Baudruche wondered how many apartments had been taken over by rats. And how many more of them were in the sewers. Nobody knew. The worst of it was that they seemed to be reproducing much faster since the City had started feeding them. Their offspring were everywhere, in every corner, in alleys, sitting in rows on the doorsills, or inside the apartments, sharpening their young teeth on the furniture.
"Mr. High Commissioner, I've been waiting to congratulate you on the splendid group of assistants you assigned to Mr. Poulet! They are indeed worthy of their chief. But I hope you will put a little pressure on them should the need arise. You know, we're not asking for anything out of the ordinary; we're a humble people and we need only an ordinary structure just so long as it's large enough. We'd prefer it to be simpler than Mr. Poulet's design if that would speed up the project."
Baudruche whiffed a discreet smell of blackmail in the air, which might grow stronger in the days to come. The President took two carefully folded sheets from a drawer and handed them to the Commissioner.
"You see, Mr. Commissioner, I've kept my word. Here are the first two copies of The Rodent, one for you and one for the Prefect. At last we have a competitor for that infamous Liberated Rat."
Baudruche unfolded the paper and gave it a quick glance. It was even worse than he'd feared. It was almost identical to The Liberated Rat in ideas, style and violence. It attacked the halfhearted policies of the City (it ,was not the fault of the Prefect but of his entourage). There was high praise for those inhabitants of the City who, despite the handicap of a badly oriented education, expressed feelings of friendship toward their brothers. . . . Nevertheless, the City's population must change: it was an "old people," rotten, mean. Everything must be turned inside out to allow for the infusion of a new spirit, new blood, new ideas—that's what brothers were for.
What particularly intrigued Baudruche was that although many of the articles were in the same rough, elementary style as The Liberated Rat, some, such as the editorial aimed at Baudruche, were not. That editorial raised his suspicions. There was something in the way the phrases were turned, in certain expressions that reminded him of articles in the City's own newspaper. It smelled of Canard's pen, especially the page dedicated to gossip about the City’s daily life.
Baudruche was particularly struck by the lines about a certain E.P., the wife of a petty official who had deserted the conjugal bed to become the High Commissioner's mistress, and who was supported in lavish style out of the City’s coffers.
That was too much. It was one thing for Canard to vent his malice, but that he should know where Elisa's money came from was too much. Clearly, there were leaks at the Prefecture. Furious, he thrust the article under the President's eyes.
"Did you read that? You allow such stuff to be printed! It's slander!"
"Unfortunately, I didn't have time to read the entire paper. I can't do everything. . . . You know how it is, Mr. Commissioner."
The President scanned the article.
"I agree with you, Mr. Commissioner; it's shameful. If we had the time, I'd have the entire edition destroyed. But, alas, it has already been distributed. However, I'll do what I can. I'll find the guilty party and see that he's punished."
"But that's not the whole of it: this sheet bears a strange resemblance to The Liberated Rat—the same violence, the same bad faith. And it's better written, hence more dangerous."
"How else can we do it, Mr. Commissioner? We have no choice. If we're to fight The Liberated Rat effectively, we must use the same weapons. Otherwise we make no inroads on its readership. Only when we've finally done in that scurrilous sheet can we adopt a more correct tone. I don't like it any better than you do, Mr. Commissioner. I will even confess that it's what kept me from reading the whole paper. In our jobs, we are often forced to lend ourselves to things we really don't approve of, isn't that so, Mr. Commissioner?"
Baudruche made quick work of the distance between legation and Factory. The Rodent's distribution must have blanketed the City, for it was already in the hands of the Factory guards. But they were no less deferential than before. No question about it: the President had things well under control.
"Get cracking, Miss Bourrot, we're late!
"It is my belief, Mr. Prefect, that rather than resort to means whose effect we cannot foresee, it would be wiser to return to Mr. Labrique's economical and proven solution.
