Report on Probability A (14 page)

More distantly, and now distorted by the rain pouring down the window of the garage, the hedge could be seen bounding the longest side of the long lawn. On the other side of it lay a dirt path upon which puddles now gathered. Both privet hedge and dirt path ran down to an old brick building that had once served as a coach house.

The coach house, though its outlines trembled and were uncertain because of the rain now coursing over the small window of the garage, was easily visible to C. When he had first taken refuge in the loft of the garage, six months ago, the old brick building had been almost entirely hidden behind the summer foliage of the apple and plum and pear trees. Only its tiled roof had been visible. The tiled roof was visible now.

“He must be getting a regular shower bath in there. You can't tell me that roof would keep the rain out for long. Bet it's pouring down on him!”

The front of the coach house could be seen through the rain. In the upper half of it, a round window was set in the brickwork. At this distance, in this light, no detail could be discerned. Below the round window, two large doors ran across the façade of the building. The doors were dark with wet.

“Better him than me.”

A pigeon known as X clattered from a point in the brickwork somewhere above the round window, circled awkwardly with its wing-tips appearing to clap together first above then below the tip of its body, and flew northwards behind the bulk of the house. Rain fell. It poured over the windows of the garage and obscured the view.

From time to time, Domoladossa interrupted his reading of the report to make a sketch map on a rough pad which lay on his desk near the framed photograph of his wife. Following the information given in the report, he now carefully drew in a few more details
.

“It's a human problem, of course,” he muttered. He determined to volunteer to be the first to enter this probability world; he would go straight to Mrs. Mary
—
when they had more information on her
.

2

On the roof of the garage rain fell. The roof, constructed with a light metal, gave off a resonant noise under the continued impact of thousands of drops of rain. The roof did not leak. At regular intervals along the inside of the roof ran several rows of bolts, secured in place with nuts. These bolts kept in place the sheets of metal that together comprised the roofing. Most of these nut and bolt combinations were green; the others were grey, their original colour. The green ones began to glisten. The ends of them began to glisten. Whether one looked at them or looked away, the glistening ends swelled slowly.

On the glistening ends of the bolts, drops of water formed. The bolt ends that were grey did not have glistening ends. Along the inside of the roof, six rows of bolt ends began to glisten. The light from the unopening window at the front of the asbestos garage was caught by a series of small raindrops hanging from the roof. The drops imprisoned and reflected the light. One by one the drops fell to the planks on the loft floor.

“It looks as if it's never stinking well going to stop. God, how I'd like—oh, it's all the same!”

The drops did not fall in unison. Water collected on each bolt at a different rate. Each glistening end kept its own tempo. Some of the bolts seemed as if they would remain dry once their current drip had been shed; but slowly a point of moisture grew, containing a highlight within it. And the point of moisture extended itself into a droplet. With the slowest bolts, the droplets would hang there for a time to be measured in minutes; eventually the droplet would extend itself, stretch towards the floor, part company with the end of the bolt, and strike off on its own for the floor.

Despite the noise made by the rain as it drummed on the light metal roof, C could hear the drops inside as they struck the floor.

The rate at which the various bolts secreted water could be judged by looking at the floor. Under a slow bolt would be merely a dark patch of wetness extending along the grain of the plank. Under a faster bolt, a small puddle would collect. The small puddles had untidy edges, for when the next drop fell into them, a miniature tidal wave was created. As more puddles appeared, most of them only a couple of centimetres across, the noise of the drops striking the floor changed in character. From a dull heavy note, it now took on a livelier and more liquid sound.

Moving on his hands and toes, with his knees only a little way off the floor, C scuttled to the other end of the garage. By going down the centre of the loft, it was simple to avoid the small puddles.

He put his back to the front wall of the garage and sat down on the floor beside the square window. Pulling his knees up so that they were on a level with his shoulders, he rested his arms across his knees and his chin on his hands. He gazed ahead of him. He whistled a tune called Whistling Rufus.

