People had died in the millions and tens of millions. Only a handful—our ancestors—had had the courage and determination and intelligence to start building again in the midst of chaos. The organizers had been those scientists with an understanding of the techniques of nuclear energy. They knew that although it had been inadequate in keeping the whole world with its billions of inhabitants running, it could be used to power individual strongholds. So, one by one, the cities rose again, though far fewer and smaller, each centered about its energy tower. Beyond their walls stretched the Outlands, abandoned to the murderous whims of nature.
Brian seemed blind and deaf to the effect he was having. He said, “The reason the people of the Outlands became savages was because they were kept out of the cities. If they could have come in, they would have, and lived civilized lives. Those who tried were driven away, slaughtered.”
“But if they had been let in,” a girl said, “things would have been impossible. Everything was balanced on a knife edge. Any increase in numbers would have meant civilization breaking down again and us all becoming savages. Is that what you think should have happened?”
“There was a case for exclusion then,” Brian said. “I’m not disputing that. But what about later? What about now? We have more food, more energy, more everything than we need. The cities could support ten times as many people as they do.”
“So we could live in mobs again, like in the twentieth century?” That was another boy, Roland. “Let’s bring the savages in and live alongside them in tenement buildings—is that what you want?”
“No, of course I don’t.” Brian suddenly seemed to realize the absurdity into which his argument had led him, and looked uncertain. “Anyway, I was talking about servants, really. They’ve lived in the cities for generations. We call them servants, but if we were honest we would call them slaves. They’re born in slavery, live in slavery, die in slavery. In ancient Rome slaves had a slim chance of getting their freedom. Our servants have no hope at all.”
There was a general murmur of disgust. The reference to ancient Rome had something to do with it. No one was interested in the Dark Ages, either early or late. And it wasn’t true about slavery. Servants were paid money for their work—not a lot, it was true, but too much, many said, for the amount they did. “Slave” was an unpleasant expression which had no place in the civilized world of the twenty-third century.
Martin said, “You’re just talking rubbish, Brian. The servants don’t mind being servants, any more than the savages mind being savages. They’re used to it—contented, in fact.”
Brian asked, “How do you know?”
Roland said, “I know something. I know I’ve had enough of this talk. I mind that. Let’s have some more music.”
“You won’t think,” Brian said. “None of you will. That’s the trouble—you won’t let yourselves think.”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Martin said. “I think you should shut up, Brian, or else do the thing properly and go out and join Wild Jack.”
That raised a laugh. We could all remember being told stories about Wild Jack by our nurses when we were little: Wild Jack, the bogeyman who would creep up from the Outlands, steal over the wall by night, and take back naughty children to his lair among the savages. Martin’s remark reduced the subject to the level of the ridiculous, which was its proper place. Brian made a feeble attempt to continue with his protests, but no one was listening any longer.
After all, what point was there in talking about the Dark Ages or the savages, far away either in time or space? Servants brought out more food and drink. The sky was black above, but the lamps shone gaily in the trees. It was still warm, but if the evening were to turn cold, thermostats would switch on the heaters. A long boat, lit up from stem to stern, drifted past on the river, and farther off I heard the high whine of a speedboat.
The Outlands, we knew, were wild and trackless, inhabited by hungry, murdering savages, but all that was on the far side of the wall. We were snug in the city. I saw a high light in the distance, marking the summit of the energy tower.
Someone had turned up the music, and couples joined together to dance. Brian had seemingly accepted defeat and now had other things in mind. He came over and asked Miranda for a dance.
She gave him a small, cool smile. “I’m sorry. Clive’s already asked me.”
I hadn’t, in fact, but I didn’t argue about that. I took her out onto the circle of polished wood, laid down by the servants between the trees. For the first time I felt there had been some point in the grinding tedium of dancing lessons. She danced lightly, humming in tune to the music. It was good to hold her and see her face close to mine in the lamplight.
2
MY PARENTS VISIPHONED FROM RHODES the day before the Sherrins went back to Southampton. The setting was middle distance so they were both on screen, with a view behind them of crumbling stone walls and the blue waters of the Mediterranean. They asked me how things were, and I told them fine.
My mother said, “I’ve talked your father into taking a yacht and exploring some of the smaller islands, so we shall be out of touch for a week or so. Will you be all right?”
I nodded. “Of course. It’s a great idea.”
My father said, “It means getting back to school on your own.”
He sounded a bit anxious, but he tended to be about things like that. They were very different in temperament. She was quieter, more reserved, and more willing to give me credit for being able to look after myself.
I said, “That’s OK. Bobby will see to everything. He’s already started my packing.”
