2

Before the train had travelled very far, I knew for sure that I had left the Suburbs behind. The ragged hedges no longer enclosed well tended lawns and flower-beds, but rather rectangles of crops, occasionally enlivened by a clump of trees. Goats roamed freely about, sometimes raising their heads to watch the train going by.

The transition from the Suburbs to the Countryside was apparent not only outside the train but also inside. The presence of Suburbanites reading newspapers or staring blankly through the carriage window was steadily replaced by a broader mix, representing the people who live in the Country. The composition of passengers changed as the train stopped, paused and then moved on again from rustic Country station platforms. At one station, several rats in precisely made and appropriately tiny clothes clambered into a nearby compartment by steps provided for the smaller railway customer.

At each station, a loudspeaker trailed off a list of destinations and, just as the train was beginning to leave, recommenced the list from the beginning. By this means I was aware that the train was approaching the station where I would change trains for Gotesdene. The train shook, shuddered and clanked as it steadied to a halt. I reluctantly sacrificed the warmth of my seat and disembarked onto the busy platform.

Barley Junction was quite a different station from the one I had left in the Suburbs. Goats jostled freely about the platform place, some entering the train I’d just left and some trotting out of it. One goat with a station porter’s cap and an official uniform was bleating more loudly and insistently than the others, and I soon became aware that it was he who was broadcasting the platform announcements. It took a few moments to adapt my ear to his rustic bleat, but presently I managed to couple the name Gotesdene with an appropriate platform number and with this information I headed over the station bridge, sidestepping the family of rats I had seen before, and descended to where a Steam Train was waiting.

Being completely unfamiliar with the customs of the area - so different from the Suburbs - I looked for an indicator board that might confirm to me that this train, emitting large clouds of black smoke from its funnel, was the one I wanted, but there was no digital display unit to be found anywhere. There was only a wooden sign protruding from a post, with a list of names including that of Gotesdene. So this was it! I searched for an empty compartment, opened the door and sat on a hard upholstered seat by the window and watched the bustle of activity outside.

There were the bleats of goats to one other: some advertising tea and newspapers. Above all this, was the more resonant voice of the station master listing where the train was due to stop. To lessen the platform din, and avoid the unpleasant smell of smoking coal, I pulled up the carriage window, which promptly cocooned me from the world outside. I was alone in the company of two facing rows of upholstery, two opposing mirrors and advertisements for dental chewing gum, rat-killer, the Green Party and the Times.

I was not alone for long. The carriage door opened and in poked the head of a young woman about my age. “Is this compartment free?” she asked.

“Why certainly,” I said in a slightly panicked voice. This was not merely because her presence had perturbed my composure, but also by her physical appearance. Partly this was due to the strangeness of her long straight green hair, which cascaded down beyond her shoulders and to her waist. Mostly however this was due to the fact that she wore no clothes whatsoever. This was not a sight often seen in the Suburbs. Her pale but warm and friendly face was illuminated by sparkling bright green eyes.

“Then you won’t mind us joining you,” she continued, climbing into the compartment. Her bare feet walked obliviously over the varnished floorboards and she sat on the seat immediately opposite me. I was uncomfortably conscious of her bare apple-round breasts and the green bush of hair between her crossed thighs. She was followed by a boy of about fifteen also with green hair, but in his case styled into a neat short back and sides, and wearing an outfit that would not look out of place in the Suburbs. Indeed only the colour of his hair might ever attract any comment. His face was also pale, but the eyes failed to illuminate it at all. He sat next to the girl and I felt sure I could see a family resemblance.

“My name’s Beta and this is my brother,” continued the girl with an unselfconscious openness very rare in the Suburbs. “We’re off to the City of Lambdeth. Do you know it?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“I’ve never been there myself, but Bacon has. He’s going to college there and I’m escorting him.”

“Not that I need escorting!” the boy sniffed unenthusiastically. ”I’m just pleased to get away from the Country. It’s about time I moved into the Modern Age. I’m had enough of the ignorance and backwardness of the Village.”

“Oh, Bacon!” Beta responded. “You don’t have to be so harsh on the Village. It’s where we’ve lived all our lives.”

