Clamping down my face-plate, I climbed out of the tractor. Moving fast now, I made my way between the buildings. This had been some sort of central part of the city; I recognized the building from which I had taken the books, without knowing what sort of building it was. In the books themselves I had found possible labels for it: bookstore, library, museum, reading-room; but which it was, or what the differences between the terms implied, I did not know.
The place was more in ruin than ever. The demolishers had broken down all the front of it before the operation was suspended; I climbed in through a back way, into a murky room. My heart beat very fast, my nerves stammered.
Something moved across the window through which I had scrambled. I turned. Two men jumped in and grasped me savagely by the arms. Before I could struggle, a dirty hand clamped over my face-piece and my head was jerked backwards.
They saw the yellow star on the breast of my suit.
“He’s only a landsman!” one said.
They let me stand up straight though they still held me tightly.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“We ask the questions here. Get moving, lander. The boss would like to meet you.” One of them produced a knife. Taking hold of my suit, he dug the knife into it, and jagged a cut in it about three inches long. I grabbed it in horror, pursing the lips of the gash so that the pure air did not pour out. This was standard procedure for dealing with anyone who looked like making trouble; with a cut in your suit to nurse, you are too busy to do anything else.
The shock threw me straight into an hallucination.
The men took me out of the ruined building to another I had not noticed before. It was miraculously preserved. Inside, it was furnished in the style of an earlier and more luxurious age, with curtains made of natural fabric hanging everywhere, and big dark musical instruments in a corner, and plants not used for eating, real woods, and strange pieces of furniture to sprawl on.
A fat man, such as you rarely see outside hospitals, sat at a table. He was eating ancient kinds of food, brightly coloured, with complicated instruments. When I entered, he pushed them aside. He stood up, and the man brought me over to him.
“You have anything of value?” he asked.
In my pocket, I had a picture of someone. It was someone I had loved, someone who depended on me; either I had let that person down or he or she — I knew not who it was — had let me down; but love was still predominant in the relationship, which continued strongly though it had been severed long ago. This picture was my own, my only, my valued symbol of this person.
I clutched the picture convulsively, “I have nothing for you,” I said.
The fat man sneered. “You must have something, you fool. This is the Twentieth Century, not the Twenty-Second; everyone has possessions still.”
The men wrenched my hand out of my pocket. I held the picture clenched in my right fist. They bent my forearm over the edge of the table. One of them brought the side of his palm down with a savage chopping motion. Pain scissored up my arm and shoulder. I cried and the picture fell on to the floor.
The fat man picked it up and walked over to a large tank standing by the window. I ran after him. The tank was full of a liquid with a familiar smell. How often have I not smelt it, in dreams and waking! It was a reinforced chlorinated hydrocarbon called Oxbenzide. We used it diluted to one part in ten thousand of water to kill off the hardiest pests. The fat man tossed my picture into it.
I saw that adored face curl down through the liquid, disappearing, seeming almost to suffer in the tortuous path it took.
I plunged my hand into the liquid to save it. The beloved picture was almost within my grasp when my arm began to dissolve. A lethal paralysis siphoned up my veins. In the liquid, nothing remained. Straining my mouth open in a sigh of shame and fear, I fell back, clutching my stump of arm. The dissolution was climbing towards my shoulder.
The evil hallucination burst, pitching me — still sobbing as if I would sob for ever — back into the real world.
I lay across a bundle of sacks in a dim-lit ruined room. A group of ragged men looked down at me. So I found myself for the first time in the company of the Travellers.
Chapter Four
So I have managed to get to the Travellers, after working for two months — or not working, which was as bad — on this manuscript. Perhaps I should have started with them, since they are so important a part of my life; for although I was with them for a short time only, the strangeness of them had terrific force: there was room in their system for trust and charity. And that was so although they were the most hunted of men. More importantly, the Travellers represented some sort of initiative for the future in a continent full of dead ends.
No, I could not start with them. You need courage to write, and courage grows by one’s own example more than by the example of others. You need courage because writing is confessing, and my biggest confession of all must come in this section. I loved the Travellers, yet I betrayed Jess! Also, the feel of how writing was has come over me; I have performed a sort of resurrection of this ancient art form. Syntactical arrangements, semantic mechanisms, come to my aid, allow me to convey my thoughts to no one! Or perhaps after this war, the remnants of humanity will rediscover caves and, crawling into them, confine their language again to paper, so coming to learn to read again. (Of course in my heart I have that hope.)
But will they understand? Have I put in too little or too much? Should I have left out the winters in the city, and the idiocy of my arrest, the clearing of snow in the villages, the despair, the knowledge that life always grew worse? Should I have put in my hallucinations, so real at the time and now, after a lapse of years, so repugnant to me, should I fiddle to produce footnotes, aping some of the books I find?
