Ritchie-Smollet led them to the far end of the attic, through a small kitchen where Jack was washing dishes, and down another spiral stair in the thickness of the wall. They came into a square room with vaulted ceiling upheld by a great central pillar. A row of stone chairs with wooden backs were built into the length of each wall. Lanark thought this an awkward arrangement: if all the seats were occupied everyone would find the central pillar hiding three or four people opposite. A small, fit-looking man stood with feet apart and hands in pockets warming his back at an electric fire. Ritchie-Smollet spoke with less than usual enthusiasm.
“Ah, Grant. This is Lanark, who has news for us.”
“Council news, no doubt,” said Grant with a sarcastic emphasis,
“I’ve been waiting over an hour.”
“Remember the rest of us haven’t got your knack of timing things. The provost may be in the crypt; I’ll go and look.”
Ritchie-Smollet left by a door in a corner. Grant and Lanark stared at each other. Grant seemed about thirty though there were some deep vertical wrinkles on his cheeks and brow. His short crisp hair was carefully combed and he wore a neat blue suit and red necktie. He said, “I know you. When I was a lad you used to hang around the old Elite with Sludden’s mob.”
“Not for long,” said Lanark. “How do you time things? Have you a watch?”
“I’ve a pulse.”
“You count your heartbeats?”
“I estimate them. We all developed that talent in the shops when the old timekeeping collapsed.”
“I’m talking abut workshops. Machine shops. I’m a maker, not a salesman.”
Lanark sat on a seat near the fire. Grant’s voice offended him. It was loud, penetrating and clearly used to addressing crowds without help from the equipment which lets a man talk softly to millions. Lanark said, “Where’s Polyphemus?” “Eh?”
“I heard that someone called Polyphemus was here.”
Grant grinned and said, “I’m here all right. Smollet calls me that.”
“Why?”
“Polyphemus was a one-eyed ogre in an old story. I keep reminding the committee of a fact they want to forget, so they say I have only one way of seeing things.”
“What fact is that?”
“None of them are makers.”
“Do you mean workers?”
“No, I mean makers. Many hard workers make nothing but wealth. They don’t produce food, fuel, shelter or helpful ideas; their work is just a way of tightening their grip on folk who do.”
“What do you make?”
“Homes. I’m a shop steward with the Volstat Mohome group.” Lanark said thoughtfully, “These groups—Volstat, Algolagnics and so on—are they what people call the creature?”
“Some of us call it that. The council is financed by it. So is the institute. So it likes to call itself the foundation.”
“I’m sick of these big vague names that power keeps hiding behind,” said Lanark impatiently.
“So you prefer not to think of them,” said Grant, nodding amiably. “That’s typical of intellectuals. The institute has bought and sold you so often that you’re ashamed to name your masters.”
“I have no masters. I hate the institute. I don’t even like the council.”
“But it helped you come here, so it still has a use for you.”
“Blethers!” cried Lanark. “People usually help each other if they can do it without troubling themselves much.”
“Try a cigarette,” said Grant, offering a packet. He had grown friendlier as Lanark grew angrier.
“Thank you, I don’t smoke,” said Lanark, cooling a little.
A while later Lanark said, “Would you tell me exactly what the creature is?”
“A conspiracy which owns and manipulates everything for profit.”
“Are you talking about the wealthy?”
“Yes, but not the wealthy in coins and banknotes—that sort of wealth is only coloured beads to keep the makers servile. The owners and manipulators have smarter ways of banking energy. They pay themselves with time: time to think and plan, time to examine necessity from a distance.”
An old man leaning on a stick and a dark young man with a turban entered and stood talking quietly by the pillar. Grant’s loud voice had been even and passionless, but suddenly he said, “What I hate most is their conceit. Their institute breaks whole populations into winners and losers and calls itself culture. Their council destroys every way of life which doesn’t bring them a profit and calls itself government. They pretend culture and government are supremely independent powers when they are nothing but gloves on the hands of Volstat and Quantum, Cortexin and Algolagnics. And they really think they are the foundation. They believe their greed holds up the continents. They don’t call it greed, of course, they call it profit, or (among themselves, where they don’t need to fool anyone) killings. They’re sure that only their profit allows people to make and eat things.”
