It was a long time before he drew the bowl to him, bent his head to the rippling surface, pursed his lips and sucked.
In the days that followed Bronsil gained strength and confidence steadily. He explored the room, ascertained the uses of the various items of furniture and learned to obtain bowls of nutrient fluid by pressing a red button on the wall and withdrawing the bowl from a hatch beneath. For a while he was troubled by his own waste matter which smelled unpleasant—in the Scarlet Room he had never had this problem. Or, as he now presumed with growing insight, the problem had existed but had been solved by someone other than himself. Now, he divined, he had to deal with it alone; and presently he found an open seat provided with a container beneath. He learned that when he pressed the handle, the faeces disappeared. He learned quickly, and at the back of his mind was the notion that he had known all this before.
During these days the clothed man appeared once and looked around the room briefly. He made Bronsil lie on the couch and examined him, prodding him and listening to his heartbeat. He murmured a few words of encouragement and left before Bronsil could ask any questions. Bronsil had intended to ask questions; his initial mindless occupation of the room had gradually been replaced by a dawning curiosity as to its purpose and the overall purpose in moving him into it. But when he tried to ask the clothed man, he found that he could not easily formulate his thoughts into words; and before he had had time to utter a few croaks, the man was gone.
Bronsil began to feel good; total familiarity with his surroundings lent him confidence which, in time, was tempered with a further sensation arising from the same familiarity. He began to feel bored. Due to this, due also to the example of the clothed man’s obvious superiority to himself, he began further to experiment with his body, testing his capabilities.
One day Bronsil stood erect, gripping the table for support. Soon, he walked.
* * * *
The speaker hummed, the screen became alive, points of light spattered like stars on the grey background. Bronsil sat down to watch.
‘Secondary Justification number one. Regard the screen carefully, please. Do not become disturbed if you cannot understand. Remember what you see.’ There was a peculiar echo effect to the final sentence: the screen flashed in synchronisation with the syllables.
Rectangular structures then filled the screen, white and stark beneath a blue sky. Dominating the buildings stood an immense lattice tower, tall, dwarfing the men who scurried like beetles beneath. Voices chattered excitedly. In the background, a slow reverse count.
The tower clutched a silver needle, released it as dense clouds boiled beneath. The voices grew frenzied, the needle stirred, lifted, fire spurting from below.
Bronsil was spellbound as the rocket rose into the blue sky, tilting with distance, the flame from its tail a bright, unvarying spark. Almost, he remembered. He experienced a vague pride.
The screen switched itself off and the clothed man appeared.
‘Who are you?’ Bronsil asked carefully.
‘You can call me Doctor, I suppose. Your name is Bronsil.’
‘I mean who are you?’ Bronsil struggled to make his meaning clear.
‘Jonas Foster,’ answered the doctor unhelpfully. He crossed the room to the wall and made a curious movement with his hand. A panel opened. He turned a knob, reclosed the panel and made for the door.
Bronsil seized him by the shoulder. ‘What?’ he cried, waving his arm at the room, the furniture, the screen, everything.
The doctor smiled and disengaged himself. ‘Keep trying,’ he said gently, and departed, leaving the door open.
Bronsil sat down, trembling. He was aware of a fierce emotion; he hated the doctor. He hated the man’s clothes, his superior air, his confident manner. For a while he allowed the waves of hatred to engulf him and he wept as the room grew colder.
Shivering, he stood suddenly, noticed the open door and-slammed it shut. He clutched his naked body in his arms and curled up on a couch, trying to preserve his warmth and fight off the recurrence of increasing fear. He thought of food. The nutrient fluid was warm. He got to his feet, crossed the room, pressed the red button and opened the food hatch. The bowl was empty.
Sobbing, trembling violently, he tore with his fingernails at the flush-fitting hatch which led back to the security of the Scarlet Room. He made no impression; his nails broke short, he battered at the panel, screaming with fear and frustration. The alien appearance of his surroundings gathered in his mind; the colours, the shapes, the temperature.
His breath formed white puffs of condensation in the chill air.
* * * *
Bronsil opened the door.
He stepped into a brightly-lit corridor; it was warm here and the walls were lined with doors similar to the one through which he had passed. The walls were grey and hard, rough to his touch and the light came from circular globes in the ceiling set at regular intervals down the length of the long corridor. He looked at the globe immediately above; it glowed pink, was spherical and it touched a chord in his memory. He looked at it for some time, wondering why it filled him with indefinable dissatisfaction: his neck began to ache.
He opened the door immediately opposite and found himself in a room exactly similar to the one he had just left. Reassured, he ignored the sudden cold and made for the food hatch, pressed the button and was again confronted by an empty bowl.
About to leave, an unfamiliar shape caught his eye. A man was lying on the couch. He was curled up, his back to Bronsil, who hesitated, then bent over the still form.
The flesh was cold to his touch. Intending to question the man, Bronsil took hold of him and with an effort rolled him over. The body, flaccid, fell to the floor and lay still. Bronsil regarded it in bewilderment. It appeared to be ... not alive. Dead.
