by Bob Shaw
“Which doesn’t count in air law.”
Werry laughed. “Relax, Rob. This isn’t the old country. People aren’t shoulder to shoulder on the ground here. We’ve got millions of square kilometres of open land you could drop whole city blocks on without anybody paying any heed.”
“But …” Hasson tightened his grip on his knees, and the knuckles shone through the skin like ivory hillocks, each bifurcated by a thin pink line. He had realized why he could not remember his first meeting with Werry — the man he had believed Werry to be simply did not exist.
“Pridgeon knocked you down on purpose, you know,” he said, reminding himself it was none of his business, but unable to keep the words in check.
He’s always horsing around like that,” Werry replied carelessly. “High spirits. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
That’s where you’re wrong, Hasson thought. The symbolism meant every thing. “From what I saw…”
“I thought you didn’t see anything,” Werry cut in. “When Starr asked you, you said you hadn’t seen anything.”
“Yes, but…” Hasson was stung by Werry’s remark, mainly because there was no denying it, and he lapsed into a shamed, recriminatory silence. The car reached the business section of Tripletree and he began to study the unfamiliar design of the various stores and office buildings, retreating inwards, picking out unfamiliar elements, noting the different ways in which it was possible to combine windows, walls and doors, and nostalgically comparing what he saw to the homely architecture of English rural villages. The pavements were crowded with lunch- time shoppers, many of whom wore brightly coloured flying suits as protection against the cold. Two policemen — one of them fat and middle-aged, the other looking barely pubescent — nodded amiably at Werry as the car paused at an intersection. He gave them a parody of an official salute, then nodded and grinned, secure and comfortable again in his role, as the fat man wielded an imaginary knife and fork. Both policemen turned immediately and hurried into a hamburger bar.
“Always eating, those two,” Werry commented. “Still, it means I generally know where to find them.”
Hasson, surprised at the degree of informality in Werry’s relationship with his men, seized on it as yet another indicator that he was alone, adrift, orphaned in an alien world. He was sinking luxuriously to new depths of gloom when he became aware that the car was again entering a residential area after having traversed only three or four downtown streets.
“How many people live in Tripletree?” he said, looking about him in some surprise.
“Twenty-six thousand at the last count.” Werry gave him a humorous glance. “We still call it a city, though. When the provinces all became autonomous and got their own governments they wanted to be as much like real honest-to-God countries as they could, so they didn’t issue charters for anything but cities. There aren’t any villages or towns in Alberta. Just cities. Hundreds of them.” He laughed and flicked up the peak of his cap, his bonhomie apparently fully restored.
“I see.” Hasson tried to digest the information. “And how many men in your department?”
“Actually on the street — four. That was half of my force you saw disappearing into Ronnie’s diner. The other half handles air traffic.”
“It doesn’t seem enough men.”
“I manage — and the job carries the official rank of reeve. If I transfer to a big city it’ll be as reeve.”
Hasson tried to visualise ways of running an effective police force with only four men, but his imagination balked at the task. He was on the point of asking further questions when Werry slowed the car down and turned into a short avenue of white- painted frame houses. The snow had not been cleared from it, as in the main thoroughfare, and it lined the street in fudge- coloured ridges. Hasson’s heart began to pound as he realized they had reached Werry’s home and he was dose to the meeting with his family. The car crunched to a halt about halfway along the avenue, outside a house which was partly hidden by several young fir trees.
“This is it,” Werry said cheerfully. “Rob, you’ll have your feet under the table in no time.”
