Chapter 27 Section 4
In the city, you learn to speak a careful, tactical language.Numerous hints and nuances of language form a surface that shimmers like rubbed copper.Then you come out into the wilderness and start regressing, degenerating into a babbling state, eating mushroom caps, which explodes your brain, giving you supernatural sensations and fears, making you an Aztec bird.
As Matt Xie sat in the terminal at the Tucson, Arizona, airport, the sound of the airport radio echoed in his ears.
He recalled the paranoid scene at the party of the warhead developers the night before.He thought he saw some kind of frightening system of relationships.In that system, he couldn't tell the difference between one thing and another, between a can of vegetable soup and a car bomb.They were made by the same people, in the same way, and ultimately served the same purpose.
In New York, there was a general strike by garbage workers.
Looking for a person on the radio, his name is Jack.
A woman with an accent said to someone sitting next to her: "The day he spray painted my walls, I fell in love with him."
A man in a wheelchair with a burrito in his mouth.
He sat there, waiting for word on Janet's flight, wondering whether to call his brother now.Nick lives in Phoenix, does some kind of consulting work, and teaches Latin once a week at a junior college. When Nick dies, a team of metaphysical researchers will examine the black box.His personal flight recorder will tell them how his mind works, his motives, his state of mind.However, they may not be able to find clues. In a place called Paradise Valley, Nick recites Latin epigrams to business students. Matt took off his glasses and blew into them, opening his mouth in an oval shape, as if whispering.Then, he reached out to take off his glasses, faced the bright light, and wiped the moisture on the lenses with a handkerchief. Please pick up the white free phone.At the cue, a little girl speaks into her own tiny fist. He puts on glasses.Janet walks out of the airport gates.He smiled when he saw her, a smile from the heart, a smile of pleasure, a smile of relief—she was here at last.Of course, this is also a smile full of expectation.He couldn't help laughing at the clutter of things they were going to bring to camp.He has been driving all day and is still dizzy and has no strength to do anything else. Janet walked towards him, briskly, with a wry smile on her face.That look meant that she wasn't entirely sure what she was going to do here. "The captain said to arrive at 10:4." "Shall I call Nick?" "What's the matter? It's only 7:2 in Boston." "He's on his way, it'd be silly not to call." "The garbage workers in New York are on strike," she said. He had driven too long and still felt dizzy.She spent long hours on the plane, numb to the cramped space and the sound of the engine.They walked to the parking lot and stuffed her luggage into the jeep.The jeep is full of stuff, including camping gear, clothes, travel bags, books, just like in a consumer comic. "Tell me again, where are we going?" she asked.
They spent the night next to an Indian reservation.It was an old shack with mud brick walls, and a teenage girl was sitting at the table, eating popcorn.The two were lying on the bed, from which a white observatory could be seen. The room was not bad, with beams visible, and old furniture such as is common in suburban houses.The two hadn't seen each other for a long time, and they didn't have skin-to-skin contact, so they seemed a little shy at first.Janet had to adapt herself to the situation.They slept together only a few times, and it was planned in advance.They lack tacit understanding, harmonious rhythm and understanding eyes, and it is difficult to understand each other's wishes and hints that are not expressed in words, and their bodies do not touch each other in the elevator.Also, there is no elevator.Janet was in a strange room, feeling a little confused: This is not her, right? If it were a woman, she would feel the temptation of anonymity.Tryst with a man in a room where a thousand men and women have lived before.Leaving your past behind in a nondescript motel.It wasn't a motel, though, and thankfully, she was at least thankful for that. She was nervous, standing in front of the window, wearing jeans and a bra.The contact between the two ended up with her bra, when she stopped talking, hoping to let him know how she felt.She has no anxiety about sexual intercourse.She said that yes, she wasn't anxious about sex, the main issue was a general sense of uncertainty.An unknown place, a strange bed, such a scene comes with predetermined expectations.She doesn't feel comfortable meeting a man in such a setting.She has a way of judging herself and is wary of what she feels is problematic.First of all, the place is not clean enough; second, the girl downstairs either has squinted eyes, or extra white eyes, or something is wrong.She told him how she felt, her voice was low and slightly emotional.He lay in bed, listening quietly, waiting for her to change her mind.Flying across the country to end up in this room with no prior reservations.It made her feel disconnected from everything she knew. He listened, waited, and finally understood that her feelings about certain things matched his.It seemed to him that the situation before him was analogous to this one: a man stalking something he already knew almost perfectly. She stands by the window.He looked over her shoulder, at the dome of the observatory on the opposite hill, bathed in the last light of the setting sun.
A hundred years ago, someone crossed this desert.The penitents chanted the Bible, fasted, and tortured themselves along the way, some with whips made of hemp, some with the fibers of the yucca plant, and some with ropes—a kind of whip made of Knotted short whip tightly woven of woolen threads. Janet doesn't know how to watch the desert, and seems to resent it in some veiled, personal way.The desert is vast and empty, revealing the real side without any scruples. They were talking in the car. "Tell me again, why did you go there?" "It's a wildlife sanctuary and it's also a shooting range." "That said, if wild animals don't eat us, we're going to be targeted by someone else." He reached over and placed his hand on her thigh. "We can be alone," he said. "We can be alone in Boston, too." "Boston doesn't have argali. We want to see argali in the wild." "What do we do when we see them?" "We'll be happy, it's hard to see them now. We're going in the middle of nowhere. We'll be very excited. Those animals are beautiful, no one here has seen them." She moved her body closer to him.She didn't like public displays of intimacy, and she was apprehensive even if it was just the two of them on the road.It's not in her apartment either, is it?It wasn't even in a hotel room, no door, no curtains, she'd get up first to close the curtains if she was doing something like this in a hotel.She moved closer, though, and explained that if she knew he was going to touch her thighs, she wouldn't be wearing such thick jeans, would she? Matt was overjoyed.He was pleased when she approached, and even happier when she read aloud the papers he had prepared for the trip. They saw hawks perched on the poles, and she looked them up in her book and told him they were kestrels, a kind of falcon, not hawks.It made him feel very happy. The scenery in front of him also excited him, which was very different from the features of the city he was familiar with.More importantly, it fulfilled a certain dream, allowing him to see another side of the West.This is a strange, vast land that is deeply connected to the American people, to bravery and history, to who they are, to what they believe in, to the movies I saw as a child. After a while, he told her not to read, but to take a look at the scenery outside the car.However, the scenery in front of me is an empty desert and a lonely road.It made her nervous. When Nick came back from Minnesota, Matt called him a Jesuit. Nick was long past the age of catechism, but Matt was not, still at the age of blind faith.Matt liked to laugh at his brother's self-conscious correction, his efforts to gain analytical insight.Regardless of Nick's experience in correcting his words and deeds, no matter how flattering those northerners are, how persistent they are in combining reason and soul to influence Nick, Matt, as the younger brother, has the right to question and laugh at his brother. Mother also called Nick a Jesuit, but Nick never heard it. They filled their cars with gas, bought charcoal, food and mineral water.They reached the far end of town and found the office of the preserve ranger.Matt walked in, got a permit, signed a liability statement.This document is called a confirmation form for immunity from damage, and its basic function is to declare that after they enter the protected area, if there is a casualty accident during the live-fire exercise, the two of them, one of them, or their relatives will not be able to obtain any compensation at all. . Very fair.They can enter the reserve, but they should know that there will be air-to-air exercises in three days.accidental injury.The thought adds a little excitement to their schedule. He told Janet the relevant situation in a serious manner.He also told her that they were not to touch or pick up any military items found in the area, such as fuel barrels, illuminated shell casings, drag targets, thrusters with real or mock warheads.He told her that the reserve was uninhabited, that there was no gasoline, no food, no hotels or other facilities.She has a right to know this.He told her that there were no paved roads and no running water in the reserve. However, he did not tell her why