by Nigel Kneale
KIN: That stuff. I do drapes. (They look, without enthusiasm. In Kin’s face there is ironic disgust) See that side, behind her? I fix that side, all that shiny, hanging . . . Ah, real pretty, they said. And she said, it sets off my skin super kingstyle. A real artist, she said. True? True. I work in Artsex so I must be . . . an artist. A drape artist.
He turns away from them and stares down at the trundling chessmen. Deanie picks up a handful of empty brighteners from the top of the case.
DEANIE: Kin, you had all these?
NAT: No hurt if he did.
DEANIE (concerned): Kin—
NAT: Effect cancels after number ten.
DEANIE: But he wanted ’em. (Gently) Kin.
NAT: I better go now.
Kin twists round to face him. He looks wretched.
KIN: No, wait. Nat Mender, you like this Deanie? Anywise, you did then. So maybe we got some ideas the same.
NAT: Maybe.
KIN: You in Sportsex, the top show. You can help me.
DEANIE (firmly): Kin, he got to go.
KIN: He can help me! (To Nat) Tell me why to do this. Give me a reason. Make me want to do it!
His hand is outflung at the screen. Nat is conscious that talk has stopped round about. They are being watched.
NAT: Hard to make it all clear right now.
KIN: You make it clear . . . ever? You can?
NAT: If you quiet down.
KIN: Oh. Then you tell me? No need to tell me when you start like that. I can guess it.
NAT: What you mean?
KIN: “Quiet down”! You want to quiet down the whole world, all the time. All them outside. We got to do our work for them, that it? Keep ’em like the rule says, cosy and comfy?
NAT: We got to, you know that.
KIN: And if not?
NAT: There be tension.
KIN: I want tension!
There is a faint gasp at this raw heresy from one or two of the onlookers. Deanie grabs Kin by the arm and pulls him aside. She looks appealingly to Nat and he follows.
DEANIE: Come sit down—
NAT: Tension! He know what he’s saying?
DEANIE: It gets him like that, crazy—
NAT (to Kin): Listen, you not happy? You want to switch jobs?
KIN: I want to do . . . what I want.
DEANIE: I tell him, try for Patterning.
NAT: Good idea. That’s artistic—
KIN: Patterning?
NAT: They do a lot. They need people—
KIN (with contempt): Help computers, make little moving shapes? In between the shows, to keep the audience calm and—(Almost pitifully) Know what I want to do? I want to make pictures.
NAT: Well, that’s making pictures.
KIN: Pictures that stay. (Baffled, Nat looks to Deanie) She knows.
DEANIE (with a drawing gesture): He makes them.
KIN: When I get what to make them on. (Suddenly, fiercely) I want to show them! To them out there . . . to the whole world I want . . . to make ’em see! I want them to hurt!
Nat stares at him.
DEANIE: Nat—you look at them?
NAT: They hurt?
Deanie nods.
DEANIE: They do more than that.
NAT (after a moment): Let me see ’em.
Even at this small gesture of help Kin’s aggressiveness suddenly melts. He gives a quick grin. He looks vulnerable and almost young enough to be Deanie’s son, not her current lover . . .
INSIDE NAT’S ROOM – NIGHT
We seem to be on the summit of Mount Everest with Nat and Misch. Both are wearing parkas made of brightly coloured fun-fur, which flutters in the howling wind.
The pair turn, watching the moving panorama of icy peaks. And we see that apart from their fun-fur hats they are wearing hardly anything else at all.
Misch points to a likely peak and shouts above the roar of the wind:
MISCH: That the North Pole?
NAT (points to another): No, that one.
MISCH: Which one?
NAT (pointing to yet another): Over there.
Misch turns to look. He gives her a sudden shove from behind. She throws up her arms, fighting for balance and squealing with delicious fright. Recovering, she makes a little rush at him and he totters in his turn. He drops out of sight . . . then bobs up into shot again, waving his arms.
NAT: Save me! Help!
She studies him coldly for a moment, arms folded. Then she grabs him to her and kisses him, almost violently.
MISCH: Poor coddy! Nearly fell off the top! (Then, rapidly losing interest in the kiss, she looks bleakly about) Think it real? True?
