The Prayer Machine

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

  ‘Death?’

  Krister smiled oddly. ‘No, not death. Death doesn’t frighten people — not by modern standards … Look there! Wels has gone clean off-track. When he disappears behind those hills we’ll belt for Norton and beat the rush hour.’

  Neil said, ‘What will Narbiton do?’

  Kin thunk the craft gently off its touchpads. ‘When we get back on the motorway and out of radar range he’ll realize that — somehow — he’s been had. Then he’ll probably come back to this area. He knows we’ve beaten the Intraplasta rap so instinctively he’ll think of this place. Let’s go.’

  *

  Father Stillwell, to all outward appearances, had not changed his view about the TNA treatment. His expression was as forbidding as ever when he entered the surgery, weighed down by the heavy recording equipment he was carrying. He exchanged glances with Jane Schuber but offered no reassurance.

  Jane could have used some. The patient’s condition, though superficially resembling a yoga trance-state, was critical. The breathing was shallow and irregular; the blood pressure too high — and though this meant that the brain cells were certainly receiving sufficient oxygen to keep them alive the hypertension suggested typical conditions for a stroke. The conflict between total inertia and such a high metabolic rate was alarming.

  Ann Marie was less alarmed. She fully accepted that on another Möbius level Neil was very much a man of action and was no doubt exerting himself to the full. But she felt it imprudent to suggest this solution to the paradox in the presence of the priest.

  Stillwell said, ‘I managed to borrow a suitable machine. On this one you can play any tape backwards simply by threading it through the other way.’

  Ann Marie watched guardedly but said nothing.

  While Father Stillwell helped her set it up he engaged Jane Schuber in a brusque conversation. ‘He’s in a coma?’

  ‘It’s hard to put a name to the condition.’

  ‘Does TNA normally do this?’

  ‘Not in my experience.’

  ‘What are the principal risks at present?’

  ‘Cerebral haemorrhage.’

  ‘And psychologically?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is he still talking backwards?’

  ‘At times.’

  ‘Is it worth my waiting for another of these utterances?’ Stillwell started the new machine and set the volume.

  Jane said, ‘He seems pretty deep at the moment.’

  ‘Have you heard from the police about the whereabouts of that cannister of lethal isotopes?’

  ‘No.’

  He said expressionlessly, ‘And the patient — has he informed you concerning his … powers to locate the stuff?’

  Jane managed to conceal an incipient blush. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘No. And it doesn’t really look as if Prentice is in any position to tell us. Does it?’

  Ann Marie interrupted suddenly. ‘Listen! He’s saying something.’ But she seemed dismayed. ‘I don’t —’

  Stillwell snapped impatiently, ‘You don’t what?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s him. The voice. It’s not him!’

  Stillwell said icily, ‘Are we now at a seance?’

  Jane said, ‘When we hear it forwards we might then have some explanation. I agree it doesn’t sound like his voice.’

  Stillwell: ‘What would Braknell say? Can you give an objective explanation for someone talking with the wrong voice — as opposed to one invented on the spur of the moment?’

  Jane said carefully, ‘Until we hear it forwards it’s hard to comment. But you will note that — even running backwards — the voice sounds threatening, whereas the Patient himself looks persecuted. See his expression? This could mean a worsening of the paranoid-schizophrenic state. There are two personalities, and one is persecuting the other.’

  ‘And the backwards talk?’

  ‘I do not know the answer and Dr Braknell has told me that he’s never met it. The only conceivable explanation in classical terms is that he is a naturally left-handed man who as a boy was forced to use his right. This could have juxtaposed some of the functions of the left and right temporal lobes.’

  Ann Marie said, ‘He’s stopped.’