this excited him.He didn't mention it because he didn't know why he was excited.The surrounding desolation, endless, makes people shudder.He knew that he was about to enter the untouched Sonoran Desert.There, the interplay between territory and weaponry is a neural process repositioned in the world.It's an empty longing that comes from one's brainstem, or whatever, and puts it into words.There, the sky is vast, the desert reveals endless diamond-shaped patterns, and the sky and the earth are connected as one. Janet said, "Okay, let's go and let's go." "That's the spirit we need." "We've already planned it out, there's something to say." "That's the answer I wanted to hear." They drove south, through a blank area on the map, towards the entrance of the reserve.At this time, he remembered the situation in this part of Arizona that Eric Deming had talked about.It was a rumor, some kind of weird saying about a so-called sensitive alien.Those people have special abilities, some can have telepathy, some have extraordinary insight, and some can deform metal with their thoughts. Near the Mexican border, there is a secret facility where sensitive aliens are tested and related experiments are carried out.It has been suggested that psychic commandos might be able to jam enemy computer networks and weapons systems, or even read the intentions of the Soviet defense minister sitting in a car as far away as Moscow. According to Eric, the Russians are psychic and mysterious, far superior to us Americans in this respect.We are doing our best to catch up with them. Janet said, "Of course, there are other things." "What's the meaning?" "For a purpose other than the wild sheep. We didn't run this far just to see the wild sheep, did we?" "Wild sheep with big horns. We want to be alone, undisturbed. That way, we can have a good talk, for a little longer. That way, we can plan." "whats the matter?" "Things you know." "What's the matter?" "Are we getting married, are we going to have kids? Are we going to wait? Are we going to make our home here, yours, or somewhere else?" "What else?" she said. "I know, there's always something else." Matt could believe the claims about the base, where Inhumans with preternatural sensitivities improved their occult skills, teleportation, and telescopic clairvoyance.Why not believe it?When he played chess at the age of ten, he could often read the opponent's intentions.This is the hidden extrasensory side of the arms race, which is supernatural miracles and visions.The ultimate weapon we're hoping for is a middle-aged lady from the city of Decatur who can stand on the east coast and pinpoint the exact location of a Soviet sub. unreal.That was the thought that made him uneasy.That was one of the things he wanted to talk to Janet about. Some of the mountains here are like rubble piles, some are like boats, huge boat-shaped rocks, and the bow of the boat protrudes forward.The land is endless and desolate, with abrupt rocks, raised hills, and gullies gathering together, it looks like a place where dinosaurs haunted.They saw white hills, flesh-colored hills, and hills of transparent scoria. They have traveled for a long time and have not yet reached their destination.There was only one road, one path, often covered with deep sand in some sections, and in others showing ruts and ditches.The sun was shining directly down, so strong that people couldn't keep their eyes open.When they reached the flooded section, they had to drive off the path and carefully steer the jeep around it. He kept referring to the books he carried, looking up some terminology.He kept a book or two in his lap, sometimes asked Janet to look up information he wanted to know, and sometimes let her drive so he could look it up himself. Dust covered the hood and windshield.The sun seemed to be fixed on top of them, hot, and he really wanted to look scared and laugh at her. "I know, you can't talk about your work." "I can tell you a few things. I study what they call safety mechanisms, how to restore a nuclear weapon to a safe state after an emergency. Timers, batteries, switches, solenoids, and electromechanical interlocks, I constantly Test these things with a computer. I drink instant coffee and stare at the relevant data on the screen. After I get the results, some guy in California or Nevada or somewhere is going to use a rocket launcher at a thousand per hour Five-hundred-mile speed, firing warheads into hardened targets." "In order to test the calculation results." "Correct. Of course, it's not just the result of my calculations. However, you are right, and that's probably what it means." "You increase the security of the weapon, making it safer to transport and use." "right." "So, what's your problem? It's not strictly a crime." "Yeah, but it's a job making weapons. That's what I wanted. I wanted this, I wanted that. But now I'm having doubts about it." "This is important work, Matthew. We need the best people to do something like this." They stopped not far from the path.He lit the charcoal and they opened the cans of pork and string beans and poured them into the pot.The two put on sweaters and sat on blankets. She asked, "If you leave, what will you be doing?" "I'm not sure. Maybe go for a PhD. I know people who work in think tanks. I want to talk to them and test their attitude." She glanced at him with a look of disappointment.She didn't like the word think tank, but he didn't blame her for it.Those people are passive in behavior, soft in speech, nearly fifty years old, and they are all characters in the ivory tower.They rummaged through papers in the bastion of social strategy, dealing with fact reports, policy decisions, and statistical sampling on a daily basis. He took out the flashlight and led her to a convenient place.The moon seems to be round.He waited for her to take off her trousers and squat down—the two movements were done partly at the same time.She looked at him and smiled, a sort of obscene smirk, a girl in dirty panties with an obscene expression—had we ever done that in a previous lifetime?He flicked the flashlight to check his surroundings, humming the names of shrubs and shrubs to the sound of Janet urinating.She smiled and peed more urgently.They thought they heard a coyote howling, and she pulled up her jeans, laughing. The two set up a yurt and slipped into a mummy-shaped sleeping bag lined with flannel.At this moment, they realized that the coyote howling just now was the voice of Jack the Werewolf coming from the transistor radio.On the other side of the border, that howling disc jockey was broadcasting on some bandit radio station, sending the waves into the desert. Don't be hard on me baby, we're going to have fun tonight.The werewolf sent Richard, with a big bun and a glass coat, to climb up your tender face.Richard carries detergent and doesn't go to the dry cleaners at all. The sleeping bag is elastic, and a person can turn sideways at will while sleeping in it.Matt felt as though he were sleeping in bed at home in the Bronx, New York, when he heard Little Richard begin to sing in a primitive falsetto.He was fifteen then, and he could trade his brother's old catcher's mitt for three or four grubby rock and roll singles.He took them out and played them when his mother wasn't home. He told Janet stories about how Nick felt his father had been kidnapped, taken to the swamp and shot, and how that idea framed the plot as the only conspiracy story his brother believed.Far from sharing the prevailing skepticism, Nick was always protective of his own beliefs about Jamie's fate.Jamie's murder was an isolated incident, purely unrelated to other secret alliances and crimes, unrelated to other theories.Let the people who live in this culture indulge in cheap conspiracy theories.Nick's narrative has an element of longevity that doesn't need to be filled with speculation and hearsay. Of course, Matt believes that his brother's approach is purely emotional fantasy.However, when Janet unhesitatingly agrees and refuses to consider Nick's claims, Matt interrupts her to defend Nick.He told her that he himself felt at first that his father was dead, he hadn't run away, he hadn't abandoned his family, and he wasn't a cowardly drug addict.The father died somewhere unknown to the family.Back then, Nick was a kid who would do the antics of going to that movie theater called Love's Paradise, hoping to see the ghost of his faithful father float across the star-studded ceiling.At that time, he could not make an accurate judgment.Even so, he now wanted her to think about the event itself, about the time he had walked alone through unfamiliar neighborhoods to the movie theater when he was six years old.An event has power that can spring from an indissoluble core, and not all of the brutal, elusive elements are all relevant.This will make people behave strangely, fabricate all kinds of statements, and form a believable situation. Who the hell was Janet to mock his brother? In the distance appeared overlapping cliffs, deep dry valleys, and giant cacti growing on the southern slopes of the mountains. Sometimes the trail is white sand and sometimes red soil.This is a dry salt lake with no water and the bottom of the lake is cracked.Suddenly, the trail was bright green, then sand, and finally hard gravel. Janet loves to drive hard no matter the surface.The jeep rocked and wobbled to the left, sometimes leaning very hard.The trail ran through thick bushes, and she told him to draw back his arm dangling from the car so he wouldn't get cut by the acacia. "I don't think you should leave your job because of conscience. Conscience can work both ways," she said. "You have a sense of responsibility. If you don't want to do this job, take over. Your