Anticipations

by Christopher Priest

  He turned to the file and read the name there: Felicity Amber Jones. Main Job: Marine Larvologist; speciality, Bivalves.

  Felicity Amber Jones. Beautiful name. Of course, it was probably not her real name. The fashion was to adopt a name on arrival at the zeepees.

  Whatever her name, it was Felicity Amber Jones herself he wanted . . .

  An information board told him that Bivalves were in Level Yellow Two.

  At Level Yellow Two, a preoccupied lady at a console told him that he would find Felicity Amber Jones along to his right.

  Edward could hardly walk, so weak did his legs feel. His popliteal muscles trembled. He made his way along, clutching at a bench for support, face close to a range of tanks in which little agitated blobs of life flitted. Each successive tank contained water of a slightly different hue from the previous one. And in each, the blobs became larger and less agitated. In the last tank of the series, the blobs had come to rest on plastic trays inserted vertically into the water, and were recognizable as minute oysters. There stood a young Chinese girl in an orange lab coat, doing complicated things at a trolley involving small oysters and full beakers. She looked up at his approach and smiled questioningly.

  He had never been in love before—not properly. “Are you Felicity Amber Jones?” he asked.

  She was in her twenties, a neat little figure with a slender neck on which was balanced one of the most elegantly modelled heads Edward had ever seen. The lines of this exquisite head were emphasized by a short crop of hair which curled round the back of the skull to end provokingly as two upturning horns. These seductive dark locks pointed to two dimples nestling under slanting cheekbones. Her eyes, slightly set back in her eye-sockets, were round and moist, being sheltered by dark eyelashes.

  Didn’t those pupils widen involuntarily, despite lack of any other sign of recognition, as she answered, “Yes, I am Miss Jones.”

  “Look, I’m Edward Maine.” He stammered his address.

  “Oh, I see. Are you interested in our oyster-breeding? From pinhead to adult, it takes only fifteen months under our accelerated growth scheme. Here you see the algae tanks, each with a different algae table for different stages of larval growth, with temperature—”

  “Miss Jones, you recognize me, don’t you?”

  She put a finger—the smallest finger of her right hand—curling it like a little prawn—into her mouth—receiving it between dainty white teeth—which were embedded in the clearest of pink gums—and said, “Have we met before, Mr Maine?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “You’re the girl with the most beautiful antigens in the world. I knew them instantly. You’re the—well, you come to visit me at home once a week . . .”

  Her gaze evaded him. Turning one shoulder—the gesture itself poetry—the shoulder itself a miracle—she made a little fluttering noise.

  Standing on tiptoe in order to see her cheek over her shoulder, he said in a rush, “Look, please—I know it’s a terrible breach of etiquette—I know I shouldn’t be here—but I’ve got a vacation on Earth—a whole month, courtesy of my corporation—and I can take along anyone I like—please, will you come with me?—I mean, it has to be you—you can name your own terms, of course—but please don’t tell me I am mistaken—because you’re too beautiful to be anyone but—Zenith!”

  She turned back. With an effort, she raised her head—despair of any sculptor—and looked into his eyes—beauty of a Medusa—and said, “Well, I may as well say it. You’re right, I am Zenith. They’ll sack me from the Internscan Union for admitting it.”

  To his extreme pleasure and embarrassment, he found that he was clasping her hands. Even worse, lit by artificial sea water, he was kissing her on the mouth.

  Felicity Amber Jones proved to have just the shape and flavour of mouth of which he had always dreamed.

  “I should be more formal,” she said, drawing back. “Internal girls are not meant to behave so freely. Please do not try to kiss me again!”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said. He was not on oath. “I feel I know you so well, Miss Jones, Felicity—Miss Jones. Now we must get to know each other in more traditional ways. You—you are so delightful on the microscopic level that I long to discover all the other ways in which you are delightful.”

  “Please speak more formally to me during my Main Job.”

  “Are you afraid the oysters will overhear?”

