Chapter 17
A circle of red fire-tenders poured fountains of pink foam over the airliner. Richard expected it to blow up any second, for after such a nightmare journey to this country of the damned there seemed no reason why he should be privileged to go on enjoying the good things of the earth when people had already been brutally snatched from it. Even the most balanced mind would have shunned optimism, and so did he, standing in a queue and waiting to be thrown by the air-crew and scorch-marked stewardesses out of an escape hatch.
A wall of foam met him at the open air, and he swam down through a tunnel of darkness that seemed to last almost too long for him to support, moment after moment, mounting into minutes and hours, before strong arms grabbed his shoulders and stood him on his feet, giving a violent push in his back and telling him to run.
He wept as he lunged into safety, still expecting a blinding flash behind to send out vicious tentacles of flame and extinguish him. But as he ran, following dim figures towards the perimeter track, he knew that he was out of danger. A soldier with rifle and bayonet indicated the lights of the terminal building, and then he caught up with the professor, who was staggering along under the weight of his briefcase.
Richard was despondent, then began to laugh at the great sign stretching across the glass-fronted terminus which said:
NIHILISM WORKS!
The professor squeezed his arm to make him stop: ‘What’s so amusing? You consider it a mockery? Well, that sign will come down in a few days, if you deliver the letter I gave you. Another will be put in its place saying: HUMANITY WEEPS, so that people will feel more reassured when they land here from abroad.’
‘That’ll be just another lie,’ Richard cried, ‘and you know it.’
The professor shook his head sadly. ‘You’ve caught our nihilism already. I’ve noticed before that it blights foreigners even more than us. I’m just glad to be alive, at the moment.’ They stopped walking, still some way from the building. ‘Listen,’ he said in a low voice, ‘there are two powerful pistols in my briefcase. We’ll each have one, and when they ask if we have anything to declare at the customs we can say yes, this, and kill as many as possible.’
‘Haven’t you had enough thrills for one day?’
The professor caught at his elbow. ‘All right, but let me give you one of these guns anyway. You may need it when the insurrection breaks out.’
Richard had never possessed a gun before, and was taken with the idea of having one now. ‘The customs would find it.’
‘I’ll give it to you after we’ve been through. What hotel are you staying at?’
‘The Stigma hotel, in Ekeret Place.’
‘Good. Let’s go then, my friend. The plane seems not to have blown itself up, so they’ll get our luggage out soon.’
When they sat down, coffee and sandwiches were served. The waitress also brought them each a small commemorative aluminium plaque on which was engraved:
SURVIVOR OF THE DASTARDLY CRONACIAN ATTACK
ON AN UNARMED CIVILIAN AIRLINER OVER THE FREE
SKIES OF NIHILON. CONGRATULATIONS, PASSENGER,
ON YOUR ESCAPE.
This was followed by the signature of the President of the Nihilistic Capitalist Free-Enterprise Socialist Democratic Dictatorship of the Peoples’ Republic of Nihilon, with the date underneath, written hastily in pencil.
‘They certainly know how to do things in this country,’ said Richard, as another waitress put a bottle of Nihilitz on the table.
‘That will be their undoing,’ said the professor, ominously. ‘They are so much in touch with what the people think that they can no longer rely on them to react properly. In other words, the people have been nihilified, so that they are completely unknown factors. They value nothing, they hope for nothing – and yet, do you know, they are profoundly human, far more so than if they possessed all the values of Cronacian civilization. They are so human, in other words, that the time is ripe for some order and honesty to be reintroduced into their hearts and souls. Come, the green light is flashing. We must look to our luggage.’
While every suitcase of Richard’s was spread along the counter under the watchful eyes of three customs men, the professor was waved through by a curt nod from the officer in charge, and no item of his luggage checked. But Richard’s watch, typewriter, record-player, tape-recorder, radio, binoculars, prismatic compass, pedometer, camera, and theodolite were put to one side, as if he would have to pay an enormous amount of duty on them, in spite of the scorchmarks and bullet holes that they had suffered during the journey. Yet one lynx-eyed customs officer, who was particularly diligent, ignored them, and opened instead the small box in which was a pack of love letters that Richard never travelled without, as well as a pair of cufflinks from his girlfriend with the message: ‘I love you, darling’, engraved on them.
