She was called “Sea Witch.” I was not entirely satisfied with the name and thought occasionally of changing it. In the last day or two it had crossed my mind that “Miranda” might be a good name for a boat.
I eased her from the slip into the channel and so out of the boathouse into the river. With Miranda and Gary standing on either side of me, I opened up the throttle and took her down river. There were quite a lot of small craft about. Over the high-pitched hum of the engine I asked Miranda about Southampton: did people there do much boating?
She shook her head, the wind tumbling her yellow hair. “Not as much as here. Of course, there’s much less river within the wall. The Outlands are nearer to us than they are to you.”
“The Outlands” was the name for everything outside the boundaries of the cities and the holiday islands. There were roads running through them linking the civilized places, and the ground was kept clear for fifty yards or so on either side of the roads. Beyond that, nature ran riot, chiefly in forest.
Savages lived in the Outlands. They occasionally tried to attack cars on the roads, but usually without success since the cars traveled too fast to be damaged by a stone or two thrown by a few barbarians. If they attempted to mass in large numbers or put up barriers or obstacles, electronic monitors gave a warning to the nearest control unit. It was easy enough then to send an airship to deal with them.
But here we were in the heart of London, one of the biggest cities in the world, and the Outlands seemed very remote. On either bank of the Thames we saw buildings spaced among patches of green. I recalled a picture I had seen of Old London, with the houses packed close together, row on row of them, close-crammed and full of people—millions of people swarming like ants. Today we numbered ourselves in a few thousand. I tried to think about a million people—a thousand times a thousand—but it was beyond imagining.
In the distance, across open ground, I could see our house and even make out the small turret room which was my father’s study. To the right was the airport funnel, with an airship at this moment rising out of it. That one was starting on the long route to Delhi. I knew the times of all the scheduled flights.
The energy tower stood farther to the right still, a slender shaft rising high into the sky. It was clad in anodized aluminum which reflected the sun so that it gleamed like a tower of gold—which in a way it was, because the energy tower generated and dispensed the power which kept the city alive. Everything depended on it: this small boat as much as the automat factories. The power line in the boat house ran back to the energy tower.
Airships had their own nuclear motors, but everything else came from the towers. The cars which traveled between the cities were powered by fuel cells which had to be charged at regular intervals. Each city had its own energy tower, but the London tower was the biggest in England.
I drove the boat between two pillars, the remains of an old bridge, and we came out into the wider stretch of the London docks. They had no use any longer; air freighters carried what trade there was in and out of the city.
It must have been a strange place in the old days, with the great ships rising high above the water, the air loud with the cries of stevedores, the clank of steel, the hoarse shrieks of steam whistles. We traveled now through silence and emptiness. I saw a soli-tary speedboat in the distance, that was all. Not many people came to this section of the river, disliking it for the bare wideness of its waters.
Gary held the same view and said so. This was boring. Why didn’t we go to the pleasure gardens on the south bank? There would be something to do there.
I asked Miranda: “What do you think? Would you rather go to the pleasure gardens?”
She shook her head slightly. “I like it here.”
I took the boat under high walls of gray stone, hiding the sun. We came to a flight of worn steps, and I tied up to a rusting metal ring. I helped Miranda out, and Gary and I followed her up the steps to the top. We came into sunshine again and sprawled on the warm stone, Gary and I carelessly and Miranda neatly. She was wearing lime-green trousers with a primrose-yellow blouse, and she hugged her knees with clasped hands.
I said: “I came here once on my own and stayed till after dark. It was a bit weird: the gray of the sky and the river getting darker all the time and no sound apart from the lap of waves and a seagull. I could almost imagine I saw a ghost liner coming in from the estuary.”
“Some imagination.” Gary laughed. “What a nut!”
Miranda said quietly, “I can understand that. It’s a strange atmosphere, even in daylight.” She smiled. “I don’t think I would have had the nerve to stay here alone after dark.”
“Two nut cases,” Gary said. But he sounded more resentful than contemptuous.
• • •
Mr. Sherrin appeared in the sitting room while I was waiting for Miranda that evening, and I put down the magazine I had been glancing through. He said, “That’s all right, Clive. Don’t let me interrupt you.”
I shook my head. “I wasn’t reading. Just passing the time.”
The magazine was called Twent-Cent and carried stories and picture strips about the past, before the Breakdown. They were mostly lurid accounts of violence and crime, and at one time I had been keen on them. But one felt differently as one grew older; they were really meant for a younger age group than mine. I was a little ashamed of being found looking at the magazine at all.
Mr. Sherrin smiled. “Waiting for Miranda? You’ll need plenty to occupy your time if you’re going to make a habit of that.”
