“Not much. Who are these horsemen?”
“Nimrod, Imhotep, Tsin-Shi Hwang and Augustus, early presidents of the council. Of course the titles were different then.” “Why the wigs and armour?”
“An eighteenth-century convention—the mural was painted then. The men facing them are former directors of the institute: Prometheus, Pythagoras, Aquinas and Descartes. The figure on the throne is the first Lord Monboddo. He was an insignificant legislator and an unimportant philosopher, but when council and institute combined he was a member of both, which made him symbolically useful. He knew Adam Smith.”
“But what is the institute? What is the council?
“The council is a political structure to lift men nearer Heaven. The institute is a conspiracy of thinkers to bring the light of Heaven down to mankind. They’ve sometimes been distinct organizations and have even quarrelled, though never for long. The last great reconciliation happened during the Age of Reason, and two world wars have only united us more firmly.”
“But what is this heavenly light? If you mean the sun, why doesn’t it shine here?”
“Oh, in recent years the heavenly light has never been confused with an actual sun. It is a metaphor, a symbol we no longer need. Since the collapse of feudalism we’ve left long-term goals to our enemies. They’re misleading. Society develops faster without them. If you look closely into the dome, you’ll see that though the artist painted a sun in the centre it’s almost hidden by the first Monboddo’s crown. Stand up, here comes the twenty-ninth.”
A tall man in a pale grey suit was crossing the smooth marble floor accompanied by three men in dark suits. A herald in medieval tabard marched in front with a sword on a velvet cushion; another came behind carrying a coloured silk robe. The whole party was advancing briskly to the throne when Munro stepped into the path and bowed saying, “Hector Munro, my lord.”
Monboddo had a long narrow face with a thin, high-bridged nose. His hair was pale yellow and his eyes grey behind gold-rimmed spectacles, yet his voice was richly, resonantly masculine. He said, “Yes, I know. I never forget a face. Well?”
“This man and woman have applied for relocation.”
Munro handed his portfolio to someone at Monboddo’s side, who pulled out a document and read it. Monboddo glanced from Lanark to Rima.
“Relocation? Extraordinary. Who’s going to take them?” “Unthank is keen.”
“Well, if they understand the dangers, let them go. Let them go. Is that paper in order, Wilkins?”
“In perfect order, sir.”
Wilkins held out the document at an angle supported by the portfolio. Monboddo glanced at it and made snatching movements with his right hand until Munro placed a pen between the fingers. He was going to sign when Lanark shouted, “Stop!” Monboddo looked at him with raised eyebrows. Lanark turned on Munro and cried, “You know we don’t want to return to Unthank! There’s no sunlight in Unthank! I asked for a town with sunlight!”
“A man with your reputation can’t be allowed to pick and choose.”
Monboddo said, “Has his chief given him a poor report?”
“A very poor report.”
There was a silence in which Lanark felt something vital being filched from him. He said fiercely, “If that report was written by Ozenfant it ought not to count. We dislike each other.”
Munro murmured, “It is written by Ozenfant.”
Monboddo touched his brow with a fingertip. Wilkins murmured, “The dragonmaster. A strong energy man.”
“I know, I know. I never forget a name. An abominable musician but an excellent administrator. Here’s your pen, Munro. Uxbridge, give me that cape, will you?”
A herald placed a heavy green cloak lined with crimson silk round Monboddo’s shoulders and helped him adjust the folds. Monboddo said, “No, we won’t go against Ozenfant. Look, Wilkins, sort this out while I attend to these other chaps. We haven’t much time, you know.”
Monboddo strode onward to the throne, the cape billowing behind him. Most of his retinue followed.
Wilkins was a dark, short, compact man. He said, “What seems to be the problem?”
Munro said crisply, “Mr. Lanark does not know what relocation involves. He has asked to leave. I have found a city whose government will take him in spite of his poor record. He refuses to go because of the climate.”
Lanark said obstinately, “I want sunlight.”
“Would Provan suit you?” asked Wilkins.
