The Penal Colony (25 page)

“Yes. I understand.”

“The final option is a full-blown rig with
single or double switched piezoelectric or electrostrictive
transducers. We haven’t got very far with it. Without a computer,
we still can’t establish the optimum beamwidth, pulse frequency or
wavelength, or even the best type and configuration of transducer.
In the end we may have to settle for magnetostrictive rather than
piezoelectric or electrostrictive transducers, but at the moment a
twin-array piezoelectric system seems the most promising. The
trouble with the final option is the number of variables to
consider. Each model takes about a fortnight to calculate out.
Change one variable and the whole model must be worked through
again. That’s where you come in.”

“I see.”

“Now the cat’s out of the bag you might as
well look at the original papers.” From below the bench Godwin
produced a thick folder. “If you can find any way to save time on
the mathematics, I suppose my confidence in you will be justified.”
He shook his head, as if reproving himself for his own trusting
credulity. “I’ll put the kettle on. When Mr Fitzmaurice gets back,
we’ll have a cup of tea.”

By the middle of September the structure of
Routledge’s house was complete. On the morning of the twenty-third,
before starting at Godwin’s, he was able to move in.

Since the end of August the weather had been
deteriorating daily. North had entered the wind: the sea, grey and
desolate, was becoming rougher than ever, at high tide this morning
driving towers of spume across the rocks in Vanston Cove. At night
the beam of the southern lightship turned to its slow and lonely
beat, sweeping the miles to the island coast and out to the empty
seas beyond. Between Vanston Cove and America lay nothing but that
expanse of waves, the same each day, the same horizon.
Notwithstanding all its changes in hue and aspect, in light and
shade, in agitation and direction, the sea always remained the
same, encircling, debarring, a manifestation of the mainland’s
implacable, merciless indifference to his fate. After ten weeks on
the island, Routledge no longer liked even to look at it.

He was trying to turn his vision inwards.
Best of all he liked fog. Except for the dismal sound of the
lightship’s horn, he could almost imagine then that he was on part
of some continent, that to east or north lay vast tracts of terrain
across which, if he only chose, he could journey on foot for
ever.

Luckily the plot Appleton had given him was
on the landward side of the bungalow, a couple of hundred metres
from King’s house and looking out over as yet unpopulated
ground.

Moving in would have been a daunting task to
accomplish on his own, but in this as in the preceding weeks of
work he was helped by King and by Ojukwo, who had made much of the
framework, the door, the two shutters, and Routledge’s bed, chair,
and table.

Many others in the Village had contributed to
the job: at least twenty men had been involved in one way or
another. King had been the most generous of himself and his time,
ensuring that Routledge kept to the schedule for completion that
Appleton had laid down.

The bulk of the work, though, Routledge had
had to do himself. First he had cleared the gorse by machete and
dug up the roots, then used pick and shovel to level the soil and
prepare for the foundations. The smaller twigs and branches had
been taken by donkey-cart to the compost heaps over a kilometre
away; the roots and the bigger branches had had to go to the
woodyard. With the donkey-cart he had brought lumps of stone from
the cliffs, and turf from Bag Head. Under the guidance of a man
named Phelps he had learned how to choose and place the stones and
how to cram the interstices with clay. Contrary to Routledge’s
first impression, the resulting walls were hard packed and
extremely strong, forming a solid base for the timber framework of
the roof, which was covered with overlapping plates of rock and
then a layer of turf.

The interior comprised one room, five metres
by six, with two windows and a fireplace. Four pillars helped to
support the ceiling. In most features the accommodation resembled
King’s, and indeed it was King himself who had suggested the
design, which, with minor variations, had been adopted for many of
the single-occupancy houses in the Village.

