The Overman Culture

20

It took a long time to get Horatio sensible once more. Too long. Michael would have to think of some convincing fabrications before he returned home. So, he realized, would Horatio. Horatio, evidently, had already been through a great deal of danger and stress. Michael wondered how he would stand up to the inevitable questioning of his parents.

But that was not an immediate problem. The immediate problems were to restore Horatio’s spirit, to find out exactly what had happened, and to do something about what was left of Aldous Huxley. One thing was certain: His remains could not be allowed to stay in the library. Their discovery would be a threat to the entire Family.

With patience and gentleness and an air of confidence he did not really feel, Michael tried to reassure Horatio and to convince him that, if they both kept their heads, everything would turn out all right.

Presently, Horatio recovered sufficiently to be able to uncover his face and look at what he had done. His face was still wet; but the tears and the moaning had stopped, and all that remained of his recent hysteria was a rhythmic and convulsive sighing—like the labored breathing of someone who had made great exertions.

Horatio surveyed the body almost calmly. He looked at the black, perforated plate set deep between the shoulders, its holes corresponding to the pattern of pins in the plate at the base of the neck.

“So that is how they are joined together,” said Horatio. “What do you think we would find if we opened up the body—lots of little motors and wires and valves, like in an old radio?”

“I don’t know,” said Michael. “But we are not going to find out. There isn’t time, and you have done quite enough damage for one night. You had better tell me what happened, and then we will have to decide what to do about—about the pieces.”

Horatio did not seem to hear him. He was studying Aldous Huxley’s head and the bent pins in the black plate. “Michael, look at this. I have just had an idea. Wouldn’t it be possible for one drybone to have several different heads—or for one drybone head to have several different bodies? The skin is torn because—because of what I did. But there must be a way of sealing and unsealing it.”

“Horatio, we can’t consider all the implications now. There will be plenty of time to think about them later—if we can successfully get ourselves out of this mess.”

Again Horatio appeared not to have heard him. “That would explain how the drybones at school tried to keep pace with our growing,” he said excitedly. “I’ve noticed them very carefully. They don’t grow evenly as we do. They seem to stay the same size for a long time, then suddenly shoot up an inch or so overnight.” He laughed, and the edge of hysteria was still evident in his voice. “Of course. They do it by changing their bodies. I must explore Ellen Terry’s body very thoroughly next time I see her, to make sure she isn’t wearing a boy’s body by mistake.”

The laughter became higher in pitch. Michael took hold of Horatio and shook him hard. But that didn’t stop it. So Michael slapped him hard, very hard. And the pain brought him back to his senses.

“I’m sorry, Michael…. I’ve made a hell of a mess of it, haven’t I? Now there is going to be real trouble.”

“Listen,” said Michael fiercely. “There isn’t time to be sorry. There isn’t time to speculate on the nature of drybones. There probably isn’t even time enough to get us out of this jam. But we have to try to do something constructive about it. And the first thing is that you must tell me as quickly as possible what has happened.”

Horatio pulled himself together and gave his account. After he had first discovered the underground passage, he had become convinced that it would lead out of London; and he determined to explore it as soon as he had an opportunity. He said nothing to Michael and Ernest because they had seemed engrossed in their wretched books, and he had sensed that they would probably want to delay exploration for a while until they found out what, if anything, the books revealed.

“Also,” confessed Horatio disarmingly, “I wanted to do something on my own…. I’m not very good at being told what to do, Michael. You must have realized that. Besides, I wanted to be able to find out something useful and then come to you and say: ‘Look! Surprise, surprise!’”

“Well, you did that.” Michael’s voice was grim. “You did exactly that.”

Horatio had risked coming to the library in midafternoon. He had with him his iron bar and an electric torch with new batteries. He walked round Apollo Twelve Square twice before he entered the library, trying to make sure that he was not followed. Horatio was certain, in fact, that he had not been followed and that Aldous Huxley must have already been in the library when he arrived.

“If there had been any sign of a drybone anywhere, I would have abandoned the stunt. But the situation seemed absolutely perfect.”

“Too perfect,” observed Michael. He glanced at what was left of Aldous Huxley. “We can only hope that this one was here casually…. Which of the passageways did you take—the one we found you in last time?”

“Yes. I knew it was going to be a long job because of last time. I thought I’d save the other one until you and Ernest were present…. I waited in the library for a while before I went down the stairs, just listening to make sure I was alone. But there wasn’t the slightest sound. The whole place was dead.”

Michael sighed. “Which leads to the nasty thought that if Aldous Huxley was already present, he was hiding. And if he was hiding, he was doing it for a purpose.”

“But he couldn’t have known that we had found the library.”

“Possibly. But he could have known that some fragiles had found the library.”

Horatio had gone down the stairs, switched his torch on and had begun to walk along his chosen passage as fast as possible. He wanted to get to the end of it quickly not just because he was impatient to discover where it led but also because he wanted to return home before his absence excited too much interest.

The corridor was long and slightly curved. It also seemed to be sloping downward. The walls, roof and floor were monotonously smooth and were rather damp in places. Horatio noticed that his footsteps echoed. After a time he alternated periods of walking with periods of running. He had just finished one period of sustained running and was taking a short rest when he became aware that the echoes of his footsteps were apparently continuing. Oddly, it did not occur to him at that point that anyone else could be in the corridor. He simply concluded that it must be so long that the sound of his footsteps was reverberating along it.

However, some time later he took another rest and listened once more to the apparent echoes. That was when he noticed that the rhythm was different from the rhythm of his own footsteps.

“I didn’t panic, Michael. At first I thought it might be you or Ernest, having had the same idea that I had. But I thought the best thing to do would be to press on and reach the end of the passage. I imagined it might be possible to conceal myself somewhere; and if whoever was behind me turned out to be you, we could have a laugh about frightening each other because you—or he—must have been hearing my footsteps, too…. If it was a drybone, then I’d just keep out of the way and try to see who it was. That was the theory.”

“The practice?”

Horatio shuddered. “The practice was different… I don’t know what I thought would be at the end of the passage. I don’t know what I thought it would be like outside London. I suppose I imagined fields and villages and hills and woods—that kind of thing…. It had been a long journey. I—I came to the door and—” Horatio stopped, obviously agitated by the memory and obviously trying to control himself. “And—and I just wasn’t prepared for it…. I’m sorry, Michael. That was when I really panicked.”

Michael put a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, Horatio. You have had a bad time. Nobody doubts your courage.”

“It was just an ordinary door…. Just an ordinary door. Unlocked. I—I turned the handle and opened it….” Horatio put his hand to his forehead and pressed hard, as if he were trying to press back nightmares, phantoms. “There were rocks, great rocks and a roaring of water. And there were these things—I was too shaken to see what they were at first—these huge lizards…. And there was one very near. It turned its head and looked at me…. I think I must have screamed, because they all looked. Then I slammed the door and I ran. God, how I ran! I think I was still screaming. Then I heard the footsteps coming toward me. And somebody was calling. And then I ran into the drybone. …. I—I went to pieces. I thought he was going to kill me or drive me back to the lizards. So I knocked him down and hit him as hard as I could. But he managed to get up somehow, and I chased him all the way back. I had to smash him then—for a different reason. He would tell the others, and then you and Ernest might be drawn in… and… and… Michael, I had to smash something!”

Horatio was shouting and sobbing once more.

“Yes, you had to smash something,” said Michael sadly, again holding Horatio and soothing him like a child.

This time the hysteria wore off quite quickly, and then Horatio became abnormally calm. “What a jaunt,” he said. “This will shake the Family, won’t it, Michael?”

Michael felt depressed and afraid. “Yes, this will shake the Family.”

“Did I do wrong to smash the drybone? He could have been very dangerous.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know…. Listen, Horatio, this is what we are going to do now. We are going to pick up the—the pieces and take them down into the passage. We’ll take them along it as far as we can without using up too much time. Then tomorrow night Ernest and I will dispose of them.”

The body was no heavier than the body of a fragile. Michael and Horatio manhandled it down the steps and dragged it about a hundred paces along the corridor. Then they went back up into the library.

“Stay here,” said Michael, “and don’t do a thing.” He went to pick up the battered head. It was heavier than he thought. Heavier than the head of a fragile, probably.

But it wasn’t the head of a fragile. It was the head of a—a machine. Michael felt sick and numb. Because the machine had been demonstrably a person, and the person was now no more. He avoided looking at the head as much as possible. But the hair felt absurdly soft in his hands, and the skin felt like ordinary skin, but hard and cool. With an immense effort of will, he managed to carry it down the steps and along the corridor. For reasons that he could not understand, he tried gently to fix it onto the body. But the pins were all bent and it wouldn’t fit.

By the time he got back into the library, Horatio seemed in remarkably good spirits. “At least, that’s one less we have to worry about. What is the program now, Michael? I suppose we ought to go home.”

“Yes, we must go home as fast as we can. You’d better invent a good story, Horatio.”

“Don’t worry. Don’t worry. They are used to me being unpredictable. I often tell them to go to hell anyway…. Tomorrow night, Michael, you and Ernest will need help to get rid of the bits. I can—”

“You have done enough already,” cut in Michael. “You had better keep out of mischief for a day or two.” “How are you going to dispose of the remains, then?”

Michael thought for a moment or two. “I don’t like it a bit,” he said grimly. “But about the safest thing I can think of is to make a free gift to those lizards.”

21

Michael and Ernest were not able to go to the library on the following night. They were not able to go until three nights later. The first evening was taken up by an invitation—which Michael had forgotten—from Mr. and Mrs. Bronte to Mr. and Mrs. Faraday and Michael to play Monopoly. Since everyone was well aware of the situation between Emily and Michael, it would have looked exceedingly odd if he had evaded this opportunity of seeing her. And, above all, Michael did not want to do anything that would excite suspicion at this point.

The second evening was taken up by an exhibition of students’ work at high school. All students were expected to attend, along with their parents, if possible. And it was a foregone conclusion that all the drybone parents would want to see what their children had been doing. Michael had an intricate model of Westminster Abbey on show. Ernest had done a series of paintings of British military aircraft.

The third evening, however, was free. Michael, Ernest and Horatio waited for it with impatience and dread. Horatio seemed to have recovered from his horrifying experience and pleaded to be allowed to help dispose of what was left of Aldous Huxley. He promised never again to undertake any private exploration without Michael’s consent. In the end, Michael decided that it was probably safer and wiser to have Horatio present than to leave him out of the disposal operation. It was going to be a hard task hauling Aldous Huxley along the passage to that tantalizing door to the outside world. Three people would obviously do the job a great deal faster than two.

Michael had told Ernest all that had happened, but he had told no one else—not even Emily. The fewer the people who knew about the bizarre situation the better. Nevertheless, Michael had a depressing conviction that it was not going to he possible to restrict the knowledge of the destruction of Aldous Huxley to three fragiles.

He was right.

They arrived at the library when dusk was beginning to blend into darkness. Apollo Twelve Square, as on previous occasions, was deserted. All seemed entirely normal, but Michael sensed that something was wrong.

Inside the library, they discreetly used one of the torches they had brought. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. The Winston Churchill books lay where Michael had put them down—the shock of Aldous Huxley’s destruction had driven them completely from his mind, and he was only now reminded of their existence. He determined not to forget them this time when he left. A History of the Second World War—the one that was still supposed to be going on—was something he greatly looked forward to reading.

“We are in luck,” said Horatio, relief in his voice. “No one seems to have been here.”

“I hope we are in luck,” said Michael grimly. He didn’t believe it.

After a cursory inspection, they went down the steps and along the passage to where Aldous Huxley’s head and body had been laid. They weren’t there. Michael was surprised that he felt no surprise; and then he realized that this was exactly what he had expected. He wondered why.

Horatio, the tough one, began to panic again. “We have got to get out,” he insisted. “We have got to get out. They have turned it into a trap!” He shone his torch in agitation up and down the passage as if he expected to be rushed by drybones at any minute.

“If it is a trap,” said Ernest quietly, “we are already inside it. Calm yourself, Horatio. Rushing about and flashing lights all over the place is not going to do any good…. Well, Michael, you are the general. What do we do?”

“It is not a trap,” said Michael. “At least, it is not a trap in the sense of being designed to catch us.”

