The Secret People

by John Wyndham

  ‘The white pygmies?’ he inquired.

  ‘Or demons – they’re all the same to Zickle. He’s convinced that this place is Hell.’

  Zickle’s face momentarily lost its grin, and he nodded.

  ‘This very bad place – Hell. Plenty devils. Me plenty sins.’

  ‘P’raps you’re right; you know more about your own sins than I do.’

  A voice came from the outside passage.

  ‘Zickle there?’

  The Negro and Gordon looked at one another for a moment; Gordon nodded, and Zickle called back. A man, a stranger to Mark, came slouching into the cave, followed by two companions. Like Smith, he wore the dilapidated remnants of a French uniform, but there was little other resemblance. He was sallow skinned, with hair and beard as unkempt as the other’s, but black. He nodded condescendingly to Gordon and turned to Zickle. The black faced him with an unamiable expression.

  ‘Got a drink for me too?’ The voice was harsh, and the words, though they came easily enough, were heavily accented.

  Zickle hesitated. There was a murderous glare in his eyes. Gordon put his hand restrainingly on the black arm, and murmured something inaudible. The Negro nodded sullenly, and went in search of a cup with a bad grace. The newcomer laughed.

  ‘Great little peacemaker, aren’t you, Gordon?’

  He took a good draught, wiped his lips on the back of his hand and looked at Mark with more contempt than curiosity.

  ‘So this is the latest? And came in a plane, of all things.’

  Gordon turned pointedly to Mark.

  ‘This is Miguel Salvades. One would not like to say why he joined the Foreign Legion, but it might be guessed.’

  Miguel laughed unpleasantly.

  ‘I joined it because I killed a man at home – and I’m not above killing another.’ He looked meaningly at the Negro. ‘You can remember that … What’s his name?’ he added, turning back to Gordon.

  ‘My name is Mark Sunnet,’ said Mark, angrily resentful at his third-party treatment. But Miguel continued to address himself to Gordon.

  ‘Showing him the ropes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Guess you find it interesting. What’ve you seen?’

  The last question was directed at Mark with a goodwill in such contrast with the man’s earlier uncouthness that he was taken by surprise.

  ‘Not much yet – only the big cave near here.’

  ‘And this chamber of horrors. Well, you’ve got plenty more to see, hasn’t he, Gordon?’

  ‘Yes.’ Gordon was not encouraging.

  ‘The fungus caves and the water caves?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And other things?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Miguel turned back to Mark. ‘Yes, there’s a lot of this for you to see yet. A lot more than you and most of us think. There’s a lot I’ve not seen, but I’m going to.’ He looked at Gordon as he spoke the last phrase, but the older man’s face remained expressionless. Miguel grinned sardonically and tossed off the remains of his spirit.

  ‘Come on, boys,’ he said to his companions who had remained silently in the background. ‘Let’s go.’

  He lounged out of the doorway, whistling. Mark and Gordon followed a few minutes later.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Mark asked curiously, as they recrossed the large cave.

  Gordon chose to be evasive. ‘Oh, you never can tell with Miguel. He likes his drink – probably thinks we’ve got a stock of it hidden away somewhere. Don’t bother about him.’

  Mark, unsatisfied, but perceiving his inquiry to be unwelcome, changed the subject.

  ‘From what you’ve said, I gather that this place falls into two classes – the prisoners, and the “natives” who don’t mix with them?’

  ‘And the pygmies. Don’t forget them.’

  ‘What! In this part?’

  ‘A few dozens of them. I suppose they’re criminals of some kind. Very few of us know anything about them. You’ll have to ask Mahmud if you want to know more. Only he and Miguel and a few others have troubled to learn their language.’

  ‘Three main divisions, then. Prisoners like ourselves, “natives” born here, and pygmy criminals. That’s it?’

  ‘Yes, except that there are subdivisions among the prisoners – but you’ll find that out soon enough.’

