That Hideous Strength: (Space Trilogy, Book Three) (The Space Trilogy 3), page 11
“Exactly. That’s what we want to avoid. The only way to manage a place like this is to produce your candidate—bring the rabbit out of a hat—two minutes after you’ve announced the vacancy.”
“We must begin thinking about it at once.”
“Does his successor have to be a sociologist? I mean is the fellowship tied to the subject?”
“Oh, not in the least. It’s one of those Paston fellowships. Why? Had you any subject in mind?”
“It’s a long time since we had anyone in Politics.”
“Um—yes. There’s still a considerable prejudice against Politics as an academic subject. I say, Feverstone, oughtn’t we to give this new subject a leg up?”
“What new subject?”
“Pragmatometry.”
“Well now, it’s funny you should say that, because the man I was beginning to think of is a Politician who has also been going in a good deal for Pragmatometry. One could call it a fellowship in social Pragmatometry, or something like that.”
“Who is the man?”
“Laird—from Leicester, Cambridge.”
It was automatic for Curry to look very thoughtful, though he had never heard of Laird, and to say, “Ah, Laird. Just remind me of the details of his academic career.”
“Well,” said Feverstone, “as you remember, he was in bad health at the time of his finals, and came rather a cropper. The Cambridge examining is so bad nowadays that one hardly counts that. Everyone knew he was one of the most brilliant men of his year. He was President of the Sphinxes and used to edit The Adult. David Laird, you know.”
“Yes, to be sure. David Laird. But I say, Dick. . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’m not quite happy about his bad degree. Of course I don’t attach a superstitious value to examination results any more than you do. Still . . . We have made one or two unfortunate elections lately.” Almost involuntarily, as he said this, Curry glanced across the room to where Pelham sat—Pelham with his little button-like mouth and his pudding face. Pelham was a sound man; but even Curry found it difficult to remember anything that Pelham had ever done or said.
“Yes, I know,” said Feverstone, “but even our worst elections aren’t quite so dim as those the College makes when we leave it to itself.”
Perhaps because the intolerable noise had frayed his nerves, Curry felt a momentary doubt about the “dimness” of these outsiders. He had dined recently at Northumberland and found Telford dining there the same night. The contrast between the alert and witty Telford whom everyone at Northumberland seemed to know, whom everyone listened to, and the “dim” Telford in Bracton Common Room had perplexed him. Could it be that the silences of all these “outsiders” in his own College, their monosyllabic replies when he condescended and their blank faces when he assumed his confidential manner, had an explanation which had never occurred to him? The fantastic suggestion that he, Curry, might be a bore, passed through his mind so swiftly that a second later he had forgotten it forever. The much less painful suggestion that these traditionalists and research beetles affected to look down on him was retained. But Feverstone was shouting at him again.
“I’m going to be at Cambridge next week,” he said. “In fact I’m giving a dinner. I’d as soon it wasn’t mentioned here, because, as a matter of fact, the PM may be coming, and one or two big newspaper people and Tony Dew. What? Oh, of course you know Tony. That little dark man from the Bank. Laird is going to be there. He’s some kind of cousin of the PM’s. I was wondering if you could join us. I know David’s very anxious to meet you. He’s heard a lot about you from some chap who used to go to your lectures. I can’t remember the name.”
“Well, it would be very difficult. It rather depends on when old Bill’s funeral is to be. I should have to be here for that of course. Was there anything about the inquest on the six o’clock news?”
“I didn’t hear. But of course that raises a second question. Now that Blizzard has gone to blow in a better world, we have two vacancies.”
“I can’t hear,” yelled Curry. “Is this noise getting worse? Or am I getting deaf?”
“I say, Sub-Warden,” shouted Brizeacre from beyond Feverstone, “what the devil are your friends outside doing?”
“Can’t they work without shouting?” asked someone else.
“It doesn’t sound like work at all to me,” said a third.
