by John Brunner
“Dad! Claudia!” Ellen, in pajamas, rushed into the sitting room regardless of the fact that they were still in bed, and switched on the TV. “Jake got his beat!”
Forcing himself up on one elbow, bleary-eyed, Peter said, “What the—? Damn it, girl, it’s barely seven!”
“Don’t you want to see what’s happening?” she countered, and stood aside from the screen. The early news had just begun, and the lead story was the Thrower kidnapping, broken exclusively by the Comet. It was mentioned that Jake had gambled on printing an extra half-million copies, and they were already sold out.
Swinging his legs to the floor, heedless of the fact that he was naked, Peter said sourly, “How long before Special Branch closes the paper down?”
“Oh, Dad!” Ellen would have stamped, but she was barefoot. “Just watch, why don’t you?”
“Yes, I certainly want to,” Claudia said, rising and pressing herself against his back with one arm over his shoulder for want of other concealment of her nudity. And indeed the news was worth watching. Almost half the ten-minute bulletin was given over to the subject, and it was the lead item in the talk show that followed. When that came on, Peter said soberly, “I apologize. They wouldn’t dare. Not with this level of exposure.”
“I bet it’s on all the channels!” Ellen cried, pressing the remote control. And, indeed, it was.
“I think I’d better find out whether they want me on the box,” Peter muttered. “Sling me my dressing gown, there’s a love.”
Moving reflexively to comply, she let her face fall.
“But we’re supposed to be going to see Louis Parker!”
Peter was about to say, “It’ll have to wait!”—when she darted toward the bed and dropped on her knees, gazing up earnestly at him.
“Please?” she whispered. “I have worked very hard to find him. And you did promise.”
Tugged two ways, he hesitated. At length he appealed to Claudia, who pondered for long moments, but said eventually, “You know, I think she’s right. You could probably pick up some quick cash because you had that piece in the Comet and thousands of people who never heard of you before must be reading it right this minute. On the other hand, if while Jake is in a good mood we confront him with the first really hard evidence concerning the kids you wrote about… It could be a long-term benefit.”
Jumping up, Ellen hugged her and her father both. “Just what I was hoping you would say!” she exclaimed. “Right! I’ll make some breakfast. You can have first turn in the bathroom.”
Since many wealthy commuters lived in the area, there were still frequent trains to Camberley. Despite the cost—British Rail having “rationed” its passengers by raising prices since the late 1980’s, rather than providing additional trains—Peter and Claudia decided to travel that way. It would be a treat for Ellen. She had never gone by train, apart from the London tube.
It being Saturday, the train was packed, and since they could only afford the second-class fare Ellen, at half-rate, had to sit on their knees by turns. Watching her leaning back against Peter, vaguely eavesdropping on the conversation of their fellow passengers—which, inevitably, centered on General Thrower’s disappearance, and reflected the scores of incompatible theories already circulating—Claudia wondered about their fondness for each other. From what she knew or guessed about him, she felt certain Peter must have been infuriated when his long-neglected daughter was dumped into his life. Moreover, given that he had abandoned her mother when she was pregnant, and shown virtually no interest in his own child until they were thrown together, one might have assumed that Ellen would resent her natural father. Yet now they seemed to be on the best of terms. It was almost as though she had seduced him into accepting her. Certainly she had charmed him…
In the long run, might not such a relationship become—well—unhealthy?
However, all such thoughts evaporated when Ellen, to give her father a break, came and sat on Claudia’s lap instead. No, she was just a normal if unusually intelligent girl making the best of a bad situation, and doing so with mature competence.
You, Claudia chided herself, have paid too much attention to too much scandal. Not every single male parent has sinister designs on his nubile offspring…
With a wry private smile at her own suspicions, she turned to gaze out of the window. The glass was streaked with rain, growing heavier by the minute.
