Transit

FIVE

He was invisible. He was no more than a wisp of thought and feeling in the empty garden of creation. He was a rustle of wind through the alleyways of time, a moment of sadness in the long tremendous joy of unbeing. He was nothing and everything. He was alone.

Yet not alone.

Christine swam towards him through the stars. And the stars became the leaves of autumn, brown and gold, whipped to dancing on the crest of unheard music. And a whole lost world throbbed back into existence—a world that was young and green with living.

Christine whispered: ‘Wherever you are, whatever you do, my dear one, I am part of it. For what is between us is above time and place and life and death…. There is a journey to be made, my darling. Make it. There is a dream to be dreamt, a faith to be kept, a challenge to be taken. Our love is part of the dream, the faith, the challenge. Make of it something new. Make it bright and glorious. Give it freedom.’

He wanted to speak: but an invisible eye, a wisp of thought, a rustle of wind has no voice. He wanted to say: ‘Christine! Christine! You and you only. Nothing else. Not living or loving, not journeying or creating. But you and you only….’

That is what he wanted to say; but there were no words. They would not form in the darkness. They would not pass through the black backcloth between desiring and knowing.

Christine dissolved, and there was emptiness only.

But the emptiness filled with the great green eye of a planet. It stared at him. It stared like a woman who knows she is fair. It stared like an animal waiting to conquer or be tamed.

‘This,’ said the voice, ‘is home. This is the garden. This is the world where you will live and grow and understand. This is where you will discover enough but not too much. This is where life is. It is yours.’

He had heard the voice before. He had heard the words before. But he did not understand the message.

He was afraid. Afraid because he did not understand. Afraid because he knew there was too much and too little to understand. Afraid because he was alone, and the loneliness was deeper than pain—

Avery woke. There was sweat on his forehead.

He was lying neatly—too neatly—on the bed, arms by his side, like a patient coming out of anaesthetic. He remembered the last time, and sat up slowly. The throbbing in his head was not too bad.

He looked round. Barbara had disappeared, the wall had returned and he was once more in solitary confinement. He smiled weakly, thinking of the thoughts that Barbara would be thinking, the words she would doubtless be arranging in attractively unladylike profanities.

The panel was still open, but there was no crystal in the recess. Only a single sheet of paper. And a pencil.

‘So much for passive resistance,’ thought Avery. He ought to have realized that the crystal would be used. It was just too easy.

He took the pencil and paper to his table, sat down and looked at the questions. No intelligence test this time. Something rather more personal. Fortunately, it was mostly yes-or-no stuff. And there wasn’t much of it.

Do you believe in God, as a person whose ethic may be interpreted by men? He wrote: No.

Do you believe that the end justifies the means? He wrote: Sometimes it does: sometimes it doesn’t.

Do you desire immortality? He wrote: No.

Do you think you are courageous, more than normally courageous or a coward? He wrote: A coward.

Does your present situation cause stress? He wrote: Don’t be stupid.

Would you be willing to die for an ideal? He wrote: I don’t know.

Do you think that men are superior to animals? He wrote: Only in some things.

Are you sexually potent? He wrote: I believe so.

What do you fear most? He wrote: Insanity.

Do you think that warfare can be justified? He wrote:

Sometimes.

Have you ever committed murder? That, thought Avery, was a peach of a question. He wrote: I don’t think so.

Have you ever killed anyone? The imagined faces of three nameless airmen loomed sharply and briefly in his consciousness. He wrote: Yes.

Whom, if anyone, do you love? Feeling like a traitor, Avery wrote: Myself.

That was the lot. He glanced through his answers, then returned the paper to the recess. Presently the panel closed.

He went to the inscrutable typewriter and tapped out: Now will you move that blasted wall again?

Back came the answer: Very soon. Please be patient.

Avery lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down. The situation was getting more and more fantastic. The most annoying thing seemed to be that he was completely robbed of initiative. They were having it all their own way; and that he resented bitterly.

Back once more to the question of who they were: answer—there was no answer…. But there had to be! And Avery was acutely aware of the mental barrier separating rational thought from irrational conviction. To hell with rational thought, he told himself irritably. Rational thought was no good for a situation like this. Only the irrational would do—and probably even that wasn’t good enough.

