The Complete Stories of J. G. Ballard

by J. G. Ballard

  Kandinski nodded. He filled the last tube and then stowed the rack away in a canvas satchel. He came over to Ward and stared down at the hole. ‘What does it look like to you? A meteor impact? Or an oil drill, perhaps?’ A smile showed behind his dusty beard. ‘The F-109s at the Air Force Weapons School begin their target runs across here. It might have been caused by a rogue cannon shell.’

  Ward stooped down and felt the surface of the pit, running his fingers thoughtfully over the warm fused silica. ‘More like a 500-pound bomb. But the cone is geometrically perfect. It’s certainly unusual.’

  ‘Unusual?’ Kandinski chuckled to himself and picked up the satchel.

  ‘Has anyone else been out here?’ Ward asked as they trudged up the slope.

  ‘Two so-called experts.’ Kandinski slapped the sand off his knees. ‘A geologist from Gulf-Vacuum and an Air Force ballistics officer. You’ll be glad to hear that they both thought I had dug the pit myself and then fused the surface with an acetylene torch.’ He peered critically at Ward. ‘Why did you come out here today?’

  ‘Idle curiosity,’ Ward said. ‘I had an afternoon off and I felt like a drive.’

  They reached the crest of the hill and he stopped and looked down into the basin. The lines of string split the circle into a strange horological device, a huge zodiacal mandala, the dark patches in the arcs Kandinski had been working telling its stations.

  ‘You were going to tell me why you came out here,’ Kandinski said as they walked back to the car.

  Ward shrugged. ‘I suppose I wanted to prove something to myself. There’s a problem of reconciliation.’ He hesitated, and then began: ‘You see, there are some things which are self-evidently false. The laws of common sense and everyday experience refute them. I know a lot of the evidence for many things we believe in is pretty thin, but I don’t have to embark on a theory of knowledge to decide that the Moon isn’t made of green cheese.’

  ‘Well?’ Kandinski shifted the satchel to his other shoulder.

  ‘This Venusian you’ve seen,’ Ward said. ‘The landing, the runic tablet. I can’t believe them. Every piece of evidence I’ve seen, all the circumstantial details, the facts given in this book . . . they’re all patently false.’ He turned to one of the middle chapters. ‘Take this at random – “A phosphorescent green fluid pulsed through the dorsal lung-chamber of the Prime’s helmet, inflating two opaque fan-like gills . . .”’ Ward closed the book and shrugged helplessly. Kandinski stood a few feet away from him, the sunlight breaking across the deep lines of his face.

  ‘Now I know what you say to my objections,’ Ward went on. ‘If you told a 19th century chemist that lead could be transmuted into gold he would have dismissed you as a mediaevalist. But the point is that he’d have been right to do so –’

  ‘I understand,’ Kandinski interrupted. ‘But you still haven’t explained why you came out here today.’

  Ward stared out over the desert. High above, a stratojet was doing cuban eights into the sun, the spiral vapour trails drifting across the sky like gigantic fragments of an apocalyptic message. Looking around, he realized that Kandinski must have walked from the bus-stop on the highway. ‘I’ll give you a lift back,’ he said.

  As they drove along the canal he turned to Kandinski. ‘I enjoyed your lecture last night. I apologize for trying to make you look a fool.’

  Kandinski was loosening his boot-straps. He laughed unreproachfully. ‘You put me in an awkward position. I could hardly have challenged you. I can’t afford to subscribe to every astronomical journal. Though a sixth moon would have been big news.’ As they neared Vernon Gardens he asked: ‘Would you like to come in and look at the tablet analysis?’

  Ward made no reply to the invitation. He drove around the square and parked under the trees, then looked up at the fountains, tapping his fingers on the windshield. Kandinski sat beside him, cogitating into his beard.

  Ward watched him carefully. ‘Do you think this Venusian will return?’

  Kandinski nodded. ‘Yes. I am sure he will.’

  Later they sat together at a broad roll-top desk in the room above the Tycho. Around the wall hung white cardboard screens packed with lines of cuneiform glyphics and Kandinski’s progressive breakdown of their meaning.

  Ward held an enlargement of the original photograph of the Venusian tablet and listened to Kandinski’s explanation.

