Greybeard

“Greybeard, it’s me — Jingadangelow! I wish to speak to you.” Martha said, “Jingadangelow and not the Master!” He extinguished their lantern and threw open the door. In the protracted twilight, Jingadangelow stood half-way up the stairs, a small lamp held above his head. Its light, slanting down, lit only his gleaming forehead and cheeks. Pitt and Charley came out on to the little balcony to look at him. “Don’t shoot, men. I am alone and mean you no harm. I only wish to speak to Greybeard. You may go to bed and sleep securely.”

“We’ll decide that for ourselves,” Pitt said, but his tone suggested he was mollified. “You saw earlier on that we’ll stand no nonsense from you.”

“I’ll handle him, Jeff,” Greybeard said. “You’d better come up, Jingadangelow.” The hawker of eternal life had put on flesh recently; the timbers creaked under his tread as he pulled himself up on to the platform. Greybeard stood aside, and Jingadangelow entered their room. On seeing Martha, he made the jerk at his hips that was a portly substitute for a bow. He placed his lantern on a stone shelf set in the wall and stood there, pulling at his lip and observing them, breathing heavily as he did so.

“Is this a social call?” Martha asked.

”I’ve come to make a bargain with you,” he said. “We don’t make bargains; that’s your trade, not ours,” Greybeard said. “If your two toughs want their revolvers back, I’m willing to return them in the morning when we leave, provided you can guarantee their good behaviour.”

“I didn’t come to discuss that. You needn’t use that sharp tone just because you have me at a slight disadvantage. I want to put a straightforward proposition to you.”

Martha said coolly, “Dr. Jingadangelow, we hope to be moving early in the morning. Do please come directly to what you have to say.”

“Is it something to do with that girl Chammoy?” Greybeard asked. Muttering that someone would have to help him up again, Jingadangelow sank to the floor and sat there. “I see I have no option but to lay some of my cards upon the metaphorical table. I want you both to listen generously, since I have indeed come to unburden myself. May I say I’m sorry you don’t receive me in a more friendly way. Despite that little spot of trouble on the boat, my regard for you is unchanged.”

“We are interested in hearing about the girl in your possession,” Martha said. “Yes, yes, you shall hear about that straightaway. As you know, I have toured the Midlands extensively during my centuries of duty. In many respects, I am a Byronic figure, forced to wander and to suffer… During my peregrinations, I have rarely seen any children. Of course we know there are supposed to be none. Yet my reason has led me to consider that the actual position may be vastly different from the apparent one. In reaching this conclusion, I considered a number of factors, which I will now lay before you.

“If you can recall that distant epoch before the ancient technological civilizations crumbled, back in the twentieth century A.D., you will remember that many specialists gave conflicting diagnoses of what was going to happen when the full effects of the space bombs were upon us. Some thought that everything would return to normal within a few years, others that accumulating radioactivity would wipe all life of every kind from this sinful but rather desirable world. As we who have the benefit of surviving now know, both these views were mistaken. Am I right?”

“Right. Proceed.”

“Thank you, I will. Other specialists suggested that the radio-activity from the big accident might be absorbed into the soil in the course of years. I believe this prediction to have come to pass. And I further believe that with it, some younger women have recovered the power to bring forth young.

“Now, I have to confess that I have come across no fertile women myself, although in my new calling I have been vigilant for them. So I have been forced to ask myself, ‘What would I do if I were a woman of approximately sixty summers who discovered she could produce what we call the Second Generation? This is rather a theoretical question; how would you answer it, madam?”

Martha said slowly, “If I were to have a baby? I should be delighted, I suppose. At least, I have spent a number of years supposing I would be delighted. But I should be reluctant to let anyone see my child. Certainly I should be reluctant to come forward to someone like you and declare my secret, for fear that I would be forced into — well, some form of compulsory breeding.”

Jingadangelow nodded magisterially. As talking soothed him, his manner acquired more of its old panache.