Bob Shaw - Vertigo.pdf - Bob Shaw - margozap

Vertigo

Bob Shaw was born in Belfast in 1931 and had a technical education which led to several years' work in

structural design offices in Ireland, England and Canada. At the age of twenty-seven he escaped into

public relations. Since then he has worked as a journalist, a full-time author and as press officer for an

aircraft firm. Married with three children, Bob Shaw's hobbies - apart from writing are reading, crafts,

and 'sitting with my feet up while drinking beer and yarning with kindred spirits'. He sold his first science

fiction story to the New York Post when he was nineteen, and is now the author of several novels and

many short stories. His hooks include The Two-Timers, Other Days, Other Eyes, The Palace of Eternity,

One Million Tomorrows, Tomorrow Lies in Ambush and Orbitsville which won the British Science

Fiction Award for the best novel of 1975 -all published in Pan.

Also by Bob Shaw in Pan Books

The Two-Timers

The Palace of Eternity

One Million Tomorrows

Other Days, Other Eyes

Tomorrow Lies in Ambush

Orbitsville

Cosmic Kaleidoscope

A Wreath of Stars

Medusa's Children

Who Goes Here?

Ship of Strangers

Bob Shaw

Vertigo

Pan Books London and Sydney

First published 1978 by Victor Gollano, Ltd

This edition published 1980 by Pan Books Ltd,

Cavaye Place, London SW10 9PG

ISBN 0 330 25990 3

Made and printed in Great Britain by

C. Nicholls & Company Ltd, Philips Park Press, Manchester

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold,

hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover

other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser

To Chris Priest - counsellor and friend.

one

The drive to Chivenor had been long and tiring. As it had progressed the pain in Hasson's back had

grown worse, and with the pain had come a steady deterioration of his mood. At first there had been

stray misgivings, hints of sadness which anybody might have felt on passing through a series of towns and

villages where all commerce and community life seemed to have been vanquished by the chill grey rains

of Match. By the time they had reached the north Devon coast, however, Hasson felt more than normally

dejected, and later when the car surmounted a rise giving its three occupants a glimpse of the Taw

estuary - he realized he was terrified of the journey that lay ahead.

How can this be? he thought, unable to reconcile his feelings with those he would have experienced

six weeks earlier in similar circumstances. I'm being given a free trip to Canada, three months' leave on

full pay, all the time I need to rest and recuperate

'I always think there's something right about the principle of the flying boat,' said Colebrook, the

police surgeon, who was sitting in the rear seat with Hasson. 'The whole idea of flying over the sea in

ships, having four-fifths of the globe for a landing place

It all seems natural, if you know what I mean - technology and nature going hand-in-hand.'

Hasson nodded. 'I see what you're getting at.'

'Just look at those things.' A gesture of Colebrook's plump, strong hand took in the slate-blue strip of

water and the apparently haphazard scattering of flying boats. 'Silver birds, as our Polynesian cousins

might say. Do you know why they aren't painted?'

Hasson shook his head, trying to take an interest in the surgeon's conversation. 'Can't think.'

The load factor. Economics. The weight of the paint would be equal to the weight of an extra

passenger.'

'Is that right?' Hasson smiled, hopelessly, and saw the boyish enthusiasm fade from Colebrook's face

to be replaced by a look of professional concern. He cursed himself for not having made a greater effort

to cover up.

'Problems, Rob?' Colebrook turned bodily to get a better look at his patient, pulling his suit into silky

diagonal folds across his stomach. 'How do you feel?' 'A bit tired that's all. A few aches and pains. I'll

hang together.'

'I'm not asking about that side of it. Have you taken any Serenix today?'

'Well .. ." Hasson abandoned the attempt to lie. 'I don't like taking pills.'

'What's that got to do with anything,' Colebrook said impatiently. 'I don't like brushing my teeth, but if

I stop the result will be a lot of pain and a mouth full of delph - so I brush my teeth.'

'It's hardly the same thing,' Hasson protested.

'it's exactly the same thing, man. Your nervous system is bound to give you hell for a month or two,

maybe longer, but the fact that a thing is natural doesn't mean you have to put up with it. There aren't any

medals for this Rob - no Misery Cross or Depression Diploma...'

