‘It’s a little above my comprehension,’ he commented with some truth. There were new things here he could sense but could not properly understand. The pictures were, he now realised, far from being nonsensical, and held some kind of message he felt it was important for him to understand. His hands tightened with a sense of frustration. He realised that this was not the way to tackle the problem. He should be calm and relaxed, wide open and fully perceptive, instead of which he was irritated and unhappy.
‘Beyond you, Claus? Nothing’s beyond you, my boy. You were always the cleverest and most cunning. The naughtiest and the nicest, as the girls used to say. Have another drink.’
Perhaps it was the alcohol, but as the minutes passed Coman found himself becoming more and more interested, even fascinated, by the row of strange pictures. None of them was more than faintly representative of the scenes and figures it was supposed to depict, but the colours, and the ways these had been placed and shaped, had an almost hypnotic effect upon the eye after a while.
What do I feel? What are they doing to me? Coman wondered, and: I must at least find a way into the emotional field from which they have evolved and to which they must continually return. Some of them have a kind of sad exhilaration, if such an emotion is possible; and I also have the sense of looking into an infinite coloured space. Yes, that was what most of them reminded him of – the immensity of deep Space. He had experienced almost the same sensation in the bow cabin of the ship which had taken him on his first trip beyond the Earth’s solar system. A feeling of continual falling, of terrible loneliness, of silence, of a horror of the supernatural, a horror so overwhelming that the mind ceased to struggle against it and became a part of it, so that it was then no longer horror but rather a continuum of the nothingness into which one stared.
He forced his eyes away from them and stood up, asking: ‘Have you food? I’m hungry.’
‘Of course we’ve food – buckets of it. Set the table, Cort, and clear those masterpieces away. I’m going to burn them and start afresh tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re too good for the vulgar masses. You see, I’ve read all about artistic geniuses, and how they’re never appreciated until they’re dead. So why should I let a lot of fat, stinking slobs make astronomical sums buying and selling them over and over again after I’m gone?’
Coman smiled. ‘I think you have something there. But give me the portrait of myself and the girl, will you? I promise I’ll make nothing out of it.’
‘Yes, so long as you promise also to leave instructions for it to be destroyed after your own death.’
‘I solemnly promise.’
‘Good, then consider the picture your very own.’
The meal was good and well cooked, if rather awkwardly served by the robot. There were facilities in the walls for television, book-scanning, and a record section, all provided by the authorities. For a crippled spaceman was the best treated of all ex-government servants. Deenan drank copiously, without obvious effect except that he grew more silent and preoccupied.
At length he said: ‘There is something I have to say to you, but somehow I am unable to do so. It’s like a foreign language which I don’t know and cannot translate. I’m sorry. Will you understand and forgive, Coman?’ He spoke pleadingly, his awful face a mockery of contrition.
‘Of course,’ replied Coman, again with a stab of irritated puzzlement. Deenan then rose without another word and went back to his seat on the porch.
Coman lit a cigarette and took the opportunity of sending a signal to the two girls. It was Sein who answered: ‘Is that you, darling?’
‘Who else? How did you make out?’
‘We’re in, just as you suggested. Are you quite safe?’
‘Of course. Do you think you’ll be all right until I join you?’
‘I believe so. Mrs Raylond seems nice, and the house is marvellous, full of modern devices, with the most wonderful bathroom I’ve ever seen. She also has a terrific collection of curios left by her husband, and some excellent recordings of Earth music, mainly of modern composers but with some ancient masters: Beethoven, Brahms, and even a few pieces of piano music by Liszt. I must tell you though that Jark seems quite fascinated by Jonl and is doing his utmost to impress her.’
‘Why, are you worried about her?’ he asked, controlling a wave of impatience.
‘Don’t be silly. I’m just a little worried about him. He doesn’t strike me as a balanced and mature type, that’s all.’
‘Well, between you you should be able to hold him. Now listen. Don’t contact me unless you’re in real trouble, because I shall be busy.’
‘All right, but please look after yourself.’
‘I assure you that all will be well. Do you believe me?’
‘I suppose so.’
Even through the tinny crackle of atmospherics Coman could detect the note of forlornness and, despite himself he could not forbear finishing the conversation with a delightfully obscene word of endearment he was wont to use to Sein alone. ‘Until we meet again then, little golden —’
Lighting another cigarette he went out on to the porch and touched Deenan’s shoulder. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’
Deenan nodded, the eyes, deep within their metal sockets, fixed upon the sea, twinkling in the reflected light of the City’s lamps.
As Coman turned to re-enter the building, words suddenly came from the man-robot, words said in a monotone, as if to himself:
‘Listen and listen, hear nothing at all —
Only the sound of the man in the wall.
Stand by the window, look into the hall —
Nothing to see, nothing at all.
Stroll down the hall and back again —
Hear only the knocking inside the brain.’
The voice trembled slightly on the last words and became silent. Again Coman tried to penetrate the ramshackle mind, but without success. At length he went inside the house and, after contacting the airport and giving instructions, regarding the baggage belonging to the two girls and himself, ordered the robot to show him to his room.
