To him I owe my wealth of book lore.
It was during these rush hours that the disappearances started. Something about jurisprudence went missing on Monday, and on Wednesday it was a marked copy of Atrocities in China. On Friday it was a first edition of Sir Walter Scott’s Westward Ho!, if my memory serves me right.
‘How do you know they’ve been pinched?’ I asked Henshaw.
‘That Westward Ho!’s been there longer than me: it was always too pricey,’ Henshaw said. ‘As for the others, you didn’t sell them, nor did I. Ergo, old chum, some fly boy’s whipped ’em.’
It was the very next morning, Saturday, and I was in our packing room (8 by 6) smarming back my hair in the mirror; Henshaw came in and said, ‘Hey, Nobby, guess what. I’ve got the push.’
‘You’re kidding!’ I exclaimed, wiping the brilliantine off my comb. But when I looked up I could perceive like a flash he was serious. For one thing, he was out of puff; that’s how it takes you, poor devil, when you are 54.
Apparently, Sowerby had popped out of his cubicle on Friday night as Henshaw was getting his raincoat on. He said that Henshaw was in charge of the shop: it was his responsibility to see those three books were replaced. If they weren’t back by Monday night, Henshaw must leave the following Saturday.
‘Silly little B, what’ll he do without you?’ I asked. ‘If you leave, Mr. Henshaw, I come too.’
He was touched at this, and found us some chewing gum in one of his pockets.
‘That may not be necessary,’ he said. ‘I reckon I know the thief. If I spotted him and phoned the police, could you tackle him, Nob?’
Bravely refraining from asking the thief’s size, I said I would. Henshaw told me to look out for a cadaverous chap with bow tie and plastic mack.
On Monday morning I had to deliver a fat account book at Lincoln’s Inn, a heavy affair with blank pages, which cost about five times as much as any book with printed pages. As I re-entered Sowerby’s, my place of rightful employment, at eleven-thirty hours – sorry, I’m talking like the statement I had to make later! As I nipped in, there was this cadaverous fellow with a bow tie and plastic mack, picking over the erotica.
Henshaw was up a ladder, innocent as you please, dusting a run of Hellenic Journal; who Helen was I couldn’t care less, but she had never been given such a going over. He slipped me down a note which read ‘Thief (q.v.) – with Accomplice – are here. Police phoned for – two plain clothes also in shop now – watching suspect (cf.) – awaiting false move. Don’t let on’.
Looking innocuous, I barged round the shop slapping books into place. Several so-called customers were about, but I soon decided which the two coppers were. Once was spotty with huge black glasses, loitering by Travel; the other was cheery and clean-looking, and standing quite near Cadaverous, looking about. He winked at me, a gesture I returned.
The thief’s accomplice was also easy to guess. He stood over by the Art case, face buried in A Hundred Further Studies; he was well set up, with polish or something on his shoes – the confidence type.
Drama! My young life took on a new aspect. I winked at Plain Clothes again, and he winked back. Henshaw was making faces at me and my head was reeling. Here was a chance for me to do some jurisprudence in my own right.
Cadaverous moved to the further wall of the shop. Seizing my chance, I sidled up to Plain Clothes and said out of the corner of my mouth, ‘If you’re going to make an arrest, I’m here to help.’
‘Thanks’, he said, conferring a warm glow on me.
After a moment, which he evidently spent thinking, he asked, ‘Who was it you wanted arrested, kid?’
So they had not even got that far! I pointed to Cadaverous with my elbow.
‘Supposing me and you manoeuvre him outside?’ Plain Clothes said. ‘We could tackle him out there. Are you game?’
Nodding my head dumbly, I watched him go over to Cadaverous and mutter something. What it was I’ll never know, but I can guess. Then they approached, Cadaverous smiling enough to split his face, and we left the shop arm in arm.
Directly we were outside, they both bashed me on the head, sending me sprawling, and ran like mad in the direction of Gamage’s.
