RIGHT OFF THE MAP
It was Mayson, my bunkmate at the Ministry, who insisted on the guns, I must make that clear. But I anticipate,
I was dozing on my bunk when he came in, hot, flushed and untidy, and carrying a long, thin cylinder. I recognized the material as paper.
“A close shave,” he remarked. “I thought I wasn’t going to make it.” They had been tightening up the travel regulations, and a confiscated walking permit was a serious matter.
“What is it this time?” I stretched and climbed down to his bunk.
“An old map.”
I looked pointedly at the regulation plastic map of the World Union which hogged most of the wall space. Not that I ever complained. We were better off than most of the couples with apartment rooms Outside; the tap and the heating worked, and we were spared the trouble of applying for Workers’ Travel Disks.
“This is different. It’s an antique,” said Mayson, unrolling it. “Mid-twentieth century.”
With the single men’s shopping ration recently reduced to one hour weekly, most of us had time only to fight our way to the queue outside the nearest store, if we bothered at all. But Mayson had a theory about “first things first” and usually returned with something useless, offbeat and space-wasting.
I had to admit that the tattered old map was esthetically pleasing. It showed, in various colors, the political divisions which existed in the twentieth century, with mountain ranges in brown and the landmasses offset by pale-blue sea.
“Well, keep it rolled up, or stick it on the ceiling,” I said acidly. “You’ve got half my storage space already.” But I couldn’t resist a few comparisons with the modern map. The Department of London, then called “England,” was still quite sparsely populated in the west and north. The Department of Khartoum was colored yellow and marked “Sahara Desert,” showing that in those days there was still some land actually left barren.
“There’s something I want to check.” Mayson’s finger moved from the old to the new and back again. “Yes, by God! I thought so. Tell me what you see here.” He pointed to a place which is now part of the border between the departments of Karachi and Delhi.
I looked. “Two lines of hills, parallel, but converging at both ends. An offshoot of the Himalayas, apparently.”
“Good. And the space between?”
“A long, narrow valley, green with black spots.” I consulted the index at the foot of the map. “Forest land.”
“Right. Now find the place on the standard map.”
“It isn’t— Yes. Here. But there’s only one line of hills. Well, I suppose, with their primitive instruments—”
“No!” I had never seen Mayson so excited. “Cartography was dead accurate by the nineteenth century. Don’t you see what this means?”
“You’re the historian. I’m only a biologist.”
“I’m a sociologist. But never mind that. Suppose it’s the modern map that’s wrong. There may be lebensraum there—the first to be found in over a century. We’re going to see the Boss. If we handle him right, we’ll get an Orange Disk for this.”
For an Orange Disk, anything was worth trying. I followed Mayson along the crowded corridor.
* * * *
Phillips was a harassed man. His title, Chief Surveyor, was a concession to tradition, and he was really a glorified house matron, pessimistically grappling with the problems of housing five thousand people in a fifty-year-old building designed for two thousand. He was placating the telephone as we entered. “Sorry, Stevens, not a square inch at the moment. Yes, of course, at once, if anything turns up.”
He compared the map carefully with the one on his wall.
“Too good to be true,” he said. “But I suppose it is just possible that Karachi and Delhi both thought they had stopped developing on opposite sides of the same range of hills. The place is well off the air routes, and the valley, if it’s there, is narrow and completely enclosed. Would you two like to go and find out?”
“Us?” If I hadn’t known his thoughts, I’d have sworn Mayson was genuinely surprised.
“Why not? I could do with your bunks for a while. Computers are expecting two girls from the Department of Paris, and we’re a bit stuck. Send Stores a list of the things you’ll need, and I’ll recommend you for Orange Disks.” I caught Mayson’s triumphant glance. “But you won’t get any transport off the regular routes, so travel light.”
He waved us away and picked up the phone. “Computers? About those two girls, Stevens—”
* * * *
A week later, hung over and sore from our injections, we plunged into the inferno of the morning shopping ration. The long-delayed One-Way (Streets) Bill was expected to be passed at the next reading. And not before time.
