Faust Among Equals (26 page)

‘Yes. We'll skate over that one, shall we?'

‘All I'm saying is,' said Personnel, ‘why not just accept the situation and put it on a regular footing by letting him out early. Formally, I mean.'

‘Hang on,' said the Finance Director. ‘You're not suggesting we say he's been released early on grounds of good behaviour, are you, because—'

‘Quite the opposite. Since when has good behaviour been a plus mark in these parts anyway?'

The Finance Director shook his head. ‘Good idea in its way, Dennis, but unfortunately not possible. Not up to us, parole. We can recommend, of course, but in the circumstances . . .'

‘Oh I dunno,' interjected the Sales Director. ‘Look at it this way. If the guy's basically virtuous and good and fit to be at large, naturally it stands to reason he'd want to be out of here as soon as possible. I mean, the place is simply crawling with villains, you could get into bad company. I'm all for it myself.'

‘No,' said the Finance Director, ‘and that's final. Well, I think that just about wraps things up . . . No, just one more item. EuroBosch.'

A slight ripple of pleasure lapped round the boardroom table. It was the one project everyone approved of; very high-profile, very prestige, very image-enhancing, very Us. The Finance Director cleared his throat.

‘Memo from H.B.,' he said. ‘Apparently, he wants permission to -' The Finance Director squinted at the paper in front of him. ‘- to drill a hole in the bottom of the sea somewhere off America, install a steam turbine on Number Six furnace, and - you know, his handwriting is
abysmal
- and he says there's a bit of old metal rod he wants from out of the Bonded Stores. He doesn't say what he wants it for, but I for one wouldn't understand if he did. Any objections?'

Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks in Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades high over-arched embower, the Directors shook their heads, until the boardroom resembled nothing so much as a display of car rear-window ornaments produced by the design team for
Alien
. If Ronnie wanted it, Ronnie could have it.

‘That's fine, then,' said the Finance Director, initialling the pink chit. ‘Same time next week?'

‘
W
ho, me?'

Lucky George leant forwards slightly. A persuasive enough man at the best of times, he was giving it everything he'd got. An Arab coming up against George in this frame of mind would have found himself the bewildered owner of many cubic tons of very expensive sand.

‘Yes, Lenny,' he cooed, ‘
you
. You've got just what it takes to be a success in politics, hasn't he, Helen? I mean, you'd vote for him, wouldn't you?'

‘Like a shot,' Helen replied, not looking up from her callisthenics book. She'd just got to the bit where the heroine had wrapped her left leg round her neck, with the heel sticking in her right ear; and she wanted to find out how the hell the author was going to engineer a happy ending out of that lot.

‘There, you see? The women's vote tied up, just like that. C'mon, Lennie, don't be a loser all your life. Just for once . . .'

‘I dunno.' Leonardo da Vinci stroked his beard, a full-time job in itself. ‘To be absolutely frank with you, George, I don't think I'm really, you know, qualified to stand. Like, you know, not eligible.'

Lucky George gestured impatiently. ‘Rubbish,' he said. ‘What on earth gave you that impression, Len?'

‘Well,' said Leonardo, counting on his fingers, ‘number one, I'm Italian. I always thought that to be president of the USA you had to be American . . .'

George laughed. ‘No problem,' he said. ‘We get you US citizenship first, naturally. And then, of course, you've got the Italian vote sewn up before you even start.'

‘Retrospectively, even,' Helen murmured. Nobody heard her.

‘Also,' Leonardo went on, ‘I'm dead.'

‘So?'

Leonardo waved his hands feebly. ‘So I guess that's not exactly going to inspire confidence in the electorate, George. I mean,
Vote for daVinci, he would have made a good president if only he'd lived
isn't the best sort of platform you could—'

‘On the contrary,' George replied. ‘Look at the Kennedys. Secret of their success, that was.'

Leonardo shrugged. ‘Odd you should mention them,' he said. ‘Did you know that it was really the Milk Marketing Board who were behind the—?'

‘Besides,' George went on, ignoring him, ‘there you are, dead, running for the White House, that's the disabled vote in the can, right from the word go. Plus, being dead, I guess that makes you a sort of minority group figure . . .'

‘Being
dead
? A
minority
? You're crazy, man, there's millions of us out there.'

‘Yes,' George replied, ‘but not that many of you down here, that's the whole point. Being dead, you say, that really gives you an insight into the problems of the victims of bigotry. Because when you're dead, you add, every man's hand is against you. Segregation, reservations, cheap dead trash - you've got it absolutely made, Lenny, you really have. The only thing that surprises me is why you haven't stood before.'

‘Better things to do with your time, probably.'

‘Be quiet, Helen, you're not helping. Come on, Lenny. What have you got to lose?'

‘All right.' Leonardo backed away slightly. ‘But anyway, isn't it a bit academic? I mean, the election's tomorrow, there really isn't time . . .'

George smiled. ‘Is that all you're worried about?' he said. ‘Look. I anticipated you'd jump at the chance, so I took the precaution of registering you as a candidate . . .'

‘You did what?'

