Travels in Nihilon (16 page)

‘You're my luckiest passenger today,' he said, ‘I haven't managed to hit another car till now.'

The guide congratulated him: ‘If he's badly hurt that's a hundred points, plus another five hundred for not stopping to find out. I'll vouch for you when we get to the Scoring Office.'

The driver laughed: ‘If I go on like this I'll soon have a hundred thousand points – then I qualify for a house. I've always wanted to get out of my little ten-roomed flat.'

‘Ten rooms?' said Richard.

‘That includes cupboards and lavatories,' said the driver.

‘It's three rooms really,' said the guide. ‘And he's got fifteen children.'

‘And
my wife's two lovers live with us,' said the driver. ‘It's nihilistic to have a lot of children.'

‘You knock 'em out, and you run 'em down,' the guide commented. The lights of Nihilon bristled in the distance. They turned left into a dreary suburb, and went towards the bridge. ‘They have a passion for education in Nihilon. That's the only good thing about it.'

‘It's a great country,' said the driver, ‘even though I do live here myself.'

‘What do they learn?' Richard asked, too exhausted to care.

‘Everything,' said the driver, avoiding collision with a massive lorry on its way to the industrial zone.

‘Some learn nuclear physics,' said the guide. ‘Others learn the telephone directory. It depends which way your mind goes.'

‘What are you learning?' Richard asked.

‘Street-fighting,' said the taxi driver. ‘Same as my friend here.' He held up a book. ‘Government publication. “The Complete Guide to Street Fighting” – five hundred pages with maps, plans, and diagrams. History of street fighting, tactics, weapons, political repercussions of, how to start it, how to stop it, how to enjoy it. Nihilon is such a free country that all information is readily available. Then there's volume two. You go on to that when you've passed the examination at the end of volume one. Volume two has military engineering, demolitions and mining, explosives, boring and blasting, landmines and traps, dugouts and anti-gas procedures, fortifications, machine-gun emplacements, obstacles, siting of trenches and barricades – all that the man in the street ought to know in order to make himself a complete citizen, which means having the theoretical knowledge to take part in a bloody revolution. But while you're at it, and before we get to the bridge, give me the envelope that the professor handed to you on the plane. It's addressed to me, because I'm one of the insurrection's generals, though I have to work as a taxi driver in my spare time. The guide here is my adjutant. We work together, preparing our plans, gathering our general staff. By the way, would you like to join our general staff? You receive all sorts of privileges – free cinema-tickets, open access to the zoo, a Zap sports car with a big number on the side, as well as a pretty girl-assistant.'

Richard was embarrassed at having to turn down such an attractive offer: ‘I haven't yet seen much of nihilism. Perhaps I shall like it, then I won't want to join your revolution.'

‘Insurrection,' laughed the guide, ‘not revolution. We're not lunatics.'

‘Whatever it is. But here's your envelope,' he said, glad to get rid of it.

The guide's hands trembled as he took it: ‘You'll be given a medal for this by our new government.'

‘Maybe we'll make him a minister,' said the driver. ‘Do you have another cigarette?'

‘The only way you can repay me for delivering the envelope is to get me to the hotel as soon as possible,' said Richard as he passed his packet over.

‘Have a pill,' said the driver, offering a small box by way of exchange. ‘They keep you going for days.'

Richard preferred to wait for a natural descent into sleep. Huge blocks of flats went up like cliffs on both sides of the road. Then they crossed a bridge over the River Nihil, into Nihilon City proper. He was being pushed and pulled about. ‘You're here,' said the guide, thrusting a revolver into his hand. ‘A present from the professor. He said to make sure you got it.' Richard absentmindedly put it in his pocket. ‘This is the Hotel Stigma. My mother is waiting for you – with the best meal you've ever eaten. And be careful with that revolver. It's loaded. We anti-Nihilists are serious people.'

