Cryptozoic! (9 page)
Authors: Brian Aldiss
Chilled by apprehension, Bush felt his bowels contract. His time sense was
awry, too, as it had been when Stein hit him. Franklin was reaching out
towards the rubbish on the table, his arm moving perfectly under control,
a multi-dimensional figure for a series of intricate reactions between
nervous and muscular systems and terrestrial gravitational forces, in
which air pressure and optical judgements were also involved. It was a
textbook case of anatomical mechanics; as Bush watched it, be could see
the crude sub-structure of the gesture. As the humerus swung slightly
forward, ulna and radius levered from it, wrist bent, finger bones
extended like, the maimed wing of a bird. Under the blue serge sleeve,
lymph chugged.
Disgusted, Bush looked up at the man. The little astigmatic eyes were still
staring at him, isolated behind their glasses, but the face was a bare
diagrammatic example of a skull, part of the flesh cut away to reveal teeth,
palate, and the intricacies of the inner ear. A series of small red arrows
sprayed from the gaping jaws into the air towards Bush, indicating the
passage of the organism's breath as it said, "Family Group."
It was reading from a sheet of paper it had retrieved from the debris
on the table. The paper had been screwed up. The organism had flattened
it out and was examining it.
The paper bore a crude sketch in color, showing a deserted landscape
with a metal sea; from a sun, from a tree, faces protruded. Slowly,
Bush realized it was something he had executed in the Devonian; he had
scrawled on it the title the organism had read out.
He closed his eyes and moved his head from side to side. When he looked
again, Franklin appeared normal once more, his anatomy decently covered
by his suit. He had crumpled up the drawing again and thrown it aside
in disgust. Now he was examining more sketches, a series Bush had made
on a pad. These sketches were of cryptic forms that never entirely
transmuted into any recognizable shape. Bush had piled them up on the
page, trying to make them ungraspable, defying unidirectional sense,
violating all durations.
"What are these?" Franklin asked.
Perhaps I will just clear my throat, Bush thought. He experienced a
certain tension there. This was all very unpleasant. No point, of course,
in explaining. . . . He cleared his throat, enjoyed some relief as the
mucus ceased its tiny pressure. It was erroneous to assume that events
in space-time could be rendered by symbols onto paper -- a cardinal
error that had stood mankind in good stead ever since the first cave
paintings. Perhaps you could invent a way to translate the symbols into
space-time. But that was constantly done. A piece of music . . .
"My notebooks . . ."
Nodding, Franklin accepted this as an adequate answer. He put the pad
carefully on a side tray, a deliberate gesture. For a moment, he threatened
to dissolve into a motor-energy diagram, and Bush fought the feeling back.
"I -- my notebooks . . ."
The illusion, whatever it was, was over. Time snapped back to normal.
He could smell the dull atmosphere of the room again, hear noises,
the slight sound of Franklin scuffling about in his equipment.
Franklin picked out the notebooks and the wrist camera, sweeping the rest
of the stuff into a side tray, a woman's photograph among it.
"Your personal possessions will be returned to you later." He clipped the
first book into the miniscanner on the wall and let it run. Bush's taped
voice filled the room, and the recorder behind Franklin redigested it.
Franklin sat where he was without expression, listening. Bush began to drum
with his fingers on the table, then pulled them onto his knees. The books
took twenty-five minutes each to play and there were four and a half of
them full of his reports, spaced over his long months away. When one book
was emptied, Franklin inserted the next without comment. He had been
trained to make people uneasy; two or three years ago, he would have
coughed and twitched in the unpleasant atmosphere; now Bush did it
for him.
The reports had been designed for Howells' ear, genial Howells who welcomed
any chitchat. They contained little new information about the past,
although there was a reassuringly solid bit on the phragmoceras, and
Bush had genuinely researched into the length of earlier years, which
increased the farther one progressed back in time, through the decreased
effect of the Moon's braking effect on the Earth by tidal friction. He
had confirmed that in the early Cambrian Period, a year consisted of
about 428 days. He had also carefully noted the psychological effects
of CSD and mind-travel. But too much of the report now seemed like idle
chatter about the people he had met on his wanderings through time,
interspersed with artistic notes. When the last book drew to its end,
after almost two hours of playback, he could hardly bring himself to
look at Franklin, who seemed to have been expanding all this time,
as Bush himself was shrinking.
