The Black Corridor

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The containers gleam a pure, soft white.

He walks to the first and inspects it. It contains his wife.

*

JOSEPHINE RYAN 9.9.1960 .7.3.2004.

*

His blonde, pink-faced wife, blue eyes peacefully closed, lies in her green fluid. She looks so natural that Ryan half expects her to open her eyes and smile at him. Josephine, heart of the ship, so glad to be setting out on her great adventure, so glad to be free from the torture of living in the city with its unbearable atmosphere of hostility.

Ryan smiles as he remembers the eager step with which she came aboard on the day of the take-off, how she had lost, almost overnight, the sadness and the fear which had afflicted her—indeed, which had been afflicting them all. He sighs. How pleasant to be together again.

*

RUPERT RYAN .13.7.1990 .6.3.2004.

*

ALEXANDER RYAN .25.12.1996 .6.3.2004.

*

Ryan walks fairly quickly past the containers where his two sons' immature faces gaze in startlement at the bright ceiling.

*

SYDNEY RYAN .2.2.1937 .25.12.2003.

*

Ryan stares for a while at the wrinkled old face, lips slightly drawn back over the false teeth, the thin muscley old shoulders showing above the plastic sheet drawn over the main length of the containers.

*

JOHN RYAN .15.8.1963 .26.12.2003.

*

ISABEL RYAN .22.6.1962 .13.2.2004.

*

Isabel. Still weary looking, even though at peace...

*

JANET RYAN .10.11.1982 .7.5.2004.

*

Ah, Janet, thinks Ryan with a surge of affection.

He loved Josephine. But, by God, he loved Janet passionately.

He frowned. The problem had not been over when they went into Hibernation. It would take a great deal of self-discipline on his part to make sure that it did not start all over again.

*

FRED MASTERSON .4.5.1950 .25.12.2003.

*

TRACY MASTERSON .29.10.1973 .9.10.2003.

*

JAMES HENRY .4.3.1957 .29.10.2003.

*

IDA HENRY .3.3.1980.1.2.2004.

*

FELICITY HENRY .3.3.1980.1.2.2004.

*

Everything is as it should be. Everybody is sleeping peacefully.

Only Ryan is awake.

He blinks.

Only Ryan is awake because it is better for one man to suffer acute loneliness and isolation than for several to live in tension.

One strong man.

Ryan raises his eyebrows.

And leaves Hibernation.

*

Ryan reports to the computer: JOSEPHINE RYAN. CONDITION STEADY.

RUPERT RYAN CONDITION STEADY.

ALEXANDER RYAN. CONDITION STEADY.

SIDNEY RYAN. CONDITION STEADY.

JOHN RYAN. CONDITION STEADY.

ISABEL RYAN. CONDITION STEADY.

JANET RYAN.

CONDITION STEADY.

FRED MASTERSON. CONDITION STEADY.

TRACY MASTERSON. CONDITION

STEADY.

JAMES

HENRY

CONDITION STEADY.

IDA HENRY. CONDITION STEADY.

FELICITY HENRY. CONDITION

STEADY.

The computer says: ******EARLIER YOU REPORTED YOURSELF LONELY*

***"

"DOES THIS CONDITION STILL OBTAIN******

Ryan replies: ******CONDITION EASIER SINCE THEN**************

He moves to his desk and picks up his diary.

He writes: land.

A short while ago the computer reported an oversight of mine. I'd forgotten to report on the condition of the personnel. The first time I've done anything like that! And the last, I hope. Then I discovered that the emergency locks in Hibernation had been sealed and I had to come back and unseal them. I must have done that, too, when I made the above entry. I feel relaxed and at ease now. The previous mistakes and, I suppose, mild blackouts must have been the result of the strain which I now seem to have overcome.

Ryan winds up the entry, closes the log, puts it away, leaves the control room.

He goes to his cabin and sets aside the educational tapes. Too much concentration, he thinks. Mustn't overdo it. It's incredible how one has to watch the balance. A very delicate equilibrium involved here. Very delicate.

He starts to watch an old Patriot propaganda play about the discovery of a cell of the Free Yorkshire underground and its eventual elimination.

He turns it off.

He hears something. He turns his head from the viewer.

It is a year since he heard a footstep not his own.

But now he can hear footsteps.

He sits there, feeling sweat prickle under his hair, listening to what seems to be the sound of echoing steps in the passage outside.

There is some stranger aboard!

He listens as the steps approach the door of the compartment.

Then they pass.

He forces himself out of his chair and gets to the door. He touches the stud to open the door. It opens slowly.

Outside the passageway stretches on both sides, the length of the ship's crew quarters. The only sound is the faint hum of the ship's system.

Ryan gets a glass of water and drinks it.

He switches the viewer back on, half smiling. Typical auditory hallucination of a lonely man, he thinks. The programme ends.

