by Colin Kapp
‘Damn! I hoped you’d never get to know. They forced me to do it, Manalone. But they promised you wouldn’t get hurt. They threatened they were going to take me away from the children … Are you very angry?’
‘For Paul’s sake, I’m very disappointed. Did you shop him too?’
‘Please don’t make me answer that.’
‘I don’t much want to know the answer. What I want to know is why.’
‘Why what?’
‘Why Colonel Shears used you to get me here, when he could more easily have visited me at home. The only answer that makes sense is that he wanted me to have this book.’
‘But he didn’t find the book. He doesn’t know you’ve got it.’
‘My dear Kitten,’ said Manalone patiently, ‘he planted the book. It was never Paul’s at all. Now that’s the truth, isn’t it?’
‘Damn you, Manalone! How did you know that?’
‘There’s a label here which used to read: “Ex Libris B. P. S.” Somebody erased the initials, but he couldn’t remove the indentation. A big old book from the library of Colonel Brian P. Shears. What is it, Kitten – a red herring designed to throw me on the wrong track? Or do I get arrested for being found with it in my possession?’
‘They didn’t tell me, Manalone. They made me plant it on you, is all I know. Shears’ll kill me if he knows you’ve found out.’
‘I don’t much care if he does. One thing’s certain – I daren’t risk taking it with me. Everything I touch seems to acquire a security classification. At a guess, this is my passport into the nearest penal labour camp.’
‘Hell, Manalone … I’m sorry! What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to sit right here and learn what I can from it. When I leave you can do with it whatever you wish.’
‘You’re very angry, aren’t you?’
‘Not angry, Kitten. Bewildered. I used to lead a nice, quiet, well-ordered existence. Physics and people both appeared to operate within predictable limits. I always had reservations about people, because I never really understood them. But physics I did understand. Now it appears that even physics is not the close approximation to reality that it used to seem.’
‘You’re certainly a queer fish, Manalone,’ said Kitten seriously. ‘If you’re going to read that book here I’d better see if I can find you another lamp.’
‘The game, Manalone … it’s all part of the game. Shears already knew you had the eco-crisis list. Maurine must have searched your desk a dozen times since then. So why did he make a play of asking?’
With the second lamp he found it easier to see the detail on the pages of the book.
‘And why kill Paul? If that did anything at all it pointed up the fact that the information he was feeding you contained at least a portion of the truth.’
He moved the two lamps together to concentrate the light.
‘And the death of Pierce Oman underscored the fact that teapot handles are important. Important to whom … and how?’
Page by page the sketches showed him moments of a bygone age, locked in frozen motion by another’s hand, another’s eye. It was an interpretation of past life viewed through another person’s brain, and the pictures reflected not only the scenes but also something of the emotions they had evoked.
‘This book … the trick that brought it to your hands had only one endpoint – it emphasized the importance of the apparently irrelevant. Is that what they’re trying to do? To throw into focus the relevant parts of a thousand disconnected things? If so, Manalone, could it be that somebody wants you to crack this problem? As a party game, it could be a riot. As a way of life it leaves a lot to be desired. Or is all this emphasis an incidental by-product?’
He finished the book, interested and informed and vaguely envious of the hand that had transferred such images to paper. But the anticipated revelation was still absent. He had found in its pages all the magic the artist had intended to convey, but none of the answers to his contemporary problem. As with teapot handles and lists of crises which should have happened but had not, he knew he was missing the point. The vital spark of genius needed to start the flare of understanding, refused to come. Morning found him asleep with his head resting on the pages of the book.
Going to the Mills direct from the raft was a new experience for Manalone. In the early light the bright activity along the sea-front and the freshness of the air, created an atmosphere completely different from his usual dull awakenings. Even waiting at the roadside for an autram seemed something unique and faintly illicit, which pleased him with its novelty.
Because the vehicle was not his usual contract autram, its programme directed it to the visitors’ entrance to the Mills, instead of the staff gate. This again was a welcome break from routine. The visitors’ entrance appeared unmanned, and having entered the gates, Manalone sauntered the long way round the lawns, enjoying the early sunshine. He was unshaven, and his personal linen had not been changed, but he was feeling sufficiently at odds with the normal pattern of life not to let it worry him.
Reaching his office, his key unaccountably refused to operate the latch. He examined the offending instrument in case he had chosen the wrong one from the wallet. Inexplicably, there was no mistake. He tried then to unlock the door of the computer laboratory. It, too, refused to respond. With a frown of annoyance he stooped to examine the lock, and recoiled in shock at the shining faceplate. Since he had locked up the afternoon before, someone had changed the locks.
Cursing at the inconvenience, he turned towards Vickers’ office, realizing as he did so that it was unlikely that the Comptroller had yet arrived. Again he was surprised. Both Vickers and Maurine were already present, the latter giving him a startled and reproachful look as he entered her office. Sensing her involvement, he beat her to Vickers’ door and entered without knocking.
‘Adam – what the hell’s going on? Some idiot’s changed …’ His voice trailed away as he saw the look on Vickers’ face.
