Read Online Logan's Run by William F Nolan, George Clayton Johnson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William F Nolan, George Clayton Johnson
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was porcelain and pale marble, alabaster and bone ivory. He made castles of bergs and palaces of glacier cliffs. He cloud-wandered the frozen immensities.
And was content.
Box saw them coming: two staggering figures, bent against the wind. He vanished.
Logan fought the clogging exhaustion in his body. The wind leaped in to snatch his breath, battered his face and hands, ripsawed through his furred clothing. The dreaming cliffs on the ice-dazzled plain were no closer. They would never be closer. They were ten thousand miles away. They were an illusion which stung him forward, one leaden foot after the other leaden foot after the other leaden foot after the other leaden foot after the other leaden foot.
Jessica toppled and fell.
He pulled at her, tugging at an arm. No going forward. No going back. No more steps. The cliffs were dream and dream; they had never existed. Logan slipped down beside Jess. Her eyes were closed. She should open her eyes, he thought lazily. She’ll die. If she does not open her eyes she’ll die and that would be too bad. Too bad.
If I close my eyes, he thought, I can open them again immediately. There will be no problem in this. Close. Open. No problem. I would tell her to open her eyes, but I will save this for later and show her how easy it is to open and close your eyes.
Logan closed his eyes.
He would open them in a moment, in just another moment after a moment and then he would tell Jess and would open them and in a moment he would and it was so, easy to keep them closed for a moment and the wind had gone and that was strange and there was no cold and he could open them in a moment and there was no problem and he would. He would.
Logan slept.
He opened his eyes to a frieze of crystal beasts dancing in a blue fire. He blinked. The frieze wavered, became solid. Extending to the limit of his vision was a capering host of otters conjured from diamond ice. And more.
Logan sat up to an incredible tableau.
There, a fish of sequined rainbow scales caught in a zircon wave.
There, a tusked walrus with mirror-ice eyes, his body veined with blacks and purples.
There, a flight of crystal birds in a crystal sky.
Planes and projections. An intricate scrimshaw of glassed fretwork, rising in prismed tiers, shot through with light jewels: dandelion yellows, crimson lakes, cerulean blues, flashing and reflecting, illuminated by a barrel-sized lamp of carved bone which sizzled and flickered. And supporting this fragile lacework was an immense column, angling up into the vaulted roof of the ice cavern.
Logan felt bottled in the heart of a teardrop chandelier.
The room reeked of burning seal oil.
Jess lay on the floor beside him. Her eyes stirred She awakened, gasped. “Overwhelming, isn’t it?” said a fluting voice.
A creature stood before them on chromed legs. From the midpoint of his sternum to his hips he was coils and cables. One hand was a cutting tool. His head was half flesh, half metal.
“A machine!” said Jess.
“No! not machine, nor man, but a perfect fusion of the two and better than either. You see before you the consummate artist whose magnificent creativity flows from manmetal. The man conceives in hunger and passion; the metal executes with micrometric exactitude. No human sculptor could match the greatness here displayed.”
So this was Box: an insane half-man living in a self-created world of fantasy. Logan wondered just how much humanity remained in him. “We were told you could help us find food.”
“Dolts!” shrilled Box. “Barbarians! Are you no more than walking bellies?”
“We’re human and we’re hungry,” snapped Logan. “Don’t you eat?”
“I feed the soul, not the body. Art before hunger!”
Jessica’s eyes ranged about the glittering chamber. “All of this—it is beautiful,” she said softly.
Half of Box smiled. “Ah—but wait for the winds.” His voice hushed. “Then my birds sing. My great walrus breathes. My palace chimes and
And was content.
Box saw them coming: two staggering figures, bent against the wind. He vanished.
Logan fought the clogging exhaustion in his body. The wind leaped in to snatch his breath, battered his face and hands, ripsawed through his furred clothing. The dreaming cliffs on the ice-dazzled plain were no closer. They would never be closer. They were ten thousand miles away. They were an illusion which stung him forward, one leaden foot after the other leaden foot after the other leaden foot after the other leaden foot after the other leaden foot.
Jessica toppled and fell.
He pulled at her, tugging at an arm. No going forward. No going back. No more steps. The cliffs were dream and dream; they had never existed. Logan slipped down beside Jess. Her eyes were closed. She should open her eyes, he thought lazily. She’ll die. If she does not open her eyes she’ll die and that would be too bad. Too bad.
If I close my eyes, he thought, I can open them again immediately. There will be no problem in this. Close. Open. No problem. I would tell her to open her eyes, but I will save this for later and show her how easy it is to open and close your eyes.
Logan closed his eyes.
He would open them in a moment, in just another moment after a moment and then he would tell Jess and would open them and in a moment he would and it was so, easy to keep them closed for a moment and the wind had gone and that was strange and there was no cold and he could open them in a moment and there was no problem and he would. He would.
Logan slept.
He opened his eyes to a frieze of crystal beasts dancing in a blue fire. He blinked. The frieze wavered, became solid. Extending to the limit of his vision was a capering host of otters conjured from diamond ice. And more.
Logan sat up to an incredible tableau.
There, a fish of sequined rainbow scales caught in a zircon wave.
There, a tusked walrus with mirror-ice eyes, his body veined with blacks and purples.
There, a flight of crystal birds in a crystal sky.
Planes and projections. An intricate scrimshaw of glassed fretwork, rising in prismed tiers, shot through with light jewels: dandelion yellows, crimson lakes, cerulean blues, flashing and reflecting, illuminated by a barrel-sized lamp of carved bone which sizzled and flickered. And supporting this fragile lacework was an immense column, angling up into the vaulted roof of the ice cavern.
Logan felt bottled in the heart of a teardrop chandelier.
The room reeked of burning seal oil.
Jess lay on the floor beside him. Her eyes stirred She awakened, gasped. “Overwhelming, isn’t it?” said a fluting voice.
A creature stood before them on chromed legs. From the midpoint of his sternum to his hips he was coils and cables. One hand was a cutting tool. His head was half flesh, half metal.
“A machine!” said Jess.
“No! not machine, nor man, but a perfect fusion of the two and better than either. You see before you the consummate artist whose magnificent creativity flows from manmetal. The man conceives in hunger and passion; the metal executes with micrometric exactitude. No human sculptor could match the greatness here displayed.”
So this was Box: an insane half-man living in a self-created world of fantasy. Logan wondered just how much humanity remained in him. “We were told you could help us find food.”
“Dolts!” shrilled Box. “Barbarians! Are you no more than walking bellies?”
“We’re human and we’re hungry,” snapped Logan. “Don’t you eat?”
“I feed the soul, not the body. Art before hunger!”
Jessica’s eyes ranged about the glittering chamber. “All of this—it is beautiful,” she said softly.
Half of Box smiled. “Ah—but wait for the winds.” His voice hushed. “Then my birds sing. My great walrus breathes. My palace chimes and
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