Aldiss, Brian - Man In His Time

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One of the editors of this volume does not know that this

story is going into it. There has been collusion in high places.

The President of SFWA, Damon Knight, and the other editor

have overruled in advance any complaints that Brian W.

Aldiss might make. This story was one of three that tied for

the Best Short Story award and is, in its own right, a fine

piece of fiction. Here is art, in the interweaving of idea and

dialog, and here is something vital being said about the

human condition. It has earned its place in this book.

H.H.

MAN IN HIS TIME

Brian W. Aldiss

His absence

Janet Westermark sat watching the three men in the office:

the administrator who was about to go out of her life, the

behaviourist who was about to come into it, and the husband

whose life ran parallel to but insulated from her own.

She was not the only one playing a watching game. The

behaviourist, whose name was Clement Stackpole, sat

hunched in his chair with his ugly strong hands clasped round

his knee, thrusting his intelligent and simian face forward, the

better to regard his new subject. Jack Westermark.

The administrator of the Mental Research Hospital spoke

in a lively and engaged way. Typically, it was only Jack

Westermark who seemed absent from the scene.

Your particular problem, restless

His hands upon his lap lay still, but he himself was restless,

though the restlessness seemed directed. It was as if he were

in another room with other people, Janet thought. She saw

that he caught her eye when in fact she was not entirely

looking at him, and by the time she returned the glance, he

was gone, withdrawn.

"Although Mr. Stackpole has not dealt before with your

particular problem," the administrator was saying, "he has

had plenty of field experience. I know"

"I'm sure we won't," Westermark said, folding his hands

and nodding his head slightly.

Smoothly, the administrator made a pencilled note of the

remark, scribbled the precise time beside it, and continued. "I

know Mr. Stackpole is too modest to say this, but he is a great

man for working in with people"

"If you feel it's necessary," Westermark said. "Though I've

seen enough of your equipment for a while."

The pencil moved, the smooth voice proceeded. "Good. A

great man for working in with people, and I'm sure you and

Mr. Westermark will soon find you are glad to have him

around. Remember, he's there to help both of you."

Janet smiled, and said from the island of her chair, trying

to smile at him and Stackpole, "I'm sure that everything will

work" She was interrupted by her husband, who rose to his

feet, letting his hands drop to his sides and saying, turning

slightly to address thin air, "Do you mind if I say good-bye to

Nurse Simmons?"

Her voice no longer wavered

"Everything will be all right, I'm sure," she said hastily.

And Stackpole nodded at her, conspiratorially agreeing to see

her point of view.

"We'll all get on fine, Janet," he said. She was in the swift

process of digesting that unexpected use of her Christian

name, and the administrator was also giving her the sort of

encouraging smile so many people had fed her since Wester-

mark was pulled out of the ocean off Casablanca, when her

husband, still having his lonely conversation with the air, said,

"Of course, I should have remembered."

His right hand went half way to his foreheador his heart

Janet wonderedand then dropped, as he added, "Perhap

she'll come round and see us some time." Now he turned an

was smiling faintly at another vacant space with just th

faintest nod of his head, as if slightly cajoling. "You'd lik

that, wouldn't you, Janet?"

She moved her head, instinctively trying to bring her eye

into his gaze as she replied vaguely, "Of course, darling." He

voice no longer wavered when she addressed his absen

attention.

There was sunlight through which they could see each other

"There was sunlight in one corner of the room, coming

through the windows of a bay angled towards the sun. For a

moment she caught, as she rose to her feet, her husband's

profile with the sunlight behind it. It was thin and withdrawn.

Intelligent: she had always thought him over-burdened with

his intelligence, but now there was a lost look there, and she

thought of the words of a psychiatrist who had been called in

on the case earlier: "You must understand that the waking

brain is perpetually lapped by the unconscious."

Lapped by the unconscious

Fighting the words away, she said, addressing the smile of

the administrator-that smile must have advanced his career

so much "You've helped me a lot. I couldn't have got

through these months without you. Now we'd better go."

She heard herself chopping her words, fearing Westermark

would talk across them, as he did: "Thank you for your help.

If you find anything . . ."

Stackpole walked modestly over to Janet as the administra-

tor rose and said. "Well, don't either of you forget us if you're

in any kind of trouble."

"I'm sure we won't."

"And, Jack, we'd like you to come back here to visit us

once a month for a personal check-up. Don't want to waste

all our expensive equipment, you know, and you are our star

-er, patient." He smiled rather tightly as he said it, glancing

at the paper on his desk to check Westermark's answer.

Westermark's back was already turned on him, Westermark

was already walking slowly to the door, Westermark had said

his good-byes, perched out on the lonely eminence of his

existence.

Janet looked helplessly, before she could guard against it, at

the administrator and Stackpole. She hated it that they were

too professional to take note of what seemed her husband's

breach of conduct. Stackpole looked kindly in a monkey way

and took her arm with one of his thick hands.

"Shall we be off then? My car's waiting outside."

Not saying anything, nodding, thinking, and consulting

watches

She nodded, not saying anything, thinking only, without the

need of the administrator's notes to think it, "Oh yes, this was

when he said, 'Do you mind if I say good-bye to Nurse'

who's-it?-Simpson?" She was learning to follow her hus-

band's footprints across the broken path of conversation. He

was now out in the corridor, the door swinging to behind him,

and to empty air the administrator was saying, "It's her day

off today."