No way of solving these problems exists any more. The conventions collapsed like old bridges. On the one side of the gulf is the mind, eternal and untouched — on the other, the body, running, jumping, bleeding. Better to copy the method of the thrillers I find among old book piles (converted by the passage of two hundred years into the subtlest of all signposts to those old days of plenty), and stick to the body. The mind can take care of itself, as it has had to from the very beginning; it’s not as smart as body, but it can survive. And when I cannot resist it, I will pop up and be my own editor and commentator.
With this coaxing, imagine for yourself my feelings: I lay on the sacks looking at those ragged men. Nobody spoke, I could not speak, my brain numbed by the illusion that I had lost my arms. My breath rattled in my throat, changing tempo only when the leader of the Travellers came up to look to me.
The faces of all but him were the faces of men and women of that time: faces lean and desiccated by the effects of constant malnutrition and hardship, faces in which could be read the determination to wrest, what little they could from life and the sort of intelligence which hunts under the name of cunning. The women, reduced almost to sexlessness by their rough garments, hardly looked gentler than the men. Though the room was dim, I saw their faces clearly; the door had been converted into a crude airlock to trap most of the drifting gasses from entering, and few of them wore landsuits.
The leader’s face was different from the others. It had acquired in its starved lines an asceticism that transcended hunger. He was instantly marked out, not only as a man who had suffered, for nobody present had escaped that, but as a man whose spirit had transmuted the suffering into something finer. Before setting eyes on him, I had never appreciated the difference between mere endurance and durability. Directly I saw him, although I had never seen such a face before, I knew I could expect mercy at his hands.
He came forward with some sort of an adhesive patch, and with it mended the gash his men had cut in my suit. All the while, he looked penetratingly at me.
“You are sick, friend,” he said. “You’ve been babbling! Unlatch your face-plate and let’s have a look at you. You’re a landsman, aren’t you?”
“I’ve got to g
et back to the village,” I said. “I’ll be late. You know what that means — either the cells or the Gas House!”
“You’d be better advised to stay with us,” he said.
One of the women said: “We can’t afford to let him go now we’ve got him, Jess. He might tell the guards on us. He’s a Traveller now.”
Jess! This was Jess! Throughout the prison villages, that was the name they spoke when they spoke of the Travellers. To landsmen it meant hope, to overseers fear. I knew his life was a legend and there was a reward on his head.
Jess said to me: “We were all landsmen once, convicts sentenced to work on the land, as you are. We have escaped. We broke free and now we obey no order but our own. Will you join us?”
“Where are you escaping to? There’s nowhere to go,” I said.
“That we will tell you in due time. First we must know if you will join us?”
I looked down at my hands. In fact it was not a question in which I had any freedom to answer as I would; that sort of question was gone from the world; I thought that for my throat’s sake there was only one answer I could give; now I knew where they met, I could not be trusted back in a village. “I will join you,” I said.
“His tractor will come in handy, any case,” one of the men remarked. “We can use that.”
“No,” Jess said. “They will soon track down a lost machine; men take a deal more hunting, and are less important anyway. What’s your name, friend?”
“Knowle Noland.”
“You call me Jess — just that. We Travellers form a brotherhood and you’ll soon get to know us. What little we have, we share.”
“I’ve heard your name spoken.”
“Right, Knowle, go and start up your tractor. Set it going across the farm, so that it heads well away from here, and then jump out and come back to me.”
Stiffly, I clamped up my face-plate. They looked at me hungrily and in silence. I could feel their lack of trust. Without a word, I turned and walked out under the wet blankets that formed an airlock at the door. Outside, an early evening calm was falling over the ruined remains of the town. A pair of sentries were snuggled into the rubble; they watched me without speaking.
I picked my way past the place where they had captured me, which was only a few yards away. I came to my tractor, climbed in, started it. Slowly, I backed it from the awning and pointed its nose towards the miles of open field.
What life would be like among the Travellers, except that it would be unimaginably hard, I knew not. Life at the village was something I knew. If I drove back there fast, I might get no worse punishment than a week in the Gas House. The Gas House was the nickname for the factory — one stood outside every village — where the produce of the land went before it was carried away on autotrucks to the city. In the factory, the poisons on which the produce had been nourished, the phosphates, potassiums, magnesiums, and the insecticides and arsenicals with which it had been protected, were sluiced off under heavy sprays. Working those sprays, manipulating the foodstuffs, was not in itself a hard punishment. But every week in that poisonous atmosphere was a year off a man’s life. Robots were not allowed in there; they would seize up, and they were too expensive to risk.
Revving the engine, I looked back into the ruins. I saw half a dozen heads, half a dozen rifles. I was being covered. They would shoot if I tried to make a break for the village. Without further thought, I set the tractor in motion, jammed one of my cable tools down against the fuel pedal, and jumped. For a moment I stood there, watching the machine gather speed and head away over the open land, straight through a cabbage crop. Then I turned back to the ruins.
“You’re not so clever as I expected,” I told Jess. “The trail of that tractor will be easily visible to anyone who cares to investigate.”
