Brian Aldiss - The Complete Short Stories - The 1950s

He looked hopelessly at the book Carappa had left. Most of it consisted of unreadable diagrams and instructions, obviously of a technical nature. Here and there was a sentence – such as ‘The daily six-hour dim-down of all inessential lighting, established to give an illusion of night, will be the period normally devoted to routine maintenance’ – which seemed to make sense without being really comprehensible. Realising how little he understood of the world, Brandyholm began to pace rapidly up and down. Confinement! It was killing him.

He flung himself violently at the door, hammering and scratching on it, screaming.

In a kind of daze, he felt Crooner pull him over onto his back.

‘Got to get away, got to get away, Bob!’ he cried. ‘Can’t we escape – get back to the tribe?’

‘Lie quiet and shut up,’ Crooner advised grimly. ‘Wait your chance. It’ll come, with luck.’

They waited, Brandyholm in a kind of stupor. When the guards came again and called for him, they had to haul him to his feet. He was dragged roughly along corridors and finally pushed into a small room. A uniformed man with a lean face confronted him.

‘I am Master Scott,’ the man said. ‘Expansion to your ego.’

Brandyholm, trying to focus on him through swimming vision, did not reply. A swung hand, catching him sharply on the cheek, cleared his head with remarkable efficiency.

‘Expansion to your ego,’ Master Scott repeated menacingly.

‘At your expense,’ replied Brandyholm feebly.

‘That’s better. What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?’

‘Migraine.’

‘You confess regularly?’

‘When my priest, Carappa, is at liberty.’

‘Then you should not suffer guilt-attacks which produce migraines,’ answered Scott, ignoring Brandyholm’s thrust. Changing his tone, he said, ‘I have to ask you some questions. It would be wise to answer carefully. First: where were you born?’

‘In Quarters.’

‘Proof of that?’

‘What do you call proof? Go and catch my mother: she’s still alive: she’ll tell you.’

‘Have you any reasons why your life should be spared?’

‘What reason have you to kill me?’

Master Scott made an impatient gesture. ‘I’m trying to be patient. Reasons, quickly. Have you any knowledge?’

‘What if I have?’

The words were hardly out of his mouth when his mouth was slammed shut by a palm under his chin. He was pinned against the wall, struggling, while a long finger flicked unpleasantly against his windpipe.

‘Understand this,’ Scott said, synchronising words with flicks, ‘Everyone on shipboard is in a damn beastly situation. It’s a ship, see, and it’s headed hell-knows-where, and there are some queer things going on aboard – never mind that – you wouldn’t understand. What you can understand, is that we’re all expendable, and if you can’t show you’re any use you’re bound for the Long Jump. Now – talk.’

Sick, sweating, Brandyholm said the first thing that came into his head: ‘The daily six-hour dim-down of all unessential lighting, established to give a delusion of night, will be the period devoted to maintenance.’

He was instantly released. Instantly, he slumped to the floor.

‘What’s that?’ Scott asked, stirring him slightly with one foot. He wrote it down in a notebook while Brandyholm repeated it.

‘Is it important?’ Brandyholm asked.

‘Could be. Where did you get it from?’ He listened intently while the other explained about the book of circuits, which he had left in the cell.

The silence which followed was broken by the entry of an excited man who grabbed Scott’s arm and said, ‘You’re needed at once at the barricades! An attack is developing. Everyone is wanted.’

‘I’m coming,’ Scott said. Without another glance at Brandyholm, they ran from the room. The latter took no advantage of their disappearance beyond arranging himself more comfortably on the floor. So deeply had a feeling of defeat crept into him that he scarcely realised he was alone; when he did realise it, he was at first unable to do anything about it. Gradually, however, he fostered a strengthening rage in himself. He had been tricked, trapped, maligned, persecuted, bullied, he who deserved only kindness … Tears stood in his eyes, and he hauled himself to his feet. He was going to show them. An exhilarating urge to clamp his hands round somebody’s throat seized him.

The door by which Scott and the other man had left proved to be locked. The opposite wall also had a door, which opened into a sort of ante-room. Passing through this, Brandyholm came into a deserted corridor, at the far end of which, beyond a gap, he could see ponics growing. He had never been so grateful for the sight of those growths in his life. Once in among them, escape should be easy, and he could find his way back to Quarters. Here was the luck Crooner had spoken of.

He began to run down the corridor. There was one room to pass with an open door; he sprinted past it, glancing in as he did so. What he saw made him halt and turn back. Lying on a couch just inside the room, relaxed as if he were merely sleeping, lay Carappa. His huge body sprawled untidily, his legs were crossed, and face bore the expression of a well-fed bulldog – and blood was clotted over his hair and temple.

‘Carappa!’ Brandyholm exclaimed, leaning forward and touching the priest’s arm. It was stone cold.

The teaching laid down strict instructions on the ceremony to be observed over the dead. Death has a sting, said the Teaching, for those who observe it; it strikes fear into their hearts. This fear must not be allowed to permeate the subconscious: it must be acted out of the system at once, in a complex ritual of expressions of terror. So firmly had this principle been instilled into Brandyholm that, abandoning all thought of escape, he snapped straight away into the first gesture of prostration.

‘I’m afraid we must interrupt,’ said a cool female voice behind him. He jumped round. Viann and two guards with levelled dazers confronted him. Her lips were beautiful but her smile was unnerving.

‘Well, warrior?’ Crooner asked defiantly, looking up at the man who stood on the threshold of his cell, his thumbs tucked theatrically in his belt.

‘Your turn for interrogation. Look lively,’ the man said. He was an ugly looking brute: Crooner thought it wise to jump to his feet at once.

He was marched along the course Carappa and Brandyholm had taken earlier. Now he too faced Master Scott. They exchanged greetings in surly fashion as the guard left them to confront each other

‘Where were you born?’ Scott snapped.

‘Somewhere in the tangles.’

‘Why?’

‘My parents were fugitives from their tribe – one of the little Midway tribes. My father ran amok, I believe. It often happens. I was fully grown when I joined the Greene tribe.’

‘Have you proof of all that?’ Scott asked, elongating his mouth to a mere slit.

‘Why do you need to ask these questions?’

Scott caught him a ringing slap across the face and repeated in the same dead level tone, ‘Have you proof of all that?’

Crooner put his hand up to his cheek, and then suddenly pounced with arms extended. He was not quick enough. Master Scott chopped his arms expertly and ducked to one side; as he ducked, he produced a short rubber cosh, with which he smashed a blow behind Crooner’s knee. Crooner collapsed onto the floor.

‘Your reflexes are too slow,’ Scott said. ‘You should easily have been able to take me by surprise then.’

‘I was always called slow in Quarters.’

‘How long have you been with the Greene tribe?’ Scott demanded, standing over Crooner and waggling the cosh as if eager to use it again.