“Progress has just passed us by,” Bacon continued. “The years go by and the Village and the Country just remain the same.” He looked at me with a sardonic smile. “You just wouldn’t believe how primitive the Village is. If you went there you’d think you’d been through a time warp.”

“It’s the way it is because its way of life has been so successful over the years,” defended Beta. “Why change a place where people are quite happy with things as they are?” She leaned forward towards me, her hair falling off her shoulders and breasts to drop in curtains of green in front of her. “What do you think?”

As I had no wish to offend either the attractive naked girl or her brother I decided to be diplomatic. “I don’t know your village, so I really can’t comment.”

“It’s so beautiful and natural! A sweet little brook babbles alongside a wood and open fields, and goats and other animals wander freely in the lanes. Everyone is friendly and helpful - and, excepting my brother, nobody feels the need to wear clothes...”

“So? How primitive can you get!” Bacon snorted. ”If dressing like savages was so wonderful, how come it’s not more universal? People in the Suburbs wear clothes. And so do people in Lambdeth. Babbling brooks and goats aren’t everything! You didn’t mention, Beta, that the roads are unmetalled; the electricity is unreliable and intermittent; the water still comes from a well; there are no street-lamps and the only transport we’ve got is oxen-, goat- or mule-driven. It’s only a paradise if you think deprivation’s a good thing.”

“But you don’t need all those things if everything else is fine...”

“How can it be? The Village is barely self-sufficient at the moment. It produces very little surplus product and not many people from elsewhere are enthusiastic about buying our organic vegetables and dairy products. It won’t be long until the Village will have to diversify its production or everyone will starve.”

“Who says the Village will starve! Everyone has enough to eat now. Nobody’s unhappy.”

“It’ll happen! Nowhere can last forever contented on just enough surplus to afford a single television for the whole Village and hardly any of the other luxuries that people in, for instance, the Suburbs take for granted. One bad harvest and the Village will collapse!”

“There have been people saying that for centuries and it’s never happened!” Beta indignantly retorted. “All that’s happened is that more people like you predict it to try and get people to change their ways. And it is self-fulfilling prophecy when people like you leave and it becomes more difficult for the Village to get by.”

“And what’s wrong with me for wanting to do that? If there’s a better world beyond, why not go for it!”

At that moment, the train discharged sounds of scraping, puffing and snorting, and then accompanied by a chorus of cries, particularly from the station announcer, the Steam Train slowly puffed out of the station. Bacon and Beta dropped their conversation to watch Barley Junction recede behind and green fields open up ahead.

As the train settled into its rhythm of railway-track breaks and occasional hoots, I continued the halted conversation: “There are certainly a lot of goats around here! Far more than you’d ever meet in the Suburbs!”

“That just demonstrates how much more Progressive the Suburbs are!” agreed Bacon. “You’re right. There are far too many goats in the Countryside. There really should be fewer of them.”

“Now you’re being unfair to goats!” complained Beta with a frown.

“They smell. They eat anything and everything. Left to their own resources they’d just eat the entire Countryside and we’d be left with nothing but desert”

“But they still have rights just like everyone else. You can’t dismiss them just like that.”

“Yes, you can! The issue is quite straightforward. There are too many goats! What you’ve got to do is reduce the number. And if it involves deportation or birth control then so be it.”

“Or anything else, I suppose?” wondered Beta sadly.

“Exactly so!” Bacon said adamantly. “Goats are a menace, and they’ve got to be eliminated by one means or another!”

I could see that I hadn’t chosen as safe a topic for conversation as I’d thought, but I listened as the two siblings discussed what Bacon termed the Goat Problem. Some of his solutions were quite drastic and not too dissimilar to some I’d occasionally heard in the Suburbs when considering eliminating vermin. “It’s entirely a question of Progress!” Bacon insisted. “There should never be obstacles set in its way. We’re all better off in the end - Goats too! - if less attention were paid to the finer feelings of the outmoded and obsolete...”

“For no fault of their own!” Beta interrupted.

“It doesn’t matter! If there is any purpose to life at all, it must be the pursuit of Progress and Truth!”

