Manalone

by Colin Kapp

  ‘Steady, Manalone! If you’re not drunk there has to be a rational explanation for this. And if you are drunk … there still has to be a rational explanation. All you have to do is find it.’

  He was not drunk. Not even slightly now. Whilst he had not yet performed the calculations he knew instinctively that the fall-rate portrayed was impossibly slow. This was not due to camera technique or the speed of projection, since all the allied events remained credible. A second factor was that the results of impact, either vehicle to vehicle or vehicle to ground, were improbably severe. The momentum was all wrong. The slightest car to car contact caused a fantastic amount of damage to an apparently normal steel body, and the results of falls were catastrophic. This was a picture of a consistent physical world which had no existence as far as he knew.

  This posed the problem. Here was either an extremely clever piece of faked photography – serving an unlikely and unnecessary role as an incidental in a cheap budget gangster film … or else the film had been made at some time or place where the ordinary laws of physics did not quite apply …

  ‘Slow down a moment, Manalone! You’ve gone up a blind alley somewhere.’

  Both propositions were absurd. The cost of faking those scenes to produce that particular effect could easily have cost more than the budget expended on the entire film. As for the second proposition, that was even less likely than the first. Such a system of physics could be reconciled only by setting up a model of the physical world which had characteristics entirely different from those of actuality.

  ‘Which brings the rare conclusion that a film like that could never have been made. So what are you doing watching it, Manalone?’

  With so many questions unanswered, Manalone pondered on the possibility of obtaining a copy of the film. Since it was illegal photo-play, he doubted if a direct approach would be effective. He briefly considered the possibility of snatching a spool and making a run for it. A knowledge of the long stairs outside the door and his unfamiliarity with the dubious streets in the vicinity warned him that he would be unlikely to get away with it.

  ‘Besides which, Manalone, you haven’t got the guts!’

  The Breve would obviously enjoy such an excuse to start a rumpus, which might well attract the police. Also a man running through the streets clasping a large reel of film to his chest was unlikely to escape attention. All things considered, he would have to make do with the information he had already collected.

  At length the film was finished and the lights came on. There were no titles and no credits nor any clues as to the age of the film or its origin. He allowed the Breve to go out first, and shuffled as close to the projectors as the seating would allow. The width of the film was unfamiliar to him, and certainly far wider than anything he knew in current use. He made a mental estimate of its width for future reference. Then he was climbing the badly lit stairs, with his pockets bulging with recorded enigma, and a headful of perplexity.

  As he emerged into the dim and unfamiliar streets, he looked around to gain his bearings, feeling uncomfortable and slightly lost. The Breve had moved across the street to form an argumentative congregation around the windows of a small shop. He carefully avoided them, and began to pick his way back towards the lights of Psychedilly. It was now quite late, but apparently the population of the district grew in proportion to the lateness of the hour. Marked by the formality of his dress, he was approached several times by procurers, whom he waved away before they had a chance to relate the peculiar virtues of their wares. Not until he was back under the impersonal cloak of the great lights did he relax and stop to look for a drink. He found a dive-bar which seemed suitably quiet, and climbed down into its artificially ornate warmth.

  It was at this point that Manalone’s own passion for isolation led him to witness an unusual incident. He had found an empty table which was partially under the open staircase which led in from the street outside. Scarcely had he sat down than he became aware that the party of Breve who had been at the cinema-cell had just come down the stairs. He could see their faces quite plainly through the stair treads, as they scanned the area as if expecting to find someone who was not apparent.

  He marked the incident and thought nothing more of it until the Breve, having failed to find whoever it was for whom they were looking, turned abruptly and with needless noise and clatter headed back out again. As they did so, one of their number halted halfway up the stair and spoke into what was certainly a police wrist-transceiver. He was only a short distance away from Manalone at this point, but his voice was lost in the ambient noise.

  Had he looked downwards, the Breve must certainly have seen Manalone’s eyes watching him interestedly through the intervals between the stairs. Fortunately he was too intent on watching his own group who were maintaining a noisy diversion in the doorway. Manalone was fascinated. The possibility of a special police team dressed and acting like genuine Breve, was something he had never considered before. The more he thought about it, the more logical it became. For controlling such a rebellious yet formless movement as the Breve, infiltration was obviously a more efficient method than outside observation. He wondered idly what nature of quarry they were hunting, and if it was in any way connected with the illegal photo-play which he had seen earlier.

  ‘They’re looking for you, Manalone,’ he said to himself amusedly. ‘Something terribly subversive … like swearing at the autophone system or dropping toffee papers on the flower beds in Hotham Park. Manalone the terrible … always ready with a damning epithet to quell recalcitrant machinery, and never slow with a vicious sweet-wrapper to demonstrate his rejection of the Establishment. Manalone, you’re a right villain! Curious thing, though. If the police know that film is running, why don’t they close it down? Or could it be they’re leaving it … as a deliberate means of getting to know … precisely whom it attracts …?’

