“and the Toltec of Tiahuanaco dips toward the target just as Posky falls into third place and now Norn leads, then Paleologue, then Posky with Podgorny a very poor fourth; and here comes the Provost of Unthank—I’m sorry the Lord Provost of Greater Unthank—dropping toward the target just as Norn, yes, Norn, yes, Norn of Thule breaks the tape, closely followed by Paleologue of Trebizond and Posky of Crim Tartary.”
Lanark’s eagle-machine thumped down on the canvas and stood rocking slightly. Six men in dust coats seized it and carried it a few yards to a row of similar machines standing against a long narrow platform. Lanark gripped his briefcase and was helped onto the platform by a girl in a scarlet skirt and blouse who said hurriedly, “The Unthank delegate, yes?”
“Yes.”
“This way, please, you’re half a minute behind schedule.”
She led him down some steps, through groups of relaxing athletes, across a momentarily bare cinder track and into a doorway under the terracing of the main grandstand. After the wide spaces of the sky it was perplexing to trot up a narrow passage in artificial light. He decided that whatever happened he would remain dour, sceptical and unimpressed. They came to a hall with open lifts along the walls. The girl ushered him into one, saying, “Go up to the executive gallery, they’re expecting you. Leave your luggage with me; I’ll make sure it reaches your room in the delegates’ repose village.”
“No, I’m sorry, these documents are vital,” said Lanark. He saw a row of buttons in a polished metal panel and touched one beside the words EXECUTIVE GALLERY. The lift ascended and he watched his reflection in the polished panel with satisfaction. Though older he was even more dignified than in the vestry lavatory. He had grown a pointed, compact, captainish little white beard, his cheeks were smooth and rosy, the effect was of well-groomed efficiency. The lift door opened and Wilkins, looking exactly as Lanark remembered him, shook his hand, saying, “Provost Sludden! Am I right?”
“No, Wilkins. My name is Lanark. We’ve met before.”
Wilkins peered closely and said, “Lanark! My God, so you are. What’s happened to Sludden?”
“He is coping at present with a very dangerous sanitary problem. The Greater Unthank regional committee have judged it wiser for me to represent the city.”
Wilkins smiled crookedly and said, “That man is a fox: a ninth-generation ecological fox. Never mind. Join the queue, join the queue.”
“Wilkins, our sanitary problem is assuming catastrophic dimensions. I have more than one report in this briefcase which shows that people will start dying soon and—”
“This is a social reception, Lanark, public health will be debated on Monday. Just join the queue and say hello to your hosts.”
“Hosts?”
“The Provan executive officer and Lord and Lady Monboddo. Join the queue, join the queue.”
They were in a broad curving corridor with glass double-doors on one side and a queue moving steadily through. Lanark noticed a woman in a silver sari and a brown man in a white toga but most people wore sober uniforms or business suits and had the wary look of important people who, without showing friendship, are prepared to respond judiciously to it in others. They were an easy crowd to join. At the glass door a loud voice announced the arrivals to a company beyond: “Senator Sennacherib of New Alabama. Brian de Bois Guilbert, Grand Templar of Languedoc and Apulia. Governor Vonnegut of West Atlantis….”
He reached the door and heard the satisfying cry, “Lord Provost Lanark of Greater Unthank,” and shook hands with a hollow-cheeked man who said, “Trevor Weems of Provan. Glad you could come.”
A stately woman in a blue tweed gown shook his hand and said, “Had you a nice trip?”
Lanark stared at her and said, “Catalyst.”
“Call her Lady Monboddo,” said Ozenfant, who was standing beside her. He shook Lanark’s hand briskly. “Time changes all the labels, as you yourself are proving also.”
A girl in a scarlet skirt and blouse took Lanark’s arm and led him down some steps saying, “Hello, I’m called Libby. I expect you need some refreshment. Shall I get you a snack from the buffet? Pâté de something? Breast of something? Locusts and honey?”
“Was Ozenfant …? Is Ozenfant …?”
