by Rhys Hughes
“That sounds reasonable.” She offered her hand but withdrew it when Neil raised a grubby paw. “Thumbelina Payne,” she continued. “I saw your notice in the college magazine. I’m a proofreader. It means I have first refusal on edited propositions.”
“Allow me to tidy the pad first,” he said. “It’s a bit of a mess up there. Won’t be long.” He ran up the steps, paused and whirled. “How did you flee the tavern so quickly?”
“I have my own map of The Indigo Casbah. I’ve discovered the key to each of its dimensions. The layout is based on aerial views of the city, the hidden links between various urban institutions: the horizontal maze represents the lines which connect every pub in the Student Quarter, the vertical network is an extrusion of those which unite every phone booth. Quite simple really. I come and go as I please, smuggling the outside to the castaways. Reality-legging.”
“That’s marvellous, Thumbelina.” Neil felt an acute thrill uttering a girl’s name. He repressed a giggle. “I also take food and mail inside. We are idealists, you and I. Are you a physics graduate?” He was ranting with excitement. “What do you think of neighbours who play loud music? I do not hate the decibels, I loathe the exclusion. It’s so lonely between parties. Do you drink absinthe?”
Unheeding of her answers, he entered his rooms, rolled up his shirtsleeves and began moving his clutter into the broom cupboard. His denims and comics, his spare rimless glasses and torn posters were hurled among the flasks of caustic soda, together with his dirty linen. Then he moved the kettle and coffee into the bedroom, finishing by setting the antique gramophone on a wicker bookcase, dusting it with his fringe. He returned to scrubbing the walls, his arm working furiously. He heard the creak of a floorboard above a lull in the music. She had ignored his instructions to linger downstairs. He glanced up and saw her nose twitch twice. “Just what are you doing?” she hissed.
“I’m disinfecting the room against vampires. Don’t want them coming to your bedside after midnight.”
She stepped over to the window and attempted to open it. “This sash has been cut. They can’t enter.”
“No, these are modern vampires. The old kind, the type who fly into rooms, were wiped out in 1928. That’s a little-known fact. Vampirism, of course, was merely a metaphor for syphilis. Consider the similarities: a mark on the neck, receding gums, the sexual discomfort and lethargy. The cures are similar too: insertion of wooden implements, the absorption of a metal, whether mercury or silver. When penicillin was discovered, time ran out for Nosferatu, he was obsolete as a symbol. The new vampire must personify the latest venereal diseases, the Immune Deficiency Syndromes. I envisage them as molluscs, slithering over domestic surfaces. They are contingent creatures, waiting for their victims to come to them. I’m not saying they exist here, I haven’t had an erotic incident yet, but I take precautions in case I get lucky.”
“Fascinating theory.” Thumbelina yawned. “Is this my room? I’m very tired. Do you mind leaving now? I’ll call you if I need anything. A pipe of tobacco at dawn will be fine.”
Neil replaced the rag in the alcohol jar and departed with a bow, a worry twitching in his neck. “I don’t have a pipe. Will a narghile do? I borrowed it from The Indigo Casbah some weeks ago.” He frowned. “Are you quite comfortable in here? Permit me to play some soothing tunes to lull you to sleep. Much better than that racket next door.” He tiptoed to the gramophone, wound it vigorously and fitted the needle into the groove of the disc that had rested on the turntable for seven generations. It was as if he was injecting the present into the past, forcing a syringe into the vein of false nostalgia. As the tinny warble surfed the mighty waves unleashed by the Entropy Parties, Neil was astonished to recognise it as the original song rebuilt by The Cussmothers. But the label was missing, lost in forgotten parlour action.
“That’s synchronicity,” he observed. Leaning towards Thumbelina, he said: “I’m captain of the world.”
“You have the jaw for the task. But where’s your navigator, surgeon and cook? Where’s the bosun? Or is it just you and the passengers? Don’t answer me now; the hour is late.”
