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‘They say she’s four centuries old.’
‘Maybe more. No one knows what year this is, to be sure.’
‘It’s 2061!’
‘That’s what they say, boy, yes. Liars. Could be 3,000 or 5,000, for all we know. Things were in a fearful mess there for a while. All we got now is bits and pieces.’
They shuffled along the cold stones of the street.
‘How much longer before we see her?’ asked Tom, uneasily.
‘Just a few more minutes. They got her set up with four brass poles and velvet rope, all fancy, to keep folks back. Now mind, no rocks, Tom; they don’t allow rocks thrown at her.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The sun rose higher in the heavens, bringing heat which made the men shed their grimy coats and greasy hats.
‘Why’re we all here in line?’ asked Tom, at last. ‘Why’re we all here to spit?’
Grigsby did not glance down at him, but judged the sun. ‘Well, Tom, there’s lots of reasons.’ He reached absently for a pocket that was long gone, for a cigarette that wasn’t there. Tom had seen the gesture a million times. ‘Tom, it has to do with hate. Hate for everything in the Past. I ask you, Tom, how did we get in such a state, cities all junk, roads like jigsaws from bombs, and half the cornfields glowing with radio-activity at night? Ain’t that a lousy stew, I ask you?’
‘Yes, sir, I guess so.’
‘It’s this way, Tom. You hate whatever it was that got you all knocked down and ruined. That’s human nature. Unthinking, maybe, but human nature anyway.’
‘There’s hardly nobody or nothing we don’t hate,’ said Tom.
‘Right! The whole blooming caboodle of them people in the Past who run the world. So here we are on a Thursday morning with our guts plastered to our spines, cold, live in caves and such, don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t nothing except have our festivals, Tom, our festivals.’
And Tom thought of the festivals in the past few years. The year they tore up all the books in the square and burned them and everyone was drunk and laughing. And the festival of science a month ago when they dragged in the last motor-car and picked lots and each lucky man who won was allowed one smash of a sledge-hammer at the car.
‘Do I remember that, Tom? Do I remember? Why, I got to smash the front window, the window, you hear? My God, it made a lovely sound! Crash!’
Tom could hear the glass falling in glittering heaps.
‘And Bill Henderson, he got to bash the engine. Oh, he did a smart job of it, with great efficiency. Wham!’
But the best of all, recalled Grigsby, there was the time they smashed a factory that was still trying to turn out aeroplanes.
‘Lord, did we feel good blowing it up!’ said Grigsby. ‘And then we found that newspaper plant and the munitions depot and exploded them together. Do you understand, Tom?’
Tom puzzled over it. ‘I guess.’
It was high noon. Now the odours of the ruined city stank on the hot air and things crawled among the tumbled buildings.
‘Won’t it ever come back, mister?’
‘What, civilization? Nobody wants it. Not me!’
‘I could stand a bit of it,’ said the man behind another man. ‘There were a few spots of beauty in it.’
‘Don’t worry your heads,’ shouted Grigsby. ‘There’s no room for that, either.’
‘Ah,’ said the man behind the man. ‘Someone’ll come along some day with imagination and patch it up. Mark my words. Someone with a heart.’
‘No,’ said Grigsby.
‘I say yes. Someone with a soul for pretty things. Might give us back a kind of limited sort of civilization, the kind we could live in in peace.’
