The 2084 Precept

by Anthony D. Thompson

  "Well…be that as it may," I said, "I cannot conceive of it, as you have correctly pointed out. But I can accept it as a possibility. And in any case, in your scenario, the big bangs may also be created by God or Allah or possibly by someone or something else."

  Jeremy smiled. A benevolent glance in my direction. In the direction of the ant colony.

  "Alright," he said, "let's leave it at that, Peter. I think we have covered the subject of beliefs quite sufficiently, and time is running out for me today. Could we deal perhaps with the topic of superstitions…in just a few words perhaps?"

  Oh yes, no need to worry about that. In very few words indeed. I need to get out of here. These meetings are not my kettle of fish. And in any case, I am in dire need of a cigarette. I am in dire need of two cigarettes. Three.

  "Yes, Jeremy. In addition to the beliefs, we have a lot of superstitions which, by the way, are also beliefs, but unfounded ones. Take the number 13, for example. In many parts of the world, people believe this to be an unlucky number. Many airlines do not allow a row 13 in their aircraft, presumably because they would lose business. Their customers would think that an aircraft with a row 13 would fall out of the sky. Some aircraft don't have a row 17 either, because that is also an unlucky number in countries such as Italy and Brazil, and such planes would also presumably fall out of the sky. Superstition rules and it serves no purpose to point out to superstitious humans that aircraft without these row numbers crash.

  And Friday the 13th is an unlucky date for most of us in Europe—but not if you're Spanish. In Spain, it is Tuesday the 13th. And I will not bore you with any of the more ludicrous superstitions—astrology, voodoo, tarot and the like—as it would be a waste of your time, Jeremy. But we also have many religious superstitions and a couple of examples of these may serve as useful illustrations."

  "Religious superstitions?"

  "Yes, we've always had these and we always will have them. I won't trouble you with the history of these things, sacrificing to the Sun Gods, killing 'witches' and so on, but here is an example from current times. A seven year old girl was ritually sacrificed—butchered in other words—in the Bijapur district of India in order to offer her liver to the gods holding sway in that area. According to the police, those responsible sincerely believed that the gods would accordingly provide them with a 'good harvest'. Note the word believe again, Jeremy. And, as their Gods undoubtedly said to them, a little girl and her liver is a small price to pay so that the rest of you can remain alive, right? It's a good deal in exchange for a good harvest, agreed? And—also in current times—a forty year old mother of two was burned alive in Nepal's capital, Kathmandu, by some of her relations whose religious beliefs had determined that she was a sorceress whose powers had enabled her to make her uncle seriously ill."

  "Well…and what about other parts of the world?"

  "Certainly. Let us take the country I live in, Germany. There are ongoing 'honor- killings'—year after year—usually, but not always, of young Islamic girls who adopt certain local social customs against their family’s wishes. Their murderers, fathers or brothers or uncles, seriously believe that in this way the family 'honor' will be protected or restored. This superstition is not to be found—I rush to point out—in the Koran. The desire and the will to murder members of your own family for this or any other reason is down to superstition, not religion."

  I know I’m becoming too detailed again, but never mind. I'll give him this one to ponder over as well.

  "Coincidentally, Jeremy, and purely as a matter of interest, there is currently an uproar in Germany about reduced court sentences for Islamic murderers and other Islamic criminals (compared to the sentences a German or other non-Islam person would receive) because of judgments referring to the 'religious and cultural considerations' deemed to have influenced the accused persons’ actions."

  "How eccentric. Stupid of course as well."

  I rushed onward. "And this ‘kill and restore honor’ superstition is not confined to a single religious group or to any specific country either. Take the U.K. for example. There are plenty of these male-dominated 'revenge' killings—revenge by men for having their personal wishes and their perceived power and authority ignored by female members of their family."

  Jeremy coughed. "Indeed."

  He was not wasting his time on words, that's for sure. Which suited me fine, the craving for a cigarette need was becoming extremely serious. So just one more example to finish this off.

