“If she can’t stand the sight of blood, why does she watch pinball?” It always disgusted me, the way Ests watched the Unnem TV. Fifty channels of their own, and they have to slum. Of course, nobody ever admits it…
“I suppose it’s only my blood that worried her?”
Father looked hurt, and I was instantly sorry. “Can I go and see her?”
“When I’ve finished with you… actually, if you show any sense, you’ll soon be spending plenty of time with her. …”
“How d’you mean?”
“Your behaviour’s upset a lot of people besides your mother.”
“We’re allowed out on the razzle!”
“With a stolen pass? Come off it, Kit. You know as well as I do that a razzle’s a few hours, a few drinks. You’ve got London Northeast by the ears… Sellers for Champ!”
That stung.
“Other kids make Champ!”
“Unnem kids, who fritter away their credits on drugs. But that’s not your way, is it? Give you a month, you’ll have ten million credits and a private army.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, don’t you, little innocent? Does the name Vanessa Thornton mean anything to you? A common tart who’s been credited with forty new lovers in four days, though only you have been seen going up to her apartment? Let alone the Tommy Wells business. …”
“Tommy who? …”
“The young man you seduced away from bike racing to set up as a singer.”
“You’ve been spying on me.”
He sighed heavily, playing with the fringe of the door curtain. “I have watched over you every day since you left the college.”
Both of us fell silent, listening to the grandfather clock in the hall that had ticked away my childhood; that ticked in a sort of peace now.
He could never be angry with me long. He led me through to his study, a hand on my elbow that I didn’t mind. “You’re falling in love with the Unnems, aren’t you, Kit? Wanting to help?”
“They’re people! Not mad; not monsters. People.”
He shut the study door quickly, as if afraid somebody might hear. “Keep your voice down. D’you think you’re the first bright kid to fall in love with the Unnems? All those bright kids came to the same end—strapped down on the conveyor belt at the lobo-farm, alongside the international terrorists. Do you want to be the talking point at somebody’s sherry party?”
I whirled at him. “Look at what’s happening to the Unnems—they’re dying off like flies.”
He went pale. Silent fear grew between us, like icicles in the gut. Like on that unmentionable, far-off day in my childhood when they filled the Unnem in. Finally, Father said, “I had a phone call from John Higgins last night.” Higgins was our fat, useless, Est MP. “They want you back in Cambridge—now. They don’t know how you feel about the Unnems. Yet. They think you’re only upset about Idris.” He studied my face carefully. “Or, if you’re too upset about Idris, they’re prepared to let you come back and live here, with me. So that I can guarantee your good behaviour. …”
The room whirled about me; beloved room in the beloved graystone house that was built in Queen Elizabeth’s time. Among the winding grey-walled lanes I’d just ridden down; the rabbits scurrying on Minchinhampton Common. It was news too good to be true. Standing here, the whole last horrible year might never have happened.
But it had. Idris and Laura; George and Vanessa and
Keri. The Cotswold Enclave now felt as small as a green pocket handkerchief, its false peace bought with…
“Who wants me back in Cambridge?”
“Don’t be bloody-minded, Kit. I worked very hard to sort this out for you.”
“Sorry, Dad. But I’m a Racer now.”
He reasoned, pleaded, raged. Once, I think, nearly wept. The house boy fetched in supper drinks, fine china on a silver tray. We let them grow cold.
Out in the hall, the grandfather clock struck midnight.
“Your Tompion’s keeping good time,” I said, remembering all the good old days.
“I’m thinking of selling it.”
That shook me: the Tompion was his favourite. People were always making him fantastic offers. He serviced it himself. He’d trained as an engineer, as much as any Est’s allowed…
Talk of the Tompion seemed to have changed his mood; or maybe the fact that it was midnight. He relaxed; seemed to be enjoying some wry private joke. “Have a drink before you go. We could both do with a spot of whisky. …”
I was a bit hurt that he’d given me up so easily. But it was a large whisky; the fumes caught my nose. As Keri would’ve said, real booze. Remembering what I was going back to, I had another. And another. The old, worn leather couch suddenly seemed very precious. I used to go on voyages in it when I was small…
“Must be getting back.” I stood up, but the room spun.
