The Shores of Death

by Michael Moorcock

  For a confessedly incurious man, Retorsh asked plenty of questions.

  “Me? I’ve come here to—live,” said Marca.

  Retorsh bit his lip and patted Marca’s arm. “I’ll see you before you leave Klobax.” He pointed. “That’s the way you want to go—in the direction of that tall bluff.”

  Marca said some formal words of thanks and squeezed his gravstrap. He rose slowly into the lurid sky. Another pressure on his strap and he was heading towards the bluff.

  Multi-angled surfaces of flashing metal were what he saw first as he approached the village from above. In the distance it looked like a vast static mobile, only momentarily at rest. It lay in a depression ringed by rocks that all leaned inwards so that the village seemed to lie in the gullet of some sharp-toothed beast. The rocks were long black fangs casting a network of shadows into the depression. Sometimes the individual surfaces would merge as he turned his head, and then the whole would combine—a blaze of bright metal—and as suddenly disintegrate again.

  It was a shanty-town of the 30th century. The shacks were golden, silvery, rubied, emeralded, diamonded hovels of sharp sheets of harder-than-steel plastic and metal. They seemed to lean against one another for support, were placed at cluttered random, forming a jumbled jungle of artifice in that barren, natural landscape.

  As he got closer, he could observe individual buildings —all single-storied—and notice patches of cultivated land, small deep reservoirs, featureless boxes of machinery, thin cables—all still under the sun. He began to descend.

  Reaching the ground within the circle of black rocks but beyond the limits of the village he saw one or two figures moving in slow motion between the buildings. Attached to his belt was a kit-box given him by Retorsh. It contained a supply of drugs and a hypo-gun in case he should need them. Though he had not mentioned this to Retorsh, he had realised at once that the hypo-gun, loaded with the right drug, could become an effective weapon. Now he paused, opened the box, took out the gun and fitted a cartridge of sedadin into the chamber, enough for twenty or thirty shots. He did this because he had no way of knowing how he would be received by the inhabitants of the village.

  From the ground, the village did not have quite such a surrealistic appearance, did not look quite so makeshift, though it was evident that the ‘ shanties ’ were not made of prefabricated parts but constructed primarily of sections that had once been fragments of spaceship hulls and bulkheads.

  Marca walked cautiously forward.

  And then a tall old man, with curling white hair, a cream-coloured cloak, yellow tights and a huge box strapped to his naked chest, appeared from around a building and greeted him.

  “Stranger, you are welcome,” he said gravely, dropping his chin slightly and starring hard at Marca. “You enter a mythical place, a holy place, the Seat of the Centre, Influencer of the Spheres—come pilgrim.” With a great show of dignity he swept his arm to indicate a low, narrow doorway. Marca did not move. He recognised the jargon. The man was a member of the New Deistic Church of the 30th Century Zodiac. There weren’t many of them.

  “Thank you,” said Marca, “but I am alone in my soul.” This meant that if he were an NDC-er he was going through a course of intensive meditation which another’s presence would interrupt.

  The white-haired man nodded and said softly: “Forgive me.” Then he stooped and went into his shack.

  Marca now moved through the gaps between the shacks. He heard stirrings and soft voices, low moans and whines that were either human or mechanical, heard a scraping noise once or twice, but saw no-one until he entered a small clearing.

  There, to one side, in the shade of a building, sat something that Marca recognised from pictures, something that he had heard about often but never seen for himself.

  At first the shape appeared to be nothing but a tangle of coils and thin cables, a dark, static web standing nearly two metres high and some sixty centimetres in diameter, of a dull red colour, with threads of blue, gold and silver closer to the centre of the network. And then, as he peered closer, Marca saw the outlines of a human figure inside. He felt a shock as the figure spoke in a clear voice.

  “Good morning, newcomer. I saw you approaching across the fields.”