It pains me to say that the two real plain clothes men, the spotty one with glasses and the one with shiny shoes, were very rude as they helped Henshaw drag me back into Sowerby’s. Even now, after Henshaw and I have been doing this quiet packing job at the Lane auctioneer’s for three months, what they said still pains me. I had cost old Henshaw his job, but Henshaw was too human to fly off the handle.
‘The way he walked up to that accomplice like a kid asking for toffee,’ one copper sneered to the other, glancing carnivorously at me.
‘What’s the good of carrying on like that?’ Henshaw asked them. ‘Can’t you see it’s a case of arrested development?’
That was a puzzling remark; you might almost think he meant me.
‘But they weren’t arrested,’ I said.
‘It’s not exactly what I meant,’ said Henshaw.
With Esmond in Mind
The autofly sank deeper and deeper into the layers of buildings – its motor humming at steady pitch. Uneasily, Laurie Roberts trimmed his muon screen to avoid an upcoming fly. The traffic in these buildings was getting worse.
With London’s population now close on seventy million, that was hardly surprising. Year by year, more strata of houses were added to the existing layers. Everybody said it couldn’t go on any longer, yet it did. London, centre of world trade, blessed with its sunny climate, attracted population irresistibly from all over the Seven Systems.
Laurie glanced at his dials. He was just sinking through Stratum 17A, Square 80. It might be the Grand Bank of Neptune, it might be some pretty girl’s bedroom. Laurie wished he could materialise and see, but lowering the muon screen would instantly pulverise him; besides, he hadn’t far to go now, and he was really in a hurry.
He could not recall a time when he had not been in a hurry. Everyone in the seventeenth A-century was in a hurry: that was the inevitable result of a competitive way of living. Laurie’s one man illusion-repair outfit was a pretty hand-to-mouth job, allowing no time for relaxation.
He scythed forward now, cutting through Stratum 20. There was romance for you! Stratum 20 had been the old pre-muon age London, when people had had to build on the ground. Then intrapenetrability had been discovered, and progress had really gone ahead. The old existing thoroughfares (built for their quaint old automobiles and railways) had been filled in with new buildings; nothing and nobody could get anywhere without a muon screen – but power was reasonably cheap and everyone had them. After that the erection of new layers above and below the city began. London expanded like a self-fertilizing bun. The result was a capital worthy of a galactic race.
Not that that concerned Laurie particularly at present. He was too intent on finding his way down to Strata 29, where a client, Granville Esmond, awaited his services. An autobeam stopped him at 28 – that would be more upcoming traffic – and then he filtered the fly down and sent it clicking along to the appropriate square in which Mr. Esmond lived.
As soon as he arrived, Laurie dialled Esmond’s number. It came up, interlocked, and the muon screen was safely released. Laurie climbed out, glancing at once over his little vehicle with its proud sign: ‘Roberts’ Radiopsi Repairs. I’ll Mend Your Illusions.’ The new paint had been slightly scratched, presumably by a proton shower which had sneaked through his screen; the port projector needed retuning, and Laurie made a mental note to attend to it in the morning.
Mr. Esmond’s materialising hall was as small as the statues of the realm would allow. The tiny autofly filled it. Which was all you could expect if you knew this end of Strata 29; it was decidedly a shabby-genteel neighbourhood.
Mr. Esmond himself stood at the inner, muon-proof door. Although he was a complete stranger to Laurie, his type was familiar.
He wore green flannel shorts, a trylon sneaking-jac
ket and leather shirt with twill plugging pieces. His boots were aluminium retreads equipped with the standard speakers, leakers and signature keys. His hair, greying now, was worn in a snood. It was, in fact, a thoroughly old-fashioned outfit.
‘Please come in, Mr. Roberts,’ Esmond said in a sad voice. ‘Although I’m afraid you’ll find the flat rather untidy. I’ve had to manage by myself ever since my wife died.’
Laurie surveyed the old man’s face with interest. He hardly looked the type who would marry; the lines of his mouth were prim and ascetic; his face was the face of a self-denier.
There was a green fleck to his withered flesh which Laurie could not account for until he saw the rest of the house. Then he had Esmond placed: he was a retired Venusian civil servant. About him and his home was the air, at once conservative and eccentric, of one who has travelled far and got nowhere.