“I know nothing of Provan.”
“It is an industrial centre surrounded by farming country but in easy distance of highlands and sea. The climate is mild and damp with a yearly average of twelve hours’ sunlight per day. The inhabitants speak a kind of English.”
“Yes, we’ll go there gladly.”
Munro said, “Provan won’t take him. Provan was the first place I asked.”
Wilkins said, “Provan will have to take him if he goes to Unthank first.”
Munro rubbed his chin and began to smile. “Of course. I had forgotten.”
Wilkins turned to Lanark and said smoothly, “Industrially speaking, you see, Unthank is no longer profitable, so it is going to be scrapped and swallowed. In a piecemeal way we’ve been doing that for years, but now we can take it en bloc and I don’t mind telling you we’re rather excited. We’re used to eating towns and villages but this will be the first big city since Carthage and the energy gain will be enormous. Of course people like you who’ve joined us already won’t need to go through that messy business again. You’ll be moved to Provan, which has a lively expanding economy. So visit Unthank with a clear mind. Think of it as a stepping stone to the sun.”
“But how long will we have to live there?”
Wilkins glanced at his wristwatch.
“In eight days a full meeting of council delegates will give the go-ahead. We start work two days after.”
“Then Rima and I will be in Unthank for twelve days?”
“No longer. Only a revolution can change our programme now.”
“But I’ve heard Unthank is a more political place nowadays. Are you sure a revolution can’t happen?”
Wilkins smiled.
“I meant that only a revolution here can change our programme.”
“But have I no other choices?”
“Stay with us if you like. We can find work for you. Or leave and just wander about. Space is infinite to men without destinations.”
Lanark groaned and said, “Rima, what should we do?”
She shrugged impatiently.
“Oh, don’t ask me! You know I like it here and that hasn’t influenced you so far. But I refuse to wander about in space. If you want to do that you can do it alone.”
Lanark said in a subdued voice, “Right. We’ll return to Unthank.”
Wilkins and Munro straightened their backs and spoke in louder voices. Wilkins slid the paper into the portfolio and said, “Leave this with me, Hector. Monboddo will sign it.” Munro said, “They’d better not go without visas.”
“Give me the ink, I’ll stamp them.”
Munro unscrewed the silver knob from his staff (it was shaped like a pair of spread wings) and held it upside down. Wilkins stuck his thumb in the socket and drew it out with a glistening blue tip. Rima was leaning forward to watch and Wilkins dabbed his thumb at her forehead, making a mark between the brows like a small blue bruise. She gave a little shriek of surprise.
Wilkins said, “That didn’t hurt, did it? Now you, Lanark.” Lanark, too depressed to ask for explanations, received a similar mark; then Wilkins put his thumb in the knob a second time and brought it out clean. He said, “It’s not a conspicuous sign but it tells educated people that you’ve worked for the institute and are protected by the council. They won’t all like you for that but they’ll treat you with respect, and when Unthank falls you’ll have no trouble getting transport to Provan.”
Rima said, “Will it wash off?”
“No, only strong sunlight
can erase it, and you won’t find that till you reach Provan. Goodbye.”
He walked away across the floor, diminishing toward the tiny distant throne where Monboddo, like a green and scarlet doll, was graciously receiving a paper from the leader of the pygmy deputation. Munro screwed the knob onto his staff and beckoned Rima and Lanark in the opposite direction.
