The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s (Part 1) (The Brian Aldiss Collection)

by Brian Aldiss

  Keeping his eye on them, Anderson moved off, heading for the hill. Nobody attempted to follow him. A haphazardly beaten track led up the slope, its roughness emphasising the general neglect.

  When he was out of sight of the village, Anderson’s anxiety got the better of him. He ran up the track calling ‘Kay, Kay!’

  No answer. The clotted light seemed to absorb his voice.

  Breasting the slope, he passed the point where he had seen the woolly rhinoceros. His vehicle was where he had left it. Empty.

  He ran to it, rifle ready. He ran round it. He began shouting his sister’s name again. No reply.

  Checking the panic he felt, Anderson looked about for footprints, but could, find none. Kay was gone, spirited away. Yet there was nowhere on the whole planet to go to, except Swettenham.

  On sudden impulse he ran down to the two boulders where he had encountered the brutish Ell. They stood deserted and silent. When he had retrieved his revolver from where it had fallen, he turned back. He trudged grimly back to the vehicle, his shirt sticking to his spine. Climbing in, he switched on and coasted into the settlement.

  In the square again, he braked and jumped down, confronting the chunky bodies in the shadows.

  ‘Where’s my sister?’ he shouted to them. ‘What sort of funny business are you playing at?’

  Someone answered one syllable, croaking it into the brightness: ‘Crow!’

  ‘Crow!’ Someone else called, throwing the word forward like a stone.

  In a rage, Anderson aimed Menderstone’s rifle over the low roof tops and squeezed the trigger. The weapon recoiled with a loud explosion. Visible humanity upped on to its flat feet and disappeared into hovels or back streets.

  Anderson went over to Menderstone’s door, banged on it, and walked in. Menderstone was eating a peeled apple and did not cease to do so when his guest entered.

  ‘My sister has been kidnapped,’ Anderson said. ‘Where are the police?’

  ‘The nearest police are on Earth,’ Menderstone said, between bites. ‘There you have robot-controlled police states stretching from pole to pole. “Police on Earth, goodwill towards men.” Here on Nehru we have only anarchy. It’s horrible, but better than your robotocracy. My advice to you, Anderson, which I proffer in all seriousness, is to beat it back to your little rocket ship and head for home without bothering too much about your sister.’

  ‘Look, Menderstone, I’m in no mood for your sort of nonsense! I don’t brush off that easy. Who’s in charge round here? Where is the egghead camp? Who has some effectual say in local affairs, because I want to speak to him?’

  ‘‘Who’s in charge round here?’ You really miss the iron hand of your robot bosses, don’t you?’

  Menderstone put his apple down and advanced, still chewing. His big face was as hard and cold as an undersea rock.

  ‘Give me that rifle,’ he said, laying a hand on the barrel and tugging. He flung it on to the table. ‘Don’t talk big to me, K. D. Anderson! I happen to loathe the régime on Earth and all the pipsqueaks like you it spawns. If you need help, see you ask politely.’

  ‘I’m not asking you for help – it’s plain you can’t even help yourself!’

  ‘You’d better not give Stanley too much lip,’ Alice said. She had come in and stood behind Menderstone, her parrot’s-beak nose on one side as she regarded Anderson. ‘You may not find him very lovable, but I’m sad to say that he is the egghead camp nowadays. This dump was its old HQ. But all the other bright boys have gone to join your pal Arlblaster up in the hills, across the river.’

  ‘It must be pleasanter and healthier there. I can quite see why they didn’t want you two with them,’ Anderson said sourly.

  Menderstone burst into laughter.

  ‘In actuality, you don’t see at all.’

  ‘Go ahead and explain then. I’m listening.’

  Menderstone resumed his apple, his free hand thrust into a trouser pocket.

  ‘Do we explain to him, Alice? Can you tell yet which side he’ll be on? A high N-factor in his make-up, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘He could be a Crow. More likely an Ape, though, I agree. Hell, whichever he is, he’s a relief after your undiluted company, Stanley.’

  ‘Don’t start making eyes at him, you crow! He could be your son!’

