Manalone (15 page)

Shears scowled.

‘Then you claim to have absolute knowledge that Raper never reached Bognor?’

‘Didn’t I see the results of the accident myself on television?’ Manalone played his last card. He had no doubt that Shears was behind the masquerade surrounding Paul’s death, and it was obviously a secret the MIPS colonel did not want discussed in front of members of the local constabulary. The sour look in Shears’ eyes confirmed this opinion.

‘You’ve not heard the last of this, Manalone. I’ll be seeing you again – somewhere where we can talk a little more productively.’

Shears rose to his feet and motioned his escort to proceed him out of the door. As he turned to leave, he spoke over his shoulder. ‘It’s been interesting meeting you, Manalone. It promises to become even more interesting as time goes on.’

Fortunately the big old
book remained securely on its ledge.

‘Zheesh!’ Kitten
came out from her corner as the door closed. Relief was written broadly on her face. ‘I’m certainly glad you were here, Manalone.’

‘I’m sure you were.’ Manalone had taken down the book and was sitting at the rough table leafing through it. ‘How
did
you come by that bruise on your face, Kitten? Shears didn’t do it, for sure.’

‘No.’ She dropped her head. ‘I guess I lied a little. The last time they came, I tried to run. One of the policemen swung the door to stop me. I ran into the edge of it.’

‘That’s nearer what I calculated. What made you agree to set a trap for me?’

‘Manalone … I …’

‘Don’t bother pretending you didn’t. It wasn’t a coincidence that Shears arrived here when he did. You called me here on his instructions.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Kitten – with this bush-telegraph thing that operates on the raft, Shears and his escort couldn’t possibly have got through without you receiving some warning. I’d guess they were close by all the time. And seeing they didn’t bother to search when they arrived, they must have known exactly what they’d find here – me.’

‘Damn! I hoped you’d never get to know. They forced me to do it, Manalone. But they promised you wouldn’t get hurt. They threatened they were going to take me away from the children … Are you very angry?’

‘For Paul’s sake, I’m very disappointed. Did you shop him too?’

‘Please don’t make me answer that.’

‘I don’t much want to know the answer. What I want to know is why.’

‘Why what?’

‘Why Colonel Shears used you to get me here, when he could more easily have visited me at home. The only answer that makes sense is that he wanted me to have this book.’

‘But he didn’t find the book. He doesn’t know you’ve got it.’

‘My dear
Kitten,’ said Manalone patiently, ‘he
planted
the book. It was never Paul’s at all. Now that’s the truth, isn’t it?’

‘Damn you, Manalone! How did you know that?’

‘There’s a label here which used to read:
“Ex Libris
B. P. S.” Somebody erased the initials, but he couldn’t remove the indentation. A big old book from the library of Colonel Brian P. Shears. What is it, Kitten – a red herring designed to throw me on the wrong track? Or do I get arrested for being found with it in my possession?’

‘They didn’t tell me, Manalone. They made me plant it on you, is all I know. Shears’ll kill me if he knows you’ve found out.’

‘I don’t much care if he does. One thing’s certain – I daren’t risk taking it with me. Everything I touch seems to acquire a security classification. At a guess, this is my passport into the nearest penal labour camp.’

‘Hell, Manalone … I’m sorry! What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to sit right here and learn what I can from it. When I leave you can do with it whatever you wish.’

‘You’re very angry, aren’t you?’

‘Not angry, Kitten. Bewildered. I used to lead a nice, quiet, well-ordered existence. Physics and people both appeared to operate within predictable limits. I always had reservations about people, because I never really understood them. But physics I did understand. Now it appears that even physics is not the close approximation to reality that it used to seem.’

‘You’re certainly a queer fish, Manalone,’ said Kitten seriously. ‘If you’re going to read that book here I’d better see if I can find you another lamp.’

‘The game, Manalone … it’s all part of the game. Shears already knew you had the eco-crisis list. Maurine must have searched your desk a dozen times since then. So why did he make a play of asking?’

With the second lamp he found it easier to see the detail on the pages of the book.

