Collision with Chronos

8

Watching through the transparent wall of his spatio-temporal observatory, Shiu Kung-Chien saw the ship return from Earth and dock in the nearby sphincter. He could pretend no enthusiasm for the event; the ship’s drive interfered with his apparatus and until the docking was completed he was obliged to suspend his current experiment.

He spent the time sitting patiently, drinking green tea and contemplating the dark, star-clouded universe all around him. He derived a satisfying feeling of insignificance from regarding it thus; a feeling that, as an organic, thinking being, he was a stranger in it. For it was an infinite expanse of non-time, a universe that had been made, in the first instance, without any time at all. Here and there localised processes of time had started themselves up, mostly weak, some quite powerful, proceeding in all directions, at all angles to one another. Occasionally they even met. They were accidental, small-order phenomena of limited period, but because of them life was able to exist.

On Earth, the most unhappy circumstance that could happen in the whole of existence had arisen: two distinct time-streams associated with the same planet. What was more, they were on a direct, head-on collision course.

Not that events of this nature were impossibly rare, especially in galaxies where the forces of yin and yang were so much out of balance as to cause numerous time-systems to arise. It was one good reason, in fact, for living in interstellar space, away from the traffic, as it were. Even so, Retort City itself had suffered a near-miss some centuries ago – a glancing blow by some entity travelling obliquely to its own time-direction. Shiu Kung-Chien still maintained contact with this entity: actually it was the object of his current experiments.

Pouring his third cup of fragrant tea, he noted that the space-time-ship had now slipped through the sphincter. No doubt the Earth passengers it carried would be full of hysterical pleas for assistance and he foresaw a tiresome time ahead. Personally he had opposed offering Earth any help at all, on the grounds that it might involve the full capacity of the Production Retort and cause inconvenience, particularly with regard to delays in the delivery of equipment he had ordered for his own work. But the other members of the cabinet, out of some sort of filial respect for the planet where mankind had been bred, had disagreed with him.

The meter by his side informed him that the incoming ship had shut down its engines. He rose, beckoning his cybernetic servitors.

“The area is clear. Let us begin.”

The machines rolled across the work area to make final preparations. But Shiu Kung-Chien was interrupted yet again by a gentle introductory tone from the observatory’s entrance door. Into the observatory came the sedate figure of Prime Minister Hwen Wu.

“Welcome to my retreat, honoured colleague,” said Shiu Kung-Chien in a voice that bore just a trace of exasperation. “Your visit is connected, presumably, with the arrival of the ship from Earth.”

The other nodded. “One of the passengers, it seems, is a scientist of some repute – no less than the brain behind the Terrans’ recent discovery of time travel. He is hungry for knowledge. He’ll certainly demand to speak at length with you.”

Shiu Kung-Chien tugged at his beard and cursed. “So now I must waste my time conversing with barbarian dolts! Can you not give him someone else to vent his ignorance on? There are plenty of people adequate for that.”

Hwen Wu affected surprise. “Let us not be discourteous, Kung-Chien. I am told that, judging by the character of the man, he’ll insist on meeting our foremost expert in the field, and that is yourself.”

“Oh, very well. But can’t it wait? I’m in the middle of something important. I’m about to re-establish contact with the Oblique Entity.”

“Indeed?” Hwen Wu clasped his hands within his voluminous sleeves. “I thought it had passed out of range?”

“So it had, using former methods. But this new apparatus of mine uses the principle of direct, all-senses contact.”

“Is that not a trifle dangerous?” Hwen Wu inquired delicately.

Shiu Kung-Chien shrugged.

“There’s no particular hurry concerning the Earthman,” the Prime Minister admitted after a pause. “He still has to be put through language indoctrination. Would the experiment be compromised if I were to stay and…”

“Watch by all means,” Kung-Chien told him, “though there’ll be little to see.”

The servitors signalled that all was in readiness. Shiu Kung-Chien, Retort City’s greatest researcher into the phenomenon of time, entered a glassy sphere which, though transparent from the outside, encased its occupant in apparent darkness. He murmured something, his words being conveyed to the cybernetic controller.

Hwen Wu gazed placidly on the scene. He saw the scientist go rigid, as though suddenly paralysed. His eyes stared sightlessly, his ears were without sound, even his skin no longer felt the touch of his garments or the pressure of the floor under his feet. His body remained, but his senses – and therefore his mind – had been transferred hundreds of light-years away in a direction which no telescope could show: obliquely in time.

