"You're reading? Reading at a time like this!"
"What else is there for me to do?"
Baudruche didn't reply. He took the piece of stone from his pocket and placed it in front of Labrique. The Librarian examined it in every light and weighed it in his palm.
"I guess it isn't only people who suffer mysterious illnesses; stones do too. This stone is sick, Baudruche. I've never seen it before. It isn't the only one, is it? You have more?"
Baudruche indicated he had many more. Labrique dropped the stone on the floor and it broke into fragments.
"That stone's completely disintegrated! 'Where did you find it?"
"It's a piece of the ramparts."
Yes, they'd really done it with their explosion. Why didn't they try another test in the sewers? They would have to tear down all the infected parts of the walls to keep it from spreading to the healthy parts; then it would have to be rebuilt. An enormous piece of work. But otherwise everything would be lost. Unless, of course, the sickness stopped of itself. But how could you tell? Nobody had ever seen anything like it.
Labrique followed his friend to the door.
"Believe me, Baudruche, you can't do anything with those fools."
As he was walking, Baudruche knew that nothing could be done about the walls. It would take most of the men in the City to work fast enough to hold the disease in check. And where would they find new stone? People now knew only concrete and cement: that's what all the new houses were made of. The quarries where the stone had come from were far away. No, it was out of the question. They might be able to fill the worst cavities with the remains of the Church and of a few other negligible old buildings, but that would be impossible too. To get the necessary number of men, the Factory would have to shut down, and that the Prefect would never allow. "You can't do anything with those fools." Labrique made him laugh.
It was in the cards that Labrique wouldn't have a moment's peace that morning. Yet another visitor had come after Baudruche. They talked at length; actually, he did the talking. It was because the man had launched him on a subject that interested and even obsessed him: Baudruche. His visitor seemed like a trustworthy fellow. A free man, a loner, a monster—like himself.
He already knew a lot about the Commissioner through Elisa Poulet (he had a nerve, quoting his sources!), but her honesty was almost as undependable as her intelligence. That's why he had wanted to talk to Labrique, Baudruche's oldest and closest friend.
Who was Baudruche? Good heavens, in the old days, he looked like anybody else except for a few unusual qualities, and a little more character. Now he seemed to split the clouds, the way the Church had done not so long ago. He was isolated in the middle of a square, just as the Church had been. And, like the Church, he was of a different time.
As for the Prefect and the Commissioner, everything should have separated them: they were born to follow a collision course until one of them was eliminated. But it hadn't happened because, unfortunately, the latter had scruples unknown to the former. The antagonists were ill-matched. More than that: there was no contest because one of them refused to fight.
"Perhaps you visited our Church before it collapsed? Did you notice the fine piece of sculpture directly under the steeple? A Saint George and the Dragon with his sword halfway down the beast's throat? Well, that's what was supposed to happen, except that our Saint George doesn't want to fight the Dragon, because to him the Dragon represents stability, traditional order and most of all legality, to which he has sworn his fealty. So, in our case, we have a Saint George groveling at the feet of a contemptuous Dragon.
"Would you like to talk to the Commissioner here? It's fine with me, except that I have the impression he's not eager to meet you. It could be compromising. . . . You know, the Prefect might not like it. But I'll give him the message."
"Where have you been?" Elisa said. "I've been sitting here waiting for half an hour."
"If you were so hungry, why didn't you go ahead and eat?"
"I can't eat when you're not here. . . ."
"That's too bad, because that way you may someday die of starvation."
She was at a loss to figure out what he meant, but didn't dare ask for fear he'd think her stupid. For the moment, at least, neither was likely to die of hunger. Baidroume had reassured them. He was coping with the difficulties of rationing, they wouldn't be without anything yet, and he would do everything in his power to see that it continued that way. The Hotel's guests came first. . . . He only hoped no one would come nosing into his affairs, otherwise he couldn't guarantee anything. He counted on Mrs. Poulet to pass the word along to the Commissioner. It would be in her own interest.
She would be only too glad. What a shame! Why couldn't they let people work in peace? In any event, he could count on her.
Baidroume thanked her, bowed deeply—he had to go because he had a great deal on his mind: a large banquet to plan for the next day. What, they hadn't heard? A dinner in the City for members of the government and the top officials of the neighboring state. The Women's League was assuming the cost to show its gratitude for the Prefect's patronage.
"Good day, Mr. Edge."
"Good day, Mr. Fisher. My compliments! What a spectacle! What reassurance for the City! What a marvelous piece of work!"
"Oh, you know, I didn't do it alone. I was lucky enough to have quite a good team. And in the final analysis, it is really a question of talent. Others might use another word, but they undoubtedly exaggerate. What it comes down to is specialization. A first-class brain, oriented in the right direction, is capable of anything—with an ease that astonishes even its owner. But one is always a little surprised when the thing one is surest about works. . . . How is the architecture going, Mr. Edge?"
"We're far behind, I'm afraid. We are hemmed in. Our work could be constructive (forgive the pun, my dear friend), but we're smothered in a mass of degrading tasks—chiefly the maintenance of a pile of old stones that serve no purpose."
