‘I know what my wife would say to you, mate,’ Derek thought, ‘she’d say what you call a social problem is a woman’s right to choose.’ For a woman who felt so let down and exasperated by organised feminists, she adhered remarkably strongly to their principles and beliefs. She read a lot, of course, and Marsha was a frequent visitor (even to the point when Derek began incredulously to wonder whether he was being supplanted; but even if it were true, there was nothing reasonable he could do about it, so he tried to banish the thought); Lynn even did little jobs for the women in the tower, like sorting cuttings or tracking down articles for the medical groups or sending along some of the food she grew and could ill-afford, but she performed these tasks with a sort of resigned cynicism.
She had not set foot in the tower since Judy Matthews threw Jim out nearly four years ago. ‘I know she’s ill,’ she said, ‘and I know I ought to be nice to her. But it’s better if I don’t see her. That’s all.’ Jim, tall and taciturn, was a polite but irregular resident at the Byers house. He was trying to make a life for himself, was even into gently left-wing politics, which pleased Lynn; but work was intermittent, he had joined the band of rootless unskilled labourers who got boat-trains in London to whichever foreign factory needed workers for a while. He found it hard to make friends, and Lynn swore he still bore the scars of the maternal rejections and changes of mind that had striped his childhood. Also, Jane didn’t like him to stick around; she liked to be queen of the roost, trying her mother’s patience to its limit, joining Young Families of Tomorrow and falling in love with a young patriarch called Martin.
The screen flickered. The Europop professor dwindled into a silver line. Derek switched to Power, to World Peace, getting perfect reception. Back to Population. Blank nothing. He thumped the screen. An answering thump came back pertly from the machine’s innards. Nothing.
‘And I know what she’d say to me, too. She’d say, get down there and find out what they’re planning to do about this social problem of theirs.’
He hesitated. He was getting international rates for being here, he had a job to do, and attending the population seminar wasn’t part of it. But then he didn’t do much for Lynn these days, and this would interest her.
As if some airwave had beamed his thought to a higher power, a light flashed, a buzzer bleeped.
‘Professor Byers.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We seem to have scheduled the president to be in two places at once.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Sort it out, would you, old chap?’
Old chap? Was that what they taught them in these language schools? The line had gone dead. Derek sighed. It would not do to have the president incommoded. The population seminar would surely publish its papers? He ran his eye down the scheduling lists, but he knew it was no good. It was the questions and the interjections that were important at a meeting like that, not the polite pedantry of the papers.
Derek consigned the president of Europea to the wastepaper basket. (Chances were the mix-up was the old egotist’s own fault anyway.) He stepped gingerly on to the moving corridor that flowed like a solid white stream outside the office door. Shop windows showed the spherical bottles of Europerfume that could be bought in coy pink wrappings; that was for other men’s wives, Derek thought stoutly; he would take a seminar report home to his.
‘Press not allowed.’
‘I am not press,’ said Derek, as if no greater insult could be devised. He thrust his chest out, displaying his organiser’s badge. ‘I’ve come to check the relay system.’
‘It’s been timed off, sir.’
‘I know. I’ve come to check.’
He slipped in. It was a small meeting. A panel of three sat round a table, an audience of a dozen listened. At Derek’s entry a few heads turned. He returned the stares with the discreet smile of one who has just got back from the gents and regrets any disturbance caused.
The professor’s voice was shrill and quick. ‘ — no point, no point at all, in planning our food industry to the last crumb, our power to the last atom, if population growth can fluctuate and bend on the wind of human whim, yes? Human beings, the most complex machines, the cleverest, most dangerous species, does it not offend the rational mind that they should be the result of the most random phenomenon in the world, productive coitus —’ (Fancy a spot of random phenomenal coitus, Lynn baby?) ‘ — yes the British experiment is interesting ...’
Derek sat bolt upright.
A furious voice was saying, ‘There is no experiment.’ For one horrified moment Derek thought the voice was his own. With some relief he realised it had come from a stoop-shouldered man with a sharp white collar in the front row. He listened.
‘You have completely misunderstood.’ Derek knew the voice. He knew it well from the radio. David Laing, Secretary of State for Family Welfare. Derek had always loyally shared Lynn’s suspicion and hatred of the man, but privately he found him rather pathetic, with his ubiquitous caffeine tablets and his darting, birdlike eyes.
The professor shrugged. ‘You pay women whom you wish to have babies. You sterilise those who are unsuitable.’
Next to Laing was a taller man, younger, with a silvery, hypnotic voice. Peel, Derek realised, Laing’s second-in-command, a man with his eye on the stars. He sat very still and calm, happy for Laing to talk himself into a corner, awaiting his moment to contribute.
Peel said, ‘That is correct. In essence.’
‘It isn’t an experiment.’ Laing insisted.
Peel’s whispered protest darted at the quailing Laing like the tongue of a snake, but Laing held his ground. ‘We seek only to reverse the discrimination against dutiful mothers —’
‘Mr Peel. Are mothers in your country receptive to the idea that having children is a public service like any other?’
