New Writings in SF
29 is now one of the most well-established and respected series in the science
fiction world. Created in 1964 by John Carnell, in collaboration with Corgi
Books, NEW WRITINGS rapidly gained a reputation as a showcase for the most
talented writers in the field, and when John Carnell died in 1972 the series
was taken over by Kenneth Buhner whose wideranging knowledge of, and enthusiasm
for SF has continued to make NEW WRITINGS the place to find stories of a
speculative, forward-looking, and mind-provoking nature, highlighting and
illustrating the dilemmas of today - and tomorrow.
In the same
series edited by John Carnell
New Writings in SF
1-21
and edited
by Kenneth
Bulmer New Writings in SF 22-28
and Published by
Corgi Books
Edited by Kenneth Bulmer
New Writings in SF 29
CORGI BOOKS
A DIVISION OFTRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS LTD
NEW WRITINGS IN SF 29
A CORGI
BOOK o 553 10640 a
Originally published in
Great Britain by Sidgwick and Jackson
Ltd.
PRINTING
HISTORY
Sidgwick and Jackson
edition published 1976 Corgi edition
published 1978
Copyright İ 1976
by Kenneth
Bulmer
'Double Summer Time'
by Cherry
Wilder copyright İ
1976
by Cherry
Wilder. 'The Z Factor' by Ernest
Hill copyright İ 1976
by Ernest
Hill
'A Space for
Reflection' by Brian W. Aldiss
copyright İ
1976
by Brian
W. Aldiss
'Random Sample' by E.
C. Tubb
copyright İ 1976 by
E. C.
Tubb
'Sentenced to a
Scheherazadean Death' by
David H.
Walters copyright
İ 1976
David H.
Walters 'Between the Tides'
by Donald
Malcolm copyright İ
1976
by Donald
Malcolm 'Young Tom* by
Dan Morgan
copyright İ 1976 by Dan
Morgan
'In the
Coma Condition' by Charles Partington
copyright İ
1976 by Charles
Partington
CONTENTS
Foreword
by Kenneth
Buhner
Double
Summer Time by Cherry Wilder
The
Z Factor by Ernest Hill
A
Space for Reflection by Brian W.
Aldiss
Random
Sample by E.
C. Tubb
Sentenced to a Scheherazadean Death by David
H. Walters
Between the Tides by Donald
Malcolm
Young
Tom by Dan
Morgan
In the Coma Condition by Charles
Partington
For
Brian and Margaret Aldiss -for many good reasons
FOREWORD
by
Kenneth Bulmer
Science fiction asks much from its readers and in
return gives the Universe. One aspect of sf often used in its praise and,
perhaps, more often as a club to belabour the whole of sf is its newness. If an
aspect can be used as a club, sf has taken more than its fair share of
punishment. One school of thought, still applying the somewhat out-of-date
slogan of 'idea as hero', stoutly resists this punishment, pointing with large
contempt at the comparative barrenness of the contemporary novel. The truth is
that the contemporary science fiction novel successfully melds the best of old
and new, and the sf short story, a form always pioneering, does the same thing.
The
facts are that the imaginative, supernormal, fantasy story began with the first
glimmerings of consciousness in the human brain that went beyond the immediate
needs of food and sex. A story need not have an entirely new and original idea
- they are almost as rare as waterfalls on Mars - but if it is handled in a new
and original way it will surely find fresh responses and open up fresh areas of
experience. When new ideas do come along they light up the whole field of sf
and enrich us all.
The
word 'new' in the title of New Writings in SF
must be taken in one sense
to indicate that the stories are not reprints, as are the stories in almost all
the current anthologies. Most of the material in New Writings is sf especially
written for the collection. The word 'new' also does not mean that every writer
appearing in our pages is a new writer. Readers will know that a balance is
struck between the brand new practitioners and the authors who have
achieved some fame in the field. The
interesting fact remains that New Writings in SF does publish a very high proportion of
high class fiction from brand new writers, and very many of them continue on to
carve out successful writing careers for themselves. In this valuable task New
Writings is the undisputed leader.
I
ought to make the point here, most strongly, that writers submitting material
for consideration should enclose a suitably-sized
envelope with correct return postage.
It
would be useful to me if, when you write your next letter of comment to New
Writings, you indicate in which order you read through the book. Do you just
start on page one and read straight through? Do you check the contents page and
then turn to a favourite author? And then how do you continue? Or what method,
if any, do you adopt when reading New Writings? We do not run a readers'
column; but all letters are most gratefully received and help to build up our
picture of the reader response, which, I am pleased to say, continued to be
highly commendatory.
'A
Space for Reflection' is not one of Brian W. Aldiss's trios of Enigmas. Laying
aside the compilation of the Enigmatic Companion for a space, Brian Aldiss
presents us with a story packed with philosophies that will arouse intense
reactions and with points of view devastating in their apparent simplicity,
enriching in their complexities.
Cherry
Wilder, an Australian lady of great charm and presence, has been scoring
notable successes of late, and with 'Double Summer Time' she takes us on a strange journey through the motives of human beings, themselves the
victims of twists in time.
Donald
Malcolm takes a long look at alien mores and customs under terminal strains,
and E. C. Tubb presents a puzzle tale in which brawn has no advantage over
brain.
With
The Z Factor' Emest Hill presents something of a puzzle, too, only this time
the puzzle is the tone of the piece as the author swings our attention away
from the expected direction to reveal fresh dimensions of man's uniqueness -or
is it merely that this pseudo-uniqueness is encompassed within the wheel of entropy?
Charles
Partington is building up in a particular style very much of the late
nineteen-seventies and I am sure readers will look forward with interest to
finding out what Mr. Partington is going to do with the various strands he has
been revealing to us in his recent work.
Absent
from New Writings in SF since volume 20, where he appeared with 'Canary', Dan Morgan
presents in deadpan style his blackly ironic look at one human reaction to
population control.
Appearing
in print for the very first time, David H. Walters gives us a double-barrelled
reminder of the old saying: 'By the Word shall ye Live.' The trouble here is
the weakness of the human throat and vocal chords.
All
these stories are brand new and all in their own way and to a variety of degrees
contribute to the totality that is science fiction.
Kenneth Bulmer
DOUBLE SUMMER TIME
by
Cherry Wilder
Here
is a dazzling new story from the author ot 'The Ark of James Carlyle' and 'The Thobos Transcripts' which calls upon
many different spheres of interest,
approaches to reality, and relationships of
human with human, human with robot and human with vegetable. With
extra-terrestrial intelligences able to interfere with the flow of Time it was just as well for Charles
Curthoys that he remembered the date of
his birthday. The story contains the interesting notion that a person would
have special qualifications by reason
of once having been a tree. And
Cherry Wilder's notion of the
favourite beverage of the robot is a
masterstroke ...
DOUBLE SUMMER TIME
One
Security found the Professor in his laboratory preparing
to examine a fragment of rock. Curthoys, the senior research assistant, showed
in the two officers with a certain amount of restrained commentary. Hewbry Hall
was old; it had grown by accretion over several hundred years. The conservatory
had been added during the nineteenth century, the plumbing refurbished during
the twentieth, the laboratory ...
Curthoys flung open the door ... was
quite modern.
Brewster,
the ranking NSO man, was impressed; the amount of computer installation alone
testified to a large transatlantic bequest. He cocked an eye at Adamson, his
colleague, who was bound to appreciate a technological display.
'Expecting us,' murmured
Adamson.
There
was a camera, of the sort still associated with bank robbers, and a recording
device in plain view; Curthoys followed Brewster's glance and gave a thin
smile.
A
husky young man in lab whites prowled on the periphery. That would be the
junior research assistant: Ed Grey from Caltec. Far away on his dais the Old
Man looked up from his work with a ferocious grin; he was at the top of his
form.
'Good morning!' he barked. 'I wonder what you
could possibly want with me?' Brewster sighed; he had tangled with the Old Man
before. 'Professor Latham ...?'
'I
admit it!' cried the Professor. 'I am the man. Sidney Erasmus Latham... got that? And you are my Big Brothers.'
Brewster
flashed his identity plate stoically and approached the dais.
'Wait!' The Prof essor held up his hand. 'I
want a f urther wit
ness to this interview... she takes stenographic shorthand.'
He
bent towards his intercom and Ed Grey stepped eagerly towards the glass doors.
The security men followed him and Curthoys ambled across: all four men stared
out into the garden.
A
girl sat under the trees reading a book. The place was overgrown, tumbling with
vines and starry clumps of border plants, but ages ago it had been a formal
garden. The girl sat reading in chequered shade; leaf shadows moved across her
bare arms and the pages of her book.
'Verity!' said the
Professor. 'Come in please.'
The
girl put aside her book and walked towards the laboratory, brushing aside the
curtains of green leaves.
Brewster
was captivated by the scene. Verity Latham, the daughter. He had studied her
file of course ... militant
eco-logist: a greenfreak. Degree in antiquities of some sort ... English Literature? Classics? First
Class Honours obtained while serving six months in prison, then she recuperated
in the Kenyan Reserve ... she still
had the tan. Her long light-brown hair was bleached by the fierce sun. She had
been interrogated once or twice about the Old Man's security problems but she
wasn't co-operative. Blood was thicker than water. What did she think about a
father who rigged his intercom to an oak tree?
Ed
Grey slid open the glass doors and Verity came in. She took down a white jacket
from the peg and slipped it over her sleeveless green tunic. Transformed
herself into a stenographer then settled down with her notebook.
'Professor
Latham,' said Brewster. 'We have reason to believe you were in the Oakdene
area this morning.'
The
Professor gripped the grubby lapels of his old-fashioned lab coat and moved
forward on the dais.
'You'll have to do better
than that,' he said nastily.
Brewster
glanced cautiously at Adamson who blinked once and began to read his report.
'Twenty minutes after impact, while the
police from
Chipping Dene were attempting to cordon off the area, Pro-
fessor Latham was seen by members of the public and by
police officers. He was approaching the verge of the crater
and collecting specimens____ '
'Brilliant!'
the Professor pounced. 'A splendid absence of names, times, bona fides. I can picture the scene only too clearly. The ancient trees, the early
morning mist...
five or six coppers and
their lumbering, petrol driven paddy-wagon. The crater, yawning like the pit of
hell, and a white-coated figure flitting about among the trees before the
dumbstruck peasantry. Perhaps it was the Minister for National Security in a
fright wig!'
The
Professor ran a hand over his shock of white hair; he and his two assistants
laughed aloud.
Adamson put in impassively:
'You were there, sir. I observed you myself.'
'And
your observations are not to be questioned?' snapped the Professor.
'No,
Sidney,' said Verity Latham, half amused. 'You can't question his observations.'
Brewster
was surprised; she had been sitting beside an open window, taking her shorthand
industriously with an occasional glance into the garden. He was surprised that
she had been the one to recognize Adamson.
'What
is it Verity?' said the Professor irritably. 'Are we going too fast for your
wretched grammalogues?'
Verity
sighed, looked at the two security officers apologetically and blew Adamson's
cover.
That
chap is infallible,' she said. 'He saw you. He can't volunteer incorrect
information.'
No-one spoke; the hum of the generators
filled the room. Curthoys juggled silently with a flask, his eyes fixed on
Adamson.
The Professor said quietly: 'Good heavens
...'
'Yes,' said Verity. 'He's one of the NSO
robots.'
Brewster
flinched from a blow that never fell. The usual reaction was fear and outrage
but Latham was plainly delighted. Brimming with scientific curiosity he came
down from his perch, shook Adamson warmly by the hand and introduced his
assistants and his daughter.
He announced cheerfully:
'Of
course I was at the site! As you well know Mr.... er Brewster isn't it? ... I've been at every site for the past
twelve months. The helicopter has done yeoman service.'
'I'm
sorry to intrude on you like this, Professor,' said Brewster, 'but your
clearance...'
'I know, I know, I'm
B-minus these days.'
The
Professor was observing Adamson wistfully like a boy outside a toyshop window.
T
think that Mr. Adamson can testify if he checks his memory banks that I carried
no extra-terrestrial material from the site.'
Adamson
nodded; he no longer made the pretence of reading from a notebook.
'Samples
of plant life and rocks, a dead blackbird and two squirrels, lying twenty
metres from the lip of the crater.'
'Squirrels? Red squirrels?'
Verity demanded.
'Grey
squirrels,' said the Professor. 'Grey...
bring out the grey squirrels.'
'That's
still pretty bad!' grumbled Verity as Ed Grey nipped up to the dais and
produced a carrying cage. 'If these damned meteorites are killing squirrels...'
'Hush, child!' said
Curthoys. 'The squirrels are not dead.'
The Professor led the
security men to the dais.
'Of
course these objects kill animal life. I found a dead weasel at one site and at
another the remains of a sheep-dog. On the other hand a surprising number of
animals in the area of a drop suffer no ill effects. I have had reports of some
sheep that were unharmed and I found a pair of rabbits... what... three
months ago.'
'What
do you do with these animals?' asked Brewster. He could hardly believe his good
fortune. The Old Man had cracked, had become tractable all of a sudden; Adamson
had done the trick.
'Yes, Sidney?' asked
Verity. 'What do you do with them?'
'I
test them for radiation of course!' snapped the Professor. 'What d'ye think I
do with them? Vivisect them? Get off your hobby-horse, Verity!'
Ed
Grey was lowering the carrying cage into a long demonstration chamber at one
end of the Professor's work bench. He adjusted the lighting in the chamber,
then pressed a lever so that the carrying cage opened and lay flat. The two
grey squirrels were ready for observation; they lay on the tanbark lightly
curled in sleep, fluffy tails billowing over their noses.
'Sleeping?'
asked Adamson, whose inbuilt curiosity was equal to the Professor's.
'Coming out of shock/ said
Latham. 'That's all it is. No trace of radiation. Both animals sound and healthy
so far as we can judge.'
'You've examined them?'
asked Verity.
'Very
cursorily, I'm afraid,' said the Professor. 'Barely had a moment to run the
geiger over the wee beggars. We'll be more thorough. Do it yourself if you're
so concerned, my dear. Get Grey to run a few tests.'
He turned back to Adamson
and Brewster.
'We're
not equipped for livestock,' he said. 'At the moment we're working with metals.
And talking of metals the so-called 'casing' found at site five, near Hastings, is in my opinion no more than a
fragment of igneous rock!'
'Have you found any evidence...' Brewster began.
To
support this popular theory of an "alien probe"?' chortled the
Professor. 'None ... none ... Unless you count the regular
distribution of these meteors.'
Your "grid
pattern",' said Adamson.
'Exactly.'
The Professor jerked his head at Curthoys. 'We'll have coffee in the projection
room. I have film that illustrates the grid pattern.'
Verity
continued to observe the two squirrels; they stirred in their sleep, fur
rippling, and twitched their feet a little. One opened its eyes and brushed its
front paws sleepily over its ears. Brewster looked back as the Professor
shepherded them through the heavy drapes into the projection room and saw the
two young people, heads together, peering into the demonstration chamber. Ed
Grey's work certainly had its compensations.
'Fourteen
sites ... but scarcely any fragments ...' there came the penetrating obbligato
of the Professor's voice. 'They bum up ...
they are consumed away ... like all
meteorites ..." He gave a
familiar bark of laughter.
'Need a pretty hard organism to survive such
an entry.'
Two
Charles Curthoys got into the habit of visiting the conservatory
every morning after breakfast with nuts for the squirrels. It was a sad place,
with the elegant glass domes overhead and the floor a tangle of rusty piping.
Central heating had saved the palms and the hardy tree-fern. Now Verity had
set up her cages and was embarked on some sort of program with the squirrels.
Curthoys was surprised that she persevered; the squirrels were healthy and
attractive but in no way remarkable. He wondered if she might be trying to
impress her father with a show of scientific zeal. The Professor was
ambivalent: he told Verity he was pleased to see her keeping out of
mischief.but he alarmed the housekeeper, Mrs. Furness, by suggesting that a
squirrel had grown two heads. More to the point he refused to let Ed Grey
assist with the program. They were approaching a critical stage in their work
with the alloys and the new transformer.
Curthoys
fished in his pocket for the hazel nuts and went into the conservatory
chirruping. One of the squirrels was unusually tame and Verity let it have the
run of the place. This morning it was sitting near her shoulder as she typed up
her confounded reams of notes.
'Go to Charles/ said Verity
absently.
The
pretty creature came skipping along the bench towards him and accepted his
offering. He exchanged pleasantries with it, then became embarrassed. Verity
was watching him with a curious expression.
'... Verity?'
'Something has come up/ she
said.
Her
tone was serious but soothing; he could have sworn she was trying to break
something to him gently. She took the squirrel out of his arms and returned it
to the big cage. Inside, near the roof, the second squirrel chattered on a tree
stump; it ran down and timidly accepted a hazel nut from Curthoys, then
scampered back to its perch.
'She's the shy one/ said
Curthoys. 'Female of the species.'
'They
are both female/ said Verity, with the Professor's dryness.
T fancied they were an old married couple,'
Curthoys said cheerily. 'Sitting on the same branch when the blow fell.' Verity
turned some pages.
'It's
in the notes ...' she said. 'I've
underlined some passages. Ed made the preliminary examination ... couldn't determine the sex of Squirrel
A... the tame one... but later it was definitely seen to be
female, like Squirrel B.'
'Haven't you given them
names?'
'No/
said Verity. 'Charles, what became of the pair of rabbits found at site
twelve?'
'Wait a bit ...'
said Curthoys. 'I gave them to a friend of mine, Dave Jenkinson ... local schoolmaster. That was one of the
sites where there was a scuffle with the police. This damned cordon business.
It will be a great relief if your father can wangle a better clearance through
Brewster. Yes ... yes ... we tested the rabbits in the field with
the geiger counter and I gave them to Jenkinson. He's a great admirer of the
Old Man and he'd been helping to fight off the bobbies.'
'And the rabbits survived?'
'Of
course. He took them back to school. Ordinary rabbits, sort of heather mixture
in colour ... looked very dead when I
went to pick them up. I suppose one expects to see rabbits dead. Last we heard
one had got away.'
'I'm not surprised,' said
Verity.
'Look
here!' said Curthoys. 'You're not suggesting these animals were contaminated in
any way?'
'Of
course not,' said Verity. 'Were they both of the same sex?'
'Yes,'
said Curthoys. 'Come to think of it they were. Jenkinson hoped to breed, you
know, object lesson in multiplication, but the rabbits turned out to be Bill
and Bob, not Bill and Betty.'
Verity
added a footnote and began to gather all the pages into her file.
'Charles,
what would you do if no-one believed your hypothesis?'
'Attempt to prove it, I
suppose.'
'If
you made a discovery that was difficult to believe,' she said hesitantly,
'would you feel bound to make it public?'
'It
depends!' said Curthoys. There might be repercussions.'
He
could see what the trouble was. The poor child had a touch of the extra-terrestrials.
She had hit upon some tiny mutation, some behaviour quirk in her bloody
squirrels and built it into a theory of alien influence.
He said kindly:
'Verity,
I've worked with your father a long time. I remember your mother. I often
think how she would have loved this place, Hewbry Hall
He felt guilty at the emotional blackmail but
it was his duty, surely, to head her off. The Old Man should not be bothered.
Another row would be unbearable and the tests were at a crucial stage.
'What
I'm trying to say is this,' he went on quickly, 'I'm sure this is not your
field. A few months at the reserve with Dr. Nguma ... that's not a qualification. No-one here is qualified to
undertake or to evaluate any behavioural study, any zoological work.'
'All
right Charles,' said Verity, wearily.
She
seemed disappointed but not surprised. Strange girl. He had heard the standard
comment... how did old Sidney come to
have such a striking daughter? It was no surprise to him because he did
remember Alys ... more beautiful,
more womanly, played the piano, worked at her gardening books ...
'You
are on much firmer ground with your literature,' he said. 'What happened to the
seventeenth-century monographs that were going to spin off from your thesis?
What became of Marvell, Andrew Marvell, wasn't he your favourite?'
'I'll
get back to him,' said Verity.
She
opened the cage again and Squirrel A came out It flew up to her shoulder and
nestled in her long sunbleached hair; they whispered together. Charles Curthoys
felt the tiniest flicker of discomfort: surely it wasn't natural for a creature
to be so docile. He must have a word with Grey ... perhaps he had noticed something worth reporting.
'I'll
release the squirrels in the garden this afternoon,' said Verity.
'So the project is finished?' said Curthoys
eagerly. 'Much the wisest plan.' He looked at his watch.
'I
must be going. Time's winged chariot and all that.' 'Take the file, Charles!'
ordered Verity. 'I want you to read it.'
He
snatched it up, unable to protest. 'Does your hypothesis have a name?' he
asked. T mean, what is it about generally?' Verity stroked the grey squirrel. 'I
call it Mimesis.'
'What?
Doesn't that have something to do with acting?' "You could say mimicry. Or metamorphosis.'
'Changing shape?' said Curthoys. 'I'm afraid
you've lost me.'
He
was lying; the idea was simply more of an enormity than he had expected. Mad,
quite mad. Caterpillar into butterfly, nymph into dragon-fly, tadpole into frog
... these were natural processes.
Alien into squirrel, squirrel into ...
'Something organic...' said Verity.
'But
what?' said Curthoys, thinking as laterally as he could. 'Surely size is a
consideration...'
'What was common to all the
sites, Charles?'
'Uninhabited,' said
Curthoys. 'Lonely, wooded ...'
'Yes,' said Verity.
'Trees!' said Curthoys. 'Unless there was
some other suitable form of organic life to...
to...' 'To copy,' said Verity.
'Nonsense!'
cried Curthoys. 'Verity, put that squirrel away and get out into the fresh
air!'
He
rushed out of the conservatory; mad, quite mad. He found he was clutching her
green folder so tightly that his fingers ached.
three
ed grey lay on his four-poster bed in the East Wing
and made his report into a minicorder lying on his pillow.
'I
don't like what I'm doing any more than I did at first and the compensations
are all turning into complications.
'Politically
speaking the old guy, the Professor, is clean, unless you find naive socialism frightening. He has no links with any subversive organizations
or any foreign powers, unless you count our friend the multi-national
corporation that may benefit from his present research. He is interested in
alloys not allies; you might say he is welded to his work. He drives Curthoys
and yours truly as hard as he drives himself.
'He
puts the highest value on personal loyalty and if my cover slips for an instant
I'll be out on my ass. Which brings me to those clowns from NSO, Brewster and
his custom-built buddy, Adamson. The security pressure that Professor Latham
has been under from his own government is totally unwarranted and it has made
him mad as a hornet. Like he says, it is red tape; he lost his A clearance
because he left the
Institute
and set up as an independent researcher under the De Luchy bequest. He attracted
the attention of NSO by turning up at these meteor sites.
'Why
does he do this? Someone had better re-read the terms of that bequest. The
Widow De Luchy made a large portion of the funds available on condition that
investigation should be made into ...
quote ... extra-terrestrial phenomena
and the possibility of communication with other worlds. The Professor is doing
his best to comply with this condition and I may add that the De Luchy Trust
are getting great value for their money. The old guy hares around in his
chopper to every site; the grid pattern now generally accepted is his work. He
turns in a report on, you know, size, location, radiation levels, insofar as we
are equipped or permitted
to investigate. For an
independent operator he does a good job. No, we have no evidence of "alien
infiltration", death rays, thought probes, or the ever-popular little
green, men.
'However
the Security blanket... joke ... is very heavy in these areas; the media
are screaming and there's a whiff of cover-up. If there is anything here and
that I should know about for Christ's sake liase with NSO and have me informed.
Also, call off Brewster and Adamson before they, query, inadvertently blow my
cover. Whoever sent a robot to interview Sidney Latham was pretty smart. The
Professor really digs Adamson; he has him to dinner once a week and tries to
beat him at chess. But where does that leave me? Out on a limb... which brings me to Verity Latham.
'To
my certain knowledge she has had no communication with the members of her cadre
in Greenworld Task Force since she returned from the Kenyan reserve. I know she
still holds to their ideology but she has taken part in no green-freak
activities for three months. Unless you count talking to trees.
'It
would be pointless and kind of embarrassing for me to make a daily report on
her activities. She's a beautiful girl and I'm in intimate contact with her.
No, I'm not too deeply involved but this situation may change. I really dig her
and I feel like hell about it. I'm not sure what she feels. She has to put up
with a lot from her old man who puts her down all the time and I guess it has
made her withdrawn.
'You may be surprised to hear that Verity
Latham has
come
up with a really wild theory on the meteors. She worked up this whole deal
with, would you believe, two squirrels that were stunned by the blast at site 14.1 did some of the preliminary work with her and it was easy for me to put
her file on microfilm. I'll enclose it in the next drop. My comment on the
work? Squirrely man, squirrely...
'Anyhow
she gave the project away three weeks ago and released the critters in the
garden. One is still around but it is kind of shy. Verity spends a lot of her
time in the garden, reading Seventeenth Century Metaphysical Poetry out loud.
She is the most beautiful, crazy girl I ever saw and I think I love her. One
time I found her reading a botany text-book to this tree, big oak-type tree
growing on the east side of this house, its branches reach right up to the
balcony of this room. She said she was reading "to improve its understanding
of the xylem for mimetic purposes".
'If
I had been able to find Verity after dinner I wouldn't be making this report
I'd he making love. But I looked all through the house and she wasn't around.
No, I do not believe she is out there trying to immobilize a chemical complex.
I believe she is out there in the moonlight reading Andrew Marvell to some
damned tree. Because of her I have learned a whole poem by this guy... it is called The Garden and he talks
about.
"Annihilating all that's made.
To a green thought in a green shade."
'Obviously
this Captain Marvell was some kind of a green freak.'
Ed
stopped talking and listened. The long, low whistle was repeated under his
balcony. He stashed the minicorder and went out into the moonlight.
'Verity?'
She
leaned against the tree, one arm encircling the broad trunk, her cheek against
the bark. Her hair hung loose and silvery.
'Coming down?'
'Are you through with the botany lessons?' he
teased. Verity laughed and ran a hand over the tree trunk. 'All through!' she
mimicked his accent. 'Now I'm up to biology.'
'I was thinking of your friend...'
s-nwsf29-b 2£
Ed wanted to prolong the balcony scene a
little: the girl, the tree, the moonlit garden. 'My friend?' asked Verity.
'Andrew Marvell.' *Ah ...'
She
embraced the trunk and quoted: 'My vegetable love should grow Vaster than
empires and more slow.' 'Too slow for me...'
breathed Ed. 'Come down!' 'Come up here to my room.'
'It's
better down here,' she said. 'Climb down. Try that branch over there.'
'You're crazy!' he said, fondly.
He climbed over the rail and reached for the
branch.
'That's right,' said Verity, 'let it feel
your weight.'
'What?'
'You're
getting the hang of it,' said Verity. 'There now...' Ed took her in his arms. He fought off an impulse to tell
her why he was there and ask for absolution. 'Ed?'
She
took his face between her hands; her eyes were solemn.
'I'm
your friend ...' she said. 'Even if
our ideologies are different. Trust me. Perhaps I should try to explain...'
He put a finger to her lips.
'No!' he said. 'No heavy confessions.'
She
wound her arms around his neck and they kissed. They sank down together; the
grass was warm and dry. The moonlight silvered their clothes lying on the grass
but did not reach into the deep shade. The tree arched above them; every leaf
spun, activated, alert.
four
professor latham cut chunks from his apple with a silver fruit
knife.
'You
know my view!' he twinkled at Adamson. 'One more meteor.'
'Only
one?' Verity spoke softly to Curthoys, further down the table.
'Speak up!' said the Professor. 'You're too
subdued this evening, Verity.'
'Only one more meteor,
Sidney?'
'According to the grid
pattern,' said Charles Curthoys.
'Otherwise
it means the extension of the grid in another direction,' explained Ed Grey.
'i hope the Professor is
right,' said Brewster.
It
had been another stimulating evening; the Oval Room was beautiful by
candlelight. Adamson, having consumed his 'company dinner', which resembled
squares of aspic, was now sipping some amber lubricant. The Professor had enjoyed
himself but he was restless. He began to tease his daughter.
'Don't
take my word for it!' he said. 'Verity is in closer touch with the ... er...
aliens.'
'Not my field...' Verity laughed it off.
The
Professor saw Charles Curthoys flinch so he pressed on with his teasing.
'On
the contrary,' he said, 'your theory has a freakish charm.'
'A
theory of alien infiltration?' asked Adamson. He gazed steadily along the table
at Verity in her pumpkin yellow gown. Verity said firmly. 'No, of course not!'
'Yes!' cried the Professor. 'Acknowledge your
work, girl! Mimesis ... the great
theory of Mimesis ... by Ovid out of
Walt Disney!'
'Charles?' asked Verity.
'I'm
sorry!' said Curthoys. 'Verity, I'm sorry. He picked it up from my desk... it
was an accident.'
'I'm
not surprised, mind you ...' The
Professor took more wine. 'Not surprised that she hasn't shown it to her old
man.'
'I
don't want to talk about that paper,' said Verity. 'I've given up the work.'
'Oh
no!' chortled Latham. Tou're not getting off so lightly. Mimesis needs a good
roasting.'
'Mimesis?' asked Brewster.
He
looked at Adamson who was fiddling with his shirt cuff. Ed Grey saw the
movement too.
'Acting
... mimicry ...' pronounced Adamson. 'Some theory of adaptation, perhaps...'
'Got it in one!' smiled the Professor.
'Metamorphosis!' 'Father!' Verity stood up. 'I don't want any discussion of
that paper!'
'Discussion?'
the Professor was in full cry. 'Don't dignify your behavioural fantasies with
words like discussion. Notion isn't worthy of discussion. It belongs ... I'll tell you where it belongs ... in a course on bloody Mythology. The
werewolf and the doppelganger...'
'Be quiet!' shouted Verity.
'The
squirrel that is not a squirrel...'
the Professor went on relentlessly. 'A simulacrum of a squirrel, gradually acquiring
its underlying structures. You were in on this. Grey ...'
'No!' said Ed Grey, unhappily. 'No sir.'
'Where
next?' asked the Professor. 'A rock, a tree ...
I've noticed you spend a lot of time in the garden. Verity... and why not a human being? Why
gentlemen, we're none of us safe! This wily organism may have made a
perambulating copy of any one of us!'
'No, father,' said Verity bitterly, 'not any one ...'
'What's
that?' asked the Professor gaily. 'Have I got it wrong?'
'Adamson
is quite safe,' said Verity. 'He could not be copied any more than a rock. He
is not organic'
'This
is too bad!' exploded the Professor. 'Adamson is my guest...'
'He
is a security officer,' said Verity. 'He is recording everything we say. I
don't care to have my projects discussed in his presence.'
'Your
projects ...' the Professor shook his
head in furious scorn.
'In
prison,' said Verity, 'I was interrogated by Adamson or something very like him
regarding your work here at Hewbry Hall, Father. I remained silent.'
'Damn
it all...' the Professor finally
swallowed and shut up.
'Do
you know what they call this place at the Institute?' demanded Verity, her eyes
fixed on her father's face.
Charles Curthoys could not repress a smile.
'Hubris
Hall!' said Verity. 'The fountainhead of bloody intellectual arrogance! Hubris
Hall! Ask Adamson for a gloss on that!'
She went out of the room and they heard her
run up the grand staircase.
The Professor passed a hand through his hair
and drained his glass. Curthoys cleared his throat nervously. Ed Grey ticked
off the seconds: the poor old guys still didn't get it.
'Emotional girl...' mumbled the Professor.'
Brewster
and Adamson rose as one man. Brewster blew out the candles, turned on the
electric lights; Adamson shut the french windows and drew the curtains.
Brewster nodded curtly at Ed Grey.
'Get after the girl!?
he said. 'Keep her upstairs.'
'I beg your pardon...' said the Professor.
Brewster paid no attention
to him.
'You're treating this as
some kind of alert?' asked Grey.
'Absolutely!'
said Brewster. 'Haven't you been serviced? Liaison has gone out on this. Get
after the girl!'
'Brewster!'
said Professor Latham. 'Grey is in my employ ...'
'Not entirely,' said
Brewster.
Ed
Grey cast a despairing glance at the Professor and Curthoys, taking it in for
the first time. He ran into the echoing hall. After a noisy foray up the
staircase he came back to the door of the Oval Room, drew out his nifty TLD and
listened.
The Professor was warming
up.
'... bloody hell is going on?'
'Ed
Grey? ... Central Intelligence ...' Charles Curthoys, polite and puzzled.
'This
is a security alert!' Adamson came in loud and clear even through an oak door.
The timbre of his voice was now definitely metallic. 'We need Ms Latham's paper
on the squirrels at once!'
'Not without an
explanation!' snapped the Professor.
'Your clearance...' pleaded Brewster.
'Clearance
be damned!' roared the Old Man. 'You want Verity's paper. I won't give it up
without some facts!'
'Vile
harassment!' exclaimed Curthoys, all of a sudden. 'The Professor is a man of
science. He was never a security risk.'
There
was a pause: Ed Grey swore he could hear Adamson's circuits bleeping as he made
an emergency adjustment.
'Professor/ said Brewster, 'there have been
firmly-authenticated "doubling" incidents at four of the meteor
sites, involving... er... human beings.'
The Professor laughed.
'Mass
hysteria/ he said. 'You'll have to do better than that. Hoaxers. Students
having a rag with ... sorry Adamson ... a few robots/
'Four sites?' asked
Curthoys.
Three, Nine, Ten and
Twelve/ said Adamson.
'Three,
furthest north," said the Professor. 'Site on the Lammermoor. What
happened?'
'Rab
Menzies/ said Adamson. 'Shepherd. Frequented the wood near the site.'
'Well... go on man!' cried the Professor. 'Do we
have to drag it out of you?'
'He was seen in two places at once/ admitted Brewster.
The
Professor uttered some sound between a laugh and a groan.
'Site twelve?' Curthoys was
anxious.
'David
Jenkinson,' said Adamson. 'Local schoolmaster. Best authenticated instance. His
double...'
'Rabbits!'
bleated Curthoys. 'Verity asked about the rabbits at site twelve. I gave them
to Jenkinson myself.'
T remember .. / said the Professor.
'One got away!' said
Curthoys. 'Jenkinson ... is he hurt?'
The
subjects are never harmed/ said Adamson. 'A period of sleep or unconsciousness is
usually reported.'
'Professor, we must have
that paper/ said Brewster.
'Very
well,' sighed the Old Man. 'Just one more question. These doubles... what do they do?'
'They leave the district/
said Brewster.
'I'll
bet they do!' said the Professor. 'How? By what means? Time machine? Magic
carpet?'
'Usually by public
transport or on foot. One hired a car.'
Adamson cleared his throat.
'Site
nine/ he said. 'Lady Celia Farmer, widow of Sir Usher Farmer, local
manufacturer. Her country house is in Yorkshire, twenty miles from the site.
She was seen to hire a' Bentley in
Huddersfield.'
'Fraud
was suspected/ said Brewster. 'A roadblock was
set up. It failed/
'Special Branch/ said Adamson with a trace of
feeling. The two officers hallucinated.'
'Oh,
there's no end to this idiocy!' cried the Professor. 'Come on... what in hell did they see?'
'Two
farm carts/ admitted Brewster. 'And a coach. A coach and six/
'Site ten?' prompted Curthoys.,
'The
least satisfactory,' said Adamson. "Mohammed Ali Das. Pakistani student
from the McCartney Polytechnic, Liverpool. He had been camping out in the area.
