Drummond dreamt again. And Saxon was back in the maze. He continued to turn right, as if he’d been programmed. It was the same maze, a continuation of the previous dream. Stone walls hemmed him, forced him to stoop. He followed the serpentine passages as they wound inward, turning right at each junction. Time had no meaning. He kept on, feeling he must soon reach the mystery at the dead centre of the labyrinth.
Drummond moved out of his dream into orthodox sleep. Uneasy, Saxon reported his return to the dream maze, apparently at the same point he had left it. There was something disturbing about that.
A red light flashed on the console, making him jump. It was rare for anyone to interrupt him. He answered the call.
‘Controller here. Are you all right, Saxon?’
‘I’m all right so far.’ He puzzled over the maze symbol. What could it signify ? Death and rebirth ?
‘We’re unhappy with this subject. Do you want to pull out?’
Saxon studied the readings again. Nothing had changed; everything appeared normal. He looked across to the bed where Drummond slept innocently.
‘I don’t think so. Not yet anyway.’
The chart changed, registering rapid eye movements.
‘Well, give yourself time to get clear-’
The Controller’s voice faded as Saxon was sucked into the astronaut’s dream world. He was back in the maze and turning right at a corner, right again. The roof pressed lower and his back ached. The stone walls moved closer together so that he had to squeeze his way through. He sensed it was important to reach the centre, vitally important. Pressure built up inside him, driving him forward.
He was close to the centre now and his excitement grew. He was drawn relentlessly into the heart of the spiral maze as if in the powerful current of a whirlpool. Deeper and deeper he was drawn in.
There was an image in his head, like a second dream; an image of himself in yet another maze that went on for eternity. And perhaps that dreamer had an image of a maze in his head also. In this double-dream, he pursued miles and miles of tortuous corridors and his legs ached and his feet were sore. It was as if he looked down from a height on a toy labyrinth, watching himself follow the spiral; penetrate to the dead centre and crawl bug-like into one small empty room at its heart.
His heart pulsed, reverberating in the enclosed space, echoing through stone passages. It was a drumbeat, growing louder. He reached the centre of the maze, crawling on hands and knees, and squeezed through a narrow aperture to arrive in a small room.
But this room was not quite empty. It contained one artifact, a highly polished mirror.
He stared at the blank walls, the solid floor, the low roof. There was nothing else, only the glittering mirror, and so he looked at it. Despite the lack of any obvious source of light he saw his reflection there...
Something was wrong. It took him a moment to realise what it was and, in that moment, something wrenched at his mind. Then he was being sucked down in a whirlpool of darkness with the memory of that mirror reflection impressed on his mind. It had not been Drummond’s reflection, but his own.
Light.
His limbs trembled and his mind grappled with shock. He was back in the lab, looking across at Drummond. Only it wasn’t Drummond. Shock turned to horror as he realised he was looking up at the console and the man on the other side was too fat to be the astronaut. This man sat in an armchair, watching him, pudgy lips curved in a faint smile.
The fat man rose and waddled towards the door.
Desperately Saxon tried to rise. Wires hampered him. There were electrodes fastened to his skull, face and chest. As he tore at them to free himself he learnt that he was now wearing a pyjama suit.
The dream had turned to nightmare.
He babbled incoherently as the fat man calmly pushed a wall button and waited. The door of the lock opened, closed again, and Saxon was alone.
Trailing wires, he staggered upright as a voice echoed over the intercom, a voice that could only be his own:
‘Drummond is alien. Destroy it.’
<
* * * *
THE TIME WAGER
or : AN EXTRAORDINARY EXTRAPOLATION OF JUVENILE ZEAL RESULTING IN A MAGNIFICENT LEAP FORWARDS (OR BACKWARDS) INTO FUTURE (OR PAST) TROUBLE OF A NOW-TOO-WELL-UNDERSTOOD AND RIGHTLY DETESTED ORDER OF HUMAN ENDEAVOUR.
John Kippax
Delving into the cloudy mysteries of the far past is as much in the competence of sf as exploring the far stars over on the other side of the galaxy. New theories continue to be elaborated to explain just how humankind emerged to its unique position on this planet—the return to the sea, the distaff-side evolution, the helping hand from space—but, just perhaps, this cheeky speculation is the way it was— or will be.
* * * *
‘I want two dollars British each way on Morning Star, three o’clock race at Kempton Park.’ Summers, though a sixth former at Revell’s, showed no condescension to Hardacre, a boy four years his junior.
Jimmy Hardacre said: ‘One dollar limit in any one day. It’s a rule. Protects some people from their own folly. Here.’ He handed back one dollar. Outside, the school was chattering its way from assembly to classrooms. Sunlight streaked through the tall library windows, lighting Hardacre’s red hair and the blond mop of Louis Cousteau, who kept the accounts for the enterprise. Cousteau handed Summers his betting slip.
‘OK,’ Summers said. ‘You convinced me.’ He walked out, bound for his first class of the morning.
