There is a scream. A scream which flows through time until the reaches of eternity itself are met. A death has occurred and panic is filling the air, making it thick. For here violent death is a stranger released from a dormant state. Now it has happened and no-one recognises it; no-one knows how to avoid it. But even as it occurs there are those who know what to do - those who nobody sees but who are accepted without question, who are responsible for this tranquil world and enforce their laws - and they shall act.
Before a remedy is found, however, we must view the events which have brought about this result. Await while the mechanism of time is adjusted. Move the throttle and the passage of time is suspended. The dial is turned back and thus the stream of time is reversed until it reaches the point where this tale begins. Maintain the throttle's position and time shall be repeated:-
Here exists a world of little houses. If you can't see yet, see with your mind; imagine: the little houses standing in neat symmetrical rows, spaced ten metres apart in each direction. Each has a single window which is implanted in a flat roof, this roof forming a one-way mirror. Come inside and see the four rooms. A wash and waste compartment belongs to one. Another holds a series of non-corrosive units which cling to the walls. Some cook, some preserve, others manufacture edible nutritional products. This is a fully self-sufficient dream home. Of the two remaining sections one is a rest-receiver, and the other, inevitably, is a leisure globe. The leisure globe rests securely against the L-shape formed by the other rooms. The entrance to it is a fission tranceiver. Within the ceramic walls is a living being: a regular carbon unit: a human. Worry not for this man despite his appearance. Even though his limbs are caressed by no visible substance and his body goes unsupported. His head floats, leading the other parts in a series of spontaneous manoeuvres.
There are no screens or pictures in the leisure globe, but the complex human mind within enjoys the passion of his own story. Perhaps he is a member of the Spatial Exploration Corps, venturing deep into space; or a video star. Maybe he is a hunter within a vast safari of extinct creations; or saving his planet from the horrors of invasion by an alien force. He may even be in another time, another place, another dimension.
Envisage now the dreams of this man who is the centre of non-gravity, in a little house of plastic. The dreams which are those of an engineer from the Life Support Plant, who is at home, once a day, where he lives in dreams.
He has chosen a dream of the past today; many centuries past, where people die of pain and emotion. Some were even terminated by their fellows, as was commonplace in those days - or so he has been told. He knows it is against the law to dream about the past, but the computer says his chances of being detected are many hundred to one; so he dreams with wanton impunity, and he is simply a dreamer.
The past is a damp, grim place. He is outside and even though it is dark the ground doesn't hold the incandescent glow he knows it ought to. Could this be the pre-nuclear age? That aeons-old time before the Third War?
The ground is covered by a series of flat, grey slabs. The houses seem so unreal. They grow in strange directions, showing few signs of regulated development. It is very lonely here and cold, cold lights bisect the shadows.
The dreamer wanders blindly down the street, floating in deep suspense with only hollow, subconscious instincts for awareness. Ahead lights are flashing: blue lights on vehicles that owe their locomotion to wheels. A group of dishevelled young beings take up an odd stance. Their forms of dress are set together in total contrast to one another. Their hair is fashioned in bizarre styles. It would seem that they have yet to adapt to thought and growth synchronisation. How can they be allowed to dress with such blatant disregard for all the morals which form the structures of existence in the world the dreamer comes from? What government would be so irresponsible as to let this happen?
The men who have left the wheel-motivated vehicles are in more exact clothing, tailored to acceptable uniformity. (These must be the primary stages of thought synchronisation, but they are a long way off from the Standard.) They move in on the others speaking words broken into meaningless sound by accent and an uncoordinated speed that modern man is, happily, incapable of.
The quiet street fades and reassembles as a scene of violence. Inhuman activities begin. The men in blue are forced back hurting and damaged. Their opposition seem to derive some form of pleasure from these futile events, cheering at the sight of the retreat. Yet as far as the dreamer can see little has been accomplished. A pool of red liquid has been left to commemorate the incident.
Quick footsteps come from behind the dreamer's presence. There is a dim, unlit alley. It is grey and decaying. A small figure is shaking beside a square, solid crate. The sparse moonlight is reflected by a roving blade. The blade slices the darkness and out of it steps a desperate shape. The shape crouches, leans and jerks. More red liquid is apparent. The figure beside the crate has stopped its shaking. It flops uselessly, leaving clumsy fingers to caress the grey paving slabs and filth.
In the sky there comes a roaring turbulence. Our dreamer rises towards it. He meets with a sleek aircraft. Within he can see the pilot. A tall, thin man; he is tense and nervous and his hate is rife. The thin man has experienced the sights of war, the kind of sight that once seen is not forgotten until the all too imminent death of the beholder. The computer flies the aircraft in a straight course for `home'.
As it skids across Runway Number Nine the dreamer devotes his presence of mind to the buildings - tall towers whose antennae stand in a jumbled mass. The men inside the control tower shout coarse, frantic words in dramatic tones. While they count their losses, their will is bent on destruction.
The dreamer wonders how a world which shall one day produce an expansive, totally regulated society, based on precision, can be so destructive, defiled and misbegotten as to its purpose. How can such a terrible past become such a sure and real future? Then he releases his thoughts and leaves the scene in search of better things he has yet to find; nor can ever expect to in a world such as this.
In a secluded corner, however, in a tiny area at the edge of a vague land mass, he feels an air of... something different. So different that he cannot recognise the new sensation it gives him. Here he has found something unique and isolated, untouched by anything outside. An absolutely basic culture. Simple beyond the dreamer's ability to imagine. A place where there are no regulations, but neither is there any need for regulations; where there are no jobs, but where each has a role. Primitive, yes, but also harmonious, functional, governed not by laws but by a principle of mutual co-operation which embraces all. The people here love and care. Their culture thrives on affection. They live for life's sake, enjoy life in order that it may be worth the effort of living, and their joys are contagious. Warm passions run wild and deep into all quarters. His inner consciousness is aroused and refreshed. The dreamer's mind seems cleansed and rid of some tiresome load, relief from the stress of monotonous burden.
Now he can realise some of those feelings synchronisation has robbed him of. Emotions alien to him which immediately capture his soul. The first a soothing blow; the next a moist enthralment; the third a slightness of occurrence; then they rush into his dense metabolism like a scurry of bacteria and he is possessed by ecstasy.
His vocabulary expands to far reaches in poetic voice, and he becomes a man of his own type and period. A split man: half from the future that was once his present, and half from the present that was once his past. He knows why journey by dream into the past is forbidden, but it is too late for him to care. Now he has emotions; those that were locked away and imprisoned because he was never allowed to know them. Before his life was a series of routine acknowledgements. Now it is extended to the devotions of a thousand new dimensions.
Abruptly the dreamer finds himself confronted by the familiar, antiseptic surroundings of the leisure globe. He has awoken, hauled back to reality by the automatic mechanism which monitors for `excessive anxiety'. Thus, emancipated from the illusory environment which has been its cause, the anxiety should be immediately dispelled. But it is not. His withdrawal from that place has been too late; the feelings released in him have flooded out to permeate his soul. Synchronised actions are inhibited by the emergence of new emotions. Yet despite this, the urge to perform according to Standard procedure predominates - it overwhelms with a nagging persistence and the performance of duty becomes irresistible.
His dream ended, he is ejected through the fission tranceiver and he stands in the restroom. He adjusts the time setting on the panel beside the rest-deck. Immediately as he lies back an orange beam shoots across his body and he is entirely immersed in a restful plague; he sleeps.
The house computer tells itself of certain irregularities that have taken place, but merely files them away under the category of `inessential to life balance and support'.
It is the first moment of a new morning, 00.01 am, and the orange ray disperses to let the sleeper awake. He slides from the rest-deck and as he approaches the nutrition unit he remembers unusual movements in his mind and flashes of mental pictures. As the food sheets run out from under the flap and the tasty liquid is dropped from the tap, the sleeper realises he has been a dreamer... while he slept! To dream independently, without the aid of the leisure globe? Was it possible? Well, surely it must be, for now he has done so. But how?