In the middle of a light years’ wide sphere of civilisation, incorrigible Venus lay, a frontier planet after sixteen centuries of more or less continuous occupation. The transformation of planetary atmosphere had never been a success and the hardy natives – who survived in any atmosphere – were difficult to rule. Venusian jurisdiction could point to thousands of men like Granville Esmond, who spent the greater part of their lives keeping order in remote provinces, far from their own kind.
The walls of Esmond’s poor little living room were covered with framed stereos, the cheap, motionless kind: views of the desolate land, the subterranean villages, groups of local Earthmen in sports kit, a close up of Mrs. Esmond in a sixties hat, looking strangely like her husband. And there were other mementos, a smogwood carving, a chunk of venustone, a native weave rug on the floor.
‘I spent twenty-nine years on our sister planet,’ Esmond said proudly, seeing Laurie’s glance.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘Oh, don’t apologise, it’s nice to have someone to see my – ah, trophies: I’m very much alone.’ The words seemed wrenched out of him; he immediately covered the confession by adding, ‘My illusion room’s through here, if you’d come, please.’
He gestured to a door and then said hurriedly, ‘I’m afraid it’s rather worn … The upkeep’s very expensive, you know. But I couldn’t bear to be without it: it helps remind me of happier times.’
He stood there as if barring the door, smiling in a weak, apologetic way.
‘I’ll put it right if I can,’ Laurie said, and pushed gently past him into the room.
The sky was a tawny overcast, moving slowly like curdled milk. A line of smogtress, part of an afforestation scheme, stretched from the horizon until the boughs of the nearest ones waved overhead. A large cabin dwelling with ‘District Commissioner’ over the door stood close beside a series of monolithic slabs. Laurie recognised the slabs as entrances to the warrenlike villages of the Venusians.
On the verandah of the cabin a middle-aged man sat smoking his pipe. He was lean and alert, his face tanned green by the perpetual breezes. It was Commissioner Esmond.
Through him, through the trees, through the sky, through the bleak land, the shadowy walls of the illusion room were visible. The recording was indeed worn.
‘As I explained to you on the pscreen,’ the present Esmond said, coming up from behind a tree, ‘the illusions keep changing without my switching them over. I’ve only got three illusions, but they keep changing …’
‘It happens sometimes on old circuits,’ Laurie said, hefting his repair kit. ‘I’ll soon fix it. The activator keys probably need rebuilding.’
‘They’ve been flickering a lot lately. It’s very disconcerting. But it probably won’t happen now you’re here.’
But even as Esmond spoke, there was a rush of ghostly figures into the Venusian clearing. The monoliths and trees faded and the two men were standing in a crowded club room. There were trophies on the wall, and flags, and bright flowers in vases, and somewhere a piano was being autoplayed.
People moved to and fro, talking, men and women in gay clothes. To one end of the room there was dancing. The hostess, glorious in yards of white extanza, was followed by a retinue of young men; one of the eager faces was twenty-year-old Granville Esmond.
‘The year is 1629 A-C,’ said old Esmond in a tremulous voice. ‘What a summer that was! Everything still before me … Do you see I was just growing my very first moustache? To be so very young … You’ll see my wife-to-be in a moment; she comes in that green door at the end, and I don’t notice her for some time. Shall we go and stand there and wait for her?’
He stepped forward to let a phantom pass and caught the look in Laurie’s eyes. He dropped his own.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Your time’s money, son. You’d better go and switch the illusions off and see what’s gone wrong with them. I don’t mind.’
Feeling callow and hard-hearted, Laurie made his way to the master switch. As he bent down to it, a girl with the palest countenance hurried towards him from a shadowy green doorway; her eyes, dark and dedicated, looked nervously through him, and for a second their lips seemed to touch: then the switch went over. The ghosts died.
‘That was my wife! That was Muriel!’ Esmond said. He stood in the middle of a bare chamber, his gesticulating hands drawing mirages; then he stuffed them in the pockets of his sneaking-jacket.
