The Secret People

by John Wyndham

  It was four ‘days’ – judged in terms of her own sleeping – before she and Miguel met again. Had it been only one, or even two ‘days’ the course of events might have been very different. As it happened, Miguel found himself facing a woman who looked at him with a new and discouraging expression.

  Margaret had been talking with Garm. Two unusual happenings in quick succession – the special prayer to Bast, and the unhindered wandering of Miguel – had roused in her a curiosity which must be satisfied. Garm had explained. The new light in which he placed Miguel was not flattering. It threw shadows of other doubts. Had Miguel really been so unwilling to use the Sun Bird for escape? Had he been disarming suspicion by letting the suggestion come from her?

  Perhaps she was misjudging him in that. If he had come openly and said that he wanted the Sun Bird, would she have refused it? She did not think so. Then why had he not done that? She tried to put herself in his place, but failed. It was scarcely surprising, for Miguel’s was one of those minds which instinctively distrusts the obvious, preferring to hide even the simplest actions under an indirect method.

  At this second meeting he noticed the look on her face with misgiving. She had found out something, then. But how much? Better let her tell him. Most likely he would put his foot in it if he spoke first.

  ‘So you got here by giving away your friends?’ she began. Miguel’s face maintained an irritating blankness.

  ‘You told the pygmies about their tunnel, didn’t you?’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘I asked Garm why you were allowed here, and he told me.’

  ‘You believe that little monkey?’

  ‘I do.’

  Miguel gave a snort of contempt.

  ‘What other lies did he tell you?’

  Margaret disregarded the question; she stared at him coldly.

  ‘If that was not your side of the bargain, what was?’

  ‘So you’re open to believe what every little swine of a pygmy tells you, eh?’

  ‘What did you do?’ she repeated. Miguel’s eyes fell.

  ‘Yes, I told them,’ he admitted at last.

  ‘That was a pretty low-down trick to play on your friends.’

  ‘They were no friends of mine; they were working on their own.’

  ‘But for your good. If they had made the tunnel, it would have meant your freedom as well as theirs.’

  ‘If they’d made their tunnel,’ he laughed. ‘As if they’d ever make their damned tunnel. Why, do you know how long they had been working on it? Years, and others for years before that. They’d never have got it through, the fools. Sweating their guts out over a job which would never be any good to anyone.’

  ‘So you felt justified in throwing away all those years of work by telling the pygmies?’

  ‘Well, who wouldn’t for a chance?’

  Margaret looked at him with contempt.

  ‘A chance. You chuck away all their work to get here without even a plan of getting any farther. Just hoping for a bit of luck.’

  ‘You’re wrong there. I did have a plan.’

  ‘Yes, to get hold of the Sun Bird. Why couldn’t you tell me that right out?’

  Miguel looked momentarily disconcerted.

  ‘You wouldn’t have agreed.’

  ‘Yes, I should, but I’m doubtful now.’

  ‘You – ?’ Miguel frowned.

  ‘What’ll you do if you get out? You’ve let your friends down once … I very much doubt whether it’s worth risking.’

  Margaret was speaking rhetorically. She had no intention of withdrawing the offer of the Sun Bird but she had begun to dislike Miguel heartily. He, however, took the threat seriously; it frightened him.

  ‘What do you mean? I’ve got to have it. Do you think I’m going to rot in this lousy hole on account of you? The sooner you lead me to it, the better it’ll be for you.’

  He glared at her in sudden panic. It was in her power to upset all his plans, to keep him imprisoned here for the rest of his life. It would have been wiser to strike a more submissive note, but his alarm had taken him by surprise.

  The counterpart of his frown appeared on Margaret’s face. She was unafraid of him, and of his scowls, but she was surprised by the peremptory tone. It was wrong in the circumstances, the kind of outburst one expected from a cornered man, not from one going on a mission of rescue. Nor was she aware of all his misgivings. For one thing, he was not as easy about the pygmies as he pretended. Once they had closed the tunnel, they might take it into their heads to send him back to the prison caves. That would not be pleasant. His own friends whom he had left directing the pygmy forces would not welcome him for throwing away his chance, nor would the revenges of Smith, Ed and the rest be gentle. Miguel was gifted with an uncomfortably good imagination concerning nastinesses. Then, too, there was the possibility of a pygmy defeat. Suppose the prisoners broke out! Suppose Zickle or one of the others came hunting him through the tunnels! The idea made him sweat. He must have the Sun Bird, and get clean away from all of them. He continued to glare savagely at the girl – he was more used to the positions of the sexes reversed. She said calmly:

  ‘And when you get out?’ He looked blank. She continued: ‘What are you going to do then? Where are you going to lay information?’

  Miguel’s reply was vague and unsatisfactory. It sounded lame in his own ears. He ought to have thought up some convincing details. Damn the woman! Margaret allowed him to stumble through.

  ‘So you’d never thought of it,’ she said cuttingly as he finished. ‘Perhaps you never intended to think of it? It seems to me you’re just out to save your own miserable skin – you don’t care if the rest of us die here.’

