ib.thewaspfactory-第29部分

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of　death。　Like　life　it　is　plicated；　so　all　the　ponents　are　there。　The　reason　it　can　answer　questions　is　because　every　question　is　a　start　looking　for　an　end；　and　the　Factory　is　about　the　End…death；　no　less。　Keep　your　entrails　and　sticks　and　dice　and　books　and　birds　and　voices　and　pendants　and　all　the　rest　of　that　crap；　I　have　the　Factory；　and　it's　about　now　and　the　future；　not　the　past。
　　
　　I　lay　in　bed　that　night；　knowing　the　Factory　was　primed　and　ready　and　waiting　for　the　wasp　that　crawled　and　felt　its　way　about　the　jar　that　lay　by　my　bedside。　I　thought　of　the　Factory；　above　me　in　the　loft；　and　I　waited　for　the　phone　to　ring。
　　
　　The　Wasp　Factory　is　beautiful　and　deadly　and　perfect。　It　would　give　me　some　idea　of　what　was　going　to　happen；　it　would　help　me　to　know　what　to　do；　and　after　I　had　consulted　it　I　would　try　to　contact　Eric　through　the　skull　of　Old　Saul。　We　are　brothers；　after　all；　even　if　only　half　so；　and　we　are　both　men；　even　if　I　am　only　half　so。　At　some　deep　level　we　understand　each　other；　even　though　he　is　mad　and　I　am　sane。　We　even　had　that　link　I　had　not　thought　of　until　recently；　but　which　might　e　in　useful　now：　we　have　both　killed；　and　used　our　heads　to　do　it。
　　
　　It　occurred　to　me　then；　as　it　has　before；　that　that　is　what　men　are　really　for。　Both　sexes　can　do　one　thing　specially　well；　women　can　give　birth　and　men　can　kill。　We…I　consider　myself　an　honorary　man…are　the　harder　sex。　We　strike　out；　push　through；　thrust　and　take。　The　fact　that　it　is　only　an　analogue　of　all　this　sexual　terminology　I　am　capable　of　does　not　discourage　me。　I　can　feel　it　in　my　bones；　in　my　uncastrated　genes。　Eric　must　respond　to　that。
　　
　　Eleven　o'clock　came；　then　midnight　and　the　time　signal；　so　I　turned　the　radio　off　and　went　to　sleep。
　　
　　
　　　8：　The　Wasp　Factory
　　
　　
　　IN　THE　EARLY　morning；　while　my　father　slept　and　the　cold　light　filtered　through　the　sharp　overcast　of　young　cloud；　I　rose　silently；　washed　and　shaved　carefully；　returned　to　my　room；　dressed　slowly；　then　took　the　jar　with　the　sleepy…looking　wasp　in　it　up　to　the　loft；　where　the　Factory　waited。
　　
　　I　left　the　jar　on　the　small　altar　under　the　window　and　made　the　last　few　preparations　the　Factory　required。　Once　that　was　done　I　took　some　of　the　green　cleaning　jelly　from　the　pot　by　the　altar　and　rubbed　it　well　into　my　hands。　I　looked　at　the　Time；　Tide　and　Distance　Tables；　the　little　red　book　that　I　kept　on　the　other　side　of　the　altar；　noting　the　time　of　high　tide。　I　set　the　two　small　wasp　candles　into　the　positions　the　tips　of　the　hands　of　a　clock　would　have　occupied　on　the　face　of　the　Factory　if　showing　the　time　of　local　high　tide；　then　I　slid　the　top　off　the　jar　a　little　and　extracted　the　leaves　and　the　small　piece　of　orange　peel；　leaving　the　wasp　in　there　alone。
　　
　　I　set　the　jar　on　the　altar；　which　was　decorated　with　various　powerful　things；　the　skull　of　the　snake　which　killed　Blyth　（tracked　down　and　sliced　in　half　by　his　father；　using　a　garden　spade…I　retrieved　it　from　the　grass　and　hid　that　front　part　of　the　snake　in　the　sand　before　Diggs　could　take　it　away　for　evidence）；　a　fragment　of　the　bomb　which　had　destroyed　Paul　（the　smallest　bit　I　could　find；　there　were　lots）；　a　piece　of　tent　fabric　from　the　kite　which　had　elevated　Esmerelda　（not　a　piece　of　the　actual　kite　of　course；　but　an　off…cut）　and　a　little　dish　containing　some　of　the　yellow；　worn　teeth　of　Old　Saul　（easily　pulled）。
　　
　　I　held　my　crotch；　closed　my　eyes　and　repeated　my　secret　catechisms。　I　could　recite　them　automatically；　but　I　tried　to　think　of　what　they　meant　as　I　repeated　them。　They　contained　my　confessions；　my　dreams　and　hopes；　my　fears　and　hates；　and　they　still　make　me　shiver　whenever　I　say　them；　automatic　or　not。　One　tape　recorder　in　the　vicinity　and　the　horrible　truth　about　my　three　murders　would　be　known。　For　that　reason　alone　they　are　very　dangerous。　The　catechisms　also　tell　the　truth　about　who　I　am；　what　I　want　and　what　I　feel；　and　it　can　be　unsettling　to　hear　yourself　described　as　you　have　thought　of　yourself　in　your　most　honest　and　abject　moods；　just　as　it　is　humbling　to　hear　what　you　have　thought　about　in　your　most　hopeful　and　unrealistic　moments。