‘You shouldn’t be here, Manalone. Didn’t you get my message?’
‘What message?’
‘The one I left at your home. Your security clearance has been withdrawn. You’ve no business on the plant any more. They shouldn’t have let you through the gates.’
‘I’ve not been home all night,’ said Manalone. ‘I didn’t know. But anyway, the whole idea’s ridiculous.’
‘It’s out of my hands,’ said Vickers. ‘I contested the security withdrawal and got threatened with suspension myself. They won’t shift on the decision, and I can’t make them, even to save the Mills. You’ll get six months’ salary in lieu of notice. I’ll have the credits sent by post.’
The Comptroller was obviously fighting under a great weight of emotions, not the least of which was an unspoken denouncement of betrayal on Manalone’s part. Under this was a fear that without Manalone’s guiding knowledge and skills, the Mills themselves might falter and eventually have to close. This would be a disaster not only for the rest of the staff but for the district as a whole.
‘Adam, I …’
‘Look, Manalone, don’t make it any tougher on the both of us. I’m trying to do this nicely. But if you aren’t clear of this plant in five minutes, I’ll have to call the police.’
‘But the reasons? There have to be reasons for withdrawing security clearance.’
‘You’re asking me for reasons?’ Vickers’ temper flared suddenly. ‘Don’t you think you could offer me a few reasons? I don’t know what you’ve got yourself involved with, Manalone, but if I were you I’d quit. You’ve lost your job – and you’ll probably lose your home. Are you trying to finish in the gutter?’
‘I’ll fight the decision,’ said Manalone. ‘Just give me the name of the security authority. I want to know who’s behind all this.’
‘Goodbye, Manalone!’ Vickers held out his hand. Manalone was shaken to see there were tears in his eyes. He briefly grasped the offered hand, then turned aside, feeling his own face becoming
stiff with bitterness. He headed out of the door, his vision burning with a red haze of anger.
Maurine was seated at her desk, watching him as he emerged.
‘Sorry, Manalone!’ she said quietly as he passed. ‘But at least you were warned.’ This time there was no triumph in her face.
‘I’ll win, Mau. Even yet. Once I find what it is that’s being hidden. I’ll shake the world apart if necessary.’
‘I’ll tell you this – you’ve got a lot of people worried. Could be you’re nearer the answer than you know. Good luck, Manalone!’
23
Manalone and the Golden Handshake
Stepping outside the gates of the Mills knowing he would not be able to return, was a new experience for Manalone. He had taken ten paces before the full weight of the situation hit him. The national unemployment rate was fifty-three percent. Along the depressed south coast, the figure was nearer seventy percent. A technician with his training and capability would find another job – eventually. In the meantime the purely survival-level unemployment payments would mean he must exist almost entirely on his capital until his next appointment came. Eventually could seem like an eternity.
Manalone himself was not a prodigal spender, but his housing expenses were high and Sandra’s extravagances were a continual drain on his resources. Nevertheless, with six months’ salary in lieu of notice plus his reserves and some economies, he estimated he could live for about a year without his living standard being too much affected. This was the rational viewpoint. Behind it lay the dark fear of depression. If his dismissal was part of the MIPS deliberate degradation treatment, they could as easily prevent him from getting another job. Long before all the money was gone he would have lost his credit rating and probably his house. Already the gutter was in sight, even if only as a future spectre.
Manalone shrugged. It was a potent threat but there was nothing in it yet which would persuade him to change his mind about pursuing the problem. He had the feeling that even when he hit the gutter he would still be searching, looking amongst the stones for the reason why the past had to be buried, and trying to figure out what had happened to gravity and momentum.
His most immediate problem was how to explain his dismissal to Sandra. Even at his previous salary level she had continually complained that the money was not sufficient for her needs. The prospect of twelve months of economy followed by the possible complete cessation of income, was guaranteed to bring out the worst in her. Manalone decided that the telling of the story was something better not delayed.
Unusually, when he reached home he found her in. Whatever festive event she had planned for the day, it had evidently run sour on her. Though she was dressed to her usual standard of perfection, it was doubtful if she had anywhere to go. She was in the loungespace picking to pieces an expensive natural flower, and watching the auto-clean drive itself into a frenzy as it strove to collect the continually falling petals from the carpet.
‘My God, Manalone! Shouldn’t you be at work?’
There was no greeting, no solicitous enquiry, no great concern, even, about where he had spent the previous night. Her emphasis was directed not towards him but towards the maintenance of the system. Manalone’s thoughts were thrown back to one of the sketches in the big old book, in which a tired donkey had stopped resolutely in its tracks and refused to carry its burdensome mistress any further. The simile was not exact, but he could easily identify himself with the stubborn and work-worn donkey, and Sandra as the burden he carried on his back. The notion pleased him a little. It made it easier to say what had to be said.
‘Sandra – I’ve finished at the Mills. My security clearance has been cancelled.’
‘Forget it, Manalone! Humour’s another one of your weak points.’ She was bored and distracted and not really listening.