"You are referring to the ramparts?"
"Oh, they have their uses, I won't argue that. They were our only defense—a pathetic one at best—against the enemy. But what use are they now?"
"My friend, their use is as a testing ground for our explosives. That alone makes them worth maintaining."
"The top parts seem to be a little the worse for wear. They've been invaded by ants again, but not the same ones you reduced to dust. These are a pretty red, very numerous and seem quite aggressive."
"In that case, our next explosion will not be just a minor test. Confidentially, we are preparing another one, using a considerably more advanced powder whose power is beyond our present knowledge. You know, I even hope the enemy comes, for I'd be very disappointed to have to retire before I witnessed the crowning achievement of so many years of arduous and inventive work."
On his way to the President, Baudruche made a small detour via the Public Gardens.
He could just make out a crowd of children with a single figure standing above them. The man was playing a flute, but Baudruche could hear nothing above the children's singing.
As he came up to the group, a couple of the children recognized him, stopped singing and whispered his name to a neighbor. Gradually the singing stopped and the man removed the flute from his mouth. Embarrassed, Baudruche left.
On a sudden impulse he turned down a side street leading to a section of old houses the rats had taken over.
The flea market had expanded to almost every street. Everything that couldn't be found elsewhere was here. Food and clothing were the big sellers now.
Suddenly, on impulse, Baudruche found himself buying three packages of tobacco, a half bottle of his favorite aperitif and a pair of gloves—the thick, warm kind Martha always bought at Manformen.
"Why, Mr. High Commissioner, you've been shopping! I hope the prices were right."
"It's not a question of price," Baudruche said as he took his accustomed seat before the President, "but where they came from. Can yo
u explain to me how your compatriots are able to offer City merchandise in broad daylight when its sale is strictly controlled?"
"City merchandise, you say?"
"Look for yourself. These gloves are from my usual store, then I have this half bottle of Picard and three packages of tobacco."
The President examined each in turn.
"You frightened me, Mr. Commissioner! For a moment I thought it was some sort of black market run by highly placed City inhabitants and some of our own delinquents. Thank heaven it isn't sol These things were made by us. Look at the labels!"
Baudruche put on his glasses. To be sure, the gloves, the bottle and the tobacco each bore a tiny inscription indicating they were imported.
"We are proud and happy to be able to offer the City real competition—to the point where you could make this mistake. I'm sure you're as happy as I, for I gather you are beginning to have a few shortages in the City."
"Only temporary."
"Of course, Mr. Commissioner. But meanwhile, we are here to fill the gap, to come to the aid of your faltering economy. What we offer is what we've learned to do without. Everything is for export. It's a question of life or death for our people."
There was nothing left for Baudruche but to present his solution to the business of the Rathouse, and leave.
"Here is the key to one of the City's public buildings, the Museum of Man. I place it in your hands at the request of the Prefect; he doesn't want you to have to wait any longer."
"But that's perfect! Please extend our deepest thanks to the Prefect; he must be equally relieved to see this problem resolved."
"You will no longer need Emil Poulet and his team, so you can now return them to us. The City has great need of them."
"Alas, Mr. Commissioner, alas! That is a very painful subject. The Rodent has just appeared with the story. Please read it. I'd rather you learned it from the paper than from me."
The headline ran across the whole front page: "Unusually Mild Verdict: Only Poulet Condemned to Death."
The Commissioner leaped from his chair. "What does this mean?"
"Read it, Mr. Commissioner, read it."
"I haven't time. Tell me in a few words."
"Emil Poulet and his gang were convicted of espionage and sabotage. They confessed of their own free will. Their trial was conducted in the most correct manner, observing all the rights of the accused. We had to force them to accept lawyers: they insisted they weren't worthy. So, as you see here, the jury showed great clemency. Only Emil Poulet, the worst offender, was given the penalty all should have received. We are not a cruel people: the sentence was executed immediately. After all, what is more painful for a condemned man than a long wait between the judgment and its implementation? The execution was not public; we despise that kind of spectacle. He did not suffer: the hanging was over quickly. We are experienced. . . ."
"But that's murder"
"No, Mr. Commissioner, the word is justice. I understand how under the strain of emotion and surprise, such an untoward expression might have slipped from your tongue, and I won't hold it against you, even though it recalls certain particularly painful memories to us—all those corpses lying about the City streets while you were celebrating. . . ."
"You are going to liberate Poulet's companions?"
"Of course, Mr. Commissioner, as soon as they have served out their sentences. We no longer condemn men to prison sentences but to mandatory terms in camps for political reeducation. At the end of fifteen years, we send them back new men with healthy minds, like yours and mine—that is, if they wish to return to the City. We prefer reform to punishment."
"But Emil's death . . ."
"We had to make an example of him in order to warn the City's inhabitants against disrupting the good relations between us. I am just as disturbed as you are. . . . Let's forget it; it's too sad. I didn't show you the newspaper just to inform you of this unfortunate development. Look again: it has some news I know will please you. . . . There, on the first page."
"I don't see anything," Baudruche answered, his eyes riveted to the picture of the hanged man.
