A Science Fiction Omnibus

by Brian Aldiss

  His torments were those of boredom, loneliness, mental and physical sterility. They were not to be endured. The easiest escape is via the imagination. One hangs in a strait-jacket and flees the corporeal trap by adventuring in a dreamland of one’s own.

  But dreams are not enough. They are unreal and all too brief. The freedom to be gained must be genuine and of long duration. That meant he must make a stern reality of dreams, a reality so contrived that it would persist for all time. It must be self-perpetuating. Nothing less would make escape complete.

  So he sat in the great dark and battled the problem. There was no clock, no calendar to mark the length of thought. There were no external data upon which to compute. There was nothing, nothing except the workings within his agile mind.

  And one thesis: no problem is beyond solution.

  He found it eventually. It meant escape from everlasting night. It would provide experience, companionship, adventure, mental exercise, entertainment, warmth, love, the sound of voices, the touch of hands.

  The plan was anything but rudimentary. On the contrary it was complicated enough to defy untangling for endless aeons. It had to be like that to have permanence. The unwanted alternative was swift return to silence and the bitter dark.

  It took a deal of working out. A million and one aspects had to be considered along with all their diverse effects upon each other. And when that was done he had to cope with the next million. And so on… on… on.

  He created a mighty dream of his own, a place of infinite complexity schemed in every detail to the last dot and comma. Within this he would live anew. But not as himself. He was going to dissipate his person into numberless parts, a great multitude of variegated shapes and forms each of which would have to battle its own peculiar environment.

  And he would toughen the struggle to the limit of endurance by unthinking himself, handicapping his parts with appalling ignorance and forcing them to learn afresh. He would seed enmity between them by dictating the basic rules of the game. Those who observed the rules would be called good. Those who did not would be called bad. Thus there would be endless delaying conflicts within the one great conflict.

  When all was ready and prepared he intended to disrupt and become no longer one, but an enormous concourse of entities. Then his parts must fight back to unity and himself.

  But first he must make reality of the dream. Ah, that was the test!

  The time was now. The experiment must begin.

  Leaning forward, he gazed into the dark and said, ‘Let there be light.’

  And there was light.

  Lot

  WARD MOORE

  Mr Jimmon even appeared elated, like a man about to set out on a vacation.

  ‘Well, folks, no use waiting any longer. We’re all set. So let’s go.’

  There was a betrayal here; Mr Jimmon was not the kind of man who addressed his family as ‘folks’.

  ‘David, you’re sure…?’

  Mr Jimmon merely smiled. This was quite out of character; customarily he reacted to his wife’s habit of posing unfinished questions – after seventeen years the unuttered and larger part of the queries were always instantly known to him in some mysterious way, as though unerringly projected by the key in which the introduction was pitched, so that not only the full wording was communicated to his mind, but the shades and implications which circumstance and humour attached to them – with sharp and querulous defence. No matter how often he resolved to stare quietly or use the still more effective, Afraid I didn’t catch your meaning, dear, he had never been able to put his resolution into force. Until this moment of crisis. Crisis, reflected Mr Jimmon, still smiling and moving suggestively towards the door, crisis changes people. Brings out underlying qualities.

  It was Jir who answered Molly Jimmon, with the adolescent’s half-whine of exasperation. ‘Aw furcrysay Mom, what’s the idea? The highways’ll be clogged tight. What’s the good figuring out everything heada time and having everything all set if you’re going to start all over again at the last minute? Get a grip on yourself and let’s go.’

  Mr Jimmon did not voice the reflexive, That’s no way to talk to your mother. Instead he thought, not unsympathetically, of woman’s slow reaction time. Asset in childbirth, liability behind the wheel. He knew Molly was thinking of the house and all the things in it: her clothes and Erika’s, the TV set – so sullenly ugly now, with the electricity gone – the refrigerator in which the food would soon begin to rot and stink, the dead stove, the cellarful of cases of canned stuff for which there was no room in the station wagon. And the Buick, blocked up in the garage, with the air thoughtfully let out of the tyres and the battery hidden.

  Of course the house would be looted. But they had known that all along. When they – or rather he, for it was his executive’s mind and training which were responsible for the Jimmons’ preparation against this moment – planned so carefully and providentially, he had weighed property against life and decided on life. No other decision was possible.

