ON THE INSIDE

ROBERT P. HOLDSTOCK

Robert Holdstock last appeared in New Writings in SF volume 20 with MICROCOSM, and is represented here by a story which evidences his interest in the incomprehensibility and duality of life. If you are not the man you think you are, must you necessarily be any other? Must periods of blankness necessarily have a greater meaning than blank pits of fear? Andrew Quinn, who kept his wife in the closet, had no reason to doubt the yin and yang of his rediscovered life - until - and then - but real life cannot be wrapped up in neat square-sided packages tied with pink ribbon, as the eminently satisfying snapper to this story shows.

* * * *

ONE

A DAY like any other day.

Andrew Quinn sprang from his foam rubber cradle and crossed the room to the shutters. The shutters opened before he could touch them and daylight illuminated the untidyness of the small apartment, made him blink as he reached to drop the polarizing filters.

It was going to be a good day, he had that feeling.

Naked and wide awake he crossed to the wall closet, opened the door. Unzipped one of the plastic coffins that lay within and kissed his wife good morning through her polythene shroud.

He felt a momentary sadness - their life together had been so short and they had accomplished so little - and then he zipped her up and closed the closet. He should have said a prayer or two, but it was too nice outside and if he hurried he would get some sun before he had to plunge into the cool of his office.

He dressed and shaved, performing both operations with speed since both necessitated a certain amount of mirror work and his gaunt features and wasting frame were something he would rather not face when he was feeling in a good mood.

Easing himself into the kitchenette he ran his usual spaceship fantasy, and began to operate heater and cooler controls as if they were drive controls. Sinful thinking, he knew, but there was only a one in a thousand chance that he was being listened to at that precise moment.

He prepared coffee, sweetened with fermented honey and a twist of butter; he consumed three rounds of toast, made a drink of vitamin and trace mineral supplements, and then closed down the kitchen unit.

Easing himself out of the kitchenette he read his mail, which today was three happy-leaflets (which of course he didn't read) and a modest advert for underwear. He was expecting news from his brother in Manchester but since mail from the north could languish in the censors office for anything up to a month, he was hardly surprised when the letter failed to materialize.

He might try and use the work holophone today, his own being a local phone only, but there was a stiff penalty if he was found out and he was already in trouble with the authorities for using insulting language concerning the Church.

He was always in trouble for insulting the Church, but it was usually the monitors which reprimanded him; this time a faith-patrol policing the area near his apartment had heard him and decided to get nasty. One never argued with a Churchwoman. They were less tolerant than the police. Quinn had argued vehemently and been booked, but he had later confessed and now would not appear before the criminal courts for several months.

And in the meantime he was unbothered about the situation. The wavelengths made sure of that.

Checking his time on radio City he left his apartment at precisely nine thirty and caught the in-town magnit at nine forty. It was packed with commuters, of course, and a raucous good humour pervaded the compartment. Quinn joined in the early morning banter, hanging on for dear life as the train twisted its way along its razor thin rail.

By the time he arrived at work he was in such a good frame of mind that his office, a small dark room at the back of the building, was a welcome sight. He worked hard all morning, eliminating his in-tray in two hours. By twelve fifteen he was on his way to Hammersmith open-park and he joined the queue for his allotted spell in the giant preserve at twelve thirty. It took just a few minutes to gain access to the park which meant he had a little over twenty minutes to roam before he had to leave. Because of what had happened the previous week he faced the gates with just a tinge of apprehension, but he flashed his identity card at the monitor and walked rapidly past it and

Shock.

His knees went out from under him and he struggled to keep his balance. Someone grabbed his arm and murmured, 'All right? Need any help?'

'No ... no, thank you,' he shook his head and tried to merge with the crowd, to escape the eyes of the man who had seen him stumble. He stared across the grass, at the milling crowds, at the rustling trees. His head was filled with noise, with confusion, with fear. He had one thought - the diary!

After a moment he grew calmer, and his thoughts became clear. The diary. He had to get to the diary.

He began to walk swiftly along the lakeside. Without really knowing where he was going, remembering places as he reached them, he came inland to where tree covered slopes gave a measure of shade to the grass, and to the hundreds of people who lay sprawled upon it, overlooking the narrow, winding stretch of water below.

He hesitated, getting his bearings. He listened to the buzz of conversation, to the sounds of trees and laughter. There was a strange murmuring above all these sounds and something in his head said: Monitors.

He didn't know what Monitors were, but he felt afraid of them.

He paced up the gentle slope and into the trees and after a moment he noticed his tree, his special tree, a large preserved oak, very very old and quite obviously dead. There was only one man sprawled beneath it and he was half asleep.

In a hole in the base of the trunk was his diary, pushed as far in and up inside the trunk as his reach would allow, to where there was a small ledge. Making sure that no one was looking, he reached in, felt around and located the small book. With growing excitement and a noticeable activity of his heart he pulled it out and stared at it for a long moment.

Hiding the diary with his hunched body, he pretended to be dozing as he read the contents.

The first entry was a hastily scrawled opening testament:

I can't remember my name or who I am, or where I am, or what I am, I'm just here suddenly in a park, and I know I'll have to leave the park though I can't figure out my motivations or why I'm so afraid of the television monitors that are scattered about. This diary belongs to Andrew Quinn which is me, but I have no memory of anything earlier than a few minutes ago. I'm just here, suddenly and with incredible feelings of familiarity with the whole place, but with nothing in my head except vague fears, vague uneasiness and a language. Feelings: frightened and alone.

The final words were scrawled so badly that he had difficulty making them out. He felt less frightened today but still very lonely and with incredible feelings of loss. He thought very carefully and then wrote:

When I left the park I lost myself in blackness and I was not fully aware again until a few minutes ago. I became vaguely aware of fear several times, and I remember these times clearly. I seemed to be dreaming and there was a small room filled with furniture and very untidy, and the dream was happening all around the room. Otherwise I seemed to be looking out through a haze - nothing was real, nothing had solidity. I am accumulating information slowly but I still have no notion of what or who I am, or even if I belong; there is a starkness about this park and I notice uniformed and armed attendants, a lot of them women. I wonder if in someway I am suffering from an illusion in my every day life that dissolves suddenly when I come into this park. It's my only explanation. Everyone is happy but I'm terrified and probably very conspicuous. I am obviously the only person who is seeing this sort of reality. I am afraid to leave the park because it means I will be made unconscious; the time lapse seems very small but the shock of becoming so suddenly aware is very great.

That was as much as he wrote before he noticed everyone around him was moving off towards the park exit. He hid the diary back inside the tree and walked along with the crowds. Again he felt uneasiness as swivelling monitors perpetually turned to look at him. Again he felt familiarity and yet nothing concrete came to mind.