  Marca didn’t argue. The man was living a complete and complex illusion. Every function of his mind and body was controlled by the machine of which he was the centre, a machine which completely simulated Earthly conditions for him and made him see his surroundings as if they were Earthly surroundings. Originally designed as a temporary device for use primarily in space, the machine operated directly on the central nervous system. Its drawback had been that it spread a peculiar kind of cancer through the spinal fluid and the resulting death was even worse than the space-ache. This was a modification that was connected up to some hundred main noetic points. Its drawback, in turn, was that once it was connected, it had to stay connected, for disconnection resulted in an acute nervous shock that brought death instantly.

  The cage of metal moved jerkily forward. From inside it an emaciated hand reached out and touched Marca’s arm. “You,” said the clear voice. “You. You. You.” It paused. “Me,” it said at length. Then the encaged figure turned and went back to the shadow.

  Marca moved on. He felt depressed and nervous. The village seemed populated only by the insane. Yet he had to find someone who knew where he was, someone to give him directions, information about the scientist.

  He paused as he came to a decision. He knocked on the wall of the nearest shack. He called: “Is anyone in? ” He bent his head and entered the room. The smell was terrible. Inside the room, on a big square bed, a man sat up suddenly. Beside him lay a young woman.

  The man was also young. He had a hypo-gun in his hand and his face was angry. He said: “Get out.”

  Outside Marca sighed and looked around him. The village seemed to hem him in. But all he had to do to leave it was to squeeze his gravstrap and fly straight up.

  Why did people come here? The Bleak Worlds drew the unbalanced and the misfits, he knew, because of their raw landscapes, their appearance of primordial grandeur, their sense of unlimited space. He remembered as a child he had used to wander in woods in the firm belief that they would go on forever; his disappointment when he came to a fence, a field or a road was always intense. He was always seeking a place where the trees went on and on for infinity. He could not analyse this feeling, though he still possessed it to some extent, but perhaps it was this yearning which brought the lonely to the Bleak Worlds, made them willing to suffer pain and madness just for the knowledge—nothing else—that if they wanted to they could go wandering over the planet for ever, with nothing to stop them. A need for eternity.

  A voice said ingratiatingly behind him: “Can I help, Clovis Marca? ”

  He turned to see a pale-faced, mean-lipped men emerging from a blue and orange shack. The man had bitter eyes. He was dressed in a loose black toga and on his hands were many rings. The jewels in the rings were Jovian peletres, in themselves capable of bringing odd, hypnotic dreams. This man, Marca felt, was very different from the others he had met—and here for different reasons.

  His name was Philas Damiago and he had the fame of being the only murderer to be convicted in the last hundred years. His victim had been revived and testified that Damiago had killed him for a precious statuette.

  For this crime, Marca himself had banished Damiago from Earth. At once he suspected Damiago’s tone.

  “Damiago—what are you doing here? ”

  “Oh very little, Clovis Marca. And why are you here. A mission of good-will? Soup and kind words? ” The pale man’s voice was still soft.

  “I have personal reasons. You seem to have kept very—sane.”

  Damiago moved his lips in an ironic smile. “Why not? Only weakness allows one to get like that— ” he pointed at the man in the mesh. “I have ways of staying sane. I have my work.”

  “What work is that? ”

  “Would
you like to see it? ”

  As Damiago strode back into his hut, Marca followed him. The place was well-lighted, and bigger than he had expected. In the centre, on a plinth surrounded by tools and furniture, stood a great half-finished sculpture. It was a crude thing, yet powerful—particularly since the entire bulky shape was constructed of human bones.

  “Where do you get your materials,” Marca said quietly. “do you have to hunt for them, or do they come to you? ”

  “They come to me, Clovis Marca.” Damiago smiled. “I am the most valuable member of the community.”

  Marca turned his back on the thing on the plinth. His hand went to the catch of the kit-box.

  “Perhaps in time you yourself will require my services? ” Damiago said behind him.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You never know. But I can tell that you are not your old self, Clovis Marca. You seem less self-possessed than when we last met. But perhaps that is only because you were on your own ground then.”

