Manalone (16 page)

‘Listen to me, San – and listen hard. I’m out of work, and out of work equates with no income. If you think that’s a joke, let’s see you do the laughing.’

‘Hell!’ Not only the flower but the vase also hit the floor. ‘What put a damnfool idea like that into your head?’

‘I didn’t resign. I was sacked.’

‘Then you’d better get right back and get unsacked. How’m I supposed to live if you’re not earning?’

‘It isn’t that easy, San.’

‘Nothing
about you’s ever easy. But they can’t run the Mills without you. Even I know that.’

‘They don’t have the choice. They can’t employ me unless I’ve a security clearance.’

‘Then there’s been a mistake.’

‘No mistake, San. Adam Vickers appealed against the decision and lost. Naturally I’ll fight it, but the present fact is that I’ve joined the growing ranks of the unemployed.’

‘And I’ll tell you another present fact, Manalone. Either you get that job back or I quit. And don’t think I’ve nowhere to go. I’ve had plenty of offers. God! You never were much of a laugh when you had money – but without money you’re an absolute nothing, Manalone. A damn absolute nothing! Why should I waste my time on you?’

‘I hadn’t noticed you had wasted much time on me,’ said Manalone acidly. He walked into his studyspace and sat down at the desk. The interview had gone largely as expected, and he had no wish to prolong it. Neither would Sandra’s mood be placated by explanations or apologies. Her world was designed around the spending of money, and without an ample supply of it he was no conceivable use to her. He mentally wrote off one marriage and credited the score in favour of the MIPS and their degradation policy. If he felt like crying, the tears were not for what he had lost, but for the receding realms of what might have been

‘Manalone … man-alone! Maurine, the friendly enemy; Kitten, the weak ally; and Sandra the shrewish, useless wife – you’ve lost all three of them in the same day. It wasn’t much of a social life, boy, but it was all you had. So what do you have left? Solitary confinement whilst continuing to inhabit the world at large.

‘So that’s new? No, Manalone. Every man’s an island … separated, isolated … a spark of consciousness trapped in the confines of a skull … desperately trying to make communion with others through a very limited set of senses. And you’re more isolated than most. Because you won’t let anybody into you, and you don’t know the secret of getting out to them. So talking only to yourself is a difference of degree but not of kind.’

He ended his mental monologue as an autram drew up in the road outside. To his surprise, Maurine van Holt descended, carrying a heavy case which she brought to the house. He went to the door and opened it, whilst Sandra hovered suspiciously behind him.

‘What’s the
readout, Mau?’

‘You were due for a golden handshake, Manalone. Six months’ salary instead of notice. I have it here.’

‘In cash?’

‘In cash is the only
way you’ll learn to use it. ComCredit transactions are handled by real-time computers. Where your ComCredit card is, there you are – with a surveillance computer logging every purchase that you make and every metre that you move. Should you ever happen to want to get lost, here’s the only way you can do it.’

Manalone nodded gratefully. ‘Point taken, Mau. But knowing your allegiance, I’d scarcely have thought this was in your interests.’

Maurine’s face drifted into her big, twisted grin, and her eyes met his through levels of understanding which penetrated many levels of his personality.

‘Let’s say it’s for old time’s sake, Manalone. Believe me, they haven’t finished with you yet. This is just a personal touch, because I don’t think you deserve what’s coming to you.’

Her parting wave was almost a mock salute. Incensed, Sandra moved close to Manalone’s shoulder and watched the autram out of sight.

‘You having an affair with that bitch, Manalone?’

Manalone carried the case inside and opened it to show six months’ salary mainly in coins.

‘Far from it,’ he said. ‘Though you’ve made it clear it’s no longer a concern of yours. But with Mau as an enemy I don’t really need any friends.’

Manalone’s first reaction was to make a vidiphone call to Victor Blackman. Blackman came to the screen shirt-sleeved, and his ugly bull-moose face was sweating and harassed.

