I pulled myself out of it and glanced across at Helen. She was sitting quietly with her needle basket. The all too familiar play was repeating itself and by the clock on the mantelpiece it was still just after 9.
I went back into the hall and dialled Tom again, trying not to stampede myself. In some way, I hadn’t begun to understand how, a section of time was spinning round in a circle, with myself in the centre.
‘Tom,’ I asked quickly as soon as he picked up the phone. ‘Did I call you five minutes ago?’
‘Who’s that again?’
‘Harry here. Harry Bartley. Sorry, Tom.’ I paused and rephrased the question, trying to make it sound intelligible. ‘Tom, did you phone me up about five minutes ago? We’ve had a little trouble with the line here.’
‘No,’ he told me. ‘Wasn’t me. By the way, did you get those pickles I left in the safe?’
‘Thanks a lot,’ I said, beginning to panic. ‘Are you watching the play, Tom?’
‘Yes. I think I’ll get back to it. See you.’
I went into the kitchen and had a long close look at myself in the mirror. A crack across it dropped one side of my face three inches below the other, but apart from that I couldn’t see anything that added up to a psychosis. My eyes seemed steady, pulse was in the low seventies, no tics or clammy traumatic sweat. Everything around me seemed much too solid and authentic for a dream.
I waited for a minute and then went back to the lounge and sat down. Helen was watching the play.
I leant forward and turned the knob round. The picture dimmed and swayed off.
‘Harry, I’m watching that! Don’t switch it off.’
I went over to her. ‘Poppet,’ I said, holding my voice together. ‘Listen to me, please. Very carefully. It’s important.’
She frowned, put her sewing down and took my hands.
‘For some reason, I don’t know why, we seem to be in a sort of circular time trap, just going round and round. You’re not aware of it, and I can’t find anyone else who is either.’
Helen stared at me in amazement. ‘Harry,’ she started, ‘what are you –’
‘Helen!’ I insisted, gripping her shoulders. ‘Listen! For the last two hours a section of time about 15 minutes long has been repeating itself. The clocks are stuck between 9 and 9.15. That play you’re watching has –’
‘Harry, darling.’ She looked at me and smiled helplessly. ‘You are silly. Now turn it on again.’
I gave up.
As I switched the set on I ran through all the other channels just to see if anything had changed.
The panel stared at their pot, the fat woman won her sports car, the old farmer ranted. On Channel 1, the old BBC service which put out a couple of hours on alternate evenings, two newspaper men were interviewing a scientific pundit who appeared on popular educational programmes.
‘What effect these dense eruptions of gas will have so far it’s impossible to tell. However, there’s certainly no cause for any alarm. These billows have mass, and I think we can expect a lot of strange optical effects as the light leaving the sun is deflected by them gravitationally.’
He started playing with a set of coloured celluloid balls running on concentric metal rings, and fiddled with a ripple tank mounted against a mirror on the table.
One of the newsmen asked: ‘What about the relationship between light and time? If I remember my relativity they’re tied up together pretty closely. Are you sure we won’t all need to add another hand to our clocks and watches?’
The pundit smiled. ‘I think we’ll be able to get along without that. Time is extremely complicated, but I can assure you the clocks won’t suddenly start running backwards or sideways.’
I listened to him until Helen began to remonstrate. I switched the play on for her and went off into the hall. The fool didn’t know what he was talking about. What I couldn’t understand was why I was the only person who realized what was going on. If I could get Tom over I might just be able to convince him.
I picked up the phone and glanced at my watch.
9.13. By the time I got through to Tom the next changeover would be due. Somehow I didn’t like the idea of being picked up and flung to the sofa, however painless it might be. I put the phone down and went into the lounge.
The jump-back was smoother than I expected. I wasn’t conscious of anything, not even the slightest tremor. A phrase was stuck in my mind: Olden Times.
The newspaper was back on my lap, folded around the crossword. I looked through the clues.
