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作者：[爱尔兰] 鲍勃·肖 白锡嘉 译 鲍勃·肖（１９３１～）爱尔兰作家。《昔日的光》（１９６６）被认为是他的最佳短篇小说。 科学上的发现和奇迹般的发明是科幻小说不可缺少的组成部分。鲍勃·肖的富有独创性的“慢玻璃”设想是这类故事的一个卓越典范，因为它不满足于提出一个不同凡响的新观念，它还进一步探索了这一新发明对人类生活的影响。 我们离开村庄，沿着曲折蜿蜒的道路向上开，进入了慢玻璃之乡。 我以前还从未见过这里的农场，所以刚开头觉得它们有点怪——这是想象力和环境强化作用的结果。小汽车的叶轮机在潮湿的空气中运转得又平稳又安静，我们像是在这条处于一种神奇的寂静状态的道路上空盘旋。在我们右面，山峦齐整地汇合到一个覆盖着年代不详的松树的美丽峡谷里。这里到处竖立着正在吸收光线的慢玻璃的巨大窗框。偶尔闪现在它们风柱上的午后阳光造成一种运动的错觉，但实际上并没有人在照看这些窗框。一排排的窗户已经在山腰竖立好多年了，它们很像是在眺望山谷深处。人们仅仅在半夜才去清洁它们，因为这时饥渴的玻璃并不介意人的出现。 它们十分迷人，不过塞丽娜和我都没有提这些窗子。我想我们彼此怨恨太深，两人都不愿意把任何新事物拖入我们的感情纠葛中而玷污了它。我开始意识到这个假日从一开始就是一个愚蠢的主意。我原以为度假会治愈任何事，可是，它显然没有能中止塞丽娜的怀孕，而且更糟的是，它甚至未能停止她对怀孕所抱的忿怒。 为了掩饰对她的状况的沮丧之情，我们宣称我们愿意有孩子——不过是在将来，在合适的时候。塞丽娜的怀孕使我们丢失了她的收入颇丰的工作，接着我们一直在讨论的新居也吹了，这所新房子决不是我写诗的收入所能企望的。但是，我们烦恼的真正原因在于我们面对这样的现实，即宣称想要孩子的人到后来总是意味着他们根本不想要孩子。我们自己是如此自命不凡，却像这个世界上曾经有过的每一种呆头呆脑的发情动物那样陷入同样的生物骗局里，一想到这一点，我们的神经便发怵。 我们沿着本·克拉钦山南坡的道路行进，直到我们开始瞥见遥远前方灰白色的大西洋。在我刚减慢车速来更好地欣赏景色时，忽然间注意到钉在门柱上的一个广告牌。上面写着：“慢玻璃——品质优良，价格低廉——Ｊ·Ｒ·哈根。”我一时兴起，就把车停在门边，坚硬的青草抽打在车身上发出一阵噼啪声，车子往后略微退了退。 “我们为什么停下来？”塞丽娜的整洁的长着烟白色银发的头转过来，吃惊地问。 “看这牌子。让我们上去看看那是什么。这东西的价格在这里可能相当合理。” 塞丽娜回绝这个建议时声调很高，而且带着轻蔑，但我主意已定，根本不想听。我有一种不合逻辑的信念，就是干一起荒唐越轨的事会让我们重归于好。 “下来吧，”我说，“活动活动也许对我们有好处。不管怎么说我们开了这么长时间车了。” 她耸耸肩然后走下汽车，那副样子真让我受不了。我们沿着一条由大小不匀的夯实的粘土块砌成的台阶路往上走，台阶两侧冒出矮矮的幼树苗。小路弯曲地通过长满树木的山腰，在路的尽头我们发现一所低平的农舍。在这座小石头建筑物后面，慢玻璃的高大窗框像是在探视着联接克拉钦山与下面林赫湖的万籁俱寂的长坡。大多数窗格玻璃是完全透明的，不过有一些玻璃颜色很暗，像光滑的乌檀木板。 当我们穿过一个铺着整洁鹅卵石的院子来到农舍时，一个身着灰色粗花呢的高个子中年男子站起来和我们打招呼。在这之前他一直坐在院子的碎石矮墙上，边抽烟斗边朝房子那边看着。在农舍的前窗里站着一个穿橘红色外衣的年轻女子，怀里抱着一个小孩，不过当我们走近时她冷淡地转身走开了。 “您是哈根先生吗？”我试着问。 “是我。你们来看看玻璃，是吗？好，你们来的正是地方。”哈根清脆而带有纯正高地口音的话对于没有听惯的人来说很像是爱尔兰话。他有一张人们可以在老养路工和哲学家中发现的静穆而阴沉的脸。 “是的，”我说，“我们在度假。我们看见了你的广告牌。” 塞丽娜平常见到陌生人总能滔滔不绝，这会儿却什么也没有说。她正以一种我想是略带困惑的神情瞧着那扇目前已没有人影的窗子。 “你们从伦敦来，是吧？好，我说了，你们来的正是地方——而且也正是时候。在这个季节里我妻子和我这么早通常是见不到多少人的。” 我笑出声来，“这是不是说我们可以买一些玻璃而不必用家产作抵押了呢？” “现在看那儿，”哈根说，露出一种勉强的笑容，“我放弃丁我在这种交易中可能有的任何有利之点。罗斯，我的妻子，说我的脑筋永远不会开窍。不过还是让我们坐下来谈谈吧。”他指指碎石墙，接着又瞧瞧塞丽娜的整洁无瑕的蓝裙子，“等一下，我从屋里拿一块毯子来。”哈根瘸着腿快速走进房子，一进去就把门关上了。 “也许到这儿来的主意是不太高明，”我对塞丽娜耳语道，“不过你至少可以对这个人友好一点。我想这次也许能买到便宜货。” “有点儿希望，”她的语调带有故意的粗俗，“即便是你也必定注意到他妻子穿的那件老式外衣了吧！他对陌生人是不会让步的。” “那人是他妻子？” “这还用说，那就是他妻子。” “就算是吧，”我说，略感吃惊。，“不管怎么样，对他客气些。我可不想搞得不愉快。” 塞丽娜哼了几声，不过当哈根再出来时她还是淡漠地笑了笑，我也就略感放心了。真奇怪，一个人怎么会爱上一个女人而同时又天天盼她掉到火车下面碾死呢。 哈根在矮墙上面铺了一块格子花呢地毯，我们坐了下来，略有几分从都市来到乡村的不自然感。在慢玻璃窗架后，远处石板色的湖面上，一只缓慢向南行驶的汽艇拖出了一条白线。强烈的山地空气简直是在向我们的肺中硬灌，给予我们超过需要的氧气。 “附近有一些生产玻璃的农夫，”哈根开始说，“会对像你们这样的陌生人进行兜售。比如说在阿杰尔的这个地区秋天是如何如何美，当然也可能是说春天或冬天。我并不这么做——任何一个傻瓜都知道，一个地方要是夏天看起来不怎么样就永远不会好。您说呢？” 我顺从地点点头。 “我希望您朝莫尔峰那边好好看一看，先生贵姓——” “加兰德。” “……加兰德。如果您要买我的玻璃，这些就是，再没有比它们此刻看上去更好的了。这些玻璃的状态，好极了，没有一块少于十年的厚度——一扇四英尺的价格是二百英镑。” “二百英镑！”塞丽娜惊呆了，“这和邦德街的风景窗商店一样贵。” 哈根耐心地笑了笑，然后注视着我，看我是否对慢玻璃有足够的知识来理解他的话。他的价格比我所预期的要高出许多——但十年的厚度！在比如“万景”和“神奇玻璃”这样的商店里，人们看到的廉价玻璃通常是四分之一英寸厚的玻璃覆上一层大概只有十或十二个月厚度的慢玻璃饰面。 “你不明白，亲爱的，”我说，已经下决心要买，“这种玻璃可以用十年，而且它的‘状态，很好。” “不也就是说它们仅仅是可以保存时间吗？” 哈根再次朝她笑笑，明白对我已无需费口舌了，“仅仅，这是您说的！请原谅，加兰德太太，您看来并不了解这一奇迹，这一真正的道地的奇迹，它体现了生产一块‘状态’良好的慢玻璃所需的精密工艺。我说这块玻璃有十年的厚度，这意味着光线需要十年才能通过它。事实上，这些窗玻璃每块都有十光年厚——是到达最近的恒星的距离的两倍多——所以实际厚度只要有一百万分之一英寸的误差就会……” 他停了一会，平静地坐下来，朝房子那边看着。