Yondering

by Robert Reginald (ed)

  Turning, he sprinted down the slope, calling for Seth to follow before it was too late. He had a sick feeling inside.

  The plates grew smaller underfoot as he approached the water. He could see the world clearly now. Slowly, ever so slowly, it was drawing away from him. He saw his uncle, and Barl Janus, and Del Shiff, and Aran Leya, all standing on its edge. They shouted to him, but their words blurred together in a shrill scream.

  He reached the edge of the darkfish, but even as he did he knew he wouldn’t make it. The world was drawing away from the darkfish faster now. Ten feet of ocean separated them, twelve—

  He leaped. He hung in the air for what seemed an eternity, water chopping below.

  Then he hit the ocean, slid into it open-mouthed, and came up sputtering and thrashing his arms and legs. It was cold, so cold. He glimpsed the world only a few feet before him. Something hard hit his shoulder, almost forcing him under water, and he glimpsed a pale object in front of him. Instinctively he grabbed for it.

  His hands tightened, fingers aching, palms aching. He felt himself being pulled through the water. In a second, rough hands seized him, hauling him up onto the edge of the world, onto dry plates. He suddenly became aware of what he was holding—his uncle’s spear. Olen had held it out to him. Now his uncle had to pry it out of his grasp.

  “That was a damned stupid thing to do,” Olen said, as he hugged his nephew.

  Rik shivered from cold. “Seth—”

  Olen shook his head. “Look,” he whispered sadly.

  Rik stood. The darkfish was fast vanishing in the distance, but on its edgeplates he thought he saw a solitary figure. He watched as long as he could, a lump in his throat, his heart beating all too loudly. And then Seth and the darkfish were gone. The ocean stretched to infinity before him.

  Drifting….

  He tried to speak, but couldn’t. He didn’t know what to say. All the men had come down from Home and picked up the various sacks and bladders. Their voices were flat, muted. It always hurt to lose someone to the ocean, to the darkfish.

  “Come, Rik,” Olen said, but Rik wouldn’t go. He just sat there and stared out across the water, across the waves that rippled with the silver light of moons and stars. After a moment, his uncle left him standing there alone.

  Drifting.…

  When he’d lost his father, he hadn’t truly known the emptiness, known the hurt, but he felt it now like an old wound reopened. How could such things happen? It didn’t seem fair. The darkfish had now taken both the man he’d loved most and the man he’d hated most in all the universe. To the ocean they were just two more lives swallowed.

  Drifting….

  Such power terrified him. The ocean was stronger than him, stronger than the worldmaster, stronger than any man. It was a harsh truth that he saw all too clearly now.

  Drifting.…

  After a time, he crept away to the warm, close safety of Home. From there the water couldn’t be seen. He swore he’d never go back, never darkfish again, but even as he did he knew he lied. He remembered the thrill of standing on strange plates, of working with his uncle, of being a man among men. The ocean, the darkfish, were revealed to him now. And never would they fool him again.

  GUINEA PIGS, by Sydney J. Bounds

  Tim Wilton was so excited about his success and the coming celebration that he was taken by surprise when his wife, Susan, said quietly, “I don’t think you care about anyone except yourself.”

  He frowned as he tried to button his suit coat over a growing paunch. “Didn’t you hear me? I signed Johnny Nelson, a world champion, and there’s going to be a party.”

  “I heard you. I don’t think you heard me.”

  “Of course I care about you—”

  “Not just me, Tim. The athletes you’re pumping full of drugs.”

  He laughed. “You’re joking! Athletes? They’re guinea pigs as far as we’re concerned. They’re paid to try out our drugs and they’re keen to have them because they want to win.”

  “Everybody wants to win,” she murmured sadly.

  He drew her towards the high window, looking out and down beyond the wealthy ghetto. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Wilton gestured at their apartment. “We’re lucky. Air conditioning, quality food, security.”

  He pointed towards the electrified fence surrounding their block. “Out there—” He indicated the brown sludge of a river and a crowded city slum. “The herd. I’d say we’ve plenty to lose, and it’s only my job that keeps us from joining them.”

