Whitesmith sat back, smiled. ‘Your majesty—’
* * * *
Five
‘—À Lyons, à Lyons ...’ echoed my footsteps as I walked the dank corridors of stone, there in the vast fortress centred around an ancient Keep. The new and the Old. I thought of psalm 137. In the stony quiet the echoes rang out the old, rang in the new, whatever it might be. From the fortress-city of Old York, soaring from the mossing-over ruins of our fortress of the Isle-de-France ... from Munick, Brest, Stockholm, Hamberg ... from all the strong-cities that were the ultimate guardians of the Empire ... the Council was coming. I rounded another crumbling corner, trod in twilight among stinking rush matting. From a chill alcove a cherubic linkboy rushed up bearing tiny gas-lamp: and I nodded and began to whistle, softly ‘A Lyons ...’
* * * *
Back at Greenwich I beckoned Alicia over from some flirting talk with a somewhat anaemic-looking Sky Fleet officer, and discovered Annah sitting tiredly under the craft’s preburners. I kissed her, waited, then cast free from the pens. Some mechanicals waved as the bricked-over ground fell away below, two officers saluted with stiff formality. I waved back, leaning over, even smiled. And softly, as a thought in an empty room, we rose.
I turned the Lady’s prow about, was facing westward, and dropped my hand to the power-levers. Slowly, reluctantly, we left the vast station behind, with its score or so of stranded whales, and crawled along the twisting silvery road of the Thames, heading into a blinding sunset. Into Rotherhithe I took the course of the old Jamaica Road, roughing-out in my mind’s eye complex problems of ‘windage’, and the non-Euclidean geometry of roaring due east over the spherical world and still avoiding the gaze of Greenwich.
‘Emmanuel,’ Annah said then, after a moment, so that the wind-silence fell away, ‘is it right, that we dare to do this thing?’
‘Right’, son of Man?
‘Yes,’ I said, slowly. ‘The ever-changing wind turns about, to the north or south; but it moves in its circuits, as we do, under the instruction of God, moving to that Will. I know that now. I’ve got the strength to affirm, say “yes”, even though the Light is dying. Our Lord the Risen Christ has few worshippers truly ... but ... I believe, that what we do now, the evil we resurrect, will also serve that immutable purpose. We must all do what we must. The kaleidoscope of God contained many pieces of vari-coloured glass. Each is a soul: each stained-glass tint is different. But together, they are the rainbow of His Will..Such pretty words.
But winds of hysteria were bursting from their brazen dungeons, armed with ice, in the brain’s northern bleakness: I looked at their faces, and I only saw ghosts, or corpses animated with a pallid light, so temporarily that I could not call what we had ‘life’ at all.
Alicia snuggled between us on the command bridge.
‘Annah, Emmanuel?’ she asked. ‘The Council-of-Empire is assembling in Londres: the king awaits. ‘Neath the White Tower ...’ she shivered suddenly, like an October birch-leaf under the touch of winds, but laughed to hide it. ‘The Whits Tower ... oh God, when I think of the agonies, the vile things, the obscenities they do within ... I... In the chocolate-coloured bolero jacket her ribcage was like flat wings of bone, opening, closing. Agleam with perspiration, her face was as pale as ash, her eyes too bright. I eased the rudder-bar and reflected that, for all she was our adopted daughter still, soon I’d be unable to shield her, though Annah might still comfort.
‘Don’t, Alicia,’ Annah said torturedly. She held the girl close, kissed the top of her head, hugged her again. ‘Don’t, for you cannot relinquish your vow-burden. Alicia? Think of ... hope. Of miracles. Because there is the Father, and a Kingdom of Heaven. Or think of what we did to Naples, Alicia. And hold on tight to the word “hope” ..
‘Ay,’ I said, roughly, ‘don’t cry, Lissy.’ I watched a cloud-tower drift past, a dusty Impressionist mass, looked down at the miles-long waterfront of the capital. ‘Please, please don’t cry ...” I knelt, then, and fingered the age-smoothed leather of the case, smelt its hide odour: and every stain or blistered discolouration, every cuneiform crack, seemed like a hieroglyph out of Time. My lean hands swept again across the heavy Portuguese leatherwork, knowing it was reinforced with steel mesh, and that the brass fittings disguised heavy antique electrolocks.
I straightened. Of the five other people who knew what the case contained or had found ‘it’, quite possibly two were already dead. Of all the conspiracies against the Empire, we, the smallest, were going to bring it down. Perhaps that meant something, somehow. I did not know. All my certainties had crumbled into dry dust. All my thinking had been done, the pitched battles fought on the grey plains of my brain: now both victors and vanquished had withdrawn from the field, leaving only stillness.
In a daze I pulled out my silver neckchain, and sorted through to find the correct key. An ice-bright memory leapt upon my back at that moment, rode me: of whispers, about the island cities of Japan, the flowery mountains I had myself found there, and then I recalled the poem had gone on:
The wind circles us, turns our breath to stone;
Each movement is an etch upon Time’s mask.
A bright moment traps us, change leads away,
As if our moment had not scored the years.
