Читать книгу Ostrich Country - David Nobbs - Страница 5

Some of the slides had a man in them, and when one of these was shown the pigeons would find food. Some of them had no man in them. This meant that the pigeons would find only buttons and hard objects in the bowls.

When this pattern had been fully established, when man in slide equalled goodies even to the most retarded pigeon, Cummings would insert the algae. Some untreated, some flavoured, some mixed with pesticides, some from the outflow of nuclear power stations. Then Bradley and Pegasus would correlate the results.

Pegasus was merely a cog in all this. Miss Besant brought him his instructions from Mr Colthorpe, he got his results, Miss Besant took his results back to Mr Colthorpe. His little piece of work was fitted into someone else’s grand design.

Bradley passed through now.

‘Fantastic,’ said Bradley.

‘Yes?’

‘The cats given the fish-flavoured weed from the Yorkshire Ouse are doing fantastically well. Twelve per cent heavier than the cats fed on normal cat food.’

‘Fantastic.’

This was progress. Vast immovable growths of weed-guzzling cat. Must make the break today, while Cousin Percy’s prediction is fresh in my mind.

Pegasus had often alleviated the boredom and distastefulness of his work by trying to convince himself that it was in the national interest, that he was a dedicated man, patriotically resisting the brain drain.

At other times, when he was wanting to persuade himself to give up and become a chef, he’d tried to convince himself that it wasn’t in the national interest, or that the national interest wasn’t in the world interest, or something, anything helpful.

He had never yet convinced himself of anything.

He began to go through the arguments again, the same old arguments, so familiar that he thought of them in note form nowadays.

He thought: Food, research into new sources of. For: increased use of earth’s resources. Elimination of starvation. Against: increased depletion of earth’s resources. Elimination of starvation could lead to even worse population problems, hence to even worse starvation.

Conclusion as regards value for mankind of nutritional experiments: no conclusion.

Miss Besant was typing — smoothly, lightly, efficiently, by way of contrast with her plump figure and red legs. She lodged in Willesden with two friends, kept her personality in the bank and only withdrew it at week-ends.

The coffee came round. Have one on me, Miss Besant. Nice momentarily to feel generous. Vile coffee. Niceness gone. No air. Stifling. Poor old pigeons. Dancing helplessly to man’s absurd tune. Slides in one of the cages not coming through. Sort that out. Coffee now cold. Resume arguments.

To hell with the arguments. Make the break now.

‘Miss Besant?’

The clacking stopped.

‘Yes?’

‘Will you do me a favour? Go and get me a copy of the Caterer and Hotel Keeper, if you can find one.’

The decision had been made at last.

It was National Pig Week, and a display of pig products had been laid out in Reception. A double track model railway wended its way among the scenic gammon, and two pork pies rode slowly round and round, one in each direction, from nine till five-thirty.

Mr Prestwick, personnel manager of Wine and Dine Ltd, averted his gaze from this exhibit as he made his way back to his tiny, hot office high above the Euston Road.

‘Send Mr Baines in, Miss Purkiss,’ he said into the intercom.

His ulcer was playing him up, his rise hadn’t materialized, his wife had sent a van for all her furniture, he was living alone in half-empty rooms, he had never felt less like managing personnel.

Baines entered, with all the absurd hopes of youth. A tall, slim, quite good-looking young man with slightly stick-out ears and a surprisingly solid face.

‘So you want to work for us?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Baines, and Mr Prestwick envied him his steady unaffected middle-class voice. Something was going wrong with Mr Prestwick’s voice. It didn’t always stay tuned in quite right. Sometimes there was a low whistle, or a hum, or a crackle.

‘One or two questions, just make sure you know your French irregular herbs,’ said Mr Prestwick.

Baines managed some kind of a smile. They usually managed some kind of a smile.

‘Are you familiar with our organization?’

‘Not really.’

‘You’re aware that we’re synonymous with quality?’

‘I imagine you would be.’

‘Do you want bouillabaise in Barnsley or moussaka in Macclesfield? Then dine and wine at your nearest Wine and Dine house. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

‘Visit the Golden Galleon, Aylesbury, and enjoy the best of British Duck?’

‘No sir.’

Those idiots in 117 had been wasting their time. Mr Prestwick laughed inwardly, hurting his ulcer.

‘I want to work in the country, sir.’

‘You’re a graduate, Baines. Arts graduates …’ My God, I whined. I went off my wavelength. He hasn’t shown he’s noticed. ‘Arts graduates go either into management or to our scenic department at Hatfield, where all our décor and costumes are made. Science graduates go to our research department at Staines. You are a science graduate. You would be sent to Staines.’