Ryan decides to get some exercise.

He leaves his cabin and makes for the gym.

As he walks along the corridor he feels footsteps moving behind him. He ignores the feeling with a shrug.

Then comes a moment's panic. He gives way to the impulse to turn sharply.

There is, of course, no one there.

Ryan reaches the gym. He has the impression that he is being watched as he runs through his exercises.

He lies down on a couch for fifteen minutes before beginning the second half of the exercise routine.

He remembers family holidays on the Isle of Skye. That was in the very early years, of course, before Skye was taken over as an experimental area for research into algae food substitutes. He remembers the pleasant evenings he and Josephine used to have with Tracy and Fred Masterson. He remembers the evening walks through the roof gardens with his wife. He remembers Christmases, he remembers sunsets. He remembers the smell of the rain on the fields of the place where he was born. He remembers the smell of his toy factories—the hot metal, the paint, the freshly cut timber.

He remembers his mother. She had been one of the victims of the short-lived Hospitals Euthanasia Act. The Act had been repealed by the Nimmoites during their short period of power. The only sensible thing they did, thinks Ryan.

He sleeps.

Once again he is on the planet, in the valley. But this time he is panic-stricken that the ship and the others have left him. He begins to run. He runs into the jungle. He sees a dark woman. He is in his own toy factory among the dancing toys.

He takes pleasure at the sight of these things he has made. They all function together so joyfully. He sees the musical building blocks. They still spell out a word.

AMU...

With dawning fear he hears, above the bangs and clangs of the mechanical toys, the drone of the dirge-like music which in other dreams accompanies the dancers in the darkened ballroom.

The music rises, almost drowning out the sounds made by the moving toys. Ryan feels himself standing rooted with fear in the middle of his gyrating models. The music grows louder. The toys spin to and fro, round and round. They begin to climb on top of each other, lamb on dredger, girl doll on piles of bricks, making a huge pyramid close to him. The pyramid grows and grows until it is at the level of his eyes. The music grows louder and louder.

In his terror Ryan anticipates a point in the music when the pyramid of still moving toys collapses on him.

He struggles to free himself from the toils of little mechanical bodies.

As he struggles he awakes. He lies there and hears himself groan: 'I thought they were over. I've got to do something about it.'

He gets off the couch and abandons the idea of exercise.

He stares around at the exercising machines. 'I can remain master of myself,' Ryan says.

'I can.'

He goes back to the control room, adjusts various dials, checks that his time devices are working accurately and makes the following statement to the computer: *******! AM TROUBLED BY NIGHTMARES***********

The computer replies: ******! KNOW THIS"

"INJECT 1 CC PRODITOL PER*

DIEM"

"DO NOT TAKE MORE"

"DISCONTINUE THE DOSE**AS SOON AS POSSIBLE AND AT ALL COSTS AFTER 14 DAYS*** *********************************

Ryan rubs his lips.

Then he bites the nail of his right forefinger.

*

Ryan paces the ship.

Passageways, engine room, supplies room, exercise room, control room, own cabin, spare cabins, observation room, library...

He does not look at the door of the Hibernation room. He does not walk along the passage towards the door.

He continues his angry prowling for half an hour or more, trying to collect his thoughts.

The footsteps follow him most of the time. Footsteps he knows do not exist.

Echoing up and down the passageways he begins to hear fragments of the voices of his companions, the men and women now suspended in green fluid in the containers that must remain sealed until planetfall.

'Daddy! Daddy!' cries his youngest child Alexander.

Ryan hears the thud of his feet in the passage. He overhears an argument between Ida and Felicity Henry: 'Don't keep telling me how you feel. I don't want to know,' Felicity snaps at her pregnant twin sister. 'You don't realise what it's like,' says the other on a familiar note of complaint. 'No, no. I don't,' he hears Felicity say hysterically. He hears the noise of a slap and Ida's weeping. A door bangs. 'Let me see to it, Ryan,' he hears James Henry say impatiently. The voice seems to echo all over the ship. He hears Fred and Tracy Masterson's feet coming rapidly along the passageway.

His wife Josephine is behind them. 'Daddy! Daddy!' The child's feet come scudding up to him. Ryan turns his head this way and that. Where are the sounds coming from?

Janet Ryan sings, far away.

'Homeward bound, where the fields are like honey...'

Ryan cannot hear the words properly. He cranes his neck to listen, but the words are still indistinct. Uncle Sidney is singing too.

'There was a man who had a mouse, hi-diddle-um-tum-ti-do; he baked it in an apple pie; there was a man who had a mouse...'

Isabel Ryan's voice comes from somewhere around him. 'I can't bear any more!'

Then the rumble of John Ryan, his brother, talking to her, saying something Ryan cannot catch.

Janet singing.

Both boys are running, running, running...

