The Grain Kings

by Keith Roberts

Genres: Science Fiction; Hard Science Fiction; Space Opera

Synopsis

'We reap and we thresh; grain for half the world. We are the Grain Kings raised of old.' They call them the Grain Kings. Gigantic mechanical monarchs of the wheat-bearing plains that were once the frozen Alaskan wastes. Whole eco-systems in themselves, they can supply the food so desperately needed by the teeming millions of our overpopulated planet. But even now, as the whole world waits in hungry suspense, the great powers battle for control of the prairies and two competing combine harvesters find they are heading on a course of collision. A collision with catastrophic consequences - not only for the hundreds of crewmen aboard each massive machine but for the future survival of all mankind.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 208

Sample

1

The big car moved slowly, nosing its way along narrowing lanes. Here, beyond the little market town of Wilton, the snow lay thicker. Trees and bushes loomed in the headlights, coated with driven white. The tail of the Mercedes wagged slightly, steadied. Mainwaring heard the chauffeur swear under his breath. The link had been left live.

Dials let into the seatback recorded the vehicle’s mechanical wellbeing: oil pressure, temperature, revs, k.p.h. Lights from the repeater glowed softly on his companion’s face. She moved, restlessly; he saw the swing of yellow hair. He turned slightly. She was wearing a neat, brief kilt, heavy boots. Her legs were excellent.

He clicked the dial lights off. He said, ‘Not much farther.’

He wondered if she was aware of the open link. He said, ‘First time down?’

She nodded in the dark. She said, ‘I was a bit overwhelmed.’

Wilton Great House sprawled across a hilltop five miles or more beyond the town. The car drove for some distance beside the wall that fringed the estate. The perimeter defences had been strengthened since Mainwaring’s last visit. Watch-towers reared at intervals; the wall itself had been topped by multiple strands of wire.

The lodge gates were commanded by two new stone pillboxes. The Merc edged between them, stopped. On the road from London the snow had eased; now big flakes drifted again, lit by the headlights. Somewhere, orders were barked.

A man stepped forward, tapped at the window. Mainwaring buttoned it open. He saw a GFP armband, a hip holster with the flap tucked back. He said, ‘Good evening, Captain.’

‘Guten Abend, mein Herr. Ihre Ausweiskarte?’

Cold air gusted against Mainwaring’s cheek. He passed across his identity card and security clearance, He said, ‘Richard Mainwaring. Die rechte Hand des Gesandten. Fräulein Hunter, von meiner Abteilung.

A torch flashed over the papers, dazzled into his eyes, moved to examine the girl. She sat stiffly, staring ahead. Beyond the security officer Mainwaring made out two steel-helmeted troopers, automatics slung. In front of him the wipers clicked steadily.

The GFP man stepped back. He said, ‘Ihre Ausweis wird in einer Woche ablaufen. Erneuen Sie Ihre Karte.’

Mainwaring said, ‘Vielen Dank, Herr Hauptmann. Frohe Weihnachten.’

The man saluted stiffly, unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. A pause, and the gates swung back. The Merc creamed through. Mainwaring said, ‘Bastard …’

She said, ‘Is it always like this?’

He said, ‘They’re tightening up all round.’

She pulled her coat round her shoulders. She said, ‘Frankly, I find it a bit scary.’

He said, ‘Just the Minister taking care of his guests.’

Wilton stood in open downland set with great trees. Hans negotiated a bend, carefully, drove beneath half-seen branches. The wind moaned, zipping round a quarterlight. It was as if the car butted into a black tunnel, full of swirling pale flakes. He thought he saw her shiver. He said, ‘Soon be there.’

The headlamps lit a rolling expanse of snow. Posts, buried nearly to their tops, marked the drive. Another bend, and the house showed ahead. The car lights swept across a façade of mullioned windows, crenellated towers. Hard for the uninitiated to guess, staring at the skilfully weathered stone, that the shell of the place was of reinforced concrete. The car swung right with a crunching of unseen gravel, and stopped. The ignition repeater glowed on the seatback.

Mainwaring said, ‘Thank you, Hans. Nice drive.’

Hans said, ‘My pleasure, sir.’

She flicked her hair free, picked up her handbag. He held the door for her. He said, ‘OK, Diane?’

She shrugged. She said, ‘Yes. I’m a bit silly sometimes.’ She squeezed his hand, briefly. She said, ‘I’m glad you’ll be here. Somebody to rely on.’

