Destination Unknown - Agatha Christie [37]
They resumed their journey that evening. It was no longer the station wagon. This time it was an open touring car. Everyone was in native dress, the men with white djellabas round them, the women with their faces hidden. Packed tightly in, they started off once more, driving all through the night.
‘How are you feeling, Mrs Betterton?’
Hilary smiled up at Andy Peters. The sun had just risen and they had stopped for breakfast. Native bread, eggs, and tea made over a Primus.
‘I feel as though I were taking part in a dream,’ said Hilary.
‘Yes, it has rather that quality.’
‘Where are we?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Who knows? Our Mrs Calvin Baker, no doubt, but no other.’
‘It’s a very lonely country.’
‘Yes, practically desert. But then it would have to be, wouldn’t it?’
‘You mean so as to leave no trace?’
‘Yes. One realizes, doesn’t one, that the whole thing must be very carefully thought out. Each stage of our journey is, as it were, quite independent of the other. A plane goes up in flames. An old station wagon drives through the night. If anyone notices it, it has on it a plate stating that it belongs to a certain archæological expedition that is excavating in these parts. The following day there is a touring car full of Berbers, one of the commonest sights to be seen on the road. For the next stage’–he shrugged his shoulders–‘who knows?’
‘But where are we going?’
Andy Peters shook his head.
‘No use to ask. We shall find out.’
The Frenchman, Dr Barron, had joined them.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we shall find out. But how true it is that we cannot but ask? That is our western blood. We can never say “sufficient for the day”. It is always tomorrow, tomorrow with us. To leave yesterday behind, to proceed to tomorrow. That is what we demand.’
‘You want to hurry the world on, Doctor, is that it?’ asked Peters.
‘There is so much to achieve,’ said Dr Barron, ‘life is too short. One must have more time. More time, more time.’ He flung out his hands in a passionate gesture.
Peters turned to Hilary.
‘What are the four freedoms you talk about in your country? Freedom from want, freedom from fear…’
The Frenchman interrupted. ‘Freedom from fools,’ he said bitterly. ‘That is what I want! That is what my work needs. Freedom from incessant, pettifogging economics! Freedom from all the nagging restrictions that hamper one’s work!’
‘You are a bacteriologist, are you not, Dr Barron?’
‘Yes, I am a bacteriologist. Ah, you have no idea, my friend, what a fascinating study that is! But it needs patience, infinite patience, repeated experiment–and money–much money! One must have equipment, assistants, raw materials! Given that you have all you ask for, what can one not achieve?’
‘Happiness?’ asked Hilary.
He flashed her a quick smile, suddenly human again.
‘Ah, you are a woman, Madame. It is women who ask always for happiness.’
‘And seldom get it?’ asked Hilary.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘That may be.’
‘Individual happiness does not matter,’ said Peters seriously; ‘there must be the happiness of all, the brotherhood of the spirit! The workers, free and united, owning the means of production, free of the warmongers, of the greedy, insatiable men who keep everything in their own hands. Science is for all, and must not be held jealously by one power or the other.’
‘So!’ said Ericsson appreciatively, ‘you are right. The scientists must be masters. They must control and rule. They and they alone are the Supermen. It is only the Supermen who matter. The slaves must be well treated, but they are slaves.’
Hilary walked a little way away from the group. After a minute or two Peters