Edmund Cooper - The Overman Culture

“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.”