The Empty World

by D. E. Stevenson

  Jane sat up, and looked out of the window; the world was pearly grey, it was taking form about them as they sped onwards. It was as if the darkness were fading. Jane thought it must have been like this when light first came to the world — the birth of light so beautifully pictured in Genesis, and the shaping of the earth from void. They watched it for a little in silence. The light grew stronger beneath them; the sea was grey, tipped with white. There was nothing else in the world but grey sea and grey sky — “the waters covered the face of the earth.”

  “We might go forward to the observation cabin, if you would care to,” Sir Richard said at last, “Fenemore suggested it. He’s worried.”

  They went together through the deserted dining-saloon, and found their way down a narrow passage to the observation cabin. Fenemore was sitting at his table with maps spread out in front of him; he looked grey and weary, and deep lines had etched themselves upon his young face.

  “Come in,” he said, rising and offering them seats.

  “We’re not disturbing you, Fenemore?”

  “I’m thankful to see you. The responsibility is frightful — what am I to do?”

  “Have you no idea where we are?” enquired Sir Richard anxiously.

  “We’re still blind,” replied the young man, “I don’t know whether to trust my instruments or not. Everything got such a shake up. They may be all wrong. I shall take the sun when it rises, of course.”

  “No radio yet?” enquired Sir Richard.

  “Not a thing. Sparks has nearly driven me mad. He comes in every now and then and says “Nothing” in a helpless voice and goes away again. It’s queer how a thing like this shows up the yellow in a man. Shows you whether a man is worth his salt, or not. I’ll pick my crew with more care next time — if there is a next time —”

  There was a knock on the door, and a man entered.

  “This is Mr. Farquhar, our chief engineer,” Fenemore said. “Yes, Farquhar. What is it? You can speak out. Sir Richard and Miss Forrest know all there is to know — which isn’t much —”

  “It’s just this, sir,” Farquhar said, “and I’m sorry to have to tell you. We’ve only two hours more fuel left.”

  They all looked at each other blankly.

  “I just wondered if you would want to alter course,” Farquhar continued, “and make for the nearest land.”

  “I’m doing that already,” replied Fenemore.

  “Then there’s no more to be done,” Farquhar said.

  There was no more to be done. Silence fell upon the four people in the observation cabin, they did not look at each other, nor meet each other’s eyes. They were busy with their own thoughts, drawing upon the courage that lay below the surface of their beings. Sir Richard was the only one whose thoughts were not occupied entirely by his personal reaction to the news. He was able to think of his companions and admire the manner in which they faced the thing — and they dare to say we are decadent, he thought.

  Fenemore was the first to break the silence. “Nobody must know,” he said firmly, “not even the crew. We must bear the responsibility ourselves. Some of them would go to pieces — we should have trouble. I must protect my passengers. This knowledge must not go beyond us four.”

  Farquhar nodded gravely, “That’s true, sir,” he said, “I wondered if I should reduce speed and so economise in fuel?”

  The pilot was about to reply when a bell rang; he lifted a telephone receiver which stood at his elbow.

  “Yes?” he said anxiously. “Oh, that’s good … Thank heaven! Yes … Yes change course then … we may recognise it with glasses … all right, carry on, we’ve two hours more fuel … yes.”

  He put down the receiver and smiled at them. “Land ahoy!” he said, “but we don’t know what. I’ve told Day to make for it.”

  “It doesn’t matter where it is, as long as it is land,” said Jane, who had visualised herself floating in the mid-Atlantic on a lifebelt.

  “That’s so, Miss,” Farquhar said. “Any port in a storm.”

  “Sit down, Farquhar,” said Fenemore.

  Farquhar sat down gingerly. His overalls were oily and there was a black smear across his cheek. His face was pale and drawn but his eyes were steady, there was tremendous strength in the man both physically and morally. They were all silent while the pilot took his place at the telescope and slewed it into position.

  “Yes, it’s land all right,” he said, “an estuary of some sort. I don’t recognise it though.”

