Worst off was Manikin. It lay horizontally, grasping a wide rail at the level of its chest, its arched soles pressed against an unsteady vertical support, and its entire enormous torso spread out in midair as if posed to do push-ups . . .
The uneven rocking of the entire construction caused by their fall slowly began to settle, but just at that moment they heard a hoarse howclass="underline" fear of being left alone in the sand overcame all else, and the Professor plunged into the gray fault. The bridge construction rocked violently, Manikin’s soles slipped from the unsteady vertical support, and it now hung by its arms alone . . .
The wind would die down, then gust madly from the fault. The construction shuddered, shaking unevenly in response to each gust, and responded as if alive to each contact. The fog gradually began to dissipate, and the people could make out an artful steel labyrinth, constructed by some mad troll or insane artist. The Newling studied the construction with a professional’s eye: she would never have agreed to draft a working design of this construction, which, she saw, contained strange gaps and inside-out turns, as if the façade and infrastructure had been reversed.
“It’s fictive space, the thought occurred to her. It cannot exist in nature. And if it is fictive, does that mean that it’s impossible to fall? The fall would be fictive then as well . . . But I’m not fictive . . .”
Skinhead demonstrated the agility of a circus performer as he jumped from pipe to pipe, changing levels. He went to each of them, lightly touched their hands, heads, and shoulders. And said something, explained something, inquired. He was tender and convincing.
“We have to keep moving. We have to make it to the other shore. Don’t rush. We can go slowly. Even if we have to inch our way. None of you will be lost. We’ll all make it there. Just don’t be afraid. Fear impedes the ability to move . . .”
His words possessed a heightened effectiveness, and the people, who at first had frozen in the ridiculous poses the construction had caught them in, slowly began to maneuver.
Manikin tried to lift its legs and to rest its enormous body on the rail from which it hung by petrified fingers, but its strength failed it, and its hands, fatigued from the tension, were losing their grip, its chest was dropping lower, and it now hung solely by the tips of its tensed fingers. The stone weight of its body slowly pulled its fingers from the rail, and it waited indifferently for the moment when its fingers would pass over the rib of the rail and slip from the rail’s side surface.
Within its murky consciousness a heavy thought turned like a lump of unrisen dough: I will fall, I will be dashed to pieces, everything will come to an end, and those arrows-bullets-wasps will no longer sting me in the head and stomach . . .
At the last moment it sought out Skinhead: he was nowhere to be seen; there was only Longhair rocking off in the distance, hugging some black object . . . Manikin unclenched its fingers and flew downward. Not like a stone, not like a bird, but like a crumpled piece of newsprint carried by wind blowing garbage . . .
Despite the lightness and slowness of its fall, the blow of its landing was shattering. Broken into pieces, it lay on the stony bed of a long-ago dried-up river among the remains of ancient boats, petrified shells, and two unmatched running shoes. Its body, shattered in all directions, was surrounded by small—larger than squirrels but smaller than rabbits—not entirely solid creatures, perhaps entities—the same kind that appear in dreams and then, on awakening, leave behind not a visual image, but only a kind of spiritual trace of warmth, tenderness, affinity . . .
The creatures gathered in a crowd, like inhabitants of a desert or tundra around airplane wreckage. Some, the most sensitive, sobbed, while the others shook their heads and lamented. Then one of them said: “We should call the Doctor.”
Others objected: “There’s no need for the Doctor. That’s a corpse.”
“No, no, he’s not a corpse,” said still others.
Someone with a young voice squeaked challengingly: “So what if he’s a corpse! Corpses can be revivified!”
A kind of discordant meeting ensued.
Then the largest and eldest of them was wheeled in. He was so decrepit that you could see through him in places. He wheeled up close, accidentally running over Manikin’s broken fingers with his front wheels. He sighed a bit and announced:
“He’s a corpse. Condition zero.”
The gathering stirred, burbled, and rustled.
“Can’t anything be done for him?”
“There’s nothing you can do.” The Doctor shook his head flatly. “Except donate blood.”
They all fell silent. Then one of them with round eyebrows and big eyes said, “There are a lot of us. We can do it.”
One with a long nose interjected: “What about blood substitutes? There are substitutes for blood!”
But the Doctor did not even look in his direction.
“Six liters of live blood, minimum. Or there’s no getting him on his feet.”
“We’ll do it, we’ll do it,” the gathering rustled. The Doctor in his wheelchair seemed angry.
“How are you going to do it? Each of you has six milliliters of blood. You can’t donate more than half. You know that I gave five milliliters and my legs never returned to normal.”
The squirrel-rabbits grew agitated and chattered again.
“If we bring him back to life, he will be . . . handsome . . . intelligent . . . They have children . . . and can build and draw things . . . Let him live . . .”
“Very well,” the Doctor agreed. “But I have to remind you of the following: before you lie the remains of a criminal. A murderer. A very cruel and merciless one. And senseless.”
They all took fright and fell silent. Then the curly-headed one with perky African hair quietly spoke.
“All the more reason. What’s there to discuss? He needs to be given a chance.”
“I don’t disagree,” smiled the Doctor. “I just want to remind you that according to the law of the Great Ladder, when you sacrifice your own blood you descend downward and lose part of your mobility, while he rises upward and acquires the qualities that you sacrificed for him . . .”
“Yes, yes . . . We know . . . We want to . . . We’re agreed . . . agreed . . .”
They encircled the battered Manikin, and from out of nowhere there appeared a white sheet, and a mysterious medicine set to work . . .
THAT PART OF THE LABYRINTH WHERE THE NEWLING had landed held a chaotic accumulation of small landings a good jump apart, with the vertical supports underneath the landings, making it impossible to shimmy down them. The Newling successfully made her way across the landings until she reached one from which only a trained jumper could advance: all she could do was turn back.
She sat down in confusion. Looking down terrified her. She raised her head and looked upward. Up above ran a parallel chain of landings whose weight-bearing supports were relatively close, and she decided that after resting a bit she would try to modify her route. True, she got the impression that the upper path ran somewhat off to the side. But there seemed to be no other way out. Amazed by the lightness and responsiveness of her body, she hugged the scratchy metal pole and, pressing her entire body to it, shimmied up. Her canvas stockings and gloves protected her from the touch of the cold metal. But what was most surprising was that this exercise turned out to be quite fascinating, and her entire body rejoiced. What was there for it to rejoice about? Perhaps that it was so easily training itself to retract like a spring, push off, then recover in the air, and relax slightly before landing. Each ensuing shimmy was easier and freer, and she totally forgot any sense of constraint or danger . . .