by Kit Pedler
‘You’ve had the first seven necessary bad ideas,’ said Kramer, ‘and now I’d like to have a real session with you if I may.’
‘Now?’ groaned Buchan. Kramer nodded. ‘Yes, exactly now. I know you’re tired but that’s often when the best ideas come out. I’d like to go back over your premises and see why they haven’t worked. We may get nothing but the chances are that we can break out a couple of good ideas you can develop over the weekend.’
Kramer looked around at the tired men. ‘Betty’s bringing in a bottle of Scotch, best malt.’ He looked over to Buchan. ‘The best Jock, an Islay malt. Meanwhile I’ve got something here that needs looking into.’
He looked over and he appeared to notice Gerrard for the first time. ‘Luke, perhaps you can help, it’s a bit of leg work.’ Gerrard looked up, trying hard not to seem too eager. Any chance to get out of this oppressive building. He’d contributed very little to the debate of the last few days and was conscious of his inadequacies when it came to the chemical side of the consultancy.
‘Do you know where Barratt’s of Kensington is? Or let’s put it this way – do you know what Barratt’s of Kensington is?’
‘The big store near Harrods?’
‘That one,’ said Kramer. ‘They’ve had some trouble in their toy department.’
‘No kidding.’ Gerrard cocked an eyebrow.
‘It looks like some trouble with aminostyrene.’ Wright looked up from some papers he was sorting on his desk. ‘Perhaps I should go.’ said Wright.
Wright’s Aminostyrene was their first significant commercial success. An ingenious compound based to some degree on the combined molecular structures of protein and polystyrene, it had proved both cheap and easy to manufacture. Large combines had taken over the mass-production yielding considerable royalties. Not only was their product the main constituent of the degradable bottle, it also formed part of literally hundreds of products from missiles to toys.
‘I’d rather you stayed,’ said Kramer. ‘Anne’s over there now. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. Just want to keep it out of the hands of the press, that’s why I want somebody to go over.’
Gerrard looked at him inquiringly.
‘Some of the plastic in, I don’t know, some kind of Christmas toy grotto or bazaar has melted and the guy on the job can’t account for it. Probably turn out to be the heat or, more than likely, some joker’s poured acetone on it. We don’t guarantee it against everything. I want you to go take a look and bring back a sample for testing here.’
‘On my way.’ Gerrard rose and moved over to the door.
‘Oh, gonna take your car with you? I know Anne would be darn grateful for a ride home afterwards.’
Betty entered with a bottle and some glasses on a tray just as Gerrard reached the door. He stood aside to let her pass. Buchan stood up for the first time that day and went over to help her with the tray, his eyes fixed on the tall green bottle. OK, don’t offer me a drink, thought Gerrard. Anyway I prefer rye. He passed through the corridor, out of the entrance and into the rain.
On the way to Barratt’s, driving slowly through the jammed pre-Christmas traffic, Gerrard thought about Anne Kramer.
He had met her twice. The first time was at Kramer’s home on his first evening in London and the second time at the Kramer Consultancy some weeks later. Only two meetings, but they’d been enough for him to know that she attracted him more than any other woman he’d met for years.
He jammed on his brakes and skidded to a halt only inches away from a taxi which had cut in ahead of him. The taxi drove on unheedingly and Gerrard, by now fairly conditioned to the fuming congestion of London traffic, ignored the incident and went on thinking about Anne. She disturbed him.
She was a beautiful woman by any standards. Tall, with thick dark brown hair, large fine hazel eyes and a slightly olive complexion. She had an elegant, easy composure which he found difficult to get through and which he attributed to her British, upper-class upbringing … as he termed it. There was always a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth and, perhaps, a hint of a challenge in the way she looked at you. Anyone looking at her could imagine her effectiveness as an interviewer though they might not have guessed that she was one of the country’s leading science columnists.
She could certainly handle men, that was obvious. She had the quality of making each man she met feel that she was personally interested in him. It may have been a professional trick of the trade, thought Gerrard, but if so, it was a damn good one.