Franklin spoke mildly enough. "What would you conceive the objectives
of this Institute to be, Bush?"
"Well . . . It began as a research center for mental analysis, enlarging
the discovery of the undermind -- the theory of it. I'm not scientifically
trained. I'm afraid I can't phrase it too precisely. But Anthony Wenlock
and his researchers discovered the uses of CSD and opened up the new
avenues of the mind that have enabled us to overcome the barriers our
ancient ancestors put up to protect themselves from space-time, and so
mind-travel was developed. That's simplified. I mean, I understand there
are still paradoxes to be unraveled, but . . . . Well, anyhow, now the
Institute is the HQ of mind-travel, devoted to a greater scientific
understanding of . . . well, of the past. As I say, I -- "
"How would you say you have served that 'devotion to a greater scientific
understanding,' as you put it?"
The recorder was still growling away, holding on for posterity to the
insincerity in his voice. He knew he was being trapped. Making an effort,
he said, "I've never pretended to be a scientist. I'm an artist.
Dr. Wenlock himself interviewed me. He believed artistic insights were
needed as well as strictly -- well, scientific ones. Also, they found
that I was a particularly good subject for mind-travel. I can go farther
and faster than most travelers, and get closer to the present. You know
all this. It's on my cards."
"But how would you say you serve the 'devotion to greater scientific
understanding' you talk so much about?"
"I suppose you think not very well. I've said, I'm not a scientist.
I'm more interested -- well, I've done my best, but I'm more interested
in people. Damn it, I've done the job I was paid for. In fact, there's
quite a bit of back-pay owing."
Franklin blinked somewhat, as if it were a hobby he was taking up.
"I'd say by the evidence of these reports of yours that you had almost
utterly neglected the scientific side of things. You wasted your time
skylarking about. You didn't even stick to the era you were consigned to."
Privately, Bush felt the truth of what Franklin said. This -- perhaps
fortunately -- prevented him from saying anything. He cleared his throat
instead; the fist in the teeth, the boot in the testicles, were advancing
again.
"On the other hand, you pick up a lot of stuff about people."
Bush nodded. He had spotted that Franklin did not care much for his
failure to reply, and felt a little better.
Franklin leaned across the desk and pointed a finger at Bush's face as if
suddenly detecting something strange in the room. "The objectives of this
Institute have changed since your day, Bush. You're out of date -- we have
more important things to worry about now than your 'greater scientific
understanding.' You'd better get that idea out of your mind. But it was
never in very firm, was it? Well, we're on your side now."
He watched to see the effect this reprieve had on Bush, a sneer on his face.
Bush hung his head, disgraced to find such base support for his betrayal
of science. Regarding himself as an artist, he had loftily thought of
himself as in some measure opposed to science, a supporter of the particular
against the general; he saw suddenly how faint, how wishy-washy the notion
was; his sort of nonsense had helped this other sort of opposition to
science, which he recognized -- perhaps from the very smell of this
bullying room -- as altogether antithetical to human values. He'd gone
badly wrong if Franklin could say, even as a sour joke, that they were
both on the same side.
His courage came back. He got up. "You're right. I'm out of date! I'm a flop!
Okay, I resign from the Institute. I'll hand in my notice right away."
The other man permitted himself one blink. "Sit down, Bush, I haven't
finished yet. You
are
out of date as you say. Under the present system
of employment, and for the duration of the emergency -- I suppose you
have grasped there
is
an emergency?. -- no man can leave his job."
" I could leave. I'd just refuse to mind-travel!"