  He looked closely at the elfin face framed by short dark hair. “Is it Nelson? Do you fancy him?”

  She turned away without a word. We’re drifting apart, he thought, as a chime sounded. He caught up his overnight bag and took the elevator to the roof. The rotors were turning lazily as he climbed into the cabin and fastened a safety belt; the company ’copter lifted and sound deafened him.

  Below, outside the wire, upturned faces watched without hope; hate and anger had long since turned to apathy. He watched miles of slums and the wreckage of housing estates until they reached the end of suburbia; then, he was pleased to see, England was still a green and pleasant land. From the air.

  He remembered how Susan had supported him in the early days, when she’d been his secretary at Pharmacie; the good times they’d shared as he fought his way up the executive ladder. It seemed only since their marriage that she’d changed until he didn’t know her any more.

  She even seemed critical of his success, and that was stupid; it was what they had both worked for.

  The ’copter passed over a few roving bands of losers, and swooped down towards an isolated country hotel, walled around and patrolled by security men.

  There’d be no trouble here, and Elsie, his present secretary, would soon smooth his ruffled feathers. After all, this was a celebration party for his success….

  He stepped out, ducked under the blades and hurried towards reception. Elsie, blonde hair down, took his overnight bag, and a professional greeter pressed a glass into his hand.

  There was a huddle of colleagues under a blow-up of Johnny Nelson clearing a hurdle in great style, and a banner proclaiming: Pharmacie’s Andiphor is a winner!

  Graham proposed a toast. It was a measure of his success that the Head of Department put in an appearance; though he looked dreadful, face thin and etched with deep lines. Perhaps it was true that the higher you went, the more stress you suffered? Perhaps that was what Susan was afraid of? If so, she was wrong to worry; he could cope with anything.

  A cheerleader began a chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good adman,’ and a discreet choir blended in. This was followed by Pharmacie’s latest telly jingle:

  ‘Andi for strength

  Andi for speed

  Andi is tops

  When you want to win!’

  Graham said, “I suspect our chief competitor, Chemarx, is not partying today,” and got a laugh. “We here all owe a great debt to Tim Wilton—”

  “It was a team effort, sir,” Wilton murmured modestly.

  “To get an endorsement from the world’s hurdle champion behind our advertising campaign was an inspired move and will boost our sales enormously.”

  When Graham wound down, the whole party trooped into the banqueting hall. The food was superior and the wine flowed until it was time to take to the dance floor, Wilton with Elsie as his partner.

  She smelt exciting and made a good listener as he rambled on about his marriage being a mistake.

  “You don’t have to marry me,” she whispered. “I made sure I got a double.”

  Later, he stumbled along a passage to the stairs, groping for a wall to steady himself. “Just a drink too many and the stairs are going round.”

  “It’s a spiral staircase, Tim.”

  She opened the door of her room, pushed him inside and slid a bolt home. He collapsed on the bed and passed out.

  * * * *


  He woke, cold. A window was open, sheets thrown back, and he was alone. For a moment he felt lost, then he tested his throat: “Elsie?”

  There was no answer and he padded to the bathroom; her smell lingered, but her bags had gone. He swallowed a morning-after lozenge and used a depilator. Outside his door hung a Do Not Disturb sign.

  He went down to the dining room, where staff were clearing away the ruins of breakfast. He hadn’t intended to be so late, but managed to get a mug of coffee and went through to reception.

  “Your party left hurriedly an hour ago,” he was told.

  He dialed for a helicab. Susan? Not yet, she’d smell Elsie on him. The office; he had to clean up and change first.

  The cab was warned away from the Pharmacie block until he identified himself to Security. Strange; they weren’t usually so strict. He landed and took the elevator down. The corridor was empty and silent; no groups chatting, and doors closed.

  Someone saw him, and vanished. What was going on? Only yesterday he’d been the hero of the hour. Now….

  Wilton changed course and headed for the executive suite, where a big screen constantly updated world news. The room was empty, and a newscaster almost raving with excitement.

