Galaxies Like Grains of Sand

by Brian W Aldiss

  “Uh — oh, I don’t know what to believe...” He faltered miserably, ashamed of remaining uncommitted, looking away from Shansfor. The yellow buttercup mocked his downcast eyes.

  “I actually came to tell you that the medical council is still in session,” Shansfor said, his voice a shade warmer than urbane. “The Arch-Brother Inald Uatt, our director, is there, if you would care to speak to him.”

  “I suppose I’d better.”

  Stop shaking, you old fool, Davi told himself. But he could not stop; as soon as he had denied Ishrail, he knew he believed in him and in all he stood for. He knew, further, that nobody else believed. So it was up to him, Davi Dael, whether Ishrail was released from what might be a life’s confinement. Larger issues, too, might depend on his efforts, for through Ishrail lay the way to bright, friendly worlds far beyond the sun’s unwelcoming cluster of planets. All he had to do was convince a board of experts, who had apparently already made up their minds on the subject of Ishrail’s sanity, that they were wrong. That was all; but it would not be easy.

  “Can I see Ishrail first?” Davi asked.

  “You force me to answer that question as I answered it before — with a negative,” Shansfor replied. “Now if you’ll come with me, I think the council will see you...”

  They walked down the corridor to an elevator, went up one deck to a more grandly appointed part of the ship, and so into a fur-lined boardroom. Thick curtains had been drawn here, a fire burned, and on one wall hung an original Wadifango, an anatomical drawing of a tiger.

  A long table stood in the middle of the room, soft chairs ranged its walls, but the four men present stood stretching their legs by the fire. As the round of introductions disclosed, Arch-Brother Inald Uatt was a small, stocky man with a bald head, clothed from neck to foot in tight blue flannel, his manner reserved, his voice dry.

  He shook hands with Davi, crossing to the table to get a bundle of notes secured by a plain silver clasp.

  “This is a very interesting case for us, Mr Dael,” he remarked conversationally.

  “It’s more than a case to me, sir,” Davi said.

  “Er — yes. Of course. You and he became very friendly in the brief time you were together, I understand. Be warned, though, against letting the matter become an obsession.”

  “It’s not becoming an obsession,” Davi said. “I take Ishrail’s part, sir, because there is nobody else to take it. I feel it would be easy for him to be victimized. The whole thing seemed pretty simple once, but since he’s been up here at New Union in your hands it seems to have got more and more complicated.”

  He was aware as he spoke of sounding less courteous than he had intended. He was confused. The boardroom confused him, the rather restrained members of the council confused him; they differed so greatly from the people of his home hills. Although in his own sphere of dairy farming and stock breeding Davi was well known and respected, here he felt out of his depth, too conscious of seeming the simple countryman among the experts, aware his tunic colour was not as theirs. A horrible feeling seized him that he was about to appear foolish, and from then on it never left him; it got between him and his reason, forcing him to say always the wrong thing.

  “I mean, this business is just a question of common sense,” he added, making things worse instead of better.

  Inald Uatt smiled kindly as if covering his own embarrassment.

  “There are problems, unfortunately,” he said, “where common sense is too blunt a tool to work with, Mr Dael, and Ishrail’s problem is one such. Indeed, we have achieved results only by trying several oblique approaches, as you shall hear.”

  “I was just offering my opinion,” Davi said. He intended it to sound penitent, humble even, but it sounded defiant in the befurred room.

  “Quite so,” said Uatt said quietly, inspecting his fingers as if for the first time. “Believe me, we do realize what a fascinating and gaudy specimen Ishrail must have seemed in Bergharra, but here on the Cyberqueen we may be rather more inured to odd fish, alas.”

  “We aren’t all simpletons in Bergharra,” Davi exclaimed, nettled by what he interpreted as a slur on his native country.

  Uatt inclined his head sadly, acknowledging the truth of the remark.

  Realizing he was again on the verge of making a fool of himself, Davi tugged at his tunic and said in explanatory fashion, “In fact, I’m sorry to have to come all this way to bother you, sir, but I felt I had to see what you were doing about Ishrail. I mean, if you were doing anything.”