“How do you know?”

“I can’t explain. But in some way, I am beginning to discern a pattern…. It is as if we are in some kind of war or elaborate game. Our opponents—the drybones—try to defeat us or divert us by a constant application of the unexpected. The disappearance of Aldous Huxley was unexpected. A trap is therefore now expected. You see what I mean?”

“I think so. But what do we do?”

Horatio groaned. “While you two blather, the library is probably being surrounded by drybones. Let us try to get out before it is too late.”

“If your theory were correct, Horatio, it would already be too late…. We were going to dump Aldous Huxley in this terrifying outside world that Horatio glimpsed. No drybone. But let us not waste our opportunity. I want to see what is on the other side of that door. Can you face it again, Horatio?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then let us not waste any time. It is a long way there and back.” Michael smiled. “One small consolation is that we are not now to be burdened by any heavy weight.”

They followed Horatio’s original method of travel—running for a spell, then walking until they had recovered their breath. Occasionally, they stood still in complete silence, listening for a time. But there were no sounds of pursuit.

Presently they came to the door. It did not look like a door leading into a nightmare world. It looked just like the kind of ordinary door that Horatio had described.

The journey along the passage had been even longer than Michael anticipated. All three of them were tired. He decided that they should take a little rest before looking outside. Wearily, all three of them sat down on the cold floor. Michael kept a torch switched on simply because the light provided an illusion of security.

“It will be dark out there,” observed Ernest. “Probably we shall see nothing. Was it dark when you came, Horatio?”

“There was moonlight.” Horatio shuddered. “I think the moonlight made it all look more terrible. Maybe it is not so bad in broad daylight.”

“I took the trouble to check,” said Michael. “It is full moon tonight…. You really are sure you can face it again, Horatio?”

“I managed it alone last time, didn’t I?” snapped Horatio. “And I know what to expect now. Worry about yourself, Michael. Don’t worry about me.”

“Ssh!” said Ernest. “What is that noise?” There was a muted, rhythmic roaring.

“Water,” said Horatio. “Water against rocks.”

Michael stood up. “Let’s get it over. Whatever is out there, we can’t stay long. We have to try to get back home at a reasonable hour.”

He went to the door and turned the handle. As he opened the door, a great draft of cool, fresh air swept into the passageway. The roaring of the water became loud.

Michael opened the door wide.

Ernest and Horatio stood close by him. Michael suddenly felt as if he had received an electric shock. He heard Ernest draw in a great breath, noisily, unevenly. He heard Horatio utter a half-strangled cry.

There on the rocks lay what was left of Aldous Huxley.

22

Horatio had retreated into the passage. So had Ernest. Michael stood alone, surveying the world that was outside London.

“Come back,” called Horatio. “Come back!”

“In a moment or two. If this is what the world is like, we have to know about it.”

Michael looked around him.

The sky was clear, but the stars were pale against the brightness of a cold, yellow moon. Its light shed weird beauty on a landscape that seemed like a nightmare brought to the edge of reality.

The doorway was set in a sloping face of rock, sprinkled with huge boulders, and leading down to a thin strip of sand and pebbles and the breakers of a great sea. Farther down among the rocks, far beyond the body of Aldous Huxley, there were shapes that were too smooth to be rocks. Some of them moved lazily. They were great moon-silvered lizards.

The hair rose on Michael’s neck. His mouth became dry. His heart seemed to be trying to explode out of his chest.

He wanted to run back into the passage, slam the door and pretend that the fantastic world outside did desire to stay, to learn about the nightmare that was real.

He stood there, waiting, watching, feeling the sea wind on his face, hearing the breakers on the rocks. Fear diminished a little. The lizards below, many of them nearly twice as long as Michael’s own height, did not appear to be greatly interested in the vertical intruder. He waved his arms. The lizards noticed, and a few tails flicked indolently; but they took no further action. He shouted and clapped his hands. Silvery reptilian heads turned toward him. But when he stopped shouting and clapping, interest waned.

Fear diminished. Curiosity grew. Michael looked at the sea, the rocks, the lizards, and the top of the ragged rock face, where grass and shrubs were growing. He wanted to explore further.

“Michael, come back!” Horatio spoke in a loud, hoarse, stage whisper, as if he was afraid of being overheard.

Michael went back into the passage and closed the door behind him. It was already hard to believe what lay on the other side of it.

“You have strong nerves,” said Ernest. “I always knew you had. Shouldn’t we be getting back?”

“We can spare a little more time,” said Michael. “I want to go outside, really outside.”

Horatio was appalled at the prospect. “They’ll kill you—the lizards.”

“I don’t think so. They don’t seem very interested.”

“There is the matter of Aldous Huxley,” began Ernest.

“I told you it was a trap,” cut in Horatio. “By the time we get back, the place will be crawling with drybones.”

Michael shook his head. “I think you are wrong. We are still caught up in the game of the unexpected. We expected to find the body in the passage, and we didn’t. We didn’t expect to find it here, and we did. We expect a trap and there won’t be one. But even if there was a trap, that would strengthen the argument for exploring outside before we returned to walk into it.”

“What do you want to do, Michael?” Ernest was trying to be calm, but could not keep a high note of anxiety out of his voice.

“Nothing spectacular, and it won’t take long. I simply want to take a few steps outside. I’d like Horatio to stay here in the passage, holding the door open to prevent the wind slamming it and, perhaps, making it stick in some way. And I would like you, Ernest, to stand just outside the door with a couple of rocks ready to throw if the lizards become too inquisitive. I’ll take a torch. It should dazzle any creature long enough to allow me to get back.”

“I think you are crazy,” said Horatio.

“I think you are intelligently crazy,” amended Ernest. “Take my torch. It has the brightest beam.”

The door was opened again. Horatio stood with his back pressed against it, peering apprehensively down the rock face. Ernest stepped out and found six or seven large fragments of rock. He built them into a neat little pile of ammunition at his feet.

Michael breathed the clean night wind and was exhilarated. He looked at the foaming edge of the sea, at the lizards, at the rocks, at the raw, raw world of reality. Absurdly, he wanted to sing. Out here it was strange and terrible. Out here was the danger of the unknown. But out here, also, he sensed freedom.

He smiled at Ernest, a pale, anxious ghost in moonlight. “I won’t be long.”

“Be careful.”

“Don’t worry.”

He put the torch in his pocket and began to climb up the rock face, away from the lizards, away from the sea. The going was hard. He had to use his hands. Pieces of rock were dislodged and rattled downward. Something small scuttled between his legs. Wings flapped noisily on a ledge above, and there was the desolate cry of a bird.

Michael was shaking with excitement. Was this really the world of freedom? Or was all this still part of the kingdom of the drybones? Questions—always more questions. Enough to drive a man mad.

He had reached the top of the rock face now. There was grass beneath his feet; and here and there, silvery shrubs and bushes, small trees. The ground rose steeply to a hill, cutting off the view inland, stretching away left and right to where moonlight was defeated by misty darkness.

Michael was disappointed. He knew now what he had been hoping for. He had been hoping that he would be able to see London from the outside.

But the hill was high, and there was no time to climb it; and, anyway, he was too tired. He turned and looked down over the rocks toward the sea. Already, what at first had seemed terrible was now beautiful. Even the lizards, though still perhaps terrible, seemed beautiful.

Who could have imagined that an underground passage from a library in a city that was one colossal confidence trick could lead to this silver wilderness? London was not London. Perhaps Earth was not Earth. But the stars were real, and the lizards were real, and the ocean was a great water.

Michael was lightheaded. He knew he should go back, but he was reluctant. He forced himself to scramble down the rocks to the door and the passage that led back to captivity.

Ernest and Horatio were visibly relieved at his return. There had been no trouble. The lizards had returned presumably to their slumbers.

“What did you see?”

“Just hills and coastline…. I have an idea this is wonderful country—here, outside…. Now, I suppose we must get back as quickly as possible.”

“Into the trap,” said Horatio gloomily. He closed the door carefully after they had all stepped back into the passage.

23

But, as Michael had predicted, there was no trap. The library was as they had left it. Michael remembered to pick up the History of the Second World War. He still did not know where he was going to hide the heavy volumes; but he would think of that on the way home.

“It is terribly late,” said Ernest. “Our drybone jailers are going to want explanations.”

“We got lost,” said Michael. “It is easy to get lost in London, isn’t it? We were exploring together in North London and we got lost… I’m beginning to think the drybones always know far more about our actions than we think they do. But let us stick to polite fictions—for the time being.”

“Somebody knows about Aldous Huxley, at least,” said Horatio gloomily.

Michael put a hand on his shoulder. “Try not to worry too much, Horatio. I’m sure they are playing with us; but there is one thing in our favor. They don’t quite know the kind of people they are playing with. They try desperately to keep us on the level of children. I don’t think they realize that we are turning into men and women.”

“Let’s go,” said Ernest. “I could fall asleep on my feet.”

Michael gave a last glance at the library. “There is just one other thing. For the next few days, we had better drop back into the role of retarded adolescents. We must just carry on as if nothing had happened. This applies particularly to you, Horatio. OK?”

“Yes, master.”

“Because,” added Michael with unexpected intensity, “I will not have anyone stupidly endangering the Family or the rest of the fragiles. So, if you try any more freelance operations, I might just kill you, Horatio. I mean it. Now don’t say a damn thing.”

Horatio was too surprised to offer comment. For the next few days life went on normally. Or abnormally. Michael’s parents had not required an explanation for his lateness in returning home. Indeed, when he got home, they were already in bed—an unusual occurrence. Father usually stayed up on such occasions to scold, make threats and demand an accounting. The following day, Michael learned that Horatio’s parents and Ernest’s parents had also been in bed when they returned. That, too, was curious. Part of the nightmare game, thought Michael. Part of the deadly game the drybones were playing in their disguise as teachers and parents. He concluded that very soon the fragiles would be forced to devise a game of their own—if they were to survive and remain sane. He had a dreadful feeling that time was running out.

He could not think of any safe place to hide the Winston Churchill books he had brought home; so in the end he hid them in the bathroom once more, behind the end panel of the bath. If his theory of the unexpected were true, the books would not be removed.

They were not removed. Indeed they were never removed until Michael himself took them back to the library. It confirmed his belief that he had learned something about drybone psychology.

Meanwhile, there was no hue and cry about Aldous Huxley—which, also, was unexpected and now, therefore, to be expected. Whoever had taken his body and dumped it on the rocks by the sea seemed just as determined to conceal the operation as Michael was to conceal the fact of Aldous Huxley’s destruction.

Sometimes, Michael felt that all the drybones in London must be quietly laughing at the ineptitude of the fragiles, at the childish attempts at exploration, at the furtive and futile concealments and plottings. Sometimes, in a fit of depression, he thought how much simpler it would be if only he could cauterize his curiosity, somehow close down the terrible need to understand. He had security, he lived in comfort, he could not be touched by the fake war the drybones had invented for reasons of their own.

Did it matter that London was a cardboard city? Did it matter that the Thames was a circle of water and that all roads doubled back? Did it matter that outside this enclosed world there was a greater world where lizards roamed and the sea battered endlessly against the rocks? Surely what mattered most was security. Even an animal in a zoo had security.

And that gave Michael his answer. He did not want the security of being an animal in a zoo. He wanted freedom in a real and natural world, however terrible or dangerous it might be. He knew then that he would risk anything to obtain that. Including his life.

24

It was a warm, dark evening. Michael had obtained Mr. and Mrs. Bronte’s permission to take Emily to an early showing of The Man in the Iron Mask at the Odeon, Leicester Square. And now, afterward, they were walking hand in hand, deliciously alone in Green Park.

Emily had grown tall and beautiful. Her breasts were full and firm. She had more natural grace than any other fragile Michael knew. He was proud of her, he loved her, he desired her. Recently his need for her had become almost obsessional—perhaps because he was aware that the long years of innocence had gone; and that soon, people who had been conditioned to an endless childhood would suddenly have to begin acting like and taking the decisions of men and women.

Michael had no secrets from Emily, partly because she was a member of the Family, but chiefly because he loved her. He never wanted to have thoughts in his head that he could not share with her. It would be a kind of cutting off.

