to. But there's a suspect case in Albury today.'
'In Albury? That's only about two hundred miles north.'
'I know. I think Saturday fortnight is going to be too late.'
Peter asked, 'How long do you think we've got then, John?'
The scientist glanced at him. 'I've got it now. You've got it, we've all got it. This door, this spanner - everything's getting touched with radioactive dust. The air we breathe, the water that we drink, the lettuce in the salad, even the bacon and eggs. It's getting down now to the tolerance of the individual. Some people with less tolerance than others could quite easily be showing symptoms in a fortnight's time. Maybe sooner.' He paused. 'I think it's crazy to put off an important race like the Grand Prix till Saturday fortnight. We're having a meeting of the Committee this afternoon and I'm going to tell them so. We can't have a decent race if half the drivers have got diarrhoea and vomiting. It just means that the Grand Prix might be won by the chap with the best tolerance to radioactivity. Well, that's not what we're racing for!'
'I suppose that's so,' said Dwight. He left them in the garage, for he had a date to lunch with Moira Davidson. John Osborne suggested lunch at the Pastoral Club, and presently he wiped his hands on a clean piece of rag, took off his overall, locked the garage, and they drove up through the city to the club.
As they went, Peter asked, 'How's your uncle getting on?'
'He's made a big hole in the port, him and his cobbers,' the scientist said. 'He's not quite so good, of course. We'll probably see him at lunch; he comes in most days now. Of course, it's made a difference to him now that he can come in in his car.'
'Where does he get his petrol from?'
'God knows. The army, probably. Where does anybody get his petrol from these days?' He paused. 'I think he'll stay the course, but I wouldn't bank on it. The port'll probably give him longer than most of us.'
'The port?'
The other nodded. 'Alcohol, taken internally, seems to increase the tolerance to radioactivity. Didn't you know that?'
'You mean, if you get pickled you last longer?'
'A few days. With Uncle Douglas it's a toss-up which'll kill him first. Last week I thought the port was winning, but when I saw him yesterday he looked pretty good.'
They parked the car and went into the club. They found Sir Douglas Froude sitting in the garden room, for the wind was cold. A glass of sherry was on the table by him and he was talking to two old friends. He made an effort to get to his feet when he saw them, but abandoned it at John's request. 'Don't get about so well as I used to, once,' he said. 'Come, pull a chair up, and have some of this sherry. We're down to about fifty bottles now of the Amontillado. Push that bell.'
John Osborne did so, and they drew up chairs. 'How are you feeling now, sir?'
'So-so, so-so. That doctor was probably right. He said that if I went back to my old habits I shouldn't last longer than a few months, and I shan't. But nor will he, and nor will you.' He chuckled. 'I hear you won that motor race that you were going in for.'
'I didn't win it-I was second. It means I've got a place in the Grand Prix.'
'Well, don't go and kill yourself. Although, I'm sure, it doesn't seem to matter very much if you do. Tell me, somebody was saying that they've got it in Cape Town. Do you think that's true?'
His nephew nodded. 'That's true enough. They've had it for some days. We're still in radio communication, though.'
'So they've got it before us?'
'That's true.'
'That means that all of Africa is out, or will be out, before we get it here?'
John Osborne grinned. 'It's going to be a pretty near thing. It looks as though all Africa might be gone in a week or so.' He paused. 'It seems to go quite quickly at the end, so far as we can ascertain. It's a bit difficult, because when more than half the people in a place are dead the communications usually go out and then you don't quite know what's happening. All services are usually stopped by then, and food supplies. The last half seem to go quite quickly… But as I say, we don't really know what does happen, in the end.'
'Well, I think that's a good thing,' the general said robustly. 'We'll find out soon enough.' He paused. 'So all of Africa is out. I've had some good times there, back in the days before the First War, when I was a subaltern. But I never did like that apartheid… Does that mean that we're going to be the last?'
'Not quite,' his nephew said. 'We're going to be the last major city. They've got cases now in Buenos Aires and Montevideo, and they've got a case or two in Auckland. After we're gone Tasmania may last another fortnight, and the South Island of New Zealand. The last of all to die will be the Indians in Tierra del Fuego.'
'The Antarctic?'
The scientist shook his head. 'There's nobody there now, so far as we know.' He smiled. 'Of course, that's not the end of life upon the earth. You mustn't think that. There'll be life here in Melbourne long after we've gone.'
They stared at him. 'What life?' Peter asked.
He grinned broadly. 'The rabbit. That's the most resistant animal we know about.'
The general pushed himself upright in his chair, his face suffused with anger. 'You mean to say the rabbit's going to live longer than we do?'
'That's right. About a year longer. It's got about twice the resistance that we've got. There'll be rabbits running about Australia and eating all the feed next year.'
'You're telling me the bloody rabbit's going to put it across us, after all? They'll be alive and kicking when we're all dead?'
John Osborne nodded. 'Dogs will outlive us. Mice will last a lot longer, but not so long as rabbits. So far as we can see, the rabbit has them all licked-he'll be the last.' He paused. 'They'll all go in the end, of course. There'll be nothing left alive here by the end of the next year.'
The general sank back in his chair. 'The rabbit! After all we've done, and all we've spent in fighting him-to know he's going to win out in the end!' He turned to Peter. 'Just press that bell beside you. I'm going to have a brandy and soda before going in to lunch. We'd all better have a brandy and soda after that.'
In the restaurant Moira Davidson and Dwight settled at a table in a corner, and ordered lunch. Then she said, 'What's troubling you, Dwight?'
He took up a fork and played with it. 'Not very much.'
'Tell me.'
He raised his head. 'I've got another ship in my command-U.S.S. Swordfish at Montevideo. It's getting hot around those parts right now. I radioed the captain three days ago asking him if he thought it practical to leave and sail his vessel over here.'
'What did he say?'
'He said it wasn't. Shore associations, he called them. What he meant was girls, same as Scorpion. Said he'd try and come if there was a compelling reason but he'd be leaving half his crew behind.' He raised his head. 'There'd be no point in coming that way,' he told her. 'He wouldn't be operational.'
'Did you tell him to stay there?'
He hesitated. 'Yes,' he said at last. 'I ordered him to take Swordfish out beyond the twelve-mile limit and sink her on the high seas, in deep water.' He stared at the prongs of the fork. 'I dunno if I did the right thing or not,' he said. 'I thought that was what the Navy Department would want me to do-not to leave a ship like that, full of classified gear, kicking around in another country. Even if there wasn't anybody there.' He glanced at her. 'So now the U.S. Navy's been reduced again,' he said. 'From two ships down to one.'
They sat in silence for a minute. 'Is that what you're going to do with Scorpion?' she asked at last.
'I think so. I'd have liked to take her back to the United States, but it wouldn't be practical. Too many shore associations, like he said.'
Their lunch came. 'Dwight,' she said when the waiter had departed. 'I had an idea.'
'What's that, honey?'
'They're opening the trout fishing early this year, on Saturday week. I was wondering if you'd like to take me up into the mountains for the week-end.' She smiled faintly. 'For the fishing, Dwight-fishing to fish. Not for anything else. It's lovely up by Jamieson.'
