‘After you’ve told your tale.’
‘Right.’ Geraldo set down his empty glass and rubbed his podgy hands together. ‘Where to start. Okay, I’ll start at the end, because that’s where it all began.’
Jim sighed inwardly. So far not so good, he thought.
‘The end,’ said Geraldo, ‘came about at precisely ten seconds after the ninth minute of the eighth hour of the seventh day of the sixth week of the fifth month of the year four thousand, three hundred and twenty-one. The scientists at the Institute confirmed this and that made it OFFICIAL.
‘Ten – nine – eight – seven – six – five – four – three – two – one. That was zero hour, you see.’
‘I don’t,’ said Jim. ‘But I do see a flaw in the calculations.’
‘Then well spotted, Jim. The scientists didn’t spot it, however. But whether that has any bearing on how things worked out I’m not sure. Now, I’m going to tell you what happened in the form of a story. I’ll do all the voices and when I describe each character I’ll do it in verse.’
‘Why?’ Jim asked.
‘Because I’m a bit of a poet.’
Jim sighed outwardly this time.
‘And I wasn’t actually there when it all happened. But I watched and heard it all, because I’d hacked into the closed-circuit surveillance video at Institute Tower. I was hooked into Porkie, you see.’
‘The Single World Interfaced Network Engine?’
‘The very same. So just sit back and drink your beer and I will tell the tale.’
And so saying, Geraldo told Jim the tale. Doing all the voices and describing the characters in verse.
The tale had chapters and titles and everything.
And this is how it went.
1
ALL PORKIE’S FAULT
It was a conclave and a cabal. A council and a conference.
They were a synod of scientists. A bothering of boffins.
Top of the tree, these fellows were, in the fields of their endeavour. The back-room boys with the front-room minds and the lofty aspirations.
The year was 4321. It was early on a Sunday morning. It was rather later than it should have been in May.
The conclave and the cabal was held in the big posh high-domed solar lounge at the top of Institute Tower.
The tower itself was a monumental cylinder of pale pink plasti-glass, which thrust from the Earth like a raging stonker and buried its big knob end in the clouds. It was a testament to technology, a standing stone to science.
It was an architect’s vision.
The architect was a Man.
The scientists were all men, of course. There had never been a lot of room for girlies in science. And so, on this very special day, there were four of them present and these were the last men who worked in the tower. These were the final four.
A thousand years before, when it was first constructed, the tower had housed hundreds of the blighters. Buzzing around like albino bees, with their white coats and their clipboards in their hands. They scratched at their unkempt barnets with the butt-ends of Biros. Chalked calculations on very big blackboards. Drank lots of coffee from styrofoam cups and wore those atrocious ties with little cartoons of Einstein, which folk always give to scientists for Christmas and scientists always wear to show what jolly chaps they are.
Those had been the days, my friends.
But those days were all gone.
Now there were only four of them left and soon these four would be gone, like the days had been gone. So to speak.
It was all down to knowledge, you see. For it was knowledge that had brought about THE END.
The director of the Institute was Dr Vincent Trillby. He was a man of considerable knowledge and, as it was he who had called the conclave into being, he was the first man to speak.
Though not as tall as bigger men
He didn’t lack for height.
His chest was trim
And his hips were slim
And there wasn’t a pimple in sight.
His eyes were grey
As a cloudy day,
And he carried himself in a confident way.
He was dapper and sleek
And when he rose to speak
He was rarely obscure. He was never oblique.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Dr Vincent Trillby, rising from his antique chromium chair and casting a grey’n over his three colleagues, who sat about the black obsidian-topped table. ‘Gentlemen, we all know why we’re here. It’s a regrettable business, but we all knew it had to happen eventually. The final papers are in. The calculations cross-check. The big clock on the wall is counting down and when the long hand reaches the tenth second past the ninth minute that will be it. THE END.
‘And that’s OFFICIAL.’
The three men mumbled and grumbled and shifted in their chairs and drummed their fingers on the tabletop. They didn’t like this at all. But they all knew that it had to happen one of these days and they all knew that the calculations had to be correct.
After all, the calculations were Porkie’s and Porkie’s calculations were always correct.
‘Gentlemen, the clock.’
The three men turned their eyes towards the clock and watched the final seconds tick away, tick tick tick, the way those seconds do. The long hand crept around the face, reached the tenth second past the ninth minute.
And then stopped.
‘So that’s it,’ said Dr Vincent Trillby. ‘THE END. Not with a bang, nor even a whimper, just with a big full stop. And not even a big one. But that’s it, gentlemen, our job here is done and I’m away to the golf course. Don’t forget to clear your desks before you go and the last man out please switch off the lights.’
Following a moment of rather bewildered silence, a dimpled hand rose shakily into the air-conditioned air.
‘Blashford,’ said Dr Vincent Trillby. ‘You have some apposite remark you wish to favour us with?’
‘Something like that, sir, yes.’
‘Onto your fat little feet then, lad, spit the fellow out.’
Blashford rose, a podgy youth.
A lover of women, a lover of truth.
The top of his class in advanced trigonometry.
Branches of physics and snappy geometry.