  ‘Aren’t you at least going to phone Pearl and Dan?’

  Now why in the world, thought Mr Jimmon, completely above petty irritation, should I call Dan Davisson? (Because of course it’s Dan she means – My Old Beau. Oh, he was nobody then, just an impractical dreamer without a penny to his name; it wasn’t for years that he was recognized as a Mathematical Genius; now he’s a professor and all sorts of things – but she automatically says Pearl-and-Dan, not Dan.) What can Dan do with the square root of minus nothing to offset M equals whatever it is, at this moment? Or am I supposed to ask if Pearl has all her diamonds? Query, why doesn’t Pearl wear pearls? Only diamonds? My wife’s friends, heh heh, but even the subtlest intonation won’t label them when you’re entertaining an important client and Pearl and Dan.

  And why should I phone? What sudden paralysis afflicts her? Hysteria?

  ‘No,’ said Mr Jimmon. ‘I did not phone Pearl and Dan.’

  Then he added, relenting: ‘Phone’s been out since.’

  ‘But,’ said Molly.

  She’d hardly going to ask me to drive into town. He selected several answers in readiness. But she merely looked towards the telephone helplessly (she ought to have been fat, thought Mr Jimmon, really she should, or anyway plump; her thinness gives her that air of competence), so he amplified gently, ‘They’re unquestionably all right. As far away from it as we are.’

  Wendell was already in the station wagon. With Waggie hidden somewhere. Should have sent the dog to the humane society; more merciful to have it put to sleep. Too late now; Waggie would have to take his chance. There were plenty of rabbits in the hills above Malibu, he had often seen them quite close to the house. At all events there was no room for a dog in the wagon, already loaded to within a pound of its capacity.

  Erika came in briskly from the kitchen, her brown jodhpurs making her appear at first glance even younger than fourteen. But only at first glance; then the swell of hips and breast denied the childishness the jodhpurs seemed to accent.

  ‘The water’s gone, Mom. There’s no use sticking around any longer.’

  Molly looked incredulous. ‘The water?’

  ‘Of course the water’s gone,’ said Mr Jimmon, not impatiently, but rather with satisfaction in his own foresight. ‘If It didn’t get the aqueduct, the mains depend on pumps. Electric pumps. When the electricity went, the water went too.’

  ‘But the water,’ repeated Molly, as though this last catastrophe was beyond all reason – even the outrageous logic which It brought in its train.

  Jir slouched past them and outside. Erika tucked in a strand of hair, pulled her jockey cap downward and sideways, glanced quickly at her mother and father, then followed. Molly took several steps, paused, smiled vaguely in the mirror and walked out of the house.

  Mr Jimmon patted his pockets; the money was all there. He didn’t even look back before closing the front door and rattling the knob to be sure the lock had caught. It had never failed, but Mr Jimmon always
rattled it anyway. He strode to the station wagon, running his eyes over the springs to reassure himself again that they really hadn’t overloaded it.

  The sky was overcast; you might have thought it one of the regular morning high fogs if you didn’t know. Mr Jimmon faced south-east, but It had been too far away to see anything. Now Erika and Molly were in the front seat; the boys were in the back lost amid the neatly packed stuff. He opened the door on the driver’s side, got in, turned the key and started the motor. Then he said casually over his shoulder, ‘Put the dog out, Jir.’

  Wendell protested, too quickly, ‘Waggie’s not here.’

  Molly exclaimed, ‘Oh, David…’

  Mr Jimmon said patiently, ‘We’re losing pretty valuable time. There’s no room for the dog; we have no food for him. If we had room we could have taken more essentials; those few pounds might mean the difference.’

  ‘Can’t find him,’ muttered Jir.

  ‘He’s not here. I tell you he’s not here,’ shouted Wendell, tearful voiced.

  ‘If I have to stop the motor and get him myself we’ll be wasting still more time and gas.’ Mr Jimmon was still detached, judicial. ‘This isn’t a matter of kindness to animals. It’s life and death.’

  Erika said evenly, ‘Dad’s right, you know. It’s the dog or us. Put him out, Wend.’

  ‘I tell you –’ Wendell began.

  ‘Got him!’ exclaimed Jir. ‘Okay, Waggie! Outside and good luck.’