  She laughed. “Your average oyster is a very unreliable creature. It can’t be trusted to keep its trap shut.”

  “Then we must go elsewhere to talk.”

  He was not sure exactly what to do with the girl when he had found her; her presence added to his usual confusion. But she was pliant and docile and readily agreed to any suggestion he made.

  Despite which, it happened to be at her instigation rather than his that they found themselves in the Inarguable Paradise, the biggest of Fragrance’s three fun-centres. The Inarguable Paradise had, as one of its chief attractions, The Ever-Punctual Fly. This Fly was a small satellite which orbited the planetoid once every fifty minutes. Unlike its parent body it had no artificial gravity; one of its chief attractions was the free-fall restaurant, in which delectable dishes were enjoyed while watching agorophobic views in absurd postures.

  There were some other Chinese-Western couples here; such liaisons were common enough—at least on this zeepee—not to excite comment; but Felicity Amber Jones declared that this was the first time she had been out informally with a westerner.

  “We call you ‘foreign devils’,” she told Edward. “The Chinese are at least as conscious of race and nationality as you Americans are.”

  He found her mixture of directness and modesty both exciting and paradoxical. She was so perfect, her outline, her every contour, so clearly placed, that he was in awe of her. He wondered what her real name was—it was the custom with many people to take up a new name on arrival in the zeepees. His own terrestrial name had been Oscar Pythagoras Rix.

  “Will you really come to Earth with me? I won’t ask anything of you but your company.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right.”

  It was not exactly the answer that he had expected; yet he wondered if its seeming complaisance was more than he had hoped for. A premature gratitude flowed into the lagoons of his being.

  He pressed her hand—opportunely, as it happened, for at that moment a quartet of Yoivodina gipsies, specially imported from Earth, began a passionate lament to love, springtime, swordplay, Smederevo, the tide, innocence, moonlit nights, deserted churches, and a pair of forgotten lace gloves.

  Edward did not tell Felicity Amber Jones that he had a commission to carry out on Earth. That might, he considered, make her less keen to join him. Instead, he concentrated on the pleasure aspect, unwilling to believe she could wish to come along for his company alone.

  “What would you most like to see when we reach Earth? The glaciers of Alaska? Smederevo?”

  The wild music was still provoking his blood.

  “Oh, I would love to see the reindeer herds of the Chinese Arctic, grazing by the East Siberian Sea. I have never seen a reindeer, and they’re so guilty and luxurious.”

  “I’ve never seen a penguin. How about a trip to the Ross Ice Shelf in the Antarctic, to see the Adele penguins? You know they reproduce in sub-zero temperatures?”

  “We mustn’t concentrate only on cold regions. What about the warm regions? How marvellous to see Kilimanjaro rising from the zebra-trampled veldt and floating in the crumpled air.”

  “How marvellous to swim in the Red Sea and wave to passing dahabeeyahs!”

  “To take a trip to the Iguazu Falls, where Brazil, Uruguay and Argentina meet.”

  “To jump into the chain of volcanoes along the spine of Sumatra.”

  “To dive down to the new underwater city off Ceylon.”

  “To surf off Honolulu.”

  “Do you really know how to surf?” she asked.

  “No. But I’ve seen guys do it on the
scatter . . .

  XIII

  When he returned home, the twenty-hour Fragrancian day was almost spent and a new one only half an hour away. Edward had held her hand on parting. They smiled at each other and promised to meet another day.

  Now, like any callow youth, he cursed himself for not showing more initiative and kissing Felicity Amber Jones good-night. Surely she would have allowed—wanted—it after such a splendid evening.

  Fabrina was home with Anna Kavan. They were practicing altered body images together, and becoming rather entangled. Fabrina stood up, blowing her hair from her eyes.

  “We wondered what had happened to you. That reporter from Cairo is trying to get in touch with you again.”

  “Only good things happened,” Edward replied, moving with nonchalance towards his room.

