by Arthur Sellings
It is a well-worn but apt cliche, “Never look a gift horse in the mouth”, but in this instance Framley New Town was being used as a type of Trojan Horse—and the inhabitants were in for something of a shock
* * * *
Bryan Dudley went on sipping his coffee and scanning the morning paper, only a cell or two of his subconscious having registered the fact that his wife had drawn back the curtains and spoken.
“I tell you, there’s something in the garden.”
“Uh-huh.”
The garden she called it! They were renting the house monthly—the latest of a long line, by the look of the place. It had the hostile impersonal air of rented houses—paintwork that shade of stone that nobody surely picks for himself to live with, wallpaper of the desperate pattern one sees only in end-of-season sale windows. The garden was a straggle of plots where a succession of tenants had salved their consciences by doing something anyway. Gwen was always hailing, with the ecstasy of the new exurbanite, the appearance of some flower or another among the weeds, some unusual bird that was always gone when he looked.
He found himself gaping at the coffeepot. He blinked up. Gwen was holding the crumpled newspaper in front of her.
“I’m sorry, dear. What is it—that yellow wagtail again?”
She shook her head slowly, glowering.
There was nothing else for it. He got up from the table and peered out of the window. Something gleamed in the morning sunlight.
“I’ll see what it is,” he said.
He came back with his arms full. He inclined them over the tea trolley. A small cascade of metal objects rattled on to it. One rolled over the edge, but he caught it before it reached the floor, feeling a certain pride in his reflexes. He landed it to his wife.
Gwen turned it over in her palm. It was about nine inches long, a delicately fluted piece of metal, rather like a skittle. It had a lustrous, anodised kind of finish. But this was silkier than any anodised household article she had known. The surface seemed to glow with a soft golden light, as if illuminated from within. But it couldn’t be, surely; it was opaque metal. The silky touch of it in her hands was suddenly eerie, like the flesh-like, too human, feel that some dolls have. She thrust it back at her husband, shivering slightly and then laughing nervously at the absurdity of her own disquiet.
Bryan looked at her.
“What are they?” she asked, noticing with a pang of awareness that he too got rid of it quickly, putting it down with the others.
“Search me.”
“But who could have put them there ? And why?”
He shrugged. “Whoever it was must have been a bit of a neurotic. You know, the kind that has to have everything dead straight and in order. They were standing on end—the nine of them—in a neat diamond.”
“It must be some kind of a joke.”
“Joke ? A joke has to have a point. This seems completely pointless.” He picked up one of the objects again. “Fascinating feel, though. And light. Maybe it’s hollow.” He held it up, turning it in his hands.
“Perhaps it unscrews?”
‘The fluting, you mean?” He tried to turn one end against the other, first anticlockwise, then clockwise. But nothing happened, and when he tried harder his hands only slid over the slick surface. “No, there’d have to be some kind of a join that you could see. Unless ...”
“Unless?”
“Well, there are surfaces so smooth they join almost invisibly. And grip. Pete showed me a couple of blocks like that once. That’s it! Pete’s the boy for this. I’ll take one in to him.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll be late if I don’t hurry.”
“I------”
“Yes, dear ?” he asked impatiently, grabbing for his briefcase.
She fished out an empty carton from a cupboard. “Take them all in to Pete, will you ?”
He looked at her, then smiled. “All right, sweetie.”
* * * *
He left the carton in his car, wrapped one of the things in a Kleenex and took it with him to his office in Accounts. As soon as he had dealt with the morning mail he went down to the lab block.
The red light was on above the door, and through the dark-shielded window Bryan could see a crouched masked figure, faintly illumined by what looked like a dull mauve acorn of light. He knocked, screwed up his eyes tight and went in. The air crackled and reeked with metal fumes.
“That you, Pete?” he called out. “Am I interrupting anything ?”
The crackling died, the intense light stopped beating on his eyelids. He opened them.
“Hy, Dudders,” said Pete, lowering his mask. Bryan winced. “Are we spending too much money again?”
It was all a ritual. Bryan gave response 2 (c).
“What’s money ? We make it, you burn it.”
Pete put his mask down on the benchtop. “Division of labour, lad. What can I help doing for you?”
Bryan held the thing out to him. Pete unwrapped it and held it up.
“What’s this a prototype of?” he asked after a moment’s perusal.