Along the side of the loft nearest to the house, the right side as C sat, a series of large cardboard cartons had been aligned. They contained C's possessions. On the outside of them were the names of the goods they had once contained, baked beans, soap, and cornflakes. There were five of the cartons. They stood in positions on the floor where the drips from the bolts in the roof did not strike them. The small puddles collected behind them, where the roof ran very close to the floor of the loft, and in front of them, but did not touch the boxes.

On the other side of the loft lay a canoe with a sharp prow. It was built of wood and rested on wooden rests that kept it steadily upright. The outside of the hull had been painted a light blue. The name of the boat, Flier, was painted on its prow in white paint. The canoe occupied almost all the space between front and back of the loft.

Because the canoe was narrow, it had been possible to arrange that it stood in such a position that none of the drips from the bolts on the roof fell on it, except amidships, where the boat was widest. At this point, drips from two bolts fell on it. The contents of the canoe were mainly blankets and wood shavings, but a tarpaulin saved them from a wetting. The tarpaulin lay across the canoe with one end hanging over the edge, towards the floor. The drips from the two bolts overhead collected on this tarpaulin and rolled off onto the floor.

C stopped whistling. Lifting his chin, he raised his right hand and scratched the back of his head. He replaced his hand on his knee and replaced his chin on the hand. He tapped on the floor with one stockinged foot and began to whistle again. He whistled a tune called Whistling Rufus.

Ahead and to the right of where he sat stood five cardboard boxes. They contained C's possessions. Small puddles collected in front of these boxes (and behind, where they were unseen by C). The puddles encroached on the dust of the floor; sometimes small pieces of fluff sailed on them. The puddles were not all of the same size. Some were bigger than others. The bigger ones were larger than the smaller ones. The smaller ones were not as large as the medium-sized ones. The larger ones gathered under the bolts that collected drips most quickly. The smaller ones gathered under the bolts that collected drips less quickly. The bolts were bolted on the roof. The puddles lay on the floor. The puddles wetted the floor. The floor was wetted by the puddles lying on it.

C closed his eyes and stopped whistling.

He reopened his eyes and shook his head slowly to and fro. He opened his mouth and yawned. He blinked his eyes.

At the far end of the loft was a small square window divided into four panes. The bottom left pane had been blocked by a square of wood. Over the remaining three panes, water trickled, distorting the view. From where C sat, he could see only a distorted piece of brick wall to the left; the rest was a blur of greens, browns, and greys.

On his right as he sat, running down the right-hand side of the loft, were five brown cardboard boxes. They were flanked by puddles. Many forces of nature, including thermal and gravitational effects, had created the dirty little puddles on the floor.

From the roof, six rows of bolt ends protruded into the loft. Most of them gleamed.

Getting onto his knees, C crawled down the length of the loft until he reached the last cardboard box. It bore a legend that showed it had originally contained baked beans. C stood up with bent shoulders and opened the top of the box. He reached down and rummaged into it. As he did so, he could see some squares of wood resting behind the box.

From the box, he pulled a stiff cap with a shining peak. Holding it in his left hand, he rubbed the peak with his right sleeve. The peaked cap had been given to him when he entered Mr. Mary's service thirteen months ago. He put it onto his head. He pushed his hair back under the cap. He smiled. He straightened his back slightly and saluted, touching the peak with the stiff fingers of his right hand.

“Reporting for duty, sir. All ready to go. Everything in order, sir.”

Dropping his arm, he turned to the hole in the floor that lay to the side of the loft nearest the house. Through the hole protruded the top of a ladder, bolted upright to the rear side of the garage. C reached out to the ladder and climbed down it. He stood on the floor of the garage.

In the garage, the light was dim. Some illumination filtered down through the trap to the loft from the square window set in the back wall. Set in the north-west side of the garage was a small window hinged at the top and set high in the wall. It looked onto the side of the house. Since a space of no more than one and a half metres separated garage and house, the small window gave little light. At the front of the garage, the double doors each contained windows of a reinforced glass through which it was impossible to see, although light was conducted through it into the garage.

