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Manny sat back as a short stretch of stony embankment came between him and the river. Two or three years at the most. . . . His carriage, its subtle furnishings, its TV sets, its telex, its bed complete with discreet electronic masturbator, provided no reassurance; not even the ageless tropical fish in their tank so gyroscop- ically still. He held his left hand up near the carriage window, in the light that flickered as the train moved slowly under a scattering of trees. The skin, mottled, lay in loose creases the length of his fingers, the nails at their ends over-size for the flesh they covered. There was a perceptible shake, a disquieting closeness to the skeleton beneath. Two or three years at the most. . . . He spread his fingers and imagined time streaming away between them. Professor Kravchensky’s time, its chronocules wearing him away, its flow unavoidable, its pressure insidious. Only by resisting did he exist in the here and now rather than in the there and who-knows-when. Each material atom containing a charge to buffer it against the flow. In each of his fingers a hundred million atoms, and the chronomic flow passing over and between and around like water. In his fingers, his hands, his arms, his whole body. Wearing away. Aging. Wearing away and aging. Two or three years at the most. . . . He replaced the hand on his knee, where it twitched, and fingered with personal interest the cloth of his trousers.
But he was more than the houseboaters, for he had Penheniot. He had all the time in the world. Somewhere in the future the effects of chronomic wear would be understood, even reversible. Kravchensky would place him there, where he could make a young body again. Kravchensky was no fool. Often it took one genius to spot another. He and Kravchensky were worthy of one another. Together they would step over the barriers of
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time as if over a little wicket fence.. And if—Manny Littlejohn chuckled and leaneid forward again to look out of his carriage window—and if chronomic unity turned out to be another word for death (which was theologically arguable) then at least he’d enter it with greater hope of stepping out of it at some point into an afterlife than the rabbis had ever been able to give him.
The train had rounded a bend in the river, leaving the houseboats behind. The water began to be dotted with yachts and motor launches, tourists for whom the upper, desolate stretches of the river were disquieting, alien to their hutch conditioning. The shores were now thick with hotels and restaurants, yacht clubs and water- scooter centers. The first of the big river purifying stations came into view. Ferries drove across from side to side, races were being held, and water-skiing, and in the midst of it all a cargo ship edged away from the one remaining china clay jetty, hooting dismally, the sound echoing to and fro between the terraced, plasti- cated hills. Cornish china clay for bennie tablets, glossy magazines and chocolate bars. (Only a few surveyors and their owner knew how near the clay pits were to being worked out. And their owner, being Manny Littlejohn, didn’t worry. They’d last the short time more he expected to be around.)
The train drew in to St. Kinnow station. Manny Littlejohn’s station. After it had stopped Manny Littlejohn remained seated for iome minutes. He made a point of never being in a-hurry; the right to keep people waiting was one of his greatest luxuries. Any fool could make people jump and run to his shouting. To keep them tense and ready while he himself did nothing at all was a far greater refinement.
When he finally rang his little brass elephant bell the
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eruption of people immediately needing to please was delightful. They also managed—as was necessary—to be there without any appearance of fuss or bustle. So he treated them with great politeness: his autosec technicians, his wireless operator, his valet, his guitarist, his masseuse, his accountant, his social psychologist and his bodyguard. He even treated with politeness the sta- tionmaster—his stationmaster—who had been lurking in the' booking office so as not to open the carriage door too soon, and had ended up opening it too late. Politeness was another luxury with which he indulged himself: it was the best way of despising people he knew.
He descended in careful stages from his carriage onto the red silk carpet bdrdered with gold. It warmed his feet. There were a few people on the platform, attracted by the rare phenomenon of a train—in general the line was closed to all but goods traffic to the jetty, the station (and the stationmaster) having been bought by Manny Littlejohn at the time of the closure—and they raised a cheer. Manny acknowledged it mildly and decently, nodding as old men will. The real intensity of emotion lay between him and his carpet, and this he shared with nobody. Delicately he trod the carpet’s length, pausing at the end of stare around, giving an almost charming performance of a vague old gentleman. But his vulturine shoulders hunched and the black of his coat rustled inaudibly. He peered and clicked his tongue and peered again.
