The Complete Stories of J. G. Ballard

by J. G. Ballard

  With a deep metallic sigh, the burning catafalque of the dead astronaut soared overhead, a cascade of vaporizing metal pouring from its hull, filling the sky with incandescent light. Reflected below it, like an expressway illuminated by an aircraft’s spotlights, a long lane of light several hundred yards in width raced out into the desert towards the sea. As Bridgman shielded his eyes, it suddenly erupted in a tremendous explosion of detonating sand. A huge curtain of white dust lifted into the air and fell slowly to the ground. The sounds of the impact rolled against the hotel, mounting in a sustained crescendo that drummed against the windows. A series of smaller explosions flared up like opalescent fountains. All over the desert fires flickered briefly where fragments of the capsule had been scattered. Then the noise subsided, and an immense glistening pall of phosphorescing gas hung in the air like a silver veil, particles within it beading and winking.

  Two hundred yards away across the sand was the running figure of Louise Woodward, Travis twenty paces behind her. Bridgman watched them dart in and out of the dunes, then abruptly felt the cold spotlight of the beach-car hit his face and flood the room behind him. The vehicle was moving straight towards him, two of the wardens, nets and lassos in hand, riding the outboard.

  Quickly Bridgman straddled the balcony, jumped down into the sand and raced towards the crest of the first dune. He crouched and ran on through the darkness as the beam probed the air. Above, the glistening pall was slowly fading, the particles of vaporized metal sifting towards the dark Martian sand. In the distance the last echoes of the impact were still reverberating among the hotels of the beach colonies farther down the coast.

  Five minutes later he caught up with Louise Woodward and Travis. The capsule’s impact had flattened a number of the dunes, forming a shallow basin some quarter of a mile in diameter, and the surrounding slopes were scattered with the still glowing particles, sparkling like fading eyes. The beach-car growled somewhere four or five hundred yards behind him, and Bridgman broke off into an exhausted walk. He stopped beside Travis, who was kneeling on the ground, breath pumping into his lungs. Fifty yards away Louise Woodward was running up and down, distraughtly gazing at the fragments of smouldering metal. For a moment the spotlight of the approaching beach-car illuminated her, and she ran away among the dunes. Bridgman caught a glimpse of the inconsolable anguish in her face.

  Travis was still on his knees. He had picked up a piece of the oxidized metal and was pressing it together in his hands.

  ‘Travis, for God’s sake tell her! This was Merril’s capsule, there’s no doubt about it! Woodward’s still up there.’

  Travis looked up at him silently, his eyes searching Bridgman’s face. A spasm of pain tore his mouth, and Bridgman realized that the barb of steel he clasped reverently in his hands was still glowing with heat.

  ‘Travis!’ He tried to pull the man’s hands apart, the pungent stench of burning flesh gusting into his face, but Travis wrenched away from him. ‘Leave her alone, Bridgman! Go back with the wardens!’

  Bridgman retreated from the approaching beach-car. Only thirty yards away, its spotlight filled the basin. Louise Woodward was still searching the dunes. Travis held his ground as the wardens jumped down from the car and advanced towards him with their nets, his bloodied hands raised at his sides, the steel barb flashing like a dagger. At the head of the wardens, the only one unmasked was a trim, neat-featured man with an intent, serious face. Bridgman guessed that this was Major Webster, and that the wardens had known of the impending impact and hoped to capture them, and Louise in particular, before it occurred.

  Bridgman stumbled back towards the dunes at the edge of the basin. As he neared the crest he trapped his foot in a semicircular plate of metal, sat down and freed his heel. Unmistakably it was part of a control panel, the circular instrument housings still intact.

  Overhead the pall of glistening vapour had moved off to the north-east, and the reflected light was directly over the rusting gantries of the former launching site at Cape Canaveral. For a few fleeting seconds the gantries seemed to be enveloped in a sheen of silver, transfigured by the vaporized body of the dead astronaut, diffusing over them in a farewell gesture, his final return to the site from which he had set off to his death a century earlier. Then the gantries sank again into their craggy shadows, and the pall moved off like an immense wraith towards the sea, barely distinguishable from the star glow.