  “What part of Europe would you be expecting to see?” enquired Mr. Farquhar stolidly.

  Fenemore leaned back, and laughed. “Farquhar, you are a gem!”

  “Well, I was just wondering,” Farquhar said, his eyes twinkling sympathetically.

  “I’m wondering the same myself,” Fenemore admitted. “We’ve been flying blind. My instruments were shaken to bits by the storm, there are no lights, and the radio has failed.”

  “Yes, sir. You told me so before,” said Farquhar. “But I thought you might have a wee inkling of some sort.”

  Jane was looking out of the observation port. She saw that they were approaching a wide estuary, guarded by spits of land. She pointed out to Sir Richard that there were high hills on the left.

  “Wales, perhaps,” suggested Sir Richard.

  “That would make it the Bristol Channel,” said Jane.

  “It’s not the Bristol Channel,” Fenemore said confidently. “I know the Bristol Channel well.”

  “What about the Solway, then?” enquired Jane, racking her brain, and wishing that her geography were in better repair.

  Farquhar leaned forward and peered out over Jane’s shoulder, he gave a cry of delight. “It’s the Clyde!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Am I sure?” cried Farquhar. “Am I sure of my own name? I’ve sailed down to Rothesay a hundred times — Och, it does my eyes good to look at it! There’s the Tail o’ the Bank —”

  “Good,” said Fenemore. “I’m as glad to see the Tail of the Bank as you are, although I’ve never seen the place before. I suppose you can pilot us up to Renfrew — there’s an aerodrome at Renfrew, isn’t there.”

  “There is,” Farquhar replied, “and I could take you there blindfold —”

  “Come on then. I’ll take over the controls, and you can direct me.”

  The two men disappeared through a sliding door on the other side of the observation cabin, leaving Sir Richard and Jane Forrest in sole possession.

  “Well,” she said, “I suppose our troubles are over.”

  “I wonder,” her companion replied.

  Jane hardly noticed the dubiety of his words, she was gazing out of the port-hole at the country spread below them. It seemed so wonderful to see land, where only a short time ago there had been nothing visible but a waste of waters, turbulent and grey. The green fields and towns were spread upon the world like a map. The sun had risen, and the morning mist was fleeing before its reddish golden beams. Below them was a long, snaky, silver strip of water which Jane supposed must be the Clyde.

  “Strange that there is no smoke,” Sir Richard said musingly. “I always imagined that the fires were stoked night and day in those factories. And there are no ships either —”

  “There’s a big liner,” Jane countered, “in that bay — do you see where I mean?”

  Sir Richard followed her pointing finger and said, “So it is. It seems to be aground — lying over on one side. What do you make of that?”

  “The river is edged with mud flats, so I suppose the tide is out,” Jane said.

  “Yes, the tide’s out,” replied Sir Richard in a strange voice.

  Jane looked up at him. “What’s the matter? Do you think there is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know what to think — this place is generally like a beehive —”

  “But it is very early in the morning —”

  “Perhaps that is the explanation,” he replied unconvinced.

  They le
ft the observation cabin and went aft through the dining-saloon. Several of the passengers were there, drinking coffee and talking in subdued tones. The two elderly ladies, whom Jane had noticed last night, seized upon her as she passed.

  “Excuse me,” said the fatter of the two, “pray excuse me, but could you give us any information as to the hour when we are likely to arrive at Croydon.”

  Jane stopped and smiled at her interlocutor in a friendly manner, she was fat and rosy like a healthy pippin, and her light blue eyes were anxious and bewildered.

  “I am Miss May Hervey,” continued the lady, “and this is my sister, Miss Hervey.”

  “My name is Forrest — Jane Forrest. I’m afraid we have got out of our course owing to the storm. We are fortunate in being quite safe. The pilot is making for Renfrew Aerodrome — it is near Glasgow, you know.”

  “Oh dear!” exclaimed the thin Miss Hervey, “how very stupid and trying. Edward will be waiting for us at Croydon.”

