Following this method allows me to rewrite my flow-chart: to establish a system of exclusions that will enable the computer to discard billions of incongruous combinations, to reduce the number of plausible concatenations, to approach a selection of that solution which will present itself as true.
But will we ever get to that? Half I’m concentrating on constructing algebraic models where factors and functions are anonymous and interchangeable, thus dismissing the faces and gestures of those four phantoms from my thoughts; and half I am identifying with the characters, evoking the scenes in a mental film packed with fades and metamorphoses. Maybe it’s around the word drugging that the cog that drives all the others turns: at once my mind associates the word with the pasty face of the last Inigo of an illustrious stock; if drugging meant the reflexive drugging oneself, there would be no problem here: it’s highly likely that the boy took drugs, something that does not concern me; but the transitive sense of drugging implies a drugger and a person drugged, the latter consenting, unknowing or compelled.
It is equally likely that Inigo gets himself so high on drugs that he tries to preach stupefaction to others; I imagine spindly cigarettes being passed from his hand to Ogiva’s or old Widow Roessler’s. Is it the young nobleman who transforms the lonely boarding house into a smoke-filled den of kaleidoscopic hallucinations? Or is it the landlady who lures him there in order to exploit his inclination toward states of ecstasy? Perhaps it is Ogiva who procures the drug for the old opium addict, Roessler, and Inigo who, while snooping on her, discovers where she hides it and bursts in on her threatening her with a gun or blackmailing her; Widow Roessler shouts to Belindo for help, then slanders Inigo accusing him of having seduced and prostituted Ogiva, the Uzbek’s chaste passion, at which the wrestler takes his revenge by strangling the boy; to get out of trouble the landlady now has no alternative but to incite the wrestler to suicide, not a problem since the insurance company will pay the damages, but Belindo, in for a penny in for a pound, rapes Ogiva, ties and gags her and sets fire to the obliterating pyre.
Slowly does it: no point in imagining I can beat the electronic brain to it. The drug might just as well have to do with Belindo: old and over the hill he can’t climb into the ring these days without stuffing himself full of stimulants. It’s Widow Roessler who doles them out, slipping them in his mouth with a soup spoon. Snooping through the keyhole, Inigo, a glutton for psychodrugs, interrupts and demands a dose for himself. When they refuse, he blackmails the wrestler threatening to have him banned from the championship; Belindo ties and gags him, then prostitutes him for a few guineas to Ogiva who has for some time been infatuated with the elusive aristocrat; impervious to eros, Inigo can only achieve an amorous state if on the point of being strangled, Ogiva presses on his carotid artery with her slim fingertips; perhaps Belindo lends a hand; just two of his fingers and the little lord rolls his eyes and gives up the ghost; what to do with the corpse? To simulate a suicide they knife him… Stop! Have to rewrite the whole programme: have to cancel the instruction now stored in the central memory that someone strangled cannot be knifed. The ferrite rings are demagnetized and remagnetized; I’m sweating.
Let’s start again from scratch. What is the job my client expects of me? To arrange a certain amount of data in a logical order. It is information I am dealing with, not human lives, with their good and evil sides. For reasons that need not concern me the data available to me only has to do with the evil side, and the computer must put it in order. Not the evil, which cannot perhaps be put in order, but the information relative to the evil. On the basis of this data, contained in the alphabetical index of the Abominable Deeds, I must reconstruct the lost Account, true or false as that may be.
The Account presupposes the existence of a writer. Only by reconstructing it will we know who that was: certain data, however, can already be placed on his or her file. The author of the Account couldn’t have been killed by knifing or strangling, because he wouldn’t have been able to include his or her own death in the report; as far as suicide is concerned, the writer could have decided on it before writing out the copybook-testament, and carried it out later; but someone who believes they have been incited to suicide by the force of someone else’s will does not commit suicide; every exclusion of the author of the copybook from the role of victim automatically increases the likelihood of our being able to attribute to him or her the role of perpetrator: hence this person could be both the originator of the evil and of the information regarding that evil. This presents no problems for my work: evil and information regarding evil are coincident, both in the burnt book and in the electronic files.
