The Black Corridor
Michael John Moorcock
The Black Corridor
by Michael Moorcock
CHAPTER ONE
Space is infinite.
It is dark.
Space is neutral.
It is cold.
*
Stars occupy minute areas of space. They are clustered a few billion here. A few billion there. As if seeking consolation in numbers.
Space does not care.
*
Space does not threaten.
Space does not comfort.
It does not sleep; it does not wake; it does not dream; it does not hope; it does not fear; it does not love; it does not hate; it does not encourage any of these qualities.
Space cannot be measured. It cannot be angered. It cannot be placated. It cannot be summed up.
Space is there.
*
Space is not large and it is not small. It does not live and it does not die. It does not offer truth and neither does it lie.
Space is a remorseless, senseless, impersonal fact.
Space is the absence of time and of matter.
*
Through this silence moves a tiny pellet of metal. It moves so slowly as to seem not to move at all. It is a lonely little object. In its own terms it is a long way from its planet of origin.
In the solid blackness it gives off faint light. In that great lifedenying void it contains life.
A few wisps of gas hang on it; a certain amount of its own waste matter surrounds it: cans and packages and bits of paper, globules of fluid, things rejected by its system as beyond reconstitution.
They cling to its sides for want of anything better to cling to.
And inside the spacecraft is Ryan.
Ryan is dressed neatly in regulation coveralls which are light grey in colour and tend to match the vast expanse of controls, predominantly grey and green, which surround him. Ryan himself is pale and his hair is mainly grey. He might have been designed to tone in with the ship.
Ryan is a tall man with heavy grey-black eyebrows that meet near the bridge of his nose. He has grey eyes and full, firm lips that are at the moment pressed tightly together. He seems physically very fit. Ryan knows that he has to keep himself in shape.
*
Ryan paces the spaceship. He paces down the central passageway to the main control cabin and there he checks the coordinates, the consumption indicators, the regeneration indicators and he checks all his figures, at length, with those of the ship's computer.
He is quietly satisfied.
Everything is perfectly in order; exactly as it should be.
Ryan goes to the desk near the ship's big central screen.
Although activated, the screen shows no picture. It casts a greenish light on to the desk. Ryan sits down and reaches out towards the small console on the desk. He depresses a stud and, speaking in a clear, level voice, he makes his standard log entry: 'Day number one thousand, four hundred and sixty three.
Spaceship Hope Dempsey en route for Munich 15040. Speed holds steady at point nine of c. All systems functioning according to original expectations. No other variations. We are all comfortable.
'Signing off.
'Ryan, Acting Commander.'
The entry will be filed in the ship's records and will also be automatically broadcast back to Earth.
Now Ryan slides open a drawer and takes from it a large red book. It is his personal log-book. He unclips a stylus from a pocket in his coveralls, scratches his head and writes, slowly and carefully.
He puts down the date: December 24th, A.D .2005. He takes another stylus from his pocket and underlines this date in red. He looks up at the blank screen and seems to make a decision.
He writes: The silence of these infinite spaces frightens me.
He underlines the phrase in red
He writes: I am lonely, I am controlling a desperate longing. Yet I know that it is not my function to feel lonely. I almost wish for an emergency so that I could wake at least one of them up.
Mr Ryan pulls himself together. He takes a deep breath and be gins a more formal entry, the third of his eight-hourly reports.
When he has finished, he gets up, puts the red log-book away, replaces his stylii neatly in his pocket, goes over to the main console and makes a few fine adjustments to the instruments.
He leaves the main control cabin, enters a short companion way, opens a door.
He is in his living quarters. It is a small compartment and very tidy. On one wall is a console with a screen that shows him the interior of the main control cabin. Set in the opposite wall is a double bunk.
He undresses, disposes of his coveralls, lies down and takes a sedative. He sleeps. His breathing is heavy and regular at first.
*
He goes into the ballroom. It is dusk. There are long windows looking out on to a darkening lawn. The floor gleams; the lights overhead are dim.
On the ballroom floor formally dressed couples slowly rotate in perfect time to the music. The music is low and rather sombre. All the couples wear round, very black spectacles. Their faces are pale, their features almost invisible in the dim light. The round black glasses give them a masklike appearance.
Around the floor other couples are sitting out. They stare forward through their dark glasses. As the couples move the music becomes quieter and quieter, slower and slower, and now the couples revolve more slowly too.
The music fades.
Now a low psalmlike moaning begins. It is in the room but it does not come from the dancers.
The mood in the room changes.
At last the dancers stand perfectly still, listening to the song. The seated men and women stand up. The chanting grows louder. The people in the room become angry. They are angry with a particular individual. Above the chanting, louder and faster, comes the beating of a rapid drum.
The dancers are angry, angry, angry...
Ryan awakes and remembers the past.
CHAPTER TWO
Ryan and Mrs Ryan shyly entered their new apartment and laid down the large nearly brand-new suitcase. It came to rest on the floor of the lobby. They released the handle. The suitcase rocked and then was still.
Ryan's attention left the case and focused on the shining tub in which grew a diminutive orange tree.
'Mother's kept it well watered,' murmured Mrs Ryan.
