‘That’s right, Glen.’ Erikson was embarrassed.
‘Johnny’s been blessed. He was the Instrument.’ Morris looked from one man to the other with an awful humility. ‘I’d deeply appreciate hearing every word on that tape.’
‘Okay Johnny,’ said Erikson. ‘He’s right. We’d better hear it.’
‘Paul...’ said Johnny Gale. ‘What do we do about this whole deal? Can we put in reports?’
‘I guess we have to.’ said Erikson.
‘They’ll crucify us,’ said Johnny.
‘Yes!’ said Morris eagerly. ‘But we must leave out nothing.’
‘My own voice!’ cried Johnny. ‘They’ll say it was some kind of fever dream!’
‘I was crazy!’ said Morris. ‘I have to admit... so much. I wasn’t responsible ...’
‘Where does that leave me?’ asked Erikson. ‘I’ve got no excuses.’
He felt a kind of grim exhilaration.
‘Play the tape!’ he said. ‘We have to complete this mission.’
* * * *
Dr Thomas to Air Commodore Voss
... The most puzzling case of all is Lieutenant Erikson. He was neither drugged nor disturbed; his service record rates him highly on courage, coolness and initiative. I’m sure you understand, Margot, that in view of this incident we will have to go very cautiously in the matter of his psychological clearance. After Morris we can’t afford any more slip-ups. This is a pity because Erikson has a service background ... his grandfather was one of the ‘Mars Pioneers’. I believe the MO from Theta Nebraska, Elizabeth Marshall, has been making representations to the top brass regarding Erikson’s future assignment. She has a personal interest here of course.
John Gale will be watched closely during the period of his convalescence and there has been talk of giving him limited clearance afterwards. It has been suggested that the kid should be taken to Duke for a barrage of psi tests at the Rhine Institute ... I’m not sure that I will go along with this. His ‘entity’ did mention ‘an extra sense’ but so far the only remarkable thing about Gale is his robust good health.
In some ways the crewman Glen Morris, who experienced a conversion, has benefited most from the Phobos affair. It seems clear now that our department let this man . .. and how many others ... get by all our screening. There are hints of instability in his record. On his own admission he pushed Gale down a companionway on Theta after picking a fight. He harboured a grudge against Erikson... but did he actually try to kill him? Did he in fact attempt to lure Erikson on a moon-walk, first by reporting ‘a creature’, then by scraping on the hull? It is a little far-fetched. Morris, of course, is the only one of the three men with a religious background: his aged parents live in upper New York State and pay tithes to the New Age Gospel Church. The video film I mentioned certainly shows Morris and Erikson on their moon-walk but their actions on camera are inconclusive.
One of the most interesting aspects of the whole case is the behaviour of the crew of Theta Nebraska. Ever since their rescue Captain Trant and the others have exhibited a touching loyalty to the three crewmen who travelled on the shuttle, to the point of mass hallucination if not deliberate perjury. Stress of time and distance weld these little knots of personnel too closely together ... I’ve always thought so. The affidavits of the crew are not included in this file I’m sending you but briefly they tell the following story.
The life support systems of Theta Nebraska failed partly as a result of one faulty electrical system. This block of circuits, they claim, mysteriously ‘began to function again’ around 16.00 hours, Theta time, some twenty minutes before the lighter from Marsport made contact. At this time the men and women aboard Theta were on quarter flow suit oxygen and some were in a stuporous condition. As might be expected a crewman happened to be gazing from a porthole and he saw ‘a strange light’ playing around the ship’s markings. The whole complement of Theta Nebraska survived their ordeal; they made contact with the shuttle crew in Marsport base hospital. So much for independent corroboration.
Margot, I will admit to you that the screening of these three men and the tests and assessments involved have been a tough assignment. Security has been breathing down my neck all the way; there have been several of these ‘alien infiltration’ scares in the last ten years and they are naturally very wary. I cannot help feeling that this case will have repercussions for many years to come. On the present evidence ... and I stress that... I cannot accept the incarnation of Triclamadan’ as an independent reality. Here stand I... I can do no other.
Gale’s cheerful certainty weighs heavily upon me ... so does the enthusiasm of Morris. Erikson’s good sense torments me most of all. If I take comfort from anything during these periods of doubt it is in the supreme impartiality of the wretched transcripts... the expressed wish not to become involved in human affairs. I am tempted, particularly at night, in my Sycamore, flying home over the metropolitan seaboard, to bring up those curious frequencies ... which of course Gale remembered ... and conjure anything that might be listening to maintain the covenant and keep its distance.
<
* * * *
THE MAN WHO
David S. Garnett
That old Monday morning feeling is a familiar horror in the context of the working rhythms of our society. But for Spearman this notorious Monday morning feeling in his way of life came to have a peculiar horror.
* * * *
Tiredly Spearman stretched out his arm, found the cut-off button and silenced the alarm. After a while he sat up and pushed the covers back. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he put on his slippers and stood up. It was Monday. Into the bathroom. Monday came around far too often. It always seemed to be Monday. How many were there in a week? More than one, surely.