  They continued their way back to the painted cave in silence. Mark was reflecting on what he had seen and heard. This world below the world was proving more complicated than he had expected, and, to judge from Miguel’s behaviour, there was more activity than there would appear to be. His reverie was broken by a flood of excited speech which greeted their arrival at the doorway.

  ‘Say, come in for an earful,’ called Smith’s voice above the rest. ‘Mahmud’s been getting the low-down.’

  3

  The cave held, in addition to Smith and Mahmud, four strangers. Mark noticed that they turned to look at him with an interest which rather surprised him. The scrutiny, however, was brief, for they looked back expectantly to Mahmud. Smith spoke, forestalling the Arab:

  ‘It ought to be easier for you guys to get this if you hear Mark’s yarn first. Mark, give it ’em from the time you fell in, till you moored your Sun Bird.’

  Mark obediently retold of the whirlpool, the fall, the drifting through caves and passages, and the final landing in the lighted cave.

  ‘Thanks,’ Smith said at the end. ‘Now, Mahmud, it’s your turn.’

  Mahmud, it appeared, had been over to have a talk with the pygmy prisoners. It was one of his habits to do this at fairly frequent intervals. He had mastered their language without any great difficulty, and could now speak it fluently. For several reasons, not very clearly perceived even by themselves, he and Smith felt that an understanding with the outcasts might possibly be of some advantage. In any case, it could do no harm to have knowledge of the happenings in the pygmies’ own caves. On this occasion he had gone with an idea of finding out what Miguel was doing, for the latter’s increasing intimacy with the little men had been causing some speculation. When he had arrived there, it was to find a state of excitement which had immediately diverted his interest.

  There had been a recent addition to the band of pygmy criminals, and he had brought disturbing news with him. They had all been aware, though without a definite source of information, that things were not all well in the main caves, but now for the first time those in the prison caves got direct news.

  ‘It’s the water,’ Mahmud explained excitedly. ‘The New Sea is breaking through – though of course they don’t know it is the New Sea.’

  ‘Well, we learned that from Mark,’ Gordon observed.

  ‘Yes, but that was only one break – it has come through in many. There have been several big falls like that, and a lot of smaller ones, too. Sometimes the bed of the New Sea gives way, but more often it comes in through the airshafts. That is not so bad; the water comes first in a trickle, and the shaft can usually be stopped before it gets serious. But in the big falls it is serious. So far they have managed to stop them by breaking the tunnels, but a lot of water has got in.’

  Mark recalled the resounding crash in the tunnel through which he and Margaret had been swept to the lighted cave. So it was the pygmies who had caused that tunnel to collapse … Mahmud was going on:

  ‘They’re scared. It is one thing to block tunnels, but another to get rid of the water. Pumps could do it, but of course they have no pumps. In some places they have been able to make holes and drain it away to the lowest levels where it doesn’t matter much, but that means that there’s no room to get rid of the next lot. Besides, it’s salt – it’s got into some of the reservoir caves already, and joined the fresh-water streams. If the sea were to stay at its present level, they might win through all right, but the water is still rising outside, and there may be fresh breaks at any moment. They’re very frightened.’

  ‘Hey, steady there. How do they know the sea’s still rising? None of them
has ever showed his nose up there,’ Smith interrupted.

  ‘Because it keeps on coming in through more of those ventilating cracks as it reaches them.’

  ‘What else are they doing?’

  ‘Nothing much, from what I could hear. After all, what can they do? There seems to have been some talk of clearing off northward; there are caves at a higher level there, but they’ve been neglected so long that the fungus beds are no good. They might be able to replant them, but they’re doubtful how long it will be before they yield.’

  ‘So what it comes to,’ said Smith reflectively, ‘is a choice between staying here to drown, and going north to starve – unless of course they take to the open. And they won’t do that,’ he added, looking questioningly at Gordon.

