John Christopher - The Death of Grass

It was significant, John thought, that no one spoke yet of the reclamation of the lifeless lands of Asia. He mentioned this to Roger Buckley over luncheon, one day in late February. They were in Roger’s club, the Treasury.

Roger said: “No, we try not to think of them too much, don’t we? It’s as though we had managed to chop off the rest of the world, and left just Europe, Africa, Australasia, and the Americas. I saw some pictures of Central China last week. Even up to a few months ago, they would have been in the Press. But they haven’t been published, and they’re not going to be published.”

“What were they like?”

“They were in colour. Tasteful compositions in browns and greys and yellows. All that bare earth and clay. Do you know—in its way, it was more frightening than the famine pictures used to be?”

The waiter padded up and gave them their lagers in slow and patient ritual. When he had gone, John queried:

“Frightening?”

“They frightened me. I hadn’t understood properly before quite what a clean sweep the virus makes of a place. Automatically, you think of it as leaving some grass growing. If only a few tufts here and there. But it doesn’t leave anything. It’s only the grasses that have gone, of course, but it’s surprising to realize what a large amount of territory is covered with grasses of one kind or another.”

“Any rumours of an answer to it?”

Roger waggled his head in an indeterminate gesture. “Let’s put it this way: the rumours in official circles are as vague as the ones in the Press, but they do have a note of confidence.”

John said: “My brother is barricading himself in. Did I tell you?”

Roger leaned forward, curiously. “The farmer? How do you mean—barricading himself in?”

“I’ve told you about his place—Blind Gill—surrounded by hills with just one narrow gap leading out. He’s having a fence put up to seal the gap.”

“Go on. I’m interested.”

“That’s all there is to it, really. He’s uneasy about what’s going to happen in the next growing season—I’ve never known him so uneasy. At any rate, he’s given up all his wheat acreage to plant root crops. He even wanted us all to come and spend a year up there.”

“Until the crisis is over? He is worried.”

“And yet,” John said, “I’ve been thinking about it off and on since then… Dave’s always been more level-headed than I, and when you get down to it, a countryman’s premonitions are not to be taken lightly in this kind of business. In London, we don’t know anything except what’s spooned out {53} 53 spooned out: fed roughly, simply, as if to a child to us.”

Roger looked at him, and smiled. “Something in what you say, Johnny, but you must remember that I’m on the spooning side. Tell me—if I get you the inside warning of the crack-up {54} 54 crack-up: collapse in plenty of time, do you think you could make room for our little trio in your brother’s bolt-hole {55} 55 bolt-hole: hiding place ?”

John said tensely: “Do you think it’s going to come to a crack-up?”

“So far, there’s not a sign of it Those who should be in the know are radiating the same kind of optimism that you find in the papers. But I like the sound of Blind Gill, as an insurance policy. I’ll keep my ear to the pipeline. As soon as there’s a little warning tinkle at the other end, we both take indefinite leave, and our families, and head for the north? How does it strike you? Would your brother have us?”

“Yes, of course.” John thought about the idea. “How much warning do you think you would get?”

“Enough. I’ll keep you informed. In a case like this, you can rest assured I shall err on the side of caution. I don’t relish the idea of being caught in the London area in the middle of a famine.”

A trolley was pushed past them, laden with assorted cheeses. The air was instilled with the drowsy somnolence of midday in the dining-room of a London club. The murmur of voices was an easy and untroubled one.

John waved an arm. “It’s difficult to imagine anything denting this.”

Roger surveyed the scene in turn, his eyes mild but acute.

“Quite undentable, I agree. After all, as the Press has told us sufficiently often, we’re not Asiatics. It’s going to be interesting, watching us being British and stiff-lipped, while the storm-clouds gather. Undentable. But what happens when we crack?”

Their waiter came with their chops. He was a garrulous little man, with less hauteur {56} 56 hauteur: haughtiness of manner than most of the others there.

“No,” Roger said, “interesting—but not interesting enough to make me want to stop and see it.”

Spring was late in coming; a period of dry, cold, cloudy weather lasted through March and into April. When, in the second week of April, it was succeeded by a warm, moist spell, it was a shock to see that the Chung-Li virus had lost none of its vigour. As the grass grew, in fields or gardens or highways, its blades were splotched with darker green—green that spread and turned into rotting brown. There was no escaping the evidence of these new inroads.

John got hold of Roger.

He asked him: “What’s the news at your end?”

“Oddly enough, very good.”

John said: “My lawn’s full of it I started cutting-out operations but then I saw that all the grass in the district’s got it.”

“Mine, too,” Roger said. “A warm putrefying shade of brown. The penalties for failing to cut out infected grasses are being rescinded, by the way.”

“What’s the good news, then? It looks grim enough to me.”

“The papers will be carrying it tomorrow. The Bureau UNESCO {57} 57 UNESCO: United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization set up claim they’ve got the answer. They’ve bred a virus that feeds on Chung-Li—all phases.”

John said: “It comes at what might otherwise have been a decidedly awkward moment You don’t think…?”

Roger smiled. “It was the first thing I did think. But the bulletin announcing it has been signed by a gang of people, including some who wouldn’t falsify the results of a minor experiment to save their aged parents from the stake. It’s genuine, all right.”

“Saved by the bell,” John said slowly. “I don’t like to think what would have happened this summer otherwise.”

“I don’t mind thinking about it,” Roger said. “It was participation I was anxious to avoid.”

“I was wondering about sending the children back to school I suppose it’s all right now.”

“Better there, I should think,” Roger said. There are bound to be shortages, because they will hardly be able to get the new virus going on a large enough scale to do much about saving this year’s harvest London will feel the pinch {58} 58 feel the pinch: suffer hardship more than most places, probably.”

The UNESCO report was given the fullest publicity, and the Government at the same time issued its own appraisal of the situation. The United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand all held grain stocks and were all prepared to impose rationing on their own populations with a view to making these stocks last over the immediate period of shortage. In Britain, a similar but more severe rationing of grain products and meat was introduced.

Once again the atmosphere lightened. The combination of news of an answer to the virus and news of the imposition of rationing produced an effect both bracing and hopeful. When a letter came from David, its tone appeared almost ludicrously out of key {59} 59 out of key: not in harmony with what is happening .