The Micronauts

by Gordon Williams

“Slap my face.”

  She raised her voice. “You’re a toad , Stanley Magruder.” She hit him across the cheek with her right hand. He winced.

  “That hurt, for God’s sake!”

  Robinson averted his eyes.

  “Are they going to get out of the garden?” she asked quietly.

  Magruder looked down at Khomich, smiling broadly. “If they’re very, very lucky,” he murmured.

  .

 

  Chapter

  At the bottom of the steep slope, they had to clamber through a narrow spread of ivy growing up toward the western end of the rockery. The big, smooth leaves gave off a powerful odor, like a mixture of carrots and petroleum. In some places, the leaves were only chest-high, making it feel as if they were wading through a sea of green leather—then, where the cable-thick creepers rose to form an arch, they found themselves in a shady green light, canopied by leaves as big as shop-awnings. Carr and Robinson started stamping down on the soft black soil as more springtails catapaulted over their heads.

  “You have to regard them as friends, Hugh,” said Magruder. “They could be one of our best food sources.”

  “I think I’d prefer army field-rations.”

  Bruce noticed that Khomich held back until all the springtails had dispersed. If it had been anyone else but Khomich, he would have said the man was scared.

  Magruder let Carr get ahead of them. “I saw Lena bending your ear back up there in the grass, Hugh,” he said quietly. “Take my word for it, she’s a real bitch. What was she talking to you about?”

  “She wanted to know what’s going to happen to Professor Richards.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “I don’t know myself.”

  “Seems obvious to me—the commissioner has caught him with his pants down and old man Towne

  won’t waste a chance like that. Listen—it was never my idea to steal that equipment. I think George has got what’s coming to him, really. I just hope the project doesn’t suffer.”

  “I thought you were all devoted to Richards—like disciples.”

  Magruder looked around. He nodded conspirato- rially. “I’m devoted to the project, Hugh, not to George’s power games. Lena’s the devoted one. Look, Hugh, I’ve got to be very careful, but I know a lot about this place, I’ve been involved almost since the start. I mean, if they needed evidence— ”

  ‘‘You’d testify against Richards?”

  “Yeah, I guess I would. You know how it is.”

  “Saving your own skin? You’d want immunity for yourself, of course.”

  “Exactly. And protection from fanatics like Jany and Muller. What’s George going to be charged with, anyway?”

  Robinson had felt the question coming all along. He put on his frankest face. “Khomich doesn’t tell me everything.”

  “It would be nice to know what I’m involved in. And Hugh—watch yourself with Lena, she may try to corrupt you.”

  Robinson snorted. “I wouldn’t have thought corrupting men was her style.”

  “You think she’s butch? Don’t you believe it, man!”

  They came out of the ivy into sunshine again, facing a stretch of soft black earth which to them looked like a vast field of lumps as big as boulders and chasms deep enough to swallow them up.

  “I think we should take a rest before we start across that,” said Magruder.

  Khomich snorted. “You tire easily for one so young.”

  “All right, if you have to know—I have to go to the bathroom. Give me a couple of minutes.”

  “Let Robinson go with you—in case some of nature’s miracles see your tender spot.”

  “You kidding?”

  As soon as Magruder was out of sight, Robinson strolled back toward the spread of dark green leaves, trying to listen for Magruder’s voice. Through the incessant droning and humming and buzzing from unseen armies of insects he heard no other sound.

  Khomich nodded for Bruce to leave the group, both of them edging away from where Carr and the two women were flopped on a little tuft of grass.

  “I have told Robinson to make sure Magruder doesn’t use the radio without our knowledqe,” Khomich said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t trust them. The girl has been asking Robinson what orders we have. Has it occurred to you that apart from the people in that house nobody knows we are down here?”

  “The Commissioner knows.”

  “But he is a long way away.”

  “Major Wollaston is in the house— ”

  “These are scientists, people full of trickery. Would you have expected Jany to cooperate so easily? He knows the Commissioner sent us and he knows Richards will be punished—yet there was no resistance to letting us come down here.”

  “He said he wanted everybody to see the potential of Arcadia.”

