The Tourist

by Robert Dickinson

  Geneva is very deep

  We’re woken by the call to prayer from the temple on the high street. Edda is impressed until I tell her it’s a recording. They don’t actually have a local man of proven virtue ringing the bells at set times each day, just the same recording that’s played in half the other temples in the country. “And the other half?” she asks. The cathedrals have real bells, I tell her, and some of the smaller rural temples, but most use recordings. It’s typical of the 21st. People spend their evenings looking at images of other people’s lives and their calls to spiritual duty are automated. She finds this amusing.

  She turns on the television, another period detail. There’s nothing about Bar Five on the morning news. I suspect pressure has been exerted. Or shops and bars burn down so regularly they’re not considered worth reporting. Their news, after all, isn’t about what happens every day; the stories are chosen because they’re untypical. DomeWatch already has a new lead story: “Schoolgirl Brides of Future Perverts.” The headline is misleading: apparently a native magazine asked some teenage girls if they would consider marrying one of us and several of them thought they might. “Living there has got to be better than this dump.” The DomeWatch writer is agitated by this and blames “propaganda.” I’m relieved: the future perverts have displaced the future fanatics if only for a few hours.

  I accompany Edda to the station where she catches the minibus for Resort Six. I notice a member of their Safety Team waiting with the reps. She’s not as blatantly militarised as Hayek: she looks like a maintenance tech with a utility belt. It’s likely some of her tools are in breach of protocol. Edda thinks she’s there to reassure the clients. We don’t see any trouble on the way there.

  My resort bus doesn’t have an escort, but then Tri-Millennium’s clients are expected to stay at the resort. The bus is for the reps. We’re not supposed to need reassurance.

  There are no more Safeties than usual at the gates. As soon as I pass the last one I’m bipped about a meeting in Small Hall Two. It’s reps only; resort staff aren’t included. The rumour, which people are quick to share, is that excursions will be suspended, that we’ll be obliged to stay in quarters until we know what’s happening.

  Small Hall Two is for minority interests—meditation, dance classes—and it’s just big enough to hold the forty-two reps Tri-Millennium employs. There’s a raised platform at one end where a class leader would stand. Erquist and Hayek are already there. It’s the first time I’ve seen either of them out of their offices, and the first time I’ve seen Hayek out of his chair. He’s shorter than I expected: barely two metres, shorter than Erquist, though broader and probably about three times heavier. He nods at me as if I’m a valued colleague. I feel shamefully flattered.

  Once Hayek has finished scanning everyone (I assume that’s what he’s doing) he nods at Erquist, who steps forward. Erquist has a clear, comforting voice. A lot of Happiness people train as actors.

  “Many of you will have heard about the incident at Bar Five last night. I’ve never been there in person but I know it was a popular destination for reps. The good news is that apart from the proprietor, two of his staff and a few native customers, nobody was hurt. You may also have heard of the incident at Resort Three. Once again, apart from the driver of the vehicle involved, I am pleased to report there were no casualties. As far as we are aware the two events are unrelated. Some of you, I’m sure, will be wondering why we did not have these events on record. The fact is that the only records we have are the ones that our Central Office considers relevant.” Beside him, Hayek shakes his head slowly, as if the paucity of records is a cause for personal sadness. “In turn, they only have the records that have been released to them by the authorities. We are in touch with Geneva”—Erquist glances at Hayek, who lowers his head with a ponderous humility—“to determine whether we can expect any future incidents of a similar nature. Until we receive an answer all we can do is deal with events as they arise and try not to exaggerate their importance. Above all, we must remember the Tri-Millennium code of conduct.” He pauses, gives a rueful little smile. “In the meantime, after consultation with our Safety Team”—another nod from Hayek—“we propose the following courses of action. All excursions are to continue as planned. However, in addition to the assigned rep, they are now to be accompanied by at least one additional rep with suitable training. That includes any form of service, whether Foraging Units or Tunnel Clearance. It will mean changes to the staff rosters, but there are enough of you with the appropriate background to make this possible.” As far as I know I’m the only rep who worked the Tunnels. I didn’t know there were any from the Dangerous Berry Squad, though; as an old Mole, I can see why they might have kept quiet. “In addition,” Erquist continues, “because some of you may have concerns for your personal safety we will make quarters available within the resort for anybody currently living outside who feels they might be at risk. Those of you who wish to take advantage of this, please talk to your section chief.”

  There’s a general murmur of approval. Erquist raises his hand. “I understand many of you will still have questions. But the two measures we have proposed should enable us to keep this resort running in accordance with our principles. Remember, this is all about client satisfaction and client safety. A safe experience of the 21st. That applies to employees as well, to all of us.” The murmuring hasn’t stopped; his audience’s attention is slipping. “One more thing,” he says louder, his pitch less secure, “these are interim measures subject to change if there are further developments. We will, of course, keep you informed.” He steps back, shrugs at Hayek. The once evenly spaced reps are beginning to coalesce around their section chiefs. I stay where I am. I’ve been reporting directly to Erquist ever since our client disappeared. Besides, I don’t want to move into quarters. I like my flat, even if Justin Bayer lives a few streets away. Erquist steps down from the stage and indicates I should follow him.