His double was reported as taking the train to London. However the sightings
were not so firm because...'
"Because
all Asians are alleged to look alike/ sighed the Professor.
'Correct/ said Adamson. 'Professor ... we must proceed with the alert/ The
Professor spread his hands.
'What
are you afraid of?' he asked. 'Adamson ...
this is a farrago of nonsense!'
'Could
there be.. / asked Curthoys. 'Could
there be some sort of...
intelligence?'
'Spores
...' said the Professor. 'Fungus... No, it won't do! It won't do! What
properties could be transmitted? What powers?'
'Exactly!' said Brewster.
The paper's in the laboratory/ said the
Professor, 'I must search the grounds/ crackled Adamson. Time is of the
essence.'
Ed
switched off and took to the stairs. Doubling? Where did those NSO morons get
that kind of nonsense? They must be putting the Old Man on. Or maybe it was a
conspiracy... greenfreaks? He found
Verity in the long gallery, pacing innocently in her yellow gown, as if she had
just stepped down from one of the gilt frames.
'Are you okay?'
She nodded.
'Ed,
did it strike you that those NSO men were interested in my theory?'
'Not
specially, honey/ he said. 'Oh maybe Adamson has it down on his intestines
somewhere, but that's routine/
'I don't trust security
agents/ said Verity.
'Stay cool.'
He
steered her to her own room off the gallery. It was going to be easier than he
thought... she wasn't on to anything.
He couldn't wait to get out after Adamson then put in a report. The idea of NSO
pulling heavy stunts among the trees in pursuit of squirrels filled him with
unholy glee.
'I'll
have to get back/ he said ruefully. T kind of stormed out after you/
Til be fine/ said Verity.
He
looked round her room; it was smaller than his and dark. The sash window
overlooked a brick courtyard behind the house. He offered to fetch her a joint
or a tranquillizer but she refused them and lay on her bed full-length, like
the sleeping beauty.
'Wish I could stay...' he whispered.
'See what they're doing/
said Verity.
He
went out, palming the heavy key, and locked her door from the outside.
Ed raced back along the gallery and headed
for his own room. He paused on the dark stairs to the east wing; Adamson went
by in the hall with Curthoys.
'... flamethrowers?' asked Curthoys in alarm.
In
his room Ed clambered into his track suit, changed his shoes, checked his
magnum; he began reporting as he changed and he was still gabbling into the
recorder as he stepped on to the balcony.
'... a minor alert at present. My cover shot to pieces and Adamson searching
the grounds of this stately home for an alien organism. Meanwhile England's
green and pleasant land is playing host to a bunch of these characters who ride
on trains and look like you or me. Who does NSO think they are kidding? If the
media get hold of this on either side of the Atlantic we are in for the biggest
alien scare in a hundred and fifty
years. And remember you heard it first from me, Ed Grey, the flying squirrel!'
There
was no moon but his eyes had become accustomed to the night. He could make out
the tangled paths, the ruined walks, the great clumps and avenues of trees. Far
away, by the wall of the kitchen garden, a light bobbed. Adamson with a torch,
he guessed, or maybe the guy had a headlight. Ed swung over the rail and grasped
the branch of the tree. It came easily to hand but he found himself dangling,
unable to get a foothold as he had done last time. Shaking. The tree was being
shaken, was shaking itself.
'Hey
...!' he was surprised by his own voice. He tried to look down, to climb back.
The branch swung deliberately back and forth until he fell. He was pitched six
metres to the ground and the branch seemed to droop, following him down. He
felt the leaves touching his face as he lost consciousness.
Five
Curthoys fiddled with the rusted iron gate into the
herbarium. He felt Adamson's penetrating gaze shining strong as his torchlight
into the shadows of the garden.
'See anything?'
'Quiet!*
Adamson
swung the torch suddenly over an expanse of rough grass that had once been a
croquet lawn. The iron gate opened with a long, grating cry, an unbearable
sound for Curthoys, worse than a fingernail on a blackboard. He stood aside and
Adamson strode ahead of him into the darkness. The sage lawn bounced under
their feet; the herbarium was an ancient walled garden, round and cosy as a
room.
It
was separated from the kitchen garden by a crumbling wall and a newer piece of
trellis. These two gardens alone had been tended and replenished. The mustard
and cress that Verity planted last Wednesday flourished beside old crocks of
marjoram and thyme.
'I
don't know what you expect to find/ said Curthoys. Adamson had gone off into
the kitchen garden now; he could see the torchlight sweep over rows of lettuce.
Curthoys pressed on, feeling his way past the gnarled rosemary bushes, until
he reached the door into the orchard. He had the distinct impression that
Adamson was coming to join him again when he saw torchlight on the other side
of the wall. Fellow charging on ahead, going his way round with never a thought for poor mortals who couldn't see in the
dark.
Curthoys opened the door and marched on
angrily into the orchard. It had definitely turned cold. He dug his hands into
the pockets of his Macduff and trudged through the trees. Something nagged at
him, zoomed briefly in and out of his consciousness like a mosquito. The sky
was quite light now. He had to hurry ...
light growing in the sky ... in the
distance a solitary cock heralded the dawn.
The
path ran uphill and Curthoys always stopped on the crest of the rise, beside an
old quince. As he looked out, this morning, he heard church beWs.Sunday morning... it added another dimension to his
excitement. What was that poem he had been trying to remember, it began at
dawn: 'My thirtieth year to heaven ...'
Long gone, long gone, even his fiftieth year to heaven. He was fifty-seven.
Best get on with it: visibility good, wind North North West, according to the
windsock over the hop-field, no coppers lurking in the back lane.
There
was a car coming ... Curthoys ran
eagerly down to the stile in the hedge, hoisted himself over and stood panting
by the side of the road. The old green Rover drew up and the driver leaned out
cheerfully.
'Fine day for it...!'
'Jenkinson!'
cried Curthoys in delight. T had an idea you'd be along ...'
There was a prolonged bleep. Brewster glanced
at the Professor in embarrassment then took out his communicator. The
laboratory was pleasantly warm; the computers purred in sleep. The two men sat
in a pool of light on the dais while the Professor slashed and scribbled at his
daughter's paper.
'What is it?' murmured
Brewster.
The urgent quacking aroused
the Professor.
'Repeat!'
said Brewster; 'What? Of course I'm recording. Adamson ...'
'Something wrong?' asked
the Professor.
Brewster held the
communicator away from his ear.
'No!'
he said. 'No. There's no question of malfunction. Come to the laboratory at
once. Adamson?'
There
was no reply; Adamson had switched off. Brewster, who had been on the verge of
telling Adamson to pull himself together, turned to the Professor with a
stunned look.
'Charles Curthoys has
disappeared!'
'You mean Adamson can't
find him?'
'He disappeared!' said Brewster. 'He
disappeared from sight! He vanished.' Professor Latham leaped to his feet with
a nervous laugh. 'What's this? Another hallucination?' 'Adamson?' .
'You can't seriously believe that Curthoys...'
'He disappeared in full
view of Adamson!' cried Brewster. 'I believe it. I must. He is incapable of
error. He has searched the area..."
The Professor snorted angrily and wandered
off down the lab.
'I
wish you would not insist on his infallibility!' he grumbled. 'Of course
malfunction is possible. If he's not capable of human error... then it's inhuman error.'
'He
was quite specific,' said Brewster. 'He sounded distraught.'
'Going
to pieces ...' said the Professor.
'No ... no, poor devil, I didn't mean
that.'
He fiddled absently with a dial then blurted
out:
'You
don't suppose his perception could have been tampered with? Influenced?'
'It's
possible,' said Brewster. 'Either that or something has "influenced"
Curthoys.'
'Where's
that boy?' demanded the Professor. That CIA snake in the grass. Grey, Grey... where's he?'
'With your daughter?' suggested Brewster.
'He should be here,' said the Old Man.
'Mounting a search.'
He
proceeded down the room, muttering, and switched on a bank of outside lights.
Brewster was caught off his guard. When the professor came abreast of the glass
doors he slid them apart suddenly and marched out into the garden.
'Curthoys?'
he gave an echoing shout. 'Charles? No time to play hide and seek!'
Instinctively Brewster sprang down the room
after him.
'No Sir! Stay here!'
The
Professor strode on along the broad path of an overhead light. He was heading
for a particular tree, his Talking Oak, that he had fitted with an intercom and
a garden seat to amuse Verity. He looked to right and left, half expecting
Curthoys to emerge from the encircling gloom, a bit dishevelled, with leaves
clinging to his overcoat. It was hardly the weather for a coat, he decided: a
balmy summer night without a hint of the rain that had been threatening. The
light, the moonlight, was extraordinarily bright; it silvered the tops of the
young trees and the formal garden beds. There was a smell of freshly turned
earth. He walked directly to the intersection of two gravelled paths and surveyed
the unblemished facade of Hewbry Hall.
Sidney
Latham took in his situation at once and knew that it was not a simple one. He
felt cross at first, and put upon; the fact that he had no recording device,
not even pen and paper, weighed heavily. He collected pebbles from the path,
fragments of grass, leaves, an acorn, and squirrelled them away in his pockets.
He became uncomfortably aware of his clothes for the first time in years:
ordinary gear, brown corduroy two-piece with a battle jacket. Old-fashioned
according to Verity... but not
old-fashioned enough.
He
stepped off the path into shadow as four horsemen rode in at the main gate;
their combined noise and bulk had the impact of a juggernaut. Harness clashed;
harsh accents cut the night air; an
answering shout went up from the hall. A groom led a saddled horse within a
metre of the tips of Professor Latham's synthetic suede boots. A faint
luminosity inside the hall ... how
could they read in such a light... resolved
into a blaze of torches on the steps.
Half
a dozen men and women came running up in the moonlight and stood at the very edge of the lawn. One old biddy
was wiping her hands on her apron. With a curious fluttering in his solar
plexus the Professor moved closer in the shadow. From the back of the little
group of servants he saw a man vault into the saddle of his ghostly
dapple-grey; then, to a burst of unintelligible cheering, the whole troop
wheeled and moved off at a noisy trot.
The
lawn began to clear and the Professor strolled as calmly as he could to a round
walk. He stared at the burnished face of the new sundial.
'Sir?'
He
looked at the two children warily.
The boy was younger than his sister and seemed to be wearing a nightshirt
under his cloak. The girl, about twelve, said in a polite tone something that
might have been:
'Are you Glenster's
chaplain?'
'No,' said the Professor,
firmly. T am a wandering scholar.'
The boy laughed out loud, presumably at his
voice arid accent, but his sister squeezed his hand. The boy said, trying to
make amends and still in barely intelligible English:
'M'fether's declared fer Crummle.'
The Professor laid a hand on the cold metal
of the sundial.
'For
Crummle?' he repeated. T wish him ...
er ... godspeed.'
A lucky hit. The children beamed. 'Sir ..' asked the girl suddenly. 'How far off are the sun and moon?'
All
three of them raised their eyes to the heavens; the Professor stared at the
moon, the virgin moon, with an acute sense of longing. Not even a camera to
record the position of the stars.
*Well now,' he said, 'the
moon is...'
He
looked down again at these two innocent faces and discovered for the first time
in his life a piece of knowledge which he dared not impart. The difficulties
that hedged him in were hardly scientific ...
social then? or psychological? He could not burden the children ... he could not, for the life of him, reel off the figures that
were on the tip of his tongue.
'The moon is much nearer than the sun,' he
temporized. 'Do you know the shape of the world?' 'It is a globe,' said the
boy. 'Orbis mundi.' 'Braggart!' snapped the girl.
The
moon is many thousands of miles away,' said Professor Latham. 'And some say ... some say that the sun is many millions
of miles distant.'
He
could not swear that they understood his speech. A woman began calling from the
front of the hall and as the children ran off across the new grass the
Professor experienced a slight dizziness, as if the earth were moving under
his feet.
Six
Verity had dozed off for a few minutes thinking of
the tree, how smooth the trunk had been, a pinkish brown column, before it
learned to differentiate. She heard footsteps in the courtyard, voices that
penetrated her light sleep. She sat up in alarm and went to the window. A powerful flashlight played over the old espalier
trees on the wall of the herbarium: Adamson and Charles Curthoys. She tried the
door of her room and was not surprised to find it locked. Where was Ed Grey?
What made him go along with Security and lock her door? She could not repress
a surge of panic: Adamson had been carrying a hatchet.
She
went round the room with slow dexterity; her clothes and equipment had been
stowed in five places. She went out hand over hand into the courtyard, then
reeled in the grapnel. The western gardens were dark; she had only one
difficult area to traverse - a sprint across the front of the hall. Now Verity
ran from tree to tree, touching the bark, unable to control her anxiety. Beside
the east wing she looked up, searching until she was quite sure of the
location, under the balcony. She stood still, among the leaves, catching her
breath. Are you there? Can you save yourself? There is a Security Alert... But the tree was gone.
Verity
stared up at the balcony, letting the seconds pass; she felt numb and foolish.
Her panic had gone; she experienced a distinct sense of anti-climax, as if she
had succeeded in proving some difficult proposition false instead of true. She
was self-conscious: she saw herself standing in the old garden in her absurd
green catsuit, hung with the accoutrements of a saboteur. A twig snapped,
there was a distinct groan... a heavy
body rustled the bushes close beside her.
Verity
could not move; the forces of gravity tugged at her ankles, her feet were
firmly planted ... a woman turning
into a tree.
'Are you there?'
She was hardly aware of
speaking the words aloud.
'Cold!'
said Ed Grey loudly in her ear. 'Sensation of cold. Is that you? Soles of the
feet sensitive, painful. Help me ... Ensnared
with flowers I fall on grass.'
Verity
could not move; the forces of gravity tugged at her spread.
'Ed...? Where are your clothes?'
'Voice
control is difficult.' It was a whisper. 'Is that you? You feel so warm.'
She
ran her hands deliberately over his shoulders, the strong neck muscles, the
features of his face and his hair, softer than she remembered, more like
squirrel fur. Verity-experienced the confirmation of her hypothesis.
'Shut your eyes,' she ordered. 'You're safe.
I'll help you.'
She
pulled the eyelids down and played her pencil flashlight over his face, which
was Ed Grey's face, and on down, over his whole body.
'I
can see you,' his eyelids fluttered. The pupils are contracting.'
'You
have done very well,' said Verity faintly. 'Where's Ed?'
'Unconscious. Two metres away behind a bush
with thorns.' 'Is he hurt?'
'His systems are functioning normally.'
'Stay where you are...'
'Wait!'
The
eyes were dark and glistening. She remembered how the squirrel learned to
differentiate, how the tips of its ears became darker.
'When
I stand close to you I feel sensations of warmth and pleasure. They come from a
region of the brain I am completing ...'
'The pituitary?' suggested Verity.
'I begin to understand your poetry much
better.'
She
disengaged herself gently and found Ed Grey lying in a foetal position behind a
rosebush. He had a bump on the head but his systems were functioning normally.
She found the magnum, the minicorder, the listening device; she shone the torch
on his flushed, childishly handsome face. Ed Grey was a security agent. Verity
could make nothing of his disloyalty. She removed his shoes, his socks and his
track suit in the cause of science.
She
had a sense of false haste, slow motion. It was very difficult to dress another
adult.
'We
have to hurry. Now the other foot. Security men ... the robot...
they're out after you...'
'Calm yourself.' He laid a hand on her head.
'Please!' said Verity. 'We don't have much
time.'
'Time? All that we need. The others have too
much.'
'What do you mean?'
'Imagine
a circle... Come, set me on a
comfortable path.' She led him through the trees.
'How shall we travel?' he
asked. 'Where shall we go?'
'We'll
take Brewster's Electra,' said Verity. 'I can fix the switches. We'll go to the
nearest Greenworld contact point andl'll get through to H.Q. Unless Adamson ...'
'Brewster
and Adamson are in the laboratory,' he said. They are marooned in the present.
They dare not come out.'
'But
my father and Charles Curthoys...
have you harmed them?'
'By no means. Trust me.
I'll explain presently.'
They
came out on to the undipped lawn beside the old sundial; the sky had been
overcast but now the cloud was lifting. A few stars were to be seen. He took
Verity's hands with that smooth control which characterized all his movements.
'Even
long lives are precarious,' he said. 'Yet we must come. We insist on these experiences.'
Verity
could only stare at him and touch his face. He began to speak more softly:
'My
Love is of a birth as rare As 'tis for object strange and high: It was begotten
by despair Upon impossibility.'
Seven
The Professor woke Curthoys at four-thirty with a cup of
tea. The two men were quite alone in the house; they were camping out in the
laboratory. Hewbry Hall was entirely given over to ghosts and shadows:
children, servants, Ed Grey in his underwear, Adamson rendered inarticulate.
'This was the day?'
inquired Latham.
'I'm
positive,' said Curthoys. 'It has been a long six weeks.'
He picked up a torch and nipped off,
half-dressed, to the bathroom. The lab generators were shut down; operations at
the hall had been suspended; the grants had not been renewed.
The Professor drank his own tea at the work
bench and listened to news broadcasts. 'Anything?'
"No, yes ... not on our project,' said the Old Man.
*Verity and her people are in the news. Their new leader...' 'Andrew Green.'
'Green
is flourishing unchecked,' said the Professor. 'Plastered all over the media.'
'Even
with the beard,' said Curthoys, 'he looks like Ed Grey.'
'Why
should we doubt that it is Ed Grey?' rapped the Professor. Infiltrating.
Turning his coat. Grey was given a bad time by his masters following that
alert. Where did he go from here?'
'He
flew home and dropped out,' said Curthoys. Tou know that Green is a different
proposition.'
'Green
is a will-o-the-wisp!' cried the Professor. 'A walking hypothesis ...'
He sighed.
T hope Verity is taking
careful notes.'
'Sidney... I'm certain there's no danger...'
'Don't
pester me, Charles!' the Old Man shook his head. 'My dilemma, insofar as I have
one, is very ancient. How would you like your daughter to cohabit with one?'
Time
was getting on; Curthoys checked the pockets of his Macduff and handed the
Professor a rucksack of spare clothing.
'You had no problems
refuelling the chopper?'
"None/
said the Professor. Surveillance is at a standstill. NSO have lost interest
since that monstrous shake-down.'
'Tore
the place to pieces,' agreed Curthoys. 'And there was poor Adamson .
They were both silent,
thinking of Adamson.
'Brewster
...?' asked the Old Man. 'Where did
you say again?'
'Working
a metal detector in the Channel tunnel,' said Curthoys heavily. 'The Dieppe
passenger terminal.'
They walked through the laboratory side by
side.
'Charles,'
said the Professor. T want you to know that I'm extremely grateful. You
withheld information ... made this
excursion possible.'
'It
was a subjective experience,' said Curthoys, pleased. T told them I lost some
hours. Suddenly found it was morning.'
'But you knew...'
Tes, I knew what day it was/ said Curthoys.
'And of course I made no mention of Jenkinson/
'Whoever it was.. / admitted the Professor.
'At any rate he was driving
to Littlemarsh/
The
Professor took from his pocket a wrinkled, blackened object that could have
been an acorn; he rolled it between his fingers.
'These
experiences...' said the Professor.
These apparent experiences ...'
'You've
never told me yours in any detail/ said Curthoys, wryly.
'I
believe there is something didactic ...
or do I mean hortatory... in each
one/
'Littlemarsh completes the
grid/ said Curthoys.
'With a slight adjustment/
'Any plans? If we do
anticipate?'
The Professor looked wildly at Curthoys.
'We
have nothing to lose!' he said. 'I am prepared to lie down at the very brink of
the pit ... to obtain a further
specimen/
He drew his eyebrows
together.
'How much this would have
interested Adamson/
They
shook hands in the vast, empty kitchen: Professor Latham set off up the back
stairs towards the helipad on the roof. He turned back.
'Positive about the day?'
'Quite
sure/ said Curthoys. 'I told you how it stuck in my mind/
'Of course. Happy Birthday,
Charles/
Curthoys
crossed the flagged courtyard and opened the squealing gate into the herbarium.
He took a zigzag path over the sage lawn and a wet tree-branch caught him full
in the face, raising his adrenalin. He opened the door and marched on angrily
into the orchard. It had definitely turned cold. He dug his hands into the
pockets of his Macduff and trudged through the trees. The sky was quite light
now. He had to hurry... light growing
in the sky... in the distance a
solitary cock heralded the dawn.
THE Z FACTOR
by
Ernest Hill
Eddie
Kale might be king of the dumping
ground that made democracy viable, a powerful and dangerous man in his own
world; but that millennia-old chromosome, inherited from a mother he had seen
flung onto the dead-cart, itched away at him demanding he fulGl a destiny never
hatched on this Earth.
THE Z FACTOR
One
Eddie Kale remembered the day he was bom as clearly as
yesterday. His mother had died in the street. A prostitute, of course. They had
all been prostitutes in Mapel Street in those days. There had been some sort of
a fight and he'd slipped into the world unnoticed whilst the mobs were loading
their casualties on to handcarts and wheeling them away. He remembered lying
among broken bottles on a wet sidewalk and a rough hand closing around him,
lifting him, swinging him in the air. The cart was there with his late mother
sprawled among the rest, her hair tousled and bloody and her legs hanging over
the tail-board. He no longer knew how it was the memory of the cart was still
with him nor how he had understood the voices that were part of the general
noise. A melody on the orchestration of the screams. He knew.
He
knew with the certainty of all those with the Z factor in their chromosomes.
The tall ones. The tall in stature and in intellect with antecedents not of
this world. The Priors. The dominant strain from the beginning of men's time on
earth. The strange ones who must lead, dominate or die. He knew even at this
moment of his birth that this was so. That he, muddied and blooded in the
gutter an arm's length from the dead-cart, carried in his blood-stream the Z
factor from the Prior race. That he, unique among the bearers of the Y's and
X's, was about to be extinguished. Tossed into the cart and wheeled away and
that with him the strain would die. The hand and the arm moved and he heard
again the woman's voice.
'It's Bertha's kid!
Bertha's popped her brat!'
'You want him?' the man
with the big hand had asked.
'Who?
- Me? What would I want with Bertha's brat? Got a room-full as it is.'
And then that other voice. Softer than the
rest. Different in tone and volume. Gentle even. But how had the gentle voice
survived in the wilderness that was Mapel Street? Among the taunts and howls
and bawling threats of mutual vengeance. The clubs, the bottles and the guns.
'Give him to me. I'll take
care of him.'
He
had never known who the woman was in those early days who had washed and fed
and cared for him. Women had not lived long in Mapel Street in the
twenty-fifties, nor men either. Had she also been a Prior, a bearer of the chromosome?
How many Priors had there been at any one time anywhere? With him the strain
would have died perhaps because it would have died with her also. Perhaps there
had never been more than one in any
generation anywhere in the world. Had she, a Mapel Street prostitute, known
herself, for all the squalor of her life, unique? Sensed, as a Prior must do,
that he, Ed Kale, was of her kind and needed life? Her care for a short while.
Cared for until he was old enough to steal, to fight, to bludgeon his way to
the top of any society in which an
accident of birth had brought him?
She
had gone, the first kind, gentle woman and there had been others after her. Fat
and noisy, smelling of sweat and dirt, plying their trade for food and drink
and drugs. Dying in the gutters, beaten down in the gang fights for territory,
dying of anything, almost, except old age.
It
had been like that in Downtown London in those days. Anarchy. Mob against mob.
Gang against gang. Until he had grown to manhood and taken charge. It was said
now that gangland London was better organized than its law-abiding counterpart
across the Thames, the great automated mass-producing goose that laid the
golden eggs. Banishing its misfits, its unemployed and unemployable, its
unwanted sons to that other world across the river. Paying its tribute as the price
of peace and waste-disposal of its human garbage.
In
the old days, undisciplined mobs had been content with small, sporadic raids
across the bridges, led by men whose heads were thicker than their cudgels.
Looting the less prosperous, less well defended areas, short of arms, short of
ammunition, short of everything but lice and vermin; scampering home when the
Fuzz appeared in strength. No unity. No organization. No strong hand at the helm, wielding undisputed power. No
one of the stature, mental and physical, rising from the blue-print of the
Prior chromosome. Himself.
'I'm king of the
underworld!' he said.
The
girl on the couch yawned, and, reaching up, pulled at a strip of wall-paper,
hanging, yellowed and mildewed above her head. It peeled downwards, the plaster
adhering, leaving a patch of dusty concrete the size and shape of a man's
chest.
'So what?' she asked.
He
swung to the couch and lifted her with one hand bodily by the nape of her
smock. He thrust his beard against her face until all she could see of him was
his deep-set eyes and the high arch of his thick-matted, jet-black brows.
Tm king of the underworld!' he whispered.
'O.K.!'
she said, 'O.K.! O.K.! O.K.! So who's saying you're not? What you want me to do
- cheer?'
He
tossed her down on to the palliasse and stood, hands on hips, staring at her moodily, pleased at her easy composure
and lack of fear of him. She was a China-doll girl and yet the pink and white
of her was moulded sharp and positive along the jaw and the prim lines at her lips' ends were etched more by
severity than by smiles. She was small-breasted, short and slight, would have
passed unnoticed in a crowd, but very decidedly, she was his girl. He turned
and rested his elbows on the window ledge staring out through the broken panes
over the crumbling sprawl of the downtown city below.
Tm bored,' he said.
'Yeah - aren't we all?'
'I'm
boss,' he said. Tm the uncrowned head
of all gangland south-London slums. Look at my empire! I hold the entire
law-abiding north to ransom. I keep my vassals this side of the water and the
clean-faced, faceless bastards over there pay me tribute. Danegeld, that's what
they pay me. And every ragged oaf in every mob is paid by me. More than they
ever got by honest thieving and crooked murder before I took the job in hand.
I'm boss, I tell you! I'm king! - But, Sal - it's not enough. It's small. It's
mean. It's dirty. I want out, Sally Blunt! I want far away, far-off bigger things than this.'
He
heard her laugh, low, soft, like a cat chuckling as it purred.
'Cross the bridges,' she said, 'and they'd
have your balls for breakfast. They're them and we're us. You've enough to do
here, come the next palace revolution, the small-pox or the plague.'
'The
plague can take the lot of them,' he growled. 'There's something out there -
over there. Something I have to do -somewhere I have to go to.'
'Why?' she asked.
'Because I'm a Prior!'
'Oh my God!' she yawned. 'Not that again.
Come you got to kill someone. Come you're bored. Why? Because you're a Prior.
What's a Prior? What is all this Prior business anyway?'
He
wanted to tell her. He had never before tried to explain to anyone what only
he and a handful of geneticists knew about himself and the giants of history
and the human race. The origins of mankind. Moses, Alexander, Charlemagne,
Genghis Khan, Henry VIII, Attila the Hun. The refracted chromosome, dominant
with tiny stature - Hitler and Napoleon. The two divergent strains, the warrior
and the meek and - dotted here and there in every age, the restless, alien
Priors.
'It's like dogs,' he told
her. 'You know about dogs?'
He
leaned back against the window, turning the ball of his great, hairy fist in
the horned palm of his hand, biting at the upturned tufts of his beard.
'What about dogs?'
'What
we call a dog evolved from the two different species - the jackal and the wolf.
They were quite unlike to start with; but in the end they became just dogs and
unless you knew what to look for, you couldn't tell them apart. The chow came
from the jackal, the collie came from the wolf.'
'Just
fancy! And what's that got to do with the rest of us? You came from a big hairy
gorilla called Rastus and I came from a Persian cat?'
'It's
got this to do with it. We, the human race, or, rather -you, the human race, -
are just like the dogs. Everyone we now call people started off as two quite
different things. The origins are still there in the genes. About a million
years ago it was. Out of the basic stem, two quite separate primates evolved.
One was a fierce, weapon bearing carnivore whilst
the
other was herbivorous, peaceable and got along quietly on his own.
Australopithecus and Zijanthropus. We've got them now all over the world. The
toughies and the mildies. Fortunately for the world, there's a lot more mildies
- the Y chromosome. 99 per cent of the world would never go to war
if the 1 per
cent factor didn't lead them on to it. If you want to know which is which, spit
in a man's eye and you'll find out. The X factor will kick you in the crotch
and the Y will take out a clean white handkerchief, wish you good afternoon and
call the Fuzz. The wolf and the jackal. Man and the otherman.'
'You
don't say!' she asked. 'And which are you? A jackal or a wolf?'
'Neither!'
He brought his fist and palm together with a crack like breaking bones. 'I am
what I am. At the time when both breeds of hominid were still half ape, the
Priors came. Five men only. The Z factor in their chromosomes. One single ship,
lost on its way among the stars. Four died on landing. One only survived. They
worshipped him as God. He interbred and in the end he died. But all the Gods in
all the world, all man's ideas of God, stem from that one stranger from
another, different place.'
'What place?' she asked.
'Out
there!' he gestured wearily over the grey, smoke-laden sky. 'Somewhere out
there. I know the place. Every Prior must know the place. At least, he must
know there is a place. There is no direction in a world than turns and a sun
that moves. It's there somewhere and not so very far away. We shall know it when the time comes.'
'A
million years, you said?' She yawned, but there was a glimmer of interest in
her eyes. 'How little oaks from mighty acorns grow! Your oak seems a long time
hatching.'
He
threw himself down in a brown upholstered chair, the springs and canvas tape
protruding through the slits. Head thrown back, he stared at her with his deep, black, eyes.
'The Z factor is eternal,'
he said at last.
'How
many of you are there? And do they all look like you? God help them in their
hour of need.'
'There
was one Prior among ten million hominids. Once the proportion may have been the
same. Now, the strain is refracted, pure Priors come once in every generation at the most. Yes - they are like me. They
must master or they die.'
S-NWSF29-C 40
'Sounds like you need your chromosome right
now.' Would that be another revolution down below or have the Martians landed?'
Two
She joined him at
the window as the first shots rang out and puffs of concrete perwizzed from the
walls and the last pane of glass shattered. The street below was filling from
either end with two mobs having contrary objectives, whilst from the side
alleys reinforcements joined whichever side happened to be passing at the time. Others, caught between the
front lines, formed a third force of their own until it was impossible to tell
which of the three was gaining the upper hand and less still, the direction in
which any one at a given time was moving.
'Mayhem,' she said. 'Just
like the old days.'
'Here they come!'
A
group, breaking away from the main battleground headed for the block, the
leader holding a sub-machine gun by the barrel and whirling it around his head
like a copter at speed.
'Who's that?' Kale said.
'Do we know him?'
She
lifted a rifle down from a nail in the wall and, sighting it along the window
ledge, picked off three members of the party before they gained the entrance
and passed out of sight into the building.
'No.'
She shook her head. Tommy Murduck'll be behind it whoever they are. Tommy's
been wanting a go at the imperial
crown for some time now. Ever since he started to fancy me as imperial queen.
'Shall
I blast them when they come in or do you want them all to yourself?"
'I'll
take them,' he ordered. 'I've a liking for bare hands when it comes to mutiny.'
'Well,
go easy on the heroics," she said. T don't want you dead. I never did
fancy Murduck and its me he wants. That thick lip of his gets an erection every
time he looks at me.'
The
door burst open and the four survivors of the raiding party exploded into the
room behind their leader, now with the machine gun under his arm and his finger
on the trigger.
'Right, Kale!' he shouted. 'This is for you,
boy!' He raised the barrel.
'With
that thing?' Kale laughed. 'Just try it! Look at the safety catch, Mac!'
The
gun-toter dropped his eyes only for a second but it was long enough. The knife
whistled and caught him in the throat. Before he could fall, Eddie Kale had
charged, lifted him bodily as a battering ram and swept the other three against
the wall. Two heads smashed together. The third man, falling, was kicked
senseless before he could touch the ground. One by one, he carried them to the
window and pitched them into the milling crowd below. There was suddenly complete
silence as the opposing sides backed away, faces upturned towards the great
bearded figure now straddling the sill and presenting himself as a target for
anyone with the courage left to try his luck.
'Good old Eddie!' someone
shouted.
One
or two more took up the cry and soon they were all chanting the same slogan.
Waving their cudgels and assorted weaponry they began to disperse. Backwards at first, like subjects leaving the
presence of their king and then breaking into groups and disappearing up the side-alleys
from whence they had come. In ten minutes the street was peaceable and
deserted. Only an occasional cry rose from bands reforming in yards and courts
behind distant walls to re-tell and re-live the excitement of the short-lived
revolution.
'Good old Eddie!' the
voices echoed.
A
moan or a scream or two from the
wounded left lying on the side-walks and then the comforting sound of
organization and order returning. The crunching wheels of the dead carts, the
cheerful voices of the attendants, Ed's own private army come tidying the
streets and wheeling the human garbage away for emptying in the Thames.
'The
fun's over.' She uncorked a bottle of Scotch and poured a good measure into two
tumblers extracted from a pile of dishes in the sink. 'I'd slit Tommy Murduck's
throat for this."
'Yep,'
he agreed. 'You're right about Tom. But I need him. He's a good X chrom type.
Notice he never showed his face although he'd stirred them all up behind the
scenes? That's the good old 2ist century
australopithecine. He's good executive material and he'll do as he's told as
long as I'm firmly in the saddle.'
'What
about me when you're not in the saddle?' she wanted to know.
He
put his hands on her shoulders and ran his thumbs along the line of her jaw,
smooth and straight above a long and slender neck. He slipped a finger over the
pursed lips and tickled the upturned snub of her nose.
'I'll
be around for a while yet,' he promised her. 'And if they wheel me away one
day, you're a good X chrom yourself. I wouldn't be in Tommy Murduck's shoes if
you took to the small of his back for a target.'
Tommy
Murduck was there in the doorway, short and squat, a Tommygun slung over his
left shoulder and the stub of a cigar in his mouth. There was, Eddie noticed, a
certain erect quality about his lip, tilting the cigar butt upwards like a
chimpanzee dubiously exploring an under-ripe banana.
'You O.K. then, boss?
That's fine. Just fine.'
'I've
got a mind,' Eddie said. 'I've got a mind to take that shooting piece and wrap
it three times round your fat little
neck.'
'But you ain't going to,' Tommy told him,
sitting himself in a basket chair by the door and taking the gun carefully from
his shoulder, barrel first, to avoid suspicion. 'Because beating me up won't do
no more than let off your steam. And without me, who've you got to hold the
fort any time you like to take a trip out into the great big world across the
water?'
Eddie
sat at the table, facing him, turning
his glass thoughtfully in his hand. He felt Sal's fingers on his shoulder and,
without looking up, he raised his free hand and held them by the tips.
'When
would I be wanting to take a trip into the great big world?'
'I
dunno,' Tommy's eyes were sleepy under their thick, heavy lids. They were
indeterminate eyes, he noticed, the whites yellowish and merging with the
veined green of the iris. They seemed permanently averted and out of focus.
'What's on your mind?' he
asked sharply.
'He's
up to something, Eddie,' she whispered. 'Slit his damn throat for him before it
hatches.'
'1 thought,' Tommy said, wearily, as if addressing a point on the floor
half-way between them. 'I thought you might be taking up the challenge. Of
course, you're quite right not to, if it's right you're not, but, knowing you,
I thought it was likely in your line of country as you might say.'
'Shut
up Tommy!' He felt her fingers tighten in his hand. You're heading for
trouble!'
'What challenge is this?'