我转过头来，不再观望湖景时，看见那个年轻女子又站在窗口了。哈根的眼神充满了一种强烈的崇敬，这使我感到并不舒服，同时也使我确信塞丽娜刚才一定是弄错了。在我的经验里，丈夫绝不会这样看着他们的妻子——至少，不会这样看着他们自己的妻子。 女子的穿着耀艳夺目，她在窗口站了几秒钟，然后回到房中。突然间我获得一种清晰但又莫名其妙的印象，她是个盲人。我感到，塞丽娜和我也许糊里糊涂地撞人了一场与我们俩的矛盾同样激烈的感情纠纷之中。 “很抱歉，”哈根继续刚才的话，“我想罗斯是有事叫我。我刚才说到哪儿了，加兰德太太？十光年压缩到四分之一英寸意味着……” 我不再去听，部分原因是我已经有一种失落感，再说慢玻璃的故事我以前已听过多次，却始终未能搞清其中的原理。我的一个颇有科学素养的朋友曾经试图开导我，让我将一块慢玻璃设想为一幅无须从激光源中获得连续光线便可重现视觉形象的全息图，其中每一个普通光线的光子都通过一个螺旋状管道，这个管道环绕在玻璃中每个俘获原子的辐射半径外侧。对于我，这种莫测高深的定义不但使我如堕入五里云雾中，而且让我再次确信，像我这种缺乏科学细胞的头脑与其去关心事情的“因”还不如去关心一下事情的“果”。 在普通人看来，最重要的效果在于光线通过一块慢玻璃时要用很长时间。一块新玻璃总是呈乌黑色，因为尚无任何光线透过，但是你可以将玻璃竖立在譬如一个林地湖泊的边上，直到景致出现在玻璃上，这也许需要一年时间。如果此时将玻璃移放到一个风景寥寥的城市的公寓里，这套公寓在这一年里就仿佛是在俯视一个林地湖泊。在这一年中它不但栩栩如生而且美如画景——湖水会在阳光下频起涟漪，动物会不出声地出来饮水，鸟儿会在天空飞翔，同时也有白昼黑夜和春夏秋冬的变化。直到一年后的某一天，储存在原子内管道里的美景被用尽，熟悉的城市景象重新出现。 除了非同寻常的创新价值，慢玻璃的商业成功建立在这一事实上：拥有一个风景窗从精神上说相当于完全拥有了这块土地。一个最原始的穴居人可以俯瞰着薄雾笼罩的园林——谁能说这些园林不是他的？一个真正拥有漂亮花园和种植园的人，不会为了证明自己的拥有权而整天趴在他的土地上，抚摸它，品味它。他从这块土地所获得的全部乃是光的图象。而有了风景窗，那些图象可被安放在煤矿里、潜水艇里和监狱的牢房里。 有好几回我曾试图：写几首关于具有魔力的水晶玻璃的短诗，但对我来说，这个题目是如此神奇和诗化，以至于用诗本身反而无法形容它了——至少就我的诗而言是如此。此外，早在未发明慢玻璃很久以前，就有人以未卜先知的灵感写出了最好的歌与诗。举例来说，下面所录的摩尔的诗，我就不敢奢望与之一比高低： 常常，在寂静的夜晚， 睡眠的锁链还未将我捆绑， 甜蜜的回忆给我的周围 带来了昔日的光…… 慢玻璃从一种科学的新奇玩意发展到相当的工业规模只用了几年时间。使我们这些诗人——我们中间那些仍然相信百合花虽死但美丽仍在的人——大感吃惊的是，这个工业的“门面”与其他任何工业并无两样。有价格昂贵的优质风景窗，也有便宜得多的低劣品。以年为计算单位的厚度是价格的重要因素，不过，某一时间的实际厚度，或称“状态”，也是重要的考虑因素。 即便是借助目前最精密的工程技术，厚度控制仍然是一项带有几分碰运气的工作。一个较大的误差可以意味着一块预期五年厚的玻璃变成了五年半厚，于是夏天进入的光线出现于冬天；而一个细微的误差可以意味着中午的太阳却在午夜时光芒四射了。这种与实际时间的不一致性有其独特的魅力——比如许多夜班工人就喜欢有他们自己私人的“时区”——但一般来说，购买与实际时间紧密同步的风景窗要来得贵。 哈根说完以后，塞丽娜看上去仍是不太相信的样子。她几乎难以察觉地摇摇头，我意识到哈根刚才用的方法不对头。突然一阵凉风吹动了她头发上的合金头盔，几乎万里无云的天空在我们周围落下翻滚着的干净大雨滴。 “我现在就给你开一张支票，”我很干脆地说，‘与此同时看见塞丽娜的绿眼睛眯成三角形愤怒地看着我的脸，“你能安排交货吗？” “啊，交货不成问题，”哈根说，站了起来，“不过你不想随身带走这些玻璃吗？” “当然，我愿意随身带走——如果你不介意的话。”他这样不假思索就相信了我的支票，我反而感到有几分自惭。 “我从架子上取下一块玻璃给你。你在这里稍等一会儿。还要把它装进一只手提窗框里，这用不了多久。”哈根瘸着腿走下斜坡，那里连续排列着许多窗户。透过一些窗户可以看见林赫湖方向正是阳光明媚，而从其他窗子看却是阴云密布，有几扇则干脆就是黑乎乎的。 塞丽娜将外衣领子拉到喉咙口，“他至少也应该请我们进屋去等。路过这里的傻瓜可不多，他是怠慢不起的。” 我克制着不去理睬这些阴阳怪气的话，专心写支票。一颗特大的雨滴击中我的指关节，溅在粉红色的纸上淅沥作响。 “好吧，”我说，“让我们转移到屋檐下，等他回来。”你真可恶，我想，同时感到这个婚姻完全是个大错误。我一定是个傻瓜才要了你。一个大傻瓜，比傻瓜还要傻——现在你已经紧紧俘虏了我的一部分，我是永生永世逃脱不了了。 我随塞丽娜跑向农舍墙边，感到自己的肠胃在痛苦地抽搐。窗户里面，整洁的起居室生着火却空无一人，只有孩子的玩具撒满一地。有字母积木和一辆颜色极像刚削皮的胡萝卜的独轮小车。在我向里张望时，男孩从另一间房间跑进来，一进来就用脚踢积木。他没有注意到我。过了一会儿年轻女子走了进来，将男孩举起绕膝转了几圈，快乐而纵情地笑着。她像刚才那样走近窗口。我不自然地笑笑，但她和男孩都没有什么反应。 我的前额泛起一阵冰凉的刺痛。难道他们俩都是盲人？我侧着身走开了。 塞丽娜喊叫了一声，我朝她转过去。 “地毯！”她说，“地毯被雨打湿了。” 她冒雨跑过院子，从斑驳的墙上抓起暗红色的小地毯，然后朝农舍的门跑去。我的下意识中有某种东西痉挛性地悸动了一下。 “塞丽娜，”我高声喊，“别开门！” 可是已经迟了。她已将拴着的木门推开，手捂着嘴惊讶地看着农舍里面。我走近她，从她没有反应的手中拿下毯子。 在我关上门时我扫视了一下农舍的内部。我刚才看见的女子与小孩所在的整洁的起居室竟然是一摊令人生厌的破旧家具：废报纸、旧衣服和污秽的盆盘。房间又潮又臭，根本没人住。我刚才从窗外所看见的景象中唯一还能辨认的物品是那辆小独轮车，小车的油漆早已脱落，而且破损不堪。 我把门牢牢拴好，命令自己忘掉所见到的一切。独居男子中有人能把家整理得井井有条，有人则完全外行。 塞丽娜的脸色苍白，“我不明白。我真不明白。” “慢玻璃的作用是双向的，”我慢悠悠地说，“光线能从屋外照进来，也可以从屋里照出去。” “你是说……” “我不知道。这不是我们的事。哎，注意了——哈根拿着我们的玻璃过来了。”我肠胃的翻腾开始有所减弱。 哈根提着一个长方形的塑料面窗框走进院子。我将支票递过去给他，但他却盯住塞丽娜的脸。看来他立刻意识到我们的不谙事的手指已经翻动过他的内心深处。塞丽娜回避了他的直视。她显得苍老和疲惫，她的眼睛一动不动地望着附近的天空。 “我来把毯子拿去吧，加兰德先生，”哈根终于开了口，“您不必为它而费神的。” “这没什么。这是支票。” “谢谢。”他仍然用一种祈求怜悯的奇怪表情看着塞丽娜。“和您做生意我很荣幸。” “这是我的荣幸。”我答以同样干巴巴的俗套。 我拎起沉重的窗框，带着塞丽娜走向通往大路的小径。 