Lawrence paused to inspect Pezzini more closely. TK had been head of clan for thirty-three years, which meant Pezzini must have reached at least the mid-forties. With his smooth brown skin he only looked about thirty. Maybe it went with being a spay. What kind of escape-partner would a middle-aged spay make? Lawrence could only shrug to himself—he had to work with what was available.
“Did you know that spaying originally applied only to females?” Lawrence said. “The term for males was ‘castration’.”
“Yes, I think most of us are aware of that.”
On the contrary, Lawrence had never met anyone who was aware of it and doubted Pezzini had been either until a few seconds ago.
“Do you know why the meaning changed?”
Pezzini merely let his eyes drift away. He was evidently neither accustomed to, nor appreciative of, his ignorance being probed.
“It rhymes with ‘paid’—as in ‘get spayed and get paid’,” Lawrence said. “Whereas ‘castrate’ is too honest a word, it’s too expressive of the reality, and it doesn’t rhyme with anything useful to propagandists. I was amazed to learn that castrating boys was unheard-of in the Public Era, except in the most fringe societies.”
“I cannot understand why this would amaze you,” Pezzini said. “Overpopulation was the downfall of the Public Era, since its leaders would not execute the measures required to solve the problem.”
“Oh, I agree, I’ve never been able to understand why they just watched their world disappear before their eyes like dumb sheep watching the tide rise. At least our times are ruled by strong people.”
“So why are you still a man?”
Lawrence pulled a face.
“Not a chance. I value my nuts.”
“Here? They are of no use to you. Get rid of them!”
Pezzini rocked back booming, attracting others nearby to catch the joke. So, Pezzini had a sense of humour after all, well, sort of. Lawrence just smiled a sad, wan smile.
“I knew a girl who grew up near Brent Cross, in North Kensington basin,” he said.
“They are not really that close.”
“She was blonde. Good-looking.” He added sadly, “So very good-looking.”
Since Pezzini did not reply, he rambled on.
“She won a scholarship in the Talent Court of Krossington when it passed through Brent Cross, just as you did. She started as a clerk at Oban Castle. That was how I met her—”
“What was her name?”
Lawrence paused, thinking of Spiderman’s warning. He would do well to heed the advice of those who had lasted. That said, he knew of no regulation that forbade mention of real names of people outside the Value System. No one nearby was paying attention anyway.
“Sarah-Kelly Newman.”
Pezzini frowned, twisting his head, straining his memory.
“I met her on the Neptune,” he said. “I was travelling north with TK, some new staff were on board.”
“You’re giving me the bullshit, right?”
“Not in the least. I recall quite a hefty girl—”
“She was a big girl—no way was she hefty,” Lawrence retorted.
“—and too clever for her station. Heading for trouble in my view. Flashing a smart mind is not wise when one is lowly. That is why she stuck in my mind.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
Pezzini the statistician just had to jump at the chance of talking numbers.
“It is not such a remarkable coincidence. The population of this island dropped by 90% in the Glorious Resolution. In excess of sixty million people died of starvation, disease, or violence. Virtually nothing of them remains, just as virtually nothing of death remains in the wild, for the same reason; what the individual no longer needs is returned to the community of life. Gangsters, vultures, dogs, rats and flies all profit from death. I have read of flies swirling like thick smoke over cadavers stacked in the parks of London before the great surplus flows to the countryside. Rats gushed in the lanes and packs of dogs swept the streets. Then they too vanished. For years, the gangsters sold bone meal to the sovereign lands. Everything was consumed. The Nameless Gone vanished as if they never were.”
“Your point being?” Lawrence said.
“Society is no longer a vast, teeming ocean, as it was in the Public Era. The entire sovereign caste does not amount to more than ten thousand head and its élite is exclusive in the extreme. Seven great clans rule half the productive land of this island. The Krossingtons employ around four thousand head of staff, including the households inferior like Oban. So, it is far from unlikely that two members would meet.”
Lawrence took his chance.
“You and I are bound together. We shared the same hold for days on end, we shared the same jeering from The Captain. We’re bound by fate. We need to discuss our future.”
Pezzini blinked. “If you are suggesting I become your passive homosexual partner, then—”
“No! I mean escape. The world cannot ignore testimonies from a cost-centre lieutenant and a chief demographer, least of all from the staff of the Krossingtons.”
“You are fantasising. It is not possible to escape from here.”
“How hard has anyone tried? The escapes are mad dashes into the night, not planned over months. No prison is completely secure. I have specialist knowledge of the fens. I know the land.”
“I have no interest in escape. Despite what you say, I still firmly believe that Tom Krossington will get me out of here.”
Lawrence felt a heaviness in his head, his neck sagged, his palms collapsed flat on the table. He never expected recruitment to be the stumbling block. The narcotic excitement of his ‘great plan’ deserted him. Gloom pulled, as gravity pulls at the hulk of a stricken ship.
He passed hours drifting from table to table and on into oblivion. Everything was swirling about. He fled to the cold drizzle of the Yard, stumbling about until he head-butted a brick wall, down which he vomited his load in one, two, three rushes and slumped down, forehead drying on the cobbles. More time passed.
“Let’s rape the bitch.”
Hands
