New Writings in SF 26 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Kenneth Bulmer

  Continuing to read from his notes, he let his mind pursue another path. If it was not deja vu, the student really must have arrived late some other time. But when? It would have to be a Monday. Not last Monday, he could recall that one quite clearly. He worked his way back through a sequence of Mondays, back as far as the summer vacation. No. He had never been late before. And yet... and yet...

  At the same time, as if superimposed across these memories, he had a picture of the student coming in late. More than that: he had a whole series of them, the earliest ones fading far into the past. As though it had happened not once but countless times before. Simultaneously came the recollection of him recalling this ... recalling it times without number. Day after day after day. An endless chain, each link a Monday. This Monday. It was ridiculous, a crazy daytime nightmare. Today was Monday. Yesterday was Sunday. Yesterday he had been with Sharon. But another memory denied this, telling him the day before he had driven to college, had a headache, got some tablets from Marge, begun to lecture, been interrupted, realized he had been interrupted in exactly the same way before, realized that he had realized he had been interrupted...

  He tried to concentrate on lecturing, remembering that he had done this the last time, and the time before, and the time before. Not lectured to this group, because he had done that each Monday: each Monday since the start of term. Nor given the same lecture, because he had done that to a corresponding group both years since he had been at this college. No: Given the same lecture to the same group. Often. Too often to count. But when?

  When?

  Somehow he was able to finish the lecture, or almost finish it. He cut it short ten minutes early, unable to continue. Slowly he walked back to his room as he had done so often before. So often. By the coffee machine was the man in the light suit. He was staring straight at Spearman.

  * * * *

  Behind his desk, head in hands, Spearman tried to puzzle it out. He was alone in his room and glad of it; the three others with whom he shared it were out.

  Let’s get this straight, he said to himself: You think that today, or today’s events, have happened before. And more than once. Is that reasonable? No, but it’s true. How else can it be explained? If there is anything which needs explaining, of course. Are you imagining it all?

  Was there anyone he could ask about it? Certainly none of the other three, even had they been, present. Head of department? Marge? She was always ready with a word of sympathy. Yet what could he say? He did not feel up to asking anyone; he would be thought an idiot. What about professional advice? A psychiatrist perhaps, or would it be a psychologist? A doctor ought to know.

  Dammit all, he thought, I don’t know what I’m so bothered about. It’s not serious. It doesn’t hurt. It’ll probably wear off. If not, there’s plenty of time to see about it.

  He had enough to keep him busy and he began marking essays. It was annoying to discover as he marked each one that he had checked it before. Many times. He kept at it until lunchtime, the other three joining him at intervals. Spearman did not say much. And anyway, he realized in retrospect, he never had said much the other Mondays. Kennings suggested eating and they went out together. For some reason Spearman glanced back as they approached the refectory. From one of the windows on the top floor someone was looking out. Spearman knew who he was and what he was staring at.

  In the refectory there was a good choice, but he selected what he often had: steak and kidney pie, chips and beans, followed by some sort of mushy apple dessert. It was a better meal than those he usually fixed for himself, and he was not at all surprised to discover he had chosen the same things as all the other times.

  He was no longer bothered about not talking, and it amused him listening to Kennings. It proved how boring the other man was. How many times had he said exactly the same thing? Spearman got on best with Kennings. He never really understood why this was so; they were complete opposites. Kennings was older, married with three—or maybe four by now—children, and had spent a number of years in industry before turning to teaching. His chief interests were drinking, gambling and sport. Spearman always felt inferior in Kennings’ company, but he did not resent him for it.

  Walking downstairs, they passed the light-suited man. His face was thin but tanned, hair almost white. He seemed to be in his mid-twenties. He was leaning against the window near the bottom of the stairs, the same intent, almost anxious, expression on his face. He made no attempt to conceal his interest in Spearman. Instead it was the assistant lecturer who had to avert his eyes from the other’s gaze. Something bothered Spearman, but whatever it was hovered at the wrong side of the boundary of his consciousness. He finally became aware of what it was as he entered the lift to return to his room.

  Spearman had two sets of memories. The first set consisted of what had happened yesterday: yesterday, Sunday, and all the previous days. He could remember what he had done last week, last month, last year. Superimposed upon these was the other sequence. A couple of minutes ago he had left the refectory, but at the same time he could remember having left there yesterday under exactly the same circumstances. But it was not exactly the same. He did not remember the man in the light suit being there ‘yesterday’. He had ridden up in the lift with him that time, or perhaps he was confusing it with another occasion. Always the man was in different places, always he was watching him. Who was he? What did he want? It could be no accident that their paths kept intersecting. The man’s shifting positions represented the only changes in Spearman’s day. In every other respect today had been identical with all his other ‘yesterdays’. Why should the man have this independence when Spearman had no such freedom of action?