An almost constant series of FOR SALE signs met her eyes, mainly on empty factories. The economic crash that had begun in the States was taking its toll here as well—that, and competition from more efficient countries elsewhere in the EEC. She recognized the name of one firm; a recent news report had mentioned that it was moving lock, stock and barrel to Spain. A wan-looking group of former employees, sodden by the downpour, were holding up banners for the passengers to read, but the windows were too smeared for them to be legible.
Whenever the train stopped, groups of hopeful beggars darted up to the alighting passengers, whining after alms. Armed police dragged them aside, cuffed them about the head, pushed them back against the wall, saluted their intended prey. By Camberley, however, it was no longer the police but the army that was on patrol.
“You think this is because of Thrower?” Claudia murmured to Peter as they prepared to get out. Face strained, he nodded.
“Something wrong?”
“Yes.” He bit his lower lip, glancing sidelong at Ellen.
“We can brazen it out. Come on.”
She caught his hand—and, on the instant, froze. His answering squeeze reminded her how skilled that hand had been last night… and also that she had made love unprotected.
Am I insane?
It was his turn to ask what was amiss. But before she could answer—before she had even had time to reason through what she was alarmed about—Ellen was urging them onward, toward the khaki-clad men and women guarding the exit from the platform, some of whom were already curling their lips at the sight of someone with dark skin. With a sick sense of foreboding, Claudia noticed that they were all wearing red-white-and-blue ribbons.
Then the miracle happened. A clear voice called, “Peter! Peter Levin!”
They halted and swung around. Approaching was a tall man, extremely well-dressed, who had just emerged from one of the first-class compartments.
“Peter, don’t you remember me?” he demanded.
“My God, of course!” Peter caught his hand and shook it warmly. “Harry Shay! I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages! What made you leave California—? Oh, by the way, this is my friend Dr. Morris, Claudia Morris, and this is my daughter Ellen. Harry Shay, formerly of Shaytronix Inc.! What are you doing back in Britain?”
Flourishing a season ticket, Harry led them to the exit, brushing aside the suspicious soldiery with such authority that they simply turned their attention elsewhere. They were outside in no time, sheltered against the rain by an awning. From a gray Rolls Royce waiting illegally in the roadway a hand waved and the engine started.
“Got out while the going was good, shall we say?” Harry replied at length. “More to the point, what brings you here—? Ah, don’t tell me. Let me guess. I saw that piece of yours in the Comet—dreadful rag, don’t normally waste money on it, but when they got this incredible scoop… Your editor has sent you down to follow through?”
“Well, not exactly,” Peter admitted. “We’re on the track of something different—”
Ellen butted in unexpectedly. “Mr. Shay, do you know anyone around here called Louis Parker?”
Harry repeated the name, frowning. “No, I don’t think I do. Where does he live?”
Before the adults could answer she produced a slip of paper from the pocket of her jeans.
“Oh, I know where that is. I’m going past it, in fact.” The Rolls drew up level with them, and a bright pretty face smiled from the driver’s window. “You remember Alice, I’m sure! Alice, look who I’ve bumped into! They’re going to call on someone who lives nearby—let�
��s give them a ride! We can’t make them walk, and they’ll never get a cab on a day like this!”
“Featly!” Ellen exclaimed, and clasped her hands.
Claudia murmured something under her breath. Peter glanced at her.
“I missed that?”
“I said: if all our problems could be solved so easily… Thanks a million, Mr. Shay!”
It was infinitely relaxing to ride in this luxurious car, protected against the chill and damp. Even the empty shops masked with tattered posters, the groups of workless youths shivering in their doorways, the police in yellow plastic capes chaining up abandoned cars to be dragged away for scrap, could not erode their sudden joint mood of optimism. It was as though they were aware of reaching journey’s end. Claudia tried to think about what they had to expect—what they were going to say to this mysterious Louis Parker when at long last they encountered him—but laziness like the effect of good pot pervaded her mind, and she was content to relax and let things happen.
