He was working up to the bray again. “The guards will teach you obedience. Those of you who have any sense will cooperate with them. The quicker you learn, the quicker you go home. I advise you not to show slackness in this lesson. However unpleasant your life may seem at the moment, rest assured that it can be made worse. Much worse! Here on the island our power is absolute, and we shall not hesitate to use it! Either you return to your homes as good citizens, worthy of your forefathers, or you never return at all. Never!”
That was almost a shriek. He turned to one of the officers and said in a quieter voice, “Dismiss the parade. Form work parties.”
• • •
There was no opportunity for talking to Kelly and Sunyo until after supper, a meal consisting of watery stew and hunks of stale gray bread. I had been wondering about the rest of the boys—five hundred or more of them. Presumably they had all been in trouble at home. I also wondered about Kelly and Sunyo and asked them.
Kelly’s difficulties had started in school. He had not been, he admitted, the most industrious of pupils; work for its own sake did not appeal to him. The one thing he was interested in was history, particularly the history of the American empire, which had dominated the twentieth century. But in Jacksonville, as in London, history was not taught as a subject and was very much discouraged as an interest.
By refusing to pay much attention to the subjects that were taught, Kelly naturally annoyed his teacher. But he made things worse by being clever enough to pick things up and do well in examinations, which maddened the teacher even more. A feud developed between them and gradually grew in bitterness, the teacher continually looking for new ways of getting at Kelly and Kelly doing his best to make the teacher look a fool in return.
They might have carried on in this way indefinitely, or at any rate until Kelly switched teachers, but for the presence of another boy in the class. His school work was bad, too, but he lacked Kelly’s cleverness. The teacher picked on him at first in an ordinary way, but then realized that he was a friend of Kelly’s and that Kelly got angry on his behalf. Recognizing the weak spot, the teacher exploited it to the full. Ignoring Kelly completely, he concentrated on harrying the other.
Things came to a head when the boy turned in a particularly bad paper in an examination. The rule was that a boy could not be beaten for bad work, but he could for insolence. The teacher took, or said he took, the view that the work had been scamped intentionally, as an act of impertinence, and caned him in front of the class. Kelly stuck it for six strokes, then got up from his seat and wrenched the cane from the master’s hand. There was a struggle, which wound up with Kelly caning the master.
The school authorities took the view that the breach of discipline was too serious to be dealt with by them. Kelly was referred to the police, and the police sent him to the island.
Sunyo’s story was different, though there were points of resemblance. He came from a Japanese family which traced its ancestry back beyond the Breakdown to an ancient nobility. The rulers of Kyoto, like the rulers of other cities, approved of venerating our forefathers of the Reconstruction but strongly disapproved of anyone taking an interest in people who lived in the Dark Ages.
Sunyo’s father followed the ancient religion of Shinto and had a shrine in the garden of his house hung with pictures of his ancestors. The Kyoto Council condemned this and ordered the shrine to be pulled down and the pictures destroyed. When Sunyo’s father defied them, they sent police to do it.
As a result, Sunyo’s father committed suicide by the traditional rite of hara-kiri. Sunyo himself was not a Shintoist, but he had loved and revered his father and he held the police responsible for his death. He collected together a band of boys who called themselves samurai, after the knights of old Japan, and they declared a kind of guerrilla war on the authorities. This culminated in a raid on the police building itself, during which they broke windows and smeared slogans on the walls with paint.
Some of them were caught, and one betrayed Sunyo, naming him as the leader. The others were punished locally, but Sunyo was sent to the island.
They asked me about myself, and I told them. They were both incredulous.
“Just because of talk?” Kelly said. “And you didn’t even do the talking.”
Sunyo said, “Surely they ought to have made a proper investigation before sending you to a place like this.”
I shrugged. “Somebody made a mistake, I suppose.”
“And your father’s a councillor?”
“Yes, but he’s away at present. And they wouldn’t let me visiphone his secretary. When he does get back, he’ll clear it up pretty quickly.”
“And then some policeman will be in trouble,” Sunyo said with satisfaction. “Probably more than one.”
“At any rate,” Kelly said, “it doesn’t look as though you’re going to be with us for long.”
I said, “I hope not,” without thinking, then regretted the words. Neither of them had any prospect of getting away for a very long time.
• • •
I had spoken to two of the guards and asked to be allowed to see the commandant. The first treated the request as an impertinence and warned me that if I persisted in that sort of thing I was going to find myself in front of him in circumstances I should not like. The second guard was a bit more human and said he would see what he could do.
After two days had gone by, I concluded he must have forgotten. I was trying to make up my mind whether it would be wise to try a third guard when my name was called out on one of the seven or eight parades we had during the day and I was escorted to the commandant’s office.
