Transit

TWENTY-FOUR

They did not get back to Camp Two until a little after midday. Avery had given Barbara his mud-caked shirt. They had started on the last leg of the journey shortly before dawn; but they were stiff and weary and depressed, and the going was slow. Instead of making directly towards camp, they headed towards the sea. Barbara was obsessed with the thought of bathing. It meant more to her than washing off the paint with which she had been daubed: it meant a symbolic cleansing after her ordeal at the hands of the golden people. For Avery, it had a purely practical value. He was covered with the gritty remains of the mud. It was all over his face, arms, body—in the creases of his skin and even in his hair. It made him itch. He thought longingly of the cool sea water.

Presently, unaccountably, their spirits rose. They could even look at each other and laugh. The warm sunlight seemed to diminish their tiredness and gave them strength enough to rejoice in each other. They became alive once more and were glad they could still share the adventure of living.

They came to the sea at last, and it was bright with the gold of early morning. They tumbled into it joyously. This was a baptism to wash away all the terrors of the night.

It took Barbara a long time to get rid of the blue symbols on her body—and she did not manage it entirely. After a few minutes both her breasts and her stomach became sore with the rubbing. Eventually she had to stop. All that remained was a pale blue outline of the symbols and red, angry patches of soreness.

They dried themselves simply by walking along the shore until the sun and wind had done the job for them. Then Barbara put on the shirt once more and they trekked back to camp.

There was a pleasant surprise waiting for them. Tom had already become—as he himself described it—a walking and talking case. His body, hardened by plenty of exercise and a relatively uncomplicated existence, had recovered far more rapidly than it would have done from a similar wound a year ago. But he was a camp prisoner, for he had neither the stamina nor the nerve to try to get down the ladder.

He saw them coming along the shore, and waved and shouted excitedly—hurting himself in the process. Mary ran cautiously to greet them—for the child inside her was big enough to reduce her to a kind of sedate scamper. She and Barbara flung their arms round each other and, like a reflex action, immediately began laughing and crying. Avery was amused at the spectacle. Tom fumed impotently and impatiently from his perch on the rock.

Both Barbara and Avery were ravenously hungry. There was no meat in camp, but they took the edge off their hunger with fruit. Then, while Barbara finished telling their story, Avery went to gather some crabs—the most immediately convenient source of meat—for a main course. Presendy, with the crab meat cooked and greedily devoured, they allowed themselves the luxury of whisky. There was not much whisky left, and Tom i*ad disposed of another of the few remaining bottles for what he described apologetically as impurely medicinal purposes.

But Barbara did not need to use whisky to lean on any more. She had something stronger.

Mary seemed to sum it up rather neatly when, not entirely as a result of her second glass, she made an oddly formal toast. ‘To the four of us—and to a kind of love that seems to split four ways.’

To Avery, it was a remarkably perceptive description. Obviously, in the deep sense, he could not love either Mary or Tom as he loved Barbara; but he loved them just as surely. They had become his friends and his family. They belonged to him. Without them, he felt, he could not be entirely human. He was even glad to ack-aowledge his dependence, and raised his glass in salute.

During the afternoon, Avery went on a brief hunting expedition to replenish the meat supply. Although he did not say anything about it to the others, and although he, too, was still elated at being able to bring Barbara back safely, he was convinced that the struggle with the golden people was by no means over. Certainly they had taken a beating, and one of their number was perhaps dead or seriously injured; but, from what he already knew of them, Avery was of the opinion that they would hardly care to let the situation stay as it was. They were a proud and arrogant people, glorying in their physical strength and contemptuous of what they regarded as lesser beings. The rescue must have hurt them spiritually as well as physically. They would not be content to let matters stand. For them, what had happened would be merely round two of the contest. Sooner or later, they would try for a conclusion. Above all, it would be necessary to their self-respect.

So thought Avery as he went to their colony of rabbi-types and indulged in what had become merely a routine execution. When he had acquired four of the small creatures, he made his way back to camp. He did not walk as he usually walked—with a jaunty self-assurance —he walked like a man who might be hunted, who might—at any moment—suddenly encounter his pursuers. He was afraid, and he knew there was reason to be afraid. Until peace could be established with the golden people, or until they could be decisively broken, the inhabitants of Camp Two would have to accustom themselves to living in a state of war. Twice Avery doubled back on his tracks and waited in ambush for any possible follower. But there was no one. Only his own fears.

That evening, after they had eaten and were luxuriating in the intimate companionship of the firelight, Tom brought up the subject of the golden people and their possible future actions.

‘If you ask me, which you didn’t,’ he said laconically, after a brief silence, ‘those javelin-happy bastards are going to try to give us a dose of massive retaliation…. I only hope they don’t pull anything till I’m back on active service.’

‘They’ve probably had enough to keep them quiet for a few days,’ remarked Avery. But that was simply propaganda. He didn’t really believe it. He only wanted to whistle to keep his—and everyone else’s—spirits up.

‘There’s one consolation,’ observed Mary. ‘They’ll have a hard job attacking us in camp.’

‘I just hope they try,’ said Barbara violently. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to heave a few chunks of rock down on the heads of those—those pepped-up savages! ’

Avery smiled. ‘Let’s hope the pleasure is deferred until ’ he hesitated. He wanted to say ‘until Tom is better, until you’ve both had your babies, and until v\.'re all dying of old age’. Instead he went on: ‘—until we’ve all had a bit of a rest…. Personally, I’d be quite happy to call it quits—if they would.’

