Chronopolis

by J. G. Ballard

  Renthall had never spoken to him, but he was aware that Boardman shared with him the distinction of bearing the stigma of the Council’s disapproval. Hanson claimed that the Council had successfully stamped out Boardman’s illicit activities, but the latter’s permanent expression of smug contempt for the rest of the world seemed to belie this.

  As he passed they exchanged glances, and Boardman’s face broke momentarily into a knowing smirk. It was obviously directed at Renthall, and implied a prejudgment of some event about which Renthall as yet knew nothing, presumably his coming collision with the Council. Obviously Boardman expected him to capitualate to the Council without a murmur.

  Annoyed, Renthall turned his back on Boardman, then watched him over his shoulder as he padded off down the street, his easy relaxed shoulders swaying from side to side.

  The following day the activity in the watchtowers had subsided entirely. The blue haze from which they extended was brighter than it had been for several months, and the air in the streets seemed to sparkle with the light reflected off the observation windows. There was no sign of movement among them, and the sky had a rigid uniform appearance that indicated an indefinite lull.

  For some reason, however, Renthall found himself more nervous than he had been for some time. The school had not yet opened, but he felt strangely reluctant to visit Mrs. Osmond and remained indoors all morning, shunning the streets as if avoiding some invisible shadow of guilt.

  The long lines of watchtowers stretching endlessly from one horizon to the other reminded him that he could soon expect to receive the Council’s “directive”—Hanson would not have mentioned it by accident—and it was always during the lulls that the Council was most active in consolidating its position, issuing a stream of petty regulations and amendments.

  Renthall would have liked to challenge the Council’s authority on some formal matter unconnected with himself—the validity, for example, of one of the bylaws prohibiting public assemblies in the street—but the prospect of all the intrigue involved in canvasing the necessary support bored him utterly. Although none of them individually would challenge the Council, most people would have been glad to see it toppled, but there seemed to be no likely focus for their opposition. Apart from the fear that the Council was in touch with the watchtowers, no one would stand up for Renthall’s right to carry on his affair with Mrs. Osmond.

  Curiously enough, she seemed unaware of these crosscurrents when he went to see her that afternoon. She had cleaned the house and was in high humor, the windows wide open to the brilliant air.

  “Charles, what’s the matter with you?” she chided him when he slumped inertly into a chair. “You look like a broody hen.”

  “I felt rather tired this morning. It’s probably the hot weather.” When she sat down on the arm of the chair he put one hand listlessly on her hip, trying to summon together his energies. “Recently I’ve been developing an idée fixe about the Council, I must be going through a crisis of confidence. I need some method of reasserting myself.”

  Mrs. Osmond stroked his hair soothingly with her cool fingers, her eyes watching him silkily. “What you need, Charles, is a little mother love. You’re so isolated at that hotel, among all those old people. Why don’t you rent one of the houses in this road? I’d be able to look after you then.”

  Renthall glanced up at her sardonically. “Perhaps I could move in here?” he asked, but she tossed her head back with a derisive snort and went over to the window.

  * * *

  She gazed up at the nearest watchtower a hundred feet away, its windows closed and silent, the great shaft disappearing into the haze. “What do you suppose they’re thinking about?”

  Renthall snapped his fingers offhandedly. “They’re probably not thinking about anything. Sometimes I wonder whether there’s anyone there at all. The movements we see may be just optical illusions. Although the windows appear to open no one’s ever actually seen any of them. For all we know this place may well be nothing more than an abandoned zoo.”

  Mrs. Osmond regarded him with rueful amusement. “Charles, you do pick some extraordinary metaphors. I often doubt if you’re like the rest of us, I wouldn’t dare say the sort of things you do in case—” She broke off, glancing up involuntarily at the watch-towers hanging from the sky.

  Idly, Renthall asked, “In case what?”

  “Well, in case—” Irritably, she said, “Don’t be absurd, Charles, doesn’t the thought of those towers hanging down over us frighten you at all?”