  3

  Manalone and the Homewards Turning

  Returning to the Hover-rail Terminal, Manalone studied the indicators carefully. He was pleased to find that the five-minute frequency of service to Bognor was being maintained despite the lateness of the hour. Such was the population density of London that even the remote suburb of Bognor pressured the facilities of the unique fast Hover-rail system into the small hours. He approached the autobarrier and dialled his destination, then dropped his ComCredit card into the appropriate slot. The machine read the encoded details on the card, verified his credit with the national credit computer, and issued him with a ticket. This done, the barrier cycled to enable him to pass on to the platform.

  The car was already waiting, a sleek metal bullet sitting astride the feeder-rail, cushion deflated whilst the passengers hurried aboard. Manalone was fortunate in travelling late, inasmuch as he was able to board the first car of his choice. The barrier was programmed to admit only the normal complement of a car to the platform. One could frequently wait for up to six cars before admission was allowed. At this hour he even met the unaccustomed extravagance of finding several empty seats and a car hostess who actually had time to be civil.

  Having a choice of seats, he dropped into his favourite position, fastened his seat-belt, and luxuriated in having room to stretch his legs. Only one other person joined the car after Manalone, and he curiously, opted to stay in the already fully occupied rear of the car. Manalone, always the acutest of observers, noted the fact and then dismissed it. Machinery could be wayward, infuriating and fallible, but at least he could establish a working relationship with it. But people, he could never understand.

  The doors of the car closed with a whisper of air, and the car moved off on its slow mechanical drive down the slightly curved feeder-rail to its pre-insertion position near the highspeed line. Manalone knew that the computers were phasing the car to pick up a vacant position on the high-line as soon as one became available. They did not have long to wait.

  With a sudden boost of the air-cushion, the car rose sharply and lost contact with the feeder-rail. This
was the point which always fascinated Manalone. Here they were buoyed on a low-thrust air blanket ready to be inserted on to the high-speed Hover-line which was already carrying speeding cars at a probable interval of twenty seconds. Only computers could make the split-second decisions as to when and how fast the car must accelerate over the rest of the pre-entry section so as to make a safe insertion on to the high-line. For this reason the cars needed no drivers. There was no aspect of the high-speed Hover-line operation which was still amenable to human judgement.

  Then he felt the punch of the acceleration forcing him back into his seat as the car’s jets screamed with the urgency of trying to insert it accurately into a safe position on the high-line between a series of already speeding cars. The car, travelling now like an ambitious bullet, left the pre-entry section and climbed straight into position astride the highspeed rail, its jet-scream dying as the linear motors took hold and wound them up to their final speed. The insertion had been accomplished.

  As terminal velocity was reached, the acceleration pressures ceased. Manalone undid his safety belt and waited for the hostess to make her round. He ordered black coffee, because he needed to think, then settled down to review the evening in detail, utilizing his capacity for almost total recall.

  As before, he was unable to explain the photo-play which he had seen. He had the feeling that even when he had analysed the data, he would still be no nearer an answer. He had developed that acute technological sense of knowing intuitively what an answer should look like, and was beset by a feeling that a great many pieces were missing from the puzzle. The problem was not that there were missing pieces, but exactly what was the nature of the puzzle from which they were missing.

  Paul Raper was a journalist and scientific editor of a national daily newsfax. The latter post he held largely due to Manalone’s ability as a part-time scientific sleuth. Raper decided the line of enquiry, and Manalone ghosted a lot of the best copy. The journalist had the contacts and the ideas, whilst Manalone patiently supplied the facts and the interpretation. Alone, neither of them would have achieved much notice, but together they had achieved new standards in scientific reporting.

  This time, Manalone felt he had drawn a blank. Unless analysis revealed something that his trained intuition had failed to find, the result of his evening’s work was due to be relegated to the ever increasing store of background material which provided the fund of insight from which he worked. No information gained was ever wasted – but a great many things, of themselves, would produce no copy.

  The request to re-fasten seat belts meant they had slipped the coastal highline and begun to decelerate into Bognor Terminal. At first this was manifest as a gradual lessening of the linear motor’s thrust, but as they reached the station the car’s jets went into retro to positively arrest their momentum and fetch the car to a safe halt precisely on the exit ramp.

  Outside the Bognor Terminal he hurried to a tramcall post and signalled for an autram. Long gone were the days when private individuals could find roadspace to operate their own vehicles. Now only a few trades and essential services were permitted autonomous vehicles. For the rest of the population there was no alternative to the speedy, economic autrams, whose small size and integrated computer control made the best use of the available roadspace in a traffic situation which would otherwise have congested itself to a complete standstill a century ago.

  In less than a minute a small driverless tramcar, diverging from the mainstream traffic to follow the particular sub-loop wire buried beneath the surface of the road, drew up before him. He climbed in, tended his ComCredit card to the card reader, and dialled his destination code. The route-box muttered to itself uncertainly, then rejected his figures and displayed a sequence of its own devising.