“That’s what I want to know.”
Pete looked at him quizzically. “I? Not the good old company we? What is it—homework?”
“You could call it that. I found it in my garden this morning.”
“That’s the worst of these cheap seeds—you never know what’ll come up.”
“One of these days they’ll find a pile of ash in your furnace.”
“Only my jest, lad. What do you want me to do?”
“Find out what it is. What it’s made of, at least.”
“Certainly. The lab is in one of its rare periods of redundancy. What do you think the red light was in aid of ? I will subject this objet trouvé to the most minute analysis, known to man. It won’t look so pretty, though, by the time I’ve finished with it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got eight more in the car.” He turned at the door. “How long will it take?”
“Depends. I’ll give you a buzz.” Pete was stroking the thing in his hand as if it were a pet. “Funny feel it’s got.”
* * * *
The buzz came at a quarter to five that afternoon. Bryan went back to the lab. Pieces of the golden object were strewn over a bench, parings of it in dishes, the largest piece a complete half sheared clean across like a cut apple.
Pete read off from a notepad:
“It’s solid and homogeneous. An alloy, of course—zinc, magnesium, copper, traces of beryllium and caesium. Nothing extraordinary in the way of properties. Except for the odd feel of it, but that could be only a by-product of its manufacture. Which, to me, is the most interesting thing about it.”
“How so?”
“Well, I described it as solid, and so it is—in a way—i.e. it’s not hollow. But it’s got a specific gravity of only half what it should have by analysis. It’s a kind of foam metal.”
“There is such a thing?”
“As shorthand for various processes—yes.”
“Would it have any practical use?”
“Difficult to see any. It isn’t particularly hard or of high tensile strength. In brief, I can’t see why anybody would have made the alloy in the first place. Nor cast it in this particular, admittedly cute but completely unfunctional— as far as I can see—shape.”
“Well—thanks anyway.” Bryan turned to go. He had reached the door when Pete called after him.
“One small thing I forgot to mention, but it was the first thing I did. Ran over it with a geiger counter. It’s clean.”
* * * *
Bryan got home to find Gwen in the garden. He caught sight of her orange smock moving among the trees at the bottom, and he walked down the cracked stone path to her. It was so overgrown with moss that his shoes made little noise. He was quite close to her before she heard him. She straightened up with a start.
“Oh, Bryan, it’s you!”
“Who did you think it was?” He kissed her. “Botanizing?”
She smiled wanly. “No, just——” She faltered. “What happened about the—the things?”
He tried to sound offhanded. “Oh, them. Pete analysed one. Simple enough alloy. He couldn’t identify the process of manufacture. And he had about as much idea of what they could be as I have. That’s about all. Oh—and they’re not radioactive.”
The last sentence didn’t sound so reassuring, somehow, as he intended it to be.
“What have you done with them?”
“What do you mean, done with them? They’re still in the car. Except for the one that Pete cut up.”
“Get rid of them, Bryan. I------”
“What’s the matter, honey? They’re quite safe. Eight hunks of metal. They’re locked up in the boot.”
She shivered. “I don’t want them around the place any longer than I can help. Promise you’ll get rid of them tomorrow.”
He put his arm around her and led her gently back towards the house. “All right. It’s odd, I admit that. One of those unexplainable things. But it’s nothing to be upset about. If you’re worried because somebody got into our garden in the night—well, whoever it was didn’t do any harm. And”—he laughed—”if we’ve got some funny kind of ghost, just tell yourself that in a few weeks’ time we move into a brand-new house. And new houses don’t have ghosts.”
She snuggled against him. “Don’t mind me. I know I’m being silly.” They reached the back door. “But you will get rid of them tomorrow?”
“Promise. In Pete’s furnace.” He exaggerated a small gesture of annoyance for her benefit. “No, I can’t do that. Tomorrow’s Saturday. The place will be closed. But I’ll get rid of them.”
* * * *
In the morning he drove his wife into town.
Framley was a New Town, planned from the first brick. Land prices had been fixed to tempt industrialists and their employees away from London. Clean Air For Your Children—100% Home Loans—Why Commute?—the slogans had gone out, backed by battalions of figures. And the first firms had moved in—Keld Industries among them, and Bryan Dudley of Keld Industries Accounts.
