The Underside - A. Bertram Chandler, ebook, Temp
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//-->THE UNDERSIDEThis month Bertram Chandler delves into the theme of racial memory, a subjectat once both fascinating and filled with tremendous possibilities. In a way it is apity this story is so short—it has all the ingredients for a much longer story.BY BERTRAM CHANDLERThat's the way it happens.You know somebody quite well, and then you drift apart and lose all touch and then, quite bychance, you meet again and it's as though the intervening years had never been.That's the way it happened with myself and Carruthers. I hadn't seen him for years, and hadn'tthought about him for almost as many years and then, one late afternoon, I found myself rubbingshoulders with him, quite literally, at a crowded bar in Pitt Street.I stared at him in surprise—and was a little hurt to see that my amazement wasn't reflected in his face.He looked the same as he had always looked; the untidy, dark hair over the thin face was as abundant asever, the pale eyes still the same startling contrast to his olive skin, his necktie still the be-draggled,twisted rag that it always was.He said, before I could speak, "I was expecting this.""I wasn't," I replied. "What are you doing in Sydney?""I could ask you the same," he countered, "but I won't. After all, one is liable to run into seafarersanywhere that there's salt water. I take it that you are still at sea?""I am. But what areyoudoing in Australia?""Couldn't stand the English climate," he replied. "And when old Uncle Phil—you'll rememberhim—died and left me a sizeable hunk of folding money, I decided that I might as well live where I pleasedinstead of being tied to a job in one of the drearier London suburbs. I haven't made up my mind yet—butI think this place will suit me.""Got a job yet?" I asked."There's no need for me to look for one. Even in these days of iniquitous taxation I have enough tolive on comfortably. In any case, a job would interfere with my real work.""Your real work?" I asked. "Oh, I remember now. You were always playing around with psychicresearch and all the rest of it. There was that magazine you started . . . It folded, didn't it?""Yes. It folded. It shouldn't have done. The public is willing enough to support periodicals that dealwith these things from the viewpoint of superstition, but not one that approaches them from the angle ofscientific research.""Come off it, Carruthers," I told him. "What else is it but superstition, in spite of all that Rhine has tosay about it?""That," he said, "is a matter of opinion. I seem to remember one night—it was just after thewar—whenyouwere a very badly frightened young man. It was just after I'd started the magazine,NewHorizons,and we had a seance in my flat. We raisedsomething—remember?—andit started throwingthe furniture around.""You may remember," I said, "that the house next door, and quite a few others, had been demolishedby a V-2 rocket some few months previously. What we thought was a polter-geist or something was justthe house sagging on its founda-tions. "“None of the Government surveyors found any evidence of war damage," he told me."Surveyors aren't infallible," I said, ordering more beer."As far as I know," he said, "the house is standing yet. It was six weeks ago.""So," I asked, "what?"He sipped his beer.“Quite the sceptic these days, aren't you? I suppose that if you saw the Flying Dutchman—do sailorsstill sight it, by the way?—you'd laugh it off as a mirage."“Yes—unless I had at least three reliable witnesses and a good camera."“You didn't use to be so disbelieving," he said. "Remember when you let yourself take part in thoseexperiments involving long range telepathy under hypnosis?""That," I told him, "was different."He laughed. "Yes, it was, wasn't it? As far as I can remember you had some idea that you and yourcurrent heart-throb could use long range telepathy as a means of communica-tion and save the expenseof Air Mail and radio messages . . . What happened, by the way?"“She married," I said. "But not me."“Too bad.""Oh I don't know. I met her a year ago, quite by chance— as I've met you—and she's put onconsiderable weight.""Often these chance meetings are fortunate," he said. "I have a feeling that this one will be for me.And, of course, for you."“What do you mean?""I'll tell you. But, first of all, I'd like to remind you that yon were a very good subject for thosetelepathic experiments. You weren't much use as a transmitter, but you were an excellent receiver."“Thanks."“So I'd like your help."“Sorry," I said. "I can't afford the time. We sail tomor-row for Brisbane. Surely you must knowsomebody who could be your . . . your subject."“I don't. I've been in this city for only four days. I was able to do quite a lot of experimental work onthe way out—I travelled in theCape Banks,Do you know her?"“I do. A filthy old tub. She's due for the breakers after her next voyage."“So I gathered. But she suited my purpose—far more than a cleaner ship would have done. I wasable to investigate averypromising line of research. But now I need help."“Sorry Carruthers, but you'll have to count me out. I managed to get a ticket forAround The WorldIn Eighty Days."