  Down below Travis was sitting on the ground surrounded by the wardens. He scuttled about on his hands like a frantic crab, scooping handfuls of the virus-laden sand at them. Holding tight to their masks, the wardens manoeuvred around him, their nets and lassos at the ready. Another group moved slowly towards Bridgman.

  Bridgman picked up a handful of the dark Martian sand beside the instrument panel, felt the soft glowing crystals warm his palm. In his mind he could still see the silver-sheathed gantries of the launching site across the bay, by a curious illusion almost identical with the Martian city he had designed years earlier. He watched the pall disappear over the sea, then looked around at the other remnants of Merril’s capsule scattered over the slopes. High in the western night, between Pegasus and Cygnus, shone the distant disc of the planet Mars, which for both himself and the dead astronaut had served for so long as a symbol of unattained ambition. The wind stirred softly through the sand, cooling this replica of the planet which lay passively around him, and at last he understood why he had come to the beach and been unable to leave it.

  Twenty yards away Travis was being dragged off like a wild dog, his thrashing body pinioned in the centre of a web of lassos. Louise Woodward had run away among the dunes towards the sea, following the vanished gas cloud.

  In a sudden access of refound confidence, Bridgman drove his fist into the dark sand, buried his forearm like a foundation pillar. A flange of hot metal from Merril’s capsule burned his wrist, bonding him to the spirit of the dead astronaut. Scattered around him on the Martian sand, in a sense Merril had reached Mars after all.

  ‘Damn it!’ he cried exultantly to himself as the wardens’ lassos stung his neck and shoulders. ‘We made it!’

  1962

  THE WATCH-TOWERS

  The next day, for some reason, there was a sudden increase of activity in the watch-towers. This began during the latter half of the morning, and by noon, when Renthall left the hotel on his way to see Mrs Osmond, seemed to have reached its peak. People were standing at their windows and balconies along both sides of the street, whispering agitatedly to each other behind the curtains and pointing up into the sky.

  Renthall usually tried to ignore the watch-towers, resenting even the smallest concession to the fact of their existence, but at the bottom of the street, where he was hidden in the shadow thrown by one of the houses, he stopped and craned his head up at the nearest tower.

  A hundred feet away from him, it hung over the Public Library, its tip poised no more than twenty feet above the roof. The glass-enclosed cabin in the lowest tier appeared to be full of observers, opening and shutting the windows and shifting about what Renthall assumed were huge pieces of optical equipment. He looked around at the further towers, suspended from the sky at three hundred foot intervals in every direction, noticing an occasional flash of light as a window turned and caught the sun.

  An elderly man wearing a shabby black suit and wing collar, who usually loitered outside the library, came across the street to Renthall and backed into the shadows beside him.

  ‘They’re up to something all right.’ He cupped his hands over his eyes and peered up anxiously at the watch-towers. ‘I’ve never seen them like this as long as I can remember.’

  Renthall studied his face. However alarmed, he was obviously relieved by the signs of activity. ‘I shouldn’t worry unduly,’ Renthall told him. ‘It’s a change to see something going on at all.’

  Before the other could reply he turned on his heel and strode away along the pavement. It took him ten minutes to reach the street in which Mrs Osm
ond lived, and he fixed his eyes firmly on the ground, ignoring the few passers-by. Although dominated by the watch-towers – four of them hung in a line exactly down its centre – the street was almost deserted. Half the houses were untenanted and falling into what would soon be an irreversible state of disrepair. Usually Renthall assessed each property carefully, trying to decide whether to leave his hotel and take one of them, but the movement in the watch-towers had caused him more anxiety than he was prepared to admit, and the terrace of houses passed unnoticed.

  Mrs Osmond’s house stood halfway down the street, its gate swinging loosely on its rusty hinges. Renthall hesitated under the plane tree growing by the edge of the pavement, and then crossed the narrow garden and quickly let himself through the door.

  Mrs Osmond invariably spent the afternoon sitting out on the veranda in the sun, gazing at the weeds in the back garden, but today she had retreated to a corner of the sitting room. She was sorting a suitcase full of old papers when Renthall came in.

