The Condition of Muzak

by Michael Moorcock

  “People get what they want out of my box.”

  “What they think they want. And its power source is ludicrous. Utterly wasteful.”

  “It’s not much different to yours.”

  She clicked her tongue.

  “What they think they want is usually what they do want,” he added. “Is there anything wrong—?”

  “God almighty, you don’t know what morality is, do you?”

  “I tried to find out. I became a Jesuit…”

  She turned over his clothing with her pointed foot. “Is this junk all yours?”

  “You can have it, if you like.”

  “What would I do with it? You’ve no ambitions, have you, Mr Cornelius? No sense of purpose? No ideals?”

  “Since Catherine was killed…”

  “I don’t think necrophilia counts as an ideal.”

  “Standards change.” Jerry was miserable. “And we’re proof enough of that, aren’t we? After all, we didn’t need to become divided…”

  “We’ve discussed that already. The scheme didn’t work out. Too many regressive genes—put us straight back to square one.”

  He shrugged and stooped to pick up a black T-shirt.

  “Everything’s fluxed up, thanks to you,” she said. “I had this perfect programme all plotted and ready to go, then suddenly the co-ordinates are haywire. I didn’t need to make too many enquiries to find out where the interference was coming from. I had to abandon the whole programme because you were playing games with your silly little box.”

  “Well, you needn’t worry. I haven’t got it any more.”

  “It’s too bloody late now, isn’t it! Where is it?”

  “I lost it. Or lent it.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I had a touch of my old trouble. Didn’t you have it, recently? Paramnesia? Paramnesia?”

  “That wouldn’t—”

  “Then it developed into ordinary amnesia. I’m not even sure how I got here. There was a party at Holland Park…”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Then maybe it hasn’t happened to you yet,” he told her reasonably. He paused to think. “Or maybe it hasn’t happened to any of us yet. Maybe it won’t happen, after all.”

  “Oh, you shifty little sod.”

  “That’s another thing I was wondering about…”

  “I came here to try to clear up the confusion.” She found a wallet and began to search through it, emptying company credits and luncheon vouchers onto the floor. She turned a fifty million mark silk banknote in her fingers and absently touched it to her lips, licking it. “Why did you choose this mausoleum, anyway?”

  “I forget.”

  “You usually stay with your mother in a crisis.” She picked up another wallet. It contained nothing but a bundle of overstamped Rhodesian guinea-notes.

  “Is she around?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I’m tired.” He reached for her gun.

  “Steady on, Mr Cornelius.” She became alarmed.

  “I only wanted to look at it. I’ve hardly ever seen one. Are they still making them?”

  “How should I know?” She shook out the pockets of a black velvet jacket and began carefully to inspect each worn piece of paper. “Where are your own weapons, by the way?”

  “In store somewhere.” He was vague. “Do you want to look at them?”

  “Certainly not.” She had discovered a huge perfectly cut diamond and was holding it up to the green-shaded light bulb. “This is real.” She inspected the facets, one by one. “Where did you get it?”

  “It’s only a model.” He put his legs into a pair of purple bells.

  7. OPTICS FOR DEFENCE

  Grass and moss were growing over the paving stones of Westbourne Park Road. Jerry saw Miss Brunner to the gate and took in the scenes of soft decline, much more congruent, at last, with the rural atmosphere of the convent’s garden. Even the air was relatively fresh. “It’s lovely now, isn’t it?” He watched her walk to her Austin Princess. “It smells so rich.”

