They came out of the smoke, crouching both from experience and the steepness of the slope. There was no real cover; the trees and hedges had been cut down long ago. Only the lines of pathways and the cuttings in the chalk which had once held public benches showed that this blackened hill had once known peace.
Slightly ahead of him a man grunted, put his hands to his stomach and fell sideways. For a second he clung with one hand to a projection in the ground, then the body went limp and rolled back down the hill into the still swirling smoke.
“Micro -cannon!”
They spread outward and away, flat on their bellies like snakes.
Lansom eased a search instrument from his belt.
“Between them two flat stones, keep your heads down!”
There was the thud of a compression pistol and then smoke and flame swirled about them as the micro-weapon together with its magazine, was blasted out of existence.
They rose to the crouching position again and went on. Then, behind them, a voice shouted: “Clearway—carriers! Stand clear—carriers!”
The line broke, scuttling from left to right, throwing themselves desperately flat.
Three men passed between them unhurriedly, blank-faced, crouching only from the steepness of the slope. All carried conventional weapons but they seemed to scorn cover. They went steadily ahead, silent, with a land of blind unfaltering determination.
A man near Lansom raised his head slightly and his mouth twisted. “Get well up there, boys. We don’t want you copping a packet half-way and rolling back on us.”
Lansom was not shocked by the man’s crudeness. In part he shared his feelings—the three men were doomed anyway. Between the shoulder blades of each one was the black leech-blob of a chase-mine.
Lansom thought, briefly, that they’d learned a lot since the Charing campaign. Then, those damn chase-bombs had demoralized them completely but the bitterness of defeat had taught them other methods. They called it the Kamikaze technique—a carrier, knowing he was doomed, simply stood up and walked into the enemy lines.
Lansom smiled bitterly, and that exquisite touch had carved up the enemy’s morale more than their own. Their own lovely little weapon had bounced back right in their faces.
He watched the three figures draw away, become smaller until it seemed they were almost beneath the castle walls. Then remotely, there was an explosion, followed by two others. A cloud of black smoke rose in the air and was slowly carried away by the wind.
“Amen,” said the man near Lansom without reverence or particular regret. “They’ve had it—come on.”
The line rose and went forward again.
Far behind them the sonic mortar went into action. They did not hear the reports but they heard the missiles pass high above them with a curious liquid sound.
They froze, waiting, bearded, haggard faces turned upwards, watching.
There was no explosion, no flash, no smoke. Dust trickled briefly, then, slowly, with a kind of despairing weariness, a huge section of the wall crumpled and fell inwards. Seconds later, one of the turrets swayed uncertainly and crumpled in on itself.
Dust rose, drifting like smoke, spreading outwards, seeming to mix with the slow gray clouds which drifted just above.
The men did not cheer; they looked at one another tiredly and, as if in mutual agreement, trudged on.
Before they had reached their objective, many of them fell —limp, sprawled things without meaning or cause for regret. No one bothered to see if they were still alive, the badly wounded would die anyway, the rest would crawl away. There were no hospitals, no first aid and worst of all, no hope. Even the slightly wounded, unless they were very lucky, would soon join the other nameless dead. There were new micro-organisms in the poisoned soil against which there was no defence.
Lansom trudged on with the rest, conscious of an ever-growing fatigue and a curious sharp pain in his chest. It felt as if someone had been working on his heart with needle and thread and drawn the stitches tight.
Eventually they reached the remains of the castle, the great stones piled one upon another in untidy heaps. Some of the vast high rooms were still precariously intact, but the ceilings sagged dangerously in places. Dead Indoes lay in heaps but Lansom found himself looking at them with horror. These were not the well fed, arrogant industrialists about which he had been told. These were tired, emaciated bearded men, many of them grizzled like himself. There were women, too. He moved to another room, sat down on a huge stone and, almost from habit, removed his diary from its long-life tin box. The stub of long-life pencil which he had found in Deal would not be any good much longer but would probably outlast him.
Today we took Dover from the sea. The landing was easy, but when we went inland—
His writing was interrupted by shouts and three struggling men stumbled into the room. One had the symbol of an officer painted on his back and the other two were striking him with their fists.
“You lied to us—where’s the food? You said there was food here, you bastard.”
The officer fell down and they began to kick him. “Where is the food?”
Lansom shared their resentment but it was directed more against himself. He’d been ‘taken’. There had never been any Indoes, at least not the fat, well-fed Indoes about which they had been told. This was a rabble army of half-starved scarecrows like himself.
Almost automatically he went on writing: Payne was killed in the first few minutes-It was getting dark early, wasn’t it? Surely the air wasn’t thin up here—why was—he panting? His chest hurt—hurt-Mary—Mary—the kids—where—
8
When Ventnor opened his eyes, Stein was a little shocked to see tears in them.
“You must be very sensitive.”
“Really?” Ventnor sounded a little choked. “I don’t know, maybe I read deeper—is it wrong to react?”
