The Black Corridor

by Michael John Moorcock

  'I can.'

  He goes back to the control room, adjusts various dials, checks that his time devices are working accurately and makes the following statement to the computer: *******! AM TROUBLED BY NIGHTMARES***********

  The computer replies: ******! KNOW THIS"

  "INJECT 1 CC PRODITOL PER*

  DIEM"

  "DO NOT TAKE MORE"

  "DISCONTINUE THE DOSE**AS SOON AS POSSIBLE AND AT ALL COSTS AFTER 14 DAYS*** *********************************

  Ryan rubs his lips.

  Then he bites the nail of his right forefinger.

  *

  Ryan paces the ship.

  Passageways, engine room, supplies room, exercise room, control room, own cabin, spare cabins, observation room, library...

  He does not look at the door of the Hibernation room. He does not walk along the passage towards the door.

  He continues his angry prowling for half an hour or more, trying to collect his thoughts.

  The footsteps follow him most of the time. Footsteps he knows do not exist.

  Echoing up and down the passageways he begins to hear fragments of the voices of his companions, the men and women now suspended in green fluid in the containers that must remain sealed until planetfall.

  'Daddy! Daddy!' cries his youngest child Alexander.

  Ryan hears the thud of his feet in the passage. He overhears an argument between Ida and Felicity Henry: 'Don't keep telling me how you feel. I don't want to know,' Felicity snaps at her pregnant twin sister. 'You don't realise what it's like,' says the other on a familiar note of complaint. 'No, no. I don't,' he hears Felicity say hysterically. He hears the noise of a slap and Ida's weeping. A door bangs. 'Let me see to it, Ryan,' he hears James Henry say impatiently. The voice seems to echo all over the ship. He hears Fred and Tracy Masterson's feet coming rapidly along the passageway.

  His wife Josephine is behind them. 'Daddy! Daddy!' The child's feet come scudding up to him. Ryan turns his head this way and that. Where are the sounds coming from?

  Janet Ryan sings, far away.

  'Homeward bound, where the fields are like honey...'

  Ryan cannot hear the words properly. He cranes his neck to listen, but the words are still indistinct. Uncle Sidney is singing too.

  'There was a man who had a mouse, hi-diddle-um-tum-ti-do; he baked it in an apple pie; there was a man who had a mouse...'

  Isabel Ryan's voice comes from somewhere around him. 'I can't bear any more!'

  Then the rumble of John Ryan, his brother, talking to her, saying something Ryan cannot catch.

  Janet singing.

  Both boys are running, running, running...

  And Ryan, in the centre of all this noise, sinks to the floor of the passage, cocks his head, listening to the voices.

  As he crouches there it seems to him that the voices must be coming from the room at the end of the passage. Automatically he gets to his feet and with a stiff gait starts to walk up the passageway towards the door.

  The voices grow louder.

  'I hate to see a man playing at being indispensible. It benefits neither him nor the people about him,' says James Henry.

  'The Lord thy God is a jealous God and thou shall have no other God than Him,' advises Uncle Sidney.

  'Never mind, dear, never mind,' Isobel Ryan is telling someone.

  Alexander is crying muffled sobs into the pillow.

  Janet Ryan is singing in her high, clear voice: 'Homeward bound, we're homeward bound, where the singing birds welcome such lovers as we...'

  Ida and Felicity Henry are still arguing: 'Take it.'

  'I don't want to take it.'

  'You must take it. It's what you need.'

  'I know what I need.'

  'Be sensible. Drink it now.'

  As Ryan reaches the door, the voices rise. As he touches the stud, they are louder still.

  Conversations, statements, songs, sobs, laughter, arguments, all coming towards him in an indistinguishable medley.

  Then the door is open.

  The noises cease abruptly and Ryan is left in the silence, staring at the thirteen containers, twelve full and labelled with the names and dates of the occupants.

  The owners of the voices lie there quietly in their pale fluid.

  Ryan stands there in the doorway, suddenly realising again that he is alone, that the noise has ceased, that he has opened the door at an unscheduled time...

  His companions continue to sleep. Peaceful and unaware of the torment he is undergoing, they are all at CONDITION STEADY.