  “Stagnation’s no substitute for stability.” She wrenched open the car’s door. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself.” From behind the façade of deserted houses on the opposite side of the street a few small dogs barked. “It’s going to take England a long time to get back on her feet. And as for the rest of the world…” She entered the car. He saw her through the clouded glass as, aggressively, she put the engine into gear. For someone who had so much to do with machines she displayed a stern hatred for most of them. He waved as she swerved into Ladbroke Grove, still puzzled as to why she had taken the laundry box with her; it had been full of his old junk—a broken watch, tickets, empty matchbooks, old calendars, torn notebooks, catalogues, useless maps, out-of-date maintenance manuals; all had gone into her box. Perhaps she thought she could feed the information into a new computer and thus reproduce his lost memory. He was quite grateful to her; there was nothing, he felt, of his past he wished to retain. He had been glad to offer her his clothes and tapes, but she had declined most of them with the air of someone who had already researched them thoroughly. Deciding against returning to his room, he locked the gate behind him and walked round to Blenheim Crescent, peering up at his mother’s flat as he passed but making no effort to see if she was still there. He was sure that Mrs Cornelius, of all people, wouldn’t have moved. He turned left at the antique shop with its smashed windows, its contents scattered on the pavement, where Sammy, his mother’s lover, had once sold pies, into Kensington Park Road. Assegais, brass microscopes, elephants’ feet, bits of sixteenth-century armour, the innards of clocks, broken writing chests, Afridi rifles inset with copper and mother-of-pearl, their stocks crumpled by woodworm, rotting books and fading photographs lay in heaps all across the street, exuding a sweet, musty smell that was not unpleasant. He entered Elgin Crescent, going towards Portobello Road, and found a shop that had once specialised in theatrical costumes and musical instruments. The door was ajar and the bell rang as he entered. Most of the costumes were still intact, in boxes or on hangers depending on racks from both sides of the showroom. He tried on the full dress uniform of a captain in the 30th Deccan Horse, discarded it. He dressed himself as Zorro, as Robin Hood, as Sam Spade. He tried the Buffalo Bill outfit and felt a little more at ease in it; he forced himself into a lurex Flash Gordon, a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker and ulster, a Zenith the Albino dress suit, a Doctor Nikola set, a Captain Marvel costume, even a Tarzan loincloth; a suit of motley, a Jester, seemed better, but he was seeking security at present, so he also discarded the Harlequin trickster set, but eventually decided upon an elaborate black-and-white satin Pierrot suit, the main colour being black, the pom-poms, ruff and cuffs being white, the skull-cap being white also, a reverse of the usual arrangement. He was pleased with his appearance. He found a pure white wig, perhaps originally for an old lady character, and put this on under his skull-cap. As an afterthought he picked up some greasepaint and blacked his face and hands then, for an hour, he sat in front of the long mirror playing a Walker five-string banjo to himself, raising his spirits still further: On the road to Mandalay-ee, Where the flying fishes play-ee… It was all so much more comfortable than the stockings, suspenders and girdle of his earlier disguise, so much more tasteful than the bright colours of a vanished youth. Indeed, it was the nicest of any of the disguises he had assumed since his boyhood. Nobody made any demands on a pierrot. All in all things weren’t looking too bad, really.

  “Hide your tears behind a smile.” He sang blithely as he searched through the wicker baskets. “Hide your fears inside a file.” He found two or three more Pierrot costumes, two Harlequins, a Columbine and some masks, and bundled them all into a hessian sack.

  He had decided, once his new equipment was installed, to open up the convent as a kind of health-farm. Sooner or later London would come back to a version, at least, of its old self, and this time he would be ready for it.

>   He paused once more beside the mirror. “I could be happy with you,” he sang, “if you could be happy with me.” He gave himself a big kiss and left a smear of makeup on the glass.

  8. THE BL 755 CLUSTER BOMB IS HIGHLY EFFECTIVE AGAINST TANKS AND OTHER ARMOURED VEHICLES, AIRCRAFT, TRANSPORT, PATROL BOATS AND PERSONNEL

  The convent was coming along a treat. Jerry had signed a formal lease for the place and had been lucky enough to secure the services of some ex-nuns. He had left the outside pretty much as it had always looked, but the buildings inside had been thoroughly restructured. Now wide picture windows looked out into old English gardens where pious and apple-cheeked Poor Clares worked with hoe and rake as they had worked since time immemorial. Jerry expected his first customers soon. So far his only client had been his financial backer, his sister’s friend Constantin Koutrouboussis, the young Greek millionaire who had inherited the family business on the death of his older brother Dimitri. Koutrouboussis was rarely satisfied with anything but miracles and Jerry hadn’t been in business long enough to gain experience enough to provide them. But when the Americans started arriving things should look up.

