Michael Moorcock - The Black Corridor

VIP免费

2024-12-15 0 0 235.52KB 110 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt

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.

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt (1 of 110) [1/19/03 6:45:03 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt

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

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt (2 of 110) [1/19/03 6:45:03 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt

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

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt (3 of 110) [1/19/03 6:45:03 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt

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

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt (4 of 110) [1/19/03 6:45:03 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt

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

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt (5 of 110) [1/19/03 6:45:03 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt

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

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt (6 of 110) [1/19/03 6:45:03 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt

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

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt (7 of 110) [1/19/03 6:45:03 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt

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.'

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt (8 of 110) [1/19/03 6:45:03 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt

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,

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt (9 of 110) [1/19/03 6:45:03 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt

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

file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%20Michael%20-%20The%20Black%20Corridor.txt (10 of 110) [1/19/03 6:45:03 PM]

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

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

展开>> 收起<<

Michael Moorcock - The Black Corridor.pdf

共110页,预览22页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Michael Moorcock - The Black Corridor

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: