Edmund Cooper - The Overman Culture

“Yes, we must go home as fast as we can. You’d better invent a good story, Horatio.”

“Don’t worry. Don’t worry. They are used to me being unpredictable. I often tell them to go to hell anyway…. Tomorrow night, Michael, you and Ernest will need help to get rid of the bits. I can—”

“You have done enough already,” cut in Michael. “You had better keep out of mischief for a day or two.” “How are you going to dispose of the remains, then?”

Michael thought for a moment or two. “I don’t like it a bit,” he said grimly. “But about the safest thing I can think of is to make a free gift to those lizards.”

Michael and Ernest were not able to go to the library on the following night. They were not able to go until three nights later. The first evening was taken up by an invitation—which Michael had forgotten—from Mr. and Mrs. Bronte to Mr. and Mrs. Faraday and Michael to play Monopoly. Since everyone was well aware of the situation between Emily and Michael, it would have looked exceedingly odd if he had evaded this opportunity of seeing her. And, above all, Michael did not want to do anything that would excite suspicion at this point.

The second evening was taken up by an exhibition of students’ work at high school. All students were expected to attend, along with their parents, if possible. And it was a foregone conclusion that all the drybone parents would want to see what their children had been doing. Michael had an intricate model of Westminster Abbey on show. Ernest had done a series of paintings of British military aircraft.

The third evening, however, was free. Michael, Ernest and Horatio waited for it with impatience and dread. Horatio seemed to have recovered from his horrifying experience and pleaded to be allowed to help dispose of what was left of Aldous Huxley. He promised never again to undertake any private exploration without Michael’s consent. In the end, Michael decided that it was probably safer and wiser to have Horatio present than to leave him out of the disposal operation. It was going to be a hard task hauling Aldous Huxley along the passage to that tantalizing door to the outside world. Three people would obviously do the job a great deal faster than two.

Michael had told Ernest all that had happened, but he had told no one else—not even Emily. The fewer the people who knew about the bizarre situation the better. Nevertheless, Michael had a depressing conviction that it was not going to he possible to restrict the knowledge of the destruction of Aldous Huxley to three fragiles.

He was right.

They arrived at the library when dusk was beginning to blend into darkness. Apollo Twelve Square, as on previous occasions, was deserted. All seemed entirely normal, but Michael sensed that something was wrong.

Inside the library, they discreetly used one of the torches they had brought. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. The Winston Churchill books lay where Michael had put them down—the shock of Aldous Huxley’s destruction had driven them completely from his mind, and he was only now reminded of their existence. He determined not to forget them this time when he left. A History of the Second World War —the one that was still supposed to be going on—was something he greatly looked forward to reading.

“We are in luck,” said Horatio, relief in his voice. “No one seems to have been here.”

“I hope we are in luck,” said Michael grimly. He didn’t believe it.

After a cursory inspection, they went down the steps and along the passage to where Aldous Huxley’s head and body had been laid. They weren’t there. Michael was surprised that he felt no surprise; and then he realized that this was exactly what he had expected. He wondered why.

Horatio, the tough one, began to panic again. “We have got to get out,” he insisted. “We have got to get out. They have turned it into a trap!” He shone his torch in agitation up and down the passage as if he expected to be rushed by drybones at any minute.

“If it is a trap,” said Ernest quietly, “we are already inside it. Calm yourself, Horatio. Rushing about and flashing lights all over the place is not going to do any good…. Well, Michael, you are the general. What do we do?”

“It is not a trap,” said Michael. “At least, it is not a trap in the sense of being designed to catch us.”

“How do you know?”

“I can’t explain. But in some way, I am beginning to discern a pattern…. It is as if we are in some kind of war or elaborate game. Our opponents—the drybones—try to defeat us or divert us by a constant application of the unexpected. The disappearance of Aldous Huxley was unexpected. A trap is therefore now expected. You see what I mean?”

“I think so. But what do we do?”

Horatio groaned. “While you two blather, the library is probably being surrounded by drybones. Let us try to get out before it is too late.”

“If your theory were correct, Horatio, it would already be too late…. We were going to dump Aldous Huxley in this terrifying outside world that Horatio glimpsed. No drybone. But let us not waste our opportunity. I want to see what is on the other side of that door. Can you face it again, Horatio?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then let us not waste any time. It is a long way there and back.” Michael smiled. “One small consolation is that we are not now to be burdened by any heavy weight.”

They followed Horatio’s original method of travel—running for a spell, then walking until they had recovered their breath. Occasionally, they stood still in complete silence, listening for a time. But there were no sounds of pursuit.

Presently they came to the door. It did not look like a door leading into a nightmare world. It looked just like the kind of ordinary door that Horatio had described.

The journey along the passage had been even longer than Michael anticipated. All three of them were tired. He decided that they should take a little rest before looking outside. Wearily, all three of them sat down on the cold floor. Michael kept a torch switched on simply because the light provided an illusion of security.

“It will be dark out there,” observed Ernest. “Probably we shall see nothing. Was it dark when you came, Horatio?”

“There was moonlight.” Horatio shuddered. “I think the moonlight made it all look more terrible. Maybe it is not so bad in broad daylight.”

“I took the trouble to check,” said Michael. “It is full moon tonight…. You really are sure you can face it again, Horatio?”

“I managed it alone last time, didn’t I?” snapped Horatio. “And I know what to expect now. Worry about yourself, Michael. Don’t worry about me.”

“Ssh!” said Ernest. “What is that noise?” There was a muted, rhythmic roaring.

“Water,” said Horatio. “Water against rocks.”

Michael stood up. “Let’s get it over. Whatever is out there, we can’t stay long. We have to try to get back home at a reasonable hour.”

He went to the door and turned the handle. As he opened the door, a great draft of cool, fresh air swept into the passageway. The roaring of the water became loud.

Michael opened the door wide.

Ernest and Horatio stood close by him. Michael suddenly felt as if he had received an electric shock. He heard Ernest draw in a great breath, noisily, unevenly. He heard Horatio utter a half-strangled cry.

There on the rocks lay what was left of Aldous Huxley.

Horatio had retreated into the passage. So had Ernest. Michael stood alone, surveying the world that was outside London.

“Come back,” called Horatio. “Come back!”

“In a moment or two. If this is what the world is like, we have to know about it.”