Xchange

by Stan Mason

  He returned home the next day full of vigour with a weak explanation as to how he had grown his arm to its normal capability. The nurse he employed to come three times each week was surprised when he pinched her bottom and he told her that his arthritis had vanished overnight. She checked him physically noticing that the false arm he wore lay on the back of the settee but he seemed to have another one in its place.

  ‘I don’t understand what’s going on, Mr. Wilkins,’ she told him with a puzzled expression on her face. ‘Your arm seems to have grown back.’

  Wilkins smiled with an element of embarrassment for he had been told in no uncertain terms that the process he had gone through had to remain a total secret.

  ‘Amazing what happens when you put your trust in fairies,’ he commented with amusement.

  The nurse remained confused but she failed to pursue the matter. Nonetheless, it was not the same with Ruth, his wife. Eighty-five years she may have been but her faculties were still in good order.

  ‘What’s happened with your arm, Charles?’ she enquired, noticing him using two hand to hold his newspaper. Two days ago you were complaining non-stop about your arthritis. Today you’re like a spring chicken.’

  ‘That’s because I am one,’ he joked merrily.

  ‘What’s come over you?’ she demanded sharply. ‘You’re not yourself today.’

  ‘You can say that again!’ he retorted. ‘It’s because I really am someone else,’ he retorted enigmatically, causing her to stare at him strangely.

  There was something truly odd about her husband but she had no idea what it could be. She reasoned that perhaps his medication had something to do with it. Maybe the tablets were too strong or too weak but it had taken hold of his senses causing him to change in attitude. As far as she was concerned, there could be no other explanation.

  ‘I’m fed up staying at home. I’m going back to work in the company. I might even take over from Roger,’ he announced a short while later.

  ‘At your age,’ guffawed his wife. ‘Don’t be absurd!’

  ‘There’s a number of things that Roger’s doing I’m not happy with. I’m going back as Chairman to help him sort it out.’

  ‘There’ll be hell to pay,’ she warned him. ‘You gave up the reins seventeen years ago. He’ll not want you anywhere around the business.’

  ‘He’ll still be Chief Executive,’ explained Wilkins flatly.

  ‘On your head be it,’ stated Ruth. ‘I think you ought to go and lie down for a while.’

  ‘Not me,’ declared her husband. ‘I feel like going to a gym for a full workout.’

  She stared at him in amazement shaking her head slowly. This was most uncharacteristic of her husband. At the age of eight-six, he ought to know better!

  The following day, Wilkins went to the boardroom of the company to approach his son, outlining what he had in mind for the future.

  ‘Roger!’ he announced audaciously. ‘I’m coming back to the business as Chairman.’

  His son screwed up his eyes and stared strangely at his father. ‘I don’t think so, Dad,’ he responded. ‘At your age, riddled with arthritis... ’ He tailed off as he noticed his father’s left arm . ‘What’ s happened to your arm?’

  ‘You won’t believe it but it grew back,’ laughed Wilkins observing that his son was not amused by the answer.

  Roger shook his head in disbelief. ‘What use will you be for the company at your age? Look at you now. What do you think you’ll do to keep the business running?’

  ‘I can give it twenty-five years more at least,’ came the swift reply. ‘With the two of us working together we can conquer the world in ladies fashions. I’ve got lots of new ideas.’

  ‘Twenty-five years!’ guffawed his son with amusement ‘You’ll be nearly a hundred-and-twelve!’

  ‘Not the way I’m feeling at the moment, son,’ retorted Wilkins with determination in his voice. ‘I want us to enter into a new field of business... displaying models on our own catwalk with the garments we produce. We could become an international fashion house.’ The adrenalin surged through his veins as excitement welled-up inside him.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ countered Roger in amazement. ‘We’re doing fine as we are. Why do we need to diversify into that kind of operation?’

  Wilkins sat on the chair by his son’s desk picking up a pen and a sheet of paper. ‘This is how we go about it,’ he advanced as though still in control of the business, beginning to jot down the details of his plan.

  It was quite clear that the exchange process, as far as Wilkins was concerned, was working extremely well. With the same mind on a new body, one with two arms, Charles Wilkins was a man at the top of his profession... the man at the helm! Now that he had a large organisation to support him, with a wealth of factories and hundreds of shops nationwide, nothing was going to stop him from expanding... even better still now that he had two arms to help him achieve his plans.

  ***

  The exchange programme, nicknamed Material Transference continued apace as more men arrived at the laboratory from the prisons. The situation was getting somewhat out of hand because those sentenced to life imprisonment had been used up and Jordan was forced to take inmates who had only a reduced numbers of years to serve. The equipment was being used to the full and the staff at the laboratory had to be increased in order to cope with the volume. Despite the continued queues of people waiting their turn for exchange, there was little room for error and Wilson realised that there would be more miscalculations, either through human error or as a result of deficiency in the equipment at some time in the future. Whenever that happened, he was determined to shut down the system for a thorough investigation to take place.

