Orbitsville Trilogy

by Bob Shaw

  "Rebecca's replacement wouldn't have lost much sleep over this place," Renard said, bringing the car to a crunching halt on a square of brown gravel in front of the house.

  Dallen nodded and remained silent, guessing that the allusion had been literary. He got out of the car and was turning to leave when a tall brunette in her late twenties came out to the front steps of the house to greet Renard. She was wearing a close-fitting white shirt and white pants which showed off a full-bosomed but lean-hipped figure. A hint of muscularity about her forearms suggested to Dallen that here was a woman who kept in trim by sheer expenditure of energy. Her face was small and quite square, with neat features and a slight prominence of chin which gave a near-truculent fullness to her lower lip. It was a face which in spite of its liveliness and intelligence, many would have considered disappointing, but Dallen found himself alerted and oddly disturbed, like one who is on the verge of recalling a vital missed appointment.

  "…and his name is Garry," Renard was saying to the woman. "I've never seen him go into a trance like this before—perhaps if you pointed your chest somewhere else…"

  "Shut up, Rick. Hello, Garry." She gave Dallen a brief smile, her attention already focused on two transit cartons which rested on the rear seat of the car. "Is this my glass?"

  "It certainly is, courtesy of Renard's doorstep delivery service. I'll carry it in for you."

  "Thanks, but I'm quite capable of moving a box or two." The woman reached into the car, picked up a carton and bore it away into the house.

  "I'll say you are," Renard said admiringly, his gaze lingering on the white-clad figure before he turned to Dallen. "What did I tell you?"

  Dallen felt a pang of annoyance then realised that what he disliked about the question was not so much the sexism as the proprietory pride. This is crazy, he thought, alarmed at the speed and uncontrollability of what was happening inside of him. If a woman like that is mixed up with Renard she can't be a woman like that. Unwilling to consider what his motives might be, he picked up the second carton and carried it into the house. Its weightiness confirmed his guess about Silvia London being physically strong. She met him at a doorway on the left of the hall, smiled again and gestured for him to go on through.

  "Thanks," she said. "Straight ahead to the studio, please."

  "Okey-dokey." Brilliant conversational opening, he thought, appalled. Where did I dredge that one from? He went through a high-ceilinged, conventionally furnished room and into another whose airiness and overhead windows proclaimed it to be part of the house extension. He came to a halt, transfixed, as he saw that the fierce light in the outer room was transformed into a multi-hued blaze by a screen of stained glass which reached almost to the ceiling.

  Dallen's first impression was of a huge trefoil flower. All edges of the three enormous petals were in the same plane, which would have made it possible for the construction to serve as an incredibly ornate window, but the central surfaces were a bewildering series of complex three-dimensional curves, sculptures in glass. Geometric patterns based on circles and ellipses radiated from a sunburst centre, swirling and interacting, generating areas of intense complication in some places and smoothing into calm simplicity in others. The technique was almost pointillé, deriving its effect from myriad thousands of colour fragments, most of which were no bigger than coins. Dallen's sense of awe increased, rippling coolness down his spine, as he realised that the glowing tesserae—which he had taken to be brush-dabs of transparent paint—were actually individual chips of stained glass bonded with metal.

  "My God," he said, with genuine reverence. "It's … I've never , .

  Silvia London laughed as she took the carton from him and placed it on a nearby workbench. "You like it?"

  "It has to be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Dallen filled his eyes with mingling rays, mesmerising himself. "But…"

  "A third of a million."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "The first thing everybody asks is how many separate pieces of glass," Silvia said. "The answer is a third of a million, almost. I've been working on it continuously for four years."

  "Why? For God's sake, why?" Renard spoke from behind Dallen, having entered the studio unnoticed. "With an imager you could have built up the same effect in a few days. Throw continuous computer variation and it would be even better. What do you say, Garry?"

  "I'm not an artist."