'Don't
tell him!' she said. He knew, when she withdrew her hand sharply, she was going
for the holster strapped to her thigh and he caught her wrist in time.
'Go on. Tommy,' he said.
'Of
course, you don't read the papers, do you?' Tom withdrew his cigar and stubbed
it carefully on the arm of the chair, 'You wouldn't know about this flight to
Barnard's Star?'
'Barnard's
Star!' he repeated sharply. There was something stirring inside him. A
yearning. The cold ice of moonlight on a river. A woman - the shape of a woman
somewhere among the trees. A great void with no end but the distant shimmering
of a single light.
'I
warn you. Tommy!' Sal breathed. 'I'll kill you if you say a word more.'
Tommy
Murduck ran a finger around the folds of his neck where they spread over the
collar of his old khaki jacket. He lifted his head and his eyes looked in their
direction; but still opaque, moist and out of focus.
'The
trouble with you, Ed, is,' he said, 'you've got too soft a spot for women. Do
you want to know about Barnard's Star, or is Sal the boss here? She's got a lot
to say for herself, has Sal.'
Eddie
lunged across the room and swung him from the chair with both hands grasping
the lapels of his coat. Thumping him against the wall, he held him, his short
legs dangling a foot above the floor.
'Anyone's
boss I say is boss,' he said. 'And if Sal wants to carve you up, Sal can carve
you. No one spikes at Sal while I'm
still breathing.'
'O.K.,'
Murduck gasped. 'O.K. - so I'll be going. You don't want to know. I thought you
did, that's all.'
'Tell
me!' he said, throwing him back into the chair and turning in time to take the
gun from Sal and return it to her holster. 'Barnard's Star. What about it?'
'It's in all the up-town papers. Six month's
count-down from the launch pad on the Lueneberger Heath. The first flight out
of the solar system. They've broken the light barrier, whatever that means.
And there's a planet they've located. They're going there.'
'So what? - They asking for
volunteers?'
*No.
No. Nothing like that. They've got a crew. All scientists and that. It's the
thing that's going with them.'
'What thing?'
'Well, they don't know what they're going to
find when they get there, do they? Might be anything - bug-eyed monsters or
dinosaurs. So they've built this thing to protect them. Whatever it is they run
up against, this Warrior thing will fix it.'
'Warrior thing?'
Tou
blasted slug!' Sal whispered, throwing herself down on to the couch. 'You've
done it now!"
'You
knew about this, Sal? What is it? What's a flight to Barnard's Star got to do
with me? What's this about a War-riorf
'He'll tell you/ she
sighed.
'O.K./ he ordered. 'Carry
on talking!'
'Well/
Murduck coughed and spat towards the fireplace. That's where the challenge
comes in. It's a sort of Public Relations exercise - getting the world in on
the act to show how good they are. They've built this thing they say is a match
for anything or anyone alive. And just to prove it, they've put out this
challenge. Meet the Warrior, either with weapons, in which case it will use its
own arsenal, or without when it'll be just bare hands, man against machine.
Its strength and cunning against yours. Anyone who can beat the Warrior's got a
free trip to Barnard's Star.'
Tou
don't say!' He turned to the window and, resting his hands on the sill, looked
out at the darkening sky. A few stars glimmered through the haze.
'You
can go now/ she said, wearily. "You've said your piece. Nothing will stop
him now/
'You did want to know,
boss? I did right to tell you?'
He
slipped a knife out from the sheath strapped to the inside of his left arm. He
balanced the point thoughtfully on the palm of his hand.
'Yes/ he said. 'You did right, Tom. But if I
go. If I take up this challenge that's Sal so sure I'm going to, I shall come
back when I've fixed their Warrior for them and taken them to their star and
back. And when I come back, anyone who hasn't been nice to Sal is going to die
very slowly, a slice at a time. You won't get any
ideas, Tom, will you?'
He
pushed him through the door and, tossing the gun casually for him to catch,
turned his back and walked to the couch.
'You'll do that act once too often,' she
warned as Mur-duck returned the weapon to his shoulder and disappeared down the
stairs.
'Tom?'
he asked. 'No. He's quite sure this Warrior will kill me, he won't take a
chance himself.'
'So it will,' she sighed.
Tell me! You seem to know
all about it.'
'Yes,
I know. I read the papers now and then. It's been hitting the headlines for
some time, diagrams and pictures and all. It's like a spider, about the height
of a man, they say. Apparently a spider is better designed for combat than we
are. Nicely balanced body and the head central instead of vulnerable on the top
where anyone can cave it in. It's supposed to be quite impregnable, can see
forwards and backwards, pick up a scent quicker than a bloodhound. It runs
faster than a cheetah on four or six legs or it can stand on two and fight with
the other six. Added to all that, it can fire every micro missile known to
man.'
'Interesting,' he murmured.
'Quite a little one-man army.'
'But
don't be a fool, Eddie. They're not really expecting anyone to take it on -
it's only a publicity stunt. So the public will know their money's being well
spent. If you answered that challenge, they'd laugh their silly heads off. If
the Warrior wins and kills you, they're well rid of you anyway; and if by any
chance it didn't, they'd never let you go back. You're king of the Underworld -
you said so yourself.'
'I could do a deal.'
She laughed her husky,
musical laugh.
'Eddie,
for a king with a - what was it? - Z factor, you're a maddening romantic. Do
you think they'd ever keep a deal with you?'
'Yes,' he considered. They would. You forget,
Sal, what
I've
done for them. They've got the underworld anyway and they wouldn't be without
it. What would their nice civilized society be like without ours to take their
misfits, their cripples, their mental defectives, their angry young men? They
drive them over the bridges and leave them to us. They're well rid of them.
It's easy and it's cheap and it's tidy. But it only works so long as there is a
somewhere and a someone like me at
the top to keep the other world in its ghetto. Why do you think they pay me
tribute? It's money well spent from their point of view. They could bomb and
bum us out if they wanted to, but they don't. This way, they've got democracy.
A free society. Anyone can opt in or out. To have democracy, you have to have
somewhere to opt to. I give them that.'
'O.K.,'
she sighed. 'You're going. Iknew you
would, if you found out it was on. You can't help yourself. But when you go,
Eddie - come back to me.'
'Sal.'
He sat and took her gently in his arms. You care. You really care that I come
back.'
'And
you,' she nodded. 'The man-killer of the underworld. You care that I care.'
Her
voice, he thought was very like that of the woman who had taken him in from the
dead-cart, low-strung, husky, soft and coolly competent. He had never heard
Sal's voice so soft before.
Three
Larry Hawksworth,
the publicity officer, stood as near to attention as his corpulent forty-five
satin-suited years would allow. There was a vacant steel chair beside him in
front of the wide, polished, steel desk, but the polished steel gaze of the
general ist class (Operations), Combined European Space Agency, did not invite
him to use it. The general, although seated behind the desk, was buttoned very
much to attention. He glittered and bristled. Every hair of his grizzled,
up-curled, crisp moustache was spiculated straight as a regiment of Potsdam
guardsmen on parade. His right eyebrow was cocked to the peak of his
gold-braided hat. Short in stature, general ist class Gluttenburg specialized
inkeepingtallersubordinates toattention.Thetaller they were, the longer they stood
and the very much happier it made him.
'Dummkopf!' the general
shouted.
'It's
not so dumb really, sir. The situation is, I admit, somewhat unexpected; but
properly exploited, it can turn out very much to our advantage.'
T
have here the business to run, the space agency to control. I have not the
gimmicks to make. A circus it is you wollen daraus machen. Mein lieber Gott! I
could have you for this shot. Against a wall. Shot! Shot! Tot geschossen!'
'But
sir, you did approve the project before we published. None of us were to kiiow...'
'It
is to know for which you are paid, mein Herr! Was wollen Sie? Dass ich mein
thinking allein do? Publicize you said! Tell the world! Here we have the
Warrior, nicht wahr? Eine Herausforderung! A - a - what you call a challenge,
you say. No man will the challenge up-take you say. We throw the gauntlet and
wir lachen, nicht? Ha! Ha! Ha! So wir lachen. And was ist nun? There comes this
man. He will fight rait our Warrior. A gladiator, nicht wahr? It is to kill one
foolish man we build the" greatest Warrior on earth? It is for this we
shall be loved by alle Nationen der Welt?'
'If
you feel that way, sir, it's not too late to call the whole thing off."
'It
is much too late.' Larry Hawksworth had hardly noticed the grey figure of Sven
Petersen, stiffly erect by the window, looking out onto a skyline dominated by
the outline of Icarus II. He should have noticed. Sven was political liaison
officer and in his own quiet way much more dangerous than the general, who
bellowed more because it was expected of high-ranking Teutons than because of
any built-in bellicosity.
'You think so, sir?'
T
know so. Both the New York and English state governments wish the
confrontation to take place. They consider Eddie Kale potentially dangerous and
therefore expendable.'
'Well, surely, sir, we
shall be doing them a service?'
The
E.S.A. is not an executioner for petty state administrations.'
'Nein,
mein Gott!' the general exploded. "We did hot the Warrior develop as a
kleiner Wachmeister, a terrestrial pol-izist. When he this man kills, alle
governments will want
Warriors
for themselves. Our technology is not for so petty ends developed.'
'He's
right, of course,' Larry considered. 'Even making allowances for the German
desire to outdo all other nations in the art either of war or the humanities,
the general's not such a bad old Hun. He just simply doesn't want anyone
killed. Not even this thug Kale.'
'What would you like me to
do, then sir?'
'Sit
down, Larry/ the general relented. 'Setzen Sie sich. You must the challenge
arrange to happen as you advertise. Invite the visitors, spectators arrange,
wie vorgesehen wurde. The wood, the forest, the Warrior at one end and this Ed
Kale the other. But first you speak to Ed Kale. You tell him he cannot against
the Warrior triumph. Tell him that wenn auch he lives, the polizei there will
be. They will not let him go back/
T
think, sir, Eddie foresaw that difficulty. He's taken a hostage. An English
diplomat. I am afraid that, should he
survive the Warrior, we are committed to take him to Barnard's Star/
'Gott, mein Gott!'
Thiswas a very foolish idea
of yours,Larry Hawksworth.'
*Not
really, sir. There's no chance of anyone surviving once the Warrior is told to
kill.'
'And
the press and the heads of the state government sit around the arena sucking
their thumbs whilst the gladiators fight it out? Very edifying. I sometimes
think the only outposts of civilization left in Europe are the military
establishments. You had better make the arrangements. I will need an article
of Eddie Kale's clothing or some object he has touched to programme the scent.
If we let the Warrior loose, he must know exactly which man he has to kill and
no other. We can't have him confusing the spectators with the quarry. Does Kale
intend to meet him with or without weapons?'
'Without, I understand,
sir.'
"Very well. We'll play fair with him. If
he carries no weapon, the Warrior will not use its armoury. But since it really
is invulnerable, I agree with the general. If you can dissuade this curious
man, I wish you to do so.'
'I'm
afraid there's not a hope, sir. He's quite made up his mind/
Then you must arrange for the contest and a suitable venue next month.'
A month to the day saw Eddie Kale completing
his inspection of the battleground. Open heath, a wood about 500 metres square, a river twenty metres wide and three deep running across
the south-western corner. The whole enclosed by a high chain-link fence supported by concrete posts. The fence, he
concluded, was more to mark out the area than to confine the contestants. They
would be expected to concentrate on the elimination of each other rather than
on exploring means of escape. He was impressed with the E.S.A., his first
contact with the outside world on its own ground. He had expected some attempt at a double-cross
as a matter of course, eminent hostage notwithstanding. But the tall, dapper
man with the broad waistcoat, Larry Hawksworth, had done his very best to
dissuade him from the contest, had tried to convince him that the Warrior was
invulnerable and had finally supplied him with a map of the area. The map, to his astonishment, proved accurate in every
detail. The E.S.A. were playing fair with him and even wanted him to withdraw.
Their fairness had had the opposite effect to that intended. Suspecting that
the state governments themselves and their law-enforcement officers would never
have shown the same concern for his well-being and safety, he was more than
ever determined to dispose of the Warrior and earn his place as a member of the E.S.A. by right of conquest and insist on his inclusion in
the mission to Barnard's Star.
The
thought of failure never occurred to him. This was the peculiar manifestation
of the Z factor directing force. A Prior usually succeeds because he is
convinced of success from the outset. There is a massive build-up of psychic
force and plasma associated with utter conviction in any man. The psychic force
cannot assure success or provide invulnerability in battle; but it goes a long
way towards it. The converse is even more true. With utter conviction, you may
not succeed but, haunted by the fear of failure, you most patently will not.
Eddie Kale allowed himself no further scruple than a twinge of excitement at the thought of the next day's battle, the
disposal of the Warrior and his welcome as a worthy member of the space team.
The next day dawned and with the dawn, the
assembled dignitaries took their seats on the tribunes outside the perimeter
fence, the news men undipped their recording pads and the camera crews, taking
advantage of a lead-in framing the rising of an overlarge red sun through a
causeway of streaked apocalyptical black clouds, panned down on to the opening
of the drama, man against machine.
Eddie
Kale, stripped to the waist, was led in at
the western end and the Warrior through a gate in in the east. The Warrior was
mean, ugly and black, very light on its four foot long, triple-jointed legs. It
had the advantage of the wind in its favour and the sun behind it. Its antennae
could pick up the scent of a man at a range of five kilometres under ideal
conditions. Today the conditions were ideal. Eddie Kale had only the Z factor
and the peculiar psychic other-dimension that differentiates man from machine,
not always to the man's advantage.
A
confrontation in fact between the logical and the supra-logical. Had Eddie Kale
possessed the logic of the Warrior and no more than that, he would have
realized that the odds were insuperably against him and withdrawn from the contest.
So also would any man with an australopithecine X factor in his chromosome.
Only the Z factor is utterly indomitable. Eddie Kale began moving swiftly up
wind as the Warrior set off in his direction.
They
circled each other for some time, the
Warrior relying on the particle detectors in its antennae, the long range of
the multi-directional eyes in its head and, periscope fashion, the single
optics in its claws, each capable of being raised to a height of eight feet,
clearing the scrub and bushes on the heath. Eddie, manoeuvring carefully, kept
an eye on his adversary by climbing an occasional tree.
It
was the tree climbing that in the end gave him an idea. He could not continue
to evade the Warrior until its batteries ran down. It was unlikely he could
master it in open country; but up a tree, the odds should be heavily reversed
in his favour. He found himself a long log, light and strong enough for use as
a weapon and then, climbing the bole of an oak tree, settled himself in a fork
of its branches a good ten feet from the ground to await developments.
The
Warrior was not long in arriving. It stopped twenty feet from the oak tree and
began circling it cautiously.
'If I can break its antennae at the first
blow/ Eddie thought. 'It will have trouble locating me at a distance.'
The
Warrior moved in, extending claws from each of its eight feet. Swinging its
forelegs around the trunk, it began to climb. At the same time, as if sensing
their vulnerability, it retracted its antennae. As it came within reach, Eddie
brought the log down heavily on its head. It hung where it was for a moment,
whilst Eddie, wielding his cudgel, continued to pound. A gasp went up from
that part of the audience lucky enough to have a view of the right sector,
whilst the camera teams came running and driving their vehicles from all sides
to be in at what appeared to be
imminently the death of one or other of the contestants.
The
Warrior took the pounding silently and without relaxing its grip on the tree.
Then it began inching upwards and, at
the right moment, struck out with one leg, a blow which Eddie, in the
restricted space between the branches, was only just able to parry. He too
began climbing higher. The Warrior struck again and this time Eddie was able to
bring his weapon down on its extremity almost certainly shattering one of its
peripheral eyes. Apart from this one success, the legend of the Warrior's
invulnerability seemed well founded. The beating on its head had not even
dented the metal and it seemed to have had no effect at all on its performance.
It
had one leg hooked now over the first of the lower branches and was pulling
itself upwards. Eddie could risk time for one blow only which seemed to flatten
the claws slightly before climbing higher out of reach of the next attack.
'Never
thought the bastard could climb like this/ he thought. The idea of taking to
the trees had been a bad one. He was now trapped too high above the ground to
risk jumping and dislocating a limb or at
least spraining an ankle. The Warrior below him was climbing with all its eight
legs and watching him with the glow of its eyes behind the slits in its
skull-circling grille.
Til
beat you yet/ he said. 'I have the chromosome. I can think, reason ahead of
you. There's always a way.'
The
Warrior said nothing but its eyes glowed brighter. One of its extremities
flicked up and missed Eddie's foot by an inch, carving a deep V channel around
the branch.
'Think! Think! Think!' he whispered. There
must be something I can do that bastard can't.'
He
bent forward and brought his log down once more on the upturned head but this
time a limb closed around it and wrenched the weapon from his grasp. It was
waved once or twice exploratively whilst the Warrior considered the implications
of its possession. Eddie climbed rapidly higher. The log would give the Warrior
an added three feet reach once it had perfected the technique of weapon usage.
It was the swaying of the branch that
gave him the idea. The Warrior was considerably heavier than he. If he climbed
out along the branch above the one on which the Warrior was now settled, it
might not be aware of its own weight and follow him outwards. He crawled along
as far as he could and then, standing
and jumping for the branch above, he swung himself outwards hand over hand. He
realized then that this was his last possible ploy. If the Warrior ventured
only as far as the branch would bear
its weight, it could either wait until he tired and fell or club him down with
his own weapon. Having swung out as far as
he dared, there was nothing further
he could do but dangle and await developments.
The
Warrior followed him along the lower branch, its seven feet curled sloth-like
around the timber, the eighth holding the club. The branch began bending
downwards away from him encouraging the Warrior to move further outwards still,
whilst the green wood bent further downwards ...
As if realizing that it was now or never since the outward movement was offset
by the downwards bend, the Warrior stopped and swung its club, in range now
with the dangling figure above. It was almost the end. The log whistled in a
wide arc and then, a moment before impact, the branch broke with a loud rending
sound and swung inwards against the trunk. The Warrior maintained its grip
although its head took the full impact and for a few seconds it hung until the
heel of the branch peeled away, slivered and crashed to the ground.
A
low rumble of cheering broke from across the perimeter fence as Eddie worked
his way back to the trunk and climbed down. The Warrior was lying on its head,
its eight legs stretched upwards, bending occasionally at the joints, rubbing its feet slowly together in pairs Like a
fly. It was not yet dead if a term so anthropomorphic could have been applied
to its workings. Even as he picked up the log and began to hammer at its central body, four of its legs
curled over against the ground and it struggled like an upturned beetle to
right itself. Paying no attention at
all to his efforts, it finally succeeded, rolled over and, whilst seven of its
legs appeared to be exploring and feeling itself for damage, the eighth flashed
upwards, curled around the log and twitched it from his hand with a jerk that
nearly dislocated his shoulder. He jumped back in time and the thing was
coming for him again, two forelegs extended like a lobster. He dodged first
behind the tree and then made for the open country and the river. The Warrior
followed but it was noticeably slower in its movements. He now had the great
advantage that he was quicker and could outrun it. Although this gave him a
better chance of survival, it brought him no nearer to its destruction. So far the Warrior had lived up to the legend of its indestructibility,
if not of its absolute omnipotence.
Eddie
thought swiftly as he made for the river. Its makers would have ensured that it
was able to operate in all weathers but its manhandling might well have broken
some essential seal or joint and affected its water-proofing. He dived into the
slow-moving, black water and swam to the farther bank. The Warrior followed
and, without hesitation, disappeared beneath the surface. Eddie moved slowly upstream,
watching and waiting. Minutes passed.
Five. Ten. A shout went up from the crowd.
'He's won! He's won! He's
beaten the Warrior!'
It
seemed they were right ... Nothing
stirred on the muddy, scum-crested water. Not an eddy. Not a ripple. The sun
came out from behind the clouds and a light wind blew across the heath. It had succumbed. Either it had sunk in the silt
of the river bottom, or it had ceased to function, its intricate relays put out
of action by the seeping-in of the water.
He
turned and began to climb the bank. He clasped his hands above his head like a
victorious boxer. The crowd roared. The camera crews came jolting down the
heather-lined, sand-rutted track and somewhere in the distance a brass band
began to play. He did not see the ripple in the water behind him, the flash of
a metal leg like the tentacle of an octopus. He saw and heard nothing but the
band and the cheers and the sunlight on the heat-hazed heath until a clawed
foot seized hold of his ankle and pulled him back towards the river.
Four
It
was a combination of
both the inherited Z factor and the environmental effect of his early training
in the Mapel Street battles that made him fight now with a cold and contemptuous
fury, refusing to consider for one moment the possibility of defeat. He somersaulted
forward towards the river in the opposite direction to that which the Warrior
would have expected, came up with his shoulder under the member and thrust
upwards. The claws came apart, tearing the flesh of his leg and ankle but he
hardly felt the pain in his struggle to uncoil its new loop around his neck and
to dodge the second leg that lifted out of the water like a long-necked
dinosaur.
There
was some lack of co-ordination between the members as he ducked under the
second limb, struck up at the first just as it was tightening to choke him and,
as the two tentacles struck and scraped together, it momentarily loosened its
grip. He dived free and made for the top of the bank. The Warrior rose out of
the stream and followed. He was now between the river and the perimeter fence,
cornered with the Warrior cutting off any escape back to the open country where
his superior speed might save him. There was nothing for it but to climb the
fence. There had been nothing in the rules to say that this would bring disqualification.
In fact there had been no rules at all. The organizers had assumed that the
Warrior would, in a matter of minutes, catch and kill him and that would be that. What instructions
had they given to the Warrior? Apparently none either in respect of the fence,
because he was scarcely over when it began climbing in pursuit.
A
great shout went up from the crowd as it straddled the wire at the top and came, four legs at a time, down the outside. The idea
occurred to Eddie that if he could lose himself among the spectators, it might
confuse the Warrior in the same way that a fox will put off the hounds by weaving
through a flock of sheep. This was easier said than done, since the crowd, with
no means of knowing how discriminating the Warrior might be, were taking no
chances and bolting in every direction as fast as they could.
He
had run perhaps half a kilometre when he saw the train stopped on its monorail
with the driver and passengers
watching the spectacle from what was a particularly good vantage point. He
looked over his shoulder. The Warrior appeared to have the advantage of some
self-repairing contrivance in its body. It was certainly moving faster now and
gradually gaining ground. He made for the train, clambering up the girders to
the rail and beating on a door until someone opened it and let him in.
'Get
going!' he shouted. 'Get going before he makes it too!'
The
train began to move as the driver realized the danger; but it was too late. The
windows of the last carriage shattered as the Warrior leapt aboard and held on. Eddie fought his way through
the milling and screaming passengers to the driver's cabin.
'Give
it all you've got!' he ordered. 'Shake it off before it breaks in!'
It
was of no use. At 300 m.p.h. the Warrior had pulled himself on
board and was winkling the passengers jamming the corridors one by one from his
path and throwing them through the windows. It was not in any way confused like a hound in a flock of
sheep. It knew who it was it wanted and the disposal of the others was done
without rancour for the one reason only that they stood between it and its
quarry.
'You'll
get off my train!' the driver shouted, applying the brakes so powerfully that
more passengers were killed in the crush than the Warrior had disposed of in
its own fashion. Quite by chance the train came ultimately to rest in a station
and Eddie was able to jump from a window on to the platform. The Warrior also
emerged and took up a position between him and the exit. It began to move
slowly forward. The train lurched and accelerated fast out of the station. This
time there seemed to be no escape. The Warrior was implacable, bent on pursuing
him to the ends of the earth and there was no doubt now that it was, to all
human concepts, totally invulnerable.
Eddie looked up and down the platform. There
was no other exit. Only a line of small, one-storey shops. A tobacconist's, a
drug-store, a chemist's, a perfumerie. He was unarmed and exhausted. But even
now, when there was no hope at all, the Z factor continued to operate. He
abandoned himself neither to panic nor to resignation. He stood his ground, alert,
thoughts generated and evaluated with kingfisher swiftness, convinced that from
somewhere, in the nick of time, the one saving idea would come.
And
then, suddenly, it came. First - a question. By what means had the Warrior
selected him, alone of all the passengers on the train, the spectators on the
tribunes? How did it know which was he and which another? All Chinamen look
alike to Europeans and no machine could differentiate one man from another by
sight alone. It could only be sight in conjunction with smell. Every dog knows
the scent of its master as different from all other scents. The machine must
have the built-in mechanism of the dog. It could track and recognize by scent.
What would a dog do if it recognized its master by sight but he smelled like
the postman or the man from next door? The dog would come to some conclusion,
but would the machine? No sooner had this thought occurred to him than he had
also reached the conclusion of how it might be exploited. He dived into the
perfumerie and, to the horror of the assistants, swept an armful of bottles
from their shelves and began pouring the contents over himself, applying the
many sprays swiftly from front to rear and from his head to the extremity of
his toes. He finished in time to meet the Warrior on the threshold.
It
was a remarkable confrontation. The machine, believing that at last it had its
quarry in its power, but having learned also to be wary of its quarry's
prowess, squatted back on its haunches and raised a single leg to strike. Eddie
stoutly stood his ground and looked
his mechanical adversary in its grille. He felt confident of success. The
machine could no longer match his total characteristics with the blueprint of
its instruction card. When this happened, it would -what? The claw was still
poised above his head and the body was rocking to and fro with a rhythmic
bending of its knee joints.
'Get lost!' he ordered.
The single foot came down
slowly. The claws, opening and closing, touched his cheek, moved around his
neck, closed on to his right ear. Hesitantly no more than a tweak, and yet he
felt the lobe had been punctured.
'God!' he muttered. 'It
wants my blood group!'
An
analysis of the Z factor would probably outweigh its confusion with the scent
and steer it towards a decision. He stepped backwards and struck the claw away.
'Quit fooling!' he shouted.
'Get out of my sight!'
It
withdrew its claw and began to back out on to the platform on four legs, moving
the other four with the motions of a Hindu temple dancer or of a praying mantis
at prayer.
'Back!' he ordered.
He
could force it to the edge of the platform and direct one of its members on to
the live rail. Alternatively, he could make it jump. All he had to do was to
establish his own ascendancy. It was programmed to obey, to kill only what it
had been told to kill, and now it was exhibiting every sign of cybernetic
neurosis. 99 per cent of him fitted the instruction in its
memory bank but the 1 per
cent that was scent did not. It needed the whole picture to complete its aggressive
circuit.
'Down
on your knees!' There passed a long minute whilst the two human eyes met and
held unwaveringly the equally steady glow of the optics behind the grille. They
seemed less bright than formerly. Slowly at first, alternating between left and
right, they began to flicker.
'Down!' he repeated.
It
settled down on to its penultimate joints, holding the two leaders aloft like
the horns of a mammoth.
'Quit stalling!' he barked.
'Down!'
Gradually,
its knees bent until its body rested on the platform, its legs curved high
around it, taking on the shape and symmetry of a lobster pot.
That's better! Now turn
over!'
It
up-ended itself and lay with its legs in the air, bent at the knees and with
the exterior joint that might have been referred to as the ankle, waving the
claw slowly up and down, indicating, if anything at all, a submissive desire to
play. He slapped its underbelly and it let out a sound like a low bark. He set
his foot between its joints and, creaking, it began to gurgle. Putting his
hands on his hips he laughed until the tears wet his beard and the Warrior's
legs wriggled and contorted as if it were being tickled.
'I've not only beaten it.'
He laughed. 'I've tamed it.'
'I
can't wait to get back to the European space agency and see that general's face
when you follow me in,' he told the Warrior. 'Get on your feet and let's get
mobile. On second thoughts - no! Why should I walk? Pick me up with your front
legs and carry me!'
The
guests had left the arena along with the press and the camera crews who had either
gone home or were scouring the countryside for news of the Warrior who, the
experts said, would now hound its challenger to the ends of the earth unless
someone could catch up with it and stop it. Larry Hawksworthand the director
i/c robotics were having a hard time of it with the general when someone saw
the Warrior trundling through the gates with Eddie Kale lying crosswise in its
forepaws. There seemed to be no doubt that cybernetics had proved their worth
against both swords and sorcery as they in the end were bound to do. Mech-man
was now bringing home the bacon. They watched it stalking sedately up the long
drive between the block houses, along the avenue flanked by overlarge busts of
European presidents, through the rose garden and up the long stairway to the
general's quarters.
'Was it programmed for
this?' the general asked.
'Curious,'
Sven murmured. 'Its orders were to kill, not to return with the body.'
There
was a knock at the door and an aide entered hurriedly. Springing to attention,
he saluted and voiced his warning simultaneously, fingers trembling a little
against the peak of his cap.
'Es
kommt die treppe himauf!' he stammered. The stairs -it up comes/
It
was too late for further comment. The Warrior was already there, sweeping the
aide aside and swinging the double doors backwards for an effective entry. It
reached the centre of the room, fell on to its knees like a camel at the end of
a safari allowing its rider to dismount, even extending one claw to allow
Eddie to step comfortably down and confront the astonished general.
T reckon,' Eddie said, 'the
battle's over. I ain't killed it, as it seemed a pity. It ain't a bad bag o'
tricks. However, if it's in the rules, I'll tell it to jump out of the window.
Whatever you want, Daddy-o. Just say the word and it's as good as done.'
'How have you done this?'
Sven asked quietly.
'Oh!
Well!' Eddie reflected. 'It's a matter of IQ. I reckon mine was a mite higher than
its was. We've got a sort of rapport now, me and it. Tame as a tickled Tom cat,
your monster is.'
'Hey
- you!' he said to the Warrior. 'Pick up this jerk's desk and throw it through
the window.'
The
Warrior meekly obliged and, lifting the large steel desk with its front
members, raised it ceiling high and sent it splintering through the long
plate-glass window and down on to the rose garden.
'You
see,' Eddie explained. 'It's a handy kind of bodyguard to have around if you
want one and I'm reckoning that's what I might be needing any time now.'
To
his surprise, the general, stiffly erect and his hand held protectively on his
own desk, was beaming.
'Das
war gut!' he approved. 'Das war sehr gut, Petersen, mein Freund, nicht wahr?'
'So,' Eddie demanded. T get the job. I go on
this flight of yours?'
'Sit
down,' the general ordered. 'Setzen sich, mein Freund. First we must talk -
ja?'
The ship passed out of space and into
supra-space-time-plasma in exact conformity with Karkov's Law. 'Where the
velocity of a body in relation to its starting point plus the velocity of the
starting point itself in relation to an assumed fixed point in space time
exceeds the theoretical speed of light in a static universe, the time
dimensions of the body will foreshorten according to the formula m x Vi2 -v22 x K. K being
naturally Karkov's Constant. The mechanics of the operation had been
understood for some twenty years before the launching of Icarus II on its way
to Barnard's Star. The difficulty had been solely the location of a fixed
point in space from which to base the necessary calculation. Since the earth
moves in relation to the sun and the sun moves in relation to other suns and
the galaxy moves in relation to other galaxies, an ultimate cosmic starting
point seemed likely to have substance only as a mathematician's debating point.
However,
there was one. Less a starting point than a pivot. A maypole around which the
galactial maidens danced. It was located a few quintillian light years behind
Barnard's Star. Its distance however was immaterial, since the combined
velocities of the solar system and Barnard's Star itself in relation to it,
plus the speed of the ship, was considerably above the theoretical speed of
light in a static area.
Not only did the ship slip over without bump
or fuss into supra-space-time, it came out again within hailing distance of
Barnard's Star itself. All exactly in accordance with Karkov's Law. If indeed
the tiny twinkling light ahead of him was Barnard's Star. At the very
beginning, when the great, grey folds of space-time had opened like a dry womb
and closed again with a flutter of its myriad shadowy planes, he had resigned
himself to the double-cross. Icarus II was not the manned crew ship to
Barnard's Star. No space agency would have named anything other than an expendable
probe after so unsuccessful a pioneer
as Icarus. The state governments had brought pressure to bear to get rid of
him, the anthropologists had pointed out that half the evils of all time had
been due to the Prior strain. Only his hostage, hanging by his heels with a
good down-town Cockney standing by to twist a pair of skewers up his nostrils,
had got him a place on a ship of any sort. That perhaps and the general's quite
honest desire to keep at least some part of an officer's word inviolate.
He
had no regrets. He, the last of the Priors, had left the world probably for
ever, but in return, he had been given the honour of being the first man to
pass through the time gap and out again.The first man to experience the indestructible,
inviolability of time, stretched out from the beginning to the still unfolding
present. To see and to know himself still in battle with the Warrior, still at
his point of birth, his mother still on the Mapel Street dead cart. Ever. Ever.
Ever. The witch burns eternally at the one moment in time of her burning.
Christ hangs for ever on his cross. There and there and there. The great static
scroll stretched across the cosmos eternally unchanging, the only movement at
the old world's present where the spool unwinds constantly against the stylus
of the minds of men. The folds had pursed their lips and spewed him out.
Descending the misty myth with only the time-foreshortened mistiness of a ship
around him. Down. Down. Down.
He was back again on the familiar hot, dry
earth of the high Savannah. His old space-ship leaning wrecked and awry on the
stony outcrop and his four companions dead and buried in a deep crevice opening
at its foot. He sat in the shade of an old wild lemon tree whilst across the
clearing a round-shouldered Zijanthropus nuzzled and probed at a dead log for
wood lice and beetles. Ever. Ever. Ever. It was only a point static on the
scroll of time like any other. But Zijanthropus was moving. Moving towards
australopith-ecus. Time was unfolding as it only did in the conscious present
of man's understanding and awareness of it. He was man now and something was
about to happen, to spin off the scroll and nothing that had been for 500,000,000
years would be the same
again.
Australopithecus
dropped down from a nut-tree and smiled at him. Young and female, familiar and
forgotten as a mother's breast. Australopithecus himelf bearing his teeth
preparing to give battle for his mate. A good warrior a Prior must conquer and
in due course tame. Cross with aus-tralopithecus perhaps. He raised an eyebrow
at the female whilst throwing the charging male and pinning him to the ground
with an armlock learned in childhood in that other place behond the stars.
'Hello, Sal!'he said.
A
SPACE FOR REFLECTION by
Brian W.
Aldiss
Very
much in the superior English tradition, Brian Aldiss presents us with a
Stapledonian story of a philosophical quest that embraces the universe of the
macrocosm and the universe of the microcosm within us all. Terhaps any young
lad blessed with three successive letter f's in his name would tend to a
philosophic bent. It might also be that any energy-hungry society that
dismissed a device for mass-producing suns would inevitably suffer from
economic decline; but then, this apparent suicidal waywardness but in reality
vision beyond materialism, is just what is reflected from that certain small
dark corner of the universe...
A
SPACE FOR REFLECTION
There
once lived a man called
Gordan Ivon Jefffris who achieved galaxy-wide fame at the age of five. This is
his story.
Gordan Ivon Jefffris was born in a period
when the major cultures of the galaxy were suffering from a combination of
economic depression and spiritual uncertainty. The achievements of man, as he
diversified on a million planets, were many and various. And yet, and yet...
among the thinking people everywhere - even among ordinary thoughtless people -
grew the suspicion that achievement was somehow hollow, as if success were an apple
that, once bitten, yielded no juice.
In
an attempt to combat the disillusion, a consortium of leading planets which
dubbed itself The Re-Renaissance Worlds arranged a curious competition. The
terms of this competition were deliberately left vague. The winner was to be
the man or woman who presented something that would contribute most to a fresh
direction for mankind. The nature of the submission was left to the ingenuity
of the entrants. The prizes were enormous.