More than that, it was not a man in the sense that Bronsil considered himself a man. He noted interesting physical differences which stirred in him emotions he could not identify. This creature was, he knew instinctively, a woman. Thin, scrawny, she had a face webbed with fine wrinkles; her ribs stood out plainly beneath the flesh except where partially covered by sunken breasts. Her skinny legs were asprawl; Bronsil experienced a curious sensation of pity and revulsion. He left the room quickly.
In the corridor he hesitated, considering his next move. For the first time he could remember he was faced with a decision. Should he explore further rooms, or should he find out what lay at the end of the corridor? His immediate need was food, so he decided to try another room. He opened a door.
Again, identical surroundings, with the exception that on the table lay a full bowl. Eagerly he entered, ignoring the cold. He reached the table and was about to seize the bowl when he was startled by a high-pitched whining sound. Wheeling round, he found that he was being observed.
It took him a moment to realise that the creature was a man. It crouched in a corner, regarding him with bright, sunken eyes from between boney knees, around which were clasped its hands, long and skeletal. It gibbered, flexing its knees rhythmically so that the eyes jigged up and down; now hidden behind the thin legs, now peering at him fiercely from a skull-like face with simian, idiot wisdom. A puddle of filth lay beneath the creature and as Bronsil watched with horror it defecated, spasmodically.
Bronsil’s hand was still outstretched towards the bowl. The creature in the corner continued to bob up and down, gabbling nonsense, and after a while hunger overcame Bronsil’s fear. He grasped the bowl.
The other screamed thinly and bounded across the room, clutched Bronsil about the knees and began to bite at his shins; a futile toothless champing. Bronsil struggled away in disgust, beating at the boney head.
‘Hold it, Bronsil!’ The doctor forced his way between them, kicking the madman aside. It cowered on the floor, mouthing gibberish, blinking rapidly.
‘Where did you come from ?’
‘Never mind that. What are you doing in here?’
‘The door was there.’ Bronsil w
as beginning to find it easier to communicate; in his relief he forgot his dislike of the doctor.
‘You were going to take that bowl?’
‘He didn’t want it.’ Bronsil gestured at the object on the floor.
‘Didn’t it occur to you that he might not know how to deal with it?’
Bronsil thought. ‘You show him,’ he said at last.
Suddenly, the doctor looked very tired; his face was grey. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn yourself, Bronsil,’ he said harshly. ‘Now get out, and don’t go in any of the rooms. I suggest you’—he checked himself—’just get out of here,’ he muttered.
Bronsil found himself in the corridor again. The door slammed behind him.
* * * *
The decision had been taken out of his hands; he walked warily along the corridor which was featureless apart from the endless succession of doors and light globes. After a period of hours, or days, the corridor terminated at a blank wall. He regarded it, baffled. Where was he? Again he remembered the Scarlet Room and longed for its comforting familiarity. He pushed against the wall as if to walk on and surprisingly it yielded.
He was in a large area, high-ceilinged, with easy chairs scattered around small circular tables, the whole having as its focus a large construction placed centrally. He stared about in amazement; the whole set-up was so vast. Almost infinite space was contradicting his previous ideas as to the nature of the environment. His astonishment was increased by the appearance of the doctor; obviously there were other ways of reaching this room and other ways implied more space still. The existence of such space was disturbing.
‘The bar is over there,’ said the doctor, pointing at the central construction. ‘Drink what you want. Food is obtainable from the hatches sited around the walls. Please use the cutlery provided.’ He departed, having given more information in a few short sentences than Bronsil had heard from him before.
Bronsil made for the bar. He found a gap in the otherwise continuous circular shelf, passed through and examined a bewildering array of bottles. He selected one at random, shaking it to assure himself it contained liquid. After some deliberation he removed the cork.
‘Don’t drink it!’
He turned. A woman was watching him, a girl, he realised with an effort; her face was young and unlined, her breasts round and firm with neat pink nipples.
‘Why not?’
‘It makes you feel bad. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not good. There’s better in the food hatches.’
He left the bar and joined her. ‘Show me,’ he said.
The hatch dispensed a plate of solid objects together with a glass of clear liquid. There was also a knife and fork. The girl took Bronsil to a table where he hesitated, then sat down regarding the plate, perplexed.
‘I’ll show you.’ The girl cut some of the presumed food into small pieces and held it before him. He ate, chewing with difficulty. ‘I’ve been here two days,’ she explained. ‘I like this food. It’s strange at first, but you get used to it. My name’s Marion.’
‘I’m Bronsil.’ He spoke indistinctly through a full mouth.
‘It’s different here, Bronsil, but after a while—oh. It’s coming on again.’
The lights dimmed suddenly, a large screen on the wall lit up.
‘Secondary Justification number two.’
A number of men were shown working among apparatus which Bronsil was unable to identify. They wore long white coats; from time to time they would exchange these for dark suits and sit round a table, talking.
Frequently the camera cut to scenes of conflict; blunt-prowed boats laden with men approached beaches, the men poured out, stormed across the sand and frequently died.
Aerial shots showed larger ships, the sea around them acned with bursting shells and bombs.