Something was wrong.
The autosec technicians hustled forward, one on each side of the sacred carpet.
The bodyguard, Krancz, narrowed his eyes and began to prowl, fingering his official police tranquilizer gun that had secretly been modified to provide a more permanent debilitation.
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The accountant did sums in his head to demonstrate that in the three hours since Manny Littlejohn had left London his capital holdings had appreciated by at least four million seven hundred and thirty-two pounds.
The guitarist, who was Spanish and had a soul, hummed Villa-Lobos and stretched his fingers.
And the stationmaster, a man of little courage and no soul at all, wet his pants (ever so slightly) in the certainty that whatever had gone wrong was bound to be his fault.
Something had indeed gone wrong. The main feature of its wrongness was that it put Manny Littlejohn in a hole of his own making. He had expected somebody from the .Village to be at the station to meet him. By a neat doublethink he demanded both that his visit should be a surprise and that it should begin with proper ceremony. On previous occasions it had worked very well. As an unexpected visitor it was suitable that he should arrive unheralded. But as Founder it was suitable that his advent should be accorded due respect. On previous occasions a series of happy coincidences had made this possible. He demanded these coincidences. Where were they?
He left his sacred carpet and walked, watched by ten anxious pairs of eyes, along the platform to where it ended on a terrace built out over the river. He told his followers, could tell them, nothing of his inner conflict. Below him a water scooter made noisy figure- eights, heeling in a flashy swarf of foam on the turns. Even over the water the air was oppressive: nearly seven rainless weeks and even the rivers were beginning to fester. He waited for longer than was dignified, but no coincidence occurred. The Village had not sent one. David Silberstein had failed him.
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He returned to the people grouped around die end of the red silk carpet
“It’s a fine day,” he said. “The river seems busier than usual.”
Mild words, mild voice, mild smile. Somebody was going to be made to suffer.
“Krancz,” he said to his bodyguard, “you come with me. The rest may occupy themselves as best they can. I suggest that the stationmaster does something about the filthy state of his station. Also that Max thinks again, for he should not imagine me easily fooled, about his presentation of my United Finance holding.” He raised his eyebrows apologetically, as if to mitigate his words’ harshness. “As for Helga, she might be best employed brushing up on her anatomy. She seems to be under the impression that every muscular pain derives its source from the general area of the penis.” It might have been a joke, but it wasn’t “And Manoel—put some work in on scales and arpeggios, will you? The Paganini last night was quite beastly.” He patted the guitarist’s arm, to show he didn’t mean it. “The rest of you must show enterprise. I shall be interested on my return to hear how you’ve made out.”
He called Krancz to him, and they walked together briskly to the station exit. Until his back was turned nobody moved. Then they hurried instantly away. The stationmaster was left alone on the platform, miserably rolling up the red silk carpet and wondering what he could-possibly do to improve the condition of his totally immaculate station.
Out on the street Manny Littlejohn paused. When he walked he made a point of doing so rapidly. He hoped it was hardly noticeable that the effort left him little breath for talking.
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“I behaved badly, Krancz. You should have stopped me.”
“Behaved badly?” The idea was impossible. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“I dislike sycophants. I know I behaved badly, and so do you.”
The man bowed stiffly, a European movement, long perfected, that could be taken to mean anything. Manny Littlejohn took it as a dignified acceptance of an employer’s apology and moved off down the street, satisfied, right with himself. -
They walked between the narrow, ice-cream colored houses, Krancz a pace behind, always watchful. Tourists cluttered the pavements, some naked, some more wisely covering their excesses or inadequacies with bright holiday clothes. High groups sat on doorsteps and in gutters, singing of blue trees, of mountains dancing, of human elephants and rivers that ran inwards, dripping coal. A man with white breasts stood in the entrance to a maxi-sex establishment. It was a peaceful, afternoon throng, sun-warmed, too happy even to jeer when three armed policemen stopped to remind a couple of the recent Copulation in Public Places Act. After all, the fuzz wouldn’t put the boot in, not there, not in broad daylight. And after dark . . . well, after dark was another time altogether.
