The Space Machine

by Christopher Priest

  vi

  With a shudder I flung aside the bloodied knife, and hauled myself past the sagging corpse to the door. I struggled through with some difficulty for my hands were slick with blood and ichor. At last I pulled myself back to the roof, breathing in the thin air with relief, now that I was away from the rank odours of the monster. The hand-bag was where I had left it on the roof.

  I picked it up, and, because I should need free use of my hands, looped one of the long handles over my neck.

  For a moment I stared down at the ground. For as far as I could see in every direction those slaves that had survived the massacre had abandoned their toils and were wading through the mud towards the tower. Some had already reached dry land, and were running across to me, waving their long spindly arms and calling out in their high, reedy voices.

  The leg nearest me seemed to be the straightest of the three, bent in only one place. With the greatest difficulty I eased myself over the protruding shelf, and managed to grip the metal limb with my knees. Then I released my hold on the platform, and placed my hands around the rough metal of the leg. Much blood had spilled from the platform, and although it was drying quickly in the sunshine it made the metal perilously slippery. With great caution at first, then with more confidence as I grew accustomed to it, I shinned down the leg towards the ground, the hand-bag swinging ludicrously across my chest.

  As I reached the ground and turned, I saw that a huge crowd of the slaves had watched my descent and were waiting to greet me. I took the bag from around my neck, and stepped towards them. At once they moved back nervously, and I heard their voices twittering in alarm. Glancing down at myself I saw that my clothes and skin were soaked with the blood of the monster, and in the few minutes I had been in the sunlight the radiant heat had dried the mess and an unpleasant smell was exuding.

  The slaves regarded me in silence.

  Then I saw that one slave in particular was struggling through the crowd towards me, pushing the others aside in her haste. I saw that she was shorter than the rest, and fairer of skin. Although she was caked in the mud of the weed-bank, and raggedly dressed, I saw that her eyes were blue, and bright with tears, and her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

  Amelia, my lovely Amelia, rushed forward and embraced me with such violence that I was nearly toppled from my feet!

  “Edward!” she shouted deliriously, covering my face with kisses. “Oh, Edward! How brave you were!”

  I was overcome with such excitement and emotion that I could hardly speak. Then at last I managed a sentence, choking it out through my tears of joy.

  “I’ve still got your bag,” I said.

  It was all I could think to say.

  Chapter Fourteen

  IN THE SLAVE-CAMP

  i

  Amelia was safe, and I was safe! Life was to be lived again! We disregarded everything and everyone around us; ignored the malodorous condition we were both in; forgot the encircling, curious Martian slaves. The mysteries and dangers of this world were of no consequence, for we were together again!

  We stood in each other’s arms for many minutes, saying nothing. We wept a little, and we held each other so tight that I thought we might never separate but become fused in one single organism of undistilled joy.

  We could not, of course, stand like that forever, and the interruption was approaching even as we embraced. Soon we could not ignore the warning voices of the slaves around us, and we pulled reluctantly apart, still holding each other’s hand.

  Glancing towards the distant city I saw that one of the huge battle-machines was striding across the desert towards us.

  Amelia looked about the slaves.

  “Edwina?” she called. “Are you there?”

  In a moment a young, female Martian stepped forward. She was no more than a child, roughly equivalent to about twelve Earth years old.

  She said (or at least it sounded as if she said): “Yes, Amelia?”

  “Tell the others to go back to work quickly. We will return to the camp.”

  The little girl turned to the other slaves, made some intricate hand and head signs (accompanied by a few of the high, sibilant words), and within seconds the crowd was dispersing.

  “Come along, Edward,” said Amelia. “The thing in that machine will want to know how the monster was killed.”

  I followed her as she strode towards a long, dark building set near the weed-bank. After a moment, one of the city-Martians appeared and fell in beside us. He was carrying one of the electrical whips.

  Amelia noticed the askance expression with which I registered this.

  “Don’t worry, Edward,” she said. “He won’t hurt us.”

  “Are you sure?”

  In answer, Amelia held out her hand and the Martian passed her the whip. She took it carefully, held it out for me to see, then returned it.

  “We are no longer in Desolation City. I have established a new social order for the slaves.”

  “So it would appear,” I said. “Who is Edwina?”

  “One of the children. She is naturally adept at languages—most young Martians are—and so I have taught her the rudiments of English.”

  I was going to ask more, but the ferocious pace Amelia was setting in this thin air was making me breathless.

  We came to the building, and at the doorway I paused to stare back. The battle-machine had stopped by the crippled tower on which I had ridden, and was examining it.

  There were four short corridors into the building, and inside I was relieved to find that it was pressurized. The city-Martian walked away and left us, while I found myself coughing uncontrollably after the exertions of our walk. When I had recovered I embraced Amelia once more, still unable to believe the good fortune that had reunited us. She returned my embraces no less warmly, but after a moment drew away.