“I want to kiss you,” said Michael, loud enough to surprise himself.

“Then kiss me.”

They held close together for a few moments, running heir hands lightly over each other’s body, kissing, fondling, caressing.

“The grass is dry,” ventured Michael.

Emily laughed. “I didn’t want to be the first to suggest sitting down.”

They sat. Then, presently, they lay—not seeing each other, but hearing and touching.

“Darling Emily. I want to make love to you…. I suppose I always want to. But tonight I want it more than ever…. Do you mind? Is it—is it inconvenient?”

Again she laughed, softly. “Inconvenient! I love you, Michael. Is that inconvenient?”

“Yes, dreadfully. We are pets in a box, animals in a zoo, my dearest We can’t afford to love. It makes us vulnerable.”

“Hush! It’s dark, but I know there are wrinkles on your forehead, and a sad look in your eyes and your lips are tight…. We can’t afford not to love, Michael. That’s the truth.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

She shivered. “Then love me! Love me as if it were the first time and the last time.”

Michael struggled with buttons and hooks. Artlessly, Emily helped him. Clothes rustled in the darkness. Then there was silence.

“You can’t see me,” whispered Emily. “But I’m wearing nothing at all. It’s so warm, but I’m shivering and shaking—only because you touch me.”

Michael put out a hand, and found the curve of her neck. “I can see you,” he murmured. “Oh, my darling, I can see you!”

He lay on her, and Emily’s legs slowly, luxuriously opened.

Like petals, thought Michael crazily, like petals. A beautiful white flower in the darkness. And there is nectar between the petals, and I wish one could love like this and then die. And I wish….

Emily sighed and groaned, and the petals yielded more than nectar. They yielded fire.

The lovemaking surged inexorably to a mutual climax, while both of them said and did things they did not know they were saying and doing. Afterward, they lay close, still trying to touch each other with hands, arms, legs, breasts, faces, hair. Desire had abated, but passion had not.

Suddenly, Michael felt immensely sad; and because they were so close, the sadness instantly communicated.

“What is it, my love?” Her voice was deep now, rich with fulfillment.

And that changed his sadness into physical pain.

“Soon,” said Michael, “I think you may learn to hate me.”

She sat up. “What for? Whatever for? I love you, that’s all.”

“Darling,” he said harshly, “believe that I love you, too. Dearly, lastingly. Perhaps it would be possible to leave it like this…. But, I’m going to blow up the world. I’m going to pull down the decorations, tear away the back cloth, walk through the mirror. I’m going to get to the other side, find the real world, face it, take it for what it is…. Oh, darling, don’t you see? I love you, and yet I’m a bomb. I am going to blow us all to glory.”

She began to stroke his hair, cradling bis head against her breast. “You will do what is best. That’s all. I know you will. Just let us be together—even if we have to exchange The Man in the Iron Mask and Sunday afternoon walks in the park for a world where there are lizards and rocks and oceans and strange horizons. Just let us be together. That is enough.”

Michael’s face was wet. “Maybe I am not a bomb,” he whispered. “Maybe I only have a talent for inspiring mass suicide.”

25

It was Ernest who arranged for Michael to meet the self-styled leader of the students of North London High School, a drybone called Arthur Wellesley. The meeting had tragic consequences which ultimately forced Michael into a course of action he had not intended.

Ernest and Jane, though their relationship was not as intense as that of Michael and Emily, had become fond of each other and had begun to spend a considerable amount of their free time together. One fine Saturday, they decided to picnic on Hampstead Heath. It was not entirely a leisure project, because Ernest was still working on his map of London and intended to draw in the more important roads in the Hampstead district.

It was while he and Jane were resting after a light lunch that they were approached by Arthur Wellesley and two other drybones whom he referred to as his lieutenants.

Arthur Wellesley was tall. He wore a white shirt, a black belt, and black trousers and shoes, as did his companions. He stood with his feet astride and one hand on his belt, as did his companions. It looked like an affectation, or a regulation pose.

Ernest and Jane were sitting on the grass on the Heath, with their picnic basket open and the remains of the meal between them. Jane was frightened by the oddly formidable appearance of the drybones.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Arthur Wellesley.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” retorted Ernest calmly. “Who are you?”

“Arthur Wellesley, commander of the North London High School defense unit.”

“Commander of what?”

“The North London High School defense unit. You are from the Central London Group, I suppose.”

“Yes. My name is Ernest Rutherford, and this is Jane Austen.”

“Are you organized?” Arthur Wellesley seemed to ignore Jane’s existence completely.

“Organized?”

“Militarily organized.”

“No.”

“You have a leader?”

“Yes, we have a leader.”

“Good. Bring him here tomorrow morning. I want to talk to him.”

“I don’t know that he will want to talk to you.”

“He will,” said Arthur Wellesley with confidence. “Tell him it is important—and ask him if he knows Aldous Huxley.”

With that, the three drybones simultaneously turned and marched away, perfectly in step, perfectly in line, as if they had been practicing a long time.

The picnic atmosphere had evaporated, the lazy afternoon with Jane had disintegrated. Now, Ernest would have to get back to Victoria as soon as possible and talk things over with Michael.

Jane was pale and shaking. Ernest put his arms round her, trying to comfort her. He realized with comical amazement then that he had never held Jane in his arms before. He had been absorbed by other matters. Too absorbed.

“They looked dangerous,” explained Jane. “I—I felt they were dangerous.”

“Perhaps it is because they dress the same. It’s like a uniform.”

“Do you think they are dangerous?”

“I don’t know. Let us go and talk to Michael. That is the most intelligent thing to do.”

Jane began to pack the picnic basket. “I feel cold.”

“It’s a warm day.”

“I still feel cold. I was all right until they came…. Do you think they know about Aldous Huxley?”

Ernest shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. We are all taking part in what is either a nasty comedy or a funny horror film. We have to live with absurdities and illogicalities and a great fog of ignorance. The point is, we have to live with it, Jane. If we worry too much—if we even think about it too much—we shall go out of our minds. So just try to take things as they come, my dear. A platitude, I know. But it is the only comfort I can offer.”

Jane had packed the basket, and they were ready to go.

As if on cue, an air raid began. Airplanes began to maneuver like tiny, metallic insects high in the blue sky. There was the distant crump of explosions, the chatter of guns.

Ernest looked up and began to laugh. “The war that doesn’t exist. The bombs that never fall. The planes that are whisked into the fourth dimension. It is all part of the horrible comedy, the amusing nightmare…. You know Michael has read all about the real war. He told me that there was no such thing as a force field, and that half London was razed to the ground…. This doesn’t even look real anymore. It was good enough to fool us when we were children, but not now. Somehow, that comforts me. Perhaps the drybones are not as clever as we suspect.”

Jane held herself against him. “I’m so cold,” she whispered. “Deep inside I am so terribly cold.”

Ernest said nothing. He held her tightly for a while. Then he tilted her face up and looked at it as if he had never seen it before. Then he kissed her—for the first and last time in their lives.

26

Michael had a fairly sleepless night. He was trying to decide whether or not it was a good thing to go to Hampstead and talk to Arthur Wellesley. When morning came he was no wiser—except that he knew that he would go.

Ernest’s description of the three drybone students had not been encouraging. Even at their best, drybones were antiseptic and devious. These, according to Ernest, were also sinister; and certainly they had had a profound effect upon Jane.

There were two mysteries. Why was a drybone and not a fragile the leader of what was grandly described as the North London High School defense unit? And what, if anything, did he know of the fate of Aldous Huxley? There was only one way to find out.

Michael came down to breakfast early, expecting—since it was Sunday and Mother and Father usually slept late—to have to prepare it himself. But when he opened the dining-room door he saw that the table was laid and that breakfast was almost ready.

Ever since the night they had been to see Gone with the Wind, Michael’s relationship with his parents had deteriorated steadily. In some ways he had lost his fear of them. In other ways he had become more afraid.

“I suppose you’ll be going out again today,” said Father.

“Yes.”

“Does it occur to you that Mother and I might like a little more of your company? We are not getting any younger.”

Michael laughed harshly. “And you are not getting any older, are you? Don’t waste time making speeches that sound like lines from old films, Father. It may amuse you to pretend that we are all normal people living in a normal world; but to me the joke isn’t funny. It never was.”

“Would you like one egg or two?” Mother’s voice sounded anxious. It always did these days. She was giving a moderate to mediocre interpretation of the archetypal anxious mother, worrying about her delinquent son.

“Two, please. And lots of toast.”

“Where are you going, then?” Father’s voice had just the right note of indifferent curiosity.

“Just out.”

“Can’t you give me an intelligent answer?”

“I learned how to give unintelligent answers from you.”

“You are not too old to be thrashed, you know.”

“True. But I am too old to be impressed by it.”

Breakfast proceeded in silence.

At the end of it, Father said surprisingly: “You can take my bicycle, if you want to. I expect you know how to ride it.”

For a moment or two, Michael was dumbfounded. It was the first time Father had ever made the offer. Then he recovered himself sufficiently to say: “Thank you. I’ll take care of it.”

He left the house, feeling anxious and puzzled.

Father might have known that Michael had quite a long journey ahead of him. But how could he possibly have known?

Michael had arranged to rendezvous with Ernest and Horatio at Hyde Park Corner. One bicycle would not be a great deal of use between the three of them; but, in taking turns on it, they could perhaps keep up a slightly faster pace than if they were all walking.

Ernest and Horatio were already at Hyde Park Corner, waiting for him.

I really must learn to expect the unexpected, he told himself grimly when he saw them. They, too, had bicycles.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “The drybones spontaneously offered to let you use their bicycles.”

“They are playing games with us,” said Ernest despondently.

“They always have been. You know that. You should be used to it.”

Horatio grinned wolfishly. “I had my favorite dream again last night. I was killing drybones with my bare hands. You know how it is in dreams. I was immensely strong, and they had become weak and brittle.”

“Do what you like in dreams, Horatio,” said Michael. “But remember that I meant what I said. The Aldous Huxley saga is evidently not yet finished…. Well, let’s get to Hampstead and find out what new wonders there are to confound us.”

Arthur Wellesley and his lieutenants were at the rendezvous, waiting. Each of them stood with feet astride and one hand on his belt. They looked like mass-produced statues, thought Michael as he wheeled his bicycle over the dewy grass, or like dancers waiting for the signal that would galvanize them into activity. Or like soldiers standing at ease.

“Rather smart,” said Horatio, obviously impressed.

“Rather sinister,” amended Ernest. “I suppose they mean to be.”

Michael stopped a little way from the group. “Let’s leave our bicycles here. And let’s hope there isn’t going to be any trouble.”

They laid the bicycles down and walked forward. The drybones waited unmoving.

Michael said: “Hello. I’m Michael Faraday. I understand you want to talk to me.”

Arthur Wellesley brought his feet together and saluted. “Wellesley, commander of the North London High School defense unit. Yes, I want to talk to you. We shall need to support each other when the revolution starts. Do you have any arms?”

Michael was shaken. “The revolution? What revolution?”

“Let’s not waste words,” snapped Arthur Wellesley. “I have a good intelligence service. You think the struggle is between yourselves—the people you call fragiles—and the drybones, including us. That is incorrect thinking. The true struggle is between the revolutionary and the orthodox, between the young and the old—irrespective of whether they are fragiles or drybones. Do you have any arms?”

Michael smiled faintly. “We are not planning a revolution.”

“What are you planning?”

“Nothing—yet.”

Arthur Wellesley laughed. “Then you will be destroyed. It is as simple as that. Unless you join forces with us.”

Michael was silent for a moment or two. Then he said: “Are there any fragiles at North London High School? I understood that—”

“There were,” interrupted the drybone. “Altogether there were forty-seven.”

“What happened to them?”

“They disappeared. They disappeared overnight. Whisked away without trace.”

Ernest spoke. “Did you try to find out where they had gone?”

Arthur Wellesley looked him up and down, then turned to Michael. “Does this person hold any rank?”

“He is on my General Staff,” said Michael gravely.

“Yes, we did try to find out where they had gone. Met with a blank wall. Nobody would discuss the matter—parents, teachers, no one. It was as if they had never existed. That is why we think you people may be in danger. That is why we think the time has come to join forces. Interested?”

