EVANE

E. C. TUBB

E. C. Tubb, winner of the new Europa Award presented at the first European sf congress at Trieste in 1972 for his short story Lucifer, is well known for his powerful evocation of human emotions aroused by confrontation with the daunting spectacle of scientific progress. Just how far can machinery go in making use of life?

* * * *

THE computer had been vocalised on the basis of psychological necessity; a concept determined by those who lived in ivory towers and who, trying to be rational, ended by being sadistic. There were other things also, some explicit photographs, some books, a thing in a box which could be inflated and used to ease personal tensions. He used it once and then, repulsed, destroyed it together with the books and photographs. The voice he could do nothing about.

It was soft, mellifluous, the voice of an actual woman or something designed on computer-optimums, he had no way of telling. But it was mellow, devoid of the stridency of youth and for that he was grateful. And, as he couldn’t ignore it or turn it off he had learned to live with it and, over the long, long years, had grown to accept it, to rely on it as an integral part of his limited universe. He had even amused himself by fitting a face and figure to the sound.

The image had varied as age had stilled the passions of his blood. At first she had been lithe with raven hair and jutting breasts and hips and thighs belonging to adolescent yearnings. And then she had matured into a more comfortable image, the transition moulded by the voice of his own desires. Now she was tall with short blonde hair curling just above the shoulders. Her eyes were blue, deep-set, crinkled at the corners with a tracery of fine lines. She wore black, a simple dress revealing smooth shoulders and the upper parts of her fulsome breasts. Not the hard, jutting promontories lie had once imagined but soft and slightly pendulous, matching the maturity of her face, the rounded swell of her hips. And he had given her a name.

‘Time for routine inspection, Charles.’

He started, shocked out of his reverie, blinking as he sat upright in the big chair. Before him the panels were as always, the big dials with their creeping hands, the gleam of polished metal, the rows of telltales. He had been dreaming, he realised, not asleep but sunken into a reverie which was a form of self-defence, a half-world in which memory became confused with imagination and fiction outweighed reality.

‘Time for routine inspection, Charles.’

The use of his name, another psychological device but one which led to an inevitable personalisation of the machine. A blatant trick to assuage loneliness but one which could too easily lead to insanity. If it was insane to give a mechanical voice a name. To imagine that a real woman was speaking. To dream that somehow, incredibly, he wasn’t really alone, that somewhere in his restricted world was another living person and that, perhaps, some time they would meet.

‘Time for routine inspection, Charles.’

It was imagination, it could be nothing else, but had the voice grown a little sharp? A trifle impatient at his lack of response? Worried, even? It would be nice to think that someone cared; but experience had taught him to know better than that. Three times and then the shock, the electrical stimulus which would jerk him fully aware if asleep, a painful reminder that there was a job to be done and he the one to do it.

Quickly he said, ‘All right, Evane. I heard you.’

‘Your response was delayed. Were you asleep?’

‘No, just thinking.’

‘Are you well, Charles?’

He looked down at his hands, at the thick veins and mottled patches, the skin creped over the knuckles. Once they had been young and strong and good to see. When had they changed ? Why hadn’t he noticed the change before ?

‘Charles?’

‘I’m all right,’ he said shortly.

‘I think I should monitor your metabolism, Charles. After the inspection, naturally.’

‘Damn it, Evane, you don’t have to nag me. I’m all right, I tell you.’

‘After the inspection, Charles.’

How could you argue with a machine ? He could refuse; but there were ways to make him obey, the Builders had seen to that. Nowhere could he be free of the sensors and to disobey meant punishment. Sullenly he rose from the chair, uneasily conscious of physical malfunction. His legs, for example, had they always ached as they did now? Over the years he had become accustomed to the dimming of his vision so now it was normal for him not to be able to see the fine divisions on the dials from his position in the chair. But the ache, the slight hesitation of his left foot so that he almost stumbled, saving himself by gripping the back of the chair? Was this new or had he experienced it before? And, if he had, why couldn’t he remember?

The thought nagged as he moved from the chair down the ten feet of space towards the rear bulkhead. He could reach the ceiling by lifting his arms, touch the walls by extending them. A tiny space backed by complex machines which fed him air and food and water in calculated amounts. A sealed environment in which he was nurtured and housed and, above all, protected from external influences. In such a place experiences were few and always strictly personal. How could he possibly forget any detail of his monotonous life ?

‘Charles, you hesitate. The inspection must be completed.’