'Yes,' said Ryan.
'She's very good about things like that.'
'Yes.'
Awkwardly Ryan took her in his arms. Mrs Ryan embraced him.
There was a certain reserve in her movements as if she were frightened of him or of the consequences her action might provoke.
A feeling of tenderness overwhelmed Ryan. He smiled down at her upturned face, reached out his hand to stroke her jawline. She smiled uncertainly.
'Well,' he said. 'Let's inspect the family mansion.'
Hand in hand they wandered through the apartment, over the pale gold carpets, past the simulated oak furniture of the livingroom to stare out through the long window at the apartment blocks opposite.
'Not too close,' said Ryan with satisfaction. 'Wouldn't it be terrible to live like the Benedicts—so near the next block that you can see right into their rooms. And they can see right into yours.'
'Awful,' agreed Mrs Ryan. 'No privacy. No privacy at all.'
They wandered past the wall-to-wall television into the kitchen.
They opened cupboards and surveyed the contents. They pressed buttons to slide out the washing machine and the refrigerator.
They turned on the infragrill, played with the telephone, touched the walls. They went into the two empty bedrooms, looking out of the windows, turni
ng on the lights, their feet noisy on the tiles of the floors.
Last of all they went into the main bedroom, where the coloured lights of the walls shifted idly in the bright sunshine from the windows. They opened the wardrobes in which their clothes had been neatly laid out.
Mrs Ryan patted her hair in front of the huge convex mirror opposite the bed. Shyly they stood, looking out of the window.
Ryan pressed the button on the sill and the blinds slid down.
'Aren't the walls beautiful.' Mrs Ryan turned to look at the multicoloured lights playing over the flat surfaces.
'Not as beautiful as you.'
She looked round at him. 'Oh, you...'
Ryan reached out and touched her shoulder, touched her left breast, touched her waist.
Mrs Ryan glanced at the windows as if to reassure herself that the blinds were drawn and no one could see in.
'Oh, I'm so happy,' she whispered.
'So am I.' Ryan moved closer, drew her to him, holding her buttocks cupped in his heavy hands. He kissed her lightly on the nose, then strongly on the mouth. His hand left her buttock and moved down her thigh, pushing up the skirt, feeling her flesh.
A flush came to Mrs Ryan's face as he eased her towards the new bed. She opened her lips and stroked the back of his neck. She sighed.
His thumb traced the line of her pelvis. She trembled and moved against him.
Then the Chinese jazz record started in the next apartment. The Ryans froze. Mrs Ryan was bent backwards with Mr Ryan's face buried in her neck. The clangour of the record, every note and every phrase, was as audible as if the music poured from their own glowing walls.
They broke apart. Mrs Ryan straightened her skirt.
'Damn them!' Mr Ryan raised his fists impotently. 'Good God!
Don't tell me that's the kind of neighbours we've got.'
'Hadn't you better...?'
'What?'
'Couldn't you...?' She was confused.
'You mean...?'
'... go and speak to them?'
'Well, I..." He frowned. 'Maybe this time I'll just hammer on the wall.'
Slowly he took off his shoe. 'I'll show them.' He went to the wall and banged on it vigorously, stood back, shoe in hand, and waited.
The music stopped.
He grinned. 'That did it.'
Mrs Ryan took a deep breath and said, 'I'd better unpack.'
'I'll help you,' said Ryan.
He left the bedroom and approached the suitcase. He took the handle in both hands and staggered back to where she was waiting.
Together they unpacked the residue of their honeymoon—the suntan lotions, the damp bathing suits, the tissue-wrapped gifts for their parents. They talked and they laughed as they took things out of the case and put them away, but secretly they were sad as article after article came out. All the souvenirs of that sunny three weeks on an island where no one else lived, where there was freedom from observation, the noise and demands of other people.
The case was empty.
Mrs Ryan reached into the waterproof pouch at the back and produced the tapes they had had processed when they reached the mainland heliport. He fetched the player from the dressing table and they went into the living-room to play the tapes on the television.
In silence they looked at the pictures, drinking in the landscapes they showed. There were the mountains, there the great blue expanse of the sea, there the heaths.
There were almost no shots of Mr or Mrs Ryan. There were only the views of the silent crags, the sea and the moors of the island where they had been so happy.
A bird cried.
Somewhat shakily the picture swept upwards towards the cloudslashed sky. A kittyhawk dived into the distance. There was the sound of the breakers in the background.
Suddenly the picture cut out.
Mrs Ryan looked at Mr Ryan with tears in her eyes.
'We must go back there soon,' she said.
'Very soon,' he smiled.
And the Chinese jazz, as loud as ever, shrieked through the room.
The Ryans sat rigidly in front of the television screen.
Ryan clenched his teeth. 'Jesus God, I'll...' he stood up...
'I'll kill the bastards!' He gestured irresolutely. 'There are laws.
I'll call the police.'
Mrs Ryan held his hand. There's no need to speak to them, darling. Just put a note through their door. Warn them. They must have heard of the Noise Prevention Act. You could write to the caretaker as well.'
Ryan rubbed his lips once.
'Tell them they could be heavily fined,' said his wife. 'If they're reasonable, they'll...'
