Edmund Cooper

by Transit

  Avery stared at the collection helplessly. Somebody must have done a pretty good job of reading his mind, because each piece was a favourite. Each was assigned for a special mood or a special occasion in what used to be the neat and tidy life of Richard Avery.

  He was momentarily frightened. Whoever knew this much about him already knew too much. His unseen captors already held a majority of aces.

  But then he realized that his fear was not only futile, it was—for the time being, at least—inappropriate. Although he was a prisoner, so far the indications were that he was a privileged prisoner. He could only hope it was not simply a case of fattening up the goose....

  Some of the other things he came across surprised him even more. There was a tattered wallet in which he had kept a few photographs it seemed worth keeping— various shots of Christine, faded and rather formal shots of his parents, snaps of himself as a baby, child, youth and Second World War merchant seaman. There was a great quantity of tubes of oil paint, a palette, brushes and several canvas boards. There was a bundle of paperbacked novels, a couple of old diaries, about a ream of writing paper and a box of pencils.

  And underneath everything were the cigarettes. Not just a packet. Not just a carton. But about five thousand. In fact the layer of packets—several deep—covered the entire bottom of the vast trunk. His favourite brand, needless to say!

  Avery opened a packet, went back to his chair at the table, sat down and began to smoke in quick nervous puffs, surveying the debris by the bed.

  Strewn about on the floor the contents of the trunk looked most incongruous. They gave the impression of either being impractical supplies for an absurd safari or the means by which a man might endure a stiffish prison sentence without going completely insane.

  Avery poured himself a second cup of coffee, emptying the pot. As he sipped it he became aware of an intense weariness that seemed to crawl internally up his legs like some secret miniature alpinist, determined to reach the icy citadel of his brain.

  Suddenly the cigarette tasted terrible, and he stubbed it out on his plate. He yawned and stood up, intending to put all the things back in the trunk just as he had found them—an exercise that at least might help to keep him awake.

  He took two steps forward, yawned once more and realized that he was in no condition to start re-packing the trunk. The fatigue hit his brain with an almost physical impact. The room—the cell—began to ripple slightly. He knew that he would be very lucky if he managed to get as far as the bed.

  He made it, but only just. Even as he slipped down the long tunnel of darkness he knew, oddly, that he had just remembered something important. But the memory and his awareness of it gently dissolved.

  Avery was completely exhausted. Recent experience plus the after-effects of influenza had produced an overdraft of nervous energy that could only be reduced by sleep.

  THREE

  He awoke with the feeling that he was not really waking at all, that he was merely re-entering a dream within a dream. But, he asked himself, what was the original dream? Answer: Kensington Gardens, London, teaching, the monotony of years without meaning. This dream at least was more vivid. It had an element of the absurd that was beginning to appeal to him.

  He got up and inspected the cell. The remains of the meal had been cleared away, the contents of the trunk had been re-packed, and the trunk itself was back under his bed! There was one small change, however. His toilet things had been placed by the wash-stand. He decided there might be some virtue in freshening himself up.

  Having used the lavatory with some relief and the oblique satisfaction of performing such simple animal' functions, he stripped to the waist, gave himself a thorough wash in very hot water and shaved. After that, he felt ready for anything. More or less.

  The packet of cigarettes he had opened was lying on the table. An ash-tray had been provided. He reached for the packet, took a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply. He began to think back.

  But thinking back didn’t seem to provide any useful information. He was at a loss. Eventually he seated himself beside the conversational typewriter, determined to get something out of it.

  Question: How long have I been here?

  Response: No comment.

  Question: Who the hell are you?

  Response: No comment.

  Statement: I think you are mad.

  Response: No comment.

  Statement: I don’t really believe you exist.

  Response: No comment. A series of questions has been prepared, to which it is hoped you will provide written answers. If you do, you will be rewarded.

  Statement: To hell with your questions! I want a pot of tea. No food, just a pot of tea.