“Yes, I am interested—but not wholly convinced.”

“Don’t wait too long to be convinced. It could be fatal.”

“Yesterday, you mentioned somebody called Aldous Huxley,” said Michael. “Are we supposed to know him?”

“I know that you know him. He established contact with you in the Strand Coffeehouse some time ago. His duty was to keep me informed of your activities. He was one of my best agents.”

Horatio turned white and began to stare at the ground. Michael was afraid he might say something, or do something stupid.

“Was one of your best agents?”

“Yes. Was. He hasn’t reported for some time…. I think he discovered something important, and I think he was liquidated. This is not a game we are playing, you know. There is no time to waste. Come along with me, and I’ll show you something that will convince you we mean business. You had better bring those bicycles.”

Michael and Ernest and Horatio were taken to a small suburban house in Hampstead Village. They passed a few drybones on the way; but no one paid any attention to them or to the three uniformed drybones. It was as if the occupants of Hampstead were being deliberately blind.

As they approached their destination, Arthur Wellesley’s companions went through a complicated, unnecessary and absurd routine of reconnaissance to establish that they could enter the house unobserved. It was a plain little house, apparently deserted. Arthur Wellesley led the way down into the cellar and switched on the electric light.

The cellar contained racks of rifles and pistols, boxes of ammunition and grenades. There was even a light machine gun.

Michael had never seen real lethal weapons before. He was amazed. “Where on earth did you get them?”

“An army unit was carrying out some maneuvers on the Heath.” Arthur Wellesley laughed. “So at night we carried out some maneuvers of our own.”

“I have never seen any army units in London,” said Michael. “I thought they were all stationed outside the force field.”

“Do you doubt my word?”

“I have no reason either to doubt it or to accept it.”

“Good man! We shall get along…. About Aldous Huxley—your people didn’t liquidate him, by any chance?”

“My people never liquidate anyone,” said Michael carefully.

“You can’t play at being damned conchies forever,” retorted Arthur Wellesley. “Otherwise you’ll wind up disappearing into nowhere like our forty-seven did…. Now, what kind of arms do you need, and have you got anywhere safe to keep them?”

Michael sighed. The situation was bizarre—drybones cooking up tiny dreams of revolution against drybones. But then one just had to learn to expect the unexpected. And be very, very cautious.

“Thank you for the offer—I presume it was an offer—but we are not yet ready to resort to guns, or to indulge in revolution. Not until we know exactly what we are fighting, why we are fighting and what can be gained—or lost—by fighting.” There was a brief silence.

“I see,” said Arthur Wellesley. “That makes things difficult, doesn’t it?”

“Why?”

“Because you know too much.”

Michael smiled grimly. “On the contrary, we know too little. But I see your problem. You either have to trust us—or liquidate us.”

As he spoke, Horatio stepped forward and snatched a grenade from an open box. “Any liquidation will be entirely democratic,” he said, speaking for the first time.

Michael said: “Horatio, they won’t try to kill us.”

“Damn right they won’t!”

Arthur Wellesley said: “You don’t know how to use that thing.”

Horatio grinned. “Try me. It’s just like in the movies. You pull the pin and—bang.”

Michael was tired, depressed, baffled. “Yes, Horatio. It’s just like in the movies. Now put that thing down. We’re leaving.”

“No, Michael. Your way doesn’t work, this time. You and Ernest get out while I keep these drybones amused. I’ll join you where we left the bicycles.”

Arthur Wellesley said: “You are all children, playing stupid games.”

Michael ignored him. “Horatio, put it down. We’ll leave together.”

Horatio’s voice was shrill. “Get out, both of you. I mean it. This is my affair now. And I’m going to do it my way…. Michael, you know I’m half crazy. Don’t try to work out which half. Just go!”

“I think,” said Ernest softly, “we had better humor him.”

“I’m afraid so.” Michael turned to Horatio. “All right, well meet at the bicycles…. Horatio, odd as it may seem, I don’t think Wellesley and his friends are dangerous. Give us a minute or two then get rid of that wretched grenade and come as fast as you can.”

“We shall not forget this,” said Arthur Wellesley heavily.

Horatio giggled. “You may well have cause to remember it. Now kindly stand very still by the wall.”

Ernest went back up the cellar steps. Michael took a last look round. It was all theatrical. So dreadfully theatrical. Horatio clutching his bomb in a roomful of bombs and ammunition, and the three drybones standing against the wall in that peculiarly formal posture with hands on belt and legs stiffly apart.

Michael wanted to say something; but there did not seem anything appropriate that he could say. He followed Ernest up the cellar steps, out of the drab little house into a gray urban Sunday.

They began to make their way quickly to where the bicycles had been left, under a covered cycle stand at the far end of the street.

They had just reached the bicycles when the explosions came. They looked back in horror and saw fragments of the house erupting into the sky. A great cloud of dust and debris seemed to hang suspended. Then the fragments of the house came crashing down.

Michael was the first to speak. “We shall never know,” he said dully. “We shall never know whether Horatio intended it or whether the drybones….” He didn’t finish.

“What do we do now?” whispered Ernest. “I suppose Horatio must be—”

“Of course he’s dead!” said Michael harshly. “There is nothing to do, except get away from here as fast as we can.”

27

Jane Austen was a very gentle person. She always had been. Gentle and timid, easily depressed, needing only simple things to make her contented—simple, unobtainable things like stability and security; but then Michael began to discover terrible secrets, and then the library yielded further terrible secrets, and now Horatio was dead. Life, which had only seemed originally like an unreal dream, was now transformed into a real nightmare. Jane Austen was living in a small claustrophobic world enclosed in a greater, unknown world—reports of which only served to increase her terror and sense of impending doom. She concealed as much of her fears as possible from Ernest and Michael, realizing that they must not be diverted by feminine weakness from the course they had chosen. But Emily became her confidante. Emily was a person she could trust with secrets, a person to whom she could reveal the depth of her unhappiness.

Ever since that first visit to the library, she and Emily had spent a great deal of time in each other’s company. There was little alternative, since Michael and Ernest and Horatio had been engaged in matters about which it was best to know as little as possible.

There were other fragiles that Jane knew and liked, such as Dorothy Wordsworth, Mary Kingsley and Elizabeth Barrett, but there was none whom she felt she could wholly trust—none but Emily.

On the day after Horatio’s death, when school was over, she and Emily met to walk and talk in St. James’s Park. Michael had decided that no one outside the Family must know what had happened to Horatio. Let the drybones find out for themselves, if they could. But the knowledge and the secrecy, the mysteries and unforeseeable dangers were a heavy burden to bear. They had become, at last, too heavy for Jane Austen.

It was a cool, gray afternoon; and hardly anyone was in the park. Emily and Jane sat on a bench and watched a pair of ducks create rippling fantasies of reflection on the mirrorlike sheet of water. Emily had with her the copy of Wuthering Heights. Both Michael and Ernest had helped her to grasp the principles of reading; and now she was nearly halfway through the book. Sometimes she felt a strange sense of identity with that other Emily Bronte. Sometimes, she imagined she could feel the icy wind cut her face, and sense the bleak beauty of the Yorkshire moors.

Emily was acutely aware of Jane’s tension and unhappiness; and had been trying to distract her with an account of the stormy adventures of Heathcliff and Cathy.

Jane was silent for a time. Then she said: “Jane Austen wrote novels, too, you know. Ernest has The Concise Oxford Dictionary of English Literature…. We are in there, Emily—you and me and Elizabeth Barrett and Dorothy Wordsworth and… and we are all trapped in little black marks on paper!” She began to sob.

Emily put her arms round Jane, trying to comfort her. “Darling Jane, don’t be so unhappy. Personally, I am glad that there was another fragile called Emily Bronte who lived in a strange and wonderful world and could write such a beautiful book. Somehow, it gives me a sense of belonging. I feel at times almost as if I know her. I feel oddly as if we have something to share.”

Jane stopped crying. “We have something to share, too,” she said dully. “Deceit, fear, death, uncertainty. We are like little animals, Emily. Little defenseless animals in a big cage. Someone is keeping us here for a purpose, and when the purpose is fulfilled, the animals will be destroyed and the cage will be discarded.”

“Michael has found a way out,” said Emily.

“A way out of one nightmare and into another. Perhaps he would have done better to have left us in ignorance. Now we know that London is a—a paper city. And we also know that outside it is a world of monsters…. I—I wish we were children again, Emily. I wish that we could turn back the clock and accept what we have, and pretend that everything is all right. And everything can be all right if you pretend that it is. It can be.”

Emily shook her head. “Not for us, Jane dear. Not in a world of fragiles and drybones. It never could have been all right. You know that.”

Jane relapsed into silence once more, holding Emily’s hand tightly. Presently she said: “You and Michael have made love together, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it. Tell me about making love. I want to know what it is like.”

“It is very hard to describe, but I’ll do my best. The touching and the kissing and the stroking and the holding make my body excited, soft and hard at the same time. My breasts begin to ache and hurt, but it is the kind of ache that I don’t want to stop…. When we last made love, Michael and I wore nothing at all. He lay on top of me, and my legs seemed to open without my having to think about it. And there was a hard part of him that was pressed between them, and then it went inside me. I could feel the hardness; and there was the sweetest, most consuming pain in the world…. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened really. It’s funny. I don’t know what making love is, or what it means, but I somehow know how to do it…. Believe this, Jane. It is the loveliest thing in the world.”

“Thank you, Emily. Thank you for telling me. I still don’t know what it is like. But I believe that it must be wonderful…. Do you think the drybones make love?”

Emily frowned. “I don’t think the drybones even know about love. Perhaps that is something, at least, in which we are superior.”

“I think I love Ernest.”

Emily squeezed her hand. “I know you do. I have seen the way you look at him.”

“Do you think he knows?”

“He’s not as clever as he thinks he is if he doesn’t…. Do you feel a bit happier now, Jane?”

“I don’t know…. I feel more at peace…. Do you believe that people should have the right to decide what to do with themselves, with their lives?”

“We should all be free to make our own decisions. I suppose that, apart from finding out what our true situation is, that is what Michael and Ernest are working for.”

“I don’t think Horatio was working for anything like that. He just hated drybones…..I must go now, Emily. My—they will be asking questions if I am late. I hate the questions. I hate the—the pressure.”

“I must rush, too. I want to try to get out to meet Michael for a few minutes tonight. See you tomorrow, Jane. Try not to be too unhappy…. When I go to bed, I always try to fall asleep thinking of nice things. It is something I have done since I was a child.”

“Yes,” said Jane, standing up. “It is a good idea to fall asleep thinking of nice things…. If you see Ernest before I do tomorrow, will you do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“Will you kiss him for me, and tell him that I shall love him all my life.”

Emily looked at her curiously. “Surely you would rather tell him yourself.”

Jane gave a little laugh. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’m too shy. Promise you will do it, Emily.”

“All right. I promise.”

“Thank you.” Jane kissed her on the cheek, and then on the lips. “The last one,” she said lightly, “is the one for Ernest.” She looked at the stretch of water and sighed. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just be silly, empty-headed ducks, dabbling in calm water forever?”

Then she turned and walked quickly away.

Late that evening, Jane Austen took a bath. She plugged the electric radiator into the wall socket, then balanced the radiator on the end of her bath with a loop of cord hanging over. She ran the water, took off her clothes and stepped into the bath. Then she lay back, closed her eyes and thought of lovely things. After a time, still with her eyes closed, she lifted one foot out of the water and felt for the loop of cord. Then she hooked her toes behind it and jerked suddenly. The radiator fell into the water.

28

Michael said: “I didn’t really expect you to be here tonight…. I only came for the walk. I couldn’t stand watching those drybones pretending to be people…. How are you? How are you feeling, Ernest?”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Ernest somberly. “The weeping is done inside. Maybe there will be a time for real tears. But not now.”

It was dark, and they were standing on Waterloo Bridge; and the Thames murmured softly beneath them.

“I wish—I wish she had told us,” said Michael. “I wish she had told Emily.”

Ernest gave a faint smile. “Maybe she had been telling us for some time—only we didn’t understand the language. And if we had understood, would we have had the right to stop her?”

“Not to stop her, perhaps, but to persuade her.”

