Authors: Replay
That was the contract, the bargain struck between man and earth ten thousand years ago in Mesopotamia. To abandon good land, Jeff believed, was to break an ancient and almost holy bond.
He walked on past the plot where the asparagus would soon be coming up; he'd get at least another two years out of that original planting, and it was time now for the first of the plants' twice-yearly feedings. The late spring frosts didn't seem to bother them at all; Jeff thought it made the stalks crisper.
He knelt beside the spring that ran through his property, scooped a double handful of the icy mountain water to his mouth. As he drank, a pair of German brown trout swam past. If he finished planting the corn and feeding the asparagus before nightfall, he decided, he'd bring a rod down and catch some dinner.
The sun continued to climb the sky, lighting the tips of the pines on the humped rise of Hogback Mountain to the southwest. Jeff followed the meandering uphill path of the spring, pausing every twenty feet or so to clean it of accumulated debris, opening the clogged collection boxes and pipes on which his crops depended for irrigation.
He'd bought the place nine years ago, a few weeks after the near-disaster on the plane to Honolulu.
He hadn't seen Sharla since that day beside the smoky runway. Hadn't seen much of anybody since that summer, truth to tell.
His closest full-time neighbor was at Turtle Pond, three miles east along an old wagon road. Only way into or out of Jeff s place was by way of a switchback road that was often washed away. From November through January the snows and rains and mud made the passage over Marble Creek all but impossible; he'd learned to stockpile well for the winter.
Rest of the year he kept to himself almost as much. Every week °r so he'd drive into the little town of Montgomery Creek, buy some things at the store there or get his pickup serviced at the two-pump Shell station. He'd quit drinking, by and large, but if the harvest was a good one he might celebrate with a beer and dinner at the Forked Horn or the Hillcrest Lodge. An amiable family, the Mazzinis, owned the Forked Horn, and the wife, Eleanor, ran a branch of the Shasta County library out of their big, rambling house in town. Jeff would chat with one or the other of them sometimes, about this and that. Their son Joe was a couple of years younger than Jeff, and his intelligent curiosity about the outside world seemed to know no bounds. Yet none of the family ever pried; they never dug too deeply into why Jeff had sought such an isolated life for himself. Joe had helped him set up a shortwave rig out at The Cove, and the radio had become Jeff's only contact with civilization, aside from his occasional talks with the Mazzinis.
This little corner of northern California was populated mostly by lumberjacks and Indians, neither of whom Jeff had any contact with. A smattering of hippies and other back-to-the-land types had come in shortly after he'd moved here, but most of them hadn't stayed long. Working the land was harder than they'd expected, and it took more than marijuana crops to keep a place going.
The worst part of these years, he supposed, was the celibacy, though not for the reasons he would have imagined. He'd damn near OD'd on sex for the sake of sex during his time with Sharla and Mireille.
It had seemed, for a while, that he could live perfectly well without sexual contact, and he'd been surprised at how easy it was to kill that part of himself. But he'd soon discovered, much to his unpleasant surprise, just how strong was his need for simple human touch. The loss of that tore at him daily, troubled him both waking and sleeping. Sometimes he would dream of a woman simply touching his cheek, or of himself holding her head against his chest. The woman in these dreams might be Judy or Linda, even Sharla; more often she was faceless, an abstraction of femininity.
Always, he would awake from those dreams with an overpowering sadness and the familiar knowledge that this deprivation could not be alleviated without the risk of further betrayal and the eventual certainty of absolute erasure. Both pains were too extreme to face again. Better, it seemed, just to let his soul die slowly, bit by lonely bit.
His back was starting to ache from all the stooping he'd done to clear the irrigation system, so he sat down beside the spring. Far to the north, beyond the Flatwoods and halfway to Oregon, the astonishing white cone of Mount Shasta dominated the horizon like the sleeping god the Indians around here had once supposed it to be.