NAT: What?
MISCH: All that. Any place look like that? All that white? Crazy. Oh, change it. (Nat presses a button on the remote-control unit he holds. The background performs a zip pan and they are in space, standing in their near-nudity to look down at the earth from a height of several hundred miles. Misch is immediately bored) Oh, not this again! This old space thing! Try again! (Nat presses the button. Another zip-pan and they are staring at the glittering ice-shelf of the Antarctic. Misch is furious) Not more white! Nat!
NAT: The way it’s set . . . Hey, look at this!
They are bathed in crimson light. Behind them a volcano is in full, thunderous eruption. Great gobs of molten rock shower everywhere.
MISCH: Going to fall on us! Oh . . . super-king! I can feel them! Lovely! (She throws up her arms, abandoning herself to imagined tactile sensation) Nat, the tickler! Put the tickler on too!
Nat does. Something like a giant collapsible Christmas tree unfolds itself and sways into shot, slowly revolving. It has innumerable fronds designed to provide tactile sensation . . . silk . . . hair . . . plastic . . . feathers . . . a score of materials.
Caught in a hail of movement, between the volcano and the whirling tickler, Misch squeals with delight. She throws herself down on a huge bowl-shaped bed. The tickler sways automatically after her. She screams with laughter and excitement, wriggling away from the smothering fronds . . . and finds herself in Nat’s arms. With the tickler fluttering over them, they cling together passionately . . .
A few minutes later, Nat and Misch are lying in the bed under a single silver sheet. The screen is switched off. The tickler stands silent and collapsed.
MISCH (caressing him): Nat. Nat . . .
NAT (drowsily): Mmm?
MISCH: I like that new tickler. A lot better. It’s a good one.
NAT: Mm.
MISCH: I like to feel things. (Nat throws his arm round her. Misch kisses him. Then she grows thoughtful) They get ticklers out there?
NAT: Mm.
MISCH: People out there . . . you know . . . they ever get ticklers and things?
NAT: What? How can they?
MISCH: Why not?
NAT (irritated by her stupidity): Well, the whole idea . . . they the low-drive . . . don’t you see?
MISCH: Put ’em off?
NAT: What else? They got to be. You start giving ’em ticklers and things . . . phew!
He flops down again. She snuggles against him.
MISCH: Glad we not get put off. (After a moment she decides to complete the pleasure by indulging in a little sentimentality) You know . . . now and then I get sad about ’em all. So sad.
NAT: You? Sad?
MISCH: I do! About the young ones out there . . . the ones that just grew up. They make love?
NAT: The young ones . . . yes.
MISCH: Like us?
NAT: Mmm. For a while.
MISCH: No.
NAT: Eh?
MISCH: Not like us. Faces on the sample . . . they never been . . . Don’t want ’em to be like us.
NAT: They . . . low-drive.
He looks thoughtfully away.
MISCH: Glad I not low-drive!
She giggles. She tickles Nat, pulling him back out of his thoughts. He grunts, chuckles. As they scuffle together beneath the silver sheet a buzzer sounds. They ignore it but it repeats
insistently. Nat sits up and presses a button. He pulls a garment over him as he gets up.
Their visitor appears through the shadows. It is Kin Hodder, clutching a bundle. He shows no embarrassment at finding them like this. Nor do they.
NAT: So, Kin Hodder.
KIN: So. (To Misch) So.
NAT (a perfunctory introduction): Misch.
Misch dimples.
KIN: Deanie said not to come, but—
MISCH: Deanie?
NAT: He got her now.
MISCH: Oh.
KIN: She said it’s late.
MISCH: Okay, we’re through. For now.
KIN (oblivious): Anywise, I got ’em. (He lays the bundle on a bench seat. It is an odd assortment . . . pieces of limp PVC plastic . . . collapsed computer card . . . even a plastic tray with “Output Area 27” stamped underneath) See, I got to make ’em on any old stuff . . . computer cards and . . .
MISCH: What are they?
NAT: Pictures.
She joins them to look, draped in the silver sheet.
MISCH: How can they be pictures, not moving?
KIN: Don’t want ’em to move. Look!