  Response: It will be provided. Do you take sugar and milk?

  Statement: Both.

  Avery began to pace about restlessly. The joke—if it was a joke—or the dream—if it was a dream—was getting just a shade too elaborate. He glanced at his watch, then he held it to his ear. It had stopped, of course. He felt totally disorientated. He might have been in the cell hours or days. He had no means of knowing.

  He was about to ask what he knew was another ‘no comment’ question when the serving hatch opened. In the recess was a tray with a pot of tea, cup, saucer and spoon, milk and sugar. There was also a small sheaf of quarto sheets of paper and a pencil.

  Avery took the tray to the table, sat down, poured himself a cup of tea and studied the papers. He snorted with disgust. He had seen papers like that before—hundreds of them. They contained fifty questions relating to number manipulation, spatial relationships, pattern recognition and verbal facility.

  Suddenly, he was amused. It seemed poetic justice that, after so many years of inflicting them upon children, he should be faced with an intelligence test himself.

  Do not agitate yourself, said the instructions at the top of the first sheet. These questions are designed only to provide information. Your performance will not affect your future adversely or otherwise. Answer each question as quickly as possible. Do not return to any question you have failed to answer. Your co-operation will be appreciated.

  Do not agitate yourself! Avery laughed aloud. It sounded like some phrase from a foreign language smatter-book. Your co-operation will be appreciated! The devil it will, he thought cynically.

  Then he remembered the bit about being rewarded, and wondered curiously what kind of reward they could possibly have in mind. The only worthwhile reward he could have would be freedom—but he was oddly sure that freedom was not even a remote possibility.

  ‘Humour the bastards,’ he told himself. ‘Play it their way and see what happens. After all, there isn’t much else to do.’ He picked up the pencil.

  Then he put it down again. First of all there was the small matter of providing himself with a time reference. He wound up his watch, set the fingers arbitrarily at twelve o’clock, silently declared the existence of midday on Day One (he had to begin somewhere) and at the same time resolved that he would create a time-sheet/ calendar by making a mark on a piece of paper for every twelve hours that passed. There was writing paper in the trunk. As soon as he had finished the fool intelligence test that was what he would do. It might not be a bad idea if he kept a diary as well. Just in case he was in for a rather long stay.

  Avery sighed and picked up the pencil once more. He looked at the first problem. Routine stuff. A number sequence. 5 8 12 17. He wrote down 23 in the space provided for the answer.

  He did the first ten in about three minutes. Then he began to slow down.

  Mingled with the increasing difficulty of the routine stuff were one or two that struck him as odd.

  Sex is to Life as Fire is to: Furnace, Forest, Fluid, Fulfilment, Flame.

  After some hesitation, he wrote: Furnace.

  Then again, a little later.

  Mountain is to Hill as Man is to: Ape, Woman, Child, Foetus.

  He wrote: Ape.

  And then, after half a dozen more conventi
onal problems, another joker.

  Power is to Wisdom as Religion is to: Devil, Hope, God, Salvation, Love.

  God seemed to be the answer to that one.

  There were several mathematical and pattern problems that Avery could not solve—or, at least, that he was not prepared to give the time and energy to solve—and he skipped them as instructed. Altogether, it took him a little over three-quarters of an hour to work through the questions. At the end of which he found that he had attempted to solve thirty-three of the problems—more or less satisfactory, he thought.

  But the last one was the most intriguing of all. It was divided into three parts.

  (a) If you were the Supreme Being, it said, would you endow living things with infinite potential or would you set a limit upon their evolution?

  (b) If you were the Supreme Being, do you think you would understand the meaning of death?

  (c) If you were the Supreme Being, would you care more for the death of a virus or the birth of a galaxy?

  Avery wrote: (a) endow with infinite potential, (b) no, (c) the death of a virus.

  And when he had put his pencil down, he came to the conclusion that the joke was very subtle. Very subtle indeed.