“What shall we do, Father?”

Ex-Minister Hueh Shao looked at Su-Mueng, realising with a pang what a handsome young man his son had become.

“Do?” he repeated in astonishment. “This is your enterprise. What did you intend?”

Su-Mueng answered lamely. “I had hoped for your guidance, Father. Perhaps we could escape from the city, go to Earth.”

“Hmm. Possibly, but I doubt it – and you obviously know nothing of the conditions there. We’d be unlikely to survive.”

No matter; that had been the lesser of Su-Mueng’s hopes. Vaguely, he had envisaged he and his father making a fight of it together. Suddenly getting over his initial stupefaction, he rose to the occasion and spoke with new resolve.

“Then return with me to the Production Retort. It’s honeycombed with little-used areas, deserted spaces. I’ll find a hideout for you there.”

“What, exchange one prison for another? Where’s the advantage in that?” The older man frowned.

“No, that’s not it.” Abruptly the real issue that lay before him crystallised in Su-Mueng’s mind; the heat of passion entered his voice. “There’s work to be done. We must work to overthrow the structure of society!”

His father stared at him as though he had gone mad. “Do you know what you’re saying?” he exclaimed in a shocked whisper.

“But isn’t that why you committed your crime and tried to save me from my fate?” Su-Mueng rejoindered. “Do you not feel the injustice of our way of life? One part of the population being forced to content itself with production, otherwise enjoying only crude entertainments, which the other part leeches off this work force?”

“But we’re maintaining the highest state of civilisation!” spluttered Hueh Shao. “The arts and the sciences have been carried to the peak of sophistication here in the Leisure Retort, to say nothing of the graciousness of our life-style. How could we devote ourselves to this if we had to spend time producing material things for ourselves?”

Su-Mueng was taken aback by this response, which was not what he had expected. “The inhabitants of the Lower Retort could also enjoy what we have here, if they were given the opportunity,” he said. “It’s unfair that it should be denied them. All should share, in production as well as in higher things.”

“But then neither production nor refinement could be carried as far,” his father replied with a wave of his hand. His voice fell, became sombre. “I confess that my motives in keeping you in the Leisure Retort were purely selfish. I’d wanted my son to live as I’d lived. No feeling of a general injustice entered my mind – that, presumably, would only occur to someone who saw both sides of the divide.”

“Then come down to the Lower Retort and see for yourself!”

Hueh Shao sighed. “It seems that I set in train more than I dreamed when I hid you in my secret apartments. Social revolution, now!”

“Are you agreed, then? If we leave quickly perhaps no one will learn of your escape for some time.”

“They know of it already,” Hueh Shao told him, indicating the panels by the door. On one of them an amber light glowed. “The time-displacement machine has reported your interference of it.”

Su-Mueng whirled and gasped. Running to the panels, he pulled free the model of Retort City he used as a time-control and brandished it vigorously.

“Quickly – before they get here. Perhaps I can out-phase us with this – make us invisible!”

Hueh Shao’s face was a mixture of sadness, pity and regret. He followed his son into the corridor outside the apartment, where Su-Mueng fiddled desperately with his time device, producing a chiaroscuro of flickering lights.

“There!” he pronounced with satisfaction. “We’re back-phased a full half minute. If we move fast we can be in the Lower Retort within the hour.”

Again Hueh Shao hesitated, and then seemed to come to a decision and nodded, moving with Su-Mueng through the scented passages, staying within the field of his gadget. Su-Mueng walked rapidly, excitedly, but even before they left the section they encountered what the older man had known they would encounter, but which he had optimistically supposed they would not.

It was a rare sight in the Leisure Retort: four citizens in the garb of law enforcement officials, looking oddly severe in the tight-fitting blue jackets and high collars, coming along the corridor with calm self-confidence.

Their leader carried a small cylinder which he held before him like a torch. Even as he noticed this Su-Mueng felt a wave of dizziness and realised with dismay that he’d been phased back into normative time. His hand darted to his double retort, but then went limp as he recognised the greater power of the other’s instrument.

The leader looked from one fugitive to the other, a hint of recognition crossing his features. “Would you kindly accompany us?” he asked politely. “Regretfully, we must presume that you’re in infringement of a city ethic.”

The blue-jacketed men turned and retraced their steps, leaving their prisoners to follow them of their own accord. Su-Mueng was sick to think how futile all his work had been.

