New Writings in SF 9 - [Anthology] Read online

  “Twenty fifty-nine.’’

  That was the time. That was the moment. Fifteen seconds to go.

  His mind gave a huge lurch, a leap upwards. It was strange and frightening. But somewhere, deep down, Harben felt the surging of a savage joy, a nameless sense of triumph which made his ordinary little worries fade into insignificance.

  Five seconds to go.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  There was a sharp whiplash crack, of energy suddenly released, and the light in the cubicle winked and dimmed. By the fading light he saw instrument needles and gauges on the control panels falling away limply towards zero.

  Harben looked at the clock. It had stopped at precisely 2059 hours.

  A strange gurgle of joy came from Harben’s throat. “I’ve done it, done it,” he shouted. What had he done? Suddenly he knew: he had destroyed the Records. He, Harben, guardian of the Records, had utterly destroyed them. What so many had tried to achieve, and failed, he had splendidly brought off.

  Working from within, he had worked cunningly. So complete had been the concealment of his efforts, that not even his conscious mind had been in the secret.

  On the surface of his mind, Harben had fretted over the safety of the Records, had fussed over routine reports, had faced the Overseers with a mixture of cringing and superciliousness. Meanwhile, the dark Harben, the unknown Harben, the real Harben, had laid his plans and carried them out in the deep unsurveyed tunnels of the Records Centre.

  It was all so simple. He saw quite clearly now. There had been no need for a magnetic bomb. The Centre itself was potentially its own magnetic generator, with its millions of metres of wire, its billions of watts of energy already on tap.

  It was simply a matter of making the right connections ... Or rather, of preparing for connections which should all be made simultaneously at the programmed instant. Then the entire energy of the Centre was released in a huge electric whirlpool, a coiling current which generated its own gigantic pulse of magnetism, wiping clean every record.

  Wiping away the memory of everything.

  Harben dwelt for a moment peacefully on that thought as his body began to relax.

  The circuits which supplied him with life had also been torn asunder in the huge wave of energy. But it did not matter. As Harben sank slowly towards unconsciousness, wondering whether the police would reach him in time, he knew only one thing.

  The slate had been wiped clean.

  <>

  * * * *

  GUARDIAN ANGEL

  by Gerald W. Page

  As machines become more and more complex, Man’s basic problem will be to retain mastery over them. The take-over bid may become more insidious than we think.

  * * * *

  Slowly he began to realize that he didn’t like the painting he was working on. For years he had depicted machinery and wiring diagrams and he was the leading and most successful exponent of his school of art. His annual exhibit netted him a considerable income and he made enough to be in the top ten per cent income bracket, with first-class citizenship rights, such as voting, but as he finished Bevel Gears in Lavender, Douglas Copeland was forced to admit to himself that there was something he didn’t like about the work. It was good—each and every cogwheel was drawn with mechanical precision and the light and shadow effects made outstanding use of the limitations of lavender. The painting would quite probably sell for more money than any of his previous ones. The critics would quite probably call it his masterpiece. But it wasn’t a painting he could be happy about, and that wasn’t anything he could explain to himself.

  “Is something wrong?” Peter asked in his mellow voice. Peter was Copeland’s Guardian Angel. He took up the whole west wall of Copeland’s studio and looked after him. There was a note of fatherly concern in Peter’s voice.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Copeland said, touching up a cogwheel.

  “I understand,” said Peter. “The artistic strain. You’ve outdone yourself this time, Douglas. Lavender is my favourite colour, you know, and the poetry of this painting is superb. Superb! This may well be your masterpiece.”

  Copeland tried to look engrossed in his work so that he wouldn’t have to answer Peter. The Guardian Angel merely hummed, like the elaborate thinking machine it was, as Copeland put on the finishing touches. Copeland had promised Marty Apery twenty paintings for the next exhibit, which was only a month away. This was number sixteen. Copeland took a spray can of drying agent and applied it to the painting, varnishing and drying it all in one simple press of a spray nozzle. He took the painting from the easel and propped it face against the wall with the other fifteen. Four more paintings to go and only a month to do them in.

  Well, that wasn’t much of an obstacle. He could do four in a week. But even so, the prospect of having to do four more paintings of cogwheels and axles and cotter pins was depressing. He stood wiping his hands needlessly with his wiping cloth and staring at the back of the painting he had finished.

  “Are you going to start another one tonight?” Peter asked brightly.

  “No, it’s late,” Copeland said. “I’m going to bed.”

  “On the contrary, it’s early,” said Peter.

  But Copeland went to bed anyway.