  “Following the shocking death of Johnny Nelson, Chemarx claim his death was due to a new drug their rivals are promoting. They claim Pharmacie did not carry out sufficient tests before releasing it to their sales force.”

  Wilton stood transfixed. And I suppose Chemarx do? They can no more afford months of testing than we can—that’s why we use guinea pigs. Of course, all new drugs are dangerous, every idiot knows that—it’s why the old style Olympic committees banned them.

  “Fans of Nelson are demanding that the makers of Andiphor be sued—”

  A cold shudder ran through Wilton as he came out of shock. Someone would be elected to take the blame and, as he’d told Susan, they had a lot to lose. Panic touched him. See Graham, he thought; a head of department had a duty to protect his staff.

  He scurried to the end office and pushed in without knocking. “I may need your help, sir.”

  Graham, looking like a corpse, sat staring into a screen. He scarcely seemed to be breathing. He looked up and through Wilton.

  “We may all need help.”

  He swiveled the screen so Wilton could read a column of constantly changing figures. Share prices. Pharmacie, normally near the top, was well down and fell again as he watched.

  “Because you picked a sports idol! If it had been a run-of-the-field athlete we could have weathered this crisis—but you contracted Johnny Nelson, the public’s favorite.”

  He sounded bitter, and the memory of yesterday’s praise had a hollow ring.

  “I can’t help you, Wilton. Nobody can. The media are out for blood and Chemarx are making a takeover bid. I suggest you prepare to leave your apartment….”

  Susan, he thought; he had to warn her. He tried to phone, but got no answer. The journey from his office roof to the roof of their apartment block scarcely registered; he felt numb. Security men at both ends watched him in silence; they knew a loser when they saw one.

  He took the elevator down. Their apartment was empty, everything of hers gone, and he felt abandoned. He stood motionless, bewildered.

  The door opened and the Warden held out his hand. “It’s official now. I’ll take your pass.”

  Wilton fumbled for the sliver of plastic that meant so much: shelter, food, everything that lifted him above the herd, and handed it over. His mouth was dry.

  The Warden said, “On the outside, report to Welfare.”

  They went down together, escorted by two security men; sometimes a loser reacted badly.

  They crossed an empty courtyard, shoes echoing on concrete to a gatehouse. The Warden showed his authority. The gate opened and Wilton was pushed outside, sweat cold on his skin; a man without a future. The gate closed behind him.

  The sidewalk was crowded, yet few took notice of him. He stood, paralyzed, as men and women shuffled by. He saw blank faces. Only the young showed animation; one attached himself to Wilton.

  “What d’you got in yer pockets? Give me something and I’ll see yer to Welfare.”

  Wilton rummaged through his pockets and found a token with a hole in the center.

  “Gimme that!” A none-too-clean hand snatched the token and a small voice urged, “Come on, this way.”

  The youngster moved in a series of darting movements, working his way through the crowd. Wilton stumbled after him. The air was vile-tasting smog and made his eyes water; they passed dirty cement and boarded-over windows, broken fences, peeling paint, and crumbling walls.

  “Welfare,” his guide said, pointing. A heavy coat, too big for him, covered a thin body. “I’ll wait for yer.”

  Welfare was busy and consisted of long counters and slowly moving queues going in and going out. Clerks rubber-stamped pieces of paper.

  A sign read: New dependents report here. There was a push-button that he pressed, and a clerk appeared holding a memo.

  “Wilton?”

  He nodded, and the clerk lifted a gate. “Follow me. Change in there.” He indicated a cubicle. “You get credit on your clothes.”

  Wilton found a suit of thick plastic, one sleeve long and one short, and working boots, and returned to the clerk. There was now a printing machine on the counter.

  “Put your forearm in here.”

  He obeyed. His bare arm was locked in position and he felt a surge of heat and a stabbing pain. When he was released, a chain of letters and numbers was tattooed on his skin.

  “This is your new identity,” the clerk told him. “We no longer use names. The first group indicates your housing block and dormitory. You will report to the Job Center tomorrow.”