  “My dear, we are both filthy. We can wash here.”

  “I should very much like a change of clothes,” I said.

  “There is no chance of that,” Amelia said. “You will have to wash your clothes as you wash yourself.”

  She led me to an area of the building where there was an arrangement of overhead pipes. At the turn of a tap, a shower of liquid—which was not water, but probably a diluted solution of the sap—issued forth. Amelia explained that all the slaves used these baths after work, then she went away to use another in private.

  Although the flow of liquid was cold I drenched myself luxuriously, taking off my clothes and wringing them to free them of the last vestiges of the foul fluids they had absorbed.

  When I considered neither I nor my clothes could be any further cleansed, I turned off the flow and squeezed my clothes, trying to dry them. I pulled on my trousers, but the cloth was dank and heavy and felt most uncomfortable. Dressed like this I went in search of Amelia.

  There was a large metal grille set in one of the walls just beyond the bathing area. Amelia stood before it, holding out her ragged garment to dry it. At once I turned away.

  “Bring your clothes here, Edward,” she said.

  “When you have finished,” I said, trying not to reveal by the sound of my voice that I had noticed she was completely unclad.

  She placed her garment on the floor, and walked over and stood facing me.

  “Edward, we are no longer in England,” she said. “You will contract pneumonia if you wear damp clothes.”

  “They will dry in time.”

  “In this climate you will be seriously ill before then. It takes only a few minutes to dry them this way.”

  She went past me into the bathing area, and came back with the remainder of my clothes.

  “I will dry my trousers later,” I said.

  “You will dry them now,” she replied.

  I stood in consternation for a moment, then reluctantly removed my trousers. Holding them before me, in such a way that I was still covered, I allowed the draught of warmth to blow over them. We stood a little apart, and although I was determined not to gaze imm
odestly at Amelia, the very presence of the girl who meant so much to me, and with whom I had suffered so much, made it impossible not to glance her way several times. She was so beautiful, and, unclad as she was, she bore herself with grace and propriety, rendering innocent a situation which would have scandalized the most forward-looking of our neighbours on Earth. My inhibitions waned, and after a few minutes I could contain my impulses no more.

  I dropped the garment I was holding, went quickly to her, then took her in my arms and we kissed passionately for a minute or more.

  ii

  We were virtually alone in the building. It was still two hours before sunset, and the slaves would not return before then. When our clothes had dried, and we had put them on again, Amelia took me around the building to show me how the slaves were housed. Their conditions were primitive and without convenience: the hammocks were hard and cramped, what food there was had to be eaten raw, and nowhere was there any possibility of privacy.

  “And you have been living like this?” I said.

  “At first” Amelia said. “But then I discovered I was someone rather important. Let me show you where I sleep.”

  She led me to one corner of the communal sleeping-quarters. Here the hammocks were arranged no differently, or so it appeared, but when Amelia tugged on a rope attached to an overhead pulley, several of the hammocks were lifted up to form an ingenious screen.

  “During the days we leave these down, in case a new overseer is sent to inspect us, but when I wish to be private…I have a boudoir all of my own!”

  She led me into her boudoir, and once again, sensing that foreign eyes could not light upon us, I kissed Amelia with passion. I knew now what I had been hungering for during that dire period of loneliness!

  “You seem to have made yourself at home,” I said at length. Amelia had sprawled across her hammock, while I sat down on a step that ran across part of the floor.

  “One has to make the best of what one finds.”

  I said: “Amelia, tell me what happened after you were taken by that machine.”

  “I was brought here.”

  “Is that all? It cannot have been as simple as that!”

  “I should not wish to experience it again,” she said. “But what about you? How is it that after all this time you appear from within a watch-tower?”

  “I should prefer to hear your story first.”

  So we exchanged the news of each other that we both so eagerly sought. The prime concern was that neither of us was the worse for our adventures, and we had each satisfied the other as to that. Amelia spoke first, describing the journey across land to this slave-camp.

  She kept her account brief and seemed to omit much detail. Whether this was to spare me the more unpleasant aspects, or because she did not wish to remind herself of them, I do not know. The journey had taken many days, most of it inside covered vehicles. There was no sanitation, and food was supplied only once a day. During the journey Amelia had seen, as I had seen aboard the projectile, how the monsters themselves took food. Finally, in a wretched state, she and the other survivors of the journey—some three hundred people in all, for the spider-like machines had been busy that day in Desolation City—had been brought to this weed-bank, and under supervision of Martians from the near-by city had been put to work on the red weed.

  I assumed at this point that Amelia had finished her story, for I then launched into a detailed account of my own adventures. I felt I had much to tell her, and spared few details. When I came to describe the use of the killing-cubicle aboard the projectile I felt no need to expurgate my account, for she too had seen the device in operation. However, as I described what I had seen, she paled a little.

  “Please do not dwell on this,” she said.

