Travels in Nihilon

  The ship sailed along the inhospitable wall of coast, three-quarters around the country of Nihilon to get to the principal seaport in clear weather. Edgar was busy with plane-table and telemeter, compass and camera, sketching in the white spaces on maps he had bought before setting out. He worked in secret, plotting caves and tidemarks, capes, headlands and lighthouses, filling notebooks with data so as to compile his own maps down in the dimly lit cabin. The floor was covered with heavy and conspicuous equipment, and he used two trunks pushed together as a table on which to spread out his papers.

  A few days later the same officer greeted him. He was now smoothly shaved, but his clothes were crumpled and dirty, as if he had slept in them since the last meeting. Edgar asked why there were no good maps of Nihilon.

  ‘No authoritative, authentic maps, you mean,’ he said with the same sly smile. ‘Well, isn’t that as it should be? Why does anybody need maps? If an individual wants them he’s a spy. If a country needs maps it’s moribund. A well-mapped country is a dead country. A complete survey is a burial shroud. A life with maps is a tyranny!’

  He lit a pipe, well satisfied with his rabid lunatic speech, then raised his voice even more as he blew out smoke. ‘However, don’t think we have no great geographers in Nihilon. There are at least six really inspired ones, and each has his own department in which he endeavours to produce beautiful maps from the imagination. Each seeks to outdo the inaccurate productions of the others. I even believe they’re for sale in the shops, though they won’t do you much good, because, being works of art, they’re too expensive.’

  ‘Which shops?’

  The naval officer gave a gentle push. ‘Look for them. We’re all Nihilists in Nihilon! I have to mark up yesterday’s false progress on the saloon chart. Goodbye!’

  Such fruitless interviews saddened Edgar, and he tried to keep out of this naval officer’s way, an intention in which he was not always successful, so that he was glad when the ship turned the headland into the Bay of Shelp and steamed towards the port at five o’clock in the afternoon.

  The city extended nearly five kilometres along the coastal plain, a zone of white buildings behind the docks, with villa suburbs rising on the green hills behind. Ash-grey mountains with jagged summits spread across the sky, and almost surrounded the deep wide bay. Edgar noted forests on the lower slopes, and with binoculars memorized the width and direction of certain roads so as to decide whether or not they were fit for motor lorries, or even a heavier type of vehicle.

  The main highway out of town went into a broad valley on its way to Nihilon City, the capital of the country which, as far as he knew from the various maps, appeared to be about two hundred kilometres away. These new views were a feast for his surveyor’s eyes, and he was too busy scribbling in his notebook to think of getting luggage-boxes on deck.

  Only two other ships were in harbour, one bearing the distinctive blot-emblem of Nihilon on its funnel, the other flying the Cronacian flag of an olive branch from its stern. Women were busy along the wharves, working cranes and driving trolleys, and when the same young officer tapped him on the shoulder, Edgar put his book away, and asked why so many women were toiling on the shore instead of men.

  ‘Well, you see, the women of Shelp were very revolutionary. They demanded equality with men, so we gave it to them – building, digging, driving, carrying, rowing, hauling. Now they are happy, because they are equal.’

  ‘What about the men?’

  ‘They are happy too. They sit in cafés, and work in offices all day. They are not equal with the women, but they are generous and don’t mind. Everybody works hard in Nihilon, otherwise we wouldn’t have such a good standard of living.’

  A dozen small rowing boats came towards the ship, and stout, smiling women at the oars called in throaty melodious voices for the privilege of taking luggage to the shore. ‘I thought we tied up at the quay,’ Edgar said, a chill vision of his bulky and precious luggage balancing on such frail craft. ‘At least that’s what it said in the brochure.’

  ‘I know, but the quay is under repair, so you must make your own arrangements to get off.’

  ‘That’s scandalous,’ he cried. ‘I thought the Nihilon Line was a reputable shipping company!’