This
competition met with almost universal criticism. It was said that it would deflect
useful endeavour into what was a dead end, that the idea of competition itself
was one of the main concepts which required combating, that things
philosophical were best left to philosophers, and so on.
Those
who launched the competition were not deterred. They set no particular store by
the idea of one outright winner; their hope was that the whole body of entries
might together contribute the sort of vital injection of innovation for which
they sought; and they believed that the kinds of entries they got would provide
some consensus of opinion as to which way galactic culture was moving, as
diagnosed by the best brains.
Unhappily, the best brains considered
themselves above such a competition, and forebore to enter. Submissions were
nevertheless almost countless, pouring in from every civilized planet. Some
were works of art conceived to inspire-some were technical ingenuities designed
to improve the daily lot of ordinary citizens; some were vast works of
analysis; some were computerized plans for changing whole societies; some were
projects for novel transmutations, for instance for transmuting light into food
directly; some were syntheses of different disciplines, expressing gravity as
music, or whatever; new languages, new media, new symbolic systems, were put
forward; und so weiter.
In
short, the organizers of the competition, and their committees and computers,
were provided with much material over which to scratch their heads, much muddle
from which they never, ultimately, achieved any significant order.
They
bestowed first prize on a child of five, Gordan Ivon Jefffris, who presented
the briefest entry of all. That entry was a sheet of plakin on which the boy
had written in a childish hand, The universe has a dark comer, the human soul,
which is its reflection.'
A
fresh storm of almost universal criticism greeted the award. It was said that
the thought was banal, that the concept of human souls was obsolete by about a
million years, that the idea expressed was so pessimistic that it had no place
in a competition designed to generate fresh directions, that there was no
practical application, that in any case Ching Pin Jones's prospectus for
mass-producing suns was a thousand times more brilliant, und so weiter.
The
organizers stuck to their guns. (They were old and stubborn, and in any case
had nothing else to stick to.) They held that one of the things which had
brought near-stagnation on a galactic scale was an insane optimism which len:
a cloak to exploitation and tyranny in all their forms; that they were on the
side of youth, even extreme youth; and that they admired the way in which the
boy Jefffris hac linked macrocosm and microcosm. Und so weiter.
Both
competition and controversy ensured that livgrams of the five-year-old, his
fair hair tousled and becoming, his round face smiling, were flashed to every
planet in the galaxy. Fame had never been so universal.
Gordan Ivon Jefffris was brought from his
backwoodi planet and his parents' cloned-clatbuck farm and installed in the
Institute for Creative Research on Dynderkranz, in the Minervan Empire at the
heart of the galaxy. There, for twelve years, he specialized in
non-specialization, learning randomly from computers, superputers, and
parent-figures.
The
teaching was liberal (it was generally agreed that liberalism contributed to
the decay of the Minervan Empire), and Jefffris was allowed to some extent to
follow his natural bent. He was a perfectly normal child - a fact greeted with
delight by half his teachers and dismay by the other half - while manifesting a
tendency, evidenced in his prize-winning dictum, to regard man as a vital manifestation
of the universe. He divided his study time between the phenomena of the
external world and the phenomena of man and his culture.
The
long training was only the preliminary part of Jefffris' prize. As his days at
the Institute drew to a close, the superputer Birth Star, which now
administered all his affairs, revealed that unlimited funds were at his disposal
for the rest of his days, as long as he maintained an inquiring mind, moved
about the galaxy, and reported reflections and findings back to the superputer.
There
was no conflict between superputer's intentions and boy's ambitions. Jefffris'
intellectual curiosity had been whetted. He longed to set out into the universe
and experience its conditions for himself; the odyssey could last ten
lifetimes for all he cared. With a male friend and two girls,
competition-winners all, he set out in a superbly equipped flittership to
travel whatever distances could be travelled.
The universe has a dark comer, the human
soul, which is its reflection'. The words had travelled round the known galaxy,
together with the livgrams of the five-year-old face. The face had been
forgotten for almost as long as Jefffris had outlived it; yet the words had not
been forgotten. It could not be said that they changed anything, for a general
decline continued. But it could be said that people discovered some mystery in
them (if only the mystery in what ii familiar)
and were perhaps reminded that, for all the vast-ness of the humanized galaxy,
it still rested upon the power ;f words to transmute formlessness into design.
So it might be argued that the decline would have been faster had it not been
for Jefffris' dictum.
However
that might be, Jefffris and his companions travelled the civilized worlds
without being recognized -fortified by the knowledge that he had lit a light,
however tiny, in the skulls of almost everyone he ever met.
Everywhere,
he talked and listened, building up a picture of the spectre that had laid its
spell over the galaxy.
'What
is wrong with humanity is an ancient wrong,' said an ancient lady living on a
core of a bumt-out sun. She had been an organizer in her day, and understood so
much that most people became bemused just by gazing on her face. Consequently,
she wore a mask; but she removed it to speak with Jefffris.
'What
is wrong with humanity is not what philosophers of this world commonly
suppose,' she said. T mean, that man's involvement with technology, with its
consequent divorce from what is called Nature, impoverishes him. True, that may
be the case, but if so it is merely a reflection of a deeper division between
intellect and the passions. The Babylonian invention of a written language,
back on Earth so long ago, institutionalized a division that was already latent
in the psyche of humanity. Writing departmentalizes, detaches. It bestows upon
the ratiocinative faculties a dominance they should not have over the play of
human emotions. The passions become feared, mistrusted.'
'Whole
planets full of people have reverted to Nature, have abandoned literacy,' said
Jefffris. The results have never been anything that responsible people would
wish to copy. I visited one such planet, Bol-Rayoeo. Everyone's every breath
was ruled by a maniacal belief in astrology, the human instruments of which
were an iron priesthood. That priesthood had control over a series of holy
factories in which machines were made - elaborate but non-functional machines.
The machines were sacrificed in specific dates at specific hours. A paranoid
mathematics was their language, yet such was their fear of a written alphabet
that a mere glimpse of the letter A scrawled on a rock could kill them at
once.'
'The
first effect of a written literature,' said the ancient dame, 'is that it
undermines the power of Continuers. In the Old World, Continuers were as vital
to society as kings or slaves. They moved among all ranks and ages of society,
conveying in their persons - in their gestures, their faces, their very breath
- history, myth, story. Those elements which were alive, and lived through
countless generations, became dead when impaled on a page, and the Continuers
ceased. Records have been substituted for legend, the letter for life.
'You
yourself, Gordan Ivon, may through fortune regard yourself as a free agent. Yet
you are a slave of history. You are gathering facts, a profession which
superseded hunting, a dusty parody of it, sans blood. The search for knowledge
is too highly lauded.'
'You
are yourself consulted as a repository of knowledge, madam.'
'The
search for knowledge is an artificial goal - and, even worse, an achievable
one. Eventually, all knowledge in the universe will be garnered, reduced to
recorded impulses. Which will mean the absorption of all that is real. Even our
breathing will be codified. Classification will have supplanted
diversification, all processes will terminate.'
He laughed. You speak as if
it were a mystical process.'
'It
is a mystical process. The further we go, the closer we come to our origins.'
'Nevertheless, I am sorry
to find you so pessimistic'
'Operative
in each of us is the blind optimism of biological process; but you will
appreciate from what I have already said that words themselves, in my view,
tend towards the pessimistic, since they represent an energy-sink from life to
abstraction.'
Jefffris
was silent a while, picking his way among her statements, is it mere
coincidence that you speak more than once of breathing, as if it holds a
special symbolism for you?'
'There
is no "coincidence",' the ancient lady said, resuming her mask.
'Consciousness is the breath of the universe.'
Jefffris visited the system of Trilobundora,
where the three central planets had been welded into one unit by means of
transuranic metals. These enormous struts formed FTL roads for UMV traffic.
Trilobundora was famed as one of the great industrial centres of the galaxy; in
proof of this.
all
about it for many light years were impoverished planets, populated only by old
and broken people. Trilobundora was a Mecca to which all went hoping to be
turned into gold.
He
visited a great school on Primdora, where children were trained to be administrators
from the age of two onwards. The children poured out after class, flocking at
every level of the enormous tower to meet every sort of flying, leaping, and
wheeled vehicle which came to bear them away.
Plunging
to the lowest level, Jefffris found a stooped man of middle age waiting at an
entrance with his hands in his pockets. A gale blew, carrying rain with it,
although the air was still and dry at higher levels.
'It's
always like this here,' said the man. 'Something to do with the structure of
the building, I guess. Creates its own storms.' His voice was neutral, passive.
He never looked directly at Jefffris.
A
small boy came running out of the entrance and stopped before he got to the
stooped man. The man put out his hand, took the boy's, and, with a word of encouragement,
started to walk away with him. Jefffris fell in beside him.
'Are
you the only parent here who meets his child on foot?'
'I
have to watch every cent. Besides, public transport doesn't run where we live.
It's a slum district. I'm not ashamed; it's not my fault. You may have noticed
I'm the oldest person to collect a child. I'm not this lad's father. I'm his
grandfather. His parents were killed on their holiday, so now I look after
him.'
The
boy glanced up at Jefffris to see how he took this information but said
nothing. Then he turned his pale face down again to his shoes.
'Is he a consolation?'
Jefffris asked.
'He's
a good enough lad.' The man had a listless way about him which seemed to have
communicated itself to the boy. After a pause in which he appeared to weigh
whether it was worth saying more, he went on, 'You see the trouble is that the
accident which killed my daughter and her man occurred on the V-lane of the
FTLR between Primdora and Secdora. Their vehicle collided with a Secdora
vehicle right at mid-point between planetary demarcations. Legislation could
not decide which planetary government should pay compensation, Primdora or
Secdora. The issue is still being heard in the courts. That's been the
situation for five years now.
'Meanwhile,
I couldn't work because I had to look after the boy. So I've forfeited my state
pension. Now he has started school, I have a small morning job, which helps. I
could have got someone in to look after him and worked myself, but
that would have brought legal complications, since I am still not officially
his guardian, and they might have taken him away into care. I want to be his
official guardian, but I'm separated from my woman and she is litigating to
become his guardian. I think she's only after the money which may accrue, so I
fight back.'
'I
don't want to go to grandma,' said the boy. It was the first time he had spoken
since leaving school. 'I don't know grandma, she don't know me.'
'The
uncertainty makes his life difficult,' said the man, ignoring the boy's remark.
'He can have no proper career without an official guardian or parent to sign
forms - you have to sign forms every day on Primdora - and so he is getting
sidetracked and will probably be Z-graded. I do my best but I get sick of it
all. Everywhere there's regulations. They keep bringing in more regulations. I
just found today that they're re-structuring the educational system, so he may
be sent to another school further away. Then we'll have to move rooms. More
expense. All these regulations, you can't escape them ... They're supposed to
rationalize community life, aren't they? Instead, they're like a wall round
you.'
'I hope the lad's a comfort
to you,' Jefffris suggested.
'Who
makes all these regulations? I can't understand how they get so complex. It
didn't used to be like this. Where did they start, where do they stop? Do you
know, I get a small supplementary family allowance for the boy which is taxed
with my wage so that I in reality keep less cash than I would if I didn't get
the allowance?'
"Can't you forgo the
allowance?'
T
went to see the computer about it. If I forgo the allowance now, I can never
reclaim, and the tax structure might change next year in my favour. Then again,
the rating scale comes into it - the amount of living-space we can claim ...
it's a headache.'
'Your
grandfather has a lot of problems,' Jefffris said to the boy.
The
boy nodded. 'He has a lot of problems.' He kept looking down at his shoes.
In the Beta arm of the galaxy, Jefffris
rested with his companions on a delightful satellite called Rampam. It was a
pastoral world, where a simple philosophy ruled and crime was almost unknown.
Wandering
down a country lane by the sea, one moonlit night, Jefffris encountered a
slender man who appeared to be of no more than late middle age, yet claimed he
was a million years old.
'Longevity
and immortality are among the oldest dreams,' said Jefffris, 'and are likely to
remain dreams. No biological structure is stable enough to remain intact over
long periods of time.'
'A
biological structure is only a highly organized state of inorganic material.
All material carries the potential of life. The secret of continuous
organization was discovered right there on Argustal,' said the ancient youth.
He
pointed up at the gibbous moon sailing over the tree-tops.
if you've got time, stranger, I'll tell you a
story about it.' i'd be glad to listen.'
'That's
a rare talent, stranger,' said the slender man. His expression cheered
slightly, and he launched into his story.
Argustal
is the parent world of Rampam. Long ago, there lived on Argustal a regal young
man called Tantanner. He possessed an equable temperament, and was content to
let the years drift by in sport and laughter. Happiness came easily to him
because he was married to a beautiful lady called Pamipamlar, whose nature was
fully as sunny as his.
I
have to pass over all their years of content together, for contentment has no
history - it leaves its traces, indeed, but they cannot be described. Suffice
it to say that one day Tan-tanner saw strange marks upon his beloved's face. He
said nothing to her, so as not to alarm her, and imagined that the marks would
fade away. Dawn followed dawn, and the marks did not fade. They deepened. He
watched more anxiously. The times of snows came and went. The marks remained.
They formed little lines upon Pamipamlar's forehead, below and beside her
eyes, and about her pretty mouth.
Still
he said nothing to her, but one dark night he rode out silently. Crossing a
bleak moor, he went to where the last of a degenerate race of sub-humans eked
out their existence in underground caves. These sub-humans - who, I've heard,
are to be found on every planet in the early millennia of its development -
were savage but cowardly; they fell back before Tantanner's royal insignia and,
when he showed himself unafraid, they fawned upon him, as rabbits will try to
charm a fox. He knew these untrustworthy creatures held old legends which the
human race of Argustal had discarded, and so he demanded of them the meaning of
the increasing marks upon the countenance of his beloved.
The
sub-humans disputed among themselves, sometimes almost scratching each other's
eyes out as they asserted and denied. Some maintained that the marks belonged
to an ancient force called Illness, but eventually another point of view
prevailed. A gnarled man with a face studded with hideous warts and hairs stood
forth and addressed Tan-tanner where he stood beside his mount.
'Lord
sire of the Upright Ones, when Knowledge recedes like an ocean, it leaves Names
like shells upon the great beaches of History. We can only pick up these shells
and offer them to your inspection, without ourselves understanding their
contents.'
'Speak and tell me what
ails my fair one.'
'Lord
sire, her cheek of vellum is being inscribed by Age.'
'Age? What is Age?'
'A
shell we pick up. Lord sire, knowing not its contents -except that one or two
of us supposed that upon that spotless vellum you have discerned the faintest
handwriting of Death.'
'Death? What is Death?'
'It
is another shell, O Lord sire, lying half-buried in the vast sands of the
Past.'
With
that, Tantanner had to be content. He rode back to the castle and settled by
his fragrant Pamipamlar; but those two dark shells. Age and Death, returned
continually to his mind.
Eventually, they drove him from the castle,
despite his love's protests. He kissed her lined face and went forth. This time
he ranged far away, scouring the planet's distant places. He inquired in the
towns and hedgerows, in farms and on highways, seeking someone or something to
enlighten him.
No
one knew much. A few people knew a little. Contentment had stuffed their heads
with obliviousness, you see. Once he met a solitary woman with a face like a
bone who farmed forty llamas in a desert region; she turned on him savagely and
said, 'Go home, let remain buried what has remained buried! Lies at home are to
be preferred to any truth abroad. You will let loose a great evil on the world
if you meddle. Go home!'
But
he went on. He went on, although he felt increasingly the truth of what the
woman with a face of bone had said. For he was gradually piecing together the
shreds of ignorance he collected, and making a garment of revelation for
himself.
He
wandered into the periphery of a volcano which had been an active sore on the
face of Argustal since the world was formed. By the coast, he halted at a spot
called the Green Grotto, where the sea steamed and vegetation grew thick.
Turtles slithered on the beach and birds scuttled underfoot. A lizard-man and a
blind youth came to visit him as he sat eating wild artichokes; he told them of
his problems.
For
a long while, neither lizard nor blind man spoke. Then the lizard-man said:
'This region is named End Quest, and I never understood why until now. It marks
the end of your quest. Like you, I have some shreds of knowledge. They made no
garment until joined with your shreds.
'For
more years than can be told, I have wondered why leaves remained on trees
whether the sun shone or snow fell for, according to legend from Olden
Pretimes, trees went bare half the year. I wondered also why birds hop naked
under our feet, when legends from Old Pretimes say they flew with feathers far
above the heads of men. Now I know the answer.'
At these words, T know the answer', a great
fear descended on Tantanner. He recalled the old lady with the face of bone
and he turned to run. There was no escape. Curiosity got the better of him. He turned
back and said, 'Speak, lizard.'
The
lizard-man said, 'Long, long ago, further than our minds can stretch, a process
was invented on this planet. It was called continuous organization. I cannot
tell you what it was - that's a secret for ever lost, I suspect. It worked upon
this planet, when set in motion by its masters, worked as tirelessly as the
weather machine which keeps air circulating about us all. Under continuous
organization, all biological processes remained intact as hitherto, no longer
subject to the previous ageing which led to a state of energy-transference
called Death. Death was feared, pale Death. Continuous organization guaranteed
life. All biological creatures have been immortal on this planet since that
day.'
'We have not to fear Death?'
'Listen.
Death had a second, rosier face called Birth. When Death was banished, so went
Birth. There was no need of her. Everything alive lived. For replacements there
was no room. But those things which lived were subject to the attrition of
external factors. No trees shed their leaves - and that original set of leaves
is now made skeletal by the action of winds and frost. Birds cannot die, but
the elements have eroded their feathers, so that they must go naked on the
ground, being no longer able to fly. The carapaces of our turtles have worn
thin as silk against the eternal sand. Many more delicate creatures - insects -
have simply been fined away by the atmosphere.'
'And my Pamipamlar, what of
her?'
The
lizard-man looked down at the sand by his webbed feet.
'Death
is returning to its throne, my lord. Generation is again needed; continuous
organization must itself die, its machineries run down.'
'Answer my question. What
of Pamipamlar?'
if
you looked in a mirror at your own face, your question would be answered. The
handwriting is set upon your cheek too. Death will call on you as surely as
upon her.'
Tantanner
swung into the saddle and turned for home. His bitterness towered to the
heavens; perhaps he recalled the words of the sage who says that the human soul
is a dark corner which reflects the whole universe. His questions were
answered. Fear and regret rode with him, regret that he had neglected his
beloved so long. And it was a long way home.
Alas,
stranger, it was such a long way home that that foolish man arrived too late.
Death had already claimed the one he loved. The world was in action again, the
cycles of regeneration beginning again. But Tantanner's world had run down to a
dead stop.
Jefffris sat silent, reflecting on the
regenerative processes of the universe and looking up at the world of Argustal
gleaming in Rampam's night sky.
'What
brought you here?' he asked the solemn storyteller.
T
couldn't bear that world any more, with my beloved dead. Now I linger here in
exile, waiting for Death to escort me home.'
After many years of travel, Jefffris came to
the planet Earth. He had listened to countless profound comments, abstruse
theories, and moving tales. All this he had reported back to the superputer.
At
this stage in its history, Earth was a second league world in the Procyon Bloc.
It called itself a republic and was ruled over by the Committee of Twenty-One,
the President of which was Kuo Waung-Tang.
In
a bar in a large city in Antarctica, Jefffris met a genial man who had served
under Kuo Waung-Tang. He now called himself Dumb Dragon.
'Yes,
I have served under the great Kuo Waung-Tang and much admire him,' admitted
Dumb Dragon, as he bought Jefffris a drink. T read his thoughts every night.'
'Yet
he sent you into exile for ten years when you refused to serve on the
Committee.'
'What
else could Kuo do? I am grateful for that ten years. Now I have nothing to do
with politics. I merely tell animal stories to anyone who cares to listen.'
'Thanks,
not today. But I'd like hear why you left politics.'
Dumb
Dragon laughed engagingly, i simply discovered that mankind is not rulable
although he perennially wishes to be ruled. Why? For a simple reason: because
your perspectives change so radically when you make the transition from
governed to governor. It's like a high tower - you can't see the top from the
bottom, so you climb to the top, and then you can't see the bottom. It's
hopeless. Ruler and ruled are almost different species.'
The lust for power has a
history as long as mankind.'
'Certainly.
But I refer to something more complex. I really must tell you one of my latest
animal stories. Do you mind very much?'
Jefffris enjoyed the man's
company. 'Make me like it.'
'That's
good. Story-tellers are brave men - they always battle with the listener's wish
to dislike what they hear, for the listener wishes to be ruler of the story,
although inwardly he longs to be dominated by it. Okay, this story is called
"The Lion Who Had Ecology", bearing in mind that on Earth this year
ecology and conservation are fashionable subjects. It probably means we are due
for another big destructive war.'
He
beamed at the wall, as if turning a smiling face towards the future no matter
what happened, and commenced his story.
The
last African lion was sitting comfortably under a deodar, reading the current
issue of 'Digest of World Lion Problems', when a zebra of his acquaintance
called Leopold galloped up and coughed expectantly (said Dumb Dragon, making lion
and zebra faces as he went along).
'Begging your pardon, sir,'
said the zebra.
'What
is it now?' asked the lion. He had a grudge against Leopold, just could not
stand the zebra's airs and graces, and promised himself that he would eat him
one day soon when it was not quite as hot.
'The
animals would like to have a word with you, sir,' said Leopold. 'Looks like
there's another ecological crisis brewing.'
The
lion gave in with a bad grace and padded north across the game preserve with
the zebra. Crowds of animals and birds of every variety - every remaining
variety - were heading in the same direction. The leaders of this multitude had
halted by a dried river-bed and were staring across it, meanwhile uttering many
cries of disgust, if not actual oaths. They stood back respectfully to let the
lion through.
'Well, what seems to be the trouble this
time?' he asked.
Nobody liked to thrust forward and answer,
although a couple of jackals sidled up and said, 'We tried to get the mob to
disperse but they wouldn't. Do you want us to try the skunk-gas on them?'
Ignoring
them, the lion peered across the river-bed. On the far side, a short distance
away, some black men were working, unloading bricks from trucks and
marshalling heavy machines. Nearer at hand, other men were watching elephants
push down large trees and drag them away.
'Scabs!
Blacklegs!' hissed the crowd, but the elephants ignored them and continued
working.
'Oh,
isn't it terribly awful!' exclaimed an ostrich called the Rev. Dean William
Pennyfever, wringing his hands. 'Bang goes a slice more of the veldt. They're
putting up their simply nauseating little dwellings on the very spot where I
emerged from the egg.'
'Dwellings,
indeed,' exclaimed a giraffe, contemptuously. 'Putting up a whole bloody town,
more like it, right where I enjoy a spot of necking. Perishing blacks! Dirty
beasts!'
'Now
then, remember they're victims of colonialism,' said the lion sharply. 'Besides,
we don't know it's a whole town. We must get our facts right before we issue a
complaint. Has anyone - you parrots - actually asked those men what's going on
there?' Silence fell, the animals shuffled about uneasily, not looking up at
their leader.
'There
you are then,' said the lion. Typical silly emotionalism. You moan and
complain and you haven't a clue as to what is actually happening in the world.
You're too parochial. Naturally, I share your anxiety about anything -anything
at all - which encroaches on the amenities of the jungle, but statistically,
let me assure you, those black chaps are having absolutely no effect on this
continent's magnificent natural resources.'
Many
animals, including hyenas, monkeys and snakes, clapped this fiery speech and
shouted 'Here, here.' But a bespectacled hippo, recently divorced, came up to
the lion and spoke in a grumpy way. (Dumb Dragon put on a hippo face.)
That's
all very well as far as it goes, Mr. Lion, but I represent the Amalgamated
Mammal and Reptile Union, and the workers have vested in me the authority to
ask you to do something positive about this latest infringement of our
territory. We don't want words, we want action, right, lads?'
A
great cry went up from the beasts, especially the rhinbs, many of whom acted as
shop-stewards.
'We
all want action,' the lion said impressively, i
am much more anti any attempt to curtail living space than you are, because I
am more aware of all the ecological factors involved. Nevertheless, it would be
extremely unwise to let the sight of a few bricks precipitate us into a hasty
move - a stampede or something silly, in which our weaker brethren might get
trampled underfoot, or eaten, or even left destitute and incapacitated.'
'Weil
go into the vexed question of sick benefits later, if you don't mind,' said the
hippo, adjusting his spectacles. 'Meanwhile the workers have empowered me to
demand immediate action in the shape of crossing yon river-bed and eating up
all the blacks on the building site. I am further empowered to demand that you
take the tigers along, so that no feeble excuses like failing appetite can
deflect you from our allotted task. As for your liberal-lacky remark about that
being just a few bricks over there, it looks to me more like a whole frigging
new suburb of Nairobi!'
The animals muttered and
mewed in approval.
'This
is entirely unconstitutional,' said the lion, if our nuclear commitment were up
to strength, the situation might be different, but you opted for detente,
remember. We must not offend the black men, or they will do us real harm, and
then you workers will be the first to regret it. Don't they depend entirely on
us for hides, horns, souvenirs of the chase, feathers, ivory, handbags, and
leopard-skin rugs? Supposing they refuse to trade? As it is, we've got an
adverse balance of payments because they're turning to plastic while we play
hard to get. No, my friends, I know your business better than you do
yourselves! Forget about that mangey scrap of ground, and let's get back to the
veldt.'
The
animals all started milling about, undecided what to do. The hippos and rhinos
conferred together, and Leopold said to the lion, i'm afraid we'll have to face
the fact that this may mean the workers will try to depose you as king of the
beasts.'
'Well,
it's a democratic age,' said the lion weakly, i have political common sense on
my side. Look, if we did as the hippos say, it would only encourage the young
tigers; they cause enough disturbance as it is. All that's needed is a token
gesture. Why don't you nip over on your own and kick a few black arses, just to
show willing?'
Before
Leopold could reply, a shot rang out across the dried river-bed. The animals
who were looking in that direction could clearly see a man in a bush-hat
standing on a truck, firing a rifle with telescopic sights. In the silence
which followed, the lion collapsed, as leonine blood gouted from a hole in his
forehead.
'A
judgment from above!' said the Rev. Dean William Pennyfever. 'Let's get back to
the veldt before similar punishment strikes the entire congregation.'
'Buzz
off, you old fool!' shouted a hot-headed young rhino. 'Naked aggression! That
just proves we were right. We've got to get those men before they get us. Let's
have a show of hooves in favour of an immediate stampede.'
'Not
so fast, not so fast!' said the bespectacled hippo. 'I'm in charge now. Let's
not be rash.'
'But
you were the one who suggested the charge in the first place,' said the young
rhino in amazement.
'Circumstances
alter cases. Pipe down - you're too free with your comments. Now the lion's
dead, I'm managing things to see that we don't get another boss over us, and
what I say goes.'
'But those men are building
on our land.'
'They've
got rights, same as us. Look, I know how you feel, but this needs a
constitutional approach. Let's get back to the veldt and talk things over in
the light of this new development. Perhaps we can barney the men into a
compromise.'
Everyone
started trotting back towards the deodars. Leopold called out angrily, 'Are we
going to forget our wise old leader just like that? Let's at least give him a
decent burial with a copy of "Digest of World Lion Problems" beside
him.*
But
nobody paid any heed. They left the lion where he had fallen. It was too hot to
bother, and only the jackals and vultures stayed with the body for the last
obsequies.
Continuing on his travels, Gordon Ivon
Jefffris visited representative planets all over the universe. A myriad viewpoints
were presented to him for his consideration, all of which he sedulously
reported back to Birth Star, the super-puter. He found every sort of
philosophy, every sort of government, anarchies, hive-worlds, individualisms, Utopias, some of which worked extremely well for a
while but not for ever. He spoke to men of action and men of contemplation,
women who laughed and women who cried, old people and young people. He was
confronted by an astounding diversity.
Gradually,
this diversity swallowed him up. He no longer sought for answers. His
companions left him, yet he went blindly on, almost unaware of what he was or
why he did what he did. He was open to the whole universe, and in consequence
less and less able to reach any conclusion about it. There was always something
new; that something was age-old, yet at the same time it was new.
Jefffris
himself grew old, despite constant rejuvenation shots.
Finally,
the Institution recalled him and he sat in a comfortable geriatric chair before Birth Star
itself.
it
is many years since you won the great competition. Have you reached any
conclusions after your unique experiences?' asked the superputer.
'Experience
... how does anyone evaluate experience? I was bom believing that humanity was
a vital, not a freak, manifestation of the greater universe,
and nothing I have experienced has altered that view.'
'Have you reached any
conclusions, then?'
'No.
I began to consider that the universe itself was all-important. Its mere size
... Then, after a long while, I came to consider that human
beings were all-important. Perhaps nothing is all-important...
He
sank into a long silence from which the superputer finally roused him.
is that your conclusion?'
'What?
No, certainly not. It is an error in logic to believe that nothing is
all-important. That would only be possible in a universe of nothingness. At
last I have come to believe that ideas, like the universe, like man, have their
own validity, that they have a genetic structure of their own, that they are
the link - no, not the link, the very medium, in which both universe and man's
consciousness exist. I'm tired...'
'Go on, Gordan Ivon/ said the superputer. It
played him reviving colours.
'Yes,
ideas have a seminal fluid. They co-exist from the beginning of everything to the
end of everything. They contain everything; that is why they appear to us,
whatever we think of, to be at once fresh yet, on examination, very ancient.
Such concepts carry us far beyond notions of pessimism or optimism; they carry
us right to the heart of existence. And of course we have always been at the
very heart of existence without knowing it. Whatever we are, whoever we are,
whether young or old...'
The
superputer let him ramble on, and said finally, 'So you have reached a
conclusion.'
'No.
Or Yes.' He drew himself up. The human soul has a dark comer, the universe,
which is its reflection. But I don't think I want to talk about it, thanks.'
RANDOM
SAMPLE by
E.
C. Tubb
When
Starship Prometheus
came out of ftl
her crew could fairly consider their next task the exploration of this new solar system and their
settlement upon the finest of the new
worlds. But it wasn't as easy as that. Doctor Chappell faced the hard reality of unpleasant alternatives in a situation where
the wrong choice would bring death.
RANDOM
SAMPLE
Chappel noisily turned the latch on the door and
paused before entering the compartment. It was one of the mores which had
become second nature on the Prometheus, a
consideration of the privacy of others in a vessel in which privacy was at a
premium. He needn't have bothered.The couple within had made no attempt to
break apart. Lesley Judd sat with his arm snugly around Linda Parkinson and it
was obvious from their expressions that each considered their search was over.
Chappell
was glad to see it. He had worried a little about Linda, wondering, at times,
if the selection board back on Earth had made a mistake. She had been too
highly-strung, too much the extrovert, changing partners as if she had been a
child in a toy shop eager to try everything before making up her mind.
Over-compensation, he decided, the delusive atmosphere of social freedom on
board the Vrometheus
coupled with the fear of
making a wrong decision.
A
computer should have solved the problem and one had been used but, in the final
essence, what machine could determine emotional compatibility? The ingredients
had been selected, the various units assembled and thrown into close proximity,
and nature had done the rest. Fifteen months of flight-time had been long
enough to cure initial errors, dissolve jealousy, form friendships and found
the basis for an enduring colony.
if
they found a habitable planet, of course. If the ship could re-enter normal
space without destroying itself. If no one or no thing objected violently to
their presence. A lot of 'ifs', he thought tiredly. But what other way was
there to do it?
He
moved deeper into the compartment as Judd lifted his free hand.
'Hi, Doc! Looking for
someone?'
'Rodgers.' It was a lie and
they probably both knew it.
The
ship was too small and the crew too intimate for his main function to have
remained a secret, yet the excuse served to mask his professional interest in
the couple and so avoid embarrassment. 'We were to have played chess. Have you
seen him?'
Linda
stirred in the shelter of Lesley's arm. 'No, Ian, he hasn't been here.'
'He
won't have time for chess,' said Judd emphatically. 'Not now and not for some
time. He's busy," he explained. 'On duty - all the ship-operating
personnel are.' He smiled at Chappell's expression. 'Didn't they tell you that
the trip is almost over?'
As colony-doctor Chappell had no real
crew-status but now, for the first time, he realized just how great was the
resentment he had generated against himself. It was a danger he had foreseen
and had tried to avoid but, in the tiny universe of the Prometheus, that had been impossible.
No
man likes to be told that he is unsuited to any woman. No woman likes to be
ordered to behave herself. Of the sixty-seven people on the ship forty-nine
would form the colony, twenty-four couples with himself as initial doctor and
director. The essential operating crew of the vessel numbered six. Which left
twelve people, six couples who would return to Earth and, no matter what was
said, they would be considered as the rejects.
And
he had been the one to make the decision as to who should stay and who should
return.
Rodgers
turned as he entered the control room. The First Officer was a thick-set, burly
man who would have seemed more at home on the bridge of a whaling ship of the
early part of the preceding century if it had not been for his hands, slender
and delicate and his eyes, blue and compassionate. Like the captain, the chief
engineer and Chappell himself, he was in late middle-age, too old to be a colonist
and therefore with no reason to resent the visitor.
'Hello, Ian, come to see
the fun?'
if I'm permitted.'
'Hell,
yes, why not?' Rodgers glanced at the panels, the men busy before them, i
expected you before this. Why the delay?'
i didn't know,' said
Chappell. "No one told me.'
'Or everyone thought that someone else had,'
said Rodgers, grasping the implication and trying to negate it. 'Well, you're
here now, that's all that matters. You know what's going on?'
'You're breaking out of FTL
drive. Right?'
'Smack
on target. To travel faster than light we had to go somewhere where it could be
done. Another dimension, if you like. Now we've got to get back into our own
universe. According to the math we've reached about where we wanted to go. The
Vegian system, twenty-six light years from good old Sol. A hell of a jump but
the area should be lousy with planets. The trick is to break out close enough
to reach them but not too close to get trapped in a gravity well.' He nodded to
where the captain sat at a console. 'That's the Old Man's decision and he's
welcome to it.'
Chappell
nodded, looking with interest at the banks of meters, the columns of coloured
light. Aside from small noises the control room was silent, heavy with tension
as men scanned their instruments. A bell chimed from a panel, the sound
augmented by a glare of red light.
'Mass
on sector three, sir,' reported the operator. 'About Luna size and
approximately ten light minutes-Captain Foreman lifted his head. 'Be more
precise,' he snapped, i don't want guesses!'
Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Mass
located at...'
Rodgers
grunted as the man droned his revised information. Leaving Chappell he crossed
the room to the panels and busied himself checking data. It was, Chappell knew,
a thankless task. From the dimension in which they travelled instruments
gathered a skein of information as to electromagnetic phenomena, radiation,
local strains and distortions. From it had to be gathered usable knowledge. A
local disturbance could be the location of a planetary mass or an electronic
storm - FTL flight was still too recent for anyone to be wholly sure, and
navigation was a matter of inspired guesswork and dead reckoning. If either
were wrong the best they could hope for was the tedious business of
re-establishing the drive - the worst would be utter and complete destruction
as they tried to fill a space already occupied.
'Stand by for Breakout!' Captain Foreman
lifted his head. 'All stations secure. Sound alarm.'