Hasson tried to smile. Just remember, Dr Colebrook had told him once, a person who has had a nervous breakdown and dealt with it successfully is far better equipped to face life than somebody who has never been through the experience. The battle for self-control reveals inner strengths and reserves which otherwise would never have been discovered. Remembering the words, Hasson tried to draw comfort from them as, fearful of looking at the house in case he encountered strangers” eyes, he opened the car door and lowered his feet to the ground. He discovered that getting out a few minutes earlier at the hotel had helped to free his spine and lumbar muscles, and that he was able to stand up quite normally. Grateful for the respite, he insisted on taking two of his cases out of Werry’s hands and carrying them up the path to the house. Werry opened the outer and inner front doors with a flourish and ushered him into an atmosphere which smelt warmly of cooking, wax polish and camphor. A staircase ran up from the right side of the smallish hail, whose space was further encroached upon by an old-fashioned coatstand which was bulging with a variety of heavy garments, quilted flying suits and CG harnesses. Framed photographs and some highly amateurish watercolours hung on the walls, creating an air of domesticity which made Hasson feel more of an exile than ever because the home to which they belonged was not his home.
He was looking around him, smothered and tapped, when a door at the end of the hall was opened by a woman of about thirty. She was of medium height and fair haired, with a lean- hipped yet busty figure, and the exact kind of full-lipped, sulky good looks that Hasson had seen in a hundred old fiat-screen movies in cinema clubs. This he thought, was the saloon girl who enjoyed her work, the gangster’s girl friend, the chick on the back of the big bike, the roadside café waitress for whose favours truck drivers beat each other down with chair legs. She was dressed for the multiple part, in high-heeled shoes, toreador pants and a white T-shirt, Hasson was unable to meet her gaze.
“May,” Werry said, his voice filled with omnidirectional pride, “I’d like you to meet my cousin, Rob Haldane. He’s been travelling for days and he’s hungry. Isn’t that right, Rob?”
“That’s right.” Hasson agreed, accepting that there was no diplomatic way of making Werry see that his principal requirement was for solitude and rest. “How do you do?”
“Hello, Rob.” May took his extended hand, and on the instant of contact gave him a sudden smile, coy and direct at the same time, as though some unexpected human chemistry had been worked, taking her by surprise. The trick was so unsubtle that it embarrassed Hasson, and yet he immediately felt flattered.
Werry beamed at them both. “We ought to have a drink. What did you do with the bottle, Rob?”
“Here.” Hasson discovered he had slipped the bottle of whisky into his topcoat pocket. He was in the act of producing it when they were joined in the hail by a sharp-featured, thin-shouldered woman of about sixty. She was modishly dressed as though about to set off for a party, with an abundance of jewellery and hair tinted to match her coppertex suit.
“And this is Ginny Carpenter — May’s mother,” Werry said. “Ginny, meet Rob.”
“Pleased.” She looked up at Hasson through narrowed eyes and made no move to shake hands. “You’re the one who nearly killed hisself in a car.”
Hasson was taken aback. “That’s right.”
“Haven’t they got any good hospitals back in England?”
“Now, Ginny,” Werry put in placatingly. “Rob’s had all the hospital treatment he needs. He’s here to rest and build himself up.”
“He needs it,” Ginny said, still examining Hasson critically. “Have to see what a couple of months of good food will do for him.” Hasson tried to think of a swift retort which would let the woman know he had been accustomed to eating well all his life and expected to continue doing so when he left Canada, but the abrasiveness of her manner had thrown his tho
ughts into disarray. He stared down at her, dumb and helpless, as he strove to find the right words.
“Were you about to have a belt?” she said, forestalling him, glancing significantly at the bottle in his hand. “If you need it, go right ahead and have it — the smell doesn’t bother me.”
The phrases which Hasson so desperately needed to put together collided with those which were already swirling in his mind, rendering him even more incapable of speech than before. He turned to the others in the little group. Werry was nodding eagerly, expectantly, as though enjoying a bantering contest between life-long friends: May was still regarding him with wide- eyed, misty candour, projecting waves of startled tenderness. Hasson suppressed an urge to flee. “That’s my bottle, Ginny,” Werry said, after what seemed a long time. “Rob brought it in from the car for me.”
“Why didn’t he say so?” Ginny snapped as she went back into the room from which she had emerged. “I’m going to put the steaks under the grill. Come on, girl! You’re not very ambitious today, and there’s a load of extra work to do.” May obediently followed after her, giving Hasson a last liquid look as she closed the door.