  ‘As you see from this,’ Kandinski explained, ‘in all probability there are not millions of Venusians, as every one would expect, but only three or four of them altogether. Two are circling Venus, a third Uranus and possibly a fourth is in orbit around Neptune. This solves the difficulty that puzzled you and antagonizes everyone else. Why should the Prime have approached only one person out of several hundred million and selected him on a completely random basis? Now obviously he had seen the Russian and American satellite capsules and assumed that our race, like his now, numbered no more than three or four, then concluded from the atmospheric H-bomb tests that we were in conflict and would soon destroy ourselves. This is one of the reasons why I think he will return shortly and why it is important to organize a world-wide reception for him on a governmental level.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Ward said. ‘He must have known that the population of this planet numbered more than three or four. Even the weakest telescope would demonstrate that.’

  ‘Of course, but he would naturally assume that the millions of inhabitants of the Earth belonged to an aboriginal sub-species, perhaps employed as work animals. After all, if he observed that despite this planet’s immense resources the bulk of its population lived like animals, an alien visitor could only decide that they were considered as such.’

  ‘But space vehicles are supposed to have been observing us since the Babylonian era, long before the development of satellite rockets. There have been thousands of recorded sightings.’

  Kandinski shook his head. ‘None of them has been authenticated.’

  ‘What about the other landings that have been reported recently?’ Ward asked. ‘Any number of people have seen Venusians and Martians.’

  ‘Have they?’ Kandinski asked sceptically. ‘I wish I could believe that. Some of the encounters reveal marvellous powers of invention, but no one can accept them as anything but fantasy.’

  ‘The same criticism has been levelled at your space-craft,’ Ward reminded him.

  Kandinski seemed to lose patience. ‘I saw it,’ he explained, impotently tossing his notebook on to the desk. ‘I spoke to the Prime!’

  Ward nodded non-committally and picked up the photograph again. Kandinski stepped over to him and took it out of his hands. ‘Ward,’ he said carefully. ‘Believe me. You must. You know I am too big a man to waste myself on a senseless charade.’ His massive hands squeezed Ward’s shoulders, and almost lifted him off the seat. ‘Believe me. Together we can be ready for the next landings and alert the world. I am only Charles Kandinski, a waiter at a third-rate café, but you are Dr Andrew Ward of Mount Vernon Observatory. They will listen to you. Try to realize what this may mean for mankind.’

  Ward pulled himself away from Kandinski and rubbed his shoulders.

  ‘Ward, do you believe me? Ask yourself.’

  Ward looked up pensively at Kandinski towering over him, his red beard like the burning, unconsumed bush.

  ‘I think so,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, I do.’

  A week later the 23rd Congress of the International Geophysical Association opened at Mount Vernon Observatory. At 3.30 .., in the Hoyle Library amphitheatre, Professor Renthall was to deliver the inaugural address welcoming the 92 delegates and 25 newspaper and agency reporters to the fortnight’s programme of lectures and discussions.

  Shortly after 11 o’clock that morning Ward and Professor Cameron completed their final arrangements and escaped down to Vernon Gardens for an hour’s relaxation.

  ‘Well,’ Cameron said as they walked over to the Site Tycho, ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea of what it must be li
ke to run the Waldorf-Astoria.’ They picked one of the sidewalk tables and sat down. ‘I haven’t been here for weeks,’ Cameron said. ‘How are you getting on with the Man in the Moon?’

  ‘Kandinski? I hardly ever see him,’ Ward said.

  ‘I was talking to the Time magazine stringer about Charles,’ Cameron said, cleaning his sunglasses. ‘He thought he might do a piece about him.’

  ‘Hasn’t Kandinski suffered enough of that sort of thing?’ Ward asked moodily.

  ‘Perhaps he has,’ Cameron agreed. ‘Is he still working on his crossword puzzle? The tablet thing, whatever he calls it.’

  Casually, Ward said: ‘He has a theory that it should be possible to see the lunar bases. Refuelling points established there by the Venusians over the centuries.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Cameron commented.

  ‘They’re sited near Copernicus,’ Ward went on. ‘I know Vandone at Milan is mapping Archimedes and the Imbrium, I thought I might mention it to him at his semester tomorrow.’