I was just about to rejoin the conversation to announce my own interest in the Truth, when the engine released a series of hoots as it noisily came to a halt at another station. This one was extremely small, consisting of a platform, a derelict ticket office and a waiting room. A border of flowers and vegetables brightened the platform and beyond there was nothing but an uninterrupted series of open fields with a few scattered windmills in the distance.

“We’ll be here for ages!” complained Bacon. “The train always is.”

Beta stood up and pulled down the window. Instantly, the Country air rushed in, carrying the smell of hay and the buzz of little insects. “I don’t see why that should be!” she commented as she leaned her shoulders on the top of the pulled-down window, her head and mass of hair outside and her bare bottom sticking out in front of my nose. The sun sparkled on her cheeks and lit up her hair, revealing long thin strands that floated about.

“Last time I was here I had to wait while they were shooing some animals off the tracks. I’m sure they were goats! You wouldn’t get such gross inefficiency in Baldam I’m sure!”

Beta ignored her brother. “It’s such a nice place here!” she remarked cheerfully. “There’s a whitewashed wooden church over there. And a little château. And some donkeys trotting by on their way to the fields.” She leaned out even further, her arms straightened, her buttocks tautened and her face soaking in the warm morning Sun. “And there’s a large mouse there!”

“A mouse! Are you sure? Not a rat or something like that?” sniffed Bacon.

“I’ve known enough rats and mice to know the difference!” Beta retorted. “And I do believe this mouse is Tudor!”

“Tudor!” snorted her brother, leaning over to peer through the window himself. “Why should he be catching a train I wonder?”

Beta didn’t answer, but instead waved her arms and shouted. ”Tudor! Over here! Tudor!”

I peered through the window to see what this mouse might be like, but I didn’t expect to see one standing upright nearly five foot tall, wearing a smart blue jerkin, red codpiece and stockings with a ruff round his neck just below the muzzle. He was bareheaded with whiskers proudly displayed, bright eyes prominent in grey-brown fur and large flat ears twitching with a life of their own. He waved a gloved paw at Beta and strode towards us in red boots while his other paw supported a sheathed sword secured to his waist.

“Beta!” he cried. “‘Tis thou! How dost? Art alone?”

“No, I’m with Bacon. We’re off to Baldam. Come and share the carriage with us!” Beta pulled her head in through the window to enable Tudor to open the compartment door.

“Verily shalt I!” Tudor said resolutely, as he pulled himself in. “‘Tis most happy and meet that I should so encounter ye!” He nodded at Bacon and me, and removed his belt and sword which he placed on the luggage rack above my head. He then sat next to me, facing Bacon, his long scaly tail winding around behind him and falling discreetly onto the compartment floor. He crossed his short legs, his boots reaching nearly up to his knee.

“Good morrow, sire,” he addressed me. “Art thou also bound for Baldam?”

“No,” answered Bacon on my behalf. “He’s not one of our party at all.”

“I come from the Suburbs,” I explained.

“The Suburbs!” mused the mouse flicking his tail slightly. “‘Tis a borough to which I have never been. Art many such as I there?”

“No, not at all,” I answered honestly. “I’ve never seen anyone like you in the Suburbs.”

“‘Tis pity,” he sighed. “Thou know’st me not. I am hight Tudor as Beta hath told thee and I abide in mine estate many a league yonder.” He looked up at Beta and Bacon. “‘Tis rare I should venture so far afield, but I have affairs to attend in Rattesthwaite. Dost thou know’t?”

“It’s further down the line,” remarked the boy.

“‘Tis so,” Tudor acknowledged. The train shunted forward and back unbalancing the mouse and forcing him to grip my arm with his sharp claws to avoid falling to the floor. The train hooted and a cloud of sooty dust floated past the window. It then puffed off. The mouse clung painfully to my arm as the platform receded. While the train was moving, I observed a large hoarding featuring two hands held together. Better Together! it read ambiguously. I bent my head around to watch it go by and caught a glimpse of green writing at the foot of the poster, featuring a person’s name and a green cross in a box.

“It’s not long till the General Election, is it?” commented Beta noting the poster.

“General Election?” I wondered. “Is there one due soon?”

“Where have you been?” sneered Bacon. “Of course there is! Perhaps the most important one this country’s ever known!”