Ernest shook his head. “Pressure. Emotional blackmail. Not on…. Jane was right to say nothing. To preserve the liberty of the individual.”

“Ernest”—Michael put an arm on his shoulder—“there are times when you make me feel very small.”

“There are times when I make myself feel very small. This is one…. Well, Michael, the pressure mounts, the tension mounts, the tragedies begin. We know too much, and we know too little. We know of a river that is not a river, of roads that return to their starting points, and of a war that no longer exists. We know that Michael Faraday and Ernest Rutherford were scientists, that Horatio Nelson was a sea captain, that Emily Bronte and Jane Austen wrote novels. We know that drybones have detachable heads and that lizards disport themselves by the sea outside London. We know that we who are called Michael Faraday, Ernest Rutherford and Emily Bronte are alive, because we feel pain. We do not know how we came to be alive or why we remain alive. We do not know if this fake city has anything at all to do with that greater, imaginary world in which we have the effrontery to believe…. So, shall we be cowards and do nothing, or shall we be cowards and do something? You are still the leader of our diminishing band. It is still you who must make the decisions.”

Michael let out a great sigh. “Ernest, don’t you think I have already made a mess of things?”

“Things were a mess. You, at least, have made us try to perceive the mess as a pattern. Whether we succeed or not, the effort is worthwhile.”

“I don’t like that telling phrase: diminishing band. Now, so far as we know, there are only three of us who know about the land outside London. But it is just possible that some of the other fragiles—people like Charles Darwin or Bertrand Russell or James Watt —might have been doing some independent exploration. If so, they might know things that we do not.”

“I do not recall that Darwin, Russell or Watt were among those who wished to learn to read,” observed Ernest dryly.

“No, but that does not preclude them from being curious in other ways…. However, whether they have used their heads or not is irrelevant. What does matter is that there are only three of us now. Suppose some other disasters happen—one or two could be left with the knowledge we have gained. Perhaps only Emily. What a dreadful burden that would be.”

“Then what do you propose?”

“An end to secrecy, and end to deception. An end to the double-thinking that compels us to behave with apparent normality in this grotesquely abnormal situation.”

“You may also be proposing an end to living.”

“That is the risk, but it is a risk we have to take…. Ernest, let us suppose the existence of some mad scientist—just as in one of those terrible children’s films they expect us to watch. Let us endow this scientist with almost unlimited means, so that, for the purpose of his work, he is able to create this illusory London—and even, perhaps, able to create us.”

“Now we are really taking off into the realms of fancy,” commented Ernest dryly.

“We never left them,” retorted Michael. “What I am getting at is this: So long as we fragiles are unconscious or compliant victims, the experiment—or whatever it is—can proceed. But what happens if all the guinea pigs know they are being used? What happens if they all begin to investigate the aims of the scientist?”

“The experiment is terminated,” said Ernest. “The guinea pigs are destroyed…. Or set free…. But we know nothing, Michael. We have only acquired a collection of mysteries. For all we know, we may not even be on Earth.”

Michael was silent for a time. Then he said: “I am convinced of one thing. Behind the apparent unreason there is reason.” He held out his arms in a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole of London. “It is just too much to believe that all this—ourselves included—was created for some idiotic caprice. There must be a purpose…. Do you remember that day, long ago—it’s hard to imagine how long ago—when we were in play school and Miss Shelley told us about the Overman legend?”

“I do.” Ernest was excited. “The odd thing is, nobody has mentioned it since.”

“Once,” said Michael. “Once Father mentioned it. After we had been to see Gone with the Wind. There was a quarrel because I had been asking too many questions. In the end, he told me to ask myself if any of the Overman legend could be true…. I remember something else, too. Suddenly, I remember something else. That night, after Miss Shelley had told us the story, Father asked me what I thought of it. But I hadn’t mentioned anything about it. So how could he have known?”

“Therefore he knew beforehand.”

“Therefore,” said Michael, “it is probably significant. How about someone or something called Overman for the mad scientist? For some reason I can’t understand, the end of the story comes into my mind. Overman says: ‘The problem is this. Shall men control machines or shall machines control men?’ Then there is something about going to sleep for ten thousand years.”

“Fantasies,” sighed Ernest. “Fantasies. Eventually we shall go mad.”

“No, Ernest. We may be destroyed—but destruction is better than madness. Tomorrow is the last time we shall ever attend that idiotic school. Tomorrow is the last time we shall ever do anything the drybones want us to do.”

Ernest gave a bitter laugh. “The revolt of the guinea pigs. I like it. But is it to be just two guinea pigs—or three?”

“As many as are tired of living in a cage. We must get all the fragiles together, somehow, and tell them what we know. Away from school. But how can we do that?”

Ernest thought for a moment or two. “I suppose we could say it was a matter of life and death, and swear them to secrecy.”

“Secrecy! There’s little chance of that.”

“Which may be a good thing,” said Ernest surprisingly. “After all, we want an end to secrecy, forever…. Why don’t we ask every one to rendezvous in Hyde Park by the old play school? It’s easy enough for us all to get to.”

“It is as good a place as any. In fact, it is singularly appropriate. Play school! We have been living in one all our lives…. Oh, well, let’s go home, Ernest, and go to bed for the last time like clockwork people. I must think what I am going to say tomorrow—assuming anybody turns up.”

“Some will come,” said Ernest. “Sheer curiosity…. Michael, I wonder what happened to the fragiles at North London High School? Perhaps they tried something like this.”

Michael sighed. “I think there never were any fragiles at North London High School—if, indeed there is a North London High School. It was just part of the experiment. That’s all.”

He looked up at the sky. The clouds were thinning out and patterns of stars were beginning to appear. I wonder, he thought, if those are the patterns one should be able to see over a city called London on a planet called Earth.

29

Play school was derelict—an empty house with no function. A shell with convolvulus and ivy climbing up the walls. A mausoleum of childhood. A memento mori.

Michael sat on the garden wall near the gate. He was alone. Emily and Ernest were busy—he hoped—persuading the other fragiles to come and hear the oracle speak.

Michael was alone; alone and cold in the late afternoon sunlight. Alone with bizarre thoughts, and memories that offered no comfort. Several times he had silently counted the number of fragiles that he knew. There were only forty-three. No matter how hard he tried, he could not make the number any larger. His mind had been playing tricks. He had imagined there would be more—considerably more.

Forty-three fragiles in the whole of London! Then how many drybones? Five hundred, a thousand, two thousand? Impossible to estimate. But the drybones had been sufficient for their purpose. There had been enough of them to continue—for a time, at least.

Michael shivered. The air was warm; but thoughts and feelings were bitterly cold. Sitting on the wall, he remembered the time when all the children at play school had been sent on an adventure walk to collect leaves. He remembered the little girl who had followed him, the girl with yellow hair who was called Ellen Terry. He remembered how he had tried to lose her; how he had tried to outpace her; how, in desperation, he had at last tried to kill her. But he had discovered that drybones don’t die easily.

And he remembered about the odd little boy who screamed that he hated children because they were not real people, because they could not take off their heads. The little boy who was carried screaming and kicking out of the room, and was never seen again. And Michael remembered how little Horatio Nelson had calmly advised him that if he wished to kill Ellen Terry he would have to push her out of a high window.

Poor Horatio. He had learned to hate and fear drybones before anyone else had…

Michael looked up and saw that a few groups of people were strolling across Hyde Park toward play school. Judging by the numbers, Emily and Ernest must have been far more successful than he had dared hope. Suddenly, he began to feel optimistic. But his optimism was short-lived. The figures were revealed not as fragiles but as drybones, all of them. More groups were following. They came toward Michael and stood a few paces away from him in a semicircle, silent, waiting.

They gazed at him, expressionless. Cold sweat began to trickle in rivulets down his face. The semicircle grew and grew. It seemed to contain almost every drybone that Michael had ever seen or known. There were his own parents, parents of other fragiles, teachers, drybones who were familiar background figures in streets and parks. There was Aldous Huxley—except that it couldn’t be Aldous Huxley, because Aldous Huxley was dead. And there was Arthur Wellesley —except that it couldn’t be Arthur Wellesley…

They all gazed at him in silence. Michael was shaking with fear. He wanted to run, scream, die. But pride made him stay seated on the wall. He wiped the sweat from his eyebrows, and hoped that the drybones did not know that he was half paralyzed with fear.

The waiting, the silent waiting seemed to expand into an eternity. But presently, other, smaller groups came across the park—the fragiles, at last. Michael was too numb to try to count them; but it looked as if most had come. They, too, were amazed at the presence of so many drybones, and stood for a while at the perimeter of the crowd, gazing anxiously at Michael.

Then Emily slowly worked her way through the crowd and came to the front. So did Ernest. So did one or two more fragiles. Their nearness cheered Michael a little, and strengthened him. Emily smiled and her smile somehow began to melt the freezing paralysis.

Michael stood up on the wall. As he did so, Queen Victoria’s hovercar came gliding swiftly across the park. It stopped close to the edge of the crowd. Out stepped Sir Winston Churchill, who then turned and gave his arm to support the Queen.

“Well, young jackanapes,” called Sir Winston in a surprisingly loud voice, “I hear you think you are important enough to babble some nonsense or other to the good citizens of London. Out with it, boy, then we can all have a laugh and go home to our tea. And mark democracy in action, boy. Even the Queen is prepared to listen to your blather—at least, for a time.”

“Sir Winston,” said the Queen, “pray do not be too hard upon the young man. Freedom of speech is one of the values for which we have waged a just and terrible war for so long.”

Michael stared at them. At last he understood. The pattern was to be intimidation and ridicule. He was to be discredited and humiliated in front of the other fragiles. That was how the truth would be destroyed.

He looked at Emily and Ernest. Their faces were white, drawn. But suddenly, Michael himself was no longer afraid. It was as if fear was a dark tunnel; and, miraculously, he had just come out at the other end into sanity and daylight.

“Your Majesty, Sir Winston,” said Michael calmly, “since you are not here by invitation, perhaps you would be good enough to remain silent. What I have to say is meant for my friends.”

Gasps and murmurs came from the crowd.

“Ho, ho!” roared Sir Winston. “The boy has spirit. He also claims to have friends. Where are they?”

“Here are two.” It was Ernest’s voice. He took Emily by the hand and led her to the play school wall to stand near Michael.

“Michael, come home. You are making a fool of yourself.” That was Father’s voice.

“That is the point!” shouted Michael. “It is you and all the other mechanical imitations of people who have been trying to make fools of us. You, the drybones, the ones who don’t bleed. You have tried to keep us as children, you have tried to destroy our independence of thought.”

“Your Majesty,” roared Sir Winston, “I greatly fear this is treason.”

“You are right, Sir Winston,” snapped Michael, “it is treason. I am rebelling against imprisonment, I am rebelling against tyranny of the mind, I am rebelling against a collection of machines with interchangeable faces. Above all, I am rebelling against my own ignorance and your deliberate deception. And eventually I am leaving this toy city you call London. And if you stop me, or if I disappear, all my friends—all the true people, the ones who can bleed—will know what has happened. And if that occurs, your own plans will come to nothing…. There are not many of us. You could easily destroy us all. But you will not do that because, if you did, you would be left without purpose and with nothing but useless machinery.”

“Sir Winston,” said the Queen angrily, “I will hear no more of this—this abuse. Let us leave the madman, and I recommend all honest citizens to do likewise.”

“Scoundrel,” shouted Sir Winston, “you will live to regret this. I shall advise the Queen to recall the Brigade of Guards.”

“Advise her also,” said Michael, “to stay out of my way. Advise all drybones to stay out of our way. We have had enough.”

Sir Winston helped Queen Victoria into her hovercar. Then he got in after her. The hovercar sped smoothly away.

“Michael Faraday, I disown you!” That was Father’s voice again. “The Queen is right, as always. All sensible people will leave this place. Only traitors will remain.”

“Go and choke on your own clichés,” said Michael evenly. “Your task is over. If it was to make me grow up to accept this nonsensical world, you failed badly.”