‘And why kill Paul? If that did anything at all it pointed up the fact that the information he was feeding you contained at least a portion of the truth.’

He moved the two
lamps together to concentrate the light.

‘And the death of Pierce Oman underscored the fact that teapot handles are important. Important to whom … and how?’

Page by page the sketches showed him moments of a bygone age, locked in frozen motion by another’s hand, another’s eye. It was an interpretation of past life viewed through another person’s brain, and the pictures reflected not only the scenes but also something of the emotions they had evoked.

‘This book … the trick that brought it to your hands had only one endpoint – it emphasized the importance of the apparently irrelevant. Is that what they’re trying to do? To throw into focus the relevant parts of a thousand disconnected things? If so, Manalone, could it be that somebody wants you to crack this problem? As a party game, it could be a riot. As a way of life it leaves a lot to be desired. Or is all this emphasis an incidental by-product?’

He finished the book, interested and informed and vaguely envious of the hand that had transferred such images to paper. But the anticipated revelation was still absent. He had found in its pages all the magic the artist had intended to convey, but none of the answers to his contemporary problem. As with teapot handles and lists of crises which should have happened but had not, he knew he was missing the point. The vital spark of genius needed to start the flare of understanding, refused to come. Morning found him asleep with his head resting on the pages of the book.

Going to the Mills direct from the raft was a new experience for Manalone. In the early light the bright activity along the sea-front and the freshness of the air, created an atmosphere completely different from his usual dull awakenings. Even waiting at the roadside for an autram seemed something unique and faintly illicit, which pleased him with its novelty.

Because the vehicle was not his usual contract autram, its programme directed it to the visitors’ entrance to the Mills, instead of the staff gate. This again was a welcome break from routine. The visitors’ entrance appeared unmanned, and having entered the gates, Manalone sauntered the long way round the lawns, enjoying the early sunshine. He was unshaven, and his personal linen had not been changed, but he was feeling sufficiently at odds with the normal pattern of life not to let it worry him.

Reaching his office,
his key unaccountably refused to operate the latch. He examined the offending instrument in case he had chosen the wrong one from the wallet. Inexplicably, there was no mistake. He tried then to unlock the door of the computer laboratory. It, too, refused to respond. With a frown of annoyance he stooped to examine the lock, and recoiled in shock at the shining faceplate. Since he had locked up the afternoon before, someone had changed the locks.

Cursing at the inconvenience, he turned towards Vickers’ office, realizing as he did so that it was unlikely that the Comptroller had yet arrived. Again he was surprised. Both Vickers and Maurine were already present, the latter giving him a startled and reproachful look as he entered her office. Sensing her involvement, he beat her to Vickers’ door and entered without knocking.

‘Adam – what the hell’s going on? Some idiot’s changed …’ His voice trailed away as he saw the look on Vickers’ face.

‘You shouldn’t be here, Manalone. Didn’t you get my message?’

‘What message?’

‘The one I left at your home. Your security clearance has been withdrawn. You’ve no business on the plant any more. They shouldn’t have let you through the gates.’

‘I’ve not been home all night,’ said Manalone. ‘I didn’t know. But anyway, the whole idea’s ridiculous.’

‘It’s out of my hands,’ said Vickers. ‘I contested the security withdrawal and got threatened with suspension myself. They won’t shift on the decision, and I can’t make them, even to save the Mills. You’ll get six months’ salary in lieu of notice. I’ll have the credits sent by post.’

The Comptroller was obviously fighting under a great weight of emotions, not the least of which was an unspoken denouncement of betrayal on Manalone’s part. Under this was a fear that without Manalone’s guiding knowledge and skills, the Mills themselves might falter and eventually have to close. This would be a disaster not only for the rest of the staff but for the district as a whole.

‘Adam, I …’

‘Look, Manalone,
don’t make it any tougher on the both of us. I’m trying to do this nicely. But if you aren’t clear of this plant in five minutes, I’ll have to call the police.’

‘But the reasons? There have to be reasons for withdrawing security clearance.’