The shopping centre—all terrazzo and traffic-free avenues and slab glass and fountains and brave new statuary—was opened. Town-planning experts came to admire and make notes and depart to set up Framleys in Nigeria and New South Wales and Anatolia. Now, with one year gone and two to go, the programme was getting into top gear, Framley spreading furiously over the surrounding countryside to its appointed boundaries. Soon the last of the houses of the old village would be demolished before the bulldozers. Ring roads were being pushed through, with helicopters whirring overhead and mobile traffic lights being shunted across the landscape like pieces in a giant chess game. Every other day Bryan had to make a new detour on his way to the office.
He parked the car now, arranged to meet Gwen in an hour and left her to go shopping. He got the carton from the back of the car and set off with it under his arm. He wasn’t sure just how he intended disposing of its contents. He leaned over the barrier round an excavation site and was tempted simply to drop the carton into the mud beneath. But there were too many people about. Besides, he felt that it would be somehow anti-social.
He walked on, and had passed the shop before the idea solidified.
He turned back and looked in the window. It was filled with lamps, ashtrays, table mats, prints of Red Horses, the odd Klee, Blue Period Picassos. It was a brand-new shop and its sign read The Modern Home Gallery, but underneath in small letters: (formerly The Nook) and he remembered the old shop, all chintz and warming pans. It was a miniature symbol of the change that had been wrought in Framley. After a moment’s hesitation he walked in.
A reedy man in a velvet jacket came forward.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Perhaps you can.” Bryan set the carton down on a glass-topped table and took out one of the things. “Thought you might like to stock a few of these.”
The other looked slightly pained. “But what are they?”
“Nice shape, don’t you think?” Bryan countered blandly.
The proprietor grimaced. “Don’t tell me—it’s a thing. When you ask people what it does and they say look at the shape, it’s a thing. Well, I’ve got plenty of things. Young people just moving in want functional objects first.”
“Like Picasso prints?”
“Great art has an aesthetic function,” the other said primly. “But this ...”
“Feel it,” Bryan said, thrusting it into his hand. The man gave a small start at the touch of it, but soon proffered it back to Bryan.
“Not a bad shape. Perhaps it would fit in a modern setting, but as I said------”
“You don’t have to buy them, just take them on sale or return.”
“Hm-mm.” The other turned it over in his hand. “How much?”
Bryan thought quickly. If one put too cheap a price on something people were inclined to be suspicious. “Four guineas apiece to you. You can choose you own selling price.”
The other looked really pained now. “For a piece of metal?”
Bryan picked up a Swedish glass shape and turned up the price sticker on its base. “Six guineas for a piece of glass?”
The man sighed. “How many have you got?”
“Eight.”
“All right. But only on sale or return. What’s your name and address?”
Bryan gave it to him and got out quickly.
* * * *
The telephone rang at six o’clock that evening. Bryan answered it.
“Hello. Mr. Dudley? This is the Modern Home Gallery. Those—er, things—have you any more?”
“Don’t say you’ve sold them all ?”
“No, but there’s been quite a little run on them. I’ve two left, but five people have said they’re coming in next week to buy one.”
Bryan blinked. He hadn’t thought seriously that they would be merchandise ... not to that extent.
“Can you supply more?” came the voice from the other end. “Three dozen, say?”
“Well... they’re craftsman-made,” Bryan said, telling his conscience that they must be. “I can’t hold out any immediate prospects, but...” He was glad to get off the line.
He pondered, sorry that he couldn’t tell Gwen. He had told her that he had got rid of the things, without saying how. She might think that loading them on to an art-and-craft shop was an evasion of a promise. Gwen was inclined to be literal-minded. Then he smiled at a sudden thought. Eight times four was thirty-two guineas. If he couldn’t tell her, he could surprise her. A new dress for the house-warming party ... ?
* * * *
It was he who got the surprise, the next morning. He got up to make the coffee, as he always did on Sundays. He put the percolator on, drew back the kitchen blinds—and blinked. There—in the garden—was a whole cluster of the things.
He thought quickly. Gwen had been still sleeping when he got up. He turned the percolator down, threw on a coat and went out into the garden. He piled the things into a wheelbarrow, counting roughly. One load was over sixty. He had to make three journeys to the garage, stowing them into the boot of his car. Then he went back to the house.
