dk.coldfire-第2部分

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　a　hunch　the　guy　was　nothing　as　mundane　as　biker　punk。　
　The　plane　took　off　to　the　south；　with　the　merciless　glare　of　the　sun　at　the　windows　on　Jim's　side。　Then　it　swung　to　the　west　and　turned　north　over　the　ocean；　and　he　could　see　the　sun　only　as　a　reflection　in　the　sea　below　where　its　blazing　image　seemed　to　transform　the　water　into　a　vast　churning　mass　of　magma　erupting　from　beneath　the　planet's　crust。　
　Jim　realized　he　was　clenching　his　teeth。　He　looked　down　at　the　armrests　of　his　seat；　where　his　hands　were　tightly　hooked　like　the　talons　of　an　eagle　to　the　rock　of　a　precarious　roost。　
　He　tried　to　relax。　
　He　was　not　afraid　of　flying。　What　he　feared　was　Portland。。。　and　whatever　form　of　death　might　be　waiting　there　for　him。　
　Holly　Thorne　was　at　a　private　elementary　school　on　the　west　side　of　Portland　to　interview　a　teacher；　Louise　Tarvohl；　who　had　sold　a　book　of　poetry　to　a　major　New　York　publisher；　not　an　easy　feat　in　an　age　when　most　people's　knowledge　of　poetry　was　limited　to　the　lyrics　of　pop　songs　and　occasional　rhyming　television　ads　for　dog　food；　underarm　deodorant；　or　steel…belted　radial　tires。　Only　a　few　summer　classes　were　under　way。　
　Another　instructor　assumed　responsibility　for　Louise's　kids；　so　she　and　Holly　could　talk。　
　They　sat　at　a　redwood　picnic　table　on　the　playground；　after　Holly　checked　the　bench　to　be　sure　there　was　no　dirt　on　it　that　might　stain　her　white　cotton　dress。　A　jungle　gym　was　to　their　left；　a　swing　set　to　their　right。　The　day　was　pleasantly　warm；　and　a　breeze　stirred　an　agreeable　fragrance　from　some　nearby　Douglas　firs。　
　〃Smell　the　air！〃　Louise　took　a　deep　button…popping　breath。　〃You　can　sure　tell　we're　on　the　edge　of　five　thousand　acres　of　parkland；　huh？　So　little　in　of　humanity　in　the　air。〃　
　Holly　had　been　given　an　advance　copy　of　the　book；　Soughing　Cypress　and　Other　Poems；　when　Tom　Corvey；　the　editor　of　the　Press's　entertainment　section；　assigned　her　to　the　story。　She　had　wanted　to　like　it。　She　enjoyed　seeing　people　succeed…perhaps　because　she　had　not　achieved　much　in　her　own　career　as　a　journalist　and　needed　to　be　reminded　now　and　then　that　success　was　attainable。　Unfortunately　the　poems　were　jejune；　dismally　sentimental　celebrations　of　the　natural　world　that　read　like　something　written　by　a　Robert　Frost　manque；　then　filtered　through　the　sensibilities　of　a　Hallmark　editor　in　charge　of　developing　saccarine　cards　for　Grandma's　birthday。　
　Nevertheless　Holly　intended　to　write　an　uncritical　piece。　Over　the　years　she　had　known　far　too　many　reporters　who；　because　of　envy　or　bitterness　or　a　misguided　sense　of　moral　superiority；　got　a　kick　out　of　slanting　and　coloring　a　story　to　make　their　subjects　look　foolish。　
　Except　when　dealing　with　exceptionally　vile　criminals　and　politicians；　she　had　never　been　able　to　work　up　enough　hatred　to　write　that　way…which　was　one　reason　her　career　spiral　had　spun　her　down　through　three　major　newspapers　in　three　large　cities　to　her　current　position　in　the　more　humble　offices　of　the　Portland　Press。　Biased　journalism　was　often　more　colorful　than　balanced　reporting；　sold　more　papers；　and　was　more　widely　mented　upon　and　admired。　But　though　she　rapidly　came　to　dislike　Louise　Tarvohl　even　more　than　the　woman's　bad　poetry；　she　could　work　up　no　enthusiasm　for　a　hatchet　job。　
　〃Only　in　the　wilderness　am　I　alive；　far　from　the　sights　and　sounds　of　civilization；　where　I　can　hear　the　voices　of　nature　in　the　trees；　in　the　brush；　in　the　lonely　ponds；　in　the　dirt。〃　
　Voices　in　the　dirt？　Holly　thought；　and　almost　laughed。　
　She　liked　the　way　Louise　looked：　hardy；　robust；　vital；　alive。　The　woman　was　thirty…five；　Holly's　senior　by　two　years；　although　she　appeared　ten　years　older。　The　crow's…feet　around　her　eyes　and　mouth；　her　deep　laugh　lines；　and　her　leathery　sun…browned　skin　pegged　her　as　an　outdoors　woman。　Her　sun…bleached　hair　was　pulled　back　in　a　ponytail；　and　she　wore　jeans　and　a　checkered　blue　shirt。　
　〃There　is　a　purity　in　forest　mud；〃　Louise　insisted；　〃that　can't　be　matched　in　the　most　thoroughly　scrubbed　and　sterilized　hospital　surgery。〃　
