Einstein

by Einstein (retail) (epub)

  The dead were carried along the track to the other end of the slaughterhouse where row after row of young women sat waiting for the sky to rain corpses. The women wore hairnets and bored expressions. Their aprons were red with blood. Their faces were blue with cold. They held filleting knives in their hands. Some of them were singing.

  Within moments of its arrival at the slaughterhouse a chicken could be hung, drawn and stripped down to a skeleton. The legs, wings and breasts were tossed onto conveyor belts, sprayed with disinfectant, spiked with chilled water and flavour concentrates, rolled in coloured paste, wrapped in polythene, checked, weighed and sent half a mile to the freezers.

  The feathers were sucked up through a series of silver extraction hoses, carried aloft and blown, in relentless snowstorms, towards some distant part of the plant. The heads and claws were shovelled into grinding drums, mixed with entrails and turned by some diabolical magic into pellets of chicken feed. And while all this happened, while the chickens were having their throats cut and the dead-eyed girls were stripping out hearts and livers and lungs, the music swirled and blared around them.

  Farkiss shouted something that was lost on Charlie but it made the nearest girl shriek with laughter. She looked up and grinned at Charlie. She was a thin creature with a crooked nose. Her face had been carelessly painted, a smudge of lipstick, two dark circles of greasy eyeshadow. She was speaking, asking him questions, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  ‘What a girl!’ Farkiss bellowed.

  ‘What did she say?’ Charlie shouted.

  ‘She wants—know—you’d—excited if you got your—up a chicken!’ he bellowed happily, making a fist with his hand and pretending to saw the air into logs.

  Charlie shivered in disgust and tried to retreat but Farkiss had hold of his arm.

  The girl shouted another question but still Charlie could not hear a word above the ear-cracking music.

  ‘She says—wants—know how you’d like—stomach pulled out—arse!’ Farkiss bellowed. ‘She says that—all—visitors. What a girl! What—sense—humour!’ He roared with laughter. He considered the killing floor as his private harem. They belonged to him, these tough scrawny girls with their raw hands and vacant expressions. He was proud of them. He lingered for a few moments more and then marched Charlie away into the shadows of the great machines.

  He led him to machines that devoured the broken carcasses and scratched the shreds of flesh from the bones, and machines that seized these little scraps and knitted them together again into tasty, bite-sized chicken nuggets. He showed him machines that took the bloody bones and reduced them to glue, and machines that drank this glue and turned it into rich chicken gravy. And beyond these machines there were other machines with unspeakable appetites and purposes. And beyond these machines the darkness and the distant, terrible thunder of freezers. And all the time Farkiss was shouting and steaming and gazing, with affection, around his kingdom of blood and bones.

  Charlie staggered forward in silence. He was struck dumb with shock and cold. He concentrated on walking, taking slow, deliberate strides, looking neither left nor right, grinding his teeth, trying to swallow his nausea until finally, Farkiss was leading him into another steel cabin and helping to remove his protective clothes. ‘I hope you had a good time,’ he said cheerfully. He sounded slightly dazed, as if they’d just come down from some bone-shaking fairground ride. ‘It certainly gives you an appetite.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Charlie whispered.

  ‘A pleasure,’ Farkiss said, beaming with pride as they returned to the daylight. He guided Charlie through the poster hoarding with its wonderful farmyard scene and into the waiting limousine.

  ‘You’ll have observed that all the birds are taken apart by hand,’ he said. ‘Some manufacturers just spike them on rows of gutting machines but that doesn’t suit the Pangloss principle. We put ’em together by hand, so to speak, and we like to take ’em apart by hand. It’s the personal touch. It takes more time and it costs more money. I can’t deny it. You could call me old-fashioned. I won’t argue with you. But I think that when you take that extra bit of trouble the customer will always notice the difference.’

  As Charlie scrambled into the car, Farkiss thrust a waxed cardboard bucket into his hand. The bucket felt heavy and warm.

  ‘What is it?’ Charlie said, hoping that he wouldn’t be obliged to peek beneath the lid.

  ‘A few fresh livers,’ Farkiss said confidentially.

