by Lee McGeorge
advantage and enterprise advantage. By the end of this decade we could bring the Soviets to their knees. We are aligned for perhaps the greatest moment of our existence. We will destroy their will. We shall destroy their spirit. We shall destroy their way of life. We shall destroy their ideologies and above all, we, as Consec Partners, will change the world together.”
As the thundering applause reached a blood-thirsty crescendo of sycophantic admiration, all Brian could do was mumble his thoughts to himself. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “What the hell are we involved in?”
----- Chapter Two -----
The new laboratory was on the Toronto outskirts. Grey and forgettable buildings away from the public eye. Brian’s new home for technology was between a manufacturer of industrial brushes and a mechanic who specialised in refurbishing forklift trucks. The only outward sign of their new home was a small brass plate by the entrance that read ‘Special Optical Laboratories’.
Inside the building Brian found a man with dark curly hair and thick glasses, sitting on a packing crate and reading a book called A Boy and his Dog. “Are you Brian Spectrometer?” he asked.
“I am.”
The man held out his hand to shake. “I’m Peter Fluorite, I’ve been with Consec for almost ten years but I started out in Montreal working for CBFT before moving to CBC. I’m your go-to man for television needs. I’ve been briefed on Veraceo and was told you’re building a testing facility.”
Brian walked around the space, his footsteps echoing. The main floor of the building was at least sixty feet square and twelve feet tall, then at the side of the main floor were various rooms ready to be converted into office space or workshops. “They’ve certainly given me enough space,” Brian mused.
“I was told you’re new to Consec,” Fluorite added. “That this is your first job as a partner.”
Brian nodded. “It is.”
Fluorite smiled at him. “Just tell me what you need, then watch how fast Consec makes it happen.”
“I need… what I need…” Brian held his chin as he paced the floor. “I need all the equipment from my old laboratory duplicating here, but upgraded to the best available. We’re going to create a room for test subjects to watch video and we’re going to process thousands of people. We need test bays arranged as booths where they can sit in front of a TV with headphones on. Let’s say fifty people at a time.”
“Fifty chairs, fifty cubicles… What sort of televisions?” Fluorite asked. "Colour or black and white, large or small, domestic use or under-scan monitors?”
“Let’s start with what people have in their homes. Domestic colour, average size, let’s say nineteen or twenty inch. They need building into an arrangement so that I can play a tape and all fifty get the signal, that’s a good place to start; and I’m going to need a thousand test subjects of all ages and social classes.”
Fluorite was writing in a notepad. “No problemo, Pátron. Leave it with me.”
----- X -----
Within a week the first test subjects were in place. The Veraceo signal generator was patched into the network of televisions and Peter Fluorite began building a catalogue of test material from old commercials to political ads and news reports. Until they knew how better to assess the impact they simply asked the same question of whether what they were watching was true or false. With Veraceo everything was true. Soap powder really did make your whites brighter than ever, kids never got hungry between meals with fish fingers and some razor blades truly did give the greatest shave.
“I’ve got something really special to try,” Fluorite said. “I’ve got a cassette of the most racist fucker you’ll ever see. Let’s see if people agree with this.”
Fifty test subjects came into the room to watch Peter Fluorite’s racist video.
Half of the test subjects watched it with Veraceo.
The film started. A political advert for a potential US Senator with slicked back hair and a bowtie. “I am J.B. Stoner,” the man began. “I am the only candidate for U.S. Senator who is for the white people. I am the only candidate who is against integration. All of the other candidates are race mixers to one degree or another.” On the test floor, the subjects sat in rows wearing headphones, glued to the screen, but it was easy to see that some had already screwed up their faces at the campaign ad. “I say we must repeal Gambrell's civil rights law,” Stoner continued. “Gambrell's law takes jobs from us whites and gives those jobs to the niggers. The main reason why niggers want integration is because the niggers want our white women. I am for law and order with the knowledge that you cannot have law and order and niggers too. Vote white. This time vote your convictions by voting white racist J.B. Stoner into the run-off election for U.S. Senator. Thank you.”
