Mutant

MUTANT

  by

  JAMES CORLEY

  [I]

  Half-way up the hill, exhaustion forced Stoddard to rest. He chose a suitable boulder and sat cautiously on it. His head swam as he bent to untie his laces. Once off his swollen feet he placed the scuffed and cracked boots carefully beside him. As usual they exuded an ammoniacal stench. The heat would soon dry them out.

  There was no shade at all on the hill. Sinking in the west the Sun was still an unbearable white glare that hung over the ocean and sadistically refused to set. He fumbled through his pockets and found a salt tablet to swallow.

  From this high up Stoddard could look down over the marine research station he nominally controlled, and past it to the beaches at the southern end of the island. A red stain of vegetation had crept up onto the beach from the sea.

  He noted apathetically that it had failed to establish much of a foothold on the land as yet. A week ago there had been nothing at on the island except a scattering of scrubby green. Not enough water, that was the reason. This far out in the Indian Ocean there was little atmospheric turbulence. Apart from its single hill the island was low-lying, and the hill wasn’t big enough to precipitate rain except during the two monsoon weeks.

  Perhaps the new, red vegetation didn’t need water. No, Stoddard thought wearily, even in this age of biological impossibilities that was impossible. It must have a root system down into the sea. Seaweed. Of a sort. Tomorrow, next week, sometime — he’d go down and investigate. Before someone got at it with a flame-thrower. The problem raced through his head like a fever delirium, racing in superficial circles. Deep down the real mind only looked at it, uninvolved, uncaring, and totally bewildered.

  It took a conscious effort of will to get his boots back on and start climbing the hill again.

  The previous Director had decided that his status demanded a residence some distance away from the old RAF base that now housed the research institute. In those days there had been petrol for the Land Rover, but when Stoddard was appointed he hadn’t liked the isolation. It had been convenient to let Pamela Barnett take the bungalow over — until the supplies had stopped coming and the heat had grown so intense. Now it was too much effort climbing the hill. Small wonder she hadn’t reported for work.

  The bungalow was built of pre-fabricated wooden sections. Finding the door ajar he went in without knocking. Inside drawn curtains provided shade but little respite from the heat. Hearing sounds from the kitchen he went through. She was at the sink, washing plates. The detached part of his mind critically noted that she hadn’t bothered to be economical with water. Pumping it up from the desalination and sterilisation plant was expensive.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Ted.” She acknowledged his presence and identity without turning from the sink. Her voice was unwelcoming. Maybe she’s ill, he thought.

  “Do you think the Sun’s any worse?” he asked. It was an awkward, meaningless question. If the Sun exploded it would be no worse than it was now.

  “How should I know?”

  He changed tack. “I was worried when you didn’t show up this morning.”

  “Manji can get along without me. There’s nothing to do anyway.”

  “I’d have said there was everything to do. We have to get those tanks producing soon.”

  “We don’t have to do anything,” she said listlessly.

  He crossed the kitchen and put his arms around her, cupping her breasts in his hands and pulling her body into his. She reacted violently, pushing him away and turning to face him. “It’s got to end. Face facts, Edward.”

  “This is rather sudden, isn’t it?” he asked, not wanting to believe her.

  She started washing plates again, noisily. “If you must know I’ve run out of pills. I can’t take the risk of getting pregnant. So keep your hands off me and stay away .”

  Stoddard was offended. “I didn’t come up here to go to bed with you. Not just that anyway. There’s no need to treat me like a potential rapist.”

  “Why pretend?” she asked. Her voice stayed flat. “No sex means nothing left between us. So now it’s over and I feel like being left alone. Is that all right by you, Mr Stoddard?”

  “I know you’re under a strain,” Stoddard said carefully. “We all are. But we stand a better chance if we stick together.”

  Emotion came into her voice. If bitter sarcasm was an emotion. “Lucky me. In my hour of need someone wants to stick by me. The whole world’s falling on its arse but you and me can stand up to everything if we stick together. Is that it?”

  “Pretty much. Yes, that's exactly it. It’s something to hope for.”

  “Balls.”

  He slapped her face with the flat of his hand. “Snap out of it!”

  The knife was suddenly in her hand — snatched from the draining board. A large, clean, sharp, kitchen knife. He recognised hysteria welling in her. “Keep away from me. Understand? Stop bothering me.”

  He backed away under threat of the blade. “You’re upset, that’s all, Pamela. You know you don’t mean it.”

  “I don’t know anything. Why did your wife run away?” she asked cruelly. Another weapon to wound him with.

  He felt a flush of embarrassment replace the half-welcome chill of fear the knife had aroused. Part of his mind still observed the clumsy, mechanical actions of his inadequate persona with dispassion. He talked to calm her. “You know she was offered a better job at Stanford. I was still in London. The marriage just fell apart. It was a long time ago.”

  “Funny coincidence, I came here from Stanford, remember? Is that why you hired me, Ted? What Stanford takes away from you Stanford must give back? Did you choose me to make up for your wife, Ted? Any lay as long as it’s a California lay?"

  He fumbled for something to say. Some defence. “All right. If that’s the way you want it. But I still need you at the station, Miss Barnett. I hope you’ll have calmed down enough to come into work tomorrow.”

  Stoddard left with as much dignity as he could muster. It was never enough.

  For two years the Sun had been pouring out increased radiation on every spectral band, peaking in the ultraviolet and upwards in frequency. The solar wind was now a hurricane, a sleet of atomic particles travelling at a million miles an hour that hit the upper atmosphere and rained a torrent of high energy alpha-particles. It didn’t kill, not immediately. But it was intense enough to mangle genes. A secret and patient torturer.