THE STONE THAT NEVER CAME DOWN
John Brunner
BOOK ONE
Ascent
Dissidentes Christianorum antistites cum plebe discissa in palatium intromissos, monebat civilius, ut discordiis consopitis, quisque nullo vetante, religioni suae serviret intrepidus. Quod agebat ideo obstinate ut dissensiones augente licentia, non timeret unanimantem postea plebem, nullas infestas hominibus bestias, ut sunt sibi ferales plerique Christianorum expertus.
—Ammianus Marcellinus: Res Gestae
I
The morning after it went up…
Snow on Chater Street in London’s Kentish Town. It was such a hard winter all over Europe that meteorologists were now confidently predicting Britain’s first “white Christmas” for many years, in the intervals of disputing learnedly about the effect of high-flying planes, the displacement of jet-streams, and suchlike. In a front-to-back ground-floor room—the ground-floor room—at number 25, Malcolm Fry was roused by his bedside radio.
“… and found the bagpipes playing the octopus!” There followed a burst of synthetic-sounding recorded laughter.
—What the hell?
Muzzily, out of the depths of the best sleep he had enjoyed for months.
Then a sycophantic announcer said, “Thank you, Home Secretary, for sharing with our listeners one of your favourite jokes. Tune in at the same time tomorrow, when another distinguished sponsor of the Campaign Against Moral Pollution will prove it doesn’t have to be vulgar to be funny. Remember, dirt demeans!”
—Oh. Of course. Radio Free Enterprise. We were making up parodies on the commercials last night. But I feel very strange. I feel… How do I feel?
The word came to him, and for a long moment he could not convince himself that it was accurate.
—Happy.
But what in the world did Malcolm Fry have to be happy about? Unemployed at thirty-five, quite likely unemployable, in his own profession at any rate; abandoned by his wife, who had taken the children and the car six months ago; head over ears in debt that every passing day of inflation worsened… Granted, Ruth had stayed the night, unprecedentedly, and lay cosily beside him, oblivious to the radio and the time. That alone, though, could not account for his state of mind, because the reason why she had stayed…
—She was right. I must have been worse than drunk. I must have been totally, absolutely out of my skull. Just as she said. I never did a crazier thing in my whole life. Taking a pill from a stranger in a pub, swallowing it on nothing more than his say-so! It could have been poison. I think I wanted it to be poison. I know I was miserable enough.
Although in the upshot…
The radio played a snatch of Land of Hope and Glory. He stole a hand out of bedsnug to reduce the volume. It was dreadfully cold in here. Filtered by the dervishes of the snow, a streetlamp beam lanced between the curtains and showed him his breath clouding before his face. The time-switch which had brought the radio to life also controlled an electric fan-heater, but the middle element was broken and anyhow the power was usually browned out nowadays. If only he could afford to turn on the central heating…
Still, it was lovely and warm in the bed, and because the clock showed only 7:52 he could spare another few minutes before he roused Ruth. Even if he didn’t have a job, she did, and what was more with the Civil Service, in a department where unpunctuality counted heavily against her. She had told him she must wake at eight sharp, which was why he had set the alarm. Mostly he didn’t bother. What did he have to wake up early for?
So for a while yet he could relish the memory of last night. Voicelessly moving his lips, he shaped the name Morris, the stranger, had given to what was in the pill. The capsule, to be more exact.
“VC!”
And added, “Wow.”
Some time around midnight they had been debating what the initials might stand for, and after dismissing the obvious possibilities they had dissolved into helpless laughter when Ruth proposed the perfect answer: vigorous copulation!
—Oh, fantastic! And if what I’m feeling now is a side-effect, there ought to be more of it about!
The radio said, “And now a summary of the news. Many famous personalities in finance and show business, who thought their wealth would give, them immunity to indulge their degenerate lusts, will appear in court this morning following a police raid on a house in London at two A.M.—”
Malcolm started. He almost never listened to Radio Free Enterprise, the London commercial station launched a couple of years ago—not that the BBC was much better these days—but he distinctly recalled that their news bulletins were hourly on the hour.
