The Devil's Mirror (12 page)

‘Thank you, John,’ she said sweetly. ‘And you, young man?’

‘My name is Nine,’ said the other one, who was tall and handsome, ‘and I am not a man at all. My full name is Nine Four Six Three Seven, decimal, Zero, Zero, Five Two Eight. I am an android. But
I
am the better man.’

John laughed. ‘Better man! A thing of plastic bones and chemical blood and artificial flesh? Ridiculous!’

She asked, ‘Why do you say you are the better man, Nine?’ Nine cleared his throat. ‘I won’t bore you with the history of robots and androids,’ he began.

‘Please don’t,’ John interjected.

‘But I’m sure both of you are aware,’ Nine continued, ‘of the refinements that have gone into the manufacture of androids during the past few centuries?’

John shrugged. ‘Eyes that work like eyes instead of like television cameras.’

‘Hair and nails that grow,’ she said.

‘Waste disposal systems like our own,’ John grunted, and gallantly added, ‘Excuse me, miss.’

‘Laughter,’ she said. ‘Tears.’ And she smiled.

Nine smiled back at her. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘As we were made more efficient, we naturally were made more human, because the human body and brain are still the most efficient machines there are. You might almost say that, while you folks were becoming more and more false-toothed and nose-jobbed and bustplastied, and more and more warped and mutated by radiation, more and more
dehumanised
, we androids were becoming more and more human. Kind of ironic.’

‘Very,’ said John, stifling a yawn.

Nine said, ‘The point being, John, that you’re getting old and infirm, while this body of mine—ersatz though it may be—will last another hundred years or so, with care. I’m stronger than you, also, and have better sight and hearing and quicker reflexes, all of which will be vital in building the new world. So you see,’ he concluded, spreading his hands, ‘there’s no contest.’

Smugly, John said, ‘You’re forgetting one thing.’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Nine. ‘We androids used to be put together in laboratories and on assembly lines, I grant you, but not anymore. Too expensive. It’s’ not generally known (fear of public opinion) but for quite a while now it’s been cheaper and simpler for androids to be so constructed that we can reproduce ourselves. In fact, it’s been proven in certain top-secret lab experiments that, theoretically at least, we can even, er, intermarry with humans.’

John spluttered and stammered, ‘But that’s—indecent and—unheard of and—you mean
mate
? Produce offspring? A human and an android? That’s absurd!’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ reflected Nine. ‘But it’s also true.’

Their beautiful prize looked long at the handsome, muscular Nine, then turned to the squinting, coughing John. ‘He’s right, I’m afraid, John,’ she said, sorrowfully. ‘He
is
the better... man.’

John sighed but said nothing. He crept slowly away, into the jagged shadows. In a few moments, they heard a single shot and the sound of a frail body crumpling to the ground. ‘Poor John,’ she said. ‘I felt so sorry for him.’

‘So did I,’ said Nine, ‘but that’s life.’ He led her towards the hovel that would be their home. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I was really afraid John’s education and skill and wisdom and all that might tip the scales in his favour...’

‘It did, almost.’

‘Yes, I could tell. That’s why I made up that little fib about being an android. My name’s not Nine, it’s Bill and I’m one hundred percent human.

‘Just as I thought,’ said John triumphantly, emerging from the shadows. ‘Not only a liar but stupid as well. Stupid enough to be taken in by my simple sound effects a moment ago.’ John turned to the lovely object of their rivalry. ‘Is this the kind of mate you deserve, my dear? A man without principles? A musclebound clod both morally corrupt and mentally deficient? Is he indeed the better man?’

She wavered, but for only an instant. ‘No, John. The father of the new race should be a man of honour and intelligence. You are the better man.’

John turned to Bill. ‘In the absence of judges and juries, I take it upon myself to pronounce sentence upon you for mendacity, opacity, and crimes against future humanity. The sentence is death.’ John shot Bill through the head, and the younger suitor fell, lifeless.

‘Now, wife,’ said John, with a gleam in his eye, ‘let us not waste any more precious time in getting that new race started. I am, admittedly, neither as young nor as handsome as the late Bill, but I think you’ll find there is life in the old boy yet.’

