66
Ponce was floating in the warmest darkness he had ever known. He was a million miles from anywhere. Everywhere. And nowhere. He wanted to get out of it, for it bothered him. At least if he could just touch down somewhere—this was the most dangerous thing in the world, in the whole of the universe, he knew—floating around nowhere, in that darkness, far out there—no matter how comfortable he was, and no denying it there wasn’t anything uncomfortable at all about it. He just knew it would end, and disastrously, somewhere. Where? On the moon? A crash landing on the moon? Would he be the first? Was that allowed? He wasn’t even an astronaut, or a believer at all in the Program, in fact, it was all a colossal waste of money, the whole .space malarkey, that was his view. Ma-larkey. It had always been. Well what was he doing in it? On it? Upon it? He heard music. No doubt about it: Tristan and Isolde. It grew, it flowed all about him. It was magnificent, and powerful. He was riding on it. . . . Now, a voice spoke to him. Out of the darkness, somehow the voice came to him. Part of the music, it sounded right next to his ear. He couldn’t identify it. But it was asking questions, at first he couldn’t at all comprehend the nature of the questions, but gradually he realized they were part of a test— in English Literature—"And what's an Elegy?" It asked, pausing, obviously waiting for his answer. Could he answer? What was the answer? A voice, his, yet completely dissociated from himself, answered, "A lyric poem that is a lament for the dead." It was his voice, no doubt of it. "And what is a Requiem?" The next question came. He answered, "A sad song or chant which is in reality a prayer for the repose of the dead." The examination was over. He knew. No one told him, but he definitely knew. Now, the music, only. . . . Suddenly, he was no longer floating. Without even knowing it, he had landed. He was amazed to have been so gently landed. There would after all be no lunar crash landing! Ponce, on his back, lying on something hard and flat, found the courage and strength, not to mention curiosity, to open his eyes. He found a strange sight. He was on a hill in a brilliant, warm climate. At first it blinded him. Then, gradually, it came to him. To the right and left of him: tall upright columns. Doric? He seemed to be in the Parthenon. Flat on his back, staring up at a cloudless blue sky, between two Doric columns, magnificent things, in the Parthenon. This was all he could see. Those columns were massive, and endless. From where he lay, Ponce could not see an end to them. They seemed to penetrate the sky. Ponce tried to move, he wanted to see just where they ended. He could not move, however. He could see, he could hear, and feel, but there was nothing at all he could do about moving. Instead, in a moment, the columns were moving. Ponce was alarmed. They were moving toward him, closing in on him, and would surely crush him, within a matter of minutes, like two gigantic pincers. Now Ponce fought desperately to move. He couldn’t. More: He couldn’t move his head to the right or left anymore. It was fixed, he could only stare straight ahead. In anguish, he awaited his end. He tried to close his eyes but found that he couldn’t even do that. What fiend, what forces had dreamed up this end? He saw the columns, before him, suddenly. They had not crushed him! They had merged into each other so that now they were one enormously massive column, a colossal one—stretching upward—and upward—ad infinitum—and it seemed to be growing out of him! Ponce couldn't see, but he was absolutely sure it was part of him! Ponce felt so hot, the sun
Pretty Maids Ail in a Row 349 was burning him. Was this his end? Would he lie here, forever, tortured by that burning sun, that column part of him, probing the universe? He heard a voice—
“Ponce—Ponce—”
He saw Miss Smith—Betty—he had come to, finally. She was beside him, leaning over him, gazing down on him. It wasn’t a statue. She was so soft, and warm. So warm. He was flat on his back on the floor. He was naked—utterly —as was the divine form. . ..
67
Which jig would it be? The Chief wondered, just before pouncing. Would his black prick already be in her? How far in her? He pounced—he yanked open the car door— his light flashed on—he leveled his gun—
“TigerГ He hollered out, when he finally realized what he saw, totally astounded at the sight.
In the glare of the Chiefs powerful flashlight, Tiger turned, shielding his eyes with one hand, trying to see what it was, out there, all that noise. The maid was still in his
other arm, though now she was clinging to him in a state
of fright and near-shock. . . . They were still clothed, having spent the relatively short time since their arrival talking and kissing and playfully petting, only. There was silence now. In the glaring light, Tiger finally understood what it was, going on. He almost smiled.
“John—” he said, in the friendliest way, “How are ya?” The Chief stared. He could only say, after a moment or two—
“Tiger.”
In a much more subdued tone, however, than his initial greeting. Which in a sense it was. He was surveying things, thinking hard, figuring out things. Or trying to. Who war that girl? Half hidden as she was. he couldn’t tell. He stood there, collecting his thoughts. He couldn’t talk.
“What’s new, boy?” Tiger said, utterly calm.
“I—geez—Why—” The Chief was trying hard. His light came down. Tiger, surveying him, saw that he bristled with arms.