The Insulators (17 page)

Oboku’s voice faded, and Stefan stood close to Palfrey’s side. As they stared out over the pictures of dark valleys, a sound began, coming from the spot where Oboku’s voice had been. It was at first distant and confused, but gradually it became a throb; of great generators working, of pistons thrusting, furnaces roaring, machines clattering, whistles piercing, steam hissing. And all of these grew louder, and added to them were great crashing sounds, as of cars smashing into one another at high speed, of trains hurtling, of tanks rumbling.

The air about the platform seemed to shudder with the din.

Other sounds followed.

A siren, wailing – people, screaming – the unmistakable crashing of exploding bombs – the rattle of machine guns and of rifle fire, of mortars and grenades.

And women, crying.

And children, wailing.

All these noises merged together in one horrendous cacophony. Each sound was distinct and recognisable yet all of them merged together made a great roaring and rushing; as if the earth itself were hurtling out of its orbit into space. The ground on which they stood began to tremble as if the eye of this maelstrom of noise was not out in the distance but close by, beneath them.

Palfrey felt Stefan’s hand on his shoulder. Neither moved, except with the vibrating earth. And as their bodies shook so did their minds, until the screaming and the wailing seemed to come not from the bowels of the earth but from their heads; a concentrated fury of sound not only deafening but tearing their brain cells apart.

Nothing was still.

The near mountains were blurred in indefinable outline, there were no shapes except moving ones, above and all around them. The hand on Palfrey’s shoulder pressed in like a steel claw, harder and harder.

Suddenly, Palfrey cried: “Stop it! Stop!”

He wrenched himself free and glared at Stefan, and saw Stefan’s eyes closed and his great body hunched as if he were trying to fight away the noise, the horror of it all. Stefan’s face quivered, his body shook, as Palfrey’s was shaking, but his mouth was set as if it were a trap.

“Stop it!” cried Palfrey. “Stop!”

On the instant the noise fell away to silence and the quivering fell away to stillness. His head and his body ached but slowly the aching eased. Stefan opened his eyes and his mouth slackened; all the glow of health had gone from him and there was sweat on his forehead and greyness on his cheeks.

Oboku’s voice sounded with its reassuring warmth. “Walk back to the patio, Dr Palfrey. It is much more peaceful there.”

Palfrey took Stefan’s arm and they turned their backs on the valleys of turmoil and walked, very slowly, to the patio where they had first come. Here the sun shone, pleasantly warm. A child laughed; a man chuckled; a woman gave a sigh as of contentment. There was more, distant laughter, the sound of a cascading waterfall; a choirboy, singing; and far distant the sound of a jazz drummer playing as if his heart and soul as well as his hands and arms, his whole body, were obsessed by the joy of his playing.

Two comfortable-looking chairs stood near the rail, and they sat down. The sounds ceased but the new look of tranquillity remained and the tension eased out of their bodies. From behind them a Vietnamese girl appeared, wearing long trousers and the long ribbons of cloth which half-concealed them. Smiling but saying nothing, she placed coffee in a china pot, cups and saucers, some orange juice with sugar, and a bowl of fruit on a table between the two chairs. When she had done, her smile became broader and her face prettier as she spread both hands towards the sun-drenched vista, which was still lovely although some of the colour had been drawn out by the sun.

She went off, and the two men were alone; the leader of Z5 and his deputy. That was the moment when Palfrey realised that neither Janey nor Philip were here; it was as if he and Stefan were together and alone on top of the world. It was pleasantly warm, and he sipped the ice-cold orange juice. Already, he felt calmer and already Stefan looked better. It was as if this side of the mountain was an elixir of life, inducing a sense of well-being. Stefan poured himself coffee, and as he was sipping, the lift doors opened and Jane Wylie called. “Good morning. No, please don’t get up.” She hurried to stop Palfrey from rising, and waved Stefan back to his chair. She wore a primrose yellow dress with short sleeves, cut round at the neck and rather low, and a hem which fell just below the knee. It was not the latest but certainly not a dated fashion. She moved freely, drawing up a stool and sitting in front of them. As she leaned forward her bosom showed, and the gleam in her eyes suggested that was intended. “How are you both?” she asked.