　She　tilted　her　face　back　for　a　moment　to　bask　in　the　warm　sunfall。　
　〃The　purity　of　the　natural　world　cleanses　your　soul。　From　that　renewed　purity　of　soul　es　the　sublime　vapor　of　great　poetry。〃　
　〃Sublime　vapor？〃　Holly　said；　as　if　she　wanted　to　be　sure　that　her　tape　recorder　would　correctly　register　every　golden　phrase。　
　〃Sublime　vapor；〃　Louise　repeated；　and　smiled。　
　The　inner　Louise　was　the　Louise　that　offended　Holly。　She　had　cultivated　an　otherworldly　quality；　like　a　spectral　projection；　more　surface　than　substance。　Her　opinions　and　attitudes　were　insubstantial；　based　less　on　facts　and　insights　than　on　whims…iron　whims；　but　whims　nonetheless…and　she　expressed　them　in　language　that　was　flamboyant　but　imprecise；　overù　blown　but　empty。　
　Holly　was　something　of　an　environmentalist　herself；　and　she　was　dismayed　to　discover　that　she　and　Louise　fetched　up　on　the　same　side　of　some　issues。　It　was　unnerving　to　have　allies　who　struck　you　as　goofy；　it　made　your　own　opinions　seem　suspect。　
　Louise　leaned　forward　on　the　picnic　bench；　folding　her　arms　on　the　redwood　table。　〃The　earth　is　a　living　thing。　It　could　talk　to　us　if　we　were　worth　talking　to；　could　just　open　a　mouth　in　any　rock　or　plant　or　pond　and　talk　as　easily　as　I'm　talking　to　you。〃　
　〃What　an　exciting　concept；〃　Holly　said。　
　〃Human　beings　are　nothing　more　than　lice。〃　
　〃Lice？〃　〃Lice　crawling　over　the　living　earth；〃　Louise　said　dreamily。　
　Holly　said；　〃I　hadn't　thought　of　it　that　way。〃　
　〃God　is　not　only　in　each　butterflyGod　is　each　butterFly；　each　bird；　each　rabbit；　every　wild　thing。　I　would　sacrifice　a　million　human　lives…ten　million　and　more！…if　it　meant　saving　one　innocent　family　of　weasels；　because　God　is　each　of　those　weasels。〃　
　As　if　moved　by　the　woman's　rhetoric；　as　if　she　didn't　think　it　was　ecofascism；　Holly　said；　〃I　give　as　much　as　I　can　every　year　to　the　Nature　Conservancy；　and　I　think　of　myself　as　an　environmentalist；　but　I　see　that　my　consciousness　hasn't　been　raised　as　far　as　yours。〃　
　The　poet　did　not　hear　the　sarcasm　and　reached　across　the　table　to　squeeze　Holly's　hand。　〃Don't　worry；　dear。　You'll　get　there。　I　sense　an　aura　of　great　spiritual　potentiality　around　you。〃　
　〃Help　me　to　understand。　。　。　。　God　is　butterflies　and　rabbits　and　every　living　thing；　and　God　is　rocks　and　dirt　and　water　but　God　isn't　us？〃　〃No。　Because　of　our　one　unnatural　quality。〃　
　〃Which　is？〃　〃Intelligence。〃　
　Holly　blinked　in　surprise。　〃Intelligence　is　unnatural？〃　〃A　high　degree　of　intelligence；　yes。　It　exists　in　no　other　creatures　in　the　natural　world。　That's　why　nature　shuns　us；　and　why　we　subconsciously　hate　her　and　seek　to　obliterate　her。　High　intelligence　leads　to　the　concept　of　progress。　Progress　leads　to　nuclear　weapons；　bio…engineering；　chaos；　and　ultimately　to　annihilation。〃　
　〃God。　。　。　or　natural　evolution　didn't　give　us　our　intelligence？〃　〃It　was　an　unanticipated　mutation。　We're　mutants；　that's　all。　
　Monsters。〃　
　Holly　said；　〃Then　the　less　intelligence　a　creature　exhibits。　。　。〃　
　〃。　。　。　the　more　natural　it　is；〃　Louise　finished　for　her。　
　Holly　nodded　thoughtfully；　as　if　seriously　considering　the　bizarre　proposition　that　a　dumber　world　was　a　better　world；　but　she　was　really　thinking　that　she　could　not　write　this　story　after　all。　She　found　Louise　Tarvohl　so　preposterous　that　she　could　not　pose　a　favorable　article　and　still　hang　on　to　her　integrity。　At　the　same　time；　she　had　no　heart　for　making　a　fool　of　the　woman　in　print。　Holly's　problem　was　not　her　deep　and　abiding　cynicism　but　her　soft　heart；　no　creature　on　earth　was　more　certain　to　suffer　frustration　and　dissatisfaction　with　life　than　a　bitter　cynic　with　a　damp　wad　of　passion　at　her　core。　
　She　put　down　her　pen；　for　she　would　be　making　no　notes。　All　she　wanted　to　do　was　get　away　from　Louise；　off　the　playground；　back　into　the　real　world…even　though　the　real　world　had　always　struck　her　as　just　slightly　less　screwy　than　this　encounter。　But　the　least　she　owed　Tom　Corvey　was　sixty　to　ninety　minutes　of　taped　interview；　which　would　provide　another　reporter　with　enough　material　to　write　the　piece。　
　〃Louise；〃　she　said；　〃in　light　of　what　you've　told　me；　I　think　you're