“I just didn’t know about it,” I admitted. It can’t have seemed so important in the apolitical Suburbs. “Which parties are contesting it?”

“Oh! The usual six,” commented Beta putting up one hand of outspread fingers and a thumb. She then withdrew all but her index finger. “There’s the Red Party. They’re the left wing party.”

“Bloody communists!” snorted Bacon. “They’ll have us all living like peasants.”

Tudor snorted equally disdainfully. “‘Sblood! ‘Twill be but the rule of the mobus populis. ‘Twould be a disaster unpareil an ’twere they to govern.”

Beta raised a second finger. “Then there’s the Blue Party. They’re the right wing party. That’s the one Bacon supports, I think.”

“Dashed right I will!”

“Then there’s the Green Party. They’re the ones I quite like. They’re the party of the Countryside, tradition and environment.” Beta now had three fingers standing, and then before her brother could comment on her choice, she hurried on by raising a fourth finger. “Then the Black Party. I think Bacon’s got some sympathy for them, but even he doesn’t like the militaristic aspect of the party or their dislike for foreigners.” She raised her thumb. ”The Illicit Party, which is quite a new one, and I’m not sure what they’re about. And finally,” she raised the thumb of her other hand, “there’s the White Party and I don’t know what they represent at all either.”

“I don’t think even they do!” scoffed Bacon. He smiled at me. ”Perhaps you do. I read somewhere that they always do well in the Suburbs.”

“Yes they do,” I agreed, but I couldn’t answer what they represented. They always appeared to win local elections by fighting for such local issues as clearer markings on public highways, more books in the public library and more flower shows. Their candidates always frightfully nice and when they spoke it was hard to identify any policy they advocated that one could actively oppose. “But what’s so very important about this General Election?”

“I thought this kind of gross ignorance was confined to the Country,” said Bacon disparagingly. “It’s to break up the Coition Government that’s been running this country - badly! - for as long as anyone can remember. They’ve changed the constitution such that whichever party wins will become the sole government and not have to work with all the other parties.”

“How are they doing that?” I wondered.

“It’s terribly complicated,” Beta continued. “Something to do with how the votes will be transferred. But as a result they hope that it will resolve the mess the government’s got into - you know, with never being able to make a decision without it being vetoed by some minority interest in the Coition.”

“What sort of mess is the government in?”

“Perhaps it just doesn’t affect people in the Suburbs,” Bacon commented, “but everywhere else things have just drifted aimlessly for years. There’s virtually no central government at all. Everything is decided at a local level and in the meantime there’s a ridiculous budget deficit, foreign policy is totally ineffectual, the taxation system is creaking at the seams and not one part of the country fits well with any other part. In one part of the country the roads are metalled and well-signposted, but as soon as your car enters another borough, the dual carriageway abruptly becomes a pot-holed dirt-track. In some districts the cars even drive on different sides of the road. The gauge on the railways are all different, so that you can’t travel any distance by train without having to change. And the cost of things just varies ridiculously from one place to another.”

“I’sooth!” agreed Tudor. “‘Tis great need for consistency in the nation. ‘Tis all chaos and confusion.”

“Who do you think will form the next government?” I asked.

“Nobody knows!” exclaimed Beta. “Past results are just no guide apparently. I’d like it to be the Green Party, but there’s probably not enough support for them in the City or the Suburbs.”

“I pledge my support for the Blue Party,” Tudor said, twitching his whiskers agitatedly. “But in truth there is but little in them that I love. I have sympathies for the Black Party, but they too are unlikely to triumph. ‘Twill not be an ideal result for me, I fear.”

“I’ve also got sympathies with the Blacks,” Bacon confessed, “but they aren’t sufficiently committed to Progress or the Modern World. However, they are more honest than the Blue Party and if they were in power they’d definitely get things moving! I too would like to see a final solution to the Cat problem, end all these damaging industrial disputes and make the nation strong again. Nevertheless, informed opinion says that it will be a fight between the Red, Blue and White Parties and I know which of those I prefer!”