　　
　　Once　I　had　gone　through　this　I　took　the　wasp　without　further　ado　to　the　underside　of　the　Factory；　and　let　it　in。
　　
　　The　Wasp　Factory　covers　an　area　of　several　square　metres　in　an　irregular　and　slightly　ramshackle　tangle　of　metal；　wood；　glass　and　plastic。　It　is　all　based　around　the　face　of　the　old　clock　which　used　to　hang　over　the　door　of　the　Royal　Bank　of　Scotland　in　Porteneil。
　　
　　The　clock　face　is　the　most　important　thing　I　have　ever　recovered　from　the　town　dump。　I　found　it　there　during　the　Year　of　the　Skull　and　rolled　it　home　down　the　path　to　the　island　and　rumbled　it　over　the　footbridge。　I　stored　it　in　the　shed　until　my　father　was　away　for　the　day；　then　I　strained　and　sweated　all　day　to　get　it　up　into　the　loft。　It　is　made　of　metal　and　is　nearly　a　metre　in　diameter；　it　is　heavy　and　almost　unblemished；　the　numerals　are　in　roman　script　and　it　was　made　along　with　the　rest　of　the　clock　in　Edinburgh　in　1864；　one　hundred　years　exactly　before　my　birth。　Certainly　not　a　coincidence。
　　
　　Of　course；　as　the　clock　looked　both　ways；　there　must　have　been　another　face；　the　other　side　of　the　clock；　but；　although　I　scoured　the　dump　for　weeks　after　I　found　the　face　I　do　have；　I　never　did　discover　the　other　one；　so　that　it；　too；　is　part　of　the　mystery　of　the　Factory…a　little　Grail　legend　of　its　own。　Old　Cameron　in　the　ironmonger's　shop　in　the　town　told　me　that　he　heard　a　scrap…metal　dealer　from　Inverness　took　the　workings　of　the　clock；　so　perhaps　the　other　face　was　melted　down　years　ago；　or　now　adorns　the　wall　of　some　smart　house　on　the　Black　Isle　built　from　the　profits　of　dead　cars　and　the　varying　price　of　lead。　I'd　rather　the　former。
　　
　　There　were　a　few　holes　in　the　face　which　I　soldered　up；　but　I　left　the　hole　in　the　dead　centre　where　the　mechanism　connected　with　the　hands；　and　it　is　through　that　the　wasp　is　let　into　the　Factory。　Once　there　it　can　wander　about　the　face　for　as　long　as　it　likes；　inspecting　the　tiny　candles　with　its　dead　cousins　buried　inside　if　it　likes；　or　ignoring　them　if　it　would　rather。
　　
　　Having　made　its　way　to　the　edge　of　the　face；　though；　where　I　have　sealed　it　with　a　wall　of　plywood　two　inches　high；　topped　with　a　metre…circle　of　glass　I　had　the　glazier　in　the　town　make　specially；　the　wasp　can　enter　one　of　twelve　corridors　through　little　wasp…sized　doors；　one　opposite　each　of　those…to　the　wasp…　vast　numerals。　If　the　Factory　so　chooses；　the　weight　of　the　wasp　trips　a　delicate　see…saw　trigger　made　from　thin　pieces　of　tin　can；　thread　and　pins；　and　a　tiny　door　closes　behind　the　insect；　confining　it　to　the　corridor　it　has　chosen。　Despite　the　fact　that　I　keep　all　the　door　mechanisms　well　oiled　and　balanced；　and　repair　and　test　them　until　the　slightest　tremor　sets　them　off…I　have　to　tread　very　lightly　when　the　Factory　is　doing　its　slow　and　deadly　work…sometimes　the　Factory　does　not　want　the　wasp　in　its　first　choice　of　corridor；　and　lets　it　crawl　back　out　on　to　the　face　again。
　　
　　Sometimes　the　wasps　will　fly；　or　crawl　upside　down　on　the　bottom　of　the　circle　of　glass；　sometimes　they　stay　a　long　time　by　the　closed…off　hole　in　the　centre　through　which　they　enter；　but　sooner　or　later　they　all　choose　a　hole　and　a　door　which　work；　and　their　fate　is　sealed。
　　
　　Most　of　the　deaths　the　Factory　has　to　offer　are　automatic；　but　some　do　require　my　intervention　for　the　coup　de　grace；　and　that；　of　course；　has　some　bearing　on　what　the　Factory　might　be　trying　to　tell　me。　I　must　pull　the　trigger　on　the　old　air…gun；　if　the　wasp　crawls　down　it；　I　must　turn　on　the　current　if　it　falls　into　the　Boiling　Pool。　If　it　ends　up　crawling　into　the　Spider's　Parlour　or　the　Venus　Cave　or　the　Antery；　then　I　can　just　sit　and　watch　nature　take　its　course。　If　its　path　takes　it　to　the　Acid　Pit　or　the　Ice　Chamber　or　the　rather　jocularly　named　Gents　（where　the　instrument　of　ending　is　my　own　urine；　usually　quite　fresh）；　then　again　I　can　merely　observe。　If　it　falls　into　the　many　charged　spikes　of　the　Volt　Room；　I　can　watch　the　insect　get　zapped；　if　it　trips　the　Deadweight；