The Condition of Muzak Read Online Free PDF Page A

the sack he heard in the distance a bass drone, coming from the direction of the mountains. He recognised the motor of an old Westland Whirlwind and automatically looked for cover. There was none, save the sled. He pulled his bow and his quiver of arrows from beneath the furs and bric-à-brac on the main section and prepared for the worst. Things were waking up a little sooner than he had anticipated. He supposed that, in spite of the immediate problems, he was relieved. At least the birth (or re-birth, depending how you look at it) had been relatively easy this time.
    The big chopper appeared in the sky, black and glimmering, and the dogs looked up from their flesh, eyes bright, ears pointing. One of them snarled; Jerry was sure that they had not responded to any specific stimulus. They were a strange breed of husky, with red eyes, white coats and red-tipped ears.
    Snow began to fly. Clouds seemed to form just above the surface. The helicopter came down heavily, still only partially powered, bumping and groaning. The motor was switched off. In the stillness the rotors clacked slowly to a halt. Jerry saw muffled figures moving inside the breath-clouded canopy. He fitted an arrow to his bow as a door in the Whirlwind’s body opened and a woman descended. She had a large 7.63mm Borchardt automatic pistol in her gloved right hand. Her face was hidden in the hood of an ankle-length pandaskin parka. Her breath coiled from shrouded lips as she peered towards the sled. She walked with a kind of Sarah Bernhardt limp.
    “Mr Cornelius?” The voice was sharp, demanding.
    “Which Mr Cornelius would that be?” Jerry recognised her at once.
    Miss Brunner was her usual petulant self. “Oh, don’t be silly. What have you got in your hands?”
    “A bow and arrow.”
    She buried her pistol in her clothing. “I understand. Put it away.” She held up her heavy arms.
    “Oh sure.” Jerry indicated the swivelling gun-turret in the chopper.
    She shrugged. “Merely a gesture. You know there’s little chance of a gun working in the current moral climate. What are you doing in Lapland? Looking for someone?”
    “Just trying to recapture the past.”
    “That’s not like the old Jerry.”
    “I can’t say the same for you. But then I always admired your consistency.”
    “There’s a bit more mass than there used to be.” It was obvious that she had taken his remark for a compliment. “You look like a Mountie. Well, what do you want from us?”
    “Nothing,” he said. “I didn’t even know you were out, did I?”
    She became suspicious. “Aha.” The snow crunched. She moved tentatively forward. The dog snarled again, pricking its peculiar ears. She stopped, glaring at it in considerable dislike. “You won’t be able to get to the laboratory. Not for a while. It’ll be frozen up. Is that where you were thinking of going?”
    “I haven’t been thinking much at all. You don’t in these conditions. I suppose I was making for the lab. Instinct.”
    “Instinct!” She cackled. “You!”
    She had hurt his feelings. “It’s the only explanation I can think of. You were heading south. Does that mean you’ve been to the lab already?”
    “That’s how I know about it. We came via Russia. And before that Canada. We’ve been flying for ages.”
    Luxuriously Jerry inspected the vast sky, half expecting to see a formation of geese, but it was still empty. “It’s probably the spring,” he said.

 
INTRODUCTION
    On New Year’s Night, 1091, a certain priest called Gauchelin was terrified by a procession of women, warriors, monks, etc. who swept past him, dressed in black, half-hidden by flames, and wailing aloud. Astonished and dismayed, the priest said to himself: “Doubtless this is the Cornelius family. I have heard that it has formerly been seen by many people, but I have mocked at such tales. Now, indeed, I myself have truly seen the ghosts of the dead.” Gauchelin was, indeed, neither the first nor the last to see the