Locked Door Shuttered Windows

by J Stafford Wright

"I wish I could," I said. "Where are you going?"

  "I've more or less promised not to say, but there's no harm in showing you this advertisement."

  He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, and smoothed it down on my desk. This is what I read:

  Individual and family volunteers wanted for constructive community experiment. Congenial surroundings. No Christians need apply.

  There was a box office number.

  "Do you mean to say you've applied?"

  "Yes, and been accepted. If you'd like to try, I don't think it'll be too late. Nothing has been finally fixed about the date for going."

  The whole advertisement struck me as the work of a crank, but I began to feel pressure on my mind.

  "Well," I said, "I'll get the particulars and ask my wife. Presumably we'd go together."

  At lunch I broached the subject. My wife's face changed for a moment, and she put her hand to her heart.

  "What is it?" I said in alarm, jumping up. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, of course. It was just that something came over me when you spoke. It must have been excitement. Yes, yes, of course we must apply. We both need a change, and the children are grown up."

  We talked it over, and in the afternoon I wrote a letter. A reply came in less than a week, and my wife and I were asked to go for an interview with a Mr John Longstone at a large local hotel. We were both impressed with him, but I can't say why, since on looking back he was extraordinarily evasive in his answers to my questions. Yet, curiously enough, he left us with the impression that we would be joining a scheme which would take us right out of the rat race to a simple, satisfying life in ideal surroundings.

  Mr Longstone gave very little concrete information, although he assured us that he was the agent of a brilliant scientist who had everything worked out. Now I'm wondering just who this mastermind is. We have never seen him, nor do we know his name. This fellow Longstone seems to be managing everything.

  Somehow, we fell in with his seemingly bizarre plan. All the time the sense of inner compulsion was driving us on to do what surely we would have resisted with calmer thought. We were told not to discuss the project with anyone, but simply to say that we were going on holiday, and to make any necessary arrangement accordingly. So I arranged for my son to take on my practice, as he did sometimes.

  Then we wondered whether, after all, the whole thing was a hoax, especially when we were given instructions to prepare ourselves on June 24th by withdrawing on our own in quiet meditation, and reciting the two syllable word "Priam" again and again. But once more, the inner pressure drove us to agree.

  We were told not to pack anything to take with us. That seemed strange, but the thought came to me that this would be a way out for the super-scientist if the scheme failed. We would simply be left to carry on as though nothing had happened. Yet it sounded absurd. Could we assume that everything we needed would be provided -- if we ever arrived at our unknown destination? I couldn't help feeling all the time that we were behaving like silly children playing some imaginary game.

  At the appointed hour we sat down opposite one another in two armchairs, and began the mumbo jumbo. What happened next is beyond me. One moment we were there, and next moment we were sitting in the same room in the same chairs, and yet what seemed to be the same was somehow different.

  We got up simultaneously and moved quickly to the front door. All seemed the identical until we stepped out into the street. Then, in place of the houses opposite, we found ourselves staring across a sloping village green. Other doors were opening, and people ran out, calling, "What's happening? Where are we?"

  Someone shouted, "There he is!" and I saw Longstone standing on the green, looking as bewildered as we were. People rushed towards him, and we followed. But all we got from him was reassurance that all was well, and somehow we were now on a planet called Priam in outer space. It didn't make sense, yet we were certainly in a strange place, and it might as well be called Priam as anywhere else.

  Longstone said we would find everything we needed in our houses, and when we had all settled down he would be available to answer questions and solve problems. I have never seen a crowd quieted so quickly. I'm not surprised, if they all felt the same inner pressure as was moving my wife and me to keep quiet and trust Longstone.

  When we returned to our house, there was my name on a plate at the gate, announcing my medical qualifications. Inside, the house appeared to be virtually a replica of the one we had left. What puzzles me is what has happened to us all.

  The mad scientist -- which is what I am inclined to call him -- has evidently solved the problem of UFOs, if indeed they exist. He is not limited even to the speed of light. We travelled at the speed of thought, as though mind had taken over matter. Or is the whole thing a case of mass hypnosis? That's a thought that disturbs me some nights when I am unable to sleep.

  I wrote these impressions of mine yesterday evening. The sun, so similar to our one on earth, set soon after eight o'clock. We stayed up talking until ten o'clock and then went to bed. Yes, by electric light. We are already beginning to accept life here as normal. Indeed, we went to sleep in our new/old beds, and slept soundly.

  I woke before my wife, as I usually do when we are on holiday. I generally creep out early and spend a quiet half hour in the country. I opened the front door and looked out. Everything was still, and there was no one about. The sun had just risen. I walked up the street, with houses on my right, and the green on my left, then past other houses further on.

  When I was clear of the village I came to a little wood, and made my way in among the trees. Not far off I heard the sound of running water and walked towards it. I came across a stream running from left to right, and followed it until suddenly I was on the edge of a lake. A line of sun sparkled across it, and away from the bright streak a fish jumped in the water.

