The Tomb and Other Stories

by Stanley Salmons

  The Thanusian had risen. He made some sort of visible internal effort, which actually increased his height.

  “Ambassador Coryx… I welcome you here… in the name of the Thanusian peoples.”

  The words came in short bursts, accompanied by a visible deflation. I couldn’t understand why it demanded such an effort. Was he unwell? He went on in the same halting vein:

  “This is your first visit, and so our customs and the way we govern our affairs may seem strange to you. You must understand that we have evolved our system over thousands of years. We live in peace and harmony, with each other and with our environment. We have a stable population, and a stable planet. Not many cultures have achieved such a balance. Therefore we welcome contact with other civilizations but we have no wish to be influenced by them. At the same time, we recognize that mutual understanding is essential to peaceful co-existence, and so we bid you welcome. We are not given to extravagant gestures but we offer you this banquet as a small token of our good will.”

  He sat down, exhausted. I took the phones off, just in time to hear a high-pitched squealing from all around the table. I suppose it was some sort of acclamation.

  I put on my translating mic and stood up. The sea of featureless faces that turned in my direction was very disconcerting.

  “Your Excellency. I thank you for your most generous hospitality. I bring you friendly greetings from the United Worlds. We have long had an interest in your planet – naturally so, because the atmosphere and climate are similar to our own. Of course we have no wish to influence your civilization, which we greatly admire. There are, however, ways in which I believe we can help one another. We have commodities and technologies that are lacking here. On the other hand, you have some natural resources that are in short supply in our own world. I hope we can come to an agreement on trade that will be mutually beneficial. I look forward to further dialogue with you in the coming days, and to our good relations in the future.”

  I sat down in the midst of further squealing – more subdued this time, I thought.

  With the speeches over, they brought out the food. An identical platter was placed in front of each of us. On it were some large muddy-coloured spheres, and some small spheres, some yellow, some green, some deep red. They rested on a bed of what looked like brittle grass.

  “What have we here?” I asked the Ligurian Ambassador.

  “The grassy stuff is a kind of thin reed that grows everywhere. It’s got quite a bit of silica in it, so it’s fairly tough. The rest are all molluscs. You eat them with the shell.”

  That was all right. I like molluscs. But I usually extract them.

  “Are the shells hard?”

  “No, they’re quite thin. Calcium isn’t abundant here; the shells are their main dietary source. Nothing goes to waste; you’ll find that out soon enough. Now listen: the proportions on your plate are the precise proportions in which they occur on this planet, and you must be careful to eat them in exactly those proportions. You’ll cause great offence if you don’t. Anything that’s rare gets eaten less; anything that’s plentiful gets eaten more. That’s one of the ways they’ve been able to maintain a balance with their environment.”

  The molluscs were full of yellow and green juices but I found them quite delicious. I was careful to follow the Ambassador’s advice. To keep it simple I ate everything.

  I asked the Ligurian why the Thanusian’s speech had taken so much out of him.

  “The speech was solely for your benefit. Thanusians normally communicate telepathically. Only a few have mastered speech, purely for the purpose of communicating with other civilizations. It’s not easy for them, you see. They don’t have proper lungs – only air sacs. Most of their respiration takes place through the skin.”

  “I see. Is that why they wear so little clothing?”

  “Yes. Normally they’d wear even less. These are their ceremonial clothes.”

  After the meal everyone simply dispersed. After what the Ligurian had said, I realized no offence was intended. They’d be communicating with each other all right, and for all I knew they’d even wished us a telepathic goodnight. Anything more would have been far too much effort.

  The plan was for me return to my ship overnight; negotiations would start in the morning. The Ligurian and I both got up to leave and I thanked him for his invaluable advice.

  He said, “Things have gone well. You have made an auspicious beginning, my friend.”

  At the ship my two wives were waiting for me. We touched beaks to greet each other, then we flowed into the Leisure Centre where we stayed for some time, our eight arms touching, enjoying the sex and sharing with each other all the things I’d seen and learned that day.

  The Procession

  Alfred Severs died the day after Yom Kippur, and his funeral was held the following day. There was a modest turnout, mostly friends from the synagogue – those who were still alive, because Alfred was ninety-five when he died. He had lived a full life. His wife Dora and two brothers had predeceased him, but he enjoyed his three children and six grown-up grandchildren, even if he could no longer remember their names from one minute to the next. His recall of earlier years was, however, quite uncanny and he would scratch his small grey beard and tell them about the sweet shop that used to be on the corner of Turner Street, the man who came round on a tricycle sharpening knives, how packed the shul was every Shabbos, and so on. He never spoke of his service in the Great War. If anyone asked him, he’d change the subject or say, “Better you shouldn’t know.” But on one such occasion his eldest son, Marcus, had noticed the haunted look in his eyes. Marcus could only imagine what those eyes had seen: the black, splintered trunks of headless trees where proud forests once stood; a churning moonscape of mud where there had been pleasant meadows blushing with field poppies; a sky blotted out by a pall of smoke; teenage soldiers, far from the tearful embrace of their families and girlfriends, their boots heavy with clay, their uniforms darkened by rain and the sweat of fear, their nostrils filled with the smell of cordite and death; the “one last push” that would be the last only for them, leaving their mutilated bodies in the serried ranks of graves in France and Belgium. Alfred Severs was of that generation. Marcus sometimes wondered if his father had always carried a burden of guilt because he returned and his comrades didn’t.