  “Edward will have learned of the delay,” said Miss May cheerfully. “We need not trouble ourselves about Edward. We can get a plane at Glasgow to take us south — or else go by train. As Miss Forrest rightly says we are fortunate in being safe. On second thoughts I should prefer to take the train, Ethel dear, if you have no objection. It takes longer, of course, but I feel I have had sufficient air-travel for some time.”

  Jane left them discussing the merits and demerits of air-travel, and hurried on through the lounge. Here were more passengers, most of whom had learned of the change in destination. They were arguing about it heatedly, and blaming the Company for the upsetting of their plans. Miss Bright’s cooing voice was querulous. “I guess the T.A.L.C. will have to pay my fare to London,” she was saying.

  The radio cabin was besieged by people wanting to send messages to their friends, to advise them of the change of plan. The radio expert was trying to explain that no messages could be sent.

  “It’s disgraceful,” Jane heard somebody say. “The man ought to be sacked for incompetence. I shall never travel by this line again —”

  Jane felt glad that there was no necessity for her to worry, nobody was expecting her arrival — at least nobody that mattered — her London flat was ready for her reception whenever she chose to walk in.

  She found Maisie in the cabin, putting things together, and packing the handbag.

  “Glasgow!” said Maisie, as she fitted the various brushes and bottles into their places with deft fingers. “Well, fancy that now. I was born in Glasgow and I’ve got an old Aunt living at Milngavie. Would it be too much to ask if I could go and see her, Miss Forrest? She would be surprised —”

  “Why, of course,” replied Jane, smiling. “You can spend the day with her if you like. We’ll go south to-night by train —” (She felt — like Miss May Hervey — that she had had enough of the air to last her a long time.)

  There was a hovering movement, as the liner paused in the air and her helicopters got busy. Jane and Maisie leaned out of the barred window, and saw the country spread below them. They were sinking slowly now, but it did not feel as if they were sinking, it felt as if the earth were rising up to meet them. The large green landing-ground grew bigger and bigger, they saw the aerodrome buildings — the huge hangars, the mobile landing stations.

  “Well, here we are!” said Maisie, comfortably, and, as she spoke, they landed gently in the middle of the field with a barely perceptible bounce.

  The landing of an aeroplane always intrigued Jane, she liked to see the swarm of groundsmen pour out of their living quarters, and rush across the field to move the landing platforms up to the aeroplane’s side. She liked the neatness and despatch of their movements, the fuss and bustle of arrival. But, today, she watched and waited in vain. No swarm of groundsmen appeared, nobody appeared, there was not a creature in sight. The whole place seemed asleep in the still, bright morning air.

  “I suppose they are all asleep,” Maisie said, in the doubtful voice. “They didn’t know we were coming, did they, Miss Forrest?”

  “No,” said Jane. “But still —”

  She caught up her handbag, and made her way back to the observation cabin. Sir Richard was there with Day, the second pilot.

  “It’s most extraordinary,” Day was saying. “The whole place seems deserted. I suppose we had better get out the emergency ladders —”

  He had hardly spoken when the liner began to move, she taxied slowly and carefully towards the landing platform nearest to her.

  “Mahomet, and the mountain,” said Sir Richard, with a smile.

  “It’s more difficult than it looks with a plane of this size,” said Day, as they came to rest beside the platform with the precision of a car drawing up at the kerb. “Much more difficult. In fact, not many people could do it.”

  Jane liked him for the hero-worship in his voice.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  The Empty City

  The doors of the liner were now opened, and the passengers flocked out on to the platform. They stood there, looking about them in a bewildered manner, with their bags in their hands. Fenemore came out of the control-cabin and joined them. He was at once the centre of an excited group.

  “Where are all the porters?”

  “Can I have a plane at once to take me to London?”

  “Where can I get a car?”

  “I wish to speak to the Aerodrome Commandant.”

  Fenemore did not answer, and Jane realised that it was because he couldn’t. The man was absolutely done. His nerves had been on the stretch for eighteen hours. He had brought his ship safely to the ground, and he could do no more.