Out with it then! Out with the bloody stupid conviction that has been building up at the back of your mind like water behind a dam.

Avery took a deep breath and said it aloud. ‘They’re not human beings at all. They are bloody bug-eyed monsters.’

The words exploded in the quietness of the room, seemed to echo thunderously from the metal walls.

And at that moment, as if at a signal, the wall that had separated him from Barbara disappeared. Only this time it was not Barbara on the other side. It was someone else.

A girl. Brown hair, wide frightened eyes, body subtly mature, face round and young.

‘Where’s Barbara? Who are you?’ snapped Avery. His voice sounded harsh. He didn’t mean it to be, but it was.

‘I’m Mary Durward…. I—I…. How did you get there?’ She was clearly very frightened.

Avery remembered that he was unwashed, unshaved. He smiled. He must be looking rather sordid, like something sinister out of a B feature. Hell, this was a B feature. ‘There was a girl called Barbara Miles in the cell next to mine,’ he explained. ‘At least, I thought there was. You can’t be sure of any damn thing in this place.

… My name is Richard Avery, by the way.’

She brightened a little when she saw that he was not as fierce as he had looked. ‘The same thing has happened to me. The man next door was called Tom Sutton. They— they let us talk together. Then there were some more questions to answer, and we were separated again.’

Avery thought for a moment. ‘Let’s try to piece a bit more of the jigsaw together. Where did they collect you —Kensington Gardens or Hyde Park?’

She looked startled. ‘Kensington Gardens. How did you know?’

‘I’ve made a study of the habits of Abducted Persons,’ he said drily. ‘There was an attractive little crystal, I suppose.’

‘I thought it was somebody’s brooch,’ she admitted. ‘And I ’

‘And you bent down to pick it up. The next thing you know, you’re in the nut-house. Right?’

She smiled. There was something very pleasing about her smile. Suddenly, Avery was intensely sorry for her. She didn’t look anywhere near as tough or resilient as Barbara. She only looked about eighteen. And lost. Very lost.

‘Do you know what it’s all about?’ she asked hopefully.

‘No. I’m afraid I don’t know anything at all—except that it seems to be a real situation. At first I thought it was all in my overwrought little mind…. May I step into your parlour, said the spider to the fly.’

She smiled again. Avery offered her a cigarette and took one himself. They sat down together on the edge of her bed like—as he thought—a couple of stranded tourists waiting for a train that they knew will never arrive.

‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ he said, ‘and see if we can’t find some common denominator. Where do you j live, how old are you, what do you do?’ ¹

‘Lancaster Gate,’ she answered. ‘Twenty three, secretary.’

‘Married?’

‘No.’

‘Do you live with anyone?’

She shook her head. ‘Solitary bed-sitter.’

‘What about the man next door—I mean the man that was in the next cell to you?’

‘Tom Sutton. He was picked up in Kensington Gardens, too. He’s a public relations type. Quite nice, but still ’

‘Still a type?’

‘Perhaps I’m being unfair…. He seems to think the whole thing could be some weird kind of publicity gimmick.’

Avery shrugged. ‘Tell me that long enough, and I’ll believe it myself Do you know if he is married?’

‘I’m not sure, but I don’t think so.’

‘Barbara doesn’t have the married look, either,’ said Avery. ‘Anyway, let’s make assumptions just for the hell of it. Now what have we got so far? One TV actress, one secretary, one P.R. man and one teacher—that’s me, by the way—all blessedly single and with dangerous tendencies to stroll in the park and spot magic crystals…. It’s not really very statistical.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If it was just random selection, somebody ought to have been married.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe Barbara or Tom is.’

‘Would that make any difference?’

‘It might. I’m just grasping at straws A personal question: are you in love with anybody?’

She shook her head emphatically. ‘I was once.’

‘So was I. Still am, I suppose, but she’s dead…. I don’t think Barbara is in love particularly. What about this Tom Sutton?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then make an intelligent guess.’

‘I should say not, but I don’t really know.’

‘That will have to do. Anyway, it fits a theory.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t mind twisting the odd facts to fit a theory.’

‘What is the theory?’

