And Hal was not grounded enough in the elements of driving to know that he should turn the wheels in the direction of the skid to straighten the car out.
His lack of knowledge was not fatal, except to the beast, for its bulk struck the vehicle's right side. Its long horns caught in Pornsen's jacket and ripped open the sleeve on his right arm.
The car, its skid checked by the big bulk of the antelope, straightened out. But it was going in a straight line that angled off the road and led it up a sloping ridge of earth. Beaching the end of the ridge, it leaped out into the air and landed with an all-at-once bang of four tires blowing.
Even that impact did not halt it. A big bush loomed before Hal. He jerked on the wheel. Too late.
His chest pushed hard against the wheel as if it were trying to telescope the steering shaft against the dashboard. Fobo slammed into Hal's back, increasing the weight on his chest. Both cried out, and the wog fell away.
Then, except for a hissing, there was silence. A pillar of steam from the broken radiator shot through the branches that held Hal's face in a rough, barky embrace.
Hal Yarrow stared through steamshapes into big brown eyes. He shook his head. Eyes? And arms like branches? Or branches like arms? He thought he was in the grip of a brown-eyed nymph. Or were they called dryads? He couldn't ask anybody. They weren't supposed to know about such creatures.Nymphanddryadhad been deleted from all books including Hack's edition of theRevised and Real Milton.Only because Hal was a linguist had he had the chance to read an unexpurgatedParadise Lostand thus learn of classical Greek mythology.
Thoughts flashed off and on like lights on a spaceship's control board. Nymphs sometimes turned into trees to escape their pursuers. Was this one of the fabled forest women staring at him with large and beautiful eyes through the longest lashes he'd ever seen?
He shut his eyes and wondered if a head injury was responsible for the vision and, if so, if it would be permanent. Hallucinations like that were worth keeping. He didn't care if they conformed to reality or not.
He opened his eyes. The hallucination was gone.
He thought,It was that antelope looking at me. It got away after all. It ran around the bush and looked back. Antelope eyes. And my dark self formed the head around the eyes, the long black hair, the slender white neck, the swelling breasts... No! Unreal! It was my diseased mind, stunnedby the shock, momentarily opened to that which has been festering, seething all that time on the ship without ever seeing a woman, even on the tapes...
He forgot about the eyes. He was choking. A heavy nauseating odor hung over the car. The crash must have frightened the wogs very much. Otherwise, they would not have involuntarily relaxed the sphincter muscles which controlled the neck of the 'madbag.' This organ, a bladder located near the small of the back, had been used by the presentient ancestors of the Ozagenians as a powerful defensive weapon, much like that of the bombardier beetle. Now an almost vestigial organ, the mad-bag served as a means of relieving extreme nervous tension. Its function was effective, but its use presented problems. The wog psychiatrists, for instance, either had to keep their windows wide open during therapy or else wear gas masks.
Keoki Amiel Pornsen, assisted by Zugu, crawled out from under the bush into which he had been thrown. His big paunch, the azure color of his uniform, and the white nylon angel's wings sewn on the back of his jacket made him resemble a fat blue bug. He stood up and removed his windmask, showing a bloodless face. His shaking fingers fumbled over the crossed hourglass and sword, symbol of the Haijac Union. Finally, they found the flap for which he was searching. He pulled the magnetic lips of the pocket loose and took out a pack of Merciful Seraphim. Once the cigarette was in his lips, he had a shaky time holding his lighter to it.
Hal held the glowing coil of his own lighter to the tip of Pornsen's cigarette. His hand was steady.
Thirty-one years of discipline shoved back the grin he felt deep inside his face.
Pornsen accepted the light. A second later, a tremor around his lips revealed that he knew he had lost much of his advantage over Yarrow. He realized he couldn't allow a man to do him a service – even one as slight as this – and then crack the whip on him.
Nevertheless, he began formally, 'Hal Shamshiel Yarrow...'
'Shib, abba, I hear and obey,' replied Hal as formally.
'Just how do you explain this accident?'
Hal was surprised. Pornsen's voice was much milder than he had expected. He did not relax, however, for he suspected that Pornsen meant to take him off guard and lash out at him when he was not mentally braced for an attack.
'I – or, rather, the Backrunner in me – departed from reality. I – my dark self – willfully precipitated a pseudofuture.'
'Oh, really?' said Pornsen, quietly but with a note of sarcasm. 'You say your dark self, the Backrunner in you, did that? That is what you have said ever since you were able to talk. Why must you always blame someone else? You know – you should, for I have been forced to whip you many times – that you and you alone are responsible. When you were taught that it was your dark self that caused departures from reality, you were also taught that the Backrunner could cause nothing unless you – your real self, Hal Yarrow – fully cooperated.'
'That is asshibas the Forerunner's left hand,' said Hal. 'But, my belovedgapt,you forgot one thing in that little lecture of yours.'
Now, his voice had a sarcasm to match that in Pornsen's.
Pornsen, shrilly, said, 'What do you mean?'
'I mean,' said Hal triumphantly, 'that you were in the accident, too! Therefore, you caused it just as much as I did!'
Pornsen goggled at him. He said, whining, 'But – but, you were driving the car!'
'Makes no difference according to what you have always told me!' said Hal. He was grinning smugly. 'You agreed to be in the collision. If you had not, we would have missed the beast.'
Pornsen stopped to puff on the cigarette. His hand shook. Yarrow watched the hand that hung free by Pornsen's side, its fingers twisting the seven leather lashes of the whip handle stuck in his belt.
Pornsen said, 'You have always shown signs of a regrettable pride and independence. That smacks of behavior that does not conform to the structure of the universe as revealed to mankind by the Forerunner, real be his name.
'I have [puff] – may the Forerunner forgive them! – sent two dozen men and women to H.