Brian Aldiss - Non-Stop

The guards were prompt to obey. Despite protests from Fermour, he and Complain and Marapper were hustled out of the room and into another only a few yards down the corridor, where the door was shut on them. Marapper looked embarrassed, realizing that his recent attempt to extricate himself at their expense might have cost him a little goodwill; he began straightway to try to retain his position by cheering them up.

‘Well, well, my children,’ he said, extending his arms to them, ‘the Long Journey has always begun, as the scripture puts it. These people of Forwards are more civilized than we, and will certainly have a horrible fate awaiting us. Let me intone some last rite for you.’

Complain turned away and sat down in a far corner of the room. Fermour did likewise. The priest followed them, squatting on his massive haunches and resting his arms on his knees.

‘Keep away from me, Priest!’ Complain said. ‘Leave me in peace!’

‘Have you no guts, no reverence?’ the priest asked him. His voice became as thick as cool treacle. ‘Do you think the Teaching allows you peace in your last hours? You must be stirred into Consciousness for the final time. Why should you slump here, despairing? What is your wretched, sordid life to care a curse over? Where in your mind is anything so precious that it should not be carelessly extinguished? You are sick, Roy Complain, you need my ministrations.’

‘Just take it I’m not in your parish any more, will you?’ Complain said wearily. ‘I can look after myself.’

The priest made a face and turned to Fermour.

‘You, my friend, what have you to say?’ he asked.

Fermour smiled. He was in control of himself again.

‘I’d just like an hour alone with that luscious Inspector Vyann — then I’d travel happy,’ he said. ‘Can you arrange that for me, Marapper?’

Before Marapper had time to choose a suitably moral answer, the door opened and an ugly face peered in; a hand followed it, beckoning to the priest. Marapper rose, smoothing his clothes self-consciously.

‘I’ll put in a word for you, children,’ he said, and stalked with dignity into the passage behind the guard. A minute later, he was facing the inspector and her superior again. The latter, perched on a corner of the desk, began to speak at once.

‘Expansions to you. You are Henry Marapper, a priest, I believe? My name is Scoyt, Master Scoyt, and I am in charge of alien investigation. Anybody brought into Forwards comes before me and Inspector Vyann. If you are what you claim, you will not be harmed — but some strange things emerge from Deadways, and must be guarded against. I understand you came here especially to bring us some information?’

‘I have come a long way, through many decks,’ Marapper said, ‘and do not appreciate my reception now I am here.’

‘Master Scoyt inclined his head.

‘What is this information you have?’ he asked.

‘I can divulge it only to the Captain.’

‘Captain? What Captain? The captain of the guard? There is no other captain.’

This put Marapper in an awkward position, since he did not wish to use the word ‘ship’ before the moment was ripe.

‘Who is your superior?’ he asked.

‘Inspector Vyann and I answer only to the Council of Five,’ Scoyt said, with anger in his tone. ‘It is impossible for you to see the Council until we have assessed the importance of your information. Come, Priest — other matters are on hand! Patience is an old-fashioned virtue I don’t possess. What is this intelligence you set so much store by?’

Marapper hesitated. The moment was definitely not ripe. Scoyt had risen almost as if to go, Vyann looked restless. All the same, he could hedge no more.

‘This world,’ he began impressively, ‘all Forwards and Deadways to the far regions of Sternstairs is one body, the Ship. And the Ship is man-made, and moves in a medium called space. Of this I have proof.’ He paused to take in their expressions. Scoyt’s was one of ambiguity. Marapper continued, explaining the ramifications of his theory with eloquence. He finished by saying, ‘If you will trust me, trust me and give me power, I will set this Ship — for such you may be assured it is — at its destination, and we will all be free of it and its oppression for ever.’

He faltered to a stop. Their faces were full of harsh amusement. They looked at each other and laughed briefly, almost without humour. Marapper rubbed his jowls uneasily.

‘You have no faith in me because I come from a small tribe,’ he muttered.

‘No, Priest,’ the girl said. She came and stood before him. ‘You see — in Forwards we have known of the ship and its journey through space for a long while.’

Marapper’s jaw dropped.

‘Then — the Captain of the ship — you have found him?’ he managed to say.

‘The Captain does not exist. He must have made the Long Journey generations ago.’

‘Then — the Control Cabin — you have found that?’

‘It does not exist either,’ the girl said. ‘We have a legend of it, no more.’

‘Oh?’ said Marapper, suddenly wary and excited. ‘In our tribe even the legend of it had faded — presumably because we were further from its supposed position than you. But it must exist! You have looked for it?’

Again Scoyt and Vyann looked at each other; Scoyt nodded in answer to an unspoken question.

‘Since you appear to have stumbled on part of the secret,’ Vyann told Marapper, ‘we may as well tell you the whole of it. Understand this is not general knowledge even among the people of Forwards — we of the élite keep it to ourselves in case it causes madness and unrest. As the proverb has it, the truth never set anyone free. The Ship is a ship, as you rightly say. There is no Captain. The ship is plunging on unguided through space, non-stop. We can only presume it is lost. We presume it will travel for ever, till all aboard have made the Long Journey. It cannot be stopped — for though we have searched all Forwards for the Control Room, it does not exist!’

She was silent, looking at Marapper with sympathy as he digested this unpalatable information; it was almost too ghastly to accept.

‘… some terrible wrong of our forefathers,’ he murmured, drawing his right index finger superstitiously across his throat. Then he pulled himself together. ‘But at least the Control Room exists,’ he said. ‘Look, I have proof!’

From under his dirty tunic, he drew the looker containing circuit diagrams and waved it at them.

‘You were searched at the barriers,’ Scoyt said. ‘How did you manage to retain that?’

‘Shall we say — thanks to a luxuriant growth of underarm hair?’ the priest asked, winking at Vyann. He had them impressed again, and was at once back on form. Now he spread the small looker on the Inspector’s desk and pointed dramatically to the diagram he had previously shown Complain; the little bubble of the Control Room was clearly indicated at the front of the ship. As the other two stared, he explained how he came by the looker.

‘This object was made by the Giants,’ he said. ‘They undoubtedly owned the ship.’

‘We know that much,’ Scoyt said. ‘But this book is valuable. Now we have a definite location to check for the Control Room. Come on, Vyann, my dear, let’s go and look at once.’

She pulled open a deep drawer in her desk, picked out a dazer and belt and strapped them round her slender waist. It was the first dazer Marapper had seen here: they were evidently in short supply. He recalled that the Greene tribe was so well armed only because old Bergass’s father had stumbled on a supply of them in Deadways, many decks from Forwards.

They were about to leave when the door opened and a tall man entered. He was dressed in a good robe and his hair was worn long and neat. As if respect were due to him, Scoyt and Vyann drew themselves up deferentially.