  “We have been doing quite a lot,” Uatt said lightly. “It is good of you to come. All of us here will be delighted to assure you that Ishrail has occupied much of our attention in the past weeks.”

  He shook his head and smiled; the other men also smiled. They had had a long, trying meeting — and now this! Uatt attempted to give Davi a chance, but Davi caught the note of reproach in the director’s voice and flushed heavily, feeling like a small boy brought before a teacher.

  “How should I know what you were doing here?” he muttered. “I felt it was my duty to come and see.”

  A gleam of irritation showed in Uatt’s eye and disappeared. Brother Shansfor, knowing his superior, feared for the worst; the director was not a forgiving man once he conceived a dislike for someone. From then on, Davi was at a disadvantage; instead of becoming a discussion, their meeting crystallized into a muted clash of personalities, its outcome already predictable. Sensing something of this, Davi tried to wrench the conversation back into another channel.

  “I believe Ishrail to be sane!” he exclaimed. He could see immediately that his bluntness made them more withdrawn. For them, he was now the stupid layman, unable to evaluate evidence.

  “I am just going to run through a few notes for your benefit,” Uatt said, rustling the papers. “They will explain our findings on the — er — patient and, I sincerely hope, clear your mind of any anxieties or uncertainties you may have.”

  “Tell him about the specialists, Inald,” Shansfor said in an aside.

  “Yes, yes,” the Arch-Brother said. “These notes are extracts from the reports of specialists from this and other health ships who have examined — er — Ishrail, as he calls himself, during the course of the last month. Sit down, Mr Dael, sit down and unbutton.”

  Davi hesitated, then sat, formally unbuttoning his tunic. The three members of the council who had not spoken seemed to take this as a cue to disappear.

  “Now,” Uatt said, clearing his throat. He peered at the papers before him. “First let’s get our facts straight, may we? Ishrail was discovered sheltering in a barn on the evening of Fi Month 31st last by one George Fanzi, a bondman on Brundell’s farm in the province of Bergharra. He was naked and dazed and seemed at that time unable to speak at all. Fanzi wrapped sacks around him and took him to his own caravan. By morning Ishrail was better, although his memory seemed clouded. He then spoke our tongue perfectly — an important point, Mr Dael, which alone throws grave doubt on his — hm — galactic origins.”

  “But he explained — ” Davi began.

  “Oh, yes, he explained everything, Mr Dael. But let us continue the summary. Ishrail stayed in Fanzi’s caravan till the next morning, the 33rd of Fi, when Fanzi decided to take him to Brundell. Brundell kept him for three days, in which time he got you and Ostrachan, the local tributary doctor, to question him. The province police were also brought in to try and trace Ishrail’s whereabouts before Fanzi had found him, but so far nothing has come to light.”

  “A point for Ishrail,” Davi said.

  “A small point for Ishrail,” Uatt conceded. “And that’s about it; you alone seem to have placed much credence in the man’s tale, Dael, and knowing of my friend Shansfor here through mutual acquaintances you decided to bring Ishrail up to us. A wise step, if I may be permitted to say so.”

  “I did it for Ishrail’s sake,” Davi said. “He was deeply disturbed to find that nobody believed him. I could see he would soon begin to questio
n his own sanity; he had just gone through a period of great strain, as you know. When I heard that the Cyberqueen was off the coast, naturally I got in touch. I wanted you to prove to him he was sane. You would have been powerful allies for him!”

  With a little dry crumb of sound, Inald Uatt cleared his throat, continuing his account as if he had not heard Davi.

  “For the past thirty-two days,” he said, “Ishrail has been here on shipboard; he has been thoroughly examined from every possible viewpoint. The first thing was naturally a physiological check. It revealed nothing at all abnormal in the patient’s makeup. No bones out of place, not a spare ounce of cartilage, no extra lungs, not even” — he allowed himself a modicum of amusement — “a concealed tentacle. In every respect, Ishrail is a physically normal man, born here on Earth, destined to die here on Earth. I think we might have indeed expected some trifling irregularity if he had been, as he claims to be, a — hm — specimen of galactic life.”

