The scientist said, “I don’t think anybody really knows, except that he was an officer in the Chinese Air Force, and towards the end he seems to have been in command. The Prime Minister was in touch with him, trying to intervene to stop it all. He seems to have had a lot of rockets in various parts of China, and a lot of bombs to drop. His opposite number in Russia may have been someone equally insignificant. But I don’t think the Prime Minister ever succeeded in making contact with the Russians. I never heard a name, anyway.”
There was a pause. “It must have been a difficult situation,” Dwight said at last. “I mean, what could the guy do? He had a war upon his hands and plenty of weapons left to fight it with. I’d say it was the same in all the countries, after the statesmen got killed. It makes a war very difficult to stop.”
“It certainly made this one. It just didn’t stop, till all the bombs were gone and all the aircraft were unserviceable. And by that time, of course, they’d gone too far.”
“Christ,” said the American softly, “I don’t know what I’d have done in their shoes. I’m glad I wasn’t.”
The scientist said, “I should think you’d have tried to negotiate.”
“With an enemy knocking hell out of the United States and killing all our people? When I still had weapons in my hands? Just stop fighting and give in? I’d like to think that I was so high-minded but—well, I don’t know.” He raised his head. “I was never trained for diplomacy,” he said. “If that situation had devolved on me, I wouldn’t have known how to handle it.”
“They didn’t, either,” said the scientist. He stretched himself, and yawned. “Just too bad. But don’t go blaming the Russians. It wasn’t the big countries that set off this thing. It was the little ones, the Irresponsibles.”
Peter Holmes grinned, and said, “It’s a bit hard on all the rest of us.”
“You’ve got six months more,” remarked John Osborne. “Plus or minus something. Be satisfied with that. You’ve always known that you were going to die some time. Well, now you know when. That’s all.” He laughed. “Just make the most of what you’ve got left.”
“I know that,” said Peter. “The trouble is I can’t think of anything that I want to do more than what I’m doing now.”
“Cooped up in bloody Scorpion?”
“Well—yes. It’s our job. I really meant, at home.”
“No imagination. You want to turn Mohammedan and start a harem.”
The submarine commander laughed. “Maybe he’s got something there.”
The liaison officer shook his head. “It’s a nice idea, but it wouldn’t be practical. Mary wouldn’t like it.” He stopped smiling. “The trouble is, I can’t really believe it’s going to happen. Can you?”
“Not after what you’ve seen?”
Peter shook his head. “No. If we’d seen any damage …”
“No imagination whatsoever,” remarked the scientist. “It’s the same with all you service people. ‘That can’t happen to me’.” He paused. “But it can. And it certainly will.”
“I suppose I haven’t got any imagination,” said Peter thoughtfully. “It’s—it’s the end of the world. I’ve never had to imagine anything like that before.”
John Osborne laughed. “It’s not the end of the world at all,” he said. “It’s only the end of us. The world will go on just the same, only we shan’t be in it. I dare say it will get along all right without us.”
Dwight Towers raised his head. “I suppose that’s right. There didn’t seem to be much wrong with Cairns, or Port Moresby either.” He paused, thinking of the flowering trees that he had seen on shore through the periscope, cascaras and flame trees, the palms standing in the sunlight. “Maybe we’ve been too silly to deserve a world like this,” he said.
The scientist said, “That’s absolutely and precisely right.”
There didn’t seem to be much more to say upon that subject, so they went up on to the bridge for a smoke, in the sunlight and fresh air.
They passed the Heads at the entrance to Sydney harbour soon after dawn next day and went on southwards into the Bass Strait. Next morning they were in Port Phillip Bay, and they berthed alongside the aircraft carrier at Williamstown at about noon. The First Naval Member was there to meet them and he was piped aboard Scorpion as soon as the gangway was run out.
Dwight Towers met him on the narrow deck. The Admiral returned his salute. “Well, Captain, what sort of a cruise did you have?”