  Jane found Day standing beside her; she seized his arm. “Take him away from them,” she said urgently, “for heaven’s sake take him away and put him to bed.”

  “You’re right,” said the boy. “God knows what’s happened to everybody, but I’ll find a bed for Fenemore somewhere —” He pushed through the crowd, and, taking Fenemore by the arm, led him away towards the Officers’ Mess of the aerodrome, whose white Grecian buildings — just newly finished — gleamed like snow in the early morning sunshine.

  “The man’s drunk,” said Haviland. “Perfectly disgusting, I call it. No wonder he couldn’t find his way to Croydon in that condition —”

  Everybody now started to talk at once, and to discuss what was to be done. Jane found the Misses Hervey at her elbow. “If you would share a taxi with us,” suggested Miss May, in her cheerful placid voice, “a taxi to Glasgow. We have a nephew in Glasgow. My sister and I think it would be a pleasant surprise to visit him while we are in the North. A taxi to Glasgow —” She pressed Jane’s arm.

  It certainly seemed a sensible idea.

  “I have a secretary,” Jane said.

  “That will be quite all right,” agreed Miss May.

  Jane collected Maisie, and her handbag, she looked about for Sir Richard, to say goodbye to him, but he seemed to have vanished.

  “Come along,” said Miss May.

  The four women started to walk across the deserted field towards the big iron gates. At this moment a car appeared from the direction of the hangars, it came towards them, bumping over the grass.

  “Why here’s somebody at last!” cried Miss May, voicing all their thoughts. But it was not “anybody” in the sense that Miss May had intended, it was Sir Richard Barton and his valet. Sir Richard was driving, he drew up near them and said, “Get in.” Jane saw that his face was very pale, and there was a queer look in his eyes. She was surprised, for he had been courageous and assured in the face of danger, and now they were safe.

  “What’s happened?” she enquired anxiously.

  Miss May began to explain that they were looking for a taxi — had, in fact, decided to share a taxi to Glasgow —

  “There are no taxis,” said Sir Richard, interrupting her without ceremony. “Get in, all of you. I’ll take you to Glasgow.”

  There was something so urgent about Sir Richard t
hat they obeyed his command without further ado.

  By this time the rest of the passengers, and the entire crew of the liner were straggling towards the gate. Sir Richard hesitated a moment and looked back. Then he seemed to make up his mind about something; he swung the car round and headed for the gates … the next moment they were out on the road, and speeding towards Glasgow.

  “What a deserted road!” exclaimed Miss May.

  It was deserted. There was not a creature to be seen. They passed several cars, standing at the roadside, and, even, strangely, in the middle of the road. They passed a bus which had overturned, and was lying helpless in the ditch. They passed empty lorries, empty buses, empty cars, empty villages. Nobody spoke.

  “I suppose I’m dreaming,” Jane thought. “I suppose in a few minutes I shall wake up and find myself in my cabin in the airliner.” She looked at her companions’ bewildered faces, and decided that they were thinking the same.

  “Does anybody know which way?” enquired Sir Richard once. Maisie gave him directions in a low dazed voice. They crossed a wide bridge over the river and swung left. They were now in the heart of the city, but it was a nightmare city. The streets were empty of life. Sir Richard had some difficulty in threading his way in and out of the conglomeration of buses and cars which blocked his path. Once he stopped, and his man got out and cleared a way for them before they could pass.

  “This is Buchanan Street,” said Maisie suddenly. They all looked out of the window at Buchanan Street. The shop doors were all open, the sunshine fell warmly upon the white pavements.

  Suddenly Miss Hervey burst into tears. “I can’t bear it,” she sobbed, “I can’t bear it.”

  Miss May patted her knee. “It’s all right,” she said soothingly. “You’ll feel better after breakfast.”

  Sir Richard took the hint. He drew up at a small restaurant and they all got out and stood for a few minutes in the street. Now that the engine had ceased to throb the silence was incredible. A small wind wandered up the street raising clouds of fine dust.