"Methy… come on then… methy, methy, methy…"
There was a scrambling and scuffling, a united, bubbling, gurgling, raucous scream, and the entire pack came lumbering forward, pushing the feeble to one side, clawing in their determination to reach the enamel saucepan and the chipped mug. One scarecrow figure, clad in the remnants of an old army overcoat, fell or was pushed and landed with a resounding crash a few yards from Mr Goldsmith. When he tried to rise, his left leg crumbled under him and the horrified spectator saw the jagged end of a thigh bone jutting out from a tear in threadbare trousers. There was no expression of pain on the green-tinted face but whatever spark of intelligence that still flickered in the brain finally prompted the creature to crawl over the uneven ground until it reached the table. Maurice looked down and kicked the writhing figure over on to its back. It lay howling in protest, like an up-turned beetle, legs and arms flailing helplessly.
The chipped mug was dipped into the saucepan, a quarter filled with some blue liquid, then presented to the nearest gaping mouth. A green-tinted, wrinkled neck convulsed, then the mug was snatched away to be filled for the next consumer. Harry pulled the "fed one" to one side, then gave it a shove that sent the bundle of skin-wrapped bones lurching across the floor. Whatever the liquid was that came out of the saucepan, its effect on the receiver was little short of miraculous. All straightened up; some danced in a revolting, flopping, jumping movement. One creature did six knee-bends before its right knee made an ominous cracking sound. Another began clapping its hands and Maurice called out, "Cut that out," but his warning came too late. One hand fell off and landed on the floor with a nasty, soft thud. Mr Goldsmith's stomach was considering violent action when Harry sauntered over and pointed to the offending item.
"Pick that up," he ordered.
The creature, still trying to clap with one hand, gazed at the big man with blank, watery eyes.
"Glop… glop," it bubbled.
"Never mind the glop-glop business. Pick the bloody thing up. I'm not 'aving you leave yer bits and pieces about. I'm telling yer for the last time - pick it up."
He raised a clenched fist and the creature bent down and took hold of its late appendage.
"Now put it in the bin," Harry instructed, pointing to an empty oil drum by the far wall. "You lot might be bone idle, but yer not going to be dead lazy."
Harry then turned to Maurice, who was completing his culinary duties.
"This lot's dead useless, Maurice. They're falling to bits. If this goes on, all we'll 'ave is a load of wriggling torsos. You've put too much EH471 in that stuff."
"Balls." Maurice cuffed a too eager consumer, who promptly retreated with one ear suspended by a strand of skin. "We can do some running repairs, can't we? A bit of tape, a few slats of wood, a few brooms. You carry on like a nun in a brothel."
"Well, so long as you explain the breakages to 'Is Nibs, it's all right with me," Harry stated, kicking a wizened little horror that was trying to turn a somersault on one hand and half an arm. "What's 'e hope to do with this lot?"
"Search me," Maurice shrugged. "Probably carve 'em up. 'E could take a leg from one, an arm from another, swop a few spare parts, and get 'imself a few working models."
Mr Goldsmith had for some time been aware that some of the more antiquated models were displaying an unhealthy interest in his person. One, who appeared to have a faulty leg, shuffled over and examined the little man's lower members with a certain air of deliberation. A rigid forefinger poked his trouser leg, then the creature whose vocal cords seemed to be in better working order than Charlie's, croaked: "Good… good."
"Go away," Mr Goldsmith ordered, wriggling his legs frantically. "Shush, push off."
The creature pulled his trouser leg up and stared at the plump white flesh, like a cannibal viewing the week-end joint. He dribbled.
"Maurice - Harry." A sharp voice rang out. "What is the meaning of this? Get the units lined up at once."
It could have been the voice of a sergeant-major admonishing two slack NCOs; or a managing-director who has walked in on an office love-in. Maurice and Harry began to shout, pulling their charges into a rough file, pushing, swearing, punching, occasionally kicking the fragile units. His own particular tormentor was seized by the scruff of the neck and sent hurling towards the ragged line, that drooped, reeled, gurgled and bubbled in turn.
"Careful, man," the voice barked, "units cost money. Repairs take time."