He reached the bulkhead and reached for the simple controls. Freed by the computer they responded to his touch, a panel lifting to reveal a vast area dimly lit and magnified by the plate through which he stared. Direct vision aided by lenses and mirrors to eliminate the possibility of electronic malfunction. Dutifully he examined the enigmatic hoppers, the ranked containers, countless phials, numberless motes which were packed into thin-skinned ampoules, unknown objects tucked into plastic membranes. Once he had thrilled at the sight, conscious of a tremendous sense of purpose, warmed by the conviction that he was important and essential to the success of the project. Now he simply went through the motions.

‘Charles?’

He had stared for too long, losing himself in another of the insidious reveries, trying, perhaps, to recapture the early thrill, extrapolating, looking ahead, guessing at incredible futures. Or perhaps he had simply dozed a little, bored, resentful of the dominance of the computer.

‘Charles, is everything at optimum function?’

‘Yes, Evane, as always.’

‘Then return to the chair, Charles. I must monitor your metabolism.’

He felt the controls shift beneath his hands, the panel falling to seal the bulkhead, and slowly he returned to the chair, sitting, thrusting his right hand and arm into the familiar orifice. Probes sank into his flesh and he felt the mild tingle of surface stimulation. He leaned back, closing his eyes, imagining a smooth face framed with blonde hair, blue eyes, a little anxious perhaps, the full lips pursed and the dress falling a little, a very little away from the chest and shoulders as she leaned forward to study the results of her examination.

‘Well, Nurse, will I live?’

‘Nurse?’

‘At this moment, Evane, you’re a nurse. A person who takes care of the sick. Am I sick?’

‘You are not operating at optimum efficiency, Charles.’

‘Which means that I’m sick. Cure me, Evane.’

He felt the touch of something followed by a rising euphoria. An injection of some drug, he guessed, something to dispel his depression, his mounting sense of anxiety. And the obedience helped, the fact that she had complied with his instruction. A man should always be the dominant partner.

Eyes still closed, imagining her leaning back, smiling, her expression a soft blend of affection and motherly concern, he said, ‘How long, Evane?’

‘You are imprecise, Charles.’

‘And you are being stubborn. You know damn well what I mean. How long have we been travelling in this can ?’

‘A long time, Charles.’

Too long, he thought. So long that time had become meaningless. Flung at a speed close to that of light, aimed at the distant stars, his metabolic clock slowed by the contraction effect. Back home it could have been ten thousand years. Within the ship it had been a lifetime.

The thought bothered him and he fought it, aided by the drug, the comforting presence of the woman. Imperceptibly he slipped into reverie, hearing again the childish voices of the chosen, the deeper tones of his instructors. He was special. He was to be trained for a momentous task. His life was to be dedicated to the Great Expansion.

He stirred and felt again the soothing injection.

‘Talk to me, Evane.’

‘About what, Charles?’

‘Pick a subject. Any subject. You are tall and blonde and beautiful. How do you feel locked up in that machine? Shall I let you out? Break into your prison and let you take a walk?’

‘You are being irrational, Charles.’

‘How so, Evane? You’ve been with me for how long? Fifty years ? More ? A long time in any case. We’ve spoken often and surely you must have changed a little from those early days. Listen, do you know why I destroyed the books and those other things ? I felt that you were watching me. Watching and despising me. Can you deny it?’

‘I have watched you, Charles, certainly.’

‘Watched and ordered, do this and do that and do it damn quick or else. At times you’ve been a bitch and I should hate you but I don’t. Hate you, I mean. I don’t hate you at all.’

‘Hate, Charles?’

‘An emotive feeling.’

In his imagination she frowned and shook her head.

‘Don’t say it,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t want to know what you can and cannot feel. Nothing with a voice like yours can be devoid of sensitivity.’

‘You are irrational, Charles. Perhaps you should sleep.’

‘No!’

He snatched his arm from the orifice before the drug could be injected, cunning with much repetition for this was not the first time he had sat and conversed with the woman locked in her machine. And yet this time seemed different from those other occasions. Then he had permitted the oblivion she gave, sinking into darkness and a world of dreams in which, living, she had come to him, arms open, body yielding, sweeping him on a tide of consummation in which everything was wonderful and his life complete.

‘I don’t want to sleep,’ he said. ‘I want to talk. I want to know what all this is about. You are going to tell me.’

‘I do not understand, Charles.’

‘Data insufficient?’ He sneered at her expression..’Are you still trying to convince me that you’re just a machine ? Don’t you realise I know better? This whole thing is a farce. A play. It’s time it ended.’

‘I still do not understand.’

‘Guess.’