“Pensive,” answered Palfrey.

“Inevitably,” said Stefan.

“Not despairing?”

“Not yet,” replied Palfrey.

“Sap,” she said, leaning forward still further and putting out her hands. She used his name as if she were thoroughly familiar with it, and her eyes positively danced. “It’s like heaven up here. Shall I tell you a naughty secret?”

She sounded not only gay but childlike.

And she was pressing some papers into his hand as she held him tightly.

“I would love to hear a naughty secret,” Palfrey declared.

Soon, very soon, he had to make the most vital decision of his life; but he could talk lightly, even facetiously with her. He palmed the paper and, while she still held his hands, worked it up to his wrist and under the sleeve of his shirt.

“This place is heavenly for a honeymoon.”

“What’s naughty about honeymoons?”

She was half-laughing with her eyes, and half-pleading.

“They should come
after
the wedding!” She leaned further forward so that all he could see was her face; and the glowing and the pleading in her eyes. “Sap—I love Philip so.”

“And Philip loves you,” Palfrey replied, gently.

“Yes, I think he does.”

“So, your honeymoon anticipates the wedding. Is that unique?” Stefan asked.

She glanced at him.

“No,” she replied. “No. Sap—I want to get away from here. I don’t want to have to stay here all my life, even with Philip.
We
want to get away. I—I hate talking like this but I can’t help myself.”

He had the paper unfolded, now; all he had to do was shift its position so that he could read it as he looked down at her. His heart was beating very fast. He was sure they were watched and that she was aware of it, or she would not have smuggled the message, would not be acting so as to give him a chance of reading it.

“Go on,” he urged.

“Sap,” she said, “do what they ask you.”

He didn’t reply.

“Sap, I beg you,” she went on, and now he could see tears glistening in her eyes. “Do what they want. Then they’ll let Philip and me go back to the world. If you don’t, they’ll keep us here.”

He seemed to be staring into her eyes, and now there was no doubt about the tears; nor of the strength in her hands, reflecting her tension. He eased the paper onto his leg, so that he could read the few words written there in black ink.

“Sap, please—” she was sobbing now.

He read:

They are watching, listening, everywhere. There is a path beyond the railing, your only possible way of escape . . .

So what she was saying was simply to deceive them; she really wanted him and Stefan to try to escape; so, she was still utterly opposed to the leaders of The Project.

He read on:

Philip is a prisoner – a surety for me. But never mind us. Escape while you can. They don’t believe in freedom except for the rulers. They are the worst of tyrants, and even the highest skilled workers are slaves.

“Sap,” she said, fighting back tears which seemed as real as her gaiety had a few minutes before. “Philip and I can marry and live in peace. And the leaders of The Project
can
control atomic power and atomic radioactivity and noise. They have perfected the manufacture of tiny crystals which can be used as insulators, and if they wish, conveyors. The green crystals cancel out the radioactivity, the pink crystals create a barrier nothing can pass; anything which comes in contact with it disintegrates. They can use them like invisible rays, too; or as rockets which make no sound. They can do everything they say, and if you oppose them then they will simply crush all opposition, destroy great cities – Sap!” she cried. “There is no way of stopping them, you must work with them.”

Now, her lips quivered and tears spilled. As he palmed the note again, sliding it this time into his shirt cuff, she went on: “It—it isn’t just Philip and me. It isn’t just that we want to get married and live together. It will be a better life for all who submit. There will be no hunger left, nor fear, nor ignorance—”

She broke off, placing her hands together in an attitude of prayer, and after a long time continued in a voice from which all strength had been drained. “You can’t prevent them taking over, you can only make it easy, free from slaughter and the maiming of war. Work with them,
please.”

They are tyrants, and even the most skilled workers are slaves.

Living slaves; happy, healthy slaves?

Or dead, despairing, sick ‘free’ men?

How should the people be?

“Stefan,” Palfrey said, hoarsely.

“Yes, Sap?” It was remarkable how Stefan could give significance to remarks or words which in themselves were trite.

“What do you think we should do?”

“I think we should accept the offer,” Stefan answered, simply.

