Текст книги "The Complete Short Stories"
Автор книги: James Graham Ballard
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Текущая страница: 45 (всего у книги 113 страниц)
Half a mile from the headland he heard the great surge and sigh of the deeper water. Out of breath, he leaned against a fence as the cold foam cut across his legs, pulling him with its undertow. Illuminated by the racing clouds, he saw the pale figure of a woman standing above the sea on a stone parapet at the cliff’s edge, her black robe lifting behind her in the wind, her long hair white in the moonlight. Far below her feet, the luminous waves leapt and vaulted like acrobats.
Mason ran along the pavement, losing sight of her as the road curved and the houses intervened. The water slackened and he caught a last glimpse of the woman’s icy-white profile through the spray. Turning, the tide began to ebb and fade, and the sea shrank away between the houses, draining the night of its light and motion.
As the last bubbles dissolved on the damp pavement, Mason searched the headland, but the luminous figure had gone. His damp clothes dried themselves as he walked back through the empty streets. A last tang of brine was carried away off the hedges on the midnight air.
The next morning he told Miriam: ‘It was a dream, after all. I think the sea has gone now. Anyway, I saw nothing last night.’
‘Thank heavens, Richard. Are you sure?’
‘I’m certain.’ Mason smiled encouragingly. ‘Thanks for keeping watch over me.’
‘I’ll sit up tonight as well.’ She held up her hand. ‘I insist. I feel all right after last night, and I want to drive this thing away, once and for all.’ She frowned over the coffee cups. ‘It’s strange, but once or twice I think I heard the sea too. It sounded very old and blind, like something waking again after millions of years.’
On his way to the library, Mason made a detour towards the chalk outcropping, and parked the car where he had seen the moonlit figure of the white-haired woman watching the sea. The sunlight fell on the pale turf, illuminating the mouth of the mine-shaft, around which the same desultory activity was taking place.
For the next fifteen minutes Mason drove in and out of the tree-lined avenues, peering over the hedges at the kitchen windows. Almost certainly she would live in one of the nearby houses, still wearing her black robe beneath a housecoat.
Later, at the library, he recognized a car he had seen on the headland. The driver, an elderly tweed-suited man, was examining the display cases of local geological finds.
‘Who was that?’ he asked Fellowes, the keeper of antiquities, as the car drove off. ‘I’ve seen him on the cliffs.’
‘Professor Goodhart, one of the party of paleontologists. Apparently they’ve uncovered an interesting bone-bed.’ Fellowes gestured at the collection of femurs and jaw-bone fragments. ‘With luck we may get a few pieces from them.’
Mason stared at the bones, aware of a sudden closing of the parallax within his mind.
Each night, as the sea emerged from the dark streets and the waves rolled farther towards the Masons’ home, he would wake beside his sleeping wife and go, out into the surging air, wading through the deep water towards the headland. There he would see the white-haired woman on the cliff’s edge, her face raised above the roaring spray. Always he failed to reach her before the tide turned, and would kneel exhausted on the wet pavements as the drowned streets rose around him.
Once a police patrol car found him in its headlights, slumped against a gate-post in an open drive. On another night he forgot to close the front door when he returned. All through breakfast Miriam watched him with her old wariness, noticing the shadows which encircled his eyes like manacles.
‘Richard, I think you should stop going to the library. You look worn out. It isn’t that sea dream again?’
Mason shook his head, forcing a tired smile. ‘No, that’s finished with. Perhaps I’ve been over-working.’
Miriam held his hands. ‘Did you fall over yesterday?’ She examined Mason’s palms. ‘Darling, they’re still raw! You must have grazed them only a few hours ago. Can’t you remember?’
Abstracted, Mason invented some tale to satisfy her, then carried his coffee into the study and stared at the morning haze which lay across the rooftops, a soft lake of opacity that followed the same contours as the midnight sea. The mist dissolved in the sunlight, and for a moment the diminishing reality of the normal world reasserted itself, filling him with a poignant nostalgia.