  At home I sometimes relax when I find a scene of this kind. I'm not a religious man, and I don't believe in a god, but I believe in the healing power of nature. And after the uncertainties of the past few weeks, I thought I would sit here and soak myself in the sheer beauty of the scene.

  But something was wrong. Instead of the peace that I was looking for, my soul (what a stupid word!) was troubled by a feeling to which I cannot put a name. It was as though nature herself was somehow crooked, and could no longer give me peace. I felt restless, and had to stand on my feet again. Sitting was impossible. I walked along the lakeside, but the whole thing had turned nasty -- that seems the only word to use. I even had a sense of fear, and kept looking over my shoulder. The words from Coleridge's Ancient Mariner came ringing into my head, and I repeated them aloud.

  "Like one that on a lonesome road

  Doth walk in fear and dread,

  And, having once turned round walks on,

  And turns no more his head;

  Because he knows, a frightful fiend

  Doth close beside him tread."

  Of course, I don't believe in fiends, frightful or otherwise. Nonetheless, I turned round and quickly made my way back the way I had come.

  There were now a few people up early and out in the street. One stopped me and asked if I knew where he could buy a newspaper. To his dismay I told him I had no idea. When I reached my house my wife was up, cooking eggs and bacon on the stove as she did at home. When we went over the house last night, we had found the larder well stocked with familiar foods, though where they had come from in outer space I had no idea. Perhaps a good breakfast would drive away my fears. Like the man I'd met in the street, I missed my paper.

  After breakfast I set out again, this time turning to the left. I had not gone far before I came across the village shop. The window appeared to be well stocked with useful things, and I went in. The shop itself had a number of shelves along two sides. The counter was opposite the door, and in the space behind there were other shelves, loaded with tins and packets. Sides of bacon hung from hooks in the ceiling, and I could see packs of meat an
d vegetables in a long container: refrigerated, I supposed.

  An elderly man and woman (husband and wife, as I guessed correctly) stood behind the counter, serving three customers. I felt in my pocket for money and pulled out, not the familiar coins, but alloy tokens stamped with 1, 2, 5, 10, 50 and 500. How they had got there I cannot tell. They just have to take their place with the other mysteries.

  The shopkeepers seemed bewildered when I spoke to them when the others went out, and we were alone. They were as mystified as any of us. They had been in their own shop, I forget where, and they had been transported with the rest of us yesterday. Longstone had prepared them for carrying on their work in new surroundings, and indeed this shop was not unlike their own. I asked about money, and they told me that there was some sort of a bank next door. At the moment everyone apparently arrived here with tokens in their pockets, but Longstone had told the shopkeepers that more tokens would be supplied at the bank.

  I was at a loss what to buy, but asked for cigarettes. They apologised, and said that the agent had told them that the purpose of the new community was good health for everyone, and that his boss had said that smoking was bad and addictive, and he had no time for anything that would weaken the community. So they had no cigarettes. I bought a tin of soup.

  Before going home, I looked in at the so-called bank. There was only one sad-looking cashier at the counter, and he told me there was no one to help him. He had been a cashier in a big bank in England, but had thought that this would be an opportunity to change. But he hadn't pictured a bank that merely issued tokens. He brightened a little when I suggested that some customers would want to open accounts.

  He had been transported to a small apartment above the bank, and had found on the table details of the token system. The strong-room was piled high with tokens. He was appalled to read that to open an account a person simply had to ask for a number of tokens, the ration being 600 points a month. He had to issue and stamp a card for each customer, and keep a duplicate in the bank. He remarked that this wasn't what he called banking at all. He sounded even more depressed when I asked for my first 600.

  I left him to his gloom.

  I went home and persuaded my wife to go and draw her own 600 tokens, for I have no confidence in the future of our community. Nor, incidentally, has my patient, Richard Halliday, who brought me into this strange affair. I saw him leaning over his gate as I went back to what I must learn to call "my home".

  I called "Good morning."

  "Not all that good," he answered. "I wish I'd never come. The sooner I'm back, the better I'll be pleased."

  But will we ever be back?

  CHAPTER 7

  I need not add to Dr Faber's memoirs. They cover much of what I would have needed to explain. For myself, I was inundated with callers on that first day, all asking much the same questions.

  I wished that Satan had been there to give the answers, but he had told me he intended to be out of sight as much as possible, but that I could always communicate with him by what one calls a hot line -- except that there was no actual line, only a sort telepathy if I spoke to him out loud.

  Of course one of the first questions the people asked was, "When can we see the boss?"

  I explained that he was a shy man who had always believed in working from behind the scenes. How true that was! In addition, he still had many concerns that needed his presence on earth, although he would doubtless teleport himself here whenever it was necessary. Meanwhile, he had given me authority to make decisions.

  The next most frequent question was, "How long are we staying here?"

  My answer was to remind them that they had volunteered to come of their own free will, and they couldn't possibly start thinking of return yet. In my own mind, I wondered whether return was even an option.

  Some asked whether it was safe to leave the village and go out into the country. I was able to assure them that there were animals about, but none that would attack humans, not even small children. Again, Satan had told me that Christians on earth didn't seem to see through the fallacy that their god, who called himself a god of love, allowed mankind to be attacked and killed by wild beasts. Satan had assured me that he had put a controlling force upon all dangerous creatures, not forgetting snakes.

