This rather melancholy interlude was followed by the boisterous entry of the self-anointed environmentalists. Banging on tin pans and carrying hand-painted signs, the group captured the attention they desired as they walked into the open meeting. Herb Green and Roxanne Ford stood in the front ranks, waving jauntily at the other members of the Focus Group in the audience. In large letters their placards bore a single word: warning.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Alf Richards shouted above the din. "We hear your message, and agree with you that it is important that environmental considerations be taken into account in all technological decisions."
"Too vague," Roxy replied, speaking for her fellow Greens. "We want the establishment of an environmental protection 'agency,' controlled by both specialists and citizens." The public response seemed evenly divided between bravos and jeers.
Richards used his kitchenware gavel to regain order. "The chair will grant your request," he announced, speaking above the uproar. This spur-of-the-moment decision came mostly because he did not have the time or the fortitude for a prolonged debate with these activists from a world now past... and he agreed with them, at least in part. "You two will co-chair this 'agency,' and I'll appoint two more members when I have a chance to think about it for more than five seconds."
The eco-activists accepted this victory with quiet satisfaction. However, they made it known that from this time forward they would be maintaining an active watch on all planning activities.
On the fourth day of open meetings, a sizable number of Inlanders arrived, some of them having traveled from the far limits of the Ulundi Circle. They brought with them no significant objections to the proposals for technical development. But this did not mean that they gave the Planning Subcommittee a passing grade. One well-organized group—Alf Richards called them "the United Nations Gang"—expressed serious concerns about the planners' neglect of politics, law, and economics.
"It is all very well," said Sanyova Masekela, one of the Zulu elders, "to devote ourselves to material improvements and to say that, after working together in harmony for a year, we will begin to consider social organization. We understand that Peter Mavimbela, speaking on behalf of the miners, has agreed to this concept, and we do not disavow his commitment. But a year is a long time, and there are many among us who believe that discussions should begin as soon as it is practicable."
"I and my colleagues here agree," said Ann Meijers. Ann was an experienced government administrator from Pietermaritzburg. "We come to you on behalf of blacks and whites and Indians, thoughtful South Africans all—most of whom, even before the Event, experienced upheavals that they had hoped would be enough for one lifetime. We appreciate your commitment to restoring the physical necessities of life. And we thank the fates that sent people of such talent here to our shores. But engineering is not enough, not nearly enough. We need to start work on a constitution, a legal code, and most of all perhaps, an economic system. It seems to us that we absolutely cannot delay."
Dr. Wilson Hardy's shoulders sagged as he listened to these comments. Other members of the two committees, South Africans as well as Engineering Villagers, reacted with dejection as well, but tried not to show their disappointment. Having devoted heart and soul to strategies for survival, they were reaching the point of exhaustion.
The Joint Planning Subcommittee had been directed to concentrate on technical objectives, and this alone had proved to be a daunting task, almost beyond the group's capacity. Yet here were fellow survivors exhorting them to move immediately to a different level, to do nothing less than establish the social structure of a new civilization.
The younger Hardy's Focus Group, of course, had been thinking and debating along the same lines. They were more than ready, at any time, to talk about social goals. Nevertheless, Wil felt sorry for his father and the other members of the leadership team.
Paradoxically, this most difficult of problems proved not very difficult to resolve. The matter was handled in the inevitable—perhaps the only—way: by appointing new committees. Most important, a Constitutional Committee was established, with Meijers and Mavimbela agreeing to serve alongside a number of Outlanders, and with Hardy and Nordstrom as ex officio members.
No sooner had the United Nations Gang departed than another large delegation made its appearance. They had been waiting their turn quietly and in good order, but they strode into the meeting with a firm step that bespoke resolution.
These were "the Crusaders"—Tom Swift's irreverent but affectionate nickname for them, since his Mary was one of the leaders. The Crusaders were marching on behalf of religion. This at first seemed innocuous to those in attendance. Nobody could take exception to prayers offered and beliefs expressed, particularly in time of crisis. However, these true believers were not to be satisfied with soft words and new committees. They wanted action and commitment. They wanted physical places of worship, and to that end asked for an allocation of workers and materials from Shaka Enterprises. This request drove Alf Richards to the brink of apoplexy.
"Look here, friends," he said, with a tinge of acid in his booming voice, "I think that none of us wants to create any divisions among the people, or establish any hierarchy of bishops or imams or priests. This is dangerous and counter to every effort we have made to be fair and treat everyone equally. So, if we approve one church, one mosque, one synagogue, one prayer mat, how many other requests, large and small, can we then deny? We must also consider priorities. It is urgent that we build living quarters and shelter for our people before we even think about churches or theaters or stadiums."
At this point, Millie Fox raised her hand and was recognized. She spoke softly but with a solemnity that captured the attention of all present. "I grew up a Southern Baptist," she said, "and still hold that faith in my heart. I believe that religious practice need not be in conflict with the work undertaken for the physical survival and common good of all our people. In many parts of the developing world, where I have been personally with the Peace Corps, I have seen houses of worship serve also as clinics, schools, and meeting halls. There is no reason not to build multipurpose public structures that will serve the entire community and different religious groups as well."
