White Mars

15

Crispin Barcunda spoke. “As Governor of the Seychelles, I was plagued by petty crime. Muggings, theft, aggression against tourists, hot-rodding, break-ins and murder, which sprang from these sometimes rather petty incidents. And we had drug barons and their victims. Often the crimes were drug-or alcohol-related.

“In short, the Seychelles was a paradigm in small of the rest of the world. Except it was a tropical paradise…

“Only I didn’t see it as a paradise, I can tell you. Fast as we locked the little buggers up, others sprang to take their place. Our prisons were pretty savage places, sordid, old-fashioned, with frequent floggings of delinquents for deterrent effect.

“Only we know floggings don’t deter. They just keep the middle classes happy. Of the little buggers they make big buggers with a grudge against society. I will tell you how we changed all that.

“It says a great deal for the human race that goodness survives even in the worst places of confinement. Among faces that bear the expressions of rats and snakes, cold, merciless, vindictive, you meet faces that beam decency and kindness.

“Such a good face belonged to a prisoner called Java Joe. Maybe he had another name, but I never heard it. Just an ordinary black man who happened to be released from a jail sentence on the day I made a very popular speech. I had addressed my audience in Victoria town square by our famous clock tower, exhorting them to value themselves and turn from crime. I had called them, I blush to say, the noblest creatures of the universe.

“As I was resting up from this hypocrisy, this ex-prisoner, Java Joe, was shown into my presence. He was perfectly polite. He even made himself obsequious. Yet he carried himself with pride. He had come, he said, especially from Crome Island to hear me speak. I asked him if prison had reformed him.

“His answer was simple. Delivered without reproach, it was simply, ‘Hell’s for punishment, not reformation, isn’t it?’”

Crispin tugged the ends of his moustache in order to contain a smile.

“Java Joe had come to me with a suggestion, he said. He told me he had read a remarkable old book when he was held in solitary confinement in prison. Java Joe emphasised that he was not a fussy man, but the state of what he called ‘the bogs’ in the prison was a disgrace, planned and intended to humiliate all who had to use them. He repeated this latter phrase. This made a passage in this old book he was able to read all the more impressive.

“‘What was the book?’ I asked him.

“Joe was uncertain whether it was a history or a fiction. Maybe he did not understand the difference between the two types of writing, which is little enough, I grant you. Part of the book concerned the building of an ideal house, called Crome.

“The architect of Crome, Joe told me, was concerned with the proper placing of his privies. By which he meant, in plain English, sir, begging my pardon, the bogs. And here Java Joe began to quote verbatim from the book: ‘His guiding principle in arranging the sanitation of a house was to secure that the greatest possible distance should separate the privy from the sewage arrangements. Hence it followed inevitably that the privies were to be placed at the top of the house, being connected by vertical shafts with pits or channels in the ground.’

“Java Joe eyed me closely to make sure I understood this elaborate language from the ancient book. Seeing I appeared to do so, he continued to quote: ‘It must not be thought that Sir Ferdinando (the architect, sir, you see) was moved only by material and merely sanitary considerations; for the placing of his privies in an exalted position he had also certain excellent spiritual reasons. For, he argues, the necessities of nature are so base and brutish that in obeying them we are apt to forget that we are the noblest creatures of the universe.’”

“ ‘Are you trying to be satirical at my expense?’ I roared. But plainly he was not. He explained that to counteract these degrading effects, the author of the strange book advised that the privies in every house should be nearest to heaven, that there should be windows opening on heaven, that the chamber should be comfortable and that there should be a supply of good books and comics on hand to testify to the nobilty of the human soul.

“‘Why vex me with this recitation?’ I demanded. ‘Is it not more appropriate that the privies in our prisons should be down in the bowels of the earth?’

“Java Joe explained to me that he had thought much about this wonderful place, Crome, while passing his motions. He saw it all as a metaphor—although he did not know that particular word. From this vision of the good house his suggestion had evolved. Here he paused, searching my face with that good-natured gaze of his. I prompted him to go on.

“‘Us shits,’ he said, ‘should be kept separate as far as possible from the sewers of your prisons. We’ve never been far from their stink in all our lives. We should be placed in a good place with a view of heaven. Then we might be able to stop being shits.’”

Crispin looked about him to see what effect his story was having before he went on. “Was there anything in what Java Joe said? Maybe there was more sense than in all the rhetoric of my speech in the town square. I decided to act.

“We had an empty island or two in the Seychelles group. To the north was Booby Island, a pleasant place with a small stream on it. What was to be lost? I had it renamed Crome Island and shipped a hundred of my criminals there, to live in daylight rather than darkness.

“What a howl went up from the respectable middle classes! That men should enjoy themselves in pleasant conditions was no punishment for crime. This experiment would kill the tourist trade. It would cost too much. And so on…”

“Let’s get to the end of the tale, Crispin,” said Tom, with some impatience. “Obviously the experiment wasn’t a failure, or you would not be telling us about it.”

Crispin nodded cordially, saying merely, “We can learn from failure as well as success.”