The officer’s eyes glittered, his hands shook: ‘We can’t let these go through.’
‘Are you joking?’ Richard demanded.
‘We never joke in Nihilon. Sentimental keepsakes, marks of love – can’t let them in. Love and nihilism don’t go together. Love is a threat to nihilism. It can be used by the opposition as a social force. Honesty, stability, all those terrible things stem from love. If you allow love, you get idealism, co-operation, affection. That would never do. Nihilism would rot under it. A few of our own people lapse from time to time and fall in love, but we don’t worry about them because they’re only a minority of psychic perverts. A foreigner, however, can’t be allowed to come in with those ideas, because he often has a great deal of influence. Nihilists are all too ready to believe what foreigners say to them. So I’m afraid I shall confiscate these – for the time being – and give you a receipt so that you may collect them when you leave.’
Richard decided he could do without them for a few weeks, and so smilingly agreed to the proposal, while two other customs officers glumly repacked his cases.
A huge black taxi stood by the terminal doors. ‘Hotel Stigma,’ Richard told the driver, pushing his cases in.
‘Where’s that?’ the driver asked.
Richard offered him a cigarette: ‘Nihilon City.’
‘People with a sense of humour should be sent back to Cronacia,’ said the driver, making no attempt to start his engine, but accepting the cigarette. ‘I’ve been working for forty-eight hours non-stop. Where to, then?’
‘Hotel Stigma,’ said Richard, reading the address carefully. ‘43 Ekeret Place, Nihilon One.’
‘I still don’t know where it is.’
‘You mean you can’t find your way around Nihilon City?’
‘Listen, I’m a taxi driver, not a bloody topographer.’ He leaned out of his window, and signalled a man standing by the glass doors: ‘You need a guide!’
He came in beside Richard, accidentally putting his foot on the tape-recorder. ‘He’d like to get to Ekeret Square,’ the driver said to him.
‘Hotel Stigma,’ added Richard. ‘Do you know it?’
‘I was born there,’ said the guide. ‘Room 62 – just before the last outbreak. My mother was travelling from Amrel to Shelp, hoping to get a ship out of it. She had to change trains at Nihilon City, which meant spending the night there, which meant giving birth to me. She never got out because of me, so you can imagine how I feel. She’s spent her last twenty-five years working as a cook in the hotel kitchen. So if you ask me if I know the Hotel Stigma in Ekeret Square – of course I know it. It’s the main square in the middle of Nihilon City, in any case. Go straight ahead, and turn left before the river,’ he said to the driver, who started the engine and set off.
There were no lights on the road, so the borders of it were indistinct. The driver switched his duo-coloured headbeams full on, not thinking to dip them when traffic came from the opposite direction. In fact his tactics at such times alarmed Richard, who had so recently escaped death in the airliner, for the huge car swerved over the road, and he couldn’t tell whether his driver was trying to hit the
approaching car – which was certainly coming straight towards them – or to avoid being hit. With a cymbal-like clash of the front wings the other car spun off the road in a whirl of green and purple light, but Richard’s driver went on his way without wondering whether anyone had been hurt or not.
‘You’re my luckiest passenger today,’ he said, ‘I haven’t managed to hit another car till now.’
The guide congratulated him: ‘If he’s badly hurt that’s a hundred points, plus another five hundred for not stopping to find out. I’ll vouch for you when we get to the Scoring Office.’
The driver laughed: ‘If I go on like this I’ll soon have a hundred thousand points – then I qualify for a house. I’ve always wanted to get out of my little ten-roomed flat.’
‘Ten rooms?’ said Richard.
‘That includes cupboards and lavatories,’ said the driver.
‘It’s three rooms really,’ said the guide. ‘And he’s got fifteen children.’