From the moment when they passed through the ship’s outer doors and into the incredible space city, a phantasmagoria of rich impressions greeted Rond Heshke and Leard Ascar. The ship they had been travelling in, Heshke realised, was austere and functional compared with the voluptuous standards of these people.

The air was invigoratingly fresh and laden with captivating scents. They had emerged from some kind of dock into which the ship, apparently, fitted snugly; and the spectacle before them was bewildering in its complexity. Level gave way to level and split-level; screens and interrupted walls ran hither and thither with the complexity of a maze, offering glimpses of gardens and parks arrayed in riotous colours.

The place breathed the essence of luxury. Blooms and delicate orchids flowered everwhere, springing from walls and ceilings. It was like being in some primitive conception of Heaven.

A Chink led them through a low archway and gestured to them to be seated in a carriage that appeared, to Heshke’s astonished eye, to be made of green jade. The carriage moved silently along meandering pathways, giving Heshke a chance to observe the people of the city. Their styles of dress were varied; most common among the men, however, was a long, flowing silk robe with enormous sleeves. The older men generally affected long, sparse beards, adding yet more strangeness to their slanted, scarcely human features.

The dress of the women was much more diverse. Some swathed themselves in voluminous silk, others wore short, revealing split skirts or scarcely anything at all, and all wore flowers in their invariably black hair. Despite his natural revulsion for devs, Heshke gazed fascinated at their alien beauty, and at the graceful, sedate fashion in which both they and the men carried themselves.

More and more his “educated” attitudes as regards deviant subspecies were coming crashing to the ground. It was impossible to claim now, as Lieutenant Gann had, that all this was the creation of extraterrestrials. Quite obviously these Chinks had a superb sense of beauty – something which, in Titan doctrine, only True Man possessed. He thought of Blare Oblomot, who would not have been at all surprised by it.

Ascar, he reflected, had been right yet again: their ideas had been all wrong. And Ascar was certainly no underground sympathiser. He turned to him to make a comment; but Ascar was taking no notice whatsoever of his surroundings. He sat looking blankly at his lap, his face wearing his customary sullen scowl.

It just doesn’t get through to him, Heshke thought wonderingly. He’s all intellect – he’s blind to everything that isn’t abstract.

The carriage entered a set of vertical guide rails that took it up, amid masses of perfumed foliage, to another level. Here there were no more gardens; the prospect was that of an endless summerhouse whose apartments were partitioned by flimsy, movable screens, exquisitely decorated. At their conductor’s request they left the carriage and walked a short distance through this open-plan habitat. Heshke noted the sparsity of furniture; indeed, too much furniture would have entirely spoiled the light, airy effect. Everything here in this city, it seemed, was arranged to provide perfect harmony.

They rounded a corner and came to a stop in a fairly small room where a tall, bearded old man regarded them with cold detachment. On a table beside him were several bowls and an assortment of slender needles, some gold, some silver. Unrecognisable apparatus stood on the other side of the table, while on the wall behind was an apparently normal television screen.

The old man uttered some quiet words, and with much dignity motioned Heshke to recline on a nearby chair-couch.

Heshke did so with reluctance, and then felt a sudden panic as the Chink took up one of the long, slender needles. All his repugnance of devs came flooding back, and his mind filled with fears of hideous, infinitely cunning tortures. Seeing his terror, the old Chink paused, head inclined.

Ascar spoke, struggling with unfamiliar syllables. To Heshke’s boundless admiration he had actually succeeded in picking up a few phrases of the impossibly difficult language. He listened to the Chink’s reply, spoken slowly and clearly for his benefit.

“Relax,” Ascar said then to Heshke. “He’s not going to hurt you. It’s some sort of processing. They’re going to teach us the language.”

Partially reassured, Heshke leaned back. The oldster approached, muttering something, and touched him just behind his ear. Where his fingers touched, Heshke seemed to go numb. Then the Chink applied the needle he was holding; from his action Heshke knew that he was inserting it under the skin, deeper and deeper.

Into his brain!

He fought not to feel frightened. The Chink, with the assurance and solicitude of a skilled doctor, used about a dozen needles on him in all, in various parts of his body: chiefly around his head, neck, hands and arms. But as the treatment progressed a curious soothing feeling overcame him and his fears vanished. Finally the oldster stepped away and returned a few moments later, slipping some earphones over his ears and some goggles over his eyes which plunged him into blackness. He heard the snap of a switch.

