“I suppose you’ll be going out again today,” said Father.
“Yes.”
“Does it occur to you that Mother and I might like a little more of your company? We are not getting any younger.”
Michael laughed harshly. “And you are not getting any older, are you? Don’t waste time making speeches that sound like lines from old films, Father. It may amuse you to pretend that we are all normal people living in a normal world; but to me the joke isn’t funny. It never was.”
“Would you like one egg or two?” Mother’s voice sounded anxious. It always did these days. She was giving a moderate to mediocre interpretation of the archetypal anxious mother, worrying about her delinquent son.
“Two, please. And lots of toast.”
“Where are you going, then?” Father’s voice had just the right note of indifferent curiosity.
“Just out.”
“Can’t you give me an intelligent answer?”
“I learned how to give unintelligent answers from you.”
“You are not too old to be thrashed, you know.”
“True. But I am too old to be impressed by it.”
Breakfast proceeded in silence.
At the end of it, Father said surprisingly: “You can take my bicycle, if you want to. I expect you know how to ride it.”
For a moment or two, Michael was dumbfounded. It was the first time Father had ever made the offer. Then he recovered himself sufficiently to say: “Thank you. I’ll take care of it.”
He left the house, feeling anxious and puzzled.
Father might have known that Michael had quite a long journey ahead of him. But how could he possibly have known?
Michael had arranged to rendezvous with Ernest and Horatio at Hyde Park Corner. One bicycle would not be a great deal of use between the three of them; but, in taking turns on it, they could perhaps keep up a slightly faster pace than if they were all walking.
Ernest and Horatio were already at Hyde Park Corner, waiting for him.
I really must learn to expect the unexpected, he told himself grimly when he saw them. They, too, had bicycles.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “The drybones spontaneously offered to let you use their bicycles.”
“They are playing games with us,” said Ernest despondently.
“They always have been. You know that. You should be used to it.”
Horatio grinned wolfishly. “I had my favorite dream again last night. I was killing drybones with my bare hands. You know how it is in dreams. I was immensely strong, and they had become weak and brittle.”
“Do what you like in dreams, Horatio,” said Michael. “But remember that I meant what I said. The Aldous Huxley saga is evidently not yet finished…. Well, let’s get to Hampstead and find out what new wonders there are to confound us.”
Arthur Wellesley and his lieutenants were at the rendezvous, waiting. Each of them stood with feet astride and one hand on his belt. They looked like mass-produced statues, thought Michael as he wheeled his bicycle over the dewy grass, or like dancers waiting for the signal that would galvanize them into activity. Or like soldiers standing at ease.
“Rather smart,” said Horatio, obviously impressed.
“Rather sinister,” amended Ernest. “I suppose they mean to be.”
Michael stopped a little way from the group. “Let’s leave our bicycles here. And let’s hope there isn’t going to be any trouble.”
They laid the bicycles down and walked forward. The drybones waited unmoving.
Michael said: “Hello. I’m Michael Faraday. I understand you want to talk to me.”
Arthur Wellesley brought his feet together and saluted. “Wellesley, commander of the North London High School defense unit. Yes, I want to talk to you. We shall need to support each other when the revolution starts. Do you have any arms?”
Michael was shaken. “The revolution? What revolution?”
“Let’s not waste words,” snapped Arthur Wellesley. “I have a good intelligence service. You think the struggle is between yourselves—the people you call fragiles—and the drybones, including us. That is incorrect thinking. The true struggle is between the revolutionary and the orthodox, between the young and the old—irrespective of whether they are fragiles or drybones. Do you have any arms?”
Michael smiled faintly. “We are not planning a revolution.”
“What are you planning?”
“Nothing—yet.”
Arthur Wellesley laughed. “Then you will be destroyed. It is as simple as that. Unless you join forces with us.”
Michael was silent for a moment or two. Then he said: “Are there any fragiles at North London High School? I understood that—”
“There were,” interrupted the drybone. “Altogether there were forty-seven.”
“What happened to them?”
“They disappeared. They disappeared overnight. Whisked away without trace.”
Ernest spoke. “Did you try to find out where they had gone?”
Arthur Wellesley looked him up and down, then turned to Michael. “Does this person hold any rank?”
“He is on my General Staff,” said Michael gravely.
“Yes, we did try to find out where they had gone. Met with a blank wall. Nobody would discuss the matter—parents, teachers, no one. It was as if they had never existed. That is why we think you people may be in danger. That is why we think the time has come to join forces. Interested?”
“Yes, I am interested—but not wholly convinced.”
“Don’t wait too long to be convinced. It could be fatal.”
“Yesterday, you mentioned somebody called Aldous Huxley,” said Michael. “Are we supposed to know him?”
“I know that you know him. He established contact with you in the Strand Coffeehouse some time ago. His duty was to keep me informed of your activities. He was one of my best agents.”
Horatio turned white and began to stare at the ground. Michael was afraid he might say something, or do something stupid.
“Was one of your best agents?”
“Yes. Was. He hasn’t reported for some time…. I think he discovered something important, and I think he was liquidated. This is not a game we are playing, you know. There is no time to waste. Come along with me, and I’ll show you something that will convince you we mean business. You had better bring those bicycles.”
Michael and Ernest and Horatio were taken to a small suburban house in Hampstead Village. They passed a few drybones on the way; but no one paid any attention to them or to the three uniformed drybones. It was as if the occupants of Hampstead were being deliberately blind.
As they approached their destination, Arthur Wellesley’s companions went through a complicated, unnecessary and absurd routine of reconnaissance to establish that they could enter the house unobserved. It was a plain little house, apparently deserted. Arthur Wellesley led the way down into the cellar and switched on the electric light.
The cellar contained racks of rifles and pistols, boxes of ammunition and grenades. There was even a light machine gun.
Michael had never seen real lethal weapons before. He was amazed. “Where on earth did you get them?”
“An army unit was carrying out some maneuvers on the Heath.” Arthur Wellesley laughed. “So at night we carried out some maneuvers of our own.”
“I have never seen any army units in London,” said Michael. “I thought they were all stationed outside the force field.”
“Do you doubt my word?”
“I have no reason either to doubt it or to accept it.”
“Good man! We shall get along…. About Aldous Huxley—your people didn’t liquidate him, by any chance?”