  Stillwell said, ‘Switch the tape spools and let’s hear it …’

  It was an eerie sound, with the words pitched unevenly as if the tape had been slipping. The words spoken seemed nonsensical: ‘I observed Prentice’s mag earlier on, trying to hide in the toxic Intraplasta area. I’m there nano, with the seethroughs down to see if I can hear him communicon … no, I’m not afraid of plastic cancer … Can you communicon more forte? Receptor is bad throughout the Biotic Danger Zone, I think it’s the heat … Nano? Affirmative, I’m certain he’s been to that evil little village or I’ll grow leaves … If you validate, I think Prentice will be liable for inverse brainops if he persists. And Krister … Negative, I haven’t located the village but there are so many deserted places up here, full of dead trogs and skeletons … Gives me the creeps … Yes, I validate that we have every raison to enforce a mandatory talkthrough. Get Prentice sent to Central Pool and deal with him there. Over and out.’

  Father Stillwell was glaring at Jane. ‘Well?’

  She said, ‘I must admit it’s … typical schizophrenic garble. We get this all the time.’

  Stillwell said curtly, ‘So using TNA has scarcely improved his condition?’

  ‘It would appear not.’

  Ann Marie could not hold herself back. ‘Father, in the Chapel you —’

  He cut in icily, ‘What occurs in the Chapel is private, Ann Marie, between God and ourselves.’

  ‘Is this not equally private? I am sensible to the need for prayer right nano in this building and not just your Chapel.’

  ‘Nano?’

  Ann Marie looked suddenly afraid. ‘I meant now.’

  Father Stillwell’s expression went through an odd change. He said quietly, ‘And yet you used the word nano. Exactly as Prentice did.’

  Jane said, ‘A nanosecond is one thousand-millionth of a second.’

  Father Stillwell just replied, ‘Yes, I see … I’ll be down in the Chapel. If you need me.’

  Ann Marie said, ‘Father, you need some sleep. It is so very late.’

  He stared at her. ‘And do you think I could sleep? I’ll leave you to sort out the mumbo-jumbo.’

  *

  Narbiton felt torn. Obsessed, now, with the idea of catching Krister hot-handed, he found his own intermesh chattering between two alternatives. The sensible thing would have been to go back to Norton and feed everything he knew into an infopoint.

  But he didn’t know enough. He hadn’t found the village and the only other possible course was to search every node of the plastic dump in the hope that Krister’s mag was still concealed there. A direct confrontation would then be possible.

  He was just turning the mag to dodge back when the Puter speak-out came up on the air. It said, ‘You are non-rational. Return to base.’

  ‘I … can’t.’

  ‘What is your intention?’

  ‘To file maximum Infringement against Krister.’ Narbiton felt beads of sweat tingling at his eyebrows. ‘I can get facts.’

  ‘You are unfit. Your intermesh indicates bistable flipflop condition. You must enhance decision capability.’

  ‘I …’ Narbiton tried to dampen his dry lips. ‘Will it be an Infringement against me if I go after Krister’s magnecraft?’

  ‘Nil Infringement. But such action is riskworthy.’

  ‘I shall double-check the Biotic Danger Zone.’

  ‘Validated.’

  Narbiton penetrated more deeply into the dead forest. The stench was appalling; but he slithered onto the marshy ground and, grabbing a beam-fono off the back seat of the mag, directed it with shaking hands toward the most toxic area on the far side. He could hear only faint squeaking noises and of course he knew what that meant — a contaminated rabbit was in the last th
roes of plasticization.

  Under any other circumstances this would have made him think again; and had he possessed elementary technical knowledge of intermesh technology he would have recognized that throbbing in the frontal lobe of his brain as escalating decision-failure. He was the victim of compulsion and didn’t know it.

  Then, as he searched, one of the crystalline trees snapped near the base of the trunk, and amid showers of blue powdery dust, began to collapse. It was not like a normal tree when felled; for long before it had hit the ground it had broken up into splintered segments, emitting a dull blue liquid which then settled like foam on the scrub.

  Narbiton ran towards it.

  He was too late. The other mag had got away. But in the clay-blue strata beneath the tree was a clear impression of a Rolls-Citröen magnecraft. Like a mould it had left a sharp outline of the underbelly and touchpads.

  With the odourous ooze almost up to his calves, Narbiton squished his way out of the area and made his way back to his own craft.

