Edmund Cooper: The Overman Culture

“What about us?” asked Horatio.

“You have the harder task. I want the three of you to combine your efforts on two projects: one, you are to systematically look for a library—I assume there would be some sign to indicate such a building—and, two, you are to make a drawing of the pattern of the main streets. When you have covered central London, you spread out…. You have heard about maps, haven’t you? Proportional drawings of places. I remember seeing one or two in films and on television. Well, eventually, we shall wind up with a map of London.”

“If the drybones don’t manage to wreck the project first,” said Jane.

Ernest sighed. “I wish we had a compass. I’ve seen those in films, too. You know, the drybones must be stupid, otherwise they would not let us learn about things like books, maps, compasses and all the other things they don’t want us to have.”

Michael was silent for a moment or two. Then he said: “On the other hand, it could be that they want us to know about the things they won’t let us have. Maybe they want us to realize how much we are being denied.”

Emily shivered. “It’s cold, now, and it’s late. We’d better go home. There will be questions.”

Horatio laughed bitterly. “There always are. Their questions, not ours. If I could kill Father and Mother and get away with it, I really would.”

Nobody was surprised at the intensity in his voice. Nobody was shocked at the thought he expressed.

Michael and Emily did not dare to start their picnic too early. It might have aroused suspicion. Michael was pessimistically sure that their exploration projects would be discovered sooner or later—but later, he hoped, rather than sooner.

Emily lived in a small house in Victoria Street. He called for her quite late in the morning. Mr. Bronte looked younger and less severe than Michael’s father. Mrs. Bronte had a slightly more attractive face than his mother, but otherwise she looked pretty much the same and dressed pretty much the same. The Garbo look had become fashionable with some of the older drybones. Mrs. Bronte had her hair done like Greta Garbo’s in Queen Christina.

Emily wore a white dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat She looked, thought Michael, delicious. One day he would live with Emily Bronte in a home of their own, far away from all the drybones, far away from all the nightmares, far away from London. One day…

Mrs. Bronte had the picnic basket ready. She asked Michael where he wanted to take Emily. He said Hampstead Heath. Hampstead Heath was far enough away to make the picnic seem like a special jaunt, but not too far away to excite suspicion.

Mr. Bronte took Michael on one side and said that Emily was a fine girl and that he wouldn’t want any harm to come to her, and that he was sure Michael was man enough to control himself. Michael was embarrassed and said that he would never do anything to hurt or upset Emily and that he liked her very much indeed and would do his best to protect her from all harm.

It was just like in the films. Mr. Bronte seemed to want it that way.

They did not manage to get away from Emily’s house much before lunchtime. They were already hungry by the time they had reached the Embankment. Michael was carrying the picnic basket. He took out a couple of apples for him and Emily to eat as they walked.

They walked past Westminster Bridge, Waterloo Bridge, Blackfriars Bridge, Tower Bridge. There was a short air raid while they were between Blackfriars Bridge and Tower Bridge. No zeppelins this time, only biplanes and triplanes. It seemed more like a kind of circus act than aerial combat. The action seemed to take place directly over the Tower of London. As usual, the wrecked planes fell into nothingness—swallowed, apparently by the invisible force field.

Michael had never before been farther than the Tower of London. As they passed into unknown territory his excitement grew. Presently, they were tired and needed to rest a little. They sat on a low Wall and ate some of the sandwiches and drank some milk. They were in an area of docks, of large blank buildings and cranes and quaysides. But there were no ships. Michael’s father had once said that while the war was on, ships no longer unloaded in the port of London. Michael had wondered why. Perhaps it was not possible to lift the force field to let the ships through. But, in that case, how did supplies reach London? He sighed. Mysteries, mysteries…

It was a gray day, but the air was warm. Michael suddenly realized that there were no people about, none at all. That was pleasant and unusual. Usually, there were at least one or two people about. Their absence gave a delicious sense of freedom. And then he realized that they had met no one since they had passed the Tower of London. Curious!

Emily, apparently, had the same thoughts. “Isn’t it wonderful, being entirely alone for once? I wonder where everybody is?”

“I don’t suppose we can expect people to live in this kind of area,” suggested Michael. “Besides, I don’t think ships come this far up the river anymore. So there isn’t any work to be done…. Are you very tired?”

“Not tired at all, now,” said Emily bravely. “We have work to do, haven’t we? We ought to be moving on. It won’t be long before we have to turn back, otherwise we shall be very late, and there will be trouble. We are not doing very well, so far, are we? No great revelations, no mysteries solved.”

“We are new to the discovering business,” said Michael lightly. “It would be unreasonable to expect too much from our first attempt. Come on, love. Let’s just do the best we can.”

“You called me love,” said Emily. “That’s nice. That’s very nice.”

“You are my love,” said Michael, surprised at his own lack of shyness. “The cat sits on the mat—remember?”

“The cat sits on the mat,” repeated Emily. She smiled. “The most beautiful words in the world…. I wish the cat could sit on the mat again, Michael.”

“My love, it will. But not here, not now.” Rested a little and refreshed, they began to walk once more. There was urgency in Michael’s step. He badly wanted the expedition to be worthwhile. It would be depressing if this first project revealed nothing. Every now and then, he had to consciously slow down, realizing that the pace he set was too fast for Emily.

At times they had to leave the river, but always they managed to get back to it. Now they were past the docks and suddenly in open country. Nothing but grass and trees and hedges and birds. In theory the Thames should have been widening; but it did not look very wide. It looked, somehow, insignificant.

Still no people. No people. Absolutely no people. Michael began to feel excited, not knowing why. The gray sky was darkening perceptibly.

Emily said: “Michael, we ought to turn back.”

He squeezed her hand. “Just a little longer. There has to be something.”

Presently, Emily said firmly: “I’m sorry, dear. I need to rest. Then we must turn back. If we are too late, they may not let us go off alone anymore.”

“How would they stop us?” he demanded savagely. “All right, Emily. You stay here and rest. I’ll go on a bit, then I’ll turn back. We’ll both turn back.” Now he felt tired and empty and frustrated.

Emily sat down thankfully on a grassy bank. She lay back and let out a great sigh. Michael left the picnic basket with her. Then he forged ahead, almost running in his desperation to find something of value. The river swung in a broad turn. It took him a long time to get round the bend, longer than he would have thought. But what he discovered, standing on a small rise, justified all the effort.

The Thames had turned back upon itself. There, in the distance, was the city skyline. The Thames was not flowing down to the sea. It was flowing back to London.