Hasson raised a finger. 'That's good, doc. I like that.'

'Swallow a couple of those caps, Rob. Don't be a fool.' Colebrook, who had too much medical

experience to allow himself to be upset by a wayward patient, leaned forward and tapped Air Police

Captain Nun on his shoulder, his expansive mood returning. Why don't we all go to Canada, Wilbur? We

could all do with a break.'

Nun had been at the wheel most of the way from Coventry and was showing signs of strain. 'Some of

us can't be spared,' he said, refusing to be captivated by pleasantries. 'Anyway, it's too early in the year

for me. I'd rather wait till the Iceland-Greenland corridor is cleared.'

'That could take months.'

'I know, but some of us can't be spared.' Nunn transferred the weight of his forearms on to the

steering wheel, managing to convey his disinclination to talk. The sky ahead had cleared to an antiseptic

pale blue, but the ground was still wet, and the car's wheels made swishing sounds on the tarmac curves

as it descended towards the airfield and flying boat terminal at Chivenor. Nunn continued to drive fast,

with broody concentration, as the view of the estuary was lost behind a row of dripping evergreens.

Hasson, slouched uncomfortably in the rear seat, stared at the 8 back of his chief's neck and wished

there had been no reference to the clearing of the flight corridors. His plane was due to take off in little

more than an hour and the last thing he wanted was to think about the possibility of it smashing into any

human bodies which might be drifting through the low cloud and fog that often obscured the Atlantic air

lines.

Nobody in the west had any clear idea of what was going on in the vast tracts of land spanning the

eastern hemisphere from the Zemlayas to Siberia, but each winter a sparse, slow blizzard of frozen

bodies - kept aloft by their CG harnesses - came swirling down over the pole, endangering air cargo

traffic between Britain and North America.

The general belief was that they were Asian peasants, ignorant of the dangers of boosting to even a

modest altitude in a continental winter, or victims of sudden weather changes who had been claimed by

frostbite without realising what was happening to them. A hysterical faction, small but vociferous, claimed

they were political expendables deliberately cast loose on the geostrophic winds to hinder, even

marginally, the flow of western commerce. Hasson had always regarded the latter idea as being unworthy

of his consideration, and the fact that it had entered his mind now was yet another pointer to his state of

health. He slid his hand into his coat pocket and gripped the container of Serenix capsules, reassuring

himself they were available.

In a few minutes the car had reached the airfield and was skirting its perimeter on the way to the flying

boat docks. The tall silvery fins of the boats could be seen here and there above the complex of quayside

sheds and portable offices. A number of men, their clothing marked with dayglo panels, were flying

between the quay and the boats anchored further out in the estuary, registering on the edge of Hasson's

vision as a constant agitation of colourful specks.

Nunn brought the car to a halt in a parking bay which was outside the mesh fence of the departure

area. As Hasson's department head, he had been burdened with most of the behind-the scenes work

associated with smuggling Hasson out of the country and finding a place where he could live in safe

obscurity for three months. No formal machinery existed for hiding and protecting key witnesses whose

lives could be under threat, and 9 Captain Nunn had been put to considerable trouble to find a suitable

host for Hasson in another country. In the end he had come to an arrangement with a Canadian police

officer who had been on an exchange visit to the Coventry force some years earlier. Nun was a man who

hated anything to upset his administrative routine and now he was anxious to get Hasson off his hands.

'We won't go in with you, Rob," he said, switching off the engine. 'The Less we're seen together the

better. No point in taking any chances.'

'Chances!' Hasson snorted to show his disapproval of what he thought of as a charade. 'What

chances? Sullivan is a mobster, but he's also a business man and he knows he'll be finished if he starts

killing cops.'

Nun drummed with his fingers on the serrated rim of the steering wheel. 'We're not cops Rob - we're

air cops. And people kill us all the time. How many of your original squad are still alive?"

'Not many.' Hasson turned his head away to hide an unexpected, unmanning quiver of his lower lip.

'I'm sorry - I shouldn't have said that.' Nunn sounded irritated rather than apologetic.

