“Emmanuel? Igor here. Do I interrupt importances?” “So you interrupt importances. . . . What is it you have to tell me? Success, it must be. Or total disaster.”
“Success, Emmanuel Even with live-matter. Complete success.”
“I tell you, Igor, I don’t like live-matter experiments. I think you are in a hurry.”
“Only an iris, Emmanuel. Only a blue iris.”
Liza tried to close her ears, to concentrate on laying down bases for a super-buffering effect. She didn’t want to hear how readily the professor humbled himself. And
146
CHRONOCULES
to such a man. . . . But the Founder’s voice was as un-
ignorable as flat, nasty wallpaper.
“So a blue iris is all right, Igor. Flowers are all right. Just so you don’t get carried away. No cats, no dogs. And Igor—please, no people.”
“Of course not, Founder.”
“Good. Now you must tell me,” offering a sugar lump, “you must tell me what you have done.”
Professor Kravchensky told him, glory in his voice. The Forrader allowed a long pause, then sighed.
“Dear oh dear. All this coming and going, Igor. This is time travel, is it? You make things disappear. All right. Very clever. Later they reappear. All right again. Even more clever. But I ask myself, is this time travel, or is this things appearing and disappearing? You prove to me that this is time travel and you make me a very happy man.”
The professor had withered, faded, curled up like a dying leaf. He did not even correct the Founder’s use of words.
“I will try to explain,” he said. “The bubble-bath— when it is where it is, it is there now. It is there now, at once, right from the moment of take-out, carried there on the chronomic flow. We who resist the chronos catch up with it only slowly. It does not ‘reappear’— rather, we catch up with it.”
“You should lecture, Igor. Really you should. You mean it’s on the take-out platform all the time, only you can’t see it?”
“Certainly not. Look, I show you. At one moment it’s on the two o’clock platform. In the next instant it’s on the eleven o’clock platform. The three, four, five, six o’clock platforms do not exist. It doesn’t have to wait. For us the interval is nine hours. For the bubble-bath it is no time at all.”
147
CHRONOCULES
Why did it have to be a hwhMe-bath? Liza wondered. The conversation was banal enough, without that “I do not say you are fooling me, Igor.” By which he suggested that he did. “If I understood you I might even say you sounded good. But I’m a simple man, old friend—I like proof. Do this for me, Igor. Prove to me that the interval is no time at all.”
“What can I say, Founder?” His success had shriveled, his glory gone derided to its grave. “Perhaps with a radioactive carbon I could . . . But we have no such thing in the laboratory. There are conclusive mathematics, of course, but I doubt if—”
“You mean you can’t do it.”
This wasn’t a question, it was a victory. Another’s success had been turned into another’s failure. The Founder could sleep easy. Liza wondered why the hell any of them bothered. She swung around from her desk, almost shouted into the microphone.
“The proof you want is staring you in the face, Mr. Littlejohn. This bloody bubble-baib. you both keep on about—don’t you know hot water cools? And the life of a bubble is numbered in seconds? Isn’t it perfectly obvious that—?”
“Good. Good—I was waiting for you to think of that. Not the professor—it’s far too obvious for his oblique and subtle mind.” She was near to tears, he made her so angry. “That’s Liza Simmons, isn’t it? You’re clever. Your father would be proud of you, Liza. You deserve much, and I shall order a rise in your salary.”
“You can keep your bloody money.”
The telephone creaked. Manny Littlejohn was laugh- ing.
“Forgive me, Miss Simmons.” He paused to creak again. “But people are so predictable. You’ve just saved me thirty pounds a week. And I’m hardly likely to offer
148
CHRONOCULES
again.” The line buzzed, then cleared again briefly. “And you can tell Professor Kravchensky I’m very pleased with his progress. Very pleased indeed.” The line buzzed, and stayed buzzing.
Perhaps one worked for Manny Littlejohn because his awfulness was so wholehearted, because he himself got so much fun out of his own malevolence. Certainly, once he had kicked one in the crotch and trampled his spiked shoes up and down on one, he had a talent for helping one up with the most charming of smiles. So that—especially if one was Professor Kravchensky—one could end up feeling quite grateful to him.
The bubble-bath’s entry was an hour and forty-five minutes late. Nevertheless, in spite of a temporal interval of ten hours and forty-five minutes, the water in it was just as hot as it had been on take-out, and the bubbles just as bubbly. A few of them curled over the edge and flowed stickily down onto the platform. At the sight of them the professor did a little scuttling dance. Liza, to share in the festive moment, removed her coat and lowered herself luxuriously into the scented water. The sight of soapy thighs and breasts garlanded with gardenia foam (combined with the scientific achievement behind them) so encouraged Professor Kravchensky that he thought it worth removing his trousers. The morning had been long, and he deserved a break. He and Liza puffed companionably together for all of forty seconds. It seemed to both of them a suitable culmination. Liza went into it expecting little, and received less: Igor expected much and received more. At one point, in fact, he thought the top of his head was blowing off.
