On several occasions I have tried to write short pieces about the enchanted crystal but, to me, the theme is so ineffably poetic as to be, paradoxically, beyond the reach of poetry — mine, at any rate. Besides, the best songs and verse had already been written, with prescient inspiration, by men who had died long before slow glass was discovered. I had no hope of equaling, for example, Moore with his:
It took only a few years for slow glass to develop from a scientific curiosity to a sizable industry. And much to the astonishment of we poets — those of us who remain convinced that beauty lives though lilies die — the trappings of that industry were no different from those of any other. There were good scenedows which cost a lot of money, and there were inferior scenedows which cost rather less. The thickness, measured in years, was an important factor in the cost but there was also the question of actual thickness, or phase.
Even with the most sophisticated engineering techniques available thickness control was something of a hit-and-miss affair. A coarse discrepancy could mean that a pane intended to be five years thick might be five and a half, so that light which entered in summer emerged in winter, a fine discrepancy could mean that noon sunshine emerged at midnight. These incompatibilities had their peculiar charm — many night workers, for example, liked having their own private time zones — but, in general, it cost more to buy scenedows which kept closely in step with real time.
Selina still looked unconvinced when Hagan had finished speaking. She shook her head almost imperceptibly and I knew he had been using the wrong approach. Quite suddenly the pewter helmet of her hair was disturbed by a cool gust of wind, and huge clean tumbling drops of rain began to spang round us from an almost cloudless sky.
"I'll give you a cheque now," I said abruptly, and saw Selina's green eyes triangulate angrily on my face. "You can arrange delivery?"
"Aye, delivery's no problem," Hagan said, getting to his feet. "But wouldn't you rather take the glass with you?"
"Well, yes — if you don't mind." I was shamed by his readiness to trust my scrip.
"I'll unclip a pane for you. Wait here. It won't take long to slip it into a carrying frame." Hagan limped down the slope towards the seriate windows, through some of which the view towards Linnhe was sunny, while others were cloudy and a few pure black.
Selina drew the collar of her blouse closed at her throat. "The least he could have done was invite us inside. There can't be so many fools passing through that he can afford to neglect them."
I tried to ignore the insult and concentrated on writing the cheque. One of the outsize drops broke across my knuckles, splattering the pink paper.
"All right," I said, "let's move in under the eaves till he gets back." You worm, I thought as I felt the whole thing go completely wrong. I just had to be a fool to marry you. A prize fool, a fool's fool — and now that you've trapped part of me inside you I'll never ever, never ever, never ever get away.
Feeling my stomach clench itself painfully, I ran behind Selina to the side of the cottage. Beyond the window the neat living room, with its coal fire, was empty but the child's toys were scattered on the floor. Alphabet blocks and a wheelbarrow the exact colour of freshly pared carrots. As I stared in, the boy came running from the other room and began kicking the blocks. He didn't notice me. A few moments later the young woman entered the room and lifted him, laughing easily and wholeheartedly as she swung the boy under her arm. She came to the window as she had done earlier. I smiled self-consciously, but neither she nor the child responded.
My forehead prickled icily. Could they both be blind? I sidled away.
Selina gave a little scream and I spun towards her.
"The rug!" she said. "It's getting soaked."
She ran across the yard in the rain, snatched the reddish square from the dappling wall and ran back, towards the cottage door. Something heaved convulsively in my subconscious.
"Selina," I shouted. "Don't open it!"
But I was too late. She had pushed open the latched wooden door and was standing, hand over mouth, looking into the cottage. I moved close to her and took the rug from her unresisting fingers.
As I was closing the door I left my eyes traverse the cottage's interior. The neat living room in which I had just seen the woman and child was, in reality, a sickening clutter of shabby furniture, old newspapers, cast-off clothing and smeared dishes. It was damp, stinking and utterly deserted. The only object I recognised from my view through the windows was the little wheelbarrow, paintless and broken.
I latched the door firmly and ordered myself to forget what I had seen. Some men who live alone are good housekeepers; others just don't know how.
Selina's face was white. "I don't understand. I don't understand it"
"Slow glass works both ways," I said gently. "Light passes out of a house, as well as in."
"You mean ... ?"
"I don't know. It isn't our business. Now steady up — Hagan's coming back with our glass." The churning in my stomach was beginning to subside.
Hagan came into the yard carrying an oblong, plastic-covered frame. I held the cheque out to him, but he was staring at Selina's face. He seemed to know immediately that our uncomprehending fingers had rummaged through his soul. Selina avoided his gaze. She was old and ill-looking, and her eyes stared determinedly towards the nearing horizon.
"I'll take the rug from you, Mr. Garland," Hagan finally said. "You shouldn't have troubled yourself over it."
"No trouble. Here's the cheque."
"Thank you." He was still looking at Selina with a strange kind of suspicion. "It's been a pleasure to do business with you."
"The pleasure was mine," I said with equal, senseless formality. I picked up the heavy frame and guided Selina towards the path which led to the road. Just as we reached the head of the now slippery steps Hagan spoke again.
"Mr. Garland!"
I turned unwillingly.
"It wasn't my fault," he said steadily. "A hit-and-run driver got them both, down on the Oban road six years ago. My boy was only seven when it happened. I'm entitled to keep some thing."
I nodded wordlessly and moved down the path, holding my wife close to me, treasuring the feel of her arms locked around me At the bend I looked back through the rain and saw Hagan sitting with squared shoulders on the wall where we had first seen him.
He was looking at the house, but I was unable to tell if there was anyone at the window.
Take a word, a multiplex word: science-fiction.
In Popland, it's camp comics; for Sontag, horror films; UFO people claim it as kissing kin; news-media editorialists equate it generally with disquieting technological prediction. On TV it's space-geared Western or Tropic Isle adventure — or Spy Thrillers with aliens, robots or a mad scientist as The Enemy. Paperback buyers grab up two books a week of the TV type, and probably half again as much E. R. Burroughs-derived 'sword and sorcery' and 'Heroic fantasy'. Some paperbacks, and a few hardcovers, have made it into the 'underground' (campus and hippie trade), a very mixed bag where the Hobbits and Ubu rub elbows with Witzend, Nova Express, and Stranger in a Strange Land — and with two-dollar soft-covers of Hawthorne, Lovecraft, and Mary Shelley for the Lit Profs who have decided (with the help of H. Bruce Franklin's Future Perfect, Oxford, 1966) that science fiction is really Neo-Victorian-Gothic.