  It was ironic, he thought, how only this morning he had been thinking how trapped he was: trapped by the things he was expected to do. It was truer than he had thought. He was in a rut, snared by routine, and this was the first time he recognized it. Everything he had done today he had done before. Was there any way he could escape, break the bonds of habit? If he knew what came next, possibly he could alter the pattern. But he did not know. He only became conscious of repetition as it occurred. Before the event he was as ignorant of the future as anyone else. There did not even seem to be any way he could make use of this ability. His talent—if that was what it could be called—was totally superfluous. What use was there in knowing that an event had already taken place? If he knew beforehand, that would be different.

  But was it only him? Was Monday a never-ending repeat performance for everyone? Kennings, for example. Today he had behaved exactly as he had done numerous times. Was he conscious of it? Spearman looked over at him: He was sitting back in his chair reading a newspaper, lighting a cigarette. He flicked the match over his shoulder, missing the waste bin by a good few feet. He never used a lighter, always a match. He did not appear bothered by anything, but Kennings never seemed worried whatever happened. What do I expect, wondered Spearman. Do I look worried? He did not think so. But he supposed he was not really worried; just very puzzled and curious.

  ‘Do you ever,’ said Spearman, ‘get the feeling you’ve been here before?’ He would not have asked, but Kennings had looked up while he was watching him, and he had said the first thing which came into his head.

  ‘Déjà vu? Yeah. Why?’

  Spearman shrugged. ‘I was just wondering.’

  ‘You’ve got it now?’ Kennings put down his paper and let his chair fall back on to all four legs.

  ‘Yes. Have you?’

  ‘No, not at the moment. And even when I do, I doubt its existence.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if I think a thing has happened before, it must be because it has.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘If I’m doing something, say, and I think it’s familiar, that’s because it is: I’ve done it before. See? That’s all it is. You’ve got it now. But how often have you sat in this room, with me reading over here? There’s your answer.’

  Spearman was disap
pointed: Kennings had not said what he thought he was going to. Yet, as he was saying it, he had realized that his words were inevitable. The man had no command over them; he merely reiterated what he had said endless times before.

  ‘You don’t look as though you believe me.’ The words came back, echoes of a thousand todays.

  ‘No,’ said Spearman. ‘It doesn’t explain why you can feel it in places you’ve never been before.’

  ‘But you’ve been here many times.’

  Many times, Spearman agreed silently. There seemed little point in going on. Kennings seemed unaware that today’s events had occurred previously. He knew the man could not be unable to say he had lived today before, because there was nothing to prevent Spearman himself from saying so. Nothing at all, but all he said was:

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  It began to seem as though he was the only one aware of what was happening. He did not like it. For no reason he could explain, he began to feel afraid. Sitting at his desk, outwardly in complete control of himself, he knew he would have to escape, try to break his routine. Was that why the stranger was watching him? Could Spearman be under observation because he was different? Because he knew?

  He had to give another lecture in half an hour, but could he? Was he in any state to face a bunch of students? No, he concluded; definitely not. He had never missed a single lecture in the two years he had been here. This one might as well be the first. And if he avoided it, perhaps that would sever the bond and allow him to carry on his life some other way.

  * * * *

  It was easier than he had imagined. The head of department was sympathetic when Spearman told him he was feeling ill, and said it would do no harm to delay the lecture by a week. Ideally, Spearman knew, he should have gone straight home without stopping. He had even reached the lift before turning back and asking permission to leave.

  As he entered the car park, the man in the light suit was standing in his path. Could he speak to the man, ask him why his every move was being watched? He reached the man and, without looking directly as him, went around him as though he did not exist. The stranger did not try to block his way, but simply turned and continued watching.

  Spearman kept walking, not glancing back, resisting the urge to run. Reaching his car, he fumbled as he tried to unlock the door, dropping the key. Eventually he got the door open and sat down, breathing heavily and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. After a few seconds he started the car.

  It was only then that he realized how futile it all was: as far back as he could remember he had left early, trying to escape. He had never succeeded. There seemed little point in continuing; he might just as well go back and give the lecture. Yet he could not face doing that. He was determined to leave, either to return home or go for a drive. Whatever it was to be, he could not stay where he was. He slipped the gear lever into first and drove slowly towards the exit. There was no sign of the man.

  Carefully, he refrained from letting his eyes wander to the rearview mirror all the time he was driving back. It was almost three o’clock as he parked the car, went inside, bolted the door, and promised himself he would not venture out again for the rest of the day. He drew all the curtains and spent most of the afternoon walking from room to room, cautiously peering through one of the windows every few minutes. He never saw anything out of the ordinary and he knew that he would not. How could anything he had seen so many times be out of the ordinary?