He unfolds a strip of computer card. On it is the face of a man, sketched boldly, frozen in pain or a silent scream. It has great power, something of Francis Bacon, something of Goya. He displays it to them proudly, watching their faces.
Misch is immediately uneasy. She moves closer to Nat. Nat himself is plainly gripped. Kin picks up another, on a plastic sheet that he struggles to keep taut.
This one shows several small figures picked out against a great nebulous dark that recalls the general atmosphere of Output in a sharp, frightening way.
MISCH (clinging to Nat): They shudder me.
Enjoying his power, Kin unrolls another sheet of PVC. Haunted, hollow faces in a harsh glare of light.
Nat is excited. Another picture is put before him . . . and another. Misch buries her face in his shoulder.
MISCH (whimpering): Nat, don’t look . . . !
NAT: I want to.
Kin lifts the last item. Misch peers sidelong and is comforted by the stencilled mark.
MISCH: That’s a tray—
Kin turns it over. She gives a yelp.
There is an electrifying study of a man in agony . . . of pain or despair. It recalls the first he showed but it is a far more powerful piece of work.
KIN: I did it tonight.
MISCH: No-no—take it away! (She strikes out at it, to knock it to the floor. Kin dodges clumsily. Then Nat grabs the girl. She is shivering with alarm) Nat! Make him go! Make him go!
Nat pushes her on to the bed and turns to where Kin is scrambling to save his drawings.
NAT: Let me see—
It is the one on the tray he wants to see most. Behind them Misch lies shaking, between fear and rage, in the grip of something outside her experience.
MISCH (moaning): Nat, get him away . . . !
NAT (softly): Like something you . . . remember but you . . . never seen. How . . .
MISCH (shrilly): Nat!
KIN: You like ’em? You do. (Nat nods) You help me?
NAT: Eh?
KIN: Help me show ’em. They all got to see now, they must!
NAT: No.
KIN (confused): But . . . just help me.
NAT: No.
Kin’s face hardens into contempt.
KIN: Cause of her?
Nat looks at Misch moaning on the bed. He considers. It will do for an answer. He nods.
Kin snatches his pictures together. As he makes his way out Misch twists in her silver sheet and spits at him . . .
ANTE-ROOM, CHILD ENVIRONMENT CENTRE
The atmosphere of the Child Environment Centre is as vague as everywhere else in Output. What little it has suggests luxury, like a boarding school for the children of rich divorcees.
This ante-room is set aside for parents to visit children—only by arrangement on special days. A huge teddy-bear presides reassuringly and the few furnishings are covered with shaggy synthetic fur. A wall screen shows a Patterning programme of slowly moving abstract shapes, accompanied by soft music. In the distance children can be heard playing, shouting, singing.
Nat paces up and down as he waits with Deanie.
NAT: What could I tell him? “Kin Hodder, you’re in the wrong world!” Tell him this?
DEANIE: He thinks you . . . well, cause Misch got upset . . .
NAT: Better to think that.
DEANIE: So you let him?
Nat doesn’t answer. He paces again with rising irritability.
NAT: Why we got to wait!
Deanie glances about the ante-room, at the screen.
DEANIE: Patterning.
NAT: Um.
DEANIE: We talked about it, again last night. If he can switch jobs—
NAT: Him? Do that? (A snort of laughter) Listen, what you got to do is stop him—not let him make any more of those—if he can’t show ’em, better not make ’em!
DEANIE: Nat, you liked ’em.
NAT: Liked?
There is a sharp chime. The screen goes momentarily blank and the face of a young nurse appears on it.
NURSE: You waiting to meet a child?
NAT: Yes.
DEANIE: Keten Webb.
NURSE: Webb . . .
DEANIE: Like me, Deanie Webb, the mother.
NURSE: Sorry, no health check-out in that name. For a visit they got to check out—
NAT (sharply): Look, I fix this. They said all clear—she been sick but all clear now—
The nurse’s face has gone. In its place on the screen is a rapid succession of little girls’ faces, as fast as a flickergraph. The only constant factor in them is a small letter “H” stamped in the corner of each. The stream of faces slows.
NURSE’S VOICE: Wass, Wayman, Wynn, York, Zerling. Sorry . . .
NAT: This is crazy—!