“Where’s the coffee, darling?” came his wife’s voice from upstairs. “You’ve been down ages.”
He exhaled in relief. “Just coming, sweetie.”
It was only while they were drinking coffee together that he began to think clearly. He had been moved only by the need to get rid of the things before his wife saw them. But now he began to see the possibilities of the affair. You didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, nor ponder too long on the mysterious—not when you would soon be moving into a new house, with all its attendant expense. If one small shop in one half-built town could order three dozen of the things, then he shouldn’t have any difficulty in selling two hundred. And two hundred times four ...
* * * *
He drove in to the Modern Home Gallery in his lunch hour the next day, feeling pleased with himself. He had packed three dozen of the objects into a carton. He walked in briskly.
“Well, here we are,” he called out. “Three dozen you ordered, I believe?”
The proprietor came forward with a curious look on his face.
“Quick work, isn’t it, three dozen in a weekend? For craftsman-made objects ?”
Bryan felt a quick disquiet. “Well, maybe I don’t actually make them. They’re more”—he remembered Pete’s very accurate description of the things—”objets trouvés. They’re still highly saleable merchandise, evidently.”
“And highly trouvable, too,” the other said, looking sour. He slid back doors. There, on shelves, stood row on row of the golden things. “Those turned up on my drive some time last night. Five hundred of them.”
Bryan tried to make the best of it. “Well, all you’ve got to do is advertise nationally. Maybe the source of supply is mysterious, but------”
“And it’s unpredictable. So is demand in this trade.” He grimaced. “Here’s a cheque for twenty-four guineas.”
“How about these?”
“You can leave them if you want to—on the same sale or return terms. But I’m not guaranteeing any price.”
“But------”
“Take it or leave it, Mr. Dudley.”
Bryan took it.
When he got back to his office the switchboard girl called out to him, “Message for you, Mr. Dudley. Your wife rang up twice. She wants you to get back home as quick as you can. She sounded pretty upset.”
He didn’t stop to phone, but got straight back in his car and drove the five miles back to their house as fast as earth-moving machinery, ramps and traffic signals would allow.
Their house stood on its own at the end of a rough road. The road curved just before it got to the house. As he turned the bend, already anxious, he got such a shock that the car, hitting a bad spot at that moment, almost got out of his control.
He eased it to a stop—and stared.
He could hardly see the house for golden metal. It was like the house in the fairy story that thorns grew over and covered. But this was covered in ... there must have been millions of the things, all stacked up and forming a wall feet thick. And the thorns in the fairy story had taken years to smother the house. This had happened in the few hours since he had left that morning.
He ran towards the house, calling, “Gwen! Gwen!”
Her face appeared at one of the bedroom windows. Her voice was hysterical. “It went all dark suddenly. I went to open the front door ... and they came flooding into the hall.”
“Hold on, darling. I’ll soon get you out.”
He tore at the barrier to the front door, the things raining about his head. He went more carefully as the stacks on each side threatened to fall upon-the path he was clearing. Finally he got to the door. He picked his way over a mound of the things in the hall. Gwen stood on the landing, shaking.
He dashed upstairs and took her in his arms.
“There, there. They can’t hurt you.” He led her back to the bedroom. “Sit down while I get you a drink.” He came back with two large whiskies. “Now, take a good swig. When you’ve got over the shock, get a few things packed. I’ll fix up somewhere for a night or two. And I’ll chase up the builders and see if they can’t get a couple of rooms, at least, ready in the new house. Meanwhile I’ll report this to the police.”
She was recovering by now. She even managed a wan smile. “And what will you tell them?”
“I’ll simply tell them that------” He broke off.
“Exactly. When I couldn’t get you I started to dial the police, but...”
“I see what you mean. But I’ll have to report it. It’s up to them what action they take. But there’s something awfully funny going on. They might even be------”
He stopped.
“Even be what ?”
“Nothing.” He had had the thought that they might be some kind of secret weapon—and that was the last thing to say to her. It was absurd, anyway. They couldn’t be dropped from the sky as neatly as this. And they seemed harmless enough. Pete had had one apart, hadn’t he? Or had that only been a dummy run ? And these ...
He thrust the thought from his mind. “You get packed while I call the station.”
He dialled. He told the facts briefly. The voice at the other end said, “I’ll see what we can do. But it sounds more like a civil case. Trespassing, or violation of privacy.”
Thank the Lord for the mental processes oi the law! Bryan thought gratefully. Even something as weird as this they translated into mundane terms. The touch of normality was reassuring. They probably thought he was some kind of a crank or practical joker.
“All right, I’m not asking you to do anything. I just want you to put this on record.” He had to press his name and address on his reluctant auditor.
He rang off and then called the hotel in the old village of Framley. It would be closed when the new green glass monster in the New Town was ready, and its present capacity was severely strained, he knew, with all the people coming to the town. He wasn’t optimistic. But he was lucky; they had had a cancellation.
Gwen came in with her bag packed. He flung a few of his own things into a holdall and they tiptoed out of the house to the car.
He felt Gwen relax beside him as they turned the bend out of view of the house. He lit a cigarette. It had been raining, off and on, but now the sun broke through, raising steam on the road. He turned to smile reassuringly at his wife, then reached to switch on the radio. A Viennese orchestra playing Strauss ...
“Watch out!” Gwen screamed.
In front of them loomed a high red wall...
His foot leaped from the accelerator to the brake pedal. And the back started to drift to the right, gathering momentum. He flung the wheel to the left. The impossible red wall hurtled towards them.
He had driven into the skid too quickly. The car spun— but, spinning, saved them. They missed the wall by inches and came to rest in a ditch, pointing back the way they had come.
The air in his lungs came out in a shuddering sigh as he saw that Gwen was all right. Her knuckles were white against the seat where she still sat crouched against impact.
“It’s all right, dear. We missed it. I should have been watching the road.”
She straightened up.
“It wasn’t your fault. It was a clear road. Then— then------”
They were suddenly conscious of the red light filtering into the car.
“Stay here,” he said. He got out.
The barrier must have been twenty feet high and stretched across the road, not quite reaching the near side. But on the other it extended beyond, and there, its base no longer on a flat surface, it had tumbled. For it was made of blocks. He crossed the road and picked one up.
It had a hexagonal section, with a flat top and bottom. About a foot across and in depth, but very light. Each one exactly the same size and shape. Matt red. Some kind of plastic.
He was aware of the sound of an engine. It stopped. Two figures in blue picked their way round the other end of the barrier.
“What’s going on here ?” one of them asked.
“You tell me,” Bryan said grimly.
The policeman pushed his cap back and scratched his head.
“We get called out on a few things, but...”
His mate said, “We were on our way to check on a report by some nut that he had found his house surrounded by a lot of------”
“That nut was me,” Bryan told him.
“Name of Dudley ?”
Bryan nodded.
The policeman coughed. “Sorry, sir. That was what we thought before we saw this.”
“Forget it. It’s not people who are going crazy.”
The policeman gestured to the car. “Are you all right? And the lady?”
“We’re all right. But I’d like your help to get our car back on the road. On the Framley side of that.”
The other policeman said, “Easier said than done, sir, I’m afraid. That barrier’s yards thick. We’ll give you a lift into Framley. I’ll report this and they’ll probably get a squad out here to shift it. Thank heaven it’s not on the main road. But we’ll certainly get your car back to town.”
Bryan shrugged. “All right.” There was nothing else for it.
He told Gwen and they transferred their bags to the police car. When they got to the hotel he handed his car keys to the police driver. He rang in his firm and told them not to expect him back that day. At least, he started to, but the switchboard girl was too panicky for him to pursue the matter. Five minutes ago a mountain of green had materialized on Keld Industries’ doorstep.
* * * *
At six thirty that evening, Bryan was doing his best to be coherent to a B.B.C. television interviewer about the piles of objects that were appearing in and around Framley. The newsmen had latched on to him as being the first to have reported the things.
“Mr. Dudley—you say that these things aren’t dangerous?”
“No. I simply said that the object I had analysed wasn’t dangerous.” He had already given that information to the authorities. “That was the first lot, the golden metal things.”
“And the red plastic cubes?”
“Hexagons. At least, they had a hexagonal------”
“Ah, yes.” The interviewer riffled news slips. “We’ve since had reports of pink plastic cubes. No, sorry, they were metal.”
“The red plastic things seemed harmless. Like a child’s building block, only several times bigger.”
The interviewer—he wore heavy-rimmed glasses and a bow tie; Bryan had seen him often on television—said:
“Do you have any idea at all what these things can be?”
