by Colin Kapp
‘Nothing that I could discern. But the MIPS were interested enough in your concern to follow you all the way to the coast. You’re a professional problem-solver, Manalone. Well – solve that one.’
‘I don’t have sufficient information,’ said Manalone. ‘But I ran into a Censorship Act when I tried to get that health statistic. What’s the point in classifying a health statistic as Restricted Information?’
‘I don’t know, but the pattern’s consistent. It’s all part of the plot.’
‘The plot against what?’
‘Again I don’t know.’ Raper ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. ‘The only thing I’m sure of is that there’s some sort of national conspiracy in being – and the government is behind it. I don’t know what they’re trying to conceal, but whatever it is, they’re doing a very thorough job on it.’
‘And you’d like me to investigate?’ asked Manalone speculatively.
‘Not exactly. I came here to advise you that it was better if you left it alone.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because the MIPS, like every other secret police organization, have their own methods and they aren’t necessarily bound to observe the strict legalities. I’ve had my warning, and I intend to disregard it. But it’s only fair to warn you that if you continue to get involved you may jeopardize not only your career, but possibly your life.’
‘Are you serious, Paul?’
‘Deadly serious. My office gets searched at regular intervals, and both my vidiphone and autophone are being monitored. I’m a marked man – but I don’t give a damn, because finding news is the only way of life I know. I don’t have any other way to go. But that doesn’t apply to you. You’ve got a hell of a lot to lose, Manalone. You don’t have to become involved.’
Manalone’s eyes swept round the trim interior of his household. In a sense he was a privileged person. Only the top echelon in the automated industries could afford to own their own houses. It meant a lot to him. And Sandra – there were not many who could afford her, either. The great depression of living standards which was the inevitable consequence of high-level automation had further sharpened the disparity between the ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’. Manalone had what ninety percent of the population would have died for – a top job and a place in the sun. Even his marriage could have been made tolerable by children.
‘And five hundred and seven deaths per ten thousand is the reason you’re not going to get any children, Manalone.’
‘I’m already involved, Paul,’ he said finally. ‘If there is a conspiracy and we can’t see it directly, we can probably set up a profile of forbidden areas. This should gradually define what it is that’s being concealed.’
Raper relaxed visibly. ‘I hoped you’d take that attitude, Manalone. If there was ever a problem which needs your talents, this is it. I suspect the MIPS will soon pressure you out of it, but while it lasts it could be very interesting.’
‘If I’m to help,’ said Manalone, ‘I’m going to need a lot more facts to work on.’
Raper was watching Sandra prowling in the background. ‘I can give you more than enough to get on with – but not here. Let’s go somewhere where we won’t be overheard. The less that Sandra knows of this, the safer we shall be.’
Manalone raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t you trust her?’
‘Do you honestly want to know what I think? No offence, Manalone, but I think she’d gladly exchange you for your life insurance any day of the week.’
‘Mm! She doesn’t think much of you, either. She thinks you’re a chancer.’
Raper grinned roguishly. ‘She could be right at that. But there’s something you ought to consider – it takes a chancer to know a chancer. Come on, let’s get out of here!’
7
Manalone and the Re-drawn History
The area known as Old Bognor, contrasting with the sleek, vitreous skyscrapers of the new town, was still composed of old, large, individual buildings and blocks which appeared to have been built at a time when money and space was no object. In the cellar of one of these massive old residences was located Cain’s Club, a mysterious, split-level, dark and fascinating cave where the music was so loud that it was possible to damage one’s hearing in pursuit of an evening’s entertainment. This was Manalone’s habitual refuge from the world. Wedged against the bar in a re-entrant corner which effectively isolated him from the worst excesses of the sound transducers, and illuminated only by the reflected and diffused fallout from the psychedelic light displays, he could here entertain his inner domain of rationalization and philosophy, and wash the grains of fact free from the muddy media of suggestion with several of Cain’s excellent liquors.
It was here that he brought Paul Raper. Fortunately it was yet early evening, the dancing in the dark rear caverns was restrained and thoughtful, and the music and the lights were both keyed to infinite shades of blue. When both he and Raper were wedged into the re-entrant corner and the glasses filled, Manalone turned seriously to the reporter.
‘We can talk quite safely here, Paul. There’s not a spy device made which could penetrate here from the outside, and Cain’s too fly to let any bugs get in. With some of his clientele, he can’t afford to take chances. There’s more to his electronic gadgets than the mere playing of music. Even a tape won’t record down here.’
Raper nodded. ‘It’s difficult to know where to start, Manalone, but working round the courts I happened to get to see a copy of the Security Acts – that’s the legal manual which is produced in closed Security courts, never at open proceedings.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Manalone.
‘Not many people have – but it’s quite a revelation. Forget what you know of legal rights. If ever they get you in a Security court you’ve no rights whatever. None of the normal legal statutes apply. Security is a law unto itself.’
‘Security against what?’ asked Manalone. ‘There isn’t a war on.’
‘No, and that brings us to our first peculiarity. Without war or even signs of serious political unrest, one trial in every seven takes place in the closed confines of a Security court.’