people may not be as qualified as you." "How high do you think the temperature is?" "Don't think about how hot it is. You can't stay here. You have special training and special skills." "Somewhere up ahead we have to decide if we can turn around and go back the way we came." "What if you don't turn around?" "Continuing forward, we will enter the area infested by Canadian argali. We must leave the reserve from a certain location in the northwest before the exercise begins." Ten minutes later, something appeared in the distance, and he raised his binoculars to observe.It appears to be tanks and jeeps, and some large trucks.But they don't look solid, they're small, they're crudely made, they're posed in an attacking stance, and they're brightly colored—simulated tactical targets. "I want the two of us to stay together," she said. "You know, I really want to have a family and I want kids. I always want that. I want to feel safe, Matthew." He reached out and stroked the hair on the nape of her neck with his fingers. "You want to feel safe, you treat the wounded, you stay up late at night," he said. "Emergency department patients go one after another, and it's a constant physical and mental stimulation." "There's nothing unsafe about it. For me, it's very safe. It's what I'm good at, and I want to keep doing it. You should be doing what you're good at. That's security." "How can we live together if I keep doing this job?" "We can do it, we can figure it out," she said. The air became humid, the sky took on the color of chlorine, and the rain fell suddenly in torrential downpours.They couldn't see anything, so they parked on the ramp and sat in the car to wait.The source of the storm seemed close at hand, only ten feet from their heads.They sat in the car talking, waiting patiently. Matt could tell her anything and it was very easy to get along with.She knew him before he was born and could tell what was in his head.There were no secrets about her, no silences and pretense that might lead to fantasies, that's right.However, he felt that for a man like himself, this was nothing. They heard the sounds of birds with human-like calls, such as nightjars and chaffinches.After the heavy rain, the heat wave returned.Wearing glasses, he looks up and scans the sky for birds of prey.They are suspended in the scorching air, with their tails outstretched, and they hover freely, which is very beautiful.He saw a large black bird perched on the arm of a giant cactus, frantically looking for the book on birds he had brought. It was a golden eagle, still underage.He handed the telescope to Janet, then took it back.He couldn't help talking, laughing, and looking at the book.It was more like he was talking to the bird.He repeatedly compared the pictures in the book to confirm what he saw: it was a vulture, a young vulture that had not yet grown up, with bright feathers on its wings and a light golden yellow on the back of its neck. Janet has no interest in this.He glanced at her and saw a complex pleading look in her eyes.She seemed to be asking for something, though he wasn't sure.He continued to watch the large bird through the binoculars; to her, the bird was just a remote control signal flashing on the TV tuner.She only needs to turn on the TV in the nurse's room to see the giraffes on the grassland.Television was her natural sanctuary.The TV is in a crowded room with two sofa chairs.She could sit there and babble with her night shift colleagues about the rising price of coffee, the lack of safety in the streets, and the indescribable stench of burn patients.That's what she leans on, that's the security she needs in life. However, her look has nothing to do with what she needs, and has nothing to do with where she likes to go.She wanted him to understand something about himself. In his heart, in his ribcage the size of a bird's bone, every failure was a death.Basically, he was dead when he was eleven years old.He finally got rid of the little wooden chess set.But how many years did it take him to shake off the shadow of that game? Two years ago, a match between Fischl and Spassky brought him back to chess.That game was played in Iceland, halfway between Washington and Moscow.Bobby and Boris played 21 matches, a black and white battle started that summer. Matt checked the newspapers, watched TV, and looked for Bobby, a skinny teenager in his late twenties.He identified with the public outrage, with all the rude demands, with Bobby's incessant use of hurtful touches, with Bobby's openly expressed pain when he failed. If the American's ultimate victory did not bring redemption to Matt's sullen youth, it at least brought about a change in the game of chess, allowing him to gradually move away from the migraines brought on by his abnormal introversion and toward something objective, Turn to the daily melee between competing states and material forces. Describing that process requires a made-up word.go to ego.That's what that game did to Matt.So let our Bobby yell, he's just showing what's already there.That kind of thing is hidden in the aesthetics of space embodied in the game, hidden in the strict quality that can transform the soul, hidden in the forward-looking burst of wisdom, hidden in the self-world composed of pain and loss. In New Mexico, he told her, mountains had been hollowed out to store nuclear weapons.In Colorado, he told her, a mountain had been dug out to house giant screens showing the trajectory of missiles fired from bases in Siberia.He knew something about the project, that the facility was built using slave labor and located in a remote part of the Soviet Union.He told her it was an atomic bomb design center. People go there voluntarily, the scientists are impatient, hoping to meet some basic need.Maybe it's just a patriotic duty to face the usual challenges and do serious research in physics or mathematics?Some people go there in pursuit of a goal, he argues, while others do so on an impulsive, almost reckless way to discover some higher state. "It's almost like God to hear you say that," she said. He told her what he could reveal about the bag program.The sac is merely a cozy spot in a vast system of concealment that anticipates death threats from the sky.He told her that in two states, Virginia and Maryland, there were underground bunkers dug in some mountains.In the event of a nuclear war, America's leaders can be there to keep the government running.He told her that there had been nuclear accidents in the Soviet Union, that there had been explosions and fires in factories where the atomic bombs were made.He told her how excited he was at the time, how shocked he was when there was chaos in the desert, and how ashamed he felt afterwards. Hearing you say that, it's almost like God.Perhaps it was a terrifying variant of God.Go to the desert, go to the ice field, and wait for the dream light to appear.A large amount of critical matter will pray to the heavens mentioned in Hindu teachings, to make Kali and Shiva appear, and to make all the terrifying ghosts appear. "Maybe, I've been a Catholic for too long and I should have left Catholicism when I was ten." He thought of those sensitive aliens who were ready to engage in psychic warfare, and thought of those penitents.A hundred or fifty years ago, they wore black hoods, dragged heavy wooden crosses across the desert, and whipped their bodies with whips made of sisal and hemp fibers.He thought of Sister Edgar muttering invented words, and of the ramblings of those who roamed about. "I don't know what you mean by being Catholic. Let me tell you my own opinion about conscience," she said. "That's just part of it. The main thing is, I feel like I've become part of something that's not real. When people hallucinate, there's often a false feeling, but it feels real. I've had the exact opposite. It's totally true. The research and weapons here are all real, and so are the missiles coming out of the alfalfa field. But, I feel more and more, it's all real. It's twisted. It's someone's dream, and I'm in that dream." Janet, perhaps, was a little annoyed that the statement was capricious, unconvincing, and off topic. "Not long ago, I heard something," he said, "there was an experiment in the 1950s where they put live pigs in custom GI combat uniforms and put them at different distances from the blast site. .According to what I heard, the exact number is one hundred and eleven. They detonated the device, and then examined the uniforms on the pigs that had been charred, in order to evaluate the heat-resistant qualities of the cloth. This is that test the goal of." Janet said nothing.Whatever the purpose of that experiment, whatever his purpose in telling it, it only served to aggravate her impatience. "Imagine it. Chester white. That breed of pig is big, fat, with floppy ears, and a khaki military uniform. Zippers, lining, everything a military uniform should have. Military dress Rules, even the fastening straps are fastened. A voice comes from the loudspeaker, 10, 9, 8, 7." She told him to put his hands back in the car. "Is history becoming a fiction at this point?" he asked. She glanced at him. "That's not your question," she said. "What am I asking?" "I don't think that's what you're asking. It's a big question. I think you're asking a smaller question. It's not about fat pigs in military uniforms. You're talking about something else entirely." He didn't look at her. "What did I say, Janet?" "You tell me," she said. He looked at the rutted lane, but did not answer.Acacia branches hit the windshield and doors, making a crackling sound.Both looked down the path ahead. About two hundred yards ahead was a building, concrete like a warehouse, painted yellow, with small windows and thorny