The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays

by Nigel Kneale

  CRAWSHAW: Domestic—

  BROCK: Domestic. The first to sort its own wash and program itself. The first to sniff out items with nonfast dye and reject ’em. Etcetera, etcetera.

  CRAWSHAW (red hands raised): It’ll do all that!

  BROCK: When it works.

  CRAWSHAW: It will!

  BROCK: When it does . . . that triumph of over-sophistication will cost nine hundred nicker per machine! Just to make!

  CRAWSHAW: That’s a lie!

  BROCK: I’ve seen the costings.

  CRAWSHAW: Where? Who showed them to you?

  BROCK: Guess. (Brogue) Ah, we’ll not beat ould Nippon with the like of this, at all, at all!

  CRAWSHAW (choking): He wouldn’t say that.

  BROCK: He did. He saw the point. This place is for fundamental research, not for patching duds.

  CRAWSHAW: He—he wouldn’t have sent me down here—

  BROCK: For me to tell you. Yes, he would. He’s got a kind heart. I haven’t. Right—chat over.

  He goes to the door.

  CRAWSHAW: No, listen to me—

  BROCK: No more time.

  CRAWSHAW: Please—

  He follows Brock out.

  THE ENTRANCE HALL

  Crawshaw follows Brock down the stairs.

  CRAWSHAW: You can’t possibly use all this—

  BROCK: I can. I need every inch.

  CRAWSHAW: It’s like Buckingham Palace—

  BROCK: For a top-class research team. You see, I’ll delegate everything to them. They’ll carry out all tests. That’s the right way. (He glances down the passage. The door of the storage room is shut and Eddie is on guard outside it, ostensibly unpacking something) Now, you’ll excuse me if I don’t show you to your car. Sergeant, will you please—

  As if under escort, the glowering Crawshaw makes for the front door with the sergeant. Brock turns to the lab. Eddie joins him.

  THE LABORATORY

  An expectant group is already gathered round the computer, where Jill is completing her first model of the new program.

  JILL: The nature of observed reality. That’s what this program takes in.

  MAUDSLEY: Old philosophy stuff.

  JILL: It might apply to her.

  BROCK: How does that rhyme go . . . ?

  “There once was a man who said, God

  Must think it exceedingly odd

  That the sycamore tree

  Continues to be

  When there’s no one about in the Quad.”

  EDDIE: Does she walk when there’s nobody there?

  BROCK: That’s it.

  EDDIE: Makes a hell of a difference to the number of times. All those years when the house was empty.

  Jill flips the switch of the line printer. It spills out its high-speed report.

  STEW: Version with added Stewart.

  Brock and Jill study it. Almost immediately something strikes him. He points it out to her, then relates it to a second item.

  JILL: Oh no—! (Brock rips the roll off to study it on his own)—I didn’t spot that. I should have done. I just didn’t spot the connection.

  EDDIE: Let’s have it.

  BROCK (excitedly): If this means anything—

  JILL: Let’s start again.

  BROCK: Why?

  JILL: It’s wrong.

  BROCK: Why?

  JILL: It must be.

  BROCK: No. I like this. It’s got the makings. It has. (To Jill) It’s what you really wanted. You shaped it this way.

  JILL: I didn’t—

  BROCK: You couldn’t help it, love. The old intuition—right on the button.

  EDDIE: For pity’s sake—

  BROCK: Beautifully simple.

  JILL: I’ll run it again.

  EDDIE: Peter!

  BROCK: It’s the room.

  EDDIE: What?

  BROCK: Just the room itself, nothing else. Yes, this is better, it has to be right.

  EDDIE: Peter, d’you mind telling—

  BROCK: There is no . . . ghost.

  A small burst of surprise, even indignation.

  THE OTHERS: But it’s there! I heard it! I saw it! What’s he mean?

  BROCK: Try this for size. It holds an image—and when people go in there they pick it up. What you hear or what you see is inside your own brain!

  EDDIE (frowning): Oh no—

  BROCK: That’d be why the sounds don’t echo and we can’t locate them. That’d be why they don’t record. No machine hears them.

  DOW: I got them in my headphones.

  BROCK: You got them in your head.

  EDDIE: What about the hot spots?

  BROCK: Forget them, Eddie.

  EDDIE: I mean, the whole temperature thing—

  BROCK: There isn’t any.