In full view of Neil she removed her jacket, revealing her magnolia ribbon, the emblem of carnal purity. He swallowed, unable to control his metabolism. She scowled at him, breaking the spell, and he scurried into his new nest, the broom cupboard. Rummaging through his cardboard boxes, sifting through reserve armies of barbarians and leprechauns, he dug out his own length of cream silk. With no chance of bedding a female, he had never needed to wear the ribbon. Now it seemed a less grandiose idea; he pinned it to his collar and admired himself in a promotional mirror also filched from The Indigo Casbah, awkwardly forcing his reflection between the letters that proclaimed a hundred real ales. He was handsome enough in a blind sort of way. With Thumbelina around, the folk living opposite might assume he had a girlfriend.
Magnolia ribbons had become fashionable when the Retroactive Immune Deficiency Syndrome superseded the outmoded Acquired variety. Unlike the earlier illness, which spread through contact with infected body fluids, this improved virus was transmitted through inverted association. Once a person caught the disease, it affected not their future partners but the ones they had already slept with. Neil had seen many students sicken and die after their former lovers, often in other parts of the world, failed to exercise caution in their new love lives. Whereas casual sex had been blamed for the old epidemics, now causal sex was the culprit, a far more difficult sensual experience to avoid. Safeguards included health checks at regular intervals. Anyone who passed a rigorous screening was awarded a ribbon and a temporary sex visa.
Lying down on the bare floor, pulling soiled laundry over his frame as blankets, Neil found sleep eluded him. Noise and optimism accelerated his heart; he lit a cigarette, filling the room with carbon monoxide. He was soon feeling calmer, though his skull throbbed painfully. One day he hoped to catch something shameful. At the very least, with Thumbelina as a lodger, his ribbon would no longer be an obvious mark of virginity. He would arrange a deal with her, maybe pay her to hold his hand in public. There was monogamy as well as abstinence. He decided to try this proverb on Michael. If he could only kindle a rumour, however modest, his boring existence would be redeemed. And rumours had a habit of coming true. Who knew what his fingers might dip into when the myth of his normality grew wide enough? Michael would assist.
At that moment, he recalled his real position. It was unethical for a captain to sleep with a passenger, it might prove distracting. Sighing with disappointment, he reconciled himself to celibacy. The Earth needed all his attention; a spaceship cannot be run without constant effort. It was the sole reason for his frustration, his responsibility to the human race, and were he to shirk it he might have any woman he desired. He was determined to suffer a little longer. After all, the voyage, whatever it signified, was entering its final phase. And when a ship pulls into port it disgorges its crew into quayside pleasures: pubs which can be entered without risk of eternal entrapment and girls who accept promissory notes in exchange for physical favours. With this happy prospect for a pillow, Neil drifted off into salty sleep.
(iii)
His comrades greeted his plans to abandon his studies with indifference. The campus was awash with rival gossip. Something momentous had happened in The Indigo Casbah with the band he missed. The audience had succumbed to a mystery tune and died on its feet. Michael blamed the bass response but refused to speculate on his own survival. A battery of Environmental Health agents were assigned to the case, but they broke off contact with the outside shortly after entering an attic bar. Their short-wave radios were later discovered with dirty glasses in a bowl of soapy water behind the cyclopean jukebox that dominated the ground-level hall. Similarly, Neil’s tutors were too busy to listen to him; the Chancellor had run off with a scruffy transvestite and power struggles were surging up and down the fast-track staff corridors.
Neil met Michael on the grass embankment, where soft undergr
aduates were permitted to miscegenate. Fluffy savants puffed pungent resins that had finally arrived from incense lands; geographers digested sultana and leek sandwiches; idiorhythmics licked pages of this week’s cult novel, a Barth or Pavic. Other problems were disturbing Michael: he had accepted a commission to track down Ian, a missing philosophy student. It was the season for dropping out. The best he could offer Neil was a sullen: “But why do a thing like that?” The answer barely ruffled his eyebrows, which were the most emotive in higher education. He yawned. “I thought warrior queens and broken swords were more your sort of thing. On the whole, I’d say science fiction was healthier than your usual runic nonsense. I hope your new games are successful.”
