The Last Houseparty by Peter Dickinson Page B

too?”
    â€œI think I shall enjoy fighting.”
    â€œAnd accept the necessity to kill as unfortunately incidental to the fighting?”
    â€œLooks like it. I mean, suppose I spent my life in the service and ran out a general, without ever having been involved in a proper shooting war, in theory that’d be the best thing that c-could have happened, but I’d be bound to feel I’d missed something, wouldn’t I?”
    â€œBy ‘the best thing that could happen’ I take it you are referring to the good of the country at large.”
    â€œWell, yes, sir.”
    â€œThen you are mistaken. Peace is of course beautiful, but a country such as ours needs a war, approximately once a generation, in order to retain its moral strength. It needs to put forth its full energies in battle, or it will begin to lose its own sense of its destiny. The question is not whether we should fight, but when, and whom. This war that you envisage will happen five years too early, but that is not the worst thing about it. Let me ask you whether you find it natural to regard the Germans as the enemy you are being trained to kill.”
    â€œI think so, sir. Dash it, I don’t mean that. It’s not natural to k-kill anyone.”
    â€œIt is, my boy. But go on.”
    â€œWell, the Germans … I mean, we were fighting them when I was born. They k-killed my father—and Hal’s. And you must have done for a few, sir.”
    For the first time for several minutes Sir Charles moved more than his lips. It was in any case natural for interlocutors, even near strangers, to find themselves standing in a position where they could see only the left side of his face, though no conscious effort seemed to be needed on the part of either person to make this happen. Now the large and bonily magnificent countenance swung to face Vincent, so that the great blotchy naevus that smeared the right cheek from eye-corner to jaw-bone came into view.
    â€œIt was a bad dream,” said Sir Charles, his heavy purr slowing to a drawl. “I have woken up. I have woken up.”
    â€œStill, it looks as though that’s what we’re g-going to be in for again, sir,” said Vincent. “Even if it isn’t what we want, supposing Herr Hitler …”
    â€œAdolf is only one man,” said Sir Charles, returning to his former pose. “I’ve had several chats with him, and I think I know what makes him tick. He’s a politician, first and last. Remember that he’s got to carry his country with him.”
    â€œI saw a newsreel of the last Nuremberg rally.”
    â€œI was there, my boy. I was there. And very impressive it was. But remember those roaring mobs are not the real Germany. If only people would get it into their heads that a modern nation is nothing more nor less than an economic system, a network of industries. The people who run the real Germany are the big industrialists. I tell you, Vincent, Germany’s industrialists, many of whom I number among my friends, have absolutely no intention of letting Adolf off the leash, though they will let him bark as much as he likes. I suggested as much—I put it in those very words—to Herr Ribbentrop only last month, and he laughed and agreed with me. So … Ah, there’s the bell at last … I must say, I wish Zena had consulted me before dragging this young Arab in. Tell me about him.”
    â€œI’ve only met him once, sir, playing c-cricket. I’ve never talked to him alone. I’m not sure I’d be able to put my finger on Sorah on the map.”
    â€œA dot half-way up the Persian Gulf on the left-hand side. The only decent harbour on that coast, so it controls one of the main routes to Mecca from the east. They aren’t supposed to tax the pilgrims, but they find ways. They have something of a reputation for luxury among the Arabs—rather like Sybaris among the early Italians—based on a