Mainwaring lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Inside as well as out, Wilton was a triumph of art over nature. Here, in the Tudor wing where most of the guests were housed, walls and ceilings were of wavy plaster framed by heavy oak beams. He turned his head. The room was dominated by a fireplace of yellow Ham stone; on the overmantel, carved in bold relief, the Hakenkreuz was flanked by the lion and eagle emblems of the Two Empires. A fire burned in the wrought-iron basket; the logs glowed cheerfully, casting wavering warm reflections across the ceiling. Beside the bed a bookshelf offered required reading: the Fuehrer’s official biography, Shirer’s Rise of the Third Reich, Cummings’ monumental Churchill: the Trial of Decadence. There were a nicely bound set of Buchan novels, some Kiplings, a Shakespeare, a complete Wilde. A side table carried a stack of current magazines: Connoisseur, The Field, Der Spiegel, Paris Match. There was a washstand, its rail hung with dark blue towels; in the corner of the room were the doors to the bathroom and wardrobe, in which a servant had already neatly disposed his clothes.

He stubbed his cigarette, lit another. He swung his legs off the bed, poured himself a whisky. From the grounds, faintly, came voices, snatches of laughter. He heard the crash of a pistol, the rattle of an automatic. He walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside. Snow was still falling, drifting silently from the black sky; but the firing pits beside the big house were brightly lit. He watched the figures move and bunch for a while, let the curtain fall. He sat by the fire, shoulders hunched, staring into the flames. He was remembering the trip through London; the flags hanging limp over Whitehall, slow, jerking movement of traffic, the light tanks drawn up outside St James’s. The Kensington road had been crowded, traffic edging and hooting; the vast frontage of Harrods looked grim and oriental against the louring sky. He frowned, remembering the call he had had before leaving the Ministry.

Kosowicz had been the name. From Time International; or so he had claimed. He’d refused twice to speak to him; but Kosowicz had been insistent. In the end, he’d asked his secretary to put him through.

Kosowicz had sounded very American. He said, ‘Mr Mainwaring, I’d like to arrange a personal interview with your Minister.’

‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I must also point out that this communication is extremely irregular.’

Kosowicz said, ‘What do I take that as, sir? A warning, or a threat?’

Mainwaring said carefully, ‘It was neither. I merely observed that proper channels of approach do exist.’

Kosowicz said, ‘Uh-huh. Mr Mainwaring, what’s the truth behind this rumour that Action Groups are being moved into Moscow?’

Mainwaring said, ‘Deputy Fuehrer Hess has already issued a statement on the situation. I can see that you’re supplied with a copy.’

The phone said, ‘I have it before me. Mr Mainwaring, what are you people trying to set up? Another Warsaw?’

Mainwaring said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment further, Mr Kosowicz. The Deputy Fuehrer deplored the necessity of force. The Einsatzgruppen have been alerted; at this time, that is all. They will be used if necessary to disperse militants. As of this moment, the need has not arisen.’

Kosowicz shifted his ground. ‘You mentioned the Deputy Fuehrer, sir. I hear there was another bomb attempt two nights ago, can you comment on this?’

Mainwaring tightened his knuckles on the handset. He said, ‘I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. We know nothing of any such incident.’

The phone was silent for a moment. Then it said, ‘Can I take your denial as official?’

Mainwaring said, ‘This is not an official conversation. I’m not empowered to issue statements in any respect.’

The phone said, ‘Yeah, channels do exist. Mr Mainwaring, thanks for your time.’

Mainwaring said, ‘Goodbye.’ He put the handset down, sat staring at it. After a while he lit a cigarette.

Outside the windows of the Ministry the snow still fell, a dark whirl and dance against the sky. His tea, when he came to drink it, was half cold.

The fire crackled and shifted. He poured himself another whisky, sat back. Before leaving for Wilton, he’d lunched with Winsby-Walker from Productivity. Winsby-Walker made it his business to know everything; but he had known nothing of a correspondent called Kosowicz. He thought, ‘I should have checked with Security.’ But then, Security would have checked with him.

He sat up, looked at his watch. The noise from the ranges had diminished. He turned his mind with a deliberate effort into another channel. The new thoughts brought no more comfort. Last Christmas he had spent with his mother; now, that couldn’t happen again. He remembered other Christ-mases, back across the years. Once, to the child unknowing, they had been gay affairs of crackers and toys. He remembered the scent and texture of pine branches, closeness of candlelight; and books read by torchlight under the sheets, the hard angles of the filled pillowslip, heavy at the foot of the bed. Then, he had been complete; only later, slowly, had come the knowledge of failure. And with it, loneliness. He thought, ‘She wanted to see me settled. It didn’t seem much to ask.’

The Scotch was making him maudlin. He drained the glass, walked through to the bathroom. He stripped, and showered. Towelling himself, he thought, Richard Mainwaring, Personal Assistant to the British Minister of Liaison. Aloud he said, ‘One must remember the compensations.’

