Vertigo

six

Contrary to Hasson’s fears and expectations, his new life in quite abruptly Tripletree became easy to bear.

One of the things which came to his rescue was a kind of variable time effect he had noticed previously when visiting a foreign country on leave. He had a theory that personal time was not measured by the clock, but by the number of fresh sensory impressions recorded by the mind. On the first day or two of a vacation, especially if the surroundings were very different to those of his daily norm, he continually experienced new sensations and those days seemed almost endless. The vacation felt as though it would go on for ever. Suddenly, however, the new environment became familiar, the number and frequency of surprise encounters with undiluted reality decreased, the mind returned to its customary complacency — and as soon as that state of consciousness was reached the remaining days of the holiday flickered by like on a speeded-up projector.

Hasson’s theory had always depressed him a little because it both explained and confirmed the existence of a phenomenon described to him by his father — the acceleration of subjective time during later life. He had always sworn to himself that he would never get into a sense-numbing, mind-deadening rut, that he would never let the months and seasons and years slip through his fingers, but all at once he found the process working to his advantage. Time began to go faster, and the demands of each day grew less.

Keeping his is promise to Oliver Pan, he began taking large spoonfuls of powdered brewer’s yeast. At first he found the bitter, tongue- substance almost impossible to swallow and had to swill it down with glasses of fruit juice. An immediate effect was that he became so bloated with internal gas production was that he had difficulty in bending over, but Oliver had told him in advance that such a symptom would be proof of how much he needed the yeast’s rich supply of B-vitamins. Placing his faith in Oliver’s advice, he persevered with the yeast, rehearsing in his mind what he could remember from the impromptu lecture on its value as a source of anti-stress vitamins, biotin, cholin, folic acid, inositol, niacin, nucleic acid, pantothenic acid, iron, phosphorus and whole protein, as well as the complete B- vitamin complex. None of the biochemical terms had much meaning for Hasson, but two days after beginning the treatment he awoke to find that the mouth ulcers — which had plagued him for months — had vanished without trace. That benefit alone, he decided, was worth anything that Oliver was going to charge him.

He also began chewing tiny fragments of the ginseng root twice a day. It was a dark reddish-brown in colour, almost as tough as high-impact plastic, and tasted vaguely of grass. Hasson failed to see what good it could do him, but after his success with the mouth ulcers he was more than willing to give all of Oliver’s recommendations a fair trial. His digestion improved, the gaseous pressure faded from his abdomen, his appetite returned, and in a short time he rediscovered a simple pleasure — that of looking forward to meals.

The food provided in the Werry household was not always to Hasson’s taste, but in the middle of his second week there Ginny Carpenter — who had maintained her attitude of casual hostility towards him — departed on unspecified family business for a stay in Vancouver. May Carpenter did most of the cooking after that, and although she had her own set of culinary shortcomings these were more than compensated for in Hasson’s view by the absence of her mother. It turned out that May had a part-time job in the office of a plant-hire company in Tripletree. She went to it four days a week, which meant that when Theo was at school Hasson had the house to himself, an arrangement which suited him perfectly.

He continued to spend as much time as possible watching television in his room, but in spite of his avowed wish to keep the shutters closed on the world he found himself thinking more and more about the real-life problems of his hosts. Al Werry, after his strange Saturday morning confessional in the downtown bar, reverted to his normal persona, going about his business with his suggestion of a swagger, looking fit and cheerful and competent, the picture of a well-adjusted career cop. He oversaw the activities of his minuscule force with a breezy carelessness which seemed not to have been affected by anything that had been said by Buck Morlacher.

Hasson was surprised to note that Morlacher — after having impinged on his life three times in rapid succession, each time looking more like a volcano on the point of eruption — had quieted down and virtually effaced himself from the scene. He wondered if Morlacher’s change of attitude was simply due to the fact that the big man had other business interests and only got around to bedevilling Werry on occasion, or if it was something to do with May Carpenter. It was difficult for Hasson to be certain, but he had a feeling that the relationship between the two had developed since the encounter he had witnessed from the bathroom, and he became intrigued with the problem of determining what sort of person actually lived behind May’s facade of primitive, uncomplicated sexuality.

According to Werry the facade was all there was. It was a judgement Hasson had thought to be unfair and insensitive, but as the days wore on he began to accept the fact that it was impossible to hold any kind of conversation with May. It began to appear to him that she was a gorgeous female android with only two modes of operation — signalling a romantic interest in the men she met, and actually indulging that interest. Hasson, perhaps by failing to make the correct responses, had confused the identification processes and caused himself to be placed in a category with which the mechanism was not programmed to deal. At times he felt guilty over thinking about another human being in such terms and decided that the failure in communications was due to his own real inadequacies, rather than those he imagined in May, but that insight — if insight it was — had no material effect on their relationship or lack of it. It appeared that she was prepared to deal with him only on her own terms and those terms were unacceptable to Hasson, partly out of consideration for Al Werry, partly because a remnant of pride would not allow him to stand in line with Buck Morlacher.