As he passed out of the park he fell back into darkness.

* * * *

Quinn returned to his work and later in the evening to his small home at the edge of the city. He spent the evening watching television, a five hour play about life in a monastery in Devon. The sermon was a familiar one, although the story became a little risque at times and was worth watching.

He became very relaxed. His neighbour, Steven Fabin, called in for a game of chess and ended up watching the last hour of the play before departing with Quinn's promise of a game the following evening. Quinn turned down the lights in the room and brought his wife out of the closet and laid her before the Resurrection Icon, a large portrait of Michael preparing for the final battle with the forces of evil who could be seen amassing themselves in the dark heavens above earth.

Quinn prayed long and hard, and his prayer left the subject of his wife and turned to him, and it was five minutes before his conscience pricked him and he stopped his indulgence.

He put his wife away, struggling slightly as he manoeuvred her body into the narrow closet space, and then he went to bed. He lay in the darkness thinking of his second blackout; he was only vaguely aware of the soothing voice in his ear whispering reassurances.

In two or three days the fact of his second blackout was of historical interest only. As his park allotment came near he felt apprehension, but spent some time in a mirror booth and emerged cleansed and high spirited. He had not confessed his trauma.

Shock.

He was back in the park. People milled around him and he felt unsteady, but the disorientation was only momentary. He moved along with the crowds towards the lake and the tree covered slopes. He looked at the faces around him. They were all smiling, all happy. He must have stood out a mile.

He listened for birds, as he walked, and was aware that there were no birds. The trees were real enough, as was the grass. There were insects in the grass he noticed. The park was quite authentic.

Someone was half asleep beneath his tree and he moved over as quietly as possible and reached in through the hollow. The diary was there and he removed it, rolling onto his stomach and turning away from civilian eyes; as far as he could determine no monitor eye actually watched this spot.

Opening the diary he felt his heart miss a beat as he read his previous entry, and then he wrote:

It goes on. There are seven days between park visits. I'm terrified, but only because this is so unnatural. I can't understand whether I'm all the same person leading two awarenesses - literally - or whether I'm two people. I have no feelings for a man called Andrew Quinn. But I have no other identity.

He got no further. The man beside him woke up and sat up, staring at him. He was forced to hide the diary and act disdainfully until the other man moved off. By the time he was on his own again his time in the park was finished.

* * * *

For the rest of the day Quinn felt very disturbed. The blackout whenever he entered the park had now happened three times. What was worrying was that he did not just keel over and wake up in a hospital - no, he woke up actually walking through the gates! So what on earth did he do during those few minutes he was inside the preserve?

His colleagues seemed oblivious to his distraction and by mid evening, of course, he was soothed and immersed in a game of chess with Fabin. Quinn lost, but more through Fabin's skill than his own worries affecting his game.

When he faced the park a week later he was almost terrified, but he was determined to conquer his forgetfulness, and he stormed through the gates...

* * * *

The transition was getting easier. He made straight for the tree, slipping and sliding on the grass which had been soaked by the morning's rain. He reached in for the diary and opened it, making ready to write ...

Shock.

There was an entry after his last entry. He read:

I don't know who you are and like you I don't know who I am, or where I am, or what I am, but I'm terrified. I came to this tree a few minutes ago because it seemed familiar. I found your diary and suddenly I feel, well, full of hope. Excuse my scrawling, but I've got to get it down before I go under again.

The same thing is happening to me as is happening to you, I think. I come into this park and I sort of wake up. There is a frightening familiarity about this whole place, this tree especially. But my memory is non-existent. When I'm not awake I'm in limbo, aware yet not aware. I see vaguely through my body's eyes, I see myself doing things, talking to people, working with people, walking and relaxing, but it's all blurred and it all seems totally aimless. Listen, I don't have a name. Right now I can't remember a thing about myself. I just exist in this body and whatever control is exerted over me outside the park vanishes only this one time every week. It's all I have. What do we do? How can we meet?

* * * *

Two

IT WAS almost too much for him. His head began to spin, and he felt the signs of a faint coming over him. But he kept conscious and his head cleared. Someone else like him! It was almost... almost too good to be true. A shot in the arm that he needed like no shot he had ever received before. A shot in the arm ... needles, injections ... where did he remember such things from?

After a moment he wrote:

My name is Andrew Quinn and I live at 39 Houndel Street, East Sector Five. I remember a few things about my existence outside the park, but only a few. Like you everything is very blurred and though I'm obviously in control right now I just can't remember much about my outside-park life; when I'm outside the park I obviously remember nothing about now because it's a tremendous shock coming into the area. When I just read of your feelings of familiarity, it hit me too. This tree meant something very long ago. I can't remember what. And the lake - does the lake seem familiar to you? I seem to remember a group of men in grey coveralls down by that lake. Does that mean anything?

He saw his park time was finished and hastily secreted the diary. He wished he could write faster. And the pencil was getting blunt and how was he going to think to get a pencil sharpener?

As he approached the gate he became aware that somebody was watching him. A man of middle height and middle years, slightly fat and very solemn. When he caught Quinn's eye he turned away and lost himself in the crowd.

There was very little time left before he passed through the gates. He searched his pockets again but found no writing implement. He had not dared to take the pencil from the diary in case he returned without it next week. And he did need a sharpener ...

On impulse he spoke to the man walking next to him. 'May I borrow a pen for a moment?'

'Sure.' He passed Quinn a small, silver pen that had the finest point he had ever seen ... and where had he seen others, he wondered as he wrote 'pencil sharpener' on his wrist?

He passed the pen back and smiled. 'Memory jog,' he said, and the other man smiled back.

* * * *

Later, sitting at his desk, Quinn stared at his wrist and felt very ill.

'What's the matter, Andy?'

Quinn looked up at his office colleague. 'I don't know. I've got the words "pencil sharpener" written on my wrist. I'm damned if I can remember writing it.'

'Pencils!' his colleague laughed. Quinn's collection of ancient pencils was better known than Quinn himself. He had, for a time, boasted their uses, and even written letters about them to the fax's. He had hoped to get pencils re-introduced, but in fact there was no advantage to such an implement. Everwrite points had been around long enough for them to be taken completely for granted. 'You haven't been looking too well, these last couple of weeks, Andy. You ought to apply for more park time.'

Quinn felt cold. 'That's something else again.'

'What's that?'

Deciding that it might not be good policy to mention that he couldn't remember having been in the park the last three weeks, Quinn shook his head. 'Nothing.'

* * * *

By the end of the afternoon he was bright and cheerful again, and the nagging feeling that he was ill had passed. He squeezed onto the 6.10 Eastbound magnit, joined in the chatter as they sped out of the city, and by the time he arrived home he was feeling like some action.

