He looked for a bell-push.
There was no bell-push.
He looked for escape.
There was no escape.
He was contained in a metal room like an animal in a trap. Someone must have put him there. But who?
Panic surged, and he fought it down. Panic surged again, and again he fought it down.
Perhaps he had had a nervous breakdown and this was some kind of asylum. Perhaps he only thought he was awake, but in reality he was still sleeping. Still dreaming a dream as inconsequential in its own way as the vision of cosmic creation.
He had an idea. It was absurd, but at least it was an idea. He pinched himself, and felt pain. He pinched himself harder, and felt more pain. Still he was not satisfied, for the possibility had occurred to him that he might easily experience the illusion of pain while dreaming.
Then he developed a line of thought that seemed to take care of both dream and reality. If he were still dreaming there could be no harm in exploring the situation—as far as exploration was possible. If he were not dreaming, then exploration was absolutely essential.
He got off the bed and looked around. There was a wash-stand. The design was peculiar, but pleasing. There was also a small half-boxed-in lavatory—at least, he supposed it was a lavatory—and a mirror.
In the centre of the room was a table and a dining chair. There was also an extremely light easy chair—so light that he found he could lift it with one hand. The floor was uncovered and appeared to be made of some kind of deep crimson plastic. It had a dull surface, restful to look at and pleasant to walk upon.
But the most interesting piece of furniture was the pedestal by the bed. On top of it lay a machine that looked something like a small and incredibly neat typewriter. The paper was already fed into it from an endless roll.
It was a typewriter with a difference, however. For even as he looked at it, it began to type. All by itself. There was hardly any noise and no visible movement, but the message was printed out on the roll of paper quickly and smoothly.
Avery gazed at it for a moment as if it might explode. Then he pulled himself together, sat down on the edge of the bed opposite the machine and began to read.
Do not be alarmed, said the message (he smiled cynically at that). You are not in danger and you will be looked after with great care. Doubtless you have many questions to ask, but unfortunately there are some questions which cannot be answered. Whatever you need in order to live comfortably will be provided. Food and drink may be obtained on command. Your requests: should be communicated by means of the keyboard.
The machine stopped. Avery waited a few seconds, but that was all he was evidently going to get. He considered the message thoughtfully for a time, then put out two fingers—he had never been able to type with more than two fingers—and began to hit the keyboard.
He typed: Where am I?
His own message was not printed out on the paper roll, and he wondered if he had operated the machine properly. But as soon as he had finished, the reply was printed out for him.
No comment.
Avery stared at it and became angry. He punched out another question, hitting the keys as forcibly as he could.
Who are you?
Again the reply came immediately. No comment.
Why am I here?
No comment.
Avery spoke aloud for the first time. ‘This is a bloody useful instrument, I must say!’ The sound of his own voice shocked him. It was high, querulous. Whoever was on the other side of the metal wall must be enjoying himself—or themselves—hugely. He determined to do what he could to minimize their satisfaction.
He began to tap out another question:
Why did the quick brown fox jump over the lazy dog?
Back came the reply:
Query: To which fox do you refer?
Avery smiled grimly. It was good to have the opposition asking questions. It made him feel that he had at least stolen a little of the initiative.
The one that jumped over the lazy dog, he tapped out.
Query: Which lazy dog?
The one that was jumped over by the quick brown fox.
There was a pause. Avery sat back, feeling idiotically pleased with himself. The pause lengthened. They:— whoever they were—seemed: (a) to be taking the question seriously, and (b) seriously considering the possibility of an answer. All of which told him something. Not much, but something. They—the inscrutable they— didn’t recognize a simple typewriting exercise. It was no great discovery, but at least it was information.
The reply came: This question cannot be answered because insufficient data has been supplied. It is presumed that the answer, if any, does not have any immediate relationship to the subject’s well-being.
Avery felt that he had scored a moral victory. They— he visualized the word in italics—were either playing it dead-pan or else they were not very bright. He felt better.
The subject is depressed, he tapped. The subject is imprisoned, frustrated, bewildered and bored. The subject is also hungry and thirsty. He presumes that the bunch of raving maniacs with whom he is apparently dealing will at least have the decency to provide food and drink.
Query: In the present situation do you prefer water, an alcoholic drink, tea or coffee?
In the present situation, responded Avery, I prefer an alcoholic drink—a large brandy—and coffee.
There was no further communication. Avery sat and stared at his wristwatch. It was just over two minutes before anything happened. Then he became aware of a very faint scraping sound and looked up in time to see a rectangular panel slide back in the metal wall.
Behind it was a recess containing his meal. He got up and went to inspect. There was a plate of chicken salad— attractively laid out with crisp fresh lettuce, cress, beetroot and tomato—a knife, fork and spoon, and a miniature botde of Martell Three Star. There was a pot of coffee, a tiny jug of cream, brown sugar, a coffee cup and saucer and a brandy glass. All of which was arranged upon a plastic tray.
He picked the tray up and took it to his table. The panel in the wall remained open.
Suddenly, he went to the typewriter that was not a typewriter and punched out another message.
You forgot the bread and butter.
Query: How many slices of bread?
One. White. Thin.
The wall panel closed. It opened again about ten seconds later.
There was a small plate on which lay the bread. One slice. White. Thin.
Avery sat down at the table and tackled his meal. The salad was delicious, the chicken sweet and tender. Evi-dendy they did not intend that he should suffer from malnutrition.
As he ate, he tried to think clearly and sanely about his predicament. But his mind did not seem to be much in the mood for thought. It said, in effect, to him: There have been quite enough surprises for the time being. To hell with them! Something will sort itself out, sooner or later.
But would it? The predicament he was in was, itself, neither clear nor sane. One moment, it seemed to him, he was walking in Kensington Gardens; and the next moment he was waking up in what might well turn out to be a superior type of nut-house—or the inevitable mad millionaire’s secret retreat in the Highlands.
He was more than confused: he was extremely doubtful about the nature of this particular frame of reality. The whole thing might easily be no more than a kind of dream within a dream—metal prison, inscrutable typewriter, chicken salad and all.