His relationship with Theo Werry became equally stagnant and unproductive, although in that case Hasson knew exactly what was wrong. The boy had all of the young male’s natural respect for strength and courage, a respect which perhaps was enhanced by his handicap, and it was easy to guess the opinion he had formed of Hasson. In addition, the generation gap had been yawning between them ever since Hasson had put forward his views about angels in general, and their shared interests in music and literature were unable to bridge it.

Hasson chose to bide his time with Theo, watching closely for the first sign of encouragement, but the boy remained aloof, spending much of his free time in his bedroom. On a number of occasions as Hasson was going along the darkened landing he saw the door to Theo’s room being limned with brief flashes of light, but he passed on his way each time, forcing himself to ignore the distress beacon, knowing that any attempt to answer it would be regarded as an intrusion. Once, well after midnight, he thought he heard a voice in the room and hesitated at the door, wondering if Theo could be having a nightmare. The sound died away almost immediately and Hasson passed on his way back to his television set, saddened by the idea that even the spurious vision of bad dreams could be cherished by a blind person.

As the new pattern of his life became a routine Hasson welcomed the dulling of his perceptions. Monotony was a mind-sapping drug to which he quickly became addicted and he drew comfort from a rapidly growing conviction that nothing of any significance would ever happen to him again, that night and day would continue to merge into the undemanding and featureless grey blur of eternity.

He was, therefore, taken by surprise by two miracles which occurred within a few days of each other.

The first miracle was external to Hasson and concerned the weather. For perhaps a week he was dimly aware of great changes taking place out of doors, of the light softening and the air growing warmer, of the sounds of trickling water replacing the night-time stillness. On the television there were reports of floods from other parts of the country, and once when Hasson looked out of his window he saw adults and children engaged in a British-style snowball fight in a nearby garden — an indication that the nature of the snow itself had changed. It had ceased being a light dry powder and now could be moulded into solidity, a mock-solidity which heralded its oncoming dissolution.

And then Hasson got up one morning to find that the long Albertan summer had begun.

Conditioned as he was to the protracted and uncertain seasons of the Western European seaboard, to the reluctant, ragged retreat of winter and the equally hesitant advance of milder weather, Hasson was scarcely able to comprehend what had happened. He was standing at his window looking out at a transformed world whose dominant colours were greens and yellows when he became aware of the fact that a second miracle had taken place.

There was no pain.

He had wakened and had risen from his bed without pain, accepting the condition as instinctively and unthinkingly as a creature of the wild stirring itself in response to the light of dawn. Hasson turned away from the window and looked down at himself, feeling the morning sunlight warm on his back, and made a few tentative movements like a gymnast limbering up for a display. There was no pain. He crossed to the bed, lay on it and got up again, proving to himself that he was a whole man. There was no pain. He touched his toes, then rotated his trunk so that he could touch the back of each heel with the opposite hand. There was no pain.

Hasson looked all around the bedroom, breathing deeply, the sudden possessor of untold riches, and made further discoveries. The room seemed more homely — its framed photographs nothing more than signs of family occupancy — but it had also grown too small. It was a suitable place for sleeping in at night, but there was a huge country outside, unexplored and intriguing, full of new places to visit, new sights to see, people to meet, food and drink to enjoy, fresh air to breathe…

With a rush of pleasure and gratitude, Hasson found he could contemplate the future without flinching, with no welling up of the darkness of the soul. He could anticipate reading, listening to music, swimming, attending parties, meeting girls, going to the theatre, perhaps even strapping on a CG harness and…

No !

The icy prickling on his forehead made Hasson realise he had gone too far. For a moment he had allowed himself to remember fully what it was like to stand on an invisible peak of nothingness, to look down at his booted feet and see them outlined clear and sharp against a background of fuzzy pastel geometries, to alter the focus of the eyes and translate that background into a dizzy, detailed spread of city blocks and squares many kilometres below, with rivers like twists of lead stapled by bridges, and ground cars shrunk to specks and halted by distance on white threads of concrete. He shook his head, dismissing the vision, and began to make plans whose scope did not extend beyond his own mortal capabilities.