  At the Shiva following the funeral, friends and more distant relatives filed past the family seated on the traditional low chairs, offering words of condolence. “I can’t believe it, Marcus,” Alfred’s long-time friend Sidney Abrams said. “Only Yom Kippur I saw him, after Shul. He looked well – come to think of it I never saw him looking so happy.”

  Marcus nodded. He understood why.

  It was in the middle of the day, just before the Torah reading. The procession was leaving the ark when his father suddenly said, “Look at them all.”

  “What are you talking about, Dad? – it’s only Stanley and Ellis with the Safers, and the wardens, as usual.”

  “No,” he said, pointing, “behind them.” And as the procession passed, “See, it’s Monty Samuels, and Bert Davies, and Moshe Lazarus, and …” He must have seen the expression on his son’s face. “What’s the matter? There, in their khakis, with their tallisim round their necks.”

  And a cold shiver had run down Marcus’s back when, later on, the same names were read out during Yizkor, the remembrance service, the names of those members of the community who’d made the ultimate sacrifice: Montague Samuels, Albert Davies, Moses Lazarus… He’d glanced at his father, but Alfred’s face was a picture of serenity.

  Sidney opened his hands. “I don’t know. He must have repented all his sins. Anyway, look, I wish you long life.”

  They shook hands, and Marcus gave him a sad smile.

  No, Sidney, it’s we who should repent. The ones who sent young men like that to their deaths.

  And still do.

  [First published in Together, Magazine of the Liverpool Old Hebrew Congregation,
May 2010]

  Roadhogs

  The lasers are just drawing new graphics on the photoreactive ceiling of Mimi’s Space Bar when Klein and Brendan come in. Klein’s silver jumpsuit reflects red, green, and blue off the ceiling as he ambles in. He’s spotted Jurgen and me, already up at a dispensing table, and they join us.

  “Man, you gotta hear this.”

  “What’re you having” I say to Klein. “A green?”

  “No, an amber. Cheers.”

  I raise my eyebrows at Brendan, who settles for a blue. I hook out the charge tag that’s hanging round my neck and pass it over the sensor on the table. Then I touch the small screen and the drinks circulate through the tubes and into the straws in each place. Klein sucks noisily for several minutes before speaking. Now I think about it he looks a bit shaken, even behind the silver make-up..

  I look at him expectantly. “So? What happened?”

  “Bastards,” he says it sideways to no one in particular. Then he belches, looks up and kind of comes into focus.

  “We’re skimming down Aero 4, right? Doing, what, 150 or 200 ks? There’s this dimbug in front, doing about 50 ks with the wheels out.”

  We smirk. Dimbugs are frightened of going too fast or too high. They travel real slow about two metres up, without retracting their wheels, and get in the way big time.

  “So I decide to do the overpass, right?”

  Jurgen and I grin.

  “Nice and close, so my downforce will bounce him on the tarmac. I do it just great, except he doesn’t move.”

  Jurgen stops grinning. “Man,” he says, “only way to manage that is increase downforce suddenly, but it’s gotta be to the split second.”

  “Right. So I’m thinking, this is no dimbug. And then I see the red line go out from his chariot and I think: shit, a megalaser, it’s got to be the fuzz or a real badman. The converter icon comes up on my screen with the sad face. He’s blown a hole in my energy converter! I floor the pedal but it just goes blehhh.. and I have to pancake on the magnacrete. Shit, man, I don’t even have time to get the wheels out! Must’ve made a real mess of the underpaint job.”

  “So the guy pulls level and he says through the intercom, ‘Lower your canopy.’ I’m twitchy, because if I do I’m a sitting duck, and if I don’t he’ll maybe melt it open with the laser. So while I’m getting the wheels down I say to him, ‘Let me see your badge.’ He holds something shiny up in his canopy, so I figure it must be a cop. To make sure I bring the side camera round, but by the time I’ve zoomed in he’s put it down again. Then he says, ‘Open your canopy or I’ll do it for you the hard way.’ And then Brendan… you tell him, Brendan.”

  “Well, I’m looking round and I see the dish antenna on the back of this guy’s chariot turning that way and this. And I think to myself: he’s out of juice!”

  We lean forward and nod. Those big lasers take a lot of energy. The guy must have run his store down, and he’s looking for a satlink, a boost off one of the ground stations via satellite reflector.

  “So I say to Klein, ‘He’s bluffing. He’s looking for an energy fix. Split, man.’ And he does. Does he ever!” Brendan is shaking his head and chuckling in disbelief.

  Klein takes up the story. “Yeah, well I punch the display and my energy store is like brim full, man. With the converter out I can’t use hydrocarbon, see, but I can go like shit on the pure stuff. So, man, I’m outa there. The jerk tries to follow, but he’s gotta burn HC so he’s trailing real bad. Then I dive down Subterra 17 and come out on Cityway 5 travelling the other way, so I shake him off easy.”