And Ryan, in the centre of all this noise, sinks to the floor of the passage, cocks his head, listening to the voices.

As he crouches there it seems to him that the voices must be coming from the room at the end of the passage. Automatically he gets to his feet and with a stiff gait starts to walk up the passageway towards the door.

The voices grow louder.

'I hate to see a man playing at being indispensible. It benefits neither him nor the people about him,' says James Henry.

'The Lord thy God is a jealous God and thou shall have no other God than Him,' advises Uncle Sidney.

'Never mind, dear, never mind,' Isobel Ryan is telling someone.

Alexander is crying muffled sobs into the pillow.

Janet Ryan is singing in her high, clear voice: 'Homeward bound, we're homeward bound, where the singing birds welcome such lovers as we...'

Ida and Felicity Henry are still arguing: 'Take it.'

'I don't want to take it.'

'You must take it. It's what you need.'

'I know what I need.'

'Be sensible. Drink it now.'

As Ryan reaches the door, the voices rise. As he touches the stud, they are louder still.

Conversations, statements, songs, sobs, laughter, arguments, all coming towards him in an indistinguishable medley.

Then the door is open.

The noises cease abruptly and Ryan is left in the silence, staring at the thirteen containers, twelve full and labelled with the names and dates of the occupants.

The owners of the voices lie there quietly in their pale fluid.

Ryan stands there in the doorway, suddenly realising again that he is alone, that the noise has ceased, that he has opened the door at an unscheduled time...

His companions continue to sleep. Peaceful and unaware of the torment he is undergoing, they are all at CONDITION STEADY.

Which is more than I am, thinks Ryan. Tears come to his eyes.

From the door he cannot see the people in the containers.

He counts the containers. There are still thirteen. He looks at the thirteenth, his own. He draws in his breath. His lips curl back in a frightened, feral snarl. He steps out into the passageway and slams the heel of his hand against the door, shutting it.

He begins to run very slowly down the passage until he comes to the end.

Then he leans against a bulkhead, breathing heavily.

He gasps and gasps again. Then he straightens his back and sets off slowly for the control room.

I shall have to think about that injection, I might not be able to carry on without it. I'd hoped to hold out longer than this. Doesn't do to get too reliant on that sort of thing. It is supposed to be addictive, after all.

Maybe one dose will do the trick. One might be all I need.

At any rate, I daren't go on without it.

Ryan decides to have his first injection the next morning.

The Proditol is an enzyme inhibiting substance that works directly on new cell matter entering the brain. It has the effect of preventing the release of harmful substances into the cells, causing lack of connection with the outside world and, thus, delusions.

Ryan, partly for pride's sake, partly for reasons he does not fully understand, is very unwilling to take the drug.

But Ryan is dedicated to the ship, its occupants, its goal.

There is little he would not do in order to be able to continue with the steady schedule of the ship and fulfil his responsibility towards its occupants.

Ryan has made his decision.

Plenty of sleeping pills tonight and the Proditol tomorrow.

He goes to his sleeping compartment but then wanders back to the main control room.

He asks for details of the action of the drug.

*******ICC PRODITOL "

" ICC PRODITOL ALSO MA— 19ccc USSR* ICC PRODITOL IS A FAST ACTING DRUG OF THE ENZYME******INHIBITOR VARIETY "

IT BEGINS TO TAKE EFFECT***** WITHIN TEN MINUTES OF INJECTION "

" ITS FULL EFFECT* IS FELT WTTHIN THE HOUR FOLLOWING "

" AFTER THIS**** THE MIND OF THE PATIENT SHOULD BE RELIEVED OF ALL**** IMPRESSIONS OF A DELUSORY NATURE "

" IN THE*********SEVEREST CASES THE DRUG WILL CONTROL ADVERSE*********SYMPTOMS FOR 24 HOURS AFTER WHICH: IF DELUSIONS *******RETURN: A FURTHER INJECTION SHOULD BE ADMINISTERED*****IN MANY CASES THIS WILL NOT BE NECESSARY "

" IN NO**CIRCUMSTANCES: HOWEVER: SHOULD THE DRUG BE ADMINISTERED*

DAILY FOR MORE THAN 14 DAYS*******************

Ryan acknowledges the message and walks to the control room's main 'porthole'. He activates the screen and looks out at space. The holographic illusion is complete.

Space and the distant suns, the tiny points of light so far away.

Ryan's brows contract.

He notices trails in the blackness. They appear to be wisps of vapour and yet they are plainly not escaping from the ship. It is something like smoke from an open fire, trailing in the dark.

He passes his hand across his eyes and peers forward again.

The trails are still there.

He is alarmed. He casts his mind over the data he has accumulated, hoping to think of something that will account for the vapour.

Could they be left by the ships of another space-travelling race?

It must be a possibility.

