“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.”
To Timberlane it sounded only like an admission of madness. He said, “There is no future, remember? We killed it stone dead in the past.”
Croucher unwrapped another peppermint; his thick lips took it from the palm of his hand. “Come to me tomorrow and I will show you the future. The sterility was not entirely total, you know. There was, there still are, a minimal trickle of children being born in odd corners of the world — even in Britain. Most of them are defectives — monstrosities beyond your conception.”
“I know what you mean. Do you remember the Infantop Corps during the war years? It was the British equivalent of the American Project Childsweep. I was on that. I know all about monstrosities. My feeling is that it would be sane to kill most of them at birth.”
“A percentage of the local ones are not killed at birth, motherly love being such as it is.” Croucher turned to the guards who were whispering behind him, and irritably ordered them to be silent. He continued, “I’m rounding up all these creatures, whatever they look like. Some of them are minus limbs. Sometimes they are without intelligence and unspeakably stupid. Sometimes they are born inside out, and then they die by degrees — though we have got one boy who survives despite his whole digestive system — stomach, intestines, anus — being on the outside of his body in a sort of bag. It’s a supremely gruesome sight. Oh, we’ve got all sorts of miscellaneous half-human creatures. They will be incarcerated in the Churchill for supervision. They are the future.” When Timberlane did not speak, he added, “Admitted, a frightening future, but it may be the only one. We must labour under the assertion that when these creatures reach adulthood, they will breed normal infants. We shall keep them and make them breed. Assure yourself it’s better a world populated by freaks than a dead world.”
Croucher eyed Timberlane challengingly, as if expecting him to disagree with this proposition. Instead, Timberlane said, “I’ll come and see you in the morning. You will place no censorship on me?”
“You will have a guard with you to ensure security. Corporal Pitt that you met has been detailed for the task. I do not want your reports falling into hostile hands.”
“Is that all?”
“No. I have to consider your own hands as hostile hands. Till you prove them otherwise, your wife will live here in these barracks as a token of your goodwill. You will billet here too. You’ll find the comfort will be more considerable than your flat was. Your belongings are already undergoing transportation to here from the flat.”
“So you are just a dictator, like all the others before you!”
“Be careful — I cannot stomach a stubborn mind! You will soon learn otherwise of me — you’d better! I want you as my conscience. Get that point clarified in your brain with all just momentum. You have seen I have surrounded myself with the intelligentsia; unfortunately, they superficially do what I say — at least to my face. Such a creed revolts me to my skin! I don’t want that from you; I want you to do what you have been trained for. Damn it, why should I bother with you at all when there’s plenty else to worry about? You must do as I say.”
“If I am to be independent, I must retain my independence.”
“Don’t go all highbrow on me! You must do as I say. I ask you to sleep here tonight, and that’s an order.
Think this conversation over, talk with your wife. I saw immediately she was a fairly hirsute type. Remember, I offer you security, Timberlane.”
“In this insanitary fort?”