“Come on then, Crispin,” said Sharon. “Tell us what happened to your criminals. I bet they all swam away to freedom!”

“They were marooned on an island round which fierce currents ran, and could not escape, my dear. They dug themselves latrines, they built a communal cookhouse, they built houses. All using just local materials. They fished and grew maize. They sat about and smoked and talked. They were prisoners—but they were also men. They regained their self-respect. A supply ship protected by armed guards called once a week at Crome Island, but no one escaped.

“And after their sentence was served, very very few reoffended. They had done what I could not manage to do, and reformed themselves.”

“What about Java Joe?” I asked.

Crispin chuckled. “He went to live voluntarily on the island; the convicts christened him King Crome.”

At this juncture Paula Gallin came and sat down at a nearby table, escorted by Ben Borrow. They were deep in conversation but, after they had ordered two sunglows, began taking an interest in our discussion, which certainly was not private.

“We hope,” said Belle, “to follow that example Crispin has offered. Earth is a planet full of prisons. It must never happen here. At one time, in a brief period of enlightenment, the British government permitted me to teach reading and writing to prisoners. The majority of people in prison, I found, were young bewildered men. They were ignorant and brutalised, two elements the penal system encouraged. Many had been brought up without a family. They had mostly been ‘in care’. They were truants from school, fly boys. Most of them hid deep misery under a hard shell.

“In a word, the prisons—not only the one in which I worked—were filled by the products of poverty, unemployment, underprivilege and depression. The politicians were locking up the victims of sociopolitical crimes.”

“Excuse me, you surely go too far there,” said Hal Kissorian. “We are mistaken in expecting politicians to remedy matters that are beyond political scope. That there are the rich and successful and the poor and unsuccessful, and every shade in between, is surely a natural and ineradicable phenomenon.”

I saw he glanced at Sharon for approval of his little speech. She gave him an encouraging wink.

Belle became so stern that her beads shook. “There is the case of nurture as well as genetic inheritance. Prison and punishment do not reconcile these unfortunate and malevolent youths with society. Quite the reverse. They leave prison only to reoffend more expertly. Of course I am speaking only of the reformable majority. A different case can perhaps be made for the mad and the really dangerous.

“It is when we come to consider the state of affairs beyond the prison walls that we see how unenlightened we have become. Judges are now constrained by their governments to deliver fixed sentences of a number of years for various crimes. Mandatory sentencing deprives the judges of administering justice according to the facts of the case. Thus both sides of the law become machine-like. Quantputers might as well take over, as no doubt they shortly will.

“How did mandatory sentencing become the rule? Firstly, because it speeded up the legal process, much as the banishing of juries has done. Then, later, it simplified the introduction of computerisation, to cut costs.

“All this because of the rise in crime. More and more people become imprisoned, and in consequence more violent and skilled in violence. Of course, the real crimemongers escape the law, as seems to be the case with the swindlers within EUPACUS. Our isolation here lasts so long because, to my mind, the law cannot indict the culprits.

“Most governments attempt to solve the increasing crime rate by building more prisons. They can’t adopt Crispin’s scheme of marooning them on a desert island to create their own society—”

“As we are marooned here—” Kissorian interjected.

“—so they continue to build prisons whose one objective is to maintain security, not to re-educate or train the inmates in various trades. So I’ll come to my point at last.

“All that is being done is worse than useless. Criminals are the activists of unjust societies. Our Dayo’s relatively innocent scam with his musical composition was a case in point; he strove merely to become equal, no more than that, in what he feels is a society unjustly prejudiced against his kind. Behind every young thug there are several depressed people, usually women, living out their short lives, battered and afraid and probably slow-witted. Undernourished certainly. And certainly harmless, within the meaning of the word. Hopeless, too. The cure for crime is not punishment but its reverse, love, caritas…

“We need a revolution that no politician would countenance—fundamental changes in society, with really good education for our children from the earliest age onwards. With a rebuilding of family life and the arts and pleasures of citizenship. Community work was a good start towards a caring society, but it did not go far enough.

“The civilised countries must increase taxes and invest extra revenues in rebuilding slums and lives, and listening to those who have had no say. In a very few years, I guarantee, the exorbitant cost of crime prevention would be diminished. A better and happier and more equable culture would result. And it would be found to be self-sustaining.”

Sharon clapped her pretty hands. “It’s wonderful. I can see it already.”

But Kissorian asked, “What happens to the abortion issue in this happier world of yours?”

It was Crispin who answered. “An unwanted child tends to retain his unwanted feeling all his life. Of course, that may turn him into a philosopher. It’s more likely he will turn to rape or arson or become the driving force of a security company, wielding a big stick.”

“So you’re pro-abortion?”

Belle said quietly, “For reasons I hope we’ve made clear, we’re pro-life. Which means at this stage of existence that we reserve the right of women to control their own bodies and to abort if they are driven to take such a grave step.”

“Then say it,” interposed Grenz Kanli. “You’re pro-abortion.”

“We’re pro-abortion. Yes,” said Belle, adding, “until both men and women learn to control their sexual urges.”

