The Seed of Evil

“That’s the sort of angle.” Brian’s blue eyes shone. “A psychological effect, which ordinary people aren’t able to take. So the Scientocrats protect them even from their own curiosity. The Scientocrats know, of course, but they’re men of outstanding calibre who can be trusted and won’t crack up.”

Mercer’s face cleared. “I think you’ve hit the nail on the head,” he said in a pleased tone.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. The point is I think I can take it. I won’t go nuts. It won’t do me any harm, it would do me good. I’m that sort of person.”

Mercer laughed. “Now go and tell that to the captain.”

“He’d really co-operate, wouldn’t he?”

He leaned back. “I went for a walk towards the hull last night. I was working on a supposition. That is, the hull can’t be completely sealed. It’s always possible that the external instrumentation could break down, and in that case they’d have to take sightings through the hull, either in person or by pointing cameras through an aperture. So there must be such an aperture which can be opened in case of emergency.

“Well, there is an aperture. I’ve found it.”

Mercer felt vaguely out of his depth. “What did you see?”

“The cover’s bolted down.”

He hesitated. “There’s a wrench in my luggage.”

“Whew!” This time Mercer was surprised. “You’ve really thought this thing out, haven’t you?”

“Not really. Just call it fortuitous. But I need a look-out. Now if we go along there tonight you can keep watch while I get the bolts off.”

“Hey, hold it!” Mercer was aghast. “You can’t do that!”

“Why?”

“It’s not allowed! The regulations are very strict. You can’t mess about with the equipment of a starship!”

Brian was motionless for a bare second. Then he relaxed, laughing.

“O.K.,” he said, letting the matter drop. “What are you planning to do this afternoon?”

“I might go to the cinema.”

The ship’s cinema was the equal in size of any on Earth, and had a well-stocked library. It played a large part in the lives of most passengers during the months’ long voyages.

Seated in the darkness of the cinema, Brian fell into a contemplative mood.

Full-coloured, three-dimensional images moved across the screen. The show was a romance-adventure taking place in Southern America. Brian enjoyed it.

Even so, he felt annoyed with himself. It was ridiculous, to be gliding through interstellar space, and yet still to be engrossed in the sights and scenes to be found on Earth! Really, he supposed, the ship was a part of Earth. It was a carefully enclosed piece of the Earth environment, designed to transport passengers in perfect comfort without their ever feeling that they had left their world.

When they landed at their destination, the illusion was maintained. A planet was still a planet, no matter how weird or colourful and so it resembled Earth. The change of location did nothing to disturb their psychology. The important thing was, that they should not experience anything of another scale.

Brian felt the unreality of it. He sensed that the scientocracy found it necessary to assist in this imprisonment of the psyche, which he sought to escape.

The film ended. People rose from their seats, moved up the aisles, into the foyer, and formed chattering, laughing groups.

But for Brian the film show had not ended.

All of life took place on a cinema screen. That was what it consisted of. Everything around him, the scenes, the talk, the laughter, the walls of the ship, was an image thrown on a screen, no more substantial than a picture.

In this mood, the solidity of everything vanished for Brian. He even doubted the reality of matter. After all, how could substantiality be proved? Only by opposing one mass by another mass. A body literally did not exist until it interacted with another body.

The whole world of matter subsisted only relatively, sustaining itself by means of internal supports. It was a system of logic, consistent with itself but meaningless elsewhere.

Seen from outside, none of it existed.

Though on a grand scale, it was rather like the artificial society he saw disporting around him, whose members subsidised one another in the superficiality of their attitudes, opinions and chatter. It had no external existence. Take away that mutual support, and the fabric of their lives would vanish.

These thoughts and ideas obsessed Brian so much that, from an ordinary point of view, he doubted if he could be considered sane. But he wouldn’t let go of it. He kept reminding himself of the twentieth-century philosopher Martin Heidegger’s question: “Why does anything exist, and not just nothing?” This summed up exactly his own thoughts about the matter.

Under his feet, over his head, on either side of him, was absolute nothing.

None of these philosophisings were overtly connected with his desire to look outside. As far as that went, he simply had an itch to do it. The very fact that he was forbidden convinced him that it was worthwhile. So without theorising about it, he wanted to go to work with that wrench.