Without thinking, he reached out to the fossil conch on the bookshelf, but involuntarily his hand withdrew before touching it.
Miriam stood beside him. ‘Hateful thing,’ she commented. ‘Tell me, Richard, what do you think caused your dream?’
Mason shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was a sort of memory…’ He wondered whether to tell Miriam of the waves which he still heard in his sleep, and of the white-haired woman on the cliff’s edge who seemed to beckon to him. But like all women Miriam believed that there was room for only one enigma in her husband’s life. By an inversion of logic he felt that his dependence on his wife’s private income, and the loss of self-respect, gave him the right to withhold something of himself from her.
‘Richard, what’s the matter?’
In his mind the spray opened like a diaphanous fan and the enchantress of the waves turned towards him.
Waist-high, the sea pounded across the lawn in a whirlpool. Mason pulled off his jacket and flung it into the water, and then waded out into the street. Higher than ever before, the waves had at last reached his house, breaking over the doorstep, but Mason had forgotten his wife. His attention was fixed upon the headland, which was lashed by a continuous storm of spray, almost obscuring the figure standing on its crest.
As Mason pressed on, sometimes sinking to his shoulders, shoals of luminous algae swarmed in the water around him. His eyes smarted in the saline air. He reached the lower slopes of the headland almost exhausted, and fell to his knees.
High above, he could hear the spray singing as it cut through the coigns of the cliff’s edge, the deep base of the breakers overlaid by the treble of the keening air. Carried by the music, Mason climbed the flank of the headland, a thousand reflections of the moon in the breaking sea. As he reached the crest, the black robe hid the woman’s face, but he could see her tall erect carriage and slender hips. Suddenly, without any apparent motion of her limbs, she moved away along the parapet.
‘Wait!’
His shout was lost on the air. Mason ran forwards, and the figure turned and stared back at him. Her white hair swirled around her face like a spume of silver steam and then parted to reveal a face with empty eyes and notched mouth. A hand like a bundle of white sticks clawed towards him, and the figure rose through the whirling darkness like a gigantic bird.
Unaware whether the scream came from his own mouth or from this spectre, Mason stumbled back. Before he could catch himself he tripped over the wooden railing, and in a cackle of chains and pulleys fell backwards into the shaft, the sounds of the sea booming in its hurtling darkness.
After listening to the policeman’s description, Professor Goodhart shook his head.
‘I’m afraid not, sergeant. We’ve been working on the bed all week. No one’s fallen down the shaft.’ One of the flimsy wooden rails was swinging loosely in the crisp air. ‘But thank you for warning me. I suppose we must build a heavier railing, if this fellow is wandering around in his sleep.’
‘I don’t think he’ll bother to come up here,’ the sergeant said. ‘It’s quite a climb.’ As an afterthought he added: ‘Down at the library where he works they said you’d found a couple of skeletons in the shaft yesterday. I know it’s only two days since he disappeared, but one of them couldn’t possibly be his?’ The sergeant shrugged. ‘If there was some natural acid, say..
Professor Goodhart drove his heel into the chalky turf. ‘Pure calcium carbonate, about a mile thick, laid down during the Triassic Period 200 million years ago when there was a large inland sea here. The skeletons we found yesterday, a man’s and a woman’s, belong to two Cro-Magnon fisher people who lived on the shore just before it dried up. I wish I could oblige you – it’s quite a problem to understand how these Cro-Magnon relics found their way into the bone-bed. This shaft wasn’t sunk until about thirty years ago. Still, that’s my problem, not yours.’
Returning to the police car, the sergeant shook his head. As they drove off he looked out at the endless stretch of placid suburban homes.
‘Apparently there was an ancient sea here once. A million years ago.’ He picked a crumpled flannel jacket off the back seat. ‘That reminds me, I know what Mason’s coat smells of – brine.’
