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Authors: Steven Spielberg
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position. The sleek city Brahmin sank to his knees, Laughlin found himself sitting down abruptly, as if the only person who had any right to be on his feet was the sadhu. Out of the corner of his eye, Laughlin could see the audio technician and the camera operator fall, incredibly, to their knees. He was sure they had no idea what they were doing.
With grave deliberateness, the sadhu’s bare arms spread out from his body like the powerful wings of some great land-locked bird ready to take the skies. Behind him, all that was left of the sun was the thinnest edge of rind. As Laughlin watched, the sun snuffed out. Darkness fell instantly.
The sadhu’s long arms swung up at his sides to shoulder height. They paused, then continued their upward sweep until the gnarled backs of his hands touched each other high over his head. They paused again. Then he brought the arms down in one great sweep—a conductor cueing a mighty orchestra.
From ten—twenty—thousand throats came a low, melodious note. They sustained it with such power that it began to eat its way into Laughlin’s brain. He noticed Lacombe’s eyes snap open and swing sideways, cursing the technicians. Laughlin gestured. The audio man started the Nagra. Laughlin could see its reels turning through the copper mesh.
Now the sadhu brought his arms up and cued another note, an interval above the first, higher on the scale. His worshippers filled the world with the two tones, alternating them, sounding them separately and together—a minor interval, Laughlin thought, less than a third. A minor third? Not quite.
The sadhu produced another note and then another and another. Now Laughlin began to lose a sense of the melody in the harsh cacophony of many voices. The ground beneath him seemed to vibrate with the intensity of the notes, unmelodic, strange to Western ears, notes the report had stated had come down from the stars four nights ago and that the sadhu and his followers had been sounding each night since.
The intervals were never whole, Laughlin felt. They were quartered, halved, bent slightly into micro tone steps. Each singer changed the notes slightly, making a raw, elemental howl. It soared skyward in a great chant, somehow ominous. It shook the earth beneath Laughlin but it also made the air itself vibrate.
The tropical twilight was now night. Damp blackness had descended upon them all. And even though they could no longer see their sadhu, the many thousands continued their chant, forcing it to grow to an almost unbearable intensity.
The stars had come out overhead. Laughlin gazed upward, shaking with the fierceness of the singing around him. He watched the star at the end of the Big Dipper’s handle. It grew brighter, waned, brightened again. There was a frequency to it, like a message in Morse code. And then it . . . exploded.
A bright crimson flash illuminated the upturned faces of the multitude. Lacombe was on his feet now, standing beside the sadhu. The cameraman had swung his shoulder-braced Arriflex upward.
The crimson light elongated into a rolling pillar, turned orange. Then yellow. Then pale green. It hovered in the sky, and suddenly the heavens were filled with the same five notes. The same chord, played on something that was not human. Pure. Melodic. Clean. The worshippers below fell silent. And once again the sky sang down to them.
“Goddamn!” the cameraman said.
The pillar of fire winked out The song ended.
The worshippers below sank back, faces pressed to the earth. The sadhu turned to Lacombe.
“The sky,” he said in a thin voice, “the sky sings to us.”
The two men embraced. Tears ran down the Frenchman’s cheeks. His voice was thick with emotion.
“It sings to all of us, my friend.”
12
S everal hours later that morning, Saturday, Neary stood bleary-eyed in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to organize enough of himself to at least get the shaver working. Eventually, Roy took the can of Rapid Shave and
With grave deliberateness, the sadhu’s bare arms spread out from his body like the powerful wings of some great land-locked bird ready to take the skies. Behind him, all that was left of the sun was the thinnest edge of rind. As Laughlin watched, the sun snuffed out. Darkness fell instantly.
The sadhu’s long arms swung up at his sides to shoulder height. They paused, then continued their upward sweep until the gnarled backs of his hands touched each other high over his head. They paused again. Then he brought the arms down in one great sweep—a conductor cueing a mighty orchestra.
From ten—twenty—thousand throats came a low, melodious note. They sustained it with such power that it began to eat its way into Laughlin’s brain. He noticed Lacombe’s eyes snap open and swing sideways, cursing the technicians. Laughlin gestured. The audio man started the Nagra. Laughlin could see its reels turning through the copper mesh.
Now the sadhu brought his arms up and cued another note, an interval above the first, higher on the scale. His worshippers filled the world with the two tones, alternating them, sounding them separately and together—a minor interval, Laughlin thought, less than a third. A minor third? Not quite.
The sadhu produced another note and then another and another. Now Laughlin began to lose a sense of the melody in the harsh cacophony of many voices. The ground beneath him seemed to vibrate with the intensity of the notes, unmelodic, strange to Western ears, notes the report had stated had come down from the stars four nights ago and that the sadhu and his followers had been sounding each night since.
The intervals were never whole, Laughlin felt. They were quartered, halved, bent slightly into micro tone steps. Each singer changed the notes slightly, making a raw, elemental howl. It soared skyward in a great chant, somehow ominous. It shook the earth beneath Laughlin but it also made the air itself vibrate.
The tropical twilight was now night. Damp blackness had descended upon them all. And even though they could no longer see their sadhu, the many thousands continued their chant, forcing it to grow to an almost unbearable intensity.
The stars had come out overhead. Laughlin gazed upward, shaking with the fierceness of the singing around him. He watched the star at the end of the Big Dipper’s handle. It grew brighter, waned, brightened again. There was a frequency to it, like a message in Morse code. And then it . . . exploded.
A bright crimson flash illuminated the upturned faces of the multitude. Lacombe was on his feet now, standing beside the sadhu. The cameraman had swung his shoulder-braced Arriflex upward.
The crimson light elongated into a rolling pillar, turned orange. Then yellow. Then pale green. It hovered in the sky, and suddenly the heavens were filled with the same five notes. The same chord, played on something that was not human. Pure. Melodic. Clean. The worshippers below fell silent. And once again the sky sang down to them.
“Goddamn!” the cameraman said.
The pillar of fire winked out The song ended.
The worshippers below sank back, faces pressed to the earth. The sadhu turned to Lacombe.
“The sky,” he said in a thin voice, “the sky sings to us.”
The two men embraced. Tears ran down the Frenchman’s cheeks. His voice was thick with emotion.
“It sings to all of us, my friend.”
12
S everal hours later that morning, Saturday, Neary stood bleary-eyed in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to organize enough of himself to at least get the shaver working. Eventually, Roy took the can of Rapid Shave and
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