‘Are
you
an android, by any chance?’ she asked.

John said, ‘It just so happens that Bill was entirely correct about the, er, comparability of humans and androids. I put up a fuss about it only because I didn’t want to lose you. So, actually, it wouldn’t make any difference if I
were
an android. However, I assure you I am quite human, if it matters.’

She smiled prettily and took his arm. ‘How nice,’ she said. ‘If it matters. I’m not.’ And silenced his expression of surprise with an admirably genuine kiss.

An invisible starship stood at rest near a canal.

If the eye could have seen it, the sight would have been one of immense beauty, for it was a thing of harmonious circles: an outer rim, hollow and transparent, in which the crew of four lived and worked and looked out upon space and suns and exotic worlds; contained in this circle, another, the core of powerful engines whose surging, flaming energy propelled the ship across galactic distances. And all of this unseen.

Inside, the Captain spoke briefly to his Specialist, First Class. Tour report is finished, then? We can embark?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That was fast work.’

‘These rudimentary cultures are all very much alike. The report is simple—planet’s inhabitants too primitive to comprehend our presence here, therefore suggest a return in a few centuries when the species may be more advanced and we can set up cultural and scientific exchange, trade, and so on.’ The First Mate drew near them. ‘Do you really think they’re too primitive? They have language, laws, religion...’

‘But no technology,’ said the Specialist. ‘They couldn’t possibly understand that we come from another planet; the very concept ‘‘planet” is beyond them... no, no, to try to establish contact now would be too traumatic for them. If we revealed ourselves—flicked off the invisibility shield—there would be... ramifications... repercussions...’

‘Ripples?’ said the Captain.

‘Ripples,’ replied the Specialist, with a nod. ‘An apt word. Like a pebble dropped in a pond, spawning ever larger and larger and more grandiose images of its own smallness, so even an instantaneous glimpse of us and our ship could, with time and retellings, become magnified and elaborated and distorted—into something far beyond anything we could dream.’

‘Then let us head for home and a well-earned leave,’ said the Captain.

The First Mate added, ‘And a well-shaped young lady I
hope
has been pining away in solitude!’

‘Ah, youth—’ began the Captain, but broke off as his Navigator approached with a worried air. ‘Trouble?’ the Captain asked.

‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid so,’ said the Navigator.

‘Serious?’

‘A little. The main engine is inoperable—just as I feared.’

The First Mate said, ‘That rough landing damaged more than our pride.’

‘What about the auxiliary engine?’ asked the Captain.

‘It will get us home, just barely, but it won’t hold up under the strain of lift-off—’

‘What?’

‘—unless we conserve all other energy. That means switching off lights, chart banks, communications, sensors, air, invisibility shield, everything—but only for those first few vital seconds of lift-off, of course.’

‘Then do it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Specialist, alarmed, said, ‘Captain! Not the invisibility shield! We must not turn that off]’

‘You heard the Navigator. It’s our only chance—and it will just be for a few seconds.’ He nodded to the Navigator, saying, ‘Lift off.’ Then he looked out through the transparent hull at the world they would soon depart. ‘Primitive, you say. Well, you’re the expert. But it’s too bad we can’t contact them now. It might have been interesting. They’re so much like us, they’re almost
human
.’

‘Well, hardly that,’ said the Specialist, as the starship moved. ‘They’re mono-faced, and their feet are different, and they completely lack wings. But I know what you mean...’ Outside, a bearded denizen of the primitive planet blinked, stared, pointed.

‘Behold!’ he cried to a companion.
W
whirlwind! A great cloud! A fire! Men with wings and many faces! A wheel... in the middle of a wheel!’

‘Where? What?’ said his companion, turning a second too late. ‘I saw nothing, Ezekiel.’

But, roiled by that whirlwind, the waters of the Chebar canal were a dancing spiderwork of ripples.

SATURDAY
. My worst fears are confirmed. We are rushing towards inconceivable doom, complete annihilation. Zoltany’s prophecy has come true. He tried to warn me. Why didn’t I listen to him? Now it’s too late—that is to say, too early.

