Ghost Train to the Eastern Star полностью

But he had gone back to tapping his diary. "You see, the Titanic represented triumph and disaster."

"Hubris, I suppose."

"What's that?"

When I repeated it, he said in a quoting and declamatory voice, "'Not even God can sink this ship!' Heh-heh-heh"

Now I could see the whole message on the T-shirt he was wearing under a warmer shirt. It said, I invented the satellite and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. It was true that he had envisaged and described satellites circling the Earth long before they were made and blasted into orbit.

"You know Metropolis? Lovely film," he said suddenly—by now I was getting used to his style of conversation, a kind of alienspeak: little bursts of talk, inspirational impulses, staticky delivery, and explosive memories. "What is it? 1930s? The image of a man holding the hands of a clock. Think of it—what that image says."

"Oh, yes, I remember," I said. I'd never seen it, but that didn't matter. He wasn't really listening; he kept talking. And he was still toying with the silver tray, squinting at the vials.

"One of the greatest films ever. I want to see it again."

"Were you influenced by any films when you wrote the script for 2001?"

"Loved films. Kubrick! I wrote the film, yes. Kubrick was all right."

"Wasn't he difficult?"

"I don't recall any blood on the carpet," he said. "We had disagreements, but they were amicable. Did he die? I can't remember."

"He died a few years ago."

"Is Conrad Hilton alive?" Now he was tapping the vial of moon dust.

"I believe Conrad Hilton is dead."

"Do you play table tennis? Table tennis is the one sport that I excel in. My greatest hobby, my only sport."

"I'll play you anytime, but I'm sure I'd lose."

"Look," he said. He had put the moon dust down and snatched up an old photograph. A woman with light hair and a pale dress, on a sunny day in a garden that was probably English, was surrounded by three androgynous children. "That's my mother. Which one is me?"

I chose the wrong one. He was the more girlish and subdued child in the frilly outfit.

"That was taken in Taunton or Minehead. I was about six." He smiled at this scene from the 1920s—the sunshine, the flowers, his beautiful mother.

I said, "Is there a film of Day After Tomorrow?"

"I think so. I think I walked out."

"Childhood's End is one of my favorites."

"'I Remember Babylon' is mine," he said. "Wonderful story. It won a prize in Best Ever. Where is it?" He fossicked in a stack of books and found a copy of his Collected Stories. "In here somewhere. 'Dog Star' is another one I like."

"Childhood's End could be a good film," I said.

"Should be a film, but it's too downbeat from the human point of view." He was trying to find "I Remember Babylon" in the thick book of stories. In front of him, in all the clutter, was a typed poem, Shelley's "Ozymandias."

"I love this poem," I said.

He put the Collected Stories down and picked up the poem. "I wanted to reread it." He looked closely and read, "'Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!' Heh-heh."

"Maybe the earth will end up like the scene in 'Ozymandias.'"

"If you wait long enough, oh, yes," he said. Then he looked directly at me and said, "Did I mention how I saved the life of the man who made the atom bomb? I'm trying to remember the details. And then there's this other matter." He pulled the diary out of the clutter. "When did the Titanic sink? Was it today? I think I wrote something about it."

We found a reference book and the facts: the Titanic hit the iceberg on the night of April 14, 1912, and sank early on the morning of the fifteenth.

As I was noting this, Sir Arthur said, "The plane came low down the runway"—he was describing how he had saved the life of the man who invented the A-bomb. After this scattered recollection, which I found hard to visualize, he said, "It should be in my biography. It's somewhere in my writings. It's very spooky. And the other film I'd like to see again is The Lost World, about 1930. First film I ever saw."

The hero of that Conan Doyle story and some others ("The Day the Earth Screamed") is Professor Challenger—bold scientist, man of action and adventure. It was easy to imagine an aged and infirm Professor Challenger as someone like Sir Arthur, surrounded by books and trophies, faltering and fugitive in his memories.

"Conan Doyle, well, he went nutty," Sir Arthur said. "It was spiritualism."

"Wasn't it the death of his wife that unhinged him?"

Sir Arthur was frowning. He said, "I'm trying to remember the name of the astronomer who said, 'Flying is impossible. I've proved it beyond all argument.' And the Wright brothers had already taken off! Heh-heh."

"What's the next big thing in science?"

He didn't hesitate. He said, "Matter transfer."

"'Travel by Wire' is one of your stories. That's matter transfer."