… a darkness which enfolded me like a warm blanket, inert and comforting. I could have happily stayed there for ever, hidden from everything. But it did not last; slowly the darkness evaporated to reveal another chamber, this one stone-lined like Jax’s cell. I sat before a desk and behind the desk was a shadowy figure whose features 1 was unable to discern. I could not say whether it was masculine or feminine: the question of its sex did not occur to me. I knew only that it was autocratic and domineering and that I was afraid of it.
I tried to get up from a seat but I could not move. The figure began to shout at me, telling me to do this and not to do that, to behave in this manner and not in that. I cannot remember the contents of the instructions—they might have been gibberish—it was the tone to which I reacted. Panic gripped me, and although I attempted to protest, my words carried no weight, were drowned in the thundering tones of reproval and denunciation which flooded in almost palpable waves across the desk. My agitation increased; I trembled with fear. I closed my eyes and shook my head as if I could deny the voice its existence by these acts alone. To my surprise, its strength did begin to wane, slowly but perceptibly. I clenched the edges of my seat and redoubled my efforts to shut out the diatribe, all the while quavering with fright…
I opened my eyes. Rex was standing over me, tugging at my shoulders. He helped me sit up, then fetched a glass of water. I drank it down in one.
“I had difficulty in bringing you back,” Rex said. “Was it a bad dream?”
“I had two. Both were somewhat disturbing.”
“I should have taken proper precautions, used a sympathetic placement sub-programme. I didn’t realize you were in an anxious mood-state.”
“It’s all right, I asked for free association.” I rubbed my eyes. “Besides, it was all my own invention. Just a mind-dream.”
“Ah, yes, but the product of very real stresses and anxieties within your psyche. Something is obviously troubling you.”
I swung my legs off the couch and stood up, shakily.
“Rest a few minutes more,” Rex said, “You look a little groggy.”
“No, I’m fine,” I replied. I could feel the strength slowly returning to my body.
Rex was still fussing. “I do apologize. I should have evaluated your psychic equilibrium before I allowed you to dream.”
“It’s quite all right,” I insisted. “Paradoxically, those nightmares have provided me with the impetus I needed to resolve a conflict of loyalties.”
And it was true. Immediately on wakening I had begun to analyse the symbolism inherent in each dream. The first one was easy: I was obviously worried that Annia had been made irrevocably alien by having been chosen as a Voice. The interpretation of the second dream had required a little more thought but had provided me with a more important realization. The figure behind the desk clearly represented someone of authority, be it Helmine, the elder Robert, Lionel of the Institute, or even the manager of the Dome Baths. All my life I had been intimidated by people behind desks or tables, people who had ordered me around, directed my life to their own ends. I had obeyed because I was weak and afraid of authority. Well, no more. This time I would rebel.
Rex accompanied me to the door. I peered through the window and saw a floater parked just down the road. A man sat in the driver’s seat, staring casually towards the parlour. I was sure that he was one of Helmine’s minions, keeping track of my movements. Helmine must have been certain by now that I had lied to her; a simple check with the driver would have revealed that I had not spent any time erasing sections of the tape during my return to the Complex. She was hoping I would lead her to the League.
“Do you have a rear exit?” I asked Rex. “I’m being followed.”
He nodded solemnly, no doubt deciding that I had paranoid tendencies best dealt with by humouring me. He led me back through the parlour to a small side exit which gave out on an alleyway.
“Good luck,” he whispered, as if he was sending me off on a secret mission.
Which, although he didn’t know it, he was.
Chapter Nine
On leaving the parlour, I wandered through the sidestreets and arcades of the city centre until I was convinced that no one was following me. I then visited my bank and withdrew five hundred checks before taking a bus down to the harbour. It was past dusk when I arrived and I decided that I would search for the boat Jax had mentioned in the morning. I obtained a room in a small hostel at the top of Griffin Lane, one of the steep and narrow streets which rises above the harbour. The room was cramped and ill-kept, but it would suffice: I did not plan to stay there long.
After breakfast the following day I went down to the waterfront and spent most of the morning roaming along the wharves and jetties, looking for the Alien Star. Unlike the barges, which are never christened, most of the trawlerfoils had colourful names: Windracer, Galatea, Green Phoenix, Merrimac. The fisherfolk did share some characteristics with the bargemasters, though, most obviously a fondness for ale and ribaldry. Saloons lined the waterfront, comparatively empty that morning for most of the fleet was out at sea; but the previous night the noise of their laughter and conversation had carried to me in my musty room until well past midnight.
I could find no trace of the boat; doubtless it was out at sea. Over zenith I sat in one of the saloons, sipping a mug of the spiced ale which the fisherfolk favoured. I talked with no one; I simply sat there and watched the trawlerfoils return from their labours, cutting white swathes through the water before docking at the jetties, their holds bulging with glistening silver-fish and livid great-eels. The crews immediately retired to a saloon to slake their thirsts, leaving their cargoes to writhe spasmodically and with steadily decreasing vigour in the afternoon sun. One or two empty boats departed, and I followed their progress out over the calm, glassy sea until they bled into the shimmering, heat-soaked horizon of water and sky.