He dressed, lathered his face and began to shave. He thought, Thirty-five is the exact middle of one’s life. He was remembering another time with the girl Diane when just for a little while some magic had interposed. Now, the affair was never mentioned between them. Because of James. Always, of course, there is a James.

He towelled his face, applied aftershave. Despite himself, his mind had drifted back to the phone call. One fact was certain: there had been a major security spillage. Somebody somewhere had supplied Kosowicz with closely guarded information. That same someone, presumably, had supplied a list of ex-directory lines. He frowned, grappling with the problem. One country, and one only, opposed the Two Empires with gigantic, latent strength. To that country had shifted the focus of Semitic nationalism. And Kosowicz had been an American.

He thought, ‘Freedom, schmeedom. Democracy is Jew-shaped.’ He frowned again, fingering his face. It didn’t alter the salient fact. The tip-off had come from the Freedom Front; and he had been contacted, however obliquely. Now, he had become an accessory; the thought had been nagging at the back of his brain all day.

He wondered what they could want of him. There was a rumour – a nasty rumour – that you never found out. Not till the end, till you’d done whatever was required from you. They were untiring, deadly and subtle. He hadn’t run squalling to Security at the first hint of danger; but that would have been allowed for. Every turn and twist would have been allowed for.

Every squirm on the hook.

He grunted, angry with himself. Fear was half their strength. He buttoned his shirt, remembering the guards at the gates, the wire and pillboxes. Here, of all places, nothing could reach him. For a few days he could forget the whole affair. He said aloud, ‘Anyway, I don’t even matter. I’m not important.’ The thought cheered him, nearly.

He clicked the light off, walked through to his room, closed the door behind him. He crossed to the bed and stood quite still, staring at the bookshelf. Between Shirer and the Churchill tome there rested a third slim volume. He reached to touch the spine, delicately; read the author’s name, Geissler, and the title, Toward Humanity. Below the title, like a topless Cross of Lorraine, were the twin linked ‘F’s’ of the Freedom Front.

Ten minutes ago the book hadn’t been there.

He walked to the door. The corridor beyond was deserted. From somewhere in the house, faintly, came music: Till Eulenspiegel. There were no nearer sounds. He closed the door again, locked it. Turned back and saw the wardrobe stood slightly ajar.

His case still lay on the side table. He crossed to it, took out the Lüger. The feel of the heavy pistol was comforting. He pushed the clip home, thumbed the safety forward, chambered a round. The breech closed with a hard snap. He walked to the wardrobe, shoved the door wide with his foot.

Nothing there.

He let his held breath escape with a little hiss. He pressed the clip release, ejected the cartridge, laid the gun on the bed. He stood again looking at the shelf. He thought, I must have been mistaken.

He took the book down, carefully. Geissler had been banned since publication in every province of the Two Empires; Mainwaring himself had never even seen a copy. He squatted on the edge of the bed, opened it at random.

The doctrine of Aryan co-ancestry, seized on so eagerly by the English middle classes, had the superficial reasonableness of most theories ultimately traceable to Rosenberg. Churchill’s answer, in one sense, had already been made; but Chamberlain, and the country, turned to Hess …

The Cologne settlement, though seeming to offer hope of security to Jews already domiciled in Britain, in fact paved the way for campaigns of intimidation and extortion similar to those already undertaken in history, notably by King John. The comparison is not unapt; for the English bourgeoisie, anxious to construct a rationale, discovered many unassailable precedents. A true Sign of the Times, almost certainly, was the resurgence of interest in the novels of Sir Walter Scott. By 1942 the lesson had been learned on both sides; and the Star of David was a common sight on the streets of most British cities.

The wind rose momentarily in a long wail, shaking the window casement. Mainwaring glanced up, turned his attention back to the book. He leafed through several pages.

In 1940, her Expeditionary Force shattered, her allies quiescent or defeated, the island truly stood alone. Her proletariat, bedevilled by bad leadership, weakened by a gigantic depression, was effectively without a voice. Her aristocracy, like their Junker counterparts, embraced coldly what could no longer be ignored; while after the Whitehall Putsch the Cabinet was reduced to the status of an Executive Council …

The knock at the door made him start, guiltily. He pushed the book away. He said, ‘Who’s that?’

She said, ‘Me. Richard, aren’t you ready?’

He said, ‘Just a minute.’ He stared at the book, then placed it back on the shelf. He thought, That at least wouldn’t be expected. He slipped the Lüger into his case and closed it. Then he went to the door.

She was wearing a lacy black dress. Her shoulders were bare; her hair, worn loose, had been brushed till it gleamed. He stared at her a moment, stupidly. Then he said, ‘Please come in.’

She said, ‘I was starting to wonder … Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

She said, ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

He smiled. He said, ‘I expect I was taken aback. Those Aryan good looks.’

