The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe

by D. G. Compton

  Apart from us, the only animated guest at the party was a young man, dressed totally in black, who sat drooped over the synthetizer console producing surprisingly ordered free association stuff. He ignored us.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ Rondavel said. ‘He’s on his own out. All that’s left is a little psycho-motor in the fingers.’

  He led the way between amoebic mounds of translucent upholstery, stepping over spilled legs and arms and exotic drapery. I nudged Katherine. ‘Weekend fringies,’ I murmured. ‘Most of the vices and none of the virtues.’

  She nodded, and drew her skirts closely about her ankles.

  ‘You must excuse us,’ Rondavel said, at least having the sense to hand us food rather than drinks from the main service unit. ‘We do tend to go rather overboard at these little gatherings. Myself, I neutralized, then split for a touch of the realities. You know? . . . No objection to hoof beef, I take it?’

  I accepted the condescension. As a fringie I wouldn’t have touched nonanalogue meat in years. Katherine had already bolted hers, and was being offered more. The room was ridiculous, like some bad director’s idea of after-the-orgy. No doubt that was where they’d got it from.

  ‘We’re very innocent,’ Rondavel said, astutely reading my thoughts. ‘We try for the best of both worlds. I suppose you despise us.’

  Tolerance was the prime fringie thing. I smiled. ‘You do what you do. It’s not what I do. It’s a fragmentation. But who’s counting?’

  ‘You are, John. I know you are.’ He was working himself up. ‘You disapprove. I can see you do. You come in here radiating disapproval. You have this terrible reverse snobbery about the rich. You sit up on your high moral mountain, and—

  ‘We’d better go.’ But I had little hope. Maybe this was why he’d brought us here, to talk about his guilts.

  We glared at each other, neither moving. Katherine yawned, saved us. ‘It’s all so boring . . .’ She took another slice of beef. ‘We use each other. People always do. Let’s agree on that and then get on with . . . whatever’s got to be got on with.’

  It wasn’t mainstream fringie, but it shut him up. He relaxed, went around prodding people gently with his Turkish-slippered foot. They roused, scratched themselves, farted, giggled. Rich or poor, the human body never let up on you.

  ‘Visitors, my children. Bestir yourselves. Waifs of the storm. Interrupted on the long journey from nowhere to nowhere. Before your very eyes. Kindly here to give us of their wisdom.’

  If he was mocking himself, he was mocking us also. We stood, and munched our hoof beef, and waited.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of Corry. The clothes go to his head. I’m Margaret.’

  We introduced ourselves, nonintroduced ourselves. Behind her klutzy sunglasses this particular Margaret was a singularly beautiful young woman. ‘I’m so glad you could come.’ Me, I looked around for the cucumber sandwiches. ‘Corry doesn’t mean to insult you — he’s just embarrassed. I expect you are too.’

  ‘Not us,’ said, Katherine. ‘We have this built-in superiority thing. It’s so restful. In a world where everybody believed themselves superior there’d be no more wars.’

  She was really doing extraordinarily well. Of course, I should have known she would. Margaret laughed. ‘Does that work between men and women too?’

  ‘More than ever. I know I’m superior to John here, and he -poor fool — believes he’s superior to me. That’s why we get on so well.’

  Another woman, intense, aware of her overlarge teeth, joined us. ‘But who,’ she said, stretching her upper lip, ‘who gets on who? That’s what I want to know.’

  And there we were, in thirty seconds flat, talking about sex. If it wasn’t drugs with us fringies, it was sex. No wonder we were envied.

  ‘Please, no mechanics,’ said Margaret quickly. ‘It’s far too early in the day for that.’

  The woman took her teeth away, disappointed.

  ~ * ~

  Katherine knew she was going out of her mind. She heard herself saying things she detested, impossible things. And laughing. Laughing ... In this room she was as much on show as if she had been in front of Vincent Ferriman’s cameras. And she was, or a part of her was, a part of her certainly was enjoying it. Because it was a performance, perhaps. A lie. She who had planned to escape into truth, was enjoying the lie.

  She felt as if time were reeling past her: hours, days, weeks, speeded up into computer chatter. She struggled to catch at it, understanding for the first time truly what was the matter with her. There was logic and anti-logic, sequence and anti-sequence, phase and anti-phase. The curve was exponential. They were burning her up. She knew she was going out of her mind. And enjoying it.

  People peered into her face, terrible gaudy people. Sometimes she heard them. ‘Society is corrupt. Is that why you don’t mind living off it?’

  ‘Corruption isn’t a bad thing. Look in your dictionary. Out of corruption grow the most beautiful lilies.’

  ‘That sounds like the Bible — Consider the lilies of the field.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve only just thought of it. Perhaps they weren’t the same lilies.’

  Laughing. Laughing. Her answers were as silly as the questions. Sometimes she simply walked among the terrified, terrifying people, and murmured ‘Care.’

  She was given things to eat, and ate them. She was given things to drink, and drank them.