“We’re moving out of here in an hour or two, when it’s dusk,” he said. “Now come with us and eat. You’re a Traveller now.”
The soup was vegetable water. The meat was that of a cow they had stolen from a cattle pen some miles away. The beast had been fed on stilbestrol to promote growth; its flesh was pulpy and obviously lacked key nutrients. Stilbestrol itself was known — and had been known for over a couple of centuries — as a carcinogen; but we had no option but to eat it. In the frantic drive to keep food production level with population increase, no pure food, as the ancients would have recognized it, was left on the planet, except perhaps in a few remote corners.
But if the food was bad, I found the company good.
These outcasts now accepted me easily enough as one of them (though I was careful not to let them know I could read print, since I soon discovered that every one of them, even Jess, was illiterate). So I found out something of the way of life of the Travellers.
I cannot say I became one of them. Nor was I with them for long. But that experience was vital, and some of the lessons of survival that I picked up then, with Jess and Garry and Haagman and the others, have been useful to me recently. And the touch of freedom I experienced — so novel was it that it frightened me at the time; but it has grown in me since.
Almost before the meal was over, the men were putting their kit together, though they had little enough in the way of possessions. They moved out in single file, into the gathering dark. As I got up, Jess detained me.
“I must question you on one thing, Knowle,” he said. “Our biggest problem is not the enemy but the disease. Cancerous people we’re happy to have, because it isn’t infectious, but tuberculous or other diseases we sometimes have to turn away. Now, when you were brought before me, you were plainly in a kind of senseless state, and crying out about losing something and I don’t know what. You will have to tell me what it is that ails you.”
Letting my head hang, I tried to find myself words. The truth is that I was very ashamed of my ailment.
“If it’s some kind of a mental thing, we don’t mind that. Most of us are out of our right minds anyhow.”
In a low voice, I said: “It was a sort of food poisoning I got as a child in the orphan centre in the city. A doctor said it affected a part of my brain and my retina. He called it a scintillating scotoma, I think, with something else I can’t remember. That was why I was arrested and made to serve as a landsman — I had a sort of vision one day when I was in the street, and I walked out into the traffic way and caused a bus to run up on to the pavement. So they sentenced me to the village.”
He said gently: “You must become one of us in mind as well as in the flesh. It’s your only hope of survival. We have a talent for recognizing those who may betray us. We shall know when you are really a Traveller, heart and soul, and then you may get a woman and we will look after you whatever happens; no true Traveller ever deserts or betrays another.”
“You needn’t think I would ever betray you! I’m not that kind,” I said angrily.
With infinite calm, he looked into my eyes. That lean face seemed keep enough to cut into my inner mind.
“If you are with us long enough, you will grow to know yourself. It is that that makes the desperate life of a Traveller worth living; you can escape the guards, but never yourself. When that day comes, you will see where betrayal lies.”
I remembered his words bitterly later, though at the time they meant little to me. This I will say: that in that ragged bunch of desperadoes survived, I do believe, all that was left of the nobler codes of an earlier way of life, debased, trampled by the necessities of life, hut still apparent. And Jess kept the spirit alive in the others. Without him, some of them would have been little better than wolves.
Soon it was dark, and we were moving.
I fell in with a man called Garry, a soft-spoken man who rarely smiled. His silence made me welcome. We moved two abreast, the couples spaced apart.
Overhead, a lonely Iron Wing was dusting crops. We paid it no attention. It was robot-controlled and would not see us. We were moving away from the village from which I came. Disquiet rose in me. I longed to get back to that world I knew, t
o Hammer, to the familiar routine. I did not wish to be a Traveller, to be bound to cross and re-cross for ever the reeking earth without hope or home. But how could I escape from this band?
The Travellers formed a free society within the great prison of England. Because conditions on the farmlands were so inimical to life, only men and women convicted of “crimes” worked there. To keep up the number of land workers, the laws in the great teeming cities had to be made increasingly strict, so that new infringements would maintain a supply of new labour. But some of these labourers escaped from the villages, and formed themselves into bands.
There was no hope of their getting back to their families in the cities. The cities, perching on their high platforms above the land, were impossible to enter illegally, or almost so. So the Travellers travelled, living as free a life as possible within their wide prison, until they were hunted down by machines or dogs or men.
We showed we were free all right. We marched till near morning, and then camped in an old garage, no longer used, on the edge of a main highway. Easy though it was, the pace we had kept almost killed me, for I was unused to their sort of walking. But I saw now why they were legend; they came and went as they pleased, often on regular routes of their own; they migrated and hibernated, they appeared and disappeared.
“Where are we heading?” I asked Garry.
He named the place, without particularizing too much, as if he had not too much faith in me. He told me we were escorting two men who were merely passing through this territory. They had come from the north and would be passed over to another band of Travellers farther south. They were heading for the sea, and hoped eventually to sail to Africa and freedom.
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