  ‘What was good enough for Jocasta is good enough for me,’ Alice cackled. Turning to Anderson, she said. ‘Don’t get involved in our squabbles! You’d best put up here for the night. At least they aren’t cannibals outside – they won’t eat your sister, whatever else they do. There must be a reason for kidnapping her, so if you sit tight they’ll get in touch with you. Besides, it’s half-past nineteen, and your hunt for Arlblaster would be better taking place tomorrow morning.’

  After further argument, Anderson agreed with what she suggested. Menderstone thrust out his lower, lip and said nothing. It was impossible to determine how he felt about having a guest.

  The rest of the daylight soon faded. After he had unloaded some kit from his vehicle and stacked it indoors, Anderson had nothing to do. He tried to make Alice talk about the situation on Nehru II, but she was not informative; though she was a garrulous type, something seemed to hold her back. Only after supper, taken as the sun sank, did she cast some light on what was happening by discussing her arrival on the planet.

  ‘I used to be switchboard operator and assistant radiop on a patrol ship,’ she said. ‘That was five years ago. Our ship touched down in a valley two miles south of here. The ship’s still there, though they do say a landslide buried it last winter. None of the crew returned to it once they had visited Swettenham.’

  ‘Keith doesn’t want to hear your past history,’ Menderstone said, using Anderson’s first name contemptuously.

  ‘What happened to the crew?’ Anderson asked.

  She laughed harshly.

  ‘They got wrapped up in your friend Arlblaster’s way of life, shall we say. They became converted. … All except me. And since I couldn’t manage the ship by myself, I also had to stay here.’

  ‘How lucky for me, dear,’ said Menderstone with heavy mock-tenderness. ‘You’re just my match, aren’t you?’ Alice jumped up, sudden tears in her eyes.

  ‘Shut up, you – toad! You’re a pain in the neck to me and yourself and everyone! You needn’t remind me what a bitch you’ve turned me into!’ Flinging down her fork, she turned and ran from the room.

  ‘The divine eternal female! Shall we divide what she has left of her supper between us?’ Menderstone asked, reaching out for Alice’s plate.

  Anderson stood up.

  ‘What she said was an understatement, judging by the little I’ve seen here.’

  ‘Do you imagine I enjoy this life? Or her? Or you, for that matter? Sit down, Anderson – existence is something to be got through the best way possible, isn’t it? You weary me with your trite and predictable responses.’

  This stormy personal atmosphere prevailed till bedtime. A bitter three-cornered silence was maintained until Menderstone had locked Anderson into a distant part of the long building.

  He had blankets with him, which he spread over the mouldy camp bed provided. He did not investigate the rooms adjoining his; several of their doors bore names vaguely familiar to him; they had been used when the intellectual group was flourishing, but were now deserted.

  Tired though Anderson was, directly his head was down he began to worry about Kay and the general situation. Could his sister possibly have had any reason for returning on foot to the ship? Tomorrow, he must go and see. He turned over restlessly.

  Something was watching him through the window.

  In a flash, Anderson was out of bed, gripping the revolver, his heart hammering. The darkness outside was almost total. He glimpsed only a brutal silhouette in which eyes gleamed, and then it was gone.

  He saw his foolishness in accepting Alice’s laissez-faire advice to wait until Kay’s captors got in touch with him. He must have been crazy to agree: or el
se the general lassitude of Nehru II had overcome him. Whatever was happening here, it was nasty enough to endanger Kay’s life, without any messenger boys arriving first to parley about it.

  Alice had said that Arlblaster lived across the river. If he were as much the key to the mystery as he seemed to be, then Arlblaster should be confronted as soon as possible. Thoroughly roused, angry, vexed with himself, Anderson went over to the window and opened it.

  He peered into the scruffy night.

  He could see nobody. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Anderson discerned nearby features well enough. A bright star in the sky which he took to be Bose, Nehru II’s little moon, lent some light. Swinging his leg over the sill, Anderson dropped to the ground and stood tensely outside.

  Nothing moved. A dog howled. Making his way between the outer circle of houses, gun in hand, Anderson came to the river’s edge. A sense of the recklessness of what he was doing assailed him, but he pressed on.