  When he awoke the next morning, the clock greeted him with the jovial announcement that it was Thursday and that the world ran smoothly. Copeland groaned. Thursday. That was his privacy day—the day Peter was turned off so that Copeland could enjoy the ministrations of solitude.

  He ate breakfast sombrely and planned his day. Four more paintings of cogwheels.

  He could finish one by the weekend, he reminded himself.

  After breakfast he set a canvas up on his easel and took out his sketches. He found the one he wanted to do next, a nice symbolic design showing a large cogwheel surrounded by clusters of smaller cogwheels, all in a complex geometric design. He thought about the colours for a moment. He was tempted to paint it in loud and clashing hues, but he didn’t really want to. He rather preferred a more subtle, perceptionistic scheme in his works. He was good at colour and skilful colour work was about the only challenge, he found to this sort of work. He finally decided to paint the cogwheel in the upper right-hand corner in red and graduate through the spectrum, ending up with blue in the lower left-hand corner. The background would have to be either black or purple. He decided on purple. Peter would like this painting. He seated himself at his easel and picked up the pencil.

  That was as far as he got. He stared at the blank canvas and didn’t begin drawing. The room was too silent. There wasn’t even the humming that Peter made when he was running. This was privacy day, so Peter was turned off and Copeland was free to be alone, to do as he pleased. He threw down the pencil and left the studio to find a party.

  He found one at the estate of an acquaintance he knew only as Charlie. Charlie had bought a couple of Copeland’s paintings and greeted him enthusiastically. Copeland didn’t particularly like Charlie, but a party is a party, so he dialled a drink, not paying much attention to what he was getting and went off to find a corner to drink in.

  He found the corner and tasted the drink. A voice said, “Do I know you?”

  The drink had a will of its own, but that surprised him. It took Copeland a minute to realize that it hadn’t been the drink which had spoken to him. He looked around and saw a pair of amused grey eyes.

  “No, I don’t guess I do,” the girl said. “I wasn’t sure. You can never be sure at parties like this. My name’s Philomene Bemis. What’s your name?”

  “Douglas Copeland.”

  “I like that,” said the girl. “Are you famous? A lot of Charlie’s friends are famous.”

  “I’m an artist,” Copeland said.

  For a moment Philomene looked puzzled. “Oh,” she said, catching on. “You mean you paint and draw. Are you any good? How about getting me a drink?”

  Copeland got her a drink and tr
ied to refill his own now empty glass. He wasn’t sure what he had got before, but the substitution was almost as interesting. He and Philomene talked, and before he knew it, she was interested in his work. Copeland was amazed to learn that she had never seen any of his paintings. She had never been to Charlie’s European estate, where two of Copeland’s paintings hung. She was very apologetic about it and after his third—or maybe it was his fourth—drink, he invited Philomene to his studio.

  * * * *

  She looked around the studio, grey eyes large with amazement. She wore a tight, revealing yellow dress and had beautiful nearly black hair. “What’s that?” she demanded, pointing at the wall that housed Peter.

  “That’s Peter. My Guardian Angel. Don’t you have one?”

  “Heavens, no,” Philomene said. “I can’t afford one. Besides, who’d want one of those creeps around all the time. You do these paintings ?” she asked, picking up Bevel Gear in Lavender.

  “That’s right.”

  “You must get paid real good for this sort of thing,” she said frowning at the painting. “I mean having a Guardian Angel and all. Does this kind of painting bring in very much?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I see some of your others?”

  “They’re right there,” Copeland told her.

  She looked at the others, one or two with some interest, but for the most part rather cursorily. “Is this all you do?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Well, the colour’s nice,” she said, getting to her feet, “but don’t you ever paint people?”

  “Of course not.”

  She regarded him strangely. “Why not?”

  “Well, because—well, people are—common.”

  “So are cogwheels,” she said.

  “Yes, but people are drawn for comic strips and you can see them in photographs and TV and on the streets. Art’s not like that.”

  “Isn’t it supposed to be like real life ?”

  “Yes, of course,” Copeland said. “Only art is more like real life than—than------”

  “Than people ?”

  “You don’t understand,” Copeland said with agitation. “You just don’t understand the nature of art.”

  “And who does?”

  “I have my admirers. I get thousands of dollars per painting. People like my work. Peter is constantly praising it.”

  “I thought that was it,” Philomene said. “Peter. Your Guardian Angel. You do paintings of cogwheels the same as all the other artists, and you sell to people with Guardian Angels—just like you’ve got. Guardian Angels to tell you what to think and feel. Did it ever occur to you that Peter might like paintings of cogwheels and wiring diagrams because it’s a machine?”

  “Peter has my best interests at heart.”