  Khomich hissed between clenched teeth. “Ridiculous. Listen—if you go to arrest a man, he tries to escape. And his friends do not normally give you every assistance to catch him.”

  “You’ve spent your life with the wrong people, Khomich. We’re not all devious homicidals.”

  “No? They could have had Richards picked up by their Recovery Vehicle—or another rescue party.”

  “What is Anne Richards doing with us, then?”

  Khomich took off his hat and patted at his hair, apparently puzzled by its new softness. “I’m glad she is with us; she is our best guarantee of safety.” He frowned. “Unless—do you know if she and her husband are on good terms?”

  “You mean this might be George Richards’s way of getting rid of her? For Christ’s sake, Khomich, you’re as bad as the commissioner.”

  “No, I am not like the commissioner. I do not have people thrown out of windows simply as a precaution.”

  “A precaution? But you said Larson tried to warn Richards— ”

  “That’s what Towne told me.” Khomich shrugged indifferently. “You think the commissioner stays in power by means of fatherly interviews on the network?”

  Anne Richards stopped in mid-sentence, her eyes widening in disbelief.

  “What’s wrong, Anne?” asked Lena Davidson.

  “Look—my pack. It’s moving /”

  She jumped to her feet.

  The pack went on moving. She had put it down on what looked like a little pile of dry sticks and leaves— and now the little rubbish pile was crawling away from her.

  Bruce and Khomich came running over, Khomich with his pistol out. Bruce walked round the moving pile, holding up his hand to stop Khomich from shooting it.

  “What’s wrong?” shouted Robinson, coming out of the ivy.

  “It’s all right, it’s a green lace-wing larva.” Bruce lifted the pack off the moving pile. “You want to see its head?” Nobody moved. “It sticks all this stuff on its back as protection. See the dry husks of all the small insects it’s eaten?”

  “How revolting,” said Anne Richards, with a little shudder. “God, I hate this place.”

  Suddenly, Khomich rammed his pistol in his belt. With both hands, he grabbed a smooth, brown pebble as big as a dustbin and jerked it out of the soft soil, knees braced, big veins throbbing on his neck as he lifted it above his head. He swayed for a moment—then dropped the big stone on the living pile of rubbish, squashing the lace-wing larva out of sight. He stood there panting, teeth bared in triumph.

  ‘‘What the hell—what did you drop a rock on it for?” Bruce demanded incredulously.

  “It was quieter than the pistol.”

  “Why did you kill it?”

  “Why not?”

  “But it wasn’t doing you any harm!”

  “It won’t do any harm now.”

  Why not? Until then his dislike of Khomich had been instinctive, almost a defensive reflex, not so much a detestation of Khomich the man, but of what he represented; part of an apparatus his own quirky sense of individualism had led him both to fear and despise. Why not? Two simple words—and a shrug—all you ever needed
to know about man’s incurable brutality. Just for a moment he had a blinding urge to pull out his pistol and blow Khomich’s head off.

  “You’re a very strong fellow,” Lena Davidson said sarcastically.

  Khomich seemed to be in a good mood. “You don’t like strong men? You prefer bulging brains?”

  “I prefer maturity to childishness.”

  “Ah— maturity? You scientists know all about maturity, of course, asking us to become midgets and live down here with all these disgusting creatures.”

  “Sadistic bastards who put people in front of a firing-squad because they’re hungry—that’s what I call disgusting .”

  Khomich’s face became impenetrable.

  “Come on, let’s not get into arguments,” Magruder said, “we must— ”

  “I saw the film of the London riots,” she went on, her mouth tight with bitterness. “I was physically sick. Somebody should drop a rock on you.”

  Khomich turned away, picking up his pack.

  “Did you get a special kick—seeing a woman shot?” she shouted.

  Robinson prodded her shoulder with his forefinger. “Don’t speak to Staff-Commander Khomich like that.”

  “Don’t you lecture to me, you overgrown boy scout! He’s a bloody murderer and you’re his— ”

  “I gave the order for those people to be shot,’’ he said curtly. Khomich frowned, gesturing for him to keep quiet. Magruder stared at him unbelievingly. “You gave the order?’’