‘Retrospectively, of course. Easy if you know how. And before you say you haven't got time to do any campaigning, I managed to get you on the Ed Sullivan show - he's a friend of mine, it wasn't a problem - so you'll have at least fifteen minutes prime time, that ought to be enough. The trouble with most campaigns is, you see, they're too long'

‘But . . .'

‘Which reminds me,' said Lucky George. ‘You're on air in about twenty minutes, so if I were you I'd be getting along.'

 

With retrospect, the pundits say, it was clear the moment the Utah results came in that it was going to be a da Vinci landslide.

By 3.20 a.m., the results were in from fourteen states. All had voted da Vinci.

By 5 a.m., it was all over.

Interviewed on the Johnny Carson show later that fateful day and asked to explain why the pollsters had once again got it completely wrong, the head of the Gallup organisation said in his defence that the election had turned on factors which couldn't have been foreseen at the time the polls were taken. Such factors as (among others):

And if that wasn't enough, he continued, wiping his forehead with a large red silk handkerchief, there was the intrinsic merit of the da Vinci manifesto to consider. Admittedly, it had only been released hours before the election, but its basic inspired simplicity made that a plus rather than a minus. When a guy stands up and says, Listen, America, all we need do in order to stop inflation, restore full employment, revitalise the dollar, put the USA back in her rightful place as the leader of the free world and give those scumsucking Ayrabs a stomping they'll never forget is to link up every building from the Rockies to the Rio Grande with a network of steel scaffolding pipes, not forgetting to install at least ten heavy-duty cup-hooks on all roofs, gable-ends and porches at the same time, and there's no way you're going to lose. With a message like that, even Jimmy Carter could have got elected . . .

At which point, the pollster's eyes seemed to glaze over, and he sat motionless in his chair with an expression of extreme bewilderment until the ads came and covered his embarrassment.

The only other dissentient voice to be heard that day was that of a caller to a low-rent phone-in show broadcast on a small-town radio station somewhere in the back end of Iowa. Giving his name as Danny Bennett and his address as the Burning Fiery Pit, the caller claimed that the da Vinci victory was the result of gross electoral manipulation, using magic, necromancy and other forms of unconstitutional inducement, on the part of one Lucky George Faust, a fugitive from Hell with a colossal price on his head. The caller was in the middle of a confused tirade about international hit-men and plots against his life (rather peculiarly phrased in the past tense) when the workmen installing the steel girders to link the radio station building with the delicatessen next door dug through a tele phone cable, cutting the caller off. Since ninety per cent of the calls to any local radio phone-in anywhere are comprised of this sort of material, none of the show's seven listeners took the slightest notice.

 

‘Great,' said Lucky George, switching off the television. ‘Now all we need are the balloons.'

 

Repossessing a country is not, perhaps, the most straightforward of operations. It ought to be, but it isn't.

In theory, the bailiff goes along to the head of state with the necessary paperwork and delivers it, and that should be that. What's then supposed to happen is that the population leave the country in question, taking with them all movable items (but no fixtures, fittings, mineral resources or growing plants or trees) by twelve noon of the day specified in the court order. Tenants' improvements are then set off against dilapidations, and any sum required to be paid to either party by way of adjustment is lodged with the court office pending a final decision by the arbitration officer.

In practice, though, there is always hassle and not infrequently trouble; sometimes even violence. That is why most repossessions these days are handled not by the everyday court bailiff but by a firm of specialist certificated bailiffs, of which there is one: Kurt Lundqvist Associates.

Once Lundqvist is on the job, things move fast. His record for clearing a country is thirty-nine seconds, although in fairness we ought to point out that it wasn't a particularly big country. Certainly not by the time he'd finished with it.

Lundqvist attributes his success in this line of work to forward planning, executive efficiency, a calm and reasonable attitude towards the resolution of difficulties and an absolutely fucking
enormous
satellite-mounted industrial laser, capable of vaporising a land mass down to bedrock level at the rate of three hundred and twenty-five thousand square miles per hour.

He calls it the Denver Blowtorch.

Maybe, he says, it makes a mess of buildings, infrastructure and, indeed, mountain ranges. On the positive side, it clears up unsightly litter deposits, disinfects unhygienic areas and leaves a pleasant glassy-smooth surface all ready for the new tenant to build what he likes on. After all, he argues, the first thing you do when you buy a house is strip off the wallpaper and take up the old carpets.

 

Right down at the bottom of the Marianas Trench, the deepest point in the whole of the ocean, there is no light whatsoever. The strange and uncanny creatures that grope out a nightmare existence down there at fifteen-tons-per-square-inch pressure are born, live and die without even rudimentary traces of eyes, although there are two schools of thought as to why. One says: no light, why bother? The other replies: if you'd ever seen one of those weird buggers they've got down there, the last thing you'd want any truck with ever again is vision.

When working on the bottom of the Trench, therefore, it's vitally important to remember to bring a torch.

‘What, me, thkip? I haven't brought it. Thorry, I thought you'd got it.'

‘I haven't got it. Keith, you got the torch?'

‘Not me, skip. I thought Vernon was going to bring it.'

‘Fine. I see.'

‘You thure about that, thkip? I can't thee a thing.'

‘I was speaking figuratively.'

The three spectral engineers (recently transferred at their own request from the Security division) trod slime for a moment, reviewing the situation.