The Complete Dangerous Visions

by Anthology

  That is the message of the story. You are the monsters.

  THE NIGHT THAT ALL TIME BROKE OUT

  Brian W. Aldiss

  Introduction

  Brian Aldiss is an English fellah who won a Hugo for his Hothouse series a few years back, and a Nebula last year for “The Saliva Tree” (in a tie) for best novella. He also did this novel called The Dark Light-Years which was all about shit. Now that is what I call a dangerous vision.

  He lives in Oxford, England. He was born August 18, 1925, in East Dereham, Norfolk. He submits he has no religion, and he is divorced and now remarried to Margaret (I am told), a delightful and charming girl.

  Aldiss books include Starship, Hothouse, Greybeard, Who Can Replace a Man!, Earthworks and he is co-editor (with Harry Harrison) of Nebula Awards Two. He is also, incidentally, literary editor of the Oxford Mail. He was Guest of Honor at the 23rd World Science Fiction Convention, held in London in August 1965.

  As editor of this anthology, I knew very little about Aldiss save that I admired his writing and wanted a story by him within these covers. Having received, read and purchased the off-center item that follows, I feel my responsibility in the matter is at an end. I will, therefore, allow Mr. Aldiss (pronounced Old-iss) to speak his piece unfootnoted:

  “Born in 1925, I can recall being taken to school—kindergarten—past rows of unemployed waiting for the dole, my nurse being very scared of them. That would be the great depression.

  “I began writing almost as soon as I could read and have really never stopped. Wrote science fiction at the age of six before I knew what it was all about; wrote pornography at boarding school before I knew what it was all about! Spent four years in the armed forces (1943-47), being just old enough to be sent out to Burma on active service and see a little of the Japanese war. These adolescent years made a great impression—I saw India, Burma, Assam, Ceylon, Sumatra, Malaya, Hong Kong.

  “After all that, I didn’t want to do anything; I never have, except live and write. I drifted into bookselling, thinking that at least it would give me a chance to read. After a while I stopped private writing and tried to write for a public. It worked. I threw up bookselling. My writing career has been happy and widened my horizons and brought me in touch with many pleasant and interesting people. In this respect, I have been tremendously fortunate. My ill-luck came in my marriage, a battle that lasted some fifteen years—but that’s over now and I’m happily remarried.

  “In England, I am very well known, billed on my latest paperback as ‘Britain’s Premier Science Fiction Author’—it may not be accurate but it certainly rattles the opposition! Within the small field, I am very versatile, writing novels and short stories of different kinds, producing anthologies (the three I did for Penguin Books are still selling like hot cakes), appearing at conventions and on literary panels and on TV and radio. I also edit with Harry Harrison, a magazine devoted purely to s-f lit crit: SF Horizons.

  “In 1964 with my marriage at an impasse, I bought a secondhand Land Rover and drove off to Yugoslavia for six months, traveling round, especially down in the south, Macedonia and all that. A book has come out of the experience. In time, I hope to cover all the other ex-Byzantine states. And I like travelling in Communist countries—the fact that when the chips are down they are on the other side of the fence gives life a mild frisson. Not that the Yugoslavs weren’t pleasant.

  “I still am a man without ambition—except one; I know I am the world’s best s-f writer; I want others to know it too!”

  The Night that All Time Broke Out

  The dentist bowed her smiling to the door, dialling a cab for her as he went. It alighted on the balcony as she emerged.

  It was a non-automatic type, old-fashioned enough to be considered chic. Fifi Fevertrees smiled dazzlingly at the driver and climbed in.

  “Extra-city service,” she said. “The village of Rouseville, off Route Z4.”

  “You live in the country, huh?” said the cab driver, sailing up into the pseudo-blue, and steering like a madman with one foot.

  “The country’s okay,” Fifi said defensively. She hesitated and then decided she could allow herself to boast. “Besides, it’s even better now they got the time mains out there. We’re just being connected to the time main at our house—it should be finished when I get home.”

