What was certain was that the revolt had been crushed: nothing remained in the hands of the rebels. Details were vague, but it seemed that the government had kept a reserve of weapons. Guns had been answered by guns. The only way the revolt could have succeeded would have been through popular support and this had been nonexistent. There had been attempts to win over the servant class as a body but they had failed miserably. The story of an invasion from the Conurbs was entirely false. The whole affair, alarming as it might have seemed, had merely demonstrated the strength and stability of the system.
This was small comfort for the Giffords. After dinner Mr. Gifford sat by himself with the heavy silver-topped port decanter in front of him on the walnut table. Coming to say goodnight to him, Rob saw that his hands were shaking.
“As long as he’s alive . . .” Mr. Gifford said. “They won’t be too hard on him. He’s only a boy.”
There was silence except for the ticking of the old wall clock, whose face also showed the phases of the moon, and a man and woman on a seesaw who predicted the weather. The little man had risen higher than his partner, promising a better day tomorrow. Mr. Gifford poured himself another glass of port.
“I mustn’t keep you up, Rob. You need your sleep. Goodnight, my boy.”
Rob was very tired—he had not slept well the previous night—but sleep would not come. He lay in bed staring out at a night that now was silvered with moonlight. The clouds were rolling away at the little man’s bidding.
The tap on the door startled him. Cecily, he thought, wanting company. “Come in.”
The door opened. There was no light on the landing and the moonlight did not extend that far. The figure was vague, but it was not Cecily. He started to speak but was interrupted.
“It’s me.”
Mike came in and quietly closed the door behind him.
• • •
Rob got out of bed. “We must keep quiet,” Mike whispered. “Father’s still up.”
“I know. How did you get in?”
“Through the kitchen. Cook leaves a window open for the cats.”
He was shivering. His clothes were wet, his hair plastered across his forehead. Keeping his own voice down, Rob said, “Better get those things off. I’ll bring some dry clothes and a towel for you to rub down.”
He got them from Mike’s room and Mike dried himself and changed. Rob asked him why he had not gone to his own room first.
“You might have heard me moving about and raised an alarm without thinking. And I wasn’t sure they wouldn’t have someone in there waiting for me.”
The first point seemed reasonable, the second absurd. Having been part of a conspiracy Mike saw tricks and stratagems everywhere.
“Was it difficult getting back?”
“I had to lie up until dark. Luckily Captain has eyes better than most cats.”
“Where is he?”
“Captain? Tied up by the shrubbery. I didn’t dare take him to the stables in case he woke one of the grooms. But I got in myself and got a blanket for him, and oats.”
“What about you? When did you eat last?”
“A meal? Yesterday. But I’m all right. I wolfed a cold chicken from the larder.”
“Look,” Rob said, “don’t you think you ought to tell your people you’re here? They’ve been worried sick about you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But I don’t want to involve them.”
“They’re involved already.”
Mike did not answer. His face in the moonlight was tired and drawn. He looked as though he had been through it.
“What happened?” Rob said.
“We lost. You heard, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“They had guns as well.”
“You used them first, though,” Rob said.
“And copters? And gas bombs?”
“I didn’t hear about that.”
“They were what finished us. They let us take over. Then when we were concentrated, they came down with copters dropping nerve gas. It paralyzes on a medium dose, kills on a severe one. I was lucky. I was on the fringe. The whiff I got only made me sick.”
“You couldn’t expect them to stand by and let you win. It was probably the quickest way, and the least bloody.”
“And caused very little damage to private property, another important point. They were waiting for us. This peaceful elegant society with its horses and ornamental swords and code of good manners . . . behind it there’s force, advanced weapons, ruthlessness.”
“Is that so terrible? Surely you must expect people to defend themselves?”
“You don’t see it.” Mike spoke with a cold flat anger. “It’s all a fake, a show for puppets. Do as you’re told in that station to which it has pleased God to call you and you’re all right. Step out of line and you get smashed.”
“You were all gentry, weren’t you? The servants didn’t support the rebellion.”
“No, they didn’t support us. That’s a point for the government, isn’t it? It shows this was just the work of a few bored and dissatisfied people—that everything’s splendid otherwise. The servants have been better conditioned: that’s all. They’ve been taught to want what they’ve got.”
“Perhaps what they’ve got isn’t so bad, compared with what might be. With revolutions in the past there were things to fight against—hunger, oppression, slavery. The servants are well cared for. They look up to the gentry and have the Conurbans to look down on. Why should they want a change?”
“No, why should they?” Mike asked wearily.
“People are happy enough, both here and in the Conurb. What’s the point in trying to turn things upside down?”
“The same old argument.” He gave Rob a lopsided grin. “We don’t see things the same way, do we? Lord, I’m tired.”
“Go to bed. Get some rest.”
Mike shook his head. “It’s a risk being here at all. It’s the place where they’re bound to look for me.”
“It will be days before they sort the mess out. Weeks more likely.”
“Don’t be fooled by the apparent confusion. We were. The society we live in is more organized than it seems.”
