Edmund Cooper - Transit

But now they were no longer perfect strangers. The dream had become a reality, while Earth itself had receded into a dream stature. The fear remained, but it was smaller. And, too, it was offset by companionship, growing confidence and the subtle, tranquillizing magic of sky and land and sea….

On Earth Barbara had been an avid reader of mystery novels. Her trunk contained about fifty assorted paperbacks—most of which she had read before in ‘the other life’, and all of which were by authors she liked. Now, she read them again and again—and so did the others— these stories of a fantastic world of cities, shops, theatres, restaurants, flats, country houses and impossible people.

The plots and the people no longer mattered. It was the background that they liked to read about. Unfortunately, in most of the stories there was so little of the kind of background they wanted. But imagination came to their rescue. If a restaurant in Soho was mentioned, each of them, in his or her own way, would re-create the set vividly, would joyfully invent the decor, furnishings, menu, the head waiter’s name—even the private life of the restaurateur.

Eventually, this elaborate extension of fiction became a game which they played with each other, half jokingly, half seriously. Tom, who had been car-crazy, would give pronouncements on the kind of cars owned or used by the characters. Barbara would itemize their wardrobes, Mary would deliver expertise on their tastes in entertainment, Avery would develop their lives and actions far outside the terms of the novel.

They called it the Inquest Game. It was more than a game. It was a mechanism for creating transient realities out of permanent illusions…

So time passed, and slowly they began to adjust to a totally new way of life. Time passed, and each in turn made startling discoveries:

Despair was giving way to exhilaration….

Regret for things past was shrinking before the satisfaction of things achieved….

And loneliness was receding like a morning mist…

It was one morning when Tom and Avery were theoretically on a hunting expedition inland—though, in fact, Camp Two was already well supplied with meat—that Tom raised a problem that had evidently been troubling him for some time. They were sitting on a fallen tree, taking a breather; and Avery was idly cutting a design on the haft of his favourite tomahawk.

‘I hope, old man, that we know each other well enough by now for you not to take offence at anything I say,’ began Tom.

Avery looked at him curiously. These days, Tom never said ‘old man’ unless he was particularly nervous.

‘We also know each other well enough not to beat about the bush,’ remarked Avery. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Impotence,’ said Tom quickly.

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘I said impotence…. With Mary.’

‘Oh, sorry. It didn’t register for a moment.’ Avery was thinking: Here, ladies and gentlemen we have the Garden of Eden—only neuroses are more plentiful than apples.

Tom was baffled by the ensuing silence. He had expected something more than a non-committal response.

‘A further relevant matter,’ he went on desperately, ‘is whether you and Barbara have made love…. At least, I ' think it’s relevant.’

‘Possibly. But I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you. We haven’t…. Well, not in that sense.’

‘Why not?’ Tom was surprised. ‘Don’t you like her enough?’

‘I like her a great deal,’ snapped Avery. ‘Maybe that’s part of the reason You aren’t the only nut case, you know.’

‘You haven’t made love to her?’ echoed Tom stupidly. The knowledge seemed to shatter foundations on which he was trying to build.

‘I haven’t made love to her,’ explained Avery, ‘not because I can’t, not because I don’t want to, but because I’ve got a damn silly problem of loyalties. There was a girl called Christine, and she died a long time ago—but I got into the peculiar habit of not letting her die, if you see what I mean.’

‘You’ll have to get over it some time,’ Tom pointed out. ‘Otherwise you’ll both go dotty…. Anyway, what do you do about the dear old demon sex?’

‘I kiss Barbara good night,’ said Avery angrily, ‘and go to sleep thinking about Christine—and if I’m lucky, I wake up in the morning with the problem solved until next time…. Does that answer your question?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Poor Barbara.’

‘Poor Barbara, indeed.’ Then he added brutally: ‘But impotence was the original topic, I believe. Your impotence.’

‘Let’s forget the whole matter, old man,’ said Tom distantly. ‘I didn’t know it was going to upset you.’

Suddenly, the tension drained out of Avery. He knew that he was being unreasonable and bloody-minded. He wanted to make amends.

‘Sorry, Tom. Fat lot of help I am…. Any idea what causes the impotence, or is it all a damned annoying mystery?’

‘I think it’s tenderness,’ said Tom with an almost comic expression. ‘Tenderness—and a history of pornography.’ It was the first reference he had made to his private collection for a long, long time.

Avery put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ll have to elaborate further, my old one. I’m in a complete fog.’

Tom took a deep breath. ‘The trouble is, I think I’m in love with Mary.’

‘Congratulations. No problem, then.’

‘Don’t be a bloody dunce,’ exploded Tom. ‘That is the problem. For donkey’s years, love and sex have been in separate compartments. You see what I mean? Sex was sordid. Love was something you only read about. Sex was just bosomy bitches—preferably in two dimensions, where they couldn’t do you a mischief—and love, well, I never really believed in it, I suppose….’ He swallowed, and the sweat dripped off his forehead. The confession was costing him something. ‘The trouble is, I have tenderness for Mary, I respect her—so how the hell can I do something like that to her…. I suppose it’s a sort of conditioning,’ he wound up lamely. ‘Pavlov’s dog, and all that.’

Avery’s heart went out to Tom. He was pitting himself against the habits of half a lifetime.

‘There’s one other small point,’ said Avery gently. ‘How do you think Mary really feels about you?’

‘Affectionate,’ babbled Tom. ‘Most affectionate. I think the poor misguided girl really likes me. Hell, maybe she even loves me She gives me so much.’

At this point, Avery was beginning to feel like an old, old man.

‘This is a case of the blind attempting to lead the helpless,’ he said at length. ‘But here goes There are lots of feminine roles, Tom—child, virgin, harlot, sister, wife, mother. My guess is that women—most women—want to be a bit of everything. I think Mary does. Your trouble is that you think you ought only to cherish her…. God dammit, she must know by now that you cherish her. What she wants next is for you to use her.’

‘But how?’ asked Tom helplessly.

‘Use her body, man. Forget she has a soul. Treat her like a paid prostitute.’

Tom’s eyes widened. ‘I—I couldn’t do it.’

Avery smiled. ‘There’s a remedy for that—four shots of Barbara’s whisky. Strictly medicinal. Three shots for you and one for Mary.’

‘But ’

‘But me no buts Tonight, I’m going to take Barbara for a long walk on the beach. When we come back, we’ll take first watch. With a bit luck and some thoughtful help, Nature will take care of the rest.’

‘I couldn’t do it,’ said Tom. ‘Not to Mary.’

‘Man, you bloody well will do it,’ snapped Avery. ‘Otherwise, I shall have a heart-to-heart talk with Mary myself, and tell her all about your piddling little inhibitions.’