The Complete Short Stories: The 1950s. Brian Aldiss
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fade, a great fierce hope was born within him. With a burst of avidity, the ghost of him took over the old Rodney. Confidence flooded him as he fought back the negativity.
The wineglass vanished from his hand. The Regius Professor sank into twilight and was gone. Blackness reigned. Rodney turned around. It was a voluntary movement; it was not in the script; he was alive, free.
The bubble of twentieth-century time had burst, leaving him alive in the future. He stood in the middle of a black and barren area. There had evidently been a slight explosion. Overhead was a crane-like affair as big as a locomotive with several funnels protruding from its underside; smoke issued from one of the funnels. Doubtless the thing was a time-projector or whatever it might be called, and obviously it had blown a fuse!
The scene about him engaged all Rodney’s attention. He was delighted to see that his late audience had been thrown into mild panic. They shouted and pushed and – in one quarter – fought vigorously. Male and female alike, they wore featureless, transparent bags which encased them from neck to ankle – and they had the impertinence to laugh at his pyjamas!
Cautiously, Rodney moved away. At first the idea of liberty overwhelmed him, he could scarcely believe himself alive. Then the realisation came: his liberty was precious – how doubly precious after that most terrible form of captivity! – and he must guard it by flight. He hurried beyond the projection area, pausing at a great sign that read:
CHRONOARCHEOLOGY LTD PRESENTS – THE SIGHTS OF THE CENTURIES
COME AND ENJOY THE ANTICS OF YOUR ANCESTORS!
YOU’LL LAUGH AS YOU LEARN
And underneath: Please Take One.
Shaking, Rodney seized a gaudy folder and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he ran.
His guess about the fair-ground was correct, and Valerie and he had been merely a glorified peepshow. Gigantic booths towered on all sides. Gay crowds sauntered or stood, taking little notice as Rodney passed. Flags flew, silvery music sounded; nearby, a flashing sign begged:
TRY ANTI-GRAV AND REALISE YOUR DREAMS
Farther on, a banner proclaimed:
THE SINISTER VENUSIANS ARE HERE!
Fortunately, a gateway was close. Dreading a detaining hand on his arm, Rodney made for it as quickly as possible. He passed a towering structure before which a waiting line of people gazed impatiently up at the words:
SAVOUR THE EROTIC POSSIBILITIES OF FREE-FALL
and came to the entrance.
An attendant called and tried to stop him. Rodney broke into a run. He ran down a satin-smooth road until exhaustion overcame him. A metal object shaped vaguely like a shoe but as big as a small bungalow stood at the kerb. Through its windows, Rodney saw couches and no human beings. Thankful at the mute offer of rest and concealment, he climbed in.
As he sank panting onto yielding rubber-foam, he realised what a horrible situation he was in. To be stranded centuries ahead of his own lifetime – and death – in a world of supertechnology and barbarism! – for so he visualised it. However, it was a vast improvement on the repetitive nightmare he had recently endured. Chiefly, now, he needed time to think quietly.
‘Are you ready to proceed, sir?’
Rodney jumped up, startled by a voice so near him. Nobody was in sight. The interior resembled a coach’s, with wide, soft seats, all of which were empty.
‘Are you ready to proceed, sir?’ There it was again.
‘Who is that?’ Rodney asked.
‘This is Auto-moto Seven Six One at your service, sir, awaiting instructions to proceed.’
‘You mean away from here?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘Yes, please!’
At once the structure glided smoothly forward. No noise, no vibration. The gaudy fair-ground fell back and was replaced by other buildings, widely spaced, smokeless, built of a substance which looked like curtain fabric; they flowed by without end.
‘Are you – are we heading for the country?’ Rodney asked.
‘This is the country, sir. Do you require a city?’
‘No, I don’t. What is there beside city and country?’
‘Nothing, sir – except of course the sea fields.’
Dropping that line of questioning, Rodney, who was instinctively addressing a busy control board at the front of the vehicle, inquired: ‘Excuse my asking, but are you a – er, robot?’
‘Yes, sir, Auto-moto Seven Six One. New on this route, sir.’
Rodney breathed a sigh of relief. He could not have faced a human being but irrationally felt superior to a mere mechanical. Pleasant voice it had, no more grating certainly than the Professor of Anglo-Saxon at his old college … however long ago that was.
‘What year is this?’ he asked.
‘Circuit Zero, Epoch Eighty-two, new style. Year Two Thousand Five Hundred Anno Domini, old style.’
It was the first direct confirmation of all his suspicions; there was no gainsaying that level voice.
‘Thanks,’ he said hollowly, ‘Now if you don’t mind I’ve got to think.’
Thought, however, yielded little in comfort or results. Possibly the wisest course would be to throw himself on the mercy of some civilised authority – if there were any civilised authorities left. And would the wisest course in a twentieth-century world be the wisest in a – um, twenty-sixth-century world?
‘Driver, is Oxford in existence?’
‘What is Oxford, sir?’
A twinge of anxiety as he asked: ‘This is England?’
‘Yes, sir. I have found Oxford in my directory, sir. It is a motor and spaceship factory in the Midlands, sir.’
‘Just keep going.’
Dipping into his pocket, he produced the fun-fair brochure and scanned its bright lettering, hoping for a clue to action.
‘Chronoarcheology Ltd. presents a staggering series of Peeps into the Past. Whole days in the lives of (a) A Mother Dinosaur, (b) William the Conqueror’s Wicked Nephew, (c) A Citizen of Crazed, Plague-Ridden Stuart London, (d) A Twentieth-Century Teacher in Love.
‘Nothing expurgated, nothing added! Better than the Feelies! All in glorious 4D – no stereos required.’
Fuming at the description of himself, Rodney crumpled the brochure in his hand. He wondered bitterly how many of his own generation were helplessly enduring this gross irreverence in peepshows all over the world. When the sense of outrage abated slightly, curiosity reasserted itself; he smoothed out the folder and read a brief description of the process which ‘will give you history-sterics as it brings each era nearer’.
Below the heading ‘It’s Fabulous – It’s Pabulous!’ he read: ‘Just as anti-gravity lifts a man against the direction of weight, chrono-grab can lift a machine out of the direction of time and send it speeding back over the dark centuries. It can be accurately guided from the present to scoop up a fragment from the past, slapping that fragment – all unknown to the people in it – right into your lucky laps. The terrific expense of this intricate operation need hardly be emphas – ’
‘Driver!’ Rodney screamed. ‘Do you know anything about this time-grabbing business?’
‘Only what I have heard, sir.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘My built-in information centre contains only facts relating to my duty, sir, but since I also have learning circuits I am occasionally able to collect gossip from passengers which – ’