to point
and whisper, âOh, look . . .,âsome honesty, pluck, a clean-
ness to the garment itself, its enormous sleeves so that
wherever you pass is visibly where you've been...).
At that first moment, long before our flight:
Ravine, tyrannosaurus (flying-mares
And jaws cracked out of joint), the buzzing serpent
That jumped you in your own stone living space,
The pterodactyl or the Fall, noâjust .. .
While I first hung there, forest and night at one,
Hung waiting with the torches on the wall.
And waiting for the nightâs one Shape to come,
I prayed then, not for Jack, still mooning sappy
Along the weather-decksâno, I was thinking
Of Denhamâonly him, with gun and camera
Wisecracking in his best bum actorâs way
Through Darkest Earth, making the unreal reel
By shooting at it, one way or the otherâ
om Denham, my director, my undying,
Carl...
Ah, show me the key light, whisper me a line. ...
We've seen them under a thousand names... âGreta
Erdmannâ is only one, these dames whose job it is always
to cringe from the Terror... well, home from work they
fall asleep just like us and dream of assassinations, of plots
against good and decent men....
The ape reaches up taps Slothrop on the ass, hands him
- what heâs been carrying yaahhgghh itâs a round black iron
anarchist bombâs what it is, with lit fuse too. ... Ape goes
» âscampering away. Slothrop just stands there, in the glassed
aes
The Sodium Bomb and the Gown
- Slothrop navigates a surreal scene aboard a boat dressed in a gown, reflecting on his own repressed desires and the cinematic archetypes of Fay Wray.
- A poetic interlude shifts the perspective to the 'dames' of cinema, like Greta Erdmann, who are professionally required to perform terror for the camera.
- An ape-like figure hands Slothrop a lit anarchist bomb, leading to a moment of paralyzing indecision regarding how to extinguish the fuse in a crowded restroom.
- A transvestite dressed as Margaret O'Brien intervenes, flushing the bomb only to trigger a massive sodium-water explosion that destroys the plumbing.
- A mysterious loudspeaker voice frames the Margaret O'Brien devotee as a 'dangerous maniac,' inciting the crowd to attack him for a reward.
- Slothrop realizes the trap was intended for him and uses the ensuing chaos to slip away and discard his disguise.
KRUPPALOOMA comes this giant explosion: water leaps in a surprised blue-green tongue (ever seen a toilet hollering, âYikes!â?) out of every single black-lidded bowl, pipes wrench and scream, walls and floor shudder.
The Counterforce
803
AN INCIDENT IN THE TRANSVESTITES TOILET
A small ape or orangutan, holding something behind
his back, comes sidling unobserved among net-stockinged
legs, bobby sox rolled down to loop under ankle bones,
subdeb beanies tucked into rayon aquamarine waist-sashes.
_
- Finally he reaches Slothrop, who is wearing a blonde wig
and the same long flowing white cross-banded number
Fay Wray wears in her screentest scene with Robert Arm-
strong on the boat (considering his history in the Roseland
toilet, Slothrop may have chosen this gown not only out
of some repressed desire to be sodomized, unimaginably,
by a gigantic black ape, but also because of an athletic
innocence to Fay that heâs never spoken of except to point
and whisper, âOh, look . . .,âsome honesty, pluck, a clean-
ness to the garment itself, its enormous sleeves so that
wherever you pass is visibly where you've been...).
At that first moment, long before our flight:
Ravine, tyrannosaurus (flying-mares
And jaws cracked out of joint), the buzzing serpent
That jumped you in your own stone living space,
The pterodactyl or the Fall, noâjust .. .
While I first hung there, forest and night at one,
Hung waiting with the torches on the wall.
And waiting for the nightâs one Shape to come,
I prayed then, not for Jack, still mooning sappy
Along the weather-decksâno, I was thinking
Of Denhamâonly him, with gun and camera
Wisecracking in his best bum actorâs way
Through Darkest Earth, making the unreal reel
By shooting at it, one way or the otherâ
om Denham, my director, my undying,
Carl...
Ah, show me the key light, whisper me a line. ...
We've seen them under a thousand names... âGreta
Erdmannâ is only one, these dames whose job it is always
to cringe from the Terror... well, home from work they
fall asleep just like us and dream of assassinations, of plots
against good and decent men....
The ape reaches up taps Slothrop on the ass, hands him
- what heâs been carrying yaahhgghh itâs a round black iron
anarchist bombâs what it is, with lit fuse too. ... Ape goes
» âscampering away. Slothrop just stands there, in the glassed
aes
804
Gravityâs Rainsow
and humid rooms, his makeup starting to run, consterna-
tion in his eyes clear as marbles and lips pressed into a
bee-stung
well-what-thâ-heck-âm-I-sâposed-tâ-do-now?
He
canât say anything, the contact still hasnât showed and his
voice would blow his disguise....The fuse is burning
_ shorter and shorter. Slothrop looks around. All the wash-
bowls and urinals are occupied. Should he just put the
fuse out in front of somebodyâs cock, right in the stream
of piss...uh, but wouldnât that look like I was propo-
sitioning them or something? Gee, sometimes I wish I
wasn't so indecisive.
. m-maybe if I picked somebody
weaker than me.
- but then itâs the little guys got the
reflexes, rememberâ
He is rescued from his indecision by a very. tall, fat,
somewhat Oriental-looking transvestite, whose ideal, screen
and personal, seems to be little Margaret OâBrien. Somehow -
this Asiatic here is managing to look pigtailed and wistful
even as he snatches the sputtering bomb away from Slo-
throp, runs heaves it into an empty toiletbow] and flushes
it, tuming back to Slothrop and the others with an air of
civic duty well done when suddenlyâ
KRUPPALOOMA comes
this giant explosion: water
leaps in a surprised blue-green tongue (ever seen a toilet
hollering, âYikes!âP) out of every single black-lidded bowl,
pipes wrench and scream, walls and floor shudder, plaster
begins to fall in crescents and powder-sheets as all the
chattering transvestites fall silent, reach out to touch any-
one nearby as a gesture of preparation for the Voice out
of the Loudspeaker, saying:
âThat was
a sodium bomb, Sodium explodes when
it touches water.â So the fuse was a dummy, the dirty
rat....âYou saw who threw it in the toilet. He is a
dangerous maniac. Apprehend him, and therell be a
large reward, Your closet could make Norma Shearerâs
look like the wastebasket in Gimbelâs basement.â
â3
So they all leap on the poor protesting Margaret
OâBrien devotee, while Slothrop, for whom the humilia-
tion and (presently, as the arrival of
the police grows
later and later) the sexual abuse and torture were really
intended (Gotta hand it to ya, Pop!) slips away, loosening
as he nears the outside the satin ties of his gown, dragging
reluctantly, off of his grease-chevroned head, the shining
wig of inndcence....
4 ; S
The Kommical Kamikazes
- Takeshi and Ichizo are two Kamikaze pilots stationed on a remote, forgotten island far from the active front lines of the Pacific War.
- To pass the time in their exile, the duo wanders beaches to collect bioluminescent crustaceans called Cypridinae, using the powdered remains to paint themselves in glowing blue light.
- Each day they visit a drunken radarman named Kenosho, who uses a magnetron-powered still to make sake and gleefully informs them there are no targets to die for.
- The narrative breaks the fourth wall, revealing that the scene is actually a World War II situation comedy movie being watched or experienced by a 'contestant.'
- The text satirizes the concept of the 'fatal mandala' of combat by juxtaposing the solemnity of suicide missions with slapstick humor and game-show tropes.
On moonless or overcast nights, Takeshi and Ichizo take off all their clothes and splash each other with Cypridina light, running and giggling under the palm trees.
804
Gravityâs Rainsow
and humid rooms, his makeup starting to run, consterna-
tion in his eyes clear as marbles and lips pressed into a
bee-stung
well-what-thâ-heck-âm-I-sâposed-tâ-do-now?
He
canât say anything, the contact still hasnât showed and his
voice would blow his disguise....The fuse is burning
_ shorter and shorter. Slothrop looks around. All the wash-
bowls and urinals are occupied. Should he just put the
fuse out in front of somebodyâs cock, right in the stream
of piss...uh, but wouldnât that look like I was propo-
sitioning them or something? Gee, sometimes I wish I
wasn't so indecisive.
. m-maybe if I picked somebody
weaker than me.
- but then itâs the little guys got the
reflexes, rememberâ
He is rescued from his indecision by a very. tall, fat,
somewhat Oriental-looking transvestite, whose ideal, screen
and personal, seems to be little Margaret OâBrien. Somehow -
this Asiatic here is managing to look pigtailed and wistful
even as he snatches the sputtering bomb away from Slo-
throp, runs heaves it into an empty toiletbow] and flushes
it, tuming back to Slothrop and the others with an air of
civic duty well done when suddenlyâ
KRUPPALOOMA comes
this giant explosion: water
leaps in a surprised blue-green tongue (ever seen a toilet
hollering, âYikes!âP) out of every single black-lidded bowl,
pipes wrench and scream, walls and floor shudder, plaster
begins to fall in crescents and powder-sheets as all the
chattering transvestites fall silent, reach out to touch any-
one nearby as a gesture of preparation for the Voice out
of the Loudspeaker, saying:
âThat was
a sodium bomb, Sodium explodes when
it touches water.â So the fuse was a dummy, the dirty
rat....âYou saw who threw it in the toilet. He is a
dangerous maniac. Apprehend him, and therell be a
large reward, Your closet could make Norma Shearerâs
look like the wastebasket in Gimbelâs basement.â
â3
So they all leap on the poor protesting Margaret
OâBrien devotee, while Slothrop, for whom the humilia-
tion and (presently, as the arrival of
the police grows
later and later) the sexual abuse and torture were really
intended (Gotta hand it to ya, Pop!) slips away, loosening
as he nears the outside the satin ties of his gown, dragging
reluctantly, off of his grease-chevroned head, the shining
wig of inndcence....
4 ; S
The Counterforce
805
A MoMENT oF Fun witH TAKESHI AND ICHIZO,
THE KomMiIcAL KAMIKAZES
Takeshi is tall and fat (but doesnât braid his hair like
' that Margaret OâBrien) Ichizo is short and skinny. Takeshi
_ flies a Zero, while Ichizo flies an Ohka device, which is a
long bomb, actually, with a cockpit for Ichizo to. sit in,
stub wings, rocket propulsion and a few control surfaces
back aft. Takeshi only had to go to Kamikaze School for
- two weeks, on Formosa. Ichizo had to go to Ohka school
for six months, in Tokyo. They are as different as peanut
butter and jelly, these two. No fair asking which is which.
_
They are the only two Kamikazes out here at this air
âbase, which is rather remote actually, on an island that
nobody, well, really cares much about, any more. The
fighting is going on at Leyte... then on to Iwo Jima, moy-
ing toward Okinawa, but always too far away for any
sortie from here to reach. But they have their orders, and
_ their exile. Not much to do for kicks but go wandering.
on the beaches looking for dead Cypridinae. These are
_ crustaceans with three eyes, shaped like a potato with cat-
whiskers at one end. Dried and powdered, Cypridinae are
_also a great source of light. To make the stuff glow in the
dark, all you do is add water. The light is blue, weird
multishaded blueâsome green in it, and some indigoâ
amazingly cool and nocturnal blue. On moonless or over-
cast nights, Takeshi and Ichizo take off all their clothes
_and splash each other with Cypridina light, running and
_ giggling under the palm trees.
Every morning, and sometimes evening too, the Scatter-
brained Suicidekicks mosey down to the palm-thatched
radar shack to see if there's any American targets worth
a crash-dive, anywhere inside their flying radius. But itâs
the same story every time. Old Kenosho the loony radar-
man who's always brewing up a batch of that sake back
in the transmitter room, in a still heâs hooked up to a
magnetron tube in some fiendish-Nip way that defies
_
Western science,
every time the fellas show up this
drunken old reprobate starts cackling, âNo dying today!
No dying today! So solly!â pointing at all the blank PPI
Scopes, green radii sweeping silent round and round trail-
- ing clear webs of green shampoo, nothing but surface return
â
for more miles than you can fly, and of the fatal mandala
i \
\
806
âGrayrryâs RAINBOW
both hearts would leap to, green carrier-blob screened
eight-fold in a circle of destroyer-strokes, nothing...
no,
each morningâs the sameâonly the odd whitecap and
old hysterical Kenosho, who by now is on the floor gagging
on saliva and tongue, having his Seizure, an eagerly
awaited part of each daily visit, each fit trying to top the
one before, or at least bring in a new twistâa back-fiip
in the air, a gnaw or two after Takeshiâs blue-and-yellow
patent wingtips, an improvised haiku:
The lover leaps in the volcano!
Itâs ten feet deep,
And inactiveâ
as the two pilots mug, giggle, and jump around trying to
avoid the grizzled old radarmanâs thrashingsâwhat? You
didnât like the haiku. It wasnât ethereal enough? Not
Japanese at allP In fact it sounded like something right
outa Hollywood? Well, Captainâyes you, Marine Cap-
tain Esberg from Pasadenaâyou,
have just had, the
Mystery
Insight!
(gasps and a burst of premonitory
applause) and so youâare our Paranoid... For The Day!
(band burst into âButton Up Your Overcoat,â or âany
other suitably paranoid up-tempo tune, as the bewildered
contestant is literally yanked to his feet and dragged out
in the aisle by this M.C. with the gleaming face and
rippling jaw). Yes, it is a movie! Another World War II
situation comedy, and your chance, to find out what itâs
really like, because youâhave won (drumroll, more gasps,
more applauding and whistling) an all-expense, one-way
trip
for
one,
to
the movie's
actual
location,
exotic
Puke-a-hook-a-look-i Island! (the orchestraâs ukulele section
taking up now a tinkling reprise of that âWhite Man
Welcomeâ tune we last heard in London being directed
at Géza Rozsavélgyi)
on a giant TWA Constellation!
You'll while âyour nights away chasing vampire mosquitoes
away from your own throat! Getting blind lost, out in
the middle of torrential tropical downpours! Scooping rat
turds out of the enlisted menâs water barrel! But it won't
be all nighttime giddiness and eas Captain, be-
cause daytimes, up at five a.m. sharp, you'll be out making
the acquaintance of the Kamikaze Zero you'll be flying!
getting all checked out on those controls, making sure i
||
The Northern Zone's Desolation
- A satirical, cinematic transition shifts from an exoticized movie location to the grim reality of Kamikaze pilot training.
- The narrative moves through a series of northern German streets, blurring the lines between specific cities like Stralsund, Greifswald, and Rostock.
- The landscape is characterized by industrial decay, fraying wires, and buildings that appear gutted by a mysterious, internal destruction.
- The text reflects on the role of army chaplains who preached to doomed soldiers about salvation and nothingness within these garrison-churches.
- Despite the pervasive atmosphere of death and war, the narrator searches for small vestiges of humanity and Earthly beauty in the ruins.
- The passage concludes with a poignant focus on fleeting sensory detailsâa hollyhock in the wind or the turn of a woman's headâamidst the machinery of war.
Clergymen, working for the army, stood up and talked to the men who were going to die about God, death, nothingness, redemption, salvation.
\
806
âGrayrryâs RAINBOW
both hearts would leap to, green carrier-blob screened
eight-fold in a circle of destroyer-strokes, nothing...
no,
each morningâs the sameâonly the odd whitecap and
old hysterical Kenosho, who by now is on the floor gagging
on saliva and tongue, having his Seizure, an eagerly
awaited part of each daily visit, each fit trying to top the
one before, or at least bring in a new twistâa back-fiip
in the air, a gnaw or two after Takeshiâs blue-and-yellow
patent wingtips, an improvised haiku:
The lover leaps in the volcano!
Itâs ten feet deep,
And inactiveâ
as the two pilots mug, giggle, and jump around trying to
avoid the grizzled old radarmanâs thrashingsâwhat? You
didnât like the haiku. It wasnât ethereal enough? Not
Japanese at allP In fact it sounded like something right
outa Hollywood? Well, Captainâyes you, Marine Cap-
tain Esberg from Pasadenaâyou,
have just had, the
Mystery
Insight!
(gasps and a burst of premonitory
applause) and so youâare our Paranoid... For The Day!
(band burst into âButton Up Your Overcoat,â or âany
other suitably paranoid up-tempo tune, as the bewildered
contestant is literally yanked to his feet and dragged out
in the aisle by this M.C. with the gleaming face and
rippling jaw). Yes, it is a movie! Another World War II
situation comedy, and your chance, to find out what itâs
really like, because youâhave won (drumroll, more gasps,
more applauding and whistling) an all-expense, one-way
trip
for
one,
to
the movie's
actual
location,
exotic
Puke-a-hook-a-look-i Island! (the orchestraâs ukulele section
taking up now a tinkling reprise of that âWhite Man
Welcomeâ tune we last heard in London being directed
at Géza Rozsavélgyi)
on a giant TWA Constellation!
You'll while âyour nights away chasing vampire mosquitoes
away from your own throat! Getting blind lost, out in
the middle of torrential tropical downpours! Scooping rat
turds out of the enlisted menâs water barrel! But it won't
be all nighttime giddiness and eas Captain, be-
cause daytimes, up at five a.m. sharp, you'll be out making
the acquaintance of the Kamikaze Zero you'll be flying!
getting all checked out on those controls, making sure i
||
The Counterforce
807
you know just where that bomb-safety-release is! A-ha-
hand of course, trying to stay out of the way, of those
- two Nonsensicalâ Nips, Takeshi and Ichizo!
as they go
about their uproarious weekly adventures, seemingly ob-
livious to your presence, and the frankly ominous impli-
. cations of your dayâs routine. ...
STREETS
Strips of insulation hang up in the morning fog, after
a night of moon brightening and darkening as if by itself,
_ because the blowing fog was so smooth, so hard to see.
Now, when the wind blows, yellow sparks will spill away
with a rattlesnake buzz from the black old fraying wires,
against a sky gray as a hat. Green glass insulators go
cloudy and blind in the day. Wood poles lean and smell
' old: thirty-year-old wood. Tarry transformers hum aloft.
As if it will really be a busy day. In the middle distance
- poplars just emerge out of the haze.
It could have been the Semlower Strasse, in Stralsund.
The windows have the same ravaged look: the insides of
all the rooms seem toâve been gutted black. Perhaps there
is a new bomb that can destroy only the insides of struc-
tures...no... it was in Greifswald. Across some wet rail-
_ toad tracks were derricks, superstructure, tackle, smells of
_canalside ... Hafenstrasse in Greifswald, down over his
back fell the cold shadow. of some massive church. But
isnât that the Petritor,
that stunted
brick tower-arch
_)straddling the alleyway ahead... it could be the Sli-
âterstrasse in the old part of Rostock ... or the Wandfarber-
_ Strasse in Liineburg, with pulleys high up on the brick
_ gables, openwork weathercocks up at the very peaks...
_ why was he looking upward? Upward from any of a score
of those northern streets, one morning, in the fog. The
farther north, the plainer things grow. Thereâs one gutter,
_down the middle of the alley, where the rain runs off.
_Cobbles are laid straighter and there arenât as many
tigarettes to be had. Garrison-churches echo with star-
lings. To come into a northern Zone town is to enter a
ange harbor, from the sea, on a foggy day.
_ But in each of these streets, some vestige of humanity,
f Earth, has to remain. No matter what has been done to
matter what itâs been used for... .
ae
eS
Me
i
808
Gravity's RaInBsow
There were men called âarmy chaplains.â They preached
inside some
of these
buildings.
There were
actually
soldiers, dead now, who sat or stood, and listened. Holding
on to what they could. Then they went out, and some
died before they got back inside a garrison-church again.
Clergymen, working for the army, stood up and talked to
the men who were going to die about God, death, noth-
ingness, redemption, salvation. It really happened. It was
quite common.
Even in a street used for that, still there will be one
time,
one
dyed afternoon
(coaltar-impossible
orange-
brown, clear all the way through), or one day of rain and
clearing before bedtime, and in the yard one hollyhock,
circling in the wind, fresh with raindrops fat enough to
be chewed... one face by a long sandstone wall and the
scuffle of all the doomed horses on the other side, one
hair-part thrown into blue shadows at a turn of her head
âone busful of faces passing through in the middle of the
night, no one awake in the quiet square but the driver,
the Ortsschutz sentry in some kind of brown, official-look-
ing uniform, old Mauser at sling arms, dreaming not of
the enemy outside in the swamp or shadow but of home
and bed, strolling now with his civilian friend whoâs off-
duty, canât sleep, under the trees full of road-dust and
night, through their shadows on the sidewalks, playing a
harmonica...down past the row~of faces in the bus,
drowned-man green, insomniac, tobacco-starved, scared,
not of tomorrow, not yet, but of this pause in their night-
passage, of how easy it will be to lose, and how much it
will hurt....
At least one moment of passage, one it will hurt to lose,
ought to be found for every street now indifferently gray
with commerce, with war, with repression...
finding it,
learning to cherish what was lost, mightnât we find some
way back?
2
In one of these streets, in the morning fog, plastered
over two slippery cobblestones, is a scrap
of newspaper
headline, with a wirephoto of a giant whit coc
dangling
in the sky straight downward out of a white pubic bush.
The letters
*
MB DRO
ROSHI
Moments of Passage and Paranoia
- The narrative reflects on the fragility of human connection during a night-passage, where the fear of loss outweighs the fear of the future.
- Slothrop observes a surreal newspaper headline and a provocative military image in the morning fog, highlighting the intersection of war, sexuality, and propaganda.
- The text juxtaposes the destruction of a city under the sign of the Virgin and Leo with the 'fireburst' of a sovereign, roaring power.
- A metaphorical analysis of the toilet and water supply illustrates the total dependence of the individual on the 'Them' who control the infrastructure of life.
- The cessation of water flow is presented as a terrifying signal of impending capture, where one's own waste becomes a trap within a controlled narrative.
- The passage concludes with a meditation on the 'scientific lie' that sound cannot travel through space, suggesting a deeper, hidden auditory reality.
Reminded, too late, of how dependent you are on Them, for neglect if not good will: Their neglect is your freedom.
808
Gravity's RaInBsow
There were men called âarmy chaplains.â They preached
inside some
of these
buildings.
There were
actually
soldiers, dead now, who sat or stood, and listened. Holding
on to what they could. Then they went out, and some
died before they got back inside a garrison-church again.
Clergymen, working for the army, stood up and talked to
the men who were going to die about God, death, noth-
ingness, redemption, salvation. It really happened. It was
quite common.
Even in a street used for that, still there will be one
time,
one
dyed afternoon
(coaltar-impossible
orange-
brown, clear all the way through), or one day of rain and
clearing before bedtime, and in the yard one hollyhock,
circling in the wind, fresh with raindrops fat enough to
be chewed... one face by a long sandstone wall and the
scuffle of all the doomed horses on the other side, one
hair-part thrown into blue shadows at a turn of her head
âone busful of faces passing through in the middle of the
night, no one awake in the quiet square but the driver,
the Ortsschutz sentry in some kind of brown, official-look-
ing uniform, old Mauser at sling arms, dreaming not of
the enemy outside in the swamp or shadow but of home
and bed, strolling now with his civilian friend whoâs off-
duty, canât sleep, under the trees full of road-dust and
night, through their shadows on the sidewalks, playing a
harmonica...down past the row~of faces in the bus,
drowned-man green, insomniac, tobacco-starved, scared,
not of tomorrow, not yet, but of this pause in their night-
passage, of how easy it will be to lose, and how much it
will hurt....
At least one moment of passage, one it will hurt to lose,
ought to be found for every street now indifferently gray
with commerce, with war, with repression...
finding it,
learning to cherish what was lost, mightnât we find some
way back?
2
In one of these streets, in the morning fog, plastered
over two slippery cobblestones, is a scrap
of newspaper
headline, with a wirephoto of a giant whit coc
dangling
in the sky straight downward out of a white pubic bush.
The letters
*
MB DRO
ROSHI
The Counterforce
809
_ appear above with the logo of some occupation newspaper,
a grinning glamour girl riding astraddle the cannon of a
tank, steel penis with slotted serpent head, 3rd Armored
treads ânâ triangle on a sweater rippling across her tits.
_ The white image has the same coherence, the hey-lookit-â
- me smugness, as the Cross does. It is not only a sudden
- white genital onset in the skyâit is also, perhaps, a
âTrees. <
a
Slothrop sits on a curbstone watching it, and the letters,
and girl with steel cock waving hi fellas, as the fog
whitens into morning, and figures with carts, or dogs, or
bicycles go by in brown-gray outlines, wheezing, greeting
briefly in fog-flattened voices, passing. He doesn't re-
member sitting on the curb for so long staring at the
picture. But he did.
oe
At the instant it happened, the pale Virgin was rising
in the east, head, shoulders, breasts, 17° 36â. down to her
maidenhead at the horizon. A few doomed Japanese knew
_ of her as some Western deity. She loomed in the eastern
sky gazing down at the city about to be sacrificed. The
sun
was
in Leo.
The
fireburst
came.
roaring
and
sovereign, ...
~
LISTENING TO THE TOILET
The basic idea is that They will come and shut off the
water first. The cryptozoa who live around the meter will
be paralyzed by the great inbreak of light from over-
head...then scatter like hell for lower, darker, wetter.
Shutting the water off interdicts the toilet: with only one
tankful left, you really canât get rid of much of anything
any more, dope, shit, documents, They've stopped the
inflow/outflow and here you are trapped inside Their
frame with your wastes piling up, ass hanging out all over
Their Movieola viewer, waiting for Their editorial blade.
Reminded, too late, of how dependent you are on Them,
for neglect if not good will: Their neglect is your freedom.
But when They do come on itâs like society-gig Apollos,
_ striking the lyre
ZONGGG
.
Everything freezes. The sweet, icky chord hangs in the
air...there is no way to be at ease with it. If you try
_the âAre you quite finished, Superintendent?â gambit, the
+
Be ic
> /
810
Gravity's RaInsow
man will answer, âNo, as a matter of fact...no, you nasty
little wet-mouthed prig, Iâm not half finished, not with
youlate
So itâs good policy always to have the toilet valve
cracked a bit, to maintain some flow through:the toilet so
when it stops you'll have that extra minute or two. Which
is not the usual paranoia of waiting for aâ knock, or a
phone to ring: no, it takes a particular kind of mental
illness to sit and listen for a cessation of noise. Butâ
Imagine this very elaborate scientific lie: that sound
cannot travel through outer space. Well, but. suppose it
can. Suppose They donât want us to know there is a medium
there, what used to be called an âaether,â which can
carry sound to every part of the Earth. The Soniferous
Aether. For millions of years, the sun has been roaring, a
giant, furnace, 93 millionmile roar, so perfectly steady that
generations of men have been born into it and passed out
of it again, without ever hearing it. Unless it changed, how
would anybody know?
Except that at night now and then, in some part of the
dark hemisphere, because of eddies in the Soniferous
Aether, there will come to pass a very shallow pocket of
no-sound, For a few seconds, in a particular place, nearly
every night somewhere in the World, sound-energy from
Outside is shut off. The roaring of the sun stops. For its
brief life, the point of sound-shadow may come to rest a
thousand feet above a desert, between floors in an empty
office building, or exactly around a seated individual in aâ
working-class restaurant where they hose the place out at
3 every morning...
itâs all white tile, the chairs and tables
riveted solid into the floor, food covered with rigid shrouds
of clear plastic... soon, from outside, rrrmmnn! clank, drag,
squeak of valve opening oh yes, ah- yes, Here Are The
Men With The Hoses To Hose The Place Outâ
.
At which instant, with no warning, the arousing feather-
point of the Sound-Shadow has touched you, enveloping
you in sun-silence for oh, let us say 2:36:18 to 2:36:24,
Central War Time, unless the location is Dungannon, Vir-
ginia, Bristol, Tennessee, Asheville
or peice North
Carolina, Apalachicola, Florida, or conceivably in Murdo
Mackenzie, South Dakota, or Phillipsburg, Kansas, or
Stockton, Plainville, or Ellis, Kansasâyes sounds like a
The Soniferous Aether
- The narrative proposes the existence of a 'Soniferous Aether' that carries the constant, deafening roar of the sun to Earth, a sound so steady that humanity has become deaf to it.
- Rare 'sound-shadows' occur when eddies in this medium create pockets of absolute silence, momentarily shielding an individual from the sun's cosmic noise.
- One such moment of silence occurs in a sterile, white-tiled restaurant just before the morning cleaning crew arrives with hoses.
- The text transitions into a list of American towns that sound like a 'Roll of Honor' for the war dead but are actually locations on the borders of Time Zones.
- A 'Sentimental Surrealist' character is mocked for his obsession with these moments of silence and his fragmented memories of places like Kenosha.
- The protagonist struggles with a disjointed sense of history and identity, symbolized by a room decorated entirely in 'Deep Cheap-Perfume Aquamarine' and 'FBI-Shoe Brown.'
For millions of years, the sun has been roaring, a giant, furnace, 93 millionmile roar, so perfectly steady that generations of men have been born into it and passed out of it again, without ever hearing it.
810
Gravity's RaInsow
man will answer, âNo, as a matter of fact...no, you nasty
little wet-mouthed prig, Iâm not half finished, not with
youlate
So itâs good policy always to have the toilet valve
cracked a bit, to maintain some flow through:the toilet so
when it stops you'll have that extra minute or two. Which
is not the usual paranoia of waiting for aâ knock, or a
phone to ring: no, it takes a particular kind of mental
illness to sit and listen for a cessation of noise. Butâ
Imagine this very elaborate scientific lie: that sound
cannot travel through outer space. Well, but. suppose it
can. Suppose They donât want us to know there is a medium
there, what used to be called an âaether,â which can
carry sound to every part of the Earth. The Soniferous
Aether. For millions of years, the sun has been roaring, a
giant, furnace, 93 millionmile roar, so perfectly steady that
generations of men have been born into it and passed out
of it again, without ever hearing it. Unless it changed, how
would anybody know?
Except that at night now and then, in some part of the
dark hemisphere, because of eddies in the Soniferous
Aether, there will come to pass a very shallow pocket of
no-sound, For a few seconds, in a particular place, nearly
every night somewhere in the World, sound-energy from
Outside is shut off. The roaring of the sun stops. For its
brief life, the point of sound-shadow may come to rest a
thousand feet above a desert, between floors in an empty
office building, or exactly around a seated individual in aâ
working-class restaurant where they hose the place out at
3 every morning...
itâs all white tile, the chairs and tables
riveted solid into the floor, food covered with rigid shrouds
of clear plastic... soon, from outside, rrrmmnn! clank, drag,
squeak of valve opening oh yes, ah- yes, Here Are The
Men With The Hoses To Hose The Place Outâ
.
At which instant, with no warning, the arousing feather-
point of the Sound-Shadow has touched you, enveloping
you in sun-silence for oh, let us say 2:36:18 to 2:36:24,
Central War Time, unless the location is Dungannon, Vir-
ginia, Bristol, Tennessee, Asheville
or peice North
Carolina, Apalachicola, Florida, or conceivably in Murdo
Mackenzie, South Dakota, or Phillipsburg, Kansas, or
Stockton, Plainville, or Ellis, Kansasâyes sounds like a
The Counterforce
811
Roll of Honor donât it, being read off someplace out on
the prairie, foundry colors down the sky in long troughs,
red and purple, darkening crowd of civilians erect and
nearly-touching as wheat stalks, and the one old man in
black up at the microphone, reading off the towns of the
war dead, Dungannon...
Bristol... Murdo Mackenzie...
his white hair blown back by a sculpting thine-alabaster-
cities wind into leonine wreathing, his stained pored old
face polished by wind, sandy with light, earnest outboard
corners of his eyelids folding down as one by one, echoing
out over the anvil prairie, the names of death-towns un-
reel, and ape! Bleicherdde or Blicero will be spoken any
minute now.
Well, you're torong, champâthese happen to be towns
all located on the borders of Time Zones, is all. Ha, hal
Caught you with your hand in your pants! Go on, show us
all what you were doing or leave the area, we donât need
your kind around. Thereâs nothing so loathsome as a sen-
timental surrealist.
âNowâthe eastern towns we've listed are on Eastern
War Time. All the other towns along the interface are on
Central. The western towns just read off are on Central,
while the other towns along that interface are on Moun-
tain. .
Which is all our Sentinmental Surrealist, leaving the
area, gets to hear. Just as well. He is more involved, or
âunhealthily obsessed,â if you like, with the moment of sun-
_
silence inside the white tile greasy-spoon. It seems like a
_
place he has been (Kenosha, Wisconsin?) already, though
he canât remember in what connection. They called him
. âthe Kenosha Kid,â though this may be apocryphal. By
_
now, the only other room he can remember being in was a
two-color room, nothing but the two exact colors, for all
the lamps, furniture, drapes, walls, ceiling, rug, radio, even
book jackets in the shelvesâeverything was either (1)
Deep Cheap-Perfume Aquamarine, or ( 2) Creamy Choco-
late FBI-Shoe Brown. That mayâve been in Kenosha, may
not. If he tries he will remember, in a minute, how he got
fo the white tiled room half an hour before hose-out time,
He is sitting with a coffee cup half full, heavy sugar and
cream, crumbs of a pineapple Danish under the saucer
where his fingers canât reach, Sooner or later he'll have to
The Dark Dream and Hotchkisses
- The Kenosha Kid experiences a mystical 'sound-shadow' that carries a collage of global audio debris, including a Kamikaze unit's slogan about the hierarchy of Heaven.
- The narrative challenges the concept of the 'Vacuum' in the sky, suggesting it is a psychological tool used by 'Them' to isolate individuals in time and space.
- The 'Dark Dream' is revealed as a state of manipulated consciousness or a social weapon used by the elite to neutralize or distract their peers and subjects.
- A slapstick encounter between Ichizo and Takeshi involving a machine gun serves as a transition into a historical meditation on the Hotchkiss weapon.
- The Hotchkiss machine gun is described as a versatile, 'ethnic' weapon used in various atrocities, including the massacre at Wounded Knee.
What if They find it convenient to preach an island of life surrounded by a void? Not just the Earth in space, but your own individual life in time?
The Counterforce
811
Roll of Honor donât it, being read off someplace out on
the prairie, foundry colors down the sky in long troughs,
red and purple, darkening crowd of civilians erect and
nearly-touching as wheat stalks, and the one old man in
black up at the microphone, reading off the towns of the
war dead, Dungannon...
Bristol... Murdo Mackenzie...
his white hair blown back by a sculpting thine-alabaster-
cities wind into leonine wreathing, his stained pored old
face polished by wind, sandy with light, earnest outboard
corners of his eyelids folding down as one by one, echoing
out over the anvil prairie, the names of death-towns un-
reel, and ape! Bleicherdde or Blicero will be spoken any
minute now.
Well, you're torong, champâthese happen to be towns
all located on the borders of Time Zones, is all. Ha, hal
Caught you with your hand in your pants! Go on, show us
all what you were doing or leave the area, we donât need
your kind around. Thereâs nothing so loathsome as a sen-
timental surrealist.
âNowâthe eastern towns we've listed are on Eastern
War Time. All the other towns along the interface are on
Central. The western towns just read off are on Central,
while the other towns along that interface are on Moun-
tain. .
Which is all our Sentinmental Surrealist, leaving the
area, gets to hear. Just as well. He is more involved, or
âunhealthily obsessed,â if you like, with the moment of sun-
_
silence inside the white tile greasy-spoon. It seems like a
_
place he has been (Kenosha, Wisconsin?) already, though
he canât remember in what connection. They called him
. âthe Kenosha Kid,â though this may be apocryphal. By
_
now, the only other room he can remember being in was a
two-color room, nothing but the two exact colors, for all
the lamps, furniture, drapes, walls, ceiling, rug, radio, even
book jackets in the shelvesâeverything was either (1)
Deep Cheap-Perfume Aquamarine, or ( 2) Creamy Choco-
late FBI-Shoe Brown. That mayâve been in Kenosha, may
not. If he tries he will remember, in a minute, how he got
fo the white tiled room half an hour before hose-out time,
He is sitting with a coffee cup half full, heavy sugar and
cream, crumbs of a pineapple Danish under the saucer
where his fingers canât reach, Sooner or later he'll have to
812
Gravityâs RAINBOW
©
move the saucer to get them. Heâs just holding off. But it
isnât sooner and it isnât later, because
the sound-shadow comes down on him,
settles around his table, with the invisible long vortex
surfaces that brought it here swooping up away like whorls
of an Aetheric Danish, audible only by virtue of accidental
bits of sound-debris that may happen to be caught in the
eddying, voices far away out at sea our position is two
seven degrees two six minutes north,
a woman crying in
some high-pitched language, ocean waves in gale winds, a
voice reciting in Japanese,
Hi wa Ri ni katazu,
Ri wa Ho ni katazu,
Ho wa Ken ni katazu,
Ken wa Ten ni katazu,
which is the slogan of a Kamikaze unit, an Ohka outfitâit
means
Injustice cannot conquer Principle,
Principle cannot conquer Law,
Law cannot conquer Power,
|
â
Power cannot conquer Heaven,
Hi, Ri, Ho, Ken, Ten go Jap-gibbering away on the long
solar eddy and leave the Kenosha Kid at the riveted table,
where the roaring of the sun has stopped. He is hearing,
for the first time, the mighty river of his blood, the Titanâs
drum of his heart.
Come into the bulbshine and sit with him, with the
stranger at the small public table. Itâs almost hosing-out
time. See if you can sneak in under the shadow too. Even
a partial eclipse is better than never finding outâbetter
than cringing the rest of your life under the great Vacuum
in the sky they have taught you, and a sun whose silence
you never get to hear.
What if there is no Vacuum? Or if there isâwhat if
They're using it on you? What if They find it convenient
to preach an island of life surrounded by 2\void? Not just
the Earth in space, but your own individual
life in time? _
What if itâs in Their interest to have you believing that?
â
âHe won't bother us for a while,â They tell each other.
â
âI just put him on the Dark Dream.â They drink together,
The Counterforce
813
_shoot very very synthetic drugs into skin or blood, run in-
credible electronic waveforms into Their skulls, directly
into the brainstem, and backhand each other, playfully,
with openmouth laughâyou know, donât you is in those
ageless eyes... They speak of taking So-and-So
and
âputting him on the Dream.â They use the phrase for each
other too, in sterile tenderness, when bad news is passed,
at the annual Roasts, when the endless mindgaming
catches a colleague unpreparedâââBoy, did we put him
on the Dream.â You know, donât you?
Wirty REPARTEE
Ichizo comes out of the hut, sees Takeshi in a barrel
under some palm leaves taking a bath and singing âDoo-
doo-doo, doo-doo,â some koto tune, twanging through his
noseâIchizo screams runs back inside reemerging with a
Japanese Hotchkiss machine gun, a Model g2, begins setting
it up with a lot of jujitsu grunting and eyepopping. About
the time heâs got the ammo belt poised, ready to riddle
Takeshi in the tub,
TakesH; Wait a minute, wait a minute! Whatâs all this?
Icurzo: Oh, itâs you! Iâthought it was General Mac-
Arthur, in hisârowboat!
Interesting weapon,
the Hotchkiss. Comes
in many
nationalities, and manages to fit in ethnically wherever it
goes. American
Hotchkisses
are the guns
that raked
through the unarmed Indians at Wounded Knee. On the
lighter side, the racy 8 mm French Hotchkiss when fired
goes haw-haw-haw-haw, just as nasal and debonair as a
movie star. As for our cousin John Bull, a lot of British
Hotchkiss heavies were either resold privately after World
War I, or blowtorched. These melted machine guns will
show up now and then in the strangest places. Pirate
Prentice saw one in 1936, during his excursion with
Scorpia Mossmoon, at the Chelsea home of James Jello,
that yearâs king of Bohemian clownsâbut a minor king,
_
from a branch prone to those loathsome inbred diseases,
idiocy in the family, sexual peculiarities surfacing into
public view at most inappropriate times (a bare penis
dangling out of a dumpster one razor-clear and rainwashed
_
morning, in an industrial back-street about to be swarmed
_ up by a crowd of angry workers in buttontop baggy caps
nt
:
Decadence and the Electroworld
- A surreal scene depicts Crown Prince Porfirio as a decadent aristocrat discovered in a dumpster by a mob of confused revolutionaries.
- The narrative shifts to a generational conflict between a father and son regarding the use of technology versus traditional drugs.
- The son, Tyrone, argues that 'keying waves' offers a permanent escape into a digital or electrical immortality, unlike the temporary 'vacations' of narcotics.
- Tyrone expresses a desire to be 'sucked out' of the physical bodyâdescribed as 'smelly meat'âto live forever in a purified 'Electroworld.'
- The text introduces Imipolex G, a unique erectile plastic that transitions from a limp state to a hardened, transparent, and resilient crystalline structure.
- Imipolex G is described as a 'Peculiar Polymer' capable of maintaining its integrity in the vacuum of space, reflecting the stars like acupuncture points.
Dope never gave you immortality. You hadda come back, every time, into a dying hunk of smelly meat!
The Counterforce
813
_shoot very very synthetic drugs into skin or blood, run in-
credible electronic waveforms into Their skulls, directly
into the brainstem, and backhand each other, playfully,
with openmouth laughâyou know, donât you is in those
ageless eyes... They speak of taking So-and-So
and
âputting him on the Dream.â They use the phrase for each
other too, in sterile tenderness, when bad news is passed,
at the annual Roasts, when the endless mindgaming
catches a colleague unpreparedâââBoy, did we put him
on the Dream.â You know, donât you?
Wirty REPARTEE
Ichizo comes out of the hut, sees Takeshi in a barrel
under some palm leaves taking a bath and singing âDoo-
doo-doo, doo-doo,â some koto tune, twanging through his
noseâIchizo screams runs back inside reemerging with a
Japanese Hotchkiss machine gun, a Model g2, begins setting
it up with a lot of jujitsu grunting and eyepopping. About
the time heâs got the ammo belt poised, ready to riddle
Takeshi in the tub,
TakesH; Wait a minute, wait a minute! Whatâs all this?
Icurzo: Oh, itâs you! Iâthought it was General Mac-
Arthur, in hisârowboat!