“Listen!” said Glossop suddenly. “That’s not work. Listen to the feet. It’s more like a game of rugger.”
“It’s getting worse every minute,” said Raynor.
Next moment nearly everyone in the room was on his feet. “What was that?” shouted one. “They’re murdering someone,” said Glossop. “There’s only one way of getting a noise like that out of a man’s throat.” “Where are you going?” asked Curry. “I’m going to see what’s happening,” said Glossop. “Curry, go and collect all the shooters in College. Someone ring up the police.” “I shouldn’t go out if I were you,” said Feverstone who had remained seated and was pouring himself out another glass of wine. “It sounds as if the police, or something, was there already.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen. There!”
“I thought that was their infernal drill.”
“Listen!”
“My God . . . you really think it’s a machine gun?”
“Look out! Look out!” said a dozen voices at once as a splintering of glass became audible and a shower of stones fell onto the Common Room floor. A moment later several of the Fellows had made a rush for the windows and put up the shutters; and then they were all standing staring at one another, and silent but for the noise of their heavy breathing. Glossop had a cut on the forehead, and on the floor lay the fragments of that famous east window on which Henrietta Maria had once cut her name with a diamond.
5
Elasticity
Next morning Mark went back to Belbury by train. He had promised his wife to clear up a number of points about his salary and place of residence, and the memory of all these promises made a little cloud of uneasiness in his mind, but on the whole he was in good spirits. This return to Belbury—just sauntering in and hanging up his hat and ordering a drink—was a pleasant contrast to his first arrival. The servant who brought the drink knew him. Filostrato nodded to him. Women would fuss, but this was clearly the real world. After the drink he strolled upstairs to Cosser’s office. He was there for only five minutes, and when he came out, his state of mind had been completely altered.
Steele and Cosser were both there and both looked up with the air of men who have been interrupted by a total stranger. Neither spoke.
“Ah—good morning,” said Mark awkwardly.
Steele finished making a pencil note on some large document which was spread out before him.
“What is it, Mr. Studdock?” he said without looking up.
“I came to see Cosser,” said Mark, and then, addressing Cosser, “I’ve just been thinking over the last section but one in that report—”
“What report’s this?” said Steele to Cosser.
“Oh, I thought,” replied Cosser with a little twisty smile at one corner of his mouth, “that it would be a good thing to put together a report on Cure Hardy in my spare time, and as there was nothing particular to do yesterday I drew it up. Mr. Studdock helped me.”
“Well, never mind about that now,” said Steele. “You can talk to Mr. Cosser about it some other time, Mr. Studdock. I’m afraid he’s busy at present.”
“Look here,” said Mark, “I think we’d better understand one another. Am I to take it that this report was simply a private hobby of Cosser’s? And if so, I should like to have known that before I spent eight hours’ work on it. And whose orders am I under?”
Steele, playing with his pencil, looked at Cosser.
“I asked you a question about my position, Mr. Steele,” said Mark.
“I haven’t time for this sort of thing,” said Steele. “If you haven’t any work to do, I have. I know nothing about your position.”
Mark thought, for a moment, of turning to Cosser; but Cosser’s smooth, freckled face and noncommittal eyes suddenly filled him with such contempt that he turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him. He was going to see the Deputy Director.
At the door of Wither’s room he hesitated for a moment because he heard voices from within. But he was too angry to wait. He knocked and entered without noticing whether the knock had been answered.
“My dear boy,” said the Deputy Director looking up but not quite fixing his eyes on Mark’s face. “I’m delighted to see you.” As he heard these words Mark noticed that there was a third person in the room. It was a man called Stone whom he had met at dinner the day before yesterday. Stone was standing in front of Wither’s table, rolling and unrolling a piece of blotting paper with his fingers. His mouth was open, his eyes fixed on the Deputy Director.
