New Writings in SF 21 - [Anthology]

by Ed By John Carnell

  Scroop said mildly again, ‘I noticed, Vladimir.’

  ‘Good,’ retorted the steward. ‘And you probably remember what I said about the storage areas in the river access branch. Or on the docks. Well, I know without lookin’ that what I told you about a body goes double for anything combustible.’ He gave Henri and Cyril a hard glance and said grimly, ‘You’re not gonna pass that stuff under to us.’

  What followed was actually nothing more than what had gone before, save that as they took turns using the conference chamber scanner they tangled themselves more thoroughly in red tape, hope sank, and tempers rose. Scroop watched with considerable interest as they became inextricably bound by regulations, while at the far end of the chamber Hobbs exchanged the paleness of anger for the apoplectic hue of an incipient stroke.

  ‘Stop it!’ he finally shouted down the table at them. There was a shocked silence, a collective air of shattered dignity and then the trio tried to regain their composure.

  Had he been more sympathetic or more constructive, Hobbs might have saved the situation at that point. For once in his long career, however, he made the mistake of speaking to the superficial, when he should have attacked the serious aspect of the problem. Admittedly it was ludicrous to be arguing over a pile of scrap wood, but the man who has been stymied by a two-credit puzzle has ceased to see the humour of his situation.

  ‘You sound like a bunch of school-kids,’ he told them. ‘Try behaving like adults, for a change.’

  ‘Mr. General Manager,’ said an icily-proper Henri Le-Blanc, ‘as the so-called Mayor of Tundra City, I tell you this. I am going to have that wood shipped to the Admin. Building when I get back and it will be your problem, not ours.’ Cyril and Vladmir cried in unison, ‘Hear! Hear!’ and Hobbs, hoist by his own petard, smiled sickly at them all and scrabbled mentally after a solution.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘send it to the heliport and I’ll have it looked after.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be ... but of course not.’ Scroop cut himself off, as if what he had been thinking were impossible.

  Vladmir caught him up. ‘Wouldn’t what?’

  Scroop laughed uneasily. ‘Oh, for a moment I could see the general manager opening the SAC over the heliport and burning the wood. After all, one can burn organic waste in a Protected Environment, so long as proper safety precautions are taken and the terrain is undamaged. I could probably find the regulations.’

  From the look on Hobbs’ face, that was exactly what he had been considering, but Scroop hurried on. ‘The general manager has only recently informed me, however, that you cannot allow the SAC to be interrupted over a heliport except during landings and takeoffs. International Closed Environment Standard Legislation: Volume Two: Section SAC: ...’

  ‘Sub-Section Air Transport. Fine, Scroop,’ Hobbs said dully, ‘you’ve made your point. I suppose you, having brought the whole matter to our attention, can provide an answer.’

  ‘Perhaps I can,’ Scroop answered, and surprisingly not even Vladmir was surprised, since the painful pattern of the last few hours was suddenly very clear. The Spiritual Advisor moved to the scanner and dialled. ‘There is a point at which the Aquatic Pollution Acts and the Protected Environment regulations are in precise agreement. Ah, here, I believe.’ He slowed the scanner from high to mid-speed, to slow, and froze a frame, almost in one movement. ‘A community of fewer than ten thousand may deposit directly into a river of, etcetera, cubic feet of flow per minute ... well above our figure anyway ... one pound of organic waste per person per annum, provided it is biologically and chemically inert: for example, treated sewage, organic ash ... That’s what we want, Gentlemen.’

  To the somewhat puzzled trio he explained. ‘Organic ash! We take the wood out on to the ice and burn it. It will weigh far less than the maximum as ash, won’t it, Cyril?’

  The engineer nodded almost imperceptibly, then more vigorously as he saw the perverse simplicity of it. ‘Weight?’ he said enthusiastically, ‘Hardly a factor at all.’

  Scroop smiled sweetly at him, at all of them. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you would tell us that. Then I don’t suppose there could be any objection if I allow the dispensary the use of its whirlpool bath again ? The staff have been terribly patient, but they do need it.’

  More puzzled than ever, the trio looked as if they thought he had cracked under the strain. ‘Allow me, Scroop,’ Hobbs called from the far end of the room. ‘What our good Spiritual Advisor means is, why not put a body on top of the pile.’ He walked to stand directly in front of Scroop. ‘I personally can find no objection here and now. Can you?’ he addressed the other three. ‘If you can, of course, I’m willing to bet that Doctor Scroop has found a loophole.’

  There was naked hatred in his eyes as he turned again to Scroop. ‘I think we will all have learned something from this exercise,’ he said. ‘For that reason it is valuable. You evidently regard the disposal of Sikh’s body as of sufficient importance to jeopardise your future here. Make no mistake. Until this morning I was willing to tolerate your presence.’ He glanced around at the others. ‘You may be able to understand his motives better than I,’ he snarled, and left the conference chamber.

