by Brian Aldiss
‘You have no faith in me because I come from a small tribe,’ he muttered.
‘No, Priest,’ the girl said. She came and stood before him. ‘You see – in Forwards we have known of the ship and its journey through space for a long while.’
Marapper’s jaw dropped.
‘Then – the Captain of the ship – you have found him?’ he managed to say.
‘The Captain does not exist. He must have made the Long Journey generations ago.’
‘Then – the Control Cabin – you have found that?’
‘It does not exist either,’ the girl said. ‘We have a legend of it, no more.’
‘Oh?’ said Marapper, suddenly wary and excited. ‘In our tribe even the legend of it had faded – presumably because we were further from its supposed position than you. But it must exist! You have looked for it?’
Again Scoyt and Vyann looked at each other; Scoyt nodded in answer to an unspoken question.
‘Since you appear to have stumbled on part of the secret,’ Vyann told Marapper, ‘we may as well tell you the whole of it. Understand this is not general knowledge even among the people of Forwards – we of the élite keep it to ourselves in case it causes madness and unrest. As the proverb has it, the truth never set anyone free. The Ship is a ship, as you rightly say. There is no Captain. The ship is plunging on unguided through space, non-stop. We can only presume it is lost. We presume it will travel for ever, till all aboard have made the Long Journey. It cannot be stopped – for though we have searched all Forwards for the Control Room, it does not exist!’
She was silent, looking at Marapper with sympathy as he digested this unpalatable information; it was almost too ghastly to accept.
‘. . . some terrible wrong of our forefathers,’ he murmured, drawing his right index finger superstitiously across his throat. Then he pulled himself together. ‘But at least the Control Room exists,’ he said. ‘Look, I have proof!’
From under his dirty tunic, he drew the looker containing circuit diagrams and waved it at them.
‘You were searched at the barriers,’ Scoyt said. ‘How did you manage to retain that?’
‘Shall we say – thanks to a luxuriant growth of underarm hair?’ the priest asked, winking at Vyann. He had them impressed again, and was at once back on form. Now he spread the small looker on the Inspector’s desk and pointed dramatically to the diagram he had previously shown Complain; the little bubble of the Control Room was clearly indicated at the front of the ship. As the other two stared, he explained how he came by the looker.
‘This object was made by the Giants,’ he said. ‘They undoubtedly owned the ship.’
‘We know that much,’ Scoyt said. ‘But this book is valuable. Now we have a definite location to check for the Control Room. Come on, Vyann, my dear, let’s go and look at once.’
She pulled open a deep drawer in her desk, picked out a dazer and belt and strapped them round her slender waist. It was the first dazer Marapper had seen here: they were evidently in short supply. He recalled that the Greene tribe was so well armed only because old Bergass’s father had stumbled on a supply of them in Deadways, many decks from Forwards.
They were about to leave when the door opened and a tall man entered. He was dressed in a good robe and his hair was worn long and neat. As if respect were due to him, Scoyt and Vyann drew themselves up deferentially.
‘Word has come to me that you have prisoners, Master Scoyt,’ the newcomer said slowly. ‘Have we caught some of Gregg’s men at last?’
‘I fear not, Councillor Deight,’ Scoyt said. ‘They are only three wanderers from Deadways. This is one of them.’
The councillor looked hard at Marapper, who looked away.
‘The other two?’ the councillor prompted.
‘They are in Cell Three, Councillor,’ Scoyt said. ‘We shall question them later. Inspector Vyann and I are testing this prisoner now.’
For a moment, the councillor seemed to hesitate. Then he nodded and quietly withdrew. The priest, impressed, stared after him – and it was rarely the priest was impressed.
‘That’, Scoyt said for Marapper’s benefit, ‘was Councillor Zac Deight, one of our Council of Five. Watch your manners in front of any of them, and particularly in front of Deight.’
Vyann pocketed the priest’s circuit looker. They left the room in time to see the old councillor disappear round the curve of the corridor. Then began a long march towards the extremity of Forwards, where the diagram indicated the controls to be; it would have taken them several sleep-wakes to make the distance had it been uncharted and overgrown with ponics and their attendant obstacles.
