Hitch your wagon to a Star.'» We hitch and move on; and suddenly in the midst of all this desolation, here is a little group of human beings. There are four men, heavily bearded and more than a little dirty, and two young women, all of them busy with shovels in or around an opened grave and all dressed identically in shirts and trousers of tattered homespun. Over these rough garments each wears a small square apron upon which, in scarlet wool, is embroidered the word NO. In addition to the aprons, the girls wear a round patch over either breast and, behind, a pair of somewhat larger patches on the seat of their trousers. Three unequivocal negatives greet us as they approach, two more, by way of Parthian shots, as they recede.
Overseeing the labourers from the roof of an adjacent mausoleum sits a man in his middle forties, tall, powerfully built, with the dark eyes and hawk nose of an Algerian corsair. A black curly beard emphasizes the moistness and redness of his full lips. Somewhat incongruously, he is dressed in a pale grey suit of mid-twentieth-century cut, a little too small for him. When we catch our first sight of him, he is absorbed in the paring of his nails.
Cut back to the gravediggers. One of them, the youngest and handsomest of the men, looks up from his shovelling, glances surreptitiously at the overseer on the roof and, seeing him busy with his nails, turns an intensely concupiscent look on the plump girl who stands, stooped over her spade, beside him. Close shot of the two prohibitory patches: NO and again NO, growing larger and larger the more longingly he looks. Cupped already for the deliciously imagined contact, his hand goes out, tentative, hesitant; then, with a jerk, as conscience abruptly gets the better of temptation, is withdrawn again. Biting his lip, the young man turns away and, with redoubled zeal, addresses himself once more to his digging.
Suddenly a spade strikes something hard. There is a cry of delight, a flurry of concerted activity. A moment later a handsome mahogany coffin is hoisted to the surface of the ground.
«Break it open.»
«O.K., Chief.»
We hear the creaking and cracking of rent wood.
«Man or woman?»
«Man.»
«Fine! Spill him out.»
With a yo-heave-ho they tilt the coffin and the corpse rolls out onto the sand. The eldest of the bearded gravediggers kneels down beside it and starts methodically to relieve the thing of its watch and jewellery.
NARRATOR
Thanks to the dry climate and the embalmer’s art, what remains of the Managing Director of the Golden Rule Brewing Corporation looks as though it had been buried only yesterday. The cheeks are still pink with the rouge applied by the undertaker for the lying-in-state. Stitched into a perpetual smile, the upturned corners of the lips impart to the round, crumpet-like face the maddeningly enigmatic expression of a Madonna by Boltraffio.
Suddenly the lash of a dogwhip cuts across the shoulders of the kneeling gravedigger. The Camera pulls back to reveal the Chief impending, whip in hand, like the embodiment of divine Vengeance, from the height of his marble Sinai.
«Give back that ring.»
«Which ring?» the man falters.
For answer the Chief administers two or three more cuts with the dog whip.
«No, no — please! Ow! I’ll give it back. Stop!»
The culprit inserts two fingers into his mouth and after a little fumbling draws forth the handsome diamond ring which the deceased brewer bought for himself, when business was so hearteningly good during the Second World War.
«Put it there with the other things,» commands the Chief and, as the man obeys, «Twenty-five lashes,» he continues with grim relish, «that’s what you’re going to get this evening.»
Blubbering, the man begs for indulgence — just for this once. Seeing that tomorrow is Belial Day. . . And after all he’s old, he has worked faithfully all his life, has risen to the rank of a Deputy Supervisor. . . .
The Chief cuts him short.
«This is a Democracy,» he says. «We’re all equal before the Law. And the Law says that everything belongs to the Proletariat — in other words, it all goes to the State. And what’s the penalty for robbing the State?» The man looks up at him in speechless misery. «What’s the penalty?» the Chief bellows, raising his whip.
«Twenty-five lashes,» comes the almost inaudible reply.
«Good! Well, that settles that, doesn’t it? And now what are the clothes like?»
The younger and slimmer of the girls bends down and fingers the corpse’s double-breasted black jacket.
«Nice stuff,» she says. «And no stains. He hasn’t leaked or anything.»
«I’ll try them on,» says the Chief.
