The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s

‘Like you, I’m a vegetarian,’ Dandi said, climbing down to the ground. A grove of low fruit trees grew nearby; she reached up into the branches, gathered, and ate, before turning to inspect the Involute. Already her spine tingled at the nearness of it; awe, loathing and love made a part-pleasant sensation near her heart.

The Involute was not beautiful. True, its colours changed with the changing light, yet the colours were fish-cold, for they belonged to another dimension. Though they reacted to dusk and dawn, Earth had no stronger power over them. They pricked the eyes. Perhaps, too, they were painful because they were the last signs of materialist man. Even Lass moved uneasily before that ill-defined lattice, the upper limits of which were lost in thickening gloom.

‘Don’t fear,’ Dandi said. ‘There’s an explanation for this, old girl.’ She added, ‘There’s an explanation for everything, if we can find it.’

She could feel all the personalities in the Involute. It was a frozen screen of personality. All over the old planet the structures stood, to shed their awe on those who were left behind. They were the essence of man. They were man – all that remained of him on Earth.

When the first flint, the first shell, was shaped into a weapon, that action shaped man. As he moulded and complicated his tools, so they moulded and complicated him. He became the first scientific animal. And at last, via information theory and great computers, he gained knowledge of all his parts. He formed the Laws of Integration, which reveal all beings as part of a pattern and show them their part in the pattern. There is only the pattern; the pattern is all the universe, creator and created. For the first time it became possible to duplicate that pattern artificially – the transubstantio-spatialisers were built.

Men left their strange hobbies on Earth and Venus and projected themselves into the pattern. Their entire personalities were merged with the texture of space itself. Through science, they reached immortality.

It was a one-way passage.

They did not return. Each Involute carried thousands or even millions of people. There they were, not dead, not living. How they exulted or wept in their transubstantiation, no one left could say. Only this could be said: man had gone, and a great emptiness was fallen over Earth.

‘Your thoughts are heavy, Dandi Lashadusa. Get you home.’ Her mentor was back in her mind. She caught the feeling of him moving around and around in his coral-formed cell.

‘I must think of man,’ she said.

‘Your thoughts mean nothing, do nothing.’

‘Man created us; I want to consider him in peace.’

‘He only shaped a stream of life that was always entirely out of his control. Forget him. Get onto your mare and ride home.’

‘Mentor –’

‘Get home, woman. Moping does not become you. I want to hear no more of your swan song, for I’ve given you my final word on that. Use a theme of your own, not of man’s. I’ve said it a million times, and I say it again.’

‘I wasn’t going to mention my music. I was only going to tell you that –’

‘What then?’ His thought was querulous. She felt his powerful tail tremble, disturbing the quiet water of his cell.

‘I don’t know –’

‘Get home then.’

‘I’m lonely.’

He shot her a picture from another of his wards before leaving her. Dandi had seen this ward before in similar dreamlike glimpses. It was a huge mole creature, still boring underground as it had been for the last hundred years. Occasionally it crawled through vast caves; once it swam in a subterranean lake; most of the time it just bored through rock. Its motivations were obscure to Dandi, although her mentor referred to it as ‘a geologer’. Doubtless if the mole was vouchsafed occasional glimpses of Dandi and her musicolumnology, it would find her as baffling. At least the mentor’s point was made: loneliness was psychological, not statistical.

Why, a million personalities glittered almost before her eyes!

She mounted the great baluchitherium mare and headed for home. Time and old monuments made glum company.

Twilight now, with just one streak of antique gold left in the sky, Venus sweetly bright, and stars peppering the purple. A fine evening in which to be alive, particularly with one’s last bedtime close at hand.

And yes, for all her mentor said, she was going to turn into that old little piece derived from one of the tunes in the 1540 Souter Liedekens, that splendid source of Netherlands folk music. For a moment, Dandi Lashadusa chuckled almost as eruditely as her mentor. The sixteenth century, with the virtual death of plainsong and virtual birth of the violin, was most interesting to her. Ah, the richness of facts, the texture of man’s brief history on Earth! Pure joy! Then she remembered herself.

