Greybeard

Martha knew his reputation. They had heard of the man even before the waves of violence had forced them to leave London. Oxford’s major industry was the production of cars and GEM’S (Ground Effect Machines), particularly the Windrush. Croucher had been Personnel Manager at the largest factory. The United National Government had made him Deputy District Officer for Oxfordshire. On the collapse of the government, the District Officer had been found dead in mysterious circumstances, and Croucher had taken over the old controls, drawing them in tighter.

He spoke without moving. He said, “No invitation was issued for you being here, Mrs. Timberlane.”

“I go everywhere with my husband, Commander.”

“Not if I say not. Guard!”

“Sir.” The corporal marched forward with a parody of army drill. “It was an infringement, you bringing this woman in here, Corporal Pitt. Supervise her immediate removal at once. She can wait outside.” Martha started to protest. Timberlane silenced her, pressing her hand, and she allowed herself to be led away. Croucher got up and came round his table. “Timberlane, you’re the only DOUCH(E) man in the territory under my control. Dissuade your mind that my motives towards you are ulterior. That’s the reverse of the truth. I want you on my side.”

“I shall be on your side if you treat my wife properly.” Croucher gestured to show how poorly he regarded the remark. “What can you offer me in any way advantageous to me?” he asked. The involved semi-literacy of his speech added to his menace in Greybeard’s estimation.

“I’m well informed, Commander. I have an idea that you must defend Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire from the Midlands and the North, if your forces are strong enough. If you could lend me a map—”

Croucher held up a hand. “Look, I’d better cut you down to size a bit, my friend. Just for the record, I don’t need any half-baked intellectual ideas from self-styled pundits like yourself. See these men here, sitting at these tables? They have the mutual benefit of performing my thinking for me, thus utilizing advantageously one of the advantages of having a terra firma in a university city like Oxford. The old Town versus Gown battle has been fought and decided, Mr. Timberlane, as you’d know if you hadn’t been knocking about in London for so long. I decided and implemented it. I rule all Oxford for the benefit of one and all. These blokes are the cream of the colleges that you are seeing here, all very high-flown intellects. See that gink at the end, with the shaky hands and cracked specs? He’s the University Chichele Professor for War, Harold Biggs. Down there, that’s Sir Maurice Rigg, one of the all-time greats at history, I’m told. So kindly infer that I’m asking you about DOUCH(E), not how you’d run operations if you were in my shoes.”

“No doubt one of your intellectual ginks can tell you about DOUCH(E).”

“No they can’t. That’s why it was compulsory you attending here. You see, all the data I’ve got about

DOUCH(E) is that it’s some sort of an intelligence unit with its headquarters in London. London organizations are suspect with me just now, for obvious reasons. Unless you wish to be mistaken for a spy, etcetera, perhaps you ought to set my mind in abeyance about what you intend doing here.”

“I think you misunderstand my attitude, sir. I wish to inform you about DOUCH(E); I am no spy. Although I was brought to you like a captive, I had made an appointment through the patrols to see you tomorrow and offer you what help I could.”

“I am not your dentist. You do not make an appointment with me — you crave an audience.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “I cavil at your phoney attitude! Get wise to the reality of the situation — I can have you shot anywhere in the curriculum if I find you unconstructive.”

Timberlane said nothing to that. In a more reasonable voice, Croucher said, “Now then, let’s have the lowdown what exactly DOUCH(E) is and how it functions.”

“It is simply an academic unit, sir, although with more power behind it than academic units usually have. Can I explain in private? The nature of the unit’s work is confidential.”

Croucher looked at him with raised eyebrows, turned and surveyed the jaded men at the trestle tables, flicked an eye at two guards.

“I should not cavil at a change of scenery. I work long hours.” They moved into the next room. The guards came too. Although the room was small and hot, it was a relief to get away from the idle faces sitting by the tables. When Croucher gestured to one of the guards, the man opened a window.