The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s

‘I have to organise things – administration, rations …’

‘Oh? But it has to wait if you fancy a flip to Luna, eh?’

‘Can you tell me how long it will be before the Colonel is ready to see me?’ Wyvern asked pointedly. ‘Perhaps you would care to continue painting your office?’

The secretary reached out and struck him across the cheek. Then he turned, going by a side door into the adjoining room. It slammed behind him, hard.

By now, Wyvern was slightly rattled; he even contemplated stepping into the corridor and trying to make a break for it. But a slight scrape of an army boot and a mutter of conversation outside the room told him the corridor was guarded.

Devoutly, Wyvern wished he could use his hidden power to find just what these people intended of him; but that was impossible; he could no more commune with this secretary without his being aware of it than he could dance with him.

The secretary returned accompanying a sturdy man with wide shoulders and small features. He looked more plebeian in the flesh than over TV, but was unmistakably Colonel H. He held a juicy pat of butter in one hand and ate it with a teaspoon.

‘Loot!’ he explained to Wyvern. ‘First fresh butter I’ve tasted for months. There are some advantages in having OBL out of the way.’ He chuckled and sucked the spoon greedily.

The secretary frowned.

‘Sir, may I know why I have been brought here in this undignified way?’ Wyvern asked urgently. ‘If I’ve broken any laws, please tell me.’

A slip of butter fell onto the secretary’s desk.

‘We’ve none of us got any dignity these days,’ Colonel H said. ‘We gave up our right to dignity when we dropped the first fusion bombs. Oh, I know it’s easy for me to theorise … Look here, Wyvern, we can’t let you go to the Moon. How do we know you’re not planning to nip off to the American Sector as soon as you get there? We’ve got to have you here, teaching our boys cruxtistics, or whatever it is.’

‘Why should you think I was planning to leave the Republic?’ Wyvern asked.

Colonel H laughed.

‘We can’t trust anyone,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be tough in Britain this next decade, and those who can’t face the prospect will betray us. A hungry man will cut his brother’s throat for a crust of bread. I’ve just had word of a roundup of profiteers at a place called East Hingham – the list of prisoners should be in at any minute. Those sort of people, they’re swindling someone, they only deserve shooting.’

He lapsed into moody silence and dug into his pat of butter.

‘If only there was some way of really knowing what people are thinking inside here.’ The colonel thumped his stubbly skull. ‘Really knowing … And there is a way, if we could only get at it.’

‘I don’t think that idea is something we should discuss with a suspect,’ the secretary said primly.

‘Why not?’ the colonel asked. Then he laughed, ‘You see, I was thinking of sending him down into the cellars to see our new inquisitor – and he ought to know what it’s all about first.’

At that, the secretary laughed too, and wet his lips.

‘You better tell him about it,’ the colonel said. He licked the last of the butter off the paper, dropped the paper into a wastepaper basket and slipped the spoon into a pocket of his tunic.

‘It won’t take long,’ the secretary said crisply. ‘You have heard of Big Bert, Wyvern. It is the largest computer in existence, except for Fall Cut, the American computer on Luna. For a number of years, for lack of adequate staff, Big Bert has lain practically idle, yet it is potentially the Republic’s greatest weapon. You see, Bert has latent mind-reading abilities. Once he is taught, we, the State, will be able to know what any citizen is thinking!’

Wyvern’s hands had gone damp. He rested them lightly on the desk.

‘When – when is he going to be taught?’ he asked. His voice sounded unreal in his ears.

‘That’s the snag!’ Colonel H exclaimed. ‘Only a telepath knows what this telepathy stunt really is. We’ve got to get our hands on a telepath – as soon as possible.’

‘Actually, we had one,’ the secretary said. ‘A fellow called Grisewood volunteered. But there are surgical difficulties – which have now been overcome – in coupling these freaks to the machine. Grisewood died. Now we want another of his ilk. You don’t happen to know any telepathic persons running round loose, Wyvern, do you?’

Were they playing with him? Did they know all the time?

Wyvern said: ‘I wouldn’t know one if I saw one.’

Colonel H went over to the door. ‘Big Bert seems to think that telepathy is a sort of side product of intelligence – you wouldn’t get it in an idiot, for instance. So we’re checking on anyone who isn’t imbecile. We are starting a republic-wide drive very shortly. You’d better be checked now you’re here, Wyvern.’

He turned, his finger on the door handle, and looked at Wyvern. In his eyes was a terrible kind of excitement; Wyvern recognised it: it was blood lust. He knew then his life and reputation were mere straws to these men.

‘Is this justice?’ he said.

‘My dear man, of course not,’ the secretary said, his voice expressing incredulity at such a naïve question. ‘We are only police, and as such our concern is with the law, not with justice. For justice you must go to the government – if you can get there!’

‘You are the government!’ Wyvern said.

‘Good God, not yet!’ Colonel H said. ‘OBL only died the day before yesterday. Give us a week!’

He uttered his meaningless laugh again, and opened the door.

‘Corporal, take this civilian down to Parrodyce in the cellars,’ he called.

A corporal and a private marched in at once.

‘Parrodyce is our new Inquisitor,’ the secretary whispered to Wyvern, conspiratorially. ‘You’ll find he’s hot stuff!’

Wyvern was seized and marched into the corridor. He did not struggle; it seemed useless. The mentality of the captive had descended suddenly upon him, a resignation blind to life.

They clumped downstairs, and then down two underground flights, and then along a corridor, and then through a locked steel door and down another corridor. And as they moved more deeply into the stronghold, paradoxically, a hope began to grow in Wyvern. This Inquisitor, Parrodyce, however cruel his methods were, would have no more understanding of telepathy than anyone else; he would not know what to look for; he would fail; Wyvern would be released.

The corporal pushed Wyvern into a tiny room. ‘Strip,’ he ordered, and stood watching interestedly while Wyvern did so.

‘Let’s have your kit,’ he said.

Wyvern handed it over. Protesting would do him no good. Yet in his pocket went his health certificate, passport, identity and ticket for the Aqualung.

‘How long am I likely to be down here?’ he asked the corporal.

‘Let’s have your watch too. That depends on you.’

‘I’ve got to be out tomorrow.’

‘Have you now? I’d better tell the chap who makes the coffins to get busy, then, hadn’t I?’

He disappeared, leaving the private on guard. In two minutes he was back. Signalling to Wyvern, he led him through a swing door. It was hot in here, and there was a smell of antiseptic and ether about.

‘This is where they operate,’ the corporal said in a hushed voice. ‘They do some terrible things in here.’

A man in a white coat passed them, wheeling a patient along on a trolley. The corporal gaped.