S-NWSF29-B
97
A low moaning echoed through the fabric of
the vessel as the alarm signalled all personnel to fasten down. Chappell found
himself sweating and looked down at his hands. The first and second fingers of
both hands were firmly crossed.
'Now!'
There
was a twisting, an indefinable sensation which utterly confused the senses so
that the air was filled with lances of dazzling colour and shrieking noise. A
sudden nausea which passed as quickly as it had come. And then the control room
was normal again, the great vision screens bright with a glitter of stars, the
swollen balloon of a sun. And something else.
'A ship,' said Chappell. 'Of tremendous size
and totally unfamiliar design; but it could have been nothing else.'
'Are
you sure?' Legrain had a logical mind. 'I mean, did it speed up or slow down?
Manoeuvre? Did it have a drive mechanism?'
'No.*
'Then
how can you be positive it was a ship? It could have been anything, a small
planetoid, a rogue asteroid or'
'We're
here, aren't we?' Walsh was a big man, as he clenched his fists muscles bulged
on shoulders and arms. 'I think the doc is right. It was an alien vessel and it
attacked us on sight. They didn't give us a chance.'
They
didn't kill us, though.' Sears turned from where he examined one of the walls.
'How come - if they wanted to wipe us out?'
'How
do I know?' Walsh glared his anger. 'Maybe they saved us to put in a zoo. Or
keeeping us for later vivisection. Pets, maybe. Who can tell?'
Chappell
sighed. He sat on the floor, his back against a wall, his legs stretched before
him. Like the others he was completely nude. The room was about twelve feet
square, a featureless cube lit by a soft glow from the ceiling. The walls, as
far as they could tell, were completely unbroken. It was hot, the temperature,
he guessed, well above body-heat, and the air was so dry that sweat evaporated
as soon as it was formed.
Sears
turned from his examination of the wall and sat beside him. 'Why?' he demanded
of no one in particular. 'Why?*
'Let's take it from the beginning/ said
Chappell quietly. 'How did we get here? I think we know that. A ship approached
us and used some device which immediately rendered us unconscious. Blacked us
out, if you like. When we regained awareness we were in this room. I can't be
certain where it is but my guess is that it's within the alien vessel. It
certainly isn't a part of the Prometheus. I
don't feel hungry and I don't need a shave so not much time could have passed.
So we must be on the mysterious vessel I saw. Has anyone any objection to that
assumption?' He waited but there were no objections. 'So far so good. Now to
extrapolate. Our captors must be of a high order of intelligence and have a
very sophisticated technology. They matched our speed and course, made contact
and effected our transfer. And it is obvious that they are our superiors in
spacial navigation.'
i
don't follow/ objected Legrain. 'How can you be so sure they are more advanced
than we are? Their presence could have been due to simple chance.'
'True,'
admitted Chappell. 'But the fact that they immediately used their blackout
device shows they were expecting us.' He wiped his face and began to wish for a
drink, i think the most important facet of the incident is the proof that they
have a very good knowledge of the human body and mind.'
Walsh
frowned. 'Hold on a minute, Doc. You're going too fast. Nothing we have learned
justifies such an assumption.'
'Wrong,'
said Sears quickly. T begin to get the drift of what the Doc is getting at.
These birds are clever and, to them, we aren't strangers."
'They
know us?' Legrain was incredulous, i don't believe it!'
'Then
you'd better start trying!' Sears was sharp, his tone betraying his rising
irritation. 'For any one species to be able to knock out a member of any other
species by means of radiation, vibration or paralysing beam, pre-supposes that
they have studied that race. Even back home we still can't develop a beam that
will do more than disorganize nervous responses and we've grown up together.'
'Yes,'
said Chappell. 'Logic tells us that they know quite a bit about us. Logic also
tells us that, in order for them to have gained that knowledge, they must have
contacted us at some time. And so'
'They
were waiting for us/ said Legrain, slowly. They knew when we'd Breakout. They
had the ship in position and this room all ready.'
'But why?' insisted Sears.
'Why?'
Chappell
didn't answer. Twenty-five centimetres from his right foot, a metre from the
wall which he would have swom was one solid piece without crack or flaw, stood
what appeared to be a paper cup containing some ten ounces of fluid.
It was water. He tested it with a cautious
sip, finding it pleasantly cool and slightly brackish, resisting the impulse to
gulp it all. Instead he shared it out, one swallow to a man, the cup collapsing
into a sodden mess as he drained the final drops. Walsh, who had been the first
to drink, turned from his examination of the wall.
'Nothing,' he said
disgustedly, it's as solid as ever.'
Try
again!' Legrain was impatient and showed it. 'The cup must have come from
somewhere. It couldn't have been passed through a solid. There must be a door
or hatch.'
'There isn't.'
'There has to be!'
'Forget
it.' Chappell broke up the incipient quarrel. 'Sit down, Legrain! You too,
Walsh. The last thing we want is to lose our tempers/ He waited until the
others had settled themselves with a slap of bare flesh. 'Let's think this
thing out. Sears! Have you any ideas?'
'They
could have used their device again/ said Sears thoughtfully. 'Blacked us out,
entered with the water, left and then woke us up again.'
'How
did they manage to get in?' snapped Walsh. 'The walls are solid.'
'So
how did we get in here?' Sears glared at the big man. 'Use your head. Maybe
they can swing up an entire wall or open the roof or something.'
'AH
right/ yielded Walsh. 'So I spoke without thinking/ He ran his tongue over his
lips. 'Hell, that water tasted good. I could use about five gallons of it. Iced
and poured through a funnel/
*Me too!' Legrain wiped his hand over his
bare chest and licked at the dew on his palm. Chappell watched him with
mounting certainty.
Quietly
he said, 'We were pondering a question. Why are we here?'
'Prisoners,' said Walsh
shortly.
That isn't answering the
question. Try again.'
'Quarantine, then.'
'That's
hardly likely,' objected Legrain. 'What about the rest of us or are we
something special?'
'A
sample batch,' elborated Walsh. They could be exposing us to various bacteria
and viruses to see what will happen.'
'How
about hostages?' suggested Sears. Chappell shook his head.
'That's hardly logical. For us to be hostages
pre-supposes that somewhere some of our kind could do our captors harm.
Hostages are held to ensure the good behaviour of other members of the same
tribe, or group or clan. As the only conceivable persons who could be
influenced by our welfare are the others on the Trometheus and as they were in ali probability captured
with us it hardly seems logical that we are held as hostages for their good
behaviour.'
Sears
cleared his throat. 'All right, that was a bad guess, but how about them
keeping us as specimens?'
i
don't believe that is true, either. For one thing if we were we would have been
supplied with food and drink. The main objection, however, is that our captors
are intelligent. Intelligent people don't put other intelligent people into a zoo. If they did they wouldn't be intelligent.'
Walsh
snorted. 'That doesn't leave us much, does it? According to your brand of
logic if we can't find a good reason for us being here, we shouldn't be here.
We can't therefore we're not. Let's go home.'
Legrain
glared his irritation. 'Use your head, Walsh. This isn't a game. This is
serious.' He appealed to Chappell. 'That's right, isn't it, Doc?'
'You're
both right,' said Chappell flatly, it is serious -deadly serious. And Walsh is
right also. We are being subjected to intense, strain.' He looked at their
intent faces, i believe that we are a part of a controlled experiment. A test,
if you like and, if we don't pass it, we and all on the Prometheus will die.'
There was, he thought, nothing like dramatic
emphasis to gain attention. Next to it came the dramatic pause and he used it
now, letting his gaze drift from one to the other, allowing the silence to grow
until it was time for him to break it.
'And
explanation, to be feasible, must fit all the known facts and none other that I
can think of does it better. Everything points to it. A sealed, escape-proof
cell. No method of determining the passage of time. No clothing. No contact
with either our own people or our captors. Sterile surroundings. Reduced to
our basic primevality.' He looked around the room. 'Laboratory conditions. A
group reduced to a common norm. Carefully regulated stimulus provided and the
results noted. I've done the same thing myself a hundred times with rats and
mice. Test conditions to determine what will happen in particular situations.'
Legrain
frowned. 'But what do they hope to learn? I thought we decided that they must
know all about us.'
'They
probably do,' agreed Chappell. 'Physically at least, but maybe they want to
learn more.' He frowned, thinking, automatically rubbing his chin and feeling
the harsh stubble.
Stubble!
But he hadn't been here long enough for his beard to grow - or had he? It was
impossible to determine the passage of time, the utter sameness of the room,
the probability of frequent blackouts of which he would remain unaware. No
wonder he felt so thirsty. They could have been here for days in sweltering
conditions ideal for the creation of dehydration. And now that his mind was on the
subject he couldn't leave it alone. Water! Crystal clear mountain streams,
gurgling faucets, limpid pools, the calming beat of rain.
Irritably
he wrenched the images from his immediate consciousness. 'What would happen if
you put a dozen rats in a cage and only provided enough food for one?'
They would fight,' said
Legrain.
'And
if you provided a way out of the cage with ample food at the exit?'
if
it was plain and they didn't follow it you'd know that they weren't very
bright.'
'An intelligence test,' said Chappell. 'But
we know there isn't a way out of this room so the analogy isn't correct. What
else would the behaviour of the rats indicate?'
'They
wouldn't be intelligent,' said Sears. 'Or they wouldn't fight over one ration
of food.'
'Intelligent?'
'Wrong
word. Try civilized.' Sears narrowed his eyes. 'The water?'
'Yes.'
Chappell looked from one to the other. 'We can take it that we are under
constant observation. Every action, every word we speak is either watched or
recorded. What we do and how we do it is important. Probably far more important
than we realize.'
Walsh
scowled at his fists. 'So I was right. We're specimens. Just what are we
supposed to do?'
Chappell
drew a deep breath. 'Decide who is to live and who is to die.'
'No!' said Legrain. 'We
can't! We'
'
have no choice,' interrupted Chappell curtly. That was made by our captors and
we have to abide by it. There arc four of us. If we receive only the same
amount of water as we did last time, and I believe that we will, then only one
of us has a hope in hell of staying alive. The rest will die of thirst. The
problem is - who is going to be the lucky man?'
No
one said anything but, unconsciously, Walsh flexed his muscles.
'That
isn't the way,' said Chappell quietly. 'It isn't as simple as that. We're not
animals but, if we act like animals we must expect to be treated like them.
What we do may not be as important as how we do it.'
Walsh spread his fingers.
'What do you mean?'
'Look
at it this way. We are strangers arriving unheralded and perhaps unwanted in a
sector of space already occupied by an intelligent race. They know of us but
that knowledge could be thousands of years out of date. So how are we to be
treated? Are we decadent? Are we brutes prematurely advanced and bent on
conquest? Or are we a race which has kept its culture in step with its
technological progress? How are they to know?'
Sears licked his swollen
and cracking lips. 'Make a test.'
'Exactly,' said Chappell.
'What else.'
Legrain coughed. He held a paper cup of water
in one hand, i think it's feeding time again. I just found this.' He began to
raise it to his lips.
Walsh
roared and lunged at the other man. Legrain saw him coming and tried to dodge.
Chappell and Sears joined the fray. When it was over Legrain had a bruised
cheek. Walsh a torn ear and both Chappell and Sears ugly marks on belly and
torso.
The water had spilled and
gone to waste.
Chappell said, 'We'd better come to a
decision. I don't want to go through that again.'
'He
was going to drink it all,' said Walsh, i tried to stop him.'
'You
mean that you wanted to drink it all yourself.' Legrain was shaking with anger,
i was only taking a swallow.'
That's what you say!'
'Shut
up, Walsh,' snapped Chappell before Legrain could answer. 'You too, Legrain.
The water should have been handed to me. Don't let it happen again.' He tried
to put what authority he could into his voice; but it was little enough, simply
that of age and experience. 'As I see it we have a limited choice. We can fight
over the water - and we know what will happen then. We can refuse it - all die
on the basis of absolute equality. Or we can decide who is to get it - and the
rest will have to make sure that he does.'
Sears frowned, i don't get
that.'
'When
men get really thirsty, when the craving for water gets too strong, good
resolutions are quickly forgotten.' Chappell looked at the others. 'As yet any
one of us could be picked to receive the entire ration. That ration means continued
life and, perhaps, a chance to get out of this place. But it will do him no
good if three thirst-crazed men gang up on him. He wouldn't stand a chance and
we'd be back to the first alternative where we all fight and no one gets the
water. So those who go without must restrain not only themselves but each
other. Agreed?'
i guess so,' said Walsh.
The others nodded.
'Good.
Now to decide.' Chappell pulled four hairs from his head, knotted one, held it
with the others in his hand. The hair with the knot is the winner. Who picks
first?'
Walsh swallowed, put out his hand, hesitated.
Sears shrugged. 'One chance in four.' He drew. No knot.
Legrain
stepped forward, quickly, snatched a hair, pursed his lips as he found it
smooth. Walsh smiled, 'Even odds.' He drew and muscles bunched on his thick
shoulders.
Chappell
looked at the remaining hair. It was knotted. As if in ironical reward a cup of
water appeared at his feet.
The aliens were cunning, he thought, bleakly.
Diabolically so. They had struck at the prime dynamic, the instinct of
self-preservation, the fundamental urge of the entire human race. Perhaps of
all races. That, at least, was a thing they would hold in common.
The
water had tasted like nectar but he hadn't really enjoyed it. He had gulped it
down, conscious of the envious stares, the barely restrained craving of his
companions. Almost he had felt ashamed; but deep within something had gloated
because he was going to survive.
Until,
of course, Walsh realized that he was the strongest, that agreements meant
nothing, and that he could have all the water, safely and completely, simply by
first killing the other three.
That
would be the barbaric solution to the problem and the red proof of the survival
of the fittest; but no society which hadn't risen above such primitive methods
could call itself civilized. Was that, he wondered, the purpose of the test? To
determine if the veneer of civilization was strong enough to imprison the
beast?
And
why had no women been included in the group? Would that have made it too easy?
The procreators of the race were always protected unless they were old and ugly
and, in civilized societies, even then.
Chappell
stirred restlessly on the floor. He lay apart from the others as if already
isolated. For want of anything better to do he rose and again examined the
walls. They were smooth, of a peculiar substance which gave them the appearance
of vertical pools, the surface highly polished with highlights within so that
the fingers met the obstruction before the mind was ready for it. An optical
illusion, of course, he had seen something like it in a hall of marble with
panels of polished jet.
Time passed. The next drink appeared directly
before
Walsh,
almost touching his foot. His arm twitched but he made no other move. Chappell
hesitated then drank it down. The same with the next. The third was wasted.
Like
the others it appeared directly before the big man. Both he and Chappell
reached for it together. Before the others could interfere the damage had been
done.
Chappell
reeled back, head singing, the salt taste of blood in his mouth from hammered
lips. The water spread in an evaporating pool at the side of the struggling
trio.
'You
see what I mean?' he said, bitterly, is it impossible to prove that we are
human, not animal? Don't you realize that is just what they were waiting to see
if we would do?'
'All
right, Doc,' croaked Legrain. 'Don't be too hard on him. He's half crazy. Weil
see it doesn't happen again.'
Chappell
turned, nursing his bruises, sitting apart and staring at the far wall. His
thirst was maddening, the worse for having anticipated the water, seeming to
bum his tissues, his very ability to think. What more could the test prove? How
much longer would it last?
One
thing he was sure about. He would share the next drink. No matter how illogical
it was, how senseless, he would share it. He couldn't just sit and watch his
companions die.
He
must have stared at it for a good five seconds before he recognized the cup. It
was directly before him, twenty-five metres from the wall, and had appeared as
mysteriously as the others. Even as he picked it up something made him
hesitate. He looked and confirmed the impression of lightness. The cup was
empty.
A
croak made him turn. Walsh stared at him, eyes imploring, one hand
outstretched.
it's
finished,' said Chappell, tightly, and upended the container. 'There is no more
water. There won't be any more water. The experiment is over.'
But
not quite. With an effort of will Chappell forced himself to ignore his
physical discomfort, the agony of his companions, the desperate need of haste.
He took deep, even breaths, lying on the floor and relaxing as far as he was
able. When he had achieved some kind of detachment he began to think over the
whole thing again as he would an interesting problem.
After a while he smiled, opened his eyes,
climbed to his feet - and walked through the wall.
it was a test, of course/ he said to the
captain. 'We realized that quite early. The only thing we had doubt about was
exactly what it was designed to prove. And I also fell into the error of being
a bit too clever for my own good/
Foreman
shook his grizzled head, it still seems unbelievable. If it weren't for the
instruments and your testimony I'd swear that nothing at all could have
happened. As far as I'm concerned we achieved Breakout and saw an alien vessel.
That vessel.' His arm lifted and pointed to where a monstrous artifact hung
against a backdrop of stars.
'They'll
be contacting us soon/ said Chappell. His eyes were thoughtful. They must have
blacked out the entire ship, selected us four, put us to the test and then
returned us before allowing you to regain awareness/
'But
why?' demanded Foreman. 'Why didn't they contact us in the normal manner?'
'Perhaps
they did, normal for them, that is. After all they are probably experienced in
meeting alien cultures. We are not.'
Foreman
nodded, i see. You think that they have devised some sort of test as a working
basis. But what made you walk through the wall? You said that it was solid/
Chappell
smiled, it was. As I said I was just a little too clever. I thought it was a
simple test to determine how we would react to a given situation. And that is
exactly what it was. The trouble was that I only fully recognized half of the
problem.'
i still don't get it/
'There
was no point at all in them letting us die of thirst so, when the water ceased
to arrive, the empty cup must have been a clue of a kind. Something like
"the test is over -now all get out of here". When I sat down to think
things over I was suddenly reminded of a joke we once played on a student at
school. We locked him in his room. It was on the top floor and he couldn't
leave by other than the door. He had a heavy date and almost pulled it off its
hinges before quietening down. Later we crept up and unlocked it. He didn't
know this, of course, and continued to sit for hours in an unlocked room under
the firm impression that he couldn't get out.' 'So?'
'The point is this, that student had tried
the door so often and found it locked that he was unable to think of it as
otherwise. We had so convinced ourselves that the room was one solid piece that
we just didn't think of it as other than a breakproof cell. At first it was
probably just that. But I'm inclined to believe we could have walked out of it
simply by refusing to admit that it was an impassable barrier. Perhaps it has
a mentally operated lock, or something. After all, our own cages are built
something like that. Laboratory ones, at least. A child can open one but an
animal lacks the mental ability to operate the simple catch-mechanism. Anyway,
I just stepped towards a wall and kept going.'
'What happened then?'
'Nothing.'
Chappell met the captain's eyes. T mean that literally. As far as I'm concerned
I stepped into the wall and was immediately back on the Trometheus, dressed, shaved and feeling fine.'
'The
others came with you,' mused Foreman. 'They and you must have been given
restorative treatment of some kind.' He swore with sudden exasperation. 'Damn
it! According to the chronometers we arrived twelve days ago. According to me
it was ten minutes. They could have investigated every inch of my ship and
probed every member of my crew and I'd never know it. What kind of creatures
are we up against?'
Chappell
looked at the tremendous bulk of the alien vessel depicted in the screen.
'Clever ones, Captain, and experienced. I think it would be wise for us to
think in terms of "work with" rather than "up against".
This is one race we can't afford to antagonize.'
'Maybe
not.' Foreman looked thoughtful. 'What would have happened if you hadn't walked
through the wall?'
Chappell
replied without taking his eyes from the screen, i believe we would have died
in that room,' he said quietly. 'Any race capable of subjecting others to such
a test would have no tolerance for stupidity. And rightly so - an idiot must
not be allowed access to destructive mechanisms.'
'Fair
enough. But it's over now. You passed and we passed with you. But I'd still
like to know just what was the deciding factor. Not your walking out, I can
understand that, but what made them let you do it. Unlatch the cage, so to
speak.'
'An accident,' said Chappell. 'What?'
'Luck.'
Chappell turned and stared at the captain. 'We drew straws and I won. I also
happened to be the oldest of the four. It didn't strike me at the time but it's
obvious when you think about it. What is the concept of law and order based on?
Respect for authority. And who is almost inevitably in the highest position of
authority? The aged. Those with accumulations of experience, in this case
myself. And, by giving me the water, the others showed their respect and
deference to established rule. So we passed and so are acceptable to the alien
culture.'
Foreman
whistled as he stared at the alien ship on which lights began to flash in a
familiar code. 'Luck,' he said and added, 'Man! Are they in for a surprise!'
SENTENCED
TO A SCHEHERAZADEAN DEATH
by
David H. Walters
Life
is but a breath away from Death. 'Whilst there's breath there's life' is an old
saying and never has that been more true than in the sad case of the sentence passed on the unnamed
speaker of this short piece. Of his first published writing, unrepentantly
presented, with great pleasure, herewith, David H. Walters says: 'Dedicated to Christopher Priest, who has on
several occasions told me that the Rrst sentence in any work is of great importance.' Readers of New Writings in SF will know Christopher Priest and will now realize he has a great deal to
answer for. I have only just the one word of
advice - take a deep breath...
SENTENCED
TO A SCHEHERAZADEAN DEATH
'Gentlemen,
for so I must call you, though I do not believe the word in any way to be
justified, I, who now stand before you about to perish at your hands, but
strongly unrepentant, as yet unbloody and still unbowed, unjustly convicted
at your "Court", which I can only describe as marsupial of the worst
nature, of an act which you, in your ignorance (and power) determine a capital
crime, a felony no less, but which is, I feel, in reality an inalienable right,
nay a duty on man, indeed on all sentient Life, which it behoves him not to
cast aside unwittingly, recklessly or without due consideration, a duty, I
reiterate, which is upon us all, everyone, if we wish to survive the all
embracing quietude which threatens our mortal coils, both as a race of witting
beings on this the best of good earths, albeit a race composed of and
comprising somewhat fractious and wayward individuals, though I must state
that I find you to be far more wayward and fractious than I can adventure a
guess, and individually, each man being his own prosecuting and defending
counsels, judge, jury and executioner for this purpose, if perchance we wish
not to succumb to the faceless, mindless hordes of ignorance and ignominy or
to fall hapless and helpless into the very slime and mire of oblivion,
unremembered alike by bird or beast, or any other living thing, neither
celebrated nor commemorated even by the uneven memorials of chaste, chased and
sculptured metal and stone even now decaying about us, a duty which I have ever
striven to obey and uphold, a duty for which I now find myself cast down by my
abysmal inferiors, yes you, and face to face with that final arbiter of life -
death, and yet a death not sacrosanct by the mores of hallowed learning and
ageold tradition, but a sprung up "nouveau" end delivered of envy out
of greed, a death about to fall upon me from the bloody and glaring muzzles of
those lethal instruments
gripped so slackly in your mind-enfeebled
(but muscular) hands, a death to follow swift upon your judgment yet withheld
until my completion of this my final sentence, as is granted and allowed me by
the so-called laws of this infamous gathering which must be, after all (to
give you devils your due), I suppose, still willing, at least for the time
being, to allow me to end what I have begun in this brief breath, and to keep
to its as yet undefiled but idiotic custom that my final grammatical period
shall prove also to be my final existence period as nearly simultaneously as
your scab-rously itchy trigger fingers can make their fatal journeys after your
deadened nerves carry the futile orders from your lack-lustre minds which in
their turn must await their last but unappreciative appreciation of the
termination of this my sentence (0 if I should die think only this of me that
there's some corner of the sludge of insensitive unthinking life that is
forever grammatical), and for what, aye that's the rub, as t'is merely that I
in my wisdom, have more of it than you, that mine is a brain of intellectual
virtuosity born too late for its more natural habitat in the fields of academe
of yore, and having its, shortly to be terminated, truncated span at a time
when the power of the powers that be is firmly grasped by your sticky and
bludgeonlike fingers, the unlettered untutored unschooled duffers of a genus,
sadly not genius, become dullard, unappreciative of the beauties of iambic or
dactylic feet, of rhyme rhythm or scansion, unable to perceive the finer parts
of the wondrous heritage of this our English speech (O God my throat is dry), you the repulsive and reprehensible result of
unchecked breeding, of lascivious, lustful, lunatic lovemaking, though I fear
without true appreciation of the meaning of that lovely word, the
overpopulating underintelligent spawn of your barbary and barbarous forebears
(foreapes?), overweening and pride-ful to the very great detriment of my dead
peers, you, oh you of little intellect (though I regret to say of vastly
superior numerical strength, and of firepower also), you to whom I speak, your inanimate eyes dimming in the folds of unthinking flesh,
your synapses rusty with sloth as compared with me, the modern Plato,
Prometheus of the Proms, giant for grammar, the very quintessence of mindful
superiority, hapless only child of the last remaining family of professorial
persons, sages of special sanguinity, whose motto through the eons has been
"Cogitamus ergo summus",whose crest, a field azure with an owl
rampant gules with three "Rs" below argent contained within a scroll,
surmounted overall by a crown of laurel vert sited atop a gerundive passant,
the last of the line, the final phd... but why go on ... and yet I must for
while there's life there's breath, while there's breath there's speech and
while there's speech there's life, a neat
example of the pseudo vicious circle which I feel sure you will not appreciate,
and besides I have always held that I must never start a course of action or
reaction (though it is you noc I who are the reactionary) which I was not able,
willing and determined to see through to the bitter final end (cough cough, my
throat) and here I have and am the subject of this sentence so far incomplete
without its/my verb, a sonnet octave as yet lacking its
complementary sestet, a verb which was at first instance to have been
"continue", but at the last I do not think I can, and here's my end,
without my verb, but true to my teaching I shall end not with a preposition
(and my post position will, I know, be horizontal) but with an indefinite
article, I who am that least indefinite of savants, to come to this, an ending
not with a whimper but with a ...'
Bang.
BETWEEN THE TIDES by
Donald Malcolm
In
this portrayal of an
alien culture in crisis, Donald Malcolm gives due prominence to the vital
similarities of civilization
without undermining the essential diSerences. If
the ancient society of Hasub broke
down from whatever variety of causes
- including the unpalatable fact that the world had become inhospitable - would
not this be a direct commentary on the fitness of that society for the
great project? If the wheel failed
would not that have been caused by other forces than those of a hostile universe?
BETWEEN THE TIDES
One
The crystal wheel rotated serenely in orbit a thousand
miles above the planet Hasub like a flawless jewel. It shone with pale fire,
pink, almost lilac at times.
Succeeding
generations had watched it grow and spread, like a flower opening with all but
infinite slowness, reaching, always reaching, for something seemingly
unattainable.
Now,
with a diameter of a mile, it was complete. Trailing behind it in orbit, like a
single strand of a web, was a crystal rope, five hundred miles long, a
glittering, tenuous connection with reality. At the end of the rope was the
ship.
As
he watched the launch of a service shuttle. Not Simde Yorea thought: it's been
like a fairy tale, a one hundred and 64-year-old fairy tale. But now it's going to become real and the spell
will be broken.
The
rocket drew a blade of faceted flame up the sky, for a few moments splitting
the glowering mauve-black of the far mountains asunder. Then it thrust out
among the stars.
He
turned away from the telescope, rubbing his eyes, and leaned against the ledge
that ran the full length of the window. Unseasonably warm night air, rich with
the scents of flowers and trees, nuzzled his fine pelt through the openwork of
his tunic. It was the time of falling leaves, which scuttled like crisp spiders
across the land. Soon the world would sleep and dream. His hopes and
aspirations were now fully awakened. Not for him, or Atira, or their cubs, or
the eight other families, would there be the long hibernation until the sap
rose again in the trees and the wind sang with renewed life.
He
looked over his shoulder, at the crystal wheel and beyond it, to deep space. As
yet, there was nothing to see, except stars. But the capricious planet was
there, moving in its immutable course along a track of cosmic dust. The
astro-physicists had shown him the math and
assured him that the planet would be on time, as it had been every one hundred
and sixty-four years since planets had formed within the binary system.
Something
primal in him shuddered at the thought of the venture, and he closed the
window, shutting out the night, and his own fears.
The
room was in darkness. It soothed him. Imperceptibly, awareness of the objects
there began to impress themselves on his retina.This was where it had all
begun. In the cabinets along the wall on his left were the tapes and records.
They told a story of nadir and zenith, frustrations and discarded plans, high
hopes and achievements. Above the cabinets were ancestral photographs, the men
and women who had kept alive a project that, many times, must have seemed like
fantasy. Their faces glowed whitely, like those of spectres.
He
walked across the soft fibrous floor and sat on the edge of his drawing table
and, switching on a low light, contemplated the wall plan view of the star
system.
Reduced
to coloured circles, orbital and trajectoral lines, it all seemed so simple.
There were two stars in the system, 8,370 million miles apart. Hasub's star was type M,
the other was type F. Hasub was a solitary world, without even a moon. The
other sun had four planets. Once every 164 years, a planet from the other star, in a
figure-of-eight trajectory, came within twenty million miles of Hasub. But
Simde's people didn't have the technology to enable them to reach it. There it
was, so necessary to the plan, and so elusive.
Hasub
had been growing gradually, but inexorably, colder for hundreds of years.
Already the polar caps had spread considerably towards the equatorial regions,
where the small population of around five hundred thousand lived on the three
linked continents. Prolonged observations had shown that two of the planets in
the other part of the binary system would sustain life. Simde was going to
attempt to take a small group there, to establish a colony. If the plan to get
them there worked, then the race would have a new beginning and continue to
exist. If not, it would become one with the encroaching cold.
Atira, his wife, came into the room quietlv.
as if wafted there gently by the soft light behind her.
'Simde.'
They
touched their right hands briefly, their six digits spread out in the ritual
fan, the sex digits stirring faintly. This was just one of the old customs
being ignored by most of the younger members of society, and many of the older
ones. Few had faith that the voyage would succeed and even if it did, it wasn't
going to save them, anyway. So ritual and discipline were discarded. Some of
the really reckless and degenerate people were even foregoing hibernation by
the use of drugs. Invariably, they stopped their food plants, and, often,
themselves.
Atira
and Simde went into another room and sat on the cushions surrounding the psycho-food
plant and each inserted their index finger and thumb of the left hand into the
plant and took nourishment through the tubes that extruded from the tips. Their
minds began to merge with that of the plant on a subconscious level and they
were again part of the sublime cycle of nature. The cold was not the only
danger to the continued existence of the inhabitants of Hasub. Many of the food
plants were blighted. It was not known how the blight had started. Fortunately,
their plant was, so far, untainted.
'Are the cubs in bed?'
'Yes. Cered's reading and
Rogdon is annoying him.'
Simde
eased his index digit to adjust the flow, and said, 'Then we can expect
trouble.'
She smiled, her lips curving over the subdued
blue staining
on her gums. Some of the other colour combinations he'd
seen in use--
'No. He won't keep it up. I've left a few
toys beside his bed. He'll soon fall asleep.'
They
were silent for a time, letting their minds and bodies respond to the produce
of the food plant. He studied the lines of her lowered face, marvelling at the
myriad flashes of light gently entrapped in her fine, pale brown pelt and the
long hair that reached to her waist. A simple gown enveloped and made a
mystery of her figure.
'Simde.'
He waited for her to go on. She withdrew her
digits and wiped them with a cloth and handed it to him. The food plant became
bright grey-green as it replenished itself from roots deep in the planet. This
was their last full bonding
S-nwsf29-F TOr
with
the plant, which had been a member of Simde's family since before the project
had begun and it was one of the oldest functional plants on Hasub. There were
others older, but the bonding was of the minds only and no nourishment was
provided. Since its initial bonding with Simde's ancestors, the plant had
nourished the family regularly every thirty-one days, and eased and cleansed
their minds. Neri Falrac, the psycho-botanist of the project, had examined the
plant and she had told them that it would soon stop. The plant had been
prepared for the imminent farewell for a long time, now, and Neri was convinced
that it had decided to stop of its own accord.
She
said his name again, this time looking at him, her eyes a clear violet.
'Are you having doubts?'
He
finished cleaning his digits and put the cloth in the bowl.
'No.
This is something our race would always have had to do. Not merely because we
need to reach the other planets to perpetuate the racial existence. Even if all
was well on Hasub, we would need to break out of this region, to widen our
horizons, physically, mentally, philosophically, spiritually. These are all
sound justifications, but they aren't necessary. Since its conception, this
project has always been considered as a practical, scientific undertaking. Look
at the advances that have accrued to almost every discipline'
'But
our detractors say - rightly - that we haven't learned how to stem the blight
that is steadily stopping the food plants, or to defeat the cold.'
He wagged a long digit at
her.
i'm
glad you're on my side, Atira. You argue too well. As you know, new strains of
food plant are being developed in zero gravity conditions on the space
platforms. All the resources of the Yorea Company are being utilized, but the
problems are very complex. No one can tell if they will be satisfactorily
solved. The cold is more of a long-term worry. People could always go
underground. The only doubts I have are about not going. Look how society has
changed since we were cubs. The increased pace of life, noise, crime, material
pressures, a falling birth-rate and fewer live births. It's almost as if nature
has decreed that Hasub and all its life-forms shall stop. This is a world we no
longer understand.'
'And no longer want? They say that you are
running away.'
She
was stretched out on the cushions, hands cradling her head.
'Who says that?'
Trah and Noss.for two.'
He stared at her.
i can't believe it. They
are among our closest friends.
They were witnesses at our joining.' She
reached up and touched his face. 'You've been so involved with the project that
you've
become blind and deaf to
what others are saying. Most of
them don't see it as the noble aspiration-He
was indignant.
i
don't think of it as "noble". It's work, something that has to be
done ...'
He
floundered into silence under her unwavering, compassionate gaze.
'But you do, Simde, you
do.'
He
stood up and wandered into the other room, to the window, fighting the impulse
to be hurt. He forced his palms down on the ledge and watched the crystal
wheel, his talisman.
'You're
right, Atira. I see myself as a minor god, about to crown the culmination of
hundreds of years of faith and effort. I've taken that responsibility to
myself, almost selfishly, and accepted it. Was it so wrong to make a
"noble aspiration" of it? The reality is very uncertain.'
Atira
moved behind him and encircled him with her arms as he continued talking and he
was conscious of her single, central breast against his back.
'You
asked me if I had doubts. I said "no" and I mean that. But I have
fears for you, for the cubs, for the others who are going with us. Any kind of
simple accident could stop some, or all of us. Even if we reach our goal,
perhaps we'll find that, for any number of reasons, we can't live there.'
Atira turned him round to
face her.
'We
have two planets to choose from and you haven't come this far to fail now. I
know you will be successful and together we'll found a new world. Let's go and
see the cubs and then go to bed.'
They left the room, their hands entwined, the
sex digits anticipating the joining. Far down below the house, the food plant
felt almost imperceptible twinges in some of its roots. Simde and Atira lay
together in the silence. He said, 'Noss and Irah. I really can't believe it of
them. At least, not of Noss.'
Atira
began to regret having told him, then dismissed the thought. As the time of the
launch came nearer, Simde would have found out.
'Don't
worry about them. They've involved themselves with a younger, wild crowd. Irah,
no doubt, wanted to be among people nearer her own age, while Noss - it can
only have been because of Irah, I suppose. They've both been silly. And I think
that they're beginning to realize it, now. Anyway, now that the climax is near,
Noss won't let anything interfere with his work.'
'I'm
sure you're right, Atira,' Simde said. He'd see Noss tomorrow.
