The Productions of Time

by John Brunner

  "If Sam has to learn the hard way, by seeing his cast head one by one for jail, asylums, or cemeteries, let him. Roger, I'll try and get back to town. If I don't show tomorrow morning, call that doctor; if he hasn't heard from me, call here, and if they refuse to pass the call or say I'm not available, then for Christ's sake come and see for yourself. Will you?"

  "See what? If it were that obvious, Sam would have seen it, wouldn't he? Come off it, Murray. You're not in jail. I'll expect to see you tomorrow, but if I don't, and you're not with this doctor, I'll assume you changed your mind and decided to stick it out."

  "There's no chance of that," Murray said earnestly. "No chance at all."

  "Maybe not. But get this." Roger's voice went hard. "If you quit, and they get out a play, and it's a success, and nobody kills himself because of it, that'll be that, Murray. I'll be clean out of patience with you."

  "I'll take the risk," Murray said and cradled the phone.

  Talking to Roger had cleared his mind. He lit a cigarette and sat down in the chair Heather had been using. She was lying asleep on the bed now, her mouth half open. He caught up the side of the bedcover and tossed it over her, but the room was fairly warm and he wasn't concerned about the effects of what she'd drunk. She'd recover quickly in the morning~

  She'd already been talking about leaving. So . . .

  He was going to have to wait out the night, he decided. It was absurd to think of calling Valentine to open the main gate and carrying an unconscious girl to his car now. In the morning, then. Persuade Heather to come with him. Take whatever he could find that might serve as evidence. Of what, he couldn't say, but he needed something.

  Of course. The wire embroidery. He jumped out of the chair and felt for his pocketknife. Carefully, trying not to disturb the pattern of the wires, he cut away the whole area of cloth on which they were laid out, broke the filament linking them to the tape recorder under the mattress, and rolled up the pieces and stuffed them in his pocket.

  The spool of tape, too. Why not? He held back the mattress with one hand and opened the lid over the recorder with the other. He expected to have to wind the tape back slowly by hand, but someone had been here; there was a fresh tape in position.

  Oh. That figures.

  He removed the spool and put it in his traveling bag. He looked wistfully at the TV set. But whatever enigma had been introduced into its vitals, it was too big to carry off. He wouldn't have much to show to back up his story.

  The cans of fruit juice. He dropped them in the bag, too. And then it occurred to him that he might be able to get into Heather's room and remove her tape. That was an extra. Whatever was on the tape might prove meaningless, but it would be comforting to have solid objects he could show.

  He would have to wait for his chance to sneak into Heather's room, though. Someone else might forestall him, unfortunately. Ida might come calling, and not finding Heather there might investigate.

  Too bad. Let her.

  He returned to his chair and his burning cigarette. It was bound to be a miserable wait, but it was going to have to be endured.

  XX

  Sitting in the near silence of the house that night, Murray had the eerie sensation that he had not come of his own accord to his decisions. There seemed to be gaps in the processes of his reasoning. He could not, for instance, recall just why he had accepted the necessity of waiting till next morning before trying to get out. That had sprung itself on him. Heather's presence was part of an explanation, but it was too easy.

  Gradually, he began to wonder whether in fact he lacked the courage to do as he had told Roger he would. With the passing of hours, the self-questioning grew more intense and more difficult to bear.

  By one o'clock, when for over an hour there had been hardly a sound except Heather's irregular beathing nearby, he could stand it no longer. He stubbed out the latest of an endless succession of cigarettes and went cautiously to the door, intending to relieve the strain by fetching the spool of tape from Heather's room.

  He opened the door a crack and listened at the gap, wishing his blood would not rush so loudly in his ears. There was nothing to hear. He had counted doors opening and closing as the rest of the company came up to bed, had identified voices as they spoke casual good nights. He had caught Ida's faint words of inquiry at Heather's door, but she had not apparently found the answering silence remarkable; after a minute's wait she had gone to her own room and shut the door.

  So unless someone woke by chance, there was little risk of his being heard.

  He closed the door again and went back to see if Heather had her key in the pocket of her jeans. She was too deeply asleep to be disturbed by his touch. He found a small cigarette case, a hook of matches, a handkerchief, loose change -- no key. He put the bedcover back over her and left her, locking his own door very quietly from the outside.

  He had just withdrawn the key when he heard the voices.

  For a second, he was so startled he nearly dropped the key. Then a wave of icy control came over him, and he turned his head, locating the source of the words. They came from the room next to his -- room thirteen, into which he had had no glimpse since his arrival. The door was not completely shut; he saw a thin line of light around the edge of its frame.

  He unlocked his own door again, thinking it would be a way of retreat if someone spotted him, and then crept toward the adjacent room. So far, he had only heard an indistinct murmur, but now he began to make out words.

  Hearing them was one thing. Making sense of them was another, and would have to wait till later. His jaw muscles knotted with concentration; he accepted the sounds passively.