"See, under The Rodent's masthead, in the small type: 'Merged with The Liberated Rat: I've absorbed it; it's been swallowed, eliminated. Their wretched staff will sink under the weight of our editors. The size of the type is proof positive of the position they will henceforth hold. We did consent to keep their motto: 'We'll keep nibbling; we'll get them in the end!' But that's all. Didn't I tell you I'd get rid of the sheet that dared insult you? By the way, we will inaugurate our new headquarters tomorrow with the banquet the Women's League is giving in our honor. That Esther Labrique . . . What a woman! What energy! What a heart! How proud you must be . . . There aren't only Emil Poulets in the City. . . . Oh, I almost forgot: I've been sent a package containing Emil Poulet's personal effects. Do you wish to give them to the widow yourself or do you prefer I send them over?"
Baudruche walked out unsteadily. His glance fell on Canard in the cheering crowd outside the entrance, waving the new edition of The Rodent over their heads. Canard sidled up to him:
"Have you a few words for The Rodent, Mr. Commissioner?"
The stranger was leaning out over the parapet, taking care not to disturb the loose stones.
"Hey, soldier, catch!"
He threw down a package which fell into the soldier's outstretched hands.
"What is it?"
"Food. Hide it."
"Why? Don't I have the right to eat?"
"I don't think they think so. When people don't think they have enough, they always think other people have too much. And food is getting tight."
"All they have to do is get it from outside."
"That would mean leaving the City and they'd rather die of hunger."
"Why don't they eat the rats? That's what they always do when a city's under siege. But what's going on in there? The other day it was raining mud; now it's stones from the wall."
"Yes, the wall's beginning to disintegrate. They really did it in with their explosion. I can't even let Posey come here anymore; she might break her neck."
"If I can't see a girl now and then, I'll go nuts. There's nothing to do here; it's so boring. I can't wait for my discharge! Thank God it's coming soon. If I'd known about Posey, I would have deserted last night and stayed with them."
"Stayed where?"
"In a country I'd seen only in the movies. It was pretty wild the way it happened. I was sound asleep when I was awakened by a big splash of water in the face. It was the sea. A wave had broken over me. Then, right over there, I saw a dinghy with a bunch of sailors.
"This naval officer jumped out and came up to me and asked me who I was, what I was doing here, and why he couldn't go into the City. I told him what I knew. He asked me to come aboard the big boat and tell him more.
"They rowed me out to the big boat, and I told him everything I knew about the City and the civilians in there, what I'd done and how I got here. I could see the captain was getting more and more depressed. He said if he'd known that, he wouldn't have come.
"I ate with the sailors, and afterward we drank some rum together, and I began to feel the boat roll and pitch. I just had time to run to the side and lean out. Afterward, I went to bed in one of their hanging contraptions. Finally the sea calmed down and I heard somebody call out:
" 'Shore leave!'
"There was this island bathed in sun, with sand, palm trees, women . . . unbelievable! They showed almost everything. And no complications, no beating around the bush. They'd had it up to here with sailors. It took me only an hour to find a real dish. . . . But we had to get back in the boat. That night, the captain asked me if I didn't want to stay with them .
" 'You can be a marine. There aren't any anymore.'
"I sure hesitated, I can tell you, but something wouldn't let me. I told him my place is over there. He shook my hand and said I was right. He took me up on deck. We were right near the City.
"The d
inghy brought me back here and I jumped off. It's better here; at least it doesn't move around."
The stranger moved away. Long stretches of the sentry walk were without parapets. He walked with great care, but even so, loose stones kept rolling down the sides of the walls.
Baudruche cleared his throat.
"Elisa, I have some bad news for you.
"Oh, I'm getting used to it: the dust, the restrictions, the black market. There's nothing in the stores anymore; you have to go to the flea market. At least the rats know how to cope. I haven't been yet; it's supposed to be very picturesque. Have you, Mr. Commissioner?"
"Yes, once or twice . . . but that's not what this is about. The paper is going to announce tonight . . ."
"Oh, I don't bother with that anymore. There's never anything interesting in it."
"The paper is going to announce that your husband is not coming back."
"I told you that, Commissioner, but you wouldn't believe me. Let him stay."
This was beginning to get on his nerves. Suddenly Baudruche blurted out:
"He's not coming back because he's dead."
Elisa's face brightened.
"You mean I'm a widow!"
"Nothing gets by you, does it?"
"How did it happen?"
"He was convicted of espionage and sabotage—obviously untrue."
"Untrue? What a shame! I could have been a hero's widow. Of course it's sad for him, but you must admit it simplifies my life."
"I thought you'd adjusted well to his existence."
"Not so well, Commissioner. Between you and me, I was feeling a little guilty. Now I don't have to anymore. But there is one inconvenience: I will have to wear black and where am I going to find it? And at what a price!"
Dazed, Baudruche got up and made for the door. Elisa caught him by the arm.
"You've got to understand, Commissioner. I can't go around like this; it wouldn't be correct."
He took out his wallet, pulled out a handful of bills, thrust them in her hands and fled.
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