Colebrook, ever watchful, gripped Hasson's arm just above the elbow and squeezed it firmly. 'Take

two capsules right now, Rob. That's an order.'

Embarrassed and shamed, Hasson brought the plastic dispenser out of his pocket, fed two

green-and-gold capsules into his palm and swallowed them. They felt dry and weightless in his mouth,

like the blown-out eggs of tiny birds.

Nun cleared his throat. 'The point I was making is that the Sullivan case is out of the hands of the Air

Police and we have to do what SCQ tells us. If they think your evidence is worth the Sullivan

organisation's trying to shut you up for good we have to accept what they say. It's their patch.'

'I know, but it's all so ...' Hasson gazed around him helplessly. 'I mean ... fake identity, fake passport!

How am I going to get used to calling myself Haldane?'

'That doesn't seem much of a problem to me,' Nunn said brusquely, compressing his lips. 'Try to

adopt a more positive attitude, Rob. Get yourself off to Canada and do a lot of sleeping and eating and

drinking, and enjoy it while you have the chance. We'll send for you when you have to testify.'

'Speaking as a medical man, that sounds like good advice.' Colebrook opened the door at his side,

got out and went to the back of the car. He lifted the lid of the trunk and began unloading Hasson's

cases.

'I won't get out,' Nunn said, reaching a hand into the rear seat. 'Take care of yourself, Rob.'

'Thanks.' Hasson shook the offered hand and let himself out of the car. The sky had completely

cleared now, to the palest wash of blue, and a searching breeze was whipping in from the Atlantic.

Hasson shivered as he thought of the thousands of kilometres of open sea that lay between him and his

destination. The journey seemed too great for any aircraft, and even more incredible was the idea that

only a few months ago he, Robert Hasson, faced with the task of getting to Canada, would have brashly

strapped on a counter-gravity harness and made the flight alone, with no protection other than a helmet

and heated suit. At the thought of going aloft again, of being able to fall, a looseness developed in

Hasson's knees and he leaned against the vehicle, taking care to make the action look casual. The

enamelled metal chilled his fingers.

'I'll go with you as far as reception,' Colebrook said. 'Nobody's going to worry about seeing you with

a doctor.'

'I'd rather go in alone, thanks. I'm all right.'

Colebrook smiled approvingly. 'That's good. Just remember what the physiotherapist told you about

how to lift heavy weights.' Hasson nodded, said goodbye to the surgeon and went towards the gate

which led to the departure building. He carried a large and a small case in each hand, keeping his back

straight and the load in balance. The pain from his spine and the rebuilt joint of his left knee was

considerable, but he had learned that movement - no matter how uncomfortable - was his ally. The real

pain, the devasting and paralysing agony, came after he was forced to remain immobile for a long period,

and then had to perform a once simple action such as getting out of bed. It was as though his body,

denying the magic of surgery, had a masochistic yearning for crippledom.

He went to the passenger terminal where he and his baggage were subjected to a series of fairly

perfunctory checks. It turned out that there were about twenty other people on his particular flight, which

meant that the flying boat had almost its full quota of passengers. For the most part, they were

middle-aged couples who had the flustered, expectant look of people who were not used to

long-distance travel. Hasson guessed they were going abroad to visit relatives. He stood apart from

them, sipping machine-made coffee and wondering why anybody who had the option of remaining safely

at home would set out to cross a wintered ocean.

'Your attention, please,' called a stewardess who had razor- cut golden hair and neat, hard features.

'Flight Box 62 is scheduled to take off for St John's in approximately twenty minutes. Due to the strength

and direction of the breeze which has sprung up within the last few hours, we have been forced to anchor

the aircraft further out than is usual and our motor launches are having to cope with extra work - but we

can avoid delaying our departure if we fly out to the aircraft. Are there any passengers with boarding

cards for Flight Bo162 who are unable to make a personal flight of half a kilometre?'

Hasson's heart lurched sickeningly as he glanced around the group and saw that all of them were

nodding in tentative agreement.

'Very well,' the stewardess said, nodding her head. 'You will find standard CG harnesses on the rack

beside the...'