Several days went by in which he was content to consolidate his new position, days in which he held himself ready to experience a mental and physical relapse. The bedroom which had once been a haven of security was mildly claustrophobic now. He reduced his time at the television set to an hour or two before going to bed, and instead began taking walks which were brief at first but which soon lasted three or more hours.

One of his first expeditions was to the health food store, where Oliver Fan gave him a single appraising glance and, without allowing him time to speak, said, “Good! Now that you’ve discovered some of the benefits of proper diet I can begin to make some real money out of you.”

“Hold on,” Hasson replied, feeling an ingenuous pleasure over the fact that his state of well-being was noticeable. “I admit I’m feeling better, but what makes you so sure your stuff had anything to do with it? How do I know I wasn’t naturally on the point of picking up a little?”

“Do you believe that?”

“All I’m saying is that there must be a natural tendency to…

“To get over illness and injury? There is. Homeostasis is the word for what you’re talking about, Mr Haldane. It’s a powerful force, but we can assist it or hold it back — as in the case of those painful little moon craters in your mouth that you had for months and haven’t got any more.” Oliver shrugged expressively. “But if you feel you haven’t had value for money…”

“I didn’t mean that,” Hasson said, reaching into his pocket.

Oliver grinned. “I know you didn’t — you were just showing that you’re no longer afraid of me.”

“Afraid?”

“Yes. The day you first walked in here you were afraid of everybody in the world, including me. Please try to remember that, Mr Haldane, because when you’re making a journey it’s very important to know where you started from.”

“I remember it.” Hasson stared at the little Asian for a moment, then an impulse extended his hand. Oliver shook hands with him in silence.

Hasson remained in the store for more than an hour, waiting in the background while other customers were being served, fascinated by Oliver’s discourses on alternative medicine. At the end of the time he was still not entirely certain about Oliver’s credentials and his fund of anecdotal case histories, but he was carrying a bag filled with new additions to his daily diet, the chief of which were live yoghurt and wheat germ. He also took with him the conviction that he had made a genuine friend, and in the days that followed he began calling regularly at the store, often just for the conversation. In spite of his professed commercialism, Oliver seemed happy enough with that arrangement and Hasson began to suspect that he himself was providing material for yet another dietetic dossier. He had no objections to that, and in fact had to fight off a fulfilling-of-the-prophecy syndrome which tempted him to give Oliver exaggerated reports of his progress.

The progress itself, however, was genuine and exhilarating. There were occasional psychological fiat spots, reminders that elation was not a normal state of mind, but — as Dr Colebrook had predicted for him — Hasson found he could handle them with increasing confidence and skill. He extended his programme of exercise to cover walks which lasted six or eight hours and took him many kilometres into the hilly terrain which lay to the north and west of the city. On those days he carried food he had prepared for himself, and during the lunch breaks would read and re-read an early copy of Leacock’s Literary Lapses that he found in a store in Tripletree.

He had bought the book with the intention of being prepared for a reconciliation with Theo, but the boy had kept up his barriers of reserve and Hasson had been too intent on his own affairs to try pressing the matter. In the process of recovery he became almost as obsessive and self-centred as he had been during the illness, pursuing fitness with a miserly lust, and in that state of mind the problems of others receded into unimportance. He knew for example, that the return of warm weather had made the fantastic eyrie of the Chinook Hotel a much more habitable place at night, and that there had been a corresponding increase in the activities of the young fliers who used it as a headquarters. He was aware of AL Werry fretting about empathin parties in the tower, and the growing frequency of offences which air police jargon reduced to convenient sets of initials (AC, aerial collision: TDO, transportation of dense objects: AD, aerial defecation) — but which represented a genuine social menace — and none of it had any significance for him. He was isolated from the rest of humanity — just as surely as when hovering on the high threshold of space — fighting a private war, and had no reserves for anything else.

The closest he came to involvement was one morning when climbing a high saddle back to the west of the city, trying for a view of the Lesser Slave and Utikuma Lakes. A huge silence lay over the land, undisturbed by insects in that early part of the summer. There was no visible trace of human existence and it was possible to imagine that time moved at a slower pace here, that the last of the Pleistocene glaciers had barely retreated and the first of the Mongoliform tribes had yet to pick their way across the Bering Strait from the west.

Hasson had paused in his ascent and was trying to adjust his vision to accommodate the vast sloping perspectives when, without any warning, a brilliant source of light sprang into being in the sky to the north. The grass all around him glittered like tiny scimitars as if he had been caught in the beam of a powerful searchlight mounted on a helicopter, but the silence remained unbroken. Hasson shielded his eyes and tried to focus on the object, but it appeared as an anonymous centre of brilliance surrounded by a rosette of oily needles of light. The sky pulsed in blue circles.