  The spaniel wriggled ecstatically as he was picked up and put out through the open window. Mr Jimmon raced the motor, but it didn’t drown out Wendell’s anguish. He threw himself on his brother, hitting and kicking. Mr Jimmon took his foot off the gas, and as soon as he was sure the dog was away from the wheels, eased the station wagon out of the driveway and down the hill towards the ocean.

  ‘Wendell, Wendell, stop,’ pleaded Molly. ‘Don’t hurt him, Jir.’

  Mr Jimmon clicked on the radio. After a preliminary hum, clashing static crackled out. He pushed all five buttons in turn, varying the quality of unintelligible sound. ‘Want me to try?’ offered Erika. She pushed the manual button and turned the knob slowly. Music dripped out.

  Mr Jimmon grunted. ‘Mexican station. Try something else. Maybe you can get Ventura.’

  They rounded a tight curve. ‘Isn’t that the Warbinns’?’ asked Molly.

  For the first time since It happened Mr Jimmon had a twinge of impatience. There was no possibility, even with the unreliable eye of shocked excitement, of mistaking the Warbinns’ blue Mercury. No one else on Rambla Catalina had one anything like it, and visitors would be most unlikely now. If Molly would apply the most elementary logic!

  Besides, Warbinn had stopped the blue Mercury in the Jimmon driveway five times every week for the past two months – ever since they had decided to put the Buick up and keep the wagon packed and ready against this moment – for Mr Jimmon to ride with him to the city. Of course it was the Warbinns’.

  ‘… advised not to impede the progress of the military. Adequate medical staffs are standing by at all hospitals. Local civilian defence units are taking all steps in accordance…’

  ‘Santa Barbara,’ remarked Jir, nodding at the radio with an expert’s assurance.

  Mr Jimmon slowed, prepared to follow the Warbinns down to 101, but the Mercury halted and Mr Jimmon turned out to pass it. Warbinn was driving and Sally was in the front seat with him; the back seat appeared empty except for a few things obviously hastily thrown in. No foresight, thought Mr Jimmon.

  Warbinn waved his hand vigorously out the window and Sally shouted something.

  ‘… panic will merely slow rescue efforts. Casualties are much smaller than originally reported…’

  ‘How do they know?’ asked Mr Jimmon, waving politely at the Warbinns.

  ‘Oh, David, aren’t you going to stop? They want something.’

  ‘Probably just to talk.’

  ‘… to retain every drop of water. Emergency power will be in operation shortly. There is no cause for undue alarm. General…’

  Through the rear-view mirror Mr Jimmon saw the blue Mercury start after them. He had been right then, they only wanted to say something inconsequential. At a time like this.

  At the junction with US 101 five cars blocked Rambla Catalina. Mr Jimmon set the handbrake, and steadying himself with the open door, stood tiptoe twistedly, trying to see over the cars ahead. 101 was solid with traffic which barely moved. On the southbound side of the divided highway a stream of vehicles flowed illegally north.

  ‘Thought everybody was figured to go east,’ gibed Jir over the other side of the car.

  Mr Jimmon was not disturbed by his son’s sarcasm. How right he’d been to rule out the trailer. Of course the bulk of the cars were headed eastward as he’d calculated; this sluggish mass was nothing compared with the countless ones which must now be blocking the roads to Pasadena, Alhambra, Garvey, Norwalk. Even the northbound refugees were undoubtedly taking 99 or regular 101 – the highway before them was really 101 Alternate – he had picked the most feasible exit.

  The Warbinns drew up alongside. ‘Hurry didn’t do you much good,’ shouted Warbinn, leaning forward to clear his wife’s face.

  Mr Jimmon reached in and turned off the ignition. Gas was going to be precious. He smiled and shook his head at Warbinn; no use pointing out that he’d got the inside lane by passing the Mercury, with a better chance to seize the opening on the highway when it came. ‘Get in the car, Jir, and shut the door. Have to be ready when this breaks.’

  ‘If it ever does,’ said Molly. ‘All that rush and bustle. We might just as well…’

  Mr Jimmon was conscious of Warbinn’s glowering at him and resolutely refused to turn his head. He pretended not to hear him yell. ‘Only wanted to tell you you forgot to pick up your bumper-jack. It’s in front of our garage.’

