The Complete Stories of J. G. Ballard

by J. G. Ballard

  The next day he came across his second case.

  Boardman surveyed the dingy room distastefully, puzzled by the spectacle of Renthall hunched up in his chair by the window.

  ‘Mr Renthall, there’s absolutely no question of cancelling it now. The fair’s as good as started already. Anyway, what would be the point?’

  ‘Our arrangement was that it should be a fête,’ Renthall pointed out. ‘You’ve turned it into a fun-fair, with a lot of stalls and hurdy-gurdies.’

  Unruffled by Renthall’s schoolmasterly manner, Boardman scoffed. ‘Well, what’s the difference? Anyway, my real idea is to roof it over and turn it into a permanent amusement park. The Council won’t interfere. They’re playing it quiet now.’

  ‘Are they? I doubt it.’ Renthall looked down into the garden. People sat about in their shirt sleeves, the women in floral dresses, evidently oblivious of the watch-towers filling the sky a hundred feet above their heads. The haze had receded still further, and at least two hundred yards of shaft were now visible. There were no signs of activity from the towers, but Renthall was convinced that this would soon begin.

  ‘Tell me,’ he asked Boardman in a clear voice. ‘Aren’t you frightened of the watch-towers?’

  Boardman seemed puzzled. ‘The what towers?’ He made a spiral motion with his cigar. ‘You mean the big slide? Don’t worry, I’m not having one of those, nobody’s got the energy to climb all those steps.’

  He stuck his cigar in his mouth and ambled to the door. ‘Well, so long, Mr Renthall. I’ll send you an invite.’

  Later that afternoon Renthall went to see Dr Clifton in his room below.

  ‘Excuse me, Doctor,’ he apologized, ‘but would you mind seeing me on a professional matter?’

  ‘Well, not here, Renthall, I’m supposed to be off-duty.’ He turned from his canary cages by the window with a testy frown, then relented when he saw Renthall’s intent expression. ‘All right, what’s the trouble?’

  While Clifton washed his hands Renthall explained. ‘Tell me, Doctor, is there any mechanism known to you by which the simultaneous hypnosis of large groups of people could occur? We’re all familiar with theatrical displays of the hypnotist’s art, but I’m thinking of a situation in which the members of an entire small community – such as the residents of the hotels around this crescent – could be induced to accept a given proposition completely conflicting with reality.’

  Clifton stopped washing his hands. ‘I thought you wanted to see me professionally. I’m a doctor, not a witch doctor. What are you planning now, Renthall? Last week it was a fête, now you want to hypnotize an entire neighbourhood, you’d better be careful.’

  Renthall shook his head. ‘It’s not I who want to carry out the hypnosis, Doctor. In fact I’m afraid the operation has already taken place. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed anything strange about your patients?’

  ‘Nothing more than usual,’ Clifton remarked dryly. He watched Renthall with increased interest. ‘Who’s responsible for this mass hypnosis?’ When Renthall paused and then pointed a forefinger at the ceiling Clifton nodded sagely. ‘I see. How sinister.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m glad you understand, Doctor.’ Renthall went over to the window, looking out at the sunshades below. He pointed to the watch-towers. ‘Just to clarify a small point, Doctor. You do see the watch-towers?’

  Clifton hesitated fractionally, moving imperceptibly towards his valise on the desk. Then he nodded: ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. I’m relieved to hear it.’ Renthall laughed. ‘For a while I was beginning to think that I was the only one in step. Do you realize that both Hanson and Boardman can no longer see the towers? And I’m fairly certain that none of the people down there can or they wouldn’t be sitting in the open. I’m convinced that this is the Council’s doing, but it seems unlikely that they would have enough power –’ He broke off, aware that Clifton was watching him fixedly. ‘What’s the matter? Doctor!’

  Clifton quickly took his prescription pad from his valise. ‘Renthall, caution is the essence of all strategy. It’s important that we beware of over-hastiness. I suggest that we both rest this afternoon. Now, these will give you some sleep –’

  For the first time in several days he ventured out into the street. Head down, angry for being caught out by the doctor, he drove himself along the pavement towards Mrs Osmond, determined to find at least one person who could still see the towers. The streets were more crowded than he could remember for a long time and he was forced to look upward as he swerved in and out of the ambling pedestrians. Overhead, like the assault craft from which some apocalyptic air-raid would be launched, the watch-towers hung down from the sky, framed between the twin spires of the church, blocking off a vista down the principal boulevard, yet unperceived by the afternoon strollers.