This idea generated applause from the audience. Alf Richards, struggling to shed his curmudgeon's attitude, pledged support for the concept. No one could know for certain how Millie Fox's proposal might work in practice—a Catholic church cum Buddhist shrine cum Muslim mosque cum synagogue cum classroom? But all agreed it was worth a try. And as the fourth day of the Coordinating Committee's open meetings ended with a multifaith lovefest, there was a widely shared feeling of progress and goodwill.
—————
Wil Hardy awoke on the fifth and final day of the open sessions and found Sarah already up and gone. She had told him that she would be making a presentation to the meeting; she wanted to do something on behalf of the arts, but said she had not yet decided how best to go about it. Wil looked forward with apprehension to the speech that he expected her to give—and the condescending response he expected she would receive.
But when the time came for the meeting to begin, before there was even a formal call to order, band music began to blare from behind the nearby dunes. It was "Colonel Bogie's March"—the theme music from The Bridge Over the River Kwai—rhythmic and lilting, trumpets and fifes carrying the tune, drums and cymbals marking the lively beat. The sound was totally incongruous on this barren beach, yet in its spirited defiance, somehow appropriate.
Suddenly, there they were, striding over the crest of the hill, twenty or so musicians from the ship's orchestra, looking for all the world like a well-drilled marching band and sounding pretty good to ears that had been starved for music, for any artistic expression. The surprise was complete and the effect was stunning.
The band, however, was just the beginning. Sarah Darby had brought together every artist she could find, and they marched in a procession designed to evoke the image of Greek muses
on an ancient vase. There were probably very few witnesses to this pageant who knew the first thing about the muses of antiquity. But this did not faze Sarah, who presented them as if they had come to renew the spirits and save the souls of those who found themselves here by a cruel act of fate.
Several writers, carrying tablets, represented Calliope, muse of epic poetry; several others, carrying scrolls, took the part of Clio, muse of history; and Alf Richards's daughter Jeanette, bearing a lyre made from bamboo and grass, was the muse of lyric poetry, Erato. Two of the comedians who had entertained aboard ship came next wearing papier-mache masks, one comic and one tragic, indicating the presence of Thalia and Melpomene, muses of comedy and tragedy, respectively. Euterpe, muse of music, was embodied not only in the band but also in talented virtuosos from Inland: a classical string quartet (who had survived, along with their instruments, miraculously unharmed) and an audaciously non-classical rock group. Somewhere in the parade, Polymnia, muse of sacred poetry, and Urania, muse of astronomy (which was considered by the Greeks to be an art), were lost in the shuffle.
The center of attention was Terpsichore, muse of dance, portrayed by the Focus Group's own Roxanne Ford. Roxy, who wore her cowgirl outfit, led the small corps of professional dancers from the Queen of Africa through some exciting steps, more or less based on line-dance movements and more or less in rhythm with the marching band.
But the highlight of the parade was still to come. Hidden out of sight until all the other marchers had completed their routines, there abruptly appeared a troupe of Zulu dancers in colorful traditional regalia, chanting in wild yet musical cadence, beating on drums and leaping, leaping, leaping—vertical bounds that took the breath away.
This remarkable procession surprised and pleased just about everyone gathered on the beach that morning, committee members, participants in the meeting, passersby, and children. Even Alf Richards, who had grown depressed verging on paranoic during the past few days of debate and criticism, was totally disarmed by the sight of his daughter carrying her make-believe lyre. Sarah Darby, it appeared, was politically savvy as well as artistically creative. To Wil Hardy, she was even more lovable for all that.
As for achieving her goal, it was not immediately clear how much had been accomplished by this display of talent. The importance of the arts was brought home to all who were present at the parade—and all who later heard about it—which meant just about everybody within the Ulundi Circle. Yet, after the excitement died down, the leaders of the Coordinating Committee made it clear to Sarah that physical survival still had an unchallenged priority in their thinking. For the first year at least, there would be no formal allocation of people or resources to the arts.
However, since all work assignments were to be "voluntary," subject only to social pressures rather than official sanction, the planners promised to look sympathetically at a moderate number of "extracurricular" artistic activities, assuming they did not unduly hinder the main work effort. The band and other musical groups, including the Zulu dancers, hoped to travel about the Ulundi Circle on "concert tours" to benefit morale. And Sarah did not plan to stop with music and dance. She hoped to organize drama clubs to put on evening performances, and had already recruited groups of readers to recite poetry and read novels. She proposed to the Coordinating Committee the formation of yet another committee—to safeguard the books that had been salvaged from the Queen of Africa and to supervise a lending library.
For both her authorized and unauthorized work, Sarah was destined to gain universal approval. She had taken the initiative with the first notes of "Colonel Bogie's March" and never looked back.
"How the hell did you have the nerve to pull this off?" Wil asked Sarah later in the day.
"I didn't have the nerve to sit by and do nothing," she answered. "I keep telling you, but you don't seem to listen. Man does not live by bread alone."
"Yes, yes, but what I'm saying—what our community planners are saying—is 'first things first.' We're engaged in a life and death struggle here. It seems to be our fate..."