He knocked up his neighbour, Fabin, and they trotted down to the fun palace, which was conveniently only a twenty minute walk away. Fabin did not have a nightwalk permit for that evening, but they'd taken such chances before.

Indulging themselves at reasonable price in the pleasures of flesh and mind, they staggered back together singing the praises of the Church, and making up dirty rhymes about the monitors. It was all perfectly normal and they did not fall foul of the law.

Home again, Quinn stared for a while at his relatives, stacked neatly in their coffin slots, and then, his due respects paid for the night, he went to bed.

By the following week he had forgotten his apprehensions and faced the park with a renewed determination to beat the blackout.

* * * *

Disorientation ...

The diary! Quickly, quickly ... Quinn began to walk as fast as he could without having any obvious direction.

The tree was there, and he had to wait a couple of minutes to squeeze into its shade. When no-one was looking he reached in for the diary. Nearby someone was reading a single-sheet news bulletin.

He read the other person's entry quickly and excitedly.

Yes, even as I read what you had written I could remember. Six or eight men in grey overalls, doing physical exercises or something strenuous. I have a recollection of exercising too.

My name, I've found out, is Dan Farmer. I work in an office in a government centre dealing with publications. I tot up figures most of the time. I managed to find these facts out, but it's all I found. I can remember this tree, though. I used to spend a lot of time under this tree with two friends. I can't remember them very well, I just have vague recollections of conversations and excitement. One of them was called ... Pierce? Something like that. We used to talk about stars. Does that ring a bell? It's all I have. Just stars, sleepy conversation - and the three of us. Think about it.

Stars!

Pearson, Fletcher, Stormaway ... and Burton!

Space flight. The Oriel!

It was all there ... no, not all, just the beginning. The beginning of a memory. Burton rolled over on his back, tears welling in his eyes.

The flight, remember the flight, the excitement. What a journey! Deeper into space than even unmanned satellites. They'd gone to Proxima C. but that was as far as they'd gone. Then they turned back ... and what happened? What happened then?

Burton wrote:

My name is Ray Burton and I was proximity-navigator on the Oriel. I don't know if you are Fletcher or Stormaway, but the three of us used this tree as our office. We had plans ... we had such plans - remember? We were going to spacewalk round Proxima C., but by the time we got there there were too many other things to do.

He drifted into memory, a curiously shortened memory. There was a bulky shape spiralling against the star strewn night, faces watching the figure from a dim-lit cabin.

There was no more. The memory was fragmentary. He had been thinking so much that he had lost his allotted time. He hid the diary and began to walk swiftly towards the gate.

On his next visit he could hardly keep his body in control. He wanted to run, to leap, to shout as he tore across the grass to the tree. But he kept calm. The diary was still there and the other man's entry was scrawled and hasty, but Burton read it with stomach knotting.

Is it really you Burton? My God. What happened to us? This is Stormaway. What happened to us? Where's Fletcher, the others? Christ, Burton, what have we got ourselves into?

My host is a real drag. Just recently I've been able to spy through him a bit more. He never drinks, never goes out, never has women in. I'm trying to prod his lust centres a bit, but I can't find the location. If he'd only take an occasional sip of rum ... I've got a double park allotment today. I was looking pale, and I'm not surprised. With my sort of narcissism anyone would look pale. I'm also leaving this pen ... the pencil has just about had it.

Hey, I'm rambling. I'd better calm down. Plenty of time today. Is this really the London we left? So many people. I never knew there were so many people! Right back to the bad old seventies. And so happy. Did you ever see such programmed happiness? My hero, big do-no-evil Farmer, is forever singing the praises of the bloody government and the bloody Church. Lot of women in power, but I don't think we're in a Matriarchy. There are little subconscious jingles playing all the time. These people are brainwashed, every minute of the day. Except in the park. Perhaps the mind needs a break. As you can see, my awareness is growing, but I never remember the park until I get back here. I have a card that tells me about my double allotment. It isn't dated. I wonder if I can keep it for another day?

Is it possible we can get out of the depths of our hosts' minds because this subliminal barrage ceases? Or is it the familiarity? This park is the only thing I recognize in the whole goddam city. It was very new when I knew it before. We did a lot of training here, didn't we, while we were on theoretical courses in-city?

I remember bits of the flight. And the fight too. Jesus, we said some harsh words. Burton, and I wish we could say a few now, just for old time's sake.

I get the impression that space flight no longer exists, a sort of sin. The society is intensely Christian - in fact it's almost Chardinian. They all believe in this Omega Point nonsense; Christianity expressed mathematically, I suppose. They don't contraceive, they don't abort, they don't euthanise, they don't leave the planet in case they're not here for resurrection. It's incredible. We were only away three hundred years weren't we? This tree is dead, the wood hardened artificially, I've figured that out. Good job, eh? Without this tree ... what? What can we say? That we wouldn't be enjoying ourselves so much? My time is nearly up. Listen, Burton, we've got to get the hell out of this place. How do we do it? Obviously we've got to get control of our hosts, but how? Patience? I'm losing mine. I feel the symptoms of claustrophobia developing already.

That was all.

Burton looked about him. For the first time he noticed the large number of religious icons that adorned the colourfully dressed populace. It had never really penetrated to Burton's awareness that his host - Andrew Quinn - was a low status individual living in a Church-dominated society. And what Stormaway had said about the sinless existence, or rather, the lacking of sensible precautions against overcrowding. Did that mean that Quinn's trips to the fun palace (which Burton had detected vaguely, had believed had been real, and had enjoyed) were they in fact just illusion? Was the illusion of sex less sinful than the actuality? And the zipped up wife, the horrible yellowed mummy lying in its cellophane coffin, and the other bodies, neatly stacked within Quinn's living space ... bodies preserved for resurrection? Cheap burial?

Burton wrote:

No time for length. I'm going to try and gain time by hiding in the park. I'll look for you next time you're here. If you don't hear again, something went wrong. See you in hell... I have also wondered about the others. Thank God, though, for the small mercy of having made each other's contact.

He hid the diary again and walked deeper into the wooded slopes. People milled around and he felt slightly conspicuous because they were walking towards the gate and he was not. He kept his attention centred on passing park attendants, moved out of their way as much as he could. Monitors turned slowly and he felt sure his progress must have been spotted, but no alarm was raised, no-one came running for him.

Deep in the trees, with the next shift of visitors streaming upwards towards him, he sat down and shivered.

Hours went by, crowds came and went, and he moved about among the trees, picking his spots for distance between monitors. He kept a sharp watch for anyone huddled against the all important tree, but no-one looked likely to be Farmer. He had no coherent plan, of course, and there were too many people about for him to hide randomly up a tree, or among bushes. Over and over in his mind he said, I am Ray Burton, I am Ray Burton ... he concentrated on everything that was Burton and tried to forget everything that was Quinn. He let sensations, feelings, atmospheres sink into his Burton awareness, hoping that when he left the park he would remain Burton, and not snap back into darkness.