正当我们到达雨后变滑了的台阶跟前时哈根又开口了。 “加兰德先生！” 我不太情愿地回过身去。 “那不是我的过错，”他语气坚定地说，“一个肇事后逃跑的司机把他们两人都压死了，这是六年前在下面的奥班公路上。事情发生时我孩子才七岁。我有权保存一些东西。” 我点点头，什么也没说，紧拥着妻子走下小径，珍惜着她用手臂搂住我身体的感觉。在转弯处我从雨中往回看去，看见哈根双肩抬平坐在我们最初看见他时的矮墙上。 他在看着房子，不过我不知道是否有人在窗口。 Light of Other Days Leaving the village behind, we followed the heady sweeps of the road up into a land of slow glass. I had never seen one of the farms before and at first found them slightly eerie—an effect heightened by imagination and circumstance. The car's turbine was pulling smoothly and quietly in the damp air so that we seemed to be carried over the convolutions of the road in a kind of supernatural silence. On our right the mountain sifted down into an incredibly perfect valley of timeless pine, and everywhere stood the great frames of slow glass, drinking light. An occasional flash of afternoon sunlight on their wind bracing created an illusion of movement, but in fact the frames were deserted. The rows of windows had been standing on the hillside for years, staring into the valley, and men only cleaned them in the middle of the night when their human presence would not matter to the thirsty glass. They were fascinating, but Selina and I didn't mention the windows. I think we hated each other so much we both were reluctant to sully anything new by drawing it into the nexus of our emotions. The holiday, I had begun to realize, was a stupid idea in the first place. I had thought it would cure everything, but, of course, it didn't stop Selina being pregnant and, worst still, it didn't even stop her being angry about being pregnant. Rationalizing our dismay over her condition, we had circulated the usual statements to the effect that we would have liked having children—but later on, at the proper time. Selina's pregnancy had cost us her well-paid job and with it the new house we had been negotiating and which was far beyond the reach of my income from poetry. But the real source of our annoyance was that we were face to face with the realization that people who say they want children later always mean they want children never. Our nevers were thrumming with the knowledge that we, who had thought ourselves so unique, had fallen into the same biological trap as every mindless rutting creature which ever existed. The road took us along the southern slopes of Ben Cruachan until we began to catch glimpses of the gray Atlantic far ahead. I had just cut our speed to absorb the view better when I noticed the sign spiked to a gatepost. It said: "SLOW GLASS—QUALITY HIGH, PRICES LOW—J. R. HAGAN." On an impulse I stopped the car on the verge, wincing slightly as tough grasses whipped noisily at the bodywork. "Why have we stopped?" Selina's neat, smoke-silver head turned in surprise. "Look at that sign. Let's go up and see what there is. The stuff might be reasonably priced out here." Selina's voice was pitched high with scorn as she refused, but I was too taken with my idea to listen. I had an illogical conviction that doing