“No, it’s true. I really am captain of the world,” Neil insisted. A speck of pollen anchored in his eye. “Look, I don’t know what my mission is, I admit it, but we’re going somewhere. Maybe you’ve got a job as one of my mates. How do you feel?”
“Underpaid for such a crucial position.”
“We’ve been travelling for billions of years. It’s an illusion, our orbit round the sun. Well, not an illusion exactly, but our course isn’t truly elliptical. It’s centrifugal energy, spinning us not through space but the spiritual dimensions. We’re going in a straight line really. The paddle of a steamboat turns on its axis to move the craft forward; Earth works like that. Our angular velocity is a propeller. And I reckon we’re close to our destination. That’s what the other planets are for! Tugs to guide us safely into harbour…”
“What sort of boat are we? A pleasure cruiser? A crippling blow for any Marxists who might be left.”
“I should think they all are.” Neil was uncomprehending. He slid on his stomach closer to Michael and rattled in his ear: “Possibly Earth is a ceremonial ship, bearing a delegation of ambassadors to a higher plane of reality. I’ve got this gut feeling, an excitement, like when you know your neighbours have overdosed.”
Michael plucked a blade of grass and forced it between his lips. It chewed his tongue as he pointed out Neil’s numerous flaws. “But why have you been chosen? You’re a pitiable individual. And what about before you were born? Was Earth leaderless?”
“The role must be passed down through the generations. The captains are not conscious of their duty.”
“A transmigration of rank? It sounds rather Pythagorean. But aren’t you underqualified for the work?”
“You’d be surprised at what counts. It’s small things that control this world, like my pewter campaigns. I thought they just helped me find my way round heterogeneous pubs, but maybe they do more than that. Moving ogres and mages displaces volumes of stale air and this obviously has an effect on society. Chaos Theory.”
Michael pondered. “I trod on a butterfly yesterday. The weather has been mild ever since.” He dribbled chlorophyll and cleaned his chin with his sleeve. “Leave college and you’ll have to register as a jobseeker at an employment centre. Have you been inside one? They make Indigo Casbahs feel spacious, cordial and wise.”
“I’m not bothered.” Neil coughed. He wanted to casually mention the girl living in his house, but no particular second seemed the right one. He broached the subject obliquely. “I met somebody last night with a new technique for exploring that dive. I know how I do it. You don’t seem to have many problems entering or leaving. What’s your secret? Could you be our planet’s official navigator?”
“Nothing so pompous. I’m a volunteer roadie for the bands. A hidden trapdoor under the stage leads into the walls. A tunnel runs all the way to the car park. It’s how the management fled when the establishment was first opened. No, I’m just a simple loser. Maybe your new friend has the responsibility? Why not ask him?”
The assumption that he knew only males depressed Neil and he burned to correct the gender of the question. But the struggle was too much and he abandoned the fight. “He’s staying in my cabin, I mean flat. He has a big pair of…” This was making things worse. “I’m trying to say that if he was a woman he’d be considered attractive. Fine personality and legs. I could go for a girl like that.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Oh yes?”
It was time to leave. A cloud settled over the low sun, turning the college into a sepia memory of itself. Neil’s ears ached; his lobes were like frying mushrooms. Despite his public egalitarianism, Michael inched away from his acquaintance, a reflexive slither. Then Neil stuttered the unfortunate question: “Are you coming out tonight?” Michael threw up his arms to hide his blushing face.
“No, but I defend your right to do so.”
Scurrying out of the college, Neil turned down Pompoir Grove, where undulating chicanes gripped unwary traffic, and then up Florentine Place toward an alley that would take him relatively near the planetarium and canal. Once over a bridge and under the Feuille de Rose tunnel, he would be home. No need to stray far from his quarters ever again. Earth needed his expertise for the docking phase. His presence would be required in a job centre at some point, there might be an interview for his claim as a shirker, but these formalities would rob him of less time than continued studenthood. He refused to look back as he left the institute forever, a cargo of emotions in his chest. A jetsam composed both of bitter regrets and sour exhilaration bobbed against his heart. He must try to think not of himself but his obligations.