After all, she was only a megatherium, a sloth as big as a small elephant, whose kind had been extinct for millions of years until man reconstituted a few of them in the Venusian experiments. Her modifications in the way of fingers and enlarged brain gave her no real qualification to think up to man’s level.

Early next morning, they arrived at the ramparts of the town Crotheria, where Dandi lived. The ubiquitous goats thronged about them, some no bigger than hedgehogs, some almost as big as hippos – what madness in his last days had provoked man to so many variations on one undistinguished caprine theme? – as Lass and her mistress moved up the last slope and under the archway.

It was good to be back, to push among the trails fringed with bracken, among the palms, oaks and treeferns. Almost all the town was deeply green and private from the sun, curtained by swathes of Spanish moss. Here and there were houses – caves, pits, crude piles of boulders, or even genuine man-type buildings, grand in ruin. Dandi climbed down, walking ahead of her mount, her long hair curling in pleasure. The air was cool with the coo of doves or the occasional bleat of a merino.

As she explored familiar ways, though, disappointment overcame her. Her friends were all away, even the dreamy bison whose wallow lay at the corner of the street in which Dandi lived. Only pure animals were here, rooting happily and mindlessly in the lanes, beggars who owned the Earth. The Impures – descendants of the Venusian experimental stock – were all absent from Crotheria.

That was understandable. For obvious reasons man had increased the abilities of herbivores rather than carnivores. After the Involution, with man gone, these Impures had taken to his towns as they took to his ways, as far as this was possible to their natures. Both Dandi and Lass, and many of the others, consumed massive amounts of vegetable matter every day. Gradually a wider and wider circle of desolation grew about each town (the greenery in the town itself was sacrosanct), forcing a semi-nomadic life into its vegetarian inhabitants.

This thinning in its turn led to a decline in the birthrate. The travellers grew fewer, the towns greener and emptier; in time they had become little oases of forest studding the grassless plains.

‘Rest here, Lass,’ Dandi said at last, pausing by a bank of brightly flowering cycads. ‘I’m going into my house.’

A giant beech grew before the stone façade of her home, so close that it was hard to determine whether it did not help support the ancient building. A crumbling balcony jutted from the first floor; reaching up, Dandi seized the balustrade and hauled herself onto it.

This was her normal way of entering her home, for the ground floor was taken over by goats and hogs, just as the third floor had been appropriated by doves and parakeets. Trampling over the greenery self-sown on the balcony, she moved into the front room. Dandi smiled. Here were old things, the broken furniture on which she liked to sleep, the vision screens on which nothing could be seen, the heavy manuscript books in which, guided by her know-all mentor, she wrote down the outpourings of the musicolumns she had visited all over the world.

She ambled through to the next room.

She paused, her peace of mind suddenly broken.

A brown bear stood there. One of its heavy hands was clenched over the hilt of a knife.

‘I am no vulgar thief,’ it said, curling its thick black lips over the syllables. ‘I am an archaeologer. If this is your place, you must grant me permission to remove the man things. Obviously you have no idea of the worth of some of the equipment here. We bears require it. We must have it.’

It came towards her, panting doggy fashion, its jaws open. From under bristling eyebrows gleamed the lust to kill.

Dandi was frightened. Peaceful by nature, she feared the bears above all creatures for their fierceness and their ability to organise. The bears were few: they were the only creatures to show signs of wishing to emulate man’s old aggressiveness.

She knew what the bears did. They hurled themselves through the Involutes to increase their power; by penetrating those patterns, they nourished their psychic drive, so the mentor said. It was forbidden. They were transgressors. They were killers.

‘Mentor!’ she screamed.

The bear hesitated. As far as he was concerned, the hulking creature before him was merely an obstacle in the way of progress, something to be thrust aside without hate. Killing would be pleasant but irrelevant; more important items remained to be done. Much of the equipment housed here could be used in the rebuilding of the world, the world of which bears had such high, haphazard dreams. Holding the knife threateningly, he moved forward.

The mentor was in Dandi’s head, answering her cry, seeing through her eyes, though he had no sight of his own. He scanned the bear and took over her mind instantly, knifing himself into place like a guillotine.

