Michael Moorcock - The Black Corridor

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The Black Corridor
by Michael Moorcock
version 1.0
CHAPTER ONE
Space is infinite.
It is dark.
Space is neutral.
It is cold.
*
Stars occupy minute areas of space. They are clustered a few
billion here. A few billion there. As if seeking conso-
lation in numbers.
Space does not care.
*
Space does not threaten.
Space does not comfort.
It does not sleep; it does not wake; it does not dream; it does not
hope; it does not fear; it does not love; it does not hate; it does not
encourage any of these qualities.
Space cannot be measured. It cannot be angered. It cannot be
placated. It cannot be summed up.
Space is there.
*
Space is not large and it is not small. It does not live and it does
not die. It does not offer truth and neither does it lie.
Space is a remorseless, senseless, impersonal fact.
Space is the absence of time and of matter.
*
Through this silence moves a tiny pellet of metal. It moves so
slowly as to seem not to move at all. It is a lonely little object. In its
own terms it is a long way from its planet of origin.
In the solid blackness it gives off faint light. In that great life-
denying void it contains life.
A few wisps of gas hang on it; a certain amount of its own waste
matter surrounds it: cans and packages and bits of paper, globules
of fluid, things rejected by its system as beyond reconstitution.
They cling to its sides for want of anything better to cling to.
And inside the spacecraft is Ryan.
Ryan is dressed neatly in regulation coveralls which are light
grey in colour and tend to match the vast expanse of controls, pre-
dominantly grey and green, which surround him. Ryan himself is
pale and his hair is mainly grey. He might have been designed to
tone in with the ship.
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Ryan is a tall man with heavy grey-black eyebrows that meet
near the bridge of his nose. He has grey eyes and full, firm lips that
are at the moment pressed tightly together. He seems physically
very fit. Ryan knows that he has to keep himself in shape.
*
Ryan paces the spaceship. He paces down the central passage-
way to the main control cabin and there he checks the coordinates,
the consumption indicators, the regeneration indicators and he
checks all his figures, at length, with those of the ship's computer.
He is quietly satisfied.
Everything is perfectly in order; exactly as it should be.
Ryan goes to the desk near the ship's big central screen.
Although activated, the screen shows no picture. It casts a greenish
light on to the desk. Ryan sits down and reaches out towards the
small console on the desk. He depresses a stud and, speaking in a
clear, level voice, he makes his standard log entry:
'Day number one thousand, four hundred and sixty three.
Spaceship Hope Dempsey en route for Munich 15040. Speed holds
steady at point nine of c. All systems functioning according to
original expectations. No other variations. We are all comfortable.
'Signing off.
'Ryan, Acting Commander.'
The entry will be filed in the ship's records and will also be auto-
matically broadcast back to Earth.
Now Ryan slides open a drawer and takes from it a large red
book. It is his personal log-book. He unclips a stylus from a pocket
in his coveralls, scratches his head and writes, slowly and carefully.
He puts down the date: December 24th, A.D. 2005. He takes
another stylus from his pocket and underlines this date in red. He
looks up at the blank screen and seems to make a decision.
He writes:
The silence of these infinite spaces frightens me.
He underlines the phrase in red
He writes:
I am lonely, I am controlling a desperate longing. Yet I know that
it is not my function to feel lonely. I almost wish for an emergency so
that I could wake at least one of them up.
Mr Ryan pulls himself together. He takes a deep breath and be
gins a more formal entry, the third of his eight-hourly reports.
When he has finished, he gets up, puts the red log-book away,
replaces his stylii neatly in his pocket, goes over to the main console
and makes a few fine adjustments to the instruments.
He leaves the main control cabin, enters a short companion way,
opens a door.
He is in his living quarters. It is a small compartment and very
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tidy. On one wall is a console with a screen that shows him the
interior of the main control cabin. Set in the opposite wall is a
double bunk.
He undresses, disposes of his coveralls, lies down and takes a
sedative. He sleeps. His breathing is heavy and regular at first.
*
He goes into the ballroom. It is dusk. There are long windows
looking out on to a darkening lawn. The floor gleams; the lights
overhead are dim.
On the ballroom floor formally dressed couples slowly rotate in
perfect time to the music. The music is low and rather sombre. All
the couples wear round, very black spectacles. Their faces are pale,
their features almost invisible in the dim light. The round black
glasses give them a masklike appearance.