“Let me tell your parents you’re here. Your mother, anyway. She could help you.”
Mike yawned. “Out of the question.”
“What do you think you’re going to do?”
“I’ll manage.”
“But it’s finished. You admit that. You’ll have to give yourself up sooner or later. They won’t do anything to you. They probably won’t do much to any of the rebels since it’s been crushed so easily. I suppose you may get expelled from school.”
“Expelled?” Mike laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“But you agree you’ll have to surrender eventually. You can’t hide out forever.”
“Don’t I recall saying something like that to you once upon a time?” Mike said whimsically. “We’ve made quite a switch, haven’t we? You here, me on the run. Funny when you think about it.”
“Well, what you said was true. You would be on your own, as I was. Your friends are all prisoners.”
“Or dead. Not quite all, though. Some escaped. The most important one did.”
“And everyone in the County will be hunting for you.”
“In the County, yes.”
His tone was enigmatic.
“What does that mean?” Rob asked.
“The important one—he made preparations in case of failure. He reckoned it would be impossible to do anything in the County. But we have friends in the Conurbs.”
“There was no rising there. It was just a rumor.”
“No rising was intended. Not at this time, anyway. If we had controlled the County it wouldn’t have been necessary. It doesn’t mean there isn’t an opposition in the Conurbs, that we can’t work from there. It will take longer, that’s all.”
“Are you saying this is going to go on, that you still hope for a revolution?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You’re crazy. Even if there were any sense in it, it’s impossible. You can’t hope to win. You must know that by now.”
“No good saying we can’t hope, because we do.” Mike shrugged. “Our chances may not be very bright, but they’re better than no chance at all and no hope.”
“You mean you’re intending to go . . .”
“Over the Barrier. A reverse journey from yours.”
“And live there—in the Conurb?” Rob said incredulously.
“Yes.”
“In crowds and noise and squalor? You’d hate every minute of it. I know what it’s like. You don’t. Plotting in country houses and taking part in a revolt for a few hours isn’t the same as living as a Conurban, day after day, month after month.”
“I didn’t imagine I was going to enjoy it.”
He was serious, Rob saw. He was torn by conflicting feelings. He felt he was letting Mike down again—that Mrs. Gifford’s jibe about repaying help was still true. On the other hand . . .
“You’re wrong about this,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll come around to seeing it. When you do, even if you are in the Conurb, you can come back. If I went . . .”
“It would be a different proposition. I know.” He put a hand on Rob’s shoulder. “If you wanted to come I wouldn’t take you.”
“Don’t go,” Rob said. “Nothing will happen to you if you surrender to the police.”
Mike looked at him. “You think not?”
“I’m sure. Now there’s no danger . . .”
“Leave it,” Mike said. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“If you would just talk to your parents—let them know that you’re here, that you’re safe.”
“If I did, do you think they would let me go again?” Rob was silent. Mike went on, “I suppose I ought not to have come back, but it was on my way and I thought I had a better chance of stealing food here than anywhere else. At another place a dog might have barked. Tess only tried to lick me all over. I mustn’t hang about, though. I want to get across the fence by morning. The moonlight’s a help.”
“And Captain? You can’t very well take him with you.”
“No.” He managed a smile, a small one. “I’ll turn him loose. He’ll find his way home.”
“Change your mind!” Rob said. “You still can.”
“No.”
“I could raise the alarm—call your father.”
“But you won’t.”
He said it with conviction and Rob knew it was true. He pointed to the pile of wet and dirty clothing.
“I’ll ditch those in the morning.”
“Thanks. I’m off now. If you should change your mind about the way things are . . .” He smiled. “Unlikely, I know. But just in case, I’m heading for the Southampton Conurb. A place called Eastleigh. Desborough Road, number two-four-four. You’ll find me there, or someone who can tell you where I am.”
“I’ll see you off.”
“No. Better not.”
“On the contrary. If we do disturb anyone I can do the answering. Say I felt restless and went wandering. To the kitchen, perhaps, because I was hungry. It accounts for that chicken.”
“A good point. Let’s go then.”
The stairs creaked but they did not disturb anyone. The lamplight under the door of the drawing room showed that Mr. Gifford was still up with his port but they crept past quietly and unobserved. In the kitchen Mike took a loaf and several thick slices off a leg of ham.
They climbed in turn through the window. The moonlight shone on the bank of retreating cloud, low in the west, outlining the house and the shapes of trees. Captain whinnied softly as Mike approached him.
They shook hands and said good-by. Wasting no more time, Mike mounted and rode off across the black and silver grass.
10
The Guardians
THEY LOOKED LIKE AN ORDINARY patrol. They wore scarlet tunics and high leather boots and swords swung from their belts. The leader also looked ordinary but unthinkably he had entered the house without being announced or even waiting for leave. He found the family at breakfast. He was a lean, dark man in his late twenties with a thin nose that had been broken and badly set at some time and a mouth that was almost smiling but not quite. He made a quick bow, clicking his heels.