“The president of the World Bank,” the radio said, “is flying to Rome today in a last-ditch attempt to solve the Italian financial crisis. Mobs of unemployed in Turin and Milan—”
—Load-shedding! Cuts the frequency! Of course! Bet a million clocks in London are slow this morning!
But it wasn’t that which made him gasp and drive his elbow into Ruth’s ribs. At the edge of hearing, against the drone of traffic building up to the regular day-long jam on the nearby motorway—left unfinished when funds ran out, like so much else in contemporary London, so that it terminated in a monstrous bottleneck—a rhythmical sound. He recognised the pattern though he could not make out the words. Many people loudly chanting That Old-time Religion.
—And coming closer, too. Damn! Damn!
He scrambled out of bed, seizing a bathrobe, and rushed to the street window. Already there were more noises added to the singing: people shouting encouragement or orders to stuff the row.
“Is it time to get up, darling?” Ruth inquired sleepily. One-eyed, she peered at the clock.
“That’s slow,” Malcolm grunted, peering discreetly past the muslin veiling the lower half of the window: ugly, but imperative since he had taken to sleeping down here. Stage by stage he had had to rent out the house, losing first the children’s bedrooms, then what had been his and Cathy’s, and at last his cherished study, until this room was his actual home.
“Slow!” Ruth flung back the covers. “I’ll have to run!”
He glanced at her. For a fleeting instant he relished the sight of her bare body; older than him by five years, but single and childless, she had kept her figure and could still wear the size in clothes she had taken at twenty. Moreover her face was fascinating: not beautiful because her nose was too sharp and her mouth too big, but warranted to catch the eye of every man she passed.
And then he said, “Sorry, Ruth. Run is exactly what you dare not do.”
“What? Why not?” Dressing hastily in her T-shirt-like undervest, bloomers halfway to her knees, a drab navy-blue skirt and matching shapeless jacket…
—Last night I said as I undressed her, “What became of colour in the world?” And she replied, “Fashion, I suppose.” But that can’t be right. I recall when Cathy and I first met: her girl-friends arriving for parties in midwinter, whisking off fog-damp cloaks to reveal frocks barely more opaque than the mist outside. And in the daytime brilliant Norwegian tights that made girls’ legs twinkle like a firework display… Now it’s brown or black or grey, and worse yet thick and ugly!
Aloud: “Listen. Can’t you hear them?”
She cocked her head in a manner that made an almost painfully perfect curve of her sleek dark hair, and turned pale.
“Oh, no! Godheads?”
“I’m afraid so. Since the pay-rise at Rexwell Radio last month we’ve been infested. Trust them to go where the pickings are fattest. And not everyone is telling them to shut up, either. I have noseyparkers for
neighbours, you know. I swear they could tell my lodgers by sight before I could. If they get wind of you, the shameless hussy who’s spent the night with a married man… The godheads around here are worse than the average run, too. There are a lot of Irish refugees who miss the fighting they enjoyed back home, and their priests are encouraging them to join up with the ordinary godheads. It’s supposed to be a way of keeping unemployed men out of trouble. I saw an idiot parson on TV the other day who made it sound as though he was sending his congregation—well, out carol-singing!”
“Finding the note that can shatter glass?” Ruth suggested with the dry wit which had been among the first things to attract him to her. He contrived a smile, but it was skeletal.
“Okay,” she said eventually, fully clad now. “I have some Christmas shopping-time I haven’t used, so I can risk being late for once… Come to think of it, most of us in the office haven’t used our shopping-time. What’s the point when everything is so expensive? Would it be safe for me to sneak to the bathroom?”
“Yes, of course. So long as you don’t let Mary see you.” Mary was one of the lodgers; she was devout, spending every evening either praying at home or attending Bible class with a girl-friend, and at weekends went home to her parents. He scarcely knew her, but she did pay regularly. “I’ll make some tea.”
