Authors: John Brunner
"So anyhow: what have you to say to the charge that the food you sent to Noshri was poisoned?"
"As God is my witness, Nutripon is wholesome and delicious!" Mr.
Bamberley sat up very straight and jutted his jaw forward as though trying to look like Winston Churchill.
"I'm glad to hear it. But have you yourself been to Noshri to investigate, or any of your associates?" Naturally not; Kaika had booted the American relief workers out of the country and broken off diplomat relations.
"Ah…" Mr. Bamberley was trembling now, enough for the cameras to pick it up. "It simply hadn't been possible-but our quality controls are of the highest standard, we test the product at every stage of manufacture!"
"So the consignment in question must have been poisoned after it left the factory?"
"I'm not admitting it was poisoned at all!"
Got him. He'd actually used the word. And it was clear how dreadful an effect that had had on Thorne and Greenbriar. The admass would have seen, too; Ian had pulled back his cameras. The man being pilloried between two thieves. Everyone but
everyone
knew about those two-mansion homes, luxury cars, private planes…
"Never mind!
We'd
"-identifying emphasis, you out there for whom I speak-"like to conduct a small experiment of our own, which won't of course be scientifically rigorous but may indicate
something…
"
Camera 1 pulled in on her and she spoke confidingly to it.
"This afternoon we sent one of our staff to Kennedy International Airport, where a consignment of this processed cassava was being loaded on a chartered aircraft. We bought a carton of it." Not
case
.
Overtones of breakfast cereal. "We paid the price on the loading manifest, which was eighty-three dollars-oh, don't worry that we deprived anybody! We substituted food of equivalent value, such as powdered milk and dried egg and bags of flour, and put that into the shipment to replace what we'd taken. Then we brought the stuff back here, and followed the instructions on the packet precisely, and-well, here's the result. Lola?"
Recovered from her pre-show fit of sniveling, Lola came smiling on to the stage carrying a tray on which reposed a large bowl, steaming slightly, a spoon and fork, and a cruet. A glass of water was already in front of Mr. Bamberley.
"Jacob, a random sample of your relief supplies. May we see you eat it?"
"Well, yes!" Running a finger around his collar-but what else could he say? "I did have…"
"Yes?"
He had been going to add: a very rich dinner. But one couldn't admit that, not when the subject was the feeding of starving millions.
(And all across the country one could almost hear people saying,
"Eighty-three dollars? For that muck?") He compromised. "I did have dinner before I came to the studio, so I may not have much of an appetite, but I'll be glad to prove that this is safe to eat!"
Thorne and Greenbriar looked frightened-the latter especially, wishing he hadn't fed his employer so well. Suppose he were taken ill, not because of the Nutripon but because of that dish of eggplants in oil, or the lobster! Seafood was such a gamble nowadays, even with an FDA certificate…
"That's a good boy, Jacob!" Petronella approved ironically. "Well, world, here's a sight to remember: one of this rich country's richest men eating a sample of the diet we ship to poverty-stricken, famine-ridden lands overseas. Later on, at the end of the show, we'll call Jacob back and ask how he liked his unexpected snack."
Under the table, out of camera view, she couldn't resist the temptation to rub her hands.
But…
"What the hell?" She spoke very softly to the mike in the right-hand wing of her throne-like chair, the one which was reserved for outright emergencies. Ian was signaling frantically from the goldfish bowl, and suddenly his voice rang out from the speaker under its window.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid we shall have to discontinue the show. Please proceed calmly to the exits. We've been warned that there is a bomb in the building. We're sure this is a hoax, but-"
They screamed.
Panicked.
Fought like maddened animals, charging the doors. One of the doors broke off its hinges and a girl was cut across the face by its fall and the rest pushed her out of the way and she tripped and they walked on her, stamped on her, broke her ribs and her nose and crushed her left hand into blue pulp.
But they got out, which was all they cared about.