  Renthall passed the café, surprised to see the terrace packed with coffee-drinkers, then saw Boardman’s marquee in the cinema car park. Music was coming from a creaking wurlitzer, and the gay ribbons of the bunting fluttered in the air.

  Twenty yards from Mrs Osmond’s he saw her come through her front door, a large straw hat on her head.

  ‘Charles! What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you for days, I wondered what was the matter.’

  Renthall took the key from her fingers and pushed it back into the lock. Closing the door behind them, he paused in the darkened hall, regaining his breath.

  ‘Charles, what on earth is going on? Is someone after you? You look terrible, my dear. Your face –’

  ‘Never mind my face.’ Renthall collected himself, and led the way into the living room. ‘Come in here, quickly.’ He went over to the window and drew back the blinds, ascertained that the watch-tower over the row of houses opposite was still there. ‘Sit down and relax. I’m sorry to rush in like this but you’ll understand in a minute.’ He waited until Mrs Osmond settled herself reluctantly on the sofa, then rested his palms on the mantelpiece, organizing his thoughts.

  ‘The last few days have been fantastic, you wouldn’t believe it, and to cap everything I’ve just made myself look the biggest possible fool in front of Clifton. God, I could –’

  ‘Charles –!’

  ‘Listen! Don’t start interrupting me before I’ve begun, I’ve got enough to contend with. Something absolutely insane is going on everywhere, by some freak I seem to be the only one who’s still compos mentis. I know that sounds as if I’m completely mad, but in fact it’s true. Why, I don’t know; though I’m frightened it may be some sort of reprisal directed at me. However.’ He went over to the window. ‘Julia, what can you see out of that window?’

  Mrs Osmond dismantled her hat and squinted at the panes. She fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘Charles, what is going on? – I’ll have to get my glasses.’ She subsided helplessly.

  ‘Julia! You’ve never needed your glasses before to see these. Now tell me, what can you see?’

  ‘Well, the row of houses, and the gardens . . .’

  ‘Yes, what else?’

  ‘The windows, of course, and there’s a tree . . .’

  ‘What about the sky?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I can see that, there’s a sort of haze, isn’t there? Or is that my eyes?’

  ‘No.’ Wearily, Renthall turned away from the window. For the first time a feeling of unassuageable fatigue had come over him. ‘Julia,’ he asked quietly. ‘Don’t you remember the watch-towers?’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘No, I don’t. Where were they?’ A look of concern came over her face. She took his arm gently. ‘Dear, what is going on?’

  Renthall forced himself to stand upright. ‘I don’t know.’ He drummed his forehead with his free hand. ‘You can’t remember the towers at all, or the observation windows?’ He pointed to the watch-tower hanging down the centre of the window. ‘There – used to be one over those houses. We were always looking at it. Do you remember how we used to draw the curtains upstairs?’

  ‘Charles! Be careful, people will
hear. Where are you going?’

  Numbly, Renthall pulled back the door. ‘Outside,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘There’s little point now in staying indoors.’

  He let himself through the front door, fifty yards from the house heard her call after him, turned quickly into a side road and hurried towards the first intersection.

  Above him he was conscious of the watch-towers hanging in the bright air, but he kept his eyes level with the gates and hedges, scanning the empty houses. Now and then he passed one that was occupied, the family sitting out on the lawn, and once someone called his name, reminding him that the school had started without him. The air was fresh and crisp, the light glimmering off the pavements with an unusual intensity.

  Within ten minutes he realized that he had wandered into an unfamiliar part of the town and completely lost himself, with only the aerial lines of watch-towers to guide him, but he still refused to look up at them.

  He had entered a poorer quarter of the town, where the narrow empty streets were separated by large waste dumps, and tilting wooden fences sagged between ruined houses. Many of the dwellings were only a single storey high, and the sky seemed even wider and more open, the distant watch-towers along the horizon like a continuous palisade.

