your homework on the way. It’s all in here.’ He handed me a thick folder full of papers, a travel permit on top, told me to be at the main post office in half an hour.
I thanked him profusely. He patted my arm. ‘Think nothing of it. Glad I could be useful.’ Withdrawing his hand, he touched the flower in my buttonhole and gave me a fright. Did he suspect something? If I had discovered nothing else about his organization, I at least knew now that it had considerable power. I was relieved when he said with a smile: ‘Hurry back and collect your things. You mustn’t be late or any account. The driver has orders to leave on the dot, and he won’t wait for anyone.’
The room had been getting darker, a sudden storm had blown up. As his hand moved to the light, a livid flash and a crash came together, a splatter of rain hit the windows, and somebody wearing the long overcoat of a uniform entered and signed to him not to touch the switch. I could only just distinguish a big, heavily-built man, whose massive shape seemed vaguely familiar. He stood talking to the official in undertones at the far end of the room, while I tried unsuccessfully to hear the low but heated discussion, of which I knew I was the subject, for they both kept glancing at me. It was obvious that I was being denigrated. Although the newcomer’s face remained indistinct, between thunderclaps I could hear the accusing tone of his voice, but without being able to catch the words. He seemed already to have succeeded in discrediting me with the other man, who stood nearer the light, and showed signs of uneasiness and suspicion.
I was getting very uneasy myself. My position would be most unpleasant if he turned against me. Not only would I lose all hope of reaching the warden, but be shown up as having made use of the red carnation under false pretences. There was a serious danger that I would be re-arrested and put in prison again.
I looked at my watch. Several minutes of the half hour had elapsed, and, feeling that I had to get out of the room quickly, I made an unobtrusive move to the door, opening it with my hand behind me.
A terrific flash split the air, luridly lit up a sudden flurry of movement, the folds of the overcoat swinging, its wearer pointing a gun. As I raised my hands, he half turned to shout above the exploding thunder to the man to whom he had been talking: ‘What did I tell you?’ The momentary dividing of his attention gave me time to dive at his legs in a tackle I learnt at school, while the shot went over my head. I did not manage to bring him down, but caught him off balance, hampered by the length of the coat. Before he could aim again, I had knocked the revolver out of his hand, sent it flying across the room. He came at me directly, threw his whole weight against me in a vicious onslaught, hitting hard with both fists. He was much heavier than I was, I almost fell. The door saved me; clinging to it, I heard steps coming along the passage. My opponent attacked me fiercely again, shouting to the official to retrieve his gun. Once he got hold of it I was done for. In desperation, I bashed the door into him, kicked him with all my strength, had the satisfaction of seeing him fold up before I swung round. Two new figures materialized in my way. I did not look at them, simply hurled them aside, one after the other, heard one fall with a cry, and the crash of the door as he fell against it. Nobody else tried to stop me; without looking back, I rushed down the corridor and out of the building. Thanks to the thunder, the shot could not have been heard beyond the adjoining office.
The storm continued to help me. I was not noticed outside, everyone had taken shelter from the torrential rain. The streets were swimming with water, I was wet through in a second, kept running as fast as I could, splashing along as if in a shallow stream. Luckily I knew where the main post office was and made straight for it. Instructions to detain me would have been telephoned to my hotel, and anyhow I had no time to go there. As it was, the lorry driver was starting his engine when I came up, waving my travel documents for him to see. He scowled at me, and jerked his thumb at the back of the vehicle. I made a final effort and scrambled up, subsided on to some- thing extremely hard. Someone immediately shut out the rain and the daylight; there was a tremendous lurch; we were off.
I was breathless, bruised all over and soaking wet, but I felt triumphant.
Four of us were crowded inside the lorry. It was dark, noisy and uncomfortable, like being in some sort of tent with planks to sit on, but not enough head room to sit up straight. Two on each plank, we crouched face to face in the congested darkness, among stacked packing cases of different shapes and sizes. I hardly noticed the painful jolting, I was so relieved to be there, actually on my way, shut inside that cramped, comfortless, moving tent, where nobody could see me. The storm gradually died out, but the rain still streamed down, and eventually found its way through our canvas walls without damping my spirits. It could not possibly make me any wetter than I already was.