“The new lord president director, yes hadn’t you heard? Doesn’t he look tremendously fit? I wonder why his wife is wearing that hairy frock? Perhaps you aren’t hungry. Neither am I. Let’s tuck into the booze instead, there’s heaps of it. Just sit there a minute.”
He sat down at the end of a long leather sofa and looked perplexedly around.
He was on the highest and largest of four floors which descended like steps to a wall of window overlooking the stadium. Half the people standing around seemed to be delegates and stood talking in quiet little groups. Girls in scarlet lent some liveliness to the company by carrying trays between the groups with flirtatious quickness, but they were balanced by silent, robust men who stood watchfully by the walls wearing black suits and holding glasses of whisky which they did not sip. On a glass-topped table near the sofa lay a sheaf of pamphlets entitled ASSEMBLY PROGRAMME. Lanark lifted and opened one. He read a printed letter from Trevor Weems welcoming the delegates on behalf of the people of Provan and trusting their stay would be a happy one. There was no possibility of danger to life or limb, as the newest sort of security staff had been rented from the Quantum-Cortexin group; the Red Girls, however, were human and anxious to help with any difficulty the delegates could bring to them. Then came six pages of region names listed alphabetically from Armorica to Zimbabwe. Lanark saw that the Greater Unthank delegate was given as Provost Sludden. Then came a page headed:
FIRST DAY
HOUR 11. Arrival and reception of delegates by Lord and Lady Monboddo
After this a press conference was listed, a lunch, an “opportunity for social and informal lobbying,” a sheepdog trial, a pipe band contest, a dinner with speeches, a performance by the Erse Opera Company of Purser’s Misfortunes of Elphin, a firework display and a party. Lanark turned a page impatiently and found something less frivolous.
SECOND DAY
HOUR 8.50. Breakfast. Lobbying.
HOUR 10. World Education Debate.
Chairman, Lord Monboddo.
Opening speech: “Logos into Chaos.” The Erse delegate and sociosophist Odin Mac Tok analyzes the disastrous impact of literacy on the underedu-cated.
Speeches. Motions. Voting.
HOUR 15. Lunch. Lobbying.
HOUR 17. World Food Debate.
Chairman, Lord Monboddo.
Opening speech: “Excrement into Aliment.” The Bohemian delegate and Volstat research scholar Dick Otoman explains how organic pollutions can be pre-processed to revitalize each other within the human body.
Speeches. Motions. Voting.
HOUR 22. Dinner. Lobbying.
THIRD DAY
HOUR 8.50. Breakfast. Lobbying.
HOUR 10. Public Order Debate.
Chairman, Lord Monboddo.
Opening speech: “Revolutionary Stasis.” Kado Motnic, sociometrist and delegate of the People’s Republic of Paphlogonia describes the application of short-nerve-circuitry to libido-canalization in the infra-supra-25-40 spectrum.
Speeches. Motions. Voting.
HOUR 15. Lunch. Lobbying.
HOUR 17. World Energy Debate.
Chairman, Lord Monboddo.
Opening speech: “Biowarp.” South Atlantis delegate and Algolagnics director Timon Kodac presents gene-warping as the solution to the fossil-fuel failure.
Speeches. Motions. Voting.
HOUR 22. Dinner. Lobbying.
FOURTH DAY
HOUR 8.50. Breakfast. Lobbying.
HOUR 10. World Health Debate.
Chairman, Lord Monboddo.
Opening speech: “Kindness, Kin and Capacity.” Hanseatic delegate and sociopathist Moo Dackin explains why healthy norms must be preserved by destroying other healthy norms.
Speeches. Motions. Vo
ting.
HOUR 15. Lunch, social and informal.
HOUR 17. The Subcommittees report. Voting.
HOUR 21. Press conference.
HOUR 22. Dinner. Speeches.
Master of Ceremonies, Trevor Weems.
Opening speech: “Then, Now and Tomorrow.” Six millennia of achievement will be outlined by the Chairman of the Assembly, Moderator of the Expansion Project Director of the Institute and President of the Council, the Lord Monboddo. Trevor Weems, Chief Executive Officer of the Provan Basin, will propose a vote of thanks. Toadi Monk, Satrap of Troy and Trebizond, will move the vote of thanks to the hosts.