Privately,
Atira thought that Noss's actions could be traced to his desire to be on the
expedition; it had been part of his life for so long. And Irah's influence had
also to be considered. Atira was glad that she hadn't told Simde that Irah was
joining with one (or possibly more) of her new 'friends'. Even Noss didn't
suspect that. Irah had no cubs. Perhaps that was the main reason for her
behaviour. Five years was a long time to carry a cub, to have it born stopped,
to know that you could have no more. Nature gave three chances, but only if the
first cub was born alive. Irah had used her chances and was now barren. Her
first cub had stopped shortly after its separation. Atira had been fortunate
in separating two live cubs and having them survive the separation. Hasub was a
kind world to very few.
Their
sex digits joined and it was joyous. It might be the last joining they would
have on Hasub. Or perhaps the final one of their lives.
Two
Clouds,
grey bronze, pink cyclamen, drifted across the eastern sky as the star rose,
starting to dispel the glittering frost. It was an intense, throbbing red. The
number of strong flares recorded during the past year had been unprecedented.
Birds were busy among the branches of the trees screening the airship shed from
the rear of the house. The breeze was light, so Simde didn't have to rotate the
shed. He walked the little craft out on its trolley and, minutes later, he was
flying down from the hills and across the plain to the launch complex. Everywhere
was ordered activity. A service shuttle landed and another was preparing to
take off. Ground cars - maintenance, goods, private - zipped about like
insects. Simde landed his airship in its place beside the workshops and went to
his office on the ground floor. He preferred to be as near as possible to the
site, where parts for the space ship were fabricated, then ferried up to orbit.
Noss
wasn't in his office and Simde assumed that he was out somewhere on the shop
floor, where he usually was. As Chief Technical Officer of the project, Noss
was always fully occupied and worked harder than anyone, Simde included. And he
was never late, which was more than could be said for some of the younger
workers. It was fortunate that the Yorea Company was tolerant.
Despite
the rapturous joining of the previous night. Simde hadn't slept well. Concern
about the project was probably mostly to blame. But he had been unable to stop
thinking about Noss, his life-long friend, his most skilled and diligent
employee, virtually a partner and soon to be the owner of the Yorea Company.
Simde had never mentioned this to Atira, that he thought that Noss had made a
bad joining with Irah. She was younger than Noss, a beautiful and resolute
woman who took what she wanted and damned the consequences. At first, she had
seemed good for Noss, who tended to see everything in terms of stresses and
strains, tolerances and workloads.
Eidas,
his vivacious assistant, came in and he asked her if she'd seen Noss. She took
some papers from a sheaf in her arms and put them on his desk.
'Not
this morning, Simde Yorea. I don't think that he's been in his office.'
'He's
probably outside somewhere. Could you put out a call for him, please, when
you've finished your rounds? He might be back by then. Thank you.'
Eidas cheered him up. She
made everyone feel happy.
He
was half-way through the reports when he heard the call go out for Noss. He
glanced at the tell-tale on his communicator. Noss didn't respond. Usually, he
would come through, acknowledge the call, and say when he would appear.
Simde went into Eidas' office.
'Come
to think of it, his airship isn't outside. Could he he where the call can't
reach him?'
'He always leaves a note in that case. Shall
I try again?'
Simde
had been thinking about what Atira had said last night.
'No. Would you get me his home code, please?'
He
returned to his own office as the communicator buzzed to indicate that a line
was open and the code being called.
A
woman's voice said, 'Noss Sidl's house. Who's calling, please?'
The video screen stayed blank. As Simde's
code had automatically registered on her set, she knew who was calling, irah.
Simde here.'
He
heard her breath indrawn and the screen cleared. Irah looked something -
apprehensive, irritated - Simde couldn't be sure. She was wearing a demure
lemon-coloured lounging tunic and her long tawny hair glistened. Her gum
staining was, for her, subdued.
'Simde Good morning.'
'Good
morning, Irah. Is Noss there? He doesn't seem to be at work.'
'No ...
yes. He's here. He's ... ill.'
Simde
felt a stab of alarm. If anything had happened to Noss at this critical stage'
'What's
wrong with him? Is it serious? When did he take ill?'
She
passed a hand across her forehead and her eyes were like enormous green pools.
i
don't know, Simde. The healer is with him now. It happened about thirty, forty
minutes ago.'
'Sorry,
Ira. I shouldn't have fired off questions at you like that. Is there anything I
can do? Would you like Atira to come to you?'
The great green eyes were wary.
'Not just now, thanks.'
'Please
call me again as soon as you know what is wrong.' Til do that, Simde.'
The screen blanked out, leaving Simde with
the feeling of knowing less than he did before he called.
He punched out his own home code. Atira took
the call. 'Simde. This is a surprise.'
He could hear the cubs
arguing in the background.
'Ness is ill. I called Irah. The healer's
there now.'
Atira's eyes changed
colour, to a deep mauve.
'Oh.' That was all she
said.
'Oh? What does that mean?'
Simde was getting more
puzzled by the minute.
Atira
reached down out of sight of the screen and activated the scrambler.
it
means,' she said distinctly, 'that Irah has been joining with some of her young
men and that Noss has found out the painful way.'
Simde was suddenly
conscious of the blood in his veins.
'Then he has ... he has' He couldn't say it.
'Yes. Noss has the
disease.'
'You knew.'
'That
Irah was joining elsewhere, yes. And I suspected as much when their food plant
was causing so much trouble. Noss must have thought that it was blight. Did you
never really wonder why I wouldn't let the cubs go there
in recent months, why we've never taken up their invitations, or given any?
There was danger even in the ritual bonding all guests partake in.'
'We've
all been busy with the final stages of the project.' He broke off and asked: is
there no way to prevent Noss knowing?'
'Be
realistic. It's there,
in his body, in his blood.
Irah has tainted him and their food plant. I think it will be too late to save
him.'
Simde said through his sorrow, 'How long has
Irah - I mean-He thumped the desk in exasperation. 'About half-a-year, I'd say.
She never actually told
me, of course, but all the
signs were there for a woman to see. Noss might not be as bad as we fear. He
and Irah didn't join much, if at all recently. Noss is much older than Irah and
she did tell me that Noss was never very keen on joining even at the
beginning.'
Atira started to laugh and
smothered it at Simde's scowl.
irah
once said that Noss always tackled joining as if it were a mechanical problem
and seemed to be scared that he would strain himself.'
'How like Noss.'
'So you see what I mean'
'But
surely the frequency of joining has nothing to do with it? Once would be
enough.'
'Weil have to wait and see.
What are you going to do?'
She
knew that Noss was vital to the success of the initial part of the project.
Simde
was at a loss. 'As you say, wait. We can carry on here for a bit, and hope that
no snags arise. I want to go and see Noss, but I don't think that the time is
right. And Irah doesn't want you there, either.'
Atira
said without malice, i'm not surprised. Anyway, I'd better let you get back to
work. I'll see you this evening.'
She
had reminded him gently that he was spinning out time.
He said good-bye and went
into Eidas' office.
if
Irah Sidl calls, let me know and hold till I get back here. I'm going to talk
to Remlin Dor - Noss is ill and I don't know when he'll be back at work.'
is Noss seriously ill?'
He'd
hoped to evade that question and was snappish, unusual for him.
i don't know, Eidas. I wish
I did.'
Eidas
- and everyone else - would know soon enough what was wrong with Noss.
Instead of going immediately to see the
Assistant Chief Technical Officer, Simde went back to his office and sat at the
desk.
Noss.
I haven't really thought about him, only about the project and the
inconvenience to me. Perhaps Atira was right. I am blind and deaf. Selfish.
What would Noss do -supposing he recovered? Joining outside the family was, or
had been, virtually unknown on Hasub. Social and environmental conditions were
slowly changing that and many other parts of the old, accepted code of conduct,
and the pace was accelerating. But among people of their level He couldn't
recall when he'd last heard of such an occurrence.
Would
Noss contemplate the ultimate step of breaking the joining? It entailed much
anguish for the man, the woman and their psycho-food plant. Fortunately there
were no cubs. Simde hoped that Atira was wrong. That was unlikely. Sometimes he
wondered if she could see the future, even in a vague way. Cases of such a
gift, if that's what it was, had been reported occasionally from remote places.
He
went to the fabrication shops and had been with Remlin Dorforabout thirty
minutes, when Eidas buzzed him.
Trah Sidl calling.'
He
excused himself and returned to the office. 'She sounds very agitated.' Eidas
whispered, anxious, somehow, to involve herself in what was happening. So would
you be, if you knew, Simde thought, irah'
'Simde!
Noss has left the house, in his airship. I don't
know where he's gone. He won't answer his communicator. I'm worried.'
Simde
felt like telling her it was a bit late for that. Instead, projecting a calm he
didn't feel, he asked, 'What did the healer say?'
T - I don't want to talk
about it here.'
'But it is serious?'
Irah
started to react to his brusqueness, then the fight went out of her.
'Yes.'
Her voice was barely audible. 'The healer went into another room to arrange for
Noss to go for observation and treatment. Noss suddenly ran out and then I
heard the airship taking off.'
'Which way did he go?'
T ...
don't know. I was so confused.'
Simde,
his mind racing on, said, 'Try and relax. Noss won't do anything rash. He's
probably coming here. I'll ask Atira to go and see you.'
Without
waiting for a reply, he cut the connection and dialled Atira. He told her the
story and she agreed to go at once and see Irah.
Simde
sat drumming at his desk. Noss wasn't
coming to the site, he knew. He had said that to calm Irah. The two families
had a cabin in the mountains. Noss would go there. It was about an hour's
flight from the complex. He called in Eidas.
Tm going to be away for some time. I don't
know how long. If it's vital, you can reach me on the airship circuit. Let
Remlin Dor know.'
Soon
he was airborne. He didn't try to get in touch with Noss. The extra time on his
own might help. Simde didn't know what he was going to say or do when he
arrived at the cabin, so he pushed the problem to the back of his mind and
thought about the project.
The
space ship would be ready, if they maintained schedule, in eight days. The
parts being finished off in the fabrication shop would be sent to orbit
tomorrow. The main hulls of the vessel were assembled and some engine tests had
been successful. Nothing must be allowed to go wrong, now.
The
incoming planet would be at opposition in sixteen days, when it would be twenty
million miles from Hasub and travelling along its orbit at 25.5
miles a second. If the
launch did not take place then, all the years and frustrations of planning and
hoping would be for nothing and the opportunity would be lost, perhaps for
ever. Certainly, he and Atira would never see the planet again. If the impetus
were not to carry them to the new worlds, then it would falter and stop, as
surely they would. It had to be now.
He
was deep into the mountains. The sun was almost at the zenith and its sombre,
fiery glare suffused sky and land in crimson and mauve and indigo and black.
Hasub was not a bright world. (How would it be to live in the light of that
other star?) It seemed perpetually on the brink of a cosmic cataclysm. Perhaps
that was closer than anyone realized.
There,
on his right, was the cabin, standing near the edge of a small lake like a
mirror of sparkling fire. Noss's airship was behind the cabin. Noss himself was
sitting on their boat, idly throwing stones into the water, and watching the
approach of Simde's craft.
Simde
landed beside the other airship and, alighting, went to meet his friend.
Noss
skimmed a stone over the smooth surface of the lake and said, T knew you'd
come, Simde.'
Three
It
was warm enough to sit
on the terrace. Irah and Atira, in their deep, fibre chairs, looked elegant and
beautiful. The hills formed a wide curve behind the house. The sun was high
and, below them, the tall, feather-like trees, pregnant with many birds and
insects, swayed in the soft breeze. Beyond lay the plains.
'You must have known for a
long time.'
Atira
continued to gaze at the view, although Irah's tension brushed her like static
electricity.
Yes.
You could hardly help but notice that our social intercourse had fallen away to
nothing. I couldn't risk my family or myself being tainted. You understand.'
She
looked at Irah; her head was down and her long hair hid her face.
'Why
did you do it, Irah? You are young, beautiful, loved, with everything you want,
perhaps two hundred years of life ahead of you.'
'Noss made me feel old\'
The bitterness of the
revelation shocked Atira.
T should never have joined
with him.'
'No,
you shouldn't. Simde and I, and many others, always thought that. Noss was much
older than you. Maybe he saw in you his last chance for a glimpse of
immortality and you couldn't give him even that.'
Irah's
great green eyes stared at Atira, disbelieving her words and tone, and her lips
were drawn back over her gaudily-stained gums. Her breast, normally always
flat in adult females, distended with her tremulous breathing.
Atira
had never spoken to Irah in this way before, preferring not to interfere, guiding
and advising the younger woman whenever possible. But now she pressed on, determined
to make Irah realize the enormity of her fall, before society inevitably did
so. It might help to ease the impact of what was to come.
'Noss did everything he
could to make you happy'
That's
part of what went wrong. Our whole life together was minutely planned and
calculated. I couldn't bear it all the time. I had to get release somehow.'
She was appealing to Atira as a woman and
that drew a response. However, Atira was also a wife and a mother and a devoted
friend of Noss.
'You knew all that before
you joined.'
Irah
pulled her hair with a distraught hand and said in a low voice, i admit that,
Atira. Only, once I knew that I would have to live with it, all the time - I
wasn't strong enough.'
'But
you were devious enough, and thoughtless enough, to endanger Noss.'
Irah
was crying quietly and the tears clung to her fine facial pelt like early
morning dew.
'How serious is it with
Noss?'
The
healer wouldn't say, but I knew from his manner that it must be very bad. Noss
knew, too. What am I to do, Atira?'
The sound of an airship, coming this way,
reached their ears.
Atira
went to her and held her. 'Wait. Simde has gone to find Noss, at the lake, I
suspect. He must go for treatment. And you must identify those with whom you've
been joining. The healers will find out what drugs they have been taking to
by-pass their sex-sublimation centre and that knowledge might help to save
Noss.'
The
airship was recognizable, now. The Custodians. Irah clung to the older woman.
'We'll do all we can for
you.'
The
airship landed at the end of the terrace and one of the two Custodians, in his
smart, effacing tunic, jumped out and came to them.
He acknowledged the women
and said: 'Irah Sidl.'
'I'm ready. Custodian.'
Irah raised her head high.
They
held hands briefly, then Irah went to the airship. Atira watched until it was
out of sight. Then she, too, cried. It had begun.
Four
Noss rowed steadily, with economical strokes,
until they were in the middle of the lake and he let the boat drift. T do this
often, when I'm here alone. It keeps me in touch with the real world.
Mountains, trees, birds, animals, clean air, silence. And the knowledge that I
just have to tip the boat too far over and I would take my true place in the
scheme of nature.'
Simde,
the sunlight beating down on his face, let Noss talk on without interruption.
i
kept deluding myself that Irah was contented although I think I knew from the
beginning that our joining was a mistake. But people will clutch at any chance
when they see life passing them by, and I was no different. Probably sillier
than most. I was bom to be alone and lonely. I think if you hadn't come,
Simde'
He gestured to the water.
'You
knew I'd come. You said it yourself. And things might not be as serious as they
seem. We have to go back and take you for treatment. The advances in
technique'
Noss was shaking his head.
it's
too far gone, Simde. I can feel it. Who knows how long it has been here, inside
me, killing me relentlessly and efficiently, only now bursting into the open?
I'm like a fruit, rotting from the inside. I'm coming back, Simde. But not to
go for treatment; to complete the project. I've seen it this far and I'm not
going to let it fail now.'
'The healer says you'll
have to go for treatment.'
Noss began rowing towards
the cabin.
it's
my life, what's left, and I can do with it as I want. And what I want is the
success of the project. That planet won't wait.'
Noss
let the oars rest. 'We'd better change places, Simde. I don't want to stop too
soon.'
He
smiled, but there was no humour in it. Simde rowed savagely, his heart in
turmoil. Noss sat silently, letting the essence of the world permeate his
being.
When
they were back on the beach, beside the airships, Simde said, 'You can come
back to the project provided you at least go and see the healer. That's
reasonable, surely?'
it
is, Simde. I'll see you tomorrow sometime. I take it Remlin Dor is doing all
that's required in my absence?'
As
he entered his airship, Simde said, 'Need you ask? You trained him yourself.
Till tomorrow.'
Five
Simde was always thrilled and excited by the view
from orbit. Hasub spun slowly, a thousand miles below. The three continents
were caught between the glittering jaws of the encroaching polar ice.
The
eight families who were to make the journey were gathered together in the space
ship, trailing on the end of its crystal cord, five hundred miles behind the
wheel, like an afterthought. They were having another session with the
psycho-food plant, after having had the rigorous mandatory check by the healers
on Hasub.
The
ship consisted of three parts, two five hundred foot spheres and a cylinder of
the same length, with inter-connecting tubes all held together by framework.
Overall, it was 1,700 feet long. The first sphere contained the
food plant and the hibernation cubicles, while the second provided all other
facilities for the travellers. The propulsion units were in the cylinder.
The
food plant was a triumph of psycho-botanical engineering by Neri Falrac and
her team. The problem had been three-fold. First of all, a food plant had to be
induced to grow and flourish in conditions of virtual zero gravity. Initially,
Neri had experimented with speeds of, or near, one gravity, and had found that
the plants died. It was found that the compression of the soil against the wall
of the sphere was too severe, preventing the growth of the genetically-redesigned
plants. On Hasub, plants sent roots very deep into the ground. In a 500-ft. sphere, that was impossible. It was
Noss who had suggested a thirty-one day rotation of the sphere. That had
worked. The plant was in globular form suspended in a network of tendrils. The
position and direction of each tendril was calculated for maximum efficiency
and access. The complications posed by the provision of the equivalent of the
radiation and light strength of an M-type star had been solved.
The
third problem was the inducement into the plant of sufficient capacity and
resilience to enable it to sustain the abnormally large number of symbiotes.
Each person's psycho-pattern had to be tuned into the plant's system and the
bond regularly reinforced. Assimilation and disposal of even the small amounts
of Hasubian body waste provided another difficulty, but dedication and, often,
inspiration bordering on genius, had brought solutions.
Neri,
her plain, pleasant face smiling, looked into the common room and said, 'Your
turn, Simde.'
He
went with the botanist, leaving Atira and the cubs watching the manoeuvres of
the fabricators as they unloaded parts for the space ship from a service
shuttle.
Neri
qnd Simde made the transition from one gravity to virtual weightlessness and
entered the plant chamber. Simde had never quite become used to this
experience. They went carefully along the catwalk and strapped themselves into
the harnesses grouped around the plant globule at the centre. Simde, as advised
by Neri, took a short time to relax and accustom himself to the conditions.
Once every six days was enough of this, in weightlessness.
When
he was ready, he gently inserted the appropriate digits into the resilent flesh
of the food plant. Immediately he was aware of warm surges of soft, friendly
green-ness filtering into his mind, like water finding its way along runnels in
sand. This plant had accepted him at and from the first contact and the bonding
was mutually beneficial. Food plants were akin to Hasubians in one respect:
their minds were unique. Perhaps comparison was valueless here, as the ship's
plant was the first to be exposed to multiple bonding on such a large scale.
Simde always left the bonding feeling refreshed.
But
this occasion was different. Suddenly Simde's mind was submerged by a green
tide of unexpected force. He sent out a soundless cry for help. Neri, who was monitoring
the bonding, quickly bonded with the plant herself and contrived to draw off
some of the power. Almost at once, the plant responded and the pressure on
Simde lessened and faded, to be replaced by the normal emanations, overlaid by
what Simde could only think of as contrition.
'Break
the bonding gently, Simde,' Neri said and he complied, sagging in the harness.
Neri
broke her own bonding after a few minutes and blew gustily in relief.
'Let's go to my office.'
Once there, Simde asked,
'What happened?'
'The plant is hyper-sensitive, because of
multiple-bonding, and I think it probed your mind to a deeper level than usual. As you know, contact
is more of a "layering" than a penetration. Your tension over Noss
must have opened you up and the plant poured in. It didn't mean any harm.
Rather the reverse. You'll discover that for yourself at the next bonding.'
Atesor
Seldolf, the ship's psycho-botanist, was going to be fully occupied on the
voyage, but Neri kept the thought to herself. Simde had more than enough to
contend with at present.
The bonding had upset Simde and he said, 'Are
you sure that it's nothing more than that, Neri? Is the plant dangerous, in
any way?'
'No.
And I can say that, knowing how vital it is to the survival of you and the
others. This plant is unique. It's the culmination of years of research and we
have to expect that it will be different - but not dangerously so - from ordinary plants. After today, I think you'll have
to get used to a more intense contact during bonding. You can adapt yourself to
that.'
Reassured, Simde returned to the common room.
Atira picked up some of his residual tension but she was discreet enough not to
question him. She and the cubs were returning to Hasub, while Simde was going
to the wheel. They went with him to the airlock where he put on a suit. Then,
from an observation window, they saw him enter a small enclosed robot rocket
sled and prepare to ride the crystal cord. He waved to them and set out for the
wheel, five hundred miles ahead of the space ship.
The sled accelerated and soon the ship was
falling behind. He put out the interior light. There, off on the starboard
side, hung the shimmering tendril of crystal. All his life, he had watched the
wheel and the crystal cord grow.
The
sleds usually had a few occupants aboard, service engineers, fabricators and so
on, but not on this occasion. As the ship dwindled, he was alone with his doubts,
his fears, his insignificance when measured against the immensity of the
venture now so near to starting. He couldn't leave Atira and the cubs behind.
But was he right to risk their lives? Anything could go wrong and they would
all be doomed. He looked out at space, with its multitude of stars, as if
seeking an answer, and finding no solace in those coldly burning shards of
light.
He
found his thoughts of the project being continually misted by the images of
Noss and Irah and the trouble they were in. He didn't know how it was going to
be resolved. Noss had always been such a predictable man. But illness, and
betrayal, could change people. At a time when he couldn't afford to be, Simde
was irritated and worried by his inability to help Noss.
He
noticed that he was drifting away from the cord. He checked the simple
instruments of the sled. The controls weren't responding. He mastered an
incipient surge of panic. Then the motor cut out. The sled was gradually
slipping farther away from the lifeline. Immediately, Simde sent out a distress
call and this was answered by the radio man on the station in orbit near the
wheel. The transmission crackled.
'It's
flare activity,' the man explained. 'Weil send another sled out from the ship
to take you in tow.'
'Have
I time to reach the wheel? I don't relish getting caught out here during a
flare eruption.'
'There's
no actual flare in progress, Simde Yorea. But due to the increased frequency in
the past year, the level of radiation around Hasub is much higher than normal.'
For
a time, Simde was occupied in providing readings and measurements to enable the
other sled to find him. And then silence. Simde had put on the interior light
at the beginning of the emergency and now he put it off again. He felt as if he
were under the sea. Diving was one of his pleasures. Until the other sled
turned up, apart from a regular signal, his time was his own. Leisure was
something he had come to cherish recently, so little did he get of it. The
circumstances could have been better. And Atira would be worried, although she
would have been told of the breakdown.
Eventually
his ded was found and taken in tow and he continued his journey to the wheel.
With nothing else to do, he contemplated the great annular crystal expanding in
the sky. The half segment in sunlight glowed with a subdued cyclamen colour. As
it rotated like a dream in motion, sporadic sparks of scarlet fire flashed, as
if it were an anvil being struck by a hammer of light. The space station,
containing workshops and other facilities, orbited nearby.
A service shuttle had docked at the station
just ahead of the sleds. Two engineers took the faulty sled to the workshops.
Simde thanked his rescuer, then, when he reached the radio room, the operator
who had connected him with Hasub. After he'd spoken to Atira, he went to the
station commander's office and was surprised to see Noss there. He looked ill.
His expression prevented Simde from commenting. Simde greeted the commander,
Jaay Hucogum, a life-long friend.
This
lazy existence up here must agree with you, Jaay,' Simde smiled, nudging the
commander's paunch.
it
does - except when it's disrupted by people trying to sneak off with sleds.
I'll be as interested as you are to find out what went wrong. As you know,
maintenance is very regular and strict.'
Simde
set him at ease. 'Not everything can be accounted for. Don't worry.'
He
turned to Noss. 'What brings you up to the wheel, Noss?'
'An
inspection of the electro-magnets. I'm going over now to look at them. Do you
want to come?'
Simde
sensed the urgency in Noss's apparently casual invitation, and the commander
said that his business could wait, so Simde and Noss returned to the hub and
boarded a sled. They headed for the crystal wheel. Simde guided the sled to the
hub. The crystal was magical, every conceivable hue and tint and shade ensnared
in its sparkling surfaces. As they proceeded along an access tunnel, they would
find themselves stepping into a blinding copper and saffron pool or drawn into
a terrifying hole of sable and greenish-purple. Nothing seemed real.
At
last they emerged on the rim and the graceful curves of spectrumed crystal fell
away on either side. They were standing on a frozen rainbow.
Simde heard Noss's voice in
his helmet radio.
'When
I come here, I realize just how incomprehensible nature is, and yet I'm proud
to be a minor part of the pattern. I often wonder if, a galaxy away, perhaps
another being is gazing out at the stars and trying to make sense of it all.'
As
Noss began his inspection, Simde said, 'Did you go to the healer?'
'Yes.' 'And?'
Noss straightened up and looked at Simde.
'I'll
stop soon. It could be now, tomorrow, but certainly not more than twenty days.
They can't do anything. I've caught some new variant of the disease, one that
can remain undetected until it has a hold too strong to be broken. But I'll not
stop until I see the ship leaving on its journey and I know that I have done my
work well.'
The dark blaze of space and the timeless
rainbow of crystal seemed to recede until Noss filled the whole of Simde's
vision. Pulses of memory beat across his mind, recalling things about Noss that
he thought he had forgotten. There was nothing to say and Noss didn't expect
it. Everyone stopped. But Noss And in this way. Simde felt a gout of hate against
Irah, for having stopped Noss. The emotion faded at once. Hate had no comfort
for Simde. He knew that Noss would not understand. Noss had no room in his
heart for anything but love. For that reason alone he was vulnerable and would
stop.
Noss
had moved along the crystal's rim, leaving Simde behind. Almost as if he would
read it, he knew what was in Simde's mind. They had been friends and colleagues
for a long time and had a fine comprehension of each other's philosophies. He
had no fear for Simde. Perhaps he should have some for himself. Was stopping so
very bad, coming, as it did, at the culmination of his life's work? For a man
like him, it was a sound, logical conclusion. He had never maintained
illusions about anything or anyone, except Irah. And even with her, after their
first joining, he had felt briefly cheated. He had made a mistake and he would
not compound it. Now the debt was due.
Noss
completed his inspection and went back to where he'd left Simde.
'Everything's all right. Let's go home.'
A
wavering glimpse of colour reached Simde's eyes. The planet was coming. Soon it
would be at opposition and the venture would begin. He caught something of
Noss's perspective. Everything was all
right. Noss, himself, the others: no one mattered. The drama would sweep them
all along.
Six
The
Judgment had been made and
the Sentence passed. Now was the time to carry it out. Irah and the four men
who had joined with her, stood within a circle of Custodians. Outwardly, she
was the calmest of the group. Only her green eyes betrayed her turmoil. She
stared impassively at the small square machine, sitting on a table flanked by
two Custodians. A bright light shone down on the machine, casting the rest of the
area in darkness. Behind the machine sat the High Custodian.
The
first man walked forward bravely. He was already as good as stopped, so what
did this matter? He placed his hands in the slots in the machine and felt the
clamps grip his wrists. The embrace was brief. When he was permitted to
withdraw his hands, they looked no different. But the radiation had done its
work of destroying the sensitive nerves of the sex and feeding digits. Before
the Execution of Sentence, the five had been allowed to use a psycho-food
plant. Now he knew that he had left to him thirty-one days, no more. The
ultimate penalty had seldom been extracted, but no one had ever been known to
last the full time. They always stopped themselves.
The
next two men were as brave as the first one. All three had gone so far in
degradation and perversion that what awaited them was strangely fascinating and
desirable.
The
fourth man was young, hardly more than a youth, without parents, and perhaps
not as culpable as the others. At the Judgment, Irah had admitted freely that
she had enticed him. The three older men agreed that they had persuaded and
tricked the young man.
The
High Custodian had listened to all the evidence, of the other accused and the
youth's friends. He was still clean, untainted. However, the High Custodian,
despite the stringent ethics of his position, had been determined from the
outset to make an example of them all, without exception, and had sentenced
them accordingly. There was no appeal. And there was only one way the Sentence
of Execution could be commuted. Someone else had to offer himself, or herself,
as a substitute.
No one had offered. So now he was here, in
the Hall of Execution of Sentence, about to face the machine. His legs failed
him and two Custodians had to support him. One took his hands and was about to
force them into the slots, when a voice told him to release the youth.
Noss stepped past the Custodians. They didn't
know what to do. The ceremony of Execution of Sentence had never before been
disrupted. From the shadows beyond the machine, the High Custodian demanded,
'Why do you violate this ceremony, Noss Sidl?'
T have come to offer myself
as substitute for him.'
The
intended victim had collapsed before the machine, too afraid to believe what he
heard.
'But his crime was against
you.'
Noss
answered: 'The Judgment was unjust and should never have been given.'
The
stopping of brain cells could have been detected in the Hall. There was nothing
that the High Custodian could say. Noss's action precluded comment.
'He
should not be here, awaiting Execution of Sentence. We are all guilty of what
has become of our society, of which he is a product. We haven't cared enough
about other people, what they did, or thought. Perhaps it is not too late for
someone to start caring. I offer myself as his substitute. Have I your
permission?'
It
was a formality, and the High Custodian was reluctant to comply.
'Because
of what he, and they, have done, you will soon stop. This gesture will cause
you great pain and discomfort for the remainder of your time.'
Thank
you for your concern, High Custodian. It is my wish.'
'So
be it. Release the prisoner. It is recorded that Noss Sidl is his substitute.
Do you wish to bond?'
T have no need of it, High
Custodian.'
'Then let Execution of
Sentence proceed.'
The
young man tried to thank Noss, who said: 'Make good use of your life.'
Noss
asked the High Custodian if he might talk to Irah and this was granted. She was
a broken woman. When Noss appeared, she had hoped, in some twisted way, that he
had come to substitute for her. Noss read it in her eyes. He extended his
right hand. She faltered, then put out hers and their digits touched.
'Had
we been bound by hate, instead of love, I might have substituted for you, Irah,
knowing what your life would have been, that of an outcast. But because I love
you, I will not. I know that you understand. Come, we'll go forward together.
Let me help you.'
She
put her hand on his arm and they went to meet the machine.
Seven
Simde was anxious and angry when he heard of Noss's
sacrifice. He was concerned for his friend. The last days should have been as
easy as possible. His anger was selfish and he didn't try to hide it from
himself. Although the first stage of the project was almost finished, and Noss
had done all, and more, that was required of him, Simde thought of him as the
essential spirit of the project, ensuring its success. It was irrational, but
if Noss were to stop sooner because of what he had done - Simde didn't want to
think about it.
There
was a further complication, only in Simde's mind. After the Execution of
Sentence, Noss and Irah had gone back to live together. It was a sensible
arrangement, the only one. At first, Simde didn't want to concede that. He
couldn't understand why Noss could do that, why he didn't hate Irah even a
little. She had stopped him twice over.
Simde
and Atira were out on the terrace, watching the sun westering amid a shoal of
slow indigo and dull bronze clouds.
Atira
said, 'Love is a much stronger and more destructive force than hate. Men can't
see that. Women can. Noss still loves Irah, so he has to destroy her in order
to protect her.'
She
turned towards him. Lingering rays of sunlight enmeshed in her hair, framing
with a halo her shadowed features, out of which her mauve eyes shone like twin
stars.
'Could
you stop loving me, despite anything I might do to you? Noss and you are very
much alike, although neither of you realizes it.'
The sky was flushing with deep red and
purple, shading into black. It was one of the few remaining sunsets they'd see
on Hasub. Patterings of cold wind played across the terrace, making Atira
shiver. Going indoors, they went to see the cubs, then retired to their own
room.
Deep in the soil, the food plant could feel
the steady spread of the blight along its roots.
Eight
The time of the launch was drawing near. The days
passed quickly for Simde, who was responsible for the final preparations. The
ship was ready and the engines had undergone their last tests and would not be
used again until landfall was made on the planet, which was now predominantly
bright in the night sky.
Simde
and Noss were now almost constantly in each other's company during working
time. Noss had insisted on carrying out his duties. Surprisingly, he showed
only slight changes, physically. But then, he was one of those people who
altered little after attaining adulthood. Simde was always alert for some sign
that his friend was weakening. Noss never gave him one. He accepted Simde's
attention in the spirit in which it was meant, and was tolerant. This was the one
major part of Noss's life that he hadn't planned. It was very unfortunate that
it was going to stop him, a much more painful stopping than he had anticipated.
His agony was intense. And now that he had taken the youth's Execution of
Sentence, nothing the healers could give him would alleviate the pain. It would
overcome him ultimately. But he was determined that he would not stop until he
saw the ship leave orbit. So he drew on his last stores of energy andcourageand
husbanded them. And Simdereceivednosign.
It
was ironical to Noss that the time since he and Irah had taken the Execution of
Sentence had been the happiest in their lives. After Noss returned from work,
they spent the evenings together, discovering anew the pleasures of simple
things. One day, Noss left the site and went home and took Irah to the lake.
They walked along the beach, talking now and again, examining strange objects,
letting their minds and bodies attune to the rhythms of nature.
Irah, like Noss, had found strength and
courage from within herself. It was more difficult for her. She was young. In
that moment after Execution of Sentence, she had stared at her hands and, for
the first time in her life, acknowledged that she would not still be here when
the stars went out. Almost, that truth had stopped her on the spot.
Then
Noss had taken her hand and they had left the Hall and the High Custodian and
the machine and gone home. Now, Irah lived every day as if it would be her
last. Soon, one of them would be. Atira was always available if she was needed,
although she had many preparations of her own to make. Irah was secretly
pleased to discover that she didn't need Atira as a prop and it raised her
stature in her own eyes.
Atira
brought the cubs to see her and, while their visits recalled her own
barrenness, she cherished the times she had with them. No one had told them
about Irah. Simde and Atira had never even contemplated depriving them of their
view of Irah and for that she was grateful. If only she and Noss
Noss had been talking to her and, in her
reveries, she hadn't heard him. 'Are you back from wherever you were?' She
smiled at him.
T
was saying that this is where we'll come on the day of the launch.' She looked
directly into his eyes. T know that already.' He halted.
'How
could you know, Irah? I've just thought of it.' Irah shook her head and her
hair swirled in the slow air.
'No.
Your mind has had this planned, perhaps for a long, long time. Now you've put
it into words.'
'How well you know
me.' 1
As they resumed their walk,
neither voiced their thoughts on the outcome of their lives had they tried to
know each other better.
Nine
Neri Falrac,
the psycho-botanist, had arranged one more bonding with the ship's food plant,
three days before the launching. As on previous occasions, the travellers,
after having been passed by the healers, were gathered aboard ship. Noss, who
had come up on the shuttle with some of the people, was talking to Simde. He
was going to the wheel for one of his inspections. Noss insisted that the
regular inspections of everything associated with the project, as provided for
in the original plan, be made. His insistence on preventive maintenance had
saved the project a number of times.
Simde,
with four others to be bonded before him, went with Noss to the lock and saw
him off in a sled. He had just returned to the common room when Neri came in,
obviously agitated. She signalled him to go outside.
'Neri-'
She
stared up at him, but she could have been looking into space.
'Lif Nerod has stopped.'
