Gilchrist smiled and shook his head, saying “Social ignorance is only a virtue in the manufacturing classes. We professionals must understand the organism as a whole. That is our burden and our pride. It justifies our bigger incomes.”
“Blethers!” said the stout man at the other desk. “Who in this building understands the organism as a whole? You and me and an old woman upstairs, perhaps, but the rest have forgotten. They were told, but they’ve forgotten.”
“Pettigrew is a cynic,” said Gilchrist, laughing.
“A lovable cynic,” muttered Pettigrew. “Remember that. Pettigrew is everybody’s lovable cynic.”
The secretary laid a tray of coffee things on the table. Gilchrist carried his cup to the window, sat on the ledge and said oracularly, “Employment. Stability. Surroundings. Three offices, yet properly understood they are the same. Employment ensures stability. Stability lets us reshape our surroundings. The improved surroundings become a new condition of employment. The snake eats its tail. Nothing has precedence. This great building—this centre of all centres, this tower of welfare—exists to maintain full employment, reasonable stability and decent surroundings.”
“Animals,” said Pettigrew. “We deal with animals here. The scruff. The scum. The lowest of the low.”
“Pettigrew is referring to the fact that there are not enough jobs and houses for everyone. Naturally—as in all freely competing societies—the unemployed and homeless tend to be less clever, or less healthy, or less energetic than the rest of us.”
“They’re a horde of stupid, dirty layabouts,” said Pettigrew.
“I know them, I grew up among them. You middle-class liberals like to pet them, but I wouldn’t even let them breed. What we need is an X-ray device under the turnstiles at the football stadiums. Each man going through gets a blast of 900 roentgens right on the testicles. It would be perfectly painless. They wouldn’t know what had happened till they got a wee printed card along with their entrance ticket. ‘Dear Sir,’ it would say. ‘You may now ride your wife in perfect safety.’”
Gilchrist laughed until his coffee spilled into the saucer. “Pettigrew, you’re incorrigible!” he said. “You talk as if a man’s misery was all his own fault. You must admit that poverty, insanity and crime have multiplied since our major industry shut down. That isn’t coincidence.”
“Blame the unions!” said Pettigrew. “Prosperity is made by the bosses struggling with each other for more wealth. If they have to struggle with their workers too, then everybody loses. No wonder the big groups are shifting their factories to the coolie continents. I’m only thankful that the folk who lose most in the end are the envious sods who own the least. Greed isn’t a pretty thing but envy is far, far worse.”
“You’re talking politics. It’s time you shut up for a while,” said Gilchrist amicably. He put down his cup on the window ledge, sat beside Lanark and said quietly, “Don’t let his rough tongue upset you. Pettigrew is something of a saint. He’s helped more widows and orphans than we’ve had good breakfasts.”
“There’s no need for excuses,” said Lanark. “I realize now that nobody does well in this world if they don’t belong to a big strong group. Your group handles the people who don’t have one. I want to be with you, not under you, so tell me what to do.”
“You’re very abrupt,” said Gilchrist. “Please remember we are here to help the unfortunate, and we do help them, as far as we can. Our problem is lack of funds. The recent Greater Unthank reorganization has given us a much larger staff to deal with the increasing number of unfortunates, so we have thousands of experts—planners, architects, engineers, artists, renovators, conservers, blood doctors, bowel doctors, brain doctors—all sitting on their bottoms praying for funds to start working with.”
“So what can I do?”
“You can start as a grade D inquiry clerk. You will sit behind a desk hearing people complain. You must note their names and addresses and tell them they’ll hear from us through the post.”
“That’s easy.”
“It’s the hardest job we have. You must give an appearance of listening closely. You must prod them with questions to keep the words flowing if they look like drying up. You must keep each one talking till they’re exhausted—longer, if possible.”
“And I write a report on what they tell me?”
