The Day of the Triffids(44)

As things were now, I did not see my way.

And then there was Josella on my mind. The same sorts of things, maybe worse, were as likely to be happening in her district….

I found myself thinking of Michael Beadley and his lot again. I had known then that they were logical; now I began to think that maybe they had a truer humanity, too. They had seen that it was hopeless to try to save any but a very few. To give an empty hope to the rest was little better than cruelty.

Besides, there were ourselves. If there were purpose in anything at all, what had we been preserved for? Not simply to waste ourselves on a forlorn task, surely?

I decided that tomorrow I would go in search of Josella and we would settle it together….

The latch of the door moved with a click. The door itself opened slowly.

“Who’s that?” I said.

“Oh, it is you,” said a girl’s voice.

She came in, closing the door behind her.

“What do you want?” I asked.

She was tall and slim. Under twenty, I guessed. Her hair waved slightly. Chestnut-colored, it was. She was quiet, but one had to notice her—it was the texture of her as well as the line. She had placed my position by my movement and voice. Her gold-brown eyes were looking just over my left shoulder, otherwise I’d have been sure she was studying me.

She did not answer at once. It was an uncertainty which did not seem to suit the rest of her. I went on waiting for her to speak. A lump got into my throat somehow. You see, she was young and she was beautiful. There should have been all life, maybe a wonderful life, before her…. And isn’t there something a little sad about youth and beauty in any circumstances?

“You’re going away from here?” she said. It was half question, half statement, in a quiet voice, a little unsteadily.

“I’ve never said that,” I countered.

“No,” she admitted, “but that’s what the others are saying—and they’re right, aren’t they?”

I did not say anything to that. She went on:

“You can’t. You can’t leave them like this. They need you.”

“I’m doing no good here,” I told her. “All the hopes are false.”

“But suppose they turned out not to be false?”

“They can’t—not now. We’d have known by this time.”

“But if they did after all—and you had simply walked out?”

“Do you think I haven’t thought of that? I’m not doing any good, I tell you. I’ve been like the drugs they inject to keep the patient going a little longer—no curative value, just putting it off.”

She did not reply for some seconds. Then she said unsteadily:

“Life is very precious—even like this.” Her control almost cracked.

I could not say anything. She recovered herself.

“You can keep us going. There’s always a chance—just a chance that something may happen, even now.”

I had already said what I thought about that. I did not repeat it.

“It’s so difficult,” she said, as though to herself. “If I could only see you…But then, of course, if I could…Are you young? You sound young.”

“I’m under thirty,” I told her. “And very ordinary.”

“I’m eighteen. It was my birthday—the day the comet came.”

I could not think of anything to say to that that would not seem cruel. The pause drew out. I saw that she was clenching her hands together. Then she dropped them to her sides, the knuckles quite white. She made as if to speak, but did not.

“What is it?” I asked. “What can I do except prolong this a little?”

She bit her lip, then:

“They—they said perhaps you were lonely,” she said. “I thought perhaps if”—her voice faltered, and her knuckles went a little whiter still—“perhaps if you had somebody…I mean, somebody here…you—you might not want to leave us. Perhaps you’d stay with us?”

“Oh God,” I said softly.

I looked at her, standing quite straight, her lips trembling slightly. There should have been suitors clamoring for her lightest smile. She should have been happy and uncaring for a while—then happy in caring. Life should have been enchanting to her, and love very sweet….

“You’d be kind to me, wouldn’t you?” she said. “You see, I haven’t——”

“Stop it! Stop it!” I told her. “You mustn’t say these things to me. Please go away now.”

But she did not go. She stood staring at me from eyes that could not see me.

“Go away!” I repeated.

I could not stand the reproach of her. She was not simply herself—she was thousands upon thousands of young lives destroyed….

She came closer.

“Why, I believe you’re crying!” she said.

“Go away. For God’s sake, go away!” I told her.

She hesitated, then she turned and felt her way back to the door. As she went out:

“You can tell them I’ll be staying,” I said.

The first thing I was aware of the next morning was the smell. There had been whiffs of it here and there before, but luckily the weather had been cool. Now I found that I had slept late into what was already a warmer day. I’m not going into details about that smell; those who knew it will never forget it; for the rest it is indescribable. It rose from every city and town for weeks, and traveled on every wind that blew. When I woke to it that morning it convinced me beyond doubt that the end had come. Death is just the shocking end of animation; it is dissolution that is final.