Tom snorted. ‘They aren’t the kind to settle for a drawn game.’

‘No,’ said Avery, suppressing a shiver. ‘I don’t suppose they are…. Well, it’s about time for you and Mary to turn in. You both looked washed up. I’ll take the first watch, then Barbara can do a spell.’

‘We’ll watch together,’ said Barbara firmly.

Mary argued. ‘You two have done all the work today.

Tom and I are quite capable of ’

‘That’s an order,’ smiled Avery. ‘Am I or am I not the leader of the expedition?’

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘You’re just a boy scout with delusions of grandeur.’ He turned to Mary. ‘Come on, big tummy. If we don’t do what the nasty man says, he’ll never give us our good conduct medals.’

Despite her protests, Mary looked relieved when Tom took her into their tent.

Barbara’s fears that her experiences of the previous day and night might cause her to lose the baby she had recently conceived were now quiescent. Her stomach was feeling perfectly normal once more and she began to feel that, barring any more drastic strains, she would carry the baby to full term.

She was glad that she had become pregnant. She knew now how badly she wanted to have Avery’s child. And, too, because Mary was pregnant, she felt that it would somehow bring the four of them even closer together.

While she and Avery stayed on watch, they kept themselves awake by thinking of names. If the child was a boy, Avery wanted to call him Jason. Barbara objected that the other children (what other children?) would laugh at him. He must be called Andrew. But Avery had once taught an Andrew—a ghastly boy with a penknife and a penchant for using it on his friends—so Andrew was out. The game went on—a delightful, nonsensical game—it seemed for hours. They exhausted the possible boys’ names, and finally compromised on Dominic. Then they started on girls’ names.

And then the tragedy happened.

There had been a few muffled noises from the tent where Tom and Mary were sleeping, but nothing out of the ordinary. Suddenly, however, they heard a deep groan—and were unable to tell whether it was Mary or Tom. Then the groan became a high, desolate cry; and they knew it was Mary.

Tom burst out of the tent. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he babbled. ‘Something’s happening! Something’s happening to Mary.’

Something was indeed happening to Mary.

Barbara had been afraid of miscarriage. Mary had not. But the strain and anxieties of the last two days had placed too much of a burden on her. And her body was lightening the burden in the only way it knew how. Ironically, it was Mary who had to pay tie price….

They managed to get Tom away from her—Avery made him officially take over the watch—while they did what they could to help. It was precious little.

Neither Avery nor Barbara had ever been present at a birth before—to say nothing of a miscarriage—but fortunately Barbara had gained a little useful knowledge from her role as a nurse in that imaginary hospital projected regularly on ten million television screens in some far comer of the universe.

The contractions were quick and fierce. And so, mercifully, was the entire miscarriage. Within twenty minutes, Avery held in his bloodied hands the tiny, pathetic body of a five-months’-old baby—curled up like a sad, miniature Buddha, its umbilical cord almost as thick as the perfectly formed arms and legs. Avery held the baby almost literally in the palm of his hand. In the other hand he held the placenta—still joined to it by a cord that was so recently a cord of life.

The baby was like a manikin, not dead but sleeping. There was the bleak illusion that suddenly, miraculously it would awake.

‘Wrap it up!’ commanded Barbara in a hard voice. ‘Wrap it up and take it away.’

Mary was crying hysterically. Barbara tried to comfort her.

Avery found a piece of cloth. It was probably somebody’s shirt or vest. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He swathed the baby in it tenderly, as if he were afraid of disturbing it, as if at any moment it might cry. Then he went out of the tent.

He was going to leave the camp and take it away. But Tom wouldn’t let him.

‘I want to see my child.’

‘Tom, it’s—’

‘I want to see my child.’ Tom’s voice had the same kind of hardness as Barbara’s.

Avery carefully unwrapped the small bundle, and in the flickering firelight he and Tom gazed at the puckered but still strangely serene features.

‘He would have been a nice little chap,’ Tom managed to say. ‘He was a he, wasn’t he?’

‘I—I’m sorry, Tom. I don’t know.’ Avery was himself wretched with Tom and Mary’s sorrow. ‘Do you want me to find out?’

‘No,’ said Tom in that hard voice. ‘Don’t disturb him. Let him rest now. He’s had a rough time He deserves a bit of rest, doesn’t he?’

Avery tried to stop the tears running down his face.

He tried to will them back into his treacherous eyes. But they wouldn’t go.

As they gazed at the quiet wreck of a child that was never to be, his tears and Tom’s fell upon its small and oddly wise face. And mingled—a greeting and a benediction. A farewell. The first and the last that it would ever receive in the world of men.

‘I’d better go to Mary,’ said Tom at last. ‘She’ll need me now. She’ll need me an awful lot.’

‘Tom, I ’ Avery didn’t know what to say.

And oddly, it was Tom who comforted him. ‘Richard,’ he said quietly, ‘you don’t have to say anything. I know. He would have belonged to all of us. That’s how it will always be now. Whatever happens belongs to all of us I’m going to stay with Mary. We’ll be all right.’

He turned towards the tent.

Avery covered the baby tenderly. It was still warm—warm with the cruel illusion of life.