‘Are you serious?’ Manalone was appalled.
‘Deadly serious. But the real puzzle comes when you start to consider the contents of the Security Acts and what they might be designed to guard against. Did you know, for instance, that archaeological excavations are now illegal?’
‘I find it hard to believe.’ The scientist looked at him dubiously. ‘I knew the universities had ceased giving grants for archaeological research on the grounds that it’s a nonproductive discipline – whatever that might mean – but I fail to see that it could either be illegal or a security risk. That only begins to make sense if there’s something odd about the past which the powers-that-be don’t want dug up. Or if there’s something odd about the present which would only be apparent if one could compare it with the past. You don’t suppress archaeology unless you’ve a need to re-draw history.’
‘Your turn of phrase, but my sentiments.’ Raper drained his glass. ‘But lest you feel inclined to go off tilting at windmills, remember that the MIPS have the power to arrest and hold you for any period without trial. Cry “stinking fish” and you wouldn’t get past the first corner.’
‘I wasn’t aware of being Quixotic.’
‘No, but I know you, Manalone. You can’t bear to let ideas lie idle. You use concepts the same way other people use tools – and you always make something with them. Just remember that these ideas are explosive. Don’t get hurt.’
‘I thought I was supposed to be the thinker, and you the doer,’ said Manalone mischievously.
‘So did I, until it hit me that it was you who virtually built Automated Mills. Then I began to realize that your thoughts were more constructive than my deeds.’
Raper signalled for their glasses to be refilled and tended his ComCredit card, whilst Manalone fell into a consideration of their problem.
‘If we assume for t
he moment that somebody has a reason for wanting to re-draw history, Paul, is there any further evidence to suggest that they’re actually attempting it?’
‘I think there is. Have you been to a museum lately?’
‘No, not for years.’
‘It might surprise you to know that there aren’t many of them still open, and those which are left are changing.’
‘Changing? How do you mean?’
‘I mean these days the exhibits are nearly all contemporary. There’s nothing Roman, nothing medieval, nothing of the renaissance. There’s models, yes, but no authentic artefacts even of the nineteenth or twentieth centuries. As with archaeology, there’s a barrier being thrown up over the past, particularly the more recent past.’
‘But surely that would have raised an outcry?’ protested Manalone.
‘Perhaps it did – but probably the more serious objectors were dealt with under security wraps. Anyway, the trend of modern education has been deliberately orientated in favour of looking forwards rather than back, so that interest in historical subjects has been calculatedly minimal.’
‘Point taken, Paul. Anything else similar?’
‘Similar but different, and a bit more in your line. I met a man in Coventry who had an unusual theory. You know of the proposal to go from decimal standards to duodecimal –well he pointed out that this swing was coming round for the second time. Apparently they were partly duodecimal in the twentieth century, and then went metric.’
‘That’s true,’ said Manalone. ‘It was a rationalization programme to tie in with Europe which had already adopted the decimal system. As soon as the standards were common throughout Eurasia, the whole system swung back to the vastly more convenient duodecimal system.’
‘And then swung again metric?’ asked Raper.
‘True, but that was explained as an interim measure whilst the rest of the world got into the universal system.’
‘Was it? Was it really that, Manalone?’
‘I’m not convinced by the reasoning, but since it occurred before I was born I’ve never questioned it. As a confirmed duodecimalist myself, I’m happy that we’re now going back to the only rational system.’
‘Perhaps!’ said Raper. ‘Anyway, this fellow in Coventry had a different explanation. He reckoned that the continual shift of standards was purely to break people’s subjective reference points. He was suggesting that a deliberate break was being inserted into people’s subjective ideas of size, weight and value by the repeated change of units. Could it have that effect, Manalone?’
‘It could have that effect, but surely you’re not suggesting that this mystery had its origins way back in the twentieth century?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m merely pointing out a few facts which might be relevant.’
‘I don’t see how this one ties in with the rest.’
‘Perhaps it doesn’t. But I think it’s important. Shortly after that conversation, my contact was murdered – with a Service laser rifle. I’d lay odds of a hundred to one that he was a victim of the MIPS.’
Raper, whose eyes had continuously roved around the assembled company, stiffened suddenly.
‘I think they’re here, Manalone. That tall man over there. I’m sure I’ve seen him before.’
‘I don’t recognize him, but Cain has a pretty extensive clientele. I don’t know all the faces.’
‘I’m sure he’s one of the Central London men. What the hell’s he doing here?’
Slightly sceptical, Manalone dismissed the idea, and tended his ComCredit card for a further round of drinks. As he did so, a shock of realization shot up his forearm like a bolt of electricity. ComCredit cards were credit-verified by the National Credit Computer. Obviously one could locate the whereabouts of any being in the country within hours simply by having on-line access to the credit computer facilities.
‘Don’t get paranoiac, Manalone. It could be coincidence … only you aren’t very fond of coincidences.’
‘Has he seen us, Paul?’
‘Not yet, but he seems to be searching. It’s only a matter of time before he looks this way. I’m damn certain he’s a member of the MIPS.’
