Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

Control signals blinked and clicked. It had rained earlier: the streets were slick with water. They were also empty.

I was only a block from the Edwardian, our major hotel. Like many of the older structures in town, it was Toxicon Gothic. But it towered over the others, a colossus of ornate porticos and gray minarets, of blunt arches and step-down galleries. Yellow light spilled from two cupolas atop the gambrel roof. (I had a few pleasant recollections from this place too, but they all predated my marriage.)

The Edwardian was used extensively by tourists, and its Skyway Room also served as a popular rendezvous for revelers seven nights a week. The sidewalks should have been jammed. Where the hell was everybody?

There was something else. I could see the main library about halfway up a sharp rise on the eastern edge of town. It’s a sleek, modern place, designed by Orwell Mason, and done in late Terran. Set amid a scattering of fountains and pools, its lines suggest a fourth dimension, an effectemphasized by nighttime illumination. A massive boulder, which is supposed to have been deposited by ice fifteen thousand years ago, guards the main approach.

It was almost midnight. The lamps should have been dimmed to the soft multi-colored ambience of the fountains, and the topological illusion consequently diminished. But the place was ablaze with light.

I looked at my watch again.

Only a handful of vehicles were parked on the library grounds. No movement was detectable, either inside or outside the building.

I was standing in the middle of Seaway Boulevard. It’s a broad thoroughfare, the central artery, really, of Point Edward. To the north, it rises in a near straight line across a series of escarpments; to the south, it proceeds another half-kilometer to Barracut Circle, the heart of the shopping district. Nowhere in all that stretch of blinking traffic signals and overhead arcs could I see a single moving car.

Could I see movement of any kind.

Even Tracy Park, usually full of ringstruck couples from the University, was deserted.

A sudden gust blew up and drove a scattering of leaves against the shops lining the boulevard.

No one’s ever accused me of having an active imagination, but I stood puzzled out there, listening to the city, to the wind and the buoys and the water sucking at the piers and the sudden hum of power beneath the pavement and the distant banging of a door swinging on its hinges and the Carolian beat of the automated electronic piano in the Edwardian. Something walked through it all on invisible feet.

I hurried into the shadows. The needlepoint towers, the sequestered storefronts, the classical statuary in the parks: I had never noticed before but they resembled the ruins I’d visited in the southern hemisphere. It was not difficult to imagine a far traveller strolling these avenues, feeling the press of the centuries, and the eyes of the long dead, nodding knowingly at primitive architectural styles, and retreating at last, not without a measure of relief, to a boat moored in the harbor.

Well, there you are. I was standing in front of the Surf & Sand with my imagination running wild when the lights went out.

It was as if somebody threw a switch.

My first impression was that the entire city had been plunged into darkness. But that wasn’t quite the case: traffic signals still worked, streetlamps still burned, and Cory’s Health Club was illuminated by security lights. In the opposite direction, the Edwardian showed no change whatever. But beyond it lay rows of darkened storefronts. Across the street from where I stood, Captain Culpepper’s Waterfront Restaurant, and the garden supply shop on the corner of Seaway and Delinor, also retained some lights. But the vast sweep of thousands of homes were dark. I couldn’t be certain, but I would have sworn they had all, all , been brightly lit a moment before. The library had also vanished into the general gloom.

Along the piers, some of the strings of bulbs still glowed brightly.

I started to walk again, trying to tread gently, to muffle my footsteps. Past the Keynote (“Musical Groups for All Occasions”), the Male Body (a clothing shop), Monny’s Appliance Rental, and a three-story posh apartment complex. No light in any of them.

I stopped at the apartment building and pressed all the signals. Nothing happened, no one asked who was there, no light came on.

The Blue Lantern, where I usually ate lunch when I was downtown, looked open for business. Its sign blinked on and off. The window neons burned cheerfully, and a bright yellow glow outlined the top of the transom. The tables were set with silverware, and soft music drifted into the street. But the candles were all out.

The door was bolted.

I pulled my jacket tightly about my shoulders. The war, I thought. It had to be the war.

But that made no sense. The war was very far, and Ilyanda wasn’t even part of it. Anyhow, why would the Mutes spirit away twenty thousand people?

I crossed the street and hurried into a parking area. I had to grope around because I’d forgotten where I’d left the car. I found it finally, opened the door, and climbed inside. It felt a lot better behind a locked door.

I switched on the radio. And picked up Lach Keenan’s familiar voice. He was going on about a proposed school bond issue. Taking calls. I waited for him to give his code. When he did I punched it into my link. It responded with the tones that indicated a connection had been made. Then Keenan’s voice: “ Hello. We appreciate your calling Late Night . We’re not broadcasting live this evening, but we’d be happy to hear from you next time. Good night. Thank you for your interest. ”

I cruised slowly through the downtown area, and turned onto University. The commercial area gave way to shadowy stone houses with rock gardens and fountains. Out near Bradenthorn, on the edge of town, a black dog stopped in the middle of the street, looked at me, and walked on.

Eventually, I went back to the Edwardian.

The lobby was lighted, but no hosts walked among the potted fronds. No guest stood at the service counter, where all screens read Good evening—May I help you? I went into the Iron Pilot and looked around at the empty tables. And the deserted bar.

Distant thunder rumbled.

I’d been reluctant to call anyone because it was late. But finally I broke down and called Quim Bordley. He was an antique collector and an old friend.

Nobody answered.

Aias Weinstein, my cousin, didn’t answer.

The spaceport security office, where Gage had worked, didn’t answer.

The police didn’t answer.

My heart pounded, and the fronds and chairs and counters and clerks grew blurred and unreal. At the far end of the lobby, at the travel desk, an electronic sign urged patrons to charter a Blue Line cruise.

I consulted the directory for Albemarle, a small mining settlement across the continent, and tried the police there. A voice replied!

“ Good evening, ” it said. “ You have reached the Albemarle police. Please remain on the link, and we will be right with you. If this is an emergency, please say so. ”

“Yes,” I whispered into the receiver, cautious lest I be overheard. “My God, this is an emergency. Please. It’s an emergency.”

After a while, the recording repeated.

I rode through the silent streets. A half hour after midnight, right on schedule, our nightly electrical storm hit. The skies opened, and I should have stopped, but I felt safer on the move.

Lights were on at the hospital. I pulled up at the emergency entrance and hurried inside. The prep room was empty. Elsewhere, beds were crumpled, sheets and blankets tossed aside. They had left in a hurry.