"Sir." Maurice froze to a momentary attitude of attention, then went on with his marshalling activity with renewed, if somewhat subdued energy.
"Get into line, you dozy lot. Chests out, chins in, those who 'ave 'ands, down to yer flipping sides. Harry, a couple of brooms for that basket, three from the end. If 'e falls down, 'is bleeding 'ead will come off."
For the first time Mr Goldsmith had the opportunity to examine the newcomer. He saw a mild looking, middle-aged man, in a black jacket and pin-striped trousers. Glossy bowler hat, horn-rimmed spectacles and a brief case, completed the cartoonist conception of a civil servant. Maurice marched up to this personage and swung up a rather ragged salute.
"Units lined up and ready for your inspection, sir."
"Very well." His Nibs, for such Mr Goldsmith assumed him to be, handed his brief case to Harry, then began to walk slowly along the file, scrutinizing each unit in turn.
"Maurice, why has this man got a hand missing?"
"Clapping, sir. The bleeder… beg pardon, the unit got carried away after methy, sir. Sort of came off in his 'and, sir."
His Nibs frowned.
"This is rank carelessness, Maurice. I have stressed time and time again, special attention must be paid to component parts at all times. Spare hands are hard to come by and it may become necessary to scrap this unit altogether. Don't let me have to mention this matter again."
"Sir."
His Nibs passed a few more units without comment, then stopped at the man whose ear still dangled by a single thread. He made a tut-tutting sound.
"Look at this, Maurice. This unit is a disgrace. For heaven's sake get him patched up. What HQ would say if they saw this sort of thing, I dare not think."
"Sir." Maurice turned his head and barked at Harry over one shoulder. "Take this unit and put his lughole back on with a strip of tape."
When His Nibs reached the unit propped up on two brooms, he fairly exploded.
"This is outrageous. Really, Maurice, words fail me. How you could allow a unit to come on parade in this condition, is beyond my comprehension."
"Beg pardon, sir, it fell over, sir."
"Look at it," His Nibs went on, ignoring the interruption. "The neck's broken." He touched the head and it wobbled most alarmingly. "The eyeballs are a disgrace, half an arm is missing, one leg is as about as useful as a woollen vest at a nudist picnic, and one foot is back to front."
Maurice glared at the unfortunate unit who was doing his best to bubble-talk. His Nibs sighed deeply.
"There is little point in berating the unit now, Maurice. The damage is done. We'll have to salvage what we can and the rest had better go into the scrap-bin."
Having completed his inspection, His Nibs turned and almost by chance his gaze alighted on Mr Goldsmith.
"Maurice, what is this unit doing tied up?"
"Beg pardon, sir, but this ain't no unit, sir. It's a consumer that Charlie Unit brought in by error, sir."
***
His Nibs took off his spectacles, wiped them carefully on a black edged handkerchief, then replaced them.
"Let me get this clear, Maurice. Am I to understand that this is a live consumer? An actual, Mark one, flesh and blood citizen? In fact, not to mince words - a voter?"
"Yes, sir. A proper old Sunday-dinner-eater, go-to-Churcher, and take-a-bath-every-dayer, sir."
"And how, may I ask, did this unfortunate mistake occur?"
"Sent Charlie Unit out with a resurrection party, sir. Wandered off on his own; sort of remembered a place where 'e u
sed to live, found this geezer - beg pardon, sir - this consumer, and brought 'im back 'ere, sir."
"Amazing!" His Nibs examined Mr Goldsmith with great care. "A bit of luck, really. I mean, he'll need no repairs and with care he'll be ready for a Mark IV MB in no time at all."
"That's what I thought, sir." Maurice smirked and looked at Mr Goldsmith with great satisfaction. "Might start a new line, sir. Bring 'em back alive."
"That's the next stage." His Nibs took his brief case from Harry. "In the meanwhile you had better untie him and I'll take him down to the office."
The office was situated through the cubby hole and down twelve steps. It was surprisingly comfortable. A thick carpet covered the floor, orange wallpaper hid the walls and His Nibs seated himself behind a large, mahogany desk.
"Take a seat, my dear fellow," he invited, "I expect you'd like a cup of tea after your ordeal."