  Pausing now and again to ensure he was not being followed, he moved along the river bank, avoiding the obstacles with which it was littered. He reached a bridge of a sort. A tall tree had been felled so that it lay across the stretch of water. Its underside was lapped by the river.

  Anderson tucked his gun away and crossed the crude bridge with his arms outstretched for balance.

  On the far side, crude attempts to cultivate the ground had been made. The untidy patchwork stopped as the upward slope of the land became more pronounced. No dwellings were visible. He stopped again and listened.

  He could hear a faint and indescribable choric noise ahead. As he went forward, the noise became more distinct, less a part of the ill-defined background of furtive earth and river sounds. On the higher ground, a patch of light was now vaguely distinguishable.

  This light increased as did the sound. Circumnavigating a thorny mass of brush, Anderson could see that there was a depression ahead of him in the rising valley slope. Something – a ceremony? – was going on in the depression. He ran the last few yards, doubled up, his revolver ready again, scowling in his excitement.

  On the lip of the depression, he flung himself flat and peered down into the dip.

  A fire was burning in the middle of the circular hollow. Round it some three dozen figures paraded, ringing two men. One of the two was a menial, throwing powder into the blaze, so that green and crimson flames spurted up; the other filled some sort of priestly role. All the others were naked. He wore a cloak and pointed hat.

  He sang and waved his arms, a tall figure that woke in Anderson untraceable memories. The dancers – if their rhythmic shuffle might be called a dance – responded with low cries. The total effect, if not beautiful, was oddly moving.

  Hypnotised, Anderson watched. He found that his head was nodding in time to the chant. There was no sign of Kay here, as he had half-anticipated. But by his carrot-coloured beard and his prominent nose the priest was distinguishable even in the uncertain fire light. It was Frank Arlblaster.

  Or it had been Frank Arlblaster. Items that most easily identify a man to his friends are his stance and his walk. Arlblaster’s had changed. He seemed to sag at the knees and shuffle now, his torso no longer vertical to the ground. Yet the high timbre of his voice remained unaltered, though he called out in a language unknown to Anderson.

  The dancers shuffled eagerly, clapping their hands, nodding their shaggy heads. Gradually it dawned on Anderson what they looked like. Beyond doubt they were the inhabitants of Swettenham; they were also, unmistakably, pre-homo sapiens. He might have been witnessing a ritual of Neanderthal men.

  Mingled repulsion and elation rooted Anderson to the spot where he lay. Yes, unarguably the faces of Ell and his friends earlier had borne the touch of Neanderthal. Once the idea took, he could not shake it off.

  He lay in a trance of wonder until the dance had stopped. Now all the company turned to face the spot where he lay concealed. Anderson felt the nerves tingle along his spinal cord. Arlblaster lifted an arm and pointed towards him. Then in a loud voice he cried out, the crowd shouting with him in chorus.

  ‘Aigh murg eg neggy oggy Kay bat doo!’

  The words were for Anderson.

  They were unintelligible to him, yet they seemed to penetrate him. That his whereabouts was known meant nothing beside an even greater pressure on his brain. His whole being trembled on the threshold of some great disastrous revelation.

  A magical trance had snared him. He was literally not himself. The meaningless words seemed to shake him to his soul. Gasping, he climbed to his feet and took himself off at a run. There was no pursuit.

  He had no memory of getting back to Menderstone’s place, no recollection of crossing the rough bridge, no recollection of tumbling through the window. He lay panting on the bed, his face buried in the pillow.

  This state in its turn was succeeded by a vast unease. He could not sleep. Sleep was beyond him. He trembled in every limb. The hours of night dragged on for ever.

  At last Anderson sat up. A faint dawn washed into the world. Taking a torch from his kit, he went to investigate the other empty rooms next to his.

  A dusty corridor led to them.

  Alice had said that this had been the HQ of Swettenham’s original intellectual coterie. There was a library in one room, with racked spools gathering dust; Anderson did not trouble to read any titles. He felt vague antipathy for the silent ranks of them. Another room was a small committee chamber. Maps hung on the walls, meaningless, unused. He saw without curiosity that the flags stuck to one map had mostly fallen on the floor.