Interesting weapon,
the Hotchkiss. Comes
in many
nationalities, and manages to fit in ethnically wherever it
goes. American
Hotchkisses
are the guns
that raked
through the unarmed Indians at Wounded Knee. On the
lighter side, the racy 8 mm French Hotchkiss when fired
goes haw-haw-haw-haw, just as nasal and debonair as a
movie star. As for our cousin John Bull, a lot of British
Hotchkiss heavies were either resold privately after World
War I, or blowtorched. These melted machine guns will
show up now and then in the strangest places. Pirate
Prentice saw one in 1936, during his excursion with
Scorpia Mossmoon, at the Chelsea home of James Jello,
that yearâs king of Bohemian clownsâbut a minor king,
_
from a branch prone to those loathsome inbred diseases,
idiocy in the family, sexual peculiarities surfacing into
public view at most inappropriate times (a bare penis
dangling out of a dumpster one razor-clear and rainwashed
_
morning, in an industrial back-street about to be swarmed
_ up by a crowd of angry workers in buttontop baggy caps
nt
:
814
Gravityâs Ramnsow
carrying spanners three feet long, Kelly crowbars, lengths
of chain, hereâs bareass Crown Prince Porfirio with a giant
halo of aluminum-shaving curls on his head, his mouth
made up with black grease, his soft buttocks squirming
against the cold refuse picking up steel splinters that sting
deliciously, his eyes sultry and black as his lips, but oh
dear whatâs this, oh how embarrassing here they come
around the corner he can smell the rabble from here,
though they are not too sure about Porfirioâthe march
pauses in some confusion as these most inept revolutionar-
ies fall to arguing whether the apparition is a diversionary
nuisance planted here by the Management, or whether heâs
real Decadent Aristocracy to be held for real ransom and
if so how much... while up on the rooftops, out from the
brick and corrugated doorways begin to appear brown
Government troops manning British Hotchkisses which
were not melted down, but bought up by machinegun
jobbers and sold to a number of minor governments around
the world). It may have been in memory of Crown Prince
Porfirio that day of massacre that J. ames Jello kept a melted
Hotchkiss in his roomsâor it mayâve been only another
flight of moteeauenie on dear James's part you print heâs
so unaware.
HEART-TO-HEART, MAN-TO-MAN
âSon, been wondering about this, ah, âscrewing inâ
you kids are doing. This matter of the, shooting electricity
into head, ha-haP
âWaves, Pop. Not just raw electricity. Thatâs fer drips!
âYes, ah, waves. âKeying waves,â rightP ha-hah. Uh,
tell me, son, whatâs it like? You know Ive been something
of a doper all m
life, a-andâ
âOh Pop. Cripes. It isnât like dope at alll
âWell we got off on some pretty good âvacationsâ we
called them then, some pretty âweirdâ areas they got
t us
into âs a matter of factâ
âBut you always came back, didnât ou
âWhat?
âTI mean it was always understood that âthis would still
be here when you got back, just the same, exactly the
same, rightP
âWell ha-ha guess thatâs why we called âem vacations, |
The Counterforce
Bat
815.
son! Cause you always do come back to old Realityland,
donât you.
âYou always did.
âListen Tyrone, you donât know. how dangerous that
stuff is. Suppose someday you just plug in and go away
and never come back? Eh?
âHo, ho! Donât I wish! What do you think every elec-
trofreak dreams about? You're such an old fuddyduddy!
A-and who sez itâs a dream, huh? M-maybe it exists.
Maybe there is a Machine to take us away, take us com-
pletely, suck us out through the electrodes out of the skull
©
ânâ into the Machine and live there forever with all the
other souls itâs got stored there. It could decide who it
- would suck out, a-and when. Dope never gave you im-
mortality. You hadda come back, every time, into a dying
hunk of smelly meat! But We can live forever, in a clean,
honest, purified Electroworldâ
âShit thatâs what I get, havinâ a double Virgo fer a
son. ...
Some CHARACTERISTICS OF ImIPOLEX G
Imipolex G is the first plastic that is actually erectile.
Under suitable stimuli, the chains grow cross-links, which
stiffen the molecule and increase intermolecular attraction
so that this Peculiar Polymer runs far outside the known
phase diagrams, from limp rubbery amorphous to amazing
perfect tessellation, hardness, brilliant transparency, high
resistance to temperature, weather, vacuum, shock of any
kind (slowly gleaming in the Void. Silver and black.
Curvewarped reflections of stars flowing across, down the
full length of, round and round in meridians exact as the
meridians of acupuncture. What are the stars but points in
the body of God where we insert the healing needles of
our terror and longing? Shadows of the creatureâs bones
and ductsâleaky, wounded, irradiated whiteâmingling in
with its own. It is entangled with the bones and ducts, its
own shape determined by how the Erection of the Plastic
_ shall proceed: where fast and where slow, where painful
_ and where slithery-cool...whether âareas shall exchange
characteristics of hardness and brilliance, whether some
areas should be allowed to flow over the surface so that
| . the passage will be a caress, where to orchestrate sudden
s
ai)
:
ee
-
Imipolex G and the Sinatra Swath
- The text explores the biomechanical interface of Imipolex G, a plastic skin that responds to electronic stimuli to simulate sensations ranging from caresses to violent discontinuities.
- Technical methods for controlling the 'Imipolectic Surface' include wire matrices, beam-scanning systems, and electronic image projections, all operating within a 'Region of Uncertainty.'
- The Otyiyumbu Indeterminacy Relation suggests a direct, empirical link between physical modifications of the Rocket and the psychological derangement of its creators, Blicero and Rakete.
- Tchitcherine is forced to abandon his surveillance as intelligence agents close in, marking a transition into total isolation.
- The character Dzabajev creates a surreal diversion across the Zone by impersonating Frank Sinatra, inducing mass hysteria and securing a constant supply of wine from the locals.
- The narrative concludes with a reflection on the 'politics of the Grail,' suggesting that song and squiredom offer a protection that the lonely and noble cannot access.
Rumor sez he is cutting a swath these days across the Zone in a stolen American Special Services getup, posing as Frank Sinatra.
The Counterforce
Bat
815.
son! Cause you always do come back to old Realityland,
donât you.
âYou always did.
âListen Tyrone, you donât know. how dangerous that
stuff is. Suppose someday you just plug in and go away
and never come back? Eh?
âHo, ho! Donât I wish! What do you think every elec-
trofreak dreams about? You're such an old fuddyduddy!
A-and who sez itâs a dream, huh? M-maybe it exists.
Maybe there is a Machine to take us away, take us com-
pletely, suck us out through the electrodes out of the skull
©
ânâ into the Machine and live there forever with all the
other souls itâs got stored there. It could decide who it
- would suck out, a-and when. Dope never gave you im-
mortality. You hadda come back, every time, into a dying
hunk of smelly meat! But We can live forever, in a clean,
honest, purified Electroworldâ
âShit thatâs what I get, havinâ a double Virgo fer a
son. ...
Some CHARACTERISTICS OF ImIPOLEX G
Imipolex G is the first plastic that is actually erectile.
Under suitable stimuli, the chains grow cross-links, which
stiffen the molecule and increase intermolecular attraction
so that this Peculiar Polymer runs far outside the known
phase diagrams, from limp rubbery amorphous to amazing
perfect tessellation, hardness, brilliant transparency, high
resistance to temperature, weather, vacuum, shock of any
kind (slowly gleaming in the Void. Silver and black.
Curvewarped reflections of stars flowing across, down the
full length of, round and round in meridians exact as the
meridians of acupuncture. What are the stars but points in
the body of God where we insert the healing needles of
our terror and longing? Shadows of the creatureâs bones
and ductsâleaky, wounded, irradiated whiteâmingling in
with its own. It is entangled with the bones and ducts, its
own shape determined by how the Erection of the Plastic
_ shall proceed: where fast and where slow, where painful
_ and where slithery-cool...whether âareas shall exchange
characteristics of hardness and brilliance, whether some
areas should be allowed to flow over the surface so that
| . the passage will be a caress, where to orchestrate sudden
s
ai)
:
ee
-
816
Gravityâs RAINBOW
discontinuitiesâblows, wrenchingsâin among these more
caressive moments).
Evidently the stimulus would have had to be electronic.
Alernatives
for signaling
to the plastic surface were
limited:
(a) a thin matrix of wires, forming a rather close-set
coordinate system over the Imipolectic Surface, whereby
erectile and other commands could be sent to an area
quite specific, say on the order of 44 cm?,
(b) a beam-scanning systemâor severalâanalogous to
the well-known video electron stream, modulated with
grids and deflection plates located as needed on the Sur-
face (or even below the outer layer of Imipolex, down at
the interface with What lies just beneath: with What has
been inserted or What has actually grown itself a skin of
Imipolex G, depending which heresy you embrace. We
need not dwell here on the Primary Problem, namely that
everything below the plastic film does after all lie in the
Region of Uncertainty, except to emphasize to beginning
students who may be prone to Schwarmerei, that terms
referring to the Subimipolexity such as âCoreâ and âCenter
of Internal Energyâ possess, outside the theoretical, no
more reality than do terms such as âSupersonic Regionâ or
âCenter of Gravityâ in other areas of Science),
(c) alternatively, the projection, onto the Surface, of an
electronic âimage,â analogous to a motion picture. This
would require a minimum of three projectors, and perhaps
more. Exactly how many is shrouded in another order of
uncertainty: the so-called Otyiyumbu Indeterminacy Rela-
tion (âProbable functional derangement yr resulting from
physical modification Âąx (x,y,z) is directly proportional to
a higher power p of sub-imipolectic derangement yB, p
being not necessarily an integer and determined empir-
icallyâ), in which subscript R is for Rakete, and B for
Blicero.
y
oO
poe
ave}
Meantime, Tchitcherine has found it necessary to abandon
his smegma-gathering stake-out on the Argentine anar- â
chists. The heat, alias Nikolai Ripov of the Commissariat for _
:
The Counterforce
817
Intelligence Activities, is in town and closing in. The faith-
ful Dzabajev, in terror or disgust, has gone off across the
cranberry bogs on a long wine binge with two local
derelicts, and may never be back. Rumor sez he is cutting
a swath these days across the Zone in a stolen American
Special Services getup, posing as Frank Sinatra. Comes into
town finds a tavern and starts crooning out-on the side-
walk, pretty soon thereâs a crowd, subdeb cuties each a
$65 fine and worth every penny dropping in epileptiform
seizures into selfless heaps of cable-stitching, rayon pleats
and Xmastree appliquĂ©. It works. Itâs always good for free
wine, an embarrassment of wine, rolling Fuder and Fass
in a rumbling country procession through the sandy streets,
wherever the Drunkards Three find themselves. Never
occurs to anybody to ask what Frank Sinatraâs doing
flanked by this pair of wasted rumdums. Nobody doubts
for a minute that it is Sinatra. Town hepcats usually take
the other two for a comedy team.
While nobles are crying in their nightsâ chains, the
squires sing. The terrible politics of the Grail can never
touch them. Song is the magic cape.
Tchitcherine understands that he is finally alone now.
Whatever is to find him will find him alone.
He feels obliged to be on the move, though thereâs no-
place for him to go. Now, too late, the memory of Wimpe,
longago IG Farben V-Mann, finds him. Tags along for the
run. Tchitcherine was hoping he might find a dog. A dog
would have been ideal, a perfect honesty to calibrate his
own against, day to day, till the end. A dog would have
been good to have along. But maybe the next best thing
is an albatross with no curse attached: an amiable memory.
Young Tchitcherine was the one who brought up polit-
ical narcotics, Opiates of the people.
Wimpe smiled back. An old, old smile to chill even the
living fire in Earthâs core, âMarxist dialectics? Thatâs not
an opiate, eh?â
Ă©
âItâs the antidote.â
z
âNo.â It can go either way. The dope salesman may
know everything thatâs ever going to happen to Tchi-
tcherine, and decide itâs no useâor, out of the momentâs
velleity, lay it right out for the young fool.
âThe basic problem,â he proposes, âhas always been
The Bodyhood of Steel
- Tchitcherine wanders aimlessly, haunted by the memory of Wimpe, a former IG Farben agent and drug salesman.
- Wimpe challenges Tchitcherine's Marxist dialectics, arguing that both religion and secular ideologies are merely techniques to convince people to die for a cause.
- The dialogue explores the 'point of decision' as the only moment a person is truly real to themselves, transcending political theory.
- The two men bond over the injection of Oneirine theophosphate, a drug Wimpe claims indicates the presence of God rather than sulfur.
- The experience marks Tchitcherine's initiation into a lifelong relationship with steel, from needles to the surgical shrapnel of war.
- The narrative highlights the shift from dying for religious beliefs to dying for the 'predestined shape' of History.
But ever since it became impossible to die for death, we have had a secular versionâyours.
The Counterforce
817
Intelligence Activities, is in town and closing in. The faith-
ful Dzabajev, in terror or disgust, has gone off across the
cranberry bogs on a long wine binge with two local
derelicts, and may never be back. Rumor sez he is cutting
a swath these days across the Zone in a stolen American
Special Services getup, posing as Frank Sinatra. Comes into
town finds a tavern and starts crooning out-on the side-
walk, pretty soon thereâs a crowd, subdeb cuties each a
$65 fine and worth every penny dropping in epileptiform
seizures into selfless heaps of cable-stitching, rayon pleats
and Xmastree appliquĂ©. It works. Itâs always good for free
wine, an embarrassment of wine, rolling Fuder and Fass
in a rumbling country procession through the sandy streets,
wherever the Drunkards Three find themselves. Never
occurs to anybody to ask what Frank Sinatraâs doing
flanked by this pair of wasted rumdums. Nobody doubts
for a minute that it is Sinatra. Town hepcats usually take
the other two for a comedy team.
While nobles are crying in their nightsâ chains, the
squires sing. The terrible politics of the Grail can never
touch them. Song is the magic cape.
Tchitcherine understands that he is finally alone now.
Whatever is to find him will find him alone.
He feels obliged to be on the move, though thereâs no-
place for him to go. Now, too late, the memory of Wimpe,
longago IG Farben V-Mann, finds him. Tags along for the
run. Tchitcherine was hoping he might find a dog. A dog
would have been ideal, a perfect honesty to calibrate his
own against, day to day, till the end. A dog would have
been good to have along. But maybe the next best thing
is an albatross with no curse attached: an amiable memory.
Young Tchitcherine was the one who brought up polit-
ical narcotics, Opiates of the people.
Wimpe smiled back. An old, old smile to chill even the
living fire in Earthâs core, âMarxist dialectics? Thatâs not
an opiate, eh?â
Ă©
âItâs the antidote.â
z
âNo.â It can go either way. The dope salesman may
know everything thatâs ever going to happen to Tchi-
tcherine, and decide itâs no useâor, out of the momentâs
velleity, lay it right out for the young fool.
âThe basic problem,â he proposes, âhas always been
818
Gravityâs Rainsow
â
getting other people to die for you. Whatâs worth enough
for a man to give up his life? Thatâs where religion had
the edge, for centuries. Religion was always about death.
It was used not as an opiate so much as a techniqueâit
got people to die for one particular set of beliefs about
death, Perverse, natiirlich, but who are you to judge? It
was a good pitch while it worked, But ever since it be-
came impossible to die for death, we have had a secular
versionâyours. Die to help History grow to its predes-
tined shape. Die knowing your act will bring a good end
a bit closer. Revolutionary suicide, fine, But look: if His-
toryâs changes are inevitable, why not not die? Vaslav? If
itâs going to happen anyway, what does it matter?â
âBut you havenât ever had the choice to make, have
you.â
âIf I ever did, you can be sureââ
âYou donât know. Not till youâre there, Wimpe. You
canât say.â
âThat doesnât sound very dialectical.â
âI donât know what it is.â
âThen, right up till the point of decision,â Wimpe
curious
but careful, âa man could
still be perfectly
pure...â
âHe could be anything. J donât care. But heâs only real
at the points of decision. The time between doesnât mat-
ter.â
/
âReal to a Marxist.â
âNo. Real to himself.â
Wimpe looks doubtful.
âTâve been there. You haven't.â .
Shh, shh, A syringe, a number 26 point. Bloods stifling
in the brownwood hotel suite. To chase or worry this argu-
ment is to become word-enemies, and neither man really
wants to. Oneirine theophosphate is one way around the
problem. (Tchitcherine: âYou mean thiophosphate, donât
youPâ Thinks indicating the presence of sulfur. ... Wimpe:
âI mean theophosphate, Vaslav,â 4
the Presence
of God.) They shoot up: Wimpe eying the water-tap ner-
vously, recalling Tchaikovsky, salmonella, a|fast medley of ©
whistlable tunes from the Pathétique, But Tchitcherine
has eyes only for the point, its German precision, its fine
steel grain. Soon he will come to know a circuit of aid
â
.
. eg
The Counterforce
819
stations and field hospitals, as good for postwar nostalgia
_ as a circuit of peacetime spasâarmy surgeons and dentists
will bond and hammer patent steel for life into his suffer-
ing flesh, and pick out what has entered it by violence
with an electromagnetic device bought between the wars
from Schumann of Diisseldorf, with a light bulb and ad-
justable reflector, 2-axis locking handles and a complete
set of weird-shaped Polschuhen, iron pieces to modify the
-
shape of the magnetic field... but there in Russia, that
night with Wimpe, was his first tasteâhis initiation into
the bodyhood of steel...no way to separate this from
the theophosphate, to separate vessels of steel from the
ungodly insane rush....
For 15 minutes the two of them run screaming all over
the suite, staggering around in circles, lined up with the
roomsâ diagonals. There is in Laszlo Jamfâs celebrated
molecule a particular twist, the so-called âPĂ©kler singu-
larity,â occurring in a certain crippled indole ring, which
later Oneirinists, academician and working professional
alike, are generally agreed is responsible for the hallucina-
tions which are unique to this drug. Not only audiovisual,
they touch all senses, equally. And they recur. Certain
themes, âmantic archetypesâ (as Jollifox of the Cambridge
School has named them), will find certain individuals
again and again, with a consistency which has been well
demonstrated in the laboratory (see Wobb and Whoaton,
âMantic Archetype Distribution Among Middle-Class Uni-
versity Students,â J. Oneir. Psy. Pharm., XXIII, pg. 406â
453). Because analogies with the ghost-life exist, this
recurrence phenomenon is known, in the jargon, as âhaunt-
ing.â Whereas other sorts of hallucinations tend to flow by,
related in deep ways that arenât accessible to the casual
dopefiend, these Oneirine hauntings show a definite nar-
rative continuity, as clearly as, say, the average Reader's
Digest article. Often they are so ordinary, so conven-
tionalâJeaach calls them âthe dullest hallucinations known
to psychopharmacologyââthat they are only recognized
as hauntings through some radical though plausible viola-
tion of possibility: the presence of the dead, journeys by
the same route and means where one person will set out
later but arrive earlier, a printed diagram which no
amount of light will make readable.... On recognizing
i:
The Mechanics of Oneirine
- The drug Oneirine is characterized by the Pékler singularity, a molecular structure responsible for unique, multi-sensory hallucinations.
- Unlike typical drug-induced visions, Oneirine produces 'hauntings'ârecurring, narrative-driven hallucinations that maintain consistency across multiple sessions.
- These hauntings are often deceptively ordinary, distinguished only by subtle violations of physical laws or the presence of the deceased.
- The drug induces a specific form of paranoia described as the 'leading edge' of a discovery that all things in the universe are interconnected.
- Tchitcherine experiences a haunting in the form of an interrogation by Nikolai Ripov, who manipulates him into confessing dangerous political heresies.
- The process of the haunting effectively isolates the subject from their community, trapping them within a self-constructed capsule of suspicion.
Like other sorts of paranoia, it is nothing less than the onset, the leading edge, of the discovery that everything is connected, everything in the Creation.
The Counterforce
819
stations and field hospitals, as good for postwar nostalgia
_ as a circuit of peacetime spasâarmy surgeons and dentists
will bond and hammer patent steel for life into his suffer-
ing flesh, and pick out what has entered it by violence
with an electromagnetic device bought between the wars
from Schumann of Diisseldorf, with a light bulb and ad-
justable reflector, 2-axis locking handles and a complete
set of weird-shaped Polschuhen, iron pieces to modify the
-
shape of the magnetic field... but there in Russia, that
night with Wimpe, was his first tasteâhis initiation into
the bodyhood of steel...no way to separate this from
the theophosphate, to separate vessels of steel from the
ungodly insane rush....
For 15 minutes the two of them run screaming all over
the suite, staggering around in circles, lined up with the
roomsâ diagonals. There is in Laszlo Jamfâs celebrated
molecule a particular twist, the so-called âPĂ©kler singu-
larity,â occurring in a certain crippled indole ring, which
later Oneirinists, academician and working professional
alike, are generally agreed is responsible for the hallucina-
tions which are unique to this drug. Not only audiovisual,
they touch all senses, equally. And they recur. Certain
themes, âmantic archetypesâ (as Jollifox of the Cambridge
School has named them), will find certain individuals
again and again, with a consistency which has been well
demonstrated in the laboratory (see Wobb and Whoaton,
âMantic Archetype Distribution Among Middle-Class Uni-
versity Students,â J. Oneir. Psy. Pharm., XXIII, pg. 406â
453). Because analogies with the ghost-life exist, this
recurrence phenomenon is known, in the jargon, as âhaunt-
ing.â Whereas other sorts of hallucinations tend to flow by,
related in deep ways that arenât accessible to the casual
dopefiend, these Oneirine hauntings show a definite nar-
rative continuity, as clearly as, say, the average Reader's
Digest article. Often they are so ordinary, so conven-
tionalâJeaach calls them âthe dullest hallucinations known
to psychopharmacologyââthat they are only recognized
as hauntings through some radical though plausible viola-
tion of possibility: the presence of the dead, journeys by
the same route and means where one person will set out
later but arrive earlier, a printed diagram which no
amount of light will make readable.... On recognizing
i:
820
:
Gravityâs RAINBOW
that he is being haunted, the subject enters immediately
into âphase two,â which, though varying in intensity from
subject to subject, is always disagreeable: often sedation
(0.6 mg atropine subcut.) will-be necessary, even though
Oneirine is classified as a CNS depressant.
About the paranoia often noted under the drug, there
is nothing remarkable. Like other sorts of paranoia, it is
nothing less than the onset, the leading edge, of the dis-
covery that everything is connected, everything in the
Creation,
a secondary illuminationânot yet blindingly
One, but at least connected, and perhaps a route In for
those like Tchitcherine who are held at the edge. ...
TCHITCHERINEâS HAUNTING
As to whether the man is or isnât Nikolai Ripov: he
does arrive the way Ripov is said to: heavy and inescap-
able. He wants to talk, only to talk. But somehow, as they
progress, into the indoor corridor-confusions of words,
again and again he will trick Tchitcherine into uttering
heresy, into damning himself.
et
âIâm here to help you see clearly. If you have doubts,
we should air them, honestly, man to man. No reprisals.
Hell, donât you think Iâve had doubts? Even Sialinâs had
them. We all have.â
.
âItâs all right though. It isnât anything I canât handle.â
âBut you're not handling it, or they wouldn't have sent
me out here. Donât you think they know when someone
they care for is in trouble?â
Tchitcherine doesnât want to ask. He strains against it
with the muscles of his heart-cage. The pain of cardiac
neurosis goes throbbing down his left arm. But he asks,
feeling his breath shift a little, âWas I supposed to die?â
âWhen, Vaslav?â
:
âIn the War.â
âOh, Vaslav.â
|
âYou wanted to hear what was troubling
me.â
âBut donât you see how they'll take
? Come, bring
it all the way out. We lost twenty. million souls, Vaslav.
Itâs not an accusation you can make lightly. Theyâd want
documentation. Even your life might be in dangerââ
|
âIâm not accusing anyone...please donât...I only
want to know if I am supposed to die for them.â
The Counterforce
821
âNo one wants you to die.â Soothing. âWhy do you
think that?â
So it is coaxed out of him by the patient emissary,
whining, desperate, too many wordsâparanoid suspicions,
unappeasable fears, damning himself, growing the capsule
around his person that will isolate him from the com-
munity forever....
âYet thatâs the very heart of History,â the gentle voice
talking across twilight, neither man having risen to light a
lamp. âThe inmost heart. How could everything you know,
all youâve seen and touched of it, be fed by a lie?â
âBut life after death...â
âThere is no life after death.â
Tchitcherine means heâs had to fight to believe in his
mortality. As his body fought to accept its steel. Fight
down all his hopes, fight his way into the bitterest of free-
doms. Not till recently did he come to look for comfort
in the dialectical ballet of force, counterforce, collision,
and new orderânot till the War came and Death appeared
across the ring, Tchitcherineâs first glimpse after the years
of training: taller, more beautifully muscled, less waste
motion than heâd ever expectedâonly in the ring, feeling
the terrible cold each blow brought with it, only then did
he turn to a Theory of Historyâof all pathetic cold com-
fortsâto try and make sense of it.
âThe Americans say, âThere are no atheists in foxholes.â
You were never of the faith, Vaslav. You had a deathbed
conversion, out of fear.â
» âTs that why you want me dead now?â
âNot dead. You're not rauch use dead.â Two more
olive-drab
agents have come in, and stand watching
Tchitcherine. They have regular, unremarkable faces. This
is, after all, an Oneirine haunting. Mellow, ordinary. The
only tipoff to its unreality isâ
The radical-though-plausible-violation-of-realityâ
_
All three men are smiling at him now. There is no vio-
lation,
Itâs a scream, but it comes out as a roar. He leaps at
_
Ripov, nearly nails him with his fist too, but the. others,
with faster reflexes than he counted on, have come up
either side to hold him. He canât believe their strength.
Through the nerves of hip and ass he feels his Nagant
being slid from its holster, and feels his own cock sliding
The Bitterest of Freedoms
- Tchitcherine confronts the harsh reality of his own mortality, viewing death not as a transition but as a finality he has fought to accept.
- The protagonist seeks solace in the 'dialectical ballet' of history and force to make sense of the cold violence he encountered during the war.
- A surreal interrogation unfolds where Ripov and mysterious agents challenge Tchitcherineâs motives for hunting his 'black brother.'
- The narrative blurs the lines between reality and an 'Oneirine haunting,' blending memories of lost intimacy with the clinical coldness of his captors.
- Tchitcherine realizes his personal quest for revenge was merely a sanctioned diversion allowed by higher powers who have their own designs on his target.
- The revelation that he is being sent home signifies a loss of agency, as he is stripped of his mission by those who view his motivations as 'old barbarisms.'
Not till the War came and Death appeared across the ring, Tchitcherineâs first glimpse after the years of training: taller, more beautifully muscled, less waste motion than heâd ever expected.
The Counterforce
821
âNo one wants you to die.â Soothing. âWhy do you
think that?â
So it is coaxed out of him by the patient emissary,
whining, desperate, too many wordsâparanoid suspicions,
unappeasable fears, damning himself, growing the capsule
around his person that will isolate him from the com-
munity forever....
âYet thatâs the very heart of History,â the gentle voice
talking across twilight, neither man having risen to light a
lamp. âThe inmost heart. How could everything you know,
all youâve seen and touched of it, be fed by a lie?â
âBut life after death...â
âThere is no life after death.â
Tchitcherine means heâs had to fight to believe in his
mortality. As his body fought to accept its steel. Fight
down all his hopes, fight his way into the bitterest of free-
doms. Not till recently did he come to look for comfort
in the dialectical ballet of force, counterforce, collision,
and new orderânot till the War came and Death appeared
across the ring, Tchitcherineâs first glimpse after the years
of training: taller, more beautifully muscled, less waste
motion than heâd ever expectedâonly in the ring, feeling
the terrible cold each blow brought with it, only then did
he turn to a Theory of Historyâof all pathetic cold com-
fortsâto try and make sense of it.
âThe Americans say, âThere are no atheists in foxholes.â
You were never of the faith, Vaslav. You had a deathbed
conversion, out of fear.â
» âTs that why you want me dead now?â
âNot dead. You're not rauch use dead.â Two more
olive-drab
agents have come in, and stand watching
Tchitcherine. They have regular, unremarkable faces. This
is, after all, an Oneirine haunting. Mellow, ordinary. The
only tipoff to its unreality isâ
The radical-though-plausible-violation-of-realityâ
_
All three men are smiling at him now. There is no vio-
lation,
Itâs a scream, but it comes out as a roar. He leaps at
_
Ripov, nearly nails him with his fist too, but the. others,
with faster reflexes than he counted on, have come up
either side to hold him. He canât believe their strength.
Through the nerves of hip and ass he feels his Nagant
being slid from its holster, and feels his own cock sliding
A
822
Gravity's RAINBOW
out of a German girl he canât remember now, on the last
sweetwine morning he saw her, in the last warm bed of
the last morning departure....
âYou're a child, Vaslav. Only making believe that you
understand ideas which are really beyond you. We have
to speak very simply for you.â
In Central Asia he was told of the functions of Moslem
angels. One is the examine the recently dead. After the
last mourner has gone, angels come to the grave and
interrogate the dead one in his faith. ...
There is another figure now, at the edge of the room.
She is Tchitcherineâs age, and in uniform. Her eyes donât
want to say anything to Tchitcherine. She only watches.
No music heard, no summer journey taken ...no horse
seen against the steppe in the last daylight. ...
He doesnât recognize her. Not that it matters. Not at
this level of things. But itâs Galina, come back to the
cities, out of the silences after all, in again to the chain-
link fields of the Word, shining, running secure and always
close enough, always tangible. ...
âWhy were you hunting your black brother?â Ripov
manages to make the question sound courteous.
Oh. Nice of you to ask, Ripov. Why was I? âWhen it
began...a long time agoâat first...I thought I was
being punished, Passed over. I blamed him.â
âNow?â
âI donât know.â
âWhat made you think he was your target?â
âWho elseâs would he be?â
âVaslav. Will you never rise above? These are old bar-
barisms. Blood lines, personal revenge. You think this has
all been arranged for you, to ease your little, stupid lusts.â
All right. All right. âYes. Probably. What of it?â
âHe isnât your target. Others want him.â
âSo you've been letting meââ
âSo far. Yes.â
.
Dzabajev could have told you. That Siddexi Asiatic is
first and last an enlisted man, He knew. Officers. Fucking
officer mentality. You do all the work, then! they come in,
to wrap it up, to get the glory.
-
âYou're taking it away from me.â
od
âYou can go home.â
The Counterforce
823
Tchitcherine has been watching the other two. He seesâ
now that they are in American uniform, and probably
haven't understood a word. He holds out his empty hands,
his sunburned wrists, for a last application of steel. Ripov,
in the act of turning to leave, appears surprised. âOh. No,
no. You have thirty daysâ survivorâs leave. You have sur-
vived, Vaslav. You're to report to TsAGI when you get
-
back to Moscow, thatâs all, There'll be another assignment.
We'll be taking German rocket personnel out to the desert.
To Central Asia. I imagine they'll need an old Central
Asia hand out there.â
Tchitcherine understands that in his dialectic, his own
ede unfolding, to return to Central Asia is, operationally,
to
die.
They have gone. The womanâs iron face, at the very
last, did not turn back. He is alone in a gutted room, with
the plastic family toothbrushes still in their holders on the
wall, melted, strung downward in tendrils of many colors,
bristles pointing to every black plane and corner and
soot-blinded. window.
Oo
The dearest nation of all is one that will survive no longer than
you and I, a common movement at the mercy of death and time:
the ad hoc adventure.
_ Resolutions of the Gross Suckling Conference
North? What searcher has ever been directed north? What
youre supposed to be looking for lies southâthose dusky
natives, right? For danger and enterprise they send you
west, for visions, east. But whatâs north?
The escape route of the Anubis.
The Kirghiz Light.
The Herero country of death.
Ensign Morituri, Carroll Eventyr, Thomas Gwenhidwy,
and Roger Mexico are sitting at a table on the redbrick
_
terrace of Der Grob Saugling, an inn by the edge of a
little blue Holstein lake. The sun makes the water sparkle.
_ The housetops are red, the steeples are white. Everything
is miniature, neat, gently pastoral, locked into the rise
â
The Mandala of True North
- Tchitcherine is granted survivor's leave but realizes that returning to Central Asia as a 'specialist' is a form of operational death.
- The narrative shifts to the 'Gross Suckling Conference' where four envoys analyze the spatial logic of rocket launches.
- By mapping the bearings of V-2 rockets fired at Antwerp, London, and PeenemĂŒnde, the group identifies a missing vector.
- The envoys deduce that the 'resultant' or mythic-symmetric bearing points toward 000 degrees: True North.
- This 'ghost-firing' represents a secret or future launch that completes the mandala of the Rocket's trajectory.
- The group struggles to find the origin point of this theoretical launch, leaving them with a 'razor-edge' sweeping across the Zone.
Evidence and intuitionâand maybe a residue of uncivilizable terror that lies inside us, every oneâpoint to 000°; true North.
The Counterforce
823
Tchitcherine has been watching the other two. He seesâ
now that they are in American uniform, and probably
haven't understood a word. He holds out his empty hands,
his sunburned wrists, for a last application of steel. Ripov,
in the act of turning to leave, appears surprised. âOh. No,
no. You have thirty daysâ survivorâs leave. You have sur-
vived, Vaslav. You're to report to TsAGI when you get
-
back to Moscow, thatâs all, There'll be another assignment.
We'll be taking German rocket personnel out to the desert.
To Central Asia. I imagine they'll need an old Central
Asia hand out there.â
Tchitcherine understands that in his dialectic, his own
ede unfolding, to return to Central Asia is, operationally,
to
die.
They have gone. The womanâs iron face, at the very
last, did not turn back. He is alone in a gutted room, with
the plastic family toothbrushes still in their holders on the
wall, melted, strung downward in tendrils of many colors,
bristles pointing to every black plane and corner and
soot-blinded. window.
Oo
The dearest nation of all is one that will survive no longer than
you and I, a common movement at the mercy of death and time:
the ad hoc adventure.
_ Resolutions of the Gross Suckling Conference
North? What searcher has ever been directed north? What
youre supposed to be looking for lies southâthose dusky
natives, right? For danger and enterprise they send you
west, for visions, east. But whatâs north?
The escape route of the Anubis.
The Kirghiz Light.
The Herero country of death.
Ensign Morituri, Carroll Eventyr, Thomas Gwenhidwy,
and Roger Mexico are sitting at a table on the redbrick
_
terrace of Der Grob Saugling, an inn by the edge of a
little blue Holstein lake. The sun makes the water sparkle.
_ The housetops are red, the steeples are white. Everything
is miniature, neat, gently pastoral, locked into the rise
â
824
Graviryâs RaInsow
and fall of seasons. Contrasting wood Xs on closed doors.
The brink of autumn. A cow sez moo, The milkmaid farts
at the milk pail, which echoes with a very slight clang,
and the geese honk or hiss. The four envoys drink watered
Moselle and talk mandalas.
The Rocket was fired southward, westward, eastward.
But not northwardânot so far. Fired south, at Antwerp,
the bearing was about 173°. East, during testing at Peene-
miinde, 072°, Fired west, at London, about 260°. Work-
ing it out with the parallel rulers, the missing (or, if you
want, âresultantâ) bearing comes out to something like
354°. This would be the firing implied by all the others, a
ghost-firing which, in the logic of mandalas, either has oc-
curred, most-secretly, or will occur.
So the conferees at the Gross Suckling Conference here,
as it will come to be known, sit around a map with their
instruments, cigarettes and speculations. Sneer not. Here is
one of the great deductive moments in postwar intelligence.
Mexico is holding out for a weighting system to make
vector lengths proportional to the actual number of firings
along each one. Thomas Gwenhidwy, ever sensitive to
events in geographical space, wants to take the 1944
Blizna firings (also eastward) into account, which would
pull the arrow northward from 354塉and even closer to -
true north if the firings at London and Norwich from
Walcheren and Staveren are also included.
Evidence and intuitionâand maybe a residue of un-
civilizable terror that lies inside us, every oneâpoint to
000°; true North. What better direction to fire the ooo0o0P
Trouble is, what goodâs a bearing, even a mythic-sym-
metric bearing, without knowing where the Rocket was
fired from to begin with? You have a razor-edge, 280 km
long, sweeping east/west across the Zoneâs pocked face,
endlessly sweeping, obsessive, dithering, glittering, unbear-
able, never coming to rest. .
Well, Under The Sign Of The Gross heen ae Gwabing
full-color picture of a loathsomely fat drooling infant. In
one puddinglike fist the Gross Suckling clutches a dripping
hamhock (sorry pigs, nothing personal), with the other
he reaches out for a human Motherâs Nipple that emerges
out into the picture from the left-hand side, his gaze ar-
_
rested by the approaching tit, his mouth openâa gleeful
â
The Counterforce and the Collector
- Roger Mexico confronts Jeremy, Jessica's fiancé, in a surreal nautical-themed pub in Cuxhaven.
- Jeremy maintains a facade of liberal forgiveness regarding Jessica's affair with Roger, though he views Roger as mentally unstable.
- Despite his composure, Jeremy is haunted by recurring dreams of an inescapable organization collecting an unknown debt.
- Roger and Seaman Bodine employ absurdist street theater involving giant foam phalli to mock authority and entertain the local populace.
- The narrative shifts to Jessica's cold dismissal of Roger as she commits to a conventional life and motherhood with Jeremy.
- The scene highlights the tension between the chaotic 'Counterforce' energy and the rigid, domestic structures of the post-war era.
He senses a great organization behind these emissaries. Its threats are always left open, left for Jeremy to complete... each time, terror has come welling up through the gap, crystal terror....
824
Graviryâs RaInsow
and fall of seasons. Contrasting wood Xs on closed doors.
The brink of autumn. A cow sez moo, The milkmaid farts
at the milk pail, which echoes with a very slight clang,
and the geese honk or hiss. The four envoys drink watered
Moselle and talk mandalas.
The Rocket was fired southward, westward, eastward.
But not northwardânot so far. Fired south, at Antwerp,
the bearing was about 173°. East, during testing at Peene-
miinde, 072°, Fired west, at London, about 260°. Work-
ing it out with the parallel rulers, the missing (or, if you
want, âresultantâ) bearing comes out to something like
354°. This would be the firing implied by all the others, a
ghost-firing which, in the logic of mandalas, either has oc-
curred, most-secretly, or will occur.
So the conferees at the Gross Suckling Conference here,
as it will come to be known, sit around a map with their
instruments, cigarettes and speculations. Sneer not. Here is
one of the great deductive moments in postwar intelligence.
Mexico is holding out for a weighting system to make
vector lengths proportional to the actual number of firings
along each one. Thomas Gwenhidwy, ever sensitive to
events in geographical space, wants to take the 1944
Blizna firings (also eastward) into account, which would
pull the arrow northward from 354塉and even closer to -
true north if the firings at London and Norwich from
Walcheren and Staveren are also included.
Evidence and intuitionâand maybe a residue of un-
civilizable terror that lies inside us, every oneâpoint to
000°; true North. What better direction to fire the ooo0o0P
Trouble is, what goodâs a bearing, even a mythic-sym-
metric bearing, without knowing where the Rocket was
fired from to begin with? You have a razor-edge, 280 km
long, sweeping east/west across the Zoneâs pocked face,
endlessly sweeping, obsessive, dithering, glittering, unbear-
able, never coming to rest. .
Well, Under The Sign Of The Gross heen ae Gwabing
full-color picture of a loathsomely fat drooling infant. In
one puddinglike fist the Gross Suckling clutches a dripping
hamhock (sorry pigs, nothing personal), with the other
he reaches out for a human Motherâs Nipple that emerges
out into the picture from the left-hand side, his gaze ar-
_
rested by the approaching tit, his mouth openâa gleeful
â
The Counterforce
825
look, teeth pointed and itching, a glaze of FOODmunch-
munchyesgobblemmm over his eyes. Der Grob Saugling,
23rd card of the Zoneâs trumps major....
.
Roger likes to think of it as a snap of Jeremy as a child.
Jeremy, who Knows All, has forgiven Jessica her time with
Roger. Heâs had an outing or two himself, and can under-
stand, heâs of liberal mind, the War after all has taken
down certain barriers, Victorianisms you might say (a tale
brought to. you by the same jokers who invented the
famous Polyvinyl Chloride Raincoat)....and whatâs this,
Roger, heâs trying to impress you? his eyelids make high,
amiable crescents as he leans forward (smaller chap than
Roger thought) clutching his glass, sucking on the most
tasteless Pipe Roger has eyer seen, a reproduction in brier
of Winston Churchill's head for a bowl, no detail is spared,
even a cigar in its mouth with a little hole drilled down it
so that some of the smoke can actually seep out the end
-+-it is a servicemenâs pub in Cuxhaven here, the place
used to be a marine salvage yard, so the lonesome soldiers
sit dreaming and drinking among all that nautical junk,
not at the same level as in oneâs usual outdoor cafĂ©, no,
some are up in tilted hatchways, or dangling in boat-
âswainâs chairs, crowâs-nests, sitting over their bitter. among
the chain, tackle, strakework, black iron fittings. Itâs night.
Lanterns have been brought out to the tables. Soft little
nocturnal waves hush on the shingle. Late waterfowl cry
out over the lake.
âBut will it ever get us, Jeremy, you and me, thatâs the
quesshun....â Mexico has been uttering these oracularâ
often, as at the Club today for lunch, quite embarrassingâ
bits of his ever since he showed up.
âEr, will what ever get me, old chap?â Itâs been old
chap all day.
âHaven'tâchâever felt something wanted to gesh you,
Jeremy?â
âGet me.â Heâs drunk. Heâs insane. I obviously canât let
him near Jessica these math chaps theyâre like oboe players
it affects the brain or something. ...
Aha, but, once a month, Jeremy, even Jeremy, dreams:
about a gambling debt . . . different sorts of Collectors keep
arriving... he cannot remember the debt, the opponent
he lost to, even the game. He senses a great organization
\
oa
826
Gravityâs RAInBow
behind these emissaries. Its threats are always left open,
left for Jeremy to complete... each time, terror has come
welling up through the gap, crystal terror...
.
Good, good. The other sure-fire calibration test has al-
ready been sprung on Jeremyâat a prearranged spot in a
park, two unemployed Augustes leap out in whiteface and
working-clothes, and commence belting each other with
gigantic (7 or 8 feet long) foam rubber penises, cunningly
detailed, all in natural color. These phancy phalli have
proven to be a good investment, Roger and Seaman Bo-
dine (when heâs in town) have outdrawn the ENSA shows.
It is a fine source of spare changeâmultitudes will gather
at the edges of these north German villages to watch the
two zanies whack away. Granaries, mostly empty, poke up
above the rooftops now and then, stretching a wood gal-
lowsarm against the afternoon sky. Soldiers, civilians, and
children, There is a lot of laughter.
Seems people can be reminded of Titans and Fathers,
and laugh. It isnât as funny as a pie in the face, but itâs at
least as pure.
Yes, giant rubber cocks are here to stay as part of the
arsenal. .
What Jessica saidâhair much shorter, wearing a darker
mouth of different outline, harder lipstick, her typewriter
banking in a phalanx of letters between themâwas:
âWe're going to be married. We're trying very hard to
have a baby.â
All at once there is nothing but this asshole babwean
Gravity and Roger. âI donât care. Have his baby. I'll love
you bothâjust come with me Jess, please...I need
you. .