HOUR 25. The delegates depart.
Before reading all this Lanark had been gripped by a large undirected excitement. Since wakening to sunlight in his aircraft that morning he had felt himself nearing the centre of a great event, approaching a place where he would utter, publicly, a word that would change the world. The sight of Wilkins, the catalyst and Ozenfant-Monboddo had not damaged this feeling. He had been startled, but so had they, which was satisfying. But the assembly programme disconcerted him. It was like seeing the plans of a vast engine he meant to drive and finding he knew nothing about engineering. What did “Speeches. Motions. Voting” mean? What was “Lobbying” and why did it happen at mealtimes? Did the other delegates understand these things?
The gallery was very crowded now and two men sat at the other end of the sofa sipping pint glasses of black beer and gazing at the active little figures on the sunlit sports field below. One of them said cheerfully, “It’s great to see all this happening in Provan.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, come now, Odin, you’ve worked as hard as anyone to bring the assembly here.”
The other said morosely, “Bread and circuses. Bread and circuses. A short spell of reasonable wages and long holidays while they plunder us and then wham! The chopper. Provan will be turned into another Greater Unmentionable Region.”
Lanark said eagerly, “Excuse me, are you complaining about the condition of this city?”
The morose man had thick white hair, a body like a wrestler’s and a pinkish battered face like a boxer’s. He looked at Lanark balefully for a moment, then said, “I think I’ve a right to do that. I live here.”
“Then you don’t know how lucky you are! I’m from a region with an unusually dangerous sanitary problem, and Provan strikes me as the most splendidly situated—”
“Are you a delegate?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve just arrived by air.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t talk to me about Provan. You’re in the early stages of a Gulliver complex.”
Lanark said coldly, “I don’t understand you.”
“The first recorded aerial survey happened when Lemuel Gulliver, a plain, reasonable man, was allowed to stand on his feet beside the capital of Lilliput. He saw well-cultivated farms surrounding the homes, streets, and public buildings of a very busy little people. He was struck by the obvious ingenuity and enterprise of the rulers, the officials and the workmen. It took him two or three months to discover their stupidity, greed, corruption, envy, cruelty.”
“You pessimists always fall into the disillusion trap,” said the cheerful man cheerfully. “From one distance a thing looks bright. From another it looks dark. You think you’ve found the truth when you’ve replaced the cheerful view by the opposite, but true profundity blends all possible views, bright as well as dark.”
The morose man grinned and said, “Since nearly everyone clings to the cloud-cuckoo view it’s lucky one or two of us aren’t afraid to look at the state of the sewers.”
“Sorry I took so long,” said the Red Girl, placing a tray on the table. “I thought it might be fun to try a gaelic coffee.” “I’m glad you mentioned sewers,” said Lanark eagerly, “I come from Unthank, which is having trouble with its sewers. In fact the future of the whole region is being menaced—I mean, decided—by this assembly, and I’ve been sent here as advocate for the defence. But the programme”—he waved it—“tells me nothing about where and when to speak. Can you advise me?” “There’s no need to be so serious on the first day,” said the Red Girl.
“The future of a crippled region,” said the morose man slowly, “is usually hammered out by one of the subcommittees.”
“Which subcommittee? When and where does it meet?”
“This is a friendly social reception!” said the Red Girl, looking distressed. “Can’t we keep all this heavy stuff till later? There’s going to be such a lot of it.”
“Shut up, dear,” said the morose man. “Wilkins knows all the ropes. You’d better ask him.”
“Listen,” said the Red Girl. “I’ll take you to Nastler. He knows everything about everything, and he’s expecting to see you soon in the Epilogue room. He told me so.”
“Who is Nastler?”
“Our king. In a way. But he’s not at all grand,” said the Red Girl evasively. “It’s hard to explain.”
The morose man guffawed and said, “He’s a joker. You’ll get nothing out of him.”
Lanark opened his briefcase, locked the assembly programme inside and stood up.