  On a day when eighty exchanges had taken place, a spark occurred in the radiome machine. At first it went unnoticed, being contained in metal housing, but it continued to spark until the machine exploded. At the time, there were two people inside the cubicles awaiting the exchange process to take place. One was a prisoner from Blackstock jail, the other was an eminent artist who had painted portraits of the Royal Family in the past and created a famous bronze statue of the Prime Minister which had been set on a pedestal in the town of his birth.

  When the radiome machine exploded, the process went completely awry and the scientist were unable to maintain control. As it was halfway through an exchange operation, there was no possibility of saving either of the men in the cubicles and they both collapsed in a hopeless mess. The mutation of both bodies was a sight to be avoided at all times. The atoms of the tissues had divided but never had the chance to reform. Subsequently there was a confusion of flesh, tissue and bones which sank like mulch to the bottom of the cubicles. Even the scientists were nauseated by the sight of the debris, switching off the machine without delay. They started at the Chief Scientist for his recommendation but the man had rushed off to the gentlemen’s toilet where he vomited into the wash basin. It was an accident too horrific for any mind to witness.

  The process was halted immediately while two scientists brought large plastic containers to remove the swamp of flesh, tissue and bones laying dormant on the floor of the cubicles, rushing them to the disposal machines in the next room. The cubicles were quickly washed out and the technicians began to dismantle the machine to determine the fault and repair it.

  ‘The schedule for this programme is far too severe. We’re overusing the equipment,’ stated the Chief Scientist on his return. ‘It was originally designed to process ten or twenty people a day. It’s doing something like five times that at the moment.’

  Jordan stared at him solemnly. ‘Don’t blame me!’ he said defensively. ‘I’m working under orders. I’m only doing what they ask me to do!’

  ‘That’s what all the Nazis pleaded at the Munich trials,’ came the harsh response. ‘And most of them were executed!�
� He paused as silence reigned. ‘We really can’t go on like this! If you saw the state of those bodies in the cubicles... ’ He tailed off screwing up his face as he relived the horror.

  ‘Everyone’s a pawn in this game,’ declared the government agent sadly. ‘You, me, the prisoners, those invited for the exchange... everyone! We’re all pawns!’

  ‘You realise it’s only a matter of time before the cat’s out of the bag,’ predicted the Chief Scientist glumly. ‘So many people have been exchanged that it’ll soon come to the attention of the media. I mean to say, how come very old men suddenly return to their jobs in society with such vigour. Maybe one or two might continue in their field of operation but not hundreds of them. Someone’s bound to smell a rat eventually.’

  ‘When that happens,’ returned Jordan candidly, ‘it won’t be my problem, although they’ll be looking for a scapegoat and I think I’ll be the one they target. The dam will break, the banks of the river will be flooded and the Government will do everything in their power to shift the responsibility on to someone.’ No doubt the politicians will talk their way out of it with gobbledegook and then we’ll find out who they intend to hang out to dry.’

  ‘I’m looking at the bigger picture,’ related the other man. ‘What will happen to the programme? They won’t let it continued, will they?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ exclaimed the government agent sombrely. ‘By the time the media get their hands on the story, at least a thousand prisoners will have gone through the process... many of them dying within a short time afterwards. The maximum security jails will be pretty much empty and the cost to the Government will shrink with regard to the costs of the prisons. A large number of eminent people will continued with extended lives but I have doubts whether their contribution to the nation will be any greater. Most of them will just enjoy living longer. After all, who would consider employing a military man of eighty-three years of age for any work, or engage a very old politician, or an ancient scientist? The idea’s good in theory but no one has evaluated the follow-through.’

  The telephone rang at that moment and Jordan picked up the receiver to answer the call.

  ‘There’s a Bill Preston on the line for you, sir,’ stated the telephonist. ‘He’s the Governor of Lancaster jail.’

  ‘Put his through!’ came the response, as the government agent paused to look at the Chief Scientist’s face.

  ‘Mr. Jordan,’ began Preston hesitantly. ‘I have one hundred-and-ten prisoners left in my jail. What’s going to happen when they’re all gone? I’ve already transferred some of my warders. If I hadn’t done so, they would have eventually outnumbered the prisoners.’

  ‘What are you asking me, Mr. Preston?’ asked Jordan tiredly.

  ‘I’d like to know what’s going to happen to Lancaster jail as well as the remaining warders... and myself. In a few weeks time there’ll be no one left here. No one’s bothered to mention anything about my future. I think I’m entitled to know.’

  ‘How old are you, Mr. Preston?’ asked Jordan hoping for an easy way out of the conversation.

  ‘I’ll be forty-nine next week,’ came the reply.

  ‘That’s a bit too young for early retirement from the service,’ There was a pause as a number of ideas passed through the government agent’s mind. ‘How do you feel about leaving the prison service if an offer turned up?’

  This time it was the Governor’s turn to pause. ‘I’m not against the idea,’ he said eventually. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘How would you like to join ASA and help to control the exchange programme?’

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line before Preston replied. ‘I’m not really sure I’d want to do that,’ he responded.

  ‘Why not? I was impressed with you at the initial committee meeting. You didn’t winge, moan or ask stupid questions like some of the others. Take a few days to think it over and call me.’

