“Why not?” said the pilot. “Is there any here?”—and jerked his head, this time towards the road. Its long white ribbon was spotted with groups and single figures of vagrants—scarecrow vagrants—crawling onward they knew not whither.
“See that,” he said, “see that—does anyone govern it? Make rules for it, defend it, keep it alive?... And that’s everywhere.”
Someone whispered back “Everywhere” under his breath; the rest stared in silence at the spotted white ribbon of road.
“You can’t mean...?” said Theodore again.
The airman shrugged his shoulders and laughed roughly.
“I believe,” he said, “there are still some wretched people who call themselves a government, try to be a government—at least, there were the other day.... Sometimes I wonder how they try, what they say to each other—poor devils! How they look when the heads of what used to be departments bring them in the day’s report? Can’t you imagine their silly, ghastly faces?... Even if they’re still in existence, what in God’s name can they do—except let us go on killing each other in the hope that something may turn up. If they give orders, sign papers, make laws, does anyone listen, pay any attention? Does it make any difference to that?” Again he jerked his head towards the road, and in the word as in the gesture was loathing, fear and contempt. “And in other parts of what used to be the civilized world—where this sort of hell has been going on longer—what do you suppose is happening?”
No one answered; he laughed again roughly, as if he were contemptuous of their hopes, and a man beside Theodore—a corporal—swung round on him, white-faced and snarling.
“Damn you!... I’ve got a girl.... I’ve got a girl!...”
He choked, moved away and stood rigid, staring at the road.
Theodore heard himself asking, “If there isn’t any government—what is there?”