Cloud Atlas Page #7

Inform the Archivist, prepare for excisement.

- Yes sir.

- Sir...

Can you tell me what happened to Hae-Joo Chang?

Killed, I was told.

All this feast and excitements, really Adam, it's...

far too much. You need to rest.

I had...

a girlfriend once. She kept trying to get me to

read Carlos Castenada.

- You ever read any of that sh*t?

- Oh, yeah.

But the relationship was doomed.

Every time she brought up any of that...

karma, past life stuff, I couldn't stop myself

from laughing.

And yet...

I can't explain it,

but I knew when I opened that door...

They destroyed most of the copies of the report.

Most?

There's no good choice here, is there?

If I help you, I could lose my job.

Or worse,

if I don't, a lot of people...

Aw, it'll be worse than worse.

You have to do,

whatever you can't not do.

Somethin' preyin' on you, Zachry?

You really ain't fear about meetin' Old Georgie

on 'he summit?

More scaresome 'bout the weather than any Devil.

You cogg he's real?

Who tripped the Fall, if not Old Georgie?

True true?

Old Uns.

That's jus' a rope o' smoke.

Old Uns got the Smart.

They mastered sick and seeds.

Make miracles. Fly across the sky.

True. All true. But they got somethin' else.

Hunger in their hearts. Hunger that's stronger than

all their Smart.

Hunger? For what?

Hunger for more.

Belief, like fear or love,

is a force to be understood as we understand the

theory of relativity

and principles of uncertainty.

Phenomena that determine the course of our lives.

Yesterday, my life was headed in one direction.

Today, it is headed in another.

Yesterday, I believed I would never have done

what I did today.

These forces that often remake time and space,

that can shape and alter who we imagine ourself to be,

begin long before we are born and continue

after we perish.

Our lives and our choices,

like quantum trajectories are understood

moment to moment,

at each point of intersection, each encounter,

suggests a new potential direction.

Proposition:

I have fallen in love with Luisa Rey.

Is this possible? I just met her and yet...

I feel like something important has happened to me.

That's it.

The music from my dream.

This is from my dream. That night I came to your room.

This is the music I heard in my head.

Somehow I gave it to you.

I've been working on this piece for weeks now

and I suspect you heard it and incorporated it

into your dream.

I call it the "Cloud Atlas Sextet".

This is obviously the result of our collaboration.

The Atlas, I believe,

is the only thing I have done in my life that has value.

Yet I know I could not have written it,

if I hadn't met you.

There are whole movements in the Atlas that I wrote,

imagining us

meeting again and again in different lives

and different ages.

Yes.

Something as important as this cannot be described

as "yours" or "mine".

It is "ours".

That this is exactly how I feel, Vyvyan.

I'm sorry, I...

- I thought...

- You thought? You thought what?

That I might fancy a little buggering from

a fine young dandy like yourself?

I'll pack my bag and be gone by morning.

You'll do no such thing, you'll leave only when I say

you can leave.

You will continue working on Vyvyan Ayrs' "Cloud Atlas".

When it is finished, then I will decide what do with you.

You can't keep me here! I'm leaving!

Good luck with your composing. I'm sure a sterile old

f*** like yourself

is still capable of something completely immemorable.

I suggest you think about this, Robert.

Think about reputation.

Reputation is everything in our society. Yours, my

disinherited reprobate,

has expired.

Did you not think that we would inquire about someone

living under our roof?

Mackerras himself wrote and I quote,

"He is a prostitute whose liaisons with perverts

and sodomites

were common place in his brief and forgettable

career at Caius.

Lock up the silverware." Unquote.

Be warned. Leave here without my consent

and all of musical society will know of the degenerate,

Robert Frobisher.

After that,

even if you compose one of the greatest symphonies

ever written,

no one will hear it,

because no one will want anything to do with you.

I won't let you go again.

I told you he'd come.

Two things became clear.

Hanging myself from Edinburgh's flagpole is preferable

to letting that parasite

plunder my talents a day longer.

I must complete my sextet.

I can't do it here, so tonight I plan to make my escape.

(Please standby for vehicle scan.)

(Clearance granted.)

Any jailbreak's a risky proposition.

One little cockup and we are dangling at her

majesty's pleasure.

I know, I know.

We could use code names,

but the truth is I'd probably be the first to forget mine.

So, Mr. Cavendish...

Ernie Blacksmith.

This is Mr. Meeks and my girl, Veronica Costello.

- To trust.

- To trust.

I know, I know.

What about the parrot, then?

If ever there was a likely songbird.

Mr. Meeks is a fine and honorable gentleman.

He would never betray us.

Besides, no one's ever heard him say anything else.

I know, I know.

Question is, old man,

think you're up to snuff?

(Unanimity requires compliance.)

(We have a security code Red, prepare to be boarded.)

What are you going to do?

Stay calm. Stay calm.

"It will end in tears." You warned me.

I suppose I'm as hopeless as Adam Ewing,

oblivious to all the unspeakable forms lying in wait,

blind to the fact his friend is poisoning him.

Wait, please.

The idea of losing this ring distresses me beyond measure.

Don't be a silly puffin, Adam.

I'm sure your wife will set your health above a gold loop.

I have seen the onset for dropsy and it is not a pretty sight!

I know an excellent Spanish goldsmith, who works

with such alacrity,

that your Tilda may not have to know this was

ever removed.

- Give it to me!

- Get your f***ing hands off my puddin'!

It's not your pudding, you Alzheimer lout!

You've already eaten...

You better get in here.

Mr. Cavendish!

The room stank of bitter medicine.

Curiously heavy things, guns.

Why did I take it, exactly?

Can't say.

An intuition.

A sense of significance,

that from this point on,

there was no going back.

Sussin 'em clouds, we run out o' time.

Hey...

- Don't need no smart rope.

- Yay. See you fall,

I catch you.

- Hands in the air. Move it!

- Now! Step off of the vehicle!

- Get down! Down!

- Get down now!

F***in' migrant monkey-talk.

Why do they hire these greasy subs?

Negative, sir. Definite illegal.

Detain him for now.

I'm reading a second life form!

- Where?

- In the truck.

- Check it out.

- Yes, sir.

You troddin' on the Devil's ground now,

Valleysman.

I'm sayin' just once, that offlander ain't gettin' to the top.

Time for you to let go that rope.

You trespass,

you pay the price.

Now drop that rope.

Drops... that rope. Drop that rope.

- (Forcecom One, entering the truck.)

- Roger that.

Entering vehicle.

- It's her!

- It'll be okay, huh?

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