Travels in Nihilon (3 page)

Adam would not have entered this criminally top-heavy structure on a stormy day, but since the air was still enough he decided to go in and get something to eat. A score of tables on the terrace outside were occupied by crowds of old men, some sitting on the steps, others on the ground or stools, or leaning against the actual walls of the unsafe building. A few stayed at the edge of the throng in wheelchairs, and looked as if they had a very uncertain hold on life. But all had rifles, and ammunition belts around their jackets. Bugles and small flags were distributed among them, and many had folded overcoats by their feet, and shopping baskets with packets of food spilling out. Those dressed in city suits, with smart moustaches and clipped hair, watch-chains curving from their waistcoats, sipped small cups of black coffee and smoked cigarettes or thin cigars. Other men wore smocks and cloaks, had beards and cropped hair, took pipes from between their teeth so that they could drink out of huge glasses of beer. Some were merry and loud in their jokes, while others were reflective and dignified, making casual quiet remarks to each other. A few glanced at the sky as if it might rain, but others had no thought except to eat and drink their fill while they could. All seemed to have some set purpose in their eyes.

He stepped respectfully between them and went into the building itself. Part of the main room was cordoned off as a dining saloon, and that, too, was full of old men with their rifles and equipment. Waiters ran among them taking orders, and Adam noticed that they asked for money when they put the beer or food down, as if their customers might be dead before they could collect it in the normal course of time.

He leaned on the counter and asked the barman for a glass of milk and a sandwich. He thought this would be sufficient for his lunch, but went on to consume twice that amount before his hunger was satisfied. It was harder work cycling in Nihilon than on his practice runs before departure.

‘Going far?' the red-faced, harassed, hysterical, youngish barman demanded curtly, snatching his plate away, though there was still a piece of his final sandwich left on it.

‘Nihilon City.'

‘By Zap?'

‘What's Zap?'

‘A Zap sports car. You're a foreigner by the sound of it.'

‘I am,' he admitted, half sad and half proud.

‘Do you like nihilism?'

‘I don't know, yet.'

‘Don't let any of these Geriatrics hear you say that. They
love
nihilism. Ready to die for it. They're going to, what's more. Tear you limb from limb if they hear you so cool on it. I wouldn't blame them either.' He held out his hand: ‘You'd better pay for your lunch, and be off. Forty-two klipps, and I want it now.'

Adam took a travellers unit from his wallet, worth a hundred klipps at the present rate of exchange. ‘I'll be glad to go.'

‘I can't accept that,' the barman said. ‘You should have changed it at the frontier. Or you can wait till you get to the next town, which should be the day after tomorrow if you haven't got a Zap. Do you want to buy a Zap?'

‘I'd like to pay for my lunch and leave.'

‘Go on,' he wheedled, ‘buy a Zap. Be a Nihilist.'

‘Who do I buy it from?'

‘One of the old folk. The Gerries. They're off to the frontier – front, I mean. Most of 'em have Zaps, and I suppose they wouldn't be averse to letting one go to a foreigner like yourself. Won't cost much. I get a commission, you see, on all secondhand Zaps sold at the Paradise Bar. I've got a wife and four kids, so I need every klipp I can get.'

Adam pushed his travellers unit across the counter. ‘I'd like to pay and go now.'

‘I've told you, I can't take it,' snapped the barman.

‘I'll leave without paying, then.'

The bartender laughed, hysterically. ‘Try it! Go on, try it!'

And old man, frail and thin, wearing a suit, a red cravat, and a white flower at his lapel, strolled from a nearby table, a rifle hanging at his shoulder by a sling.

‘Are you in trouble, young man?' He appeared to be the most civilized person Adam had met since crossing the frontier, and possibly for a long time before that, with pale-blue eyes, ironic and sensitive lips and fine hands that had perhaps written books or painted pictures. His brow seemed marked with sound ideas, and crowned a face that must have made women happy to be near him and listen to any word he said. He looked about eighty years of age, and the softening effect of so much wisdom and experience seemed even to lurk in the faint waves of his thick grey hair.

