He was about to ask what he knew was another ‘no comment’ question when the serving hatch opened. In the recess was a tray with a pot of tea, cup, saucer and spoon, milk and sugar. There was also a small sheaf of quarto sheets of paper and a pencil.
Avery took the tray to the table, sat down, poured himself a cup of tea and studied the papers. He snorted with disgust. He had seen papers like that before—hundreds of them. They contained fifty questions relating to number manipulation, spatial relationships, pattern recognition and verbal facility.
Suddenly, he was amused. It seemed poetic justice that, after so many years of inflicting them upon children, he should be faced with an intelligence test himself.
Do not agitate yourself, said the instructions at the top of the first sheet. These questions are designed only to provide information. Your performance will not affect your future adversely or otherwise. Answer each question as quickly as possible. Do not return to any question you have failed to answer. Your co-operation will be appreciated.
Do not agitate yourself! Avery laughed aloud. It sounded like some phrase from a foreign language smatter-book. Your co-operation will be appreciated! The devil it will, he thought cynically.
Then he remembered the bit about being rewarded, and wondered curiously what kind of reward they could possibly have in mind. The only worthwhile reward he could have would be freedom—but he was oddly sure that freedom was not even a remote possibility.
‘Humour the bastards,’ he told himself. ‘Play it their way and see what happens. After all, there isn’t much else to do.’ He picked up the pencil.
Then he put it down again. First of all there was the small matter of providing himself with a time reference. He wound up his watch, set the fingers arbitrarily at twelve o’clock, silently declared the existence of midday on Day One (he had to begin somewhere) and at the same time resolved that he would create a time-sheet/ calendar by making a mark on a piece of paper for every twelve hours that passed. There was writing paper in the trunk. As soon as he had finished the fool intelligence test that was what he would do. It might not be a bad idea if he kept a diary as well. Just in case he was in for a rather long stay.
Avery sighed and picked up the pencil once more. He looked at the first problem. Routine stuff. A number sequence. 5 8 12 17. He wrote down 23 in the space provided for the answer.
He did the first ten in about three minutes. Then he began to slow down.
Mingled with the increasing difficulty of the routine stuff were one or two that struck him as odd.
Sex is to Life as Fire is to: Furnace, Forest, Fluid, Fulfilment, Flame.
After some hesitation, he wrote: Furnace.
Then again, a little later.
Mountain is to Hill as Man is to: Ape, Woman, Child, Foetus.
He wrote: Ape.
And then, after half a dozen more conventional problems, another joker.
Power is to Wisdom as Religion is to: Devil, Hope, God, Salvation, Love.
God seemed to be the answer to that one.
There were several mathematical and pattern problems that Avery could not solve—or, at least, that he was not prepared to give the time and energy to solve—and he skipped them as instructed. Altogether, it took him a little over three-quarters of an hour to work through the questions. At the end of which he found that he had attempted to solve thirty-three of the problems—more or less satisfactory, he thought.
But the last one was the most intriguing of all. It was divided into three parts.
(a) If you were the Supreme Being, it said, would you endow living things with infinite potential or would you set a limit upon their evolution?
(b) If you were the Supreme Being, do you think you would understand the meaning of death?
(c) If you were the Supreme Being, would you care more for the death of a virus or the birth of a galaxy?
Avery wrote: (a) endow with infinite potential, (b) no, (c) the death of a virus.
And when he had put his pencil down, he came to the conclusion that the joke was very subtle. Very subtle indeed.
He lit another cigarette, then went to the talkative typewriter and punched out: The monkey has earned its banana, gents. Test completed, IQ lamentable. I now claime the priceless reward.
Back came the response: Please return the test papers and tray to the recess.
Suppose I don’t?
You will be anaesthetized while they are collected. In that case it is recommended that you adopt a comfortable posture.
Goons! tapped Avery. He put the tea things back on the tray, childishly screwed the question papers into a tight ball and placed them in the recess. The panel closed.
Then he sat on the bed waiting for something to happen.
Nothing happened for about ten minutes.
Then suddenly, almost instantaneously, one metal wall of his cell disappeared, revealing another cell exactly like his own. Except for one thing.
This one contained a woman.
FOUR
She was blonde and in her mid-twenties. At least, thought Avery, she looked as if she might be in her midtwenties; for she had the sort of vaguely attractive and subtly ageless face that might belong to a mature teenager or a youngish woman of forty.
She wore a red silk shirt and a pair of tight black slacks—and enough make-up for a party. Avery was sadly aware that the top two buttons of his shirt were undone—he only wore a tie when absolutely necessary— and his trousers displayed unmistakable signs of having been slept in.
All this passed through his mind—this ridiculous adding up of unimportant details—in the couple of seconds it took for the barrier of silence, surprise and immobility to crumble.
She was the first to move. She was the first to speak.
She came running towards him as if she were making a practised entrance.
‘Oh thank God! Thank God! I don’t know who you are or why we’re here…. But at least you’re human. I was beginning to think I might never see another human face again.’
Her voice was pleasant, her delivery was excellent. And when she had finished, she burst into tears. Before he really knew what was happening, Avery found that he had put his arms around her and that she was clinging to him tightly.
This, too, was so improbable that it could easily be part of a dream.
‘Take it easy,’ he heard himself murmuring. ‘Take it easy.’ Then, idiotically: ‘Neither of us are dead yet.’
She broke away. ‘Hell, I’m ruining my make-up…
What’s your name?’
‘Richard Avery. What’s yours?’
She smiled archly: ‘Don’t you ever watch TV? No, that’s stupid. You can’t watch TV here, of course.’
Recognition dawned. ‘I used to watch quite a lot. The only thing I ever conscientiously tried to avoid was that endless hospital series. You’re Barbara Miles, of course.’
‘In the flesh,’ she said.
Avery smiled. ‘Not necessarily. I have a theory I may be dreaming.’
‘The nightmare is mutual,’ she retorted. ‘What in heaven’s name is it all about?’
‘Damned if I know. Have you any idea how you got here?’
She shook her head. ‘The last thing I remember was this wretched diamond. I thought it might have fallen out of somebody’s ring—though goodness knows it looked too big for that. I remember bending down to pick it up. Then lights out.’