  ‘If you aren’t careful,’ said the officer, ‘all the boats will be taken, and then you won’t get off at all. In an hour our ship sets out on another cruise, and you’ll come with it if you’re not ashore by then. Nihilon waits for no man.’

  Going down to the cabin Edgar had to fight his way past an elderly traveller struggling up the companionway with two formidable suitcases. A sharp corner of one bruised him in the chest, and while he pressed it back the old man used considerable force by leaning on his upturned suitcases as if he would stay there and push forever. Neither of them spoke, but breathed hard, and glared, and sweated, till Edgar managed to hold the suitcases to the wall, almost crushing the old man who, nevertheless, bit him savagely in the arm as he went by.

  Edgar cried out, and turned to retaliate, but the old man faced him with such a goodnatured smile that he was disarmed, and realized that to begin a fight just now would delay getting his own luggage on deck.

  He had read in his preliminary notes, issued by the Chief Editor of the guidebook before setting out, that it was inadvisable to put one’s luggage into large trunks because Nihilon porters were afraid of being ruptured, and so might refuse to handle them. But such was Edgar’s fragile equipment, and his lack of apposite travel gear that he had been forced to use bulky pieces after all. But since no porters were available, he need not worry for them, though being thrown on to his own strength was something he hadn’t bargained for either, as he pulled and struggled with one of the lighter trunks up the stairs. When a job had to be done, no matter how arduous and unpleasant, Edgar set about it methodically as the best and indeed only way of doing it. Nothing could stand in his path, and he began in the finest of spirits to tackle his daunting work.

  The first trunk was placed by the gangplank, where it would stay till a stout boater could assist him with it and others into her craft. Such was his system. He then went below for another box, considering it safe to leave the first where it was because no one, in view of its weight, would be able to walk off with it.

  Through the open cabin door he saw a middle-aged man wearing a mackintosh looking into one of his trunks (which he had left locked) and casually sifting through a notebook, examining its cyphers with the aid of a torch. His brown lustreless eyes gazed up: ‘Don’t reproach me. I’m only doing my duty.’

  ‘Get out,’ Edgar said, filled with rage.

  ‘You’re a spy. You’d better give me thirty thousand kricks to keep quiet. We put spies up against a wall in this country.’

  ‘I’m not a spy. I’m an ordinary traveller.’

  ‘You’re lying. Look at those pretty little maps.’

  Edgar rushed forward, and shut the lid of the trunk with such force that if the man hadn’t withdrawn his fingers in a practised fashion, they would have been smashed to splinters. ‘You’re not playing fair,’ the man cried out, stunned by this belligerent action from such a fair frail person as Edgar. ‘You’re supposed to plead with me, or at least haggle about the price.’

  ‘If you don’t get out,’ said Edgar, ‘I’ll call the captain.’

  The man laughed. ‘I am the captain. I was getting ready to go ashore. My brother will take the ship on its next stage. When I passed your cabin I wanted to see what you had inside it. We’ve been watching you because you seemed so openly secretive compared to a good dishonest Nihilonian. But now that I know you’re a spy, and that you won’t be browbeaten about it, I congratulate you on your profession. I’ll help you on deck with the rest of your luggage.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Edgar, inwardly happy at such a turn of luck.

  They staggered up with the second trunk to find that the first one had gone. ‘Don’t worry,’ said the captain, ‘it’ll probably be waiting
in the customs shed. There are no thieves in Nihilon. By simply taking everything we need, none of us become thieves. Dishonesty forever means fair shares for all. However, I must get off the ship now.’ He held out his hand. ‘I expect a good tip for helping you on to the deck with that very heavy trunk.’

  This Nihilonian humour did not appeal to Edgar at such a critical time, yet the rapacious glint of the captain’s eyes told him that the demand was serious, the threat real.

  ‘Quickly,’ he said, ‘I have to meet my wife.’

  ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘As much as you can afford,’ he replied in a softer tone. ‘But don’t forget that I’m the captain of a large passenger ship. It took me years to reach such a responsible position. After the last voyage I helped a traveller with his luggage and he offered me five kricks! Can you imagine such a pittance! Fortunately he was rather elderly, so I told him he was a mean and insulting swine for offering so little.’

