Authors: Mark Clark
Damien cast a glance towards Leslie, to whom he had never spoken. Leslie didn’t return that gaze. Instead, he looked forward, thinking, with his head slightly down, his eyes wide open and his pupils turned upward as if seeking the top eyelashes. It was a picture of deep concern.
‘Problem?’ enquired Elizabeth.
After a long while Leslie asked, ‘Are you trying to squeeze me out?’
‘No. No. Of course not,’ replied Elizabeth with an expansive waving of her hands. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth.’
‘Well, it seems like it.’
‘How do you figure that?’ asked Elizabeth. She appeared to be truly bemused by Leslie’s response.
‘First of all, I’m the first scientist elected for three decades and when I arrive all the scientific papers have suddenly disappeared. Now I find myself being sidelined with another man, unelected I might add, no offence intended,’ he nodded towards Damien who looked back at him without expression, ‘and told that the president and the other consul, both of whom represent, and come directly from the higher scrapers, are to make policy in my absence.’
Damien added, ‘Excuse me ma’am,’ in his pleasant Australian country twang, ‘I must admit, he does have a point. It’s true I’m not an elected representative.’
Elizabeth replied vehemently, ‘That is a ridiculous misconstruction. That is not my intention at all!’
Her stormy outburst stopped all movement at the table. Realising that she had vented rather more of her emotion than she had intended, Elizabeth iterated, much more calmly, ‘That was not my intention at all.’ She gathered herself in, as if to do so physically was to do so mentally as well. ‘What you have to understand,’ she continued, now in a measured tone, ‘is that voting is not compulsory, so we rely greatly on the votes from the scraper dwellers and those of the growing middle class represented by minority groups. It is they who elect us and ensure at least some measure of consistency in government, inconsistent though I’m sure you think it is right now, Consul Woodford.’
Leslie dropped his head momentarily under the breeze of the rebuke.
‘And let me remind you, consul, that the only thing that makes you a scientist, considering there are no such degrees or even universities to award them, is the fact that you obviously have a propensity for invention. Coupled with the fact that I am the serving president and will administer my government as I see fit, I think that it is, to say the least, ungracious of you to tell me that I’m trying to squeeze you out, as you put it, when in fact quite the opposite is the case. I’m offering you the greatest opportunity ever granted to a consul in the last century. I’m offering you unfettered access to government and industrial stores. I’m offering you a chance to put into practice some of those ideas of yours. Word of you has reached me, consul, and also of you, Mr Hill. It is my fervent wish that this city shall rise from its current mire and I have become convinced that you two are the way to achieve that. Nicholas and I can handle the day to day machinations. I am freeing you two to forge our city into the future. So please, both of you - do me the courtesy of at least realising when you’re being paid a great compliment and granted a great boon.’
Having completed her speech several decibels higher than she had begun it, Elizabeth sat back in her chair and looked back at the others, her head turning swiftly this way and that, awaiting some response. She was wilder than Leslie had ever seen her.
‘What do you think, Nick?’ Leslie asked, rather bravely, Damien thought, considering the current cloud hanging over the meeting.
Nicholas looked tired and withdrawn. In fact, he didn’t look at all well. He was slumped in his chair and he had listened to the exchange with his eyes downcast and doleful.
‘I think you should do what President Dawson says,’ he replied slowly. ‘We can handle things this end. We won’t leave you out of any important decisions, Les. Don’t worry.’
‘Are you alright?’ asked Leslie with some concern. This was not the same vital, hearty man he had met on several occasions before.
‘Yes, I’m fine . . . well no actually, I’m not fine really. Everyone always says that don’t they, whether they’re fine or not?’ He coughed. ‘I’m not really feeling very well at all,’ he said. ‘My son, Edgar’s had this thing. Perhaps I’m getting it too.’ He coughed again.
‘Very well,’ concluded Elizabeth. ‘Obviously Nicholas is unwell, so there’s no point carrying on today. But I’d like you two men to at least have some preliminary discussions today. Leslie? Damien? What do you say?’
They both agreed and soon Elizabeth was gone. Leslie stopped Nicholas on the way out.
‘Nick, are you sure you’re alright?’
