Frank was still speaking, rather dully, of the changes in the air. ‘I’m no scientist, but I’ve done some simple tests. Schoolboy chemistry stuff – you know. Over the weed, where it is densest anyhow, the composition of the air differs from the norm of the atmosphere. I suspect the Martian plants are in fact removing the dominant components of our air, that is the nitrogen and oxygen, leaving an apparent excess of the rest: water vapour and carbon dioxide and so on. Also I suspect there’s a higher concentration of argon – as Rayleigh determined, argon is the next significant component in our air – but I’d need a more sophisticated chemistry set than I’ve been able to scramble together to establish that.
‘It’s a steady sequestration. I believe the nitrogen and oxygen are being fixed in some compound in the weeds’ root system, deep underground, just as some of our own plants will fix nitrogen. Whatever other purpose the weed serves – and both sorts of Martian folk can eat the weed, even if we can’t – it’s a pretty efficient air extractor! And if you imagine that action scaled up to a field, or a few acres, or square miles…’
I looked at him. ‘Martian folk? Both sorts? What Martian folk?’
Frank pointed downstream to the working party. ‘Let me show you.’
We made our way in that direction.
Of course it was the soldiers Ted was most interested in speaking to, and never mind Martian exotica; we had to take a short detour and meet them. And of all the sights I might have expected to see in this confiscated corner of England, I would never have guessed at German soldiers tending potatoes.
It was all rather gentlemanly. One of the chaps strolling around inspecting the others’ work turned out to be senior, though like the rest he wore a shapeless straw hat, shirtsleeves, and trousers with braces. As Frank introduced us he shook my hand, and Ted Lane’s. ‘Newcomers, eh? Welcome to the madhouse. I’m Bob Fairfield, Lieutenant-Colonel if it makes a difference any more.’ He eyed me with open speculation, and my dusty state, and I wondered what he knew of my mission – ether the cover story or the true purpose. Uneasily I began to realise that I had no idea who I could trust here.
Ted, meanwhile, stood to attention and snapped out a salute. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Oh, at ease, Sergeant.’ Fairfield glanced at his toiling troops, earthing up rows of potato plants with rusty spades, who looked upon us with a kind of resentful curiosity. ‘Two years it’s been since the great Martian curtain came down and trapped us all in here. We must keep up discipline; I’ve always been convinced it’s the best way for the men – and as you can see, there’s plenty of work to be done. After two years we’ve long since exhausted the bully beef and beans we brought with us, and we must make do with what we can grow. I can always use an enthusiastic NCO, if you’re up for it.’
Ted glared at the privates, who looked back at him, mudstreaked and sweating and resentful. Ted grinned. ‘It’ll be a pleasure, sir.’
‘Meanwhile let me introduce you to my colleague. I’m sure it’s well known outside that a number of Germans, fighting alongside us against the Martians, were trapped in here too. Damn good allies they were during the battle, and damn good companions they’ve proved in this big green prison camp. Their most senior officer is a Feldwebelleutnant Schwesig. Let’s see if I can find him…’
They strolled off among the toiling men. Beyond this riverbottom field I could clearly see those others that I had seen before, the tall skinny ones, the squat hairy ones.
Frank was more interested in the potatoes. ‘Actually it was my idea. Or rather Mildred Tritton’s, and I took it to Fairfield and the rest.’
‘Mildred?’
‘Local farmer. Absolute brick; you’ll meet her soon enough. We tried to get ourselves organised from the beginning, you know. The loss of the electricity and the telephones hit us on the first night; grub was the issue by the end of the first week. So we dug old ploughshares and the like out from the back of barns, and set to work opening up fields that hadn’t been ploughed for twenty or thirty years. All back-breaking labour without machinery, of course, and we had a lack of horses too, but we got it done, and the soldier boys were a pool of muscle that needed application. We resurrected other old skills as the months went by. We had to mend our clothes because we couldn’t buy new. Some of the old dears remembered local cottage industries like straw-plaiting, and now you’ll see English privates in straw hats like Chinese coolies. As for medicine, we’ve had drops of supplies of antibiotics and various drugs, and splints and bandages and the like. Anyhow that was how we got through the first year, with stores, and hard work, and good will.’
‘And the Martians just let you do all this? Play Old MacDonald at the feet of the fighting-machines?’
He gave me an oddly furtive look – a look I would quickly come to recognise in the Cordon. ‘If they’re certain we are doing them no harm they let us be. We’re survivors, Julie. Not warriors.’
‘I’m not here to judge, Frank.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And what of the potatoes in the river bed?’
‘A challenge of the second year. Just when we were getting somewhere with the field clearances and such, the rivers started drying up. Look – you can see how the Martian weed is choking the stream, using up all the surface water. Bad news for us and our animals, of course.
‘But look at the river-bed mud that’s exposed. That we can use. Heavy river-bottom mud, when it dries a bit, is perfect growing ground for potatoes. We had to be cautious, because it meant coming close to the skinnies where they worked at the red weed, in the rivers.’
‘The skinnies?’
He looked at me. ‘The humanoids. From the Martian cylinders.’
‘I remember, from ’07…’
‘All we found last time was drained corpses. This time—’
Despite my overwrought state, this news evoked wonder. ‘Alive? Men from Mars?’
‘Not men. And not just from Mars, either, it seems.’
I had to see for myself. Boldly, I walked down the river course, past the soldiers, towards those toiling others.
Others. They plucked and dragged and gathered the red weed, the leaves and sacs and pods and cactus-like growths, leaving the deeper roots intact. Much of this harvest they lay out on the river bank, as if to dry it. Some of it they tucked into their mouths, munching placidly as they worked.
I had not concentrated on the task; some queer dread in me recoiled from looking too hard at those performing it. Now I made myself face them.
There were two sorts, both basically human – or humanoid, to use that odd, distancing word. The two kinds kept to their own groups.
One kind were tall, skinny indeed – taller than me at six feet or more, with odd round heads and big eyes over small faces, and pinched mouths; their faces were oddly babyish. Naked they were, and all but sexless, the males with shrunken organs, the females breasts that were almost flat. Many wore bandages of a crude kind on their legs and arms – even, in one case, a splinted arm. Nude, pale, hairless, they looked fragile, and the work, light as it was, seemed an effort for them. They seemed quite incurious about me and Frank, and the sweating soldiers just yards away.