Beyond the northern lobby the corridor was crossed by a wrought-iron screen ten feet high. A gate in the middle was guarded by a policeman who saluted as Munro led them through. The corridor grew busier. Black and silver chamberlains led past small groups of people, some of them negro and oriental. From windows overhead came the applause of distant assemblies, faint orchestras and fanfares, the rumble and hum of machinery. Brisk, well-dressed men and women came and went through doorways on either side, and Lanark’s rucksacks made him feel unnatural among so many people carrying briefcases and portfolios. If Rima had offered to carry hers he would have felt he had an ally, but she moved along the corridor like a swan down a stream. Even Munro seemed a servant clearing the way for her, and Lanark felt he would be unkind not to trudge alongside like a porter. After twenty minutes they came to another high octagonal hall where corridors met. The blue dome here was patterned with stars and a lamp in the height cast a white beam down on a granite monument in the centre of the floor, a rough block carved with giant figures and with water trickling from it into ornamental pools. Girls and boys lounged smoking and chatting on steps surrounding this, and on the smooth tiled floor older people ate and drank at tables among orange-trees in tubs. Soft laughter and music sounded from windows overhead and blended with the conversation, clinking cutlery, splashing fountains and whistling of canaries from cages in the little trees.
Munro halted and said, “What do you think of it?”
Lanark no longer trusted Munro. He said, “It’s better than the staff club,” but the leisurely air of the place made his heart swell and eyes water. He thought, ‘Everyone should be allowed to enjoy this. In sunlight it would be perfect.’
Munro said, “Since we’re beside the exit we may as well rest while I give you advice on your journey.”
He stuck his staff into the soil of a tub, sat at a table and beckoned a waiter. Rima and Lanark sat down too. Munro said, “I suppose you won’t refuse a light refreshment?”
Rima said, “I’d love it.”
Lanark looked round for the exit. Munro said, “Lanark appears to be angry with me.”
Rima laughed. “No wonder! I liked hearing him argue with you and Monboddo and that secretary. I thought ‘Good! I’m being defended by a strong man!’ But you were too clever for him, weren’t you?”
“He won’t lose by it.”
As Munro ordered from the waiter Lanark had the feeling of being watched. At nearby tables sat a mother, her twelve-year-old son and an old couple playing chess. None of these seemed specially attentive, so he gazed up at the rows of windows above the doors where waiters ran in and out. They were curtained with white gauze and seemed empty, but overhead, not far below the dome, a balcony projected and a group of men and women in evening dress were leaning over the parapet. The distance was too great to distinguish faces but a stout man in the centre dominated the party with wide gestures of the hands and arms, and appeared to point in Lanark’s direction. Something like a pair of binoculars was produced and clapped to the face of a woman at the stout man’s side. Feeling exasperated Lanark seized a newspaper on a nearby chair, opened it and started reading, presenting the back of his head to the watchers above. The paper was called The Western Lobby and was soberly printed in neat columns without spreading headlines or large photographs. Lanark read:
ALABAMA JOINS THE COUNCIL
By accepting the creature’s help in constructing the continent’s largest neuron energy bank, New Alabama becomes the fifth black state to be fully represented on the council. Inevitably this will strengthen the hand of Multan of Zimbabwe, leader of the council’s black bloc. Asked last night if this would not lead to increased friction in the council’s already unwieldy conferences, the president, Lord Mon-boddo, said, “All movement creates friction if it doesn’t happen in a vacuum.”
Farther down the page his eye was caught by a name he knew.
OZENFANT RAMPANT
When presenting the energy department’s quinquennial audit yesterday, Professor Ozenfant roundly condemned the council’s adoption of decimal time. The old duodecimal time scale (declared the fiery Professor) had been more than an arbitrary subdivision of the erratic and unstable solar day. The duodecimal second had allowed more accurate readings of the human heartbeat than decimal seconds. Predictions of deterioration on the decimal scale had a 1.063 greater liability to error, which accounted for the recent reduction in the energy surplus. Sabotage by a rogue element in the intake had also been responsible, but the main culprit was the new time scale. Professor Ozenfant insisted that his words must not be taken as a criticism of Lord Monboddo. In committing us to decimal time the lord president director had simply ratified the findings of the expansion project committee. It was unfortunate that nobody in that committee had first-hand experience of the lonely, difficult and dangerous work of sublimating dragons. The whole business was one more example of a council rule undermining an institute process.
Lanark folded the paper into his pocket and peered upward again. The party still leaned upon the balcony wall, and the gestures of the man in the centre had a familiar, mocking, flamboyant quality. Rima had accepted a cigarette from Munro who was holding a lighter to the tip. Lanark said sharply, “Is that Ozenfant watching us? There, on the balcony?”
