Carl smiled. “No.”
“Then hurry.”
He came up beside her. “If you walk in the sun and keep out of the shadows you should be all right. But a good hot bath would be a good thing.”
They walked along together, neither of them saying anything.
“Are you mad because I saw you?” Carl asked.
Barbara did not answer.
Seventeen
While everyone else was outside enjoying himself, Verne Tildon sat in the office at the typewriter, a sheet of soft yellow paper sticking up in front of him.
With one finger he tapped slowly, weighing each word carefully.
“... I, Verne Tildon, acting as Agent for the American Metals Development Company, during the period of actual transfer...”
He stopped typing and studied the paper. Then he went on.
“... to the new owners, for whose guarantee of adequate protection the Company is maintaining through my own self and two other responsible employees a constant watch over...”
He stopped, scowling. There was something wrong with the sentence. He took a second piece of yellow paper and scratched a few lines of words with his fountain pen. He read them over carefully, pondering. Then he got up from the desk and went over to the window. He opened the window and returned to his place before the typewriter.
He pulled the paper out of the typewriter and inserted a fresh sheet.
“I, Verne Tildon, representing the American Metals Development Company, have been given responsibility in the following matters to arrange and otherwise bring about in the best possible manner the main physical transfer of all holdings and real assets...”
Suddenly he leaped up. Somebody had come up on the porch. Strange light feet. Not Carl. Not Barbara. He listened, frozen. There was no sound, only silence. Maybe he had been mistaken.
The sound came again. Somebody was standing on the porch. The doorknob turned slowly. Verne’s heart thudded. He glanced around the office. What the hell—no hammer, nothing. Where was Carl? Carl was big.
The door opened. A small man peered uncertainly inside, blinking and bobbing nervously. A thin Oriental face turned in Verne’s direction.
“Hello,” the Oriental said.
“Who are you?”
The man came in, shutting the door behind him. Verne did not move. The man was small and slender. It was hard to tell how old he was. Perhaps forty. He wore a faded uniform of the last war, cloth leggings and metal-soled boots. In his left hand was a small cap.
“Who am I?” the man echoed. His voice was dry and nasal, as if he had a cold. He reached into his coat and brought out an envelope. “You may examine these, if you wish. My papers.”
Verne took the envelope and opened it. Cards and documents, written in Oriental characters, stamped and signed, with tiny photographs of the man, rows of numbers and seals.
“I can’t read these.”
“They are to inform you that we will be moving in here in a few days. I have come a little ahead of time to make sure everything is in order.”
“You represent the new owners?”
“I represent the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference. At this time the All-China People’s Congress is not in convocation. Supreme power of the People’s Republic of China is therefore vested at this time in the Chinese People’s PCC.”
“I see,” Verne said. “In a few days? I thought we had more time than that. This comes as somewhat of a shock. Just a few days?”
“Two or three days. I came on ahead. If everything is in order the change can be made at once. We were not sure if you had been able to evacuate your personnel on time.”
Verne hesitated. “Do you want to sit down?”
“Thank you.” The little Chinese sat down by the desk, crossing his legs. He took out a package of Russian cigarettes and put one in his mouth.
Verne sat down across from him. He watched the Chinese light his cigarette. The matches did not seem to work. Several of them were needed before the cigarette was going.
“You speak American,” Verne said. “Are there Americans around?”
“Oh, no. I learned American in Peoria. Ten years ago. I was there on a business trip.”
Verne put out his hand. “My name is Tildon. Verne Tildon.” They shook hands.
“Harry Liu.”
Verne studied him. Harry Liu was pale and slight. His face was flat and expressionless. He was beginning to become bald. His hands were long and the fingers thin. On one finger was a heavy metal ring.
“You don’t look like your name ought to be Harry.”
Harry Liu smiled. “Use any name you wish, then.”
“You’re a soldier?”
“Oh, yes. For a long time. I have not been active for a number of years. On the Long March I injured my leg. It was a very long way.”
“Yes. It was a long way. I remember.”
“I wonder what Kafka would have thought about it. You recall his story, ‘The Great Wall of China.’ He told how the people in one part of China might be paying taxes to an emperor, long since dead, not knowing of the new emperor. The country is so large.... I walked most of the distance. Near the end I went on in one of the trucks, when my leg gave out.”
Verne nodded. “I suppose historians will someday call that one of the turning points in history.”
“It depends, I think, on what kind of historians exist in the future.”
“But it did represent something. An end to something and the beginning of something else. Maybe the end of a cycle. As Toynbee or Vico would say.”
“Yes, the cyclic historians.”
“Some of them seem to think our time is going into a period like the Roman period. About the time of Christ. Or later. When the Empire began to retreat. When the pax was beginning to break up.”
Harry Liu smiled. “Would you say, then, that you are the last of the Romans? I wonder what that would make us. It’s an interesting analogy.”
“Interesting?”
“It would seem to make us the first Christians.”
Verne stood up. “Is there anything you want me to show you before you go? Any of the installations?”
“Yes. It might be a good idea. I’m supposed to see what condition the grounds are in.”
Verne opened the door and walked out onto the porch. “I’ll show you what you want to see.”
Harry Liu joined him. “Fine.”
They walked down the porch steps, onto the road. Verne saw a little light bicycle parked a few yards down. He walked up to it. “This is yours?”
“Yes.”
It was a Russian built bike. Verne examined it. When he was finished he and Harry Liu walked down the road, away from the office.
“What do you want to see?” Verne said.
“Nothing in particular. The main question was whether you had removed your staff and closed down all the processing.”
“We have”
“How many people remain here?”
“Three. Myself and two others. We’re supposed to turn the ground over to you.” Verne was deep in thought, scowling as he walked along.
“Is anything wrong?” Harry Liu asked.
“Your analogy. To the Romans.”
“Not mine,” Harry said. “I didn’t create it.”
“My analogy, then. That we’re the last of the old world. The old Romans. And you’re the new. The first Christians.”
“Yes?”
“I’m wondering about the Dark Ages. That’s what the Christians brought. Brutality, cruelty, force. The end of reason and freedom. Serfdom. The Middle Ages. The lowest ebb in history. Each person living on a tiny hunk of ground like an animal. Chained to it. No hope, no education. Just enough food and clothing to keep him alive. Slavery—under a different name.”
“But that’s not all.”