‘But I thought I made it clear, sir. I want to be a chef.’

‘We sent a chap like you to Staines two years ago, and already he’s our chief macaroon consistency supervisor.’

‘But sir …’

‘You have a science degree. I don’t think the organization would let you waste your talents by becoming a chef.’

‘Well, if you can’t give me this job as chef in a country hotel, sir, I honestly think I’d better look elsewhere.’

Mr Prestwick followed Baines’s back as he walked away down the Euston Road. His own son had been a disappointment.

‘Miss Purkiss?’

Miss Purkiss entered with her long legs and notebook.

‘Take a letter, Miss Purkiss. Reference AB/47/32E. Dear Mrs Prestwick. Further to my letter of the twenty-sixth ult. I must report that the nest of tables was mine. It was left to me by Aunt … Miss Purkiss?’

‘Yes, Mr Prestwick?’

‘Is there anything at all odd about my voice?’

‘No, Mr Prestwick.’

‘My voice seems completely normal to you, does it?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Prestwick.’

Why did they all think he wasn’t capable of facing up to the truth?

He must seize the moment. If he waited until he’d got a job, he might never leave.

But ought he to leave? Wasn’t his true work here, with Bradley and Cummings?

Pegasus thought: Two. Will knowledge gained in methods of conditioning minds of living beings prove beneficial or harmful to mankind?

Disturbing thought: What can be done by Cummings to a pigeon can be done by a dictator to Cummings.

Unclassified thought: Scientific enquiry in itself neither good nor bad. A process.

Question: Can we ignore future applications?

Answer: No. Therefore we must ask ourselves the

Further Question: Is man good or bad?

Answer: No.

Supplementary Question: Is …

Bradley came through, looking rather sad.

‘Can’t understand it,’ he said.

‘No?’

‘All the Dungeness rats have died.’

Bradley’s sadness lay not in the ending of animal life but in the refusal of the rats to fulfil man’s predictions.

He must act now.

‘May I use your typewriter for a moment, Miss Besant?’

He began to type his notice. Then he hesitated.

He thought: Three. In favour of experiments with minds of birds and animals. Could help fight against mental illness. By helping to understand animal mind, could help to liberate human mind.

Against. Could be used by fascists, dictators, power-mad school prefects (Murdoch!) etc. By helping to understand animal mind, could help to enslave human mind.

Conclusion: no conclusion.

Always the same. It was impossible to decide anything by means of reason, either because he had an inferior mind or because it really was impossible to decide anything by means of reason.

The Dungeness rats had all died, poor sods. Life would be easier if he could hate rats, but he didn’t. He never wished anything any harm, rats, Paula, spiders, anything.

He resumed his typing. As he typed he could see Cummings, cooing to the pigeons, rapidly becoming one himself, inflated Cummings going through his courtship display. Coo coo. Conditioning himself when he thought he was conditioning others.

He finished typing his notice. He put it in an envelope. He addressed the envelope to Mr Colthorpe. He dropped the envelope into the internal mail tray. He felt wonderful.

‘Miss Besant?’

‘Yes.’

‘If your boy friend told you that he knew a place where you could get the best algae in the Home Counties, what would you say?’

‘I haven’t got a boy friend, Mr Baines.’

He had only thought of Paula once during the last hour. He was on the mend.

‘Why not, Miss Besant?’

‘Why not what, Mr Baines?’

‘Why haven’t you got a boy friend?’

‘What a question, Mr Baines.’

It was not Pegasus’s nature to be referred to as ‘Mr Baines’ by young women. He wanted Miss Besant to call him ‘Pegasus’. He wanted to share his happiness with someone, so he asked her out that evening. She wasn’t beautiful or intelligent, but she was nice, and wasn’t it selfish always to go for the beautiful and intelligent? He would choose this nice lonely Miss Besant, whom no one else had chosen.

As the evening wore on he grew terrified that Paula would see him with Miss Besant. He took her to the Classic, Tooting, in order to avoid being seen by anyone he knew.

His old head prefect Murdoch was sitting two rows behind them. What did it matter? Why on earth did he mind?

That night he dreamt that he was in a cage, being fed on seaweed and Cummings’s droppings. Twelve school prefects were waiting for him to do his sample. An electric recording device had been fitted to his head. Some of the slides showed traffic accidents. The others showed Miss Besant. Sometimes there was blood in the accident, and sometimes there was blood on Miss Besant. When there was blood he got an electric shock. It was hot, stifling. The sweat poured off him.