Donald sensed this point was not well received. Farkas said:
“You’ve got a bit more reading to do.”
“He does,” Banner said. He stood up and paced up and down, pondering. “I think you came here on TK’s behalf to sound out whether the Party may be amenable to negotiation.”
“Actually, I came here entirely on my own account.”
“In all modesty, you imagine yourself as the great arbiter between the National Party and the sovereigns?”
“Negotiation is my living. I’ve brought together families estranged for generations. Rancour becomes too exhausting. The human instinct is to live in peace.”
“No it is not,” Banner said. “The human instinct is to exploit to the limit. The Public Era was ruled by a caste of freeloaders, cream-skimmers and speculation bandits who sucked fortunes through paper without doing a real day’s work in their lives. When the people finally woke up to the scam and threatened to stop it, the bandits fucked the financial system of the world and stuffed the vacuum with guns and gold. They stole the planet! Not that you will read this in any history book—for obvious reasons—but the most perspicacious scholarship has shown it to be true. The human instinct is to dominate, viciously… Unfortunately, I just don’t have more time Mr Aldingford, as this was a promising discussion. What I will leave you with is a vision.
“Let all citizens live in the same, standard sort of house. Let them earn the same, standard sort of income. Let children attend the same, standard sort of school. Thereby let the greater talent emerge by nature alone and be admired. Let this greater talent find satisfaction expressing its gifts to the rest, not in abusing those gifts to exploit the rest. The National Party is fundamentally about an ultimate justice resting on humility. It has no place for the richest staying rich, let alone getting richer still. Tom Krossington is well aware of our vision, even if you are not.”
“We live in stables?” Donald was baffled that a movement of apparently intelligent people could have gathered about such a stupid idea. “We doze on the Bed of Procrustes...”
“It is a radical vision,” Banner said. “The basic idea is an old one, dating from the earliest years of the Public Era. It’s never been properly tried.”
“It’s something beginning with M. You’ll know it when you find it.” Farkas pulled a tight, complacent grin.
“But for now, we must press on. My apologies for this abruptness,” Banner said. He stood up and held his arm out for the door. “By all means join us at Brent Cross a week on Sunday. It’s the official opening ceremony of our new head office. We’ve grown far beyond this old attic here, besides which the college is finding our presence increasingly awkward.”
“I shall make that a date,” Donald said, trying not to sound overtly sarcastic.
A few minutes later, Valentin and his two oxen were escorting him to the front door. As he descended the stairs, he wondered wryly what His Decency TK would make of his appointed regent pow-wowing with the president of the National Party. The thought drifted away in favour of the purpose of his day.
“Would you by any chance know a student here called Sarah-Kelly Newman?” he asked Valentin.
“She isn’t here in the week, she’s at work.”
“Would that be in Brent Cross?”
“You would know, if you needed to.”
Chapter 14
Donald’s first concern was going back out through Ladbroke fort for the second time that morning. Would this arouse suspicion? He had no idea whether his messenger’s passport would survive a check against central records, or not. It turned out there was a new shift of glories behind the desk. The leading basic squinted at the stamp of that morning, lifted his own stamp and banged Donald through without comment.
Now there were five miles of lonely turnpike to Brent Cross. It was not a stretch Donald was inclined to make all alone. His Colt 38 would not spare him a crafty arrow through the back of the neck. Luckily, a man-hauled express charabanc was about to leave from the turnpike gate. For three white ones, he took a place on one of the benches along with about a dozen other travellers. During the hour’s trip, he listened, observed and kept his mouth tight shut.
The customs halt for Brent Cross was entirely clear of any washed-up surplus flow, be it dead or alive and similarly clear of vultures, crows, dogs and such. The only suggestion of carrion action was streaked down the walls bordering the turnpike. Donald suspected these were lammergeier droppings.
On the great marketplace of Brent Cross, Donald walked in a large circle amongst the tents and stalls, eyes ahead and very purposeful, whilst seeking any clue as to which of the many gates visible was that of the great ZEEBRI factory complex . The only lead he had was Sarah-Kelly’s telling him she worked at ZEEBRI before moving to Oban. If she was not there, he would give up and go home. He was all too aware of his vulnerability out here miles from any help. It would be far too dangerous to attempt amateur sleuthing in this social wilderness.
He enlarged the circle. His attention narrowed on two large gates on opposite sides of the marketplace. From these emerged limousines, engines as big as horses, wooden crates as big as cottages—major pieces of engineering hauled by teams of Night and Fog tramping to time beaten by drummers. He had a 50-50 chance of getting it right. Donald chose what happened to be the nearest gate and walked towards it, being forced to zig-zag to stay out of the way of wagons and their drivers’ whips. He allowed himself a smile on seeing that the gates bore lettering crafted in wrought-iron
