| II.1.047 |
|
Due to the absence of male students the dinner gathering was lopsided, there being
twenty four parents and only seven female students who together with the Rev. Williams
and his wife sat down to begin the repast. Beginning with the hors d'oeuvres talk centered
upon a single subject. 'They say the War is going well.' 'That may be so, Mrs. Chang, but I had a letter from my Peter only last week and he complained bitterly how slow everything was. Is the War going well, Mrs. Passareil, you should know?' Vera smiled demurely and was rescued by the Rev. Williams. 'I'm sure, Mrs. Bodley, that Mrs. Passareil is occasionally aware, because of the special nature of her husband's position, of information of a sensitive nature which our leaders would not welcome becoming public knowledge.' 'My husband and I were hoping that this War would not last as long as some of the others have. The last was, er... ' 'Five years, I believe it was, Mrs. Bodley.' The Rev. Williams was seated at the head of the table with Mrs. Passareil on his right and Bluemud on his left. He had arranged for Bluemud to sit close by him because he felt he must learn more about the man who was the father of his only potential problem. He had rearranged the seating that very afternoon after the Dean had identified her as such: 'Disappeared for eighteen months without a trace. Strange choice of studies. This one looks a bit eccentric, Pastor. Her father used to be as well, though harmless enough. Better keep a closer eye on her. Nothing to get alarmed about. There's always one you think might be a problem but they never are.' "It seems like forever, Mr. Chang. I don't see the need. Five years on the front lines, that's a terrible risk. Whatever will Peter do for an education?' 'They won't keep him in the front line that long, don't worry! In the last War two years was the absolute limit, isn't that so, Bluemud' Chang gave Bluemud a knowing wink. 'Though those who stayed in that long were pretty crazy by the time they got out.' 'Confidentially, Mrs. Bodley,' said the Rev. Williams, 'though I'm not at liberty to disclose how, I have it on the highest authority that our brave boys education will be cared for in the fullest degree.' A minestrone soup was served. The caterer was a man who had done the job for twenty years. He was the chef and all the other work was done by female student volunteers. "Where do you live these days, Mr. Bluemud?' inquired the Pastor. Bluemud had not been able to take his eyes off Vera. Though she had not been making eyes at him she had looked in his direction occasionally to check whether he was still observing her. 'Oh, er, I live a fair way off. I've a house in the wilderness. On the coast.' 'I see. A solitary life. You have no house in the Golden Lands?' 'I haven't felt the need in recent years, Reverend. I'm semi-retired.' 'If you ever come to the Capital to look for somewhere, Mr. Bluemud,' said Vera, 'perhaps I could help you out? I have a friend who knows of several excellent lodgings available at the moment.' Bluemud looked up quickly at Vera but she made no attempt to hold his gaze. The next course was Dover Sole. 'Apparently the casualty rate hasn't been all that high. My husband says it's difficult to train pilots quickly. Strange, isn't it? You'd think somebody would have thought of that before the War started.' 'I don't see why, Mrs. Chang. There's plenty of time.' 'Why is that, Mr. Bluemud? I still don't understand why everyone thinks there's so much time.' 'The War's not going to go away is it? There's the problem of supplies with the small industrial base we have. They're usually quite inadequate for the amount of killing that's required, therefore it takes time.' There was an awkward silence. No-one was sure whether Bluemud had said something wrong or not. The silence was broken by Vera. 'That's interesting Mr. Bluemud, but there have been several heroic incidents recently, have there not?' 'Indeed there have,' said Mrs. Chang. 'Our boys are so brave! So few of them wish to volunteer for the artillery, it's too easy. I feel so sorry for the ones that have died, and their parents too.' The Revered beamed, leaning towards Bluemud. 'The Chang's daughter Celia is a member of our Celebration Choir, you know Mr. Bluemud. They sing so excellently at the memorial services. I wonder if you've heard them?' Bluemud forced a smile in the direction of the Changs and restrained himself. He had caught the last two years of the Eighth Public War. As far as he knew fighting consisted mostly of sitting around in the officers mess or in the briefing room looking at a map which never changed or going outside and staring at the distant smoke and laying every peasant woman you could get your hands on. The artillery was handled exclusively by the Battlemaster soldiers and planes were in such short supply that you were very lucky if you got one inside of six months. 'Elizabeth lives with you most of the time when she is not at the University, doesn't she Mr. Bluemud? Surely she'd be much happier if she lived in the Golden Lands, closer to home? Every young lady needs a base from which to launch her social activities. A place in the wilderness must be quite constraining.' 'It is our home, Reverend. It would be a very empty place without Elizabeth. But you may be right, you may be right.' 'I fear she must be lonely. Does she have any friends?' 'Angel and Elizabeth are very close, you know, Pastor,' broke in Vera enthusiastically. 'They've only been friends for a short while but Angel looks up to her very much. I sometimes think she can't talk about anyone else. I am very happy it is so. Angel has a tendency to be quite withdrawn at times.' The Pastor frowned. 