By dusk he realized that it was hide or take a chance on leaving the park. He decided to take a chance.

As he walked down the slopes, to the pathways, following the crowd, he thought of his arguments with Stormaway, the upsets on board the Oriel as they had probed into deep space, the things that had gone wrong, their fears, their anxieties, their awe at Proxima centauri and her belt of planetoids, their anticipation of their return to Earth and ... as he let his mind drift on these things he found a memory coming back ... a memory of trouble on the approach to the Sun ... excitement when Sol was big and bright and the outer solar sphere was just seconds away from their trajectory ... the park gate was getting nearer and Burton tried to slow his pace, but attendants urged him forward and in the bottle-neck at the gate people jostled him faster. He thought rapidly ... trouble, yes, trouble - something wrong as they approached Sol... they were coming in too fast, much too fast... he could see Stormaway yelling and Fletcher had his hands over his ears and was screaming words that Burton could not remember ... and Burton was running in panic, and everyone was in a panic ... a green light began to flash angrily, and Sol was getting nearer...

Darkness.

* * * *

THREE

WHEN Fabin called later that evening he found Quinn in a very distressed state.

'What could be happening to me, Steve? Am I ill? Do I look ill?'

Fabin shook his head. 'I don't know what's up with you, Andy - confide ... enlighten ...'

Quinn tried to piece his thoughts together. An ambulance passed noisily by outside and he shuddered at the sound of its siren. 'They wouldn't tolerate it - I know they wouldn't. It would be in and in for good. They don't allow mental disorder - hell, Steve, I'm frightened!'

'Tell me what it is. If you don't tell me what's up I can't help at all, can I?'

'I can't, don't you see? I can't tell you. I can't tell anyone.' As if suddenly aware of the ears that might be listening, he shut up and stared at Fabin. Fabin returned his gaze. 'Andy ..." he seemed to be fighting to find the words. 'Andy - I had a call from your office today. You didn't check back to work this afternoon and they've reported you to Employment. They want to know why.'

Quinn's head sank down. 'I suppose they'd be bound to query it. Who else - who else have they contacted?'

Fabin shrugged. 'I expect - well, everyone you know. What happened Andy? Why didn't you go back?'

Quinn said, 'I was in the park. I went in at the usual time - I came out ... you want to know what time I came out? Seven p.m. My God, Steve - Seven. I have no idea at all why I was so long. I have no recollection of what I did - Steve, I had a complete blackout.'

Fabin digested that for a moment. 'Okay, so you blacked out. So maybe you're ill, under the weather - that's okay, they can treat that. A few days rest, a week's surveillance--'

Quinn shivered. 'Sure, Steve, sure - like Amis was ill - just a passing depression we all thought - a few days rest, a short course of drugs.'

Fabin had no answering argument. Amis had vanished, thereafter, and it was not hard to guess where. The state did not kill people, it didn't believe in killing, but the reclamation programmes in the U.K. highlands always needed unquestioningly obedient support.

'I'll check in,' said Quinn after a moment. 'In a while. I know I'll have to. But not yet - not for a while.'

Fabin smiled. 'Well, I'll be seeing you, Andy. Take it easy."

'Sure.'

* * * *

When Fabin left Quinn turned out the lights and sat in semi-darkness, staring out of his window at the quiet city. He thought over what he had not told Fabin, of the false memories he had experienced, a sense of void, of spinning stars and figures, bulky and shapeless but unmistakably men, moving in slow order within the confines of an intricately designed room.

He had remembered being in space, he, Andrew Quinn, who had never achieved the status even to leave the country for a vacation. And space! Memories of space in an age when men were forbidden to think of the stars, and almost forbidden to look towards the Moon.

And who was Burton? Where had he heard the name and why did it seem so significant to him?

Who was Burton?

As if by turning his thoughts to the mystery he had allowed a valve to open, the memories poured back into Quinn's head. For a while he sat motionless, watching the past, listening to the voices of men he had never known. He drank with them, sang with them, flew with them.

And beyond any frontier he had ever conceived of, beyond the stars themselves ... he remembered the trials and frustrations of the months long flight, the agony of the discovery that there were no habitable worlds around their destination star. The return flight, and the anger flaring, the fist fights, the long silences... and thus up against the blank wall, the approach to Earth, the moment when memory stopped ...

By the time the fever of recollection had passed away and whoever or whatever lay within his head had become quiet for a while, Quinn was trembling violently. He felt a great sadness, and his own life seemed to recollect itself to him, confronting him with the little he had done in thirty years, marching past him as if for the last time.

He experienced a sense of finality. Burton - it was a man called Burton wasn't it? - was moving him out. He became aware of the ever present subliminal barrage, the voice of the country, dictating his mood, his behaviour. It was no longer having an effect. Quinn was beyond control, and the presence from below his mind's surface was a stronger man than he.

These were Quinn's last few minutes alive, and he wanted desperately to cry. But he sank down, submerged beneath the hubbub of an alien life, and quietly passed into death.

It was midnight.

* * * *

Burton watched the sleeping city and felt triumphant. He had fought hard to regain awareness and, whilst he felt sorry for his host, it was more important to Burton that a man called Burton was alive rather than a stranger called Andrew Quinn.

Quickly, then, he examined the room. It was small and functional, a microcosm of late twenty-third century culture. One wall, however, was covered with photographs taken towards the end of the twentieth century, of cities and people or was the twentieth century the age of narcissism, and the only age to develop a photographic culture?

The kitchen was well stocked and Burton cooked fresh fish and butter beans. As the meal was preparing - it took just over a minute - he scrutinized the rest of the apartment.

The coffin enclosure he was expecting; but it was still a shock. Seven mummies, all perfectly preserved, but showing just sufficient signs of death to present as macabre. Burton shut them away hastily.

He ate his meal and settled down to think.

He was free, that was one thing; but from what he could gather by his difficult eavesdropping on the life of Andrew Quinn, Quinn had now made himself known to the authorities. And that meant, Burton was almost sure, that he would be in trouble. Either he could run, try and hide and set about finding Stormaway surreptitiously, or he could brazen it out, admit to what he had done - as Quinn - and hope for an instant reprimand and nothing more.

Whatever he chose to do as regarded Quinn's aberrations, he had to find Stormaway. And he had to hope that Stormaway was now on the sin-face too, since he could not try and find him in the park. That would be far too dangerous.

So, find Stormaway. But then what?

Although it was unclear to Burton what he would do next, at the back of his mind, and pushing ever forward, was the question: what happened after we came within spitting distance of Earth? There was just a blank. A horrifyingly complete blank. And in the time that that blank covered somehow he and Stormaway, and perhaps the four others, had become imprisoned in the bodies - and minds - of ordinary citizens.