  “But is it not familiar to you?”

  “Of course it is. But you need not colour your account with such relish. The barbaric instrument you describe is everywhere used. There is one in this building.”

  That revelation took me by surprise, and I regretted having mentioned it. Amelia told me that each evening six or more of the slaves were sacrificed to the cubicle.

  “But this is outrageous!” I said.

  “Why do you think the oppressed people of this world are so few in number?” Amelia cried. “It is because the very best of the people are drained of life to keep the monsters alive!”

  “I shall not mention it again,” I said, and passed on to relate the rest of my story.

  I described how I escaped from the projectile, then the battle I had witnessed, and finally, with not inconsiderable pride, I described how I had tackled and slain the monster in the tower.

  At this Amelia seemed pleased, and so once more I garnished my narrative with adjectives. This time my authentic details were not disapproved of, and indeed as I described how the creature had finally expired she clapped her hands together and laughed.

  “You must tell your story again tonight,” she said. “My people will be very encouraged.”

  I said: “Your people?”

  “My dear, you must understand that I do not survive here by good fortune. I have discovered that I am their promised leader, the one who in folklore is said to deliver them from oppression.”

  iii

  A little later we were disturbed by the slaves returning from their labours, and for the moment our accounts were put aside.

  As the slaves entered the building through the two main pressurizing corridors, the overseeing Martians, who apparently had quarters of their own within the building, came in with them. Several were carrying the electrical whips, but once inside they tossed them casually to one side.

  I have recorded before that the habitual expression of a Martian is one of extreme despair, and these wretched slaves were no exception. Knowing what I did, and having seen the massacre that afternoon, my reaction was more sympathetic than before.

  With the return of the slaves there was a period of activity, during which the dirt of the day’s work was washed away, and food was brought out. It had been some time since I had eaten, and although in its uncooked state the weed was almost inedible I took as much as I could manage.

  We were joined during the meal by the slave-child Amelia called Edwina. I was amazed at the apparent grasp she had of English, and, what is more, rather amused by the fact that although the girl could not manage some of the more sophisticated English consonants, Amelia had vested her with distinct echoes of her own cultured voice. (In rendering Edwina’s words in this narrative I shall make no attempt to phoneticize her unique accent, but state her words in plain English; however, at first I had difficulty in understanding what she said.)

  I noticed that while we ate (there were no tables here; we all squatted on the floor) the slaves kept a distance from Amelia and me. Many covert glances came our way and only Edwina, who sat with us, seemed at ease in our company.

  “Surely they are used to you by now?” I said to Amelia.

  “It is of you they are nervous. You too have fulfilled a legendary rôle.”

  At this, Edwina, who had heard and understood my question, said: “You are the pale dwarf.”

  I frowned at this, and looked to see if Amelia knew what she meant.

  Edwina went on: “Our wise men tell of the pale dwarf who walks from the battle-machine.”

  “I see,” I said, and nodded to her with a polite smile.

  Somewhat later, when Edwina was no longer within hearing, I said: “If you are the messiah to these people, why do you have to work at the weed-bank?”

  “It is not my choice. Most of the overseers are used to me now, but if any new ones came from the city I might be singled out if I were not with the others. Also, it is said in the myths that the one who leads the people will be one of them. In other words, a slave.”

  “I think I should hear these myths,” I said.

  “Edwina will recite them for you.”

  I said: “You talk about the overseers. How is it that no one seems to fear the
m now?”

  “Because I have persuaded them that all humans have a common enemy. I am more than playing a rôle, Edward. I am convinced that there must be a revolution. The monsters rule the people by dividing them: they have set one group of humans against the other. The slaves fear the overseers because it seems the overseers have the authority of the monsters behind them. The city-Martians are content to support the system, for they enjoy certain privileges. But as you and I have seen, this is merely an expedient to the monsters. Human blood is their only demand, and the slave-system is a means to an end. All I have done here is to persuade the overseers—who also know the folklore—that the monsters are an enemy common to all.”

  While we were talking, the slave people were carrying away the remains of the meal, but suddenly all activities were halted by an outburst of sound: the most horrible, high-pitched siren, echoing around the inside of the hall.

  Amelia had gone very pale, and she turned away and walked into her private area. I followed her inside, and found her in tears.

  “That call,” I said. “Does it mean what I think?”

  “They have come for their food,” Amelia said, and her sobs were renewed.

  iv

  I will not recount the ghastliness of the scene that followed, but it should be said that the slaves had devised a system of lots, and the six hapless losers went to the killing-cubicle in silence.

  Amelia explained that she had not expected the monsters to visit the slave-camps tonight. There were many dead scattered about the weed-bank, and she had hoped that the monsters would have drained these bodies for their nightly repast.

  v

  Edwina came to see Amelia and me.

  “We would like to hear the adventures of the pale dwarf,” she said to Amelia. “It would make us happy.”