It was the beginning of a new era in laboratory relations. (And also the end, since success and soap and
149
CHRONOCULES
Liza Simmons would never again so stimulatingly coincide. )
All that morning David Silberstein had expected a phone call from the police superintendent about the previous night’s incident up river. After lunch, when it still hadn’t come, he decided to call the man himself. He didn’t want to seem to be trying to avoid anything. However great the Forraders influence might be, there was still no harm in going through the right, die well- meaning motions. He rang five times, and each time the man at the exchange told him the station number was engaged. When he finally did get through, it was to a harassed constable at the desk who said the superintendent was not available. When David tried to press the matter, the constable was very short.
“Don’t you realize, sir, we got a serious epidemic on Our hands?” And put down his receiver.
David answered a dead line. “No. . . . No, I didn’t realize. Nobody’d told me.”
He rang off. So soon. A serious epidemic, so soon. . . . And all he’d thought of to say was that nobody’d told him. He sat and stared out of the window. He should have been told earlier—surely somebody in the Village must have heard about it from one of the radio or TV news bulletins. Unless of course the regional governments were playing it down, trying to avoid a panic, waiting to see. Commerce was all, and a health control breakdown in one of the designated Holiday Areas would have serious financial effects. Perhaps the news media had not yet been informed. He sat and stared out of the window and fussed.
No matter how much you expected a certain event, no matter how much your intellect predicted it, it was still a shock when it came. Somebody should have told
150
CHRONOCULES
him.. .. He turned on his radio, but the BBC was putting out its usual daytime sweet f.a. He left the set playing softly, and called Color Sergeant Cole, warning him to expect trouble, to alert his guards and to activate the scanner at the mouth of the Pill on a round-the-clock basis. He was beginning, as the O.S., to get into his stride. After Color Sergeant Cole, he rang the hospital and ordered the preparation of a mass blanket-immunization. He checked with Stores and left orders for a detailed inventory of food supplies
to be on his desk by morning. Then he got on to the Chief Engineer and gave instructions for half-hourly pollution tests on the water at the mouth of the Pill. Also for the Village’s own massive purification plant to be made ready for immediate use. This was what he was good at: this was what he enjoyed.
Finally he switched in the Village House-to-house communication system, and played his ridiculous call sign—he hated Schubert, and the Trout Quintet in particular, but the Founder (a man of shallow culture) had been adamant-. Into every workroom, every office, every shop, every home (except Roses Varco’s: the amenity had been thought wasted on him), tinkled the trivial refrain.*
David Silberstein cleared his throat. He was, and he knew it, making history.
“I’m afraid we’re pulling up the drawbridge,” he said, with calculated mildness. “As you probably know, pollution levels in general have been rising steadily over the last few weeks, and I now have information that
* At this point the original book, in its pursuit of actuality, plays the theme three times through. I’ve no idea how it does it: the page looks very like all the others.
151
CHRONOCULES
suggests the outbreak of some kind of epidemic in St. Kinnow. Its exact nature I have not yet been able to determine. In addition, relations between ourselves and the inhabitants of the town have recently deteriorated, so that we can no longer depend upon their goodwill. As I’m sure you’re well aware, all this was planned for many months ago and therefore presents no problem.
“As from now all physical communication with the outside world is suspended. We cease either to send mail or to receive it. Those of you with relatives outside the Village will be allocated times dining which you may telephone them, since it is important not to overload our switchboard. Your salaries will no longer be paid in cash—monthly credit slips will be issued in lieu.
“The hospital staff is already organizing a mass immunization, and times of attendance will be announced later. Meanwhile—and this is very important—will all of you who have been outside Village boundaries during the last forty-eight hours, for any reason whatsoever, please report to the hospital at once. If the doctor thinks it necessary, these people may be temporarily hospitalized for observation. Obviously this is a measure necessary in order to protect the health of the community as a whole. These are the people who have been at greatest risk and it is necessary, for their own sakes as well as for ours, that they should be isolated and treated with suitable prophylactics.
“There is absolutely nothing to be worried about. Your administration is well able to cope with whatever emergencies may arise. We have our own water and power supply, and food stores to last six months or more. The air pollution index is to be constantly monitored, as is that of the sea water in the creek. Pollution masks are available should you wish them, but the need for these is extremely remote. Some form of attack from trouble
152
CHRONOCULES
makers outside the Village is possible, but our defensive position is very strong indeed. If fighting should occur, please keep indoors out of the way, and leave the situation to our security men who are all highly trained and know exactly what they’re doing.
“A notice summarizing these measures will be placed on the board outside the Village Hall. Special prayers for the state of the nation will be held this evening at nine. Thank you.”
He started up the Trout again, then had another thought.
“Also, I know you will all be cheered to learn that Professor Kravchensky has recently made some very opportune progress in his work. He is now confident of bringing the entire project to a satisfactory conclusion within a veiy short time. I’m sure you will all join with me in congratulating him and his assistant on this excellent news. Its implications for all of us are abundantly clear. Thank you again.”
