Camp of the Saints by Jean Raspail

Author:Jean Raspail
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: race relations, racism, novels
Published: 1975-09-13T04:00:00+00:00

"Who then?"

"No one, monsieur. We've had it."

"Then it just means another kind of genocide, that's all. Our own. It's the end."

"Yes, I'm afraid you're right, monsieur. But you'll never be able to get the word out, because no one's in any condition to listen. We're going to die slowly, eaten away from the inside by millions of microbes injected into our body. Little by little. Easily, quietly. No pain, no blood. Which is what makes the difference between our death and theirs ... But it seems that our mental midgets in the West see it all in terms of the rights of man. Just try to explain to the people, or the army—or to world opinion and the universal conscience—that on Easter Sunday, or maybe the day after, they're going to have to butcher a million black-skinned refugees, or else they'll all die themselves, only later, much later ..."

"Maybe so, Monsieur Perret, but that's just what I'm going to say. And it's up to you to go down south and help me. Now tell me, when are you leaving?"

"Tonight, monsieur. I managed to lay my hands on a jet—a fighter—whose pilot wasn't on retreat, or at prayer, or doing some other mental or moral gymnastics, painfully trying to square his career in the military with the existence of the Ganges fleet. My pilot isn't too squeamish yet. He's agreed to fly me down south, straight to the headquarters of the regional prefect. The poor man just called a little while ago. He was out of his mind. He's practically all alone down there. Most of his staff ran out on him this afternoon. I'm taking Commander de Poudis along, to act as my aide. He seems to have thought things over. I think he looks on his son's death now as something of a score to settle. If we had a few more men like him, stirred up by good, constructive grief, who knows?, maybe we could still be saved. Unfortunately, grief doesn't stir up much these days. Just labor demands and things like that ..."

"I've been thinking a lot too, Monsieur Perret," the President broke in. "In the long run, whatever I do, I certainly can't let that starving mob come and land on our shores. We could put them in camps, we could try to assimilate them. But the result would be the same: they would be here to stay. And once w had opened the door and shown how weak we are, others would come. Then more, and more. In fact, it's already beginning ..."

"They'll come, monsieur, no matter what you do."

"Yes, I know. But I'll tell you something. Something that's going to sound very old hat, so trite that no politician today would dare say it, not even the most inept. But for a change, it's the absolute truth: my conscience is clear. Good-bye, Monsieur Perret. I don't know if we're going to be meeting again, you and I ..."

Thirty-four

At midnight, as Saturday passed into Sunday,

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