by Gerald Kersh
Then, with sparkling eyes, Chatterton made articulate his savage visions of the moment when the hot water of the Equator met the bitter polar ice. Then, ah then, Kadmeel should indeed cut loose the foaming white horses of Poseidon, the Thunderer, and set free the thirty-two Winds of God! Hot air would strike cold air, and spin away in such whirlwinds as this earth had never seen since the Lord God Almighty divided the land from the waters; and roaring down under the lash of these winds would come the irresistible, the pitiless sea. Nothing that the combined civilisations of the world might do could possibly save them.
Grinning with glee, he drew a dreadful picture of the crashing of great cities, dwelling lingeringly on the destruction of New York—the panic flight of millions, mad with fear before a two-hundred-mile-an-hour hurricane—the wall of green water five hundred feet high falling with the weight of a mountain upon Manhattan—and, at last, a sullen, heaving waste of waters broken here and there by the battered upper part of a sodden skyscraper . . . Philadelphia, Washington, and Boston would be completely inundated. All centres of government, and of heavy industry, would be washed away. The mad winds would scream inland, destroying everything. Chatterton saw the vast deserts of Utah, and Arizona, and California, picked up like so many shovelsful of loose sand, and hurled upon the cities of the west, obliterating them, while the great rivers, now arms of the sea, burst their banks, and turned the fertile valleys into brackish lakes. And over all, the rolling thunder, the jagged lightning, and the pelting hail.
England would practically cease to exist. Chatterton was rather sorry about this, but it simply could not be helped. Of the whole of Europe, indeed, little would remain; only the mountains and the uplands, rocky, stripped naked by tempests, and cold, cold, bitterly cold! The south of Russia, “Russia’s bread-basket”, together with the Russian industrial centres, would lie fathoms deep. Flood and storm would thrash the life out of the north and central Russian cities, because the great snow wildernesses of the Siberias would melt and inundate the south and the west. The jungles and the plains of South America would go to the fishes. Australia would become a lagoon . . .
And when, at last, the turbulent waters, having found their level, subsided, there would be a new world ready to hand—a manœuvrable world of some few score million able-bodied survivors. They had to be the cream of the population, didn’t we see? Otherwise they wouldn’t survive, would they? A nice, not-unwieldly population, naked, clinging to the rocks and crying for bread. Now here was where the Sciocrats stepped in. Having planned this situation, of course, they were in a position to deal with it. In many different places—in the Rocky Mountains, Canada, the Andes, the Himalayas, the Apennines, etcetera, the Sciocrats had prepared immense strongholds in which were stored fabulous supplies of food, clothing, medical equipment, and, of course, arms and ammunition, tools of all sorts, seeds, and so forth. For years now, Chatterton reminded us, the newspapers had periodically been trying to inquire into the circumstances in which countless millions of tons of wheat had mysteriously disappeared from the markets of the world. He could solve that mystery, he said, with a laugh . . . But why did we look so shocked? The Sciocrats were simply hastening a natural evolutionary process. The Great Wash was bound to occur in the course of nature, only gradually, in about five or six hundred years.
Five or six hundred years hence, everybody now living would be dead and forgotten, anyway . . . And the way things were going, it was more than likely that in a couple of hundred years Mankind would lapse again into complete barbarism. Actually, the Sciocrats proposed to save humanity from another Dark Age, and now that they had Kurt Brevis’s Megatopic Silicon Bomb, nothing in the world could stop them. A dozen great plants, operating ostensibly for the manufacture of rayon and nylon fibres in various parts of the world, would go into production immediately.
He concluded: “We have uranium, of course. The Kad, among others, is under contract to supply the stuff to the United Nations. There’s plenty of it, I may say, that the United Nations do not know about on the Kad’s land in Canada. But it’s tedious stuff, uranium, you know; and slow, devilish slow. However, all’s well that ends well, George. What say you, Kemp?”
We said nothing. Chatterton rose. “Well, my lads, I shan’t bore you any more for now. I daresay you’d like to talk things over quietly. I’ll leave you to it. Help yourself to anything you want, and if you can’t find it, just ring for it. Toodle-oo!”