  His arm began to itch before he got outside, and he saw only a bleak future. His guide took his arm to read: “One Thirteen. I’m Double Seven Two—we use the last three. Let’s move, in case someone takes a liking to your bunk.”

  Wilton—in his head, he still clung to his name—tried to keep up with his guide, but he wasn’t used to walking in heavy-duty boots.

  “Here.” He saw a tower block, old and defaced; the hall smelled of garbage. Double Seven Two pointed at the stairway. “Bit of luck you’ve got a lower floor. See you here tomorrow.”

  Wilton understood when he looked for an elevator and read the faded and dirty notice: Out of Order. The stairs smelled worse than the hall and, when he paused on a landing to get his breath, a rat bared its teeth. It was a long time since he’d climbed even one flight of stairs, but eventually he reached his dormitory.

  The room was long and narrow, with a row of beds down each side, some occupied by old men staring at the ceiling. He perched on his allotted bed and eased off his boots. What now?

  Too much had happened too quickly and he was bewildered. The Job Center—surely he could find some way of improving his prospects? After all, he was no down-and-out like those around him. He had a lot of varied experience behind him, and could do more than survive…he’d almost dozed off when the clamor of a bell roused him. Fire?

  Unlikely. Men rose up slowly and shuffled to the doorway; he followed them down the stairs and along a passage, where an unappetizing smell suggested a dining hall. It reminded him he’d hardly eaten anything today. He joined a queue.

  At the serving counter he collected a small tray, a soyaburger and a plastic cup of imitation coffee. The long tables were crowded and, by the time he found a seat, his meal was cold.

  In his previous life he would have rejected such fare, but now he forced it down. He had to keep his strength up for tomorrow.

  * * * *

  He was up early, determined to make a show of his ability to cope. He found a shower that produced a trickle of cold water; a sliver of gritty soap scoured his skin and woke him up. Breakfast was another soyaburger, thinly disguised by an orange sauce.

  Outside, Double Seven Two escorted him to the Job Center.
Men and women filed in, and out, looking dejected. Inside a familiar sign repeated: New dependents report here.

  A clerk with a sallow skin regarded him with a malicious smirk. “I have your record here, One Thirteen, and I’ll just whisper I’m a sports fan and that Johnny Nelson was my hero.”

  He pushed a punched card across the counter.

  “This is your job chit. Report immediately. You’re already late on shift, and part of a day’s pay will be deducted.”

  Numb, Wilton showed the chit to his guide. He’d been hoping to keep quiet about signing Nelson for Pharmacie.

  Double Seven Two studied the work chit. “You’ve drawn sewer cleaning! Could be someone doesn’t like you—but this won’t last long. The job carries a higher rate of pay and extra perks, so somebody will be aiming to get you out of it as soon as they can.”

  At his assigned workplace, he was issued with overalls, thigh-high wading boots, gloves, nose-plugs and a helmet lamp. Even before he went underground, the ripe smell brought his breakfast up.

  The foreman was sympathetic. “You get used to the smell after a while.”

  Wilton followed him down a ladder to a tunnel that sloped away. Murky water swirled around his legs, rising. Even with nose-plugs, he kept his lips tight-pressed.

  Further on, the foreman indicated a hose on a drum; he uncoiled it and demonstrated its use. Wilton tried it and was knocked over by the force of the jet; he struggled up, soaking wet.

  “As you see, One Thirteen, it takes two people to hold it.”

  He spent the shift clearing blockages. “As you see, One Thirteen, we get all sorts down here, including bodies.”

  They didn’t eat or drink at all on shift; but when they came up, there was the luxury of a hot shower with scented soap.

  “One of the perks,” the foreman said, and grinned. “See you tomorrow!”

  Next day, on his way to work, he found himself surrounded by a gang of youths. Some of them had crude clubs or handmade knives.

  He stopped. “What’s this about?” he said, and licked dry lips.

  Their leader made an unpleasant sound, half a laugh, half a jeer. “We heard you killed Johnny—”