Edmund Cooper - The Overman Culture

Michael looked around him.

The sky was clear, but the stars were pale against the brightness of a cold, yellow moon. Its light shed weird beauty on a landscape that seemed like a nightmare brought to the edge of reality.

The doorway was set in a sloping face of rock, sprinkled with huge boulders, and leading down to a thin strip of sand and pebbles and the breakers of a great sea. Farther down among the rocks, far beyond the body of Aldous Huxley, there were shapes that were too smooth to be rocks. Some of them moved lazily. They were great moon-silvered lizards.

The hair rose on Michael’s neck. His mouth became dry. His heart seemed to be trying to explode out of his chest.

He wanted to run back into the passage, slam the door and pretend that the fantastic world outside did desire to stay, to learn about the nightmare that was real.

He stood there, waiting, watching, feeling the sea wind on his face, hearing the breakers on the rocks. Fear diminished a little. The lizards below, many of them nearly twice as long as Michael’s own height, did not appear to be greatly interested in the vertical intruder. He waved his arms. The lizards noticed, and a few tails flicked indolently; but they took no further action. He shouted and clapped his hands. Silvery reptilian heads turned toward him. But when he stopped shouting and clapping, interest waned.

Fear diminished. Curiosity grew. Michael looked at the sea, the rocks, the lizards, and the top of the ragged rock face, where grass and shrubs were growing. He wanted to explore further.

“Michael, come back!” Horatio spoke in a loud, hoarse, stage whisper, as if he was afraid of being overheard.

Michael went back into the passage and closed the door behind him. It was already hard to believe what lay on the other side of it.

“You have strong nerves,” said Ernest. “I always knew you had. Shouldn’t we be getting back?”

“We can spare a little more time,” said Michael. “I want to go outside, really outside.”

Horatio was appalled at the prospect. “They’ll kill you—the lizards.”

“I don’t think so. They don’t seem very interested.”

“There is the matter of Aldous Huxley,” began Ernest.

“I told you it was a trap,” cut in Horatio. “By the time we get back, the place will be crawling with drybones.”

Michael shook his head. “I think you are wrong. We are still caught up in the game of the unexpected. We expected to find the body in the passage, and we didn’t. We didn’t expect to find it here, and we did. We expect a trap and there won’t be one. But even if there was a trap, that would strengthen the argument for exploring outside before we returned to walk into it.”

“What do you want to do, Michael?” Ernest was trying to be calm, but could not keep a high note of anxiety out of his voice.

“Nothing spectacular, and it won’t take long. I simply want to take a few steps outside. I’d like Horatio to stay here in the passage, holding the door open to prevent the wind slamming it and, perhaps, making it stick in some way. And I would like you, Ernest, to stand just outside the door with a couple of rocks ready to throw if the lizards become too inquisitive. I’ll take a torch. It should dazzle any creature long enough to allow me to get back.”

“I think you are crazy,” said Horatio.

“I think you are intelligently crazy,” amended Ernest. “Take my torch. It has the brightest beam.”

The door was opened again. Horatio stood with his back pressed against it, peering apprehensively down the rock face. Ernest stepped out and found six or seven large fragments of rock. He built them into a neat little pile of ammunition at his feet.

Michael breathed the clean night wind and was exhilarated. He looked at the foaming edge of the sea, at the lizards, at the rocks, at the raw, raw world of reality. Absurdly, he wanted to sing. Out here it was strange and terrible. Out here was the danger of the unknown. But out here, also, he sensed freedom.

He smiled at Ernest, a pale, anxious ghost in moonlight. “I won’t be long.”

“Be careful.”

“Don’t worry.”

He put the torch in his pocket and began to climb up the rock face, away from the lizards, away from the sea. The going was hard. He had to use his hands. Pieces of rock were dislodged and rattled downward. Something small scuttled between his legs. Wings flapped noisily on a ledge above, and there was the desolate cry of a bird.

Michael was shaking with excitement. Was this really the world of freedom? Or was all this still part of the kingdom of the drybones? Questions—always more questions. Enough to drive a man mad.

He had reached the top of the rock face now. There was grass beneath his feet; and here and there, silvery shrubs and bushes, small trees. The ground rose steeply to a hill, cutting off the view inland, stretching away left and right to where moonlight was defeated by misty darkness.

Michael was disappointed. He knew now what he had been hoping for. He had been hoping that he would be able to see London from the outside.

But the hill was high, and there was no time to climb it; and, anyway, he was too tired. He turned and looked down over the rocks toward the sea. Already, what at first had seemed terrible was now beautiful. Even the lizards, though still perhaps terrible, seemed beautiful.

Who could have imagined that an underground passage from a library in a city that was one colossal confidence trick could lead to this silver wilderness? London was not London. Perhaps Earth was not Earth. But the stars were real, and the lizards were real, and the ocean was a great water.

Michael was lightheaded. He knew he should go back, but he was reluctant. He forced himself to scramble down the rocks to the door and the passage that led back to captivity.

Ernest and Horatio were visibly relieved at his return. There had been no trouble. The lizards had returned presumably to their slumbers.

“What did you see?”

“Just hills and coastline…. I have an idea this is wonderful country—here, outside…. Now, I suppose we must get back as quickly as possible.”

“Into the trap,” said Horatio gloomily. He closed the door carefully after they had all stepped back into the passage.

But, as Michael had predicted, there was no trap. The library was as they had left it. Michael remembered to pick up the History of the Second World War. He still did not know where he was going to hide the heavy volumes; but he would think of that on the way home.

“It is terribly late,” said Ernest. “Our drybone jailers are going to want explanations.”

“We got lost,” said Michael. “It is easy to get lost in London, isn’t it? We were exploring together in North London and we got lost… I’m beginning to think the drybones always know far more about our actions than we think they do. But let us stick to polite fictions—for the time being.”

“Somebody knows about Aldous Huxley, at least,” said Horatio gloomily.

Michael put a hand on his shoulder. “Try not to worry too much, Horatio. I’m sure they are playing with us; but there is one thing in our favor. They don’t quite know the kind of people they are playing with. They try desperately to keep us on the level of children. I don’t think they realize that we are turning into men and women.”

“Let’s go,” said Ernest. “I could fall asleep on my feet.”

Michael gave a last glance at the library. “There is just one other thing. For the next few days, we had better drop back into the role of retarded adolescents. We must just carry on as if nothing had happened. This applies particularly to you, Horatio. OK?”

“Yes, master.”