  “The cabby shrugged. “Reckon it’s costly out in the country.”

  “Three payts a basic unit.”

  He whistled significantly.

  She wanted to tell him more, wanted to tell him how excited she was, how she wished daddy was alive to experience the fun of being on the time main. But it was difficult to say anything with a thumb in her mouth, as she looked into her wrist mirror and probed to see what the dentist had done to her.

  He’d done a good job. The new little pearly tooth was already growing firmly in the pink gum. Fifi decided she had a very sexy mouth, just as Tracey said. And the dentist had removed the old tooth by time gas. So simple. Just a whiff of it and she was back in the day before yesterday, reliving that peasant little interlude when she had taken coffee with Peggy Hackenson, with not a thought of any pain. Time gas was so smart these days. She positively glowed to think they would have it themselves, on tap all the while.

  The bubble cab soared up and out of one of the dilating ports of the great dome that covered the city. Fifi felt a momentary sorrow at leaving. The cities were so pleasant nowadays that nobody wished to live outside them. Everything was double as expensive outside, too, but fortunately the government paid a hardship allowance for anyone like the Fevertrees, who had to live in the country.

  In a couple of minutes they were sailing down to the ground again. Fifi pinpointed their dairy farm, and the cabby set them neatly down on their landing balcony before holding out his paw for an extortionate number of kilopayts. Only when he had the cash did he lean back and unlock Fifi’s door with one foot. You couldn’t put a thing over these chimp drivers.

  She forgot all about him as she hurried down through the house. This was the day of days! It had taken the builders two months to install the central timing—two weeks longer than they had originally anticipated—and everywhen had been in an awful muddle all that time, as the men trundled their pipes and wires through every room. Now all was orderly once more. She positively danced down the stairs to find her husband.

  Tracey Fevertrees was standing in the kitchen, talking to the builder. When his wife burst in, he turned and took her hand, smiling in a way that was merely soothing to her, though it disturbed the slumbers of many a local Rouseville maiden. But his good looks could hardly match her beauty when she was excited as she was at present.

  “Is it all in working order?” she asked.

  “There is just one last-minute snag,” Mr. Archibald Smith said grudgingly.

  “Oh, there’s always a last-minute snag! We’ve had fifteen of them in the last week, Mr. Smith. What now?”

  “It’s nothing that should affect you here. It’s just that, as you know, we had to pipe the time gas rather a long way to you from the main supply down at Rouseville works, and we seem to have a bit of trouble maintaining pressure. There’s talk of a nasty leak at the main pit in the works, which they’re having a job to plug. But that shouldn’t worry you.”

  “We’ve tested it all out here and it seems to work fine,” Tracey said to his wife. “Come on and I’ll show you!”

  They shook hands with Mr. Smith, who showed a traditional builderly reluctance to leave the site of his labours. Finally he moved off, promising to be back in the morning to pick up a last bag of tools, and Tracey and Fifi were left alone with their new toy.

  Among all the other kitchen equipment, the time panel hardly stood out. It was situated next to the nuclear unit, a discreet little fixture with a dozen small dials and twice that number of toggle switches.

  He pointed out to her how the time pressures had been set: low for corridors and offices, higher for bedrooms, variable for the living ro
om. She rubbed herself against him and made an imitation purr.

  “You are thrilled, aren’t you, honey?” she asked.

  “I keep thinking of the bills we have to pay. And the bills to come—three payts a basic unit—wow!” Then he saw her look of disappointment and added, “But of course I love it, darling. You know I’m going to be delighted.”

  Then they bustled through the house, with the controls on. In the kitchen itself, they set themselves back to a recent early midmorning. They floated in time past at the time of day Fifi favoured most for kitchen work, when the breakfast chores were over and it was long before the hour when lunch need be planned and dialled. Fifi and Tracey had selected a morning when she had been feeling particularly calm and well; the entire ambience of that period swept over them now.

