by Nigel Kneale
COLLINSON: Who?
JILL: Louisa.
He watches her face as she works feverishly on. In a moment she has forgotten he is there.
He turns and goes quickly out.
The slight sound of the door shutting seems to break her absorption. She sits back in her chair, covers her face. When she looks again at the paper roll in the machine, the same result is still there . . .
THE ENTRANCE HALL – NIGHT
Jill comes out of the lab. She glances up the stairs—there are lights somewhere above—then turns along the passage towards the storage room.
A temporary notice has been stuck on the door, crudely lettered: “Keep Out, Building Work in Progress”. She opens the door. She switches the light on.
THE STORAGE ROOM
The storage room is empty, lit by a couple of bare bulbs. Builders’ equipment lies everywhere and more scaffolding has been erected.
Jill looks about, tense. But everything is aggressively ordinary.
She crosses to the stone steps and considers them. Ordinary, too, in the hard light. A workman has left a battered bucket on one of the lower ones and she dislodges it—just to break the silence. It clatters and rolls away . . .
BROCK’S SUITE – OFFICE, NIGHT
Collinson is facing a dishevelled Brock, who has just pulled a dressing-gown over his nakedness.
BROCK (incredulously): At this hour?
COLLINSON (quietly): I think she’s having a breakdown.
BROCK: Yes. (The tousled, undressed secretary peers out of the darkened living quarters. He waves her back) I sent her on leave.
COLLINSON: When?
BROCK: Today. I told her to go.
COLLINSON (amazed): Just like that? Just—go.
BROCK: What else? If you feel strongly about it—go with her! In fact I think you should, you’ve been under a bit of strain here, all this extra work, you’re due for a—
COLLINSON: Take Jill?
BROCK: A spot of leave’s what you both need, so why not, the pair of you? Get it all out of your system—
THE STORAGE ROOM
Jill is starting back towards the passage when she feels the premonitory chill. But she keeps a grip on herself and keeps moving.
The passage is dark, as if the light in the entrance hall has gone out.
Oddly enough, there are two tiny spots of red light—low down and flashing alternately like indicator lamps. Then both glow evenly—and come rushing forward at incredible speed, swelling in an instant into two eyes, yet not eyes like those of any living creature, for they keep twisting and moving on separate courses.
She stumbles back and almost trips over a spade, sending it scraping across the concrete. It is the only sound.
The eyes have gone.
More movement. She turns—and sees shapes, or rather shapeless things moving towards her across the open floor with the same incredible speed.
JILL (screams): Peter!
As if this served to set it off, the grunting begins—the same huge, unearthly noise she heard here earlier.
She starts across the floor—in the only direction she can, towards the steps.
They are hunting her. Huge forms, terrifying in their very lack of definition, with here and there eye-like dots of red light. They move across the ground with that dreadful speed, quartering it like hounds. There is a brute male violence about every movement, a lust to bring down and tear—
Then she is on the steps, pressing herself against the wall.
JILL: Help me! Help—!
She glances up.
The steps lead to an upper floor, with light pouring down from the opening.
She claws her way up to reach it.
The steps beneath her feet are unworn and strong.
Frantic, she reaches the top of them.
And there is nothing. No upper floor, not even a roof above her—only the night sky.
The whole room has vanished.
Instead of the walls there are standing stones round a moonlit space. And there the shapeless things are circling, closing in—
Then she falls.
It is a long way down . . .
THE ENTRANCE HALL
Normal silence—then Brock and Collinson come running down the stairs. They look into the lab, then make for the storage room.
THE STORAGE ROOM
Jill is lying on the concrete at the foot of the steps. Brock and Collinson run to her.
Her eyes are open. She is dead . . .
THE ENTRANCE HALL – A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER
Brock, Collinson, Eddie and Stew come slowly in through the front door. Maudsley and Hargrave trail after them. All are soberly dressed.
The sergeant is missing from his place at the desk.
