Travels in Nihilon

Chapter 18

Benjamin had already driven two cars off the road that had tried to ram him, by using the novelty of his glaringly plain headlights. It gave him great satisfaction to see the sudden loss of nerve in the other car when, on getting what he considered close enough, he turned on his battery of six blinders, a fog-clearer, two back dazzlers, and a row of triple-flickering roof-installed searchbeams, at which the other car spun off the camber, rattled over a couple of potholes (which merely served to exacerbate its loss of control) and rumbled uneasily off the road before the big crash came somewhere back in the darkness. They, after all, had tried to ram him, so he felt no more sorrow at their plight than he had for the unfortunate manager of the petrol station whose exploding tanks, and what must have been his ultimate reserves, lit up the skyline for several miles as he drove contentedly into the dusk.

Coming to the Alphabet Motel, a drive-in sign channelled him between two desks; the clerk at one handed him a card on which was written: ‘Room P — thirty-five klipps’, while the opposite clerk got in the car and guided him into a small room. The doors closed, and the lift immediately began to ascend. When it stopped, doors opened in front, and the clerk indicated that he should drive out, along a corridor. The room doors had letters of the alphabet inscribed on them instead of numbers. Some had cars already parked outside, for which purpose ample space was provided. At door P, Benjamin stopped his car, got out, and was shown into a plain but comfortable apartment, which, after his long day, he was well pleased with. ‘The restaurant is now open,’ the clerk informed him before leaving. ‘There is also an amusement park attached to the establishment.’

After paying his bill in advance he went into the dining room of this curious stopover, where the menu was set out in automobile language. It was a four-stroke meal, at twenty klipps, and the food was excellent, beginning with an induction of sautéed tappets, then braised camshaft, followed by a main course which was a cut off the big-end, and terminalled by a dessert of carburettor Suzette. Half a bottle of high-octane wine was thrown in free. The plates, which were of the best Nihilon china, had a picture glazed on them depicting a car crash in which the most mangled vehicle plainly showed a Cronacian number-plate. A box of cigars was brought to him, with the name Exhaust-Smoke Coronas inscribed on its elaborate label.

After the meal he wandered into the amusement park. Prominent loudspeakers played the same Nihilon National Anthem he had heard and loathed at the frontier post, though none of the motoring clientele were taking much notice of it. Many of them, however, were lying dead drunk on the ground.

The main attraction was a large dodgem arena, in which those who must have driven cars all day were now amusing themselves by practising their expertise at causing or avoiding head-on collisions — before meeting the perils of tomorrow. There were cries of alarm and shouts of triumph, invariably followed by the overwhelming impact of reinforced metal. Attendants with long poles went from crash to crash, prising the sweating contestants free when they were unable to do it themselves. The car with most dents, and still running at the end of an hour, received a prize, though Benjamin did not stay long enough to find out what it was.

But, strangely enough, the atmosphere of the fairground soothed him, as he walked about smoking his cigar. Close by was a shooting-booth, a long counter from which one could try to shatter clay pigeons with a two-two rifle, and receive a glass of Nihilitz as a prize for each one down. Benjamin realized that the prostrate dead-drunk people must have visited this spot already, and from the state of their drunkenness must have been very good shots indeed. A man beside him, fat, sweating, with rolled shirt-sleeves, was such a crack shot that he drank thirty glasses of Nihilitz. At the thirty-first he fell down as senseless as a stone, the rifle still in his hands, a look of beatification on his face. Some sportsmen lost their sure aim after only the third or fourth drink, then went staggering away to spend their remaining small consciousness on the dodgem cars.

Before going to sleep, he put his boots outside the door to get them cleaned by morning, hoping to set out at eight o’clock and reach Nihilon City before nightfall — which he considered possible, provided the roads were good.

Back in his room to get ready for bed he found a leaflet in his table drawer which said: ‘Visitor to Nihilon! Good evening, or Good morning! In order to find out more about our country, you may wish to tune-in to the seven o’clock lies on Radio Nihilon. This is the most important information bulletin of the day. Regarding its curious opening of “Here are the Lies”, tourists are earnestly requested not to be duped by it. They may be reminded, in fact, that the inhabitants of Nihilon take it very seriously. This National Bulletin owes its inverted title to the genius of President Nil, when he realized that the people of Nihilon were no longer interested in the News. He therefore proclaimed that henceforth all news would be lies. Thus, when people flocked to hear these lies they soon realized that they were, in fact, serious truth. But whereas before they had contemptuously referred to the News as lies, they could no longer do so, because Lies became its official name. That is just one of many curious customs you will come across in our country, dear visitor, proving once again that nihilism is rich in tradition and folklore!’