And Heshke fell instantly asleep.

He awoke, he did not know how much later, to find the old man deftly pulling the needles from his skin. Ascar, too, had just finished his treatment. He rose from a second chair-couch, smiling sardonically at Heshke.

“Excellent,” said the old man. “And may you both be honoured guests in our city.”

He had spoken in the singsong Chink tongue – and yet Heshke had understood it.

“This is really remarkable!” he exclaimed. But the other waved his hand.

“You’re still speaking in your own language,” he intoned. “Try to find the other tongue in your mind – and speak again.”

Puzzled, Heshke tried to do as he was instructed, turning his attention inward as he spoke. “I was merely praising the effectiveness of your treatment,” he said. “I’d like to know how you did it.”

And then, while he was speaking, he found it: the “other tongue” – lying alongside his own in his mind, ready to seize his larynx and tongue and to express his thoughts, as automatically and faultlessly as he used his own language. His last few words came out in the language of the Chinks.

It was strange at first – like being able to switch to another vidcast channel at will.

The old man smiled politely. “The principle is quite simple,” he explained. “A computer-programmed language course was fed into your mind at high speed while you were unconscious, so that for every word or phrase of your own language, the speech centre of your brain now contains the equivalent word or phrase of our language.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” Ascar interjected, also speaking flawless Chink. “I’ve never heard of anything like that before. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible – not in such a short space of time, anyway.”

Heshke listened fascinated to the way the foreign syllables flowed off Ascar’s tongue – and was just as fascinated at his ability to understand them.

“The brain’s capacity to absorb information at computer speed is not, I believe, known to your people,” the old man admitted. “We’re able to achieve it with the assistance of an ancient technique called acupuncture.” He indicated the needles that lay on the table. “By inserting these fine needles at particular points under the skin we’re able to deaden or stimulate the nerves selectively. By this means we open the requisite pathways to the brain so that it’s able to assimilate data at a much faster rate than normally – and there are also many other uses for acupuncture.”

“But that seems such a primitive way of going about things.” Heshke commented, staring at the needles. “Your apparatus is hardly sophisticated.”

“The technique depends more on knowledge and skill than upon technology,” the old man replied. “It is a very old practice, but it’s been vastly refined and extended by us here in Retort City. It’s said to have been invented originally by the ancient philosopher Mao Tse-Tung, who also invented the generation of electricity.” The Chink smiled tolerantly. “But these legends are not, of course, reliable; they also tell of him driving out the evil demons Liu Shao-Chi and Lin Piao.”

Ascar grunted and cast a sarcastic glance at Heshke. “You’re right – history tells nothing but fairy stories.”

Heshke ignored the gibe. “I take it your people have a reason for bringing us here,” he said to the old man. “When will we learn what it is?”

The other sighed. “Ah yes, very distressing. But that’s not my province. You’ll have to meet representatives of the Cabinet – perhaps even the Prime Minister himself. Have patience.”

“Patience be damned,” growled Ascar, finding Retort City curses not strong enough for his liking. “When am I going to meet your physicists?”

In view of the seriousness of the offence, Prime Minister Hwen Wu himself presided over the court. With him sat two lesser ministers, and at a table to one side were the court’s advisers, experts in logic and law.

Hueh Shao was brought in first and offered green tea, which he refused. He pleaded guilty to attempting to break his confinement, and added that he had intended to go into hiding in the Production Retort, where he would be helped by his son. His voice betrayed an inner weariness, as he spoke quietly and calmly.

Hwen Wu found the proceedings disturbing to his inner peace. There seemed to be only one possible judgement that could be made in the case of the man who once had been his close friend.

“One further statement I wish to put before the court,” Hueh Shao continued, “and that is that my son Su-Mueng should be absolved from guilt. It was with my encouragement that he agreed to guide me to the Lower Retort, and in so doing he was prompted by filial duty – he looks upon me as other men look upon their grandfathers. Furthermore, his entire aberration springs from my own actions. But for my former crime he would have lived happily and blamelessly as a production worker, with no knowledge of any other life. In my opinion, any punishment inflicted upon him would be unjust.”

A logician raised his hand, was recognised and rose to speak.