Marapper, engrossed though he was with future plans – for the discovery of the ship’s controls would undoubtedly put him in a strong position – kept an interested eye on his surroundings. He soon realized that Forwards was far from being the wonderful place that Deadways’ rumour painted, or that he had supposed at first sight. They passed many people, of whom a good proportion were children. Everyone wore less than in Quarters; the few clothes they had looked washed and neat, and the general standard of cleanliness was good, but bodies were lean, running to bone. Food was obviously short. Marapper surmised shrewdly that being less in contact with the tangles, Forwards could count on fewer hunters than Quarters, and those perhaps of inferior quality. He found also, as they progressed, that though all Forwards, from the barriers at Deck 24 to the dead end at Deck 1, was under Forwards’ sway, only Decks 22 to 11 were occupied, and they but partially.
As they passed beyond Deck 11, the priest saw part of the explanation for this. For three entire decks, the lighting circuits had failed. Master Scoyt switched on a light at his belt, and the three proceeded in semi-darkness. If darkness had been oppressive in Deadways, it was doubly so here, where footsteps rang hollow and nothing stirred. When they circled into Deck 7, and light shone falteringly again, the prospect was no more cheerful. The echo still followed them and devastation lay on all sides.
‘Look at that!’ Scoyt exclaimed, pointing to where a section of wall had been cut entirely away and curled back against the bulkheads. ‘There were once weapons on the ship which could do that! I wish we had something that would cut through a wall. We should soon find our way into space then.’
‘If only windows had been built somewhere, the original purpose of the ship might not have been forgotten,’ Vyann said.
‘According to the plan,’ Marapper remarked, ‘there are large enough windows in the Control Room.’
They fell silent. The surroundings were dreary enough to annihilate all conversation. Most doors stood open; the rooms they revealed became increasingly full of machines, silent, broken, smothered under the dust of generations.
‘Many strange things of which we have no knowledge happen in this ship,’ Scoyt said gloomily. ‘Ghosts are among us, working against us.’
‘Ghosts?’ Marapper asked. ‘You believe in them, Master Scoyt?’
‘What Roger means,’ Vyann said, ‘is that we are confronted with two problems here. There is the problem of the Ship, where it is going, how it is to be stopped; that is the background problem, always with us. The other problem grows; it did not face our great-grandfathers: there is a strange race on this ship that was not here before.’
The priest stared at her. She was glancing carefully into each doorway as they went by; Scoyt was being as cautious. He felt the hair on his neck bristle uncomfortably.
‘You mean – the Outsiders?’ he asked.
She nodded.’ A supernatural race masquerading as men . . .’ she said. ‘You know, better than we, that three-quarters of the ship is jungle. In the hot muck of the tangles, somewhere, somehow, a new race has been born, masquerading as men. They are not men; they are enemies; they come in from their secret places to spy on us and kill us.’
‘We have to be always on the look-out,’ Scoyt said.
From then on, Marapper also looked in every doorway.
Now the layout ch
anged. The three concentric corridors on each deck became two, their curvature sharpened. Deck 2 consisted of one corridor only with one ring of rooms around it, and in the middle the great hatch at the beginning of Main Corridor, sealed forever. Scoyt tapped it lightly.
‘If this corridor, the only straight one in the ship, were opened up,’ he said, ‘we could walk to Sternstairs at the other end of the ship in less than a wake!’
A closed spiral staircase was now the sole way forward. Heart beating heavily, Marapper led them up it; the Control Room should be at the top if his diagram spoke truth.
At the top, a dim light showed them a small circular room, completely unfurnished, floor bare, walls also bare. Nothing else. Marapper flung himself at the walls, searching for a door. Nothing. He burst into furious tears.
‘They lied!’ he shouted. ‘They lied! We’re all victims of a monstrous . . . a monstrous . . .’
But he could think of no word big enough.