  The voices were those of Delgado and Valentine. He had not expected anyone else's. The only curious point was that Delgado's had a subservient inflection, and Valentine's was colored with uncharacteristic authority.

  "The girl isn't in her room," Valentine said. "The young one. What's happened to her?"

  "I -- I don't know." Delgado was nervous. "Outside, perhaps?"

  "Don't be a fool. I know when anyone goes in or out. No, she's in the house."

  "Have you checked Ida's signal for a double trace?"

  "She isn't there. Thanks to that interfering bastard Douglas. The urge was on her tapes four nights ago. And we haven't had a single chance to play for her."

  "We'll have to do something about Douglas," Delgado said. "Uh -- I don't suppose she could be in his room, could she?" He brightened as the idea struck him.

  "How am I supposed to know?" Valentine snapped back. "He suspects too much. Putting the scanner into the television was a brilliant idea, you said. Nobody would suspect it, you said. Except him! I'm getting a beautiful scan of the wall of his room, and I've had nothing else all evening."

  "He doesn't know anything," Delgado mumbled. "He only has a hunch. We could deal with him by direct methods -- "

  "Too late," Valentine interrupted. "He called someone in London this evening. I listened to the call. What he doesn't know is hardly relevant. He's decided to leave. Moreover, he mentioned Garrigue's suicide, and the man he was talking to believed him and told him about Léa Martinez. You remember Léa?" The voice which was usually so smooth and emotionless was now a whiplash of sarcasm.

  "But -- nobody believed what she said! They put her in one of their primitive mental hospitals, and by now she probably really is out of her mind." Delgado essayed a laugh, but it was a failure.

  "Too late. He's going. You and your indirect methods! Making him think he was insane! Making him drunk by adding alcohol to his fluid intake! Well, it's too late now."

  "But he's still here, isn't he? We can use a more direct technique. It's not too late." Delgado was attempting defiance now.

  "Will you listen? He's told his friend he's definitely leaving and asked him to come and make inquiries if he doesn't arrive in London tomorrow."

  "We can get around that!" Delgado insisted feverishly. "We can make up a tape for him -- fit him with convincing reasons for
staying. So much the better if his friend comes here and meets him and hears why he decided to stay after all."

  "So much the better, in my view, if he goes." Valentine spoke coldly. "He's been a worse nuisance than Léa ever was."

  "But you don't understand!" Delgado wailed. "What about the play? He's a leading actor in it. If he goes, probably some of the others will get disgusted and leave, and we'll be ruined!"

  "The play's your worry, not mine. No!" It sounded as though Valentine had sensed an objection rising to the other's lips. "At the moment, I'm more concerned about that girl. She's tractable material, and I'd rather not lose her."

  "So's Douglas!" Delgado's voice was getting higher pitched. "We got a primary tape from him his first night here, and it said so -- perfectly tractable material!"

  "But we haven't been able to play to him more than once, have we?" Valentine countered bitingly. "I said that's your worry. I want to know where the girl is. We'll do a physical check of the unscanned rooms; if she isn't there, we'll have to see if she's in Douglas' room. And if she is, heaven help you, Delgado. That wasn't the experience contracted for, was it?"

  Murray dared wait no longer. Valentine's last statement suggested that they might emerge into the corridor any moment. He darted back to his own door, slipped inside without more than a whisper of sound, and turned the key equally silently. Then he wiped his face, astonished at the quantity of sweat greasing his skin.

  What in hell were those two talking about? Unscanned rooms! Tractable material! The urge was on her tape four nights ago!

  Sheer nonsense. And yet his skin crawled with the memory of it.

  Right now, though, he had no time to wonder. He had to act quickly. He strode over to the bed and tugged at Heather's arm.

  "Heather!" he whispered close to her ear. "Wake up! For pity's sake wake up!"

  She stirred a little and moaned. Oh, what could be done to wake her? He went to the washbasin and soaked a handkerchief in cold water, then put it to her face, and spoke more urgently still.

  "Wake up! Delgado's looking for you -- you've got to hide!"

  "What?" Fighting out of a mist of alcohol and sleep, she managed to open her eyes. "Leave me alone, will you? I wanna sleep ."

  "You've got to hide! Delgado's after you!"

  "What?" She was coming fully awake now, and he straightened with relief. Swinging her feet to the floor, she looked blankly first at him, then at the strange room. "Oh my God," she said after a pause. "I remember now. You bastard, Murray. You -- "

  She broke off, as though suddenly aware that she was fully dressed. One hand plucked absently at the front of her shirt as she looked down at herself.

  "Listen!" Murray whispered. "I didn't spike your drinks -- do you understand? I was meant to drink them, not you. I didn't put the stuff in there. Delgado did." Or more likely Valentine, in view of what he'd just heard, but that could wait. "He's out looking for you. He wants you for something. You've got to hide ."

  It was getting through at last. Wide-eyed, she stared at him. "But -- why? What's he doing, trying to make you drunk? And why should he go looking for me in the middle of the night?" She raised her left wrist and peered uncertainly at the watch on it. "It's past one, isn't it?"

