Maxwell thought back. Could that phrase be connected to any of those spoken by McLean? He thought it could and played the tape back to refresh his memory. He wrote down: “... a language such as English is highly redundant so that its information content is less than a synthetic language made up of letters of the English (alphabet?) ...” It fitted; although it probably wasn’t complete at the end.
There was definitely something very odd going on, here.
But what ?
The old man’s “intervention” in McLean’s dream was seemingly impossible and inexplicable. But it had happened.
And except that he now had a more or less complete sentence, he was no farther forward in his search for a solution to the puzzle. Fire—store—English. There was a fire in the English store ? The pen of my aunt—Maxwell gave a mirthless laugh at the trend of his thoughts.
He continued to watch 177 and the slowly unrolling chart. (Question: could that be the roll the boy was referring to?) McLean’s nondescript features were in repose. If the evidence could be believed, he was obviously dreaming again, when he had no natural right to be. Maxwell discarded that negative line of thought and accepted the fact that the subject was dreaming. And with something to spare, unless the mechanism working the recording pen had gone haywire. He studied the ink traces more closely and compared the various groups. Erratic though they seemed, there was order—powerful order—evident under careful analysis. However, as Maxwell didn’t know what particular dreams were allied to most of the traces, he could draw no valid conclusions.
The night-maintenance engineer poked his head round the door and asked if he wanted a cup of tea.
Maxwell yawned. “Make it coffee, Sammy, will you? Thanks.”
He listened absently to Sammy’s idle chatter as the coffee was prepared.
Sammy brought in the cups and some ginger-nuts. The engineer looked casually at the screens, then seated himself in a chair beside Maxwell’s and started to drink his coffee.
“Any word of Mrs. Maxwell, yet, Doctor?”
Maxwell dunked a biscuit and pushed it into his mouth in one piece, and followed it with a long sip of hot liquid. “Not yet. The little perisher’s had nine months to scheme and plan and no doubt it’s going to make a grandstand entrance.”
Sammy was about to reply when their attention was drawn to Screen 177. McLean was laughing in his sleep, quietly. It wasn’t an expression of amusement or gaiety. It was the type of laughter used by an aristocrat to a peasant before he has him killed; frighteningly, supremely superior.
Maxwell felt as if the temperature of his spine had plummeted to zero. That laughter, for all its softness, was the most horrible sound he’d ever heard. Sammy sensed it, too. There was terror in his eyes, and his cup rattled against the saucer as he set it down.
Maxwell’s eyes had flashed to the inked roll as the laughter started. The traces were fused solid.
“I—I think I’ll be getting back, Doctor.” Sammy’s voice was quavering, and he carefully avoided looking at the screen.
“Yes, of course, Sammy/’ Maxwell responded, striving to keep his words calm. “Thanks for making the coffee. And I’ll let you know when the baby arrives.”
But Sammy had already gone.
Although he dreamed almost continuously for the remainder of the time until morning, McLean didn’t waken until around 8 a.m.
Maxwell was feeling edgy and some of the frustration must have revealed itself in his voice, for McLean was withdrawn.
“Can you come into the office for a few minutes, Gerry?”
McLean’s glance wandered to the box of tapes under Maxwell’s arm and he nodded briefly.
In the office, Maxwell played the two tapes, all the while watching the subject’s face. There was no change of expression throughout the play-backs. And yet Maxwell sensed that there was something behind the too-close muddy blue eyes returning his scrutiny.
“Does any of that mean anything to you, Gerry?” Maxwell failed miserably in his attempt to be casual and the boy knew it. More than ever, Maxwell wished he had a cigarette. “Does it trigger off any scene, any memory ... ?” He let the question hang about in the silence.
“Not a thing, Doctor.” McLean had a flat, monotonous way of speaking, and yet he managed to convey nuances of sarcasm that inwardly riled the Director. He changed his tack and leafed through a file that happened to be lying handy.
“What kind of work do you do, Gerry?” He knew perfectly well, but he wanted to try and draw the reticent youth out.
“Labouring, mostly.” As if he had divined Maxwell’s sudden craving for a smoke, he produced a crumpled stub and lit it. Maxwell’s dark chin tightened. McLean was a most unlikable young man.
“Building sites, anything that comes along.” He hooked Maxwell’s waste-bin with a pointed toe and made a great pretence of tapping non-existent ash into it. That one has a malicious empathy, Maxwell told himself. It was an interesting point to keep in mind and might be significant in some, as yet, unknown way.
“Why did you take this particular job on ?”
“The money’s good. And it saved me being out in the rain.” He gave an exaggerated shrug and pulled heavily on the stub.
Maxwell was puzzled briefly, then he saw what McLean meant. He probably hadn’t worked yesterday—and it had been raining—but had lazed around instead. And he’d probably do the same today.
“What kind of things are you interested in?” Maxwell dropped the “Gerry”. “Hobbies, things like that.”