1963
The Venus Hunters
When Dr Andrew Ward joined the Hubble Memorial Institute at Mount Vernon Observatory he never imagined that the closest of his new acquaintances would be an amateur star-gazer and spare-time prophet called Charles Kandinski, tolerantly regarded by the Observatory professionals as a madman. In fact, had either he or Professor Cameron, the Institute’s Deputy Director, known just how far he was to be prepared to carry this friendship before his two-year tour at the Institute was over, Ward would certainly have left Mount Vernon the day he arrived and would never have become involved in the bizarre and curiously ironic tragedy which was to leave an ineradicable stigma upon his career.
Professor Cameron first introduced him to Kandinski. About a week after Ward came to the Hubble he and Cameron were lunching together in the Institute cafeteria.
‘We’ll go down to Vernon Gardens for coffee,’ Cameron said when they finished dessert. ‘I want to get a shampoo for Edna’s roses and then we’ll sit in the sun for an hour and watch the girls go by.’ They strolled out through the terrace tables towards the parking lot. A mile away, beyond the conifers thinning out on the slopes above them, the three great Vernon domes gleamed like white marble against the sky. ‘Incidentally, you can meet the opposition.’
‘Is there another observatory at Vernon?’ Ward asked as they set off along the drive in Cameron’s Buick. ‘What is it an Air Force weather station?’
‘Have you ever heard of Charles Kandinski?’ Cameron said. ‘He wrote a book called The Landings from Outer Space. It was published about three years ago.’
Ward shook his head doubtfully. They slowed down past the checkpoint at the gates and Cameron waved to the guard. ‘Is that the man who claims to have seen extra-terrestrial beings? Martians or ‘Venusians. That’s Kandinski. Not only seen them,’ Professor Cameron added. ‘He’s talked to them. Charles works at a caf in Vernon Gardens. We know him fairly well.’
‘He runs the other observatory?’
‘Well, an old 4-inch MacDonald Refractor mounted in a bucket of cement. You probably wouldn’t think much of it, but I wish we could see with our two-fifty just a tenth of what he sees.’
Ward nodded vaguely. The two observatories at which he had worked previously, Cape Town and the Milan Astrographie, had both attracted any number of cranks and charlatans eager to reveal their own final truths about the cosmos, and the prospect of meeting Kandinski interested him only slightly. ‘What is he?’ he asked. ‘A practical joker, or just a lunatic?’
Professor Cameron propped his glasses on to his forehead and negotiated a tight hairpin. ‘Neither,’ he said.
Ward smiled at Cameron, idly studying his plump cherubic face with its puckish mouth and keen eyes. He knew that Cameron enjoyed a modest reputation as a wit. ‘Has he ever claimed in front of you that he’s seen a… Venusian?’
‘Often,’ Professor Cameron said. ‘Charles lectures two or three times a week about the landings to the women’s societies around here and put himself completely at our disposal. I’m afraid we had to tell him he was a little too advanced for us. But wait until you meet him.’
Ward shrugged and looked out at the long curving peach terraces lying below them, gold and heavy in the August heat. They dropped a thousand feet and the road widened and joined the highway which ran from the Vernon’ Gardens across the desert to Santa Vera and the coast.
Vernon Gardens was the nearest town to the Observatory and most of it had been built within the last few years, evidently with an eye on the tourist trade. They passed a string of blue and pink-washed houses, a school constructed of glass bricks and an abstract Baptist chapel. Along the main thoroughfare the shops and stores were painted in bright jazzy colours, the vivid awnings and neon signs like street scenery in an experimental musical.
Professor Cameron turned off into a wide tree-lined square and parked by a cluster of fountains in the centre. He and Ward walked towards the cafs – Al’s Fresco Diner, Ylla’s, the Dome – which stretched down to the sidewalk. Around the square were a dozen gift-shops filled with cheap souvenirs: silverplate telescopes and models of the great Vernon dome masquerading as ink-stands and cigar-boxes, plus a juvenile omnium gatherum of miniature planetaria, space helmets and plastic 3-D star atlases.