Manny Littlejohn moved fastidiously through the versatile crowd, despising it with his customary politeness.
Outside the Golden Tit Cafe (its special ketchup bottles gone within a week of opening) Manny Littlejohn became aware of a commotion among the people on the pavement. Krancz moved forward, but Manny waved him back. It was clear now what was happening. A friendly fisherman in blue jersey and jeans was plowing through the idle sea of tourists.
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“Founder! What a surprise to see you, sir.”
“Yes. Though late, a charming coincidence.”
“Well sir, we were meant—I mean, we’d intended to watch the Regatta from the end of the station platform. Only Merv thought we’d just have time to nip in here for a drink.”
“Regatta?” It had been collecting for lifeboat widows last time. “I saw no Regatta.”
The man stared at the toes of his heavy fisherman’s boots. “I’m very sorry we missed you, sir.”
“Mistakes will happen, James.” Earning in return, he hoped, devotion beyond the call of duty. “. . . It is James, isn’t it?”
The whole Village knew how proud the Founder was of his memory for names and faces.
“That’s right, sir,” James said, whom his friends knew as Maurice.
“And your friend Mervyn, where is he?”
“Merve?”—anxious to please—“Merv’s back in the Golden Knocker, talking to . .. finishing his drink.”
But the slip had been noticed. Talking was forbidden. Talking was the first step to acquaintance and acquaintance was the first step to blabbing. Villagers who talked —to anybody at all outside the Village—were inadmissible. Manny nodded to his bodyguard and Krancz went through the crowd on the pavement like a sonic drill. All James could do was stand. Down the path Krancz cleared behind him Manny Littlejohn could see the cafe counter, the piles of synthesized ham sandwiches, and Merve in a blue knitted sweater flagrantly chatting with the girl. Inadmissible. As Krancz entered Merv saw him in the mirror behind the counter. He had no time to turn before Krancz shot him. He slid down onto the floor, his spilled glass rolling away across the metal-
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lie, electrifiable tiles. The girl leaned forward over the counter, intrigued.
“Only a tranquilizer shot,” Krancz said to anybody who might be interested. Nobody was. He moved across between the other customers, busy with their conversations, their fixes, their other more furtive occupations, and picked up Merv’s body. His corpse. He slung it over his shoulder.
“Had-he paid for his drink, ma’am?”
“No. No, I don’t believe he had.” The girl was pleased by such courtesy. “Eighteen five, it was. That’s it. Eighteen shillings, five.”
Krancz paid without question and carried Merv out into the street. The girl put the money in her own, personal, private pocket.
“You’re a bodyguard, not a common laborer,” said Manny Littlejohn. “Give it to James.”
They continued on down the street.
The Founder walked more slowly. He was disturbed: not by the death, but by his own lack of reaction to it. In a world where so many people died it was necessary, if one believed in personal dignity, to make a stand for the sanctity of human life. He felt diminished by his lack of emotion. . . . And the men with him, what were they thinking? Of themselves no doubt, as their kind always did. It was a sad, sick world.
At the next comer, where the street steepened and turned down beside the regency facade of - the old Customs House, complete with coat of arms gleaming red and blue and gold in the afternoon sun, a squad of policemen were waiting around for something to happen. The officer in charge intercepted Manny Littlejohn and his two companions.
“One of your men get too high, did he, Mr. Littlejohn?”
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“High?” Manny examined the policeman with distaste. “My men never drug, officer, It’s against Village regulations. This man’s dead. He died, more precisely was killed, in some obscure cafe a few hundred yards back down the street. On the left hand side.”