As he watched, a second eye-searing point appeared close to the first, and that was followed by others until there was a ring of six miniature suns blazing down on Hasson, pinning him at the apex of a cone blinding radiance. The grass at his feet incandesced as though about to explode into flame.

Hasson experienced a moment of near-superstitious dread before ingrained mental disciplines came to his rescue. Mirrors, he thought. A group of six fliers. Height anywhere from five hundred to a thousand metres — enough to render them invisible against a bright sky. Violations: TDO, for a start. Possible intended violations: Anything they feel like — there’s nothing here to stop them.

He lowered his gaze and resumed the climb, straining his ears for anything — a rush of air or the sound of voices — which might indicate that he was going to be caught up in something more serious than a juvenile game. The light continued to flicker around his path for a minute, then abruptly vanished. Hasson went on climbing for another minute before stopping and scanning the hemisphere of the sky. There was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen, but he no longer felt alone or remote from the 21st Century. The sky was a sentient blue lens.

A short time later, while he was seated on a rock having lunch, he was struck by a comforting thought which almost made him feel grateful to the group of unseen fliers. During the incident he had felt worried, tense, apprehensive — but not afraid. Not excessively so, anyway. There had been a certain coolness of the forehead and hollowness of the stomach, but none of the plethora of devastating symptoms he had come to know so well in recent months. There was a possibility that he was further along the road to recovery than he had realized.

He mused over the notion for a time, taking it to its logical conclusion, then rose to his feet and began walking in the direction of Tripletree. “Sure thing Borrow any harness you want — we’ve got lots of them just lying around the place.” Werry gave Hasson an encouraging smile, “Do you want to use my spare suit?”

“No need — I won’t be going up far.” Hasson smiled in return, trying not to appear too diffident. “I’m just going to fool around for a while, really. See about getting acclimatised. You know how it is…”

“Can’t say I do. I thought you were acrophobic.”

“What made you think that?”

Werry shrugged. “Just an impression. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, is it? Lots of people can’t fly after a smash.”

“That’s true, but it doesn’t apply in my case,” Hasson said, wondering why he felt the need to lie.

“Well, do you want me to go up with you just to be sure?” Werry put aside the cloth he had been using to polish his boots and stood up, his uniform making him seem like an invader in the domesticity of his own kitchen, On returning from his walk Hasson had found him alone in the house and had decided to waste no time in setting up his private experiment.

“I can manage by myself,” Hasson said, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

“Okay, Rob.” Werry looked at him with a rueful expression. “I can’t tell where helpfulness ends and nosiness begins. Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’d feel self-conscious if…”

“This is what I was telling you about, Rob. This morning at the station Henry Corzyn — that’s one of my patrolmen, the fat one — started griping about being short of money this month, and Victor — that’s the kid — offered him a loan. Henry said he wasn’t that hard up and didn’t need to borrow money from anybody. And do you know what the kid did then?

Hasson blinked. “Sighed with relief?

“No. The kid took some bills out of his wallet and stuffed them into Henry’s shirt pocket — and Henry let them stay there. After saying he wouldn’t take a loan from anybody, he let the money stay in his pocket!”

“He must have wanted the loan, after all.”

“That’s what I’m getting at,” Werry said with something like anguish in his eyes. “He must have wanted a loan, but he said he didn’t — so how did the kid know? If that had been me I’d have believed Henry, and I’d have walked off and he’d probably have been calling me all kinds of bastard from now till Christmas. Or else I’d have got it wrong another way and forced money on him and hurt his feelings, and he’d still have ended up bad-mouthing me from now till Christmas. What I want to know is — how did young Victor know what was expected of him?”

“He’s on an empathin kick,” Hasson suggested.

“Not a chance! None of my …” Werry paused and gave Hasson a solemn stare. “I suppose that was a joke.”

“Not much of a one,” Hasson apologised. “Look, Al, you’re not alone. Some people are naturally simpatico and the rest of us can only envy them. I’d like to be that way myself.”

“I’m not envious — just puzzled.” Werry sat down again and resumed polishing the already glossy toecap of a boot. “Would you like to go to a barbecue tonight?”

Hasson considered the idea and found it attractive. “That sounds good. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a genuine barbecue.”

“You’ll enjoy this one. Buck’s entertaining some visitors from out of town, so you can bet your life there’ll be plenty of good food and good booze. He always lays it on thick.”

Hasson did a mental double-take. “Are we talking about Buck Morlacher?”

“Yeah.” Werry looked up at him with the calm innocence of a child. “Buck throws great parties, you know, and it’s all right — I can bring as many guests as I want.”