  "You could still venture an opinion." Silvia spoke lightly, but her brown eyes were holding steady on Mien's. "Why should I give up four years of my life to one unnecessary project?"

  His answer was instinctive. "Something which sets itself up as a mosaic really has to be a mosaic—otherwise it's no use."

  "Near enough," she said. "You can come back anytime."

  "Crawler," Renard sneered. "Silvia, when are you going to-drop this phoney reverence for old … what's his name … Tiffany and his methods? You know perfectly well that you cheat."

  She shook her head, glancing at Dallen to include him in what she was saying. "I cut the glass with a valency knife because it's so fast and accurate. And instead of edging each piece with copper foil so that it can be soldered, I transmute a couple of millimetres of it into copper, for reasons of speed and strength. But Tiffany himself would have used those methods if they'd been available to him—therefore in my book it isn't cheating."

  "And how about the cold solder?"

  "Same criterion applies."

  "I should know better than to argue with a woman," Renard said, cheerfully unconvinced. "When are you and I going to have dinner?"

  "We've been over all that."

  Renard picked up a fish-shaped piece of streaky blue glass from the bench and peered through it. "How is Karal these days?"

  "His condition is stable, thank you."

  Renard held the strip of glass closer to his eyes, converting it into a mask. "I'm glad about that."

  "Yes, Rick." Silvia turned to Dallen with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry about the conversation becoming so cryptic. I'm not interested in adultery, you see—even though my husband is old and very ill. When I refused to date Rick a moment ago he, quite naturally—being the sort of person he is—asked me if Karal would die soon, and when I told him there was no immediate prospect of it he couldn't even make a convincing attempt to appear pleased."

  "Silvia!" Renard looked scandalised. "You make me sound so crass!"

  "I'm tempted to make the obvious reply to that one, but…"

  "Don't mind me," Dallen put in. "I quite enjoy the sound of knuckles on flesh." He had slipped into his social armour by reflex, buying time in which to gain some control over what was happening behind his eyes. Information had been coming in too fast. The fantastic glass edifice filling she studio had an over-powering presence of its own, but something about Silvia London was even more disturbing. He had just learned that Renard had no claim on her, that she was a person upon whom Renard could not make a claim, and the result had been an immediate explosion of images and sense impressions—Silvia seen across a supper table; Silvia broodily examining a damaged fingernail; Silvia at the controls of a high-G zoom car, Silvia floating lazily in a sun-gilded pool; Cona raising her gaze in momentary bafflement from an historical text; Silvia lying with her head in the crook of his left arm; Cona trailing footprints of her own urine from room to shaded room…

  Silvia looked thoughtfully at Dallen. "I can't help wondering… Have we met before?"

  "It isn't likely," Renard said, grinning. "His polo stick got woodworm."

  Dallen moved away from Silvia, closer to the stunning glass mosaic. "I thought this was a flower at first, but it's astronomical, isn't it?"

  "Yes. It's a representation of a Gott-McPherson cosmos."

  Dallen frowned, still expunging visions. "I thought McPherson was a spherologist. Isn't he on the Optima Thule Science Commission?"

  "Yes, but it's his work on cosmogony that inspires me as an artist," Silvia said, caressing the glass with the tip of a
finger. "Actually, as it stands the screen shows a pure Gott cosmos. The scenario he devised in the 20th Century called for the creation of three separate universes at the moment of the Big Bang. He labelled the universe we live in Region I. It's composed of normal matter and of course in our universe time goes forward. This is it in the left-hand zone, with all the colours and forms naturalistic by our terms of reference." Silvia crossed to the other side of the screen, stepping with care over a wooden support, choosing the constricted route between Dallen and the glass. Her hair touched his lips.

  "In the opposite panel is the Region II universe, created in the same instant as ours, but rushing backwards into our past and composed of anti-matter. I've suggested its nature by using inverted forms and colours which are complements of those in Region I. Gott also postulated a Region III universe—a tachyon universe—which has sped far ahead of us in time and will remain in our future until all the universes meet each other again in the next Big Bang. This is the tachyon universe in the centre section—elongated abstract patterns, leached-out opalescent colours."