“The accused commits an inconsistent statement with his tale of how he induced his son to guide him down to the Production Retort,” he said in a low, melodious voice. “The facts are these: Hueh Shao and Hueh Su-Mueng were apprehended while leaving the area where Hueh Shao was incarcerated. Hueh Shao admits to this. But as regards his statement of his intentions, Hueh Shao must certainly have known that he and his son would be apprehended before leaving the Leisure Retort – although Hueh Su-Mueng, possibly, did not. Hueh Shao couldn’t have intended to do something which he knew to be impossible, and therefore his intentions were otherwise.”

“And what were his intentions?” Hwen Wu queried.

“Taking everything into account, it would appear that Hueh Su-Mueng appeared unexpectedly in his father’s apartment and released him from his time-displacement. Hueh Shao was then in a quandary; he knew his son’s scheme to be impossible to execute, and that his son was laying himself open to severe punishment. From that moment on his foremost intention became to spare his son from this punishment – remember the unusual bond that exists between these two, unnatural though it might seem to us. He pretended to fall in with Hueh Su-Mueng’s plan, in order that he might thereby represent himself as its part-instigator and remove some of the guilt from his son’s shoulders.”

Hwen Wu turned to the accused.

“Do you admit to this version of events?”

Hueh Shao nodded; the logician had mercilessly exposed his motives.

“Hueh Shao’s following statement, however, stands up to examination,” the logician continued. “Hueh Su-Mueng’s aberrated state of mind is to be laid entirely at his door. But whether we should conclude from this that no punishment devolves upon the younger man is an entirely different matter. One cannot dismiss the principle of personal responsibility so lightly.”

The Prime Minister listened carefully to these pronouncements, considering them from all angles. Finally he turned to the accused again.

“I find you guilty of cooperating in your own escape, but not of instigating your escape,” he said. “Your actual infringement, in this particular instance, of a city ethic is not an enormous one, but that’s not the issue before us here. The issue is that your original crime, one of truly serious proportions, has surfaced again. You’ve created an individual of apparently irremediable criminal tendencies – already, in his preliminary statements, your son has expressed himself as being totally opposed to the social structure.”

He fingered the tendrils of his beard, contemplating. “Your crime is unforgivable because it strikes at the roots of society,” he proclaimed. “If allowed to gather force it could destroy the civilisation we enjoy here in Retort City. Nevertheless, your sentence was a lenient one, initially, because it was the first case of its type to occur for many centuries. We must now withdraw that leniency. I regret that I must sentence you to loss of life.” He looked calmly at Hueh Shao. “Do you agree with the sentence?”

Hueh Shao nodded. He could almost see what was in the Prime Minister’s mind. The sentence was not merely on himself; it gave Hwen Wu a way of punishing Su-Mueng without directly punishing him. The principles of fairness and justice were both satisfied, even though they were in conflict.

“Then let the sentence be carried out immediately.”

Hueh Shao turned and walked out through a door to his right.

A minute or two later Su-Mueng took his place before the court. He listened to the formal charge, pleaded guilty, but in his following statement firmly absolved his father of all guilt in the matter.

Meantime, in a nearby room, Hueh Shao relaxed into a chair-couch and was handed a bowl of refreshing green tea.

The bowl was of the most delicate porcelain and its embossed design, a mere tracery when touched by the fingers, was of a style he particularly admired. He sipped the tea, enjoying its fragrance. A feeling of numbness, not particularly unpleasant, came over his limbs as the poison in the tea took effect. He laid the bowl down on a nearby low table, the tea still unfinished, and quietly died.

In a cold voice Hwen Wu accepted Su-Mueng’s plea and explained the verdict and sentence that had just been passed on his father. “The sentence,” he added, “will by now have been carried out.”

Su-Mueng’s reaction to this news inflicted the whole court with a faint feeling of revulsion, for it demonstrated the emotional bond that existed between two men who should never even have known one another. Su-Mueng went deathly white and sagged as though punched in the stomach. He recovered himself with difficulty, drawing himself erect, his face still grey, and looked Hwen Wu straight in the eye.

“Damn you,” he said in a strangled voice. “Damn you all. Your whole system is evil – and one day it will be destroyed.…”

The President of the Court nodded. “We’re acquainted with your opinions, and of their causes. We’re aware also that your attitudes are intractable, which raises the problem of what we’re to do with you. Punishment is inappropriate, because insofar as punishment is deserved it’s already been inflicted in the form of your knowledge that your actions have led to your father’s death. We cannot permit you to live in the Leisure Retort, since that would transgress the law; yet if we return you to the Production Retort, which is your proper place, you’ll no doubt continue to cause trouble. So the question remains, what are we to do with you…?”