The Day Of Creation by J. G. Ballard

Author:J. G. Ballard [Ballard, J. G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Classics, Fantasy, Fiction, Literary, Medical, Science Fiction, War & Military, Action & Adventure, Speculative, Hard Science Fiction, Urban, Post-Apocalyptic, Philosophy
Publisher: Fourth Estate
Published: 1987-06-23T23:00:00+00:00

20

The Documentary Film

All morning the warm sunlight had pressed upon the river, drawing from its surface a vivid mist that blurred the trees on the distant shore and turned the company of soldiers into a wavering phantom army. Four hundred yards upstream, I sat on the floor of the steel tank above the railway water-tower, and watched Captain Kagwa’s expeditionary force preparing to make camp. As the river moved around a sand-bar that lay on its inner curve, a stream of colder water came to the surface. For a few seconds the haze dissipated in the cool air, and Kagwa’s spectral soldiers turned into a force of strong-backed men busily erecting their tents and unloading their weapons from the grey-hulled landing-craft.

Soon after sunrise I had left Noon in command of the Salammbo, and set off with Sanger and Mr Pal in the patrol launch, retracing our journey in the hope of identifying the exact size of Kagwa’s private army. In the three days since our meeting at nightfall, Sanger’s estimate of the force’s strength had grown geometrically by the hour, and I began to fear that the Captain had at last called in the central government and notified them of the birth of the third Nile. If so, my quest for the source of the Mallory had already run aground. At night, as I lay in the wheelhouse, listening to Mr Pal’s soft sing-song commentary on the stars, I could hear the distant mutter of the landing-craft’s auxiliary motor, and see the bonfires reflected in the underbellies of the cumulus clouds, another army of ghosts that haunted the night air.

The Salammbo was moored in a quiet inlet on the western bank of the Mallory, protected by a shingle bar that almost blocked its entrance, and by the overhanging fan-palms. At dawn Noon watched us go, standing among the sections of film equipment like the adolescent curator of a futuristic museum.

She had been annoyed by the arrival of Sanger and Mr Pal, and the prospect of more mouths to feed, but the sight of the television screens had soon pacified her. She immediately took charge of this mud-covered cargo, eagerly helping me to transfer the cabinets and aerials to the car-deck of the ferry.

Leaving her behind, we set out in the launch, sustained by Mr Pal’s eternal wild-life commentary.

‘… wild magnolias and many small tamarinds, with comfortable footing for passerine birds.’ Exhausted by the ordeal of the past weeks, Mr Pal murmured away, shielding his tired eyes from the overlit water. ‘The river is some eight metres in depth, moving through an ample basin of washed granitic marl, well-stocked with aquatic life. The warm waters offer a friendly refuge to snakes and lizards …’

‘Mr Pal …’ I cut the throttle in protest. ‘For God’s sake – you sound as if you’re stocktaking on the last day of creation …’

‘Well put, doctor, that describes it exactly …’ Nodding sagely, Sanger leaned against Mr Pal as they sat propped together against the engine locker.

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