Christopher Priest - The Inverted World

We walked some distance, then I said to Lerouex: “How’s Victoria?”

“She’s well.”

“I don’t see her very often now.”

“Neither do I.”

I decided to say no more; Victoria was clearly an embarrassment to him. In the last few miles the news about the river had inevitably leaked to the people as a whole, and the Terminators — of whom Victoria was now a leading figure — had emerged as a vociferously critical faction. They claimed that they had eighty per cent of the non-guildsmen on their side, and that the city should now be halted. I had been unable to attend Navigators’ Council meetings recently, but I gathered that they were preoccupied with this problem. In another break with their former traditions, they had started a second campaign to educate the non-guildsmen about the true nature of the world, but the essentially obscure and abstract explanations did not have the simple emotional appeal of the Terminators.

Psychologically, the Terminators had already scored one victory. With the concentration of manpower on the building of the bridge, the work of track-laying had been left to one crew only, and although the city was still under continuous propulsion it had been forced to slow up, and was now half a mile behind optimum. The Militia had foiled an attempt by the Terminators to cut the cables, but not much was made of this. The real danger, fully appreciated by the Navigators, was the erosion of traditional political power within the city.

Victoria, and presumably the other overt Terminators, still carried out nominal tasks on behalf of the city, but perhaps it was a sign of their influence that much of the day-to-day routines of the city were falling behind. Officially, the Navigators put this down to the re-deployment of so many men to the bridge, but few were in doubt as to the real causes.

Within guild circles, the resolution was almost complete. There was much complaining and some dissent with decisions, but in general there was complete acceptance that the bridge must be built. Halting the city would be unthinkable.

“Are you going to accept the Navigatorship?” I said.

“I think so. I don’t want to retire, but—”

“Retire? There’s no question of that.”

“It means retirement from active guild work,” he said. “It’s new Navigator policy. They believe that by bringing on to the Council men who have been playing an active role they will acquire a more forceful voice. That, incidentally, is why they want you on the Council.”

“My work’s up north,” I said.

“So is mine. But we reach an age—”

“You shouldn’t think of retiring,” I said. “You’re the best Bridge man in the city.”

“So they say. No one has the tactlessness to point out that my last three bridges have been unsuccessful.”

“You mean the ones that were damaged at this river?”

“Yes. And the new one will go as soon as there’s another storm.”

“You said yourself—”

“Helward… I’m not the man to build that bridge. It needs young blood. A new approach. Perhaps a ship is the answer.”

Lerouex and I both understood what that admission meant to him. The Bridge-Builders guild was the proudest in the city. No bridge had ever failed.

We walked on.

Almost as soon as I arrived in the city I was fretting to return to the north. I did not like the present atmosphere; it was now as if the people had replaced the old system of guild suppression with a self-inflicted blindness to reality. Terminator slogans were everywhere, and crudely printed leaflets littered the corridors. People talked of the bridge, and they talked fearfully. Men returning from a work shift told of the failures, spoke of building a bridge towards a further bank that could not be seen. Rumours, presumably originated by the Terminators, told of dozens of men being killed, more took attacks.

In the Futures’ room I was approached by Clausewitz, who was himself now a Navigator. He presented me with a formal letter from the Council of Navigators, naming a proposer (Clausewitz) and a seconder (McMahon) who requested me to join tLem.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t accept this.”

“We need you, Helward. You’re one of our most experienced men.”

“Maybe. I’m needed on the bridge.”

“You could do better work here.”

“I don’t think so.”

Clausewitz took me aside, and spoke confidentially. “The Council is setting up a working party to deal with the Terminators,” he said. “We want you on that.”

“How can you deal with them? Suppress their voices?”

“No… we’re going to have to compromise with them. They want to abandon the city for good. We’re going to meet them half-way, abandon the bridge.”

I stared at him incredulously.

“I can’t be a party to that,” I said.

“Instead we build a ship. Not a big one, not nearly as complex as the city. Just large enough to get us to the opposite bank, when we’ll rebuild the city.”

I handed back the letter and turned away.

“No,” I said. “That’s my final word.”

I prepared to leave the city forthwith, determined to return to the north and carry out yet another survey of the river. Our survey reports had confirmed that the river was indeed such, that the banks were not circular and that it was not a lake. Lakes can be circled, rivers have to be crossed. I remembered Lerouex’s one optimistic remark, that the opposite bank might come into view as the river neared optimum. It was a desperate hope, but if I could locate that opposite bank there could be no further argument against the bridge.

I walked down through the city realizing that by my words and intents I had made certain my actions. I had committed myself to the bridge, even though I had alienated myself from the instrument of its construction: the Council. In a sense I was on my own, in spirit and in fact. If a compromise was planned with the Terminators, I would have to subscribe to it eventually, but for the moment the bridge was the only tangible reality, however improbable.

I remembered something Blayne had once said. He described the city as a fanatical society, and I questioned this. He said that one definition of a fanatic was a man who continued to struggle against the odds when all hope was lost. The city had been struggling against the odds since Destaine’s day, and there were seven thousand miles of recorded history, none of which had been easily won. It was impossible for mankind to survive in this environment, Blayne had said, and yet the city continued to do so.

Perhaps I had inherited that fanaticism, for now I felt that only I maintained the city’s sense of survival. For me it was given substance in the building of the bridge, however hopeless that task might. seem.

In one of the corridors I met Gelman Jase. He was now many subjective miles younger than me, because he had been north only infrequently.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“Up north. There’s nothing for me in the city at the moment.”

“Aren’t you going to the meeting?”

“Which meeting?”

“The Terminators’.”

“Are you going?” I said.

My voice had obviously reflected the disapproval I felt, for he said defensively: “Yes. Why not? It’s the first time they’ve come into the open.”

“Are you with them?” I said.

“No… but I want to hear what they say.”

“And what if they persuade you?”

“That’s not likely,” said Jase.

“Then why go?”

Jase said: “Is your mind totally closed, Helward?”

I opened my mouth to deny it… but said nothing. The fact was that my mind was closed.

“Don’t you believe in another point of view?” he said.