John Wyndham - The Day of the Triffids

“Yes,” I said, “I’d not thought of the clean wind part, but you’re right. A hilltop with a good water supply—that’s not so easy offhand.” I thought a moment. The Lake District? No, too far. Wales, perhaps? Or maybe Exmoor or Dartmoor— or right down in Cornwall? Around Land’s End we’d have the prevailing southwest wind coming in untainted over the Atlantic. But that, too, was a long way. We should be dependent on towns when it became safe to visit them again.

“What about the Sussex Downs?” Josella suggested. “I know a lovely old farmhouse on the north side, looking right across toward Pulborough. It’s not on the top of hills, but it’s well up the side. There’s a wind pump for water, and I think they make their own electricity. It’s all been converted and modernized.”

Desirable residence, in fact. But it’s a hit near populous places. Don’t you think we ought to get farther away?”

“Well, I was wondering. How long is it going to be before it’ll be safe to go into the towns again?”

“I’ve no real idea,” I admitted. “I’d something like a year in mind—surely that might to be a safe enough margin?”

“I see. But if we do go too far away, it isn’t going to be at all easy to get supplies later on.”

“That is a point, certainly,” I agreed.

We dropped the matter of our final destination for the moment and got down to working out details for our removal. In the morning, we decided, we would first of all acquire a truck—a capacious truck—and between us we made a list of the essentials we would put into it. If we could finish the stocking-up, we would start on our way the next evening; if not— and the list was growing to a length which made this appear much the more likely—we would risk another night in London and get away the following day.

It was close on midnight when we had finished adding our own secondary wants to the list of musts. The result resembled a department-store catalogue. But if it had done no more than serve to take our minds off ourselves for the evening, it would have been worth the trouble.

Josella yawned and stood up.

“Sleepy,” she said. “And silk sheets waiting on an ecstatic bed.”

She seemed to float across the thick carpet. With her hand on the doorknob she stopped, and turned to regard herself solemnly in a long mirror.

“Some things were fun,” she said, and kissed her hand to her reflection.

“Good night, you vain, sweet vision,” I said.

She turned with a small smile and then vanished through the door like a mist drifting away.

I poured out a final drop of the superb brandy, warmed it in my hands, and sipped it.

“Never—never again now win you see a sight like that,” I told myself. “Sic Transit…”

And then, before I should become utterly morbid, I took myself to my more modest bed.

I was stretched in comfort on the edge of sleep when there came a knocking at the door.

“Bill,” said Josella’s voice. “Come quickly. There’s a light!”

“What sort of a light?” I inquired, struggling out of bed.

“Outside. Come and look.”

She was standing in the passage, wrapped in the sort of garment that could have belonged only to the owner of that remarkable bedroom.

“Good God!” I said nervously.

“Don’t be a fool,” she said irritably. “Come and look at that light.”

A light there certainly was. Looking out of her window toward what I judged to he the northeast, I could see a bright beam like that of a searchlight pointed unwaveringly upward.

“That must mean there’s somebody else there who can see,” she said.

“It must,” I agreed.

I tried to locate the source of it, but in the surrounding darkness I was unable to decide. No great distance away, I was sure, and seeming to start in mid-air—which probably meant that it was mounted on a high building. I hesitated.

“Better leave it till tomorrow,” I decided.

The idea of trying to find our way to it through the dark streets was far from attractive. And it was just possible— highly unlikely, but just possible—that it was a trap. Even a blind man who was clever, and desperate enough, might be able to wire such a thing up by touch.

I found a nail file and squatted down with my eye on the level of the window sill. With the point at the file I drew a careful line in the paint, marking the exact direction of the beam’s source. Then I went back to my room.

I lay awake for an hour or more. Night magnified the quiet of the city, making the sounds which broke it the more desolate. From time to time voices rose from the street, sharp and brittle with hysteria. Once there was a freezing scream which seemed to revel horribly in its release from sanity. Somewhere nor tar away there was a sobbing that went on endlessly, hopelessly. Twice I heard the sharp reports of single pistol shots I gave heartfelt thanks to whatever it was that had brought Josella and me together for companionship.

Complete loneliness was the worst stare I could imagine just then. Alone, one would be nothing. Company meant purpose, and purpose helped to keep the morbid fears at bay.

I tried to shut out the sounds by thinking of all the things I must do the next day, and the day after, and the days after that; by guessing what the beam of light might mean, and how it might affect us. But the sobbing in the background went on and on and on, reminding me of the things I had seen that day, and would see tomorrow…

The opening of the door brought me sitting up in sudden alarm. It was Josella, carrying a lighted candle. Her eyes were wide and dark, and she bad been crying.

“I can’t sleep,” she said. “I’m frightened—horribly frightened. Can you hear them—all those poor people? I can’t stand it

She came like a child to be comforted. I’m not sure that her need of it was much greater than mine.

She fell asleep before I did, arid with her head resting on my shoulder.

Still the memories of the day would not leave inc in peace. But, in the end, one does sleep. My last recollection was of remembering the sweet, sad voice of the girl who had sung:

So we’ll go no more a-roving

When I awoke I could bear Josella already moving around in the kitchen. My watch said nearly seven o’clock. By the time I had shaved uncomfortably in cold water and dressed myself, there was a smell of toast and coffee drifting through the apartment. I found her holding a pan over the oil stove. She had an air of self-possession which was hard to associate with the frightened figure of the night before. Her manner was practical too.

“Canned milk, I’m afraid. The fridge stopped. Everything else is all right, though,” she said.

It was difficult for a moment to believe that the expediently dressed form before me had been the ballroom vision of the previous evening. She had chosen a dark blue skiing suit with white-topped socks rolled above sturdy shoes. On a dark leather belt she wore a finely made hunting knife to replace the mediocre weapon I had found the day before. I have no idea how I expected to find her dressed, or whether I had given the matter any thought, but the practicality of her choice was by no means the only impression I received as I saw her.

“Will I do, do you think?” she asked.

“Eminently,” I assured her. I looked down at myself. “I’d wish I’d had as much forethought. Gents’ lounge suiting isn’t quite the rig for the job,” I added.

“You could do better,” she agreed, with a candid glance at my crumpled suit.

“That light last night,” she went on, “came from the University Tower—at least, I’m pretty sure it did. There’s nothing else noticeable exactly on that line. It seems about the right distance, too.”