After zenith I traversed the wharves again, but there was no sign of the Alien Star. No more foils would be in before dusk, so I idled away the afternoon by wandering around the immediate hinterland of the bay. I had visited the area on a number of occasions during the course of my work, but the narrow, cobbled streets and the buildings, all constructed of the dark grey stone which constituted the bay itself, formed a complex maze in which it was possible to wander for hours without retracing one’s path. The harbour, although no older than the rest of the city, appears more ancient by dint of this abundance of stone, more solid and timeworn than the concrete and tile of the city proper.
Returning to the waterfront at dusk, I was still unable to locate the Alien Star. It was possible that the boat was out on a deep-sea mission, seeking blackfin and thresher, in which case it might be gone for days. I had been loath to approach anyone for help because I was afraid that any queries might provoke suspicion and hostility—the fisherfolk were in general somewhat mistrustful of outsiders—but now I had no choice. My clothes identified me as a resident of the city, and while I had seen no militia all that day, it was possible that they were looking for me. I had to get off the streets.
A trawlerwoman was passing by en route to a saloon, so I approached her and asked her if she knew of the Alien Star. She did not check her stride, but merely pointed. She pointed not towards the wharves but towards Prospect Place, the broadest of the hilly roads which feed the harbour. I wandered off in the direction she had indicated and half-way up the hill I saw it: a red, four-pointed neon star above a hand-painted sign which told me that the Star was not a boat but a restaurant. I must have passed the place several times that day.
I took a table near the door. The restaurant had been decked out in the popular image of the M’threnni, The walls and ceiling were various shades of pink, the floor carpeted in maroon, the table-cloths crimson. Imitation M’threnni sculptures—dangling plates of polished aluminium stirred constantly by currents of air—reflected with kaleidoscopic confusion the roseate glow from the genuine lightsticks on each table, and fake M’threnni
drapes hung from the walls, their violet sheen too bright to be convincing. The overall effect was bizarre and tasteless. Only a few tables were occupied, which tended to confirm my supposition that the decor was positively invidious to gastronomic comfort.
A waiter arrived with a menu.
“I’d like to see Roger,” I said, making no attempt to take it from him.
He nodded curtly and retreated into the gloom. A minute later, a plump, middle-aged man approached my table. He reminded me strongly of a representation I had once seen of Napoleon, an old war-lord of Earth.
“I was given your name by someone with League connections,” I said quietly.
He sat down opposite me and waited for me to continue. When it was clear that I was not going to say any more, he said: “I see. What brings you here?” His voice was smoothly polite, the voice of a cultured man.
“I want to get in touch with Eilan,” I said, “I have information which I think might be of use to her.”
He said nothing, but rose abruptly. “Would you follow me, please?” His tone was at once mannerly and imperative.
I followed him through the kitchen, across a yard, and up a fire escape which led to the rooms directly above the restaurant. He knocked hard on the door and a few moments later it was opened by a tall, heavily built man whose face I could not see because it was in shadow.
“I have a visitor for Tomas,” Roger said.
The tall man disappeared into the shadowy corridor. Roger and I stood waiting on the fire escape. The window at the end of the corridor reflected a dull red glow from the neon star outside. It occurred to me that there was good deal of irony in the thought that remnants of the League were hidden above a fake M’threnni restaurant.
The tall man returned and said: “I’ll take him.”
Roger departed and the tall man closed the door behind him. He led me down the corridor to a small room which looked out over the street. It was an office, evidently used for accounting purposes. A man sat in a swivel chair at a desk, his back to me.
“Sit down,” he said without turning around. I took the vacant seat immediately to his right. The tall man closed the door softly and leaned against it.
The man at the desk swung his chair through ninety degrees and regarded me. He was short and wiry, with a hook-like nose and sunken cheeks. A down of fine hair covered his scalp and bristle littered his chin.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he said.
“My name is David and I’m—I used to work for the government. I came here to contact the League with a view to joining them. I was given Roger’s name by Jax.”
If he was surprised, he did not show it. “Where is he?”
“Not in the penitentiary. He and the other two are being held at the old lighthouse on Needle Point.”
He waited, so I went on: “I was allowed to visit him only by promising Helmine that I would extract from him the whereabouts of Eilan. I carried a recorder with me to tape our conversation, but Jax and I faked it so that he claimed that he didn’t know where she was. However, Helmine is suspicious, and she put a watch on me. I managed to elude him before coming here.”
“What is your connection with Jax?”
“He’s an old friend of mine. We grew up together. I learned from him that a mutual friend of ours was taken as a Voice by the M’threnni. That, and Jax’s situation, are what finally prompted me to seek out the League. Jax and the others are in grave danger. Helmine has threatened to use force to extract the information she wants.”
He glanced towards the man at the door. The memory of my dream at Rex’s parlour returned to me and I smiled involuntarily. Here I was again being confronted by someone at a desk and again they held the upper hand.
“Something amuses you?”
“No, not really,” I said. “I was just reflecting on the inexorable grip of the hand of fate.”
He let this cryptic comment go by unchallenged, “What do you think you can offer the League?”
