The Sentinels And Other Stories

In a land of wind and willows, two canoeists encounter some other-worldly wind turbines. From The Sentinels: Dunn: He said that he was taking the way of the wind and the sky, and that he was going in—to Them—by which I presume he meant going into the tower and scaling the ladder. And he said other things: That our thoughts made patterns in their world—left ‘prints,’ as it were—as did theirs in ours; and that that was how they’d found us, by listening to our thoughts, zeroing in on our patterns. And he said that Bobby was merely a bundle of sensory organs wrapped in a skin of decaying matter and so wasn’t important, wasn’t needed. That only they mattered—they, the beings attached to and inhabiting the turbines. And that … that … Detective Shaw: What, Mrs. Dunn? Say it. Dunn: But … don’t you see? It doesn’t matter what he said, because it wasn’t him speaking, not really. Bobby would never have described a human being as just a bundle of sensory organs; he truly believed, with every fiber of his being, that we were more than that—more than just the sum of our parts—it was what inspired him to become a doctor in the first place. And knowing what I knew, knowing what kind of man he was, I pressed him, telling him that Bobby did matter—that he mattered to his patients and that he mattered to me—more than I would ever be able to describe. And then I approached him and embraced him and told him I loved him—feeling, for the briefest of moments, the spirals beginning to close on his back—and he smiled, his eyes returning to normal, after which he said, or started to say, “I love …” (room tone) Detective Shaw: (inaudible) He—he told you he loved you? Dunn: No. He … his eyes rolled back … and then his face, it … it simply imploded. In a spiral. Like someone had flushed a toilet full of blood and brains.

'Clarke is one of the greatest imaginative writers of hard science fiction' New Scientist 'Arthur Clarke is one of the true geniuses of our time' Ray Bradbury 'Arthur C. Clarke is the prophet of the space age' The Times 'A one-man literary Big Bang, Clarke has originated his own vast and teeming futurist universe' Sunday Times '3001 is not just a page-turner, plugged in to the great icons of HAL and the monoliths, but a book of wisdom too, pithy and provocative' New Scientist 'Arthur C. Clarke is blessed with one of the most astounding imaginations ever encountered in print' New York Times 'One of the truly prophetic figures of the space age! the colossus of science fiction' New Yorker --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

From The Sentinels: Dunn: There-there was a large glass case in the center of the foyer ... it ... it contained a miniature of the wind farm, as you know. And it-someone had written something on top of it. Some kind of a message. In blood. Detective Shaw: I see. Thank you. Now tell me: what did this message say? Dunn: It ... I don't remember exactly. It was mostly gibberish. Something about 'the Wind' and 'the Way, ' and going in to 'Them.' Something about how 'They' had attached themselves to the turbines-whatever 'They' were. And finally, just a long scrawl, followed by a warning, all in caps, GET OUT OF HERE AS FAST AS YOU CAN. Detective Shaw: I see. And I guess it needs to be asked: Did you? Or did you continue to field the 911 operator's questions? Dunn: No. I dropped the phone as fast as I could and ran out the side door, the one Bobby had gone out. And the first thing I saw was Bobby's pale-blue windbreaker, just thrown aside in the dirt, and further out, his T-shirt, white against the sage. Detective Shaw: It's like he was burning up. Was it hot out? What was the temperature, you think? Dunn: It was cold! No, like I said, it was if the clothes were suffocating him, cutting off his circulation. All I know it that when I reached the T-shirt I saw his belt further out, and beyond that, his shoes, just lying amidst the cheat-grass. That's when I knew something truly terrible had happened, was happening, and that if I didn't find him quickly, he might genuinely hurt himself; though I'd scarcely had the thought when I noticed someone crumpled face down in the sage-not Bobby, this man was fully dressed-and ran to him. Detective Shaw: The other turbine technician. Dunn: Oh, are we done with the ignorant act? Detective Shaw: It was a slip; I'm starting to think about lunch. Okay, and, seeing this, what did you do? Dunn: He wasn't breathing and so I rolled him over. And ... Detective Shaw: Yes? And what? Dunn: Jesus, gods, you know what! Detective Shaw: What did you see when you rolled him over, Dr. Dunn? Dunn: I saw that he had no face. That it ... that it had just spiraled in, like the hole in the boat. That there was a gaping funnel where his eyes and nose and upper lip should have been-mottled red and black, pink and gray-just twisted cartilage and brain tissue. And then his body spasmed, as though by a reflex, and the funnel seemed to burp, spitting up blood. Detective Shaw: Jesus. Dunn: After which, dear God, I can't say, because I was running away as fast as I could; past Bobby's shoes and toward the wind turbine (the one with the truck parked at its base), as well as past a few dozen new funnels in the ground-which grew in size as I approached from an inch or two across to ones the size of manhole covers. Until I came to the turbine and-and stopped dead in my tracks. Because there was Bobby kneeling prone in the dirt, like a Muslim, I suppose, or a Buddhist, but completely nude-bowing before the turbine, the hatch of which was open, seeming almost to pray. Detective Shaw: But ... but all right, in spite of his behavior. Dunn: No, Mr. Shaw, not 'all right.' Because when he sat up again, I saw that his back was ... It was riddled with those same spiral funnels. There were even some in his arms. But-but that wasn't all. Because, after he'd stood with some difficulty and turned to face me (he must have sensed my presence; that or saw my shadow), I realized something else. And that was that his eyes had gone completely white-rather they had rolled back in his skull enough so that only the whites were visible-at which moment he spoke and said, calmly, "The turbines, don't look at them. They eat your eyes."

As a novel-writer and a dramatist, Gogol appears to me to deserve a minute study, and if the knowledge of Russian were more widely spread, he could not fail to obtain in Europe a reputation equal to that of the best English humorists. A delicate and close observer, quick to detect the absurd, bold in exposing, but inclined to push his fun too far, Gogol is in the first place a very lively satirist. He is merciless towards fools and rascals, but he has only one weapon at his disposalÑirony. This is a weapon which is too severe to use against the merely absurd, and on the other hand it is not sharp enough for the punishment of crime; and it is against crime that Gogol too often uses it. His comic vein is always too near the farcical, and his mirth is hardly contagious. If sometimes he makes his reader laugh, he still leaves in his mind a feeling of bitterness and indignation; his satires do not avenge society, they only make it angry. As a painter of manners, Gogol excels in familiar scenes. He is akin to Teniers and Callot. We feel as though we had seen and lived with his characters, for he shows us their eccentricities, their nervous habits, their slightest gestures. One lisps, another mispronounces his words, and a third hisses because he has lost a front tooth. Unfortunately Gogol is so absorbed in this minute study of details that he too often forgets to subordinate them to the main action of the story. To tell the truth, there is no ordered plan in his works, andÑa strange trait in an author who sets up as a realistÑhe takes no care to preserve an atmosphere of probability. His most carefully painted scenes are clumsily connectedÑthey begin and end abruptly; often the author's great carelessness in construction destroys, as though wantonly, the illusion produced by the truth of his descriptions and the naturalness of his conversations.

Reproduction of the original: The Mantle and Other Stories by Nicholas Gogol