He was fairly cynical about women. The broken marriage, its aftermath and a score of fleeting, uneasy affairs had made him apprehensive about any serious involvement. Perhaps he had been looking for a woman rather too eagerly after the break-up, there must have been something hungry and over-anxious about his approach. At all events, his attempts at contact had been notable for their lack of success. A quick roll in the hay with Gerrard, yes, if that was success! He was tall, interesting-looking rather than conventionally handsome and there was a forceful look about his face which appealed to women. But none of them, it appeared, wanted anything more durable …
With a start, he found that he was at his destination, a small tree-lined square immediately behind Barratt’s. There was a Bentley moving out of one of the few parking meter spaces.
He started to edge his Citroen in as the Bentley moved away, not noticing a predatory mini car which had crept up behind him and was now trying to by-pass him by slipping into the space. The mini was driven by a girl with long blonde hair and a flashing smile. Thinking she wanted to pass he waved her forward and she started to slide into the space. Gerrard instinctively jammed the gears into reverse and there was a moment’s battle of wills as both cars headed for each other on a collision course. Abruptly the girl jammed on her brakes and backed away frozen faced. He drove into the space with his tyres just touching the kerb, got out, put a couple of coins into the parking meter and headed across the square towards Barratt’s.
The store was packed with pre-Christmas shoppers. In the past, Gerrard had enjoyed the pre-Christmas rush and the atmosphere of a store at Christmas time. During his student days he had often helped behind the counter to make some money during the college vacation. He had worked in the big stores in Toronto and Montreal but the atmosphere here was quite different.
In the big Canadian stores there was a brightness, an innocence about Christmas, despite the gaudy exhortations to buy superfluous presents. Here, everyone seemed tired and jaded, there seemed to be no pleasure in the process. It was a ritual, complied with as any other ritual but without any simple joy or anticipation. Not, Gerrard reflected as he made his way up the escalator towards the toy department, that there was a lot of joy to be found in shopping.
In the toy department the bustle, if anything, was greater and he put the noise level at well above seventy decibels. Children were yelling, calling to each other, snatching toys, beating drums and blowing tin horns; there were small record players grinding out last year’s pops and metallic screeching nursery rhymes. There was the high-pitched whine of small electric cars and motors mixed with the whirr of clockwork and the disorganized clacking of a hundred tin animals cavorting brainlessly around a large circular table.
At the far end of the department was the traditional grotto and a long queue for Santa Claus. Beside the grotto was a special exhibit for the Christmas season entitled ‘The Walk on the Moon’. Anne Kramer was standing outside waiting for him. He went over to her.
‘Hello,’ said Anne. She introduced a fresh-faced, curly haired and eager young man in a thick tweed jacket who was standing beside her.
‘This is Mr Aspinall, Mr Gerrard.’ They shook hands. Aspinall was tall, gangling, youthful his handshake was limp and slightly damp.
‘Well,’ said Gerrard, ‘let’s go.’ Aspinall led the way through the now closed, public exhibition.
Barratt’s had really gone to town this year with their special attraction. It must have cost thousan
ds thought Gerrard. No expense had been spared with a replica of a lunar module, a large expanse of silver moon-sand and, as the main feature, two life-sized figures in space suits, one of which was able, Aspinall explained, to bend down, pick up a lunar rock and carry it some half dozen yards across to the waiting space craft. It then loaded it in the space craft and returned to its former position. The trouble had apparently started with this particular figure which represented the commander of the space ship.
The robot had originally been made for a ‘cybernetics’ convention as a demonstration machine built by an American university. It had then been partly dismantled and bought up by the company that Aspinall represented. Aspinall and his team had rebuilt the robot including certain gear trains made of Aminostyrene.
In Aspinall’s workshop this had worked well. It had made the robot more portable and much cheaper and had been a great success. It had been mounted in the store about a week ago and Anne Kramer had written a special piece for her column about it and the way it incorporated Aminostyrene and other new plastic materials.
