The Guardians

  “About Mike, sir?”

  “Yes.” Sir Percy shook his head. “A sad little to-do, this. I’ve known him all his life, of course. There’s a distant connection on the male side. The boy needs help.”

  Rob half nodded but did not say anything. Sir Percy repeated, “He needs help from all of us. Tell me, did he talk to you about this business?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s a bit strange, isn’t it? You’re his cousin. You live with him, you’re both in College House.”

  There was no threat in the tone.

  “We did not see all that much of each other at school. We’re in different forms. We have different friends, too.”

  “Yes. Still, I should have thought he might have said something to you.”

  The eyes blinked at him shrewdly.

  “He was probably fairly sure I wouldn’t be on their side,” Rob said. “And if so it would be taking an unnecessary risk to tell me anything.”

  “That’s a good point,” Sir Percy conceded. “Ah, here’s nourishment. Put the tray down on the little table, Jenks. You can help yourself, Rob.”

  There was steaming coffee in one silver pot, hot milk in the other. Rob poured himself a cup and took a slice of cherry cake. Sir Percy said, “Tuck in. I like to see a lad with an appetite. You were raised in Nepal, weren’t you? And your mother is . . .”

  “She and Aunt Margaret are cousins.”

  “That’s right. And your father . . .”

  Rob filled in the details, volunteering information before it was requested. He had the background and story pat by now. After all, on the day of the garden party he had fooled Sir Percy’s friend, who had lived in the country. He knew he was telling it well.

  Sir Percy finished his whiskey and went to pour another.

  “You’re a bright boy, Rob.” He had his back to him, getting the drink. But there was, Rob had already noticed, a mirror in the sideboard which had him in view. He gave a slightly embarrassed smile.

  Sir Percy turned around, glass in hand.

  “Yes,” he said. “You’re a bright boy, Rob Randall.”

  The sound of his own name shocked him into rigidity. Sir Percy’s broad face still wore an expression of slightly stupid amiability but that was now the reverse of reassuring. He realized he had been cunningly led into exposing himself as a skilled liar.

  Sir Percy did not return to his armchair but went around the desk and seated himself in a heavy high-backed chair. He took a file out of a drawer. Opening it, he read:

  “Robin Randall, born August 17th, 2038, in the Fulham sector of Greater London. Father, John Randall, born Basingstoke 1998, died Charing Cross Hospital, April 2052: heart failure following electric shock. Mother, Jennifer Hilda Randall, maiden name Gallagher, born 2007, died 2049: carcinoma. Birthplace: Shearham, Gloucestershire.”

  He looked up. “Is that what gave you the idea of crossing over?”

  They knew everything about him. Denial would be absurd. He said in a low voice, “Partly, sir.”

  “Yes.” Sir Percy nodded. “Did your mother ever talk about the County?”

  “No. I didn’t know she came from here until . . . I found some letters after my father died.”

  “An interesting point,” Sir Percy said. “Would the discovery in itself be enough to allow an enterprising youngster to break the conditioned taboos against the County, or did she, even without saying anything, unconsciously predispose you in that direction? Worth bringing up at the next meeting of the Psychosocial Committee. Still, that’s not immediately to the point. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  “How long have you known about me?”

  He realized as he spoke that it was not up to him to put the questions. Sir Percy did not seem to mind.

  “Since three days after you went to live with the Giffords. That was, of course, some time before you gave that very convincing show for the benefit of Charlie Harcourt. Typical Nepalese settler twang!” He smiled. “A pity I can’t put him in the picture. It would be amusing to see his face.”

  He closed the file and settled back in his chair.

  “You can, of course, no longer be treated as an ordinary member of our society. You are not one, after all. You are a Conurban, posing as County. You are listed by the Conurb police as a runaway from the boarding school at Barnes. So I don’t mind telling you that this society is not so haphazard and unorganized as it seems. Things are investigated and checked: thoroughly. We had the boy from Nepal and the absentee from the boarding school matched within twenty-four hours of the first automatic query.

  “And now I will put a question to you. Since we know who you are and know that you were befriended by Michael Gifford, who persuaded his family to take you into their home, do you think it would be reasonable for me to believe that he never said anything to you about this plot?”

  Rob shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “I’m glad you are being sensible. Now tell me everything. Take your time.”

  Rob told him, leaving out only Mike’s visit during the night. Sir Percy listened without interruption. At the end, he said, “But he never spoke to you of the actual plans for the revolt? Isn’t that a little improbable?”

  “Not really, sir. I’d refused to go in with him.”

  “Why did you refuse?”

  “I saw nothing wrong with things as they are. I mean, I . . .”

  “You had succeeded in crossing over and had found a niche in the County and were satisfied with that. Do I have it right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But he might have hoped to win you to his views?”

  “We had arguments, very fierce at times. We could never agree.”

  “You knew that what he was proposing amounted to treason?”

  “I didn’t think anything would happen. I thought it was all talk.”

  “Treasonable talk, though?” Sir Percy paused. “Why did you not report it to the authorities—to your tutor at school, at least?”