  "Aren't you glad you asked?" Renard's bow of teeth gleamed. "If you want to appear intelligent and interested ask where McPherson comes into the picture."

  "I'm sorry," Silvia said, her eyes again locking with Dallen's. "I do tend to presume that my private manias are universal."

  "It's all right," Dallen replied quickly. "It's really … well, fascinating … and as a matter of fact I was going to ask about McPherson's contribution."

  Renard burst into full-throated laughter, hamming up his scorn by slapping his thigh, and walked away into the old part of the house, shaking his head.

  "Perhaps he's kind to animals," Silvia said, pausing until Renard was out of earshot. "McPherson refined Gott's ideas and also added a Region IV universe—an anti-tachyon universe which is fleeing ahead of Region II into its past. It's being incorporated into the design as a fourth panel complementing Region III, but there isn't enough ceiling height here to let me assemble the whole screen. That will have to wait."

  "For what?"

  "Completion of Karal's memorial college, of course."

  "I see," Dallen floundered. "I'm afraid I don't know much about your husband's work."

  "There's no real reason why you should—he isn't a publicity-seeker."

  "I didn't mean…"

  Silvia laughed, showing predictably healthy teeth. "You're far too normal to be keeping company with Red Rick, you know. Why do you do it?"

  "He promised he could get me into movies," Dallen said, trying to decide why he was unhappy about being described as normal. What's going on here? he thought. I'm supposed to he the one who always holds the conversational high ground.

  "I'm sure you'd be interested in what Karal has to say." Silvia's gaze had a disconcerting softness. "We're having some people around tomorrow night—would you like to join us?"

  "I…" Dallen looked down at the woman and felt a surge of genuine panic as he realised how close he had come to opening his arms to her. There had been no reason to it, no sense of having been given an invitation, not even any special pressure of desire—it was just that his arms had almost moved by themselves. And Cona is still a prisoner, still where I put her.

  "I'm busy tomorrow," he said, his voice unexpectedly loud.

  "Perhaps some other evening would…"

  "My wife and I never go out." Dallen strode out of the studio and into the adjoining room, where he found Renard studying some botanical prints clustered on a wall. The high-ceilinged room seemed mellow and cool, part of another age.

  "Ready to go?" Renard looked quizzical. "I thought an art lover like you would have been in there for ages. What have you been doing to this young man, Silvia?"

  "Thanks for your help with the glass," she said to Dallen, entering the room behind him, and it seemed to him that her manner was now overly correct. "The cartons are quite heavy."

  "No trouble. If you'll excuse me—I have an appointment in town." Dallen went out to the front of the house, prepared to leave the premises on foot, but Renard caught up with him and within a minute-after an exchange of formalities with Silvia—they were in the car and roiling silently between banks of foliage. Warm air currents touched Dallen's forehead. The world looked subtley different to him, as in the first moment after stepping out of a bar in daytime. He felt that something momentous had happened, but what made it unsettling was the lack of evidence that anything at all had taken place. It was a matter of interpretation. He had never met a woman quite like Silvia London before, and could have been misreading the signals because of unfamiliarity or male egotism. Or perhaps sheer sexual deprivation. When he had mentioned Cona's frequent masturbation to Roy Picciano the doctor had suggested that it could cease if they resumed a physical relationship, but Dallen had found the idea repugnant beyond words…

  "That was a nice little divertimento for all concerned," Renard said. "What went on in there?"

  "Meaning?"

  "The two of you came out of the studio like robots." Renard looked amused. "Did you try to touch her?"

  Dallen sighed in exasperation. "Stop the car and let me out."