  *

  Inevitably the bistable condition of Wels Narbiton was bound to come to the attention of Central Pool.

  The Puter, having failed to exert control upon Narbiton via intermesh immediately transmitted a routine Fault Report. The procedure for this was quite different from the filing of an Infringement. Indeed, the usual raison for the failure of a good Party nominee to validate a Puter-directive was simply a technical one, to do with the intricate connections inside the brain.

  The head of department responsible for intermesh brainops at Central Pool was Dr Stuart Rone. Normally he would pass routine printouts like this one to a deputy; but since it related to Wels Narbiton — a doctor of some standing — he decided to go into the matter himself.

  Stuart Rone, unlike Narbiton, was not a conflicting personality. Moreover he never dug too deeply into the policies of the Regime. He resembled the twentieth century private doctor: the reactionary who, at the faintest sign of a sore throat in an infant, would nod wisely to the parent concerned and remark with authority, ‘Well, now. Out with his tonsils!’ — on the basis that they were bound to come out anyway. To the upper middle classes such doctors inspired immense confidence — if only for the reason that a private doctor was a social equal, capable of foiling the police over a breathalyser test by instantly pouring medicinal brandy down a top person’s gullet before the police had time to arrive on the scene of the accident.

  In the sense that Party Members had hidden privileges of the same sort, Stuart Rone steered a bland course through corruption and saw to it that Party Members were protected at the expense of the proletariat whenever possible. At the same time he was agile enough to cope with doctors of superior talent — like Kin Krister — who were always liable to be called in to treat the top brass when Rone’s brand of mediocrity failed to come up with the right palliative. The Regime, though aware that Krister was a fringe heretic, had made it clear that Krister was too valuable to lose, unless the Infringements were serious enough to outweigh his usefulness.

  However, the Regime leaked more to Rone than to his colleagues about the delicate balance struck over Krister’s activities. Rone, who was palpably second rate, felt a twinge of anticipation now that it looked — at last — as though Krister might well be indicted and thereafter punished by inverse brainops — a form of torture that Rone had implemented himself. Like all men who sell out to the Establishment, he blinded himself to the moral issues this raised by indulging patriotic jingoism which was anything but new … He was, after all, only obeying orders. Offenders must be punished for the good of the State.

  So when Wels Narbiton reported at Central Pool, upon receiving a printout commanding him to do so, he and Dr Rone found themselves discussing Krister in the context of the next head to roll.

  Narbiton said, ‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my intermesh.’

  ‘We can soon check that anyway.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘But why did you risk your life by wandering about the toxic area — against a Puter Advisary?’

  ‘Because I think Krister has gone too far.’

  ‘He’s a good doctor, Wels.’

  ‘He can’t trade on that forever. I have raison to believe that he is involved with people from the IoM. Even worse, the Samaritans.’

  ‘You’ll have to prove it.’

  Narbiton said, ‘I can’t understand how he’s managed to avoid cutting his own leaves, by now. He has to go to infopoints like everyone else. Why doesn’t the Puter react to the thinkback?’

  Rone said flatly, ‘Because somebody’s fixed his intermesh. The question is, Who?’

  ‘The Samaritans have been sponsoring research carried out by the Forenthorics. Krister’s known all along.’

  Rone said thoughtfully, ‘And we still haven’t found their base.’

  ‘It has to be in the Biotic Danger Zone. It just has to be.’

  ‘Impossible. No one could survive. And you must be out of your craze to risk going there.’

  ‘I’ve been there before. Several times.’

  Rone stared. ‘Well, I suppose it’s possible you could have developed antibodies that protect you. But I must emphasize that Intraplasta has no cure.’

  ‘Of that I am by no means certain. What raison could Krister have for swanning miles out into the Danger Zone if he hadn’t a definite destination? He had this patient with him too. A very mysterious patient. He was supposed to have come from Central Pool but there are no records.’

