Read Online Five to Twelve by Edmund Cooper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edmund Cooper
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small of spirit. No talent for dying. Only a certain, comfortabletalent for living. He tried to smile, but there was a smile already frozen on his face.
The stars briefly extinguished themselves—a first and dreadful warning. He groped through the darkness that was now darker than night for the jet control. He found it, but he couldn’t hold it. He could only tap it feebly. It was enough.
He began to fall back through the sky, the rush of air cutting his face and body as if he were falling into a fountain of knives. At seven thousand feet his voice returned and he could scream, creating a high column of sound that rode wildly down the night.
It was a scream of pain and pleasure. For the pain gave pleasure as feeling tore back into his body, the unendurable agony of resurrection.
He passed the five thousand level, where Juno cruised frantically, waiting for him. Searching the sky, she saw his downward track against the Milky Way and jetted towards him, switching her headlight on and signalling frantically.
He didn’t notice her. He was hypnotized now by the fiery circle of Stonehenge rushing up through the cosmos as if eager to touch him. How delightful to dive clean into that tiny central point that was the bonfire and send a shower of sparks and scattered life force over all the guests who were celebrating idiocy in the age of idiocy.
But at one thousand feet he decided to forego the pleasure. There was yet, perhaps, some living to be done. There was yet, perhaps, some purpose to be found—even if only a more artistic way of dying.
He hit the control once more and retro-jetted at full thrust. The roar of air about him became no more than a loud rushing, the rushing became a whisper so that he could hear again the complaining whistle of the jets. He had beenfalling at such a speed that full retro-thrust only saved him by a hundred feet from hurtling through the transparent tepee and hitting one of the megaliths. He bounced up again like a cork, remembering Juno.
They rendezvoused at three thousand feet, two dull green glow-worms who recognized each other in a way that neither could understand.
Dion stabilized. Juno jetted close.
“Psycho!” she sobbed. “Deadhead! Fool!”
“Medieval fool,” he conceded. “The joke is on both of us. They call it life.”
“Oh, Dion, you hazy crazy word juggler! Why did you do it? I nearly died for you.”
He laughed. “I nearly died for myself… It’s a very cold champagne that God serves on the ceiling, shrivel-womb. You should try it some time. There comes an interesting moment when the stars go dark.”
“I’ll never jet with you again.”
Dion was enjoying himself. “You will. Where I lead, you’ll do your tiny dom-best to follow. And each time you fail, you will get a little nearer to understanding the difference between men and women. Message ends.”
Juno was silent for a moment or two. Then she said: “Let’s touch down at Reception. They must have radar-tracked you. They’ll wonder what kind of oddball bounces against the sky.”
“Let them wonder,” he retorted equably. “And if anyone should ask, say: ‘Dion Quern, master of nothing, has briefly surveyed his kingdom… Have you ever tasted your own frozen blood?’”
“My dear one,” said Juno helplessly. “Sometimes, I even think I understand.”
Dion looked below him, at the hectic, illuminated circleround Stonehenge and then at the sea of darkness that covered the featureless plain.
“Reception can wait,” he said. “There will be time enough to entertain Victoria of England with the social inanities of our age. But for five minutes, wench, you can lie with your legs open behind a thorn hedge like any honest slut would have done in the last two millennia. Then you, too, can taste the taste of frozen blood.”
Juno, glancing towards Stonehenge, saw the royal standard break in a spotlight glare. She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Dom and harlot, Dion was pleased to note,
The stars briefly extinguished themselves—a first and dreadful warning. He groped through the darkness that was now darker than night for the jet control. He found it, but he couldn’t hold it. He could only tap it feebly. It was enough.
He began to fall back through the sky, the rush of air cutting his face and body as if he were falling into a fountain of knives. At seven thousand feet his voice returned and he could scream, creating a high column of sound that rode wildly down the night.
It was a scream of pain and pleasure. For the pain gave pleasure as feeling tore back into his body, the unendurable agony of resurrection.
He passed the five thousand level, where Juno cruised frantically, waiting for him. Searching the sky, she saw his downward track against the Milky Way and jetted towards him, switching her headlight on and signalling frantically.
He didn’t notice her. He was hypnotized now by the fiery circle of Stonehenge rushing up through the cosmos as if eager to touch him. How delightful to dive clean into that tiny central point that was the bonfire and send a shower of sparks and scattered life force over all the guests who were celebrating idiocy in the age of idiocy.
But at one thousand feet he decided to forego the pleasure. There was yet, perhaps, some living to be done. There was yet, perhaps, some purpose to be found—even if only a more artistic way of dying.
He hit the control once more and retro-jetted at full thrust. The roar of air about him became no more than a loud rushing, the rushing became a whisper so that he could hear again the complaining whistle of the jets. He had beenfalling at such a speed that full retro-thrust only saved him by a hundred feet from hurtling through the transparent tepee and hitting one of the megaliths. He bounced up again like a cork, remembering Juno.
They rendezvoused at three thousand feet, two dull green glow-worms who recognized each other in a way that neither could understand.
Dion stabilized. Juno jetted close.
“Psycho!” she sobbed. “Deadhead! Fool!”
“Medieval fool,” he conceded. “The joke is on both of us. They call it life.”
“Oh, Dion, you hazy crazy word juggler! Why did you do it? I nearly died for you.”
He laughed. “I nearly died for myself… It’s a very cold champagne that God serves on the ceiling, shrivel-womb. You should try it some time. There comes an interesting moment when the stars go dark.”
“I’ll never jet with you again.”
Dion was enjoying himself. “You will. Where I lead, you’ll do your tiny dom-best to follow. And each time you fail, you will get a little nearer to understanding the difference between men and women. Message ends.”
Juno was silent for a moment or two. Then she said: “Let’s touch down at Reception. They must have radar-tracked you. They’ll wonder what kind of oddball bounces against the sky.”
“Let them wonder,” he retorted equably. “And if anyone should ask, say: ‘Dion Quern, master of nothing, has briefly surveyed his kingdom… Have you ever tasted your own frozen blood?’”
“My dear one,” said Juno helplessly. “Sometimes, I even think I understand.”
Dion looked below him, at the hectic, illuminated circleround Stonehenge and then at the sea of darkness that covered the featureless plain.
“Reception can wait,” he said. “There will be time enough to entertain Victoria of England with the social inanities of our age. But for five minutes, wench, you can lie with your legs open behind a thorn hedge like any honest slut would have done in the last two millennia. Then you, too, can taste the taste of frozen blood.”
Juno, glancing towards Stonehenge, saw the royal standard break in a spotlight glare. She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Dom and harlot, Dion was pleased to note,
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