And he left the room. The door locked itself behind him.
“Courage, Albert,” said George Oaks, when we were alone.
“I’ll need it,” said I. Then, in a whisper: “I hope they left those buttons on that fancy suit of yours.” I was thinking now—quite calmly, to my pleasurable surprise—of cyanide.
He whispered back: “They took only the gun. I can’t see how they overlooked those buttons—they pass only a casual glance; and that valet pressed the suit, and thoroughly too——” He stopped then, snapped his fingers, and clutched at his temples. “—I have an idea,” he whispered between his teeth, “a mad idea, a wild idea. . . . God give me strength, Who gave me my photographic memory! . . . Or have I drunk it away? . . . No, no! The helix, by the God, the helix! . . . Albert, do as I do, do as I say: all hope depends on it! In a second I’m going to ring for Chatterton’s ‘man Powell’. I’ll talk to him. You stand behind him. Then, when I give you the signal, clap me a Nelson on him, get his head down, and hold him fast. Your cue is the word ‘Back’! Now . . .”
He pressed the bell-push, and Chatterton’s man came in, carefully closing the door behind him, and said, with that simper of his which so brazenly invited the back of one’s hand: “You rang, sir?”
“You might mix us a Stinger,” said George Oaks.
The man bowed, and busied himself with a bottle of brandy and a flask of white crème de menthe.
Oaks went on: “You’re a little of everything, aren’t you, Mungo? You must have quite a quick eye, or you could never have learned to measure out your jiggers as you do from the customer’s side of a cocktail bar. Clever fellow, Mungo.”
“My name is nott Mungo. If you happen to recognise me, and wish to address me by my real name, call me Mungo-Mitchell, will you? . . . Your cocktails, gentlemen. Will thatt be all?”
“Not quite,” said George Oaks. “Mungo-Mitchell! I know all about Mungo-Mitchell. The grandfather made a fortune dealing in woollen rags, which he tore up and re-processed into shoddy cloth. Hence, his nickname ‘Mungo’, which is a slang word for tailors’ cuttings. Nickname stuck so hard that his wife, the grandmother, hooked it on to the surname with a hyphen. . . . Any rags, bottles, or bones, Mungo? Now, now, take it easy! Better get a curved spine humping a ragbag in Bradford than a bloody back in Pentonville——”
—And on the word, my hands went up under the man’s armpits, and came down clasped at the nape of his neck, so that, taken off his guard, he crouched helpless in my grip, hissing with agony. “Good, good!” whispered George Oaks, “hold him a second.” He pulled up the white jacket, and snatched loose the shirt and under-vest. I saw the man’s back, china-white, wiry, absolutely unblemished. “Let him be, Albert.”
The man straightened himself with difficulty, fighting for breath and grimacing with pain. “Tuck your shirt in, my son,” George Oaks whispered, smiling and rubbing his hands in an ecstasy of quiet delight. “No, Glory Be, I still co-ordinate and turn over! . . . It wasn’t that I recognised you, Mungo, old man; it was that, all of a sudden, I did not recognise you. I was in court for my paper when Mungo-Mitchell was charged in the Mayfair Jewellery Case. His profile was towards me part of the time; I noted the helix of his right ear. Yours didn’t fit what I remembered, so, to check, I had to have a look at your back. Mungo-Mitchell got the ‘Cat’, and the ‘Cat’ leaves unmistakable marks. Your back is like a baby’s, Praise Be to the God! Now, tell me—if you aren’t Mungo-Mitchell, who the devil are you?�
��
The man called Mungo-Mitchell said: “Drink your cocktails while I mix another. I’ll have one too, I think. . . . What the devil have you done with my neck?——”
He spoke, now, in quite a different voice, in a plain, unaffected accent. “—There’s no need to whisper, by the way; you’re in one of the Kad’s private salons; it isn’t wired for sound, and there are no peep-holes. . . .
“Who the devil am I? Never mind . . .