The train came to another halt at a platform equally as remote as the one before. In the commotion of arrival, conversation came to a halt and Beta once again took the opportunity to pull down the window and stick her head and shoulders out through it. I also peered out and saw a Cat about the same size as Tudor sitting on his rear on a platform bench beside another poster for the Green Party. Like Tudor, he was fully clothed with only his head and front paws showing. He was reading a newspaper and wore looser clothes than Tudor, but nonetheless quite colourful ones. They were a blend of black, gold, green and blue, with trousers that reached to his knees below which he wore white stockings and buckled shoes. His jerkin was decorated by a flamboyant lace frill around the neck, and like Tudor he carried a sword attached to a belt round his waist. Beside him and lying on the bench was a large broad-brimmed hat with a magnificent feather sprouting from it. He didn’t appear at all interested in our train and must have been waiting for another one.

“That’s another sight you don’t often see in the Suburbs,” I commented absently. “Cats like that are just not common at all.”

“If only ‘twere the same everywhere!” sighed Tudor. “Wouldst ‘twere fewer Cats altogether. Sooth, I am content he hath no wish to embark.”

The train didn’t stop for very long, and soon chuffed off leaving the feline beneath the station clock. “I detest Cats!” hissed Tudor. “Throughout history they have been a great enemy to mine people. It matters not which continent nor island Mice have settled, Cats have ever pursued us mercilessly and caused great grief. I trow ‘tis but for jest they do molest us. They kill us for their sport as we might kill flies. And still now they pursue us: disinheriting and enslaving us.” He looked at me, his whiskers twitching agitatedly and his tail flicking up and down with a ponderous rhythm. “Ere now, in the historic land of Mice, we art under the occupation of the illegitimate Kingdom of Cats. A Kingdom recognised by many nations but intent only on the supremacy of the Feline scourge. In mine historic home there be Cats where once Mice stood tall. ‘Tis said ’tis but fair recompense for many centuries of Feline persecution, but ‘tis verily unjust that now ‘tis Mice who art scattered like pollen on the wind throughout the world. ‘Tis now my kind who art the servile class in many a land, bereft of an ancestral home or spiritual centre.”

“Have you personally been dispossessed?” I wondered.

“Ay, spiritually!” sighed Tudor. “In my heart and soul I too have been dispossessed, but - thanks be to the Lord! - not in mine means. Mice have been in this land for many centuries. Mice who have struggled hard against injustice and prejudice. And to them I owest my wealth and repute.” He rested a paw on his sword which I was afraid he might choose to unsheathe. “‘Tis the Cats I hate. ‘Tis they who have raped Mice of their land and forced subservience to their pagan ways. ‘Twere best that Cats wert dealt with as they deserve. E’en here - far from the timeless struggle ‘twixt Mouse and Cat - there be cause to hate Cats who bring misery and grief by their ruthless exploitation of the wealth and riches of this land. ‘Tis they more than any other who have brought this land to such a sorry state - and any support I hath for the Black Party ist in recognition of their fine words in this crusade.”

It wasn’t long until the train came to another stop where the name of Rattesthwaite was clearly visible on the station platform. Tudor preened his whiskers with the claws of an ungloved paw. When the train finally ceased to shudder, he eased himself off the seat allowing his long tail to unravel behind him and fastened his belt and sword to his waist. Then he bade us all farewell as he got off the train.

“It probably wasn’t such a good idea to mention Cats with Tudor here!” Beta said as the Mouse hastened towards the ticket barrier brandishing a cardboard ticket where a goat was collecting them. “It’s a subject that’s bound to get him steamed up!”

“But essentially Tudor’s right!” butted in Bacon. “Cats have caused considerable misery to Mice. It’s a historic and unending conflict. And the Black Party is also right. The world would be a better place without Cats!”

“I just don’t think that’s true at all,” Beta argued. “How can anyone believe that Cats as individuals deserve to be treated any differently from anyone else?”

“But they are different and they’d be the first to say so! They are an alien species who work only for their own individual benefit or the benefit of their kind in collusion with international capitalism to appropriate the wealth of the land and claim it as their own. I mean, have you ever come across a poor Cat?”

“Well, no! But it doesn’t follow that all Cats are bad and I’m sure there are plenty that aren’t particularly well-off.”