"Then you would be imprisoned, or perhaps worse. Sit down, or shall I call
some of our new staff? Better! Look, Bush, I'll give it to you straight --
the economy is being wrecked because people are all mind-traveling,
going by the thousands, the hundreds of thousands! They're getting hold
of bootleg CSD; it comes in from abroad. They're disaffected elements, and
they represent a threat to the regime -- to you and me, Bush. We want men
to go back there in mind and check on what's happening, trained men. You'd
do a good job there with your talents -- and it is a good job, well-paid,
too -- the General sees to that. A month's intensive training and we are
going to send you back with proper status, provided you're sensible."
Trying to sort through what the man said, Bush asked, "Sensible? How do
you mean, sensible?"
"Useful. A functioning part of the community. You've got to give up this idea
of chasing your own personality down the ages."
When he had let that sink in, Franklin added, "Forget all that business
about wanting to be an artist. That's all finished, washed up! There's no
market or opportunity for works of art any more, and anyhow, you've lost
the knack now, haven't you? Borrow proved that to you, surely!"
Bush bowed his head. Then he forced his eyes to meet the slippery ones
behind the little lenses watching him from the other side of the table.
"Okay," he managed to say. It was a complete submission to Franklin's
argument, an acceptance of everything he had said, an admission that
he was useless in any role but that of spy or snoop or informer, or
whatever they would call it: but even as he delivered himself over
to what he recognized instinctively as the enemy, he was born anew in
courage and determination, for he saw that his one chance as an artist
was to move again as a mind-traveler -- saw, moreover, that he was less
an artist than a mind-traveler, the first of a new breed whose entire
metier was mind-travel, that he would rather die than lose this weird
liberty of the mind; and as a corollary to that discovery, he saw that
by understanding his personality on this new basis he might eventually
come to deliver a new form of art expressing the changed world-view,
the new and schizophrenic Zeitgeist.
Just momentarily, as he glared at Franklin, great joy broke upon Bush;
he saw he still had the chance to speak to the world (or the few) of
his vision, his unique vision; and then he thought how insignificant he
would make the mock-ups of Roger Borrow look; and by that petty step,
he came back to reality and the hum of the recorder and Franklin's nose
and spectacles.
It was Franklin's turn to rise. "If you wait downstairs, they will bring
your personal belongings down to you."
"And my pay?"
"And your pay. Some of it. The rest will be issued as post-emergency credits.
You can go home then. The next course starts Monday; you're on leave till
then -- don't do anything silly, of course. A truck will pick you up Monday
morning early. Be ready! Understood?"
Malice made Bush say, "Well, it's been nice seeing you again,
Franklin. And what does Dr. Wenlock think to all the changes?"
Franklin gave one of his blinks. "You've been away too long, Bush. Wenlock
went out of his mind some while ago. To tell you the truth, he's in a
mental institution."
Chapter 6
THE CLOCK ANALOGY
It was beginning to rain as he walked past the carious tree stumps and
the wall by which rapist and raped had lain together; he climbed the
steps to find his father had locked the door. Only after much ringing
and knocking and shouting through the letter box did he persuade his
father to come down and open up.
His father had absorbed most of the rest of the whisky. With Bush's back
pay, they bought more that evening, and were drunk that night and the
next day. The drunkenness was a reliable substitute for the friendship
they could not quite establish. It also helped to blot out the terror
in Bush's mind.
On the next day, the Thursday, James Bush took his son to inspect his
mother's grave. They were both sober and heavy then, needing a dose of
melancholy. The cemetery was ancient and abandoned, pitched on such
a steep and windy hill that grass would grow only on one side of the
mounds. It seemed an uncharacteristic place for Elizabeth Lavinia,
Beloved Wife of James Bush, to lie. Bush wondered for the first time
how she had felt indoors that long day when he was locked out in the
garden. Now she was locked out for good, her soul cast onto a steeper,
longer beach than any known to Earth's history.
"Her parents were Catholic. She gave up all belief at the age of six."
"Six?" It seemed a curious time to give up any belief; his father might
as welt have said "six in the evening."
"Something happened to her when she was six that convinced her there was
no God. She'd never tell me what it was."