“I hope you will forgive the lack of ceremony.” He spoke rapidly in a dry tone that did not indicate much interest whether he was forgiven or not. “This is urgent, government business. My name is Marshall. Captain Marshall.”
Rob noticed something unusual—in fact extraordinary. On the other side of his belt there was a leather holster, protruding from it the butt of a pistol.
“Is it—to do with my son?” Mr. Gifford said.
“What about your son?”
“I thought . . .”
The eyes were cold, the skin around them wrinkled and leathery as though from long staring into harsh sunlight and bleak winds. Compared with the normal gentleman of the County he looked both wilder and more disciplined. A veteran, Rob guessed, of the China War.
“Have you seen your son since the rebellion?”
Mr. Gifford shook his head. Mrs. Gifford asked in a strained voice, “Do you have any news of him, Captain?”
“Only, ma’am, that his name is on the list of those against whom warrants have been issued for arrest on a charge of armed rebellion.”
“Then he’s alive!”
“He may be. I have no information to the contrary.” His gaze went to Mr. Gifford. “You understand that if your son returns home the authorities must be informed and he must be held until a patrol arrives to take him into custody?”
“Yes,” Mr. Gifford said, “I understand that.”
“They won’t put him in prison?” Cecily burst out.
Ignoring her, Marshall continued, “If you do have information as to his whereabouts you will please disclose it to me.”
“I have no information,” Mr. Gifford said wearily.
Marshall stared for a moment in silence, then said, “And if any such intelligence comes to you in the future you will notify the appropriate authorities. Is that also understood? The penalty for failure could be heavy.”
“Yes,” Mr. Gifford said, “it is understood. If you have now fulfilled the purpose of your mission, Captain, we will not keep you from your duties.”
Marshall gave a small shake of the head. “That is not the purpose of my mission.” He looked at Rob, sharply appraising. “This is Rob Perrott, I believe, a distant relation of Mrs. Gifford, who lives with you.”
“Yes,” Mr. Gifford said. “The son of my wife’s cousin.”
A slight nod, the eyes still watching. Marshall said:
“My instructions are that he is to accompany me for questioning.”
Mr. Gifford was silent.
“He is not involved in any way,” Mrs. Gifford said. “Our son is—we accept that. But not Rob. You have our word on it.”
Marshall’s eyebrows lifted slightly but otherwise his expression did not change. “Those are my instructions.” He paused, and added, “The boys lived together and were at school together. Something may have been said, some hint given, which could be useful. Possibly the boy himself does not appreciate this. This is not an arrest and he will be well looked after.”
“Where are you taking him?” Mrs. Gifford asked.
Marshall did not answer that, but repeated, “He will be well looked after.”
“And how long will you keep him?”
“Not long. No longer than is necessary.”
Rob rode at Marshall’s side with the rest of the patrol clattering behind them. Marshall spoke little and his manner did not encourage Rob to talk. It was not until they swung down a familiar road and he saw park gates in the distance that he said, “Are we going to Old Hall, then?”
Marshall glanced at him. “Yes.”
He was greatly relieved. The disciplined silence of Marshall and his patrol and
the guns, had conjured up a picture of a gloomy prisonlike building somewhere, in Bristol perhaps, and harsh inquisitors. To be taken to Sir Percy Gregory’s home, where he had won his medal for archery, was far less alarming. Hopes continued to rise when he was handed over not to any military figure but to Sir Percy’s butler, Jenks, a man of impressive but not unkindly appearance, who remembered him and spoke with courteous amiability.
He waited in a long oak-paneled hall. The walls were lined with oil paintings of past Gregorys, more than a score of them, interspersed with the heads of stags. One, between two men in ruffles and lace with long wigs, had enormous antlers: he counted twenty-three points. Typically County, and reassuring.
The butler, returning, said, “Sir Percy will see you in his study, Master Rob. If you will follow me.”
There was a very large desk, its top covered with shiny green leather, by one of the windows, but Sir Percy was not sitting behind it. As Rob entered he was at the sideboard pouring a glass of whiskey from a decanter.
“Ah, there you are, my boy! I should think you’d like a little refreshment, eh? Lemonade, or coffee?”
“I would like coffee, sir.”
“See to that, Jenks. And some cake or a few biscuits. We’re not lunching for a couple of hours. Now, Rob, come and make yourself comfortable.”
Rob’s spirits rose higher still. There did not seem much to be alarmed about if he were invited to luncheon. Two wide low leather armchairs stood on either side of the hearth where a fire was burning brightly. Sir Percy settled Rob in one and took the other himself.
“Late in the year for a fire but I like the look of it. And there’s a nip in the air still. Touch of frost early this morning. Now then, I imagine you’ll have some idea of what I want to have a chat with you about.”
His squatness filled the width of the armchair in whose twin Rob felt lost. But there was nothing threatening about his bulk, nor about the moustache, black flecked with white, curling above the thick lips and the chin with the deep cleft in it. He looked like a friendly uncle. Friendly and not particularly intelligent, but one would still need to be wary.
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