  ‘Compliments of the Pangloss chickens,’ Sam Shingles said.

  ‘We had ’em plucked while you were walking around the plant. They’re fat and juicy, believe me! And they don’t come fresher. They’re still warm. Try ’em with a knob of butter. It’s a tasty treat for the whole family.’

  ‘Did you enjoy yourselves?’ Sam Shingles inquired as they drove away down the ornamental drive.

  Charlie nodded and wagged his head.

  ‘Farkiss is a good man. There isn’t much that Farkiss doesn’t know about chickens,’ Sam said, glancing enviously at the bucket of softly steaming livers.

  Charlie closed his eyes, dropped his head between his knees and threw up over his shoes.

  33.

  The liver is a large gland essential to the maintenance of blood glucose levels, protein metabolism, the absorption of damaged red cells and the filtration of drugs such as penicillin and steroid hormones including estrogens and aldosterone. Waste products from the liver are excreted into the bile and stored in the gallbladder for discharge into the small intestine.

  A Recipe for Chicken Liver Pate to serve four persons.

  175gm soft butter

  1 large onion

  225gm Pangloss Chicken Livers

  1 small clove crushed garlic

  Dash of brandy

  Salt and pepper.

  Melt a little of the butter into a heavy frying pan, slice the onions and gently cook until soft and transparent. Discard the stringy membranes and discoloured portions of the livers, taking care to remove any fragments of gallbladder. Add the livers to a pan and fry on a high heat. Add the garlic and dash of brandy. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Mince or mash the mixture into a paste. Blend the paste with remaining butter and pour into ramekin dishes. Allow the pate to cool and set firm. Serve with hot toast.

  34.

  Ambrose nodded and smiled. He was sympathetic. ‘There’s a certain degree of suffering, Charlie. It can’t be denied.’ He pushed a fragment of biscuit into his mouth, leaned back in his chair and stared at the opposite wall. ‘But people have to eat,’ he said at last. ‘We have to accept their suffering for the general good of mankind. I won’t pretend that the factories are perfect, but they’re certainly the best factories available, believe me. They’re clean, hygienic, Swiss engineered.’

  He sucked his teeth thoughtfully, remembering Mrs Pangloss and the cold polished beauty of her life support machine. He would take home fresh flowers and put them beside her bed. An arrangement with plenty of fern and roses for their perfume and one of those fancy silk bows. He’d ask a senior secretary to ask a junior secretary to do whatever you had to do to order one.

  ‘I don t care,’ Charlie said. ‘There’s nothing you can say that will make me go back there again. Nothing.’

  Ambrose blinked and looked at Charlie in surprise as if, for a moment, he had forgotten he was there. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said suddenly and smiled very brightly, revealing his teeth. ‘Do you know why I’m glad to hear it, Charlie?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘It tells me that you should be working somewhere else in the company. We should be attempting to place you much higher on the corporate ladder.’

  ‘I don’t belong on your corporate ladder!’ Charlie said abruptly, losing his patience. ‘I’m a painter. I might be a lousy painter but it makes no difference. My task is to paint and try to make some sense of the world! And that’s hard enough at the best of times without having my face rubbed in chicken shit! I d
on’t like how you make your money. I’ve no intention of taking your money. And I certainly don’t want to work for you.’ He’d made the trip to Larks Rise merely to humour his father-in-law. He hadn’t volunteered to become a Pangloss toady.

  There was a long silence in which Ambrose Pangloss, smiling softly, gave Charlie the opportunity to regret this outburst. And Charlie sat scowling, feeling foolish, waiting to be dismissed.

  ‘Painting,’ Pangloss said, at last, considering the word in his mouth as if it had a peculiar taste he couldn t quite identify. ‘Painting. That’s a very artistic past time. I’ve always encouraged my people to make more use of their leisure hours. We once had a member of the board who made working models from cocktail sticks.’

  ‘It’s not a game for some wet afternoon!’ Charlie said indignantly. ‘It’s my life!’

  Pangloss smiled. ‘But does it butter bread, Charlie? Does it butter bread?’

  ‘I did it once and I’ll do it again.’