The structure contravened nearly every code
of building practice Routledge knew, but it would give him shelter
and had been made as economically as possible with the materials
available. For the load-bearing beams and roof members he had been
given seasoned fir, but most of the timber had arrived on Sert with
the tide. In August Daniels had rescued over a ton of first-quality
Swedish marine ply, in various thicknesses, and some of this had
been incorporated into the shutters and door, and into the table
that Routledge and Ojukwo were now bringing down from the carpentry
shop, while King and Carter, carrying some shelves and the final
bundle of Routledge’s possessions, came behind.

There was a chill in the air. Spots of rain
were one by one darkening the surface of the tabletop.

“Better be quick with that table,” Carter
said. “You don’t want to spoil the French polish.”

“I got your French polish, Mr Carter,” Ojukwo
said.

Carter laughed. He was twenty-six, a white
man, dark-haired and sallow. With two others, he shared Ojukwo’s
house. He seemed unusually close to Ojukwo; just recently Routledge
had begun to wonder about them. So far in the Village he had
detected no signs of homosexuality, but, notwithstanding the rules
and the punishment it incurred, he was certain it must exist, if
only in a sublimated form.

The house smelled of earth and of freshly
sawn wood. Mounting the threshold, Routledge acknowledged in full
the feeling of achievement that had been growing within him during
the past weeks. Despite the crudeness of the design, the house had
taken all his skill and strength to bring to completion. The
interior was as yet lacking in comfort and personality, but, given
time, he knew he could make it habitable. And though he did not
admit it to himself, in a curious way he was looking forward to
living here, to being free at last of King’s interference with the
full development of his sense of grievance and self-pity.

“Where d’you want the table?” Ojukwo
said.

“By the window, please.”

King and Carter began placing shelves on
brackets.

“Really, leave that,” Routledge said. “You’ve
done enough. I’d like to offer you all something to eat, but I’ve
got to be at Mr Godwin’s in ten minutes. This evening. Could you
come then? I’ve been saving a few things specially. My wife’s sent
me a fruit-cake.”

“We couldn’t eat your cake,” Ojukwo said.
“Wouldn’t be fair.”

“No, honestly. I’ve been saving it till now.
I want to you to have it.”

“Sort of a house-warming?” Carter said.

“Exactly. I’d like to invite everyone who
helped, but there won’t be enough for that. See if you can get Mr
Phelps and Mr Johnson to come too.”

“What time?” King said.

“Nine thirty. If that’s not too late.”

* * *

As he sat working that afternoon, Routledge
listened out for the distant drone of engines which sometimes, when
the pilot came or went a certain way, announced the arrival of the
helicopter.

When first he had seen the drop zone,
Routledge had thought the spacing of the stone circle ridiculously
extravagant, the caution of the crew exaggerated beyond reason.
Later, he had learned from King that they kept a machine gun in the
cabin and were equipped with riot gas. Now he saw why. The
helicopter had formed a focus for his dreams: with many of the
villagers it had become an obsession. What it was like for those
outside he could not imagine. Those crewmen were gods, descending
briefly from Olympus to the nether world. On Olympus they could
indulge in delights that, to the convicts, had become unthinkable.
And not just the company of women: never again would Routledge be
able to walk through the park, ride a bicycle, see a traffic signal
change from amber to green. One of the hardest parts of his
sentence was to realize just how many mundane activities he would
never be able to sample again; and worse, to realize how many
opportunities for pleasure he had allowed to pass him by.

On the mainland he had always lived in the
future, always looking forward to the completion of the project in
hand. When he passed his exams, got the new contract, married
Louise, paid off the mortgage: when, in turn, each of these dreams
was realized, then, and only then, would he be happy. All were
ends, to be reached by any means expedient or possible. He saw now
that there were no such things as ends, only means: for ends were
phantoms that melted away when approached, only to reform into
other ends further off. For most men the process was limited by
death. For him, and the others on the island, the limits had been
abruptly and artificially set. There could be no more ends, only
the day-to-day business of survival.