She flips a red lever on her intercom. Far away a buzzer
goes off. âSecurity.â Her voice is perfectly hard, the word
still clap-echoing in the air as in through the screen door
of the Quonset office with a smell of tide flats come the
coppers, looking grim. Security. Her magic word, her spell
against demons.
âJessââ shit is he going to cry? he can feel
it building
like an orgasmâ
Who saves him (or interferes with his orgasm)? Why,
Jeremy himself. Old Beaver shows up and waves off the
heat, who go surly, fangflashing back to masturbating into
The Subversive Zoot Suit
- Roger makes a desperate, emotional plea to Jessica, who rejects him by summoning security as a 'spell against demons.'
- Jeremy (Beaver) intervenes to dismiss the guards, leading to an awkward social invitation between the romantic rivals.
- The men discuss Operation Backfire, the British initiative to assemble and launch captured A4 rockets into the North Sea.
- Roger uses mathematical jargon as a defensive social weapon to mock Jeremy's attempts at small talk.
- Anticipating a trap at an elite corporate dinner, Roger decides to bring Seaman Bodine as his guest.
- Bodine arrives in an aggressively blue, oversized zoot suit designed to disrupt the social order and distract the elite guests.
It is a suit that forces you either to reflect on matters as primary as its color, or feel superficial.
826
Gravityâs RAInBow
behind these emissaries. Its threats are always left open,
left for Jeremy to complete... each time, terror has come
welling up through the gap, crystal terror...
.
Good, good. The other sure-fire calibration test has al-
ready been sprung on Jeremyâat a prearranged spot in a
park, two unemployed Augustes leap out in whiteface and
working-clothes, and commence belting each other with
gigantic (7 or 8 feet long) foam rubber penises, cunningly
detailed, all in natural color. These phancy phalli have
proven to be a good investment, Roger and Seaman Bo-
dine (when heâs in town) have outdrawn the ENSA shows.
It is a fine source of spare changeâmultitudes will gather
at the edges of these north German villages to watch the
two zanies whack away. Granaries, mostly empty, poke up
above the rooftops now and then, stretching a wood gal-
lowsarm against the afternoon sky. Soldiers, civilians, and
children, There is a lot of laughter.
Seems people can be reminded of Titans and Fathers,
and laugh. It isnât as funny as a pie in the face, but itâs at
least as pure.
Yes, giant rubber cocks are here to stay as part of the
arsenal. .
What Jessica saidâhair much shorter, wearing a darker
mouth of different outline, harder lipstick, her typewriter
banking in a phalanx of letters between themâwas:
âWe're going to be married. We're trying very hard to
have a baby.â
All at once there is nothing but this asshole babwean
Gravity and Roger. âI donât care. Have his baby. I'll love
you bothâjust come with me Jess, please...I need
you. .
She flips a red lever on her intercom. Far away a buzzer
goes off. âSecurity.â Her voice is perfectly hard, the word
still clap-echoing in the air as in through the screen door
of the Quonset office with a smell of tide flats come the
coppers, looking grim. Security. Her magic word, her spell
against demons.
âJessââ shit is he going to cry? he can feel
it building
like an orgasmâ
Who saves him (or interferes with his orgasm)? Why,
Jeremy himself. Old Beaver shows up and waves off the
heat, who go surly, fangflashing back to masturbating into
The Counterforce
827
Crime Does Not Pay Comics, gazing dreamy at guardroom
pinups of J. Edgar Hoover or whatever it was they were
up to, and the romantic triangle are suddenly all to have
lunch together at the Club. Lunch together? Is this Noel
Coward or some shit? Jessica at the last minute is over-
come by some fictitious female syndrome which both men
guess to be morning-sickness, Roger figuring she'll do the
most spiteful thing she can think of, Jeremy seeing it as a
cute little private yoo-hoo for 2-hoo. So that leaves the
fellas alone, to talk briskly about Operation Backfire, which
is the British program to assemble some A4s and fire them
out into the North Sea. What else are they going to talk
about?
a
âWhy?â Roger keeps asking, trying to piss Jeremy off.
âWhy do you want to put them together and fire them?â
.
âWe've captured them, havenât we? What does one do
with a rocket?â
âBut why?â
âWhy?â Damn it, to see, obviously. Jessica tells me
you reâahâa math chap?â
âLittle sigma, times P of s-over-little-sigma, equals one
over the square root of two pi, times e to the minus s
squared over two little-sigma.squared.â
âGood Lord.â Laughing, hastily checking out the room.
âIt is an old saying among my people.â
Jeremy knows how to handle this. Roger is invited to
dinner in the evening, an intimate informal party at the
home of Stefan Utgarthaloki, an ex-member of manage-
ment at the Krupp works here in Cuxhaven. âYou're wel-
come to bring a guest, of course,â gnaws the eager Beaver,
âthereâs a lot of snazzy NAAFIs about, it wouldnât be too
difficult for you toââ
âInformal means lounge suit, eh?â interrupts Roger.
Too bad, he hasnât got one. The prospects of being nabbed
tonight are good. A party that includes (a) an Operation
Backfire figure, (b) a Krupp executive, must necessarily
then include (c) at least one ear to the corporate grape-
vine thatâs heard of the Urinating Incident in Clive Moss-
moon's office. If Roger only knew what Beaver and his
friends really have in mind!
He does take a guest: Seaman Bodine, who has caused
to be brought him from the Panama Canal Zone (where
'
~
828
Gravity's RaInsow
the lock workers wear them as a uniform, in amazing
tropical-parrot combinations of yellow, green, lavender,
vermilion)
a zoot suit of unbelievable proportionsâthe
pointed lapels have to be reinforced with coat-hanger
stays because they extend so far outboard of the rest of
the suitâundemeath his purple-on-purple satin shirt the
natty tar is actually wearing a corset, squeezing his waist
in to a sylphlike 42 inches to allow for the drastic sup-
pression of the jacket, which then falls to Bodineâs knees
quintuple-vented in yards of kilt-style pleats that run clear
back up over his ass. The pants are belted under his arm-
pits and pegged down to something like ten inches, so he
has to use hidden zippers to get his feet through. The
whole suit is blue, not suit-blue, noâreally BLUE: paint-
blue. It is immediately noticed everywhere it goes. At
gatherings it haunts the peripheral vision, making decent
small-talk impossible. It is a suit that forces you either to
reflect on matters as primary as its color, or feel super-
ficial. A subversive garment, all right.
âJust you and me, podner?â sez Bodine. âAinât that kind
of cutting it a little close?â
âListen,â Roger chuckling unhealthily at what's also
just occurred to him, âwe canât even bring those big rubber
cocks along. Tonite, weâre going to have to use our wits!â
âTell you what, I'll just send a motorcycle out to Putzi's,
round us up a goon squad, andââ
âYou know what? Youâve lost your sense of adventure.
Yeh. You didnât use to be like this, you know.â
âLook old buddy,â pronouncing it in Navy Dialect:
buddih, âcâmon, buddih. Putcherself in my shoes.â
.
âI might, if they weren't... that...shade of yelowâââ
âJust a humble guy,â the swarthy doughboy of the deep
scratching in his groin after an elusive crab with a horn
finger, rippling the ballooning pleats and fabric of his
trousers, âjust a freckleface kid from Albert Lea, Minne-
sota, down there on Route 69 where the speed limitâs
lickety-split all night long, just tryinâ tâ make it in the Zone
here, kind of a freckle-face kid used a safety pin through
a cork for a catwhisker and stayed up jlistened to the
voices coast to coast before I was 10 and none of them
ever recommended gettinâ into any of them gang wars,
buddih. Be glad you're still so fuckinâ naive, Rog, wait'll
The Kazoo Quartet and Zone Intrigue
- Roger and Bodine engage in a tense, banter-filled dialogue about the dangers of their upcoming mission without backup.
- Bodine reflects on his origins as a 'freckleface kid' from Minnesota while warning Roger about the lethal precision of European gangster hits.
- Bodine displays his specialized skills in the black market, including his ability to identify fake gems by their thermal conductivity.
- The pair arrives at a high-society Krupp event where the musical entertainment is provided by 'Captain Horror' and André Omnopon.
- The narrative highlights the 'Kazoo' Quartet in G-Flat Minor, a suppressed Haydn work that utilizes kazoos and extreme dynamic shifts.
- The music's sudden transitions from fortissimo to pianissimo are described as a subversive 'sound-shadow' that authorities prefer to suppress.
The second violin happens to be Gustav Schlabone, Saure Bummerâs frequent unwelcome doping partner, âCaptain Horror,â as he is affectionately but not inaccurately known around Der Platz.
~
828
Gravity's RaInsow
the lock workers wear them as a uniform, in amazing
tropical-parrot combinations of yellow, green, lavender,
vermilion)
a zoot suit of unbelievable proportionsâthe
pointed lapels have to be reinforced with coat-hanger
stays because they extend so far outboard of the rest of
the suitâundemeath his purple-on-purple satin shirt the
natty tar is actually wearing a corset, squeezing his waist
in to a sylphlike 42 inches to allow for the drastic sup-
pression of the jacket, which then falls to Bodineâs knees
quintuple-vented in yards of kilt-style pleats that run clear
back up over his ass. The pants are belted under his arm-
pits and pegged down to something like ten inches, so he
has to use hidden zippers to get his feet through. The
whole suit is blue, not suit-blue, noâreally BLUE: paint-
blue. It is immediately noticed everywhere it goes. At
gatherings it haunts the peripheral vision, making decent
small-talk impossible. It is a suit that forces you either to
reflect on matters as primary as its color, or feel super-
ficial. A subversive garment, all right.
âJust you and me, podner?â sez Bodine. âAinât that kind
of cutting it a little close?â
âListen,â Roger chuckling unhealthily at what's also
just occurred to him, âwe canât even bring those big rubber
cocks along. Tonite, weâre going to have to use our wits!â
âTell you what, I'll just send a motorcycle out to Putzi's,
round us up a goon squad, andââ
âYou know what? Youâve lost your sense of adventure.
Yeh. You didnât use to be like this, you know.â
âLook old buddy,â pronouncing it in Navy Dialect:
buddih, âcâmon, buddih. Putcherself in my shoes.â
.
âI might, if they weren't... that...shade of yelowâââ
âJust a humble guy,â the swarthy doughboy of the deep
scratching in his groin after an elusive crab with a horn
finger, rippling the ballooning pleats and fabric of his
trousers, âjust a freckleface kid from Albert Lea, Minne-
sota, down there on Route 69 where the speed limitâs
lickety-split all night long, just tryinâ tâ make it in the Zone
here, kind of a freckle-face kid used a safety pin through
a cork for a catwhisker and stayed up jlistened to the
voices coast to coast before I was 10 and none of them
ever recommended gettinâ into any of them gang wars,
buddih. Be glad you're still so fuckinâ naive, Rog, wait'll
The Counterforce
829
you see your first European-gangster hit, they like to use
3 rounds: head, stomach, and heart. You dig that stomachP
Over here stomachâs no second-class organ, podner ânâ
thatâs a good autumn kind of thought to keep in mind.â
i. didnât you desert? Thatâs a death-sentence, isnât
it?â
âShit, I can square that. But Iâm only a cog. Donât go
thinking I know everything. All I know is my trade. I can
show you how to wash coke and assay it, I can feel a gem
and tell you from the temperature if itâs a fakeâthe fake
won't suck as much heat from your body, âglass is a re-
luctant vampire,â ancient dealersâ saying, a-and I can spot
funnymoney easy as E on an eye chart, I got one of the
best visual memories in the Zoneââ So, Roger drags him
off, monologuing, in his zoot suit, to the Krupp wingding.
Coming in the door, first thing Bodine notices is this
string quartet thatâs playing tonight. The second violin
happens to be Gustav Schlabone, Saure Bummerâs fre-
quent unwelcome doping partner, âCaptain Horror,â as he
is affectionately but not inaccurately known around Der
Platzâand
playing
viola
is Gustav's
accomplice
in
suicidally depressing everybody inside 100 metersâ radius
wherever they drop in (whoâs that tapping and giggling at
your door, Fred and PhyllisP), André Omnopon, of the
feathery Rilke mustaches and Porky Pig tattoo on stomach
(which is becoming the âhepâ thing lately: even back in
the Zone of the Interior the American subdebs all think
itâs swoony). Gustav and AndrĂ© are the Inner Voices to-
night. Which is especially odd because on the program is
the suppressed quartet from the Haydn Op. 76, the so-
called âKazooâ Quartet in G-Flat Minor, which gets its
name from the Largo, cantabile e mesto movement, in
which the Inner Voices are called to play kazoos instead
of their usual instruments, creating problems of dynamics
for cello and first violin that are unique in the literature.
âYou actually need to shift in places from a spiccato to a
dĂ©tachĂ©,â Bodine rapidly talking a Corporate Wife of
_ some sort across the room toward the free-lunch table piled
with lobster hors dâoeuvres and capon sandwichesââless
bow, higher up you understand, soften itâthen thereâs also
about a thousand ppp-to-fff blasts, but only the one, the
notorious One, going the other way....â Indeed, one rea-
830
Graviryâs Ramnsow
son for the workâs suppression in this subversive use of
sudden fff quieting to ppp. Itâs the touch of the wander-
ing sound-shadow, the Brennschluss of the Sun. They
donât want you listening to too much of that stuffâat least
not the way Haydn presents it (a strange lapse in the
revered composerâs behavior): cello, violin, alto and treble
kazoos all rollicking along in a tune sounds like a song
from the movie Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, âYou Should
See Me Dance the Polka,â when suddenly in the middle
of an odd bar the kazoos just stop completely, and the
Outer Voices fall to plucking a non-melody that tradition
sez represents two 18th-century Village Idiots vibrating
their lower lips. At each other, It goes on for 20, 40 bars,
this feebâs pizzicato, middle-line Kruppsters creak in the
bowlegged velvet chairs, bibuhbuhbibuhbuh this does not
sound like Haydn, Muttil Reps from ICI and GE angle
their heads trying to read in the candlelight the little pro-
grams lovingly hand-lettered by Utgarthalokiâs partner in
life, Frau Utgarthaloki, nobody is certain what her first
name is (which is ever so much help to Stefan because it
keeps them all on the defensive with her). She is a blonde
image of your mother dead: if you have ever seen her
travestied in beaten gold, the cheeks curving too far, de-
formed, the eyebrows too dark and whites too white, some
zero indifference that in the end is truly evil in the way
They've distorted her face, then you know the look: Nalline
Slothrop just before her first martini is right here, in spirit,
at this Kruppfest. So is her son Tyrone, but only because
by nowâearly Virgoâhe has become one plucked alba-
tross. Plucked, hellâstripped. Scattered all over the Zone.
Itâs doubtful if he can ever be âfoundâ again, in the con-
ventional sense of âpositively identified and detained,â
Only feathers ..
. redundant or regenerable organs, âwhich
we would be tempted to classify under the âHydra-Phi-
_nomenâ were it not for the complete absence of hostil-
ity...."â-Natasha Raum, âRegions of
eterminacy in
Albatross Anatomy,â Proceedings of the International So-
ciety of Confessors to an Enthusiasm for Albatross No-
sology, Winter 1936, great little magazine, they actually
sent a correspondent to Spain that winter, to cover that,
there are issues devoted entirely to analyses of world
economics, all clearly relevant to problems of Albatross
The Plucked Albatross
- A surreal musical performance featuring kazoos and pizzicato mimics the behavior of village idiots, unsettling the corporate representatives in attendance.
- Tyrone Slothrop is described as a 'plucked albatross,' his identity scattered across the Zone to the point of being unidentifiable.
- The text introduces a pseudo-scientific discourse on 'Albatross Nosology,' suggesting that academic and economic systems are complicit in larger power structures.
- The narrative posits that 'The Man' maintains a branch office in every human brain, using the Ego as a cover for corporate control.
- The Counterforce is depicted as a failed movement of 'doomed pet freaks' who ultimately legitimize the very powers they oppose.
- There is a deep-seated human need to witness the lives of the 'massively moneyed,' a voyeurism that the elite exploit to maintain their grip.
The Man has a branch office in each of our brains, his corporate emblem is a white albatross, each local rep has a cover known as the Ego, and their mission in this world is Bad Shit.
830
Graviryâs Ramnsow
son for the workâs suppression in this subversive use of
sudden fff quieting to ppp. Itâs the touch of the wander-
ing sound-shadow, the Brennschluss of the Sun. They
donât want you listening to too much of that stuffâat least
not the way Haydn presents it (a strange lapse in the
revered composerâs behavior): cello, violin, alto and treble
kazoos all rollicking along in a tune sounds like a song
from the movie Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, âYou Should
See Me Dance the Polka,â when suddenly in the middle
of an odd bar the kazoos just stop completely, and the
Outer Voices fall to plucking a non-melody that tradition
sez represents two 18th-century Village Idiots vibrating
their lower lips. At each other, It goes on for 20, 40 bars,
this feebâs pizzicato, middle-line Kruppsters creak in the
bowlegged velvet chairs, bibuhbuhbibuhbuh this does not
sound like Haydn, Muttil Reps from ICI and GE angle
their heads trying to read in the candlelight the little pro-
grams lovingly hand-lettered by Utgarthalokiâs partner in
life, Frau Utgarthaloki, nobody is certain what her first
name is (which is ever so much help to Stefan because it
keeps them all on the defensive with her). She is a blonde
image of your mother dead: if you have ever seen her
travestied in beaten gold, the cheeks curving too far, de-
formed, the eyebrows too dark and whites too white, some
zero indifference that in the end is truly evil in the way
They've distorted her face, then you know the look: Nalline
Slothrop just before her first martini is right here, in spirit,
at this Kruppfest. So is her son Tyrone, but only because
by nowâearly Virgoâhe has become one plucked alba-
tross. Plucked, hellâstripped. Scattered all over the Zone.
Itâs doubtful if he can ever be âfoundâ again, in the con-
ventional sense of âpositively identified and detained,â
Only feathers ..
. redundant or regenerable organs, âwhich
we would be tempted to classify under the âHydra-Phi-
_nomenâ were it not for the complete absence of hostil-
ity...."â-Natasha Raum, âRegions of
eterminacy in
Albatross Anatomy,â Proceedings of the International So-
ciety of Confessors to an Enthusiasm for Albatross No-
sology, Winter 1936, great little magazine, they actually
sent a correspondent to Spain that winter, to cover that,
there are issues devoted entirely to analyses of world
economics, all clearly relevant to problems of Albatross
The Counterforce
831
Nosologyâdoes so-called âNight Wormâ belong among
the Pseudo-Goldstrassian Group, or is it properly con-
sideredâindications being almost identicalâa more in-
sidious form of Moppâs Hebdomeriasis?
Well, if the Conference knew better what those cate-
gories concealed, they might be in a better position to dis-
arm, de-penis and dismantle the Man. But they donât.
Actually they do, but they donât admit it. Sad but true. They
are as schizoid, as double-minded in the massive presence of
money, as any of the rest of us, and thatâs the hard fact.
The Man has a branch office in each of our brains, his
corporate emblem is a white albatross, each local rep has a
cover known as the Ego, and their mission in this world is
Bad Shit. We do know whatâs going on, and we let it go
on. As long as we can see them, stare at them, those mas-
sively moneyed, once in a while. As long as they allow us
a glimpse, however rarely. We need that. And how they
know itâhow often, under what conditions. ... We ought
to be seeing much popular-magazine coverage on the
order of The Night Rog and Beaver Fought Over Jessica
While She Cried in Kruppâs Arms, and drool over every
blurry photoâ
Roger must have been dreaming for a minute here of
the sweaty evenings of Thermidor: the failed Counter-
force, the glamorous ex-rebels, half-suspected but still en-
joying official immunity and sly love, cameraworthy wher-
ever they carry on... doomed pet freaks.
They will use us. We will help legitimize Them, though
~
They donât need it really, itâs another dividend for Them,
nice but not critical. ...
Oh yes, isnât that exactly what They'll do. Bringing
Roger now, at a less than appropriate time and place here
in the bosom of the Opposition, while his lifeâs first au-
thentic love is squirming only to get home and take
another wad of Jeremyâs sperm so they'll make their dayâs
quotaâin the middle of all that he has to walk (ow,
fuck) right into the interesting question, which is worse:
living on as Their pet, or death? It is not a question he has
ever imagined himself asking seriously. It has come by
surprise, but thereâs no sending it away now, he really
does have to decide, and soon enough, plausibly soon, to
feel the terror in his bowels. Terror he cannot think away.
The Choice of Terms
- The protagonist faces a fundamental existential crisis, forced to choose between a life of total subjugation under 'Their' control or the finality of death.
- A musical interlude featuring a viola and kazoos highlights the perceptual shift where silence and pauses become more significant than the notes themselves.
- A sinister plot against Roger unfolds during an elaborate, ritualistic dinner party attended by corporate and military figures.
- The 'surprise roast' is revealed to be a grotesque, cannibalistic spectacle involving the physical preparation of a human head for consumption.
- The scene juxtaposes high-society refinement with visceral horror, suggesting that institutional power eventually consumes the individual entirely.
He has to choose between his life and his death. Letting it sit for a while is no compromise, but a decision to live, on Their terms.
The Counterforce
831
Nosologyâdoes so-called âNight Wormâ belong among
the Pseudo-Goldstrassian Group, or is it properly con-
sideredâindications being almost identicalâa more in-
sidious form of Moppâs Hebdomeriasis?
Well, if the Conference knew better what those cate-
gories concealed, they might be in a better position to dis-
arm, de-penis and dismantle the Man. But they donât.
Actually they do, but they donât admit it. Sad but true. They
are as schizoid, as double-minded in the massive presence of
money, as any of the rest of us, and thatâs the hard fact.
The Man has a branch office in each of our brains, his
corporate emblem is a white albatross, each local rep has a
cover known as the Ego, and their mission in this world is
Bad Shit. We do know whatâs going on, and we let it go
on. As long as we can see them, stare at them, those mas-
sively moneyed, once in a while. As long as they allow us
a glimpse, however rarely. We need that. And how they
know itâhow often, under what conditions. ... We ought
to be seeing much popular-magazine coverage on the
order of The Night Rog and Beaver Fought Over Jessica
While She Cried in Kruppâs Arms, and drool over every
blurry photoâ
Roger must have been dreaming for a minute here of
the sweaty evenings of Thermidor: the failed Counter-
force, the glamorous ex-rebels, half-suspected but still en-
joying official immunity and sly love, cameraworthy wher-
ever they carry on... doomed pet freaks.
They will use us. We will help legitimize Them, though
~
They donât need it really, itâs another dividend for Them,
nice but not critical. ...
Oh yes, isnât that exactly what They'll do. Bringing
Roger now, at a less than appropriate time and place here
in the bosom of the Opposition, while his lifeâs first au-
thentic love is squirming only to get home and take
another wad of Jeremyâs sperm so they'll make their dayâs
quotaâin the middle of all that he has to walk (ow,
fuck) right into the interesting question, which is worse:
living on as Their pet, or death? It is not a question he has
ever imagined himself asking seriously. It has come by
surprise, but thereâs no sending it away now, he really
does have to decide, and soon enough, plausibly soon, to
feel the terror in his bowels. Terror he cannot think away.
832
Graviryâs RAInsow
He has to choose between his life and his death. Letting
it sit for a while is no compromise, but a decision to live,
on Their terms. .
The viola is a ghost, grainy-brown, translucent, sighing
in and out of the other Voices. Dynamic shifts "abound.
Imperceptible lifts, platooning notes together or preparing
for changes in loudness, what the Germans call âbreath-
pauses,â skitter among the phrases, Perhaps tonight it is
due to the playing of Gustav and André, but after a while
the listener starts actually hearing the pauses instead of
the notesâhis ear gets tickled the way your eye does
staring at a recco map until bomb craters flip inside out to
become muffins risen above the tin, or ridges fold to. val-
leys, sea and land flicker across quicksilver edgesâso the
silences dance in this quartet. A-and waitâll those kazoos
come onl
Thatâs the background music for what is to transpire.
The plot against Roger has been formulated with shivering
and giddy glee. Seamen Bodine is an unexpected bonus.
Going in to dinner becomes a priestly procession, full of
secret gestures and understandings. It is a very elaborate
meal, according to the menu, full of relevés, poissons,
entremets. âWhatâs this âUberraschungbratenâ here?â Sea-
man Bodine asks right-hand dinner companion Constance
Flamp, loose-khakied newshound and toughtalkinâ sweet-
heart of evâry GI from Iwo to Saint-LĂ©.
âWhy, just what it sez, Boats,â replies ââ
Connie,â âthatâs German for â
surprise roast.ââ
m hep,â sez Bodine. She hasâmaybe not meaning
aed with her eyesâperhaps, Pointsman, there is
such a thing as the kindness-reflex (how many young men
has she seen go down since â42?) that now and then, also
beyond the Zero, survives extinction.... Bodine looks
down at the far end of the table, past corporate teeth and
polished fingernails, past heavy monogrammed eating-tools,
and for the first time notices a stone barbecue pit, with
two. black iron hand-operated spits. Servants in their pre-
war livery are busy layering scrap paper (old SHAEF
directives, mostly), kindling, quartered pine logs, and coal,
luscious fist-sized raven chunks of the kind that once left
bodies up and down the sides of the canals, once, during
the Inflation, when it was actually held that âmortally dear,
;
.
ates
:
i eRE i
The Counterforce
833
imagine.... At the edge of the pit, with Justus about to
light the taper, as Gretchen daintily laces the fuel with GI
xylene from down in the dockyards, Seaman Bodine ob-
serves Rogerâs head, being held by four or six hands up-
side down, the lips being torn away from the teeth and
the high gums already draining white as a skull, while one
of the maids, a classic satin-and-lace, impish, torturable
young maid, brushes the teeth with American toothpaste,
carefully scrubbing away the nicotine stains and tartar.
Roger's eyes are so hurt and pleading.... All around,
guests are whispering. âHow quaint, Stefanâs even thought
of head cheeselâ âOh, no, itâs another part Iâm waiting to
get my teeth in...â giggles, heavy breathing, and whatâs
that pair of very blue peg pants all ripped... and what's
this staining the jacket, and what, up on the spit, red-
dening to a fat-glazed crust, is turning, whose face is
about to come rotating around, why itâsâ
âNo ketchup, no ketchup,â the hirsute bluejacket search-
ing agitatedly among the cruets and salvers, âseems to be
no... what thâ fuck kind of a place is this, Rog,â yelling
down slantwise across seven enemy faces, âhey, buddih
you find any ketchup down there?â
Ketchupâs a code word, okayâ
âOdd,â replies Roger, who clearly has seen exactly the
same thing down at the pit, âI was just about to ask you
the same question!â
They are grinning at each other like fools. Their auras,
for the record, are green. No shit. Not sinceâ winter of
"42, in convoy in a North Atlantic gale, with accidental
tons of loose 5-inch ammo rolling all over the ship, the
German wolf pack invisibly knocking off sister ships right
and left, at Battle Stations inside mount 51 listening to
Pappy Hod tell disaster jokes, really funny ones, the whole
gun crew clutching their stomachs hysterically, gasping for
airânot since then has Seaman Bodine felt so high in the
good chances of death.
âSome layout, huh?â he calls. âPretty good food!â Con-
versation has fallen nearly silent. Politely curious faces
are turning. Flames leap in the pit. They are not âsensi-
tive flames,â but if they were they might be able now to
detect the presence of Brigadier Pudding. He is now a
member of the Counterforce, courtesy of Carroll Eventyr.
\
Bs
The Counterforce's Culinary Prank
- Seaman Bodine and Roger Mexico infiltrate a high-society gathering, experiencing a reckless 'high' reminiscent of life-threatening wartime moments.
- The group utilizes a 'repulsive stratagem' devised through the spirit of the deceased Brigadier Pudding to disrupt the formal event.
- The Counterforce members engage in a competitive, alliterative game of inventing the most disgusting imaginary dishes possible.
- The grotesque descriptions of 'scum soufflé' and 'canker consommé' serve as a psychological weapon against the elite guests.
- The plan succeeds as the well-bred attendees begin to gag and flee the room in physical and moral distress.
Not since then has Seaman Bodine felt so high in the good chances of death.
The Counterforce
833
imagine.... At the edge of the pit, with Justus about to
light the taper, as Gretchen daintily laces the fuel with GI
xylene from down in the dockyards, Seaman Bodine ob-
serves Rogerâs head, being held by four or six hands up-
side down, the lips being torn away from the teeth and
the high gums already draining white as a skull, while one
of the maids, a classic satin-and-lace, impish, torturable
young maid, brushes the teeth with American toothpaste,
carefully scrubbing away the nicotine stains and tartar.
Roger's eyes are so hurt and pleading.... All around,
guests are whispering. âHow quaint, Stefanâs even thought
of head cheeselâ âOh, no, itâs another part Iâm waiting to
get my teeth in...â giggles, heavy breathing, and whatâs
that pair of very blue peg pants all ripped... and what's
this staining the jacket, and what, up on the spit, red-
dening to a fat-glazed crust, is turning, whose face is
about to come rotating around, why itâsâ
âNo ketchup, no ketchup,â the hirsute bluejacket search-
ing agitatedly among the cruets and salvers, âseems to be
no... what thâ fuck kind of a place is this, Rog,â yelling
down slantwise across seven enemy faces, âhey, buddih
you find any ketchup down there?â
Ketchupâs a code word, okayâ
âOdd,â replies Roger, who clearly has seen exactly the
same thing down at the pit, âI was just about to ask you
the same question!â
They are grinning at each other like fools. Their auras,
for the record, are green. No shit. Not sinceâ winter of
"42, in convoy in a North Atlantic gale, with accidental
tons of loose 5-inch ammo rolling all over the ship, the
German wolf pack invisibly knocking off sister ships right
and left, at Battle Stations inside mount 51 listening to
Pappy Hod tell disaster jokes, really funny ones, the whole
gun crew clutching their stomachs hysterically, gasping for
airânot since then has Seaman Bodine felt so high in the
good chances of death.
âSome layout, huh?â he calls. âPretty good food!â Con-
versation has fallen nearly silent. Politely curious faces
are turning. Flames leap in the pit. They are not âsensi-
tive flames,â but if they were they might be able now to
detect the presence of Brigadier Pudding. He is now a
member of the Counterforce, courtesy of Carroll Eventyr.
\
Bs
834
Gravityâs RAINBOW
Courtesy is right. Séances with Pudding are at least as
trying as the old Weekly Briefings back at âThe White
Visitation.â Pudding has even more of a mouth on him
than he did alive. The sitters have begun to whine:
âAren't we ever to be rid of him?â But is is through
Puddingâs devotion to culinary pranksterism that the re-
pulsive stratagem that follows was devised.
âOh, I donât know,â Roger elaborately casual, âI canât
seem to find any snot soup on the menu, ...â
âYeah, I couldâve done with some of that pus pudding,
myself, Think there'll be any of that?â
âNo, but there might be a scum soufflĂ©!â cries Roger,
âwith a side ofâmenstrual marmalade!â
âWell I've got eyes for some of that rich, meaty
smegma
stew!â suggests Bodine, âOr howbout a clot
casserole?â
âI say,â murmurs a voice, indeterminate as to sex, down
the table.
âWe could plan a better meal than this,â Roger waving
the menu. âStart off with afterbirth appetizers, perhaps
some clever little scab sandwiches
with the crusts trimmed
off of course... o-or booger biscuits! Mmm, yes, spread
with mucus mayonnaise? and topped with a succulent bit
of slime sausage... .â
âOh I see,â sez Commando Connie, âit has to be allitera-
tive. How about...um...
discharge dumplings?â
âWe're doing the soup course, babe,â sez cool Seaman
Bodine, âso let me just suggest a canker consommĂ©,
or
perhaps a barf bouillon.â
-
âVomit vichyssoise,â sez Connie.
âYou got it.â
,
âCyst salad,â Roger continues, âwith little cheery-red
Squares of abortion aspic, tossed in a subtle dandruff
dressing.â
There is a sound of well-bred gagging, and a regional
sales manager for ICI leaves hurriedly, \spewing a long
crescent of lumpy beige vomit that splatters across the
parquetry. Napkins are being raised to faces all down the
table. Silverware is being laid down, silver ringing the
fields of white, a puzzling indecision here again, the same
as at Clive Mossmoonâs office....
4)
ses
On we go, through fart fondue (skillfully placed si:
n
The Counterforce
835
bles of anal gas rising slowly through a rich cheese vis-
cosity, yummm), boil blintzes, Vegetables Venereal _in
slobber sauce. ...
A kazoo stops playing. âWart waffles!â Gustav screams.
âPuke pancakes, with sweat syrup,â adds AndrĂ© Omno-
pon, as Gustav resumes playing, the Outer Voices mean-
time having broken off in confusion.
âAnd spread with pinworm preserves,â murmurs the
cellist, who is not above a bit of fun.
âHemorrhoid hash,â Connie banging her spoon in de-
light, âbowel burgers!â
Frau Utgarthaloki jumps to her feet, upsetting a platter
of stuffed soresâbeg pardon, no theyâre deviled eggsâand
runs from the room, sobbing tragically. Her suave metal
husband also rises and follows, casting back at the trouble-
makers virile stares that promise certain death. A discreet
smell of vomit has begun to rise through the hanging
tablecloth. Nervous laughter has long embrittled to bad-
mouth whispering.
âA choice of gangrene goulash, or some scrumptious
_ creamy-white leprosy loaf,â Bodine in a light singsong
_ âTe-pro-sy [down a third to] loaf,â playfully hounding the
:
holdouts, shaking a finger, câmon ya little rascals, vomit
_ for the nice zootster....
âFungus fricassee!lâ screams Roger the Rowdy. Jessica is
_ weeping on the arm of Jeremy her gentleman, who is
escorting her, stiff-armed, shaking his head at Rogerâs
folly, away forever. Does Roger have a second of pain
right hereP Yes. Sure. You would too. You might even
question the worth of your cause. But there are nosepick
noodles to be served up buttery and steaming, grime gruel
and pustule porridge to be ladled into the bowls of a
sniveling generation of future executives, pubic popovers
_ to be wheeled out onto the terraces stained by holocaust
sky or growing rigid with autumn.
âCarbuncle cutlets!â
âWith groin gravy!â
âAnd ringworm relish!â
The Disgusting Dinner Party
- Roger Mexico and Seaman Bodine disrupt a formal, high-society dinner by shouting increasingly grotesque and imaginary food items to nauseate the guests.
- The 'Disgusting Duo' succeeds in driving away the elite attendees, who flee in horror and physical illness from the verbal onslaught of 'pustule porridge' and 'groin gravy.'
- Gustav, a musician and former Storm Trooper, joins the pair in their escape, highlighting the surreal and often contradictory backgrounds of those in the Counterforce.
- The scene shifts to Geli Tripping, a young witch who is traveling through the Zone using folk magic and talismans to track down her lover, Tchitcherine.
- The narrative contrasts the chaotic, scatological rebellion of the dinner party with the mystical, determined quest of Geli in the post-war landscape.
Pools of this and that glitter across the floor like water-mirages at the Sixth Antechamber to the Throne.
The Counterforce
835
bles of anal gas rising slowly through a rich cheese vis-
cosity, yummm), boil blintzes, Vegetables Venereal _in
slobber sauce. ...
A kazoo stops playing. âWart waffles!â Gustav screams.
âPuke pancakes, with sweat syrup,â adds AndrĂ© Omno-
pon, as Gustav resumes playing, the Outer Voices mean-
time having broken off in confusion.
âAnd spread with pinworm preserves,â murmurs the
cellist, who is not above a bit of fun.
âHemorrhoid hash,â Connie banging her spoon in de-
light, âbowel burgers!â
Frau Utgarthaloki jumps to her feet, upsetting a platter
of stuffed soresâbeg pardon, no theyâre deviled eggsâand
runs from the room, sobbing tragically. Her suave metal
husband also rises and follows, casting back at the trouble-
makers virile stares that promise certain death. A discreet
smell of vomit has begun to rise through the hanging
tablecloth. Nervous laughter has long embrittled to bad-
mouth whispering.
âA choice of gangrene goulash, or some scrumptious
_ creamy-white leprosy loaf,â Bodine in a light singsong
_ âTe-pro-sy [down a third to] loaf,â playfully hounding the
:
holdouts, shaking a finger, câmon ya little rascals, vomit
_ for the nice zootster....
âFungus fricassee!lâ screams Roger the Rowdy. Jessica is
_ weeping on the arm of Jeremy her gentleman, who is
escorting her, stiff-armed, shaking his head at Rogerâs
folly, away forever. Does Roger have a second of pain
right hereP Yes. Sure. You would too. You might even
question the worth of your cause. But there are nosepick
noodles to be served up buttery and steaming, grime gruel
and pustule porridge to be ladled into the bowls of a
sniveling generation of future executives, pubic popovers
_ to be wheeled out onto the terraces stained by holocaust
sky or growing rigid with autumn.
âCarbuncle cutlets!â
âWith groin gravy!â
âAnd ringworm relish!â
N
836
Graviryâs RAINBOW
dwindled. No fat to feed them tonight. Sir Hannibal Grunt-
Gobbinette is threatening, between spasms of yellow bile
foaming out his nose, to bring the matter up in Parliament.
âTll see you two in the Scrubs if it kills me!â Well...
A gentle, precarious soft-shoe out the door, Bodine way-
ing his wide-brim gangster hat. Ta-ta, foax. The only guest
still seated is Constance Flamp, who is still roaring out
dessert possibilities: âCrotch custard! Phlegm fudgel Mold
muffins!â Will she catch hell tomorrow. Pools of this and
that glitter across the floor like water-mirages at the Sixth
Antechamber to the Throne. Gustav and the rest of the
quartet have abandoned Haydn and are all following
Roger and Bodine out the door, kazoos and strings. accom-
panying the Disgusting Duo:
Oh gimme some oâ that acne, 4-la-mode,
Eat so much-that Ah, jesâ ex-plodel
Say there buddih you can chow all night, on
Toe-jam tarts ânâ Diarrhea Dee-lite. ...
âI have to tell you,â Gustav whispering speedily, âI feel
so awful about it, but perhaps you donât want people like
me, You see... I was a Storm Trooper. A long time ago.
You know, like Horst Wessel.â
âSo?â Bodineâs laughing. âMaybe I was'a Melvin Purvis
Junior G-Man.â
âA what?â
âFor Post Toasties.â
âFor whom?â The German actually thinks Post Toasties
is the name of some American Fiihrer, looking vaguely like
Tom Mix or some other such longlip bridlejaw cowboy.
©
The last black butler opens the last door to the outside,
and escape. Escape tonight. âPimple pie with filth frost-
ing, gentlemen,â he nods. And just at the other side of
dawning, you can see a smile.
.
|
*
oO
/
In her pack, Geli Tripping brings along a few of Tchi-
tcherineâs toenail clippings, a graying hair, a piece of bed-
sheet with a trace of his sperm, all tied in a white kerchief,
oe The Counterforce
837
next to a bit of Adam and Eve root and a loaf of bread
|
baked from wheat she has rolled naked in and ground
against the sun. She has left off tending her herd of toads
on the witchesâ hillsides, and has passed her white wand
to another apprentice. She is off to find her gallant Attila.
Now there are a good few hundred of these young women
in the Zone who're smitten with love for Tchitcherine, all
of them sharp as foxes, but none quite as stubborn as
Geliâand none are witches.
At noon she comes to a farmhouse with a floor of blue
and white tiles in the kitchen, elaborate old china plates
hung like pictures, and a rocking-chair, âDo you have a
photo of him?â the old woman handing her a tin army
plate with the remains of her morningâs Bauernfriihstiick.
âI can give you a spell.â
âSometimes I can call up his face in a cup of tea. But
the herbs have to be gathered carefully. Iâm not that good
at it yet.â
âBut you're in love. Technique is just a substitute for
when you get older.â
âWhy not stay in love always?â
The two women watch each other across the sunny
kitchen. Cabinets with glass panes shine from the walls.
Bees buzz outside the windows. Geli goes and pumps
water from the well, and they brew some separ
tea. But Tchitcherineâs face doesnât appear.
The night the blacks started off on their great Hoe
Nordhausen felt like a city in a myth, under the threat of
some special destructionâengulfment by a crystal lake,
lava from the sky... for an evening, the sense of preserva-
tion there was lost. The blacks, like the rockets in the
Mittelwerke, had given Nordhausen continuity. Now the
blacks are gone: Geli knows they are on collision course
with Tchitcherine. She doesnât want duels. Let the uni-
versity boys duel. She wants her graying steel barbarian
alive, She canât bear to think that she may already have
touched him, felt his.scarred and historied hands, for the
_
last time.
sae pushing her, is the townâs somnolence, and at
tâthe strange canaried nights of the Harz (where
wy hustlers are busy shooting up female birds with
sae hormones so they'll sing long enough to be sold to
t f
ae
Geliâs Quest in the Zone
- Geli Tripping chooses the 'World' over the bureaucratic stagnation of the Brocken-complex, rejecting the sterile politics of modern witchcraft.
- The departure of the Schwarzkommando from Nordhausen leaves the city feeling vulnerable and stripped of its continuity.
- Geli travels through the war-torn Zone, hitching rides with soldiers and demolition squads while searching for news of Tchitcherine.
- Conflicting rumors about Tchitcherineâs fate circulate among the troops, ranging from his impending purge by Soviet agents to his supposed death.
- Despite the danger and the 'collision course' between her lover and his enemies, Geli remains driven by a complete, singular love.
- The landscape of the Harz is depicted as a place of strange spells and exploitation, where even canaries are manipulated for profit.
The Hexes-Stadt, with its holy mountains cropped in pale circles all up and down their green faces by the little tethered goats, has turned into just another capital, where the only enterprise is administrating.
oe The Counterforce
837
next to a bit of Adam and Eve root and a loaf of bread
|
baked from wheat she has rolled naked in and ground
against the sun. She has left off tending her herd of toads
on the witchesâ hillsides, and has passed her white wand
to another apprentice. She is off to find her gallant Attila.
Now there are a good few hundred of these young women
in the Zone who're smitten with love for Tchitcherine, all
of them sharp as foxes, but none quite as stubborn as
Geliâand none are witches.
At noon she comes to a farmhouse with a floor of blue
and white tiles in the kitchen, elaborate old china plates
hung like pictures, and a rocking-chair, âDo you have a
photo of him?â the old woman handing her a tin army
plate with the remains of her morningâs Bauernfriihstiick.
âI can give you a spell.â
âSometimes I can call up his face in a cup of tea. But
the herbs have to be gathered carefully. Iâm not that good
at it yet.â
âBut you're in love. Technique is just a substitute for
when you get older.â
âWhy not stay in love always?â
The two women watch each other across the sunny
kitchen. Cabinets with glass panes shine from the walls.
