Danger, Religion!

by Brian Aldiss

  “Leave this fellow to me,” I told Mark.

  As the overseer came up, with a “What do you gentlemen want, pray?” on his lips, I swung a metal tray from a table at my right hand. The edge of it caught him clean across the bridge of his nose, and he dropped as if dead, without a cry. I saw he had a yellow disc between his shoulder blades.

  “I’ll get the other foot-kisser,” Mark said, clapping my shoulder as he passed.

  There were thick-handled mops standing in buck­ets against one wall. I seized one and ran it through the handles of the doors into the hall. That would hold them temporarily. Another pair of swing doors led to a scullery; I fixed them in the same way. Another door led from the kitchen, a wide door giv­ing on to a courtyard. Pushing a great wooden table, I smashed it against the door and jammed it shut. For a moment, the kitchen was ours!

  Turning, I saw that Mark had settled with his overseer. By now the slaves had grasped the fact that something was happening. They stopped their various tasks and stood gaping at us. Grabbing a butcher’s knife lying on a bench, I jumped up on to the bench and shouted to them.

  “Men, you can all be free! It’s a man’s right to be free! Better to die than be a slave! Arm yourselves and help us fight those who oppress you. You are not alone. If you help us, others will help you. Now is the time for revenge. Arm yourselves! Fight for your free­dom! Fight for your lives!”

  I saw Mark turn to me in amazement and horror. Even more surprising was the response of the wretch­ed subs. They knotted together in fear, gazing at me as if I were about to slaughter them. I waved my arms and bellowed at them again. A hammering at the hall doors roused them. Crying, they rushed for it and began to try and tear away my mop, each imped­ing the other in their anxiety.

  Jumping down among them, I pushed them back.

  They were flimsy and frightened, falling away from my blows.

  “I’m trying to help you! Are you cowards? Don’t let them in—they’ll kill you. You know they’ll kill you. Barricade the doors with the tables! Strike for free­dom!”

  All they did was shrink back. A few uttered a sort of unvocalized cry. Mark roughly grabbed my arm.

  “Sherry, by my shrine, you’re crazy! These dogs are born slaves! Dregs! Outcasts! Scum! — Useless to us! They won’t fight! — Slaves never do unless they have tasted better days. Leave them, let them be butch­ered! Arm yourself and let’s get out of here.”

  “But Mark, the whole idea “

  He shoved a great bunched fist under my jaw, swinging it without touching me in time with his words.

  “The idea is to overturn this rotting World Church! I know where my duty lies—it lies with the free, not with the servile! Forget this greasy-armed scum! Grab a bigger knife and move. Let’s get out of here!”

  “But we can’t leave these people....”

  “You liberal fool, we can and we will! They’re dirt, not people!”

  He ran across to a long lead sink and pulled a heavy chopping knife from it, tossing it to me. As I caught it, he again bellowed at me to move. His fighting blood was up, his face was scarlet. By now, the ham­mering on the kitchen door had grown in volume. They would be breaking in at any moment. The slaves cowered in a group nearby, watching Mark and me anxiously. Some crossed themselves. I turned and ran after Mark.

  He pointed to a large service elevator in one corner. We rushed to it.

  “It only leads upstairs!”

  “That’ll do. Get in and haul on the rope!”

  We jumped into the cumbersome contraption. It could be maneuvered from inside by the ropes that supported it.

  “Hey, stop! Wait for me!”

  At the shout, both Mark and I turned. The overseer I had laid out with the tray was staggering toward us. “Let me join you,” he said. “I’d sooner die than carry on as I am. I’ll fight on your side. I’m for you!”

  “You’re an overseer. We don’t want you!” I said. “No, wait,” Mark said. “He is a promoted slave, isn’t that right, fellow? They have plenty of fight in them because they’ve learned the difference between bet­ter and worse. Climb in, man, and be welcome. You can show us the layout of this infernal place.”

  The overseer jumped in beside us and helped us haul on the ropes. We creaked up into darkness. As we bent to the task, Mark said, “We want church police uniforms as quickly as possible. Then we can walk out of die building unnoticed!”

