“We are interested in hearing about the girl in your possession,” Martha said.
“Yes, yes, you shall hear about that straightaway. As you know, I have toured the Midlands extensively during my centuries of duty. In many respects, I am a Byronic figure, forced to wander and to suffer… During my peregrinations, I have rarely seen any children. Of course we know there are supposed to be none. Yet my reason has led me to consider that the actual position may be vastly different from the apparent one. In reaching this conclusion, I considered a number of factors, which I will now lay before you.
“If you can recall that distant epoch before the ancient technological civilizations crumbled, back in the twentieth century A.D., you will remember that many specialists gave conflicting diagnoses of what was going to happen when the full effects of the space bombs were upon us. Some thought that everything would return to normal within a few years, others that accumulating radioactivity would wipe all life of every kind from this sinful but rather desirable world. As we who have the benefit of surviving now know, both these views were mistaken. Am I right?”
“Right. Proceed.”
“Thank you, I will. Other specialists suggested that the radio-activity from the big accident might be absorbed into the soil in the course of years. I believe this prediction to have come to pass. And I further believe that with it, some younger women have recovered the power to bring forth young.
“Now, I have to confess that I have come across no fertile women myself, although in my new calling I have been vigilant for them. So I have been forced to ask myself, ‘What would I do if I were a woman of approximately sixty summers who discovered she could produce what we call the Second Generation?’ This is rather a theoretical question; how would you answer it, madam?”
Martha said slowly, “If I were to have a baby? I should be delighted, I suppose. At least, I have spent a number of years supposing I would be delighted. But I should be reluctant to let anyone see my child. Certainly I should be reluctant to come forward to someone like you and declare my secret, for fear that I would be forced into — well, some form of compulsory breeding.”
Jingadangelow nodded magisterially. As talking soothed him, his manner acquired more of its old panache.
“Thank you, madam. You are saying you would hide yourself and your offspring. Or you would exhibit yourself and might well get killed, as happened to a foolish woman who bore a girl child near Oxford. If we suppose that a small number of women have borne children, we must remember that many must have done so in the isolated settlements that now lie off any beaten track. The news of the birth would not circulate.
“Next, consider the plight of the children. You might hold that their lot would be enviable, with all the adults in the neighbourhood to spoil and protect them. Deeper knowledge of humanity will persuade you otherwise. The rancorous envy of those people without children would be insupportable, and aged parents would be unable to ward off the tangible effects of that envy. Babies would be stolen by motherhood-mad harridans, by crazy sterile old men. Young children would be the constant prey of the sort of blackguards I was forced to associate with some eighty years ago, when I travelled with an itinerant fair for my own protection. By the time the children — boys or girls — reached their early teens, one can only draw back aghast at the thought of the sexual indignities to which they would be exposed—”
“Chammoy’s experience must bear out all you say,” Greybeard cut in. “Leave out the hypocrisy, Jingadangelow, and get to the point.”
“Chammoy needed my protection and my moral influence; besides which, I am a lonely man. However, my point is this: that the biggest menace any child could face would be — human society! If you wonder why there are no children, the answer is that if they exist, they hide from us in the new wilds, away from men.”
Martha and Greybeard looked at each other. They read in each other’s eyes an acknowledgement of the likelihood of this theory. In its support, they could recall the persistent rumours, dating back at least ten years, that there were gnomes and small human-like shapes in the bush that vanished when a man went near. And yet… It was too much to swallow at one time; in their minds and bodies they were dry of the belief in living children.
“This is all part of your madness, Jingadangelow,” Greybeard said harshly. “Your mind is obsessed with getting hold of more of these young creatures. Please leave us. We want to hear no more — we have our own madnesses to contend with.”
“Wait! You’re mad, Greybeard, yes, not I! Was my reasoning not clear enough? I’m saner than you are, with your crazy desire to get to the mouth of the river.” He leant forward and clasped his hands together in a sort of agony. “Listen to me! I have a reason for telling you all this.”
“It had better be good.”
“It is good. It’s an idea. It’s the best idea I ever had, and I know you — both of you — will also appreciate it. You are both reasonable people, and it has been a great delight to come across you again after all these centuries, despite that unfortunate incident this morning, for which I fancy you were even more to blame than I — but, no, let’s forget that. The truth is, that seeing you made me yearn for intelligent company — not the company of the fools that surround me now.” Jingadangelow leant forward and addressed himself solely to Greybeard. “I am offering to give up everything and come along with you, wherever you go. I shall follow your lead implicitly, of course. It’s a great and noble renunciation. I make it purely for my soul’s sake, and because I am bored with these imbeciles who follow me.”
In the brief silence that followed, the fat man looked anxiously at his listeners; he tried a smile on Martha, thought better of it, and switched it off.
“You collected the fools who follow you, and you must put up with them,” Greybeard said slowly. “That’s something I think I learned from Martha not a million years ago: however you envisage your role in life, all you can do is perform it as best you can.”
“But this Master role, good heavens, it is not my only role. I wish to leave it behind.”
“I don’t doubt you have a dozen roles you can play, Jingadangelow, but I’m equally sure that the essence of you lies in your roles. We don’t want you with us — I have to be brutally frank. We are happy! For all that everyone has lost since the terrible accident back in 1981, one thing at least we have gained — there is no longer need for the hypocrisies and shams of civilization; we can be our natural selves. But you would cause dissent among us, because you carry the old rigmarole of mask-wearing into these simple days. You’re too old to drop it now — how many thousands of years old are you? — and so you would never find peace with us.”
“You and I are philosophers, Greybeard! The salt of the earth! I want to share your simple life with you.”
“No. You couldn’t share it. You could only spoil it. It’s no deal. I’m sorry.”
He took down the lantern from the stone shelf and put it into Jingadangelow’s hand. The Master looked at him, then slowly swung his head to see Martha’s face. Extending a hand, he clutched the hem of her dress.
“Mrs. Greybeard, your husband’s grown hard since we met at Swifford Fair. You persuade him. I tell you there are children on the downs near here — Chammoy was one of them. The three of us could hunt them out and instal ourselves as teachers. They’d look after us while we taught them all our old knowledge. Convince this hard-hearted man of yours, I beg you.”
She said, “You heard what he said. He’s the boss.”