He fell asleep, yet soon woke up from it. At five o’clock he was disturbed by motorcars coughing to life on the landing outside and driving to the lift, as if the other travellers were getting an even earlier start than he had planned for. He turned over, and buried himself in his all-night warmth, but even a light sleep would not come back, so he switched on the radio by his bedside. After a few minutes of transmogrifying music an announcer began what he assumed to be the news:

‘Good morning, Nihilists. Here are the Lies. The Nihilon News Agency has stated that 7,000 Cronacian fishermen were detained yesterday when they came ashore at the port of Shelp. They were equipped with artillery and machine guns, as well as flame-throwers and fishing nets. A Cronacian News Service Message, however, has given its own version which is, as usual, full of the most foul and blatant inaccuracies. However, in the interests of objectivity we put it forward for what it is worth, so that you can judge for yourselves, dear Nihilists. The vile Cronacian swine claim, then, that the cruise-liner SS Cronacia came peacefully into the Nihilonian port of Shelp so as to let its 7,000 tourists ashore for a few hours. They comported themselves well, it is claimed, and expressed general interest in the Nihilonian people. They were extremely impressed, the communiqué went on, by the cultural monuments they were able to see. An hour before they were due to return to their ship, however, this peaceful delegation of the Cronacian nation found itself surrounded by several divisions of the Nihilon army. In spite of being outnumbered, they returned fire with great skill and gallantry, but were soon overwhelmed by superior numbers — though not before much of the beautiful and historic centre of Shelp lay in ruins.

‘Whatever the communiqué of the Cronacian guttersnipe government says, the Nihilon army scored a great victory, and completely wiped out this treacherous attack by the Cronacian bandits. The Nihilonian army suffered only a few men wounded.’

‘Last night, an unarmed Nihilon Airways jet-plane carrying innocent people was viciously attached by Cronacian Pug 107 fighters. The attack was beaten off by our air force, but the airliner was extensively damaged, and many casualties were caused to the passengers.’

‘The area around the town of Fludd has been proclaimed a disaster area as from this morning. Last night the dam near the town burst, and thirty thousand of the inhabitants are feared to have perished. Aid is being rushed to the area. The cause of the disaster is unknown, but the possibility of Cronacian sabotage is not yet ruled out.’

‘Preparations for the commencement of Nihilon’s first great space spectacular are continuing. Our correspondent from the Ministry of Stars says that the launching of the rocket from the site below Mount Nihilon is expected either late today, or tomorrow, or perhaps in a few days’ time.’

‘At the south-eastern sector of our frontier the border incident continues. An attack by three of our Geriatric brigades made some progress, and caused heavy casualties among the enemy. The incident is expected to flare up again this morning.’

‘Yesterday a petrol station was attacked and destroyed by a Cronacian agent disguised as a foreign tourist. There were no casualties, but a million litres of petrol, as well as extensive installations, were destroyed. Police and security forces are combing the area with a view to apprehending the criminal.

‘And now, dear Nihilists, after the Lies comes music …’

Benjamin, fully dressed, considered that the news, even if it was lies, was bad, and wondered whether he would be lucky enough to reach Nihilon City at all. Thinking about the others, it seemed possible that Richard had met his fate in the airliner, that Edgar might have been caught in the battle of Shelp, and that Adam had perhaps been endangered by the dam burst at Fludd. It remained to be seen whether Jaquiline Sulfer and himself would meet in Nihilon. He opened the door to get his cleaned shoes, but they weren’t there, so he went back to the telephone and asked the reception desk if they would have them sent up. ‘I’m sorry, sir. We haven’t seen your shoes.’

‘You thief!’ Benjamin yelled. ‘You collected them all and sold them. I know your lousy tricks.’

‘We accept no responsibility for items which are lost,’ the clerk went on. ‘As a matter of fact we don’t clean the clients’ shoes, even though it says on the back of the door that we do. The notice is from last year and is due to be replaced.’