“Out of hand?”

“Of course,” Stefan said. “Don’t you believe that, now?”

“I’m still not sure,” Palfrey answered slowly. “Why are you?”

Stefan answered quietly: “In the past we had a chance of winning without avoidable bloodshed; or at least we had a chance of winning! Now we cannot possibly win. We can only bring about unthinkable bloodshed. It isn’t possible to take the responsibility for all people, we have no right to do it. Our only course is to agree and, when these men have taken over, help them to run the world without pain or hardship. The principles will remain. We shall be able to live by them and help others to live by them as well.”

His expression was so earnest, his face so saintlike, there seemed no doubt at all that he meant exactly what he said.

And Janey watched him with awed fascination, as he echoed all that she had said and rejected everything she had written. Palfrey put his hands on her elbows and eased her back, and she stood up, still crying. He left her and moved towards the wrought-iron railing and looked across at the sunlit hills and the snow-capped mountains and the distant valleys. No one moved or spoke but Oboku’s voice seemed to echo in his mind:
“Where are you going to lead them, Palfrey? To bright heaven or to dark hell?”

Then Oboku’s voice
did
sound: “There it is, Dr Palfrey. There
is
the promised land.”

The awful thing was that the decision would be forced on him. By doing nothing he could unleash the dogs of war. By keeping silent, saying nothing, then he and Stefan would be condemned to stay here, like Janey and Philip, until the battles were fought and the end had come. Slowly, man would have to rebuild the shattered world.

He saw a movement some way down the mountainside, thought that it was a sheep, stared again because he saw it was a man, climbing between boulders and up a narrow path, little more than a defile between overhanging rocks. Stefan joined him, and stared; and whispered: “It’s Zuka.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s Zuka,” Stefan repeated. “Sap—”

“Read this,” Palfrey whispered, and held the note so that both could read. He did not think there was any fear of being watched or overheard, for there was a sheer drop from the railing into a valley, and there were no walls in which a microphone could be built.

No wall?

There was the railing.

He glanced along this, as Stefan read in silence, and saw a tiny grille not more than a foot away. He half-laughed at himself for his brief folly, and moved, gripped the railing on either side of the microphone and then, as if by chance placed a hand over it.

“We can stay here and keep silent,” he said, “or we can go. Did you mean what you said or was it for the listener-in?”

“I meant it,” Stefan said. “I can’t accept the responsibility for allowing the kind of war they will undoubtedly fight.” He was quite calm, and his voice was steady. “I don’t think Janey would write like this if she knew the consequences. Sap, I wish to God I hadn’t to reach a decision, I wish you hadn’t either.”

“I know,” Palfrey said. “I know.”

He broke off, for Zuka, hidden until that moment by an outcrop of pale grey rocks, appeared again quite near the railing. He stood still and waved; and waved again; and when neither of them moved he bent his knees and spread his arms wide and then raised them sharply and straightened his knees. He repeated the movement three times, then rose to his full height and beckoned furiously.

“What does he mean?” Stefan asked.

“Who is it?” Janey had joined Palfrey on the other side.

“He’s telling us the mountainside is going to blow up,” Palfrey said in a chokey voice. “What else can he mean?”

There were footsteps on the patio, and Philip Carr came hurrying, crying out in a loud voice: “The valley’s subsiding on the other side.”

“Come down here!” cried Zuka. “Hearrr!” His voice echoed.

“Come
on!”
exclaimed Philip, and as he spoke he lifted Janey up bodily and swung her over the railing, where there was a narrow ledge. He vaulted the railing, put an arm round her waist, and hustled her along.

“Sap,” Stefan said in a strangled voice, “we haven’t any choice now, we’ve got to try to escape.” He placed his great hands on Palfrey’s waist and hoisted Palfrey over the railing. Ahead, the others were scrambling down the hillside, and as Palfrey and Stefan followed there was a great roar of sound, and the earth shook in a terrible paroxysm. Palfrey glanced over his shoulder, and saw the top of the patio building disappearing on the far side of the peak. Rocks began to roll. He was almost oblivious of the pain in his left leg now, but still had to lean on Stefan.