  Professor Cameron took off his glasses and gazed quizzically at Ward. ‘My dear Andrew, what has been going on? Don’t tell me you’ve become one of Charles’ converts?’

  Ward laughed and shook his head. ‘Of course not. Obviously there are no lunar bases or alien space-craft. I don’t for a moment believe a word Kandinski says.’ He gestured helplessly. ‘At the same time I admit I have become involved with him. There’s something about Kandinski’s personality. On the one hand I can’t take him seriously –’

  ‘Oh, I take him seriously,’ Cameron cut in smoothly. ‘Very seriously indeed, if not quite in the sense you mean.’ Cameron turned his back on the sidewalk crowds. ‘Jung’s views on flying saucers are very illuminating, Andrew; they’d help you to understand Kandinski. Jung believes that civilization now stands at the conclusion of a Platonic Great Year, at the eclipse of the sign of Pisces which has dominated the Christian epoch, and that we are entering the sign of Aquarius, a period of confusion and psychic chaos. He remarks that throughout history, at all times of uncertainty and discord, cosmic space vehicles have been seen approaching Earth, and that in a few extreme cases actual meetings with their occupants are supposed to have taken place.’

  As Cameron paused, Ward glanced across the tables for Kandinski, but a relief waiter served them and he assumed it was Kandinski’s day off.

  Cameron continued: ‘Most people regard Charles Kandinski as a lunatic, but as a matter of fact he is performing one of the most important roles in the world today, the role of a prophet alerting people of this coming crisis. The real significance of his fantasies, like that of the ban-the-bomb movements, is to be found elsewhere than on the conscious plane, as an expression of the immense psychic forces stirring below the surface of rational life, like the isotactic movements of the continental tables which heralded the major geological transformations.’

  Ward shook his head dubiously. ‘I can accept that a man such as Freud was a prophet, but Charles Kandinski –?’

  ‘Certainly. Far more than Freud. It’s unfortunate for Kandinski, and for the writers of science fiction for that matter, that they have to perform their tasks of describing the symbols of transformation in a so-called rationalist society, where a scientific, or at least a pesudo-scientific explanation is required a priori. And because the true prophet never deals in what may be rationally deduced, people such as Charles are ignored or derided today.’

  ‘It’s interesting that Kandinski compared his meeting with the Venusian with Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus,’ Ward said.

  ‘He was quite right. In both encounters you see the same mechanism of blinding unconscious revelation. And you can see too that Charles feels the same overwhelming need to spread the Pauline revelation to the world. The Anti-Apollo movement is only now getting under way, but within the next decade it will recruit millions, and men such as Charles Kandinski will be the fathers of its apocalypse.’

  ‘You make him sound like a titanic figure,’ Ward remarked quietly. ‘I think he’s just a lonely, tired man obsessed by something he can’t understand. Perhaps he simply needs a few friends to confide in.’

  Slowly shaking his head, Cameron tapped the table with his glasses. ‘Be warned, Andrew, you’ll burn your fingers if you play with Charles’ brand of fire. The mana-personalities of history have no time for personal loyalties – the founder of the Christian church made that pretty plain.’

  Shortly after seven o’clock that evening Charles Kandinski mounted his bicycle and set off out of Vernon Gardens. The small room in the seedy area where he lived always depressed him on his free days from the Tycho, and as he pedalled along he ignored the shouts from his neighbours sitting out on their balconies with their crates of beer. He knew that his beard and the high, ancient bicycle with its capacious wicker basket made him a grotesque, Quixotic figure, but he felt too preoccupied to care. That morning he had heard that the French translation of The Landings from Outer Space, printed at his own cost, had been completely ignored by the Paris press. In addition a jobbing printer in Santa Vera was pressing him for payment for 5,000 anti-Apollo leaflets that had been distributed the previous year.

  Above all had come the news on the radio that the target date of the first manned Moon flight had been advanced to 1969, and on the following day would take place the latest and most ambitious of the instrumented lunar flights. The anticipated budget for the Apollo programme (in a moment of grim humour he had calculated that it would pay for the printing of some 1,000 billion leaflets) seemed to double each year, but so far he had found little success in his attempt to alert people to the folly of venturing into space. All that day he had felt sick with frustration and anger.