The town gave way to suburban roads lined with gaunt trees. The leaves they had shed, sodden with wet, barely stirred in the gusting wind. Here and there they saw optimistic youngsters gathering them up in wheelbarrows; they would make compost from them during the winter, and sell the result next spring to fertilize the gardens of wealthy local residents. It was one of the employment schemes fostered by the government. Of course, it didn’t provide a living wage, but it was supposed to keep them out of mischief, and it assuaged the demands of the Greens…
All of a sudden they were turning off the road down a winding driveway. Peter became suddenly alert. Tensing, he glanced from side to side.
“This is the address your daughter showed me,” Harry said in a reassuring tone.
“But should we just turn up like this, unannounced?”
It was obvious what he was worrying about. At the mouth of every driveway for the past three miles there had been signs warning of security patrols. In the aftermath of the Thrower kidnapping, were they not bound to have been redoubled?
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Ellen said, laying a hand on his. And, miraculously, he didn’t.
The car halted outside a large Victorian house: not a mansion, but immense. Peter whistled.
“Did all right for himself, didn’t he—old Louis? Well, all I can say is thanks very much, Harry. And hope the guy’s at home. Otherwise we’ve come on a wild-goose chase.”
A disturbing point crossed Claudia’s mind:
Why didn’t we phone to say we were coming?
However, a second later she had thought of reasons why not—mustn’t alarm him, if he’s warned he may run away…
And was distracted because both Harry and Alice were getting out of the car.
Following uncertainly, Peter said, “But…”
“You go ahead,” Harry smiled. “Go ring the bell.”
In fact, though, that was unnecessary. The front door swung wide and here came a boy bearing a huge umbrella. He hurried over to the car with a broad grin.
“Mr. Levin! Remember me? I don’t suppose you do—I was only about eight or nine when we last met. I’m David. And you’re Ellen, aren’t you? Great to meet you!”
To Peter and Claudia’s vast astonishment, the two children embraced like long-lost friends.
“Quickly! Inside!” Alice cried. “It’s pelting down!”
And long before objections could be formulated, they had been rushed into the hallway. It was dry in here, and warm, and there was a pervasive pleasant smell of roasting meat: lunch being cooked rather early?
That was the first thing that struck Peter and Claudia. The second was a series of indications that the house must be full of children: bicycles propped against the foot of a balustraded staircase, a dozen pairs of small rubber boots untidily against the wall, discarded anoraks waiting to be hung up…
No toys. But definitely children’s belongings.
Peter blurted, “Does Louis Parker live here?”
Harry shook his head.
“Then why have you brought us here?”
“This is the address you asked to be brought to. It just so happens that it’s ours.”
“I don’t understand!” Clenching his fists, Peter rounded on his unexpected—and suddenly unwelcome—hosts.
“Don’t blame him, Mr. Levin,” David said softly, taking his arm. “It wasn’t his idea to bring you here. It was mine. You see, I have something to show you. And you too, Dr. Morris. If you would kindly come this way…?”
Moving as though in a dream, Peter and Claudia allowed themselves to be led across the wide tiled hallway to a door at the far side. Opened, it revealed a high-ceilinged room with immense windows giving on to a neglected garden. Children, all about David and Ellen’s age, all with the same dark hair, the same slightly olive complexion, the same general build, were standing around a long oak table. At once the smell of roast meat became intense.
As though they had been rehearsed in their movements, they parted to let be seen what lay on the table: a naked human figure, seared and blistered and blind, its hair scorched off, its limbs contorting in pain but restrained by plastic straps. Hanging from the ceiling, the impersonal eye of a TV camera, whose field of view the children carefully avoided, was recording the victim’s agony.
“Mr. Levin, you’re a reporter,” David said. “Among other things. Allow me to present General Sir Hampton Thrower. He has been exposed to precisely the degree of heat—we couldn’t imitate the blast effect, but the heat was easy—that would be suffered by someone standing unprotected on a clear day five miles from the ground zero of a one-megaton hydrogen bomb exploded at ten thousand feet. In other words, the typical yield of one of the missiles that would inevitably be used in the war he claimed would be so good for the people of Britain.”