“Delighted to see you,” repeated Wither. “All the more so because you—er—interrupted me in what I am afraid I must call a rather painful interview. As I was just saying to poor Mr. Stone when you came in, nothing is nearer to my heart than the wish that this great Institute should all work together like one family . . . the greatest unity of will and purpose, Mr. Stone, the fullest mutual confidence . . . that is what I expect of my colleagues. But then as you may remind me, Mr.—ah—Studdock, even in family life, there are occasionally strains and frictions and misunderstandings. And that is why, my dear boy, I am not at the moment quite at leisure—don’t go, Mr. Stone. I have a great deal more to say to you.”
“Perhaps I’d better come back later?” said Mark.
“Well, perhaps in all the circumstances . . . it is your feelings that I am considering, Mr. Stone . . . perhaps . . . the usual method of seeing me, Mr. Studdock, is to apply to my secretary and make an appointment. Not, you will understand, that I have the least wish to insist on any formalities or would be other than pleased to see you whenever you looked in. It is the waste of your time that I am anxious to avoid.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Mark. “I’ll go and see your secretary.”
The secretary’s office was next door. When one went in, one found not the secretary himself, but a number of subordinates who were cut off from their visitors behind a sort of counter. Mark made an appointment for ten o’clock tomorrow which was the earliest hour they could offer him. As he came out he ran into Fairy Hardcastle.
“Hullo, Studdock,” said the Fairy. “Hanging round the DD’s office? That won’t do, you know.”
“I have decided,” said Mark, “that I must either get my position definitely fixed once and for all or else leave the Institute.”
She looked at him with an ambiguous expression in which amusement seemed to predominate. Then she suddenly slipped her arm through his.
“Look, Sonny,” she said, “you drop all that, see? It isn’t going to do you any good. You come along and have a talk with me.”
“There’s really nothing to talk about, Miss Hardcastle,” said Mark. “I’m quite clear in my mind. Either I get a real job here, or I go back to Bracton. That’s simple enough: I don’t even particularly mind which, so long as I know.”
To this, the Fairy made no answer, and the steady pressure of her arm compelled Mark, unless he was prepared to struggle, to go with her along the passage. The intimacy and authority of her grip was ludicrously ambiguous and would have fitted almost equally well the relations of policeman and prisoner, mistress and lover, nurse and child. Mark felt that he would look a fool if they met anyone.
She brought him to her own offices which were on the second floor. The outer office was full of what he had already learned to call Waips, the girls of the Women’s Auxiliary Institutional Police. The men of the force, though very much more numerous, were not so often met with indoors, but Waips were constantly seen flitting to and fro wherever Miss Hardcastle appeared. Far from sharing the masculine characteristics of their chief they were (as Feverstone once said) “feminine to the point of imbecility”—small and slight and fluffy and full of giggles. Miss Hardcastle behaved to them as if she were a man, and addressed them in tones of half-breezy, half-ferocious, gallantry. “Cocktails, Dolly,” she bawled as they entered the outer office. When they reached the inner office she made Mark sit down but remained standing herself with her back to the fire and her legs wide apart. The drinks were brought and Dolly retired closing the door behind her. Mark had grumblingly told his grievance on the way.
“Cut it all out, Studdock,” said Miss Hardcastle. “And whatever you do, don’t go bothering the DD. I told you before that you needn’t worry about all those little third floor people provided you’ve got him on your side. Which you have at present. But you won’t have if you keep on going to him with complaints.”
“That might be very good advice, Miss Hardcastle,” said Mark, “if I were committed to staying here at all. But I’m not. And from what I’ve seen I don’t like the place. I’ve very nearly made up my mind to go home. Only I thought I’d just have a talk with him first, to make everything clear.”