vines protruding from the top. At this time, the sun was about to set, and they thought they should camp nearby.There was, of course, something irresistible about that building, a little unyielding even, something private and solid behind the planks.It stands there, with no other buildings beside it, and the rolling mountains behind it, with the unique implication of misplaced objects, like a roadside restaurant on the prairie that has been closed for many years.The voice call device outside has been tilted, and the large screen is facing a cornfield, which has lost its function.This is the waste abandoned by people. It makes the surrounding scenery layered, making it look more desolate and lonely, and people can't help but feel an inexplicable sadness and regret after seeing it.Perhaps, that is not a pity, but more like a perception of the beauty of time: the life of a concrete building is short-lived, and then abandoned, becoming a wild soul, allowing men and women to stop and admire, it may become so strange and so peaceful ,so beautiful. "I want to sleep here," Janet said, "no more tents." The windows are narrow and high, with two sealed wooden boards on them.They went around the back of the house, found a waist-high hole in the wall, and climbed in.They had been driving for hours, bouncing over gravel and sand, and the place seemed settled.The room contained a table, chairs, nude calendars on the wall, and two bookshelves filled with canned goods, kitchen utensils, safety matches, and back issues of magazines. Matt believes that this place may be used by the military.During the exercise, three or five military surveyors were brought in here by helicopter to check the accuracy of the shelling, recover targets, and possibly mark the location of unexploded rockets and bombs. The two went back outside and Matt lit the charcoal.They didn't speak, simply ate something, then collected the garbage and leftovers, put them in plastic bags and put them in the car - they didn't know what else to do with them. The two moved the camping equipment into the warehouse, and took off their clothes by the moonlight.Janet sits on her nylon sleeping bag, one leg flat, the other bent, her body backward, as if she were sunbathing on the library steps at lunch.他走过去，坐下，抚摸她的身体，阳光留下的余温传递到他的手上。两人的身体交换着对一天旅程的感受，呼吸中携带着热量和尘土的气息，进入对方的嘴里，弥散在指尖，飘进了鼻孔。 可是，两人的动作夹带着忧郁，略显奇怪。它平静，甜蜜，充满爱意，然而同时又有些异样，稍显拘谨。完事之后，两人躺在一起，长时间里一言不发。 “我觉得，我们明天早上应该返回。” “为什么呢？”她问，“我们跑了这么远的路。” “我觉得，我们已经看了这里该看的，差不多可以这样说吧。” “你还没有看到加拿大盘羊。” “我不需要看加拿大盘羊，也不需要看叉角羚。那边有叉角羚，羚羊。” “你还没看到老鹰。” “我看到了金雕。” “从远处看的，不清楚，而且它在巢里。”她说。 “那只金雕真漂亮，真是不虚此行。” 她睡了，他没有。 他最后明白了自己的真实想法：他希望她开口，让他放弃这份工作。这就是他一路上在问自己的问题。难道你不告诉我，为了你自己，为了我们的孩子，为了我们将来拥有的家，你不想让我继续做这份工作？ 然而，珍妮特没有就范。 他这时发现，他一直希望她觉得他准备做出牺牲，为了妻子和孩子离开衣囊计划。他想要她说，到波士顿来，和我结婚吧。 他不喜欢这份工作，希望离开这里。可是，他不想自己提出这一点，希望借她之口说出来。 然而，珍妮特没有就范。她一直都知道他的心思，对他吟唱的所谓不真实的咏叹调失去了耐心。她想说，无论我们进行什么秘密研究，他们做得更糟糕。 大风不时从东面刮来，他听到吉普车附近有动物发出的响声，寻找垃圾的响声。 不，他对武器不感兴趣，然而这并不重要。他想要她产生内疚感，觉得她迫使他改变自己的生活。在未来的岁月中，这一点会让他处于非常有利的地位。 在陆军情报学校中，他做双份功课，身边每时每刻都围着战争分析员、语言专家和窥探吸毒者的反间谍人员，围着参加模拟任务训练的受训特工，围着从事身体功能训练的人员。 他们把他派往越南，派往越南的富牌。他进入那个院子，一眼看到仓库墙壁上抢眼的涂鸦——Om Mani Padme Hum（唵嘛呢叭咪吽）。马特知道这是某种咒文，是嬉皮士在纽约中央公园里吟唱的调调。不过，它是不是131航空连的座右铭呢？ 从那时起，他便产生了理解障碍。 他在一座盖着瓦楞铁顶的半桶形活动房屋中工作，对着灯箱，分析一卷一卷的胶片。那些照片是空中侦察机收集的，利用安装在机身下面的镜头拍摄，数量很多。他想找到的是失去的信息，如何恢复最小的信息单位，如何辨识图像，比如，判断一个吸着法国香烟的人是否驾驶着一辆卡车，在胡志明小道上行进。 他把一块飞盘扔给一条日本小狗，看着它一跃而起，身体在空中扭动。 有传言说，正在进行一场秘密战争，B-52轰炸机扔下了无数炸弹，扔在了老挝，扔在了柬埔寨。不过，扔下的炸弹不是没有数量的，而是经过认真计算的。通过大幅度增加投弹数量，军人们可以得到提升。 马特是五级专家，薪金级别与中士相同，不过指挥权力小一些。这一点马特能够适应。 对火箭攻击他却不能适应，对密如雨点的炮击他也不能适应。 弹雨落下，警笛嘶鸣，他钻进附近的一个掩体。那是用沙袋和建筑残骸构筑的，一条明沟从掩体内穿过。 毒品伴随着压力出现。在连队驻扎的那条泥泞的街道上，发现了一具奇怪的死尸，面部朝下，吸食海洛因过量致死。 有人在盖着瓦楞铁顶的半桶形活动房屋里悬挂了一张尼克松的照片，他身边站着两个人，一左一右。不知何故，那照片让马特觉得眼熟，然而一时想不起来。有谣传说，在院子附近贮存着用黑色圆桶装着的什么化学药品。 如果是放电影，你就可以让画面定格：一条狗高高跃起，正要去衔飞盘。在美国某个地方的一座公园里，夏日阳光明媚，一名吉他手弹出尖锐刺耳的声音——这可能是这个镜头表达的讽刺意义。 当一个系统的部分输出信息被转变为输入信息时，就会出现这样的情形。 没错，有人从杂志上撕下了这一页。马特不能确定站在总统身边的那两人是谁，不过他们既不是政客，也不是企业领导。其中一个人头发拳曲，模样英俊，笑容可掬；另外一个两眼露出悲哀的神情，鼻子高挺，像是一个穿着借来的服装的移民，给人沉重的感觉。 他快速浏览着灯箱上显示的胶片，看到像素点时，就会判断那是什么东西。究竟是卡车，卡车车站，隧道入口，枪炮位置，还是正在公园野餐烤汉堡的一家人？ 天气异常闷热，日子单调乏味。一直有飞机起降，其中武装直升机、运输机、重型轰炸机、加油机、喷气式战斗机、喷气式商务机。一架小型的粉红色派珀教练机载着一名教官和一名学员，经过改装的运输机在丛林中喷洒除草剂。那东西装在黑色罐子里，罐子上面有醒目的橘黄色条纹。 有传言说，在东面或者西面进行着另外的战争。 那些罐子的形状与美汁源的包装类似，不过要大许多倍，仿佛是后者在DNA失控状态下的产物。有谣传说，装在罐子里的那种化学药剂含有致癌物质。 他听到那些谣传，听到迫击炮弹的声音，亲身感受到季风带来的灼热，听到四处响起的战斗口号。 保持冷静，伙计。 他曾经希望到越南来，曾经心里反复考虑，最后觉得，这是他应该做的事情，是一种自我认识的形式——正直，勇敢，响应国家召唤。不过，也有其他方面的考虑，那就是家里人生来具有的那种传统的力量。 他不能回避责任感，它就在那里，必须直面对待。他不愿躲开、偷偷溜走、贪图享乐、闪烁其辞，不愿逃避，不愿抵触，不愿退缩，不愿逃跑。他不愿像父亲那样，跑到加拿大、瑞典或者旧金山。 他看到胶片上像素点时，他就把它们变为字母、数字、方位、坐标方格和知识体系。 Om Mani Padme Hum（唵嘛呢叭咪吽）。 其实，那条狗没有跃起，只是或多或少以蔑视的眼光看着飞盘在空中划过。 像素点是一种看得见的咒文，除了位置之外，这个东西没有其他特性。 安在莲花中心位置上的那颗珠宝。 他躺在睡袋里，可是无法入睡，希望有个伴，于是想叫醒珍妮特。他把一条胳膊挪出来，伸过去，摇醒她。 “我想要的东西和你的一样。” “好吧，马修。” “我觉得我们应该生活在熟悉的环境中。我很兴奋，希望立刻开始。” “你应该等待，在你现在的位置上等待，再干一年，看一看情况再说。”她说。 “我想考虑给我们的孩子取什么绰号。你明白我的意思吗？我想要实实在在的生活，想要照片、刀叉，想要将来可以传给下一代的东西。我想聊一聊晚餐吃什么东西。你喜欢吃烤蚝吗？我们几乎没有聊过吃的，你和我。” “继续干下去吧，”她对他说，“不要匆忙改变。” “我很兴奋。我希望，用不了多长时间，我就可以离开这里。我简直现在就想开车离开。” “睡觉吧。”她对他说。 “想聊的事情很多。” She fell asleep quickly.马特躺在睡袋里，辗转反侧，思绪万千。后来，他意识到，他是无法入眠的，于是决定起来，去看沙漠上的日出。 他穿上裤子和毛衣，出了仓库，走到后面五十码的位置，关闭手电筒。 然后，他坐在满是尘土的地上等待。 他想起来，在弹头研发人员的聚会上，他坐在一把椅子上，把自己封闭在重力场中，脑袋里发出低沉嘈杂的怀疑之声。 他想到了那张尼克松的照片，心里感到疑惑。究竟这个国家是否受到了那个人的偏执狂的影响？还是那个人的偏执狂受到了这个国家的影响？ 他回想起自己坐在灯箱前面快速浏览胶片时的感觉。那时，他很想知道那些像素点在什么位置上连接起来。 一切最终都会连接起来，要么仅仅看来会连接起来，要么仅仅因为连接起来，才会给人这样的表象。 在灯箱前，他戏仿在地下室工作的人的传统形象：那个孤独的发明家俯身实验台前，根据某种奇思妙想，把别针、弹簧和铁丝连接起来，形成了后来改变整个世界的制造电灯的创意。 他的耳际响起了那个带有匈牙利口音的声音，仿佛埃里克·戴明在人头攒动的房间对着他说话。 胶片上的像素点也许是穿行在那条运输线上的卡车，也许是从生产线上下来的新型轿车，也许是看似乳胶手套指头的避孕套。 在那间盖着瓦楞铁顶的半桶形活动房屋里，有人应该告诉他那两个人是谁。他们站在尼克松的身边，是从前的球员。他们分享胜利，承受失败，终身联系紧密。 他坐在尘土地上，两眼紧闭，嗅到了木馏树丛发出的带有新鲜松香的气味，意识到晨曦将在什么地方出现。 人们躲藏在地下室的房间里。武器从生产线上出来，一模一样，开始点亮天际，他们随即钻进仓库和隧道。 假如橙汁和橙色剂被相同的巨大系统连接起来，超过你的理解范围，你如何才能区分它们呢？ 你已被置于这个系统之下，准备对一切持将信将疑的态度，因为这是唯一的理智反应。你怎么可能判断它的真假呢？ 有人躲藏在黑暗、潮湿的地方，躲藏在蘑菇大量生长、很快发芽的地方。 他使用沾满油腻的铅笔标记出来的那些像素点在岘港变为电脑数据，在西贡变为星期天的早午餐，在泰国——他猜想，或者在关岛——变为战斗任务的概要说明。 当你改变一个微小的组成部分时，整个系统立刻会做出反应，进行调整。 有人必须告诉他那些人的名字，就是站在总统身边的人。汤姆森和布兰卡，博比和拉尔夫，他们是处于对立状态的双方，是胜利者与牺牲品，最终是无法分割开来的。 长着肉质菌盖的蘑菇可能有毒，也可能具有魔力。在西伯利亚的某个地方，那些萨满祭司吃掉菌盖，结果获得了新生。在精神恍惚的状态下，他们看见了什么？是否看见了蘑菇云？ 即使那时，在他彻夜快速浏览胶卷时，在他等着炮弹如雨泄下时，他就参与了衣囊计划。转动的胶卷发出咔嚓咔嚓的声音，仿佛是电视上正在咀嚼麦片的小孩。 假如你已经变得非常柔韧，愿意对任何事情持将信将疑的态度，对任何事情都没有信念，你怎么可能区分注射器和导弹呢？ 你怎么可能知道这个图像在炸弹发明之前就已经存在？那时可能存在一个由图像构成的地下世界，只有部落祭师才知道的世界。那些祭师是可见世界与精神世界之间的媒介，让神奇的蘑菇冒出来，看见了一团燃烧的云。它那时就存在，比美国陆军使用的训练影片上的图像更早。 叙述者说，从安全位置上观察，那次爆炸是人类看到的最漂亮的景象之一。 即使那时，他在某种程度上就参与了衣囊计划，不过没有根据那些系统的方式思考，让他所做的微不足道的繁琐工作达到顶点。重达一百磅的炸弹从B-52轰炸机的弹仓中成群落下，仿佛是长着鱼鳍的颗粒状排泄物，落在密林之中的运输小路上，炸出一个个大坑。 不过，他们是敌人，管他妈的。 是的，他们仍然是敌人，或者说某个人是敌人。这时，他睁开眼睛，发现天空变得灰白，那颜色非常奇怪，就像老太太的头发。 观念曾经来自下面。如今，它们在你上方，到处都有，从整体上把事物和坐标方格联系起来。 二项对立的东西，黑与白，肯定与否定，0与1，胜利者与牺牲品。 那张照片挂在盖着瓦楞铁顶的半桶形活动房屋的墙壁上，上面有两人站在总统身边，一个人身材高大，模样英俊，另一个眉毛浓密，是外来移民。他们两人完全可能是奥本海默和特勒，身体上涂着防晒油，互相引用印度教的典籍。 Om（唵）这个字与bomb（炸弹）一词在发音上并不押韵，仅仅拼法有点类似。 死亡与魔法，这就是那蘑菇。或者说，根据研究现象的学者的说法，死亡与不朽的生命。 二甲-4-羟色胺磷酸是一种化合物，从墨西哥蕈类植物中提炼出来，可以让人的灵魂出现裂变。 所有的技术都被用来制造这种炸弹。 他坐在满是尘土的地上，睁开眼睛，发现太阳正在身后的方向升起，心里很想知道这意味着什么。 这意味着，他一直面朝错误的方向。 马特驾驶吉普车，珍妮特在打瞌睡。她小睡一阵，在颠簸中惊醒，接着又垂下了脑袋。 他感觉良好，一边驾车，一边思考，两眼观察车外，见到植物便可确定名称，不用参考带来的图书。 太阳依然很低，这条小道将把他们引向保护区的核心，然后再慢慢向南。 他看见，路面从碎石变为沙土。 他看见，干涸的小溪与小道平行，露出塞满了淤泥的河床。 他听到，鸽子咕咕叫着，从灌木中飞出来，发出噼噼啪啪的声音。 他看见，平坦的沙漠上卷起一股沙暴，慢慢形成活动的螺旋。 那沙暴突然停止，奇怪而有点夸张。 突然，一阵轰鸣从头顶袭来，非常迫近，让他感觉血液凝固，珍妮特抓住他的一只胳膊。不，她受到侧面传来的巨响的冲击，那是一声突然爆裂的巨响，她先是倒在他身上，然后去抓他的胳膊，先失了手，第二次才抓住。他坐在座位上，脑袋缩在两肩之间。吉普车脱离了小道，他急忙把手挣脱出来，转动方向盘，让车回到小道上。他意识到，他的另外一只手高举在头顶上，弯曲着，保护着头部。 那轰鸣从他们头顶上刮过，几乎把吉普车抬起来。珍妮特两眼盯着他，他的嘴巴呈椭圆形，神情孤独。 马特神色紧张，努力弄清自己面对的情况，想要整理出头绪来。他凝望山岭，让自己显得开心一些。这时，他一眼看见了两架闪着银光的飞机。那是两架F-4幻象战斗机，机身一片银白，到了弧形顶端，然后转为平飞。他心里想，它们会在宁静的清晨，贴着沙漠飞快掠过。 他很开心，听到飞机引起的回声在试射场外面回荡，变为一阵渐渐远去的轰鸣，首先在小阿焦山脉、格罗勒山脉、花岗岩山脉和莫霍克山脉之间回荡，然后在城镇上空，在卡车顶上回荡。没错，他喜欢力量以这种方式升腾起来，脱离自我珍视的秘密状态，变为天空中的轰鸣。在他的想象中，那些声波掠过大地，在时间中盘旋向前，在数周、数月里不绝于耳，传遍整个国家。最后，在温馨、安全的房间里，它们变为最温柔的摇篮曲。在那里，母亲喂养婴儿，一个男人站在旁边，一只手举起来，保护着脑袋。那是一个研究员，他不是害怕碎裂的灰泥和玻璃，仅仅是给婴儿挡住光亮。在那里，天色渐渐变暗，一阵浓烈的气味从厨房飘来，房子里响起了音乐。 然而，他这时感受到的是令人高度紧张的震撼，浑身冒出鸡皮疙瘩，针刺般的颤动传遍整个身体。他们两人坐在吉普车里，一时说不出话来。在体验了大自然突然显示出来的巨大力量和冲击之后，在体验了人类的技术给天空带来的冲击之后，两人默默无语，需要一点时间让自己恢复过来。
Notes:
He sat there, waiting for word on Janet's flight, wondering whether to call his brother now.Nick lives in Phoenix, does some kind of consulting work, and teaches Latin once a week at a junior college. When Nick dies, a team of metaphysical researchers will examine the black box.His personal flight recorder will tell them how his mind works, his motives, his state of mind.However, they may not be able to find clues. In a place called Paradise Valley, Nick recites Latin epigrams to business students. Matt took off his glasses and blew into them, opening his mouth in an oval shape, as if whispering.Then, he reached out to take off his glasses, faced the bright light, and wiped the moisture on the lenses with a handkerchief. Please pick up the white free phone.At the cue, a little girl speaks into her own tiny fist. He puts on glasses.Janet walks out of the airport gates.He smiled when he saw her, a smile from the heart, a smile of pleasure, a smile of relief—she was here at last.Of course, this is also a smile full of expectation.He couldn't help laughing at the clutter of things they were going to bring to camp.He has been driving all day and is still dizzy and has no strength to do anything else. Janet walked towards him, briskly, with a wry smile on her face.That look meant that she wasn't entirely sure what she was going to do here. "The captain said to arrive at 10:4." "Shall I call Nick?" "What's the matter? It's only 7:2 in Boston." "He's on his way, it'd be silly not to call." "The garbage workers in New York are on strike," she said. He had driven too long and still felt dizzy.She spent long hours on the plane, numb to the cramped space and the sound of the engine.They walked to the parking lot and stuffed her luggage into the jeep.The jeep is full of stuff, including camping gear, clothes, travel bags, books, just like in a consumer comic. "Tell me again, where are we going?" she asked.