  “He doesn’t even have a heart,” Philomene said, “and he wouldn’t know your best interests from a short circuit. What about your love life ?”

  A little indignantly, Copeland said, “Peter is well aware that human beings must occasionally have certain releases from the anxieties that come from the pressures of modern society------”

  “Anxiety hell,” she said and she kissed him. “How was that for releasing pressure?” She kissed him again, longer this time.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Well------”

  “You’re a fool,” she said angrily. She walked over to the easel and took the covering cloth from the blank canvas. “You haven’t started this one yet?”

  “I was thinking about it,” Copeland said. He found his sketches and showed her the one he had selected.

  “More cogwheels,” she said with distaste.

  “I was going to start-here and paint this one red and work through the spectrum to blue here------”

  “Does it mean anything?”

  “It symbolizes the order of the universe.”

  She looked at the sketch solemnly, taking it and holding it off for a better look. “Is that what you think the universe is?”

  “Of course. Doesn’t everybody?”

  “I’m certain that I don’t,” Philomene said. “It would be a horrible universe if it were like that. Where would all the questions be? And what’s a universe without questions?” She looked at him cryptically. “Don’t you have any questions you’d like to ask ?”

  “You just don’t understand art,” Copeland said, taking his sketch back.

  “Don’t you want to paint something else? Aren’t you tired of all this?”

  “Of course not. I’m happy and content. It’s just that------”

  “Ah ha!” cried Philomene.

  “I only meant that I need a vacation,” Copeland said.

  “You mean you’re tired of painting cogwheels,” Philomene said, triumph gleaming in her eyes. “Admit it.”

  “Well, so what? Maybe I am.”

  She came up to him and put her head on his shoulder. “Of course you are.”

  “But it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Of course not,” Philomene said, her hair brushing Copeland’s cheek.

  “So lots of people take vacations. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Of course not,” Philomene said. “Didn’t you ever paint people at all ?”

  “A long time ago in school.”

  “Why not again? You said you needed a change. What could be more of a change ?”

  “But I don’t have a subject,” Copeland said. “You’ve got to have a model to paint people.”

  Philomene kissed his cheek. “You have me,” she said.

  Copeland looked at Philomene. Her features were even, her complexion smooth and creamy, her figure nice—well, he decided, watching her breathe, maybe “nice” was too mild a word for it. Her hair was dark and lustrous and her grey amused eyes were fascinating. Copeland glanced at Peter, then remembered that this was Privacy Day and for twenty-four hours Peter was shut off. But Peter had often eulogized the value of an occasional change------

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  “I knew you would,” she said and kissed him again. “I’m proud of you.”

  Copeland rummaged around for a moment before he found his sketching pad. He took his pencils out and turned back to see Philomene taking off her dress. He opened his mouth to say something, but he wasn’t really sure what to say, so he just left his mouth open. Philomene looked up at him, quizzically. “Don’t you want me to pose undressed?” she asked.

  “Well, that is ... I mean ...”

  She smiled. “All right then. We’ll only swim in shallow water this lesson.” She put the dress back on. “Zip me up please,” she said.

  Copeland zipped her dress up and Philomene perched herself atop a stool to pose for him. “I’ll bet you’re sorry already that I’m posing clothed,” she said.

  “It’s more artistic this way,” he mumbled.

  Philomene only smiled.

  Copeland’s first sketches were stiff and self-conscious but to his surprise he found himself gradually getting the hang of it. By the time he had done six sketches he considered asking her to pose nude, but he saw her smiling at him and decided not to. Besides, her dress didn’t leave that much to the imagination. Her legs were smooth and well formed, her breasts firm and rounded. By the time he had finished the seventh sketch he was actually having fun. He hadn’t had fun drawing in years.

  She posed patiently for him, but finally had to remind him that she had to eat to maintain the strength to exercise enough to keep her weight down—and that she was a little cramped from not moving for two or three hours. Apologetically, Copeland suggested they break for dinner.

  “Now do you agree with me?” she asked, climbing off the stool rather stiffly. Normally Copeland would have been gentleman enough to help her off, but he was busy spreading the sketches out on the table.

  “Not really,” he said.

  “Those two are good,” she said, indicating the last two he had drawn.

  “Oh, they’re a
ll right,” he said.

  They ate and Philomene agreed to pose again. This time Copeland sketched on the canvas until he had the pencilling for a painting. Philomene stretched while Copeland gathered his paints and prepared for the actual painting. Then she struck the pose again and Copeland began work.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Copeland overslept. As he entered the studio, where breakfast was waiting, Peter greeted him with his usual cheerful, “Good morning, Douglas.”