"I also wish to call your attention to the enclosed first issue of The Rodent. You will see that our capital, our printing presses and our typesetters have been placed at the service of a sheet every bit as belligerent and one-sided as The Liberated Rat. The simplest solution, obviously, would be to withdraw our subsidy and reclaim the presses, but this decision is up to you. We could at least forbid the sale, distribution and perhaps even the reading of this paper within the City.
"Have we covered everything, Miss Bourrot? The Factory, the Women's League, the occupation of the apartments? Well, then, just wind it up with the usual. . . ."
Martha and Labrique were already at supper and Sophie had been sent off to bed when the Commissioner finally opened the door.
"Labrique, I am pleased to inform you that I've just sent your wife to the clink."
"For once you've done something useful."
14
B A U D R U C H E spent an agitated night. For the second time in a row, he dreamed that he had strangled the Prefect. He woke up with his hands around Martha's neck. Laughing, she protested that she didn't deserve to be killed after putting up with him all these years.
As he sat drinking his coffee, he announced that henceforth they would have to sleep in separate rooms. Who knows? An other night he might go even further. . . He said this with some constraint, for it was painful to him. She tried to talk him out of it, saying she wouldn't mind dying as long as it was in his arms. But Baudruche held to his decision and both were sad as he left. It was like a little divorce which neither of them wanted, but that's what life had done to them.
Baudruche was in more than his usual hurry: the test was coming off in the afternoon. Reluctantly, Leponte let his workers off early, since all the City's other departments were doing it. On the other hand, all the stores and cafés were open: who could turn down such an opportunity with so many people on the loose? Schools were closed; the children had been given a lecture on progress, science and the admiration due men capable of achieving what they were about to witness.
Baudruche arrived before the main gate. An enormous set of bleachers draped with bunting filled the area. That was where, with the touch of a button, Fisher was to set off the explosion. Baudruche climbed the stairs. As he reached the top, he caught sight of Edge and Fisher leaning over the ramparts. The two men turned and saluted.
Baudruche leaned out to examine the surface of the walls. Scaffolding had been hung from the top to support the mysterious powder which had been enclosed in long, sausage-like tubes. Wires were strung every which way. What a gigantic piece of work! The scaffolding ringed the entire City, and it had all been done without setting foot outside the City walls. And what it must have cost! The answer would be drowned in a sea of numbers. Incomprehensible calculations divided up among dozens of offices, sections, departments, ministries, so that no one would understand, not even those responsible for it.
And the ants were back, more numerous than ever, covering large stretches of the sentry walk. Baudruche stamped on them.
A letter from the Prefect was waiting for him at the office—four single-spaced pages. Baudruche had to take deep breaths every few paragraphs to keep going. The Prefect flattered him and thanked him for his devotion and zeal, but also warned him that he was still influenced by opinions long since outmoded. He was wrong to question the effectiveness of the powder of deterrence. The possession of this weapon would reassure the population and give it back its self-confidence. Moreover, how could he doubt that a powder of such power would eradicate a few ants?
The Prefect fully understood the Commiss
ioner's reaction to The Rodent but he counseled patience. Its verbal violence (hardly dangerous in itself) was tempered by its satiric intent. In any case, it was unthinkable that they try to prevent the printing or distribution of the paper. "Everyone has the right to read and publish what he wishes. You cannot refuse to others what you permit yourself. After all, we do have our own paper, Mr. Commissioner!"
A little further along, Baudruche was scolded for his handling of the Women's League. Had Baudruche been motivated by a personal grudge to destroy a movement that was serving the City’s policies—and with great courage? As for Esther Labrique, a trial was out of the question. It would create a scandal and might well disturb the present good relations between City and rats.
The last lines were extremely friendly. Baudruche mustn't go to so much trouble. He need only follow the Prefect's general directives. That's what the Prefect was there for: to do his thinking for him.
"Miss Bourrot, please telephone the jail and tell them to release Esther Labrique at once. It appears she's a national heroine."