‘And my wife’s two lovers live with us,’ said the driver. ‘It’s nihilistic to have a lot of children.’
‘You knock ’em out, and you run ’em down,’ the guide commented. The lights of Nihilon bristled in the distance. They turned left into a dreary suburb, and went towards the bridge. ‘They have a passion for education in Nihilon. That’s the only good thing about it.’
‘It’s a great country,’ said the driver, ‘even though I do live here myself.’
‘What do they learn?’ Richard asked, too exhausted to care.
‘Everything,’ said the driver, avoiding collision with a massive lorry on its way to the industrial zone.
‘Some learn nuclear physics,’ said the guide. ‘Others learn the telephone directory. It depends which way your mind goes.’
‘What are you learning?’ Richard asked.
‘Street-fighting,’ said the taxi driver. ‘Same as my friend here.’ He held up a book. ‘Government publication. “The Complete Guide to Street Fighting” – five hundred pages with maps, plans, and diagrams. History of street fighting, tactics, weapons, political repercussions of, how to start it, how to stop it, how to enjoy it. Nihilon is such a free country that all information is readily available. Then there’s volume two. You go on to that when you’ve passed the examination at the end of volume one. Volume two has military engineering, demolitions and mining, explosives, boring and blasting, landmines and traps, dugouts and anti-gas procedures, fortifications, machine-gun emplacements, obstacles, siting of trenches and barricades – all that the man in the street ought to know in order to make himself a complete citizen, which means having the theoretical knowledge to take part in a bloody revolution. But while you’re at it, and before we get to the bridge, give me the envelope that the professor handed to you on the plane. It’s addressed to me, because I’m one of the insurrection’s generals, though I have to work as a taxi driver in my spare time. The guide here is my adjutant. We work together, preparing our plans, gathering our general staff. By the way, would you like to join our general staff? You receive all sorts of privileges – free cinema-tickets, open access to the zoo, a Zap sports car with a big number on the side, as well as a pretty girl-assistant.’
Richard was embarrassed at having to turn down such an attractive offer: ‘I haven’t yet seen much of nihilism. Perhaps I shall like it, then I won’t want to join your revolution.’
‘Insurrection,’ laughed the guide, ‘not revolution. We’re not lunatics.’
‘Whatever it is. But here’s your envelope,’ he said, glad to get rid of it.
The guide’s hands trembled as he took it: ‘You’ll be given a medal for this by our new government.’
‘Maybe we’ll make him a minister,’ said the driver. ‘Do you have another cigarette?’
‘The only way you can repay me for delivering the envelope is to get me to the hotel as soon as possible,’ said Richard as he passed his packet over.
‘Have a pill,’ said the driver, offering a small box by way of exchange. ‘They keep you going for days.’
Richard preferred to wait for a natural descent into sleep. Huge blocks of flats went up like cliffs on both sides of the road. Then they crossed a bridge over the River Nihil, into Nihilon City proper. He was being pushed and pulled about. ‘You’re here,’ said the guide, thrusting a revolver into his hand. ‘A present from the professor. He said to make sure you got it.’ Richard absentmindedly put it in his pocket. ‘This is the Hotel Stigma. My mother is waiting for you – with the best meal you’ve ever eaten. And be careful with that revolver. It’s loaded. We anti-Nihilists are serious people.’
Chapter 18
Benjamin had already driven two cars off the road that had tried to ram him, by using the novelty of his glaringly plain headlights. It gave him great satisfaction to see the sudden loss of nerve in the other car when, on getting what he considered close enough, he turned on his battery of six blinders, a fog-clearer, two back dazzlers, and a row of triple-flickering roof-installed searchbeams, at which the other car spun off the camber, rattled over a couple of potholes (which merely served to exacerbate its loss of control) and rumbled uneasily off the road before the big crash came somewhere back in the darkness. They, after all, had tried to ram him, so he felt no more sorrow at their plight than he had for the unfortunate manager of the petrol station whose exploding tanks, and what must have been his ultimate reserves, lit up the skyline for several miles as he drove contentedly into the dusk.