  Renthall made no attempt to embrace her and wandered over to the window. Mrs Osmond had half drawn the curtains and he pulled them back. There was a watch-tower ninety feet away, almost directly ahead, hanging over the parallel terrace of empty houses. The lines of towers receded diagonally from left to right towards the horizon, partly obscured by the bright haze.

  ‘Do you think you should have come today?’ Mrs Osmond asked, shifting her plump hips nervously in the chair.

  ‘Why not?’ Renthall said, scanning the towers, hands loosely in his pockets.

  ‘But if they’re going to keep a closer watch on us now they’ll notice you coming here.’

  ‘I shouldn’t believe all the rumours you hear,’ Renthall told her calmly.

  ‘What do you think it means then?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea. Their movements may be as random and meaningless as our own.’ Renthall shrugged. ‘Perhaps they are going to keep a closer watch on us. What does it matter if all they do is stare?’

  ‘Then you mustn’t come here any more!’ Mrs Osmond protested.

  ‘Why? I hardly believe they can see through walls.’

  ‘They’re not that stupid,’ Mrs Osmond said irritably. ‘They’ll soon put two and two together, if they haven’t already.’

  Renthall took his eyes off the tower and looked down at Mrs Osmond patiently. ‘My dear, this house isn’t tapped. For all they know we may be darning our prayer rugs or discussing the endocrine system of the tapeworm.’

  ‘Not you, Charles,’ Mrs Osmond said with a short laugh. ‘Not if they know you.’ Evidently pleased by this sally, she relaxed and took a cigarette out of the box on the table.

  ‘Perhaps they don’t know me,’ Renthall said dryly. ‘In fact, I’m quite sure they don’t. If they did I can’t believe I should still be here.’

  He noticed himself stooping, a reliable sign that he was worrying, and went over to the sofa.

  ‘Is the school going to start tomorrow?’ Mrs Osmond asked when he had disposed his long, thin legs around the table.

  ‘It should do,’ Renthall said. ‘Hanson went down to the Town Hall this morning, but as usual they had little idea of what was going on.’

  He opened his jacket and pulled out of the inner pocket an old but neatly folded copy of a woman’s magazine.

  ‘Charles!’ Mrs Osmond exclaimed. ‘Where did you get this?’

  She took it from Renthall and started leafing through the soiled pages.

  ‘One of my sources,’ Renthall said. From the sofa he could still see the watch-tower over the houses opposite. ‘Georgina Simons. She has a library of them.’

  He rose, went over to the window and drew the curtains across.

  ‘Charles, don’t. I can’t see.’

  ‘Read it later,’ Renthall told her. He lay back on the sofa again. ‘Are you coming to the recital this afternoon?’

  ‘Hasn’t it been cancelled?’ Mrs Osmond asked, putting the magazine down reluctantly.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Charles, I don’t think I want to go.’ Mrs Osmond frowned. ‘What records is Hanson going to play?’

  ‘Some Tchaikovsky. And Grieg.’ He tried to make it sound interesting. ‘You must come. We can’t just sit about subsiding into this state of boredom and uselessness.’

  ‘I know,’ Mrs Osmond said fractiously. ‘But I don’t feel like it. Not today. All those records bore me. I’ve heard them so often.’

  ‘They bore me too. But at least it’s something to do.’ He put an arm around Mrs Osmond’s shoulders and began to play with the darker unbleached hair behind her ears, tapping the large nickel ear-rings she wore and listening to them tinkle.

  When he put his hand on to her knee Mrs Osmond stood up and prowled aimlessly around the room, straightening her skirt.

  ‘Julia, what is the matter with you?’ Renthall asked irritably. ‘Have you got a headache?’

  Mrs Osmond was by the window, gazing up at the watch-towers. ‘Do you think they’re going to come down?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Renthall snapped. ‘Where on earth did you get that idea?’

  Suddenly he felt unbearably exasperated. The confined dimensions of the dusty sitting-room seemed to suffocate reason. He stood up and buttoned his jacket. ‘I’ll see you this afternoon at the Institute, Julia. The recital starts at three.’