Bees buzz outside the windows. Geli goes and pumps
water from the well, and they brew some separ
tea. But Tchitcherineâs face doesnât appear.
The night the blacks started off on their great Hoe
Nordhausen felt like a city in a myth, under the threat of
some special destructionâengulfment by a crystal lake,
lava from the sky... for an evening, the sense of preserva-
tion there was lost. The blacks, like the rockets in the
Mittelwerke, had given Nordhausen continuity. Now the
blacks are gone: Geli knows they are on collision course
with Tchitcherine. She doesnât want duels. Let the uni-
versity boys duel. She wants her graying steel barbarian
alive, She canât bear to think that she may already have
touched him, felt his.scarred and historied hands, for the
_
last time.
sae pushing her, is the townâs somnolence, and at
tâthe strange canaried nights of the Harz (where
wy hustlers are busy shooting up female birds with
sae hormones so they'll sing long enough to be sold to
t f
ae
838
Graviryâs RAINBOW
the foreign suckers who occupy the Zone)âfull of too
many spells, witch-rivalries, coven politics...she knows
thatâs not what magic is about. The Hexes-Stadt, with its
holy mountains cropped in pale circles all up and down
their green faces by the little tethered goats, has tumed
into just another capital, where the only enterprise is
administratingâthe feeling there is of upstairs at the
musiciansâ unionâno
music, just glass-brick partitions,
spittoons, indoor plantsâno practicing witches left. You
either come to the Brocken-complex with a bureaucratic
career in mind, or you leave it, and choose the world.
There are the two distinct sorts of witch, and Geli is the
World-choosing sort.
Here is the World. She is wearing gray menâs trousers
rolled to the knee that flap around her thighs as she walks
by the rye fields ..
. walking, with her head down, pushing â
hair out of her eyes often. Sometimes soldiers come by,
and give her rides. She listens for news of Tchitcherine,
of the trekking Schwarzkommando. If it feels right, she
will even ask about Tchitcherine. The variety of the rumors â
surprises her. Iâm not the only one who loves him.
though their love of course is friendly, admiring, unsexnela
. Geliâs the only one in the Zone who loves him com-â
pletely. Tchitcherine, known in some circles as âthe Red
Doper,â is about to be purged: the emissary is none other |§
than Beriaâs top man, the sinister N. Ripov himself.
Bullshit, Tchitcherineâs already dead, didnât you hear,
heâs been dead for months .
ve
. theyâ ve had somebody âimpersonating him till all the
others i in his Bloc are taken care of .
4
. no, he came into Lineburg last weekend, my mateâs j
sĂ©en sich before, no mistake, itâs him ;
;
- heâs lost a lot of weight and takes a heavy body- â
guard everywhere he goes. At least a dozen. Orientals
â
mostly...
4
... fully equipped with Judas Iscariot no doubt. That â
oneâs hard to believe. A dozen? Where cial
anybody find â
that many people he can trust? Especially out at the
edge like he isâ
.
âWhat edge?â They're rattling along in the back of a
2„4-ton lorry through very green rolling country...a
storm is blowing up mute purple, veined in yellow, behind ©
The Counterforce
839
them. Geliâs been drinking wine with this scurvy lot of
tommies, a demolition squad who've been out all day
clearing canals. They smell of creosote, marsh-mud, am-
monia from the dynamite.
âWell you know what heâs doing.â
âThe rockets?â
;
âI wouldnât want to be in his place, thatâs all.â
Up on the crest of a hill, an army surveying party is
restoring a damaged road. One silhouette leans peering
through a transit, one holds a bob. A bit apart from the
instrument man another engineer stands with his arms out
straight to the sides, his head moves sighting along either
pointed hand, then the arms swoop together...if you
close your eyes, and have learned to let your arms move
by themselves, your fingers will touch making a perfect
right angle from where they were . . . Geli watches the tiny
act: it is devotional, graceful, and she feels the cross the
man has made on his own circle of visible earth...
unconsciously a mandala...it is a sign for her. He is
pointing her on her way. Later that evening she sees an
eagle flying across the marshes, in the same direction. -
Itâs golden-dark, almost night. The region is lonely and
Pan is very close. Geli has been to enough Sabbaths to
handle itâshe thinks. But what is a devilâs blue bite on
the ass to the shrieking-outward, into stone resonance,
where there is no good or evil, out in the luminous spaces
Pan will carry her toP Is she ready yet for anything so
real? The moon has risen. She sits now, at the same spot
where she saw the eagle, waiting, waiting for something
to come and take her. Have you ever waited for it? won-
dering whether it will come from outside or inside? Finally
past the futile guesses at what might happen... now and
then re-erasing brain to keep it clean for the Visit... yes
wasn't it close to here? remember didnât you sneak away
from camp to have a moment alone with What you felt
stirring across the land...it was the equinox... green
spring equal nights...canyons are opening up, at the
bottoms are steaming fumaroles, steaming the tropical life
there like greens in a pot, rank, dope-perfume, a hood of
smell... human consciousness,
that poor
cripple,
that
deformed and doomed thing, is about to be born. This is
the World just before men. Too violently pitched alive in
hy
|
ieâ 3
The Green Uprising
- Geli observes an engineer's survey movements as a devotional mandala, interpreting his gestures and the flight of an eagle as signs for her spiritual journey.
- The narrative describes a primordial, pre-human world of 'Titans'âa state of life so violently alive and chaotic that it threatened to destroy Creation.
- Human consciousness is portrayed as a 'deformed and doomed' force sent to act as 'Godâs spoilers' and 'counter-revolutionaries' against the vibrancy of nature.
- The primary mission of humanity is defined as the promotion of death and the suppression of the 'green uprising' through historical and personal effort.
- Despite human dominance, a 'defection rate' exists where individuals abandon human order to return to the wild, ancient presences of the earth.
- The passage concludes with a warning against the terrifying beauty of Pan and the vulnerability of the individual lost in the moonlit, ancient landscape.
So we, the crippled keepers, were sent out to multiply, to have dominion. Godâs spoilers. Us. Counter-revolutionaries.
The Counterforce
839
them. Geliâs been drinking wine with this scurvy lot of
tommies, a demolition squad who've been out all day
clearing canals. They smell of creosote, marsh-mud, am-
monia from the dynamite.
âWell you know what heâs doing.â
âThe rockets?â
;
âI wouldnât want to be in his place, thatâs all.â
Up on the crest of a hill, an army surveying party is
restoring a damaged road. One silhouette leans peering
through a transit, one holds a bob. A bit apart from the
instrument man another engineer stands with his arms out
straight to the sides, his head moves sighting along either
pointed hand, then the arms swoop together...if you
close your eyes, and have learned to let your arms move
by themselves, your fingers will touch making a perfect
right angle from where they were . . . Geli watches the tiny
act: it is devotional, graceful, and she feels the cross the
man has made on his own circle of visible earth...
unconsciously a mandala...it is a sign for her. He is
pointing her on her way. Later that evening she sees an
eagle flying across the marshes, in the same direction. -
Itâs golden-dark, almost night. The region is lonely and
Pan is very close. Geli has been to enough Sabbaths to
handle itâshe thinks. But what is a devilâs blue bite on
the ass to the shrieking-outward, into stone resonance,
where there is no good or evil, out in the luminous spaces
Pan will carry her toP Is she ready yet for anything so
real? The moon has risen. She sits now, at the same spot
where she saw the eagle, waiting, waiting for something
to come and take her. Have you ever waited for it? won-
dering whether it will come from outside or inside? Finally
past the futile guesses at what might happen... now and
then re-erasing brain to keep it clean for the Visit... yes
wasn't it close to here? remember didnât you sneak away
from camp to have a moment alone with What you felt
stirring across the land...it was the equinox... green
spring equal nights...canyons are opening up, at the
bottoms are steaming fumaroles, steaming the tropical life
there like greens in a pot, rank, dope-perfume, a hood of
smell... human consciousness,
that poor
cripple,
that
deformed and doomed thing, is about to be born. This is
the World just before men. Too violently pitched alive in
hy
|
ieâ 3
840
Gravirtyâs Ramnsow
constant flow ever to be seen by men directly. They are
meant only to look at it dead, in still strata, transputrefied
to oil or coal. Alive, it was a threat: it was Titans, was an
overpeaking of life so clangorous and mad, such a green
corona about Earthâs body that some spoiler had to be
brought in before it blew the Creation apart. So we, the
crippled keepers, were sent out to multiply, to have do-
minion. Godâs spoilers. Us. Counter-revolutionaries. If is
our mission to promote death. The way we kill, the way
we die, being unique among the Creatures. It was some-
thing we had to work on, historically and personally, To
build from scratch up to its present status as reaction,
nearly as strong as life, holding down the green uprising,
But only nearly as strong,
Only nearly, because of the defection rate. A few keep
going over to the Titans every day, in their striving sub-
creation (how can flesh tumble and flow so, and never be
any less beautiful?), into the rests of the folk-song Death
(empty stone rooms), out, and through, and down under
the net, down to the uprising.
In harsh-edged echo, Titans stir far below. They are all
the presences we are not supposed to be seeingâwind
gods, hilltop gods, sunset godsâthat we train ourselves
away from to keep from looking further even though
enough of us do, leave Their electric voices behind in the
twilight at the edge of the town and move into the con-
stantly parted cloak of our nightwalk till
Suddenly, Panâleapingâits face too beautiful to bear,
beautiful Serpent, its coils in rainbow lashings in the sky
âinto the sure bones of frightâ
Donât walk home at night through the empty country.
Donât go into the forest when the light is too low, even
too late in the afternoonâit will get you. Donât sit by the
tree like this, with your cheek against the bark. It is
impossible in this moonlight to see if you are male or
female now. Your hair spills, silver white.
Your body under
the gray cloth is so exactly vulnerable,
so fated to
degradation time and again. What if he
wakes and finds
you've gone? He is now always the same, awake or asleep
âhe never leaves the single dream, there are no more
differences between the worlds: they have become one
_
for him, Thanatz and Margherita may have been his last
The Kingdom of Death
- Blicero has retreated into a singular dream-state where the boundaries between reality and fantasy have completely dissolved.
- Gottfried remains the final living inhabitant of Blicero's world, bound by a devotion that transcends his previous identity and the impending end of the war.
- The relationship is framed as a 'theatre' of bondage and waste, where sexual acts are consecrated to endings and the 'gates of that Other Kingdom.'
- Blicero views the discovery of America not as a new beginning, but as Europe's discovery of a site for its own 'Kingdom of Death.'
- As the war's end nears, Gottfried experiences a spiritual submission, attempting to 'loosen the sphincter of his soul' to accept Blicero's final vision.
There have to be these too, lovers whose genitals are consecrated to shit, to endings, to the desperate nights in the streets when connection proceeds out of all personal control.
840
Gravirtyâs Ramnsow
constant flow ever to be seen by men directly. They are
meant only to look at it dead, in still strata, transputrefied
to oil or coal. Alive, it was a threat: it was Titans, was an
overpeaking of life so clangorous and mad, such a green
corona about Earthâs body that some spoiler had to be
brought in before it blew the Creation apart. So we, the
crippled keepers, were sent out to multiply, to have do-
minion. Godâs spoilers. Us. Counter-revolutionaries. If is
our mission to promote death. The way we kill, the way
we die, being unique among the Creatures. It was some-
thing we had to work on, historically and personally, To
build from scratch up to its present status as reaction,
nearly as strong as life, holding down the green uprising,
But only nearly as strong,
Only nearly, because of the defection rate. A few keep
going over to the Titans every day, in their striving sub-
creation (how can flesh tumble and flow so, and never be
any less beautiful?), into the rests of the folk-song Death
(empty stone rooms), out, and through, and down under
the net, down to the uprising.
In harsh-edged echo, Titans stir far below. They are all
the presences we are not supposed to be seeingâwind
gods, hilltop gods, sunset godsâthat we train ourselves
away from to keep from looking further even though
enough of us do, leave Their electric voices behind in the
twilight at the edge of the town and move into the con-
stantly parted cloak of our nightwalk till
Suddenly, Panâleapingâits face too beautiful to bear,
beautiful Serpent, its coils in rainbow lashings in the sky
âinto the sure bones of frightâ
Donât walk home at night through the empty country.
Donât go into the forest when the light is too low, even
too late in the afternoonâit will get you. Donât sit by the
tree like this, with your cheek against the bark. It is
impossible in this moonlight to see if you are male or
female now. Your hair spills, silver white.
Your body under
the gray cloth is so exactly vulnerable,
so fated to
degradation time and again. What if he
wakes and finds
you've gone? He is now always the same, awake or asleep
âhe never leaves the single dream, there are no more
differences between the worlds: they have become one
_
for him, Thanatz and Margherita may have been his last
The Counterforce
841
ties with the old. That may be why they stayed so long,
it was his desperation, he wanted to hold on, he needed
them... but when he looks at them now he doesnât see
them as often any more. They are also losing what reality
they brought here, as Gottfried lost all of his to Blicero
long ago. Now the boy moves image-to image, room to
Toom, sometimes out of the action, sometimes part of it
.
.. whatever he has to do, he does. The day has its logic,
its needs, no way for him to change it, leave it, or live
outside it. He is helpless, he is sheltered secure.
Itâs only a matter of weeks, and everything will be over,
Germany will have lost the War. The routines go on. The
boy cannot imagine anything past the last surrender. If
he and Blicero are separated, what will happen to the
flow of days?
_
Will Blicero die no please donât let him die... . (But
he will.) âYou're going to survive me,â he whispers. Gott-
fried kneels at his feet, wearing the dog collar. Both are in
army clothes. Itâs a long time since either of them dressed
as a woman. It is important tonight they they both be
men. âAh, you're so smug, you little bastard... .â
It is only another game isnât it, another excuse for a
whipping? Gottfried keeps silent. When Blicero wants an
-
answer, he says so. It happens often that he only wants
to talk, and that may go on for hours. No one has ever
talked to Gottfried before, not like this. His father uttered
only commands, sentences, flat judgments. His mother was
emotional, a great flow of love, frustration and secret ter-
ror passed into him from her, but they never really talked.
This is so more-than-real...he feels he must keep every
word, that none must be lost. Bliceroâs words have become
precious to him. He understands that Blicero wants to
give, without expecting anything back, give away what he
loves. He believes that he exists for Blicero, even if the
others have all ceased to, that in the new kingdom they
pass through now, he is the only other living inhabitant.
Was it this he expected to be taken by, taken into?
Bliceroâs seed, sputtering into the poisoned manure of his
bowels... it is waste, yes, futility... but...as man and
woman, coupled, are shaken to the teeth at their ap-
proaches to the gates of life, hasnât he also felt more,
worshipfully more past these arrangements for penetration,
v
ee
ot
â
842
Graviryâs RAINBOW
the style, garments of flaying without passion, sheer hosiery
perishable as the skin of a snake, custom manacles and
chains to stand for the bondage he feels in his heart...
all become theatre as he approached the gates of that
Other Kingdom, felt the white gigantic muzzles some-
where inside, expressionless beasts frozen white, pushing
him away, the crust and mantle hum of mystery so beyond
his poor hearing... there have to be these too, lovers
whose genitals are consecrated to shit, to endings, to the
desperate nights in the streets when connection proceeds
out of all personal control, proceeds or fails, a gathering
of fallenâas many in acts of death as in acts of lifeâ
or a sentence to be alone for another night.... Are they
to be denied, passed over, all of them?
On his approaches to it, taken inward again and again,
Gottfried can only try to keep himself open, to loosen
the sphincter of his soul. ...
âAnd sometimes I dream of discovering the edge of
the World. Finding that there is an end. My mountain
gentian always knew. But it has cost me so much.
âAmerica was the edge of the World. A message for
Europe, continent-sized, inescapable. Europe had found
the site for its Kingdom of Death, that special Death the
West had invented. Savages had their waste regions,
Kalaharis, lakes so misty they could not see the other side.
But Europe had gone deeperâinto obsession, addiction,
away from all the savage innocences. America was a gift
from the invisible powers, a way of returning. But Europe
refused
it. It wasnât Europeâs Original Sinâthe latest
name for that is Modem Analysisâbut it happens that
Subsequent Sin is harder to atone for.
;
âIn Africa, Asia, Amerindia, Oceania, Europe came and
established its order of Analysis and Death. What it could
not use, it killed or altered. In time the death-colonies
grew strong enough to break away. But the impulse to
empire, the mission to propagate death, the structure of it,
kept on. Now we are in the last phase. American Death
has come to occupy Europe. It has learned empire frorh
its old metropolis. But now we have only the structure
left us, none of the great rainbow plumes, no fittings of
gold, no epic marches over alkali seas. The savages |
3
other continents, corrupted but still resisting in the nam
The Virus of Death
- Europe is depicted as a civilization that has moved beyond 'savage innocence' into a deep obsession with analysis and death.
- The impulse of empire is described as a mission to propagate death, a structure that persists even after colonies break away.
- The speaker envisions a sterile future colony on the moon where men exist as ghostly, non-solid memories in a vacuum.
- A tragic cycle of exile is established where connections are missed by trillions of miles and years of frozen silence.
- The relationship between father and son is framed as a biological transmission of the 'virus of Death.'
- The beauty found between the dying and the innocent is portrayed as a cruel ingenuity designed to ensure the infection's success.
Fathers are carriers of the virus of Death, and sons are the infected...and, so that the infection may be more certain, Death in its ingenuity has contrived to make the father and son beautiful to each other as Life has made male and female.
842
Graviryâs RAINBOW
the style, garments of flaying without passion, sheer hosiery
perishable as the skin of a snake, custom manacles and
chains to stand for the bondage he feels in his heart...
all become theatre as he approached the gates of that
Other Kingdom, felt the white gigantic muzzles some-
where inside, expressionless beasts frozen white, pushing
him away, the crust and mantle hum of mystery so beyond
his poor hearing... there have to be these too, lovers
whose genitals are consecrated to shit, to endings, to the
desperate nights in the streets when connection proceeds
out of all personal control, proceeds or fails, a gathering
of fallenâas many in acts of death as in acts of lifeâ
or a sentence to be alone for another night.... Are they
to be denied, passed over, all of them?
On his approaches to it, taken inward again and again,
Gottfried can only try to keep himself open, to loosen
the sphincter of his soul. ...
âAnd sometimes I dream of discovering the edge of
the World. Finding that there is an end. My mountain
gentian always knew. But it has cost me so much.
âAmerica was the edge of the World. A message for
Europe, continent-sized, inescapable. Europe had found
the site for its Kingdom of Death, that special Death the
West had invented. Savages had their waste regions,
Kalaharis, lakes so misty they could not see the other side.
But Europe had gone deeperâinto obsession, addiction,
away from all the savage innocences. America was a gift
from the invisible powers, a way of returning. But Europe
refused
it. It wasnât Europeâs Original Sinâthe latest
name for that is Modem Analysisâbut it happens that
Subsequent Sin is harder to atone for.
;
âIn Africa, Asia, Amerindia, Oceania, Europe came and
established its order of Analysis and Death. What it could
not use, it killed or altered. In time the death-colonies
grew strong enough to break away. But the impulse to
empire, the mission to propagate death, the structure of it,
kept on. Now we are in the last phase. American Death
has come to occupy Europe. It has learned empire frorh
its old metropolis. But now we have only the structure
left us, none of the great rainbow plumes, no fittings of
gold, no epic marches over alkali seas. The savages |
3
other continents, corrupted but still resisting in the nam
The Counterforce
843
of life, have gone on despite everything... while Death
and Europe are separate as ever, their love still uncon-_
summated. Death only rules here. It has never, in love,
become one with....
âTs the cycle over now, and a new one ready to begin?
Will our new Edge, our new Deathkingdom, be the
Moon? I dream of a great glass sphere, hollow and very
high and far away...the colonists have learned to do
without air, itâs vacuum inside and out...
itâs understood
the men won't ever retum...they are all men. There
are ways for getting back, but so complicated, so at the
mercy of language, that presence back on Earth is only
temporary, and never ârealâ... passages out there are dan-
â gerous, chances of falling so shining and deep. ... Gravity
rules all the way out to the cold sphere, there is always
the danger of falling. Inside the colony, the handful of
men have a frosty appearance, hardly solid, no more alive
than memories, nothing to touch...only their remote
images, black and white film-images, grained, broken year
after hoarfrost year out in the white latitudes, in empty
colony, with only infrequent visits from the accidental,
like me. ...
âI wish I could recover it all. Those men had once been
through a tragic dayâascent,
fire, failure, blood. The
events of that day, so long ago, had put them into exile
forever...no, they weren't really spacemen. Out here,
they wanted to dive between the worlds, to fall, turn,
reach and swing on journeys curved through the shining,
through the winter nights of spaceâtheir dreams were of
rendezvous, of cosmic trapeze acts carried on in loneliness,
in sterile grace, in certain knowledge that no one would
ever be watching, that loved ones had been lost forever....
âThe connections they hoped for would always miss by
trillions of dark miles, by years of frozen silence. But I
wanted to bring you back the story. I remember that you
used to whisper me to sleep with stories of us one day
living on the Moon...are you beyond that by now?
You've got much older. Can you feel in your body how
_ strongly I have infected you with my dying? I was meant
to: when a certain time has come, I think that we are
all meant to. Fathers are carriers of the virus of Death,
and sons are the infected...and, so that the infection
i
844
Gravityâs Rainsow
may be more certain, Death in its ingenuity has contrived
to make the father and son beautiful to each other as
Life has made male and female... oh Gottfried of course
yes you are beautiful to me but I'm dying...1 want to
get through it as honestly as I can, and your immortality
rips at my heartâcanât you see why I might want to
destroy that, oh that stupid clarity in your eyes... when
I see you in morning and evening ranks, so open, so ready
to take my sickness in and shelter it, shelter it inside your
own little ignorant love. ....
âYour love.â He nods several times. But his eyes are
too dangerously spaced beyond the words, stunned ir-
reversibly away from real Gottfried, away from the weak,
the failed smells of real breath, by barriers stern and
clear as ice, and hopeless as the one-way flow of European
time....
âI want to break outâto leave this cycle of infection
and death. I want to be taken in love: so taken that you
and I, and death, and life, will be gathered, inseparable,
into the radiance of what we would become. .. .â
Gottfried kneels, numb, waiting, Blicero is looking. at
him. Deeply: his face whiter than the boy has ever seen
it. A raw spring wind beats the canvas of their tent. Itâs
near sunset. In a moment Blicero must go out to take
evening reports. His hands rest near a mound of cigarette
butts in a mess tray. His myopic witchâs eyes, through the
thick lenses, may be looking into. Gottfriedâs for the first
time. Gottfried cannot look away. He knows, somehow,
incompletely,
that he has a decision to make...
that
Blicero expects something from him... but Blicero has
always made the decisions. Why is he suddenly asking...
It all poises here. Passageways of routine, still cogent
enough, still herding us. through time...
the iron rockets
waiting outside...the birth-scream of the latest spring
torn across rainy miles of Saxony, route-sides littered with
last envelopes, stripped gears, seized bearings, rotted socks
and skivvies fragrant now with fungus and mud. If there â
is still hope for Gottfried here in this wind!beat moment,
â
then there is hope elsewhere. The scene itself
must be read
as a card: what is to come. Whatever has happened since
to the figures in it (roughly drawn in soiled white, ost ie
gray, spare as a sketch on a ruined wall) it is preserved, â
The Holy Place of the Rocket
- Blicero expresses a desperate desire to transcend the cycle of infection and death through a radical, inseparable love.
- Gottfried faces a moment of unprecedented agency as Blicero, usually the decision-maker, silently expects a choice from him.
- The scene is framed as a tarot card, specifically 'The Fool,' representing a nameless and unassigned potential within the deck of history.
- Enzian prepares the 00001 rocket, the second in its series, as the landscape of Saxony dissolves into the debris of war.
- The narrative reflects on the communal, almost erotic labor of the men who pushed the rockets by hand, losing their individual identities to the machine.
- The setting of Test Stand VII is elevated to a 'holy place,' a site of shared memory and premonition where the salt wind and winter surf define a lost youth.
The scene itself must be read as a card: what is to come.
844
Gravityâs Rainsow
may be more certain, Death in its ingenuity has contrived
to make the father and son beautiful to each other as
Life has made male and female... oh Gottfried of course
yes you are beautiful to me but I'm dying...1 want to
get through it as honestly as I can, and your immortality
rips at my heartâcanât you see why I might want to
destroy that, oh that stupid clarity in your eyes... when
I see you in morning and evening ranks, so open, so ready
to take my sickness in and shelter it, shelter it inside your
own little ignorant love. ....
âYour love.â He nods several times. But his eyes are
too dangerously spaced beyond the words, stunned ir-
reversibly away from real Gottfried, away from the weak,
the failed smells of real breath, by barriers stern and
clear as ice, and hopeless as the one-way flow of European
time....
âI want to break outâto leave this cycle of infection
and death. I want to be taken in love: so taken that you
and I, and death, and life, will be gathered, inseparable,
into the radiance of what we would become. .. .â
Gottfried kneels, numb, waiting, Blicero is looking. at
him. Deeply: his face whiter than the boy has ever seen
it. A raw spring wind beats the canvas of their tent. Itâs
near sunset. In a moment Blicero must go out to take
evening reports. His hands rest near a mound of cigarette
butts in a mess tray. His myopic witchâs eyes, through the
thick lenses, may be looking into. Gottfriedâs for the first
time. Gottfried cannot look away. He knows, somehow,
incompletely,
that he has a decision to make...
that
Blicero expects something from him... but Blicero has
always made the decisions. Why is he suddenly asking...
It all poises here. Passageways of routine, still cogent
enough, still herding us. through time...
the iron rockets
waiting outside...the birth-scream of the latest spring
torn across rainy miles of Saxony, route-sides littered with
last envelopes, stripped gears, seized bearings, rotted socks
and skivvies fragrant now with fungus and mud. If there â
is still hope for Gottfried here in this wind!beat moment,
â
then there is hope elsewhere. The scene itself
must be read
as a card: what is to come. Whatever has happened since
to the figures in it (roughly drawn in soiled white, ost ie
gray, spare as a sketch on a ruined wall) it is preserved, â
The Counterforce
845
though it has no name, and, like The Fool, no agreed
assignment in the deck.
O
Hereâs Enzian ramrodding his brand-new rocket through
the night. When it rains, when the mist is heavy, before
the watch can quite get tarps over, the glossy skin of the
rocket is seen toâve turned to dark slate. Perhaps, after
all, just before the firing, it will be painted black.
It is the 00001, the second in its series.
Russian loudspeakers across the Elbe have called to
you. American rumors have come jiving in to the fires at
night and summoned, against the ground of your hopes,
the -yellow American
deserts, Red Indians,
blue sky,
green cactus. How did you feel about the old Rocket? Not
now that itâs giving you job security, but back thenâdo
you remember any more what it was wheeling them out
by hand, a dozen of you that morning, a guard of honor
in the simple encounter of your bodies with its inertia...
all your faces drowning in the same selfless lookâthe
moirés of personality softening, softening, each sweep of
surf a little more out of focus till all has become subtle
grades of cloudâall hatred, all love, wiped away for the
short distance you had to push it over the winter berm,
aging men in coatskirts flapping below your boottops,
breaths in white spouts breaking turbulent as the waves
behind you.... Where will you all go? What empires,
what deserts? You caressed
its body, brute, freezing
through your gloves, here together without shame or reti-
cence you twelve struggled, in love, on this Baltic shoreâ
not Peenemiinde perhaps, not official Peenemiinde... but
once, years ago... boys in white shirts and dark vests and
caps ...on some beach, a childrenâs resort, when we were
younger...at Test Stand VII the image, at last, you
couldnât leaveâthe way the wind smelled salt and dying,
the sound of winter surf, the premonition of rain you could
feel at the back of your neck, stirring in the clipped hairs.
... At Test Stand VII, the holy place.
But young men have all grown older, and thereâs little
color in the scene... they are pushing into the sun, the
âe
-
a
The Rocket-City Daguerreotype
- A description of a 19th-century daguerreotype of 'Der Raketen-Stadt' reveals a mandalic city in a state of perpetual architectural flux.
- The city's physical layout is inextricably linked to the engineering of the Rocket, with supply routes and living arrangements shifting based on technical modifications.
- The text explores the 'dark double-minded love' of the engineer, where measurements and equations attempt to quantify the shame and bravado of geopolitical influence.
- The Rocket's trajectory is reimagined as an infinite cycle that begins and ends deep within the Earth, with only its peak visible to human observers.
- A proposed 'Aether of time' suggests a continuity between moments, offering a potential escape from the isolation caused by a perceived vacuum in time.
- The Rocket is framed as a form of 'state-cosmology,' a scholastic pursuit that connects the surface world to the deep, violent energies of the Earth.
Of Course It Begins Infinitely Below The Earth And Goes On Infinitely Back Into The Earth itâs only the peak that we are allowed to see, the break up through the surface, out of the other silent world, violently
846
Gravity's RaInsow
glare strikes them squinting and grinning, bright here as
the morning shift at Siemens with the centaurs struggling
high on the wall, the clock without numerals, bicycles
squeaking, lunchpails and lunchbags and the lowered faces
of the trudging dutiful streams of men and women into
the dark openings... it resembles a Daguerreotype taken
of early Raketen-Stadt by a forgotten photographer in
1856: this is the picture, in fact, that killed himâhe died
a week later from mercury poisoning after inhaling fumes
of the heated metal in his studio... well, he was a habitué
of mercury fumes in moderate doses, he felt it did his
brain some good, and that may account for pictures like
âDer Raketen-Stadtâ:
it shows, from a height that is
topographically impossible in Germany, the ceremonial
City, fourfold as expected, an eerie precision to all lines
and shadings architectural and human, built in mandalic
form like a Herero village, overhead a magnificent sky,
marble carried to a wildness of white billow and candes-
cence... there seems to be building, or demolition, under
way in various parts of the City, for nothing here remains
the same, we can see the sweat in individual drops on the
workersâ dark necks as they struggle down in the bone-
damp cellars...a bag of cement has broken, and its
separate motes hang in the light... the City will always
be changing, new tire-treads in the dust, new cigarette
wrappers in the garbage... engineering changes to the
Rocket create new routes of supply, new living arrange-
ments, reflected in traffic densities as viewed from this
unusual heightâthere are indeed tables of Functions to.
get from such City-changes to Rocket-modifications: no
more than an extension, really, of the techniques by which
Constance Babington-Smith and her colleagues at R. A. F.
Medmenham discovered the Rocket back in 1943 in recco
photographs of Peenemiinde.
But remember if you loved it. If you did, how you loved
it. And how muchâafter all you're used |to asking âhow
much,â used to measuring, to comparing, measurements,
putting them into equations to find out how much more,
how much of, how much when... and here in your com-
mon drive to the sea feel as much as you wish of that
dark double-minded love which is also shame, bravado, â
engineersâ geopoliticsââspheres of influenceâ modified
to
toruses of Rocket range that are parabolic in section...
„
{
The Counterforce
847
...not, as we might imagine, bounded below by the
line of the Earth it ârises fromâ and the Earth it âstrikesâ
No But Then You Never Really Thought It Was Did You
Of Course It Begins Infinitely Below The Earth And Goes
On Infinitely Back Into The Earth itâs only the peak that
we are allowed to see, the break up through the surface,
out of the other silent world, violently (a jet airplane crash-
ing into faster-than-sound, some years later a spaceship
crashing into faster-than-light) Remember The Password In
The Zone This Week Is FASTERâTHAN, THE-SPEED-
OFLIGHT Speeding Up Your Voice ExponentiallyâLinear
Exceptions Made Only In Case of Upper Respiratory Com-
plaints, at each âend,â understand, a very large transfer of
energy: breaking upward into this world, a controlled
burningâbreaking downward again, an uncontrolled ex-
plosion ... this lack of symmetry leads to speculating that
a presence, analogous to the Aether, flows through time,
as the Aether flows through space. The assumption of a
Vacuum in time tended to cut us off one from another.
But an Aether sea to bear us world-to-world might bring
us back a continuity, show us a kinder unverse, more easy-
going....
So, yes yes this is a scholasticism here, Rocket state-
cosmology...the Rocket
does lead that wayâamong
othersâpast these visible serpent coils that lash up above
the surface of Earth in rainbow light, in steel tetany...
these storms, these things of Earthâs deep breast we were
never told... past them, through the violence, to'a num-
bered cosmos,
a quaint brownwood-paneled,
Victorian
kind of Brain War, as between quaternions and vector
analysis in the 1880sâthe nostalgia of Aether, the silver,
pendulumed, stone-anchored, knurled-brass, filigreed ele-
gantly functional shapes of your grandfathers. These sepia
tones are here, certainly. But the Rocket has to be many
things, it must answer to a number of different shapes in
the dreams of those who touch itâin combat, in tunnel,
on paperâit must survive heresies shining, unconfound-
able...and heretics there will be: Gnostics who have
been taken in a rush of wind and fire to chambers of the
Rocket-throne... Kabbalists who study the Rocket
as
Torah, letter by letterârivets, burner cap and brass rose,
its text is theirs to permute and combine into new revela-
tions, always unfolding . .. Manichaeans who see two Rock-
Le
The Rocket as Sacred Text
- The Rocket is envisioned as a multi-faceted religious icon, inspiring Gnostic, Kabbalistic, and Manichaean interpretations among its followers.
- A Manichaean duality emerges between a 'good' Rocket destined for the stars and an 'evil' Rocket intended for global suicide.
- The state or 'dominion of silence' hunts these heretics using personalized Rockets programmed with the targets' own unique biological signatures.
- A desperate trek unfolds through a hardening occupation where survivors must hide rocket components under haystacks and in gutted sheds.
- The journey is framed not as a mere struggle but as a 'Destiny' facilitated by a railway system specifically 'crafted by the War' for this purpose.
- The 00001 Rocket travels in a disassembled state, requiring a final reassembly at a firing site if all sections survive the gauntlet.
Stored in its target-seeker will be the hereticâs EEG, the spikes and susurrations of heartbeat, the ghost-blossomings of personal infrared, each Rocket will know its intended and hunt him, ride him a green-doped and silent hound.
The Counterforce
847
...not, as we might imagine, bounded below by the
line of the Earth it ârises fromâ and the Earth it âstrikesâ
No But Then You Never Really Thought It Was Did You
Of Course It Begins Infinitely Below The Earth And Goes
On Infinitely Back Into The Earth itâs only the peak that
we are allowed to see, the break up through the surface,
out of the other silent world, violently (a jet airplane crash-
ing into faster-than-sound, some years later a spaceship
crashing into faster-than-light) Remember The Password In
The Zone This Week Is FASTERâTHAN, THE-SPEED-
OFLIGHT Speeding Up Your Voice ExponentiallyâLinear
Exceptions Made Only In Case of Upper Respiratory Com-
plaints, at each âend,â understand, a very large transfer of
energy: breaking upward into this world, a controlled
burningâbreaking downward again, an uncontrolled ex-
plosion ... this lack of symmetry leads to speculating that
a presence, analogous to the Aether, flows through time,
as the Aether flows through space. The assumption of a
Vacuum in time tended to cut us off one from another.
But an Aether sea to bear us world-to-world might bring
us back a continuity, show us a kinder unverse, more easy-
going....
So, yes yes this is a scholasticism here, Rocket state-
cosmology...the Rocket
does lead that wayâamong
othersâpast these visible serpent coils that lash up above
the surface of Earth in rainbow light, in steel tetany...
these storms, these things of Earthâs deep breast we were
never told... past them, through the violence, to'a num-
bered cosmos,
a quaint brownwood-paneled,
Victorian
kind of Brain War, as between quaternions and vector
analysis in the 1880sâthe nostalgia of Aether, the silver,
pendulumed, stone-anchored, knurled-brass, filigreed ele-
gantly functional shapes of your grandfathers. These sepia
tones are here, certainly. But the Rocket has to be many
things, it must answer to a number of different shapes in
the dreams of those who touch itâin combat, in tunnel,
on paperâit must survive heresies shining, unconfound-
able...and heretics there will be: Gnostics who have
been taken in a rush of wind and fire to chambers of the
Rocket-throne... Kabbalists who study the Rocket
as
Torah, letter by letterârivets, burner cap and brass rose,
its text is theirs to permute and combine into new revela-
tions, always unfolding . .. Manichaeans who see two Rock-
Le
848
Graviryâs RaInBow
â
ets, good and evil, who speak together in the sacred
idiolalia of the Primal Twins (some say their names are
Enzian and Blicero) of a good Rocket to take us to the
stars, an evil Rocket for the Worldâs suicide, the two
perpetually in struggle.
But these heretics will be sought and the dominion of
silence will enlarge as each one goes down...
they will
all be sought out. Each will have his personal Rocket.
Stored in its target-seeker will be the hereticâs EEG, the
spikes and susurrations of heartbeat, the ghost-blossomings
of personal infrared, each Rocket will know its intended
and hunt him, ride him a green-doped and silent hound,
through our World, shining and pointed in the sky at his
back,
his
guardian,
executioner
rushing
in, rushing
closer....
Here are the objectives. To make the run over tracks
that may end abruptly at riverside or in carbonized train-
yard, over roads even the unpaved alternates to which are
patrolled now by Russian and British and American troops
in a hardening occupation, a fear of winter bleaching the
men all more formal, into braces of Attention they ignored
during the summer, closer adherence now to the paper-
work as colors of trees and brush begin their change, as
purple blurs out over miles of heath, and nights come
sooner. To have to stay out in the rains of early Virgo:
the children who stowed away on the trek against all
orders are down now with coughs and fevers, sniffling at
night, hoarse little voices inside oversized uniform jackets.
To brew tea for them from fennel, betony, Whitsun roses,
sunflowers, mallow leavesâto loot sulfa drugs and peni-
cillin. To avoid raising road-dust when the sun has dried
the ruts and crowns again by noon. To sleep in the fields.
To hide the rocket sections under haystacks, behind the
single wall of a gutted railroad shed, among rainy willows
down beside the river beds. To disperse at any alarm, or
often at random, just. for drillâto flow like a net, down
out of the Harz, up the ravines, sleeping in|the dry glazed
spaces of deserted spas (official pain, official death watch-â
ing all night from the porcelain eyes of statues), digging
in nightsâ perimeters, smelling pine needles boots and
trench-shovels have crushed....To keep faith that it is
|
not trek this time, nor struggle, but truly Destiny, the |
The Counterforce
849
oooo1 sliding like an oiled bolt into the receivership of
the railway system prepared for it last spring, a route only
apparently in ruins, carefully crafted by the War, by
special techniques of bombardment,
to take this most
immachinate of techniques, the Rocketâthe Rocket, this
most terribly potential of bombardments. . . .
The oo0001
goes disassembled, in sectionsâwarhead,
guidance, fuel and oxidizer tanks, tail section. If they all
make it to the firing site, it will have to be put back.
together there.
âShow me the society that never said, âI am created
among men, â Christian walks with Enzian in the fields
above the encampment, ââto protect you each from vio-
lence, to give shelter in time of disasterââbut Enzian,
what protection is there? what can protect us from that,â
gesturing down the valley at the yellow-gray camouflage
netting they can both, X-ray eyed for this one journey,
see through. ...
Enzian and the younger man somehow have drifted
into these long walks. Nothing deliberate on either side.
Is this how successions occur? Each man is suspicious. But
there are no more of the old uncomfortable silences. No
competing.
âIt comes as the Revealer. Showing that no society can
protect, never couldâthey are as foolish as shields of
paper....â He must tell Christian everything he knows,
everything he suspects or has dreamed. Proclaiming none
of it for truth. But he must keep nothing back for himself.
Nothing is his to keep. âThey have lied to us. They canât
keep us from dying, so They lie to us about death. A coop-
erative structure of lies. What have They ever given us
in return for the trust, the loveâThey actually say âloveâ
âwe're supposed to owe Them? Can They keep us from
even catching cold? from lice, from being alone? from
anything? Before the Rocket we went on believing, because
we wanted to. But the Rocket can penetrate, from the
sky, at any given point. Nowhere is safe. We canât believe
- any more. Not if we are still sane, and love the
truth.â
_âWe are,â nods Christian. âWe do.â He isnât looking at
Enzian to confirm it, either.
âYes.â
\
The Rocket as Revealer
- Enzian and Christian discuss the failure of societal structures to provide genuine protection against death and violence.
- The Rocket is characterized as a 'Revealer' that exposes the cooperative lies of authority by proving that nowhere is safe.
- The group encounters a failed German 'sonic death-mirror' project, a series of concrete paraboloids designed to weaponize shock waves.
- Enzian envisions a future war fought in the desert, emphasizing the importance of the environment over the objective.
- The narrative reveals that Ludwig has found his lost lemming, Ursula, surviving the chaos of the Zone through negotiation and loss of innocence.
- The text concludes with the observation that not all lemmings are destined to go over the cliff, suggesting a subversion of inevitable doom.
They have lied to us. They canât keep us from dying, so They lie to us about death. A cooperative structure of lies.
The Counterforce
849
oooo1 sliding like an oiled bolt into the receivership of
the railway system prepared for it last spring, a route only
apparently in ruins, carefully crafted by the War, by
special techniques of bombardment,
to take this most
immachinate of techniques, the Rocketâthe Rocket, this
most terribly potential of bombardments. . . .
The oo0001
goes disassembled, in sectionsâwarhead,
guidance, fuel and oxidizer tanks, tail section. If they all
make it to the firing site, it will have to be put back.
together there.
âShow me the society that never said, âI am created
among men, â Christian walks with Enzian in the fields
above the encampment, ââto protect you each from vio-
lence, to give shelter in time of disasterââbut Enzian,
what protection is there? what can protect us from that,â
gesturing down the valley at the yellow-gray camouflage
netting they can both, X-ray eyed for this one journey,
see through. ...
Enzian and the younger man somehow have drifted
into these long walks. Nothing deliberate on either side.
Is this how successions occur? Each man is suspicious. But
there are no more of the old uncomfortable silences. No
competing.
âIt comes as the Revealer. Showing that no society can
protect, never couldâthey are as foolish as shields of
paper....â He must tell Christian everything he knows,
everything he suspects or has dreamed. Proclaiming none
of it for truth. But he must keep nothing back for himself.
Nothing is his to keep. âThey have lied to us. They canât
keep us from dying, so They lie to us about death. A coop-
erative structure of lies. What have They ever given us
in return for the trust, the loveâThey actually say âloveâ
âwe're supposed to owe Them? Can They keep us from
even catching cold? from lice, from being alone? from
anything? Before the Rocket we went on believing, because
we wanted to. But the Rocket can penetrate, from the
sky, at any given point. Nowhere is safe. We canât believe
- any more. Not if we are still sane, and love the
truth.â
_âWe are,â nods Christian. âWe do.â He isnât looking at
Enzian to confirm it, either.