The memory has also been fed another series of data to be compared with the first: the four insurance policies taken out with Skiller, one by Inigo, one by Ogiva and two by the Widow (one for herself and one for Belindo). An obscure thread may link the policies to the Abominable Deeds and the photoelectric cells must follow that thread in a bewildering blind man’s bluff, seeking it out amongst the tiny holes of the punch cards. Even the policy data, now translated into binary code, is capable of evoking images in my mind: it’s evening, there’s fog; Skiller rings at the door of the house on the hump of wasteland; the landlady imagines he’s a new tenant and greets him accordingly; he gets his insurance brochures out of his bag; he’s sitting in the lounge; he accepts a cup of tea; clearly he can’t get the four contracts signed in just one visit; he makes sure he is thoroughly familiar with the house and its four inhabitants. I imagine Skiller helping Ogiva to brush out the wigs in her collection (and in so doing his lips brush the model’s bald scalp); I imagine him as, with a touch as sure as a doctor’s and as thoughtful as a son’s, he measures the widow’s blood pressure, enclosing her soft white arm in the sphygmomanometer; or again I see him trying to get Inigo interested in home maintenance, pointing out problems with the plumbing, subsidence in the loadbearing beams, while in a fatherly voice telling him not to bite his nails; I see him reading the sports papers with Belindo, complimenting him with a slap on the back when he has guessed a winner.
I must admit, I don’t really like this Skiller. A web of complicity stretches out wherever he ties his threads; if he really did have so much power over Widow Roessler’s boarding house, if he was the factotum, the deus ex machina, if nothing happened between those walls but that he knew about it, then why did he come to me for a solution to the mystery? Why did he bring me the charred copybook? Was it he who found the copybook in the ruins? Or did he put it there? Was it he who brought this mass of negative information, of irreversible entropy, he who introduced it into the house, as now into the circuits of the computer?
The Roessler boarding house massacre doesn’t have four characters: it has five. I translate the data of insurance agent Skiller into holes on punchcards and add it to the other information. The abominable deeds could be his doing as much as any of the others: he could have Blackmailed, Drugged, Induced to Suicide, etc., or better still he could have made somebody prostitute themselves or strangle someone and all the rest. The billions of combinations multiply, but perhaps a shape is beginning to emerge. Merely for the purposes of a hypothesis I could construct a model in which all the evil stems from Skiller, before whose entrance on the scene the boarding house basked in Arcadian innocence: old Widow Roessler plays a Lied on her Bechstein which the gentle giant Belindo humps from room to room for the sake of the tenants’ enjoyment, Ogiva waters the petunias, Inigo paints petunias on Ogiva’s head. The bell rings: it’s Skiller. Is he looking for a bed and breakfast? No, but he has some useful insurance policies to offer: life, accident, fire, house and contents. The conditions are good; Skiller invites them to think it over; they think it over; they think of things they never thought of before; they are tempted; temptation starts its trail of electronic impulses through the channels of the brain… I’m aware that I am undermining the objectivity of the operation with these subjective dislikes. In the end, what do I know about this Skiller? Perhaps his soul is wi
thout stain, perhaps he is the only innocent person in the story, while all the data depict Widow Roessler as a sordid miser, Ogiva as a ruthless narcissist, Inigo as lost in his dreamy introversion, Belindo as condemned to muscular brutality for lack of alternative role models… It is they who called Skiller, each with a sinister plan against the other three and the insurance company. Skiller is the dove in a nest of serpents.
The computer stops. There’s an error, and the central memory has picked it up; it cancels everything. There are no innocents to be saved, in this story. Start again.