“If you mean do I disapprove—the answer is no. Most definitely no! Although as a psych I shouldn’t, I despise the indifferent. I’ve had young girls through this thing and some of them haven’t batted an eyelid.” He sighed. “Candidly, I distrust lack of feeling, so you have gone up in my estimation, although, I must add here, it will make you very vulnerable.”
He paused and began to remove the terminals. “Lansom was fifty-eight when he died, heart attack as you probably guessed.”
Ventnor looked up at him. “And all he fought for, all he cared for was his wife and children. He fought, killed the Indoes, hated, because it eased the aching sense of loss inside him.”
Stein nodded. “Very touching. Not many get to the actual motivation of the man.” He changed the subject “Not a pretty story, those final days.”
“And now we rebuild?”
“Where it is possible without the Island finding out—rebuild and, more important, profit by past mistakes.”
He laughed briefly and bitterly. “Some of us have a ‘thing’ about the Island. They’re so God-awful blind and so smug with it. They conduct this grandiose experiment on the commandments of a deceased paranoiac. Megellon, as I have told you, had a bug about Gadgeteers. He also had a bug about religion—hence the Padres. Here is the perfect example of a man who thought he was God trying to create a race of sheep in his own image. His kind of sheep, once the work is complete, won’t survive two generations alone. Meanwhile, the world itself is sliding to pieces. Soil erosion has already turned Africa into one huge Sahara and dust bowls are spreading in the United States, Australia and many parts of Europe.
“While the Island conducts itself like an Olympus creating their alleged stable society, vital work goes unnoticed. The world needs not these pathetic culture trays, but vast engineering projects, the rebuilding of cities and the foundation of a new society educated to the mistakes of the past.”
Stein paused and smiled grimly. “You are probably unaware that the ‘primitives’ outside the culture trays, are permitted to continue their existence only for ‘comparison purposes.’ What they do not know
is that, but for our forebears, there would be no primitives.
“People like Hubel, and thousands of such tribes all over the world, owe their existence to those who stayed behind in survival cells. This base for example, began with forty men and women working in an artificial cavern under a hill near Lenham.
“With strictly limited equipment, awful conditions and working like dogs, they virtually saved this area. The same tales of heroism can be applied to every resistance cell in the world. In England, the United States of America, Europe, in fact almost every part of the world, these tiny groups of dedicated experts worked until they dropped, staggered to their feet and worked until they dropped again.
“They planted protege and tuber in every fertile patch of soil. They cleansed poisoned soil and purified the polluted rivers and streams. Working against time in impossible conditions they studied the new diseases and came up with new antibiotics. Every band of vagrants who wandered into the area was knocked out with sleep gas and inoculated to a man. Later, as they grew in experience and knowledge, they were able to include immunization factors into the cell growth of protage and tuber so that the survivors built up resistance from their normal diet. This, however, took several years, in fact nearly a generation to develop.”
Stein paused and sighed. “Suppose I’ve said enough for one day. Next thing is to get you settled in, fix aptitude tests and start the education program. You, too, my friend, are going to work like a dog—”
Ventnor soon discovered that these were not idle words. A system of what was known as ‘intensive education’ had been worked out some years before and he was given the full treatment. It had nothing to do with hypno-tuition or subliminal education techniques but it achieved results. So skilful were his instructors and so unique were the methods employed, that a complete school term—by the old methods —was packed into a single week.
At the end of two months, therefore, he had graduated. He was helped by his lively intelligence and his overwhelming desire to learn. He was unaware at the time, however, that aptitude tests had been skilfully included in the program and that his instructors were carefully paving his way.
So busy was he both with the educational program and the rigorous physical training that he barely had time to study this base. He knew there were extensive laboratories and limited recreation facilities but beyond that he knew very little. If he was not learning, he was on field work, or going through the final stages of advanced mayhem. At this stage he was beginning to find himself as an individual and, although enjoying the training from a competitive viewpoint, deplored the uses to which his knowledge might have to be put. He had no active desire to loll a man and recoiled at the thought of doing so.
He soon learned by chance conversation that there were forty-five other bases like his own in the country and they were not unique. In the United States there were two hundred and eight, in Europe, one hundred and eighty, in Canada and Australia one hundred and fifty and so on. All had the same record of devotion, self-sacrifice and the spirit of complete dedication as those in his own country.
What did surprise him, however, and when he learned how, no little inward amusement, was the fact that all the bases worked in the closest and friendliest co-operation. This was due to the fact that the old tele-cables had been overlooked or forgotten by the Island. As these cables were long-life, they had survived the period of intransience and had required only power and minor repair to get them going again.
As the majority of the cables passed on the bed of the ocean directly beneath the Island there was a certain ironic humor in sending a message say, to Manhattan Base 3, right under the enemy’s stronghold.
In his second educational year, he struck up an acquaintance with Judith.
Judith was blonde, sensual and calculating. She collected men and physical experience with the same intensity of purpose that greedy people reserve for money. Ventnor’s background also appealed to her and, all too clearly, he was brilliant and on his way up.