The test subjects were asked to score the thirty second video as to how likeable they found the candidate. One was least likeable, ten was most likeable. Those without Veraceo scored JB Stoner with ones and twos. Those with Veraceo scored him six and a few sevens.
“We should run that test again with black people,” Fluorite quipped.
They did.
Those with Veraceo scored Stoner just as favourably. The other half threatened to kill the motherfucker who thought it was a good idea to ask twenty five black people how likeable they found J.B. Stoner.
----- X -----
“I’ve found something worth testing,” Fluorite said waving a U-matic cassette. “Robert McNamara. He’s an easy man to hate, but he’s also a thoughtful, logical guy. I’ve got a rarely seen interview of him being boring as hell.”
“Veraceo puts people into an agreeable mood,” Brian said. “Even Hitler scored six out of ten.”
“Yes, but this is boring,” Fluorite added. “Hitler had charisma. The Nazi’s had stylish uniforms; but this is a twenty minute interview of McNamara talking about battlefield statistics. Anyone who can keep their eyes open long enough should want to punch the son-of-a-bitch.”
Fifty people came onto the test floor. They received their instructions and scoring papers and donned their headphones.
The programme began. Robert Strange McNamara, architect of the Vietnam War began droning about the mathematics of death. He talked about how he evaluated the height to accuracy ratio of B-29’s firebombing Japan in World War II. Every two minutes a message flashed over the bottom of the screen saying, ‘How Much Do You Like This Man? 1-10’. On the test floor, the subjects would pick up their pencils and score McNamara’s likeability.
The television interview broke at ten minutes for a short commercial break. A woman was putting on nylon stockings. She ran her hand along her leg. Nice. Sensual.
The interview resumed. “Mr McNamara, how could you apply statistics to Vietnam and not see that things were headed in the wrong direction?” the interviewer asked. “You were measuring targets hit, enemies captured, weapons seized and the body count. Surely those statistics showed you were losing the war?”
‘How Much Do You Like This Man? 1-10’
The interviewer stated, “Mr McNamara, Vietnam cost fifty eight thousand American lives and it was pointless.”
‘How Much Do You Like This Man? 1-10’
The interviewer increased the moral hurt, “When you factor in the civilian deaths, the enemy deaths and the deaths of our own troops and our allies, you’re looking at a figure close to one million, three hundred thousand human lives lost.”
‘How Much Do You Like This Man? 1-10’
The film ended.
“That was brutal,” Brian said.
Fluorite collected the test papers as the people were leaving and spotted the anomaly instantly. “Brian, look at this. Those with Veraceo are scoring McNamara six and seven for the start of the film, then straight tens half way through.”
Brian shuffled the test papers, flicking through them. “It’s on every one of them. Starting from question five, that’s ten minutes into the film they jumped to a ten. They did it across the board. Everybody scored him a ten from
question five onwards. Why?”
“I want to watch it.” Fluorite rewound the cassette and patched the Veraceo generator into their workshop feed. Normally they avoided watching the Veraceo signal as they felt it would cloud their judgement. “I want to watch it and see what happens. Do you want to try it?”
Brian pulled up a chair.
The film began.
McNamara droned on about maths and statistics.
The programme went to commercial break. Nylon stockings.
“That’s it,” Fluorite said. “I feel it. I see some pretty girl stroking her own legs and suddenly I’ll forgive McNamara all of his sins. I don’t care how many dead kids there are in Vietnam.”
“I feel it too,” Brian added. “But why the hell should we be feeling this?” He wound the tape back and watched the commercial again feeling the eroticism. He watched it three times sensing the impact lessen with each viewing. He stopped the tape and paced the floor. Excited by the discovery. “I think it could be sex and violence in combination,” he said. “The human brain is attuned to those things.”
“Well, that’s where we’ll test next,” Fluorite said. “We can test it with sex, with violence and with sex and violence in combination.”
----- X -----
By the time Brian made it home that evening he could sense something strange happening to him. As he looked at his hands on the steering wheel he sensed movement under the skin. When car