“Maybe that’s true.”
“Yes, because they make it true. But it isn’t necessary. Old men remember when the makers unexpectedly produced enough for everyone. No crop failed, no mine was exhausted, no machinery broke down, but the creature dumped mountains of food in the ocean because the hungry couldn’t pay a profitable price for it, and the shoemaker’s children went shoeless because their father had made too many shoes. And the makers accepted this as though it was an earthquake! They refused to see they could make what they needed for each other and to hell with profit. They would have seen in the end, they would have had to see, if the council had not gone to war.”
“How did that help?”
“As the creature couldn’t stay rich by selling necessary things to the folk who made them it sold destructive things to the council. Then the war started and the destructive things were used to wreck the necessary things. The creature profited by replacing both.”
“It split in two and fought itself.”
“That’s suicide!”
“No, ordinary behaviour. The efficient half eats the less efficient half and grows stronger. War is just a violent way of doing what half the people do calmly in peacetime: using the other half for food, heat, machinery and sexual pleasure. Man is the pie that bakes and eats himself, and the recipe is separation.”
“I refuse to believe men kill each other just to make their enemies rich.”
“How can men recognize their real enemies when their family, schools and work teach them to struggle with each other and to believe law and decency come from the teachers?”
“My son won’t be taught that,” said Lanark firmly.
“You have a son?”
“Not yet.”
The chapterhouse had filled with chattering groups and Ritchie-Smollet moved among them collecting signatures in a book. There were many young people in bright clothing, old eccentric men in tweeds and a large confusion of in-between people. Lanark decided that if this was the new government of Unthank he was not impressed. Their manners were shrill and vehement or languid and bored. Some had the mark of the council on their brow but nobody displayed the calm, well-contained strength of men like Monboddo, Ozenfant and Munro. Lanark said, “Could you tell me about this committee?”
“I’m getting round to it. The war ended with the creature and its organs more dominant than ever. Naturally there was a lot of damage to repair, but that only took half our time and energy. If industry and government had been commanding us for the common good (as they pretend to do), the continents would have become gardens, gardens of space and light where everyone had time to care for their lovers, children and neighbours without crowding and tormenting them. But these vast bodies only cooperate to kill or crush. Once again the council began feeding the creature by splitting the world in two and preparing a war. But it ran into unexpected trouble—”
“Stop! You’re simplifying,” said Lanark. “You talk as if all government was one thing, but there are many kinds of government, and some are crueller than others.”
“Oh, yes,” said Grant, nodding. “An organization which encloses a globe must split into departments. But you’re a very ordinary victim of council advertising if you think the world is neatly split between good governments and bad.”
“What was the council’s unexpected trouble?”
“The creature supplied it with such vast new weapons that a few of them could poison the world. Most folk are dour and uncomplaining about their own deaths, but the death of their children depresses them. The council tried to pretend the new weapons weren’t weapons at all but homes where everyone could live safely, but for all that an air of protest spread even to the council corridors. Many who had never dreamed of governing themselves began complaining loudly. This committee is made of complainers.”
“Has complaint done any good?”
“Some, perhaps. The creature still puts time and energy into vast weapons and sells them to the council, but recent wars have been fought with smaller weapons and kept to the less industrial continents. Meanwhile the creature has invented peaceful ways of taking our time and energy. It employs us to make essential things badly, so they decay fast and have to be replaced. It bribes the council to destroy cheap things which don’t bring it a profit and replaces them with new expensive things which do. It pays us to make useless things and employs scientists, doctors and artists to persuade us that these are essential.” “Can you give me examples?”
“Yes, but our provost wants to speak to you.”
Lanark stood up. A lean, well-dressed man with bushy grey hair came through the crowd and shook his hand, saying briskly, “Sorry I missed you upstairs, Lanark—you were too quick for me. Don’t worry—she’s all right.” The voice was familiar. Lanark stared into the strange, haggard, bright-eyed face. The provost said reassuringly, “It’s all right—she’s in excellent spirits. I’m glad there was someone dependable like you with her. Frankie will tell us when the contractions start.”