  "Another superstition is the one believed in by certain members of the Islamic religion—and in particular by their suicide bombers—namely, that they will be rewarded for their honorable deeds with 72 female virgins when they reach their heaven. This assertion, however, is also not to be found in the Koran, although—due to certain ambiguous translations of Verse 33 in Chapter 78—there are Muslims who would argue otherwise. Certainly, the Koran makes mention of a variety of pleasurable delights awaiting the faithful upon their demise, but not the 72 virgins. In fact, Allah does not appear to offer a guarantee of even a single virgin. Or even a non-virgin."

  "Yes, well, it still sounds like a superior paradise to the Christian one in which you get to play the harp, wouldn't you say?"

  "Oh it does, Jeremy, it does, but only if you are a man. There is no superstition involving 72 young studs awaiting the ladies."

  "I see," Jeremy said. "Or rather, I don't. But I don't think I need any more on this subject. You have your religious beliefs and you have your unfounded superstitions, and the latter are in some cases also connected to a religion. An intriguing planet you have here, I must say, and each of our meetings confirms it. As usual, I will research the facts."

  Great. It sounded as if we were finished. Another interview over, another slice of the human pie explained. Facts, not opinions. Just the way things are.

  "We don't need to arrange the next meeting today, Peter. We have finished our main agenda and you have been successful in providing me with a condensed overview of the selected subjects. I need to take the advice of my professor regarding the content and form of our subsequent, more detailed, interviews. I will let you know as soon as that has been decided. In the meantime, you will no doubt give me a call to inform me of the outcome of tomorrow's meeting?"

  "Of course, Jeremy. Oh, and by the way, I shall be going back to Germany on Friday evening. But no problem, we will be in contact by phone, and I can fly over at any time if I need to meet with the authorities again, or for us to continue with our interviews."

  "That will be fine, Peter. And take care of our mobile please. I wouldn't want to be troubling my people for permission to computer-hack a message to you regarding our next meeting. For which, by the way, I would also need your personal agreement. I would never computer-hack you without that."

  He smiled, raised his eyebrows. "You have my agreement on that," I said, "but I'll be taking care of the mobile anyway, don't worry." Absolutely. No way was a lost mobile going to be the possible cause of another €400,000 sliding down the drain.

  I went out past Miss Monroe with a big smile, down into the street, and lit up the long-awaited cigarette to accompany me on my way to the Dog and Duck. Miss Monroe might have been thinking it was a pity I didn't stop to chat, or, alternatively, she might not. She might have a boyfriend, she might be in the middle of a huge love affair. Or she might have a girlfriend, always a possibility in this day and age, as we all know. But I am not—at the moment—interested. Céline is still affecting my mood. Maybe next week. Or perhaps not, perhaps later in the year. Because the dream, Jane, would be back in her place again next week.

  DAY 21

  I woke up early, plenty to do today. Grey sky again. I skipped breakfast, just two cups of Lavazza, picked up the car from the garage, and headed off to Slough.

  I opened the sun roof and lit up a cigarette. It was not only a grey day but a windy one and a not very warm one—and so your dedicated smoker has cigarette ash blowing all over his car and he free
zes into the bargain. But such is life, we all have a price to pay for our sins. Nevertheless, and invisible as it usually is for the Brits, the sun was indeed up there, no doubt about it, burning merrily away on its suicidal road to death and keeping every single one of us warm, and therefore alive, while doing it. Good to know.

  The 'Clark's Industrial Adhesives and Fasteners PLC' sign was still looking good. The building itself was still looking dilapidated—we'll be fixing that along with other things when more of the profits are banked—and the guy at the front desk was still looking unhappy. Mind you, this time he had good reason to be, his salary would be less at the end of this month than it had been in the prior month.