Around the floor other couples are sitting out. They stare for-
ward through their dark glasses. As the couples move the music
becomes quieter and quieter, slower and slower, and now the
couples revolve more slowly too.
The music fades.
Now a low psalmlike moaning begins. It is in the room but it
does not come from the dancers.
The mood in the room changes.
At last the dancers stand perfectly still, listening to the song. The
seated men and women stand up. The chanting grows louder. The
people in the room become angry. They are angry with a particular
individual. Above the chanting, louder and faster, comes the beat-
ing of a rapid drum.
The dancers are angry, angry, angry...
Ryan awakes and remembers the past.
CHAPTER TWO
Ryan and Mrs Ryan shyly entered their new apartment and
laid down the large nearly brand-new suitcase. It came to rest on
the floor of the lobby. They released the handle. The suitcase
rocked and then was still.
Ryan's attention left the case and focused on the shining tub in
which grew a diminutive orange tree.
'Mother's kept it well watered,' murmured Mrs Ryan.
'Yes,' said Ryan.
'She's very good about things like that.'
'Yes.'
Awkwardly Ryan took her in his arms. Mrs Ryan embraced him.
There was a certain reserve in her movements as if she were
frightened of him or of the consequences her action might provoke.
A feeling of tenderness overwhelmed Ryan. He smiled down at
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her upturned face, reached out his hand to stroke her jawline. She
smiled uncertainly.
'Well,' he said. 'Let's inspect the family mansion.'
Hand in hand they wandered through the apartment, over the
pale gold carpets, past the simulated oak furniture of the living-
room to stare out through the long window at the apartment blocks
opposite.
'Not too close,' said Ryan with satisfaction. 'Wouldn't it be ter-
rible to live like the Benedicts—so near the next block that you can
see right into their rooms. And they can see right into yours.'
'Awful,' agreed Mrs Ryan. 'No privacy. No privacy at all.'
They wandered past the wall-to-wall television into the kitchen.
They opened cupboards and surveyed the contents. They pressed
buttons to slide out the washing machine and the refrigerator.
They turned on the infragrill, played with the telephone, touched
the walls. They went into the two empty bedrooms, looking out of
the windows, turning on the lights, their feet noisy on the tiles of
the floors.
Last of all they went into the main bedroom, where the coloured
lights of the walls shifted idly in the bright sunshine from the
windows. They opened the wardrobes in which their clothes had
been neatly laid out.
Mrs Ryan patted her hair in front of the huge convex mirror
opposite the bed. Shyly they stood, looking out of the window.
Ryan pressed the button on the sill and the blinds slid down.
'Aren't the walls beautiful.' Mrs Ryan turned to look at the
multicoloured lights playing over the flat surfaces.
'Not as beautiful as you.'
She looked round at him. 'Oh, you...'
Ryan reached out and touched her shoulder, touched her left
breast, touched her waist.
Mrs Ryan glanced at the windows as if to reassure herself that
the blinds were drawn and no one could see in.
'Oh, I'm so happy,' she whispered.
'So am I.' Ryan moved closer, drew her to him, holding her
buttocks cupped in his heavy hands. He kissed her lightly on the
nose, then strongly on the mouth. His hand left her buttock and
moved down her thigh, pushing up the skirt, feeling her flesh.
A flush came to Mrs Ryan's face as he eased her towards the new
bed. She opened her lips and stroked the back of his neck. She
sighed.
His thumb traced the line of her pelvis. She trembled and moved
against him.
Then the Chinese jazz record started in the next apartment. The
Ryans froze. Mrs Ryan was bent backwards with Mr Ryan's face
buried in her neck. The clangour of the record, every note and
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every phrase, was as audible as if the music poured from their own
glowing walls.
They broke apart. Mrs Ryan straightened her skirt.
'Damn them!' Mr Ryan raised his fists impotently. 'Good God!
Don't tell me that's the kind of neighbours we've got.'
'Hadn't you better... ?'
'What?'
'Couldn't you... ?' She was confused.
'You mean... ?'
'... go and speak to them ?'
'Well, I..." He frowned. 'Maybe this time I'll just hammer on
the wall.'