Then, he finds, his mind is too stereotyped to hold out against the regularities any more. A gentle but persistent reasoning power is at work within him. Order in his soul is gradually restored. A sense of reassuring urgency takes over and takes him to his work. He closes the tube-shaft. It twists slowly down and travels along its underground passage until its destination, the Life Support Plant, is found. Then it waits to return him when his day of work is completed.
There is a message that meets him when he eventually returns home. The computer says with dispassionate insistence:
"You were late today, Pesch. You are the only person to be late arriving at the Life Support Plant in seventeen solar involvements. As a result a man in sector 14A has died. Total power shut-down in his home was responsible."
The computer pauses assessing the situation.
"Why is your heartbeat so rapid? You are not in the leisure globe, so how can you experience anxieties? You have displayed a most irregular response to my statement concerning the man in sector 14A, Pesch. Why?"
"A man is dead because of my error."
"A callous mistake, but your response is still inexplicable. A minimum of two deaths is expected due to error every twenty solar involvements. You have merely balanced the calculations. Your reaction is illogical; furthermore, it is alien to the principle of synchronised behaviour patterns established by the Standard."
"I understand you, T-11... I, er... misinterpreted your intention. I thought perhaps I might be penalised for my error."
"My analysis of your body impulses indicates a strong probability that you are not being truthful, Pesch. Explain."
"I can't!"
"I shall seek a positive reading to correspond with my enquiry. Please wait." The computer churns. "My readings are negative. However, I shall disregard this incident. It is inessential to life balance and support. I shall submit that I have relayed the event of your error to you. Thank you, Pesch. It is now time for nutrition intake."
There is meat and vegetable process again today. It is nourishing and tasty. It is complemented with plant juice and supported by three white pills. They are tasteless.
The daylight is gone when Pesch has finished his meal. The dim moon gives secluded light and the house reflects the blue radiance of the ground around it. Only the leisure globe is lit up. It lures Pesch invitingly into its plush, fresh environment. He succumbs, as he does every night before his time of sleep. But tonight is different. He is there by choice, and he has never chosen before.
Again the man Pesch becomes the centre of non-gravity, and he lives the dreams of an engineer from the Life Support Plant. This time, out from the reaches of obscurity, he finds himself in a place both dark and lonely. A damp, clammy claw of biting mist has fallen all around, gathering the awe of silence.
There are peculiar, cautious steps far away. They are to be traced and followed.
The man who makes the sound of footsteps is searching. He displays it on his face and in his manner. He stops as he senses someone is near. He locates the sound the other is making. He reaches him and when he is sure of just how alone they are, he draws a knife and approaches slowly.
He covers the mouth with a heavy hand and inserts the knife somewhere in the person's back, then twists it sharply. As the attacker releases his hold the victim gives a deathly gasp, collapses limply, and never moves again.
It is bright for a short time, then it fades quickly to night after resembling a day for the fleeting flicker of a moment. This is the speeding up of irrelevant time so that the dreamer can follow chosen events closely once more. Here is the attacker stepping through the darkness. He can hear someone not too far away, but when he locates the person he is not alone. There are three of them. They are drunk and laughing, shouting, chanting in a steady toneless chorus.
The man leaves them and goes on searching. He is on his own for a long time before he sees another human being. When he does he creeps up stealthily from behind, grabs with the muffling hand, and stabs. As he winds the knife, warm blood seeps over him. Then he quickly leaves his latest victim, dying by the railings of the chilling, empty City Park.
The dreamer sees the time of day pass at speed in his vision. He gives his attention only to the night and to the man with the knife whom he cannot fathom.
Tonight the attacker is observed inside his home. He is deriving pleasure from an image of bloody carnage which is projected from a rectangular screen within the four walls of his own dwelling. It excites him and stimulates the violent emotions which yearn latently within this otherwise insignificant, dull, dispassionate man-among-many. And he is transformed; he becomes changed, angry, bitter, vengeful, seething he takes his knife and he leaves his home.