“I understand that you are employed to help me with my difficulties,” he told the Red Girl. “I will speak to both Wilkins and this Nastler person. Which can I see first?”
“Oh Nastler, definitely,” said the red girl, looking relieved.
“He’s an invalid, anyone can see him anytime. But won’t you drink your coffee first?”
“No,” said Lanark, and thanked the morose man, and followed the Red Girl into the crowd.
Weems and the Monboddos were still shaking hands with the queue by the door, which was a short one now. As Lanark passed them the announcer was saying, “Chairman Fu of Xanadu. Proto-Presbyter Griffith-Powys of Ynyswitrin. Premier Multan of Zimbabwe.”
The Red Girl led him along the outer corridor till they came to a white panel without hinges or handle. She said, “It’s a door. Go through it.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“If you’re going to talk politics, I’m going to wait outside.” As Lanark pressed the surface he noticed a big word on it:
EPILOGUE
He entered a room with no architectural similarity to the building he had left. The door on this side had deeply moulded panels and a knob, the ceiling was bordered by an elaborate cornice of acanthus sprays, there was a tall bay window with the upper foliage of a chestnut tree outside and an old stone tenement beyond. The rest of the room was hidden by easels holding large paintings of the room. The pictures seemed brighter and cleaner than the reality and a tall beautiful girl with long blond hair reclined in them, sometimes nude and sometimes clothed. The girl herself, more worried and untidy than her portraits, stood near the door wearing a paint-stained butcher’s apron. With a very small brush she was adding leaves to a view of the tree outside the window, but she paused, pointed round the edge of the picture and told Lanark, “He’s there.”
A voice said, “Yes, come round, come round.”
Lanark went behind the picture and found a stout man leaning against a pile of pillows on a low bed. His face, framed by wings and horns of uncombed hair, looked statuesque and noble apart from an apprehensive, rather cowardly expression. He wore a woollen jersey over a pyjama jacket, neither of them clean, the coverlet over his knees was littered with books and papers, and there was a pen in his hand. Glancing at Lanark in a sly sideways fashion he indicated a chair with the pen and said, “Please sit down.”
“Are you the king of this place?”
“The king of Provan, yes. And Unthank too. And that suite of rooms you call the institute and the council.”
“Then perhaps you could help me. I am here—”
“Yes, I know roughly what you want and I would like to help. I would even offer you a drink, but there’s too much intoxication in this book.”
“Book?”
“This world, I
meant to say. You see I’m the king, not the government. I have laid out landscapes, and stocked them with people, and I still work an occasional miracle, but governing is left to folk like Monboddo and Sludden.”
“Why?”
The king closed his eyes, smiled and said, “I brought you here to ask that question.”
“Will you answer it?”
“Not yet.”
Lanark felt very angry. He stood up and said, “Then talking to you is a waste of time.”
“Waste of time!” said the king, opening his eyes. “You clearly don’t realize who I am. I have called myself a king—that’s a purely symbolic name, I’m far more important. Read this and you’ll understand. The critics will accuse me of self-indulgence but I don’t care.”1
With a reckless gesture he handed Lanark a paper from the bed. It was covered with childish handwriting and many words were scored out or inserted with little arrows. Much of it seemed to be dialogue but Lanark’s eye was caught by a sentence in italics which said: Much of it seemed to be dialogue but Lanark’s eye was caught by a sentence in italics which said:
Lanark gave the paper back asking, “What’s that supposed to prove?”
“I am your author.”
Lanark stared at him. The author said, “Please don’t feel embarrassed. This isn’t an unprecedented situation. Vonnegut has it in Breakfast of Champions and Jehovah in the books of Job and Jonah.”
“Are you pretending to be God?”
“Not nowadays. I used to be part of him, though. Yes, I am part of a part which was once the whole. But I went bad and was excreted. If I can get well I may be allowed home before I die, so I continually plunge my beak into my rotten liver and swallow and excrete it. But it grows again. Creation festers in me. I am excreting you and your world at the present moment. This arse-wipe”—he stirred the papers on the bed—“is part of the process.”
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