New Writings in SF 29 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Keith Bulmer

  ‘Discussion?’ the Professor was in full cry. ‘Don’t dignify your behavioural fantasies with words like discussion. Notion isn’t worthy of discussion. It belongs ... I’ll tell you where it belongs ... in a course on bloody Mythology. The werewolf and the doppelganger...’

  ‘Be quiet!’ shouted Verity.

  ‘The squirrel that is not a squirrel...’ the Professor went on relentlessly. ‘A simulacrum of a squirrel, gradually acquiring its underlying structures. You were in on this, Grey ...’

  ‘No!’ said Ed Grey, unhappily. ‘No sir.’

  ‘Where next?’ asked the Professor. ‘A rock, a tree ... I’ve noticed you spend a lot of time in the garden, Verity... and why not a human being? Why gentlemen, we’re none of us safe! This wily organism may have made a perambulating copy of any one of us!’

  ‘No, father,’ said Verity bitterly, ‘not any one ...’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked the Professor gaily. ‘Have I got it wrong?’

  ‘Adamson is quite safe,’ said Verity. ‘He could not be copied any more than a rock. He is not organic.’

  ‘This is too bad!’ exploded the Professor. ‘Adamson is my guest...’

  ‘He is a security officer,’ said Verity. ‘He is recording everything we say. I don’t care to have my projects discussed in his presence.’

  ‘Your projects ...’ the Professor shook his head in furious scorn.

  ‘In prison,’ said Verity, ‘I was interrogated by Adamson or something very like him regarding your work here at Hewbry Hall, Father. I remained silent.’

  ‘Damn it all...’ the Professor finally swallowed and shut up.

  ‘Do you know what they call this place at the Institute?’ demanded Verity, her eyes fixed on her father’s face.

  Charles Curthoys could not repress a smile.

  ‘Hubris Hall!’ said Verity. ‘The fountainhead of bloody intellectual arrogance! Hubris Hall! Ask Adamson for a gloss on that!’

  She went out of the room and they heard her run up the grand staircase.

  * * * *

  The Professor passed a hand through his hair and drained his glass. Curthoys cleared his throat nervously. Ed Grey ticked off the seconds: the poor old guys still didn’t get it.

  ‘Emotional girl...’ mumbled the Professor.’

  Brewster and Adamson rose as one man. Brewster blew out the candles, turned on the electric lights; Adamson shut the french windows and drew the curtains. Brewster nodded curtly at Ed Grey.

  ‘Get after the girl!’ he said. ‘Keep her upstairs.’

  ‘I beg your pardon...’ said the Professor.

  Brewster paid no attention to him.

  ‘You’re treating this as some kind of alert?’ asked Grey.

  ‘Absolutely!’ said Brewster. ‘Haven’t you been serviced? Liaison has gone out on this. Get after the girl!’

  ‘Brewster!’ said Professor Latham. ‘Grey is in my employ...’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Brewster.

  Ed Grey cast a despairing glance at the Professor and Curthoys, taking it in for the first time. He ran into the echoing hall. After a noisy foray up the staircase he came back to the door of the Oval Room, drew out his nifty TLD and listened.

  The Professor was warming up.

  ‘... bloody hell is going on?’

  ‘Ed Grey? ... Central Intelligence ...’ Charles Curthoys, polite and puzzled.

  ‘This is a security alert!’ Adamson came in loud and clear even through an oak door. The timbre of his voice was now definitely metallic. ‘We need Ms Latham’s paper on the squirrels at once!’

  ‘Not without an explanation!’ snapped the Professor.

  ‘Your clearance...’ pleaded Brewster.

  ‘Clearance be damned!’ roared the Old Man. ‘You want Verity’s paper. I won’t give it up without some facts!’

  ‘Vile harassment!’ exclaimed Curthoys, all of a sudden. ‘The Professor is a man of science. He was never a security risk.’

  There was a pause: Ed Grey swore he could hear Adamson’s circuits bleeping as he made an emergency adjustment.

