Eric's throat burned with acid. An involuntary contraction regurgitated the slippery golden capsule he'd swallowed minutes earlier. Its coating had already started to dissolve and the hidden taste was of bitter aloes. Resignedly he snapped open a pod of distilled water and squirted a quick jet into his mouth. Not too much. Careful. Mustn't waste any. Ann didn't have any trouble with hers – lying close by, peacefully unconscious.
How long before she'd come awake? Close eyes: think: 'Ann. sleep/elapse/awake.'
A muted digital readout flickered instantly inside his eyelid. One hundred and seventy three units. What to do? If he used any more of his sleep-quotient it would elapse before the end of this Period and they wouldn't extend it now, not like they used to, not with the new rationing, the cutbacks. He sighed silently and tried to shift his position but the Anti-grav had run low and wouldn't re-charge until the next sun satellite passed over.
Another sigh; more of a groan this time. Was it worth it? The golden capsules, each one extending life- span by – how much? Twenty thousand units? How long was that in old time? His mind fluttered confusedly, unable to settle in thought for even an instant. Trying, trying but failing to grasp something, anything, that he would recognise, that would be familiar.
Time? What did that used to be like? Vague, shadowy memories of darkness and of light – night and day. Hours? Weeks? Months, even years. He couldn't grasp these forgotten concepts; they slid like tangled eels through his tired, old brain. They'd both elected to take the capsules orally rather than have implants, with all that entailed; this way they were at least relatively free and had a degree of privacy, permitted to remain together rather than be separated into their respective age groups. And, so important to them both, permitted to stay on the surface instead of being incarcerated somewhere deep within the lithosphere. Wasn't there once something called -–his mind hunted confusedly – what was it called? Yes, that was it. Death. Difficult, so difficult to remember, to concentrate. Was the capsule taking effect? His mind hunted turgidly. Exist. Live. Options? None. Ever. Another sigh. He knew this Period was going to end. He'd tried to fight it before. He'd never won. Eyes tightly closed – no other way to activate it except by his own voice-pattern “Memory”.
Voice recorded, logged. A hum of static filled his living space and a synthetic voice-sound spoke inside his head: “You have already exceeded your Memory Allowance for this period. Memory Access for segments one and two of your next Period is now forfeited. Further Access now will deplete your future allocation accordingly. Continued behavioural pattern of this nature will result in permanent withdrawal of all Memory Access privilege”.
He repeated his request:
Memory.
Space became utterly black. A cool, clean liquid seemed to flow into his head. His body freed and floated, and smell, taste, sight, touch and hearing crackled and snapped into life. But there was nothing to smell. Nothing to taste, see, hear or touch yet.
Quickly. Time so precious. Decision: how far? Date? Age? Come on, come on. Take a stab at – careful now, first choice only, no change of mind permitted – 2000?
Light. Sunlight. Blue sky; scudding clouds riding high on a south-westerly breeze. The grey rocks towered above bare-branched trees, Jackdaws raucously chased one another. Bells pealed softly from Porthmadog. Sunday, then. Why no car boot sale? Ah, yes, that finished, didn't it.
“Happy New Year, Eric”. A gangling youth emerged from the shower, steam coiling from the doorway into the crisp morning air.
“Happy New Century, don't you mean?” he grinned in reply, walking into the warm café. Smell and sizzle of bacon frying. Mugs of tea, eggs crackling in the pan. A dozen youngsters eating bent over guide books. ...
“Striptease”. “One Step?” “Strawberries...” “Oh yeah?” Noise. Steam. “Hi, Dad, what's on today?” He heard himself promising to join them on a paraglide from the top of Snowdon; conditions were perfect. He remembered well last week's amazing flight, soaring aloft for over three hours, riding invisible thermals to six thousand feet, thankful for a battery-heated suit, descending first towards the Pass, then up, high over Llewedd, the Gwynant, a side-trip to Hebog, down Aberglaslyn, the river a flashing, silver guide; thistledown-soft descent, spiralling, swooping – upturned faces, orange tents, gently down into the car park, his car park. He'd fetch the car from Pen-y-pass tomorrow.
Fast forward – late afternoon – chatting to scores of youngsters. The Stoats from Birmingham Uni. were having a reunion. Swansea, too. Six mini-buses. The bunkhouses were full.
