Philip Jose Farmer
Night of Light
A WORLD GONE BERSERK
Every seven years, the placid planet of Dante’s Joy becomes a waking nightmare of death, deformity, and madness. To escape, the populace has the choice of Sleeping—lying drugged in their tomblike houses—or taking the Chance—staying awake and going abroad while their world goes berserk. They become what their innermost longings dictate, whether it be a beast locked in the vilest bowels of depravity, or a supreme being raised to the flowering serenity of truth and tight. Thousands are mutilated, killed, transformed into monstrous things. John Carmody, a conscienceless exile from Earth, arrogantly chooses to take the Chance Reeling, shrieking his fear and despair, Carmody confronts the Night of Light, the unknown and unknowable...
PART ONE
On earth it would be a fearful thing to see a man chasing down the street after the skin from a human face, a thin layer of tissue blown about like a piece of paper by the wind.
On the planet of Dante’s Joy the sight aroused only a mild wonder in the few passersby. And they were interested because the chaser was an Earthman and, therefore, a curiosity in himself.
John Carmody ran down the long straight street, past the clifflike fronts of towers built of huge blocks of quartz-shot granite, with gargoyles and nightmare shapes grinning from the darkened interiors of many niches and with benedictions of god and goddess leaning from the many balconies.
A little man, dwarfed even more by the soaring walls and flying buttresses, he ran down the street in frantic pursuit of the fluttering transparent skin that turned over and over as it sailed upon the strong wind, over and over, showing the eye holes, the earholes, the sagging empty gaping mouthhole, and trailing a few long and blond hairs from the line of the forehead, the scalp itself being absent.
The wind howled behind him, seeming to add its fury to his. Suddenly the skin, which had fluttered just within his reach, shot upwards on a strong draft coming around a building.
Carmody cursed and leaped, and his fingers touched the thing. But it flew up and landed on a balcony at least ten feet above him, lodged against the feet of the diorite image of the god Yess.
Panting, holding his aching sides, John Carmody leaned against the base of a buttress. Though he had once been in superb condition, as befitted the ex-welterweight amateur boxing champion of the Federation, his belly was swelling to make room for his increasing appetite, and fat was building up beneath his chin, like a noose.
It made little difference to him or to anybody else. He was not much to look at, anyway. He had a shock of blue-black hair, stiff and straight, irresistibly reminding one of a porcupine’s quills. His head was melon-shaped, his forehead too high, his left eyelid drooped just enough to give his face a lopsided look, his nose was too long and sharp, his mouth too thin, his teeth too widely spaced.
He looked up at the balcony, cocking his head to one side like a bird, and saw he couldn’t climb up the rough but slick wall. The windows were closed with heavy iron shutters, and the massive iron door was locked. A sign hung from its handle. On it was a single word in the alphabet of the people of the northern continent of Kareen. SLEEPING.
Carmody shrugged, smiled indifferently, in contrast to his former wildness to get at the skin, and walked away. Abruptly the wind, which had died down, sprang into life again and struck him like a blow from a huge fist.
He rolled with it as he would have rolled with a punch in the ring, kept his footing, and leaned into it, head down but bright blue eyes looking upwards. Nobody ever caught him with his eyes shut.
There was a phone booth on the corner, a massive marble box that could hold twenty people easily. Carmody hesitated outside it but, impelled by the screaming fury of the wind, he entered. He went to one of the six phones and lifted its receiver. But he did not sit down on the broad stone bench, preferring to dance around, to shift nervously from side to side and to keep his head cocked as one eye looked for intruders.
He dialed his number, Mrs. Kri’s boarding house. When she answered the phone, he said, “Beautiful, this is John Carmody. I want to speak to Father Skelder or Father Ralloux.”
Mrs. Kri giggled, as he knew she would, and said, “Father Skelder is right here. Just a second.”
There was a pause, then a man’s deep voice. “Carmody? What is it?”
“Nothing to get alarmed about,” said Carmody. “I think...” He waited for a comment from the other end of the line. He smiled, thinking of Skelder standing there, wondering what was going on, unable to say too much because of Mrs. Kri’s presence. He could see the monk’s long face with its many wrinkles and high cheekbones and hollow cheeks and shiny bald pate, the lips like a crab’s pincers tightening until they squeezed themselves out of sight.
“Listen, Skelder, I’ve something to tell you. It may or may not be important, but it is rather strange.” He stopped again and waited, knowing that the monk was foaming underneath that seemingly impassive exterior, that he would not care to display it at all and would hate himself for breaking down and asking Carmody what he had to tell. But he would break; he would ask. There was too much at stake.
“Well, well, what is it?” he finally snapped. “Can’t you say over the phone?”
“Sure, but I wasn’t going to bother if you weren’t interested. Listen, about five minutes ago did anything strange happen to you or to anybody around you?”
There was another long pause, then Skelder said in a strained voice, “Yes. The sun seemed to flicker, to change color. I became dizzy and feverish. So did Mrs. Kri, and Father Ralloux.”
Carmody waited until he was sure that the monk was not going to comment any further. “Was that all? Did nothing else happen to you or the others?”
“No. Why?”
Carmody told him about the skin of the unfinished face that had seemed to appear from the empty air before him. “I thought perhaps you might have had a similar experience.”
“No; aside from the sick feeling, nothing happened.”
Carmody thought he detected a huskiness in Skelder’s voice. Well, he would find out later if the monk were concealing something. Meanwhile...
Suddenly, Skelder said, “Mrs. Kri has left the room. What is it you really wanted, Carmody?”
“I really wanted to compare notes about that flickering of the sun,” he replied, crisply. “But I thought I’d tell you something of what I found out in the temple of Boonta.”
“You ought to have found out just about everything,” interrupted Skelder. “You were gone long enough. When you didn’t show up last night, I thought that perhaps something had happened to you.”
“You didn’t call the police?”
“No, of course not,” the monk’s voice crackled. “Do you think that because I’m a priest I’m stupid? Besides, I hardly think you’re worth worrying about.”
Carmody chuckled. “Love they fellowman as a brother. Well, I never cared much for my brother—or anybody else. Anyway, the reason I’m late, though only twenty hours or so behind time, is that I decided to take part in the big parade and the ceremonies that followed.” He laughed again. “These Kareenans really enjoy their religion.”
Skelder’s voice was cold. “You took part in a temple orgy?”
Carmody haw-hawed. “Sure. When in Rome, you know. However, it wasn’t pure sensuality. Part of it was a very boring ritual, like all ritual; it wasn’t until nightfall that the high priestess gave the signal for the melee.”
“You took part?”
“Sure. With the high priestess herself. It’s all right; these people don’t have your attitude towards sex, Skelder; they don’t think it’s dirty or a sin; they regard it as a sacrament, a great gift from the goddess; what would seem to you infinitely disgusting, wallowing in a mire of screaming sex-fiends, is to them pure and chaste and goddess- blessed worship. Of course, I think your attitude and theirs are both wrong: sex is just a force that one ought to take advantage of in other people; but I will admit that the Kareenans’ ideas are more fun than yours.”