something extravagant and crazy would set us right again. "Come on," I said, "the exercise might do us some good. We've been driving too long anyway." She shrugged in a way that hurt me and got out of the car. We walked up a path made of irregular, packed clay steps nosed with short lengths of sapling. The path curved through trees which clothed the edge of the hill and at its end we found a low farmhouse. Beyond the little stone building tall frames of slow glass gazed out towards the voice-stilling sight of Cruachan's ponderous descent towards the waters of Loch Linnhe. Most of the panes were perfectly transparent but a few were dark, like panels of polished ebony. As we approached the house through a neat cobbled yard a tall middle-aged man in ash-colored tweeds arose and waved to us. He had been sitting on the low rubble wall which bounded the yard, smoking a pipe and staring towards the house. At the front window of the cottage a young woman in a tangerine dress stood with a small boy in her arms, but she turned uninterestedly and moved out of sight as we drew near. "Mr. Hagan?" I guessed. "Correct. Come to see some glass, have you? Well, you've come to the right place." Hagan spoke crisply, with traces of the pure highland accent which sounds so much like Irish to the unaccustomed ear. He had one of those calmly dismayed faces one finds on elderly road-menders and philosophers. "Yes," I said. "We're on holiday. We saw your sign." Selina, who usually has a natural fluency with strangers, said nothing. She was looking towards the now empty window with what I thought was a slightly puzzled expression. "Up from London, are you? Well, as I said, you've come to the right place—and at the right time, too. My wife and I don't see many people this early in the season." I laughed. "Does that mean we might be able to buy a little glass without mortgaging our home?" "Look at that now," Hagan said, smiling helplessly. "I've thrown away any advantage I might have had in the transaction. Rose, that's my wife, says I never learn. Still, let's sit down and talk it over." He pointed at the rubble wall, then glanced doubtfully at Selina's immaculate blue skirt. "Wait till I fetch a rug from the house." Hagan limped quickly into the cottage, closing the door behind him. "Perhaps it wasn't such a marvelous idea to come up here," I whispered to Selina, "but you might at least be pleasant to the man. I think I can smell a bargain." "Some hope," she said with deliberate coarseness. "Surely even you must have noticed that ancient dress his wife is wearing! He won't give much away to strangers." "Was that his wife?" "Of course that was his wife." "Well, well," I said, surprised. "Anyway, try to be civil with him. I don't want to be embarrassed." Selina snorted, but she smiled whitely when Hagan reappeared and I relaxed a little. Strange how a man can love a woman and yet at the same time pray for her to fall under a train. Hagan spread a tartan