âYes.â
\
i
850
Gravityâs RAInsow
âThen ...in the absence of faith...â
One night, in the rain, their laager stops for the night at
a deserted research station, where the Germans, close to
the end of the War, were developing a sonic death-mirror.
Tall paraboloids of concrete are staggered, white and
monolithic, across the plain. The idea was to set off an
explosion in front of the paraboloid, at the exact focal
point. The concrete mirror would then throw back a
perfect shock wave to destroy anything in its path. Thou-
sands of guinea pigs, dogs and cows were experimentally
blasted to death hereâreams of death-curve data were
compiled. But the project was a lemon. Only good at
short range, and you rapidly came to a falloff point where
the amount of explosives needed might as well be deployed
some other way. Fog, wind, hardly visible ripples or snags
in the terrain, anything less than perfect conditions, could
ruin the shock waveâs deadly shape. Still, Enzian can en-
vision a war, a place for them, âa desert. Lure your enemy
to a desert. The Kalahari. Wait for the wind to die.â
âWho would fight for a desert?â Katje wants to know.
Sheâs wearing a hooded green slicker looks even too big
for Enzian,
*
âIn,â Christian squatting down, looking up at the pale
curve of reflector they've come to the base of and have
gathered at in the rain, sharing a smoke, taking a moment
away from the rest of the trek, ânot âfor.â What heâs
saying is âin,ââ
â
;
Saves trouble later if you can get the Texts straight
_ soon as they're spoken. âThank you,â sez Oberst Enzian.
A hundred meters away, huddled into another white
paraboloid, watching them, is a fat kid in a gray tanker
jacket. Out of its pocket peer two furry little bright eyes.
It is fat Ludwig and his lost lemming Ursulaâhe has
found her at last and after all and despite everything. For
a week they have been drifting alongside the trek, just
past visibility, pacing the Africans day by day... among
trees at the tops of escarpments, at the) firesâ edges at
night Ludwig is there, watching . .
. accumu ting evidence,
or terms of an equation...a boy and
his
lemming, out
_
to see the Zone. Mostly what heâs seen is a lot of chewing
gum and a lot of foreign cock. How else does a foot-loose â
kid get by in the Zone these daysP Ursula is preserved,
The Counterforce
851
Ludwig has fallen into a fate worse than death and found
itâs negotiable. So not all lemmings go over the cliff, and
not all children are preserved against snuggling into the
sin of profit. To expect any more, or less, of the Zone is
to disagree with the terms of the Creation.
When Enzian rides point he has the habit of falling into
reveries, whether the driver is talking or not. In night
without headlamps, a mist coarse enough to be falling, or
now and then blown like a wet silk scarf in the face, inside
and outside the same temperature and darkness, balances
like these allow him to float just under waking, feet and
arms bug-upwards pushing at the rubbery glass surface-
tension between the two levels, sticking in it, dream-
caressed at hands and feet become super-sensitive, a good
â
home-style horizontalless drowse. The engine of the stolen
truck is muffled in old mattresses tied over the hood.
Henryk the Hare, driving, keeps a leery eye on the tem-
perature gauge. Heâs called âthe Hareâ because he can
never get messages right, as in the old Herero story. So
reverences are dying.
A figure slips into the road, flashlight circling slowly.
Enzian unsnaps the isinglass window, leans out into the
heavy mist, and calls âfaster than the speed of light.â The
figure waves him on. But in the last edge of Enzianâs
glance back, in the light from the flash rain is sticking to
the black face in big fat globules, sticking as water does
to black grease-paint, but not to Herero skinâ
âThink we can make a U-turn here?â The shoulders are
treacherous, and both men know it. Back in the direction
of camp the line of slow-rolling lowlands is lit up by a
thud of apricot light.
âShit,â Henryk the Hare jamming it in reverse, waiting
for orders from _Enzian as they grind slowly backwards.
The one with the flashlight may have been the only look-
out, there may be no enemy concentration for miles. Butâ
âThere.â Beside the road, a prone body. Itâs Mieczislav
Omuzire, with a bad head wound. âGet him in, come on.â
They load him into the back of the idling truck, and cover
him with a shelter half. No time to find out how bad it is.
The blackface sentry has vanished for good. From the
direction they're backing in comes the stick-rattle of rifle
Riding the Interface
- Enzian and his Herero companions navigate the dangerous, misty landscape of the Zone in a muffled truck.
- A tense encounter with a sentry in blackface grease-paint reveals an ambush and the wounding of several men.
- The group faces hostile white forces, forcing them to reconsider their perimeter and retreat toward Braunschweig.
- A strategic deception is organized using sapling frames and bundles to simulate rocket parts on decoy treks.
- Enzian plans to 'ride the interface' between the advancing Eastern and Western armies to find a path to safety.
- Internal tensions surface between Enzian, Andreas, and Christian regarding the risks assigned to the decoy groups.
It may be possible to ride the interface, like gliding at the edge of a thunderstorm... all the way to the end between armies East and West.
The Counterforce
851
Ludwig has fallen into a fate worse than death and found
itâs negotiable. So not all lemmings go over the cliff, and
not all children are preserved against snuggling into the
sin of profit. To expect any more, or less, of the Zone is
to disagree with the terms of the Creation.
When Enzian rides point he has the habit of falling into
reveries, whether the driver is talking or not. In night
without headlamps, a mist coarse enough to be falling, or
now and then blown like a wet silk scarf in the face, inside
and outside the same temperature and darkness, balances
like these allow him to float just under waking, feet and
arms bug-upwards pushing at the rubbery glass surface-
tension between the two levels, sticking in it, dream-
caressed at hands and feet become super-sensitive, a good
â
home-style horizontalless drowse. The engine of the stolen
truck is muffled in old mattresses tied over the hood.
Henryk the Hare, driving, keeps a leery eye on the tem-
perature gauge. Heâs called âthe Hareâ because he can
never get messages right, as in the old Herero story. So
reverences are dying.
A figure slips into the road, flashlight circling slowly.
Enzian unsnaps the isinglass window, leans out into the
heavy mist, and calls âfaster than the speed of light.â The
figure waves him on. But in the last edge of Enzianâs
glance back, in the light from the flash rain is sticking to
the black face in big fat globules, sticking as water does
to black grease-paint, but not to Herero skinâ
âThink we can make a U-turn here?â The shoulders are
treacherous, and both men know it. Back in the direction
of camp the line of slow-rolling lowlands is lit up by a
thud of apricot light.
âShit,â Henryk the Hare jamming it in reverse, waiting
for orders from _Enzian as they grind slowly backwards.
The one with the flashlight may have been the only look-
out, there may be no enemy concentration for miles. Butâ
âThere.â Beside the road, a prone body. Itâs Mieczislav
Omuzire, with a bad head wound. âGet him in, come on.â
They load him into the back of the idling truck, and cover
him with a shelter half. No time to find out how bad it is.
The blackface sentry has vanished for good. From the
direction they're backing in comes the stick-rattle of rifle
852
Gravity's RaInsow
âWe're going into this backwards?â
âHave you heard any mortar fire?â
âSince the one? No.â
âAndreas must have knocked it out then.â
âOh, they'll be all right, Nguarorerue. Iâm worrying
about us.â
Orutyene dead. Okandio,
Ekori, Omuzire wounded,
Ekori critically. The hostiles were white.
âHow many?â
âDozen maybe.â
âWe canât count on a safe perimeterââ blue-white
flashlight blobbing ellipse-to-parabola across the shaking
map, âtill Braunschweig. If itâs still there.â Rain hits the
map in loud spatters.
âWhereâs the railroad?â puts in Christian. He gets an
interested look from Andreas. Itâs mutual. Thereâs a good.
deal of interest here lately. The railroad is 6 or 7 miles
northwest.
The people come empty their belongings next to the
Rocketâs trailer rigs. Saplings are being axed down, each
blow loud and carrying ...a frame is being constructed,
bundles of clothing, pots and kettles stuffed here and there
under the long tarpaulin between bent-sapling hoops, to
simulate pieces of rocket. Andreas is calling, âAll decoys
muster by the cook wagon,â fishing in his pockets for the
list he keeps. The decoy trek will move on northward, no
violent shift in directionâthe rest will angle east, back
toward the Russian Army. If they get just close enough,
the British and American armies may move more cau-
tiously. It may be possible to ride the interface, like gliding
at the edge of a thunderstorm...
all the way to the end
between armies East and West.
bong... bong...tolling
departure.
Enzian
looks
up,
quizzical. Andreas wants to say something. Finally: âChris-
tian goes with you, then?â
âYes?â Blinking under rain-beaded eyebrows. âOh, for
Godâs sake, Andreas.â â -
âWell? The decoys are supposed to make it too, right?â ae
âLook, take him with you, if you want.â
ei
âI only wanted to find out,â Andreas shrugs, âwhatâs
been settled.â
hes
i4
Andreas sits dangling feet kicking heels against tailgate
The Preterite and the Void
- Enzian grapples with his isolation as a leader, feeling like a stranger to the very 'preterite' masses he loves and serves.
- The tension between Enzian and Andreas reveals a deep uncertainty about the future and whether anything in the Zone is truly 'settled.'
- Enzian uses stimulants and the rhythmic 'technique' of chewing gum to mask his emotional distress and the urge to cry for his own fate.
- Josef Ombindi, leader of the nihilistic Empty Ones, confronts Enzian with the ideology of racial suicide as a form of ultimate freedom.
- The encounter highlights a internal power struggle where Enzian's own people may be plotting his demolition to fulfill their collective beliefs.
- Enzian weaponizes his own exhaustion and a 'Spaceman Smile' to psychologically unsettle Ombindi, asserting dominance through a performance of madness.
He wants to cry for himself: for what they all must believe is going to happen to him.
852
Gravity's RaInsow
âWe're going into this backwards?â
âHave you heard any mortar fire?â
âSince the one? No.â
âAndreas must have knocked it out then.â
âOh, they'll be all right, Nguarorerue. Iâm worrying
about us.â
Orutyene dead. Okandio,
Ekori, Omuzire wounded,
Ekori critically. The hostiles were white.
âHow many?â
âDozen maybe.â
âWe canât count on a safe perimeterââ blue-white
flashlight blobbing ellipse-to-parabola across the shaking
map, âtill Braunschweig. If itâs still there.â Rain hits the
map in loud spatters.
âWhereâs the railroad?â puts in Christian. He gets an
interested look from Andreas. Itâs mutual. Thereâs a good.
deal of interest here lately. The railroad is 6 or 7 miles
northwest.
The people come empty their belongings next to the
Rocketâs trailer rigs. Saplings are being axed down, each
blow loud and carrying ...a frame is being constructed,
bundles of clothing, pots and kettles stuffed here and there
under the long tarpaulin between bent-sapling hoops, to
simulate pieces of rocket. Andreas is calling, âAll decoys
muster by the cook wagon,â fishing in his pockets for the
list he keeps. The decoy trek will move on northward, no
violent shift in directionâthe rest will angle east, back
toward the Russian Army. If they get just close enough,
the British and American armies may move more cau-
tiously. It may be possible to ride the interface, like gliding
at the edge of a thunderstorm...
all the way to the end
between armies East and West.
bong... bong...tolling
departure.
Enzian
looks
up,
quizzical. Andreas wants to say something. Finally: âChris-
tian goes with you, then?â
âYes?â Blinking under rain-beaded eyebrows. âOh, for
Godâs sake, Andreas.â â -
âWell? The decoys are supposed to make it too, right?â ae
âLook, take him with you, if you want.â
ei
âI only wanted to find out,â Andreas shrugs, âwhatâs
been settled.â
hes
i4
Andreas sits dangling feet kicking heels against tailgate
The Counterforce
â
:
853
âYou could have asked me. Nothingâs been âsettled.ââ
âMaybe not by you. Thatâs your game. You think it'll
preserve you. But it doesnât work for us. We have to know
whatâs really going to happen.â
Enzian kneels and begins to lift the heavy iron tailgate.
He knows how phony it looks. Who will believe that in
his heart he wants to belong to them out there, the vast
Humility sleepless, dying, in pain tonight across the Zone?
the preterite he loves, knowing heâs always to be a
stranger. ... Chains rattle above him. When the edge of
the gate is level with his chin, he looks up, into Andreasâs
eyes. His arms are braced tight. His elbows ache. It is an
offering. He wants to ask, How many others have written
me off? Is there a fate only Iâve been kept blind to? But
habits persist, in their own life. He struggles to his feet,
silently, lifting the dead weight, slamming it into place. To-
gether they slip bolts through at each comer. âSee you
there,â Enzian waves, and turns away. He swallows a tablet
âof German desoxyephedrine then pops in a stick of gum.
Speed makes teeth grind, gum gets chewed by grinding
teeth, chewing on gum is a technique, developed during
the late War by women, to-keep from crying. Not that he
wants to cry for the separation. He wants to cry for him-
self: for what they all must believe is going to happen to
him. The more they believe it, the better chance there is.
His people are going to demolish him if theyâcan....
Chomp, chomp, hmm good evening ladies, nice job on
the lashings there Ljubica, chomp, how the head Mieczi-
slav, bet they were surprised when the bullets bounced
off! heh-heh chomp, chomp, evening âSparksâ (Ozohande) ,
anything from Hamburg yet on the liquid oxygen, damned
Oururu better come through-ru, or we gonna have a bad-
oe
time trying to lay low till he do-ruâoh shit whoâs
thatâ
Itâs Josef Ombindiâs who it is, leader of the Empty Ones.
But till he stopped smiling, for a few second there,
Enzian thought it was Orutyeneâs ghost. âThe word is
that the Okandio child was killed too.â
- âNot so.â Chomp.
.
âShe was my first try at preventing a birth.â
âSo you maintain a deadly interest in her,â chomp,
chomp. He knows thatâs not it, but the man annoys him.
854
Gravityâs Rarnsow
âSuicide is a freedom even the lowest enjoy. But you
would deny that freedom to a people.â
âNo ideology. Tell me if your friend Oururu is going tc
have the LOX generator ready to roll. Or if there is <
funny surprise, instead, waiting for me in Hamburg.â
âAll right, no ideology. You would deny your people
a freedom even you enjoy, Oberst Nguarorerue.â Smiling
again like the ghost of the man who fell tonight. Probing
for the spot, jabbing what? what? want to say what,
Oberst?P till he sees the tiredness in Enzianâs face, and
understands
it is not a trick. âA freedom,â whispering
smiling, a love song under black skies edged all around in
acid orange, a commercial full of Cathar horror at the
practice of imprisoning souls in the bodies of new-borns,
âa freedom you may exercise soon. I hear your soul talking
in its sleep. I know you better than anyone.â
Chomp, chomp, oh I had to give him the watch lists
didnât I. Oh, am I a fool. Yes, he can choose the night....
âYou're a hallucination, Ombindi,â putting just enough
panic into his voice so that if it doesnât work itl still be
a good insult, âIâm projecting my own death-wish, and it
comes out looking like you. Uglier than I ever dreamed.â
Giving him the Spaceman Smile for a full 30 seconds,
after only 10 seconds of which Ombindi has already begun
to shift his eyes, sweat, press his lips together, look at the
ground, turn away, look back, but Enzian prolongs it, no
mercy tonight my people, Spaceman Smile turning every-
thing inside a mile radius to frozen ice-cream colors NOW
that we're all in the mood, how about installing the
battery covers anyway, Djuro? Thatâs right; X-ray vision,
saw right through the tarp, write it down as another
miracle... you there Vlasta, take the next radio watch,
forget what it says on the list, thereâs never been any more
than routine traffic logged with Hamburg, and I wanna
know why, wanna know what does come through when
Ombindiâs people are on watch... communication on the
trek command frequency is by CW dots and dashesâno
voices to betray. But operators swear they can tell the
individual sending-hands. Vlasta is one of his best oper-
ators, and she can do good hand-imitations of most of
Ombindiâs people. Been practicing up, justin âcasey
«|
-
The others, who've been all along wondering if Enzian
„ ;
The Silent Shift of Power
- Enzian subtly moves against Ombindi by relieving his faction of watch duties without resorting to open violence.
- Vlasta is tasked with monitoring radio traffic to uncover secret communications being sent via CW dots and dashes.
- The character Ludwig follows the trek as a 'white glowworm,' imagining a vast army at his flank while remaining an isolated stranger.
- A culvert bridge serves as a gallery of desperate graffiti, featuring drawings of flowers and messages from lost soldiers.
- The narrative atmosphere is defined by the 'engineered wound' of the road and the sorrow of the creaking trees.
- The section concludes with the young witch finally locating Vaslav Tchitcherine, who sits by a stream like a 'passive solenoid' waiting to be sprung.
Trees creak in sorrow for the engineered wound through their terrain, their terrenity or earthhood.
854
Gravityâs Rarnsow
âSuicide is a freedom even the lowest enjoy. But you
would deny that freedom to a people.â
âNo ideology. Tell me if your friend Oururu is going tc
have the LOX generator ready to roll. Or if there is <
funny surprise, instead, waiting for me in Hamburg.â
âAll right, no ideology. You would deny your people
a freedom even you enjoy, Oberst Nguarorerue.â Smiling
again like the ghost of the man who fell tonight. Probing
for the spot, jabbing what? what? want to say what,
Oberst?P till he sees the tiredness in Enzianâs face, and
understands
it is not a trick. âA freedom,â whispering
smiling, a love song under black skies edged all around in
acid orange, a commercial full of Cathar horror at the
practice of imprisoning souls in the bodies of new-borns,
âa freedom you may exercise soon. I hear your soul talking
in its sleep. I know you better than anyone.â
Chomp, chomp, oh I had to give him the watch lists
didnât I. Oh, am I a fool. Yes, he can choose the night....
âYou're a hallucination, Ombindi,â putting just enough
panic into his voice so that if it doesnât work itl still be
a good insult, âIâm projecting my own death-wish, and it
comes out looking like you. Uglier than I ever dreamed.â
Giving him the Spaceman Smile for a full 30 seconds,
after only 10 seconds of which Ombindi has already begun
to shift his eyes, sweat, press his lips together, look at the
ground, turn away, look back, but Enzian prolongs it, no
mercy tonight my people, Spaceman Smile turning every-
thing inside a mile radius to frozen ice-cream colors NOW
that we're all in the mood, how about installing the
battery covers anyway, Djuro? Thatâs right; X-ray vision,
saw right through the tarp, write it down as another
miracle... you there Vlasta, take the next radio watch,
forget what it says on the list, thereâs never been any more
than routine traffic logged with Hamburg, and I wanna
know why, wanna know what does come through when
Ombindiâs people are on watch... communication on the
trek command frequency is by CW dots and dashesâno
voices to betray. But operators swear they can tell the
individual sending-hands. Vlasta is one of his best oper-
ators, and she can do good hand-imitations of most of
Ombindiâs people. Been practicing up, justin âcasey
«|
-
The others, who've been all along wondering if Enzian
„ ;
The Counterforce
855
vas ever going to move on Ombindi, can tell now by the
00k on his face and the way heâs walking throughâSo,
vith little more than touches to the brim of his forage cap,
|
ignaling Plan So-and-So, the Ombindi people are quietly,
â
vithout violence, relieved of all watch duties. tonight,
hough still keeping their weapons and ammo. No one has
ver taken those away. There's no reason to. Enzian is
© more vulnerable now than he ever was, which was
lenty.
The fat boy Ludwig is a white glowworm in the mist.
the game is that heâs scouting for a vast white army,
lways at his other flank, ready to come down off of the
igh ground at a word from Ludwig, and smear the blacks
nto the earth. But he would never call them down. He
vould rather go with the trek, invisible. There is no
wustling for him down there. Their journey doesnât include
im. They have somewhere to go. He feels he must go
vith them, but separate, a stranger, no more or less at
he mercy of the Zone....
O
tâs a bridge over a stream. Very seldom will traffic come
yy overhead. You can look up and see a whole slope of
one-bearing trees rushing up darkly away from one side
f the road. Trees creak in sorrow for the engineered
vound through their terrain, their terrenity or earthhood.
3rown trout flick by in the stream. Inside the culvert,
ther shelterers have written on the damp arc of wall. Take
ne, Stretchfoot, what keeps you? Nothing worse than
hese days. You will be like gentle sleep. Isnât it only
leepP Please. Come soonâ Private Rudolf. Effig, 12.iv.45.
\ drawing in Commando blackface-grease, of a man look-
ng closely at a flower. In the distance, or smaller, appears
o be a woman, approaching. Or some kind of elf, or
omething. The man
isnât looking at her (or it). In
he middle distance are haystacks. The flower is shaped
ike the cunt of a young girl. There is a luminary looking
lown from the sky, a face on it totally at peace, like the
Buddhaâs. Underneath, someone else has written, in En-
slish: Good drawing! Finish! and undermeath that, in
856
Graviryâs RAINBOW
another hand, It IS finished, you nit. And so are you.
Nearby, in German, I loved you Lisele with all my heart
âmno name, rank, unit or serial number. ...
Initials, tic-
tac-toe games you can tell were played alone, a game of
hangman in which the mystery word was never filled in:
GE â â RAT â ~ and the hanged body visible almost at the
other end of the culvert, even this early in the day, be-
cause itâs a narrow road, and no real gradient of shadow.
A bicycle is incompletely hidden in the weeds at the side
of the road. A late butterfly pale as an eyelid winks aim-
lessly out over the stalks of new hay. High up on the
slope, someone is swinging an ax-blade into a living tree
-..and here is where and when the young witch finds
Vaslav Tchitcherine at last.
Heâs sitting by the stream, not dejected, nor tranquil, -
just waiting. A passive solenoid waiting to be sprung. At â
her step, his head lifts, and he sees her. She is the first
presence since last night heâs looked at and seen. Which ©
is her doing. The charm she recited then, fastening the
silk crotch tom from her best underpants
across the
eyes of the doll, his eyes, Eastem and liquid, though they'd
ee only sketched in clay with her long fingernail, was -
May he be blind. now to all but me. May the burning
sun of love shine in his eyes forever. May this, my own
darkness, shelter him. By all the holy names of God, by
the Angels Melchidael, Yahoel, Anafiel, and the great
|
Metatron, I conjure you, and all who are with you, to go
and do my will.
4
The secret is in the concentrating. She inhibits every-
thing else: the moon, the wind in the junipers, the wild
raised to the sky.
j
.
;:
Later she. breaks a piece of the magic | bread in half,
and eats one part, The other is for Tchitcherine.
bees
He takes the bread now. The stream rushes. A
bi
sings.
Toward nightfall, the lovers lying naked on a co d
The Magic of Missed Connections
- A woman performs a ritual using a clay doll and a silk blindfold to bind her lover's sight and devotion to her alone.
- Tchitcherine and Enzian, brothers who have long sought one another, meet on a bridge but fail to recognize their kinship.
- The encounter is brief and transactional, resulting in a trade for cigarettes and potatoes before they part ways forever.
- The narrative shifts to a futuristic, vertical city where elevators are massive, long-haul environments equipped with lounges and snack bars.
- In this high-rise society, the 'Vertical Solution' has replaced two-dimensional transport, and the subject of the Rocket has become a social taboo.
- The 'violence of repression' manifests in the polite avoidance of certain topics within the intimate, moving spaces of the city.
Certainly not the first time a man has passed his brother by, at the edge of the evening, often forever, without knowing it.
856
Graviryâs RAINBOW
another hand, It IS finished, you nit. And so are you.
Nearby, in German, I loved you Lisele with all my heart
âmno name, rank, unit or serial number. ...
Initials, tic-
tac-toe games you can tell were played alone, a game of
hangman in which the mystery word was never filled in:
GE â â RAT â ~ and the hanged body visible almost at the
other end of the culvert, even this early in the day, be-
cause itâs a narrow road, and no real gradient of shadow.
A bicycle is incompletely hidden in the weeds at the side
of the road. A late butterfly pale as an eyelid winks aim-
lessly out over the stalks of new hay. High up on the
slope, someone is swinging an ax-blade into a living tree
-..and here is where and when the young witch finds
Vaslav Tchitcherine at last.
Heâs sitting by the stream, not dejected, nor tranquil, -
just waiting. A passive solenoid waiting to be sprung. At â
her step, his head lifts, and he sees her. She is the first
presence since last night heâs looked at and seen. Which ©
is her doing. The charm she recited then, fastening the
silk crotch tom from her best underpants
across the
eyes of the doll, his eyes, Eastem and liquid, though they'd
ee only sketched in clay with her long fingernail, was -
May he be blind. now to all but me. May the burning
sun of love shine in his eyes forever. May this, my own
darkness, shelter him. By all the holy names of God, by
the Angels Melchidael, Yahoel, Anafiel, and the great
|
Metatron, I conjure you, and all who are with you, to go
and do my will.
4
The secret is in the concentrating. She inhibits every-
thing else: the moon, the wind in the junipers, the wild
raised to the sky.
j
.
;:
Later she. breaks a piece of the magic | bread in half,
and eats one part, The other is for Tchitcherine.
bees
He takes the bread now. The stream rushes. A
bi
sings.
Toward nightfall, the lovers lying naked on a co d
The Counterforce
857
grass bank, the sound of a convoy approaches on the
little road. Tchitcherine pulls on his trousers and climbs
up to see if he can beg some food, or cigarettes. The black
faces pass by, mba-kayere, some glancing at him curiously,
others too involved with their own exhaustion, or with
keeping a tight guard on a covered wagon containing the
warhead section of the 00001. Enzian on his motorcycle
stops for
a moment, mba-kayere, to talk to the scarred,
unshaven white. Theyre in the middle of the bridge. They
talk broken German. Tchitcherine manages to hustle half
a pack of American cigarettes and three raw potatoes. The
two men nod, not quite formally, not quite smiling,
Enzian puts his bike in gear and returns to his journey.
Tchitcherine lights a cigarette, watching them down the
road, shivering in the dusk. Then he goes back to his
young girl beside the stream. They will have to locate
some firewood before all the light is gone.
This is magic. Sureâbut not necessarily fantasy. Cer-
tainly not the first time a man has passed his brother by,
at 5 edge of the evening, often forever, without know-
ing it.
|
By now the City is grown so tall that elevators are long-
haul affairs, with lounges inside: padded seats and benches,
snack bars, newsstands where you can browse through a
whole issue of Life between stops. For those faint hearts
who first thing on entering seek out the Certificate of In-
spection on the elevator wall, there are young women in
green overseas caps, green velvet basques, and tapered
yellowstripe trousersâa feminine zootsuit effectâwhoâve
been well-tutored in all kinds of elevator lore, and whose
job it is to set you at ease. âIn the early days,â pipes young
Mindy Bloth of Carbon City, Ilinois, smiling vacantly
away
in profile, close
by the brass moiré of diamond-blurs
passing, passing in vertical thousandsâher growing-up
face, dreamy and practical as the. Queen of Cups, never
quite looks for you, is always refracted away some set
angle in the gold-brown medium between
you...
itâs
moming, and the flower man at the rear of the elevator,
\
858
Graviryâs RAInsow
down a step or two, behind the little fountain, has brought
lilacs and irises fresh and earlyââbefore the Vertical
Solution, all transport was, in effect, two-dimensionalâah,
I can guess your questionââ as a smile, familiar and un-
refracted for this old elevator regular, passes between girl
and hecklerâ*âWhat about airplane flight, eh?â Thatâs
what you were going to ask wasnât itlâ as a matter of fact
he was going to ask about the Rocket and everyone
knows it, but the subject is under a curious taboo, and
polite Mindy has brought in now a chance for actual
violence, the violence of repressionâthe bleached colors
of a September moming sky opposite the sunrise, and the
filing-edge of a morning windâinto this intimate. cubic ;
environment moving so smoothly upward through space
â
(a bubble rising through Castile soap where all around â
itâs green lit by slow lightning), past levels already a-
bustle with heads seething brighter than sperm and eggs â
in the sea, past some levels left dark, unheated, somehow
â
forbidden, looking oddly wasted, levels where nobody'sâ
been since the War aaaaa-ahhh! howling past, âa common
aerodynamic effect,â explains patient Mindy, âinvolving
our own boundary layer and the shape of the orifice as
we pass itââ âOh you mean that before we get to it,â
hollers another heckler, âitâs a different shape?â âYup, and
after we go by it too, Mac,â Mindy brushes him off,
broadly mugging the same thing with her mouth, purse-_
relax-smileâthese jagged openings howling, hauling for- :
lorn and downward, already stories gone beneath the
soles of your shoes, a howl bent downward like a har-
monica noteâbut why donât any of the busy floors make a
â
sound going by? where the lights are shining warm as j
Xmas-week parties, floors that beckon you into densitiesâ
of glass faceting or screening, good-natured: coffee-umn
grousing, well golly, here goes another day, howdy Marie,
where you ladies hiding the drawings on the SG-1...
what do you mean Field Service has them... again?
doesnât Engineering Design have any rights, itâs like watch-
ing your child run away, to see a piece of equipment get
set out to the Field (Der Veld)..That it is. A broken heart,
a motherâs prayer. ...Slowly, the voices of the Liibeck
Hitler Youth Glee Club fade in behind (nowadays the
boys sing at officersâ clubs all across the Zone under their
The Structure of Submission
- The narrative descends through a surreal, multi-layered facility where active floors hum with mundane office bureaucracy and abandoned levels remain dark since the War.
- A group of Hitler Youth singers, now known as 'The Lederhoseners,' performs for officers, blending innocence with overt eroticism and maternal discipline fantasies.
- Thanatz posits that the fetishization of dominance and submission is rooted in early childhood experiences and the 'sovereign smell' of maternal leather.
- The text argues that the 'Structure' or State forbids private S&M because it must monopolize submission and dominance for its own political survival.
- Thanatz suggests a radical political theory: if power dynamics were satisfied through private sexual expression, the State's ability to co-opt those impulses would vanish, causing it to wither away.
It needs our submission so that it may remain in power. It needs our lusts after dominance so that it can co-opt us into its own power game.
858
Graviryâs RAInsow
down a step or two, behind the little fountain, has brought
lilacs and irises fresh and earlyââbefore the Vertical
Solution, all transport was, in effect, two-dimensionalâah,
I can guess your questionââ as a smile, familiar and un-
refracted for this old elevator regular, passes between girl
and hecklerâ*âWhat about airplane flight, eh?â Thatâs
what you were going to ask wasnât itlâ as a matter of fact
he was going to ask about the Rocket and everyone
knows it, but the subject is under a curious taboo, and
polite Mindy has brought in now a chance for actual
violence, the violence of repressionâthe bleached colors
of a September moming sky opposite the sunrise, and the
filing-edge of a morning windâinto this intimate. cubic ;
environment moving so smoothly upward through space
â
(a bubble rising through Castile soap where all around â
itâs green lit by slow lightning), past levels already a-
bustle with heads seething brighter than sperm and eggs â
in the sea, past some levels left dark, unheated, somehow
â
forbidden, looking oddly wasted, levels where nobody'sâ
been since the War aaaaa-ahhh! howling past, âa common
aerodynamic effect,â explains patient Mindy, âinvolving
our own boundary layer and the shape of the orifice as
we pass itââ âOh you mean that before we get to it,â
hollers another heckler, âitâs a different shape?â âYup, and
after we go by it too, Mac,â Mindy brushes him off,
broadly mugging the same thing with her mouth, purse-_
relax-smileâthese jagged openings howling, hauling for- :
lorn and downward, already stories gone beneath the
soles of your shoes, a howl bent downward like a har-
monica noteâbut why donât any of the busy floors make a
â
sound going by? where the lights are shining warm as j
Xmas-week parties, floors that beckon you into densitiesâ
of glass faceting or screening, good-natured: coffee-umn
grousing, well golly, here goes another day, howdy Marie,
where you ladies hiding the drawings on the SG-1...
what do you mean Field Service has them... again?
doesnât Engineering Design have any rights, itâs like watch-
ing your child run away, to see a piece of equipment get
set out to the Field (Der Veld)..That it is. A broken heart,
a motherâs prayer. ...Slowly, the voices of the Liibeck
Hitler Youth Glee Club fade in behind (nowadays the
boys sing at officersâ clubs all across the Zone under their
The Counterforce
859
road name, âThe Lederhoseners.â They are dressed appro-
priately, and singâwhen the house feels rightâwith their
backs turned to the audiences, their sly little faces turned
over shoulders to flirt with the fighting men:
But sharper than a Motherâs tears
Are the beatings Mutti gave to me...
with a beautifully coordinated wiggle then to each pair of
buttocks
gleaming through
leather
so: tight that the
clenching of gluteal muscles is plainly visible, and you
can bet there isnât a cock in the room doesnât stir at the
sight, and scarcely an eye that canât hallucinate
that
maternal birch smacking down across each naked ass, the
delicious red lines, the stern and beautiful female face,
smiling down through lowered lashes, only a glint of light
off of each eyeâwhen you were first learning to crawl,
it was her calves and feet you saw the most ofâthey
replaced her breasts as sources of strength, as you learned
the smell of her leather shoes, and the sovereign smell
rose as far as you could seeâto her knees, perhapsâ
depending on fashion that yearâto her thighs. You were
infant in the presence of leather legs, leather feet. . .).
âTIsnât it possible,â Thanatz whispers, âthat we all learned
that classical fantasy at Motherâs knees? That somewhere
tucked in the brainâs plush album is always a child in
Fauntleroy clothes, a pretty French maid begging to be
whipped?â
Ludwig shifts his rather fat ass under Thanatzâs hand.
Both have perimeters they are not supposed to cross. But
they have crept away anyhow, to a piece of the interface,
a cold thicket theyâve pounded down a space in the middle
of, to lie on. âLudwig, a little
S and M never hurt
anybody.â
âWho said that?â
âSigmund Freud. How do I know? But why are we
taught to feel reflexive shame whenever the subject comes
up? Why will the Structure allow every other kind of
sexual behavior but that one? Because submission and
dominance are resources it needs for its very survival.
They cannot be wasted in private sex. In any kind of sex.
âIt needs our submission so that it may remain in power.
\
860
Gravityâs Rainsow
It needs our lusts after dominance so that it can co-opt
us into its own power game. There is no joy in it, only
power. I tell you, if S and M could be established uni-
versally, at the family level, the State would wither away.â
This
is Sado-anarchism and Thanatz
is its leading
theoretician in the Zone these days,
It is the Liineburg Heath, at last. Rendezvous was made
last night with the groups carrying fuel and oxidizer
tanks. The tail-section group has been on the radio all
morning, trying to get a position fix, if the skies will only
clear, So the assembly of the oo001 is occurring also in a
geographical way, a Diaspora rumning backwards, seeds
of exile flying inward in a modest view of gravitational
collapse, of the Messiah gathering in the fallen sparks. ...
Remember the story about the kid who hates kreplach?
Hates and fears the dish, breaks out in these horrible green
hives that shift in relief maps all across his body, in the
mere presence of. kreplach. Kidâs mother takes him to the
psychiatrist. âFear of the unknown,â diagnoses this gray
eminence, âlet him watch you making the kreplach, that'll
ease him into it.â Home to Motherâs kitchen, âNow,â sez
Mother, âIâm going to make us a delicious surprise!â âOh
boy!â cries the kid, âthatâs keen, Mom!â âSee, now Iâm sift-
ing the flour and salt into a nice little pile.â âWhatâs that,
Mom, hamburger? oh, boy!â âHamburger, and onions.
I'm frying them here, see, in this frying pan.â âGee, I
can hardly wait! This is exciting!) Whatâre
ya doinâ now?â
âMaking a little volcano in the flour here, and breaki
these eggs into it.â âCan I help ya mix it up? Oh, boy!â
âNow, I'm going to roll the dough out, see? into a nice
flat sheet, now Iâm cutting it up into squaresââ âThis is
terrif, Mom!â âNow I spoon some of the hamburger into
this little square, and now I fold it over into a triââ
âGAAHHHHI!â
screams
the kid in absolute terrorâ
âkreplach!â
;
As some secrets were given to the Gypsies to preserve
against centrifugal History, and some to the Kabbalists,
the Templars, the Rosicrucians, so have this Secret of the
Fearful Assembly, and others, found their ways inside the
weatherless spaces of this or that Ethnic Joke. There
is also.
the story about Tyrone Slothrop, who was sent into the
Zone to be present as his own assemblyâperhaps, heavily
The Fearful Assembly
- The assembly of the 00001 rocket is described as a 'Diaspora running backwards,' a gravitational collapse gathering the fallen sparks of exile.
- The narrative uses an ethnic joke about a child's terror of kreplach to illustrate the 'Secret of the Fearful Assembly,' where the sum of harmless parts creates a terrifying whole.
- Tyrone Slothropâs personal arc fails to reach a punch line or a redeeming cataclysm; instead of being assembled, he is being broken down and scattered.
- Tarot readings for Slothrop reveal a future of mediocrity and reversed hopes, suggesting he has become a 'tanker and feeb' rather than a hero.
- Analyst Mickey Wuxtry-Wuxtry posits that Dr. Jamf was a fiction created by Slothrop to mask a literal sexual love for his own death and the rockets.
- The Counterforce admits that Slothrop was never their primary concern, highlighting the internal divisions and fatal weaknesses of their movement.
So the assembly of the 00001 is occurring also in a geographical way, a Diaspora running backwards, seeds of exile flying inward in a modest view of gravitational collapse, of the Messiah gathering in the fallen sparks.
860
Gravityâs Rainsow
It needs our lusts after dominance so that it can co-opt
us into its own power game. There is no joy in it, only
power. I tell you, if S and M could be established uni-
versally, at the family level, the State would wither away.â
This
is Sado-anarchism and Thanatz
is its leading
theoretician in the Zone these days,
It is the Liineburg Heath, at last. Rendezvous was made
last night with the groups carrying fuel and oxidizer
tanks. The tail-section group has been on the radio all
morning, trying to get a position fix, if the skies will only
clear, So the assembly of the oo001 is occurring also in a
geographical way, a Diaspora rumning backwards, seeds
of exile flying inward in a modest view of gravitational
collapse, of the Messiah gathering in the fallen sparks. ...
Remember the story about the kid who hates kreplach?
Hates and fears the dish, breaks out in these horrible green
hives that shift in relief maps all across his body, in the
mere presence of. kreplach. Kidâs mother takes him to the
psychiatrist. âFear of the unknown,â diagnoses this gray
eminence, âlet him watch you making the kreplach, that'll
ease him into it.â Home to Motherâs kitchen, âNow,â sez
Mother, âIâm going to make us a delicious surprise!â âOh
boy!â cries the kid, âthatâs keen, Mom!â âSee, now Iâm sift-
ing the flour and salt into a nice little pile.â âWhatâs that,
Mom, hamburger? oh, boy!â âHamburger, and onions.
I'm frying them here, see, in this frying pan.â âGee, I
can hardly wait! This is exciting!) Whatâre
ya doinâ now?â
âMaking a little volcano in the flour here, and breaki
these eggs into it.â âCan I help ya mix it up? Oh, boy!â
âNow, I'm going to roll the dough out, see? into a nice
flat sheet, now Iâm cutting it up into squaresââ âThis is
terrif, Mom!â âNow I spoon some of the hamburger into
this little square, and now I fold it over into a triââ
âGAAHHHHI!â
screams
the kid in absolute terrorâ
âkreplach!â
;
As some secrets were given to the Gypsies to preserve
against centrifugal History, and some to the Kabbalists,
the Templars, the Rosicrucians, so have this Secret of the
Fearful Assembly, and others, found their ways inside the
weatherless spaces of this or that Ethnic Joke. There
is also.
the story about Tyrone Slothrop, who was sent into the
Zone to be present as his own assemblyâperhaps, heavily
The Counterforce
861
âparanoid voices have whispered, his timeâs assemblyâand.
âthere ought to be a punch line to it, but there isnât. The
plan went wrong. He is being broken down instead, and
cattered. His cards have been laid down, Celtic style,
âin the order suggested by Mr. A. E. Waite, laid out and
âread, but they are the cards of a tanker and feeb: they
âpoint only to a long and scuffing future, to mediocrity
(not only in his life but also, heh, heh, in his chroniclers
'too, yes yes nothing like getting the 3 of Pentacles upside
âdown covering the significator on the second try to send
©
you to the tube to watch a seventh rerun of the Takeshi
and Ichizo Show, light a cigarette and try to forget the
whole thing)âto no clear happiness or redeeming cata-
_clysm, All his hopeful cards are reversed, most unhappily
âof all the Hanged Man, who is supposed to be upside
as...
to begin with, telling of his secret hopes and
ears
âThere never was a Dr. Jamf,â opines world-renowned
nalyst Mickey Wuxtry-WuxtryâââJamf was only a fiction,
to help him explain what he felt so terribly, so immedi-
ately in his genitals for those rockets each time exploding
in the sky...to help him deny what he could not pos-
sibly admit: âthat he might be in love, in sexual love, with
his, and his raceâs, death.
âThese early Americans, in their way, were a fascinating
âcombination of crude poet and psychic cripple. .
_ âWe were never that concerned with Slothrop qua
âSlothrop,â a spokesman for the Counterforce admitted re-
cently i in an interview with the Wall Street Journal.
_ INTERVIEWER: You mean, then, that he was more a
ârallying point.
| SpPoxEsMAN: No, not even that. Opinion even at the
âstart was divided. It was one of our fatal weaknesses. [Iâm
sure you want to hear about fatal weaknesses.] Some called
him a âpretext.â Others felt that he was a genuine, point-
âpoint microcosm. The Microcosmists, as you must know
m the standard histories, leaped off to an early start.
/eâit was.a very odd form of heretic-chasing, really.
ross the Low Countries, in the summer. It went on in
of windmills, marshlands where it was almost too
to get a decent sight. I recall the time Christian
Sacraments of the Counterforce
- A narrator reflects on the early days of a heretical movement and the visceral initiation rituals involving the pursuit of enemies through underground tunnels.
- The text reinterprets the concept of the Eucharist and the Holy Grail as the literal consumption of an enemy's blood to achieve a forbidden union.
- The speaker accuses an external authority of defining 'mortal sin' merely to keep people divided as strangers rather than allowing them to merge through conflict.
- The narrative shifts to a piece of physical memorabiliaâa blood-stained undershirtâlinking the philosophical violence to the character Slothrop.
- A melancholic song performed by Seaman Bodine evokes themes of isolation, missed connections, and the passage of time during wartime.
The Grail, the Sangraal, is the bloody vehicle. Why else guard it so sacredly?
The Counterforce
861
âparanoid voices have whispered, his timeâs assemblyâand.