“No. Just note their name and address and tell them they’ll hear from us through the post.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid you would ask that,” said Gilchrist, sighing slightly. “As I already indicated, there are many whom we cannot help through lack of funds. A lot of these are still strong and vigorous, and it is a dangerous thing to suddenly deprive a man of hope—he can turn violent. It is important to kill hope slowly, so that the loser has time to adjust unconsciously to the loss. We try to keep hope alive till it has burned out the vitality feeding it. Only then is the man allowed to face the truth.”
“So a grade D inquiry clerk does nothing but postpone.”
“Yes.”
Lanark said loudly, “I don’t want—” then hesitated. He thought of the credit card, and a home with three or four rooms, perhaps in walking distance of this great building. Perhaps he would be able to go home for lunch and eat it with Sandy and Rima.
He said feebly, “I don’t want this job.”
“Nobody wants it. As I said, it’s the hardest job we have. But will you take it?”
After a moment Lanark said, “Yes.”
“Excellent. Miss Maheen, come over here. I want you to smile at our new colleague. He’s called Lanark.”
The secretary sat down facing Lanark and looked into his eyes. She had a smooth, vacant, fashionably pretty face and her hair was so golden and perfectly brushed that it looked like a nylon wig. For a split second her mouth widened in a smile, and Lanark was disconcerted by a click inside her head. Gilchrist said, “Show her your profile.” Lanark stared at him and heard another click. Miss Maheen slid two fingers inside a pocket of her crisp white blouse above her left breast and drew out a plastic strip. She handed it to Lanark. There were two clear little pictures of him at one end, a disconcerted full face and a perplexed profile. The rest was covered by fine blue parallel lines with LANARK printed on top and a long number with about twelve digits.
“She’s a reliable piece,” said Gilchrist, patting Miss Maheen’s bottom as she returned to her table. “She issues credit cards, makes coffee, types, looks pretty and her hobby is oriental martial arts. She’s a Quantum-Cortexin product.”
Lanark said bitterly, “Can’t Quantum-Cortexin make something to work as a grade D inquiry clerk?”
“Oh, yes, they can. They did. We tried it out at a stability sub-centre and it provoked a riot. The clients found its responses too mechanical. Most people have a quite irrational faith in human beings.”
“Roll on, Provan,” said Pettigrew.
“Amen, Pettigrew. Roll on, Provan,” said Gilchrist.
“What do you mean?” said Lanark.
“Roll on is a colloquialism whereby an anticipated event is conjured to occur more quickly. We’re looking forward to our transfer to Provan. You know about that, of course?”
“I was told I could go there because I’d a council passport.”
“Yes indeed. We’ll manage things much better from Provan. I’m afraid this big expensive building has been a great big expensive mistake. Even the air conditioning doesn’t work very well. But let’s go to the twentieth floor.”
They went through the desks of the outer office to a large and quiet lift. It brought them to a long narrow office containing about thirty desks. Half were occupied by people typing or phoning; many were empty, and the rest surrounded by talkative groups. Gilchrist led Lanark to one of these and said, “Here is our new inquiry clerk.”
“Thank God!” said a man who was carefully folding a paper form into a dart. “I’ve just faced six of the animals, six in a row. I’m not going out there again for a long
, long time.” He launched the dart which drifted sweetly down the length of the office. There was scattered applause.
“Good luck!” said Gilchrist, shaking Lanark’s hand. “I promise you’ll be promoted out of here as soon as we find a replacement for you. Pettigrew and I drink in the Vascular Cavity. It’s a vulgar pub but handy for the office and one always gets a good eyeful.” (He winked.) “So if you call there later we’ll have a jar together.”
He went out quickly. The dart thrower led Lanark to the last of a long row of doors in one wall. He softly opened it a little way, peeked through the crack and whispered, “He seems quiet. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. You know what to do?”
“Yes.”
Lanark stepped through the door into a cubicle behind a counter with an inquiries sign on it.
A thin, youngish man sat facing him. He had short ruffled hair, a clean suit of cheap cloth, his eyes were closed and he seemed barely able to avoid falling sideways. Lanark took the knob of the door he had just come through, slammed it hard and sat down. The man opened his eyes and said, “No no no no … no no, you’ve got me wrong.”