She lacked the self-honesty to acknowledge that she would soon weary of all these attractions. He was new, he was there and Judith lived only for the present.
There was no real subtlety about her and, although she played it straight, she did so with considerable skill. She had a striking full-breasted figure and she virtually threw it at him.
Ventnor, over-sexed and inexperienced, went down before the first assault.
Prone and Stein watched the association begin with considerable misgiving.
“It would be her.” Prone was scowling. “She’s a brilliant biologist but as a personality she’s worthless.”
“He’ll be hurt.” Stein was thoughtful. “Badly hurt, but in the long run she’ll smother him. He’s extremely sensitive and he’ll soon become aware of her lack of any real feelings.”
“Blast her feelings,” said Prone, sourly. “What about his work?”
Stein’s prediction, however, proved to be correct. Ventnor soon discovered that he wanted something deeper than a beautiful responsive body. Somehow behind the hungry lips there was a coldness and absence of real feeling which he sensed but could not put into words.
To Prone’s delight and Stein’s relief he began to devote more time to study and field work.
Judith for her part, began to feel his lack of response. It was a new experience for her. She was used to men she could throw aside when she wearied of them. It was her first experience of the reverse side of the coin and she became possessive and bitter.
“You may be Prone’s white-haired genius but for God’s sake try and be a human being—have you taken vows or something?”
When he did not answer she tried the same line from other angles. “I suppose, now you’ve used me for your pleasure, I am to be thrown aside. You used to ask me to marry you.”
“And you always refused.” He reminded her sharply. “You said and I quote: ‘Marriage is the refuge of the emotionally insecure’.”
She called him an obscene word, then: “I supposed all this is due to that bitch, Gina.”
“Gina!”
“Oh, don’t play it innocent. You stop at her desk every time you come in from patrol.”
“I have to. She’s the base allocator. Any specimens—”
“I know what she does, thank you. She takes soil samples of anything you bring in and sends them to the appropriate departments for analysis. She’s a sorter, a menial—no degrees, no scientific qualifications whatever.”
She paused and came closer to him. “You haven’t a thing in common, yet you spend about half an hour chatting —people notice, you know.”
“You mean, you’ve noticed.”
“All right, I’ve noticed. What is there between you two?”
He rose. “Nothing so far as I am aware, but I must congratulate you on some excellent match-making. You’re not only putting ideas in my head but you’re throwing me at her as well.”
“I’m sure she’ll do an excellent job of catching you.”
He sighed. “Judith, this is the fifth row in two weeks. All of them like this one, were about nothing. Let’s forget it, shall we?”
“No, we won’t forget it. Do you think I don’t realize you’re cooling off? You think you can use me and throw me aside like some damn primitive woman from the villages. Who do you think you are?”
He turned -his back on her. “I have a patrol to do. While I am away try and think this over calmly.”
“Why don’t you say ‘get lost’ and have done with it?” She made for the door but turned as she opened it. “Right, this is the finish, but don’t think I’ve finished with you. Never think that!” The door crashed shut behind her.
An hour later Ventnor left the collection of huts which concealed the base with a feeling of relief. Not only had he discovered that he hated scenes but that this final one had somehow severed everything.
For a long time he had been conscious of Judith’s lack of genuine feeling and her coldness. It was a coldness which had
nothing to do with her concupiscence—after all this had begun because she had invaded his sleeping quarters at night. No, the truth was, although she derived intense satisfaction from the physical association, she felt nothing inwardly. Not that he himself was blameless. At first he had been completely swept away by desire for her and, in that desire, had been something like love. But she had cut that down before it could develop: “Don’t get maudlin, darling. I find it emotional and rather repugnant.”
Ventnor pushed the subject from his mind. It was a good thing it was over and done with.
He strode on and, four hours later, was near his objective. The territory was unfamiliar but he was now an experienced field worker and finding it had presented no real problems. The only snag—and one which did not trouble him particularly—was die fact that it bordered on dangerous territory.
Slowly, because it was a formidable task and because there were more urgent and immediate problems, the various bases were pushing their way back into the great cities.
It was no easy task; cities like London, New York, Berlin, or Paris had been the stages not only for intense fighting but hot-beds of Gadgeteers.
Although these things were past, the weapons they had used remained. The earth was poisoned, the water polluted and every square meter was dangerous in one way or another. On the surface, the gouge cats, bands of hairless dogs and other things roamed unchallenged. No-one knew what dwelt in the ancient subways and the deep tube systems.
Ventnor’s mission, however, was simple enough: An area of land on the outskirts of London had recently been sprayed with purifying chemicals. It was his business, to check the effects, make tests, take soil samples and drop cleansing agents into any water source in the immediate area.
He reached his destination and, topping a slight rise, came to an abrupt halt. Far away, across what was literally a desert of dust, and catching the early afternoon sun was a dome. He knew what it was but he had never seen it before.
There, still far on the horizon, as remote as the pyramids, but still conveying a solemn beauty was the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
These Savage Futurians Page 8