"You're good on your cues," she said, feeling the hand

tighten on her arm. She politely brushed his fingers away,

horrid Stackpole, trying to recall what had gone only four

minutes before. Jack had said something to her; she couldn't

remember, didn't speak, avoided eyes, put out her hand and

shook the administrator's firmly.

"Thanks," she said.

"Au revoir to both of you," he replied firmly, glancing

swiftly: watch, notes, her, the door. "Of course," he said. "If

we find anything at all. We are very hopeful. . . ."

He adjusted his tie, looking at the watch again.

"Your husband has gone now, Mrs. Westermark," he said,

his manner softening. He walked towards the door with her

and added, "You have been wonderfully brave, and I do

realize, we all realize that you will have to go on being

wonderful. With time, it should be easier for you; doesn't

Shakespeare say in Hamlet that 'Use almost can change the

stamp of nature'? May I suggest that you follow Stackpole's

and my example and keep a little notebook and a strict check

on the time?"

They saw her tiny hesitation, stood about her, two men

round a personable woman, not entirely innocent of relish.

Stackpole cleared his throat, smiled, said, "He can so easily

feel cut off you know. It's essential that you of all people

answer his questions, or he will feel cut off."

Always a pace ahead

"The children?" she asked.

"Let's see you and Jack well settled in at home again, say

for a fortnight or so," the administrator said, "before we think

about having the children back to see him."

"That way's better for them and Jack and you, Janet,"

Stackpole said. 'Don't be glib,' she thought; 'consolation I

need, God knows, but that's too facile.' She turned her face

away, fearing it looked too vulnerable these days.

In the corridor, the administrator said, as valediction, "I'm

sure Grandma's spoiling them terribly, Mrs. Westermark, but

worrying won't mend it, as the old saw says."

She smiled at him and walked quickly away, a pace ahead

of Stackpole.

Westermark sat in the back of the car outside the adminis-

trative block. She climbed in beside him. As she did so, he

jerked violently back in his seat.

"Darling, what is it?" she asked. He said nothing.

Stackpole had not emerged from the building, evidently

having a last word with the administrator. Janet took the

moment to lean over and kiss her husband's cheek, aware as

she did so that a phantom wife had already, from his

viewpoint, done so. His response was a phantom to her.

"The countryside looks green," he said. His eyes were

flickering over the grey concrete block opposite.

"Yes," she said.

Stackpole came bustling down the steps, apologising as he

opened the car door, settled in. He let the clutch back too fast

and they shot forward. Janet saw then the reason for Wester-

mark's jerking backwards a short while before. Now the

acceleration caught him again; his body was rolled helplessly

back. As they drove along, he set one hand fiercely on the

side grip, for his sway was not properly counterbalancing the

movement of the car.

Once outside the grounds of the institute, they were in the

country, still under a mid-August day.

His theories

Westermark, by concentrating, could bring himself to con-

form to some of the laws of the time continuum he had left.

When the car he was in climbed up his drive (familiar, yet

strange with the rhododendrons unclipped and no signs of

children) and stopped by the front door, he sat in his seat for

three and a half minutes before venturing to open his door.

Then he climbed out and stood on the gravel, frowning down

at it. Was it as real as ever, as material? Was there a slight

glaze on it?as if something shone through from the interior

of the earth, shone through all things? Or was it that there

was a screen between him and everything else? It was impor-

tant to decide between the two theories, for he had to live

under the discipline of one. What he hoped to prove was that

the permeation theory was correct; that way he was merely

one of the factors comprising the functioning universe, to-

gether with the rest of humanity. By the glaze theory, he was

isolated not only from the rest of humanity but from the

entire cosmos (except Mars?). It was early days yet; he had a

deal of thinking to do, and new ideas would undoubtedly

emerge after observation and cogitation. Emotion must not

decide the issue; he must be detached. Revolutionary theories

could well emerge from thissuffering.

He could see his wife by him, standing off in case they

happened embarrassingly or painfully to collide. He smiled

thinly at her through her glaze. He said, "I am, but I'd prefer

not to talk." He stepped towards the house, noting the

slippery feel of gravel that would not move under his tread

until the world caught up. He said, "I've every respect for

The Guardian, but I'd prefer not to talk at present."

Famous Astronaut Returns Home

As the party arrived, a man waited in the porch for them,

ambushing Westermark's return home with a deprecatory

smile. Hesitant but business-like, he came forward and looked

interrogatively at the three people who had emerged from the

car.

"Excuse me, you are Captain Jack Westermark, aren't

you?"

He stood aside as Westermark seemed to make straight for

him.

"I'm the psychology correspondent for The Guardian, if I

might intrude for a moment."

Westermark's mother had opened the front door and stood

there smiling welcome at him, one hand nervously up to her

grey hair. Her son walked past her. The newspaper man

stared after him.

Janet told him apologetically, "You'll have to excuse us.

My husband did reply to you, but he's really not prepared to

meet people yet."

"When did he reply, Mrs. Westermark? Before he heard

what I had to say?"

"Well, naturally notbut his life stream... . I'm sorry, I

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VERSION0.5DTD032600Oneoftheeditorsofthisvolumedoesnotknowthatthisstoryisgoingintoit.Therehasbeencollusioninhighplaces.ThePresidentofSFWA,DamonKnight,andtheothereditorhaveoverruledinadvanceanycomplaintsthatBrianW.Aldissmightmake.ThisstorywasoneofthreethattiedfortheBestShortStoryawardandis,initsownrig...

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Aldiss, Brian - Man In His Time

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