  * * * *

  That was a question to ponder, Scroop thought, as he straightened with the body of Rahjan Sikh on his shoulder. Behind him, as he moved stiffly down the dock ladder and carefully out on to the rotten ice, there were a large number of his charges watching. Ahead, Jacob Horwitz was putting the last piece of wood on the pyre and he came back to help Scroop carry Sikh the rest of the way. In defiance of the stinging snow, the whipping tail-lash of the blizzard, he had his parka hood thrown back, and on his head sat a mitre with golden embroidered words—Kadosh ladonai. Scroop had not realised how great was this man’s religious stature too. Beneath their feet the ice groaned and heaved and as soon as the body was safely placed the Spiritual Advisor insisted that his helper return to safety. It was as dark as it would get at this time of year, helped by the storm. Nowhere near as dark as the ignorance of man. And one loves men for their faults, not despite them, Scroop recalled, with a flood of compassion for those who watched. He didn’t know if a single one of them understood why he was doing this. Cooking oil doesn’t burn all that hot, but Scroop had obtained a fair amount from the catering centre. Enough to get the crating burning at the base.

  He pulled a sheet of foolscap from his parka pocket, and began reading a completely unfamiliar ceremony by the fire’s light, a ceremony so old that it might not be in present use in the Punjab. It ought to be satisfactory, he decided, as flames shot fifty feet into the air, crackling and throwing an angled spiral three times that length into the fine snow. Through the dancing heat waves he saw the body writhe practically into an upright sitting position as it was enveloped and consumed. Then with a quiet, almost anti-climactic lurch, the ice beneath the pyre opened and what remained slid hissing into the river water. Cracks sprang outward in a crazy web and water washed all the way to Scroop’s boots. He turned and groped his way towards the dock, eyes still filled by a great black spiral of flame. Requiescat in pace, he added without apology to the ceremony just completed and without hesitation began to whisper the Lord’s Prayer. As he mounted the ladder and moved through the crowd, his flock, he intoned Si iniquitates and De Profundis and it surely was not his imagination when other voices than his closed with Requiem aeternam. He swung into the access branch tunnel and two steps to the rear, one to the right, he sensed rather than saw Jacob Horwitz keep pace. It was appropriate, all of it, for in this transitory moment Benjamin Scroop could walk without self-deception, leaving all webs behind him.

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  * * * *

  THE TERTIARY JUSTIFICATION

  by Michael G. Coney

  It was as though Bronsil had been reborn a grown man but without any memory of an earlier life. Certainly, it was more than amnesia, although as events progressed he was forced to make more and more decisions which seemed to fit a
pattern he felt were logical.

  * * * *

  Bronsil woke.

  He woke with reluctance; his mind craved oblivion, his body betrayed him into increasing consciousness. His first awareness was of gravity; he was this way up, rather than that way. He was lying on his right side. His knees were drawn up towards his chest and his elbows lay close to his ribs. His right arm was pinned beneath his body, but not uncomfortably; the floor was soft and yielding.

  His eyes were still closed, a pink glow filtered through the lids, disturbing him further. He shifted his position petulantly, willing the light to go away. He buried his face in the soft floor but his body remained alert and demanding.

  Wearily he tried to think; to analyse the ache in his abdomen. He could not remember a time when he had suffered discomfort, so had no point of reference from which he could explore this new sensation. The concepts of good and bad, like and dislike, had long ceased to have any meaning. He had dispassionately liked everything; all was mildly good.

  For a long time previous to waking, Bronsil had known amiable perfection.

  Now, suddenly and inexplicably, he knew an existence which was not good and with knowledge came fear. Fearfully, therefore, he rolled on to his back, opened his eyes, and the Scarlet Room was illuminated.

  The light was diffused and an ancient memory came to him; the light must have a source. Somewhere, he would see a glowing orb which would also provide warmth. But there was no orb and no warmth. He shivered and decided that he was cold and could not remember ever having been cold before. He further analysed and knew that he was hungry.

  Frightened, cold and hungry, Bronsil shuddered into a heightened awareness. When he had screamed away a part of the fear, he lay exhausted and gradually he knew curiosity. With new purpose behind his unaccustomed eyesight, he examined his surroundings.

  He was lying naked on his back in a perfectly egg-shaped chamber. It was small, barely larger than himself and the curved ceiling was so low that he could almost have touched it from his prone position, had he thought to raise his arm. The walls which blended curving into the floor were translucent pink; and soft. The rosy glow of diffused light came from behind the walls.

  The room had two features. At the more pointed end of the ovoid, beyond Bronsil’s feet, was a concave darker panel flush with the walls, with a circular grille set in the centre. From the ceiling, directly above his head, hung a flexible black tube. Murmuring softly, Bronsil seized the end of the tube and thrust it into his mouth.

  He sucked uselessly, sucked again, chewing the resilient plastic, but received no satisfaction.

  Whimpering, he shifted position again, rolling over to his knees.

  Later, Bronsil began to crawl towards the dark panel. It was the only thing to do.

  * * * *

  The panel pushed outwards and swung away, locking into the open position with a startling metallic click, causing Bronsil to freeze into a huddled position of fear, his body in the oval chamber, his head at the new opening, eyes closed and hands covering his ears. The concept of sound was long forgotten; it was a little while before he opened his eyes again and looked into the room beyond.