Chapter 18

Benjamin had already driven two cars off the road that had tried to ram him, by using the novelty of his glaringly plain headlights. It gave him great satisfaction to see the sudden loss of nerve in the other car when, on getting what he considered close enough, he turned on his battery of six blinders, a fog-clearer, two back dazzlers, and a row of triple-flickering roof-installed searchbeams, at which the other car spun off the camber, rattled over a couple of potholes (which merely served to exacerbate its loss of control) and rumbled uneasily off the road before the big crash came somewhere back in the darkness. They, after all, had tried to ram him, so he felt no more sorrow at their plight than he had for the unfortunate manager of the petrol station whose exploding tanks, and what must have been his ultimate reserves, lit up the skyline for several miles as he drove contentedly into the dusk.

Coming to the Alphabet Motel, a drive-in sign channelled him between two desks; the clerk at one handed him a card on which was written: ‘Room P – thirty-five klipps', while the opposite clerk got in the car and guided him into a small room. The doors closed, and the lift immediately began to ascend. When it stopped, doors opened in front, and the clerk indicated that he should drive out, along a corridor. The room doors had letters of the alphabet inscribed on them instead of numbers. Some had cars already parked outside, for which purpose ample space was provided. At door P, Benjamin stopped his car, got out, and was shown into a plain but comfortable apartment, which, after his long day, he was well pleased with. ‘The restaurant is now open,' the clerk informed him before leaving. ‘There is also an amusement park attached to the establishment.'

After paying his bill in advance he went into the dining room of this curious stopover, where the menu was set out in automobile language. It was a four-stroke meal, at twenty klipps, and the food was excellent, beginning with an induction of sautéed tappets, then braised camshaft, followed by a main course which was a cut off the big-end, and terminalled by a dessert of carburettor Suzette. Half a bottle of high-octane wine was thrown in free. The plates, which were of the best Nihilon china, had a picture glazed on them depicting a car crash in which the most mangled vehicle plainly showed a Cronacian number-plate. A box of cigars was brought to him, with the name Exhaust-Smoke Coronas inscribed on its elaborate label.

After the meal he wandered into the amusement park. Prominent loudspeakers played the same Nihilon National Anthem he had heard and loathed at the frontier post, though none of the motoring clientele were taking much notice of it. Many of them, however, were lying dead drunk on the ground.

The main attraction was a large dodgem arena, in which those who must have driven cars all day were now amusing themselves by practising their expertise at causing or avoiding head-on collisions – before meeting the perils of tomorrow. There were cries of alarm and shouts of triumph, invariably followed by the overwhelming impact of reinforced metal. Attendants with long poles went from crash to crash, prising the sweating contestants free when they were unable to do it themselves. The car with most dents, and still running at the end of an hour, received a prize, though Benjamin did not stay long enough to find out what it was.

But, strangely enough, the atmosphere of the fairground soothed him, as he walked about smoking his cigar. Close by was a shooting-booth, a long counter from which one could try to shatter clay pigeons with a two-two rifle, and receive a glass of Nihilitz as a prize for each one down. Benjamin realized that the prostrate dead-drunk people must have visited this spot already, and from the state of their drunkenness must have been very good shots indeed. A man beside him, fat, sweating, with rolled shirt-sleeves, was such a crack shot that he drank thirty glasses of Nihilitz. At the thirty-first he fell down as senseless as a stone, the rifle still in his hands, a look of beatification on his face. Some sportsmen lost their sure aim after only the third or fourth drink, then went staggering away to spend their remaining small consciousness on the dodgem cars.

Before going to sleep, he put his boots outside the door to get them cleaned by morning, hoping to set out at eight o'clock and reach Nihilon City before nightfall – which he considered possible, provided the roads were good.

Back in his room to get ready for bed he found a leaflet in his table drawer which said: ‘Visitor to Nihilon! Good evening, or Good morning! In order to find out more about our country, you may wish to tune-in to the seven o'clock lies on Radio Nihilon. This is the most important information bulletin of the day. Regarding its curious opening of “Here are the Lies”, tourists are earnestly requested not to be duped by it. They may be reminded, in fact, that the inhabitants of Nihilon take it very seriously. This National Bulletin owes its inverted title to the genius of President Nil, when he realized that the people of Nihilon were no longer interested in the News. He therefore proclaimed that henceforth all news would be lies. Thus, when people flocked to hear these lies they soon realized that they were, in fact, serious truth. But whereas before they had contemptuously referred to the News as lies, they could no longer do so, because Lies became its official name. That is just one of many curious customs you will come across in our country, dear visitor, proving once again that nihilism is rich in tradition and folklore!'