“We had no troubles sir. The operation went through in accordance with the orders. But I’m afraid you may find the results are disappointing.”
“You didn’t get very much information?”
“We got plenty of radiation data, sir. North of Twenty Latitude we couldn’t go on deck.”
The Admiral nodded. “Have you had any sickness?”
“One case that the surgeon says is measles. Nothing of a radioactive nature.”
They went below into the tiny captain’s cabin. Dwight displayed the draft of his report, written in pencil upon sheets of foolscap with an appendix of the radiation levels at each watch of the cruise, long columns of small figures in John Osborne’s neat handwriting. “I’ll get this typed in Sydney right away,” he said. “But what it comes to is just this—we found out very little.”
“No signs of life in any of those places?”
“Nothing at all. Of course, you can’t see very much, at periscope height from the waterfront. I never realised before we went how little we’d be able to see. I should have, perhaps. You’re quite a ways from Cairns out in the main channel, and the same at Moresby. We never saw the town of Darwin at all, up on the cliff. Just the waterfront.” He paused. “There didn’t seem to be much wrong with that.”
The Admiral turned over the pencilled pages, stopping now and then to read a paragraph. “You stayed some time at each place?”
“About five hours. We were calling all the time through the loud hailer.”
“Getting no answer?”
“No, sir. We thought we did at Darwin just at first, but it was only a crane shackle squeaking on the wharf. We moved right up to it and tracked it down.”
“Seabirds?”
“None at all. We never saw a bird north of Latitude Twenty. We saw a dog at Cairns.”
The Admiral stayed twenty minutes. Finally he said, “Well, get in this report as soon as you can, marking one copy by messenger direct to me. It’s a bit disappointing, but you probably did all that anybody could have done.”
The American said, “I was reading that report of Swordfish, sir. There’s very little information about things, on shore in that, either in the States or in Europe. I guess they didn’t see much more than we did, from the waterfront.” He hesitated for a moment. “There’s one suggestion that I’d like to put forward.”
“What’s that, Captain?”
“The radiation levels aren’t very high, anywhere along the line. The scientific officer tells me that a man could work safely in an insulating suit—helmet, gloves, and all, of course. We could put an officer on shore in any of those places, rowing in a dinghy, working with an oxygen pack on his back.”
“Decontamination when he comes on board again,” said the Admiral. “That makes a problem. Probably not insuperable. I’ll suggest it to the Prime Minister and see if he wants information upon any specific point. He may not think it worth while. But it’s an idea.”
He turned to the control-room to go up the ladder to the bridge. “Will we be able to give shore leave, sir?”
“Any defects?”
“Nothing of importance.”
“Ten days,” said the Admiral. “I’ll make a signal about that this afternoon.”
Peter Holmes rang up Mary after lunch. “Home again, all in one piece,” he said. “Look, darling, I’ll be home some time tonight—I don’t know when. I’ve got a report to get off first, and I’ll drop it in myself at the Navy Department on my way through—I’ve got to go there, anyway. I do
n’t know when I’ll be back. Don’t bother about meeting me—I’ll walk up from the station.”
“It’s lovely to hear you again,” she said. “You won’t have had supper, will you?”
“I shouldn’t think so. I’ll do myself some eggs or something when I get in.”
She thought rapidly. “I’ll make a casserole, and we can have that any time.”
“Fine. Look, there’s just one thing. We had a case of measles on board, so I’m in a kind of quarantine.”
“Oh, Peter! You’ve had it before, though, haven’t you?”
“Not since I was about four years old. The surgeon says I can get it again. The incubation time is three weeks. Have you had it—recently?”
“I had it when I was about thirteen.”
“I think that makes you pretty safe.”
She thought quickly. “What about Jennifer, though?”
“I know. I’ve been thinking about her. I’ll have to keep out of her way.”
“Oh dear … Can anyone get measles when she’s as young as Jennifer?”
