New Writings in SF 18 - [Anthology] Read online

  * * * *

  New Writings in

  SF: 18

  Ed By John Carnell

  Proofed By MadMaxAU

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  CONTENTS

  Foreword by John Cornell

  Mistress Of The Mind by Lee Harding

  Frontier Incident by Robert Wells

  The Big Day by Donald Malcolm

  Major Operation by James White

  The Cyclops Patrol by William Spencer

  Some Dreams Come in Packages by David Kyle

  Django Maverick: 2051 by Grahame Leman

  * * * *

  FOREWORD

  John Carnell

  In recent correspondence, Australian writer Lee Harding pointed out that many volumes of New Writings In S-F have contained stories concerning sociological trends and he felt that this was a particularly rich vein for science-fiction authors to explore, whether the locales concern today’s world or are extrapolations into the future. True on both counts but the sociological story has been with us for a long time—at least a century and a half (and I will quote here, Lord Charles Moresby’s A Hundred Years Hence, published in 1828, ‘concerning the advanced world of the twentieth century’). For, naturally, we are all interested in the world of the future, especially that thin slice we are going to live in for our lifetime—and what we do about that immediate future is always rooted in what we do today.

  Despite the decimation of humanity by natural disasters, war, starvation, the automobile, disease, and even old age, world population continues to expand, although there are signs that in the western hemisphere at least the rate has been dropping slightly. Like the wages-production-prices spiral, the humanity spiral gets caught in its own vortex— it uses up everything at an increasingly faster rate, creating more and more shortages, greater waste, higher pollution, and limitless social problems. For millennia. Nature herself controlled the ecological balance of this planet, a long slow period of adjustment and gestation; then, in one short century, since Man himself has taken charge, technology has continued to push back Nature’s barriers and we seem to be getting deeper and deeper into the morass of unbalanced forces.

  Against this immense background we can list dozens of subdivisions within which the science-fiction writer can project his thoughts—water shortage, over-production, noise, mechanisation, computerisation, city complexes, sewage, raw materials, oil, and Nature’s last great stronghold the sea. Nobody yet knows whether we have passed the point of no return in the despoliation of our planet but at least the warning signs have been long and loud.

  If you look for them, one sociological trend or another will turn up in every science-fiction story. It is a form of literature which lends itself admirably to pointing out our own shortcomings and stupidity, but it also makes sensible suggestions as to how we may well circumvent some of the problems we are apt to bring upon ourselves.

  June 1970

  John Carnell

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  MISTRESS OF THE MIND

  Lee Harding

  As the world of the flesh becomes more accessible and prosaic—taking the agonies of our present day so-called permissive society as a criterion—so the spiritual needs of people like Arthur Talbot will become more obsessive.

  * * * *

  Arthur Talbot followed the old south-eastern freeway as far as the abandoned Springvale overpass before he resumed manual control. The car slowed down almost to a standstill while he made the changeover, shuddered gracelessly as he spun the wheel to the left and applied cautious pressure to the accelerator, then purred quietly down a narrow access ramp towards a residential wasteland.

  He was relieved to have the dismally flood-lit concrete of the deserted freeway behind him and to be moving away in a direction where the unblinking eyes of the traffic monitors were not programmed to follow. He tried to relax and enjoy the luxurious anonymity of the suburban night, but his nervous manner would have given him away to any curious onlooker. He sat a little too stiffly at the wheel; his narrow, peevish face looked straight ahead, and his dark eyes were unnaturally bright because of some inner tension. His fingers tapped and fidgeted with the steering wheel and his foot felt stiff and awkward poised over the accelerator.

  He drove slowly, determined not to attract any attention from prowling police cars, guiding his sleek little business vehicle carefully through the narrow, crumbling streets. Only the ugly illumination provided by some left-over fluorescents from another generation gave any indication of the sort of neighbourhood he was moving through and he had dimmed his headlights to such a degree that he could barely see where he was going.

  But he had been this way many times before and, at the modest pace he was travelling, finding his way presented no difficulty. He had no desire to see any more of this part of the world than he already could. This had been a depressed area for as long as he could remember; dozens of square miles of factories and shops and offices had been allowed to fall into disrepair through conscious neglect—several thousand homes and apartment blocks had been abandoned and the area itself made redundant. This was a measure of the times and a toppling birthrate.

  The car inched slowly forward. The gutted shapes of factories crowded against him. Now there was only sufficient space on the narrow street for two cars to pass abreast —not that there was any likelihood of that ever happening. Only the poor and morally dispossessed people of this affluent society roamed rootless through these deserted slums and they kept well clear of encroaching vehicles— particularly those that came creeping in so late at night.

  The police were supposed to patrol these areas regularly —not because crimes of violence were an especial province of these lonely wastes, but because they were obliged, like most other segments of a largely redundant society, to go through the motions of employment, in much the same manner as the often simple-minded citizens they were forced, by the very nature of their boredom, to apprehend occasionally.

