فصل 9

Nine

The Conference of Man

Once before three of us had gone up through the tunnel that wound inside the mountain to the fields of eternal snow and ice at the top. We had walked then, resting when we were tired, lighting our way with the big slow-burning tallow candles which were used to illuminate the lower caves in which we lived. Not the same three. Fritz now took the place that had been Henry’s.

And not in the same way, either. Instead of walking we sat at ease in one of four carriages pulled by the small but powerful diesel-electric train up the cogged track. Instead of the dim flicker of candlelight, we were in a bright and even radiance, in which one could read a book if one had a mind. We did not carry rations—tough stringy dried meat and hard tasteless biscuits—because food was to be provided at our journey’s end, where a skilled staff of fifty waited, more than eleven thousand feet above sea level, to look after the delegates and those fortunate others who had been invited to attend the Conference of Man.

It was Julius’s wish that it should be held here, high up among the peaks of the White Mountains that had sheltered the early seeds of man’s resistance to his conquerors. It was by Julius’s order that we, along with other survivors of the days of battle, had come. We were not delegates, though probably we could have been had we so desired. I am not boasting in saying that. It was just that those of us who had fought against the Masters and defeated them could claim privileges everywhere . . . and had so wearied of adulation that we preferred to look for quietness and privacy.

The three of us had looked in different directions. Beanpole was immersed in research in the vast laboratories that had been built in France, not far from the castle by the sea. Fritz had turned farmer in his own native land, and spent his days with his crops and beasts. While I, more restless and perhaps less purposeful than they, had sought contentment in exploring those parts of the world which the Masters had stripped of their previous human inhabitants. In a ship, with half a dozen others, I crossed the seas, and put in to strange forgotten harbors on unknown coasts. Under sail because, although there were ships with engines now, we preferred it that way.

This had been our first meeting in two years. We had laughed and talked a lot when we met, in the town that lay between two lakes down in the valley, but the talk had dried up during the long journey inside the mountain. We were engaged with our own thoughts. Mine were somewhat melancholy. I was remembering the things we had done together, the times we had had. It would have been pleasant to preserve that comradeship in the days that came after. Pleasant, but alas, impossible. That which had brought us together had gone, and now our paths diverged, according to our natures and our needs. We would meet again, from time to time, but always a little more as strangers; until perhaps at last, as old men with only memories left, we could sit together and try to share them.

Because with victory everything had changed. There had been the months of anxious waiting for the arrival of the great ship of the Masters, but even during that time the world had been picking itself up, relearning forgotten skills, compressing into months what it had taken our forefathers decades, centuries even, to accomplish. Only when, one autumn night, a new star winked in the sky did people pause to draw breath, and stare anxiously into the heavens.

It was a star that moved, a point of light traveling past the fixed familiar ones. In powerful telescopes it resolved into a shape, a metal cocoon. Scientists made calculation of its size, and the result was breathtaking. More than a mile long, they said, and a quarter of a mile wide at its thickest part. It swung in an orbit around the earth and we waited tense, to see what it would do.

They had won before by guile, and the trick would not work twice. The air of our planet was poison to them, and they had no base in which to shelter. Men still wore Caps, but the Caps would give no orders. They could try to set up fresh bases, and might succeed, but we would harry them continually with weapons that were more and more sophisticated every year. Having beaten them when they were all powerful and we pitifully weak, we knew we could better any effort they made in the future.

Alternatively they could cast down death and destruction from their secure haven in the skies. This was a possibility to which many inclined, and which I myself thought most likely, at the beginning at least. They might hope that after a long enough time of this we would be so weakened, our spirit so shattered, that they could descend and hope to rule our battered planet. That would be a longer struggle, and a crueler one, but we would win that, too, in the end.