Occupying most of the floor of the garage was a black car of British manufacture. Although its body was painted with enamel, which threw up long highlights here and there, it seemed to absorb rather than reflect light. The four tires of the car were flat; it rested on the rims of the wheels.

“The report goes into too much deail!” Midlakemela said. He had been reading over Domoladossa's shoulder.

Domoladossa did not reply. The report conveyed to him completely the boredom of C's vigil above the garage, the man's obsessive and unrecognizing gaze across the objects about him. Now they—Domoladossa and Midlakemela—were subjecting those objects to a second scrutiny. They were having to determine
WHAT WAS OF VALUE;
until that was decided, this life was valueless. Find significance and all is found.

Of course, Domoladossa was unaware that he was being scrutinized by the Distinguishers on their rainy hillside. They, in their turn, were being watched by the grave men in New York. They, in their turn, were being watched by two young men and a boy who stood in an empty warehouse staring at the manifestation in puzzlement.

“What is it, Daddy?” asked the boy.

“We've discovered a time machine or something,” the father said. He leaned farther forward; it was just possible to make out Domoladossa reading his report, for the New York screen showed the hillside manifestation revealing him at his desk.

Apart from the car and the windows, the features of the garage were few. The double doors in the front were secured by a patent tumbler lock and by long black bolts top and bottom. Near one of the double doors, the door with its hinges on the side of the garage nearest to the house, was a wooden fuse box. From this fuse box, wire encased in black rubber led up to a switch at shoulder height. A further length of wire encased in black rubber led from the switch to a light fitting above the car in which hung a naked light bulb.

The rear wall of the garage had three features. On the side nearest to the house was a door that led into the garden. It was shut now. It was a light metal door. It had a handle on the inside; on the outside were handle and key. Across the light metal panel in the top of the door had been scrawled in black paint the symbol 12A. Next to the door was a ladder made of white wood. It was bolted against the concrete supports of the garage, thus remaining upright and leading up into the loft. Beyond the ladder, and occupying most of the rest of the rear wall of the garage, was a carpenter's bench equipped with a vice and with a sawing trestle standing underneath it.

On top of the bench, near the ladder, stood a dull red oil drum with a tap at the bottom of it. Beneath the tap on the concrete floor of the garage stood a drip tray and a metal funnel. Some paraffin lay in the drip tray. The rest of the top of the bench was littered with tools relating to the car or to carpentry, with coils of wire and flex and grimy rags lying on tops of the tools.

In the wall facing the house, the only feature was a small window opening outwards with its hinges at the top. The wall opposite consisted of asbestos sheets interspersed with reinforced concrete pillars; it was otherwise featureless.

Brushing along this featureless wall, C opened the driver's door of the car and climbed in. The leather upholstery of the seating was grey. C settled himself in the driver's seat, leant forward to grasp the handle of the door, and pulled the door shut.

The windows of the car were all closed. Inside the car, it was less easy to hear the rain falling on the garage. An occasional but regular tap on the roof of the car signified to C that water from small puddles on the floor of the loft above the car was leaking through and down onto the car.

“And where would you care to go on this lovely sunny day, madam? Speak up, madam. Distance no object. Would madam care to try Brighton for a paddle?”

Grimacing, C pretended to switch on the ignition. He pulled the starter. He put a stockinged foot on the accelerator. He pressed gently on the accelerator. Pressing the clutch down, he eased the gear lever into first gear. He held the steering wheel with both hands, turning it gently. He removed his left hand and changed into second gear. He smiled and nodded into the back seat.

“Has madam made up madam's pretty little mind yet? Distance no object, madam. Torquay? Virginia Water? How about Henley-on-Thames or the Lake District? Should be lovely round Windermere on a lovely January day like this.”