  It had been Edgar’s intention also to give him five kricks but now, wanting to be relieved of the captain’s offensive presence, he took a ten krick note from his wallet.

  ‘You’d better make it twenty,’ the captain said. ‘I have to share it with my brother officers.’

  ‘Damn you!’ Edgar exclaimed. ‘You’ll get nothing.’

  He pulled out a small whistle and put it between his teeth: ‘If I blow on this they’ll tumble from their bunks and throw you into the water. Your luggage won’t float very well.’

  ‘No,’ said Edgar.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ the captain growled. ‘You’re in Nihilon now. Or will be if you pay up, and are then lucky enough to get a boat. If not, you’re with us for three more weeks.’

  Edgar handed him another ten krick note.

  ‘A service charge of ten per cent goes on that,’ the captain said, ‘making twenty-two, all told.’ Edgar paid this, also, and last saw the extortionate and piratical captain being rowed ashore by a buxom lady in a red blouse, with whom he soon began flirting and joking.

  Chapter 7

  As Adam went down the steps of the Paradise Bar an irascible Geriatric in short trousers put out a spindly leg and tried to send him head first. With his younger agility he dodged it, but cried indignantly: ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘That’s the fate of all Cronacian spies, and so on,’ snapped the patriotic oldster, turning back to his beer.

  ‘We’ll give ’em hell,’ laughed his toothless companion.

  A wavering bugle note sounded from the road, and the warriors began knocking out pipes, finishing dregs of beer or coffee. Certain men were designated as markers, bearing lightweight banners of the proud Nihilon blot, now standing ready so that others could form up on them. They were one company of two hundred all told, and soon arranged themselves in four stalwart platoons.

  Adam watched the parade. They sprang to attention at the raucous command of a spruce middle-aged officer. A man in front of the leading platoon pushed a low trolley along the road, on which was a powerful portable radio tuned to Nihilon Channel Three, which played a nondescript composition called ‘The Land of Hopeless Gore’, so that with rifles at the slope and baskets in the other hand, the old men stepped out to as quick a march as their valetudinary legs would allow. Judging by the occasional heavily made-up face Adam suspected there was a sprinkling of young men in their ranks disguised as oldsters who would, no doubt, lead them in the attack and cure any hanging back when enemy machine guns started spitting.

  Waiters and barmen who stood on the steps to see them go, and who were sobbing heavily, began jeering at Adam when he mounted his bicycle and rode towards Nihilon City. But the sun shone, and the sky was blue, and he felt full of momentary energy after his snack. A few miles later he passed a house, one of many on the outskirts of a large village.

  A ten-year-old boy dressed in a long-trousered suit, wearing a bow tie, and with his hair slicked flat by grease, lounged under a sign saying WELCOME TO NIHILON, but as Adam rode by a stone caught him painfully on the shoulder. He stopped and shouted: ‘You vicious little bastard!’

  The child burst into tears, and hearing the disturbance, a man in a customs officer’s cap ran from the house, calling:

  ‘Anything to declare?’

  Adam got back on his seat and rode straight at him, speeding over the rivulet that ran across the road, so that he splashed the man’s overalls and sandals as he began to repeat: ‘Anything to declare?’

  He went swiftly along the village street towards the main square, his lungs almost bursting in getting clear of this bogus customs man who seemed nothing more than another Nihilon peasant out on the make. If, however, he was genuine, then he could only congratulate himself on having passed through the second and final obstacle into Nihilon so painlessly.

  Along one side of the large square was a line of six sky-blue tourist buses. The rest of the space was tightly occupied by a vast crowd of people. Though it was the hottest part of the day, they seemed by and large happy, as if everyone had just eaten an ample and satisfying meal. In the middle of the square, on a raised platform, a young man with long blond hair was about to make a speech. An older man, wearing a dark suit, dark spectacles, and carrying a black briefcase, mounted the platform and began talking to him, as if prompting him on what to say, for the young man listened respectfully.