‘You scum,’ Benjamin cried. ‘You scooped them all up, put them in a sack, and sent them to the disaster victims of Fludd, with a note attached saying: “From the grief-stricken sympathizers of the Alphabet Motel.” You’ve got no right to do such a thing with my shoes. Get them back, or I’ll wring your neck.’

‘Perhaps one of the early motorists stole them by mistake,’ the clerk suggested.

Benjamin threw down the phone, which didn’t land back squarely on its base, and the voice of the clerk still came through: ‘It’s no use losing your temper. And all damage will be properly paid for, don’t forget. In any case you foreign bastards will get what’s coming to you if you don’t —.’ He cut off the nagging voice, of typical Nihilon backchat, and went out to the car for his spare pair of shoes.

In comparison with last night’s sumptuous meal his breakfast was plain and simple fare. Coffee and black bread, with an apple and a bottle of Nihilitz, were put before him as he sat down. When he asked for ham and boiled eggs, the waiter said that motorists must not set out on any journey in Nihilon on a full stomach. Since there was a risk of certain injury on the road, this rule was only made for their own good. However, he added, there was a provision shop next to the amusement park which sold all kinds of rich and tasty delicacies, and if he ate breakfast quickly he might find something left before the other drivers bought everything.

He decided that these bloody Nihilists weren’t going to make him hurry over his breakfast, as shabby as the food was. He’d get provender along the way, by some means or other. Of that he had no doubt. But the coffee was surprisingly good, and the black bread as tasty as meat, certainly rich in vitamins. A few other people at nearby tables were talking loudly about the Lies, going from one item to another, finally speculating on the identity of the Cronacian maniac-saboteur who had blown up the petrol station.

‘Anyone who would destroy such a precious fluid as motorcar gasoline ought to be crucified in the otherwise empty fuselage of an airliner flying in circles at ten thousand metres,’ said one inspired enthusiast, whose shoes had also been stolen but who was without a spare pair — though this didn’t seem to bother him as he sat in his bare feet. ‘I wept when I heard the Lies. Imagine, so much petrol less for us to use. I suppose he’s crossed the frontier by now.’ He picked up a huge glass of Nihilitz and drank half of it.

‘After committing such an awful crime,’ said his friend, ‘I’d keep away from the frontier. All the guards would be waiting for me there — if I’d done it, which I haven’t,’ he added quickly, shying away from the other man, who lifted a hand as if to flatten him. ‘No, I’d get to Nihilon City and lie low till I saw an opportunity of escaping.’

‘Maybe he came through here, then,’ said the tall man, looking around.

‘Unless he took to the mountains,’ said his friend. ‘North or south, there are tracks. He could have reached the railway and jumped on to the Trans-Nihilon Express. It only goes at twenty kilometres an hour.’

The big man finished his Nihilitz: ‘Perhaps he spent the night in this motel.’

‘He wouldn’t have the nerve,’ said his friend.

Benjamin poured half of his Nihilitz into the mug, and swallowed some. When the other men finished their discussion, and staggered blind drunk to their cars, he opened his linen-backed map which had been compiled forty years ago and was known to be hopelessly out of date. It had been with him during his travels and military operations of the civil war, and faint pencil lines, indicating the various attacks and retreats in which he and his small force had been involved, were still visible. He marked the position of the Alphabet Motel, and noticed that the road would now descend towards Amrel, the last town whose defence he had been charged with so many years ago.

It would be strange seeing that fortressed and buttressed place again, set high over the bridge that he had neglected to destroy for the mere price of a bus to get his men (and himself) to safety. But his return to Damascony — now Nihilon — was no sentimental journey. During the last twenty-five years he had wondered about the fate of that noble and gentle legislator President Took after the armies of his benign republic had been defeated. Rumour said he had shot himself in his office. Hearsay made up a story of him being killed by one of his supporters. It was alleged that he had starved himself to death. But no proof had been put forward, no corpse ever found. The Nihilists simply did not mention him. His books were forgotten, his works destroyed, his statues smashed, his laws revoked and laughed at. President Took had lived in a plain and simple way, even denying himself friends so that they would not suffer after the catastrophic end which he must clearly have foreseen.

Benjamin remembered how the Nihilists came to power after gaining a small majority in a general election, a victory not accepted, in all his wisdom, by President Took, but one which, as was to be expected, led directly to civil war. The first consideration of the Nihilists, when they had won the election, deposed President Took and renamed the country Nihilon, was to stay in power. They then called themselves the Conservative Nihilists, so that they would never be confused with that left-wing nihilism which would only destroy everything and have done with it. They wanted, said the Conservative Nihilists, to preserve nihilism, to put it into a shrine as it were, and make it last for centuries. So they went on to call it Benevolent Nihilism. Under it, all men and women were equal before the law, though until they were brought before the law they were treated with total nihilistic inequality.