  EDDIE: Look, I know when I’m cold—

  BROCK: The body’s reaction—like allergy, and just as quick. Your whole physiology’s affected.

  HARGRAVE: By what?

  BROCK: By what’s in there.

  EDDIE: But I thought you said—

  BROCK: Don’t you get it yet? It must work like . . . a recording. Fixed in the floor and the walls, right in the substance of them. A trace . . . of what happened in there. And we pick it up. We act as detectors—decoders—amplifiers.

  EDDIE: A recording.

  BROCK: It’d have to be in the stone.

  EDDIE: I wonder.

  HARGRAVE: Some kind of natural process?

  DOW: But freaky.

  BROCK: Perhaps it only occurs under extreme conditions. Some kind of—extreme human output. Emotion. Terror. And that prints off.

  MAUDSLEY: Like—the shadows of people from the big bomb blasts.

  DOW: Yes.

  EDDIE: And we’re—sensitive to it.

  STEW: What about me?

  BROCK: You? You’ve got no playback, that’s all. Some transistors missing. You’re the exception to prove the rule, thank God. (His grin grows wider) I’m waiting for the new penny to drop. If I’m right—this could be it. The Big One!

  JILL (quietly): A new recording medium.

  BROCK: The boot in the guts for ould Nippon!

  JILL: If it’s true—

  BROCK: If it’s true, you found it!

  He kisses her. It sets off something like a goal-scoring reaction. Cowboy yippees. Cheers. Suddenly everybody is trying to kiss Jill . . .

  BROCK’S SUITE – OFFICE – DAY

  Hospitality glasses are clashed in a toast. Hospitality drinks are being downed. A lot of noise.

  Brock pushes a glass into the hands of the bemused Collinson, who has just joined them.

  BROCK: Colly—we’re wetting the head of an idea! It could be the Big One!

  COLLINSON: My God!

  Brock has had several drinks and they seem only to have increased his excitement. He grabs Jill.

  BROCK: I’m certain of it, love! The more I kick it around! Direct injection into the human brain of both sound and vision—no intervening apparatus!

  JILL: I read about some research—

  BROCK: The Japs, of course. But blind end—they got nowhere! It’s going to be ours! Television without the telly set! No box—not even a visor in front of your eyes—

  HARGRAVE: Just a sort of clip—

  BROCK: Costume jewellery—the 13-channel earring!

  Stew and Maudsley loom in, gibbering Jap-English through protruding paper teeth.

  STEW: Honourable Nippon have met great defeat!

  MAUDSLEY: Go now to cut honourable belly!

  STEW: Berry! (taking teeth out) He couldn’t say belly—

  DOW: But when it goes wrong the repairman’d have to operate on your head.

  BROCK: Don’t mention that—not in the sales brochure! Keep it positive. (He has his arm round Jill. He taps, an imaginary control on her temple) Coronation Street! (tap) Double Your Money! (tap) Come Dancing! (tap) War and Peace! (tap) Porn Channel One! (tap) Porn Channel Two!

  JILL: I’m going mad—

 
BROCK: That’s all right—(tap)—Channel 10, Home Doctor! (tap) Political Laugh-In! (tap) The Hard-Core Show! (tap) Urban Guerilla’s Do-It-Yourself—

  HARGRAVE: Hi, listen—

  BROCK: Come on, let’s have it!

  HARGRAVE: No, the phone—it’s ringing—

  It is, almost drowned by their noise. Brock makes his way to the desk and answers it.

  BROCK: Hello? Who? Yes, Brock speaking! . . . Helen—just a second. (Pressing a hold button, he turns to the others) Shut up a bit.

  He makes for the other room. They quieten. The door shuts.

  He picks up the extension phone.

  BROCK: Okay, put him on . . . Hello, Patrick . . . Fine, fine. I’ve been meaning to ring you. I told Crawshaw the facts of life this morning, as I gathered you wanted me to . . . Oh, has he? . . . Give him time, it’ll sink in. Yes . . . yes . . . it’s what you’ve always said, fundamental research or nothing. (A pause. He suddenly looks grey) But surely . . . we settled all that. Patrick . . . But look here—(He suddenly has no choice. He has to play the card) Patrick, the proof of it . . . listen, though . . . Please will you listen to me! I think we’ve got it! Well—the Big One! (Delighted exclamations at the other end. He grins, confidence coming back fast) Yes! Yes!