No, it wasn’t Skiller who rang at the door. Outside it’s drizzling, there’s fog, no one can make out the visitor’s face. He comes into the passage, takes off his wet hat, unwraps his woollen scarf. It’s me. I introduce myself. Waldemar, computer programmer and systems analyst. You’re looking well, you know, Signora Roessler? No, we’ve never met, but I remember the data on the analogical-digital convertor and I recognize all four of you perfectly. Don’t hide, Signor Inigo! You’re looking good, Belindo Kid! Is that purple hair I see peeping over the stairs Signorina Ogiva? Here you are all together; good: let me explain why I’ve come. I need you, yes, you, just as you are, for a project that’s kept me nailed to my programming console for years. During office hours I work freelance for clients, but at night, shut up in my laboratory, I spend my time researching a system that will transform individual passions—aggression, private interest, selfishness, various vices—into elements necessary for the universal good. The accidental, the negative, the abnormal, in a word the human, will be able to develop without provoking general destruction, by being integrated into a harmonious plan… This house is the ideal terrain for determining if I am on the right track. Hence I am asking you to accept me here as a tenant, a friend…
The house is burnt down, everybody is dead, but in the computer I can arrange the facts according to a different logic, get into the computer myself, insert a Waldemar programme, bring the number of characters to six, introduce new galaxies of combinations and permutations. The house rises from the ashes, all its inhabitants are alive again, I turn up at the door with my collapsible suitcase and golf clubs, and ask for a room to rent…
Signora Roessler and the others listen in silence. They don’t trust me. They suspect I’m working for the insurance company, that I’ve been sent by Skiller…
One can hardly deny that their suspicions are well founded. It’s Skiller I’m working for of course. It would have been he who asked me to gain their confidence, to study their behaviour, to forecast the consequences of their evil intentions, to classify stimuli, tendencies, gratifications, quantify them, store them in the computer…
But if this Waldemar programme is nothing but a duplicate of the Skiller programme, then it is pointless keying it in. Skiller and Waldemar must be enemies, the mystery will be sorted out in the struggle between us.
In the drizzly evening two shadows brush against each other on the rusty overpass that leads to what must once have been a residential suburb, though there’s nothing left now but a crooked house on a hump of ground surrounded by derelict car dumps; the lighted windows of the Roessler boarding house emerge from the fog as though on a short-sighted retina. Skiller and Waldemar don’t know each other as yet. Each unaware of the other, they stalk around the house. Who will make the first move? Indisputably the insurance agent takes precedence.
Skiller rings the doorbell. ‘Please excuse me, on behalf of my company I am carrying out some research into the role played by household factors in disasters. This house has been chosen for our representative sample. With your permission, I would like to keep your behaviour under observation. I hope this won’t put you to too much trouble: it’s just a question of filling in some forms from time to time. In return the company is offering the chance to enjoy special discounts on insurance policies of various kinds: life, property…’
The four listen in silence; already each of them is thinking how they can get something from the situation, each is concocting a plan…
But Skiller is lying. His programme has already forecast what each member of the household will do. Skiller has a copybook listing a series of violent or dishonest acts whose probability he merely has to establish. He already knows there will be a series of maliciously provoked injuries, but that the company won’t have to pay any damages, because all the beneficiaries will have killed each other. All these forecasts were given him by a computer: not my own, so I am bound to imagine the existence of another programmer, Skiller’s accomplice in a criminal plot. The plot goes like this: a databank brings together the names of those fellow citizens of ours driven by fraudulent and destructive impulses; there are several hundred thousand of them; a system of persuasion and follow-ups leads them to become clients of the company, to insure everything insurable, to produce fraudulent accidents and to kill each other off. The company will have taken care to record evidence to its own advantage, and since those committing crimes always tend to overdo it, the amount of information will include a considerable percentage of useless data that will function as a smokescreen to cover up the company’s involvement. Indeed this coefficient of entropy has already been programmed: not all the Abominable Deeds of the index have a role in the story; some just create a ‘noise’ effect. The Roessler boarding house operation is the first practical experiment the diabolical insurance agent has attempted. Once the disaster has taken place, Skiller will go to another computer, whose programmer is ignorant of all the facts, to check if it is possible to trace consequence back to cause. Skiller will give this second programmer all the necessary data together with a certain amount of ‘noise’ such as to produce circuit overload and debase the information: the evil intent of those insured will be sufficiently demonstrated, but not that of the insurer.