“Making things clear is the one thing the DD can’t stand,” replied Miss Hardcastle. “That’s not how he runs the place. And mind you, he knows what he’s about. It works, Sonny. You’ve no idea yet how well it works. As for leaving . . . you’re not superstitious, are you? I am. I don’t think it’s lucky to leave the NICE. You needn’t bother your head about all the Steeles and Cossers. That’s part of your apprenticeship. You’re being put through it at the moment, but if you hold on you’ll come out above them. All you’ve got to do is to sit tight. Not one of them is going to be left when we get going.”
“That’s just the sort of line Cosser took about Steele,” said Mark, “and it didn’t seem to do me much good when it came to the point.”
“Do you know, Studdock,” said Miss Hardcastle, “I’ve taken a fancy to you. And it’s just as well I have. Because if I hadn’t, I’d be disposed to resent that last remark.”
“I don’t mean to be offensive,” said Mark. “But—damn it all—look at it from my point of view.”
“No good, Sonny,” said Miss Hardcastle shaking her head. “You don’t know enough facts yet for your point of view to be worth sixpence. You haven’t yet realized what you’re in on. You’re being offered a chance of something far bigger than a seat in the cabinet. And there are only two alternatives, you know. Either to be in the NICE or to be out of it. And I know better than you which is going to be most fun.”
“I do understand that,” said Mark. “But anything is better than being nominally in and having nothing to do. Give me a real place in the Sociological Department and I’ll. . . .”
“Rats! That whole Department is going to be scrapped. It had to be there at the beginning for propaganda purposes. But they’re all going to be weeded out.”
“But what assurance have I that I’m going to be one of their successors?”
“You aren’t. They’re not going to have any successors. The real work has nothing to do with all these departments. The kind of sociology we’re interested in will be done by my people—the police.”
“Then where do I come in?”
“If you’ll trust me,” said the Fairy, putting down her empty glass and producing a cheroot, “I can put you onto a bit of your real work—what you were really brought here to do—straight away.”
“What’s that?”
“Alcasan,” said Miss Hardcastle between her teeth. She had started one of her interminable dry smokes. Then, glancing at Mark with a hint of contempt, “You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“You mean the radiologist—the man who was guillotined?” asked Mark who was completely bewildered. The Fairy nodded.
“He’s to be rehabilitated,” she said. “Gradually. I’ve got all the facts in the dossier. You begin with a quiet little article—not questioning his guilt, not at first, but just hinting that of course he was a member of their Quisling government and there was a prejudice against him. Say you don’t doubt the verdict was just, but it’s disquieting to realize that it would almost certainly have been the same even if he’d been innocent. Then you follow it up in a day or two with an article of quite a different kind. Popular account of the value of his work. You can mug up the facts—enough for that kind of article—in an afternoon. Then a letter, rather indignant, to the paper that printed the first article, and going much further. The execution was a miscarriage of justice. By that time—”
“What on earth is the point of all this?”
“I’m telling you, Studdock. Alcasan is to be rehabilitated. Made into a martyr. An irreparable loss to the human race.”
“But what for?”
“There you go again! You grumble about being given nothing to do, and as soon as I suggest a bit of real work you expect to have the whole plan of campaign told you before you do it. It doesn’t make sense. That’s not the way to get on here. The great thing is to do what you’re told. If you turn out to be any good you’ll soon understand what’s going on. But you’ve got to begin by doing the work. You don’t seem to realize what we are. We’re an army.”
“Anyway,” said Mark, “I’m not a journalist. I didn’t come here to write newspaper articles. I tried to make that clear to Feverstone at the very beginning.”
“The sooner you drop all that talk about what you came here to do, the better you’ll get on. I’m speaking for your own good, Studdock. You can write. That’s one of the things you’re wanted for.”
“Then I’ve come here under a misunderstanding,” said Mark. The sop to his literary vanity, at that period of his career, by no means compensated for the implication that his Sociology was of no importance. “I’ve no notion of spending my life writing newspaper articles,” he said. “And if I had, I’d want to know a good deal more about the politics of the NICE before I went in for that sort of thing.”
“Haven’t you been told that it’s strictly nonpolitical?”