“You will have your joke, Mr. Littlejohn.’
The officer in charge returned to his squad, satisfied, his duty done. Depressed (comforted?) still further by man’s perfidy to man, the Founder continued on down to the Town Quay.
The quay was a dazzling turmoil of people and boats and minicars. These latter were loaned to tourists free of charge by the Town Council under that section of the Road Traffic Act forbidding all long-haul cars in built-up areas. They were parked in a two-tier Karstak out over the water, leaving the quay itself clear for the tourists and the vendors of ice cream, acid-cola, fried chicken, horse bubblegum, doughnuts, omo-books and trips around the bay. Free association music (sweet f.a.) by a local group was relayed from batteries of electrostatic speakers. And boat-jets churned the surrounding purified water into glittering cascades of silver and gold.
Ah me, thought Manny Littlejohn, the lemmings at play. And derived pleasure from the thought.
“Founder! What a surprise to see you.” Someone should give these men a better script. “We’re just over here to watch the Regatta.”
Two men on either side of him, sturdy fishermen, tried and true. How they’d seen him in the press he couldn’t imagine. Evidently they knew their job, script or no script.
“I see no Regatta,” said Manny Littlejohn, wishing to discomfit.
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“It’s not yet started,” said the right-hand, quicker- thinking one.
“We have a boat here,” said the left-hand one, slower but still shrewd enough to change the subject. “If you was thinking of going over to the Village, sir, that is.” “Yes, John, I was indeed thinking of going over to the Village.” Wasn’t he John, and his companion Mortimer? Of course he was. “It’s fortunate you both happened to be here.” He peered slyly around his nose. “I won’t be keeping you from enjoying the Regatta, will I?” Watching their faces as they denied with embarrassment any such possibility, the Founder felt ashamed. They were such baitable men, and it was a poor joke anyway.
“We’ll be on our way, then,” cutting them short. “Also there
’s the question of your friend Mervyn. Unfortunately he became inadmissible. James will tell you later. See to him, will you? The poor fellow.”
James carried the dead man forward to the other two. None of them spoke, and the looks they exchanged told Manny Littlejohn not enough. This was the point at which his project was at its most vulnerable, when the means and the end were most vividly juxtaposed in the sight of his simplest employees. He watched the three men lower Mervyn into the boat, still not speaking. . . . He could deal with the dutiful moral doubts of a David Silberstein, for he shared them and knew the answers. But the compassion felt by three men touching the flesh of a dead comrade, seeing his neck loll, the limp hand that could be crushed between the boat and the quay without significance, against this compassion he had few defenses. He could neither justify nor plead. He was what he was.
Perhaps a sex joke would suit. He waited till the men came up the ladder.
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“If I’d reported him to Mr. Silberstein,” he said, “the poor man would have been confined to the Village for at least six months. Six months as Bessie’s assistant.”
(Bessie was the rapacious Village nurse, whose divorced husband had departed to live in Nicaragua. A passionate, impulsive woman, it was said that she had divorced him for chronic incapacity following the biting off of his penis. It was an uneasy joke, filled with fear.)
The men laughed. They couldn’t help it. Mervyn had been turned into Bessie-fodder. Inexcusably he had been made ludicrous. Bawdiness overrode all else. They laughed again, their hands in their pockets for reassurance that they were alive and whole. The crisis, if indeed there had ever been one, was passed.
Long ago Manny Littlejohn had taken bad taste—the goods in his shops, the joys of his holiday camps, the designs of his property developments, even his pink train—and had fashioned it into style. Manny Littlejohn’s style. It influenced every public thing he did and yet (so he hoped) left his private, inner life untainted. The press would never mention his name (Manny Littlejohn) without including his vital statistic (10 inches), and yet he could be in his person old and dignified and slightly sad. It was this appearance of being able to separate what he did from what he was that made him almost never laughable.
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