  The places where she stood were sometimes very bright and sometimes very dark. There was music, and the people danced shapelessly. Compositions of tiny mirrors flashed, pricking her skin. They were burning her up. She stopped hearing the questions, stopped hearing everything but the music and the mirrors. The people retreated: she caught hold of them and still they retreated. They laughed as she ran among them, catching at their silks and burlap. They retreated, cloth coming away in her hands. They danced and laughed, not she but they, naked, and a path led away between them, up steps, through music, across aeons of crimson to Rod, tiny in the distance, growing as she ran.

  She reached him, held him close, felt him drift out of her arms like smoke. But the path had closed behind her and he was there, still there. Still. There. Rod. A rod of iron. A rod for her own back. A rod . . . She clutched at his arms, his waist his smoky thighs. Around her people cheered silently, huge mouths over juddering pink and orange and blue. This, she knew, was no longer a lie. He was angry, arguing, shaking his head, shaking his head, shaking her head.

  Cold now, her face against his smoky thighs, and sweating, she waited. She could feel his vehemence, his refusal. She waited. And the mouths gaped.

  They took her away from him. There was a machine on huge silent wheels, smooth and beautiful. They placed it beside her, around her. She marveled, no longer afraid, at the terrible playthings of the rich. There was sex in the air, in the smooth and beautiful maneuvering of the machine. It took her up with a sigh. Rod was held far away, watching, gaping. The noises burst in on her, wordless, only to fade to a sudden quiet, with just the thin thread of music and the breath of the machine in her face. She didn’t struggle. The movement in her body wasn’t painful, only dry and wearisome. She looked out, past the machine, at Rod where he stood in the shifting flakes of light. His mouth was closed, and there were tears on his cheeks.

  Later, except for him and her, the rooms were quite empty. She sat up. Incredibly, he had found a TV set and was watching it. Yards away, past hideous, lumpy somethings his face was lit by the purplish TV glow. She stared around: the place was a huge, idiotic shambles. Anybody could hang mirrors on plastic threads and twiddle them. Anybody could trundle in machines and out again. Anybody could blow up plastic bags and call them furniture.

  He heard her move and quickly turned off the set. He looked up at her from the upholstered hollow in which he was sprawling. In the houses of the rich, apparently, nobody was expected to sit. ‘Feeling better?’

  He didn’t attempt to come to her. She shook her head. ‘Not much.’

  �
�Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to accept lifts from strangers?’

  ‘Which mother?’

  She could be as clever as he, say as little, wait.

  ‘I reckon they spiked your drinks. How much do you remember?’

  Then she did remember. Coldly she thrust her clothes down between her legs. ‘I was raped,’ she said.

  ‘No—’ He heaved himself up. ‘That was what they wanted. Something of the sort. But—’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know?’

  ‘They went away. I swear it. Sidled out like a bunch of naughty children.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know?’

  He hurried to her, tried to take her hand. But she hid it away. ‘Believe me, Katherine. When it came to it, there wasn’t a man who would. That’s the truth.’

  ‘But the machine . . .’

  ‘They spiked your drink. You were confused.’

  She remembered the breath in her face, the dry ache. ‘Where are they now?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s a big house. And there’s always next door. They’re all pals up here on Fairhills.’

  ‘How long have I been—?’

  ‘Not more than an hour. I tell you, Katherine, they spiked your drink.’

  She shook her head, remembering the breath in her face. But she didn’t want to talk about it. ‘How much do you know about computers?’ she said instead.

  ‘Me, I don’t even know about people. When I refused them their peep-show they got real mad. I’d’ve said they were all set to hurt someone. But—’

  ‘I have a theory about computers. You see, they don’t have self-knowledge. On a fundamental level there’s no feedback. Otherwise it’d be like an audio system. If a microphone hears what it transmits, it transmits what it hears. Louder and louder till something breaks.’

  ‘Katherine, I wish I knew what the hell you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m a bit more than a computer, Rod. I have self-knowledge. I understand what I know what I know what I understand.’

  ‘So do we all.’

  ‘But you’re not dying of it. I am.’ She let him take her hand. She dared, in the dark and secret, no-place room, dared tell him anything. ‘So I’ve been warned what to expect. Louder and louder till something breaks.’

  ‘Louder? When you say louder, do you really mean faster?’

  She took off her goggles, leaned back, closed her eyes. It was good that he should understand. She remembered breath in her face where he said there’d been none. She remembered the dry pushing between her legs where he said there wasn’t a man who would. She believed him. And the wheels of the machine, the smooth and beautiful machine, would have left lines in the thick red pile of the carpet . . . She felt a rigor coming, and dismissed it as hysteria, mere wishful thinking. Rather this than Lord of Upper Egypt: rigor, paralysis, sweating, coordination loss, double vision, incontinence, hallucination, breakdown of... It was untidy to have missed out on the incontinence, untidy not to have every symptom every time. But clearly her twenty-four days were down to less, to ten, or six, or three, or two.

  ‘Rod? What peep-show did you refuse them, Rod?’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. They didn’t get it. It doesn’t matter.’

  Her fingers were huge and swollen, so that they rubbed together like sausages where he held them. ‘I’ve got to get old,’ she said. ‘There’s ... so much I’ve got to understand.’

  ‘So have we all.’

  ‘Does it sound such pious bullshit the way I say it?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound pious bullshit at all.’

  ‘Oh Lord . . .’ Her mind was wandering off, meeting the rigor halfway. ‘The thing is ... we expect the impossible. We always expect things to have to mean something.’

  ‘And don’t they?’

  ‘Poor Rod, of course they don’t. Just . . . circuits.’

  He sat beside her for a long time. Somewhere in the dark velvet spaces of the room a clock struck midnight. The sculptures turned and flittered. He sat beside her through the rigor and the paralysis, and beyond. Finally she slept.

  ~ * ~

  7

  Monday

  When Dawlish, the monitoring engineer, finally got through to Vincent he was in his dressing gown, pouring the last of the brandy, preparing for bed. Vincent had had a busy Sunday, knocking Roddie’s accumulated footage into shape for the evening transmission. Running it at thirty minutes — twenty-seven with commercials — they had plenty of good stuff left, possibly to plug gaps with later on.

  Judging from the switchboard’s reports, the show’s reception had been mixed. He wasn’t worried — reaction to something new was always cautious. They’d looked, and they’d look again. At this stage he asked for nothing more. Harry’d been on the phone, of course, just to say how pleased he was everything was going so nicely. His wife looked surprisingly well, he thought.

  Vincent had watched the transmission alone, and then settled down to unwind with a bottle before going early to bed. He had a wife, too, but they seldom met. Mostly he lived in a suite at the top of NTV House.

  He listened carefully to what Dawlish had to say, thanked him for thinking to keep him informed (he was good with subordinates), and said he’d be down at once. In fact it took him ten minutes to get down to the monitoring room. He had shaved first, and put on a clean shirt and a sharp check tie. No problem looked so bad if you weren’t yourself shop-soiled.

  ‘. . . Rod. I have self-knowledge. I understand what I know what I know what I understand.’

  And on the screen, Katherine Mortenhoe, wearing her ridiculous goggles.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Eh?’

  The monitoring engineer sighed. ‘Looks like she’s gone round the bend, sir.’

  Vincent peered at the screen, wishing Roddie’d give him a half-shot, some idea of what was going on. ‘How long have they been in Rondavel’s house?’

  ‘Since about seven, sir.’

  ‘Why the hell wasn’t I called earlier?’

  Roddie’s voice: ‘Louder? When you say louder, do you really mean faster?’

  ‘Well? Turn that bloody thing down. Why wasn’t I called sooner?’

  ‘I’ve . . . only just come on duty, sir. Mr Simpson probably thought—’

  ‘I see. You’re Dawlish, aren’t you?’

  The man nodded, straightened his white coat at being recognized.

  ‘Well, Dawlish, I’m glad someone in the department uses his head. What’s been happening?’

  ‘Quite a lot, sir, one way and another. I’ve been rerunning the tapes. I’m afraid they’re pretty hot.’

  ‘The chairman’s no angel, Dawlish. We all know that. And I’m sure I can rely on your discretion.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Ferriman.’

  Dawlish brought out the pompous in him. He could scarcely believe there were Dawlishes left — he’d thought one of the last had been his house master . . . On the screen Katherine Mortenhoe appeared to be asleep. The picture crept away from her, around acres of typical dolce vita decor. Vincent could hardly credit it. The designer had done exactly the same for him once, on a drama one-shot. He wondered if the chairman knew. »

  The picture returned to Katherine, catching her face as she said something. Evidently they were alone.

  ‘On the phone you said they’d not been rumbled, Dawlish. Are you sure of that?’

  ‘There’s a sequence here, sir. The chairman wants a sort of show, sir. He wants to see how fringies . . . er . . . copulate. That’s why I don’t think they’ve been rumbled, Mr Ferriman.’

  ‘Tell me, Dawlish, does your wife know you get to watch this sort of thing?’ Dawlish smiled, man to man. ‘Right. Now I’d better see this thing right from square one. Oh, and while it’s running, you tell the switchboard to get me Dr Mason. Mason — they have his number. Ask him to come over straight away. I may be going to need his advice.’

  Dawlish warmed up another monitor. On it Vincent watched Katherine Mort
enhoe past — the car ride, the garage, the elevator, the bathroom — while beside her on the first screen Katherine Mortenhoe present juddered her way through her sad affliction, and slept, and midnight came and went.

  Dr Mason was hardly svelte. Both he and his clothes looked as if neither had rested for a long time. Possibly since the previous Tuesday. He entered, sat, stared; painfully, synthetically awake. Vincent foresaw trouble.

  ‘Ah, Mason, what kept you? We’ve got a trauma here. Sex and all that. I’ll do a rerun.’

  Mason held up one finger, listening. Katherine Mortenhoe past was talking about computers. He frowned, looking from monitor to monitor, guessing which was which. ‘. . . They don’t have self-knowledge. On a fundamental level there’s no feedback. Otherwise it’d be like an audio system. If a microphone hears what it transmits, it transmits what it hears. Louder and louder till something breaks.’’