  He twisted his foot on a ledge of stone, and hobbled painfully towards a strip of broken fencing that straddled a small rise in the centre of the waste dump. He was perspiring heavily, and loosened his tie, then searched the surrounding straggle of houses for a way back into the streets through which he had come.

  Overhead, something moved and caught his eye. Forcing himself to ignore it, Renthall regained his breath, trying to master the curious dizziness that touched his brain. An immense sudden silence hung over the waste ground, so absolute that it was as if some inaudible piercing music was being played at full volume.

  To his right, at the edge of the waste ground, he heard feet shuffle slowly across the rubble, and saw the elderly man in the shabby black suit and wing collar who usually loitered outside the Public Library. He hobbled along, hands in pockets, an almost Chaplinesque figure, his weak eyes now and then feebly scanning the sky as if he were searching for something he had lost or forgotten.

  Renthall watched him cross the waste ground, but before he could shout the decrepit figure tottered away behind a ruined wall.

  Again something moved above him, followed by a third sharp angular motion, and then a succession of rapid shuttles. The stony rubbish at his feet flickered with the reflected light, and abruptly the whole sky sparkled as if the air was opening and shutting.

  Then, as suddenly, everything was motionless again.

  Composing himself, Renthall waited for a last moment. Then he raised his face to the nearest watch-tower fifty feet above him, and gazed across at the hundreds of towers that hung from the clear sky like giant pillars. The haze had vanished and the shafts of the towers were defined with unprecedented clarity.

  As far as he could see, all the observation windows were open. Silently, without moving, the watchers stared down at him.

  1962

  THE SINGING STATUES

  Again last night, as the dusk air began to move across the desert from Lagoon West, I heard fragments of music coming in on the thermal rollers, remote and fleeting, echoes of the love-song of Lunora Goalen. Walking out over the copper sand to the reefs where the sonic sculptures grow, I wandered through the darkness among the metal gardens, searching for Lunora’s voice. No one tends the sculptures now and most of them have gone to seed, but on an impulse I cut away a helix and carried it back to my villa, planting it in the quartz bed below the balcony. All night it sang to me, telling me of Lunora and the strange music she played to herself . . .

  It must be just over three years ago that I first saw Lunora Goalen, in Georg Nevers’s gallery on Beach Drive. Every summer at the height of the season at Vermilion Sands, Georg staged a special exhibition of sonic sculpture for the tourists. Shortly after we opened one morning I was sitting inside my large statue, Zero Orbit, plugging in the stereo amplifiers, when Georg suddenly gasped into the skin mike and a boom like a thunderclap nearly deafened me.

  Head ringing like a gong, I climbed out of the sculpture ready to crown Georg with a nearby maquette. Putting an elegant fingertip to his lips, he gave me that look which between artist and dealer signals one thing: Rich client.

  The sculptures in the gallery entrance had begun to hum as someone came in, but the sunlight reflected off the bonnet of a white Rolls-Royce outside obscured the doorway.

  Then I saw her, hovering over the stand of art journals, followed by her secretary, a tall purse-mouthed Frenchwoman almost as famous from the news magazines as her mistress.

  Lunora Goalen, I thought, can all our dreams come true? She wore an ice-cool sliver of blue silk that shimmered as she moved towards the first statue, a toque hat of black violets and bulky dark glasses that hid her face and were a nightmare to cameramen. While she paused by the statue, one of Arch Penko’s frenetic tangles that looked like a rimless bicycle wheel, listening to its arms vibrate and howl, Nevers and I involuntarily steadied ourselves against the wing-piece of my sculpture.

  In general it’s probably true that the most maligned species on Earth is the wealthy patron of modern art. Laughed at by the public, exploited by dealers, even the artists regard them simply as meal tickets. Lunora Goalen’s superb collection of sonic sculpture on the roof of her Venice palazzo, and the million dollars’ worth of generous purchases spread around her apartments in Paris, London and New York, represented freedom and life to a score of sculptors, but few felt any gratitude towards Miss Goalen.