I am the second programmer. Skiller has set it up well. Everything fits. The programme was set up beforehand, and the house, the copybook, my own flowchart and my computer were to do nothing more than carry it out. I’m stuck here inputting and outputting the data of a story I can’t change. There’s no point in my putting myself in the computer: Waldemar will not go up to the house on the hump of wasteland, nor will he meet the four mysterious inhabitants, nor will he be (as he had hoped) the perpetrator of a seduction (victim: Ogiva). Perhaps even Skiller only has an input-output function: the real computer is elsewhere.
But a game between two computers is not won by the one that plays better than the other, but by the one that understands how its opponent is managing to play better than itself. My computer has now been fed its opponent’s winning game: so has it won?
Someone rings at the door. Before going to open it, I must quickly work out how Skiller will react when he finds out his plan has been discovered. I too was persuaded by Skiller to sign a fire insurance policy. Skiller has already provided for killing me and setting fire to the laboratory: he will destroy the punchcards that accuse him and demonstrate that I lost my life attempting arson. I hear the fire brigade’s siren approaching: I called them in time. I click off the safety catch on my gun. Now I can open the door.
The Petrol Pump
I should have thought of it before, it’s too late now. It’s after twelve thirty and I didn’t remember to fill up; the service stations will be closed until three. Every year two million tons of crude are brought up from the earth’s crust where they have been stored for millions of centuries in the folds of rocks buried between layers of sand and clay. If I set off now there’s a danger I’ll run out on the way; the gauge has been warning me for quite a while that the tank is in reserve. They have been warning us for quite a while that underground global reserves can’t last more than twenty years or so. I had plenty of time to think about it, as usual I’ve been irresponsible; when the red light begins to wink on the dashboard I don’t pay attention, or I put things off, I tell myself there’s still the whole reserve to use up, and then I forget about it. No, maybe that’s what happened in the past, being careless like that and forge
tting about it: in the days when petrol still seemed as plentiful as the air itself. Now when the light comes on it transmits a sense of alarm, of menace, at once vague and impending; that is the message I pick up and record along with the many angst-ridden signs sedimenting down among the folds of my consciousness, dissolving in a state of mind that I can’t shake off, but that doesn’t prompt me to any precise practical action as a consequence, such as, for example, stopping at the first pump I find and filling up. Or is it an instinct for making savings that has gripped me, a reflex miserliness: as I become aware that my tank is about to run out, so I sense refinery stocks dwindling, and likewise oil pipeline flows, and the loads in tankers ploughing the seas; drill-bits probe the depths of the earth and bring up nothing but dirty water; my foot on the accelerator grows conscious of the fact that its slightest pressure can burn up the last squirts of energy our planet has stored; my attention focuses on sucking up the last dribbles of fuel; I press the pedal as if the tank were a lemon that must be squeezed without wasting a drop; I slow down; no: I accelerate, my instinctive reaction being that the faster I go, the further I’ll get with this squeeze, which could be the last.
I don’t want to risk leaving town without having filled up. Surely I’ll find one station open. I start patrolling the avenues, searching the pavements and flowerbeds where the coloured signs of different petroleum companies bristle, though less aggressively than they used to, in the days when tigers and other mythical animals blew flames into our engines. Again and again I’m fooled by the ‘Open’ signs which only mean that the station is open today during regular hours, and hence closed during the lunch break. Sometimes there’s a pump attendant sitting on a folding chair eating a sandwich or half asleep: he spreads his arms in apology, the rules are the same for everybody and my questioning gestures are pointless as I knew they would be. The time when everything seemed easy is over, the time when you could believe that human energy like natural energy was unconditionally and endlessly at your service: when filling stations blossomed enticingly in your path all in a line with the attendant in green or blue or striped dungarees, dripping sponge at the ready to cleanse a windscreen contaminated by the massacre of swarms of gnats.