Crawshaw and one of his team come down the stairs. Crawshaw already looks more like a senior executive than a mechanic, and has acquired a plain-looking secretary who follows them holding some thick folders.
CRAWSHAW: What was it?
COLLINSON: Accidental death.
Crawshaw gives a sour sniff.
CRAWSHAW: By the by, Brock—those environment boys were back, looking for you.
BROCK (dully): Oh.
CRAWSHAW: Clapping a preservation order on that room, are they?
He goes on with his followers towards his own wing.
EDDIE: Pleased with the verdict?
Brock says nothing.
EDDIE: Why did you have to say all that? About her?
BROCK: Her mental state. They had to know.
EDDIE: Did they?
BROCK: Look, it wasn’t just the fall that did it, they knew that.
STEW: They said shock.
BROCK: Complete vagal inhibition. That’s when your whole system packs up. She brought it on herself.
Eddie gives him a look of disgust and turns away to the lab.
EDDIE: I’ll just get my coat, Stew.
STEW: Okay.
COLLINSON (quietly to Brock): You were lucky.
Eddie reappears indignantly in the lab doorway.
EDDIE: What’s he doing in there!
THE LABORATORY
The sergeant is standing beside the computer, busy with a paper-shredding machine. He has turned most of the used print out rolls into a huge mound of shreds. He is feeding in the last of them.
SERGEANT: Just what I was told, sir. Ask Mr. Brock.
BROCK (entering with the others): We had to get rid of it.
STEW: That’s—what she’d just been working on—
BROCK: It had to go. Look, I’m not suppressing anything—not evidence—it’s all computer language—
STEW: All her work.
COLLINSON (calmly as ever): Leave it to me.
He motions Stew and Eddie out and closes the door. The last of the paper is buzzed into shreds.
BROCK: Mad stuff, Colly.
COLLINSON: It’s gone now.
BROCK: You saw it? Well, you wouldn’t understand it. Seven thousand years, it said! I mean—insane stuff!
Collinson hits him as hard as he can, it is an imperfectly aimed blow. It gets Brock in the throat, sending him sprawling in the shredded paper.
He lies there, choking and gasping while Collinson walks out. The sergeant is at a loss.
SERGEANT (to Collinson): Look here, sir! (He turns to help Brock) You all right, sir? Are you? What on earth did he—? Shocking behaviour, shocking! Mr. Collinson, too! (He gets Brock to his feet and brushes the clinging shreds off him) Er . . . want I should do anything about him, sir?
Brock shakes his head. He rubs his bruised throat, breathing hoarsely. He makes for the door.
THE ENTRANCE HALL
The entrance hall is deserted.
SERGEANT (relieved): Made off, has he, sir? Disgraceful. Sure you’re all right, sir? (Brock nods) Oh, before I forget, them conservation inspectors was here again.
BROCK: Yes.
SERGEANT: In there a long time, sir. They said there would be a summons. When they
went one of ’em said did you know about the room.
BROCK: Eh?
SERGEANT: Just that, sir.
BROCK: What did he mean?
SERGEANT: That’s all, sir, just did you know about the room. (Brock looks along the passage) Feel okay now, sir?
BROCK: Yes. Thanks. You can go.
SERGEANT: Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.
Brock takes out his keys.
Reaching the door, from which the builders’ sign has been removed and a small official-looking notice substituted, he puts a key into the newly fixed lock.
THE STORAGE ROOM
The room looks much the same. Builders’ equipment is still scattered about.
Brock shivers slightly.
As a rational man rejecting any alternative explanation, he buttons his jacket.
He walks across the floor—
There is a sudden scream in the air, close by. A woman’s voice, sharp and clear.
VOICE: Help me—! (He glances round but sees nothing) Peter! (He is stung by the unmistakable sound of his name) Help me—Peter—!
BROCK (whispers): Jill.
Then it screams again, and again, and again. And there is nothing he can do.
Except stand there stunned by the knowledge . . . that there is a new voice on the stone tape . . .