  "You see," he said, "I want my people to think of me as one who is wholly concerned for their welfare."

  Some seemed anxious about lack of the media, for there were no newspapers, or radio and television sets. I pointed out that one of the aims of our community was simplicity and self-containment. To know what was going on upon earth, thousands of light years away, would be disturbing and upsetting, even if it satisfied our curiosity.

  I added that I hoped to arrange a local press, which would write up our own doings. I was not sure yet whether the printer we had recruited would agree to work a simple printing press -- if one could be teleported.

  There was one question which proved to be important later. This was, "What about crime?"

  I could only say that we had tried to choose members who would be law-abiding. If a baddie had slipped through the net, he would be dealt with severely if he was guilty of any crime.

  "Who would try him?"

  I tried to look confident. "This would depend on what the community decided. I would like to get everyone together to elect a council. And the council will draw up rules, including rules for the treatment of offenders."

  When I was alone again, Satan appeared. He had evidently been listening. "Good answers!" he said. "I like your idea about a council. Put up a notice asking anyone interested to come to a meeting tomorrow evening to decide about the running of the community, including the election of a council. It doesn't give them much notice, but at present they aren't likely to have fixed up other engagements. By the way, you had better get elected yourself. It ought not to be difficult, as they all know you, even if they don't know one another."

  He disappeared.

  * * *

  We had been provided with a school building, with three classrooms and a large hall. Obviously the hall was the best place for the meeting I hastily arranged. I counted thirty-five people present, and concluded that some of the rest were baby-sitting at home. I was elected chairman by acclamation, after Dr Peter Faber proposed my name. So I sat down on a beautifully carved chair on the platform, with an equally fine table in front of me. Satan was evidently not one to put up with anything shoddy. I could see a pad of paper and a ballpoint pen on the table.

  I rose to make a short opening speech before asking for questions. "Ladies and gentlemen, companions on this great adventure, I thank you for your support in voting me to the chair." (Hear, hear!) "I want, in the name of our leader, to welcome you. You have all had a chance to look around, and like myself you must be amazed at the miracle that has brought us here, and the amazing supplies of all that we need. One might say it is a second Garden of Eden."

  At this point I felt my hand picking up the pen and writing at lightning speed on the pad. I would have felt self-conscious if it had not been that the attention of the audience was drawn to a thin-faced man at the back of the hall, who rose to his feet and called out, "You don't believe all that Bible stuff about Adam and Eve, do you?"

  I joined in the general laughter, meanwhile glancing down to see what I had written. Although I had certainly written it, the writing was in a strange hand: Don't say that name again.

  I took the warning, but it gave me an idea. Perhaps my hot line to my boss could take the form of automatic writing as well as telepathy.

  I went on, "It may be that there will still be things you wish to have up here. If so, you have only to let me know. Ask, and you shall receive."

  I was rather pleased with that. It was, I know, a quotation from the Christian Bible, but it brought an unexpected comeback from a sad looking lady in the second row.

  "Do you mean we can have whatever we ask for?"

  "A good question. One must use one's common sense about asking. Th
ere may well be things that aren't good for us to have. For instance, I mustn't ask to be a millionaire."

  "Why not?" called a voice.

  "Another good question. If I ask for a million tokens, it wouldn't be good for my character to find a million dumped on this table. On the other hand, I might be answered by being shown how to work hard enough, and skilfully enough, to become a millionaire in twenty year's time. No, what I mean is that any reasonable request will be answered as fully as possible."

  I paused for a further question. As no one spoke, I amplified my previous answer.

  "There is a difference between being spoon-fed and being ready to work for what we need. This isn't a holiday camp, with everything handed to us on a plate. Most of you can do at least one thing, and can teach others how to do it. Some of you know a trade. Then teach it to others. If you have children, help the family who are now farming on the hill to milk their cows and gather in their crops. If you want a newspaper, see if you can help gather the news, and give a hand with the printing press that has arrived unexpectedly this afternoon. It's a simple model that will be slow to use, but Joe Penny seems happy to work it, even though it's old fashioned. We must try to be as self sufficient as possible."

  "What about a trade union?" someone asked.

  "Why not. You can decide that for yourselves. But, if I may suggest, a single inclusive union would be better than a lot of little ones with only one or two members in each."

  "I haven't seen a pub," said someone.

  "With so few of us here we won't need one. We can buy drink at the shop."

  Then came a curious question. "Do we all have to be good?"

  I tried to remember what I had read in the past about ethics. "What do you mean by 'being good'?"

  "Well, just being good. You know what I mean."

  "I'm not going to give you a lecture on morality, but so far as I can see it's like this. You can please yourself so long as what you do doesn't interfere with other people. You are responsible to yourself alone. But if you start spoiling someone else's life, you'll have to pull in your horns. Our scientist, who drew up the plan for our life, has no intention of letting his plan be wrecked. He has brought us here to live a satisfying life, and I think he'll want to see it worked out."