The Final Programme

“Very well, now you mention it. We must both have precognition, professor. I find it a little disturbing here and there.”

  “Yes—I know what you mean. But we have faith in Miss Brunner, eh?” He leaned back, smiling and shaking his head at her. She smiled at him, a little faintly.

  “Oh, I’m just administration.” Her smile broadened.

  “You said it!” Jerry introduced a wrong note.

  “It’s time we were leaving.” She got up. “I hope the three of us will be able to get together later, professor.”

  “Oh, I certainly hope so too, Miss Brunner.” He saw them out. “Au revoir!”

  “Au revoir, professor,” said Miss Brunner.

  “And now where?” Jerry asked.

  “Back to San Simeon. You must be tired.”

  “I’d like to know if I can leave when I want to.”

  “I’m hoping your curiosity will make you stay for a bit—and you’ve nowhere else to go, have you?” They went down the stairs.

  “No. You’ve really got me where you want me, I suppose.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  As they left the block and began to walk back towards DUEL he sighed. “I thought I’d remain comparatively static while my surroundings were in a state of flux. But I appear to have been caught in the flux. It’s just no good making preparations. On the other hand, I don’t like being aimless while the world is aimless, and my old aim is gone.”

  “What was that?”

  “To survive.”

  “I might be able to supply an aim or two if you’re keen.”

  “I’ll listen, Miss Brunner, at any rate.” As she operated the airlock control, he suppressed an urge to reach out for her. “Things are becoming peculiar,” he said as he followed her into the opening. “What will I think of next!”

  “You’re talking to yourself, you know,” she pointed out. They emerged on the other side, and the smell of the flowers was exquisite.

  “Haven’t I always? But whose internal monologue is this? Yours or mine?”

  “You’re getting warmer. We’re a finely balanced pair, Mr Cornelius. Have you thought about it? Neither of us keeps the upper hand for long. I’m not used to it.”

  “I know what you mean. I’m afraid.”

  Jerry became thoughtful, as best he could. He was beginning to feel pretty.

  * * *

  “This is our bedroom.” She stood in the doorway behind him. There were shutters on the windows and they were closed. The bed was a four-poster with curtains drawn. She shut the door.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. He wasn’t scared and he wasn’t particularly randy—he just wasn’t sure, in a cool kind of way.

  She moved towards him and pressed herself against his back, stroking his stomach with her long, pale hands. He stood there passively for a moment, then said, “Did you know you haven’t any sex appeal at all? I’ve wondered how you made out—with Dimitri and Marek and the others.”

  “No sex appeal,” she murmured. “That’s the whole secret.”

  “And here I am.” He glimmed the room. “What does it make me? A sucker, a patsy, a fall guy…”

  “You underestimate yourself, Mr Cornelius.” She walked over to the bed and pulled a cord. The curtains parted and there, spread out on the eiderdown, was the loveliest white bridal gown he had ever seen.

  “Who’s it for? You or me?”

  “That choice, Mr Cornelius, is entirely up to you.”

  He shrugged and took his jacket off as she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it.

  “Let’s toss for it, Miss Brunner.”

  “That suits me, Mr Cornelius.”

  He found a coin in his pocket, flipped it. She called: “Incubus!”

  “Succubus,” he said. “Lucky old me.”

  * * *

  Two weeks later and hand in hand they walked among silver birches beneath the hot blue sky beneath the big red sun. The shining lake stretched away out of sight, and the land was green and brown, at perfect peace. The only visible life, apart from themselves and the mosquitoes, was a large partridge circling high, guarding her nest.

  Miss Brunner waved a hand behind her to indicate the ancient mountains that hid her mighty projects.

  The mountains were streaked with glaciers, topped with snow, time-begrimed and worn.

  “We had some trouble on Number 14 Section’s subsidiary circuits. That’s Professor Hira’s section. I had to do some fast calculating—the correlation monitors started improvising. Too much feedback potential there, I think.”