Claudia doubled over, striving not to vomit.
“But—”
Peter managed to force out the single word despite his own violent nausea.
“You wish to know how we could be sure?” David murmured. “Well, the data are available… But to be on the safe side, we had our calculations checked by someone you know.”
Overlooked until now, a familiar figure emerged from an alcove, untidy, shabbily dressed…
“Bernie!” Peter burst out.
“I couldn’t help it,” the hacker muttered, his eyes roving everywhere save toward the ruined figure on the table. And then, with a hint of defiance: “I think it serves him bocky right, anyhow!”
“A taste of the medicine he wanted to prescribe for others,” David confirmed. “By the way, he’ll live. Long enough to be shown on television, heard describing the agony he’s suffered, making his apologies on the grounds of ignorance… Of course, as the old legal principle has it, ignoratio legis nihil excusat—saying you didn’t know it was against the law is no defense. We rely on you to organize that for us—Dad!”
Harry, who had been hanging back beside the door, said uncertainly, “Well, I’ll do what I can, of course. But—”
The children suddenly burst out laughing, except for David, though it cost him a visible effort to control himself. A hint of amusement nonetheless colored his voice as he said, “No, Harry, not you. Nor Louis Parker either, though I confess that for a long time I, too, imagined he was the person we were looking for. In case you’re interested, he wasn’t having an affair with Dr. What’s-her-name. She must just have been a bit of a fag-hag, as they used to say, because he’s homosexual. We’ve traced him to a villa near Malaga. He made a fortune peddling amyl nitrite to the gay community in London, enough to retire on before he was forty. So that leaves…” And he cocked one eyebrow.
“Oh my God,” Peter said brokenly, clenching his fists.
David looked at him steadily. So did the other children. So—and this was the worst—did Ellen.
“I think you finally caught on,” David murmured.
But instead of answering Peter began to groan.
“Come now,” David said comfortingly
, and took his arm. “We’ll adjourn to another room and sit down, and Alice will bring you a drink, and we can all talk about it. Then you’ll understand.”
I don’t understand, I don’t understand…
Peter came slowly back to himself. He was in a drawing room, huge, handsomely furnished with armchairs and settees covered in floral chintz, its windows half concealed by matching curtains drawn together at the top, held apart lower down by braided ropes. It was approaching noon, but the light outside was gray and dismal.
Yet I don’t feel as awful as I should!
And that couldn’t simply be due to the fact that the chair assigned to him was so comfortable, nor even the warming impact of the glass of brandy—traditional restorative—which Alice had handed him, its aroma running ahead of its hot taste. He glanced at Claudia. She was paper-white and shaking.
So should I be. I’ve just seen a human being reduced to a condition worse than… I don’t know what it could be worse than. Is there anything worse? Except maybe to have live maggots dining on your flesh!
And then, unbidden: If someone did let off those bombs, the victims would be food for maggots, wouldn’t they, long before they died?
All of which, contrary to his will, seemed distant, veiled and far away.
It’s as though, the moment I crossed the threshold of this house, everything I’ve worried about lately, everything I’ve been afraid of, has—well-receded.
“It has,” David Shay assured him, kneeling on a cushion at his side. Until that moment Peter hadn’t been aware of speaking aloud. Yet he must have been—either that, or these children could read his mind…
Briefly distracted, he gazed from one to the other of them in search of clues. Obviously these were the kids Claudia had come to Europe in search of, the ones that Bernie had failed to trace despite his mastery of hacking—
Just a moment!
As usual, Bernie was staying in the background. Peter might have overlooked his presence in the dimness but for the fact that Alice was offering him too a glass of brandy, and he had eagerly accepted. He found himself staring in that direction.
