The Productions of Time

by John Brunner

  He gave a sleepy smile. "And you can't afford to do anything. I'm your last hope, Murray."

  XIV

  My -- my head? Oh God, my head!

  From a sink of nightmare Murray struggled back toward consciousness, pain like a gong beating inside his skull. His stomach felt acid-sour, and the taste in his mouth was so filthy that to become aware of it gave him a pang of nausea.

  Then facts locked together in his mind and he was awake in horror. His eyes snapped open on the gray daylight filling his room. He lay amid a tumbled mass of bedclothes. The air was heavy with stale cigarette smoke and another odor which at first he refused to recognize.

  He rolled his head on the pillow; he could deny it no longer.

  The bedside table didn't only bear an ashtray full to overflowing with butts. There was a glass on its side, prevented by an empty cigarette packet from rolling to the floor. There was a bottle of gin three parts empty. That was the smell he had recognized.

  His hand touched a patch of moisture on the side of the bed. The contact scented his fingers with juniper. There was a smear of lighter color down the varnished side of the table near him. Fuzzily, he reasoned: from the glass down to the floor, some of it splashed on the bed.

  And it isn't true. God, let it not be true!

  Fighting blind terror, he controlled his limbs into purposeful motion. He sat up and put his legs to the floor. Another wet patch there, on the carpet. Across the room, on the floor under the washbasin, another bottle of gin, full, the cap on.

  Murray gave a groan and put his head in his hands.

  Last night . . . What happened to last night? His memory held nothing but gray fog. He forced himself to his feet. Crossing the room, he bent to the cold tap and first rinsed the foulness from his mouth, then scooped handfuls of water over his face and head. His mind settled slowly, as though sediment were drifting down in a muddy pool.

  "All right," he said aloud. "I don't believe it."

  And silently ended: I can't .

  It was too much like a stage set. Give the job to Gerry Hoading. Convey that the occupant of the room is an alcoholic. Everything in plain sight. Something glinting on the floor by the bed. A few slivers of glass from a broken tumbler, most of which was piled in the ashtray.

  Was this a trick of Delgado's? This cynically bitchy evil trick? Because Murray hadn't spent last evening drinking. He clung to that conviction even though there was no memory of anything else to fill the foggy vacancy in his brain. Nothing could have driven him to the suicide road again -- not all Delgado's taunts nor the scorn and hostility of the rest of the company. Nothing.

  The idea became an article of faith: by whomever, for whatever reason, he had been framed. The assertion was like a strip of timber to a sailor overboard in a storm. As soon as he secured a firm grip on it, he found that he could reason with his normal clarity.

  Not sparing the time to examine motives or methods, he concentrated on himself and his surroundings. The first new point to strike him was that the headache he had felt on waking was gone, so quickly it was hard to recall how fierce it had been. Illusion? Ridiculous, but . . .

  He rubbed his tongue around the inside of his mouth. The foul taste, too, had disappeared without his having to scrub it away. When he had really been drinking, he'd had to load his toothbrush three and four times with the most strongly flavored paste on the market before ridding his mouth of the sourness.

  That relieved him of one horrifying possibility, which up till now he had refused to face seriously: that someone had given him alcohol as Gerry took heroin -- intravenously. He could scarcely imagine that anybody, even Delgado, would wish him a drunkard again, but the evidence insisted. He scanned his body closely, hunting the trace of an injection, and found no signs.

  A dream? The hope rose and fell in the same heartbeat. He could have dreamed the headache, the foul taste, the nausea -- all those were frighteningly vivid in his real past -- but he hadn't dreamed the spilled gin, the broken glass. With determination he set about investigating the concrete traces.

  There was something gleaming on the tumbled bed. A thing like a coin -- his hand touched it, and it wasn't a coin. The cap of the open gin bottle. He seized it, meaning to hurl it violently away, and misjudged his reach so that he pulled up a handful of the undersheet as well.

  Revealed was the familiar, maddening tracery of wire embroidery which he had by routine torn off last night.

  And yet . . .

  Wait a moment. I tore it ofl early in the evening, long before I turned in, even before I saw Delgado in the theater. I threw away the spools of tape, too!

  He wrenched back the mattress and exposed the tape compartment below. There was fresh tape in place; the turrets must have been turning steadily for hours, for all but a few inches had wound to the right-hand spool. And the gossamer-fine wire linking the tape recorder with the mattress was intact.

  For a crazy instant Murray swam in a sea of speculation: this tape, his misty memory, the stagelike setting to which he had awakened. Then he calmed down, knowing that he had to find proof to support his trust in himself.

  He looked at his watch. Not yet seven o'clock. He began to wind the spindle, formulating his plans. A doctor. A way of telling if there was alcohol in his bloodstream. Breathalyser, urinalysis -- he'd seen it done at the sanatorium often enough. Blood sample, even. And if it turned out he was deceiving himself, and there was alcohol in his body, he would come back and find Delgado and, the hell with what might happen afterward, beat him till he crawled. Tell what had been done, make the others know what a filthy sadist . . .

