Children of the Dust by Louise Lawrence Page A

smells of warmth and dampness and green things growing. She missed the blue of the sky and the grey-black deserts seen on the telescreens. Her concrete world seemed shrunken in size.
    Now her only visual stimuli were the pale green walls of the bunker, the geometrical perspectives of rooms and corridors, human faces and the schoolroom computer screens. Something of freedom had been taken away and she experienced a feeling of loss. But it never occurred to her to question it. She had been brought up to respect the routine and the discipline, the restrictions imposed on her life. For the good of all people she was prepared to accept a personal loss, but there were other young people who were not so willing.
    They met in the storage depot, most of Bill Harnden's senior pupils who usually played in the baseball match. White paint on the concrete floor marked out their pitch, but that evening was different. Younger children played in the defunct refrigeration units, or clambered about the broken army vehicles parked at the far end. But the older ones huddled together, seated on pre-war packing cases in a dimly lit corner of the huge cavernous room. Rusting paint tins were piled against a nearby wall and their voices echoed, angry and indignant.
    'MacAllister's got no right!' Dwight said bitterly.
    'You mean we've got no rights,' said Bernard Sowerby.
    'Nobody has,' said his sister. 'Nobody has any real say in how this bunker is run.'
    'I even heard Pop say he was sick of following orders,' Wayne Allison said.
    'But he still goes on doing it!' Dwight said angrily.
    'He's got no choice,' said Gaynor.
    'Nor's MacAllister,' said Spotty Harris. 'He gets his orders from Central Government.'
    'It's not Central Government who've banned us from going into the communications room!' Dwight said furiously. 'It's that pig MacAllister! The man's a military dictator! He wasn't voted into office so what right does he have to rule us?'
    'What does it matter who rules us?' Ophelia remarked. Dwight rounded on her.
    'If it doesn't,' he said, 'then it damned well ought to! Your father's spent the last five years trying to tell us! It's the right, and duty, and responsibility, of every individual to question everyone and anyone who assumes authority over us! If those millions of people had gotten off their backsides and questioned what they all knew was going on maybe they wouldn't be dead, and we wouldn't be stuck in this crummy bunker! No one should have power over other people. We've seen what governments and men like MacAllister can do! They not only destroy people's lives but the whole damned world! And if you don't know that, Ophelia, you must be stupid!'
    Ophelia stared at him. She had known Dwight Allison all her life and he had never once spoken to her like that. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes as she turned and walked away. Silence followed her across the cold concrete spaces. She heard an army truck back from its sortie come rumbling along the main tunnel. Young children giggled in the refrigeration unit, and the intercom crackled ordering Police Chief James to report to Administration. Ophelia pushed open the closed double-doors and entered the corridor.
Footsteps came running behind. There were strip lights missing from the ceiling making areas of gloom and she thought it was Dwight. But it was Wayne, his brother, who fell into step.
    'Dwight didn't mean it,' he said.
    'So why did he say it?' Ophelia asked.
    'Mom says it's the age he's at.'
    'You're only one year younger than he is! And you didn't call me stupid!'
    'He's lousy to everyone,' said Wayne.
    Men from the army truck came whistling along the corridor. They wore white suits with clear plastic visors that made them eyeless in the light. They talked of finding petrol at Milford Haven, thousands of gallons in an untapped storage tank, enough to send the helicopter out on an aerial survey, airborne again after seven years.
    'Did you hear what they said?' Wayne asked