The Complete Short Stories: The 1950s. Brian Aldiss

a segment of orange, the long curve before them from ceiling to floor being ribbed vertically at intervals. Carappa swung his head slowly from side to side like an animal in pain, as he took it in.

      ‘And where are the stars?’ he asked.

      ‘Behind there, we think.’ Viann indicated the ribbed wall. ‘But if those are shutters we no longer have the power to withdraw them. They are firmly locked in place.’

      ‘No longer have the power …’ Carappa echoed. His tears were running again as he paced up and down. ‘I am only a poor provincial priest and I feel very humble – ’

      ‘Stop dramatising yourself, man,’ Scott said sharply. ‘Take your mind off your own ego and look instead at these.’

      He swept a hand eloquently over the semi-circular bank of controls. The whole structure was a ruinous, coagulated mass; it had been destroyed by heat and acid till not a switch or dial remained intact.

      ‘This can never be repaired,’ he said gravely.

      They stood isolated together in the middle of the floor, a sense of their helplessness suddenly giving them a need for kinship.

      ‘It is worse than you thought, priest?’ Viann asked.

      He nodded dumbly, and finally said, ‘This voyage to Procyon – it would take several generations?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘How many?’

      ‘The seventh generation would be young and fit to colonise any planet they reached.’

      ‘Only seven? Should the ship – how should I say – ’ He paused. He was weary. Again he dragged a heavy hand across his face. ‘Should we not be at Procyon now?’

      Master Scott said, ‘We have a log book of an early captain of the ship we could show you. The ship reached the Procyon system and actually found a habitable planet.’

      ‘Then?’

      ‘It landed half the people as colonists, took in fresh stocks of water – which had apparently run short – and began back for home, for Earth, again.’

      Once more the silence.

      As if compelled to probe into something he had no wish to discover, the priest said, ‘And this journey back – another seven generations?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Slowly he rephrased a question he had already asked: ‘Should we not be back at Earth now?’

      ‘We should,’ said the girl. Her face tilted up towards his as she added through clenched teeth, ‘We have evidence that twenty-two generations have passed since the ship left Procyon.’

      For a moment he did not grasp her meaning, asking, ‘Then where are we?’

      In the wide room her quiet answer, ‘Lost,’ was almost lost.

      Steadying himself, Carappa said dully, ‘You may ask your men to kill me now.’

       IV

      For some while after the priest was taken from them, Tom Brandyholm and Bob Crooner sat quietly in their cell. Trepidation pinned Brandyholm where he was, slumped against one wall; his entire fibre seemed to have dissolved into a sort of watery paralysis. He did not recognise a form of nervous disease which had carried off a number of his acquaintances; in the unprecedented conditions of the ship, its circumscribed inhabitants perished easily from inner tensions.

      He looked hopelessly at the book Carappa had left. Most of it consisted of unreadable diagrams and instructions, obviously of a technical nature. Here and there was a sentence – such as ‘The daily six-hour dim-down of all inessential lighting, established to give an illusion of night, will be the period normally devoted to routine maintenance’ – which seemed to make sense without being really comprehensible. Realising how little he understood of the world, Brandyholm began to pace rapidly up and down. Confinement! It was killing him.

      He flung himself violently at the door, hammering and scratching on it, screaming.

      In a kind of daze, he felt Crooner pull him over onto his back.

      ‘Got to get away, got to get away, Bob!’ he cried. ‘Can’t we escape – get back to the tribe?’

      ‘Lie quiet and shut up,’ Crooner advised grimly. ‘Wait your chance. It’ll come, with luck.’

      They waited, Brandyholm in a kind of stupor. When the guards came again and called for him, they had to haul him to his feet. He was dragged roughly along corridors and finally pushed into a small room. A uniformed man with a lean face confronted him.

      ‘I am Master Scott,’ the man said. ‘Expansion to your ego.’

      Brandyholm, trying to focus on him through swimming vision, did not reply. A swung hand, catching him sharply on the cheek, cleared his head with remarkable efficiency.

      ‘Expansion to your ego,’ Master Scott repeated menacingly.

      ‘At your expense,’ replied Brandyholm feebly.

      ‘That’s better. What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?’

      ‘Migraine.’

      ‘You confess regularly?’

      ‘When my priest, Carappa, is at liberty.’

      ‘Then you should not suffer guilt-attacks which produce migraines,’ answered Scott, ignoring Brandyholm’s thrust. Changing his tone, he said, ‘I have to ask you some questions. It would be wise to answer carefully. First: where were you born?’

      ‘In Quarters.’

      ‘Proof of that?’

      ‘What do you call proof? Go and catch my mother: she’s still alive: she’ll tell you.’

      ‘Have you any reasons why your life should be spared?’

      ‘What reason have you to kill me?’

      Master Scott made an impatient gesture. ‘I’m trying to be patient. Reasons, quickly. Have you any knowledge?’

      ‘What if I have?’

      The words were hardly out of his mouth when his mouth was slammed shut by a palm under his chin. He was pinned against the wall, struggling, while a long finger flicked unpleasantly against his windpipe.

      ‘Understand this,’ Scott said, synchronising words with flicks, ‘Everyone on shipboard is in a damn beastly situation. It’s a ship, see, and it’s headed hell-knows-where, and there are some queer things going on aboard – never mind that – you wouldn’t understand. What you can understand, is that we’re all expendable, and if you can’t show you’re any use you’re bound for the Long Jump. Now – talk.’

      Sick, sweating, Brandyholm said the first thing that came into his head: ‘The daily six-hour dim-down of all unessential lighting, established to give a delusion of night, will be the period devoted to maintenance.’

      He was instantly released. Instantly, he slumped to the floor.

      ‘What’s that?’ Scott asked, stirring him slightly with one foot. He wrote it down in a notebook while Brandyholm repeated it.

      ‘Is it important?’ Brandyholm asked.

      ‘Could be. Where did you get it from?’ He listened intently while the other explained about the book of circuits, which he had left in the cell.

      The silence which followed was broken by the entry of an excited man who grabbed Scott’s arm and said, ‘You’re needed at once at the barricades! An attack is developing. Everyone is wanted.’

      ‘I’m coming,’ Scott said. Without another glance at Brandyholm,