  Jordan ended the conversation quickly to look up at the face of the Chief Scientist who was shaking his head slowly.

  ‘You deceived him, haven’t you,’ he told Jordan. ‘You know that the exchange programme has limited scope and you’re looking for a scapegoat... someone to take all the responsibility when the system collapses. He hasn’t go a chance in hell of getting out of it with a clean pair of heels.’

  ‘He hasn’t agreed to take the job.’

  ‘Not yet he hasn’t, but he will. What can the Governor of an empty jail do when the chips are down and no one’s offered him anything.’

  Jordan smiled sagely. ‘The issue is one of total secrecy so it’s necessary sometimes to resort to subterfuge. Preston will simply be another victim. Now let’s get on with the real business. How long will it take for the programme to resume?’

  The Chief Scientist continued the conversation but his mind dwelt of the awful remains of the two men in the cubicles after the radiome machine had gone haywire. It was a sight that would remain in his memory for the rest of his life. It would also haunt him in nightmares for a very long time.

  ***

  The following afternoon a surprise visit was made to ASA Headquarters. Jeremy Ratcliffe, the Minister of Science, entered the premises without prior warning. He walked along the corridor anonymous to those scientists who passed him on the way. He was stunned at the lack of security because he could wander anywhere he wanted to without being stopped by security guards. Eventually he came to the office of John Mottley, the Chief Scientist, and he entered without knocking on the door, reproaching the man for the lack of security in the place.

  ‘We do have security guards,’ bleated Mottley weakly. ‘I’m currently writing some rules to tighten up the system.’

  ‘Too little, too late!’ snapped the Minister sharply. ‘We cannot jeopardise the project through the lack of security. Make certain you put it into place the moment I leave. My God! Any Tom, Dick or Harry can come waltzing in here without any trouble at all. You know how important it is to keep the Press and the media out of the circle!’

  Duly admonished, the Chief Scientist took the Minister to the canteen to discuss matters over a cup of tea.

  ‘How well is the programme going?’ asked the visitor with interest. Ratcliffe was the kind of person who loved to delegate. It was an excellent method by which he could keep his hands clean. Although he was obviously aware of the exchange programme he was unaware of the exact details... only the main aim of preserving the lives of eminent aged people. As far as he was concerned, the project was still in the experimental stage.

  ‘We’ve had one or two hiccups,’ admitted Mottley miserably. ‘Certainly the numbers are going through as scheduled and, in general terms, the experiment’s been a huge success but it’s the wrinkles that causes problems.’

  ‘What sort of wrinkles?’ enquired the Minister with only a small element of interest in the details. ‘I mean people are expendable. There’s nearly seventy million of them in this country. They say that one child dies every ten seconds in Africa. We can’t allow ourselves to feel guilty at the death of individuals.’

  The Chief Scientist was astounded at the Minister’s callous comment. It was quite clear that the man had no empathy for anyone other than himself. He was yet another politician who continued his career solely for the money he earned at it. In that moment, Mottley had lost all respect for the other man who was cold-hearted and calculating in everything he said and did. He was an ordinary man elevated to a higher level by election but the only thing that interested him was his salary.

  ‘Why are you here, Mr. Ratcliffe?’ came the question.

  The politician stared bleakly over his cup of tea before replying. ‘I came to look over the place,’ he revealed slowly. ‘It’s time to concentrate on a change in location. Too many people are asking questions about this place in Lytham St. Annes. It’s time we moved elsewhere.’
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  ‘Elsewhere?’ echoed the Chief Scientist, pursing his lips at the suggestion. ‘Where will you move it to?’

  ‘I think it would be best served in a high security prison such as Lancaster jail. It’s almost empty now and it would be a good place to hide the process.’

  The other man shrugged his shoulders aimlessly hardly knowing what to say. ‘Do you think the facilities afforded by the prison will be sufficient for our purpose?’ he asked softly. ‘For example, I don’t know whether the electric current is strong enough for our needs.’

  Ratcliffe was not willing to be diverted from his idea and he shook his head slowly. ‘We can always remedy that by installing the correct electricity supply. I don’t think you need to be concerned about that. No... I think shifting the location is an excellent idea. The Governor there will have time on his hands. He can oversee the programme.’

  ‘Have you contacted Governor Preston about it yet. He may resent being in charge of it.’

  ‘Governor Preston will do exactly what he is told,’ snapped the Minister sharply. ‘He’s only a pawn in the game! The true reason for my visit today is to watch the exchange process in action and to determine how long it will take you to pack up all the kit and caboodle in order for it to be transferred to Lancaster jail.’

  ‘In the first place, Minister,’ returned the Chief Scientist coldly, ‘you won’t be able to witness any exchanges because the programme’s been suspended due to the radiome machine exploding. We’re trying to repair it at the moment but until that comes about there’s nothing we can do. In the second place, I reckon it will take a few hours to dismantle the equipment for the transfer. The cubicles can be placed in a large vehicle... the rest can be handled easily after its all been disconnected.

  ‘Fine!’ retorted Ratcliffe easily. ‘So once this radi... whatever it’s called... ’