  Renthall turned his head slowly and stared up at the watch-towers. Once he had tried to count them, but there seemed little point. “Yes, they frighten me,” he said noncommittally. “In the same way that Hanson and the old people at the hotel and everyone else here does. But not in the sense that the boys at school are frightened of me.”

  Mrs. Osmond nodded, misinterpreting this last remark. “Children are very perceptive, Charles. They probably know you’re not interested in them. Unfortunately they’re not old enough yet to understand what the watchtowers mean.”

  She gave a slight shiver, and pulled her cardigan around her shoulders. “You know, on the days when they’re busy behind their windows I can hardly move around, it’s terrible. I feel so listless, all I want to do is sit and stare at the wall. Perhaps I’m more sensitive to their, er, radiations than most people.”

  Renthall smiled. “You must be. Don’t let them depress you. Next time why don’t you put on a paper hat and do a pirouette?”

  “What? Oh, Charles, stop being cynical.”

  “I’m not. Seriously, Julia, do you think it would make any difference?”

  Mrs. Osmond shook her head sadly. “You try, Charles, and then tell me. Where are you going?”

  Renthall paused at the window. “Back to the hotel to rest. By the way, do you know Victor Boardman?”

  “I used to, once. Why, what are you getting up to with him?”

  “Does he own the garden next to the cinema car park?”

  “I think so.” Mrs. Osmond laughed. “Are you going to take up gardening?”

  “In a sense.” With a wave, Renthall left.

  He began with Dr. Clifton, whose room was directly below his own. Clifton’s duties at his surgery occupied him for little more than an hour a day—there were virtually no deaths or illnesses—but he still retained sufficient initiative to cultivate a hobby. He had turned one end of his room into a small aviary, containing a dozen canaries, and spent much of his time trying to teach them tricks. His acerbic, matter-of-fact manner always tired Renthall, but he respected the doctor for not sliding into total lethargy like everyone else.

  Clifton considered his suggestion carefully. “I agree with you, something of the sort is probably necessary. A good idea, Renthall. Properly conducted, it might well provide just the lift people need.”

  “The main question, Doctor, is one of organization. The only suitable place is the Town Hall.”

  Clifton nodded. “Yes, there’s your problem. I’m afraid I’ve no influence with the Council, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I don’t know what you can do. You’ll have to get their permission of course, and in the past they haven’t shown themselves to be very radical or original. They prefer to maintain the status quo.”

  Renthall nodded, then added casually, “They’re only interested in maintaining their own power. At times I become rather tired of our Council.”

  Clifton glanced at him and then turned back to his cages. “You’re preaching revolution, Renthall,” he said quietly, a forefinger stroking the beak of one of the canaries. Pointedly, he refrained from seeing Renthall to the door.

  Writing the doctor off, Renthall rested for a few minutes in his room, pacing up and down the strip of faded carpet, then went down to the basement to see the manager, Mulvaney.

  “I’m only making some initial inquiries. As yet I haven’t applied for permission, but Dr. Clifton thinks the idea is excellent, and there’s no doubt we’ll get it. Are
you up to looking after the catering?”

  Mulvaney’s sallow face watched Renthall skeptically. “Of course I’m up to it, but how serious are you?” He leaned against his rolltop desk. “You think you’ll get permission? You’re wrong, Mr. Renthall, the Council wouldn’t stand for the idea. They even closed the cinema, so they’re not likely to allow a public party. Before you know what, you’d have people dancing.”

  “I hardly think so, but does the idea appall you so much?” Mulvaney shook his head, already bored with Renthall. “You get a permit, Mr. Renthall, and then we can talk seriously.”

  Tightening his voice, Renthall asked, “Is it necessary to get the Council’s permission? Couldn’t we go ahead without?”

  Without looking up, Mulvaney sat down at his desk. “Keep trying, Mr. Renthall, it’s a great idea.”