The walls of the room were gray, but the fittings were quite luxurious. I noticed a big TV screen, an ornate drinks cabinet, and a plushy daybed on which the commandant could rest when the cares of office overcame him. His chair, too, was an armchair rather than a piece of office furniture, in soft green leather, air-padded by the look of it. His green leather-topped desk had nothing on it but a control panel and a gold pen set. He stared at me as I saluted.
“So you wanted to see me, Anderson. I hope you have a good reason.”
“I wondered if you could tell me why I have been sent here, sir.”
He laughed with a touch of the bray. “Your records are kept by your city police. But obviously for the same reason as all the others—extreme misconduct.”
“But I haven’t done anything.”
“No one comes here without a good cause. A police airship delivered you, didn’t it?”
“May I tell you how that happened, sir?”
He said, with an air of benevolent contempt, “If you want to. It will make no difference.”
I told him my story. At the end, he said, “And what else?”
“Nothing else, sir. That’s exactly what happened.”
He fixed me with a fat glare. “Don’t lie to me, Anderson. I don’t like boys who lie. And this is something I can check up on if necessary.”
I said quickly, “Then check it, sir. I want you to.”
He paused and said, “You were delivered here in the authorized fashion. I’m not going to disturb headquarters on account of a lying boy. Dismiss him, sergeant.”
There was something behind the bluster, a touch of uncertainty. He was afraid of his superiors, I guessed. As the guard moved toward me, I said, “There will be trouble when my father gets back.”
“Your father can’t change a police order.”
“I think he can. He’s a councillor.”
“Anderson.” He looked hard at me. “That Anderson?”
“Yes, sir.”
The uncertainty was very plain now; it showed in the twisting of his face, the small movement back into the security of the padded chair. He said, after a moment, “I’ll look into it. Now go back to your duties.”
• • •
Our life in the camp formed a hard and unpleasant routine. First parade was at six in the morning, the last at eight in the evening. Between parades we had marching, drill, physical exercise, and the rest of the time we worked. Most of the work was pointless. We did things like picking up stones and loading them into lorries, which carried them to another part of the island and unloaded them. Sometimes we took them to the end of the breakwater in the old harbor and unloaded them into the sea. Another favored activity involved digging holes and trenches in the ground, which we or other working parties filled in the following day. We were also required to dig holes in the sand on the beaches, but at least did not have to fill them in again; the sea did it for us.
The food was so bad that you needed to be ravenously hungry to eat it—but we were, all the time. Apart from being terrible, there wasn’t enough to go round. Fights broke out over crusts of bread, and the guards would watch, laughing, until they tired of the amusement and came in, swinging their batons. Practically without exception they were sadistic bullies.
The dismissal from last parade usually left us too tired to do anything but sleep. Sunyo was an exception to the general rule because he would go out for his meditation, sometimes for as long as an hour. One night, to our surprise, he asked Kelly and me to come with him.
When we were away from the tent, Kelly said, “What’s all this? If you were thinking of switching to group meditation, count me out. These days I’m too tired even to daydream about steaks.”
Sunyo shook his head. “I found something in the sand today. I want you to help me dig it out.”
Kelly groaned. “Not more digging! What is it, anyway?”
“I’m not quite sure, but I’ve got an idea.”
The sun had gone down but it was still light. No one else was about, but the sound of music came from the direction of the guards’ houses. Partly intrigued, partly reluctant, we followed Sunyo down the hill, past the ruins of the old town, toward the beach.
We reached the spot where we had been working. The tide was coming in and had already filled some of the holes we had dug that day. Sunyo led us to a point a few yards past the farthest hole and scraped away sand with his fingers. A smooth blue surface showed, and he straightened up.
“Let’s get the shovels.”
They had been stacked for the night above the tide level.
Kelly said, “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“I don’t start digging again without some reason why. You said you had an idea. OK, explain.”
“I think it might be a boat,” Sunyo said.
“Well?”
“Which we might be able to use to get away from the island.”
We stared at him. I said, “To go where? The nearest city is Cherbourg, and that’s at least thirty miles away. You’d never make it. All the nearer coast is Outlands.”
Kelly said, “And it’s been buried in sand for years, maybe centuries. It’ll be rotten.”
“It’s plastic. Plastic doesn’t rot.”
Sunyo walked on toward the shovels. We followed him, protesting. I said, “The whole thing’s ridiculous. Even if the boat were seaworthy, and by another miracle you managed to get to Cherbourg, what good would that do? They’d only send you back here.”
Kelly objected as strongly as I did, but Sunyo paid no attention. I had already noticed that when he had made up his mind about anything he was difficult, if not impossible, to budge. He picked up a shovel and went back to the spot. We watched him digging for a few moments and then Kelly, with an expression of disgust, got another shovel and joined him. Somehow, cursing both Sunyo for his stupid obstinacy and myself for being weak, I found myself following suit.
The sand seemed even damper and heavier than it had been in the afternoon, and I was ready to quit almost as soon as I started. But Sunyo slogged away steadily, and Kelly, though groaning audibly, did the same. Pride kept me digging alongside them.