  “Och, that should be easy enough,” grunted the overseer. “Friends, whether we meet with death or daylight, my name’s Andy Campbell, and I’m glad to be in your company.”

  “We’re Mark and Sherry, and that tray was not delivered in anger.”

  “Man, I’d thought you’d cut my skull into two pieces! I must work off my sorrow on a churchgoer as soon as possible.”

  He hadn’t long to wait before he did that. We emerged on a poorly lighted landing; a portly man in gaiters and some sort of ecclesiastical garb was passing the hatchway. As he turned, saw us, and opened his mouth to shout, I was on him. He gave a shout before I could bring him to the ground, and a police officer appeared almost immediately. I’ll never forget his look of horrified surprise as he rounded the corner and came upon three wild men. He went for his gun far too late. Andy was there, sinking a steel blade through his jacket, through his chest, into his heart. He died with a look of surprise still frozen on his face.

  “Ah, blood of the bull, neatly done, my noble lads!” Mark exclaimed, smacking his fist into his palm. He pulled open a nearby door, and we dragged the two bodies into the room. A wood fire burned in an old-fashioned grate. It looked as if the occupant of the room might be back shortly.

  “We’ve got two good sets of clothing here,” I said. “You two climb into them if they’ll fit. I’ll see what’s going on outside. I’m sure you wouldn’t want anyone to catch you with your trousers down.”

  The portly man in gaiters was unconscious. Andy gagged him before beginning to strip off his clothes.

  Prowling in the corridor, I could hear a din from below, rising up the elevator shaft. We were in the thick of trouble, and the knowledge delighted and excited me. When I got to the head of the stairs, I heard footsteps and knew someone was almost at the top of them, ascending rapidly but quietly. A sort of broom closet on wheels stood near me; hurriedly I slid behind it, into the shadows.

  Whoever it was had gained the landing. A sort of fury to attack—based perhaps on fear—overcame me. I heaved the closet away from the wall and flung myself out. Falling, the closet struck the newcomer, sending him spinning against the wall. I was at his throat and had my thumbs deep in his windpipe before I realized it was Rastell.

  “Mark!” I called. Mark appeared almost at once, and we dragged Rastell into our room and shut the door. Mark drew his knife.

  “Don’t kill him, Mark. I know him.”

  “Know him? He’s our enemy, Sherry. Let me skewer him and you can wear his uniform. It looks about your size.”

  “Aye, skewer him, or I will,” Andy said. “Death to the Church!”

  “Leave him alone,” I said. “His name’s Rastell. He’s okay. We’ll strip him and leave him tied up here, but I won’t see him killed.”

  “Well, hurry up,” said Mark, and he and Andy lowered their knives. They were disguised now, their own clothes tossed on to the floor.

  Rastell’s face had turned ashy. He made no protest as I dragged off his jacket and trousers. I hated to see him look so craven.

  “Remember what you said, Rastell? ‘Men spend large parts of their lives awaiting a challenge.’ Well, here it is!”

  He did not answer a word. As I tugged his garments on I turned to Mark.

  “What’s the plan? They’ll be searching this floor any moment.”

  “These Church people aren’t efficient or they’d never have failed to post guards over us in the hall. They had no particular reason to think we should be friendly. But they can get mobilized against us more quickly than we can gather a force together ag
ainst them. So we must leave Edinburgh.”

  “Hey, devil’s luck, there’s a police car outside! We could steal that and join the rebellion in London, if either of you can drive,” Andy Campbell said. He was over by the window, peering out at the back of the building.

  “In my matrix, transport is publicly owned, and I’m no driver,” I said.

  “In mine, one learns to drive as part of the initia­tion rites at puberty,” Mark said. Going to stare down at the car with Andy, he said, “We’ll try it! Hurry up and get those clothes on, Sherry. But we won’t try for London. We must leave Edinburgh the way we came—by the portal machines. The one that brought me here was up on Arthur’s Seat, and there were others beside it. Well drive there at once. Once we get back to our own worlds—Andy, you come to mine with me—we muster aid there, then reappear in Lon­don and join the rebellion, armed and properly prepared to fight. My government would welcome the chancel”

  I was sure my government would not, vitiated as the nation’s resources were after a long war, but in outline Mark’s plan was a good one. It was no time to argue over details. Having buttoned up Rastell’s tunic over my chest, I ripped a length of cord from the blind on the window and tied Rastell to the bars at the back of the cumbersome sofa. As I finished doing this, something creaked in the corridor. We all three turned to the door at once.