‘Manny! Boy, could we use you right now! We had some joker develop a production programme which we ran on the Sigma Eleven. Today we’ve already produced a warehouse full of scrap – all painted green, would you believe? If you know a dealer who’ll pay top prices for green-sprayed scrap iron, I’d be pleased to make the contact.’

‘I’m not surprised you hit trouble,’ said Manalone critically. ‘Your Sigma Eleven’s a corrupt computer. You have to insert corrections in the programme to offset the deviations. The trick is to be able to measure the required offset, and knowing how to insert it so that the corrections don’t become cumulative.’

‘In short, I need an expert. And that’s you, Manny. What do I have to offer to make you change your mind?’

‘That’s what I was calling you about. I’ve changed my mind. I’m prepared to supervise the compilation of whatever programmes you want, and to kick the bugs out of your numerical control processes until they begin to function as they should.’

Blackman’s immense enthusiasm was quenched by a final doubt.

‘There has to be a catch in this, Manny. What’s it going to cost me?’

‘You pay me for my time at the same rate as for the last job.’

‘Now I know you’re joking. I’ve already offered you double.’

‘But I want it paid in small cash,’ said Manalone. ‘No other form of payment is acceptable.’

Blackman’s hideous face magnificently mirrored his incredulous amusement.

‘You?
In trouble? I don’t believe it! What have you been up to?’

‘You’d not believe me if I told you. Is it a deal?’

‘Now wait a minute, Manny boy. Don’t rush me. I’ll have to do some checking on you first. I have to know how clean my associates are before they join me. I can’t afford for my operations to get a bad name.’

‘You don’t have any clean associates, Victor. And your shoddy and illegal operations are an anathema right through the trade. So don’t try sounding moral and organized, because you’ll probably choke yourself. Do we have a deal or not?’

‘We have a deal, Manny. It’s the least I can do to assist your reformation. And even if I do make a damn great profit, you’ll understand that my motivation primarily comes from the goodness of my heart.’

‘You haven’t got a heart. You’ve got a real-time extension from your corrupt old Sigma Eleven. God – in your organization even the computers are bent!’

‘And if you’re needing payment in small cash, it sounds as if you’ll be in good company. Give my regards to that delicious pet wife of yours.’

‘Do it yourself,’ said Manalone. ‘You probably see more of her than I do.’

As ever, his exchange of words with Blackman had proved remarkably tonic. He had also partially solved his financial problems in advance of the situation becoming critical. Of all the people he knew, Victor Blackman was the last person to be intimidated by outside pressures, nor did his operations require security clearance. If the MIPS wanted to prevent him working for Blackman, they were going to have to apply for more open pressures than they had used at the Mills.

Manalone’s second move was to make an autophone call to the automatic switchboard at Automated Mills. Through this he had a rarely used direct access link to the Mills’ main computer, which had enabled him to make interrogations or give instructions to the computer from his portable terminal, using the national autophone circuits. He doubted if anyone at the Mills yet realized the significance of his continued possession of an off-site access link, but Manalone’s knowledge of the system was such that until the link was broken, the functioning of the Mills’ computer was still effectively under his control.

He briefly
considered ordering the information in the main memory banks to be erased, but acknowledged that such a piece of malicious sabotage would cripple the Mills but gain him nothing. Instead he went back to the key codes calling out of the nationwide data stores the elements of his computerized deposition. The next hundred thousand invoices issued by the Automated Mills computers would have printed on them a series of very disturbing questions.

When he found out this fact, Adam Vickers would be forced to recall all the doctored invoices and the significance of their recall would further enhance whatever interest they had raised. Recalled or not, the damage would be done before anyone had a chance to stop it. Where computers were linked direct to computers, information passed in megabits, too swiftly for human intervention or discretion. Within hours his questions would become a talking point in computer rooms throughout the country.

His next task he needed to accomplish before the news of his first two projects filtered back. Memory told him that his security clearance had been issued not by the local office of the Ministry of Information and Public Security, but by the central clearing office on the Old Cathedral site at Chichester. He dialled for an autram, and entered it still wondering if this particular exploit was ill-advised. He finally decided that he had no alternative if he still wanted information, and directed the autram to take him to the doors of the MIPS central clearing office.

A girl in the reception area referred him to an office on the fifty-second floor. Here Manalone approached a desk clerk with a question which was deliberately misleading.

‘I’ve a query about my exact security grading. I’ve been offered work on Q6 grade security projects, but refused because it’s my understanding that I’ve not yet been cleared for the higher grades. Can you please confirm my position.’

‘You have your Civil Identity card?’

‘Surely.’ Manalone handed over his CI card with some misgivings. When they found the truth of the situation, he was going to find it difficult to get it back. Nonetheless he watched with interest to see the shock develop. The clerk consulted an index, then went to look for a microfilm wallet. He came back from his cabinets with a slightly baffled look on his face.

‘You’re
sure you’ve come to the right district office?’

‘Completely sure,’ said Manalone.

The clerk went off again to consult with a colleague, who came over, verified the information, and examined the same cabinets. The two of them then moved in opposite directions around the filing racks checking various possible alternatives. Both arrived finally at a small box situated on its own. This apparently produced the information they were looking for. The look that passed between them was electric.

The microfile was contained not in the usual file wallet, but in a red plastic box which was nearly full of the microdocument strips. Whatever his security status, Manalone could tell that he had been the subject of considerable and prolonged research. The two clerks were obviously disturbed by the finding, and were in earnest consultation with each other over the film reader.

‘… But you can’t
tell
him he’s running the test …’ one was saying. He looked up and saw Manalone’s enquiring interest, and the two of them moved well out of earshot.

‘The test, Manalone? What sort of test is that?’

Finally the first clerk came back. There was a very curious expression on his face.

‘You’re a special case, Manalone. But you knew that when you came in here. You’ve security clearance in every industrial category, only the clearance isn’t operative.’

‘Isn’t that the same as not having any clearance?’

‘Not quite. It means you’ve got it, but we won’t allow you to use it.’

‘Why not?’

‘That I can’t tell you.’

‘Then I want to speak with somebody who can tell me.’

‘That won’t be possible.’

‘Hell, it has to be possible. Let me speak to whoever’s in charge.’

‘He won’t be able to help you either. The whole thing’s out of our hands.’

‘Then
whose hands is it in? The Minister’s?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Then whose?’

‘There’s nothing I can tell you. You got in here under false pretences. You shouldn’t even be here.’

‘Is it by order of the Masterthinkers?’

The clerk’s response was gratifying, because he could not conceal the widening of his eyes at the mention of the name.

‘I’d advise you to leave – otherwise I’ll report you for making trouble.’

‘I’ll not leave before I get an answer. Surely I’ve a right to know why my clearance isn’t operative.’

The clerk was becoming annoyed. ‘Right? You don’t know what you’re saying. Once you get yourself put on
that
file you don’t have rights any more – not any. It involves a full suspension of all your civil liberties. Technically, it’s not your security clearance that’s been withdrawn, but your claim to recognition as a human being.’

Manalone said, ‘What!’ At least he thought he did. The shock and unacceptability of the statement clouded his brain and numbed his senses. He felt suddenly withdrawn inside himself; and though he continued to see and hear, such extraneous activities had no relevance for him. The clerk and the office might as well have been a thousand miles away.

‘No one has the right to dismiss another from the human race,’ he heard his own voice say plaintively.

‘I don’t make the rules. I only keep the records.’

‘Then to whom do I appeal against the decision – God?’

‘These days,’ said Colonel Shears’ voice, ‘even He would find it difficult to intervene without first obtaining my permission.’

Manalone came
back to his senses with a jolt. The Colonel had entered the room behind him and was holding his arm with a firm grip.

‘How much has he discovered?’

The clerk’s brow was suddenly moist with perspiration. He stood rigidly to attention. His fear of Shears was very evident.

‘Sir! I’ve told him that he is now devoid of civil rights. I’m certain that he overheard part of a discussion about the test. I’d no idea he was a test subject. He came in here with a false enquiry.’