  And Arthur Talbot had a lot to lose if they ever caught him. Not that he cared much about what Laura would think if he was ever arrested—his wife and her opinions had ceased to mean anything to him some time ago—but he did fear the outcome if he were caught. Firstly, he could only expect some ignominious future as an unwilling inmate of some poorly run institution for unwanted deviates; secondly, he feared the beating he could expect to receive from the eager hands of whatever bored and jaded patrol happened to accost him.

  ‘What d’yer think yer doin’, skulkin’ through these ‘ere streets at this time er night, eh? What yer lookin’ for? What d’yer expect ter find ‘ere that yer can’t find outside? Bloody pale skin an’ quiverin’ ‘ands an’ all—look at ‘is eyes, Bill. Damned pervert, I’ll be bound. What you need, little man, is ter be taught a lesson—a bloody good lesson, too. Teach yer ter go skulkin’ around this neck er the woods at this time er night...’

  Arthur Talbot flinched away from the impact of imaginary blows. He hated the police, but sometimes he envied them. At least they were allowed a ready-made outlet for their frustration and aggression, something another age had called the Privilege of Office.

  His mouth was dry and he felt a little bit afraid. But so far he had been careful and he had been lucky. If he was pulled up at any time then he had decided that the best thing he could do would be to act dumb and mumble something about getting lost. If he managed his story well enough then he might get off with a bit of a beating and a warning to get the hell out of the suburbs and not come there again. But if they ever caught him actually entering or leaving the House ...

  Only the rewards involved made the enormous risk worth while. For the first time
in his long and useless life Arthur Talbot had discovered something worth risking his future for, and this precious knowledge gave him a moral strength he had never previously possessed.

  But at the moment he felt desolate and neglected. He needed warmth and understanding and a haven well away from the rigours of an inconsiderate world.

  He parked his car several blocks away from his destination. This was one of the House rules; they were very careful to ensure that their customers should approach them discreetly, and on foot, through the many devious routes at their disposal. An open approach was unthinkable.

  He liked this part least of all, because it exposed him to the grimy and polluted air that crawled through the empty streets. It was unpleasant after the air-conditioned comfort of his car, and there was something unsettlingly menacing in the way the crumbling walls of the deserted factories seemed to loom over him, like broken teeth in a dark, gaping mouth that might at any moment reach out and engulf him.

  His destination was a building safely hidden from any of the main thoroughfares. It could be found only by making a circuitous route down several narrow streets and alleys leading into ever deepening refuse. At some time in the dim past it had housed a number of monstrous machines which had whirred and hummed and produced a torrent of useless merchandise; but these had long since been ripped from their mountings and ground up into scrap metal. The new—and unlawful—proprietors had installed their own special devices, but these performed their duties quietly and in an area of the mind where the watchdogs of the law could not hear.

  The windows of the House had all been blacked out; only a faint glow crept out through some scratches and chinks in the decrepit facade. To gain entrance Talbot hurried down a long lane that ran down one side of the building. It was barely wide enough for two people to manoeuvre past each other and it stank. The other end opened out on to the gigantic effluent treatment plant where a goodly proportion of the distant city’s waste products were broken down and processed into a thick brown soup and dispersed through wide tunnels into the nearby ocean. The factory itself was ancient and its original sealing had long since deteriorated, so that the compound odour of decaying garbage and human excrement drifted towards Talbot, the narrow lane acting as a foul sort of amplifier. He breathed shallowly and hurried along to the gap in the high metal fence that allowed him entry into the House grounds.

  It was quieter than a graveyard. Talbot stumbled over the mounds of wind-borne refuse that cluttered the ground between the fence and the long, squat building that was the object of all his striving. He stood and faced a heavy wooden door; the paint had chipped away and exposed the original surface. Rain and wind had weathered this until it had acquired an interesting patina of age and corruption. It was heavily locked and barred from inside.

  Talbot raised one nervous hand and knocked—discreetly —four solemn times on the ancient wooden surface. He waited for perhaps several minutes in the cold moonlight while his call was registered and he heard the multiple locks being withdrawn on the other side.

  The door swung open a few cautious inches and spilled a soft, bluish light into the darkness. An old face, weighed down with a mixture of boredom and wisdom, peered out at Talbot.

  ‘Good evening. Mister Swenson.’

  The old face lit up in recognition. The door swung open wide enough to allow him entry.

  ‘Why, if it isn’t Mister Talbot! Do come in...’

  He stepped quickly inside and paused a moment to re-orientate himself in the narrow, dim-lit passageway. The walls, too, were cracked and peeling, but nobody seemed to think it worth while to repair these ravages. The other end of the passage was covered with some heavy velvet drapes that allowed through only a faint ghost of the quiet hum of conversation apparent on the other side.