The grin sounded in Peel’s voice, Peel the man who never smiled. It was like the grin of a yobbo through chewing gum.
‘We haven’t had any complaints.’
‘You have no, er —’ The lines in the professor’s face writhed apologetically, ‘er, lib movement?’
‘We have a few misfits. Outnumbered misfits, I might add.’
‘And does it work?’ the professor was insisting.
‘It’s not a question of anything working!’ Laing said, ‘It’s not an experiment! The point is, recognition —’
‘It seems to be working,’ said Peel, ‘it’s too early to say.’
The professor was speaking again. His face was surreal, all those wrinkles and that thick black hair. The rolling eyes, the fine mist of spray from the gabbling mouth. Hypnotic.
‘If it can work — if a judicious mix of propaganda and payment and penalty can induce some women to bear children and others not — what an advance for the human condition!’
Derek cursed softly, wishing he could record this.
‘These are dangerous doctrines, professor,’ Laing muttered.
‘No no no no no no no. Always this is what people say to me!’ The professor flapped his hands. ‘I am not talking about genocide. I am talking about making rational use of our human stock as we must of our other resources! I am talking about eliminating hereditary defects — maintaining the strong and the healthy, ceasing to bring lives into being that will merely be lives of suffering. The idea has been abused in the past. I will be the first to admit it. It has been so much abused that we do not see its possible benefits. What about this? A rational welfare state, based on a sufficient ratio of workers to dependants, yes? An end to unemployment — for we can predict labour requirements and ensure that no more babies are born than will grow up to fill them. An end to poverty — for the people we cannot feed will simply not be born! All this is far into the future, far beyond my lifetime and yours, there are many questions we cannot answer — but must we not at least ask them? Is it possible, for example, to identify those genetic strains that make a man happy and effective as a soldier or a doctor or a sweeper of the streets, and t
hen produce for the needs of society? A dangerous doctrine, Mr Laing?’
‘And this ... selective breeding, we’ll call it, to be polite ... would it be voluntary?’
The professor sighed. ‘Is it voluntary that the power workers must produce so much energy, or the farmers so much food? Planning is for the greater good — is that not what this conference is about? Why should women be different? Is that not what they are always saying — they want to be equal?’ He panted with wet laughter. He looked around for answering smiles. Derek manufactured one.
‘It’ll never work,’ said Laing.
The professor was so excited he looked as if he might rise into the air.
‘Will it not? Who says it will not? We shall see! We must try! We have tried similar programmes in the underdeveloped world, but the women there were too unintelligent. No matter. Those countries are of no concern to Europea and may be left to their own devices. We need a modem industrial society — whose women respect themselves for the wealth of their contribution — where we can try! A geographically confined space — such as an island, Mr Laing, hm? — would be ideal!’
The meeting was ending. Derek realised he must either disappear or bluff it out. He remained in his seat, consulting his clipboard. People walked by him; he heard laughter and the words ‘the man’s mad’ in several languages. Peel, Laing and the professor remained. Derek kept his head low, his ears strained. Peel’s voice was seductive. ‘An admirable paper, professor.’
‘Your colleague does not appear to think so. You must see, Mr Laing, that population is the louse in the ointment of planning.’
‘Fly,’ said Laing sullenly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The expression is, fly in the ointment.’
‘Quite so. Would the British government be interested in a few tests?’
‘What tests?’
‘It would be useful to know how close one can get to total planning of population. In a manner acceptable to public opinion.’
‘Oh, you do propose to take account of that?’
‘Naturally.’
The three men were leaving. Derek stiffened. It seemed impossible that he would not be challenged. But they passed him, deep in conversation. Derek waited a minute, then left the room and stepped on to the moving corridor, several feet behind Laing and Peel, engrossed in his clipboard. The professor had gone his own way.
‘What choice have we got?’ Peel was raging, ‘What else has the rundown country your generation has bequeathed us to offer Europea?’ His voice had lost its charm. It nagged. ‘We’re finished if we don’t join, and we can’t join empty-handed. What does it matter to you at your age —?’
Laing mumbled, ‘It was never what we intended when —’
‘The good old days! How sentimental you are about your precious ideas — be sentimental about the whole human race for a changel’
Laing stepped off the moving corridor, bound for a sign promising real coffee. Derek got off too. Peel stayed on, alone. The corridor seemed to accelerate.
‘Let me get this straight,’ said Lynn, tipping beans into a pan. They rattled stonily, then shifted, maggot-like, as the heat stirred the water. Jim had brought them. The story was that he’d found a job and been paid in kind. Lynn knew perfectly well that the beans were stolen, but had said nothing. He wanted to contribute to the household, and anyway she didn’t want to see again the come-now-mother-dear look that came into his eyes when he informed her that everybody got bits and pieces under the counter these days. Nor for that matter did she wish to hear the prissy tones in which Jane would declare that her patriotism would not permit her to consume goods of dubious origin, and anyway she needed meat. At least the beans were real food (for all the hours they took to soften, and the thick, sour-tasting steam they emitted when boiled) — not like the substances in the garish tins that cost such a price at the hypermarket, highly scented and tasting of sponge and rubber and dough.
