New Writings in SF 9 - [Anthology]

by Edited By John Carnell

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  Pete looked at him quizzically. “I? Not the good old company we? What is it—homework?”

  “You could call it that. I found it in my garden this morning.”

  “That’s the worst of these cheap seeds—you never know what’ll come up.”

  “One of these days they’ll find a pile of ash in your furnace.”

  “Only my jest, lad. What do you want me to do?”

  “Find out what it is. What it’s made of, at least.”

  “Certainly. The lab is in one of its rare periods of redundancy. What do you think the red light was in aid of ? I will subject this objet trouvé to the most minute analysis, known to man. It won’t look so pretty, though, by the time I’ve finished with it.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got eight more in the car.” He turned at the door. “How long will it take?”

  “Depends. I’ll give you a buzz.” Pete was stroking the thing in his hand as if it were a pet. “Funny feel it’s got.”

  * * * *

  The buzz came at a quarter to five that afternoon. Bryan went back to the lab. Pieces of the golden object were strewn over a bench, parings of it in dishes, the largest piece a complete half sheared clean across like a cut apple.

  Pete read off from a notepad:

  “It’s solid and homogeneous. An alloy, of course—zinc, magnesium, copper, traces of beryllium and caesium. Nothing extraordinary in the way of properties. Except for the odd feel of it, but that could be only a by-product of its manufacture. Which, to me, is the most interesting thing about it.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I described it as solid, and so it is—in a way—i.e. it’s not hollow. But it’s got a specific gravity of only half what it should have by analysis. It’s a kind of foam metal.”

  “There is such a thing?”

  “As shorthand for various processes—yes.”

  “Would it have any practical use?”

  “Difficult to see any. It isn’t particularly hard or of high tensile strength. In brief, I can’t see why anybody would have made the alloy in the first place. Nor cast it in this particular, admittedly cute but completely unfunctional— as far as I can see—shape.”

  “Well—thanks anyway.” Bryan turned to go. He had reached the door when Pete called after him.

  “One small thing I forgot to mention, but it was the first thing I did. Ran over it with a geiger counter. It’s clean.”

  * * * *

  Bryan got home to find Gwen in the garden. He caught sight of her orange smock moving among the trees at the bottom, and he walked down the cracked stone path to her. It was so overgrown with moss that his shoes made little noise. He was quite close to her before she heard him. She straightened up with a start.

  “Oh, Bryan, it’s you!”

  “Who did you think it was?” He kissed her. “Botanizing?”

  She smiled wanly. “No, just——” She faltered. “What happened about the—the things?”

  He tried to sound offhanded. “Oh, them. Pete analysed one. Simple enough alloy. He couldn’t identify the process of manufacture. And he had about as much idea of what they could be as I have. That’s about all. Oh—and they’re not radioactive.”

  The last sentence didn’t sound so reassuring, somehow, as he intended it to be.

  “What have you done with them?”

  “What do you mean, done with them? They’re still in the car. Except for the one that Pete cut up.”

  “Get rid of them, Bryan. I------”

  “What’s the matter, honey? They’re quite safe. Eight hunks of metal. They’re locked up in the boot.”

  She shivered. “I don’t want them around the place any longer than I can help. Promise you’ll get rid of them tomorrow.”

  He put his arm around her and led her gently back towards the house. “All right. It’s odd, I admit that. One of those unexplainable things. But it’s nothing to be upset about. If you’re worried because somebody got into our garden in the night—well, whoever it was didn’t do any harm. And”—he laughed—”if we’ve got some funny kind of ghost, just tell yourself that in a few weeks’ time we move into a brand-new house. And new houses don’t have ghosts.”

  She snuggled against him. “Don’t mind me. I know I’m being silly.” They reached the back door. “But you will get rid of them tomorrow?”

  “Promise. In Pete’s furnace.” He exaggerated a small gesture of annoyance for her benefit. “No, I can’t do that. Tomorrow’s Saturday. The place will be closed. But I’ll get rid of them.”

  * * * *

  In the morning he drove his wife into town.

  Framley was a New Town, planned from the first brick. Land prices had been fixed to tempt industrialists and their employees away from London. Clean Air For Your Children—100% Home Loans—Why Commute?—the slogans had gone out, backed by battalions of figures. And the first firms had moved in—Keld Industries among them, and Bryan Dudley of Keld Industries Accounts.

  The shopping centre—all terrazzo and traffic-free avenues and slab glass and fountains and brave new statuary—was opened. Town-planning experts came to admire and make notes and depart to set up Framleys in Nigeria and New South Wales and Anatolia. Now, with one year gone and two to go, the programme was getting into top gear, Framley spreading furiously over the surrounding countryside to its appointed boundaries. Soon the last of the houses of the old village would be demolished before the bulldozers. Ring roads were being pushed through, with helicopters whirring overhead and mobile traffic lights being shunted across the landscape like pieces in a giant chess game. Every other day Bryan had to make a new detour on his way to the office.