  “Mike had helped me, sir.”

  “Yes.” Sir Percy looked at him speculatively. “And if you had gone to the authorities you would almost certainly have been exposed as an imposter.”

  Rob was silent. He wanted to protest against the cynical motivation Sir Percy was attributing to him, but realized there would be no point in doing so.

  After a moment, Sir Percy said, “You’ve not been much help to us, have you? You’ve told us nothing we didn’t know already. Young Penhold’s dead and we’ve got his brother.”

  Rob did not say anything. Sir Percy went on, “So I suppose the only thing to do is to pack you back to the place at Barnes.”

  It had been inevitable from the moment he was called by his true name. He tried to tell himself it might have been worse, a lot worse. He realized Sir Percy was talking again.

  “. . . society as we know it. For the first time in human history we have peace, plenty, the greatest happiness for the greatest number. Such violence and aggression as is unavoidable because inherent in man’s nature is carefully channeled: in the Conurbs into Games-watching and occasional riots, in the County into athletic contests, hunting and so on. For cases where these things do not provide sufficient release we have the China War.

  “In the Conurbs the masses are better fed and cared for—more contented—than they have ever been. In the County we have a leisured class who can enjoy a truly aristocratic way of life. We have stopped the clock, taken it back even, to the time before the First World War. It is a Golden Age which has lasted half a century and which need never end.”

  Sir Percy got up and walked over to one of the windows. The sun was shining; his carefully groomed hair and moustache gleamed in a ray of light. Rob wondered why he was telling him all this—if in fact he was just talking for his own satisfaction. He continued:

  “It must appear natural because people cannot be contented unless they believe their lives to be natural. But to do this and to keep everything in balance requires
intelligence and planning. It requires a special group of dedicated men who will act as guardians over the rest. Thus guns are abolished but a reserve is kept to protect society against insurrection. Not only that—we have psychologists to help us mold people into proper courses of action. We are constantly on the alert for trouble. The Conurb is easier to control than the County in that respect. Anyone showing creative intelligence and initiative stands out conspicuously from the mob and can be dealt with. Here it is less easy. Aristocracies have always provided the seedbeds for revolt. However well we manipulate the gentry, sooner or later there must be an eruption. This is what we have just had. We have watched it gather like a boil and at the right moment have lanced it. It will be fifty years at least before it happens again.”

  Sir Percy broke off. “Do you understand me, boy? I am not talking over your head?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I did not think I was. You are intelligent, and that you have initiative was shown by your coming over to the County. The taboo against that has been carefully built up by our psychological experts and no ordinary boy would break it. Would you like to stay here instead of being sent back to the Conurb?”

  He could not believe he was really being offered this. He said warily,

  “Can I, sir? I thought . . .”

  “You have been under observation since we discovered you, as a potential recruit to the guardians. Young Gifford was also considered at one time.” He shrugged. “We make mistakes occasionally, but they can always be adjusted.”

  “But I’m a Conurban . . .”

  “And not the first. You must learn to think behind these labels even though you continue to live with them. You will return as Rob Perrott and lead a normal life, with the Giffords and at school, later at university. You will seem to be an ordinary member of the gentry. In fact you will be one of those who govern behind the scenes. You may or may not have an official position in due course but if you do it will be, like mine, no more than a blind. The real power you exercise will be different and much greater.”

  He felt dazed. It was difficult to take in the change in his circumstances.

  “Will you accept?”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Sir Percy smiled. “I thought you would. I like the look of you, Rob—have done from the beginning.” He offered his hand and Rob took it. His grip was firm. “There’s just one thing before we put all this on one side and start thinking about luncheon. You like venison, I hope? The thing is, we’ve jumped the gun in approaching you and for a particular reason. Normally you would not have been tackled for a few years. But we have this present business to tidy up. In particular, we have one or two people to find. Young Gifford is one, though not an important one. But he can lead us to the others. We think there is a good chance he might get in touch with you. He helped you, and he might look for help in return. Give it to him by all means but keep me informed. Before you leave I’ll give you a two-way radio.” He smiled again. “It’s small but I don’t need to tell you to keep it well hidden. Radio is something else that’s not customary in the County.”

  “If you find Mike . . .” Rob said.

  “We hope we’ll also find bigger fish.”

  “But Mike himself . . .”

  “You’re worried about what happens to him? That’s understandable. We guardians are not limited by the moralities we lay down for others but I hope we retain human feelings. He will be all right. You have my word for that. A very small operation on the brain, performed by expert surgeons. It won’t hurt him. He’ll remain active, intelligent, capable of a full life. But he won’t want to rebel any more. It’s a tried and tested technique. We keep it in reserve for cases like this.”

  He put an arm around Rob’s shoulder. “And now let’s talk about something else. How’s your archery coming along?”