“I’ve told you—no.”
“But now that you’ve had time to think?”
“I haven’t had any time at all to think.”
“Do you think they’re some kind of------”
And he stopped, in front of several million viewers, just as Bryan had in front of his wife. But now Bryan followed it through.
“A weapon?” The other flinched. “No, I don’t think so. I’m sure not.”
The interviewer breathed out in relief. “And why do you say that?”
“They couldn’t have been dropped from the sky. All the things I’ve seen have been too ... too geometrically placed. More like goods stacked up in a warehouse than weapons.” He had a wild thought. “Like a lot of parcels from Ox-fam.”
The interviewer seized on the notion. “Gift parcels? Do you think they could be that ?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“It’s an interesting thought. Gifts. But where from ?”
Bryan was getting ragged. A hectic day was beginning to catch up on him. “How the hell do I know? Some benevolent American manufacturer distributing samples? Some company demonstrating a means of instant transport? God?”
“God? Are you a churchgoer, Mr. Dudley?”
Bryan felt a fleeting sympathy for the man. Confronted with the inexplicable, he still went through the motions, the stock questions.
“God ... any of the gods ... take your pick.”
“The gods ? Ah, gifts of the gods!”
* * * *
And that was the phrase everybody woke up next morning to find spread across the front pages of their newspapers, followed by one or more question marks according to the paper. Everybody, that is, except a large part of the population of Framley itself. For by morning the distribution of anything in the town had become difficult. Through the night the spate of objects had continued. It was like a town cut off by a blizzard. Bryan took one look out of the window and decided, although the police had delivered his car to the hotel within a few hours of the incident of the red shapes, to walk to the office.
He told Gwen to rest, and set off.
People were flocking the streets to greet the sudden appearances of the things. Until, as was inevitable, some materialized too close to people for comfort, and then the more timorous fled, having visions of being engulfed in a mountain of blue pyramids or orange cylinders.
That didn’t happen quite. But, a few hundred yards down the road from the hotel, Bryan witnessed a car meet the fate that he had only just missed the previous day. The crowds were thinner here away from the centre of the town and a frustrated driver had just opened up. He was doing about thirty-five when a multi-coloured wall materialized in front of him.
Bryan winced as brakes screamed.
The car ploughed straight into the wall—and emerged on the other side. The reaction came yards beyond it; the car jumped like a nerve and Bryan saw a white face turn back for an instant. For seconds afterwards a rainbow snow settled over the street and its houses. Bryan picked up a piece. It was a helix, gossamer light. But when he tried to pull it apart in his fingers, he found that it was surprisingly tough. He tucked it in his pocket and walked on.
He got to Keld Industries to find that a narrow way had been cleared through the green mountain. Inside, only a skeleton staff had reported for duty.
Guest, the manager, summoned him to his office and seemed disappointed when Bryan confessed that he knew little more about the things than anyone else.
“But you were on television. The only paper I’ve seen this morning has got a picture of you on the front page. You got one of those things analysed, didn’t you? Where did you get that done?”
Bryan coughed. “That wasn’t difficult.”
Guest shot him a suspicious glance. “Well, next time at least mention the name of the company.”
“I hope there won’t be a next time,” Bryan told him and went back to his office. But everything was too disrupted to carry on with normal work. Telephone calls from customers and suppliers were all questions about what had happened to Framley and kidding congratulations on his having become a celebrity. At noon he packed up for the day.
He got back to the hotel to find Gwen with the jitters. The radio was broadcasting a news bulletin as he entered the room. She looked up, relief at seeing him back only retaining for a moment her near panic.
“Let’s get out! It’s getting worse.”
“Calm down, dear. It’s not as bad as that. Nobody’s in any danger.”
“No? Then why are they sending troops in?”
“Troops ? You must be------”
“It came over the radio!”
He took her hand. “Only to help clear the mess. I bet that’s all they’re for.”
“They’re sending all kinds of experts. They wouldn’t do that unless------”
“Quiet then. Let me hear.”
“—repeating the bulletin on Framley.” The news reader cleared his throat.
“Four days ago, objects started appearing in and around Framley New Town in Sussex. Yesterday they began appearing in larger and more frequent quantities. The first report came from a Mr. Bryan Dudley who------”
“It’s been terrible with all the reporters. They’ve been------”
“Please!”
