Stirred by a sudden gust, the stagnant plague-fog noiselessly advances, sends a wreath of pus-coloured vapour swirling among the apple blossoms, then descends to engulf the two recumbent figures. A choking scream announces the death, by suicide, of twentieth-century science.
We dissolve to a point on the coast of Southern California, twenty miles or thereabouts due west of Los Angeles. The scientists of the Rediscovery Expedition are in the act of landing from a whaleboat. A huge sewer, shattered where it enters the sea, stands in the background.
NARRATOR
Parthenon, Coliseum —
Glory that was Greece, grandeur etcetera.
And there are all the others —
Thebes and Copan, Arezzo and Ajanta;
Bourges, taking heaven by violence,
And the Holy Wisdom, floating in repose.
But the glory that was Queen Victoria
Remains unquestionably the W.C.;
The grandeur that was Franklin Delano
Is this by far the biggest drainpipe ever —
Dry now and shattered, Ichabod, Ichabod;
And its freight of condoms (irrepressibly buoyant,
Like hope, like concupiscence) no longer whitens
This lonely beach with a galaxy as of windflowers
Or summer daisies.
Meanwhile the scientists, with Dr. Craigie at their head, have crossed the beach, scrambled up the low cliff and are making their way across the sandy and eroded plain toward the oil wells on the hills beyond.
The Camera holds on Dr. Poole, the Chief Botanist of the Expedition. Like a browsing sheep, he moves from plant to plant, examining flowers through his magnifying glass, putting away specimens in his collecting box, making notes in a little black book.
NARRATOR
Well, here he is, our hero, Dr. Alfred Poole D.Sc. Better known to his students and younger colleagues as Stagnant Poole. And the nickname, alas, is painfully apt. For though not unhandsome, as you see, though a Fellow of the Royal Society of New Zealand and by no means a fool, in the circumstances of practical life his intelligence seems to be only potential, his attractiveness no more than latent. It is as though he lived behind plate glass, could see and be seen, but never establish contact. And the fault, as Dr. Schneeglock of the Psychology Department is only too ready to tell you, the fault lies with that devoted and intensely widowed mother of his — that saint, that pillar of fortitude, that vampire, who still presides at his breakfast table and with her own hands launders his silk shirts and sacrificially darns his socks.
Miss Hook now enters the shot — enters it on a burst of enthusiasm.
«Isn’t this exciting, Alfred?» she exclaims.
«Very,» says Dr. Poole politely.
«Seeing Yucca gloriosa in its native habitat — who would have imagined that we’d ever get the chance? And Artemisia tridentata.»
«There are still some flowers on the Artemisia,» says Dr. Poole. «Do you notice anything unusual about them?»
Miss Hook examines them, and shakes her head.
«They’re a great deal bigger than what’s described in the old text books,» he says in a tone of studiedly repressed excitement.
«A great deal bigger?» she repeats. Her face lights up. «Alfred, you don’t think . . .?»
Dr. Poole nods.
«I’m ready to bet on it,» he says. «Tetraploidy. Induced by irradiation with gamma rays.»
«Oh, Alfred,» she cries ecstatically.
NARRATOR
In her tweeds and her horn-rimmed spectacles Ethel Hook is one of those extraordinarily wholesome, amazingly efficient and intensely English girls to whom, unless one is oneself equally wholesome, equally English and even more efficient, one would so much rather not be married. Which is probably why, at thirty-five, Ethel is still without a husband. Still without a husband — but not, she dares to hope, for much longer. For though dear Alfred has not yet actually proposed, she knows (and knows that he knows) that his mother’s dearest wish is for him to do so — and Alfred is the most dutiful of sons. Besides they have so much in common — botany, the University, the poetry of Wordsworth. She feels confident that before they get back to Auckland it will all be arranged — the simple ceremony with dear old Dr. Trilliams officiating, the honeymoon in the Southern Alps, the return to their sweet little house in Mount Eden, and then after eighteen months, the first baby. . .
Cut to the other members of the expedition, as they toil up the hill toward the oil wells. Professor Craigie, their leader, halts to mop his brow and to take stock of his charges.
«Where’s Poole?» he asks. «And Ethel Hook?»
Somebody points and, in a long shot, we see the distant figures of the two botanists.
Cut back to Professor Craigie, who cups his hands around his mouth and shouts. «Poole, Poole!»
«Why don’t you leave them to their little romance?» asks the genial Cudworth.
«Romance indeed!» Dr. Schneeglock snorts derisively.