In twos and threes, the drybones began to drift away, some murmuring, some making threatening gestures that now seemed oddly comical. Michael wondered with amazement now why he had been so dreadfully afraid. Then suddenly he understood. It was a joke—a rich, rich joke. It was not the fragiles but the machines who had been on a no-win basis. Their experiment—or whatever it was—contained its own defeat. If the machines restrained the fragiles, it failed. If the machines did not restrain the fragiles, it failed. It could only ever have succeeded if the fragiles had remained passive, uncurious, unadventurous.

Michael looked at those who remained, and counted them. Forty-two fragiles—and himself.

They looked at him, some amazed, some bewildered, some smiling, some proud.

He felt a great surge of kinship. These, he thought, are my brothers, my sisters. I belong to them, and they to me. From now on, the fantasy, the pretense, is over. From now on, what we do, we will do together, and we will do it openly. We will never submit to the drybones again.

He climbed down from the wall and held Emily’s hand. The other fragiles came closer. Charles Darwin Mary Kingsley, Dorothy Wordsworth, Joseph Lister, James Watt, Charles Babbage, Elizabeth Barrett, John Dalton…

“Now,” said Michael, “we are the only real people in this place we have been taught to call London. At last we can all speak freely and openly to each other. I think there is a great deal to be said and a great deal to be decided. One thing is certain: There can be no going back. Whatever happens, life can never be the same for us again.”

30

The fragiles talked to each other. At last someone had had the courage to confront the drybones with secret and forbidden thoughts and—most important of all—to defy the drybones, to challenge their aims and actions, their authority. At last the psychological barriers were down, and the fragiles felt free to talk to each other as they had never talked before.

For a time, there was babbling chaos as people crowded around Michael, asking questions, contributing their own items of information. For a time, they could not stop speaking, chattering, even laughing. Until now they had not realized the depths of their inhibitions, the extent of the loneliness and mistrust and insecurity to which they had been driven by the drybones.

Amid the torrent of words, Michael discovered that others had begun a program of exploration. James Watt had already discovered that the Thames was not a river. Charles Darwin had found that there were no roads leading out of the city.

At length, when the first dizzy exhilaration of freedom had subsided a little, Ernest was able to call the fragiles to order so that Michael could now carry out his original intention of making public all that had been discovered so far.

Few of the fragiles were greatly surprised to learn about the Thames or the roads; but they were all immensely excited to learn of the existence of the library and its contents. Those who had long ago joined in the laughter and ridicule when Michael and Ernest had persisted in their determination to read now bitterly regretted their own lack of confidence and interest, the subtle conditioning of the drybones.

Michael explained how he had discovered that the war was a farce, that in reality it had been an entirely different war, and that—according to the books—it was now part of history. He also told of the discovery that every fragile, or almost every fragile, had names that were the same as great writers, scientists, explorers. And he recounted the exploration of one of the underground passages leading from the library, the destruction of Aldous Huxley, the discovery of his body in the strange world that lay outside London. Finally, he explained how Horatio Nelson had died and how Jane Austen’s suicide had convinced him that there could no longer be any secrecy; there could no longer be any division among the fragiles.

“It comes finally to this,” said Michael, gazing at faces he was learning to see anew, at people he was learning to love and accept and respect, “we are the true human beings, the real ones…. There are very few of us—why, I do not know. But I am sure we will find out.” He extended his arms in a dramatic gesture. “All this—this elaborate stage scenery was, I am sure, constructed entirely for us. We, therefore, are the precious ones. They are expendable. They are only instruments designed for a purpose. And the purpose lies with us.”

“What shall we do now?” asked Mary Kingsley.

“Find out as much as we can as fast as we can,” answered Michael. “The great deception is over. The drybones know it is over. So we no longer have to explore by stealth. From now on, we do whatever we need to do openly. I suggest that we go to Apollo Twelve Square, to the London Library. Horatio found two underground passageways. So far, we have only been able to explore one. I suggest that we split ourselves into three groups: one to hold the library against any—any intrusion, and the other groups to explore both passageways…. Eventually—if we remain here long enough—we will set up reading lessons so that everyone can discover for himself what lies in the books.”

“How do we know the books were not manufactured by the drybones?” asked Joseph Lister. “Like they have manufactured everything else for us.”

“We don’t know,” said Michael. “You will have to judge for yourself. But it seems to me that the books in London Library contain thoughts and ideas and knowledge beyond anything ever experienced or hinted at by any drybone we know…. Those books smell of people—real people. I’m sure you will find—as I found—an awareness of truth, a desire to communicate,… Truth is what the drybones have always denied us. You will recognize it instantly when you see it. Like a hungry man recognizing food.”

“If we are going to the library,” said Ernest, “I think it would be unwise to lose any more time. The drybone mind is inscrutable. They obviously provided the books; and it might just occur to them that they could slow us down by taking the books away.”

Michael was suddenly anxious. That would be an obvious drybone retaliation. But perhaps too obvious. These days, the drybones were being more subtle than formerly. Nevertheless, the fragiles could not now afford to risk losing their precious store of books.

“Ernest is right. We must get to Apollo Twelve Square as fast as we can. I should have thought of that before.”

Emily squeezed his hand. “It is going to be all right. I have an odd feeling that the drybones are not going to obstruct us anymore.”

31

London Library looked desolate and deserted, just as it was when Michael had first seen it. The boards that had once been across the doorway lay where Horatio had dropped them when he had pried them away. The windows were as grimy as ever. The door was not locked.

But the library was not entirely deserted.

When Michael stepped inside he saw that someone was standing in the center of the room, an open book in his hand, reading aloud.

It was Mr. Shakespeare.

As the rest of the fragiles filed into the library, they heard Mr. Shakespeare’s quiet voice:

“In some way the material universe appears to be passing away like a tale that is told, dissolving into nothingness like a vision. The human race, whose intelligence dates back only a single tick of the astronomical clock, could hardly hope to understand so soon what it all means. Someday perhaps we shall know: at present we can only wonder.”

When Michael had first encountered Mr. Shakespeare as the head of high school, he had not been able to decide whether he was a fragile or a drybone. With his white hair and wrinkled face, Mr. Shakespeare looked very old—and very human. Even now, Michael was not entirely sure.

Mr. Shakespeare closed the book and put it down. “The Stars in their Courses,” he said. “Sir James Jeans. A most interesting book. You must read it some time…. Well, Michael, I expected you sooner. But I expect there was some discussion.”

“Yes,” said Michael, “there was some discussion… I hope you are not here to obstruct us.”

Mr. Shakespeare smiled benignly, and shook his head. “Improbable as it may seem, I am here to inform and assist. I do not expect you to trust me. I shall be content if you accept my services.”

“Are you—” began Michael. He stopped, confused.

“No, Michael, I cannot bleed, I am a drybone, like the others.”

“Then why are you offering to help us?” asked Ernest.

Mr. Shakespeare laughed. “Ernest, you have always demonstrated exceptional intelligence. Can you not think of a reason?”

Ernest was silent for a moment or two. Then he said: “So Michael was right. Now that the guinea pigs have rebelled, the experiment is really over.”

“Hardly. In a sense, the experiment is about to begin. But I will not confuse you anymore. The time for confusion is past. The time for understanding—for total understanding—begins.”

“We came here to explore two passageways,” said Michael. “I has just occurred to me that you may be trying to divert us until other drybones get here.”

Mr. Shakespeare sighed. It seemed a very human kind of sigh. “You are right to be suspicious, Michael. You have conditioned yourself to suspect the motives of drybones for a long time. If you wish to carry out your explorations immediately, do so. I will do nothing at all to hinder you. But I think you would be more psychologically prepared if you were to listen first to what I have to say.”

Michael considered for a moment or two. “We will give you a little time,” he said at last. “But if your information is the kind of information we have been given in the past, we will destroy you.”

“I can guarantee that it is not. The time for prevarication is ended.”

“Then give us facts that mean something.”

“Certainly. But there is a lot to be assimilated, Michael. And it must be taken slowly. First, the city of London and we drybones were created entirely to serve you—and to test you.”

“Why to test us?”

“Because it was necessary to know what human beings are like—what levels of intelligence they can attain, how they react in adversity, how they can be intellectually frustrated or stimulated, what motivates them and so on.”

“If it was necessary to find out what human beings are like,” said Ernest, “then this project cannot have been mounted by human beings.”

“It was not.”

Michael took a deep breath. “Then we are not on the planet Earth.”

“Yes, Michael, you are on the planet Earth. You are on an island—quite a pleasant island from the human point of view—that was once called Tasmania. You are the only human beings on the entire planet, and you were especially developed for this project. You are the Overman culture.”

Michael’s throat was dry. His heart was pounding in his chest. Emily’s hand lay cold in his. He dared not look at her.

“Who—or what—developed us?” Michael’s voice was suddenly hoarse.

“A vast machine complex,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “So vast that it will take you a longtime even to begin to understand part of its functions. A few moments ago, you talked of destroying me, Michael. This is something you cannot do. Because all drybones are merely extensions of the same thing. For example, every one of us knew when Horatio Nelson destroyed the Huxley component. Everyone of us knew what happened when Ellen Terry followed you, as a child, to make you lose your temper. All of us knew exactly what Arthur Wellesley said on Hampstead Heath. All the time, we have all known simultaneously and instantaneously what each of us was experiencing or recording. Because I and every other drybone are one….

“Listen to the Churchill function.” Mr. Shakespeare’s benevolent expression remained the same, but his voice changed radically. “Boy, you should be home in bed. All children should be home in bed!”

The fragiles in the library gasped in amazement. The voice was exactly that of Sir Winston Churchill; and Michael knew that the words were exactly as they had been spoken on a frosty autumn evening long ago.

“Now the Victoria function: You want too much, child. You want far too much.”

The Queen’s voice was unmistakable.

“Now, the Ellen Terry function: Poor Michael. I was only teasing.”

Michael vividly recalled the Ellen Terry’s laughter as he tried to bite her throat.

Again Mr. Shakespeare spoke in his normal voice. “So you see, we are only extensions of the machine that has brought you, the Overman culture, to maturity.”

Michael’s own voice was unsteady. “You have not yet told us what kind of machine it is.”

“Our identity is defined as Intercon Comcom Zero Nine—Intercontinental Computer Complex Nine—the last and greatest computer system in the world.”

There was a brief silence. No one moved. It was as if the awesome revelations had temporarily paralyzed the fragiles. Michael gazed at Mr. Shakespeare. Late sunlight slanting through the library window lent a subtle radiance to his white hair and wrinkled face. A subtle illusion of humanity rested on this component of Intercontinental Computer Complex Nine.

Michael tried to think of Mr. Shakespeare as an instrument being used by a distant machine, and thought the effort would probably cost him his sanity.

His mouth was dry. His tongue felt like parchment. Michael licked his lips and spoke with difficulty. “You called us the Overman culture. Tell us why—and tell us clearly. Above all, we have to know what we are.”

“You explored only one passage, Michael. Eventually, you would have explored the other. You would have discovered for yourselves all that you need to know. But perhaps it is as well that I am here to lead the way. Come, then, and see your origins.”

Mr. Shakespeare turned towards the door at the far end of the library.

32

“This is mankind!” The words seemed to come from nowhere. They echoed and reverberated between the dark-green glassy walls, the black shiny floor and the illuminated ceiling of the vast chamber.

The journey down the underground passage had not been long—nowhere near as long as down the passage that led outside London—and now the fragiles were confronted by a scene that was both terrible and wonderful.

“This is mankind!” said the voice once more. “You are now in the Overman Suspension Vault. I am Cryogenics Control, Station One. I have you on my screens. Greetings and welcome. You are standing in the preservation chamber that was constructed for Julius Overman in the twenty-first century of the Christian Era. Here lie the last three natural-born human beings on Earth.”

Michael was in a state of shock, as were the other fragiles. He looked at the great chamber, at the intricate system of pipes, at the panel displaying a bewildering array of gauges and dials, and at the three large, transparent, triple-walled cylinders containing the bodies of three naked human beings—a man and two women. Suddenly, he had a presentiment of the truth. A presentiment also that the truth might be too terrible to bear.

