Here Comes the Sun (27 page)

‘Hello?' she whispered.

‘Oh good, you're awake,' replied the darkness.The voice was masculine, probably, but beyond that it was monumentally nondescript. It had no accent, gave no indication of age; and if it happened to be speaking in English, Jane felt, that was probably due to some fiendishly advanced simultaneous-translation system. ‘My name is,' and it said something Jane didn't grasp, but which sounded very like Eyesee. Couldn't be that, of course. Stood to reason.

‘What am I doing here?' Jane enquired.

‘I don't know,' Eyesee replied, ‘I can't see in this light. Don't you think it's terribly dark in here?'

‘Yes,' Jane replied, trying to ignore the creeping sensation she was experiencing, which felt rather the way she imagined it would feel if you had someone cleaning the marrow out of your bones with a pipe cleaner.

‘Shall we have the lights on, then?'

‘Yes, please.'

Well, we all say silly things sometimes, and she wasn't to know. So, when the lights suddenly came on and she
started to scream uncontrollably, there was a small part of her brain that was able to say, ‘Wasn't my fault,' and mean it.

‘Gosh,' said Eyesee, ‘is there anything the matter?'

By way of reply, Jane screamed some more; a lot more, in fact. Even when the lights went out again, she carried on whimpering and gibbering for nearly two minutes, which is a long time.

‘Better now?'

‘Nnnnnn.'

‘Sorry?'

‘Mmmmmmmm.'

‘I hope I didn't startle you,' said Eyesee. ‘Perhaps I should have mentioned that some people find my appearance distressing. Me for one,' he added.

Jane subsided into a series of short, mucous gasps. The voice waited for a while, and then cleared its throat softly.

‘It scares the living daylights out of me sometimes,' Eyesee said. ‘Depending on what frame of mind I'm in. By the way,' he went on, ‘my name. Actually my full name is Executive Officer i/c Reprogramming and Mental Aberration Adjustment. My friends call me Eyesee for short. Or rather, they would if I had any.' He paused. ‘I don't, though,' he added. ‘I think my appearance is against me, you see.'

‘Mmmmmm.'

There was a sigh. ‘Before that,' Eyesee went on, ‘I was called Retribution, and I didn't mind that, because then I could be Rhett for short, like Rhett Butler. But the chaps Upstairs thought Retribution was a bit downbeat, so they changed it. These days they like to stress the
positive
aspects of the work we do here. Uphill job, mind.'

Jane sat frozen. She was aware of the inordinate length of time it was taking the big blob of sweat to reach the end of her nose, and it dawned on her, or at least upon
a part of her mind that was playing roughly the same role in this episode that the orchestra played in the sinking of the
Titanic
, that Fear is another dimension.

‘Anyway,' Eyesee went on, ‘I don't mind what I'm called these days, now that I've had a chance to get used to it. It's pretty apt, really, because people see retribution the way they want to see it, so I look different to everyone. Horrible, of course, but different. So I think Eyesee is a pretty good name, don't you think?' The voice paused. ‘Because it's up to your
eye
to
see
me the way you think I ought to be, okay? How did I come across to you, by the way?'

Jane swallowed hard, and discovered that someone had laid a thick concrete path right down her throat. ‘You were very big,' she said. ‘Huge. And slimy. And you had little strips of flesh still stuck to your bones. And there were these maggots . . .'

‘Ah.' There was, far away in the darkness, a faint sniff. ‘Seems like you didn't catch me at my best.'

‘Um.'

‘Maggots, did you say?'

‘Mm.'

‘What a perfectly horrid idea,' said the voice. ‘I must say, you've got a rather nasty imagination there. Perhaps you ought to see somebody about it.'

There was a long silence.

‘Well,' said Eyesee, ‘this is all very well but it's not getting us very far. Look, would you mind awfully if I just had a little light? I promise to keep out of your field of vision. Only, well, the truth is I get sort of nervous in the dark. It's probably because I'm afraid that I'm out there somewhere. Maggots,' he repeated with distaste. ‘Whatever next!'

‘Go ahead,' Jane quavered. ‘I'll shut my eyes.'