“Don’t ride back half tight,” said my father. “Put up your feet for an hour. You’ve got a forty-eight hour pass. …” He lifted my feet up onto the couch; brought a rug.
“Only an hour,” I said.
He was shaking my shoulder.
“Time to go.”
“Mother?”
“She’d better not know you were ever here.”
“How is she really?”
“Pretty rough, Kit.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be going then.”
I paused in the darkness of the hall. It was too silent.
“The Tompion’s stopped… hey, it’s gone.”
“I told you I was thinking of selling it.”
“Not that quick.”
“One has to be quick, sometimes.” He still sounded amused, in a wry, hurt way.
We stepped out onto the drive. It was bitterly cold. Middle-of-the-night cold. My watch said 4 a.m. I’d slept four hours.
“My bike’s got no lights,” I said helplessly, still fuddled.
“It has now.” The bike seemed lower, squatter. He bent over and touched a switch, and brilliant twin beams leaped out, making a white skeleton of the sycamore across the paddock.
“This isn’t my bike!”
“It’s the only one you’re riding away from this house. A Jap… Mitsubishi 705. Full fairings, shaft drive, nylon wheels, low-pressure foam tires—puncture proof.”
“There’s no petrol tank.” I still felt dopey, drugged.
“She’s all electric—plug her in overnight to any domestic power point. She’ll do six hundred miles between plug-ins. Get you any radio station in the world, as you ride along.”
He sounded like the day he bought me my first bicycle.
“She must have cost you the earth.”
“The Jap importer is very fond of Tompions. …”
“Dad—I can’t take it—where’s my bike?”
Ill
He led me to the dustbins, neatly concealed behind a flowering hedge. My bike lay beside them, so mangled I could hardly tell which end was which. The smell of petrol from the shattered tank rose evilly.
“I took a sledgehammer to it. Seemed the only way of stopping you riding it.”
“I spent a whole day putting it right. …”
“You could’ve spent a lifetime and it still wouldn’t have been right.” His voice was rough with rage. “No son of mine is riding a bike designed to kill him.”
“But, Dad, all the kids are riding them!”
After a long pause he said tightly, “That’s none of my business.”
“Isn’t it? Isn’t it? I’m in love with a girl who rides one.”
“Then I suggest you get back to London as quickly as you can and stop her.”
“All the kids should be stopped.”
He wouldn’t say anything. I couldn’t see his face properly in the dark. I shouted.
“Designed to kill? Who designed them? Scott-Astbury?”
“Who told you that name? Who?” He’d grabbed me by the shoulders. His hands were shaking.
“Idris. He tricked
Idris. Idris said he should be killed.”
He relaxed—a bit. “Idris was mad toward the end.” But I could still feel his hands trembling on my shoulders. “Kit, promise me one thing. Never mention that name to anybody again. You mightn’t have much life left, riding bikes, but if someone hears you asking about Scott-Astbury, you’ll have no life left at all.”
“You know Scott-Astbury? You know what he’s doing?”
I felt him nod. “I’ve been trying to stop him for thirty years. And failed.”
“Tell me. Tell me. TELL ME!”
“No, Kit.”
“Why won’t you tell me? You’re ashamed to tell me, because you failed.”
“I failed, Kit. I had a lot of friends, twenty years ago. Big, powerful friends. But I still failed. What chance would you have, with a handful of Unnems? You wouldn’t last a week. But if I told you what’s he’s doing, you’d go mad. You’d have to try and stop him, even with a few Unnems, and that would be the end of you … I can’t do that, Kit, I can’t. You’re all I’ve got. …”
“Why did you fail? Who were these great big friends of yours?
“The Liberals in Parliament… Morse, Trethowan, Little… quite a few more … in the universities.”
“And what happened?”