“Essentially Cats despise everyone else. They ingratiate themselves on people with their purring and apparent affectionateness, but all they’re concerned about is their own interests. And what they do is siphon the wealth of nations from where the Feline Diaspora has taken them and send it back to the Cat Kingdom.”

“Even if that were true,” argued Beta passionately, “it doesn’t mean that Cats have to be locked in concentration camps, robbed of their wealth or methodically slaughtered as the Black Party proposes.”

“That’s only the view of a minority in the Black Party,” disagreed Bacon. ”The main source of misgiving is the Cat Kingdom itself. Ever since it was formed by the international community in the so-called historic homeland of the Cats - which so inconveniently overlaps the ancestral homeland of both Mice and Dogs - it’s been nothing but a blight on this planet. Always having wars, always taking territory from other species in its own interest and creaming off the wealth of countries such as ours.”

“What’s true of the Cat Kingdom needn’t be true for Cats as individuals!” Beta contested.

Bacon ignored her. “It’s essentially to do with the Feline notion of Divine Right. Cats believe that they have a Divine Right to occupy their territories just as their King seems to believe he has to rule that territory. There’s no democracy for the Cats - not like in our country, however inefficient. What the King commands is what the Cats obey. Whatever nonsense he comes out with.” Bacon leaned forward towards me. “You wouldn’t believe the stupid decrees the King of the Cats issues on occasion. In a Kingdom where the population is absurdly out of control, there is no contraception or abortion. In a Kingdom where meat is in short supply for a carnivorous species there are ridiculous rules about what can and cannot be eaten. Rats, for instance, are classified as unclean and therefore not to be eaten in a Kingdom totally infested by them. All sorts of things are forbidden to the Cat. They have to stay at home one day a week and are forbidden to do anything but sleep. How can the Cats deserve to be part of the Modern World if they follow such idiotic decrees?”

“I agree that some of the ways in the Kingdom of Cats are a bit odd,” Beta retorted. “I’ve heard of how female Cats have to wear dresses which cover all their legs and ankles and have to attend different schools to Tom Cats. But what’s true of Cats in their Kingdom isn’t true of Cats everywhere.”

“Yes it is, Beta. It’s what distinguishes Cats from other species. It’s their religious and cultural views which say that they are different from everyone else. You might respect the Cats’ rights and freedoms, but I don’t think they’d respect yours or anyone else’s. If they are so wonderful, why is it that they’re constantly at war with their neighbours.”

“You mean the various Canine Republics? I don’t really know a lot about them, but they don’t appear to be blameless themselves!”

“They may not be blameless, but the Canine Republics have every reason to be aggrieved about the Cat Kingdom and the appalling way in which Dogs are treated there. Cats show no respect for the puritanical and literary traditions of Dogs in the land they’ve acquired. They even deny Dogs the right to read books written in anything but the Feline language. They don’t even allow dogs to bark in their own tongue. And do you think the Dogs relish the way that soldiers from the Kingdom intrude into their sovereign territories for what they call security reasons.”

“Whatever you say about the Cat Kingdom,” Beta asserted, “does not change my view at all that Cats are individuals who shouldn’t be discriminated against on the basis of some characteristic that their species might have.”

Bacon was just about to counter Beta’s view, but decided instead to change the subject. “Anyway, I’m sure our travelling companion must be getting tired of all this talk about Cats.”

“No, not at all!” I said politely.

“So, why are you going to Gotesdene? It’s quite an odd place for someone from the Suburbs to be going to, isn’t it?” Beta asked, leaning forward towards me so that her curtains of green hair cascaded onto her bare legs. “Do you know anyone there?”

“No, I don’t!” I admitted. “In fact I don’t know anything about it at all. I’m actually going there to search for the Truth.”

Bacon laughed out loud. “The Truth! You expect to find the Truth in a primitive backwater like Gotesdene?”

“Well, I have to start somewhere,” I feebly defended myself. “I was convinced that I wouldn’t find the Truth in the Suburbs so I thought I might find it in a place absolutely different.”