Though rather sweaty down under the arms
He was popular due to his eloquent charms.
And his optimism.
‘Dr Trillby,’ he said, in a polite and measured tone. ‘Dr Trillby, I am aware, as we all are, that this is THE END. There is no room left for doubt. If I might, perhaps, liken science to a lady’s silken undergarment. I, for one, would not expect to find the skid-mark of error soiling its gusset. We, as the last men of science, know that everything that could possibly be achieved has now been achieved. That science has finally advanced to a point beyond which it cannot go. That all that can be done has been done. That—’
‘Is there some point to this, Blashford?’ Dr Trillby mimed golf swings. ‘Because I can hear the fairway calling.’
‘Dr Trillby.’ Blashford toyed with his tie. It had little cartoons of Einstein all over it. ‘Dr Trillby, sir. I do have to ask you this.’
‘Well go ahead, lad, do.’
‘Dr Trillby, what does it mean?’
‘Mean, lad? Mean? It means that it’s THE END. That’s what it means. Mankind has come to a full stop. There can be no further progress. You said it yourself. All that can be done, has been done. Everything.’
‘If I might just slip a word in here.’
Clovis Garnett rose to speak.
Clovis with his fiery mane.
Clovis with his ruddy cheek.
Clovis with his ankle chain.
Clovis with his bright red blazer.
Clovis with his bright red tie.
Clovis sharp as any laser.
Fixed them with his cherry eye.
‘I think, sir, what Fatty Blashford is trying to ask—’
‘Oi!’ cried Blash
ford. ‘Enough of that fatty talk.’
‘What our esteemed and magnificently proportioned colleague is trying to ask—’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Blashford. ‘Nice tie, by the way.’
‘What he is trying to ask,’ said Clovis, ‘is: what happens next?’
‘Nothing,’ said Dr Trillby. ‘Nothing happens next. That’s the whole point of THE END. Nothing happens after it. Nothing can happen after it.’
‘You’ll be playing golf,’ said Blashford. ‘That will be happening.’
Clovis sniggered. ‘There’s nothing very happening about golf,’ said he. ‘Golf was never a happening thing.’
Dr Trillby sighed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I know it’s Sunday and I know it’s early in the morning and I know this is all very upsetting for you. So, as a special favour, I will run through it all just the one more time and then I am off to play golf.’
Three pairs of eyes, two pairs blue and one pair red, fixed upon Dr Trillby. Dr Trillby spoke.
‘We have all read the Holy Writ of Saint Charles Darwin,’ he said. ‘On the Origin of Species has been taught in every classroom and preached from every pulpit for nearly two thousand years. Mankind evolved, through the Will of God, by means of natural selection. Had natural selection continued, mankind would have continued to evolve. Into what? Who can say. A race of gods, perhaps. But the point is moot. Mankind did not continue to evolve. And for why? Because of science.
‘During the latter part of the twentieth century and the earlier part of that following, natural selection ceased. Advances in medicine, food production, welfare, genetic modification, science, saw to it that all survived. Not just the fittest. But all.
‘No more survival of the fittest. No more evolution.
‘So, as human evolution had ceased, it became inevitable that the human race would one day reach a cut-off point. When mankind had finally achieved everything it was capable of achieving; when every book had been written, every piece of music composed; everything capable of invention invented; everything that could be accomplished accomplished. The lot. The entire caboodle. All. There is now nothing that anyone can think of that hasn’t been thought of before. It has all been done. Everything. We have reached THE END.
‘And with that all said, again, would any of you now redundant fellows care to join me for a round of golf?’
‘I have a question,’ said Blashford.
‘Perhaps you do, lad. But not one that hasn’t been asked before.’
‘But what if I thought of something new?’
‘You can’t, lad. There is nothing new that can be thought of.’
‘It’s preposterous,’ said Blashford.
‘I know, lad, I know.’ Dr Trillby mimed a winning putt. ‘It had to happen eventually and now it has. And that’s OFFICIAL.’
‘So what will happen next?’
Dr Trillby sighed once more. ‘Nothing, lad. Go home and put your feet up. Watch some old rerun on the television.’
‘I could write a new TV series,’ said Blashford. ‘Put a new spin on an old idea.’
‘Been done. Every new spin that could be spun has been spun. We have been watching reworkings of reworkings of reworkings for more years than I care to remember.’
‘But there will be news. New news.’
‘News of what? There is no more crime, there are no more wars, there is no more sickness. Due to genetic modification, we all live to be exactly one hundred and seventy-five years old. The world is governed and run by Porkie and is as near to Utopia as it can possibly be. And that’s OFFICIAL too!’
‘Space travel,’ said Blashford. ‘What about space travel?’
‘We have reached the limit of scientific achievement regarding space travel. No further developments are possible.’
‘Nothing is impossible to science,’ said Blashford.
Dr Trillby offered up what he hoped would be the final sigh of the day. ‘There was a time,’ said he, ‘when that was probably true. The time of St Charles Darwin. At that time everything seemed possible and perhaps was possible. But that time has now passed. All that science can achieve has been achieved. Do I need to have this engraved upon a mallet and beat you over the head with it?’