“Morse got old. Little was ruined by a scandal. I think they had Trethowan killed. There are still a few of us left, but less every year. The Ests won’t listen to us anymore. People get old and fat and lazy. Or they stay on their estates and grow roses. Or take to drink. It’s all folding up, Kit. What did they use to say, in the First World War? The lights are going out, all over Europe? Well, now they’re going out all over England. Soon Scott-Astbury and his mob will walk all over us.”
“Dad, for God’s sake, you’re still a young man. You’re not fifty yet. I’ll help you. …”
“Kit, Kit… don’t you think I’ve tried everything I know? What difference would you make? Except to get yourself killed. Go away and ride your bike, while you can.
“Thanks.” I began to push the bike down the drive, too upset to fiddle with it. He kept on following me.
“Grab what fun you can, Kit… that girl—is she an ex-Est? If I could get her out of it, too, would you marry her and settle down with us here? We could make you a flat. …”
“She’s Unnem,” I shouted. “Born and bred. Proud of it. She says what’s so marvellous about being a bloody Est?”
Somehow, a hint of Keri’s broad Cockney came through on my voice.
Father drew in a little breath of pain, in the dark. Then he was gone into the house, and I could only ride away.
Easier said than done. I pressed the starter button. Dim lettering glowed up on the big, curved fighter-plane windscreen: fasten your safety belt.
I knew better than to argue; fastened the yielding lap belt across my belly. Immediately, she started, silently, only the tiniest vibration coming up through the seat. Another image grew on the windscreen; the road plan round my father’s house with me sitting, a glowing red dot, smack in the middle. Other cars moving as green dots…
STATE DESTINATION.
I tapped out London. The first section of route map glowed up, adjusted its brightness.
BATTERY CHARGE FULL NO FAULTS DEVELOPING AIR TEMPERATURE 2° NO ICING GREASY PATCHES WET LEAVES UNDER TREES ALL THAMES VALLEY. SINGLE-LANE WORKING OXFORD BYPASS. ABNORMLOAD 3 MILES W OF ABINGDON EASTBOUND 15 MPH.
I had to tap acknowledgments before she’d move. I called her Mitzi, after Mitsubishi.
Riding her was beautiful. Below seventy she ran so silently I could hear myself breathing. No gears—just twist the throttle and feed on the juice. She was low and broad, with low broad tires. Her weight was low down, in the batteries. The heated seat adjusted itself and hugged your bottom as you sat on it. Windscreen and panniers were molded round you, so you never felt the wind. Doing a ton was like sitting on a sofa.
She taught me to ride her. If I leaned too far into a corner, she bleeped. If I didn’t lean far enough, she pinged. If I went too fast for a bit of road, she wailed like a cat in heat. But she was no scaredy-cat. On a straight approaching Reading she did a hundred and sixty while relaying the latest Helen Choy disc from Hong Kong and dipping her own headlights as cars approached.
On and on we went, getting chummier and chummier like a hand in a glove. She chattered and scolded, tremendously on my side, like any computer. Feeling invulnerable, all-powerful, I dreamed wild, boyish, Est-ish dreams. Of rescuing Keri and riding off with her through the night forever…
Then the hard-headed Tech in me took over and screwed out of those dreams a realistic plan that just might work.
The moment I had a plan to save Keri, to get her for myself, I grew terrified that she might be dead already, and her funeral in the morning.
I reached the London gate before dawn.
There was no official racing that day. But Keri raced the back streets every day, that most fabulous of things, an Open Champion. Anybody could challenge her at any time…
They told me at the racetrack she was down Lambeth way, racing the demolition sites. The Lambeth Estate had been emptied. The Archbishop of Canterbury was landscaping it into a deer park…
At least she was alive—an hour ago.
I rode up to massive jeers.
“What’s that?” she asked. “A sofa with extra-large castors?”
“Jap crap,” sneered the hangers-on. “Diddums Daddy buy it for Christmas?”
I tried to tell Keri what Mitzi could do.
“Be a man,” she said. “Ride British.” She put her helmet back on; she was never still for five minutes. In a second, my chance’d be gone.