There’s something wrong with one of us, Hasson thought incredulously. Al, you’re supposed to be the law around here.

“May’s going too,” Werry said. “The three of us will shoot over to Buck’s place around eight and drink the place dry. Okay?”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Hasson went out into the hail, selected a CG harness from the several that were hanging there, arid checked its power unit. The familiar action evoked a stirring of unease, and the confidence he had felt earlier began to fade. It was possible, after all, that he was rushing his fences, making unreasonable demands on himself. He hesitated for a moment, then slung the harness over his shoulder and left the house. The sun was curving down towards the west, cubes of shadow filled the spaces between the houses and there was a touch of coolness in the air. Hasson estimated there were less than two hours of daylight left, but it was enough for his purpose.

It took him some forty minutes to reach a deserted area where old quarry works had permanently disfigured the ground to such an extent that it was unsuitable for any form of agriculture. An occasional flier could be seen overhead, speeding into or away from Tripletree, but he knew from experience that in such terrain he would be practically invisible to airborne travellers. He scanned the immediate surroundings, seeing everything with rich clarity in the coppery light, and began putting on the CG harness.

It was a standard model, with straps which felt too thin to Hasson’s fingers. In normal flying there was no need for heavy webbing, because the counter-gravity field surrounded both the generator unit and the wearer, affecting them equally and creating no differential such as existed with a parachute or early troop-lifting jetpack. Police harnesses were much heavier and more positive in their connections, but for reasons which were unconnected with the laws of physics. The object was to ensure that no officer became separated from his CG unit during the aerial man-to-man combat which sometimes accompanied an arrest, Hasson was accustomed to heavy-duty straps and buckles, and although the benefit would have been purely psychological he would have preferred using police-style equipment for his crucial venture into the air.

He finished the flight preliminaries and, sensing that any further delay was inadvisable, rotated the master control on the belt panel to the primary position.

There was no perceptible effect. Hasson knew that was because the ground intersected the field in which he was now englobed, disrupting its onion-layer pattern of forced lines. He also knew that he had only to perform a standing jump to make himself airborne, floating in geometrical equilibrium a short distance above the yellowed and dusty grass.

He bent his knees and raised his heels a little, making ready for the snapping release of muscular energy which was all that was needed to promote him from the status of man to that of a minor god. Seconds went by. Malicious, heart-pounding, blood- thundering seconds went by — and Hasson remained as much a part of the earth as any of the rocks which lay all about him. An audio alarm began a muted but steady chirping at his waist to remind him that power was being expended to no good effect. His thighs quivered from the effort of maintaining what should have been a transitory pose. And still he was unable to jump. Sweat prickled out on his forehead and cheeks; his stomach muscles clenched in nausea. And still he was unable to jump…

“To hell with it,” he said, turning back the way he had come, and in that instant one part of his mind — representing the intolerant, unbending facet of Hasson’s character, the side of him which regarded cowardice as the ultimate shame — took unilateral action. What he had intended to be an ordinary stride became an ungainly one-legged leap into the air, and he found himself drifting with nothing under his feet.

Sick, cheated and afraid, he reached for the master control, determined to kill the CG field. Hold on, came the silent shriek. Don’t waste the chance. You’re off the ground now, and you’re all right, and you can survive this. Make the best of it. Fly, man, FLY!

Hasson was unable to believe what was happening to him as he touched the clinoselector, trading off a small fraction of lift to gain horizontal movement, and the ground began to flow underneath him. This was the moment. All he had to do now was advance the master control and he would go swooping up into the metallic sunlight, free of earth and all its petty restrictions, with new horizons unfurling on all sides and nothing above, around or below him but the pureness of wind-rivers…

NO! NO! NEVER!

He killed the CG field and slanted down into the tough grasses, stiff-limbed as a wooden manikin. Green snares gripped his feet. He pitched forward and rolled over, crying aloud as pain lanced through his hip and lower back. The earth took hold of him and he clung to it, waiting for all sensations associated with flight to depart his body.

When he stood up a few minutes later he was able to move freely, and for that he felt grateful. He had learned a valuable lesson at the cost of only a brief period of mental distress and physical agony, and now that he knew for certain that his flying days were over he would be able to make reasonable and realistic plans for the long-term future. As Hasson might have expected, Al Werry came downstairs prepared to go to the evening’s barbecue in full reeve’s uniform, complete with sidearm. Finding Hasson alone in the living room, he grinned ferociously and advanced on him crabwise, performing an elaborate shadow-boxing routine which ended with light pats on Hasson’s cheeks.

“Where’s May?” he whispered. “Have we time for a warmer before we go?”

