The old man waited for a pile of them to collect and then he seized them and read them aloud to the room where Bolton and the servants stood listening. He read the words about space and time and travel, about a large man and a large journey and how it was in the long midnight and coldness of space, and how a man could be hungry enough to take all of it and ask for more. He read the words that were full of fire and thunder and mystery.
Space was like October, wrote Thomas Wolfe. He said things about its darkness and its loneliness and man so small in it. The eternal and timeless October, was one of the things he said.
And then he told of the rocket itself, the smell and the feel of the metal of the rocket, and the sense of destiny and wild exultancy to at last leave Earth behind, all problems and all sadnesses, and go seeking a bigger problem and a bigger sadness. Oh, it was fine writing, and it said what had to be said about space and man and his small rockets out there alone.
The old man read until he was hoarse, and then Bolton read, and then the others, far into the night, when the machine stopped transcribing words and they knew that Tom Wolfe was in bed, then, on the rocket, flying to Mars, probably not asleep, no, he wouldn’t sleep for hours yet, no, lying awake, like a boy the night before a circus, not believing the big jeweled black tent is up and the circus is on, with ten billion blazing performers on the high wires and the invisible trapezes of space.
“There,” breathed the old man, gentling aside the last pages of the first chapter. “What do you think of that, Bolton?”
“It’s good.”
“Good hell!” shouted Field. “It’s wonderful! Read it again, sit down, read it again, damn you!”
It kept coming through, one day following another, for ten hours at a time. The stack of yellow papers on the floor, scribbled on, grew immense in a week, unbelievable in two weeks, absolutely impossible in a month.
“Listen to this!” cried the old man, and read.
“And this!” he said.
“And this chapter here, and this little novel here, it just came through, Bolton, titled The Space War, a complete novel on how it feels to fight a space war. Tom’s been talking to people, soldiers, officers, men, veterans of space.
He’s got it all here. And here’s a chapter called ‘The Long Midnight,’ and here’s one on the Negro colonization of Mars, and here’s a character sketch of a Martian, absolutely priceless!”
Bolton cleared his throat. “Mr. Field?”
“Yes, yes, don’t bother me.”
“I’ve some bad news, sir.”
Field jerked his gray head up. “What? The time element?”
“You’d better tell Wolfe to hurry his work. The connection may break sometime this week,” said Bolton, softly.
“I’ll give you anything, anything if you keep it going!”
“It’s not money, Mr. Field. It’s just plain physics right now. I’ll do everything I can. But you’d better warn him.”
The old man shriveled in his chair and was small. “But you can’t take him away from me now, not when he’s doing so well. You should see the outline he sent through an hour ago, the stories, the sketches. Here, here’s one on spatial tides, another on meteors. Here’s a short novel begun, called Thistledown and Fire—”
“I’m sorry.”
“If we lose him now, can we get him again?”
“I’d be afraid to tamper too much.”
The old man was frozen. “Only one thing to do then. Arrange to have Wolfe type his work, if possible, or dictate it, to save time; rather than have him use pencil and paper, he’s got to use a machine of some sort. See to it!”
The machine ticked away by the hour into the night and into the dawn and through the day. The old man slept only in faint dozes, blinking awake when the machine stuttered to life, and all of space and travel and existence came to him through the mind of another:
“. . . the great starred meadows of space…”
The machine jumped.
“Keep at it, Tom, show them!” The old man waited.
The phone rang.
It was Bolton.
“We can’t keep it up, Mr. Field. The continuum device will absolute out within the hour.”
“Do something!”
“I can’t.”
The teletype chattered. In a cold fascination, in a horror, the old man watched the black lines form.
“. . . the Martian cities, immense and unbelievable, as numerous as stones thrown from some great mountain in a rushing and incredible avalanche, resting at last in shining mounds…”
“Tom!” cried the old man.
“Now,” said Bolton, on the phone.
The teletype hesitated, typed a word, and fell silent.
“Tom!” screamed the old man.
He shook the teletype.
“It’s no use,” said the telephone voice. “He’s gone. I’m shutting off the time machine.”
“No! Leave it on!”
