Christopher Priest - The Space Machine

“My dear, we are both filthy. We can wash here.”

“I should very much like a change of clothes,” I said.

“There is no chance of that,” Amelia said. “You will have to wash your clothes as you wash yourself.”

She led me to an area of the building where there was an arrangement of overhead pipes. At the turn of a tap, a shower of liquid—which was not water, but probably a diluted solution of the sap—issued forth. Amelia explained that all the slaves used these baths after work, then she went away to use another in private.

Although the flow of liquid was cold I drenched myself luxuriously, taking off my clothes and wringing them to free them of the last vestiges of the foul fluids they had absorbed.

When I considered neither I nor my clothes could be any further cleansed, I turned off the flow and squeezed my clothes, trying to dry them. I pulled on my trousers, but the cloth was dank and heavy and felt most uncomfortable. Dressed like this I went in search of Amelia.

There was a large metal grille set in One of the walls just beyond the bathing area. Amelia stood before it, holding out her ragged garment to dry it. At once I turned away.

“Bring your clothes here, Edward,” she said.

“When you have finished,” I said, trying not to reveal by the sound of my voice that I had noticed she was completely unclad.

She placed her garment on the floor, and walked over and stood facing me.

“Edward, we are no longer in England,” she said. “You will contract pneumonia if you wear damp clothes.”

“They will dry in time.”

“In this climate you will be seriously ill before then. It takes only a few minutes to dry them this way.”

She went past. me into the bathing area, and came back with the remainder of my clothes.

“I will dry my trousers later,” I said.

“You will dry them now,” she replied.

I stood in consternation for a moment, then reluctantly removed my trousers. Holding them before me, in such a way that I was still covered, I allowed the draught of warmth to blow over them. We stood a little apart, and although I was determined not to gaze immodestly at Amelia, the very presence of the girl who meant so much to me, and with whom I. had suffered so much, made it impossible not to glance her way several times. She was so. beautiful, and, unclad as she was, she bore herself with grace and propriety, rendering innocent a situation which would have scandalized the most forward-looking of our neighbours on Earth. My inhibitions waned, and after a few minutes I could contain my impulses no more.

I dropped the garment I was holding, went quickly to her, then took her in my arms and we kissed passionately for a minute or more.

We were virtually alone in the building. It was still two hours before sunset, and the slaves would not return before then. When our clothes had dried, and we had put them on again, Amelia took me around the building to show me how the slaves were housed. Their conditions were primitive and without convenience: the hammocks were hard and cramped, what food there was had to be eaten raw, and nowhere was there any possibility of privacy.

“And you have been living like this?” I said.

“At first,” Amelia said. “But then I discovered I was someone rather Important. Let me show you where I sleep.”

She led me to one corner of the communal sleeping-quarters. Here the hammocks were arranged no differently, or so it appeared, but when Amelia tugged on a rope attached to an over head pulley, several of the hammocks were lifted up to form an ingenious screen.

“During the days we leave these down, in case a new overseer is sent to inspect us, but when I wish to be private… I have a boudoir all of my own!”

She led me into her boudoir, and once again, sensing that foreign eyes could not light upon us, I kissed Amelia with passion. I knew now what I had been hungering for during that dire period of loneliness!

“You seem to have made yourself at home,” I said at length. Amelia had sprawled across her hammock, while I sat down on a step that ran across part of the floor.

“One has to make the best of what one finds.”

I said: “Amelia, tell me what happened after you were taken by that machine.”

“I was brought here.”

“Is that all? It cannot have been as simple as that!”

“I should not wish to experience it again,” she said. “But what about you? How is it that after all this time you appear from within a watch-tower?”

“I should prefer to hear your story first.”

So we exchanged the news of each other that we both so eagerly sought. The prime concern was that neither of us was the worse for our adventures, and we had each satisfied the other as to that. Amelia spoke first, describing the journey across land to this slave-camp.

She kept her account brief and seemed to omit much detail. Whether this was to spare me the more unpleasant aspects, or because she did not wish to remind herself of them, I do not know. The journey had taken many days, most of it inside covered vehicles. There was no sanitation, and food was supplied only once a day. During the journey Amelia had seen, as I had seen aboard the projectile, how the monsters themselves took food. Finally, in a wretched state, she and the other survivors of the journey—some three hundred people in all, for the spider-like machines had been busy that day in Desolation City—had been brought to this weed-bank, and under super vision of Martians from the near-by city had been put to work on the red weed.

I assumed at this point that Amelia had finished her story, for I then launched into a detailed account of my own adventures. I felt I had much to tell her, and spared few details. When I came to describe the use of the killing-cubicle aboard the projectile I felt no need to expurgate my account, for she too had seen the device in operation… However, as I described what I had seen, she paled a little.

“Please do not dwell on this,” she said.

“But is it not familiar to you?”

“Of course it is. But you need not colour your account with such relish. The barbaric instrument you describe is every where used. There is one in this building.”

That revelation took me by surprise, and I regretted having mentioned it. Amelia told me that each evening six or more of the slaves were sacrificed to the cubicle.

“But this is outrageous!” I said.

“Why do you think the oppressed people of this world are so few in number?” Amelia cried. “It is because the very best of the people are drained of life to keep the monsters alive!”

“I shall not mention it again,” I said, and passed on to relate the rest of my story.

I described how I escaped from the projectile, then the battle I had witnessed, and finally, with not inconsiderable pride, I described how I had tackled and slain the monster in the tower.

At this Amelia seemed pleased, and so once more I garnished my narrative with adjectives. This time my authentic details were not disapproved of, and indeed as I described how the creature had finally expired she clapped her hands together and laughed.

“You must tell your story again tonight,” she said,: “My people will be very encouraged.”

I said: “ Your people?”

“My dear, you must understand that I do not survive here by good fortune. I have discovered that I am their promised leader, the one who in folklore is said to deliver them from oppression.

A little later we were disturbed by the slaves returning from their labours, and for the moment our accounts were put aside.

As the slaves entered the building through the two main pressurizing corridors, the overseeing Martians, who apparently had quarters of their own within the building, came in with them. Several were carrying the electrical whips, but once inside they tossed them casually to one side.