blanket on the wall and we sat down, feeling slightly self-conscious at having been translated from our city-oriented lives into a rural tableau. On the distant slate of the Loch, beyond the watchful frames of slow glass, a slow-moving steamer drew a white line towards the south. The boisterous mountain air seemed almost to invade our lungs, giving us more oxygen than we required. "Some of the glass farmers around here," Hagan began, "give strangers, such as yourselves, a sales talk about how beautiful the autumn is in this part of Argyll. Or it might be the spring or the winter. I don't do that—any fool knows that a place which doesn't look right in the summer never looks right. What do you say?" I nodded compliantly. "I want you just to take a good look out towards Mull, Mr…." "Garland." "… Garland. That's what you're buying if you buy my glass, and it never looks better than it does at this minute. The glass is in perfect phase, none of it is less than ten years thick—and a four-foot window will cost you two hundred pounds." "Two hundred!" Selina was shocked. "That's as much as they charge at the Scenedow shop in Bond Street." Hagan smiled patiently, then looked closely at me to see if I knew enough about slow glass to appreciate what he had been saying. His price had been much higher than I had hoped—but ten years thick! The cheap glass one found in places like the Vistaplex and Pane-o-rama stores usually consisted of a quarter of an inch of ordinary glass faced with a veneer of slow glass perhaps only ten or twelve months thick. "You don't understand, darling," I said, already determined to buy. "This glass will last ten years and it's in phase." "Doesn't that only mean it keeps time?" Hagan smiled at her again, realizing he had no further necessity to bother with me. "Only, you say! Pardon me, Mrs. Garland, but you don't seem to appreciate the miracle, the genuine honest-to-goodness miracle, of engineering precision needed to produce a piece of glass in phase. When I say the glass is ten years thick it means it takes light ten years to pass through it. In effect, each one of those panes is ten light-years thick—more than twice the distance to the nearest star—so a variation in actual thickness of only a millionth of an inch would …" He stopped talking for a moment and sat quietly looking towards the house. I turned my head from the view of the Loch and saw the young woman standing at the window again. Hagan's eyes were filled with a kind of greedy reverence which made me feel uncomfortable and at the same time convinced me Selina had been wrong. In my experience husbands never looked at wives that way—at least, not at their own. The girl remained in view for a few seconds, dress glowing warmly, then moved back into the room. Suddenly I received a distinct, though inexplicable, impression she was blind. My feeling was that Selina and I were perhaps blundering through an emotional interplay as violent as our own. "I'm