As his eyes focused on Lanark’s face his own face began to change. Vitality flooded into it. He smiled and whispered, “Lanark!”
“Yes,” said Lanark, wondering.
The man almost laughed with relief. “Thank Christ it’s you!” He leaned over the counter and shook Lanark’s hand, saying, “Don’t you know me? Of course not, I was a kid at the time. I’m Jimmy Macfee. Granny Fleck’s wee Macfee. You remember the old Ashfield Street days when me and my sisters played at sailing ships on your bed? My, but you’ve put on the beef. You were thin then. You had pockets full of seashells and pebbles, remember?”
“Were you that boy?” said Lanark, shaking his head. “How’s Mrs. Fleck? Have you seen her lately?”
“Not lately, no. She hardly goes out these days. Arthritis. It’s her age. But thank Christ it’s you. I’ve seen six of these clerks, and every one of them has tried to put me off by sending me to another. The problem is, see, that I’m married, see, and me and the wife have a mohome. And we’ve two weans, six years and seven years, boy and girl. Now I’m not criticizing mohomes—I make the bloody things—but there’s not much room in them, right? And when we took this one the housing department definitely said that if I paid my rent prompt and kept my nose clean we’d get a proper house when we needed it. Well we’ve had an accident. The wife’s pregnant again. So what can we do? Four of us and a screaming wean in a mohome? And having to use a public lavatory when we need a wash or a you-know-what? So what can we do?”
Lanark stared down at a pen and a heap of forms on the counter. He picked up the pen and said hesitantly, “What’s your address?” Then he dropped the pen and said firmly, “Don’t tell me. It’s no use. This place isn’t going to help you at all.”
“What?”
“You’ll get no help here. If you need a new house you’ll have to find a way of getting it yourself.”
“But that needs money. Are you advising me … to steal?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know. But whatever you do please be careful. I haven’t met the police yet, but I imagine they’re fairly efficient when dealing with lonely criminals. If you decide to do something, do it with a lot of other people who feel the same way. Perhaps you should organize a strike, but don’t go on strike for more money. Your enemies understand money better than you do. Go on strike for things. Strike for bigger houses.”
Macfee screwed his face up incredulously and shouted, “Me? Organize a … ? Thanks for bloody nothing!”
He sprang up, turned and went toward the lift.
“Wait!” cried Lanark, climbing over the counter. “Wait! I’ve another idea!”
He forced his way through the dead air of the floor and managed to press into the lift before the doors shut. He was pushed against Macfee’s shoulder in a mass of older men and younger women.
“Listen, Macfee,” he whispered. “My family and I are shifting into a new place soon—you could get the old one.”
“Where is it?”
“In the cathedral.”
“I’m not a bloody squatter!”
“But this is legal—it’s run by a very helpful minister of religion.”
“How big is it?”
“About six feet by nine. The ceiling slopes a bit.”
“Christ, my mohome’s nearly that size. And it has a flat roof and two rooms.”
“But it would suit us fine, mister!” said a haggard woman holding a baby. “Six feet by nine? My man and his brother and me need a place like that.”
“Tell me one thing,” said Macfee belligerently. “What do they pay you for working here?”
“Enough to buy my own house.”
“Why do they pay you anything?”
“I think they employ a lot of well-educated people to keep us comfortable,” said Lanark. “And because they’re afraid we’d be dangerous if we had no work at all.”
“Fucking wonderful!” said Macfee.
“Honest, mister, that room you’re leaving sounds very, very nice. Where did you say it was?”
The door opened and they hurried across the entrance hall, Lanark keeping close to Macfee’s shoulder. As they came onto the pavement three armoured trucks full of soldiers thundered past. “What’s happening?” cried Lanark. “Why all these soldiers?”
“How do I know?” shouted Macfee. “I’m pig-ignorant, all I hear is the news on television and funny noises in the street. They were ringing the cathedral bell like madmen a short while back. How do I know what’s going on?”
They walked in silence till they reached a corner where a sign projected above a door. It was a fat red heart with pink neon tubes running into it and The Vascular Cavity underneath. Lanark said, “At least let me buy you a drink.”