Lanark said, “Sludden.”
“You didn’t recognize me?” asked the provost, chuckling. “Well, none of us are the men we were.”
Lanark said harshly, “How’s your fiancée?”
“Gay?” said Sludden ruefully. “I hoped you could tell me about Gay. The marriage didn’t work. My fault, I’m afraid; politics puts strain on a marriage. She joined the institute. The last I heard of her was that she had gone to work for the council. If you didn’t see her in the corridors she’s probably with a foundation group, Cortexin perhaps. She had a talent for communications.”
Lanark felt baffled and feeble. He wanted to hate Sludden but couldn’t think of a reason for doing it. He said accusingly, “I saw Nan and her baby.”
“Rima told me. I’m glad they’re well,” said Sludden, smiling and nodding.
“The committee is convened,” said Ritchie-Smollet. “Please be seated.”
People moved to the walls and sat down. Sludden took a chair with a high carved back and armrests; Ritchie-Smollet led Lanark to a seat on Sludden’s right and himself sat on his left. Grant sat beside Lanark. Ritchie-Smollet said, “Silence, please. The internal secretary has failed to make an appearance, so once again we must take the minutes of the last meeting as read. Never mind. The reason for the present meeting is …. but I call on our chairman, provost Sludden, to explain that.”
“We are privileged to have among us,” said Sludden, “a former citizen of Unthank who till recently worked for the institute under the famous—perhaps I should say infamous—Ozenfant. Lanark—here he is beside me—has elected to return here of his own free will, which is no doubt a testimonial to the charm and friendliness of Unthank but proves also the strength of his own patriotic spirit.”
Sludden paused. Ritchie-Smollet cried, “Oh, jolly good!” and clapped his hands. Sludden said, “I understand he has had personal consultations with Monboddo.”
A voice behind the pillar shouted, “Shame!”
“Monboddo certainly has no friends here, but information about where Unthank stands in the council is hard to obtain, so we welcome any source of light on the subject. Also with me is Grant, sufficiently known to us all.”
A voice behind the pillar shouted, “Up the makers, Poly!” “Grant feels he has important news for us. I don’t know what it is, but I suppose it will keep till we have heard our guest speaker?”
Sludden looked at Grant, who shrugged.
“So I will call on Lanark to take the floor.”
Lanark rose confusedly to his feet. He said, “I’m not sure what to say. I’m not patriotic. I don’t like Unthank, I like sunshine. I came here because I was told Unthank would be scrapped and swallowed in a few days, and anybody here with a council passport would be transferred to a sunnier city.” He sat down. There was silence, then Ritchie-Smollet said,
“Monboddo told you this?”
“No, one of his secretaries did. A man called Wilkins.”
“I strongly object to the tone of the last speaker’s remarks,” cried a bulky, thick-necked man in a voice twice as penetrating as Grant’s.
“Though he openly boasts of being no friend to Unthank, our provost has introduced him as if he was some sort of ambassador, and what news does the ambassador bring? Gossip. Nothing but gossip. The mountain has laboured and given birth to a small obnoxious rodent. But what is the tendency of the speech by this self-proclaimed enemy of the city which nurtured him? He tells us that after some vague but imminent doomsday those who carry a council passport will be transferred to a happier land while the majority are swallowed, whatever that means. I will, however, say this. I have a council passport, like several others on the committee, and like the speaker himself. His statements are clearly devised to spread distrust among our brothers and dismay and dissension in our rank and file. Let me assure this messianic double agent that he will not succeed. Nobody is better able to fight the council than men like Scougal and me. We love our people. We will sink or swim with Unthank. Meanwhile I propose that the committee combat the demoralizing tendency of the guest speaker’s tirade by pretending we never heard it.”
“Oh, not a tirade, Gow!” said Ritchie-Smollet mildly. “Lanark spoke four short sentences. I counted them. We ought to hear a little more before dismissing him totally. Wilkins said Unthank would be scrapped and swallowed. Did he indicate why?”
“Yes,” said Lanark. “He said you were no longer profitable, and scrapping you would bring some kind of energy gain. He said his people were used to eating towns and villages, but Unthank would be their first city since Carthage.”
A howl of laughter went up from different parts of the room. A voice behind the pillar cried, “Carthage? What about Coventry?” and others shouted “Leningrad!” “Berlin!” “Warsaw!” “Dresden!” “Hiroshima!”
“I would like also to menshun,” said a slow-voiced, white-haired lady, “Münster in 1535, Gonstantinoble in 1453 and 1204, ant Hierusalem more vrequently than vun cares to rememper.”
“Please, please! A little more moderation!” cried Ritchie-Smollet. “These unhappy rationalizations took place when the council was split in two or menaced by sectarian extremists. I am sure Lanark is not lying when he tells us what he heard. I do suggest his informant misled him.”
“The peaceful destruction of a modern city would be something new,” said Sludden thoughtfully. “It would have to be a city with no effective government. And the creature would have to provide a lot of powerful new machinery. And the destruction would have to be approved by a full meeting of the council, a meeting where Unthank was represented.”
“Wilkins said a meeting of council delegates would approve the action in eight days,” said Lanark. “That was a while ago. The creature has delivered large suction delvers to something called the expansion project. I saw one. As for your government, you know it better than I do.”
“Utter nonsense!” cried Gow. “The council has no heartier opponent in Unthank than myself. As the oldest and most active member of the committee I have wrestled with it since the last world war, and never till recently have we obtained from it such enormous concessions. A short while ago our roads and buildings were a century out of date. Now look at them! Modern motorways. High-rise housing. A city centre full of towering office blocks. We could have done none of this without council aid. Yet you suggest the council plans to smash us!” “These new developments do not greatly veigh with me,” said the slow-voiced lady. “The profits of this building vork haf gone to the creature. A city lives by its industry ant ours still declines. But ve cannot, on the vort of von man, assume the vorst. Ve neet documentary corroboration.”
Gow said, “I have no wish to stoop to personal invective but—” “Excuse me, Gow, Jack would like a chance to speak,” said Sludden, indicating Ritchie-Smollet’s helper who was waving from a corner.
“I was cleaning the guest speaker’s suit,” said Jack, “and I noticed a council paper in the pocket. Maybe that could tell us something.”
Lanark pulled out the newspaper he had lifted in the council café. Sludden took it and started reading. Gow said, “I don’t like using insulting language, but the welfare of the community drives me to it. This guest speaker of ours, this would-be plenipotentiary, is no stranger to me. On a recent delegation to the council I saw this so-called Lanark sniffing around Monboddo’s throne with his long-haired girlfriend and his shabby little rucksack. He made no very creditable impression on the powers that be, I don’t mind telling you. Is it likely, if there was a plot to dismantle this city, that they would trust the details to someone like this?”
“Give him laldy, Gow!” yelled a voice behind the pillar. Lanark gaped and stood up. He heard Grant at his side murmuring, “Careful now!” but a growing unease in his stomach had nothing to do with the debate. He said sharply, “Nobody trusted me with details. Wilkins would have told anybody these plans; he said only a revolution could change them. I don’t care if you believe me or not.”
He walked toward the door he had entered by.
Before he reached it Sludden cried, “Wait, everyone should hear this!” so he paused by the pillar. Sludden said, “This is from the chronology section of the Western Lobby:
Nobody but a fanatic would suggest that the material of time is moral, but on occasions like the present, when the boundaries of the most stable continents seem melting into intercalendrical mist, it appears probable that a working timescale needs a higher proportion of common decency than the science of chronology has hitherto assumed. Decency is a vague term, and at present we suggest no more by it than a little more brotherhood between colleagues of equal or nearly equal standing.
The authority of the council has always depended on the support of the creature, and until recently it was widely felt that Monboddo’s connections with the Algolagnics-Cortexin group merely ratified his standing as a strong president. Recent disclosures, however, by the fiery energy chief Ozenfant show that recent loans of creature energy have been absorbed by the lord president’s office to the almost total exclusion of the normal power corridor network.
Although respect for the president director and respect for the decimal hour are not connected in logic, they seem to feed irrationally on each other in a state of collapsing confidence. There is deep alarm in council corridors that speculation against the new timescale has now exceeded the boundaries of reason and may no longer be susceptible to rational remedy. Only one thing is certain. The swift dismantling of a certain darkened district, which once seemed a daring and debatable act of rationalization, has become a matter of urgent necessity.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Gow. “There are hundreds of darkened districts. What conceivable reason have you for thinking they’ve chosen Unthank?”
“I came here to tell you that,” said Grant. “Nearly two days ago a Cortexin tanker and an Algolagnics transporter collided at the intersection. All incoming traffic is diverted to Imber. We have food supplies for three more days. By ‘day’ I mean the old fashioned solar day of twenty-four hours, with roughly seventeen hundred heartbeats an hour.”
“Pull yourself together, Grant!” said Ritchie-Smollet. “Do you suggest these vehicles were smashed in a criminal plot between Algolagnics and the council? That is pure paranoia. The council is sending experts to deal with the damage.”
“You don’t need a plot to cause crashes on a motorway,” said Grant. “They happen all the time. When they happen on the council’s doorstep they’re cleared at once. Why the delay with us?”
“Because we are not on the council’s doorstep. From the council’s viewpoint we are a remote and unimportant province, but that does not mean they are out for our blood. The council traffic commissioner has talked to me on the phone. His clearance teams are fighting an imbalance at the Cortexin cloning plant. Half West Atlantis will sink if that isn’t stabilized first. But he’s moving heaven and earth to get the right men quickly here too. He said so. I know him. He is an honest man.”
“Haven’t you seen how the council works in peacetime?” asked Grant. “It never behaves badly. It never destroys a country of peasant villages, for example, but it lets the creature turn whole forests into paper so there are no roots to hold the water back. And when an accidental storm arises (as they always will), half a million people drown or die in the following famine, and the council helps the survivors, and the helpers organize the country’s industry in ways the creature finds profitable. I’m sure your traffic commissioner honestly wants to clear the intersection. I’m sure his honest experts have more urgent work to do. And I’m sure that three days from now, when our administration crumbles and the city is a horde of starving rioters, the council will introduce an honest emergency-aid programme and honestly evacuate Unthank down whatever gullet the creature offers.”
There was a long silence.
“It is true,” said the slow-voiced lady softly, “that with efery passing moment a broken nerf circuit of the new Algolagnics model becomes a more dangerous object. Virst ve haf only the fibrations, but after two days, on the old timescale, sublimation produces radioactive fumes of an unusually lethal ant vide-spreading type.”
“Why not clear up the mess yourselves?” said Lanark impatiently.
“We lack protective clothing. Vithout it nothing is able to lif vithin sixty metres of these objects.”
“Are they heavy?” asked Lanark. “Could you flood the road and float them off it?”
“Powerhoses,” said Grant to Sludden. “Open a storm drain and order the fire brigade to flush the mess down it with power-hoses.”
“Impossible!” bellowed Gow. “Even if Unthank is menaced in the way you suggest, which I do not for one moment admit, the forcing of unqualified firemen to do the dangerous work of trained nerve-circuit experts is in flagrant defiance of all normal and democratic procedure. I am sure our provost is not going to be led astray by the jeremiads of the guest speaker and the rantings of brother Grant. Once again we see extremists of the right and left combining in an unholy alliance against all that is most stable in—”
“Blood will have to flow,” said a loud dull voice behind the pillar. “I’m sorry, I see no other way.”
“Whose blood will have to flow, Scougal?” asked Ritchie-Smollet gently, “and when, and where, and why will it flow, Scougal?”
“I’m sorry if my remarks upset people” said the dull voice, “I apologize. But blood will have to flow, I see no other way.” Lanark walked over to the little door, opened it, ducked under the lintel and closed it behind him.