‘I’ll hold him down if you want,’ said Clovis.
‘That won’t be necessary. Now, I’ve said all I intend to say on this matter. All, indeed, that can be said. I am off to tog up in my Fair-Isles. Goodbye, gentlemen, and thank you very much.’
‘I’ll join you, then,’ said Clovis. ‘I always beat you anyway.’
‘Only because you cheat, Clovis. Only because you cheat.’
‘Dr Trillby, sir.’
A reedy little voice spoke up. The doctor in his turn looked down.
‘Ah,’ said Dr Trillby. ‘Fourth Man Tripper, experts’ expert. What have you to say?’
Fourth Man Tripper gained his feet
And tiny feet they were.
Small boys mocked him in the street
Because he dressed in fur.
Fourth Man Tripper ran his thumb
Through golden head of hair.
Fourth Man Tripper, rarely dumb,
Pushed aside his chair.
‘For a chap with only three days to live,’ he said to Dr Trillby, ‘Your calmness does you credit.’
Dr Trillby consulted the lifespan chronometer he wore upon his wrist. ‘Your calculations are somewhat amiss,’ he told Fourth Man Tripper. ‘I have another one hundred and five years, four months, three days, two hours and one minute to go before my clinical death, my next recloning and rebirth. I shall be around for many centuries to come. Such are the perks of being a scientist.’
‘You will die in three days’ time,’ said Fourth Man Tripper, reedily. ‘And you will not be recloned again or reborn. I have rechecked all the calculations and I can assure you there are no bum stains on my knickers.’
‘What are you on about, Tripper?’
‘Inevitable consequences, sir. The inevitable consequences of THE END. It was all in the report that I left on your desk. Perhaps you did not get around to reading it.’
‘Perhaps I did not.’
‘Pity, sir. But it’s definitely three days. The projections suggest that you die on the golf course. The mob beats you to death. Someone rams a number nine iron right up your—’
‘Hold it right there, Tripper. Is this some kind of joke? Because if it is, then I can tell you it’s not a new one. All jokes have been done. A writer named Rankin came up with the last new joke at the end of the twentieth century. It wasn’t a very good one though.’
‘It’s no joke, sir. Clovis here dies. Blashford dies. The mob will slay us all. The figures do not lie. They’re Porkie’s figures, after all.’
‘Good old Tripper,’ said Blashford.
‘Eh?’ said Clovis.
‘I said, good old Tripper. He’s come up with something new. It’s not THE END at all. No, hang about. Me too? I die too? Why should I die? What have I done?’
Fourth Man Tripper thumbed some more at his goldy locks. ‘It’s not so much what you have done. It’s more a matter of what you can no longer do. Would you like me to explain? Would you like me to tell you what is going to happen and why it’s going to happen?’
‘If you must,’ said Dr Trillby, casting wistful eyes towards the window. ‘But if this is a joke—’
‘What will you do? Sack me?’
‘Just say your piece.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Tripper flicked imaginary dust from a furry cuff. ‘Everyone on the planet has known for months that THE END was coming. There aren’t any secrets any more, much as we would like there to be. Every home has a terminal, every terminal is linked to Porkie. Information is currency and all are mighty rich.’
‘Good line,’ said Blashford. ‘New line?’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Dr Trillby. ‘Get on with it, Tripper.’
‘Everyone knows,’ said Tripper, ‘we are on Porkie’s camera even a
s we speak. The details of this meeting are already being processed to be broadcast worldwide on the mid-morning news. That the end has come will be broadcast. All the world will know. What do you suppose will happen next?’
‘A mad rush to the golf course,’ said Dr Trillby. ‘But happily I will have finished my round by then and be enjoying the hospitality of the nineteenth hole.’
‘No,’ said Tripper. ‘You really should have read my report. What will happen next is this. Everyone will sit about in bewildered silence, taking in the enormity of it and then they will say to themselves and to others, ‘No, this cannot be,’ and ‘It can’t be THE END,’ and, ‘You can’t tell me we now know everything there is to know and have done everything there is to be done.’ And then they will all rack their brains and try to come up with something new. But they won’t be able to, because there’s nothing new to come up with. And then do you know what they’ll do?’
‘Play golf?’
‘No, they won’t play golf. They’ll look for someone to blame. That’s what they always do. You see, the man in the street might hate change, but he always wants something new to enjoy. Nature of the beast, I suppose. And when the man in the street can’t get what he wants he looks for someone to blame.’
‘Now just hold on,’ Dr Trillby raised his hands. ‘You’re not suggesting that the man in the street will blame us?’
‘Who else would he blame? Scientists have been running this planet for thousands of years, supplying the needs of the people. Improving life. That’s what scientists do, after all.’
‘Some say,’ said Clovis.
‘Shut up, Clovis,’ said Dr Trillby. ‘But blame us, Tripper? Blame us? After all we’ve done for the man in the street?’
‘Done, is the word,’ said Tripper. ‘We can’t do any more. The mob will rise up and slay us all.’
‘Are you sure about this? Are you sure about the calculations?’
‘They’re Porkie’s calculations.’
There was a moment of silence. Each man alone with his own thoughts.
And then they all spoke.