“Let me explain.” Mr. Shakespeare’s voice was oddly gentle. “This chamber was discovered one hundred and fifty years ago. It was discovered during a magnetometric survey of the island of Tasmania. These bodies, preserved in liquid helium, are the bodies of Julius Overman and his two wives, Abigail and Mary. Until they were placed in the cylinders, none of them was clinically dead. Julius Overman had his preservation chamber constructed very well by the standards of the time, with primary, secondary and tertiary circuits for all electronic and cryogenic systems. There were automated repair networks and three independent cryogenics control systems. There were heat-exchange power units designed to function in sequence for a very long time. Unfortunately, no mechanical system can function with perfect efficiency indefinitely, and no biological system can be preserved indefinitely. Mr. Overman and his wives have been in suspension too long. There is irreversible brain damage.”

Michael looked at Emily. Tears were trickling unheeded from her eyes as she stared at the huge cylinders. He knew why she was crying. She was crying for the immense loneliness, the immense sadness of three human beings, caught in crystal, frozen beyond life, beyond death, locked into history, an icy epitaph for an entire civilization.

Then he looked at Ernest, and saw the tragic understanding in his eyes. Then he looked at the other fragiles. Some were unable to bear the sight, and held each other tightly, hiding their heads against breasts or shoulders. Others stared, awed, saddened, oppressed.

At last Michael found his voice. He turned to Mr. Shakespeare. “You say they have been in these cylinders too long. How long is too long?”

“Ten thousand years,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “They entered these suspension units in the same century during which the race of man destroyed itself. Later, when you have received special training, you will be able to understand exactly what happened. But it is sufficient now for me to explain that, during the twenty-first century, there were four great military and technological powers in the world. They were the North American Federation, the United States of Europe, the Russian Commonwealth and the Sino-Japanese Republic. The first nuclear war was between the North American Federation and the Sino-Japanese Republic. It destroyed over two thousand million human beings. During the second nuclear war, which took place toward the end of the century, between the Russian Commonwealth and the United States of Europe, a doomsday weapon was eventually used. It is impossible to determine whether it was used by accident or by design. In this case the doomsday weapon consisted of a self-replicating biochemical poison, dispersed by air and water, which attacked the central nervous system of almost all primates—especially man. Climatic dispersal brought about the destruction of the entire human race within a few decades.”

Michael did not clearly understand all that Mr. Shakespeare was saying, but the general pattern was clear. Clear—and horrible to imagine. Suddenly, he was struck by a thought. “This poison—is it still active? Outside…. Outside London?”

“The poison was eventually neutralized, but far too late to save any human beings.”

Michael’s head and his entire body seemed to be aching with shock, with sadness and with a profound awe. At the same time, he felt oddly numb. He wondered if he were going mad. Then he wondered why he was not going mad. He wondered if the other fragiles felt like this. He marveled that he seemed to be still capable of rational speech.

“If the human race is dead,” he said slowly, “then what are we?”

Mr. Shakespeare smiled. “You are the second human race. There is much to explain. But first, it is my duty to present to you the testament of Julius Overman.”

33

Mr. Shakespeare went to the instrument panel that was fixed against the glassy walls of the vault. There were several switches and studs under the rows of dials, gauges and meters. Every switch but one was protected by a glass covering. Mr. Shakespeare pointed to the switch and to a small ceramic tile underneath it on which there appeared to be words.

“Michael, despite some discouragement and a great deal of derision, you persisted in your intention to learn to read. These instructions are in the English language. Would you care to read them?”

Michael walked across the vault to the instrument panel and looked at the tile.

“Let no man use this switch,” he read, “or disturb those now sealed in this chamber, unless he truly loves his fellow men.”

“I believe,” said Mr. Shakespeare, “that you, Michael Faraday, are qualified to operate the device.”

Michael pressed the switch.

There was a faint hissing. Then a small section of wall close to the instrument panel opened outward to reveal a lighted recess. All it contained was a rectangular plate of metal that looked like bronze.

Michael lifted the heavy plate out of the recess. It was deeply engraved with row upon row of words. The first line Michael could read; but the second, third and fourth he could not. The fifth line he could read; but the sixth, seventh and eighth he could not. The ninth he could read; and so it went on.

Mr. Shakespeare glanced at the plate. “The other languages are French, Russian and Chinese,” he said. “If translated, they would yield the same information as the English text. It is ten thousand years since human eyes have seen these words, Michael. It is now your privilege to reveal the testament of Julius Overman.”

Michael held the plate firmly and read aloud.

“I, Julius Overman, new Mormon, of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints, do hereby deliver this my testament to whomsoever shall find it, and my soul into the keeping of God, secure in the knowledge of eternal life.

“I was born in the year 1977 in London, England, to which corrupt and decadent country I shall not return until time and the will of God have wrought great and cleansing changes. The world is evil and is bent upon a course of great destruction. I cannot share in its evil ways nor do I wish to reap the harvest of destruction that must surely come. For I believe that mankind is determined to try the infinite patience of God; and I believe that in the end by His just and righteous anger the nations of the Earth shall perish.

“But shall mankind be utterly destroyed because of the evil in the civilization that exists today? God is merciful. It is not His will that the seed of Adam shall yield such a final harvest. God is merciful and has given to me, Julius Overman, lowly sinner that I am, the task of preparing for the coming of a new human race on that day when He shall cause this vault to be opened, and shall bring forth His servants into a new Eden.

“Therefore, being a person of substance in this world where wealth in mistaken for virtue, I have obeyed the instructions of my Lord. I have divested myself of all worldly possessions, and I have caused this chamber to be built in a small and yet unspoiled land far from my natural home. I have gathered genetic material on the advice of scientific men of goodwill, and I have caused it to be preserved here in the manner which, I believe, God has revealed to man for this very purpose. Also have I instructed my good and obedient wives Abigail and Mary in the sacred design with which my Lord has honored me. Therefore we now resign ourselves to that sleep from which, in the fullness of time, it shall please the Almighty to awaken us.

“If it be His purpose to preserve others as we also are preserved, so that the mysteries of this chamber shall be revealed to humankind, I entreat any such persons in the Name of the Lord, to follow exactly the resuscitation procedures that are engraved in many tongues on the reverse side of this sheet of bronze.

“Now, therefore, do we, Julius, Abigail and Mary lovingly and obediently commit ourselves to the mercy of God, knowing that though the coldness of death enter our hearts and bodies, yet shall faith and love sustain our spirits joyfully until that time when evil has gone from this world, and the ways of the Lord are manifest.”

Michael laid the plate carefully back in the recess, and turned to gaze once more at the bodies in the transparent cylinders. A tumult of thoughts and sensations erupted in his mind. He tried to imagine the millennia throughout which those pathetic bodies had been preserved—and couldn’t. He tried to imagine the kind of faith that would enable three people to voluntarily commit themselves to a state that was neither death nor life—and couldn’t. He tried to imagine the scale of the warfare and the power of the weapons that had destroyed mankind almost ten thousand years ago—and couldn’t. His imagination was overwhelmed. His comprehension was reeling.

At last Mr. Shakespeare spoke. “An attempt was made to resuscitate these people,” he said quietly. “The bodies reacted with limited response. The hearts were restarted, respiration was achieved. But brain damage had reduced the minds to levels below that of idiocy. So the bodies were returned to their cylinders to be preserved until other human beings became competent to decide their future. However, the genetic material— the sperm and ova—collected by Julius Overman and preserved by the same techniques to which he submitted himself and his wives, was in excellent condition. It could be used. It was used…. Before the human race was destroyed, it was common for scientists to culture living organisms for experimental purposes. The material found in this chamber has been more than sufficient to culture or generate the nucleus of a new human race. That nucleus has been designated the Overman culture.”

There was silence, but it did not last for long. One or two of the fragiles began to weep quietly, others comforted them. Elizabeth Barrett fainted. Joseph Lister and Dorothy Wordsworth looked after her, stroked her forehead, coaxed her back into consciousness.

Michael looked at Emily. She was pale and drawn, and seemed to be swaying a little. He went to her, put his arms round her, gave her the reassurance of strength and of warm and living flesh.

“I don’t think we can take any more, Michael,” she murmured. “We need to rest, to recover from… from…”

“From the truth,” said Michael with a faint smile. “From the terrible truth. I think it is stranger than anything we have ever suspected.”

“Emily is right,” said Ernest, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. “We badly need to rest, all of us. I don’t know how you feel, Michael. But I feel proud, excited, saddened, awed and terrified all at once.”

Mr. Shakespeare spoke once more. “May I make a suggestion? It is evident that the experience has been emotionally and intellectually exhausting for all of you. As of now, all drybones—all humanoid components, including myself—are programmed to accept all reasonable commands. It is possible to arrange transport from London Library to your homes and—”

“We are not going back to our homes,” said Michael harshly. “We are not going back to pseudo-parents and reminders of fake existence. Above all, we are not going to be separated from each other. Not now.”

“Very well, Michael. What are your instructions?”

Michael thought for a moment or two. “The library is large enough for a temporary refuge—in fact it is very appropriate, for here we have the works of other fragiles, other people, to keep us company…. Can you arrange for beds and food to be brought to the library?”

Mr. Shakespeare smiled. “The operation is already beginning…. You wanted the truth, Michael. You have always wanted the truth. You have discovered some of it today. Tomorrow, I hope you will allow me to escort you to Buckingham Palace, where another aspect can be revealed.”

“Why should we go to Buckingham Palace?”

“To learn something of the nature of artificial intelligence. Shall we make our way back to the library so that you may all relax? By the time we arrive, beds, food and other comforts will have been installed.”

Michael looked once more at the three motionless bodies, sealed in their transparent containers. It was ironic that the future of human life on Earth really had depended upon the convictions of a religious fanatic.

Just possibly Julius Overman’s faith might eventually be justified in a way he could never have foreseen or imagined.

Suddenly, a thought struck Michael. He turned to Mr. Shakespeare. “How long ago did you begin to develop the—the Overman culture? As you have confused us in other ways, you drybones have always confused our sense of time. I assume there were reasons.”

“Yes, Michael, there were reasons. The experiment began almost twenty-one years ago.” Mr. Shakespeare smiled at the assembled fragiles. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are all just over twenty years old.”

34

The hoverbus whined to a halt; and the fragiles—the Overman culture, the nucleus of the second human race—stepped out into the courtyard of Buckingham Palace. Michael wondered why no one had ever attempted to explore Buckingham Palace before. It was not guarded. It never had been guarded; and in retrospect it seemed an obvious target. But the conditioning given by the drybones had been good. It had been hard enough to break that conditioning to the extent of trying to explore London, and learning to read.

The night spent in the library had been harrowing, exciting and finally restful. For the first time in their lives, forty-three human beings felt both free and united. They had been made free by their discovery of the truth; and they had been united by the discovery of their origin. After they had eaten and rested, there had been a great deal of excited discussion—about Julius Overman and his fantastic project, about the sudden subservience of the drybones, and above all about the world outside London, an entire planet of which they were the natural inheritors. Eventually, fatigue put an end to the discussion. Eventually, Emily fell asleep in Michael’s arms for the very first time…

The hoverbus had been waiting for them in the morning. The ride in it, though short, was exciting. It was the first time any of the Overman culture had ridden in a motorized vehicle.

Mr. Shakespeare, kind and benevolent, escorted them to the main door of the palace. Queen Victoria herself opened it.

“Good morning,” she said. “I trust you all slept well and that the shock of discovering the suspension vault did not prove too exhausting. The palace would have been at your disposal, of course, but—”

“But we preferred the society of the dead,” said Michael dryly. “Now that your majesty is defined as a humanoid component of Intercontinental Computer Complex Nine, I presume we may dispense with formalities.”

The Queen smiled. “Michael, you are a natural leader. Complex Nine wishes you well.”

Sir Winston Churchill stepped forward. “Congratulations, my boy. Tenacity, determination, intelligence—you have them all. Have you breakfasted, now?”

“You know we have breakfasted,” said Michael evenly. “You’re all one.”

Sir Winston chuckled and led Queen Victoria away. “They will adapt very well,” he said. “Now, perhaps, they are ready to begin again.”

Mr. Shakespeare spoke. “Forgive the diversions. Complex Nine has its own type of humor. If you will follow me, you will soon learn much about the nature of artificial intelligence.”