âthere ought to be a punch line to it, but there isnât. The
plan went wrong. He is being broken down instead, and
cattered. His cards have been laid down, Celtic style,
âin the order suggested by Mr. A. E. Waite, laid out and
âread, but they are the cards of a tanker and feeb: they
âpoint only to a long and scuffing future, to mediocrity
(not only in his life but also, heh, heh, in his chroniclers
'too, yes yes nothing like getting the 3 of Pentacles upside
âdown covering the significator on the second try to send
©
you to the tube to watch a seventh rerun of the Takeshi
and Ichizo Show, light a cigarette and try to forget the
whole thing)âto no clear happiness or redeeming cata-
_clysm, All his hopeful cards are reversed, most unhappily
âof all the Hanged Man, who is supposed to be upside
as...
to begin with, telling of his secret hopes and
ears
âThere never was a Dr. Jamf,â opines world-renowned
nalyst Mickey Wuxtry-WuxtryâââJamf was only a fiction,
to help him explain what he felt so terribly, so immedi-
ately in his genitals for those rockets each time exploding
in the sky...to help him deny what he could not pos-
sibly admit: âthat he might be in love, in sexual love, with
his, and his raceâs, death.
âThese early Americans, in their way, were a fascinating
âcombination of crude poet and psychic cripple. .
_ âWe were never that concerned with Slothrop qua
âSlothrop,â a spokesman for the Counterforce admitted re-
cently i in an interview with the Wall Street Journal.
_ INTERVIEWER: You mean, then, that he was more a
ârallying point.
| SpPoxEsMAN: No, not even that. Opinion even at the
âstart was divided. It was one of our fatal weaknesses. [Iâm
sure you want to hear about fatal weaknesses.] Some called
him a âpretext.â Others felt that he was a genuine, point-
âpoint microcosm. The Microcosmists, as you must know
m the standard histories, leaped off to an early start.
/eâit was.a very odd form of heretic-chasing, really.
ross the Low Countries, in the summer. It went on in
of windmills, marshlands where it was almost too
to get a decent sight. I recall the time Christian
862
Gravityâs RAINBOW
coat our plumb-bob strings with. They shone in the twi-
light. Youâve seen them holding bobs, hands character-
istically gathered near the crotch. A dark figure with a
stream of luminescent piss falling to the ground fifty
meters away... âThe Presence, pissing,â that became a
standard joke on the apprentices. A Raketen-Stadt Charlie
Noble, you might say....[Yes. A cute way of putting it.
I am betraying them all... the worst of it is that I know
what your editors want, exactly what they want. I am a
traitor. I carry it with me. Your virus. Spread by your
tireless Typhoid Marys, cruising the markets and the
stations. We did manage to ambush some of them. Once
we caught some in the Underground. It was terrible. My
first action, my initiation. We chased them down the tun-
nels. We could
feel their
fright. When the tunnels
branched, we had only the treacherous acoustics of the
Underground to go on. Chances were good for getting
lost. There was almost no light. The rails gleamed, as they
do aboveground on a rainy night, And the whispers then
âthe shadows who waited, hunched in angles at the
maintenance stations, lying against the tunnel, walls, watch-
ing the chase. âThe end is too far,â they whispered. âGo
back. There are no stops on this branch. The trains run.
and the passengers ride miles of blank mustard walls, but
there are no stops. Itâs a long afternoon run...â Two of
them got away. But we took the rest. Between two station
marks, yellow crayon through the years of grease and
passage, 1966 and 1971, I tasted my first blood. Do youâ
want to put this part in?] We drank the blood of our
enemies. Thatâs why you see Gnostics so hunted. The
sacrament of the Eucharist is really drinking the blood of ;
the enemy. The Grail, the Sangraal, is the bloody vehicle.
Why else guard it so sacredly? Why should the black
honor-guard ride half a continent,
half a splintering
Empire, stone night and winter day, if it's only for the
touch of sweet lips on a humble bowl? No, itâs mortal sin.
they're carrying: to swallow the enemy, down into the slick
juicery to be taken in by all the cells. |
Your officially
defined âmortal sin,â that is. A sin against you. A section
of your penal code, thatâs all. [The true sin was yours: to
interdict that union. To draw that line. To keep us worse
than enemies, who are after all caught in the same fields of
shitâto keep us strangers.
âThe Counterforce
863
_ We drank the blood of our enemies. The blood of our
friends, we cherished. ]
- Item S-1706.31, Fragment of Undershirt, U.S. Navy issue, with
'
brown stain assumed to be blood in shape of sword running lower
' left to upper right.
Not included in the Book of Memorabilia is this foot-
note. The piece of cloth was given to Slothrop by Seaman
Bodine, one night in the Chicago Bar. In a way, the eve-
ning was a reprise of their first meeting. Bodine, smolder-
ing fat reefer stuck in under the strings at the neck of
his guitar, singing mournfully a song thatâs part Roger
Mexicoâs and part some nameless sailor stuck in wartime
San Diego:
Last week I threw a pie at someoneâs Momma,
Last night I threw a party for my mind,
Last thing I knew that 6:02 was screaminâ over my head,
Or it mightâve been thâ 11:59...
[Refrain]:
Too many chain-link fences in the evening,
Too many people shiverinâ in the rain,
They tell me that you finally got around to have your
baby,
And it donât look like I'll see your face again.
Sometimes I wanna go back north, to Humboldt Countyâ
Sometimes I think I'll go back east, to see my kin...
Thereâs times I think I almost could be happy,
If I knew you thought about me, now and then....
Bodine has a siren-ring, the kind kids send away cereal
boxtops for, cleverly arranged in his asshole so it can be
operated at any time by blowing a fart of a certain mag-
nitude. Heâs gotten pretty good at punctuating his music
with these farted WHEEEEeeceeâs, working now at getting
them in the right key, a brand-new reflex arc, ear-brain-
hands-asshole, and a return toward innocence too. The
merchants tonight are all dealing a bit slower. Sentimental
Bodine thinks itâs because they're listening to his song.
Maybe they are.
Bales of fresh coca
leaves
just in
from the Andes transform the place into some resonant
Latin warehouse, on the eve of a revolution that never
The Grace of Dillinger's Blood
- Seaman Bodine performs a crude, musical farting routine while reflecting on the slow, sentimental atmosphere of a coca-leaf warehouse.
- Slothrop is depicted as a fading entity, becoming so fragmented and 'remote' that most people can no longer perceive him as a whole person.
- Bodine remains one of the few capable of seeing Slothrop's integrity, though he fears he may eventually lose the strength to hold onto the concept of him.
- Bodine recounts the night John Dillinger was killed outside the Biograph Theater, describing a frenzied crowd soaking up the outlaw's blood.
- Bodine offers Slothrop a blood-stained cloth as a talisman of 'physical grace,' arguing that the act of rebellion matters more than the reasons behind it.
Most of the others gave up long ago trying to hold him together, even as a conceptâ'Itâs just got too remote' âs what they usually say.
âThe Counterforce
863
_ We drank the blood of our enemies. The blood of our
friends, we cherished. ]
- Item S-1706.31, Fragment of Undershirt, U.S. Navy issue, with
'
brown stain assumed to be blood in shape of sword running lower
' left to upper right.
Not included in the Book of Memorabilia is this foot-
note. The piece of cloth was given to Slothrop by Seaman
Bodine, one night in the Chicago Bar. In a way, the eve-
ning was a reprise of their first meeting. Bodine, smolder-
ing fat reefer stuck in under the strings at the neck of
his guitar, singing mournfully a song thatâs part Roger
Mexicoâs and part some nameless sailor stuck in wartime
San Diego:
Last week I threw a pie at someoneâs Momma,
Last night I threw a party for my mind,
Last thing I knew that 6:02 was screaminâ over my head,
Or it mightâve been thâ 11:59...
[Refrain]:
Too many chain-link fences in the evening,
Too many people shiverinâ in the rain,
They tell me that you finally got around to have your
baby,
And it donât look like I'll see your face again.
Sometimes I wanna go back north, to Humboldt Countyâ
Sometimes I think I'll go back east, to see my kin...
Thereâs times I think I almost could be happy,
If I knew you thought about me, now and then....
Bodine has a siren-ring, the kind kids send away cereal
boxtops for, cleverly arranged in his asshole so it can be
operated at any time by blowing a fart of a certain mag-
nitude. Heâs gotten pretty good at punctuating his music
with these farted WHEEEEeeceeâs, working now at getting
them in the right key, a brand-new reflex arc, ear-brain-
hands-asshole, and a return toward innocence too. The
merchants tonight are all dealing a bit slower. Sentimental
Bodine thinks itâs because they're listening to his song.
Maybe they are.
Bales of fresh coca
leaves
just in
from the Andes transform the place into some resonant
Latin warehouse, on the eve of a revolution that never
-
Ff
*
os
864
Gravity's Ramnsow
:
will come closer than smoke dirtying the sky above the
cane,
sometimes,
in the long lace afternoons
at the
window.... Street urchins are into a Busy Elf Routine,
wrapping each leaf around a betel nut, into a neat little
packet for chewing. Their reddened fingers are living
embers in the shadow. Seaman Bodine looks up suddenly,
canny, unshaven face stung by all the smoke and unaware-
ness in the room. Heâs looking straight at Slothrop (being
one of the few who can still see Slothrop as any sort of
integral creature any more.
Most of the others gave
up long ago trying to hold him together, even as a con-
ceptââItâs just got too remoteâ âs what they usually say).
Does Bodine now feel his own strength may someday
soon not be enough either: that soon, like all the others,
hell have to let goP But somebody's got to hold on, it
canât happen to all of usâno, that'd be too much.. .
Rocketman, Rocketman. You poor fucker.
âHere. Listen. I want you to have it. Understand? Itâs
yours.â
Does he even hear any more? Com he see this cloth,
this stainP
âLook, I was there, in Chicago, when they ambushed
him. I was there that night, right down the street from
the Biograph, I heard the gunfire, everything. Shit, I was
just a boot, I thought this was what liberty was all about,
so I went running. Me.and half Chicago. Out of the bars,
the toilets, the alleys, dames holding their skirts up so
they could run faster, Missus Krodobbly whoâs drinking
her way through the Big Depression, waitinâ till the sun
shines thru, and whatta you know, thereâs half my gradu-
ating class from Great Lakes, in dress blues with the
same bedspring marks as mine, and thereâs longtime hook-
ers. and pockmark fags with breath smelling like the
inside of a motormanâs glove, old ladies from Back of the
Yards, subdebs just out of the movies with the sweat still
cold on their thighs, gate, everybody was there. They were
taking off clothes, tearing checks out of checkbooks,
ripping off pieces of each otherâs newspaper, just so they
could soak up some of John Dillingerâ s |
blood. We went
crazy. The Agents didnât stop us. Just stood with s
still curling out of their muzzles while the people. ;
]
went. down on that blood in the street. Moyhe I ba]
\ a
The Counterforce
865
along without thinking. But there was something else.
Something I must've needed...if you can hear me...
thatâs why I'm giving this to you. O.K.? Thatâs Dillingerâs
blood there. Still warm when I got it. They wouldnât want
you thinking he was anything but a âcommon criminalââ
but Their headâs so far up Their assâhe still did what he
_
did. He went out socked Them right in the toilet privacy
of Their banks. Who cares what he was thinking about,
long as it didnât get in the way? A-and it doesnât even
matter why we're doing this, either. Rocky? Yeah, what
we need isnât right reasons, but just the grace. The physi-
cal grace to keep it working. Courage, brains, sure, O.K.,
but without that grace? forget it. Do youâplease, are you
listening? This thing here works. Really does. It worked for
me, but Iâm out of the Dumbo stage now, I can fly with-
âout it. But you. Rocky. You....â
It wasnât their last meeting, but later on there were
always others around,
doper-crises,
resentments
about
burns real or intended, and by then, as he'd feared,
Bodine was beginning, helpless, in shame, to let Slothrop
âgo. In certain rushes now, when he sees white network
âbeing cast all directions on his field of vision, he under-
stands it as an emblem of pain or death. Heâs begun to
âspend more of his time with Trudi. Their friend Magda
was picked up on first-degree mopery and taken back to
i âLeverkusen, and an overgrown back court where electric
âlines spit overhead, the dusty bricks sprout weeds from
jthe cracks, shutters are always closed, grass and weeds
âturn to bitterest autumn floor. On certain days the wind
brings aspirin-dust from the Bayer factory. The people
inhale it, and grow more tranquil.
= They both feel her absence. Bodine finds presently that
his characteristic gross laugh, hyeugh, hyeugh, has grown
nore German, tjachz, tjachz. Heâs also taking on some of
fagdaâs old disguises. Good-natured and penetrable dis-
ruises, as at a masked ball. It is a transvestism of caring,
the first time in his life itâs happened. Though nobody
asks, being too busy dealing, he reckons itâs all right.
»
Light in the sky is stretched and clear, exactly like taffy
»
no more than the first two pulls.
Dying a weird death,â Slothropâs Visitor by this time
be scrawled lines of carbon on a wall, voices down
The Scattering of Slothrop
- Bodine begins to let go of Slothrop as his own identity shifts, adopting the mannerisms and disguises of the absent Magda in a 'transvestism of caring.'
- The environment of Leverkusen is depicted as a bleak, industrial landscape where the air is filled with tranquilizing aspirin-dust from the Bayer factory.
- A mysterious visitor suggests that the ultimate goal of life is to ensure one dies under 'very weird circumstances.'
- Slothropâs persona appears to have fragmented and scattered across the Zone, with some believing he has evolved into multiple distinct individuals.
- A rumored final photograph of Slothrop exists on a rock album cover, though he is indistinguishable among the 'preterite souls' and credited only as a friend playing harmonica.
- In Niederschaumdorf, a surreal convention of village idiots gathers to seek Commonwealth status from Great Britain and membership in the United Nations.
Some believe that fragments of Slothrop have grown into consistent personae of their own. If so, thereâs no telling which of the Zoneâs present-day population are offshoots of his original scattering.
\ a
The Counterforce
865
along without thinking. But there was something else.
Something I must've needed...if you can hear me...
thatâs why I'm giving this to you. O.K.? Thatâs Dillingerâs
blood there. Still warm when I got it. They wouldnât want
you thinking he was anything but a âcommon criminalââ
but Their headâs so far up Their assâhe still did what he
_
did. He went out socked Them right in the toilet privacy
of Their banks. Who cares what he was thinking about,
long as it didnât get in the way? A-and it doesnât even
matter why we're doing this, either. Rocky? Yeah, what
we need isnât right reasons, but just the grace. The physi-
cal grace to keep it working. Courage, brains, sure, O.K.,
but without that grace? forget it. Do youâplease, are you
listening? This thing here works. Really does. It worked for
me, but Iâm out of the Dumbo stage now, I can fly with-
âout it. But you. Rocky. You....â
It wasnât their last meeting, but later on there were
always others around,
doper-crises,
resentments
about
burns real or intended, and by then, as he'd feared,
Bodine was beginning, helpless, in shame, to let Slothrop
âgo. In certain rushes now, when he sees white network
âbeing cast all directions on his field of vision, he under-
stands it as an emblem of pain or death. Heâs begun to
âspend more of his time with Trudi. Their friend Magda
was picked up on first-degree mopery and taken back to
i âLeverkusen, and an overgrown back court where electric
âlines spit overhead, the dusty bricks sprout weeds from
jthe cracks, shutters are always closed, grass and weeds
âturn to bitterest autumn floor. On certain days the wind
brings aspirin-dust from the Bayer factory. The people
inhale it, and grow more tranquil.
= They both feel her absence. Bodine finds presently that
his characteristic gross laugh, hyeugh, hyeugh, has grown
nore German, tjachz, tjachz. Heâs also taking on some of
fagdaâs old disguises. Good-natured and penetrable dis-
ruises, as at a masked ball. It is a transvestism of caring,
the first time in his life itâs happened. Though nobody
asks, being too busy dealing, he reckons itâs all right.
»
Light in the sky is stretched and clear, exactly like taffy
»
no more than the first two pulls.
Dying a weird death,â Slothropâs Visitor by this time
be scrawled lines of carbon on a wall, voices down
866
Gravityâs RAInBow
a chimney, some human being out on the road, âthe
object of life is to make sure you die a weird death. Tc
make sure that however it finds you, it will find you unde
very weird circumstances. To live that kind of life... .â
Item S-1729.06, Bottle containing 7 cc. of May wine. Analysis
indicates presence of woodruff herb, lemon and orange peel,
Sprigs of woodruff, also known as Master of the Woods,
were carried by the early Teutonic warriors. It gives suc-
cess in battle. It appears that some part of Slothrop ran
into the AWOL DiZabajev one night in the heart of down-
town Niederschaumdorf. (Some believe that fragments of
Slothrop have grown into consistent personae of their own.
If so, thereâs no telling which of the Zoneâs present-day
population are offshoots of his original scattering. Thereâs
supposed to be a last photograph of him on the only record
album ever put out by The Fool, an English rock groupâ
seven musicians posed, in the arrogant style of the early
Stones, near an old rocket-bomb site, out in the East End,
or South of the River. It is spring, and French thyme
blossoms in amazing white lacework across the cape of
green that now hides and softens the true shape of the old
rubble. There is no way to tell which of the faces is
Slothropâs: the only printed credit that might apply to him
is âHarmonica, kazooâa friend.â But knowing his Tarot,
we would expect to lookâamong the Humility, among the
gray and preterite souls, to look for him adrift in the
hostile light of the sky, the darkness of the sea. . . .)
.
Now thereâs only a long catâs-eye of bleak sunset left
over the plain tonight, bright gray against a purple ceiling
of clouds, with an iris of darker gray. It is displayed
above, more than looking down on, this gathering of
Dzabajev and his friends, Inside the town, a strange con-
vention is under way. Village idiots from villages through-
out Germany are streaming in (streaming from mouth as
well as leaving behind high-pitched trails of color for the
folks to point at in their absence). They are expected o
pass a resolution tonight asking Great
Britain for Com-
monwealth status, and perhaps even to
apply for member-
ship in the UNO. Children in the parish schools are beingâ
asked to pray for their success. Can 13 years of Vatican
collaboration have clarified the difference between what's
The Occupation of Mingeborough
- A grotesque and desperate celebration unfolds in the night as a group known as the Dzabajev circle engages in a ritualistic, drug-fueled revelry.
- The revelers use a stolen medical syringe to inject wine, seeking a dissociative 'wine rush' to escape the encroaching reality of war and occupation.
- The narrative shifts to the arrival of an occupation convoy, signaling a transition from chaotic internal states to the rigid structure of military control.
- Despite the presence of soldiers and the looming threat of violence, the text suggests a cyclical continuity of civilian life, tracing a lineage of local families.
- The setting is marked by decay and industrial detritus, with old Cord automobiles and greasy dumps serving as symbols of a fading or broken empire.
A wine rush: a wine rush is defying gravity, finding yourself on the elevator ceiling as it rockets upward, and no way to get down.
The Counterforce
.
867.
holy and what is not? Another State is forming in the
night, not without theatre and festivity.
So tonightâs
prevalence of Maitrinke, which DZabajev has managed to
score several liters of. Let the village idiots celebrate. Let
their holiness ripple into interference-patterns till it clog
the lantern-light of the meeting hall. Let the. chorus line
perform heroically: 16 ragged staring oldtimers who shuffle
aimlessly about the stage, jerking off in unison, waggling
penises in mock quarter-staffing, brandishing in twos and
threes their green-leaved poles, exposing amazing chancres
and lesions, going off in fountains of sperm strung with
blood that splash over glazed trouser-pleats, dirt-colored
jackets with pockets dangling like 60-year-old breasts,
sockless ankles permanently stained with the dust of the
little squares and the depopulated streets. Let them cheer
and pound their seats, let the brotherly spit flow. Tonight
the Dzabajev circle have acquired, through an ill-coordi-
nated smash-and-grab at the home of Niederschaumdortfâs
only doctor, a gigantic hypodermic syringe and needle.
Tonight they will shoot wine. If the police are on the way,
if far down the road certain savage ears can already pick
up the rumble of an occupation convoy across the night
kilometers, signaling past sight, past the first headlampâs
faintest scattering, the approach of danger, still no one
here is likely to break the circle. The wine will operate
on whatever happens. Didnât you wake up to find a knife
in your hand, your head down a toilet, the blur of a long
sap about to smash your upper lip, and sink back down to
the old red and capillaried nap where none of this could
possibly be happening? and wake again to a woman
screaming, again to the water of the canal freezing your
drowned eye and ear, again to too many Fortresses diving
down the sky, again, again... . But no, never real.
A wine rush: a wine rush is defying gravity, finding
yourself on the elevator ceiling as it rockets upward, and
no way to get down. You separate in two, the basic Two,
and each self is aware of the other.
THe OccUPATION OF MINGEBOROUGH
3 The trucks come rolling down the hill, where the State
highway narrows, at about three in the afternoon. All
ey
868
Graviryâs Rainsow
their headlights are on. Electric stare after stare topping
the crest of the hill, between the maple trees. The noise
is terrific. Gearboxes chatter as each truck hits the end of
the grade, weary cries of âDouble-clutch it, idiot!â come
from under the canvas. An apple tree by the road is in
blossom. The limbs are wet with this morningâs rain, dark
and wet. Sitting under it, with anyone else but Slothrop,
is a barelegged girl, blonde and brown as honey. Her name
is Marjorie. Hogan will come home from the Pacific and
court her, but he'll lose out to Pete Dufay. She and
Dufay will have a daughter named Kim, and Kim will
have her braids dipped in the school inkwells by young
Hogan, Jr. It will all go on, occupation or not, with or
without Uncle Tyrone.
Thereâs more rain in the air. The soldiers are mustering
by Hicksâs Garage. In the back lot is a greasy dump, a pit, â
full of ball-bearings, clutch plates, and pieces of trans-
mission. In the parking lot belowâshared with the green-
trimmed candy store, where he waited for the first slice
of very yellow schoolbus to appear each 3:15 around the
comer, and knew which high-school kids were easy marks â
for penniesâare six or seven old Cord automobiles, in â
different stages of dustiness and breakdown. Souvenirs of â
young empire, they shine like hearses now in the premoni-
â
tion of rain. Work details aré already putting up barri-
cades, and a scavenging party has invaded the gray
clapboards of Pizziniâs Store, standing big as a barn on the
comer. Kids hanging around the loading platform, eating
sunflower seeds out of burlap sacks, listen to the soldiers â
liberating sides of beef from Pizziniâs freezer. If Slothrop â
wants to get home from here, he has to slide into a path-
way next to the two-story brick wall of Hicksâs Garage, a
green path whose entrance is concealed behind the trash-
fire of the store, and the frame shed where Pizzini keepsâ
his delivery truck. You cut through two lots which arenât
platted exactly back to back, so that actually you're skirt-
ing one fence and using a driveway. They are both amber
and. black old ladiesâ houses, full of cats alive or stuffed,
stained lampshades, antimacassars and doilies on all the
chairs and tables, and a terminal gloom, You have to
cross a street then, go down Mrs. Snoddâs driveway beside
the hollyhocks, through a wire gate and Santoraâs ba
The Counterforce and Reverse Realities
- Slothrop navigates a complex, nostalgic path through neighborhood shortcuts that may now be interdicted by the occupation.
- Gustav and André repurpose a kazoo into a hashish pipe, discovering that its design is aerodynamically optimal for smoking.
- Gustav claims the kazoo's compatibility with light-bulb sockets proves the omnipresence of the Phoebus cartel's control.
- Byron the Bulb secretly views the kazoo's design as a symbol of brotherhood and liberation for oppressed technology.
- A never-ending, tasteless film by Gerhardt von Goll titled 'New Sled' plays perpetually beneath a rug.
- The film depicts a mysterious drug that reverses time and death, sucking bullets out of corpses to bring them back to life.
Part of a reverse world whose agents run around with guns which are like vacuum cleaners operating in the direction of lifeâpull the trigger and bullets are sucked back out of the recently dead into the barrel.
868
Graviryâs Rainsow
their headlights are on. Electric stare after stare topping
the crest of the hill, between the maple trees. The noise
is terrific. Gearboxes chatter as each truck hits the end of
the grade, weary cries of âDouble-clutch it, idiot!â come
from under the canvas. An apple tree by the road is in
blossom. The limbs are wet with this morningâs rain, dark
and wet. Sitting under it, with anyone else but Slothrop,
is a barelegged girl, blonde and brown as honey. Her name
is Marjorie. Hogan will come home from the Pacific and
court her, but he'll lose out to Pete Dufay. She and
Dufay will have a daughter named Kim, and Kim will
have her braids dipped in the school inkwells by young
Hogan, Jr. It will all go on, occupation or not, with or
without Uncle Tyrone.
Thereâs more rain in the air. The soldiers are mustering
by Hicksâs Garage. In the back lot is a greasy dump, a pit, â
full of ball-bearings, clutch plates, and pieces of trans-
mission. In the parking lot belowâshared with the green-
trimmed candy store, where he waited for the first slice
of very yellow schoolbus to appear each 3:15 around the
comer, and knew which high-school kids were easy marks â
for penniesâare six or seven old Cord automobiles, in â
different stages of dustiness and breakdown. Souvenirs of â
young empire, they shine like hearses now in the premoni-
â
tion of rain. Work details aré already putting up barri-
cades, and a scavenging party has invaded the gray
clapboards of Pizziniâs Store, standing big as a barn on the
comer. Kids hanging around the loading platform, eating
sunflower seeds out of burlap sacks, listen to the soldiers â
liberating sides of beef from Pizziniâs freezer. If Slothrop â
wants to get home from here, he has to slide into a path-
way next to the two-story brick wall of Hicksâs Garage, a
green path whose entrance is concealed behind the trash-
fire of the store, and the frame shed where Pizzini keepsâ
his delivery truck. You cut through two lots which arenât
platted exactly back to back, so that actually you're skirt-
ing one fence and using a driveway. They are both amber
and. black old ladiesâ houses, full of cats alive or stuffed,
stained lampshades, antimacassars and doilies on all the
chairs and tables, and a terminal gloom, You have to
cross a street then, go down Mrs. Snoddâs driveway beside
the hollyhocks, through a wire gate and Santoraâs ba
The Counterforce
869
yeiee over the rail fence where the hedge stops, across
your own street, and home. .
But there is the occupation. They may already have
interdicted the kidsâ short cuts along with the grown-up
routes. It may be too late to get home.
Back In DER PLATZ
Gustay and André, back from Cuxhaven, have un-
â
screwed the reed-holder and reed from AndrĂ©âs kazoo and
replaced them with tinfoilâpunched holes in the tinfoil,
and are now smoking hashish out. of the kazoo, finger-
valving the small end pa-pa-pah to carburete the smokeâ
turns out sly Saure has had ex-Peenemiinde engineers,
propulsion-group people, working on a long-term study of
optimum hashpipe design, and guess whatâin terms of
flow rate, heat-transfer, control of air-to-smoke ratio, the
perfect shape turns out to be that of the classical kazoo!
Yeah, another odd thing about the kazoo: the knuckle-
thread above the reed there is exactly the same as a thread
in a light-bulb socket. Gustav, good old Captain Horror,
wearing a liberated pair of very yellow English shooting-
glasses (âHelps you find the vein easier, I guessâ), likes to
proclaim this as the clear signature of Phoebus. âYou fools
think the kazoo is a subversive instrument? Hereââ he
always packs a light bulb on his daily rounds, no use
passing up an opportunity to depress the odd dopefiend
.. deftly screwing the light bulb flush against the reed,
muting it out, âYou see? Phoebus is even behind the
kazoo. Hal hal halâ Schadenfreude, worse than a pro-
longed onion fart, seeps through the room.
But what Gustav's light bulbânone other than our
friend Byronâwants to say is no, itâs not that way at all,
itâs a declaration of brotherhood by the Kazoo for all the
captive and oppressed light bulbs. . .
There is a movie going on, under the rug. On the floor,
24 hours a day, pull back the rug sure enough thereâs that
_damn movie! A really offensive and tasteless film by Ger-
hardt von Goll, daily rushes in fact from a project which
will never be completed. Springer just plans to keep it
going indefinitely there, under the rug. The title is New
Sled and thatâs what itâs about, a brand new kind of
870
Graviryâs RAINBow
dope that nobodyâs ever heard of. One of the most annoy-
ing characteristics of the shit is that the minute you take
it you are rendered incapable of ever telling anybody
what itâs like, or worse, where to get any. Dealers are as
in the dark as anybody. All you can hope is that you ll
come across somebody in the act of taking (shooting?
smoking? swallowing?)
some.
It is the dope that finds
you, apparently. Part of a reverse world whose agents run
around with guns which are like vacuum cleaners operat-
ing in the direction of lifeâpull the trigger and bullets
are sucked back out of the recently dead into the barrel,
and the Great Irreversible is actually reversed
as the
corpse comes to life to the accompaniment of a backwards
gunshot (you can imagine what drug-ravaged and mind-
less idea of fun the daily sound editing on this turns out
to be). Titles fash on such as
GERHARDT VON GOLL BECOMES SODIUM AMYTAL FREAK!
And here he is himself, the big ham, sitting on the toilet,
a... well what appears to be an unusually large infantâs
training toilet, up between the sitterâs legs rises the por-
celain head of a jackal with what, embarrassingly, proves
to be a reefer, in its rather loosely smiling mouthâ
âThrough evil and eagles,â blithers the Springer, âthe
climate blondes its way, for they are no strength under
the coarse war. No not for roguery until the monitors are
there in blashing sheets of earth to mate and say medo-
shnicka bleelar medoometnozz in bergamot and playful
fantasy under the throne and nose of the least merciful
king....â well, there is a good deal of this sort of thing,
and a good time to nip out for popcorn, which in the
Platz turn out to be morning-glory seeds popped into
little stilled brown explosions. None of the regular com-â
pany here actually watch the movie under the rug muchâ
only visitors passing through: friends of Magda, defectors â
from the great aspirin factory in Leverkusen, over in the |
corer there dribbling liberated cornstarch|and water on
each otherâs naked bodies, giggling unhealthily ...dev-
otees of the I Ching who have a favorite hexagram |
tattooed on each toe, who can never stay in one place for
long, can you guess why? Because they always have I
The Oedipal Zone
- A surreal gathering at Der Platz features a bizarre film screening involving a porcelain jackal and morning-glory seed popcorn.
- The community at Der Platz is a chaotic mix of defectors, occultists, and magicians who refuse to implement exclusionary rules.
- An angel observes the group's various perversities and masochistic acts from a distance, unable to grasp the 'deep beauty' of their mortality.
- Weissmannâs Tarot reading is detailed, culminating in 'The World' and framing him as a figure of uncontrollable, fatalistic momentum.
- The text describes a generational cycle of failure where sons, unable to kill their powerless fathers, are condemned to impersonate them.
- Men in the Zone are portrayed as being in love with their own passivity and pain, trapped in outdated lusts and addicted to shallow comforts.
He is the father you will never quite manage to kill. The Oedipal situation in the Zone these days is terrible.
870
Graviryâs RAINBow
dope that nobodyâs ever heard of. One of the most annoy-
ing characteristics of the shit is that the minute you take
it you are rendered incapable of ever telling anybody
what itâs like, or worse, where to get any. Dealers are as
in the dark as anybody. All you can hope is that you ll
come across somebody in the act of taking (shooting?
smoking? swallowing?)
some.
It is the dope that finds
you, apparently. Part of a reverse world whose agents run
around with guns which are like vacuum cleaners operat-
ing in the direction of lifeâpull the trigger and bullets
are sucked back out of the recently dead into the barrel,
and the Great Irreversible is actually reversed
as the
corpse comes to life to the accompaniment of a backwards
gunshot (you can imagine what drug-ravaged and mind-
less idea of fun the daily sound editing on this turns out
to be). Titles fash on such as
GERHARDT VON GOLL BECOMES SODIUM AMYTAL FREAK!
And here he is himself, the big ham, sitting on the toilet,
a... well what appears to be an unusually large infantâs
training toilet, up between the sitterâs legs rises the por-
celain head of a jackal with what, embarrassingly, proves
to be a reefer, in its rather loosely smiling mouthâ
âThrough evil and eagles,â blithers the Springer, âthe
climate blondes its way, for they are no strength under
the coarse war. No not for roguery until the monitors are
there in blashing sheets of earth to mate and say medo-
shnicka bleelar medoometnozz in bergamot and playful
fantasy under the throne and nose of the least merciful
king....â well, there is a good deal of this sort of thing,
and a good time to nip out for popcorn, which in the
Platz turn out to be morning-glory seeds popped into
little stilled brown explosions. None of the regular com-â
pany here actually watch the movie under the rug muchâ
only visitors passing through: friends of Magda, defectors â
from the great aspirin factory in Leverkusen, over in the |
corer there dribbling liberated cornstarch|and water on
each otherâs naked bodies, giggling unhealthily ...dev-
otees of the I Ching who have a favorite hexagram |
tattooed on each toe, who can never stay in one place for
long, can you guess why? Because they always have I
The Counterforce
871
Ching feet! also stumblebum magicians. who canât help
leaving themselves wide open for disastrous visits from
Qlippoth, Ouijaboard jokesters, poltergeists, all kinds of _
astral-plane tankers and feebsâyeah they're all showing.
up at Der Platz these days. But the alternative is to start
keeping some out and not others, and nobodyâs ready for
that.:.. Decisions like that are for some angel stationed
very high, watching us at our many perversities, crawling
across black satin, gagging on whip-handles, licking the
blood from a lover's vein-hit, all of it, every lost giggle
or sigh, being carried on under a sentence of death whose
deep beauty the angel has never been close to....
WEISSMANN'S TAROT
Weissmannâs Tarot is better than Slothropâs. Here are
the real cards, exactly as they came up.
Significator:
. Knight of Swords
Covered by:
The Tower
Crossed by:
Queen of Swords
Crowning:
King of Cups
Beneath:
Ace of Swords
Before:
4 of Cups
Behind:
4 of Pentacles
Self:
Page of Pentacles
House:
8 of Cups
Hopes and Fears:
2 of Swords
What will come:
The World
He appears first with boots and insignia shining as the
rider on a black horse, charging in a gallop neither he nor
horse can control, across the heath over the giant grave-
mounds, scattering the black-faced sheep, while dark
stands of juniper move dreamily, death-loving, across his
path in a parallax of unhurrying fatality, presiding as
monuments do over the green and tan departure of sum-
mer, the dust-colored lowlands and at last the field-gray
sea, a prairie of sea darkening to purple where the sun-
light comes through, in great circles, spotlights on a danc-
or,
He is the father you will never quite manage to kill.
The. Oedipal situation in the Zone these days is terrible.
There is no dignity. The mothers have been masculinized
872
Gravityâs RAINBOW
to old worn moneybags of no sexual interest to anyone,
and yet here are their sons, still trapped inside inertias of
lust that are 40 years out of date. The fathers have no
power today and never did, but because 40 years ago we
could not kill them, we are condemned now to the same
passivity, the same masochist fantasies they cherished in
secret, and worse, we are condemned in our weakness to
impersonate men of power our own infant children must
hate, and wish to usurp the place of, and fail.... So
generation after generation of men in love with pain and
passivity serve out their time in the Zone, silent, redolent
of faded sperm, terrified of dying, desperately addicted
to the comforts others sell them, however useless, ugly or
shallow, willing to have life defined for them by men
whose only talent is for death.
Of 77 cards that could have come up, Weissmann is
âcovered,â that is his present condition is set forth, by
The Tower. It is a puzzling card, and everybody has a
different story on it. It shows a bolt of lightning striking a
tall phallic structure, and two figures, one wearing a
crown, falling from it. Some read ejaculation, and leave it
at that. Others see a Gnostic or Cathar symbol for the
Church of Rome, and this is generalized to mean any
System which cannot tolerate heresy: a:system which, by
its nature, must sooner or later fall. We know by now
that it is also the Rocket.
Members of the Order of the Golden Dawn believe
The Tower represents victory over splendor, and avenging
force. As Goebbels, beyond all his professional verbalizing,
believed in the Rocket as an avenger.
On the Kabbalist Tree of Life, the path of The Tower
connects the sephira Netzach, victory, with Hod, glory or
splendor. Hence the Golden Dawn interpretation. Netzach
is fiery and emotional, Hod is watery and logical. On the
body of God, these two Sephiroth are the thighs, the pillars
of the Temple, resolving together in Yesod, the sex and
excretory organs.
But each of the Sephiroth is also haunted by its proper
demons or Qlippoth. Netzach by the Ghorab Tzerek, the â
Ravens of Death, and Hod by the Samael, the Poison of
_
God. No one has asked the demons at either level, but â
there may be just the wee vulnerability here to a sensa- _
âs
=
The Tarot of the Rocket
- The Tower card serves as a central symbol for Weissmann, representing both a phallic structure and the Rocket as a system destined to fall.
- Kabbalistic interpretations link the path of The Tower to the pillars of victory and splendor, which resolve physically in the organs of sex and excretion.
- A new breed of 'guardian demons' for the Rocket has emerged from the intersection of the Ravens of Death and the Poison of God.
- Weissmann's spread includes the Ace of Spades at his foundation, a card associated with a sinister silence and the flaming sword of victory.
- The reading suggests a transition from desperate hoarding to a 'satiety' of cups that Weissmann is ultimately destined to renounce.
- The Two of Swords represents the current state of the Zone: a blindfolded woman holding blades in a 'concord in a state of arms.'
The Ravens of Death have now tasted of the Poison of God... but in doses small enough not to sicken but to bring on, like the Amanita muscaria, a very peculiar state of mind.
872
Gravityâs RAINBOW
to old worn moneybags of no sexual interest to anyone,
and yet here are their sons, still trapped inside inertias of
lust that are 40 years out of date. The fathers have no
power today and never did, but because 40 years ago we
could not kill them, we are condemned now to the same
passivity, the same masochist fantasies they cherished in
secret, and worse, we are condemned in our weakness to
impersonate men of power our own infant children must
hate, and wish to usurp the place of, and fail.... So
generation after generation of men in love with pain and
passivity serve out their time in the Zone, silent, redolent
of faded sperm, terrified of dying, desperately addicted
to the comforts others sell them, however useless, ugly or
shallow, willing to have life defined for them by men
whose only talent is for death.
Of 77 cards that could have come up, Weissmann is
âcovered,â that is his present condition is set forth, by
The Tower. It is a puzzling card, and everybody has a
different story on it. It shows a bolt of lightning striking a
tall phallic structure, and two figures, one wearing a
crown, falling from it. Some read ejaculation, and leave it
at that. Others see a Gnostic or Cathar symbol for the
Church of Rome, and this is generalized to mean any
System which cannot tolerate heresy: a:system which, by
its nature, must sooner or later fall. We know by now
that it is also the Rocket.
Members of the Order of the Golden Dawn believe
The Tower represents victory over splendor, and avenging
force. As Goebbels, beyond all his professional verbalizing,
believed in the Rocket as an avenger.
On the Kabbalist Tree of Life, the path of The Tower
connects the sephira Netzach, victory, with Hod, glory or
splendor. Hence the Golden Dawn interpretation. Netzach
is fiery and emotional, Hod is watery and logical. On the
body of God, these two Sephiroth are the thighs, the pillars
of the Temple, resolving together in Yesod, the sex and
excretory organs.
But each of the Sephiroth is also haunted by its proper
demons or Qlippoth. Netzach by the Ghorab Tzerek, the â
Ravens of Death, and Hod by the Samael, the Poison of
_
God. No one has asked the demons at either level, but â
there may be just the wee vulnerability here to a sensa- _
âs
=
The Counterforce
873
tion of falling, the kind of very steep and out-of-scale fall
we find in dreams, a falling more through space than
among objects. Though the different Qlippoth can only.
work each his own sort of evil, activity on the path of The
Tower, from Netzach to Hod, seems toâve resulted in the
emergence of a new kind of demon (what, a dialectical
Tarot? Yes indeedyfoax! A-and if you donât think there are
Marxist-Leninist magicians around, well you better think
againl). The Ravens of Death have now tasted of the
Poison of God... but in doses small enough not to sicken
but to bring on, like the Amanita muscaria, a very peculiar
state of mind.... They have no official name, but they
are the Rocketâs guardian demons.
' Weissmann is crossed by the Queen of his suit. Perhaps
himself, in drag. She is the chief obstacle in his way. At his
âfoundation is the single sword flaming inside the crown:
again, Netzach, victory. In the American deck this card
has come down to us as the ace of spades, which is a bit
âmore sinister: you know the silence that falls on the room
when it comes up, whatever the game. Behind him, movy-
ing out of his life as an influence, is the 4 or Four of
| Pentacles, which shows
a figure of modest property
desperately clutching on to what he owns, four gold
| coinsâthis feeb is holding two of them down with his
feet, balancing another on his head and holding the fourth
âtightly against his stomach, which is ulcerous.. It is the
stationary witch trying to hold her candy house against the
host of nibblers out there in the dark. Moving in, before
him, comes a feast of cups, a satiety. Lotta booze and
broads for Weissmann coming soon. Good for himâal-
though in his house he is seen walking away, renouncing
eight stacked gold chalices. Perhaps he is to be given only
what he must walk away from. Perhaps it is because in the
lees of the nightâs last cup is the bitter presence of a
woman sitting by a rocky shore, the Two of Swords, alone
at the Baltic edge, blindfolded in the moonlight, holding
the two blades crossed upon her breasts... the meaning is
âusually taken as âconcord in a state of arms,â a good
enough description of the Zone nowadays, and it describes
his deepest hopes, or fears..
Himself, as the World sees him: the scholarly young
S98 of Pentacles, meditating on his magic gold talisman,
874
Gravityâs RaInsow
The Page may also be used to stand for a young girl. But
Pentacles describe people of very dark complexion, and so
the card almost certainly is Enzian as a young man. And
Weissmann may at last, in this limited pasteboard way,
have become what he first loved.
The King of Cups, crowning his hopes, is the fair in-
tellectual-king. If youâre wondering where heâs gone, look
among the successful academics, the Presidential advisers,
the token intellectuals who sit on boards of directors. He
is almost surely there. Look high, not low.
His future card, the card of what will come, is The
World.
Tue Last GREEN AND MAGENTA
The Heath grows green and magenta in all directions,
earth and heather, coming of ageâ
No. It was spring.
THE Horse
In a field, beyond the clearing and the trees, the last
horse is standing, tamished silver-gray, hardly more than
an assembling of shadows. The heathen Germans who lived
here sacrificed horses once, in their old ceremonies. Later
the horseâs role changed from holy offering to servant of
â
power. By then a great change was working on the Heath,
kneading, turning, stirring with fingers strong as wind.
Now that sacrifice has become a political act, an act of
â
Caesar, the last horse cares only about how the wind starts
4
up this afternoon: rises at first, and tries to stick, to catch,
â
but fails...each time, the horse feels a similar rising in
his heart, at the edges of eye, ear, brain.... Finally, at
â
the sure catching of the wind, which is also a turning in
the day, his head rises, and a shiver comes over himâ
possesses him. His tail lashes at the clear elusive flash of
â
the wind. The sacrifice in the grove is beginning.
|
Isaac
|
The Sacrifice and the Merkabah
- Tarot cards reveal the fates of Enzian and Weissmann, suggesting a transformation where the seeker becomes the object of his initial desire.