They did neither. They merely sent down three bombs, and each landed on its target and destroyed it utterly. The targets were the dead Cities of their colonists. We lost the men who were working in them at the time, including many scientists, but it was a loss of a few hundred when it might have been millions. And when the third bomb had exploded, the light in the sky suddenly dwindled, and disappeared. At the instant that it did so, Ruki, the last of the Masters left alive on earth, stirred in his prison cell—a new one, well appointed, with a high ceiling, and a garden-pool, and a plate glass front through which men could watch him like a beast in a zoo—howled once, crumpled, and died.

The train chugged through the last of the intermediate stations, and the walls of the tunnel closed in around us again. I said, “Why did they give in so easily? I have never understood.” Fritz looked puzzled, but Beanpole said, “I don’t think anyone knows. I read a new book about them recently, by a man who was studying Ruki during those final months. They know a lot about the way their bodies worked, from dissections, but their minds are still largely a mystery. They resigned themselves to fate, somehow, in a way that men do not. Those in the Tripods died when their Cities died. Ruki gave up the ghost when he realized, in some strange way, that the ship had abandoned him and turned back into the deeps of space. I do not think we shall ever know how it happens.” “Perhaps we shall meet them again,” I said. “How are the plans for the rocket to the moon progressing?”

“Well,” Beanpole said. “And so is the work on the flame-energy they used. It is a form of atomic power, but much more subtle than that which the ancients developed. We shall be out among the stars within a hundred years, perhaps within fifty.” “Not I,” I said cheerfully. “I shall stick to my tropic seas.”

Fritz said, “If we do meet them again out there . . . it will be their turn to fear us.”

• • •

The Conference Hall had high windows along one side, through which one looked out onto a dozen or more mountain peaks, white with snow, and onto the great river of imperceptibly moving ice which ran for thirty miles among them. The sun stood in a cloudless sky above it all. Everything was sharp and dazzling; so bright that one needed dark glasses to look out for more than a moment or two.

In the Hall, the Council, with Julius presiding, sat at a table at one end, on a dais only slightly raised from the level of the rest of the floor. Most of the rest of the space was taken up by the delegates’ seats. At the far end, behind a silken rope barrier, was the area for the rest: those, like ourselves, who had come on the Council’s special invitation, certain officials, and representatives of the newspapers and the radio stations. (In a year or two, we had been promised, there would be something called television, by which men could see, in their own homes, things happening half a world away. It was the device which the Masters had used, as a preliminary stage in their conquest, to hypnotize men and so control their minds—and our scientists were making sure that could not happen again before they reintroduced it.) The room, although large and high-ceilinged, was very crowded. We had seats at the front, and so looked directly onto the benches of the delegates, which were arranged in concentric circles around a small central space. Each section had the sign of the country from which they came. I saw the sign of my own England, the signs of France, Germany, Italy, Russia, the United States of America, China, Egypt, Turkey . . . one could not take them all in.

From a door at the other end, the members of the Council began to file in and take their places. We rose as they did so. Julius came last, leaning heavily on his stick, and applause swelled around the room. When it died at last, the Secretary of the Council, a man called Umberto, spoke. He was brief. He announced the opening of the Conference of Man, and called on the President of the Council to speak.

There was more applause, which Julius checked with a gesture of his hand. It was two years since I had seen him, too. He did not seem to have changed much. A little more bent perhaps, but there was vigor in his stance, and his voice was strong.

He wasted no time on talk of the past. What concerned him was the present, and the future. Our scientists and technologists were rapidly reacquiring the knowledge and skills of our ancestors, and improving on them. The promise of all this was inestimable. But the glorious future which man could and should enjoy depended also on the way in which he governed himself, for man was the measure of all things.

A glorious future . . . It was right, I thought, for Julius to speak in that strain, because there was no doubt that, in doing so, he spoke for the overwhelming majority of the peoples of the world. They had an insatiable appetite for the toys and wonders of the past. Everywhere one went, in so-called civilized lands, one heard radio, and there was great impatience for television. I had visited my parents on my way here, and had heard my father talk about installing electricity at the mill. In Winchester, new buildings had started to soar within a stone’s throw of the cathedral.