“—testing stations, and all analyses indicate that none of the objects—and so far thirty-nine different kinds have been reported—is toxic or dangerous in any way. Their appearance is only an inconvenience. Motorists in the area are asked to keep their cars off the road, or—if their journey is absolutely necessary—to drive at no more than five miles per hour, to avoid the risk of collision. No bad accidents have been reported. A milkman, on his round this morning, drove his float into a stack of black objects which materialized in his path. He was taken to hospital suffering from shock, but from nothing worse.
“Souvenir hunters are warned to keep away from the objects. Several cases of minor injury have been reported from the stacks being disturbed and falling. All steps are being taken to clear the area and to cope with continuing arrivals of the objects.
“The Leader of the Opposition accused the Government in the House of Commons this morning of, as he put it, ‘running round in circles’ over the incident. The Prime Minister replied that, despite its unusual nature, the incident was under control. Service units had been rushed to the spot------”
“There you are,” said Gwen accusingly. “What did I tell you?”
“Quiet!”
“—into operation. Forklifts from local factories and bulldozers and lorries from the firms engaged in the development of Framley have been commandeered. Every government department has been alerted. The Prime Minister named, as specialists who have started to arrive in Framley: engineers, salvage experts, security agents—anybody whose speciality might be of use in the matter. He named particularly—to laughter and ironical cheers from both sides of the House—crown assessors of treasure trove and customs officers. We asked Mr.------”
Bryan reached over and switched off the set.
“Customs men!” He put his arm round his wife’s shoulder. “You see—there’s nothing to fear. I know it’s crazy, what’s happening, but the experts will come up with an answer.”
She looked at him like a repentant child. “I know I’m being silly. But I’m not the only one. A woman in the next room went into hysterics. They took her away.”
“Well, you didn’t. And you won’t. Come on down to the bar. I’ll buy my favourite girl a drink.”
Over whiskies he suddenly remembered the spiral thing he had picked up. He took it out of his pocket.
“There you are,” he said, holding it up. “There can’t be any danger in things like this.” It shone prismatically. “Make a fine ornament—an earring or something.” He held it out towards her, but she flinched from it. He put it back in his pocket and didn’t mention, as he had intended to, the incident of the crash that hadn’t been. Instead, he said:
“You know, I’m beginning to think that what I said to that TV chap isn’t so far off the mark. It just came into my head. Afterwards I thought it must have sounded silly. But what else could it be? Somebody’s trying to make contact with us. Somebody------”
“Who in their right minds would want to send anybody presents like these things ?”
“I don’t know. Somebody in another world. Another place.”
“Place ? What kind of place ?”
“I don’t know. Drink up and have another one.” He signalled to the waiter. “Some place very much different from this, that’s obvious. Going by their choice of gift.”
“But all these different things?”
“Well, they wouldn’t know what we would like, would they? They’re just experimenting. That’s it.”
“In millions?”
“Perhaps they’re generous people.”
“People?”
“All right—creatures.”
She shivered slightly. “And how will they know when they’ve sent us something useful? Send a squad to check?”
He was grateful for the waiter’s coming over at that moment. Over fresh drinks he said: “Don’t mind me. Just random thoughts. There’s a better explanation, I’m sure. You see what the experts have to say.”
* * * *
But by next morning the only theory the experts had come up with was an amplification of his own surmise. The news bulletin gave the recorded voice of some space expert who said that the objects were obviously the products of a superior science to our own, as was the means of their transportation here. It was possible that a race on some other star system had found a means of matter transmission. But it was more likely that the race existed very close to Earth—invisible to us in another dimension. The speaker hailed with enthusiasm the fact that the human race at last knew of the existence of another intelligent species in the universe. One obviously benevolent, however alien. Contact had been made. It now remained to Earth scientists to discover the nature of the link. Then perhaps we could return the compliment.
He smiled at Gwen a trifle smugly.
“What Dudley says today ...”
Gwen smiled wanly. “All right, Bryan. But it’s still crazy. Let’s get out of Framley.”
“I can’t, honey. I’ve got my job to do.”
“But you told me yesterday that you couldn’t get on with anything.”
“That was yesterday. Things will get back to normal.”