  During the next few days Renthall pursued his inquiries, in all approaching some half dozen people. In general he met with the same negative response, but as he intended he soon noticed a subtle but nonetheless distinct quickening of interest around him. The usual fragmentary murmur of conversation would fade away abruptly as he passed the tables in the dining room, and the service was fractionally more prompt. Hanson no longer took coffee with him in the mornings, and once Renthall saw him in guarded conversation with the town clerk’s secretary, a young man called Barnes. This, he assumed, was Hanson’s contact.

  In the meantime the activity in the watchtowers remained at zero. The endless lines of towers hung down from the bright hazy sky, the observation windows closed, and the people in the streets below sank slowly into their usual mindless torpor, wandering from hotel to library to cafe. Determined on his course of action, Renthall felt his confidence return.

  Allowing an interval of a week to elapse, he finally called upon Victor Boardman.

  The bootlegger received him in his office above the cinema, greeting him with a wry smile.

  “Well, Mr. Renthall, I hear you’re going into the entertainment business. Drunken gambols and all that. I’m surprised at you.”

  “A fete,” Renthall corrected. The seat Boardman had offered him faced toward the window—deliberately, he guessed—and provided an uninterrupted view of the watchtower over the roof of the adjacent furniture store. Only forty feet away, it blocked off half the sky. The metal plates which formed its rectangular sides were annealed together by some process Renthall was unable to identify, neither welded nor riveted, almost as if the entire tower had been cast in situ. He moved to another chair so that his back was to the window.

  “The school is still closed, so I thought I’d try to make myself useful. That’s what I’m paid for. I’ve come to you because you’ve had a good deal of experience.”

  “Yes, I’ve had a lot of experience, Mr. Renthall. Very varied. As one of the Council’s employees, I take it you have its permission?”

  Renthall evaded this. “The Council is naturally a conservative body, Mr. Boardman. Obviously at this stage I’m acting on my own initiative. I shall consult the Council at the appropriate moment later, when I can offer them a practicable proposition.”

  Boardman nodded sagely. “That’s sensible, Mr. Renthall. Now what exactly do you want me to do? Organize the whole thing for you?”

  “No, but naturally I’d be very grateful if you would. For the present I merely want to ask permission to hold the fete on a piece of your property.”

  “The cinema? I’m not going to take all those seats out, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “Not the cinema. Though we could use the bar and cloakrooms,” Renthall extemporized, hoping the scheme did not sound too grandiose. “Is the old beer garden next to the car park your property?”

  For a moment Boardman was silent. He watched Renthall shrewdly, picking his nails with his cigar cutter, a faint suggestion of admiration in his eyes. “So you want to hold the fete in the open, Mr. Renthall? Is that it?”

  Renthall nodded, smiling back at Boardman. “I’m glad to see you living up to your reputation for getting quickly to the point. Are you prepared to lend the garden? Of course, you’ll have a big share of the profits. In fact, if it’s any inducement, you can have all the profits.”

  Boardman put out his cigar. “Mr. Renthall, you’re obviously a man of many parts. I underestimated you. I thought you merely had a grievance against the Council. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Mr. Boardman, will you lend the garden?” Renthall repeated.

  There was an amused but thoughtful smile on Boardman’s lips as he regarded the watchtower framed by the window. “There are two watchtowers directly over the beer garden, Mr. Renthall.”

  ‘‘I’m fully aware of that. It’s obviously the chief attraction of the property. Now, can you give me an answer?”

  The two men regarded each other silently, and then Boardman gave an almost imperceptible nod. Renthall realized that his scheme was being taken seriously by Boardman. He was obviously using Renthall for his own purposes, for once having flaunted the Council’s authority he would be able to resume all his other, more profitable activities. Of course, the fete would never be held, but in answer to Boardman’s questions he outlined a provisional program. They fixed the date of the fete at a month ahead, and arranged to meet again at the beginning of the next week.