Tonight the man catches sight of a woman walking in short, quick steps down a lonely road. Her shoe heels clack sharply on the pavement and become more hurried as she hears him approaching. When he is behind her she turns and gasps, but he muffles her scream to a dull mumble; stillborn in her throat. Then the blade flicks out and reflects the streetlight into the woman's eyes.
She sees the ugly grin at first, then searing pain shoots up from her side. Her foot stamps the pavement in a vain attempt to struggle, then she is numb and the man removes his knife from her body and releases his clutch on her, allowing her to slump into the gutter.
Wet droplets form on her face. She is lying in a spreading pool of blood, diluted by the rain which trickles away down a grid beside her.
Another man has stopped on the corner. He appears large and strong. He wears his hair in dreadlocks that dangle loosely around his dark face. It is hard to distinguish his features on the secluded corner where he stands away from the light. He has seen the girl released from the man's aggressive hold, and seen the man pull a wet, red blade from her side. He does not know the man, but the girl is... no, was, his love.
He shouts her name and the stranger looking over her lifts his head from the body. He stiffens the grip on his blade and takes on a certain defensive stance, but changes his mind as he sees the seething rage within the dark, shining eyes of the one running at him. So he turns and flees.
Behind him the pursuer, with his head clung in waving black threads, speeds his pace and leaps. He falls a little short of the man he is chasing, but his arm causes the other to stumble and fall. He makes ungraceful impact with the tarmac of the road surface. A light sports shoe lunges into his body with enormous power and he splutters. The foot comes down again, pressing his head into the ground. Then a whole battery of blows rain down upon him, until his body gives up its life's blood and certain parts collapse because they can stand no more punishment. The final kick turns the metal blade he holds into his own body; and as he desperately pulls it away. the blade escapes the grip of his moistened hand. Unrelenting, a bunch of fingers wring his hair and use it to propel his head against a nearby wall.
A car suddenly pulls up in the roadside with its blue light flashing. Two uniformed men drag the attacker, struggling, from the victim and disable him with well-aimed punches. When he is too overcome to continue resisting, one of the uniformed men examines the victim of the onslaught that has taken place before their arrival. He touches the man on the ground in several places, then looks up and says:
"He's dead! I think you've got some explaining to do, Rasta!"
The dreamer is shot full of shocked anxiety and the dream readings begin to falter. The dreamer is pulled back into reality prematurely; sent back through the fission transceiver to the restroom, where his body flinches rigidly.
Pesch twitches with a certain distortion.
The computer speaks to him and starts to reason. Pesch snarls viciously and hurls a small projectile into the computer, leaving it only one function to perform: to die and enquire, "Why, Pesch? Why have you done this... Pesch? Why... Pesch... Whyyy?..." and fade.
Pesch flashes a new, twisted grin at the wall of the rest-receiver, and above the sizzle of frying circuitry only his crazed snarl can be heard.
It is several hours later. A man - the Controller - is lifeless on the floor at the entrance to the Life Support Plant. At the doorway of the office a technician lies with his head broken. Up in the control gallery a Section Controller has fallen into a fizzing junction of burst cables.
The lights, all over the building, flash into dimness. There are some workers inside the building, but they are all confused; they cannot cope with the situation.
Amongst them is a wild man whose thoughts have been disrupted at a crucial point during a confusing dream. The new emotions he found cannot be controlled. He can only imitate the things his unseeing mind was last conscious of. He can only destroy.
He is wandering madly until before him he finds standing a man in a white worksuit who turns and says, a little doubtfully, "Pesch?". Then a blade is plunged towards him with a sense of ripping delight; and he screams a scream which shall flow through time until it reaches into eternity. Only the pretence of living is left to suffer.
In a short while, only a few hours at most, the enforcers will arrive and take Pesch to the place where they deal with irregulars. They shall obliterate his body into ash and dust, and scatter him.
Now the world can be normal again.