Benjamin also recalled the spectacular election campaign which brought the Nihilists to power. By prearrangement, by advanced publicity and television advertisements, the whole population was invited to witness the destruction of ten bridges, three power stations, twenty banks, and a dozen railway stations. Because no private houses were harmed it was a great success. Countless cars had been driven from cliff tops, with fervent fanatical party supporters in black track-suits at the wheels shouting ‘Long Live Nihilism!’ as they vanished into space. By these activities and various accidents, thousands of ardent Nihilists had lost their lives. Without such losses they would never have won the election, though it also weakened them in the civil war that was to come, which unfortunately did not stop them winning in the end.

Benjamin still heard their election cries over every medium of show and noise. ‘Vote Nihilist! Positive Nihilism is the answer to all our troubles!’ Out of boredom and indecision the people had believed them, and had invited a disaster from which even now, to judge by all he had seen, they had not yet recovered, whatever was said about a space programme.

During his long absence it often seemed that he loved Nihilon more than his own country, even perhaps because of the wild path it had taken. He loved the landscape, and the people who, after all, had invited nihilism into their hearts. If you love someone, he told himself, then it must be that you also love their faults, though he could hardly suppose that a desire for nihilism was one of his.

He had bought a large bag of provisions from the fairground shop, but had been forced to take four bottles of Nihilitz with it as liquid refreshment. There were clouds behind, but blue sky in front, though as if to deny a good day’s trip the road to Amrel quickly deteriorated on its descent and became a rough track marked by the occasional wrecked car or lorry, heaps of rusty petrol cans, old tyres, inner tubes, and, in one case, a complete but dilapidated engine. The land was bare and rocky, except for a few cork or oak trees, and on higher ground to left and right solitary houses could be seen in the distance, wood smoke curling from their chimneys.

His route was no more than a dotted line on the map, and if the chassis of the car hadn’t been strong it would have shaken to bits in the first few kilometres. He passed two cars lying upside down quite close to each other. Their two drivers sat on a nearby flat-topped rock, drinking from a bottle of Nihilitz. The noise of his engine drowned their singing. In subsequent fair and free elections, Benjamin ruminated, they had gladly voted Nihilism again. Such a system took intolerable loads off their minds, though it made him sad to know that people were incapable of facing up to the responsibility of their own possible happiness.

The land was flat, a plateau across which the road could hardly be made out, so he kept his direction by a compass fastened to the dashboard, aiming its needle towards a large group of rocks several kilometres ahead. For the first time since his present entry into Nihilon he felt a sense of wellbeing and freedom, able at last to enjoy the wide landscape spreading on every side.

Clumps of stunted trees were scattered among the rocks and boulders, and a heap of stones was placed across the road itself as a sort of barricade, so that when he got close enough he simply turned to the left on equally flat ground to go around it.

From behind the rocks and trees appeared six men dressed in overalls, each bearing a sub-machine-gun and pointing it at his car. They leapt at all four doors, and forced him to stop. The tall thin man who seemed to be their leader had a shaved head, as well as a scar on his mouth, and a glitter of illness in his eyes, as he shouted at Benjamin that he should get out of the car. ‘We belong to the Revolutionary Army,’ he told him, ‘members of the Benjamin Smith Brigade, so called after a gallant group-leader who fought for President Took’s cause twenty-five years ago. No one knows what happened to him, but we think he must have perished after we lost the war.’

‘What can I do for you, then?’ said Benjamin, a sudden swing of elation and nostalgia drawing him back into their cause.

‘We want you to drive us to Amrel, so that we can join up with our main party and capture the place.’

When he agreed so readily to join them they shook his hand, and Benjamin, with tears in his eyes, supervised their places in the car. When the man in charge saw the four bottles of Nihilitz on the seat, he threw them outside so that they smashed on the rocks.

‘That’s good,’ said Benjamin, feeling twenty-five years younger. He let off the handbrake, and the car rumbled forward, towards Amrel. Soon, he would tell them who he was, and take his rightful place once more in their fight for order and honesty, dignity and peace.