“When we are old enough to understand!” he echoed bitterly. “That is what they always say—when we are old enough to understand. I want to understand now. Now, while—while I’m hungry.”
There was a sound as of distant thunder. Then more rumbling. Then a muted banging.
Emily looked up at the sky and clapped her hands.
“Oh, look, Michael—an air raid!”
“I have just thought of something,” said Michael, almost to himself. “Air raids seem to happen most of all on Saturdays. That’s strange. That’s very strange.”
“Do you think we should go home?” asked Emily.
“Why should we? The force field protects us…. Look at that zeppelin! You’d think the ground-to-air missiles would blow it to pieces. Perhaps that is big enough to have a force field, too.”
High in the sky, the zeppelin passed slowly over London. Streaks of tracer fire homed on it, but evidently it came to no harm. Fighter planes, German and British, appeared: and the dogfights began. A German triplane turned crazily in a tight circle until it was on the tail of a British biplane. The biplane exploded, brief and lovely as a firework. A Spitfire and a Messerschmitt collided, then spiraled downward like broken birds, leaving black tracks down the sky. Jet fighters of both sides screamed in toward each other, writing a ragged white tracery all over the sky. The zeppelin continued on its majestic way as if it had a charmed life.
Michael watched, fascinated. So did Emily. So did everyone else in the park, and probably everyone else in London.
Michael watched, fascinated, and thought that this, too, was like a scene from a film.
No wrecked planes would come hurtling down into St. James’s Park. Michael’s father had told him why. The force field protected the entire city. It was impenetrable.
And yet the crippled planes seemed to be falling. They seemed to be falling right down on London. But they couldn’t. Because the force field covered London.
Michael tried to think of it as an invisible upside-down goldfish bowl. He tried to imagine the smashed planes and all the other debris sliding off its glasslike surface. Perhaps London was surrounded by great piles of wrecked planes and rockets.
He didn’t know why, but the whole idea seemed wrong. And the planes looked as if they were falling, falling.
There were more explosions, more destruction. Then the air battle was over as abruptly as it had started, and the sky was clear and clean once more, and the vapor trails were dying.
Yes, it was just like a scene from a film. Michael forgot how pleasant and wonderful it was to hold Emily’s hand. Once again there was a cold sweat on his forehead. Once again he was shaking.
8
A frosty evening in autumn. The western edge of the sky still had a few fading streaks of crimson mingling with turquoise; but high above stars pricked the blackness like cold rapiers of fire.
Michael was walking in the Mall. He should have been home long before sunset, and Father would certainly be very severe when he did get back. But Michael loved the darkness of London, the lamps, the stillness, the empty streets.
He was not alone in the Mall. Two other people were taking a short stroll close to Buckingham Palace.
They walked toward Michael. He walked toward them. He recognized them as they walked through a circle of lamplight on the pavement. He was too surprised to be afraid.
“Boy,” said Sir Winston jovially, “you should be home in bed. All children should be home in bed. Your good father will have something to say upon the matter, I do not doubt.”
“Yes, sir,” said Michael. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m on my way home, now.”
Queen Victoria wore the big black dress like she always did, and there was a shawl round her shoulders, and the crown was on her head. She gazed down at Michael.
“Sir Winston, present the child.”
“My pleasure, Ma’am.” Then, to Michaeclass="underline" “What is your name, boy?”
“Michael Faraday.”
“Your Majesty,” said Sir Winston, “I have the honor to present one of your Majesty’s youngest subjects, Michael Faraday.”
“Good evening, your Majesty,” said Michael, trying to bow. “I am very sorry if I am being a nuisance.”
Queen Victoria laughed. “The child thinks he is being a nuisance, Sir Winston.”
Sir Winston laughed. “Any healthy boy is a nuisance, Ma’am. That is what boys are for. Then they grow up and become bigger nuisances. Eh, Michael?”
“Yes, sir. I expect so, sir.”
“Child,” said the Queen, “what do you want to do when you grow up?”
“I want to understand,” said Michael, almost without thinking.
“You want to understand?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“What do you want to understand?”
“Everything,” said Michael desperately. “I want to understand about people. I want to understand about machines… I—I want to know everything there is to know.”
The Queen patted his head. “You want too much, child. You want far too much.”
Sir Winston rumbled with laughter. “Don’t you want to be a sailor, boy?”
“No, sir.”
“Or an airman?”
“No, sir.”
“Or an astronaut?”
“No, sir…. I just want to understand.”
“Don’t you want to fight the Germans, to shoot down zeppelins, program rockets?”
“No, sir. I want to find things out.”
“An odd child,” mused Queen Victoria. “But then all children are odd, are they not, Sir Winston?”
“Indeed, Ma’am. Indeed they are.”
The Queen said: “I recollect now, Sir Winston, that I wish you to convey my congratulations to Generals Gordon, Kitchener and Montgomery…. They, too, were once children, no doubt.” She turned to Michael. “Go home, now, Michael Faraday. Go home quickly to bed. Present your apologies to your parents and inform them you were delayed by Queen Victoria.”
“Yes, your Majesty. Thank you.”
Sir Winston snapped: “Are we going to win the war, boy?”
“I don’t know, sir. I expect so.”
Sir Winston was amused. “He expects so! He expects so! Be off with you, boy. Hurry! Hurry! The Queen commands it.”
Michael broke into a run. He ran along the Mall, listening to his feet hitting the frosty pavement. After a time he paused and looked back. But Queen Victoria and Sir Winston were nowhere to be seen.
He looked up at the stars; and oddly, for a moment, they seemed like the only real things in the entire universe.
9
Time passed. The war continued. Newscasts told how the conflict had spread to North Africa, India, China. Time passed. London remained impregnable. The seasons came and went. Play school ended. High school began. Time passed. Michael Faraday grew tall. His voice wavered uncertainly, then the childish tones were gone forever. Emily Bronte’s lips became full, magnetic. Her body developed interesting curves. Time passed.
And the sense of oddness grew.
When he was small, Michael had felt miserably alone, believing himself to be the only one who knew that something was wrong, that the world was somehow concealing another kind of reality. There had even been times when, in desperation, he had tried to believe that he was mad or, at least, that his mind did not work properly and that all was well in an entirely normal world. But he could not retain belief in the notion that the wrongness lay with him. Because, for no explicable reason and without any evidence to justify his attitude, he knew somehow that the apparently real world was only a projection of reality, concealing, perhaps, a reality that he was not yet clever enough to discover or not strong enough to face.