Vertigo

by Bob Shaw

  “This is good,” he said, desperate for time in which to think, “but I’m very tired — I have to go to bed now.”

  “Perhaps it’s just as well,” May replied with a husky candour which Hasson found infinitely flattering and thrilling.

  “Please excuse me.” He turned, managed to identify the door which led directly into the hail and went through it. The hail was empty and in darkness, but somebody had used the bulging coat-stand as a support for a flying suit which had been left with the helmet in place and the shoulder and ankle lights flashing. Hasson squeezed past the golem-figure, went upstairs to his room and locked its door behind him. He went to the window, parted the curtains and looked out at the unfamiliar nightland. Snow was sifting down from the overhanging darkness. Immediately outside the window was a large, bare tree through the twigs of which a street lamp shed its radiance in concentric frosty circles. Myriads of glimmers, sparkles and reflections seemed to have been carefully placed on tangents to the circles, creating the sense of looking down a long illuminated tunnel wound with gossamer.

  Hasson surveyed the view for perhaps a minute, trying to come to terms with the realisation that he had first seen it only twelve hours earlier, that he had completed less than a day of rest and recuperation. His mind was swollen with newly implanted memories of faces, voices, names and ideas as he went to the bed, stripped off his clothing and put on his pyjamas. As was usual at night, he was moving easily and without discomfort-the prolonged spell of activity having freed his joints and muscles — but it was time for his night-cap of pain.

  He lay down on the bed and as soon as his back, now unprotected by day clothing, came in contact with the mattress a war began. The conflict was between various muscle groups, to see which would gain the advantage in new states of relaxation or tension, to see which could fire the greatest salvoes of agony — and in every case the loser was Hasson. He endured the struggle in silence until the spasms became infrequent, and very soon after that he had fallen asleep, a wounded warrior, exhausted, defeated in every skirmish of the day.

  four

  The dream was a familiar dream — the recreation of one day of Hasson’s early life, the reliving of one event. One special event.

  The preparation had been going on for days without his admitting, even to himself, what lay in the back of his mind. At first there had been an aerial tour of the Hebrides, and there was nothing very unusual in the fact that he had chosen to go alone. Then had come the procurement of extra power packs and special long-life oxygen bottles — but even that could have been interpreted as the taking of reasonable precautions prior to flying over a remote and sparcely populated area. And Hasson had actually begun his big climb before he finally acknowledged what he was doing.

  It is in the nature of some men that when a machine is placed into their hands they have to satisfy themselves as to the limits of its performance. The CG harness operated by distorting gravitic field lines in such a way that the wearer could “fall” upwards — the closest analogy being that of a magnetic field in which any nodal point moved towards the region of greatest flux intensity. Because it drew most of its energy from the gravity field itself, the CG harness was most efficient at low altitudes. Close to the ground there was little drain on the power pack, but when a flier went high he found that his energy supplies were being squandered at greater and greater rates to compensate for inherent system inefficiency.

  The most obvious consequence was that there was a limit to the altitude a personal flier could achieve, but — as is always the case -that limit could be modified by various technical and human factors. Air Policeman Robert Hasson, newly qualified for the force, had no more than a normal interest in the mechanics of the big climb. He had, however, a restless craving to explore his own psychological parameters, to find out which had the greater operational ceiling — the man or the machine, He knew it was an obsessional state of mind, that it was far from being novel or unusual and yet the experiment had to be performed…

  He lifted off from the Eye Peninsula on Lewis at dawn on a summer day and set his initial rate of climb at 250 metres a minute. The speed was fairly moderate by CG standards, but Has son’s dead weight had been greatly increased by the addition of three extra power packs and he had no wish to overload any of the equipment upon which his life depended. The maximum load which could be lifted by a CG harness was limited by the fact that, above a certain point, the load itself began to generate a noticeable gravitic field, thus interfering with the delicately arranged pattern of force lines set up by the counter-gravity unit. Basic modular mass, as the load figure was referred to in text- books, was 137.2 kilograms, and exceeding it induced an effect known as field collapse, which gave the flier all the aerodynamic properties of a millstone.