sorry," Hagan continued; "I thought Rose was going to call me for something. Now, where was I, Mrs. Garland? Ten light-years compressed into a quarter of an inch means …" I ceased to listen, partly because I was already sold, partly because I had heard the story of slow glass many times before and had never yet understood the principles involved. An acquaintance with scientific training had once tried to be helpful by telling me to visualize a pane of slow glass as a hologram which did not need coherent light from a laser for the reconstitution of its visual information, and in which every photon of ordinary light passed through a spiral tunnel coiled outside the radius of capture of each atom in the glass. This gem of, to me, incomprehensibility not only told me nothing, it convinced me once again that a mind as non-technical as mine should concern itself less with causes than effects. The most important effect, in the eyes of the average individual, was that light took a long time to pass through a sheet of slow glass. A new piece was always jet black because nothing had yet come through, but one could stand the glass beside, say, a woodland lake until the scene emerged, perhaps a year later. If the glass was then removed and installed in a dismal city flat, the flat would—for that year—appear to overlook the woodland lake. During the year it wouldn't be merely a very realistic but still picture—the water would ripple in sunlight, silent animals would come to drink, birds would cross the sky, night would follow day, season would follow season. Until one day, a year later, the beauty held in the subatomic pipelines would be exhausted and the familiar gray cityscape would reappear. Apart from its stupendous novelty value, the commercial success of slow glass was founded on the fact that having a scenedow was the exact emotional equivalent of owning land. The meanest cave dweller could look out on misty parks—and who was to say they weren't his? A man who really owns tailored gardens and estates doesn't spend his time proving his ownership by crawling on his ground, feeling, smelling, tasting it. All he receives from the land are light patterns, and with scenedows those patterns could be taken into coal mines, submarines, prison cells. On several occasions I have tried to write short pieces about the enchanted crystal but, to me, the theme is so ineffably poetic as to be, paradoxically, beyond the reach of poetry—mine, at any rate. Besides, the best songs and verse had already been written, with prescient inspiration, by men who had died long before slow glass was discovered. I had no hope of equaling, for example, Moore with his: Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me … It took only a few years for slow glass to develop from a scientific curiosity to a sizable industry. And much to the astonishment of we poets—those of us who remain convinced that beauty lives though lilies die—the trappings of that industry were no