‘To be honest, I feel like shit,’ he replied. ‘I’m afraid I’m coming down with something. His big brown eyes were watery and his podgy face was ruddy, in an unhealthy way.
‘Well go and lie down,’ said Leslie.
‘Right you are, doctor Les,’ Nicholas replied with an attempted smile and he moved stiffly towards the door. But just before he reached it, he turned and said, ‘When doors open, walk through ‘em, but always take a good look around as you enter the room.’
And he left.
‘What did he mean by that?’ asked Leslie to himself. But Damien answered.
‘I think he means to watch out for me, mate.’ Damien slapped Leslie on the back like an old friend. ‘Come on, I’ll shout you a beer.’
*
The view from Scraper 3 was stunning. The rain had abated and left the sky crisp, clean and clear. Damien and Leslie looked out of the window admiring the surrounding scrapers as a small Asian man with beautifully elegant hands played upon a Steinway in the corner. It was middle afternoon and no one else was about.
‘So we’re gonna change the world, I hear?’ Damien began.
‘Apparently,’ replied Leslie. ‘I wish to hell we had those manuscripts. But yes, I do have some blueprints of my own.’
‘Such as?’ asked Damien.
‘Well, I think we could manufacture a small electric motor that could be attached to scooters and pushbikes that would give our citizens greater mobility. They might even get as far as to the edges of the wasteland and back without recharging.’
This idea twigged with Damien as he thought of his factories. ‘Go on.’
‘And I’ve been working on a prototype for a long range radio utilising the many satellites still circling the Earth, currently without purpose.’
‘We could use those?’ asked Damien, shifting forward in his seat with interest, suddenly envisioning world trade.
‘I don’t see why not. There are thousands of them just falling around the planet. We should be able to bounce a signal off at least one of them. Some of them are geocentric, so they’re in the same place above the Earth all the time. I might take a few pot shots at one of those. Trial and error.’
‘Trial and error?’ Damien echoed. ‘Mate, if you can really do stuff like that I’ll build whatever you need. We’ve got metal workshops and welding gear and I know where there’s a bunch of mainframe computers in College Street that haven’t been used in a long time - if any of that’s any good to you?’
And so the conversation drifted into the afternoon; both men enthusing the other with promises of things to come and all to the background strains of the little Asian pianist.
MONTAGE
Damien and Leslie burning the midnight oil over a table covered in sheets of paper. There are plans and blueprints strewn everywhere. Leslie is animatedly explaining his designs to Damien who is nodding and offering suggestions.
A workman opens a huge roller door. Damien guides an old army truck into a massive warehouse. Leslie watches on as tools and machinery are loaded from the truck. He laughs with satisfaction and pats the equally-happy Damien on the back.
Leslie in industrial goggles hard at work shaving steel on a lathe.
Damien searching through old industrial bins and throwing any useful raw material onto the back of a truck.
Elizabeth visiting the men. She is shown a pushbike. Its pedals have been removed and footrests installed. Leslie has attached a small motor to the rear of the vehicle and is demonstrating its speed. Elizabeth beams with pleasure at their progress. She hugs both of them. The two men catch eyes with one another in silent competition.
Damien pulls back a sheet to reveal a huge computer. Leslie is impressed and excited. Damien reveals another and yet another. Leslie shakes his head in wonder. He touches one of he mainframes as if it is a precious jewel.
DISSOLVE
Now the same computers are in full swing flashing and beeping and computing. Leslie points to a map of the world on the wall. He is explaining something to Damien and drawing wavy lines across it. Damien nods as Leslie places three crosses on the map: one above Australia; one above the southern tip of India and one above the U.K.
Leslie sits alone. It is late and the close light of a computer monitor splashes light upon his face. He speaks into a microphone . . .
*
‘Come in. Can you read me? Is there anybody out there?’
Leslie was tired. He pushed back his chair from the desk. His face was weary and drawn. The loud sound of white-noise filled the darkened room. Leslie rubbed his eyes, moved across the room and turned on the light. Behind him a heavy, old satellite dish was revealed pointing up through a large recently excavated hole in the curved metal roof directly above it. He punched a series of digits into the mainframe and the satellite dish moved a fraction of a degree to the north, almost imperceptibly. He stared at it for a moment, his eyes glazed with fatigue. He wandered slowly down a long corridor towards the men’s room, stretching his back and neck as he went.