  Since this was precisely Miguel’s attitude, his protests, though vigorous, were unconvincing. He became more angry; partly with Margaret; partly with himself. He ought to have settled the whole thing last time – in fact, he had considered it settled. Never for a moment had he thought that she might get the whole yarn out of Garm. But for all that, he was irritatingly aware that he might have saved himself had he handled this second talk better.

  Of course, she was right – he hoped the rest would rot here. Miguel had never yearned for publicity. If he were to succeed in convincing the authorities of the existence of the pygmies (not an easy matter in itself), he would be in the glare of a veritable floodlight of publicity. Various persons who had been industriously seeking him for years would immediately find him – with fatal consequences. In the all too likely event of his story being disbelieved, he would be sent to the penal battalion as a deserter from the Legion. He had had enough of the Legion proper; the idea of the penal battalion made him feel sick. He’d heard some stories … No, either way it was a poor lookout. All he wanted to do was to re-emerge into the world in the least obtrusive fashion possible.

  Margaret was convinced by now that he intended to do nothing to help them. He could see by her face that she believed no word of his protestations. Her mouth was set in an obstinate line. She knew that once he got the Sun Bird they would hear no more of him. Miguel saw that he had gone too far; he allowed his anger to die down, and changed his tactics.

  ‘You don’t believe me,’ he accused bitterly.

  ‘Not a word,’ Margaret agreed.

  He was desperate; there was still a chance.

  ‘Why don’t you come, too?’ he began.

  Margaret’s first impulse was to disregard the suggestion, but as he continued, she began to wonder. He explained his own difficulties honestly and truthfully. His attitude became for the first time comprehensible. Without any doubt contact with the authorities would put him between the devil and the deep sea.

  ‘But for you, it is different,’ he pointed out. ‘You can raise hell with the English and the French, and get everyone out.’

  The idea tempted. The more she thought of it, the better it seemed. When (and if) they got out, Miguel could disappear, and leave her to make the report. The difficulties which
had daunted her before would be diminished by the presence of a companion, and even if she failed, she would at least have tried. The real objection was Miguel himself. He was so slimy. He twisted and turned when there was no need. Why couldn’t he have told her before that he was afraid of the authorities? It seemed impossible to trust him an inch. There was no doubt that he had betrayed his companions in the prison caves, and equally little doubt that he would betray anyone else, should he think it to his advantage.

  With the temptation came a weighty sense of responsibility. Unless something were done soon, it would be too late. No one could tell when there might be a break which would flood the whole system. On the other hand, if Miguel was up to some new trick, it might ruin the last hope. He was still urging, but she scarcely heard him. She had no intention of being driven to a hurried decision. She must think it out.

  The procrastination sent Miguel almost frenzied. He cursed, argued and threatened, but Margaret remained adamant; she must have time.

  She walked out with her four guards, leaving him trembling in a fury of exasperation.

  4

  Little of Margaret’s next ‘night’ was spent in sleep. Mostly she lay restless, turning the problem round and round to examine each facet. Her mind felt weighted down with liability; it could move only sluggishly instead of jumping.

  The Sun Bird she had now come to regard as the essential fulcrum of escape; to waste it would be to lose everything. Had the escaper been anyone but Miguel, she would not have hesitated to go with him – or even to let him go alone. But that did not help. Miguel was Miguel, and no amount of wishing would change him. Why, out of all the hundreds of men in the prison caves, must it be Miguel who had escaped? The answer was obvious. If it had not been Miguel, it would have been someone like him. The essence of his ability to get so far lay in that very fact. Only someone utterly unprincipled and ruthless could have made that bargain with the pygmies.

  And if he had been ruthless once, why not again? He was already angry with her. Why should he keep his part of the bargain when there was nothing to hold him to it? It would be only too easy for him once they had started to push her overboard and let her drown.

  Margaret turned uneasily. Yes, that would be child’s play. Just the sort of satisfactorily complete ending to the affair which would please a mind like Miguel’s. She could see just how he would look at it: This woman might tell the authorities of him either by accident, or by citing him as a witness to the truth of her story. Why take chances? Settle her out of hand, and stop any possibility of trouble.

  And then …? Not only would she have lost her life, but the Sun Bird would be gone too …

  Wasn’t there some way of getting a hold on Miguel to force him to keep the bargain?

  Money? A good round sum to be paid over when she should reach safety … But she had very little money. Mark had plenty, she knew, but that was not much good. For one thing, he might not fulfil a promise made by her to Miguel, and, for another, the chances of his rescue alive were problematical. So much so that they could scarcely be expected to restrain Miguel if he thought himself in jeopardy. No, money would not serve. What would?

  Her thoughts swept round in overlapping circles. They multiplied; their pattern grew more intricate, more mazy, but they led nowhere. Not in a single place did the line of argument shoot off to form a plan. She grew wearied of the infinite revolutions, and dragged herself back to the single fixed point of the pattern. It all hinged on one question.

  Was she, or was she not justified in risking the Sun Bird with such a man as Miguel?

  Put like that, the answer was obvious. She was not.

  And on that decision she went to sleep.