With some difficulty they divest the cadaver of its trousers, coat and shirt, then drop it back into the grave and shovel the earth back over its one-piece undergarment. Meanwhile the Chief takes the clothes, sniffs at them critically, then doffs the pearl-grey jacket which once belonged to the Production Manager of Western-Shakespeare Pictures Incorporated, and slips his arms into the more conservative tailoring that goes with malt liquors and the Golden Rule.
NARRATOR
Put yourself in his place. You may not know it, but a complete scribbler, or first card-engine, consists of a breast, or small swift, and two swifts, with the accompanying workers, strippers, fancies, doffers, etc. And if you don’t have any carding machinery or power looms, if you don’t have any electric motors to run them, or any dynamos to generate the electricity, or any turbines to turn the dynamos, or any coal to raise steam, or any blast furnaces to make steel — why then, obviously, you must depend for your fine cloth on the cemeteries of those who once enjoyed these advantages. And so long as the radioactivity persisted, there weren’t even any cemeteries to exploit. For three generations the dwindling remnant of those who survived the consummation of technological progress lived precariously in the wilderness. It is only during the last thirty years that it has been safe for them to enjoy the buried remains of le comfort moderne.
Close shot of the Chief, grotesque in the borrowed jacket of a man whose arms were much shorter and whose belly was much larger than his own. The sound of approaching footsteps makes him turn his head.
In a long shot from his viewpoint we see Dr. Poole, his hands tied behind his back, trudging wearily through the sand. Behind him walk his three captors. Whenever he stumbles or slackens his pace, they prick him in the rear with needle-sharp yucca leaves and laugh uproariously to see him wince.
The Chief stares at them in astonished silence as they approach.
«What in Belial’s name?» he brings out at last.
The little party comes to a halt at the foot of the mausoleum. The three members of Dr. Poole’s escort bow to the Chief and tell their story. They had been fishing in their coracle off Redondo Beach; had suddenly seen a huge, strange ship coming out of the mist; had immediately paddled back to shore to escape detection. From the ruins of an old house they had watched the strangers land. Thirteen of them. And then this man had come wandering with a woman to the very threshold of their hiding place. The woman had gone away again and, while the man was grubbing in the dirt with a tiny spade, they had jumped on him from behind, gagged him, bound him and now had brought him here for questioning.
There is a long silence, broken finally by the Chief.
«Do you speak English?»
«Yes, I speak English,» Dr. Poole stammers.
«Good. Untie him; hoist him up.»
They hoist him — so unceremoniously that he lands on all fours at the Chiefs feet.
«Are you a priest?»
«A priest?» Dr. Poole echoes in apprehensive astonishment. He shakes his head.
«Then why don’t you have a beard?»
«I. . . I shave.»
«Oh, then you’re not. . .» The Chief passes a finger across Dr. Poole’s chin and cheek. «I see, I see. Get up.»
Dr. Poole obeys.
«Where do you come from?»
«New Zealand, sir.»
Dr. Poole swallows hard, wishes his mouth were less dry, his voice less tremulous with terror.
«New Zealand? Is that far?»
«Very far.»
«You came in a big ship? With sails?»
Dr. Poole nods and adopting that lecture-room manner, which is always his refuge when personal contacts threaten to become too difficult, proceeds to explain why they weren’t able to cross the Pacific under steam.
«There would have been no place to refuel. It’s only for coastwise traffic that our shipping companies are able to make use of steamers.»
«Steamers?» the Chief repeats, his face alight with interest. «You still have steamers? But that must mean you didn’t have the Thing?»
Dr. Poole looks puzzled.
«I don’t quite catch your meaning,» he says. «What thing?»
«The Thing. You know — when He took over.» Raising his hands to his forehead, he makes the sign of the horns with extended forefingers. Devoutly,
his subjects follow suit.
«You mean the Devil?» says Dr. Poole dubiously.
The other nods.
«But, but. . . I mean, really. . .»
NARRATOR
Our friend is a good Congregationalist, but, alas, on the liberal side. Which means that he has never given the Prince of this world his ontological due. To put it brutally, he doesn’t believe in Him.
«Yes, He got control,» the Chief explains. «He won the battle and took possession of everybody. That was when they did all this.»
With a wide, comprehensive gesture he takes in the desolation that was once Los Angeles. Dr. Poole’s expression brightens