  • • •

  One of the maids made up the fire and with a little bob to Mrs. Gifford withdrew. The long velvet curtains were drawn against the night and the lamps cast soft radiant glows. One on the table beside Mrs. Gifford lit up the curve of her cheek, a few strands of gray in the brown of her hair, the tapestry on which she was working—a country scene with nymphs and shepherds. Cecily had gone to bed. Mr. Gifford now stirred restlessly in his armchair and got up.

  “Think I’ll go and have a look at the trees,” he said. “Haven’t had a chance to see to them today.”

  He picked up a lamp and took it with him. In the Conurb he could have switched on lumoglobes to light his way. Carrying a lamp was more trouble, as many things in this life were. But people had the time to take trouble and were happier for doing so. Rob thought of the servants, who had refused to join the rebellion. Perhaps they had been conditioned to like their present life, but that did not alter the fact of their liking it. Just as Mr. Gifford would rather carry a lamp to the conservatory than walk down a corridor lit with lumoglobes.

  Rob had told the Giffords only that he had been questioned by Sir Percy, that Sir Percy had been satisfied that he knew nothing, and that he had lunched with him before being sent back. They had accepted this, more concerned with their anxiety over Mike. Mr. Gifford could not settle to anything. Mrs. Gifford worked in silence on her embroidery. Even Cecily was quiet and unhappy.

  Rob himself was still confused by what had happened. He put down his book and looked around the room—the furniture with a patina of centuries, the china in its cabinet, so carefully dusted by one of the maids every week, the gleam of polished silver and the soft warm colors of Persian carpets. This was Mike’s by right, not his. He was an interloper, a cuckoo in the nest. But Mike had rejected it, and no one could do anything about that. He had done his best to stop him. He could have done no more. It would have been stupid to cut himself off from it all simply because Mike had done so.

  Something was different tonight. It was not just Mike being absent but something else, something more positive. He realized with a little shock what it was: for the first time he was really safe. Safe in the protection not merely of the Giffords but of something more powerful. The radio was carefully hidden. At the press of a button he could be in touch with the duty office in Oxford, with the whole secret organization of the guardians.

  A log slipped in the fire and he took the tongs and set it right. Mrs. Gifford looked up and thanked him. As he went back to his chair, she said, “Tell me something.”

  “Yes, Aunt Margaret?”

  “What did Mike say to you?”

  She was watching him.

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  He wondered if it were a guess, or if she knew something. While he hesitated, she went on:

  “I told you once before that food missing from a kitchen is likely to be noticed.”

  “I’m afraid I got hungry in the night. I’m sorry I . . .”

  “Very hungry, indeed. A whole cold roast chicken, a loaf of bread, part of a ham. But that was only the starting point. If Mike had been here he would probably have needed dry clothes. I checked his drawers and found several things missing.”

  She looked at him steadily. “It was a guess that you had seen him. I knew he had been here, but he might just have taken things and gone. But if you say you were hungry in the night . . . what happened, Rob?”

  He told her that Mike had come, talked for a while, and left: nothing about his plan to go into the Conurb.

  “Why didn’t you stop him going?”

  “I couldn’t. I argued with him but he wouldn’t listen. I asked him at least to talk to you and Uncle Joe but he wouldn’t. He said if he did you wouldn’t let him go.”

  “You did, though.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “You say his father was still up? Could you not have called him?”

  “He trusted me not to. How could I, Aunt Margaret?”

  She was staring at him. He looked for the cold anger she had shown on the day of the rebellion but it was not there. Instead her face showed a terrible sadne
ss and desolation which was worse.

  “You knew what had happened and what would happen—that he was being hunted. And yet you let him go without telling us he was here.”

  “If I had,” he cried, “you would have given him up! He said that. And you would, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes. He is only a boy. Nothing bad would have happened if he had surrendered himself or we had surrendered him.”

  He wanted to help her sadness, to show her at least that things might have been worse.

  “You’re wrong, Aunt Margaret. Something would have happened. They would have done an operation on his brain, to stop him being rebellious, to make him docile.”

  She looked at him, not speaking.

  “It’s true! Sir Percy told me. Don’t you believe me? Do you think I’m lying?”

  “I believe you,” she said. “It is something that can’t be helped. There is a scar on my husband’s head; his hair hides it. It happened when he was a young man, before we were married.”

  He stared at her, shocked.

  “No.” It was he who was incredulous. “You can’t mean that.”

  “It happens,” she said. “Very rarely with girls. I suppose we are more concerned with homes and families. Not often with boys, for that matter. But it’s a simple operation. There’s no danger. It’s not much worse than having a tooth out.”

  Having a tooth out . . . It was only now, listening to her quiet voice, that he realized the full horror—not just of what she was saying but of what Sir Percy had told him that morning. Mr. Gifford, watering and pruning and pinching the buds off his tiny trees, had once been like Mike, thought as he did. And they had opened his skull and nipped out the core of his manhood as he himself might nip the growing heart of a plant.

  “And you would have let them take Mike, knowing what they were going to do to him?” he said.

  “He would still be Mike. He would have all the things we love in him. And he would be safe and well, instead of being hunted through the fields like an animal.”