The caf to which they went was decorated in the same futuristic motifs. The chairs and tables were painted a drab aluminium grey, their limbs and panels cut in random geometric shapes. A silver rocket ship, ten feet long, its paint peeling off in rusty strips, reared up from a pedestal among the tables. Across it was painted the caf’s name.
‘The Site Tycho.’
A large mobile had been planted in the ground by the sidewalk and dangled down over them, its vanes and struts flashing in the sun. Gingerly Professor Cameron pushed it away. ‘I’ll swear that damn thing is growing,’ he confided to Ward. ‘I must tell Charles to prune it.’ He lowered himself into a chair by one of the open-air tables, put on a fresh pair of sunglasses and focused them at the long brown legs of a girl sauntering past.
Left alone for the moment, Ward looked around him and picked at a cellophane transfer of a ringed planet glued to the table-top. The Site Tycho was also used as a small science fiction exchange library. A couple of metal bookstands stood outside the caf door, where a soberly dressed middle-aged man, obviously hiding behind his upturned collar, worked his way quickly through the rows of paperbacks. At another table a young man with an intent, serious face was reading a magazine. His high cerebrotonic forehead was marked across the temple by a ridge of pink tissue, which Ward wryly decided was a lobotomy scar.
‘Perhaps we ought to show our landing permits,’ he said to Cameron when after three or four minutes no one had appeared to serve them. ‘Or at least get our pH’s checked.’
Professor Cameron grinned. ‘Don’t worry, no customs, no surgery.’ He took his eyes off the sidewalk for a moment. ‘This looks like him now.’
A tall, bearded man in a short-sleeved tartan shirt and pale green slacks came out of the caf towards them with two cups of coffee on a tray.
‘Hello, Charles,’ Cameron greeted him. ‘There you are. We were beginning to think we’d lost ourselves in a timetrap.’
The tall man grunted something and put the cups down. Ward guessed that he was about 55 years old. He was well over six feet tall, with a massive sunburnt head and lean but powerfully muscled arms.
‘Andrew, this is Charles Kandinski.’ Cameron introduced the two men. ‘Andrew’s come to work for me, Charles. He photographed all those Cepheids for the Milan Conference last year.’
Kandinski nodded. His eyes examined Ward critically but showed no signs of interest.
‘I’ve been telling him all about you, Charles,’ Cameron went on, ‘and how we all follow your work. No further news yet, I trust?’
Kandinski’s lips parted in a slight smile. He listened politely to Cameron’s banter and looked out over the square, his great seamed head raised to the sky.
‘Andrew’s read your book, Charles,’ Cameron was saying. ‘Very interested. He’d like to see the originals of those photographs. Wouldn’t you Andrew?’
‘Yes, I certainly would,’ Ward said.
Kandinski gazed down at him again. His expression was not so much penetrating as detached and impersonal, as if he were assessing Ward with an utter lack of bias, so complete, in fact, that it left no room for even the smallest illusion. Previously Ward had only seen this expression in the eyes of the very old. ‘Good,’ Kandinski said. ‘At present they are in a safe deposit box at my bank, but if you are serious I will get them out.’
Just then two young women wearing wide-brimmed Rapallo hats made their way through the tables. They sat down and smiled at Kandinski. He nodded to Ward and Cameron and went over to the young women, who began to chatter to him animatedly.
‘Well, he seems popular with them,’ Ward commented. ‘He’s certainly not what I anticipated. I hope I didn’t offend him over the plates. He was taking you seriously.’
‘He’s a little sensitive about them,’ Cameron explained. ‘The famous dustbin-lid flying saucers. You mustn’t think I bait him, though. To tell the truth I hold Charles in great respect. When all’s said and done, we’re in the same racket.’
‘Are we?’ Ward said doubtfully. ‘I haven’t read his book, Does he say in so many words that he saw and spoke to a visitor from Venus?’
‘Precisely. Don’t you believe him?’