They’d soon all be out of it, living in a finer, fairer, freer land. He switched off the microphone and sat back very straight in his chair, his hands flat on the desk in front of him, wondering what he should do next The BBC’s frac. music wavered on in the background— it was nearly time for the three o’clock bulletin. He looked around his office, feeling purposeful. He was busy. He existed. Then he saw himself, and was a little ashamed. It was all that Liza Simmons’ fault. She shouldn’t have undermined him so . . . she and that bloody Roses Varco. (Bloody? Why bloody? A few weeks ago he’d found the man delightful.) Anyway, all that was over now. To exist as a man was always perilous—to be O.S. was far safer.
Which wasn’t to say that he couldn’t have managed both, if it hadn’t been for that bloody Roses Varco.
153
CHRONOCULES
Roses Varco. . . . David’s memory for detail, which had got him where he was now, suddenly offered him the fact that Roses had been out of the Village the previous evening, and the additional fact that Roses probably wouldn’t have heard the announcement about attending the hospital He must ring the doctor again and ask him to send out an orderly to fetch Roses in. And while he was on the subject he’d get the doctor to have a word with Roses about his pills. He should have thought of that before. The doctor would be able to do it far better than he ever could.
The radio in his desk console played a little tune for three o’clock. “And here is the mid-afternoon news summary for Tuesday, August 29th. Warm and sunny all across the country, the temperature on the Air Ministry room standing at thirty-six degrees centigrade. First, the latest news from the southwest. The Ministry of Health informs us that earlier reports of fever on an epidemic scale in various Holiday Area D resorts have been grossly exaggerated. The outbreaks are well under control, and there is no cause for anxiety whatsoever. The Prime Minister, at present on holiday in Sumatra, is in touch with the situation and sees no reason for any special measures to be taken. A slight increase in the level of personal sickness is to be expected at certain times of the year. Nevertheless, the Automobile Association is discouraging holiday travel in Area D, and immunization centers are being set up. Details of these, and of minor postal restrictions, will follow later, in the Regional News. . . . In Washington the crowds surrounding the White House have been contained by low-level scratch-gas strikes. Detachments of the National Guard, under General Morgan, are moving back into prepared positions, and—”
David turned off the wireless. America’s problems
154
CHRONOCULES
were not his. Clearly the situation in the southwest was serious. For the A.A. to “discourage” holiday travel was clearly a euphemism. David knew of the road block and cordon plans—that they were being put into action now was a sure sign of near-emergency conditions. No health statistics had been given, and—most ominous omission—the fever remained unnamed. Perhaps it was unnamable. There were plenty of mutant strains around that defied grouping, and they put the value of immunization into serious question. One could only do what one could. David Silberstein reached for the telephone and rang the doctor about that bloody man Roses Varco.
Roses Varco was down on the foreshore when the hospital orderly found him. He wanted nothing to do with hospitals, and two security guards, then three, had to be called to carry him, struggling all the way, up to the clinic. Luckily Liza was already there, and her presence calmed him. She went into the surgery with him while the doctor made his examination. Tom between modesty and the security her presence gave him, he opted for the security. She found his fumbling attempts at decency wholly charming.
The results of all the tests were negative, proving only negatives. The doctor watched Roses struggle eagerly back into his shirt. By all accounts he wouldn’t be an easy patient.
“How would you like two or three days in the hospital?” he said, full of false cheer.
“Won’ do it.”
“I’m afraid you may have to.”
“In here, you mean? Not a day. Not a minute.”
The doctor sighed. He had a closed ward, but he
CHRONOCULES
could ill spare the staff to administer it. He looked at Liza for help.
“They think we may have caught something yesterday, Roses,” she said. “From those two louts up river.”
“They two? Nothing wrong wi’ they two. Nothing a good belt from an oar wouldn’ cure.”
“We can’t be sine of that. You don’t want to get sick, do you?”
“I bain t never sick. ’Sides, if I was I got a row of my Dad’s bottles. Cure anything, they will.”
The doctor covered his face with his hands, pretending to cough. Liza took Roses’ hand.
“I shall be here. Won’t you come and keep me company?”
Roses thought about it. “Same room?” he asked.
Liza glanced at the doctor, who nodded. “Yes, Roses. Same room.”
He had a sudden panic. Sharing a room with a girl wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. . . . He didn’t quite see why, except that she might look at him. Still, his shirt was long, and he could always get out of his bed the other side, facing away. . . . Besides, she’d looked at him already, with all that doctor’s poking, and it hadn’t seemed to make much odds. Not like with them nurses last time, adding him up with their pinched-in faces. . ..
“All right,” he said. “I’ll stay.”
The doctor looked from one to the other, thinking what an odd pair they were. Hardly mind-mates. Not that it mattered—a little unsophisticated sexing might be just what an uptight girl like Liza Simmons needed. Help to pass the long hospital hours. Then he remembered the O.S.’s warning.
“You remember those pills we gave you?”
“Pills?”
156
CHRONOCULES
“The ones in the big red bottle. Have you been taking them?”
“Oh, they. Chucked they out. Wadn sick. Don’ need no pills when you bain’t sick.”
“They aren’t that sort of pill They’re sterilizing agents. They sterilize your semen.” He caught a look of total incomprehension. “They stop you giving girls babies.”
Chronocules Page 14