He fell asleep, yet soon woke up from it. At five o'clock he was disturbed by motorcars coughing to life on the landing outside and driving to the lift, as if the other travellers were getting an even earlier start than he had planned for. He turned over, and buried himself in his all-night warmth, but even a light sleep would not come back, so he switched on the radio by his bedside. After a few minutes of transmogrifying music an announcer began what he assumed to be the news:

‘Good morning, Nihilists. Here are the Lies. The Nihilon News Agency has stated that 7,000 Cronacian fishermen were detained yesterday when they came ashore at the port of Shelp. They were equipped with artillery and machine guns, as well as flame-throwers and fishing nets. A Cronacian News Service Message, however, has given its own version which is, as usual, full of the most foul and blatant inaccuracies. However, in the interests of objectivity we put it forward for what it is worth, so that you can judge for yourselves, dear Nihilists. The vile Cronacian swine claim, then, that the cruise-liner SS
Cronacia
came peacefully into the Nihilonian port of Shelp so as to let its 7,000 tourists ashore for a few hours. They comported themselves well, it is claimed, and expressed general interest in the Nihilonian people. They were extremely impressed, the communiqué went on, by the cultural monuments they were able to see. An hour before they were due to return to their ship, however, this peaceful delegation of the Cronacian nation found itself surrounded by several divisions of the Nihilon army. In spite of being outnumbered, they returned fire with great skill and gallantry, but were soon overwhelmed by superior numbers – though not before much of the beautiful and historic centre of Shelp lay in ruins.

‘Whatever the communiqué of the Cronacian guttersnipe government says, the Nihilon army scored a great victory, and completely wiped out this treacherous attack by the Cronacian bandits. The Nihilonian army suffered only a few men wounded.'

‘Last night, an unarmed Nihilon Airways jet-plane carrying innocent people was viciously attached by Cronacian Pug 107 fighters. The attack was beaten off by our air force, but the airliner was extensively damaged, and many casualties were caused to the passengers.'

‘The area around the town of Fludd has been proclaimed a disaster area as from this morning. Last night the dam near the town burst, and thirty thousand of the inhabitants are feared to have perished. Aid is being rushed to the area. The cause of the disaster is unknown, but the possibility of Cronacian sabotage is not yet ruled out.'

‘Preparations for the commencement of Nihilon's first great space spectacular are continuing. Our correspondent from the Ministry of Stars says that the launching of the rocket from the site below Mount Nihilon is expected either late today, or tomorrow, or perhaps in a few days' time.'

‘At the south-eastern sector of our frontier the border incident continues. An attack by three of our Geriatric brigades made some progress, and caused heavy casualties among the enemy. The incident is expected to flare up again this morning.'

‘Yesterday a petrol station was attacked and destroyed by a Cronacian agent disguised as a foreign tourist. There were no casualties, but a million litres of petrol, as well as extensive installations, were destroyed. Police and security forces are combing the area with a view to apprehending the criminal.

‘And now, dear Nihilists, after the Lies comes music …'

Benjamin, fully dressed, considered that the news, even if it was lies, was bad, and wondered whether he would be lucky enough to reach Nihilon City at all. Thinking about the others, it seemed possible that Richard had met his fate in the airliner, that Edgar might have been caught in the battle of Shelp, and that Adam had perhaps been endangered by the dam burst at Fludd. It remained to be seen whether Jaquiline Sulfer and himself would meet in Nihilon. He opened the door to get his cleaned shoes, but they weren't there, so he went back to the telephone and asked the reception desk if they would have them sent up. ‘I'm sorry, sir. We haven't seen your shoes.'

‘You thief!' Benjamin yelled. ‘You collected them all and sold them. I know your lousy tricks.'