  There’s a space behind Small Hall Two, a dressing room of sorts. Chairs, tables around the walls, mirrors. One of the rooms in the resort I’ve never seen before.

  Hayek lumbers away. Nobody tries to talk to him.

  Erquist closes the door. “How do you think that went?” This isn’t politeness. He really wants to know. “I’ve never been very good with crowds.”

  “I thought it went very well.”

  “I did wonder if I wasn’t coming across as too authoritarian.”

  “No. Relaxed.”

  “It’s kind of you to say. But how are you? I heard you were at Bar Five last night.”

  “I saw the aftermath.”

  “Terrible. But no further incidents?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Good. That’s good.” He looks, by his standards, sombre. “As you’ve probably guessed, Geneva haven’t been exactly forthcoming. There’s also no new information on our client, though Hayek is still analysing exactly what happened at the airport. He’s trying to backtrack through the records but it seems there are technical difficulties. However, if it does turn out that our client is in breach of protocol she will face appropriate charges on her return.” He gives a rueful half-smile. Actions committed in the past are classic legal problems. “That is, if there are any appropriate charges. One thing Geneva has asked”—he’s sombre again—“is to report on the mood among the reps and clients. What do people think, what are they saying, that sort of thing. They think it’s important we don’t indulge in too much speculation. It could harm morale.” He looks at me hopefully. Li and Jorge were asked yesterday. It’s another sign of Tri-Millennium’s low status.

  “So far, the people I’ve spoken to have been confused.” I’m not going to name names. “Geneva could end speculation by telling us what they know.”

  “Well, quite, exactly. But obviously there are issues with the kind of information they feel they can release. Now this needn’t have any sinister implications. It might just mean they have no useful information and feel embarrassed abo
ut admitting it. It was a native bar after all, and there was no harm to any clients or reps. But they are concerned about rumours circulating and feel they can best counteract these if they know what kind of rumours are circulating.” He pauses. “And who is responsible for circulating them.”

  “Don’t they monitor this anyway?”

  “Apparently they don’t. Or they want us to think they don’t. Geneva is very deep.”

  I don’t say anything. Apart from fascinating Li, what Geneva knows or doesn’t know is the stuff of all those entertainments about heroic individuals confronting faceless omniscience. I used to be surprised the authorities allowed them: it was as if they relished being shown in a poor light. Cantor thought I was naïve. The authorities are never shown as evil or incompetent, just occasionally overzealous. The conflict usually turns out to be a misunderstanding and any mistakes are corrected. All of them, he used to say, were made with a purpose. His idea of what the purpose might be changed from week to week.

  Erquist leaves. I remain in the room, alone. Edda sends a message that she’s confined to her resort for the next few days but I can visit her there if I’m able to leave mine. I check the roster. I’ve been rescheduled to accompany an excursion to a Scene of Natural Beauty. It’s supposed to be uneventful. I stop at the staff mess. A few reps are there, engaged in the kind of speculation I’m supposed to report to Erquist. As I eat I get another message from Hayek. “I see you’ve got an excursion planned. Meet me in my office when you get back. If you get back.” I’m now an unofficial Safety Team member. Is this how the recruitment works? First they make you feel like an insider, and then the requests for favours begin. Before you know it you’re wearing their uniform and reporting to their bosses.

  The only advantage is it might give me more freedom outside the resort. It might get me out of accompanying excursions. Or it leads to the breach of protocol that gets me sent home.

  Or I refuse, and that’s the breach.

  The excursion is a tour of the Pennines. The scenic tours aren’t the most popular with our clients, most of whom are older generation and uncomfortable in the open air. However, when I reach the vehicle zone there’s twelve of them waiting, a respectable number. I check the list carefully, which annoys Olav, the rep who was supposed to take the tour alone. He’d already checked the list: “You really don’t have to do anything on this one. Just stay at the back and be reassuring.” I do as he says. We drive out to the Scene of Natural Beauty, our clients walk around for as long as they dare, we drive back. There are no unrelated incidents: nobody goes missing; it doesn’t even rain. Our clients return to their quarters to write sonnets expressing their disappointment and I go to Hayek’s office. “Tunnel Boy,” he says before the door has closed behind me. “I’ve been reviewing the incident at the airport. The cause of death is officially a heart attack. Apparently this is not inconsistent with Dr. Metzger’s age and medical history. There is no indication of any external influence.” He dismisses the file with a gesture. “But what do they know? There are at least two methods our client could have used to achieve that effect. One would not have worked at that range. The other would have worked but would have also affected bystanders. We can conclude that our client’s intentions did not include killing Dr. Metzger. I am currently investigating another possibility. There’s no need to involve you with that for the moment.” He gazes at me with benign menace. I wonder if he’s also had dramatic training. “I have had one small piece of information. The client’s card reports from your excursion have come through. Our girl bought something at a shop that sells their phones.”

  “Can we trace the phone?”

  “You follow too many entertainments. All I know so far is how much she paid for it. But it does suggest she intended to contact somebody already here. Which means she probably chose to leave.”