  Nevers was hesitating, apparently suffering from a sudden intention tremor, so I nudged his elbow.

  ‘Come on,’ I murmured. ‘This is the apocalypse. Let’s go.’

  Nevers turned on me icily, noticing, apparently for the first time, my rust-stained slacks and three-day stubble.

  ‘Milton!’ he snapped. ‘For God’s sake, vanish! Sneak out through the freight exit.’ He jerked his head at my sculpture. ‘And switch that insane thing off! How did I ever let it in here?’

  Lunora’s secretary, Mme Charcot, spotted us at the rear of the gallery. Georg shot out four inches of immaculate cuff and swayed forward, the smile on his face as wide as a bulldozer. I backed away behind my sculpture, with no intention of leaving and letting Nevers cut my price just for the cachet of making a sale to Lunora Goalen.

  Georg was bowing all over the gallery, oblivious of Mme Charcot’s contemptuous sneer. He led Lunora over to one of the exhibits and fumbled with the control panel, selecting the alto lift which would resonate most flatteringly with her own body tones. Unfortunately the statue was Sigismund Lubitsch’s Big End, a squat bull-necked drum like an enormous toad that at its sweetest emitted a rasping grunt. An old-style railroad tycoon might have elicited a sympathetic chord from it, but its response to Lunora was like a bull’s to a butterfly.

  They moved on to another sculpture, and Mme Charcot gestured to the white-gloved chauffeur standing by the Rolls. He climbed in and moved the car down the street, taking with it the beach crowds beginning to gather outside the gallery. Able now to see Lunora clearly against the hard white walls, I stepped into Orbit and watched her closely through the helixes.

  Of course I already knew everything about Lunora Goalen. A thousand magazine exposés had catalogued ad nauseam her strange flawed beauty, her fits of melancholy and compulsive roving around the world’s capitals. Her brief career as a film actress had faltered at first, less as a consequence of her modest, though always interesting, talents than of her simple failure to register photogenically. By a macabre twist of fate, after a major car accident had severely injured her face she had become an extraordinary success. That strangely marred profile and nervous gaze had filled cinemas from Paris to Pernambuco. Unable to bear this tribute to her plastic surgeons, Lunora had abruptly abandoned her career and become a leading patron of the fine arts. Like Garb
o in the ’40s and ’50s, she flitted elusively through the gossip columns and society pages in unending flight from herself.

  Her face was the clue. As she took off her sunglasses I could see the curious shadow that fell across it, numbing the smooth white skin. There was a dead glaze in her slate-blue eyes, an uneasy tension around the mouth. Altogether I had a vague impression of something unhealthy, of a Venus with a secret vice.

  Nevers was switching on sculptures right and left like a lunatic magician, and the noise was a babel of competing senso-cells, some of the statues responding to Lunora’s enigmatic presence, others to Nevers and the secretary.

  Lunora shook her head slowly, mouth hardening as the noise irritated her. ‘Yes, Mr Nevers,’ she said in her slightly husky voice, ‘it’s all very clever, but a bit of a headache. I live with my sculpture, I want something intimate and personal.’

  ‘Of course, Miss Goalen,’ Nevers agreed hurriedly, looking around desperately. As he knew only too well, sonic sculpture was now nearing the apogee of its abstract phase; twelve-tone blips and zooms were all that most statues emitted. No purely representational sound, responding to Lunora, for example, with a Mozart rondo or (better) a Webern quartet, had been built for ten years. I guessed that her early purchases were wearing out and that she was hunting the cheaper galleries in tourist haunts like Vermilion Sands in the hope of finding something designed for middle-brow consumption.

  Lunora looked up pensively at Zero Orbit, towering at the rear of the gallery next to Nevers’s desk, apparently unaware that I was hiding inside it. Suddenly realizing that the possibility of selling the statue had miraculously arisen, I crouched inside the trunk and started to breathe heavily, activating the senso-circuits.

  Immediately the statue came to life. About twelve feet high, it was shaped like an enormous metal totem topped by two heraldic wings. The microphones in the wing-tips were powerful enough to pick up respiratory noises at a distance of twenty feet. There were four people well within focus, and the statue began to emit a series of low rhythmic pulses.