‘Yes. We’re going. We can’t stay here for ever. We’re going now, right away.’
‘How are you going to get out?’ Jackson asked.
‘We. We’re going through the door when the doctor arrives.’
‘The doctor hasn’t been for days.’
Joanna spoke. ‘I can show you a way out. Look. Are you coming or aren’t you?’
There was no reply. They stared blankly. Bronsil spoke to Marion. ‘Are you coming with us?’
She looked at him vaguely. ‘I’m sure I don’t know.’ She had put on weight considerably over the last few weeks; she lay in her chair content, like a prize sow. Bronsil felt a great sadness; he had left it too late. ‘I don’t know,’ she repeated uncertainly.
‘We like it here, Bronsil.’ Jackson summed up the feeling of the group. ‘You and Joanna go. We may follow you, soon ... Tomorrow, maybe. It’s no good rushing into things. It’s a big decision. It’s got to be carefully thought out.’ He yawned.
Exasperated, Bronsil strode over to the doors where Wilkinson’s group lay with their heads back, supine in their presumed mental striving for enlightenment. He seized Wilkinson by the shoulder. ‘Come on, we’re leaving,’ he said roughly.
‘What?’ Wilkinson blinked and focussed with difficulty.
‘Get out of that chair. Now. We’re on our way.’ Bronsil saw that two of the group had ignored their breakfast; the plates lay untouched in their laps. He shook the nearest woman violently.
She toppled out of the chair and fell slackly to the floor. She lay motionless. She was dead.
‘You see?’ Bronsil’s irritation became the rage of fear. ‘You’ve killed her! She’s dead! And him too, I expect ... Get out of that chair!’
Wilkinson was staring at the sprawled figure on the floor. ‘My God ...’ he muttered. ‘This is serious, Bronsil.’ He stirred, flexing his limbs, his eyes wide; he glanced at his other motionless companions fearfully.
‘It’s too late now. Wake the others up and come with us.’
He moved over to the stack of couches and pulled them aside under Joanna’s direction. Bloated forms rolled to the floor, complaining weakly. The stench was overpowering.
‘There’s a hatch, here.’ Joanna pointed.
Set low in the wall was a small metal plate, hinged. It swung outwards at Bronsil’s kick, revealing an illuminated floor beyond. He bent down and peered through the hole, seeing a corridor similar to the one by which he had arrived at the Community Room. Wilkinson joined him, squatting at his side.
‘I... couldn’t get anyone else to come,’ he said, not meeting Bronsil’s eyes. ‘Where does this go, do you think?’
Joanna answered from behind. ‘It’s a corridor with doors leading off ... I only saw one room. It wasn’t like the square room but it was about the same size. There were ... things in it. The doctor showed me...’
Bronsil stood, looked around the Community Room. ‘Well ... I suppose we’d better gather a few things together ...’ His voice trailed off irresolutely.
‘Come on,’ said Joanna, pushing past. She knelt and crawled through the opening. ‘Are you coming?’ Her voice came from the other side.
Bronsil followed, then Wilkinson, and they stood in the corridor.
‘Which way?’ asked Bronsil uncertainly. The corridor stretched endlessly in either direction.
Joanna settled the matter, walking off to the right; Bronsil quickly took up position beside her and Wilkinson followed, trailing behind.
‘It’s weird out here,’ he grumbled nervously. ‘Doesn’t this passage have an ending? I mean, I’d like to see the end. It’s sort of ... infinite, here.’
Bronsil felt the same way; his mouth was dry and he found that he was holding his breath. He exhaled noisily. ‘There’s nothing to be scared of,’ he assured Wilkinson loudly, with assumed heartiness. ‘Joanna’s been here before.’
‘Only as far as there.’ The young girl pointed ahead.
The blank walls of the corridor were interrupted a few yards on by a succession of doors on either side. Just beyond the first door to the left a pane of glass was set into the wall; a window. ‘If we don’t want them to see us, we keep below the level of the window,’ she informed them.
They bent low and scuttled past. Beyond, a door was ajar. Bronsil paused, hearing voices. ‘Wait a moment,’ he whispered.
They gathered around the door, listening.
‘You must pull yourself together, Doctor.’ The voice was soft. ‘You must not give up. We were assured of your unselfish motives in this matter and we trusted you on that basis. After all, we could have conducted the whole affair ourselves.’
The doctor’s voice replied; he sounded dispirited. ‘You don’t realise what it’s like,’ he said. ‘That’s your trouble. You never did realise. If you’d had the slightest knowledge of what you were doing in the first place, all this would never have happened.’
‘We know that.’ The voice held regret. ‘But your help is needed at this juncture. You’ve been keeping information from us, for your own selfish motives. Then you found that your motives were ... ah ... invalid, and you cracked up. No matter. What’s the latest position?’
There was a pause before the doctor replied, then his voice was firmer; he appeared to have got a grip of himself. ‘The majority of the subjects are relapsing into lethargy now that the stimuli of hunger and cold are removed. The exceptions are, so far as I can tell, the man Bronsil and the woman Marion. These two may yet respond to the concealed stimulus of enforced inactivity.’