Taken from the deck of a ship: the camera unsteady, an airplane diving in, the foreground gunners swinging in their turret, the plane exploding into the deck in a blanket of smoke.
Bronsil saw all this and wondered, but he did not understand. The concept of death in action was beyond his experience.
The screen went blank after a brief shot of a giant column of smoke rising into the sky, rolling outwards at its summit, spreading across the clouds...
Bronsil was disturbed by this and whimpered softly.
The speaker said: ‘It would appear that man is an aggressive, adventurous creature,’ and became silent.
Bronsil stood; leaving Marion staring blankly at the dead screen, and wandered aimlessly about the large room, his mind a maelstrom of whirling half-memories. As he walked he became aware that he and the girl were not the only persons present. A few of the easy chairs were occupied. Expressionless faces gazed into the distance. He squatted beside an old man who sat clutching his stomach.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Take me back to my Scarlet Room.’ Dull eyes focused on Bronsil with difficulty; the voice was petulant.
‘You won’t be able to get in,’ said Bronsil gently. ‘And the rooms are cold, now.’
‘I don’t care. Please take me back,’ the old man wheedled.
‘I can’t.’ Bronsil turned away. The old man rolled sideways in the easy chair and drew his knees up to his chin. His thumb crept into his mouth and he mumbled softly.
Disgusted, Bronsil looked around for some distraction and found himself being observed by a girl; younger than Marion, he decided; little more than a child.
‘Hello,’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘So they got you, too?’
‘Got me?’
‘The aliens, the Prells. They’ve taken over the world, didn’t you know? Oh, boy.’ She raised her glass and drank deeply.
Bronsil was interested. He sat beside her on the soft couch; she moved closer to him, confidentially. ‘The world?’ he asked.
‘Didn’t you see the screen? That was them. My name’s Joanna, so they tell me, but I wouldn’t depend on that, either. What’s yours?’
‘Bronsil.’
‘Why don’t you drink, Bronsil ? It’s great, almost like...’ She hesitated; suddenly she looked like a lost child. ‘Almost like being in the Scarlet Room again,’ she muttered, drinking quickly.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Suit yourself. Ah...’ Recovering quickly, she gave him a sideways look.’Shall we ... go for a walk?’
‘Where to?’
‘Over there.’ She gestured towards the far corner of the room; in the distance, Bronsil saw a vast heap of stacked couches. ‘It’s quiet over there.’
He regarded her curiously. ‘Why should we go over there?’
Suddenly she flung herself at him, her arms about his neck, her face buried in his shoulder. He could feel her heart beating fast under the immature breasts; he smelled alcohol. ‘Oh, God, I’m scared!’ Her muffled wail came from beside his ear and he started back in alarm. ‘I want to go over there and I want you to come with me, we can crawl in between the couches and it’s dark and safe. You can hold me tight in there, you can...’ Her voice trailed off uncertainly. ‘You can...” He felt tears, warm on his shoulder.
‘I can what?’ he asked, disengaging himself with distaste. This unaccustomed proximity of bodies was not to his liking.
‘It’s just like my Scarlet Room, between those couches,’ she pleaded desperately as he stood up and he was unable to meet her eyes.
As he walked away he began to wonder exactly how long he had been in his Scarlet Room, and how much he had forgotten during that time; if, for him, there had been a time before the Scarlet Room.
He glanced back at the tearful face of the young girl from a safe distance and experienced a curious sensation of loss.
* * * *
During the days that Bronsil spent in the Community Room, (the doctor vouchsafed this name one day, in a rare informative moment) a few more terrified, bewildered men and women drifted through the large doors and joined the group. At the time Bronsil arrived, the group had numbered six; himself, Marion, Joanna a
nd three men, all elderly. One of the men, the one with whom Bronsil had had his early, inconclusive conversation, had disappeared. He had taken to sitting on the floor beside the entrance doors which, they discovered, only opened inwards. He had waited for a long time, swaying and moaning; then, as eventually the doors swung in to allow an unsteady woman to stagger into the room, he had sprung to his feet with surprising agility and darted through the door before it shut. He was not seen again.
The group now numbered fifteen; nine men and six women of varying ages. A system had evolved for welcoming new arrivals; somehow a community spirit had arisen and it was tacitly agreed that the group was totally inter-dependant; the weaker members must be assisted. This practice was discouraged by the doctor but his visits were rare and quick; he merely checked over his patients, gave unsatisfactory answers to their questions, and left. Joanna had set up residence in the stack of couches and shrank from the doctor when he arrived to examine her. Bronsil and Marion usually had to drag her from her den by force and hold her down while the doctor favoured her with an examination infinitely more thorough and lingering than he gave the others. Bronsil was perturbed by this; he was acknowledged as leader of the group and felt responsible for the girl. He was unable to decide, however, whether the doctor in some obscure way enjoyed his examination of Joanna, or whether the girl was of greater importance than the rest of the group. So far as he could see, her only distinction was that she was considerably younger than the rest of them.
New Writings in SF 21 - [Anthology] Page 15