  The latter shook his head. ‘No, they won’t do that,’ he agreed.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Mark. ‘Surely it’s the reasonable thing to do?’

  ‘Reason doesn’t count much. Reason suggests that it is foolish to live on the side of a volcano, yet people continue to do it. These pygmies have been here too long, they’ve adapted too far. For one thing, the light outside would blind them right away. But the point is, whatever they do we’re sure to be left behind. Pleasant outlook.’

  Smith nodded. ‘It only wants the water to break in here, and we’d drown like rats. There’s just that one way for it to get out, and that’s a hundred feet up – most of the caves aren’t as high as that. Maybe we could swim until our heads hit the roof, then – goodbye –’

  All the men in the room were silent for a while. Mark, looking along the row of faces, saw that most of them had their eyes on the American. When at last one of the strangers said:

  ‘What shall we do?’ it was as though he spoke for all. A tacit admission of Smith’s leadership. There might be sense in some of Gordon’s theories, and, Mark learned later, much worth in many of his plans; Mahmud they knew to be subtle, excellent for intelligence work. But when action was needed, decisions were to be made, they looked to Smith. And he sat thinking …

  Gordon watched him in the manner of one who could make a suggestion if called upon, but would not do so gratuitously. The stranger who had been the last to speak broke the silence again:

  ‘If we double the work?’ he suggested. ‘It can’t be far now –’ He broke off suddenly and darted a suspicious glance at Mark. Smith looked up.

  ‘You’re too free with your trap, Braddon. Keep it shut closer.’ He turned to look at Mark thoughtfully.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Gordon broke in. ‘He’ll be with us all right. He’s not one of Miguel’s sort.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be here now if I thought he was,’ Smith replied, ‘but we’ve got to be careful all the same.’ He addressed Mark directly. ‘What we say goes no farther, not an inch – get that? It’s not only Miguel we’re up against; he’s obvious, but some of his pals ain’t. Keep this under your hat or – well, you won’t have any place to wear a hat.’

  ‘We’ve just seen Miguel,’ Gordon broke in again.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Zickle’s place.’

  ‘And what was he after?’

  Gordon shrugged. ‘Just prowling around to see what he could pick up – the only thing he got was a drink.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope he goes there again. Zickle might hand him some news.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Miguel’s after something, and if we want a false trail laid, Zickle will do it. He hates Miguel like hell, but he’s taking his time. I wouldn’t like to be in Miguel’s shoes when that nigger gets going.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said the man who had been addressed as Braddon, in an aggrieved voice. ‘What’s it all about?’

  Smith admitted to being not quite clear on the point himself. There had been something about the woman whom Zickle had lived with – Miguel’s being mixed up in it left it pretty easy to guess the rest. Anyway, it was a more than ordinary hate.

  ‘Miguel’s going to get no change out of Zickle,’ he added.

  ‘But he’s damned suspicious – he knows there’s something in the air.’

  ‘Well, don’t we all?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean about the floods – you can bet he knows that all right. I mean about us.’

  ‘Oh?’ Smith turned to Mahmud. ‘You heard anything about this?’

  Mahmud was vague. Miguel, he admitted, had become much thicker with certain of the pygmy prisoners lately. There was more than mere curiosity behind the way he had taken to continual questioning.

  ‘Try to get a line on it. It’s up to you to find out what his game is. He must have some reason for nosing round the way he does – and that’s reason enough for our keeping extra quiet. We’ve got to be careful.’

  ‘Sure,’ one of the others agreed impatiently, ‘but what are we going to do?’

  ‘Push on all work with the upward tunnel – hard as we can. What do you think about Greek’s Tunnel, Gordon?’

  Gordon seemed to have thought the matter over already, and had his answer pat.

  ‘Drop it.’