“Turn it in. You'll have no trouble getting your money back. Look at it this way, Whittingham. You'rea seaman. Why did you come to sea?""It's a job.""I know that. But you didn't think of it in those terms when you were a kid of sixteen, wearing yourfirst brassbound uniform and still to be seasick for the first time. Why did you come to sea?""Adventure, I suppose. It was more glamorous than schoolmastering or bank clerking or keeping theinkwells filled in some dingy office . . ."Carruthers ordered another round."You had a bit of adventure during the War," he said, "as we all did. Apart from that, you've foundvery little. Am I right?""You are," I agreed gloomily."You've found," he continued, "that pubs and women are very much the same the wide world over.""They are," I concurred."And you just stay at sea because it's the only way you know of earning a living.""I might as well get my brass hat now," I admitted."Laurel leaves on the peak of your cap, and four gold bands on your sleeve. Where's the adventurein that?""They'll be nice to have.""Unless you stop looking at things in such a ... a suburban way you'll never have an adventure in theHere and Now," he said earnestly."What am I supposed to do? Offer myself to the Americans as something better to put inside asatellite than the Russians' moon pups? No thanks. I've no desire to be cremated before my time.""I," he said, "can offer you adventure."I began to wonder how much he had had to drink. I began to wonder how much I had had to drink.I remembered the experiments in which I had taken part during a long spell ashore just after theWar—and remembered that with them had been a certain excitement that is altogether lacking fromeveryday life."A film," he said, is only make-believe. Cancel your booking. I can offer you the real thing.""I've a good mind to take you up on that," I said. "I’ve had rather too much beer, and it's made mesleepy . . . The way I feel right now I'd probably sleep through the show.""Good," he said."What's good about it?""You'll see.""Anyhow," I demanded, "just whatisthis adventure you're blathering about? Are you trying to raisethe ghost of a bunyip, or what?""No. How would you like to visit the Jurassic Era and see the dinosaurs striding royally through thejungle? How would you like to visit the future and see the sky streaked with flame as the big ships takeoff for the Moon, for the planets?""Forgive my being personal," I said, " but aren't you just a little nuts?"He glared at me, then laughed."Oh, physical Time Travelisimpossible. I grant you that. Mental Time Travel is different altogether.What about Bridey Murphy?""Oh, no," I said.Our glasses—unemptied—were whipped away as the pub started to shut down for that absurd onehour break that is compulsory in New South Wales. With the other drinkers we found ourselves standingon the footpath, feeling rather disgruntled. Carruthers waved frantically at a passing taxi. It swerved on tothe kerb. We boarded the vehicle. My friend gave the driver a Kings Cross address."I've plenty of beer in the flat," he said. "We can carry on talking there.""It might be better," I suggested, " if we had some espresso coffee and a snack.""Afterwards," he said.We passed the rest of the drive in silence. I was feeling abominably drowsy. I was almost asleepwhen the cab pulled up outside one of those big, red brick blocks of flats. Carruthers' Uncle Phil musthave been very well-to-do, I reflected. We got out of the taxi, went into the building. We rode anelevator to the fifth floor. We had a long wait while Carruthers fumbled for his key. He found it at last,and we went inside.It was, of course, a furnished flat—but even during his very short occupancy my friend had contrivedto impress something of his personality upon it. There was a bookcase well stocked with all the standardworks on the occult, and a few that were new to me. There were pictures that I recognised as havingcome from the brush of that woman artist who claims to be a witch. There was, standing on a little tableof its own, a large crystal ball.Carruthers told me to sit down. I did so, in one of the two armchairs. He went through to the kitchenand returned with two pint pewter tankards of beer. "To adventure," he said, raising his mug."Whatisall this about?" I asked.He went to the bookcase, pulled out one of the volumes. He handed it to me. It was Dunne'sAnExperiment With Time."You've read this," he said."Yes. But it was a long time ago.""All right. I'll refresh your memory. We'll ignore the dreams that Dunne used as proof for his theory;we'll just consider the theory itself. I'm afraid I'll have to put it rather crudely; I'm no mathematician. It allboils down to this—we live in a multi-dimensional universe. We'll ignore the fifth, sixth and so ondimensions—we'll concentrate on the first four.""Height," I said. "Length. Breadth. And Time.""Agreed.""Well, what about them?""Look at it this way, Whittingham. You cut a pencil in two. What do you get?""Two pieces of pencil. Or two pencils, if you sharpen them both.""No.No.Where you cut—I'm assuming that it's a nicecleancut . . .""That's almost impossible with a pencil. They usually split endwise."
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