‘You’re asking
me
for reasons?’ Vickers’ temper flared suddenly. ‘Don’t you think you could offer me a few reasons? I don’t know what you’ve got yourself involved with, Manalone, but if I were you I’d quit. You’ve lost your job – and you’ll probably lose your home. Are you trying to finish in the gutter?’

‘I’ll fight the decision,’ said Manalone. ‘Just give me the name of the security authority. I want to know who’s behind all this.’

‘Goodbye, Manalone!’ Vickers held out his hand. Manalone was shaken to see there were tears in his eyes. He briefly grasped the offered hand, then turned aside, feeling his own face becoming stiff with bitterness. He headed out of the door, his vision burning with a red haze of anger.

Maurine was seated at her desk, watching him as he emerged.

‘Sorry, Manalone!’ she said quietly as he passed. ‘But at least you were warned.’ This time there was no triumph in her face.

‘I’ll win, Mau. Even yet. Once I find what it is that’s being hidden. I’ll shake the world apart if necessary.’

‘I’ll tell you this – you’ve got a lot of people worried. Could be you’re nearer the answer than you know. Good luck, Manalone!’

Stepping outside the gates
of the Mills knowing he would not be able to return, was a new experience for Manalone. He had taken ten paces before the full weight of the situation hit him. The national unemployment rate was fifty-three percent. Along the depressed south coast, the figure was nearer seventy percent. A technician with his training and capability would find another job – eventually. In the meantime the purely survival-level unemployment payments would mean he must exist almost entirely on his capital until his next appointment came. Eventually could seem like an eternity.

Manalone himself was not a prodigal spender, but his housing expenses were high and Sandra’s extravagances were a continual drain on his resources. Nevertheless, with six months’ salary in lieu of notice plus his reserves and some economies, he estimated he could live for about a year without his living standard being too much affected. This was the rational viewpoint. Behind it lay the dark fear of depression. If his dismissal was part of the MIPS deliberate degradation treatment, they could as easily prevent him from getting another job. Long before all the money was gone he would have lost his credit rating and probably his house. Already the gutter was in sight, even if only as a future spectre.

Manalone shrugged. It was a potent threat but there was nothing in it yet which would persuade him to change his mind about pursuing the problem. He had the feeling that even when he hit the gutter he would still be searching, looking amongst the stones for the reason why the past had to be buried, and trying to figure out what had happened to gravity and momentum.

His most immediate problem was how to explain his dismissal to Sandra. Even at his previous salary level she had continually complained that the money was not sufficient for her needs. The prospect of twelve months of economy followed by the possible complete cessation of income, was guaranteed to bring out the worst in her. Manalone decided that the telling of the story was something better not delayed.

Unusually, when he
reached home he found her in. Whatever festive event she had planned for the day, it had evidently run sour on her. Though she was dressed to her usual standard of perfection, it was doubtful if she had anywhere to go. She was in the loungespace picking to pieces an expensive natural flower, and watching the auto-clean drive itself into a frenzy as it strove to collect the continually falling petals from the carpet.

‘My God, Manalone! Shouldn’t you be at work?’

There was no greeting, no solicitous enquiry, no great concern, even, about where he had spent the previous night. Her emphasis was directed not towards him but towards the maintenance of the system. Manalone’s thoughts were thrown back to one of the sketches in the big old book, in which a tired donkey had stopped resolutely in its tracks and refused to carry its burdensome mistress any further. The simile was not exact, but he could easily identify himself with the stubborn and work-worn donkey, and Sandra as the burden he carried on his back. The notion pleased him a little. It made it easier to say what had to be said.

‘Sandra – I’ve finished at the Mills. My security clearance has been cancelled.’

‘Forget it, Manalone! Humour’s another one of your weak points.’ She was bored and distracted and not really listening.

He felt like shaking her until her teeth rattled. Never before had he laid an angry hand on her, no matter how strongly he had felt the provocation, but at that moment he came perilously close to descending on her in fury. Checking himself, he decided he could do all the necessary demolition merely using words.