  She told Garm about Miguel the next ‘day’. It was not an agreeable task. Her betrayal of him seemed from some points of view to drag her down to his own level. But she made herself do it. If the safety of the Sun Bird was as important as she had assumed, it must be assured at all costs. Miguel might succeed in finding it without her help; he might be searching for it even now. And he must be stopped. Suppressing any reference to the Sun Bird, she set herself to blacken, if possible, Miguel’s character.

  Garm listened willingly. His original dislike of Miguel, founded not on the other’s underhand methods so much as on pure prejudice, made him a good subject. He was not vastly surprised to hear of the projected escape; that was only to be expected, and not very worrying – in fact the sooner it occurred, the sooner this Miguel business would be settled. When he was told, however, that it was proposed that Margaret should accompany the flight, his indignation rose. To attempt one’s own freedom was natural, but to suggest such a course to the hand-maiden of a goddess was vile.

  And that was not all. With rising anger he listened to a well-coloured account of Miguel’s attentions and intentions towards her. By the end of it Margaret had succeeded in rousing him to a remarkable state of fury. Garm himself set little prize on celibacy, but he was convinced that the goddess insisted upon virginity in her chief attendant. But there was worse to follow. It appeared that this scum, this filth, this Miguel had profaned holiness, had committed such coarse sacrilege as revolted the mind, had outraged the spirit of the goddess at her very shrine, had, in fact, spat in the cat’s eye.

  Garm swept from the cave in a passion, leaving Margaret a little stunned by her success. That afterthought had done more than all the rest. She looked across at Bast, who blinked solemnly back at her.

  ‘It’s lucky you can’t let me down,’ she told her. ‘That’s certainly finished Miguel, and you seemed rather fond of him. Scratched your ears nicely, didn’t he?’

  She was suddenly struck by a spasm of remorse. Had she pitched it too strong? Even though she hated him, she had no wish for his death upon her conscience. Garm had looked too angry to stop at mere detention, but she hoped he would. After all, Miguel had wanted freedom no less than the rest. His weapons had been base, but he had no others. One should not blame him too much …

  Resolutely she put the subject away. She had considered it her duty, and whatever happened now was outside her control.

  She took one of the white, eyeless fish from a bowl and began to cut it up with a sharp stone for Bast. The cat still seemed to thrive; that was a blessing. She put the fragments into a smaller bowl, and pushed it across the floor. It was odd the extent to which events had depended upon that bundle of fur.

  But for it, she would have been in the prison caves. It was because she was here and able to show him the way to the Sun Bird that Miguel had made his bargain – for she was sure now that he had intended from the beginning to get hold of it. Because of that bargain a war was now going on in the prison caves. Her thoughts drifted to Mark. Would he be strong enough yet to fight? What sort of fighting could it be? No firearms, no swords even. A hand-to-hand tussle, she supposed. The pygmies had been greatly thinned by the numbers drafted away. Since the special prayers to Bast, which she now recognized as the send-off of the expeditionary force, the attenders at the temple meetings had been mostly women.

  And the prisoners had beaten off the first attack. Garm had told her that with mingled sorrow and surprise. His pride of race had been hurt. On the purely practical grounds of size it was only to be expected that one of the prisoners should be a match for two pygmies, but when a mere hundred and fifty or so were able to defy well over a thousand pygmies, he felt humiliated. He understood it to be due to guile.

  ‘We,’ he explained, ‘are honest fighters. We fight with pride in our skill and our strength, but these prisoners …’ He shook his head. ‘They do not know how to fight. They work with cunning and hidden subtleties, instead of fighting like men with sling and knife. It degrades warfare …

  ‘Of course’ – he became magnanimous – ‘they can scarcely be blamed. They have not our standards. Coming, as they do, from a world which has forsaken the gods so that devils may stalk in spurious honour, it is not surprising that they have learned meannesses of spirit, unworthy stratag
ems which we despise.’

  ‘We have a saying,’ Margaret told him, apologetically, ‘that all’s fair in war.’

  Garm looked shocked.

  ‘Truly you have some remarkable sayings – I think this is the worst you have told me yet. Is there no honour in your wars?’

  ‘Very little. Though you would find many people to agree with you, that the more subtle and drastic weapons should be abolished.’

  ‘They know they are dishonourable, then? There is some hope for you.’

  ‘No, that’s not quite right. You see, they don’t think of war in terms of honour, any more.’

  ‘Then why do they want them abolished?’

  ‘They think they are too dangerous.’

  ‘They are cowards?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But they must either be cowards or men of honour.’

  ‘They’re men of sense, up to a point.’

  ‘But have you no men who think of the glory of war?’

  ‘Oh yes; but they’re mostly very young – too young to have had any experience of it. They are the ones who talk about all being fair in war.’

  Garm appeared confused.

  ‘Do you mean that the men who will use all guile, every cunning means to destroy their enemies, are the same who believe in the honour of war?’

  ‘They are about the only ones,’ Margaret agreed.

  ‘But that is absurd. How can it be honourable to fight with tricks? Skill, yes, but tricks, no.’

  ‘But what you call tricks, they call skill,’ she attempted patiently.