The policemen picked up the still body and carried it to the edge of the stage where they passed it down to two others. Quickly the little procession disappeared into the darkness of the auditorium.
Matlock sat back, his mind filled again with turbulence and horror. He could guess what had led to the scene below. When a man’s E.O.L. was up, he was invited to visit a terminal hospital (the Death House as they were usually called) where the stopping of the heart clock would take place with the minimum fuss and distress to friends and relatives. Most people went. But some preferred to remain at home to the end, either through love, or fear. Others (a troublesome few) insisted on pretending that the time had not come and went about their normal business — till they fell dead in the street, or at work.
But in addition to these, there were always those who broke under the strain. Sometimes they went quietly mad; sometimes they went berserk. In the early days of the Age Law there had been a great upsurge of sexual and other crime among these soon to die. But this had eased off as it became generally realized that the laws of the land still applied and that any sentence passed on a man (or woman) but unable to be carried out on him because his E.O.L. was up, could be transferred to his immediate relatives. And as the most common form of punishment in the courts nowadays was the time-fine — that is, the curtailing of the guilty man’s E.O.L. by a period ranging from a month to several years according to the seriousness of the offence — family supervision was usually enough to keep the old man on the rails.
But always some broke loose and were a terror and a danger to the public as they ran wild in search of an escape that was impossible.
“Not a pleasant sight, Brother Matthew,” said a voice behind him.
He turned. Standing in the doorway was the bearded man.
Matlock almost welcomed this diversion from the troubled maze of his own thoughts. In any case, the bearded man was a problem that needed solving. The easiest solution was that he was one of Browning’s men. But he had not acted like one the night before. And it seemed unlikely that Browning would have him followed by someone whose appearance cried out for attention.
“Yes?” he said interrogatively.
“Ah. The Abbot said that you were a great statesman. You invite me to speak without promising to reply.”
“You read a great deal into a single word.”
“Very little, Brother. The whole universe is comprehended in a single word. Would that we could comprehend the word!” Gradually it was beginning to dawn upon Matlock who, or rather what, this man was. The Age Laws had thrown up many odd minority groups. Some had been banned. Like the Birthday Unions whose members shared the same birthday — and therefore the same E.O.L. Their activities became so wild towards the end that the Government had stepped in.
But there were others, several religious in origin. And the largest of these was the Brotherhood of the Meek. Matlock knew little about them though he did recall a magazine article a few months earlier. They had re-established a community in the ruins of one of the great Yorkshire abbeys. Fountains it was, he thought. There had been rich and powerful connections from the start. Now about a thousand of them lived there under vows of obedience, chastity, and poverty. Their attitude to the Age Law was simple. The Meek would inherit the Earth. The Age Laws did not apply to them. Their heart clocks were fitted and worked all the same. They accepted this, smilingly.
There had been photographs with the article and this, Matlock realized, was where the memory of the bearded man’s strange clothes came from.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“They call me Brother Francis.”
“What did they call you before they called you that?”
The bearded man lifted his hands as if in awed acknowledgement of Matlock’s intelligence.
Matlock thought he detected a touch of mockery and was glad. That at least hinted at an underlying sanity.
“What do you want?”
“What all men want, Brother. Peace and the Will of God.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.”
Matlock made towards the door, but the man’s bulk, magnified by his loose garments, blocked it completely.
“I have been sent to fetch you, Brother.”
“Then you’d better go and pray that I will come. Brother.”
Matlock reached determinedly forward to thrust the man out of his way, but his hand stopped before it touched the rough woollen garments. From somewhere in its maze of folds, Brother Francis had produced a gun. It was pointing steadily at Matlock’s stomach.
“Oh, I have prayed, Brother, and you will come.”
Matlock shrugged.
“If God wants me that much,” he said.
Outside in the street, he stopped and the bearded man closed right up behind him.
“Do we go by foot, Brother,” asked Matlock, “Or is there a chariot of fire?”
Francis did not seem offended, but he did not laugh either.
“Walk a little way, Brother. Just a little way.”
In fact he told the truth. A hundred yards away round the comer a car was waiting. Behind the wheel in ordinary clothes was a little wizened man who, had it not been for the law, Matlock would have said was nearer ninety than eighty.
They got in the car which started before Francis had finished closing the door. It was an ancient car. Even Matlock, who had not been used to very luxurious travelling in recent years, could not remember anything older. He did not know whether the external noise it made was within the limits laid down by law, but inside it was the most deafening din he had had to put up with in years.
He looked round in alarm and momentary fear as Francis poked the gun into his ribs, but realized the Friar merely wanted to attract his attention.
“What?” he yelled.
“Sorry about the noise, Brother,” screamed Francis. “But we always assume we are being listened to.”
For a second Matlock could not understand what he meant, but then it came to him that the racket was merely an apparently accidental jamming device against any hidden microphones.
He was not sure whether this additional evidence of rationality was reassuring or not.
The car was now deep in a Curfew Area. They had passed the neon rings minutes earlier. The psychologists had found none of the long promised answers to criminality and in the end the creation of what in effect were criminal ghettoes was the chosen solution. Every large town had its Curfew Areas. Matlock knew most of them. He had found his meetings channelled there more and more frequently in recent years. Not everyone who lived here was a criminal, of course, but these were the known habitats of known criminals. An hour after dark the Curfew Wagon swept everyone it met off the streets into its iron belly.
Matlock looked uneasily around. It was still only the middle of the day, but he was deep in unknown territory.
Finally the car drew up outside a small undistinguished house. From its dull, unimaginative construction, Matlock reckoned it was a rare survival from the mid twentieth century. There was no value in its rarity. It was just surprising that it had not fallen down long before.
The wizened chauffeur unlocked the door and led the way in. Matlock followed and Francis came carefully behind.
The inside was as drab as the exterior.
“Why are we here?” he asked with distaste.
“Please lead on,” said Francis motioning to a door in the wall which faced them.
“Why are we here?” asked Matlock firmly, standing still.
Francis walked by him, keeping far enough away to be safe from any attack, and pushed open the door.
“We’ve come to see the Abbot,” he said. “Please go in.”