«Oh, I see. You mean the Third World War. No, we were lucky; we got off without a scratch. Owing to its peculiar geographical situation,» he adds professorially, «New Zealand was of no strategic importance to. . .»
The Chief cuts short a promising lecture.
«Then you’ve still got trains?» he questions.
«Yes, we’ve still got trains,» Dr. Poole answers, a little irritably. «But, as I was saying. . .»
«And the engines really work?»
«Of course they work. As I was saying. . .»
Startlingly the Chief lets out a whoop of delight and claps him on the shoulder.
«Then you can help us to get it all going again. Like in the good old days before. . .» He makes the sign of horns. «We’ll have trains, real trains.» And in an ecstasy of joyous anticipation, he draws Dr. Poole toward him, puts an arm round his neck and kisses him on both cheeks.
Shrinking with an embarrassment that is reinforced by disgust (for the great man seldom washes and is horribly foul-mouthed) Dr. Poole disengages himself.
«But I’m not an engineer,» he protests. «I’m a botanist.»
«What’s that?»
«A botanist is a man who knows about plants.»
«War plants?» the Chief asks hopefully.
«No, no, just plants. Things with leaves and stalks and flowers — though of course,» he adds hastily, «one mustn’t forget the cryptogams. And as a matter of fact the cryptogams are my special pets. New Zealand, as you probably know, is particularly rich in cryptogams. . .»
«But what about the engines?»
«Engines?» Dr. Poole repeats contemptuously. «I tell you, I don’t know the difference between a steam turbine and a diesel.»
«Then you can’t do anything to help us get the trains running again?»
«Not a thing.»
Without a word the Chief raises his right leg, places his foot against the pit of Dr. Poole’s stomach, then sharply straightens the bent knee.
Close shot of Dr. Poole, as he raises himself, shaken and bruised, but with no bones broken, from the heap of sand onto which he has fallen. Over the shot we hear the Chief shouting to his retainers.
Medium shot of the gravediggers and fishermen, as they come running in response to the summons.
The Chief points down at Dr. Poole.
«Bury him.»
«Alive or dead?» asks the plumper of the girls in her rich contralto voice.
The Chief looks down at her. Shot from his viewpoint. With an effort he turns away. His lips move. He is repeating the relevant passage from the Shorter Catechism. «What is the nature of woman? Answer: Woman is the vessel of the Unholy Spirit, the source of all deformity, the enemy of the race, the. . .»
«Alive or dead?» the plump girl repeats.
The Chief shrugs his shoulders.
«As you like,» he answers with studied indifference.
The plump girl claps her hands.
«Goody, goody!» she cries and turns to her companions. «Come on, boys. Let’s have some fun.»
They close in on Dr. Poole, lift him screaming from the ground and drop him feet first into the half-filled grave of the Managing Director of the Golden Rule Brewing Corporation. While the plump girl holds him down, the men shovel the loose dry earth into place. In a very short time he is buried up to the waist.
On the sound track the victim’s screams and the excited laughter of the executioners taper off into a silence that is broken by the voice of the Narrator.
NARRATOR
Cruelty and compassion come with the chromosomes;
All men are merciful and all are murderers.
Doting on dogs, they build their Dachaus;
Fire whole cities and fondle the orphans;
Are loud against lynching, but all for Oakridge;
Full of future philanthropy, but today the NKVD.
Whom shall we persecute, for whom feel pity?
It is all a matter of the moment’s mores,
Of words on wood pulp, of radios roaring,
Of Communist kindergartens or first communions.
Only in the knowledge of his own Essence
Has any man ceased to be many monkeys.
The laughter and the pleas for mercy return to the sound track. Then, suddenly, we hear the Chief.
«Stand back,» he shouts. «I can’t see.»
They obey. In silence the Chief looks down at Dr. Poole.
«You know all about plants,» he says at last. «Why don’t you grow some roots down there?’
The sally is greeted by enormous guffaws.
«Why don’t you put out some nice little pink flowers?»
We are shown a close-up of the botanist’s agonised face.
«Mercy, mercy. . .»
The voice breaks, grotesquely; there is another burst of hilarity.
«I could be useful to you. I could show you how to get better crops. You’d have more to eat.»
«More to eat?» the Chief repeats with sudden interest. Then he frowns savagely. «You’re lying!»
«I’m not. I swear by Almighty God.»
There is a murmur of shocked protest.
«He may be almighty in New Zealand,» says the Chief. «But not here — not since the Thing happened.»
«But I know I can help you.»
«Are you ready to swear by Belial?»
Dr. Poole’s father was a clergyman and he himself is a regular churchgoer; but it is with heartfelt fervour that he does what is asked of him.
