The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s. Brian Aldiss
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indeed it might almost be said to have altered the whole organisation of his mind. It left two hitherto separate facts significantly side by side: Dorgen’s mental picture of his killer; Parrodyce’s mental picture of his assistant. The pictures dissolved and merged; they were one: Parrodyce’s assistant was Dorgen’s killer.
Why? Wyvern asked himself Why? How? But the truth had lain there undeniably in his mind waiting to be developed, like a film in a dark drawer. He was able even to piece together a name with the portraits: Joe Rakister; for though the name had never actually been formulated to him in the state of ego-union, face and name were one symbol.
If only Wyvern could get that knowledge through to a neutral authority, he would be cleared of the spurious charge H had framed him with. That meant getting himself clear of the Sector. Of a sudden, he longed for a free, straightforward life again. He was not dead yet: and better be dead than waiting here for he knew not what.
He slid his legs off the table.
‘Here, you’ve got to stay on there,’ William said, looking up from his magazine.
‘I’ve got cramp in my legs. Let me try and have a walk round.’
‘That machine’s supposed to look after your cramp.’
‘My dear William, science has not yet invented an antidote to pins and needles. You get on with your reading; I can’t go far.’
William grunted uncertainly and returned to the love story. Wyvern found his legs were a good deal stronger than he had expected; the trolley had indeed looked after him well. He walked slowly towards it, feigning weakness and groaning, dragging the cable with him. When he was up to the trolley, he called out.
‘I think I’m going to faint, William!’
The big guard was on his feet at once. Wyvern bent double, grabbed the cable, and wrenched its multi-point plug out of its socket on the trolley base. Thus armed, he swung about, whirling the cable over his head. The heavy plug caught William hard behind one ear. He went down on his knees, crashing into the trolley. Wyvern snatched up a urine bottle and crowned him with it.
For a moment Wyvern paused to wonder if he was going to survive being disconnected. Although his blood pounded heavily, he felt well enough, despite the overhead mirror’s assurance that he looked horrible. He went rapidly to work.
He slipped William’s white overall and slacks off and assumed them himself. He peeled the man’s shirt off and tied his hands behind his back with it. He stuffed the woman’s magazine into his mouth. There was adhesive plaster in a roll on the trolley; with this Wyvern stuck the magazine in place and wound a couple of twists round wrists and ankles.
The result was not artistic but it would hold for a bit.
Bundling the loose cable, which was still attached to the terminals on his body, into a pocket, Wyvern made into the corridor. There was no light or sound anywhere. He could vaguely discern two doors in the corridor, one at each end. He went to one, hesitated, opened it.
It was a hospital-type wash room and lavatory, without windows. ‘This is probably a mile below surface,’ he thought, heart sinking. The only outlets, apart from the flush, were a small ventilator grill and a large refuse disposal chute. He opened the latter; it evidently did not function properly, being choked with rubbish: bloody bandages, newspaper, cigarette cartons. A grey human finger caught his eye. Good old Grisewood, he thought grimly; or was it Grimshaw?
He went back down the corridor, glancing in at the recumbent William, and tried the far door.
Stairs went up on his left, another door stood just ahead. He took the stairs, ascending easily in the low gravity.
A light burnt at the top. This looked like part of a regular hospital. Someone was talking somewhere.
A row of closed doors faced him, all identical and uninviting. One of them said ‘Private’. Wyvern could feel panic beginning to mount in himself; the business of taking pot-luck at closed doors quickly becomes wearing in such sinister establishments.
At least he would have the element of surprise on his side, and this might be considerable in view of the contraption on the back of his skull. He barged into the door marked ‘Private’, determined to bear down anyone inside.
Nobody was there. It was an office. Neat white furniture. Synthetic flowers on the table.
Quite an anti-climax, he thought. There was a far door. Wyvern opened it casually, expecting a cupboard.
An old lady dropped a cup of tea and began to scream. Perhaps she was the almoner, he thought later. In a moment he had his hand clapped over her mouth.
‘I’ll throttle you if I hear another peep,’ he lied. Now what do I do? he asked himself; I should have brought that damned adhesive tape along from below.
‘Got any adhesive tape?’ he demanded.
She rolled her eyes and made signs. He brought his hand an inch away from her mouth and said, ‘What was that?’
‘I only asked if you had cut yourself,’ she said timidly.
‘Never mind that! Where is the tape?’
‘Just next door. It’s a store, a medical cupboard, don’t you know. You’ll find some in there.’
Wyvern didn’t want to risk going into the corridor again.
‘How do I get out of here?’ he asked.
‘To where?’
‘To anywhere!’
‘Well if you turn right and go down the corridor, you get into the male nurses’ quarters –’
‘And left?’ he prompted.
‘There’s a side entrance down that way.’
‘Which door?’
‘The last – no, the last but one on the right.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Now let’s go and get that tape.’
He hustled her through the outer room, paused to peer round the door, took a firmer grip round her mouth, pulled her out into the corridor and opened the door of what she had described as a cupboard.
It was a staff room, with three women in it. The old lady was no fool, Wyvern thought, curing her quick-wittedness.
He pushed her into the room, slammed the door and ran like mad down the corridor, hoping furiously she had at least not lied about the staff entrance.
She had. This was a dingy waiting room. Again no windows.
He tried the next door. The corridor echoed with shouting behind him, and he burst out of it with his only weapon, the cable, swinging in his hand.
He was in a dark side hall. It contained a staircase and two other doors, one with frosted glass, through which he could see the blur of an approaching figure. He could hear someone also approaching the second door, steelshod boots ringing on tile. And two pairs of legs appeared at the head of the stairs and began to descend even as he paused.
It was too late to double back into the corridor, where the women were no doubt marshalling male help. Wyvern was cornered!
At the last possible moment, he spotted a cupboard door under the stairs and dived into it. As he did so, he recognised the voice of one of the men coming down the stairs; it was Colonel H, and in a foul temper by the sound of it.
Mops and brooms filled Wyvern’s perilous hiding place. He stumbled against them, but the clatter went unheard, for by this time the pursuers had gained the side hall and run into the two men entering by the other doors. The women from the staff room were all trying frantically to explain at once, the men were trying to calm them.
The high voices were silenced by H’s bull-like roar. His anger scattered them like pollen on a wind, and