Ward laughed and looked through the coins in his pocket, leaving one on the table. ‘I haven’t tried to yet. You say the whole thing isn’t a hoax?’
‘Of course not.’
‘How do you explain it then? Compensation-fantasy or—’
Professor Cameron smiled. ‘Wait until you know Charles a little better.’
‘I already know the man’s messianic,’ Ward said dryly. ‘Let me guess the rest. He lives on yoghurt, weaves his own clothes, and stands on his head all night, reciting the Bhagavadgita backwards.’
‘He doesn’t,’ Cameron said, still smiling at Ward. ‘He happens to be a big man who suffers from barber’s rash. I thought he’d have you puzzled.’
Ward pulled the transfer off the table. Some science fantast had skilfully pencilled in an imaginary topography on the planet’s surface. There were canals, craters and lake systems named Verne, Wells and Bradbury. ‘Where did he see this Venusian?’ Ward asked, trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice.
‘About twenty miles from here, out in the desert off the Santa Vera highway. He was picnicking with some friends, went off for a stroll in the sandhills and ran straight into the space-ship. His friends swear he was perfectly normal both immediately before and after the landing, and all of them saw the inscribed metallic tablet which the Venusian pilot left behind. Some sort of ultimatum, if I remember, warning mankind to abandon all its space programmes. Apparently someone up there does not like us.’
‘Has he still got the tablet?’ Ward asked.
‘No. Unluckily it combusted spontaneously in the heat. But Charles managed to take a photograph of it.’
Ward laughed. ‘I bet he did. It sounds like a beautifully organized hoax. I suppose he made a fortune out of his book?’
‘About 150 dollars. He had to pay for the printing himself. Why do you think he works here? The reviews were too unfavourable. People who read science fiction apparently dislike flying saucers, and everyone else dismissed him as a lunatic.’ He stood up. ‘We might as well get back.’
As they left the caf Cameron waved to Kandinski, who was still talking to the young women. They were leaning forward and listening with rapt attention to whatever he was saying.
‘What do the people in Vernon Gardens think of him?’ Ward asked as they moved away under the trees.
‘Well, it’s a curious thing, almost without exception those who actually know Kandinski are convinced he’s sincere and that he saw an alien space craft, while at the same time realizing the absolute impossibility of the whole story.’
"I know God exists, but I cannot believe in him"?’
‘Exactly. Naturally, most people in Vernon think he’s crazy. About three months after he met the Venusian, Charles saw another UFO chasing its tail over the town. He got the Fire Police out, alerted the Radar Command chain and even had the National Guard driving around town ringing a bell. Sure enough, there were two white blobs diving about in the clouds. Unfortunately for Charles, they were caused by the headlights of one of the asparagus farmers in the valley doing some night spraying. Charles was the first to admit it, but at 3 o’clock in the morning no one was very pleased.’
‘Who is Kandinski, anyway?’ Ward asked. ‘Where does he come from?’
‘He doesn’t make a profession of seeing Venusians, if that’s what you mean. He was born in Alaska, for some years taught psychology at Mexico City University. He’s been just about everywhere, had a thousand different jobs. A veteran of the private evacuations. Get his book.’
Ward murmured non-committally. They entered a small arcade and stood for a moment by the first shop, an aquarium called ‘The Nouvelle Vague’, watching the Angel fish and Royal Brahmins swim dreamily up and down their tanks.
‘It’s worth reading,’ Professor Cameron went on. ‘Without exaggerating, it’s really one of the most interesting documents I’ve ever come across.’
‘I’m afraid I have a closed mind when it comes to interplanetary bogey-men,’ Ward said.
‘A pity,’ Cameron rejoined. ‘I find them fascinating. Straight out of the unconscious. The fish too,’ he added, pointing at the tanks. He grinned whimsically at Ward and ducked away into a horticulture store halfway down the arcade.