  Clovis swung round, but Damiago raised a hand and smiled deprecatingly. “I am not being offensive, I assure you. I merely say what I see. All men have weaknesses— would we be human without them? And if I can help— something you seek, or someone? ”

  “You are perceptive, Damiago, if you sense a weakness in me. But the craving isn’t physical” Marca made his anger subside. Damiago might be the man to help him and if that were so he didn’t want to get involved in a quarrel or worse.

  “But a weakness, nonetheless. I tell you sincerely, Clovis Marca, that to know that is enough for me. I am satisfied.” Damiago grinned blatantly, triumphing in his knowledge. “I always felt you were too perfect.”

  Marca tried to ignore the feeling of self-loathing that filled him. He spoke levelly. “You sound as if you might have some of the information I seek, Damiago. I want to find out about Olono Sharvis, the scientist.”

  “Yes. You know that Alodios was here before you, asking the same question? ”

  “No. I knew he came here, but ...”

  “Now I know your weakness, Clovis Marca and I think I pity you. I am not an intelligent man, nor a philosophical one—but I am wise in some ways. I advised Alodios against going to see Olono Sharvis. Now I advise you, likewise.”

  “You know what I want? ”

  “I think I must do.” Damaigo looked at him with an expression close to sympathy. “Olono Sharvis could give it to you—and give you a choice.”

  “A choice? ”

  “There are different kinds, I gather. I am the only man on the planet who has any regular contact with Olono. I supply him with some of the things he has not the time to make for himself. You know he has the largest automatic laboratory outside of those on Earth? Yes, he has. Do you know anything of him—of the man? ”

  “No.”

  “He is very old—close on 500 years. He remembers the Last Wars. He was a research biologist then, working for Krau-Sect. If you know your history, you will remember that the Krau-Sect scientists were given complete licence in their experiments. Perhaps for us on Klobax that is a good thing, for he is now bored by experimentation on human subjects. His work is now almost completely abstract. Perhaps he is more insane than anyone, I don’t know. His claims are spectacular and usually well beyond my understanding.”

  “Does he resent visitors? ”

  “On the contrary, he welcomes them. He will welcome you—particularly when you tell him what you are after.” Damiago laughed. “He is very accommodating. He has offered it to me.”

  “You refused.”

  Damiago made an impatient and angry gesture. “ Of course I did. Oh, I am depraved, Clovis Marca, but my depravity will be a healthier kind than yours if you continue with this.”

  “I must admit you disturb me. Do you know anything about a man called Take? ”

  “You have met Take. Doubtless you will meet him again. Poor Take.”

  “Who is Take?”

  “You could call him the 30th century’s own Flying Dutchman. Ask him the rest yourself. You are sure to run into him again.”

  “Why won’t you tell me? ”

  Damiago made the same impatient gesture. “Because I don’t like to think about any of this, Clovis Marca. I hated you once, but now I tell you—get away from Klobax, return to Earth, forget about what you want. You will, you know, as you get a little older.”

  Marca felt even more disturbed. He said hurriedly:

  “ Just tell me where to find Alodios and Olono Sharvis and I will make up my own mind when I see them.” Damiago shrugged. “I have done more for you than I should have thought I could. Perhaps I will obtain some satisfaction in hearing of your fate. Alodios has a place about a hundred kilometres south of here. You’ll see a cluster of high rocks. There is a cliff that faces the sun. Alodios’s place stands on that cliff. Sharvis lives in the mountains to the north-east of there—you will see them from the cliff. His laboratories must extend through half of those mountains. You will see a tall shaft of polished stone. That will show where the entrance lies.” Marca went outside. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Remember my earlier offer,” Damiago smiled.

  “Unless you accept it soon, it could be too late.”

  Marca flew up into the ochre sky and his conscious mind was deliberately blank. It had required no special effort to make it so. It was as if Damiago’s hints had struck at something in his subconscious and he knew that if he thought about it he might lose his conviction to go on. He might have left many of his better qualities behind him, but he still had his obstinate will.