He took a chew of beef jerky, washed it down with another cold sip of spring water. This new home of his was right on the spine of the volatile Cascade range, dead center between Mount Lassen and Mount Shasta. North of there were the ruins of the massive prehistoric volcano that had collapsed to form Crater Lake, and then came Mount Hood, and on up into Washington State, Mount St. Helen's rumbled quietly … for the moment. It would explode with deadly fury seven years from now, just as it had done three times before; an event that Jeff, and Jeff alone, recalled.
He was in the grip of forces that could destroy a mountain, then put it back together and destroy it again, over and over and over, like a child playing in the sand. What use was there in even attempting to comprehend something like that? If he ever did come to understand it, even partially, the knowledge might be more than one human brain could accept and still allow him to retain some measure of sanity.
Jeff folded the rest of the beef jerky in its cellophane wrapper, stuck it back in his pocket. The sun was high overhead now; time to start planting this year's rows of corn. He made his way back down the hill, following the spring, never once raising his eyes to gaze again on the snowy heights of the distant mountain.
"How 'bout peat moss? You stocked O.K.?"
"I could do with another couple hundred pounds," Jeff said. "And I'll need another forty gallons of Sevin."
The storekeeper clucked in sympathy, added the insecticide to the order. "Yeah, them corn earworms is something else this season, ain't they? Old Charlie Reynolds up at Buckeye has done lost three acres to 'em already."
Jeff nodded, grunted as politely as he could remember how. These twice-yearly major supply runs down to Redding were his only contact with total strangers.
"What do you think about the Arabs, and these here gasoline lines?" the man queried. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"I figure it'll get better," Jeff said. "Let me have one of those big boxes of beef jerky, too; the spicy kind."
"Never thought I'd see the day. You ask me, Nixon ought to be droppin' a bomb on them Arabs,
'stead of going over to talk to 'em. As if he didn't already have troubles enough of his own right back here."
Jeff idly scanned the posters and notices tacked up behind the supply store's cash register, hoping the man would soon realize he didn't want to get drawn into a political conversation. The sheriff, Jeff read, was auctioning off somebody's foreclosed property in Burney; the local hippie holdouts were throwing a big dance at Iron Canyon; lots of cars and pickups were for sale … Now, there was an odd one. It really looked out of place: a blue-black poster of the night sky, with a phosphorescent wave breaking in space above a half-full moon. Thin gold letters at the bottom spelled one word:
Starsea.
"What's that all about?" Jeff asked, pointing at the poster. The storekeeper turned to look, then gazed back at Jeff with a disbelieving frown. "Boy, how far back in the woods you been? You ain't seen
Starsea?"
"What is it?"
"Hell, it's a movie. Last movie I saw before that was, I think,
The Sound of Music,
but no way could I miss this one. Kids dragged me and the wife down to Sacramento to see it three, four months ago.
Seen it twice since then, and we'll probably go again now it's opened in Redding. Never seen nothing like it, I tell you."
"Popular movie, is it?"
"Popular?" The man laughed. "Biggest damn movie ever, they say. I hear tell it's done made a hundred million dollars, and still goin' strong. Never thought I'd see the day."
That was impossible; no movie would make that much money until
Jaws,
more than a year from now.
Jeff had never even heard of anything called
Starsea,
certainly not in 1974. The big movies this year, he recalled, were
Chinatown
and the sequel to
The Godfather.
"What's it about?"
"If you don't know, I wouldn't want to spoil it for you. It's playing up at the Cascade; you ought to see it before you drive back. Worth the delay, I tell you."
Jeff felt a spark of curiosity, something he hadn't experienced for years.
The storekeeper thumbed through a copy of the
Redding Record-Searchlight.
On the front page, Kissinger was embracing Yitzhak Rabin. "Here it is, next show's at … 3:20." The man glanced at the big clock on the back wall of the store. "I can hold your order here for you if you like. You could see the show and still get home before dark."
Jeff smiled. "You get a kickback from the theater or something?"
"I told you, I don't usually care for movies, but this one here's something special. Go ahead, I'll have your stuff all boxed and ready to load when you get back."