“I don’t know, darling. I could ask the surgeon commander.”
“Would he know about babies?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t suppose he’s had a great deal of experience with them.”
“Ask him, Peter, and I’ll ring up Dr. Halloran. We’ll fix up something, anyway. It’s lovely that you’re back.”
He rang off and went on with his work, while Mary settled down to her besetting sin, the telephone. She rang up Mrs. Foster down the road, who was going into town to a meeting of the Countrywomen’s Association, and asked her to bring out a pound of steak and a couple of onions. She rang the doctor, who told her that a baby could get measles and that she must be very careful. And then she thought of Moira Davidson, who had rung her up the night before to ask if she had any news of Scorpion. She got her at tea time at the farm near Berwick.
“My dear,” she said. “They’re back. Peter rang me from the ship just now. They’ve all got measles.”
“They’ve got what?”
“Measles—like you have when you’re at school.”
There was a burst of laughter on the line, a little hysterical and shrill. “It’s nothing to laugh about,” Mary said. “I’m thinking about Jennifer. She might catch it from Peter. He’s had it once, but he can get it again. It’s all so worrying …”
The laughter subsided. “Sorry, darling, but it seems so funny. It’s nothing to do with radioactivity, is it?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Peter said it was just measles.” She paused. “Isn’t it awful?”
Miss Davidson laughed again. “It’s just the sort of thing they would do. Here they go cruising for a fortnight up in parts where everyone is dead of radiation, and all that they can catch is measles! I’ll have to speak to Dwight about it, very sharply. Did they find anyone alive up there?”
“I don’t know, darling. Peter didn’t say anything about it. But anyway, that’s not important. What am I going to do about Jennifer? Dr. Halloran says she can catch it, and Peter’s going to be contagious for three weeks.”
“He’ll have to sleep and have his meals out on the verandah.”
“Don’t be silly, darling.”
“Well, let Jennifer sleep and have her meals out on the verandah.”
“Flies,” said her mother. “Mosquitoes. A cat might come and lie on her face and smother her. They do, you know.”
“Put a mosquito net over the pram.”
“I haven’t got a mosquito net.”
“I think we’ve got some somewhere, that Daddy used to use in Queensland. They’re probably full of holes.”
“I do wish you’d have a look, darling. It’s the cat I’m worried about.”
“I’ll go and have a look now. If I can find one I’ll put it in the post tonight. Or I might bring it over. Are you going to have Commander Towers down again, now that they’re home?”
“I really hadn’t thought. I don’t know if Peter wants to have him. They may be hating the sight of each other after a fortnight in that submarine. Would you like us to have him over?”
“It’s nothing to me,” said the girl carelessly. “I don’t care if you do or don’t.”
“Darling!”
“It’s not. Stop poking your stick in my ear. Anyway, he’s a married man.”
Puzzled, Mary said, “He can’t be, dear. Not now.”
“That’s all you know,” the girl replied. “It makes things a bit difficult. I’ll go and look for that net.”
When Peter arrived home that evening he found Mary to be somewhat uninterested in Cairns but very much concerned about the baby. Moira had rung up again to say that she was sending a mosquito net, but it would clearly be some time before it could arrive. As a makeshift Mary had secured a long length of butter muslin and had draped this round the pram on the verandah, but she had not done it very well and the liaison officer spent some time on his first evening at home in fashioning a close fitting cover to the pram hood from the muslin. “I do hope she’ll be able to breathe,” his wife said anxiously. “Peter, are you sure she’ll get enough air through that?”
He did what he could to reassure her, but three times in the night she left his side to go out to the verandah to make sure that the baby was still alive.
The social side of Scorpion was more interesting to her than the technical achievements of the ship. “Are you going to ask Commander Towers down again?” she enquired.
“I really hadn’t thought about it,” he replied. “Would you like to have him down?”
“I quite liked him,” she said. “Moira liked him a lot. So funny for her, because he’s such a quiet man. But you never can tell.”