Sarah kissed him lightly on the cheek, as if he were a child who would some day grow up and understand. "Ah yes, fate," she said in a husky voice. "That's it exactly. As Andre Malraux said: 'All art is a revolt against man's fate.' "
"Your quotable intellectuals seem to have an answer for everything."
"Nobody has all the answers, darling, least of all your Coordinating Committee and Joint-Planning-everybody's-life-from-now-on-Subcommittee. I'm not making fun, Wil, just pointing out the absurdity and fragility of it all. Leaven your technical fix with a touch of art and philosophy and you improve our chances for survival—for true survival, a survival in the full sense of the word."
10
On the faraway shore of Queen Ranavolana's island kingdom, the pirate sovereign gathered her government councilors and subcommanders in her newly erected "palace." A compound had been constructed to house Her Highness and Majesty, the voice and arm of Holy Zanahary, the instrument of the Creator and the Sacred Ancestors.
The seagoing pirates had returned from their confrontation with the English-speaking survivors unsure what the next step was going to be. Their booty, although not a great prize in any traditional sense, was welcome to comrades who were making do with the most meager rations. And they raised the group's spirits with highly embellished stories of conquest on the high seas. Fellow Malagasy survivors laughed and gasped upon hearing the tales of derring-do.
The young woman who had assumed the title and role of queen, although outwardly high-spirited, was actually in a pensive mood. She had begun to calculate the potential risks and rewards of an attack on the strangers she and her men had encountered. Depending upon who they were and how many, and whether or not they had established an adequate defense against invasion, they might provide an ideal target for a successful raid—a raid that could help establish her newly founded Kingdom. The surviving population on Madagascar was a pathetic remnant that presented no threat.
And on the sea, aside from this one vessel of fishermen, she had encountered nothing but drifting wrecks. But those seven sailors, obviously based on the South African continent, represented a community whose strength was difficult to assess.
Despite the underlying fears and uncertainties, she felt as high on anticipation as she ever had on any drug. Adrenaline surged through her body. She only wished there were a way to fight the battle tonight, to draw blood, to' see the fear in her "enemies' " eyes as she and her pirate company unleashed their own tsunami of violence and terror upon them.
Ranavolana—she was still getting used to the name—had surprised herself by how readily she took to leadership and military strategy. All those years, through college and her wandering times, she had always read books—Marcus Aurelius and Caesar, Sun-tzu and Mao Tse-tung. At her bedside now—it was a cot, really—she kept old paperbound copies of Mahan's Influence of Sea Power and Machiavelli's The Prince; and she perused them religiously. Since she was off drugs she retained more, absorbing the wisdom and practical advice of deep thinkers.
Altogether her pirate navy had so far collected twenty vessels of various sizes and conditions, including her own flagship, the sloop with the blood red sail. Tsunamis had cast numerous yachts up on the shores of Madagascar, along the south coast where the main body of the survivors were living, and some of the vessels had survived with little serious damage. They were there for the taking, which is what the queen's people did, moving them downhill and into the water.
She divided her command among four experienced seamen, each with a lengthy resume as a career criminal (including prison time in virtually every South Asian port between the South China Sea and the Indian Ocean). These men were both her subjects and her teachers in the ways of piracy. She respected and feared them, listened to their counsel and watched their every move.
The Indian, Raman Patel, was small in stature, and slight enough to be blown off deck in a strong wind; but his fierce black eyes revealed
the hard character of a man who had sailed rough seas for forty of his forty-seven years. He was the son of an unknown sailor and a prostitute mother from Goa. His mother had tried to put a Christian imprint on her wild son; but he spent all his time at the docks watching and learning from men of the sea. When she died, he signed on as a mess boy on a British steamer. Within two years, he joined the crew of a pirate ship based in Zanzibar.
Yook Louie was a fifty-year-old Taiwan native, tall and lank as a board, with gray-yellow skin. His hair was stiff and steel gray, his brows black, and he grew a wispy goatee, rarely trimmed. He had once been married and was certain that he had fathered three or four children by his wife ... now, in the aftermath of the Event, all certainly dead.
Jama Chaudri was a true mongrel, and he boasted of it: half Indian, part English, a little Chinese, perhaps as much as a quarter Indonesian, with an Arab or two and even an Irishman somewhere in his family tree—and he'd fight any man who mocked or criticized any of these racial or national groups. So, he was a skilled fighter, with fists or knives, and had by his own count killed at least twenty men. He was no mathematician, though, so the number— including those he had murdered in sea raids—was possibly double that. He had been a pirate for at least twenty-five years.
Then there was Errol Waddell, the big, ebullient Australian ex-con and "retired" bosun of Her Majesty's Navy. Now in his fifties, with weathered brown skin and a shock of white-blond hair, he had seen service in the Vietnam War in the early 1970s, when his countrymen fought alongside the U.S. military services. He had spent a decade as a merchant seaman in the busy trade corridor between Singapore and Hong Kong. But he had been caught smuggling drugs and weapons into Sydney and spent another decade in national prison. The Event set him free.
The Aftermath Page 20