I pointedly looked at her bike. Nearly new, well serviced. Gold-plated petrol tank and handlebars. But the same old killer design.
“Mine’ll go faster than your old junk heap,” I said.
“Like my Aunt Fanny it will.” Anger flared in her cheeks. A nerve twitched in her left eyebrow. Silence had fallen.
“Prove it,” I said.
“Right.” She revved. “Let me show you our race course. Just so you can’t say afterward that you got lost.” She showed me the course in every detail, pointing out road cambers and loose surfaces with the greatest sarcastic politeness. Kept saying, “Do you understand?” as to an idiot child. Then she snapped down her visor and went for a fill-up of petrol.
The hangers-on closed in.
“She’ll break her neck rather than be passed.”
“We’ll break yours afterward.” I managed a careless shrug.
Then she was back; a light in her eyes, a perkiness in her back, and that tic in her left eyebrow. She lined up alongside, tucking a strand of newly washed hair under her helmet with a gesture that nearly broke my heart…Then shouted, “Start,” put her bike into gear in the same breath, and wheelied off across the brick-strewn demolition site leaving me standing. I kept hitting loose bricks. By the time I reached the road, she was fifty yards ahead and the crowd was already laughing.
Fortunately, there was a long straight. Mitzi caught up for me, in a long surge of power that pressed me deeper into the saddle.
Big left-hand bend; she swung out nearly to the opposite curb, leaning out as far as she could, watching for robo-trucks coming the other way. Was it safe to follow? Might she squeeze into one of her shadow cracks, leaving me plastered all over the front of something?
No, she wouldn’t want me dead: she’d want me to laugh at afterward. With my heart in my mouth I followed her line, hit another loose brick that made Mitzi bounce like a trampoline, lost another forty yards.
On the straight, she looked back, laughing. Knew me for the nig-nog I was.
That suited me: she hadn’t sussed out Mitzi at all.
She played with me after that; constantly looking back over her shoulder and laughing. I let myself ride even more badly. She actually throttled back to keep me interested.
Oh, Keri, Keri, I love you. Don’t forget you’re
riding against a Tech; Techs are cunning bastards. … I edged up on her a little, as the last bend came in sight. Joggling my elbows as if coaxing the last effort out of my bike.
It had her in fits.
Last bend. Out she swung, wide, wide, as she had to, on that deadly rattletrap. I took a deep breath, chose a line far inside her, turned on the juice and prayed.
Mitzi bleeped at me, suddenly frantic. I leaned in deeper and deeper to the bend. Just for a horrible second, I nearly broke away and went flying all over the road. Then I was alongside Keri, riding boot to boot.
And she, caught in her chosen line, could do nothing except go suicidally faster and faster. Leaning so hard in toward me that it seemed for a moment as if that wing of her golden hair was going right down under my front wheel.
We’ll die together, I thought, and that didn’t seem too bad.
The bend was over; we were straightening out, coming upright. She was still alongside, twisting her throttle so hard I could see her jaw clenched inside her helmet. Shouting at her bike as if it was a horse.
But I piled the juice on (I nearly forgot, I so much wanted to be close to her), and she just faded back over my right shoulder.
I shot past the fist-shaking hangers-on. One leaped out at me, making me swerve so badly that I did a zigzag that lasted all of two minutes and ended up on my knees, facing the wrong way, with no cloth left in the knees of my denims.
Keri, too, was lying inert beside her roaring, wheel-spinning bike. I ran back, terrified I’d killed her. The hangers-on were all walking away… But she was still breathing, back rising and falling in great heaves.
She raised her head. Behind the scarred visor, tears were streaming down her face.
“You hurt?” I rushed to pick her up.
She let me lift her, then punched me in the gut with all her might.
“Cheating Est bastard!”
She picked up a half-brick and threw it.
I knew why the hangers-on were making themselves scarce.
“I’ll beat you tomorrow—officially. You won’t stand a prayer. They’ll all beat you—they’ll kill you.”
“I know,” I said humbly. “I’m no good at all.”
She looked at me, suspecting another Est trick. She had finally stopped throwing bricks.
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