  He turned around and watched Swenson reactivate the numerous locks on the inside of the door. When he had finished he straightened up and smiled, and rubbed the palms of his hands against his thighs. ‘Nice to see you again, sir.’

  He was shorter than Talbot and slightly stooped, but what he lacked in height was more than compensated by the air of personal authority which was his natural quality. ‘And will it be the usual, then?’ he asked in a casual, business-like tone.

  Talbot nodded. And reached for his wallet. He withdrew several notes and handed them to the old man. ‘Will this be all right?’

  Swenson accepted the money and counted it assiduously. He looked up at his client a trifle apologetically. ‘Ah, I’m afraid that the er, operating expenses have gone up a little since last week. Mister Talbot. Extra charges from the top and all that. I trust you understand that?’

  ‘Yes. Yes of course. How much?’ Talbot was not impatient. He was accustomed to this sort of bargaining and conscious of the enormous difficulties Swenson and his associates had to deal with. If the police closed one House then another had quickly to make up for the loss in revenue. This was a simple fact of business—any business.

  ‘Another fifteen will make it right,’ the old man said. ‘And tonight the drinks are on the House.’

  Talbot gave a wry grin. That’s very kind of you,’ he said. But the liquor here was always foul and this was no gratuity. And besides—he hadn’t come here to indulge in what he could easily find elsewhere.

  Swenson gestured towards the velvet curtains. ‘Now, if you’ll just step into the waiting room for a few minutes, I’ll see that Madam takes care of you ...’

  * * * *

  The waiting room was crowded and shrouded in deep, motionless rafts of cigarette smoke and filled with a wordless longing that was almost tangible.

  The lighting was dim, the walls covered with a sombre and intricate paper pattern. A dozen or more men lounged around on ancient, poorly upholstered furniture and brooded quietly to themselves. Their eyes were dull and their movements lethargic; not many of them gave any evidence of an internal nervousness similar to Talbot’s. But then perhaps their joys were less and their anticipation without lustre. He felt sorry for them, but he knew that sometime within the next few hours they would all have the opportunity to embrace—momentarily—the object of all their dreams and desires.

  Talbot sat down in a high-backed cane armchair. One of several young women came across to him and asked him if he required a drink. He dismissed her off-handedly; hostesses as such held no interest for him. But some of the other men thought differently and they allowed the solemn young ladies to administer to their more simple needs; they smoked cigarettes that were brought to them and drank copious quantities of the crude, local alcohol. In several murky corners Talbot could discern one or two of the men engaged in conversation with some of the hostesses; occasional snatches of subdued laughter drifted across to him, but it seemed to him a forced and unnaturally gay amusement.

  He did not mind the waiting. Privation heightened pleasure. But it was with a sense of enormous relief that he felt the considerate weight of the Madam’s hand on his shoulder sometime later.

  ‘All right, Mister Talbot: you can go in now.’

  Her face was gaunt and painted but underneath he sensed she was an imposing and morally dedicated person. Her face was just the acknowledged mask of her profession.

  She led him out of the room and down another passageway. This one was much longer than the first and it was punctuated at regular intervals by decrepit doors and dangling light fixtures that delivered only a feeble dust-laden glow.

  Each door was numbered. His was seventeen.

  ‘In here.’ The Madam gestured him inside.

  Talbot felt a warm glow of affection pass over him as he stepped into the narrow room. It was small, but not cramped. There was a couch set against one wall to his left with a small table and glasses beside it; there were always two.

  He smiled and sat down on the edge of the couch and gazed affectionately at the opposite wall; it was mostly covered by Rekina’s squat bulk. Like most bootleg cybers she looked older than she was; she had probably been knocked about quite a
bit moving from one House to another in the normal course of events and Talbot sometimes doubted that she had always been as well cared for as she should have been. A thick film of dust clouded the dials on her fascia and dulled her once bright grey carapace. Her corners were chipped and dented and the lacquer had flaked away and exposed the bare metal underneath. Her chromium trim was lustreless, but Talbot loved her just the same.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Madam requested.

  Talbot stripped off his jacket and shirt and stretched out on the couch. His face was blissful and unworried. Madam taped the sensory wires to his chest and arms and fitted the delicate cage of wires around his skull.

  She sprayed an injection into his arm and stood up. ‘Now, if you’ll relax for a moment, Mister Talbot, I’ll run the usual tests...’

  Talbot smiled and closed his eyes. Already he could feel the buffering drug taking effect, ironing out the residual tensions inside him and preparing his mind and body for the forthcoming rapport with the cyber.

  His mind tingled as the Madam adjusted the controls. Something soft and warm and deliciously feminine reached out for him. He sensed her affectionate fingers invade his thoughts and eagerly allowed his identity to merge and commingle with hers.