The door which Labrique was obliged to unlock a few hours each day had opened. A man came in and asked politely if he might look around. Labrique assented, pleased that he didn't have to disturb himself from his reading. After a while, the man came back with a book he wanted to take out.
"Sir, unfortunately the book you wish to borrow may not be exhibited, loaned or read. I'm sorry, it's not my fault. It's an order from the Prefect. Look at this list! It's endless. It begins with Pliny the Elder and finishes with Phantom of the Opera. There's your book: The Pied Piper of Hamelin."
"Why all these prohibitions?"
"Because all these books treat a taboo subject: rodents. Pliny speaks of cities destroyed by them; then there is La Fontaine who tells the story of a city rat who invites a country rat to come to the city and share with him a city dweller's provisions. . . . You have to be sick to dream up stories like that. That La Fontaine had a perverted mind. . . . The Wind in the Willows, Stuart Little . . ."
"Well, can I take it anyway?"
"Why not? I'm here to see that books are taken out and read, not forbidden."
The machines were beginning to clutter up the streets. People were throwing their old ones out the window. They only had room for one—and they had to have the new one.
When the machine hit the ground, the sound of the crashing metal drew a circle of rats. Pretending indifference, they stopped and looked it over, examined it for cracks and dents, and if its condition seemed good enough, one of them picked it up and carried it home. The inhabitants smiled pityingly at the idea of anyone wanting what they had rejected.
Baudruche ate his lunch on the run. He'd been running all morning, assigning the police and taking every possible precaution to minimize the hazards of the test.
"Martha, their damn fireworks could bum us to cinders!"
"But what about the Fire Department, Robert?"
"Of course they've been alerted, all my men have. But they think it's going to be a lark. They're only mad because they didn't get the afternoon off."
"You'll be needing them tonight. There'll be a lot of drunks around."
"Just so long as they aren't incinerated drunks."
The President greeted Baudruche with a wide smile.
"I have good news for you!" and showed him the latest edition of The Rodent. "Read it for yourself, Mr. Commissioner. On the right, where it says, 'A correction.' "
Baudruche put on his glasses. The heading read: "Commissioner Baudruche Protests" and the story: "Justifiably shocked by the tenor of a news item in yesterday's column 'City Gossip,' Commissioner Baudruche addressed a heated protest to our President, which the latter conveyed to us. It was most unfortunate that we stated as fact something for which we had no positive proof, to the effect that Commissioner Baudruche was supporting his mistress, Mrs. Elisa P—— at the City's expense. We have no reason to doubt our amiable Commissioner's word or his denial of our imputation. It appears that the funds are entirely his own. We wish to offer our sincerest apologies to the Commissioner and pledge that similar mistakes will not be repeated. . . ."
"I hope you are pleased, Mr. Commissioner. And do notice that the correction is in the middle of the front page, whereas the inaccurate story was barely visible on the seventh. You don't often see corrections like that! We are absolved of our sin. No, no, don't try to thank me. It was the least we could do. You've done so much for us already!"
The last refugee found himself climbing the rampart stairs two hours before the usual time. He leaned over the parapet:
"Watch out! It's about to happen!"
"What is, when?"
"The explosion. The powder."
"I know all about explosions and powder."
"You don't know about this one, and they don't either. They have no ideas what it might do."
"Why don't they relax and use the old powder? It did plenty of damage in its day."
"I'm afraid they're going to damage themselves, without meaning to. They're a bunch of children. You should go somewhere safe, before they put the match to their fuse."
"Where can I go? There's no shelter anywhere. Besides, my time isn't up."
"How long have you got?"
"A few days."
"Then we've got to hurry if we're going to use you."
"To do what?"
"You'll see. You said a soldier's job is to do what he's told and not ask any questions."
Baudruche sat down in the Director's office.
"What's new, Mr. Leponte?"
There was a suggestion of anxiety in the Director's face.
Leponte answered with difficulty: "Nothing really. Lots of work, as is usual at this time of year. We hope to show an increase in sales of two point thirty-five percent over last year."