Slowly he took off his shoe. 'I'll show them.' He went to the wall
and banged on it vigorously, stood back, shoe in hand, and waited.
The music stopped.
He grinned. 'That did it.'
Mrs Ryan took a deep breath and said, 'I'd better unpack.'
'I'll help you,' said Ryan.
He left the bedroom and approached the suitcase. He took the
handle in both hands and staggered back to where she was waiting.
Together they unpacked the residue of their honeymoon — the
suntan lotions, the damp bathing suits, the tissue-wrapped gifts for
their parents. They talked and they laughed as they took things out
of the case and put them away, but secretly they were sad as article
after article came out. All the souvenirs of that sunny three weeks
on an island where no one else lived, where there was freedom from
observation, the noise and demands of other people.
The case was empty.
Mrs Ryan reached into the waterproof pouch at the back and
produced the tapes they had had processed when they reached the
mainland heliport. He fetched the player from the dressing table
and they went into the living-room to play the tapes on the tele-
vision.
In silence they looked at the pictures, drinking in the landscapes
they showed. There were the mountains, there the great blue ex-
panse of the sea, there the heaths.
There were almost no shots of Mr or Mrs Ryan. There were only
the views of the silent crags, the sea and the moors of the island
where they had been so happy.
A bird cried.
Somewhat shakily the picture swept upwards towards the cloud-
slashed sky. A kittyhawk dived into the distance. There was the
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sound of the breakers in the background.
Suddenly the picture cut out.
Mrs Ryan looked at Mr Ryan with tears in her eyes.
'We must go back there soon,' she said.
'Very soon,' he smiled.
And the Chinese jazz, as loud as ever, shrieked through the
room.
The Ryans sat rigidly in front of the television screen.
Ryan clenched his teeth. 'Jesus God, I'll...' he stood up ...
'I'll kill the bastards!' He gestured irresolutely. 'There are laws.
I'll call the police.'
Mrs Ryan held his hand. There's no need to speak to them,
darling. Just put a note through their door. Warn them. They must
have heard of the Noise Prevention Act. You could write to the
caretaker as well.'
Ryan rubbed his lips once.
'Tell them they could be heavily fined,' said his wife. 'If they're
reasonable, they'll...'
'All right.' Ryan pursed his lips. 'This time that's what I'll do.
Next time—and I mean it — I'll knock on the door and confront
them.'
He went into the living room to write the notes. Mrs Ryan made
tea.
The Chinese jazz went on and on. Ryan wrote the notes with
short, jerky movements of his pen.
... and I warn you that if this noise continues I will be forced to
contact the police and inform them of your conduct. I have also told
the caretaker of my intention. At very least you will be evicted— but
you must also be aware of the heavy penalties you could receive under
Section VII of the Noise Prevention Act of 1978.
He read back over the letter. It was a bit pompous. He hesitated.
Perhaps if he ... ? No. It would do. He finished the letters, put
them into envelopes and sealed them as Mrs Ryan directed the tea
trolley into the living-room. 'That will do, thank you,' she told it.
Suddenly the music stopped in mid-bar. Ryan looked at his wife
and laughed. 'Maybe that's the answer ? Maybe it's robots making
that row?'
Mrs Ryan smiled. She picked up the tea-pot.
'Look, I'll do that,' said Ryan, 'if you'll just put these into the
internal mail slot outside the front door.'
'All right.' Mrs Ryan replaced the pot. 'But what shall I do if I
meet them?' She nodded towards the neighbouring flat.
'Ignore them completely, of course. They surely won't try to
involve you in conversation. You might as well ignore anybody else
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you meet outside. If we start making contact with all the people in
this block we'll never have any bloody privacy.'
"That's what Mother said,' said Mrs Ryan.
'Right.'
She took the two letters and went out of the living room and into
the lobby. Ryan heard the front door click open.
He straightened his head as he heard another voice. It was a
woman's voice, high-pitched and cheerful. He heard Mrs Ryan
mumble something, heard her footsteps as she entered hastily and
shut the front door firmly.
'What on earth was that ?' he asked as she returned to the living
room. 'It's like living in a zoo. Maybe it was a mistake...'
'It was the woman who lives on the other side of us. She was com-
ing back with her shopping. She welcomed me to the block. I said
thank you very much and slid back in here.'
'Oh, Christ, I hope they're not going to pester us,' said Ryan.
