The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction: Vol. 1 Part 29

OVER THE COURSE of the next few weeks we became a reading group devoted to the work of one writer, Gregory Merrall.

We read every novel he'd written, some fifteen in all. We were enthralled, captivated. We must have presented a strange picture to outsiders-a group of middle-cla.s.s professionals continually carrying around the same books and discussing them pa.s.sionately amongst themselves. We even arranged another night to meet and discuss the books, to spare Gregory the embarra.s.sment, though we didn't forego our usual Tuesday outings.

Only Andy Souter absented himself from the reading group. He was busy most nights with his bra.s.s band, and he'd admitted to me on the phone that he'd found the novels impenetrable.

One Sat.u.r.day evening I arrived early and Stuart was already propping up the bar. "Khalid. Just the man. I've been thinking..." He hesitated, as if unsure as to how to proceed.

"Should think that's expected of you, in your profession," I quipped.

"You'd never make a stand-up comedian, Azzam," he said. "No, it struck me... Look, have you noticed something about the group?"

"Only that we've become a devoted Gregory Merrall fan club-oh, and as a result we drink a h.e.l.l of a lot more." I raised my pint in cheers. "Which I'm not complaining about."

He looked at me. "Haven't you noticed how we're looking ahead more? I mean, at one point we seemed content, as a group, to look no further than the village, our jobs. It was as if the Kethani didn't exist."

"And now we're considering the wider picture?" I shrugged. "Isn't that to be expected? We've just read fifteen books about them, and the consequences of their arrival. Dammit, I've never read so much in my life before now!"

He was staring into his pint, miles away.

"What?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Reading Gregory's books, thinking about the Kethani, what it all might mean... It brings back to me how I felt immediately after my resurrection. The lure of the stars. The dissatisfaction with life on Earth. I think, ever since my return, I've been trying to push to the back of my mind that... that niggling annoyance, the thought that I was treading water before the next stage of existence."

He looked up at me. "You said as much the other week."

I nodded. After Zara left me, and I killed myself and returned to Earth, I withdrew into myself-or rather into my safe circle of friends- and paid little heed to the world, or for that matter to the universe outside.

The door opened, admitting a blast of icy air and the rest of the group.

For the next hour we discussed an early Gregory Merrali novel, The Coming of the Kethani.

Around ten o'clock the door opened and a familiar figure strode in. We looked up, a little shocked and, I think, not a little embarra.s.sed, like schoolkids caught smoking behind the bike shed.

A couple of us tried to hide our copies of Gregory's novel, but too late. He smiled as he joined us.

"So this is what you get up to when my back's turned?" he laughed.

Elisabeth said, "You knew?"

"How could you keep it a secret in a village the size of Oxenworth?" he asked.

Only then did I notice the bundle under his arm.

Gregory saw the direction of my gaze. He deposited the package on the table and went to the bar.

We exchanged glances. Sam even tried to peek into the brown paper parcel, but hastily withdrew her hand, as if burned, as Gregory returned with his pint.

Maddeningly, for the rest of the evening he made no reference to the package, stowing it beneath the table and stoking the flagging conversation.

At one point, Stuart asked, "We were discussing your novel-" he indicated The Coming of the Kethani, "-and we wondered how you could be so confident of the, ah... altruism of the Kethani, back then? You never doubted their motives?"

Gregory considered his words, then said, "Perhaps it Was less good prophecy than a need to hope. I took them on trust, because I saw no other hope for humankind. They were our salvation. I thought it then, and I think so still."

We talked all night of our alien benefactors, and how life on Earth had changed since their arrival and the bestowal of immortality on the undeserving human race.

Well after last orders, Gregory at last lifted the package from beneath the table and opened it.

"I hope you don't mind my presumption," he said, "but I would very much like you opinion of my latest book."

He pa.s.sed us each a closely printed typescript of The Suicide Club.

Two DAYS LATER, just as I got in from work, Richard Lincoln phoned.

"The Fleece at eight," he said without preamble. "An extraordinary meeting of the Gregory Merrall reading group. Can you make it?"

"Try keeping me away," I said.