Who had done the imprisoning?

At that moment something in the room called for attention with a low but penetrating buzz.

It took just a moment to recognize the source of sound as the small screen above Quinn's correspondence desk, and Burton crossed the room, played for a few seconds and then managed to open the visual circuit. A man's face stared out at him, searched his eyes for a moment - just a moment - and then said, 'Mr. Quinn?

Burton had seen the man before, but his memory failed him as he reacted quickly and uncertainly to the unexpected contact.

That's right,' he said. 'And you are?'

'Department of Health...' At midnight? Burton was instantly suspicious. As if reading his thoughts, or perhaps the unconscious puzzlement that expressed itself on Burton's face, the man went on, 'We work round the clock, like most government departments. You should know that Mr. Quinn. Or perhaps you didn't. That's only a detail among details. What is important is that you make immediate contact with the department of Employment at KET2549-410 and explain your failure to return to work this afternoon. It's very important, Mr. Quinn, that you do that. Explain that you were dizzy and stayed in the park for safety. Will you do that Mr. Quinn?'

'Yes,' said Burton flatly. Mention of the park had jogged his memory. This was the man he had seen watching him on one occasion. It was unmistakably the same man.

'That way, Mr. Quinn,' said the man on the screen, 'your transgression can be logged routine, and the Employment-offences will get back to you in about four weeks. Understand?'

'Yes, I believe I do ... I had been about to report in, anyway. Thank you.'

'You're welcome. Oh, and Mr. Quinn. Are you fully recovered?'

'I've come right through, yes. Thank you again.'

'Excellent.'

The image faded and Burton cut the circuit. He recharged the screen and dialled the number he had been given. He got through to a recording system and stated his report flatly, and briefly, and rang off.

Unless he was being duped, he had four weeks before he would fall foul of an investigation. And if he wasn't being duped, the man who had just spoken to him was someone he could trust, and who knew enough to help him.

* * * *

The following day Burton checked into Quinn's place of work and sat down behind his desk. Nobody seemed to pay much attention to him, although one man came up to him and asked him how he felt.

'Fine,' said Burton. 'Top of the world.'

That's more like it,' said the other man. 'I'll see you for a drink later. Okay?'

Burton nodded and smiled and the other man walked off, leaving Burton facing the least of his problems. What the hell did Quinn do with the sheets of symbols and statistics piled on his desk, and the various screens and typewriter consoles that surrounded him?

There were two other men in the same office, and they possessed the same set-up as Quinn. All morning they typed, swore, spent long minutes in silence, scratching on paper occasionally, and then back to the typewriter, or computer input key, and a frantic burst of activity. Burton aped the action, and spent a boring and strenuous morning.

At 12.30 the man sitting across the room from him closed down the humming machinery that surrounded him and rose. 'You coming to lunch, Andy? Peter?'

At last, thought Burton. And aloud; 'Not today. Some shopping to do.'

The other two men seemed surprised. The one called Peter said: 'You wangled a pass card from the building? You lucky dog. I was refused one only yesterday.'

That was a blow for Burton. He desperately wanted to get out of the building and take a look around. But when he checked at the entrance of the office block he was not allowed access to the street outside. Two female guards, paunchy and uninterested, turned him away, but pointed out that the Director was in a good mood and might vouchsafe a permit if he was humble.

Burton walked back towards his office, passing, as he did so, a private holophone booth. There were directories inside and he took the opportunity to locate Dan Farmer. He lived two miles north of where Quinn lived, in a block of flats in Stamford.

* * * *

He arrived home shortly after six, and checked out an hour later. He went straight to where Farmer lived and rang the bell of the man's flat. After a moment the door opened and Farmer stood there, a meagre looking man, but tall and with an air of strength. He also had a slightly indulgent look about him, and yet, from Stormaway's description in the diary, he was a man of few indulgences.

'Yes?'

'Are you ... Stormaway?'

Whatever Burton had expected, he had not anticipated the violence of the man's response. Incomprehension, Burton had half expected; a welcoming handclasp he had hoped for.

Farmer grabbed him by the neck and dragged him into the room, throwing him across the floor with a screech almost animal in its intensity.

Dazed and confused Burton struggled to his feet, only to feel himself thrown against the wall, there to be held by very powerful hands.

Farmer was blazing red. His face was contorted with an emotion Burton imagined was rage. But it could have been fear - deep seated, soul destroying fear.

'What's happening to me?' screamed Farmer. 'Who the hell is Stormaway and why is he plaguing me? Who is he?'

Burton tried to extricate himself from the grip, but Quinn's body was not strong. Farmer hit him in the mouth and tripped him over, throwing him to the ground.

'Farmer, for God's sake, cool down ...'

'Who's Stormaway?' screamed Farmer by way of response. He came down on Burton with the weight of his body directed through his knees. Burton's breath went from him and he began to feel sick. He noticed that Farmer was crying. 'For God's sake what's happening to me? What's happening to me? Who is this man who's ... who's always in my head? Oh God, what's happening?'

He began to weep and Burton, feeling weak and shaken, summoned the strength to throw him off his body. Farmer, immediately began to struggle to his feet, but Burton was quicker. He aimed a kick at Farmer's head, and connected perfectly. Farmer went sprawling.

As he subsided against the far wall, blood gushing from his nose, so Burton ran for the door. He was obviously too early. As he left the apartment, however, he paused, looked back at Farmer who was trying to sit up. He was saying something, a name... Burton's name... just once, he said it, and then collapsed backwards.

Burton came back into the room and knelt above the semi-conscious figure. The lips were moving, almost with difficulty.

'Stormaway, it's me ... can you hear me?'

'Can't ... get through, Ray ... but fighting ... give me time ... a little time ... hell, I'm sinking ... tomorrow ... park ...'

He said nothing more, but Farmer began to regain consciousness, moaning and wiping a hand across his blood stained face.

Burton took his leave.

* * * *

FOUR

The following day Burton made a decision that was, he guessed, almost certainly a mistake. But if Burton had any flaw at all it was that he was impatient, and he could not wait for Stormaway to make the breakthrough on his own. He would have to do as Stormaway had suggested and meet him in the park.

To meet him in the park meant either getting an exit permit from his place of work, and hoping he could get into the park unnoticed, or not going into work at all. He chose the latter course.

Towards mid-day he joined the long queue shuffling into the wide expanse of the park. As he passed through the gates so, like everyone else, he flashed his small identity card at the television monitor on the right. So now the fact that he was in the park at an illegal time would be made known to the authorities. But how long would it take for them to react? He knew, from his own experience, that no such identification was made at the exit. With luck, then, they would try and catch up with him at home. And he had no intention of going home, not until he had a clear plan of action amenable to both himself and Stormaway.