Hasson nodded towards the kitchen. “She’s in there with two boys who came round to stay with Theo.”

Then we do have time for a quick belt.” Werry went to the sideboard and picked up a bottle. “Is rye okay? Have we educated your taste buds yet?”

“Rye’s fine. With plenty of water.” “That’s my boy.” Werry made up two largish drinks and handed one to Hasson. “How did things go this afternoon? Did you do any cloud-running?”

Hasson sipped his drink before he spoke, releasing that this was the crucial first moment of his new life. “Things went very badly. I did one short hop, and I hated it.”

“That’s only natural. It’ll take a while for you to get used to going up again.”

“No, it’s more serious than that,” Hasson said, keeping his voice level. “I’m finished flying. I won’t be going up again.”

“It’s an overrated pastime, anyway,” Werry said moodily, staring into his drink. “They’ll give you a desk job, won’t they?”

“I imagine so — acrophobia is a recognised occupational disease in the force.”

The cheerful expression returned to Werry’s face. “That’s not so bad, then. Drink up and forget about it.” He was following his own advice when May Carpenter emerged from the kitchen wearing gold boots, slacks and a quilted gold anorak. She looked at Werry and her jaw sagged.

“My God,” she said, “you’re not going dressed up like that!”

Werry looked down at himself. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

“What’s wrong?” She glanced at Hasson, then turned back to Werry. “Al, is it a costume ball or are you planning to raid the joint?”

Werry made placating gestures with his free hand. “Honey, this isn’t just a social occasion tonight. Buck has some very important visitors — least he thinks they’re important — and he’ll want them to see that he hobnobs with the city reeve.”

May sighed, looking beautifully disconsolate. “Go into the kitchen and say goodnight to Theo.”

“There’s no need,” Werry said. “He never notices whether I’m here or not. Let’s go, folks — it’s crazy to stay here drinking our own booze when we could be out drinking somebody else’s. Isn’t that right, Rob?”

Hasson set his glass down. “Your argument is economically sound.”

“I’m ready,” May said. “Are we flying or driving?”

“Driving.” Werry opened the door to the hail and ushered May through it with exaggerated courtliness. “Didn’t Rob tell you he’s been grounded?”

“No,” May said incuriously, walking towards the front door.

“It’s true — I can’t fly any more,” Hasson said to her retreating back, putting in some practice at making the admission. She appeared not to notice. When they got into the waiting police cruiser Hasson sat alone in the rear seat, feeling lonely in the spacious darkness and wishing he had a woman with him. Almost any woman in the world would have been suitable, as long as she provided companionship. As the car slid silently along dim streets he stared nostalgically at the windows of the houses they passed — mellow, glowing rectangles, some of them framing tableaux of family life, the figures frozen in mid-gesture by the briefness of the glimpses he received. Hasson distracted himself by trying to invent characters and backgrounds for the waxwork people, but he could smell the light flowery perfume May was wearing and his thoughts kept coming back to her.

Weeks of discreet observation had given him no deeper insights into her personality, and he was still unable to see what had brought Werry and her together in the first place. As far as he could determine, Werry provided accommodation and food for May, and sometimes for her mother, and in return she gave some assistance with the running of the household. It was to be presumed that they had a sexual relationship, but there was an absence of any kind of mutual commitment which Hasson found baffling and disturbing.

Is this what life is like an the ground? he wondered. His instincts had led him to reject Werry’s claim that he and May were non- people, merely realistic lay figures imitating the movements of life — but supposing the fantastic hypothesis were true? Insidious and shameful thoughts began to burgeon in Hasson’s mind. Why not throw overboard all cumbersome precepts concerned with honour and truth? Why not consider the situation as a straight- forward problem in logic or mathematics? X is a man restored to health and with an increasing need for a safety valve to release biological pressures. Y is a man who is incapable of feeling love, hate or jealousy. Z is a woman for whom the concept of fidelity has little meaning. The current relationship can be expressed as X+(YZ), but why not do a little algebraic manipulation, the sort of thing that is done all the time, and change it to Y+(XZ)?

Hasson gazed at May’s silhouette, for the moment allowing himself to see her as a love machine, a human engine which would respond in a certain guaranteed way if he pressed the right buttons — then a rising tide of self-disgust obliterated all the symbols from his mind. Al Werry was a human being, not a mathematical abstraction, and if the things he said about himself were true it meant that he had gained very little from life, and for that reason should be protected rather than plundered. Equally, May was a human being and if she appeared two-dimensional to him the fault had to lie in his inability to perceive depth.