  I went to see Fred and apologized for the fact that I would not be staying for a parting lunch. "Don't worry, Peter," he said, "you are continuing in a revised role anyway. We'll do it further on down the road." And he thanked me for my work, and I thanked him for his cooperation and for 'putting up with me'—humble pie, sincere or otherwise, a useful lubricant for keeping the wheels of social and professional relationships turning smoothly—and then I toured around saying thanks, see you again soon, to Charlie, Ron and all the others, right down to the machine operators and the office staff, but excluding, of course, the cow. She wouldn't have appreciated it anyway, and she would have shown it, which might have caused me to lose control and tell her that she would be more gainfully occupied in a field together with ten bulls. Or, if I wanted to be nice about it, five bulls. Or, if I wanted to be nice to the bulls, in a field on her own. But I did say goodbye to the guy at the front desk. Poor unhappy sod, his mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork.

  I smoked another cigarette and admired the sign again. Yes, I know what some people might think; but I am just one of those people who happen to regard a large and well-designed sign as a very fine thing. It's just the way I am. Nobody needs to worry about it.

  I drove back to the hotel in London. I called Monika and told her I would be back early Saturday morning, but that I would then be sleeping until about midday. Too cold and windy for walking, so I took a cab and had it wait while I collected and paid for my gifts for Roger and Geoff tomorrow. And then it was back to the hotel again. I checked out my MOD destination, set my mobile alarm for 4 p.m. and fell asleep.

  * * * * *

  It was raining when I woke up and so it was another cab for the short trip to Whitehall. Whitehall is a wide road, plenty of statues and monuments. It's full of ministries and ministers and ministers' staffs, and you would not be in error if you referred to it as the center of the U.K. government. One of these buildings houses the Ministry of Defence and the headquarters of the British Armed Forces. To be precise, my actual destination was not in fact in Whitehall but in Horse Guards Avenue, not to be confused with Horse Guards Road by the way. This avenue intersects with Whitehall and is where the northern entrance to the MOD Main Building is to be found. Sloppy directions from Delsey, lucky for him he doesn't work for me, but he can't cause problems for people who check their destinations in advance, no sweat.

  Even so, the rain was raining and the wind was gusting and my umbrella was in the car back at the hotel, and so I got soaked covering the ground to the building entrance. There is a statue of a Gurkha there, one of those Nepalese folk originally drafted into the British Army, poor buggers. Or maybe not such poor buggers. A Field Marshall in charge of the British Indian Army once said that if a man asserts he is not afraid to die, then he is either a liar or he is a Gurkha. Well…maybe. Or maybe the Field Marshall was simply full of shit. There are also a couple of monumental statues, or statuary monuments if you prefer, Earth and Water they are called. Not that I took any notice of these governmental decorations, I was getting soaked. But never mind, there are worse things than water and it's good for the hair.

  Into the building itself, not a very old one, a neoclassical affair finished about fifty or sixty years ago. I checked my watch, ten minutes early. Delsey was already waiting for me there, my 'contact person'. He hadn't changed, he was his usual dreary-looking self, a human reproduction of an envelope without an address on it.

  He guided me through a large number of corridors and into a big room which had clearly undergone some refurbishment at some point in time. It was a comfortable looking room, obviously for use by VIPs, and it had a large table in it with over twenty comfortable looking chairs surrounding it, nearly half of which were occupied. I didn't recognize anybody except Delsey's boss, the others could possibly be superior members of the police hierarchy perhaps.

  There were polite greetings and polite introductions and they were indeed all representatives of various branches of the so-called enforcement organization. But we were clearly waiting for additions to the party and so I excused myself and was directed to a door leading to the toilets or—as so eerily referred to by the Americans—to the restrooms. I suppose you could have a rest of some kind in there, but then you could do that in just about any room, couldn't you? Being a European, I took no rest, but I dried myself off, I shook my suit jacket, I ran my fingers through my hair, I checked that my rain-damaged appearance had improved by around 1%, and I headed back into the meeting. The seats were now nearly all occupied and two more persons were entering as I sat down.

  There is no end to the number of ministries in any given country, it seems, and there is no end, it also seems, to the number of departments within most of those ministries. Their task is to control and manage just about any aspect of the activities of the other human beings over whom they have power. The Ministry of Defence is no exception to this. It has a civilian staff of over 80,000 in order to run itself. It even has departments such as the Naval Education Service, the Royal Army Educational Corps, the Queen's Army Schoolmistresses, and the Children's Education Service—the headquarters of the latter being in Germany, by the way. It makes you think. Even a country like the U.K., which represents less than 1% of the world's population, requires hundreds of government departments, staffed by a vast army of hundreds of thousands of people, to tell others what to do, to create laws for them, to try and ensure those laws are obeyed, and to deal with those who don't obey them. None of which is of any particular interest other than that it makes it easier to understand one of the ways in which politicians spend money they don't have and bankrupt their countries with crippling burdens of debt.

  Well…I must say that we had some of the really big fish here today. The Piccadilly demonstration had of course been an exceedingly convincing one and it must have been given a lot of serious internal publicity. And it must have been clear to a lot of people that such abilities could prove to be of unimaginable advantage to whichever country managed to lay its hands on them.

  I was introduced to all of the newcomers and they included—I can recall most of them—one of the Ministers for Defence attending the Cabinet; the Attorney General, who, among other things, is the government's principal legal advisor on matters of international law; the Minister of State, Cabinet Office (who is responsible for providing policy to the prime minister); the boss of SIS, better known in common parlance as MI6; the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State (International Security Strategy); one of the five ministers who, together with the Home Secretary, head up the Home Office, which in turn is in charge of all of the country's police forces; the First Secretary of State and Secretary of State for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office; and the boss of Wilton Park, a department located in Steyning in Sussex, God knows why, and which is responsible, among other things, for arranging international conferences for politicians.

  A complicated meeting, you might think. Yes, but not as complicated as it might have been, had they wanted to involve more top people from the government jungle. And there must have been many who were simply unavailable at such short notice anyway, and there must have been many more who were singularly unimpressed with the information given to them and who didn't feel like wasting their time listening to a load of crap or—if you prefer the more sophisticated word
we borrowed from the French—ordure.

  And of course it wasn't important enough—yet—for some of the really big fish, guys like The Minister of Defence himself, or the Secretary of State for Defence, or the Deputy Prime Minister. But even so, they had managed to assemble a small but acceptably heavyweight gathering on next to no notice, so hats off to them.

  There was some shuffling in the seats, some harrumphing, some coughing, the noises you get to hear before the curtain rises at the opera or in a theatre, and then they told me that they would be grateful if I could arrange for an innocuous event within this room to kick things off—a kind of aperitif said one of them, haw, haw, haw, bloody fool. No problem, I said. And what the government officials did, they asked all of the police representatives to leave the room and wait outside, and then they told me what they had agreed on. These people should please come back in and bark like dogs, thank you. For how long, I asked. Not for long, they said, a minute would be more than enough.

  I confirmed to them what they already knew, that I personally had none of these powers and that I would have to telephone in the request, and I went through the door to the toilets and pressed the green button on Jeremy's phone.

  Nothing happened. I pressed again. Nothing. Ghastly thoughts began to slam around in my brain, my neurons were in disarray in less than a second and were formulating a series of grim, fearful scenarios, not only involving serious ridicule, but problems of a legal nature as well. Or of a not so legal nature—which an affronted and embarrassed high-level police authority would be perfectly capable of generating for a perpetrator, a time-wasting and taking-of-the-piss perpetrator.

  Until I realized that I had been using the wrong finger, my print wasn't being recognized, and when I corrected the error, it was—for the first time in my relationship with Jeremy—with colossal relief that I heard his voice on the other end, "Hi, Peter." Calm and collected. I had not yet returned to being calm and collected myself, but I gave him the request, and he said no problem. And so it was with a spring in my step—a remarkably factual expression in this case—that I returned to the room. All of the faces were looking at me, some expectant, some interested and some openly disinterested, skeptical. And then they looked at the main door, and then they looked back at me, and then they looked at the door again.