No longer was he a blind old dolphin lurking in one cell of a cathedral pile of coral under tropical seas, a theologer, an inculcator of wisdom into feebler-minded beings. He was a killer more savage than the bear, keen to kill anything that might covet the vacant throne once held by men. The mere thought of men sent this mentor into sharklike fury at times.

Caught up in his fury, Dandi found herself advancing. For all the bear’s strength, she could vanquish it. In the open, where she could have brought her heavy tail into action, it would have been an easy matter. Here her weighty forearms must come into play. She felt them lift to her mentor’s command as he planned to clout the bear to death.

The bear stepped back, awed by an opponent twice its size, suddenly unsure.

She advanced.

‘No! Stop!’ Dandi cried.

Instead of fighting the bear, she fought her mentor, hating his hate. Her mind twisted, her dim mind full of that steely, fishy one, as she blocked his resolution.

‘I’m for peace!’ she cried.

‘Then kill the bear!’

‘I’m for peace, not killing!’

She rocked back and forth. When she staggered into a wall, it shook; dust spread in the old room. The mentor’s fury was terrible to feel.

‘Get out quickly!’ Dandi called to the bear.

Hesitating, it stared at her. Then it turned and made for the window. For a moment it hung with its shaggy hindquarters in the room. Momentarily she saw it for what it was, an old animal in an old world, without direction. It jumped. It was gone. Goats blared confusion on its retreat.

The mentor screamed. Insane with frustration, he hurled Dandi against the doorway with all the force of his mind.

Wood cracked and splintered. The lintel came crashing down. Brick and stone shifted, grumbled, fell. Powdered filth billowed up. With a great roar, one wall collapsed. Dandi struggled to get free. Her house was tumbling about her. It had never been intended to carry so much weight, so many centuries.

She reached the balcony and jumped clumsily to safety, just as the building avalanched in on itself, sending a cloud of plaster and powdered mortar into the overhanging trees.

For a horribly long while the world was full of dust, goat bleats and panic-stricken parakeets.

Heavily astride her baluchitherium once more, Dandi Lashadusa headed back to the empty region called Ghinomon. She fought her bitterness, trying to urge herself towards resignation.

All she had was destroyed – not that she set store by possessions: that was a man trait. Much more terrible was the knowledge that her mentor had left her for ever; she had transgressed too badly to be forgiven this time.

Suddenly she was lonely for his pernickety voice in her head, for the wisdom he fed her, for the scraps of dead knowledge he tossed her – yes, even for the love he gave her. She had never seen him, never could: yet no two beings could have been more intimate.

She also missed those other wards of his she would glimpse no more: the mole creature tunnelling in Earth’s depths, the seal family that barked with laughter on a desolate coast, a senile gorilla that endlessly collected and classified spiders, an aurochs – seen only once, but then unforgettably – that lived with small creatures in an Arctic city it had helped build in the ice.

She was excommunicated.

Well, it was time for her to change, to disintegrate, to transubstantiate into a pattern not of flesh but music. That discipline at least the mentor had taught and could not take away.

‘This will do, Lass,’ she said.

Her giganic mount stopped obediently. Lovingly, she patted its neck. It was young; it would be free.

Following the dusty trail, she went ahead, alone. Somewhere afar a bird called. Coming to a mound of boulders, Dandi squatted among gorse, the points of which could not prick through her thick old coat. Already her selected music poured through her head, already it seemed to loosen the chemical bonds of her being.

Why should she not choose an old human tune? She was an antiquarian. Things that were gone solaced her for things that were to come. In her dim way, she had always stood out against her mentor’s absolute hatred of men. The thing to hate was hatred. Men in their finer moments had risen above hate. Her death psalm was an instance of that – a multiple instance, for it had been fingered and changed over the ages, as the mentor himself insisted, by men of a variety of races, all with their minds directed to worship rather than hate.

Locking herself into thought disciplines, Dandi began to dissolve. Man had needed machines to help him do it, to fit into the Involutes. She was a lesser animal: she could change herself into the humbler shape of a musicolumn. It was just a matter of rearranging – and without pain she formed into a pattern that was not a shaggy megatherium body, but an indigo column, hardly visible …

For a long while Lass cropped thistle and cacti. Then she ambled forward to seek the hairy creature she fondly – and a little condescendingly – regarded as her equal. But of the sloth there was no sign.

