Brian Aldiss - Greybeard

Croucher held up a hand.

“Look, I’d better cut you down to size a bit, my friend. Just for the record, I don’t need any half-baked intellectual ideas from self-styled pundits like yourself. See these men here, sitting at these tables? They have the mutual benefit of performing my thinking for me, thus utilizing advantageously one of the advantages of having a terra firma in a university city like Oxford. The old Town versus Gown battle has been fought and decided, Mr. Timberlane, as you’d know if you hadn’t been knocking about in London for so long. I decided and implemented it. I rule all Oxford for the benefit of one and all. These blokes are the cream of the colleges that you are seeing here, all very high-flown intellects. See that gink at the end, with the shaky hands and cracked specs? He’s the University Chichele Professor for War, Harold Biggs. Down there, that’s Sir Maurice Rigg, one of the all-time greats at history, I’m told. So kindly infer that I’m asking you about DOUCH(E), not how you’d run operations if you were in my shoes.”

“No doubt one of your intellectual ginks can tell you about DOUCH(E).”

“No they can’t. That’s why it was compulsory you attending here. You see, all the data I’ve got about DOUCH(E) is that it’s some sort of an intelligence unit with its headquarters in London. London organizations are suspect with me just now, for obvious reasons. Unless you wish to be mistaken for a spy, etcetera, perhaps you ought to set my mind in abeyance about what you intend doing here.”

“I think you misunderstand my attitude, sir. I wish to inform you about DOUCH(E); I am no spy. Although I was brought to you like a captive, I had made an appointment through the patrols to see you tomorrow and offer you what help I could.”

“I am not your dentist. You do not make an appointment with me — you crave an audience.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “I cavil at your phoney attitude! Get wise to the reality of the situation — I can have you shot anywhere in the curriculum if I find you unconstructive.”

Timberlane said nothing to that. In a more reasonable voice, Croucher said, “Now then, let’s have the lowdown what exactly DOUCH(E) is and how it functions.”

“It is simply an academic unit, sir, although with more power behind it than academic units usually have. Can I explain in private? The nature of the unit’s work is confidential.”

Croucher looked at him with raised eyebrows, turned and surveyed the jaded men at the trestle tables, flicked an eye at two guards.

“I should not cavil at a change of scenery. I work long hours.”

They moved into the next room. The guards came too. Although the room was small and hot, it was a relief to get away from the idle faces sitting by the tables. When Croucher gestured to one of the guards, the man opened a window.

“What exactly is this ‘confidential work’ precisely?”, Croucher asked.

“It’s a job of documentation,” Timberlane said. “As you know, it was in 1981 that the Accident occurred which sterilized man and most of the higher mammals. The Americans were first to realize the full implications of what was happening. In the nineties, various foundations collaborated in setting up DOUCH in Washington. There it was decided that in view of the unprecedented global conditions, a special emergency study group should be established. This group was to be equipped to function for seventy-five years, whether man eventually recovered his ability to procreate or whether he failed to do so and became extinct. Members were enlisted from all over the world and trained to interpret their country’s agonies objectively and record them permanently.

“The group was called Documentation of Universal Contemporary History. The bracketed E means I’m one of the English wing. I joined the organization early, and was trained in Washington in ’01. Back in those days, the organization tried to be as pessimistic as possible. Thanks to their realistic thinking, we can go on functioning as individuals even when national and international contacts have broken down.”

“As has now happened. The President was eliminated by a bunch of crooks. The United States is in a state of anarchy. You know that?”

“Britain too.”

“Not so. We have no anarchy here, don’t know the meaning of the word. I know how to keep order, of that you can be quite convinced. Even with this plague on, we have no disorder and British justice prevails.”

“The cholera is only just hitting its stride, Commander Croucher. And mass executions are not a manifestation of order.”

Angrily, Croucher said, “Manifestations, hell! Tomorrow, everyone in the Churchill Hospital will be shot. No doubt you will cry out about that also. But you do not understand. You must expunge the erroneous misapprehension. I have no wish to kill. All I want is to keep order.”

“You must have read enough history to know how hollow that rings.”

“It’s true! Chaos and civil war are absolutely deterrent to me! Listen to me, what YOU tell Me Of DOUCH(E) confirms what I had already been informed. You were not lying to me. So-”

“Why should I lie to you? If you are the benefactor you claim to be I have nothing to fear from you.”

“Because if I was the madman you take me for, my main objective would be to kill any objective observers of my régime. The reverse is true — I visualize my job as to keep order — only that. Consequentially, I can utilize your DOUCH(E) set-up. I want you here, recording. Your testimony is going to vindicate me and the measures I am forced to implement.”

“Vindicate you before whom? Before posterity? There is no posterity. They died in addled sperm, if you remember.”

They were both sweating freely. The guard behind them shuffled weary feet. Croucher brought a tube of peppermints from his pocket and slipped one into his mouth.

He said, “How long do you keep on persevering with this DOUCH(E) job, Mr. Timberlane?”

“Till I die or get killed.”

“Recording?”

“Yes, recording and filming.”

“For posterity?”

After a moment of silence, Timberlane said, “All right, we both think we know where duty lies. But I don’t have to shoot all the poor old wrecks in the Churchill Hospital.”

Croucher crunched his peppermint. The eyes in his ugly face stared at the floor as he spoke.

“Here’s a nodule of information for you to record. For the last ten years, the Churchill has been devoted to one line of research and one only. The doctors and staff there include some expert biochemists. Their project and endeavour is trying to prolong life. They are not just studying ger — what do you call it, geriatrics; they are looking for a drug, a hormone; I am no medical specialist, and I don’t differentiate one from the other, but they are looking for a way to enable people such as me and you to live to be two hundred or two thousand years old. Impossible boloney! Waste an organization chasing phantoms! I can’t let that hospital run to waste, I want to utilize it for more productive purposes.”

“The Government subsidized the hospital?”

“They did. The corrupt politicians of Westminster aspired to discover this elixir of life and immortality and perpetuate it for their own personal advantage. With that kind of nonsense we aren’t going to be bothered. Life’s too short.”

They stared at each other.

“I will accept your offer,” said Timberlane, “though I cannot see how it will benefit you. I will record whatever you do at the Churchill. I would like documentary evidence that what you say about this longevity project is true.”

“Documents! You talk like one of those clever fool dons in the other room. I respect learning, but not pedantry, get that straight. Listen, I’m evacuating the whole bunch of crooks out of that hospital, them and their mad ideas; I don’t believe in the past — I believe in the future.”