The muddy eyes were wary. But when he spoke, he was casual enough. “Darts, snooker, billiards, the horses, puzzles—”
“Puzzles? Crosswords, you mean?”
Scornfully: “No. Mathematical puzzles.”
Maxwell rode that one out. “You liked maths at school, then?” He put the tapes away carefully in a box.
“Top of the class every time until I left.” The voice was boastful. And not without good reason, apparently!
“Good for you,” Maxwell complimented him, standing up. “What school was that?”
“Earlton,” McLean responded, dropping the still-burning stub into the bin. “Little village outside of Shoeburyness.”
“I think you’d better put that out, Gerry, or neither of us will have any place to come to, tonight.” He walked out, not stopping to see if McLean complied with his order.
He waited at the door, the box of tapes under his arm. McLean came out hesitantly. “I—wasn’t thinking of coming, tonight.”
“Oh?” Maxwell made himself sound as if he didn’t care. ‘That’ll be all right. Plenty of other people on the list for free cash and bed. If you change your mind, come along at the same time.”
He left McLean standing there.
He’d be along, Maxwell was certain. Those tapes had intrigued him and if, as Maxwell suspected, he had some inkling of what was going on—consciously or subconsciously—he’d be back. Fervently, Maxwell hoped so.
Maxwell had a quick wash and shave and left the establishment and, taking his car, drove by the back roads to the nursing home to see how Jill was. The Matron, a small, friendly person, met him and explained that Jill had just started labour, that she was perfectly well and that he’d be informed as soon as the baby was born. He’d left his phone number, of course?
Of course.
Thanking the Matron, he went outside and sat in the car for a few minutes, gathering his wits. Pregnancy was hell for fathers! He remembered that he had data to collect from the University of London Computing Centre. As he was fairly near, he might as well pick it up. He could look at the latest results and conclusions over breakfast before he took a sleep.
He was, by now, a familiar figure to the receptionist and she greeted him brightly as he entered the spacious foyer, with its murals with themes centred around mathematical symbols.
They reminded him of McLean’s dreams.
“Any word of your son and heir yet, Doctor?” she teased him.
“My
legs are worn up to the knees with pacing up and down,” he grinned. “Seriously, it could be any time now. Labour’s started. Ah, worry! Ah, care!” Hand on brow, he left her laughing.
He made his way to the office of Dr. Jason Brown—”my parents had to atone for that surname, somehow!”—uncrowned king of the computers, knocked on the door and was called in.
“Daddy!” Brown exclaimed, on seeing who his visitor was, but inserting enough of an inflection to let him know if he were wrong.
Maxwell shook his head, smiling.
“Damn! I was bursting for a cigar. Have a seat.”
Maxwell removed a pile of files off a chair and seated himself.
Commenting that Maxwell was upsetting his filing system, Brown added, “Everything is all right, I take it?” He stopped threshing around in mountains of paper long enough to catch Maxwell’s answer, then dived in again with gusto.
Maxwell shook his head in wonder. This great bull of a man—a modern Falstaff with brains, as someone had described him—seemed more like a circus strong-man than the brilliant mathematician and computer expert that he was. He had more degrees than a heat wave of thermometers, and he could converse intelligently on most subjects at the drop of a capacitor. Brown gave a snort of disgust through hairy nostrils and abandoned the search. He sat back and stroked his voluminous eyebrows. “Just in case you’re worried, I haven’t misplaced your papers. They’re right here.” Lifting them out of a drawer, he passed them over.
Maxwell thanked him. “Jason—perhaps you can help me.” After sketching in the background, he played over the two tapes, then said, “I’m stabbing at random, Jason: is there anything that strikes a chord to you in either or both of these tapes? I’m sure that what he described in the dreams was, in some way, significant and progressive. The partial sentences obviously have some meaning. But what? Any ideas?”
Brown took a cigarette. He didn’t offer the box to his friend. He said, “I’d have to think about it, of course, but at first sight, it’s all Greek to me. The two lots of key words could have any of a wide number of meanings, and to guess at any particular one without having the sentences complete and in their context-” His meaning was clear.
“I can’t help looking downcast,” Maxwell replied, “although I realized that, at this stage, there isn’t enough to go on. I was hoping that your wide and varied experience of computer programmes might have enabled you to come up with something.” He returned the tapes to the box.
“I don’t have direct supervision over the programmes. By that I mean that I don’t see them at every stage. I get called in if something goes wrong and see that everything runs smoothly. What’s your next move?” Jason was sympathetic.
“I’m going along to McLean’s school, to have a chat with his old teacher. It might help. McLean said he might not come back to the establishment, but I think he will. He’s as intrigued as I am. He knows that something strange is afoot, and he wants to find out what.”
Rising, he concluded, “Thanks for listening, Jason. If you do think of anything, you know where to find me.” They shook hands.