He rested his forehead upon the wall as he relieved himself into the porcelain. ‘Two weeks,’ he muttered. ‘Two bloody weeks. My head’s full of static.’
He was washing his hands when he heard a voice coming from the far room.
‘That you, Damien?’ he yelled. No response. ‘That you, Damien?’ Nothing.
Leslie appeared cautiously around the bathroom door. He peered down the corridor and listened. All he could hear was static rasping into the gloom at its far end. He was sure that he had heard a voice, so he looked for a weapon in case of attack. He decided on an old poker that sat in an adjacent room next to a long disused fireplace. Stealthily, he returned into the corridor and, as quietly as he could, crept along it towards the radio room. Slowly, he poked his head around the corner. He could see no-one. The white-noise still spewed from the small speakers, but apart from that, nothing.
‘Damien?’ he repeated, hoarsely. His heart was pounding. He held the poker menacingly in front of him. Crime was rife in this city and he was no hero.
Step by cautious step he entered the room, turning his head this way and that, threatening space with his extended poker.
Then, to his utter amazement, the static noise suddenly ceased and he heard a voice, an English voice, loud and clear through the speakers.
‘This is U.K. 1 transmitting via satellite. This is U.K. 1 transmitting via satellite. Come in, please. Come in. We copy you, whoever you are. This is U.K. 1. Can you read me? Over.’
For a second or two Leslie couldn’t believe his ears. He stood with his mouth agape and the poker still menacingly before him. He dropped it and raced to the computer microphone.
‘U.K 1,’ he spluttered, ‘U.K. 1. Hello. Hello. Over.’ Leslie held his hand to his head in disbelief and he stared at the stars through the hole above him as he listened.
The voice came again, ‘Who is this? Over.’
‘This is Leslie Woodford,’ he replied. ‘From Corporate City. Over.’
‘From where? Over.’
‘Oh sorry,’ stammered Leslie, ‘from Sydney. Sydney, Australia.’
There was a moment’s silence and for one or two awful seconds Leslie thought that he may have lost the satellite. But, not so. The operator opened the microphone at the other end and suddenly Leslie could hear cheers and whoops of delight thundering across the globe. He was startled, until the operator’s voice came back to him again, more loudly this time, to keep above the din.
‘Sorry, old man! Hold on!’ he yelled. ‘Keep it down everyone!’ and the background party noises quickly diminished. ‘Sorry about that,’ he explained. He sounded very British. ‘But this is our first contact with Australia. Everyone here is very excited. Are there many of you? Over.’
‘Several hundred thousand, I think,’ Leslie replied. He was in a dream, but he pulled himself together for a pressing question. ‘Have you contacted other cities? Over.’
‘Twenty two. You make it twenty three,’ the voice replied, ‘but you’re the first from the southern hemisphere.’
‘Who else do you know of?’ asked Leslie. He was beside himself with excitement. He was the first man in Corporate City in well over a century to hear the voice of a foreigner.
‘We have Washington, New York and several other cities in the western hemisphere; Baghdad, Teheran and a few more cities in the Middle East; some of the major European centres and quite a few across Asia, including Rangoon, Beijing and Tokyo. Welcome to the world. Over.’
Leslie was choked up. He had tears rolling down his face. He was besotted with the love of discovery and the greatness of revelation. He yelled out with delight, but he didn’t open the microphone to let London hear his joy.
‘Where do we go from here? Over.’ he asked when he recomposed himself enough to speak again. There was a quiver in his voice and his stomach felt like someone had been wrenching it from the inside and was trying to get out.
‘Sit tight. Remember the frequency. My name is Sidney. Ironic, yes? We have only recently been able to activate the M61 satellite above Australia and we’re relaying from M65 above Jo’berg, but that’s in motion, so we only have a window of one hour at this time each day. It’s three in the afternoon now, so it would be about midnight there. You can contact us each day between about 11pm and midnight your time. Unfortunately we only have a few seconds transmission left now. But we shall speak again tomorrow. If you have a honcho there get them to the microphone then. Over.’
‘Will do,’ Leslie replied. ‘But tell me, before you go - what are the conditions in the other world cities. Over.’