Meanwhile the wisps continue to rise. There are more and more of them now. They swirl together, break apart and reform.

Ryan, to his horror, begins to hear a faint noise, a kind of buzzing and ringing in his ears. As the noise begins the gases begin to unite, to shape themselves. Once again Ryan passes a hand over his eyes.

The noises in his ears continue. As he looks out of the porthole once more a terrible suspicion comes over him.

And instantly, staring at him gravely, with a small, malicious smile on her lips, is the old woman. Her eyes are shielded by the round dark glasses. She is black-lipped, her old skin covered in powder. She puts the clawlike hand to the window and is gone.

Ryan gasps and is about to turn from the window in panic when he sees the shapes ahead of him. Out there in space are the whirling figures of his nightmare, the figures of the insane dancers in the darkened ballroom.

They are far away.

Ryan hears their music in his ears. As they dance, slowly and proudly, to the distant chant he watches, paralysed, as they come closer to the ship.

He sees their stiff bodies, their plump, respectable faces, the expensive dark brocades of the women's dresses, the good dark suits of the men. He observes the well-nurtured upright bodies, the straight backs, the air of dignity and comportment with which they circle, so correctly, in time to the music.

The dark circles which are their eyes stare blindly at each other.

Their faces are rigid below the dark glasses. They circle through the void towards Ryan and the music becomes louder, more solemn, more threatening.

'Daddy! Daddy!'

Alexander is crying.

Ryan is unable to move. Cold light falls on the dancers. They come closer to the ship, closer to Ryan, standing terrified at his window.

'DADDY!'

Ryan hears the insistent voice and frowns. Is Alex really up?

Ryan smiles. The boy was never one to stay in bed if he could help it.

But Alexander Ryan is not in bed. He is in hibernation.

The dancers dance on.

They are not real. Ryan realises that he should give his attention to his son, not to the illusory dancers out there in space. They can't get in. They can't confront him. They can't take off, in one terrible gesture, the glasses which encircle their eyes, revealing...

'GET BACK TO BED ALEX!'

They are very close now. The music slows. They are just a few paces from the ship. They turn to face Ryan with their blinded eyes. Slowly they take a step.

One step...

Two steps...

Three steps towards Ryan.

They are clustered, some thirty of them, a foot from Ryan, standing just outside the window. And then Ryan realises with greater terror that it has been an illusion. The dancers were not outside. What he was seeing was a reflection in the window. The dancers are actually behind him. They have been in the ship all the time. He dare not turn. He stares instead into the mirror.

They stare back.

Then Ryan sees the other. Behind the crowd of dancers are his friends and relatives. All stare at him from blank eyes. All stare at him as if they do not know him. As if, indeed, he does not exist for them.

Josephine—her plump face expressionless, her blonde hair tumbling to her plump shoulders, cruel in her indifference.

His two sons, Alexander and Rupert, startled expressions in their round eyes. Uncle Sidney, his stringing arm gripping the two boys round their thin shoulders, his lips drawn back in a snarl, his eyes on an object somewhere above Ryan's head.

There are the Henry twins, one healthy, one tired by pregnancy, but hand in hand and staring through Ryan with identical hazel eyes. There is Tracy Masterson, looking vacuously past Ryan's left shoulder. There is Fred Masterson, Ryan's oldest friend, a sympathetic expression on his face. There is brother John, puzzled, tired, uncomprehending. There is Isabel, looking bitterly at John.

There is James Henry, red hair gleaming in the mirror-light, glaring meaninglessly through Ryan.

And as he looks, Ryan sees the dancers in front take their last step towards him. He wheels to face them.

He stares into the cool, orderly control room. The screens, the dials, the indicators, the instruments, the computer console.

Grey and green, muted colours, quite...

He looks back at the porthole. There is only blackness.

In one way this seems worse to Ryan. He begins to beat at the porthole, howling and cursing.

'Where are you? Where are you? You shits, you cunts, you bastards, you bleeders, you fuckers, you horrors...'

They are there again. Not the dancers. Only his friends and relatives. But they still cannot see him.

He waves to them, mouths friendly words at them. They do not understand. They come a little closer.

And suddenly Ryan feels their malice, is shocked and horrified.

He looks at them and his expression is puzzled. He tries to signal to them—that they know him, that he is their friend.

They crowd closer.

'Let us in!' they cry. 'Let us in. Let us in. Let us in. Let us in. Let us in. Let us in. Let us in.'

The clamour around the ship increases. Hands claw at the window.

Hands tear their way through the fabric of the porthole.

'You fools! You'll destroy the ship. Be sensible. Wait!' Ryan begs them. 'You'll bring the deaths of all of us! Don't—don't— don't!'

But they are ripping the whole of the wall away, exposing it to frigid space.

'You'll wreck the expedition! Stop it!'

They cannot hear him.

His throat is tight.

He faints.