II
Roy Complain yawned boredly and changed his position on the cell floor for the twentieth time. Bob Fermour sat with his back to the wall, rotating a heavy ring endlessly round a finger of his right hand. They had nothing to say to each other; there was nothing to say, nothing to think. It was a relief when the pug-ugly on guard outside thrust his head round the door and summoned Complain with a few well-chosen words of abuse.
‘See you on the Journey,’ Fermour said cheeringly as the other got up to go.
Complain waved to him and followed the guard, his heart beginning to beat more rapidly. He was led, not to the room where Inspector Vyann had interviewed them, but back along the way he had first been brought, into an office on Deck 24, near the barricades. The ugly guard stayed outside and slammed the door on him.
Complain was alone with Master Scoyt. The alien investigator, under the increasing pressure of the trouble piling up about them, looked more eroded than ever. As if his cheeks ached, he supported them with long fingers; they were not reassuring fingers; they could be cruel with artistry, although at present, resting against that haggard countenance, they seemed more the hands of a self-torturer.
‘Expansion to you,’ he said heavily.
‘Expansion,’ Complain replied. He knew he was to be tested, but most of his concern went on the fact that the girl Vyann was absent.
‘I have some questions to ask you,’ Scoyt said. ‘It is advisable to answer them properly, for various reasons. First, where were you born?’
‘In Quarters.’
‘That is what you call your village? Have you any brothers and sisters?’
‘In Quarters we obeyed the Teaching,’ said Complain defiantly. ‘We do not recognize brothers and sisters after we are waist high to our mothers.’
‘To the hull with the T—’ Scoyt stopped himself abruptly, smoothing his brow as one who keeps himself in control only by effort. Without looking up, he said tiredly, ‘How many brothers and sisters would you have to recognize now if you did recognize them?’
‘Only three sisters.’
‘No brothers?’
‘There was one. He ran amok long ago.’
‘What proof have you you were born in Quarters?’
‘Proof!’ Complain echoed. ‘If you want proof, go and catch my mother. She still lives. She’d love to tell you all about it.’
Scoyt stood up.
‘Understand this,’ he said. ‘I haven’t time to coddle civil answers out of you. Everyone on shipboard is in a damn beastly situation. It’s a ship, you see, and it’s headed nobody-knows-where, and it’s old and creaking, and it’s thick with phantoms and mysteries and riddles and pain – and some poor bastard has got to sort it all out soon before it’s too late, if it’s not already too late!’ He paused. He was giving himself away: in his mind, he was the poor bastard, shouldering the burden alone. More calmly, he continued. ‘What you’ve got to get into your head is that we’re all expendable, and if you can’t make yourself out to be any use, you’re for the Long Journey.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Complain said. ‘I might be more co-operative if I knew which side I was on.’
‘You’re on your own side. Didn’t the Teaching teach you that much? “The proper study of mankind is self”; you’ll be serving yourself best by answering my questions.’
Earlier, Complain might have submitted; now, more conscious of himself, he asked one more question: ‘Didn’t Henry Marapper answer all you wanted to know?’
‘The priest misled us,’ Scoyt said. ‘He has made the Journey. It’s the usual penalty for trying my patience too far.’
When his first stunned reaction to this news was over, Complain began to wonder about its truth; he did not doubt the ruthlessness of Scoyt – the man who kills for a cause kills almost unthinkingly – but he could hardly bring himself to believe he would see the garrulous priest no more. His mind preoccupied, he answered Scoyt’s questions. These mainly concerned their epic trek through Deadways; directly Complain began to explain about his capture by the Giants, the investigator, non-committal bill now, pounced.
‘The Giants do not exist!’ he said. ‘They were extinct long ago. We inherited the ship from them.’
Although openly sceptical, he then pressed as hard for details as Marapper once had, and it was obvious he slowly began to accept Complain’s narrative for truth. His face clouded in thought, he tapped his long fingers on the desk.
‘The Outsiders we have known for enemies,’ he said, ‘but the Giants we always regarded as our old allies, whose kingdom we took over with their approval. If they do shill live somewhere in Deadways, why do they not show themselves – unless for a sinister reason? We already have quite enough trouble piled up against us.’