Bush said nothing. His father had kept off the subject of religion since
he had returned from the interview with Franklin. Now he teetered on the
brink again; the moment was abominably favorable. Bush began to whistle
irritatingly under his breath to counteract his father's advantage. Even
the thought of religion irritated him.
awry, too, as it had been when Stein hit him. Franklin was reaching out
towards the rubbish on the table, his arm moving perfectly under control,
a multi-dimensional figure for a series of intricate reactions between
nervous and muscular systems and terrestrial gravitational forces, in
which air pressure and optical judgements were also involved. It was a
textbook case of anatomical mechanics; as Bush watched it, be could see
the crude sub-structure of the gesture. As the humerus swung slightly
forward, ulna and radius levered from it, wrist bent, finger bones
extended like, the maimed wing of a bird. Under the blue serge sleeve,
lymph chugged.
Disgusted, Bush looked up at the man. The little astigmatic eyes were still
staring at him, isolated behind their glasses, but the face was a bare
diagrammatic example of a skull, part of the flesh cut away to reveal teeth,
palate, and the intricacies of the inner ear. A series of small red arrows
sprayed from the gaping jaws into the air towards Bush, indicating the
passage of the organism's breath as it said, "Family Group."
It was reading from a sheet of paper it had retrieved from the debris
on the table. The paper had been screwed up. The organism had flattened
it out and was examining it.
The paper bore a crude sketch in color, showing a deserted landscape
with a metal sea; from a sun, from a tree, faces protruded. Slowly,
Bush realized it was something he had executed in the Devonian; he had
scrawled on it the title the organism had read out.
He closed his eyes and moved his head from side to side. When he looked
again, Franklin appeared normal once more, his anatomy decently covered
by his suit. He had crumpled up the drawing again and thrown it aside
in disgust. Now he was examining more sketches, a series Bush had made
on a pad. These sketches were of cryptic forms that never entirely
transmuted into any recognizable shape. Bush had piled them up on the
page, trying to make them ungraspable, defying unidirectional sense,
violating all durations.
"What are these?" Franklin asked.
Perhaps I will just clear my throat, Bush thought. He experienced a
certain tension there. This was all very unpleasant. No point, of course,
in explaining. . . . He cleared his throat, enjoyed some relief as the
mucus ceased its tiny pressure. It was erroneous to assume that events
in space-time could be rendered by symbols onto paper -- a cardinal
error that had stood mankind in good stead ever since the first cave
paintings. Perhaps you could invent a way to translate the symbols into
space-time. But that was constantly done. A piece of music . . .
"My notebooks . . ."
Nodding, Franklin accepted this as an adequate answer. He put the pad
carefully on a side tray, a deliberate gesture. For a moment, he threatened
to dissolve into a motor-energy diagram, and Bush fought the feeling back.
"I -- my notebooks . . ."
The illusion, whatever it was, was over. Time snapped back to normal.
He could smell the dull atmosphere of the room again, hear noises,
the slight sound of Franklin scuffling about in his equipment.
Franklin picked out the notebooks and the wrist camera, sweeping the rest
of the stuff into a side tray, a woman's photograph among it.
"Your personal possessions will be returned to you later." He clipped the
first book into the miniscanner on the wall and let it run. Bush's taped
voice filled the room, and the recorder behind Franklin redigested it.
Franklin sat where he was without expression, listening. Bush began to drum
with his fingers on the table, then pulled them onto his knees. The books
took twenty-five minutes each to play and there were four and a half of
them full of his reports, spaced over his long months away. When one book
was emptied, Franklin inserted the next without comment. He had been
trained to make people uneasy; two or three years ago, he would have
coughed and twitched in the unpleasant atmosphere; now Bush did it
for him.
The reports had been designed for Howells' ear, genial Howells who welcomed
any chitchat. They contained little new information about the past,
although there was a reassuringly solid bit on the phragmoceras, and
Bush had genuinely researched into the length of earlier years, which
increased the farther one progressed back in time, through the decreased
effect of the Moon's braking effect on the Earth by tidal friction. He
had confirmed that in the early Cambrian Period, a year consisted of
about 428 days. He had also carefully noted the psychological effects
of CSD and mind-travel. But too much of the report now seemed like idle
chatter about the people he had met on his wanderings through time,
interspersed with artistic notes. When the last book drew to its end,
after almost two hours of playback, he could hardly bring himself to
look at Franklin, who seemed to have been expanding all this time,
as Bush himself was shrinking.