He hadn’t got very far on his walk to the office before feeling that normality was receding at an ever-increasing rate. Many more stacks of things had appeared. Battalions of men were working at removing them into queues of lorries. Many of the men were in uniform. On the outskirts he saw something which was more disturbing. Troops were arguing with the burly civilian driver of a lorry—and they were armed. The lorry was half-filled with a multi-coloured freight.
Bryan saw the name on its side as he passed: Barney Lee, Scrap Merchant, 633 Tortobello Road, London W.n. The sight of the homely, rough-painted letters served to dispel his disquiet at seeing armed troops. The profit motive might not be the worthiest of human characteristics, but its appearance here was a welcome aspect of normality. The troops would stop arguing when they realized that scrap merchants could only help the process of trying to keep Framley clear before the tide.
It even had its humorous aspects. It was ironical, certainly, that this should have happened in a half-completed new town. If it had been a weapon—a nuisance weapon— whoever used it couldn’t have picked a better site for maximum effect.
He was within sight of the works gates before the full implication hit him. He stopped in his tracks. Then he turned about and hurried back to the hotel.
Gwen was still in a dressing-gown.
“Come on,” he told her. “We are getting out—and quick.”
“Thank heaven! But what’s happened? What’s made you change your mind?”
“Just get your clothes on and get packed. I’ll explain as soon as we get clear.”
* * * *
It was like a slowed-up sequence in a nightmare, getting out of the town. They had not gone far before he had to back and take a side road. That petered out into mud, where contractors had cleared the first earth for a connecting road. Bryan took the car through it, only to come up against a pile of violet things standing athwart what there was of road. He gritted his teeth and sent the car bumping over the countryside.
He got the car back on the track and, shortly after, back on the main road to London. They were only a half mile from the town centre and had taken three miles and fifty minutes to get there, but they were out of the main snarl of Framley. Though he could see multi-coloured mounds dotted over the countryside like slagheaps.
The opposite lane was choked with lorries. It was clearer his side, but he still had to obey the injunction to go slow. The lorries were going at the same snail’s pace.
Five miles out he pulled into a layby. He breathed easier. There were no alien stacks in the countryside around or ahead of them.
“Well?” said Gwen.
“All right.” He lit a cigarette. “Did you notice the names on those lorries?”
“Names?” She looked puzzled.
“Half of them belong to junk merchants.”
“I don’t see------”
“Don’t you? Nor has anybody else yet. Except these lads who are pouring into Framley looking for pickings. That’s what all these things are. Not gifts—junk. This race in another dimension has found a nice solution to a problem that’s been bothering us more and more. They’ve found a perfect place to dump their scrap.”
“But—can’t they do the same as we do? Don’t we melt things down to use again ?”
“If it was as easy as that, we wouldn’t have any problem. Don’t you remember that copse we came across when we went for a walk in the country round Framley? Looked like a poet’s dream from outside. Inside, it was a pile of old cookers, fridges, dumped cars. Things not worth anybody’s while reclaiming.”
“But these things—they aren’t machines.”
“All right, they’re off cuts. Of some unimaginable manufacturing processes. There was plenty of industrial scrap too in that copse, between the rusting cars and the other worn-out machines. Now these creatures have found a way through we’ve probably got their worn-out machines to come.”
“I see.” She paused, her face anxious. “That’s not all, Bryan, is it? That’s not enough to make you change your mind about getting out of Framley.”
He hesitated. “No, that’s not all. I don’t like speaking of it. It isn’t a fact. Only a hunch—but I’ve got a horrible feeling it’s the truth.”
“What, Bryan—what?”
“Well—if this is junk, it’s junk from a civilization far in advance of ours. One that’s got the same problems we have—only bigger. A mass civilization that would make ours look like a peasant economy by comparison. Mass production isn’t an isolated phenomenon, a game a few bright boys play on machines. Mass production implies mass consumption, and mass consumption implies ... mass population. Now they’ve found a place to dump their junk, what’s to stop them sending over their surplus population?”
He threw his cigarette away and restarted the engine.
“Beware of the Greeks bearing gifts. Even if these things had been gifts ...”
He had said he would explain, and he had explained. He didn’t finish his sentence ... not aloud. But it ran on in his brain:
Even if they had been gifts. But how would they treat the inhabitants of a junk heap?
And as he engaged gear his hand started to shake. Only slightly at first.