We talked for a while, or rather my father did, telling me about Rhodes and the various things they had been doing. I got the impression it had been either sightseeing or sitting in the sun with a glass of something long and cool: not exactly my best notion of a holiday but obviously they were enjoying it. Later my father wanted to have a word with Mr. Sherrin, and I had him called and adjusted the visiphone to get him in alongside me. He thanked my father for the use of the house, and my father asked him how things had gone in London. “Reasonably well,” he said, smiling. I guessed that could be politics.
After we had said good-bye and closed contact, Mr. Sherrin said, “I’m glad your father is having a good rest. He needs one. He drives himself very hard.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Not like me.” Mr. Sherrin smiled. “I believe in taking things easy. By the way, I thought we might all go out for a meal this evening, since it’s our last night. That place that’s opened in the old Tower of London might be worth trying.”
“Sure,” I said. “Great.”
• • •
The Sherrins had come up from Southampton by airship, and the following morning I went to the airport with them to see them off. Mr. and Mrs. Sherrin sat drinking coffee while they were waiting, and I managed to get Miranda away on the excuse of getting soft drinks from the dispenser.
I said, “It’s been great having you here. Pity you have to go back so soon.”
She shrugged, smiling. “Yes. There it is, though. School tomorrow.”
“Yes. Me, too. Can I call you there?”
She shook her head. “No outside calls except in emergencies. And then we have a teacher sitting in on them.”
“Can I write you?”
“If you want to.”
“I do.”
“Good.” She smiled again. “I’ll write back. I was wondering. . . .”
“What?”
“Whether it might be possible for you to come down and stay with us in the next holidays.”
“Yes! I mean, if you’re sure, I’d love to.”
“I’ll fix it. Look who’s here.”
I turned and saw Gary coming toward us. He had known, of course, that the Sherrins were leaving this morning, but I had deliberately not suggested
his coming along. My greeting was chilly. He was chilly back, and concentrated on talking to Miranda. For the five minutes that remained before they were called we battled through a two-sided conversation, with Miranda having to cope with both channels. She did it very well, smiling at us in turn.
When it came to good-byes, though, she shook hands with Gary but offered me her cheek, which I kissed clumsily but triumphantly. Then she and her parents went up the ramp into the airship, appearing a moment or two later at one of the observation windows. We waved to her, and she waved back.
The airship’s engine hummed and it started to lift off. We watched it, still waving. I could not resist saying, “Miranda’s asked me to stay with them in the next holidays.”
Gary did not respond right away. He said at last, “There’s something quite remarkable about you.”
Apart from anything else, his tone made it clear that was not intended as a compliment. I said, with an edge to my own voice, “Oh, yes?”
“It’s what you think about yourself, that’s all. You really do think you’re terrific. Look at me—I’m Clive Anderson. Look at my red speedboat. Look at me driving it even though I’m underage, because my father fixed it with the license department. Look at my father, he’s on the council. Look at my personal manservant. Look at my new power bike. Look at the size of my allowance.”
I was annoyed, but grinned. “No, don’t look at me—look at you. You’re pathetic. You really are.”
He swung at me. I wasn’t ready and he knocked me off balance. I grabbed at a chair and it collapsed under me; a table went over, too. I got up and charged at him. We fought until a uniformed figure, an airport policeman, pushed us apart.
He was squat and fair-haired, very powerfully built, and the grip of his fingers on my shoulder hurt.
He said, “You know the regulations about brawling in public.” He let go of me and picked up the chair, which had a broken leg. “Not to mention damaging city property. I think we’d better have you two on report.”
He took out his memocorder, while Gary and I stared at him in silence, but instead of switching on he looked at me more closely.
“Aren’t you Clive Anderson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Councillor Anderson’s son?”
“Yes, sir.”
He gave me another long look. “All right. We’ll forget about it this time.” He put the memocorder away. “Don’t let it happen again.”
He gave Gary a quick, uninterested glance before walking off. Gary and I went toward the exit without speaking. He didn’t thank me for getting him off a report, but I didn’t really expect him to. We went in opposite directions when we got outside.
• • •
Our school was in the north of the city, on the edge of Regent’s Park, and during term we lived in. The dormitories each had twelve beds. Gary’s bed and mine had been next to each other, but when we went back he moved to one at the far end of the room. That suited me perfectly well.
There was the usual confusion of settling in, with plenty to occupy one’s time. We also had the results of our last set of examinations. This was one field in which Gary usually beat me comfortably, but on this occasion, by some freak, I wound up second in class, while he was fourth. Our form teacher said, “Very good work, Anderson. I congratulate you. Let’s see if you can keep it up.”
Gary’s desk was a few feet from mine. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to look sick.
On the third day of term we were doing English when the teacher’s visiphone buzzed. He accepted the call and the screen on his desk lit up. He used an earphone so we could not hear what was said, but I could tell he was surprised: He closed contact, and said, “Anderson!”
I stood up.