Avery was silent for a moment or two. Then he said: ‘Well, I’ll stick my neck out. I don’t think it happened by accident. I think we were all chosen. If my theory fits, we were chosen because we didn’t have any strong emotional ties. Now why were we chosen? Answer: to undergo some sort of test. So far, they—whoever they might be—have taken pretty good care of us, but they have also been finding out a devil of a lot about us: the way we think, how bright we are, what our emotional attitudes are. Now comes the gilt-edged question: who or what are they? And inevitably we get the bumper fun book answer: they are not human. They are not human because they didn’t use what may be loosely called human techniques to set up this little experiment. That thing,’ he gestured towards Mary’s teletypewriter, ‘is the sort of mechanism that would be used by some nonhuman being to establish contact without giving us all fits. And while this cell itself could probably be very easily constructed by present-day technology, its not the sort of thing that would be Now, how does all that sound?’

Mary shivered. ‘It sounds horrible—and plausible.’

‘I bet you’ve got quite a stack of supplies in that trunk under your bed, haven’t you?’

She nodded.

He smiled grimly. ‘There’s every sign that it’s going to be quite a long experiment—phase two to be conducted elsewhere.’

Mary offered no comment. Avery was about to develop his ideas further when he became aware of a faint scraping sound.

‘Look at the floor!’ he commanded urgently, and did so himself.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked, bewildered.

‘I just heard the panel open—your panel, I think. Maybe there’s a crystal in the recess. That’s how Barbara and I were caught last time. We ignored instructions and got knocked cold.’

‘We’re going to have to look up sooner or later. We can’t stay like this. Besides, we haven’t done anything wrong, have we?’

‘Who the devil knows what’s right or wrong in this place?’ he demanded irritably. ‘Wait a minute. Only one of us will look—and I’ve just elected myself on a seniority basis. If I keel over, don’t do anything. Keep your gaze well away from the hatch. We’ll make them think of something else. All right? I’m going to look now.’

There was a pause, then Avery said disgustedly: ‘Serves me right. You can relax, Mary. It’s coffee for two.’

She looked up and giggled. ‘I forgot to tell you. I ordered coffee just before the wall slid back.’

‘For two?’

‘No. I didn’t think there would be company.’

‘Then we must have an intelligent waitress,’ he said drily.

The coffee relaxed them, transforming the tension into an almost social atmosphere. They smoked a couple of cigarettes and, for the time being, Avery decided not to develop his bug-eyed monster theory any further. Mary Durward looked very much like a girl in need of some reassurance. The trouble was he didn’t know what kind of reassurance it was possible to give.

Playing it safe he decided to concentrate on finding out a bit more about her personal background. Apart from the fact that he was naturally interested in her, it was just possible that she might provide information that would be of use in building up theories—even though it was highly probable that any theories built up on the present fund of evidence would eventually collapse like a house of cards.

But conversation for its own sake was something. In fact, it was a hell of a lot—the kind of therapy they could both use in liberal doses.

He learned that Mary worked in the West End office of Empire Chemicals, that she had been with the company five years, that her boss was called Mr. Jenkins (he was mildly surprised that anybody could still be called Mr. Jenkins), that she played tennis and Scrabble and liked Dixieland jazz, that her parents were dead and that her fiance had disconcertingly married someone else.

In return he told her a little about himself. Presently he was even telling her about Christine. Which was surprising, because he never told anyone about Christine. Not unless he was drunk or knew the listener very well. In this case, neither circumstance obtained. But, he told himself with amusement, this was quite an exceptional case, really: it was the first time he had ever been imprisoned by bug-eyed monsters. He didn’t regard them (and it had to be plural for there was surely too much for one to handle) as bug-eyed monsters in the literal sense. Well, not necessarily. More in the metaphorical sense. And that was possibly even more disturbing.

‘You’re miles away,’ said Mary. ‘What were you thinking about?’

‘About how I would like to be miles away,’ he answered lightly. ‘Or at least, back in Kensington Gardens with the prospect of returning to my empty little flat. I never knew it could be so attractive.’

‘I do and I don’t,’ she remarked inscrutably.

‘Do and don’t what?’

‘Want to get away from here. I mean I do, of course, really—but not until I’ve found out what it’s all about.’

Avery was surprised. The girl had more spirit than he would have thought. He was about to predict that they would not let their victims find anything out if it could possibly be avoided, when Mary’s teletypewriter began to chatter away.

