‘You’re my luckiest passenger today,’ he said, ‘I haven’t managed to hit another car till now.’
The guide congratulated him: ‘If he’s badly hurt that’s a hundred points, plus another five hundred for not stopping to find out. I’ll vouch for you when we get to the Scoring Office.’
The driver laughed: ‘If I go on like this I’ll soon have a hundred thousand points — then I qualify for a house. I’ve always wanted to get out of my little ten-roomed flat.’
‘Ten rooms?’ said Richard.
‘That includes cupboards and lavatories,’ said the driver.
‘It’s three rooms really,’ said the guide. ‘And he’s got fifteen children.’
‘And my wife’s two lovers live with us,’ said the driver. ‘It’s nihilistic to have a lot of children.’
‘You knock ’em out, and you run ’em down,’ the guide commented. The lights of Nihilon bristled in the distance. They turned left into a dreary suburb, and went towards the bridge. ‘They have a passion for education in Nihilon. That’s the only good thing about it.’
‘It’s a great country,’ said the driver, ‘even though I do live here myself.’
‘What do they learn?’ Richard asked, too exhausted to care.
‘Everything,’ said the driver, avoiding collision with a massive lorry on its way to the industrial zone.
‘Some learn nuclear physics,’ said the guide. ‘Others learn the telephone directory. It depends which way your mind goes.’
‘What are you learning?’ Richard asked.
‘Street-fighting,’ said the taxi driver. ‘Same as my friend here.’ He held up a book. ‘Government publication. “The Complete Guide to Street Fighting” — five hundred pages with maps, plans, and diagrams. History of street fighting, tactics, weapons, political repercussions of, how to start it, how to stop it, how to enjoy it. Nihilon is such a free country that all information is readily available. Then there’s volume two. You go on to that when you’ve passed the examination at the end of volume one. Volume two has military engineering, demolitions and mining, explosives, boring and blasting, landmines and traps, dugouts and anti-gas procedures, fortifications, machine-gun emplacements, obstacles, siting of trenches and barricades — all that the man in the street ought to know in order to make himself a complete citizen, which means having the theoretical knowledge to take part in a bloody revolution. But while you’re at it, and before we get to the bridge, give me the envelope that the professor handed to you on the plane. It’s addressed to me, because I’m one of the insurrection’s generals, though I have to work as a taxi driver in my spare time. The guide here is my adjutant. We work together, preparing our plans, gathering our general staff. By the way, would you like to join our general staff? You receive all sorts of privileges — free cinema-tickets, open access to the zoo, a Zap sports car with a big number on the side, as well as a pretty girl-assistant.’
Richard was embarrassed at having to turn down such an attractive offer: ‘I haven’t yet seen much of nihilism. Perhaps I shall like it, then I won’t want to join your revolution.’
‘Insurrection,’ laughed the guide, ‘not revolution. We’re not lunatics.’
‘Whatever it is. But here’s your envelope,’ he said, glad to get rid of it.
The guide’s hands trembled as he took it: ‘You’ll be given a medal for this by our new government.’
‘Maybe we’ll make him a minister,’ said the driver. ‘Do you have another cigarette?’
‘The only way you can repay me for delivering the envelope is to get me to the hotel as soon as possible,’ said Richard as he passed his packet over.
‘Have a pill,’ said the driver, offering a small box by way of exchange. ‘They keep you going for days.’
Richard preferred to wait for a natural descent into sleep. Huge blocks of flats went up like cliffs on both sides of the road. Then they crossed a bridge over the River Nihil, into Nihilon City proper. He was being pushed and pulled about. ‘You’re here,’ said the guide, thrusting a revolver into his hand. ‘A present from the professor. He said to make sure you got it.’ Richard absentmindedly put it in his pocket. ‘This is the Hotel Stigma. My mother is waiting for you — with the best meal you’ve ever eaten. And be careful with that revolver. It’s loaded. We anti-Nihilists are serious people.’
Chapter 18
Benjamin had already driven two cars off the road that had tried to ram him, by using the novelty of his glaringly plain headlights. It gave him great satisfaction to see the sudden loss of nerve in the other car when, on getting what he considered close enough, he turned on his battery of six blinders, a fog-clearer, two back dazzlers, and a row of triple-flickering roof-installed searchbeams, at which the other car spun off the camber, rattled over a couple of potholes (which merely served to exacerbate its loss of control) and rumbled uneasily off the road before the big crash came somewhere back in the darkness. They, after all, had tried to ram him, so he felt no more sorrow at their plight than he had for the unfortunate manager of the petrol station whose exploding tanks, and what must have been his ultimate reserves, lit up the skyline for several miles as he drove contentedly into the dusk.
Coming to the Alphabet Motel, a drive-in sign channelled him between two desks; the clerk at one handed him a card on which was written: ‘Room P — thirty-five klipps’, while the opposite clerk got in the car and guided him into a small room. The doors closed, and the lift immediately began to ascend. When it stopped, doors opened in front, and the clerk indicated that he should drive out, along a corridor. The room doors had letters of the alphabet inscribed on them instead of numbers. Some had cars already parked outside, for which purpose ample space was provided. At door P, Benjamin stopped his car, got out, and was shown into a plain but comfortable apartment, which, after his long day, he was well pleased with. ‘The restaurant is now open,’ the clerk informed him before leaving. ‘There is also an amusement park attached to the establishment.’
After paying his bill in advance he went into the dining room of this curious stopover, where the menu was set out in automobile language. It was a four-stroke meal, at twenty klipps, and the food was excellent, beginning with an induction of sautéed tappets, then braised camshaft, followed by a main course which was a cut off the big-end, and terminalled by a dessert of carburettor Suzette. Half a bottle of high-octane wine was thrown in free. The plates, which were of the best Nihilon china, had a picture glazed on them depicting a car crash in which the most mangled vehicle plainly showed a Cronacian number-plate. A box of cigars was brought to him, with the name Exhaust-Smoke Coronas inscribed on its elaborate label.
After the meal he wandered into the amusement park. Prominent loudspeakers played the same Nihilon National Anthem he had heard and loathed at the frontier post, though none of the motoring clientele were taking much notice of it. Many of them, however, were lying dead drunk on the ground.
The main attraction was a large dodgem arena, in which those who must have driven cars all day were now amusing themselves by practising their expertise at causing or avoiding head-on collisions — before meeting the perils of tomorrow. There were cries of alarm and shouts of triumph, invariably followed by the overwhelming impact of reinforced metal. Attendants with long poles went from crash to crash, prising the sweating contestants free when they were unable to do it themselves. The car with most dents, and still running at the end of an hour, received a prize, though Benjamin did not stay long enough to find out what it was.