  “Marvellous! Delicious! I can do anything, cook you anything, now!”

  They kissed each other, and ran into the corridor, crying, “Isn’t science wonderful!”

  They stopped abruptly. “Oh no!” Fifi cried.

  The corridor was in perfect order, the drapes in place and gleaming metallically by the two windows, controlling the amount of light that entered, storing the surplus for off-peak hours, the creep-carpet in place and resprayed, carrying them smoothly forward, the panelling all warm and soft to the touch. But they were time-controlled back to three o’clock of an afternoon a month ago, a peaceful time of day—except that a month ago the builders had been at work here.

  “Honey, they’ll ruin the carpet! And I just know the panelling will not go back properly! Oh, Tracey, look—they’ve disconnected the drapes, and Smithy promised not to!”

  He clutched her shoulder. “Honey, everything’s in order, honest!”

  “It’s not! It’s not in order! Look at these dirty old time tubes everywhere, and all these cables hanging about! They’ve ruined our lovely dust-absorbent ceiling—look at the way it’s leaking dirt over everything!”

  “Honey, it’s the time effect!” But he had to admit that he could not credit the perfect corridor his eyes registered; he was carried away like Fifi by his emotions of a month ago when he viewed the place as it had been then, in the hands of Smithy and his terrible men.

  They reached the end of the passage and jumped into the bedroom, escaping into another time zone. Peeping back through the door, Fifi said tearfully, “Gosh, Trace, the power of time! I guess we just have to alter the controls for the corridor, eh?”

  “Sure, we’ll tune in to a year ago, say a nice summer’s afternoon along the passage. You name it, we dial it! That’s the motto of Central Time Board, isn’t it? Anyhow, how do you like the time in here?”

  After gazing round the bedroom, she lowered her long lashes at him. “Mm, sort of relaxed, isn’t it?”

  “Two o’clock in the morning, honey, early spring, and everyone in the whole zone sleeping tight. We aren’t likely to suffer from insomnia now!”

  She came and stood against him, leaning on his chest and looking up at him. “You don’t think that maybe eleven at night would be a more—well, bedroomy time?”

  “You know I prefer the sofa for that sort of thing, honey. Come and sit on it with me and see what you think about the living room.”

  The living room was one flight down, with only the garage and the dairy on the two floors below between them and the ground. It was a fine large room with fine large windows looking over the landscape to the distant dome of the city, and it had a fine large sofa standing in the middle of it.

  They sat down on this voluptuous sofa and, past associations being what they were, commenced to cuddle. After a while Tracey reached down to the floor and pulled up a hand-switcher that was plugged into the wall.

  “We can control our own time from here, without getting up, Fifi! You name the time and we flip back to it.”

  “If you’re thinking of what I think you’re thinking, then we’d better not go back more than ten months because we weren’t married before that.”

  “Now, come on, Mrs. Fevertrees, are you getting old-fashioned or something? You never let that thought bother you before we were married.”

  “I did too!—Though maybe more after than at the time, when I was sort of carried away.”

  He stroked her pretty hair gently. “Tell you what I thought we could try sometime—dial back to when you were twelve. You must have been very sexy in your preteens, and I’d sure as hell love to find out. How about it?”

  She was about to deliver some conventional female rebuke, but her imagination got the better of her. “We could work back to when we were tots!”

  “Attaboy! You know I have a touch of the Lolita complex!”

  “Trace—we must be careful unless in our excitement we shoot back past the day we were born, or we’ll wind up little blobs of protoplasm or something.”

  “Honey, you read the brochures! When we get up enough pressure to go right past our birth dates, we simply enter the consciousness of our nearest predecessors of the same sex—you your mother, me my father, and then your grandmother and my grandfather. Farther back than that, time pressure in the Rouseville mains won’t let us go.”

  Conversation languished under other interests until Fifi murmured dreamily, “What a heavenly invention time is! Know what, even when we’re old and grey and impotent, we’ll be able to come back and enjoy ourselves as we were when we were young. We’ll dial back to this very instant, won’t we?”