“Quite so!” agreed Beta. “And why not Gotesdene, indeed.” She tossed a lock of hair back off her face revealing her bare bosom. “A search for the Truth is an excellent idea! Think what a better place the world would be if only we had possession of the Truth. There’d be no wars. Everyone would be at peace because no one would be able to claim to be right and someone else wrong, when everyone knew who was right or not. With the Truth everyone everywhere would be rich - or as rich as they could be. Everyone would know all that they would need to know to be as wealthy as they desired. And with the Truth, there would be no more disease, no more pollution, no more injustice and everyone would be happy! It wouldn’t be possible to argue like my brother and I do about issues like Cats because everyone would know the answer. And so would the Cats themselves. And there wouldn’t be a need for General Elections because government wouldn’t be determined by the whims of the people but rather according to the dictates of the Truth!”

“I don’t see how the Truth would necessarily achieve all that!” sniffed Bacon. “And even if we had the Truth, would everyone necessarily agree on how to use it? And would it really be used for the best?”

“I’m sure it would!” Beta continued enthusing. “With the Truth, there’d be no cause for argument because everyone would agree about everything and I’m sure everyone would work towards the best for everyone else. Why should anyone ever do differently?” 

“I’m just not so sure,” Bacon countered. “I don’t believe people’s nature works like that. Knowledge of the Truth could easily be used for quite different purposes to those you imagine. It could well be that peace and prosperity are not determined by knowledge of the Truth anyway. Why should the Truth be concerned with the greater good of anyone?”

“It wouldn’t be the Truth if it wasn’t!” Beta replied idealistically.

“That’s making an assumption about the Truth that simply cannot be made before knowing what it is. And anyhow, I don’t believe the Truth is a thing that you just find like a crock of gold or a holy grail. It must be an abstract entity beyond material dimensions, and you can’t just expect to find it lying around. Do you expect to find it hidden underneath someone’s bed? Or stored in a casket? Or buried in the ground? That makes nonsense of the whole concept of the Truth. No. The Truth is what will be found eventually as a result of scientific research - which is what I shall be pursuing in Lambdeth - and I am more likely to discover it in a test-tube than you will hanging around in archaic villages like Gotesdene. I don’t believe it will be found in my lifetime; and probably not for many generations yet. But eventually it will be found as a result of empirical and scientific research coupled with the genius of individual scientists.”

“You think that Science and Progress provide all the answers,” Beta riposted. “I just can’t believe that something like the Truth could possibly be found by something as dry and abstract as a mathematical equation or the formal proof of a theorem. If I could, I would join our companion here and search for the Truth with him. I don’t know where it is any more than he does, but I doubt that the pursuit of Science and Progress is at all the same thing as the search for the Truth.”

I was about to thank Beta for her support in my quest, when the train made another of its periodic hoots and drew noisily into another station. I took my eyes off Beta and focused on the platform where the platform name of GOTESDENE was displayed. 

“This is it!” I announced.

“So this is where we part,” smiled Beta. “What a funny little place!”

She was right. The station at Gotesdene was nothing more than a raised wooden platform and a platform name painted quite crudely on an old wooden board. On the platform were several goats and rats, and around the station were open fields dotted by the occasional copse and windmill.

I proffered my farewells to Beta and Bacon, and clambered down onto the platform. I waved to Beta as the train shunted off as she leaned out the window, waving at me, her long hair lifted up by the rush of wind. The train puffed away into the distance, the funnel trailing black and white clouds as it departed.

I suddenly felt alone. I was at a place I’d never heard of before, quite clearly dissimilar in almost every way from the Suburbs. Instead of neat and tidy borders and hedges, pavements and roads, lampposts and television aerials, I was confronted by a neighbourhood of nothing but fields stretching away in all directions, bisected by the railway line from one horizon to another. Perpendicular to that and proceeding only towards one horizon was a long and winding brick road, barely wide enough for a small car to drive along. The platform was populated mostly by goats who were simply sitting about and not waiting for anything. Most of them had barely stirred when the train had arrived and paid no attention to its departure. A few watched me lethargically while chewing at hay or thistles, their tails occasionally flicking aside insects.

I jumped off the platform - there were no steps provided - and strolled to the brick road that didn’t quite reach the station and terminated in a patch of dusty worn ground. Just by the road was a signpost which pointed along the length of the brick road to only one destination. As this read Gotes Dene, I decided to follow this dusty brick road to start my quest for the ultimate enigma.