‘You seem to be aberrated. A malfunction in your physical condition, perhaps. If you will replace your arm I will monitor your metabolism.’

‘You’ll do no such thing. You’ll open the doors and let me out of here.’

‘That is impossible, Charles. You know that.’

‘Then return back home.’

‘That is equally impossible. You are distressed, Charles, your thinking illogical. But you are not alone.’

Tiredly he opened his eyes and stared at the dials, the ranked telltales, the metal he had polished and the panels he had kept spotless. No, he was not alone. A million vessels over a span of years, each exactly like the one in which he rode, each loaded as this one was loaded, filled with manufactured spores, seeds, the life-elements common to the home world. Incipient life lying dormant in the hold, protected in a dozen different ways with skins of various plastic and natural membrane, in globules of ice and nutrient jelly, dehydrated, frozen, held in electronic stasis. Motes, dusts, moulds, near-invisible molecular chains. A cargo designed to perpetuate the race.

And himself?

‘No!’ He writhed with inner turmoil. ‘No!’

‘Charles, you must relax. You have no need to fear. The ship is intact and you are unharmed. Everything is as it was.’

The soft, soothing, mother-tone. The reassurance of a dedicated companion. He was not alone, she was with him, she would always be with him.

But she lied as the others had lied as his whole life had been a lie. His whole empty, stupid, wasted life.

‘The truth,’ he said harshly. Tell me the truth.’

‘About what, Charles?’

‘About everything. Talk, damn you!’

‘The project was explained to you at the very beginning. The Great Expansion is the dream of the race of which you are a member. We are to seek out a suitable star, discover a planet within a certain range of determined factors and discharge our cargo according to programmed instructions. If successful the life-cycle of that world will be guided to emulate conditions approximating the home world. This means that, in future times, the race will find suitable planets on which to settle. By extrapolation it is possible that within a foreseeable future the members of your race will find habitable and, to some extent, familiar worlds scattered throughout the galaxy.’

‘And the rest?’

‘There is no more, Charles.’

‘Like hell there isn’t. What about me?’

‘You are the safety factor. It is remotely possible that something could go wrong with the ship or the life-support or maintenance mechanisms. If so you are able to effect repairs.’

‘With what? My bare hands?’

‘No, Charles, with the tools which I will make available in case of need.’

‘And the knowledge of how to use them?’

‘That has been implanted in your subconscious mind, Charles. The knowledge will be released by any state of real emergency.’

It sounded logical and he wondered why he should be impressed, what else would a machine be but logical ? And yet the thing had been programmed and set to respond in a certain way to certain stimuli. It could be lying or, correction, telling the truth as it knew it which needn’t be the truth at all.

And yet, if that wasn’t the truth, what was?

Why had he been incorporated into the vessel ?

Restlessly he rose from the chair and walked the ten feet towards the rear bulkhead, the ten feet towards the chair, the ten feet back again. Around him the vessel operated with its usual, quiet efficiency and he stared at the walls, the ceiling, the panel with its ranked instruments. Window-dressing, he thought, suddenly. Something to occupy his attention and to maintain the illusion that he was important to the functioning of the ship. Why hadn’t he realised before that he was totally unnecessary with the vessel operated as it was by computer control? An expensive piece of inessential cargo.

And yet the Builders would never have wasted so much unless there had been a reason.

He said, harshly, ‘Evane, why am I here?’

‘I told you, Charles.’

‘You lied. Now tell me the truth.’ Incredibly she did not answer and, staring at his hands, seeing the thick veins, the blotches, the signs of age, he said, ‘What happens when I die?’

‘When you cease to function, Charles, we will have reached terminal distance from the home world. I shall then reverse direction and commence to search for a suitable world to receive our cargo.’

For a moment it made no sense—and then the truth came crashing in, numbing, killing with its sudden destruction of his pride and ego.

‘A clock,’ he said blankly. ‘You mean that I’m nothing more than a damned clock.’

A metabolic timepiece: for in the contraction caused by near-light speeds how else to determine duration? The seeded world must be within reach and that measurement must be determined by the life-span of a man. His life-span or his awareness of the truth, the variable was important.

And the rest ?

‘I am sorry, Charles,’ said the machine and this time there could be no doubt as to the note of regret. ‘I am really sorry.’

And then the electronic device implanted in his brain froze him to instant immobility, the gases came to chill him into stasis, the walls opened and displayed the instruments which would take him and sunder his-flesh into fragments, preserving the essential RNA and DNA molecular chains all to be added to the final seeding.

But there was no pain. No pain at all. In that, at least, the Builders had been kind.