  “Mmmm,” he said. It was a universally shared sentiment.

  That evening, they dined off a huge synthetic lobster. In her excitement over being on the time mains, Fifi had somehow dialled a slightly incorrect mixture—though she swore there was a misprint in the cook-book programming she had fed the kitchputer—and the dish was not all it should be. But they dialled themselves back to the time of one of the first and finest lobsters they had ever eaten together, shortly after their meeting two years before. The remembered taste took off the disappointment of the present taste.

  While they were eating, the pressure went.

  There was no sound. Externally, all was the same. But inside their heads, they felt themselves whirling through the days like leaves blown over a moor. Mealtimes came and went, and the lobster was sickening in their mouths as they seemed to chew in turn turkey, or cheese, or game, or trifle or sponge pudding or ice cream or breakfast cereal. For several mind-wrenching moments they sat there at table, petrified, while hundreds of assorted tastes chased themselves over their taste buds. Tracey jumped up gasping and cut off the time flow entirely at the switch by the door.

  “Something’s gone wrong!” he exclaimed. “It’s that guy Smith. I’ll dial him straightaway. I’ll shoot him!”

  But when Smith’s face floated up in the vision tank, it was as bland as ever.

  “The fault’s not mine, Mr. Fevertrees. As a matter of fact, one of my men just dialled me to say that there’s trouble at the Rouseville time works, where your pipe joins the main supply. Time gas is leaking out. I told you this morning they were having some bother there. Go to bed, Mr. Fevertrees—that’s my suggestion. Go to bed, and in the morning all will probably be fixed again.”

  “Go to bed! How dare he tell us to go to bed!” Fifi exclaimed. “What an immoral suggestion! He’s trying to hide something, that man. I’ll bet this is some mistake of his and he’s covering up with this story about a leak at the time works.”

  “We can soon check on that. Let’s drive down there and see!”

  They caught the elevator down to the ground floor and climbed into their land vehicle. City folk might laugh at these little wheeled hovercraft, so quaintly reminiscent of the automobiles of bygone days, but there was no doubt that they were indispensable in the country outside the domes, where free public transport did not reach.

  The doors opened and they rolled out, taking off immediately and floating forward a couple of feet above the ground. Rouseville lay over a low hill, and the time works was just on the far fringe of it. But as they sighted the f
irst houses, something strange happened.

  Though all was quiet, the land vehicle began to jerk around wildly. Fifi was flung about, and the next moment they were stuck in a hedge.

  “Heck, these things are heavy! I must learn to drive one sometime!” Tracey said, climbing out.

  “Aren’t you going to help me down, Tracey?”

  “Aw, I’m too big to play with girls!”

  “You gotta help me! I lost my dolly!”

  “You never had no dolly! Nuts to you!”

  He ran on across the field and she had to follow him, calling as she ran. It was just so difficult trying to control the clumsy heavy body of an adult with the mind of a child.

  She found her husband sitting in the middle of the Rouseville road, kicking and waving his arms. He giggled at her. “Tace go walkey-walkey!” he said.

  But in a few moments they were able to move along again on foot, though it was painful for Fifi, whose mother had been lame toward the end of her life. Together they hobbled forward, two young things in old postures. When they entered the little domeless village, it was to find most of the inhabitants about, and going through the whole spectrum of human age-characteristics, from burbling infancy to rattling senility. Obviously, something serious had happened at the time works.

  Ten minutes and a few generations later, they arrived at the gates. Standing below the Central Time Board sign was Smith. They did not recognise him; he was wearing an anti-time gas mask, its exhaust spluttering as it spat out old moments.

  “I thought you two might turn up!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t believe me, eh? Well, you’d better come in with me and see for yourselves. They’ve struck a major gusher and the cocks couldn’t stand the pressure and collapsed. My guess is they’ll have to evacuate the whole area before they get this one fixed.”