Leaders are a wondrous invention, thought Joe. What would we ever do without them? How would we ever get the slaughter done?
Bletchley shifted gears. As they rattled along Joe's thoughts kept returning to the primitive siege machine they had passed, that huge deathly apparition all by itself in the desert, waiting to lay siege. The image of it haunted him and he couldn't get it out of his mind. Was it because there had been a suggestion the machine was made of human skulls? A pyramid of skulls? The Nazis' final solution to life, as Liffy had said? Or was it simply because of all the monuments reared by man in those desolate sun-blasted wastes, it was the only one that didn't look abandoned and out of place?
Joe shivered.
It's ghastly, he thought. Ghastly.
The air snapped. Bletchley was shifting gears.
How are you feeling? It's not much farther.
Good, I couldn't go much farther. It's exhausting out here, frightening too.
Bletchley slowed.
Because it's all bleached bones and illusions, thought Joe.
They stopped. The engine died.
Call of nature, said Bletchley quietly. I'll only be a moment.
***
They started off again. Joe drifted around in his seat, occasionally humming one of Liffy's tunes.
Was the Monastery ever actually a monastery? he shouted at some point.
You mean before we took it over? yelled Bletchley. Well St Anthony is known to have spent time in this part of the desert, but since St Anthony had visions, I don't think anyone could say with any certainty where he was abusing his flesh all the time. It might be that one of his caves is down in the bowels of the Monastery somewhere, but who knows? St Anthony's chains were of the invisible kind.
The water got to him, thought Joe. Bad water or no water or even a change of water can bring on an advanced case of hallucinations out here. Or visions, as saints raving in the wilderness used to call them.
Joe drifted off. A moment later his head snapped back. The track was climbing, Bletchley shifting gears.
What's that up ahead?
We're there, yelled Bletchley. That's the gate to the back entrance. Most of the Monastery is up above, you can't really see it very well from down here.
They drew up in a small paved courtyard where other military vehicles, were parked. High walls of rough masonry reared above them, narrow slits cut into them. The walls overhead receded away from the courtyard, so that it was impossible to guess how far up they went.
Not all that far, whispered Bletchley, it's not really that big a place. It just looks big because it was built around the top of a small mountain, a hill really.
Round hill?
Yes.
Probably shaped like a head, thought Joe. Bowels and intestines and other internal organs in hiding down below, along with St Anthony's memories and Whatley's maps.
This way, whispered Bletchley.
Bletchley unlocked a wooden door and they passed through a short tunnel into another courtyard, this one larger and unpaved, with cloisters running along its sides. Men with long staves in their hands appeared languidly from amongst the shadows under the colonnades, strolling up to take a look at Joe and then retiring out of sight somewhere, while still others went on milling around the courtyard rather like pilgrims who had arrived unexpectedly at some way station on their journey, ahead of schedule, and were unsure what to do next. The pilgrims seemed to be wearing every conceivable kind of costume, both uniforms and civilian clothes, some dressed as lawyers and businessmen and bankers and professors, others as commandos or balloonists or even bedouin. But all of them without exception, the moment they caught sight of Bletchley, turned away and withdrew slightly, showing only their backs.
The multitude of tall staves carried by the pilgrims was particularly striking to Joe. Gently the staves waved to and fro as stalks of grain might toss in the wind, protected and enclosed, touched only by the mildest breezes.
It must be about time for the refectory to open for early tea, whispered Bletchley. Otherwise you'd never see such a large idle gathering of agents milling around out here.
Abruptly Bletchley seized a startled pilgrim at random, grabbing the man by the arm, spinning him around.
The pilgrim looked so frightened he was ready to deny anything.
What's for tea? demanded Bletchley.
Three kinds of sand . . . sand . . . sandwiches, stammered the man. Including cucumber. They said we could choose the kind we like, so long as we don't all choose the same one.
And which are you going to choose? demanded Bletchley.
I was hoping for cucumber, whispered the pilgrim, but I'll gladly eat anything.
Bletchley released the nervous man, who immediately faded back into the milling crowd. From somewhere high above, the opening chords of Bach's Mass in B Minor came booming down over the courtyard.
That man seemed afraid of you, said Joe. Why is that?
Bletchley smiled.
We'll just step this way, he whispered.
Bletchley unlocked another door and Joe followed him down one dimly lit corridor after another. All the chambers in the Monastery seemed to be kept in perpetual near-darkness, which was cool and soothing after the strong sunlight outside. As they padded along, the distant strains of organ music faded and lapsed, only to surge anew from some unexpected quarter. They descended stairs and more stairs and finally entered a small cell lit by a single candle. There was a folding camp table with a huge swivel chair behind it, sumptuously padded in dark leather. Bletchley pointed at the comfortable leather chair.
Just sit down and make yourself at home, he said. I'll let Whatley's aides know we've arrived.
Joe collapsed in the swivel chair and swung slowly back and forth. In a corner stood an apparatus on wheels which he knew he should be able to recognize, but in his fever he couldn't quite place it. The apparatus consisted of several tank cylinders and various hoses and gauges. Bletchley, meanwhile, turned the crank of a military telephone and whispered into the mouthpiece.
Whatley's on his way down, he announced. Now then. . . .
Bletchley wheeled the apparatus over to a position behind the huge leather chair. He leaned down and studied it, testing a valve or two. Joe had swung around to face him.
What is it? asked Joe.
Nitrous oxide. Laughing gas.
What's it for?
For your interview with Whatley.
Bletchley went on tinkering with valves. There was a long low hiss and he smiled.
Nothing to be alarmed about, he murmured, spinning dials. It's just laughing gas. Dentists use it all the time.
I know they do, but what's the point of using it on me?
Standard Monastery procedure, that's all.
But why?
Wartime, murmured Bletchley. Ours not to reason why and so forth. But look at it another way.
Wouldn't you rather face what's coming with a comforting cloud of nitrous oxide inside you? Wouldn't any man at war? Just to make matters seem a little more reasonable? Not quite so idiotic as they actually are?
Bletchley laughed.
To be honest, there's not an agent up there in the cloisters who wouldn't love to be on nitrous oxide at this very moment. Of course they wouldn't want to be down here, but life's like that, isn't it? Gas is enjoyable, certainly, but we always have to take what goes with it.