  THE STORAGE ROOM – LATER THAT DAY

  Brock and Collinson are peering at a patch of stonework in the lower part of the wall.

  COLLINSON: It’s called Kentish rag.

  BROCK: Kentish what?

  COLLINSON: Rag.

  BROCK: Joke time’s over.

  COLLINSON: All right, ragstone. It’s a kind of greensand.

  He picks up a crowbar and starts prising at it. The other members of the team sit watching with a kind of greed. All awe of the place has gone.

  BROCK: Is it rare?

  COLLINSON: Good grief, no. It’s been quarried since Roman times. Used all over the south of England. Most of medieval London was built of this stuff.

  BROCK: Better and better!

  COLLINSON: How?

  BROCK: It might explain a lot of—ghost stories.

  COLLINSON: See what you mean.

  BROCK: Colly, it all keeps clicking together!

  THE LABORATORY

  Jill is checking back the program with furious concentration.

  STEW: Found the snag yet?

  JILL: No.

  STEW: Think there is one?

  JILL: It’s beginning to look . . . as if he’s right.

  THE STORAGE ROOM

  Collinson’s crowbar dislodges a piece of stone. He shows it to Brock.

  COLLINSON: Crumbly stuff. That’s why they stopped using it in the end. This was well weathered.

  BROCK: Penetrated.

  COLLINSON: Deeply. Algae—moulds—bacterial action. They all come into it.

  BROCK: The protein medium, Eddie?

  EDDIE: Maybe.

  BROCK: We chased that for a long time too.

  He stiffens.

  The others notice it too but this time they wait with a new kind of expectation. Quite calmly. Eddie takes his own pulse.

  Then—the rapid pattering. A rasping screech.

  THE LABORATORY

  There is no sound here but the soft clatter of Stew’s teleprinter. But Jill breaks off, listening.

  THE STORAGE ROOM

  The sound dies away. They look at each other, detached observers.

  HARGRAVE: I saw it again. A fraction of a second.

  COLLINSON: I seemed to be getting words.

  BROCK: Words—

  HARGRAVE: Yes, I wondered too.

  COLLINSON: Couldn’t make them out.

  Brock is strangely, quietly exhilarated. He picks up the crowbar and taps it thoughtfully against the wall.

  BROCK: Vibration. (turning) Are you game to go on?

  EDDIE: Now? Yes.

  BROCK: As long as it takes. Jill? Stew? Shall we make a night of it?

  STEW’S VOICE (through speaker): Okay, Pete.

  JILL’S VOICE (through speaker): What do you want to do?

  BROCK: Get control.

  THE LABORATORY

  JILL (shaken): Not yet—how could we possibly—?

  BROCK’S VOICE (through speaker): The essence of experiment, Jilly. Put it to the proof!

  THE STORAGE ROOM – THAT NIGHT

  In a patch of light, the crowbar creaks and grates as Brock levers a piece of stone out—just as Collinson did.

  BROCK: Frequency?

  EDDIE’S VOICE: Seven forty.

  BROCK: Right, give me that. Ten secs.

  A droning sound hits the ear at the same frequency as the scraping of the crowbar. The metal horn of a sound projector is pointed at the spot by Maudsley. Eddie crouches over the amplifier controls.

  The sound cuts. They wait.

  BROCK: . . . And another ten.

  Again the drone. Jill and Stew are watching from the computer desk which has been set up nearby the doorway. The noise cuts. Another wait. Brock comes hurrying across.

  BROCK: Well?

  JILL: We haven’t enough data.

  BROCK: We’re getting data all the time, and building. Stew—

  Stew taps keys. The teleprinter re-runs. Brock studies its print, turns quickly to a display monitor nearby. This shows a three-dimensional drawing of the room itself. Brock makes an adjustment and the lines jump . . . and jump again . . . displaying a different perspective each time. Another adjustment—and a spray of radiating lines is superimposed to denote the current target area.

  BROCK: Back to the steps. Laser plus sound . . .

  The thin cherry-red beam of a laser flicks back and forth across the steps, scanning them. Simultaneously there is a strident intermittent buzz.

  BROCK: Cut them.

  The sound stops. White light floods the steps. They wait. Brock has a stopwatch in his hand. Nothing happens.

