Earthworks (13 page)

I would dearly have loved to stop for a meal. The four Africans were settling down to a lengthy feed, by the look of it, but I kept on walking, out into the corridor.

Not knowing where to find Mercator, I paused uncertainly outside.

Down one end of the corridor, a robot plasterer was working. Sometimes these automatons are given communication circuits, sometimes not. This one had a large “Made in Egypt” stamped on its shoulder, so I was hopeful, for Egypt had become the most advanced African state in recent years and her machine products were supposed to be efficient. I asked the thing if it knew where Mercator’s suite was, but it did not reply; possibly it was wired for a language other than English.

Near it hung a human decorator’s coat. On a sudden inspiration I took it up and put it on, for someone was coming along the adjoining corridor. I had lost my fez long ago, perhaps in the scramble through the concrete pipe. Picking up an empty bucket, I walked away. With the dark glasses on my nose, I felt well disguised. As I turned the corner, I saw that coming towards me was Israt; in front of him walked Doctor Thunderpeck.

Two things were immediately clear: that my old friend was captive, and that he recognized me while Israt didn’t. And why should Israt look twice at me, in a building presumably swarming with decorators in white smocks?

I walked past them, swinging my bucket. As soon as I was past Israt, I swung the bucket harder arid brought it down round the back of his head. Thunderpeck had the nearest door open, and we dragged him in there. It was a suite, the decoration finished but the furniture not yet in. We spread the tall man out, on the floor, and Thunderpeck stood over him with his gun, which Israt had conveniently dropped. He was not laid out cold, but was pretty groggy. I took the dark glasses off and wiped my face.

“You certainly appeared at a convenient time,” Thunderpeck said. “How are you bearing under the strain? Let me feel your pulse rate.”

I gave him my wrist. He took hold of it without removing his gaze from Israt.

“You’ll survive. In fact you’ll make a fine corpse. When you left the convoy so promptly, they kept me covered and did an abortive tour of the city trying to pick you up again. They must be used to dealing with imbeciles, the way they let you get away.”

“Where was Israt taking you?”

“Why, to this chap Mercator, who seems to be the kingpin round here.”

“Good. We’ll go and see him together. This matter can all be easily sorted out. Where’s Justine?”

“She’s somewhere in the building. She left me downstairs. Take my advice, forget her — she’s a dangerous woman, Knowle. Best thing we could do is to get out of here. I don’t want to meet Mercator. The way things have turned out, we’d have done better with the New Angolese. These are desperate men here.”

“I must get this thing sorted out, Doc. For Justine, if not for me. If you want to go off on your own, that’s all right with me.”

“Now you’re being silly.”

I slapped him on the shoulder and squatted down to speak to Israt, who was propping himself up on one elbow and staring muzzily at us.

“Look, friend, the honours are even between us,” I told him. “You nearly killed me with an incendiary gun, I clobbered you with a bucket. So let’s have no evil thoughts about one another. Instead, how about some answers to some questions? First of all, whereabouts is your boss, Mercator? Is he up on this floor?”

Israt was a sensible fellow. With his eyes on his own gun in Thunderpeck’s hand, he said: “We are going there. Mr Mercator’s suite is round the corner to the left.”

“Opposite the restaurant?”

“Yes. Next to the elevator.”

“Good. Next question. Who was von Vanderhoot?”

“Von Vanderhoot was Mr Mercator’s secretary. We discovered too late that he was in the pay of the Prime Minister of Algeria, General Ramayanner Kurdan, a very dangerous man. By then, von Vanderhoot had disappeared with some important documents — letters. This was yesterday. I was seeking for him in New Angola territory when I found you. You are von Vanderhoot’s agent.”

“Leaving that aside, why should von Vanderhoot be thought to have disappeared into New Angola if he was an agent for Algeria, when Algeria is supposed to be an enemy of New Angola?”

Israt shrugged and looked contemptuous.

“Because, my clever man, the contents of those letters we found on you are as damaging to Mr Mercator in the one state as the other. Von Vanderhoot was paid to make trouble for us. Don’t pretend you do not know that both states are particularly interested in Walvis Bay in this historic week.”

This was getting beyond me.

“Israt, I swear I am innocently involved in all this. What in particular is happening in Walvis Bay this week?”

“You make fools of us both, Mr Noland, to make me repeat to you information you have long ago. This city is specially built on specially ceded land that belongs to none of the African states. There has been big argument over it since the twentieth century, but it is independent territory. Now it is used by the United African Nations, at the inspiration of President el Mahasset, to build a great sea-coast resort where all of Africa can meet on neutral territory and enjoy themselves. It is the greatest practical move ever made to unite our continent in reality and not just in name. And although a thousand enemies have delayed its building and sabotaged every step of progress, Walvis Bay will be officially opened tomorrow by President el Mahasset himself, for the greater glory of Africa, although it is not really finished and only a few guests are here. The world press and representatives of all nations are already pouring in; and that, as you know, is why — tomorrow will be the greatest day in Africa’s history!”

I stood up. Thunderpeck and I looked at each other.

“I never enjoy greatest days,” I said. “Doc, can you stay here and guard Israt, while I go along and see Mercator? If I’m not back in half an hour, you’d better tie this fellow up and get away as best you can.”

“For God’s sake, Knowle, we don’t know this place! Where can we arrange to meet?”

In his ear I said, so that Israt should not hear: “Outside this hotel is the biggest square in the city, President’s Square. The biggest building looking on to it has the tallest tower. Nobody could miss that. It’s a sort of temple. I will meet you there if we get split up — at the base of the tower.”

He shook his head. “Mad,” he said. He was still shaking his head as I walked out of the room.