On the stroke of eight o'clock that evening all nine of us were seated at our usual fireside table.

Stuart said, "I take it you've all read the book?"

As one, we nodded. I'd finished it on the Sunday, profoundly moved by the experience.

"So... what do you all think?"

We all spoke at once, echoing the usual plat.i.tudes-a work of genius, a brilliant insight, a humane and moving story...

Only Andy was silent. He looked uncomfortable. "Andy?" I said. He had not been part of the reading group, but Gregory had posted him a copy of the ma.n.u.script.

"I don't know. It made me feel... well, uncomfortable."

A silence ensued. It was Sam who spoke for the rest of us, who voiced the thought, insidious in my mind, that I had been too craven to say out loud.

"So," she said, "when do we do it?"

Andy just stared around the group, horrified.

I tried to ignore him. I wondered at what point I had become dissatisfied with my life on Earth. Had the ennui set in years ago, but I had been too comfortable with the easy routine to acknowledge it? Had it taken Gregory Merrall's presence among us to make me see what a circ.u.mscribed life I was leading now?

Sam and Stuart Kingsley were gripping each other's hands on the table-top. Sam leaned forward and spoke vehemently, "Reading Greg's books brought it all back to me. I... I don't think I can take much more of life on Earth. I'm ready for the next step."

Beside her, Stuart said, "We discussed it last night. We're ready to... go."

They turned to look at Doug Standish, seated to their left.

He nodded. "I've been treading water for ten, fifteen years. Unlike you two-" he smiled at Sam and Stuart "-I haven't been resurrected, so I've never experienced that lure... until now, that is. I'm ready for... for whatever lies ahead."

He turned to Jeffrey Morrow, on his left. "Jeff?"

The schoolteacher was staring into his drink. He looked up and smiled. "I must admit I've never much thought about my own leaving. I've had all the universe, and all the time in the universe, ahead of me-so why rush things? But... yes, it seems right, doesn't it?"

Beside him, Richard Lincoln said in a quiet voice, "Earth holds very little for me now. I suppose the only thing that's been keeping me here is-" he smiled and looked around the group "- the friendship of you people, and perhaps a fear of what might lie ahead, out there. But I feel that the right time has arrived."

Ben and Elisabeth were next. They glanced at each other, their hands locked tight beneath the table. Elisabeth said, "We're attracted to the idea. I mean, you could say that it's the next evolutionary stage of humankind-the step to the stars."

Ben took up where his wife had left off. "And we've noticed things on Earth... the apathy, the sense of limbo, of waiting for something to happen. I think by now it's entered our subconscious as a race-the fact that life on Earth is almost over. It's time to leave the sea."

A silence ensued. I was next to give my view.

"Like Sam and Stuart," I said, "I experienced the lure while on Kethan. And like Ben, I've noticed something about the mood on Earth recently, as I said a while back." I paused, then went on, "And it isn't only that more and more resurrectees are electing to remain out there- increasing numbers of people are actually ending their lives and embarking on the next phase."

Sam said, smiling at me, "You haven't actually said, Khalid, if you want to be part of this."

I laughed. "I've been your friend for twenty years now. You're a ma.s.sive part of my life. How could I remain on Earth when you're living among the stars?"

I paused, and turned to Andy. "Well... what do you think?"

He was rock still, silent, staring down at his pint. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's not for me. I... there's a lot I still need to do, here. I couldn't possibly contemplate..." He stopped there, looking around the group. "You're serious, aren't you?"

Stuart spoke for all of us. "We are, Andy. Of course we are."

Sam nodded. "There... that's it, then. I suppose the next thing to do is discuss how we go about it?"

Andy retreated into his pint.

Richard said, "Perhaps we should ask the man who initiated all this, Gregory himself?"

"I don't know about that," I said. "Don't you think he might be horrified by what he's started?"

Stuart was shaking his head. "Khalid, remember what he said a couple of weeks ago-that he was ready to go? And he wrote the book that endorses the group's decision, after all."

I nodded. Richard said, "So... tomorrow we'll b.u.t.tonhole Greg and see what he says."