  “Why?” Davi asked hotly. “Can’t evolution run the same course on two planets?”

  “He has a point there, Inald, you know,” Shansfor murmured.

  “A point we did not overlook,” the Arch-Brother agreed. “Which brings me to the next step in our investigation. We were, you see, impressed enough with the lack of logical flaws in Ishrail’s arguments to take a good deal of trouble in checking them. I personally called up the Astronomer Extraordinary and asked him about life on other planets.”

  He paused impressively. Davi just waited.

  “The Astronomer Extraordinary,” Uatt said, “told me that the possibility of life on other worlds — apart perhaps from a few lowly fungi on Mars — is entirely unproved. Furthermore, he cautioned me that direct evidence of the existence of planetary systems other than our own is not yet forthcoming. He said that according to various ancient records, spaceships have been launched from Earth for other systems from time to time; there is no record of any of them having returned. And he finished by assuring me that space travel has no future.”

  Davi could restrain himself no longer. He jumped up.

  “You call that taking trouble?” he exclaimed. “Heavens above, who am I to argue with the Astronomer Extraordinary, but what does he know about it? He’s no expert on space travel!”

  “Agreed,” said Uatt, his voice a few degrees cooler. “There are no experts on space travel, just a few speculative companies who have set their paltry igloos on the moon, hoping to find minerals or such. Speculation! There, I suggest, you have the whole business in one word. Do please sit down again, Mr Dael.

  Sitting was the last thing Davi felt like doing. He tried to appeal silently for help to Shansfor, but the latter was gazing into the fire. With bad grace, Davi plunked himself down onto the chair.

  “Go on,” he said testily. “What’s your next point?”

  Before speaking again, Uatt clearly speculated upon whether the effort would be worthwhile. “We now came to Ishrail with the next tests,” he said at last. “I refer to the psychological ones; and that is a field in which I give you my word there are experts. We — if I may say so without transgressing the bounds of modesty — we are the experts, in this ship.

  “For our consideration, we had an unlikely document, the statement of Ishrail, elicited from him in numerous interviews. In brief, it relates the facts of Ishrail’s life, how he grew up, became what we would call an admiral in the interpenetrator fleets — to use his own extraordinary phrase — was defeated in some sort of battle, and finally landed on Earth stark naked and without a goatra to bless himself with.

  “I’m not going to waste your time, Mr Dael, or my own, in embarking on a detailed description of that fantastic farrago of autobiography. Transcribed from jell and divided into subjects, it fills five fat volumes; you will see we have been thorough. It contains, however, one or two cardinal points on which our diagnosis of Ishrail rests, and these I will bring to your attention. You may find their perfervid inventiveness more attractive than I do.”

  “Just a minute,” Davi said. “You’re telling me this, and I can see from every word you say your mind’s shut tighter than a Horby oyster. Was it like that before Ishrail came to you? Because, if so, the poor devil didn’t stand a candle’s chance in hell of proving his case.”

  “You’re talking with your tunic buttoned,” Shansfor protested sharply. “That sort of stuff will get you nowhere. Try and — ”

  “We’re getting nowhere as it is,” Davi snapped. “I’m a countryman, and I like plain speaking.”

  “Shansfor,” Uatt said, folding his hands and turning wearily to his colleague. “I suspect I may be unable to talk plainly enough for our country friend. Perhaps you will take over the explanations for a little while?”

  “Certainly,” Shansfor said. “Perhaps you’d like me to pour us all some drinks first?”

  “Capital idea,” the director said, softening. “I believe they are concealed in that rather ornate cupboard over there.”

  As Shansfor crossed the room, Inald Uatt said to Davi more humanly, “You know, Dael, we believe ourselves to be in effect doing you a favour in explaining all this to you; we are by no means obliged to explain. By the law, Ishrail is now a subject of Medical Hierarchy. You are not in any way related to Ishrail; we merely were somewhat touched by your loyalty to a very unfortunate case.”