  Klein takes another suck at his straw but the doser is empty. He leans back. “I parked at the indoor hover down on State, just in case. Good satlink there, but that fucking converter’ll have to be changed.”

  Jurgen frowns. “You hooked up to a satlink?”

  “Sure, why?”

  He gives a short laugh. “Those things read the ID, man. You’re busted.”

  There’s a moment’s silence, then Klein grins sort of one-sided and says, “Hey, good thing it was your chariot I borrowed, then.”

  Jurgen blinks, then he reaches across and grabs Klein by the neck of the jumpsuit.

  And that’s when the cops come in.

  A Fantastic Painting

  Val selected a fine brush and added one more highlight to the water. Then she stood back and examined the painting critically.

  The river looked convincing; the reflections shimmered nicely. Should she put more detail in the trees? No, that would be distracting; right now they helped to focus attention on the water. She tilted her head to one side. Why was she analyzing it? She knew when it felt right. She could almost enter the scene, stand there on the river bank, listen to the burbling of the water over the stones, the whispering of the wind through the leaves, the mewing of the buzzard that she’d allowed to soar there, high above the trees. Yet still she wasn’t satisfied. What exactly was it?

  Human interest, that’s what it lacked. It needed a figure – she reversed the brush and pointed – right there. Man or woman or child? Did it matter? Yes, it did – woman, definitely. She brightened. Of course. She’d put herself in it. That made sense.

  She worked with enthusiasm and a few brush strokes later stood back again to survey the effect. Then she looked more closely, blinking.

  The figure was walking unhurriedly towards the river. It stopped and placed one foot on a rock.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Val said hoarsely.

  The painted version of Val turned her head and shot her a disdainful look. “I’ve moved,” she said.

  “I can see that. Why?”

  “I think it works better this way.”

  “Well I considered putting you there but I think it works better where I painted you.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Look, who’s the artist here?”

  “I am!” They said it together.

  Several seconds passed.

  Val took a deep breath. “There’s only one way to resolve this.” She opened the door. “George, where are you?”

  “Sitting-room, dear.”

  “Could you come here a moment?”

  George appeared in the doorway, a newspaper dangling from one hand. Val gestured at the easel. “Take a look,” she said.

  He came round, viewed the painting from a distance, then examined it more closely. Val followed his gaze, fiddling nervously with the brush.

  “Fantastic painting!” he said.

  She glanced sharply at him, but his expression was one of admiration, not astonishment.

  “That’s you in there, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yes. What do you think?”

  He nodded. “Very good. Adds a bit of human interest.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She pointed with the end of the brush. “I did consider putting the figure over here, with one foot on the rock.”

  “No, it works better where you have it.”

  “My feelings exactly,” Val said, addressing the painting with something of an edge in her voice.

  “Lovely, well done,” George said. He looked at his watch. “Shall I make some coffee?”

  She put her brush down and wiped her hands on her working coat. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it. I’m all finished here.” Again she directed the remark to the painting with a strong emphasis on “finished”.

  “Okay, if you’re sure.” George made for the door.

  Val bent forward, lowered her voice, and said to the figure: “Now I’m going for a coffee. Don’t you dare move while I’m away.”

  “What was that?” George said.

  “Nothing, dear. Just coming.”

  She shot a last, suspicious glance at the painting, then followed George out of the door.

  A few minutes later they were sitting down in the kitchen, drinking their coffee. She drank hers quickly, then got up.

  “Er, I’d better get back. Got to clean my brushes.”

  She hurried in
side, closed the door behind her, and looked at the painting.

  Val saw with relief that Val was where Val had painted her.

  Only now she was sitting down with a flask of coffee.

  Something in the Cellar

  I raced up the steps from the cellar, turned, slammed the door, and leaned heavily against it, eyes closed, red curtains pulsing in time with the banging in my chest.

  I waited there for the door to shudder under my trembling fingers. Darkness pressed in all around me and perspiration chilled on my forehead. Minutes passed.

  I began to consider practicalities. I couldn’t stay here all night. The door, like others in the house, was of solid oak. The latch, now down, was of iron. To get out it would have to operate a handle on the other side. How intelligent were things like that? Was it all right to let go?

  I released the door ever so gently, then felt my way back up the stairs, the walls cool under my fingers. There were matches and candles in the kitchen. I lit my way to the bedroom, locked the door, and put my ear to it. The house was as quiet as a tomb.

  Tomb.

  The word sent a shiver through me. Then I straightened up.

  I love this house. I’m not going to abandon it just because there’s something in the cellar.

  *

  I lay in bed, ears straining. There were the usual scuffles in the roof space and the clicks and groans of an old house settling down for the night, but that was all. Somewhere outside an owl hooted.

  At times like this it would be reassuring to have a man around, but actually I never had much use for them. I have friends, of course, and some have husbands and partners and we all get on splendidly. I’ll overhear them talking about their children and grandchildren although they stop when I come back with the coffee because they know it doesn’t interest me. When they leave, I’m my own person again. That’s the way I like it. In fact I’ve never really felt alone – until tonight.