“Can you afford it?” said Macfee sarcastically. Lanark fingered the credit card in his pocket, nodded and pushed the door open.
The room was lit by a dim red glow with some zones of gaudy brightness. Most of the tables and chairs were partitioned off by luminous grilles shaped and coloured like pink veins and purple arteries. A revolving ball cast a flow of red and white corpuscular spots across the ceiling, and the music was a low, steady, protracted throbbing like a lame giant limping up a thickly carpeted stair.
“What kind of boozer is this?” said Macfee.
Lanark stood and stared. He would have turned and walked out if it hadn’t been for women. They filled the place with laughing, alert, indifferent young faces and throats, breasts, midriffs and legs in all kinds of clothing. He felt he had never seen so many girls in his life. Looking closely he saw there were as many men but they made a less distinct impression. For all he cared they were duplicates of the same confident long-haired youth and Lanark hated him. He stood transfixed between fascination and envy until someone shouted his name from a corner. He looked across and saw Gilchrist, Pettigrew and Miss Maheen standing at a bar quilted with red plastic.
“Listen,” he told Macfee. “That tall man is my boss. If anyone can help you it’s him. Let’s try anyway.”
He led the way to the bar, and said “Mr. Gilchrist, this is an old friend of mine—-Jimmy Macfee—I knew him as a boy. He’s a client of mine, a really deserving case, and—”
“Now, now, now!” said Gilchrist cheerfully. “We’re here on pleasure, not business. What would you both like?”
“A whisky as big as yours,” said Macfee.
“The same, please,” said Lanark.
Gilchrist gave the order. Macfee was clearly attracted by Miss Maheen who turned her head at regular intervals, smiling at each of them in turn.
“Why are you not drinking?” he asked when her split-second smile reached him.
“She doesn’t drink,” said Pettigrew dourly.
“Can’t she speak for herself?” said Macfee.
“She doesn’t need to.”
“Are you her husband o
r something?” said Macfee.
Pettigrew coolly emptied his whisky glass and said, “What do you do?”
“I’m a maker. I make mohomes,” said Macfee boldly. “And I live in one.”
“Mohome makers aren’t real makers,” said Pettigrew. “My father was a real maker. I respect real makers. You’re in the luxury trade.”
“So you think a mohome is a luxury?”
“Yes. I bet yours has colour television.”
“Why shouldn’t it have?”
“I suppose you came to us because you wanted a house you could stand up in, with an inside lavatory, and separate bedrooms, and wooden window frames, and maybe a fireplace?”
“Why shouldn’t I have a house like that?”
“I’ll tell you. When mohome users get a house like that they crowd into one room and sublet the others, and rip out the plumbing to sell as scrap metal, and rip out the window frames and chop up the doors and burn them. A mohome user isn’t fit for a decent house.”
“I’m not that sort! You know nothing about me!” cried Macfee.
“I knew all about you as soon as I clapped eyes on you,” said Pettigrew softly. “You, are an obnoxious, little, bastard.” Macfee stared at him, clenching his fists and inhaling loudly. His shoulders swelled and he seemed to grow taller.
“Miss Maheen!” said Pettigrew loudly. “If he threatens me, chop him.”
Miss Maheen stepped between Macfee and Pettigrew and raised her right hand to throat level, holding it flat and horizontal with the small finger outward. Her smile widened and remained. Gilchrist said hastily, “Oh, there’s no need for violence, Miss Maheen. Just look at him.”
Lanark heard a snapping sound inside Miss Maheen’s head. He couldn’t see her face but he saw Macfee’s. His mouth fell open, the lower lip trembled, he clapped his hands over his eyes. Gilchrist said quietly, “Lead him out, Lanark. This isn’t his kind of pub.”
Lanark gripped Macfee’s arm and led him through the crowd.
Outside the door Macfee leaned against the wall, dropped his hands and shuddered. “Wee black holes,” he whispered.
“Her eyes turned into wee black holes.”
Lanark Page 51