  Surprised, Manalone checked the new readout against the area map, and saw that the vehicle was proposing to set him down at the end of his turning, rather than deliver him to his door. It was then that he remembered that due to the massive clearance for re-building in the area adjacent to his home, the local street sub-loops became inoperative from two hundred thirty hours till dawn to enable the necessary circuit alterations to be made. His watch confirmed the vehicle’s correct assessment of the situation – or rather the correct assessment of the city’s transport computer which the vehicle had interrogated. He punched the ‘accept’ button, watched the revised fare become accepted by the credit register, then sank back in the cushions as the autram accelerated out expertly into the traffic lines.

  Even at this late time the traffic density was high and progress on the town’s main routes was slow. Almost without seeing them he watched the pyramids of coloured codes and anticipatory signals crawling up the backs of the preceding vehicles. Some of the lights had meaning for him, being indications of the previous vehicle’s speed and directional intentions to which his own vehicle responded. The rest of the lights, he surmised, were computer route codings, though why they were displayed he was at a loss to guess.

  The photo-play still worried him. It was obviously the work of a few enthusiasts operating on a cheap budget; yet either the major scenes of violence had been achieved with expensively authentic mock-ups, or something incredible had happened to reality during the filming. Neither of these alternatives seemed possible. It was another incident in the curious sequence which Paul Raper had latterly been asking him to investigate. It could be that Paul had some idea of the underlying causality, but Manalone felt it more likely that it was the result of Paul’s newshound instinct coupled with an inability to explain the items for himself.

  ‘Manalone, you’re getting neurotic! How can you get worried about missing pieces … when you didn’t have a problem to start with?’

  The autram finally drew out of the traffic-stream at its predetermined point on the Chichester Road. Manalone shrugged and prepared to walk the remaining distance to his house. On his emergence at Toad Hall, however, he chanced to glance along the way to Elbridge, where the massive house-clearance operation was in progress. He stopped, entranced by the lights of the clearance machinery weaving in the darkness, and walked along the road to obtain a better view from the high bank.

  As he did so, a second autram drew up to the place where his own vehicle had left him. Anticipating the possible arrival of a neighbour, Manalone watched for the descending occupant. However, the man who stepped out and began to search the darkness was not a local figure, nor did he appear to have any clear idea of his eventual destination.

  ‘In fact, Manalone, he has an uncanny resemblance to the man who was last into the Hover-rail car. Could it just possibly be that you’re being followed?’

  4

  Manalone and the Critical Mate

  Manalone stood stock-still at the top of the high bank watching the new arrival fruitlessly searching the darkness. The scientist’s present location was sufficiently unlikely that the man on the roadway did not once think to turn in his direction. There came a buzz of conversation as the man employed a wrist-transceiver, then, as if in receipt of new instructions, the searcher set off down the turning which was also Manalone’s route home.

  Lips compressed with slight amusement, Manalone followed him. Manalone was not really convinced that his quarry, whom he now felt certain was a police agent, was in any way connected with himself. He was certain, however, that apart from this evening’s minor indiscretion of seeing an illegal film, he had done nothing to warrant police attention. Nevertheless the game made an interesting diversion to an otherwise irksome walk, and enabled him to play out a few of his untried theories on how to shadow a man without the possibility of being detected. He was mildly disappointed when, at a diversion of the ways, the agent started down the right fork whilst Manalone’s own route took him to the left. The game over, Manalone walked thoughtfully home by himself, his adventure, as ever, ended in anticlimax.

  ‘You’re a misfit, Manalone. Bit of an oddball really. You even play games by yourself. In fact you’re quite a humorous chara
cter … in your own creepy little way.’

  As he entered his front door, Sandra, his wife was waiting for him in the mainspace. As usual, she was annoyed and critical. Her hair, a glorious golden fountain falling in rivulets over her shoulders, framed a face made irritable by broken sleep.

  ‘Damn you, Manalone! You might have told me you were staying out all night.’

  ‘It isn’t all night,’ said Manalone defensively. ‘Only half. And I did tell you, five days ago.’

  ‘Well you should have reminded me.’

  ‘Why, were you worried?’ This was irony. The union had long since deteriorated past the stage where she cared much about his movements. She sensed the thrust, but could not be bothered to return it.

  ‘If you think I’m going to sit up all night taking your vidiphone messages, you’re wildly mistaken. Either you have vi’tape put in or else you can get the whole lot out of my house. I’m sick to death of it.’

  She flounced off towards the sleepspace while Manalone looked first at the offending instrument and then at the message pad. The vidiphone was silent and eyeless, and the pad was empty. Shaking his shoes off, he followed her into the sleepspace.

  ‘Were there any messages for me, San?’

  ‘Messages!’ She struggled down into the bed. ‘As usual, everyone with a problem was asking for you. I don’t know what the hell it is you’ve got, Manalone, but there’s plenty of people after it. It beats me!’

  ‘But specifically…?’ said Manalone patiently.

  ‘Specifically, Blackman was asking you to write that computer programme for him again. He’s been on twice. Then Gross, that even shadier partner of his, came on trying to find out from me if you didn’t think their money was good enough. He’s a right snake! Then Paul Raper called in a hell of a hurry because he couldn’t contact you anywhere. Then finally there was the police. Are you in some sort of trouble, Manalone?’