Derek had materialised through the steam, anxious and early home from his conference on another planet. He’d come with a lot to tell her.
‘Let me get this straight, Derek. They want to plan population like they plan the production of — of steel girders. ’
‘Yes,’ said Derek.
‘Not just the old zero-population-growth idea.’
‘A bit more sophisticated than that. Advancing on it, reversing it in some cases. They’re worried that there are too few young people in Euopea, for example. And, by implication though it wasn’t spelled out, too few European types in a world teeming with nasty niggers. They want to get the balance right.’
‘Right for what?’ She prodded at the contents of the pan.
‘Right for ...’Derek spread his hands.‘Right for balance.’
‘But they didn’t say what balance. That’s my point, Derek — they didn’t say what they meant by right.'
‘It’s not my fault.’
‘No, no.’ She shook the pan. ‘I’m trying to work this out. Europea’s the last ditch stand of the developed world, right, to support an ecologically disastrous style of living at the expense of everybody else. We're all to live in boxes with adjustable walls and have meetings in air-conditioned spheres and eat rotten beans and chemicals, and everything will be planned according to the whim of whatever power-crazed clique of males happen to be in office at the time — everything, right down to the last fuck —’
‘The last productive fuck. ’
‘Oh, is that all? Well of course. Men will always want to fuck.’ She was shaking.
Derek said, ‘Are you sure you weren’t there?’
‘I didn’t need to be there, did I? And women are to be baby-factories. Correction. Some women are to be baby-factories.’ And she thought of all the women Marsha had told her about, who had had those crab-like pellets fitted as the price of continuing to receive Benefit, and how recalcitrant doctors were about removing them, however badly the women were suffering from back pains and odd hormone effects such as changes of voice-tone, depression, unexpected tufts of hair. The medical women at Collindeane were trying to learn how to remove the things, but warnings from the medical profession about dire and dangerous consequences made them reluctant to experiment.
Derek was saying something believable. She blinked at him. ‘What did you say?’
He flinched .
‘I ... I just said, this could be your scoop.’
‘Scoop?’ She might never have heard the word.
‘Maybe you could get back into journalism with it,’ he said lamely, adding, ‘it would help the women’s movement too.’
She said, ‘Yes. It’s funny, Derek, I hadn’t thought of it like that. You know? Really. No, don’t be guilty. You’re right, it could be a scoop, but we have to be cleverer than that.’ Slowly, hypnotically, she prodded a bean with a fork, peered at it, offered it to Derek to taste.
‘Could do with a bit longer,’ he said mechanically, ‘What are you going to do?’ She didn’t answer. ‘Aren’t you going to write about it?’
‘Write about it?’ She blinked. Her eyes were at once blazing and bewildered. Her face was damp with steam.
‘Lynn, you look quite beautiful. What are you thinking?’
‘It’s the last thing they’ll ever take from us. It’s been their excuse, for years, for ever — their excuse for every kind of shit they’ve heaped on us: you have babies. You are the sacred mothers, the founts of life. You can’t do this, you must do that, because you have this special role. You have babies. You’re wonderful at it. It’s important. We’ll leave that to you, and you leave everything else to us. And now they’ve found they can’t leave it to us. Not even that. The randomness, the — the wildness of it, won’t fit into their planned century. How abstracted can they get? What’s the planning for?’
‘Lynn, I can’t bear it when you seem to be blaming me.’
‘You’re a man aren’t you? Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’
‘Well, thanks.’ He forced a sm
ile. He had never felt such a gulf between them. ‘Population is the louse in the ointment of planning.’
‘Fly,’ Lynn growled.
Chapter 7: International Relations
Mrs Rashida Patel shuffled slowly down Whitehall, leaning on her stick. From behind piles of rubbish, little knots of beggars made hopeful sorties, but, recognising her, gave up. MPs had taken a decision not to encourage beggars by responding to them in the vicinity of the House.
Soon, she thought, she would have to retire. Her limbs were weak, her hearing almost gone. It was hard to make speeches not knowing the sound of her voice, seeing only the little smiles passed like sweets among the few men who listened, not hearing their jokes and interjections.
She was the only woman in the House now, and she was black.
Alan Travers had gone into a self-satisfied retirement; Isabel, tyrannical and coquettish in her old age, issued statements on morals from their home. Rashida herself and David Laing were all that remained of the early Family Party members, the older generation; and Laing was coming increasingly under the sway of the new.
Politicians should be able to hold office for two hundred years, she thought. They should see the genesis of things, understand how they came to be — not take them as fixed, as given, as a jumping-off point for some grotesque flight of logic, which was how some of the youngsters these days seemed to be looking at Benefit.
‘Mrs Patel. Madam. Madam.'
She turned at the sound of her name. A tiny, sunken-cheeked woman was looking at her, Asian by appearance but with a cockney voice. She threw her a coin.
‘I’m starving. So are my children.’
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