Brian Aldiss: Greybeard

“There’s one ray of comfort,” Keith said brightly, holding up a finger of promise to them. “If this sterility stunt is going on all over the world, it won’t half be a relief to countries like China and India. For years they’ve been groaning about their population multiplying like rabbits! Now they’ll have a chance to thin the ranks a bit. Five years — or let’s be generous and say ten years — without any more kids born, and I reckon that a lot of the world’s troubles can be sorted out before the next lot start coming!”

Patricia sprawled on the sofa beside him, clutching his lapel.

“Oh, Keith darling,” she sobbed, “you’re such a comfort always!”

They were so engrossed in talk that they did not hear Doctor MacMichael’s knock at the front door. He hesitated there a moment, hearing their voices within and reluctant to enter. Keith Barratt had left the door slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped dubiously into the hall.

On the stairs, half hidden in the darkness, a small figure in pyjamas confronted him.

“Hello, Toad, what are you doing there?” the doctor asked affectionately. As he went over to Algy, the boy retreated a step or two and held up a warning finger.

“Ssh, don’t make a noise, doctor! They’re talking very seriously in there. I don’t know what it’s about but I should think it’s about me. I did something awful today.”

“You’d better get up to bed, Algernon. Come on, upstairs with you! I’ll come too.” He clutched the child’s hand and they went up the rest of the stairs together. “Where’s young Jock Bear? Is he creeping round the house without a dressing-gown too?”

“He’s already in bed, for all the good he is. I thought you were Daddy. That’s why I crept downstairs. I was going to say I was sorry to him for what I did wrong.”

MacMichael stared at the toes of his shoes. “I’m sure he’d forgive you, Toad, whatever it was — and I don’t suppose it was anything too terrible you did.”

“Daddy and I think it was pretty terrible. That’s why it’s important for me to see him. Do you know where he is?”

The old doctor did not reply for a moment, as he stood by the boy’s bed watching him climb between the sheets with the bear in tartan pyjamas. Then he said, “Algernon, you are getting a big lad. So you mustn’t mind too much if you don’t see your father for — well, for a little while. There will be other men about, and we will help you if we can.”

“All right — but I must see him again soon, because he’s going to teach me to do the Four Ace trick. I’ll teach you when I’ve learnt, if you like.”

Algy snuggled himself down between the sheets until there was little more than a tuft of hair, a nose, and a pair of eyes showing. He looked hard at the doctor, standing there anxious and familiar in an old mac.

“You know I’m your friend, Algernon, don’t you?”

“You must be, I suppose, because I heard Mummy tell Aunt Venny that you saved my life. I almost ran out of resources, didn’t I? But would you like to do something real important for me?”

“Tell me what it is, and I’ll try.”

“Would you think I was mad if I whispered?”

Doctor MacMichael went close to the bed and bent his head over the pillow.

“Shoot, pal,” he said.

“You know that bald girl, Martha Broughton? We were going to live next to her till I mucked things up. Do you think you could make Daddy have her round here so that I could play with her? She can run faster than anyone you ever met!”

“I promise I’ll do that, Algy. I promise.”

“She’s awfully bald — I mean really bald, but I like her. Perhaps girls are better without hair.”

Gently, the doctor said, “I’ll see she comes round here before the end of the week, because I like her very much too.”

“Gosh, you’re a pretty good doctor. I’ll show you I’m grateful — I won’t bust any more of your thermometers.”

Doctor MacMichael smoothed the hair of the boy’s head and left the room. He waited at the top of the stairs to master his emotions, straightened his tie, and then went down to tell the others about the car crash.

Wild life swarmed back across the Earth as abundantly as it had ever done. In its great congress, there were a few phyla absent; but in numbers the multitude was as rich as it had ever been.

The Earth had great powers of replenishment, and would have as long as the sun maintained its present output of energy. It had supported many different kinds of life through many different ages. As far as that outcast spit of the European mainland called the British Isles was concerned, its flora and fauna had never entirely regained the richness they enjoyed before the Pliocene. During that period, the glaciers descended over much of the northern hemisphere, driving life southward before them. But the ice retreated again; life followed it back towards its northern strongholds. Towards the end of the Pleistocene, like the opening of a giant hand, a stream of life poured across the lands that had recently been barren. The ascendancy of man had only momentarily affected the copiousness of this stream.

Now the stream was a great tide of petals, leaves, fur, scales, and feathers. Nothing could stem it, though it contained its own balances. Every summer saw its weight increasing as it followed paths and habits established, in many cases, in distant ages before homo sapiens made his brief appearance.

The summer nights were short. They retained something of the translucence of the day, only losing the last of their warmth as light seeped once more across the landscape, so that the sigh of cool air that brought dawn ruffled the pelts of animals and the feathers of innumerable birds as they woke to another day of living.

The rousing of these creatures provided the first sounds to be heard every morning in a tent pitched so near the water that it was reflected on the surface.

When Greybeard and his wife Martha and Charley Samuels rose at this time, it was to find themselves on the edge of a widening Thames dissolved in mist. The new day drew from the land a haze into which a myriad ducks scattered. As the day advanced, the mist became orange-tinted before it thinned, to reveal the duck flying overhead or sailing in convoy on the burnished water.

Before the mists cleared, wings whispering overhead suggested the gathering of an invisible host. Geese, heading for their feeding grounds, moved over with a hollow sound that contrasted with the clat of flying swans. Smaller birds flew at higher levels. There were birds of prey too, eagles and falcons that were comparative strangers to the region.

Some of these birds had travelled over vast tracts of land to feed here, from the little teal to the sheld-duck, strutting with his striking plumage through the mud. Many of the migrants had been forced here by adamant necessity: their little warm-blooded morsels of fledgelings, with a high metabolic rate to sustain, would starve to death if left without food for eight hours; so their parents had flown to more northerly latitudes, where the hours of daylight at this time of the year lingered long over the feeding grounds.

The humans were of all the living things in this region of mist and water the least bound to such natural necessities. But they, unlike the proliferating bird-life about them, had no instinctual means of determining their direction, and within three days of leaving Oxford, their journey towards the river mouth was snared in a maze of waterways.

Their way might be difficult to find, but a sense of leisure filled them, and they felt no compulsion to get out of an area so abundantly stocked with food. Herons, geese, and duck went into a series of soups and stews at which Martha excelled herself. Fish seemed to ask only to be pulled from the river.