different from those of any other. There were good scenedows which cost a lot of money, and there were inferior scenedows which cost rather less. The thickness, measured in years, was an important factor in the cost but there was also the question of actual thickness, or phase. Even with the most sophisticated engineering techniques available thickness control was something of a hit-and-miss affair. A coarse discrepancy could mean that a pane intended to be five years thick might be five and a half, so that light which entered in summer emerged in winter; a fine discrepancy could mean that noon sunshine emerged at midnight. These incompatibilities had their peculiar charm—many night workers, for example, liked having their own private time zones—but, in general, it cost more to buy scenedows which kept closely in step with real time. Selina still looked unconvinced when Hagan had finished speaking. She shook her head almost imperceptibly and I knew he had been using the wrong approach. Quite suddenly the pewter helmet of her hair was disturbed by a cool gust of wind, and huge clean tumbling drops of rain began to spang round us from an almost cloudless sky. "I'll give you a check now," I said abruptly, and saw Selina's green eyes triangulate angrily on my face. "You can arrange delivery?" "Aye, delivery's no problem," Hagan said, getting to his feet. "But wouldn't you rather take the glass with you?" "Well, yes—if you don't mind." I was shamed by his readiness to trust my scrip. "I'll unclip a pane for you. Wait here. It won't take long to slip it into a carrying frame." Hagan limped down the slope towards the seriate windows, through some of which the view towards Linnhe was sunny, while others were cloudy and a few pure black. Selina drew the collar of her blouse closed at her throat. "The least he could have done was invite us inside. There can't be so many fools passing through that he can afford to neglect them." I tried to ignore the insult and concentrated on writing the check. One of the outsize drops broke across my knuckles, splattering the pink paper. "All right," I said, "let's move in under the eaves till he gets back." You worm, I thought as I felt the whole thing go completely wrong. I just had to be a fool to marry you. A prize fool, a fool's fool—and now that you've trapped part of me inside you I'll never ever, never ever, never ever get away. Feeling my stomach clench itself painfully, I ran behind Selina to the side of the cottage. Beyond the window the neat living room, with its coal fire, was empty but the child's toys were scattered on the floor. Alphabet blocks and a wheelbarrow the exact color of freshly pared carrots. As I stared in, the boy came running from the other room and began kicking the blocks. He didn't notice me. A few moments later the young woman entered the room and lifted him, laughing easily and wholeheartedly as she swung the boy under her arm. She came to the window as she had done