He felt like shaking her until her teeth rattled. Never before had he laid an angry hand on her, no matter how strongly he had felt the provocation, but at that moment he came perilously close to descending on her in fury. Checking himself, he decided he could do all the necessary demolition merely using words.
‘Listen to me, San – and listen hard. I’m out of work, and out of work equates with no income. If you think that’s a joke, let’s see you do the laughing.’
‘Hell!’ Not only the flower but the vase also hit the floor. ‘What put a damnfool idea like that into your head?’
‘I didn’t resign. I was sacked.’
‘Then you’d better get right back and get unsacked. How’m I supposed to live if you’re not earning?’
‘It isn’t that easy, San.’
‘Nothing about you’s ever easy. But they can’t run the Mills without you. Even I know that.’
‘They don’t have the choice. They can’t employ me unless I’ve a security clearance.’
‘Then there’s been a mistake.’
‘No mistake, San. Adam Vickers appealed against the decision and lost. Naturally I’ll fight it, but the present fact is that I’ve joined the growing ranks of the unemployed.’
‘And I’ll tell you another present fact, Manalone. Either you get that job back or I quit. And don’t think I’ve nowhere to go. I’ve had plenty of offers. God! You never were much of a laugh when you had money – but without money you’re an absolute nothing, Manalone. A damn absolute nothing! Why should I waste my time on you?’
‘I hadn’t noticed you had wasted much time on me,’ said Manalone acidly. He walked into his studyspace and sat down at the desk. The interview had gone largely as expected, and he had no wish to prolong it. Neither would Sandra’s mood be placated by explanations or apologies. Her world was designed around the spending of money, and without an ample supply of it he was no conceivable use to her. He mentally wrote off one marriage and credited the score in favour of the MIPS and their degradation policy. If he felt like crying, the tears were not for what he had lost, but for the receding realms of what might have been
‘Manalone … man-alone! Maurine, the friendly enemy; Kitten, the weak ally; and Sandra the shrewish, useless wife – you’ve lost all three of them in the same day. It wasn’t much of a social life, boy, but it was all you had. So what do you have left? Solitary confinement whilst continuing to inhabit the world at large.
‘So that’s new? No, Manalone. Every man’s an island … separated, isolated … a spark of consciousness trapped in the confines of a skull … desperately trying to make communion with others through a very limited set of senses. And you’re more isolated than most. Because you won’t let anybody into you, and you don’t know the secret of getting out to them. So talking only to yourself is a difference of degree but not of kind.’
He ended his mental monologue as an autram drew up in the road outside. To his surprise, Maurine van Holt descended, carrying a heavy case which she brought to the house. He went to the door and opened it, whilst Sandra hovered suspiciously behind him.
‘What’s the readout, Mau?’
‘You were due for a golden handshake, Manalone. Six months’ salary instead of notice. I have it here.’
‘In cash?’
‘In cash is the only way you’ll learn to use it. ComCredit transactions are handled by real-time computers. Where your ComCredit card is, there you are – with a surveillance computer logging every purchase that you make and every metre that you move. Should you ever happen to want to get lost, here’s the only way you can do it.’
Manalone nodded gratefully. ‘Point taken, Mau. But knowing your allegiance, I’d scarcely have thought this was in your interests.’
Maurine’s face drifted into her big, twisted grin, and her eyes met his through levels of understanding which penetrated many levels of his personality.
‘Let’s say it’s for old time’s sake, Manalone. Believe me, they haven’t finished with you yet. This is just a personal touch, because I don’t think you deserve what’s coming to you.’
Her parting wave was almost a mock salute. Incensed, Sandra moved clos
e to Manalone’s shoulder and watched the autram out of sight.
‘You having an affair with that bitch, Manalone?’
Manalone carried the case inside and opened it to show six months’ salary mainly in coins.
‘Far from it,’ he said. ‘Though you’ve made it clear it’s no longer a concern of yours. But with Mau as an enemy I don’t really need any friends.’
24
Manalone and the Test
Manalone’s first reaction was to make a vidiphone call to Victor Blackman. Blackman came to the screen shirt-sleeved, and his ugly bull-moose face was sweating and harassed.
‘Manny! Boy, could we use you right now! We had some joker develop a production programme which we ran on the Sigma Eleven. Today we’ve already produced a warehouse full of scrap – all painted green, would you believe? If you know a dealer who’ll pay top prices for green-sprayed scrap iron, I’d be pleased to make the contact.’
‘I’m not surprised you hit trouble,’ said Manalone critically. ‘Your Sigma Eleven’s a corrupt computer. You have to insert corrections in the programme to offset the deviations. The trick is to be able to measure the required offset, and knowing how to insert it so that the corrections don’t become cumulative.’
‘In short, I need an expert. And that’s you, Manny. What do I have to offer to make you change your mind?’
‘That’s what I was calling you about. I’ve changed my mind. I’m prepared to supervise the compilation of whatever programmes you want, and to kick the bugs out of your numerical control processes until they begin to function as they should.’
Blackman’s immense enthusiasm was quenched by a final doubt.
‘There has to be a catch in this, Manny. What’s it going to cost me?’