  The new room was rectangular, a terrifying geometry of plane surfaces and angular intersections. A table and chair stood centrally on the rich carpet; and around the walls were further chairs, deeply upholstered, recognisable to some dim corner of Bronsil’s mind. He knew he had seen such items before, although at this time it did not occur to him that they might have a purpose. Apart from the plastic tube in the oval room, the idea of purpose was unknown to him.

  At the table a man sat watching him, from time to time making notes in a spiral-backed pad. He wore strange clothes. As Bronsil shifted his position again, the man spoke.

  ‘It’s warmer in here,’ he said. ‘Are you hungry?’ He indicated a bowl on the table, then stood and left the room by a door set in the far wall, closing it quietly.

  Bronsil knew speech! He marvelled, as he lay half in and half out of the oval chamber. The creature in the other room was a man and he had spoken, and Bronsil had understood! He was overwhelmed by new sensations, amazed at his power of perception. Amazed that he had the capacity to be amazed for a while he forgot fear and lay wondering in the warm air which flowed from the rectangular room.

  Soon hunger nagged him forward and he began to crawl down the step to the floor. He stopped, he thought, and fear returned.

  He could not see all the room. He was moving into a region of unfamiliarity and he could not see his entire surroundings. There was an area hidden from him; that circular area behind the open panel. He regarded it fearfully, wondering if it contained an unknown discomfort. He moved his head from side to side, but from his present position it was impossible to see the entire wall behind that hinged circular panel.

  Justifying his hesitation, a voice spoke close into his ear, a voice which could only have come from the hidden area.

  ‘We are very sorry. You must enter the room.’ The voice was not that of the man Bronsil had seen; this new voice was harsh and metallic and formed its words differently. It was infinitely sad, yet commanding; and Bronsil, despite his fear, crawled down the step and on to the soft carpet of the rectangular room.

  Then he turned round slowly, three times on his hands and knees, gazed about him, curled up and went to sleep.

  * * * *

  He was awakened by a sharp click; the panel had swung closed and he was trapped. He tensed, lifted his head and gazed around sniffing, animal-like. The rectangular room was unchanged, full of strange, vivid colours. The closing of the panel had revealed a square pane of opaque glass. As he watched, the glass brightened and the metallic voice spoke again.

  ‘Primary Justification number one,’ it grated. ‘Watch the screen carefully, please.’ The voice still betrayed sadness.

  A picture appeared on the screen. Bronsil backed away, crouched on all fours, his heart pounding uncomfortably. The floor beneath the deep carpet was hard. Still he watched the screen, fearful yet fascinated.

  The image of a creature appeared. He knew it was living because it moved; yet the contours of the body were unfamiliar. Its shape was amorphous, constantly changing as it moved against a curious background of rough grey rocks by extending sudden tentacles, then contracting to a new position.

  ‘This is the adult Prell.’

  The creature had arrived at a dome-shaped building. It reared up, a shapeless blob of protoplasm and extended a pseudopod, pressing at a certain point on the silvery structure. A circular hole appeared, and the Prell passed inside.

  Now the picture changed and Bronsil readily comprehended that he saw the inside of the dome, which in shape was similar to the Scarlet Room he had recently left. This was the only similarity however; the walls were silver and the flat floor blue; rectangular red objects, furniture, were positioned at intervals around the dome.

  The Prell slid across the room, climbed to one of the low platforms and became still. The camera moved in closer; through the semi-transparent skin of the creature a dark nerve centre could be seen radiating black threads which branched and branched again, infusing a fine tracery of veins throughout the body.

  ‘Please observe this closely.’

  The dark blob became elongated, assumed an hour-glass shape and, over the course of a few moments, divided. Each half now carried its own web of veins. The camera retreated and Bronsil observed that the entire body of the Prell was dividing, also. Before long, two Prells lay on the red platform, where previously there had been one. Soon they moved, began to flow to the floor. They left the dome. The screen went blank.

  The voice spoke. ‘At present, we only want you to remember. Explanations will be made in due course, when you are ready for them. Remember that you have seen the reproduction of a Prell.’

  So Bronsil understood that the creature was called Prell, that it was unlike himself and that he had seen it reproduce. It had been one; it was now two.

  The sp
eaker went dead; the faint background hum ceased.

  Bronsil felt suddenly lonely and wondered if the person behind the screen wished him to reproduce in like manner. He didn’t think he could achieve it. He began to think about his body and became aware again of his gnawing hunger.

  He crawled across the floor weakly, towards the table, impelled by the memory of the clothed man he had seen sitting on the chair and the similarity of that position to the Prell on the platform. In order to feel better, to lose fear and gain confidence, it was necessary to get off the floor.

  Later he was sitting at the table, arms splayed across the fiat surface, feeling that he had been wrong. It was dangerously insecure; he was more frightened than before; he was in imminent danger of falling. But on the table was a bowl of fluid, and instinctively he knew that it was intended to relieve his hunger. But how?