As she stole into the hallway, he moved towards the far end of the room. When he and Cathy chose the house, they had confidently expected this to be the next district made fashionable by the insane inflation of London house-prices, so they had created an expensive open-plan kitchen/dining/living area out of the original two ground-floor rooms. Instead, there had been a recession. The area was still mostly borderline slum, and no other house in the street had been painted for at least five years.
—An ideal target for godheads, regardless of anything else…
But his mood of euphoria, for the time being, was proof against anything.
—So what if I did act crazy yesterday? The whole damned world is going off its rocker. TV news last night: half the blacks in America seem to have declared civil war, half the Georgians in Russia have decided on UDI and they smuggled that film of Tbilisi in flames to the West to prove it. The planet’s cracking like the shell of a hard-boiled egg under the hammering of riots, insurgency, brushfire war… And these idiots here, our “beloved leaders”! Content to waste two million of the best-trained workers in the world, to let them stay out of work for months on end, when anyone with a grain of sense can see we need them because this city’s practically collapsing around our ears!
He set the kettle to boil. From overhead came the noise of creaking boards. That was the American, Billy Cohen, preparing to leave for work. Billy was the nicest of his lodgers, far nicer than Mary, or the colourless student Reggie, or Len the middle-aged clerk embittered by divorce ten years ago, ever willing to complain about his wife to anybody who would listen. Billy had a job—lucky devil—at a bookstore in Hampstead. Six foot two and solidly built, he always made the floor complain when he strode across it.
And here was Ruth back again, hastily, like a thief. Saying as she closed the door, “Malcolm, do they—well, do they know who you are?”
“How could they help knowing? My picture was plastered all over the papers, wasn’t it? And I’m still a grand scandal in the district—me, the teacher who corrupted innocent kids! So I always have to buy them off, and they’re never satisfied with less than a fiver. I can’t afford it, but I could even less well afford to have them work the house over. If somebody from my mortgage company found they’d wrecked the place, I’d be done for. Homeless as well as jobless.”
Warming the pot, measuring out the tea, he improvised words to fit the distant chanting—not so distant, now; the godhead gang must be almost at the corner of the street.
“Oh, it’s good to screw your sister—sorry, I’m a trifle manic this morning—it was good for Cain and Abel, so it’s good enough for me! And it’s good to screw your daughter, yes it’s good to screw your daughter, it was good for Papa Lot and so…”
The words trailed away as he glanced up and found her grinning at him.
“Know something?” she said. “About last night?”
“What?”
“It was never so good for me before. Not with anybody. It was as though you’d climbed inside my head and knew what I wanted done next before I’d thought of it myself.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “It was fantastic for me as well. Thank you.”
There was a momentary pause. Then, with a shrug, he moved towards the door.
“They’re coming,” he said. “Four of them. I’d better answer right away, or they’ll smash a window or two… No, wait a second.” He checked, reaching for the handle. “I can hear Billy coming down. He has a job and I don’t. Let him deal with them for once!”
He turned back to finish making the tea.
“Malcolm!” Ruth said suddenly.
“Yes?”
“Malcolm, there’s thick snow on the ground out there. It’s still falling.”
“So?” He was filling the pot in a cloud of steam.
“How the hell do you know there are four godheads on the way? They aren’t singing that I can hear—if they’re there at all!”
On the point of bringing milk from the refrigerator, Malcolm froze and stared at her.
“That’s right! I… I don’t know. But I’m absolutely certain. I can even tell that there’s one fat and one thin and— Oh, no! The bloody fool!”
“What is it?”
“Billy! He’s arguing with them!”
“I don’t hear—” Ruth began, but he had rushed past her and out into the hallway.
There as predicted was Billy in his shabby red mackinaw confronting exactly four godheads: all carrying their typical yard-high crosses made of plastic designed to imitate wood with the bark on, all better dressed than he was, in well-tailored coats, fur hats, fur-lined boots. Godheads, it was estimated, had turned begging—or as they termed it, alms-collection—into a multimillion-pound industry these last few years.