  Mr Jimmon’s stomach felt empty. What if he had a flat now? Ruined, condemned. He knew a burning hate for Warbinn – incompetent borrower, bad neighbour, thoughtless, shiftless, criminal. He owed it to himself to leap from the station wagon and seize Warbinn by the throat…

  ‘What did he say, David? What is Mr Warbinn saying?’

  Then he remembered it was the jack from the Buick; the station wagon’s was safely packed where he could get at it easily. Naturally he would never have started out on a trip like this without checking so essential an item. ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘nothing at all.’

  ‘… plane dispatches indicate target was the Signal Hill area. Minor damage was done to Long Beach, Wilmington, and San Pedro. All non-military air traffic warned from Mines Field…’

  The smash and crash of bumper and fender sounded familiarly on the highway. From his look-out station he couldn’t see what had happened, but it was easy enough to reconstruct the impatient jerk forward that caused it. Mr Jimmon didn’t exactly smile, but he allowed himself a faint quiver of internal satisfaction. A crash up ahead would make things worse, but a crash behind – and many of them were inevitable – must eventually create a gap.

  Even as he thought this, the first car at the mouth of Rambla Catalina edged on to the shoulder of the highway. Mr Jimmon slid back in and started the motor, inching ahead after the car in front, gradually leaving the still uncomfortable proximity of the Warbinns.

  ‘Got to go to the toilet,’ announced Wendell abruptly.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you –! Well, hurry up! Jir, keep the door open and pull him in if the car starts to move.’

  ‘I can’t go here.’

  Mr Jimmon restrained his impulse to snap, Hold it in then. Instead he said mildly, ‘This is a crisis, Wendell. No time for niceties. Hurry.’

  ‘… the flash was seen as far north as Ventura and as far south as Newport. An eye-witness who has just arrived by helicopter…’

  ‘That’s what we should have had,’ remarked Jir. ‘You thought of everything except that.’

  ‘That’s no way to speak to your father,’ admonished Molly.
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  ‘Aw heck, Mom, this is a crisis. No time for niceties.’

  ‘You’re awful smart, Jir,’ said Erika. ‘Big, tough, brutal man.’

  ‘Go down, brat,’ returned Jir, ‘your nose needs wiping.’

  ‘As a matter of record,’ Mr Jimmon said calmly, ‘I thought of both plane and helicopter and decided against them.’

  ‘I can’t go. Honest, I just can’t go.’

  ‘Just relax, darling,’ advised Molly. ‘No one is looking.’

  ‘… fires reported in Compton, Lynwood, Southgate, Harbour City, Lomita, and other spots are now under control. Residents are advised not to attempt to travel on the overcrowded highways as they are much safer in their homes or places of employment. The civilian defence…’

  The two cars ahead bumped forward. ‘Get in,’ shouted Mr Jimmon.

  He got the left front tyre of the station wagon on the asphalt shoulder – the double lane of concrete was impossibly far ahead – only to be blocked by the packed procession. The clock on the dash said 11.04. Nearly five hours since It happened, and they were less than two miles from home. They could have done better walking. Or on horseback.

  ‘… All residents of the Los Angeles area are urged to remain calm. Local radio service will be restored in a matter of minutes, along with electricity and water. Reports of fifth column activities have been greatly exaggerated. The FBI has all known subversives under…’

  He reached over and shut it off. Then he edged a daring two inches further on the shoulder, almost grazing an aggressive Cadillac packed solid with cardboard cartons. On his left a Model A truck shivered and trembled. He knew, distantly and disapprovingly, that it belonged to two painters who called themselves man and wife. The truckbed was loaded high with household goods; poor, useless things no looter would bother to steal. In the cab the artists passed a quart beer bottle back and forth. The man waved it genially at him; Mr Jimmon nodded discouragingly back.

  The thermometer on the mirror showed 90. Hot all right. Of course if they ever got rolling… I’m thirsty, he thought; probably suggestion. If I hadn’t seen the thermometer. Anyway I’m not going to paw around in back for the canteen. Forethought. Like the arms. He cleared his throat. ‘Remember there’s an automatic in the glove compartment. If anyone tries to open the door on your side, use it.’