'I'm sorry,' Hasson cut in, 'I'm not allowed to use a harness.'

The girl's eyes flickered briefly and there was a disappointed murmur from the other passengers.

Several women glanced at Hasson, their eyes speculative and resentful. He turned away without

speaking, feeling the chill air rush upwards past him at terminal velocity as he bombed down into

Birmingham's crowded commuter levels after a fall of three thousand metres, and the lights of the city

expanded beneath him like a vast jewelled flower...

'In that case there's no point in any of us flying.' The stewardess's voice was neutral. 'If you will all

make yourselves comfortable I will call you as soon as a launch is available. We will do everything we

can to keep delays to a minimum. Thank you.' She went to a communications set in the corner of the

glass-walled lounge and began whispering into it.

Hasson set his cup down and, acutely conscious of being stared at, walked into the toilets. He locked

himself into a cubicle, leaned against the door for a moment, then took out his medicine dispenser and fed

two more capsules into his mouth. The two he had swallowed in the car had not yet taken effect, and as

he stood in the sad little closed universe of partitions and tiles, praying for tranquillity, it dawned on him

how complete his breakdown had been. He had seen other men crack up under the strain of too much

work, too many hours of cross-wind patrols at night when the danger of collision with a rogue flier made

the nerves sing like telephone wires in a gale, but always he had viewed the event with a kind of smug

incomprehension. Underlying his sympathy and intellectual appreciation of the medical facts had been a

faint contempt, a conviction that, given his mental stability, the wilted air cops, the sick birds, would have

been able to shrug off their woes and carry on as before. His sense of security had been so great that he

had totally failed to recognise his own warning symptoms -the moods of intense depression, the

irritability, the growing pessimism which drained life of its savour. Without realising it, Hasson had been

terribly vulnerable, and in that fragile condition-shorn of all his armour - he had gone into the arena

against a grinning opponent who wore a black cloak and carried a scythe...

A sudden claustrophobia caused Hasson to open the cubicle door. He went to a wash basin, put cold

water in it and was splashing some on his face when he became aware of somebody standing beside him.

It was one of the passengers from his own flight, a man of about sixty who had a florid complexion and

sardonically drooping eyelids.

'Nothing to be ashamed of,' the man said in a north country accent.

'What?' Hasson began drying his face.

'Nothing to be ashamed of. That's what I was telling them out there. Some people just can't use a

harness, and that's that.'

'I suppose you're right.' Hasson fought down an urge to tell the stranger he had done a great deal of

flying but was temporarily barred from it for medical reasons. If he started justifying himself to everybody

he met he would be doing it for the rest of his life and there was also the fact that the story was a lie.

There was no physical necessity for him to avoid personal flight.

'On the other hand,' the red-faced man continued, 'some people take to it like a duck takes to water.

I was nearly forty when I got my first harness, and within a week I was cloud- running with the best of

them.'

'Very good,' Hasson said, edging away.

'Yes, and I still fly in a tough area. Bradford The kids up there think nothing of coming in close,

deliberate-like, and dropping you twenty or thirty metres.' The stranger paused to chuckle. 'Doesn't

bother me, though. Strong stomach.'

'That's great.' Hasson hurried to the door, then it occurred to him that a garrulous companion might be

just what he needed to numb his mind during the Atlantic crossing. He paused and waited for the other

man to catch up with him. 'But you're going to Canada the easy way.'

'Have to,' the man said, tapping himself on the chest. 'Lungs won't take the cold any more - otherwise

I'd save myself the price of a plane ticket. Bloody robbery, that's what it is.'

Hasson nodded agreement as he walked back to the lounge with his new companion. Personal flying

was both easy and cheap, and with the advent of the counter-gravity harness conventional aviation had

fallen into an abrupt decline. At first it had been simply a matter of economics, then the skies had become

too clustered with people - millions of liberated, mobile, foolhardy, uncontrollable people - for aircraft to

operate safely, except in strictly policed corridors. The formerly lucrative passenger traffic across the

North Atlantic had been replaced by cargo planes carrying handfuls of passengers on sparse schedules,

Bob Shaw - Vertigo.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: