The Colonel volunteered to accompany him. Marius had made his excuses and stayed at the base; he said that as a parliamentarian he wanted to meet the troops. Strether suspected he had a date with the woman driver, but said nothing.
‘Godforsaken dump,’ the Colonel commented, as his hover-jeep hissed to a stop before the gaol gates. After inspection of their passes they were waved through and parked in the shade before an administration building of bleached concrete.
The camp Commandant bustled out to them and shook hands vigorously. Beads of sweat stood out on his podgy face and on the flesh which bulged over his braided tunic collar. His accent announced he was a Scot. ‘Good morning, Colonel, Ambassador. Please come this way. Tea? Tisane? Virgin Cola? We have everything here. We look after the prisoners very well, you will see.’
They followed him past watch-towers and thick-set RSS security guards with laser weapons at the ready. Strether pondered whether these guards were clones but could not decide: some black, some swarthy, they seemed drawn from several races. They would tackle an escapee without demur: that was beyond doubt. Despite the heat he shivered.
‘We treat them with kid gloves,’ the Commandant was saying. ‘Single rooms,
air-conditioning
, satellite television in twelve languages. The Irish complain we can’t get Gaelic programmes, but then they do have a choice about being here, I always say.’
They arrived at a workshop in a cavernous hall. Inside, its main activity appeared to be carpentry. The prisoners – all male – were listlessly planing wood, or drilling holes with
old-fashioned hand tools. Two were assembling chairs, working lethargically. Dust hung in the air. Nobody reacted as the visitors entered.
‘Remember that it isn’t the policy of the European courts to send people to custody,’ the Commandant was explaining. He did not lower his voice or make any concessions to the dozen listeners in the room. ‘Normally conviction leads to fines or to community service. No point in filling up prisons. Our guests here tend to be rather special.’
Strether stared hard at the nearest convict. The man was a thin individual of above average height with hair that flopped into his eyes. A grubby leather apron protected his body; blue dungarees, a striped shirt and heavy boots made up his uniform. As Strether watched, the man became aware of his scrutiny. After several moments, as if giving in, he paused to look up.
He had pale blue eyes, and under the greasy dirt, his hair was blond. The face had the same conformation as many Strether had seen back in London and Brussels. The bodily shape, as the man straightened briefly, was also similar: spare and rangy but with strength and discipline. He was an NT, and of the highest caste. Of that Strether was absolutely convinced.
The Commandant loudly invited their questions. Strether pointed, but found it impossible to articulate the notions forming in his mind. ‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘is the diet satisfactory? I mean, they all appear so – well, limp.’
The blond NT bent his head to his task but Strether could see a slight smile on his lips.
The Commandant grunted. ‘The diet is excellent, Ambassador. Better than many people eat back home. And we keep ’em fit. You won’t see any obesity
here
.’
The Colonel glanced sideways at the plump Commandant, caught Strether’s eye but said nothing.
‘They learn not to waste energy,’ the Commandant added. ‘Most of them are lifers, so there’s no point.’
Strether turned and headed for the corridor. It was at best discourteous and at worst counter-productive to talk in such a way in front of the prisoners. Some instinct in him still wished to regard them as people. The Commandant, followed with some reluctance, but stood holding the glass-windowed door ajar.
‘You must understand, Ambassador. These men are the Union’s most troublesome offenders. They have all served sentences in home prisons and on release have reoffended or ignored their parole restrictions.’
‘Are they dangerous? Mentally ill? Murderers and the like?’
The Commandant pouted. This isn’t a hospital. We’re not dealing with psychopaths. No sex offenders, no. But some are murderers. Most of those you’ve seen are politicals.’
The Colonel strolled away down the corridor a few steps, baton in hand, as if to indicate to the Commandant that the military presence could be ignored. Strether seized the opportunity.
‘Politicals? You mean you have political prisoners here? What – Chinese? Arabs?’
‘No. Non-Union citizens get deported, if they have a state that will take them.’
‘Dissidents?’
‘That’s more like it. Certainly. The best way to render them harmless is to cut them
off from all contact. That’s why they’re sent to frontier prisons – we can minimise access. They serve their sentence where they can do no further harm. So, Ambassador, they’re mostly Europeans. Some quite distinguished. Hence the kid-glove approach.’ Strether blinked through the glass. Nothing was ever quite what it seemed. The NT was watching him. He had been joined by another of similar appearance. The two were whispering. The roles of observed and observer had been reversed.
‘But do they behave? Doesn’t the concentration of so many “politicals” make it difficult to manage the prison? They must be a smart bunch.’
The Commandant’s manner became confidential. ‘Right. That’s why the military are in charge, not us civilians alone. And the European Prison Service learned a lot from the troubles in the Maze, in Belfast. The diet contains everything they need. Including PKU. And they know it.’
‘PKU?’
The Commandant looked taken aback. ‘I’m sorry, Ambassador. I thought you were fully briefed.’
‘Apparently not.’ Strether allowed himself to sound annoyed.
The man’s sweaty face went studiedly blank. ‘It’s a form of restraint. A non-artificial hormone. Chemical handcuffs, you might say.’
‘You put something in the water? But that’s horrendous.’ Strether wished desperately that he could make notes. What on earth was PKU?
The Colonel was returning. The Commandant protested, ‘Not at all. It’s perfectly humane, Ambassador. These men – and women, in the female block – have been condemned, not to death, since we don’t have capital punishment in the Union, but to life imprisonment. And life must mean life for the crimes they have committed. Effectively they’ve been banished. Our job is to ensure they don’t escape.’
‘Supposing they’re innocent?’
The Commandant drew himself up to his full height, which still left him an undignified few centimetres shorter than Strether. ‘In your country, Ambassador, they’d have gone to the electric chair. Where’s the compassion in that?’
Suddenly Strether wanted to get out as quickly as possible. He felt sick to his stomach. He twisted his head for one more look into the workshop. The two convicts had slipped from view. He took a step and peered around the door.
The NT was on the other side of the room as if waiting for him. Strether awkwardly raised a hand in farewell. With a half-smile the NT raised his hand also, but gave the Ambassador an old greeting, the thumbs-up.
And on his thumb were printed numbers and letters, clear as day.
Lisa Pasteur was wondering if she wasn’t going mad. It was bad enough to be denied access to her own research findings. To be told they did not exist was ridiculous.
She had seen the genetic material, with her own eyes, under the laser microscope. She had emptied the unfertilised egg, sucked the fertilised nucleus with a fine pipette out of the embryo cell, tucked it tidily into the empty unfertilised shell and sealed the cut with a microsecond blast of electricity. She had coated the creation in a thin layer of agar to protect it from rejection in the host oviduct. It had been alive, then, with every chance of growing to
maturity and birth.
But one chromosome kept disintegrating, for no reason she could fathom. The resulting foetus should have died naturally, quickly. It hadn’t. It had survived, as had most of its identical copies, so painstakingly manufactured by hand by Lisa herself. Their details had been entered on the computer records, scrupulously, as always. Then they and their coded trail had disappeared.
She rose and rubbed her eyes. It was after midnight, the fourth night in succession she had worked late. She walked to the window and stared out at the yard. Behind her the lights in her workspace adjusted to her absence. The room became shady and quiet.
She did not know how long she stood there in the darkness, leaning her face miserably against the window-pane, nor what ragged conflicts were in her mind. But as a noise came up from the depot area four floors down, her attention was sluggishly reawakened.
This was a bit late for an out-delivery. Somebody else was working late. And what a strange lorry – huge, lumbering, old-fashioned. It emerged from below, out of her line of sight, then headed towards the back gates, which swung open without any checking of papers or swipe cards. That in itself was most unusual.
The back of the lorry was covered in a tarpaulin. Its contents appeared to be lumpy and shapeless. She watched idly, then with increasing horror, unable to tear her gaze away: for part of the lorry’s hidden load, at its tail-gate end, was moving.
What she saw struggle free from under the tarpaulin was unmistakable. It was small, a child’s arm, with five fingers and two thumbs. Prettily formed. And very much alive.
Report of Ambassador Lambert W Strether to the Commander-in-Chief, 16 September 2099, encoded at 0930 GMT
Mr President, I apologise for the delay in sending this dispatch, but I wanted to ensure it could be put directly into your hand. It may be an excessive precaution not to trust any electronic media. But I do know that some subversive group has gained access to my private vidphone number – how, I can’t tell – and if they can, so can the authorities. And though more open channels are suitable for factual reports, I felt a more personal overview might be timely.
As I indicated to you before, it would be easy to take everything here at face value. I confess that in many respects I am bowled over. One might think this vast agglomeration of disparate national states, the European Union, which so dwarfs the United States, could not possibly function with coherence and efficiency. Yet it does, and in fact – this is incontrovertible – it guarantees its citizens prosperity, peace and self-fulfilment on an unprecedented scale. From what I have seen, indeed, it may be said fairly to meet the admonishment of that great European, Voltaire, to provide for the greatest possible happiness of the greatest number.
That said, we Americans are steeped in what’s missing. A nation composed originally of Europe’s misfits, we pioneered a constitution that not only embodies the will of the majority in democracy, but protects the rights of everyone else, the minorities. We took that further by including the right to life in the thirty-fourth amendment. We fought a war over the rights of men – slaves – who were then barely seen as human. So any system that fails to ask about losers is bound to leave me unconvinced.
It’s not a simple matter to figure out who the losers might be – certainly not here in the western regions, where I travel most. Poverty is not seen, or only rarely. The state chooses thoughtfully where it intervenes, and does so for the public good. Family life is the norm and is encouraged. The sick are cared for through public funds. And cured: life expectancy is an astonishing ninety-two for males,
ninety-eight
for females – far higher than ours. The work ethic is strong and widely adhered to, yet I’ve found no puritanical dislike of enjoyment; on the contrary, people do seem to be happy. Arts and sport flourish, professional and amateur. Crime is rare, Death Row unknown. Even mentally ill offenders are offered genetic therapy, and it succeeds better than one dare expect. States like Texas and Mississippi could do worse than copy.
But I am worried that notions of duty are so deeply instilled – especially among children – that free will is vanishing, and that can’t be a good omen. The breeding programme – for that is how I see it, being a cattleman – produces remarkably able upper castes whose combined efforts are sure to continue the progress to which the Union is committed. But humility is not included in the qualities on offer, nor a willingness to admit to the risks of what they’re doing. Instead the system imbues pride, at every juncture. Nor are they inquisitive about
alternatives; nobody sees the USA as a desirable model any more. My own queries about the programme are met with disdainful denial, except from the odd isolated scientist whose own doubts are tinged by confusion and guilt. It’s as if the programme itself is the new deity, whose existence and loving-kindness it is mortal sin to deny. They would put it otherwise – that the skills come from God, so why not use them?
Or maybe that’s the effect on me of one particular group of NTs, in the civil and foreign service. Mandarins, they used to be dubbed, because they’re inscrutable, self-perpetuating, effortlessly superior. They share more than an exclusive education. They run everything; wherever I turn whether in London or Brussels, smooth-faced men with pale blue eyes greet me. I am not being paranoid, Mr President. It is not just a matter of Nordic looks predominating as a form of adornment; it is genetic, and deliberate. Once I spotted it, I started seeing NTs of the type everywhere. And it’s recently been quietly decided that only this brand of NT can proceed in future to the highest posts throughout the Union – the modern version, perhaps, of Margaret Thatcher’s famous query, ‘Is he one of us?’ I was alerted to this by an NT of a different breed who was clearly unhappy about it, but it’s excited no comment here in the press, not a word.
The door was flung open and Matt Brewer’s crew-cut head appeared.
‘Sir? I beg your pardon. I did knock.’
Strether slipped a piece of blank paper over the communiqué. ‘Morning, Matt.’ He did not invite the young man to enter.
The message was received. ‘I can see you’re writing, sir. Ballpoint and paper – must be important. I just wanted to welcome you back, and hope it was a good trip.’
‘Thank you, Matt,’ Strether responded courteously. ‘If you invite the staffers to drinks in the reception room tonight – say, around eighteen hundred hours – I’ll give them a debriefing. Did anything much happen while I was away?’
‘It’s been quiet, sir. Very hot and humid – the weather’s getting worse. Three deaths from heatstroke in Islington.’
‘Anything in the press about trouble? Like the incident outside here in July?’
Matt pulled a face. ‘Exactly what you’d expect, sir – not a scrap.’ He closed the door behind him.
Strether sat quietly and chewed the end of the unfamiliar pen. He read back a few lines then bent his head.
The press is not free, not as we know it. It must be censored, or controlled, in some way. I don’t rule out self-imposed censorship. I shouldn’t be surprised (that paranoia again) if the media owners aren’t themselves NTs of the appropriate strand, or their children are, so that promises of preferment, or an alignment of interests, keep them on side. At least one I have met, Mr Packer, fits this description. But journalists ought to be suspicious outsiders, or they are reduced to a mere propaganda machine.
No censorship office exists, and none would be required if I am right.
Freedom of speech is enshrined in every code of the founding treaties, but I’m not sure anybody here grasps what it should mean. On several occasions I have become aware of incidents of civil unrest, including the shooting of a police officer by laser weapons which I myself witnessed. In New York it would have made the front pages. Here, nothing. Why not? Who decided it should be suppressed? And there’s no underground press to speak of – pop music papers and superficially anti-authoritarian youth culture magazines, yes, but they come from the same stables. Hence no independent media exist from what I can ascertain, though the discovery that this must be true has shocked me to the core.
Parliament ought to be the bastion of liberty. I have brought forward plans to attend the Commons. Of course I have met with the Prime Minister and have been given open access to his office and advisers – those darned blond NTs again. He is not exactly the same model – less grand, more swaggering in manner, but has considerable shrewdness. I see no evidence of conflict between the executive and the civil service – no falling out behind the scenes: they’re in close cahoots, even though (unlike at home) the officials outlast each regime, and are supposed to be non-partisan.
But as for Parliament: its Members make headlines from time to time, a brief flurry, mostly on insignificant matters. Their main targets appear to be the love-lives or financial dealings of their opponents rather than any sober consideration of issues. News management is perpetual and effective there, too. I gather that the principles behind the genetic programme have not been seriously debated for over thirty years, while its annual estimates are passed on the nod. I shouldn’t be surprised if the topic disappears from the parliamentary agenda entirely.
So we have an inbred elite riding on the acquiescence and contentment of their people, docile media, and a genetic programme the outstanding success of which has dulled the senses of all concerned as to the choices being made.
An example of the latter will illustrate my alarm. In at least one case, that of the underground workers, mutations are accepted (colour-blindness) which are regarded as useful but which tie the individuals to a narrow pattern of life forever. They don’t complain, that is true. A black clerical officer I met was deeply critical, hinting that certain racial characteristics (his own) were eliminated from the programme, with tacit official concurrence. He may have been exaggerating, since he had an axe to grind; but, perhaps not.
And then there are the political prisoners I saw in Asia; a separate report is appended for your eyes only. I infer that somebody must object to the current regime, though on what grounds or by what means I have no further information, as yet.
I confess that I am no nearer solving the puzzle of the boat people than when I arrived, though one or two clues have emerged which I am pursuing. You might ask the medics to check out something called ‘PKU’. It could be helpful.
What I should emphasise, however, is that I have seen no signs whatever of this extraordinary society weakening or crumbling in any way. Our greatest ally is
strong and indeed willing to be ruthless with its enemies. You have my report on the briefings at the frontier; I cannot vouch for the truth of what was alleged, and it is history now. That implies, and I believe it to be true, that in any conflict with the Chinese the Europeans would stand firm, which is excellent news for us in the USA. But I do not doubt that, given this secrecy and penchant for swift action, enemies within would also meet with short shrift. You will understand why I consider it wise to be careful.