“But—”
“You heard me—leave it! We’re not sure he’s gone.”
“He is. It’s no use, we’re wasting energy.”
“Waste it, then!”
He slammed the phone down.
He turned to the teletype, to the unfinished sentence.
“Come on, Tom, they can’t get rid of you that way, you won’t let them, will you, boy, come on. Tom, show them, you’re big, you’re bigger than time or space or their damned machines, you’re strong and you’ve a will like iron, Tom, show them, don’t let them send you back!”
The teletype snapped one key.
The old man bleated. “Tom! You are there, aren’t you? Can you still write? Write, Tom, keep it coming, as long as you keep it rolling, Tom, they can’t send you back!”
The, typed the machine.
“More, Tom, more!”
Odors of, clacked the machine.
“Yes?”
Mars, typed the machine, and paused. A minute’s silence. The machine spaced, skipped a paragraph, and began:
The odors of Mars, the cinnamons and cold spice winds, the winds of cloudy dust and winds of powerful bone and ancient pollen—
“Tom, you’re still alive!”
For answer the machine, in the next ten hours, slammed out six chapters of Flight Before Fury in a series of fevered explosions.
“Today makes six weeks, Bolton, six whole weeks, Tom gone, on Mars, through the Asteroids. Look here, the manuscripts. Ten thousand words a day, he’s driving himself, I don’t know when he sleeps, or if he eats, I don’t care, he doesn’t either, he only wants to get it done, because he knows the time is short.”
“I can’t understand it,” said Bolton. “The power failed because our relays wore out. It took us three days to manufacture and replace the particular channel relays necessary to keep the Time Element steady, and yet Wolfe hung on. There’s a personal factor here, Lord knows what, we didn’t take into account. Wolfe lives here, in this time, when he is here, and can’t be snapped back, after all.
Time isn’t as flexible as we imagined. We used the wrong simile. It’s not like a rubber band. More like osmosis; the penetration of membranes by liquids, from Past to Present, but we’ve got to send him back, can’t keep him here, there’d be a void there, a derangement. The one thing that really keeps him here now is himself, his drive, his desire, his work. After it’s over he’ll go back as naturally as pouring water from a glass.”
“I don’t care about reasons, all I know is Tom is finishing it. He has the old fire and description, and something else, something more, a searching of values that supersede time and space.
He’s done a study of a woman left behind on Earth while the damn rocket heroes leap into space that’s beautiful, objective, and subtle; he calls it ‘Day of the Rocket,’ and it is nothing more than an afternoon of a typical suburban housewife who lives as her ancestral mothers lived, in a house, raising her children, her life not much different from a cavewoman’s, in the midst of the splendor of science and the trumpetings of space projectiles; a true and steady and subtle study of her wishes and frustrations.
Here’s another manuscript, called ‘The Indians,’ in which he refers to the Martians as Cherokees and Iroquois and Blackfoots, the Indian nations of space, destroyed and driven back. Have a drink, Bolton, have a drink!”
Tom Wolfe returned to Earth at the end of eight weeks.
He arrived in fire as he had left in fire, and his huge steps were burned across space, and in the library of Henry William Field’s house were towers of yellow paper, with lines of black scribble and type on them, and these were to be separated out into the six sections of a masterwork that, through endurance, and a knowing that the sands were dwindling from the glass, had mushroomed day after day.
Tom Wolfe came back to Earth and stood in the library of Henry William Field’s house and looked at the massive outpourings of his heart and his hand and when the old man said, “Do you want to read it, Tom?” he shook his great head and replied, putting back his thick mane of dark hair with his big pale hand, “No. I don’t dare start on it. If I did, I’d want to take it home with me. And I can’t do that, can I?”
“No, Tom, you can’t.”
“No matter how much I wanted to?”
“No, that’s the way it is. You never wrote another novel in that year, Tom. What was written here must stay here, what was written there must stay there. There’s no touching it.”
“I see.” Tom sank down into a chair with a great sigh. “I’m tired. I’m mightily tired. It’s been hard, but it’s been good. What day is it?”
“This is the fifty-sixth day.”
“The last day?”
The old