It was soon clear that Sunyo had been right in his guess. The lines of an upturned hull began to emerge, belonging to a dinghy about nine feet in length. We got down to the gunnels on one side, with the dusk fading into a moonlit night around us and the last of the gulls long since retired. There was no sound but the slap of waves and our own exhausted breathing.
We tried to lever the boat free with our shovels, but it would not budge. Sunyo, without saying anything, started clearing the other side as well, and we reluctantly followed him. We loosened it all round at last and managed to turn it over. I dropped my shovel and lay thankfully on the sand while Kelly and Sunyo examined the boat.
Kelly said grudgingly, “It looks sound. But the whole idea is still crazy. As Clive said . . .”
Ignoring him, Sunyo returned to his digging, attacking the sand which had been under the hull.
Kelly demanded, “What are you looking for now? A plastic outboard engine?”
“Oars,” Sunyo said, and returned to his task. Kelly and I just watched him; we had had enough. Sunyo at last gave a grunt of satisfaction.
I said, “That doesn’t look much like an oar.”
He held something up in the dim light; it was a kind of crumpled fabric.
“No,” he said. “But a sail. Also of plastic, so that hasn’t rotted either.”
We stared at him in silence. I didn’t know about Kelly, but I was almost too tired to speak. The whole enterprise seemed as pointless as when we had started, if not more so. Sunyo had found his boat, and a sail to go with it. So what?
But Sunyo unmistakably was pleased with himself. He said in quite a cheerful tone, “Just one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Help me carry it. It’s fairly light, but I don’t think I can manage on my own.”
“Are you quite crazy?” Kelly asked. “Carry it where? Back to the tent? Are you proposing to sleep in it?”
“The tide’s coming in.” Sunyo pointed to the moonlit ripples creeping up to within ten yards of where we stood. “And we need to hide it where the guards won’t find it. I marked a good place behind those rocks over there.”
Kelly and I looked at one another. Crazy was right, but the whole thing had been crazy. And having come so far, we might as well finish it. We bent down and helped Sunyo lift the boat.
4
NEXT DAY SUNYO WAS IN trouble.
He was disliked by nearly all the guards, probably because they sensed the deep contempt he felt for them as bullies and lackeys, a contempt which even though unspoken showed in his eyes. There was one in particular, though, who detested him and did everything he could to persecute him.
Sunyo’s response originally had been silent disgust; he had simply ignored the continual chivvying. Then by accident the guard found a weak spot; he called Sunyo a son of a donkey and saw the instinctive flash of anger. I never properly understood what it was Sunyo felt about his ancestors—a remark like that would have meant nothing to me—but that was where his feelings ran deep, and that was where he was vulnerable.
Having found the weakness, the guard was quick to exploit it and took every opportunity to pile on similar insults. Kelly had seen what was happening and urged Sunyo not to rise to the jibes, and in fact Sunyo had made a strenuous effort to ignore them.
Tiredness on this occasion probably made him edgy—all three of us were feeling the effects of our extra stint of digging. Fatigue certainly contributed to the incident which sparked things off. Sunyo was normally the strongest person on our work team, but now, lifting a heavy plank into one of the lorries, he fumbled and dropped his end with a clatter.
The guard, who was only a foot or two away, laughed. “The descendant of a long line of apes ought to do better than that!”
I saw Sunyo’s mouth tighten, but before I could do anything to check him, he had slammed into the guard and knocked him down. Two other guards had their guns out right awa
y. They forced the rest of us back while they picked their companion up. A trickle of blood showed at the corner of his mouth. He whispered, “All right, ape boy,” and swung his baton.
The beating that followed was bad enough, but there was more to come. The commandant appeared on the next parade and so did Sunyo, his hands pinioned, a guard on either side. His face was badly bruised.
“Obedience,” the commandant said. He let the word hang in the air. “Obedience is the road to good citizenship. You are here because you have lost your way, but we are going to set you right.”
White clouds scudded across a blue sky. Even for the island, it was windy. Sea birds howled in the distance.
The commandant said, “Obedience as far as you are concerned means obedience to the orders of your guards.” He paused. “So what is there to say about a boy who strikes a guard?”
He turned to look at Sunyo. “You will go to the stockade for three days.” I was aware of Kelly stiffening beside me. “And then you will make a proper apology to the guard you struck. You will not come out of the stockade until you do.”
• • •
The stockade was situated between the parade ground and the guards’ houses. It was square in shape, about twelve feet along each side, surrounded by a wooden fence eight or nine feet high. There was a small gate in one side.
Inside there was nothing—no shelter from weather, from sun by day or cold by night. No food was provided. The usual punishment was a day in the stockade, very rarely two days. There had never been a three-day sentence before.
I have left the worst part till last. The floor of the stockade was of concrete which before setting had been formed into ridges and tiny sharp pinnacles. There was discomfort even in standing upright and no way of lying down without hurting yourself.