Hardacre said: ‘Let’s pack up. Mustn’t be late.’
* * * *
‘Please sir, may I make a suggestion?’
With his light pencil poised in his hand. Professor Julian Ferrier Birthwhistle turned from the glazed screen to face his class. One could not help being pleased with these British boys, whatever ruderies they got up to in their spare time. They were—every one of them—as sharp as tacks. At Revell’s School, in the county of Dorsetshire, parents were charged staggering fees for the education of their (male) young. But cash was not the governing factor. If there were sufficient pupils to pass the entrance examination for the fifty per cent ‘free places’ in the school, then to Revell’s they came, and parents in poor circumstances didn’t pay a cent. Hatchery for eggheads, thought Birthwhistle-
“Yes, Hardacre?’
He was a slim boy, about thirteen years old. He was round-faced, red-haired and grey eyed. He looked rather like an intelligent angel. ‘Couldn’t we observe the Cro-Magnon jawlines better if you were to draw them without superimposition ?’
The question was polite; JFB considered the idea. ‘Yes, it does make it a bit jumbled, like that.’ He pressed the erasure switch. ‘We’ll start again.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
JFB recommenced his skilful delineation of the characteristics of the skulls under discussion. He was not left in peace for more than a minute.
‘Sir.’
‘Yes, Hardacre?’
‘Do you follow the Windgassen or the Muller theory of sequential development in this particular epoch?’
JFB kept his face straight, but, internally, he felt a twitch. He reflected that well, anyway, he had his fare back to the States. On the other hand, there was prestige in having taught at Revell’s. ‘I am sure,’ said their American professor, ‘that I am not going to follow your red herring and start a wild-goose chase-’
The class liked that. He continued.
“We are not going to drag through either of those. Neither are we going to try another theory of our own. One of these years some good and learned men on the time strip will find out the truth.’ He addressed Hardacre. “You really are a very persistent young person. Don’t you ever make allowances for errors ?’
The reply was quite sincere. ‘For other people, yes sir. Not for myself.”
JFB shook his head in wonderment. But then he reminded himself that this Hardacre was the son of B. H. Hardacre, whose comparatively small engineering firm had set new, aw
esome standards of accuracy throughout the world.
* * * *
JFB could take some comfort that they thought well enough of him on his own campus, to nominate him as an exchange teacher in Britain. It was an honour, it was a responsibility. A good report from the headmaster, and possibly a little research in his own field might be just what was wanted. Revell’s had always been regarded as a very sound, well-established school, and now it was even more prosperous with the discovery of uranium and platinum by the deeply-probing prospectors, on school land. The dollars accrued and accrued, and the governors never said how much, and seemed to do very little about it.
JFB said to Wolstenholme, senior biology: ‘With all that cash—and it must be a very large amount—think what a complete rebuilding programme could do. Think of the pupils you would attract from all over the world.’
Wolstenholme nodded. He was a thin, dried up man with an odd smile. ‘Your point of view, of course. That isn’t the way we like to do things. Firstly, we are a totally independent school; secondly, we believe that study must take a man along his own path, even to the butte of cockeyed eccentricity; thirdly, a good wine needs no bush.’
‘Bush?’
‘A saying we have.’
‘Meaning Revell’s doesn’t need advertising.’
‘Exactly. You may not know it, but this school’s old boys, aged between twenty five and forty, have, in the last fifteen years, made a forty per cent greater contribution to the gross national product than any comparable group.’
JFB said, mildly: ‘Please don’t think that I want to teach anyone here his business.’
‘My dear fellow, no one here would think that of you. Take your time, and be a little more relaxed. You’ll find that there is a very good atmosphere which permeates all through the school; you’ll become reorientated quite easily.’
* * * *
One afternoon JFB took a long meditative walk down the drive which was bordered by giant Wellingtonias. Then he turned at the rhododendron bushes towards the fives courts. Curious, that, he thought. Play it indoors, it’s squash; play it out of doors and ifs fives... Then he heard the sound of glass being violently shattered. It was repeated, and again. The disorderliness of the sound caused him to hurry. He had had little experience of punishment, but if this should be deliberate-?
At the eighth small crash he rounded the fives courts and saw, upon the wall which separated school from road, four bottles half a metre apart. Inside the school grounds for certain and probably outside as well was a scattering of glass chips.
Hardacre fitted another ball-bearing into the catapult leather and let fly; nine bottles down, then ten, eleven, and at the final crash JFB thought it wise to speak. ‘Hardacre.’
‘Sir?’ The boy’s face was devoid of guilt.
‘What about all that broken glass ?’
‘Oh.’ Hardacre seemed to consider this.
‘The danger,’ JFB said. ‘I think you should clear up the debris. Also, hand me your catapult.’
The boy was a model of calm obedience.
