When the girls returned from their toilet — “Phew! You stink of fish!” said Sally as she approached us — John and I went to the stream. It was easy enough to find; a rough path had been worn to it through the bush.
At first we washed in silence, using handfuls of soft sand in lieu of soap. And then, as we lay in the shallows, letting the cool, clean water sweep over us, we talked a little.
“Peter,” said John. “You are a clever man. You have traveled. What do we do?”
“We co-operate,” I said. “There may be food growing on this island, but neither of us is sufficiently primitive to find it. I’ve seen a few bananas — but there aren’t enough to make a decent meal for a Yankee space-chimp. Oh, you could set up shop as a fisherman — but will they let you?
“I had thought of that,” he said. “I am afraid of them. But I am more afraid of the man Green.”
“He’s got the gun,” I said. “But it wouldn’t do us much good if we took it from him.”
“Why not, Peter?”
“He’s got the know-how. He’s an engineer, and a good one. He’s used to working with his hands, and telling other people how to work with theirs. He’ll be able to keep them happy — and as long as he keeps them happy they keep us fed. And as long as they keep us fed, we keep alive. And while there’s life, there’s hope. It’s as simple as that.”
“You make it sound simple, Peter, but I do not like it.”
“Neither do I, John.”
“It is the women that I am worried about, too …”
Oddly enough, that angle hadn’t occurred to me. I suppose that the attitude towards women in general with which I had left Sydney was still persisting. And then I had a vision of Mary struggling in the sweaty embrace of the gross Curley Green, and I didn’t like it. The vision of Sally in like circumstances was even more disturbing.
I said, although without much conviction, “He wouldn’t dare.”
“He has the gun, Peter.”
“There are times,” I pointed out, “when a handful of ironmongery can be an inconvenience. And quite a few dictators have been disposed of by their girl friends in an unguarded moment.”
“I cannot think of one,” he said.
And neither could I, although I did my best. “Samson and Delilah,” I said. “Jael and Sisera. Marat and Charlotte Corday …”
The Samoan looked dubious, but did not pursue the subject.
He said, after a lengthy silence, “So you think that we should work? You think that we should do as the man Green says?”
“Yes — until such time as we can escape. The world has to be warned, and if we’re dead we can’t warn them.”
“And the old man? The one called Bible Bill. He is mad. He could be dangerous …”
I rather lost my temper then. “We’re living in a dangerous world, my friend, in dangerous times. All we can do is to carry on as best we can, doing what we think best for the preservation of the lives of our women, our own lives. As far as Bible Bill is concerned — there’s one of him and four of us. Five, if you count Curley. Furthermore,” I went on, “it may be advisable to play along with him. He could be our contact with the porpoises. After all, they know him. They have been dealing with him for months.”
“But how can they help us?” he persisted. “They cannot come ashore …”
I remembered Curley Green’s conversation with Noah, the leader, the one who was to save his people from the deluge of atomic flame. There was a way in which he, unwittingly, could help us. Perhaps Curley Green would sow the seeds of his own destruction — but, if he did not, perhaps we, through Bible Bill — could do it for him.
I stood up, reached for the bathing trunks which, after I had thoroughly washed them, I had hung on a bush. They were dry. I put them on. John resumed his loincloth.
Together we walked back to the camp on the cliff top.
• • •
Curley Green had come down from his hill.
He was sitting on a wooden box, facing the others, who, a respectful distance from him, were sitting on the ground. The pistol was in his right hand, held like a sceptre. It lifted and swung to cover us as we approached. “Get over there with the others,” he ordered. “Park yer fat arses.”
We sat down — the two Samoans together, myself beside Sally.
Curley Green looked us up and down. “Now,” he said at last, “it’s time that we mapped out a plan of campaign. We have what those muckin’ bastards out there …” he waved a hand towards the sea “… want. Hands, fire, muckin’ knowhow. They have what we want. Food. Of course, as Petey knows, I’ve me own muckin’ plans, but they’ll keep.”
He waved the pistol at Bible Bill. “If you had ter model yerself on any bastard in the Old Testament,” he said, “it should’a been Tubal-cain. But you didn’t. You know as much about givin’ them what they want as my arse knows about snipe shootin’. Just as well I came along. If I hadn’t, they’d’ve washed their muckin’ hands of yer an’ left yer ter starve.”
He turned to me. “You’ve seen that muckin’ wonderful blueprint in the shed, Petey?”
“I have,” I said.
“Then you have some faint clue as to what’s muckin’ well required. Now, the steel. The steel for the blades. They’ll bring that. There’s the wreck of a Jap sub not far offshore. Pretty well blown ter pieces, she was. An’ tools we shall want. Hammers. Chisels. A palm and needle for sowin’ the muckin’ harness. I’ll be able to tell ‘em all right when I’ve made a few sketches. Then there’s charcoal …”
“Where will they find that?” I asked.
“Be your muckin’ age, Petey,” he said pityingly. “There’s plenty o’ bleedin’ wood on this bleedin’ island. That’ll be your job for the next few days — makin’ charcoal of it.”
“How?” I asked.
“How?” he mimicked. “That’s fer you ter muckin’ well find out, Petey boy. Just think of all the muckin’ times on your muckin’ bridge when you’ve given daft orders to the poor bastards in the muckin’ engine room … What would you have said if one of ‘em had come ter you and asked, ‘Please, how do I pump out the muckin’ After Peak?’ Or, ‘Please, Mister, would you mind tellin’ me how ter put the muckin’ engines full speed astern?’?”
“There have been times,” I said, with bitter memories of certain marine engineers, “when I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.”
His face reddened dangerously — and then he laughed. “You’re right, Petey. Some o’ the juniors at sea these days wouldn’t know if you was muckin’ well up ‘em. I’m sorry I can’t tell you how to make the muckin’ charcoal — that you’ll have ter work out for yerself. An’ you’d better work out somethin’.”
“Now that all the important matters have been discussed,” said Sally coldly, “I suggest that we devote some thought to our comfort. Sleeping arrangements, for example …”
“You can sleep in the muckin’ trees for all I care — as long as you’re all on the job at sparrowfart termorrer.” He looked at the two women with regret in his eyes. “It’s a muckin’ pity that I can’t trust either o’ you bitches.” He added, after a pause, “Yet. How does the sayin’ go? Uneasy lies the head that wears a muckin’ crown. That’s the muckin’ way of it …”
“Sleeping arrangements,” persisted Sally.
“I take the shed,” Green told her. “From now on that shed’s my storeroom, my workshop, my arsenal. None on yer sets foot inside, except on my muckin’ orders. See? And as for the rest of yer, help yer muckin’ selves. There’re a half dozen or so mattresses, as you’ll have found out by now. You couldn’t be better off in the muckin’ Ritz.”
“And meals,” went on Sally.
“Your department. At sunset I’ll issue stores to yer, an’ one match, an’ leave it ter you ter produce somethin’ hot an’ tasty …”
The old man had been sitting in morose silence, but now, his face working and sending ludicrous ripples through the white beard, he got to his feet.
“By what right …?” he spluttered. “By what authority …?”
“We can’t go through it all a-mucking-gain,” said Curley tiredly. “But, out o’ the kindness o’ me muckin’ heart, I’ll tell yer again. By the divine right o’ survival o’ the muckin’ fittest.
“An’ I’m the fittest.”