There was a click, and then a faint glow began to
permeate the darkness, like ink soaking into blotting-paper. ‘People find that closing your eyes doesn't actually help,' Eyesee remarked. ‘Tell you what, I'll hide behind the flywheel. You won't be able to see me then.'

Slowly and deliberately, Jane counted up to ten. ‘Ready?' she called out.

‘Ready.'

She opened her eyes. To her overwhelming relief all she could see was an enormous machine. It wasn't anything identifiable like a printing press or a hydraulic ram; imagine a top film designer had been told to design a machine for a horror-film set - that's what it was like. A really
top
designer.

‘Where am I?' she whispered.

‘Do you know,' said Eyesee's voice from behind the machine, ‘it's amazing how many people say that. And before I started working here I thought it was only in books. You're in Justice.'

Jane's eyes widened, until her memory told her to pack it in. ‘Department of Justice?' she said.

‘Got it in one. This is the engine room, as you'll probably have gathered already. What you're looking at right now are the actual Mills of the Gods.'

‘That grind slow but exceeding small, you mean?'

‘That's them,' Eyesee replied. ‘Actually,' he added, ‘they don't, not just at the moment. Right now, they grind large and exceeding lumpy. In fact, ninety-five per cent of the time they don't grind at all.'

‘Um,' Jane replied. ‘What am I doing . . . ?'

‘Partly,' Eyesee went on, ‘because the nut on the drive shaft connecting the flywheel to the cams has stripped its thread, and would you believe, you can't get them in that size any more because these days they're all metric. Partly because even if they were in full working order they can't afford to run them for more than an hour a day because
of the price of coal. Partly . . . well, mainly actually, because there's really no call for them these days.'

‘Right,' said Jane. ‘Look, why am I tied to this lump of wood, and what am I doing . . . ?'

‘In theory,' Eyesee went on, and Jane began to wonder whether the maggots were really the least bearable thing about him, ‘they don't need them any more because of me. De-automation, they call it. All the rage. Who needs machines when you can have people, they say. They don't give a damn for the effect it's going to have on the lives of hundreds of thousands of ordinary . . .'

Jane coughed sharply. ‘Excuse me,' she said. The sound of her words faded away.

‘What they say is,' Eyesee droned on, ‘who needs Justice anyway? Outmoded concept, superhumanity has moved on since those dark and far-off days, that sort of thing. The idea is that they're phasing Justice out and replacing it with Retribution. Sorry, with Reprogramming and Mental Aberration Adjustment. That's me,' he added bitterly. ‘And Rehabilitation, of course. He's about here somewhere.'

Jane swallowed. ‘He is?'

‘Unfortunately,' Eyesee sighed. ‘Nasty piece of work. He makes me look like Tyrone Power, by the way.'

‘Ah.'

‘The idea being,' said Eyesee unpleasantly, ‘that Retribution may be nasty but at least it's likely to be pretty exciting, whereas Rehabilitation is just incredibly pointless and boring. They're right about that, at any rate.'

Jane digested that statement for a moment. ‘Are there any more of you?' she asked tentatively.

‘Not full-time, no,' Eyesee replied. ‘There's Government, of course, but she only comes in two mornings a week. Which is just as well if you ask me, because there's only two cups in the kitchen and if there's one thing I
can't stand, it's having my morning coffee out of a mug.'

‘Government?'

‘It's got Snoopy on it, as well,' Eyesee went on. ‘I'll swear it curdles the milk. Oh, yes, Government.You know, in a democracy people usually get the kind of government they deserve.'

‘Oh. Right. Look, what
am
I doing here?'

There was a long, long silence, during which Embarrassment joined the host of other unpleasant things floating about in the stale air.

‘Yes,' said Eyesee eventually. ‘Look, it wasn't my idea. Not my idea at all.'

‘Please . . .'

‘I mean,' Eyesee said, gathering a bit of his customary momentum, ‘it's bad enough being stuck down here in the dark and the damp with only Rehabilitation for company - the only card game he knows is snap, by the way, because of course he disapproves of gambling. He cheats.'

‘Why . . . ?'