“That Ginny’s a real character,” Werry said, chuckling. “Always the same — doesn’t care what she says to anybody. You should have seen your face when she made the crack about bending your elbow!”
Hasson smiled in return, strickenly, wondering how insensitive it was possible for a man to be. “I’m a bit tired. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go up to my room.”
“You’ve hardly touched this,” Werry said disappointedly, holding the whisky bottle up to the light. “I got it specially for you.”
“Thanks, but I’m. . . Is my room upstairs?”
“Follow me.” Werry picked up the larger pair of cases and led the way up the narrow stair. He installed Hasson in a pleasant square room which had a double bed and framed photographs of ice hockey teams on the walls. The furnishings were modern except for one glass-fronted bookcase filled with dark cloth-bound volumes whose titles had been eroded to isolated specks of gold or silver. There were two windows admitting a white light whose main direction was upwards, reflected from the snow outside, creating am airy ambience similar to that of the passenger cabin of the flying boat in which he had crossed the Atlantic. Hasson surveyed the room, seeing it with a presternatural clarity which came from the knowledge that it was to be his private fortress for months to come. He checked that there was a lock on the door and almost at once picked out the best place to set up a portable television.
“Bathroom and toilet are just along the landing,” Werry said helpfully. “As soon as you get yourself sorted out come down to lunch. Theo is getting out of school early today, and he’ll want to meet you too.”
“I’ll be right down,” Hasson replied, willing the other man to leave. As soon as he was alone he lay down on the bed, coaxing his body into relaxation, staring at the shifting twig patterns on the ceiling. Where are they? he thought Where are the inner strengths and reserves that Dr Colebrook promised me? He pressed the back of a hand to his lips and closed his eyes to shut out the merciless white radiance which surrounded him like a besieging army on all sides.
three
His first meal in the Werry domicile was even more of an ordeal than Hasson had anticipated. Four places had been set at a circular table in the kitchen, Hasson’s distinguished from the others by the presence of a brimming tumbler of neat whisky which produced a queasy feeling in his stomach each time he looked at it. He sat down with Werry and May Carpenter while her mother, with a black cigarette clinging to her upper lip, orchestrated the meal from a standing position at the cooker. She filled each plate in person from various pans, like an army cook, paying scant heed to stated preferences. Hasson, who liked his steak well done, was given a wedge-shaped slab which had been seared black on the outside but was oozing pinkly from several fissures.
“No sauce for me,” he said as Ginny reached for an outsized ladle.
“Needs sauce,” she replied, dousing everything on his plate with a silty fluid and placing it before him. Hasson glanced at Werry, hoping he would fulfil his obligations as host and come to the rescue, but Werry was busy grimacing happily at May and trying to snatch a ribbon from her hair. He was still wearing his full uniform except for the cap, and looked like a garrison soldier flirting wish a new girl. May responded by frowning at him, tossing her head and continually smoothing her hair down with both hands, an action which might have been designed to show off the voluptuousness of her breasts. Hasson was fascinated against his will, and kept being discomfited by the discovery that at the moment of maximum uplift May’s gaze was always fixed innocently on his face. In desperation, while waiting for Ginny to sit down, he distracted himself with the whisky, taking minute sips and which were barely enough to wet his lips. The months ahead suddenly seemed unbearable, an endurance test he was bound to fail unless his defences were shored up without delay. “Al,” he said, keeping his voice casual, “are there any shops, stores, nearby where I could buy or rent a portable television set?”
Werry raised his eyebrows. “There’s a nutty idea for you! We’ve got a new solid-image job right there in the front room. Two-mete stage. May and Ginny are always watching it, and you can sit with them any time you want. Isn’t that right, May?”
May nodded. “The Nabisco Club is on tonight.”
Hasson tried to smile, unable to reveal that he planned so lock himself in his room and turn it into an outpost of his homeland by taking nothing but British shows from the satellite system. “Ah . … I’m a pretty poor sleeper these days. These nights, I should say. I need a set in my bedroom for when I can’t sleep.”
“Other people need to sleep,” Ginny Carpenter put in as she joined them at the table with a loaded plate.
