“I’m not sure,” replied Summerfield. “It’s rather odd, but he seems to be waiting for something. I’ve seen him glance at his watch once or twice as though he’s due for an appointment.”
“Maybe Johns is going to make one of his speeches.”
“Yes, maybe.”
They followed Scagg’s movements as he walked over to the kitchen and spoke to Seddon. Urgent words were exchanged, then Scagg went round informing everyone that supper was ready. This was quite unnecessary since supper was always eagerly anticipated by the whole party, most of whom had been hovering in the vicinity for the past half hour. The only exception was Johns, who delayed his appearance until precisely seven o’clock. Emerging from the ‘command tent’, as it had come to be known, he proceeded to his favoured place in the lee of Summerfield’s stone dyke. Then, when the others had settled about him, the meal was begun. As usual on these occasions, talk was rare. The men ate in silence, apart from uttering scattered remarks which expressed how very agreeable the food was (Johns), or how it should have been cooked a little longer (Sargent). Afterwards everybody would be expected to disperse almost immediately. This evening was different, however, because all of a sudden Scagg rose to his feet and strode rather stiffly to the middle of the circle.
“Before we go to bed,” he announced, raising his voice against the ceaseless moan of the wind, “I’ve one or two words to say to you all.”
As was his custom, Scagg was wearing his woolly helmet rolled up towards the crown of his head. During the past few weeks his beard and eyebrows had thickened, and these lent him a certain authority as he addressed his companions in the lamplight.
“This is a dark season,” he continued. “Night and day are indistinguishable. We have endured a lengthy trek through perpetual gloom, and consequently some of us may have forgotten what time of year it is. In my case, only a chance conversation with Medleycott early this morning reminded me of today’s date. Now, if you please, Seddon.”
At a signal from Scagg, Seddon entered the circle carrying a large round biscuit tin. On his head he was sporting a chefs hat fashioned roughly from cardboard, and over his left arm was draped a white napkin. With a flourish he removed the lid from the tin, and revealed an iced cake dotted with a number of tiny candles. Some of the onlookers gasped in surprise.
“Oh, there was really no need,” said Johns.
“Certainly there was,” replied Scagg, clearing his throat before turning to face his leader. “Mr Johns…er…may I call you William in these special circumstances?”
“Of course,” Johns affirmed.
“Well, William, as I say, it was only by chance that I remembered today is your birthday, and so, thanks to Seddon here, I am now able to present you with a celebratory cake, along with our good wishes. If you’ve no objection, we won’t bother lighting the candles. I’m afraid the wind will just blow them straight out again.”
This last comment brought a round of laughter from the assembled men, followed by a robust chorus of ‘Happy Birthday to You’. Then Johns offered his humble thanks and asked for the cake to be divided up so that everyone could have a share.
“No one must go to bed,” he insisted, “until it’s all gone.”
Smiling a rare smile, Scagg produced a knife and performed the honours. Only Medleycott declined a slice.
♦
The process of civilisation is almost complete. We live our lives in safely and prosperity. Famine and disease have been defeated. Trade thrives everywhere. We no longer practise warfare and hence we have no need of a standing army. Neither do we fortify our cities and ports. For decades our navies have kept the peace by sailing along foreign shores and firing cannon-balls harmlessly into the sea. Diplomacy does the rest. There is no doubt that we’ve made the world a far better place to live in. Yet there remains one enduring problem: namely, the question of the mules. Since time immemorial they have been our inescapable burden. We have tolerated their presence simply because we have had no other option, but now, at long last, there is light at the end of the tunnel. The recent discovery of new territories in the north has offered a ready-made and welcome solution. We should seize it with both hands!
“You still reading?” enquired Sargent, from beneath his utility blanket.
“Oh, yes, sorry,” said Summerfield. “I was thoroughly engrossed. Were you waiting to turn the light out?”
“Well, everyone else has been tucked up for a while now, so if you don’t mind.”
“All right then. Sorry.”
Summerfield closed his book and put it away. Then he reached over, extinguished the lamp and settled down to sleep.
“Nearly finished it?” said Sargent.
“Almost, but to tell you the truth I’ll be sorry to get to the end. The arguments Childish puts forward are utterly fascinating, and so original. What astounds me is that he wrote it more than twenty years ago yet we’re only just beginning to put his theory into practice. I can’t understand the delay.”
“The reason is obvious,” said a voice in the darkness. “It’s because he was ahead of his time.” The voice belonged to Plover.
“Oh, you’re still awake, are you?” asked Summerfield.
“That question does not merit an answer. You were discussing Professor Childish, I believe.”
“Yes.”
“Well, fortunately the world has now caught up with him. All those eyebrows raised at the very mention of transportation have disappeared; all those do-gooders holding back progress with their moral doubts; all those heads stuck in the sand. The objectors have been silenced. Finally we can turn our attention to changing the theory into fact, and not a moment too soon in my opinion.”
“I had no idea you were such a zealot.”
“Well, it’s not allowed, is it?” said Plover. “Johns sees himself as the only ‘thinker’ in the party and if the rest of us don’t agree with every word he says we earn a black mark from his trusty lieutenant, Mr Scagg.”
“Oh, I think that’s a bit harsh,” said Summerfield. “Johns has always listened to what I have to say.”
“Lucky you.”
“So what’s your particular gripe then?”
“Merely that we’re not driving the mules hard enough. Johns is obsessed with all this welfare and general mollycoddling and as a result he’s allowing them to dictate the pace. We should be miles further along by now.”
“But the whole purpose of this expedition is to find out if the mules can survive the journey. There’s absolutely no point in pushing them beyond their capabilities.”
“Come, come,” rejoined Plover. “Have you never read Younghusband’s pamphlet on the subject?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Summerfield. “I’m only familiar with Childish.”
“Good grief, not another theory,” murmured Sargent.
“No, not another theory,” said Plover. “The same one but with a completely different emphasis. Younghusband referred to what he called the ‘natural strengths’ of the mules, and suggested they’re far tougher than they lead us to believe. Laziness is what we used to call it, but of course Johns won’t allow such expressions.”
“Well, yes, we do have one lazy mule,” conceded Summerfield.
“They’re all lazy!” snapped Plover. “They do nothing unless they’re constantly spurred on; therefore spur them on we must, and if one or two fall by the wayside then so be it! In my judgment, all this talk about whether they can survive the journey is academic irrelevance. Our primary aim should be to take them to the Furthest Point from Civilisation and leave them there. What happens to them after that is no concern of ours.”
“But surely the theory should be put to certain tests before any lasting decision is made.”