It was what most people wanted, but I did not. I thought of the world into which I had been born, and in which I had grown up—the world of villages and small towns, of a peaceful ordered life, untroubled, unhurried, taking its pattern from the seasons. I thought, too, of my stay at the Château de la Tour Rouge, of the Comte and Comtesse, of the days of riding and sitting idly in the sun, of summer meadows, trout-filled streams, of the squires talking and laughing together, the knights jousting in the tournament . . . And of Eloise. Her face, small and calm and lovely under the blue turban, was as clear as though it were only yesterday that I had woken from my fever, and seen her looking down at me. No, the fine new world that was being built held few attractions for me. Fortunately, I could turn my back on it, and find my way through quiet seas into faraway harbors.

Julius was continuing to talk about government. This was the crucial thing, and all else flowed from it. The Council had been formed in the days when a handful of men hid in caves and plotted the recovery of the world’s freedom. That freedom had been achieved, and local governments had arisen, all over the world, each administering its own territory. But international affairs, the control of science, and so on, came under the jurisdiction of the Council.

It was clearly in the interests of everyone that some such system should continue. But it was also essential that it should be subject to the democratic control of the peoples of the world. For this reason, the Council was prepared to dissolve itself and hand over its authority and functions to a similar, though possibly larger, body which would be properly representative. That would require study and organization, and there must be a further transitional period for this. The Conference should decide the length of time required. The Conference also should appoint the new provisional Council to take the place of the present one.

“I think that is all I need to say,” Julius said. “All that remains is for me to thank you all for your cooperation in the past, and to wish good fortune to the new Council, and the new President.” He sat down to a renewed outbreak of applause. It was loud and enthusiastic but surprisingly patchy. There were even some who sat with folded hands. As it died away, someone rose, and the Secretary, who was acting as Speaker, said, “I call on the senior delegate from Italy.” He was a short swarthy man, with hair growing in a scanty halo around the mesh of the Cap. He said, “I propose, before anything else, the reelection of Julius as President of the new Council.” There were cheers, but not from all the delegates.

The senior German delegate said, “I second that motion.”

There were cries of “Vote!” but others of denial. In the confusion, someone else rose. I recognized him, too, as a man I remembered. It was Pierre, who had spoken against Julius those six long years ago in the caves. He was a delegate of France.

He began to speak calmly, but there was a hint of something else not far beneath the calm. He first of all attacked the procedure that was being suggested, of appointing a new President first. This should follow the formation of a new Council, not precede it. He went on to speak against the suggestion that there should be a further transitional period. There was no need for this. The Conference had the power to create a fully effective and permanent Council, and should do so. We had wasted enough time already.

He paused and then, looking directly at Julius, went on, “It is not only a matter of wasting time. Gentlemen, this Conference has been brought here to be used. It was known in advance that certain delegates would propose the reappointment of Julius as President. We are expected, out of sentiment, to vote him back into office. We are asked to confirm a despot in power.” Shouting and uproar followed. Pierre waited until it had quieted, and said, “In times of crisis, it may be necessary to accept the rule of a dictator. But the crisis is over. The world we create must be a democratic world. And we ourselves cannot give way to sentiment. We are sent here to represent the people, to serve their interests.” The Italian delegate called, “Julius saved us all.”