He was tall and gray-haired, with a face that, except for being thinner, resembled my father’s: both had bushy eyebrows and rather long noses. But there was also a difference in expression, which I suppose you might sum up by saying that my father was a laughing man, Mr. Sherrin a smiling one. His smile was quiet and humorous, seeming to indicate someone who took a cool look at people and situations and the world in general. It was a bit like Miranda’s, when I came to think of it.
My father’s laughter, on the other hand, appeared to stem from a greater energy and boisterousness. Quietness was characteristic of Mr. Sherrin, but my father was most himself in doing something or saying something—the latter generally loudly and to an accompaniment of expansive gestures. I had occasionally found this trying. It was not that I was ashamed of my father—I was very proud of him—but there had been moments when I wished he could go about things a little less noisily.
I made some fumbling reply to the remark about Miranda, and Mr. Sherrin said, “Where are you off to this evening, anyway? The theater?”
I shook my head. “Only a party.”
“Anyone I know?” He smiled again. “I’m a bit out of touch with London society, of course.”
The drily humorous comment was, I thought, typical of him.
I said, “Brian Grantham. His parents are away as well—in the Hebrides, I think.”
“Michael Grantham would be his father?” I nodded. “Yes, I remember him.”
He was silent after that. I wondered if Brian’s father had also been mixed up in the events leading up to the banishment—and one of those, perhaps, who had wanted the ban continued. But it wasn’t something I could ask questions about.
Miranda appeared at last and we could go. Mr. Sherrin put music on as we left—Mozart or something similar. In my father’s case it would have been Tchaikovsky or more likely Gilbert & Sullivan. He had an infuriating habit of whistling Sullivan tunes off-key.
• • •
We took a taxi—open, because it was a clear warm evening—to the Granthams’ house, which was also on the north bank but farther west—not far from the wall, in fact. Brian, who had asked us, was at the same school as Gary and I, but a couple of years older. He had never invited either of us before, and I was fairly sure I knew why he had done so this time. The reason sat beside me, looking beautiful in a crimson
dress.
A dozen or more were there already, boys and girls of Brian’s age. There was the usual food and drink, dancing, and chatter. We were outside in the garden, and as the evening darkened, colored lamps lit up in the branches of trees all round. Occasionally there was also the light of a passing boat on the river. Music came from a number of speakers, and in quiet passages one could hear the splash of water.
We were drinking a light sparkling wine, and supplies ran out. A servant who looked about seventy came shuffling out with more. Someone called, “Get a move on, boy! We don’t want to have to wait all night.”
“Beg pardon, young sir.”
He attempted to open a bottle with uncertain fingers, but the one who had spoken, Martin, said, “Leave it, boy, and totter away. I’ll see to it.”
The servant retreated, with another mumbled apology, and Martin started opening the bottle.
When the servant was out of earshot, Brian said, “Was that necessary?”
His voice was low but angry. Martin looked at him.
“What?”
“Talking that way to him. It’s not his fault if he’s old.”
Martin laughed. “Perhaps not. Your parents’ fault having him around, maybe. What’s wrong with the rest home?”
The rest home was for old and sick servants, a kind of hospital. Food and shelter were provided, but not much in the way of extra comforts. There were usually plenty of vacancies; the servants who went there tended not to live very long.
“If you don’t know,” Brian said, “I don’t suppose I could tell you.” I was surprised how angry he was. “Anyway, he’s our servant and I’ll tell him what to do. And I don’t like hearing him called ‘boy.’”
Martin stared at him. “What’s got into you? They’re always called ‘boy.’”
“Then it’s about time they weren’t. They’re human beings, like us.”
“Like us? Sure. Maybe we should fetch and carry for them, turn about. And have one or two of them on the council.”
There was some laughter.
Brian said, “It might not be a bad idea, at that. What right do we have to make them serve us?”
The laughter stopped; I imagine the others were as shocked as I was. The division between masters and servants was something we had taken for granted all our lives—something you did not even need to think about. Nor want to. A remark like that gave one an uncomfortable, crawly feeling. Brian had probably drunk too much wine, but that didn’t justify it. Martin merely turned away, and no one else said anything. We all wanted to drop the subject, but Brian insisted on going on.
“Have you ever thought about how they came to be servants in the first place?”
Martin turned back and looked at him in exasperation. He said dismissively, “What needs thinking about? Because they’re descendants of savages, that’s why. They wanted to come into the cities to get away from the Outlands, and our ancestors let them. In the Outlands they would be just about scraping a miserable living if they weren’t killed by wild beasts first. With us they have food and clothing and shelter. They made the bargain.”
“Their great-grandfathers made the bargain,” Brian said. “Does that bind them?”
The question was too absurd to need an answer.
Brian went on, “And what about the time before that—before there were savages at all?”
“They’ve always been savages.”
“No, they haven’t. Only since the Breakdown.”
