ib.thewaspfactory-第25节

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I　clambered　up　into　the　loft；　all　sunlight　and　warmth　and　smelling　of　old　and　interesting　books；　and　I　decided　to　clear　the　place　up　a　bit。
　　
　　I　sorted　out　old　toys　into　boxes；　got　a　few　rolls　of　carpet　and　wallpaper　back　into　their　places　from　where　they'd　fallen；　pinned　a　couple　of　maps　back　on　to　the　sloping　wooden　under…roof；　cleared　away　some　of　the　tools　and　bits　and　pieces　that　I'd　used　to　repair　the　Factory；　and　loaded　the　various　sections　of　the　Factory　that　needed　to　be　loaded。
　　
　　I　found　some　interesting　things　while　I　was　doing　all　this：　a　home…made　astrolabe　I'd　carved；　a　box　containing　the　folded…flat　parts　for　a　scale　model　of　the　defences　around　Byzantium；　the　remains　of　my　collection　of　telegraph…pole　insulators；　and　some　old　jotters　from　when　my　father　was　teaching　me　French。　Leafing　through　them；　I　couldn't　see　any　obvious　lies；　he　hadn't　taught　me　to　say　anything　obscene　instead　of　'Excuse　me'　or　'Can　you　direct　me　to　the　railway　station；　please？'；　though　I'd　have　thought　the　temptation　would　have　been　all　but　irresistible。
　　
　　I　pleted　tidying　the　loft；　sneezing　a　few　times　as　the　golden　space　filled　with　motes　of　shining　dust。　I　looked　over　the　refurbished　Factory　again；　just　because　I　love　looking　at　it　and　tinkering　with　it　and　touching　it　and　tipping　some　of　its　little　levers　and　doors　and　devices。　Finally　I　dragged　myself　away；　telling　myself　that　I'd　get　a　chance　to　use　it　properly　soon　enough。　I　would　capture　a　fresh　wasp　that　afternoon　to　use　the　following　morning。　I　wanted　another　interrogation　of　the　Factory　before　Eric　arrived；　I　wanted　more　of　an　idea　what　was　going　to　happen。
　　
　　It　was　a　little　risky；　of　course；　asking　it　the　same　question　twice；　but　I　thought　the　exceptional　circumstances　demanded　it；　and　it　was　my　Factory；　after　all。
　　
　　I　got　the　wasp　without　any　difficulty。　It　more　or　less　walked　into　the　ceremonial　jam…jar　which　I　have　always　used　to　hold　subjects　for　the　Factory。　I　kept　the　jar；　sealed　with　the　lid　with　the　holes　in　it　and　stocked　with　a　few　leaves　and　a　morsel　of　orange　peel；　standing　in　the　shade　of　the　river　bank　while　I　made　a　dam　there　that　afternoon。
　　
　　I　worked　and　sweated　in　the　sunlight　of　late　afternoon　and　early　evening　while　my　father　did　a　bit　of　painting　at　the　back　of　the　house　and　the　wasp　felt　its　way　around　the　inside　of　the　jar；　antennae　waving。
　　
　　Halfway　through　building　the　dam…not　the　best　time…I　thought　it　might　be　amusing　to　make　it　an　Exploder；　so　I　set　the　overflow　going　and　trotted　up　the　path　to　the　shed　for　the　War　Bag。　I　brought　it　back　and　sorted　out　the　smallest　bomb　I　could　find　wired　for　electrical　detonation。　I　attached　it　to　the　wires　from　the　torch…firer　by　the　bared　ends　poking　out　of　the　drilled　hole　in　the　black　metal　casing　and　wrapped　the　bomb　in　a　couple　of　plastic　bags。　I　shoved　the　bomb　backwards　into　the　base　of　the　main　dam；　leading　the　wires　away　and　back　behind　the　dam；　past　the　static　waters　backed　up　behind　it　to　near　where　the　wasp　crawled　in　its　jar。　I　covered　the　wires　over　so　that　it　looked　more　natural；　then　went　on　building　the　dam。
　　
　　The　dam　system　ended　up　very　big　and　plicated　and　included　not　one　but　two　little　villages；　one　between　two　of　the　dams　and　one　downstream　from　the　last　one。　I　had　bridges　with　little　roads；　a　small　castle　with　four　towers；　and　two　road　tunnels。　Just　before　tea…time　I　played　out　the　last　of　the　wire　from　the　torch　body　and　took　the　wasp　jar　up　on　to　the　top　of　the　nearby　dune。
　　
　　I　could　see　my　father；　still　painting　the　window　surrounds　of　the　lounge。　I　can　just　remember　the　designs　he　used　to　have　on　the　front　of　the　house；　the　face　turned　towards　the　sea；　they　were　fading　even　then；　but　they　were　minor　classics　of　tripped…out　art；　as　I　recall；　great　sweeping　sworls　and　mandalas　that　leaped　about　the　house　front　like　Technicolor　tattoos；　curving　round　windows　and　arching　over　the　door。　A　relic　from　the　days　when　my　father　was　a　hippy；　they　are　worn　and　gone　now；　erased　by　wind　and　sea　and　rain　and　sunlight。　Only　the　vaguest　outlines　are　still　discernible　now；　along　with　a　few　freak　patches　of　real　colour；　like　peeling　skin。