  “I was in command of the SD squad. There are mandatory punishments for riots—if those agitators had not been executed, the alternative would have been a collective sanction against the people of the Inner London area—no food for ten days. I decided it would be unfair to make innocent people suffer for the hooliganism of a small minority. Get your facts right before you make silly statements—nobody enjoys giving the order to a firing-squad.”

  The bleeping noise came from Magruder’s radio pack. Still staring unbelievingly at Robinson, he unhooked it from his belt and slipped the transceiver out of its canvas case, holding it against his cheek. “Come in, Control.”

  They watched, unable to hear what he was saying. Suddenly he began to wave at them. “Understood, Control,” he said, “taking shelter now.” He rammed the black transceiver into its case. “Let’s get back under the i V y_Recovery has spotted the raven. They’re going to shoot it.”

  “Why do they want us to hide in the ivy?” Khomich demanded.

  “It’s moving about the garden, they’re going to blast it as soon as it’s in the air. You want to be underneath a bird the size of a goddamn house when it hits the ground?”

  “The ivy is no protection—we will get into one of

  these trenches in the soil.”

  They grabbed their packs and started to run.

  “It’s heading for the chestnut tree in Section One- Seven,” said the voice on the radio. Khomich spread his map against the crumbling surface of the big mound of

  THE MICRONAUTS

  soil. “That’s on the other side of the garden,” he said. “Why don’t they shoot it now?”

  “They’re using a shotgun—they might hit some of the people we’re looking for.”

  Carr cautiously raised his head above the level of the narrow trench in which they were cowering. “Hey,” he said, “there’s something moving over there—under the earth.”

  They craned to look, pistols drawn.

  “What is it?” said Anne Richards, crouching under the earth boulder.

  A few feet away, where the soil was almost flat, they saw the surface heaving—and then it broke. Out came the tipped head of something as big as a boa constrictor. The tip seemed to test the air.

  “Bloody hell,” gasped Carr, “it’s a big red snake!”

  The thick, ringed body began to slither up out of its hole, a deep ox blood red on top and almost pink underneath. They were so close they could see small hook-like bristles all down its sides. The ringed segments, bunched and then gave a muscular forward surge— sending the thick red body straight toward them.

  Carr and Robinson took aim.

  “Do they give medals for shooting earthworms?” Bruce asked drily.

  “That’s a snake!”

  “No, that’s Lumbricus terrestris, the gardener’s friend. Every year they move about eighteen tonnes of soil to the acre. Pity to massacre such a hard-working chap— even if he/she is a bit kinky. Anyway, even if you blow him/her in half, you’ll only end up with two worms.”

  “What do you mean—kinky?” Carr asked.

  “They’re both male and female. When they mate, they do a double-exchange.”

  Carr’s expression was cheerfully obscene. “You mean they can’t just make a circle and charver their own— ”

  “Corporal!” Khomich barked.

  The worm’s tipped head seemed to sense their nearness. The gleaming body twisted in another direction.

  Out came the tipped head of something as big as a boa constrictor.

  ‘‘Raven now on the main rockery east of Station Three,” said the voice on the radio. ‘‘We’ll zap him the moment he gets up in the air.”

  ‘‘It isn’t a raven, it’s a hooded crow,” said another voice.

  That was when they saw a big black bird come swooping low across the garden, landing in a rush of beating wings and then hopping toward them.

  In their panic, they thought it was the crow. Carr fired off a shot before he scrambled down with the others at the bottom of the trench. Only Bruce remained standing.

  ‘‘It’s a blackbird,” he said, looking down at the frightened faces, ‘‘crows don’t have yellow beaks. It’s after the worm.”

  A shower of earth and grit rattled down on them. They cowered in fear. Bruce dusted his face, blinking to clear his eyes. ‘‘Don’t be frightened,” he drawled, “you’re missing all the action.”

  First Robinson then Carr looked nervously over the rim of the trench.