  He parked the car now, arranged to meet Gwen in an hour and left her to go shopping. He got the carton from the back of the car and set off with it under his arm. He wasn’t sure just how he intended disposing of its contents. He leaned over the barrier round an excavation site and was tempted simply to drop the carton into the mud beneath. But there were too many people about. Besides, he felt that it would be somehow anti-social.

  He walked on, and had passed the shop before the idea solidified.

  He turned back and looked in the window. It was filled with lamps, ashtrays, table mats, prints of Red Horses, the odd Klee, Blue Period Picassos. It was a brand-new shop and its sign read The Modern Home Gallery, but underneath in small letters: (formerly The Nook) and he remembered the old shop, all chintz and warming pans. It was a miniature symbol of the change that had been wrought in Framley. After a moment’s hesitation he walked in.

  A reedy man in a velvet jacket came forward.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Perhaps you can.” Bryan set the carton down on a glass-topped table and took out one of the things. “Thought you might like to stock a few of these.”

  The other looked slightly pained. “But what are they?”

  “Nice shape, don’t you think?” Bryan countered blandly.

  The proprietor grimaced. “Don’t tell me—it’s a thing. When you ask people what it does and they say look at the shape, it’s a thing. Well, I’ve got plenty of things. Young people just moving in want functional objects first.”

  “Like Picasso prints?”

  “Great art has an aesthetic function,” the other said primly. “But this ...”

  “Feel it,” Bryan said, thrusting it into his hand. The man gave a small start at the touch of it, but soon proffered it back to Bryan.

  “Not a bad shape. Perhaps it would fit in a modern setting, but as I said------”

  “You don’t have to buy them, just take them on sale or return.”

  “Hm-mm.” The other turned it over in his hand. “How much?”

  Bryan thought quickly. If one put too cheap a price on something people were inclined to be suspicious. “Four guineas apiece to you. You can choose you own selling price.”

  The other looked really pained now. “For a piece of metal?”


  Bryan picked up a Swedish glass shape and turned up the price sticker on its base. “Six guineas for a piece of glass?”

  The man sighed. “How many have you got?”

  “Eight.”

  “All right. But only on sale or return. What’s your name and address?”

  Bryan gave it to him and got out quickly.

  * * * *

  The telephone rang at six o’clock that evening. Bryan answered it.

  “Hello. Mr. Dudley? This is the Modern Home Gallery. Those—er, things—have you any more?”

  “Don’t say you’ve sold them all ?”

  “No, but there’s been quite a little run on them. I’ve two left, but five people have said they’re coming in next week to buy one.”

  Bryan blinked. He hadn’t thought seriously that they would be merchandise ... not to that extent.

  “Can you supply more?” came the voice from the other end. “Three dozen, say?”

  “Well... they’re craftsman-made,” Bryan said, telling his conscience that they must be. “I can’t hold out any immediate prospects, but...” He was glad to get off the line.

  He pondered, sorry that he couldn’t tell Gwen. He had told her that he had got rid of the things, without saying how. She might think that loading them on to an art-and-craft shop was an evasion of a promise. Gwen was inclined to be literal-minded. Then he smiled at a sudden thought. Eight times four was thirty-two guineas. If he couldn’t tell her, he could surprise her. A new dress for the house-warming party ... ?

  * * * *

  It was he who got the surprise, the next morning. He got up to make the coffee, as he always did on Sundays. He put the percolator on, drew back the kitchen blinds—and blinked. There—in the garden—was a whole cluster of the things.

  He thought quickly. Gwen had been still sleeping when he got up. He turned the percolator down, threw on a coat and went out into the garden. He piled the things into a wheelbarrow, counting roughly. One load was over sixty. He had to make three journeys to the garage, stowing them into the boot of his car. Then he went back to the house.

  “Where’s the coffee, darling?” came his wife’s voice from upstairs. “You’ve been down ages.”

  He exhaled in relief. “Just coming, sweetie.”

  It was only while they were drinking coffee together that he began to think clearly. He had been moved only by the need to get rid of the things before his wife saw them. But now he began to see the possibilities of the affair. You didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, nor ponder too long on the mysterious—not when you would soon be moving into a new house, with all its attendant expense. If one small shop in one half-built town could order three dozen of the things, then he shouldn’t have any difficulty in selling two hundred. And two hundred times four ...

  * * * *

  He drove in to the Modern Home Gallery in his lunch hour the next day, feeling pleased with himself. He had packed three dozen of the objects into a carton. He walked in briskly.