The grand opening of the exhibition had been a success and within two or three days it had drawn a large crowd of adults and children at the inflated price of thirty new pence a head. Then things had started going wrong and for the last five days the exhibition had been closed. The trouble apparently lay in the plastic itself.
Aspinall guided them to a small workbench set up behind the space capsule; on the bench were a number of the small gears, back plates and other components from the robot. Apparently, they had softened and lost their shape and were lying in various, rather contorted postures on the bench. They looked as though they had been melted by heat or exposed to a solvent.
‘How hot is it inside there?’ Gerrard nodded over to the blazing arc lamps reflected on the silver sand which simulated lunar sunlight.
‘About seventy-five,’ said Aspinall. ‘Not nearly hot enough to have melted these. But you’re the expert in that department.’
Gerrard merely nodded. Anne came up and looked closely at them, picking one up in her hand and looking at it intently. ‘Could it have been some form of solvent?’
‘That might account for it of course,’ said Aspinall, ‘but as far as I can make out, nothing like that has been anywhere near it.’
‘But have you been around all the time?’ said Gerrard. ‘Perhaps a cleaner …?’ His weak suggestion embarrassed him.
‘Highly unlikely,’ said Aspinall. ‘We clean it down ourselves with spirit. The staff here have strict instructions not to meddle. Anyway, it keeps happening. I’ve replaced these gears three times. Each time this happens. Here.’ He led them back to the main part of the display. They shielded their eyes from the blaze of the arc lamps.
‘Now,’ he continued, ‘I have mounted our last set of gears in the robot. I coated them with a protective lacquer so if there’s any solvent acetone or what have you inside the thing it’ll take a while to get through. I’ve put a thermometer here to give us the temperature. Let’s see what happens. If you would like to stand back over here.’
He stepped up onto the raised rostrum of the display area and crunched across the sand to where a thin hardboard partition separated them from the main body of the toy department Anne hesitated in the middle, facing the robot.
Aspinall beckoned to her. ‘Over here, you’ll be in its path there.’ He looked around and picked up a small radio transmitting set, similar to the type used for model boats and cars.
‘Here we go.’ He switched on and then turned the control knob. They looked across at the robot.
There was a whine of servo-motors, the head slowly moved up, the arms flexed, one of the legs began retracting and the robot tilted over to one side. Then the legs swung forward purposefully and crunched into the sand. ‘It’s working again,’ said Aspinall excitedly.
‘Perhaps you’ve found the answer,’ said Anne. The robot came forward with the ponderous motion of a deep sea diver, heading towards the space capsule. Its arms were outstretched in front of it, as though carrying an imaginary rock.
‘He’s supposed to place a moon rock into the capsule,’ said Aspinall.
‘And then?’ asked Gerrard.
‘He turns round and comes back for another rock,’ said Aspinall.
‘Exciting,’ said Gerrard, not intending it to be too sarcastic.
‘The children think so,’ said Aspinall, a little huffily. ‘Excuse me.’ He went over to the space capsule. The robot had now reached it and was stiffly bending down to place an imaginary rock in a container inside the open door. Aspinall climbed past it and disappeared inside the capsule. The robot slowly turned and started lurching back.
Anne, nearly blinded by the arc lamps, turned to Gerrard. ‘I’ve got some sand in my shoe,’ she said. ‘Would you?’ She put out an arm for support and bent down to take off her open-toed shoes.
Gerrard grasped her arm, it was as close as he had been to her and he was aware of a subtle perfume and the rich dark brown sweep of her hair. She was vitally attractive and he felt a slight tautening of his stomach and an increased flow of adrenalin (he told himself as a medic), something he had not felt for years. She bent down and shook the sand out, holding tight to his arm. She wore dark coloured sheer tights and her slender legs were silhouetted in black against the white sand.
A long shadow appeared between them, he glanced round. Above them loomed the huge figure of the robot, its arms stretched up almost above its head terrifyingly reminiscent of a karate chop.