He made straight for the oak, but no-one was there, so he sat down and waited, reading through the diary interchange many times while the minutes ticked by.

Two hours later he noticed a man running and walking towards him, a man conspicuous by his lack of calm.

As he drew nearer Burton recognized Farmer, now with his nose covered in plaster. As Farmer drew near he hesitated, staring at Burton as if searching for a sign that he had the right man. He said: 'I don't recognize you...'

'I'm Burton.'

'Ray. My God, is it really you?'

They shook hands, staring at the alien forms that contained their souls. 'Quite a come down from the muscle perfect bodies we started with, eh? You're weedy, I'm running to fat in all the wrong places.'

They sat down. Inevitably for a while there was silence. Then Stormaway said: 'How'd you break through?'

Burton said: 'It happened two nights back. Almost naturally. Quinn was a very weak man, totally ruled by whatever rules people in this society. He was a characterless man. It was inevitable that he should succumb; but when it happened I was quite surprised. What had been a persisting greyness, a dream-like awareness of what he was seeing and doing, suddenly became hard reality.'

Stormaway thought about that for a moment. 'A trigger perhaps. A delayed response. I haven't broken through yet; but I've felt my power increasing and my host has obviously been becoming very uptight.'

'Has he drawn attention to himself yet?'

'Only last night when you called. No, I think he's okay. He's kept his blackouts to himself, as far as I can discern. I feel the greyness subsiding, as you just described. It can only be a matter of time.'

'You said a delayed action. Does that mean you have an idea?'

Stormaway nodded. 'Nothing particularly rational. But as you will have noticed, the most blatant feature of this society is its intolerances. I suppose all societies have them, but here we have a government that has banned any concourse with space; no space travel, and it ought to of commonplace. No records in public places of the space flight achievements of the past. At least, none that I can discern.'

'They also seem intolerant of non-Christian thinking.'

'Precisely so,' said Stormaway. He leaned back against the sturdy oak and let his gaze wander among the people around about. 'They're a very God fearing nation, and no doubt about it. Unless I'm much mistaken they place great importance on everything that in our day on Earth was regarded as Christian fiction - angels, judgment day, battles between good and evil.'

And that, thought Burton, might account for the degree of militancy the society displayed. There was no reason. Burton knew, why militancy and Christianity shouldn't mix, after all, Christianity was the militant among Earth's religions, and had obviously - by all the signs - proved the policy was successful. And it would not be hard to justify the use of subversive techniques in a society that was obviously functioning and content.

Burton said, 'Assuming a phobia concerning all things off-worldly, an irrational fear that leaving Earth was against God's wishes, or that--' he remembered the picture in Quinn's apartment - 'space was the territory of the forces of evil, how would such a society treat a returning space-farer? And there must be many of them.'

Stormaway stroked his bruised cheek. 'I imagine they would suppress such returning heroes. And I imagine that, since they would have no interest in what they know, they would kill them.'

Burton couldn't help but agree in principle. 'They don't, apparently, kill people in this society. But since we don't belong... perhaps the same ethical code would not be applicable to treatment of living fossils.'

'We're not living fossils and we're far from dead. We've just misplaced our bodies ...' they looked at each other. 'There was no technology of mind transplant when we left was there?'

'Not that I remember,' said Burton. 'But we were away long enough for it to be developed ... and if it was developed, and was used on us ...'

'Then,' concluded Stormaway. 'Someone saved us, saved what we know. If we're right in what we surmise, then it could be that our own minds were suppressed for a few months, perhaps years, until such a time as our arrival was well in the past, and the ruling forces were merely anxious about the next ship that might return home at any moment. At such a safe time we begin to return to awareness, and perhaps our hosts were selected for weaknesses of personality to aid our return, although I wish they'd been a little more selective when it came to selecting someone for me ...'

Burton said, 'I had a call two nights ago from a man I saw watching me one day.'

'Did he see the diary?'

'Not as far as I know. He warned me that a time I delayed leaving the park would catch up with me quickly unless I owned up, in which case it would be a routine chastisement some weeks hence. He's the key, Stormaway. He may only be a pawn, but he's the key to who helped us, and we need those people now.'

'I agree. But how to find him?'

After a long think, a period of silence during which they became abruptly aware they would have to be moving off. Burton said: 'Let's take a chance and hope he'll find us. I don't see what else we can do.'

* * * *

Unwilling to take more risks - and the very uncertainty of whether or not he was taking risks at all was an unnerving experience on its own - Burton made straight for Farmer's flat. He spent the afternoon crouched in the darkest place he could find, which was in a small, doorless cupboard beneath the stairs, one flight of steps above Farmer's apartment.

When he heard Farmer arrive home after work, he walked quietly down to where the man was fumbling with the keys of the admission panel, and as the door opened and Farmer made to go inside. Burton pushed him hard and came into the flat after him.

Farmer shouted loudly with surprise and spun round, fists clenched. When he saw Burton he said, 'You again. What the hell do you want?'

'I can help,' said Burton quickly. 'I mean it. I can help. Just keep calm.'

Farmer visibly relaxed and walked round Burton to close the door and lock it. 'They used to keep us happy,' he said. 'I didn't know it until yesterday, but they used to keep us happy. They still do, I suppose. All the time, a constant barrage of cheerfulness; mood control. Frightening isn't it. When it stopped working for me I began to realize what a handsome little puppet I'd been all these years. I am calm, mister; I'm very calm. I blacked out today when I went into the park. I obviously did something because I walked in and walked out fully aware. But I'm calm about it. If I keep quiet, if I don't make a fuss, maybe it'll pass away. Maybe Stormaway will stop haunting me... whoever the hell he is. And maybe ... maybe you'll stop bothering me, whoever the hell you are.'

'My name's Burton.'

Farmer nodded. He walked to a small cabinet and opened it. There was a comprehensive range of drinks within it and he squeezed himself a shot of rum. 'I always had a well stocked drinks cabinet. Mister Burton, but I never ever touched it. For my friends only. A few days ago I began to get a great longing for rum.' He looked at Burton. 'I'm pretty sure I know why, and I'd fight it. But I rather like the stuff, now, so I'll concede him that point.' He paused, stared at Burton as if searching for some confirmation of what he was thinking. After a moment he said, 'I'm going to offer you a drink. I was hysterical yesterday, and although you used foul means whereas I'd used only fair, I nevertheless feel I owe you an apology. What'll you have?'

'I'll take the rum. Thanks.'

Farmer squeezed the shot and emptied the dispenser. He passed the glass to Burton and raised his own to the level of his eyes, glanced at it and drank its contents in a single swallow.