  “It’s the elevator going down!” Andy exclaimed. “Come on, Sherry, they’re on to us!”

  With a whoop, Mark grabbed a heavy rug that lay before the fire. Burying his hands in it, he seized the fire basket out of the fireplace and ran with it blazing and smoking out of the room. He flung it; and burning logs, basket, and rug went flying down the shaft after the elevator. Hardly pausing, he ran to the top of the stairs with us after him. We raced down together.

  A half-dozen church police, revolvers at the ready, came charging along the lower corridor. We met’ them at the bottom of the stairs. Before Mark could do anything rash, I gripped his arm and called to the police, pointing wildly back up the stairs as I did so, “Quickly, they’re up there—second floor! Six of them! Cover them while we go and get the hoses!”

  The police burst past us, galloping up the stairs. The look of delight on Andy’s face! As we ran to the rear exit, we could hear screams from the direction of the kitchen. I wondered if the elevator was on fire or if the slaves were being lashed for letting us through.

  We broke out into a courtyard, under surveillance from a hundred windows. Although it was dark, several subs were about, unloading meat from a van, lighting their way with long, waxy torches. Nearer to us stood the car we had seen from the upper window; a policeman in the black and white uniform sat at the wheel holding a paper, but looking uneasily about. As I wrenched open his door, he flung the paper in my face and fumbled for his gun. Yelling like a savage, I threw all my weight on him, knocking him sideways across the seat, springing on top of him. Andy had piled into the back seat. His hands came over to grasp the wretched man around the neck. At the same moment, the gun exploded.

  Its noise, breaking only a foot away from my ear, seemed almost enough to kill me by itself, though the bullet tore through the roof. The man was struggling violently under me, but for the present I could do nothing; all fight had gone out of me. I lay across the policeman while Andy choked the life out of him.

  While they were struggling, Mark started the car. His hands ran all over the controls as he tested their functions. The vehicle bucked violently. He cursed it, then it moved forward. In a daze, I saw what hap­pened next.

  Two police officers came dashing out of a doorway slightly ahead of us. The gunshot had brought them. They were armed only with short swords. Without a pause, they both jumped onto the running board on the near side of the car. Some of the narrow windows were open, and so they clung there.

  One managed to draw his sword, thrusting it inside at Andy, who still struggled with my man. Andy let go and grasped the wrist that held the sword.

  As if in slow motion, as we rolled forward, I saw the other hanger-on unsheath his sword and bring it through the window, preparing to finish Andy before he finished me. I could do nothing. The concussion of the explosion so near my head still left me dazed. I just slumped there, staring at that well-tended sword blade as it stabbed toward Andy.

  Gathering speed, Mark twisted the wheel, We headed for the meat vans. Slaves shrieked and scat­tered. Mark swerved again, missing the other vehicle by inches. Agony distorted the faces of our two hang­ers-on. Their heads twisted, their mouths gaped open, their swords dropped, as they were crushed between the two vehicles and fell away from our sight.

  Andy was patting us both on the back and cheer­ing. He produced a small flask of whiskey—which he found in the hip pocket of the ecclesiastical trousers he had commandeered—and made me take a sizable swig. My throat burned and I felt better.

  The fellow I was half-lying on was unconscious. Together, Andy and I dragged him over into the back seat.

  "This is a crazy car to drive," Mark said, but he was doing well. We were clear on to the streets now. There was no sign of alarm. Mark was driving slowly so as not to excite attention.

  The streets were poorly lighted, and there was little traffic. I had no idea of the time; it could not have been later than eight o'clock, yet hardly a soul was to be seen. The slaves, I thought, probably had a cur­few; they were probably in bed or at prayers.