The car had been climbing a gentle hill on the western outskirts of Tripletree and now it swung on to a private road which tunnelled through banks of rhododendrons and other shrubs which Hasson was unable to name. After a few seconds of utter darkness it emerged on a flat summit where a rambling floodlit house presided over a glittering view of the city. Tripletree itself was a spilled hoard of jewellery, a central mound of every kind and colour of precious stone surrounded by outflung necklets of diamond and topaz. The aerial highways hung over it in pastel brilliance, each generously seeded with the lights of night-time fliers, and above them a few first magnitude stars pierced the canopy of radiance with their own patient lustre. Fairy lanterns had been lit on a patio at the side of the house, there was the sound of music and thronging figures surrounded a column of smoke from what appeared to be a huge charcoal grill.

“We must have come to the wrong place,” Hasson said ironically.

“No, this is definitely Buck’s house,” Werry replied, bringing the car to a halt. “I ought to know my way around Tripletree by this time.”

They got out of the car and walked towards the centre of activity with May patting her hair into place and Werry tugging various pans of his uniform into the required degree of smoothness. Hasson lagged a little behind them, experiencing the curious mixture of hesitancy and anticipation he always felt when arriving at a party which was well under way. He expected their entrance to go unnoticed, but the tall heavy-shouldered figure of Buck Morlacher came towards them immediately. An old-style striped apron was tied around his waist, he was carrying a long fork and the heat from the charcoal had inflamed the triangular patches of red on his cheeks. He went straight to May, affecting not to see Werry or Hasson, put an arm around her shoulders and whispered briefly into her blonde hair. May listened for a moment and began to laugh.

“Evening, Buck,” Werry said pleasantly. “Looks like the party’s going well. I brought Rob along to show him how we do these things in Alberta.”

Morlacher looked at him with cold eyes, still not acknowledging Hasson’s presence, and said, “The booze is over by the fountain.”

Werry laughed. “That’s all we need to know. Come on, Rob.” He took Hasson’s arm and began to guide him across the patio.

Hasson refused to move. “Perhaps May would like a drink.”

“I can look after May,” Morlacher said, tilting his head to give Hasson an appraising stare.

“You’re busy with the cooking.” Hasson addressed himself directly to May. “The usual, is it? Rye and ginger?”

“I …” She gazed back at him, wide-eyed and flustered. “I’m not thirsty yet.”

Morlacher tightened his grip on her shoulders. “I’ll fix the lady a drink when she’s ready. What’s the rush?”

Werry pulled harder on Hasson’s arm. “That’s right, Rob. It’s every man for himself around here.”

Morlacher nodded slowly and an unexpected look of satisfaction appeared on his face. “Talking about every man for himself, Reeve Werry, I did something today that you should have thought of a long time ago.”

“Yeah?” Werry released Hasson’s arm. “What was that?”

“You know that black hound of mine? The one I tried to shoot last year for tearing a piece out of Eddie Bennett’s leg?”

“You put him down, did you?”

“No — I put him to work. Starr and I went out to the farm and netted him today and carried him up to the hotel and turned him loose up there. Any punks who move in tonight are going to move out a hell of a sight faster.” Morlacher grinned, showing his inhumanly powerful teeth.

Werry looked impressed. “That should make a difference I’ll get one of my boys to drop him some food every day.”

“No you won’t — I want the brute to stay mean and hungry From now on he’s on a strict diet of angel food. Get it?”

“Hey, that’s a good one,” Werry said, chuckling. He turned and sauntered away across the patio, waving salaam-like greetings to people he recognised, giving the impression he had forgotten the existence of Hasson and May. Hasson, feeling betrayed, followed in his wake, noting as he did so that Morlacher and May were moving off in the direction of the house. He caught up with Werry at a portable bar where two men in white jackets were dispensing liquor in heavy goblets which were decorated with simulated rubies.

“Do me a favour,” Werry said to Hasson as soon as they had obtained their drinks, “try not to upset Buck — it only makes life difficult for me. Why were you arguing with him, anyway?”

“That’s a good question,” Hasson said in a stony voice, “but I think I’ve forgotten the answer.”

Werry looked perplexed. “I hope you’re not going to start going funny on me, Rob. I’m off to do a bit of mingling. See you around.” He moved away towards a group of men and women who were dancing in a comer of the patio.