“I’ve already given you some valuable information. But there is more. Several days ago I was admitted to the M’threnni tower.”
This time he was unable to hide his interest.
“We heard that someone had been allowed inside,” he said.
“I was working with the haulage teams at the time of the explosion. A M’threnni female and her Voice emerged to investigate it. They took me back to the tower and questioned me. I believe that I have learned something of the M’threnni-Voice relationship as a result.”
“Indeed? What?”
“I’d like to speak with Eilan.”
“She is not here. What have you learned?”
“I believe that the aliens speak directly through the Voices by usurping their mentalities.”
He did not greet this revelation with the surprise I had imagined; he merely shrugged. “It’s possible. Anything’s possible.”
“I thought this knowledge might be of use to the League to consolidate their claims that the M’threnni are a malign influence.”
“We are in no position to air our views. The League has been outlawed. If you join us, you become a criminal in the eyes of the authorities.”.
He waited, then said: “Is this all you have to say?”
“I have no further information to offer, if that’s what you mean.”
There was a pause.
“Will you attempt to free Jax and the others?” I asked.
He smiled. “Assuming you were a spy sent by Helmine, do you think I would be witless enough not to realize that your purpose in coming here would be to flush us out into the open, to lead us into a trap?”
“I am not a spy. I came here in good faith.”
“Nonetheless, it must be obvious to you that we cannot accept your story on good faith alone. It will have to be checked.”
He turned to the man at the door. “Take him to the cellar.”
The cellar was tiny, a cool stone vault, empty and featureless, A short strip of violet neon fixed loosely to the ceiling and speckled with fly-droppings provided an eerie, crepuscular illumination. The tall man (his name was Mal) provided a sleeping bag, a few morsels of bread, a plate of cold, mashed silverfish, two pears and a jug of water. He left, bolting the door ,t securely.
I set the food aside, lay down on the sleeping bag and, much to my surprise, soon dozed. I awoke late at night, feeling hungry. Switching on the light, I saw that a battalion of ants had found the fish. The bread and the fruit were untouched, however, so I ate them, drank some water, and lay down again. Sleep did not come easily this time, and I spent several hours gazing into the darkness, thinking profitless thoughts. There was nothing to be gained, I told myself, from speculating on whether I had made the right decision in contacting the League; it was done, and there could be no turning back.
An hour after dawn, Mal returned with more food—the same staples as my meagre supper, but healthier portions.
“There’s a restaurant over my head,” I complained “Can’t you get me something better?”
“You’re a non-paying customer,” he told me. “Eat it and like it.”
The hours dragged past. I removed the neon tube from its fitting, polished it with spit and the edge of my sleeping bag, then refixed it so that it glowed more brightly. I found a few nails scattered about the floor and passed an hour or so making patterns in the grime. I did push-ups, lean-backs, ran a thousand paces, going nowhere. Mal brought me lunch: a more varied fare this time. I asked him how it went and he replied that he did not know. I asked him for something in which to urinate; he indicated the empty water-jug, and left.
I counted the stones which made up the walls, then divided them by the number on the floor. I removed my shoes, stood against the door and used a nail to scrape a line across the door corresponding to the top of my head. Designating the upper half of my thumb as four centimetres, I slowly progressed upwards from the floor to the mark in thumb-steps; it was grossly inaccurate. I pressed buttons at random on my w
atch and tried to guess what numbers would come up. I practised yoga; I meditated; I made up nonsense rhymes and recited them to the walls. Mal entered in the middle of one of these, carrying my dinner. Bored? he asked. When will I be let out? I wanted to know. He shook his head, which might have meant that he didn’t know or simply, never.
I begged him for something to read, and about a half-hour later he returned with the latest edition of the Chronicle, On the fourth page I found it: a short paragraph which indicated that I was missing, believed kidnapped, and that the militia were seeking my whereabouts. A reward was being offered for information leading to my “release”. The amount, five hundred checks, was sufficient to arouse a healthy general interest, but insufficient to reveal just how important it was that I be tracked down. Nowhere in the report was the League implicated in my disappearance. Helmine was moving cautiously.
I read the paper from cover to cover, so consumed was I by ennui. I prepared “ink” from spittle and dust, used a small nail as my stylus, and laboriously attacked the word-puzzle which was one of the Chronicle’s regular features. Much to my annoyance, the compiler was someone with whom I had shared an office at the Complex; I knew his modus operandi well and had completed the puzzle within fifteen minutes. Time was consuming me.
At suppertime Mal took pity on me and provided a few book- and music-tapes. I listened for a while to a synthesizer fugue, then picked a book at random from the pile Mal had left. It was Awakenings by Carlos Muller, an account of a child’s experiences on a commune in the Low Valleys. Despite the fact that he described an upbringing similar to my own, I found the book tedious; Muller’s prose was turgid and the narrator’s voice, a deep bass, monotonous in the extreme. Switching it off, I turned to another tape with the intriguing title of Foreplay, its author unnamed. It turned out to be a brash comedy of sexual manners set on twentieth-century Earth. It was clumsily written, but possessed of vigour and an odd charm which the female narrator exploited fully. I derived considerable pleasure from the book, and none of it was cerebral.
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