  BROCK: Right. Run number 17. Laser plus five second bursts.

  EDDIE: Peter, what’s the use?

  BROCK: We’re on the right track, just keep going.

  EDDIE: You’ve had a—a response!

  BROCK: No.

  EDDIE: We’ve heard it twice tonight.

  BROCK: Not because of anything we did. It didn’t relate. It’s got to relate, Eddie. (He looks round the wearying faces) Okay, break for ten minutes. We’ll get more coffee up. Just another hour, if we don’t get anything by then—Bear with me?

  HARGRAVE (glumly): You’re the captain.

  Brock walks out into the passage. Eddie glares after him. As Jill comes up he nods after Brock—is there anything she can do. She goes doubtfully to see.

  Ten minutes later the team are downing coffee and microwaved snacks. They are too tired to talk.

  Eddie glowers down the passage.

  THE ENTRANCE HALL – NIGHT

  Brock is standing on the stairs, leaning against the wall. Adrenalin and alcohol have left an odd, inspirational effect. Jill is fighting her own weariness, trying to sound persuasive.

  JILL: I think you’re right. It’s a vibration thing.

  BROCK: I know it is.

  JILL: But—Peter, it’ll take huge programs to analyse it.

  BROCK: Of course.

  JILL: I’d like to develop them.

  BROCK: Fine.

  JILL: Then why this—tonight?

  BROCK: I want to pull the trigger, just once. Or what the hell are we into—a tape that only plays back when it feels like it?

  The sheer irrationality of it shocks her.

  JILL: You just can’t say that—

  BROCK: I’ve got to know!

  JILL: Peter, I don’t think any of us is quite—we I’ve all been under strain—these days here—the more rational we’ve tried to be, the worse—

  BROCK: What are you driving at?

  JILL: We’re all past it.

  BROCK: Not me, love.

  JILL: Yes, you.

  BROCK: Don’t say that. Don’t do it. I’ve got a feeling about this. You get this exact grip on
a thing this clarity—only once ever—

  She is staring at him.

  JILL: What have you—promised Ryan?

  THE STORAGE ROOM – NIGHT

  An appalling screech bursts from the horn of the sound projector, pounding at the walls as it is swung round. The sound wobbles, changing frequency with the stridency of an air raid siren, but much faster. Then it cuts.

  Brock turns to the others.

  BROCK: Nobody?

  EDDIE: What’s the use?

  BROCK: Nerves jangled?

  EDDIE: What do you think?

  BROCK: That may be good.

  Next—a beam of bluish light swings rapidly across the area of the steps. Synchronised with it come sharp, separate blasts of sound—with something of the effect of a dentist’s drill.

  Brock watches. Like the others, he now wears protective goggles.

  BROCK: Hold the U.V. on the steps!

  At the teleprinter, Stew has suddenly had all he can take. He covers his ears. Jill moves to take over . . .

  Now it is flashing light, as rapid as a stroboscope, with sound to match.

  Brock signals. The sound cuts. The light is sane again. Eddie stares dazedly about. Hargrave has quietly started to cry.

  But Brock ignores them as he turns again to the computer. It chatters out its report.

  BROCK: Right. On the next run we’ll try—

  EDDIE: Stop it! You don’t know what you’re doing any more.

  BROCK: Following a logical line.

  EDDIE: It’s insane!

  BROCK: Quit, then.

  EDDIE: What?

  BROCK: Get off the project.

  EDDIE: Peter—

  BROCK: Get off the entire project! You can!

  EDDIE (choking): Don’t talk to me like, that, Peter, not to me

  The teleprinter chatters again, a line of delayed print-out. Brock turns to read it.

  BROCK: What the hell—?

  JILL (peering): That’s not—computer language.

  BROCK: It’s your code number. You fed it in.

  JILL: No—

  BROCK: You must have done.

  JILL: There are words. They might be words. See—“pray”.

  STEW: “Soul”. That’s “soul” there.

  JILL: “Pray.” . . . “Prayer”.

  A deathly hush. Then a terrified wail from the demoralised Hargrave.

  HARGRAVE: It’s in the computer!

  For a moment the thought has them all in its grip. They are past objective thinking, utterly exhausted.

  Brock is the first to recover.

  BROCK: No—

  HARGRAVE: It is! It is! It’s in there!

  Brock grabs him and shakes him like a rat.