Franklin spoke mildly enough. "What would you conceive the objectives
of this Institute to be, Bush?"
"Well . . . It began as a research center for mental analysis, enlarging
the discovery of the undermind -- the theory of it. I'm not scientifically
trained. I'm afraid I can't phrase it too precisely. But Anthony Wenlock
and his researchers discovered the uses of CSD and opened up the new
avenues of the mind that have enabled us to overcome the barriers our
ancient ancestors put up to protect themselves from space-time, and so
mind-travel was developed. That's simplified. I mean, I understand there
are still paradoxes to be unraveled, but . . . . Well, anyhow, now the
Institute is the HQ of mind-travel, devoted to a greater scientific
understanding of . . . well, of the past. As I say, I -- "
"How would you say you have served that 'devotion to a greater scientific
understanding,' as you put it?"
The recorder was still growling away, holding on for posterity to the
insincerity in his voice. He knew he was being trapped. Making an effort,
he said, "I've never pretended to be a scientist. I'm an artist.
Dr. Wenlock himself interviewed me. He believed artistic insights were
needed as well as strictly -- well, scientific ones. Also, they found
that I was a particularly good subject for mind-travel. I can go farther
and faster than most travelers, and get closer to the present. You know
all this. It's on my cards."
"But how would you say you serve the 'devotion to greater scientific
understanding' you talk so much about?"
"I suppose you think not very well. I've said, I'm not a scientist.
I'm more interested -- well, I've done my best, but I'm more interested
in people. Damn it, I've done the job I was paid for. In fact, there's
quite a bit of back-pay owing."
Franklin blinked somewhat, as if it were a hobby he was taking up.
"I'd say by the evidence of these reports of yours that you had almost
utterly neglected the scientific side of things. You wasted your time
skylarking about. You didn't even stick to the era you were consigned to."
Privately, Bush felt the truth of what Franklin said. This -- perhaps
fortunately -- prevented him from saying anything. He cleared his throat
instead; the fist in the teeth, the boot in the testicles, were advancing
again.
"On the other hand, you pick up a lot of stuff about people."
Bush nodded. He had spotted that Franklin did not care much for his
failure to reply, and felt a little better.
Franklin leaned across the desk and pointed a finger at Bush's face as if
suddenly detecting something strange in the room. "The objectives of this
Institute have changed since your day, Bush. You're out of date -- we have
more important things to worry about now than your 'greater scientific
understanding.' You'd better get that idea out of your mind. But it was
never in very firm, was it? Well, we're on your side now."
He watched to see the effect this reprieve had on Bush, a sneer on his face.
Bush hung his head, disgraced to find such base support for his betrayal
of science. Regarding himself as an artist, he had loftily thought of
himself as in some measure opposed to science, a supporter of the particular
against the general; he saw suddenly how faint, how wishy-washy the notion
was; his sort of nonsense had helped this other sort of opposition to
science, which he recognized -- perhaps from the very smell of this
bullying room -- as altogether antithetical to human values. He'd gone
badly wrong if Franklin could say, even as a sour joke, that they were
both on the same side.
His courage came back. He got up. "You're right. I'm out of date! I'm a flop!
Okay, I resign from the Institute. I'll hand in my notice right away."
The other man permitted himself one blink. "Sit down, Bush, I haven't
finished yet. You
are
out of date as you say. Under the present system
of employment, and for the duration of the emergency -- I suppose you
have grasped there
is
an emergency?. -- no man can leave his job."
" I could leave. I'd just refuse to mind-travel!"
"Then you would be imprisoned, or perhaps worse. Sit down, or shall I call
some of our new staff? Better! Look, Bush, I'll give it to you straight --
the economy is being wrecked because people are all mind-traveling,
going by the thousands, the hundreds of thousands! They're getting hold
of bootleg CSD; it comes in from abroad. They're disaffected elements, and
they represent a threat to the regime -- to you and me, Bush. We want men
to go back there in mind and check on what's happening, trained men. You'd
do a good job there with your talents -- and it is a good job, well-paid,
too -- the General sees to that. A month's intensive training and we are
going to send you back with proper status, provided you're sensible."