  Adam pushed towards the middle, but couldn’t get far among so many people. A young man with a child on his shoulder stood next to him, and Adam asked what was happening.

  ‘You won’t travel far on that bicycle,’ the man said. ‘Why don’t you get on one of those buses?’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘They’re going to the front.’

  ‘He’s a foreigner,’ said the child from on high.

  ‘Shut up,’ his father snapped. He gave Adam a friendly smile. ‘They belong to War Tours, a very popular holiday organization here that does great business whenever there’s an outbreak at the frontier. Of course, they can be expensive, though they cater for all purses. War Tours are cheapest. You just camp on a hill or spur, and are given a bit of a map and binoculars so that you can see what goes on. That’s the seven-day tour, and costs a thousand kricks, inclusive. If you take a fourteen-day holiday they drive you close enough to be bombed and shelled, and that’s more exciting, but also more expensive. Better still, you can stand in a muddy trench with a rifle and bayonet to beat off an attack. That’s an even higher price. But a three-week five-star holiday is best, at ten thousand kricks. You get all the other things plus, at the end of it, the glory of a mass attack over the wire, with the optional extra of an artificial limb after your spell in a tent hospital. Mind you, there’s a long waiting-list for all categories, but I’m in the know with the organizers, and I happen to have a few application forms.’ He drew a bundle of papers from his back pocket and waved them under Adam’s nose. ‘So tell me which tour you want, then I’ll fill in one of these and get you on a bus tomorrow morning. You’ll have the time of your life, believe me.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Adam, ‘but no thank you.’

  The man’s face turned ugly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I told you he was a foreigner,’ said his son.

  ‘Curse it,’ the man said, ‘I haven’t sold any this week.’ He threw the papers in the air, and they blew in all directions, so that people began scrabbling for them, though on learning what they were they dropped them quickly.

  The crowd became silent, sensing that the speech was about to begin. ‘Gentlemen and Ladies,’ shouted the young man, bent and twisted, swaying like a crippled sapling. ‘Nihilists! Listen to me. Listen to the greatest news of all time.’ For several minutes he mumbled and spluttered, nodding his head and waving his arms, making a few vague references to the goodness of President Nil, and the value of living pure upright nihilistic lives; but finally, ringing clear above all heads, was made a most astonishing claim, directly affecting everyone present:

  ‘We
have abolished …’ Even before the last word, cheering and shouts of glee broke from many parts of the square, as if some of the people’s secret hopes had been unwittingly leaked out during sweaty and endless days of discussion:

  ‘We have abolished … death!’ he shouted.

  Wild cheering caught up those thousands in the sunlight as the speech went on, though it was impossible that everyone heard the final words of his dramatic and historical pronouncement. No one had ever said it before, it seemed, and now, for the first time, such a promise had been made! The whole population was caught up in hysterical and genuine happiness, and even Adam was affected by it, as the marvellous words screamed out clear and plain once more: ‘We have abolished death!’ – a message stroking his fundamental nerves as if heaven, or at least a form of it, were really here at last.

  A man nearby, with tears of joy in his eyes, took Adam’s lapels and held him fast: ‘Oh, my dear friend, it’s not the first time. Oh no. It has happened before. We were happy once for three days. A voice of intellect, authority, and youth said that death has been abolished! The whole town went wild with happiness, so that people heard of it in neighbouring villages and came to join in. So much happiness! It went on and on, and the three days seemed an eternity.’

  His voice became sad, though his eyes couldn’t relinquish their glazed hilarious expectation: ‘But then troops were called to restore order, and drive us back to our jobs. It was all right to abolish death, but we still had to work. In the fighting several people had no way of proving whether that young man up there was right or wrong in saying that death had been abolished because we never saw them again. But the temporary joy of the town at his news was certainly genuine, as it is now.’ He walked away, weeping and tearing at his shirt.