  Which is more than I am, thinks Ryan. Tears come to his eyes.

  From the door he cannot see the people in the containers.

  He counts the containers. There are still thirteen. He looks at the thirteenth, his own. He draws in his breath. His lips curl back in a frightened, feral snarl. He steps out into the passageway and slams the heel of his hand against the door, shutting it.

  He begins to run very slowly down the passage until he comes to the end.

  Then he leans against a bulkhead, breathing heavily.

  He gasps and gasps again. Then he straightens his back and sets off slowly for the control room.

  I shall have to think about that injection, I might not be able to carry on without it. I'd hoped to hold out longer than this. Doesn't do to get too reliant on that sort of thing. It is supposed to be addictive, after all.

  Maybe one dose will do the trick. One might be all I need.

  At any rate, I daren't go on without it.

  Ryan decides to have his first injection the next morning.

  The Proditol is an enzyme inhibiting substance that works directly on new cell matter entering the brain. It has the effect of preventing the release of harmful substances into the cells, causing lack of connection with the outside world and, thus, delusions.

  Ryan, partly for pride's sake, partly for reasons he does not fully understand, is very unwilling to take the drug.

  But Ryan is dedicated to the ship, its occupants, its goal.

  There is little he would not do in order to be able to continue with the steady schedule of the ship and fulfil his responsibility towards its occupants.

  Ryan has made his decision.

  Plenty of sleeping pills tonight and the Proditol tomorrow.

  He goes to his sleeping compartment but then wanders back to the main control room.

  He asks for details of the action of the drug.

  *******ICC PRODITOL "

  " ICC PRODITOL ALSO MA— 19ccc USSR* ICC PRODITOL IS A FAST ACTING DRUG OF THE ENZYME******INHIBITOR VARIETY "

  IT BEGINS TO TAKE EFFECT***** WITHIN TEN MINUTES OF INJECTION "

  " ITS FULL EFFECT* IS FELT WTTHIN THE HOUR FOLLOWING "

  " AFTER THIS**** THE MIND OF THE PATIENT SHOULD BE RELIEVED OF ALL**** IMPRESSIONS OF A DELUSORY NATURE "

  " IN THE*********SEVEREST CASES THE DRUG WILL CONTROL ADVERSE*********SYMPTOMS FOR 24 HOURS AFTER WHICH: IF DELUSIONS *******RETURN: A FURTHER INJECTION SHOULD BE ADMINISTERED*****IN MANY CASES THIS WILL NOT BE NECESSARY "

  " IN NO**CIRCUMSTANCES: HOWEVER: SHOULD THE DRUG BE ADMINISTERED*

  DAILY FOR MORE THAN 14 DAYS*******************

  Ryan acknowledges the message and walks to the control room's main 'porthole'. He activates the screen and looks out at space. The holographic illusion is complete.

  Space and the distant suns, the tiny points of light so far away.

  Ryan's brows contract.

  He notices trails in the blackness. They appear to be wisps of vapour and yet they are plainly not escaping from the ship. It is something like smoke from an open fire, trailing in the dark.

  He passes his hand across his eyes and peers forward again.

  The trails are still there.

  He is alarmed. He casts his mind over the data he has accumulated, hoping to think of something that will account for the vapour.

  Could they be left by the ships of another space-travelling race?

/>   It must be a possibility.

  Meanwhile the wisps continue to rise. There are more and more of them now. They swirl together, break apart and reform.

  Ryan, to his horror, begins to hear a faint noise, a kind of buzzing and ringing in his ears. As the noise begins the gases begin to unite, to shape themselves. Once again Ryan passes a hand over his eyes.

  The noises in his ears continue. As he looks out of the porthole once more a terrible suspicion comes over him.

  And instantly, staring at him gravely, with a small, malicious smile on her lips, is the old woman. Her eyes are shielded by the round dark glasses. She is black-lipped, her old skin covered in powder. She puts the clawlike hand to the window and is gone.

  Ryan gasps and is about to turn from the window in panic when he sees the shapes ahead of him. Out there in space are the whirling figures of his nightmare, the figures of the insane dancers in the darkened ballroom.