I saw Sharon returning Kissorian’s glance. She gave a sly smile. There, I thought, was another kind of happiness that could not be legislated for. I could not help liking her a little—and envying her at the same time.

Turning from her companion, Ben, Paula at the next table entered the discussion. Belle’s remark about people curbing their sexual urges had made her restless.

“Haven’t you people forgotten about mothers?” she asked. “You know, the people who actually bring forth babies from their goddamn wombs into the world? Since it’s a result of sexual activity, I suppose you’ve forgotten about mothers.”

“We’ve not—” Belle began, but Paula overrode her.

“You don’t need all this bureaucracy if you honour mothers as they should be honoured, treat them properly, favour them in society. Start thinking about actual people rather than legislation.”

“We are thinking about people. We’re thinking about children,” said Belle, sharply. “If you have nothing better to contribute to the discussion, I’d advise you to keep silent.”

“Yes, yes, yes … If anyone doesn’t think your way, they’d better shut up. That’s your way of thinking, isn’t it?”

“I was thinking,” said Belle, coldly, “more of your recent abortion. That is a pretty clear indication of your precious regard for motherhood.”

Paula looked absolutely astounded. Belle turned her back on her and asked me, “How’s Alpha getting on, my dear?”

I could not answer. Paula rose and marched out of the cafe. As she went she clicked her fingers. Ben Borrow stood up, gave us an apologetic glance, and followed Paula.

Only afterwards, when I talked to Kissorian and Sharon about this spat, did I understand the emotions that provoked it. The reason was simple. Belle stepped out of her normal rather magisterial role because she was jealous. Ben Borrow had been her protege. She was furious to see that he had taken up with Paula. He had said nothing. His mere presence was enough to irritate Belle.

I reflected on my ineptness at reading motives.

After more discussion, and more coffdrink, Belle calmed down enough to return to the conversation.

She said, “For some centuries, the civilised nations, so-called, have had health-care services. Time and again, those services failed, in the main through underfunding. The essence of our scheme involves continuity—that an underprivileged child should have a helper to whom he can always turn, who indeed meets up with him over a cup of something once a week.”

“We call this the C S system, and it can run throughout life if necessary,” said Crispin. “C S—Care and Share. Always someone there to share problems and talk to.”

Kissorian laughed. “Isn’t that what husbands and wives do, for heaven’s sake? Your C S is a kind of sexless marriage, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s sexless parenting,” Crispin said sharply.

“I had as difficult a childhood as you can imagine, and I could never have tolerated any stranger’s shoulder to cry on.”

“Just stop and think about that, Kissorian,” Belle said. “Suppose there had been not strangers but a steady friend, always there to turn to…”

“I’d have stolen his wallet!”

“But with our C S system in operation, your childhood would not have been so difficult, and so you would not have felt that compensatory need to steal a wallet. You can’t be glad you had such a difficult childhood?”

He smiled, directing half of that gleam towards Sharon. “Oh yes, I can. Now that it’s over. Because it is an integral part of my life, it formed my character, and I learned from it.”

Silence fell while we digested what had been said.

At length Tom spoke. “You have some concrete proposals, Belle and Crispin. They’re certainly sane and benevolent in intention, although how any terrestrial politicians can be strong enough, enlightened enough—”

Belle interrupted. “We have a singular advantage here, Tom. No politicians!”

“At least, not in the accepted sense,” added Crispin, with a smile.

“We enter this plan into our constitution here, and enact it as far as is possible—in the hope that Earth may take it up later. Example sometimes wins converts.” Belle turned her regard suddenly on me. “And what does our silent and watchful Miss Cang Hai make of all this?”

I saw in her expression ambition and hostility, which were quickly wiped away by a mask of patience; the confusion of human senses is such I remained unsure whether I had read her correctly, or was projecting my own misgivings.

“It’s benevolent but cumbersome to operate,” I told her. “Who would you find willing to take on these burdens of assisting the young, perhaps often in opposition to the natural parents?”

“People are surprisingly willing to assist when they see a worthwhile enterprise. Their lives would also be enriched.” She added firmly, “For a civilised society, there is no other way.”

I paused, wondering if I cared to contradict this forceful woman. “There is another way. The way of medicine. Simple supervision of a child’s hormone levels—oestrogen, testosterone, serotonin—is better than many a sermon.”

As if the thought had just occurred to her, Sharon said, leaping in, “And what if all this well-meaning stuff did not work? What if the kids still offended?”

Without hesitation, Belle Rivers said, “They would be beaten before witnesses. Where kindness fails, punishment must be available.”

Sharon screamed with laughter, displaying the inside of her mouth like a tulip suddenly opening.

“Would that do them good?”

Crispin said, “At least it relieves the frustrated feelings of the teachers…”

“So be it,” Tom said. “Let’s take it to the forum of the people and try to gain support for your plan. We’ll see what our friend Feneloni has to say to it.”

All this while, the days and weeks and months of our lives were eroding away. As we entered on the third year of our isolation on Mars, I had to speak to Tom about the news of Olympus’s accelerated progress towards the science unit.

“I know,” said Tom. “Dreiser told me.” He sat there with his head in his hands and said not another word.