  He lit another cigarette, then went to the talkative typewriter and punched out: The monkey has earned its banana, gents. Test completed, IQ lamentable. I now claime the priceless reward.

  Back came the response: Please return the test papers and tray to the recess.

  Suppose I don’t?

  You will be anaesthetized while they are collected. In that case it is recommended that you adopt a comfortable posture.

  Goons! tapped Avery. He put the tea things back on the tray, childishly screwed the question papers into a tight ball and placed them in the recess. The panel closed.

  Then he sat on the bed waiting for something to happen.

  Nothing happened for about ten minutes.

  Then suddenly, almost instantaneously, one metal wall of his cell disappeared, revealing another cell exactly like his own. Except for one thing.

  This one contained a woman.

  FOUR

  She was blonde and in her mid-twenties. At least, thought Avery, she looked as if she might be in her midtwenties; for she had the sort of vaguely attractive and subtly ageless face that might belong to a mature teenager or a youngish woman of forty.

  She wore a red silk shirt and a pair of tight black slacks—and enough make-up for a party. Avery was sadly aware that the top two buttons of his shirt were undone—he only wore a tie when absolutely necessary— and his trousers displayed unmistakable signs of having been slept in.

  All this passed through his mind—this ridiculous adding up of unimportant details—in the couple of seconds it took for the barrier of silence, surprise and immobility to crumble.

  She was the first to move. She was the first to speak.

  She came running towards him as if she were making a practised entrance.

  ‘Oh thank God! Thank God! I don’t know who you are or why we’re here.... But at least you’re human. I was beginning to think I might never see another human face again.’

  Her voice was pleasant, her delivery was excellent. And when she had finished, she burst into tears. Before he really knew what was happening, Avery found that he had put his arms around her and that she was clinging to him tightly.

  This, too, was so improbable that it could easily be part of a dream.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he heard himself murmuring. ‘Take it easy.’ Then, idiotically: ‘Neither of us are dead yet.’

  She broke away. ‘Hell, I’m ruining my make-up...

  What’s your name?’

  ‘Richard Avery. What’s yours?’

  She smiled archly: ‘Don’t you ever watch TV? No, that’s stupid. You can’t watch TV here, of course.’

  Recognition dawned. ‘I used to watch quite a lot. The only thing I ever conscientiously tried to avoid was that endless hospital series. You’re Barbara Miles, of course.’ ‘In the flesh,’ she said.

  Avery smiled. ‘Not necessarily. I have a theory I may be dreaming.’

  ‘The nightmare is mutual,’ she retorted. ‘What in heaven’s name is it all about?’

  ‘Damned if I know. Have you any idea how you got here?’

  She shook her head. ‘The last thing I remember was this wretched diamond. I thought it might have fallen out of somebody’s ring—though goodness knows it looked too big for that. I remember bending down to pick it up. Then lights out.’

  The information gave Avery a jolt. He remembered about the crystal instantly, and saw it once more in his mind’s eye—cold and lustrous and blinding.

  ‘Well, say something,’ she said nervously. ‘I didn’t make it all up.’

  Avery looked at her and noticed the lines of tension at the comers of her eyes. The nightmare was decidedly mutual.

  ‘This diamond,’ he said, ‘it wouldn’t have been in Kensington Gardens by any chance?’

  She stared at him. ‘Hyde Park, as it happens—but how would you know?’

  ‘The dividing line between Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens is more or less imaginary,’ he said without humour. ‘Mine was in Kensington Gardens. Not a diamond—at least, I think not. Just a crystal.’

  There was a pause while each of them considered possibilities—and got nowhere.

  ‘I need a cigarette,’ she said at length.

  He gave her one and then took one himself.

  She inhaled deeply. ‘What did you say your name was? It just shows what a state I’m in. Can’t even remember a name.’

  ‘Richard Avery.’