  “So you are going to Earth, Edward,” Anna said. “Aren’t you fiendishly fortunate? You wouldn’t like to take me with you, I suppose? I hear you have a spare ticket.”

  He turned and confronted them both, drawing in his stomach and standing his full height.

  “Not any more! You might both like to know that I’m taking a girl friend to Earth with me. It’s all fixed, and I don’t want any arguments.”

  Fabrina threw herself at him. “You fool, Edward, you fool! I can guess who it is—it’s that little Internal-girl of yours, isn’t it? You know nothing about her. She’ll make your life a misery, you see.”

  “Hope what you like,” he said, and escaped into his room. As the PM said, outbursts of invective could be avoided.

  XIV

  Next morning, relationships between Edward Maine and his sister were strained.

  “What will you do while I’m on holiday, my dear?” he asked.

  “I’d rather not talk about it. I’m too hurt. You don’t care a bit about me.”

  That killed that conversation.

  The lin said, “Neither of you is very happy. Let me tell you a story.”

  “I’m perfectly happy, and I do not want a story,” Fabrina said, sniffing into a tissue.

  “This one’s called ‘Floating Airports’,” said the machine, temptingly.

  “No.”

  “It is full of atmosphere and there is action on a metaphysical level. Also it features a strong tax inspector, together with some animals such as you like.”

  “Oh, for god’s sake, let him tell his story!” Edward said.

  “Thank you. ‘Floating Airports’. All over the old grey oceans airports floated. The towering sponsors walked drowning under deserted windows. And the tax inspector claimed, ‘Now all can sleep who cease to guard the leopards’. So the strong officer went to the weak ruler and applied modesty. ‘Large export markets lead to decayed temples,’ one stated. So the animals laid eggs among the worldly.”

  “Very nice,” said Edward politely. His sister did not speak. The lin bowed and retreated to stand itself against a wall.

  For Edward, it was a busy morning, and one on which he embarked with some apprehension, since the PM’s read-out forecast two embarrassing encounters. He went to Smics Callibrastics to sort out unfinished work, and was besieged by callers from other departments, among whom the most persistent were Sheila Wu Tun from Personnel and Greg Gryastairs from Kakobillis, who wanted errands run or messages delivered when he was on Earth. Edward was glad to escape at noon and go down to the travel agency, On the Scent, at Main Plaza East, to make his arrangements for the flight.

  On the Scent were very helpful. He was booked aboard the Ether Breather in two days’ time. The manager was somewhat awed by meek little Edward Maine, for the firm had given him a very generous luggage allowance. Kilo-costs for freight were so much steeper for the Fragrance-Earth run than for inter-zeepee trips, that anyone who travelled to Earth with more than two kilos of personal baggage was marked out as someone special; Maine, with his massive allowance, was a being apart.

  The being apart was not content with his corporation’s generosity, however. As usual, it had an ulterior motive. Callibrastics had prevailed upon him to take the prototype P M along, in order to do a field test in the more random conditions which prevailed upon the mother planet.

  Slightly dazed by a pile of documents and brochures, Edward made his way from the travel agency to the nearest aphrohale parlour and got gassed on a nitojoy-pip.

  As the heavy fumes poured into his nostrils, he heard the sound of musical instruments. A small religious parade was approaching, charmed on by pipe and drum.

  It was a cheerful sight, bright even in the Plaza, which had been decorated for striking colour effects. Most of the people in the parade wore brightly coloured dominoes, complete with cloak and half-hood, and many of the hoods mimicked animal heads. Edward recognized the style. These were followers of Tui-either-nor and, if he had continued with one of his Side Jobs he would now be among them, complete with mouse-mask and a lust to convert.

  Feeling guilty, he slipped back to a table at the rear of the parlour; which was a simple matter, since most of the patrons had moved forward to see what was going on. Religious belief was a participator sport in the Zodiacal Planets.

  When the procession stopped near the parlour, one of its number, a well-built man in giraffe-mask and priest’s insignia, began to speak.