They spent the night next to an Indian reservation.It was an old shack with mud brick walls, and a teenage girl was sitting at the table, eating popcorn.The two were lying on the bed, from which a white observatory could be seen. The room was not bad, with beams visible, and old furniture such as is common in suburban houses.The two hadn't seen each other for a long time, and they didn't have skin-to-skin contact, so they seemed a little shy at first.Janet had to adapt herself to the situation.They slept together only a few times, and it was planned in advance.They lack tacit understanding, harmonious rhythm and understanding eyes, and it is difficult to understand each other's wishes and hints that are not expressed in words, and their bodies do not touch each other in the elevator.Also, there is no elevator.Janet was in a strange room, feeling a little confused: This is not her, right? If it were a woman, she would feel the temptation of anonymity.Tryst with a man in a room where a thousand men and women have lived before.Leaving your past behind in a nondescript motel.It wasn't a motel, though, and thankfully, she was at least thankful for that. She was nervous, standing in front of the window, wearing jeans and a bra.The contact between the two ended up with her bra, when she stopped talking, hoping to let him know how she felt.She has no anxiety about sexual intercourse.She said that yes, she wasn't anxious about sex, the main issue was a general sense of uncertainty.An unknown place, a strange bed, such a scene comes with predetermined expectations.She doesn't feel comfortable meeting a man in such a setting.She has a way of judging herself and is wary of what she feels is problematic.First of all, the place is not clean enough; second, the girl downstairs either has squinted eyes, or extra white eyes, or something is wrong.She told him how she felt, her voice was low and slightly emotional.He lay in bed, listening quietly, waiting for her to change her mind.Flying across the country to end up in this room with no prior reservations.It made her feel disconnected from everything she knew. He listened, waited, and finally understood that her feelings about certain things matched his.It seemed to him that the situation before him was analogous to this one: a man stalking something he already knew almost perfectly. She stands by the window.He looked over her shoulder, at the dome of the observatory on the opposite hill, bathed in the last light of the setting sun.
A hundred years ago, someone crossed this desert.The penitents chanted the Bible, fasted, and tortured themselves along the way, some with whips made of hemp, some with the fibers of the yucca plant, and some with ropes—a kind of whip made of Knotted short whip tightly woven of woolen threads. Janet doesn't know how to watch the desert, and seems to resent it in some veiled, personal way.The desert is vast and empty, revealing the real side without any scruples. They were talking in the car. "Tell me again, why did you go there?" "It's a wildlife sanctuary and it's also a shooting range." "That said, if wild animals don't eat us, we're going to be targeted by someone else." He reached over and placed his hand on her thigh. "We can be alone," he said. "We can be alone in Boston, too." "Boston doesn't have argali. We want to see argali in the wild." "What do we do when we see them?" "We'll be happy, it's hard to see them now. We're going in the middle of nowhere. We'll be very excited. Those animals are beautiful, no one here has seen them." She moved her body closer to him.She didn't like public displays of intimacy, and she was apprehensive even if it was just the two of them on the road.It's not in her apartment either, is it?It wasn't even in a hotel room, no door, no curtains, she'd get up first to close the curtains if she was doing something like this in a hotel.She moved closer, though, and explained that if she knew he was going to touch her thighs, she wouldn't be wearing such thick jeans, would she? Matt was overjoyed.He was pleased when she approached, and even happier when she read aloud the papers he had prepared for the trip. They saw hawks perched on the poles, and she looked them up in her book and told him they were kestrels, a kind of falcon, not hawks.It made him feel very happy. The scenery in front of him also excited him, which was very different from the features of the city he was familiar with.More importantly, it fulfilled a certain dream, allowing him to see another side of the West.This is a strange, vast land that is deeply connected to the American people, to bravery and history, to who they are, to what they believe in, to the movies I saw as a child. After a while, he told her not to read, but to take a look at the scenery outside the car.However, the scenery in front of me is an empty desert and a lonely road.It made her nervous. When Nick came back from Minnesota, Matt called him a Jesuit. Nick was long past the age of catechism, but Matt was not, still at the age of blind faith.Matt liked to laugh at his brother's self-conscious correction, his efforts to gain analytical insight.Regardless of Nick's experience in correcting his words and deeds, no matter how flattering those northerners are, how persistent they are in combining reason and soul to influence Nick, Matt, as the younger brother, has the right to question and laugh at his brother. Mother also called Nick a Jesuit, but Nick never heard it. They filled their cars with gas, bought charcoal, food and mineral water.They reached the far end of town and found the office of the preserve ranger.Matt walked in, got a permit, signed a liability statement.This document is called a confirmation form for immunity from damage, and its basic function is to declare that after they enter the protected area, if there is a casualty accident during the live-fire exercise, the two of them, one of them, or their relatives will not be able to obtain any compensation at all. . Very fair.They can enter the reserve, but they should know that there will be air-to-air exercises in three days.accidental injury.The thought adds a little excitement to their schedule. He told Janet the relevant situation in a serious manner.He also told her that they were not to touch or pick up any military items found in the area, such as fuel barrels, illuminated shell casings, drag targets, thrusters with real or mock warheads.He told her that the reserve was uninhabited, that there was no gasoline, no food, no hotels or other facilities.She has a right to know this.He told her that there were no paved roads and no running water in the reserve. However, he did not tell her why this excited him.He didn't mention it because he didn't know why he was excited.The surrounding desolation, endless, makes people shudder.He knew that he was about to enter the untouched Sonoran Desert.There, the interplay between territory and weaponry is a neural process repositioned in the world.It's an empty longing that comes from one's brainstem, or whatever, and puts it into words.There, the sky is vast, the desert reveals endless diamond-shaped patterns, and the sky and the earth are connected as one. Janet said, "Okay, let's go and let's go." "That's the spirit we need." "We've already planned it out, there's something to say." "That's the answer I wanted to hear." They drove south, through a blank area on the map, towards the entrance of the reserve.At this time, he remembered the situation in this part of Arizona that Eric Deming had talked about.It was a rumor, some kind of weird saying about a so-called sensitive alien.Those people have special abilities, some can have telepathy, some have extraordinary insight, and some can deform metal with their thoughts. Near the Mexican border, there is a secret facility where sensitive aliens are tested and related experiments are carried out.It has been suggested that psychic commandos might be able to jam enemy computer networks and weapons systems, or even read the intentions of the Soviet defense minister sitting in a car as far away as Moscow. According to Eric, the Russians are psychic and mysterious, far superior to us Americans in this respect.We are doing our best to catch up with them. Janet said, "Of course, there are other things." "What's the meaning?" "For a purpose other than the wild sheep. We didn't run this far just to see the wild sheep, did we?" "Wild sheep with big horns. We want to be alone, undisturbed. That way, we can have a