  They are far away.

  Ryan hears their music in his ears. As they dance, slowly and proudly, to the distant chant he watches, paralysed, as they come closer to the ship.

  He sees their stiff bodies, their plump, respectable faces, the expensive dark brocades of the women's dresses, the good dark suits of the men. He observes the well-nurtured upright bodies, the straight backs, the air of dignity and comportment with which they circle, so correctly, in time to the music.

  The dark circles which are their eyes stare blindly at each other.

  Their faces are rigid below the dark glasses. They circle through the void towards Ryan and the music becomes louder, more solemn, more threatening.

  'Daddy! Daddy!'

  Alexander is crying.

  Ryan is unable to move. Cold light falls on the dancers. They come closer to the ship, closer to Ryan, standing terrified at his window.

  'DADDY!'

  Ryan hears the insistent voice and frowns. Is Alex really up?

  Ryan smiles. The boy was never one to stay in bed if he could help it.

  But Alexander Ryan is not in bed. He is in hibernation.

  The dancers dance on.

  They are not real. Ryan realises that he should give his attention to his son, not to the illusory dancers out there in space. They can't get in. They can't confront him. They can't take off, in one terrible gesture, the glasses which encircle their eyes, revealing...

  'GET BACK TO BED ALEX!'

  They are very close now. The music slows. They are just a few paces from the ship. They turn to face Ryan with their blinded eyes. Slowly they take a step.

  One step...

  Two steps...

  Three steps towards Ryan.

  They are clustered, some thirty of them, a foot from Ryan, standing just outside the window. And then Ryan realises with greater terror that it has been an illusion. The dancers were not outside. What he was seeing was a reflection in the window. The dancers are actually behind him. They have been in the ship all the time. He dare not turn. He stares instead into the mirror.

  They stare back.

  Then Ryan sees the other. Behind the crowd of dancers are his friends and relatives. All stare at him from blank eyes. All stare at him as if they do not know him. As if, indeed, he does not exist for them.

  Josephine—her plump face expressionless, her blonde hair tumbling to her plump shoulders, cruel in her indifference.

  His two sons, Alexander and Rupert, startled expressions in their round eyes. Uncle Sidney, his stringing arm gripping the two boys round their thin shoulders, his lips drawn back in a snarl, his eyes on an object somewhere above Ryan's head.

  There are the Henry twins, one healthy, one tired by pregnancy, but hand in hand and staring through Ryan with identical hazel eyes. There is Tracy Masterson, looking vacuously past Ryan's left shoulder. There is Fred Masterson, Ryan's oldest friend, a sympathetic expression on his face. There is brother John, puzzled, tired, uncomprehending. There is Isabel, looking bitterly at John.

  There is James Henry, red hair gleaming in the mirror-light, glaring meaninglessly through Ryan.

  And as he looks, Ryan sees the dancers in front take their last step towards him. He wheels to face them.

  He stares into the cool, orderly control room. The screens, the dials, the indicators, the instruments, the computer console.

  Grey and green, muted colours, quite...

  He looks back at the porthole. There is only blackness.

  In one way this seems worse to Ryan. He begins to beat at the porthole, howling and cursing.

  'Where are you? Where are you? You shits, you cunts, you bastards, you bleeders, you fuckers, you horrors...'

  They are there again. Not the dancers. Only his friends and relatives. But they still cannot see him.

  He waves to them, mouths friendly words at them. They do not understand. They come a little closer.

  And suddenly Ryan feels their malice, is shocked and horrified.

  He looks at them and his expression is puzzled. He tries to signal to them—that they know him, that he is their friend.

  They crowd closer.

  'Let us in!' they cry. 'Let us in. Let us in. Let us in. Let us in. Let us in. Let us in. Let us in.'

  The clamour around the ship increases. Hands claw at the window.

  Hands tear their way through the fabric of the porthole.

  'You fools! You'll destroy the ship. Be sensible. Wait!' Ryan begs them. 'You'll bring the deaths of all of us! Don't—don't— don't!'

  But they are ripping the whole of the wall away, exposing it to frigid space.