  "It'll be wonderful to get another place to live," Andy said, "and while I think of it, slow down, Mark, and turn right, here, up Hanover Street. There's a big government store at the top.—Peace Militant it's called—that supplies only to officials, I've heard. One of the fellows in the kitchen had to work there once. If we can get in there, for sure it'll be shut, and we can get in and find some of these portals and slip out of this matrix at once."

  "Mark had the idea we should get to Arthur's Seat."

  Andy swore. "That lousy dump! It'll be swarming with Church Army. The Peace store will be safer."

  That settled it.

  Mark shifted gear, and we growled uphill. Off Princes Street lights were few and far between. At the top of the road we found the store. It was a great solid granite block with little pinchpenny ecclesiastical windows in which goods darkly lay A board above a barred door said Peace Militant.

  And Andy groaned.

  At that moment I was taking another mouthful of whiskey. I turned to see what was the matter. The man he had half-strangled had revived and thrust a knife between his ribs. He was withdrawing the blade as I turned. Dim lights shone on the blade, and by that same tawdry glow I saw his teeth as he growled and came at me. I was already at him with the bottle.

  The heel of it caught him in the eye. Involuntarily, he brought his hand up, and I grasped his wrist and wrenched the knife from his grip. He yelped. My fury was back. Tumbling over the seat at him, I bore him down into the darkness, while the knife—his own knife—sunk down and carried him into a night from which there would never be a dawn.

  I found Mark was shaking me. The car had stopped.

  "You did a good job, boy, but he can die only once, worse luck! Leave him! Come on, we've got to get into the shop quickly before they catch up with us."

  "He's killed Andy. Andy Campbell's dead!"

  "I'm sorry about it too. Weeping won't help it. Andy's dog's meat now. Come on, Sherry,' you're a real warrior. Let's move!"

  I got out onto the pavement. Mark stove in a window with his elbow, and we climbed through. As simple as that! The terrible feeling of excitement was on me, a state of possession.

  We began tramping through the store.

  The ground floor yielded nothing, though we sepa­rated and searched. We were about to go upstairs, when I found a floor directory. In the light filtering in from outside, I read a line that ran: Basement: Tropi­cal Plants Gardens, Cafe, Library, Extra-Matricial Equipment Mark and I took the stairs at a run.

  Below ground, we thought it safe enough to switch on a couple of
lights Here was the first evidence I had seen that this civilization boasted some sort of aesthetic sense. Heating was on, and in the warmth basked a perfect tropical garden. Flowering trees and shrubs, a line of banana plants, gaudy hibiscus, rioted here in carefully tended disorder. The centerpiece was a pool on which lilies floated and the lights were reflected back in dark water.

  Beyond the pool, the cafe had been arranged with tables and chairs set on a terrace overlooking the pool. Attractive, I thought, and we pushed past the chairs and came to the adjoining department. Here stood a dozen portals made in several different sizes and models.

  We both cheered up, dropped our knives, and got to work.

  This was something about which we knew nothing. We had much to learn before we could return to our own worlds. To my relief, the portals we came across first were primed for immediate sale and contained vials of nicomiotine, as well as other drugs. There were instruction manuals provided, and we sat down to master their contents with what patience we had.

  The business of returning to one's own matrix turned out to be fairly simple. One had a preliminary injection of a fluid with a complicated name which seemed to be a kind of tranquilizer, followed by a jab of nicomiotine in the stated quantity according to one's size/age ratio, and then sat in the portal seat, the vibratory rate of which could be adjusted to ma­trix numbers shown on a dial. When the drugs took and the body's vibratory rate reached the correct pitch, the return was effected.

  "These people may have established a loathsome social order, but this invention is something to their credit," I said. "And if they would only educate and liberate their slaves, I can't help admiring any matrix that has escaped with not more than one world war."

  "We've had no world wars," Mark growled.

  "Then you look at it differently, but for the slaves...."

  "Sherry, you keep talking about slaves. I'm tired of the subject. By the Phrygian birth, forget all about them! In every matrix there must be conquerors and conquered, dogs and masters. It's a law of human nature."