  Rone got up and stared out of the seethrough toward Number One PONEM. You could just see the huge building in the haze. It lay a few miles beyond the ancient, rusting water tower which stood, like a totem from a bygone age, on the road to the Norton Complex. ‘You think he’s a PONEM influxor?’

  ‘I know damn well he is!’ Narbiton sat back and waited for a lead. You could always rely on Rone to reflect, pretty accurately, the attitudes of the Regime.

  Rone came back to his desk and said, ‘All right. If Krister’s involved with one of them, you may take it that The Regime won’t stand for it. What do you plan to do?’

  ‘I’m going out tonight into the Biotic Danger Zone to look for that settlement. It’s bound to be easier at night. They’ll be showing lights … even a chink in a seethrough will be like a beacon in that wilderness. I want Puter consent.’

  Rone thought about it. On paper Krister was a threat to the State; and if he persisted in his Infringements he could no longer be left off the hook in any case. And Rone was jealous of him, fed up with being replaced by an Infringer every time some big shot was ill. Aloud he said, ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating about Krister. But there’s no harm in … checking him out.’

  ‘Can I do it?’

  ‘Provided there really is no fault in your intermesh, I think I can get a special validation. You might even get an Upmark if you expose a really serious Infringement … Go to the number four cubicle. I’ll send my top expert to go right through all intermesh programs. Meanwhile we’ll see what can be done about clearance. Come back here when you’re checked out.’

  *

  Narbiton lowered the magnecraft stealthily onto its touchpads and reached back behind him for the beam-fono. He directed it toward the faint glimmer of lights ahead — and knew that he had found the settlement.

  A low moon on the horizon gave the moor an even starker appearance than usual. Cacti, growing as if this were some outpost in the Sahara, cast tortuous shadows on the fissured ground below. Through beam-fono Narbiton could just hear someone operating a handpump. Snatches of conversation, coming from the nearest cottage, mingled with the oafish sounds of shuffling feet.

  ‘Forenthorics!’ Under his breath Narbiton pronounced the word succulently. He — Narbiton — had found the place when the police had failed! They were too cowardly to take risks! Not so Wels Narbiton!

  For a few seconds he dithered. Should he radio the news, or go and find out more first? In the end he decided on the la
tter course. The moment when he finally broke the news would be that much more triumphant.

  So he got out of the mag and walked quietly toward the village. He’d hardly reached the street corner when he saw Penta, coming straight towards him. She was leading two young Forenthorics by the hand. They seemed very relaxed, laughing about something. Irrationally, Narbiton thought the joke was on him and it made him shrivel. He knew there was Forenthoric blood in his own family. The point was driven home now, as he saw the monsters giggling idiotically in company with the treacherous woman who had deserted him. She would pay.

  He watched as she went into the cottage. The door slammed shut. Narbiton directed the beam-fono at the window. Penta’s voice came through loud and clear. ‘So you liked him?’

  ‘I think Neil is super. Where did he come from?’

  ‘That’s a secret.’

  ‘I can guess, though.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to guess.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t tell us, Penta, we won’t bake any bread tomorrow.’

  ‘All right. I’ll tell you. Neil is a Martian. He arrived last week in a flying saucer — the 10.45 from Andromeda, not stopping at Jupiter, Saturn or Moon.’

  There came a peal of girlish, infuriating laughter.

  ‘He knows Clare, Penta, He does, doesn’t he? — She told me all about him. He’s a Future Man, isn’t he? Go on. Communicon, Penta! Or no bread!’

  ‘No, not a Future Man. What did Clare say, exactly?’

  ‘She went to that IoM place and met him there. We know. And anyway she told Juls. We know something else, too. Kin isn’t Juls’ real father. See?’

  ‘You know everything. I give up. What do I have to say to get my bread?’

  ‘You have to tell us why Neil is here.’

  ‘Promise you won’t pass it on?’

  ‘We promise.’

  Penta spoke quietly now, and the Forenthorics stopped teasing her. ‘He’s here to study Forenthoris. He thinks it all happened as a result of genetic engineering. So when he’s got the data he’s going back to his own era to communicon …’