The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s. Brian Aldiss

beastly like that. That’s Bu-X’s job.’

      ‘This ruddy administration –,’ Colonel H began. He was occasionally irked by what he considered his underling’s prissy way of speech.

      ‘I came back to say we’d forgotten something,’ said the secretary crisply. He disliked these outbursts against paper work, believing legislators to be the unacknowledged poets of the world. ‘I came to remind you that we had Wyvern in our hands in Norwich. We should have found out then that he was telepathic – that was what we handed him over to Parrodyce for. I understood that gentleman was supposed to be infallible?’

      ‘My God!’ H exclaimed, jumping up. ‘You’re right! Why didn’t I think of that?’

      He snatched up his desk telephone.

      ‘Send Parrodyce up to me on the double,’ he barked, and bruised the receiver setting it down again.

      ‘Lucky I had the wit to bring that fellow to Luna with us,’ he said. ‘If I remember, you were rather against the idea.’

      The secretary stood dapper and silent, gazing at the crease in his trousers. He was an excellent judge of when silence was both wisest and most infuriating.

      The four New Police who had been entrusted with Wyvern were getting him fairly rapidly down a stretch of passage when Parrodyce appeared at the other end of it. The Questioner looked disturbed. He was wasting no time in answering his boss’s summons, but he quaked in doing it. His cheeks shone, his spectacles misted. Then he saw Wyvern and Wyvern saw him.

      Only a short while before, Wyvern had resolved never to make contact with a human mind again. His contact with Dorgen had sickened him to the core; it had indeed contaminated him, for he had involuntarily taken over the dying man’s jumble of impressions complete, and they were now as much a part of him as his own memories. He wanted no more such. Least of all did he want ego-union with Parrodyce, for he already knew that here was a mind more sick than Dorgen’s.

      Nevertheless, the desperate circumstances altered the case. Too much was at stake for queasiness. He did not hesitate. Disregarding the posse who had bodily hold of him, he made mental contact with Parrodyce.

      He held it only for a second. It was enough.

      Their thought states interlocked.

      Wyvern: ‘They’ve discovered what I am. I slipped up. It’s all over. I’m being taken to Bu-X, whatever that is.’

      Parrodyce: ‘Fear for myself. That explains what H and buddy want me for. My secret’s up too – or if not that, they’ll think I’ve failed. Either way: torture, pain. Pain! Remove my lower jaw maybe. Castration …!’

      Wyvern: ‘Stow it! Listen – my guards will be getting most of this exchange.’

      Parrodyce: ‘Then I am betrayed. It’s your fault, Wyvern. Why didn’t I kill you when I had you? We’ll both be taken to Bu-X. That’s where they fit you up to couple you on to Bert the Brain. They’re worse torturers than I and Joe Rakister, my assistant. Daren’t go to H.’

      Wyvern: ‘You must escape, Parrodyce, now. Get away to another sector quickly. Tell them what is about to happen; Bert must be wrecked. If this scheme of H’s succeeds, he’ll rule the entire roost in no time. A telepathic computer would be unstoppable. Get away now.’

      Parrodyce: ‘Must save own skin. Which sector is powerful enough to defy H, which?’

      Wyvern: ‘Try any – American will do. All sectors must unite against this. Bomb it to bits if necessary.’

      Parrodyce: ‘Killing. Good.’

      Wyvern: ‘Just get the message through. Leave them to judge. Now for heaven’s sake scoot, you horror.’

      Parrodyce: ‘Loathe you. Yet if you were saved, you could probe me properly, find what went wrong. Some thorn in the infant flesh. Oh, Wyvern, am afraid …’

      Wyvern: ‘There’ll be nothing to fear if you get out. And listen, somewhere on Luna is a girl called Eileen South; she’s a telepath, no other details. Tell her – tell her I loved her.’

      Parrodyce: ‘No use for women. Subtle, smothering …’

      Wyvern: ‘Get the message through. Do it all, and I swear if there’s ever a chance I’ll dig down through your dirt and put you right, if it’s still possible.’

      Parrodyce: ‘Love/hate. Going now.’

      The contact broke. The plump figure at the end of the corridor turned and ran back through the door it had entered. Badly frightened, one of the guards, strictly against orders, slammed home a blow on to the side of Wyvern’s chin.

      Oblivion was a complexity of sensation. The top of Wyvern’s sleeping mind whirled, whirled till all its colours blended into blinding whiteness. He was far away, but his heart still beat, his bloodstream still flowed, his latent consciousness foamed and subsided like milk boiling on an intermittent fire. Down there, where sleep never penetrates, fright was active; the smouldering intelligence knew that something was afoot which would violate its inmost hearth. The something came from outside, where all dangers came from, but it was working steadily in, insidiously, slyly and/or boldly, deeper.

      The danger was chromium-plated, then it was a gnarled hand, or it was pins. It had little piggy leech-snouts, or it had nozzles or nails. It assumed any shape to get where it wanted, and soon the primeval country fell to this protean invader, and the enemy camp fires glowed from every point of vantage.

      Time slowed, stopped. Presently it began again at a new rhythm. Dawn came: Wyvern roused.

      He could not move. He was looking at a wall of lawn starred with daisies, or it was a green sky stuffed with stars; slowly, with infinite care, the invalid muscles of his eyes brought it into focus, and it was a green wall of instruments, studded with little dials, like eyeballs. It was about three feet away from him. He acquired these facts as a new-born babe might acquire them.

      Something fiendish had been done to him.

      Men in white overalls crossed his line of vision. For the most part, they seemed to ignore him, being more concerned with the little dials. Then one came over and injected something into him – it might have been into his shoulder or his calf, he could not tell, could only feel a coolness spread, gradually defining the limits of his body.

      It seemed to him he was left alone then, with only the blind eyeballs to watch him. Slowly strength returned. Wyvern discovered that he was lying on his chest with a pillow under his left cheek. Taking his time about it, he rolled on to one side and sat up, propping himself up with his arms helped by the light lunar gravity. The effort dizzied him; he sat with his eyes shut, vaguely exploring the dry taste in his mouth. He could eventually open his eyes again.

      He was in a small room on a large table. He had been covered with a blanket which had now slipped aside. He was naked; he could see his body direct, and in a wide mirror slanting above the table. Wyvern stared at the reflection – not in horror, for his subconscious had already accepted this violation.

      From six points on the front of his body, and two on his legs, little terminals projected. From the terminals, cables – or were they tubes? – led off. He could tell that his back was similarly served.

      His skull was shaved; from it, similar though smaller terminals projected, secured into the bone. There were twelve terminals in his skull, and the connections from them had been built out so that the rear of his head was surrounded by a kind of wire basket, like a fencing mask worn backwards. A pigtail of cable hung from the back of the basket, carrying the wires away.

      ‘Someone’s been busy,’ Wyvern muttered to himself. Only that trivial thought bubbled up.

      At the bottom of the bed, a steel arm with a hook on it gathered all the thin cables together into one fat one. The fat cable slithered across the floor to a trolley fitted with valves and glass cylinders and a pump which worked slowly