Munro looked upward.
“Ozenfant? I don’t know. It’s hardly likely; he isn’t popular on the eighth floor. It might be one of his imitators.”
“Why do people imitate him if he isn’t popular?”
“He’s successful.”
The waiter placed a full glass of wine before each of them and a plate of something like an omelette. Rima took her fork and began eating. After a gloomy pause Lanark was about to follow her example when there came a sound of booing, laughter and ironical cheers. Along the space between the tables and the monument marched a procession of shaggy young men and women holding placards with slogans:
EAT RICE, NOT PEOPLE
EATING PEOPLE IS WRONG
FUCK MONBODDO
MONBODDO CAN’T FUCK
A policeman marched on either side and behind them slid a platform loaded with men and filming equipment.
“Protestants,” said Munro without looking up. “They march every day to the barrier about this time.”
“Who are they?”
“Council employees or children of council employees.” “What do they eat?”
“The same as everyone else, though that doesn’t stop their denouncing us. Their arguments are ludicrous, of course. We don’t eat people. We eat the processed parts of certain life forms which can no longer claim to be people.”
Lanark saw Rima push her plate away. There was a tearful look on her face, and when he reached out and grasped her hand she grasped his in turn. He said sternly, “You were going to give us advice about our journey.”
Munro looked at them, sighed and laid down his fork. “Very well. You will walk to Unthank across the intercalendrical zone. This means the time you take is unpredictable. The road is fairly distinct, so keep to it and trust nothing you can’t test with your own feet or hands. The light in this zone travels at different speeds, so all sizes and distances are deceptive. Even the gravity varies.”
“Then the journey could take months?”
“I repeat, you will cross an intercalendrical zone. A month is as meaningless there as a minute or a century. The journey will simply be easy or strenuous or a combination of both.” “What if our supplies give out?”
“Some reports suggest that people who find the journey difficult reach the other side in the moment of final despair.”
Rima said faintly, �
��Thank you. That’s very encouraging.”
“Better put your coats on. It’s cold down there.”
The coats were ankle-length with hoods and a thick fleecy lining. They pulled on their rucksacks, smiled anxiously at each other, kissed quickly, then followed Munro across the floor and up the steps to the monument. The giant rock overhung the steps like a boulder balanced on a pyramid. Shadows cast by the light defined figures brooding in crevices, declaiming from ledges and emerging from a cave in the centre. A figure on top seemed to represent the sculptor. His face looked up at the light but his fists drove a chisel with a mallet into the stone between his knees. Lanark touched Munro’s shoulder and asked what this represented.
“The Hebrew pantheon: Moses, Isaiah, Christ, Marx, Freud and Einstein.”
They passed through a group of young people who stared and murmured, “Where are they going?” “The emergency exit?” “Look at those crazy coats!” Surely not the emergency exit! Someone shouted, “What’s the emergency, Granddad?”
Munro said, “No emergency, just relocation. A simple case of relocation.”
There was silence then a voice said, “They’re insane.”
They reached the summit where water trickled down into goldfish ponds. The great boulder was supported by a surprisingly small pedestal with an iron door in it. Munro struck the door with his staff. It opened. They stooped and passed through.
CHAPTER 33.
A Zone
In watery green light, between narrow cement walls, they descended a metal staircase for many minutes. The air grew chilly and at length they came into a cavernous low-ceilinged place which gave a sense of width without spaciousness, for the floor was covered by pipes and tubes of every size from the height of a man to the thickness of a finger, while the ceiling was hidden by cables and ventilation ducts. They emerged from a door in a brick pillar onto a metal walkway leading across the pipes. Munro moved down this and Lanark and Rima followed, sometimes clambering over an unusually large pipe by an arched metal ladder. For a long time the only sound was a distant pulsing hum mingled with gurgles and clanking and their echoing footsteps. Rima said, “This bending hurts my back.”
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