  "You'll just have to take my word for it at the moment," Murray pleaded. "I don't know what be's doing, but it's thoroughly nasty, and -- I'm getting the hell out in the morning, and if you take my advice you'll come too. Otherwise you'll find yourself in Ida's bed, and you won't be able to help it."

  "Ida? Goodness, I'm not going to turn Les! I didn't come to ask you whether I should or not. I wanted to know how to keep her out of my hair!" She was definitely getting her self-possession back now.

  "I said you won't be able to help it. I don't know what Delgado can do, but it's connected with the tape recorders in the beds. I just -- oh, never mind! They'll be here any moment."

  He swung around, looking for a hiding place. The only possibility seemed to be the built-in wardrobe. He opened the door and quickly pushed his clothes to one side, then beckoned Heather.

  "It'll have to be in here. There's nowhere else."

  She got off the bed and hesitantly came two paces toward him. Then she swallowed enormously.

  "Murray, I -- I can't," she said in a faint voice. "I'm a claustrophobe. I can't stand hiding in cupboards in the dark. I've never been able to, even when I was a kid."

  "But -- "

  "I can't," she repeated desperately. "I scream. I just can't help it. I scream."

  "Oh, no," Murray said. He let his hands fall to his sides.

  "Murray, what's so terrible?" she demanded. "You can lock the door, can't you? I mean, they aren't secret police!"

  "I don't think locks will keep them out," Murray said feverishly. "Well, we'll just have to face it out, I guess. And a damned peculiar conversation it'll be, too. Unless -- "

  He broke off. The last thing he had overheard Valentine say -- that wasn't the experience contracted for . He didn't pretend to understand it, but it was obviously meant as a threat to Delgado.

  "Unless what?" Heather said after a pause.

  "Unless we give them a false idea." Murray snapped off the one light which he had had burning. "Don't argue, for God's sake. Get your clothes off -- at least your jeans and panties. Put them on that chair, in plain sight from the door." He made for the bed as he spoke, stripping off the cover and replacing the bottom sheet and pillows to hide the damage he had done to the mattress.

  "Murray," Heather said in a faint voice.

  "I won't rape you!" Murray whispered savagely. "I overheard Delgado saying something which suggested he wants you in bed with Ida and no one else. I know it's crazy -- so's the whole damned business. It'll at least give him something to worry about. Oh, please !"

  The vehemence of the last word seemed to tip the balance. With furious rapidity she unbuttoned her shirt, unzipped her jeans, kicked off her shoes. She hesitated there, then realized the room was almost totally dark, and put her underwear on the chair with the rest. The bed creaked very faintly as she scrambled in.

  Murray threw his sweater and trousers on the end of the bed, shoes on the floor nearby, socks, tie and shirt on the chair with Heather's clothes. He went around the bed and got in on the far side. His foot brushed hers, and she flinched and snatched it away.

  "Lie down," he whispered. "If they come to the door, pretend for all you're worth that you're asleep. Listen! I think I hear them coming now."

  There was a faint noise of stairs creaking. Murray rolled over into his usual sleeping position, hoping against hope that he remembered how to feign deep slumber convincingly.

  The footsteps came closer. They entered the corridor of the new wing. Suddenly, Heather moved toward him, putting her leg over his and nuzzling her face into his neck; he felt her skin smooth and warm against him. The very picture of satisfied lovers, they waited for the door to be opened.

  XXI

  Murray had left the key in the lock, with a vague idea of foiling a passkey. Clearly the intruders had more sophisticated means of opening doors. There was the faintest of clicks as the wards turned; then the bottom of the door brushed the thick-piled carpet; then he heard cautious footsteps. There was no light. Murray opened one eyelid, and saw darkness as complete as before. There was not even a light on in the corridor now.

  Apart from their cat-soft tread, the only sound from Valentine and Delgado was a hissing intake of breath when they came close to the bed.

  Not the experience contracted for.

  Whatever that might mean, Murray thought grimly, there was really no reason why he shouldn't give them another uncontracted experience. From the noise of breathing, he could tell that they had both gone around to Heather's side of the bed.

  "You fool." The words barely disturbed the air; genuine sleepers would never have been awakened by them.

  "But there was nothing on their tapes to suggest -- !" That would be Delgado, very slightly louder, almost babbli
ng.

  "How could there be? We haven't had a tape from either of them -- except in the theater -- since the first night! Out of here now, quickly."

  Murray moved. He had spent the past several moments calculating in his mind's eye exact distances and directions. When he slid out of bed, he was closer to the half-open door than either Delgado or Valentine. He was at the door while they were still dumbfounded, shut it, and turned the key and put on the light within the space of a few heartbeats.

  In the bed, Heather rolled over and gave a convincing pantomime of waking from deep sleep. Her intention to feign astonishment at the intrusion gave way to real surprise when she opened her eyes and saw what Murray had already seen.