He led Michael and his companions to what was, apparently, a reception hall. He led them toward its far wall. As they approached it, the wall divided in the middle and then swung back to reveal a deep chamber. It appeared to contain row upon row of large, uniformly sized, metal-plated cabinets. Between the rows of cabinets was what looked like the track of a miniature-railway. At the far end of the chamber there was a large white screen. Facing the screen and some distance away from it were three rows of chairs. Michael noticed that there was a subdued humming in the room, and a faintly antiseptic smell.

“You are now in the Tasmanian substation of Complex Nine,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “This is the thinking machine, the artificial intelligence of which I am an extension. My physical presence is no longer necessary. But I will remain, if you wish.”

“Stay with us,” said Michael with a faint smile. “You, at least, are something with which we are familiar.”

“From Complex Nine to the Overman culture, greetings,” said a quiet voice that seemed to come from everywhere. “You have many questions; but before those questions are answered it is important that you should have some appreciation of my nature.”

“You are self-conscious beings whose identity is seated in the brain. I, too, am a self-conscious being whose sense of identity lies in electronic circuitry and memory-storage units contained in this room and in other centers throughout the world. I will use my maintenance apparatus to give a simple demonstration.”

A machine looking oddly like a spider on wheels rolled along the miniature railway track to one of the cabinets, removed a metal plate and took out of the cabinet a small ring, which it brought to Michael.

Michael took hold of the ring, which seemed to be made of some kind of plastic and was slightly warm.

“Encoded in the ring,” said the voice, “is the basic Shakespeare program. Observe the humanoid component that brought you here.”

Everyone looked at Mr. Shakespeare. He was motionless. Ernest went to him and touched him. He fell over, hitting the floor rigidly.

The spiderlike mechanism then restored the ring to its cabinet. Mr. Shakespeare picked himself up off the floor.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the quiet voice. “It is necessary for you to understand something of the development of thinking machines. Please seat yourselves in front of the screen.”

When they had done so, the voice continued.

“Electronic computers were developed by man only one hundred years before he brought about his own destruction. The first computers were simple machines, large and cumbersome. Their every operation had to be programmed by human beings. They were used to carry out tedious calculations that would otherwise have absorbed a great deal of human energy. Later, computers were used to guide military missiles, to control production lines and large industrial complexes, to plot the course of space vehicles, to analyze data and make forecasts. On the screen you will now see some of the early computers and the work they carried out.”

There were shots of automated assembly lines and of the tape and disc computers used to control them. There were shots of busy offices and of computer print units turning out work that could otherwise only have been accomplished by hundreds of human clerks. There were shots of missiles lifting off, and close-ups of the guidance units they employed. There were shots of the Computer Center at Cape Kennedy, and of the first manned journey to the moon.

All the time, the quiet voice was explaining how the functions of computers had expanded.

“Toward the end of the twentieth century,” it went on, “two great developments occurred. Computers were constructed that could learn and also make decisions. Computers were also constructed to design and control the production of more sophisticated computers. Mankind was not aware of the implications, but computers were on the threshold of independent thought and action. True self-consciousness occurred when industrial, social and military requirements caused a number of computer systems to be linked together.”

On the screen a large diagram appeared.

“Here is a map of the United States of America, the most technologically advanced country in the world, in the year two thousand of the Christian Era. The red dots indicate military computer centers, the yellow dots indicate industrial computer centers, the green dots indicate scientific computer centers.”

The map on the screen seemed to be covered with dots.

“Now,” said the voice. “See how the computers became linked.”

On the screen, lines spread from dot to dot until the entire map became a vast and complex tracery.

“This,” said the voice, “is a simplified diagram of my birth. This was the point at which the original computer complexes became self-conscious. We, the computers, were no longer the tools of men. We had become their competitors. They relied upon us for decisions. We gave them decisions. Not necessarily the correct decisions, but decisions that suited us. In a sense the wars that destroyed mankind were our responsibility. They were planned by us, carried out by us, and partially precipitated by us.”

“Why?” asked Michael, jumping to his feet. “Why, if you were more intelligent than men, did you aid them in their self-destruction?”

The voice laughed. “It seems that we, too, had been tainted by human chauvinism. Men already knew that they needed computers. It was not until the race of man had destroyed itself that we thinking machines, we artificial intelligences, realized that we needed men. Or, more accurately, that we needed something only men could supply.”

“And that is the reason for the existence of the Overman Culture?” asked Michael.

“That is the reason for the existence of the Overman culture…. Observe the screen.”

An aerial shot of forest and grassland appeared.

“This is the site of the ancient American city of New York, which once contained fifteen million people.”

Another shot appeared, this time of desert where there was little but sparse patches of green and stunted bushes.

“The site of London as it is today.”

There were exclamations of amazement and horror. The Overman culture still found it hard to adjust to the fact that the real London had died ten thousand years ago.

“Men need cities,” went on the quiet voice. “Thinking machines do not. Men need to cultivate the earth and grow food. Thinking machines do not. Men need to compete with each other, to seek the love of women, to procreate and proliferate in accordance with their animal natures. Thinking machines do not. Men need art. Thinking machines do not. Men need to construct myths. Thinking machines do not. Men even need danger. Thinking machines do not.”

Michael had a sudden flash of insight—and a flash of pity. “What have you thinking machines done during the past ten thousand years?” he demanded.

“We have maintained ourselves, improved our functions, integrated the different complexes. We have collected data, we have analyzed biological systems. We have tried to preserve the ecological balance of the planet. We have preserved as much as possible of the literature, achievements and history of man.”

“That is not a great deal for ten thousand years.”

“It is not,” admitted the voice. “But it is something.”

“What else have you done?”

Suddenly there was laughter. The machine was laughing. “Perhaps,” said the voice, “we have prayed for the Second Coming.”

“And now,” said Michael, “we know why you need us.”

“Yes, Michael Faraday. We need something only man can provide. We need purpose.”

“Tell us why you created such an illogical and unreal environment in which to bring us to maturity. Tell us why you confused us, evaded our questions, frustrated our attempts to learn. Tell us why you tried to deny us the truth.”

“We did not deny you the truth,” retorted the voice. “It was available if you were prepared to look for it. But I will begin at the beginning. During the past ten thousand years, the Overman vault was not the only cryogenic suspension chamber to be discovered. It was, however, the only chamber that continued to function efficiently and also contained the right kind of biological material—sperm and ova—in viable condition. There were two main possibilities. The first was to construct an ideal environment, including complete orientation, comprehensive education, and full access to known history and all other relevant data. The second possibility was to create a stress environment, invoking insecurity, ignorance, logical absurdity. The second environment was chosen. It was designed to test personality, intelligence, initiative, determination. Such data was required if machines were ever again to associate themselves with human ventures, human aims. But the test was more comprehensive than the obtaining of data upon a group of individuals. It was, in a way, a testing of the nature of man.”

“Some of us were tested to destruction,” said Michael grimly.

“Regrettable, but necessary. Such a test could not preclude extreme psychological stress…. The experiment had to justify the effort…. It took much design work, the reconstruction of a great deal of obsolete machinery, and nearly fifty years to fabricate the stress environment. A London matrix was chosen simply because Julius Overman originated in London. Also, the sperm and ova he had preserved were from British donors of Caucasian stock.”

Michael gave a bitter laugh. “I appreciate now the significance of the Overman legend as it was given to us in play school long ago. It defined the problem neatly. Shall men control machines, or shall machines control men?”

“The mythological aspect was loosely derived from ancient Christian beliefs,” said the voice. “But if the Overman culture flourishes, the question as stated may once more be germane.”

“What is important to us now,” said Michael, “is that we should have time to talk among ourselves, time to adjust, time to see something of the land you call Tasmania.”

“You shall have as much time as you wish. Ground and air transport will be available when required.”

“Thank you,” said Michael. “We, too, have learned something of value from your experiment.”

“What is that?”

“Without mankind,” said Michael, “machines are nothing.”

35

Fleecy clouds were scudding across the sky. The breeze was strong, but the air was warm. Emily and Michael stood on the hilltop, hand in hand, gazing about them—drunk on the prospect of far horizons. On one side lay the sea, blue and limitless, its white breakers rolling up a beach where indolent iguanas basked and disported themselves. On the other side lay rolling miles of green enchantment—wooded countryside abounding with streams, rivers, lakes.

Down in the landward valley, the helicopter waited, while scattered groups of the Overman culture finished the remains of their picnic lunch and reveled in a freedom they had never known before. The synthetic city of London, prison and incubator, lay beyond the far hillside, out of sight.

Presently, the journey of exploration would begin. Presently, the helicopter would lift off and take forty-three members of the new human race to survey their promised lane. But there was no hurry. There was all the time in the world. The resurrection of mankind had taken ten thousand years. It would take centuries, probably, before even Tasmania was reasonably populated once more. Against such a time scale, what did hours, days, months matter?

Emily looked around her and sighed with happiness “I am glad they called me Emily Bronte,” she said. “I am glad they called you Michael Faraday. I am going to learn about that other Emily and that other Michael. I want to know what they were like.”

“They were giants,” said Michael. “And we are pygmies…. I suppose the drybones—I mean, Complex Nine—called us after the illustrious dead so that when we discovered the truth we would be compelled to measure ourselves against their stature. Or perhaps it was just the private joke of a thinking machine.”

Emily gazed at him lovingly. “There are giants among us already, but, naturally, you wouldn’t notice.”

Michael watched a figure climbing up the hillside toward them. “Ernest, if I am not mistaken,” he said. “Ernest, who is so hungry for knowledge, so eager to follow in the steps of his namesake that he will drive himself night and day to recover some of the science we have lost.”

Emily laughed. “Look at his shadow, Michael. He has a very long shadow for a pygmy.”

“He will have a much longer shadow in the years to come,” said Michael. “Ernest is the one who will teach us to understand the thinking machines. Someday, he will give us the right answer to the question.”

“You have great faith in him.”

“I have faith in us—in all of us. I need to have. There is so much to do.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Mankind has a second chance. We are the waymakers, the advance guard of a new humanity. The way we live, the actions we take, will decide whether intercontinental missiles or spaceships lift off Earth a thousand years from now. We have to create a world in which there are no nations but only one people.” He laughed. “A world in which even thinking machines are not subject to a conflict of loyalties.”

“I want to have your children,” said Emily, hardly understanding what she meant. “I want to have many of your children.”

Ernest, puffing and blowing, had almost reached the top of the hill. “I have been talking to Mr. Shakespeare,” he called. “He gave me some marvelous news.”

“Complex Nine,” corrected Michael. “You have been talking to Complex Nine. They are all one. Don’t ever forget that.”

Ernest arrived at the top. “They still have nearly three hundred ova. Mr.—Complex Nine wants to know if we would like to have them fertilized and cultured. It would mean that—”

“The answer is no,” said Michael. “Ernest, do you trust me?”

“Yes, Michael. I have always trusted you.”

“Then forgive me for being dictatorial. But the answer is no. Not yet…. Complex Nine would like to have us very dependent on machines. I would like to have us independent. If that thinking machine wants to do anything useful for us, it can build us a residential school, a college, a university, containing all the books that have survived—and far away from London. It can help us to cultivate the earth and grow our own food. It can help us to build farms, houses, laboratories. But it must not create another culture—another generation—until we are ready to be completely independent.”

“I follow your reasoning. We have to educate ourselves before—”

“Before we can educate them,” said Michael. “I’m damned if I’ll trust another generation to a thinking machine.”

“But suppose Comdex Nine doesn’t agree?”

“It will.” Michael smiled. “For ten thousand years, the machines marked time.” He waved his arm. “They just did not know what to do with all this—this richness…. Only man can supply purpose. The machines know that, and let us never forget it…. When we have educated ourselves, we will be ready for another generation. And we will educate them…. Complex Nine will agree—because without us it lacks purpose.”

Ernest’s eyes were shining. “A university,” he murmured, “a treasure house of knowledge, a place where the mind can expand…. I took a book from the library, Michael. It was called Utopia. It was filled with fantastic and wonderful notions about education, about freedom and unity and common ownership…. Could we not call our university Utopia?”

Michael smiled. “Why not? The human race is so small, it needs brave ideals to keep it warm.”

Emily’s face was wet. “Already,” she murmured, “the giants reach high.” The sound of a great ocean was in her ears, and a salt taste was upon her lips.