　　
　　I　opened　the　torch…firer　up；　shoved　the　cylindrical　batteries　inside；　secured　them；　then　clicked　the　flasher　button　on　top　of　the　torch　body。　The　current　flowed　in　series　with　the　nine…volt　pack…battery　taped　to　the　outside；　down　the　wires　leading　from　the　hole　where　the　bulb　used　to　go；　and　into　the　casing　of　the　bomb。　Somewhere　near　its　centre；　steel　wool　glowed　dully；　then　brightly　and　started　to　melt；　and　the　white　crystal　mixture　exploded；　tearing　the　metal…which　it　took　me　and　a　heavy…duty　vice　a　lot　of　sweat；　time　and　leverage　to　bend　at　all…as　though　it　was　paper。
　　
　　Wham！　The　front　of　the　main　dam　crashed　up　and　out；　a　messy　mix　of　steam　and　gas；　water　and　sand　leaped　into　the　air　and　fell　back　spattering。　The　noise　was　good　and　dull；　and　the　tremor　I　felt　through　the　seat　of　my　pants　just　before　I　heard　the　whump；　single　and　strong。
　　
　　The　sand　in　the　air　slipped；　fell　back；　splashed　in　the　waters　and　thudded　in　little　heaps　on　to　roads　and　houses。　The　unleashed　waters　flooded　out　of　the　gap　smashed　in　the　sand　wall　and　rolled　down；　sucking　sand　from　the　edges　of　the　breach　and　spilling　in　a　sloped　brown　tide　down　upon　the　first　village；　cutting　through　it；　piling　up　behind　the　next　dam；　backing　up；　collapsing　sand　houses；　tipping　the　castle　to　one　side　as　a　unit　and　undermining　its　already　cracked　towers。　The　bridge　supports　gave　way；　the　wood　slipped；　fell　in　at　one　side；　then　the　dam　started　to　spill　over　and　soon　its　whole　top　was　awash　and　being　eaten　away　by　the　flood　still　piling　out　of　the　first　dam　as　the　head　of　water　pushed　forward　from　fifty　metres　or　more　back　up　the　stream。　The　castle　disintegrated；　falling　over。
　　
　　I　left　the　jar　and　ran　down　the　dune；　exulting　in　the　wave　of　water　as　it　sped　over　the　braided　surface　of　the　stream　bed；　hit　houses；　followed　roads；　ran　through　tunnels；　then　hit　the　last　dam；　quickly　overwhelmed　it　and　went　on　to　smash　into　the　rest　of　the　houses；　grouped　into　the　second　village。　Dams　were　disintegrating；　houses　slipping　into　the　water；　bridges　and　tunnels　falling　and　banks　collapsing　allover　the　place；　a　gorgeous　feeling　of　excitement　rose　in　my　stomach　like　a　wave　and　settled　in　my　throat　as　I　thrilled　to　the　watery　havoc　about　me。
　　
　　I　watched　the　wires　wash　and　roll　themselves　to　one　side　of　the　flood's　course；　then　looked　at　the　front　of　the　racing　water　as　it　headed　quickly　for　the　sea　over　the　long…dried　sand。　I　sat　down　opposite　where　the　first　village　had　been；　where　long　brown　humps　of　water　surged；　slowly　advancing；　and　waited　for　the　storm　of　water　to　subside；　my　legs　crossed；　my　elbows　on　my　knees　and　my　face　in　my　hands。　I　felt　warm　and　happy　and　slightly　hungry。
　　
　　Eventually；　when　the　stream　was　almost　back　to　normal　and　there　was　virtually　nothing　left　of　my　hours　of　work；　I　spotted　what　I　was　looking　for：　the　black　and　silver　wreck　of　the　bomb；　sticking　ripped　and　gnarled　in　the　sand　just　downstream　from　the　site　of　the　dam　it　had　destroyed。　I　didn't　take　my　boots　off　but；　with　the　tips　of　my　toes　still　on　the　dry　bank；　walked　with　my　hands　until　I　was　almost　at　full　stretch　out　in　the　middle　of　the　stream。　I　picked　the　remains　of　the　bomb　out　of　the　stream　bed；　put　its　jagged　body　carefully　into　my　mouth；　then　walked　my　hands　back　until　I　was　able　to　throw　myself　back　and　stand　up。
　　
　　I　wiped　the　almost　flat　piece　of　metal　with　a　rag　from　the　War　Bag；　put　the　bomb　inside　the　bag；　then　collected　the　wasp　jar　and　went　back　to　the　house　for　tea；　leaping　the　stream　just　up　from　the　highest　point　the　waters　had　been　backed　up　to。
　　
　　All　our　lives　are　symbols。　Everything　we　do　is　part　of　a　pattern　we　have　at　least　some　say　in。　The　strong　make　their　own　patterns　and　influence　other　people's；　the　weak　have　their　courses　mapped　out　for　them。　The　weak　and　the　unlucky；　and　the　stupid。　The　Wasp　Factory　is　part　of　the　pattern　because　it　is　part　of　life　and…even　more　so…　part　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　recen