Almost the only landmark was a violet-blue dye in the air. As the baluchitherium mare approached, a sweet old music grew in volume from the dye. It was a music almost as ancient as the landscape itself, and certainly as much travelled, a tune once known to men as Old Hundredth. And there were voices singing: ‘All creatures that on Earth do dwell s …’

Original Sinner

This was the order in which the A.S. Intractible’s hatches opened, after landing at Army Base, South City, Roinse, Mars. Firstly, the Second Aft Hatch, to emit a Leading Hand who ran in his suit across to the Control Bunker to collect Contact Assurances. Secondly (fifteen minutes later), Aft Hatch ‘Q,’ to emit three engineers who made a cursory survey of the jets before retiring to chat with the uniformed ground crew now appearing. Thirdly and fourthly, simultaneously, the Lower Midships Hatch (Personnel) to emit the Catering Officer who wanted to secure a supply of fresh bacon before the A.S. Intractible left again, and the Upper Midship Hatch (Cargo) to emit a heavy duty gangplank, from which Neptunian sulphosphates were trundled in covered trucks.

Fifthly, the Fore Control Hatch, to emit the pilot, who had brought the Army ship in from Orbit Epsilon, and the Captain, who was going to have a drink with the pilot. Sixthly, Warrant Officers’ Hatch, from which a group of three officers emerged in civilian dress. Seventhly, the Personnel Duty Hatch (Personnel) to emit a platoon of Outer Planets Commando, who marched off the Army Base field in threes. Eighthly, the Personnel Duty Hatch (Stores), to emit a small vehicle carrying the equipment of the Commando platoon. Ninethly, the captain’s Hatch, to emit the Trooping Officer and his A.D.C., heading in the direction of Roinse, the old city. Tenthly, the Heavy Cargo Hatch, amidships, from which various duty technicians in fatigue kit straggled, to climb over the ship and check its hull for faults.

Lastly, General Hatch (Ratings) swung open. By this time, two and a half hours had elapsed since landing.

‘Isn’t it just typical of the bleeding Army!’ Wagner Hayes exclaimed, clattering down the gangplank. ‘We’ve only got twenty-four hours here before we bat off for Earth again, and then they keep us mucking about with an FFI when we arrive. What did they think we could have picked up on that lousy hole Ganymede?’

‘Don’t forget we had a pay parade, too, Wag,’ Dusty Miller said, chinking the credits in his pocket.

‘They could have had that when we were space-borne if the ruddy RSM had been half sharp,’ Wagner growled.

Leaving the ship with him were, besides Dusty, two slightly older men, Max Fleet and their bald unsmiling corporal, George Walters. The four came down onto the landing pad with a knot of other servicemen, all looking forward to a few hours’ leave and a change from the rigorous confinement of the Intractible.

‘You’re always grumbling, young Wag,’ George said. ‘What are you going to do with yourself now you’re out?’

‘I’m certainly not going to get drunk, like you and Max!’ Wagner exclaimed promptly. ‘I’ve got more sense. Catch me wasting my money on booze!’

Backing up his friend, Dusty pointed across to one of the Base buildings in the direction of which they were walking.

‘See that place, George?’ he said. ‘Wag and me are staying there, mate. Other Ranks’ Hostel. We found it on the trip out. It’s got everything; showers, ultra-violet, juke-boxes, local and Earth telly, terrific canteen …’

‘And a library,’ Wagner said. ‘A library bursting full of comics! I’ve never seen so many comics in my natural.’

‘You did nothing but read comics on Ganymede,’ Max Fleet said. ‘Don’t you ever want a change?’

‘These are up-to-date comics, stupid,’ Wagner said genially. ‘Go and get sloshed with old George and keep your trap shut!’

They trudged companionably across the monotonous expanse of tarmac. It was good to be out of the confines of the ship; the air, as Max remarked to George, breathed well considering that it had once been artificially ‘planted.’