Trying to sort through what the man said, Bush asked, "Sensible? How do
you mean, sensible?"
"Useful. A functioning part of the community. You've got to give up this idea
of chasing your own personality down the ages."
When he had let that sink in, Franklin added, "Forget all that business
about wanting to be an artist. That's all finished, washed up! There's no
market or opportunity for works of art any more, and anyhow, you've lost
the knack now, haven't you? Borrow proved that to you, surely!"
Bush bowed his head. Then he forced his eyes to meet the slippery ones
behind the little lenses watching him from the other side of the table.
"Okay," he managed to say. It was a complete submission to Franklin's
argument, an acceptance of everything he had said, an admission that
he was useless in any role but that of spy or snoop or informer, or
whatever they would call it: but even as he delivered himself over
to what he recognized instinctively as the enemy, he was born anew in
courage and determination, for he saw that his one chance as an artist
was to move again as a mind-traveler -- saw, moreover, that he was less
an artist than a mind-traveler, the first of a new breed whose entire
metier was mind-travel, that he would rather die than lose this weird
liberty of the mind; and as a corollary to that discovery, he saw that
by understanding his personality on this new basis he might eventually
come to deliver a new form of art expressing the changed world-view,
the new and schizophrenic Zeitgeist.
Just momentarily, as he glared at Franklin, great joy broke upon Bush;
he saw he still had the chance to speak to the world (or the few) of
his vision, his unique vision; and then he thought how insignificant he
would make the mock-ups of Roger Borrow look; and by that petty step,
he came back to reality and the hum of the recorder and Franklin's nose
and spectacles.
It was Franklin's turn to rise. "If you wait downstairs, they will bring
your personal belongings down to you."
"And my pay?"
"And your pay. Some of it. The rest will be issued as post-emergency credits.
You can go home then. The next course starts Monday; you're on leave till
then -- don't do anything silly, of course. A truck will pick you up Monday
morning early. Be ready! Understood?"
Malice made Bush say, "Well, it's been nice seeing you again,
Franklin. And what does Dr. Wenlock think to all the changes?"
Franklin gave one of his blinks. "You've been away too long, Bush. Wenlock
went out of his mind some while ago. To tell you the truth, he's in a
mental institution."
Chapter 6
THE CLOCK ANALOGY
It was beginning to rain as he walked past the carious tree stumps and
the wall by which rapist and raped had lain together; he climbed the
steps to find his father had locked the door. Only after much ringing
and knocking and shouting through the letter box did he persuade his
father to come down and open up.
His father had absorbed most of the rest of the whisky. With Bush's back
pay, they bought more that evening, and were drunk that night and the
next day. The drunkenness was a reliable substitute for the friendship
they could not quite establish. It also helped to blot out the terror
in Bush's mind.
On the next day, the Thursday, James Bush took his son to inspect his
mother's grave. They were both sober and heavy then, needing a dose of
melancholy. The cemetery was ancient and abandoned, pitched on such
a steep and windy hill that grass would grow only on one side of the
mounds. It seemed an uncharacteristic place for Elizabeth Lavinia,
Beloved Wife of James Bush, to lie. Bush wondered for the first time
how she had felt indoors that long day when he was locked out in the
garden. Now she was locked out for good, her soul cast onto a steeper,
longer beach than any known to Earth's history.
"Her parents were Catholic. She gave up all belief at the age of six."
"Six?" It seemed a curious time to give up any belief; his father might
as welt have said "six in the evening."
"Something happened to her when she was six that convinced her there was
no God. She'd never tell me what it was."
Bush said nothing. His father had kept off the subject of religion since
he had returned from the interview with Franklin. Now he teetered on the
brink again; the moment was abominably favorable. Bush began to whistle
irritatingly under his breath to counteract his father's advantage. Even
the thought of religion irritated him.
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