“As for Mungo-Mitchell, he’s still ‘inside’ on account of a matter touching security, and I had plenty of opportunity to study him. He was, as I daresay you know, at school with Chatterton; Chatterton’s fag at Longchester. When Mungo-Mitchell was in the Third Form, Chatterton was a prefect; Chatterton was his tin god. Given a superficial resemblance to Mungo-Mitchell, plus data, and I—well, it wasn’t at all difficult, after twenty-odd years, to establish identity——”
He spoke hurriedly, now. “—I’m sorry you’re here, but at the same time I’m glad. Remember, my life’s in your hands. Take your cue from me, and we’ll talk when we get the chance. Meanwhile, remember. The wind is up. Chatterton knows that there’s somebody he has good cause to be afraid of. He thinks, now, that he’s got that man—meaning you. For God’s sake, let him think so. I’m sorry, but that’s how it’s got to be.”
He turned to me. “I’m afraid you’ll be the first to get it, Mr. Kemp, but if it comes to that I’ll try to see to it that you don’t know what’s happening to you. Bear up. It’s only a matter of time now.”
Then, in as long as it takes for a lock to click, he changed. As the door slid open, and Chatterton strode in, the man clenched his fist on a cocktail glass so that it broke between his fingers, and stood, quivering, gibbering with rage, while George Oaks, provocatively smiling, sang, admirably imitating a huckster’s voice: “Mungo! Mungo! Mungo-o-o-o! Pot o’ geranyums for a pair o’ ol’ trousis! Any rags, bo’lls, or bo’ones! Mungo-o-o-o!”
The man threw the broken glass to the floor and, turning to Chatterton, cried passionately: “Whatt have you been saying to them aboutt me?”
“What’s up?” asked Chatterton.
George Oaks said: “Oh, I went into Mungo’s genealogical tree, that’s all.”
Chatterton laughed, and said: “Poor old Mungo. We used to give you hell about it at Longchester, didn’t we?”
“Lett me hitt him, Chatterton! I wantt to hitt him!”
“Try Mr. Kemp,” said Chatterton—whereupon, turning suddenly, the man called Mungo-Mitchell seemed to fly rather than leap at me, and hit me with such a concentration of fury that I fell back into a chair. The end was ridiculous. Half-sitting, half-lying, I caught him between my knees in what they call a “scissors”, and squeezed him until he collapsed gasping, buzzing and writhing like a knocked-down wasp, while Chatterton, still shaking with silent laughter, said: “Now tidy up, and get out. . . . You’ll have lunch in about a quarter of an hour—dinner-time for me, of course; but you breakfasted rather late. We land in a couple of hours or so.”
Carrying the broken glass, Mungo-Mitchell (as I will call him) left the room. “He’s all right, really, you know,” said Chatterton. “Bit of an inferiority complex, perhaps—sensitive, and all that. Considering his background, didn’t have much chance, you know. But loyal; loyal as hell; trust him with my life, and yours too, George. Hope he didn’t bother you, Kemp. Glad you put him in his place. Do him good. Mentally, he’s still in the Third Form at Longchester. I used to lick him with an ash-plant when he burned my toast, or pinched my marmalade. . . . Want any books to read? Play chess, backgammon, cards? . . . No? . . . Then I’ll leave you to it. Don’t forget to ring if you want anything. And do think matters over carefully, won’t you? Be seeing you. Ta-ta for now!”
After lunch we looked out of the window. Now we could see a kind of velvety, dark-green downland . . . but they were not downs, they were high, almost mountainous uplands, overgrown with fir, spruce, and maple trees. . . . We were coming down. A blinding white zig-zag appeared, and a great shining blot: a river and a lake; but it was as if a crucible had cracked, spilling molten steel. Soon, on a high plateau, far below, I saw something like a broken game of dominoes. The pieces became great oblong buildings. A runway came slapping up like a driving-belt, and we were in Lord Kadmeel’s Canadian stronghold.
Part Ten
Chatterton sniffed the air as he walked with us to our quarters. “Distinctly autumnal,” he said. “You’ll love it when the maple trees turn red. The winters, of course, are devilish cold, but don’t worry, we’ll keep you snug. . . . Ah, here we are. Not much to look at from the outside, is it?” He was waving his hand towards a kind of gargantuan dish-cover of glass and grey metal. It looked like some contrivance by means of which a zoologist might observe the habits of imprisoned beetles. Some such thought occurred to George Oaks, for he said: “I see the slide, Chatterton. Where’s the bloody microscope?”