‘Are you down here, yes, I was just coming to that.' There was another pause. ‘And as for his charming habit of drying his socks over the radiator . . .'

‘Please,' Jane said sharply. ‘Why am I here?'

‘You really want to know?'

‘Yes.'

‘You're sure? I mean, a moment ago you really wanted the light on, and . . .'

‘I'm really sure, yes.'

‘Well,' said Eyesee; and Jane would have sworn he was taking a deep breath if she didn't know for a fact that he'd have nowhere to put it, ‘the truth is, you've been promoted.'

You could have heard a pin drop. It would have had to have been a largish pin, because of the background noise. A crowbar, say. But at least nobody spoke.

‘Promoted.'

‘I thought you didn't really want me to . . .'

‘Promoted to being tied up in a dark cellar with a thing with eighteen-inch maggots crawling in and out of its . . .'

‘Please!' Eyesee exclaimed. ‘Oh God, you'll have to excuse me a minute.'

The light went out, and Jane heard the sound of footsteps, followed by retching noises. A few seconds later, the lights came back on.

‘Sorry,' said Eyesee hoarsely. ‘But I've got a weak stomach, actually, and the thought of . . .'

‘That's perfectly all right,' said Jane, with feeling. ‘It was thoughtless of me. But are you sure you mean promoted?'

‘As opposed to what?'

‘Well, found guilty, for starters. This really doesn't fit in with my definition of upwardly mobile, you know.'

There was a long sigh, and Jane tried not to visualise what the breath was coming out of. ‘It's a bloody awful job,' said Eyesee at last. ‘Still, someone's got to do it.'

‘Oh,' Jane said. ‘I think I see what you're getting at.'

‘Do you?'

‘Yes. I've been got rid of, haven't I?'

‘That's right,' Eyesee replied, avoiding Jane's eye. ‘I'm very sorry,' he added, ‘truly I am.'

‘Can they do that?' Jane asked, after a moment. ‘I mean, is it, well, legal, just tying an inconvenient member of staff to a plank of wood and abandoning them in a cellar for ever and ever?'

‘Oh, absolutely,' Eyesee confirmed, and a hideous squeaking sound suggested that he was nodding his head, or what had remained of it, vigorously. ‘Their legal department's thought it all through very carefully. You see, the Code states quite clearly that the employer is obliged to pay the employee the correct salary - depending on grade
and experience, of course - and contribute to the pension scheme and let the employee have the agreed number of days' holiday each year. There's nothing in there about what the employee shall or shall not be tied to.'

Jane giggled. There was a faint metallic ring to her voice which suggested that although she wasn't yet hysterical, this was only because she was saving hysteria for later. ‘But I'm not really an employee,' she said. ‘I mean, I'm mortal. If I stay here, then sooner or later I'm going to die. Doesn't that sort of put a different complexion on it?'

There was a long pause. ‘Are we talking about statutory sick pay here?' Eyesee enquired cautiously. ‘Because I don't know if death entitles you to that. Maybe it comes under the heading of early retirement. I think I'd have to look that one up.'

‘Would you mind going away, please?'

‘Sorry,' Eyesee said. ‘I've offended you, I can tell.'

‘It's not that,' Jane assured him, ‘really. It's just that you might get embarrassed when I start screaming, and . . .'

‘Got you,' said Eyesee, hurriedly. ‘Yes, you've got a point there. Very considerate of you. I think I might . . .'

He stopped in mid-sentence, because a wall fell on him.

 

The way Bjorn had worked it out was like this.

There is no such thing as an idyll. Real life is nasty, sordid and boring, all about going to work and having to shave and the dustbin bags getting ripped open during the night by next door's cat. Even in an infinite universe, there is nowhere you can get a plastic fork that won't break.

Therefore, the idyll I've found myself in is artificial, and somebody's put me here to stop me wandering about.
Clever, really; if you want someone to stay locked up, put him in a prison he won't
want
to break out from. Or at least one where he only finds out it's a prison when it's too late.

He thought of Ilona's father, washing the ox-cart, not being allowed to walk on the floor, having to go out into the toolshed to smoke his pipe, and wondered what that poor bastard had done to offend the authorities. Something horrible, probably.