  ‘It’s a large house, Charlie. A very large house,’ Ambrose said gently. ‘It gets cold in the winter, I imagine. And I don’t suppose that Baxter is earning a living.’

  ‘I'll find some other kind of work,’ Charlie said unhappily. It was a mess. He wished now that he hadn’t become involved. He needed to extricate himself without offending his benefactor.

  ‘You should have more faith in your own abilities,’ Ambrose said, attacking the rest of his ginger nut biscuit. ‘Did you ever think that you might belong in Advertising and Market Research? It’s fascinating work, Charlie. Absolutely fascinating.’

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘A lot of writers and artists have made good livings in advertising,’ Ambrose continued. ‘Katie Pphart used to work for me in the early days. Did you know that?’

  ‘Katie Pphart?’

  ‘The famous romantic novelist. She wrote the slogan—Listen to those hungry sighs, when you show them Pangloss thighs! That was Katie Pphart.’

  ‘Did she ever see the factories?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ Ambrose said. ‘She seemed to live in a little world of her own.’

  Charlie didn’t doubt it.

  ‘But I’m not going to put you into Advertising and Market Research,’ Ambrose said at last. ‘And do you know why I‘ve made that decision?’

  Charlie shook his head again.

  ‘Because I’ve decided I'm going to place you in Future Forecasts,’ Ambrose said triumphantly. He stared expectantly at Charlie, as if he had offered him some priceless gift and expected a moment of disbelief before the rush of gratitude.

  ‘Forecasts? I’m no good at forecasts,’ Charlie said, after another uncomfortable silence. If he’d been able to forecast the future he would never have found himself trapped in this office mumbling his excuses.

  ‘Have you never wondered what the world will be like in the future? Have you never daydreamed about the cities of tomorrow with their sunshine domes and their moving pavements and how we’ll dress and what kind of chicken we’ll be eating and what kind of shows we’ll watch on TV? Of course you have, Charlie. Everybody dreams about the future. And do you know what I dream about, Charlie?’

  ‘I've no idea,’ Charlie said. Hens as big as haystacks. Fighting cocks with diamond spurs.

  ‘I dream that a Pangloss Chicken Dinner will be the first chicken dimer to land on the moon. That’s my favourite dream. And that’s what I’m asking you to do for me in the Future Forecasts department, Charlie. I want to pay you to daydream for me. I want you to summon all your creative energy, all your artistic inspiration, and imagine how we can secure a proper place for the Melting Moments™ Oven Ready in the wonderful world of tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Charlie squirmed.

  ‘You don’t have to give me your answer immediately, Charlie. Take a few days to think it over and talk to Baxter. It’s a very big decision. It’s a very great opportunity.’

  Charlie stood up to leave but Ambrose Pangloss hadn’t finished with him. ‘Sit down, Charlie. There’s something l want to show you.’

  ‘I’m late,’ Charlie said miserably, returning obediently to his chair. ‘Baxter is waiting for me.’

  ‘This will only take a moment,’ Ambrose said.

  He opened a drawer in his desk and removed a waxed cardboard container. He placed the box carefully on the centre of the desk and held it lightly between his fingertips.

  ‘Do you know what I’m holding in my hands, Charlie?’

  Charlie shrugged.

  ‘I’m holding a dream,’ Ambrose said softly. ‘A miracle. When this little box is opened there will be a revolution. There will be an end to world hunger and suffering and poverty. This box contains the answers to all our prayers.’ He paused and tapped the box with his fingernails. His eyes shone. ‘It also contains the key to immense wealth and influence. Can you imagine what would happen if this box fell into the wrong hands, Charlie? Can you begin to understand the implications?’

  Charlie confessed that he understood nothing.

  Ambrose Pangloss smiled. ‘Millions have already been invested in this little box, Charlie. Millions of pounds and seven years’ research. There are only twelve men in the world who know what this box contains. Twelve men. And I happen to own every one of them and their wives and families. But I'm going to share this secret with you, Charlie, because I know I can trust you. Why should I trust you? Because you’re family and because you’re an artist. You have vision. And this is a vision of the future…’

  He flicked open the box and turned the contents over the desk. Charlie felt his scalp prickle with horror as his brain refused to believe his eyes.