«By Belial. I swear by Almighty Belial.»
Everyone makes the sign of the horns. There is a long silence.
«Dig him up.»
«Oh, Chief,» the plump girl protests. «That isn’t fair!»
«Dig him up, you vessel of Unholiness!»
His tone carries immediate conviction; they dig with such fervour that in less than a minute Dr. Poole is out of his grave and standing rather unsteadily, at the foot of the mausoleum.
«Thank you,» he manages to say; then his knees give way and he collapses.
There is a chorus of contemptuously good-humoured laughter.
The Chief leans from his marble perch. «Here, you there, the red-headed vessel.» He hands the girl a bottle. «Make him drink some of this,» he orders. «He’s got to be able to walk. We’re going back to Headquarters.»
She sits down beside Dr. Poole, raises his limp body, props the wobbling head against the interdictions on her bosom, and administers the restorative.
Dissolve to a street. Four of the bearded men are carrying the Chief in a litter. The others straggle behind, moving slowly through the drifted sand. Here and there, under the porches of ruined filling stations, in the gaping doorways of office buildings, lie heaps of human bones.
Medium close shot of Dr. Poole. Still holding the bottle in his right hand, he walks a little unsteadily, singing «Annie Laurie» to himself, with intense feeling. Drunk on an empty stomach — the empty stomach, moreover, of a man whose mother has always had conscientious objections to alcohol — the strong red wine has taken prompt effect.
«And for bonny Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doon and dee. . .»
In the middle of the final phrase, the two girl grave-diggers enter the shot. Approaching the singer from behind, the plump one gives him a friendly slap on the back. Dr. Poole starts, turns around, and looks suddenly apprehensive. But her smile is reassuring.
«I’m Flossie,» she says. «And I hope you’re not cross with me because I wanted to bury you?»
«Oh, no, no, not a bit,» Dr. Poole assures her in the tone of one who says he has no objection to the young lady lighting a cigarette.
«It’s not that I had anything against you,» Flossie assures him.
«Of course not.»
«I just wanted a laugh, that’s all.»
«Quite, quite.»
«People look so screamingly funny when they’re being buried.»
«Screamingly,» Dr. Poole agrees, and forces a nervous giggle.
Feeling the need for more courage, he fortifies himself with another swig from the bottle.
«Well, see you later,» says the plump girl. «I’ve got to go and talk to the Chief about lengthening the sleeves of his new jacket.»
She gives him another slap on the back and hurries away.
Dr. Poole is left alone with her companion. He steals a glance at her. She is eighteen; she has red hair and dimples, a charming face and a slender adolescent body.
«My name’s Loola,» she volunteers. «What’s yours?»
«Alfred,» Dr. Poole replies. «My mother was a great admirer of In Memoriam,» he adds by way of explanation.
«Alfred,» the red-headed girl repeats. «I shall call you Alfie. I’ll tell you something, Alfie: I don’t really like these public burials. I don’t know why I should be different from other people, but they don’t make me laugh. I can’t see anything funny about them.»
«I’m glad to hear it,» says Dr. Poole.
«You know, Alfie,» she resumes, after a little silence, «you’re really a very lucky man.»
«Lucky?»
Loola nods.
«First of all you’re dug up — and I’ve never seen that happen before — and now you walk straight into the Purification Ceremonies.»
«Purification Ceremonies?»
«Yes, it’s Belial Day tomorrow — Belial Day,» she insists in response to the blank look of incomprehension on the other’s face. «Don’t tell me you don’t know what happens on Belial Eve.»
Dr. Poole shakes his head.
«But when do you have your Purification?»
«Well, we take a bath every day,» says Dr. Poole, who has just been reminded, yet once more, that Loola most decidedly doesn’t.
«No, no,» she says impatiently. «I mean the Purification of the Race.»
«Of the Race?»
«Hell, your priests don’t let the deformed babies go on living, do they?»
There is a silence; then Dr. Poole counters with a question of his own.
«Are there many deformed babies born here?»
She nods affirmatively.
«Ever since the Thing — ever since He’s been in charge.»
She makes the sign of the horns. «They say that before that, there weren’t any.»
«Did anyone ever tell you about the effect of gamma rays?»
«Gamma rays? What’s a gamma ray?»
«It’s the reason for all those deformed children.»
«You’re not trying to suggest that it wasn’t Belial, are you?» Her tone is one of indignant suspicion; she looks at him as St Dominic might have eyed an Albigensian heretic.
«No, no, of course not,» Dr. Poole hastens to assure her. «He’s the primary cause — that goes without saying.»