  “Friends, would-be friends, wouldn’t-be friends, greetings all! Let me tell you what you’re thinking right now. To some extent, you are aware of this procession. But you’ll soon dismiss it: your mind’s on trivial personal matters. It will be no part of you. Why not make it a part of you? You’ll be richer. We’re here to make you and Fragrance and the world a richer place.” The haughty giraffe face surveyed the denizens of the square.

  “Do you know what sub-t or sub-thought is? It’s a random pattern of thought which we all possess. It exists and is a measurable quantity. It has been denied in western thought because it has no logic to it. That is why we have sunk into materialism. Sub-t can give you a rich spiritual life, with all alternatives open. This little procession can be your procession towards Tui-either-nor, the full thinking and spiritual existence. Espouse alternatives, or you will find yourself in one of life’s cul-de-sacs.

  “Only yesterday, my friends, I had an old acquaintance come to me in my Main Job—yes, like you I have to work for my living—I’m not a fake priest—and this old friend was in search of something. Once he was a member of this movement, but he reneged. He hadn’t the persistence, the initiative required to follow what he believed in his heart. He had become a hollow man.”

  Edward began to look about him, feeling warmth creep round his cheeks and ears. Eyes of frog, cat, leopard, hippo, marmoset, he sensed were on him.

  “Yet that old acquaintance, my friend,” said the giraffe remorselessly, “deluded as he was, he was in search of love, and love in a new form. He knew without knowing—he knew by sub-t—that his own spiritual life was dead, and he was driven to exercise fantastic ingenuity to look for a means whereby that dead life might be made alive again. There was a force in him greater than himself. You and I might think him a poor shrivelled creature, but all the while his life was being lived secretly for him.

  “My word to you is—”

  Putting two F-tallies on the table, Edward crept blushingly away without waiting for the word. He felt indeed a poor shrivelled creature as he hurried towards the nearest trafficway. As he scrambled into the first carriage, his attention was caught by a message scrawled on the nearest wall: AMBIGUITY CLARIFIES.

  Suddenly, he hated Tui. Life was difficult enough without emphasizing its difficulties. He was inadequate enough without anyone emphasizing his inadequacies. He could see why an earlier generation had turned away from religion and the spiritual life. It was too much for them.

  What they really needed were fixed co-ordinates.

  A predictable path through life.

  No nasty surprises from sub-t or the collective unconscious or the endocrine system.

  Just the dark glasses and white stick of certai
nty.

  His immediate impulse was to go home, but he could not face his sister. Feelings still ruffled, he headed for Felicity Amber Jones’s conapt, right in the heart of the urbstak.

  Section Coty was a crowded place. Lower rates went with higher densities. He remembered that Felicity had said he should not come to her home. He pressed her signal all the same, and in a moment she appeared at the door, wearing a knee-length gown of cerulean blue chased with an embroidered electric design in silver. She wore a matching blue ribbon in her hair, which gave her an incongruously childish look.

  Smiling, he waved the wad of documents at her.

  “I’ve got our tickets! We catch a flight the day after tomorrow, Felicity. Can you be ready in time?”

  She looked anguished. “I live in a poor way here, Edward. You will despise me when you see how dreadfully I exist.”

  “I’m not a bloated capitalist. Why should I despise you for being poor?”

  “You know I had to take to being an Internal-girl. That’s to support my brother, Shi Tok, who is an artist. He’s here now. He lives with me.”

  “I’ll be glad to meet him. You didn’t tell me that you live with your brother, as I live with my sister.”

  She let him in reluctantly. “He is very prejudiced against Americans, worse luck.”

  Sharply, he said, “Have you told him we are going to Earth together?”

  Felicity covered her nose and mouth with a narrow hand and bowed her head. As she did so, a man appeared from an inner room, wearing a paint-stained shirt and smoking an absurdly small pipe. His hair was cut square, his face painted in stripes.