«But she’s obviously sweet on him.»
«It takes two to make a romance.»
«Trust a woman to get her man to pop the question.»
«You might as well expect him to commit incest with his mother,» says Dr. Schneeglock emphatically.
«Poole!» bellows Professor Craigie once more, and turning to the others, «I don’t like people to lag behind,» he says in a tone of irritation. «In a strange country. . . You never know.»
He renews his shouting.
Cut back to Dr. Poole and Miss Hook. They hear the distant call, look up from their tetraploid Artemisia, wave their hands and start in pursuit of the others. Suddenly Dr. Poole catches sight of something that makes him cry aloud.
«Look!» He points a forefinger.
«What is it?»
«Echinocactus hexaedrophorus — and the most beautiful specimen.»
Medium long shot from his viewpoint of a ruined bungalow among the sagebrush. Then a close shot of the cactus growing between two paving stones, near the front door. Cut back to Dr. Poole. From the leather sheath at his belt he draws a long, narrow-bladed trowel.
«You’re not going to dig it up?»
His only answer is to walk over to where the cactus is growing and squat down beside it.
«Professor Craigie will be so cross,» protests Miss Hook.
«Well then, run ahead and keep him quiet.»
She looks at him for a few seconds with an expression of solicitude.
«I hate to leave you alone, Alfred.»
«You talk as though I were five years old,» he answers irritably. «Go ahead, I tell you.»
He turns away and starts to dig.
Miss Hook does not immediately obey, but stands looking at him in silence for a little while longer.
NARRATOR
Tragedy is the farce that involves our sympathies, farce, the tragedy that happens to outsiders. Tweedy and breezy, wholesome and efficient, this object of the easiest kind of satire is also the subject of an Intimate Journal. What flaming sunsets she has seen and vainly attempted to describe! What velvety and voluptuous summer nights! What lyrically lovely days of springl And oh, the torrents of feeling, the temptations, the hopes, the passionate throbbing of the heart, the humiliating disappointments!
And now, after all these years, after so many committee meetings attended, so many lectures delivered and examination papers corrected, now at last, moving in His mysterious way, God has made her, she feels, responsible for this helpless and unhappy man. And because he is unhappy and helpless, she loves him — not romantically of course, not as she loved that curly-headed scamp who, fifteen years ago, swept her off her feet and then married the daughter of that rich contractor, but genuinely none the less, with a strong, protective tenderness.
«All right,» she says at last. «I’ll go ahead. But promise you won’t be long.»
«Of course I won’t be long.»
She turns and walks away. Dr. Poole looks after her; then, with a sigh of relief at finding himself once more alone, resumes his digging.
NARRATOR
«Never,» he is repeating to himself, «Never! Whatever mother may say.» For though he respects Miss Hook as a botanist, relies on her as an organiser and admires her as a high-minded person, the idea of being made one flesh with her is as unthinkable as a violation of the Categorical Imperative.
Suddenly, from behind him, three villainous-looking men, black-bearded, dirty and ragged, emerge very quietly from out of the ruins of the house, stand poised for a moment, then throw themselves upon the unsuspecting botanist and, before he can so much as utter a cry, force a gag into his mouth, tie his hands behind his back and drag him down into a gully, out of sight of his companions.
We dissolve to a panoramic view of Southern California from fifty miles up in the stratosphere. As the Camera plummets downward, we hear the Narrator’s voice.
NARRATOR
The sea and its clouds, the mountains glaucous-golden,
The valleys full of indigo darkness,
The drought of lion-coloured plains,
The rivers of pebbles and white sand.
And in the midst of them the City of the Angels.
Half a million houses,
Five thousand miles of streets,
Fifteen hundred thousand motor vehicles,
And more rubber goods than Akron,
More celluloid than the Soviets,
More Nylons than New Rochelle,
More brassieres than Buffalo,
More deodorants than Denver,
More oranges than anywhere,
With bigger and better girls —
The great Metrollopis of the West.
And now we are only five miles up and it becomes increasingly obvious that the great Metrollopis is a ghost town, that what was once the world’s largest oasis is now its greatest agglomeration of ruins in a wasteland. Nothing moves in the streets. Dunes of sand have drifted across the concrete. The avenues of palms and pepper trees have left no trace.
The Camera comes down over a large rectangular graveyard, lying between the ferro-concrete towers of Hollywood and those of Wilshire Boulevard. We land, pass under an arched gateway, enjoy a trucking shot of mortuary gazebos.