Black disbelief clouded Simde's mind. He
gripped Neri's shoulder and she twisted away. 'During the bonding?' Yes.'
He
recalled his own recent experience. 'You assured me that the plant was all
right-He paused as two men came towards them. 'We can't discuss this here.
Let's go to the plant room. Is he still there?'
He
was striding along and Neri had difficulty in keeping up with him.
In
the room, he looked at the cub, not much older than Rogdon, sagging in the
harness. Simde stood gazing at the peaceful face, not knowing what to do. This
could mean the end of the project, when it was so close to success in its
initial phase. Noss, Irah, Lif. The project had begun to exact its sacrifices.
What could save it, now? Lif s parents would certainly withdraw and their
decision might influence some of the others. If the complement of the ship was
depleted too
SNWSF29G I4T
much,
then the project could not go ahead. The soft sound of Neri's weeping brought
him back to the present reality.
He
said gently, 'Neri: have Lif put into a side room and laid out. I'll go and see
Enomice and Nekk.'
First
of all, he would have to talk to Atira. He badly needed her support. She saw
him as soon as he entered the common room and, sensing that something was
wrong, came at once to his side. He told her about Lif. She said nothing but he
could feel her love encompass him and it gave him the courage for the task.
Enomice and Nekk were in a group by one of
the ports. She had always been the more enthusiastic about the project and had
carried Nekk along with her. As Simde started across the room, Enomice glanced
over the shoulder of the woman she was speaking to, and saw him. She broke off
in mid-sentence, the dawning knowledge in her eyes like acid, dissolving his
resolution. He forced himself not to falter. By this time, conversation had
ceased and he was the centre of attention.
'Nekk
... Enomice ... may I speak to you?' Simde tried to avoid Enomice's look of
pleading; but he couldn't. She said, very, very quietly, 'Lif.' Nekk and Atira
helped her from the room. In the corridor, Enomice said, 'Lif has stopped,
hasn't he?' Simde could only shuffle helplessly. Atira said, 'Yes.' 'Take us to
him.'
Nekk,
suddenly, seemed to comprehend what was happening.
Snarling, he pushed Simde
against a wall.
'This
project of yours stopped Lif, just as it would have stopped us all, had we
gone. You and your company, with mad schemes of reaching another star, no
matter what the cost, in kind, in people. Lif, oh, Lif'
Enomice
held him briefly, then they went to see Lif. Neri and a healer were there. She
had regained her composure. While Enomice and Nekk sat by their cub, Neri
showed Simde three tiny black capsules.
i
found them in the plant room,' the healer whispered. 'I've never seen this type
before. It - or they - stopped him almost immediately. I'd say that they were
his first drugs. And his last. He certainly took a dose after the check on
Hasub. He must have taken it while he was in the plant room.'
'And the plant reacted.'
'Yes. But the plant didn't
stop him. It rejected
him.'
Simde
was relieved. He looked at Enomice and Nekk. He had to tell them.
The
healer said, T know what you're thinking, Simde Yorea. Let me tell them. You
are too emotionally involved. Perhaps you'd better see the other crew members.
Emphasize that the psycho-food plant was not to blame.'
'Yes.
Thank you.' Simde's thoughts had been drifting away and there were visions in
his mind about his own cubs.
i'm
going to bond with the plant,' Neri said and they went out together. T suggest
that we suspend the remainder of the bonding for today?'
Simde
agreed. Atira had remained with Enomice, and Simde had an uncomfortable meeting
in the common room. No one was hostile; but their questions were incisive.
Thankfully, he was able to get away and be alone. His belief in himself and
the project was weakened. However, he knew that he would go on, as long as
Atira and the others supported him. He wondered what influence the stopping of
Lif would have, once the travellers had the opportunity really to think about
the possible implications. He was beginning to reassemble his jumbled thoughts
when an announcement came over the address system, saying that Noss wanted to
speak to him.
Simde gave the room number to the
video-communicator and Noss's image appeared on the screen.
Tm
in the radio room of the station, Simde. I want you to come as soon as you
can.'
There
were others present and Noss obviously did not want to discuss anything in
public and he could glean nothing from his friend's expression.
'I'll come at once.'
He
found Atira, told her where he was going, then commandeered a shuttle. It was
arbitrary and wasteful; but necessary.
When they were together in a private office -
Simde, Noss
and
a crystallographer - Noss said bluntly: 'We think that the wheel's beginning to
break up.'
Simde
made a strangled noise and sat down abruptly, all the doubts and fears crowding
in again.
The
other man said: 'This has been a cumulative effect, over many years'
Simde
interrupted. 'All those inspections - what were they for, if this is
happening?'
The
expert took the outburst calmly. 'Until now, the crystal has been able to
repair any cracks. However, the flare activity of the past year has been the
most intense for at least a hundred years and the crystal can't withstand the
hard radiation much longer.'
Simde
slumped in the seat. He was going to be beaten. At the last malevolent flick of
fate. His mind rebelled at the enormity of it. Long years of work and belief,
started before he was separated, and now it was to be all for nothing. Coming
on top of Lif's stopping, how could the project survive? At that moment, Simde
would willingly have stopped.
'Simde'
Noss was speaking, but
Simde didn't look up.
'I've
done some calculations. I'm sure that the wheel will hold together for the
short period of rotation required, and attain the velocity you need.'
'Lif
has stopped,' Simde said. 'For all I know, the project might be stopped, too.'
Couldn't
you'
'No!'
Simde flashed at the expert. T must tell the travellers. They have a right to
know and a right to decide what they want to do. The launch is the beginning of
a new phase of the project. Everything must be be based on trust.'
He stood up. Tm going to
Hasub.'
They left in silence.
Ten
The first snow was falling like tiny rose-tinted
flowers as Lif was taken to his final bonding. Many people followed as he was
borne slowly along the tree-shadowed avenue to the ceremonial pool, which was
the first stage in the conversion of a body into the nutrients that fed the
growing psycho-
148
food
plants. It was a perfect cycle of separation and stopping. The pool was on a
hillside, overlooking the fields where the food plants were raised and
nurtured.
The
procession emerged from the avenue as the snow clouds passed on and the sun
shone. Enomice and Nekk accompanied the bearers to the edge of the
flower-scalloped pool. After they had looked upon his face for the last time,
they stood aside. The bearers lowered the litter into the water and backed
away.
A
quiet current caught it and wafted it across the pool to a skilfully disguised
culvert. Enomice and Nekk gazed after the litter until it disappeared. The
cycle had begun again with Lif.
As
they turned away from the pool, a youth stepped forward from the crowd. Simde
did not recognize him. But Noss, standing beside him, did. It was the cub for
whom he had taken the Execution of Sentence. Lezah Ewor.
He
stood in the formal position, feet together, right hand extended. At a final
bonding, it was traditional that, when parents had lost a cub, one who was
parentless could ask to be adopted by them.
Simde
was keenly interested in the outcome of the meeting. Enomice and Nekk had
accepted the knowledge that Lif had stopped because he had taken drugs.
Believing that was subtly different. Now they were confronted by Lezah Ewor,
who had taken drugs, joined illicitly with Irah and been reprieved from
Execution of Sentence.
'Enomice Nerod. Nekk Nerod. My name is Lezah
Ewor. I am with you in your sorrow. My parents have taken the last bonding and
I am alone. I have offended against the customs and the laws and was given the
Judgment by the High Custodian. I was saved by Noss Sidl from taking the
Execution of Sentence. All this I admit before you.I have been cleansed'.
This
caused murmuring among the onlookers. The process of cleansing was painful and
dangerous, almost as bad as the addiction of the drugs themselves. Few took the
cleansing. Simde understood now the physical and mental strain that Lezah was
enduring. The effects lingered long after the cure was done. Even Enomice and
Nekk, who, despite the tradition, resented the intrusion and its meaning, felt
more favourable towards the youth.
'By the traditional right, I ask you to adopt
me as your cub.'
His
right arm, still fully extended, was beginning to shake. If they did not decide
soon
Enomice
came forward and placed her hand against his in the ritual, and was followed by
Nekk who, as usual, seemed uncertain. But he was quick enough to answer, 'We,
Enomice and Nekk, accept you, Lezah Ewor, as our cub and give you our name.'
Simde
and Noss offered themselves as his nominators, when the adoption was submitted
to the High Custodian for formal approval. The new family conferred, then went
to where Simde, Noss and Atira were standing.
'Simde,' Nekk said, 'we
shall go on the voyage.'
'Thank you. I had hoped for this. Lezah will
have to go up to the ship today and begin bonding with our food plant. I'll
arrange it with Neri.'
'He is Lif, now.' Smiling,
they departed.
Noss
said, 'Can anyone doubt that I was right to take his Execution of Sentence. He
will be good for them, and they for him.'
Arm
in arm, they followed after the others, Simde and Atira concealing their
sadness.
Eleven
The day of the launch had come. Farewells were
subdued. There was little to say. Simde's food plant had stopped just after the
last bonding. Soon the pathfinders would be gone and life on Hasub would enter
a new, more urgent phase.
Simde
and Noss stood at the base of the shuttle, watching the restrained activity
around them. Irah was saying goodbye to Atira and the cubs and she knew within
herself that she was severing one of her last links with life. She had no cubs
of her own. For her there was no immortality.
The
travellers began to board the shuttle, being checked as they passed into the
ship. Irah came over.
'Simde. Safe journey.'
He
embraced her briefly, as if the contact might suffuse her with life.
Noss took his hand. The wheel will do its
job. Then you can do yours. Irah and I shall be watching the ship.'
The men held each other.
T shall always remember
you, Noss.'
'And I, you, Simde.'
He was the last to board
the shuttle.
After
it had taken off, Noss and Irah went to their airship and flew to the lake.
Twelve
The travellers were all in their acceleration couches. When
everything was ready, the signal was sent to the space station and in turn was
relayed to the rocket motors on the crystal wheel. At first it maintained its
somnolent rotation, then the rockets flared and it began to pick up speed,
light flashing from its vast surfaces. Faster and faster it turned. The
electro-magnets were activated in sequence, biting on the 500-mile long crystal cord and its cargo. In two
minutes, the necessary escape velocity of eight miles a second would be reached
- if the wheel did not break up. Second after second the velocity built up in
the wheel.
Simde
watched the numbers appear on the screen above his head. One minute.
Acceleration was thrusting him against the couch. One minute, ten. Would the
wheel hold? Our lives could be ticking away, Simde thought, but the numbers
compelled his attention.
Aboard
the station instruments monitored the condition of the wheel. Grimly, the
commander studied the readings. The giant crystal wheel would disintegrate any
second. When Noss had made his discovery, the station had been moved to a safe
distance, in case segments came their way.
Noss and Irah were following the progress of
the launch from the lake. The night was peaceful and the stars blazed messages
of silence as if they might evoke a response in the watchers. The little boat
rocked very gently.
Five seconds to terminal velocity. Pieces of
the wheel began to fly off and some passed dangerously close to the cord. If
that were cut, then the ship would be doomed. The final numbers seemed to take
forever to appear in the window. One!
The
ship was slung free from orbit, even as the crystal wheel began to
disintegrate, tom apart by irresistible forces. Glittering fragments sped out
in all directions, but confined mostly to the plane of rotation, like a
careless scattering of jewels. Some would fall to Hasub. Others would be lost
in the interstellar spaces.
They watched until the ship disappeared from
sight. Then they touched hands for the last time and, bound in love, Noss and
Irah stopped.
And the ship was gone,
between the tides.
YOUNG TOM by
Dan Morgan
If
population control finally receives the force of
law, we should not be too surprised at some of
the side-effects whose black humour must enliven the Young Toms of the future.
YOUNG TOM
I may not have time to tell all of this, and apart
from the microphone of the recorder I'm not really sure whom I'm telling it to.
Mandy will probably play the tape over when she gets back, but I hope not
really, because it might be bad for Young Tom, and in any case she knows the
whole story already. If you are listening Mandy, I'd like to say that I still
love you in spite of everything. Of course there could be someone else out
there - maybe even Young Tom a number of years from now. That's a thought ... Hallo, son. Take care of your mother.
She's gone through a lot for your sake already, and I've no doubt she'll make
other sacrifices in the future.
I called the police in right after Aunt
Rebecca's murder. We were anxious to get the Life Credit through as soon as
possible, and apart from that I didn't think it was good for someone in Mandy's
condition to have dead bodies lying around the house. Not that there was
anything particularly gruesome about Aunt Becky now that she'd 'passed over',
as she used to call it. She looked more or less her old self, lying there at
the bottom of the stairs grinning. Of course the grin didn't really mean
anything, except that the same fall which had broken her neck had also
dislodged her dentures.
The
cops arrived about twenty minutes after my call, headed by a pleasantly
grizzled, middle-aged sergeant with whom I was on nodding terms. Mandy was
crying most of the time while he asked his questions. Women seem to need that
kind of safety valve in such situations. I'm sure he understood that, because
he cut the whole investigation down to an absolute minimum.
'Quite
an age, wasn't she?' he said, as two of his assistants struggled to slide Aunt
Rebecca's remains onto a stretcher. She was an ample woman, built rather on the
lines of a feather bed.
'Sixty-five,' I said.
i£5
'Yes, I thought so. Most
unfortunate accident...'
Mandy
whimpered - not so much as an expression of grief, but to prompt me. Her elbow
reinforced the message.
'Oh,
by the way, sergeant - we'd like to register a formal claim to the Life Credit
in this case. You see my wife is ...'
'Really?
Well I'd never have guessed.' The sergeant winked at me broadly. 'Let me be the
first to congratulate you both. Now don't worry about a thing. I'll put a
report through to BureauPop the minute I get back to the station.'
'Most
co-operative of you, sergeant,' I said. Mandy made a sudden recovery, turning
off the tap and treating him to her number one smile.
After the police had gone we opened a bottle
of champagne. Mandy had decided that Young Tom wouldn't object too violently
just this once. It was, after all, a rather special occasion. The bubbly helped
dispel what remained of the atmosphere of tension that had hung over our house
during the past month or so and we settled down quite happily to await the
arrival of an envelope from BureauPop notifying us officially that Aunt Becky's
Life Credit had been allocated to us.
Who
wouldn't be happy with a girl like Mandy? That peaches and cream complexion and
long, blonde hair in braids make her look like an Austrian doll. A big girl -
not fat, you understand; but with plenty of people on the balcony, as the
French so cutely put it. The kind of girl who always attracts a fair amount of
attention from poolside ornithologists, even though she never would descend to
the blatant exhibitionism of a bikini. I don't mean to imply that she's nothing
more than a sexual object with big knockers and a peanut brain. As a matter of
fact, she's quite brilliant in a number of ways, and very highly thought of
down at Acme Algal Processing, where she is first assistant to the head of the
Bio-Chemistry department.
But
it's the other side of her nature which is more important to the present
discourse. To tell the truth, I hadn't realized just how motherhood oriented
she was until after we were married. It was only then that she explained that
although she loved me dearly, she would never have gone through with it if our
genotypes hadn't matched so perfectly. In fact she was so happy about the idea
of producing a Grade A child that she wanted to start out then and there, on
our honeymoon, by going to a doctor and having her ContraCapsule removed.
I
talked her out of it eventually, but not until several tears had been shed.
Anyway, it was fun making up, and she did seem to understand that my argument
was prompted by common sense rather than any anti-fatherhood feelings. As an
accountant I'm perhaps excessively conscious of such matters, but I knew that
although we had been entered as willing and able to produce a Grade A child at
the time of our marriage the chances of our drawing a Life Credit in the
BureauPop lottery during our first year were slightly lower than that one of us
should be struck by lightning or fall under a rapitrans.
Even
so, I couldn't help being aware of her disappointment each time the ioth of
the month rolled round and went past without the arrival of any envelope from
Bureau-Pop. It was a shame, because Mandy was so obviously the kind of girl who
back in the old days before negative population growth would have quite
happily mothered at least half a dozen kids. Whether my fatherhood qualities
would have stretched that far is another matter, but under the circumstances a
quite academic one. She wanted a child, and because I loved her I wanted her to
have that child. The difference between us was that whereas I was prepared to
accept things as they were and await the dispensation of MAMA, the BureauPop
computer which made random selections each month from among the eligible
couples, after three years of fruitless waiting Mandy decided to take matters
into her own hands.
The
first thing she did was to forge my signature on an application for the removal
of her ContraCapsule. The second was to wait until she was a good six weeks
pregnant before telling me a darned thing about it. Naturally I was upset, even
though I did appreciate her desperation, and I launched into yet another
explanation of the statistical improbability of our drawing a Life Credit
before the end of the crucial thirteenth week, by which time the pregnancy had
to be either validated or terminated by Compulsory Abortion. It was obvious to
me that the effects of a Comp Ab on a girl with Mandy's high motherhood
orientation would be disastrous, and I was extremely worried about the
situation created by her impatient action. However, as I have explained before, Mandy is an
intelligent girl and I should have realized that what I had interpreted as an
emotional refusal to face facts was really part of a carefully thought out
plan.
That
was where Aunt Rebecca came in. Her husband. Uncle Alwyn, had taken the
Euthanasia Option three years before, and since then she had been rootless,
drifting around from one lot of relatives to another. At the moment she was
staying with Cousin Netty, who lived in Vancouver, and Mandy had arranged for
us to be her next hosts.
We're fortunate in having a pleasant three
bedroomed house in the suburbs, and she settled in with us very comfortably.
Too comfortably, in fact, because in no time at all she became part of the
family. It would have made matters a lot easier if she had been more difficult
to please, some querulous old biddy with a mean temper and a sharp tongue. But
she wasn't. She was a big, jolly woman with a ready laugh and such human warmth
that I couldn't help liking her from the start. Apart from that, she played
darned good chess - one passion which Mandy and I had never shared.
She
was delighted to hear about Mandy's pregnancy. We had to tell her about that,
but not of course about the problem it presented. We let her assume that we
had been selected in the BureauPop lottery.
'How
marvellous!' she exclaimed. 'And after only three years! Poor Cousin Netty has
been waiting for nearly ten, you know. Both she and Victor would make such
ideal parents, but they've had no luck at
all so far, poor things.'
If
I'd had any sense I would have killed her on the first day, before she had time
to become so much part of our lives. I don't really mean to criticize, but
Mandy's conversation at the time had become rather dull and one track. She
seemed to spend most of her waking hours dreaming about the future of Young Tom
- as she had already christened the embryo - going around with a fulfilled
half-smile on her face and knitting tiny garments with the mindless
concentration of a bird building its nest.
Don't
misunderstand me. I've no time for the immature type of father who has a
tendency to look on his own child as a rival for his wife's affections. But
there are limits... and even at that
stage I began to have a feeling that Mandy might go beyond them.
In
the meantime there was Aunt Becky - a load of fun, the sort of person it's a
real pleasure to have around, appreciative, cheerful, always willing to help
unobtrusively about the house. Perhaps above all, so easy to entertain.
i've
had a good life on the whole, Tom,' she used to say with a smile. 'There'll be
no regrets when my time comes to pass over. I can't think why everyone is so
kind to me. Cousin Netty and Victor - and now you and Mandy. Despite what they
say, it can't be such a bad old world when that kind of consideration and
affection still exists.'
I
must have missed at least a dozen opportunities during the first couple of
weeks. Aunt Becky was pretty active for a woman of her age and size, and she
seemed to take the most ridiculous chances, hanging over the parapets of tall
buildings, jay-walking like a teenager and insisting on enjoying the view from
the very edge of each cliff-top.
At
nights, in the privacy of our bedroom, Mandy was becoming impatient. 'You're
too soft! Why don't you get it over with? Think about Young Tom. You're not
being fair to him.'
But
it wasn't that easy for me. Young Tom wasn't real to me in the sense that he
was to Mandy. Nowhere nearly as real as Aunt Becky, whom I regarded with
increasing affection.
Thursday
at the lake was the final straw for Mandy. Despite the fact that it was cold
and windy, with a near-gale blowing, she insisted that I should take Aunt Becky
out in our sailing dinghy, whilst she stayed on in the cabin to prepare lunch.
Aunt Becky agreed, of course. The old girl was game for anything. So off we
went, neither of us wearing life-jackets, despite the previously established
fact that she couldn't swim a stroke. End of season and mid-week there were
none of the usual crowd about. It should have been the easiest thing in the
world, an unforeseen swing of the boom, whipped by the gale force wind, the old
lady overboard before anything could be done...
Mandy
had difficulty in concealing her fury when we both turned up to eat a hearty
lunch.
'You realize how much time
you've wasted?' she hissed at me that night. Her face had a touch of the Lady
Macbeth's in the pale moonlight. 'If we don't get that Life Credit by next
Thursday Young Tom will be terminated. Don't you care about that?'
'Of
course I care, darling,' I said. 'It's just...
Well, she's so darned nice and trusting.'
'And
you are a weak-kneed fool!' she said, angrily flouncing off into the spare
room, where she spent the rest of the night, the first time we had been
separated since our marriage. It really upset me to think that this thing
which should have been such a blessing to us was driving us apart. I blamed
myself to a large extent. Mandy was right. I had been indecisive. Both she and
Young Tom deserved better of me.
By the end of a sleepless and lonely night I
had hardened my heart, determined not to allow any affection for Aunt Becky to
stand in the way of doing my duty as a father and husband.
But
Mandy was ahead of me. With time getting so short, she must have decided that
the only thing for her to do was to take the matter into her own hands. Very
capable hands too. She is, as I mentioned earlier, quite a big girl, easily
capable of administering a hefty shove of the type that sent poor old Aunt
Becky hurtling to her death down that ultramodern, but rather dangerous,
staircase.
I didn't actually see it happen, of course. I
was in my study, checking through some work I'd brought home from the office
when I heard the clattering rumble and that final dreadful thud which seemed to
shake the very foundations of the house. By the time I arrived in the hallway
Mandy was already standing over the silent body.
"There
- you see how simple?' she said, and burst into tears.
That was when we called the police; and
settled down afterwards to wait for the envelope from BureauPop. There were
only three days to go before the thirteen week deadline, but we weren't really
worried now. BureauPop have a reputation for swiftness in such matters, and
even if there should be some delay it could be ironed out when Mandy went to
the local office on Thursday for Young Tom's validation.
As it happened they were even more efficient
than usual, and the envelope arrived before breakfast this morning. Mandy was
full of smiles when she opened it up, but her face melted like a July snowfall
as she read the letter. She passed the single sheet over to me without a word.
It
seemed that dear old Aunt Becky - with her usual kind thoughtfulness - had
pledged her Life Credit in advance to Cousin Netty in Vancouver. After all,
we'd not told her that we were in need of it, whereas she knew that Netty and
Victor had been waiting for ten long years. Young Tom's future looked very
bleak at that point.
Naturally
we were both upset, but there didn't seem a lot we could do at that stage other
than go to our jobs as usual -Mandy to the laboratory, and me to my office.
Anything was better than sitting at home brooding.
When I arrived back tonight I was delighted
to find that Mandy was in a much brighter mood. She appeared to have accepted
the inevitable and be determined to put a brave face on her disappointment. Poor
darling! My heart went out to her, but I deliberately didn't say anything about
Young Tom, and she made no mention of the subject.
She's
always been a pretty good cook, but at dinner this evening she really excelled
herself, and I guessed that she was probably sublimating her suffering. The
prawn cocktail was just the way I love it, with lots of beautiful pink, piquant
sauce. She's allergic to shellfish, but occasionally when she wants to make a
real fuss of me she prepares something like that and watches me eat it.
Afterwards we had a couple of charcoal broiled steaks, followed by fresh fruit
and coffee.
It
had been a meal fit for a king, and afterwards I relaxed contentedly on the
sofa, listening to the sound of Mandy doing the dishes and thinking to myself
that a really considerate husband would go in there and offer to help with the
drying up at least. It was only when I finally tried to obey that virtuous urge
that I found out I couldn't move my legs. Try as I might, they just lay there
numb and unfeeling on the sofa ahead of me, as if they didn't belong to me at
all.
Naturally
I panicked, calling for Mandy. She came running in from the kitchen.
'Don't just stand there!' I howled. 'Call
Doctor Meldrum. It must have been those damned prawns!'
'No,
darling,' she said quietly, it was the sauce. I'm sorry, but you must see that
there was nothing else I could do. Time is getting so short, and I had to
protect Young Tom, didn't I? One thing I can promise you is that it won't hurt
in the least. I was very careful to make absolutely sure of that.' She took her
apron off and began to move towards the front hall.
'Mandyl - Where are you going?'
She
turned to me with that gentle half-smile that had become so much a trademark of
her pregnancy, i think it would be a good idea if I went out for an hour or
so,' she said, i'd like to stay with you to the end, of course, but the sight
of your dying might not be good for Young Tom.' She blew me a kiss and walked
out of the room. A couple of minutes later I heard the front door close.
So
here I am. The numbness has crept up to my neck now, and I'm finding it more
and more difficult to speak. I can't turn off the recorder either, because my
arms and hands have been useless for some time. I suppose when the numbness
reaches my brain that will be the end. Curiously enough I don't feel too badly
about dying. Maybe that's part of the effect of the drug, or maybe it's because
I can see now what old Aunt Becky was getting at when she said that the future
belongs to the children, not to us. There's something oddly satisfying in the
idea that tomorrow Mandy will be able to go along to BureauPop and claim my
Life Credit.
She'll
miss me, of course, but Young Tom will be there to keep her company, and after
all, that's what it's all about, isn't...
IN
THE COMA CONDITION by
Charles Partington
How
fortunate for Massner that he
happened to be in the underwater city of
Tethys when all life on the surface of the Earth was destroyed! His work in
Gestalt Behaviourism warned him that such a colossal disaster must find echoes
within the enclosed world of the
underwater complex, that no man is an island. What apocalypse might be found if human minds linked in the final
investigation?
IN THE COMA CONDITION
One
Massner's inability to register dismay over the corpse of a decimated humanity
stemmed not from moral neglect but from an intense personal commitment.
Massner
was haunted by a girl's face, tormented by an expression that found echoes in
the shattered rhythms of his existence. His life had been revitalized in the
complex ambiguities of her eyes. If there was meaning to existence, Massner
would find it here in the Coma Colosseum in Tethys. This was where he had twice
glimpsed the girl in television broadcasts. If not here it would be found
nowhere else. There could be no alternative.
Massner and Lynda, his wife, had been in the
ocean city of Tethys for slightly over six months now, Massner having secured a
position as one of a visiting team of observational psychologists on the
assumption it would facilitate his research into practical Gestalt
Behaviourism, which only an enclosed and isolated community like Tethys could
provide on sufficient scale.
He
had been the first of the team to arrive at Tethys. The rest were scheduled to
follow at the end of the month. They
never made it. Within a week of Massner setting foot in the underwater complex
the fungoidal infections had decimated the surface area of the planet. It was
unbelievable; but final. As a viable species, mankind was finished.
Unfortunately, he took the other mammals with him.
For
hours Massner had listened in silence to playbacks of the deathsongs of the
huge whales, their sighings echoing half-way round the oceans of the world. He
experienced more sorrow in their extinction than in man's. Even in death the
whales achieved nobility.
Obviously no-one could fail to be emotionally
disturbed
on some level by the virtual extinction of
the mammalian species. Massner attempted to study the anticipated culture shock
of such a widespread disaster on so small a community with as much
professional detachment as the situation would allow. But increasingly her
face, the girl in the Coma Colosseum broadcasts, invaded his thoughts to distraction.
His feelings towards her were beyond analysis at this stage, almost asexual;
based more on a subconscious recognition of the chaos she threatened. Yet even
though he was aware of the danger, Massner was fascinated.
He
smiled, glancing at the signature on the letter of admission to the Coma
Colosseum. His presence there went beyond that subtle invitation. There were
other forces at work in Tethys.
Massner
had accepted that he would be under surveillance from the moment he entered
Tethys. His work in the area of Gestalt Behaviourism and psychology explored
the limits allowed by the Church in the ocean city. His two recently published
papers had been designed as critical vehicles, containing submerged, almost
subliminal, indications of the doubts he entertained. That he had been granted
permission to visit Tethys had come as a surprise, the opportunity was not one
to be missed. Yet surely the unease he felt about Tethys was mirrored in other
minds? But where were they? Public dissenters were apparently non-vocal in the
undersea complex.
If
his detention in the Coma Colosseum, if such it turned out to be, was an
indication of a repressive back-lash instigated by the Church as it now
existed within Tethys, Massner would not be surprised. After the recent fiasco
of the Second Coming, the Church had almost been compelled to introduce
protective measures.
Massner had first become aware of the rumours
circulating amongst the twelve thousand inhabitants of Tethys concerning the
reappearance of Christ less than two months ago. The growing wave of expectancy
was frowned upon; but despite calls for restraint from the Church, speculation
increased to the point where self-appointed leaders, lat-terday prophets
emerging too rapidly and occupying positions too close to the public
nervecentre to be removed, were predicting the actual date of Christ's advent
in Tethys.
The prescribed day came and passed in a
breathless hiatus. Towards evening a woman in one of the two hospitals had an
emergency Caesarian. The child died. Their fervour and hopes unrealized, the
reaction of Tethys' inhabitants transcended all extrapolated indications.
No
riots; but a rapid sinking into apathy, a dreadful sense of rejection. There
was an atmosphere of defeat in the city. The recurring crises had taken their
inevitable toll.
Though,
possibly, there were other surviving remnants of humanity scattered in isolated
fragments across the surface - though no radio transmissions disturbed the
ether to suggest this - the people of Tethys now felt utterly alone, physically
and spiritually adrift. It seemed as if for the first time they were aware of
the waters above Tethys, of the relentless crushing pressure waiting to engulf
them. Existence had never seemed more precarious or pointless. It was a psychological
horror which could not fail eventually to contaminate every mind in the city.
For
Massner the state of mind of the inhabitants of Tethys under such conditions
should have represented a challenge demanding total application of his
knowledge. He reflected upon what Ostier and Kircher would have thought of the
situation. They would have been fascinated with the dilemma it posed.
But
Massner could not work. She was too much in his thoughts.
He
walked over to the tiny window and looked down upon the almost empty walkways.
Was it really for her that he had entered the Coma Colosseum? He had no answer.
He stood at the window for what seemed hours.
When
they came for him, Massner followed, vaguely frightened and perplexed; wholly
intrigued. His eyes never rested. The girl was somewhere in this building.
The interior of the mysterious Coma Colosseum
complex was as unknown to the majority of the inhabitants of Tethys as it had
been to those on the surface before the fungoid infections struck. However, the
surface area of the huge bowl with its seating capacity of fifteen thousand
people, more than the total population of the ocean city, had been familiar to
everyone, if only from the occasional television programmes concerning the
enigmatic
Anglesomne.
The actual details of what went on inside the vast building amounted to
speculation and rumour which after almost forty years had begun to take on the
elements of myth.
Yet
Tethys still retained obvious attractions for those fortunate enough to secure
a position there before the catastrophe. Population levels were strictly
enforced, eliminating the frantic overcrowding that had reduced life on the surface
to mere existence. Apart from the usual mental and physical requirements, the
only other condition demanded of would-be inhabitants was a record of Christian
observance. Even considering the presence of the Coma Colosseum, there had
been more applications for citizenship than could ever be accepted.
The
gently curving corridors following the periphery of the Coma Colosseum were
mostly deserted; but occasionally white-coated figures were to be seen entering
or appearing from doors on either side of the corridor. They took no notice of
Massner and his silent custodians. Turning at right-angles along an
intersection, he was escorted along an even wider radial corridor towards the
hub of the complex where Anglesomne lay in Coma-death. Near the hub centre,
Massner was shown into a circular room.
There
were five people sitting around a solid oak table. One of them, a tall slim
man, stood up and smiled at Massner.
'Welcome to the heart of Tethys/ he said.
Massner didn't hear. He was staring at the girl in the television broadcasts.
There is an infection totally beyond medical
aid. An infection of the soul. It defies description or explanation. It has to
be experienced.
Massner
realized gradually that he was sitting at the table, listening to words without
meaning, looking at a circle of faces while seeing only one. Inseparable, agony
and exhilaration washed over him. The sensations of life when life is at its
most intense.
In
a dim confused corner of his mind, Massner listened while introductions were
being made. The two men on his right were Robinson and Sharpe, doctors in
parapsychology and the ecclesiarch respectively. The elderly woman sitting
next
to them was a Miss McCormac. The angular bearded man handling the introductions
was Perrers, 'John Perrers,' he said, smiling. 'And the lady on my left,'
Perrers placed an affectionate hand on her, 'is Mrs. Lynda Sagar.'
Sagar!
The name churned an area of once dead memories now made all the more bitter by
the realization that this incredible girl with the same name as his wife had
married Sagar. He stared at her, thinking of Sagar, a man Massner once believed
he had exorcized from his life. Now he had returned to haunt him again.
'You
will of course have anticipated why you were invited to the Coma Colosseum,'
Perrers was saying. 'We are all aware of the problems facing Tethys. Not just
the physical problems that confront us, those we can at least attempt to
rectify, but the malaise of the mind and the spirit which threatens us all at a
much deeper level. Purpose, even the belief in life itself, is deserting us.'
Perrers'
hands had never rested. His expressive fingers fluttered nervously on the
table like an impaled butterfly.
'We
have to assume that Tethys is the last surviving fragment of humanity. It must
be protected,' Perrers insisted. 'Massner you can help us. We need all the help
we can get.'
Massner
smiled inwardly, reflecting upon what Kircher would have made of that
statement.
Dr.
Robinson spoke for the first time. His voice was deep, with an inflection that
suggested Australia. Beneath his horn-rimmed spectacles his eyes were bright
and intelligent.
i
suggest ladies and gentlemen that this is an opportune moment to introduce
Massner to the reason for his presence in the Coma Colosseum. As we agreed, it
would be advisable for him to be familiarized with the programme before Sagar
arrives. The sooner he is made aware of what we are trying to do the better.'
The
assumption that Massner was willing and capable of helping them had evidently
been decided before he entered the room.
'And Dr. Sagar?' Massner asked. 'Does he
know? Is he aware that I shall be joining your - team?'
Perrers answered the question. 'It was he who
insisted
that your help would be invaluable to us. Now to save time
and confusion, I suggest that only one of us should show
s-nwsf29-h i6q
Massner
around the project. Dr. Robinson, perhaps you would care to explain what we are
doing?'
Robinson
stood up. 'Yes, of course. I'd be delighted.' He left the table, and opening
the door, stepped out into the corridor. 'Would you follow me, please?' he
asked Massner.
Dr.
Robinson talked animatedly as they walked along the radial corridor towards the
hub, but Massner could not concentrate on his words. Though the situation he
found himself in was puzzling, his thoughts were entirely on Lynda Sagar.
The
suggestion of an emotional flux between them seemed incredible. She had hardly
looked at him while Massner had been in the room; barely acknowledging his
presence when introduced. Yet Massner had experienced a rapport, a subtle
intangible exchange that caused his senses to swim and which rendered everything
else secondary. Massner had suspected for days that Lynda Sagar was the focus
of inexplicable forces. To have that assumption confirmed was beyond his
present comprehension.
Two
They were standing in a small room in the exact
centre of the Coma Colosseum. The room was a dodecahedron in shape, each of its
twelve sides measuring approximately two metres. The twelve wall segments were
transparent. Behind each segment was a further room; a dodecahedron beyond a
dodecahedron. The odd design failed to register at first.