Martin shrugged. Before the Breakdown were the Dark Ages—millennia of squalid barbarism, followed by the two centuries of the technological explosion which were as bad if not worse. We all knew that. For two hundred years mankind, suddenly given machines and power, had squandered the resources of energy, burning up coal and oil recklessly, with no thought for the future. Then the oil supplies had failed and the coal seams had become too thin for economic working. As a result the complex structure of the early twenty-first century had fallen apart in wars and rebellions and men fighting for crusts of bread among rusting machines.
People had died in the millions and tens of millions. Only a handful—our ancestors—had had the courage and determination and intelligence to start building again in the midst of chaos. The organizers had been those scientists with an understanding of the techniques of nuclear energy. They knew that although it had been inadequate in keeping the whole world with its billions of inhabitants running, it could be used to power individual strongholds. So, one by one, the cities rose again, though far fewer and smaller, each centered about its energy tower. Beyond their walls stretched the Outlands, abandoned to the murderous whims of nature.
Brian seemed blind and deaf to the effect he was having. He said, “The reason the people of the Outlands became savages was because they were kept out of the cities. If they could have come in, they would have, and lived civilized lives. Those who tried were driven away, slaughtered.”
“But if they had been let in,” a girl said, “things would have been impossible. Everything was balanced on a knife edge. Any increase in numbers would have meant civilization breaking down again and us all becoming savages. Is that what you think should have happened?”
“There was a case for exclusion then,” Brian said. “I’m not disputing that. But what about later? What about now? We have more food, more energy, more everything than we need. The cities could support ten times as many people as they do.”
“So we could live in mobs again, like in the twentieth century?” That was another boy, Roland. “Let’s bring the savages in and live alongside them in tenement buildings—is that what you want?”
“No, of course I don’t.” Brian suddenly seemed to realize the absurdity into which his argument had led him, and looked uncertain. “Anyway, I was talking about servants, really. They’ve lived in the cities for generations. We call them servants, but if we were honest we would call them slaves. They’re born in slavery, live in slavery, die in slavery. In ancient Rome slaves had a slim chance of getting their freedom. Our servants have no hope at all.”
There was a general murmur of disgust. The reference to ancient Rome had something to do with it. No one was interested in the Dark Ages, either early or late. And it wasn’t true about slavery. Servants were paid money for their work—not a lot, it was true, but too much, many said, for the amount they did. “Slave” was an unpleasant expression which had no place in the civilized world of the twenty-third century.
Martin said, “You’re just talking rubbish, Brian. The servants don’t mind being servants, any more than the savages mind being savages. They’re used to it—contented, in fact.”
Brian asked, “How do you know?”
Roland said, “I know something. I know I’ve had enough of this talk. I mind that. Let’s have some more music.”
“You won’t think,” Brian said. “None of you will. That’s the trouble—you won’t let yourselves think.”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Martin said. “I think you should shut up, Brian, or else do the thing properly and go out and join Wild Jack.”
That raised a laugh. We could all remember being told stories about Wild Jack by our nurses when we were little: Wild Jack, the bogeyman who would creep up from the Outlands, steal over the wall by night, and take back naughty children to his lair among the savages. Martin’s remark reduced the subject to the level of the ridiculous, which was its proper place. Brian made a feeble attempt to continue with his protests, but no one was listening any longer.
After all, what point was there in talking about the Dark Ages or the savages, far away either in time or space? Servants brought out more food and drink. The sky was black above, but the lamps shone gaily in the trees. It was still warm, but if the evening were to turn cold, thermostats would switch on the heaters. A long boat, lit up from stem to stern, drifted past on the river, and farther off I hear
d the high whine of a speedboat.
The Outlands, we knew, were wild and trackless, inhabited by hungry, murdering savages, but all that was on the far side of the wall. We were snug in the city. I saw a high light in the distance, marking the summit of the energy tower.
Someone had turned up the music, and couples joined together to dance. Brian had seemingly accepted defeat and now had other things in mind. He came over and asked Miranda for a dance.
She gave him a small, cool smile. “I’m sorry. Clive’s already asked me.”
I hadn’t, in fact, but I didn’t argue about that. I took her out onto the circle of polished wood, laid down by the servants between the trees. For the first time I felt there had been some point in the grinding tedium of dancing lessons. She danced lightly, humming in tune to the music. It was good to hold her and see her face close to mine in the lamplight.
About the Author
John Christopher is the pseudonym of Samuel Youd, who was born in Lancashire, England, in 1922. He is the author of more than fifty novels and novellas, as well as numerous short stories. His most famous books include The Death of Grass, the Tripods trilogy, The Lotus Caves, and The Guardians.
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Also by John Christopher
From Aladdin
THE TRIPODS SERIES
The White Mountains
The City of Gold and Lead
The Pool of Fire
When the Tripods Came
THE SWORD OF THE SPIRITS TRILOGY
The Prince in Waiting
Beyond the Burning Lands
The Sword of the Spirits
The Guardians
The Lotus Caves