While shaving he managed to cut himself twice. He did that every time he used a new blade. It had not happened very long ago, either. When had he last started on a new blade? A fortnight ago, he guessed. The cuts stung as he dabbed on the after-shave. He tried to stop the blood with bits of tissue paper. Must remember to take them off before going out.
In the kitchen he filled the kettle, plugged it in and switched it on. The grill went on next to give it a chance to warm up. Even as he opened the fridge door, he remembered there was no bacon. He had finished the last of it over the weekend, but forgotten to buy any more when he did his shopping. A fried egg, then; he knew he had some eggs. Off went the grill, on went the frying pan. The kettle boiled before the egg was ready, but by the time he had poured his coffee and found there was no milk, it had got too hard. He swore quietly a couple of times. A ruined egg and black coffee was far from the ideal breakfast. This had happened too often. Running out of bacon. And milk. He would have to change dairies. It was not too much to expect delivery by eight o’clock. Late yesterday, too. Spearman paused in mid-thought. No, he realized, not yesterday. That was Sunday and he had stayed in bed until ten or eleven. When had it been? Not long ago. The end of last week perhaps.
But he had better things to think about than milk. Rinsing his cup and plate, he wondered how long he would have to do that for himself. The way things were going, he would probably be married by the end of the year. He smiled, remembering Saturday night. It was a battle of wits. Sharon was an old-fashioned girl. She would not sleep with him until he had suggested marriage, and he would not propose until he had got her into bed. The affair was approaching its grand climax. Soon it would be decided one way or another. Yet whatever the outcome. Spearman knew he would lose. He always did.
* * * *
On the fourth or fifth try his car started. He did not like leaving it outside, but without a garage there was no alternative. He wound down the window and was instantly reminded that the exhaust needed fixing. It would save him pounds if he went by bus. It was not the petrol; that was the least expensive part. But with tax, insurance, repairs, it all added up. It took him to college, brought him back. That was all. But it was the kind of thing he was expected to have.
You’re trapped, he told himself. Trapped, Spearman, old chap. Trapped by the things you’re expected to do. You’re expected to have a car, so you have one. Neither too cheap nor too flashy. Discreetly expensive, he thought, liking the phrase. There was even the way he looked, how he dressed. Nothing was ever said, but it was assumed that lecturers would behave like other lecturers. It was expected of them. If only he could quit.
But he was far from quitting and he knew it. His first degree results had been disappointing; he had been lucky getting the chance of trying for a master’s. He had done better with that, but not as well as others. Then came the quest for employment. But what use were qualifications in history? Eventually he had ended up as assistant lecturer in his home town’s college. Later, if he did research and had a few things published, he could try for a university post. Yet the way things were going, it seemed he would be stuck where he was forever.
It took twenty minutes to get there. About average, or perhaps a little longer because it was Monday. It did not seem quite so busy as it usually did at the start of a new week. Like last Monday. Last Monday? What, thought Spearman, do I mean by that? Last Monday a long section of road was being repaired and the traffic flow was restricted. It had added ten minutes to his journey. When had it last been so quiet for a Monday? Quite a while, he reasoned, though it seemed only yesterday. But yesterday was Sunday and he had not had the car out.
He wondered if he had left anything behind. Something was bothering him, and maybe that was it. Those essays? Yes, he finished marking them on Sunday—yesterday. They were in his briefcase, though the best place for them was a furnace. There was nothing else worth forgetting; he kept all his lecture notes in his room except when he was using them. It was hard to forget the time he had made a few preliminary remarks before discovering he had left all his notes at home. It was the shortest lecture he had ever given.
Turning left into the car park, he glanced in the mirror. It was still there. A new black Ford—at least he thought it was a Ford; all cars were beginning to look alike—had been on his tail almost since he set off. At first he had thought it wanted to overtake; but apparently he was wrong. The windscreen was tinted, and it was impossible to see the driver very clearly even though he was no more than a couple of dozen feet behind him most of the time. He braked and waited for the barrier to be raised. Glancing out of the window, he saw the car continue along the main road. He thought no more about it. At such an hour he found it difficult to think of anything. He had the first year economics group at nine, but even if there was no lecture he would still have been arriving about now. His head of department frowned on those who only turned up when they had classes. Monday was Spearman’s best day: only two lectures, no seminars. But the rest of the time he was expected to be available for student consultation, as well as do marking or perhaps some research or lecture preparation.
At last the barrier was up and he drove across the asphalt surface, past rows of neatly parked vehicles. He reversed into his own space, neatly missing the bumper of the next car. He picked up his briefcase and got out, slamming and locking the door. On the other side was a car he had not seen before. It was new, a pale green version of the one which had been behind him as he arrived. He remembered thinking the first time he saw it that it must have replaced the Volkswagen normally parked there. He began to walk away, then stopped. When had he first thought it must have replaced the Volkswagen? He had never seen it before. The VW had been there on Friday; he had exchanged a few words with its owner. Yet he had seen the pale green car before. Parked there. Often. His mind held its image as it stood next to his own car. It was like a number of identical frames on a reel of film, each one a day further back. But parallel to it was another film, only this time the Volkswagen was recorded in each successive frame. It was not a very pleasant sensation, and for some reason he began to feel a bit dizzy. Until now he had barely been conscious of having a headache, but thinking of it made his head throb even more. He would have to see if there was any aspirin or codeine at the office. And maybe he should speak with the owner of the pale green car. He started walking again, trying to let the mystery ebb away. It was not important. Strange, though.