“Too old for Vector? Come on, Eric, I'll lead”. He hadn't done Vector in years – not since before the accident and ankle repair job. But it went well, quickly. Adrenaline pulsed. Getting old, not that old. Try not to slow down too much. Plans. Excitement. The pleasure of walking into the house, warm, fire crackling. Friends, chat.
An electrical impulse tingled inside his skull and he knew, without hearing any warning voice that this was the signal that he had used the greater proportion of his Memory Allocation. All on one fast-forwarded day, too... Quickly, now: switch off the receptors for taste. Smell, too. That will extend usage a little. Hearing too? Yes. Can't make any more changes; that would bring down the shutters instantaneously. Should have gone to the Himalayas, Everest perhaps. The Eiger? Patagonia? Angel Falls base jump? Hang on, burning fuel. Stay here. This is home ground. Perhaps time for links 2000 to present....
Quantum leap in number of visitors to the rocks.
Growing friction and antagonism between 'mountaineer' rock climbers and 'indoor wall' climbers.
Fighting. Bolting, bolt chopping. Sabotage. Lower-offs. Hold-chipping; tree felling. Vandalism. Big bunkhouse burned down. BMC relinquishes responsibility for the rocks. Vigilantes.
Faster.
Faster.
Private traffic banned in the Park. Permits to visit. Climbing rationed to two routes/four hours per visit. Three year waiting list. Pay-as-you-climb.
Snowdonia National Park sold by cash-strapped government to Japanese-owned theme park consortium. All-weather roof canopy erected over the Rocks. Walled in. Heated. Electric winches, viewing platforms; dial-an-abseil. Virtual reality booths; 'climb' the route of your choice.
Faster, Eric: seconds left. Forward in hundreds of years, not tens.
Colder; ever colder. Pollution cuts heat and light from sun. Another ice age.
All travel prohibited. World-wide starvation and death.
Thousands now, Eric, thousands.
Underground. Radioactive decay the only source of heat.
No fuel for Inter-planetary travel
Mind manipulation.
Population of the planet
Thought monitored and metered.
Death prohibited.
Click. Fuzz. Blankness. Blackness.
'Did I take the Capsule?'
“Good Morning, Eric”.
“ “Good Morning, Ann”.
Oh dear.........
The end
Alan Heason's last article for UKClimbing.com was Dolomites and the Weisshorn
Alan Heason
I'm 71 and am starting to develop the odd ache and pain. Anne, my wife, is 61 and we have two sons, Mathew, (Matt) whose business, Heason Events, organises ShAFF, the Sheffield Adventure Film Festival and Cliffhanger, and Ben, who has made a name for himself in the worldwide climbing scene.
I started climbing accidentally at the age of 18.
Anne and I met through being members of the Oread Mountaineering Club in the late 60's
We live close to Tremadog, at the foot of the Aberglaslyn Pass; we've been there for thirty eight years now, and Mathew and Ben were born there. We moved here to work at Aberglaslyn Hall by way of Ben More Lodge and Plas y Brenin. They didn't start their climbing careers until 1992; I should have taught them earlier, having been a climbing instructor, but their formative years coincided with osteo-arthritis of my hip. I found even walking difficult for several years until it was replaced. They didn't hang about though, climbing Vector together 20 months later.
Spasmodically, when aches and pains allow, I still follow Matt or Ben
up
easy climbs. Ben took Anne and me up Christmas Curry at Tremadog last
Christmas day. It was enjoyable but not as easy as it used to be. Ben
tied a
chalk bag to my harness. The cheek of it! And last August we were in
Kyrgyzstan in the Tien Shan Mountains. So the spirit is still willing,
and
when my two new knees are fitted next August things should be as they
were.
www.welshcottage.org.uk
We now have, next door to our house in Nantmor, a rather nice holiday cottage. It's possibly a tad pricey for many young tigers, but it sleeps 7, 8 at a pinch, is 5 star grade and has a rather pleasant indoor heated swimming pool. In fact, the Wales Tourist Board in their unchallengeable wisdom decreed that it was 'The Best Place to Stay in Wales' in 2002. And we've made a lot of improvements since then.
You never know, some of you oldies like us just might like to consider it. (Ah, one snag: we only do week-long bookings, Saturday to Saturday.)
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