New Writings in SF 28 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Kenneth Bulmer

  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 risqué 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 a
nyone 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...