  Not sacrificing any energy by introducing horizontal components into his flight, Hasson allowed a light westerly wind to carry him out over the waters of the North Minch. Complex vistas of land and water continued to unfurl on all sides as the Scottish coast came into view some sixty kilometres to the east. The vegetation on the islands and mainland glowed in pastel shades in the early morning sun, with swaths of pale powdery yellow sifting into areas of lime green. Coastlines were limited with white against the nostalgic travel-poster blue of the ocean, and the air Hasson was breathing felt prehistoric in its cleanliness.

  Twenty minutes after take-off he had reached a height of five kilometres, far above the levels normally used in personal flight. He sealed the faceplate of his helmet and began to draw on his bottled oxygen. Beneath the soles of his boots the rolling Earth was immense, beginning to show hints of curvature, and Hasson felt the first stirrings of loneliness. He could see no birds, no ships, no signs of human habitation in all the atlas-page sweeps of territory below — and there was no sound, Hasson was alone in the silent blue reaches of the sky.

  Forty minutes after take-off he had reached a height of ten kilometres and knew he was passing through the level of the polar tropopause. The air around him had been steadily growing colder throughout his ascent, the temperature decreasing by six degrees or more with every kilometre of altitude, but now he could expect it to remain constant or even become slightly warmer as he penetrated the stratosphere. Unfortunately, that fact signified little real benefit for Hasson. His heavy-duty suit heaters were labouring to cope with a surrounding air temperature of almost fifty degrees below zero, and would go on being a major drain on his energy supply.

  Ten minutes later Hasson saw a layer of thin cloud moving eastwards beneath him, beginning to obscure his view of the land, and he knew the time had come to perform the illegal action which had necessitated his making the flight from such a remote area. He checked his first power pack, saw that it was nearing exhaustion, and switched to the second in line. For one heart-stopping instant, while the electrical circuit was being broken and re-made, he felt himself begin to fall, but the harness renewed its grip on him almost immediately and he knew the ascent was continuing. He unbuckled the expended power unit and, with a transient pang of guilt, released it from his fingers. The heavy pack dwindled out of sight beneath his feet, bombing its way down to an unseen impact with the choppy waters of the Minch.

  Hasson’s plan had included shedding the second power unit and perhaps the third, provided conditions had been right, so as to Lighten the load on those remaining as they clawed their way up into regions of weakening gravitic flux. A prime requisite, though, had been perfect visibility below. The chances of a falling unit causing any damage to life or property were virtually non-existent in his present geographical location, but a deep- rooted instinct would not let him consider dropping a dense object through cloud. He would simply have to accept the limitation on his flight.

  The realisation came as less of a disappointment than Hasson might have expected an hour earlier. He had already climbed higher than most fliers even cared to think about, and the nameless hunger within him was slowly abating. On the other hand, he had reached a dimensionl
ess zone — once the domain of the big jets — and going on upwards into regions of darker blue seemed just as logical and natural as returning to the ancient kingdoms of men. With his head tilted back, and arms and legs trailing limply, Hasson continued his climb, his posture an unconscious echo of the one in which mediaeval artists depicted human souls ascending to heaven. A single point of light — possibly Venus — appeared in the aching purity above him, beckoning, and Hasson swam towards it. His rate of ascent was decreasing with every minute, in inverse proportion to the drain on his power packs, but a further hour took him to an altitude of twenty-five kilometres. The world curved away beneath him in nacreous splendour. There was no visible movement anywhere, except for the hastening progression of needles across the dials on his chest panel. Hasson flew onwards.

  At thirty kilometres above sea level he checked his instruments and saw that his upward movement had all but ceased. His CG field generator, with less and less invisible grist for its mills, was expending stored energy at a prodigious rate simply to keep him from falling. The only way in which he could gain more height would be to discard the dead power packs, but he had ruled that action out, and in any case the result would be of no great significance. He had done what he set out to do.