The shoppers who, struggling and cursing, filled the wide streets were nearly all women, wearing Yellow Disks marked “Housewife. Wed. Shift 1.”
Mayson had done some homework, and we were in period costume: trousers, shirts, socks and hooded jackets, all of natural cotton, and leather shoes. The trousers would protect our legs against thorns, insects or snakes, he said, and the natural materials would be better than synthetics in a hot, humid atmosphere. On our backs were knapsacks containing water, food and other necessities—these were anybody’s guess—and the guns hung from our shoulders by straps. On our chests were the Orange Disks, bearing our photographs and the legend “Urgent Priority at All Times.” They were valid for a year and were literally priceless.
Thanks to the Disks, we made good speed. They took us through, instead of around, the Parks, and to the front of every queue at both Airstrips, and enabled us to stand by the windows for the whole of the two-hour flight. We saved at least a week by simply ignoring the customs queue, and nobody dared challenge us.
At the other end the driver of an orange garbage-wagon spotted our Disks and picked us up. He used his siren to good advantage and was able to speed up during the comparative lulls between the Workers’ and Shoppers’ travel shifts. He dropped us within sight of the hills, having saved us many days of battle.
Less than a month after leaving the Ministry we flourished our Disks at the gate in the wall behind the last housing block. The guard saluted and let us through.
At last we sat resting on the cold hilltop, exhausted from the climb and uneasily aware of the unfamiliar space and quietness. Below us lay the valley, its treetops shimmering in the sunshine. I realized that we need no longer stay so close together, and self-consciously moved away, suddenly irritated by Mayson, who was already busy calculating the area of the valley.
* * * *
I think it was here that I lost the camera. I remember photographing the contrasting views before and behind, and the next day it was missing. The loss seemed trivial at the time. We had the packets of old-fashioned paper notebooks and pencils which Stores had dug out of the Ministry basement (the fewer gadgets, the fewer technical hitches), and these would be adequate for collecting the notes and diagrams which would be of more interest to Phillips than the scenery, when translated into potential bunk space.
We followed a spring which cascaded down to a small lake, emerging as a stream that, ignorant of its destiny when it should pass beneath the Wall of Civilization into an underground reservoir, meandered peacefully along the valley, overhung by trees. We should not be able to wander far from its banks at first, because the floor of the forest was covered by dense undergrowth, and we had brought no hatchets. In time, the bulldozers would make short work of this problem.
When we came to a break in the trees we cleared a small area, using knives and branches, and camped for the night. After supper, Mayson worked by torchlight for an hour or so and then, with a muttered “Good night,” turned in.
But I sat with my back to a tree, far into the hot, damp night, idly waving the insects away, and savoring for the first time in my life the peace, and the sounds and scents of the wild: bird calls, the chattering of monkeys, the scuffling of small night creatures, the smell of foliage and moist earth. No doubt there would be snakes—perhaps dangerous. I had once been allotted a Zoo Disk, and an indescribable emotion possessed me as I contrasted this solitude and freedom with the plight of the animals crouching mournfully in their three-tiered cages at home. It occurred to me that the whole world must have been like this before man had destroyed it with the spread of his teeming millions. Suddenly lonely, and frightened by the unquiet forest, I huddled into my blanket and slept.
* * * *
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mayson’s voice shattered the peace of the dawn. He grabbed his water flask (replenished by courtesy of the Orange Disks at the last block before we reached the Wall) and cuddled it as though it were his only child.
I continued to empty mine over a bush and nodded toward the stream. “That’s fresher.”
“You’re nuts. It hasn’t been purified.”
“It’s never been polluted. And in a few days we shan’t need these anymore.” I indicated the plastic containers full of synthetic food concentrate. “We’ll make some paths, find edible plants. And we can catch animals for meat.”
It’s funny, but I never thought of using the guns for hunting. My mind was set on the idea that they were for whatever unimaginable emergencies Mayson had envisaged when he insisted on bringing them.
He stowed his food and water into his knapsack, and closed it elaborately. “Oh well, if you want to poison yourself with natural food, stinking with bacteria—”
I grabbed his arm. “Sh! Look! Over there.”