  He checked his thoughts deliberately. Because if he went on thinking on those lines, he had to answer the alternative question, too: what to do if his belief was confirmed, and he had not been drinking last night.

  He seized his clothes and hurried them on, putting a key ring, money, handkerchief in his pockets. No use trying to clean up the room, but he could pour away the rest of the gin and open the windows to flush out the smell. He did so hastily, and then went into the corridor.

  As he pulled his door shut, the door to room thirteen opened and Valentine emerged. He moved so swiftly on seeing Murray that there was no chance of catching a glimpse of the mysterious "rediffusion equipment" inside.

  "Good morning, Mr. Douglas," Valentine said smoothly.

  Murray muttered something obscene under his breath and went past.

  "Mr. Douglas!" Valentine called after him. "Are you thinking of going out?"

  "What the hell does it matter to you?" Murray snapped.

  "I would only point out, sir, that the main gate is not open yet."

  Murray stopped in his tracks and swung around. There was no expression on Valentine's pale face, but there had been a hint of smugness in his voice.

  "Then open it!" Murray exclaimed.

  "I have direct instructions from Mr. Blizzard, sir. The gate is to remain closed until eight a.m. And it is not yet seven, I believe."

  "Are you trying to make this place into a prison?"

  Valentine looked pained. "Mr. Blizzard was most insistent, sir. I didn't question his reasons."

  "All right, we'll see about this. Which is Blizzard's room?"

  "I don't think he would wish to be disturbed, sir. It is still earlier than his usual rising time -- "

  Murray took a deep breath. "Blizzard!" he bawled at the top of his voice. "Blizzard! Where are you?" He went to the nearest room and hammered on the door with both fists. The sound echoed along the corridor. "Blizzard! Come out here!"

  "Go to hell," a voice answered. It wasn't Blizzard, anyway. Rett Latham, by the sound of it. Murray went to the end of the corridor and then out on the landing surrounding the main hall, banging on doors and shouting as he went. From the far end of the landing, one of Valentine's fellow stewards appeared, and started toward him with loud protestations to match Valentine's.

  "Keep away from me," Murray said thinly, "or I'll pitch you over the banisters, und
erstand? Blizzard! "

  The door of one of the rooms swung open. Sam Blizzard was there, a dark blue robe over his pajamas, rubbing sleepy eyes with the back of one hand.

  "Murray! What are you yelling for?"

  "Is this a prison?" Murray said vehemently. "Are these damned black-coated ghouls the warders? That bastard Valentine is trying to tell me he can't unlock the main gate for me!"

  "What the hell has that to do with me? It's no reason to go screaming about the place fit to wake the dead!"

  "So you didn't give him orders to keep the gate shut until eight o'clock?" Murray clenched his fists. He was shaking all over.

  "Good God, of course not. Far as I'm concerned it can stay open around the clock. What do you want to go out for at this time of the morning, anyway?"

  Murray ignored the question. He swung to Valentine, his teeth set. "Well?" he forced out. "What have you got to say to that?"

  Valentine's composure had set solid, like a block of ice. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Blizzard," he said. "It didn't occur to me that Mr. Douglas would disturb you. From his wild behavior, I judged it advisable to try and dissuade him from going out. He drives a rather powerful car, and in his present nervous condition . . ."

  The door of another room, beyond Blizzard's toward the front of the house, clicked. Murray turned his head. In the opening stood Delgado, wearing an impeccable wine-red dressing gown and Turkish slippers. His hair was combed, and his face bore no trace of sleepiness.

  Valentine broke off what he was saying.

  "What is all the row about?" Delgado inquired silkily.

  "Oh -- morning, Manuel." Blizzard rubbed his face again. "I don't get it. Murray wants to go out, and Valentine's been spinning him some fool story about keeping the front gate shut till eight o'clock and says I gave him orders."

  A flicker of -- dismay? Concern? Some emotion showed on the sallow visage. But the voice was casual.

  "Valentine must have made a mistake, then. I suggested shutting the gates overnight. We have a good deal of stuff here that might attract thieves -- the bar stock, for example, which is enough to supply a small pub."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Delgado." Valentine inclined his head. "I confess I had forgotten it was you and not Mr. Blizzard who instructed me."

  "All right, since you gave the orders, you tell him to let me go out!" Murray rapped.

  Delgado's lidless eyes studied him. "You seem upset, Murray," he said in a voice which was almost a purr. "What takes you out at this hour, anyway?"

  "I'm going -- Sam, listen to me, because it's going to be important later -- I'm going to see a doctor. You know why, Delgado."

  "I'm sure I don't," Delgado murmured, but his expression was again clouded by a trace of discomfort.

  "Damn it, Murray!" Blizzard took half a step forward. "If you're ill, why didn't you say so? We have a doctor we've made arrangements with. I can get him here in half an hour."

  "Somebody Delgado suggested?" Murray countered, curling his lip. "No, thank you. I propose to go and wake up the first doctor I can find for myself. And it's not because I'm ill. You ask Delgado why. Now does this creature of his open the gate for me or not?"

  "Sam, I don't think Murray is in a state to -- " Delgado began, lowering his voice.

