Watson, Ian - Novel 10
Read Watson, Ian - Novel 10 Online
Authors: Deathhunter (v1.1)
Deathhunter
Ian Watson
“For
sheer inventiveness and intellectual brilliance, Ian Watson has already
established a place in the front rank of contemporary writers.”
—The Sunday Times (
London
)
Jim Todhunter is one of the elite—
a guide in a House of Death, helping the citizens of a peaceful
future world meet
the ends of their lives in harmony. When one of the
founding fathers of the House is deliberately murdered—an unthinkable
crime—Todhunter receives his latest assignment: shepherd the
killer
to his death. But as Todhunter
spends more time with the sensitive, strangely unrepentant man, he finds
himself drawn into the murderer’s bizarre schemes and theories. Together they
build a cage—to trap death itself—and then
begins
an
eerie journey through life and death and, for Todhunter, a final realization of
the nature of his world.
Also by Ian
Watson
The Embedding
The
Jonah Kit
The Martian Inca
Alien Embassy
The Very Slow Time
Machine
Miracle Visitors
The Gardens of Delight
Under
Heaven’s Bridge
(with Michael Bishop)
Converts
St. Martin
’s Press
New York
author’s
note
Part of this novel appeared, in different
form, in
Omni
magazine as a story
entitled “A Cage for Death
. ”
deathhunter
.
Copyright © 1981 by Ian
Watson.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the
United States of America
.
No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For
information, address
St.
Martin
’s Press,
175 Fifth Avenue
,
New York
,
N.Y.
10010
.
Library
of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Watson, Ian, 1943-
Deathhunter.
I.
Title. II. Title: Death hunter.
PR6073.A863D4
1986
823'.914 86-13024
ISBN
0-312-18556-1
First published in
Great Britain
by Victor Gollancz Ltd.
First
U.S.
Edition 10 987654321
For Michael Bishop,
fellow
bridger of Heaven and the
Atlantic
Contents
ONE
As
THE single-car
monorail train from
Gracchus sped out of the last black tunnel into the honeyed sunlight of the
valley, Jim Todhunter caught his first sight of Egremont, and his heart
rejoiced.
The
valley and its community looked as idyllic as their reputation, and if Jim
regretted the suddenness of his reassignment from Gracchus, with the consequent
interruption of his death researches in the city, to be sent to Egremont could
hardly be regarded as a punishment. On the contrary, it seemed more like a
consolation prize.
Jim
unfolded the local map which Noel Resnick, Master of the House of Death in
Egremont, had sent him just before his departure. While the monorail car sighed
down towards the suburbs he tried to match the configurations of the map to the
rich detail of the scene before him.
Except
where a few green tongues of pine and fir forest encroached, the surrounding
hills were a glory of orange, red and gold. To the north glinted the blue
mirror of
Lake
Tulane
over the
dam.
Even
at this distance he thought he could make out the red and yellow butterflies of
racing yachts.
An
inviting scene indeed: orchards, farms, tree-lined avenues ruddy with the fall
of the year, fountains splashing spouts of silver outside apartment blocks,
little electric vehicles beetling about, the public transport pods swinging
along a wire like beads, the geodesic domes of the micro-electronics factories
. . .
And
Downtown itself: which building was which? Was that the cable TV station or the
Census Office? Which was the House of Death? Realizing that he was wasting this
virgin moment, he tucked the map away as the train began to slow down
automatically.
Jim
was the only passenger. He wore a red bow-tie, loosely knotted: a dandyish
touch which offset his otherwise plain suit — dun-coloured, appropriate to a
death guide. However, the mood of his costume was not dour; it was quite unlike
the gloom of priestly black. It suggested, perhaps, sand dunes coming into
being and passing away in the wind, always changing, giving way to others.
Jim’s sand dune, though, was speckled with fire at the throat.
He
stretched his legs from the two-hour journey,
then
stood — bowing slightly — and hauled down his valise. He was a tall,
raven-haired man in his late
thirties,
with a
permanent slight stoop as though he never trusted doorways to be quite high
enough to let him through.
A
woman waited on the platform. This must be Marta Bettijohn, whom Resnick had
promised would meet him. She was a cheerful, plumpish person with a rosy face
and bright blue eyes.
A buxom woman.
She wore a yellow
corduroy dress and brown tweed jacket. In her buttonhole was the silver
insignia of the House of Death.
Jim
tapped his own little silver rosette with his thumb, and grinned. He dropped
the valise, and the two of them shook hands.
“A wonderful day, Jim!
And a
specially
wonderful day for Egremont.”
He
was taken aback.
“That
sounds excessively flattering.”
“Oh,
I didn’t mean . . .! Oh, I’m sorry — of course we’re all delighted to have you
here! But Jim, what I meant was: Norman Harper is retiring today. Our P and J:
our Pride and Joy! Didn’t you know that? The TV people will be beaming
this
ceremony out everywhere.” She
glanced at her watch. “I couldn’t possibly miss it.”
“Well,
I’ll be —! I must have missed the announcement. I’ve been pretty busy these
last few days.”
She
nodded. “I understand.”
“Well,
well! Quite an auspicious moment to arrive, indeed!
Norman
Harper, eh?
Of course, I knew that he lived here in Egremont . . . Who’s
in charge of his death, in the House?” As soon as he had said this, Jim
regretted it. It sounded as though he imagined that he ought to walk in and
guide the poet’s death by rights just because he had come from the city. The
remark smacked of pretension or vanity, but Marta Bettijohn seemed not to
notice.
“How
can any of us really guide
his
death?” she said. “Alice Huron is the lucky one, but I guess she’ll learn more
from him than he from her.