earlier. I smiled self-consciously, but neither she nor the child responded. My forehead prickled icily. Could they both be blind? I sidled away. Selina gave a little scream and I spun towards her. "The rug!" she said. "It's getting soaked." She ran across the yard in the rain, snatched the reddish square from the dappling wall and ran back, towards the cottage door. Something heaved convulsively in my subconscious. "Selina," I shouted. "Don't open it!" But I was too late. She had pushed open the latched wooden door and was standing, hand over mouth, looking into the cottage. I moved close to her and took the rug from her unresisting fingers. As I was closing the door I let my eyes traverse the cottage's interior. The neat living room in which I had just seen the woman and child was, in reality, a sickening clutter of shabby furniture, old newspapers, cast-off clothing and smeared dishes. It was damp, stinking and utterly deserted. The only object I recognized from my view through the window was the little wheelbarrow, paintless and broken. I latched the door firmly and ordered myself to forget what I had seen. Some men who live alone are good housekeepers; others just don't know how. Selina's face was white. "I don't understand. I don't understand it." "Slow glass works both ways," I said gently. "Light passes out of a house, as well as in." "You mean …?" "I don't know. It isn't our business. Now steady up—Hagan's coming back with our glass." The churning in my stomach was beginning to subside. Hagan came into the yard carrying an oblong, plastic-covered frame. I held the check out to him, but he was staring at Selina's face. He seemed to know immediately that our uncomprehending fingers had rummaged through his soul. Selina avoided his gaze. She was old and ill-looking, and her eyes stared determinedly towards the nearing horizon. "I'll take the rug from you, Mr. Garland," Hagan finally said. "You shouldn't have troubled yourself over it." "No trouble. Here's the check." "Thank you." He was still looking at Selina with a strange kind of supplication. "It's been a pleasure to do business with you." "The pleasure was mine," I said with equal, senseless formality. I picked up the heavy frame and guided Selina towards the path which led to the road. Just as we reached the head of the now slippery steps Hagan spoke again. "Mr. Garland!" I turned unwillingly. "It wasn't my fault," he said steadily. "A hit-and-run driver got them both, down on the Oban road six years ago. My boy was only seven when it happened. I'm entitled to keep something." I nodded wordlessly and moved down the path, holding my wife close to me, treasuring the feel of her arms locked around me. At the bend I looked back through the rain and saw Hagan sitting with squared shoulders on the wall where we had first seen him. He was looking at the house, but I was unable to tell if there was anyone at the window. |
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