I must have been looking at it through the trees for some time without seeing it, so perfect was its camouflage. Elegantly draped over a low branch thirty yards or so from the stream was the most glorious creature I had ever seen: a huge cat, as big as a lion, but colored in black and gold stripes which blended harmoniously with the shafts of morning sunlight slanting into the forest. Its underparts were a vivid white. It lay relaxed, eyes half-closed, a poem of grace, dignity and serenity.
“A tiger! A living tiger!” I breathed. I would have sent the whole civilized world to perdition for the camera.
It is not generally known that there were at one time many species of cat. The only surviving members of this once numerous family were the so-called domestic cat, formerly a popular pet, now a pest, which had successfully defied all attempts at extermination, and the lion, which, being gregarious, lazy and friendly to man, is easily tamed and thrives in captivity. The others, solitary and independent, failed to adapt to close confinement and ceased to breed. Though the leopard was the fiercest, the most beautiful of the wild cats was the tiger, the last of which died in London Zoo early in the twenty-first century.
Nevertheless, a tiger this undoubtedly was—a “living fossil.” You may have seen films, or museum exhibits, of tigers, but these could give you no idea of the shining glory and awe-inspiring presence of the living animal.
Mayson had seen it now. His face wore the bleak, let’s-get-it-over-with expression that I had begun to hate. He went over and picked up his gun.
“Put that down,” I said. “And for God’s sake keep still, or you’ll frighten it.”
He examined the mechanism of the safety catch. “We’ll have to take it back with us. It’ll be the scoop of the century.”
I planted myself between the gun and the tiger. “Look, Mayson, you can’t mean that. You couldn’t do it. And anyway, we’ve no equipment for taking it over the mountain dead or alive.”
“Not the carcass. Just the skin. We have knives. Think of the price it will fetch—the sensation!”
I dived for his gun. I was almost crying with rage and horror.
“You’re bloody well not going to kill it. It may be the last tiger in the world. What would be the use of it dead?”
He caught me in the midriff with the butt of the gun, and I fell heavily, gasping for breath.
“So what?” he said. “Who lost the camera, for that matter? And who do you think would ever believe we’d seen a tiger, without proof?” He began to push his way into the undergrowth, ignoring the thorns that tore his trousers and hands.
As a sociologist, Mayson should have known about the territorial instinct which mankind once shared with the rest of creation. I, as a biologist, certainly did. I had by now noticed that the tiger was a female, and pregnant. I knew that a breeding female was the most dangerous and unpredictable of all wild animals. Alarmed or provoked, that lovely, placid creature could change, in a moment, into a spitting tornado. Also, there was likely to be a male somewhere nearby. Mayson was in deadly danger. I collected my gun and followed him, plucking frantically at his shirt. “Come back, you damned fool! You’ll get yourself killed.”
The tigress, aroused by our noisy approach, now stood up, glaring at Mayson. Her ears lay flat, her back was arched, and a ferocious snarl distorted her beautiful face. Mayson had never fired a gun. The closeness of the range was no guarantee that he wouldn’t miss. It might even cause him to fire too late. I was equally inexperienced, but obviously I was about to learn fast.
Still oblivious to his danger, Mayson took aim. The tigress crouched, gathering herself for the spring. I had about two seconds. Either that glorious creature and her precious progeny were going to be destroyed for the sake of a bedraggled skin, inexpertly hacked from her warm body, or Mayson, my fellow human, was going to die a very sticky death.
There was no time for sentimentality. No civilized man could dare to take the risk. I raised my gun and fired, a split second before the tigress could leap, like a darting golden flame, at Mayson. There was a snarl, a flurry of limbs, and the sound of the gunshot sent every living thing diving for cover. I stood there, in the sinister, unnatural silence, and saw that I had not missed.
I left Mayson in the clearing we had made, with both the guns, the remainder of the food, and most of the kit I wanted never to see him again.
I’ll wrap this report in a plastic bag and leave it somewhere. But no one will come for it. Phillips is in no hurry to have us on his bunk roll again.
My second notebook is nearly full of drawings—of tiger cubs.