Not that
Alice
isn’t
good
— I don’t mean that. But he’s, well, Norman
Harper. He’ll show
her
the way.”
Then
Marta proceeded to show Jim the way: out of the station to a waiting electric
runabout. Jim folded himself awkwardly into the passenger seat. Overhead,
Egremont people were waiting briefly on the Beadway platform and hopping into transport
pods that came by at half-minute intervals.
“This
is
Harper
Street
,” announced Marta proudly, as the runabout purred forward over a pastel
mosaic of rubbery tiles. She pointed out the Farming Co-op and the Library,
both in neoclassical
style,
the latter conveniently
near the school complex: a glass and steel design resembling several ziggurats
colliding with each other. Of course, most of the Library’s stock could be
accessed directly on screen, she explained; but the borrowing of actual books was
encouraged in Egremont — another example of Norman Harper’s influence over the
community. A poem couldn't be entirely appreciated on a screen.
As
they passed the complex, a class of children was spilling out, laughing and
shouting. Or perhaps
a mixture of several classes, for there
were
older faces and younger faces. The children waved to the runabout,
and Marta waved back as the youngsters raced up the steps of another Beadway
terminal.
“I'm
a guide at the school,” Marta told Jim. “Most of the kids will be watching
Norman
's retirement on screen, but we'll have some
of them there in person: youth bidding adieu to age. Not too many, though! This
isn't a circus.”
“Hardly!”
“We
held a class lottery. It's something they'll always remember. Down there is the
Mall — you've heard of our Mall?” It was a long cross-avenue, arcaded in
crystal. Ferns, trees and tall cacti grew in troughs between the shops for as
far as Jim could see, and at intervals milky fountains sprayed. Only a few
people were about in the Mall this afternoon.
“You
really must try the Three Spires restaurant down there. Finest food around:
fish, French and country style.”
“You'll
be my guest?”
Marta
wagged a finger at him.
“Oh,
I wasn’t hinting. Besides — I oughtn’t to tell you yet, or you’ll hardly keep
your mind on
Norman
’s ceremony — but we’ve fixed up a ‘get-to-know-you’ barbecue out at the
lake this evening. Grilled trout! And a few bottles of the local white, from
the Vinehouse.”
“Sounds great.’’
They
passed the Peace Office, an octagonal edifice in stone with a massive portico
and a gravelled courtyard where standard bay trees alternated with cypresses in
large terracotta pots. A few marble statues stood about like pillars of salt.
Or like the frozen dead, erect. But there wouldn’t be any freezer freaks in
Egremont. This community was happily adjusted . . . Perhaps that was why he had
been transferred here: so that some of the adjustment could rub off?
“I’ll
have to check in there.’’
“No hurry, Jim — not this afternoon!
You’ll see quite a few
of the officers at the ceremony, anyway. A thousand guests — that needs
handling with dignity and honour.*’
A
further five minutes’ drive brought them to the House of Death itself. Here
passengers were descending from the Beadway every half-minute, down on to the
wide gravel paths between the green lawns. Thirty or forty runabouts were
already parked on the concourse between the House and the Hospital.
Both
the Hospital and the House were stone and glass pyramids with gardens growing
up over them, tier above tier. The coiled serpent of the physician
rose
from the peak of the first, and from the tip of the
second its partner, the familiar and friendly insignia: a silver rosette, with
all the petals of life gathered at just the right moment.
A
blue moat flowed around the House of Death, dappled with water-lily leaves
bearing one or two late blooms. A single bridge crossed this water of
detachment. From a grassy knoll in a far corner of the grounds a thin line of
smoke rose like incense, beneath which would be the crematorium, Jim decided. A
faint odour of synthetic sandalwood hung in the air. A small domed pavilion of
contemplation, in marble, stood in another comer; a few elderly people and a
pale child were watching the gathering crowd from it.
A
dais had been erected on the main lawn with half a dozen chairs and a
microphone. Music was issuing from remote loudspeakers: a golden Brandenburg
Concerto. As the thousand spectators were marshalled by Peace Officers in
their white uniforms into receding rows, cross-legged, upon the turf, six
people filed up to the dais and sat listening to the music of Bach.
“Come
along.”
Marta
tugged Jim by the arm, down through the ranks of the audience to the very
front. They settled themselves on the short soft grass.
“That’s
Norman Harper on the left,” whispered Marta.
“I
recognize the face.”
“Of course.”
Norman
Harper was a stocky, white-haired man with rutted features like eroded
limestone. His eyes twinkled infectiously.
“And Noel.
Noel Resnick.”
The
Master of the House was a big, burly man, but even so there was a considered,
conscious grace about his movements and gestures that seemed to render his
weight negligible. Jim thought that there was something vaguely cartoon-like about
Noel Resnick — as though an elephant should take up ballet dancing and so
completely mesmerize its audience that it fully convinced them of its
gracefulness. Resnick looked pleased with himself.
“That’s
Alice Huron on the right.”
Jim
stared at the woman who was to guide the poet. She had long black glossy hair,
dark eyes, an equine nose, and a pronounced chin. Her fingers were noticeably
long and slender, with several chunky rings on them. She must be almost six
feet tall, which saved her chin from seeming too exaggerated, as did the fact
that she held herself perfectly upright — without any of Jim’s defensive stoop.
He found himself envying her: both for her coming duty, and for her deportment.
Door lintels would raise their hats to her, instead of trying to bump her brow.
“And Lama Ananda.”
A shaven-headed,
saffron-robed man.
Possibly he was just a westerner in eastern dress.
“Dr Claudio Menotti — our chief euthanaser.”
The fat,
ruddyfaced fellow exuded bonhomie; he looked like an operatic baritone.