  “She could have been acting under duress.”

  “She didn’t appear to be at the airport. For now, even if she is following her own whims, this doesn’t mean I’m happy. She might not be murdering people but she seems to be doing more than carrying tonin for extemps. Which means she could be putting herself at risk. Our duty is to protect our clients, even the reckless ones.”

  “I was told she wasn’t in danger.”

  “By your mysterious stranger. Did he tell you who he was working for? Did he give you a reason? Have you seen him since? Do you really think I’m going to put my faith in that?”

  He has a point. “What about Geneva?” If I’m working for Hayek he might as well keep me up to date. “Have they said anything?”

  He’s guarded. “They have not said nothing.”

  “And the Anachronists?”

  “A dead end. As dead as Dr. Metzger.”

  “The kin?”

  “Not relevant. Everything she’s done here seems to be a complete break with her previous behaviour. We need, as I said, to find out what she’s doing. If I arrange for you to be exempt from your usual duties, will you help?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “We can always find more excursions for you to accompany. You complain, Tunnel Boy, but isn’t this more fun than work? Start with Delrosso. He lied to you last time and there’s something odd about his history as well. He doesn’t fit the extemp pattern. His decision to move here was described as sudden and uncharacteristic. You might find you have to talk to his local contacts.”

  “Like Gurley and Knight?”

  “I’m sure you can find others.”

  “They might not talk to me.”

  “Aren’t you a friend of Li Tran? She’s known to have nativist sympathies. She might also be more alert to the nuances. They might talk to her. And see if you can ask the right questions this time.”

  There’s another message from Edda. If I want to meet later she’ll be in Entertainment Area Three in Resort Six. She’s left my name with their Safety Team: I can use their resort bus. I reply that I’ll try. There are things I need to do first.

  I consult the Arc about the 28 incident. It’s exactly as Edda said: a reference in a story about a more recent disaster (“the worst event of its kind since…”) and no details beyond the year. But it’s the right year.

  I still don’t know what to make of it. Information can change our understanding of what’s happened or confirm what we already knew. This feels like a confirmation. It tells me that a mistake was made and the authorities kept quiet about it for as long as they could. And they’re still keeping quiet: the item doesn’t list the victims or apportion blame or explain how the contamination occurred. Why did we store radioactive waste in the first place? We don’t need it, we can’t reprocess it; the only use we’d have for it would be to make what this era calls “dirty bombs”—fantasy weapons effective for spreading fear but useless if you’re trying to reclaim land or build anything. I knew my parents died in an accident, and now, thanks to Edda, I have a slightly better idea of what kind. But that’s all. I go back to my apartment.

  One of their more serious newspaper sites has an obituary for Dr. Alexander Metzger, “Scholar, Poet and Dog-Lover.” His early work on 5th-century lyric fragments is described as “useful,” and his short book on Parthenius “exhaustive.” The German–Hellenic Society was (I learn) originally founded by three admirers of Hölderlin and only became political around the 20s of the previous century—their politics was mostly about refusing membership to Jews. Thereafter it stayed in a bubble, an odd survival with about a dozen members until the start of the 21st, when a charismatic new leader started forging ties with more directly political groups in Germany and Greece, cranks with a few dangerous friends. According to the obituary, it’s likely Metzger was a naïf who hadn’t understood the nature of the politics: there was no public history of any previous involvement. His death came just days before questions were to be asked at his university.

  Another dead end.

  I bip Li and tell her about Hayek’s orders. Does she want to help?

  She sounds surp
rised. “You’ve agreed to this?”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “You always have a choice. You could say no. You should say no. It might be the thing that gets you sent home. She’s not your concern, Spens. If your Safety Chief thinks there’s a problem he should send out a team. Haven’t you done enough already?”

  “He doesn’t want to involve a Safety Team.”

  “He doesn’t have to send you. I’ll help, but only because it gets me out of dealing with people like the Shins. What’s the plan?”

  I tell her about Picon Delrosso. “And then we’ll see if we can find Ivan.”

  I watch a news broadcast. It follows its usual pattern: war, crime, disaster, crime, war, disaster; an endless litany of what is wrong in some parts of the world, presented with very little background and abandoned as soon as the next story comes along. There are pictures of flooded streets followed by an interview with a politician who describes the March for Humanity as a dangerous provocation. He doesn’t say who would be provoked and the interviewer doesn’t ask. It seems designed to induce a feeling of helpless rage, while leaving you with no clear idea what is actually happening.

  Picon answers his own front door. “You again.” He tries to give the impression I’ve interrupted important business, and fails because he’s wearing a kimono and no trousers. “What do you want?”

  “To ask more questions.”

  He seems to notice Li for the first time. “I suppose you’re a rep as well?” His tone makes it clear he doesn’t believe either of us is a rep. “You’d better come in.”

  He leads us to the big room at the back with a view of the garden. There’s no music playing this time and the screen on the wall is blank, a dark mirror. A native woman sits on one of the sofas staring at a slate. I can’t tell if she’s one of the women who was here before. She glances up at us and then looks back at her slate. She seems used to Picon having visitors.