EIGHT
I tried to make friends with my companions, young fellows straight from a technical college; but they would not talk. They distrusted me because I was a foreigner. When I asked questions, they suspected me of trying to find out things that were to be kept secret, although I could see that they themselves knew no secrets. They were incredibly naive. I felt I belonged to another dimension, and became silent. By degrees they forgot about me and started talking among themselves. They spoke of their work; of difficulties in assembling the transmitter. Lack of materials; lack of trained personnel; lack of funds; bad workmanship; unaccountable errors. I heard the word sabotage muttered back and forth. The work was far behind schedule. The transmitter should have been functioning at the end of the month. Now no one knew when it would be finished. Exhausted, I closed my eyes, stopped listening.
Now and again an odd sentence reached me. Once I realized I was the subject of their conversation; they thought I was asleep. ‘He’s been sent to spy on us,’ one of them said. ‘To find out if we can be trusted. We must never tell him anything, never answer his questions.’ Their voices dropped, they were almost whispering. ‘I heard the professor say…. They don’t explain…. Why send us to the danger zone when other people….’ They were dissatisfied and uneasy, and could not give me any information. I need not waste my time on them.
Late at night we stopped at a small town. I knocked up a shop keeper, and, for the second time, provided myself with a few essentials: soap, a razor, a change of clothing. The place had only one garage: before we left in the morning, the driver insisted on buying up the entire stock of petrol. The owner protested indignantly; with supplies so restricted, he might not get any more. Our man ignored this, told him to empty the pumps, and, in response to further outraged protests, said: ‘Shut up, and get on with it! That’s an order.’ Standing beside him, I remarked mildly that the next person expecting to fill up here would be in trouble. He gave me a scornful glance. ‘He’s got more hidden away somewhere. They always have.’ The petrol cans were crammed into the back with the rest of the load, hardly leaving room for the four of us. I had the most uncomfortable place, over the back axle.
Flaps were rolled up, we could see out. We were driving towards a distant forest with a chain of mountains behind. A few miles from the town, the metalled road ended. Now there were only two narrow tarred strips for the wheels, as far apart as the width of the chassis. It got colder as we drove on; the climate was changing, like the character of the land. The edge of the forest was always in sight, gradually coming nearer: we passed less and less cultivation, fewer and fewer people and villages. I began to see the sense of storing the petrol. The road got steadily worse, full of ruts and holes. Progress was difficult, slow, the driver kept swearing. When even the tarred strips came to an end, I leaned over and tapped his shoulder, offered to take turns with him at the wheel. Rather to my surprise, he agreed.
I had a more comfortable seat beside him, but found it an effort to handle the heavy lorry. I had never driven one before, and until I got used to it, had to concentrate on what I was doing. It was necessary to stop at intervals to remove fallen rocks or tree trunks that blocked the way. The first time this happened, I prepared to climb out to help the others, who had already jumped down from the back and were struggling to shift the obstruction. I felt a light touch and looked round. The driver’s head made a just perceptible negative movement. My ability to drive the truck had apparently raised me above such duties in his estimation.
I offered him a cigarette. He accepted. I ventured a comment on the state of the road. As the transmitter was so important and involved so much traffic, I could not understand why a decent road had not been made. He said: ‘We can’t afford new roads. We asked the other nations associated with us in the undertaking to contribute, but they refused.’ Frowning, he gave me a sidelong glance to see where my sympathies lay. I said in a non- commital tone that this seemed unfair. ‘Just because we’re a small, impoverished country, they’ve treated us badly all along the line.’ He could not suppress his resentment. ‘The transmitter could never have been built here at all if we hadn’t donated the site. They should remember that we made the whole thing possible. We sacrifice a piece of