  “Well, here we are,” he called out. “Three dozen you ordered, I believe?”

  The proprietor came forward with a curious look on his face.

  “Quick work, isn’t it, three dozen in a weekend? For craftsman-made objects ?”

  Bryan felt a quick disquiet. “Well, maybe I don’t actually make them. They’re more”—he remembered Pete’s very accurate description of the things—”objets trouvés. They’re still highly saleable merchandise, evidently.”

  “And highly trouvable, too,” the other said, looking sour. He slid back doors. There, on shelves, stood row on row of the golden things. “Those turned up on my drive some time last night. Five hundred of them.”

  Bryan tried to make the best of it. “Well, all you’ve got to do is advertise nationally. Maybe the source of supply is mysterious, but------”

  “And it’s unpredictable. So is demand in this trade.” He grimaced. “Here’s a cheque for twenty-four guineas.”

  “How about these?”

  “You can leave them if you want to—on the same sale or return terms. But I’m not guaranteeing any price.”

  “But------”

  “Take it or leave it, Mr. Dudley.”

  Bryan took it.

  When he got back to his office the switchboard girl called out to him, “Message for you, Mr. Dudley. Your wife rang up twice. She wants you to get back home as quick as you can. She sounded pretty upset.”

  He didn’t stop to phone, but got straight back in his car and drove the five miles back to their house as fast as earth-moving machinery, ramps and traffic signals would allow.

  Their house stood on its own at the end of a rough road. The road curved just before it got to the house. As he turned the bend, already anxious, he got such a shock that the car, hitting a bad spot at that moment, almost got out of his control.

  He eased it to a stop—and stared.

  He could hardly see the house for golden metal. It was like the house in the fairy story that thorns grew over and covered. But this was covered in ... there must have been millions of the things, all stacked up and forming a wall feet thick. And the thorns in the fairy story had taken years to smother the house. This had happened in the few hours since he had left that morning.

  He ran towards the house, calling, “Gwen! Gwen!”

  Her face appeared at one of the bedroom windows. Her voice was hysterical. “It went all dark suddenly. I went to open the front door ... and they came flooding into the hall.”

  “Hold on, darling. I’ll soon get you out.”

  He tore at the barrier to the front door, the things raining about his head. He went more carefully as the stacks on each side threatened to fall upon-the path he was clearing. Finally he got to the door. He picked his way over a mound of the things in the hall. Gwen stood on the landing, shaking.

  He dashed upstairs and took her in his arms.

  “There, there. They can’t hurt you.” He led her back to the bedroom. “Sit down while I get you a drink.” He came back with two large whiskies. “Now, take a good swig. When you’ve got over the shock, get a few things packed. I’ll fix up somewhere for a night or two. And I’ll chase up the builders and see if they can’t get a couple of rooms, at least, ready in the new house. Meanwhile I’ll report this to the police.”

  She was recovering by now. She even managed a wan smile. “And what will you tell them?”

  “I’ll simply tell them that------” He broke off.

  “Exactly. When I couldn’t get you I started to dial the police, but...”

  “I see what you mean. But I’ll have to report it. It’s up to them what action they take. But there’s something awfully funny going on. They might even be------”

  He stopped.

  “Even be what ?”

  “Nothing.” He had had the thought that they might be some kind of secret weapon—and that was the last thing to say to her. It was absurd, anyway. They couldn’t be dropped from the sky as neatly as this. And they seemed harmless enough. Pete had had one apart, hadn’t he? Or had that only been a dummy run ? And these ...

  He thrust the thought from his mind. “You get packed while I call the station.”

  He dialled. He told the facts briefly. The voice at the other end said, “I’ll see what we can do. But it sounds more like a civil case. Trespassing, or violation of privacy.”

  Thank the Lord for the mental processes oi the law! Bryan thought gratefully. Even something as weird as this they translated into mundane terms. The touch of normality was reassuring. They probably thought he was some kind of a crank or practical joker.

  “All right, I’m not asking you to do anything. I just want you to put this on record.” He had to press his name and address on his reluctant auditor.

  He rang off and then called the hotel in the old village of Framley. It would be closed when the new green glass monster in the New Town was ready, and its present capacity was severely strained, he knew, with all the people coming to the t
own. He wasn’t optimistic. But he was lucky; they had had a cancellation.

  Gwen came in with her bag packed. He flung a few of his own things into a holdall and they tiptoed out of the house to the car.

  He felt Gwen relax beside him as they turned the bend out of view of the house. He lit a cigarette. It had been raining, off and on, but now the sun broke through, raising steam on the road. He turned to smile reassuringly at his wife, then reached to switch on the radio. A Viennese orchestra playing Strauss ...

  “Watch out!” Gwen screamed.