The line for
Starsea
stretched more than a block, on a Tuesday afternoon in Redding. Jeff shook his head in amazement, bought a ticket, and joined the waiting crowd. They were of all ages, from wide-eyed six-year-olds to taciturn couples in their seventies wearing worn overalls. From the hushed conversations around him, Jeff gathered that many had already seen the movie more than once. Their attitude was almost as if they were coming together for a shared religious experience, worshipers quietly but joyously approaching a beloved shrine.
The movie was everything the storekeeper had claimed, and far more. Even to Jeff's eyes it was years ahead of its time in theme, look, special effects; like an undersea version of Kubrick's
2001: A Space
Odyssey,
yet with the warmth and humanity of Truffaut at his best.
The film began with an elegiac illumination of the ancient bond between humans and dolphins, then extended that mythic connection to include a philosophical race of extraterrestrials who had long ago established contact with the intelligent mammals of earth's oceans. That race, according to the plot, had appointed the Cetaceans as benevolent caretakers of humanity until such time as mankind was ready to be welcomed to the galactic family. But near the end of the twentieth century, the dolphins learned that the mentors of Cygnus IV, whose return had been awaited for millenia, had been destroyed by an interstellar catastrophe. The dolphins then made their true nature and their great history known to humanity, in a moment of simultaneous exhilaration and deep mourning. For the first time, this planet became genuinely whole, a linked community of minds on land and undersea … yet more alone in the bleakness of space than ever, with earth's unmet benefactors having vanished for eternity.
The movie expertly conveyed, with sophistication and a rare cinematic depth of insight, the unbearable irony of ultimate hopes lost even as they are realized. Jeff found himself moved to tears of poignant rapture along with the rest of the audience, his years of self-imposed exile and detachment shattered in the space of two hours.
And it was new, all of it. Jeff couldn't possibly have remained unaware of an artistic achievement this magnificent, this successful in every sense, had it appeared within either of his previous replays.
He read the list of credits with almost as much astonishment as the film itself had generated: Directed by Steven Spielberg … Written and Produced by Pamela Phillips … Creative Consultant and Special Effects Supervisor, George Lucas.
How could all this be? Spielberg's first big movie,
Jaws,
hadn't even begun shooting yet, and it would be two years before Lucas turned the industry on its ear with
Star Wars.
But most puzzling, most intriguing, of all—Who the hell was Pamela Phillips?
"I don't care what it takes, Alan, except time. I want that appointment set up, and I want it next week."
"Mr. Winston, it's just not that easy. Those people down there have their own little hierarchy, and right now this woman's pretty much at the top of it. Half the writers and producers in Hollywood are trying to get in to—"
"I'm not looking to sell her anything, Alan. I'm a businessman, not a moviemaker."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Jeff knew what the broker must be thinking. It had been nine years since he'd spoken directly to his client. What kind of businessman did that make him? Jeff Winston was a hermit, a recluse who'd shown up at the brokerage house in San Francisco only once, in 1965, to deposit a lump sum of cash with them. He lived in the woods and occasionally sent a cryptic message directing that they buy large amounts of some obscure or ill-advised stock in his name.
And yet, and yet …
"What's the current value of my holdings, Alan?"
"Sir, I don't have that information right here at my fingertips. Yours is a very complex and highly diversified account; it would take me several days to—"
"Ballpark figure."
"Well, keeping in mind the possible fluctuations of—"
"I said I want a rough estimate, off the top of your head. Now." The man gave a sigh of resignation.
"Approximately sixty-five million, plus or minus five million or so. You understand, I don't keep—"
"Yes, I understand. I just want to make sure
you
understand what we're talking about here. We are talking about someone with a great deal of money to invest and someone else who's in a business that absolutely depends on fresh input of capital. Does that make sense to you?"
"Certainly, sir. But remember that Miss Phillips's company is awash in new capital right now from the proceeds of her film. That may not be her highest priority at the moment."
"I'm sure she'll recognize the long-term value of my interest. If not, take a different approach; don't you have somebody there with contacts in the film industry?"