‘It’s better in the hostel,’ Wag explained. ‘They maintain it there at full Earth pressure. I tell you, that place is a dream. It is; it’s better than home! If you two drunken old reprobates had any sense –’

‘Hallo! Here comes the bleeding padre!’ Dusty said. ‘You’ve had it, lads. From the right, pray!’

The four of them groaned in unison.

No doubt Padre Column heard them, but his smile was not affected. He included them all in the smile, the beefy Wagner with his open, boyish face, weedy Dusty with his peak haircut, dark and reserved Max, dough-faced corporal Walters with his parody of a monk’s tonsure.

‘Enjoy your leave, my friends,’ the padre said. ‘Try and regard this brief break in our journey home as an opportunity for spiritual refreshment. Remember that war is raging on Earth, and that as soon as we return there we shall be called upon to give of our very best.’

‘Yes, sir, of course, sir,’ Wagner and Dusty chorused together. George Walters looked sullen.

‘You speak as if that was something to look forward to, sir,’ he said.

‘If we are to be tested, Walters, we must come to it with what fortitude we can muster,’ Padre Column said. ‘We must regard mortification as our common lot, I fear.’

‘Come on, George, let’s shove off!’ Dusty said in an undertone, tugging at the corporal’s sleeve; but George stood his ground.

‘My wife was killed in the East Anglia Massacre last year,’ he said distinctly. ‘I doubt if I shall get back aboard the Intractible until two M.P.’s carry me aboard drunk.’

‘Then you are a fool, Walters, and I only hope your younger companions will not follow your example.’

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Wagner said cheerfully; ‘we wouldn’t follow this old soak into the nearest cookhouse.’

So saying, he grabbed George’s arm and moved him forcibly away. Dusty and Max Fleet, who had said nothing during this exchange, followed hurriedly. The padre stood watching them, lips pursed. A heated argument sprang up between Dusty, George and Wagner, lasting all the way to the Base gate. As usual, Max kept out of the controversy.

‘You young fellows don’t know what’s good for you nowadays!’ George said. ‘When I was your age, I wasn’t content to bash my bunk reading bloody comics – I was seeing a bit of life, knocking round the taverns with a few likely women.’

‘No wonder you lost all your hair,’ Dusty retorted. ‘You’d better watch out, Max, or the corp will lead you down the primrose path into the dog house.’

‘I’ll watch it, Dusty,’ Max said, as they reached the gate. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, suddenly aware that although he had spent almost all his tour of duty with these three men, they were not really his friends, nor ever could be. A momentary silence spread from him to the others, as if they too, at this moment of parting, had become aware for the first time of their own, separate identities.

‘Well, we’ll meet up again tomorrow evening, and see who looks in best shape then,’ Wag said. ‘Gentlemen of the ruddy ranks, Di-i-i-iss – wait for it! – di-i-i-iss – miss!’

But his tone was not as light as usual. Wag sounded slightly defensive. George, Max thought, had caught him on a sensitive spot with his remark about the rival attractions of comics and women.

Forgetting it at once, he turned away with George. As the two youngsters entered the air-conditioned hostel, he and George showed their passes and walked through the main gate into one day’s liberty.

Roinse was partly a military town. When the terrific task of oxygenating the Martian atmosphere had been undertaken two generations back, the Army, in liaison with the Space Corps, had been in charge of the project. When the inter-racial wars had broken out on Earth, the military had tightened their grip here.

Yet mingled with the barracks and camps was a sizeable business city, also growing. As it grew its suburbs grew, bright and cheap and uniform, pathetic replicas of the square miles of suburb now being blown to bits all over Earth. There was another section of Roinse: the ancient Martian city, rock-hewn and ruinous, standing on the edge of the new built-up area. In the heart of the old alien city stood the village Roinse where the descendants of the original colonists lived, a proud and dwindling clique resenting all the more recent intruders.

Roinse, in short, was a muddled city – and an interesting one, heterogeneous as Rome, mysterious as Singapore.

George Walters and Max Fleet headed for the oldest part of town. The number of people in uniform thinned as they went, but George was still peevish and muttered about the folly of youth.