I walked down the corridor in my white smock and dark glasses. As I went, I tried to assimilate what Israt had told us. What I had regarded as a city of despair was in fact a city of hope. That in itself would be enough to attract the vultures. I could imagine them clearly without having to be told about them: shabby little cliques with business interests, politicians with axes to grind, thugs who stood to gain by a divided Africa. Unconsciously, I began to allot a role to Mercator.

After I had turned left down the corridor, I found myself before a door on which stood a small card bearing three words: PETER MERCATOR, ENGLAND. Looking uneasily round, I saw the four men I had robbed still feeding and drinking in the restaurant. No doubt they were some of the visiting dignitaries, here for the opening of Walvis Bay, or the grinding of a special axe. I thought what an old injustice it was, as old as man, that they should live so vilely well while the people they were supposed to represent languished in the confines of their lives on half-rations.

When I knocked on Mercator’s door, a firm voice said: “Come in.”

Entering, I found myself in a small hail with several doors leading off it. One of them was open. I glimpsed a room with a balcony and a view of sea and promenade. Sitting on the arm of a chair was a small neat man. Hypnotized, I went towards him.

His hair was white, his face pallid, his eyebrows and goatee black, though streaked with grey. Though I had seen him only once in my life before, I could never forget that face. “Peter Mercator?” I asked. “Yes, come in,” said the Farmer.

Chapter Nine

In my boyhood, Hammer and I used to play Farmers and Landsmen. Or it would be Farmers and Travellers or Farmers and Citymen, but always Farmers and something. As small boys, we understood Farmers; they were big and powerful and cruel, as we longed to be while we went on our grimy tasks for our master.

Farmers had the right to pursue. Farmers could beat. Although Hammer and I were much of a match when it came to running or to pitting puny muscle against muscle, when one of us played Farmer, he came the stronger. Under the mantle of that terrible title, the one became the superior of the other — even of the Traveller. So much is in a name. The rotten young teeth in our mouths grew white again when we became, briefly, Farmers.

Of course, neither of us knew what Farmer properly was, or what he did. But we knew that life in the platform cities depended on the Farmers; because they held the food for the mouths of the people, they also held the knife at their throats. Because the Farmer was a shadowy figure, he was the more terrifying. We saw people dying from various sophisticated nutritional ills, or from brute starvation, and we blamed the Farmers.

Hammer and I were as subtle as a cement wall. We had no learning, and an intelligence as narrow and sharp as a knife. At night beneath our blankets, our dreams were ashy fires burning in caves.

That one day I remember when I played the Farmer. Inside me, all the cruelties gave me strength, yet I could not capture Hammer. He was playing one of the Travellers. We pictured those men as wearing bright rags, seven feet tall, with a mane of hair hanging over their cats’ eyes, and the swaggering postures that they used for freedom.

Traveller Hammer catapulted up the weary side streets of the Shuttered Quarter, suddenly swinging into side alleys, lying by broken walls till I passed, whooping back on his tracks, kicking himself round corners, sometimes with my hand poised above — but never quite closing on — his shaggy collar. Because of some special sickness that had swept this part of the city several seasons past, it has been boarded up and was deserted, despite the fearful crowding in the rest of the city.

Officially it was deserted. The human rat lived everywhere in the city, the thinnest plank sheltered him. We had found our way through the boards. So had many other humans, the real Unspeakables of the city, who now shacked up here against the mud and dust of that winter. In fact, our errand for our master lay with these people, and we had traded his rags in the Shuttered Quarter at a price to his advantage. Our grimy game of Farmer celebrated the deal.

Clattering round a corner went Hammer, into a walled yard. The wall at the far end was no higher than his chest, but I saw he was too winded to climb it. He sprawled in a corner, gasping.

A sort of hut was there, built of some old bricks and boxes, and with a warped plastic sheet for roof, secured into place with stones. From this dwelling had come a man. He now leant shuddering against the low wall, and we watched him die.

He had the Flakers, as it was known — some sort of a flesh disease. Neither Hammer nor I had seen its effects before. The man vibrated considerably, and went into a sort of hopping dance. As he did so, he pulled off the remnants of his clothes. At the same time, pieces of his flesh fell off, for all the world like bits of rag. I seem to remember that his cheeks went first.

There was little blood, just these falling leaves in the sudden autumn of his flesh.

We couldn’t help it. Together we burst into laughter. It was a wonderful sight, made the funnier because the man paid no attention to us. He went on doing that funny dance, which at first we imitated; but the comedy of it was too much, and soon we were forced just to watch. As the man sank down on to his threadbare knees, someone threw a stone at us.

A woman crouched in the entrance to the improvised hut. You would not have thought the little place could have housed two of them. We ran more from her face than from the stone she threw. Her face was stretched so long it had teeth and darkness in it. Only when we were out of the yard did we dare to laugh again.

Through the city we went, our game of Farmer forgotten. It was time to go home. We put arms round each other’s shoulders, partly from affection, partly to keep together in the mob of people pressing along once we got free of the Shuttered Quarter. Of traffic, there was only the occasional public vehicle. Everything else that was mechanical and had to move, moved under the surface of the city, in the serviceways. But the people — a throng, composed of separate bodies, of groups, of processions, pushing this way and that — the people devoured the street space.

Some people walked with intent, some with the shuffle that denotes no purpose or no destination. When you can find no work, you can find no money to pay for rooms; then you are turned into the street, where you can be arrested for vagrancy. But when you find work — the successful housing of yourself and your family into one room drives you to madness, to suffocation, to boredom, to quarrels, and to the streets once more. Married couples take to sleeping by turn in the rooms while the other partner walks outside. That way they get peace, and avoid begetting. And walking can be a substitute for hunger, the tiredness of the legs overcoming the pinch of the intestines. It deadens anxious nerves, and brings a slinking peace of mind. It is an entertainment, a way of life, a sort of death.