Yet: every shadow, each whisper, is not.
For now, but for all Time, and Times beyond ...
I had sat there for a long, long time, by the Adriatic shore, on the monastery’s sands, while the winter wind rustled among the yellowing, spider-tracked pages, thinking. I do not remember that poet’s name, any longer.
Then the key fitted, turned.
So I stood up and brought the Lady around in a slow circle over Westminster and Chelsea, and began to run away from the dusk. Kneeling then, I opened the case. Instruments glittered, inside: dials, bright metal and glass. Almost a work of fine art, full of the precision of Old workmanship; on a be-handled cask of silvery metal wrote a numerical inscription and some words of Cyrillic, the old language, not our modern pig-tongue.
‘Emmanuel, God, tell me—’ said Alicia, pain in her black eyes, ‘I don’t want to hurt you, or Annah. But I’m not a child. This ...’ she broke off quickly. ‘Oh God, what are we doing!’
I touched the rim-rail, looked down on the green fields of the South. The Earth was my footstool, and from this height its faces were one. And consience returned, to haunt me with its ghostly pains. I helped our mass-murders in the Provence, directed the bombardment of Krakow; I played all the Borgia roles; I provoked the ‘Milan Days’... Conscience: that’s my Cross. How many nails called years, how many wounds called days?
I snarled suddenly. ‘Alicia, be silent! I’m carrying enough guilt on my back ... Do you think I could spy out the defenses of Italia again, and block out the images that tell me I am human? Or execute another held-hostage village in our German holds, and by using excuse-words like “duty” and “obeying orders” think it good?’
Silence wheeled down and exchanged glances, silence, like the sound of a gull after it has cried. In an eye of the hurricane calm, we passed over Blackfriars Bridge.
I wondered then if they would understand. Not Alicia, Annah - but others, the ‘they’ who never die.
I straightened up, and said in a dully normal tone of voice, ‘I must visit my parent’s grave once more, after this is over...’
These rituals are necessary, you see.
They looked at me, almost startled. I looked away, back to the Thamesside landscape, slightly too quickly.
And Kuard, let us both hope you never search me out in my hiding place, after this ...
* * * *
Below, barges, spread sails that were solitary red wings. The low city slid beside us: moored ships, capstan-dotted wharfs, cobblestoned spaces. Beyond was the metropolitan forest of unwashed stone where crooked-looking spires leaned upon the oddly low clouds. A great net of roads, crisscrossing webs of lane and alley, with a few flower-gardens and quiet, statue-haunted gra
veyards. And I saw people. I saw faces, turning up, then down. Immemorial faces. I saw England.
The Tower of London drifted into view dead ahead, reflected brokenly in the water. When windows sparkled at us I blinked.
‘Alicia ...’ winds rang out in that hollow pause. ‘The Empire creeps on, grows. But we are not gods, and so, like that of Roma, or Bonaparte, one day our power will crumble. All Europa will rise. And then the Tower will reveal its ultimate secret. Not the racks, not the branding-irons and thumbscrews ...’ The Lady of the West swanned down, over the ancient river, ‘—its arsenal of Old bombs; nuclear bombs. This I say because I know the Empire, its masters, I know how it will act.’ I paused: ‘And all the cities of Europa - Oslo, Le Havre, Versailles - all those I know and remember ... all will be consigned to the Fire, to save our sovereignty. I cannot think how many people ... As Vienna ...’ Words and worlds fell apart; set steady on the rudderbar, my hand whitened around the knuckles. I could only give a blind shake of my head. ‘That must never happen, Alicia, no matter what the price.’
Oh God, it must not. Not a second time ...
I set the device, waited until Tower Bridge was coming directly below, then heaved it into the clean air and sunshine and balanced it on the gunwale. A push, and it fell away: Nine minutes forty-five seconds ... nine minutes and thirty seconds ... A plume of spray licked up an impudent tongue, close beneath the citadel’s ringwall. And I eased us north-eastward, held the engines at their hysterical shrilling, went over Whitechapel, and due north. I looked down at the walking talking people who were already dead: a cloud of pigeons swept past us, and some grubby street-urchin raised a threatening fist. Then, past Mare Street, I raced us due east again, away from the grotesque light of the distended sun.
Annah Alicia Father oh Father ...
There were minutes and seconds and instants, and each were wounds.
After such knowledge, is there forgiveness? Forgiveness?
—Father, for I have sinned ...
He cometh up and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life ...
We must all do what we must. The Cross. The nails called years.
I looked back at the orange dusk. Nothing.
In the west at last, a thousand suns - The whole cracked sky blinding white—
The world held its breath. Someone sobbed; a chaos of after-images was burning my eyes out; then the Shockwave hit, tearing the tiller from my hands, blasting us into deafness. I collapsed, was flung onto Annah. For a long time we lay in the rush of scalding air and watched the horizon as it wrenched, sagged, jumped up, fell.
And I couldn’t look back. At the lightness still unfolding from the heart of the darkness, at the boiling, twisting black clouds. I could only lie there, caught up in the killing web of history, and cry.