Chapter VII
COMAN KNEW THAT he was dreaming but he was so far into sleep that he could not summon the necessary mechanism to wake himself up. So long as the dream contained some semblance of meaning in its sequences, and the images did not get too horrific or tragic, he thought he should go with it, perhaps even learn something from its whole. Karns, whom he had never met in real life, was shaking him by the hand and saying: ‘We’re all proud of you, and in fact I’m going to show you just how much, by pinning a medal on your chest.
They were on some kind of dais, and row upon row of keymen and keywomen, with wooden expressions that suddenly broke into smirks, gazed up from a dark auditorium.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Coman said, and quickly brushed the medal aside as it came towards his chest. As he did so he saw that it was the size of a saucer and had a head engraved upon its surface – Deenan’s head, halved so that the wires and transistors inside could be seen in detail. Everyone started laughing then and he said, between his own guffaws: ‘It’s not a very good joke.’ The hall became silent and the face serious, and Coman felt that he had not been completely tactful.
Karns, who was apparently very elderly, with a long white beard which he stroked with rubbery, negroid fingers, said: ‘I have a rather large secret to impart to you Coman, but you mustn’t expect me to do so here, with all these people listening.’ He then pinned the medal on his own chest and led Coman by the hand out of the dark hall, along even darker streets and into a veritable warren of broken buildings. All around them lurked unspeakable threats and dangers, but Coman followed the father figure with a sense of amused speculation, the I enjoying the advantage of knowing that it was all a dream and that there were no real dangers, and concerned mainly with the possibility of learning something new and important from these outpourings of the unconscious.
Unfortunately, the I kno
ws only so much, and certain other currents, this time from beyond the flesh casing, began to make themselves felt in the shape of an indefinable uneasiness that spread through the whole of Coman’s mind – so much so that in the dream he tried to let go of Karns’ hand. But their fingers seemed glued together and he was forced on until eventually they came to a building which was evidently some form of theatre, the only lighted and complete sign of habitation in the surrounding desolation. There was, he found, a long queue outside, and as they joined it he heard a few of the comments:
‘It’s a show put on and performed entirely by robots. Whoever heard of such a thing?’
‘Yet they’re supposed to be very good – just like humans in their histrionic abilities, or so I’ve understood.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said another. ‘It’s against all the rules. Yet on the other hand – it is free?’
Inside the theatre the show was already in progress, but it seemed to have neither form nor message. Robots, shaped like naked humans – except that their bodies shone with a blue, metallic hue – strutted, mingled, pranced, and preened themselves on a large stage which seemed to stretch for miles, in width and depth. There appeared to be a vast number of these puppets, some eating at tables, some running and walking, others lying entwined upon beds. No one spoke.
‘Of course it’s disgusting – but highly amusing too,’ said a familiar voice behind him, and turning his head in surprise he saw Jonl, holding hands with another robot and smiling into his face.
It was then that Coman was overcome by a wave of that black terror which lurked always on the bed of the ocean of madness called the Void, and it was then also that his defence mechanisms came quickly into action, and pulled him at last into wakefulness. For some time he stared into the darkness of the room, trying to find the meaning of the dream, but to no avail. The sources of many of its various components were obvious enough, but the essential cause of origin were hidden, and at last he gave up and sank into sleep, a sleep now relaxed and dreamless.
He woke early, the noise of the sea in his ears, the hot sun glaring from the white walls, and without troubling to dress he took a towel and went into the long living room. Deenan was evidently still asleep and only the robot was there, ticking in its corner. It sprang up clumsily as he approached.
‘You want?’ it asked.
‘Tea, I want tea,’ Conan answered brusquely, remembering the dream.
This creature, fashioned some thirty years before, was nearest in resemblance to the dream images, for the latest models were deliberately constructed to look like the machines they were. The first ones, made for domestic use during his childhood, had been built exactly like humans but, although popular at the beginning, had gradually fallen out of favour for several reasons, chief of which was the fact that they could so easily be used for dishonest or criminal purposes.
The robot, having searched through its memory banks for the tea recipe, retired to the kitchen, and Coman went out on to the beach and dived in for a short swim. It was not advisable to go far from the shore owing to the large variety of voracious fish that congregated all the way beneath the City seeking the refuse and offal that was sent down the several chutes four or five times a day. The main menace was the presence of sharks, which had grown in number to huge proportions in the area during recent years, despite the fact that shark-killing had become a popular sport.
Drying himself on the sand, Coman decided on his course of action. There was no time for subtle preparations, or even a through preliminary appraisal of the local situation. He would go to the address given him by Karns, and seek out Vane before he tracked and tackled Marst. If Vane could tell him nothing of the methods or disposal of the agents guarding Marst he would have to play it by ear – or contact Linnel again, and through her eliminate both jokers. This was the most obvious and perhaps the best course of action, for these two constituted the major part of the opposition. Yet it might mean cold-blooded killing, and he wanted none of that on this assignment. Surely he had not become squeamish about his job, which was to push through to Marst and convince him, no matter what the outcome?