While Professor Cameron was looking through the sprays on the hormone counter, Ward went over to a news-stand and glanced at the magazines. The proximity of the observatory had prompted a large selection of popular astronomical guides and digests, most of them with illustrations of the Mount Vernon domes on their wrappers. Among them Ward noticed a dusty, dog-eared paperback, The Landings from Outer Space by Charles Kandinski. On the front cover a gigantic space vehicle, at least the size of New York, tens of thousands of portholes ablaze with light, was soaring majestically across a brilliant backdrop of stars and spiral nebulae.
Ward picked up the book and turned to the end cover. Here there was a photograph of Kandinski, dressed in a dark lounge suit several sizes too small, peering stiffly into the eye-piece of his MacDonald.
Ward hesitated before finally taking out his wallet. He bought the book and slipped it into his pocket as Professor Cameron emerged from the horticulture store.
‘Get your shampoo?’ Ward asked.
Cameron brandished a brass insecticide gun, then slung it, buccaneerlike, under his belt. ‘My disintegrator,’ he said, patting the butt of the gun. ‘There’s a positive plague of white ants in the garden, like something out of a science fiction nightmare. I’ve tried to convince Edna that their real source is psychological. Remember the story "Leiningen vs the Ants"? A classic example of the forces of the Id rebelling against the Super-Ego.’ He watched a girl in a black bikini and lemon-coloured sunglasses move gracefully through the arcade and added meditatively: ‘You know, Andrew, like everyone else my real vocation was to be a psychiatrist. I spend so long analysing my motives I’ve no time left to act.’
‘Kandinski’s Super-Ego must be in difficulties,’ Ward remarked. ‘You haven’t told me your explanation yet.’
‘What explanation?’
‘Well, what’s really at the bottom of this Venusian he claims to have seen?’
‘Nothing is at the bottom of it. Why?’
Ward smiled helplessly. ‘You will tell me next that you really believe him.’
Professor Cameron chuckled. They reached his car and climbed in. ‘Of course I do,’ he said.
When, three days later, Ward borrowed Professor Cameron’s car and drove down to the rail depot in Vernon Gardens to collect a case of slides which had followed him across the Atlantic, he had no intention of seeing Charles Kandinski again. He had read one or two chapters of Kandinski’s book before going to sleep the previous night and dropped it in boredom. Kandinski’s description of his encounter with the Venusian was not only puerile and crudely written but, most disappointing of all, completely devoid of imagination. Ward’s work at the Institute was now taking up most of his time. The Annual Congress of the International Geophysical Association was being held at Mount Vernon in little under a month, and most of the burden for organizing the three-week programme of lectures, semesters and dinners had fallen on Professor Cameron and himself.
But as he drove away from the depot past the cafs in the square he caught sight of Kandinski on the terrace of the Site Tycho. It was 3 o’clock, a time when most people in Vernon Gardens were lying asleep indoors, and Kandinski seemed to be the only person out in the sun. He was scrubbing away energetically at the abstract tables with his long hairy arms, head down so that his beard was almost touching the metal tops, like an aboriginal halfman prowling in dim bewilderment over the ruins of a futuristic city lost in an inversion of time.
On an impulse, Ward parked the car in the square and walked across to the Site Tycho, but as soon as Kandinski came over to his table he wished he had gone to another of the cafs. Kandinski had been reticent enough the previous day, but now that Cameron was absent he might well turn out to be a garrulous bore.
After serving him, Kandinski sat down on a bench by the bookshelves and stared moodily at his feet. Ward watched him quietly for five minutes, as the mobiles revolved delicately in the warm air, deciding whether to approach Kandinski. Then he stood up and went over to the rows of magazines. He picked in a desultory way through half a dozen and turned to Kandinski. ‘Can you recommend any of these?’
Kandinski looked up. ‘Do you read science fiction?’ he asked matterof-factly.
‘Not as a rule,’ Ward admitted. When Kandinski said nothing he went on: ‘Perhaps I’m too sceptical, but I can’t take it seriously.’