‘Look out,’ said Gerrard. He grabbed her round the waist and pulled her away just as the robot’s arms swung down towards her head. One of the arms caught Anne a glancing blow on the shoulder as they flung themselves on the sand out of the way of the robot. The robot continued moving towards the screen. Its arms came up again in the initial position, before picking up the moon rocks. As it reached the screen it gradually accelerated the pace of its stiff pistonlike legs. It seemed to hesitate for a moment and then smashed right through the hardboard screen.
One complete panel fell outward and on the other side Gerrard could see the startled faces of the long queue of parents and children for Santa Claus. The next instant the robot was through the space. There were screams, the waiting queues scattered as the giant figure came lurching towards them. A woman with a baby girl fell over in the rush, children scattered, screaming hysterically. Gerrard picked himself up off his knees and ran over to where Aspinall had left the control. As Gerrard reached it the robot was slowly pacing towards the unconscious woman and daughter who was clutching her in a paroxysm of fright. Another moment and the massive boots would be stamping on her body.
Gerrard threw the switch. There was a whirring from the robot and miraculously, just as the foot was coming up, it creaked and stopped. Its weight could only provide a proper balance while in motion and it slowly toppled over sideways crashing to the ground and shaking the entire floor. The commotion died down and the crying children were led off by their angry parents. Gerrard turned back to Anne.
‘You’re not hurt are you?’ said Aspinall.
‘We’re OK,’ said Gerrard. ‘Get to that God damn thing.’ He pointed to the robot and Aspinall hurried through. ‘And disconnect it,’ Gerrard shouted after him. ‘Come on,’ he said to Anne, ‘I’m going to get you out of here.’
Anne stopped. ‘No, I’m all right.’
‘Your shoulder?’ said Gerrard, touching her shoulder lightly where her coat was torn. Anne winced: ‘Leave it – it’s only bruised. I want to see what went wrong.’
She went over to Aspinall who was now crouched over the figure and opening up a panel on its back.
‘We can come back.’ Gerrard followed her. ‘I think you need a drink.’
‘No,’ said Anne firmly, then she swayed briefly steadied by Gerrard. She raised her hand to her head: ‘Perhaps I do.’
‘Come on then.’ They made their way through the crowds.
‘That working now?’ Ger
rard pointed to her glass. They were sitting with the remains of two large Scotches in a noisy and gaudy Kensington pub near the store.
‘I’ll say.’ Anne felt her shoulder gingerly. ‘This hurts a bit more though.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Just round the corner. We have a flat.’ She looked up at him. ‘You know, you’ve been up there.’
‘I’d forgotten. OK, let’s get you back home.’
‘It’s really not that bad.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that, OK?’ Gerrard smiled at her. ‘I am a doctor,’ he said in fake, pompous tones.
‘Yes doctor, I’m sorry. Can we go then?’ She stood up and they moved towards the door. ‘My car’s just across the road,’ said Gerrard.
Guided by Anne they drove around what seemed to be a succession of interminable spirals of narrow roads and squares ending up outside a large ultra-modern apartment block on Cromwell Road.
‘All these flats look alike to me,’ Gerrard said.
‘Thanks a lot.’
The flat looked different in the daylight. When Gerrard had seen it before, rather dazed from his flight, it had seemed cosy, tasteful, intimate. Now it was different. It must have reflected his mood at the time, thought Gerrard. He had wanted it to look homelike. As they went over to the leather couch and mosaic coffee table by the fire it seemed out of scale, too big, pretentious. The stonework of the fireplace was continued far beyond the actual fire area. Everything was exaggerated, showy rather than merely luxuriant.
‘Let’s see.’ He nodded towards her suit jacket and she started undoing the buttons.
Her shoulders were smaller, more slender than they appeared in her clothes. On the left one there was a large yellow and purple bruise appearing, the skin was unbroken. He felt her shoulder and the bones of her arm carefully for sign of fractures.
‘Does it hurt when you move it here?’ He lifted the arm up to an elevation above the shoulder.
‘No’ she said, ‘not there,’ He lifted it a bit higher. ‘There?’ She winced. ‘Yes, that hurts, it’s not fractured, is it?’