squealed like a cartoon mouse, what time the organ itself wheeled slow and shiny black on the wall-spindle. ‘. . . Unprecedently low herring catches, explicable only in terms of inexplicable failure to breed, Ministry of Pisciculture reports –’ Tristram reached out his left hand and switched off. Birth control among fish, eh? Tristram reeled an instant in a sudden race-memory – a sort of round fiat fish overlapping the plate, crisp brown with a sharpish sauce. But all fish caught these days were crunched up by machines, converted into manure or mashed into the all-purpose nutrition-block (to be served as soup, cutlets,bread or pudding) which the Ministry of Natural Food issued as the main part of the weekly ration.
The living-room now being emptied of the manic voice and its ghastly journalese, Tristram could hear more clearly his wife being sick in the bathroom. Poor girl, she was regularly sick on rising these days. Perhaps it was the food. Enough to make anyone sick. He got up from the table and looked in on her. She was pale and tired-looking, limp as though the vomiting had wrung her out. ‘I should go to the hospital if I were you,’ he said kindly. ‘See what’s the matter.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘You don’t seem all right to me.’ He turned over his wrist microradio; the watch-face on the back said past twelve-thirty. ‘I must fly.’ He kissed her damp forehead. ‘Look after yourself, dear. Do go and see somebody at the hospital.’
‘It’s nothing. Just a tummy upset.’ And indeed she began, as if for his benefit, to look much better.
Tristram left (just a tummy upset) and joined the group waiting at the lift. Old Mr Earthrowl, Phipps, Arthur Spragg, Miss Runting – race-blocks like nutrition-blocks: Europe, Africa, Asia mashed together, salted by Polynesia – off to their jobs in the ministries and the national factories; Allsopp and the bearded Abazoff, Darking and Hamidun, Mrs Gow whose husband had been taken off three weeks before – ready for the shift that would end two hours later than Tristram’s own. Mr Earthrowl was saying, in a wavering ancient voice, ‘It’s not right at all, the way I see it, having these coppers watching you all the time. Wasn’t like that in my young days. If you wanted a smoke in the lavatoryyou went for a smoke, and no questions asked. But not now, oh, no. Breathing down your neck, these coppers are, all the time. Not right, way I look at it.’ He continued his grumbling, the bearded Abazoff nodding the while, as they got into the lift – an old man, harmless and not very bright, driver of a large screw into the back of the television cabinet that, in endless multiplication, crawled towards and past him on a conveyor-belt. In the lift, Tristram said quietly to Mrs Gow:
‘Any news?’
She looked up at him, a long-faced woman of forty-odd, her skin dry and smoked like that of a gipsy. ‘Not a word. It’s my belief that they’ve shot him. Shot him,’ she suddenly cried aloud. Fellow-passengers pretended not to hear.
‘Nonsense.’ Tristram patted her thin arm. ‘He didn’t commit any real crime. He’ll be back soon, you’ll see.’
‘It was his own fault,’ said Mrs Gow. ‘Drinking that there ale. Shooting his mouth off. I always told him he’d go too far one of these days.’
‘There, there,’ said Tristram, continuing to pat. The truth was that Gow hadn’t technically shot his mouth off at all; he’d merely rasped a brief rude noise at a knot of policemen outside one of the rougher drinking-shops, somewhere off Guthrie Road. He’d been carted off amid great hilarity, and no more had been seen of him. It was best to keep off alc these days, best to leave alc to the greyboys.
4 − 3 − 2 − 1 – G. Tristram shuffled out of the lift. Moonshot plummy night waited outside in the packed street. And in the vestibule were members of the Poppol or Population Police – black uniform, cap with shinypeak, badge and collar-dogs
The living-room now being emptied of the manic voice and its ghastly journalese, Tristram could hear more clearly his wife being sick in the bathroom. Poor girl, she was regularly sick on rising these days. Perhaps it was the food. Enough to make anyone sick. He got up from the table and looked in on her. She was pale and tired-looking, limp as though the vomiting had wrung her out. ‘I should go to the hospital if I were you,’ he said kindly. ‘See what’s the matter.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘You don’t seem all right to me.’ He turned over his wrist microradio; the watch-face on the back said past twelve-thirty. ‘I must fly.’ He kissed her damp forehead. ‘Look after yourself, dear. Do go and see somebody at the hospital.’
‘It’s nothing. Just a tummy upset.’ And indeed she began, as if for his benefit, to look much better.
Tristram left (just a tummy upset) and joined the group waiting at the lift. Old Mr Earthrowl, Phipps, Arthur Spragg, Miss Runting – race-blocks like nutrition-blocks: Europe, Africa, Asia mashed together, salted by Polynesia – off to their jobs in the ministries and the national factories; Allsopp and the bearded Abazoff, Darking and Hamidun, Mrs Gow whose husband had been taken off three weeks before – ready for the shift that would end two hours later than Tristram’s own. Mr Earthrowl was saying, in a wavering ancient voice, ‘It’s not right at all, the way I see it, having these coppers watching you all the time. Wasn’t like that in my young days. If you wanted a smoke in the lavatoryyou went for a smoke, and no questions asked. But not now, oh, no. Breathing down your neck, these coppers are, all the time. Not right, way I look at it.’ He continued his grumbling, the bearded Abazoff nodding the while, as they got into the lift – an old man, harmless and not very bright, driver of a large screw into the back of the television cabinet that, in endless multiplication, crawled towards and past him on a conveyor-belt. In the lift, Tristram said quietly to Mrs Gow:
‘Any news?’
She looked up at him, a long-faced woman of forty-odd, her skin dry and smoked like that of a gipsy. ‘Not a word. It’s my belief that they’ve shot him. Shot him,’ she suddenly cried aloud. Fellow-passengers pretended not to hear.
‘Nonsense.’ Tristram patted her thin arm. ‘He didn’t commit any real crime. He’ll be back soon, you’ll see.’
‘It was his own fault,’ said Mrs Gow. ‘Drinking that there ale. Shooting his mouth off. I always told him he’d go too far one of these days.’
‘There, there,’ said Tristram, continuing to pat. The truth was that Gow hadn’t technically shot his mouth off at all; he’d merely rasped a brief rude noise at a knot of policemen outside one of the rougher drinking-shops, somewhere off Guthrie Road. He’d been carted off amid great hilarity, and no more had been seen of him. It was best to keep off alc these days, best to leave alc to the greyboys.
4 − 3 − 2 − 1 – G. Tristram shuffled out of the lift. Moonshot plummy night waited outside in the packed street. And in the vestibule were members of the Poppol or Population Police – black uniform, cap with shinypeak, badge and collar-dogs
Similar Books