'I don't think so. She seemed quite embarrassed to be chatting
with a stranger.'
In cosy, uninterrupted silence the Ryans drank their tea and ate
their sandwiches and cake.
When they had finished Mrs Ryan ordered the trolley back to
the kitchen and she and Ryan sat together on the couch watching
the tapes on the television. They were beginning to feel at ease in
their little home.
Mrs Ryan smiled at the screen and pointed. There was a scene of
cliffs, a cave. 'Remember that old fisherman we found in there that
day ? I was never so startled in my life. You said ——'
A steady knocking began.
Ryan swung round, seeking the source of the noise.
'Over here,' said a voice.
Ryan got up. Outside the window was the head and torso of a man
in overalls. His grinning red face was capped by a mop of clashing
ginger hair. His teeth were ragged and yellow.
Mrs Ryan put her hand to her mouth as Ryan dashed to the
window.
'What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, pushing your
fucking face in our window without warning ?' Ryan trembled with
rage. 'What's the matter with you? Haven't you ever heard of
privacy ? Can't we get a moment's peace and quiet ? It's a bloody
conspiracy!'
The man's grin faded as Ryan ranted on. His muffled voice came
through the pane. 'Look here,' he said. 'There's no need to be like
that. I never knew you was back, did I ? I was asked by the old lady
to keep the windows clean while you was away. Which I have done
without, if I may say so, any payment whatsoever. So before you
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complain about my bloody habits, I suggest you settle up...'
'How much ?' Ryan put his hand in his pocket. 'Come on—how
much?'
'Three pounds seven.'
Ryan opened the window and put four pound notes on the out-
side sill. 'There you are. Keep the change. And while you're at it
don't bother to come back. We don't need you. I'm going to clean
the windows myself.'
The man grinned cynically. 'Oh, yeah?' He tucked the money
into his overall pocket. 'I hope you've got a head for heights, then.
They're all telling me they're going to clean their own windows
from now on. Have you seen them ? Half of them don't do the out-
sides. They can't stand the height, see ? You should see 'em. Filthy.
You can hardly see out for the dirt. It must be like the black hole of
Calcutta in most of them flats. Still, it's none of my business, I'm
sure. If people want to live in the dark that's their affair, not mine.'
'Too right,' said Ryan. 'You nosy bloody...'
The window-cleaner's eyes hardened. 'Look, mate.. .'
'Clear off,' said Ryan fiercely. 'Go on!'
The man shrugged, gave his yellow grin again and touched his
carroty hair sardonically in a salute. 'Cheerio, then, smiler.' He
began to lower himself down the wall towards the distant ground.
Ryan turned to look at his wife. Mrs Ryan was not on the couch
any more. He heard sobs and followed the sound.
Mrs Ryan was stretched across the bed, face down, weeping
hysterically.
He touched her shoulder. 'Cheer up, love. He's gone now.'
She shrugged off his hand.
'Cheer up. I'll...'
'I've always been a private person,' she cried. 'It's all right for
you — you weren't brought up like me. People in our neighbour-
hood never intruded. They didn't come poking their faces through
windows. Why did you bring me here? Why?'
'Darling, I find it all just as distasteful as you do,' Ryan told her.
'Honestly. We'll just have to sort it out step by step. Show people
that we like to keep ourselves to ourselves. Be calm.'
Mrs Ryan continued to cry.
'Please don't cry, darling.' Mr Ryan ran his hands through his
hair. 'I'll straighten things out. You won't see anyone you don't
know.'
She turned on the bed. 'I'm sorry... One thing after another.
My nerves...'
'I know.'
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He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to stroke her hair.
'Come on. We'll watch a musical on the TV. Then we'll...'
And as Mrs Ryan's sobs abated there came the familiar sound
of the Chinese jazz. It was muted now, but it was still loud enough
to lacerate the Ryans' sensitive ears.
Mrs Ryan moaned and covered her head as the tinkling, the
jangling, the thudding of the music beat against her.
Ryan, helpless, stood and stared down at his weeping wife.
Then he turned and began to bang and bang and bang and bang
on the wall until all the colours disappeared.
But the music kept on playing.
CHAPTER THREE
Mr Ryan has done his exercises, bathed, dressed and break-
fasted.