I have started a chain that cannot be stopped. Even if I knew how to stop it, all efforts would be fruitless because they would become undone in the very moment of their doing.

Nothing remains for me but to watch this thing I have wrought, watch it helplessly and impotently. For I sense that my punishment shall consist in one small part of me remaining aware of what is happening, while the greater part of my consciousness (and of course my physical body) experiences, first, repentant resignation, then numbing realisation, followed by mounting fear, nagging suspicion, vague uneasiness, exultant triumph, cheerful optimism, and naïve anticipation—in just about that order. All the while, a tiny segment of my being will scream silently in frustration as it witnesses the inevitable, inexorable unwinding... or perhaps I should say winding... of the infernal machine. Oh world, universe, God: forgive me. This is my last entry in these notebooks. When I put down the pen, I will take my own life. Pointless as that is, under these extraordinary circumstances.

Dr Martin Avery

FRIDAY
. No notes today, except to say I will spend the day checking and re-checking, doing my utmost to rectify what I am all but convinced has taken place. If it has, God help me. Or have I rendered even Him helpless?

THURSDAY
. I am not going to panic. But I am beginning to be afraid. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to set down these notes. A simple, act but the very pushing of the pen has become an Herculean task. It’s not that it’s become heavy or I’ve become weak, just that it doesn’t seem to want to go forward! It fights me. And I worry about how
far
the effect is reaching. Just a few blocks, a few miles? Or the whole city, the whole country, the whole world, the whole—but no, I cannot even allow myself to think that.

WEDNESDAY
. Zoltany was wrong, of course. He talked utter nonsense the other evening. He’s always been afraid of progress (strange word for me to use, in this situation, ‘progress’). And yet, what I see out my window does give me something to think about. Has there really been a
general
slowing down? Not just here inside my house? Or is it an illusion, a distortion of my senses? After all, there are drugs that distort the time sense, make a minute seem an hour, and so on, so it’s not all
that
strange. I mustn’t let Zoltany’s alarmist talk disturb me.

TUESDAY
. Success! I’ve noticed what appears to be the first effect, the first visible proof. My watch seems to have slowed down. (Which my calculations predicted, of course.) And all the clocks in the house, too. But how can I be sure, since everything is relative and I have no ‘normal’ clock to use as a control? I phoned for the correct time, and it checked against my clocks, but of course, it would, wouldn’t it? That is, if Zoltany’s old-fogey fears had some basis...

MONDAY
. It’s a beautiful morning. Bright and clear. I awoke refreshed and hungry as a bear, prepared myself a gigantic breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast and coffee, then came immediately into the lab. I was struck by something that never occurred to me before—the
beauty
of the machine. It has the beauty of organisation, of function, of everything having its purpose; the console panel, with its rows of switches and dials, has the orderly beauty of a Mondrian painting. I stood for a moment, forgetting its power, its Promethean capacities, admiring its sheer beauty. Then I checked the calibrations, crossed my fingers, took a deep breath, wished myself luck, and activated the machine.

Except for the almost inaudible throb of the power surge, there was no discernible result of any kind. Discouraging? Far from it! It confirms my calculations: the effect will begin slowly, then accelerate. I’m ecstatic! I even poured out what was left of last night’s brandy and toasted myself! This is truly a great day!

SUNDAY
. Old Professor Zoltany dropped over this evening to sample the bottle of fine brandy my brother sent me for my birthday. I broke the seal, then broke the news to him—that the machine (‘gadget’ he calls it) is finished and that I will begin the first experiment in the morning. This time, instead of being only waspish and scornful, he seemed concerned. Worried. I interpreted this as a victory, because it meant he was beginning to believe in the machine and in my claims.

‘Are you quite sure you know what you are doing?’ he said, solemnly.

I told him I had checked my calculations again and again. There was no possibility of error. But I added I was flattered he was worried about me.

‘About you?’ he growled. ‘I am worried about something infinitely greater and more important than you. Man has unleashed the atom, tampered with his own genes, over-populated the earth, poisoned the air and the waters, but this thing of yours could be worse than all the rest. If it works—and I pray it will not work—how can you possibly predict the outcome? Once you tap these mighty forces, once you open Pandora’s box—’