Mr Goldsmith collapsed into a chair and nodded. The power of speech would return later, of that he felt certain. His Nibs picked up a telephone receiver.
"Tea for two," he ordered, "and not too strong. Yes, and some digestive biscuits. You'll find them filed under pending."
He replaced the receiver and beamed at Mr Goldsmith.
"Now, I expect you're wondering what this is all about. Probably got ideas that something nasty is taking place, eh?"
Mr Goldsmith could only nod.
"Then I am delighted to put your mind at rest. Nothing illegal is taking place here. This, my dear chap, is a government department."
Mr Goldsmith gurgled.
"Yes," His Nibs went on, "a properly constituted government department, sired by the Ministry of Health, and complete with staff, filing cabinets and teacups. When I tell you this project sprang from the brain of a certain occupier of a certain house, situated in a certain street, not far from the gasworks at Westminster, I am certain that whatever doubts you may have entertained will be instantly dispelled."
Mr Goldsmith made a sound that resembled an expiring bicycle tyre.
"I expect," His Nibs enquired, "you are asking yourself- why?"
Mr Goldsmith groaned.
"The answer to your intelligent question, can be summed up in two words. Industrial strife. Until recently there was a dire labour shortage, and the great man to whom I referred was bedevilled by wage claims, strikes and rude men in cloth caps who would never take no for an answer. Then one night over his bedtime cup of cocoa, the idea came to him. The idea! Nay, the mental earthquake."
The door opened and a blonde vision came in, carrying a tea tray. The vision had long blonde hair and wore a neat tailored suit with brass buttons. Mr Goldsmith said: "Cor."
"Ah, Myna and the cup that cheers," announced His Nibs with heavy joviality. "Put it down on the desk, my dear. Did you warm the pot?"
"Yes, sir." Myna smiled and put her tray down.
"Have the national intake figures come through yet?" His Nibs enquired.
"Yes, sir."
"And?"
"Three thousand, nine hundred and thirty four."
"Capital, capital." His Nibs rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, then aimed a slap at Myna's bottom which happened to be conveniently to hand. The after effect was alarming.
Myna jerked, stiffened her fingers, opened her mouth and bubbled three words.
"Oi… urn… dud…"
"Excuse me," His Nibs apologized to Mr Goldsmith, "Merely a technical hitch."
Rising quickly, he hurried round to Myna's front and twisted two brass buttons. The fingers relaxed, the eyes lit up and the mouth closed.
"Anything else, sir?" she enquired.
"No thank you, my dear," His Nibs smiled genially, "not for the time being."
Myna went out and His Nibs returned to his desk.
"Latest streamlined model," he confided, "fitted with the Mark IV computer brain, but one has to be jolly careful. Slightest pat in the wrong place and puff - the damn thing goes haywire. Now where was I? Oh, yes. The great idea."
He leant forward and pointed a finger at Mr Goldsmith.
"Do you know how many living people there are in Britain today?"
"Ah - ah…" Mr Goldsmith began.
"Precisely," His Nibs sat back, "Sixty-two million, take or lose a million. Sixty-two million actual or potential voters. Sixty-two million consumers, government destroyers and trade unionists. Now, what about the others?"
"Others," echoed Mr Goldsmith.
"Ah, you've got the point. The dead. The wastage, the unused. One person in two thousand dies every twenty-four hours. That makes 30,000 bucket kickers a day, 3,000,000 a year. One man, and one man only, saw the potential. Sitting there in his terrace house, drinking his cocoa and watching television, it came to him in a flash. Why not use the dead?"
"Use the dead," Mr Goldsmith agreed.
"Taking up valuable building space." His Nibs was becoming quite heated, "Rotting away at the state's expense, using up marble and stonemason's time, and not paying a penny in taxes. He knew what had to be done. How to get down to the 'bones' of the matter."