THE
YEAR
OF THE
SEX OLYMPICS
THE YEAR OF THE SEX OLYMPICS
CAST OF CHARACTERS
UGO PRIEST, (Co-ordinator) ... Leonard Rossiter
NAT MENDER ... Tony Vogel
DEANIE WEBB ... Suzanne Neve
KETEN, (their child) ... Lesley Roach
LASAR OPIE ... Brian Cox
MISCH ... Vickery Turner
KIN HODDER ... Martin Potter
GRELS ... George Murcell
BETTY ... Hira Talfrey
NURSE ... Patricia Maynard
PRODUCER ... Ronald Travers
DIRECTOR ... Michael Elliott
Produced on BBC Television, July 29, 1969
INSIDE SPORTSEX STUDIO
A young man and a girl in close shot. Both are nude, as far as can be seen, and he is crouching passionately over her. It is the stock scene of any successful film of the 1960’s.
But it is followed immediately by another very similar shot—of a different couple, blond instead of dark.
And then a third couple, identifiably different but locked in the same embrace.
A magnified voice booms:
NAT’S VOICE: Right, studio. That’ll do for the warm-up. Thank you.
The couple in shot break a little. The man moistens his lips. The girl licks a finger and straightens an eyebrow. Their attention is vaguely elsewhere.
NAT’S VOICE: Now stand by, please.
They glance up. Above them looms a shape that at first sight suggests a lunar probe. It is the studio’s control pod, with bristling antennae, lamp stalks and holographic laser pickups. Stencilled beneath its belly is “Output, Area 27”.
NAT’S VOICE: Stand by, studio.
INSIDE THE PRODUCTION POD
Inside, the pod has a family resemblance to a present-day control gallery. There is a moulded desk with the highly individuated controls that are typical of this tactile society. Facing it is a single big monitor screen, with a blurred, twisting image on it as holographic beams range the studio below to assemble the desired image. Cameras and booms are things of the past, but a certain amount of de-focussed ranging and shock zooming may give the approximate effect.
There are other miniature zooming screens set in the desk face. We do not see the images on them, but their flickering glow lights up the faces of the two men watching them. Both are under 30. Nat Mender is the senior, a high-drive man who has always enjoyed his work. Yet his very vigour has pulled him slightly out of shape. He is still far from being a square peg in a round hole—say, a decahedral peg in a nonahedral hole. Lasar Opie, on the other hand, fits his perfectly.
Between them and the monitor screen sits a pretty girl with a plastic dome suspended just above her head. This is Misch, the introducer and Nat’s current girl.
These three are the only occupants of the pod. All other functions are automated. Their clothing, in this totally weather-conditioned environment, is not worn for warmth or decency but only as a sort of cosmetic, to reflect the wearer’s mood. It is a harmless diversion in an age that values stability above all else . . . a playing at identity where identities no longer matter much.
The whole of Output has a vague feeling of being indoors but nowhere in particular. One place blurs into another to form a worldwide long-house for this retribalised, McLuhanised society.
NAT (to desk): One minute, studio.
OPIE: Audience sampler?
NAT (reluctantly): Punch ’em up.
OPIE: At last.
He prods a button. A monitor screen at one side of the pod jumps alive.
Behind the caption “Audience Sampler” which seems to be permanently stencilled on it, it shows a group of people staring lazily to front. Men and women of all ages up to an apparant 50, though they are in fact less. Mostly overweight, they wear light, grimy clothes—unlike the elaborations of the Output personnel—and seem to have no regard for their appearance. They recall those American films about boxing—a small-town audience on a hot night, all sweat and singlets. Several of these are munching now.
Behind the Sampler caption, the group dissolves to a different, smaller one of even more apathetic people . . . then to a standing group somewhere outdoors under a dark sky like those who watch TV sets in shop windows, gloomy. The picture goes on mixing regularly, automatically, from group to group, every few seconds.
MISCH: Matter with him?
OPIE: Due to be on five minutes before show starts.
NAT: Tell me more!
OPIE (smugly): What it says, Nat.