  Only a few feet away, towering over them like the wing of a plane, were the jet-black feathers of the cock blackbird’s tail. Its yellow claws and legs were scrabbling for a grip on the loose earth as it tried to drag the big worm from its hole.

  With its tipped head twisting frantically against the cruel vice of the yellow beak, the rest of the worm’s long body was as taut as stretched elastic, at least half of its bristled segments still fighting to keep a grip on the sides of its hole. The blackbird was playing it like a fisherman with a salmon too heavy for his line, giving a little and then jerking back quickly, trying to tug the whole worm out of the hole without tearing it in half. The clawed feet sent another shower of earth into the trench.

  When they looked up again, blinking away the dust, the blackbird seemed to be winning the inch-by-inch battle.

  “He’s coming up—stand by,” said the voice on the radio.

  An avalanche of sound came at them in one gigantic boom.

  Seconds later, they felt a tremor under their feet and heard the alarmed clacking of the blackbird as it fled for the bushes.

  “Okay, Magruder,” said the radio voice, “we killed your crow. You can come out now.”

  Carr was the first to scramble out of the trench.

  “What’s he doing?” Robinson asked, trying to get a toehold in the crumbling wall of loose earth. Then his eyes opened wide. “My God!”

  Carr had his boot on the worm’s front end, pinning it to the ground while he dragged the length of pink nylon rope from his pack. They watched him in amazement. He double-looped the rope and then dangled the loop in front of the worm’s twisting front end, yelling triumphantly as he dragged the loop under the ringed body.

  “Carr!” Robinson yelled, “stop that at once!”

  “We’ll have him with fried onions,” Carr shouted gleefully, leaning back on his heels. “Grub up, folks!”

  The worm telescoped its deep-red frontal segments in a frantic effort to reverse into its tunnel. Carr’s boots dragged on soil. H
e took a double-handed grip on the rope and dug in his heels.

  “You people are mad,” Lena Davidson snapped.

  “Carr—we’re not here for tug-of-war matches with bloody earthworms!” Robinson shouted. Khomich held his arm.

  “Give the corporal a chance to beat the bird, Captain,” he said, smiling jeeringly at Lena. “Your micropeople must learn to catch their food supplies.”

  Leaning so far back he was almost seated, Carr began to win his tug-of war, timing his heaves just before each bunching of the worm’s muscular segments. Inch- by-inch, the bristly body was pulled out of the hole, past the thick saddle of the clitellum, then the flatter, pinker segments of the rear end.

  Its resistance ended abruptly, its flattened tail coming out of the hole in a fast slide. Carr sat down heavily, out of breath, but laughing. Robinson ran across to him

  and grabbed the trailing rope as the worm began to thrash about wildly.

  “If we lose this rope, I’ll put you on a charge, Corporal,” he snapped. “You’re a fool.”

  Together they pinned the worm down with their boots while Carr loosened the loop. They dragged the rope clear. The worm looked slightly fractured at the front but still managed to squirm down into another crevice in the earth.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” Robinson demanded.

  Carr laughed guiltily. “I don’t know, sir, it just came into my head.”

  “Do anything like that again and I’ll have your guts for garters. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be too hard on the corporal,” Khomich said benignly, “at least he has shown our friends here how to catch their dinners.” He laughed uproariously. So did Carr. For a second or two, they looked like uncontrollable adolescents. Khomich kept pointing at Magruder and then doubling up. “You are going to live here and play tug-of-war with worms for the rest of your midget’s life?”

  They started to hurry across the lumpy, fissured earth in silence, Khomich’s face once again impenetrable.

  “You think it’s a ludicrous idea living down here?” Magruder said bitterly. Khomich ignored him. Magruder jumped from one mound of earth to the next. “I saw this network show a few weeks ago, the usual old crap—hope for the hungry masses. Wait for it—WFC’s brilliant brains are finding a way to utilize all the water hyacinth choking rivers in Africa. They’re going to run great herds of hippopotamuses, like steers in old Texas—the hippos eat the water hyacinth and then we eat the hippos! You actually believe all that crap, Khomich? We’re going to feed two billion people on hippoburgers?”