So that was where the shoe pinched! Baudruche had only to add a gentle squeeze. . . .
"Only two point thirty-five percent, Mr. Leponte? But you were quoting a much larger figure only yesterday. And that enormous advertising campaign! It doesn't look very good, does it? Advertising doesn't come cheap, you know. I'm afraid you're in for a considerable deficit this year."
Leponte hung his head.
"I'm afraid so too, Mr. Commissioner."
Baudruche added a little more pressure.
"You had high hopes for the ads in The Rodent and The Liberated Rat?"
"I have to admit they were a grave disappointment to me. We had figures and percentages that were beyond question. This is the first time they've failed us. It's a terrible thing to have to admit, but we haven't received a single order, not one, from our new neighbors."
"Do you read the paper, Mr. Leponte?"
"Faithfully, every evening—the advertisements and the financial page."
Baudruche took out the fourth edition of the City paper he had stuffed in his pocket an hour before.
"You should glance at the other news from time to time. For instance, look at this picture on the front page. . . . Yes, there: the rats removing a machine."
"A machine? Machines in the streets? What are they doing there?"
"Don't you ever look around the City?"
"Seldom, Mr. Commissioner. I'm so preoccupied I don't notice much. . . . I have so many problems racing through my head. But that doesn't explain why the rats are removing the machine or what it's doing there in the first place."
"I can clear up the mystery in a few words. From one point of view, your advertising campaign was a great success: you did bust the secondhand market. But since people couldn't resell their machines, they got rid of them by throwing them out the window. And the rats took possession of them. Why should they go out and buy what we give them for free?"
Leponte looked crushed.
"Is it possible that I've made a mistake?"
"It's unthinkable and irrational, Mr. Leponte, but unfortunately the proof is there."
Baudruche contemplated his work: Leponte, head in his hands, elbows on the ta
ble, prostrated.
Suddenly, Leponte sat up like a Jack-in-the-box.
"Eureka! as my colleague Archimedes said. I've got it, Mr. Commissioner! The best idea yet. It means success, financial triumph—but I'll need your help. Listen: help me collect all last year's models that are now lying around the streets. As you know, our current model is exactly the same as last year's, except for a slight change in the cabinet. So I'll change the cabinet. . . . There'll have to be small adjustments in the books, a little fiddling here and there, but I'll take care of that. Then we sell them as new models! It means a financial windfall for the Factory, especially since there's nothing to stop us from continuing year after year. . . ."
"I don't like fraud, Mr. Leponte, whether public or private."
Baudruche rose to his feet. Leponte threw himself across his path.
"Mr. Commissioner, you haven't taken the report. Miss Foyle! Miss Foyle!"
Baudruche had opened the door.
"Don't bother, Mr. Leponte. I haven't time."
When Baudruche reached the courtyard, he noticed that the guardhouse was empty; it looked abandoned. Could it be? In fact, the entire area looked different: the rats had disappeared; there was not a rat in the streets, not one in the windows. All the shutters were closed, doors shut and the rats' flea market was deserted. They must all have withdrawn into their houses. Even the delegation headquarters were shut tight.
The rats didn't trust the explosion. They had no appetite for unnecessary dangers. How clever of them! Baudruche picked up speed. He must be at the gate at Zero Hour, for there might be trouble. As he raced along, he noticed rows of bright little eyes in sewers and basement windows, watching, waiting, safe in the dark. . . .
Elisa was annoyed. Her lover had refused to accompany her to the explosion. He pretended he wasn't interested and that it might be dangerous as well. It made her laugh. He always had to know more than anyone else, more even than the newspaper which said there was absolutely nothing to fear.
There was an air of celebration throughout the City; streamers and garlands hung from the trees in anticipation of the ball later that night. Turning down Prefect Avenue, Elisa noticed that more and more people looked at her with respect and admiration. In the men's eyes she read desire; in the women's, jealousy.
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