'So, Mister Burton - how can you help me?'

Burton stared at the man. He was so relaxed, so determined, that Burton realized he had no ploy to make. Or had he? He said, 'I wanted to urge you to total calm, but I see you are relaxed already. I'm mistaken, I can't help you.'

'Why did you want to urge me to total calm?'

'Because what you're going through, I went through.'

Farmer seemed surprised. 'And just what am I going through, Mister Burton?'

'You're being taken over. And from your behaviour last night, I'd say he was doing well.'

Farmer paled. He stared at his empty glass, then placed it carefully on the arm of his chair. 'You were being taken over?'

Burton nodded.

'And you resisted and won?'

'Yes,' Burton lied. 'It was hard, but I found that resistance merely assisted the taking over. It strengthened the process of invasion. I relaxed, filled my mind with myself, and resisted the forces within me. While I was fighting I found out there was a link between what was inside me and what was inside a man called Farmer. That's why I knew of you.'

Farmer stared at him, unblinking, confident. 'You relaxed and you won.' Burton affirmed. Farmer said: 'There are too many questions to ask even a single one, yet, but I trust you. Burton. When I've won my battle we'll find out what's been happening to us. Won't we?'

Burton affirmed again. 'I'm determined to.'

After a moment Farmer reached across and extended hir hand. Burton shook it. He felt just slightly cheap.

* * * *

They drank some more, but talked little. Farmer was making a visible effort to relax, little realizing that Stormaway would now be able to make his pressure count. By mid-evening, in the dimly lit apartment, with no sound penetrating from outside and only the rhythm of their breathing disturbing the stillness inside. Farmer began to fade.

'I'm losing. Burton,' he said. His eyes opened and he turned his head to look at the other man. There was a question in his eyes, and the answer was on Burton's face. 'You bastard,' said Farmer softly. 'Oh God ... oh dear God, I'm a dead man ...'

* * * *

The holophone screen made noises at midnight. When Stormaway activated it he found himself looking at the man from the department of Health. 'Is Quinn there?'

'Sure,' said Stormaway and moved aside as Burton positioned himself before the small screen.

The man looking at him said: 'Your colleague, Farmer, looks under the weather - will he pull through?'

'He already has,' said Burton. 'He's much better, thanks.'

'Excellent. Do you have a nightwalk permit for tonight?.' Burton shook his head. 'I thought not. Stay with Farmer tonight and make sure he doesn't ... relapse. I think the L and O department will allow me to donate you that small transgression. In the morning do make an effort to go to work. We have your case in this department and the Employment offences bureau is waiting for our report before taking action, so really you have nothing to worry about. Leave at exactly 9.30 and walk to your apartment, and then to work. Is that clear?'

Burton nodded.

'Put Farmer back on, will you? Farmer? Don't overdo it. Keep absolutely clean and we'll try and make sure we give you a good report. Your blackouts are, unfortunately, known to us, but we do understand. Leave for work at exactly 9.45 tomorrow morning. Is that clear?'

'Yes. Thankyou.'

The screen faded. Stormaway said: 'Can you trust him?'

'If not him, then no one. He has to be careful what he says, but his message gets through loud and clear. I think he's been waiting for both of us to break through before taking positive action. Now I think we'll see the things move ahead.'

'We don't really have much choice, I suppose. But I'd still like to know what happened to the other four of us.'

'He may be able to tell us,' said Burton. 'Until then, there's no point in worrying about it.'

They made themselves at home in Dan Farmer's fairly luxurious apartment, and made good progress with his drinks cabinet. Then they exhausted themselves, remembering old times, and slept soundly until sunrise.

* * * *

FIVE

AT THE specified time Burton slipped from Farmer's flat and made his way out into the street. He began to walk briskly towards his apartment, over two miles away.

After a few minutes walking a figure matched velocity and said, 'Slow down, Burton, there's no rush.'

Burton slowed and glanced sideways. He saw who he expected to see, the man who had become his link with hope. He was short, shorter than Burton remembered him from the time in the park. He smiled at Burton and passed him an envelope. Burton hesitated before taking it.

'We're in a blind zone for ten yards, and in a five percent audio zone for twenty. Nobody is going to bother filtering out our conversation at that sort of level.'

Thanks. I feel very insecure--'

'Anticipated.' The man smiled. 'The one vice of your century that has hung over into ours is an addiction to listening and watching, but it's very easy to discover the weak points in the system. I've given you brief instructions and a night pass for tonight. Stay cool, eh? Stay on the right side of the law.'

'I will.'

Five paces left in the deaf zone.

'Your future is, I'm afraid, not one I'd bet on.'

'I understand that.'

'But if you keep your head we'll at least get some information from you.'

Burton nodded, feeling a chill creeping through him. He said: 'What about the others? There were four others...'

'Alive and well. Don't worry ...'

He was gone, then, and Burton kept walking towards his apartment. Once in the fairly assured security of his room he looked at the instructions. A location at which he would be met. If there was no one waiting for him there he was to keep walking without looking about him and return at length to his room, there to await further instructions.

There was something attractively melodramatic about the situation, but something horribly persistant about the tension in his stomach.

* * * *

During the long day the tension ebbed and the reality - the saddening reality - of the situation caught up with Burton once more.

He least of all had expected a hero's return. Stormaway and Pearson had been those with dreams of glory; as men returning from the stars they would become cultural artifacts in their own right, adored and adorned, idolized and remembered through time. Burton had had no such delusions. To begin with, yes, he had dreamed of what lay ahead, planned along with the best of them. But he went into space as part of his job and he had come to find the dreams of his two colleagues unbearably naive; that had sparked the trouble and the hostility, and the trip had only just begun. There had been three others who had remained fairly neutral, and formed a group as of their own, and thus Burton had found himself alone with his thoughts for much of the tedious flight towards Proxima C.

In the days of exploration that followed there had been no men with dreams, only machines scrutinizing every inch of space, scanning every orbit for signs of a planetary existence.

But Proxima C. was a sun without a planet larger than the moon of Earth, and of those it had many thousands, spread through a volume of space twenty light minutes in radius. There had been no life on any of them, and no possibility of colonization.

That had been heartbreaking to the dreamers, cold fact, but disappointing none the less, to Burton. They sent what they had found back to Earth, seventeen minutes of compressed information, repeated one hundred times. They had debated what to do next, return to Earth and face the adjustments to a time nearly three centuries in advance of their own era, or move outwards, outwards for the rest of their natural lifespans, supported by the near endless supplies on board the ship.

The majority vote had been to return, only Burton and one other voting to continue.

And the journey back, the months of bad feeling, growing and growing, sparking into spontaneous rows, precipitating terrible fights in the confines of the ship. Burton's banishment to cold space for seven days, then Pearson's, figures spiralling in the void, foodless, sobbing and shrieking, aware of the watching faces from the lighted window just yards away, and the stars moving in slow circles and the sense of time passing ...