The engineering wing through which he took a short cut was brick-built and looked out of place amongst the concrete and glass of the other blocks, yet it was the oldest part of the college. The whole layout was haphazard, each building incongruous in turn. The college had not been planned, it had simply grown. Building followed building; almost as soon as one was completed; another would be begun. The one now going up was a hall of residence, a twenty storey prefabricated tower.
Spearman’s department was housed in the newest of the teaching blocks. It was practically deserted at the moment, and he was able to take one of the two lifts to the fourth floor. That would be impossible in a quarter of an hour; there would be a crowd around each lift, the stairs jammed. At least once a week they broke down and were out of action the rest of the day, students wandering in late complaining of having to climb several flights. But so early, almost quarter to nine, he had the lift to himself and rode to the fourth floor without being stopped. He knocked on the office door and went in. A middle-aged woman was standing in the far corner, sorting through a filing cabinet. She turned as the door opened.
‘Good morning, Mr. Spearman.’
‘Hello, Marge,’ he said—everyone called her that. ‘I wondered if you had something for a headache.’
‘I’ll have a look.’ She slid back the cabinet drawer and walked towards her desk, where she picked up her handbag.
As she rifled through it. Spearman knew she would find something. She always had done before. Before? He had never asked her for anything for a headache until today, of that he was certain. And yet he had the feeling that he had done, though he did not know exactly when.
‘Here you are.’
She handed him a bottle of tablets. It all seemed so familiar.
‘Thanks.’ He tapped a couple of white tablets into his palm, gave back the bottle and left.
Outside, waiting for the lift, there was a tall, light-suited man. Spearman had seen him a number of times, though he did not know whether he was a student or a member of staff. He could not recall any particular instance when he had seen the man previously, but there was nothing very unusual in that. He saw hundreds of people in and around college every day, but knew only a fraction of them. He walked along the corridor to his own room, and as he did so he could feel the man’s eyes boring into him.
* * * *
Twenty minutes later Spearman went into one of the larger rooms on the third floor. Long ago he had discovered it was hopeless trying to start a lecture on time, but after five minutes almost everybody who was going to come would be there. The only trouble was that once they realized he always began five minutes late, they would begin to turn up that much later themselves. Most of the usual seats were occupied; the ones at the back. Not bad attendance for a Monday morning. But this was a first year group, and they were still in the winter term. In a few months they would not be so keen. Many would not bother to come in. If they copied someone else’s notes, they would not miss much—that was, after all, almost the method by which Spearman had written his lectures. He began speaking. He tried not to read straight from his notes, remembering how phoney it had seemed when he was on the receiving end. Nor could he talk off the cuff. That would have been quite impressive. One of his own lecturers used to do that, but he had been reciting exactly the same thing for over thirty years. In a subject like history, or in this case economic history, once he had made a set of notes he would be set for life. A very depressing prospect.
As he spoke he glanced at his class. They all looked as bored as he felt. Many wrote as fast as they could, however, trying to get enough down to prevent extra reading. Spearman did not blame them. There were better things to do in life than study the growth of the railway system. Often he thought how useless it all was, how he wasted h
is life dictating worthless information. But no, it did have a use: it would get them through their exams. And if they could stick it for three years, they were made. No one failed. Anyone that bad would long ago have quit the course. It was all a hoax, a massive confidence trick. The great god Education. What value was it? Did it have any purpose? He tried to stop thinking about it. He was important to himself. How could he damn his whole life as futile?
He thought how remarkable it was that he could spout such nonsense and at the same time have his mind on something completely different. Then the door opened. Spearman stopped thinking and turned to face the door. Throughout the room heads were being raised. One of the students came in. Spearman looked at his watch, making it obvious that he was doing so. It was nine-fifteen. He had spoken to the newcomer about his lateness before. He would listen to what he had to say, then refuse to admit him. He had been late ... When had he been late? It had happened recently. Last week, could it have been? Spearman knew it had happened. But not quite like this—exactly like this.
He did not have to listen to the excuse because he had heard it before, knew precisely what was going to be said even as it was said. Flawless déjà vu? he wondered. Unthinking, he waved the student away, to go and sit down, then resumed where he had left off. Was it a trick, an accident? The student could have come in late last Monday and said exactly the same thing. If not, it had to be déjà vu. There was no other explanation. He had experienced the phenomenon previously of course, but never like this. It always seemed to be after the event that he remembered, not while it was still occurring.
New Writings in SF 26 - [Anthology] Page 9