And Billy was saying to their leader, a brown-haired brown-eyed man nearly as tall as himself, “Christians, are you?”
The leader took a half-pace back on the snow-slippery step. He said resentfully, “We weren’t told this had become a Jewish household!”
—Given Billy’s archetypal appearance, hook nose, swarthy complexion, and the rest, that’s a reasonable assumption.
But Billy’s response was a snort.
“See any mezuzahs on the doorpost, do you? Not that you’d know what the word means! Well, I tell you what!” He dug in the pocket of his jacket and produced a ten-pound note. The eyes of all the godheads bulbed eagerly.
“I’ll give you this!” Billy barked. “Provided you can answer me a simple question!”
“Billy!” Malcolm called from the door of his room. “It’s okay—leave it. I’ll give ‘em something.”
“What? Oh, morning, Mal. No, this is my treat today! I just want a simple question answered, like I say!” He faced the godheads again.
“You can have this if you name a weapon of modern war that wasn’t invented and first used by a Christian country!”
“Oh, no!” Malcolm heard Ruth breathe at his side.
“Come on, come on!” Billy rasped. “Don’t bother going back to gunpowder. I know the Chinese got at that first. But I also know you lot were so eager to steal the credit that if you were German you were taught it was invented by Friar Berthold Schwartz and if you were English that it was invented by Friar Roger Bacon—good churchmen both! Well?”
“Billy!” Malcolm advanced into the hallway, careless of how cruel its ice-cold tiles were to his unshod feet.
Baring his teeth, Billy ignored him and stuffed his money back in his pocket.
“Can’t answer me, hm? Not surprising! The whole lot is yours, from the hand-grenade to the hydrogen bomb! So stop wasting my time. I have to go to work. And it wouldn
’t do you any harm to work for a change, instead of sponging off the rest of us who do!”
Roughly he shouldered the leader of the godheads aside.
That was a mistake.
The man lost his footing on the steps and with a yell went sprawling down to street-level, upon which his companions retaliated.
Their crosses made admirable clubs.
II
“Good morning, milady,” said Tarquin Drew. “I trust you have heard the good news on the radio?”
“I have indeed, Tarquin,” answered Amelia, Lady Washgrave, as she entered her breakfast-room. Snow lay thick on the lawn beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but within the air was warm and deliciously scented with Earl Grey tea.
Tarquin was her personal secretary, and she had conceived a considerable affection for him. His father, incredibly, was an uncouth charge-hand in a factory, and salted his conversation with appalling objurgations. Tarquin had managed to live all that down. Granted, some breath of scandal had attached to him at university… but “there is more joy in heaven.”
Deftly he aided her chair to adopt its correct posture beneath her decently long skirt. She was a perfect model of what, in her view, a respectable widow of forty-eight should look like. It had been at the age she herself had now attained that the late Sir George had succumbed to a heart attack precipitated, no doubt, by excessive dedication to his business interests. She had borne the loss with fortitude, perhaps not unmingled with relief.
“Would you prefer the Times or your correspondence first, milady?” Tarquin enquired, turning to the sideboard. And added in a regretful tone, “I’m afraid the newspaper has not accorded the same prominence to the police’s raid as did Radio Free Enterprise.”
He displayed the headlines to prove his point; they concerned strikers in Glasgow, riots in Italy, and suchlike trivia. Lady Washgrave was unsurprised; it was notorious that the media, including even the august Times, were mouthpieces for the international conspiracy of corruption. She waved the paper aside and accepted an inch-thick wad of letters, most of which, she noted with approval, were from local chapters of the Campaign Against Moral Pollution—of which she was executive chairman—and bore the campaign’s symbol: a cross-hilted dagger spiking a stylised book, intended to represent morality cleansing the world of trash.
THE STONE THAT NEVER CAME DOWN by John Brunner Page 1