‘Is there any point in cutting off the heat and the food?’
‘I don’t think so. They’ve gone as far as they can. Only the two I mentioned would be likely to react.’
‘And ... the young girl Joanna ?’
‘An incipient nymphomaniac, with tendencies towards alcoholism.’
‘She sounds promising. Why do you not cite her as a possibility? Why do you inform us of her human qualities rather than her prospects? We want an unbiased opinion Doctor.’
‘The girl Joanna is a possibility/ muttered the doctor.
‘Good. Now get back in there and find out what’s going on. Pay special attention to those three. It would be tragic if, at this point, they contracted disease through your neglect. It is in your own interests, Doctor. Do we need to remind you?’
‘You hypocritical bastards,’ said the doctor quietly.
Sounds of movement came from within the room. The three listeners hurried away; Bronsil tried a door; found it locked. They pressed themselves against the wall and waited.
The doctor emerged; without a glance in their direction he walked slowly away down the corridor towards the Community Room. His shoulders were sagging; he scuffed his feet along the floor like an unutterably dispirited child.
* * * *
Eventually the corridor ended at a blank wall. To the right of this was a door; Bronsil tried the handle and found it was unlocked, alone of all the doors they had encountered. This gave him the chastening impression that they had been intended to enter this room, all along. Despite the inaccuracies in the overhead conversation the Prells still had complete control; the group’s every move had been planned in advance—only the personalities involved were incorrect. Marion should have been with them; Wilkinson was an unexpected factor.
The room they entered was unlike any they had seen before. It was oblong, a little larger than the square room, with two further doors in the adjacent wall. Furniture was scattered around; tables, chairs, a carpet, and sundry other items the purpose of which they could not immediately divine. But the feature which drew their fascinated attention was a window.
It occupied most of one wall, a huge pane of glass affording a view which at first Bronsil found totally alien. The overall impression was of green, with blue and white above; the light was sharp and illuminated the strange scenery with an exaggerated reality. Frightened yet at the same time curious, he drew closer; felt the glass with fingers that tremb
led, looked up, and saw the sun ...
Half-forgotten memories flowed from the recesses of his mind; gradually he came to understand what he saw. This was the outside world, as depicted from time to time in Justifications. This was where men fought and died with axes, swords and bombs. This was a terrifying, dangerous place...
‘What is it?’ asked Wilkinson shakily.
‘I rather think it must be the final Justification,’ Bronsil replied. ‘But this time it’s real, outside the glass.’
‘Can it get in?’
‘I don’t think so. We’ll have to be careful. First, let’s find out where these doors lead.’
Joanna had already opened one; it gave on to a smaller room, one wall of which was entirely taken up with rectangular items of metallic equipment. At the far end was a door which, judging by its position, led to the outside world.
‘Don’t open that,’ Bronsil warned.
Meanwhile Wilkinson had opened up the front of one of the pieces of equipment. He bent down and peered inside; reached and took out an object which he sniffed, loudly.
‘I think this is food,’ he said. ‘But it’s cold.’
During the next hour they thoroughly explored their surroundings. The third room proved to be a bedroom; there were two beds and they found clothes. Urged by Joanna, Bronsil dressed himself and, after a moment’s hesitation and cynical comment, Wilkinson did likewise, reluctantly pulling on a shirt and pants. In some obscure fashion, Bronsil enjoyed the feel of clothes against his body; he gained confidence and felt less at the mercy of his surroundings. Wilkinson denied this sensation, but it was noticeable that he ceased to start at each move the others made; before long he was pulling open drawers and experimenting on the items he found, speculating as to their use. Back in the room with the window, they sat down to discuss the situation.
Bronsil was already thinking ahead. ‘Sooner or later, we’re going to have to go outside,’ he forecast.
Wilkinson laughed shortly. ‘You must be mad.’
‘I don’t mean now. I mean in a few days. There’s a pattern to all this. You heard what the Prell said. A ... stimulus will be applied to make us move on. By then we’ll be used to the appearance of the outside world, and we’ll go out of that door.’
‘Let’s think of one thing at a time,’ urged Joanna with unaccustomed nervousness.
Suddenly the doctor was in the room, staring at them, his jaw slack. ‘You people get around,’ he muttered at last.
Bronsil seized the initiative. ‘So you didn’t go to the Community Room like the Prells told you,’ he accused.
‘How much do you know?’ The doctor’s face was pale; his tongue flickered over his lips. He looked at Wilkinson. ‘What are you doing here ?’
‘Any objection?’ Wilkinson followed Bronsil’s example of belligerence.
‘No ... No ... I didn’t expect... Never mind.’
‘Marion’s back there.’
The doctor was silent, staring from one to the other. ‘Now you’re here, I’d better show you around,’ he said at last, reluctantly.
