Report on Probability A (18 page)

“So they tell me. He'll do something he shouldn't to her, one of these days.”

“So they tell me. Myself, I wouldn't blame him. She's a proper little cat.”

“Have you seen her since he came over here last?”

“How do you mean exactly? How's the coffee? You haven't tasted it yet.”

“Have you caught sight of her in the last few minutes?”

“I tell you you're wasting your time with her. I saw her draw her sitting-room curtains just now, if that's any help to you. Is that what you wanted to know?”

C lifted the cup of coffee to his lips and sipped it. G. F. Watt rested his hands on the back of the folding chair and gazed out through the café window. C found the coffee was not hot. He drained the coffee and set the cup back empty in its saucer.

“That's nice coffee. You're about to close, I suppose.”

“It gets dark these evenings, doesn't it? Was that what you wanted to know?”

“You're not kidding it was what I wanted to know.”

“How do you mean I was not kidding? I wasn't kidding. I saw her draw the curtains, I tell you. He said she was upset.”

“She'll get over it. Pet pigeon died. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Did you like it? He didn't mention the pigeon. He doesn't say much, not to speak of, like when the baby died.”

“Very nice—nice and sweet. I'd better get back. Thanks a lot.”

“I fancy a cup myself, seeing you.…”

Pushing the table forward, C rose. He winked at the man, went to the door, opened it, and walked out onto the pavement in his stockinged feet. A man passed him, rolling a rusty bicycle wheel along like a hoop. No traffic passed on the road. C crossed the road, making for a concrete and asbestos garage that stood next to the house, separated from the house by a metre and a half of brick wall. The door of the garage stood ajar. C slipped through the opening into the darkness of the garage.

Turning, he pulled the garage door shut and pressed down a small lever on the mechanism of the lock. He heard the lock click.

Domoladossa went home to his wife that evening in a preoccupied fashion. He was trying to puzzle out the events in Mr. Mary's house—and to puzzle out, incidentally, how the events were interfered with by reason of their being observed.

Others, too, felt the sense of mystery. Corless sat alone on the hillside, guarding the manifestation, in hourly anxiety in case it went away as suddenly as it had come. Joe Growleth packed up before the usual late afternoon rush to New Jersey began, but throughout an evening spent with his two wives, Peggy so charmingly white, Sophie so charmingly black, he remained preoccupied. The two men took the little boy home but phoned the police and then wondered if they had done the right thing.

And there were watchers watching them, and they too had watchers, who also had watchers, and so on, and so on, in an almost infinite series. Every stage of watcher had a theory about the watched; every stage put something of its own passions into the watching.

Sitting quiet in her own room, the fingertips of one hand resting in her tawny hair, Mr. Mary's wife sat at her own screen and regarded the cycle of universes as night closed in.

The interior of the garage was almost entirely obliterated by dark. The bulk of the car seemed to breathe out darkness. Only at the far end of the chamber did a blur of greyness appear, filtering down from the square window set in the loft. C stood and listened before he moved forward, feeling his way along the side of the car between the car and the south-east wall of the garage. He trod carefully, so as to avoid any puddles on the concrete floor. At the far end of the garage, he saw the skeletal shape of a wooden ladder, bolted upright against the wall and leading to a loft above the garage. He climbed the ladder and scrambled into the loft.

A square window was set in the wall by the top of the ladder. It was divided into four smaller squares, only three of which were glazed. Cold air blew through the unglazed square. Through one of the quarters of the window a cool breeze blew. C inserted a wet cube of wood into the gap.

Walking with his shoulders stooped, C proceeded to the other end of the loft. A square window overlooked the road. The window was divided into quarters, one quarter of which was unglazed; a cool air blew through it. Feeling on the floor below the window, C brushed with his fingers a cube of wood, which he picked up and inserted into the gap in the window. As he did so, he glanced out of the window. Across the road was a café with double windows. Lights shining through the windows lit the wide pavement outside. Through one of the windows could be seen a square table with a red and white squared cloth. The back of a chair protruded behind the table. Resting his hands on the back of this chair was a man; he stood there with shoulders slumped, looking through the window at the house opposite.

C turned away from the window. Along one side of the loft ran the dark shape of a canoe. Its hull reflected the light from the window in a blur. A tarpaulin lay across the boat. When he had pulled the tarpaulin off the boat onto the floor, C climbed into the boat and lay down in it. The seats had been removed from the boat and the well of it partly filled with wood shavings and blankets. C settled himself on top of the blankets, propping himself up on one elbow.

He felt in his right-hand trouser pocket, extracting a packet of cigarettes. He tore off the wrapping of the packet and threw the paper onto the floor. Opening the packet, he extracted one cigarette, sniffed it, and put one end of it between his lips. Having tucked the packet down beside him against the side of the canoe, he slid open the little drawer of his box of matches, selected one, and struck it on the side of the box.

As he lit the cigarette with it, the flame illuminated a very small picture stuck to the roof above C's head. C cast his glance upwards at the picture. It was a coloured card found in a packet of tea, one of a series of twenty-four entitled Wonders of Nature. It depicted two snakes. One snake had caught the tail of the other in its mouth. At the same time, the second snake had part of the tail of the first snake down its gullet. The two snakes lay in a circle, their eyes gleaming; they were swallowing each other. C blew out a cloud of smoke at them.

He shook the match. Its burning end turned black, the flame faded and died. For a moment, a spark of red gleamed just beyond C's fingers, then it also died. C threw the match down onto the floor of the loft. He leant against the crumpled blankets, propped on his left elbow. The end of his cigarette glowed more brightly when he inhaled its smoke.

The square window set in the rear wall of the loft slightly alleviated the darkness in which he lay. He looked through it as he smoked. The garden presented itself as a formless total blackness, from which the peak of an old building was raised, distinguishable against the lighter darkness of the clouds in the night sky. Below the peak of the building, punctuating the blackness of the garden, a glimmer of yellow light showed.

C continued to smoke the cigarette until it burnt his fingers. Without hurry, he leant over the side of the canoe and squashed out the stub of cigarette against he floor. He brushed his fingers together. He resumed his former position, lying back and propping himself on his left elbow. He let his head roll sideways until it rested against the metal of the roof, yawned, and continued to stare out through the window at the blackness of the garden.

Rainclouds drew over the sky, darkening it still further, until the peaked outline of an old nearby coach house was lost. A glimmer of yellow light, feebly showing in that direction, winked and was extinguished. C yawned again and continued still to gaze through the window at the blackness of the garden.

Forgetting his flock, the youth leant forward, so that her sturdy form touched his chest and arms. As she half-turned, her hair was against his cheek. He could smell the warmth of it and the scents of her body, which the sunny day released.

Nobody was near. The sheep could take care of themselves. Within his imprisoning hand, he could feel the doomed moth flutter. Her hand was raised towards it in a gesture of indecision.

She waited.

He waited.

Oxford, July 1967

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1968 by Brian W. Aldiss

Cover design by Nate Fernald

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1032-0

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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