She grinned at him. She said, ‘I’m half Irish, half English, half Scandinavian. If you have to know.’

‘That doesn’t add up.’

She said, ‘Neither do I, most of the time.’

‘Drink?’

‘Just a little one. We shall be late.’

He said, ‘It’s not very formal tonight.’ He turned away, fiddling with his tie.

She sipped her drink, pointed her foot, scuffed her toe on the carpet. She said, ‘I expect you’ve been to a lot of house parties.’

He said, ‘One or two.’

She said, ‘Richard, are they …?’

‘Are they what?’

She said, ‘I don’t know. You can’t help hearing things.’

He said, ‘You’ll be all right. One’s very much like the next.’

She said, ‘Are you honestly OK?’

‘Sure.’

She said, ‘You’re all thumbs. Here, let me.’ She reached up, knotted deftly. Her eyes searched his face for a moment, moving in little shifts and changes of direction. She said, ‘There. I think you just need looking after.’

He said carefully, ‘How’s James?’

She stared a moment longer. She said, ‘I don’t know. He’s in Nairobi. I haven’t seen him for months.’

He said, ‘I am a bit nervous, actually.’

‘Why?’

He said, ‘Escorting a rather lovely blonde.’

She tossed her head, and laughed. She said, ‘You need a drink as well then.’

He poured whisky, said, ‘Cheers.’ The book, now, seemed to be burning into his shoulderblades.

She said, As a matter of fact, you’re looking rather fetching yourself.’

He thought, ‘This is the night when all things come together. There should be a word for it.’ Then he remembered about Till Eulenspiegel.

She said, ‘We’d honestly better go down.’

Lights gleamed in the Great Hall, reflecting from polished boards, dark linenfold panelling. At the nearer end of the chamber a huge fire burned. Beneath the minstrels’ gallery long tables had been set. Informal or not, they shone with glass and silverware. Candles glowed amid wreaths of dark evergreen; beside each place was a rolled crimson napkin.

In the middle of the Hall, its tip brushing the coffered ceiling, stood a Christmas tree. Its branches were hung with apples, baskets of sweets, red paper roses; at its base were piled gifts in gay-striped wrappers. Round the tree folk stood in groups, chatting and laughing. Richard saw Müller, the Defence Minister, with a striking-looking blonde he took to be his wife; beside them was a tall, monocled man who was something or other in Security. There was a group of GSP officers in their dark, neat uniforms, beyond them half a dozen Liaison people. He saw Hans the chauffeur standing head bent, nodding intently, smiling at some remark; and thought as he had thought before, how he looked like a big, handsome ox.

Diane had paused in the doorway, and linked her arm through his. But the Minister had already seen them. He came weaving through the crowd, a glass in his hand. He was wearing tight black trews, a dark blue roll-neck shirt. He looked happy and relaxed. He said, ‘Richard. And my dear Miss Hunter. We’d nearly given you up for lost. After all, Hans Trapp is about. Now, some drinks. And come, do come; please join my friends. Over here, where it is warm.’

She said, ‘Who’s Hans Trapp?’

Mainwaring said, ‘You’ll find out in a bit.’

A little later the Minister said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I think we may be seated.’

The meal was superb, the wine abundant. By the time the brandy was served Richard found himself talking more easily, and the Geissler copy pushed nearly to the back of his mind. The traditional toasts – King and Fuehrer, the provinces, the Two Empires – were drunk; then the Minister clapped his hands for quiet. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘tonight, this special night when we can all mix so freely, is Weihnachtsabend. It means, I suppose, many things to the many of us here. But let us remember, first and foremost, that this is the night of the children. Your children, who have come with you to share part at least of this very special Christmas.’

He paused. Already,’ he said, ‘they have been called from their crèche; soon, they will be with us. Let me show them to you.’ He nodded; at the gesture servants wheeled forward a heavy, ornate box. A drape was twitched aside, revealing the grey surface of a big TV screen. Simultaneously, the lamps that lit the Hall began to dim. Diane turned to Mainwaring, frowning; he touched her hand, gently, and shook his head.

Save for the firelight, the Hall was now nearly dark. The candles guttered in their wreaths, flames stirring in some draught; in the hush, the droning of the wind round the great façade of the place was once more audible. The lights would be out, now, all over the house.

‘For some of you,’ said the Minister, ‘this is your first visit here. For you, I will explain.

‘On Weihnachtsabend all ghosts and goblins walk. The demon Hans Trapp is abroad; his face is black and terrible, his clothing the skins of bears. Against him comes the Lightbringer, the Spirit of Christmas. Some call her Lucia Queen, some Das Christkind. See her now.’

The screen lit up.

She move. . .