His feet shuffled through charred papers. They were twirling from a tenebrous sky, pages from old books. He stooped to examine one; somebody was creeping up behind him. Suddenly he felt an excruciating pain in his buttocks. He turned to catch the diminishing form of the redheaded girl who had disrupted his game in The Indigo Casbah. She had lashed him with a bunch of roses, more thorns than petals. Though he had prayed long for such an assault, he was disturbed by the incident. His legs, against his will, broke into a sprint; his fringe swayed like a rudder. Sighing with relief, he entered Postillionage Avenue and slackened his pace. All four parties were in full swing. Even as he approached, glass shattered and a body dropped from a window. Immediately, music from that domicile ceased and grateful revellers emerged.
“Bleeding entropists!” Neil shook a diminishing fist as they jolted past. Opening his door, he gingerly crept up the steps; Thumbelina might still be sleeping. But he found her in the kitchen, ladling brochan with a spoon pulled from one of his model catapults. She handed him a chipped bowl and he paddled his tongue.
“It’s ready! How did you manage that?”
She indicated the slow cooker. “I switched it off. It’s so sluggish that it actually chills food. When I pulled the plug the brochan rose to room temperature and that finished it off. I made it for myself, but you can share some. I need a contrast to my beauty. Stand over there: on the threshold. You are malodorous.”
“Quite sure you’re not my appointed chef?”
Thumbelina scowled. “I have a higher role than that. Do I look like a menial worker? I’m esteemed.”
Neil clapped his hands. Lukewarm soup crusted his knuckles. “I knew it! Michael suggested you were my navigator. He’s a friend of mine, I do have a couple. Well, not friends exactly but they talk to me. They don’t think my game playing is serious. I told him about my theory and he said it was better than Pythagoras.”
“I remember him. He was opposed to beans.”
Attempting a wink, eyelid closing like a suitcase, tears of delight locking it fast, Neil struggled to remain calm. “Have you completed your calculations? Was it difficult steering us round asteroid belts and Oort clouds? May I see your charts? I bet they don’t look much like maps. You probably didn’t even know what your job was until recently. Anything you do might be what sets our course: maybe proofreading is really adjusting our progress through eternity.”
Thumbelina toyed with her dinner. “Your life resembles a tune which can be forgotten twice. This is reality, Neil. Scuttle your speculation, it’s getting us nowhere fast.”
He tapped his glasses with a finger. “Nice joke. I always enjoy the banter of a competent office
r.”
“Well, just suppose that everything you say is true? Where is Earth headed? Don’t give me that ambassador nonsense. You’re no diplomat; only a mineral could ever find you charming. And we’re not a private yacht. I recommend you take a closer look at our planet. Consider its topography, geology and recreational facilities. This is no luxury-liner. It lumbers in the void like a tub of skiffle, graceful lines sacrificed to maximise volume. It’s a working vessel.”
Neil was aghast. “What are you saying? This is a commercial venture and not an idealistic mission?”
“If Earth is an artificial craft, it must be a cargo-ship. A tanker of some kind. Why else adopt the spherical shape? Think about our goods. What lies in the hold? Billions of gallons of the stuff, worth a fortune on the interspiritual markets.”
He looked at his worn shoes, at the grimy floor, and then his fancy drilled into the floorboards, passed through the downstairs party, under the house, into the foundations, among pottery shards, deeper and deeper beyond human fossils, into strata of insensate evolution, finally poking a lobe through the crust and entering the mantle. “Hot!” he breathed. He decided it was hotter than: a goblin blacksmith’s furnace; the lightning that jumps from the wand of a patronising wizard; the oasis between the tattooed thighs of a barbarian princess from a remote northern province. (Barbarians come always from up north. The other cardinal points must be literate; rarely do they steal jewels from inaccessible towers or combat snake-gods in circular sarcophagi.) With a shudder, Neil’s fancy stopped in a swirling, bubbling turmoil.
“Molten rock. Lava, I mean magma…”