"The bomb is for you, Mr. Bamberley," Ian Farley said as he, Petronella, others of the staff took their backstage route to the street.
"What?" He was whiter than his own Nutripon: pasty, like raw dough.
"Yes. Someone called up and said he was black and a cousin of the people you've been poisoning in Africa, and he was going to take revenge on their behalf."
FEBRUARY
The znakede hym mickel welcom:
Craft was in hit kilyng:
Than hyede hym to hontyngs:
Fowlis and faunis:
Sauf that his sotil shaft:
Ol that war on lyve:
Togh it ben to tel:
Ferce fukkis:
Dove and dawe:
Faible falwe:
Deth draggede:
Wantede the water:
Scars war to se:
Than cam the croude:
Ful war the festers:
So fal the Saxon:
So befal foemen:
and weltoghte fugeleras,
as maistre of londes.
with hem the cyning
hartis and brockis.
fain had the fled hym,
strock hem on ronyng.
overcam he of bestis.
talye of targetis.
For that
felte smerte,
darte to herte,
fel aperte,
divers sterte.
welvers ne froggis,
sluggis ne snakis.
to cyninges hal again,
fourten dales fed the.
so be hir sloghter,
wold frighten hys relme.
-"The Chronicle of That Great Progress Made by our Lord the King through his Eastern Lands This Summer Past," 938
(text corrupt, a late copy by a post-Conquest scribe).
Yesterday Phelan Murphy had stood by, sick at heart, while the government man argued about the cattle with Dr. Advowson. It was very cold; it was the coldest and longest winter in ten years. The pastures were in terrible condition. Some were still under snow from the November falls, and those which were snow-free were naturally overgrazed. To keep his stock alive he had had to buy bales of hay and dump them around the fields. It had been expensive, because the land had been in a poor state last summer, too. Some said-it had even been in
The Independent
-that it had to do with smoke from the factories near Shannon Airport.
But the government man had said he didn't know anything about that.
Now, today, he was back, with soldiers. The market at Balpenny was not to be held. They had brought big signs saying LIMISTEAR
CORAINTIN and set them up on the roadside. More cows had died in the night, bellies bloated, blood leaking from their mouths and nostrils, frozen smears of blood under their tails. Before the children were allowed to go to school they had to dip their rubber boots in pans of milky disinfectant. The same had been sprayed on the tires of the bus.
The soldiers took spades and picks and dug holes in the frozen ground, and brought bags of quicklime. Cows too weak to try and move away allowed the humane killer to be put to their heads: thud.
Again, a minute later: thud. And again.
Bridie had wept most of the night, and the children-not knowing why-had copied her.
"Damned fools!" Dr. Advowson kept repeating and repeating under his breath, chewing his pipe at Phelan's side. "I did my best to stop them, but-oh, the damned
idiots
!
"There'll be compensation," the government man said, listing on a long printed form the details of the animals that were being killed.
Then the soldiers dragged the carcasses to the pits.
…
left for Honduras this morning. Questioned concerning his
decision just prior to his annual birthday banquet and family
reunion at which he is slated to deliver a major speech on
overseas aid, Prexy said, quote, Those Tupas got to understand
that if you bite the hand that feeds you, you're apt to get a
mouthful of fist. End quote. Pressure for a UN inquiry into the
Noshri tragedy continues to grow. Trainites and black militant
groups are threatening to attack planes carrying further relief
consignments if this is not done immediately, according to various
anonymous letters and phone calls received recently at our
studios. Hopes are high that the matter may however be settled
without such an inquiry. In Paris this morning famed scientist Dr.
Louis-Marie Duval, who has been examining a group of the
survivors
…
"No, Peg, it won't do," Mel Torrance said, and exploded into a sneeze.
She looked at him with hurt in her eyes: knowing it showed, hating herself for letting it show, unable to prevent it. He held out to her the draft of the story she'd given him; when she made no move to accept it he let it go, and it sideslipped over the desk edge, settling to the floor like a tired untidy bird.
