The Black Corridor

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ryan scratches his nose with the tip of his stylus. He writes: One could not afford to be sentimental in those days. Perhaps when we land on the new planet we can relax and indulge all those pleasant human vices. It would be nice to feel at peace again, the way one did as a child.

He shifts in his bunk and looks up.

'Good God, Janet. You're up!'

Janet Ryan smiles down at him. 'We're all up. John thought it wisest.'

'I suppose he knows what he's doing. It's not part of the original plan.'

'John wants to see how it works out. Can I get you anything?'

He grins. 'No thanks, love. I've got my Proditol to keep me cool.

It seems to be working fine. I've been doing some pretty sober thinking since I decided to stay in bed for a bit.'

'John says you'd got pretty obsessive—were following ship routine to the point of your own breakdown...'

'I can see I was half crazy now. I'm very well—very relaxed.'

'You'll soon be in control of things again,' she smiles.

'I certainly will!'

Janet leaves the cabin.

Ryan writes: Janet has just been in to see me. Apparently brother John feels it's best for everybody to be up and about. I expect Josephine and the boys will be along soon. Janet looks as beautiful as ever. You couldn't really blame that Italian chap for going overboard for her.., A sick joke that, I suppose. When I caught him with her in John's own cabin, I felt sick. The man was a complete stinker, playing around like that. He had to be dealt with. His friends had their eyes on the girls, too, that was plain. They were only waiting for a chance to get their hands on them while our backs were turned. I was a fool to trust a pack of foreigners. I know that now.

It became evident that his friends were in on the plot with him, the way they took his part. They threatened the security of the whole mission with their utterly irrational intentions on the girls—and the boys, too, I shouldn't wonder. I suppose it was that they hadn't seen any women for so long. It went to their heads. They couldn't control themselves. In a way one can sympathise, of course. It showed just what a threat to the safety of the ship they were when they tried to steal my gun. I had to shoot Buccella then and his friends, when they wouldn't stop coming at me. We pushed the corpses through the airlock. Everybody agreed I had done the right thing.

He sighs. It has been hard, keeping control of everything for so long. Making unpleasant decisions...

Strange that Josephine and the boys haven't come in, yet. John is probably staging the wake-up procedure.

He closes the log and puts it and the stylus under his pillow. He leans back, looking forward to seeing his wife and children.

He dozes.

He sleeps.

He dreams.

*

Q: WHO ARE YOU KIDDING?

A: HAD A NOISE TROUBLE

*

He stands in the control room. He is sure he has forgotten something, some crucial operation. He checks the computer, but it is babbling nonsense. Puns and facetious remarks flow from it. He casts around for the source of the trouble, looks for a way to switch off the computer. But it will not switch off. The life of the ship depends on the computer. But it is the ship or Ryan, as Ryan sees it. He starts to batter at the computer with a chair.

******YOURE KILLING ME**********HAHAHAHAHA HA*********************************************** says the computer.

Ryan turns. Through the porthole he sees the dancers again, their faces pressed against the glass.

'You're in league with them,' he tells the computer. 'You're on their side.'

*******! AM ONEVERYONESSIDE***********! AM A**

SCIENTIFIC INSTRUMENT******! AM UTTERLY PRAGMATIC******************************************** says the computer.

'You're laughing at me now,' Ryan says almost pathetically.

'You're taking a rise out of me, aren't you?'

*******MY DUTY IS TO LOOK AFTER YOU ALL AND KEEP YOU SAFE AND SOUND"

"REPEAT SAFE AND SOUND*******************************************

'You cynical bugger.'

He sees a sweet old lady shaking her head, a wry smile on her face. 'Language,' she says. 'Language.'

It is his mother. Her maiden name was Hope Dempsey. He christened the ship after her.

'You tell the computer to stop getting at me, ma!' he begs.

'Naughty thing,' says his mother. 'You leave my little boy alone.'

But the computer continues to mock him.

'You were never a sweet old lady anyway,' says Ryan. She turns into the hag who haunts him and he screams.

*

Josephine stands over him. She is holding an empty ampoule of Proditol. 'You'll feel better in a moment, darling,' she says. 'How are you now?'

'Better already,' he says, smiling in relief. 'You don't know how pleased I am to see you, Jo. Where are the boys?'

'They're not quite awake yet. You know it takes a bit of time.'

She sits on the edge of his bunk. 'They'll be here soon. You should have woken us up earlier, you know. It's too much of a strain for one man—even you.'

'I realise that now,' he says.

She gives the old slightly nervous, slightly tender smile. 'Take it easy,' she says. 'Let the Proditol do its stuff.'

She catches sight of the red log-book sticking from under his pillow. 'What's that, darling?'

'My log-book,' he says. 'A sort of private diary, really.'

'If it's private...'

'I'd rather keep it that way until I've had a look through it.

When I feel better.'

'Of course.'

'It's the only thing that kept me halfway sane,' he explains.

'Of course.'

*

With one hand supporting his head, Ryan lies in his bunk and writes: Alexander and Rupert both look fit and well and everybody seems singularly cheerful. It seems as if we have all benefited from rest and with breaking ties with Earth. We feel free again. I can hear them bustling about in the ship. Laughter. A general mood of easy cooperation. What a change from the early days on the ship, when even Uncle Sidney seemed jealous of my command! Even sullen, suspicious old James Henry has an almost saintly manner I My morbid thoughts melt like snow in springtime. My obsession for Janet has disappeared—part of the same morbid mood, I suppose. James Henry's new attitude surprises me most. If it wasn't for the fact that everybody is in better spirits I'd suspect that he was once again harbouring plans to get rid of me and run the ship himself. It is amazing what a change of environment can do! John was wise to awaken everybody. Plainly, I had become too worried that the tensions would start up again. We're going to make a fine colony on New Earth.

And thank God for Proditol. Those scientists certainly covered every angle. I've decided to put all morbid thoughts of the past out of my mind. I was a different person—perhaps a sick person—when I did what I did. To indulge in self-recrimination now is stupid and benefits nobody.

My breakdown was caused by the chaos that crept over society.

It reflected the breakdown of that society. I could almost date its beginning for me—when our own air force (or, at least, what had been our own air force) dropped napalm and fragmentation bombs on London. My psyche, I suppose, reflected the environment.

But enough of that! I've made up my mind. No more morbid selfexamination. No need for it now, anyway.

The days will pass more quickly now that everybody is up and about and so cheerful. We'll be landing on that planet before we realise it!

He signs the page, closes the book and tucks it under his pillow.

He feels a little weak. Doubtless the effects of the drug. He sleeps and dreams that the ship has landed on the Isle of Skye and everyone is swimming in the sea. He watches them all swim out. James Henry, Janet Ryan, Josephine Ryan, Rupert Ryan, Sidney Ryan, Fred Masterson, Alexander Ryan, Ida and Felicity Henry, Tracy Masterson. Isabel Ryan. They are laughing and shouting. They all swim out into the sea.

*

A week passes.

Ryan spends less time writing in his log book and more time sleeping. He feels confident that John and the others are running the ship well.

One night he is awakened by pangs of hunger and he realises that nobody has thought to bring him any food. He frowns. An image of the Foreigners comes into his mind. He saw a camp only once, but it was enough. They were not being gassed or burned or shot—they were being systematically starved to death. The cheapest way. His stomach rumbles.

He gets up and leaves his cabin. He enters the storeroom and takes a meal pack from a bin. Chewing at the pack, he pads back to his cabin.

He has a slight headache—probably the effects of the Proditol.

They have given him a dose every day for the past ten days or so. It will be time to finish the doses soon.

He sleeps.