  A third room was a recreation room. It held a curious assortment of egghead toys. There was even a model electric railway of the type fashionable on Earth a couple of centuries ago. A lathe in the corner suggested that rail and rolling stock might have been made on the premises.

  Anderson peered at the track. It gleamed in his torchlight. No dust on it. He hesitatingly ran a finger along it.

  A length of siding raised itself like a snake’s head. Coiling up, it wrapped round Anderson’s wrist, snapped tight He pulled at it, yelling in surprise. The whole layout reared up, struggling to get at him.

  He backed away, beating at the stuff as it rolled up from the table. The track writhed and launched itself at him, scattering waggons and locomotives. He fired his revolver wildly. Loops of railroad fell over him, over his head, wrapping itself madly about him.

  Anderson fell to the floor, dropping his gun, dropping the torch, tearing at the thin bands of metal as they bit tighter. The track threshed savagely, binding his legs together. He was shouting incoherently.

  As he struggled, Menderstone ran into the room, rifle in hand, Alice behind him. It was the last thing Anderson saw as he lost consciousness.

  When he roused, it was to find himself in Menderstone’s living-room, sprawled on a bunk. Alice sat by him, turning towards him as he stirred. Menderstone was not in the room.

  ‘My God …’ Anderson groaned. His brain felt curiously lucid, as if a fever had just left him.

  ‘It’s time you woke up. I’ll get you some soup if you can manage it,’ Alice said.

  ‘Wait, Alice. Alice …’ His lips trembled as he formed the words. ‘I’m myself again. What came over me? Yesterday – I don’t have a sister called Kay. I don’t have a sister at all! I was an only child!’

  She was unsurprised. He sat up, glaring at her.

  ‘I guessed as much, said so to Stanley. When you brought your kit in from the vehicle there was nothing female among it.’

  ‘My mind! I was so sure. … I could have pictured her, described her … She was actual! And yet if anyone – if you’d challenged me direct, I believe I’d have known it was an – an illusion.’

  His sense of loss was forced aside as another realisation crowded in on him.

  He sank down confusedly, closing his eyes, muttering. ‘Aigh murg eg neggy oggy Kay bat doo. … That’s what they told me on the hillside: “You have no sister called Kay.” That’s what it
meant. … Alice. It’s so strange. …’

  His hand sought hers and found it. It was ice cold.

  ‘Your initial is K, Keith,’ she said, pale at the lips. ‘You were out there seeking yourself.’

  Her face looking down at him was scared and ugly; yet a kind of gentle patience in it dissolved the ugliness.

  ‘I’m – I’m some sort of mad,’ he whispered.

  ‘Of course you’re mad!’ Menderstone said, as he burst open the door. ‘Let go of his hand, Alice – this is our beloved home, not the cheap seats in the feelies on Earth. Anderson, if you aren’t insane, why were you rolling about on the floor, foaming at the mouth and firing your damned gun, at six o’clock this morning?’

  Anderson sat up.

  ‘You saw me entangled in that jinxed railroad when you found me, Menderstone! Another minute and it would have squeezed the life out of me.’

  Menderstone looked genuinely puzzled. It was the first time Anderson had seen him without the armour of his self-assurance.

  ‘The model railroad?’ he said. ‘It was undisturbed. You hadn’t touched it.’

  ‘It touched me,’ Anderson said chokingly. ‘It – it attacked me, wrapped itself round me like an octopus. You must have peeled it off me before getting me through here.’

  ‘I see,’ Menderstone said, his face grim.

  He nodded slowly, sitting down absent-mindedly, and then nodding again to Alice.

  ‘You see what this means, woman? Anderson’s N-factor is rising to dominance. This young man is not on our side, as I suspected from the first. He’s no Crow. Anderson, your time’s up here, sorry! From now on, you’re one of Arlblaster’s men. You’ll never get back to Earth.’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m on my way back now.’

  Menderstone shook his head.

  ‘You don’t know your own mind. I mean the words literally. You’re doomed to stay here, playing out the miserable life of an ape! Earth has lost another of her estimable nonentities.’

  ‘Menderstone, you’re eaten up with hatred! You hate this planet, you hate Earth!’

  Menderstone stood up again, putting his rifle down on the table and coming across to Anderson with his fists bunched.