Rereading this paper I realise that it sounds as if I am full of nameless and insupportable forebodings. That is not so; most of the time my staff and I feel at ease and totally safe. It is a pleasure to live without fear of crime, to breathe pollution-free air, to know that free, quality health-care is available even in an emergency. I can well understand your warning that some of my predecessors could not bring themselves to go home. But I am equally certain that this admirable exterior hides some rottenness of which its happy citizens are kept largely ignorant. I will endeavour to discover more and will relay what I can find.
Signing off at 11.31 GMT. Strether.
Marius knocked on the door, waited for his mother’s high-pitched ‘Come’, adjusted his tunic as if he were still a small boy, and entered her boudoir.
Princess Io was seated in a brilliant gown of iridescent blue at a dressing-table laden with a cornucopia of cosmetics, potions, creams and pills. Before her was a complex arrangement of hologram mirrors. She was peering into the front one and. twiddling the focus. As her son waited respectfully, she ran fingers with red-painted nails over her cheeks, pausing at one faint hollow.
‘I think he messed up, the surgeon,’ she grumbled. ‘There’s a dark patch that wasn’t there before. They get so careless. Just because I’m a senior they think it doesn’t matter. But it does.’
Marius came forward, rested one hand on the silk-covered shoulder and kissed his tiny mother on the other cheek. He scrutinised the image in the hologram; it would have been bad manners to have examined the old lady’s flesh too closely.
‘I think they did a fine job. You look splendid. It helps that the basic bone structure and conformation were superb to begin with. Most women could never be as beautiful as you, whatever their age.’
The Princess simpered. She reached for a perfume bottle. ‘Go on with you. Such flattery. It sounds as if you want something from me, Marius.’
Her son pulled up a footstool and sat, so that his head was roughly on a level with hers. He unfastened the top flap of his tunic; the boudoir was warm. His mother’s
Muguet des Bois
scent filled the air, flowery and expensive. ‘No, not really. I have come with an invitation. I should like you to meet a friend. He and I will be attending the debate next week on the budget. Might you like to come?’
The Princess picked up a powder puff and dabbed it delicately on her nose, the sole part of her anatomy entrusted to the knife but once, when she was a girl. That little upturn had made her slightly less Japanese, sufficient to satisfy her for the rest of her life.
‘Darling, I don’t think sitting for hours in the parliamentary gallery is quite my style.
Unless you’re speaking?’
‘I thought you might say that. No, I haven’t put in a request. And I want to take him into the Commons, not the Lords. But would you join us on the terrace for lunch, perhaps? Tuesday?’
‘Now that is a much more entertaining idea. I haven’t done that since you were last elected. Such a delightful spot with St Paul’s opposite, and it will make my friends
so
envious. Shall I come about twelve?’
The Prince raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them.
‘And who is this friend, might I inquire? You said “he”. A younger royal, perhaps? Not a deadly dull politician, anyway.’
‘Not this time. He’s Lambert Strether, the American Ambassador appointed earlier this year. A delightful man. I am sure you will like him.’
‘Darling, an American? That sounds too frightful. Will I have to work hard to make conversation?’
Marius considered. ‘I don’t think so. He’s a bit unsophisticated, that’s true, though I regard that as part of his charm, frankly. He’s a western rancher whom I have rather taken under my wing. In more ways than one. But he’s upset by certain aspects of life in Europe; he won’t need much encouragement to talk. I suppose a foreigner would be bound to stumble over some of the Union’s activities, but I find his comments quite intriguing. I’d like your assessment of him. And he may bring his girlfriend. She’s definitely special – a scientist, and beautiful too.’
The Prince made no effort to leave. His mother glanced at him, then scrabbled about until she found a bottle of nail varnish from the vast collection before her and began delicately to paint her nails, though it was not obvious that they needed another coat.