“I’d be using the ear pieces. There’d be no…”
“Seems a waste of money when there’s a new solid-image set with a two-metre stage right there in the front room,” Werry said carelessly. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, though — I’ll take you into town with me on Tuesday morning and introduce you so my buddy, Bill Raszin. He’ll fix you up at the right price.”
Hasson did a mental calculation and decided he could not wait four days. “Thanks, but if you don’t mind I’d like to…”
“Good food going to waste here,” Ginny reprimanded.
Hasson lowered his head and began to eat. The moose steak was more edible than he had feared, but the flavour which got through the coating of sauce reminded him strongly of rabbit and after a few small mouthfuls he was unable to continue with it. He began marking time by eating thin slices of carrot which had been liberally glazed with brown sugar and which to him tasted like sweets. Werry was the first to notice his lack of appetite and began to chivvy him loudly, only subsiding when Ginny explained that people who were accustomed to a low standard of living were often unable to cope with rich food. Hasson managed to think of several apt replies, but each time he considered putting them into words he saw his father’s panic-stricken eyes and heard the well-remembered voice saying, “Everybody will look at you.” May Carpenter kept giving him sympathetic smiles and making overtly tactful efforts to discuss his journey, but only succeeded in making him feel more gauche and inept than before. He devoted all his mind to ensuring that no particle of food found its way into one of the painful mouth ulcers, and prayed for the meal to come to an end.
“Great stuff,” Werry announced as soon as he had finished his coffee. “I’m going into the office for an hour — just to make sure I’ve still got an office — then I’ll pick Theo up coming out of school and run him home.”
Seizing his chance, Hasson followed Werry out to the hall. “Listen, Al, I might as well admit it — I’ve turned into a real TV fanatic since they brought in these solid-image jobs. Can I ride into town with you and pick myself up a set this afternoon?”
“If that’s what you want to do.” Werry looked puzzled. “Get your coat.”
When he got outside Hasson saw at once that the weather had changed. A shutter of low cloud had been drawn across the sky and the air had a chill metallic smell which promised more snow. Against the leaden backdrop, the light-sculpted aerial highways of the city’s traffic control system glowed vividly and were as solid looking as neon tubes. The gloominess of the overcast re minded Hasson of winter afternoons in Britain and had the effect of improving his spirits a little. In a grey world his bedroom would be a cocoon of safety and warmth, with its door locked and the curtains drawn, and a television set and a bottle to keep him company and absolve him from any need to think or live a life of his own.
On the way into town he gazed about him with something approaching contentment, picking out one Christmas card scene after another. The car was cruising on the main road into town when the radio hissed loudly and a call came through.
“Al, this is Henry Corzyn,” a man’s voice said. “I know you didn’t want any calls this afternoon, with your cousin being here and all that, but we’ve got a serious AC here and I think you’d better come over.”
“An aerial collision?” Werry sounded interested, but not particularly worried. “Somebody taking a short cut? Flying outside the beams?”
“No. Some kids were bombing the east approach, and one of them misjudged it and hit some guy square on. They might both be dead. You’d better get over here, Al.”
Werry swore fervently as he took directions from the police- man and slowed the car into a street leading east. He switched on emergency lights and a siren, and the already sparse surface traffic melted away into the greyness before him.
“Sorry about this, Rob,” he said. “I’ll get it over with as quickly as I can.”
“It’s all right.” Hasson said, his feeling of insularity shattered. He had seen the results of bombing accidents many times during his career and knew the sort of situation into which Werry was now being precipitated. With the advent of the automobile, man had been transformed into the swiftest creature on the face of the earth, given a new dimension of freedom. That freedom had been too much for many people to handle, and the outcome had been a death toll in the same grisly league as those produced by more ancient scourges such as war, famine and disease. Then man had learned to put a judo hold on gravity, turning its strength back on itself, and had become the swiftest creature in the air, and with his new freedom — to soar with the lark and outstrip the eagle, to straddle the rainbow and follow the sunset around the red rim of the world — the Fifth Horseman, the one who rode a winged steed, had come fully into being.