  Koutrouboussis stopped off one day, on his way through to his Soho headquarters. He was carrying a new line in riding crops and was keen to show one to Jerry. “Look at that!” He swished it through the beam of dusty sunlight which entered Jerry’s spacious office by way of the half-closed blind. “The secret’s in the weight of the handle.”

  Jerry was searching white plastic drawers in his desk. Of late he had affected a great deal of white. He wore a surgeon’s smock at this moment, and a chef’s hat. It contrasted nicely with his freshly stained skin. “What?”

  “The handle.” Koutrouboussis put the crop back in his case. “How’s your sister keeping, by the way?”

  “Oh, all right. I checked this morning.”

  “Are you sure—?”

  “There are no certainties in this business, Mr K.”

  “I suppose there aren’t. A science in its infancy.”

  “It’ll stay that way, if I have anything to do with it,” Jerry promised. “Adult science doesn’t seem to produce a satisfactory variety of results.”

  Mr Koutrouboussis fingered his new beard. His hands wandered down to his expensive collar, his neat lapels, his dapper buttons. “You won’t tell the clients that?” He moved towards the wall and stared at the tastefully framed French prints showing characters from the commedia dell’arte.

  “There aren’t any clients for our kind of science. You’re too much of a cynic for this sort of clinic…” Jerry stopped himself quickly and inspected his watches. “A drink? I’ve a wide selection of Scotches…” He gave up.

  “No time.”

  Jerry wondered why Koutrouboussis always made him feel aggressive. Maybe it was the tension the man carried with him; it could even be that Jerry resented his financial involvement, his power.

  Mr Koutrouboussis reached the door and lifted his gloved hand in a moody wave. “No time.”

  “I’ll be seeing you,” said Jerry.

  Koutrouboussis chuckled to himself. “At this rate you’ll be raising me, too. Cheerio for now, Mr Cornelius.” As an afterthought he said from the passage: “And if you should discover the identity…”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “I would be grateful.”

  Jerry put his elbows on his desk and rubbed at his face. One thing was certain: he was under an obligation and it was making him uncomfortable. Then he consoled himself with the knowledge that Koutrouboussis was no idealist. His interest in the whole affair was connected with Catherine alone and justified by a profit motive. If Jerry was going to make his clinic in any way successful he would have to forget both his sister and her admirer for a while. He was sure he was on the right track this time around. He had found hope again. If these new machines couldn’t beat the human condition then nothing could.

  A tasty young nun knocked and entered. “You’re looking tired, sir. You’ve so much on your shoulders.”

  He straightened his back. Automatically he checked his lapels for nits. “Lice,” he murmured, to explain.

  “The world is full of them, sir. But the truth shines through.”

  He glanced at her faithful face. “The trouble is,” he said, “that we’re all at least a hundred and fifty years old. How many generations need to comply in a fallacy before it becomes accepted as truth?”

  She was untroubled. “Can I bring you a nice cup of tea, doctor?”

  “It would certainly help.”

  “Your machines…”

  “They’re not oracles, you know. They just get rid of the demand for oracles. Abolish the future and you lose the need for faith. Familiarity, by and large, banishes fear…” He clutched, again, at his head. “I wish I knew how the damned things worked.”

  “I was going to say. They’re moaning again.”

  “They haven’t got enough to do.”

  “Soon,” she reassured him.

  “The whole idea is that we should do away with ‘Tomorrow’…”

  “I’ll make the tea immediately.” The door closed on her whispering gown.

  He got up and drew the blind so that he could see into the quiet garden. “Heritage. Inheritance. The secret’s in the genes. Chromosomes. Chronos zones. It always comes down to those fucking flat worms.” He really needed a chemist at that moment, but he was buggered if he was going to bring his brother back. Frank would have a vested interest in the status quo; his whole identity depended on its preservation. The same could be said for Miss Brunner and the rest. He couldn’t blame them. They thought they were fighting for their lives.

  The phone began to ring.

  He uttered a disbelieving laugh.

