Carl May did not believe in divinatory magic, of course he did not. To tell the cards, the stars, the lines of the palm, tea-leaves and so forth was to divine what was in the fortune-teller’s heart, and that was all. How could it be otherwise, the clues to interpretation being so numerous and to reach that interpretation so many contradictory clues having to be taken into account? Moreover, the wisdom behind that interpretation – that is to say the sum of the experience of long-dead seers and necromancers – had always been so sloppily recorded and translated from one language to another, one culture to another, as to add up in the end to sheer gobbledygook.
Gobbledygook, and he would prove it.
To this end Carl May had started Britnuc’s Divination Department, housed on the eighth floor, a floor which had heating and ventilation problems. Divination was made up of cartomancers, astrologers, crystal gazers and so on, and the greater part of its work involved participation in research, funded jointly by Britnuc and the University of Edinburgh, into the comparative validity or otherwise of the various occult disciplines. So far, as Carl May had expected, the balance was tipping otherwise. To justify the existence of the department in the eyes of his fellow directors and the shareholders its reports and prophecies were registered along with those of other sections: forward planning now included propitiousness of time in relation to event in its computerized forecasts. All other things being equal, which seldom happened, recommendations from the eighth floor would be allowed to tip the balance on minor decisions this way or that. Carl May reckoned it would be no worse than tossing a coin, which on occasion he had been known to do – though sitting alone at the head of the great board table as he did who was to say whether he reported its fall correctly?
Carl May was interested and displeased to observe how quickly the staff came to take the existence of the department for granted: how it had become common practice for Garden Developments to plant according to phases of the moon in spite of the virtual impossibility of controlled testing – variables in the rearing of plants being almost as numerous as they were for humans; how at lunchtimes the lifts to the eighth floor would be busy with not only female clerical staff (which he would have expected) on their way to have their fortunes told, but with middle and senior management as well. He wondered if there were a marker gene for gullibility: he waited impatiently for Holly to repent and come back on line. He would not wait for ever.
Since the Chernobyl event Carl May had had Divination, in conjunction with the University, working on maps of the British Isles, predicting regional variations of wind patterns and subsequent fallout. Now came a phone call through to his office from Edinburgh. A former music-hall entertainer, Wee Willie Bradley, who had the apparent gift, or talent, or capacity – call it what you like – of shutting his eyes and projecting imagined pictures on to ordinary black and white film, was proving successful in producing accurate maps two days in advance.
‘How successful?’ demanded Carl May, who was putting on his shirt.
‘One hundred per cent,’ said Edinburgh, smugly.
‘Impossible,’ said Carl May, ‘because no one’s maps are accurate. As well say today’s instrumentation readings are influenced by Wee Willie’s maps two days ago.’ Which stumped Edinburgh, for a time.
‘What’s your star sign?’ Carl May asked Bethany, who, dreamy and languid, still lay on the palely carpeted office floor, since she found the designer chairs too uncomfortable to sit upon. Since bits of carpet came off on her yellow cashmere sweater she hadn’t bothered to put that back on. It was an idle kind of day.
‘I can’t remember,’ said Bethany, prudently, for all Carl May was in a good mood. ‘I don’t really believe in all that junk.’
He wondered whether there might be a gene for the propensity to tell lies, and whether it would be desirable or undesirable to shuffle it out. Would Bethany honest be less or more desirable? He tickled her chest with his bare toes. The red light on the telephone blinked.
‘What a busy day,’ said Bethany.
It was Gerald Coustain. He had come back to Carl May, reluctantly, to ask if Britnuc could possibly make available to the Government one or two technicians properly trained in radiation diagnostic techniques, in the urgent national interest. Carl May was pleased to put at his disposal Britnuc’s entire Divination Department.
‘I don’t quite understand,’ said Gerald. ‘What use are astrologers and palm-readers in this particular situation?’
Our research shows,’ said Carl May merrily, ‘that they’re as good at anticipating fallout as our technicians and they certainly cost less.’
‘That may be,’ said Gerald cautiously, ‘because your diagnostic equipment is out of date. You have the technicians, the Department has the equipment; couldn’t we just get them together?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Carl May cheerfully. ‘How’s the family?’
‘Just fine, thank you.’
‘I hear you’ve been seeing something of my ex-wife.’
‘We all had a jaunt to the lido, one day,’ said Gerald, after only a second’s pause.
‘Joanna must have really liked that,’ said Carl May. ‘I’m glad to hear she’s taken up swimming. Women need to look after themselves as they get older. Poor old thing, did you hear about her gardener?’
‘I think she called Angela, just to say. Quite a shock.’
‘Good domestic staff is always hard to find,’ said Carl May, ‘even more difficult than trained technicians and accurate, up-to-the-minute equipment in this ever-changing field of ours. Perhaps the Department of Energy will see its way to some form of co-funding when this Chernobyl lark has calmed down. That way we could ensure Britnuc was always in a position to help you lot out.’
‘I’ll put it to my Department,’ said Gerald.
‘And I’ll put your requirements to mine,’ said Carl May. ‘You’re quite sure you can’t make use of my Divination Department?’
‘No thank you,’ said Gerald.
‘Pity,’ said Carl May. ‘What a lot of old stick-in-the-muds you civil servants are!’ He was in a talkative mood. ‘Reminds me of someone I used to have working for me. What was his name? King? That’s it. Curator of the gallery – you know my gallery? The May Gallery? Egyptologist fellow. Well, never mind, it’s a long story – he was interested in the Tarot pack. Hieroglyphics, and so forth. Poor fellow, he got knocked down in a road accident, killed.’
‘I seem to remember that,’ said Gerald, cautiously.
‘That’s the problem for stick-in-the-muds,’ said Carl May. ‘So stuck they can’t even look where they’re going!’
‘Well,’ said Gerald, ‘it’s been an interesting conversation, Carl. I’ll come back to you when I’ve spoken to my Department.’
As Gerald Coustain put the phone down he heard Carl May laughing, and the sound of agreeable female giggles. He wondered if it were mad laughter and decided probably not: just that Carl May had discovered the answer to executive stress. You murdered the people who angered you, tormented those you despised, teased those who depended upon you, and kept bimbos in the office. He was about to pick up the phone and discuss these suppositions with Angela, but thought better of it. If Carl May knew about the trip to the lido, someone’s phone was probably tapped: possibly even his own. It could wait till he got home.