  At the end of the avenue he turned on to the highway which served the asparagus farms lying in the 20-mile strip between Vernon Gardens and the desert. It was a hot empty evening and few cars or trucks passed him. On either side of the road the great lemon-green terraces of asparagus lay seeping in their moist paddy beds, and occasionally a marsh-hen clacked overhead and dived out of sight.

  Five miles along the road he reached the last farmhouse above the edge of the desert. He cycled on to where the road ended 200 yards ahead, dismounted and left the bicycle in a culvert. Slinging his camera over one shoulder, he walked off across the hard ground into the mouth of a small valley.

  The boundary between the desert and the farm-strip was irregular. On his left, beyond the rocky slopes, he could hear a motor-reaper purring down one of the mile-long spits of fertile land running into the desert, but the barren terrain and the sense of isolation began to relax him and he forgot the irritations that had plagued him all day.

  A keen naturalist, he saw a long-necked sand-crane perched on a spur of shale fifty feet from him and stopped and raised his camera. Peering through the finder he noticed that the light had faded too deeply for a photograph. Curiously, the sand-crane was clearly silhouetted against a circular glow of light which emanated from beyond a low ridge at the end of the valley. This apparently sourceless corona fitfully illuminated the darkening air, as if coming from a lighted mineshaft.

  Putting away his camera, Kandinski walked forward, within a few minutes reached the ridge, and began to climb it. The face sloped steeply, and he pulled himself up by the hefts of brush and scrub, kicking away footholds in the rocky surface.

  Just before he reached the crest he felt his heart surge painfully with the exertion, and he lay still for a moment, a sudden feeling of dizziness spinning in his head. He waited until the spasm subsided, shivering faintly in the cool air, an unfamiliar undertone of uneasiness in his mind. The air seemed to vibrate strangely with an intense inaudible music that pressed upon his temples. Rubbing his forehead, he lifted himself over the crest.

  The ridge he had climbed was U-shaped and about 200 feet across, its open end away from him. Resting on the sandy floor in its centre was an enormous metal disc, over 100 feet in diameter and 30 feet high. It seemed to be balanced on a hug
e conical boss, half of which had already sunk into the sand. A fluted rim ran around the edge of the disc and separated the upper and lower curvatures, which were revolving rapidly in opposite directions, throwing off magnificent flashes of silver light.

  Kandinski lay still, as his first feeling of fear retreated and his courage and presence of mind returned. The inaudible piercing music had faded, and his mind felt brilliantly clear. His eyes ran rapidly over the space-ship, and he estimated that it was over twice the size of the craft he had seen three years earlier. There were no markings or ports on the carapace, but he was certain it had not come from Venus.

  Kandinski lay watching the space-craft for ten minutes, trying to decide upon his best course of action. Unfortunately he had smashed the lens of his camera. Finally, pushing himself backwards, he slid slowly down the slope. When he reached the floor he could still hear the whine of the rotors. Hiding in the pools of shadow, he made his way up the valley, and two hundred yards from the ridge he broke into a run.

  He returned the way he had come, his great legs carrying him across the ruts and boulders, seized his bicycle from the culvert and pedalled rapidly towards the farmhouse.

  A single light shone in an upstairs room and he pressed one hand to the bell and pounded on the screen door with the other, nearly tearing it from its hinges. Eventually a young woman appeared. She came down the stairs reluctantly, uncertain what to make of Kandinski’s beard and ragged, dusty clothes.

  ‘Telephone!’ Kandinski bellowed at her, gasping wildly, as he caught back his breath.

  The girl at last unlatched the door and backed away from him nervously. Kandinski lurched past her and staggered blindly around the darkened hall. ‘Where is it?’ he roared.

  The girl switched on the lights and pointed into the sitting room. Kandinski pushed past her and rushed over to it.

  Ward played with his brandy glass and discreetly loosened the collar of his dress shirt, listening to Dr MacIntyre of Greenwich Observatory, four seats away on his right, make the third of the after-dinner speeches. Ward was to speak next, and he ran through the opening phrases of his speech, glancing down occasionally to con his notes. At 34 he was the youngest member to address the Congress banquet, and by no means unimpressed by the honour. He looked at the venerable figures to his left and right at the top table, their black jackets and white shirt fronts reflected in the table silver, and saw Professor Cameron wink at him reassuringly.