  ‘Professor,’ said Brewster, ‘there have been firmly-authenticated “doubling” incidents at four of the meteor sites, involving... er... human beings.’

  The Professor laughed.

  ‘Mass hysteria,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to do better than that. Hoaxers. Students having a rag with ... sorry Adamson ... a few robots.’

  ‘Four sites?’ asked Curthoys.

  ‘Three, Nine, Ten and Twelve,’ said Adamson.

  ‘Three, furthest north,’ said the Professor. ‘Site on the Lammermoor. What happened?’

  ‘Rab Menzies,’ said Adamson. ‘Shepherd. Frequented the wood near the site.’

  ‘Well... go on man!’ cried the Professor. ‘Do we have to drag it out of you?’

  ‘He was seen in two places at once,’ admitted Brewster.

  The Professor uttered some sound between a laugh and a groan.

  ‘Site twelve?’ Curthoys was anxious.

  ‘David Jenkinson,’ said Adamson. ‘Local schoolmaster. Best authenticated instance. His double...’

  ‘Rabbits!’ bleated Curthoys. ‘Verity asked about the rabbits at site twelve. I gave them to Jenkinson myself.’

  ‘I remember ...’ said the Professor.

  ‘One got away!’ said Curthoys. ‘Jenkinson ... is he hurt?’

  ‘The subjects are never harmed,’ said Adamson. ‘A period of sleep or unconsciousness is usually reported.’

  ‘Professor, we must have that paper,’ said Brewster.

  ‘Very well,’ sighed the Old Man. ‘Just one more question. These doubles... what do they do?’

  ‘They leave the district,’ said Brewster.

  ‘I’ll bet they do!’ said the Professor. ‘How? By what means? Time machine? Magic carpet?’

  ‘Usually by public transport or on foot. One hired a car.’

  Adamson cleared his throat.

  ‘Site nine,’ he said. ‘Lady Celia Farmer, widow of Sir Usher Farmer, local manufacturer. Her country house is in Yorkshire, twenty miles from the site. She was seen to hire a Bentley in Huddersfield.’

  ‘Fraud was suspected,’ said Brewster. ‘A roadblock was set up. It failed.’

  ‘Special Branch,’ said Adamson with a trace of feeling. The two officers hallucinated.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no end to this idiocy!’ cried the Professor. ‘Come on... what in hell did they see?’

  ‘Two farm carts,’ admitted Brewster. ‘And a coach. A coach and six.’

  ‘Site ten?’ prompted Curthoys.

  ‘The least satisfactory,’ said Adamson. ‘Mohammed Ali Das. Pakistani student from the McCartney Polytechnic, Liverpool. He had been camping out in the area. His double was reported as taking the train to London. However the sightings were not so firm because...’

  ‘Because all Asians are alleged to look alike,’ sighed the Professor.

  ‘Correct,’ said Adamson. ‘Professor ... we must proceed with the alert.’

  The Professor spread his hands.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked. ‘Adamson ... this is a farrago of nonsense!’

  ‘Could there be...’ asked Curthoys. ‘Could there be some sort of... intelligence?’

  ‘Spores...’ said the Professor. ‘Fungus... No, it won’t do! It won’t do! What properties could be transmitted? What powers?’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Brewster.

  ‘The paper’s in the laboratory,’ said the Professor,

  ‘I must search the grounds,’ crackled Adamson. ‘Time is of the essence.’

  Ed switched off and took to the stairs. Doubling? Where did those NSO morons get that kind of nonsense? They must be putting the Old Man on. Or maybe it was a conspiracy... greenfreaks? He found Verity in the long gallery, pacing innocently in her yellow gown, as if she had just stepped down from one of the gilt frames.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Ed, did i
t strike you that those NSO men were interested in my theory?’

  ‘Not specially, honey,’ he said. ‘Oh maybe Adamson has it down on his intestines somewhere, but that’s routine.’

