Elements in a quantal world:
The terminal beach
The terminal bunker
the blocks
The landscape is coded.
Entry points into the future = Levels in a spinal landscape = zones of significant time.
August 5. Found the man Traven. A strange derelict figure, hiding in a bunker in the deserted interior of the island. He is suffering from severe exposure and malnutrition, but is unaware of this or, for that matter, of any other events in the world around him. . . .
He maintains that he came to the island to carry out some scientific project—unstated—but I suspect that he understands his real motives and the unique role of the island. ... In some way its landscape seems to be involved with certain unconscious notions of time, and in particular with those that may be a repressed premonition of our own deaths. The attractions and dangers of such an architecture, as the past has shown, need no stressing. . . .
August 6. He has the eyes of the possessed. I would guess that he is neither the first, nor the last, to visit the island.
—from Dr. C. Osborne, Eniwetok Diary.
With the exhaustion of his supplies, Traven remained within the perimeter of the blocks almost continuously, conserving what strength remained to him to walk slowly down their empty corridors. The infection in his right foot made it difficult for him to replenish his supplies from the stores left by the biologists, and as his strength ebbed he found less incentive to make his way out of the blocks. The system of megaliths now provided a complete substitute for those functions of his mind which gave to it its sense of the sustained rational order of time and space. Without them, Traven felt his awareness of reality shrinking to little more than the few square inches of sand beneath his feet.
On one of his last ventures into the maze, he spent all night and much of the following morning in a futile attempt to escape. Dragging himself from one rectangle of shadow to another, his leg as heavy as a club and apparently inflamed to the knee, he realized that he must soon find an equivalent for the blocks or he would end his life within them, trapped inside this self-constructed mausoleum as surely as the retinue of Pharaoh.
He was sitting helplessly somewhere in the center of the system, the faceless lines of tomb-booths receding from him, when the sky was slowly divided by the drone of a light aircraft. This passed overhead, and then, five minutes later, returned. Seizing his opportunity, Traven struggled to his feet and made his exit from the blocks, his head raised to follow the faintly glistening beacon of the exhaust trail.
As he lay in the bunker he dimly heard the aircraft return and carry out an inspection of the site.
“Who are you?” A small sandy-haired man peered down at him, an expression of sharp disapproval on his face. He packed a syringe away in his valise. “Do you realize you’re on your last legs?”
“Traven ... I’ve had some sort of accident. I’m glad you flew over.”
“I’m sure you are. But why didn’t you use our radiotelephone? Anyway, we’ll call the Navy and have you picked up.”
“No . . .” Traven sat up on one elbow and felt weakly in his hip pocket. “I have a pass somewhere. I’m carrying out research.”
“Into what?” The question assumed a complete understanding of Traven’s motives. He lay in the shade under the lee of the bunker, and drank weakly from a canteen as Dr. Osborne dressed his foot. “You’ve also been stealing our stores.”
Traven shook his head. Fifty yards away the blue and white Cessna stood on the concrete apron like a brilliant dragonfly. “I didn’t realize you were coming back.”
“You must be in a trance.”
The young woman sitting at the controls of the aircraft climbed out and walked over to them. She glanced at the grey bunkers and towers, and seemed unaware or uninterested in the decrepit figure of Traven. Osborne spoke to her and after a downward glance at Traven she went back to the aircraft. As she turned Traven rose involuntarily, recognizing the child in the photograph he had pinned to the the wall of the bunker. Then he remembered that the magazine could not have been more than four or five years old. Nevertheless, the conviction—indeed, almost a last desperate hope—that the child and the young woman were the same person remained.
The engine of the aircraft started. As Traven watched, it turned on to one of the roadways and took off into the wind.
Later that afternoon she drove over by jeep to the blocks and unloaded a small camp bed for Traven and a canvas awning. During the intervening hours Traven had slept. He woke refreshed when Osborne returned from his scrutiny of the surrounding dunes.
“What are you doing here?” the young woman asked as she secured the grey ropes to the roof of the bunker.
Traven watched her move about. “I’m . . . searching for my wife and son.”
“They’re on this island?” Surprised, but taking the reply at face value, she looked around her.
“In a manner of speaking.”
After inspecting the bunker, Osborne joined them. “The child in the photograph—is she your daughter?”
Traven hesitated. “Yes—or rather, she’s adopted me.”
Unable to make any sense of his replies, but accepting his assurances that he would leave the island, Osborne and the young woman drove back to their camp. Each day Osborne returned to change the dressing, driven by the young woman, who seemed now to understand the role cast for her by Traven and his private island mythology. Osborne, when he learned of Traven’s previous career as a military pilot, appeared to suspect that he might be a latter-day martyr left high and dry by the moratorium on thermonuclear tests.
“A guilt complex isn’t an indiscriminate supply of moral sanctions. I think you may be overstretching yours.” When he mentioned the name Eatherly, Traven shook his head.
Undeterred, Osborne pressed: “Are you sure you’re not making similar use of the image of Eniwetok—waiting for your Pentecostal wind?”
“Believe me, Doctor, no,” Traven replied firmly. “For me the Hydrogen Bomb was a symbol of absolute freedom. Unlike Eatherly, I feel it’s given me the right—the obligation, even—to do anything I choose.”
“That seems strange logic,” Osborne commented. “Aren’t we at least responsible for our physical selves, if for nothing else?”
“Not now, I think,” Traven replied. “In effect, aren’t we men raised from the dead?”
Often, however, he thought of Eatherly.
Eatherly: the prototypal Pre-Third Man—dating the Pre-Third from August 6, 1945—carrying a full load of cosmic guilt.
Shortly after Traven was strong enough to walk he had to be rescued from the blocks for a second time. Osborne became less conciliatory.
“Our work is almost complete,” he said warningly. “You’ll die here, Traven. What are you looking for among those blocks?”