‘No trouble,' said Adam, taking him for a friendly spirit, though he was somewhat puzzled by the rifle. The old man relinquished it, the butt rattling as it hit the floor close to Adam's feet, and leaned it against the counter. ‘I simply want to pay for my lunch with this travellers unit, and go.'

The old man ceased to smile. ‘To want something is not good nihilism. What you want, you never get. To do – that is the way to nihilism. I can tell you're a stranger to our country. When you do something, you get something, but not until.'

‘I'm only a tourist.'

‘No man is a tourist,' he said, his features taking on a harshness that Adam hadn't read into them at first. The bartender leaned on the counter, entranced at every word from the old man, a fascination expressed mostly by an inane grin. ‘Life is the same wherever you are. It is hard in Nihilon, so why shouldn't tourists have to fight in order to exist, the same as we do? Much of my life I've worked as a poet in order to contribute to Nihilon's unique civilization. I'm an old poet now, but rhymes still rattle their way into my head.'

‘I'm a poet as well,' Adam interrupted him, glad that he should have something in common with this fine old man. But the man stared at him coldly: ‘You may
think
you're a poet,' he said. ‘I wouldn't say you were, you liar!'

‘I've had several books published,' Adam said, still trying to smile, though sorry he hadn't one of the volumes with him so that he could present it to his friend.

‘You aren't a poet,' the old man cried. ‘If you say you are, you're a fraud, an imposter, a saboteur, a renegade, a Cronacian spy!'

Adam stepped away, appalled at this unjust attack. The barman picked up a beer mug to smash his head in for offending the old man, but the old man told him sharply to put it down, then apologized to Adam: ‘He's a fool, you see. Always attacking people, and I can't stand it, being a poet. However, just listen to my latest composition.

Freedom's fight is my last bride

And Nihilon is by my side.

My last sight shall be the sky

For geriatrics never die.

I composed it for this march, and we old Gerries (as the young affectionately call us) will sing it as an anthem when we charge into the Cronacian scum.'

‘You see,' he went on, ‘in this country we don't send our young and able-bodied men to fight. Why should they waste their time? They're too busy working for Nihilon, building it up and breeding children. The principles of rational nihilism never let you down. Since the old have to die anyway, they are sent into battle. Of course, there are disadvantages. Though there is a certain amount of dash, and a great deal of ferocious guts in us Gerries, there can't be much question of a decisive breakthrough into Cronacia, because we're never able to keep up the push for long. Nevertheless, when we storm down the hill towards the Cronacian outposts in brigade column, we put the fear of the devil into them, with flags fluttering, trumpets sounding, and the shrill scream of our throats. I haven't been in a charge yet, but I know what it's like because the fighting we Gerries do is shown all over the country on television and in the cinemas. I've often sat up most of the night at the rest home, cheering them on. The glory won't go unrecorded, and that makes a difference, because our actions are shown to the young fellows and others who stay at home praising our courage and tactics, and who only wait for the day when they'll be old enough to have a go. So I shall be there tomorrow morning, because we're going to deal such a blow against the Cronacians that they won't forget it in a hurry. We'll teach them a lesson for the shooting they started this morning. We were called from our rest homes further up the valley as soon as the news came through. Oh yes, we'll show those pirates. You'll hear what we do to them. Do you want to see President Nil's Atrocity Recommendations?'

He fumbled in his pocket to try and find this revealing document, but then began to cough, bent over till the skin of his skull went red, right to the roots of his grey hair. The bartender had listened with tears streaming down his cheeks, and on seeing Adam again, he stopped weeping and grabbed his collar, saying with a ferocious cry:

‘Pay up!'

The old man righted himself, forgetting his search for the piece of paper. ‘How much does he owe?' he gasped.

‘Sixty-two klipps, sir.'

Adam pulled his travellers unit back across the counter: ‘You said forty-two a few minutes ago.'

‘He means well,' the old man said to Adam, leaning over and straightening the bartender's tie. He picked up the travellers unit, put on a monocle, and held it to the light. ‘Change it for him,' he snapped.