“Microscope? Oh, ha-ha, oh yes . . . Oh, it looks a bit public, but it isn’t at all. It’s an improved model of the Iwerks ‘Utopia Dwelling’. Pull a lever, and you are curtained off. Press a button, and all the dust and ashes are whisked away through vents in the walls and ceilings and floors. You want coffee at such-and-such a time? Set a dial, and up she pops, piping hot. Not that you’ll need even to press a button, you know, because I’ve delegated a couple of efficient men to look after you.” Chatterton smiled. “My man Powell, George; and your friend Oettle, Kemp. I believe you’ll find that Oettle, a single-minded man, Kemp, has one ambition—to have a crack at you when you can’t take him by surprise. I’m afraid you hurt his feelings, you know. Oh, that reminds me, gratters on a jolly good show. However, Oettle won’t bother you if you behave yourself. No point in your doing otherwise, you know.”
He touched a spring, and a panel opened, and then we were inside. Floors, walls, and furniture were all—oh, how I loathed that colour!—dark green. The very bindings of the books on the shelves were dark green stamped with silver.
“Airy lounge,” said Chatterton, “cosy dining-room, two bedrooms, excellent bath, and usual etceteras. Quarters for two servants—they’ll sleep on the premises, you know, but it’s quite all right—they have a separate bathroom. They’ll give you a menu every morning, and you just tick off anything you happen to fancy for lunch and dinner; the Kad’s own chef will prepare it—he’s Grabo, you know, late of Lichen’s, Berlin—so you may repose every confidence in him. His refrigerators are well stocked, I assure you . . . As for clothes, a word to Powell will get you anything you want. Better stock up, George; you’ll be with us quite a time . . . you too, Kemp, let us hope. Our tailor here has a remarkable gadget. Singer of Rome invented it. Too costly for practical commercial use, of course, but we have it. You step into a sort of Iron Maiden, only instead of spikes there are tens of thousands of little rods that slide back where they touch you, and so record every nook and cranny of your bally outline. Too damned perfect for my liking, but it’ll turn you out as if you’d been poured into your clothes in a matter of hours. . . . Just make yourself at home. . . .
“Oh yes; important thing: you are going to receive a signal honour tonight. Some of the Council want to look at you!”
“And who the hell are they?” asked George Oaks.
Chatterton laughed. “Oh, why don’t you come off it?” he said. “You’ll have to be frank with us in the end, you know, so why act dumb? . . . However, to humour you: six of the Council are here, or will be tonight, and the one who particularly wants to say how-d’ye-do to you is the Maharajah of Pur. Also present will be Mr. Tarrytowne; Romagna, of Italy; M. Janvier Simplon of France; and Van Weenen of South Africa.”
“And the rest?” asked George Oaks, watching Chatterton’s face. Chatterton smiled and shook his head.
“Of course, of course!” cried Oaks, snapping his fingers.
Chatterton said: �
�Do stop acting dumb, George; it’s an awful bore, and such a waste of time.”
He touched a button. Mungo-Mitchell and Oettle appeared behind him. He said to them: “See that Mr. Oaks and Mr. Kemp are comfortable,” and to us: “Better make up your minds not to be uncooperative, you know. A little dickybird tells me that things are going to happen in a Dickens of a hurry now. You will be all cleaned up by ten o’clock, won’t you? Good-bye, now.”
He turned on his heel and went out.
Oettle stood motionless, looking at me.
I said: “Headache better?”
He said nothing, but Mungo-Mitchell giggled, and said: “Show the gentlemen your operation, Karl.”
Oettle lifted his great chin, and we saw that the centre of his throat was horribly scarred and curiously sunken. “Three of his prisoners triedd to kill him with a knife,” said Mungo-Mitchell. “He has no larynx. Dumb . . . Tea, gentlemennn? Or, perhaps, a cocktail? May I suggestt dinner for seven-thirty this evening, since you have an appointmentt att ten? . . . Oh yes, Karl, wouldd you mindd fetching menus andd wine lists?”