Kandinski pulled a blister on his palm. ‘No one suggests you should. What you mean is that you take it too seriously.’
Accepting the rebuke with a smile at himself, Ward pulled out one of the magazines and sat down at a table next to Kandinski. On the cover was a placid suburban setting of snugly eaved houses, yew trees and children’s bicycles. Spreading slowly across the roof-tops was an enormous pulpy nightmare, blocking out the sun behind it and throwing a weird phosphorescent glow over the roofs and lawns. ‘You’re probably right,’ Ward said, showing the cover to Kandinski. ‘I’d hate to want to take that seriously.’
Kandinski waved it aside. ‘I have seen 11th-century illuminations of the Pentateuch more sensational than any of these covers.’ He pointed to the cinema theatre on the far side of the square, where the four-hour Biblical epic Cain and Abel was showing. Above the trees an elaborate technicolored hoarding showed Cain, wearing what appeared to be a suit of Roman armour, wrestling with an immense hydraheaded boa constrictor.
Kandinski shrugged tolerantly. ‘If Michelangelo were working for MGM today would he produce anything better?’
Ward laughed. ‘You may well be right. Perhaps the House of the Medicis should be re-christened "16th CenturyFox".’
Kandinski stood up and straightened the shelves. ‘I saw you here with Godfrey Cameron,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You’re working at the Observatory?’
‘At the Hubble.’
Kandinski came and sat down beside Ward. ‘Cameron is a good man. A very pleasant fellow.’
‘He thinks a great deal of you,’ Ward volunteered, realizing that Kandinski was probably short of friends.
‘You mustn’t believe everything that Cameron says about me,’ Kandinski said suddenly. He hesitated, apparently uncertain whether to confide further in Ward, and then took the magazine from him. ‘There are better ones here. You have to exercise some discrimination.’
‘It’s not so much the sensationalism that puts me off,’ Ward explained, as the psychological implications. Most of the themes in these stories come straight out of the more unpleasant reaches of the unconscious.’
Kandinski glanced sharply at Ward, a trace of amusement in his eyes. ‘That sounds rather dubious and, if I may say so, second-hand. Take the best of these stories for what they are: imaginative exercises on the theme of tomorrow.’
‘You read a good deal of science fiction?’ Ward asked.
Kandinski shook his head. ‘Never. Not since I was a child.’
‘I’m surprised,’ Ward said. ‘Professor Cameron told me you had written a science fiction novel.’
‘Not a novel,’ Kandinski corrected.
‘I’d like to read it,’ Ward went on. ‘From what Cameron said it sounded fascinating, almost Swiftian in concept. This space-craft which arrives from Venus and the strange conversations the pilot holds with a philosopher he meets. A modern morality. Is that the subject?’
Kandinski watched Ward thoughtfully before replying. ‘Loosely, yes. But, as I said, the book is not a novel. It is a factual and literal report of a Venus landing which actually took place, a diary of the most significant encounter in history since Paul saw his vision of Christ on the road to Damascus.’ He lifted his huge bearded head and gazed at Ward without embarrassment. ‘As a matter of interest, as Professor Cameron probably explained to you, I was the man who witnessed the landing.’
Still maintaining his pose, Ward frowned intently. ‘Well, in fact Cameron did say something of the sort, but I…’
‘But you found it difficult to believe?’ Kandinski suggested ironically.
‘Just a little,’ Ward admitted. ‘Are you seriously claiming that you did see a Venusian space-craft?’
Kandinski nodded. ‘Exactly.’ Then, as if aware that their conversation had reached a familiar turning he suddenly seemed to lose interest in Ward. ‘Excuse me.’ He nodded politely to Ward, picked up a length of hose-pipe connected to a faucet and began to spray one of the big mobiles.
Puzzled but still sceptical, Ward sat back and watched him critically, then fished in his pockets for some change. ‘I must say I admire you for taking it all so calmly,’ he told Kandinski as he paid him.