Massner's
attention was attracted to the iron-framed beds, one in each of the outer
rooms. Nine of the twelve beds contained occupants.The central room in which
Massner and Dr. Robinson stood also had a bed. It was empty. Like the others,
thick leather straps hung down from the metal frame.
Dr.
Robinson's amused laughter echoed off the transparent walls. 'No, that's not
intended for you, Massner. Though I agree that it must appear somewhat
disconcerting when seen for the first time. We tend not to see that side of
things now, only the end result.'
Massner turned to face him.
'And what might that be?'
'We are going to give back
to what's left of mankind something he forgot a long time ago.' Dr. Robinson
answered. 'Something that will enable him to overcome the psychological as well
as the physical horrors that threaten him now in Tethys.'
Massner stared at him. 'And what's that?'
'We are going to prove the existence of man's
immortal soul.'
Suddenly the glare reflected from the dozens
of strip-lights illuminating the double dodecahedron irritated Massner's eyes.
He turned away, temporarily confused.
Massner spent the next half-hour listening in
a cynical, distracted fashion while Dr. Robinson outlined in vague terms the
mechanics of the operation.
His
interest was minimal, and that was alarming, for the concept was as dangerous
as it appeared absurd. But for Massner, Lynda Sagar was the only reality.
Everything else seemed irrelevant. There was a contrariety about her, a paradoxical
personal intenseness that denied identity. She seemed almost disparate; a
person of many reflections. And Massner's professional insight only emphasized
the error of his unavoidable infatuation.
Dr.
Robinson penetrated Massner's distraction only with his parting words.
'Oh,
we've arranged a room for Lynda and yourself while you're in the Coma
Colosseum.'
'Lynda?' Massner asked,
stunned.
'Yes,
we thought it would be better if your wife was near you. You won't worry about
her then, will you?"
Massner sat at the foot of his wife's bed in
the tiny room they had been allocated. Around the bed were the ever alert
machines watching over her physical condition. Any change would instantly be
reported to a central monitoring area which not only scanned the Coma Colosseum
complex, but the entire city. In an undersea environment such a system was more
than desirable; it was essential. One slowly learned to live with it.
Massner
looked at his wife. It was the
blankness that unnerved him. Anything else he could eventually have come to
terms with. The removal of the malignant tumour had also eradicated her
personality.
There had been moments, soon after the
operation, when Massner believed he had detected hopeful signs; a vague response
to his promptings, a half-smile or a suggestion of tears. Yet slowly, his
detestation had grown, despite all his attempts to control it.
His
worst fears were always that somehow his wife could detect on some subconscious
level the direction of his thoughts. He studied her face. The intellectual
arrogance that had once attracted him was now dissolved in the relaxed and
flacid contours of near imbecility.
How
many billions, he wondered, had there been on Earth before the infection
struck? How many survived? In Tethys there were less than thirteen thousand.
Outside Tethys, how many? Fifty thousand? Fifty? Or one?
Massner
looked down at his wife. Was she a survivor? He thought of Dr. Robinson's words
and shuddered. Did she still have a soul?
His sense of peripheral insularity heightened
during a second meeting of the committee presided over by Perrers. Massner was
disturbed but intrigued by that delitescent yet exotic atmosphere of
disassociation growing within him. It should have been a cause for concern; but
strangely Massner welcomed it. There was a madness spreading within Tethys, and
no one could remain untouched.
Perrers
seemed tense, even excitable. As the room began to fill up, his mood was sensed
and intensified by the newcomers. Several of them stared openly at Massner, but
for the most part he was ignored. Conversations sprang up consisting of angry
strained voices; but Massner hardly registered them. He watched the door for
Lynda Sagar.
The
murmur of voices died when Perrers stood up and called for attention. People were
still drifting in.
'As
most of you will be aware,' he began, 'it has now been found necessary to bring
forward the date of the programme in an attempt to offset the increasing
unease and depression spreading throughout Tethys.
'This
accelerating deterioration must be reversed soon or the city and its
inhabitants will begin to die from irreversible internal disorders; disorders
affecting both our critical life-support systems and the psychological
condition of everyone in the city.
The inhabitants of Tethys, all of us, have to
regain faith in our capacity for survival, in mankind's ultimate purpose in
this life and beyond. The blight which has decimated the surface of our earth
is a shadow here in Tethys which threatens us all.'
Dr.
Sharpe, a slim intense young man whom Massner recalled meeting earlier, stood
up. 'Mr. Perrers, we are all well aware of the situation and how it affects us.
What we need to know is when the demonstration is now scheduled to take place.'
Dr. Sharpe's inquiry was taken up by a number
of questioning voices demanding an answer.
Perrers
raised his expressive hands in an attempt to placate the meeting.
'Gentlemen,
the decision to advance the programme came from Dr. Sagar after a detailed
analysis of current disturbing trends amongst the population. The demonstration
will take place forty-eight hours from now.'
The
rest of Perrers' words were immediately drowned out by the loud objections of
nearly everyone in the room. From the uncertainties voiced, and the currents of
unease circulating the gathering, it seemed that not everybody was as
convinced as Perrers and Dr. Sagar of the desirability of such a drastic
rescheduling.
Massner
stared at the faces around him. At least, he reflected, it removed one problem.
Dr. Robinson had remarked that Massner"s knowledge and practical
experience in the area of Gestalt Behaviourism would prove invaluable in
suggesting the most effective method of presenting the project to the
inhabitants of Tethys. There was little he could accomplish in forty-eight
hours. It would be impossible to do more than indicate superficial response
areas. Now he was reduced to the role of observer. A role that suited his
present vague uncertainties.
Lynda
Sagar had entered the room. Massner knew it without turning his head. He was
aware of her presence as if she had been standing directly before him. The
sensation was incredible.
Somehow,
Dr. Robinson had disentangled himself from the arguments. He approached, waving
a greeting. 'You heard of course?' Massner
nodded. Dr. Robinson shrugged apologetically.
i'm afraid the rearranged programme will
prevent you from contributing anything tangible. You won't even have sufficient
time to familiarize yourself properly with every aspect of our work here.'
'Unfortunate,' Massner
commented.
'You don't sound too
disappointed.'
'Don't 1?'
At Dr. Robinson's suggestion, they left the
confusion of the committee room and made their way towards the polyhedral
centre of the Coma Colosseum. Massner had needed little encouragement. For a
reason not yet apparent, Lynda Sagar had joined them.
This
time, before they were allowed to enter. Dr. Robinson insisted that they put
on white gowns, face-masks and plastic gloves similar to those worn in
operating theatres.
In
the central dodecahedron, Massner noticed technicians connecting a series of
transparent tubes of an extremely narrow diameter to clamps around the
unoccupied bed. They all wore the germ-resistant clothing. Massner studied the
transparent tubing. It snaked out across the floor, one length leading from
each of the beds in the twelve surrounding segments to the central room.
Sliding
back one of the transparent dividing walls, Massner, Dr. Robinson and Lynda
Sagar entered the cell beyond.
The
room was occupied. A naked man, apparently asleep, lay on the single bed.
Massner stared at the hyaline tube clamped several inches away from his narrow
chest. Robinson and Lynda Sagar seemed to share none of Massner's initial
anxiety that their presence might awaken the sleeping man.
Though
much of it was beyond his limited experience, Massner recognized some of the
intricate medical equipment surrounding the sleeping man. That it was
instrumental in keeping the patient alive, Massner did not doubt for one
minute.
Lynda Sagarremained silent.
Inside, Massner was shivering.
'We really could have used your knowledge,
you know,' Dr. Robinson said again, staring thoughtfully at the sleeping man.
'We needed your grasp of the psychology of the mass mind, your understanding of
manipulation and protreptic motivation. That would have been invaluable to us.'
Massner began to protest; but Dr. Robinson
would not listen.'Of course, we did not expect you to believe in what we are
doing here, that would have come later, after the demonstration. But I'm sure
you understand better than anyone the urgent need for the revitalization of
belief in personal and racial identity here in Tethys. How we achieved it, I
suspect, would not have concerned you. Only after would you have realized the
import of our demonstration.'
Again
Massner attempted to speak, but Dr. Robinson refused to be interrupted.
"Think Massner, what if it is possible for a man's soul to continue its
existence after the death of the body! That's what we shall prove. Imagine the
consequences for everyone when we demonstrate that to be fact!'
Massner
turned away. The Australian parapsychologist's eyes had become unnaturally
bright.
'Who
is he?' Massner asked at last, indicating the patient lying on the bed.
'A
man called Butterworth. Ian Butterworth. The eleventh donor.'
'Donor?'
'An
operative term. He's the eleventh person who has agreed to donate his soul
towards the programme.'
'He's
dying then?' Massner studied Butterworth's fleshless mask.
'Yes. Cancer. He has at the
most two months to live.'
Two
months?' Massner stared at the patient's summary chart hanging at the foot of
the bed. 'But Perrers spoke of rescheduling the programme to take place in
forty-eight hours.'
'Precisely.'
Massner
could ignore the obvious no longer. "What exactly do you intend to do?'
'Kill him,' Dr. Robinson replied. 'And the others? Those too?' Tes.'
Three
Dr. Robinson's gaze wandered from the patient on the bed
before them, to the others seen through the transparent walls of the cells
beyond.
US
'Paraplegics, terminal disease cases,
patients condemned to minimal mental or physical activity,' he explained. 'Two
of them suffer from irreparable brain damage. Three have to be drugged to such
high levels that their lives are meaningless. Like Butterworth here, the
others are kept alive by total reliance upon machines. Those aware enough to
take the decision themselves have welcomed the opportunity extended by Dr.
Sagar.'
'Murder,' Massner said.
'A
release,' Dr. Robinson corrected, 'in exchange for the highest form of
existence.'
It
was a situation which would once have appalled Massner. Once he would have
stormed angrily out of the room. Now the thought of leaving never entered his
head. He was standing in the same room as Lynda Sagar, and that meant more to
him than personal values or ethics in these strange times.
Still
she hadn't spoken to him. More important, she had never yet looked directly
into his eyes. Even though they were standing just a few feet apart, Lynda
Sagar seemed to be avoiding him. Why? That thought carried fascinating implications.
All the time Robinson was talking, Massner's eyes never left her face.
Oblivious
of the tension between Lynda Sagar and Massner, Dr. Robinson went on to
describe how the approaching demonstration revolved around Anglesomne's
incredible capacity for projecting intense emotion over a limited area. The
Coma Colosseum had been designed with this fact in mind, its seating capacity
limited to exactly the area of Anglesomne's psychic broadcasts. Like everyone
else previously excluded from the secrets of the Coma Colosseum, Massner's
knowledge of Anglesomne's powers was vague.
Less
than a hundred years ago, Empaths had emerged within the human race,
individuals with extraordinarily acute sensitivity. Not telepathy as it had
once been envisioned. The Empaths could not read thoughts. But they could
sense to an exquisite degree personal
character attitudes. They could penetrate everyday facades and sense the intrinsic
instincts and reactions boiling below the surface. There had been drawbacks for
those born with empathic powers. Taste and smell, even a certain degree of
tactile sensibility, had been lost to the Empaths. It was as though reduced
organic perceptivity had been a prerequisite in achieving empathic awareness.
There
was an even greater blight on their lives. The Comatose Condition. It struck
Empaths at random without warning. Death followed within hours. No cure had
been found for the condition which affected every Empath indiscriminately.
Anglesomne
had contracted the Comatose Condition late in his life. An intensely powerful
Empath, Anglesomne had emerged as a natural leader amongst both Empaths and
non-Empaths alike. Because of his unique internal power, Anglesomne survived in
the Coma Condition, his mind and body beyond conscious control, while his
empathic capacity continued to function without caution or restraint.
Free
of the shackles of consciousness, the empathic area of his mind gained in
strength, broadcasting into the minds of others the images and sensations of
people standing near to him regardless of their personal wishes. Anglesomne had
become the only true telepath. And because no control existed over his
reflections of exterior mental processes, he had become a potentially dangerous
element in almost every facet of political, military and media life.
There
could be no secrets for anyone exposed to Anglesomne. Deceptions were
impossible. It became evident that Anglesomne either had to be destroyed, or
removed to a location beyond his ability to influence private or public
affairs.
Pressure
was exerted and the alternatives clearly explained. They were: colonization of
one of the abandoned scientific research bases on the moon; or Tethys, the
experimental undersea city off the coast of South America. It had to be one of
these, or Anglesomne's death. The Empaths, those who wished to go, including a
large number of Anglesomne's non-empathic followers, had taken over Tethys and
built the Coma Colosseum. Installed inside this mysterious structure,
Anglesomne had rapidly faded into obscurity and legend.
This knowledge had of course always been
available to anyone interested enough to research the facts. Anglesomne's
potential for aiding research into psychiatric disorders had always been
recognized by Massner's colleagues, but the governing body in Tethys refused to
expose
Anglesomne
to the dangers inherent in any such investigation. Ostier and Kircher in
particular had been annoyed by this lack of co-operation. Massner himself,
though interested in the possibilities, had always believed that improvements
in the treatment of disorders of the mind lay in other directions.
Occasional television programmes concerning
Anglesomne and the Coma Colosseum had been networked across the European
continent. It had been during one of these transmissions that Massner had first
seen Lynda Sagar. From that moment he had lost the ability to alter the course
of events in his life.
Dr. Robinson was now explaining how the
twelve donors in the rooms surrounding the central dodecahedron were each to be
connected, through a series of artificial blood vessels and pumps introduced to
a main artery close to the heart, to Anglesomne's body. When all the link-ups
were completed and the system was operating perfectly, the first of the donors
would be deprived of the machines which up to that point had kept him alive.
Anglesomne would react empathically to the situation, broadcasting to everyone
assembled in the Coma Colosseum the sensation of death, the experience of a
mind at the point of release. The other donors would die almost immediately, in
twos and threes, boosting Anglesomne's reception, increasing the sensations to
such a pitch that everyone in the Coma Colosseum, the entire population of
Tethys, would participate mentally in acknowledging the indisputable evidence
of life after death.
Dr.
Robinson stopped talking suddenly, and Massner realized how loud his voice had
been. He had the look of a fanatic and his eyes were brighter than ever.
Lynda Sagar seemed
unaffected by Dr. Robinson's vision.
'But
what if you fail to achieve the results you desire?' Massner said. 'Have you
considered what would happen if Sagar is wrong? Think of the impact of failure
on the inhabitants of Tethys at this crucial moment!'
Dr.
Robinson stared suspiciously at Massner for a second. He seemed unsure how to
react to Massner's uncertainty. Then he took him by the shoulder, laughing.
'Failure?'
he cried. 'How can we fail? You believe in God, don't you?'
Massner turned to Lynda Sagar, a sense of
helpless anger sweeping over him; but her thoughts were masked.
'Dr.
Robinson,' he said, 'why not test the programme first, before exposing the
population to further uncertainty? What harm can it db?'
Robinson's
face seemed to seize up in disbelief at Mass-ner's question. Test the
programme?' His hands trembled. 'Do you know what you're asking us to do?
You're suggesting that we test God, Massner; God!'
Fortunately
it was at that point that Dr. Robinson had been called away, after receiving
urgent instructions from his personal communicator. With one hand on the door,
he turned to face Massner. 'I'll leave you in the hands of Mrs. Sagar. If you
have any further questions, I'm sure she can answer them for you. I'll see you
both later, at dinner.'
The
door closed behind him, and even though the walls of the dodecahedron cell were
transparent, Massner was alone with Lynda Sagar for the first time.
She
was laughing quietly to herself even before Dr. Robinson slid the door shut
behind him. Her laughter was low and melodious, but there was a hint of
suppressed frenzy in it. She turned towards Massner and for the first time
looked directly into his eyes. The sensation was indescribable.
'You
found that amusing?' he asked, remembering her laughter.
'Amusing?'
Lynda Sagar sighed. 'Alarming might be more accurate.' She removed her face
mask, disregarding Dr. Robinson's example. There was a slight flush on her
cheeks. 'You know my husband, don't you?'
Massner
nodded. 'I studied under him in Stockholm several years ago.'
'You know him well then?'
Massner
wanted to talk about anything but Sagar. Lynda was the most intense woman he
had ever met. 'I don't think anybody at the university would have made that
claim. He wasn't a man to encourage friendship.'
Lynda
Sagar laughed again; this time it was tinged with bitterness. 'He's my husband,
and I don't know him.'
'You
shouldn't blame yourself for that.' Massner searched for the right words, not
wanting to offend her, yet desperately trying to continue the conversation.
'He was always difficult to communicate with, except when he was lecturing.
Perhaps ...'
Lynda
Sagar's eyes blazed. 'You don't understand, do you? All this ...' She indicated the central dodecahedron
and the cells beyond. 'He doesn't care about all this. He doesn't care what
happens to Tethys. But they can't see that. Nobody understands. He's planning
something, Massner, I'm sure of it. But they're too involved with this mad
scheme he's concocted to realize it. Massner, I'm worried. I'm frightened!'
A
technician approached from the central area. Lynda Sagar grabbed Massner's hand
and an electric shock went through him. 'Tonight. I'll call you tonight. I must
talk to you.' She left before the technician entered.
Bewildered, Massner watched
her leave.
Four
Massner lay on the couch in his tiny room, drifting
between sleep and waking, his thoughts splintered and confused. During his
absence, a nurse had visited his wife and attended to her needs, even tidied
her hair up. Massner looked at his wife and thought of Lynda Sagar. How could
he think rationally about all he had seen and heard this day?
His
attempts to consider the various issues on an objective level continually
dissolved into complex and unanswerable aspects of conscience and morality.
Massner was certain that Sagar did not believe in the possibility of life after
death, in the existence of man's eternal soul. Lynda Sagar, the one person who
should have been closest to him, also had doubts. But how could he convince
people like Perrers and Dr. Robinson of this without facts? Life in Tethys was
geared towards religious observance. It permeated every aspect of society in
the undersea city. It was society.
To
accuse Sagar of heresy without producing solid evidence to substantiate his
claims would only bring suspicion and possibly similar accusations down on his
own head. Sagar was planning something, but what it was or how he intended to
carry it out was at the moment completely beyond him. Massner realized that he
would just have to wait and watch.
Still sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned
endlessly. To add to Massner's confusion, a man's face persistently penetrated
the twisting morass of his dreams, to stare at him with a hauntingly familiar
face. The face belonged to Sagar. For no obvious reason he seemed to be
laughing.
He was roused from a light sleep by an
insistent knocking on the door. It was Lynda Sagar. She entered the room and
stood for a moment, looking at his wife.
'I'm sorry,' she said.
Still
bemused by sleep, Massner wasn't sure what she meant by that.
She
turned towards him. T didn't want to use the telephone,' she said, suddenly, i
hope you don't mind my coming here to see you?' Her long black hair was combed
back off her face. It accentuated her eyes even more. She sat down on the edge
of the couch, her fingers intertwining nervously. Massner realized that she
desperately wanted to talk, but didn't know where to begin. He offered her
coffee but she shook her head mutely.
'What
is it about Dr. Sagar that worries you?' he asked, quietly, pouring a cup out
for himself.
She
stared at him. 'It's just a feeling I've got. I'm sure there's something wrong,
that's all.'
Massner
sipped the hot liquid cautiously. 'Have you anything specific in mind?'
'No. Not really.'
'Are you sure?'
'There's
a woman I know, a close friend, she contracted multiple sclerosis. She's
dying.' Lynda Sagar's dark eyes revealed her agony. 'She desperately wanted to
be included in the programme. She offered herself as one of the twelve donors.
When my husband found out, I thought he was going to go mad with rage. I'd only
been trying to help. He'd found only six people he considered suitable at the
time.'
'Suitable?'
Massner asked. 'In what way?' She shook her head. T don't know.' 'Later, did he
ever give a reason for the outburst?' 'No. He refused to discuss it.'
Her
answers only strengthened Massner's suspicions. But still there was nothing
definite. 'How much control does your husband have over the programme and over
the choice of donors?'
'He
is responsible for everything,' Lynda Sagar answered simply, 'He has total
control.'
These
nebulous doubts were not enough, Massner realized. He needed evidence,
something that would persuade people like Dr. Robinson and Perrers to postpone
the programme for a few days. 'What if we exposed Sagar to Angle-somne's
mind?' Massner said. 'Anglesomne would be able to determine the truth wouldn't
he?' he asked, excitedly.
Lynda
Sagar shook her head. 'Impossible. Anglesomne's mind is damped down with drugs
for most of the time - to save him from unnecessary suffering.'
'Suffering? What do you
mean?'
There's
always pain involved in empathic transference. Denied conscious control,
Anglesomne's psyche would suffer unending agony. The drugs reduce his
awareness. When his empathic ability is needed, the drugs are withheld. But
without the proper authority...' She
gestured helplessly with pale hands.
'Well,
couldn't an ordinary Empath determine the truth about Sagar?'
'No,'
she answered. 'His mind is too ...
strong. Impenetrable. There are such individuals.'
Massner
noticed that Lynda Sagar had a strange expression on her face.
'What
are you going to do?' she asked as Massner picked up the telephone.
'Talk
to Dr. Robinson. There's a couple of questions I'd like to ask him.' Massner
sensed her uncertainty. 'It's all right,' he insisted, 'I'm supposed to be
helping the programme anyway.'
The
automatic switchboard eventually connected him. Dr. Robinson was just going to
bed.
'I've
found something that I think can be exploited to the benefit of the programme,'
Massner lied. 'But I need answers to several questions.'
Robinson
sounded tired. 'Look, Massner, I've been on my feet for over eighteen hours.
Can't this wait until morning?'
'There isn't enough time. I
need the information now.'
'What do you want?' Robinson said, after a
moment's silence.
'Complete details of the programme. Case
histories of all the donors. A run-down on Dr. Sagar.'
Robinson
was ominously silent again. Then: T can't give you all that now, over the
telephone. Look, are you sure this will help us?'
'Positive,' Massner lied.
'Right.
You can use my office. I'll tell you how to get there. If there's something you
need to know that's not in my records, there's a computer terminal in there.
You should get everything you need from the memory bank.'
Dr.
Robinson instructed Massner on how to reach his office, promised that he would
inform security, then rang off.
Massner
wasted no time. He dragged Lynda Sagar to her feet and practically ran out of
the room.
Tiredly, Massner pushed the files away from
him. He sighed and stared blankly around the tiny office. He was worried.
Something was scratching away at his nerve ends with an uneasy persistence.
Only
one common factor repeated itself in each of the eleven case histories. Each
donor had a record of a heart condition at some stage in life. All of them had
received treatment which had proved satisfactory. There appeared to be no cause
for concern. As for Sagar, his record was exemplary. Officially at least.
'I
can't find anything wrong here, Lynda.' Massner slumped back in Dr. Robinson's
swivel chair. 'I've been through them all at least twice, there's nothing.'
The
office was small but tastefully decorated, and with a large hand-carved wooden
desk and oak panelled walls. Lynda was sitting on a reproduction chaise longue,
her feet drawn up beneath her. There was a distracted look on her face.
Massner
stared at the reports scattered across the desk top. 'Where is he now?' he
wondered out loud. 'What's he doing? I've never seen him all the time I've been
in Tethys.'
'He
spends most of his time in either of the two hospitals, caring for his personal
patients.' Lynda said. 'There or in the Coma Colosseum Chapel.'
'Where?' Massner asked, not
sure that he had heard right.
'Yes, I did say Chapel'
"What does he do
there?'
Lynda
shook her head. Her hair fell across her shoulders in a wave. 'I don't know. It
puzzles me. I know he's not religious, not in that sense.'
Then
why ...?' Massner looked at her. He felt defeated. Not because
he really cared about the programme, but because he desperately wanted to help
Lynda Sagar.
He
was finding it increasingly difficult to think straight. She had released
emotions within him he had successfully subdued for years. The sensation was
intolerable.
'Lynda
..." he began. Suddenly he realized there was no need to explain. She was
looking directly at him, her eyes wider and deeper than he could ever have
imagined. That strange and subtle emotional flux washing between them became a
force too intense, too insistent to be denied.
Just
once, he tried to hold back. 'Lynda, is there enough time?' he asked, realizing
how little time remained before the programme started.
He already knew the answer.
if not for us, then for
nothing,' she whispered.
Massner awoke with a premonition of fear. Lynda was still lying next to him. Her
breathing came very regularly. He could feel its slow warmth on his cheek. He
sat up, wondering what time it was.
'Lynda,' he whispered,
'wake up. It's late.'
There
was no reaction. He shook her, gently at first, then harder and harder with
increasing horror. He slapped her hands and face without result. Whisky from a
decanter brought coughing but no return to consciousness. A numbness began to
grip Massner's mind. The truth grew inside him like a malignant cancer* 'No!'
he thought, it can't be! Not that; it has to be something else!'
He
ran out of the office, searching for Sagar, for Robinson, for anyone who would
tell him it wasn't true.
Almost
blindly he ran into the centre of the Coma Colosseum, into the
dodecahedron-shaped room. Angle-somne was being placed on the bed in, the
middle of the room. Television cameras, relaying the scene to the giant screens
located around the bowl of the Coma Colosseum, focused their electronic eyes on
his impressive age-seamed face.
The machines which would stimulate the
sub-cortical recesses of his dormant mind were being placed in position around
the bed.
'Robinson!'
Massner screamed. A dozen anxious faces turned towards him. Hands gripped him
from behind. 'Robinson!' he screamed again.
'Here, Massner; be quiet!'
the parapsychologist said.
'Now,
what is it? What's wrong?' Dr. Robinson stared at Massner's agitated face with
concern.
'I ynda Sagar,' Massner
gasped, 'Who is she, what is she?'
Robinson
read what had happened in Massner's wild and distraught eyes. 'Coma?'
Massner nodded.
'She's
Anglesomme's daughter,' Robinson said helplessly. 'An Empath.'
Pain
washed the strength from Massner's body. His knees buckled. Coma-death! Only
the arms gripping his shoulders prevented him from collapsing altogether. 'Not
her too!' he moaned, 'Not her!'
Savagely
he thrust the hands away from him. 'Where's Sagar?' he screamed. 'I've got to
find him!'
Dr.
Robinson looked helplessly first around the polyhedral room, then into the
twelve surrounding segments. The medical teams were beginning their work; incisions
were being made, the artificial blood vessels were being attached to exposed
arteries. 'I don't know,' Robinson said. 'He was here several minutes ago.
Perhaps the chapel?'
'The chapel?' Massner
repeated. Of course, the chapel!
From somewhere not far above came the echoing wash of the announcer's amplified
commentary to the visuals flickering across the sixty-foot screens in the Coma
Colosseum bowl.
The chapel door was locked.
No
response came to his hammerings. Savagely, thankful for the physical pain that
however briefly masked the torment inside him, Massner smashed the heavy door
open with a shoulder charge that stunned and winded him.
At
the far end of the chapel stood a
huge wooden cross. Sagar stood before it on a raised dais. He was naked. As
Massner crashed through the chapel door, Sagar turned to face him. There was an
expression of intense excitement on his face.
As
Massner began running desperately down the central aisle, Sagar levelled an
automatic pistol, took aim, and fired. The bullet smashed into Massner's thigh,
throwing him sideways into a tangle of collapsing pews.
Numbly,
he realized that the bullet had shattered his leg. Almost fainting with the
pain, Massner dragged himself upright.
'Sagar!' he screamed. 'What
have you done?'
'You're
too late, Massner.' Sagar laughed, his words echoing off the empty walls, 'Too
late!'
He
turned his back to the great wooden cross and extended his arms along the
horizontal. There was a series of shattering staccato reports as exploding
bolts, ripping through his flesh from inside the cross, pinioned him at the
wrists and at the ankles in the attitude of crucifixion. Blood streamed from
the wounds.
'For
God's sake, Sagar, what have you done?' Massner cried.
'For
God's sake, Massner?' Sagar gasped. 'Not for him -surely you of all people
realized that?'
Slowly
the cross began to inch upwards on humming gears towards the brilliant light of
the Coma Colosseum bowl. Sagar stared down at him, moaning slightly as the
agony of his wounds penetrated the rapidly weakening painkillers.
'Tethys
is finished. Our world's come to an end. Massner, we can accept that even if
they can't.'
'You
bastard!' Massner raged, 'Answer me, what have you done?'
'The donors,' Sagar smiled, blood flecking his
rictic lips, 'they're all suffering acute toxic psychosis induced by
five-thousand micrograms of Lysergic Acid-Psilocybin administered within the
last ten minutes. And a final irony; they're all recipients of surgically
transplanted simian hearts!
'Can
you predict what's going on in their psychotic minds, Massner? Can you imagine
what Anglesomne's protected ego will make of it? Insanity, Massner. Mass
insanity!' His crazed laughter echoed hideously in Massner's unbelieving ears.
The great wooden cross
emerged into view as the first empathic responses of the approaching psychic
storm began to flood over the Coma Colosseum ...
the end
An
age of darkness was descending upon the Empire. Soon there would be no food, no
weapons, and no honour, as the laws of the nomads were forgotten in the
struggle for survival.
Neq
was the greatest of warriors. No man faced his sword Without feeling its sting.
Yet even he could not save the Empire -not alone he needed the help of those
who had begun its destruction ... the
great leaders who had not foreseen the outcome of war. And so Neq travelled
many dangerous miles to find them, knowing that upon his journey rested the
future of the world...
Neq the Sword is
the third book in a trilogy by Piers Anthony.
0 552 09824 8 40p
THE DOORS OF HIS FACE, THE LAMPS OF HIS MOUTH
by Roger Zelazny
A
collection of fifteen stories of man in the future, ranging in time from a few
decades to a few millenia into the future, in setting from the solar system to
deepest space. The prize-winning title story is the highly imaginative and very
believable tale of a fishing expedition for an enormous sea monster under the
oceans of the planet Venus; the rest of the collection maintains the high standard
thus set, with tales of a rebellious preacher's son finding a different
religion on Mars, of an expedition to an electrically-haunted mountain where a
girl is discovered in hibernation state awaiting the discovery of a cure for
her fatal disease, and of man's penchant for aggrandizement. All display the
style, wit, imagination which have made Roger Zelazny one of the most highly
praised writers of science fiction today.
0 552 10021 8 50p
LOGAN'S RUN by William F. Nolan and George Clayton Johnson
It
was a nightmare society - a world of the 'cubs' - rebel hipsters drugged to a
point of frenzy ... of a vast
underwater city gradually collapsing under the pressures of the sea ... of an ice hell in polar regions where
criminals were sent to survive if they could...
of a desert inhabited by psychotic savages.
It was a world where there
was little beauty and no peace ... where
man, condemned to a short lifespan, fought against his own terror and dreamed
of Sanctuary ...
0 552 10123 0 50p
BILLION YEAR SPREE by Brian Aldiss - Corgi S.F. Collector's Library Selection
BILLION
YEAR SPREE is a comprehensive history of science fiction by Brian Aldiss, one
of the genre's leading authors. From early works such as H. G. Wells's War of the Worlds to Kubrick's film of 2001, sf has encompassed prediction, escapism,
satire, social fiction, surrealism and propaganda both for and against
technology. BILLION YEAR SPREE begins at the very birth of sf, with Mary Godwin
Shelley's creation Frankenstein, Or The Modern Prometheus, and studies the growth and development of the
media to its present successful position in contemporary literature.
THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD BEGINS by J. T. McIntosh
From
the holiday planet of Paradiso one could go on many exciting tours and
excursions - Mars, Venus, the Moon, even the most distant and alien worlds were
accessible to the inquisitive holidaymaker, courtesy of Starways Inc. - the giant combine which owned Paradiso and
over half the galaxy.
But
of all Starways illustrious trips, there was really only one which interested
Ram Burrell - the one which Starways seemed to actually discourage people from taking ... the trip to planet Earth.
0 552 10432 9 70p
WILL-O-THE-WISP by Thomas Burnett Swann
Will-o-the-wisp
- the light that danced across the Devon moors -enticing the good puritan
people to death and devilment... For
up on the tors dwelt the infamous Gubbings who crucified their victims,
murdered and bewitched...
Were
they really warlocks, or were they creatures of fantasy from another time, another
planet?
Robert
Herrick, poet, vicar and pagan, the golden giant with a lusty heart, dared to
brave the moors and challenge the ancient myth...
THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME by H. G. Wells
First
published in 1933 it was described by Wells as 'A Short History of the Future',
and spans the period from a.d. 1929 to the end of the year 2105. It is a
chronicle of world events, a memorable catalogue of prediction involving war,
technical revolution and the cultural changes which await mankind in the years
to come...
0 552 09532 X 95p
THE SHAPE OF FURTHER THINGS by Brian Aldiss
'Haven't
you ever thought to yourself after a pleasant evening -or even a dull afternoon
- that if you could but have it all again, preferably in slow motion, then you
could trace in it all the varied strands of your life?'
In
this provocative book Brian Aldiss seeks to recapture some of the strands of
his life, and in basic diary form he works alternately back into the past and
forward into the future; the realities of our world alternate with the
unrealities of fantasy.
The
result is an autobiography spanning one month - a month in the life of a
speculative writer, with topics ranging from the growth of science fiction in
Britain today to new theories on the nature and importance of dreams.
A SELECTED LIST OF CORGI BOOKS FOR YOUR READING PLEASURE
□ 10022 6 NEW WORLDS NINE
□ 10182 6 NEW WORLDS TEN
□ 09824 g NEQ THE SWORD
□ 09731 4 SOS THE ROPE
□ 09736 5 VAR THE STICK
□ 09082 4 STAR TREK 3
□ 09229 0 STAR TREK 7
□ 09492 7 NEW WRITINGS IN SF
22
□ 09681 4 NEW WRITINGS IN SF
23
□ 09851 5 NEW WRITINGS IN SF
24
□ 10085 4 NEW WRITINGS EM SF
25
□ 10358 6 WnX-O-THE-WISP
□ 10021 8 THE DOORS OF HIS FACE
□ 10161 3 RESTOREE
□ 10162 1 DECISION AT
DOONA
□ 10163 X THE SHIP WHO SANG
□ 10062 5 THE DREAM MILLENNIUM
CORGI S.
F. COLLECTORS
LIBRARY
□ 09653 9 BAREFOOT IN
THE HEAD
□ 09533 8 THE SHAPE OF FURTHER THINGS
□ 09705 5 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SKY
□ 09706 3 I SING THE BODY ELECTIRC
□ 10067 6 FARNHAM'S FREEHOLD
□ 09236 3 DRAGONFLIGHT
□ 09474 9 A CANTICLE
FOR LEIBOWITZ
□ 10214 8 HOSPITAL STATION
□ 10213 X STAR SURGEON
ed. Hilary Bailey 50p ed. Hilary Bailey 50p Piers Anthony 40p Piers Anthony 60p Piers Anthony 40p James Blish 30p James Blish 30p ed. Kenneth Bulmer 35p ed. Kenneth Bulmer 40p ed. Kenneth Bulmer 40p ed. Kenneth Bulmer 50p Thomas Burnett Swann 60p Roger Zelazny 50p Anne McCaffrey 75p Anne McCaffrey 75p Anne McCaffrey 80p James White 65p
Brian Aldiss 40p Brian Aldiss 65p Arthur C. Clarke 50p Ray Bradbury 45p Robert A. Heinle in 65p Anne McCaffrey 85p Walter M. Miller Jr. 45p James White 65p James White 60p
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