- The King of Cups represents the modern intellectual elite, found among presidential advisers and corporate boards rather than in the lower echelons of society.
- A symbolic horse on the Heath represents the transition of sacrifice from a holy, ancient ceremony to a cold, political act of power.
- The path of the Counterforce requires a 'hardon of resolution' to withstand the deceptions of angels and the emotional manipulation of the Qlippoth.
- A passive, 'female' path of self-abandonment is contrasted with the active ascent, illustrated by the ritualistic gilding of Nymphenburg and the image of Isaac under the blade.
- The 'Pre-Launch' ritual involves a meticulously engineered scene of eroticized sacrifice, where a boy is dressed in 'deathlace' as a bridal costume for a technological or mystical end.
The gilders worked naked and had their heads shaved baldâto get a static charge to hold the fluttering leaf they had first to run the brush through their pubic hair: genital electricity would shine forever down these gold vistas.
874
Gravityâs RaInsow
The Page may also be used to stand for a young girl. But
Pentacles describe people of very dark complexion, and so
the card almost certainly is Enzian as a young man. And
Weissmann may at last, in this limited pasteboard way,
have become what he first loved.
The King of Cups, crowning his hopes, is the fair in-
tellectual-king. If youâre wondering where heâs gone, look
among the successful academics, the Presidential advisers,
the token intellectuals who sit on boards of directors. He
is almost surely there. Look high, not low.
His future card, the card of what will come, is The
World.
Tue Last GREEN AND MAGENTA
The Heath grows green and magenta in all directions,
earth and heather, coming of ageâ
No. It was spring.
THE Horse
In a field, beyond the clearing and the trees, the last
horse is standing, tamished silver-gray, hardly more than
an assembling of shadows. The heathen Germans who lived
here sacrificed horses once, in their old ceremonies. Later
the horseâs role changed from holy offering to servant of
â
power. By then a great change was working on the Heath,
kneading, turning, stirring with fingers strong as wind.
Now that sacrifice has become a political act, an act of
â
Caesar, the last horse cares only about how the wind starts
4
up this afternoon: rises at first, and tries to stick, to catch,
â
but fails...each time, the horse feels a similar rising in
his heart, at the edges of eye, ear, brain.... Finally, at
â
the sure catching of the wind, which is also a turning in
the day, his head rises, and a shiver comes over himâ
possesses him. His tail lashes at the clear elusive flash of
â
the wind. The sacrifice in the grove is beginning.
|
Isaac
|
The Counterforce
875
passing through the chambers one by one, is terrible and
complex. You must have not only the schooling in counter-
signs and seals, not only the physical readiness through
exercise and abstinence, but also a hardon of resolution
that will never go limp on you. The angels at the door-
ways will try to con you, threaten you, play all manner of
cruel practical jokes, to tum you aside. The Qlippoth,
shells of the dead, will use all your love for friends who
have passed across against you. You have chosen the
active way, and there is no faltering without finding the
most mortal danger.
The other way is dark and female, passive, self-aban-
-doning. Isaac under the blade. The glittering edge widen-
ing to a hallway, down, up which the soul is borne by an
irresistible Aether. Gerhardt von Goll on his camera dolly,
whooping with joy, barrel-assing down the long corridors
at Nymphenburg. (Let us leave him here, in his transport,
in his innocence....) The numinous light grows ahead,
almost blue among all this gilt and glass. The gilders
worked naked and had their heads shaved baldâto get a
static charge to hold the fluttering leaf they had first to
run the brush through their pubic hair: genital electricity
would shine forever down these gold vistas. But we have
long left mad Ludwig and his Spanish dancer guttering,
fading scarlet across the marble, shining so treacherously
like sweet water... already that lies behind. The ascent
to the Merkabah, despite his last feeble vestiges of man-
hood, last gestures toward the possibility of magic, is
irreversibly on route....
Pre-LAuNcH
A giant white fly: an erect penis buzzing in white lace,
clotted with blood or sperm. Deathlace is the boyâs bridal
costume. His smooth feet, bound side by side, are in white
satin slippers with white bows. His red nipples are erect.
The golden hairs on his back, alloyed German gold, pale
yellow to white, run symmetric about his spine, run in
arches fine and whirled as the arches of a fingerprint, as
filings along magnetic lines of force. Each freckle or mole
is a
dark, precisely-set anomaly in the field. Sweat gathers
at his nape. He is gagged with a white kid glove. Weiss-
â
876
Gravityâs RaInsow
mann has engineered all the symbolism today. The glove
is the female equivalent of the Hand of Glory, which
second-story men use to light their way into your home: a
candle in a dead manâs hand, erect as all your tissue will
grow at the first delicious tongue-flick of your mistress
Death. The glove is the cavity into which the Hand fits,
as the 00000 is the womb into which Gottfried returns.
Stuff him in. Not a Procrustean bed, but modified to
take him. The two, boy and Rocket, concurrently designed.
Its steel hindquarters bent so beautifully... he fits well.
They are mated to each other, Schwarzgerit and next
higher assembly, His bare limbs in their metal bondage
writhe among the fuel, oxidizer, live-steam lines, thrust
frame, compressed air battery, exhaust elbow, decomposer,
tanks, vents, valves... and one of these valves, one test-
point, one pressure-switch
is the right one, the true
clitoris,
routed
directly
into
the nervous
system
of
the
oooo0,
She
should
not
be a mystery
to you,
Gottfried,
Find
the
zone
of love,
lick and kiss...
you have timeâthere
are
still
a few minutes.
The ©
liquid oxygen runs freezing so close to your cheek, bones
of frost to burn you past feeling. Soon there will be the
fires, too. The Oven we fattened you for will glow. Here
â
is the sergeant, bringing the Ziindkreuz. The pyrotechnic -
Cross to light you off. The men are at attention. Get ready,
_
Liebchen.
a
&,
]
HARDWARE
et
Heâs been given a window of artificial sapphire, four â
inches across, grown by the IG in 1942 as a mushroom-
_
shaped boule, a touch of cobalt added to give it a green-
ish tintâvery heat-resistant, transparent to most visible _
frequenciesâit warps the images of sky and clouds out- -
side, but pleasantly, like Ochsen-Augen in Grandmother's
â
day, the days before window-glass....
|
:
Part of the vaporized oxygen is routed through Gott-
friedâs Imipolex shroud. In one of his ears, a) tiny speaker
has been surgically implanted. It shines like la pretty ear-_
ring. The data link runs through the radio-guidance sys-
tem, and the words of Weissmann are to be, for a while, â
multiplexed with the error-corrections sent out to the
The Rocket and the Late Arrival
- Gottfried is physically integrated into the Rocket, described as a ritualistic and eroticized union between human flesh and hardware.
- The 'SchwarzgerÀt' assembly functions as a modified womb, where the boy is encased in an Imipolex shroud and surgically linked to the machine's guidance system.
- Weissmann communicates with Gottfried through a one-way speaker, ensuring the boy's final moments remain a private, unobservable death.
- The narrative shifts to a meta-commentary on the failure of heroic archetypes, as classic figures like Superman and Philip Marlowe arrive 'too late' for the first time.
- This failure of the 'Counterforce' signifies a breakdown in the traditional programming of salvation and justice within the Zone.
- The imagery of the 'Oven' and the 'pyrotechnic Cross' evokes a sacrificial ritual that transcends mere technological advancement.
The liquid oxygen runs freezing so close to your cheek, bones of frost to burn you past feeling.
876
Gravityâs RaInsow
mann has engineered all the symbolism today. The glove
is the female equivalent of the Hand of Glory, which
second-story men use to light their way into your home: a
candle in a dead manâs hand, erect as all your tissue will
grow at the first delicious tongue-flick of your mistress
Death. The glove is the cavity into which the Hand fits,
as the 00000 is the womb into which Gottfried returns.
Stuff him in. Not a Procrustean bed, but modified to
take him. The two, boy and Rocket, concurrently designed.
Its steel hindquarters bent so beautifully... he fits well.
They are mated to each other, Schwarzgerit and next
higher assembly, His bare limbs in their metal bondage
writhe among the fuel, oxidizer, live-steam lines, thrust
frame, compressed air battery, exhaust elbow, decomposer,
tanks, vents, valves... and one of these valves, one test-
point, one pressure-switch
is the right one, the true
clitoris,
routed
directly
into
the nervous
system
of
the
oooo0,
She
should
not
be a mystery
to you,
Gottfried,
Find
the
zone
of love,
lick and kiss...
you have timeâthere
are
still
a few minutes.
The ©
liquid oxygen runs freezing so close to your cheek, bones
of frost to burn you past feeling. Soon there will be the
fires, too. The Oven we fattened you for will glow. Here
â
is the sergeant, bringing the Ziindkreuz. The pyrotechnic -
Cross to light you off. The men are at attention. Get ready,
_
Liebchen.
a
&,
]
HARDWARE
et
Heâs been given a window of artificial sapphire, four â
inches across, grown by the IG in 1942 as a mushroom-
_
shaped boule, a touch of cobalt added to give it a green-
ish tintâvery heat-resistant, transparent to most visible _
frequenciesâit warps the images of sky and clouds out- -
side, but pleasantly, like Ochsen-Augen in Grandmother's
â
day, the days before window-glass....
|
:
Part of the vaporized oxygen is routed through Gott-
friedâs Imipolex shroud. In one of his ears, a) tiny speaker
has been surgically implanted. It shines like la pretty ear-_
ring. The data link runs through the radio-guidance sys-
tem, and the words of Weissmann are to be, for a while, â
multiplexed with the error-corrections sent out to the
The Counterforce
877
Rocket. But thereâs no return channel from Gottfried to the
ground. Theâ exact moment of his death will never be
known.
CHAsE Music
At long last, after a distinguished career of uttering,
âMy God, we are too late!â always with the trace of a
sneer, a pro-forma condescensionâbecause of course he
never arrives too late, thereâs always a reprieve, a mistake
by one of the Yellow Adversaryâs hired bunglers, at worst
a vital clue to be found next to the bodyânow, finally, Sir
Denis Nayland Smith will arrive, my God, too late.
Superman will swoop boots-first into a deserted clear-
ing, a launcher-erector sighing oil through a slow seal-leak,
gum evoked from the trees, bitter manna for this bitterest
of passages. The colors of his cape will wilt in the after-
noon sun, curls on his head begin to show their first threads
of gray. Philip Marlowe will suffer a horrible migraine and
reach by reflex for the pint of rye in his suit pocket, and
feel homesick for the lacework balconies of the Bradbury
Building.
- Submariner and his multilingual gang will run into bat-
tery trouble. Plasticman will lose his way among the
Imipolex chains, and topologists all over the Zone will run
out and stop payments on his honorarium checks (âper-
fectly deformable,â indeed!) The Lone Ranger will storm
in at the head of a posse, rowels tearing blood from the
stallionâs white hide, to find his young friend, innocent
Dan, swinging from a tree limb by a broken neck. (Tonto,
God willing, will put on the ghost shirt and find some cold
fire to hunker down by to sharpen his knife.)
âToo lateâ was never in their programming. They find
instead a momentâs suspending of their sanityâbut then
itâs over with, whew, and itâs back to the trail, back to the
Daily Planet. Yes Jimmy, it mustâve been the day I ran
into that singularity, those few seconds of absolute mystery
... you know Jimmy, timeâtime is a funny thing....
There'll be a thousand ways to forget. The heroes will go
on, kicked upstairs to oversee the development of bright
new middle-line personnel, and they will watch their Sys-
tem falling apart, watch those singularities begin to come
\
The Countdown and the Tree
- Pointsman reflects on his decline into a sterile, bureaucratic existence as an 'ex-scientist' who missed his chance at greatness.
- The narrative describes a shift from scientific discovery to a world of 'singularities' and 'cancer' that the old guard cannot comprehend.
- The historical origin of the rocket countdown is revealed as a cinematic device created by Fritz Lang for suspense.
- Kabbalist Steve Edelman reinterprets the countdown as a hidden representation of the Sephiroth and the Tree of Life.
- The 'Great Firing' of the Rocket is framed as the creation of a new Earth with a new axis, rendering old systems like astrology obsolete.
- The transition from serial time to parallel apprehension suggests a mystical reality concealed within modern technology.
So although the Rocket countdown appears to be serial, it actually conceals the Tree of Life, which must be apprehended all at once, together, in parallel.
The Counterforce
877
Rocket. But thereâs no return channel from Gottfried to the
ground. Theâ exact moment of his death will never be
known.
CHAsE Music
At long last, after a distinguished career of uttering,
âMy God, we are too late!â always with the trace of a
sneer, a pro-forma condescensionâbecause of course he
never arrives too late, thereâs always a reprieve, a mistake
by one of the Yellow Adversaryâs hired bunglers, at worst
a vital clue to be found next to the bodyânow, finally, Sir
Denis Nayland Smith will arrive, my God, too late.
Superman will swoop boots-first into a deserted clear-
ing, a launcher-erector sighing oil through a slow seal-leak,
gum evoked from the trees, bitter manna for this bitterest
of passages. The colors of his cape will wilt in the after-
noon sun, curls on his head begin to show their first threads
of gray. Philip Marlowe will suffer a horrible migraine and
reach by reflex for the pint of rye in his suit pocket, and
feel homesick for the lacework balconies of the Bradbury
Building.
- Submariner and his multilingual gang will run into bat-
tery trouble. Plasticman will lose his way among the
Imipolex chains, and topologists all over the Zone will run
out and stop payments on his honorarium checks (âper-
fectly deformable,â indeed!) The Lone Ranger will storm
in at the head of a posse, rowels tearing blood from the
stallionâs white hide, to find his young friend, innocent
Dan, swinging from a tree limb by a broken neck. (Tonto,
God willing, will put on the ghost shirt and find some cold
fire to hunker down by to sharpen his knife.)
âToo lateâ was never in their programming. They find
instead a momentâs suspending of their sanityâbut then
itâs over with, whew, and itâs back to the trail, back to the
Daily Planet. Yes Jimmy, it mustâve been the day I ran
into that singularity, those few seconds of absolute mystery
... you know Jimmy, timeâtime is a funny thing....
There'll be a thousand ways to forget. The heroes will go
on, kicked upstairs to oversee the development of bright
new middle-line personnel, and they will watch their Sys-
tem falling apart, watch those singularities begin to come
\
ad
878
Gravityâs Rarnsow
more and more often, proclaiming another dispensation
out of the
tissue of old-fashioned time, and they'll call it
cancer, and just wonât know what things are coming to, or
whatâs the meaning of it all, Jimmy. ...
These days, he finds he actually misses the dogs. Who
would have thought heâd ever feel sentimental over a pack
of slobbering curs? But here in the Sub-ministry all is so
odorless, touchless. The sensory deprivation, for a while,
did stimulate his curiosity. For a while he kept a faithful
daily record of his physiological changes. But this was
mostly remembering about Pavlov on his own deathbed,
recording himself till the end. With Pointsman itâs only
habit, retro-scientism:
a last look back at the door to
Stockholm, closing behind him forever. The entries began
to fall off, and presently stopped. He signed reports, he
supervised, He traveled to other parts of England, later to
other countries, to scout for fresh talent. In the faces of
Mossmoon and the others, at odd moments, he could detect
a reflex heâd never allowed himself to dream of: the toler-
ance of men in power for one who never Made His Move, â
or made it wrong. Of course there are still moments of ©
creative challengeâ
We
4
Yes, well, heâs an ex-scientist now, one who'll never get â
Into It far enough to start talking about God, apple- :
d
cheeked lovable white-haired eccentric gabbing from the
vantage of his Laureateâno he'll be left only with Cause j
and Effect, and the rest of his sterile armamentarium...
his mineral corridors do not shine. They will stay the same
neutral nameless tone from here in to the central chamber, â
and the perfectly rehearsed scene he is to play there,
after all....
te
:
CountTDOWN
The countdown as we know it, 10-9-8-u.s.w., was in-
vented by Fritz Lang in 1929 for the Ufa film Die Frau in â
Mond. He put it into the launch scene to heighten
suspense. âIt is another of my damned âtouches, â F;
Lang said.
ie
Beth
:
âAt the Creation,â explains Kabbalist spokesman Steve
Edelman, âGod sent out a pulse of energy into the void.
It presently branched and sorted into ten distinct spheres
â
The Counterforce
879
or aspects, corresponding to the numbers 1-10. These are
known as the Sephiroth. To return to God, the soul must
negotiate each of the Sephiroth, from ten back to one.
Armed with magic and faith, Kabbalists have set out toâ
conquer the Sephiroth. Many Kabbalist secrets have to do
with making the trip successfully.
âNow the Sephiroth fall into a pattern, which is called
the Tree of Life. It is also the body of God. Drawn among
the ten spheres are 22 paths. Each path corresponds to a
letter of the Hebrew alphabet, and also to one of the
cards called âMajor Arcanaâ in the Tarot. So although the
Rocket countdown appears to be serial, it actually conceals
the Tree of Life, which must be apprehended all at once,
together, in parallel.
_
âSome Sephiroth are active or masculine, others passive
or feminine. But the Tree itself is a unity, rooted exactly
at the Bodenplatte. It is the axis of a particular Earth, a
new dispensation, brought into being by the Great Firing.â
âBut but with a new axis, a newly spinning Earth,â it
occurs to the visitor, âwhat happens to astrology?â
âThe signs change, idiot,â snaps Edelman, reaching for
his family-size jar of Thorazine. He has become such a
habitual user of this tranquilizing drug that his complexion
has deepened to an alarming slate-purple. It makes him an
oddity on the street here, where everybody else walks
around suntanned, and red-eyed from one
irritant or
another.
Edelmanâs
children, mischievous
little devils,
have lately taken to slipping wafer capacitors from junked
transistor radios into Popâs Thorazine jar. To his inattentive
eye there was hardly any difference: so, for a while, Edel-
man thought he must be developing a tolerance, and that
the Abyss had crept intolerably close, only an accident
awayâa siren in the street, a jet plane rumbling in a hold-
ing patternâbut luckily his wife discovered the prank in
time, and now, before he swallows, he is careful to scruti-
nize each Thorazine for leads, muâs, numbering.
âHereââ hefting a fat Xeroxed sheaf, âthe Ephemeris.
Based on the new rotation.â
âYou mean someoneâs actually found the Bodenplatte?
The Pole?â
âThe delta-t itself. It wasnât made public, naturally. The
âKaisersbart Expeditionâ found it.â
â\ Ă©
The Shroud and the Adenoid
- Edelman narrowly avoids a psychological crisis after his children prank him by replacing his Thorazine with radio capacitors.
- Gottfried is sealed inside the Imipolex shroud of the Rocket, experiencing a sensory shift toward a 'transparent surface' of reality.
- The Imipolex material evokes deep, nostalgic childhood memories for Gottfried, framing his imminent sacrifice as a form of awakening.
- The narrative shifts to Los Angeles, introducing Richard M. Zhlubb, the manager of the Orpheus Theatre, known as 'the Adenoid.'
- Zhlubb complains about the 'anarchy' caused by harmonica players in his theater queues during European film festivals.
The soft smell of Imipolex, wrapping him absolutely, is a smell he knows.
The Counterforce
879
or aspects, corresponding to the numbers 1-10. These are
known as the Sephiroth. To return to God, the soul must
negotiate each of the Sephiroth, from ten back to one.
Armed with magic and faith, Kabbalists have set out toâ
conquer the Sephiroth. Many Kabbalist secrets have to do
with making the trip successfully.
âNow the Sephiroth fall into a pattern, which is called
the Tree of Life. It is also the body of God. Drawn among
the ten spheres are 22 paths. Each path corresponds to a
letter of the Hebrew alphabet, and also to one of the
cards called âMajor Arcanaâ in the Tarot. So although the
Rocket countdown appears to be serial, it actually conceals
the Tree of Life, which must be apprehended all at once,
together, in parallel.
_
âSome Sephiroth are active or masculine, others passive
or feminine. But the Tree itself is a unity, rooted exactly
at the Bodenplatte. It is the axis of a particular Earth, a
new dispensation, brought into being by the Great Firing.â
âBut but with a new axis, a newly spinning Earth,â it
occurs to the visitor, âwhat happens to astrology?â
âThe signs change, idiot,â snaps Edelman, reaching for
his family-size jar of Thorazine. He has become such a
habitual user of this tranquilizing drug that his complexion
has deepened to an alarming slate-purple. It makes him an
oddity on the street here, where everybody else walks
around suntanned, and red-eyed from one
irritant or
another.
Edelmanâs
children, mischievous
little devils,
have lately taken to slipping wafer capacitors from junked
transistor radios into Popâs Thorazine jar. To his inattentive
eye there was hardly any difference: so, for a while, Edel-
man thought he must be developing a tolerance, and that
the Abyss had crept intolerably close, only an accident
awayâa siren in the street, a jet plane rumbling in a hold-
ing patternâbut luckily his wife discovered the prank in
time, and now, before he swallows, he is careful to scruti-
nize each Thorazine for leads, muâs, numbering.
âHereââ hefting a fat Xeroxed sheaf, âthe Ephemeris.
Based on the new rotation.â
âYou mean someoneâs actually found the Bodenplatte?
The Pole?â
âThe delta-t itself. It wasnât made public, naturally. The
âKaisersbart Expeditionâ found it.â
â\ Ă©
880
Gravityâs RAINBOW
A pseudonym, evidently. Everyone knows the Kaiser
has no beard.
,
StrruNG INTO THE APOLLONIAN DREAM...
-
When something real is about to happen to you, you go
toward it with a transparent surface parallel to your own
front that hums and bisects both your ears, making eyes
very alert. The light bends toward chalky blue. Your skin
aches, At last: something real.
Here in the tail section of the ooooo, Gottfried has
found this clear surface before him in fact, literal: theâ
Imipolex shroud. Flotsam from his childhood are rising
through his attention. Heâs remembering the skin of an
apple, bursting with nebulae, a look into curved reddening
space. His eyes taken on and on, and further.... The ©
plastic surface flutters minutely: gray-white, mocking, an
â
enemy of color.
F
The day outside is raw and the victim lightly dressed, â
but he feels warm in here. His white stockings stretch
nicely from his suspender-tabs, He has found a shallow
bend in a pipe where he can rest his cheek as he gazes
into the shroud. He feels his hair tickling his back, his i
bared shoulders, Itâs a dim, whited room. A room for lying
â
in, bridal and open to the pallid spaces of the evening, â
waiting for whatever will fallon him.
Phone traffic drones into his wired ear, The voices are
metal and drastically filtered. They buzz like the voices of
:
surgeons, heard as you're going under ether. Though they i
now only speak the ritual words, he can still tell them
apart.
:
oa
The soft smell of Imipolex, wrapping
him absolutely,
is
a smell he knows. It doesnât frighten him, It was in the
room when he fell asleep so long ago, so deep in sweet â
paralyzed childhood .
. . it was there as he began to dream.
Now it is time to wake, into the breath of what was al-
ways real. Come, wake. All is well.
Me
OrrHEus Puts Down ack
LOS ANGELES (PNS)âRichard
M, Zhlubb, night manages :
of the Orpheus Theatre on Melrose, has come out against
gy:
_ The Counterforce
881
' what he calls âirresponsible use of the harmonica.â Or,
actually, âharbodica,â since Manager Zhlubb suffers from
_.a chronic adenoidal condition, which affects his speech.
_ Friends and detractors alike think of him as âthe Adenoid.â
' Anyway, Zhlubb states that his queues, especially for mid-
_ night showings, have fallen into a state of near anarchy
_ because of the musical instrument.
_ _ âIts been going on ever since our Bengt Ekerot / Maria
_ CasarĂ©s Film Festival,â complains Zhlubb, who is fiftyish
_/and jowled, with a permanent five-oâclock shadow (the
- worst by far of all the Hourly Shadows), and a habit of
- throwing his arms up into an inverted âpeace sign,â which
_ also happens to be semaphore code for the letter U, ex-
posing in the act uncounted yards of white French cuff.
_
âHere, Richard,â jeers a passerby, âI got your French
cuff, right here,â meanwhile exposing himself in the
_ grossest possible way and manipulating his foreskin in a
-manner your correspondent cannot set upon his page.
Manager Zhlubb winces slightly. âThatâs one of the
_ ringleaders, definitely,â he confides. âIâve had a lot of
trouble, with him. Him and that Steve Edelman.â He pro-
- nounces it âEdelbid:â âIâb dot afraid to dabe dabes.â
__
The case he refers to is still pending. Steve Edelman, a
_ Hollywood. businessman, accused last year of an 11569
_
(Attempted Mopery with a Subversive Instrument), is
currently in Atascadero under indefinite observation. It is
_ alleged that Edelman, in an unauthorized state of mind,
_
attempted to play a chord progression on the Department
_ of Justice list, out in the street and in the presence of a
whole movie-queue of witnesses.
_
âA-and now they're all doing it. Well, not âall,â let me
just clarify that, of course the actual lawbreakers are only
_
a small but loud minority, what I meant to say was, all
those like Edelman. Certainly not all those good folks in
the queue. A-ha-ha. Here, let me show you something.â
He ushers you into the black Managerial Volkswagen,
_and before you know it, you're on the freeways, Near the
interchange of the San Diego and the Santa Monica,
_ Zhlubb points to a stretch of pavement: âHereâs where I
_ got my first glimpse of one. Driving a VW, just like mine.
_ Imagine. I couldnât believe my eyes.â But it is difficult to
_ keep oneâs whole attention centered on Manager Zhlubb.
4
Manager Zhlubb's Freeway Tour
- Manager Zhlubb discusses the arrest of Steve Edelman for 'Attempted Mopery' involving a prohibited chord progression.
- The Santa Monica Freeway is depicted as a chaotic space populated by 'freaks' who openly defy social prohibitions.
- Zhlubb reveals his car is equipped with a stereo system capable of playing various pre-recorded crowd reactions, from cheers to nuclear fire-fights.
- The Manager explains that the establishment uses codes not to exclude, but to provide a sense of 'fair play' and hope to the public.
- The scene concludes with a funeral procession in downtown L.A. as Zhlubb mourns a lost peer using canned laughter tapes.
No, one hesitates to say it, but the Santa Monica is a freeway for freaks, and they are all out today, making it difficult for you to follow the Managerâs entertaining story.
_ The Counterforce
881
' what he calls âirresponsible use of the harmonica.â Or,
actually, âharbodica,â since Manager Zhlubb suffers from
_.a chronic adenoidal condition, which affects his speech.
_ Friends and detractors alike think of him as âthe Adenoid.â
' Anyway, Zhlubb states that his queues, especially for mid-
_ night showings, have fallen into a state of near anarchy
_ because of the musical instrument.
_ _ âIts been going on ever since our Bengt Ekerot / Maria
_ CasarĂ©s Film Festival,â complains Zhlubb, who is fiftyish
_/and jowled, with a permanent five-oâclock shadow (the
- worst by far of all the Hourly Shadows), and a habit of
- throwing his arms up into an inverted âpeace sign,â which
_ also happens to be semaphore code for the letter U, ex-
posing in the act uncounted yards of white French cuff.
_
âHere, Richard,â jeers a passerby, âI got your French
cuff, right here,â meanwhile exposing himself in the
_ grossest possible way and manipulating his foreskin in a
-manner your correspondent cannot set upon his page.
Manager Zhlubb winces slightly. âThatâs one of the
_ ringleaders, definitely,â he confides. âIâve had a lot of
trouble, with him. Him and that Steve Edelman.â He pro-
- nounces it âEdelbid:â âIâb dot afraid to dabe dabes.â
__
The case he refers to is still pending. Steve Edelman, a
_ Hollywood. businessman, accused last year of an 11569
_
(Attempted Mopery with a Subversive Instrument), is
currently in Atascadero under indefinite observation. It is
_ alleged that Edelman, in an unauthorized state of mind,
_
attempted to play a chord progression on the Department
_ of Justice list, out in the street and in the presence of a
whole movie-queue of witnesses.
_
âA-and now they're all doing it. Well, not âall,â let me
just clarify that, of course the actual lawbreakers are only
_
a small but loud minority, what I meant to say was, all
those like Edelman. Certainly not all those good folks in
the queue. A-ha-ha. Here, let me show you something.â
He ushers you into the black Managerial Volkswagen,
_and before you know it, you're on the freeways, Near the
interchange of the San Diego and the Santa Monica,
_ Zhlubb points to a stretch of pavement: âHereâs where I
_ got my first glimpse of one. Driving a VW, just like mine.
_ Imagine. I couldnât believe my eyes.â But it is difficult to
_ keep oneâs whole attention centered on Manager Zhlubb.
4
882
Gravityâs RAInsow
The Santa Monica Freeway is traditionally the scene of
every form of automotive folly known to man. It is not
white and well-bred like the San Diego, nor as treacher-
ously engineered as the Pasadena, nor quite as ghetto-
suicidal as the Harbor. No, one hesitates to say it, but the
Santa Monica is a freeway for freaks, and they are all out
today, making it difficult for you to follow the Managerâs
entertaining story. You cannot repress a certain shudder
of distaste, almost
a reflexive Consciousness of Kind,
in their presence. They come gibbering in at you from
all sides, swarming in, rolling their eyes through the
side windows, playing harmonicas and even kazoos, in full
â
disrespect for the Prohibitions,
âRelax,â the Managerâs eyes characteristically aglitter,
â
âThere'll be a nice secure home for them all, down in
Orange County. Right next to Disneyland,â pausing then
exactly like a nightclub comic, alone in his tar circle, his
chalk terror,
Laughter surrounds you. Full, faithful-audience laughter,
â
coming from the four points of the padded interior. You
realize, with a vague sense of dismay, that this is some
kind of a stereo rig here, and a glance inside the glove
compartment reveals an entire library of similar tapes:
CHEERING (AFFECTIONATE), CHEERING (AROUSED), HOSTILE
MOB in an assortment of 22 languages, YESES, NOES, NEGRO
SUPPORTERS, WOMEN SUPPORTERS, ATHLETICâoh, come
NOWâFIRE-FIGHT
(CONVENTIONAL),
âFIRE-FIGHT
(NU-â
CLEAR), FIRE-FIGHT (URBAN), CATHEDRAL ACOUSTICS.....
âWe have to talk in some kind of code, naturally,â con-
tinues the Manager. âWe always have. But none of the ©
codes is that hard to break. Opponents have accused us,
for just that reason, of contempt for the people. But really
we do it all in the spirit of fair play. We're not monsters.
We know we have to give them some chance. We canât
take hope away from them, can we?â
:
4
ay
The Volkswagen is now over downtown L.A., where
the stream of traffic edges aside for a convoy of dark
Lincolns, some Fords, even GMCs, but not
a Pontiac
in
the lot. Stuck on each windshield and rear! window is a
fluorescent orange strip that reads FUNERAL.
Me)
The Manager's sniffling now. âHe was one of the best.
I couldnât go myself, but I did send a high-level assisant.
-Who'll ever replace him, I wonder,â punching a sly button
om
Al
The Counterforce
883
under the dash. The laughter this time is sparse male oh-
hohoâs with an edge of cigar smoke and aged bourbon,
Sparse but loud. Phrases like âDick, you character!â and
_ âListen to him,â can also be made out.
_ âI have a fantasy about how I'll die. I suppose you're
on their payroll, but thatâs all right. Listen to this. Itâs
3 a.m., on the Santa Monica Freeway, a warm night. All
my windows are open. Iâm doing about 70, 75. The wind
_ blows in, and from the floor in back lifts a thin plastic
bag, a common dry-cleaning bag: it comes floating in the
air, moving from behind, the mercury lights turning it
white as a ghost... it wraps around my head, so super-
fine and transparent I donât know itâs there really until
too late. A plastic shroud, smothering me to my death. . . .â
Heading up the Hollywood Freeway, between a mys-
teriously-canvased trailer rig and a liquid-hydrogen tanker
sleek as a torpedo, we come upon a veritable caravan of
harmonica players. âAt least itâs not those tambourines,â
Zhlubb mutters, âThere arenât as many tambourines as last
year, thank God.â
Quilted-steel catering trucks crisscross in the afternoon.
Their ripples shine like a lake of potable water after hard
desert passage. Itâs a Collection Day, and the garbage
trucks are all heading north toward the Ventura Freeway,
a catharsis of dumpsters, all hues, shapes and batterings.
Returning to the Center, with all the gathered fragments
of the Vessels....
The sound of a siren takes you both unaware. Zhlubb
se up sharply into his mirror. âYou're not holding, are
you
But the sound is greater than police, It wraps the con-
crete and the smog, it fills the basin and mountains further
than any mortal could ever move...could move
in
time,...
âI donât think thatâs a police siren.â Your guts in a
K
you reach for the knob of the AM radio. âI donât
t
p
ates
\
Tue CLEARING
_ âRaumen,â cries Captain Blicero, Peroxide and perman-
ganate tanks have been serviced. The gyros are mun up.
Observers crouch down in the slit trenches. Tools and
\
nts
as
i. -2eae
The Final Launch Ritual
- A surreal freeway journey through Los Angeles features a character's vivid fantasy of death by a plastic dry-cleaning bag.
- The narrative shifts to a chaotic caravan of harmonica players and garbage trucks, described as a gathering of fragments of the Vessels.
- A siren of cosmic proportions interrupts the scene, transcending police authority and filling the entire basin and mountains.
- The setting transitions to Captain Blicero at a launch site, overseeing the final technical preparations for a rocket firing.
- Blicero experiences a moment of internal tension between the cold, velvet grip of military ritual and haunting, eroticized memories.
- The sequence concludes with the precise, mechanical countdown as the rocket reaches its final stage of ignition.
A plastic shroud, smothering me to my death. . . .
The Counterforce
883
under the dash. The laughter this time is sparse male oh-
hohoâs with an edge of cigar smoke and aged bourbon,
Sparse but loud. Phrases like âDick, you character!â and
_ âListen to him,â can also be made out.
_ âI have a fantasy about how I'll die. I suppose you're
on their payroll, but thatâs all right. Listen to this. Itâs
3 a.m., on the Santa Monica Freeway, a warm night. All
my windows are open. Iâm doing about 70, 75. The wind
_ blows in, and from the floor in back lifts a thin plastic
bag, a common dry-cleaning bag: it comes floating in the
air, moving from behind, the mercury lights turning it
white as a ghost... it wraps around my head, so super-
fine and transparent I donât know itâs there really until
too late. A plastic shroud, smothering me to my death. . . .â
Heading up the Hollywood Freeway, between a mys-
teriously-canvased trailer rig and a liquid-hydrogen tanker
sleek as a torpedo, we come upon a veritable caravan of
harmonica players. âAt least itâs not those tambourines,â
Zhlubb mutters, âThere arenât as many tambourines as last
year, thank God.â
Quilted-steel catering trucks crisscross in the afternoon.
Their ripples shine like a lake of potable water after hard
desert passage. Itâs a Collection Day, and the garbage
trucks are all heading north toward the Ventura Freeway,
a catharsis of dumpsters, all hues, shapes and batterings.
Returning to the Center, with all the gathered fragments
of the Vessels....
The sound of a siren takes you both unaware. Zhlubb
se up sharply into his mirror. âYou're not holding, are
you
But the sound is greater than police, It wraps the con-
crete and the smog, it fills the basin and mountains further
than any mortal could ever move...could move
in
time,...
âI donât think thatâs a police siren.â Your guts in a
K
you reach for the knob of the AM radio. âI donât
t
p
ates
\
Tue CLEARING
_ âRaumen,â cries Captain Blicero, Peroxide and perman-
ganate tanks have been serviced. The gyros are mun up.
Observers crouch down in the slit trenches. Tools and
\
nts
as
i. -2eae
884
Gravity's RaInBsow
fittings are stashed rattling in the back of an idling lorry.
The battery-loading crew and the sergeant who screwed
in the percussion pin climb in after, and the truck hauls
away down the fresh brown ruts of earth, into the
trees. Blicero remains for a few seconds at launch posi-
tion, looking around to see that all is in order. Then ~
he turns away and walks, with deliberate speed, to the
fire-control car.
âSteuerung klar?â he asks the boy at the steering panel.
âIst klar.â In the lights from the panel, Maxâs face is
hard, stubborn gold.
âTreibwerk klar?â
âIst klar,â from Moritz at the robe motor panel. Into
the phone dangling at his neck, he tells the Ope
Room, âLuftlage klar.â
âSchliissel auf SCHIESSEN,â orders Blicero.
Moritz turns the main key to FIRE. âSchliissel steht auf
SCHIESSEN,â
Klar;
|
There ought to be big dramatic pauses here. Weiss-
mannâs head ought to be teeming with last images of
creamy buttocks knotted together in fear (not one trickle â
of shit, Liebchen?) the last curtain of gold lashes over
â
young eyes pleading, gagged throat trying to say too late
â
what he should have said in the tent last night... deep in
â
the throat, the gullet, where Bliceroâs own cockâs head has â
burst for the last time
(but whatâs this just past the â
spasming cervix, past the Curve Into The Darkness The ~
Stink The...The White...The Corner.
. Waiting. my 4
Waiting Forâ). But no, the ritual has its velvet grip on
them all. So strong, so warm.
âDurchschalten.â Bliceroâs voice is alee and steady.
âLuftlage klar,â Max calls from the steering panel.
Moritz presses the button marked vorstuFE. âIst durch- â
geschaltet.â
oe
A pause of 15 seconds while thé?
âomega tank comes up
to pressure. A light blazes up on Moritzâs ent XY
.
Entliftung. âBeluftung klar.â
The ignition lamp lights: Zundung. a aes
Klar,
âa=
Then, âVorstufe klar.â Vorstufe is the last position from
which Moritz can still switch backward. The flame grows
at the base of the Rocket. Colors develop. There is a period
of four seconds here, four seconds of indeterminacy.
T
The Final Ascent
- The narrative depicts the precise and ritualistic launch of a rocket, emphasizing the critical moment of transition to full power.
- A passenger is revealed to be inside the craft, experiencing the physical and psychological intensity of the acceleration.
- The ascent is framed as a paradoxical promise of escape from gravity that is ultimately destined to fail.
- As the rocket climbs, the passenger experiences a sensory dissolution where memories and identities begin to blur and fade.
- The passage explores themes of whiteness and bleaching as metaphors for the finality of the journey and the erasure of the self.
The Rocket stays a moment longer on the steel table, then slowly, trembling, furiously muscular, it begins to rise.
884
Gravity's RaInBsow
fittings are stashed rattling in the back of an idling lorry.
The battery-loading crew and the sergeant who screwed
in the percussion pin climb in after, and the truck hauls
away down the fresh brown ruts of earth, into the
trees. Blicero remains for a few seconds at launch posi-
tion, looking around to see that all is in order. Then ~
he turns away and walks, with deliberate speed, to the
fire-control car.
âSteuerung klar?â he asks the boy at the steering panel.
âIst klar.â In the lights from the panel, Maxâs face is
hard, stubborn gold.
âTreibwerk klar?â
âIst klar,â from Moritz at the robe motor panel. Into
the phone dangling at his neck, he tells the Ope
Room, âLuftlage klar.â
âSchliissel auf SCHIESSEN,â orders Blicero.
Moritz turns the main key to FIRE. âSchliissel steht auf
SCHIESSEN,â
Klar;
|
There ought to be big dramatic pauses here. Weiss-
mannâs head ought to be teeming with last images of
creamy buttocks knotted together in fear (not one trickle â
of shit, Liebchen?) the last curtain of gold lashes over
â
young eyes pleading, gagged throat trying to say too late
â
what he should have said in the tent last night... deep in
â
the throat, the gullet, where Bliceroâs own cockâs head has â
burst for the last time
(but whatâs this just past the â
spasming cervix, past the Curve Into The Darkness The ~
Stink The...The White...The Corner.
. Waiting. my 4
Waiting Forâ). But no, the ritual has its velvet grip on
them all. So strong, so warm.
âDurchschalten.â Bliceroâs voice is alee and steady.
âLuftlage klar,â Max calls from the steering panel.
Moritz presses the button marked vorstuFE. âIst durch- â
geschaltet.â
oe
A pause of 15 seconds while thé?
âomega tank comes up
to pressure. A light blazes up on Moritzâs ent XY
.
Entliftung. âBeluftung klar.â
The ignition lamp lights: Zundung. a aes
Klar,
âa=
Then, âVorstufe klar.â Vorstufe is the last position from
which Moritz can still switch backward. The flame grows
at the base of the Rocket. Colors develop. There is a period
of four seconds here, four seconds of indeterminacy.
T
oe
The Counterforce
885
rial even has a place for that. The difference between a
top-grade launch officer and one doomed to mediocrity is
in knowing exactly when, inside this chiming and fable-
crowded passage, to order Hauptstufe.
Blicero is a master. He learned quite early to fall into
. a trance, to wait for the illumination, which always comes.
It is nothing heâs ever spoken of aloud.
âHauptstufe.â
âHauptstufe ist gegeben.â
. The panel is latched forever.
- Two lights wink out. âStecker 1 und 2 gefallen,â Moritz
$OBORE: The Stotz plugs lie blasted on the ground, tossing
in the splash of flame. On gravity feed, the flame is bright
_ yellow. Then the turbine begins to roar. The flame sud-
denly turns blue. The sound of it grows to full cry. The
_ Rocket stays a moment longer on the steel table, then
_ slowly, trembling, furiously muscular, it begins to rise.
Four seconds later it begins to pitch over. But the flame is
_ too bright for anyone to see Gottfried inside, except now
_ as an erotic category, hallucinated out of that blue vio-
lence, for purposes of self-arousal.
ASCENT
This ascent will be betrayed to Gravity. But the Rocket
engine, the deep cry of combustion that jars the soul,
_ promises escape. The victim, in bondage to falling, rises
on a promise, a prophecy, of Escape. .
Moving now toward the kind of light where at last the
apple is apple-colored. The knife cuts through the apple
_ like a knife cutting an apple. Everything is where it is, no
clearer than usual, but certainly more present. So much
has to be left behind now, so quickly. Pressed down-and-
aft im his elastic bonds, pressed painfully (his pectorals
ache, an inner thigh has frozen numb) till his forehead is
bent to touch one knee, where his hair rubs in a touch
erying or submissive as a balcony empty in the rain,
Gottfried does not wish to cry out... he knows they canât
a hear him, but still he prefers not tors ito âradio, back ta
_ them...
it was done as a favor, Blicero wanted to make it
1si⏠for me, he knew I'd try to hold onâhold each voice,
os each
+ hum or crackleâ
*âp
ao eeâ
886
Gravity's Ramnsow
.
last thin pages fluttering closed, a line gently, passively
unfinished, a pastel hesitancy: Bliceroâs hair is darker,
shoulder-length and permanently waved, he is an adoles-
cent squire or page looking into an optical device and
beckoning the child Gottfried with a motherly or eager-to-
educate look... now he is far away, seated, at the end of
an olive room, past shapes going out of focus, shapes
Gottfried canât identify as friend or enemy, between him
andâwhere did heâitâs already gone, no...
they're be- _
ginning to slide away now faster than he can âhold, itâs like
falling to sleepâthey begin to blur CATCH you can hold
it steady enough to see a suspender-belt straining down ~
your thighs, white straps as slender as the legs of a fawn
~
and the points of the black... the black CATCH you've ©
let a number of them go by, Gottfried, important ones you
didnât want to miss... you know this is the last time...