He has left his cabin and has paced down the main passageway to
the central control cabin. He has checked the coordinates, the
consumption indicators, the regeneration indicators and run com-
putations through the machine.
He seats himself at the tidy steel desk below the big screen that
has no picture. Around him the dials and the indicators move
unobtrusively.
Mr Ryan takes out the heavy red-covered log-book from its steel
drawer. He unclips his pen.
Using the old-fashioned log appeals to his imagination, his sense
of pioneerdom. It is the one touch of the historic, the link with the
great captains and explorers of the past. The log-book is Ryan's
poem.
He enters the date: December 25th, A.D. 2005. He underlines it
He begins to write the first of his eight-hourly reports:
Day number one thousand, four hundred and sixty four. Spaceship
Hope Dempsey en route for Munich 15040. Speed steady at point
nine of c. All systems functioning according to original expectations.
No other variations. All occupants are comfortable and in good
health.
Under this statement Ryan signs his name and rules a neat line.
He then stands up and reads the entry into the machine.
Ryan's report is on its way to Earth.
He likes to vary this routine. Therefore when he makes his next
report he will do it orally first and write it second.
Ryan stands up, checks the controls, glances around and is
satisfied that all is in order. Since embarkation on the Hope
Dempsey three years ago he has lost weight and, in spite of his
treatments under the lamps, colour. Ryan exercises and eats well
and relatively speaking he is in the best possible condition for a man
living at two-thirds Earth gravity. On Earth it would be doubtful if
he could run a hundred yards, walk along the corridor of a train,
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move a table from one side of a room to another. His muscles are
maintained, but they have forgotten much. And Ryan's mind,
basically still the same, has also forgotten much in the narrow
confines of the perfectly running ship.
But Ryan has his will. His will makes him keep to the perfect
routine which will take the ship and its occupants to the star. That
will which has held Ryan, the ship and its instruments and pas-
sengers together for three years, and will hold them together,
functioning correctly, for the next three.
Ryan trusts his will.
Thus, in the private and unofficial section of the red log-book, the
section which is never read over to Earth, Ryan writes:
Today is Alex's tenth birthday — another birthday he will miss.
This is very saddening. However it is the kind of sacrifice we must
make for ourselves and for others in our attempt to make a better life.
I find myself increasingly lonely for the company of my dear wife and
children and my other old friends and good companions. Broadcasts
from Earth no longer reach us and soon I shall be reduced, for
stimulation, to those old shipmates of mine, my videotapes, my audio-
tapes and my books. But all this must be if we are to achieve our end
— to gain anything worthwhile demands endurance and discipline. In
three minutes it will be time to perform the duty I find most painful
emotionally — and yet most essential. Every day I am seized by the
same mixture of reluctance, because I know the distress it will cause
me. And yet there is an eagerness to fulfill my task. I shall go now and
do what I have to,
Ryan closes the red log-book and places it back in the steel
drawer so that the near edges of the book rest evenly against the
bottom of the drawer. He replaces his pen in his pocket and stands
up. He glances once more at the controls and with a firm step
leaves the room.
He walks up the metallic central corridor of the ship. At the end
there is a door. The door is secured by heavy spin screws. Ryan
presses a button at the side of the door and the screws automatic-
ally retract. The door swings open and Ryan stands for a moment
on the threshold.
The room is a small one, instantly bright as the heavy door opens.
There are no screens to act as portholes and the walls gleam with a
platinum sheen.
The room is empty except for the thirteen long containers.
One of the containers is empty. Plastic sheets are drawn two-
thirds of the way up over the twelve full containers. Through the
semi-transparent material covering the remainder of the tops can
be seen a thick, dark green fluid. Through the fluid can be seen the
faces and shoulders of the passengers.
The passengers are in hibernation and will remain so until the
ship lands (unless an emergency arises which will be important
enough for Ryan to awaken them). In their gallons of green fluid
they sleep.
At their heads is a panel revealing the active working of their
bodies. On the plastic cover is a small identification panel, giving
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摘要:

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txtTheBlackCorridorbyMichaelMoorcockversion1.0CHAPTERONESpaceisinfinite.Itisdark.Spaceisneutral.Itiscold.*Starsoccupyminuteareasofspace.Theyareclusteredafewbillionhere.Afewbillionthere.Asifseekingconso-lationinnumber...

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