Manalone caught Cain’s eye, and his outstretched hand, palm down, was a signal he had often seen at the club but never had occasion to use. Cain was slightly surprised at Manalone stepping out of character, but he read the urgency in the scientist’s eyes. The bar-hatch came open and Manalone and Raper, bending low, were ushered discreetly behind the bar and then into a level storeroom cluttered with pails and brushes. A window on the far side of the store gave unexpectedly on to area steps in some dark mews, and the two men climbed out unobserved into the dark sharpness of the night.
‘I could have been wrong,’ said Raper, when he had taken stock of his surroundings, ‘but it’s better to take no chances. I was certain that nobody followed me from London.’
‘Once they know your identity, they don’t need to follow,’ said Manalone. ‘All they have to do is sit on a credit computer readout terminal and watch the progress of your Com-Credit card. There’s not many hours go past without you registering a charge somewhere.’
‘Of course!’ Raper’s face was almost ashen with the sudden realization. ‘Thanks, Manalone! You’ve already answered a lot. I wondered how they always managed to pop up on all the wrong occasions. That would explain how they know not only where you are, but roughly what you’re doing and who you’re with. Look, Man, this thing is even more dangerous than I’d thought. If you want to back out now, I wouldn’t blame you.’
‘What price Don Quixote without Sancho Panza?’
‘Don’t joke, Manalone. I can see now how a man in Coventry came to acquire a headful of cinders. We’d better break this up for tonight.’
‘The damage is already done,’ said Manalone. ‘If they were watching us both they must have seen the coincidence of us both using ComCredit cards at Cain’s. But why the hell shouldn’t we? We’re long-term associates.’
‘You have a touching faith in human nature. If they weren’t sure of you before, they will be now.’
‘So I’m in it, win or lose. Believe me, Paul, if they start to make trouble for me, they’ll find they’ve made a lot of trouble for themselves. I suggest we carry on just as if tonight’s conversation had never occurred. Are you coming back to stay the night?’
Raper brushed the hair back from his forehead. ‘Thanks, but I have to return to London tomorrow to start the election coverage. I promised Kit I’d spend the night with her on the raft. Come to think of it, the raft is probably a very good place to be. They don’t use ComCredit in that territory, and now I can see a very good reason why.’
Manalone walked with him, selecting the darker, quieter streets until the lights of the raft came into view spreading far out across the sea. By evening the raft, with its wilful jumble of coloured lights and enigmatic darkness, seemed almost an enchanted scene – a window on to another world which had never heard of straightedge or design. The mornings, however, spoke of a different reality, and Manalone had no stomach to venture nearer than the strand of tidal sand which marked the raft’s perimeter. He watched Raper venture out across a crazily roped walkway, then himself turned again inland, heading for the bright lights and the centre of the town.
‘So what the hell’s happened, Manalone? Where went your nice quiet, ordered world of yesterday? It’s not really that history’s being re-drawn which is important. That’s only symptomatic – the part you can see. The real problem’s much deeper … and much bigger.
‘So what the hell could it be? It involves the manipulation of history, the suspension of human rights, and the creation of a secret police organization comparable with that needed to maintain a totalitarian State. Yet one thing is certain – this is no mere political manoeuvre. This is the Establishment up against a problem which has a basis in altered physical values, and seems to have reference to the present as contrasted with the past. So far all you’ve got are
answers … to a problem so obscure that it doesn’t seem to exist.’
8
Manalone and the Site of Nothing
The next day was Saturday, and Manalone, rising late, had nothing particular to do. In his studyspace he tidied up his filing, dictated a few notes into the autotype, and then found himself free to consider his new range of problems. Sandra had gone off early announcing she was going to a festiv – whatever that might be. Manalone had no liking for her continual round of parties and happenings, but he recognized her need for the excitement she found in them. At the same time he wondered what strange twist of nature had produced this insatiable craving for titillation.
‘Keep moving, little lotus-eaters – because if ever the volume of music drops and the lights fail and the hypnotics and the alcohol don’t work and even the sensations bore you, you’re liable to wind up having to face the thing you’re most afraid of – having time to think. When God failed to respond reliably to on-line access, Mankind had to turn elsewhere to unload the burden of its own responsibility. It invented the computer – which is far more accessible than God and just as satisfying – providing you never give yourself time to think about it.’
Realizing that he was becoming bitter, Manalone turned back to his deliberations. A call on the vidiphone stopped him before he really got started. The caller was Victor Blackman, whose mocking bull-moose face grinned derisively from the screen.
‘Hullo, Manny boy! You’ve been playing pretty hard to get. Not trying to keep out of my way are you?’
‘I don’t give a damn about your way, so why should I bother to keep out of it?’
‘Didn’t that delicious pet wife of yours give you my message? I’ve got another job for you.’
‘I’m not interested, Victor. I told you after the last job that I’m through preparing computer software for you. If you haven’t got the right equipment, you can’t get consistent results.’
‘Have I ever complained, Manny boy? Have I ever? Tell you what I’ll do – I’ll double your last-time fee.’