good talk, for a little longer. That way, we can plan." "whats the matter?" "Things you know." "What's the matter?" "Are we getting married, are we going to have kids? Are we going to wait? Are we going to make our home here, yours, or somewhere else?" "What else?" she said. "I know, there's always something else." Matt could believe the claims about the base, where Inhumans with preternatural sensitivities improved their occult skills, teleportation, and telescopic clairvoyance.Why not believe it?When he played chess at the age of ten, he could often read the opponent's intentions.This is the hidden extrasensory side of the arms race, which is supernatural miracles and visions.The ultimate weapon we're hoping for is a middle-aged lady from the city of Decatur who can stand on the east coast and pinpoint the exact location of a Soviet sub. unreal.That was the thought that made him uneasy.That was one of the things he wanted to talk to Janet about. Some of the mountains here are like rubble piles, some are like boats, huge boat-shaped rocks, and the bow of the boat protrudes forward.The land is endless and desolate, with abrupt rocks, raised hills, and gullies gathering together, it looks like a place where dinosaurs haunted.They saw white hills, flesh-colored hills, and hills of transparent scoria. They have traveled for a long time and have not yet reached their destination.There was only one road, one path, often covered with deep sand in some sections, and in others showing ruts and ditches.The sun was shining directly down, so strong that people couldn't keep their eyes open.When they reached the flooded section, they had to drive off the path and carefully steer the jeep around it. He kept referring to the books he carried, looking up some terminology.He kept a book or two in his lap, sometimes asked Janet to look up information he wanted to know, and sometimes let her drive so he could look it up himself. Dust covered the hood and windshield.The sun seemed to be fixed on top of them, hot, and he really wanted to look scared and laugh at her. "I know, you can't talk about your work." "I can tell you a few things. I study what they call safety mechanisms, how to restore a nuclear weapon to a safe state after an emergency. Timers, batteries, switches, solenoids, and electromechanical interlocks, I constantly Test these things with a computer. I drink instant coffee and stare at the relevant data on the screen. After I get the results, some guy in California or Nevada or somewhere is going to use a rocket launcher at a thousand per hour Five-hundred-mile speed, firing warheads into hardened targets." "In order to test the calculation results." "Correct. Of course, it's not just the result of my calculations. However, you are right, and that's probably what it means." "You increase the security of the weapon, making it safer to transport and use." "right." "So, what's your problem? It's not strictly a crime." "Yeah, but it's a job making weapons. That's what I wanted. I wanted this, I wanted that. But now I'm having doubts about it." "This is important work, Matthew. We need the best people to do something like this." They stopped not far from the path.He lit the charcoal and they opened the cans of pork and string beans and poured them into the pot.The two put on sweaters and sat on blankets. She asked, "If you leave, what will you be doing?" "I'm not sure. Maybe go for a PhD. I know people who work in think tanks. I want to talk to them and test their attitude." She glanced at him with a look of disappointment.She didn't like the word think tank, but he didn't blame her for it.Those people are passive in behavior, soft in speech, nearly fifty years old, and they are all characters in the ivory tower.They rummaged through papers in the bastion of social strategy, dealing with fact reports, policy decisions, and statistical sampling on a daily basis. He took out the flashlight and led her to a convenient place.The moon seems to be round.He waited for her to take off her trousers and squat down—the two movements were done partly at the same time.She looked at him and smiled, a sort of obscene smirk, a girl in dirty panties with an obscene expression—had we ever done that in a previous lifetime?He flicked the flashlight to check his surroundings, humming the names of shrubs and shrubs to the sound of Janet urinating.She smiled and peed more urgently.They thought they heard a coyote howling, and she pulled up her jeans, laughing. The two set up a yurt and slipped into a mummy-shaped sleeping bag lined with flannel.At this moment, they realized that the coyote howling just now was the voice of Jack the Werewolf coming from the transistor radio.On the other side of the border, that howling disc jockey was broadcasting on some bandit radio station, sending the waves into the desert. Don't be hard on me baby, we're going to have fun tonight.The werewolf sent Richard, with a big bun and a glass coat, to climb up your tender face.Richard carries detergent and doesn't go to the dry cleaners at all. The sleeping bag is elastic, and a person can turn sideways at will while sleeping in it.Matt felt as though he were sleeping in bed at home in the Bronx, New York, when he heard Little Richard begin to sing in a primitive falsetto.He was fifteen then, and he could trade his brother's old catcher's mitt for three or four grubby rock and roll singles.He took them out and played them when his mother wasn't home. He told Janet stories about how Nick felt his father had been kidnapped, taken to the swamp and shot, and how that idea framed the plot as the only conspiracy story his brother believed.Far from sharing the prevailing skepticism, Nick was always protective of his own beliefs about Jamie's fate.Jamie's murder was an isolated incident, purely unrelated to other secret alliances and crimes, unrelated to other theories.Let the people who live in this culture indulge in cheap conspiracy theories.Nick's narrative has an element of longevity that doesn't need to be filled with speculation and hearsay. Of course, Matt believes that his brother's approach is purely emotional fantasy.However, when Janet unhesitatingly agrees and refuses to consider Nick's claims, Matt interrupts her to defend Nick.He told her that he himself felt at first that his father was dead, he hadn't run away, he hadn't abandoned his family, and he wasn't a cowardly drug addict.The father died somewhere unknown to the family.Back then, Nick was a kid who would do the antics of going to that movie theater called Love's Paradise, hoping to see the ghost of his faithful father float across the star-studded ceiling.At that time, he could not make an accurate judgment.Even so, he now wanted her to think about the event itself, about the time he had walked alone through unfamiliar neighborhoods to the movie theater when he was six years old.An event has power that can spring from an indissoluble core, and not all of the brutal, elusive elements are all relevant.This will make people behave strangely, fabricate all kinds of statements, and form a believable situation. Who the hell was Janet to mock his brother? In the distance appeared overlapping cliffs, deep dry valleys, and giant cacti growing on the southern slopes of the mountains. Sometimes the trail is white sand and sometimes red soil.This is a dry salt lake with no water and the bottom of the lake is cracked.Suddenly, the trail was bright green, then sand, and finally hard gravel. Janet loves to drive hard no matter the surface.The jeep rocked and wobbled to the left, sometimes leaning very hard.The trail ran through thick bushes, and she told him to draw back his arm dangling from the car so he wouldn't get cut by the acacia. "I don't think you should leave your job because of conscience. Conscience can work both ways," she said. "You have a sense of responsibility. If you don't want to do this job, take over. Your people may not be as qualified as you." "How high do you think the temperature is?" "Don't think about how hot it is. You can't stay here. You have special training and special skills." "Somewhere up ahead we have to decide if we can turn around and go back the way we came." "What if you don't turn around?" "Continuing forward, we will enter the area infested by Canadian argali. We must leave the reserve from a certain location in the northwest before the exercise begins." Ten minutes later, something appeared in the distance, and he raised his binoculars to observe.It