“Report to the headmaster’s office.”
I was surprised, too. I had never known the headmaster call a boy out of a lesson before. I said, “You mean now, sir?”
“Yes, now.”
The headmaster was called Weatherby, a tall thin man with a long thin face. Discipline in the school was fairly strict, but that was generally regarded as being due to his second in command, a small, tough, dark man called Williams. Williams was with him in his office, and so was a man I’d never seen before—as short as Williams but fatter, and wearing police uniform.
Weatherby said, “What have you been up to, Anderson?”
“Up to, sir?”
“You must have been up to something.” He looked helpless. “They apparently want to see you at police headquarters. We haven’t been given a reason.”
He looked at the man in uniform, and the man in uniform looked stolidly back. I tried to think of a possible reason myself. I had not been in any trouble I knew of, except for that fight at the airport. Even if the airport policeman had changed his mind and decided to report me after all, it wasn’t enough to justify something like this. And what about Gary? The policeman couldn’t have reported me without reporting him.
I shook my head. “It must be a mistake.”
Williams looked baffled, too, but in his case angry. He said sharply to the officer, “You do know this boy is Councillor Anderson’s son? Surely they gave you some idea why he’s wanted?”
The man shrugged. “I was only told to bring him.”
Weatherby said, “You have the authority, so I suppose it’s all right.” He looked at me in a depressed way. “You’d better go with him, Anderson. I hope they don’t keep you long. I can’t think why these things can’t be seen to outside school hours.”
• • •
In the police car I tried to make conversation with my escort, in the hope of picking up a clue. Some of my friends were scared of the police, but they had never made me nervous. I had been used to seeing them around my father, of course, all my life. This one was civil, but uncommunicative. When we reached the police building, I knew as little of the reason for my being there as when we started.
I was quite familiar with the ground layout of the building, but my escort called the lift and took me to uncharted territory on the seventh floor. He left me with the duty officer, who dialed a number on his control panel, listened to an instruction, and motioned me to follow him. He took me to an office, halfway along a corridor, which we reached through one of a dozen identical doors.
There were two men in the office, which had windows overlooking St. James’s Park. They were not wearing uniforms, but casual clothes. Both were quite young, neither over thirty, one narrow-shouldered and red-haired, the other dark and brawny.
The brawny one said, “Clive Anderson—that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at me thoughtfully. “Like to tell us all about it?”
“About what?”
He tilted his chair farther and sank his chin on his chest. “Come on, now. You know all right.”
“I don’t. I’ve no idea why I’m here.”
Both watched me. Neither said anything.
I said at last, “I really don’t understand, sir. But I think it might be a good idea if I could speak to Mr. Richie, my father’s secretary. My father is Councillor Anderson.”
The brawny one made a clicking sound with his tongue but did not straighten up. He said, “Yes, we know your father is Councillor Anderson. At the moment cruising among the Greek islands, I believe. Very pleasant, though I’m sure well-earned. As to Mr. Richie, we know where to get hold of him if we want him. There’s no hurry about that. We’ll finish our little chat with you first.”
I disliked him, but I was not alarmed. The job of the police was to serve the city, and particularly the council.
I said, “I don’t see that I can be much help when I haven’t the faintest idea what the chat is supposed to be about.”
“Don’t be pert, boy.” I stayed silent. “Do you know Brian Grantham?�
��
“Yes. He goes to my school.”
I realized as I spoke that I had not seen him since the beginning of the new term. Not that that meant much, since he was not in my class or dormitory.
The policeman said, “Did you visit his house on”—he leaned forward and glanced at a pad in front of him—“. . . on the evening of the sixteenth?”
That was the evening of the party. I said, “Yes.”
“Who else was present?”
There seemed no point in not telling him. I reeled off the names I remembered. He nodded.
“What were the subjects of conversation?”
I began to feel wary. “I can’t remember.” I paused, but he waited for me to go on. “Well, all sorts of things. Football, boating . . . the new show at the Metrodome.”
He nodded again. “And servants? And the savages?”
I shook my head. “I don’t remember that.”
“Don’t you? What a pity. Let’s see if we can do something about refreshing your memory. The part we’re interested in started with someone addressing a servant as ‘boy.’ Nothing unusual, but I gather you objected to it.”
“No! It was . . .”
“What?”
I couldn’t say it was Brian who had objected. Quite obviously someone was taking all this more seriously than one would have thought, which meant in turn that someone might be in trouble. I wondered again about not seeing Brian in school this term. But the ridiculous thing was that I was being accused of saying it. Who could possibly have told them that? Brian himself? It didn’t make sense.
I said, “It was a big party—twenty or more of us—and we were in the garden. I didn’t hear everything that was said. All I can tell you is that I didn’t make any objections to anything.”
Wild Jack Page 2