  ‘I don’t trust security agents,’ said Verity.

  ‘Stay cool.’

  He steered her to her own room off the gallery. It was going to be easier than he thought... she wasn’t on to anything. He couldn’t wait to get out after Adamson then put in a report. The idea of NSO pulling heavy stunts among the trees in pursuit of squirrels filled him with unholy glee.

  ‘I’ll have to get back,’ he said ruefully. ‘I kind of stormed out after you.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Verity.

  He looked round her room; it was smaller than his and dark. The sash window overlooked a brick courtyard behind the house. He offered to fetch her a joint or a tranquillizer but she refused them and lay on her bed full-length, like the sleeping beauty.

  ‘Wish I could stay...’ he whispered.

  ‘See what they’re doing,’ said Verity.

  He went out, palming the heavy key, and locked her door from the outside.

  * * * *

  Ed raced back along the gallery and headed for his own room. He paused on the dark stairs to the east wing; Adamson went by in the hall with Curthoys.

  ‘... flamethrowers?’ asked Curthoys in alarm.

  In his room Ed clambered into his track suit, changed his shoes, checked his magnum; he began reporting as he changed and he was still gabbling into the recorder as he stepped on to the balcony.

  ‘... a minor alert at present. My cover shot to pieces and Adamson searching the grounds of this stately home for an alien organism. Meanwhile England’s green and pleasant land is playing host to a bunch of these characters who ride on trains and look like you or me. Who does NSO think they are kidding? If the media get hold of this on either side of the Atlantic we are in for the biggest alien scare in a hundred and fifty years. And remember you heard it first from me, Ed Grey, the flying squirrel!’

  There was no moon but his eyes had become accustomed to the night. He could make out the tangled paths, the ruined walks, the great clumps and avenues of trees. Far away, by the wall of the kitchen garden, a light bobbed. Adamson with a torch, he guessed, or maybe the guy had a headlight. Ed swung over the rail and grasped the branch of the tree. It came easily to hand but he found himself dangling, unable to get a foothold as he had done last time. Shaking. The tree was being shaken, was shaking itself.

  ‘Hey ...!’ he was surprised by his own voice. He tried to look down, to climb back. The branch swung deliberately back and forth until he fell. He was pitched six metres to the ground and the branch seemed to droop, following him down. He felt the leaves touching his face as he lost consciousness.

  * * * *

  Five

  Curthoys fiddled with the rusted iron gate into the herbarium. He felt Adamson’s penetrating gaze shining strong as his torchlight into the shadows of the garden.

  ‘See anything?’

  ‘Quiet!’

  Adamson swung the torch suddenly over an expanse of rough grass that had once been a croquet lawn. The iron gate opened with a long, grating cry, an unbearable sound for Curthoys, worse than a fingernail on a blackboard. He stood aside and Adamson strode ahead of him into the darkness. The sage lawn bounced under their feet; the herbarium was an ancient walled garden, round and cosy as a room.

  It was separated from the kitchen garden by a crumbling wall and a newer piece of trellis. These two gardens alone had been tended and replenished. The mustard and cress that Verity planted last Wednesday flourished beside old crocks of marjoram and thyme.

  ‘I don’t know what you expect to find,’ said Curthoys. Adamson had gone off into the kitchen garden now; he could see the torchlight sweep over rows of lettuce. Curthoys pressed on, feeling his way past the gnarled rosemary bushes, until he reached the door into the orchard. He had the distinct impression that Adamson was coming to join him again when he saw torchlight on the other side of the wall. Fellow charging on ahead, going his way round with never a thought for poor mortals who couldn’t see in the dark.

  Curthoys opened the door and marched on angrily into the orchard. It had definitely turned cold. He dug his hands into the pockets of his Macduff and trudged through the trees. Something nagged at him, zoomed briefly in and out of his consciousness like a mosquito. The sky was quite light now. He had to hurry ... light growing in the sky ... in the distance a solitary cock heralded the dawn.