The faces have gone. The screen is blank.
NURSE’S VOICE: Oh, just a minute—I think I see what—
Another burst of flickergraph faces, this time all marked with a tiny “L” in the corner. Not so many of these. The flicker slows to a stop—on a timid, sensitive little face.
DEANIE: That’s her, that’s Keten! (To Nat with relief) Just got the wrong set—
The flicker resumes and ends.
NURSE: Okay, that was her check-out card. She’s right here, be with you in a minute.
NAT: What that “L” mean? (The screen goes blank. He turns to Deanie) You see it? A letter “L” on all these, instead of . . . (To the blank screen) What for? What—?
There is no reply. The Patterning programme resumes, bland and soothing. They look at each other.
DEANIE: That test.
Nat’s indignation is, curiously, on their own behalf.
NAT: What they try to show? You and me, we got some sort of a—?
DEANIE: Say nothing. To her.
Keten comes in, looking back to someone behind her for reassurance. She nods to the unseen nurse and advances timidly, almost reluctantly, towards the near-strangers who are her mother and father.
DEANIE: So, Keten.
KETEN: So.
She looks doubtfully at Nat.
DEANIE: You know Nat Mender.
KETEN: Yes. My father.
NAT: So, Keten.
Keten sits where Deanie indicates, beside her. She looks up at the giant teddy bear.
DEANIE: All better now?
KETEN: Yes.
Deanie picks up a plastic toy wrapped in plastic and presents it to Keten. The little girl takes it with a faint, formal smile but does not attempt to open it.
DEANIE: You got that one?
Keten nods. Deanie signals to Nat, indicating the Toy Dispenser nearby. Like animal-snacks at the zoo, its contents are all too familiar to the recipients. But Nat has another go. He gives the resulting toy to Keten.
NAT: How about that?
She takes it with the same small formal smile.
DEANIE: Got that too?
Keten nods. She looks at Nat, wishing to please. She starts stripping the plastic packing off the toy. It is tough. She struggles with it silently.
DEANIE (to Nat): They know all the toys from that machine. (To Keten) You get other toys? (Keten nods) What you like best?
KETEN (with a secret smile): Timbo.
DEANIE: Timbo? What’s a Timbo?
KETEN: Name Timbo.
Deanie shrugs, smiling at Nat.
DEANIE: Name she got for it. (To Keten) That right? (Keten nods) You take . . . Timbo to bed? (Keten nods) What is it—a doll?
Keten’s whole attention is on removing the plastic covering. She is almost red in the face and she is biting her tongue. Nat can stand it no longer. He pulls the toy from her and rips the plastic coating off. He pushes it back in her hand. Keten stares at him in alarm. He crosses to the Toy Dispenser and throws the torn plastic into the disposal cavity below. Something occurs to him. He turns to Keten, tapping the machine’s fascia.
NAT: You read this?
KETEN (slowly): Toy . . . Dis . . . pen . . . ser.
NAT: You like to read?
Keten shakes her head.
DEANIE (quickly): Who does? (To Keten) Like stories on tape? (Keten brightens) Like to make stories?
KETEN: I like to listen.
Deanie smiles. But Nat is alerted by this answer.
NAT: Just listen? (Moving closer) What about math . . . measuring . . . simple computation? Like those?
Keten shakes her head. Then she brightens.
KETEN: Soon be no more of those.
NAT: No more?
KETEN: Next year I not do any. All finish. (Happily) No more reading, no more learning.
NAT: Who said so?
KETEN (proudly): We had a test.
Nat looks at Deanie, appalled.
NAT: They can’t! They got no—! (He draws away from the child as if she is suddenly proved unclean) If she get sent out there . . . !
DEANIE: Nat!
NAT: It all goes on my record! And your record too! What about that!
For an instant Deanie hardly grasps his meaning. Then she is on her feet and is at his shoulder, whispering fiercely:
DEANIE: Stop it! Think about her!
NAT: “L” for low-drive! It was!
DEANIE: Nat!
NAT: Thing like this, they start to recap the lot! All your past checks! Genetic feedback, they name it—
KETEN: Who gets sent?
She is listening, tense, not understanding yet but afraid of their sudden alarm. And rapidly working it out.
