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.I swim round and round the pond, trying to remain calm for the sake of the little one inside me.The idylls of the sea pass before my mind then as I float—the ancient romance of whale and dolphin, the sinister passage of the great hidden serpents, and the relentless pursuit of our kind by the fiendish ape.The day passes slowly.Night will bring the moontide.I will be free with him beneath the stars.We’ll stay far from shore henceforward; and we’ll stay in depths that cannot be fathomed by any but kings.My foolish hunger, my intense shadow.“Beware,” he says.“Evil approaches.”I hear and see the tiny boats leave the shore.Toward me row the apes.I dive below but can’t remain there.I surface for air in the ring of hostility.Loud retorts fill my ears, and then the pain enters me in numerous places, biting wounds, one for every crack of noise and flash of light pointed at me by the apes.I go below again and lie on the bottom, estimating my affliction.I feel the little one beating within me.The wounds are not insuperable.If only night would come! I rise wildly in their midst, to breathe and receive again the volley of pain all over my body.Once more on the bottom, I taste blood in my mouth.I can’t feel the little one beating.The water turns gray.I rise to the sunset and they fill me with pain once again.When night comes they light the water with brilliant eyes.I swim through them toward the shoal.“Come to me,” he says.“Come.”My strength is gone; my tail will not guide me.Erratically I navigate the bar, with brilliant eyes upon me and pain everywhere increasing.“We shall go far away,” he calls.I slip back down the sand bar to the bottom, where I lie staring at the dark.Long ago we were trapped in the swamps, and so we crawled to the sea.I crawl deliriously along the bottom, manipulating my fins in the sand.The moon penetrates to my bleeding eyes, and I dream of the tropical waters where we first met, circling each other in dazzling coral reefs.“A-moooo!” he calls.“A-moooo!”Starfish crawl through the sky.I roll on my side.The need for air is overwhelming.The idylls of the sea turn fearful; sharks swarm and bloated corpses float in my heart.My body trembles.I gasp, swallowing the pond.Great distances and depths are nothing to us.See—I ride this terrible storm, rolling in the dark waves.I’ve got to climb up this icy th-th-thermos and g-g-g-get out of here.Slippery sides on this fucking thing.But Doctor Rat is f-f-familiar with the drive phenomena (cf.Vickers’ stimulation of the cerebral cortex fibers).Getting myself worked up here, getting my general drives going, anxiety, fear, and rage combining to produce a—great leap to the top of the thermos! But look at the rebels now!Dancing around, forming chains, moving toward the Musical Experimentation Turntable.Rebel officer flipping on the switch with his tail.Some other rebels scanning the lab record collection and pulling out a disc.They’re lowering it to the turntable, activating the tone arm, turning up the volume.I can see the label now.The so-called Songs of the Humpbacked Whales.Just a lot of flubbering mouth-noises.Loud, yes, but extremely crude.It doesn’t compare with the New Necropsy.Whales are useful for perfume, pet food, and the occasional girdle, but please don’t mistake them for intelligent beings.They’re just big basic models.But my fellow rats are entranced by these huge farts the whales are blowing.I’m beginning to see how unrefined the revolutionaries are.Give them any kind of half-assed sloppy sentiment and they’ll work it up into a big number.The turning disc…round and round…round and round…hypnotic…compelling…from the center of the record an intuitive signal is rising…I see the ocean.A great ship coming into view on the horizon.Is it a revolutionary battle wagon? Getting closer…Just a moment, I’m familiar with this ship! I read about it only a few weeks ago in Science Journal.Yes, of course, this ship is Triton II, from the World Institute of Oceanography.This magnificent vessel of science is part of a Communications Program, very highly thought of in scientific circles.It’s led by the world-famous composer, Sir James Jeffries.What is Triton II doing on this rebel broadcast? Could it be that Sir James is in league with these revolutionaries? Please, Sir James, say it isn’t so!“I’m Jonathan Downing for the BBC, on the deck of Triton II; our captain is Alan Black, with some forty years of Atlantic experience behind him, both as a warrior and a whaler.On deck also are the members of our BBC crew of sound technicians and cameramen, and—the central figure in this voyage—Sir James Jeffries, conductor of the London Festival Orchestra, whose sixty members are all around us at the moment, at the deck rails, looking over the waves and hoping to see the telltale spray of a whale.Sir James, what do you hope to accomplish with this?”“The sperm whale has a brain six times that of a man.Only a small part of that brain is used for survival.The rest of it is undoubtedly engaged in thought-forms which exceed anything mankind has yet dreamed of.”“Sir James, how can we know for certain that the sperm whale actually uses that gigantic brain?”“Nothing is certain, of course.But computer calculations have indicated that a brain of that size—a computer of that size, if you will—would not be idle.Nature’s gifts are never frivolously bestowed.These are brilliant creatures whose perceptions are probably six times our own.We’ve studied the recordings of their music and it expresses emotions which are quite beyond us, really, but deeply stirring nonetheless.”“What emotions are they, Sir James?”“Their music is profoundly sad, like the passing away of the universe, like the dying of a star.”“Because they’ve been hunted, is that what you mean?”“Hunted? My dear fellow, they’ve been hounded to the brink of extinction.They mourn the passing of their race, as we shall mourn when we finally succeed in making the planet unlivable.Yes, they’ve been hunted, and their home has been turned into a gigantic toilet.”“Ah, what other qualities do you find in their music, Sir James?”“Feelings of tremendous magnitude, such as only a few men ever glimpse, and then only in rare moments.These creatures are earth’s greatest musicians.They’re creative, wise, and they make no wars.”“Is there other music on earth to compare with the whales’, Sir James?”“The musicians of Tibet once fashioned great horns, some as long as fifty feet, which they blew down the Himalaya mountain passes.These were their offerings to the Absolute.They were, as you know, wiped out by war, and few men now living can produce that music.Men have forgotten what the whales, with their great brains, do not forget.”“And what is that, Sir James?”“That the purpose of our lives is to celebrate the grandeur of the cosmos.”What a lot of filthy bilge! Just the sort of thing you’d expect from a rebel boat [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]