The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s. Brian Aldiss

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      He had no option but to walk home, exhausted as he felt. Before dawn, the rain ceased. The sun rose behind cloud. The country was fine and still, trees bending in luxuriant summer growth, dripping moisture into the ground. Grass blades shimmered like harmless spears. The birds rejoiced in the new daylight.

      At last Stratton Hall was in sight. It would be empty now, except for the two old servants, as empty as Wyvern felt. He had no hope. Somewhere, thousands of miles away, was a girl he might have loved. Now he would never get to her. There was nowhere else to go, nothing else to do.

      A car engine sounded behind him as he turned into the drive gates. Instinctively, he flinched. Had they come to get him back again already? Perhaps he shouldn’t have returned here at all; he could have lost his identity and become one of the many nomads who tramped the countryside.

      But the driver of the car wore no uniform. He pulled up in a spray of mud and called out, ‘Is this place Stratton Hall?’ He looked about eighty, but his voice was young and sharp.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You just going in? Well I’m Government Mail. Give this to Mr Conrad Wyvern for me, and spare me half a mile.’

      He was off. Wyvern looked blankly at the green envelope. He stuffed it in a damp pocket and trudged up the drive. A side door had been carelessly left open. The servants seemed to be still asleep; even the Flyspy was not stirring in its metal nest.

      Wyvern sank wearily onto his bed before opening the envelope and reading its contents. Then he sat recalling the discontented voice of Captain Runton saying: ‘There’s a lot of reorganisation needed here – everyone lives in watertight compartments. No government department knows what the next one is up to.’ He began to smile. Then he began to laugh. He laughed helplessly, stupidly, until he was out of breath.

      He had just received a government warrant to report to the Ss Aqualung at 1200 hours on that date for service on Luna. The warrant overrode any such formalities as passports or tickets.

      IV

      For the first part of the brief journey to the moon, Wyvern slept. Even when he felt himself again, he hardly left his tiny cabin.

      The ship was almost full, despite many reports of trouble in the British Republics Sector following the death of Our Beloved Leader, for most of the passengers were on official business, and so could not make cancellations even if they wished it. They had stood about uneasily at Thorpe Field before take-off, grey little people making small British jokes about having to get away from the rain at all costs; Wyvern avoided them, purposely arriving late and keeping to himself.

      A painful attempt at pre-Republican luxury had been aimed at aboard. There was a selection of drinks at the bar; perfumes were on sale; a bookstall sold something besides the eternal grey-paged numbers of On, the official magazine of the régime. Wyvern bought a modern Turkish novel. Turkey alone, neutral during two atomic wars, maintained something of an international culture. Haven of refugees from all over the globe, it produced a stream of literature and teleplays in all languages. Istanbul was again ‘the incomparable city’, as it had been over a thousand years ago.

      The novel cheered Wyvern. It was technically competent, humorous and absolutely superficial; its characters moved gaily through their paces in a non-political setting. It all served to restore Wyvern’s equilibrium, as it was meant to do. It also directed his thoughts to Eileen South.

      She did not know of Conrad Wyvern’s existence; he had never met her. Yet such were their natures that he felt he knew her better than an ordinary man might know his own wife. He had caught the essence of her as surely as a grape traps the essence of the sun.

      He would find her. In the circumscribed environments of the moon, and with his powers, that would not be too difficult. And then? Then they might perhaps escape together to the American Sector; thanks be to goodness there was nothing like an extradition order these days, with international law a thing of the past.

      It was possible that the New Police might have radioed ahead to have him arrested on landing; if they wished, they could have it done – lack of passport would be adequate reason, were one even needed. But they had, as far as Wyvern knew, nothing definite against him; the tearing up of the ticket had been no more than a spiteful gesture. No doubt, Wyvern thought ruefully, his Dufy probably hung on H’s secretary’s wall by now.

      A man called Head, from Government Warfare, greeted Wyvern when he left the Aqualung. He shook hands respectfully. Wyvern was still a free citizen, as far as the term ‘free’ applied at all these days. The Aqualung had landed on the chill expanse of field outside the huddled domes of the British Luna community. Through the ports, the strange city was visible, stewing in sunlight. They transferred from the ship straight into a buggy, which crawled into the vast maw of one of the airlocks. There they underwent the tedious process of decontamination: no infections were allowed to enter the closed system of the Sector, where they might circulate all too easily.

      Head apologised a hundred times for the lengthy delay.

      At last they were officially cleared and allowed to pass into the dome proper.

      They drove to a civil servant’s hotel on a laner, a small vehicle running on a monorail among the lanes, as the narrow avenues of the British Sector were called. The hotel accommodation was adequate, although utilitarian, like everything else up here. Head apologised for it all, taking the blame for the entire economic framework upon his own narrow shoulders.

      ‘And I shall call for you punctually tomorrow morning, Mr Wyvern,’ he said, smiling deferentially. ‘There will be a busy day ahead of us then, I dare surmise, so I will leave you now to get what I trust will be an excellent night’s rest. The bed looks at least comfortable, and no doubt you are fatigued by your journey. The water should be on at this time of the evening.’

      After more profuse expressions of solicitude for Wyvern’s comfort, Head left.

      His amiable talk of mornings and evenings had been a mere convention: it would be sunlight for the next week, and the cloche-like domes had up their polarscreens.

      As soon as he was alone, restlessness seized Wyvern. Eileen was somewhere near, perhaps within a mile. He shaved, changed his suit and went downstairs. There were few people about, mostly male and as grey and official-looking as the people on the ship. One brightly dressed woman walked elegantly into the bar; she was possibly Turkish. A synthetic orchestra was playing the ‘Atomics’ from Dinkuhl’s Managerial Suite.

      Wyvern carefully studied a map of the British Sector framed in the foyer. The name ‘JJ Lane’ roused his heart excitedly: that was the name of the lane to which Eileen had been going. He went and ordered a dinner in better spirits.

      The meal was simple: soup, a choice of two main dishes, a sweet, ice cream and something labelled coffee which was obviously and unsuccessfully synthetic. The only touch of the exotic was a Martian sauce served with the creamed fish; the new colony had begun to export something other than fissionables. With the present state of world affairs, food was scarcer than uranium.

      Once he had eaten, Wyvern went determinedly to bed. But no sooner was the light out and the window polared, than restlessness seized him. Tomorrow might be too late, he thought. Suppose the New Police arrived in the night? He got up and dressed, his fingers suddenly frantic with haste.

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