“No,” Pierre said, “that is not true. There were others who worked and fought for freedom—hundreds, thousands of others. We accepted Julius as our leader then, but that is no reason for accepting him now. Look at this Conference. The Council has taken long enough to summon it. The authority they have was given to them until such a time as the Masters were defeated. That happened nearly three years ago, but only now, reluctantly . . .” There was a new disturbance, out of which the German delegate could be heard saying, “It was not possible before. There has had to be much readjustment . . .” Pierre cut through his words. “And why here? There are dozens, a hundred places in the world better suited to hold such a Conference as this. We are here on the whim of an aging tyrant. Yes, I insist! Julius wanted the Conference here, among the peaks of the White Mountains, as another means of reminding us of the debt we are supposed to owe him. Many delegates are from low-lying lands and find conditions here oppressive. Several have been ill with mountain sickness and been forced to go down to the lower levels. This does not bother Julius. He has brought us to the White Mountains, thinking that here we will not dare to vote against him. But if men care for their freedom, he will find he is wrong.” Shouts and countershouts echoed across the Hall. One of the American delegates made a speech in Julius’s support. So did a Chinese delegate. But others followed Pierre’s line. A delegate from India declared that personalities were unimportant. What mattered was the building up of strong and vigorous government, and that required a strong and vigorous leader. And one not enfeebled by age. Julius had done great things and would be long remembered. But his place should be taken by a younger man.

Fritz, beside me, said, “They will vote him out.”

“They can’t,” I said. “It is unthinkable. A few are yapping, but when it comes to a vote . . .”

The debate dragged on. The vote came at last, on the motion to reappoint Julius as President. They had rigged up an electrical device, by which delegates pressed buttons marked “For” or “Against,” and the results were recorded on a screen set in the rear wall. The figures lit up.

For: 152.

I held my breath. Against . . .

Against: 164.

The storm that followed, of cheers and shouts of indignation, was more violent than any of the previous ones. It did not end until it could be seen that Julius was on his feet. He said, “The Conference has made its decision.” He looked no different, but his voice suddenly was tired. “We must all accept it. I ask only that we remain united under whatever President and Council are appointed. Men do not count. Unity does.” The applause this time was scattered. The senior delegate from the United States said, “We came here in good faith, prepared to work with men of all nations. We have heard petty bickering, abuse of a great man. The history books told us that this was what Europeans were like, that they could never change, but we did not believe them. Well, we believe them now. This delegation hereby withdraws from this farce of a Conference. We have a continent of our own, and can look after ourselves.” They picked up their things and headed for the door. Before they had got there, a Chinese delegate, in his soft lilting voice, said, “We agree with the American delegation. We do not feel our interests will be served by a Council dominated by the passions which have been shown today. Regretfully, we must depart.” One of the German delegates said, “This is the work of the French. They are concerned only with their own interests and ambitions. They wish to dominate Europe as they dominated it in the past. But I would say to them: beware. We Germans have an Army which will defend our frontiers, an Air Force . . .” His remarks were lost in pandemonium. I saw the English delegates get up and follow those who had already left. I looked at Julius. His head was bowed, his hands covering his eyes.

• • •

From the Conference building you could walk out, over hard-packed snow, up the slope to the Jungfraujoch itself. The Jungfrau glistened on our left, the Mönch and Eiger on our right. There was the rounded dome of the Observatory, once more in use to study the distant passionless heavens. Below us, snow-fields plunged away and one could see down into a green valley. The sun was setting, and it was in shadow.

We had been silent since we came up from the Hall. Now Beanpole said, “If Henry had not died . . .”

I said, “Would one man have made any difference?”

“One might. Julius did. And it could have been more than one. I would have helped him, if he had wanted me to.”

I thought about that. I said, “Perhaps I would, also. But Henry’s dead.”

Fritz said, “I think perhaps I will give up my farming. There are things more important.”

Beanpole said, “I’m with you.”

Fritz shook his head. “It is different for you. Your work is important, mine not.”

“Not as important as this,” Beanpole said. “What about you, Will? Are you ready for a new fight—a longer, less exciting one, with no great triumphs at the end? Will you leave your seas and islands, and help us try to get men to live together, in peace as well as liberty? An Englishman, a German, and a Frenchman: it would be a good start.” The air was cold but exhilarating. A gust of wind scattered powdery snow from the face of the Jungfrau.

“Yes,” I said, “I’ll leave my seas and islands.”