  Hanging motionless in the icy blue solitude, poised on the threshold of space, Hasson gazed all about him and felt… nothing. There was no fear, no elation, no wonder, no sense of achievement, no communion with the cosmos — removed from the context of humanity he had lost his humanity.

  He completed a full survey of the heavens, knew himself to be a stranger there, then adjusted a control on his belt and began the long and lonely fall to Earth.

  five

  Hasson awoke to a room which was brilliant with diffused sunlight and he knew without looking at his watch that he had slept late. His head was throbbing so powerfully that he could actually hear the squirting pulses in the temple which was pressed into the pillow, and his tongue felt like stiffened chamois leather. There was also a fierce pressure in his bladder as a result of alcoholic enhancement of his body’s diuretic processes.

  Not a hangover, he protested to the morning. The last thing I need is a hangover. He lay still for a time, reacquainting himself with the room, wondering what had happened on the previous day to trigger the nervy fluttering of excitement he could feel at the threshold of consciousness. There was pleasure involved — that much he knew — the pleasure of… Hasson closed his eyes momentarily as a picture of May Carpenter came into focus in his mind, quickly followed by all the recriminations and objections appropriate to his age, background and temperament. She was too young; she was mated to his host; he was fantasising like an adolescent boy; she was not his type; it was highly unlikely that she could have any interest in him whatsoever — but, but, she had looked at him in a certain way, and she had said, “That’s lucky for both of us,” and she had said, “Perhaps it’s just as well,” and the fact that he had never actually communicated with her and had no knowledge of her as a person was not very important, because there was an abundance of time in which to…

  A sudden renewal of the pressure in his abdomen brought Hasson to his senses, making it dear that he had to face the task of getting himself into an upright attitude after many hours of lying in bed. The first stage in the operation was to transfer himself, still in the horizontal position, from the bed to the floor, because he was tackling an engineering job of Brunelian magnitude and the first requirement was a firm and immovable base. He began by dragging his legs sideways to the edge of the mattress by hand, then he rolled over, grasped the underlying frame and drew himself into a kind of a controlled fall to the floor. The inevitable flexure of his back and the abrupt change of temperature initiated a period of torment which he bore in near-silence, staring at the ceiling through slitted eyes. When the spasms began to subside he rolled again until he was lying in the prone position and could begin the slow process — largely guided by trial and error — of raising his upper body and very carefully, like a mason inserting props to hold an unwieldy mass of stone, bringing more and more of his skeleton under it until he had achieved verticality.

  Two minutes after making the decision to rise, Hasson was on his feet — breathing heavily, chastened by what he had just been through, but now capable of movement. He shuffled about the room, putting on a dressing gown and collecting toilet articles, then listened at the bedroom door to satisfy himself that opening it would not precipitate the ordeal of having to speak to strangers. The landing was deserted and the upper part of the house had an empty feel to it, although there were muted sounds of activity from below. In the bathroom he brushed his teeth and made the depressing discovery that two mouth ulcers he had thought to be fading away were more painfully active than before. Returning to the bedroom, he contemplated the idea of getting under the covers again and switching on the television, but the dehydration of his system had given him a powerful yearning for tea or coffee which could not be denied. He dressed and made his way down to the kitchen, wondering how he would react if he found May there alone. He tapped the door gently, went inside and saw Theo Werry seated by himself at the circular table, eating a dish of cereal. The boy was wearing slacks and a red sweater, and there was a pensive expression on his handsome young face.

  “Morning, Theo,” Hasson said. “No school today?”

  Theo shook his head. “This is Saturday.”

  “I’d forgotten. The days don’t seem to mean much to me now that…” Hasson checked himself and glanced around the room. “Where is everybody?”

  “Dad’s outside clearing snow. The other two have gone into town.” Theo’s choice of phrase and a certain dryness of tone informed Hasson that he did not care much for May or her mother.