  9. THE STRIM ANTITANK ROCKET LAUNCHER IS LIGHT (4.5 KG), ACCURATE (VERY HIGH SINGLE SHOT HIT AND KILL PROBABILITY), EASY TO USE, LOW-COST INSTRUCTION–NO MAINTENANCE, NO OVERHAUL … COMPLEMENTARY ROCKETS, SMOKE/INCENDIARY, 1,000 METERS, ILLUMINATION, 100 TO 2,000 METERS, ANTIPERSONNEL, UP TO 2,000 METERS

  With only a few reservations Jerry watched the new arrivals as they were herded from the big white bus through the narrow gates of the convent. There were only three men; all the others were women under thirty—or, at least, they resembled women. Some of the patients, he gathered, had already made a few faltering steps towards a crude form of self-inflicted transmogrification, some of it involving quite terrifying surgery.

  He had decided not to present himself to his patients until the evening, during the Welcome Ceremony (which would be held in the ballroom, once the twin chapels) since, at this stage, he would be bound to make them feel self-conscious. Even as the white bus disappeared into the new underground garage a black Mercedes two-tonner took its place, unloading amplifiers and instruments, music for the ball. He stepped back from his window. As the population increased, so, in direct proportion, would his clients. He went over to his new console, turning the master switch to make every television monitor screen work at once, showing a clinic now satisfyingly busy. He was particularly pleased with the way in which the nuns had adapted to their new nursing work. He looked for a moment at the reception desk where guests were cautiously signing their names (mostly fictitious) in the gold-embossed green leather register. Their faces, haunted by hope and anxiety, were familiar to him. For many of them the treatment, even if partially successful, could not come too soon.

  The thing he was looking forward to, however, was the ball. It had been a long while since the Deep Fix had played together. As soon as he could he would go down for the soundcheck. It would be good if he could get some rehearsing in before the event.

  His eye was drawn back to the screen. He was sure he had seen the old military-looking character quite recently. He recognised the frayed cuffs. “We are all offered a selection of traditional rôles,” he murmured. “The real problem lies in finding a different play. In the meantime we attempt to console as many of the actors as possible by finding them the parts in
which they can be as happy as possible.” His voice was carried over the PA to all parts of the building, interrupting the Muzak.

  “You’re becoming a regular telly freak, ain’t ya, Mr C.”

  Shakey Mo Collier now stood there, arms folded, most of his weight on one leg. He was wearing a yellow-and-red paisley shirt, a light suède waistcoat, filthy with the remains of a thousand fruitful meals, a tattered green-and-blue Indian silk scarf, patched and faded jeans and scuffed cowboy boots with white decoration. His hair was longer than when Jerry had last seen it and he had grown a mandarin moustache. Jerry was pleased to see him. “Where have you been, Mo? The first I heard you were around was when someone brought me your postcard.”

  “I’ve been asleep, haven’t I?” said Mo. “Up in the Lake District mostly. It’s nice up there. Good roads. Plenty of shale. All dead. Lovely. You want to go.”

  “I know it. Grasmere. Daffodils and dope. Or that’s the way it used to be.”

  Mo was unusually astute. “That scene’s shifted, hadn’t you heard? To Rydal. But the best days are over.”

  “Well, a word’s not worth much these days. I heard the town had gone all chintzy.”

  “Quincey?”

  “Chintzy.”

  They giggled together. Mo sat down on the posh carpet, cross-legged, and began to roll himself a joint. “Anyway you seem to be doing all right with this lot.”

  “I can’t complain. There’s no profit in it, though.”

  “Aren’t they paying?”

  “All the takings go to my sleeping partner, Mr Koutrouboussis.”

  “Well, well.” Mo licked his papers. “So, really, you could leave here any time you liked?”

  “I’ve got responsibilities, Mo.”

  Mo looked at him in some disappointment. “Blimey!”

  “How long has the group been back together?”

  “Not long. We all met up in Ambleside. Tried out a few things—acoustically, of course. You can get some of those old reed organs to sound just like electronics if you work at it. But we needed power, so we trucked back to London, hoping we’d find some. Of course we hadn’t realised everything was coming alive again. We picked just the right time, for once. We must be the only beat group around. We’re getting a lot of work. Too much, really. The tensions…”