  “I’ll endeavour to feel obliged to you when I’ve heard the rest of what you have to say,” Davi said grimly. “What are these cardinal points you mentioned?”

  A distilled vintage was handed around, and scented sweets. Shansfor sat down by the fire, putting his thin hands out to the flames.

  “You’ll probably know,” he began quietly, “that however elaborate and circumstantial the imaginings of a neurotic person are, they reveal certain basic emotions, such as fear, love, lust for power. Looking beyond the symbols that a disordered mind uses to camouflage these emotions from itself, we can generally see the emotive impulses quite clearly. In this respect, Ishrail differs not at all from any case we have ever handled, except that his imaginings reach the peak of inventiveness.

  “Note several points. This impressive civilization to which Ishrail claims to belong spreads across ten thousand planets and five times as many light years — or it may be fifteen thousand planets and ten times as many light years: Ishrail doesn’t remember.”

  “Would you remember?” Davi asked. “Tell me how many towns there are on Earth!”

  “That is not the point I’m making,” Shansfor said. “I’m trying to show you how Ishrail strove to build up a pattern of complexity in his make-believe world. The war that he claims is being waged is also amazingly complicated, like enlarged 3-D chess with obscure motivations and strict rules of chivalry. Ishrail seeks refuge behind this confusion, endeavouring to lose himself.”

  “But a galactic civilization would be complicated!” Davi wailed. “Why can’t you just take it that he’s telling the truth? He’s got no motive for lying.”

  “His motive is the usual one in such cases,” Shansfor said. “That is, as complete an escape from reality as possible. He cannot be telling the truth because what he says is too fantastic for a sane man to believe; and also you will notice that he has cleverly picked on a story which does not involve him in the awkward necessity of producing one shred of tangible proof!”

  Davi sunk his head into his hands.

  “You go round in circles,” he said. “He told you why he arrived naked, without any possessions.”

  “That’s just what I’m complaining about,” Shansfor said. “Ishrail can explain everything! The interpenetrators that brought him here came silently and left silently, and were invisible. We’ve not got a thing: no sight of ships, no telltale landing marks in a field, no scraps of cloth of an alien weave, no rings made of strange alloys, not even an Aldebaran corn plaster on his foot. Nothing. Only his wild and unsupported story. Not a shred of external evidence anywhere.”

  “And if you had anything, you’d exp
lain it away,” Davi said.

  “We’ll continue with the next point,” Shansfor said, raising an aggrieved eyebrow at the Arch-Brother, who nodded sympathetically. “Notice that Ishrail joined the interpenetration fleets and worked his way up to the rank of admiral.”

  “Well?”

  “Megalomania — and we shall find it recurs over and over again. Here it masquerades under the flaring suns of an admiral’s insigne. Yes, he even drew the insigne for us. He couldn’t be a ranker, could he, or a bondman, or whatever they have? He had to be an admiral, an admiral in a mighty space fleet. Such self-aggrandizement is a common feature of insanity.”

  Davi was silent, avoiding the challenge in the other’s voice. He felt his assurance fading and longed to speak to Ishrail again, to feel reinvigorated by that unquenchable nature. If these devils would only see it, a man like Ishrail could be nothing less than admiral.

  “The next point,” Shansfor continued, “is even more damning. You will remember that Ishrail claims to have been captured during this preposterous war by the enemy. They vanquished him. And did Ishrail happen to tell you the name of the race that vanquished him? It was Ishrail! Ishrail was conquered by Ishrail!”

  “What of it?” Davi asked stupidly.

  This was too much for Inald Uatt. He leaned forward, glass in hand, his jaws almost snapping.

  “What of it, you dare ask?” he said. “If you are attempting to insult us with stupidity, we may as well consider this talk closed. Ishrail is suffering — to couch the matter in terms you might comprehend — from split personality. He is himself; he is also his own worst enemy. Ishrail against Ishrail — a man divided against himself. It’s obvious even to a layman.”