  Mrs Osmond nodded vaguely, unfastened the french windows and ambled forwards across the veranda into full view of the watch-towers, the glassy expression on her face like a supplicant nun’s.

  As Renthall had expected, the school did not open the next day. When they tired of hanging around the hotel after breakfast he and Hanson went down to the Town Hall. The building was almost empty and the only official they were able to find was unhelpful.

  ‘We have no instructions at present,’ he told them, ‘but as soon as the term starts you will be notified. Though from what I hear the postponement is to be indefinite.’

  ‘Is that the committee’s decision?’ Renthall asked. ‘Or just another of the town clerk’s brilliant extemporizings?’

  ‘The school committee is no longer meeting,’ the official said. ‘I’m afraid the town clerk isn’t here today.’ Before Renthall could speak he added: ‘You will, of course, continue to draw your salaries. Perhaps you would care to call in at the treasurer’s department on your way out?’

  Renthall and Hanson left and looked about for a café. Finally they found one that was open and sat under the awning, staring vacantly at the watch-towers hanging over the roof-tops around them. Their activity had lessened considerably since the previous day. The nearest tower was only fifty feet away, immediately above a disused office building on the other side of the street. The windows in the observation tier remained shut, but every few minutes Renthall noticed a shadow moving behind the panes.

  Eventually a waitress came out to them, and Renthall ordered coffee.

  ‘I think I shall have to give a few lessons,’ Hanson remarked. ‘All this leisure is becoming too much of a good thing.’

  ‘It’s an idea,’ Renthall agreed. ‘If you can find anyone interested. I’m sorry the recital yesterday was such a flop.’

  Hanson shrugged. ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of some new records. By the way, I thought Julia looked very handsome yesterday.’

  Renthall acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow of his head. ‘I’d like to take her out more often.’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Well, just at present, you know.’ Hanson inclined a finger at the watch-towers.

  ‘I don’t see that it matters particularly,’ Renthall said. He disliked personal confidences and was about to change the subject when Hanson leaned forward across the table.

  ‘Perhaps not, but I gather there was some mention of you at the last Council meeting. One or two members were rather critical of your little ménage a` deux.’ He smiled thinly at Renthall, who was frowning i
nto his coffee. ‘Sheer spite, no doubt, but your behaviour is a little idiosyncratic.’

  Controlling himself, Renthall pushed away the coffee cup. ‘Do you mind telling me what damned business it is of theirs?’

  Hanson laughed. ‘None, really, except that they are the executive authority, and I suppose we should take our cue from them.’ Renthall snorted at this, and Hanson went on: ‘As a matter of interest, you may receive an official directive over the next few days.’

  ‘A what?’ Renthall exploded. He sat back, shaking his head incredulously. ‘Are you serious?’ When Hanson nodded he began to laugh harshly.

  ‘Those idiots! I don’t know why we put up with them. Sometimes their stupidity positively staggers me.’

  ‘Steady on,’ Hanson demurred. ‘I do see their point. Bearing in mind the big commotion in the watch-towers yesterday the Council probably feel we shouldn’t do anything that might antagonize them. You never know, they may even be acting on official instructions.’

  Renthall glanced contemptuously at Hanson. ‘Do you really believe that nonsense about the Council being in touch with the watch-towers? It may give a few simpletons a sense of security, but for heaven’s sake don’t try it on me. My patience is just about exhausted.’ He watched Hanson carefully, wondering which of the Council members had provided him with his information. The lack of subtlety depressed him painfully. ‘However, thanks for warning me. I suppose it means there’ll be an overpowering air of embarrassment when Julia and I go to the cinema tomorrow.’

  Hanson shook his head. ‘No. Actually the performance has been cancelled. In view of yesterday’s disturbances.’

  ‘But why –?’ Renthall slumped back. ‘Haven’t they got the intelligence to realize that it’s just at this sort of time that we need every social get-together we can organize? People are hiding away in their back bedrooms like a lot of frightened ghosts. We’ve got to bring them out, give them something that will pull them together.’

  He gazed up thoughtfully at the watch-tower across the street. Shadows circulated behind the frosted panes of the observation windows. ‘Some sort of gala, say, or a garden fête. Who could organize it, though?’