'I wouldn't have thought so, Mrs. Passareil. Angel is the very brightest star among my pupils.' 'Has Elizabeth spoken of Angel to you, Mr. Bluemud?' asked Vera. For Vera Bluemud told a lie. He nodded and their eyes rested together for a moment. Then he looked away down to the other end of the table where Elizabeth sat and wondered what in the hell she though she had been doing getting pally with the daughter of the Secretary of State? Still, perhaps this pastor was right. Elizabeth had been too much alone. He looked up into Vera's eyes again as they served the roast beef. 'Two days ago I went to the funeral of that brave young officer of the Dutch Regiment. I know his mother well. She was sad but so proud! We all cried for her as she walked down the aisle carrying his medal. It was such an honor!' Of course some of the officers were killed. They were always the same type: volunteers! They were the ones who wanted the adventure and excitement you could only get by killing at close range. Matadores they called themselves, trying to stick the bulls. Bluemud shuddered at the thought. A dangerous business! But no-one he knew who wanted just a quiet time of it and to return unscathed was ever troubled. The disadvantage to that was there was no glory in it and glory was about the only form of status left. 'Were you in the War, Mr. Bluemud?' 'Yes, the Eighth.' 'How I envy you. It must have been exciting.' 'It wasn't.' Bluemud was being somewhat unfair. It may have been like that at the beginning: the men either stayed out of trouble or they were the sort of fools who sought it. As time went on however and the realization of what they were doing began to sink in it was hard for some not to get guilty consciences. They often didn't know that was what they had but it was. Bluemud had had a guilty conscience for twenty years before he had been able to admit it to himself. Other men he knew went mad. They thought up all sorts of crazy schemes which usually ended with them getting killed and accounted for many of the deaths. 'Really, Mr. Bluemud,' said Vera. 'I thought you were wounded? That you had the highest possible decoration for valor? Surely you were excited when you earned it?' So! She hadn't forgotten his brief moment of glory! She was staring at him now and her eyes were bright.' I don't look back upon it now as something that I'm particularly proud of.' 'Really, Mr. Bluemud, that doesn't sound very patriotic.' 'I'm sorry, Pastor. I didn't mean it to sound that way. It caused a lot of deaths that's all.' Bluemud had had cause to wish that he was one of them. 'Ah, dessert! My favorite!' exclaimed the Rev. Williams. Of course Bluemud was against the War! All those millions upon millions of lives wasted, ground literally into the dust. He wasn't a patriot! How could you be a patriot when the State has almost ceased to exist? It was clearly written in The Policy - that secret document drafted three hundred years before whose full title was "The Emergency Policy for the Restoration of a Decent Human Existence". Clause three was specific: "When the population adjustment is completed the Nation States of the world will be abolished." It couldn't be long now. The Ninth War had begun and it was to be the last. The Gigamass was nearly gone. He was not intimately acquainted with the timing. It could still be five or ten years yet. What would they do for status then? Maybe by then they wouldn't have to worry. Maybe by then a new economic system would be on its way, one that would restore the glory of mankind and the initiative and industry of that great revolution which had lasted seven hundred years. Bluemud's aim was no less than the restoration of Capitalism to the earth! 'I was in the outback, you know Mr. Bluemud,' said the Rev. Williams over coffee. 'Were you Reverend Williams? Oh, that must have been a frightening experience!' 'Oh, no, Mrs. Passareil. The people are like lambs, very timid and peaceful, so honest and faithful to their religion. It's a pleasant and enlightening experience for a Pastor. There are many in the Golden Lands who would do well to take a lesson from their country cousins. I was there for two years, the usual time, in a town called Dentonsville. I wrote a book about them, you know. Ten years ago, it was now.' My God! The fool! Even Elizabeth had heard the Pastor's words and the color left her cheeks. Bluemud simply could not resist saying, 'I suppose most of them are on their way to the War by now, Pastor.' 'Yes, perhaps.' The Pastor smiled thinly while down the table Elizabeth was overtaking by a fit of coughing. 'What did you do after the War, Mr. Bluemud?' asked Vera. 'Ah, I became an historian... of sorts.' 'How interesting.' A dangerous profession, thought the Rev. Williams. Eccentric. Bluemud had come away from the War feeling its wrongs without being able to place them. He had become a recluse, delving into the past, seeking the reasons for his misery. It had been a long agonizing business. The trouble with him was that now he understood not only what was happening but why. He understood his place and reason in the scheme of things. They had thought of everything, those drafters of the plan: "When, in response to a desperate situation an inevitable if harsh policy is adopted it will initially receive overwhelming support from those it is designed to save. But, once the Policy begins to approach success there are bound to be doubters who will hark back to the glory that was before." 'Elizabeth must come and visit us for the next few days,' said Vera. 'Don't you think it's a good idea, Pastor? Do you mind, Mr. Bluemud?' 'Oh, no,' spluttered Bluemud, woken from his reverie. The Rev. Williams rose. 'Ladies and Gentlemen, will you please retire to the drawing room?' |
|
|