  Two days later, as he expected, the first emissaries of the Council came to see him.

  He was waiting at his usual table on the cafe terrace, the silent watchtowers suspended from the air around him, when he saw Hanson hurrying along the street.

  “Do join me.” Renthall drew a chair back. “What’s the news?” “Nothing—though you should know, Charles.” He gave Renthall a dry smile, as if admonishing a favorite pupil, then gazed about the empty terrace for the waitress. “Service is appallingly bad here. Tell me, Charles, what’s all this talk about you and Victor Boardman, I could hardly believe my ears.”

  Renthall leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know, you tell me.” “We—er, I was wondering if Boardman was taking advantage of some perfectly innocent remark he might have overheard. This business of a garden party you’re supposed to be organizing with him—it sounds absolutely fantastic.”

  “Why?”

  “But Charles.” Hanson leaned forward to examine Renthall carefully, trying to make sense of his unruffled pose. “Surely you aren’t serious?”

  “But why not? If I want to, why shouldn’t I organize a garden party—fete, to be more accurate?”

  “It doesn’t make an iota of difference,” Hanson said tartly. “Apart from any other reason”—here he glanced skyward—“the fact remains that you are an employee of the Council.”

  Hands in his trouser pockets, Renthall tipped back his chair. “But that gives them no mandate to interfere in my private life. You seem to be forgetting, but the terms of my contract specifically exclude any such authority. I am not on the established grade,

  as my salary differential shows. If the Council disapprove, the only sanction they can apply is to give me the sack.”

  “They will, Charles, don’t sound so smug.”

  Renthall let this pass. “Fair enough, if they can find anyone else to take on the job. Frankly I doubt it. They’ve managed to swallow their moral scruples in the past.”

  “Charles, this is different. As long as you’re discreet no one gives a hoot about your private affairs, but this garden party is a public matter, and well within the Council’s province.”

  Renthall yawned. “I’m rather bored with the subject of the Council. Technically, the fete will be a private affair, by invitation only. They’ve no statutory right to be consulted at all. If a breach of the peace takes place the Chief Constable can take action. Why all the fuss, anyway? I’m merely trying to provide a little harmless festivity.”

  Hanson shook his head. “Charles, you’re deliberately evading the point. According to Boardman this fete will take place out of doors—directly under two of the watchtowers. Have you realized what t
he repercussions would be?”

  “Yes.” Renthall formed the word carefully in his mouth. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  “Charles!” Hanson lowered his head at this apparent blasphemy, glanced up at the watchtowers over the street as if expecting instant retribution to descend from them. “Look, my dear fellow, take my advice. Drop the whole idea. You don’t stand a chance anyway of ever holding this mad jape, so why deliberately court trouble with the Council? Who knows what their real power would be if they were provoked?”

  Renthall rose from his seat. He looked up at the watchtower hanging from the air on the other side of the road, controlling himself when a slight pang of anxiety stirred his heart. “I’ll send you an invitation,” he called back, then walked away to his hotel.

  The next afternoon the town clerk’s secretary called upon him in his room. During the interval, no doubt intended as a salutary pause for reflection, Renthall had remained at the hotel, reading quietly in his armchair. He paid one brief visit to Mrs. Osmond, but she seemed nervous and irritable, evidently aware of the imminent clash. The strain of maintaining an appearance of unconcern had begun to tire Renthall, and he avoided the open streets whenever possible. Fortunately the school had still not opened.

  Barnes, the dapper dark-haired secretary, came straight to the point. Refusing Renthall’s offer of an armchair, he held a sheet of pink duplicated paper in his hand, apparently the minutes of the last Council meeting.

  “Mr. Renthall, the Council has been informed of your intention to hold a garden fete in some three weeks’ time. I have been asked by the chairman of the Watch Committee to express the committee’s grave misgivings, and to request you accordingly to terminate all arrangements and cancel the fete immediately, pending an inquiry.”