  Smith considered. The upward tunnel climbed at a steep angle; it was hard to believe that its end could be far off the surface now. For an unknown number of years men had toiled at that tunnel. Nobody now living in the prison caves could remember when it had been started, and only a chosen few knew of its existence. A group of men determined not to perish easily in these catacombs had begun to hew their way out. Slowly, for their tools were miserable and inadequate, they had driven a passage up on as steep a slant as they could use. Progress had proved even slower than they had expected, and the way longer than they had thought; but they had been men of active brains and bodies. They continued their tunnel because they had begun it, and because it had given them hope and occupation. Without work they would have sunk to the level of most of the prisoners, minds and bodies would have deteriorated together to leave a hopeless apathy if not insanity. And so, through unnumbered years, the tunnel had gone on. As it had grown in length, so they had grown in age. They were no longer the strong young men of the caves. They became middle-aged, elderly, shorter in the breath, weaker in the arm.

  But others had come along to replace them. Men of various races filtering into the caves through a score of unknown entrances, some enraged, some fatalistic, most of them destined to sink into lassitude, but always here and there a few whose strength of mind, whose will to live, drove them into activity. From these the planners of the tunnel had selected their successors: shown them the passage which would one day lead to sunlight and freedom, taught them how to work the rock and bade them get on with it. And the younger men had taken the worn-down chisels, and gone to work. Like the old men, they started to carve a road to liberty, and, again like the old men, they went on working to preserve sanity. Hopes became all but forlorn. Their tunnel was now several hours journey in length. They worked steadily, but the fire had gone. The light of expectation had dimmed from their eyes. Yet there was the sure knowledge that some day must come a hollow ringing in the rock, then a chisel point would break through to let in a gleam of daylight. And they plodded on.

  They, too, grew old and were replaced by younger men. The authors of the tunnel would not now live to see daylight again; many were already dead, and those who were left, sunk in senility. But their work still lived; others toiled on with a faith which could be dimmed but not snuffed. The workers had chosen their successors well. Backsliders had been few. They had held themselves for the most part aloof from the discouraged, lest they might be contaminated. The rest knew, as of course they must, that the workers were active upon some plan, but they were not interested. If men liked to work when there was no call to perform any task more serious than an occasional spell in the fungus caves, it was their own foolishness. Moreover, the workers took good care to discourage such sporadic outbursts of curiosity as did occur.

  With a few individualists such as Miguel, a problem was presented. They were unstable or unsocial
characters. The workers knew that they could not be depended upon for regular work, yet they managed to keep their minds free of the sluggish acquiescence which engulfed the rest. They were misfits and, as such, undesirables; they were ignored as far as possible.

  Among the workers themselves things had not always proceeded with complete smoothness. Twice there had arisen major differences of opinion. Some years before Smith’s arrival, a man named Jameson had caused a split in the party by announcing his conviction that the present methods were, if not useless, at least far too laborious. Why not, he asked, drive a horizontal tunnel? It would be bound before long to connect with one of the pygmy caves, and then they could fight their way out. There were enough of them to overcome a whole army of dwarfs.

  He was permitted, after some dissension, to start his horizontal tunnel, but after fifty yards had encountered an underground river which rendered farther progress out of the question – his suggestion of trying again elsewhere met with no support.

  Still another passage had been begun by a Greek whose name no one remembered. From an unknown source he had obtained information that another series of caverns was situated below the prison system at no great depth. He, like Jameson, was convinced that once in the main caverns they would have little difficulty in fighting their way to the surface. His downward passage had been extended by his followers to a depth of over two hundred feet without result, but was still regarded by some as having possibility of ultimate success. It was against this Greek’s Tunnel, as it was called, that Gordon had unhesitatingly advised.

  ‘Why?’ Smith asked.

  ‘For one thing I haven’t much faith in it, but the real reason is that it’s noisy. If we go on working there, and Miguel’s spying round in earnest, he’ll find it sooner or later.’

  ‘Does it matter much? After all, the up passage is the main thing. I was thinking that if we can get it through, it might act as a kind of drain in case we do get flooded.’