MISCH: Nat don’t bother.
OPIE: He’s out of line.
MISCH (grimacing): Oh, aagh!
NAT: I bother. It’s just . . . well, five minutes more to watch ’em.
MISCH: They sick me too. You, Lasar Opie—you like ’em?
OPIE (evasively): Got to do it. (He concentrates on a strip of light that throbs in the surface of the control desk) Calibrate the ratings.
MISCH: All automatic, what’s it matter?
OPIE (conscientiously): Got to check Audience feedback, instant and constant. (Nettled by her grin) It matters! Play to the reaction. Whole point of a live show.
MISCH: Grandma’s eggs! (She catches Nat’s eye and they smile. She giggles, to discomfit Opie. Then she turns back to the Audience Sampler) They look sticky tonight. They hot?
NAT: No hotter than us.
MISCH: Just their own sticky, then. Uggh! Old and sticky. Look at that one. Shiny . . . grey. There, see. How old?
NAT: Maybe . . . thirty.
MISCH: Ugh! Nat, you be thirty some day. (Teasing) You get like that?
NAT (shortly): No. (To desk mike) Fifteen seconds.
MISCH: But if?
NAT: Not me.
MISCH: But if?
NAT: We don’t get like that. End.
MISCH (creepily): But if—!
OPIE: Misch, how can he? Here in Output? High-drive personnel? You crazy?
MISCH: Nat, if you get like that . . . ugghh!
NAT: Five seconds.
He jabs a button. Instantly the plastic cover comes down over Misch and she is lit up by tiny moving beams. She composes her face.
OPIE: Cueing studio. Autolock . . . on!
He throws a master switch and sits back. Music sounds, at once brazen and soporific, like a lullaby played by distant brass bands. The large monitor screen in front of them fills with captions:
“SPORTSEX PRESENTS . . . TONITE AND EVERY NITE”
Then Misch’s face fills the monitor screen, so that we see her in the transparent dome in front of her own giant image. Her voice comes out slightly processed.
The first couple appear on the giant screen, looking round and smiling. And now we see for the first time that the man has a large competition number “4” stuck on his bare back.
MISCH: Been on this show a jumbo lot of times. Winners of the Kama Sutra Prize last year. Now in training for the Sex Olympics. Area 27 got big hopes of these two!
A brief roar of conventionalised, synthetic applause as Opie holds down a button. Then a cut to the second couple, who look nervous under their competition numbers but manage to grin and wave.
MISCH: Next—Eppy Roth and Norm Halsey, new to Sportsex but two lovely lovers! Glad to see you, Norm and Eppy! (More synthetic applause at Opie’s touch) . . . and now our bigpal two! Melamine Tarr and Jay Fowler! Lots of wins in lots of areas, top tip for the Sex Olympics this summer! And you know what? Melly stitches all their competition numbers herself, says it makes luck!
There is a tiny shrilling from the contact-apparatus strapped to Nat’s wrist. He presses a cut-out on the desk to kill Misch’s voice while he answers it.
NAT: Nat Mender, Sportsex. What? Who is that? . . . Deanie? Look, Deanie, I got a show just on. What’s with you? . . . No, I can’t. Not now.
He cuts the wrist contact out and restores the studio sound.
MISCH: . . . So here we go! The first round!
A raucous klaxon squawk.
In rapid succession we see the three couples going into passionate embraces, the competition numbers plain upon the men’s backs as they press their female partners down.
Nat glances at the Audience Sampler. The expressions there show little change.
OPIE: Nice clean start.
NAT (doubtfully): Mm.
OPIE: Some nice action there. Smooth. (His appraisal is that of the expert, nothing salacious) I go for that Melamine Tarr. Always neat leg work, dainty. (They watch in silence for a moment or two) . . . Ah, yes . . . nice . . .
NAT: All a bit slow.
OPIE (ready to agree): Maybe a bit. Maybe is you let ’em warm up more—
NAT: Thanks as usual!
OPIE: I only said—
NAT: You full of help!