New Writings in SF 28 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Kenneth Bulmer

  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 ti
me. 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 ...