The Day of the Triffids(31)

“Your names, please?”

We gave them.

“And addresses?”

“In the present circumstances I fear they won’t be very useful,” I said. “But if you really feel you must have them—” We gave them too.

He murmured something about system, organization, and relatives, and wrote them down. Age, occupation, and all the rest of it followed. He bent his searching look upon us again, scribbled a note upon each piece of paper, and put them in a file.

“Need good men. Nasty business, this. Plenty to do here, though. Plenty. Mr. Beadley’ll tell you what’s wanted.”

We came out into the hall again. Josella giggled.

“He forgot to ask for references in triplicate—but I gather we’ve got the job,” she said.

Michael Beadley, when we discovered him, turned out to be in decided contrast. He was lean, tall, broad-shouldered, and slightly stooping, with something the air of an athlete run to books. In repose his face took on an expression of mild gloom from the darkness of his large eyes, but it was seldom that one had a glimpse of it in repose. The occasional streaks of gray in his hair helped very little in judging his age. He might have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty. His obvious weariness just then made an estimate still more difficult. By his looks, he must have been up all night; nevertheless, he greeted us cheerfully and waved an introductory hand toward a young woman, who took down our names again as we gave them.

“Sandra Telmont,” he explained. “Sandra is our professional remembrancer—continuity is her usual work, so we regard it as particularly thoughtful of Providence to contrive her presence here just now.”

The young woman nodded to me and looked harder at Josella.

“We’ve met before,” she said thoughtfully. She glanced down at the pad on her knee. Presently a faint smile passed across her pleasant, though unexotic countenance.

“Oh yes, of course,” she said in recollection.

“What did I tell you? The thing clings like a flypaper,” Josella observed to me.

“What’s this about?” inquired Michael Beadley.

I explained. He turned a more careful scrutiny on Josella. She sighed.

“Please forget it,” she suggested. “I’m a bit tired of living it down.”

That appeared to surprise him agreeably.

“All right,” he said, and dismissed the matter with a nod. He turned back to the table. “Now to get on with things. You’ve seen Jacques?”

“If that is the Colonel who is playing at Civil Service, we have,” I told him.

He grinned.

“Got to know how we stand. Can’t get anywhere without knowing your ration strength,” he said, in a fair imitation of the Colonel’s manner. “But it’s quite true, though,” he went on. “I’d better give you just a rough idea of how things stand. Up to the present there are about thirty-five of us. All sorts. We hope and expect that some more will come in during the day. Out of those here now, twenty-eight can see. The others are wives or husbands—and there are two or three children—who cannot. At the moment the general idea is that we move away from here sometime tomorrow if we can be ready in time—to be on the safe side, you understand.”

I nodded. “We’d decided to get away this evening for the same reason,” I told him.

“What have you for transport?”

I explained the present position of the station wagon. “We were going to stock up today,” I added. “So far we’ve practically nothing except a quantity of anti-triffid gear.”

He raised his eyebrows. The girl Sandra also looked at me curiously.

“That’s a queer thing to make your first essential,” he remarked.

I told them the reasons. Possibly I made a bad job of it, for neither of them looked much impressed. He nodded casually and went on:

“Well, if you’re coming in with us, here’s what I suggest. Bring in your car, dump your stuff, then drive off and swap it for a good big truck. Then——Oh, does either of you know anything about doctoring?” he broke off to ask.

We shook our heads.

He frowned a little. “That’s a pity. So far we’ve got no one who does. It’ll surprise me if we’re not needing a doctor before long—and, anyway, we ought all of us to have inoculations…. Still, it’s not much good sending you two off on a medical supplies scrounge. What about food and general stores? Suit you?”

He flipped through some pages on a clip, detached one of them, and handed it to me. It was headed No. 15, and below was a typed list of canned goods, pots and pans, and some bedding.

“Not rigid,” he said, “but keep reasonably close to it and we’ll avoid too many duplications. Stick to best quality. With the food, concentrate on value for bulk—I mean, even if corn flakes are your leading passion in life, forget ’em. I suggest you keep to warehouses and big wholesalers.” He took back the list and scribbled two or three addresses on it. “Cans and packets are your food line—don’t get led away by sacks of flour, for instance; there’s another party on that sort of stuff.” He looked thoughtfully at Josella. “Heavyish work, I’m afraid, but it’s the most useful job we can give you at present. Do as much as you can before dark. There’ll be a general meeting and discussion here about nine-thirty this evening.”