Except for Franks. Through almost superhuman
willpower he had created the possibility of a goal. Routledge did
not know him well enough to understand his attitude towards it.
Certainly, and Godwin had confirmed this, Franks and his Council
perceived the project as more than a mere attempt at escape. In the
period between making the details public and holding the lottery,
the Village would be united as never before, paving the way for who
knew what developments. Then, if the attempt succeeded, the mental
relationship between the villagers and the Prison Service would
have been broken for ever. Until now the authorities had had it all
their own way. The knowledge that escape had been achieved, and
could be achieved again, would transform everything.

That was what the Council believed. Routledge
was not so sure. Without Franks he doubted that another boat could
be built. Most of the Village would be dismayed by the news that he
and the most prominent members of his Council intended to
leave.

But then the announcement of the lottery
might never come. Godwin had yet to confirm that the sonar could
actually be made to work.

Louise had written every week except the
last. Twice she had enclosed a note from Christopher, and once, a
fortnight ago, he had received a parcel containing various
groceries and treats, including a Dundee cake, some bars of
chocolate, and a quota of extra clothing, books, soap, and other
luxuries.

The censor had so far treated Louise’s
correspondence with lenience, blacking out only a paragraph or two
and some isolated words relating to the winding up of the legal
process. In a letter from his mother Routledge had learned that
money had at first been very difficult for Louise, but the house
had now at last been sold and she had found a better-paid job.

The lack of a letter last week, while
disappointing, had, according to King, been nothing unusual, and
would probably be followed by a double delivery today.

“Do you think the helicopter’s been yet?”
Godwin said.

“I haven’t heard it,” Fitzmaurice said.

They were still soldering, using a
fine-pointed iron and a magnifying glass mounted in a wooden stand.
“What about you, Mr Routledge?” Godwin said, looking up. “Heard
anything?”

“No. Not yet. Of course, he might have come
another way.”

“Bit more on that joint,” Godwin said to
Fitzmaurice.

Routledge studied them for a moment longer
before returning to his calculator. He had come to loathe them
both. On a personal level Routledge had found himself consistently
isolated. Despite the fact that he had already contributed in no
small measure to the development of the electronics, and was now
also regularly undertaking figurework for Thaine, he felt had not
been accorded the respect his part in the project deserved.
Neither, despite the importance of his work, had he improved his
position in the Village as a whole. There was nothing he could pin
down, but in all his dealings with others, King excepted, there was
an unspoken and unpleasant reserve. He had resigned himself to the
fact that he was unpopular; he did not fit in.

In his former life he had noticed that people
who were capable and intelligent were often disliked for the simple
reason that they could not be pitied. Their qualities made it
impossible for others to feel that warm glow of superiority which
the need for indulgence always generated. How else could one
understand the preference given to underdogs of every kind, no
matter how undeserving their case or their cause? How else could
one explain the common feeling of jealousy and spite towards anyone
whose own efforts had raised himself out of the gutter? For all
Franks’s high-flown talk of a meritocracy, just the same applied
here.

From the far side of the bungalow came the
dull sound of an iron bar striking a suspended oil drum, once,
twice, thrice: the mail gong.

“There it is,” Godwin said. “Will you go, Mr
Routledge?”

Routledge arose, scraping the legs of his
chair. “Are you expecting any parcels?”

“We live in hope. There should be something
for Mr Gunter. Torch batteries.”

“Mr Gunter’s with the fishing party.”

“There’s no rush. If Mr Ross gets a parcel,
let me know.”

Stepping outside the workshop, Routledge
again felt the keen edge of autumn. The moaning in the trees had
become more insistent; a few premature larch needles were being
shed. Along the garden hedge a flock of starlings rose and was
flung away downwind. The French windows of the bungalow, sealed
tight, returned only dull reflections: he had the feeling that
Franks was at his desk, watching him keep to the concrete path,
watching him cross the paving stones and turn the corner. He passed
the kitchen door and mounted the side steps to the veranda, where
Stamper was distributing the mail.