  She laughed shrilly. ‘Pleased to meet you, Richard. And welcome to the club.’

  ‘I’m more than glad to meet you,’ he retorted with conviction. ‘I was rather afraid the membership was restricted to one.’

  ‘Say my name,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  ‘Barbara.’

  ‘Say it again.’

  ‘Barbara.’

  She sighed. ‘It doesn’t sound too bad I’m sorry.

  You must think I’m going round the bend. I probably am. For a while—in fact until that wall disappeared—I

  was beginning to think I might not be me Sorry again. That doesn’t make much sense, does it?’

  ‘It makes a lot of sense.’

  ‘In fact,’ confided Barbara, ‘I wasn’t really sure I was me until I saw you. Then for some damn silly reason there didn’t seem to be any doubt about it.’

  A thought suddenly struck Avery. ‘Before we start nursing each other—no, I don’t mean that nastily—we’d better pool our information, such as it is. God knows how long it will be before the Goons put the wall back or get up to some other dodge. We may have another ten minutes or we may have all day—I mean several hours, anyway. So let’s make the most of it.’

  ‘Nothing to report, sergeant,’ said Barbara. ‘Except that I feel a bit better.’

  ‘Have you seen anything of them?’

  ‘Who, the mad scientists?’

  ‘Is that your theory?’

  ‘It’s as good as any.... No I haven’t seen a damn thing.... To tell the truth,’ she added hesitantly, ‘I had an idea they might be watching. I got so neurotic and bored that I took all my clothes off and lay down in the classical position for rape.’ She giggled. ‘Nothing happened. Either they weren’t watching or they weren’t interested—or both.... I’m beginning to think I really may be going round the bend after all.’

  Avery pushed the disturbingly vivid picture to the back of his mind. ‘Have you any idea how long you have been here?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s an easy one,’ said Barbara. She glanced at her watch. ‘Not quite forty-eight hours. I’m keeping a careful tally—just in case I begin to think it’s years.’

  ‘Did you have anything with you when you woke up —I mean personal possessions.’

  ‘No. But I found a whole heap of stuff in a trunk under the bed. I don’t know how th
ey managed to get hold of it, because I share—correction, shared—a flat with three other girls.’

  ‘You communicate by that teletype thing, I suppose.’ ‘Four-letter words now,’ said Barbara. ‘I’m trying to find out what happens if I’m not ladylike.... Incidentally, they had me doing a stack of fool questions. Said I’d be rewarded.’ She grinned. ‘I suppose you are the reward.’

  ‘So far,’ said Avery, ‘our experiences are pretty identi-cal. Except that I didn’t manage to keep a time check.’ ‘Then what have we learned?’ '*

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing much. Except that we aren’t alone.’

  ‘But when you come to think of it,’ said Barbara seriously, ‘that’s a pretty big something.’

  At that moment Avery’s typewriter started typing. He and Barbara peered at the message.

  In ten minutes it will be necessary for you to occupy your separate rooms.

  ‘Hell! ’ exploded Barbara. ‘Hell and damnation! ’ Avery typed back: We wish to remain together.

  The response came immediately. You will not be separated for long, providing you each answer the next series of questions as accurately as possible.

  We do not wish to be separated at all, and neither do we wish to answer any more questions.

  No comment. You have nine minutes left.

  ‘Here,’ said Barbara, ‘let me tell ’em.’ She typed: Get knotted.

  Avery was amused. He was beginning to like Barbara. She had quite a personality. He wondered if the machine would print out a reply, but it maintained a dignified silence.

  ‘So,’ said Barbara angrily, ‘the mad scientists are feeling playful again.’

  Avery gave her a thin smile. ‘The question is: do we behave like obedient dogs or do we provoke them?’ ‘Don’t call me a dog, please. I’m just a common or garden bitch.... Dammit, you’re the man. You’ll have to decide. That’s what men are for—and other things.’ ‘You don’t want to be emancipated about it?’