Read Online The Perseids and Other Stories by Robert Charles Wilson - Free Book Online Page B

trap was switched on, its video screens flashing faster than the last time I had seen it. No image lingered long enough to resolve, but the flickering light was more than random; I felt presences in it, the kind of motion that alerts the peripheral vision. The
icaro
was louder and more insinuating in thiswarehouse-like space, a sound that invaded the body through the pores.
    But the room was empty.
    The twins regarded me, smiling blandly, pupils big as half-dollars. “Of course, all this isn’t
necessary
—”
    “You don’t have to
summon
something that’s already
inside you
—”
    “But it’s
out there
, too—”
    “In the images—”
    “In the
gnososphere
…”
    “Everywhere….”
    The third floor: more stairs at the opposite end of the room. I moved that way with the maddening sensation that time itself had slowed, that I was embedded in some invisible, congealed substance that made every footstep a labor. The twins were right behind me, still performing their mad Baedeker.
    “The greenhouse!” (Alpha.)
    “Yes, you should see it.” (Beta.)
    The stairs led to a door; the door opened into a jungle humidity lit by ranks of fluorescent bars. Plants were everywhere; I had to blink before I could make sense of it.
    “Psychotria viridis,”
Alpha said.
    “And other plants—”
    “Common grasses—”
    “Desmanthus illinoensis
—”
    “Phalaris arundinacea
—”
    It was as Robin had described it, a greenhouse built over an expansion of the house, concealed from the street by an attic riser. The ceiling and the far walls were of glass, dripping with moisture. The air was thick and hard to breathe.
    “Plants that contain DMT.” (The twins, still babbling.)
    “It’s a drug—”
    “And a neurotransmitter.”
    “N, N-dimethyltryptamine….”
    “It’s what dreams are made of, Michael.”
    “Dreams and imagination.”
    “Culture.”
    “Religion!”
    “It’s the
opening
—”
    I said, “Is she drugged? For Christ’s sake, where is she?”
    But the twins didn’t answer.
    I saw motion through the glass. The deck extended beyond the greenhouse, but there was no obvious door. I stumbled down a corridor of slim-leaved potted plants and put my hands against the dripping glass.
    People out there.
    “She’s the
Rainha da Floresta
—”
    “And Roger is
Santo Daime!”
    “All the archetypes, really….”
    “Male and female, sun and moon….”
    I swiped away the condensation with my sleeve. A group of maybe a dozen people had gathered on the wooden decking outside, night wind tugging at their hair. I recognized faces from Robin’s parties, dimly illuminated by the emerald glow of the greenhouse. They formed a semicircle with Robin at the center of it—Robin and Roger.
    She wore a white T-shirt but was naked below the waist. Roger was entirely naked and covered with glistening green dye. They held each other at arm’s length, as if performing some elaborate dance, but they were motionless, eyes fixed on one another.
    Sometime earlier the embrace must have been more intimate. His paint was smeared on Robin’s shirt and thighs.
    She was thinner than I remembered, almost anorexic.
    Alpha said, “It’s sort of a wedding—”
    “An
alchemical
wedding.”
    “And sort of a birth.”
    There had to be a door. I kicked over a brick and board platform, spilling plants and bonemeal as I followed the wall. The door, when I found it, was glass in a metal frame, and there was a padlock across the clasp.
    I rattled it, banged my palm against it. Where my hand had been I could see through the smear of humidity. A few heads turned at the noise, including, I recognized, the science fiction writer I had talked to long ago. But there was no curiosity in hisgaze, only a desultory puzzlement. Roger and Robin remained locked in their peculiar trance, touching but apart, as if making room between them for … what?
    No, something
had
changed: now their eyes were closed. Robin was breathing in short, stertorous