As Complain pointed out, the Giants had not killed him when they might conveniently have done so; nor had they killed Ern Roffery, although what had become of the valuer remained a mystery. In all, their role in affairs was ambiguous.
‘I’m inclined to believe your tale, Complain,’ Scoyt said finally, ‘because from time to time we receive rumours – people swear they’ve seen Giants. Rumours! Rumours! We get our hands on nothing tangible. But at least the Giants seem to be no threat to Forwards – and best of all, they don’t seem to be in alliance with the Outsiders. If we can tackle them separately, that’ll be something.’
He lapsed into silence, then asked, ‘How far is it to this sea where the Giants caught you?’
‘Many decks away – perhaps forty.’
Master Scoyt threw up his hands in disgust.
‘Too far!’ he said. ‘I thought we might go there . . . but Forwards men do not love the ponics.’
The door burst open. A panting guard stood on the threshhold and spoke without ceremony.
‘An attack at the barriers, Master Scoyt!’ he cried. ‘Come at once – you’re needed.’
Scoyt was up immediately, his face grim. Half-way to the door, he paused, turning back to Complain.
‘Stay there,’ he commanded. ‘I’ll be back when I can.’
The door slammed. Complain was alone. As if unable to believe it, he looked slowly round. In the far wall, behind Scoyt’s seat, was another door. Cautiously, he went over and tried it. It opened. Beyond was another room, a small antechamber, with another door on the far side of it. The antechamber boasted only a battered panel containing broken instruments on one wall, and on the floor, four packs. Complain recognized them at once as his, Marapper’s, Bob Fermour’s and Wantage’s. All their meagre belongings seemed to be still there, although it was evident the kit had been searched. Complain gave it only a brief glance, then crossed the room and opened the other door.
It led on to a side corridor. From one direction came the sound of voices; in the opposite direction, not many paces away, were – ponics. The way to them looked unguarded. His heart beating rapidly, Complain shut the door again, leaning against it to decide. Should he try to escape or not?
Marapper was killed; there was no evidence he also would not b
e as coolly disposed of. It might well be wise to leave – but for where? Quarters was too far away for a solitary man to reach. But nearer tribes would welcome a hunter. Complain recalled that Vyann had mistaken his group for members of some tribe that was raiding Forwards; in his preoccupation with their capture, Complain had scarcely taken note of what she said, but it might well be the same gang that was besieging the barricades now. They should appreciate a hunter with a slight knowledge of Forwards.
He swung his pack up on to his shoulder, opened the door, looked left and right, and dashed for the tangle.
All the other doors in the side corridor were shut, bar one Instinctively, Complain glanced in as he passed – and stopped dead. He stood on the threshold, transfixed.
Lying on a couch just inside the room, relaxed as if it were merely sleeping, lay a body. It sprawled untidily, its legs crossed, its shabby cloak rolled up to serve as pillow; its face wore the melancholy expression of an over-fed bulldog.
‘Henry Marapper!’ Complain exclaimed, eyes fixed on that familiar profile. The hair and temple were matted with blood. He leaned forward and gently touched the priest’s arm. It was stone cold.
Instantly, the old mental atmosphere of Quarters clicked into place round Complain. The Teaching was almost as instinctive as a reflex. He snapped without thought into the first gesture of prostration, going through the ritual of fear. Fear must not be allowed to penetrate to the subconscious, says the Teaching; it must be acted out of the system at once, in a complex ritual of expressions of terror. Between bow, bemoan, obeisance, Complain forgot all zest for escape.
‘I’m afraid we must interrupt this efficient demonstration,’ a chilly female voice said behind him. Startled, Complain straightened and looked round. Dazer levelled, two guards at her side, there stood Vyann. Her lips were beautiful, but her smile was not inviting.
So ended Complain’s test.
It was Fermour’s turn to be ushered into the room on Deck 24. Master Scoyt sat there as he had done with Complain, but his manner was openly more abrupt now. He began, as he had with Complain, by asking where Fermour was born.