With what they had done and what they had been through, they had returned to Earth. And instead of heroes, instead of artifacts, instead, even, of fossils, they had become ... nothing. They were not wanted, they were not sought for. Rather, they seemed to have been hidden away from the human eye of the 23rd century after Christ.

In a sense, however, what had happened had given Burton a fresh incentive to live. He had not been a man after glory, as Stormaway had been. He had wanted to regurgitate his feelings and observations, and live, then, in the secure knowledge that he had contributed something to the progress of man. But he returned to find that if he was to contribute anything at all it was to be to a movement that existed out of sight and out of hearing of the ruling forces, that he was the great incentive for an underground that had rescued his mind and could therefore learn again of the stars and how to reach them. His experience would not be lost, although it would be a long, long time. Burton was sure, before common sense and a desire for progress returned to the country.

And perhaps - he realized he had never found out - to the whole wide world?

But then what? What was his future when he had told what he knew? It was a depressing thought. He would have to make the adjustment to being Andrew Quinn, learning his trade and his weaknesses, his past and his destiny. Aware that the slightest mistake, the most insignificant incongruity, could mean his end. As the man had said, Burton's was not a future to put money on.

* * * *

Burton opened his eyes and stared up at a white ceiling unbroken by even a single crack. For a moment he was confused. He had been walking to the appointed place at the appointed time; he had been met by a middle aged woman, and they had begun to walk back the way he had just come ...

'How do you feel Burton?'

That voice. The link man - and Burton knew his name: Keiran Moran.

Moran came into Burton's field of vision and stared down at him, his face seeming stark and frightening in the harsh light of the room.

'How do you feel?'

In the instant that Moran repeated his question, full recollection of events distant and recent formed in Burton's mind. He felt a great wave of relief pass through him and felt no concern when two strange faces appeared above him, standing on the other side of his body to Moran. They both looked down at him with a professionally detached air. Moran was saying, 'Everything come back to you?'

Yes, thought Burton. Who, he wondered, had miscalculated the moment to initiate deceleration? Who - and it had not been him - had tried to decelerate so rapidly on Earth approach that the protective mechanisms in the ship had gone haywire and caused such panic? He could remember trying, and failing, to switch over to auto-control, and Stormaway crawling across his helpless body and reaching the vital switch. And the next thing he knew had been this same room, with awareness of a barrage of questions and his arms and legs punctured a million times by needles thin and thick.

'There is no time for anything,' a voice - Moran's? - had said to him. 'They want to see your bodies and we have to work fast. When you recover you may feel confused, memory may not be complete; we've made your special tree in the open-park at Hammersmith an enhancing trigger and it should help full recovery. We'll find out everything when the heat is off. The other four we're keeping alive for a while - you and Stormaway were both injured on landing.'

That had been all.

Moran said, now, 'Is everything clear to you? Has it all come back?'

'Yes,' said Burton. 'In retrospect it would have been one hell of a coincidence both myself and Stormaway managing to make contact in the way we did.'

'The tree and the diary, you mean. The diary was an unexpected development. We had to fix it so that Stormaway found the book, but it was a useful development. What was a coincidence was that that particular tree was virtually in a blind spot. That was convenient.'

Burton struggled to sit up, but he felt restrained and collapsed backwards, feeling dizzy.

'Relax,' said Moran. He looked over at one of the two men who still watched Burton silently. From the very corner of his eye Burton saw the man administer an injection to his right upper arm. Moran went on, 'We had not realized the extent to which memory would lag behind awareness in the recovery process, nor that having triggered your recovery on entry into the park, the park itself would become a strong signal, and leaving the park a signal to become lost again. We think you may have been right - or was it Stormaway? - when you said that the lessened subliminal barrage in the area may have been an important factor. We hadn't taken that into account.

'Not to worry. Everything went off splendidly. And we have a full account from you both, taken a few minutes ago.'

'Good' Burton could still remember nothing from the moment he had been met and brought to a tumble down, 21st century house, standing in its own small allotment, and then being put into drug induced hypnosis.

Perhaps seeing his dissatisfaction, Moran spoke a series of numbers and the full debriefing recollected itself to Burton.

Immediately he was confused.

'I can't help remembering,' he said, 'That you asked me nothing about my time in space or of what I know of the technology of space travel. All you asked me about was ... my recovery ...'

Moran smiled. 'You must appreciate, Burton, that this is the first time we have experimented with personality and memory transplant. It's a difficult technology to develop because it is not approved ...'

'I understand that,' said Burton. 'But surely, if our futures are as insecure as you say, then shouldn't you get as much information concerning the technology of space as you can?'

There was a moment's silence during which Moran and Burton exchanged an unbroken stare. 'Burton, you will be aware by now that the transplant of what is essentially a human being from one body to another can only be accomplished with the death of the donor. That's why you died. And why you could never go back into your old body.

'When we began to plan the infiltration of higher offices of government we knew we had to come up with a technique that was new, that would not be anticipated. Listening devices were out, and so were spies of any description. Brainwashing or hypnotic conditioning of established personnel was out because the first technique takes too long, and the second - well, hypnotic programmes can be broken at a distance of ten miles.

'We conceived of this: a delayed action transplant of one of our number into a high official of state. But how to research and develop the technique? We couldn't just pluck a man from the street and kill him in a trial run. Nobody is executed any more, and besides, that would be monitored - and people dying in hospitals are monitored unto the bitter end.

'When we came up with the idea, and developed the basic technology, we realized we had come up against a void that we could not cross. Until one day - out of the literal blue - came six embarrassments to the government.

'Because of what you were and what you represented you could not be allowed to live. No way. And who got the job of disposal? The department of Health of course, the easiest department to infiltrate at the lower levels, and it was to the lower levels that the dirty work was donated. With a great blind eye turned to what we did.

'Suddenly, Burton, three months ago - yes, only three months - we had our experimental donors. No, don't try and move. What you've received is not the sort of paralytic agent to be argued with.

'Six donors. Burton. All to ourselves. We used two in the first test, and by all the signs, from everything you say, we will only have to do one or two more. And we still have four guinea pigs to choose from.

'By your eyes I think you're fading. Burton, but as you sink into the sort of sleep you never dreamed existed, let me assure you that when this country resumes its common sense, when better men - and women - sit in power and judgment over this island, your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Quinn, of course, is not dead and he must be returned and the events of the past weeks eliminated from him. We'd let you live, but ... well, the danger you represent to this government you'd also represent to ours. If nothing else we're good Churchmen, Burton, and if we don't like mass subversion, that's one thing - but we have no intention of opening our arms to the forces of evil.'