‘Certainly, sir,' said the bartender. He took the note, put it into the till, and stood by the mirror with arms folded.

‘My change,' said Adam, after waiting for him to give it back.

‘Sixty-two klipps to the unit,' said the bartender.

‘It's a hundred,' Adam shouted. The old man looked on in disapproval.

‘Certainly,' conceded the bartender, ‘that's what you get at the bank. But here it's sixty-two. Sixty really, but I'm not going to argue about the other two. Economy is frowned upon in Nihilon, especially among tourists.'

‘You'd better accept it,' the old man said to Adam.

‘But it's ridiculous,' he complained.

‘Life is,' sighed the old man, picking up his rifle and sliding a bullet into the magazine.

Adam walked away from the bar, sensing danger. On reaching the door he turned for a moment to see the old man and the bartender bent over the counter, dividing a heap of coin between them, which no doubt should have been his change. He hurried outside, anxious once more for the safety of his bicycle.

Chapter 4

Jaquiline Sulfer, the only female member of our guidebook staff, knew that the first-class luxury express trains of Nihilon travelled at twenty kilometres per hour. Popular trains, on the other hand, went at eighty kilometres an hour, since if one wanted speed, one was expected to pay for it by discomfort, because popular trains had hard seats and no sides, and the railway line after the passage of such a train was littered with people and their belongings that had fallen off. Popular trains were frequently ambushed and de-railed either by political dissidents, or by railway employees who did not like their work. Only the poor, or the jaded rich in search of thrills, travelled by popular trains because they were cheaper and got them there sooner. Popular trains (known as ‘fast trains') went on a narrower gauge of rail than slow express trains, and were sent on more circuitous routes through topographically difficult country – though those passengers who survived made the journey from the northern frontier to Nihilon City in less than half the time of those who travelled by the Grand Nihilon First Class Slow Luxury Wide-Gauge Bed-and-Board Express.

Jaquiline had gathered this elaborate matter on the division of trains from someone who had taken a holiday to Nihilon a few years ago. She worked at that time for an eminent psychiatrist, and had transcribed tape-recordings which he had made at the bedside of a so-called psychotic patient, whose pathetic condition was ascribed to his Nihilon vacation. She now remembered his information word for word, without knowing why, and so was determined to make sure, after crossing the frontier, to get a ticket for the correct train.

Station platforms, even at home, made her feel that she could not altogether rely on knowing who she was if anything unusual happened to her. They were such long, impersonal, dirty, ugly things, with too many goodbyes, lost hearts, and tears stamped into the concrete paving. The sight of a long empty unfeeling railway platform made her want to throw up her hands and wail. But on this occasion she overcame her urge so successfully, due to her strong character, that she appeared extremely brisk and self-possessed. She was a tall, slim young woman whose chestnut-coloured hair had managed to retain its grooming on the boats and trains she had so far travelled on.

She looked for the way to the Nihilon customs and passport control, making sure that the indispensable Tonguemaster was clipped unobtrusively on to her handbag. Having carried her three suitcases out of the compartment, she now hoped they would be taken by a porter through to the Grand Express on which she wanted to get a sleeping compartment to Nihilon city.

A few people made their way along the platform to the passport control office, though none used a porter. She wrote in her notebook: ‘To obtain a porter at the frontier is a near impossibility, and travellers are advised to bring as little luggage as possible.' She crossed out ‘a near impossibility' and wrote ‘extremely difficult', for she saw a tall well-built man wearing a dark uniform coming towards her. ‘Excuse me, madame,' he said, touching his gold-braided cap, ‘I'm the stationmaster. May I help you?'

‘I
would
like a porter,' she smiled.

There are no porters today,' he said. ‘They're all across at the hotel waiting to see the Geriatrics charge into action on television. It's a great day for Nihilon. The old folks are rearing to go at Cronacia, because of the treacherous attack. Unfortunately I have to stay here and keep essential services going.'

‘I've just come from Cronacia,' Jaquiline told him, ‘and it's peaceful there. People are very happy and amiable.'