He sat and tried to examine what exactly was in his mind. This was a world of continual murder and sudden death – of the mind and the body – and the best way to survive when confronted by killers is to kill first. He believed implicitly in his mission, and to fulfil that mission he had to get past people who were prepared to cut him down on sight and ask questions later. Yet here he was, hoping for a non-violent solution to his problems.
There were two or three answers, and one of them lay in Linnel. She was a joker and had already killed mercilessly. She believed in nothing because in her own mind she had become nothing. In spite of the call of their bodies she would murder him instantly if she suspected the true reason for his presence in the City. Yet in his heart he could blame her for nothing, could even feel sympathy for her. If one looks deeply enough into any person, even the worst, one must feel compassion – and Coman had looked far enough into Linnel’s mind to see the child, beaten and degraded by its father. Father? A man’s shadow anyway, small and agile, which vanished as soon as she realised that particular door was unlocked.
What the hell, he thought, there are millions of Linnels, and always have been. It’s all old stuff to me. But he knew it was never old stuff. It was always vivid and new, and continually, brutally alive. It’s because I am a greedy fool, he thought. Not satisfied with two women I wish for another. Yet this was untrue also. Linnel’s body was pleasing and he had liked the look of it, but it had really meant nothing to him – an attractive flesh-casing, no more. It was the other part of her that had interested him, the fact that she was not only a telepath, but a woman too. There were not many female telepaths, and indeed he had not met more than one other during his years of perception. But he was a fool all right, the worst sort of fool. Karns had said he was maturing, but he was a fool who was allowing one tree to block his vision of the wood.
He stood up and threw a stone far out amid the waves, and with that gesture resolved his weakness. The days of knights and chivalry may have belonged to a world long gone, but nevertheless he would try to avoid killing in cold blood again. The game was larger than that, and would hardly be worth the winning otherwise.
When he returned he found the brew lukewarm and horrible, and after the first taste took it out to the kitchen and poured it down the drain, then rummaged about in the cupboards for the wherewithal to make tea himself. The robot, unable to show facial emotion, walked up and down distractedly repeating at intervals: ‘What you do in kitchen?’
Ignoring it, Coman eventually found a screwed up packet – the very one he had brought on his last visit, and, opening it, was pleased to find a couple of spoonfuls left inside. There was nothing resembling a tea-pot and he was obliged to make the drink in a jug; but it tasted more like the real thing when he had finished. Leaving the kitchen, cup in hand, he met Deenan, naked from his bed, the metal and plastic parts now clearly visible in all their shining incongruity. He barely nodded in reply to Coman’s greeting and was engaged in carefully tapping each of his fragments, listening intently the while.
‘Claus Coman in kitchen,’ said the robot plaintively.
‘Good luck to him,’ said his master. ‘I have to do this every morning to see whether I’m okay,’ he explained to Coman. ‘Tap tap here, tap tap there! If it gives out a dull heavy sound, that’s good – a tinny noise anywhere, and I have to report to the hospital at Surve for replacements of repairs. You think that’s funny, don’t you?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Claus Coman in kitchen. Something very wrong.’ said the robot.
‘Shut up and get breakfast,’ snapped Deenan. At this new order the robot immediately erased its inner conflict and went quietly about its duty.
‘You have a good boy there,’ Coman remarked.
‘He’s a perfect pest,’ said Deenan. ‘His brain has been specially conditioned to make him lo
ok after me like a wet-nurse, and he’s a damned nuisance. I’m sorry I had so much to drink last night.’
I didn’t notice it.’
‘Yes you did, and you thought it was me. You thought I was coming to pieces in your hands.’
Again Coman had the uncanny feeling that Deenan had changed, but he was still unable to fathom how or in what way.
‘You mentioned earlier that your head …’ he began.
Deenan laughed. ‘I’d been getting oxidisation aches in the wires, that’s all. How long are you staying?’
‘I don’t know. A day – perhaps longer.’
Just then a small platform, commandeered by a fixed robot, appeared outside over the beach and floated, about a foot from the ground, to within three yards of the porch.
‘My bag,’ said Coman. He went out and, after signing for the item, fetched it inside. The platform went upwards out of sight.
Breakfast was served and they ate in silence. Then Coman took the bag to his room and opened it. It had not been interfered with, and held the clothes and toilet accessories he had packed, together with some special instruments and the weapons he usually carried on an assignment. Besides the sleep-needle thrower he kept strapped to the inside of his right forearm, he picked out a shock-gun for possible use, and put it in an inner pocket. This weapon produced a wave of minute size, which spread as it moved through space, and form a distance of ten to twelve yards could hit a man with a blow equal to that of a mailed fist of one of the Arena gladiators.
When he had closed and locked the bag the time was nine o’clock, and he went back to the living room to look for Deenan. He found him outside, walking slowly along the beach, and on joining him said: ‘I’m going up to the City.’
‘Whatever you like, Coman,’ said Deenan. ‘Come when you like, go when you like, come back any time.’
A Man of Double Deed Page 9