“He took her out before we went away,” he said. “Showed her the ship and took her out. I bet she leads him a dance.”
“She rang up three times while you were away to ask if we had any news,” his wife said. “I don’t believe that was because of you.”
“She was probably just bored,” he remarked.
He had to go up to town next day for a meeting at the Navy Department with John Osborne and the principal scientific officer. The meeting ended at about noon; as they were going out of the office the scientist said, “By the way, I’ve got a parcel for you.” He produced a brown paper packet tied with string. “Mosquito net. Moira asked me to give it to you.”
“Oh—thanks. Mary wanted that badly.”
“What are you doing for lunch?”
“I hadn’t thought.”
“Come along to the Pastoral Club.”
The young naval officer opened his eyes; this was somewhat up-stage and rather expensive. “Are you a member there?”
John Osborne nodded. “I always intended to be one before I died. It was now or never.”
They took a tram up to the club at the other end of the town. Peter Holmes had been inside it once or twice before, and had been suitably impressed. It was an ancient building for Australia, over a hundred years old, built in the spacious days in the manner of one of the best London clubs of the time. It had retained its old manners and traditions in a changing era; more English than the English, it had carried the standards of food and service practically unaltered from the middle of the nineteenth century to the middle of the twentieth. Before the war it had probably been the best club in the Commonwealth. Now it certainly was.
They parked their hats in the hall, washed their hands in the old fashioned washroom, and moved out into the garden cloister for a drink. Here they found a number of members, mostly past middle age, discussing the affairs of the day. Amongst them Peter Holmes noticed several State and Federal ministers. An elderly gentleman waved to them from a group upon the lawn and started towards them.
John Osborne said quietly, “It’s my great-uncle—Douglas Froude. Lieutenant-General—you know.”
Peter nodded. Sir Douglas Froude had commanded the army before he was born and had retired soon after that event, fad
ing from great affairs into the obscurity of a small property near Macedon, where he had raised sheep and tried to write his memoirs. Twenty years later he was still trying, though he was gradually abandoning the struggle. For some time his chief interest had lain in his garden and in the study of Australian wild birds; his weekly visit into town to lunch at the Pastoral Club was his one remaining social activity. He was still erect in figure though white-haired and red of face. He greeted his great-nephew cheerfully.
“Ha, John,” he said. “I heard last night that you were back again. Had a good trip?”
John Osborne introduced the naval officer. “Quite good,” he said. “I don’t know that we found out very much, and one of the ship’s company developed measles. Still, that’s all in the day’s work.”
“Measles, eh? Well, that’s better than this cholera thing. I hope you none of you got that. Come and have a drink—I’m in the book.”
They crossed to the table with him. John said, “Thank you, uncle. I didn’t expect to see you here today. I thought your day was Friday.”
They helped themselves to pink gins. “Oh no, no. It used to be Friday. Three years ago my doctor told me that if I didn’t stop drinking the club port he couldn’t guarantee my life for longer than a year. But everything’s changed now, of course.” He raised his glass of sherry. “Well, here’s thanks for your safe home-coming. I suppose one ought to pour it on the ground as a libation or something, but the situation is too serious for that. Do you know we’ve got over three thousand bottles of vintage port still left in the cellars of this club, and only about six months left to go, if what you scientists say is right?”
John Osborne was suitably impressed. “Fit to drink?”
“In first-class condition, absolutely first-class. Some of the Fonseca may be just a trifle young, a year or two maybe, but the Gould Campbell is in its prime. I blame the Wine Committee very much, very much indeed. They should have seen this coming.”
Peter Holmes repressed a smile. “It’s a bit difficult to blame anyone,” he said mildly. “I don’t know that anybody really saw this coming.”
“Stuff and nonsense. I saw this coming twenty years ago. Still, it’s no good blaming anybody now. The only thing to do is to make the best of it.”