'All right.' Ryan pursed his lips. 'This time that's what I'll do.
Next time—and I mean it—I'll knock on the door and confront them.'
He went into the living room to write the notes. Mrs Ryan made tea.
The Chinese jazz went on and on. Ryan wrote the notes with short, jerky movements of his pen.
... and I warn you that if this noise continues I will be forced to contact the police and inform them of your conduct. I have also told the caretaker of my intention. At very least you will be evicted—but you must also be aware of the heavy penalties you could receive under Section VII of the Noise Prevention Act of 1978.
He read back over the letter. It was a bit pompous. He hesitated.
Perhaps if he...? No. It would do. He finished the letters, put them into envelopes and sealed them as Mrs Ryan directed the tea trolley into the living-room. 'That will do, thank you,' she told it.
Suddenly the music stopped in mid-bar. Ryan looked at his wife and laughed. 'Maybe that's the answer? Maybe it's robots making that row?'
Mrs Ryan smiled. She picked up the tea-pot.
'Look, I'll do that,' said Ryan, 'if you'll just put these into the internal mail slot outside the front door.'
'All right.' Mrs Ryan replaced the pot. 'But what shall I do if I meet them?' She nodded towards the neighbouring flat.
'Ignore them completely, of course. They surely won't try to involve you in conversation. You might as well ignore anybody else you meet outside. If we start making contact with all the people in this block we'll never have any bloody privacy.'
"That's what Mother said,' said Mrs Ryan.
'Right.'
She took the two letters and went out of the living room and into the lobby. Ryan heard the front door click open.
He straightened his head as he heard another voice. It was a woman's voice, high-pitched and cheerful. He heard Mrs Ryan mumble something, heard her footsteps as she entered hastily and shut the front door firmly.
'What on earth was that?' he asked as she returned to the living room. 'It's like living in a zoo. Maybe it was a mistake...'
'It was the woman who lives on the other side of us. She was coming back with her shopping. She welcomed me to the block. I said thank you very much and slid back in here.'
'Oh, Christ, I hope they're not going to pester us,' said Ryan.
'I don't think so. She seemed quite embarrassed to be chatting with a stranger.'
In cosy, uninterrupted silence the Ryans drank their tea and ate their sandwiches and cake.
When they had finished Mrs Ryan ordered the trolley back to the kitchen and she and Ryan sat together on the couch watching the tapes on the television. They were beginning to feel at ease in their little home.
Mrs Ryan smiled at the screen and pointed. There was a scene of cliffs, a cave. 'Remember that old fisherman we found in there that day? I was never so startled in my life. You said——'
A steady knocking began.
Ryan swung round, seeking the source of the noise.
'Over here,' said a voice.
Ryan got up. Outside the window was the head and torso of a man in overalls. His grinning red face was capped by a mop of clashing ginger hair. His teeth were ragged and yellow.
Mrs Ryan put her hand to her mouth as Ryan dashed to the window.
'What th
e bloody hell do you think you're doing, pushing your fucking face in our window without warning?' Ryan trembled with rage. 'What's the matter with you? Haven't you ever heard of privacy? Can't we get a moment's peace and quiet? It's a bloody conspiracy!'
The man's grin faded as Ryan ranted on. His muffled voice came through the pane. 'Look here,' he said. 'There's no need to be like that. I never knew you was back, did I? I was asked by the old lady to keep the windows clean while you was away. Which I have done without, if I may say so, any payment whatsoever. So before you complain about my bloody habits, I suggest you settle up...'
'How much?' Ryan put his hand in his pocket. 'Come on—how much?'
'Three pounds seven.'
Ryan opened the window and put four pound notes on the outside sill. 'There you are. Keep the change. And while you're at it don't bother to come back. We don't need you. I'm going to clean the windows myself.'
The man grinned cynically. 'Oh, yeah?' He tucked the money into his overall pocket. 'I hope you've got a head for heights, then.
They're all telling me they're going to clean their own windows from now on. Have you seen them? Half of them don't do the outsides. They can't stand the height, see? You should see 'em. Filthy.
You can hardly see out for the dirt. It must be like the black hole of Calcutta in most of them flats. Still, it's none of my business, I'm sure. If people want to live in the dark that's their affair, not mine.'
'Too right,' said Ryan. 'You nosy bloody...'
The window-cleaner's eyes hardened. 'Look, mate...'
'Clear off,' said Ryan fiercely. 'Go on!'
The man shrugged, gave his yellow grin again and touched his carroty hair sardonically in a salute. 'Cheerio, then, smiler.' He began to lower himself down the wall towards the distant ground.
Ryan turned to look at his wife. Mrs Ryan was not on the couch any more. He heard sobs and followed the sound.
Mrs Ryan was stretched across the bed, face down, weeping hysterically.
He touched her shoulder. 'Cheer up, love. He's gone now.'
She shrugged off his hand.
'Cheer up. I'll...'
'I've always been a private person,' she cried. 'It's all right for you—you weren't brought up like me. People in our neighbourhood never intruded. They didn't come poking their faces through windows. Why did you bring me here? Why?'
The Black Corridor Page 1