For a while His Nibs appeared to be lost in thought. Mr Goldsmith stared at a slogan that had been painted in black letters on the opposite wall
WASTE NOT - WANT NOT
"First we imported a few voodoo experts from the West Indies. After all, they had been turning out zombies for centuries. But we had to improve on their technique of course. I mean to say, we couldn't have them dancing round a fire, dressed up in loincloths and slitting cockerels' throats. So our chaps finally came up with methy. Ministry Everlasting Topside Hardened Youth. No one knows what it means of course, but that is all to the good. If some of Them from the other side got hold of the formula, I shudder to think what might happen. The basis is methylated spirit - we found that pickled fairly well -then there's R245 and a small amount of E294 and most important, 25 per cent EH471 with 20 per cent HW741 to cancel it out. You do follow me?"
***
Mr Goldsmith shook his head, then fearful of giving offence, nodded violently.
"You have keen perception," His Nibs smiled. "It makes a nice change to talk to a consumer of the lower-middle class who does not confuse the issue by asking embarrassing questions. The latest stage is the Mark IV Mechanical Brain. After the unit has been repaired, decoked, and sealed with our all-purpose invisible varnish the nasty old, meddling brain is removed and Dr You-Know-Who inserts his M. IV M. B., which does what it's told and no nonsense. No trade unions, no wage claims - no wages, in fact - no holidays, no food. Give 'em a couple of cups of methy a day and they're good for years. Get the idea?"
Mr Goldsmith found his voice.
"Who employs them?"
"Who doesn't?" His Nibs chuckled, then lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.
"Keep this under your hat, but you may remember a certain very large house situated at the end of the Mall, which had rather a lot of problems over the housekeeping bills."
Mr Goldsmith turned pale.
"Not any more. All the lower servants were elevated from the churchyard, and some of the senior go out through one door and come back in through another, if you get my meaning. In fact there has been a suggestion… Well, never mind, that is still but a thought running round in a cabinet.
"Now, what are we going to do about you?"
Mr Goldsmith stared hopefully at his questioner. He dared to put forward a suggestion.
"I could go home."
His Nibs smilingly shook his head.
"I fear not. You've seen too much and thanks to my flapping tongue, heard too much. No, I think we'd better give you the treatment. A nice little street accident should fill the bill. You wouldn't fancy walking under a moving bus, I suppose?"
Mr Goldsmith displayed all the symptoms of extreme reluctance.
"You're sure? Pity. Never mind, Harry can simulate these things rather well. A broken neck, compound fracture of both legs; nothing we can't fix later on, then a tip-top funeral at government expense an
d the certainty of life after death. How's that sound?'
Mr Goldsmith gulped and started a passionate love affair with the door.
"I can see you are moved," His Nibs chuckled. "You've gone quite pale with joy. I envy you, you know. It's not all of us who can serve our country. Remember: 'They also serve who only lie and rotticate.' Ha… ha… ha…"
His Nibs roared with uncontrollable merriment and lifted the receiver of his desk telephone.
"Myna, be a good girl and get Harry on the intercom. What! Tea break! We'll have none of that nonsense here. Tell him to get down here in two minutes flat, or I'll have him fitted with a M. IV MB before he can put water to teabag."
He slammed the receiver down and glared at Mr Goldsmith.
"Teabreak! I promise you, in five years time there'll be no more tea breaks or dinner breaks, or three weeks holiday with pay. We'll teach 'em."
The door opened and Harry all but ran into the office.
He stamped his feet, stood rigidly to attention and swung up a salute.
"Resurrection Operator Harry Briggs reporting, sir."
His Nibs calmed down, wiped his brow on the black-edged handkerchief and reverted to his normal, precise manner of speech.
"Right, Harry, stand easy. This consumer is to be converted into a unit. I thought something in the line of a nice, tidy street accident. He won't be a missing person then, see. What are your suggestions?"
"Permission to examine the consumer, sir?"
His Nibs waved a languid hand.
"Help yourself, Harry."
Harry came over to Mr Goldsmith and tilted his head forward so that his neck was bared.
"A couple of nifty chops should break his neck, sir, and I could rough his face up a bit - bash it against the wall. Then, with your permission, sir, run a ten-ton truck over his stomach - won't do 'is guts much good but 'e won't be needing 'em."
"Methy," His Nibs explained to Mr Goldsmith, "works through the nervous system. The stomach is surplus to requirements."
Collected Stories (4.1) Page 15