  'You'll wreck the expedition! Stop it!'

  They cannot hear him.

  His throat is tight.

  He faints.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ryan is lying on the floor of the control room. His sleeve is rolled up and an ampoule of ICC Proditol lies near him. The ampoule is empty.

  He blinks. At some point he must have realised what he had to do to stop the hallucinations. He is impressed by his own strength of will.

  'How are you now?'

  He knows the voice. He feels fear, then relief. It is his brother John's voice. He looks up. His jacket has been folded under his head.

  John, stalwart and stolid, looks down at him.

  'You were in a bad way, old son!'

  'John. How did you wake up?'

  'Something to do with the computer, I think. There's probably an emergency waking system if anything happens to the man on duty.'

  'I'm glad of that. I was a real idiot to carry on on my own. I realised everything else about my condition except the extent of the strain. I was insisting to myself that I didn't need anyone else to help me.'

  'Well, you're okay now. I'll help you. You can go into hibernation if you like...?'

  'No, that won't be necessary,' Ryan says hastily. 'I'll be able to manage now I've got someone to share my troubles with.' He laughs feebly. 'It's just plain old-fashioned loneliness.' He shudders. He still thinks he can see things in the corners of his eyes.

  'I hope.'

  'Of course,' says John. He is convinced, he isn't just trying to humour Ryan. John was always a hard man to convince, therefore Ryan is satisfied.

  'Thank God for the emergency system, eh?' says John a trifle awkwardly.

  'Amen to that,' says Ryan.

  He wishes the emergency system had awakened that other member of John's family his young wife Janet. If someone had to be awake... He dismisses the thought and gets up. Being with John is almost like being alone, he thinks, for John is not the most voluble of men. Still...

  Ryan gets up. John is efficiently checking the instruments.

  'You'd better get off to your bed, old chap,' says John. 'I'll look after things here.'

  Gratefully Ryan goes to his cabin.

  *

  He lies in the dark, grateful for the drug which has driven away his visions, slightly nervous of the fact that John has joined him.

  John probably knows about the affair he had with Janet,
John's younger wife. Perhaps he doesn't care.

  Then again, perhaps he does. John isn't a particularly vengeful man, but it would be just as well to be on guard.

  Ryan remembers the other affair he had. The affair with Sarah Carson—old Carson's daughter...

  *

  Carson's toy business had been Ryan's closest competitor.

  Carson was Chairman of Moonbeam Toys and had known Ryan for years. They had both started off with Saunders Toys in the old days and had been running pretty much neck and neck ever since.

  Their rivalry had been a friendly one and they often met for lunch or dinner before the habit of communal eating became unfashionable. When that happened they would still converse over the video..

  Carson became a fanatical Patriot one day and, as far as Ryan was concerned, no longer worth speaking to. But by this time it was evident that the Patriots were by far the most powerful political group in the country and Ryan decided it would do him no harm to be Carson's friend. He even attended some meetings with Carson and other Patriots, registering himself as a member.

  It was at one of these meetings that he met Sarah, a tall beautiful girl of twenty-two, who did not seem particularly convinced by her father's views.

  Josephine was going through a particularly bad time, as were the two boys. All three of them spent two-thirds of the day under sedation and Ryan himself, though he sympathised with their problems, needed some form of relaxation.

  The form of relaxation he chose was Sarah Carson. Or, rather, she chose him. The moment she saw him, she made a heavy play for him.

  They took to meeting at an all but finished hotel. For a few shillings they could hire a whole suite. The bottom had dropped out of the hotel business by that time. Very few people trusted hotels or liked to leave home.

  Sarah pulled Ryan out of his depression and gave him something to look forward to at night. She was passionate and she had stamina. Ryan took to sleeping during the day.

  Ryan used the Patriot meetings as an excuse and continued, with Sarah and her father, to turn up at several.

  Then Carson had an argument with the rest of his group.

  Carson had lately formed the opinion that the Earth, far from being a planet circling through space, was in fact a hollowed out 'bubble' in an infinity of rock. Instead of walking about on the outside of a sphere, we were walking about on the inside of one.