  “No kidding. You expected some setbacks—I mean, it’s a big project, DUEL…”

  “The biggest, Mr Cornelius.” She squeezed his hand. “The,” she sighed, “total sum, the quintessence of all human knowledge, the definitive data. Yum, yum. And that’ll be just the start.”

  They wandered, this shepherd and his lass—though neither was quite sure who was who—beside the lake. Fish were jumping and the gorse was high. The world was warm and restful and an infinity of mountains, forests and lakes where night could not fall and it was always day, hazy and lazy.

  The mosquitoes enjoyed it too as they sat on the arms and faces of their hosts, inserting their probosces through the skin and into the veins, drinking the thick, rich blood to satiation, raising little hard hillocks on the flesh as monuments to their visitation. The living was easy and the flesh pounded warmly on the bone, the veins and arteries functioned smoothly, nerves and synapses did their stuff, organs performed their proper duties, and nobody would have guessed, least of all the mosquitoes, that skeletons lurked under cover.

  “The start of what, though?”

  “You’re still not with me?”

  “Oh, I am, I am.”

  “The funniest thing,” she replied. “Think about it. Think what’s beyond this green and pleasant land, these uninhabited pastures. The world crumbles to cold sand and the sixty-minute hour is a thing of the past, the twenty-four-hour day has been devalued. There has to be a bridge, Mr Cornelius, between now and the past-future. That’s what I intend to build—the bridge.”

  “Blow me down. And what’s my part again?”

  “I didn’t say. Don’t worry, Mr Cornelius, you’re fixed up destiny-wise. Drift, drift…”

  “If I don’t?”

  She turned and looked into his face. “Will you do something—a favour?”

  “Things are moving again. What?”

  “My son dreams of glory. He had only a small part of my resources and information, yet it is that small part I need, by God. He refuses to give it up—the last piece in the jigsaw. Would you go to England, to the Wamering Research Institute, and secure me that piece?”

  “It’s a long trip. Why should he hand it over to me?”

  “Oh, he won’t. You would probably, in the long run, have to kill him to get it.”

  “I wouldn’t mind killing him?”

  “No.”

  “Oh-ho, Miss Brunner.”

  “Don’t wag fingers at me, Mr Cornelius!”

  “I’ll kill him, then. What do you want there?”

  “Nothing much—nothing heavy. A few notes. He published prodigiously, but he kept those notes back. They’re the fill-in data I need.”

  “I’m far too tired to go by myself. I want a chauffeur all the way. I’ll need to conserve my energy.”

  “You’re getting lazy.”

  “Weary, weary, weary. I like it here.” He stretched and stared out over the glinting lake.

  “I’ve got you a good little gun,” she wheedled. “The Smith and Wesson .41 Magnum Manstopper. It’s a handy gun—not too heavy, not too light. Just the trick.”

  “Is it noisy?”

  “Not very.”

  “Does it kick hard?”

  “Not much.”

  “Well, I’ll use it. But I’m nervous of gunpowder guns.”

  “You lost your other one.”

  “I know I did.”

  “Let’s go back. I??
?ll show it to you and you can try it out. Blam! Blam!”

  “Oh, Jesus, those gleaming eyes!”

  “Har! Har!” She began to run towards the mountains. He paused for only a moment or so before he loped off after her.

  Disappointed mosquitoes saw them disappear into the caves.

  13

  Jerry huddled in his coat as the pilot taxied the plane off the small private runway a couple of miles beyond Kiruna. The Iron Mountain, source of Kiruna’s wealth—source, indeed, of Kiruna—was soon below them as they headed south.

  In Kent they landed and a Dodge Dart and driver were waiting for them. The driver, as silent as the pilot, drove Jerry through a land of drifters, smoke and disturbance, a warped landscape that he only glimpsed as he hunched in his seat and let himself be carried towards the Wamering Research Institute. The place was on the South Coast, just outside a run-down seaside resort. Jerry had memories of the place—white-washed Regency and the sweet smell of spun sugar and frozen custard, cold promenade and green railings, pale lights at night and the silhouette of the pier, faint music, blue cafés and open-top buses. Even as a child he had disliked it all, had turned inland when left to himself.