17 down: Told by antique clocks? 5, 5.
I must have solved it subconsciously.
I remembered that I’d intended to phone Tom.
‘Hullo, Tom?’ I asked when I got through. ‘Harry here.’
‘Did you get those pickles I left in the safe?’
‘Yes, thanks a lot. Tom, could you come round tonight? Sorry to ask
you this late, but it’s fairly urgent.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘What’s the trouble?’ ‘I’ll tell you when you get here. As soon as you can?’ ‘Sure. I’ll leave right away. Is Helen all right?’ ‘Yes, she’s fine. Thanks again.’
I went into the dining room and pulled a bottle of gin and a couple of tonics out of the sideboard. He’d need a drink when he heard what I had to say.
Then I realized he’d never make it. From Earls Court it would take him at least half an hour to reach us at Maida Vale and he’d probably get no further than Marble Arch.
I filled my glass out of the virtually bottomless bottle of scotch and tried to work out a plan of action.
The first step was to get hold of someone like myself who retained his awareness of the past switch-backs. Somewhere else there must be others trapped in their little 15-minute cages who were also wondering desperately how to get out. I could start by phoning everyone I knew and then going on at random through the phonebook. But what could we do if we did find each other? In fact there was nothing to do except sit tight and wait for it all to wear off. At least I knew I wasn’t looping my loop. Once these billows or whatever they were had burnt themselves out we’d be able to get off the round-about.
Until then I had an unlimited supply of whisky waiting for me in the half-empty bottle standing on the sink, though of course there was one snag: I’d never be able to get drunk.
I was musing round some of the other possibilities available and wondering how to get a permanent record of what was going on when an idea hit me.
I got out the phone-directory and looked up the number of KBC-TV, Channel 9.
A girl at reception answered the phone. After haggling with her for a couple of minutes I persuaded her to put me through to one of the producers.
‘Hullo,’ I said. ‘Is the jackpot question in tonight’s programme known to any members of the studio audience?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I see. As a matter of interest, do you yourself know it?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘All the questions tonight are known only to our senior programme producer and M. Phillipe Soisson of Savoy Hotels Limited. They’re a closely guarded secret.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘If you’ve got a piece of paper handy I’ll give you the jackpot question. “List the complete menu at the Guildhall Coronation Banquet in July 1953.”’
There were muttered consultations, and a second voice came through.
‘Who’s that speaking?’
‘Mr H.R. Bartley, 129b Sutton Court Road, N.W. –’
Before I could finish I found myself back in the lounge.
The jump-back had caught me. But instead of being stretched out on the sofa I was standing up, leaning on one elbow against the mantelpiece, looking down at the newspaper.
My eyes were focused clearly on the crossword puzzle, and before I pulled them away and started thinking over my call to the studio I noticed something that nearly dropped me into the grate.
17 down had been filled in.
I picked up the paper and showe
d it to Helen.
‘Did you do this clue? 17 down?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I never even look at the crossword.’
The clock on the mantelpiece caught my eye, and I forgot about the studio and playing tricks with other people’s time.
9.03.
The merry-go-round was closing in. I thought the jump-back had come sooner than I expected. At least two minutes earlier, somewhere around 9.13.
And not only was the repetition interval getting shorter, but as the arc edged inwards on itself it was uncovering the real time stream running below it, the stream in which the other I, unknown to myself here, had solved the clue, stood up, walked over to the mantelpiece and filled in 17 down.
I sat down on the sofa, watching the clock carefully.
For the first time that evening Helen was thumbing over the pages of a magazine. The work basket was tucked away on the bottom shelf of the bookcase.
‘Do you want this on any longer?’ she asked me. ‘It’s not very good.’
I turned to the panel game. The three professors and the chorus girl were still playing around with their pot.
On Channel 1 the pundit was sitting at the table with his models.
‘. . . alarm. The billows have mass, and I think we can expect a lot of strange optical effects as the light –’
I switched it off.
The next jump-back came at 9.11. Somewhere I’d left the mantelpiece, gone back to the sofa and lit a cigarette.
It was 9.04. Helen had opened the verandah windows and was looking out into the street.
The set was on again so I pulled the plug out at the main. I threw the cigarette into the fire; not having seen myself light it, made it taste like someone else’s.
‘Harry, like to go out for a stroll?’ Helen suggested. ‘It’ll be rather nice in the park.’
Each successive jump-back gave us a new departure point. If now I bundled her outside and got her down to the end of the road, at the next jump we’d both be back in the lounge again, but probably have decided to drive to the pub instead.
‘Harry?’
‘What, sorry?’
‘Are you asleep, angel? Like to go for a walk? It’ll wake you up.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Go and get your coat.’
‘Will you be warm enough like that?’
She went off into the bedroom
I walked round the lounge and convinced myself that I was awake. The shadows, the solid feel of the chairs, the definition was much too fine for a dream.
It was 9.08. Normally Helen would take ten minutes to put on her coat.
The jump-back came almost immediately.
It was 9.06.
I was still on the sofa and Helen was bending down and picking up her work basket.
This time, at last, the set was off.
‘Have you got any money on you?’ Helen asked.
I felt in my pocket automatically. ‘Yes. How much do you want?’
Helen looked at me. ‘Well, what do you usually pay for the drinks? We’ll only have a couple.’
‘We’re going to the pub, are we?’
‘Darling, are you all right?’ She came over to me. ‘You look all strangled. Is that shirt too tight?’
‘Helen,’ I said, getting up. ‘I’ve got to try to explain something to you. I don’t know why it’s happening, it’s something to do with these billows of gas the sun’s releasing.’
Helen was watching me with her mouth open.
‘Harry,’ she started to say nervously. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m quite all right,’ I assured her. ‘It’s just that everything is happening very rapidly and I don’t think there’s much time left.’
I kept on glancing at the clock and Helen followed my eyes to it and went over to the mantelpiece. Watching me she moved it round and I heard the pendulum jangle.
‘No, no,’ I shouted. I grabbed it and pushed it back against the wall.
We jumped back to 9.07.
Helen was in the bedroom. I had exactly a minute left.
‘Harry,’ she called. ‘Darling, do you want to, or don’t you?’
I was by the lounge window, muttering something.
I was out of touch with what my real self was doing in the normal time channel. The Helen talking to me now was a phantom.
It was I, not Helen and everybody else, who was riding the merrygo-round.
Jump.
9.07-15.
Helen was standing in the doorway.
‘... down to the ... the ...’ I was saying.
Helen watched me, frozen. A fraction of a minute left.
I started to walk over to her.
to walk over to her
ver to her
er
I came out of it like a man catapulted from a revolving door. I was stretched out flat on the sofa, a hard aching pain running from the top of my head down past my right ear into my neck.
I looked at the time. 9.45. I could hear Helen moving around in the dining room. I lay there, steadying the room round me, and in a few minutes she came in carrying a tray and a couple of glasses.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked, making up an alka-seltzer.
I let it fizzle down and drank it.
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Did I collapse?’
‘Not exactly. You were watching the play. I thought you looked rather seedy so I suggested we go out for a drink. You went into a sort of convulsion.’
I stood up slowly and rubbed my neck. ‘God, I didn’t dream all that! I couldn’t have done.’
‘What was it about?’
‘A sort of crazy merry-go-round –’ The pain grabbed at my neck when I spoke. I went over to the set and switched it on. ‘Hard to explain coherently. Time was –’ I flinched as the pain bit in again.
‘Sit down and rest,’ Helen said. ‘I’ll come and join you. Like a drink?’
‘Thanks. A big scotch.’
I looked at the set. On Channel 1 there was a breakdown sign, a cabaret on 2, a flood-lit stadium on 5, and a variety show on 9. No sign anywhere of either Diller’s play or the panel game.
Helen brought the drink in and sat down on the sofa with me.
‘It started off when we were watching the play,’ I explained, massaging my neck.
‘Sh, don’t bother now. Just relax.’
I put my head on Helen’s shoulder and looked up at the ceiling, listening to the sound coming from the variety show. I thought back through each turn of the round-about, wondering whether I could have dreamt it all.
Ten minutes later Helen said, ‘Well, I didn’t think much of that. And they’re doing an encore. Good heavens.’
‘Who are?’ I asked. I watched the light from the screen flicker across her face.
‘That team of acrobats. The something Brothers. One of them even slipped. How do you feel?’
‘Fine.’ I turned my head round and looked at the screen.
Three or four acrobats with huge v-torsos and skin briefs were doing simple handstands on to each other’s arms. They finished the act and went into a more involved routine, throwing around a girl in leopard skin panties. The applause was deafening. I thought they were moderately good.
Two of them began to give what seemed to be a demonstration of dynamic tension, straining against each other like a pair of catatonic bulls, their necks and legs locked, until one of them was levered slowly off the ground.
‘Why do they keep on doing that?’ Helen said. ‘They’ve done it twice already.’
‘I don’t think they have,’ I said. ‘This is a slightly different act.’
The pivot man tremored, one of his huge banks of muscles collapsed, and the whole act toppled and then sprung apart.
‘They slipped there the last time,’ Helen said.
‘No, no,’ I pointed out quickly. ‘That one was a headstand. Here they were stretched out horizontally.’
‘You weren’t watching,’ Helen told me. She leant fo
rward. ‘Well, what are they playing at? They’re repeating the whole thing for the third time.’
It was an entirely new act to me, but I didn’t try to argue.
I sat up and looked at the clock.
10.05. ‘Darling,’ I said, putting my arm round her. ‘Hold tight.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘This is the merry-go-round. And you’re driving.’
1956
THE CONCENTRATION CITY
Noon talk on Millionth Street:
‘Sorry, these are the West Millions. You want 9775335th East.’
‘Dollar five a cubic foot? Sell!’
‘Take a westbound express to 495th Avenue, cross over to a Redline elevator and go up a thousand levels to Plaza Terminal. Carry on south from there and you’ll find it between 568th Avenue and 422nd Street.’
‘There’s a cave-in down at KEN County! Fifty blocks by twenty by thirty levels.’ ‘Listen to this – “PYROMANIACS STAGE MASS BREAKOUT! FIRE POLICE CORDON BAY COUNTY!”’ ‘It’s a beautiful counter. Detects up to .005 per cent monoxide. Cost me three hundred dollars.’ ‘Have you seen those new intercity sleepers? They take only ten minutes to go up 3,000 levels!’ ‘Ninety cents a foot? Buy!’
‘You say the idea came to you in a dream?’ the voice snapped. ‘You’re sure no one else gave it to you.’
‘No,’ M. said. A couple of feet away from him a spot-lamp threw a cone of dirty yellow light into his face. He dropped his eyes from the glare and waited as the sergeant paced over to his desk, tapped his fingers on the edge and swung round on him again.
‘You talked it over with your friends?’
‘Only the first theory,’ M. explained. ‘About the possibility of flight.’
‘But you told me the other theory was more important. Why keep it from them?’
M. hesitated. Outside somewhere a trolley shunted and clanged along the elevated. ‘I was afraid they wouldn’t understand what I meant.’
The sergeant laughed. ‘Do you mean they would have thought you really were insane?’
M. shifted uncomfortably on the stool. Its seat was only six inches off the floor and his thighs felt like slabs of inflamed rubber. After three hours of cross-questioning logic had faded. ‘The concept was a little abstract. There weren’t any words for it.’
The Complete Stories of J. G. Ballard Page 4