  The path ran uphill and Curthoys always stopped on the crest of the rise, beside an old quince. As he looked out, this morning, he heard church bells .Sunday morning... it added another dimension to his excitement. What was that poem he had been trying to remember, it began at dawn: ‘My thirtieth year to heaven ...’ Long gone, long gone, even his fiftieth year to heaven. He was fifty-seven. Best get on with it: visibility good, wind North North West, according to the windsock over the hop-field, no coppers lurking in the back lane.

  There was a car coming ... Curthoys ran eagerly down to the stile in the hedge, hoisted himself over and stood panting by the side of the road. The old green Rover drew up and the driver leaned out cheerfully.

  ‘Fine day for it...!’

  ‘Jenkinson!’ cried Curthoys in delight. ‘I had an idea you’d be along ...’

  * * * *

  There was a prolonged bleep. Brewster glanced at the Professor in embarrassment then took out his communicator. The laboratory was pleasantly warm; the computers purred in sleep. The two men sat in a pool of light on the dais while the Professor slashed and scribbled at his daughter’s paper.

  ‘What is it?’ murmured Brewster.

  The urgent quacking aroused the Professor.

  ‘Repeat!’ said Brewster. ‘What? Of course I’m recording. Adamson ...’

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked the Professor.

  Brewster held the communicator away from his ear.

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘No. There’s no question of malfunction. Come to the laboratory at once. Adamson?’

  There was no reply; Adamson had switched off. Brewster, who had been on the verge of telling Adamson to pull himself together, turned to the Professor with a stunned look.

  ‘Charles Curthoys has disappeared!’

  ‘You mean Adamson can’t find him?’

  ‘He disappeared!’ said Brewster. ‘He disappeared from sight! He vanished.’

  Professor Latham leaped to his feet with a nervous laugh.

  ‘What’s this? Another hallucination?’

  ‘Adamson?’

  ‘You can’t seriously believe that Curthoys...’

  ‘He disappeared in full view of Adamson!’ cried Brewster. ‘I believe it. I must. He is incapable of error. He has searched the area ...’

  The Professor snorted angrily and wandered off down the lab.

  ‘I wish you would not insist on his infallibility!’ he grumbled. ‘Of course malfunction is possible. If he’s not capable of human error... then it’s inhuman error.’

  ‘He was quite specific,’ said Brewster. ‘He sounded distraught.’

  ‘Going to pieces ...’ said the Professor. ‘No ... no, poor devil, I didn’t mean that.’

  He fiddled absently with a dial then blurted out:

  ‘You don’t suppose his perception could have been tampered with? Influenced?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Brewster. ‘Either that or something has “influenced” Curthoys.’

  ‘Where’s that boy?’ demanded the Professor. ‘That CIA snake in the grass. Grey, Grey... where’s he?’

  ‘With your daughter?’ suggested Brewster.

  ‘He should be here,’ said the Old Man. ‘Mounting a search.’

  He proceeded down the room, muttering, and switched on a bank of outside lights. Brewster was caught off his guard. When the professor came abreast of the glass doors he slid them apart suddenly and marched out into the garden.

  �
�Curthoys?’ he gave an echoing shout. ‘Charles? No time to play hide and seek!’

  Instinctively Brewster sprang down the room after him.

  ‘No Sir! Stay here!’

  The Professor strode on along the broad path of an overhead light. He was heading for a particular tree, his Talking Oak, that he had fitted with an intercom and a garden seat to amuse Verity. He looked to right and left, half expecting Curthoys to emerge from the encircling gloom, a bit dishevelled, with leaves clinging to his overcoat. It was hardly the weather for a coat, he decided: a balmy summer night without a hint of the rain that had been threatening. The light, the moonlight, was extraordinarily bright; it silvered the tops of the young trees and the formal garden beds. There was a smell of freshly turned earth. He walked directly to the intersection of two gravelled paths and surveyed the unblemished façade of Hewbry Hall.