  They were staring at a four-legged chicken. An incredibly wrinkled ball of skin, about the size of a man’s fist, mounted on four long fat-thighed legs. It had no feathers on its body and its eyes were a curious shade of blue. Startled by the light, the creature tried to scuttle away but became entangled in its own claws and fell against the telephone.

  Ambrose picked it up very carefully, as if it were some marvellous toy, a fabulous automaton, and positioned it once more in the centre of the great polished desk.

  ‘Isn’t Mother Nature wonderful?’ he whispered. ‘Learn her secrets and anything is possible. Now that we’ve cracked the DNA code we can turn the working of every living thing on Earth inside out. Did you ever hear of the DuPont OncoMouse™, Charlie? It’s an entirely new mouse. It was actually invented. It was a patent. Every time it sneezes the OncoMouse™ breaks out in tumours. They sell OncoMice™ to oncologists. Do you begin to understand the possibilities, Charlie? Do you feel your nerve ends tingle? Sheep the size of buffalo. Cows that can eat human waste. Pigs that can salt themselves into bacon. Biotechnology is the start of the Second Creation. The first company to succeed with a new kind of factory chicken will have total world market domination. You’ll notice, Charlie, that there are no unsightly feathers. And why are there no feathers? Because that eliminates drudgery when we come to process the bird. Oh, yes. Charlie, we’re entering a golden age.’

  The monstrosity sank in a trembling heap on the desk, its neck outstretched and its beak snapping at nothing. The legs looked like so many fallen skittles.

  ‘It’s not perfect,’ he admitted, taking up, his coffee spoon and giving the bird a gentle poke. ’You can see, for instance, that the legs won’t function. But that’s a mere technicality. We think we can solve the problem by building a new kind of harness-cage. I’m designing it myself. I’ve called it the Apple Picker. The birds will be hung from a harness so their legs can dangle and ripen like fruit. Isn’t that inspired?’

  ‘It’s filthy! A monster! You’re breeding monsters!’ Charlie shouted in horror. ‘Why in God’s name have you done it?’ He stared at the repulsive little creature with a mixture of dread and fascination. He wanted to raise his fist, smash out its brains and put an end to its misery.

  The chicken tycoon looked at Charlie in surprise. Nobody raised their voice to him. It must
be Charlie’s artistic temperament. ‘We can double our capacity, double our productivity and double our market share overnight,’ he explained patiently. ‘Feed the world, Charlie. Feed the world.’

  As they watched, the bird seemed to recover its senses and, in a furious burst of energy, went spinning in circles over the desk, pushing its body forward on the tips of its stunted wings.

  Ambrose reached out to recover his prize and return it to the safety of the box. But before he had time to catch it again the pathetic creature had fallen from the edge of the desk and tumbled into Charlie’s lap.

  35.

  Charlie came out of his trance shouting and kicking his legs. Einstein looked bilious, crept into a corner and considered rejecting his chicken breakfast. Geraldine, mercifully, had fallen asleep and seen nothing of the horror show.

  The Deep Time Mariner stared at Charlie and a look of terrible disgust flickered across his face. He knew that everything he had heard about the monkey-men was true. They were the most dangerous species in all the charted galaxies. He had encountered many cantankerous beasts during his work on the ark. The tiger, the shark and the mountain bear. The scorpion, snake and venomous toad. But these large apes were crafty and cruel and deadlier than the rest of creation because they were, all of them, raving mad. Rattle-headed smatterers. Babbling jobernowls.

  Their brains were too big for their bodies and at some time in their history these big soft brains had told them that they were gods and set apart from the rest of the living world. And because they were gods among animals they came to believe they could disregard the natural laws that govern life and invent their own laws and make the world spin forward or backward, as the madness took them. They had also given themselves the authority to kill, mutilate, imprison and persecute every other species on Earth, including themselves, especially themselves, in vast numbers and with the greatest enthusiasm. Hatching monsters from hens’ eggs was only one more crime in a long list of crimes against the universe to be perpetuated by these master torturers.