Barnes retreated fractionally. He summed Renthall up carefully, then nodded. ‘I think so, Mr Renthall. No doubt you understand what you’re doing.’
After he had gone Renthall drew the blinds over the window and lay down on his bed; for the next hour he made an effort to relax.
His final showdown with the Council was to take place the following day. Summoned to an emergency meeting of the Watch Committee, he accepted the invitation with alacrity, certain that with every member of the committee present the main council chamber would be used. This would give him a perfect opportunity to humiliate the Council by publicly calling their bluff.
Both Hanson and Mrs Osmond assumed that he would capitulate without argument.
‘Well, Charles, you brought it upon yourself,’ Hanson told him. ‘Still, I expect they’ll be lenient with you. It’s a matter of face now.’
‘More than that, I hope,’ Renthall replied. ‘They claim they were passing on a direct instruction from the watchtowers.’
‘Well, yes…’ Hanson gestured vaguely. ‘Of course. Obviously the towers wouldn’t intervene in such a trivial matter. They rely on the Council to keep a watching brief for them, as long as the Council’s authority is respected they’re prepared to remain aloof.’
‘It sounds an ideally simple arrangement. How do you think the communication between the Council and the watchtowers takes place?’ Renthall pointed to the watch-tower across the street from the cabin. The shuttered observation tier hung emptily in the air like an out-of-season gondola. ‘By telephone? Or do they semaphore?’
But Hanson merely laughed and changed the subject.
Julia Osmond was equally vague, but equally convinced of the Council’s infallibility.
‘Of course they receive instructions from the towers, Charles. But don’t worry, they obviously have a sense of proportion — they’ve been letting you come here all this time.’ She turned a monitory finger at Renthall, her broadhipped bulk obscuring the towers from him. ‘That’s your chief fault, Charles. You think you’re more important than you are. Look at you now, sitting there all hunched up with your face like an old shoe. You think the Council and the watch-towers are going to give you some terrible punishment. But they won’t, because you’re not worth it.’
Renthall picked uneagerly at his lunch at the hotel, conscious of the guests watching from the tables around him. Many had brought visitors with them, and he guessed that there would be a full attendance at the meeting that afternoon.
After lunch he retired to his room, made a desultory attempt to read until the meeting at half past two. Outside, the watch-towers hung in their long lines from the bright haze. There was no sign of movement in the observation windows, and Renthall studied them openly, hands in pockets, like a general surveying the dispositions of his enemy’s forces. The haze was lower than usual, filling the interstices between the towers, so that in the distance, where the free space below their tips was hidden by the intervening roof-tops, the towers seemed to rise upwards into the air like rectangular chimneys over an industrial landscape, wreathed in white smoke.
The nearest tower was about seventy-five feet away, diagonally to his left, over the eastern end of the open garden shared by the other hotels in the crescent. Just as Renthall turned away, one of the windows in the observation deck appeared to open, the opaque glass pane throwing a spear of sharp sunlight directly towards him. Renthall flinched back, heart suddenly surging, then leaned forward again. The activity in the tower had subsided as instantly as it had arisen. The windows were sealed, no signs of movement behind them. Renthall listened to the sounds from the rooms above and below him. So conspicuous a motion of the window, the first sign of activity for many days, and a certain indication of more to come, should have brought a concerted rush to the balconies. But the hotel was silent, and below he could hear Dr Clifton at his cages by the window, humming absently to himself.
Renthall scanned the windows on the other side of the garden but the lines of craning faces he expected were absent. He examined the watch-tower carefully, assuming that he had seen a window open in a hotel near by. Yet the explanation dissatisfied him. The ray of sunlight had cleft the air like a silver blade, with a curious luminous intensity that only the windows of the watch-towers seemed able to reflect, aimed unerringly at his head.
He broke off to glance at his watch, cursed when he saw that it was after a quarter past two. The Town Hall was a good half-mile away, and he would arrive dishevelled and perspiring.
There was a knock on his door. He opened it to find Mulvaney. ‘What is it? I’m busy now.’
‘Sorry, Mr Renthall. A man called Barnes from the Council asked me to give you an urgent message. He said the meeting this afternoon has been postponed.’
‘Ha!’ Leaving the door open, Renthall snapped his fingers contemptuously at the air. ‘So they’ve had second thoughts after all. Discretion is the better part of valour.’ Smiling broadly, he called Mulvaney back into his room. ‘Mr Mulvaney! Just a moment!’
‘Good news, Mr Renthall?’
‘Excellent. I’ve got them on the run.’ He added: ‘You wait and see, the next meeting of the Watch Committee will be held in private.’
‘You might be right, Mr Renthall. Some people think they have over-reached themselves a bit.’
‘Really? That’s rather interesting. Good.’ Renthall noted this mentally, then gestured Mulvaney over to the window. ‘Tell me, Mr Mulvaney, just now while you were coming up the stairs, did you notice any activity out there?’
He gestured briefly towards the tower, not wanting to draw attention to himself by pointing at it. Mulvaney gazed out over the garden, shaking his head slowly. ‘Can’t say I did, not more than usual. What sort of activity?’
‘You know, a window opening…’ When Mulvaney continued to shake his head, Renthall said: ‘Good. Let me know if that fellow Barnes calls again.’
When Mulvaney had gone he strode up and down the room, whistling a Mozart rondo.
Over the next three days, however, the mood of elation gradually faded. To Renthall’s annoyance no further date was fixed for the cancelled committee meeting. He had assumed that it would be held in camera, but the members must have realized that it would make little difference. Everyone would soon know that Renthall had successfully challenged their claim to be in communication with the watch-towers.
Renthall chafed at the possibility that the meeting had been postponed indefinitely. By avoiding a direct clash with Renthall the Council had cleverly side-stepped the danger before them.
Alternatively, Renthall speculated whether he had underestimated them. Perhaps they realized that the real target of his defiance was not the Council, but the watch-towers. The faint possibility — however hard he tried to dismiss it as childish fantasy the fear still persisted — that there was some mysterious collusion between the towers and the Council now began to grow in his mind. The fte had been cleverly conceived as an innocent gesture of defiance towards the towers, and it would be difficult to find something to take its place that would not be blatantly outrageous and stain him indelibly with the sin of hubris.
Besides, as he carefully reminded himself, he was not out to launch open rebellion. Originally he had reacted from a momentary feeling of pique, exasperated by the spectacle of the boredom and lethargy around him and the sullen fear with which everyone viewed the towers. There was no question of challenging their absolute authority — at least, not at this stage. He merely wanted to define the existential margins of their world — if they were caught in a trap, let them at least eat the cheese. Also, he calculated that it would take an affront of truly heroic scale to provoke any reaction from the watch-towers, and that a certain freedom by default was theirs, a small but valuable credit to their account built into the system.
In practical, existential terms this might well be considerable, so that the effective boundary between black and white, between good and evil, was drawn some distance from the theoretical boundary. This watershed was the penumbral zone where the majority of the quickening pleasures of life were to be found, and where Renthall was most at home. Mrs Osmond’s villa lay well within its territory, and Renthall would have liked to move himself over its margins. First, though, he would have to assess the extent of this ‘blue’ shift, or moral parallax, but by cancelling the committee meeting the Council had effectively forestalled him.
As he waited for Barnes to call again a growing sense of frustration came over him. The watch-towers seemed to fill the sky, and he drew the blinds irritably. On the flat roof, two floors above, a continuous light hammering sounded all day, but he shunned the streets and no longer went to the caf for his morning coffee.
Finally he climbed the stairs to the roof, through the doorway saw two carpenters working under Mulvaney’s
