Birdlip said, ‘You told me you had a sister, Freddie, but you said she died at the time of the Great Venusian Plague.’
‘Would she had! No, I can’t say that, but you should see how she lives now. Occasionally I have gone quite alone to see her. She lives in Paddington with the romen.’
‘With the romen?’ Pavment echoed. ‘How?’
Freud’s manner grew more distraught.
‘You see we found as we grew up that there was one way in which we had power over the romen – power to stir emotion in them, I mean, apart from the built-in power to command. Having no sex, romen are curious about it. … Overwhelmingly curious. …
‘I can’t tell you the indecencies they put us through when we reached puberty. …
‘Well, to cut a long and nasty story short, Maureen lives with the romen of Paddington. They look after her, supply her with stolen food, clothes, and the rest, while in return she – satisfies their curiosity.’
Greatly to his own embarrassment, Birdlip let out a shrill squeal of laughter. It broke up the atmosphere of the confessional.
‘This is a valuable bit of data, Mr Freud,’ Pavment said, nodding his head in approval, while the plastic plume in his hat shimmied with a secret delight.
‘If that’s all you make of it, be blowed to you,’ Freud said. He rose. ‘Just what you think you can do for either myself or my sister, I won’t ask, but in any case our way of life is set and we must look after ourselves.’
Pavment answered with something of the same lack of colour in his words. ‘That is entirely your decision. The RSPCR is a very small organisation; we couldn’t coerce if we wanted to –’
‘– that happily is the situation with most organisations nowadays –’
‘– but your evidence will be incorporated in a report we are preparing to place before the World Government.’
‘Very well, Captain. Now perhaps you’ll leave, and remove your officialdom from my presence. I have work to do.’
Before Pavment could say more, Birdlip inserted himself before his partner, patted his arm and said, ‘I laughed purely out of nervousness then, Freddie. Please don’t think I’m not sympathetic about your troubles. Now I see why you didn’t want our romen and Bucket particularly fitted with homing devices.’
‘God, it’s hot in here,’ Freud replied, sinking down and mopping his face. ‘Okay, Jan, thanks, but say no more; it’s not a topic I exactly care to dwell on. I’m going home; I don’t feel well. … Who was it said that life was a comedy to the man who thinks, a tragedy to the man who feels?’
‘Yes, you go home. In fact I think I’ll go home, too. It’s extremely hot in here, isn’t it? There’s trouble down below with the heat control. We’ll get someone to look into it tomorrow morning. Perhaps you’ll have a look yourself.’
Still talking, he backed to the door and left, with a final nervous grin at Freud and Pavment, who were heavily engaged in grinning nervously at each other.
Glimpses into other people’s secret lives always distressed him. It would be a relief to be home with Mrs Birdlip. He was outside and into his car, leaving for once without Hippo, before he remembered he had an appointment at seventeen-fifty.
Dash the appointment, he thought. Fortunately people could afford to wait these days. He wanted to see Mrs Birdlip. Mrs Birdlip was a nice comfortable little woman. She made loose covers of brightly patterned chintzes to dress her romen servants in.
Next morning, when Birdlip entered his office, a new manuscript awaited him on his desk – a pleasant enough event for a firm mainly specialising in reprints. He seated himself at the desk, then realised how outrageously hot it was.
Angrily, he banged the button of the new homing control on his desk.
Hippo appeared.
‘Oh, you’re there, Hippo. Did you go home last night?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘To a place of shelter with other romen.’
‘Uh. Hippo, this confounded heating system is always going wrong. We had trouble last week, and then it cured itself. Ring the engineers; get them to come around; I will speak to them. Tell them to send a human this time.’
‘Sir, you had an appointment yesterday at seventeen-fifty.’
‘What has that to do with it?’
‘It was an appointment with a human engineer. You ordered him last week when the heating malfunctioned. His name was Pursewarden.’
‘Never mind his name. What did you do?’
‘As you were gone, sir, I sent him away.’
‘Ye gods! What was his name?’
‘His name was Pursewarden, sir.’
‘Get him on the phone and say I want the system repaired today. Tell him to get on with it whether I am here or not. …’ Irritation and frustration seized him, provoked by the heat. ‘And as a matter of fact I shan’t be here. I’m going to see my brother.’
‘Your brother Rainbow, sir?’
‘Since I have only one brother, yes, you fool. Is Mr Freud in yet? No? Well, I want you to come with me. Leave instructions with Bucket; tell him all I’ve told you to tell Mr Freud. … And look lively,’ he added, collecting the manuscript off the desk as he spoke. ‘I have an irrational urge to be on the way.’
On the way, he leafed through the manuscript. It was entitled An Explanation of Man’s Superfluous Activities. At first, Birdlip found the text yielded no more enticement than the title, sown as it was in desiccated phrases and bedded out in a laboured style. Persevering with it, he realized that the author – whose name, Isaac Toolust, meant nothing to him – had formulated a grand and alarming theory covering many human traits which had not before been subjected to what proved a chillingly objective examination.
He looked up. They had stopped.
To one side of the road were the rolling hedgeless miles of Kent with giant wharley crops ripening under the sun; in the copper distance a machine glinted, tending them with metal motherliness. On the other side, rupturing the flow of cultivation, lay Gafia Farm, a higgledy-piggledy of low buildings, trees and clutter, sizzling in sun and pig smell.
Hippo detached himself from the arm bracket that kept him steady when the car was in motion, climbed out, and held the door open for Birdlip.
Man and roman trudged into the yard.
A mild-eyed fellow was stacking sawed logs in a shed. He came out as Birdlip approached and nodded to him without speaking. Birdlip had never seen him on previous visits to his brother’s farm.
‘Is Rainy about, please?’ Birdlip asked.
‘Around the back. Help yourself.’
The fellow was back at his logs almost before Birdlip moved away.
They found Rainbow Birdlip around the back of the cottage, as predicted. Jan’s younger brother was standing under a tree cleaning horse harness with his own hands; Birdlip was taken for a moment by a sense of being in the presence of history; the feeling could have been no stronger had Rainy been discovered painting himself with woad.
‘Rainy!’ Birdlip said.
His brother looked up, gave him a placid greeting, and continued to polish. As usual he was wrapped in a metre-thick blanket of content. Conversation strangled itself in Birdlip’s throat, but he forced himself to