* * * *
JFB reported the matter to Hardacre’s form master, a large and beefy classics man named Jock Wilson, who regularly coached the young gentlemen of Revell’s through the blood and mud of that ferocious game called Rugby, a sport certainly designed for ruffians but played by Revellians, who actually seemed to enjoy it.
‘Oh,’ Wilson said, ‘at it again, is he ? I’ll see to that young shaver. Just a little more encouragement, that’s what he needs.’
‘Encouragement ?’
‘Exactly. My first cease-and-desist order seems to have been forgotten. Therefore, he must be reminded.’
JFB thought that it all sounded very matey until, to his horror, he happened to see Hardacre bending down in the corridor to receive six swingeing strokes of the cane from Wilson. The good American professor felt slightly numb with misunderstanding. The master thought nothing of it, the boy expected it, and there was no sign of anger in the mien of either donor or recipient. The British—how was one to begin to understand them?
* * * *
JFB had that small idiosyncrasy in his work, that he loved to draw with light pencils. Within the limitations of his subject, he had an impressive skill. He could not hide his satisfaction at the newly completed drawings of three skulls which, according to his own opinion and that of high specialists, just ante-dated Pithecanthropus Erectus. JFB knew, wisely, that there was a fascination in seeing the pictures appear under his skilful hand; more, it was educationally sound for him to match his voice in commentary with the work he was doing. There was no sleep learning at Revell’s; the head didn’t believe in it, the staff were not keen, and JFB knew better than to be the sole advocate of what seemed generally to be regarded as a heresy. And finally, JFB wanted to achieve his promotion by right of conquest.
‘Sir?’
JFB did not have to turn round at once. ‘Yes, Hardacre?’
‘Do you consider those drawings to be quite accurate?’
JFB said, with every outward sign of calm, ‘They are sufficiently clear to elucidate my main points. Or don’t you think so? What is the real question you are asking?’ JFB could feel the hush of attention from the rest of the class.
‘Sir, is it not possible in your sketches that between the penultimate sketch and the Pithecanthropus there may be another? Shigeti has suggested that, if the assumption of transitions proceeding at the same rate can be countenanced, then this might well be so.’
‘You have read Shigeti, Hardacre ?’
‘Only in translation sir.’
‘How did you find him ?’
‘Not easy, sir.’
‘A remarkable understatement. Notwithstanding what the wise Dr. Shigeti wrote, I think we should remember that the wisest masters of this our study are still short of evidence about many things.’
It was a good lesson.
* * * *
Morning break was from eleven ten to eleven twenty five. JFB was drinking his tea in the common room, when he overheard Wilson’s voice, somewhat raised.
‘Little blighter. You’d think he was in training for something ! Potting at bottles with a compression rifle, round the back of the fives courts. Again, mark you, after I gave him six over that damned catapult!’
He answered a question which JFB didn’t catch. ‘Oh, no. No, indeed. This time I won’t wallop him. Too serious. Must be, with a boy of his standing and achievement. The guv’nor will have to know, and the visiting head-shrinker, I’d think.’
JFB joined the group. Wilson said: ‘Hello, JFB. You changed your mind over the problem child ?’
JFB answered with care. ‘I don’t think he is, you know.’
‘What is he, then?’ Wolstenholme asked.
‘Boys of that age can pick up odd ideas like a dog catching fleas; of course, it’s anti-social, and must be looked into.’ He asked Wilson: ‘Is he a good marksman ?’
‘He could earn his living at it. He shot the necks off, about three centimetres down. Each one; did it as fast as he could pull the trigger.’
‘It’s in the blood,’ JFB suggested, and got a glare from Wolstenholme for the unscientific expression.
‘It is, you know, it jolly well is,’ Wilson said.
* * * *
The headmaster was speaking. He was a quiet, firm kind of man whose judgments were reasonable; JFB respected him for this, as well as for the five sets of abbreviations after his name; here was a scientist who had turned to teaching and was being paid at something like his true value.
‘Mr. Birthwhistle, our young friend has been examined very thoroughly by Doctor Meyer, who says that there is nothing wrong with him beyond a certain need to express an aspect of his personality, which must be—ah—channelled away by some logical means.’
‘By what means, sir?’
‘We will cross that bridge when we get to it. Each example of this phenomenon must be treated on its merits. There is no need to relax disc
ipline.’
JFB raised an eyebrow.
‘Further,’ went on the head, ‘this special passion for accuracy may very well fit in with his future, be sublimated, in fact, in the happiest manner possible. These are all reasonable guesses. I pointed out to Doctor Meyer that, unless he presented a special caveat about Hardacre, if a situation arose in which the boy disobeyed school rules he would have to be reminded in the manner I think most fitting. By the way, that rifle has been sent home to his father.’ He smiled at JFB. ‘We mustn’t make too much of this thing.’ He opened a drawer. ‘Ah, there’s something else.’ He handed JFB a paper. ‘Your chief called for an interim report on you. There’s your copy.’
New Writings in SF 22 - [Anthology] Page 11