appears to be tanks and jeeps, and some large trucks.But they don't look solid, they're small, they're crudely made, they're posed in an attacking stance, and they're brightly colored—simulated tactical targets. "I want the two of us to stay together," she said. "You know, I really want to have a family and I want kids. I always want that. I want to feel safe, Matthew." He reached out and stroked the hair on the nape of her neck with his fingers. "You want to feel safe, you treat the wounded, you stay up late at night," he said. "Emergency department patients go one after another, and it's a constant physical and mental stimulation." "There's nothing unsafe about it. For me, it's very safe. It's what I'm good at, and I want to keep doing it. You should be doing what you're good at. That's security." "How can we live together if I keep doing this job?" "We can do it, we can figure it out," she said. The air became humid, the sky took on the color of chlorine, and the rain fell suddenly in torrential downpours.They couldn't see anything, so they parked on the ramp and sat in the car to wait.The source of the storm seemed close at hand, only ten feet from their heads.They sat in the car talking, waiting patiently. Matt could tell her anything and it was very easy to get along with.She knew him before he was born and could tell what was in his head.There were no secrets about her, no silences and pretense that might lead to fantasies, that's right.However, he felt that for a man like himself, this was nothing. They heard the sounds of birds with human-like calls, such as nightjars and chaffinches.After the heavy rain, the heat wave returned.Wearing glasses, he looks up and scans the sky for birds of prey.They are suspended in the scorching air, with their tails outstretched, and they hover freely, which is very beautiful.He saw a large black bird perched on the arm of a giant cactus, frantically looking for the book on birds he had brought. It was a golden eagle, still underage.He handed the telescope to Janet, then took it back.He couldn't help talking, laughing, and looking at the book.It was more like he was talking to the bird.He repeatedly compared the pictures in the book to confirm what he saw: it was a vulture, a young vulture that had not yet grown up, with bright feathers on its wings and a light golden yellow on the back of its neck. Janet has no interest in this.He glanced at her and saw a complex pleading look in her eyes.She seemed to be asking for something, though he wasn't sure.He continued to watch the large bird through the binoculars; to her, the bird was just a remote control signal flashing on the TV tuner.She only needs to turn on the TV in the nurse's room to see the giraffes on the grassland.Television was her natural sanctuary.The TV is in a crowded room with two sofa chairs.She could sit there and babble with her night shift colleagues about the rising price of coffee, the lack of safety in the streets, and the indescribable stench of burn patients.That's what she leans on, that's the security she needs in life. However, her look has nothing to do with what she needs, and has nothing to do with where she likes to go.She wanted him to understand something about himself. In his heart, in his ribcage the size of a bird's bone, every failure was a death.Basically, he was dead when he was eleven years old.He finally got rid of the little wooden chess set.But how many years did it take him to shake off the shadow of that game? Two years ago, a match between Fischl and Spassky brought him back to chess.That game was played in Iceland, halfway between Washington and Moscow.Bobby and Boris played 21 matches, a black and white battle started that summer. Matt checked the newspapers, watched TV, and looked for Bobby, a skinny teenager in his late twenties.He identified with the public outrage, with all the rude demands, with Bobby's incessant use of hurtful touches, with Bobby's openly expressed pain when he failed. If the American's ultimate victory did not bring redemption to Matt's sullen youth, it at least brought about a change in the game of chess, allowing him to gradually move away from the migraines brought on by his abnormal introversion and toward something objective, Turn to the daily melee between competing states and material forces. Describing that process requires a made-up word.go to ego.That's what that game did to Matt.So let our Bobby yell, he's just showing what's already there.That kind of thing is hidden in the aesthetics of space embodied in the game, hidden in the strict quality that can transform the soul, hidden in the forward-looking burst of wisdom, hidden in the self-world composed of pain and loss. In New Mexico, he told her, mountains had been hollowed out to store nuclear weapons.In Colorado, he told her, a mountain had been dug out to house giant screens showing the trajectory of missiles fired from bases in Siberia.He knew something about the project, that the facility was built using slave labor and located in a remote part of the Soviet Union.He told her it was an atomic bomb design center. People go there voluntarily, the scientists are impatient, hoping to meet some basic need.Maybe it's just a patriotic duty to face the usual challenges and do serious research in physics or mathematics?Some people go there in pursuit of a goal, he argues, while others do so on an impulsive, almost reckless way to discover some higher state. "It's almost like God to hear you say that," she said. He told her what he could reveal about the bag program.The sac is merely a cozy spot in a vast system of concealment that anticipates death threats from the sky.He told her that in two states, Virginia and Maryland, there were underground bunkers dug in some mountains.In the event of a nuclear war, America's leaders can be there to keep the government running.He told her that there had been nuclear accidents in the Soviet Union, that there had been explosions and fires in factories where the atomic bombs were made.He told her how excited he was at the time, how shocked he was when there was chaos in the desert, and how ashamed he felt afterwards. Hearing you say that, it's almost like God.Perhaps it was a terrifying variant of God.Go to the desert, go to the ice field, and wait for the dream light to appear.A large amount of critical matter will pray to the heavens mentioned in Hindu teachings, to make Kali and Shiva appear, and to make all the terrifying ghosts appear. "Maybe, I've been a Catholic for too long and I should have left Catholicism when I was ten." He thought of those sensitive aliens who were ready to engage in psychic warfare, and thought of those penitents.A hundred or fifty years ago, they wore black hoods, dragged heavy wooden crosses across the desert, and whipped their bodies with whips made of sisal and hemp fibers.He thought of Sister Edgar muttering invented words, and of the ramblings of those who roamed about. "I don't know what you mean by being Catholic. Let me tell you my own opinion about conscience," she said. "That's just part of it. The main thing is, I feel like I've become part of something that's not real. When people hallucinate, there's often a false feeling, but it feels real. I've had the exact opposite. It's totally true. The research and weapons here are all real, and so are the missiles coming out of the alfalfa field. But, I feel more and more, it's all real. It's twisted. It's someone's dream, and I'm in that dream." Janet, perhaps, was a little annoyed that the statement was capricious, unconvincing, and off topic. "Not long ago, I heard something," he said, "there was an experiment in the 1950s where they put live pigs in custom GI combat uniforms and put them at different distances from the blast site. .According to what I heard, the exact number is one hundred and eleven. They detonated the device, and then examined the uniforms on the pigs that had been charred, in order to evaluate the heat-resistant qualities of the cloth. This is that test the goal of." Janet said nothing.Whatever the purpose of that experiment, whatever his purpose in telling it, it only served to aggravate her impatience. "Imagine it. Chester white. That breed of pig is big, fat, with floppy ears, and a khaki military uniform. Zippers, lining, everything a military uniform should have. Military dress Rules, even the fastening straps are fastened. A voice comes from the loudspeaker, 10, 9, 8, 7." She told him to put his hands back in the car. "Is