  “In that case, I’ll brew myself some coffee,” Hasson said. “I don’t suppose anybody will mind.”

  “I’ll do it for you, if you like.” Theo half-rose from his chair, but Hasson persuaded him to go on with his breakfast. While performing the domestic routine of making the coffee he spoke to the boy about his tastes and pursuits, discovering as he did so that conversation with Theo was less of a strain on him than trying to exchange pleasantries with adults. They talked briefly about music and Theo’s face became animated as he learned that Hasson shared his liking for Chopin and Liszt, as well as for some modern composers working for hard-toned piano.

  “I suppose you listen to the radio a lot,” Hasson said, sitting down with his coffee, and realized at once that he had made a mistake.

  “That’s what everybody supposes.” Theo’s voice had grown stony. “It’s fun being blind as long as you have a radio.”

  “Nobody thinks that.”

  But it’s supposed to be a great solace, isn’t it? Everywhere I go people turn on radios for me, and I never listen to them. I don’t enjoy being blind — unsighted, they call it at school — and nobody’s going to make me look like I’m enjoying it.”

  “That’s a great bit of corkscrew logic,” Hasson said gently, all too aware of his own stumblings under the burden of illness.

  “I guess it is — but then a wood-louse isn’t a very logical creature.”

  “Wood-louse? You’ve lost me, Theo.”

  The boy gave a humourless smile which saddened Hasson. “There’s a Kafka story about a man who woke up one morning and found he had turned into a giant cockroach. It horrifies everybody that one, the idea of being turned into a cockroach — but if he’d really wanted to sick people off Kafka should have made the guy into a wood-louse.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re blind and they’re busy. I’ve always hated those things because they’re blind and so busy. Then I woke up one morning and found I’d been turned into a giant wood-louse.”

  Hasson stared at the black, vapouring liquid in his cup. “Theo, take some advice from a leading expert on the gentle art of beating oneself on the head with a club — don’t do it.”

  “Mine’s the only head I
can get at.”

  “It was rough on your father too, you know — he’s having a bad time as well.”

  Theo tilted his head and considered Hasson’s remark for a few seconds. “Mr Haldane,” he said thoughtfully, “you don’t know my father at all. I don’t think you’re really his cousin, and I don’t think you’re really an insurance salesman.”

  “That’s funny,” Hasson parried, “that’s what my boss used to say to me every month when he looked at my figures.” “I’m not joking.”

  “He used to say that as well, but I surprised him by inventing a new kind of policy which let people insure themselves against being uninsured.”

  Theo’s lips twitched. “I read a story once about a character called Nemo the Nameless.”

  Hasson chuckled, impressed by the speed with which the boy had classified his absurdity and correctly matched it. “You sound like another Stephen Leacock buff.”

  “No, I don’t think I ever heard of him.”

  “But he was a Canadian humorist! The very best!” Hasson was mildly surprised to find he could be enthusiastic about anything connected with literature — for months he had been unable even to open a book.

  “I’ll try to remember the name,” Theo said.

  Hasson tapped him lightly on the back of the hand. “Listen, I’m about due to re-read some Leacock. If I pick up a couple of books perhaps I could read them to you. What do you say?”

  “That sounds all right. I mean, if you have the time…”

  “I’ve got loads of time, so we’ll make it definite,” Hasson said, musing on the fact that immediately he had started thinking about doing something for somebody else his own state of mind had improved. It seemed there was a lesson to be learned. He sipped his coffee, wincing occasionally as the hot fluid came in contact with a mouth ulcer, and tacitly encouraged Theo to talk about anything that came into his mind, as long as it had nothing to do with Hasson’s past and his supposed family connections with Al Werry. Theo’s interest in flying quickly came to the fore, and almost at once there were references to Barry Lutze and to a local gang of cloud-runners known as the Hawks. As before, Hasson was disturbed to hear a note of uncritical admiration manifest itself in Theo’s voice.