  The Great Glade on Earth was packed beyond its proper capacity. Every seat was filled and people hung from their air-carriages to witness and take part in the debate. Unlike the debates that had occurred here earlier, this one was violent and noisy. Narvo Velusi stood on the dais being shouted at from all sides. He strove hard to make himself heard, but Andros Aimer and his supporters had gained strength and popularity in the last few weeks.

  As he stood there, facing the yelling crowd—no longer the civilised gathering of Clovis Marca’s time, but a mob—he still found it difficult to believe that so much chaos had come about in such a short time.

  He shouted: “Yesterday Sahaa left Earth. Do you know why? ” The voices roared and bellowed at him, people danced in their seats, stood up, gesticulating. “Do you know why? Because he was disgusted by what he saw. Work on Mercury and Pluto has been abandoned while we spend time on this useless arguing! Sahaa was kind— ” Again a roar of dissent— “Sahaa was kind. He said he left because he felt his presence was resented and we would get on better without him. But do you know what he really did? He abandoned us to our fate— the fate that will come unless we unite!”

  From beside the dais, Andros Aimer shouted in reply:

  “We are united, Narvo Velusi—it is only you and your friends who dissent! ”

  Velusi wheeled. “Then tell me what you propose to do! ”

  Andros Aimer jumped on to the dais and addressed the mob. “We shall have complete control of the system-shifting machinery now that the alien has left us in peace! We shall test it in our own way, and use it to move in the direction we choose, at the speed we choose! That is only the first thing we will do isn’t it! ”

  The crowd yelled its agreement. Aimer turned triumphantly to Narvo Velusi. “ You see? ”

  “But we haven’t assembled all the machinery yet. We needed Sahaa to guide us on the tests. It will be a fantastically delicate operation. Without Sahaa’s help, the chances of failure increase enormously! ” Narvo was close to weeping.

  “We’re doing it alone now! ” someone shouted.

  As he sighed and got down from the dais, Narvo thought to himself that this had been almost bound to happen. Only a very strong man like Clovis could have controlled the crowd. He sympathised with them—the exaltation had replaced the almost apathetic fatalism, and now hysteria was replacing the exaltation. What had Fastina said about the ‘ undertow in the
tide of history ’—the Zeitgeist, the mood that could remain dormant for years and suddenly blossom out into something great, or something terrible? Well, it seemed that she was right. But, as she had said, it was also in their mood that people should respond to Clovis Marca as a leader. He was the only man capable of channelling their hysteria into a useful and coherent direction. The mysterious force in them could be controlled, but the controlling ingredient was missing.

  Where was Clovis Marca?

  Clovis Marca was standing on a cliff, facing the sun. On his left was a small cabin that seemed to have been neatly manufactured from processed rock. In front of him was a high-backed chair in which sat a silent man.

  For the second time, Clovis said politely: “Alodios? Am I disturbing you? ” But the seated figure did not reply, did not move.

  Marca stepped nervously forward.

  He moved around the chair, watching where he put his feet, for it was very close to the edge. Below was a long, sheer drop to the hard sand that seemed so distant that Marca could hardly believe a man could fall so far.

  Alodios stared fixedly over the hot, purple desert. The sun in his eyes did not seem to bother him and at first, with a shock, Marca thought he was dead.

  “Alodios? ”

  There was such tremendous character written in the old man’s face and hands, in the very stance of his body, that Clovis felt as if he gawped at some sacrosanct statue. The body was big—as big as his, but whereas he was gaunt and wiry, Alodios was huge, with big hard muscles, a mighty chest and huge arms terminating in those long, strong fingers that had been reproduced by artists many times. His head was Satan’s head ennobled. Thick dark hair framed it, heavy black eyebrows bristled on a jutting brow, heavily lidded eyes were half-closed, yet the black eyes seemed at once mocking and warm. The nose was a hawk’s beak and the mouth seemed the mouth of a hawk, the lips full and turned downwards, a cruel, sensitive, humorous mouth. But it was all static, as if Alodios were a living statue. Only the eyes lived. Suddenly they looked at him.