Coming to the Alphabet Motel, a drive-in sign channelled him between two desks; the clerk at one handed him a card on which was written: ‘Room P – thirty-five klipps’, while the opposite clerk got in the car and guided him into a small room. The doors closed, and the lift immediately began to ascend. When it stopped, doors opened in front, and the clerk indicated that he should drive out, along a corridor. The room doors had letters of the alphabet inscribed on them instead of numbers. Some had cars already parked outside, for which purpose ample space was provided. At door P, Benjamin stopped his car, got out, and was shown into a plain but comfortable apartment, which, after his long day, he was well pleased with. ‘The restaurant is now open,’ the clerk informed him before leaving. ‘There is also an amusement park attached to the establishment.’
After paying his bill in advance he went into the dining room of this curious stopover, where the menu was set out in automobile language. It was a four-stroke meal, at twenty klipps, and the food was excellent, beginning with an induction of sautéed tappets, then braised camshaft, followed by a main course which was a cut off the big-end, and terminalled by a dessert of carburettor Suzette. Half a bottle of high-octane wine was thrown in free. The plates, which were of the best Nihilon china, had a picture glazed on them depicting a car crash in which the most mangled vehicle plainly showed a Cronacian number-plate. A box of cigars was brought to him, with the name Exhaust-Smoke Coronas inscribed on its elaborate label.
After the meal he wandered into the amusement park. Prominent loudspeakers played the same Nihilon National Anthem he had heard and loathed at the frontier post, though none of the motoring clientele were taking much notice of it. Many of them, however, were lying dead drunk on the ground.
The main attraction was a large dodgem arena, in which those who must have driven cars all day were now amusing themselves by practising their expertise at causing or avoiding head-on collisions – before meeting the perils of tomorrow. There were cries of alarm and shouts of triumph, invariably followed by the overwhelming impact of reinforced metal. Attendants with long poles went from crash to crash, prising the sweating contestants free when they were unable to do it themselves. The car with most dents, and still running at the end of an hour, received a prize, though Benjamin did not stay long enough to find out what it was.
But, strangely enough, the atmosphere of the fairground soothed him, as he walked about smoking his cigar. Close by was a shooting-booth, a long counter from which one could try to shatter clay pigeons with a two-two ri
fle, and receive a glass of Nihilitz as a prize for each one down. Benjamin realized that the prostrate dead-drunk people must have visited this spot already, and from the state of their drunkenness must have been very good shots indeed. A man beside him, fat, sweating, with rolled shirt-sleeves, was such a crack shot that he drank thirty glasses of Nihilitz. At the thirty-first he fell down as senseless as a stone, the rifle still in his hands, a look of beatification on his face. Some sportsmen lost their sure aim after only the third or fourth drink, then went staggering away to spend their remaining small consciousness on the dodgem cars.
Before going to sleep, he put his boots outside the door to get them cleaned by morning, hoping to set out at eight o’clock and reach Nihilon City before nightfall – which he considered possible, provided the roads were good.
Back in his room to get ready for bed he found a leaflet in his table drawer which said: ‘Visitor to Nihilon! Good evening, or Good morning! In order to find out more about our country, you may wish to tune-in to the seven o’clock lies on Radio Nihilon. This is the most important information bulletin of the day. Regarding its curious opening of “Here are the Lies”, tourists are earnestly requested not to be duped by it. They may be reminded, in fact, that the inhabitants of Nihilon take it very seriously. This National Bulletin owes its inverted title to the genius of President Nil, when he realized that the people of Nihilon were no longer interested in the News. He therefore proclaimed that henceforth all news would be lies. Thus, when people flocked to hear these lies they soon realized that they were, in fact, serious truth. But whereas before they had contemptuously referred to the News as lies, they could no longer do so, because Lies became its official name. That is just one of many curious customs you will come across in our country, dear visitor, proving once again that nihilism is rich in tradition and folklore!’
Travels in Nihilon Page 12