"I'm sick of your obsession with this lousy bastard Jones! He's been dead since December. It's been proved he was stoned when he died. I am not about to give houseroom to your crazy fantasies about him being poisoned!"
"But-"
He rushed on. "Listen, will you? Now Jones was a Trainite, right?
And these Trainites are getting to be a filthy nuisance! They block traffic, they foul up business, they commit sabotage, they've even gone as far as murder-"
"Nonsense!"
"That man in San Francisco last fall?"
"He'd shot a girl, an unarmed girl!" Peg was trembling from head to foot.
"He died of his acid burns, didn't he? Are you saying these mothers have the right to take the law into their own hands? Are they vigilantes?
Are they a lynch-mob?"
"I-"
"Yes, yes,
yes
!" Mel stormed. "Every last bunch of Trainites is a potential lynch-mob! I don't give a fart what they claim their motives are-I judge by results, and what I see is that they wreck, they destroy, and when it comes to the crunch, they kill."
"The killers are the people who are ruining the world to line their pockets, poisoning us, burying us under garbage!"
"Are you a Trainite, Peg?"
Drawing back, she passed her hand over her face. "I-I guess I sympathize," she said at length. "I mean in LA you have to. Beaches fouled with oil and sewage, air so bad you can't go out without a mask, the water at your sink reeking of chlorine…" Her forehead was pounding again; her sinus trouble was dragging endlessly on.
"Sure, there's some truth in all that. Like up at our place in Sherman Oaks we lost half the flowers in our garden last summer-bad wind from somewhere, had defoliants in it so we couldn't even make compost out of what was left. Sure, things aren't exactly like paradise. But that's no reason for making them like hell, is it? That's what these Trainites are doing. They don't offer something better than what we already have, or if they did I'd sign on like a shot and so would just about everybody.
But they simply spoil it and leave rubble in its place."
He sneezed again, cursed and grabbed an inhaler from the corner of his desk. Peg said, feeling helpless, "You don't understand what they're trying to do. If you'd known Decimus you might-"
"I've heard all I ever want to hear about your Decimus," Mel snapped. "Last chance, Peg. Get down off this hobbyhorse of yours, start doing the same kind of good work you used to, or quit."
"I quit."
"Good. Goodbye. I'll make sure the accounts department issues your month's salary in lieu of notice. Now take that litter off my floor and pack your gear. I'm busy."
Outside, rising from a chair, a pretty colored girl who said, "Ah, you must be Peg Mankiewicz. I'm Felice Jones-Why, what's wrong?"
"I've been fired," Peg said bitterly.
"No, you haven't!" A shout from Mel's office. "I heard that! You resigned!"
Did you ever study the small print on a cosmetics package?
Ever try to pronounce the jaw-breaking words? Ever find you
were below your best at a party-or on a date with a very special
man-because you were wondering what all those complicated
chemicals might be?
You can always pronounce what we put in MAYA PURA.
Try it right now. Say "natural." Say "flower petals."
Say "herbal essence." See? Yes, of course. And because you
see, other people will notice.
"
Retro me, Sathanas
!" the priest roared: haggard, unshaven, his cassock filthy with mud and dried blood. He held up his crucifix before the advancing jeep. Behind him the people of the village stood their ground, fearful but determined, many armed with ancient guns and the rest with whatever came to hand-axes, machetes, knives.
From the jeep two men got down on opposite sides. One was called Irving S. Hannigan; he'd come from Washington to investigate the death of Leonard Ross.
He wasn't enjoying the assignment. It was like trying to catch a handful of smoke, because everyone you talked to who might know anything helpful seemed to lose touch with reality without warning and go off rambling about angels and the Queen of Heaven.
The other was Major José Concepción Madariaga de Crizo García, youngest son of one of the country's largest landowners, raised from the cradle to command instant obedience from the rabble.