Everything depends on me.
Triumphant in the bloody sky and the human form...
Ryan weeps.
He paces the corridor, back to his prison, takes three more pills and sleeps.
He dreams of the factory. A huge hall, somewhat darker in Ryan's dream than it was in reality. It is filled with large silent machines. Only the throbbing of the tiled floor indicates the activity of the machines.
At the end of each machine is a large drum into which spill the parts used in the making of Ryan Toys.
There are the smooth heads, legs, arms and torsos of dolls; the woolly heads, legs and torsos of lambs, tigers and rabbits; the metal legs, heads and torsos of mechanical puppets. There are the tiny powerpacs for the bellies of Ryan Toys; there are the metal parts for Ryan Toys dredgers, oilpumps, spacecraft; there are the great, shining grinning heads of Rytoy Realboys and Rytoy Realgirls; the great probosces of Rytoy Realphants.
The vast machines turn out their parts steadily and inexorably.
As each drum fills it glides away and is replaced by another which is, in turn, steadily filled.
Ryan is a witness to this scene. He knows that he will be involved if they find out.
He sees a white-coated mechanic walk along the files of machines and disappear through a door at the end of the hall.
Did the mechanic notice him?
The drums roll away and are replaced by empty ones.
Suddenly Ryan sees the parts rise, as if in weightlessness. They join together, assembling in mid-air. As each toy is completed, or as completed as it can be with the parts available, it sinks to the floor of the hall and begins to operate.
A row of golden haired Realboys, lifesize but armless, revolve slowly, singing Frere Jacques in their high voices.
A cluster of woolly lambs gambol mechanically, raising and dipping their heads.
On the floor the large trunks of the Realphants plunge and rise.
The spacecraft hover a foot above the floor, emitting humming noises.
Ryrobots strut and clank about, running into the machines and toppling over. Two great heaps of musical building blocks chime out the letters printed on their sides— I AM A I AM M I AM U The piles fall and tumble as Ryan kicks them.
The Realgirls link hands and dance around him, tossing their blonde curls. The Ryan Battlewagons run about the floor, shooting their miniature missiles.
Ryan looks fondly at the action, music and chatter of his toys.
The whole of the tiled floor is being gradually covered with toys in motion. All these things are Ryan's—made and sold by Ryan.
He looks at the building blocks and smiles. Some have fallen and spelled out: AMUSEMENT.
In the middle of this cheerful scene, Ryan ceases to dream and falls fast asleep.
*
In accordance with the regulations ensuring that no member of the government or the civil service could be identified save by his rank (thus ensuring the absence of blackmail, bribery, favour seeking and/or giving and so forth) the Man from the Ministry wore a black cloth over his face. It had neat holes for his eyes and his mouth.
Ryan, sitting behind his office desk, contemplated the Man from the Ministry somewhat nervously.
'Will you have a cup of tea?' he asked.
'I think not.'
Ryan could almost see the expression of suspicious distaste on the man's face. He had made a tactical blunder.
'Ah...' said Ryan.
'Mr Ryan...' began the official.
'Yes,' said Ryan, as if in confirmation. 'Yes, indeed.'
'Mr Ryan—you seem unaware that this country is in a state of war...'
'Ah. No.'
'Since Birmingham launched its completely unprovoked attack on London, Mr Ryan, and bombed the reservoirs of Shepperton and Staines, the official government of South England has had to requisition a great deal of private industry if it has been discovered that it has not been contributing to our war effort as efficiently as it might...'
'That's a threat, is it?' Ryan said thickly.
'A friendly tip, Mr Ryan.'
'We've turned over as fast as we can,' Ryan explained. 'We were a bloody toy factory, you know. Overnight we had to change to manufacturing weapon parts and communications equipment.
Naturally we haven't had a completely smooth ride. On the other hand, we've done our best...'
'Your production is not up to scratch, Mr Ryan. I wonder if your heart is in the war effort? Some people do not seem to realise that the old society has been swept away, that the Patriots are bent on ordering an entirely new kind of nation now that the remnants of the alien groups have been pushed back beyond the Thames.
Though attacked from all sides, though sustaining three hydrogen bomb drops from France, the Patriots have managed to hold this land of ours together. They can only do it with the full co-operation of people like yourself, Mr Ryan.'
'We aren't getting the raw materials,' Ryan said. 'Half the things we need don't arrive. It's a bloody shambles!'
'That sounds like a criticism of the government, Mr Ryan.'
'You know I'm a registered Patriot supporter.'
'Not all registered supporters have remained loyal, Mr Ryan.'
'Well, I am loyal!' Ryan half believed himself as he shouted at the Man from the Ministry. He and the group bad decided early on that the Patriots would soon hold the power and had taken the precaution of joining the party. 'It's just that we can't work more than ten bloody miracles a day!'
'You've got a week, I'm afraid, Mr Ryan.' The official got up, closing his briefcase. 'And then it will be a Temporary Requisition Order until our borders are secure again.'
'You'll take over?'
'You will continue to manage the factory, if you prove efficient.
You will enjoy the status of any other civil servant.'
Ryan nodded. 'What about compensation?'
'Mr Ryan,' said the official grimly, wearily, 'there is a discredited cabinet that fled to Birmingham to escape retribution.
Among other things that was discovered about that particular cabinet was that it was corrupt. Industrialists were lining their pockets with the connivance of government officials. That sort of thing is all over now. All over. Naturally, you will receive a receipt guaranteeing the return of your business when the situation has been normalised. We hope, however, that it won't have to happen.
Keep trying, Mr Ryan. Keep trying. Good luck to you.'
Ryan watched the official leave. He would have to warn the group that things were moving a little faster than anticipated.
He wondered how things were in the rest of the world. Very few reports came through these days. The United States were now Disunited and at war. United Europe had fragmented into thousands of tiny principalities, rather as England had. As for Russia and the Far East the only information he had had for months was that a horde thousands of times greater than the Golden Horde was sweeping in all directions. Possibly none of the information was true. He hoped that the town of Surgut on the Siberian Plain was still untouched. Everything depended on that.
Ryan got up and left the office.
It was time to go home.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When he awakes he feels relieved, alert and refreshed. He eats his breakfast as soon as he has exercised and walks to the control room where he runs through all the routine checks and adjustments until lunch-time.
After lunch he goes to the little gym behind the main control cabin and vaults and climbs and swings until it is time to inspect Hibernation.
He unlocks the door of Hibernation and makes a routine and unemotional check. A minor alteration is required in the rate of fluid flow on Number Seven container. He makes the alteration.
Again the routine checks, the reiteration during the normal conference period.
He then does two hours study of the agricultural programmes.