Pulling out a magnetic key, Laurie knelt and opened the illusion hood. This was an old model, probably acquired secondhand, and the interior looked vastly complicated to a layman, although it presented no special difficulties to Laurie. The illusion unit was bigger than a small refrigerator: current ones were the size of a small suitcase.
Laurie checked swiftly over the emanation circuits with his teller. There was considerable leakage, although not enough to be critical.
‘I shall have to re-earth to be safe,’ he said over his shoulder to the old man.
‘I’m afraid these technical terms don’t convey anything to me at all,’ Esmond apologised. ‘You see, I had a classical education. It would be – oh, right back in nineteen – no, eighteen, the year the Centauri team won the Ashes, when I started at French Foundation …’
And as Laurie worked, the old man began to tell his life story. Laurie did not bother to listen at first. He could see the equipment was worn out, and was wondering what was the least he could charge for an adequate job. The amplification transistors in colour, feeler and solidity circuits would all have to be renewed, and they’d cost a cool two hundred each.
This model had racks for only three illusion spools; more expensive ones had racks running into thousands. Most people preferred to record their own memories for the illusion, as Esmond had done; ultimately, they were most satisfying. But there were professional memorisers, some of whose memory types sold by the million. Laurie unclipped Esmond’s three memories from the prong that held them, and bent further into the entrails of the machine.
Gradually, he found himself absorbed in the other’s account of his life. On Esmond’s own showing, it had been dull, filled with a timid integrity and ended with a tiny pension. It contrasted strangely with Laurie’s existence, in which mad sessions of work alternated with women and the gay dives of the higher strata.
‘I hope you don’t mind listening to all this!’ Esmond exclaimed suddenly, interrupting himself. ‘You see, it’s eighteen months since a real live person was in my flat. All my food and supplies are automatically delivered through the muon-chute. And I hardly ever go out into the country these days – it costs so much to get out of London now, you know.’
It certainly did. All movement could only be by muon in the built-up area, and present rates for that were five and a half per cubic foot per yard.
‘You ought to get around more,’ Laurie said, tugging at the cover of the twitch plate. ‘You must be lonely here.’
‘Lonely!’ There was such a high note in the old man’s voice that Laurie involuntarily turned to look at him. As he did so, his temples made contact with the twin prongs of the record rack.
/>
Sparks flew, sparks so cool they hardly singed his skin. Current flowed, current so slight it hardly made his scalp crawl. Air crackled with a noise so slight you would never think to call it sinister or world-shattering, or any of the things it really was.
After a long pause, Laurie completed the gesture he had begun and turned to look at Esmond. The old fellow stood in the centre of the bare illusion room in an expectant attitude.
Laurie was instantly reminded of a scene long ago, when he was a boy of ten. He was in the woods of Berkshire with his sister Lena, and they had run into a clearing and discovered an old man standing in just the same position, as if listening enchanted.
‘Hello,’ the old man said when he saw them. ‘Don’t be frightened – I’m only standing here listening to the cuckoo.’
‘Pooh, they’re commoner than pigeons at this time of year,’ thirteen year old Lena said. ‘If you heard them in winter, that would be something to listen to!’
‘They don’t have seasons in London, or cuckoos on Venus,’ the old man told her. ‘That’s why they’re wonderful to me – for years I’ve lived only in those two places.’
‘Then you’re lucky,’ Lena said – she was at a very contradictory stage at present. ‘Daddy’s going to take us to Venus when Laurie’s bigger, isn’t he, Laurie?’
Laurie did not answer. He was frightened; this strange man with the green flecks on his cheek reminded him of something – something too big and threatening to be grasped. He tugged urgently at Lena’s hand.
She accepted his signal and burst into a run, dragging him down a bank deep in last year’s leaves and this year’s bluebells. Laurie looked back over his shoulder: the man had disappeared, very suddenly, very oddly.
But he couldn’t just have gone like that, Laurie thought. It was against nature.
He called, ‘Mr. Esmond!’
No answer, only the mighty beech trees humming in their new green.
Nobody in sight.
The Complete Short Stories- The 1950s - Volume One Page 23