  "All right." Murray spun on his heel. "I'll smash the gate if I have to."

  "Valentine!" Blizzard barked. "Go and open the gate. And don't let's have any more of this nonsense. If Murray or anyone else wants to go out you're to let him, understand? And I mean that, Manuel. You're making it difficult enough for me as it is. I entirely sympathize with Murray after the way he was treated yesterday. Get a move on, Valentine! Don't be any longer than you can help, Murray. Today's work is going to be hell in any case."

  He gave a glare at Delgado and went back to his room.

  Delgado raised an eyebrow. Murray tensed, wondering if he was going to try some fresh excuse to stop him from leaving, but after a moment Delgado shrugged and reentered his room.

  Murray turned to Valentine, feeling as though he had won a long and bitter struggle. But the black-clad steward was already descending the stairs, and there was no clue to his emotions in the solemn rhythm of his gait.

  XV

  Heart pounding, mouth dry, as though making his escape from a deadly enemy, Murray turned right at the main gate, leaving Valentine standing like an inscrutable statue. He had to drive for miles before he came to any kind of a village, and then he found only a crossroads, with a pub, two shops, and a church grouped around it, and a score or so of private houses with well-kept gardens.

  In one of those gardens, behind a neatly clipped privet hedge, a heavily built woman in tweeds was poking weeds out of a flower bed with a walking stick. He jammed on his brakes.

  "Excuse me!" he called. "Is there a doctor near here?"

  "A doctor!" the woman said in a county voice. "Yes! About a quarter of a mile further on you'll see a nameplate on a gatepost. It's on this side."

  He flung a word of thanks and accelerated the car.

  A thin drizzle began to spot his windshield. By the time he caught sight of the promised nameplate it was raining steadily. Oblivious, he got out of the car and hurried up the path to the doctor's door.

  To the nervous, pale-faced woman who answered his ring, he said, "I have to see the doctor. It's very urgent."

  The woman put her hand to her mouth. "Oh, dear. Dr. Cromarty is having his breakfast. The surgery is open at -- "

  "I don't care when the surgery is open. I have to see him immediately."

  "Is it -- has there been an accident?"

  "No. Please! I can't explain. It's just desperately urgent. And I'll pay whatever it costs."

  "Oh, dear. Well, I suppose you'd better come in the waiting room, Mr. -- Mr. -- ?"

  "Douglas."

  "Goodness!" The woman's watery blue eyes widened. "Are you Murray Douglas? The actor?"

  "As it happens, yes, I am."

  "Good gracious! Come in, come in! The waiting room is on the right there. I'll tell Dr. Cromarty at once."

  She hurried through a door leading from the hall. Murray didn't make for the waiting room to which she had directed him; he stood just inside the door, his eyes on the direction in which she had vanished. He wrestled with the problem of inventing a plausible reason for what he was going to ask of the doctor.

  Before he had worked it out, a man with graying hair came into the hall, wiping a trace of egg yolk from a shaggy gray moustache. He wore a tweed suit complete with waistcoat and a gold watchchain spread across his belly.

  He absently put the napkin with which he had been wiping his lips into a pocket like an oversize handkerchief, and in a quick practiced movement drew out, opened, and slipped on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

  "Mr. Douglas!" he said. "Ah yes. I recognize you from your pictures. For a moment I thought my housekeeper had slipped a gear somewhere. Well, well! Angels unawares, and all that. Here, come into my consulting room and tell me what it is I can do for you."

  Murray complied. Cromarty waved for him to go first into the room and closed the door. "What is it, then?" the doctor said, moving toward his chair and indicating that Murray should sit down.

  "Dr. Cromarty, can you carry out a test to establish the presence of alcohol in my bloodstream?" Murray dropped into his chair, a tight feeling in his guts.

  "As it happens, you've come to the right shop -- though it's rather an unusual request so early in the day." Cromarty let his glasses slip down his nose, eyed Murray over them, and pushed them back in place. "I do that sort of thing for the local police -- drunk-driving cases, usually." His expression changed. "You haven't been involved in an accident or something, have you, Mr. Douglas? Because if so I'm afraid -- "

  "No, nothing like that, believe me." Murray passed his handkerchief over his forehead to clear away prickly sweat. "It's rather hard to explain, but what it comes to is this. I'm rehearsing with the company of a new play at Fieldfare House, the old country c
lub -- "

  "Oh, yes! I know the place. Shame it closed. Very luxurious, it was. I'm sorry! Go on." Cromarty leaned back in his swivel chair.

  Murray licked his lips. Half a lie would be better than a whole one here. He said awkwardly, "It's a job that means a lot to me, because I've been out of work for some time. I've been under treatment for alcoholism."

  Cromarty raised his gray-salted eyebrows.

  "And of course if my director thinks I'm going back to the bottle he's bound to fire me, and I don't blame him. But the point is that there's someone there who's -- oh, I don't know how to put it -- jealous, I suppose you'd call him. And he's played a very dirty trick on me. I woke up this morning to find bottles and glasses all over my room. So before the director gets wind of this I've got to prove that I haven't been drinking."