Hasson stared after him in exasperation, then turned his thoughts to the question of what he was going to do during the next four or five hours. There appeared to be about thirty people in the general area. Many of them were dressed in duvet garments of one kind or another to ward off the early season coolness, with the result that the atmosphere of the gathering was an uneasy blend of party and heroic picnic. A number of the guests were wearing identical gold badges. Hasson spoke to a gaunt, shivering middle-aged man who was determinedly lowering drink after drink in the manner of one who wanted no memory of the occasion, and learned that the visitors were members of an association of chambers of commerce from the western States. They were on a goodwill tour of the Canadian federation and the gaunt man gave the impression of suffering deep regrets over having strayed so far north from his home in Pasadena.

Hasson remained with him for some time discussing the effects of latitude on climate. Other tourists joined in and when they heard Hasson’s British accent the conversation developed into a lively debate on the effects of longitude on climate. Hasson, far from being bored, took pleasure in his newly regained ability to mix and interact with strangers. He drank, obtained food from volunteer cooks at the grill, drank some more, danced with various women wearing gold badges, and smoked his first cigar in months.

In between times, he observed that Morlacher and May were absent from the rest of the assembly for the best part of an hour, but by then he had reached a condition of malty benevolence in which he was prepared to concede that May could have been looking at her host’s stamp collection, and in which he saw clearly that other people’s problems were no concern of his. Life on the ground, it seemed, could be perfectly acceptable as long as one was prepared to live and let live. The notion struck Hasson, retired air cop and reformed meddler, with all the force of a brand-new philosophical concept, and he was exploring its implications when the dance music was suddenly switched off and everybody near him turned to look at something which had begun to happen in the centre of the patio. He moved into a clear space to get a better view.

Buck Morlacher and two other men were wheeling a flat-bed bilaser projector into place. They locked its wheels, made some control adjustments and a glowing image of the Chinook Hotel sprang into being above the machine. The solid-seeming representation was about three metres high and showed the building as it might have appeared in the Architect’s mind, complete with scenic elevators and roof gardens. A murmur of appreciation was heard among the viewers.

“Sorry to interrupt your enjoyment, ladies and gentlemen — but I guess you knew there had to be a catch somewhere,” Morlacher announced with a grin that hovered between candour and coyness.

“Don’t worry, though — this is only going to take up a minute of your time — and I think you’ll agree it’s worth that much to become acquainted with some of the truly wonderful amenities that Central Alberta can offer to businessmen who are interested in reaching new suppliers and new markets. Now I know the Western Prairies air corridor stops a few hundred kilometres south of here, but that’s nothing but a minor detail when you think of the potential for new business that this area offers.”

Morlacher produced a sheet of paper and began to read out statistics which supported his argument. Most of his audience appeared suitably interested, although there was a stealthy drift from the outskirts of the circle in the direction of the bar. Hasson discovered that his own goblet was empty. He turned to go for a replenishment, but stopped in mid-stride as a new sound impinged on his hearing.

It was an unexpected, alien, unidentifiable sound — a ghastly hybrid between a moan and a scream which immediately conjured unwanted thoughts of demons and banshees, and which brought a coldness to the heart. Morlacher stopped speaking as the sobbing wail swiftly reached a crescendo which beat on the gathering like a siren.

It’s coming from above, Hasson thought, but before he could look upwards into the night sky there was a kind of pulpy explosion near the centre of the patio and a number of women shrieked with horror. Hasson shouldered his way forward and saw something black and incredibly bloody lying on the stone slabs.

For an instant he was able to identify the grisly object — it could have been an insane and meaningless concoction of charnel house nightmares — then he realized he was looking at the flattened, ruptured body of a large black mastiff. Spatters of crimson reached out from it in all directions. From the condition of the dog’s carcass Hasson estimated that it had been dropped from a height of several hundred metres.

That almost happened to me once, he thought bemusedly. But now I’m safe. I don’t care about that dog — because now I’m safe.

“You lousy bastards!” Morlacher roared as he leaped on to the low platform of the bilaser projector. His clothing was disfigured by a diagonal streak of red blotches. He shook his fist at the sky and its unseen habitants, and his presence in the cone of laser rays caused the solid image of the Chinook Hotel to shimmer and dissolve like a vision projected on a screen of smoke.

“You lousy shit-head bastards!” Morlacher bellowed, his massive figure seeming to swell with uncontrollable fury. “I’ll get you for this.”

He lowered his gaze and, apparently remembering the presence of his out-of-town guests, made a visible effort to bring himself under control. A shocked silence had descended over the patio, a silence which was disturbed by the faint sounds of a woman crying. Morlacher took out a handkerchief and dabbed himself with it while he muttered apologies to those nearest him. He stepped down off the platform and began to move through the hushed assembly, his eyes questing from side to side. Hasson guessed he was looking for Al Werry.

“Tough luck, Al,” Hasson murmured to himself as he turned towards the bar with his empty goblet. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”