<
* * * *
THE BONES OF BERTRAND RUSSELL
Brian W. Aldiss
Anyone of a mind sufficiently enquiring to wish to determine the value of C Backwards must of necessity be courageous and dedicated - that a car mechanic should cherish this dream appears symptomatic of our civilization and of tomorrow’s society. That he should also be bald adds a further illuminating comment. One should note that the Russell herein remarked in passing should not be confused with the third earl of that name.
* * * *
A TRYPTICH OF ABSURD
ENIGMATIC PLAYS
* * * *
Futurity Takes A Hand
The scene is the upper left hand geranium garden in the grounds of the Escorial Palace, 39A Blenkinsop Road, Madrid, Brussels. fan fan chang is talking to his android Wife, hi fat gonzales.
fan fan chang: I see in the papers that philosphers are back in favour. They are
aparently very palatable and even people in modest income brackets are enjoying them.
hi fat gonzales: When you say modest income brackets, are you thinking of writing
one of your enjoyable and memorable lyric poems round them, honourable husband?
fan fan chang: Certainly, unless anyone interrupts me.
On a modest income bracket
A lark sat down to sing
Every time you walk on a thistle
Heaven weeps at the injustice
hi fat gonzales: Lovely! I’ll incribe it on my fan.
fan fan chang: It needs polishing.
hi fat gonzales: I polished it only yesterday.
fan fan chang: You’re always complaining about how much work you have to do. I’m beginning to think you’ve ceased loving me.
A time machine materializes. A Time Traveller steps out.
time traveller: You won’t believe this, but I am a time traveller from fifty years in
your future.
fan fan chang: I believe you. How high does my reputation stand in your day?
time traveller (aside): Little does he know that I am his grandson. I am determined
to shoot him.
hi fat gonzales (overhearing): But if you kill Fan Fan and you really are his grandson
from the future, then you will cease to exist.
fan fan chang: ‘Course you will, you fool. It’s one of the best known paradoxes
about time travel.
time traveller: My point precisely. My life is miserable, wretched. I am a complete
failure. All my plans have gone wrong. I haven’t a penny to my name, my hernia is playing me up, my friends have betrayed me, my wife has left me, I can’t afford the new entropy kits. My hair’s falling out too, incidentally, and I’ve got a shocking memory. My brother’s trying to cross the galaxy backwards, if you please. Well, I mustn’t bore you with my troubles—
fan fan chang and hi fat gonzales (together): But you have!
time traveller: Anyhow, my point is that I’ve come back here to kill you as the most
painless method ever of committing suicide. When you die, I shall just - not have existed! Blissikins! I shoot you, and - bang! - or rather Pop!, I suppose one should say, to be onomatopoeically correct, I shall simply wink out of existence.
fan fan chang: Wait, wait, cue for a lyric!
The world’s a funny place
For those with eyes to see
Only the other day I got
A wink out of existence
hi fat gonzales: It needs polishing.
time traveller (draws gun from invalid chair secreted in his lap pocket): Sorry to
mess up your afternoon, but...
fan fan chang: Look out, there’s an anteater behind you!
time traveller (turning): Where? Where? (fan fan chang rushes at him and
overpowers him, removing the gun)
fan fan chang: Caught by one of the oldest tricks in the business. (He points the gun
at the Time Traveller)
hi fat gonzales: Don’t shoot, please, Fan Fan! I know he’s our grandson, but I find
I’ve suddenly fallen in love with him. It was that pitiful tale of woe, I suppose. Oh, grand-sonny, I know I’m a mad impetuous fool, but I want to love you, to take care of you, I want you to sweep me up in your arms, to marry me - I want to have children by you, poets, little poets, lovely little wild poets and painters with cherry lips just like yours and legs like mine, endless children ...
fan fan chang: Then I am deserted! Betrayed! I cannot face life without my darling
Hi Fat. (Shoots himself)
time traveller: I can see this is going to be tricky...
curtain
* * * *
Through a Galaxy Backwards
The scene is a little chartreuse coathanger somewhere north of Tijuana Naval Base. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers are eating tacos. Two anteaters are dining on the remains of Bertrand Russell.
nellie (reading the tablecloth): It says here that fifty-one per cent of car mechanics
are bald. Isn’t that amazing?
angus: It says here that the greatest Russi
an composer of the twentieth century—
nellie: It’s no good talking to me about music. You know I hate it. Marquetry I like,
but not music. It’s always breaking into the bloody key of G.
angus: Not always - is not Tchaikowsky but Irving Berlin. 899 songs, made millions.
nellie: I thought he was German. Did he ever break into the key of G?
angus: My aunt Kit had an old telephone that used to break into the key of G in wet
weather. Let’s not argue, dear, it’s such a lovely afternoon. Have this other leg, will you?
nellie: Isn’t Russell delicious? Shows what philosphy can do for you. Frankly, I’m
delighted we dug him up. Now philosophy I do like - almost as much as marquetry.
(Enter MARQUETRY)
New Writings in SF 28 - [Anthology] Page 7