He took them into the next room and showed them the working of the refrigerator, the cooker, and the various other items. He informed them that further food was in the cans, and demonstrated how to open them. He took them through the bedroom and showed them the washroom. He did all this quickly, perfunctorily, and left, giving the impression that he no longer wished to be bothered with them. ‘You’re on your own, now,’ were his final words.
They looked at each other. An artificial light burned in the ceiling; outside the window it was dark.
‘That’s real night,’ said Bronsil. His fear had left him, to be replaced by a sense of adventure.
‘Time for bed,’ remarked Joanna, yawning.
Suddenly they felt uncertain in one anothers’ presence. They drifted into the bedroom, eyeing the beds.
Joanna took the initiative, reaching for the hem of her dress and drawing it over her head, very slowly. Beneath the dress she was naked. As her face reappeared, flushed and shadowed by strands of hair, she was looking at Bronsil with peculiar directness.
He felt an unaccustomed churning in his stomach and a forgotten stirring. He moved forward uncertainly...
Wilkinson was beside Joanna, grasping for her, his face intent, his breathing harsh.
Bronsil seized him by the arm, swung him away and hit him flush on the jaw. As the older man sprawled back to the floor, holding his face, Bronsil commanded: ‘You sleep in the other room, Wilkinson.’
Climbing into the bed beside Joanna, Bronsil felt powerful, all-conquering and ... in a last instant of analysis before intelligence sank beneath the sea of instinct, he knew that he had become ... primitive.
* * * *
They sat at the table eating breakfast, an unappetising mess inexpertly cooked by Wilkinson. It was Bronsil who had suggested that Wilkinson prepare the food. Now he was wondering if this had been a mistake. Not only from the quality standpoint; he felt somehow that Joanna should have performed the duty but had been disinclined to ask her. It had appeared necessary to establish unquestioned superiority over the other man.
‘Look!’ Joanna pointed out of the window.
An animal was moving among the trees; slender and graceful, it suddenly turned towards them with cocked ears, then bounded away silently.
‘What was it?’ The girl asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Bronsil was puzzled. ‘Another form of life, I suppose.’
Further speculation was cut short by a humming sound. A panel in the wall swung open revealing the familiar sight of a Justification Screen.
‘Tertiary Justification number one. A grounding has already been given which should enable you to understand the basic differences between the psychology of the Prell and human races. You will also have learned certain physical differences; the importance of all this will become apparent in the course of the Tertiary Justification series. Try to understand what you will see.’
A huge globe appeared on the screen, blue and green, and motionless yet swirling silver. It grew larger and the colours more distinct, their boundaries clearly denned. Abruptly the globe disappeared; the screen was blue, the tops of buildings could be seen at the lower margin, a silver object was descending from a clear sky.
The ship had landed, globular on stilt legs; the dust-storm abated. A commentator jabbered in the background; his voice was frenzied. People were running; tiny figures scuttling for shelter. The snouts of long guns nosed past the camera, covering the ship.
A circular hatch opened and the camera zoomed into close-up. A creature emerged, amorphous, flowing to the ground. A Prell. There was a flash as the shell of a trigger-happy gunner exploded against a force-shield; the Prell froze, then moved again, away from the ship, inexorably towards the camera.
It paused and a cavity opened near the centre of the shapeless mass of protoplasm.
‘We bring you hope,’ it boomed clearly.
The screen receded into the wall, the hatch closed, the three humans looked at each other.
‘Something must have happened, unless it was all a trick,’ Bronsil speculated. ‘For some reason the Prells turned into jailors. Why?’
‘Maybe we turned on them,’ said Wilkinson, looking at Bronsil meaningly. ‘Humans can get aggressive. Above themselves. So they locked us up.’
‘The Prells must have been around for a long time,’ Bronsil murmured, ignoring Wilkinson, ‘And they’re still here. What’s happened to us? Where are all the rest?’ He stared out of the window at the forest. ‘When is now?’ he asked slowly, remembering the apparent retrogression of the Secondary Justifications. As if in answer, there was a movement among the trees.
An animal, similar to the one they had seen before, bounded across the clearing. Pursuing it, yelling and waving clubs, were three men, filthy and clad in ragged loincloths.
* * * *
Bronsil was soon proved to be right in his supposition as to the intended length of th
eir stay in the rooms; the previous pattern repeated itself. The food they ate was not replaced and before long Wilkinson announced that the cupboards and refrigerator were empty. They sat around gloomily, from time to time looking out of the window. . ‘What now?’ asked Wilkinson after a silence which had lasted for a long time. ‘I mean, you’re the boss. What do you suggest we do next ? Sit here and starve ?’
‘We’ve got to go outside,’ Bronsil stated. ‘We join those men outside and hunt... meat. Food.’
‘Catch that animal and kill it, you mean? You can’t be serious. You can go if you like. I’ll stay here with Joanna.’
‘I’m going with Bronsil,’ the girl stated definitely.
New Writings in SF 21 - [Anthology] Page 17