history becoming a fiction at this point?" he asked. She glanced at him. "That's not your question," she said. "What am I asking?" "I don't think that's what you're asking. It's a big question. I think you're asking a smaller question. It's not about fat pigs in military uniforms. You're talking about something else entirely." He didn't look at her. "What did I say, Janet?" "You tell me," she said. He looked at the rutted lane, but did not answer.Acacia branches hit the windshield and doors, making a crackling sound.Both looked down the path ahead. About two hundred yards ahead was a building, concrete like a warehouse, painted yellow, with small windows and thorny vines protruding from the top. At this time, the sun was about to set, and they thought they should camp nearby.There was, of course, something irresistible about that building, a little unyielding even, something private and solid behind the planks.It stands there, with no other buildings beside it, and the rolling mountains behind it, with the unique implication of misplaced objects, like a roadside restaurant on the prairie that has been closed for many years.The voice call device outside has been tilted, and the large screen is facing a cornfield, which has lost its function.This is the waste abandoned by people. It makes the surrounding scenery layered, making it look more desolate and lonely, and people can't help but feel an inexplicable sadness and regret after seeing it.Perhaps, that is not a pity, but more like a perception of the beauty of time: the life of a concrete building is short-lived, and then abandoned, becoming a wild soul, allowing men and women to stop and admire, it may become so strange and so peaceful ,so beautiful. "I want to sleep here," Janet said, "no more tents." The windows are narrow and high, with two sealed wooden boards on them.They went around the back of the house, found a waist-high hole in the wall, and climbed in.They had been driving for hours, bouncing over gravel and sand, and the place seemed settled.The room contained a table, chairs, nude calendars on the wall, and two bookshelves filled with canned goods, kitchen utensils, safety matches, and back issues of magazines. Matt believes that this place may be used by the military.During the exercise, three or five military surveyors were brought in here by helicopter to check the accuracy of the shelling, recover targets, and possibly mark the location of unexploded rockets and bombs. The two went back outside and Matt lit the charcoal.They didn't speak, simply ate something, then collected the garbage and leftovers, put them in plastic bags and put them in the car - they didn't know what else to do with them. The two moved the camping equipment into the warehouse, and took off their clothes by the moonlight.Janet sits on her nylon sleeping bag, one leg flat, the other bent, her body backward, as if she were sunbathing on the library steps at lunch.他走过去，坐下，抚摸她的身体，阳光留下的余温传递到他的手上。两人的身体交换着对一天旅程的感受，呼吸中携带着热量和尘土的气息，进入对方的嘴里，弥散在指尖，飘进了鼻孔。 可是，两人的动作夹带着忧郁，略显奇怪。它平静，甜蜜，充满爱意，然而同时又有些异样，稍显拘谨。完事之后，两人躺在一起，长时间里一言不发。 “我觉得，我们明天早上应该返回。” “为什么呢？”她问，“我们跑了这么远的路。” “我觉得，我们已经看了这里该看的，差不多可以这样说吧。” “你还没有看到加拿大盘羊。” “我不需要看加拿大盘羊，也不需要看叉角羚。那边有叉角羚，羚羊。” “你还没看到老鹰。” “我看到了金雕。” “从远处看的，不清楚，而且它在巢里。”她说。 “那只金雕真漂亮，真是不虚此行。” 她睡了，他没有。 他最后明白了自己的真实想法：他希望她开口，让他放弃这份工作。这就是他一路上在问自己的问题。难道你不告诉我，为了你自己，为了我们的孩子，为了我们将来拥有的家，你不想让我继续做这份工作？ 然而，珍妮特没有就范。 他这时发现，他一直希望她觉得他准备做出牺牲，为了妻子和孩子离开衣囊计划。他想要她说，到波士顿来，和我结婚吧。 他不喜欢这份工作，希望离开这里。可是，他不想自己提出这一点，希望借她之口说出来。 然而，珍妮特没有就范。她一直都知道他的心思，对他吟唱的所谓不真实的咏叹调失去了耐心。她想说，无论我们进行什么秘密研究，他们做得更糟糕。 大风不时从东面刮来，他听到吉普车附近有动物发出的响声，寻找垃圾的响声。 不，他对武器不感兴趣，然而这并不重要。他想要她产生内疚感，觉得她迫使他改变自己的生活。在未来的岁月中，这一点会让他处于非常有利的地位。 在陆军情报学校中，他做双份功课，身边每时每刻都围着战争分析员、语言专家和窥探吸毒者的反间谍人员，围着参加模拟任务训练的受训特工，围着从事身体功能训练的人员。 他们把他派往越南，派往越南的富牌。他进入那个院子，一眼看到仓库墙壁上抢眼的涂鸦——Om Mani Padme Hum（唵嘛呢叭咪吽）。马特知道这是某种咒文，是嬉皮士在纽约中央公园里吟唱的调调。不过，它是不是131航空连的座右铭呢？ 从那时起，他便产生了理解障碍。 他在一座盖着瓦楞铁顶的半桶形活动房屋中工作，对着灯箱，分析一卷一卷的胶片。那些照片是空中侦察机收集的，利用安装在机身下面的镜头拍摄，数量很多。他想找到的是失去的信息，如何恢复最小的信息单位，如何辨识图像，比如，判断一个吸着法国香烟的人是否驾驶着一辆卡车，在胡志明小道上行进。 他把一块飞盘扔给一条日本小狗，看着它一跃而起，身体在空中扭动。 有传言说，正在进行一场秘密战争，B-52轰炸机扔下了无数炸弹，扔在了老挝，扔在了柬埔寨。不过，扔下的炸弹不是没有数量的，而是经过认真计算的。通过大幅度增加投弹数量，军人们可以得到提升。 马特是五级专家，薪金级别与中士相同，不过指挥权力小一些。这一点马特能够适应。 对火箭攻击他却不能适应，对密如雨点的炮击他也不能适应。 弹雨落下，警笛嘶鸣，他钻进附近的一个掩体。那是用沙袋和建筑残骸构筑的，一条明沟从掩体内穿过。 毒品伴随着压力出现。在连队驻扎的那条泥泞的街道上，发现了一具奇怪的死尸，面部朝下，吸食海洛因过量致死。 有人在盖着瓦楞铁顶的半桶形活动房屋里悬挂了一张尼克松的照片，他身边站着两个人，一左一右。不知何故，那照片让马特觉得眼熟，然而一时想不起来。有谣传说，在院子附近贮存着用黑色圆桶装着的什么化学药品。 如果是放电影，你就可以让画面定格：一条狗高高跃起，正要去衔飞盘。在美国某个地方的一座公园里，夏日阳光明媚，一名吉他手弹出尖锐刺耳的声音——这可能是这个镜头表达的讽刺意义。 当一个系统的部分输出信息被转变为输入信息时，就会出现这样的情形。 没错，有人从杂志上撕下了这一页。马特不能确定站在总统身边的那两人是谁，不过他们既不是政客，也不是企业领导。其中一个人头发拳曲，模样英俊，笑容可掬；另外一个两眼露出悲哀的神情，鼻子高挺，像是一个穿着借来的服装的移民，给人沉重的感觉。 他快速浏览着灯箱上显示的胶片，看到像素点时，就会判断那是什么东西。究竟是卡车，卡车车站，隧道入口，枪炮位置，还是正在公园野餐烤汉堡的一家人？ 天气异常闷热，日子单调乏味。一直有飞机起降，其中武装直升机、运输机、重型轰炸机、加油机、喷气式战斗机、喷气式商务机。一架小型的粉红色派珀教练机载着一名教官和一名学员，经过改装的运输机在丛林中喷洒除草剂。那东西装在黑色罐子里，罐子上面有醒目的橘黄色条纹。 有传言说，在东面或者西面进行着另外的战争。 那些罐子的形状与美汁源的包装类似，不过要大许多倍，仿佛是后者在DNA失控状态下的产物。有谣传说，装在罐子里的那种化学药剂含有致癌物质。 他听到那些谣传，听到迫击炮弹的声音，亲身感受到季风带来的灼热，听到四处响起的战斗口号。 保持冷静，伙计。 他曾经希望到越南来，曾经心里反复考虑，最后觉得，这是他应该做的事情，是一种自我认识的形式——正直，勇敢，响应国家召唤。不过，也有其他方面的考虑，那就是家里人生来具有的那种传统的力量。 他不能回避责任感，它就在那里，必须直面对待。他不愿躲开、偷偷溜走、贪图享乐、闪烁其辞，不愿逃避，不愿抵触，不愿退缩，不愿逃跑。他不愿像父亲那样，跑到加拿大、瑞典或者旧金山。 他看到胶片上像素点时，他就把它们变为字母、数字、方位、坐标方格和知识体系。 Om Mani Padme Hum（唵嘛呢叭咪吽）。 其实，那条狗没有跃起，只是或多或少以蔑视的眼光看着飞盘在空中划过。 像素点是一种看得见的咒文，除了位置之外，这个东西没有其他特性。 安在莲花中心位置上的那颗珠宝。 他躺在睡袋里，可是无法入睡，希望有个伴，于是想叫醒珍妮特。他把一条胳膊挪出来，伸过去，摇醒她。 “我想要的东西和你的一样。” “好吧，马修。” “我觉得我们应该生活在熟悉的环境中。我很兴奋，希望立刻开始。” “你应该等待，在你现在的位置上等待，再干一年，看一看情况再说。”她说。 “我想考虑给我们的孩子取什么绰号。你明白我的意思吗？我想要实实在在的生活，想要照片、刀叉，想要将来可以传给下一代的东西。我想聊一聊晚餐吃什么东西。你喜欢吃烤蚝吗？我们几乎没有聊过吃的，你和我。” “继续干下去吧，”她对他说，“不要匆忙改变。” “我很兴奋。我希望，用不了多长时间，我就可以离开这里。我简直现在就想开车离开。” “睡觉吧。”她对他说。 “想聊的事情很多。” She fell asleep quickly.马特躺在睡袋里，辗转反侧，思绪万千。后来，他意识到，他是无法入眠的，于是决定起来，去看沙漠上的日出。 他穿上裤子和毛衣，出了仓库，走到后面五十码的位置，关闭手电筒。 然后，他坐在满是尘土的地上等待。 他想起来，在弹头研发人员的聚会上，他坐在一把椅子上，把自己封闭在重力场中，脑袋里发出低沉嘈杂的怀疑之声。 他想到了那张尼克松的照片，心里感到疑惑。究竟这个国家是否受到了那个人的偏执狂的影响？还是那个人的偏执狂受到了这个国家的影响？ 他回想起自己坐在灯箱前面快速浏览胶片时的感觉。那时，他很想知道那些像素点在什么位置上连接起来。 一切最终都会连接起来，要么仅仅看来会连接起来，要么仅仅因为连接起来，才会给人这样的表象。 在灯箱前，他戏仿在地下室工作的人的传统形象：那个孤独的发明家俯身实验台前，根据某种奇思妙想，把别针、弹簧和铁丝连接起来，形成了后来改变整个世界的制造电灯的创意。 他的耳际响起了那个带有匈牙利口音的声音，仿佛埃里克·戴明在人头攒动的房间对着他说话。 胶片上的像素点也许是穿行在那条运输线上的卡车，也许是从生产线上下来的新型轿车，也许是看似乳胶手套指头的避孕套。 在那间盖着瓦楞铁顶的半桶形活动房屋里，有人应该告诉他那两个人是谁。他们站在尼克松的身边，是从前的球员。他们分享胜利，承受失败，终身联系紧密。 他坐在尘土地上，两眼紧闭，嗅到了木馏树丛发出的带有新鲜松香的气味，意识到晨曦将在什么地方出现。 人们躲藏在地下室的房间里。武器从生产线上出来，一模一样，开始点亮天际，他们随即钻进仓库和隧道。 假如橙汁和橙色剂被相同的巨大系统连接起来，超过你的理解范围，你如何才能区分它们呢？ 你已被置于这个系统之下，准备对一切持将信将疑的态度，因为这是唯一的理智反应。你怎么可能判断它的真假呢？ 有人躲藏在黑暗、潮湿的地方，躲藏在蘑菇大量生长、很快发芽的地方。 他使用沾满油腻的铅笔标记出来的那些像素点在岘港变为电脑数据，在西贡变为星期天的早午餐，在泰国——他猜想，或者在关岛——变为战斗任务的概要说明。 当你改变一个微小的组成部分时，整个系统立刻会做出反应，进行调整。 有人必须告诉他那些人的名字，就是站在总统身边的人。汤姆森和布兰卡，博比和拉尔夫，他们是处于对立状态的双方，是胜利者与牺牲品，最终是无法分割开来的。 长着肉质菌盖的蘑菇可能有毒，也可能具有魔力。在西伯利亚的某个地方，那些萨满祭司吃掉菌盖，结果获得了新生。在精神恍惚的状态下，他们看见了什么？是否看见了蘑菇云？ 即使那时，在他彻夜快速浏览胶卷时，在他等着炮弹如雨泄下时，他就参与了衣囊计划。转动的胶卷发出咔嚓咔嚓的声音，仿佛是电视上正在咀嚼麦片的小孩。 假如你已经变得非常柔韧，愿意对任何事情持将信将疑的态度，对任何事情都没有信念，你怎么可能区分注射器和导弹呢？ 你怎么可能知道这个图像在炸弹发明之前就已经存在？那时可能存在一个由图像构成的地下世界，只有部落祭师才知道的世界。那些祭师是可见世界与精神世界之间的媒介，让神奇的蘑菇冒出来，看见了一团燃烧的云。它那时就存在，比美国陆军使用的训练影片上的图像更早。 叙述者说，从安全位置上观察，那次爆炸是人类看到的最漂亮的景象之一。 即使那时，他在某种程度上就参与了衣囊计划，不过没有根据那些系统的方式思考，让他所做的微不足道的繁琐工作达到顶点。重达一百磅的炸弹从B-52轰炸机的弹仓中成群落下，仿佛是长着鱼鳍的颗粒状排泄物，落在密林之中的运输小路上，炸出一个个大坑。 不过，他们是敌人，管他妈的。 是的，他们仍然是敌人，或者说某个人是敌人。这时，他睁开眼睛，发现天空变得灰白，那颜色非常奇怪，就像老太太的头发。 观念曾经来自下面。如今，它们在你上方，到处都有，从整体上把事物和坐标方格联系起来。 二项对立的东西，黑与白，肯定与否定，0与1，胜利者与牺牲品。 那张照片挂在盖着瓦楞铁顶的半桶形活动房屋的墙壁上，上面有两人站在总统身边，一个人身材高大，模样英俊，另一个眉毛浓密，是外来移民。他们两人完全可能是奥本海默和特勒，身体上涂着防晒油，互相引用印度教的典籍。 Om（唵）这个字与bomb（炸弹）一词在发音上并不押韵，仅仅拼法有点类似。 死亡与魔法，这就是那蘑菇。或者说，根据研究现象的学者的说法，死亡与不朽的生命。 二甲-4-羟色胺磷酸是一种化合物，从墨西哥蕈类植物中提炼出来，可以让人的灵魂出现裂变。 所有的技术都被用来制造这种炸弹。 他坐在满是尘土的地上，睁开眼睛，发现太阳正在身后的方向升起，心里很想知道这意味着什么。 这意味着，他一直面朝错误的方向。 马特驾驶吉普车，珍妮特在打瞌睡。她小睡一阵，在颠簸中惊醒，接着又垂下了脑袋。 他感觉良好，一边驾车，一边思考，两眼观察车外，见到植物便可确定名称，不用参考带来的图书。 太阳依然很低，这条小道将把他们引向保护区的核心，然后再慢慢向南。 他看见，路面从碎石变为沙土。 他看见，干涸的小溪与小道平行，露出塞满了淤泥的河床。 他听到，鸽子咕咕叫着，从灌木中飞出来，发出噼噼啪啪的声音。 他看见，平坦的沙漠上卷起一股沙暴，慢慢形成活动的螺旋。 那沙暴突然停止，奇怪而有点夸张。 突然，一阵轰鸣从头顶袭来，非常迫近，让他感觉血液凝固，珍妮特抓住他的一只胳膊。不，她受到侧面传来的巨响的冲击，那是一声突然爆裂的巨响，她先是倒在他身上，然后去抓他的胳膊，先失了手，第二次才抓住。他坐在座位上，脑袋缩在两肩之间。吉普车脱离了小道，他急忙把手挣脱出来，转动方向盘，让车回到小道上。他意识到，他的另外一只手高举在头顶上，弯曲着，保护着头部。 那轰鸣从他们头顶上刮过，几乎把吉普车抬起来。珍妮特两眼盯着他，他的嘴巴呈椭圆形，神情孤独。 马特神色紧张，努力弄清自己面对的情况，想要整理出头绪来。他凝望山岭，让自己显得开心一些。这时，他一眼看见了两架闪着银光的飞机。那是两架F-4幻象战斗机，机身一片银白，到了弧形顶端，然后转为平飞。他心里想，它们会在宁静的清晨，贴着沙漠飞快掠过。 他很开心，听到飞机引起的回声在试射场外面回荡，变为一阵渐渐远去的轰鸣，首先在小阿焦山脉、格罗勒山脉、花岗岩山脉和莫霍克山脉之间回荡，然后在城镇上空，在卡车顶上回荡。没错，他喜欢力量以这种方式升腾起来，脱离自我珍视的秘密状态，变为天空中的轰鸣。在他的想象中，那些声波掠过大地，在时间中盘旋向前，在数周、数月里不绝于耳，传遍整个国家。最后，在温馨、安全的房间里，它们变为最温柔的摇篮曲。在那里，母亲喂养婴儿，一个男人站在旁边，一只手举起来，保护着脑袋。那是一个研究员，他不是害怕碎裂的灰泥和玻璃，仅仅是给婴儿挡住光亮。在那里，天色渐渐变暗，一阵浓烈的气味从厨房飘来，房子里响起了音乐。 然而，他这时感受到的是令人高度紧张的震撼，浑身冒出鸡皮疙瘩，针刺般的颤动传遍整个身体。他们两人坐在吉普车里，一时说不出话来。在体验了大自然突然显示出来的巨大力量和冲击之后，在体验了人类的技术给天空带来的冲击之后，两人默默无语，需要一点时间让自己恢复过来。
Notes: