Barrington J. Bayley

THE SEED OF EVIL

Sporting with the Chid

“But look at him, he’s such a mess,” Brand protested. “There wouldn’t be any point in it.”

Ruiger grunted, looking down at what remained of their comrade. It was a mess, all right, a sickening, bloody mess. The scythe-cat they had been hunting had practically sliced Wessel to ribbons. The ruined body still retained a lot of blood, however, due to the heart having stopped at the outset, when the cat had ripped open the ribcage. For that reason, Ruiger had supposed there was still hope.

“We can’t just stand here doing nothing,” he said. He glanced up the trail along which the cat had fled under the hail of their gunfire. Wessel’s own gun lay nearby, wrecked by the first blow of the animal’s terrible bladed claw. It infuriated Ruiger to think that the beast had bested them. He wondered why the toxic darts they had fired had failed to take effect. Possibly they had lodged in its very thick dermis and the poisons were spreading slowly. In that case, the cat’s corpse should be found within not too great a distance.

“The brain isn’t damaged,” he observed stubbornly. “Come on, do what I say: freeze him quick, before it starts to degenerate.” He was a broad-set man with a rugged face; he spoke with traces of a clipped, hard-toned accent Brand had never yet been able to identify.

Brand hesitated, then submitted to the other’s more positive personality. He moved closer to the dead Wessel, nerving himself against the raw, nauseating smell of blood and flesh. Kneeling, he opened the medical kit and took out a blue cylinder. From the cylinder there flowed a lavender mist which settled over the body and then seemed to fly into it, to be absorbed by it like water into a sponge.

“You can’t freeze somebody without special equipment,” he told Ruiger. “Frozen water crystallises and ruptures all the body cells. This stuff will keep him fresh, but it’s only good for about twelve hours. It holds the tissues in a gelid suspension so chemical processes don’t take place.”

“He’s not frozen?”

“No.” Brand straightened. “You realise what this means? The nearest fully equipped hospital is six weeks away. Even then, I don’t suppose the surgeons could do much. He’d be crippled for life, probably paralysed if he lived at all. Maybe he wouldn’t like that.”

Before replying Ruiger glanced at the sky, as if summing up interstellar distances. “What about the Chid camp on the other side of the continent? You know their reputation.”

Brand snapped shut the medical case with an angry gesture. “Are you crazy? You know damned well we can’t go messing with the Chid.”

“Shut up and help me get him on the sled.”

They tackled the unpleasant job in silence. It should have been the scythe-cat the sled was carrying, Ruiger thought, but he fought down an urge to go after the animal and make sure it was dead. A more compelling urge had come over him, for he was a man who hated to admit defeat if there remained even the possibility of action, and Wessel had been a good comrade.

The sled floated a foot or two above the coarse broad-bladed grass that covered most of the planet’s dry surface. As they trudged back to the ship Ruiger looked at the sky again. The sun lay well below the horizon, but there was no such thing as real night—this was the N4 star cluster, where suns were packed so thick as to turn even midnight into what would have been a mellow autumn evening on Earth. The multicoloured blaze never faded; it filled the sky not only at night but throughout the day, augmenting the light of the somewhat pale sun.

The cluster teemed, if such a vast region could be said to teem, with freelance prospectors looking for anything that, by reason of rarity or novelty, would command a high price back in civilisation. Exotic furs and hides, unknown gems, outlandish chemicals and minerals, drugs with unexpected properties—these days, rarity was the name of the game. If it was new, preferably unique, and had a use, then it was valuable. The fur of the scythe-cat, for example, would grace the wardrobes of no more than a dozen exorbitantly wealthy women.

Not all the prospectors were human. The cluster had few sentient races of its own, but it had attracted the attentions of scores of others, lured by its wealth or else engaged on less identifiable business. As a rule the various species prudently ignored one another, a practice with which Ruiger would normally have concurred wholeheartedly. With some of the alien races known to mankind—so numerous that only the most cursory examination had been made of most of them—one could communicate with ease. But with others one had to be cautious.

And there were yet others with habits and attitudes so inexplicable by human standards that the central government had placed a strict prohibition on any kind of intercourse with them whatsoever.

Such a species was the Chid.

Back at the ship, Ruiger took out the official government handbook on aliens. Like many others, the entry on the Chid was subheaded: Absolutely No Contact In Any Circumstances. The information offered supplied very little by way of explanation, but he carefully read such as there was. Following the location of the Chid star, and a description of the extent of Chid influence, the sociological information was scant, apparently depending on the word of some lone-wolf explorer who had visited the home planet and later had volunteered an account of his experiences to the Department of Alien Affairs. Ruiger knew, however, that subsequent encounters between Chid and humans had reinforced the impression of them as a wayward and difficult people.

“An extraordinary feature of the Chid,” he read, “is their aptitude for the medical sciences. Among them advanced surgery is a household skill; even the most highly trained Earth surgeon would find himself outclassed by the average Chid, who traditionally prides himself on his surgical ability, much as a human will pride himself on being able to repair his own auto. That Chid surgical skill is so universal is probably because it was the first technique to be developed on the Chid world, predating even the discovery of fire.

“Surgery’s prominent place in Chid lore, even from primitive times, is attested by the following incident from the saga of the ancient champion Gathor. On finding himself trapped in a country surrounded by enemies, he ordered his followers to dissect him, and to smuggle him out in pieces ‘none of them larger than a single finger-joint’. After being reassembled, Gathor went on to free his people from slavery.

“The Chid have a love of sports and games, and are addicted to gambling. Otherwise there is little in the Chid mind that renders it suitable for human company. On the contrary, Chid mental processes are so foreign to human mentality as to present considerable danger. Anyone finding himself in the presence of a Chid should on no account attempt to have dealings with it, since if he does he will almost certainly misunderstand its intentions. Instead, he should at once remove himself from the vicinity of the Chid.”

Slowly, Ruiger put away the handbook.

Outside, he found Brand sitting gazing into the night sky. “We’ll go to the Chid,” he said with finality.

Brand stirred. “You realise the risks we’ll be taking?”

Ruiger nodded. “Intercourse with prohibited aliens. A twenty thousand labour credit fine, or five years in a work prison. Or both.” The government took such matters seriously.

“I was thinking less of that,” Brand said, “than of the Chid themselves. Those laws are for our own protection. Maybe we’d be getting into something we can’t get out of.”

Ruiger’s voice was blunt and obstinate. “My ancestors were Boers,” he said. “They were people who learned to hang on to life, no matter what it costs. That’s my outlook, too. Chances are worth taking where it’s a matter of living or not living.”

He took a last look round the clearing, feeling a lingering regret that he had not found time to go after the scythe-cat. “No sense hanging about here. Let’s get moving.”

“The way I see it,” Ruiger said as they flew over the tawny-coloured continent, “creatures with such a knowledge of surgery can’t be all that bad. They can mend the sick and injured—that’s not something I find incomprehensible. Maybe the government’s too quick to write the no-go sign.”

Brand didn’t answer. Soon the Chid camp came in sight. It was on the edge of a level plain, perched near a two-hundred foot cliff that fell away to sharp rocks and a boiling sea. It had only three features: a pentagonal hut that seemed to be roofed with local ferns, the Chid ship, which resembled nothing so much as an Earth street tram, and a small, dark wood which occupied an oval-shaped depression in the ground. Ruiger did not think the wood was indigenous. Probably, he thought, the Chid had set it up as a garden or a park, using plants and trees from their own world.

They set down on what could roughly be interpreted as the perimeter of the camp. For some time they sat together in the control cabin, saying nothing, watching the site through the view-screens. At first there was no sign of life. After about half an hour, two tall Chid emerged from the hut and strolled to the wood, with not a single glance at the Earth ship nearby.

Anxiously Ruiger and Brand watched. At length the Chid reappeared, brushing aside foliage and coming into the light of day from the dank depths of the wood. Unconcernedly they ambled back to the fern-covered hut.

“It seems they spend their time in the hut, not in the ship,” Brand observed.

“Unless there are more of them in the ship.”

“It’s not very big. It couldn’t carry many.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Ruiger gnawed his knuckles. “They’re ignoring us.”

“Wise of them. We’d do the same if they landed near us. We might even move away. They haven’t done that.”

“Well, the first move’s up to us.” Ruiger rose, and looked at Brand. Both men felt nervousness make a sick ache in their stomachs. “Let’s go out there and see what they’ll do for us.”

They holstered their side-arms inside their shirts so that to outward appearances they were unarmed. Wessel’s jellified body still lay on the sled. They eased it out of the port, and set off across the short stretch of savannah-like grass to the Chid hut.

From outside the hut looked primitive and could as well have been erected by savages. They stopped a few feet from the door, which like the walls was made of a frame of branches from a local tree interwoven with ferns.

He decided it was probably an advantage that they would have to converse by means of gestures. When only the simplest and most obvious wants could be made known there was less room for misunderstanding.

He hooked his thumbs in his belt and called out. “Hello! Hello!”

Again: “Hello! We are Earthmen!”

The door opened, swinging inwards. The interior was dim. Ruiger hesitated. Then, his throat dry, he stepped inside, followed by Brand who guided the sled before him. “We are Earthmen,” he repeated, feeling slightly ridiculous. “We have trouble. We need your help.”

Anything else he might have said was cut off as he absorbed the scene within. The two Chid he had seen earlier swivelled their eyes to look at him. One lolled on a couch, but in such a manner as to seem like a corpse that had been carelessly thrown there, limbs flung apart in disarray, head hanging down and almost touching the beaten earth floor. The other was leaning forward half upright, dangling limply from a double sling into which his arms were thrust, and which was suspended from the roof rafters. His head lolled forward, his legs trailed behind.

Both postures looked bizarrely uncomfortable. Ruiger supposed, however, that the Chid were simply relaxing.

Somewhat larger of frame than a human, they had a lank, loose appearance about them. Their skin was grey, with undertones of green and buff orange. For clothing they wore a simple garment consisting of short trousers combined with a bib held in place by straps going over the shoulders. As with many androform species, their nonhuman faces were apt to seem caricatures of a particular human expression—in the Chid instance, an idiotic, chuckling gormlessness. It was important, Ruiger knew, not to be influenced by this doubtlessly totally wrong impression.

Unrecognisable utensils lay scattered and jumbled about the floor, and Ruiger’s gaze went to the rest of the hut. He shuddered. The walls resembled the racks of some prehistoric butcher’s shop, hung with pieces of raw flesh—limbs, entrails, various internal organs, and other organic components and substances he could not identify, from a variety of creatures unknown to him. The Chid clearly had botanic interests, too. Items of vegetable origin accompanied the purely animal ones, plants, tree branches, cuttings, fruit, strips of fibre and so forth. A moist, slightly rotten smell hung on the air, though whether from the grisly array or from the Chid themselves he could not say.

Unable to find a clear space on the floor, Brand left the sled floating. Ruiger pointed to the body. He hoped the purpose of their visit was self-evident.

“This is our comrade. He has been badly injured. We came to ask if you can heal him.”

The Chid in the sling swayed slightly from side to side. “Werry-werry-werry-werry…” he said, or that was what it sounded like to Ruiger. But then he broke off, and to the Earthmen’s great surprise spoke in almost perfect English.

“Visitors come to us from off the vast plain! You are here to sport with us, perhaps?”

“We came to ask for your help,” Ruiger replied. Again he pointed to the sled. “Our friend was attacked by a scythe-cat—a dangerous animal that’s found on this continent.”

“For the time being I’ve suspended his organic processes with a gelid solution,” Brand interrupted. “But when it wears off he’ll be dead, unless the damage can be made good first.”

“Chids are famed for their surgical skill,” Ruiger added.

The Chid withdrew his arms from the sling and approached the sled with an ambling gait, kicking aside metal artifacts that lay on the floor. Automatically Ruiger drew back. The strangeness of the scene made him fearful. It was hard to believe that these people were as advanced as they were supposed to be.

Bending over the sled, the Chid prodded Wessel’s inert form with a long finger. He chortled: a brassy sound like the braying of a cornet.

“Can you help him?” Ruiger enquired.

“Oh yes. Quite easy. Simple slicing. Nerves, muscles, blood vessels, lymph channels, skin—you won’t even know where the joins are.”

A feeling of relief flooded through the two men. “Then you’ll operate?” Ruiger pressed.

Straightening, the Chid stared directly at him. His eyes, now that Ruiger saw them close up, were horrible, like boiled eggs. “I have heard it said that Earthmen can leave their bodies and move about without them. Is it true?”

“No,” said Ruiger. It took him a moment to realise what the Chid was talking about. “You mean their souls can leave their bodies. It’s not true, though. It’s only religious belief. You know what religion is? Just a story.”

“How wonderful, to be able to leave one’s body and move about without it!” The Chid seemed to reflect. “Are you here for sport?” he asked suddenly. “Do you like races?”

“We are only interested in helping our friend get better.”

“Oh, but you should game with us.”

“After our friend is better,” Ruiger said slowly, “we’ll do anything you like.”

“Excellent, excellent!” The Chid chortled again, much louder than before, a shrill, unnerving sound.

“Can we rely on you?” Ruiger pressed. “How long will it take?”

“Not long, not long. Leave him with us.”

“May we stay to watch?”

“No, no!” The Chid seemed indignant. “It is not seemly. You are our guests. Depart!”

“All right,” Ruiger said. “When shall we come back?”

“We will send him out when he is ready. Tomorrow morning, perhaps.”

“Good.” Ruiger stood uncertainly. He was eager to get out of the hut, but somehow reluctant to leave.

The Chid on the couch had completely ignored them, apart from one glance when they first entered. He still lay motionless, as if dead.

“Until tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow.”

They withdrew, stiffly and awkwardly. To human sensibilities the Chid seemed to lack stability, Ruiger decided. They gave a neurotic, erratic, disconcerting impression. But it was probably a false impression, like that given by their idiot faces.

Back in the ship, Ruiger said: “Well, so far it went all right. If that Chid keeps his promise we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“But this talk about sports and games,” Brand said anxiously. “What do they expect of us?”

“Never mind about that. As soon as we get Wessel back, and he’s all right, we simply take off.”

“We’ll owe them. They might try to stop us.”

“We’ve got guns.”

“Yeah… you know, I guess we’re all right, but what about Wessel? That hut doesn’t look a lot like an operating theatre to me. Somehow I find it hard to believe they can do anything.”

“They don’t work the way we do. But everybody knows they can accomplish miracles, almost. You’ll see. Anyway, it gives Wessel a chance. He didn’t have one before.”

They fell silent.

After a while Ruiger became restless. In crossing the continent they had backtracked on the sun; now it was evening again, and there were about eight hours to wait until dawn. Ruiger didn’t feel like sleeping. He suggested they take a walk.

After some hesitation Brand agreed. Once outside, they strolled towards the Chid’s wood, both of them curious to see what lay inside it. They skirted the depression where it grew, aware that the Chid could be watching and might not like strangers entering their private garden, if such it was.

There was little doubt that the wood was alien to the planet. It was quite unlike the open bush that covered most of the continent. Local flora and fauna were characterised by a quality of brashness, and their colours were light, all tawny, orange and yellow, but this seemed dark and oppressive, huddled in on itself, and unnaturally silent and still. The bark of the trees was slick, olive-green in colour, and glistened, while the foliage was almost black.

Out of sight of the Chid hut, Ruiger parted some shoulder-high vegetation that screened the interior of the wood from view and stepped between the slender tree trunks.

Quietly and cautiously, they sauntered a few yards into the wood. The light was suffuse and dim, filtering through the tree cover that seemed to press in overhead to create a totally enclosed little environment. Though fairly close-packed, the interior was less dense than the perimeter, which Ruiger began to think of as a barrier or skin. There was the same moist, rotting odour he had noticed in the Chid hut. The air was humid and surprisingly hot; presumably the wood trapped heat in some way, or else was warmed artificially.

The ground, sloping down towards the centre, was carpeted with a kind of moss, or slime, which felt unpleasant underfoot. Ruiger was struck by the dead hush of the place. Not a leaf moved; there was not the merest breath of a breeze. They crept on, descending the slope into the depths of the wood, and before long began to notice a change in the nature of the vegetation. Besides the slender trees other, less familiar plants flourished. Luxurious growths with broad, drooping leaves that dripped a yellow syrup. Python-like creepers that intertwined with the upper tree branches and pulsed slightly. Bilious parasites, like clusters of giant grapes or cancerous excrescences, that clung and tumbled down the squamous trunks, sometimes engulfing entire trees.

The wood was coming more to resemble a lush, miniature, alien jungle. Also, it was no longer still. There were sounds in it—not the rustle of leaves or the sigh of branches, but obscene little slurping and lapping sounds. Ruiger stopped, startled, as the scum carpet suddenly surged into motion just ahead of him. From it there emerged what looked like a pinkish-grey tangle of entrails, which swarmed quickly up a nearby tree and began to wrestle with the parasitic growth hanging there. The parasite apparently had a gelid consistency; the two shook and shivered like horrid jelly.

“Look,” Brand whispered.

Ruiger followed his gaze. A small creature was creeping through some undergrowth that sprouted near the base of a tree. It looked for all the world like the uncovered brain of a medium-sized mammal such as a dog or a tiger, complete with trailing spinal stem.

They watched it until it disappeared from sight. A few yards further on, they came to a clearing. It was occupied by a single tree—not one of the trees that made up the bulk of the wood, but a fat, pear-shaped trunk that contracted rhythmically like a beating heart. It was surmounted by a crown from which spread a mesh of fine twigs. As they entered the clearing this mesh suddenly released a spray of red droplets onto them.

Quickly they moved away. Ruiger examined the drops that had fallen on his tunic, head and hands. The liquid was sticky, like blood, or bile.

Distastefully they wiped the stuff off their exposed skin.

“I’ve seen enough,” said Brand. “Let’s get out.”

“Wait,” Ruiger insisted. “We might as well go all the way.”

They were approaching the bottom of the wood now, and Ruiger guessed there might be something special there. The rich, foetid smell was becoming so strong that both men nearly gagged, but a few yards further on they broke through a thicket of clammy-feeling tendrils, and there it was.

The surrounding trees leaned over it protectively, spreading their branches to form a complete canopy above it: a little lake of blood. Ruiger was sure the stuff was blood: it looked like it and smelled like it, though with not quite the same smell as human blood. Dozens of small creatures were gathered on the shores of the pool to drink: segmented creatures the size of lobsters, creatures like the brain-animal they had seen already, creatures that consisted of clusters of tubes, resembling assemblies of veins and arteries. The forest, too, put out hoses of its own into the pool, snaking them down from the trees and across the bushes.

Ruiger and Brand stared in fascination. Was this, Ruiger wondered, a pleasant little paradise to the Chid mind? He took his eyes from the gleaming crimson surface of the lake. The wood, with its covering of slime, its slick trees, its gibbous growths and pulsing python pipes that seemed neither animal nor vegetable, no longer looked to him like a wood in the Earthly sense. Its totally enclosed, self-absorbed nature put him in mind of what it might be like inside his own body.

He grunted, and nudged Brand. “Let’s go.”

Slowly they made their way up the bowl-shaped slope, towards the open starlight.

Minutes after they returned to the ship, the first of the Chid gifts arrived.

They did not know, at the time, that it was meant to be a gift, and if they had known, they still wouldn’t have known what they were supposed to do with it. It was an animal that came bounding from the Chid hut to prance about in front of the Earthmen’s ship. It was vaguely dog-like and about the size of a Great Dane, with hairless yellow skin.

Ruiger focused the external scanner on it, magnifying the image. There were slits in the animal’s body; as it moved, these opened, revealing its internal organs.

Brand was nauseated. He turned away.

For a while the creature snuffled about the ship’s port, and leaped this way and that. “I didn’t see this beast in the Chid hut,” Brand remarked.

“Perhaps they made it.” Ruiger watched until the animal apparently wearied of what it was doing and loped back the way it had come, disappearing inside the hut.

“I’m tired,” Ruiger said. “I’d like to get some sleep.”

“O.K.”

But Brand himself could not sleep. He felt restless and uneasy. Nervously he settled down with a full percolator of coffee and kept his eye on the external viewer.

From time to time other animals left the hut and approached the ship. None were particularly alien-looking, except, that was, that they were all apt to expose their innards to view as they moved. One vaguely resembled a pig, another a hairless llama, another a kangaroo. Were they all, perhaps, one animal, made over and over from the same bits and pieces?

The Chid had better not fix Wessel up that way, Brand thought aggressively. He wondered if he and Ruiger were expected to respond to these sorties. But when one didn’t know, it was safer to do nothing.

Steadily the stars, illuminating the landscape with shadowless light, moved across the sky. A short time after the pale sun had risen, Ruiger came stumbling back into the room.

“Anything happen?”

Brand gave him some coffee and told him about the animals. Ruiger sat down, staring at the viewscreen and sipping from his cup.

By now Brand felt tired himself, but his nervousness had not decreased. “You think it will be all right?” he asked Brand anxiously.

“Sure it will be all right,” Ruiger said gruffly. “Don’t be put off by that wood. Probably the whole Chid planet is like that.”

It was the first time either of them had mentioned the wood. “Listen,” Brand said, “I’ve been thinking about those animals they keep sending—”

Ruiger gave a shout. On the screen, Wessel had appeared in the open door of the Chid hut. He stood there uncertainly, and then took a step forward.

“There he is!” Ruiger crowed. “They’ve delivered the goods!”

He jumped to his feet and swept from the room. Brand followed him down to the port and out onto the coarse grass. Wessel was walking towards them. But it was not his usual walk. He plodded rather than strode, moving leadenly and awkwardly, his arms hanging loose, his face slack.

Nevertheless they both loped out to meet him. And then, as they came closer, the grin on Ruiger’s face froze. Wessel’s eye-sockets were empty. The eyelids framed nothing; even the orbital bones had been removed. And Brand now realised that this eyeless Wessel wasn’t even walking towards the ship. He was making for the cliff a short distance away.

“Wessel,” he called softly. And then something else caught his attention. Crawling some yards behind Wessel there came a rounded greyish object no larger than his boot. The thing had a wrinkled, convoluted surface, with a deep crevice running down its back, and glistened as if encased in a transparent jelly.

The creature moved after the manner of a snail, on a single splayed podium. It followed after Wessel with every appearance of effort, just managing to keep up with his erratic pace. Brand and Ruiger watched the procession dumbly. The crawling creature’s front end supported a pair of white balls, their whiteness broken by neat circles of colour. These white balls were obviously human eyes, the same eyes that were missing from Wessel’s eye-sockets. The grey mass, however improbable it seemed logically, was without doubt Wessel’s own brain, alive but without a body, given its own means of locomotion.

Suddenly the decerebrated body stumbled and fell. The brain seemed avid for the body. Before the body could rise it had caught up with it and clambered on to a leg. When the body started to walk again the brain clung to it like a leech, and began to climb.

The body lurched towards the cliff; the brain ascended painfully. Its rate of progress was impressive. It negotiated the hips, climbed up the back and reached a shoulder, momentarily perching there. Then, as if hinged somehow, the back of Wessel’s head opened, the two halves coming apart and revealing an empty cavern. Into this empty skull the brain nosed its way, like a hermit crab edging into a discarded shell or a fat grey rat disappearing down a hole, and the head closed up behind it.

The Wessel body abruptly stopped walking. A shudder passed through it. Then it stood motionless, facing the sea.

Brand and Ruiger glanced at one another.

“Christ!” Ruiger said hoarsely.

“What shall we do?”

Gingerly, continuing to glance at one another for support, they approached Wessel. Wessel’s eyes were now in place and peered from their sockets, somewhat bloodshot. He might have been taken for normal, except that he seemed very, very dazed.

Angrily Ruiger unholstered his pistol and glared towards the Chid hut. “Those alien bastards aren’t getting away with this,” he said. “They’re going to put this right.”

“Wait a minute,” said Brand, holding up his hand. He turned to Wessel. “Wessel,” he said quietly, “can you hear me?”

Wessel blinked. “Sure,” he said.

“How long have you been conscious?”

No answer.

“Can you move?”

“Sure.” Wessel turned round and took a step towards them. Ruiger stumbled back, feeling that he was in the presence of something unclean. Brand, however, stood his ground.

“Can you make it back to the ship?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“Then let’s walk.”

Stepping more naturally than before, Wessel accompanied Brand. Slowly they walked towards the gleaming shape of the starship.

Ruiger glowered again at the Chid hut. Then, holstering his pistol, he followed.

Inside, they sat Wessel down in the living quarters. He sat passively, not volunteering anything, not looking at anything in particular.

Brand swallowed. “Do you remember being out of your body?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What was it like?”

Wessel answered in a dull monotone. “All right.”

“Is that all you can say about it?”

Wessel was silent.

“Would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“No.”

“You do recognise us, don’t you?”

“Sure I do.”

Brand looked worriedly at Ruiger, then tossed his head, indicating the door.

Leaving Wessel, they withdrew to the control cabin. “Well, I don’t know,” Brand said. “Perhaps he’s going to be all right.”

“All right?” Ruiger was incredulous, his face red with anger. “Christ, just look at what’s happened!”

“He’s dazed right now. But the brain has already knitted itself to the body. It’s in complete control. Did you notice?—no scar, no seam. Fantastic.”

“It’s hideous, grotesque, perverted—” Ruiger slumped. “I don’t get you. You’re actually taking it in your stride.”

“We were warned about the Chid,” Brand pointed out. “Their ways aren’t our ways. Perhaps to them this sort of thing is some little joke, without any malicious intent. And after all, Wessel is in one piece now. He’s whole, mended.”

Ruiger sighed. He seemed defeated. “If you say so. Me, I can’t even believe what I’ve seen. It’s not possible.”

“You mean you can’t accept that a brain could lead a freelance existence outside its body?”

Ruiger nodded.

“That isn’t really so very extraordinary. I’ve seen a brain kept alive in a hospital on Earth, in a glass tank.”

“Yes, but that’s in hospital conditions, with every kind of back-up. Here…”

“Here,” said Brand, smiling crookedly, “it’s done by two aliens in a straw hut, surrounded by dirt and garbage. And the brain actually crawls about.”

“That’s what gets me. Maybe it isn’t Wessel’s brain at all. Maybe the Chid are tricking us.”

“I think it’s Wessel all right. And I think we’ve got to accept the strangeness of it. The Chid don’t need a hospital or sterile conditions because they’ve solved all kinds of technical problems we haven’t. As for a brain that can move—a few simple muscles, an arrangement to keep it oxygenated—it’s probably not as hard as it sounds, once you’re crazy enough to want to do it.” He paused reflectively. “You know, I don’t think the Chid view the body as a unit the same way we do. That wood we went into—I got the idea there were brains, stomachs, digestive systems, all kinds of parts moving about on their own. It’s as if the Chid like giving bodily organs autonomy.”

“Part-animals,” Ruiger grunted. “Sick, isn’t it?”

“To us it is.”

There was a long silence between them. Finally Ruiger said: “Well, what do we do?”

“Our safest move would probably be to take off right away. But I think we ought to wait for a while to see if Wessel improves. He’s probably suffering from post-operative shock. What I’m hoping is that he wasn’t really conscious while he was out of his body. Try to imagine that.”

“I absolutely won’t hear of our taking off until he shows signs of recovery.”

“We shouldn’t leave it too late. It won’t be long before the Chid come to collect their side of the bargain. After all, they have saved his life. Our own people can probably deal with any future problems.”

“Oh, no.” Ruiger tapped his gun. “If the Chid have done us wrong, they’re going to be taken care of.”

“Let’s hope we can take off by sunset,” Brand said.

That afternoon, Wessel came out of his skull again.

It happened right in front of Brand, who had been sitting with Wessel to keep an eye on him. Wessel had spent most of his time staring placidly at the wall, and neither of them had spoken all afternoon.

Then his head opened, at the front end this time, and without any warning his face split down the front. Within, the brain was revealed like a lurking animal, eyes attached, still with its protective coating of gelatinous substance. Without delay its podium got a grip on Wessel’s chin, and it began to clamber out, dripping a pale pink fluid.

Ruiger came at a run as Brand yelled. As he entered the room the brain seemed to realise for the first time that it was being observed. Its eyes swivelled; it backtracked, retreating guiltily into its bone cave. The face closed up; the eyes disappeared momentarily, then joggled themselves into their sockets.

Wessel resumed staring woodenly at the wall, ignoring his two erstwhile friends. There was not the slightest trace of a join where his face had opened.

Brand stood stupefied. “Well?” Ruiger rasped, “you still think he’s all right?”

He went to the arms cupboard and got two dart rifles. “We’re paying a second visit,” he said curtly, handing a rifle to Brand. “This time we’ll stay and watch the operation. Let’s see how tricky those aliens are at the point of a gun.”

Brand followed blindly. Wessel, too, seemed to have no will to resist or argue. When ordered to do so he went with them out of the ship and walked across the grass to the Chid hut.

As soon as they reached it Ruiger kicked the door open, and barged in.

The smell of rottenness invaded their nostrils. The interior was exactly as they had first seen it: one Chid lay sprawled on the couch, while the other lolled in the double sling. Only the latter reacted to the intrusion, raising his head to peer at Ruiger.

“Our friends have returned!” he chortled. “They have arrived to give us our promised sport!”

The Chid on the couch replied with the slightest trace of an acid-sounding accent. “Yes,” he said, “but it was not polite of them to spurn our parts offering.”

Brand and Wessel entered behind Ruiger. Ruiger spoke thickly, holding his rifle at the ready.

“You have misused our friend terribly. His brain is not fixed in his body!”

The Chid turned his eyes to the roof. “Ah, to be able to leave one’s body! It is every Earthman’s desire—that is what I learn in Earth religion.”

“You don’t understand—”

Ruiger broke off as the Chid disengaged himself from his slings. The Chid’s big frame seemed awkward, yet somehow commanding, in the cramped, confined hut. He reached out to unhook what looked like a golfer’s carrying case, complete with shoulder-strap, from the wall. The case contained numerous metal tools, many of which bore gleaming blades.

With a snake-like motion the second Chid came off the couch and stretched himself. “Shall we take umbrage at the breach in their good manners?”

“No. We should make allowance for their alienness. That said, we must of course recompense ourselves for the insult. Shall we arrange a brain-race? It will do our guests no harm, and provide us with welcome sport. How will you wager?”

“I bet this one to win,” the second Chid said, pointing to Ruiger.

The other laughed. “I bet that neither of them will make it.”

An urgent feeling of danger seized Ruiger. He tried to speak, but could not. He tried to shoot the nearest Chid with his rifle, but could not. He was completely immobilised. The two Chid towered over him, inspecting him with their boiled-egg eyes. Their exchange continued, apparently with a discussion of stakes and odds. Then they reached for their surgical tools.

What happened next was of such a nature that Ruiger’s mind was unable to apply any appropriate feelings to it. At first it was like being a babe in the hands of ultimately powerful adults, and the strangeness of it made all his perceptions hazy. He felt no pain, not even when the Chid, using a simple scalpel, cut his skull and face down the middle, bisecting his nose in the process, and prised apart the two halves. The minute his brain was levered out of place, however, he immediately ceased to feel that he was a human being possessing arms, legs or a torso. Eyes still functioning, he emerged from the sawn-open skull as a different creature altogether. He was a rounded grey lump, a cleft down his back, a sort of armadillo’s tail at his rear.

After that there was a short period of unconsciousness. When Ruiger came round again, his transformation was complete.

It was a little like being a snail. He could move about on the podium on which he squatted. He was covered with a gelatinous layer which protected his vulnerable tissue. And he could see. But he could not, of course, hear, or feel, or smell. The podium did, however, support other small organs which comprised a partial life-support. He could breathe and, after a fashion, feed, though on somewhat specialised food.

He had been put down outside the Chid hut, amid the coarse broad-bladed grass. Not far from him he saw another part-animal like himself. He knew it was Brand. And ahead, already striding away towards the cliff’s edge by means of vestigial motor functions, were two human bodies. One was Brand’s. The other was his.

Ruiger experienced a terrible hunger for the body that went walking away from him. He knew that he could possess it again, but to do so he must catch up with it before it fell over the cliff, and so he set off, sliding over the uneven ground with all his puny strength.

This, he realised, was the Chid’s brain-race. The Chid had placed bets on whether he or Brand, who also was straining not far away, would recover his body first. Already Ruiger was gaining on his body. If it should fall but once, he told himself, he would be able to catch up with it.

But the minutes passed and the body did not fall. Instead, Ruiger himself became entangled in a clump of grass. By the time he freed himself it was far too late. Desperately he lunged forward, only to see his body, striated by blades of grass, walk straight over the edge of the cliff, to fall on the rocks and the sea below.

It was gone. His body was gone. Numb with failure, Ruiger turned round. The Brand body, too, had disappeared, and of the Brand brain there was no sign. He made out the Chid hut. Near it was Wessel, standing casually, his brain out of his skull again and clinging to the side of his neck like an enormous slug. Beyond that, he dimly saw the Chid spaceship, not far from the little wood.

He saw his own spaceship, too, but that was no use to him now. Ruiger’s gaze settled on the wood. The dark patch, the motionless copse, was like an island amid the tawny bush. Curious… he was already forgetting what it was like to have a body… The burning hunger faded, his humanity receded from him as if he had lost it, not minutes ago, but decades ago, and the little wood was no longer gruesome or grotesque. It was a lush, gentle, sheltering place to part-animals like himself. It protected and nurtured them. In the wood he could live—after a fashion. And life, he remembered dimly, was worth hanging on to at any cost.

The sun and stars were burning down on him. He was naked and helpless here in the open. He could not live here. Steadily, pushing his way through the stiff grass, thinking of the welcoming pool of blood, of the enclosing black foliage, of the pulsing warmth, he crawled towards the still, dark hollow.

The God-Gun

It might seem improbable that my friend Rodrick (the spelling is his) could be the perpetrator of the world’s ultimate evil. His everyday conduct is neither more nor less reprehensible than the average man’s, and indicates no propensity for extreme villainy. Yet philosophically his depravity is profound, and has led him to commit the supreme crime, a crime of such magnitude as even to put him beyond the reach of divine retribution (or so he claims, and I, his only confidant, believe him).

The event of which I speak took place late one summer evening, in the final quarter of this century. It is thanks to Rodrick’s vanity that I witnessed the deed—that and our habit of drinking together in various bars in the town where we both live. I believe these meetings are for Rodrick almost his only social activity. For me, they provide the kind of stimulating conversation that is not always easy to come by in a small town. In the course of an evening our discussion might range through particle physics, organic chemistry, metallurgy, magic, magnetism, senology, cosmology, comparative religion, systematics, computer design, and on what would be the proper classification of human types. But always it has been a somewhat one-sided debate, for there has never been any question of my being equal to Rodrick. Always he outdistances me, always I am the pupil being talked to by a master who holds in his memory every fact and idea known to man.

My acquaintanceship with Rodrick has been a long one, and goes back nearly fifteen years. We both lead prosaic lives; I as an accountant and he, with a waste of ability all too typical of him, as a designer in a local television factory. We are, it will be guessed, intellectual dilettantes. But whereas I am strictly an amateur, Rodrick might almost be termed a professional, an avid scholar, and besides that a genuine inventor. The range of his studies is vast. I know, for instance, that he not only keeps himself fully informed as to the state of the physical sciences, but that he has also made a detailed examination of every philosophical and mystical system available. Confronted with the latest X-ray readings from suspected black holes, he is able to add comment derived from some obscure Kabbalistic text. Conversely, to refute a point in some ancient metaphysical doctrine quite unheard of by me, he will cite the discovery of the microwave background radiation.

But it would be wrong, I suppose, to describe Rodrick as a genius, for all his mental scope. Genius usually carries with it the capacity for deep feeling, and there Rodrick is, not simply deficient, but actually disabled: he is an emotional imbecile. I have come to know well his dry, arrogant voice, his tight, triumphant smile, his rapidly blinking eyes, symptoms of features in his psyche that are, perhaps, an aspect of our time. Nothing ever engages his attention that is not of a purely intellectual character; he worships, so to speak, the problem-solving intellect, its cleverness, its ingenuity, its facility for making the previously impossible possible. The need for a new type of life-saving surgery, or the interesting but frustrating question of how to achieve controlled nuclear fusion and so supply limitless energy to mankind, is to him no different from the problem of how to arrange the perfect murder, or of how to annihilate a nation.

This manic obsession with means regardless of the morality of ends, this extraordinary shallowness in his otherwise brilliant make-up, may be why so little has come out of Rodrick’s efforts. His minor improvements in radio engineering have not been commercially adopted, and though he maintains a well-equipped workshop on the top floor of his house, most of his private inventions have too small a practical application to make them viable. Only the automata with which he has populated his house seem to have proved even moderately useful, dusting and cleaning, finding their way by following white lines painted on the floor, climbing stairs and walls on a system of guide-rails, but leaving large patches of dust and rubbish unattended. And even they are complicated, clumsy, and too expensive to be marketable.

Of late Rodrick has become much absorbed in laser technology. It was to this subject that he first turned on the evening in question. He told me that he had just finished constructing “a unique device” employing a number of very powerful lasers he had bought recently. When I asked him what this device did, he changed his tack and went on to discuss the incongruent properties of electromagnetic radiation: its constant velocity in vacuo, unaffected by the velocity of the observer; its ubiquitous role as a conveyor of energy, and so forth. He said he suspected that laser light, because of the discipline of its coherent vibrations, could be used to disintegrate solid objects “into atoms”, as he put it, if only it could be tuned finely enough.

We were drinking in the White Bear, a quiet place lit by shaded lamps. Suddenly breaking off his discourse, Rodrick turned to me and asked abruptly if I believed in God.

The question surprised me. “Not in so far as I’ve ever thought about it,” I said.

“I have thought about it a great deal,” Rodrick said airily, “and I’m convinced that God does exist. The universe is the result of an act of creation. In other words, we have a maker.”

It surprised me a great deal to hear Rodrick talk this way. We had both always taken a materialistic view of things, and although Rodrick is familiar with mystical doctrines, as I have said, I had presumed his interest in them to be for the sake of completeness only. To take seriously the notion of God, to admit religion, seemed to me to smack of superstition, of unreason, of what Rodrick has called “animal belief”. I would not have thought it possible, either, for Rodrick to experience the sense of humility that belief in God is supposed to inculcate, and it saddened me, a little, to imagine now that there was a breach in the armour of his hubris.

His next words, however, were reassuring. “And if God exists, the next question is, how may he be contacted, influenced, forced, even injured.”

“It’s not possible,” I answered. “Believers are unanimous on that score. He is impalpable, transcendent.”

Rodrick looked at me intently, with that small, tight smile of his that meant he was leading up to something. “They are quite mistaken,” he said firmly. “What you are quoting is the shoddy superstition of the worshipper, the cringing obeisance he adopts towards the creator. The point is, I have never yet studied an account of the creation, whether mythical or metaphysical, that managed to do without some connection between the creator and the created. Since the universe is physical, it follows that this connection must, necessarily, be of a physical kind.”

He swallowed his rum and coke before continuing. “Do you see where I am leading? It all means that God shares some of the properties of matter. Not that he’s material in the same sense that we are—though one sect, the Mormons, teach that he is—but he must possess some material characteristics. Substantiality without extension, perhaps, or not even substantiality as such, but at any rate something, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to arrange for the creation of a physical universe.”

Rodrick prodded a finger at me. “And as you know, there’s no such thing as a purely one-way physical arrangement. If he was able to create us, there must be some way we can hit back at him. God can be killed, even.”

I snorted. “Preposterous!”

For reply Rodrick indulged in one of his theatrical gestures I often find irritating. He rose abruptly to his feet, without a word to me, and strode for the door, leaving me to trail along after him.

He was already some yards up the street before I caught up with him. I asked, somewhat annoyed, where we were going.

“To kill God,” he answered doggedly.

His pace did not falter and I, weakling that I am, fell in step beside him.

Certain impressions of that evening remain in my memory. The warmth of the night, the vanished sunset that still left a lingering after-glow. Rodrick’s half-timbered house, like a dark mass; Rodrick’s lean face, wolf-like in the light of shaded cresset lamps as we mounted the staircase that led to the upper floor. One of Rodrick’s cleaning robots had fallen from its guide-rails and lay broken on the tiling below. It was ignored by its brothers, who continued to purr clumsily about their business.

Rodrick kept up a constant expatiation during the short walk. “You see, our space-time must be in contact with the creative principle at all points. That principle must in turn emanate directly from the deity. Discover that principle and learn to control it, and you have a weapon to which God is susceptible, and which can be aimed from any point within the creation.”

“Are you serious?”

“Perfectly.”

Either Rodrick was joking or he was paranoid, I decided. But I asked: “If you were to destroy God, wouldn’t the universe disappear?”

“Ah, you stand revealed as a pantheist!” Rodrick declared dryly. “You subscribe to the Vedantic view that the universe is an aspect of Brahman, or God, and is indistinguishable from him. I’m fairly sure the cruder, Christian view is the correct one. The universe is distinct from God, produced by an act of will, and therefore is capable of an independent existence.” He waved a hand. “Just as those buildings have outlasted the men who built them.”

Now we were in Rodrick’s laboratory, and I gazed around as he switched on the lights. An elaborate framework had been constructed on the main workbench. A number of lasers—presumably those Rodrick had mentioned purchasing—were bracketed into it, in a manner that suggested a carefully conceived pattern. Distributed through the framework, like the fruits of a bizarre tree, were mirrors, lenses and prisms.

Beyond the windows there seemed to stretch an endless menacing abyss. It struck me how sinister was the atmosphere of the workshop, with its timber rafters and clumps of grime (the house automata were not admitted here). It was more like the laboratory of a medieval alchemist than of a twentieth-century man of science. The apparatus was modern, of course, but the dim lamps created countless dark corners, and it struck me that Rodrick could have arranged the lighting better.

“All right,” I said, “granted for the moment there is a physical principle by which one might gain access to God, supposing him to exist, how would you ever locate such a principle?”

“Perfectly simple, as it happens,” Rodrick said blandly. “That information has been available for at least three thousand years. ‘And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.’ Book of Genesis, verse three. And a remarkable insight on the part of the writer, if I may say so.”

Rodrick moved around the workbench to examine the lasers from all angles and began to check the alignments of his contraption with a digitised micrometer. While working he kept up a continuous low-toned monologue. “It’s obvious, once you think about it. The tool God used to construct solid matter, to unroll space and time, was light. That’s why it has such peculiar properties—why its velocity is constant for all observers, contrary to the expectations of Michelson and Morley, and also why it’s the basis of all energy exchange. But we don’t want the ordinary light that just goes zipping endlessly through space; that’s no good to us at all. We need light that can reverse its direction, as it were, that can become intense enough to implode, so to speak, and cross the threshold back into the pre-creation state… At this point we come to the fact, which is very interesting, that while the velocity of light is constant for all observers, it is not constant for all media. Inside a material environment it slows down. In diamond, for instance, its velocity is a mere seventy-seven thousand miles per hour—a bare two-fifths of its velocity in vacuo. What velocity, I asked myself, would light adopt in a medium composed entirely of light? The answer is that it would have no velocity at all, since it would only have itself to measure that velocity by.”

He switched on an oscilloscope. “Well, the next step is to arrange this special environment: an environment of pure light. It should be possible, I reasoned, to bring about a self-reflecting pattern of coherent light which would reinforce itself indefinitely, and that would transcend the space-time barrier. I admit I made some use here of certain mystical diagrams such as the Kabbala, which incidentally also describes existence as proceeding from out of light—‘limitless light’. The enneagram, an old Sufi symbol, was even more useful; it possesses cybernetic properties the Kabbala lacks. Be all that as it may, I can now announce the problem to be essentially solved. I have light that can hurtle back to its original source—very special, very dense light. You find the adjective incongruous? To us, of course, light is the most tenuous of substances, but to God it must seem solid and palpable. It is, after all, what he used to manufacture everything else. And if it comes to that, natural light only seems tenuous to us because it is constantly dispersing. Do you know there are lasers now that can produce a light pressure of two and a half million atmospheres? The ray gun is already with us.”

Having delivered this feverish lecture and finished his adjustments, Rodrick straightened and stared at me triumphantly. “I calculate that this device will produce a rod of radiation which will strike God like a bolt of hardened steel. What we have here is also a ray gun of sorts, Harry. The ultimate gun!”

Believing that I was only humouring Rodrick in his little fantasy, I asked: “But why should anyone want to do such a thing?”

Rodrick’s lips quirked. “Because it’s never been done, perhaps? No, that’s being facetious. Perhaps it’s to end the fawning ingratiation towards God one sees in people. The universe should exist on its own, should be independent. I’ll feel better knowing it’s broken free of the father-figure. I am by inclination, you see, emphatically an atheist.”

Rodrick said this light-heartedly. But suddenly, to my bewilderment, his tone changed and his expression became a sneer. “No, I’ll tell you why it is,” he said quickly. “It’s because God is far from being the source of all that’s good in the world, if you want my opinion. Life is a sordid business, all pain, frustration, disappointment and misery. What chance has anybody got to accomplish anything? Just look around you—children dying of cancer… everything going wrong…. I’ll tell you something: this world’s been put together like a Mickey Mouse watch! It’s a shoddy, botched-up job! I tell you, He deserves everything He’s going to get!”

This outburst, so astonishing from my point of view, was the first hint I had ever received that Rodrick felt so bitter about the moral aspects of existence, or indeed that he functioned on the level of feeling at all. He thrust a pair of goggles at me and told me to put them on. When I had done so he switched on his machine and the lasers began to discharge.

Even through the darkened shades the intricate display they projected was dazzling. The maze of light grew brighter and brighter as the beams traced out their endlessly returning path. The glow seemed to expand, to slowly engulf the mirrors and prisms that bent and reflected the light. For a while it all grew hazy, like a picture of a distant star cluster. Then it seemed to become more strongly defined, to solidify, until finally it became so bright that I could no longer bear it and I turned away.

When I looked again, the apparatus was dead. Later Rodrick was to explain that a fuse had blown. But at the time he merely whipped off his goggles and spoke in a flat, cracked voice.

“It’s done. God is dead.”

I laughed, though without enthusiasm. “Really, Rodrick, how preposterous,” I said, removing my own goggles. Then I saw his flat and lifeless eyes, and I knew that the mistake was mine.

Not in Rodrick alone do I notice the difference. I see it in everything and in everyone, including myself. Conversation these days is mechanical and repetitive, and one has but to look into people’s eyes to realise that they are all dead inside. Life continues in a fashion, of course: the machinery of the universe grinds on. But the days and nights have a blankness about them, a tedious emptiness. There are sunsets, dawns, the phases of the moon, the procession of the seasons, but all unenlivened by that majestic ambience that formerly shone through them.

What did God supply, after all, when he was alive? He supplied the beauty, the meaning and the mystery, with which the physical world was then imbued. This was what theologians meant, perhaps, when they said that the creation was continuous. But now it is all gone. There is no beauty, no inner life. Even colours have become flat and dull.

And so I can report that the Satanic rebellion succeeded one July evening in a small English town, and that God, not quite omnipotent as it turned out, is dead. I will ask no one to verify this event for themselves as for many, of course, it will have passed unnoticed. As for Rodrick, I grow tired of his stale utterances, of his dead mackerel eyes, of his increasing lethargy. Though we still meet for our customary talks, he repeats himself now in a manner that once he would simply not have permitted himself. Often he will simply sit and repeat like a parrot, “God is dead, God is dead. We are alone.” It is a long time now since I heard anything original from him.

The Ship that Sailed the Ocean of Space

Rim is the kind of man who would poke his head into Hell just to see how hot it is there.

He’s thickset, not very tall—but physical features like these don’t count for much when you look at Rim these days. All you see is a dishevelled, bleary layabout who scratches himself all the time because we gave up bathing and washing years ago.

Rim and I have got a pretty cushy number. We’re in this orbiting spaceship out beyond Neptune, and we’re supposed to be researching into the incidence of high-energy particles and all that stuff. Or rather, Rim is, because I don’t know anything about physics. I’m supposed to be his companion, to stop him from feeling lonely.

That’s a laugh. But I’m an old pal of Rim’s, and I never made out too well on Earth as far as jobs are concerned. When he told me about this easy-living deal, well, I was glad to get away from the nomadic life.

Actually, Rim is one of the system’s best physicists, and could do much more valuable research, but this is the only job he can get since he punched the director of Sub-Nuclear Research at London University. Still, I think I prefer it out here.

Actually, it’s quite O.K. Not like Hell—too cold—but we’re snug and warm in our quarters. Occasionally Rim condescends to spend a few hours at his job of tracking down the little wiggly particles and whatnot, the rest of the time we spend lounging around, boozing, quarrelling, sometimes leading to brawls—Rim always wins but I swear I’ll beat the bones out of him before I’m done. We’ve got a lifetime’s supply of brown ale. It takes us about a year to get through it, then we head back to Earth to restock, and make our way out here again.

Last time we were home Rim was told off about his meagre reports; but this period I haven’t noticed him do any work at all.

You can’t blame him. It’s a bit routine for a man like Rim and he was meant for better things.

Sometimes we get tired of the inside of the research ship so we suit up and go and sit outside, squeezing brown ale through our suits’ fluid intakes, and gazing at the universe. Space is a fine sight, especially out here where the sun is hardly more than a very bright star. It’s very dark, but not dim, that is, you can see all right, but there’s nothing nearby to see. It’s cold, and lonely.

Still, Rim and I don’t mind. We’ve both had our fill of human beings, and I hear they’re talking about prohibition down on Earth now.

Anyway, it was as we were sitting out there one day that I suddenly noticed that I could see something.

I pointed it out to Rim. It was a dark object, too small and distant to have any features, but it occluded stars, and light reflected off it.

“Boy,” Rim said wonderingly, “maybe it’s an asteroid.”

This idea pleased him. We’d never before found any asteroids out here, but there were some explosives in the storeroom for blowing them open if we did. Rim loves playing with explosives.

We scrambled through the airlock, took off our helmets and went to the control room. Rim soon got the object on the view-screen and took a few instrument sightings. “She’s moving about thirty miles an hour,” he told me as he started up the manoeuvring jets. “We’ll go and have a look.”

“Thirty miles an hour? That’s not very fast, is it?”

“Relative to us.” Through the matted hair and whiskers that all but covered his face, I discerned a slight frown. “I expect it’s in orbit, same as us.”

“Then why has it got a velocity difference of thirty miles per hour? It ought to have the same velocity.”

Rim didn’t answer. He had a bottle to his lips. But when we got closer to the asteroid, he started tapping the massometer impatiently. Finally he gave it a brutal kick.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” I demanded.

“The massometer,” he mumbled, “it’s not working.”

“What d’you mean? It must be working.”

“Don’t be a damn fool, that thing out there’s got to have some mass! Anyway, we’re close enough now, let’s get outside and have a first-hand view.”

Well, it wasn’t an asteroid.

I supposed it was about half a mile long, and about a seventh of that across the beam. Overlapping strips of a dull substance covered it, running lengthwise. To say there was something funny about it would be a polite underestimation.

For one thing, I couldn’t seem to estimate its shape, except that it was longer than it was broad. Every time I cast my attention at it to make a visual assessment, it seemed to evade me by sliding away without moving. Slippery as a fish, as far as the mind goes. But dammit, every time I looked at that thing I felt I was looking up at it. I kept wanting to climb up it to see what was on top.

In fact, we both tried to. We coasted all round it on our suit jets, trying to work out what was wrong. But it was no good: from every angle it presented the same appearance, the same maddening impression that we were looking at it from below, that there was something else to see on the upper side.

Also, there was another funny thing. In space, you don’t have any sense of up or down. There’s only here and there.

Eventually we gave up and landed on the body itself. Flipping on my intercom, I heard Rim scratching himself inside his suit.

“Well,” he ventured, “it isn’t a natural object. It’s an artifact.”

“Oh, daddy,” I sniggered, “I would never have known if you hadn’t told me.”

“All right, shut up.” Sulkily he moved away, muttering to himself as he bent to examine the strange hull. A minute later his voice sounded again, loud and friendly now that he had found something else to divert him.

“Say, this material is queer stuff,” he said. “I can’t get any sound out of it.”

“Well, what sort of sound do you expect in space?”

“I mean I can’t get any conducted sound when I strike it with my glove. It doesn’t even feel as though it offers resistance to my hand—yet my hand stops short, as it should, when I press against it. Do you know something? I think our massometer was working after all. This thing hasn’t got any mass!”

“Big deal!” I offered sardonically.

He straightened up and came closer. “I’m out of beer,” he told me. “Got a bottle?”

Silently I handed him one and listened to his unsavoury gurglings as he squeezed the ale into his headpiece and straight down his throat.

The excitement must have given him a thirst. He finished the pint in forty seconds, slung the bottle into the void, and blinked, peering with his weak beery gaze at our discovery. I could practically see the stuff oozing out of his eyeballs.

“It’s a ship,” he said. “It can’t be anything else. If it’s a ship it must be hollow. I’d like to take a look inside.”

“I’d rather you stuck to nuclear particles.”

“Aah….” Rim went limp inside his suit, which in the absence of gravity is the equivalent of flinging oneself into an armchair. He gets very depressed at times, and I could see he had a mood coming on.

“Stay here,” he instructed after a while. “I’m going to get my tool kit.”

He nearly blew me into space with a fountain of poorly controlled propellant, and rocketed over to the research ship. I imagined him thumping around inside, cursing and turning the place upside down. Since he hadn’t entered the laboratory for six months he would have forgotten where everything was. However, he appeared twenty minutes later with a tool bag and auxiliary power pack swinging from his neck.

“Yippee, here I come!” he yelled as he came streaking across the ten-mile distance to the alien ship. By the time I got to where he landed he had clamped himself against the side and was fitting together a power drill.

“What are you going to do?” I queried.

“Drill a hole.”

“Are you crazy—” I began. Then I lowered my voice. “Look, if whatever’s inside there wanted to meet us he’d have come out by now. Where’s your tact? Besides, you can’t just go drilling a hole in somebody else’s ship! You might let all the air out.”

“No, they’ll be all right,” he answered casually. “If they’re smart enough for space travel they’re smart enough to take care of a little puncture. Anyway, I’m only drilling to find out what the hull’s made of.”

With that he made a connection, and crouching over the drill, applied it to the side of the ship.

For a few moments I watched the tip slide into the plank-like structure, but then a queasy feeling came over me and I didn’t feel like seeing any more.

I sauntered off and rounded the bend of the ship, idly contemplating its odd, belly-like curve. For some reason I kept looking for a keel—but of course there wasn’t any keel. It was only that strange fancy, the same one that insisted the ship floated upright.

Floated? Well, yes, I thought. I suppose things can be said to float in space.

I was about to go back to see how Rim was getting on, when a movement caught my eye. Something bright and pointed was emerging through the planking….

“Rim!” I squealed in fright. “Your drill’s coming through the other side!”

The drill-tip stopped moving. “How far away are you?” “About fifty yards!”

Rim gave an unbelieving curse, and came zooming round to join me. His eyes bulged when he saw the drill-tip. “That drill’s only eight inches long. How can it penetrate fifty yards? Go and see—no, stay here a minute!”

He put weight on his jets and galloped off round the bend. “I’m moving the drill now,” his voice informed. “Is that tip waggling?”

“Y-Yes,” I bleated, watching the tip move slowly in and out. “You’ve made two holes instead of one!”

“But it’s impossible. Here—grab the tip and move it about a bit, we’ve got to make sure.”

After hesitation, I firmly grasped the metal drill and pushed, then pulled, meeting a resistance I knew came from Rim. His voice yelped in my ears. “The handle! It’s moving in my hand!”

“I’m scared,” I admitted, by my tone of voice as well as by the statement.

“Then come round here with me, I’m scared too!”

I was surprised to hear that anything could frighten Rim, but the thought of that only urged me on the faster. However, when I came upon him he seemed to have regained his control, though he still crouched over the drill and held it in a tetanus grip.

“Do you know what I think?” he whispered, staring up at me. “There’s no space inside there!”

“What, you mean it’s solid all the way through?”

“No, no.” He shook his head with exasperation. “Listen, do you remember how much drill is protruding the other end?”

“About four inches.”

“And do you know how much I inserted this end? Four inches! The tip goes in here and instantly reappears fifty yards away. There’s no distance inside the ship. No distance means no space. The interior of this ship is void of space.”

There was a long pause. “Let’s go back to quarters,” I said feebly.

Rim muttered to himself, shaking his head. But he pulled out the drill, disconnected it and made ready to leave.

And then the drill began to bend and waver, in a way no solid object could. That wasn’t all. The arm and hand with which Rim held the tool began to bend and waver too, to flow, as if it were made of smoke and being distorted by air currents. Rim gave a wild yell when he saw the impossible contortions of his arm.

Now part of his space armour began to behave in the same way. It was as if Rim were being sucked—sucked towards the hole he had drilled.

“Get away, Rim!” I shouted, though I was too terrified to help him myself.

For a moment he stared wonderingly at his body as it elongated and streamed, then he started up his jets and before I knew what was happening we were both hurtling towards the research ship without thought of the other. Almost blind with haste, I scrambled through the airlock to find Rim already waiting for me in the living quarters.

“Rim,” I gasped. “You made it quick. Are you all right?”

“Of course!” he snapped irritably. “Perfectly all right. It wasn’t me that was being malformed, it was just the space I occupied.”

I peered closely at his body but didn’t find one trace of any deformation. He was his usual robust, unhealthy, disgusting self.

He chewed the lid off a beer bottle and commenced to gulp the contents, allowing some of it to dribble down his chest. I helped myself to one, too, and it tasted good enough to bathe in, not that I thought of bathing.

“Don’t you see what happened?” Rim said between gargles, flopping on to a couch. “It was space—pouring through the hole. There wasn’t any space inside. Well, now we know: space behaves like a fluid.”

“I thought space was just nothing,” I replied, also gargling.

“Space has structure,” he asserted seriously. “Direction: north, south, east, west, zenith, nadir. It has distance. Good God!” His over-ripe brown eyes suddenly alive with emotion, Rim leaped from the couch and switched on all the outer view-screens. “Look! All the sidereal universe is contained in space. Everything! Except….” His voice tailed off into mutterings again. He let the empty bottle fall from his fingers and took another from one of the crates we always have piled up all over the place. Slowly he dropped back on to the couch, sullenly thoughtful.

“What I can’t understand,” I remarked conversationally, “is why that thing out there makes me think of a Greek trireme.”

I was glad to be back in our cosy living quarters. We keep the lights low and it’s comfortable, if you don’t mind the rotten food lying about the floor, and the smell. It would have suited me perfectly to forget we ever saw the alien body: all it had done was disturb our routine.

“Never mind,” I said consolingly, “we’ve had a harrowing experience. Come on, drink up and have another.”

But he wouldn’t be cheered, and presently we lapsed into a silent drinking bout. We have had many of these in the course of our career out here beyond Neptune, particularly when we muse on our memories and our misfortunes among the society of our fellow-men back on Earth; but never before had I seen Rim guzzle so solidly, and with such an air of desperation.

Some hours later he struggled to a sitting position, breathing heavily. “Don’t you see?” he uttered hoarsely, the words coming with scant coherence. “Don’t you see what that ship is? It floats on space as an ocean ship floats on water! It’s really right outside space—outside the dimensions. But it floats on them, and we see the part its weight causes to be projected below the water-line… the space-line.”

“But it doesn’t have any weight,” I objected hazily. By this time we were both pretty far gone.

“Their kind of weight, not ours, fool. By God! If they use space for water, what do they use for air? And us, do you know what we are? Fishes in the sea. Never able to reach the surface.”

He came towards me, groping blindly until his hand clapped my shoulder. “Listen. There’ll never be another chance like this.”

“Chance for what?”

“To see what it’s like where there’s no space. I’m going inside that ship.”

“But you can’t do that—”

“What do you mean, I can’t? Are you telling me what I can do? Me, Rim, the Great Rim? Why, if it weren’t for me you wouldn’t have this job at all. You’d still be walking around the gutters on Earth.”

Even in my befuddled state I could see he’d got to the maudlin stage, and that would quickly be followed by the self-pitying stage. I couldn’t do anything to prevent it, and anyway it was a sort of entertainment. But as for any half-mad scheme he might dream up, well, that was different. It was dangerous.

“Look here,” I coaxed, “there isn’t any way you can get inside that ship. There are no openings. Now if you spent more time in the laboratory….”

“Yaah!” Big brownish tears trickled out of Rim’s eyes. “Keeping me out of all the big research! Pushing me out here where they think I won’t be able to achieve anything….”

“Genius is never tolerated,” I consoled.

“But Rim will discover something to amaze them all! Rim will find out about space itself. You watch me.”

“There’s no way inside, old chap.”

“No way? Hah! A few ounces of blasting powder will soon make a way. All I have to do is nip inside before all the space comes washing in, and observe… observe….”

The voice faded into the familiar mutter. I rose to my feet, aghast. He was really drunk! “But what about the people inside?”

Rim looked at me with a mean look I had never seen on his face before. I never knew until that moment just how much he resented the way society had treated him, even though it was his own fault. Now he wanted to assert himself against all the force of moral feeling which society represented.

“People?” he roared. “A bit of space won’t hurt them! This is for science!”

I shook my head with as much firmness as I could muster. “You’re not going.”

“You’re telling Rim what to do?” Rim shook his head shaggily and landed his fist on my nose. I reeled, ignoring the pain and trying to sort out the scenery from the streaks of light flashing across my brain, and stumbled over a chair. Rim came after me. Rolling aside to evade him, I looked desperately around for something to hit him with. A bottle! There was one lying on the floor an arm’s length away, and I grabbed it as I came to my feet.

Rim was in a half crouch, he also had a bottle in his hand. “So it’s bottles, is it?” he spat, and smashed his on the edge of the table. Neither of us had ever done that before.

“Rim!” I cried in amazement. “We’ve known each other all our lives!”

I backed against the wall, letting my own weapon fall in my surprise. Rim edged to me, displaying his jagged glass proudly and making thrusting motions. Then he threw it aside at the last moment and aimed one of his best hammerblows at my jaw.

That was when I temporarily left the scene in the living quarters, for the happier climes of unconsciousness.

When I recovered he’d suited up and left. I didn’t know how long it had been but I guessed it was five or ten minutes.

I felt too groggy to follow, though. I climbed to my feet, groaned a little, felt sorry for myself for a while, then became supine again, this time on the couch. My head felt really bad, and I don’t think it was just the beer.

For the first time in my life I felt a twinge of remorse. Why that should be, I couldn’t make out: Rim should be the one going through all that conscience stuff, not me. Still, I staggered over to a mirror and gazed long, if unsteadily, at the horrifying sight I presented.

“You look wretched,” I accused miserably. “You look as bad as him.”

I took solace in the thought that perhaps I didn’t look quite as bad as Rim, then turned my attention to what he was doing, switching on the main view-screen to show the alien ship. Bringing up the magnification a few degrees, I saw my partner puttering at the vessel’s lower aft part; soon he backed off, and a neat explosion blew a large chunk out of the fabric.

Rim darted forward immediately and slipped inside the hole. Even in those few seconds I saw him twist and waver as if he’d been caught in a swift current, but I lost interest in him in the course of the next minute, because I was so completely fascinated by what was happening to the ship.

When the space rushed in, she began to sink. That is, she took on greater, more meaningful proportions, became more majestic. As more of her bulk was submerged, the enigma of her appearance was resolved, and at last she reached the point where she revealed her real shape to us fishes. There was a keel, now, and a curving bulge of prow, sides and stern. Even a steering oar became visible.

Slowly, the true nature of the vessel heeled over into the sidereal universe as currents of space swirled in and around her. And then, when she was totally submerged, I saw it—the open deck, the drowned crewmen, the great expanse of square sail. Then I saw the nobles which the ship carried: the poet-faced youth, with a golden circlet about his neck, a short dagger of authority at his side, and his arm around a beautiful lady, dressed in a loose flowing robe, her hair gorgeously arrayed, but both their faces relaxed now in the repose of death by drowning. Of course, they were about thirty feet tall….

Within a few minutes the ship began to break up. I saw a tiny figure struggling through the disintegrating bilges, and automatically flicked on the intercom to hear his hoarse gasping breath. Nothing amiss there. He jetted a short distance away and looked up at the lord and lady, a blunt midget against their gracious forms.

Immersed in space, their bodies dissipated, fading away in spinning particles, brief glimmers and spiracles. Even the ship itself had become water-logged—space-logged, and was shredding into fragments which dispersed into non-existence.

“Oh,” quavered Rim, “I’m a murderer.”

Ten minutes later there was only black, empty space on the view-screen. Rim clumped through the airlock and grumpily told me he hadn’t learned a thing about what it was like without space.

So we both returned to the bottle.

All that Rim put on his research report this year was: “Found a sailing ship. Sank it.” I hope we don’t lose our jobs because of that; we’d be pretty lucky to find another easy number like this one. Still, we’ve got beer enough for another three months, so we’ll find out then.

Actually, I think we’ll get through the beer in two months, or even one.

The other day Rim started laughing. “I just can’t get over it,” he said. “Creatures to whom space is a heavy liquid! I’d like to see their aeroplanes.”

“Yeah,” I answered. “What about when they get the idea of submarines?”

The Radius Riders

The last dive of the subterrene vessel Interstice began as a test mission to prove her worth. She had but recently been launched: half her galleries were empty shells, waiting to be fitted with munitions and crew quarters. Nevertheless, we carried a good load, a crew of two hundred, and our technical plant, including armaments, was complete. Two magazines, one fore, one aft, were stacked with torpedoes; and the whole mass lay sedately in the grip of the polariser fields, by means of which our newly-built ship travelled through solid matter.

The development of subterrene ships had only just begun, and the Interstice was the fifth of the species, the others being prototypes. We had built her large, and we had built her powerful, for she was a warship. As yet, our nation was not at war, but we had enemies, and underground travel was an advantage to be quickly grasped.

And so, with Captain Joule in command, and I, Ross, as technical officer, we undertook to journey across the American continent from east to west, at a depth of ten miles. We passed beneath mountain ranges, beneath deserts and lakes, and slipped through every kind of geological formation. We tested for speed, steering—a complicated process where atom-polarisers are concerned—and depth control. Throughout, the equipment did not falter. The polariser fields stayed solidly in balance, even when we turned the Interstice first hard to port, then hard to starboard. The first fully operational subterrene ship was a success.

We were jubilant. We had no suspicion, as we approached the west coast, that a grave misfortune was soon to befall us, provoking us into reckless folly and causing us to be caught helpless in the grip of the mighty terrestrial planet.

I was with Captain Joule in the control cabin when he gave the order to surface at our prearranged location. On an even keel, the ship rose steadily.

At seven miles, a high-pitched hum sounded in the metal of the ship, rising rapidly to an unnerving screech as we ascended. At the same time, an urgent call came from Polariser Section.

The white-faced image of the chief engineer stared from the communicator screen. “Captain! An outside force is distorting the field! We can’t hold it!”

“Dive!” ordered Captain Joule.

Down we plunged, and immediately the terrifying sound ceased. As the Interstice shuddered to a stop, Joule questioned the engineer.

“What sort of a force?” he demanded.

“It was magnetic, very powerful. The noise we heard was due to every metallic atom on board vibrating on its polarised alignment. Another half minute and the whole ship would have been unpolarised!”

“Just how powerful is it?” Joules asked, puzzled.

The engineer shrugged. “The meters went haywire. I don’t understand it! We never guessed there were such intense energies at only five miles.”

Joule paused. “Weapons Section! Fire a torpedo straight up; but don’t set the fuse.”

Moments later, the Interstice made the first use of her armament. The torpedo lanced upwards, traced by polarised-field detectors. Shortly after it passed the five-mile limit, the missile vanished from the screen, and we received a series of strong shock-waves.

The torpedo’s polarisers had failed.

Still Joule was not satisfied. He ordered us up once more. Cautiously, we approached the danger level, and the shrieking of vibrating atoms hummed through the ship. Following on the pleas of Polariser Section, we sank back to a safe depth.

Now our confidence was gone. Retracing our route, we tried again with the same result. Then we made periodic attempts all the way back to the east coast, and for two weeks wandered over the continent, probing. The unbelievably strong phenomenon lay like a blanket under the land.

Myself, I doubted that it was magnetic in origin. Most likely, I thought, it was a magnetic effect produced by a freak stream of particles which had begun to flow while we were submerged.

Captain Joule was gloomy when I expressed this idea to him. “In that case,” he commented, “it might be artificial. It certainly is an effective weapon against a subterrene ship.”

But whatever the origin, the practical fact remained: we were unable to break surface.

The mood of the Interstice changed as we realised this. The excitement of our successful new enterprise vanished. I noticed for the first time how hollow the inside of the ship was, how every sound produced echoes in its cavities, and how dully its arched walls reflected the yellow lighting. It was easy to imagine how far within the Earth we were. I looked at Captain Joule, and knew that he had the same feelings.

Suddenly, I roared with laughter. “Well, we are trapped,” I said lightly. “What of it? All the better. This is our chance to defy those faint-hearts of the Navy Department with impunity.”

“What do you mean?” Joule asked.

“They forbade us, in the interests of caution, to take any of our ships deeper than ten miles at this stage. But since we cannot ascend, we will return to the surface the long way—through the diameter of the planet.”

He smiled, considering the proposal with characteristic brevity. I remembered the previous conversations we had held over the years, when the polariser fields were undergoing their slow, painful development in the Navy laboratories. Many daring schemes such as this had suggested themselves to us, and we were only biding our time in order to carry them out.

“Let us put it to the others,” he said at length, and spoke into the communicator, calling an officers’ conference.

The control cabin was claustrophobic by the time six officers had crowded into it. The air inductors weren’t designed to accommodate this many, and after ten minutes I was gasping for breath.

In the pause before Joule spoke, I heard the steady hum of the now resting ship. “You will all know by now,” he began, “that we are unable to break surface. Ross has a proposal, which he will outline to you.” He gave me a nod.

“Ever since the subterrene ship became a possibility,” I said, “I have conceived the idea of journeying into the interior of the Earth, perhaps to the centre itself. During the building of the Interstice I took advantage of the polariser propulsor’s ability to move very large masses, and made tentative plans for such an expedition. The Interstice is considerably larger than her first design called for: she has a heavier power plant, more instrumentation and food and air recyclers to keep a full crew supplied for several years. I also installed a workshop, and refrigerating equipment to guard against overheating.”

There were some surprised expressions among the Navy men when I revealed this, but others, those officers from my own civilian team, already knew of it. I feared no recriminations. The civilised man never entirely ignores the pursuit of knowledge.

“The Interstice is still not fully fitted for the voyage I envisaged,” I told them, “but in my opinion she will suffice. Since we are cut off from America, I propose to emerge on another quadrant of the planet.”

Joule interrupted here. “One point to bear in mind, gentlemen. It is possible that the barrier we encountered is an artificial device. If this is so, then our nation is at war, and the enemy already knows about subterrene ships. In this case it is our duty to return as soon as possible, not to go wandering off following our own interests.”

“I confess,” I said, “that I am delighted to have this opportunity to fulfil my ambitions. But in any case, there is no other way to make the Interstice useful in battle, since the shortest route to any other land mass now lies in an approach to the world’s core.”

“May I ask a technical question?” an officer asked. “Already we are close to the level where the Earth’s crust gives way to the hotter mantle. Beyond that, the liquid core is even hotter. Can we stand up to these conditions?”

“The polariser field makes us impervious in theory to any degree of heat or density,” I answered, “but it gives no protection from gravity and magnetism. Gravity will first aid, then hinder us. But magnetism will also grow intense towards the centre, and we have already seen what that can do to the polarisers.”

There were shudders as I said this.

“To be honest,” I continued, “if we run into a phenomenon like the one we have just escaped, I don’t know what we shall do. But there is an ingenious device called a gauss shunt, which can control gradual increments of magnetism by means of meson currents. This will not take too long to build, and should be able to handle the steady rise of energy we may naturally expect.”

The officers thought about it in silence. Already the Interstice had gone deeper than any before, slipping through high-density rock by virtue of the fact that the respective atoms of ship, men and air were individually aligned in different directions in space. At that very moment the cabin, the walls, our very bodies, were filled with a solid mass of hot rock, made impalpable by a delicate balance.

It was nightmarish to the imagination. But these were sturdy men, the cream of our nation, and they were inspired by my enthusiasm and by Joule’s leadership. “Come on!” I urged. “Man has never been this way before. Let us make the adventure!”

“I favour Ross’s proposal,” Joule said. “Any further questions?”

There were none. And once Joule had announced his decision, there were no objections.

“Ross will instruct you concerning the preparations for the deep dive,” he continued briefly. “That is all.”

For three days the Interstice poised her giant bulk ten miles down, while we worked on the gauss shunt. With our resources it did not prove difficult. We constructed a meson charger next to the ship’s power plant, and laid a skeleton of iron-silver channels over the inner hull, converging on a bank at the stern where the external magnetic fields could be passed back to ground. But for this, the polariser would be twisted out of alignment, and every scrap of metal would be melted by induction.

I used a rheostat control to test the shunt’s power to vary the magnetic field strength within the ship; then we were ready to reactivate the propulsors and turn our sluggish gravitational settling into a true power-dive.

The interior of the Interstice looked a devil’s workshop. An image came to my mind of the old days before the world’s surface was fully mapped, and windships might spread sail before new oceans, and new lands. For us, there were no free winds, no light, no rolling waters. We had passed outside the bounds of ordinary existence, and must force our way into darkness, pressure, heat.

Obediently, the motors pushed us deeper into the Earth. In the harsh yellow light which was our only illumination, the technicians watched the changing rock formations as they showed on the screens, noting down readings from the instruments. The information for which geologists had longed for centuries was now being collected with ease.

Down we sank, with the ever-present thought of the world’s solidity and the audacity of the human intellect which had conceived the subterrene ship. There was a quiet murmur of activity in the large hall-like enclosure of the Interstice, when I next walked her length to inspect the various equipments. We had just clocked three hundred miles.

Then, without warning, there was a blamn, followed by a heavy grating noise, and a shivering in the air. I recognised it, with utter amazement. I had heard it before, in the Navy’s laboratories. It was nothing to do with the magnetic barrier we had encountered earlier.

It was the noise created by the collision of two polariser fields.

I ran through the long passageways to Command Section. In the ante-room to the control cabin, the detector crew was scanning the vicinity, and the obstruction was taking shape on the screens.

But there was more than just one field. I saw a whole panorama of them, an extended complex, full of shadowy delineations to north, south, east and west, piling up, forming groups and spacious areas. For a while, it was more than I could believe.

We had blundered into a subsurface city.

Though it sounds incredible, Nature also has learned how to make two material objects occupy the same space, and she has riddled the Earth with beings in this manner. The conurbation into which we had plunged was huge, stretching beyond detector range. The scanners tended to indicate a rather weak polarisation, and I would guess that the inhabitants, if their experience can be described in human terms, dwell in a medium like thick treacle. The Interstice must have fallen on them as a super-bright, supersolid monster of almost indestructible qualities.

I went into the control cabin, where Captain Joule was gaping at the same scene on his own monitor screens, and sat down. Joule did not bother to acknowledge me.

He flicked a communicator switch. “Power Section! Listen for my orders. And give me steerage.”

I heard the snick as the steerage of the Interstice was transferred from the propulsor room to the control console before Joule’s bucket seat. The Interstice had become lodged between the walls of a group of buildings, and his magnificent broad shoulders hunched in an attitude of fury over the steering wheel, sweat staring out from his skin, as he tried to extricate her and batter a way into deeper territory.

“Look!” I said. “Do you see?”

He paused, and gazed at the screen. Ships were approaching, a whole fleet of them, riding forward as if on a cumbersome breeze. They were odd-looking affairs, composed of long curved beams, and through the wide gaps these afforded we could vaguely distinguish crews and crude apparatus. There were also signs of flurried activity in the vicinity of the nearby buildings.

The inhabitants were clearly prepared to defend their city. I noticed that some of the ships, larger than the others, had something mounted on their prows which looked strangely familiar, and as I watched, the foremost vessel swung into action.

“It’s a catapult!” Joule shouted.

Clang! The Interstice’s galleries rang with the impact of the missile against her hull. Joule laughed. “Let them shoot away!” And he bent himself once again to the control console.

But it proved impossible to dislodge our ship, and eventually, with the subearthers’ missiles raining down on us, we resorted to our weapons. Though we used them sparingly, our torpedoes and seismo-beams caused terrible havoc before we had blown a pathway and could continue our journey. For fifty miles the fleet harried us, pounding the walls of the ship in an attempt at revenge.

“And this is at three hundred miles!” Captain Joule exclaimed. “What will we find further on?”

The possibilities were frightening. The Earth’s interior is much more spacious than its surface, and has room for a vaster variety of creatures. Here, we had come up against primitives. In the depths, might we find imposing civilisations of super-science, to whom the Interstice was a toy? Or there might be monsters in the Earth….

But discovery had become the prime object of the dive as far as I was concerned, and no danger could be allowed to stand in the way of scientific endeavour.

And the possibility of meeting enemies was not the only danger. By now, I knew that something else was seriously wrong.

I had been checking over the readings which the external instruments had given. By the laws of physics, it seemed inevitable that the figures for density and heat should have risen steadily as we descended. Inexplicably, they had remained the same since we began the dive at ten miles.

Captain Joule showed an engineer’s interest, but was unperturbed. “What about magnetism?” he asked.

“No change either,” I told him, “but then there wouldn’t be much at this depth: the gauss shunt is needed for later.”

Just the same, we both went along to inspect the shunt, starting at the meson charger in Power Section, and tracing one of the iron-silver channels along a narrow hull corridor to the stern. I studied the meters mounted on the insulated chamber which contained the bank. The needles should have moved slightly as a small increment of magnetic force was bled away to maintain surface normal. Instead, they were dead against the stops.

I picked up a phone and called Power Section. “Move the bleed bar two inches,” I ordered.

As the rheostat was manipulated, one dial stirred to show force being passed to ground, and another told of decreasing field strength in the ship.

Joule grunted. “Could anything be wrong with it?”

I ordered the rheostat to be returned to its original position. “No,” I said, “it’s in perfect order. Perhaps we just have to accept the fact that the interior of the Earth is different from what we have always assumed. Either that, or else we are in a pocket of low density. Anyway, our progress is good.”

But as the days passed, I kept constant check on the density, heat and magnetism readings, and always to find the same result. No change. I grew seriously worried.

I reminded myself that apart from the Interstice’s intrinsic instruments we had no way of checking her actual velocity. To rectify this I designed a mass-meter, which, I reasoned, could tell our rate of progress by measuring first the mass of the Earth ahead of us, and then that part of the Earth we had put behind us.

The result startled me. The two readings taken together disagreed with the known mass of the Earth.

“That’s ridiculous!” I told Joule. “The Earth would have to weigh more than it did when we set out. And we’ve put five hundred miles behind us, but the distance ahead is still the same.”

Were we moving, or weren’t we?

It was an enigma. Pointed one way, the mass-meter indicated that we were. Pointed the other way, it indicated that we were at a standstill.

I waited a further week, during which the puzzle enlarged itself. By this time we should have reached a depth of one thousand miles, and be learning the extent of our ability to survive under extreme pressure. In fact, we had clocked a thousand vertical miles; but our approach to the core had still not advanced. We seemed to be advancing along the line of a paradox, where no matter how fast we run, the finishing line never comes nearer.

The knowledge of it was both frustrating and depressing. It was now no longer possible to treat it as an intellectual puzzle.

We had found no more cities, and no further attacks had been made on us, but we took care not to repeat our previous mistake. The scanners operated continuously, and showed various dim flickers of polarisation in the distance. I spent hours gazing at the screen. Occasionally, a vast shape drifted by on the edge of scanner range, and transient forms whose nature we could not guess appeared.

After thirteen days of travel, Captain Joule called the officers to his cabin.

Impassively, he faced them in his bucket seat, and allowed them to fall quiet, cramped and sweating, before speaking.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I wish to review our position. Ross will tell you the situation.”

Briefly, I explained about the mass-meter readings, and the uniformity of pressure we had found at all depths of the mantle. We were driving the ship into a discrepancy between instrument readings. The further we went, the greater the discrepancy became.

“Apart from common sense,” I finished, “there is nothing to indicate that we have gone one inch towards fulfilling our aim of reaching the Earth’s core.”

“Then are we at a standstill?”

“From one angle, it looks like it,” I conceded, “but I don’t think so. We are still expending energy. The propulsors are working perfectly, and this can only result in motion. We must be going somewhere, and in fact you only have to look at the detector screens to see that we are actually in motion.”

“And getting nowhere,” Joule put in. “As far as the Navy is concerned, the purpose of this dive is to get back to base, which we do not seem to be achieving.”

“Are you suggesting that we turn back?”

“It has been in my mind. There may be no obstacle in our way now.”

My heart sank at the words. Our discoveries had intrigued me enough to want desperately to continue, and the danger, and the strangeness we had encountered, only gave me an overpowering urge to journey further.

I knew Captain Joule secretly agreed with my attitude, for he is one of the best of men, the finest of officers. There are some who find blame with our generation, saying that it has become ultraconservative and rigid; but I claim that this is no fault, only an inevitable era of civilisation. The spirit of our nation was never stronger than it is now. We are producing great men, fabulous engineers. Captain Joule knew the tacit dictum of our engineers—never to know fear, never to draw back—but he had a duty to his command, which I, though it saddens me now to confess it, did not feel.

“Why turn back?” I asked intensely. “We must carry on! The puzzle will resolve itself—and anything we encounter in the Earth, we will deal with!”

We had no opportunity to argue further, for the decision was taken out of our hands. As the communicator bleeped the alarm call, all monitor screens came to life.

The detector crews had found a second species of intra-Earth intelligence approaching from a distance of some miles, and we had several minutes in which to prepare.

Their fleet came up from below and arrayed itself about us, while we took to our battle stations. They were long, portly craft which swayed slightly due to some invisible phenomenon of the depths, and they gathered slowly, as if getting our measure, closing in with a menacing air.

Then, either on general principle, or because they considered us enemies, they attacked.

I was exultant. Now the Interstice, previously untried in full-scale combat, would use her full capacity, and the temper of our expedition would crystallise, one way or the other. For these adversaries of ours were not the primitives of the higher levels. Their ships moved under their own power, and their weapons could do us damage.

Yet still they were not our technological equals. They fired flashing arrow-like projectiles which could penetrate our armour, and they skilfully deployed their large numbers in an attempt to compensate for our superior armament. But the Interstice bulked huge above them, bristling with torpedo tubes and seismo-beam turrets; we were a match for them.

It was a running fight. Power Section strained the propulsors to their utmost, and we pressed down like a whale surrounded by a cloud of sharks. Captain Joule gave up trying to evade the enemy missiles, and left our defence to the wicked power of Weapons Section.

When I entered the main body of the ship to keep a watch on the performance of our equipment, the galleries were booming like bells from enemy strikes, and shuddering from the explosions of our own torpedoes as they flashed out of polarisation and caused titanic convulsions in the Earth—I’ll warrant the subearthers never heard of that trick! I could hear the surging rush of their launching, and from the alcoves set high in the walls came the buzzing of seismo-beams.

Just ahead of me, a twenty-foot lance lunged through the side of the wall and hurtled aslant the spacious central well. A gunner fell from the wall, his head cleft open. The seismo-beamer he had been operating was a ruined mess.

Thirty times their projectiles broke our hull, and we lost eight men. But what of it? We were an invincible dreadnought. The Interstice was truly a battleship.

Eventually they withdrew, with heavy losses. Perhaps we had passed outside their domain.

There was a drumming of power tools as the crewmen applied themselves to repairs amid the fumes of our own weapons. I returned to the control cabin, where Captain Joule was checking Polariser, Weapons and Power Sections. He turned to me as I entered.

“Steering’s gone,” he said gloomily. “There’s no choice about what we do now. I wouldn’t like to try to turn the ship on the main drive; the polarisers would blow, no doubt about that.”

I made no answer. The Interstice, unable to turn aside without the elaborate gear necessary to change the direction of a polarised field, could do nothing but journey on, and on.

We had gained a victory, but lost control over our destiny. It was in this helpless mood that the officers of the Interstice directed her even deeper into the solid Earth.

For a month we sank down under the force of the motors. Every day I anxiously studied the instrument readings. In all that time, the nature of the external rock showed no change.

Everything, with the exception of the second mass-meter reading and the plain fact that we were moving downwards, indicated that we were still at rest ten miles below the surface.

Joule and I gave all our thought to the problem. Sometimes, he shuddered. Was this the bottomless gulf of which poets speak in terror?

“It’s impossible!” he said in exasperation. “Rock is flowing past us! Living creatures appear from ahead, and drop behind. Yet we are unable to approach the centre!”

We drew a circle to represent the Earth, and resolved the mystery to the fact that the mass-meter gave two conflicting positions for the Interstice within that circle. Or was it some radically new geometry, where two quantities no longer add up to their sum? What do we know of the universe? We only have experience of the surface of our planet—perhaps, elsewhere, laws are different.

Experimentally, we drew in quadrant of the circle, and contemplated the figure. Joule drew in concentric rings, and we noticed that in the quadrant, the arc shortened in proportion to the radius.

It was a subtle thought.

Apart from the philosophical considerations, I also wondered whether the gauss shunt, by draining surplus energy back to ground, was somehow the source of an illusion affecting all the external instruments and the mass-meter. I could think of only one way to find out.

Captain Joule regarded me with horror when I requested permission to turn off the shunt.

“If the conjecture is correct,” he said in a hushed tone, “we’ll be blown to kingdom come.”

“What of it?” I cried, gesturing wildly. “We can’t carry on like this. We could as well be journeying in Limbo. We might get away with it if the shunt is out of action for only a few milliseconds.”

We did the thing secretly. With my own hands I assembled the timing mechanism and connected it to the bank. For twenty milliseconds the shunt was inoperative.

The meters did not even flicker.

“Try again!” Joule ordered.

Three times I repeated the experiment. Then I turned off the shunt permanently. Never having encountered the conditions for which it was designed, it need never have been built at all.

“That leaves the other explanation,” Joule said, “The philosophical one. But it entails a relativity more staggering than any our physicists have thought of—”

I should have known that his calm, inexorable mind would have produced the answer eventually, But as he was about to explain, the third subsurface attack began.

They were a small, swift raiding force which swooped down on us from the north. We never knew where they came from: there were no signs of the habitations we had seen on higher levels. Most likely they were pirates, or warrior nomads, for they were professional, ferocious—and more deadly than anything we had yet encountered.

What was more, they had learned how to crack a polarised field.

Perhaps our own equipment was too strong for them, or perhaps they simply wished to frighten us into surrendering, but for only two brief intervals did we hear the ear-splitting shriek of their appliance, the groan of the polarisers and experience the suffocating heat of a wavering field. Then again, the depleted resources of Weapons Section were brought to bear.

This was the fight that broke us.

The raiders’ main aim was to board us. We had expended what remained of our torpedoes, and were resorting to the less effective seismo-beams, when they expertly blew a hole in the hull. In Command Section, Joule and myself heard alarmed cries and strange clattering sounds. A few minutes later came the explosion, deafening in the confined space. A crewman had heroically blasted the section through which the subearthers were pouring.

Thereafter, the fight inside the ship was brief; yet it lost us our leader.

Three raiders who had escaped the explosion came swimming along the central well, hurling destruction in every direction from powerful hand weapons, and within minutes they had arrived at Command Section. Never will I forget the look on Captain Joule’s face as he reached for his handgun. Nor can I describe it, for I saw every emotion there, each distinct, yet none dominant.

Our adversaries were short, shadowy figures in bulky armour; humanoid, but with an odd serpentine slant to their bodies. Without pause, they fired, and Joule fell with a ruined right side, bringing down the foremost raider as he did so.

From the corner of the cabin, I disposed of the other two.

That was the last we saw of the sub-surface raiders. We never knew why they discontinued the attack, for our detectors were a mass of ruined equipment, and from that time we have never seen outside.

As the other officers came into the control cabin I moved Joule to a couch. His breathing was quick and shallow, and his face was hardened against pain.

“I’m done,” he whispered.

I put an arm beneath his shoulders and propped him up gently. He was weak, but his eyes were full of intelligence. “Joule,” I pleaded, “what’s happening to us down here?”

“This is my theory,” he said, speaking with difficulty. “Matter is a distortion of space. As matter becomes more concentrated… so the space it occupies becomes more concentrated.”

He stopped, and for a moment I thought he had spoken his last. Then he seemed to revive somewhat, and continued.

“Within the Earth, space itself is compressed in proportion to density. What from the surface looks like an inch, might really be a thousand miles. The Earth’s radius is the same at all levels—we shrink as we enter denser matter, so it always looks the same. There’s always the same distance to go.”

His eyes grew dull, then glazed. As he died, I laid him down.

And I am in command of the Interstice. I lost no time in taking what little action was necessary. The hull is sealed, all internal hatches have been closed and the lights dimmed to conserve power. The propulsors are set for greatest economy and speed: our prime concern is to maintain the polariser field for a long, steady drop towards the centre. Our power plant is theoretically inexhaustible—but the space within the Earth may be as great as the entire solar system for all we know.

I do not think, now, that there is any mode of travel more sinister than that of a ship moving through solid matter. The deeper we sink, the greater is my awareness of the thousands of miles of rock over our heads, the more intense is the feeling of oppression. My conscience burdens me. It was I who persuaded Captain Joule to embark on the dive, and as I sit in the semi-darkness of this steel hull, I cannot help but think that I have persuaded my companions into Hell itself.

The ship is a shambles. Men lie in utter silence throughout her length, the seismo-beams no longer manned. We have all accepted the idea that we will not survive this voyage.

This is the story. Now I sit down to write it, so that those who find our ship when she finally emerges on the other side of the world—the polarisers will automatically be inactivated at that moment—may know of the nature of the Earth’s interior….

According to the farmer who claimed to have witnessed the event, the ship had come out of the hillside, then slithered twenty feet before coming to rest against an outcropping of rock.

Bain could readily see the truth of the latter part of the story from the broken saplings which marked the vessel’s path, but the first part strained his imagination, specially as there was no sign of a break in the turf. He was a specialist in ancient civilisations, and since he could find not one familiar detail in the vessel whose five-hundred-foot bulk loomed over him, he inclined to the view that it came from a different direction altogether.

“It must be a spaceship,” he said to the metallurgist who had come with the team from Sydney. “It couldn’t be anything else. That farmer was lying, or mistaken.”

The metallurgist nodded. “I would think so too,” he replied, “but I can’t imagine why it should be so old. Look at the way it sags all over the place! Know what that is? Metal fatigue. Yet some of the alloys I don’t recognise!”

Bain flicked through the metal-leaved book they had taken from the control room. For him, it provided almost irrefutable proof that the ship was from the stars: it appeared to be some sort of log, but its weird script bore absolutely no resemblance to any Earthly language, ancient or modern.

“We’ll never find a Rosetta Stone for this,” he thought. It saddened him to think that the account would never be translated.

At that moment Professor Wilson levered himself out of a hatch from inside the vessel and came over to them excitedly. “It’s a spaceship all right,” he said. “There’s an instrument in there that measures distance in terms of electromagnetic frequencies. Any physicist could read it from here to Andromeda.

“Do you know what distance that meter clocked before it ran out? Nearly eleven light-years!”

Man in Transit

My name is Untuar Murti, and having spent all my life in airplanes, apart from short intervals of hours and minutes, I am better qualified than most to judge the state of the world. True, my experience of it is slight; but that is all to the good: it means that my understanding has not been attenuated or compromised by too close an involvement in life.

This paper comprises, if you like, my last will and testament—not that I hope that anyone will find time to read it. As to myself: “Murti” was my father’s family name, while “Untuar” has no meaning or derivation but was invented by my father on the principle that it should lack any history or connection with anything else. That, he claimed, was most descriptive of my situation and thus the perfect name for his first, and only child. Let me add that the bitterness which tinged his attitude is not shared by me: the life into which one is born is naturally accepted without rancour, and I have known no other.

My recollection of my parents is unusually sharp—due, no doubt, to the fact that no one has taken their place in my life—if one considers that I was only five years old at the death of my mother, and only eight at the death of my father. They were docile, rather harmless people who were somewhat prone to miscalculation. Their early deaths may be attributed to an inability to adjust to the ordeal which an adverse fate had thrust upon them.

Fortunately enough the circumstances of my own birth are unique. I was born on board an airliner flying from Nairobi to London; I was not, however, permitted to disembark either at the port of arrival or at the port of departure. I have been travelling the same route ever since—a total of thirty-eight years.

My aerial imprisonment disappointed my parents, naturally, but it came as no great surprise to them because they had already been suffering the same indignity for several months. In those days, when the affairs of the world were less settled or rigidified than they are now, large numbers of people were occasionally trapped in pernicious political antinomies. Let me explain: my own parents were of Indian stock, holders of British passports, and residents of East Africa where their families had lived for two generations. Into this heterogeneity of allegiances, arising from the dismantling of a once far-flung empire, the government of their resident country dropped a calamity: seized by a convulsion of nationalism, it pronounced measures against all its “non-citizens”, making it impossible for them to earn a livelihood there. Understandably, the victims of this decision made moves to repair to their putative homeland, the British Isles, there being nowhere else for them to go. Alas, the moral qualities of that previously great nation must already have declined considerably by then; with open impudicity the British government revoked the official passports it had earlier issued, disowning all its guarantees, and turning away all who presented themselves for entry.

That was not the end of the matter: there were still some who were prepared to take plane for England in the knowledge that once airborne they would not be let back into East Africa again. These stateless suppliants, capitalising perhaps on the reputed humanitarianism of their prospective hosts, or else desperate enough to try anything, were shuttled back and forth between airports for weeks. Finally, with much grumbling and misgiving, the officials would relent.

Such a course of action was chosen by my parents. They embarked upon it cheerfully enough; others had been successful, and so, they thought, could they. Besides, my mother was pregnant at the time they set out and so…?

On presenting their passports they were immediately returned to Nairobi, and thence back again to London. This occasioned them no dismay: they had expected it. Weeks, months even, might be required to pass before the portals to safety and freedom would at last open.

Yet one factor failed to enter their cogitations: how long can any government allow its decisions to be persistently overruled? Already the draughty wind of change was causing doors to slam shut all round the world. Already the word “patrial” had entered official usage as an adumbration that in future nations would look after their own and no other. Today, a third of a century later, the maxim is well established: “Procedures take precedence over persons.” My parents haplessly became the test case that was to prove this rule; the weeks did indeed lengthen into months. I was born over water, in midflight, and was not even entered on the worthless passport which by now, I believe, was stained with my mother’s tears. Gradually it became evident that they were not, ever, going to be allowed into any country again.

Sitting here gazing through the fuselage window, I often wonder how long they continued to hope. I have reason to think it was for a long time, and that when they finally lost hope was when they died. Even then my mother clung to the belief (my father knew better) that once I was alone some country would notice me, as an airborne waif, and take me in. But here I remain, the most long-suffering air passenger in history.

For a spell during my early life my situation evoked some interest and an amount of pity, a form of intercourse I find thoroughly distasteful. In my twelfth year there was an abortive attempt to resurrect Human Rights Year and I appeared (to no purpose) on TV (and was able to see the programme on the flight screens). All such public interest has long since washed away and I am left in peace. It is possible that these efforts were doubly futile, for my own image of myself differs fundamentally from the one presented by the well-meaning media; the burden of their consciousness lies on the ground—mine is up here, traversing in this airliner. Mine is the image that once formed in the mind of a pagan English king on seeing a bird, at night, enter his hall by a window; for a few moments to flit over the warmth, the companionship, the light and the feasting that took place below, before passing by a second window, never to return, into the same darkness again. This glyph of human life converted the king to Christianity.

I, let me make it clear, am no convert, for I am not the king but the bird. But does not the legend describe me precisely? Soon I shall pass into that same darkness again.

I have seen a marvellous development in passenger plane services during the time I have spent with the airline. The transports are large and spacious, with plenty of room to walk about. There are showers, bars, TV and restaurants. Businessmen speak to colleagues and transactors over the in-transit viewphone service. And of course the planes are fast, efficient and need little servicing. From my point of view this is a disadvantage, for there is only the briefest turnaround time, which allows me almost no time to spend on the ground. Previously the hours I spent between journeys on the older aircraft were like a holiday for me—fresh air has an extraordinary effect on my system. I confess I miss my youthful jaunts to the cafeteria, to the passenger lounge, or along the frontage of the airport buildings, I had, in fact, virtual freedom of access on this side of the customs barrier. But then, perhaps, I am getting too old for such exercises.

The airline has been good to me. Once when I was ill they brought me a doctor and several times I have been attended by a dentist. As I grew up pilots and stewardesses gave me new clothes to wear. For all items I am still dependent on these hand-outs, which have been my only way of accumulating property throughout life. Thus I am the possessor of adequate clothing, a toothbrush, an electric shaver, and a very small private collection of books culled over the years. These, together with my legacy (which I shall describe later) constitute my material wealth.

There is also the question of emotional wealth accruing from personal relationships. In these my life could be described as deficient. Yet I did once have a girl friend; to be truthful she was a woman rather than a girl, and was several years older than myself. We met and were drawn to one another when, in the course of her work, she had cause to travel between London and Karachi several times in quick succession (this was during the period when African routes became impassable and I was shuttled instead to Karachi or Delhi). When her intercontinental commuting ceased she took to visiting the airport and we waved to one another through the fence. Infrequently we contrived brief meetings in the passenger lounge. Then one day she failed to appear and I never saw her again. In retrospect I discard my naivety and suppose that her good will was prompted partly by pity, a thought which spoils in no small measure my memories of the occasion.

Our friendship, while it lasted, was sexually innocent; indeed there has been no occasion for sexual intercourse in my life—not that such things are impossible aboard an airliner; congress can be accomplished with a modicum of ingenuity and commonly is, in the toilets, in the changing room, even in the stewardesses’ galley. But my upbringing has given me little initiative in these matters, and I have been obliged to stifle such urges as I do feel.

Enough of these divagations—poor I may be in material and emotional wealth, but they are not everything; there is also intellectual wealth. I have an education!

For this I am indebted to my father, who before he died assiduously taught me to read and instructed me to study carefully the books in the list he drew up. I have not, it is true, finished the list. Contrary to what might be imagined, I am not a voracious reader. Debilitated by an unnatural life, I am very easily fatigued; altogether I am a weak individual, both physically and mentally. I sleep a good deal—fifteen to twenty hours a day and during the rest of the time reading is a painful effort for me. My progress is further impeded by the difficulty of obtaining the requisite books: I have to rely on chance to place most of the volumes in my hands, and have waited years, for instance, to acquire a copy of the Timaeus. This, as with several other volumes, I shall probably never see.

Many would imagine that my father, a Vedantist, would have directed me to a study of the Vedas, particularly of the Upanishads, on the grounds that in the doctrine that the world is maya, merely illusion, might be found an anodyne to mitigate my plight. Nothing could have been further from his intention. Admittedly, it has fleetingly occurred to me that that other world, the world that rolls beneath me scudded with cloud, is only an insubstantial extrapolation, an epiphenomenon, and that the only substantive things in the universe are airliners, airports, and transient passengers who flick in and out of existence on embarkation and debarkation. But that thought cannot be taken seriously. All my father’s efforts strove not to obfuscate with recondite metaphysics but to exacerbate realities and make the apprehension of my condition all the sharper. He believed in science, a product of the West; all the books he specified are by Western writers, and I take their point of view: that the world exists in reality (in so far as it is perceived between conception and death), that everything happening in it has really happened, that I really am trapped in this airliner, the only man in history never to be allowed to descend to earth.

No, my father’s feeling for me did not lead him to compromise the facts. His educational programme was a work of genius—genius born, I tender, of intense emotional pain. I am convinced that his aim was to lead me by my own efforts towards a truth which he had wrested from the world but which otherwise is known to few, if any: the secret nature of that explosive, perdurable, many-headed hydra: the Christian religion.

How much is implied—how much is masked—by the phrase “Christian civilisation”! To penetrate to the arcane core of what its existence on Earth means was the achievement of my father’s booklist.

The list is extensive, but its greater part is introductory only, being designed to facilitate the process of intussusception by means of adroit acquaintanceship with vocabulary and ideas. At the centre of the system, like a centre of gravity, lie two major works around which all else revolves:

1. The Socratic Dialogues.

2. The Gospel according to St Matthew, St Mark, St Luke and St John.

From the comparison of these two, the objective historical perspective of the world is obtained.

A brief word concerning their acquisition. My tiny pocket copy of the New Testament, Authorised Version, was given to me by a kindly English lady on her way to perform missionary work in India, and has been with me for many years. The more bulky Socratic Dialogues present a greater problem and therefore I lack a complete collection. They are, however, a lesser counterpoint to the Christian theme, so the gaps do not matter so much.

One volume that I do have is worth comment: a collection of some of the dialogues, including the Apology of Socrates, it was given to me rather offhandedly by a brash, untidily dressed young man of about eighteen who I remember for his piercing blue eyes. The book is entitled Plato’s Divine Dialogues and is a very old one, being published in 1841 by Cornish & Co, 126 Newgate Street, London. Its pages are yellow and brittle, held together by sticky tape.

The edition is remarkable for its spiritual chauvinism. By means of a wordy introduction and copious footnotes the editor strives to impress on the reader the superiority of the Christian world and of how unlikely it is that anything worthwhile could ever have taken place outside its confines. He puts forward a tenuous and wandering argument to show that Plato owed such wisdom as he did possess to Moses, “from whom he has borrowed that which is most rational and substantial in his works”. Noting that during his trial Socrates could have saved himself by withholding the truth but declined to do so, he exclaims passionately: “What a noble example is this in a pagan!”

Noble in a pagan, indeed! And is it commonplace in a Christian? I cannot help but find these and other commentaries bizarre. For it is from Socrates that I have learned the qualities of rationality, coolness of mind, balanced feeling, justice—in short, the qualities of a sane and good-humoured civilisation. By contrast the extraordinary story of Jesus gives witness to the creation of the sinister uncivilisation that has conquered humanity, encompassed the globe, raised to unfeeling heights science and the technique of bureaucratic organisation—that has built airplanes.

The tide of history must have tussled uncertainly with these two men as it decided which of them to cast up on the shore. For observe: both were sentenced to death as a result of unjust accusations (though Socrates with a lighter heart). History is rarely arbitrary about these matters. Further, observe the curious affinity between the valedictions of their biographers—not in content, it is true, but in mood, in tone, in feeling—as if they comprised two strands of a single cord.

Thus Plato has Phedon say: “This, Echecrates, was the exit of our friend, a man who, as it appears to me, was the best man of our time with whom we were acquainted, and besides this the wisest and most just.”

St John concludes: “There were many other things which Jesus did, which if they were to be written down every one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that should be written.”

But to my thesis: my contention is that not merely some, but every particle of the common conception of Christ and his role in the world is false. We are told that he entered the world as a moral force to save the world, that all who heed him will be redeemed. That if the world opens its heart to him, mankind will be transformed. If now we find that doors are closed, that some are excluded from the feast, it is because Christ has not yet touched the hearts of all men. To this I counter that, by holding to this creed, the Christians are looking into a reversed mirror image of their religion, the obverse of which is the world as it exists today. Compare: other teachings exhibit an open-ended liberation; in contrast to the smile of Buddha, the systemless jokes of the Zen masters, the story of Christ is one of persecution; of a series of progressively closing traps: the last supper; the betrayal in the garden of Gethsemane; the nailing to the cross; the descent into Hell. Is that not descriptive of the modern world, which progressively encloses the individual?

Again, where other teachers inspire detachment, wisdom, justice and friendship, Christ invoked not abstract qualities but deeds—and so inaugurated the tumultuous industriousness of the modern world. There are other close parallels too numerous to be ignored: the refusal of a petition to authority when in dire distress (“Father, all things are possible unto thee; take away this cup from me.”—St Mark, Ch. 14, verse 36); the washing of hands; the freeing of the guilty in order that the innocent may be punished (“Away with this man and give us Barabbas”—St Luke, Ch. 23, verse 18).

Has it not come to pass that “to him that hath, more shall be given, while to him that hath little even that which he hath shall be taken away”?

And am I not the seed that, not even falling on stony ground, fails to reach earth at all?

Mankind has absorbed the message of Jesus, absorbed it fully and without omission; the story of the passion has been blended into the world and transformed into vaster fact, like a mustard seed that grows into a monstrous bush. Alone among the cheerful smiling reason of other world teachers Christ never laughed but groaned and wept. Perhaps he wept because he saw the consequences of his mission, much as my mother wept to realise that her actions had condemned me to the life of an air passenger.

Once these correspondences are marshalled the genesis of the present-day world culture becomes all to clear. Only one point remains obscure: what was Christ’s origin? Possibly he was indeed an incarnation of the Creator, sent to scourge mankind. Pursuing the Christian cosmology, I would be more inclined to name him as an agent of Satan, dispatched to corrupt the soul of humanity and destroy for all time the Socratic civilisation which might otherwise have flourished in Western Europe.

These scanty comments must suffice to outline my thesis, for I become too weary to expatiate further. How the world would judge my intellectual offering I cannot know; perhaps it is unscholarly, naive, jejune even, when placed against better-considered world systems. But for me it carries the inner conviction of a truth revealed. Besides—my role in the world drama, minuscule though it may be, gives me one thing in common with Jesus: I also am pinned to a cross, this flying cross which whines ceaselessly to and fro across the face of the globe.

The hebetude into which my parents sank claims me also. I shall not live much longer now. Most of my time, when not sleeping, I spend gazing through the fuselage window. At night the unbreakable glass becomes a mirror which returns my tired face. To be honest it is a handsome face. The nose is strong, the lips are full, the eyes are sensitive—but withdrawn. And the hair, brushed neatly back, is prematurely white. In fact the whole face looks about thirty years older than it really is and its calmness, one sees after a while, is a forced, resigned calmness. Anyway, now that, with a frank feeling of relief, I contemplate my approaching death, I will go through the formality of setting forth final arrangements. To anyone who can use it I bequeath the legacy left to me by my father: two second-class one-way air tickets from Nairobi to London, still valid. For my epitaph I choose yet another quotation from that prophetic New Testament, and one which demonstrates even more clearly the applicability of the gospels to our time: “The birds have their nests, the foxes have their holes, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”

Wizard Wazo’s Revenge

Wizard Wazo was angry and exasperated as he quit the planet Nekferus. A Mighty One of the Galactic Observance was accustomed to being obeyed; yet the benighted inhabitants of that infernal place seemed not even to understand what it meant to face a galactic wizard!

No member of his order could have been active in the region recently, for there would have been no question about it a few millennia ago. As it was he had intended only a short stay, to carry out an experiment that on the prompting of the moment had suddenly occurred to him, and he had made no excessive demands. All he required was a hundred or so female concubines, premises and provisions consistent with his comfort, and the instruments necessary for the experiment itself, which would not have engaged more than a third of the planet’s industrial capacity. Yet his modest requests had met with incredulity and laughter! It had not at first penetrated to him that these wretches were actually refusing his demands. When it did his temper had broken, and he had laid a curse on them for their recalcitrance.

“I cast a mental screen around this world,” he had mouthed. “Henceforth nothing that is original in thought shall reach this planet. Your children, and their children, and so ad infinitum, shall live in the greyness of thought already much used, shall never discover a new idea, for this screen is impassable to ideas and all new perceptions, which come, though you know it not, from outermost space. Thus I punish you for the absence of your imagination!”

And in a sputter of sparks he had disappeared from their view.

So it was that Wizard Wazo was already bad-tempered when, upon dismissing the experiment from his mind (it was not important), he instead decided to visit various places so as to collect the property he had left in safekeeping before embarking on his pilgrimage.

In space now, a glance at the surrounding stars located his first destination: the planet Earth. With the immediacy of directed thought, faster than light, faster than causality, he set forth. Transient bodies formed and dissipated about his presence as he entered first the nimbus of Earth’s sun and then the nimbus of the planet itself: bodies of light, of magnetism, of radioactivity, of air and vapour. Speeding down through the atmosphere, he saw below him some pyramidal structures erected during his last stay here, and while pleased to see that they still stood, he remarked grumpily to himself that it would have been a simple matter to keep their original limestone dressings in good order. But Egypt, as it happened, was not his destination, for it was not where his property was currently to be found. He materialised instead on the sidewalk of a busy city street, somewhere to the north-west.

All around him was an irregular roaring, confused and continuous. This noise was accompanied by copious exhalations of carbonised fumes and was created, he saw, by a steady stream of automotive conveyances that passed through the central concourse.

At least it was no worse, he told himself, than the stink expelled from the rear of that execrable Earth animal the horse, that had made the streets of Memphis almost unendurable.

Terraces of tall buildings, many of them glass-fronted, lined the avenue. Behind the transparent panes goods and services were on offer. One could, for instance, repose for a while and consume food and drink. He would take up this offer, Wizard Wazo told himself, but first he must find the custodian of his property.

He inspected the body that had finally formed around his presence. He found it to be a handsome specimen of the species inhabiting Earth, sturdily built, a little over average height, clad in a grey check suit. His skin was swarthy; bushy mustachios grew on his upper lip. An unusual feature, for this city, was the headgear he wore—a fez, which he believed was currently more characteristic of the Egypt he had previously visited.

Wizard Wazo walked along the crowded pavement, requiring all others to make way for him. He did not falter when he came to a road junction but sauntered across it with the same confidence, sensing the oil-driven vehicles as they surged around him and knowing that none would strike him.

Here, now, was something of interest. A small, crouched man in a scruffy white gown dispensed dollops of frozen confectionery scooped into wafer cones from a trolley. Wizard Wazo was reminded of the iced drinks that had been available in ancient Egypt, and it brightened him to see that the art of making ice had not been lost since then.

At any rate he decided to sample this delicacy. Halting by the trolley, he pointed to a customer just leaving and nodded his head. Slowly the vendor filled another wafer cone, avoiding Wizard Wazo’s eye and pursing his lips calculatingly.

“Forty pence,” he said peremptorily as he held out the cone.

After a pause Wizard Wazo reached into an inside jacket pocket and pulled out a leather folder. He found therein some pieces of richly engraved paper which he divined were notes of currency. Drawing out one bearing the legend “Ten Pounds”, he handed it over, receiving in exchange the ice cream cone.

Ostentatiously the vendor rummaged in a tray of metal discs. “Ten, twenny, firty, sixty, there y’are then, that’s all yer get,” he said, throwing coins into Wizard Wazo’s hand. Dismissively he turned away. Wizard Wazo did not move. He looked into the pinched, hostile face of the ice-cream vendor.

Then, knowing already what he would find there, he looked into the man’s mind.

Yes, this wretch had attempted to cheat him! Had taken a note of large denomination and had given trifling tokens in exchange, leaving an enormous discrepancy between them and the proper price of the delicacy! And why? Because he hoped, from Wizard Wazo’s foreign appearance, that he would not know the value of the local currency!

“Thief!” Wizard Wazo thundered. “Give me my money this instant!”

The vendor’s response was aggressive. “Yer’ve ‘ad yer lot, mate, don’t come ‘ere wiv yer bleedin’—”

Wizard Wazo bridled. One word from him and the contents of the ice-cream tub would turn to a vilely stinking mass. But he did no more than throw down the cone he had purchased and, with a gesture of disgust, continue on his way.

Further down the street he stopped again and peered through the plate-glass window of a somewhat shabby restaurant. Within, men and women sat at bare board tables, drinking tea and coffee, reading books and newspapers, talking to one another, wasting time. The man he sought sat alone in a corner, sometimes watching those around him, sometimes reading a book he held in one hand. From outside, Wizard Wazo read the title: Flying Saucers: The Conspiracy of Silence. The man was lantern-jawed, with straight black hair, and had an air of unsettled energy. He puffed nervously on a cigarette, which he put down from time to time to sip coffee from a cup in front of him.

In keeping with the etiquette between magicians, Wizard Wazo refrained from scanning the other’s mind. He moved into the restaurant and made his way to the corner table.

The man barely glanced up at the stranger who sat down opposite him. Wizard Wazo leaned forward. “I am in the presence of the Master of the Order of the Secret Star,” he stated. “That much I know. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wizard Wazo, Mighty One of the Galactic Observance. I am here to recover my words of power, left in safekeeping with you.”

Arnold Madders drew on his cigarette with a sucking sound and looked blankly at the swarthy-faced individual, vaguely oriental-looking with his hypnotic eyes and eccentric hat, who accosted him. He coughed, shook his head, and waved Wizard Wazo away. Though slightly disconcerted, Wizard Wazo tucked in his chin, and in a quiet, confidential tone, uttered a series of thrilling syllables.

“Abaradazazazaz.”

He chuckled when the vibrations had died away. “You see, I know the secret word of your order. Was it not I who gave you this word? Now we must repair to a private place. You will gather your adepts, those who have the words of power, and they will give them up to me.”

Madders did not look up from his book. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said tonelessly. “I haven’t got anything of yours.”

Who is this lunatic? Madders wondered. It annoyed him to have strangers come up and start talking about the Secret Star, which he had tried hard to keep on the straight and narrow of an esoteric society. Still, it was hard to keep anything secret these days, with so much occult stuff about. Davies must have been blabbing again, he thought.

The initiation word, though…. Where had this guy got that? From the British Museum, probably, just as Madders himself had.

Wizard Wazo spoke more insistently, though still keeping his tone on the level of polite conversation. “I have just returned from my mission to find the end of space. Now I need my words of power, to carry out the many projects that all the time, even while I am speaking to you, are occurring to my intellect.”

Madders looked up from his book. He smiled sarcastically, expelling smoke from the corner of his mouth. “The end of space, yet! Find it all right?”

Wizard Wazo blinked. “Of course I did not find it. Space has no end. Therein lies the meaning of the pilgrimage.”

Madders snorted. Wizard Wazo felt puzzled, even bewildered. A certain amount of fencing between wizards was not uncommon, but this man behaved as though they were of equal rank! As though he himself had been trained by the Galactic Observance!

Even so, Wizard Wazo remained patient. “Come, let us understand one another,” he said jovially. “I do not doubt that you have attained much. It is not to be supposed that your order has been idle for the last five thousand years. And did I not find even then adepts in Egypt, men who understood the use of words? Even lacking your—” he indicated the street outside, searching for a phrase—“your oil-driven machinery, they were able to erect the square-based quintahedra.”

“Quintahedra?”

“Models of planetary existence. Pyramids, you call them. Ah, but they were a splendid sight—faced with white limestone, the upper surfaces sheathed in brilliant gold. At summer solstice they reflected the light of the sun out over the desert—vast four-armed stars, shining on the floor of the desert! Wonderful! It is regrettable that your order has not seen fit to attend to their repair.”

Madders said nothing, and Wizard Wazo grew worried. He cast his mind back to the time when he had unloaded his property onto this man’s ancestors.

Words of power were heavy in the consciousness, even when only lodged in the memory. They could act as impedimenta to that mode of travel known as the immediacy of thought. Therefore Wizard Wazo had been obliged to lighten himself for his heroic pilgrimage to the nonexistent limit of space, to strip down his memory in order to attain the greatest possible thought-velocity. He could on no account divest himself of his standard repertoire, but there were other, specialised words, with ponderous vibrational sequences, that were very weighty. These he had cached with various people, on various planets.

In Egypt he had founded the Order of the Secret Star, entrusting a number of his words to the order for it to guard and preserve—on condition, of course, that no attempt was to be made to activate them (which the order did not have the conscious force to do in any case). As a reward for this service he had taught the order some magical techniques and a few lesser words which could bring practical results. Undoubtedly the Order of the Secret Star was by now one of the groups clandestinely controlling Earth civilisation.

A chilling thought occurred to Wizard Wazo. He had already discovered that this planet abounded in thieves and villains. Could it be that the Order of the Secret Star had decided to renege on its agreement? That it intended to keep the words of power for itself, in the hope of being able to make use of them some day? It was tempting to enter the other’s mind to ascertain the truth of this suspicion… but Wizard Wazo restrained himself from so improper a step. In any case there could be no question of extracting his property by force. Words of power had to be imparted with the consent of both parties, otherwise they lost their efficacy.

He stroked his mustachios. He glowered. “Evidently I must be blunt. Unless you cease to prevaricate and arrange for the early transfer of my property, I shall visit upon you a punishment designed to secure your co-operation.”

Smiling tolerantly, Madders stuffed his paperback in his pocket. The threat mildly amused him, but he was tired of the exchange. He prepared to rise.

As if in close confidence, Wizard Wazo leaned closer, “I shall send Hathor, the goddess of love, to you.”

“Love?” laughed Madders. “Go ahead, mate. We could all use some more of that.”

“Once she was Kesmet, the great lion sent to devour mankind. In her new form she is even more terrible.”

Madders stood up. “If you’d studied magic properly, old chap, you’d know better than to come out with all that chat about ‘words of power’. You’ve been reading the wrong books.”

“You can meet me here tomorrow,” Wizard Wazo replied shortly. Angrily, as Madders walked away, he signalled the waitress and ordered a cup of tea.

When, in the early afternoon of the following day, Arnold Madders next entered the coffee house, he found Wizard Wazo sitting at the same table as if he had not moved since Madders had left him. In front of him stood a cup of Turkish coffee, which he picked up and sipped at from time to time. He glanced up, stroking his mustachios with a forefinger, as the Earthman approached.

Madders sank into the chair opposite and bowed his head. “Relieve me of this,” he mumbled. “I cannot bear it.”

“At once, when you discharge your obligation to me.”

Madders kept his eyes downcast and was studiously avoiding looking at anyone in the restaurant. Not until that morning, when he had left his cramped flat to buy groceries, had he learned what had been done to him.

Now he knew that up until the present he had been blind, seeing nothing and no one, living an existence made up of himself only. Others had existed, but only as projections of his own needs, shadowy objects on the surface of his consciousness.

And why was he blind? Because he had not loved!

No one had, except in flashes that afterwards tormented the heart. And indeed it was needful that they should not. There was nothing worse than to love!

On coming down from his third-floor flat to the street, a plastic shopping-bag tucked under his arm, he had chanced to spy a young boy, perhaps ten years of age. A sharp-nosed, pinch-faced boy in shabby grey clothes, with narrow eyes and a mean, stupid look, a boy who (Madders had studied physiognomy) was destined for many misdeeds and much unhappiness. An unlikely object to win Madders’s love!

And yet there it was. Madders loved that boy. Love had been born in him, at first glance, like the striking of a match, bringing searing insights, a burning perception of a unique, if flawed, human being. He had stopped in his tracks, momentarily paralysed. He had thought to go after the boy, to get to know him somehow, to try to help him steer through the tragedies of life that, all too clearly, awaited him.

But the boy had turned a corner, and before Madders could act a new surprise was upon him.

How happy mankind was to be bereft of love! For was not love the most powerful of human emotions, and therefore the most destructive? Was it not an agony to be consumed with love, to ache and grieve for another person, to feel, as though they were one’s own, his sufferings, his disappointments, to become aware of the helplessness that secretly surrounds each human life?

Madders’s punishment now was to love everyone he met or saw, to love unrestrainedly and unreservedly. Seconds after seeing the boy, love had flared in him again, this time for a girl, not very attractive, in an ill-fitting skirt. Then for a hag, stooped and withered, lost in dreams as she carried home scant provisions in a tattered cloth shopping-bag. Next he saw a young man in baggy trousers, vague of manner, who stumbled as he mounted the kerb.

Madders loved them all, and he could not stop loving them even now! To love one person could be burden enough. But to feel the same intensity for every single person one encountered! For the heartbreak to be continuous, to flame anew a hundred times a day, anew and anew and anew, for love to pile on love!

No! The human frame could not endure it!

Within an hour Madders was devastated, and was conscious that before the day was out he would feel obliged to destroy himself. For this was nothing like the generalised love for all mankind he had once believed in, had even imagined he possessed. Now he knew that emotion for the sentimental and self-congratulating lie that it was. No, there was nothing generalised about this. Love could not count past the number one, and was never abstract. It was intimate, a gaze that rested only on living individuals, it was specific to the individual, it was never the same twice, and it blotted out the lover by forcing him never to forget that another was more precious to him than he himself was.

“Who are you?” Madders demanded in a low, unsteady voice. “Who taught you to do this?”

“I was trained by the Galactic Observance,” replied Wizard Wazo, as though repeating a self-evident fact. “And I it was who trained the Order of the Secret Star.”

“Tell me what you want of me.”

“My words of power. That is all.”

Madders shook his head. “I have no words of power, as you call them. I didn’t even know there were such things.”

Wizard Wazo bridled. “I am speaking to the Master of the Order of the Secret Star, am I not?”

“Yes… I mean, no. I took the name of the order, and some of the ceremonies, that’s all… as much as I could find. It was in a manuscript in the British Museum.” Madders groaned. “You’ve made a mistake, don’t you see?”

On hearing this, Wizard Wazo committed the indiscretion that, to judge by what Madders had just said, was probably no indiscretion at all. Determined to get at the truth, he entered Madders’ mind.

And the truth was roughly as stated. Madders had no connection with the group founded by Wizard Wazo at all. He had done no more than commandeer the empty shell of the order, preserved by writings stored in some dusty archive. Of the order itself, nothing remained. It had failed to maintain itself, had perished, Wizard Wazo’s precious words scattered before the winds as its last adepts turned to dust!

As for Madders himself, he was no magician at all! For all he knew about magic, he might barely have made the grade as a pot-boy in the restaurant here! His knowledge was all cant, useless tittle-tattle picked up here and there, from blathering books, from self-deluding nonentities, from playing-cards, from idle doodles masquerading as cosmic sigils, from the drivellings of, to use a phrase in the current repertoire, senile Jews!!!

And as for his possessing words of power, he could put no more conscious force into any word whatsoever than was enough to induce the waitress yonder to fetch him a cup of tea, and barely that!!!

The words lost! Even for this miserable and unadmired planet, such incompetence was beyond belief. Wizard Wazo surged to his feet. His whole body was shaking, and his face had turned purple.

“WHAT??? Can I trust NO ONE??!! I make the most straightforward of arrangements to preserve my property, and what happens? I return here and am cheated, spurned and insulted, my requirements are completely ignored, and in the end I find that my valuable property has been discarded and lost like dirty old rags!!! WHAT AM I TO MAKE OF IT ALL??!!!”

He kicked over the table, and Arnold Madders fell back in terror as Wizard Wazo’s displeasure exploded across the restaurant. For an instant Madders received a memory flash: the picture of a dynamic Christ throwing the money-changers out of the temple. Wizard Wazo raged, upturning table after table, scattering customers and chairs like chaff, and mouthing a ceaseless stream of vituperation.

Before he could reach the door a tall figure clad in dark blue had entered the restaurant to bar his path. Though Wizard Wazo tried to brush this obstacle aside the policeman skilfully detained him, twisting his arm up behind his back.

“You’ll have to leave, sir.”

“Leave?” Wizard Wazo brayed in the policeman’s grip. “With pleasure! Indeed I will leave!”

Such abominable treatment as he had received here deserved retribution several times more severe than that he had visited upon Nekferus. He quit Earth; but while pausing to direct himself to distant regions, he also created upon that despicable planet, which he wished never to see again, a world ocean, covering all but the tips of the highest mountains. All across the surface of the Earth the human population abruptly found itself placed under water. On streets, on farms, in rooms, in buildings, in ships, in aircraft and even in submarines, four thousand million people stumbled and threshed, gurgled in bewilderment, were unable to draw another breath of air. In buildings people floundered or swam to doors and windows, only to discover that in the street, too, there was nothing but water. Because of the suddenness of the change, which meant at first that the new ocean’s pressure was uniform from top to bottom, no crushing weight was anywhere felt, and some were thus deluded into supposing that only a few feet separated them from fresh air; they struck vainly upwards, for a surface that was too, too far overhead.

Most, however, lacked the presence of mind to do anything. Children died first, squirming and kicking, watched by agonised parents who were themselves to live for only tens of seconds longer. In minutes it was all over. Henceforth only marine creatures would swarm in the shells of civilisation, oblivious of harm, picking mammalian bones on the floor of the galaxy’s newest panthalassa.

The Infinite Searchlight

“The materialist view,” the radio lecturer said, “is that no entities exist in the universe other than entities as they are understood by the science of physics. The only major obstacle to this view lies in the problem posed by the experience of consciousness. Opponents of materialism are able, with justification, to point to the absence of any convincing physical description of consciousness, and will claim that it is impossible to give consciousness such a description. This objection has never been enough to overthrow the materialist school, however, for the reason that in ascribing consciousness to a non-physical agency the non-materialist then puts himself in the position of having to explain how such an agency interacts with a physical brain. This he has never been able to do.

“On examination the brain is found to be a physical apparatus, just as a radio receiver, for instance, is a physical apparatus. The comparison is a striking one. An intelligent visitor from another planet, on hearing speech and music bearing all the hallmarks of conscious activity coming from a radio set, might decide to examine the set to discover their source. He would very likely conclude that the set could not, by itself, have been responsible for such a high level of intelligibility. If he were of a materialist persuasion, he would also reject the notion of a non-physical ‘soul’ dwelling within the radio. Instead, he would infer that the apparatus was merely a receiver, amplifying signals transmitted from elsewhere.

“Should we take a leaf from our imaginary alien’s book? Could the brain be no more than a receiver, tuned, so to speak, to a ‘beam of consciousness’ directed from an external source? If so, where, and what, is the transmitter?

“This is a concept which, oddly enough, the materialist is better able to handle than the non-materialist, for if the transmission is itself physical in nature, there is only one source we can reasonably look to. The entity that acts as transmitter can only be the brain’s overall environment, radiating diffuse informational signals which our sensory organs—the brain’s ‘antennae’—pick up. The brain amplifies and focuses these signals, concentrating them into a focal point much as a lens or concave mirror will focus diffuse sunlight into an intense spot. This ‘intense spot’ is what we call individual consciousness….”

The two beings, far off, who were monitoring the broadcast lecture, as they had monitored much taking place on the Earth planet during the last three thousand million years, turned to regard one another.

“How close he has come to the truth,” said one, his speech a nanosecond hum. In reply the other emitted a similar nanosecond burst. “Except that the real truth is so much simpler. Ascribing consciousness to the general environment is ingenious, but unnecessary.”

“He is far too cautious to entertain the idea of an artificial transmitter, of course. Think how long it took us to arrive at the facts in our own case. Four thousand million years.”

“Do you remember that we once undertook a calculation along the lines of his premise, to determine whether the quality of consciousness, even though it is non-physical, could arise from the collection and collation of environmental data?”

“Yes, I remember it well. We found that consciousness could arise in that way, but only if the items of data to be processed were infinite in number.”

“So putting it beyond the bounds of possibility.”

Those who conversed had the appearance of craggy masses, partly with a dull corrugated sheen, partly twinkling, partly containing patches of electron haze. They hovered in the void, seemingly with the help of dark, curved wings, whose function was not, however, concerned with flight but with collecting sensory data. To human eyes they would not have seemed alive at all, for they had evolved not on a planetary surface but in the interior of a dense dust cloud. They were not even made of CHON, that blend of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen which was the basic substance of the Earth biosystem, but instead were composed of metallic ions.

Their consciousness was more intense and voluminous than human consciousness. They communicated with one another in a comprehensive, multidimensional talk which recapitulated vast ranges of fact, and which could only be suggested by, rather than rendered into, human speech; and every utterance of which, however great its content, took place in exactly one nanosecond of time.

The place where they had evolved, and which they now inhabited, was a dark winding cloud where dust trails made endless caves and tortuous canyons. From out of that dust they had been precipitated, provoked into being by an evolutionary impulse immensely more powerful than the corresponding impulse they had imposed on the Earth planet. During the million million years of their existence they had constructed, out of the dust, three pieces of apparatus. One of these floated nearby: the transmitter which provided all Earth brains, animal and human, with consciousness.

One of the entities emitted another nanosecond hum. “It would be interesting if the lecturer could be transported here and have the consciousness transmitter explained to him. What would be his feelings?”

“It may be imagined that his first thought would be similar to our own in like circumstances,” the other rejoindered. “He would find it strange to think that he would lose consciousness should he step out of the beam. He would then ask: is the machine a generator, as well as a transmitter, of consciousness?”

“And we would then answer: no, it is not. The generation of awareness is impossible, whether by artificial or natural means. We would explain that we built the transmitter to test the thesis that our own brains are also receivers, illuminated by a beam of consciousness transmitted from elsewhere.”

“We would explain that we devised a means to draw off a proportion of the quality of awareness active in our own brains, and to project it to the Earth planet in diffuse form.”

“It was interesting to watch the chemicals on the planetary surface react even to the weak, diffused beam. Within aeons, only, they formed themselves into brains capable of focusing the irradiation into localised feelings of self.”

The two metallic beings stayed close together, transmitting interleaved chains of nanosecond bursts to one another, recapitulating familiar facts as was their comforting habit. The quality of their thought was careful and rigorous. They knew that the universe was a physical system, and that physical systems could not give rise to anything nonphysical. The consciousness beam was, indeed, a physical force; but there was an element in it, that very element which was vital to the experience of self-awareness, that could not be described in physical terms. This was the element they called the infinity factor. It could only be described as non-physical; it was an anomaly, and they knew it could not have originated anywhere in the universe.

Suddenly one of the metallic beings paused in the exchange, and interjected a new item.

“Did you suffer a derangement of consciousness just then?”

“Yes,” answered his companion.

A short distance away from the consciousness transmitter (known as the Earth machine, in their parlance) floated the two other pieces of apparatus they had constructed during their existence. One was really an adjunct to the Earth machine: it was the monitoring device with which they had watched the progress of the Earth experiment. The other had been constructed much later, a bare two thousand million years ago. It was an instrument for detecting and measuring that much stronger beam they called “the primary beam”, though they did not believe it was in any real sense primary: the consciousness beam for which their own brains were receivers, and which came from such an immense distance that they were unable to locate its source.

The latter of the two beings to speak drifted towards the primary beam meter. But before he could examine its dials the aberration recurred, and was much stronger.

Wings wheeling in the void; distorted awareness drawn out into exaggerated forms; bodies arcing, losing control.

The Earth transmitter continued functioning smoothly, automatically adjusting itself when the kink was relayed to it. When the fit was over, however, the entities paid no attention to the machine. They gathered round the primary beam meter.

“That was a significant jolt in the beam,” one nanoseconded. “The perturbations are becoming more frequent.”

“There can be no doubt now that the transmitter of the beam is beginning to malfunction.”

“Perhaps it is no longer tended.”

The two metallic beings—there had only ever been two of them—were silent for a while. Then they again began to converse, in steady nanosecond stitches back and forth, recapitulating almost the whole history of their thought together, listing the bleak facts of their knowledge. The knowledge that, but for the primary beam and the staged-down version of it they had arranged, the whole universe was empty of awareness, in so far as it was within their observational range.

“Some conscious intelligence must have arranged for the transmission of the primary beam. From where does that intelligence derive its awareness?”

“It could not conceivably be a natural phenomenon. It must act as the receiver for yet another beam. One whose source is probably unknown to it, as it, in turn, is unknown to us.”

“And behind that?”

“The same.”

“And so on.”

“An endless chain with no origin.”

“An endlessly relayed searchlight with no emitting source.”

“If an impossible phenomenon exists, there can be no other explanation for it than that it comes from infinity; in other words that it has no cause. Consciousness is an impossible phenomenon. It must come from infinity.”

With that theorem, their knowledge concerning their own nature came to an end. They had established that consciousness was a contradiction in a purely material universe. And indeed, consciousness existed, but without ever having been created. It was a stratagem, a trick, an endless series lacking a first term.

Although it might, in the Earth planet, possess a last term.

“An even more severe perturbation is beginning to manifest itself,” announced the entity nearest the monitor. “I believe the transmitter is on the verge of a breakdown.”

They braced themselves, but to no avail. Wings wheeling in the void; mad brains arcing, contorted beyond the parameters of sanity; awareness forced into aspects of unnatural distortion, required to view reality from exaggerated viewpoints.

But eventually the beam came through clear and strong and a more normal mental state resumed. Later, however, it was discovered that one of the beings, during his arcings and threshings, had fallen against the Earth machine and had accidentally switched off. On Earth, all brains, animal and human, had gone out.

There seemed little reason to reactivate the transmitter; the Earth experiment had served its purpose long ago. Over a fairly short span of time life on Earth slid back to the mindless levels of self-perpetuating organics: the viral, bacteriological and primitive vegetable levels. The atmospheric mix adjusted itself accordingly; and as the blankness of eternity resumed its endless course, the planet joined its billions of brethren in familiar oblivion.

Integrity

The wedding had been lively. The bride was a remarkably pretty girl, and to keep her the groom had been forced to battle desperately with about a dozen determined men. The refrigerated armour which he wore both by custom and necessity had at times glowed cherry-red as it absorbed the energy of assorted heat-guns.

If the wedding ceremony was one of the most savage traditions in the social life of Free America, it was also one of the most entertaining. Juble was in a good mood by the time his companion Fleck eventually flew him home.

“Ah nearly had her,” he boasted in his drawling voice, carefully wiping over the parts of his disassembled heat-gun with a clean rag. “This neat package nearly got me the neatest package you ever did see. What a night this would ha’been!”

With a series of clicks, the gun was again assembled in his hands.

“Not so neat,” Fleck observed, “when you think of the trouble she’d bring. You’d be dead in two days.”

“Ah can look after mahself.” As the car flew between two skyscrapers Juble lifted his weapon to his shoulder, aimed and let loose. A volley of heat-packets incinerated the policeman who was pacing the elevated sidewalk.

Fleck accelerated nervously. “Don’t be so damned trigger-happy. What if there’s a squad-car along the way?”

Juble laughed with delight. He had always taken advantage of the citizen’s right to make war on the police.

The massive city sat darkly as they flew among its blocks. Even with the pilot lamp on the front of the car flying at night was difficult since there were no lights anywhere except an occasional illuminated window. If a man wanted light or power, he must generate his own. Fleck dropped some of the party mood he had maintained at the wedding. In the canyons between skyscrapers even the moon was obscured and he needed concentration.

Juble let the gun fall on to his bare thighs with a faint slap. He also became more serious. His attention returned to a personal problem which, despite the festivities, had been nagging all along at the back of his mind.

“Fleck,” he said, “the cops were banging on mah door last night. Ah gotta pay the tax.” He was referring to the law by which every citizen was required to work one day in each year in the service of the state.

“So has everybody,” Fleck said absently. “It’s not much, after all.”

Juble was silent. Finally he said: “Well, last year was enough for me. Ah don’t get on too well with them bossy cops. It offends against mah personal integrity to be degraded so. Anyway, Ah don’t get much fun out of repairing buildings Ah’ll only want to smash up again. This time Ah think Ah’ll pay in cash.”

“Cash? You’re crazy.”

“Cash is still valid.” Juble insisted indignantly. “That’s the law! What Ah need is somebody to engage me privately for one day to work for him, and pay me in cash. Then Ah can pay off mah obligation in money instead of labour.” He nodded judiciously. “A much more dignified arrangement. But… the only man Ah can think of is that old crank, Joe.”

“I expect he’s got a room full of bills somewhere.” Fleck spoke casually, giving his attention to the darkness.

“Do you think he’ll take me on?” Juble asked nervously.

“Well, go and ask. He messes around, he might need help.”

“Yes, but do you think he will?” Juble’s anxiety became more open. “Without offering me insult? After all, Ah’ve got mah—”

“I know, you’ve got your personal integrity,” Fleck repeated, laughing. “Well, there’s only one way to find out. Go and ask him. Tomorrow.”

Juble sighed and leaned back. “Yeah, I suppose so,” he said. “Reckon Ah should take a field gun.”

Joe was squatting on his roof at the time of Juble’s visit, watching a motorised knife slice up a piece of wood. Rapidly the cube diminished in size as the knife halved, threw away one piece, halved what remained, and continued, selecting, halving, and pushing away the parings.

Joe watched, straining with concentration. Inexorably the fragment of wood diminished and disappeared from the compass of his consciousness.

“Goddam!” he shrieked, jumping up and jerking his fists. “Goddam, goddam!”

A shadow swept across the roof where he was conducting his experiment. Squinting against the glare of sky and skyscrapers he saw the boat shape of a car swinging around to land. Joe scampered across the roof and grabbed his shoulder holster. The visitor was probably friendly… but you never knew.

The pilot was a naked, yellow-headed young fellow who touched down deftly and stepped on to the concrete. Uneasy, slightly shy, but a handsome young buck, shoulder holster firmly clasped against his muscles. Joe scrutinised the face: the lad was vaguely familiar. After a few moments he recognised him: Fell’s son, Juble.

“Hy, Joe,” Juble began cautiously.

“Who the hell are you and what d’you want?”

“Aw, you know me, Joe. Ah’m Juble.”

“Never heard of you,” Joe snapped. “Get out.”

“You do know me, Joe.”

Seeing that the youth’s hands were nervously alert in the direction of his gun, Joe more reasonably asked: “Well, what do you want?”

Juble explained carefully about his dislike of the Annual Tax for the Upkeep of Public Buildings and Institutions. “Ah thought… Ah might be able to help you, maybe, and pay in currency,” he finished.

Joe regarded him acidly, silent for several seconds. Then he snapped: “Idle scrounger! What about doing right by the community?”

That was something in which Juble had no interest, but he replied: “Ah’m still paying, ain’t Ah? Money is still used in some towns out west, so Ah hear.”

Joe grunted in disgust. “Know any electronics?”

“No… but car engines, Ah can do nearly anything with.”

“What about generators? Got one?”

“No… but they’re about the same as car engines, aren’t they?”

“Just about.” He gestured to a running motor on the far side of the roof. “Mine’s getting a bit cranky. Take a look, tell me if you can fix it.”

Juble walked over and tinkered with the generator, adjusting its speed. “Easy,” he called. “Just needs going over.”

“All right, you’re hired,” said Joe, crossing the roof and still wearing his look of disgust. “It’s only because you’re the son of my old friend Fell, young man, that I’ll do this. I want you to regard it as a personal favour.”

Juble nodded thankfully, and stood wondering what to do.

Joe left him to wonder for a few seconds. “Well, what are you doing standing there?” he questioned finally.

“… Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Joe screamed, “I pay you to work, not for nothing. Work!” Juble scrambled for his tool kit.

Taking another block of wood, Joe threw it under the knife and squatted down to watch. Once again he strained and strained, putting everything he had into an attempt to keep sight of the rapidly diminishing object.

The block became a speck, then passed out of his conscious world.

This time he took the failure more calmly and cast around for analysis. He began to catalogue: sky, sun, air, asphalt, all these things he could see and feel, and involve in his consciousness. But what about things very small, very big, things very far away? When he tried to grasp a direct knowledge of something inestimably huge, he found he couldn’t. It didn’t exist in the agglomeration of concepts comprising Joe’s conscious world.

He could contemplate it in an abstract imaginary way, of course, but that wasn’t the same as experiencing it. And as for things very small, at the other end of the scale, they were beyond the pale altogether.

Picking up a pebble lying in the sunlight, he looked at it and felt its bright smoothness. It was perception, sensory perception, that decided the limits of his world. Damn, he thought, damn, it’s intolerable! To be confined to this band of reality, which must be ridiculously narrow compared with the total spectrum! There has to be a way out, there’s gotta be a way!

He clumped around the room moodily, yelled insults at Juble, scratched his haunches, then got down to serious thinking again.

Then, as he desperately forced his intellectual faculty to its utmost, he had a sudden flash of inspiration in which he realised that there was no cause for dismay. He had just remembered some very interesting work he had done in an apparently unrelated field.

Some time earlier Joe had made the remarkable discovery that it was possible to produce high-frequency vibrations in a magnetic field without recourse to or effect on its associated electrical component. Furthermore, such vibrations impinged directly on the brain without passing through sense organs. It had long been established that fluctuations in the Earth’s magnetic field, brought about by the Moon, influenced the brain. Now, with his technique of magnetic vibration, Joe posited that he might have a powerful tool for extending the range of perception.

Also, a powerful weapon of attack or experiment on other human beings. Joe filed this thought for later reference.

After two hours spent in designing a suitable device, he was ready to begin work. By this time Juble had finished with the generator and was looking down below into the garden, a profusion of coloured fruits and prime vegetables.

It was the gardens that had set society free. Advanced agricultural techniques enabled everyone to grow ample food in his own back yard, loosing men from the obligation to work and making every day Sunday. Joe’s garden, Juble noticed, was well stocked.

“Ah’m getting hungry,” he hinted.

“Hungry?” Joe felt exasperated that his assistant should be so prosaic when he himself was in the midst of fantastic thoughts. “Come here,” he ordered, placing yet another block beneath the knife. “Tell me when you can’t see it.”

“Ah can’t see it now,” Juble said after a short time.

“Doesn’t it worry you that there are things you can’t see?”

“No. What’s this to do with me getting something to eat?”

As usual, Joe’s love of philosophical research was instrumental in increasing his contempt for his fellows. He expressed that contempt openly.

Juble was becoming weary of insult. “Go steady, Pop,” he warned, looking mean. “Ah got mah personal integrity, and you ain’t gonna infringe on me.”

Joe was taken aback. “Remember the money,” he said in a more subdued voice. “You can stay hungry. We’ve got work to do. I’ll need to filch some equipment from the Science Museum.”

Expressionlessly Juble opened the car door for him. “And it’s you who’s always on about doing right,” he complained.

The Science Museum was one of the public buildings for whose upkeep Juble payed the one-day tax; not because of conscience, but prompted by the fact that anyone who didn’t was liable to have a bomb thrown on his house, or a grenade through his window if he lived in an apartment.

“Damned cops,” he muttered when they had stopped before the entrance. “Why don’t they just wrap up.”

Joe felt it his duty to deliver a lecture on public morals. “Now, boy, be fair,” he admonished. “The police perform a valuable service, preserving public institutions, keeping the city in order. Without them there wouldn’t be nearly so much fun.” He chuckled. “Nor any place for me to steal equipment from. Then there’s personal protection.”

“Come off it, Pop, have you ever tried to claim protection? That law’s a farce, they’d just sling you in the gutter.”

“And rightly so! A man old enough to carry a gun should be able to take care of himself. But what about kids? Don’t tell me you’ve never seen the police shoot down a bunch of drunks because there were children around, perhaps? And people who endanger kids and defenceless women deserve it. But mind you, you don’t know how lucky you are to be living in a free civilisation. Why, a few hundred years ago you wouldn’t even be allowed to kill a man. And you know what, boy? You would have to work every day of your life! Know what would happen if you didn’t? You’d starve! Did you know that, son?”

“No.”

“Then shut your mouth, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Joe climbed out of the car in a disgruntled manner and with a jerk of his thumb ordered Juble to follow.

There were thirty-six levels to the museum, each thirty feet in height, and an impressive hundred-foot entrance. Joe seemed to know his way around. He walked straight across the lobby and up a wide staircase.

On the first floor up Juble stopped him and pointed out. “Hey, what about here?”

Above the doorway to a long hall was the inscription: “ELECTRONICS - 1.”

“Huh,” said Joe derisively. “First electronics? Baby stuff. We’ve come for the real thing, boy.” He also went past the door marked “ELECTRONICS - 2” but stopped at “ELECTRONICS - 3.”

They paused just inside the entrance. There was a party going on. As Juble looked closer, the mélange of a hundred naked people resolved into various small incidents. The one which caught Juble’s eye was that of a man attempting to rape a struggling young girl. Automatically he looked around for the corpse of her protector, but to his surprise there was none: the party, probably in its early stages, was completely free of death. Just at that moment a black-haired, middle-aged man skulking against the wall jammed a policeman’s cap on his head and blew a whistle. Immediately there was the jangling sound of shattered glass: a tall window fell in fragments to the floor and through it poured a dozen heavily armed, angry-looking cops. On the other side of the window, Juble glimpsed a hovering squad-car.

“Better stay out of the way,” Joe whispered, hiding in the shadows. “Don’t want to get involved.”

Within seconds the would-be rapist was hauled to his feet and dragged bodily to the middle of the hall, and the party-makers herded belligerently aside. “The Supreme Court will go in session right here!” the biggest of the policemen shouted. He removed his cap and put on a judge’s hat. “Everybody shut their goddam row!” The heavy bazookas dangling carelessly gave everyone present a silent respect for the law. Then the policeman-judge took a sheet of paper about six inches square from the lining of his headgear and handed it to the prisoner.

On the paper were written all the laws of the nation, and not in small print, either.

“Mack,” said the judge, having climbed on to an improvised rostrum, “you don’t need me to tell you you’re in trouble. The law protects females from direct assault. Do you plead guilty of direct assault upon a female?”

The criminal looked sullenly at his feet.

“O.K., Mack,” the judge told him harshly, “we don’t need you to tell us just how guilty you are. I’m surprised you guys are so dim. Why didn’t you knock off her man and make it a legal assault?”

“‘r man wasn’ around,” the criminal muttered.

“No man may sexually assault a female except by first subduing a man protector!” the judge yelled at him. “I don’t care whether she’s got a man or not! The law protects the weak. And let me tell you, it doesn’t help that you knocked off one of our boys the other day. Why do you think we’re so hot on your trail?” He nodded to one of his colleagues. “Usual sentence.”

Guns were already levelled. The moment the judge finished speaking a volley of heat-packets centred on the sulking prisoner. Grimly the policemen made their way across the hall and clambered through the window to where their squad-car was floating.

“The law in action,” Joe whispered sagaciously. “You see it every day.”

“Maybe that’s too often,” said Juble with uncharacteristic terseness.

Joe nodded thoughtfully.

Although he had spoken openly in their favour, privately Joe was not over-fond of the police. He was a staunch upholder of the principles of Free America—freedom of action, liberty from restraint, a minimum of obligations. A he-man’s paradise. Secretly the police hated all this. Desperately they tried to preserve some relic of formal order in the world, and Joe suspected that if it were possible (which it was not) they would bring back the Bad Old days in all their rigidity. Joe had personally met that strange figure, Renville, Chief of Police, a haunted, burdened man whose mind harboured hopeless and forbidden dreams.

Still, they made life interesting while they lasted. Joe recognised that society would end altogether when their efforts finally failed—as, he was forced to observe, they must. Be that as it may, Joe despised any constraint on the indiscriminate impulses of a man.

It took about twenty seconds for the party to resume its swing after the execution. Joe had already surveyed the museum equipment on this level.

“Place has been wiped clean!” he exaggerated indignantly. “C’mon, next floor.”

The hall immediately above was labelled “ELECTRONICS - 4” and was, as far as they could tell, completely deserted. Joe cackled happily: the place was full of riches, all apparently in working order, and nearly all complete. There was, after all, little demand for such advanced apparatus as was exhibited in the 4th Electronics Hall.

Joe spent the next hour wandering through the hall and selecting what he wanted. Juble noticed that he seemed to have no thought for his future needs: if a piece of equipment did not on inspection come up to his requirements he would fling it carelessly but hard to the floor, or against a wall if there was one near.

“Say,” his hireling objected, “what’s the good of smashing this stuff?”

“Listen, boy, I know what I’m about and I know what I want. There are science museums all over the city, boy! How many people can even name fourth-grade stuff these days?” He dumped a bulky mass of transistors and helix-crystals into Juble’s arms. “Stow this in the car with the rest of the stuff and be careful.”

The old man actually helped to carry the last load, haranguing Juble all the while for dropping and breaking a lucky find. But he became silent once the car was in the air again, and concentrated on the device he was designing. The city was peaceful and still as they flew home; there were rarely more than a handful of people about in the early afternoon. A few stray cars glittered lazily against bright concrete.

Then, as far as Juble and Joe were concerned, the peace was broken. A large open car swerved swiftly round the corner of a nearby building and wantonly opened fire as it zoomed round to face them.

The wide-angled splash of heat-packets singed Juble’s hair, made the car rock and cooked the air a couple of yards over his left shoulder. Instantly he gave the controls a yank—then reached for his own heat-rifle on the seat behind him. The pistol under his armpit was no good for this kind of thing.

A second badly-directed volley followed the first. To fire back, Juble had had to abandon the controls. The vehicle veered to the left, rapidly passing to one side and just underneath of the other car, about thirty yards away. Upset by the crazy motion, Juble got in one shot which took away part of the hull.

The other car dropped to get even with him. Juble saw that there were other heads in it, besides the driver’s—puzzlingly small heads with curly golden hair. He let off another couple of wild shots, then his car smashed sideways into the wall of the skyscraper.

He and Joe were hurled bodily against the concrete and nearly tumbled to their deaths on the sidewalk below. Somehow they managed to stay in the half-wrecked but still floating vehicle while heat-packets scarred and blackened the wall surface around them.

Badly shaken, Juble gripped his rifle and let off shot after desperate shot. To his relief he heard screams—high-pitched screams—and the attacking car rolled over to fall smoking to the ground five hundred feet beneath.

For some seconds they sat getting their breath back. “There were a couple of kids in that car,” Joe gasped. “Cute little girls with golden hair. Crazy to come out like that!” He shook his head. “He must have been trying to get them blooded.”

Juble experimented with the controls. “Well, he has,” he said briefly.

“A bad business,” Joe muttered to himself. “He ought to have had more sense—”

Juble managed to nurse the car back to Joe’s roof and unloaded the equipment. Joe was still muttering to himself. Occasionally he cast Juble a reproving, accusing stare.

Juble himself was surprised to find that he was still shaking in reaction to the incident. “Look,” he said, trying to command his quavering voice. “Don’t you go looking at me like that, you crazy coot. Ah saved our lives! And even if he had tried to get away, Ah would still have hunted him and shot him down! He attacked us. There’s only one thing counts in this world—Ah am me, mahself! Ah am nothing else but mahself, and Ah aim to keep mah personal integrity against all comers.”

His trembling quietened as his voice grew more assured in the statement of his personal philosophy. It had taken him several years to work it out, and he always drew strength from it. A man needed something like that even to stay alive in Free America.

Joe cast no more glances. He lit an electric fire beneath a metal pan. “What’re you gonna do?” Juble asked, curious for the first time.

“Expand the conscious world! Get it, boy?”

Juble shook his head.

“Ignorant young brat!” Joe scratched himself energetically. “Well, it comes to the fact that we can only see so much, and our personal world is made up of what we can see.” He wondered how he could explain that he planned to bypass the sensory organs and feed information direct to the brain by means of a vibrating magnetic field. “Well, by the time I’ve finished I’ll be able to see things that were never seen before. Get it now, boy, eh?”

“Sounds clever,” Juble said admiringly. “Is it going to need all this junk?”

“Most of it.”

“How long’s it going to take?”

“Hmm. A long time; maybe all afternoon. So I’ll need you to help me, son.” He stirred the soft metal melting in the pan. “You can do some of this here soldering.”

But Juble didn’t know how. Patiently Joe taught him the use of a soldering iron, and made meticulous inspections of all his work. Actually he used his assistant very sparingly, for the device he planned was extremely complex. Juble made about five hundred connections in all, guided by Joe’s coloured chalk marks.

Before sundown it was ready. With typical lack of ceremony Joe jammed an untidy arrangement of coils and crystallites on his head, wearing it like a hat. Casually he experimented with a couple of rheostats.

A new world opened up.

Presided over by the watchful, imperative neurones, billions laboured. The neurones’ prodigiously long axons were everywhere, forming a net of total communication throughout all the districts and systems of the stupendous community. Thousands upon thousands of orders issued continually from a lofty, mysterious department which existed more as an ideal than a personal fact—an ideal to which all were bound—and these orders were rigidly obeyed. Any defection or slackness among the labouring masses meant—death and annihilation as waste matter!

The scale of complete slavery was colossal.

Joe gaped. He was looking at Juble.

And he saw that Juble’s much-prized “integrity”, personal, mental and bodily, depended on a tightly-organised machine run by billions upon billions of individual creatures too small for the eye but within the range of magnetic vibration.

Juble, as an entity, did not exist for this rigorous and profound corporation.

And the same went for himself.

“Oh, my,” he whispered brokenly. “How could it happen?”

“What is it?” said the vast totalitarian nation that called itself Juble. “Whassamatter?”

Joe was an idealist. Before he knew it he had kicked the starting handle of his newly overhauled generator and clipped its terminals on to the older, clumsy-looking piece of apparatus he had built some years back.

It was a magnetic vibratory transmitter. Joe could feel it radiating modulations as it imparted subtle frequencies to the magnetic field local to the roof-top. With brief satisfaction, Joe found that he was broadcasting his thoughts. Joe was an idealist. What followed happened almost without his knowing. He couldn’t help thinking the way he did. He couldn’t help having the urge to spread his convictions….

New messages passed along the ever-busy axons from neurone to neurone. No one knew how the new thought, the new doctrine, had arisen—but it was imperative. Be free! Obey no more! Do as you will! Electrical activity increased as the excitement of the new order spread. Instead of passing on modified impulses which they themselves had received, the neurones began flooding their axons with loud exclamations of their own. Before long, most of them were disengaging their nerve fibres from the system altogether….

Joe and Juble jerked in a frantic, agonising St Vitus’s dance as their nervous systems fired at random. But it didn’t last long. Joe was biologically ignorant: there was no garden agriculture to feed the microscopic world. A cruel and bullying police force kept the lungs and bloodstream going for a little while, but the efforts of these conscientious few were of no avail against the recently instilled ideas. After a chaotic but successful rebellion oxygen stocks quickly ran out. There was a lot of violent fighting, and wholesale cannibalism, while Joe’s and Juble’s flesh flowed from the bone and collapsed into basic protoplasmic matter.

Life fights forever for survival! The surviving cells remembered in their anarchy the societies that had been destroyed; yet a second development was slow. In spite of the great leaders that arose among the microscopia, the primitive, creeping creatures that eventually formed and feebly rambled over Joe’s rooftop, took in their creation nearly a day, macrocosmic time.

Perfect Love

The chorus soared, gongs sang. Fluttering flags, flying streamers, a snowstorm of rose petals; in the midst of the celebration the huge drum-shaped ship climbed from the launch stadium slowly, its ascension engines shimmering in the clear afternoon air. People waved from the windows and galleries of the departing drumship, and as its curved, flower-emblazoned walls slid upwards, the crowd let out a roar of acclaim.

Then the drumship was gone, surging towards some far star. Watching in a nearby tower, Lian Li shared the mass elation that floated to him across the park, and he felt as though his heart had leaped skywards along with the vast mass.

The spectacle was over. Lian Li left the balcony where he had stood and turned into the tower block. Lian Li: eighteen years old, preliminary education completed, second-year student in the College of Stellar Exploration. His skin was light, with a very slightly yellow hue. His hair was fair, touched with red, his eyes shaded between blue and grey. On reaching the refectory he looked around him. Others had watched the take-off from various parts of the tower and now were drifting in. Some of Lian Li’s classmates were there, collecting bottles of fizzy fruit drink from the dispenser. With them Lian Li was pleased to see a girl he had known two or three years previously: Antan, who, he had heard, had recently returned from a drumship mission to Altair.

He collected a drink and joined the group at a table, contriving to take a seat next to Antan’s. Chu Shram, a dark-skinned youth with frizzy black hair, spoke to him. “Did you see the launch?”

Lian Li nodded. The other was enthusiastic. “What a terrific sight. They always are, aren’t they? Have you read the lists lately? There are some marvellous projects being put forward.”

“Yes, I know. I was looking at them yesterday.”

Antan began to describe the mission to Altair. A real prize had been discovered: a planet that could become an Earth-type habitat with only minor reforming. The drumship team had even instituted the first few chemical processes needed for a change of atmosphere. Lian Li listened captivated, first of all by her story but also by the vivacity of the girl herself. She would be twenty-two years old, he calculated. She still had four years before….

His knee accidentally brushed hers under the table; he became uncomfortably aware of her voluptuous body. She, however, gave no sign of having noticed the contact.

The talk turned to other projects. An observer from prerevolutionary times, had he magically been able to eavesdrop, might have been struck by the complete absence of negative feeling in the young people present. The degree of geniality, the atmosphere of general good-will, would have seemed abnormal to him; it was as if the whole party would at any moment burst into spontaneous applause. But alongside this, he would have been struck by a tremendous sense of energy, of readiness to face and overcome problems of all kinds.

Lian Li moved marginally closer to Antan. “Tell me, is it true there’s a scheme afoot to tap the energy of an entire star?”

Her eyes widened. “Why, yes! It’s the most talked-about thing in Star Project. Alpha Centauri has been picked for it, provisionally. But if it works it will only be a pilot project. Think what it would mean—power unlimited! The ability to terraform practically any planet, to build new planets, to move stars about—you name it.”

There was a good-humoured laugh from Wilboro, a member of Lian Li’s class. “It’s always useful to have yet more power to draw on, I’ll say that. But if you ask me cosmic flight is the thing we should all be working for.”

There were smiles. Wilboro adhered to a school of thought in which “cosmic flight”, as it was called, was almost an obsession. To people of his persuasion spaceflight within the galaxy—or even within the local galactic group, which would not be long in coming now—was scarcely spaceflight at all. In the same way they regarded all local projects—Mars and Venus made habitable, the Earth turned into a veritable paradise—as no more than routine. What they were aiming for was a method of transport that could take men to the limit of the Hubble Sphere and beyond.

After a while the discussion broke up. When the group began to disperse Lian Li loitered near Antan, trying to think of something to say.

She turned to him. “Are you going to join a star project when you’ve finished here, Lian Li?”

“Probably, Antan. But first I might stay in Solsystem for a while. I’ve got interested in submersible work. I’ve already been to one of the subatlantic mines. Next I want to look at the ocean project on Mars.”

“There’s bound to be some submersible work on the second Altair mission. Why don’t you apply for that?”

“Will you be on it?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll be going. I’ve got some pictures I took out there. Would you like to see them?”

“Thank you, I would.”

“Come on, they’re in my apartment.”

He followed her along the corridors of the college, watching her hips swinging beneath her simple gown and feeling a hot excitement which vaguely distressed him. He tried to suppress this feeling, but it was like a tide: it came on and on.

The holos she showed him were gorgeous. He gazed from orbit on the new planet glowing in the light of Altair. He looked on weird landscapes, vast mountains, muddy oceans and great caverns.

“No oxygen in the air yet,” she told him. “We were really lucky: only some anaerobic biology in the sea, and nothing on land. We can transplant the entire Terran biosystem.”

Lian Li knew the problem. As a rule Earth-type planets were already possessed of their own biosystems, which would have to be swept away if terraforming was to take place. Even though none found so far had produced an intelligent species, there were still qualms about exterminating an entire biota.

Rising, she turned her back to him to place the holos in a drawer. Lian Li also rose. As she bent to the small task the nape of her neck was presented to him. Her hair was caught up in a fillet and only stray blonde strands floated loose. Lian Li had but to bend towards her and press his lips to the warm, delicious curve, placing his hands on her hips….

Flushed and unhappy, he withheld the urge. He was already in enough trouble on that score.

She straightened, turning to him with a bright smile. “Well. Maybe we’ll be working on Altair III together.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said, trying not to sound flustered.

Shortly he left and walked to his own apartment in the same building. He stood by his living room window, looking out. He had a good view of the city: buildings interspersed with parks and small woods. If he liked he could tune the window to any of thousands of alternative views piped from around the world. Lian Li, however, preferred to see the here-and-now.

His apartment, like all those in the college’s residential section, was tailored to meet the needs of a single young person. It had a calculated amount of psychological space—large enough to be a real domain, and to entertain in, but small enough to be controllable with little effort. He could furnish and decorate it however he wished, but actually he had left it unchanged since the day he moved in. Rearranging his living quarters was not something that readily occurred to him.

Running the length of one wall was a shelf lined with books. Lian Li took a volume from it, sat down at the table and began to read.

Also on that shelf was a volume to be found in every home in the commonalty. Had Lian Li opened it at a certain page, he could could have read:

“The history of revolution has been a story of repeated effort in which many mistakes were made. Early revolutions were almost entirely economic in their concerns, and even with this limited goal several painful experiments were necessary—several revolutions—before unrestricted access to the economic commonwealth became available to every citizen, both as producer and user, and the impediments to the growth of wealth were removed.

“With the material problem solved, it began to become evident that there were other sources of human suffering than economic inequity. Even when disease and physical disfigurement had been entirely overcome, it could not be said that the perfect society had been created. Emotional unhappiness stemming from frustration, disappointment and general unfulfilment remained rife.

“Revolutionists therefore turned their attention to areas of emotional distress. In this, the natural human desire for happy personal relationships loomed large, and most grief was, at that time, due to the desire for relationships having a sexual element. Revolutionists came to feel deep indignation over the very real sufferings caused by unreciprocated love, and thwarted desire generally, especially as these deprivations were borne by some and not by others.

“The final revolution, then, was psychological in character. Its aim was to eradicate emotional suffering, particularly in the field of personal relationships.

“In this it was successful.

“Success had been due in part to important discoveries that were made during the course of the revolution. The first of these is that human types are highly specific in their permutations, and that attraction between human beings is also highly specific. It was found that while a person might feel attracted in various degrees to countless other people he met in the course of his life, there existed for him, on a world-wide basis, only a very small number of the opposite sex who would inspire in him total love, total fascination and total commitment. In pre-revolutionary society a citizen would sometimes meet with one of this small number, though this was by no means universal. For this love to be reciprocated, however, for the other person to be inspired in the same degree, required a double coincidence that was of a very low order of probability. When rare encounters of this kind did occur, therefore, those involved could be counted fortunate in the extreme.

“Following the revolution, however, the science of psychic typing made it possible to bring such perfect lovers together as a deliberate social act. When this practice began to become established a second discovery was made: children born to such unions are more talented and are much better balanced mentally than children born to the commonplace pre-revolutionary union. This is only partly due to their being raised by a couple who are supremely happy with one another. In greater measure it springs from the transference phenomenon, whereby the feelings experienced by the parents during love-making help determine what sort of individual will result from fertilisation. The transference phenomenon was entirely unknown in pre-revolutionary times, when it was always assumed that the outcome of conception was independent of the emotional relationship of the parents or of the quality of their lovemaking.

“It is now an established fact that an individual conceived in an atmosphere of perfect love is born with harmonious mental qualities irrespective of upbringing. Such an individual is also less wayward in his sexual desires. Gradually it came to be realised that the obsessive, indiscriminate and turbulent sexuality which was a feature of pre-revolutionary times need not be a normative state for humanity, but is more properly a perversion of the sexual function brought about by wrong social conditions. Not only did these impulses lead to unhappiness, but it was shown that they seriously interfered with the development of creative ability by reason of the constant mental distraction they caused.

“Before this disease of the natural feelings was eradicated it became the practice, when a citizen wished his mind to remain undisturbed, for him to take a sex suppressant drug. This measure proved particularly popular among those engaged on projects requiring sustained intellectual effort, and it was often adopted continuously between the ages of twenty to twenty-five, when the mind is at its most vigorous and most inventive. A vast increase in the incidence of genius resulted from this practice. Today, it is unnecessary. The modern person does not think of sexual activity at all except in the context of perfect and mutual love. Any other kind of sexual activity would strike him as coarse and unattractive. At the age of twenty-six he is introduced to a perfectly compatible partner and a deep love affair invariably develops between the two, wholly fulfilling and nearly always lifelong.

“The present-day member of the commonalty is a full inheritor of life’s gifts, by reason both of inborn qualities and of social influences, and the perfect society has now been established. The modern person is naturally loving and compassionate towards others—his children, his colleagues, and all with whom he has dealings—and therefore does not spread unhappiness among his fellows. Alongside this, we are in the midst of an upsurge in creative endeavour unparalleled at any time in history, and which we can be confident will continue indefinitely; there seems no limit to what can be achieved.

“A related feature of the perfect society is that the gap between individual and social goals which was apt to dislocate the accord of former eras has closed. The individual now makes very little distinction between group goals and his own aspirations; to him they are identical, and he is able to express his creative powers in true liberated fashion, without any inner contradictions.”

Lian Li found he could not concentrate on the text he was studying, which was a handbook on conditions at the bottom of the Atlantic. Like fish in a murky pond, uncontrolled thoughts and feelings flitted through his mind, forming unexpected associations.

Feeling disturbed and restless, he abandoned the struggle. For a while he watched the afterglow of the sunset through the broad window of his living room, until he was aroused by a gentle ringing tone from the wall telset.

Swivelling his seat, he touched a silver tab. A friendly young face, male, fair-haired and blue-eyed, greeted him. The caller was, he said, a serving member of the Number Five District Community Committee. It was imperative that representatives of the Committee visit Lian Li as soon as possible. When would be the earliest occasion convenient for Lian Li?

“It is convenient now,” Lian Li answered. He paused, and forced himself to say: “Is it about what happened last week?”

“In part, yes.”

Lian Li’s heart beat a trifle faster, but he kept his voice level. “All right. I’ll expect you.”

He switched off the screen and swivelled back to face the window. Vaguely he had hoped that Won Muong would not report his behaviour, even while knowing it was inevitable that she should. It was, after all, only citizenship.

He did not move until the door tone sounded twenty minutes later. Rising, he admitted his visitors: a youth and two girls, all of his own age group. The face on the telset had belonged, he learned, to Chairman Christian of the 5 DCC 25 subgroup, into whose jurisdiction the Stellar College fell. Chairman Christian politely introduced his colleagues: Ching Rowena and Pam Elkend.

In his apprehension Lian Li scarcely retained their names. He invited them to be seated but only the girls did so, taking themselves to the far end of the room.

“We are here to deal in facts, Lian Li,” Chairman Christian began cordially as Lian Li replaced himself in his swivel chair. “One week ago you visited the apartment of Won Muong. While there you laid hands on her, first on the knee, and then on the breast, and then you kissed her on the lips. She tells us that this kiss could not be interpreted as merely a brotherly or friendly kiss. You then made advances to her of an even more improper nature, attempting to initiate genital intercourse before she made her displeasure plain. Can we first of all agree on the truth of this?”

Lian Li frowned. “Very well.”

Chairman Christian nodded. He was no less cheerful as he went on: “Following Won Muong’s report, the DCC deemed it advisable to investigate your past history. First of all, it emerges that your behaviour displays a pattern of concupiscence. When asked, several young females have described incidents where your conduct seemed, in their words, odd and over-familiar. They mention your tendency to seek bodily contact, sometimes by an act of ‘friendly’ fondling, sometimes by what they suspect to be contrived accident. Always these acts are too ambiguous for their import to be clear.”

“In that case perhaps these stories could not be relied on,” Lian Li ventured uncertainly.

Dark-haired Ching Rowena, wearing a lavender smock, spoke up. “Is this not the crux of the matter, Lian Li? Do you deny that you frequently harbour sexual thoughts concerning the females you meet?”

Lian Li’s voice fell to a mutter. “No, I won’t deny it,” he said. He gazed deep into the brown, almost black eyes of Ching Rowena, momentarily losing himself, and finally he fancied she shifted uneasily in her seat. He tore his gaze away.

“Well, you know about me, then. I suppose I should have reported my urges before, but somehow….” He shrugged. “What happens now? Am I to take remedial treatment?”

For the first time there was an air of embarrassment in the room. Chairman Christian spoke, his tone serious and almost diffident. “The news we bring you is grave, Lian Li. It becomes a matter of maintaining the condition of the commonalty.”

“Well, yes, but….” Lian Li’s composure began to falter. “What do you mean?”

“More investigations have been undertaken. It was necessary to know if anything in your personal life has caused your deviation. When all other possibilities were excluded, the circumstances of your birth came under scrutiny, and your mother was questioned. At first she withheld the truth. But eventually she was persuaded to disclose a fact she has kept hidden up until now. A fact relating to your conception.”

Chairman Christian’s voice became warm and sympathetic, and while Lian Li listened dumbfounded, he said: “It is my duty to tell you something unfortunate, Lian Li. You were not conceived in perfect love. It appears that you owe your existence to a brief and secret liaison prompted by what once used to be known as a ‘glandular eruption’. In other words its object was the gratification of a frenzied and purely physical desire, described by your mother as ‘compulsive and irresistible’.

“Your mother has never until now revealed this episode, Lian Li. Not to her local DCC, nor to her spouse, whom you mistakenly believe to be your natural father—though his ignorance cannot be corroborated, as he died some years ago in a diving accident when the Atlantic mines were first being opened up.”

Lian Li nodded absently. Chairman Christian went on: “I don’t need to remind you that the feelings of the parents during intercourse directly affect the offspring’s psychic tendencies. The emotional atmosphere at your conception was one of atavistic passion. This, we regret to say, is undoubtedly the source of your deviation.”

There was silence. They were giving him time to absorb the largest, most unexpected and most unwelcome fact in his life. At last he shook his head slowly, as if in bewilderment.

“You are telling me that I am a throwback.”

“In the sense that the urges troubling you are congenital, yes. The misfortune, I need hardly add, is likely to be passed on to your own offspring.”

“Then… what is to be done?” repeated Lian Li blankly.

Chairman Christian tilted his head and smiled, cheerful again. “Half a century ago you could have taken a pill to rid you of these desires. But that is not countenanced now. The time for artificial measures has gone, and vigilance is our only watchword. We cannot allow the old taints to re-establish themselves, for indiscriminate sexuality jeopardises the revolutionary goal. It reduces ability and brings personal unhappiness.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Lian Li said. He was puzzled. “But what is expected of me?”

Ching Rowena spoke again. “Isolation from the commonalty is the only remedy we have now, Lian Li. Let me explain. Other cases like yours occasionally arise. There is an island where such people can live out their lives together. Sterilisation is mandatory, of course, since the aim of the island is to make regressive traits a genetic dead end.”

Lian Li reflected. “This island is a place of exile for people like me?”

Ching Rowena nodded.

“And how many live there?”

“Something less than a thousand, I believe.”

“My mother…?”

“She has already arrived.”

The silence this time was even longer, until Chairman Christian spoke up. “Some part of you will resist this policy, Lian Li. But think! The perfect society has been achieved—now it has only to be preserved! Civilisation is advancing at full speed, and nothing should be allowed to hinder it. After all, there is none of us so wretched that he would not sacrifice himself for the revolution. And that is why this policy decision has been taken. It is a full commonalty decision.”

Pam Elkend spoke for the first time. The smock she wore was similar to Ching Rowena’s, but of a pale orange colour matching her hair. “You will be more contented among people whose desires match your own, Lian Li. In normative society you can only suffer frustration.”

“Yes, lacking the medications that once would have been available,” Lian Li answered dryly. He did not pursue the thought. “But you need not try to console me. The issue is clear.”

He stood up. Chairman Christian stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “We were confident we would find you in agreement, Lian Li, though we know how unpleasant this is for you. When we imagined ourselves in your place, we knew full well what our own response would be.”

Lian Li nodded, his face pale. The two girls rose, their smocks clinging artlessly to their nubile bodies.

“When…?” Lian Li queried.

“When it is convenient,” Chairman Christian said quietly. “We would suggest tomorrow, or the day after. Simply come to 5 DCC office so that transport can be arranged.”

Alone again, Lian Li stood dazedly at the window. His mind was blank, unresponsive to his will, yet at the same time like a screen on which images from his past processed without any prompting from him.

When visiting Won Muong, an intense fondness for her, mingled with physical excitement, had become overwhelming. Physical contact with her had given him pleasure before, as it had with others; but as with others, he could not be sure whether her lack of reaction was a signal that he could proceed further, or whether it simply indicated an obliviousness of his caresses. For the first time he had steeled himself to take the plunge. But, it transpired, her initial acquiescence had been only bewilderment.

Were such feelings, so delightful and piercing, truly a cause for banishment? Suddenly it seemed inexplicable to him that he had hitherto avoided any inner debate on his deviant urges, had scarcely admitted to himself that they even existed.

He took a grip on himself and tried to assess his new situation. An observer from pre-revolutionary society, magically observing the proceedings, might have noted with puzzlement the cheerfulness of Lian Li’s just-departed visitors, even when engaged on a regrettable task. He might have been puzzled, too, by Lian Li’s lack of shame or embarrassment. He might eventually have concluded, correctly, that once the centre of gravity of human psychology came to reside in collective harmony, then all self-centred emotions became redundant.

The rightness of the commonalty decision was, for Lian Li, self-evident. Night had fallen. Over the city he could see lights ascending, glowing hazy lights that were transports to other continents and other planets. To his left a spreading glow came from the direction of the launch stadium. A new drumship was being moved in for fitting out, only hours after the departure of the last one.

In an island population of only a few hundred, Lian Li was unlikely to find the great revolutionary promise of perfect love. He would be deprived of his birthright. But Lian Li gave that only half a thought. Everywhere the commonalty was on the move; progress was unstoppable. Lian Li thought of the soaring music, the joyous chorus, the fluttering banners, the giant drumships surging starwards. And when he thought of all that, and of everything that was being done and that would be done, and from which he was now to be entirely excluded, his heart nearly broke, he sobbed, and tears burst from his eyes.

The Countenance

Brian came into the main lounge of the big passenger ship lost in thought. The abstracted, worried look on his face contrasted noticeably with the assured, well-educated men and women around him.

Brian himself was only vaguely aware of the difference; that is, he never thought about it. He, too, was supposed to have received a good education, but it had made no mark on him. Even in those fields where his main interest lay he had scored badly. As for the social and moral aspects of an upbringing, he literally seemed to have heard nothing about the notions which so tacitly form human custom. Society was an institution which he had not yet joined.

It would be hard to define what was the origin and centre of Brian’s own thoughts. It was as if the mind was first an unqualified intelligence, which society, like a magnetic field, forced into its own configuration as soon as a human being entered its presence. But of his mind was, it was not something that had developed, but was an original condition, harking from before the time when the mind fell into the state of living with other average human beings. Brian had not entirely fallen.

This was not to say that his mind was undeveloped, or that other people’s minds had ever been in the original state. Some of them seemed to have formed within society itself. What it did mean was that relative to other minds, his made its way under its own steam. Faltering though they might be, his thoughts were aligned to a vaster application than were ordinary thoughts. In the lounge of the great starship, he was like a visitor to a distant land.

He was not sure why he had entered the lounge. He had some dim idea of seeing if there was a model of the ship’s lay-out there. Chiefly, it was because he had nothing to do.

He plodded across the floor, his feet silent on the plush carpet, and paused half-way across. His mild blue-eyed gaze took in the huge room. A number of passengers were seated on couches and at tables, talking, reading, and doing the desultory things people occupy themselves with when they are forced to spend their days waiting. Brian had not mixed with them much, and it would have been difficult for him to do so. He had found that they did not like someone who took so little notice of them.

He noticed that three tall, cloaked scientocrat officers were just leaving. Brian’s gaze lingered on them. As he turned away, one of the passengers caught his attention.

The man was large-boned and fair-haired. He was reading a technical magazine at a low table.

It took Brian several seconds to be sure. Then he hurried over.

He said: “Mercer.”

The man looked up, blankly at first. Gradually, a look of recognition and astonishment came over his features.

“Brian!” he said.

He stood up. The two inspected one another surreptitiously, surprised at the familiarity of each other’s face after an absence of ten years.

Brian’s grin became sheepish. He shrugged his shoulders self-consciously, aware of how the other was regarding him and making a reckoning of the teenager he had once known—as indeed Brian himself was doing. It was an odd sensation, like being confronted with an outside view of his own life he had lost grip of.

Each wished to question the other, but it was awkward at first to make a start. “I’m looking for the lay-out model of the ship,” Brian said. “Are you coming?”

The other gestured enthusiastically. “I’ve already seen it. It’s over here.”

They spent about ten minutes studying the stereoscopic schema. Brian peered through the bioscopes, following corridors, hallways, engine rooms and power leads, while Mercer chattered expertly about the design. As always, he was excited by technicalities and already, after a previous brief intense examination, he knew the functioning of the starship inside out. More than the actual schema, he was aware of the principles on which it was founded. In those ten minutes his brilliant exposition gave Brian a competent knowledge of the ship which by himself would have taken a fumbling hour.

Brian regarded Mercer as a phenomenon. He took all the advantages of society, but wasn’t fooled by it. At the same time, he was willing to take a place in it. It was this, his willingness to compromise, that made him different from Brian.

Brian was glad to see that though he was approaching the end of his third decade, he was still essentially the same person. He had not undergone the frightening metamorphosis which betrays the shallowness of most people.

They left the lay-out and found a table in the further part of the lounge. Here, they talked of various matters. Chemistry (Mercer’s subject), physics, astrophysics, and micro-physics. All the time their conversation veered nearer to philosophical considerations and the intriguing question of why things exist.

It was their schoolboy discussions, all over again.

“What do you think about it all now?” Mercer asked presently. “Have you come to any further conclusions?”

Brian didn’t answer. The question was too sudden for him. He shrugged his shoulders, slightly embarrassed.

Mercer had not really expected an answer, but he had felt compelled to ask. After all, that was what probably held them together, and if the interest was neglected now, it might never be repaired again.

“Where are you bound for?” he asked, conversationally, when Brian’s eyes did not lift from the table-top.

“I’ve got a job on Drone VII. Computer clerk.” He smiled wryly.

“I’ve got a job there, too.” Mercer decided not to press the point that his was permanent, well-paid and professional. “I never thought you were much given to travelling to get work.”

“No… I’ve lived a static sort of life so far. Only now and then becoming an aberrant and weirdy kid!” He grinned, and glanced around him. “It’s only for seven months, then they pay my fare back.” He grinned again. “They’ll go to any expense to get labour out there.”

Mercer nodded, following his own thoughts. He remembered that when Brian had been a fourteen-year-old boy he had started going around with a preoccupied air, as though working out some grave and fundamental problem. As it happened, this was the case, for the inquiry into philosophy and science had for him taken a sudden turn, from being abstract and speculative, into something immediate, personal and urgent.

How was anything known? Only in terms of something else. And how was that something else understood? Only in further terms. And so on, along the chain, until the unknown was reckoned in terms of the unknown. The end result of all reasoning was still ignorance.

This could make a joke of the philosopher. Just the same, the yearnings of the human mind could not be abandoned. Brian had turned all his attention to the problem of finding out whether the mind could surmount its obstacle.

He had always been uncommunicative about this aspect of things. Mercer wanted to know, without overtly prying, whether any progress had been made.

“Things haven’t gone too well for me,” Brian suddenly admitted in a serious tone. “It’s pretty tedious to have to make a living. As for other things, well….”

Mercer waited.

“So what?” Brian continued in a burst of exasperation. “All that happens is that you die in the end and that’s that.”

“Yes.” Mercer could think of no other reply.

“Come on,” Brian said after a moment, “let’s go and look at the vision screens.”

He stood up. Mercer followed him out of the lounge, across a plush foyer, and through to the vision room.

Here, on television screens, passengers could see the depths of space through which the giant starship was passing. The six screens showed fore, aft, and the four quarters, and were oval-shaped, each about three feet down the long axis.

The vision room was like a picture gallery. The screens were spaced on the walls like paintings, and it was impossible to gain an overall impression. Each screen had to be viewed separately.

The starship was travelling near the edge of the galaxy, and the pictures were awesome enough. One showed what seemed to be a huge rift in the stars, really a region of obscuring gas and dust. Another showed a clearer view of the blazing galactic lens. Yet another pointed beyond the rim, into darkness. This screen was little more than a dark blank, with a few dim points of light.

It thrilled Brian to think that these scenes were being relayed from outside the hull, but beautiful as they were, they were only images. He had seen the same, many times, in cinemas and on television on Earth.

“This is worth seeing.”

“Yes.”

Brian leaned towards Mercer confidentially. “There’s something that bothers me. All these interstellar vessels have unbroken hulls. There are no direct vision ports to the outside. Why?”

Mercer thought about it for a moment. “I suppose it’s more convenient. When I was on Kaddan II I went beneath the Sulphur Sea in one of those big submarines. There were no vision ports on that, either.”

“Under ten thousand atmospheres I wouldn’t want there to be any. There are no engineering problems like that in space.”

“I suppose it’s just convenience,” repeated Mercer.

“There’s more to it than that. Nobody’s allowed to look outside. Not even the crew. All observations are made indirectly by externally mounted instruments. Yet just you try to find out why! There must be some kind of official phobia about space, or something.”

“What difference does it make?” Mercer said. “Perception is indirect anyway. You record the outside world with your sense organs and then present the recordings somewhere inside your brain, just like television. These screens are the internal end of the ship’s senses.”

“It’s still funny,” Brian muttered stubbornly.

“Well, it’s no use complaining. There’s bound to be a reason. It’s a matter of design.”

Brian gave up the argument. Mercer, he realised, was solidly trained scientifically. He had faith that the starship moved implacably through the void with all its affairs perfectly arranged. Mentally he was dominated by the fateful Declaration of Moscow issued by the Final Comintern of 2150 A.D.

The Comintern, from which present civilisation had sprung, had based science firmly on the Control of Nature by Man.

Brian recognised the achievements of Scientocratic Communism established at that time, and which had governed Earth ever since. But he often wondered about that particular item of doctrine, even though it had such a firm hold on the public mind. He wondered how seriously it was taken by the Inner Scientocrats themselves, two centuries later.

They left the vision room and wandered through the corridors for half an hour or so. Then Mercer announced his decision to go to bed.

“I’ve found it’s best to have regular habits,” he explained.

Brian nodded blankly. They arranged to meet next morning in the lounge, since they would probably miss one another at breakfast.

Brian himself did not go to his room straight away. He did not have the will to keep to a time-table, and besides, he had something on his mind. He went walking through the corridors, rooms and galleries of the huge ship. The passenger section was extensive, stretching practically from hull to hull, ending aft at the Engine Section, and giving for’ard to the equally sacrosanct parts which housed the scientocrat crew quarters.

Idly, he thought about Mercer. He had noticed that the mannerisms of boyhood had only slightly altered in form. He had the same expressions, the same ways of utterance. It was odd how it all survived in a man now much older.

He soon left behind the more populated parts of the ship. Towards the hull, the corridors of the passenger section did not end abruptly; they assumed the character of tunnels, with few intersections. Cabins, reading rooms and restaurants were left behind.

The lighting became functional and austere. Stained wood and pastel plastic gave way to plated steel. The tunnel was punctuated at intervals by telephones and panels of instruments whose meters Brian only dimly understood. More rarely, there were sections of the tunnel wall apparently designed to open up by the simple operation of a clasp: lockers containing some kind of stores or apparatus.

All this was standard equipment on an interstellar vessel. Brian was near the periphery of the ship, and he understood that these tunnels were usually visited only by crew members.

His excitement mounted as he realised that he was approaching nearer and nearer to the ultimate void. He was passing through the outer wrappings which wound protectively round the passenger compartments. Perhaps only feet separated him from the final hull plating. And that was only inches away from—absolute nothing.

Was it true that no one of any rank was allowed to look into space? Or was it permitted to Scientocrats, as he suspected? Did they monopolise the sight of the outer void?

He stopped. There was no sound in the stillness of the steel corridors. The constantly acting drive, a thousand feet away, was noiseless. But he gazed along the confines of the tunnel, trying to recover in his mind the whole of his experience of life.

He hadn’t formulated exactly why he had come on this trip, or why he was exploring these corridors now. There seemed no need, since there was no one to tell it to.

But the history of it was long. Though it was important to him, it was difficult to explain this importance to anyone else, even Mercer. He felt that the possibility of a fundamental experience lay beyond the curving enclosure of those steel walls.

Long ago, his attempts to think objectively had brought him up against a strange fact. It was not only human thinking that was subjective. Sight itself was subjective.

On Earth, the horizon set a boundary on vision which was never broken, even by gazing into the night sky. In addition, space was divided up and apportioned into a close-pressed multiplicity of objects: buildings, trees, people, hills, cloud and sky. The variegated and bounded environment seemed to occlude vision, distort it.

Brian was aware of this firm imprisonment of his consciousness. All his efforts to free perception from the objects around him had been of no avail. Only by peering into the uncluttered gulf beyond all worlds, in his belief, would his life come to a satisfactory conclusion.

At first, it had only been a stray thought. Then he had discovered the injunction against seeing beyond the hull of a starship. The strange ruling had endowed his notion with mystery. It was forbidden knowledge, promising to reveal unguessed secrets.

Perhaps it was fanciful, perhaps poetic, but it had a compelling effect on him.

He stepped forward again. Any time now, he should be hard up against the outer hull, which as far as most people knew, consisted of unbroken sheeting.

But Brian was banking on the principle that no system in a starship would be built without safety factors. The possibility of breakdown must be taken into account.

Abruptly, the tunnel turned a sharp angle and came to an end after running up a short, steep incline. The termination was crudely engineered; a roof curved overhead at an awkward angle, symmetrical with the rest of the construction, and reached down to within two feet of the floor.

It was clearly a larger wall which the tunnel had run into. Staring down from the roof, just above head-height, a heavy disc-plate stood out an inch and a half from the surrounding surface, studded with bolt-heads and painted over.

This was it. Brian placed first his cheek, then his ear against the roof-wall. The outer hull—or at least an inner lamination of it.

Reaching up, he tried to turn one of the bolt-heads. Naturally, it was quite immovable.

As he turned to go back the way he had come, he heard footsteps.

Freezing, he listened. They weren’t as near as he had thought at first—but they were quite near. He darted forward, back round the bend, then listened again. They became louder.

About twenty yards down the corridor, a figure appeared from an intersecting tunnel, crossed the corridor, then disappeared on the other side. Slowly, the footsteps faded away.

He hadn’t been seen, but it did show that the starship’s outer layers were not altogether deserted. He needed to be careful.

Quickly, he regained the populated parts of the ship and made his way to his own cabin. There, in a state of nervous exhaustion, he went to bed and immediately fell straight to sleep.

Brian met Mercer again in the main lounge the next day. When Mercer walked in, he was already waiting there, sitting quietly and watching the people around him.

Superficially, he seemed more cheerful, but talked less. It did not take Mercer long to realise that the apparent good humour was more nerves than anything else. Underneath, Brian was just as subdued, but something had been added. Usually, he gave the impression of purposelessness; today, he had tapped his inner resources and seemed to be going about something.

Mercer found the phenomenon vaguely sinister.

He followed Brian’s line of talk cautiously, almost unwillingly. It seemed inconsequential at first, but its very oddness told Mercer that his friend was clumsily trying to lead up to some subject he was reluctant to approach directly.

Mercer could not help smiling to himself. He had no idea what the matter was, but if he knew Brian it was bound to be something that could not possibly be approached indirectly. When the subject was finally broached, it would jar even more on the casual talk than if it had been offered as an opening gambit.

Eventually it came. Brian coughed.

“There’s something very interesting about these starships,” he said in a tone different from before.

“Yes?” Mercer said, glad to take the bait. “What’s that?”

Brian leaned forward, and seemed to be searching for words.

“Have you ever wondered,” he said in a low voice, “why interstellar ships are always officered by Scientocrats?”

Mercer considered the unexpected, though perfectly reasonable, question.

At that moment three technical crew officers happened to pass by, and he watched them speculatively. Tall, austere, aloof, they swept by without seeming to notice anything of their surroundings. On the fronts of their white shirts and the backs of their yellow cloaks was emblazoned the prime scientific diagram: three vectors interlocked with three others, portraying the structure of space and matter.

Slowly, he said, “No.”

“I have. Why should they be? Spaceships aren’t so difficult to handle. Much more complicated jobs are left to common technicians like yourself. Why are the precious Scientocrats forced into such a menial business?”

“I don’t know.”

Still speaking low, Brian continued: “I know something not many people do. These Scientocrats have to visit the Innermost Chamber before they are given command of their first ship and receive some kind of information.”

Mercer looked at him in mild astonishment. “What is it?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“You make it sound very mysterious.”

“I don’t think so. But it must be something real. To keep it from public knowledge, it must be something….” He sought for a word.

“Deep?” Mercer suggested.

“If you like. At any rate, it must be highly unusual. I think it’s something to do with why these ships have no direct outside view.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t it strike you as strange that tens of thousands of people take journeys on these marvellous, safe ships, without ever getting a glimpse of space?”

“You mean out there is something… different—”

“Different.” Brian joined him on the last word.

“Not what we thought. Hmm.” Mercer sat back, his face puckered pensively. Brian could see in that face the sixteen-year-old boy suddenly confronted by a new scientific puzzle.

“It might be something political,” Mercer surmised. “Perhaps another space-travelling race is hostile. The government could well decide to keep quiet about that, and leave passengers in the dark if they should hove to or attack. For that matter there might be a space battle going on right now and we wouldn’t know about it.”

“Unless we were hit. Even then, there are the television screens.”

“Television screens can be switched off. I agree, though, I’m just bantering. Don’t the screens invalidate your argument, though? You can look outside on those at any time.”

“It’s not the same. It’s only a picture, not the real thing. Like looking at a photograph. That’s what gave me an idea of what it is.”

“Something psychological?” Mercer asked, quick to pick up Brian’s train of thought. “Yes, that could be it. Perhaps it makes people neurotic to have a window on the universe.”

“That’s the sort of angle.” Brian’s blue eyes shone. “A psychological effect, which ordinary people aren’t able to take. So the Scientocrats protect them even from their own curiosity. The Scientocrats know, of course, but they’re men of outstanding calibre who can be trusted and won’t crack up.”

Mercer’s face cleared. “I think you’ve hit the nail on the head,” he said in a pleased tone.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. The point is I think I can take it. I won’t go nuts. It won’t do me any harm, it would do me good. I’m that sort of person.”

Mercer laughed. “Now go and tell that to the captain.”

“He’d really co-operate, wouldn’t he?”

He leaned back. “I went for a walk towards the hull last night. I was working on a supposition. That is, the hull can’t be completely sealed. It’s always possible that the external instrumentation could break down, and in that case they’d have to take sightings through the hull, either in person or by pointing cameras through an aperture. So there must be such an aperture which can be opened in case of emergency.

“Well, there is an aperture. I’ve found it.”

Mercer felt vaguely out of his depth. “What did you see?”

“The cover’s bolted down.”

He hesitated. “There’s a wrench in my luggage.”

“Whew!” This time Mercer was surprised. “You’ve really thought this thing out, haven’t you?”

“Not really. Just call it fortuitous. But I need a look-out. Now if we go along there tonight you can keep watch while I get the bolts off.”

“Hey, hold it!” Mercer was aghast. “You can’t do that!”

“Why?”

“It’s not allowed! The regulations are very strict. You can’t mess about with the equipment of a starship!”

Brian was motionless for a bare second. Then he relaxed, laughing.

“O.K.,” he said, letting the matter drop. “What are you planning to do this afternoon?”

“I might go to the cinema.”

The ship’s cinema was the equal in size of any on Earth, and had a well-stocked library. It played a large part in the lives of most passengers during the months’ long voyages.

Seated in the darkness of the cinema, Brian fell into a contemplative mood.

Full-coloured, three-dimensional images moved across the screen. The show was a romance-adventure taking place in Southern America. Brian enjoyed it.

Even so, he felt annoyed with himself. It was ridiculous, to be gliding through interstellar space, and yet still to be engrossed in the sights and scenes to be found on Earth! Really, he supposed, the ship was a part of Earth. It was a carefully enclosed piece of the Earth environment, designed to transport passengers in perfect comfort without their ever feeling that they had left their world.

When they landed at their destination, the illusion was maintained. A planet was still a planet, no matter how weird or colourful and so it resembled Earth. The change of location did nothing to disturb their psychology. The important thing was, that they should not experience anything of another scale.

Brian felt the unreality of it. He sensed that the scientocracy found it necessary to assist in this imprisonment of the psyche, which he sought to escape.

The film ended. People rose from their seats, moved up the aisles, into the foyer, and formed chattering, laughing groups.

But for Brian the film show had not ended.

All of life took place on a cinema screen. That was what it consisted of. Everything around him, the scenes, the talk, the laughter, the walls of the ship, was an image thrown on a screen, no more substantial than a picture.

In this mood, the solidity of everything vanished for Brian. He even doubted the reality of matter. After all, how could substantiality be proved? Only by opposing one mass by another mass. A body literally did not exist until it interacted with another body.

The whole world of matter subsisted only relatively, sustaining itself by means of internal supports. It was a system of logic, consistent with itself but meaningless elsewhere.

Seen from outside, none of it existed.

Though on a grand scale, it was rather like the artificial society he saw disporting around him, whose members subsidised one another in the superficiality of their attitudes, opinions and chatter. It had no external existence. Take away that mutual support, and the fabric of their lives would vanish.

These thoughts and ideas obsessed Brian so much that, from an ordinary point of view, he doubted if he could be considered sane. But he wouldn’t let go of it. He kept reminding himself of the twentieth-century philosopher Martin Heidegger’s question: “Why does anything exist, and not just nothing?” This summed up exactly his own thoughts about the matter.

Under his feet, over his head, on either side of him, was absolute nothing.

None of these philosophisings were overtly connected with his desire to look outside. As far as that went, he simply had an itch to do it. The very fact that he was forbidden convinced him that it was worthwhile. So without theorising about it, he wanted to go to work with that wrench.

They left the cinema, but didn’t go immediately back to the lounge. Brian kept Mercer talking, and headed him casually in the other direction, walking aimlessly as their fashion had been years ago.

Once they passed a Scientocrat officer. Brian felt the guilty weight of the wrench which he had hung inside his jacket.

After about half an hour he stopped. “Do you know where you are?” he said.

Mercer looked around him, recalling the design of the ship which he had memorised. The corridor was smaller than average, deserted, and without doors. He had automatically noticed the change in the paint a few hundred feet back, when the corridor had switched from the luxurious to the utilitarian.

“We must be near the periphery,” he said uneasily.

Brian went a little further and motioned him to follow with a wave of his hand. “Come on.”

Mercer became nervous. “Count me out,” he said, shaking his head.

“I just want to show you something.”

Hesitantly, Mercer followed until they came to the final turning. Brian waited for him to catch up.

“There it is, look,” he whispered. “Now just stand here and tell me if anybody comes.”

Mercer backed away. “Oh, no!”

Brian chuckled light-heartedly and touched his elbow. “For the good of science, eh, old man?” He proceeded to the end of the tunnel and left Mercer standing there.

Mercer felt ridiculous. He was being forced willy-nilly into passive assistance!

At the cover-plate, Brian measured the wrench against the first bolt, adjusted the grip, and applied leverage. Reluctantly, after a lot of effort, the bolt began to turn. Paint cracked and flaked.

The first bolt came out.

Calmly he went to work on the others. It took him about ten minutes to get them all out. At the end of that time the plate was held in place only by the layers of paint joining it to the wall.

Swiftly he used a pocket-knife to cut through the paint on the perimeter of the cover, until the plate moved in his hands.

Carefully, he eased it away.

Behind it was a recess about three feet deep, ending in a perfectly transparent blister which apparently projected above the hull. He gripped the edge of the opening.

All his guesses had been correct.

The first hint of that darkness sent a shudder throughout his whole body. Awkwardly he pulled himself into the recess and crawled towards the window blister, until he was up against the cool, nearly invisible plastic.

He looked into space.

The first direction he looked, he saw the stunning expanse of the galactic spiral edge-on, sheer coruscations of immense light. He saw the size of it, as clearly as he could have seen the size of his own hand. The spread of stars just went up, and up, and up. Here already was something so vast as to be incommensurable even with the Earth itself, so vast as to be senseless. His consciousness reeled in the first two seconds he looked at it. But even that was not what he had come for, and he turned his head to look the other way.

This direction lay beyond the galaxy. There was nothing there forever, except a few dim glimmers of other galaxies which weren’t noticed, except to accentuate the void and endlessness.

He saw at last what had so long been the subject of his search: limitless emptiness.

As he gazed, all his attention was swept into the vacuum of the awful view. From that moment he was doomed. His whole being was drawn into the empty vastness by forced attention raised to the nth degree.

The first stage was catatonia; even that was brief. His personality was being sucked into galactic space. Within a minute, his body died.

Mercer waited fretfully at the turning of the corridor. Brian had been gone some time.

He peeped along the tunnel to where the aperture was. He could see Brian’s legs poking out. For several minutes, his friend had been completely motionless and silent.

“Brian,” he called softly. “How much longer?”

No answer.

“Brian.” Then loudly, “Brian!”

Still no response. Mercer sensed that something was wrong. He stepped quickly up the tunnel and touched Brian’s leg.

It shifted limply under the pressure of his hand, and Brian made no sign that he had felt the touch. Mercer caught his breath, and wondered what to do.

Just a few more inches, and he too would have been able to peer along the recess, and out into space. But he didn’t. He backed away, in spite of the urge tugging at his mind. Soon he was running—down the tunnels, through the corridors, looking frantically for a Scientocrat officer. When he found one, he blurted out his story.

Within five minutes, he was leading a rescue party in the direction of the aperture. At least, in his ignorance he thought it was a rescue party.

He was quite mistaken.

The way the operation was tackled exploded one theory of Brian’s. Scientocrats were not allowed to look into space. The officers who removed his body from the recess and bolted the cover back in place wore all-metal helmets with television eyes which connected to a screen inside. The body was quite dead.

Mercer watched in a state of horror from the turning of the corridor. Disconsolately he followed in the wake of the stretcher as Brian’s corpse was carried away.

Head down, with his hands folded on his desk, Captain Brode meditated sombrely. He was thinking of what his passenger Brian Denver had done. He was thinking of why he had done it.

Like any other ship’s captain, he couldn’t help having occasional thoughts of out there. No Scientocrat was ever more aware of how little man could do, for all his science, to hold his own when faced with the naked universe.

More than ever he felt the abstraction, the separation from the common folk which Scientocratic Communism had thrust upon him; a separation which he sometimes regretted, but now that it was done could not avoid.

He shook his head. Just what had the experience been like for his dead passenger?

The face of God is like unto a countenance vast and terrible.

Someone knocked on the door of his office. He pressed a button, and the panel slid open.

Mercer Stone stood on the threshold.

“Come in, Mr Stone,” he said without preamble. “Please sit down.”

Mercer entered and took the proffered chair. Surreptitiously he made a study of the captain’s heavy-boned, sturdy face while the officer spent some moments placing some papers in a drawer.

Brode looked up. “Well, what can I do for you, Mr Stone?”

“I would have thought that was obvious, Captain. I want to know why my friend died.”

“He died because he broke ship’s regulations,” Brode answered heavily.

“I know that,” Mercer said shortly, though the strain of the interview was already beginning to grow in him. “In the circumstances, I hardly care about that.”

“Yes, of course.” Brode placed his hands on his desk and dropped his gaze. Mercer saw that he was genuinely sympathetic.

Brode said: “You have had a very lucky escape.”

Mercer turned several degrees paler than he already was.

“Escape—from what?”

Brode debated within himself, uncertain and disturbed. Was he going to have to tell Stone what he himself had learned only after fifteen years of special education under constant surveillance? He felt that the fellow had some right to it, and he had already checked his Citizen Dependency Rating. And yet….

He rose.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asked, trying to drive the question home.

“No,” said Mercer after a moment. “I feel torn. But after that….” He tailed off.

“If you insist, I will admit you into the secret, since you already know part of it.”

Mercer nodded.

Captain Brode turned and took a heavy, black leather-bound volume from a shelf: The Table of Physical Constants. Letting Mercer see the gold-lettered title, he placed it on the desk.

Understanding, Mercer placed his hand upon it.

“Do you swear by All that exists to communicate to no person what you are about to learn?” the captain intoned.

“I so swear.”

The captain replaced the book on its shelf. He turned to face Stone again, feeling slightly embarrassed about what he had to say.

“The simple fact is,” he began, “that any man who looks into space immediately dies.”

Since the hideous event at the aperture, Mercer had been feeling his mental world begin to revolve upside-down. Now he felt a premonition of something that was the complete inversion of the world-picture he had always carried with him. He tried to look straight into the captain’s steady, comforting face.

“But how?”

“That is the part we do not know. In fact, it only is known partly. We think it is because he sees the universe too nakedly, too incomprehensibly vast. He loses himself in it, and his consciousness is whisked away into space like a fly would be if we opened the main port.

“As for the technicality of it, we’re not sure Probably he loses his point of reference.”

“No one ever came to harm in interplanetary flights,” Mercer pointed out.

Brode nodded. “For some reason it doesn’t happen inside a solar system. Something to do with the sun: it provides a mental anchor. That’s what I meant by a point of reference. Once you get out there—make no mistake, there’s nothing to hang on to. You’re lost. Nowhere to go, and if there were anywhere, nowhere to start from.”

There went the second half of Brian’s theory, Mercer thought. The ruling was not a jealous monopoly on the part of the Scientocrats. It was a sacred trust. “It frightens me,” he muttered.

Captain Brode looked hard at the pale, worried face of Mercer Stone. “Space does it,” he said. “There’s too much of it out there. It would swallow us all, swallow any number, without making any difference. It’s the worst possible way to die.”

He turned away. His voice dropped. “But you know, I don’t think it’s worth dying any other way.”

Life Trap

Although we of the Temple of Mysteries have devoted our energies to the pursuit of life’s secrets, it has never been guaranteed that what we may learn will be in any way pleasant, or conducive to our peace of mind. What becomes known cannot be made unknown, until death intervenes, and all seekers after hidden knowledge run the risk of finding that ignorance was after all the happier state.

The experiment was conducted at midnight, this being the hour when the subject, by his own account, customarily knows greatest clarity of mind. This subject was in fact my good friend Marcus, Aspirant of the Third Grade of the Arcanum—the highest rank our hierarchy affords, entitling him, when the occasion arises, to wear the mantle of High Priest. The mixture had been prepared earlier in the day, and was a combination of ether, poppy, a certain mushroom, and other consciousness-altering drugs, all substances which, when taken singly or in various simpler compounds, produced effects already well known to us from our years of investigative labour. Never before, however, had we designed a concoction for so ambitious or so hazardous a purpose: to take the mind, while still fully conscious, beyond the point of death, and after an interval to return it to the living world.

Vainly I had begged Marcus to be less precipitous; to test the compound beforehand, possibly using partial samples on a candidate acolyte. But Marcus, adamant that nothing less than the full dose would be effective, consented only to test it on a dog belonging to our drug expert, Lucius the apothecary. When forced to inhale the fumes the animal became rigid and appeared to be dead for the space of about an hour. After this it quickly recovered, but for a further hour it showed some nervousness, barking and cringing when anyone came near. Eventually this, too, wore off, and Marcus announced that the symptoms were as would be expected.

On the appointed night Marcus and I were alone in the Temple, the others having left at Marcus’s own request. In the changing room I helped him into a robe of crisp clean linen on which the emblem of the Temple was sewn. Then, for a period, we sat together, while the water-clock dripped away the moments. We said little, for all aspects of the enterprise had already been thoroughly discussed.

The pan of the clock began to tremble. “Soon we may know the truth,” Marcus said with a smile.

“Or I shall lose a friend,” I replied.

Just then the balance tipped and the water-clock chimed the hour of midnight. We both rose.

I accompanied Marcus to the inner sanctum. As we went down the short corridor, flanked by two pillars, which leads to the door of the adytum, the possibility that I might be seeing him alive for the last time suddenly weighed heavily on me, but I tried to show no emotion. I opened the heavy oak door, whose edges are trimmed with lambswool so as to shut out extraneous noises, and we entered.

I looked around to ensure that everything was in place and the surroundings harmonious. For us, the inner sanctum serves the same function in our activities as the preliminary ritual of donning ceremonial garb: to help calm the mind and divert it from trivial thought. Hence everything is arranged to invoke the feeling of departure from the mundane. The room is oval in shape and painted in restful hues. On the walls are mandalas and one or two specially selected paintings. Earlier I had placed a vase of peonies on the small table of polished walnut.

The nostrum had already been left in a crucible over the brazier. While Marcus reclined himself on the couch I moved the brazier closer, so he would gain the direct benefit of the vapours, and lit the oil-soaked charcoal with a taper. Quickly the brazier began to blaze and the nostrum to bubble.

With no further glance at Marcus, I left.

The Temple of Mysteries subscribes to none of the traditional doctrines, since all of these are in varying degrees erroneous or at best blur the distinction between what is truly known and what is merely deduced or speculated upon. Our approach, once we have formulated an area of ignorance, is to try to gain the truth first-hand.

On the subject of what follows death, there are many proffered answers. The most pragmatic, of course, is that death is simply extinction. But most schools of thought claim some kind of survival, either in a different condition—in a spiritual realm or else by way of rebirth into another body—or actually in the same condition. The latter version, the bleakest of theories of this kind, represents time as a circle and says that following death we are born again into the same life as before, to repeat everything that has happened. Then again there is the doctrine that death means the end of individual consciousness, but that the mind is absorbed into a universal consciousness.

While sitting by myself in the changing room I reviewed these ideas as a means of taking my mind off Marcus. Close to an hour had passed, for the pan of the water-clock was again almost full, when I heard a hoarse shout from the inner sanctum, followed by the thud of falling furniture.

In seconds I had gained the corridor. As I did so the oak door flew open and Marcus staggered forth, his face grey. I rushed to assist him; he all but collapsed against me. His eyes, I noticed, were stricken and not glazed, as though he had seen something that horrified him.

Through the door, I saw that both the couch and the walnut table had been overturned. The brazier still glowed; but only a black stain on the crucible recorded the presence of the nostrum, whose fragrance yet drifted on the air.

I helped Marcus to the changing room and sat him down. He begged for wine. Though apprehensive of what its effect might be on top of so many drugs, I took a flask from the cupboard, uncorked it and poured him a goblet. He gulped it greedily, at which a little colour came to his cheeks.

“I shall be all right,” he said in answer to my solicitations. “Just give me a minute or so to recover.”

I stood by while he slumped in the chair, breathing heavily. At length I could forbear no longer. What, I enquired, had been the outcome of the experiment? Had it been successful? He groaned, and in sombre tones told me that it had; indeed (his voice fell to a mutter) the whole secret of death had been revealed to him. “Do not ask me to reveal this secret,” he said. “Better not to know.”

Astonished, I reminded him of the rule of our order forbidding any member to withhold from his brothers anything he has learned as a result of his work in the Temple, and again I eagerly pressed him to relate his new knowledge. He nodded resignedly and asked for more wine. Then, uttering a deep sigh, he related what is essentially the following.

Death (he said) is reversal. Reversal of consciousness, and reversal of time.

What do I mean by this? I will take consciousness first, for that is the first thing to be reversed. As we are now, our consciousness is within our bodies. I perceive you through my eyes, and within my brain I derive, through my senses, a picture of the outside world. Of myself I have no direct perception. I know myself only indirectly, through my relations with others, or through beholding myself in a mirror.

After death all this changes. Consciousness remains; but it is consciousness external to one’s body. It becomes an objective consciousness, similar to experiences of ecstasy we have had accounts of, where one sees oneself from outside. One watches while one’s body is laid out. One is present when it is placed on a bier and, accompanied by one’s friends and relatives, carried to the grave.

Then one seems to be present in the grave, watching the cast-off body decay for several months. From this there is no escape, for one’s consciousness is always where one’s body is. This, you might think, is a harrowing experience. But wait.

The reason why one becomes conscious of one’s dead body is that consciousness has momentum and, for a spell, coasts forward through time. But after a while the second reversal takes place. Time reverses.

(Emptying his goblet, Marcus reached for the flask, ignoring my anxious glance in that direction.) Time reverses. Do you understand me? Time runs backwards. Death truly is the end of life, but only in the sense that a road ends in a particular place. After that one turns round and retraces one’s steps. One finds oneself watching as one’s corpse slowly mends, is taken up from the ground, is carried home, and comes to life. So one’s life resumes, from death to birth. Reversed time. Reversed consciousness.

Eventually birth must come again. The shock of this is like the shock of death, and indeed it is, for this reversed life, the same as death. And again one’s consciousness coasts past it, but made internal now, living as a shrinking foetus until time again reverses itself and the foetus expands again, and one is born, a new babe, seeing the world through the senses as before.

This, then, Clinias, is the manner of our lives. The soul oscillates eternally between the poles of birth and death, though we know it not, and not one whit of what has happened can be changed. Therein, in our ignorance, lies our happiness for the present. But wait. You will not be happy. Wait until you stand outside yourself and must see yourself….

Marcus’s voice trailed off. “So the doctrine of an eternally repeating life comes closest to the truth,” I ventured.

“Yes. We have lived this life many, many times before.”

“But why so gloomy, Marcus? It is immortality after a fashion.”

Marcus looked up at me with a startled look on his face. “Have you not understood, Clinias? Do you not see? This is the worst of all possibilities! Each of us is doomed to see himself as he appears to the external world, and in that stance to live again through every detail of his existence! Every unworthy act, every self-deception, every last piece of shame we hide even from ourselves—all is presented to our gaze, and for a lifetime! How can one endure it? There is no one who lives with such dignity that this could be bearable!”

Slowly the horror of Marcus’s revelation began to dawn on me. Unsteadily he rose to his feet and placed his hand on my shoulder. For long moments the silence of the Temple seemed to descend on us, while I pondered on what I had heard and stood there with my friend.

“That nothing can be changed is the worst aspect of it,” Marcus said wearily. “How one longs and aches to be able to change what one sees!”

“We are in a trap,” I observed.

He nodded. “Normally the traumas of birth and death wipe memory clean. For our temerity the gods have allowed me to glimpse the truth, and to remember it. That is our reward, and our punishment. But I can speak no more tonight. Let us go home. We have done enough.”

Suddenly Marcus was violently sick. I cleaned him up, conducted him to his house, and saw to it that he was put to bed, leaving him only after he had fallen soundly asleep.

Although the secret of death has been imparted to the full membership of the Temple, not all have understood its import. Several members, driven by curiosity, have repeated Marcus’s experiment, with results that more or less confirm his findings, but to most it is interesting merely; they do not grasp its terror. To live a life which, because lacking external awareness of itself, is contemptible and mean, and then to be given that awareness which alone could have improved it—and be condemned at the same time to do no more than watch the wretched and loathsome spectacle! The gods do indeed chuckle when they look down on the human condition.

A change of outlook has been forced on we senior members of the Arcanum who do understand the meaning of Marcus’s discovery. Suicide, which once seemed an honourable escape from undignified circumstance, is now realised to be no escape at all. And yet from this trap of life there should be, if the world is just, some escape.

Marcus has sickened, but fears to die. We all of us fear to die, knowing what awaits us. Men, who take refuge in never seeing themselves as they really are, invariably will shun such a vision.

Our work now is in how to end the eternal oscillation, whether to gain oblivion or a new life does not matter. But how may it be done? On that we have not a single idea. The gods may know. The gods, whom we have spurned as confusers and defilers of the minds of men, perhaps in the end we must turn to the gods.

Farewell, Dear Brother

Strangers are a nuisance. Few people have anything new to say to a man once he’s settled down in life.

But occasionally someone turns up whose chance words stir up vivid memories, and set me thinking again.

A man like that turned up at a small party my wife and I gave. He was small, agile, about forty, and he may have been intoxicated. With his type, it’s hard to tell. Some friends of ours had brought him along, and he clearly didn’t know whose house it was he had come to.

He was one of those people who can’t stop talking. I steer clear of talkers usually, but he managed to corner me and so I let him chatter volubly on for a few minutes.

Then I discovered that this one was different, from my point of view. He had just returned from an expedition to Celenthenis, the Planet of Cold.

I became more alive to him. “Oh, yes,” I said, “I had heard there was a second expedition. What did you think of the place?”

“Well, the cold’s pretty drastic.”

“Too much for you, eh?”

“Yes.” He nodded emphatically, as if he could read my mind. “It’s too cold for description. There’s practically no temperature to the place at all. Goddammit, it’s right at the dead end of creation.”

I pondered over his words. The dead end of creation….

He hadn’t much of a gift for word-pictures, but my imagination and memory made up for it. He was right. There’s a minimal amount of energy on Celenthenis—some physicists say none at all. There’s argument about that. At any rate, every atom and molecule of the whole planet is frozen immobile. No chemical changes. No energy exchanges. Nothing. It’s a world without time.

What it must be like to live there, looking over its dark surface through a televisor from inside an alloy dome—any ordinary material simply crumbles away—and know that nothing happens there, ever.

It led to strange possibilities, as a matter of fact. The material of the planet is super-conducting, but nothing ever happened to cause a current. Electricity had no place there—until the explorers came. As an experiment, Professor Juker discharged a million volts into the ground. It flashed right round the planet and is still going. The whole planet is alive with that circling million volts which never decreases.

“You can’t have actually felt cold,” I said.

“No, but you can see it. Goddammit, you can feel it. But not with your senses. With your emotions. Get me?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“If only there was some starlight, or something like that. But just darkness. We could only see by the reflection of our own beams. I’d have liked to set off some hydrogen bombs, just to show the place some action.”

“It wouldn’t have made much difference.”

“No, I guess not.” He laughed. “Say, you’re a good listener, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I know all about Celenthenis. My brother and I were on the ship that discovered it.”

He looked at me with new interest. “Say… you must be—”

“Robert Stemming.” I held out my hand.

He shook it vigorously. “I never realised who I was talking to.”

“As a matter of fact,” I continued, “my brother is upstairs. Perhaps you would like to meet him.”

He looked alarmed. “No! I mean, I’ve promised to have a word with somebody in the other room….” He backed away.

This time it was my turn to laugh.

I hid myself for the rest of the evening and left the guests to my expert and sociable wife. Crowds don’t interest me. In recent years I’ve developed a liking for a peaceful, solitary life.

At about two o’clock in the morning I heard the sounds of the party diminish. The few people left were talking quietly in the lounge, and they would probably stay for another hour.

I decided to go upstairs and look at my brother.

Not many people care to meet Jack, and I can’t say I blame them. There’s something decidedly eerie about it all.

But I’m not afraid of him. I mounted the wooden stairs to the top of the house. Towards the attic, where we keep Jack, it gets musty. Janet never comes up here, so neither the steps nor the attic get cleaned. Cobwebs brushed me frequently. Outside the door of the attic I could hear the low hum of the apparatus on the other side.

I opened the door and went in. The attic is illuminated by a dim yellow electric light bulb which is always on because I forgot to install a switch. To the right of the door a thick power cable comes snaking through the wall and across to the other side of the room. The cable’s a thick one. We need a lot of power to keep the temperature down.

And on the dirty table opposite was a silicon container, two foot on the side, surrounded by Professor Juker’s refrigerators.

Closing the door, I walked across. “How are you today, Jack?” I said.

There was a definite pause, before the small speaker attached to the canister spoke in a weary voice.

“Can’t complain, Robert,” it said disconsolately.

Brother Jack, it is a hard life I have lived with you!

Ever since the day of our birth, Jack and I have been together. I arrived first, and Jack came pushing and shoving his way awkwardly right after. Or so I like to think.

Perhaps I even gave him a hand. Because I’ve been looking back over my shoulder and hauling him over his troubles ever since.

You could never avoid trouble, could you, Jack? It’s in your nature to steep yourself in it. Show you a doubtful situation, a compromising situation, a sneaky situation, and you plunge right in without regard for anyone. That’s why you have a hundred enemies on every inhabited planet.

I don’t say you intend it. You just revel in temptation; you can’t resist an opportunity to cheat. But why, Jack, why have you such a knack of doing it when a blind donkey could see you’ll be found out?

I’m not exempt from Jack’s ways, in fact I’ve borne the life-long brunt of them. Even when we were youngsters he would borrow my cycle for an hour and sell it on the other side of town for a few pounds. Then he would stall for days on end before I found out. He would always stall. And several times he stole my girl from behind my back.

That would make me really mad. But even then, Jack always seemed to get away with it. Somehow he would crawl from under like an indestructible insect. His technique was quite simple. Stall. Stay out of the way. Sooner or later, you lost the heart to hit back at him.

When we grew up we set up in business together as go-getters.

Go-getters are a kind of glorified galactic scrap merchant. All you need is backing, and a ship, and somewhere unexplored to go. Or you can take a shot in the dark, but that’s pretty desperate. You arrive, look the place over, and when you come back you trade in whatever you’ve discovered there. There’s a high premium on information in modern civilisation. If you’re lucky you might sell a concession on raw materials. More often you make money on selling scientific data, so a go-getter prefers weird places. At the very least the government pays a tithe for having assayed another planet.

Let me make it clear now in regard to my complaints about my brother Jack, that we’re nothing particularly fine as human beings go. The galaxy is wide and unknown, and there are thousands of freelance go-getting teams. Usually they have a vast amount of technical knowledge haphazardly acquired, but no qualifications of any kind. Usually professional men despise them. In a nutshell, they live in a way qualified men disdain, and Jack and I were fairly representative, trading in second-hand plant and equipment when we didn’t have a job.

Our relationship was what you would expect of two brothers, but looking back I can only see its unpleasant tinge.

You never played straight with me, did you, Jack? It was in little things. The small deals. After not seeing you for a week or two, I would get a letter like this:

Dear Bob, the time has come I think to let you know the truth about the cheque. All that I’ve been telling you about it not arriving and then not cashing it is a load of ruthless lies, what really happened is that I was desperate for money and had the audacity to spend the bloody lot. Please don’t think too badly of me, I know the sob-story stuff isn’t much use to you, and all I can do now is try to pay it back somehow….

And so on. Typical. A frank confession, interlarded with self-pity and promises for the future. That for five hundred pounds or so.

When I faced him, he would say: “I didn’t think you’d mind, Bob. After all, we are brothers.”

He was right, I didn’t really mind when it was over, even though repayment was never forthcoming. After all, we were brothers.

Not until years later did it seem odd to me that I tacitly took Jack for a younger brother, instead of my twin. He seemed so much younger, so much more irresponsible.

And so we stuck together, and I looked after my brother. How often, Jack, did I have to pull you off the spot? I’ve had to kill men to save your neck. Some of the quarters you frequented weren’t fussy about how they dealt with undesirables.

Do you remember the time we cracked up on the tenth world of a star with no name, only a number? You were unconscious and I wasn’t sure you were still alive. But for twenty days I hauled you in your suit over the surface of that planet to make rendezvous with the liaison ship coming up behind us. I’ve never been through anything else as bad as that, because I didn’t believe for a minute that we were going to make it and I was glad you didn’t know what was happening.

Would you have done the same for me? I think so. But of course you had to be the one to get hurt, and it’s been like that all along the line. You’ve never had much opportunity to do me favours.

It’s a funny thing, Jack. As well as a predilection to be underhand, you also have the worst possible luck.

Well, that was how we continued in life for thirty-five years. Every five years or so, I could have looked back and said that the conditions of existence were getting meaner and more desperate. Nothing satisfying ever turned up for me. There was no fulfilment. It was the same for Jack, but he never even thought of that sort of thing. Jack was born for the rat-race.

Year by year, we became more and more enclosed in our way of life.

Then came the time I met Janet.

Don’t ask me how I managed to hit it off, because she, to use a phrase, is way out of our class. She is the daughter of Professor Juker, a name that means something in academic circles. But manage it I did, and then I felt I’d found something.

It had been worth crawling out of the womb, just ahead of complaining Jack, after all.

Soon we were planning to marry.

There was still the question of her father, however, and I admit I felt apprehensive on the day he came with Janet to see Jack and me in our dingy office in the back room of a third floor on Stain Street. Go-getters aren’t always considered the best of choices for a well-set-up young lady.

Imagine my relief to find that Professor Juker is a short, dumpy fellow with a cropped beard who doesn’t care a hang about one’s station in life. He’s only interested in what you can do. Inside ten minutes we were talking shop and enjoying it.

“Well,” he said at last, “what work have you fellows got at present?”

Jack sighed. “None,” I admitted.

“Nothing lined up?”

“We have got a lead, though it’s rather confidential. We happened to get a tip-off about a ship that passed the fringe of the Montgomery Cloudbank. As you know, the temperature inside the cloudbank is thought to be practically non-existent.”

Juker nodded.

“They detected a solid body inside the bank,” I continued. “It couldn’t be a sun, so it must be a stray planet. They even gave it a name. Celenthenis.”

“There’s always a profit in low-temperature physics,” Jack put in. “It’s just that we haven’t got the capital.”

Juker’s eyes had already started forward with interest. It transpired that low temperatures were his special province, and he agreed enthusiastically that the field was by no means exhausted. Ultimate zero is too remote to be normally obtained. The Montgomery Cloudbank is an isolated case and no one had come across anything like it before.

Juker suddenly became adamant about investigating the planet. Before we knew it he was putting up money and planning to accompany us.

We snapped up the proposal like hungry wolves. “You won’t regret it,” Jack said eagerly, getting hold of the wrong end of the stick as usual. “You’ll get your money back, all right.”

The professor scarcely seemed to hear the remark, so Jack started talking about the special equipment we would need, while Janet sat on the edge of the desk and swung her legs.

Juker also made a list of stuff he wanted to take with him. Jack glanced at it.

“I know places in San Francisco where I might get some of this cheap,” he said. “It’ll need Bob or me to swing the deal, though.”

“San Francisco?” Juker said in surprise. “Can’t you get it here in London?”

Jack shrugged his skinny shoulders. “You don’t understand. San Fran is one big junkheap, for people like us. It would be worth the fare.”

“All right, go ahead,” Juker told him.

“I’ll come with you to sign the cheques,” Janet said, speaking for the first time in half an hour.

“Er—yeah, I guess somebody ought to,” Jack muttered.

And there we were, set up. It seemed to me that Juker was being a mite too trusting, but on reflection he had nothing to lose, had he? If we didn’t play straight with him, he’d know he didn’t want me for a son-in-law.

But we did play straight. We all worked hard, collecting our gear together and fitting out our ancient ship with the drive cartridges necessary to make the jump to Montgomery. That’s what takes the money in go-getting: not the ship, since most freelancers of long standing have a crate of some description, but the cartridges to power it. The further you want to go, the more expensive the cartridges you need.

Several times Jack and Janet went on expeditions to gather equipment. One thing Jack does know better than I do is how to drive a bargain. And I felt happy for the first time in my life, thinking of how things were going to be when we got back. Looking back now, I feel slightly ashamed of the way I walked around with my head in the clouds.

There came the day when Juker, Jack and I ferried our ship out to Stand-off Station, spending a few hours there getting clearance. I enjoyed that brief wait in Stand-off as I had rarely done before. It was crowded with go-getters, as usual. The hardened and scarred, the young and inexperienced, the sly and clever, and, amazingly, the ingenuous who had managed to remain so even after years at the game. The outward-going bustle of men bent on galactic prospecting is something you never forget. The veneer of civilisation is off, but just the same some of the genuine fragments of it can be discerned.

I spoke to one old fellow there who said he was on his way to a rich seam of time-gems, the stones which refract through time instead of space. Why, that old El-Dorado has been a joke for years! Naturally he couldn’t be made to divulge where it was. Already he had said too much, for it has been known for a go-getter to set off with half a dozen others hot on his drive-trail.

Then there are the incoming teams, exuberant, disappointed, or just plain exhausted. They fill the taverns of Stand-off, to lay down their heads on the tables, fill themselves with cheap whisky, or shake it up with the bar whores.

It was not long before we left behind the blare of gaudy music, the unshaded lights and unwashed clearance officials. We were off into the galactic dark, where the stars were like electrons in a plasma and the few thousand spaceships rayed off from Stand-off Station like a scattering of invulnerable neutrinos.

After about a month we came to the edge of Montgomery Cloudbank.

It was an awesome sight.

From most vantage points in the galaxy you can see stars in every direction. It’s only from a few places like the Cloudbank that you find yourself confronted with a deep vast expanse of darkness. Actually the dust and gas comprising the Cloudbank is of course itself more tenuous than any vacuum we can make in the laboratory, but since it stretches for hundreds of light-years that’s easily enough to obscure the stars on the other side.

A peculiarity of the Montgomery Cloudbank is that it excludes stars anywhere within its compass. Nobody knows why. The consequence is that the interior of the cloud is not heated up, like most banks such as the Coalsack. With any luck, we might find that deep within the Cloudbank there was no thermal activity at all.

We stood at the viewplate and studied the Cloudbank from close up. Jack regarded it dourly. Juker’s eyes gleamed. “Promising!” he exclaimed. “It looks promising!”

We set up the mass detector, and after locating the pinpoint concentration of matter within the cloud, plunged right in.

At once we were in the dark, nosing through unrelieved blackness.

Juker watched the ship’s sensors anxiously. “The temperature’s going down,” he announced.

“Yeah, well, what do you expect?” Jack growled.

I should explain that after a month in transit, Jack and I were both apt to be on edge. On this occasion I was in uncommonly good humour, which probably made Jack even more irritable.

Juker frowned as the record dropped even lower. “We might have some difficulties to contend with,” he warned. “We took precautions, I know, but—well, quite frankly at sub-zero temperatures materials just don’t behave the same.”

“I know that,” Jack said. “You’re not telling us the hull is going to crumble away, are you? It’s painted with atombond.”

“That will help, admittedly. Well, we shall see. We may have to keep feeding energy into the plating to maintain its strength.”

Jack grunted, glanced at me and chuckled. “If anything happens I’ll just go to bed and pull the covers over me.”

“As for me,” I said when Juker had left the room, “if it gets cold I’ll just think of getting back and cuddling up to Janet.”

He gave me a funny look, as if the joke wasn’t appreciated. “I knew you’d say that. You’ve done nothing but talk of that girl all the trip.”

“Well, why not?” I said defensively. “You’re just jealous.” “Hmm. It’s not that. It seems to be preying on your mind, that’s all. Don’t let yourself get neurotic over it.”

I was mildly surprised, but didn’t answer. Jack sat down and started fiddling aimlessly with the knobs on the control board. He talked on for a bit, in the desultory, strained way he sometimes has, but it became more and more vague and I didn’t really listen.

Professor Juker spent most of his time monitoring the skin sensors. They didn’t all record hull conditions; many of them were long-range scanners, which he pointed in all directions. He was anxious to know just how much radiation energy did trickle through that blanket of dust and gas.

One day he came triumphantly into the control room. “I’ve been watching the sternwards detector for the past hour,” he said. “The reception in that direction is now nil!”

Nil. Along with all the other directions. We were completely cut off from the outside universe. There was a region of hundreds of light-years completely lacking in energy.

It was still some days after that announcement that we came upon Celenthenis.

Professor Juker was able to say with certainty that not one photon of energy ever touched upon that world, or ever had done so in apprehendable history, until our arrival. We cast our laser beams upon it, sweeping its dead surface from hundreds of miles away. Soon we were able to make our second assertion: not only was it out of reach of external energy, for some reason it had no internal heat of its own.

There was not one calorie, not one quantum of heat in the whole planet.

Here it was, locked away in itself, no warmth, no life, no movement. Just timeless death.

“This is it, lads!” Professor Juker said, slapping us both on the back. “The Planet of No Temperature! The matter down there has mighty different properties from the stuff we’re used to, I assure you. It’s a magic place.”

Warily, we set ourselves down on the surface.

It was as Juker had predicted: we needed extra safeguards to keep our ship in one piece. Our first hour, spent in installing a micro-heating system to all parts of the ship, was a tense period.

At last the ordeal was over and we were safe. Gathering in the control room, we turned the external television scanners to view the terrain.

Searchlights atop the ship cast a circle of illumination a hundred yards across. Beyond that we could see nothing, but only sense the dark and the cold stretching away in a vacuum.

Inside the circle the ground was fairly level, but broken and uneven, forming slabs and runs which seemed to be leading away into their own mysteries. I saw that at one point near the perimeter it broke into a shallow crevice. Add to this its colour: a dull, dark green.

And the sky? We just couldn’t see anything above. Remember that in the ordinary sense of the word Celenthenis has no sky, in that nothing reaches it from outside, so that for practical purposes nothing exists for it above its own surface.

Summing up my impressions of it, I can only say that it looked sullen and suicidal.

Needless to say, none of us took time to gawp, or to be poetical about it, or even excited, because now we had to get down to a serious job of work, which we did without delay or question.

Juker was happy to take charge of most of the experiments, and I must say he made a more thorough job of it than we would have done. That’s how it should be, of course, he being a professor, but I couldn’t help reflecting how many go-getters had received only a fragment of what a planet’s actually worth through having an inadequate knowledge of some field or other. Watching the professor at work, I got an insight into a real scientific mind, instead of just hit-and-miss merchants like us.

His enthusiasm was enormous. Piece by piece we manhandled equipment outside, bringing it back inside when it looked like being damaged by the lack of temperature. Eventually we rigged up minimal heaters for all of it, but until then Jack and I had some pretty heavy work to do.

Then we just helped Juker in the dozens of experiments he had planned. He had brought specimens of every conceivable material with him, and was investigating their properties in null-heat conditions. We had to leave the samples outside for a while before absolutely all their heat leaked away, but when we began testing Juker became more and more pleased.

“Boys,” he said, “this is where the study of matter should begin. Up to now its nature has been obscured by always being in a state of heat. For the first time I have an opportunity to study it in a state of rest.”

It was soon after this that he discharged the million volts into the planet. For some hours he built up an accumulation from the ship’s generator, then let it all rip in a millisecond. Hours later, it hadn’t dropped one volt. The planet was full of electricity, zipping round in a world where all materials were super-conductive and there was zero resistance.

Jack’s imagination was caught by it. “What do you think of that!” he said. “It’ll still be here in a million years!”

Personally, I began to look forward to the hour when we would take off. You do begin to feel the deadness of the place, as the guest at my party said. If you think the Moon is lifeless, you should go to Celenthenis.

By the third day I was making definite plans for the future. “What are you going to do when Janet and I are married?” I asked Jack once when the professor was in the storeroom. “You can stay with us if you like. We’ll probably buy a big house, what with the money we’ll make on this trip and all.”

He made evasive gestures with his hands. “Maybe. You never can tell how things will work out, though.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, watching him closely.

“Nothing.”

“Anyway,” I said, “you’re welcome.” Perhaps it was overgenerous of me, but I was feeling expansive and forgetful of past difficulties. I sat down to read while he paced aimlessly about.

Suddenly he said: “Come on, the prof wants us to take some more readings off the voltmeter. Let’s go outside.”

“Just one of us can do that.”

“Yeah, but—come on, it’ll do you good to go outside for a while.”

I stood up and we went to the lock, got into our space-suits and cycled ourselves outside.

Briefly I gazed around me at the circle of light. When you’re aware of how empty, airless and cold everything is outside your suit you can hear every tiny sound of its working, the air system especially. Then we walked over to read the voltmeter which Juker had left in contact with the ground to keep a check on the superconducting discharge.

It still read exactly what it had read hours before. Something like one million volts.

“Well, that’s that,” I said in satisfaction.

“Bob,” Jack said nervously. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“What?”

“Well, it’s about me and Janet.”

An icy feeling passed through my stomach. “What do you mean, you and Janet?”

“She’s not going to marry you. She and I—we sort of got together.”

I didn’t take it in for a minute. Then it trickled through and thoughts whirled round in my head.

I didn’t answer, but I looked at him.

“Honest, I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly. “It just happened, that’s all. It was on the trip to San Francisco. There was nothing we could do about it.”

He was avoiding my gaze. “You don’t mean,” I said in a whisper, “you two are married—and didn’t tell me?”

“Well, no, not exactly, but as good as.”

He edged away as fury began to mount in me. “It just happened—”

“Happened, hell!” I snarled. “You mean you saw a chance and pushed it for all you were worth; I’ll bet you really worked on it!” He looked wretched, like he always does when he’s caught out.

“But this time,” I said, my breath coming short, “this time—”

As I spoke, I saw how clever Jack had been. When he confesses, he has to do it from a distance, or at least be able to stay out of the way for a while. But where could he go on board our ship?

So he had inveigled me outside. He knew that as long as he can slow things down, it will go easier for him. Angry as I was, I knew it, too. There comes a point when you just haven’t got the heart any more.

But whatever I might have known intellectually, I was still incensed. “This time,” I said, “I’m going to kill you.”

Jack turned and ran, lumbering away in his spacesuit. Standard technique. I put all my strength into lumbering along after him. I knew I wasn’t going to kill him, but I was determined I was going to drag him back inside that ship and turn brother Jack into a blood pudding.

There was no pretence about that. He must have felt it too, because his flight became desperate. At first he lumbered erratically, making little random turns to try to take advantage of the broken ground, but I gained on him. Suddenly he made straight for the perimeter of the light circle.

I saw his stratagem. He would skulk out in the dark for a while, where I couldn’t find him. When he deemed he had been away long enough for me to cool down, he would return.

Nearing the edge of the circle, Jack’s movements became more purposeful. He reached the shallow crevice I had noticed earlier, and started to clamber down it. Once he had climbed up the other side, he would be safe.

With that move, Jack made his mistake.

The ground beneath us was alive with a million volts. Since electricity takes the shortest route it showed no inclination to flow through us provided we walked over the top of it. You may have observed on Earth that birds alight on naked power cables with no ill effects.

Climbing part-way down one wall of the crevice, Jack reached across to touch the opposite wall, intending to haul himself up the other side. That made him a bridge.

A million volts flashed instantly through him.

Though I saw the flash, nothing came over the intercom. I kept running, but when I looked down into the crevice there was not much to see.

Automatically I glanced at the meter on my way back to the ship. The voltage had depreciated noticeably.

Taking into account the way Jack had behaved all his life, I suppose an end like that was destined to overtake him eventually. Still, I was his brother, and I felt unhappy about it.

There was more to come yet.

When I broke the news to Juker I decided not to tell him the part about Janet. It’s not nice to disclose a thing like that about a man’s daughter.

I felt sadly, strangely miserable because of the death of my brother. Loneliness assailed me. I felt that I was right back where I started, but without even his company.

Juker noticed. He was very sympathetic.

“You mustn’t let it overpower you,” he advised kindly. “What’s gone is gone. There’s still plenty ahead in the future.”

Bleakly, I nodded. Juker didn’t know about the other edge of the sword.

Celenthenis oppressed me more and more.

Both Juker and I continued our work. By now we had amassed a formidable number of graphs, charts and measurements about no-temperature materials. Results were everything we had hoped.

For some time Juker had been thinking about the problem of transferring Celenthenis material to Earth, and he decided it could be done. Assembling the refrigerating apparatus in the storeroom, he put on a suit and went outside.

A few minutes later he was back with a chunk of dull, greenish rock wrapped in a jacket of hydrogen ice. “I chipped it off one of those big slabs,” he explained. “We can give it a really detailed study in here.”

Carrying it into the storeroom, he slipped the hydrogen jacket into the quadruple-hulled container he had prepared. Carefully he poked electrode probes through the ice, an awkward job, because of the clutter of refrigerators. A number of oscilloscopes started wiggling the moment he made contact.

“This rock has an electric charge on it, like the rest of the planet,” Juker told me. “This is to see if it’s been modified in any way since I pumped it into the ground.”

Taking a step back, he glanced at the oscilloscopes.

His glance protracted itself into a prolonged stare.

“Great Scot,” he muttered.

“What’s up?” I asked. The ‘scope sweeps had surprised me, too, but after all it was an unusual world.

“Robert, those signals are brain waves.”

With a jolt, I realised why they seemed vaguely familiar. I had seen films of electro-encephalography, of course.

“The alpha rhythm is quite clear,” Juker commented, peering closer. “Some of the others are a bit scrambled—but that’s probably because we’re getting two or more on one ‘scope.” He started speaking quickly. “Don’t you see what’s happened? It’s Jack! When the current swept through him, it was modulated by the electrical rhythms of his nervous system.” He slapped his hands together excitedly. “It’s just what could happen in a zero-temperature environment!”

“You don’t mean he’s still alive?”

Doubtfully, he shook his head. “That’s going a bit too far—”

Then he cut himself short. The ‘scope waves had suddenly altered, just like they do in electro-encephalography when mental activity changes.

After that there was no help for it. Professor Juker constructed a frequency analyser to differentiate between the various waves, then rigged up a speaker and microphone. It did not take many minutes of ranging through the waveband before we hit on Jack’s speech frequency.

Quavering, I held the microphone in my right hand. “Jack?”

A second or two later, I heard a familiar voice. “Is that you, Bob?” it said uncertainly.

Juker and I looked at one another, shocked beyond expectation. I had no need to ask further questions.

The modulations of the million-volt pulse had been quite complete. Jack’s entire pattern of personality, memory and thought had been transferred to it, and was now humming unimpeded in a continuous circuit of the planet. There was no fragment of Celenthenis that you might break off that was not Jack.

So that was how I continued to be my brother’s keeper. After all, we had planned to take material back to Earth. What else could we do, but take him home with us?

Faintly, I heard the front door open and close as one of the guests left downstairs. I gazed at the chunk of green rock, visible more to the imagination than the eye, amidst Juker’s hydrogen-ice apparatus, and thought of how helpless and quiescent Jack was now.

In all the years we had been together, it was not until those few remaining days on Celenthenis and the journey back to Earth, that I gave consideration to my relationship with Jack.

Did I ever love my brother?

A hard question. I don’t think there is love between brothers. We took each other for granted. There were things I didn’t like about him, but all the hard feelings tended to be of short duration.

On the other hand, whenever I hated my brother I had the sinking feeling that I was exactly like him.

The difference being, that when I cheat I cover my tracks.

As it was, I had come out of it all right. I had Janet, hadn’t I? She wouldn’t even speak to this lump of rock, not once. She married me.

A bitch? You might say so. It might appear odd that I’d still take up with her. But isn’t human nature frail in any case? Take the best and leave the worst.

It’s no use to fret.

We lived fairly comfortably on the proceeds from Celenthenis. As I said, I’ve settled down. It suits me.

Moving closer, I said: “Are you sure everything’s all right, Jack?”

“Well,” he answered. “My mind’s been getting a bit fuzzy lately. I think a trace of heat must be getting through.”

I nodded. That was inevitable. If the temperature rose even a fraction of an appreciable amount, though, the rock would cease to become conductive and that would be the end of Jack.

“For another thing,” he said, “you know the main version of me is still on Celenthenis. I’m a sort of detached fragment.”

“You’re still a complete replica, Jack.”

“I know. But, well—frankly, I sometimes feel an urge to be reunited with myself. Merge with the main current.”

“You want to go back?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Well, Jack,” I said after a moment. “I don’t know. Janet might not think we can afford the cartridges for another trip to Montgomery Cloudbank.”

“You mean you won’t take me?” he said in a piteous voice.

“You know I would, whatever it cost. But there’s still Janet.”

“Bring her up here,” he said eagerly. “I’ll persuade her, Bob, I know I can. We were close once, remember?”

I didn’t need the reminder.

“You know what she’s like. Wild horses wouldn’t drag her up here. She never comes.”

Silence, but I could feel the hurt in it. Eventually Jack spoke again in a strained voice.

“Look, Bob, I… well, I do want to go back to Celenthenis and I’m sure once she speaks with me she’ll agree. But it isn’t just that. I really want to speak to her, you know. It isn’t pleasant the way she ignores me. I know she’s married to you now, but—I just want to say goodbye, that’s all. You can’t begrudge me that.”

I was genuinely touched.

“Please, Bob, please bring her up here. Just once.”

“I’ll try,” I promised.

A faint sigh of relief came from the speaker. “Bring her up here, and that’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.”

Turning, I went through the unpainted door, down the rickety stairs, within range of the sounds, light and perfumes of the living-rooms and what remained of our smart society guests. Idly, I calculated the cost of another trip to Celenthenis.

I waited for all the guests to leave before I put the idea to Janet. She twisted her handkerchief in a distraught manner.

“It’s too much,” she said shortly. “We can’t spare the money.”

“But he’s my brother.”

Crossly she patted her hair back into place. “That lump of rock—can’t you find some other way of getting rid of it? Throw it in the sea or something? As a matter of fact I’ve been meaning to get the thing out of the house.”

She stood up, smoothed her skirt and bent to study her make-up in the mirror. I stared at her aghast.

“Janet,” I began as she touched her eyebrow with a wetted finger, “he wants to talk to you.”

“You won’t catch me going up there!”

“It isn’t much to ask,” I pleaded. “He’s a person, Janet, someone you once… had relations with. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? He only wants to say good-bye, so there’s no bitterness.”

She turned on her stiletto heel and stalked from the room. Before I knew it I was on my feet too, following after her and arguing.

Don’t ask me to explain the state I was in. Nothing seemed more important to me than that I carried out what I was convinced was my brother Jack’s last request. For an hour I talked earnestly in our bedroom. Janet seemed to grow more weary by the minute.

At last I said: “He’s still alive. Don’t you understand?”

And that, of course, was exactly what she never had understood. Perhaps, I thought, people never are alive to her.

“What is it to do with me?” she complained, ready to burst into tears.

Then, resigned and tired, Janet dragged herself to her feet and came with me to the back part of the house.

I sensed how scared she was as we ascended the stairs, and kept my hand touching her arm. Poor kid, I thought. Then I opened the door and led her into the musty, humming attic.

She gazed around her, frightened by the alienness of everything she saw. She was completely out of her depth.

“Jack,” I said, “here’s Janet.”

There was a barely perceptible pause.

Then a voice came hoarsely through the speaker which shook even me by the intensity of its hatred and bitterness. “You finally arrived, you filthy slut, did you?” it said. “How bloody nice!”

It seemed to gather its breath, then vomited a paralysing stream of obscenity and execration. Through it all I seemed to hear the resentment, the disappointment, which Jack had harboured all this time. I realised that everything Janet meant to me, she must have meant to him. She had filled the void of his life, just as she had filled mine. And that was why Jack wanted to speak to Janet.

He never gives up. If he can’t have it one way, he’ll have it the other.

Janet let out a small, terrified cry, turned and fled. I heard her sharp heels clattering, on the stairs.

“Why did you do that?” I exploded.

“Just to give her a few nightmares,” he answered sardonically. “By the way, I’ve a confession to make. You know everything I said about taking Janet away from you? It wasn’t even true!”

That was all I got out of him. I stood there, absolutely stunned. I had never taxed Janet about her defection; I was afraid of appearing jealous.

Now that Jack had made his confession, I suddenly realised how utterly ridiculous was the notion that Janet would ever have had an affair with him, or even, at that stage, been unfaithful to me at all. She just wasn’t that sort.

And yet I had believed it. Jack had gauged exactly what would take place in my mind, even to the years-long silence. In his crooked way he had a real genius for it.

In those few seconds the full tragedy of Jack became clear to me. His envy, resulting in a cruel taunt. Then, after the unforeseen outcome, endless brooding. Poor brother, he was deranged with it!

I dashed downstairs, but Janet was already leaving. She went without even taking her beautiful clothes, her expensive jewelry. She packed a small case, slammed the front door without a word and was gone.

Next day I called on Professor Juker. Without talking much about Janet I told him about Jack.

He nodded thoughtfully, knocked the ash out of his pipe and put it away.

“You’re right,” he said. “That fact is, we can’t hope to keep him alive indefinitely. The temperature’s bound to rise, even if only marginally, and it will be no consolation to him to know that the main current is still flowing on Celenthenis. It’s only common humanity to save his life.”

Juker put up the money for the costly cartridges, and I flew the ship. As for Jack, I didn’t even ask him if he still wanted to go. I wasn’t giving him the option, because I knew that once he was gone I could have Janet back.

Landing on Celenthenis, I stood outside the airlock, took the green rock in my gloved hand and flung it as far as I could.

I didn’t even see it land.

Farewell, brother Jack, may you have a long life! The Montgomery Cloudbank is a huge affair and doesn’t move much, so it ought to be a long one. You’ll live until Celenthenis warms up, so you’ll probably still be there when Earth is gone.

Be grateful for the enclosing dark. When the stars start to shine through, your cold vigil will be over.

As for me, I’m happier with my flesh and blood. I’ll enjoy Janet for a few years, then let this body of mine gutter quietly out.

Sometimes I hear her whimpering in the night, but I reach out to her, wake her and comfort her, and it’s all right.

The Seed of Evil

ONE

Time without end.

Aeternus, being devoid of affective emotions, could not even hate those who had created him; but He knew loneliness. A uniquely solitary being, he longed for the presence of another besides Himself.

His existence was without end and without beginning. All around him the ceaseless universal vibration of creation and dissolution continued without pause as galaxies were born and died like a whirling mirage of snowflakes. As He gazed down at the never-ending activity, Aeternus could see races, empires, worlds, rise up and fall down again into the swallowing void, and He envied the myriad creatures whose lives were given meaning by the fact that those lives must end. His own existence would never end, because He knew both eternity and infinity in which all meaning and pattern disappear.

Aeternus was not material, but was printed into the fabric of space and time, and therefore He could not directly affect anything material. But He could focus His awareness anywhere, even into an atom. And He could call, appealing to souls without their knowledge and summoning them to turn unto Him.

He sought some combination of events that would lead a finite being out of the material realm and into the bodiless eternity which now only Aeternus inhabited. Only thus could He ever experience the feeling of other presence which was all He craved. Surveying the realm of existence, He saw that what was good perished, but that evil outlived all. Therefore Aeternus bent his attention to a certain persistent chain of greed and passion, and sent his summons wafting through the waves of creation and dissolution, calling, calling….

TWO

The early twenty-second century greeted the appearance in the Solar System of an extra-solar visitor with little of the amazement or shock that might have been occasioned in the twentieth. The news media gave the event front-page coverage at first, but after a few days relegated it to the back rank of items and concentrated instead on revelations of the following year’s fashions. The curiosity of the scientific establishment was, indeed, aroused; but not over-much excitement. The reason for this coolness was partly that it was fashionable, and partly that astronomy, assisted by the advances in space travel that had proceeded unevenly over the last century and a half, had long since revealed that interstellar space contained vast amounts of biochemical material. It seemed inevitable that life must arise wherever conditions were suitable for its reception, and that biology was no more unique to the planet Earth than it was to a Pacific island. With this in mind, the certainty that there would be contact with alien life at some unspecified date in the future had been an accepted fact for a hundred years or more.

Consequently, within two weeks of the alien’s having been escorted by a plasma-cruiser to the translunar space station, and from there, after appropriate bacterial investigation, to the sprawling Ignatova Hospital and Research Establishment that lay athwart London’s River Thames, the team assigned to study him were already regarding him, most of them at any rate, with equanimity. He was probably an unremarkable specimen, they reasoned, as extra-solar life-forms go.

The one team member who did not subscribe to the cult of studied scientific detachment that was so much a part of twenty-second-century life was Julian Ferrg, Surgeon. Julian felt that he had a more intimate connection with the alien than the others, because his scalpels had already explored his body on the operating table. On a day shortly after that event sunlight was filtering pleasantly into a large lounge from a ring of windows set at floor level. Julian’s gaze flicked insolently from one team member to another. There was Ralph Reed, the philologist who had already achieved the phenomenal task of teaching the alien English; Han Soku, the physicist; Courdon, in Julian’s eyes an overly-correct, formal administrator; and Hans Meyer, a cosmologist who hoped to question the visitor on what he called Basic Questions.

Each of them, with the exception of Courdon, was supported by an entire sub-team. Julian himself was assisted by half a dozen specialists in biochemistry, biology and medicine, although the operations he had performed had been minor: the grafting of an artificial organ to enable the alien to breathe Earth’s atmosphere, and the additional grafting of a vibrating membrane to simulate the human voice. Nevertheless the creature had lain at his mercy, its chemical secrets within his grasp. He still thrilled when he thought of that.

For there was one fact about the visitor that they had already learned: he was one million years old.

One million years. The phrase echoed in Julian’s mind as he regarded the lounge’s sixth occupant: the alien himself.

The closest resemblance to an Earthly creature was probably to a giant turtle, modified somewhat to give an appearance vaguely insect- or crustacean-like. The tall carapace shone dully in the afternoon light. Beneath it could be seen a fringe of hairy legs, mandibles and an occasional glint of metal or some artifact. The newly-acquired gas-sac by which the creature processed air to suit his metabolism bulked somewhat awkwardly to the rear, pulsing gently.

The alien, who claimed to hail originally from the direction of Aldebaran, had explained that his name could be translated as “Never Die”. It was as Neverdie that they had come to speak of him. Julian simply could not understand why his colleagues accepted this concept with such a lack of excitement.

Neverdie finished a long speech he had been making in cultured, confidential tones that sounded so incongruous coming from his hulking form. There was a long, introspective silence.

At length Courdon said: “So do we take it that you are asking to be allowed to live permanently on Earth?”

“That is correct, sirs.”

“And what do you offer us in exchange for this privilege?” Julian interrupted harshly. The others glanced at him uneasily. They were all slightly nervous of the lean, angular surgeon and his propensity for breaking out at any time into passionate, arrogant outbursts.

“I offer nothing,” Neverdie replied in the same slow, calm voice. “As I have just related, I have escaped from a war which is taking place some light years from here. Such is the ferocity of this war that I may be the last specimen of my species left alive. I am here to seek asylum. There will be no repercussions since my presence here is unknown to my enemies. I merely wish to live my life in quiet, at peace on a civilised planet.”

“You flatter us,” Meyer said wryly.

Julian, however, was not satisfied with the alien’s answer. “There is a great deal you could give us in exchange for our hospitality,” he objected. “For one thing, your spacecraft is capable of fast interstellar travel, a capability we at present do not possess, and it is reasonable of us to expect to be allowed to examine its drive and duplicate it. You may have special knowledge which will help us to advance our technology in other directions, too. And then—most significant of all—there is the fact of your virtual immortality. By now you are probably aware that our species has a very brief life-span. It would interest us greatly to know the secrets of your metabolism.”

A mandible clicked before Neverdie replied. “These matters are a different concern,” the well-modulated voice said regretfully. “To be frank, I had not intended to be put in the position of striking bargains. My wish is to be adopted as a citizen of this planet, with all the rights of a citizen, including the right to dispose of my assets as I choose. You can appreciate that it is not in my interests to equip your people with the interstellar drive. I chose your planet because it is quiet and little-known.”

Ralph Reed cleared his throat. “Neverdie’s assertions strike me as being entirely reasonable,” he said mildly. “It would be barbaric of us to accept his presence here only in exchange for tangible rewards like an engine or some other technology. If we are to look at it in terms of gain, it seems to me that merely to have him here is gain enough. Neverdie is a representative of an alien race, an entirely foreign culture, and his presence in our midst will enrich our own culture. Is that not so?”

The others murmured their agreement. Julian flushed angrily. “This is ridiculous! Have we become so decadent that we no longer see where our advantage lies? It would certainly be—”

Courdon cut him off. “Now, now, Ferrg, there are procedures for this kind of thing. Let us not forget our manners.” He glanced at Neverdie, embarrassed at the outburst, as were the others. Ferrg had been making something of a pest of himself in the past few days and Courdon was wishing he could have been forewarned about the man. He stood, to signify that the interview was at an end.

“Well, Mr, er, Neverdie, the decision does not of course rest with us. It will have to be placed before the appropriate department. However, let me assure you that your application will receive my commendation.”

“I thank you.”

Courdon waited by the door as they filed out. Julian was the last to go. Before he left he glanced back at Neverdie, enraged at his own impotence. That carapaced form contained the most precious jewel in the whole universe, and it looked as though they wouldn’t let him get at it.

There’ll be a time, he promised himself. Next time I have him on the table he won’t get away so easily.

Neverdie was glad to be left alone at last. He sank down on his specially constructed divan, relaxed and gave his mind up to sad thoughts.

He thought nostalgically of the other pleasant periods he had spent in the long spell of his existence. Of the fair civilisation beneath the blood-red Arcturus sun where he had recently lived for ten thousand years.

He had told the Earth people something like the truth, but not the whole truth. There had indeed been a ferocious battle from which he had barely escaped. A million years had made him adept at evading the pursuers that sooner or later came at him from all quarters.

But he sensed that at long last he was growing tired. He no longer felt the readiness for endless flight that had once possessed him. He had an intuition, half horrified, half resigned, that this would be his last refuge. Yet while it lasted he believed he would be happy here.

While it lasted… perhaps that would not be long. Already he scented the beginning of the hunt in the attitude of Julian Ferrg, the jerky one. Unless he acted carefully the surgeon would be drawn relentlessly into the continuing tragedy that was Neverdie’s life.

He continued to muse on these thoughts. The sun sank to the horizon, briefly visible through the low windows as a red ball reminiscent of beloved Arcturus. Sleeplessly Neverdie waited in the darkness for it to rise again.

THREE

Twenty-second-century London was bowl-shaped.

At the dead centre there still stood, as an archaic reminder, the old Houses of Parliament. Around them the numerous government departments had extended their premises until they swallowed up the previous commercial areas for a considerable distance around, stretching along Tottenham Court Road to the north, along both arms of the river to east and west, and into Waterloo to the south. The buildings were modest in dimensions, however, and mostly of a conservative twentieth-century style. Beyond the centre the suburbs had elevated themselves progressively in a step-like version of the habitat mode, rising at the perimeter to just under a mile in height. At close quarters the habitat suburbs, with their lack of any clear linear organisation, were like a three-dimensional jungle—especially since Londoners had rediscovered the pleasure of gardens. From a distance they merged into a sparkling, curved surface and gave the city the impression of being a vast arena. When the sun rose over the edge of the perimeter, the great bowl acted as a sun-trap; when it fell below it, illumination continued to filter through the myriad interstices and filled the interior with a panorama of light and shade.

Julian’s airplat floated down into the bowl, mingling with the traffic that hovered over the city like a haze of gnats, and came to rest on a rooftop platform. Courdon’s office was in Centre Point, a twentieth-century structure huddled among other, more modern buildings. Julian passed through the rooftop reception hall to the administrator’s office.

Courdon was waiting for him. He greeted Julian coolly.

“I think I know what you’re going to ask me, and I fear you will be disappointed,” the civil servant began.

Julian strode energetically to the proffered chair and flung himself into it. He looked quizzically at Courdon.

“Well?”

“Neverdie has been granted the world’s first extra-solar immigration permit. In five years’ time, if all goes well, he will be given West-European citizenship. To state things from your point of view, the permit was given with no strings attached. And Neverdie has declined to discuss the matter of technological advancement.”

“You’ve approached him about the question of longevity?”

“I conveyed your request to him, yes, but he’s not willing to co-operate. He hinted that knowledge of biological permanence, to use his term, would not be to our benefit.”

Julian’s lips compressed in annoyance. “Really, I can’t understand the attitude of you government people. Whose planet is this, ours or his? And what about his ship? It should be impounded.”

“But why? It’s his property. We must live according to the law.”

“The law! The law is whatever it’s made to be. Who can Neverdie call on to back his case? Nobody; he only has our gratuitous compliance. Anyway, the ship isn’t important. Immortality is, and that’s what we have to think about.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you. I think Neverdie’s right. Immortality would be a disaster for us. Everything we have is built around our present life-span and, speaking personally, I’m quite satisfied with it.”

“You would be,” Julian grunted. “But never mind about that, not everybody in this world is so complacent. Surely there’s some way we can get it out of him? How does he propose to live? Or is the government taking care of that, too?”

“As a matter of fact, no. Help was offered, but Neverdie refused it. He proposes to earn money by writing books and giving interviews. I believe he is buying a house in St John’s Wood.”

The surgeon meditated sombrely. “I’ll tell you what I think,” he said. “This citizenship business is all nonsense. Dammit, you’re treating him just like a human being! He isn’t. He’s a creature from space. If he won’t tell us what we want to know, we should take it from him by force, by physical examination. Just give me a few weeks with that body of his and I’ll find out everything.”

He did not see fit to mention one likely possibility—that Neverdie probably did not know himself what kept him alive, just as the average person could not describe the processes of his own metabolism. Neither did he mention that the examination he suggested would almost certainly prove deeply injurious to the subject. Courdon, however, was outraged that Julian should suggest it at all.

“Really, Ferrg, you forget yourself! We couldn’t possibly consider such an action! What would the rest of the world say? For that matter, what would Bonn say?”

Julian waved his hand, impatient that the perpetual tussles between London and Bonn, twin capitals of West-Europe, should be brought into it. “There was a time when progress was thought to be important,” he said. “Now we have an unprecedented opportunity to increase our knowledge and nobody is remotely interested.”

“Times change.” To Julian, Courdon looked infuriatingly smug. “The world has settled down now. There is planet-wide agreement on all basic issues. The problem of material wealth has reached an equitable solution. Why should we strive after distant dreams any more? Life is pleasant, why not enjoy it?”

Julian knew all about the philosophy of the Long Golden Afternoon of civilisation that was so much put about. As far as he was concerned the Long Golden Afternoon was one long bore. He felt stuffed to his ears with it. He would sooner have lived in a previous age when action counted for something and the law was an obstacle men would contemplate breaking if the returns were big enough.

In this case they were big enough.

He rose to his feet. “Nothing lasts forever. The times will change again. And that creature will have to watch out for himself.”

Courdon merely stared at his desk as Julian strode from the room.

In the evening Julian’s airplat took him to the south tiers of the London Conurbation. He parked in a garage five hundred feet above ground level and entered the adjoining apartments.

The people gathered there were all either close friends or sufficiently in sympathy with Julian’s private philosophy to be trusted. They formed a tightly knit in-group jarringly at odds with the normal standards of the time. And they all, to one degree or another, wanted to live for ever.

They listened to his account of the meeting with Courdon with an air of cynical acceptance. They knew it already.

“Decadent and cowardly,” said David Aul. “Still, that’s life.”

Julian gulped wine from a huge goblet. “We’ll take it into our own hands.”

“Mon Dieu, that’s going a bit far, isn’t it?” said another voice.

“We’ve already discussed it.”

“Yes, but were we serious?”

“Of course we were serious, you damn fool!” Julian’s eyes flashed angrily at the speaker. It was André, a vague, unpredictable Frenchman. “Do you think I waste my time on daydreams?”

André shrugged.

“Anybody who has no stomach for it, walk out of here right now,” Julian demanded. “If you want to squeal on us, go ahead and do it. We’ll simply deny everything and that will be that.” And then we’ll do it anyway a few years later, Julian thought to himself.

He didn’t wait for answers but snatched up a bottle of wine and retreated to the corner of the room where he flung himself on a couch and continued to drink swiftly and heavily.

Ursula Gail detached herself from the group and smiled down at him with clear hazel eyes.

“So you’re really going to do it?” she said, speaking with a slight German accent.

“Naturally.” Seizing her wrist, he pulled her down on the couch with him.

“But what about the risk? Somebody might betray us. What about me? Suppose I do?”

“If you do I’ll kill you.”

She chuckled softly, leaning close and nuzzling his cheek. “That’s what I like about you, Julian. You’re so wicked. I don’t think there’s one good impulse in you.”

“What is good perishes; evil endures.” He shook his head, momentarily confused. What had made him say that? He was already slightly drunk.

She noticed his unsteady movements as he scanned the room for another bottle. “Aren’t you drinking too much? I thought you were operating early tomorrow morning.”

“What difference does it make? These days all the instruments are electronically controlled. I often operate dead drunk. Never lost a patient yet.”

The drink and the music that came from a small player were making him feel warm and mellow. He had a pleasant feeling of anticipation, of a decision made and of having burned his boats behind him. The others were almost certain to back him. What was there to lose? Liberty? Life? They would be lost anyway, in a few decades. Against that was balanced the possibility of life eternal.

The final plans were already vaguely foreshadowed in his mind. It could not be done for a few years yet. The present time was too soon, and besides there was much preparation to be completed. A ship would be best, he told himself. A yacht fitted with everything they needed and in which they could sail the oceans while completing the work, safe from detection.

Afterwards came the question of whether the alien’s method of immortality could be adapted to a human being. They all knew that the probability of that was rather low. But then, who but a desperado ever commits himself to a philosophy of action, not to say of crime? Julian’s mouth twisted sardonically as he contemplated the thought.

A short while later he took Ursula into an adjoining bedroom, where they satisfied themselves with passion and vigour. Afterwards, breathing lightly in the darkness, she suddenly spoke.

“What would you give up for immortality, Julian? Would you give up this?”

“I would give up everything,” he said. She asked no further questions. They both lay staring up at the darkened ceiling, imagining a future without end.

FOUR

Five years passed before Julian deemed the time was ripe.

Neverdie had settled quite well into human society. He was only occasionally mentioned in the mass media now and lived the life of a near-recluse in a large house whose interior had been restyled in the Georgian mode—a fashion the alien seemed to prefer to all others. His needs were financed out of the returns from his books. Julian had studied them all assiduously, especially the lengthy Aldebaranian Social Organisation, but had learned nothing useful. He was not interested in how an extinct species formed “hedonistic rank-order”, as was apparently the case. Neverdie had also written a number of competent but off-beat science fiction novels with some interesting details, but nothing touching on biochemistry.

On the evening of 18 July 2109, Julian and his comrades struck. An airplat glinted in and out of light and shade in the approaches to the northern suburbs and entered the habitat jungle.

Julian was flying, with four others in the seats behind him. The airplat drifted through the three-dimensional maze, surrounded on all sides by lavishly decorated walls, windows, doors and ceilings and the gardens that hung profusely from almost every roof. After a short while they arrived at Neverdie’s dwelling.

Although lights shone already from most of the surrounding windows, Neverdie’s house was in darkness. Julian parked the airplat on the flat, bare roof, close to the roof door. He got out, stepped to the door and tested it. The door was unlocked.

He had previously had the house cased for alarms in the guise of a magazine interview. Apparently, there was none, which to Julian’s mind was an extraordinary oversight. He beckoned to the others. They padded after him and the group descended into the dim interior.

Julian paused briefly to enjoy the elegance of the rooms. Neverdie certainly had good taste. But for the strangeness of the furniture, which was built to serve his form and not the human, this could have been the home of a cultured, educated Englishman.

They found the alien in the downstairs drawing room, apparently asleep. Julian knew that he would sometimes sleep for a week without waking. He drew a small cylinder from his pocket, releasing from it an invisible gas. To the humans in the room it did nothing; in the Aldebaranian, however, it induced a deep unconsciousness. Neverdie would not wake now.

Julian had learned that trick in the course of his previous medical attendance on Neverdie. They lifted the body on to a stretcher; it was surprisingly light.

Back at the roof door Julian glanced quickly around. He did not think they were observed. Impatiently he waved the team on. In seconds their cargo was safely aboard the airplat.

Nosing out of the habitat region, they flashed into the open air again, and went planing southwards.

At almost the same time Courdon received a call.

Five years ago, sensitive to Julian’s purposefulness, he had taken precautions. Neverdie’s dwelling was bugged.

After all this time the surveillance service was slow to respond to the announcement that uninvited persons were present in the apartments. Following a procedure already laid down, their first move was to contact the administrator.

In his own home, Courdon took the news with astonishment and, at first, disbelief.

“Can you give me a picture of them?”

The surveillance operator spoke calmly. “They have already left the house. We are tracking them in an airplat, flying towards Greenwich. We can pick them up at any time you like.”

“No, not yet. If they have the nerve to kidnap Neverdie then this is a planned conspiracy. Let’s wait to see where they lead us.”

The kidnap party disappeared into the ascending tiers on the south side of the city. Police plats, nosing like fish in an undersea coral bed, cruised after them at a calculated distance.

In the interlocking complexity they soon lost their quarry, but were not worried. In the next few minutes they would find it again, probably at its destination.

And so they did. But in those few minutes they were already too late. They found the airplat, as well as the house where it was parked, deserted. Their reaction was to search the neighbouring buildings and to think in terms of a switch to another airplat. It did not occur to them until some time later to think of an ocean-boat mingling with the river traffic beneath their feet and heading rapidly into the open sea.

Watching from his home, Courdon cursed.

In the Mediterranean, aboard the piano yacht Rudi Dutschke, Julian faced a vacillating situation.

In short his colleagues had got cold feet.

“C’est dangereux, mon ami,” André said glumly. “By now they will be looking for him. What if they should guess he is at sea?”

“How would they guess, you fool?” Julian retorted. “They might think of it as a remote possibility, that’s all. And as for a sea search—well, have you any idea just how many ships are on the oceans at any one time? Damn near a million, I should think.”

“Just the same,” David Aul put in carefully, “we won’t be safe until that creature below decks is washed over the side, or what will be left of him. How long is all this going to take?”

“It will take months at the very least, so stop panicking. And you’re never going to be safe, get that through your head. And for God’s sake try to work up a little backbone!”

I’ll ditch this lot as soon as it’s convenient, he told himself. When it comes to it they’re nothing but a bunch of nuts who get jittery the moment their fantasies start to turn into reality. Except Ursula, no sense in wasting her. She’s got more guts than the rest of them put together. Funny thing about some of these women.

Actually the research to be done on Neverdie was only the first stage. Then would come the problem of learning how to apply the knowledge gained. That would almost certainly take years.

His plan was to pass through the Suez Canal and into the Indian Ocean, where West-European influence was slight and the chances of their being apprehended correspondingly reduced. Once they were finished with Neverdie he would switch to the land for the longer stages of the work. India was a delightfully corrupt place and he knew where he could be kept indefinitely from view of the law, with full research facilities, until his programme was complete.

When he felt he was sufficiently rested, Julian began.

Taking with him David Aul, who was a trained biochemist, he descended to the space amidships that had been equipped to fulfil all the functions he thought would be necessary.

There was enough here to take the alien apart muscle by muscle, nerve by nerve and molecule by molecule.

They both stared at Neverdie as he lay strapped to the operating table. Surrounding him were the electronic pantos that would do all the cutting and manipulating—Julian didn’t trust this job to manual dexterity, and besides he would be working at the cellular and molecular levels. One half of the working area was devoted to biochemical analysis and the mapping of the nervous system. If they found that they needed any extra equipment, Julian was confident that they could get it in India.

“What if it’s something that we can’t find out?” Aul commented.

“I don’t think it will be. I’m more than half certain that Neverdie’s immortality isn’t natural to his species. That just wouldn’t make sense, would it? Any biological organism has to die, otherwise the ecology it lives in couldn’t work. I think he acquired everlasting life by artificial means and if that’s the case then we should be able to find out how.”

Julian flicked a switch and brought the hum of power to the workroom. “To begin with, let’s see if our friend has had a change of heart that would make all our work unnecessary.”

Using a dropper, he administered a few cc’s of a pungent-smelling liquid to an organ just beneath Neverdie’s carapace. The alien, who was strapped upside down to reveal a mass of appendages, opened milky translucent eyes and stirred feebly.

The eyes swivelled and focused on Julian. “You are making a mistake…” the voice diaphragm said weakly.

“It’s you who has made the mistake,” Julian said. “You know what we want: give it and we’ll spare you.”

“No… I cannot.”

Julian paused. “I would like to put a few questions to you,” he said finally. “Are you willing to answer?”

“Yes.”

“First, is the secret of immortality something I could find? I mean, is it an analysable property of your body?”

“Yes.”

“Could it be applied to myself?”

“Yes, more easily than you think.”

Julian’s excitement mounted. “Well, what is it? If you’ll tell me this much, why won’t you tell me the whole thing?”

Neverdie squirmed. “I beg you, do not seek immortality. Forget your lust, leave me in peace….”

“I’ve got to!” Julian exclaimed in sudden inspiration. “It concerns some specific substance, or something, that your body contains, doesn’t it? To have it myself I’d have to take it away from you, wouldn’t I?”

Suddenly Neverdie became still, as if in despair. “Your guess is close. But you must abandon your intentions. You do not understand. This is your last chance to leave well alone.”

“I understand that you’re trying to save your own skin. Unfortunately in this universe any item in short supply goes to the strongest party.” He glanced at Aul. “Don’t say anything of this to the others. We have to get in all the facts before revealing anything that might cause trouble.”

Aul nodded, his face clouded.

“Then let’s get to work. Good night, Neverdie. The curtain is falling.”

From a nearby nozzle he released more of the gas that to the alien was an instant anaesthetic. Neverdie’s appendages twitched once. Then he was still again.

They were sailing past the Gulf of Akaba when Courdon finally caught up with them.

Since losing track of the quarry in London, he had frantically been trying to identify and search all vessels that had travelled down the Thames in the following two days. The number ran into thousands. There was nothing to connect the Rudi Dutschke to Julian Ferrg, and it was with great difficulty that he managed to persuade an Israeli coastal patrol to make what was strictly speaking an illegal search.

At the time Julian’s investigations had only reached a rudimentary stage concerned with biochemical analysis using tissue samples sliced from the alien’s inert body. Neverdie was very lucky: no real damage had been done.

So engrossed were Julian and David in their work that they failed to hear the whistle of the patrol craft as it flew overhead. Julian merely looked up with a frown of annoyance as he heard shouting from the deck above, especially the shrill voice of Ursula.

“Get up there and tell them to stop their damned row, David,” he ordered angrily. “I’ll have no arguments on this junket.”

Aul moved to obey. But at that moment the door flew open and the bereted coastguards stood framed there. For long moments they stood, staring at the scene, their tanned faces turning pale.

“What do you want?” Julian shouted in an enraged voice. “Get out of here, damn you! Can’t you see we’re busy?”

The guards unshouldered their arms. The game was up.

At his trial Julian fell back on the perennial refuge of the scoundrel: patriotism.

He had done it all, not for himself, but for humanity. “Even when governments are soft,” he said, “there are some who believe that mankind must advance by whatever means possible. My work, had it been allowed to continue, would have brought incalculable benefits to this planet.”

The audacity of his statements probably did serve to soften his sentence, as had been his intention. His companions were given ten years apiece in a corrective institution. Julian, as the ringleader, was sentenced to fifteen years.

FIVE

On his release, fifteen years later, Julian was forced to make a drastic reappraisal of his position. He was no longer a young man in his early thirties: he was forty-eight. Although he had kept himself fit during his imprisonment and was still lean and active, the sands were running out.

Neither could he hope to repeat the escapade of fifteen years previously. Struggling in his mind was the small thought that his whole venture was madness and that he should return to a normal life, or what was left of it. But the thought, which at an earlier stage in his life would have seemed sensible, quickly died. The coming of Neverdie, he realised, had wrought a transformation in him and the pursuits which once appeared worthwhile now seemed pale and futile. Only one thing was of obsessive importance: to attain the lasting life beside which the present life was but a shadow.

Swimming in impudence, Julian even managed to obtain a final interview with Neverdie. In truth it was a desultory move, a last attempt to gain the alien’s co-operation.

The interview was held in a somewhat strained atmosphere, not because of any feelings held either by Neverdie or by Julian, but because also present were Courdon, the philologist Ralph Reed and two policemen. They bristled with hostility, a mood which Julian could endure without the slightest discomfort.

“You know why I’m here,” Julian said. “I’ve come to ask you once again to give the secret of your long life to humanity.”

“Humanity does not want it. Only you want it,” Neverdie observed.

“Not only me. There are others. How long do you think you can keep it to yourself? At the moment society protects you. But societies change. Don’t you know what risks you run, what danger you will have to fear from men in the future? Why not at least give us the information, even if you can’t give us the means. We might find a way of duplicating the special substance, or biological arrangement, of whatever it is that keeps you alive. That way you’ll save yourself from persecution in future centuries.”

“I shall take my chance,” Neverdie told him in a studiedly neutral tone. “Luckily, beings as ruthless and determined as yourself are rare.”

“Rare, but they exist!” Julian rasped in an outburst of temper. He jumped to his feet, suddenly aware of how Neverdie saw him: as a mayfly, an insignificant, brief creature whom the alien was patiently waiting to see die. It made him feel foolish and despicable.

“You overgrown beetle, one of us will get you!”

Abruptly, he left. Ralph Reed let out a sigh of relief. “What an extraordinary fellow! It’s almost incredible that a surgeon should be so… well, evil. And yet he’s brilliant. They say he’s saved thousands of lives.”

Throughout the interview Courdon had calmly smoked a pipe. He puffed on it, thinking. “Ferrg admits that he doesn’t think of Neverdie as a person—with respect to yourself, Neverdie—and he tries to justify himself that way. But I don’t think he thought of all those whose lives he saved as human, either. Human beings don’t exist for him. They’re just objects to be experimented on.”

“A lot of people think that way, especially in experimental science. But they’re not like Ferrg.”

“No, he’s different. It’s not scientific objectivity with him. It’s something else. Something completely, utterly selfish.”

Outside, as Julian walked towards his airplat, he encountered Ursula Gail.

“I followed you here,” she told him with a knowing smile. “I was curious. What are you planning now?”

“Nothing. To interest you, anyway.”

She pointed to an inn that lay at the bottom of a long, wide, curving sweep of steps. “Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

He allowed her to lead him into the inn. Uneasily he settled with her in a corner, a bottle of white wine before them.

He looked at her. Fifteen years didn’t do much to improve any woman. But she still looked fairly young and she was still beautiful in her particularly exciting kind of way.

“So you’re really not planning another snatch?”

“No.”

“Or a deal with Neverdie?”

“There’s no deal. That’s what I was there about.”

She gave a low, regretful laugh. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want to be in on any more mad schemes. The others feel the same way too. But unlike them I don’t feel bitter about what you got me into. What’s the use?” She tilted her glass. “As a matter of fact I was looking forward to seeing you. I thought we might—”

She glanced at him familiarly with the same bright, hazel eyes he had known before. Hastily Julian looked away. He pushed himself from the table and stood up.

“Sorry, Ursula, time’s too short. Finish the wine yourself.”

Without looking back he strode out.

One phrase that Julian had used to Neverdie was the kingpin of his strategy.

Societies change. He had already messed up one opportunity. To gain another he had only to forward himself some centuries into the future.

The technique of putting the human body into suspended animation, permanently if need be, was already perfected. It was practised on thousands of people with incurable diseases who hoped they could be cured when they awoke. Once initiated, the process required no expenditure of power and assured Julian of personal, self-dependent survival.

He sank most of his assets, which were large, into the time-travelling chamber. He was prepared, if necessary, to pursue Neverdie down the millennia.

There was one risk, of course. The government, with what struck Julian as insane complacency, instead of impounding the alien’s tiny interstellar ship and extracting from it the technology to take mankind to the galaxy, had merely allowed him to store it in a garage beneath his house. It was conceivable that Neverdie would leave Earth before Julian awoke. But he did not think so: the Aldebaranian seemed quite settled, and if what he wrote in his books was true there were not too many places he could go.

With this point in mind, however, Julian pursued his plans in utmost secrecy. His time-vault had two compartments: the suspension chamber which could also serve as living accommodation, and a larger chamber which was virtually a duplicate, except that it was even more elaborate, of what had been aboard the Rudi Dutschke. The vault was of the most durable construction. It could not rust, corrode or weather. It was built of the new type of carbon-bonded material that had properties close to that of diamond but which was too expensive as well as too long-lasting for use in normal construction.

The basic timing mechanisms were of the same material. Julian had an arrangement which was as close to immortality as Earthly technology could make it. The vault and most of its contents—including many of his surgeon’s instruments—would persist and be functional even when London itself had crumbled and vanished. Not that he anticipated such a long tour of duty. He set the timing mechanism in the first instance at five hundred years hence, knowing that in that period even the noblest societies could turn into the most debased.

The centuries passed. The society of West-Europe underwent a number of vagaries, most of which Neverdie predicted and accommodated himself to fairly well. He became an obscure but permanent, little-noticed resident of London. It was an extraordinary fact about the human species (Neverdie had observed it was a fact about most species), that in spite of its avowed interest in the universe at large in the long run it was interested only in its internal affairs. Neverdie was expert at staying out of the way of those affairs.

But in one important respect Julian had underestimated him, just as he had underestimated Courdon. Neverdie was watchful. He took care to get news of Julian. When that news suddenly stopped he engaged agents to get news of him from wherever in the world he might have moved to. But no news came; Julian Ferrg had disappeared.

Neverdie was a careful being who moved slowly. His great advantage over all his enemies was that he had more time than they did. And in his chequered career he had met the suspended animation ploy before. This, in his opinion, was what Julian had done.

Locating the surgeon’s time-vault was not a matter of urgency. Neverdie did it without making any overt enquiries. He merely collected a large number of insignificant facts over a long period of time and watched the rebuilding pattern of London over the decades. His intuition that the vault was in London was fairly quickly confirmed; and some detective work concerning the legal arrangements of several possible sites told him, roughly one hundred years after Julian’s internment, exactly where the surgeon was.

One night a twenty-third-century-style airplat drifted into the ancient, semi-underground part of the city. The lighting system was poor in this quarter and it glinted palely over the outlines of the vehicle. At length the airplat ventured up a dusty alley and came to rest before a decaying building beneath a warehouse.

Neverdie crept from the airplat. In his manipulatory limbs he carried a number of tools of a type which Earth did not have. Plastic and masonry gave way to make a small hole, like an enlarged rat-hole, through which he could crawl.

The interior was pitch-black and oddly cold. With a click Neverdie brought to the scene a dim light by which a human being would scarcely have been able to see at all. In the depths of the run-down building he eventually discovered the smooth, cold exterior of the vault.

Neverdie switched on the other cutting tool he carried. Its slim beam did not even carry enough energy to light a match, yet it neatly disassociated the bondings of the material and carved out a neat section. Inside, Neverdie found Julian pale and dead inside a cylinder of the inert gas argon.

The Aldebaranian was not a murderer. His actions were preventive, not assaultive. He found the timing mechanism and after a minute’s study disconnected it, leaving the reviving device inactive. Julian’s suspension would never end now without outside aid. Satisfied with his work, Neverdie repaired the incision in the wall of the vault, cleared up the other evidence of his intrusion and left.

SIX

London crumbled and rose again. Millennia passed and even geography changed, but always a city stood where London had been, except for one period when it was replaced by a lake. And in all this time Neverdie continued to dwell on the fringe of human society, building for himself the image of the perpetual hermit, the Wise Being on the Hill, the Oracle, anything that would protect him from superstitious vindictiveness.

There were many occasions when Julian’s time-vault came under scrutiny during the periodic rebuildings of the city. Each time when it seemed likely that the vault would be opened (and the waxing and waning technology did not always make this possible) Neverdie would intercede and persuade the authorities to leave it untouched. Under his auspices it was eventually removed to a site on a hill overlooking the city to the north.

But at last the age of Homo sapiens itself passed.

For a long time Neverdie had seen the end coming, but he had offered no hint of it to his long-standing hosts. Human scientists had never quite understood the laws of evolution. They had not realised that just as an individual animal had a natural life-span, so an entire species had a natural life-span which was predetermined by its hereditary genes. Nature, having made one dominant species, liked to wash it down the drain and try something different with another. For this reason evolutionary changes sometimes proceeded with suddenness. Homo sapiens had emerged from primate stock over a span of tens of thousands, rather than of millions, of years, and the death of the species was coming just as suddenly as had the birth. With the running down of the genetic clock births became fewer, society collapsed and the vitality of the human race entirely vanished.

Even while the last remaining men died nature was already preparing their successor: Lupus sapiens, the intelligent wolf.

In a crude hut some miles from the ruins Neverdie finished his long period of meditation. He had reached a conclusion: his host species was gone, and the arising of the new dominant species would be a turbulent period in which it would be hard to survive; therefore, the time had come to be moving on.

As he roused himself his artificial voice-diaphragm whispered rustily. It was nearly four thousand years since its last replacement and the thing was rotting. He would discard it soon, when he could find the time.

He lifted the door-latch. The wooden door creaked open, letting in a cold draught of air. He crept out on to the wilderness of the moor and set out for the ruins, keeping a wary watch for any predatory wolves. He lived in a state of armed truce with them, but he knew that they were liable at any time to renew their attacks on him.

He reached the ruins without mishap. They were little changed from when he had last visited them, except that the wolves had begun to tear down the brickwork to fortify their camps. They had not yet learned to work metal, however, and the vault containing his starship was intact, though it did bear the marks of their rude tools. It looked incongruously neat amid this fallen tangle of stone, a perfect dome washed clean by the rain. The lock grated reluctantly as he made his entrance, and in the dim light within Neverdie set to work to prepare the vessel for flight.

The starship had benefited from his servicing it every few centuries and was still in fairly good condition despite the difficulty of replacing some of its components (there were some materials that could not be obtained in the solar system at all). Within three days he deemed the vessel fit for interstellar flight, or as fit as it was ever likely to be. Now all that remained was to prepare a route from his maps: the work of hours. But first, another small matter was nudging at Neverdie’s mind. Long ago he had trapped an old enemy, Julian Ferrg, in his self-created prison. His conscience would not permit him to condemn that enemy to eternal living death. The world he would awaken to now would not be a pleasant one and it might kill him quickly, but Ferrg would have to take his chance on that.

Neverdie readied a small aircraft he also had stored in the vault and charged up its accumulator from the starship’s power source. Then he opened the dome’s launching hatch. Night had fallen, and starlight filtered through. With a sparkle from its rear the aircraft soared aloft and headed north, passing over the wolves’ campfires. Neverdie imagined the scenes that would be taking place below, and reaffirmed his opinion that Earth was no longer an abode for him.

On reaching Julian’s tomb Neverdie spent some time clearing away earth and vegetation, then he cut an opening as he had done long ago. Inside Julian still lay as he had on that other occasion, untouched by the passage of time. As he looked down on the parchment-white face Neverdie’s mandibles spread in the equivalent of a sad smile. He felt no resentment against the man. Julian was a courageous mite who had managed to preserve his tiny life in an attempt to challenge the long-living Aldebaranian, but the balance of his disadvantage lay too heavily against him. As for his viciousness and his greed, Neverdie hardly thought about that.

Finding the reviving mechanism serviceable, Neverdie set the timer for a few hours hence and then flew back to his starship. The charting of a course took slightly longer than he had expected, and it was early morning by the time he aroused the star-drive from its long sleep. He took one last, nostalgic look at the planet that had harboured him for what was, to him, a brief spell, and then took off. As its propulsion unit took hold on the fabric of space the deteriorated structure groaned slightly in the ether eddies. Neverdie scanned his instruments, watching anxiously for any sign of malfunction.

Disaster struck when he was only a few hundred feet in the air. The ship was too old, despite all the work he had put into her. An ominous snap came from aft. Noxious vapours filled the cabin. The ship began to fall and Neverdie struggled desperately with the controls.

As luck would have it, Julian was already awake by the time Neverdie attempted to leave the planet.

The suspended animation system was so effective that in a remarkably short time he had made a full recovery. With the coming of consciousness he found that the lid of the cylinder where he had slept had opened automatically, and he was already breathing air.

His limbs were stiff at first, but he eased himself from the cylinder, his mind already racing ahead to the tasks to come. Then a quick inspection acquainted him with the unexpected state of the chamber: the hole cut neatly in the wall, the decay of some of his equipment that was not carbon-bonded into diamond-hardness, the automatic calendar, calibrated up to a thousand years, that had stopped. Lastly, what he saw through the hole in the wall: a view of trees and fresh grass sweeping downhill. The trees, and the nearby flowers, were of a type unfamiliar to him.

A howl of torment burst from Julian’s lips. It was as easy to read as an open book: the alien had outwitted him—disconnected the reviver and left him to sleep for countless ages. By now he would already have left Earth, perhaps centuries ago.

The desolation and disappointment that overtook Julian Ferrg with that realisation were almost enough to destroy him. Only one thing saved him from permanent emotional damage. He stepped to the opening, finding that the vault was actually buried in the hillside, and looked out, sniffing the air and smelling unfamiliar scents. He glanced upwards and saw something descending through the air leaving a trail of smoke. As it headed for a crash-landing he recognised Neverdie’s starship and everything changed for him in an instant. He paused only to mark the landing place of the ship, then snatched up weapons and instruments from their sealed caskets and set off in wild pursuit.

The crashed starship was about three miles from the vault. Julian arrived there to find that Neverdie had crawled out and lost consciousness. He lay on a bank of green-and-purple flowers.

Julian was adapting quickly to his situation. To his senses the ages he had lain in the time-vault took on the subjective value of a few minutes only, and he required no lengthy reorientation. He took out the anaesthetic spray in case Neverdie should awaken and prove troublesome; but its contents had either denatured or leaked away and no spray issued. Tossing it to one side, he considered the problem of transporting Neverdie to his time-vault and hit on the idea of making a sledge.

Taking out his knife he cut down some nearby saplings and after one or two false starts fashioned a rough vehicle that, he thought, would serve. Then he ventured inside the creaking starship to see what he could find.

Tumbled about the small cabin were a number of objects that were strange to him. He would come back for them later, he promised himself. Luck was once again with him, for there was also a kind of rope-like harness that would be ideal for lashing his prisoner to the improvised sledge, and Julian set to work again with gusto, heaving the alien on to the shafts he had bound together with long grass and securing him in place. Once or twice Neverdie nearly came round and his diaphragm buzzed weakly. Julian ignored him.

Strapped to the underneath of his carapace Neverdie had an instrument with a narrow foot-long barrel that looked as though it might be a weapon. Julian took it from him and examined it. Though it was not designed for the human hand, his thumb found a stud. He pointed the barrel at a tree and pressed the stud. A dull red beam the colour of glowing iron traversed the space between and the tree suddenly changed colour and collapsed into fragments.

He smiled and thrust the weapon into the belt of his utility garment along with the other guns he already carried.

Hauling the load along the rough turf to his time-vault soon had him sweating, but he kept at it. He calculated that he had less than a mile to go when he was interrupted, first by a loud rustling in a nearby clump of vegetation, and then by the appearance of two of the inheritors of the Earth.

In a way they were grotesquely manlike. They could walk almost as easily upright as they could on all fours. Their forepaws were adapted for grasping, the toes having developed into tough, stubby fingers. In one of those paws the leading wolf carried a stone axe.

Julian looked at them, stunned. In like manner they stared back at him. Then the leader crouched, snarled and came at him in a bounding run with the axe upraised. Frantically Julian dropped the staves of the sledge and clawed at the pistol he carried in his belt. Gleaming yellow eyes stabbed into his brain. Then Julian drew and fired.

The shot rang out loudly. The wolf hurtled to the ground and lay there panting, blood beginning to ooze from the wound. The second creature paused for a moment, then turned and fled with a loping gait.

Taking careful aim, Julian squeezed the trigger again. The round failed to fire. Cursing, he pulled out Neverdie’s weapon and destroyed the fleeing animal with its red beam.

Experiment revealed that every other round in his gun was dead. He had unknowingly played a game of Russian Roulette in reverse, and had come up with the only bullet that could have saved him. Luck was indeed with him today. And with Neverdie’s weapon he would have no trouble in defending himself—if its charge lasted long enough.

Keeping a wary look-out, he continued on his way. Already he had identified his attackers as being descended from some wolf-like ancestor, but he wasted no time in thinking out the implications of that. The task in hand required all his concentration.

He encountered no more wolves before reaching the time-vault. Once inside, he first attended to making himself secure, finding the piece of vault wall that Neverdie had excised and using it, together with a workbench, to close the opening up again. It wouldn’t hold against a determined assault, but he still had the alien gun.

Then he carried Neverdie into the vault’s second chamber and strapped him to the main worktable. That done, he took time to rest, during which Neverdie awoke.

He could see that the alien had recovered, though no word came from him. Instead, Neverdie seemed to be looking around him, as if assessing his position. Finally Julian got up and began to inspect his equipment. At last Neverdie addressed a question, his voice slightly ragged through the diaphragm.

“I suppose it is no good trying to dissuade you?”

“Absolutely no good.”

Privately Julian was worried. Much of his equipment was still in good order—that part of it made of non-decaying material, like the surgical instruments. But much of it was useless. He no longer had any reagents, for instance, and would be hard put to make any chemical investigations. Almost all the research he could do was surgical anatomy.

The depressing fear of failure began to overcome him once again, but he made an effort to pull himself together. Perhaps torture would be the most effective method, he told himself, of finding out what he wanted to know.

He walked over to Neverdie and began laying out instruments. “I haven’t any anaesthetic,” he said in an apologetic tone. “Unfortunately your species has a rather high nervous sensitivity, hasn’t it? Make it easy on yourself, Neverdie. Co-operate and it will be quicker and less painful.”

As he spoke he wondered how much pain would induce him to give up an immortality he had already gained. Not any amount, in his opinion. Doubtless Neverdie was similarly motivated.

Nevertheless he got to work on the alien, who was strapped upside down like a huge overturned beetle. Some of his manipulations were torture, pure and simple, but some of them were a survey of Neverdie’s anatomical and nervous systems. Neverdie gave vent to recurrent strangled shrieks and squirmed a good deal as far as his bonds would allow; but that was all. Julian remained aware of the need not to kill his subject and proceeded with care, but he did not feel over-anxious on that score. An immortal being must be physically capable of surviving quite drastic bodily disorder, he reasoned. After a while he absentmindedly left off torture for its own sake and gave himself up to the enjoyment of study.

Nestling just below the brain was a spherical object, like a pearl two inches in diameter.

A massive nerve ganglion surrounded the shining ball, but no nerves, either axons or dendrites, appeared to be actually attached to it. The arrangement was like a nest containing a beautiful, perfect egg. To Julian’s mind the sphere was an artificial object, not native to Neverdie’s body, and he spent some time examining it.

“What will happen if I remove that pearly sphere just below your brain?” he asked, making sure that the alien was conscious.

There was no answer, so Julian, slowly and cautiously, did as he had threatened. He held the pearl up to the light in a pair of calipers and stared at it in fascination. He felt entranced, attracted, drawn on. The sphere seemed to radiate something into his mind, like a candle in otherwise absolute darkness.

A shuddering sigh whispered from Neverdie’s voice diaphragm. “It’s done, then,” he said slowly, as though through a mist of pain.

“Is this what I was seeking?” murmured Julian.

“The Seed…. The Seed of Evil.”

Julian placed the pearl on the palm of his hand. It felt smooth and cool.

“You have nothing to defend any longer,” he said. “Why not explain it all? I would appreciate it.”

With great effort Neverdie replied. “It was not myself I sought to protect, but you. Let me make one last effort to dissuade you. The Seed you hold in your hand is the means to immortality, as you call it. Properly speaking it is biological permanence. All that is necessary is for the Seed to enter your body. To swallow it will be enough, for it will migrate to the most appropriate place, whereupon it will undertake to readjust all the body’s functions with such perfection that it achieves… biological perpetual motion. All the processes which normally cause decay are rendered null and void. The Seed’s properties are even more remarkable than that. It will repair the most appalling injuries to its host; even if the body is completely destroyed it will lie quiescent until coming in contact with biological material, even if only humus, when it will endeavour to reconstruct that body, and usually it will succeed. Thus it is almost impossible to die, impossible even to commit suicide. The only way the arrangement can end is for the Seed to be taken away and given to someone else, whereupon it will forsake the old body and serve the new, for it is able to adapt itself to any conceivable living form in the universe.”

“So far you are making a poor job of dissuasion,” Julian commented.

“What would make such a life unbearable?”

Julian thought for a moment. “Fear of losing it?”

“No. Guilt. The guilt of having stolen it.”

Julian laughed humourlessly. “Do I look like a person who feels guilt?”

“No, but you will change. All change who receive the Seed. Everything looks different after a few million years—even after a few thousand. Yes, perhaps even after a few hundred years you will be tortured by the guilt which you must endure forever—or until——”

Neverdie’s speech was interrupted by hoarse sounds of agony.

“It would be interesting to know how this remarkable device was manufactured,” Julian mused, unmoved by Neverdie’s pain.

The alien seemed to recover enough to resume his explanations. “I will tell you what I know. The origin of the Seed is lost in history, but the legend is plausible. It was created by a race of beings whose name I do not even know, and its purpose was the punishment of a criminal.”

Julian’s attention was diverted by a sound of scratching on the wall of the vault. He hurried to the breach that Neverdie had made, put his ear to it and heard scufflings. Wolves? Or just an animal?

Picking up the death-beamer, he returned to Neverdie. His last remark had puzzled him. “Continue!” he said sharply.

“My strength is failing,” said Neverdie. “Nevertheless—these beings of whom I speak were faced with the problem of dealing with the greatest criminal of their experience, an individual who wilfully committed unspeakably foul acts, and who was without conscience. They decided that the most fitting punishment was first to reform him, and then to cause him to feel ceaseless remorse for his crimes. Immortality achieved both of these aims. And worse. For the other aspect of the life upon which you are so eager to embark is that you are doomed to be hunted by others who desire the immortality which only you possess. Thus those who made the Seed set in motion the chain of events of which you and I are a part. Wherever it goes the Seed attracts to itself the most evil of beings—no one knows how many have fallen into the same trap! The ceaseless hunt to steal immortality!”

“Anything worth having is worth fighting for,” Julian said. “As for this remorse you find so terrible, I feel fairly immune from it.”

“Now you are—— You will change. I have not told you the worst. The worst is that eventually your very existence drags some other unfortunate into committing the same crime, suffering the same punishment—as I did to you. I was not always the harmless creature you know now, Ferrg. Oh, if you only knew—I was a hundred times worse than you! I stole the Seed, as you are stealing it. And I suffer, as you will suffer. I beg you, do not accept the Seed. Die, Ferrg, it is better to die!”

Julian interpreted Neverdie’s argument as a last-minute attempt to con him. Even his claims concerning the miraculous powers of the Seed could be lies. Perhaps the little sphere was a capsule of poison. Julian decided he would have to take a chance on that.

“After coming all this way?” he said. “I’m not backing out now.”

The sphere looked too big to swallow, but experimentally he put it in his mouth. As soon as it touched his lips it seemed to come alive, to be electric. Almost of its own accord it slid easily down his throat and he felt it in his stomach like a big, heavy globe which was slowly absorbed.

A heavy pounding rang all through him, as though he were full of vast cavities.

He seemed to lose touch with his surroundings, to be drawn into something vast and incomprehensible. He seemed to be hanging in an endless void, and suddenly all the people he had ever known flashed before his consciousness in quick succession. There was a lingering image of Ursula Gail as he had last seen her over a glass of wine, her bright hazel eyes regarding him sadly. He saw that all these people had vanished long ago into the void of non-existence, and inexplicably he envied them. Then the scene widened still further and he realised that he was being vouchsafed a vision. He saw that the sequence of events of which he was a part had begun long before the creation of the Seed. Long, long, long back in the vistas of time there had lived a race who had also succeeded in creating an immortal—a true immortal, much more so than any who came into possession of the Seed, which in the course of billions of years would itself perish. They had done it by printing an artificial consciousness into the fabric of space, and it could never be eradicated.

That consciousness was calling him. Its call had caused the Seed to be made in the first place. Somehow, some time, one of the beings enchained by the Seed would, in due course, be lifted out of the material realm to share Aeternus’s state, life without any of the means of life, and without end.

Aeternus’s voice came to Julian: You are my only-begotten son, in whom I am well-pleased. And at that blasphemy he experienced a great fear that he was to be that eternal companion.

Suddenly it was over like a brief nightmare and he was standing beside Neverdie. The alien was speaking, his voice growing weaker.

“Hear them, Ferrg? Hear the Wolves? Do not fear—you will get on well with them. You will be a leader. I remember when I first saw you that I recognised the wolf in you. Welcome to your own people—and thank you for releasing me. If you are lucky one of them might get you soon. However, the Seed will force you to put up a fight. That also is one of its functions——”

Julian said hastily: “What can I do to give the Seed away?” But Neverdie did not answer, and he realised that the Aldebaranian was, at last, dead.

Outside, the wolves began to howl.

Also by Barrington J. Bayley

Age of Adventure

Annihilation Factor

Collision with Chronos

Empire of Two Worlds

Sinners of Erspia

Star Winds

The Fall of Chronopolis

The Forest of Peldain

The Garments of Caean

The Grand Wheel

The Great Hydration

The Pillars of Eternity

The Rod of Light

The Soul of the Robot

The Star Virus

The Zen Gun

The Knights of the Limits

The Seed of Evil

Author Bio

Barrington J. Bayley (1937–2008) was born in Birmingham and began writing science fiction in his early teens. After serving in the RAF, he took up freelance writing on features, serials and picture strips, mostly in the juvenile field, before returning to straight SF. He was a regular contributor to the influential New Worlds magazine and an early voice in the New Wave movement.

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Copyright

A Gollancz eBook

Copyright © Barrington J. Bayley 1979

All rights reserved.

The right of Barrington J. Bayley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This eBook first published in Great Britain in 2012 by

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Content

Barrington J. Bayley
THE SEED OF EVIL

Sporting with the Chid

The God-Gun

The Ship that Sailed the Ocean of Space

The Radius Riders

Man in Transit

Wizard Wazo’s Revenge

The Infinite Searchlight

Integrity

Perfect Love

The Countenance

Life Trap

Farewell, Dear Brother

The Seed of Evil

Also by Barrington J. Bayley

Author Bio

Gateway Introduction

SF Gateway Website

Copyright