  The Wamering Research Institute stood on a slope of the Sussex Downs. On the top of the hill was an estate that seemed to have been built during the war. It still had a temporary look about it. The road took them through its concrete streets—a small grid of blocks with two-storeyed houses, white walls and dull red roofs. Puzzled eyes looked out of hollow faces at them. The people stood in family groups—a Father, a Mother, a Son and a Daughter—arms folded, heads turning a little as they passed. A stunned, wronged place.

  “Have you got Mr Pipe the Plumber?” Jerry turned to the driver.

  “Nearly there, sir.” The driver kept his eyes on the road.

  Depressed and in a killing mood, Jerry let the driver drop him off at the gates of the institute’s grounds. The buildings—some of metal, some of plastic, some of concrete—could be seen painted grey and green in weatherproof paints. The concrete ones looked the oldest. The institute seemed to have been established before Leslie Baxter had taken over the buildings.

  Jerry trod the tarmac towards the institute, gun in pocket. He reached the main building, rough concrete with a steel door fairly recently installed. He pressed the bell and heard a faint buzzing within. The battery was running low.

  A girl answered the door, sliding a Judas window.

  Her head looked up and down. “Yes?”

  “I’m Jerry Cornelius.”

  “Come again?”

  “Cornelius. Dr Baxter will recognise the name. I would like to see him. I have something that my father should have given him before he died.”

  “Dr Baxter is very busy indeed. We are doing some important experiments, sir. It is vital work.”

  “Vital, eh?”

  “Dr Baxter believes we can save Britain.”

  “With hallucimats?”

  “I’ll give him your name—but we have to be careful who we let in. Hang on a minute.”

  “Tell him that my plan will radically alter his research.”

  “You’re serious—he will know you?”

  Jerry tired of his joke. “Yes.”

  He waited for more than twenty minutes before the girl returned. “Dr Baxter will be pleased to see you,” she said, opening the steel door.

  Jerry padded into a square reception hall and followed the girl down a corridor like any other corridor. The girl looked strange to him, with long curly hair and a full skirt, seam-free stockings and high heels. It was a long time ago when he’d last seen such a sexy girl. She was a positive anachronism and made him feel slightly sick. He restrained himself from hauling out his gun.

  A door was labelled DR BAXTER; the room contained Dr Baxter. Nice and neat.

  Leslie Baxter was only slightly older than Jerry. Well dressed and kept, tall and pale, gaunt and haunted. His body was bigger than Jerry’s, gave out a greater impression of power, but even Jerry noticed that they were quite similar in appearance.

  “You are Dr Cornelius’s son, I take it? I’m glad to meet you.” His voice was tired, vibrant. “Which son?”

  “Jeremiah, Dr Baxter.”

  “Oh, yes, Jeremiah. We never—”

  “—met. No.”

  “You were always away—”

  “—from home while you were there. Yes. So you never met Frank either?”

  “Only your sister Catherine. How is she?”

  “Dead.”

  “I’m so sorry—she was very young. Was it—?”

  “—an accident? Of sorts. I killed her.”

  “You killed her? Not deliberately?”

  “Who knows? Shall we discuss the matter I came about?”

  Baxter sat down behind his desk. Jerry sat on the other side.

  “You seem distraught, Mr Cornelius. Could I get you a drink, something like that?”

  “No, thanks. Your receptionist said you were doing some very important work. Work—vital to the nation?”

  Baxter looked proud. “Perhaps to the world. I give your father credit for all the original work, you know.”

  “But you’re getting the positive results, eh?”

  “That’s about the size of it.” Baxter flashed Jerry a puzzled look. “Our research into useful hallucinogens and hallucimats is reaching a conclusion. We shall soon be ready.”

  “Useful in what way?”

  “They will reproduce mass-conditioning effects, Mr Cornelius. Mass-conditioning that will make people sane again—saner, in fact, than they have ever been before. Our machines and drugs can do this—or will be able to within a few months. We are, in fact, largely beyond the research stage and are producing several models that have proved absolutely workable. They will help to turn the world onto a sane track. We’ll be able to restore order, salvage the nation’s resources…”

  “It’s got a familiar ring. Don’t you realise it’s a waste of time?” Jerry’s hand stroked the butt of his S&W .41. “It’s over—Europe only points the course of the rest of the world. Entropy’s setting in. Or so they say.”

