The half-track wasn’t suitable for that job, so we took a four-wheel-drive truck. Although the nearest rail coal depot was only ten miles away, the roundabout route, due to the blockage of some roads and the bad condition of others, meant that it took us nearly the whole day. There were no major mishaps, but it was drawing on to evening when we returned.
As we turned the last corner of the lane, with the triffids slash-ing at the truck as indefatigably as ever from the banks, we stared in astonishment. Beyond our gate, parked in our yard, stood a monstrous-looking vehicle. The sight so dumfounded us that we sat gaping at it for some moments before Susan put on her helmet and gloves and climbed down to open the gate.
After I had driven in we went over together to look at the vehicle. The chassis, we saw, was supported on metal tracks, which suggested a military origin. The general effect was somewhere between a cabin cruiser and an amateur-built caravan. Susan and I looked at it, and then looked at one another, with raised eyebrows. We went indoors to learn more about it.
In the living room we found, in addition to the household, four men clad in gray-green ski suits. Two of them wore pistols holstered to the right hip; the other two had parked their submachine guns on the floor beside their chairs.
As we came in, Josella turned a completely expressionless face toward us.
“Here is my husband. Bill, this is Mr. Torrence. He tells us he is an official of some kind. He has proposals to make to us.” I had never heard her voice colder.
For a second I failed to respond. The man she indicated did not recognize me, but I recalled him, all right. Features that have faced you along sights get sort of set in your mind. Besides, there was that distinctive red hair. I remembered very well the way that efficient young man had turned back my party in Hampstead. I nodded to him. Looking at me, he said:
“I understand you are in charge here, Mr. Masen?”
“The place belongs to Mr. Brent,” I replied.
“I mean that you are the organizer of this group?”
“In the circumstances, yes,” I said.
“Good.” He had a now-we-are-going-to-get-someplace air. “I am Commander, Southeast Region,” he added.
He spoke as if that should convey something important to me. It did not. I said so.
“It means,” he amplified, “that I am the chief executive officer of the Emergency Council for the Southeastern Region of Britain. As such, it happens to be one of my duties to supervise the distribution and allocation of personnel.”
“Indeed,” I said. “I have never heard of this—er—Council.”
“Possibly. We were equally ignorant of the existence of your group here until we saw your fire yesterday.”
I waited for him to go on.
“When such a group is discovered,” he said, “it is my job to investigate it, and assess it, and make the necessary adjustments. So you may take it that I am here officially.”
“On behalf of an official Council? Or does it happen to be a self-elected Council?”
“There has to be law and order,” he said stiffly. Then, with a change of tone, he went on:
“This is a well-found place you have here, Mr. Masen.”
“Mr. Brent has,” I corrected.
“We will leave Mr. Brent out. He is here only because you made it possible for him to stay here.”
I looked across at Dennis. His face was set.
“Nevertheless, it is his property,” I said.
“It was, I understand. But the state of society which gave sanction to his ownership no longer exists. Titles to property have therefore ceased to be valid. Furthermore, Mr. Brent is not sighted, so that he cannot in any case be considered competent to hold authority.”