* * * *
Three
By the time he’d driven to Earlton he’d worked up quite an appetite. He stopped the car in a small, cobbled square, neat and clean, and went into a tea-shop and found a window that gave him a view of the sea. He was the only customer—three women had just left—and the owner was inclined to talk. After he’d demolished a generous plateful of crisp bacon and eggs and exchanged a few pleasantries, Maxwell asked, “Do you know a young man called Gerry McLean ? I believe he went to school hereabouts.”
A distinctly guarded expression replaced the previous one of open good cheer on the proprietor’s round healthy features. “I know him.” He clicked his yellowed dentures thoughtfully. “Been in trouble again, I suppose?”
Maxwell helped himself to a piece of toasted brown bread and spread it with the butter and marmalade so liberally supplied. He didn’t show that this little revelation surprised him. “As a matter of fact, no, he isn’t.”
“I didn’t think you looked like a policeman,” the man remarked candidly, relaxing.
“I’m a doctor,” Maxwell explained.
“Oh, he’s ill, then? I always thought he was a bit—you know.” He made circular motions with a finger at his forehead.
Maxwell detected a slight trace of malicious glee in the man’s comment. He didn’t bother to alter the impression. “He’s been attending me,” he went on ambiguously, crunching noisily on the crisp toast. “It was something that came up during consultation that brings me down here.”
The proprietor’s small shrewd eyes lit up at this. Maxwell let him think what he was thinking. McLean wouldn’t care, anyway. Obviously, he hadn’t been liked here and the feeling had probably been mutual.
“I hear he was very good at figures...” He let the man take this up, if it meant anything to him. It did, but not in the way Maxwell expected.
“Oh, yes!” the man said with relish. “He liked figures all right ... both kinds.”
Maxwell maintained an interested silence and poured himself some more strong tea. He wasn’t one to stem the tide when it was running for him.
The proprietor sat down astride a chair and winked broadly. “Cherchez la femme, you know.” Maxwell said he did, and waited for the rest. The atrocious accent did nothing for Anglo-French relations. It was surprising, he reflected, what people picked up on day-trips across the Channel.
“I know,” Maxwell repeated, encouraging him and lending the impression that they were both men of the world.
This made the proprietor expansive. “McLean worked here for a time. He was so good at figures that he managed to get at my books and he helped himself to a considerable amount of money. Then there was the girl I employed as a temporary waitress during the summer seasons—she used to come here from Southend, curvy piece, she was—well, he got her into bother-”
“About the embezzlement,” Maxwell interrupted, upending the large tea-pot, only to find that it contained barely half a cup, “you called in the police, I suppose?”
Lifting the pot, the man said evasively, “Why, no. But that’s another story.” He went off to fetch more tea.
Well, well, well, Maxwell thought to himself while he waited. Mr. McLean must have been quite a boy! And he thought he had a good idea as to why the police hadn’t been called in. The look in the man’s eye when he’d mentioned the waitress meant, unless he missed his guess, that the proprietor had been paying her attention, and McLean had probably caught him at it. Nice people. At least he had a little more evidence for McLean’s mathematical ability.
The man returned, the determined set of his jaw warning Maxwell that the subject was closed. He put the pot down on the mat, asked perfunctorily if Maxwell wanted any more toast and, getting a negative answer, disappeared into the kitchen. Some of the locals came in, seated themselves and scrutinized the stranger.
Maxwell nodded to them civilly, finished his tea and while he was paying his check, found out the whereabouts of the village school. It wasn’t hard to find. The day was pleasant and he decided to walk.
He could tell before he reached the school that it was playtime. The noise was an excellent clue. When he rounded the corner, he noted that there were many more children running about than there ought to be, but some of them were probably under school age and had gone into the playground to join in the fun. He fielded a ball and slung it back at a thin little boy, then asked him who the headmaster was.
“That’s me,” a warm voice said from the school doorway. “I knew by the sudden silence that a stranger was here. Can I help you in any way? Please come in.”
Maxwell followed the headmaster, a man of around sixty, who wore a crumpled grey suit and a patched, but clean shirt—probably a widower, Maxwell judged—and found himself in the dominie’s room. The chair he was given was very old and shiny, as if it had been used by generations of anxious parents. Or were anxious
parents a symptom of modern times? Maxwell didn’t know.
“The name’s Dix. Headmaster here for twenty-nine years.”
“I’m Edward Maxwell. Doctor,” he added.
Dix already had him weighed up, Maxwell felt sure. Headmasters were such omnipotent persons! At least his had always known when he had been doing something he shouldn’t; which was often. He grinned slightly.
“Old memories, Doctor?” the headmaster said with sly gentleness.
Maxwell laughed openly and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Dix. Schooldays really were the happiest days.”
“But that’s not what brought you here. Smoke if you want, by the way.”
New Writings in SF 5 - [Anthology] Page 2