CATCH when did the roaring stop? Brennschluss, when â
was Brennschluss it canât be this soon... but the burnt-out
tail-opening is swinging across the sun and through the ©
blonde hair of the victim hereâs a Brocken-specter, some-
oneâs, somethingâs shadow projected from out here in the
bright sun and darkening sky into the regions of gold, of
whitening, of growing still as underwater as Gravity dips
away briefly .
.. what is this death but a whitening, a carry-
ing of whiteness to ultrawhite, what is it but bleaches,
detergents, oxidizers, abrasivesâ Streckefuss heâs been
today to the boyâs tormented muscles, but more appro-
priately is he Blicker, Bleicheréde, Bleacher, Blicero, ex-
â
tending, rarefying the Caucasian pallor to an abolition of
pigment, of melanin, of spectrum, of separateness from
shade to shade, it is so white that CATCH the dog was a â
red setter, the last dogâs head, the kind dog come to see
â
him off canât remember what red meant, the pigeon he ~
chased was slateblue, but theyâre both white now beside
the canal that night the smell of trees oh I didnât want to â
lose that night CATCH a wave between
uses, across a
street, both houses are ships, oneâs going off on a long, an
important journey, and the waving is full of ease
and
affection CATCH last word from Blicero: |âThe edge of
evening... the long curve of people all wishing on fet
first Stes . Always remember those men aand vomen
â
j
The Final Delta-t
- The narrative reaches its terminal point as a Rocket descends silently toward a movie theater at nearly a mile per second.
- The audience in the theater, described as 'old fans' of the cinema, waits in the darkness of a broken film or a burnt-out bulb.
- The 'bright angel of death' is mistaken for a wishing star, representing the ultimate intersection of technology, myth, and mortality.
- The text transitions into a communal moment of impending destruction, offering a final 'delta-t'âan unmeasurable gap of timeâfor human touch or song.
- A forgotten hymn by William Slothrop is presented as a final collective act of grace for the 'Preterite'âthe passed-over and forgotten souls.
- The section concludes with a meta-textual shift to the author's biography, signaling the definitive end of the fictional world.
But it was not a star, it was falling, a bright angel of death, And in the darkening and awful expanse of screen something has kept on, a film we have not learned to see...
*âp
ao eeâ
886
Gravity's Ramnsow
.
last thin pages fluttering closed, a line gently, passively
unfinished, a pastel hesitancy: Bliceroâs hair is darker,
shoulder-length and permanently waved, he is an adoles-
cent squire or page looking into an optical device and
beckoning the child Gottfried with a motherly or eager-to-
educate look... now he is far away, seated, at the end of
an olive room, past shapes going out of focus, shapes
Gottfried canât identify as friend or enemy, between him
andâwhere did heâitâs already gone, no...
they're be- _
ginning to slide away now faster than he can âhold, itâs like
falling to sleepâthey begin to blur CATCH you can hold
it steady enough to see a suspender-belt straining down ~
your thighs, white straps as slender as the legs of a fawn
~
and the points of the black... the black CATCH you've ©
let a number of them go by, Gottfried, important ones you
didnât want to miss... you know this is the last time...
CATCH when did the roaring stop? Brennschluss, when â
was Brennschluss it canât be this soon... but the burnt-out
tail-opening is swinging across the sun and through the ©
blonde hair of the victim hereâs a Brocken-specter, some-
oneâs, somethingâs shadow projected from out here in the
bright sun and darkening sky into the regions of gold, of
whitening, of growing still as underwater as Gravity dips
away briefly .
.. what is this death but a whitening, a carry-
ing of whiteness to ultrawhite, what is it but bleaches,
detergents, oxidizers, abrasivesâ Streckefuss heâs been
today to the boyâs tormented muscles, but more appro-
priately is he Blicker, Bleicheréde, Bleacher, Blicero, ex-
â
tending, rarefying the Caucasian pallor to an abolition of
pigment, of melanin, of spectrum, of separateness from
shade to shade, it is so white that CATCH the dog was a â
red setter, the last dogâs head, the kind dog come to see
â
him off canât remember what red meant, the pigeon he ~
chased was slateblue, but theyâre both white now beside
the canal that night the smell of trees oh I didnât want to â
lose that night CATCH a wave between
uses, across a
street, both houses are ships, oneâs going off on a long, an
important journey, and the waving is full of ease
and
affection CATCH last word from Blicero: |âThe edge of
evening... the long curve of people all wishing on fet
first Stes . Always remember those men aand vomen
â
j
The Counterforce
887
_ point of light in the sky. The single point, and the Shadow
|
that has just gathered you in its sweep...â
Always remember.
The first star hangs between his feet.
Nowâ
-
DESCENT
: .
The rhythmic clapping resonates inside these walls,
| which are hard and glossy as coal: Come-on! Start-the-
| show! Come-on! Start-the-show! The screen is a dim page
_ spread before us, white and silent. The film has broken, or
|
a projector bulb has burned out. It was difficult even for
us, old fans who've always been at the movies (havenât
we?) to tell which before the darkness swept in. The last
{ image was too immediate for any eye to register, It may
| haye been a human figure, dreaming of an early evening
in each great capital luminous enough to tell him he will
| never die, coming outside to wish on the first star. But it
| was not a star, it was falling, a bright angel of death, And
I
in the darkening and awful expanse of screen serngunins
ââ
has kept on, a film we have not learned to see...
it is
now a âcloseup of the face, a face we all knowâ
_
And it is just here, just at this dark and silent fhe:
that the pointed tip of the Rocket, falling nearly a mile,
per second, absolutely and forever without sound, reaches
its last unmeasurable gap above the roof of âthis old
, theatre, the last delta-t.
| | There is time, if you need the comfort, to touch the
person next to you, or to reach between your own cold
\ legs...or, if song must find you, hereâs one They never
| taught anyone to sing, a hymn by William Slothrop, cen-
turies forgotten and out of print, sung to a simple and
Bestent air of the period. Follow the bouncing ball:
There is a Hand to turn the time,
Though thy Glass today be run,
_
Till the Light that hath hoagie the Towers low
Find the last poor Pret'rite one.
Till the Riders sleep by ev'ry road,
All through our crippIâd Zone,
ie
With a face on ev'ry Ss
onegpaga
ii
And a Soul in ev'ry stone. .
i: I low everybodyâ
Cy
Boga
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tuomas Pyncuon is known almost exclusively through â
his writing. In all other respects, he craves and guards â
his privacy. The public facts about his life are therefore
â
few and far between. He was bor in 1937 and attended â
Cornell University, where he published his first story,
âMortality and Mercy in Vienna,â in EPocH. Soon after
leaving
Cornell,
he published
three
short storiesâ
âUnder the Rose,â in NOBLE SAVAGE #3; âEntropy,â in
THE KENYON REVIEW; dnd âLow-Lands,â in NEW WORLD
writinc #16âwhich earned him an immediate repleee
tion among the narrow but intense circle of short story
readers. His novel V. won the coveted William Faulkner â
Foundation First Novel Award in 1963. His second nove
The Crying of Lot 49, appeared in 1966. Since then he
has published âThe Secret Investigationâ in THE SATUR--
DAY EVENING POST, and an essay on Los Angeles in
NEW YORK TIMES MAGAZINE. GRAVITYâS RAINBOW,
â
his third and most recent novel, was published in 1973.
Mr. Pynchon is currently rumored to spend his time
primarily in California and Mexico.
a
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_|âTREMENDOUSââNEWSWEEK
THOMAS PYNCHO
ON
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NOVELIST IN THE 70'S.
GRAVITYâS RAINBOW
HIS MOST HIGHLY PRAISED NOVEL.
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HELLER. BARTH. VONNEGUT. ,
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GRAVITYâS RAINB
Acclaim and the Zero
A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.
The Arrival of the Rocket
- A brilliant spark in the eastern sky reveals itself to be the vapor trail of a V-2 rocket, the secret German 'rocket bomb' launched vertically from across the sea.
The great power station, and the gasworks beyond, stand precisely: crystals grown in morningâs beaker, stacks, vents, towers, plumbing, gnarled emissions of steam and smoke....
The Fantasist-Surrogate
- Pirate Prentice serves as a psychic surrogate, experiencing the repressed fantasies and emotional burdens of others to maintain public order.
YesâIâmâtheâ Fellow thatâs hav-ing other peop-leâs fan-tasies, Suffering what they ought to be themselvesâ
The Stratigraphy of Slothrop's Desk
- The map is covered in a 'firmament' of multicolored gummed stars, each labeled with a woman's name and scattered across the city's geography.
The stars tacked up on Slothropâs map cover the available spectrum, beginning with silver (labeled âDarleneâ) sharing a constellation with Gladys, green, and Katharine, gold, and as the eye strays Alice, Delores, Shirley, a couple of Sallysâmostly red and blue through hereâa cluster near Tower Hill, a violet density about Covent Garden, a nebular streaming on into Mayfair, Soho, and out to Wembley and to Hampstead Heathâin every direction goes this multicolored, here and there peeling firmament, Marias, Annes, Susans, Elizabeths.
Slothrop's Progress Among Ruins
- The narrative introduces 'operational paranoia' as a psychological response to the invisible, sudden violence of the V-2 strikes.
The city around them at once a big desolate icebox, stale-smelling and no surprises inside ever again.
The Slothrop Family Necropolis
- The Slothrop fortune eventually dissolved into paper productsâtoilet paper, banknotes, and newsprintâwhich the text identifies as the mediums for 'shit, money, and the Word.'
The money seeping its way out through stock portfolios more intricate than any genealogy: what stayed at home in Berkshire went into timberland whose diminishing green reaches were converted acres at a clip into paperâtoilet paper, banknote stock, newsprintâa medium or ground for shit, money, and the Word.
Fires, Ghosts, and Sensitive Flames
Were the radiant curtains just about to swing open? What would the ghosts of the North, in their finery, have to show him?
The Illusion of Control
The windâ had been blowing all year long, year after year, but Roland had felt only the secular wind ... he means, only his wind.
The Statistics of Paranoia
âWhatâs the most frequent word?â asks Jessica. âYour number one.â âThe same as itâs always been at these affairs,â â the statistician, as if everyone knew: âdeath.â
The Swamp of Paranoia
- London is depicted as a chaotic hub of intra-Allied surveillance where various governments-in-exile plot against one another, often forgetting the German enemy in favor of internal vendettas.
Itâs a great swamp of paranoia.
The Ultraparadoxical Reflex
- The V-2 rocket creates a temporal reversal where the explosion occurs before the sound of its approach is heard.
Imagine a missile one hears approaching only after it explodes. The reversal! A piece of time neatly snipped out...a few feet of film run backwards...
The Poisson Distribution of Death
- Mexico faces the 'Monte Carlo Fallacy,' explaining that previous strikes in a specific square do not change the probability of future hits.
The rockets are distributing about London just as Poissonâs equation in the textbooks predicts.
The Kenosha Kid Variations
Death has come in the pantry door: stands watching them, iron and patient, with a look that says try to tickle me.
The Secrets of Kryptosam
- Messages are delivered alongside erotic imagery tailored to the recipient's specific psychosexual profile to ensure a physical reaction.
Slowly then, a revelation through the nacreous film of his seed, in Negro-brown, comes his message: put in a simple Nihilist transposition whose keywords he can almost guess.
Testing the Diseased Personality
- The ultimate goal of these projective techniques is total psychological control, bypassing the subject's ability to repress or falsify their responses.
But with the projec-tive technique, nothing he can do, con-scious or otherwise, can pre-vent us, from fin-ding what we need to know. We, are in control. He cannot help, him-self.
The Mystery of Infant Tyrone
- Pavlovian theory suggests that 'silent extinction' can exist beyond a zero response, implying a conditioned reflex might remain dormant for decades.
Odd, odd, oddâthink of the word: such white finality in its closing clap of tongue.
The Poisson Distribution of Desire
- The data reveals a temporal anomaly where Slothrop's 'stars' (sexual conquests) precede the rocket strikes by a mean lag of 4.5 days.
When we find it, we'll have shown again the stone determinacy of everything, of every soul.
The Alchemy of Katje and Osbie
Outside, the long rain in silicon and freezing descent smacks, desolate, slowly corrosive against the mediaeval windows, curtaining like smoke the river's far shore.
The Corruption of the Oven
- Blicero utilizes synthetic materials and fetishistic costumes, such as a rubberized 'false cunt' with steel blades, to inflict physical and psychological pain.
Inside herself, enclosed in the soignée surface of dear fabric and dead cells, she is corruption and ashes, she belongs in a way none of them can guess cruelly to the Oven...
The Rituals of the Oven
Often the rockets, crazed, turn at random, whinnying terribly in the sky, turn about and fall according each to its madness so unreachable and, it is feared, incurable.
Gottfried's Captivity and the Rocket
- Gottfried's innocence is characterized by a belief that 'captive children are always freed in the moment of maximum danger,' blinding him to the true lethality of his situation.
He knows, like everyone, that captive children are always freed in the moment of maximum danger.
The Celebration of Markets
- The narrative posits that the true essence of war is not violence, but the buying and selling of commodities within global markets.
The true war is a celebration of markets.
The Dodo and the Matchlock
- The act of hunting creates a metaphysical axis between the predator and the prey, culminating in a tense standoff where Frans waits to execute a hatching chick.
There they were, the silent egg and the crazy Dutchman, and the hookgun that linked them forever, framed, brilliantly motionless as any Vermeer.
The War as Machine
- A patient at 'The White Visitation' believes he is the physical embodiment of World War II, experiencing physiological shifts that mirror the movements of the front lines.
The War does not appear to want a folk-consciousness, not even of the sort the Germans have engineered, ein Volk ein Fiihrerâit wants a machine of many separate parts, not oneness, but a complexity.
The Empire of Falsehood
- A grotesque imagery of war-time sacrifice is presented through the metaphor of canteen girls sorting through human organs as if they were mundane commodities.
Is that who you are, that vaguely criminal face on your ID card, its soul snatched by the government camera as the guillotine shutter fellâor maybe just left behind with your heart?
The Dialectic of Terror
The five ghosts are strung in clear escalation: Pumm in a jeep accident, Easterling taken early in a raid by the Luftwaffe, Dromond by German artillery on Shellfire Corner, Lamplighter by a flying bomb, and now Kevin Spectro... auto, bomb, gun, V-1, and now V-2.
The Creeping Decline of Pointsman
One by one they are being picked off around him: in his small circle of colleagues the ratio slowly grows top-heavy, more ghosts, more each winter, and fewer living...
The Drama of the Epidermal
- Melanocytes are revealed to be former nerve cells that migrated from the central nervous system to the skin during embryonic development.
Itâs as if the body we can measure is a scrap of this programme found outside in the street, near a magnificent stone theatre we cannot enter.
The Angel of LĂŒbeck
- Confronted by this 'strike at heaven,' the pilots jettison their bombs haphazardly, abandoning their earthly mission in a state of spiritual bewilderment.
The eyes, which went towering for miles, shifting to follow their flight, the irises red as embers fairing through yellow to white, as they jettisoned all their bombs in no particular pattern, the fussy Norden device, sweat drops in the air all around its rolling eyepiece, bewildered at their unannounced need to climb, to give up a strike at earth for a strike at heaven.
The Revolution in Exile
- Vanya critiques capitalist expression as various forms of 'pornography'âfrom love to killingâdesigned to lull the public into a state of 'Absolute Comfort.'
AN ARMY OF LOVERS CAN BE BEATEN. These things appear on the walls of the Red districts in the course of the night.
The Ghost of Walter Rathenau
- The séance reveals a hidden web of global industrial collaboration that exists behind the public facade of national competition and diversity.
Is it any use for me to tell you that all you believe real is illusion? I donât know whether you'll listen, or ignore it. You only want to know about your path, your Autobahn.
The Technology of Death
- Industrial growth and the expansion of the Kartell are dismissed as illusionsâa 'clever robot' that masks a deepening structural commitment to death.
The real movement is not from death to any rebirth. It is from death to death-transfigured.
The Rationalized Power Ritual
She is the British warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the wintering sparrow he holds inside his hands.
The Englishmanâs Very Shy
Though heâs secretly held in re-ve-rent awe / As a sort of e-rot-ic Clausewitz....
The Forbidden Wing
- Slothrop senses the presence of 'Them,' an elite order that uses the world's ordinary objects for purposes entirely different from common understanding.
Meaning things to Them it has never meant to us. Never. Two orders of being, looking identical... but, but...
The Parabola and the Mustache
- Slothrop realizes that 'They' have colonized his mind, tilling his thoughts and subsidizing him to remain passive and intellectually barren.
They must have guessed, once or twiceâguessed and refused to believeâthat everything, always, collectively, had been moving toward that purified shape latent in the sky, that shape of no surprise, no second chances, no return.
The Impotent Recording Eye
Iâm an impotent manâall I have to look forward to is a book, Slothrop. A report to write...
The Ballistics of Desire
- Katje suggests that both she and the rocket are driven by 'secret lusts' and external forces that neither Slothrop nor their handlers fully comprehend.
Katje has understood the great airless arc as a clear allusion to certain secret lusts that drive the planet and herself, and Those who use herâover its peak and down, plunging, burning, toward a terminal orgasm...
Brigadier Pudding's Ritual Gauntlet
Now mustard gas comes washing in, into his brain with a fatal buzz as dreams will when we donât want them, or when we are suffocating.
The Brigadier and the Mistress
Lipstick, among these tough and too often shallow girls, prevails like blood.
The Poetry of Pain
They have stuffed paper illusions and military euphemisms between him and this truth, this rare decency, this moment at her scrupulous feet.
The Degradation of Brigadier Pudding
The stink of shit floods his nose, gathering him, surrounding. It is the smell of Passchendaele, of the Salient.
The Conservatism of Feedback
If any of the young engineers saw correspondence between the deep conservatism of Feedback and the kinds of lives they were coming to lead in the very process of embracing it, it got lost, or disguisedânone of them made the connection, at least not while alive.
Proverbs for Paranoids
- The narrative introduces the concept of 'Proverbs for Paranoids,' suggesting that the innocence of individuals is inversely proportional to the power of their masters.
Well, Slothrop can feel this beast in the sky: its visible claws and scales are being mistaken for clouds and other plausibilities . . . or else everyone has agreed to call them other names when Slothrop is listening.
Zoot Suits and Imipolex G
- The narrative traces the history of Slothrop's zoot suit back to Ricky Gutiérrez, a victim of the 1943 Zoot Suit Riots in Los Angeles.
The zoot suit is in a box tied with a purple ribbon. Keychainâs there too. They both belonged to a kid who used to live in East Los Angeles, named Ricky GutiĂ©rrez.
Refuge in the Underworld
She thumbs him upstairs and then gives him either the V-for-victory sign or some spell from distant countryside against the evil eye that sours the milk.
Slothrop's First Day Outside
For possibly the first time he is hearing America as it must sound to a non-American.
The Information Economy of War
Is it any wonder the worldâs gone insane, with information come to be the only real medium of exchange?
The Argentine Heart's Labyrinth
- The exiles view the post-war devastation of Germany as a rare, 'extraordinary' opportunity to find a blank slate where the power of the centralized state has been temporarily wiped clean.
We are obsessed with building labyrinths, where before there was open plain and sky.
Pointsman's Descent into Hallucination
Pointsman is hallucinating. He has lost control. Pointsman is supposed to have absolute control over Katje. Where does this leave her? In a control that is out of control.
Signs in the Zone
Whoever it was left a red tulip between Slothropâs toes. He has taken it for a sign.
The Slothrop Paper Connection
- The protagonist discovers his own family's involvement through the Slothrop Paper Company, triggering a visceral, traumatic physical reaction.
It is the breath of the Forbidden Wing...essence of all the still figures waiting for him inside, daring him to enter and find a secret he cannot survive.
The Schwarzknabe Dossier
- Slothrop realizes his entire life may have been a controlled experiment or a 'colonial outpost' for corporate entities like IG Farben.
Iâve been sold, Jesus Christ Iâve been sold to IG Farben like a side of beef.
The Parabola and the Mountain
- Light bulbs are framed as sacred icons for the 'passed over' multitudes, serving as the first targets of destruction during prisoner revolts.
As darkness is mined and transported from place to place like marble, so the light bulb is the chisel that delivers it from its inertia.
The Calculus of Brennschluss
- The 'Brennschluss Point' is described as a metaphysical interface between different orders of existence, forming a hidden constellation over the Earth.
Thereâs a Brennschluss point for every firing site. They still hang up there, all of them, a constellation waiting to have a 13th sign of the Zodiac named for it.
Rocket Limericks and Stollen 41
The cable, brought up taut, sings under Slothropâs hand till he loses his grip on it, falls, and is carried gently upside down and hanging by the foot, in among fun-seekers around the beer keg.
Major Marvy's Chaotic Send-off
A sergeant with a boyâs face and gray hair, dozing with a grease gun cradled against him, wakes up crying, âKrauts!â lets loose a deafening burst from his weapon straight into the beer barrel.
The Revolutionaries of Zero
- A faction known as the Empty Ones (Otukungurua) has embraced a program of racial suicide, seeking to complete the extermination begun by German colonists.
The woman feels power flood in through every gate: a river between her thighs, light leaping at the ends of fingers and toes.
Colonies and the European Soul
- The author characterizes colonies as the 'outhouses of the European soul,' where the repression of Christian Europe is discarded in favor of unbridled sensuality and violence.
Colonies are the outhouses of the European soul, where a fellow can let his pants down and relax, enjoy the smell of his own shit, Where he can â fall on his slender prey roaring as loud as he feels like, and guzzle her blood with open joy.
The Desert Trek and Disillusionment
- Enzian survives the tragic Herero trek across the Kalahari, where hundreds died from drinking too much water too quickly after extreme dehydration.
The manâs thirst for guilt was insatiable as the desertâs for water.
Enzian and the Global Cartel
- The protagonist theorizes that postwar rivalries are a facade for a giant global cartel where winners and losers secretly agree to share resources.
He has the odd feeling, in moments of reverie or honest despair, that he is speaking lines prepared somewhere far away (not far away in space, but in levels of power), and that his decisions are not his own at all, but the flummeries of an actor impersonating a leader.
The Chemistry of Power
- He describes carbon as the 'Great Catherine' of the periodic table, emphasizing the infinite possibilities of chemical bonding and structural design.
Each molecule had so many possibilities open to it, possibilities for bonding, bonds of different strengths, from carbon the most versatile, the queen, 'the Great Catherine of the periodic table,' down to the little hydrogens numerous and single-moving as pawns.
The Economy of Pain
- Wimpe argues that while pain is a controllable economic quantity produced by wars and industrial accidents, addiction is an irrational 'phantom' that disrupts economic planning.
We know how to produce real pain. Wars, obviously . . . machines in the factories, industrial accidents, automobiles built to be unsafe, poisons in food, water, and even airâthese are quantities tied directly to the economy.
The Song of the Kirghiz Light
- The Light is described as an overwhelming force that causes blindness and deafness, stripping a man of his age and returning him to the state of a helpless baby.
The roar of Its voice is deafness, / The flash of Its light is blindness. / The floor of the desert rumbles, / And Its face cannot be borne.
The Schwarzkommando Rocket-Raising
We have a word that we whisper, a mantra for times that threaten to be bad. Mba-kayere. It means âI am passed over.â
The Statistics of Being
- The narrator reflects on the fragile contingency of both human life and the V-2 Rocket, noting how microscopic flaws like a film of grease or a speck of dust can lead to catastrophic failure.
Birds swirl upward, round and black, grains of coarse-cut pepper on this bouillabaisse sky.
The Gaucho and the Emulsion
- The director suffers from a megalomaniacal delusion that his previous propaganda films literally brought the Schwarzkommando into physical existence within the Zone.
My images, somehow, have been chosen for incarnation.
The Rocket and the Dream
- Pökler's refusal to take a political side effectively makes him the military's most reliable ally through his passive obedience.
He went to switch on a lightâbut in the act of throwing the switch he knew the room had really been lit to begin with, and he had just turned everything out, everything.
The Serpent and the System
- This sacred symbol of the cycle is subverted by 'the System' to create the German dye industry and IG Farben, prioritizing linear profit over natural balance.
Living inside the System is like riding across the country in a bus driven by a maniac bent on suicide... though heâs amiable enough, keeps cracking jokes back through the loudspeaker.
The Serpent and the Ring
- Jamf posits that the discovery of synthetic chemistry represents a fall from nature, where molecules are no longer found but assembled from 'the debris of the given.'
Who sent this new serpent to our ruinous garden, already too fouled, too crowded to qualify as any locus of innocenceâunless innocence be our ageâs neutral, our silent passing into the machineries of indifference?
Victims in a Vacuum
When she left him she left an unemployed servant who'd go with the first master that called, just a VICTIM IN A Vacuum!
The Labyrinth of Convenience
- Pökler recognizes that his engineering skills acted as a 'gift of Daedalus,' allowing him to build a mental labyrinth between himself and the suffering of others.
Weissmannâs cruelty was no less resourceful than PĂ©klerâs own engineering skill, the gift of Daedalus that allowed him to put as much labyrinth as required between himself and the inconveniences of caring.
The Awakening of Pékler
- Overwhelmed by the sight of corpses and the dying, Pékler realizes that his abstract mathematical vacuums and labyrinths were merely the other side of this atrocity.
The odors of shit, death, sweat, sickness, mildew, piss, the breathing of Dora, wrapped him as he crept in staring at the naked corpses being carried out now that America was so close, to be stacked in front of the crematoriums, the menâs penises hanging, their toes clustering white and round as pearls.
The Death of Webern
The young barbarians coming in to murder the Last European, standing at the far end of whatâd been going on since Bach, an expansion of musicâs polymorphous perversity till all notes were truly equal at last.
Post-War Berlin Chaos
The truth is they are both so blitzed that neither one knows what heâs talking about, which is just as well, for at this point comes a godawful hammering at the door and a lot of achtungs from the other side.
Tremors in the Zone
The dark stain steams into the wood planks. Faraway clover rises, disperses: a ghost....
Slothropâs River Dream
- The drowned woman becomes a strange generative figure, carried through river depths by marine life and discovered by the Neptune-like Squalidozzi, who witnesses life spilling from her body.
This dream will not leave him. He baits his hook, hunkers by the bank, drops his line into the Spree.
The Turbulence of History
- The year 1904 is identified as a pivotal historical node, linking the birth of Enzian, the Herero genocide, the removal of cocaine from Coca-Cola, and the birth of modern aerodynamics.
If tensor analysis is good enough for turbulence, it ought to be good enough for history.
The Arrival of the Anubis
It is a moving village: all summer it has been sailing these lowlands just as Viking ships did a thousand years ago, though passively, not marauding: seeking an escape it has not yet defined clearly.
Intrigue Aboard the Anubis
He looks down, observes sticking out a porthole two slender wrists in silver and sapphires, lighted from inside like ice, and the oily river rushing by underneath.
Anubis Orgy
The hand of Providence creeps among the stars, giving Slothrop the finger.
The Charisma of the Rocket
- Miklos Thanatz introduces the A4 rocket as a 'baby Jesus' figure, possessing a 'Max Weber charisma' that defies state bureaucratization.
I think of the A4 as a baby Jesus, with endless committees of Herods out to destroy it in infancy.
The Urstoff and the Lollipop
He had left 1945, wired his nerves back into the pre-Christian earth we fled across, into the Urstoff of the primitive German, Godâs poorest and most panicked creature.
Decadent Shipboard Orgy
Not masturbating or anything, just watching, watching the river, the night...
Slothrop and Bianca's Encounter
- The climax is described through the metaphor of a rocket launch, equating the physical release with the 'kingly voice of the Aggregat.'
He was somehow, actually, well, inside his own cock. If you can imagine such a thing.
The Shekhinah and the Zone
- Slothrop questions the safety of the child Bianca, leading Morituri to suggest that Margherita views Slothrop as a radioactive, resurrected figure from her past.
I am the Shekhinah, queen, daughter, bride, and mother of God. And I will take you back, you fragment of smashed vessel, even if I must pull you by your nasty little circumcised penisâ
The Allure of Imipolex
- Imipolex is described as a 'material of the future' that possesses a sentient, highly eroticized quality, inducing intense physical arousal and psychological submission.
Someone said âbutadiene,â and I heard beauty dying.
The Tenuous Approach to Center
- Kurt Mondaugenâs Law of Personal Density is introduced, linking a person's 'solidity' to their temporal bandwidth or connection to past and future.
The more you dwell in the past and in the future, the thicker your bandwidth, the more solid your persona.
Separations in the Zone
- The narrative explores the 'red-shifting' of the Zone, where different factions and realities are accelerating away from a common center into isolated worlds.
Each alternative Zone speeds away from all the others, in fated acceleration, red-shifting, fleeing the Center.
The Real Text of Technology
- The war is reframed as a theatrical distraction from the true drivers of history: the competing needs of different technologies like plastics and electronics.
It means this War was never political at all, the politics was all theatre, all just to keep the people distracted... secretly, it was being dictated instead by the needs of technology.
Ambush on the Anubis
It feels like the pointed toe of a dancing-pump, in out of nowhere to hover a second and stroke the soft underside of his chinâthen it flicks up, slamming his teeth shut on his tongue.
Slothrop's Descent and Departure
Icy little thighs in wet silk swing against his face.
The Ghosts of The White Visitation
She sees a white-haired girl in Pirate Prenticeâs Chelsea maisonette, a face so strange that she has recognized the mediaeval rooms before she does herself.
Doperâs Greed and Coded Escapes
Joint hallucination is not unknown in our world, podner.
The Convention of the Zone
- Father Rapier, the Devilâs Advocate, warns that once technical control systems reach a 'critical mass,' human freedom becomes an obsolete concept.
Once the technical means of control have reached a certain size, a certain degree of being connected one to another, the chances for freedom are over for good.
The Lie of Shared Mortality
- The text suggests that human death is a manufactured necessity, serving as a 'harvest' of terror that sustains the power of the elite.
We have to carry on under the possibility that we die only because They want us to: because They need our terror for Their survival.
The Nature of Freedom Drill
Iâve been given the old Radio-Control-Implanted-In-The-Head-At-Birth problem to mull overâas a kind of koan, I suppose.
The Descent of Pirate Prentice
âI canât even trust myself? can I. How much freer than that can a man be? If heâs to be sold out by anyone? even by himself you see?â
Loving the People
- Katje warns that 'the People' will never love them back, placing both of them permanently on the side of the condemned or compromised.
âBut the People will never love you,â she whispers, âor me. However bad and good are arranged for them, we will always be bad.
William Slothrop and the Preterite
- He interprets the miracle of Jesus walking on water through a 'lemming point of view,' suggesting the miracle required the sacrifice of the many who drowned.
Without the millions who had plunged and drowned, there could have been no miracle.
The Slothropite Heresy
- William's exile from the Massachusetts Bay Colony represents a lost 'fork in the road' for American identity, suggesting a path of mercy rather than judgment.
Could he have been the fork in the road America never took, the singular point she jumped the wrong way from?
The Rocket as Mandala
- The group interprets the V-2 rocket's four fins as a cross or mandala, seeing the weapon as a destiny they were meant to find after surviving colonial genocide.
The four fins of the Rocket made a cross, another mandala.
The Emergence of the Rocket-State
- This meta-state is described as a sovereign entity, comparable to the Church of Rome, with the Rocket serving as its central soul and unifying force.
Oh, a State begins to take form in the Stateless German night, a State that spans oceans and surface politics, sovereign as the International or the Church of Rome, and the Rocket is its soul.
Mabuse and the Inorganic Future
- Jamfâs lectures propose a radical shift from organic chemistry (CâH) to inorganic bonds (SiâN) as a way to move beyond human frailty and mortality.
Silicon, boron, phosphorusâthese can replace carbon, and can bond to nitrogen instead of hydrogenâmove beyond life, toward the inorganic.
The Sentient Pinball Exile
- The narrative shifts to reveal that the pinball bearings are actually sentient beings from the planetoid Katspiel, trapped in eternal exile on Earth.
Third ball gets stuck somehow against a solenoid and (helphelp, itâs hollering, wounded high little voice, oh Iâm being electrocuted...)
The Latent Magic of Masons
- It links historical figures like Dr. Livingstone and Harry Truman to Masonic influence, framing Truman's atomic decision through a dark, ritualistic lens.
Lyle Bland rose up out of his body, about a foot, face-up, realized where he was and gaahh! whoosh back in again.
The Living Earth and Astral IG
- Gravity is reimagined as an eerie, messianic force that gathers the molecules of dead species for alchemical transmutation.
To find that Gravity, taken so for granted, is really something eerie, Messianic, extrasensory in Earthâs mindbody ...
The Zone's Chaotic Carnival
Impeccable tonight in dress whites, straight-faced and sober, he trudges among the merrymakers, thickly sprouting hair from jumper sleeves and V-neck, so much of it that last week he spooked and lost a connection just in from the CBI theatre with close to a ton of bhang, who mistook him for a seagoing version of the legendary yeti or abominable snowman.
Cocaine Suspicions and the Escape
Cocaine suspicions, nagging and mean as rats... shining bottles of a thousand voices from the radio, the drape and hand of the pigâs shag coat as Krypton reaches out to stroke...
The Runcible Spoon Duel
And still they linger in their embrace, Death in all its potency humming them romantic tunes, chiding them for moderate little men...
The Mistaken Identity of Major Marvy
Panic strikes him, deeper than the sedative has reached, and he begins to buck truly in terror against the straps, feeling small muscles along his chest stretch into useless twinges of pain, oh God; beginning to scream now with all his might, no words, only cries.
Castration and Dreaming in the Zone
As if they are musical strings he might, a trifle moon-mad, strum here on the empty beach into appropriate music, his hand hesitates: but then, reluctantly bowing to duty, he severs them at the proper distances from the slippery stone.
The Counterforce and the Light
Usefulness out here ends as quickly as a communiqué.
The Eagle of Tooting
Gray was for the War. Let them chase. Catch me if you can.
The Row and the Game
Each wind had its own cross-in-motion, materially there or implied, each cross a unique mandala, bringing opposites together in the spin.
The Ghost of the Harmonica
It happens to be the same one he lost in 1938 or -9 down the toilet at the Roseland Ballroom, but thatâs too long ago for him to remember.
Slothrop's Fourfold Dissolution
Might be he was starting to implicate himself, some yesterday version of himself, in the Combination against who he was right then.
Confrontation in Pointsman's Office
Pointsman had only looked apologetic, not for himself but to something for Rézsavélgyi, and said gently; 'This is one spot in the room where I feel alive.'
The Counterforce Hallucinations
The wallsâthey donât appear to be... well, solid, actually. They flow: a coarse, a viscous passage, rippling like a standing piece of silk or nylon.
The Legend of Byron the Bulb
- The narrative shifts to a specific, immortal Osram light bulb that has survived since the 1920s through statistical perfection.
This bulb is immortal! Itâs been around, in fact, since the twenties, has that old-timery point at the tip and is less pear-shaped than more contemporary bulbs.
The Bulb Baby Crusade
- Byron plots a 'Strobing Tactic' to synchronize 20 million bulbs across Europe to trigger mass epileptic fits in humans as a display of power.
One way or another, these Bulb folks are in the business of providing the appearance of power, power against the night, without the reality.
The Immortality of Byron the Bulb
- The international light-bulb cartel known as Phoebus, headquartered in Switzerland, strictly enforces planned obsolescence to maintain market control.
But on through the burning hours he starts to learn about the transience of others: learns that loving them while theyâre here becomes easier, and also more intenseâto love as if each design-hour will be the last.
The Abduction of Byron
- A collective wave of silent terror and impotence ripples through every lightbulb in Europe as they witness the capture of one of their own.
The word goes out along the Grid. At something close to the speed of light, every bulb, Azos looking down the empty black Bakelite streets, Nitralampen and Wotan Gs at night soccer matches, Just-Wolframs, Monowatts and Siriuses, every bulb in Europe knows whatâs happened.
The Impotence of Infinite Knowledge
- Byron is condemned to an eternal existence of growing anger and frustration, eventually finding a perverse pleasure in his own impotence.
He is condemned to go on forever, knowing the truth and powerless to change anything.
The Meeting of Blicero's Lovers
She knows her own precarious thinness, her leukemia of soul, and she teases with it.
The Last Heart of Enzian
- Enzian admits that Blicero represents the last possibility of a 'heart' in which his true self might still exist.
There is no heart, anywhere now, no human soul left in which I exist. Do you know what that feels like?
Transcendence and the City Darkness
She is stunned to see tears instead running, running over his cheeks. âYou've only been set free,â his voice then breaking on the last word, his face brushing forward a moment into a cage of hands.
The Sadness of Survival
Beaming, strangers, la-la-la, off to listen to the end of a man we both loved and we're strangers at the films, condemned to separate rows, aisles, exits, homegoings.
The Debris of Blicero
- The text suggests that the 'key' to the world is found among its wastes and debris rather than among the elite who discard everything of value.
The white Anubis, gone on to salvation. Back here, in her wake, are the preterite, swimming and drowning, mired and afoot, poor passengers at sundown who've lost the way, blundering across one anotherâs flotsam.
The Rocket's Unifying Event
- The collective effort is described as a fragile, momentary unity that may only last for a fraction of a day but serves as a necessary 'Event'.
Whether you believed or not, Empty or Green, cunt-crazy or politically celibate, power-playing or neutral, you had a feelingâa suspicion, a latent wish, some hidden tithe out of your soul, somethingâfor the Rocket.
Imipolex G and the Sinatra Swath
- Dzabajev creates a surreal diversion across the Zone by impersonating Frank Sinatra, inducing mass hysteria and securing a constant supply of wine from the locals.
Rumor sez he is cutting a swath these days across the Zone in a stolen American Special Services getup, posing as Frank Sinatra.
The Mechanics of Oneirine
- The drug induces a specific form of paranoia described as the 'leading edge' of a discovery that all things in the universe are interconnected.
Like other sorts of paranoia, it is nothing less than the onset, the leading edge, of the discovery that everything is connected, everything in the Creation.
The Mandala of True North
- The envoys deduce that the 'resultant' or mythic-symmetric bearing points toward 000 degrees: True North.
Evidence and intuitionâand maybe a residue of uncivilizable terror that lies inside us, every oneâpoint to 000°; true North.
The Green Uprising
- Human consciousness is portrayed as a 'deformed and doomed' force sent to act as 'Godâs spoilers' and 'counter-revolutionaries' against the vibrancy of nature.
So we, the crippled keepers, were sent out to multiply, to have dominion. Godâs spoilers. Us. Counter-revolutionaries.
The Rocket-City Daguerreotype
- The Rocket's trajectory is reimagined as an infinite cycle that begins and ends deep within the Earth, with only its peak visible to human observers.
Of Course It Begins Infinitely Below The Earth And Goes On Infinitely Back Into The Earth itâs only the peak that we are allowed to see, the break up through the surface, out of the other silent world, violently
The Rocket as Sacred Text
- The state or 'dominion of silence' hunts these heretics using personalized Rockets programmed with the targets' own unique biological signatures.
Stored in its target-seeker will be the hereticâs EEG, the spikes and susurrations of heartbeat, the ghost-blossomings of personal infrared, each Rocket will know its intended and hunt him, ride him a green-doped and silent hound.
The Rocket as Revealer
- The Rocket is characterized as a 'Revealer' that exposes the cooperative lies of authority by proving that nowhere is safe.
They have lied to us. They canât keep us from dying, so They lie to us about death. A cooperative structure of lies.
The Structure of Submission
- The text argues that the 'Structure' or State forbids private S&M because it must monopolize submission and dominance for its own political survival.
It needs our submission so that it may remain in power. It needs our lusts after dominance so that it can co-opt us into its own power game.
The Fearful Assembly
- The narrative uses an ethnic joke about a child's terror of kreplach to illustrate the 'Secret of the Fearful Assembly,' where the sum of harmless parts creates a terrifying whole.
So the assembly of the 00001 is occurring also in a geographical way, a Diaspora running backwards, seeds of exile flying inward in a modest view of gravitational collapse, of the Messiah gathering in the fallen sparks.
Sacraments of the Counterforce
- The text reinterprets the concept of the Eucharist and the Holy Grail as the literal consumption of an enemy's blood to achieve a forbidden union.
The Grail, the Sangraal, is the bloody vehicle. Why else guard it so sacredly?
The Oedipal Zone
- The text describes a generational cycle of failure where sons, unable to kill their powerless fathers, are condemned to impersonate them.
He is the father you will never quite manage to kill. The Oedipal situation in the Zone these days is terrible.
The Tarot of the Rocket
- A new breed of 'guardian demons' for the Rocket has emerged from the intersection of the Ravens of Death and the Poison of God.
The Ravens of Death have now tasted of the Poison of God... but in doses small enough not to sicken but to bring on, like the Amanita muscaria, a very peculiar state of mind.
The Rocket and the Late Arrival
- This failure of the 'Counterforce' signifies a breakdown in the traditional programming of salvation and justice within the Zone.
The liquid oxygen runs freezing so close to your cheek, bones of frost to burn you past feeling.
The Countdown and the Tree
- Kabbalist Steve Edelman reinterprets the countdown as a hidden representation of the Sephiroth and the Tree of Life.
So although the Rocket countdown appears to be serial, it actually conceals the Tree of Life, which must be apprehended all at once, together, in parallel.
The Shroud and the Adenoid
- Gottfried is sealed inside the Imipolex shroud of the Rocket, experiencing a sensory shift toward a 'transparent surface' of reality.
The soft smell of Imipolex, wrapping him absolutely, is a smell he knows.
The Final Ascent
- The ascent is framed as a paradoxical promise of escape from gravity that is ultimately destined to fail.
The Rocket stays a moment longer on the steel table, then slowly, trembling, furiously muscular, it begins to rise.
The Final Delta-t
- The text transitions into a communal moment of impending destruction, offering a final 'delta-t'âan unmeasurable gap of timeâfor human touch or song.
But it was not a star, it was falling, a bright angel of death, And in the darkening and awful expanse of screen something has kept on, a film we have not learned to see...
Vintage Bantam Books Catalog
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