Please return to your own accommodation, it said. You will not be separated for long.

‘That’s what the wretched machine told us last time,’ said Avery moodily. ‘But it wasn’t exactly telling the truth, was it?’

‘You never know,’ said Mary, ‘we might find later that it was…. It seems to have been pretty honest about most things.’

Avery laughed. ‘No comment. That’s the catch-phrase in our crazy little world. What I mean is that it put us together instead of me and Barbara and you and Tom.’

‘I think it’s probably making introductions,’ she said seriously. ‘Did you want to see Barbara again very much?’

‘Yes, of course. But not in a special personal sense. What about Tom?’

She shrugged. ‘Not particularly. He was rather tiring.’

‘Am I rather tiring?’

‘Not in the way that Tom was.’

Avery was amused. At least he seemed to have a negative virtue.

The teletypewriter chattered at them once more.

It is necessary for you to return to your own accommodation immediately, it said, adding emphasis to the original message. Please then lie down on your own bed and await further developments.

Mary giggled. ‘That seems to indicate breath-taking possibilities.’

Avery smiled. ‘Not with these goons, it doesn’t—well, not like that. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it is some kind of remote-controlled medical check. They are very inquisitive little beasties I suppose I’d better get back to my own state room, otherwise it will be crystals for two.’

They both lay down on their beds, waiting—and feeling oddly embarrassed.

‘It was nice meeting you,’ called Mary.

‘A pleasure,’ he answered. ‘Let’s hope it’s a tea-party for four next time. We might be able to work something out if we could all get together.’

The wall came back. It came back with a speed that astonished Avery. But then he had other things to think about than the kind of mechanism that could project walls almost instantaneously; for the illuminated ceiling began to darken slowly. And presently he was lost in a roomful of blackness.

But for a moment only.

Where the ceiling had been there was now a magnifi-began to appear.

They were stars.

Where the ceiling had been there was now a magnificent window—a window on the universe.

That it was real, Avery did not doubt. Nothing but reality could provide the sheer brilliance, the hard unwinking intensity, the awful remoteness of so many living suns. They hung motionless, infinitely small and great beyond imagining. They hung like lanterns on the far Christmas tree of creation. They hung like teardrops of frozen fire.

For a moment, the impact was so great that Avery wanted to curl up like a foetus, to reject the outward reality and know only the blank, bleak security of his square metallic womb. But the moment passed; and he was hypnotized into acceptance.

He never knew there could be so many stars. He had known intellectually, of course, that the universe contained stars outnumbering the grains of sand on the shores of the world’s oceans. But he had never known that this was real, that it was anything more than empty words.

But now the knowledge etched itself into his brain, swallowed his personality, shrank his ego to a single molecule of humility, seared all his human experience into a lonely atom of wonder.

There, above or below—for he no longer knew whether he was looking up or down—were blank space-ways curling over the deserts of infinity. There, above and below and beyond, were the milky golden nebulae of star cities—impossible flowers of fire and time locked in the dark glass of the cosmos. There, if anywhere, was the face of God.

He wanted to die, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to sing or cry out with pain and fear. He wanted to dance for joy and simultaneously mourn the absolute tragedy.

He did nothing. He could do nothing. Nothing except stare with a subtle anguish that came near to praying.

Then suddenly the universe began to dance. It swung slowly into the gay leap of a long parabola. Stars and star cities, space, time and creation swung slowly round the fixed microcosm that was Richard Avery.

And then there was the greatest shock of all.

The planet danced into being. The planet. A pumpkin filled with light. A celestial pumpkin whose face was green with oceans, blue and white with clouds, red and brown and yellow with islands.

It was entirely beautiful. It was a ball of life.

There was a remembered voice. A voice remembered over centuries and light-years and the long limbos of dreams and imagination.

‘This,’ said the voice, ‘is home. This is the garden. This is the world where you will live and grow and understand. This is where you will discover enough but not too much. This is where life is. It is yours.’

Richard Avery’s eyes were filled with tears, because the pain and the knowledge and the promise and the truth were unbearable. His body was icy cold because, also, there was fear.

He knew he could not take any more. And at the moment of knowing, a tiny crystal burned into transient glory above the face of the planet.

It was a crystal he already recognized. It was the crystal of oblivion.

It was an act of mercy.