  "No need to get huffy, old son," Renard said, accelerating out into the street. "It's two years since her old man went off to the Big O to die, and nobody has got near our Silvia in all that time. It's a criminal waste, really, but she has compensated by inventing this game called New Morality Musical Beds. Cumbersome title, but I've just made it up. When the music stops—by music I mean Karal's emphysematic rattling—there's going to be one hell of a scramble, and Silvia wants the field to be as large as possible.

  I'm going to win, of course. It's a foregone conclusion, but she doesn't want to admit that to herself. I guess the illusion of choice gives her a bit of a lift."

  The tone and content of what he had just heard outraged Dallen on behalf of Silvia, but he was distracted by new information. "I didn't realise Karal London lives on Orbitsville."

  Renard nodded. "A place near Port Napier. He only appears in holomorph form at Silvia's little soirées, you know. Personally, I find it somewhat distasteful."

  "A sensitive person like you would."

  "Unkind, Garry, unkind."

  "What's this about emphysema?"

  "That's what is killing him. I'm told he can barely cross a room."

  "But…" Dallen began to feel overwhelmed. "Why?"

  "Why is he allowing himself to die of a disease which can be cured? Why didn't he either stay here or take Silvia to Big O with him?" Renard glanced at Dallen, arched teeth gleaming. "Obviously she didn't have enough time to get on to hobbyhorse number two otherwise you'd know all about it. That would have been something else for you to find … um … fascinating."

  "Forget I asked," Dallen said, his patience fading.

  "It's all part of the Great Experiment, man!" Renard laughed aloud, alerting the part of Dallen's mind that remained permanently on guard against being ribbed. "Haven't you heard you're going to live for ever?"

  "I think somebody from Nazareth may have mentioned the idea."

  "This is nothing to do with religion, old son," Renard said, apparently for once deciding to impart straight information. "Old Karal is anti-religious and anti-mystical. He set up his Anima Mundi Foundation a few years back with the express purpose of…"

  "Garry? Have you got your ears on?" The voice came from Dallen's implanted transceiver. "This is Jim Mellor."

  "I'm listening," Dallen sub-vocalised, shocked by the unexpected communication from his deputy after weeks of radio silence. "Is something wrong?"

  "I've got some bad news for you," Mellor said. "Beaumont has escaped."

  "Escaped!" Dallen felt old preoccupations take over his mind. "Pick him up again."

  "It's too late for that," Mellor replied, sounding both angry and embarrassed. "It happened three days back, but Lashbrook only told me a few minutes ago. Beaumont will be back in Cordele by this time."

  Dallen closed his
eyes. "So I go to Cordele."

  "What's the matter with you?" Renard said loudly from beside Dallen, an intruder from another dimension. "Are you talking to yourself?"

  Dallen shut him out, concentrating on the exchange with his deputy. "Get a ship ready for me, Jim—I'll be with you in a few minutes."

  "But…"

  "In a few minutes, Jim." Dallen made the practised sideways movement of his jaw which switched off his transceiver, then tried to relax into the deep cushions of the seat. He felt a cold, pleasurable anticipation which—even though he could recognise it as a sickness—restored lost illusions of purpose.

  Chapter 7

  The Valley was not really a valley. It was a narrow strip, almost a kilometre in length, where Orbitsville's soil and bedrock had been scooped away to reveal a substantial area of shell material. Ylem was dark and non-reflective, so at night the strip had the appearance of a cold black lake. The research buildings anchored along it on suction foundations, continuously illuminated, looked like a flotilla of boats linked by power and communications cables.

  Dan Cavendish had worked in the Valley for more than forty years, but he still got a contemplative pleasure from walking its length, knowing that only a few centimetres—the thickness of shell—beneath the soles of his boots was the edge of interstellar space. Since the death of his wife three years earlier he had found it difficult to sleep the night through, and had developed the habit of patrolling the strip from end to end in the darkness, meditating and remembering. Although devoid of stars, the Orbitsville night sky had a beauty of its own which was conducive to an old man's evaluation of his life.