  “Why should that be true?”

  “It’s Time—it’s all used up.”

  “This is metaphysical nonsense!”

  “Very likely.”

  “What’s your real purpose here?”

  “Your mother wants the missing data—the stuff you didn’t publish.”

  “Mother—? What should she want with—? My mother?”

  “Miss Brunner. Don’t mess about, Dr Baxter.” Jerry smoothed the gun from his pocket and flicked the safety catch.

  “Miss who?”

  “Brunner. You’ve got some secret stuff you haven’t published, haven’t you?”

  “What’s that to you?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Mr Cornelius, I don’t intend to tell you. You are disturbed. I will fetch the receptionist.”

  “Hold it.”

  “Put the gun—”

  “—away, Mr Cornelius. It’s like doing the Junior Crossword. No. Miss Brunner wants that information. You have refused to let her have it. She has authorised me to collect it from you.”

  “Authorised? What’s your authorisation?”

  “You fell into that one.” Jerry laughed. “This!” He waved the gun. “Where’s that information?”

  Baxter glanced towards a filing cabinet on his right.

  “There?” Jerry queried a little petulantly. Was Baxter going to give in so easily? Baxter looked away hastily. Yes, it was probably there.

  “No,” said Baxter.

  “I believe you. Then where is it?”

  “It—was destroyed.”

  “Liar!”

  “Mr Cornelius. This is farcical. I have really important work to do…”

  “It’s all farce, Dr Baxter.” Jerry levelled the gun at Baxter’s stomach as the man rose to reach for a phone. “Freeze. Don’t move. Stay exactly where you are.?
??

  “This is a joke. What did you say?”

  “Freeze. Don’t move. Stay exactly where you are.”

  “It wasn’t what you said—it must have been your tone of voice.”

  “My main assignment from your mother was to get those documents. My main intention is to kill you.”

  “Oh, no. We had those steel doors installed to protect—we were safe—I had to let you in! Mr Cornelius—I’m sure you have never met my mother.”

  “Miss Brunner?”

  “The name is only vaguely familiar, I assure you.”

  “You’re sweating,” said Jerry.

  “I’m not—well, wouldn’t you be? I don’t know a Miss Brunner!” He screamed as the gun banged and the slug splatted into his belly. “Mr Cornelius! It isn’t true! My mother couldn’t—I was born in Mitcham—my father was in the Home Guard!”

  “A likely story.” Jerry shot him again, bang!

  “And my mother worked in the margarine factory. Mr and Mrs Baxter—Dahlia Gardens, Mitcham. You can look them up.”

  Bang!

  “It’s true!” Baxter seemed to realise that he was full of large bullet holes. His eyes glazed. He fell forward over the desk.

  The girl was hammering on the door. “Dr Baxter! Dr Baxter! What is it?”

  “Something’s going wrong,” Cornelius shouted back. “Just a minute.”

  He opened the door and let her in. “Were you the only one who heard the noise?” He closed the door as she gasped and stared at the body on the desk.

  “Yes—everyone else is in the lab. What—?”

  Jerry shot her in the back at the base of the spine. She was silent for a moment. Screamed. Blacked out or died at once, you could never be quite sure.

  Jerry crossed to the filing cabinet, pocketing the gun. It took him half an hour of careful leafing to find the files he wanted. But Dr Baxter, for all his faults, had been a tidy chap.

  Jerry went out of the room with the file under his arm, a natty figure in his black car coat and tight black trousers, down the passage, through the reception hall, out of the main door and down the drive. He felt considerably better, in spite of the unpleasant smell of cordite in his nostrils and the bruised feeling of his right hand. He hadn’t liked the shooting part very much.

  The Dodge Dart, electric-blue and powerful, was waiting. The driver had the engine running as Jerry climbed in.