  * * * *

  The evening was better, he was not so restless. The kitchen cabinet had needed a second coat of paint for months. He did not like painting, probably because he could never seem to get it right, even with the latest non-drip, one-coat paints. It would be too thick or too thin, or there would not be enough of it, or it would run and leave the surface streaky. And always there was paint everywhere—on his hands, face, clothes. The phone rang several times. It was probably Sharon but he never answered. When he had finished painting he could not understand why it had taken him so long. He went around wiping paint off the doors and walls. There was a lot around the windows. As he rubbed at the smears with a turpentine-soaked rag, he still wondered where all the hours had flown.

  It was too late to call anyone. If he was still experiencing this time dislocation tomorrow, he would go and see a doctor. Perhaps he always sensed it, but forgot until the next day. Or because of the next day. Possibly everyone felt it, and there was a mental block which prevented it being discussed.

  But the man had been watching him. He had to be doing it for some purpose. Or no purpose: He watched because he watched. Did anything have a purpose? Could not things simply happen? Why hamstring events with argument? Spearman had lived this day before. He could not deny it, so why should he question it?

  As he lay in bed he compared his day to a loop of tape endlessly repeating itself. Then he thought of a better analogy: a record with its stylus caught in one of the grooves, the same phrase recurring time after time. Some day it would free itself. It had to. Had to.

  Meanwhile, Monday follows Monday. Sometimes the light-suited man sits in a car, sometimes he is looking out of a window or leaning against a wall. But wherever he is, he is always watching Spearman. Apart from that, every day is exactly the same as the one before the one before the one before the one before the one

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  * * * *

  YOU GET LOTS OF YESTERDAYS,

  LOTS OF TOMORROWS,

  AND ONLY ONE TODAY.

  Laurence James

  Happiness, well-being, contentment—these are states of being transient, evanescent. Glimpses of joy are vouchsafed we individual members of humanity at desperately infrequent moments, hard to catch and impossible to hold. And yet—is it not everyone’s right as a human being to experience at least one day’s happiness? On the evidence of this story this is a belief shared by Laurence James. But, in a drab and overpopulated world of rigidly restricted resources that is one terrifying future possibility, how to guarantee such a right?

  * * * *

  High. Binomial eyes clicked. A light film of thinnest oil eased tumblers. On the control panels, dazzling arrays of changing colours—a rainbow of reaction. On the master board, wheels danced and numbers flashed. At last the digits slowed, settled, became finite. The selection was made. For that part of that day in that part of the city. High.

  * * * *

  The audio alarm chattered the room awake. ‘Seven hours. Friday June fourteen. Warm. Dry. Rising to twenty-eight.’

  On the right side of the bed the woman stirred and sat up, brushing the last fragments of the night out of the comers of her eyes. She looked round the room, then down at the sleeping man beside her. As she so often thought, it was almost like entering a new world every morning when she woke. Her name was

  ‘Cordelia Green. As the children have a non-ed day, you have to prepare mid-Food for them. Your husband, Peter, has to return city-work tomorrow. Check his clean work clothes. Last night’s voco-memo ends with a reminder that the lower flower bed needs weeding. That is all. It is now time to prepare first food for Jason and Belle. Enjoy your day.’

  Cordelia vaguely noticed that the automatic end greeting on the tape was becoming scratched. She wondered what she could do about it. Suddenly she realized that Peter had sneaked up out of sleep. His hand had feathered its way beneath the bed-covering, up under her demure blue sleep-gown and had gently touched her body.

  ‘Peter, no!’ She was genuinely shocked and didn’t know how to react. A thrill of fear blended with excitement. It was so early in the morning. His hand moved again.

  ‘Peter!’ Her voice rose to a whispered squeak. ‘Stop it. I’ve got to get first food for Belle and Jason. Please, darling.’ The word tasted odd and thrilling in her mouth. ‘Darling, there isn’t time.’

  His rich masculine voice breathed warm in her ear and her resistance, which wasn’t very certain anyway, edged away. ‘Dee, sweetheart, there’s always time for this.’

&nbs
p; * * * *

  Pink, toothless mouths opened to receive the grey tablets from the sterile grey plastic tube. Eyes either remained closed or gazed vacantly, unfocused, at the muted pastel walls. Ears barely registered the rising and falling of selected sounds. First food was served.

  The fresh eggs gurgled brightly in the shiny copper frying pan, yolks golden-yellow and whites as pure as perfection. Under the eye-level grill, crisp sausages nudged shoulders with golden-brown slices of toast. In the rack above, a row of four large willow-pattern plates warming ready for the food. On the clean plastic work-top, a coffee percolator cheeped and mumbled merrily to itself.