We fell silent, and stared into our drinks. We were strangely subdued for the rest of the evening. Andy said goodbye and left before last orders.

THE FOLLOWING DAY on the ward I could not concentrate fully on my work; it was as if I were at one remove from the real world, lost in contemplation of the future, and at the same time remembering the past.

It was almost ten by the time I arrived at the Fleece. The others were ensconced at our usual table, illuminated by the flames of the fire. It was a scene I had beheld hundreds of times before, but perhaps it was the realization that our Tuesday nights were drawing to a close that invested the tableau with such poignancy.

Significantly, Andy Souter was conspicuous by his absence. No one commented on the fact.

The contemplative atmosphere had carried over from the previous evening. We sat in silence for a while, before Richard said, "Odd, but I was thinking today how insubstantial everything feels."

Jeffrey laughed. "I was thinking the very same. There I was trying to drum the meaning of metaphor in Bogdanovich's The Last Picture Show into a group of bored fifth years... and I couldn't help but think that there's more to existence."

"I feel," Sam said, "that we'll soon find out exactly how much more."

I voiced something that had been preying on my mind. "Okay, I know you're going to call me a hopeless romantic, but it'd be nice... I mean, once we're out there, if we could remain together."

Smiles and nods around the table rea.s.sured me.

Before anyone could comment on the likelihood of that, Gregory Merrall strode in. "Drink up. I seem to recall that it's my round." He stared at us. "What's wrong? Been to a funeral?"

Sam looked up at him. "Gregory, we need to talk."

He looked around the group, then nodded. He pointed to the bar.

While he was away, we looked at each other as if for rea.s.surance that we did indeed agree to go ahead with this. Silent accord pa.s.sed between us, and Sam blessed us with her radiant smile.

"So," Gregory said two minutes later, easing the tray onto the table-top, "how can I help?"

We looked across at Sam, tacitly electing her as spokesperson.

"Gregory," she began, "we were all very affected by your novel, The Suicide Club. It made us think."

Gregory smiled. "That's always nice to hear. And?"

"And," Sam said, and hesitated.

Gregory laughed. "Come on-out with it!"

"Well... we've come to the conclusion, each of us, independently, that there was something lacking in our lives of late..." She went on, neatly synopsizing what each of us had expressed the night before.

She finished, "So... we've decided that we need to move on, to make the next step, to go out there."

Gregory heard her out in silence, a judicial forefinger placed across his lips.

A hush fell across the table. It was as if we were holding our breath in antic.i.p.ation of his response.

At last he nodded and smiled. "I understand," he said, "and to be honest I've been thinking along the same lines myself of late." He looked around the group, at each of us in turn, and continued, "I wonder if you'd mind if I joined you?"

THE PARTY WAS set for the first Sat.u.r.day in February, which gave us less than a fortnight to settle our affairs on Earth and say our goodbyes. I resigned my internship at Bradley General and told my colleagues that I was taking a year's break to travel-which was not that far removed from the truth. I had no real friends outside the Tuesday evening group, so the farewells I did make were in no way emotionally fraught.

I considered contacting Zara, my ex-wife, and telling her the truth of my going, but on reflection I came to realize that she was part of a past life that was long gone, and almost forgotten.

I put my affairs in order, left instructions with my solicitor for the sale of my house, and bequeathed all I possessed to Zara.

Gregory Merrall insisted that he host the rarewell party, and it seemed fitting that this should be so.

I would attend the party along with Sam and Stuart but, as we had died once and been resurrected, we would not take part in the ritual suicide. I wondered what I might feel as I watched my friends take their final drink on Earth.

On the evening before the party, the doorbell chimed. It was Andy Souter. He stood on the doorstep, shuffling his feet, his ginger hair aflame in the light of the porch. "Andy. Get in here. It's freezing!"

He stepped inside, snow-covered, silent, and a little cowed. "Coffee?" I asked, uneasy myself.

He shook his head. "I won't stay long. I just..." He met my gaze for the first time. "Is it true? You're all planning to... to go, tomorrow night?"

I showed him into the lounge. "That's right. We've thought long and hard about what we're planning. It seems the right thing to do."