Mood Indigo (19 page)

‘I realize that your guess is as good as mine!' said Chloe.

The professor sounded her. He stood up again.

‘Fine,' he said. ‘But, of course, you aren't the same as you were before.'

‘Aren't I?' said Chloe.

‘No,' said the professor. ‘One lung has completely collapsed – or almost.'

‘I don't care about that,' said Chloe, ‘so long as the other one is all right!'

‘But if you catch something there,' said the professor, ‘it will be rotten for your husband.'

‘But not for me?' said Chloe.

‘Not for you any more,' said the professor. He stood up.

‘I don't want to frighten you for nothing, but do try to be very careful.'

‘I am very careful,' said Chloe.

Her eyes grew wide. She put a nervous hand through her hair.

‘What must I do to be sure nothing gets in the other one?' she asked, almost with tears in her voice.

‘Don't worry, my girl,' said the professor. ‘There's no reason why you should catch anything in it.'

He looked round.

‘I liked your first flat better. It seemed much more healthy.'

‘Yes,' said Colin. ‘But it isn't our fault …'

‘What do you do, my lad?' asked the professor.

‘I find things out,' said Colin. ‘And I love Chloe.'

‘You don't make any money out of your work?' asked the professor.

‘No,' said Colin. ‘I don't work in the way that people usually understand the expression.'

‘Work is a horrible thing. I know only too well,' murmured the professor. ‘But if we all did what we liked, nobody would have any money, since …'

He stopped himself.

‘Last time I was here you showed me a contraption which produced amazing results. Is it still here by any chance?'

‘No,' said Colin. ‘I've sold it. But I can still give you a drink …'

Gnawknuckle stuck his fingers in the collar of his yellow shirt and scratched his neck.

‘I'm following you. Good-bye, young lady,' he said.

‘Good-bye, doctor,' said Chloe.

She slid down to the foot of the bed and pulled the eiderdown up to her neck. Her face was bright and tender behind the sheets of lavender blue hemmed with purple.

Chick went through the turnstile and put his card in the clocking-on machine. As usual, he tripped over the threshold by the iron gates in the passage leading to the workshops, and a violent gust of white steam and black smoke hit him in the face. Noises began to go through his ears. The sinister purring of the main turbo-generators, the hissing and clinking of the rolling ladders on their little herringbone girders joined the roaring wind as it big-dippered over the corrugated iron roofs. The dark passage was lit every six yards by a dull red bulb whose glow trickled lazily over slippery objects and clutched the rugged sides of the walls in order to get round them. Underfoot the pressed steel was warm, though cracked and broken in places, and through the holes one could see the sombre red jaws of the stone furnaces below. Rumbling fluids careered through fat pipes painted in peeling red and grey and, at each beat of the mechanical heart into which the stokers were pumping life, the skeleton of the building bent slightly forward, stood still for thirty seconds and then shuddered from top to toe. Damp drops formed on the walls, sometimes being shaken off by an extra deep throb. When one of these drops fell on to his neck, Chick shivered. The water was rusty, and smelt of ozone. The passage took a sharp turn to the right at the end and the floor here was completely transparent, looking over the workshops.

Down below, in front of each mammoth machine, a man was struggling, struggling so as not to be slashed and torn apart by the voracious cogs facing him. Every man's right foot was held down by a heavy iron ring. They were only let off twice a day – at night and at noon. They were fighting
with the machines for the pieces of metal which came clashing out of the narrow orifices in their tops. If they weren't picked up in time, the pieces fell back almost immediately into the fierce mouths swarming with gnashing cogs where they were ground down again.

There were all shapes and sizes of apparatus. Chick was accustomed to the scene. He worked at the end of one of the workshops and had to make sure that the machines were in good working order and instruct the men to repair them when they jammed after having wrenched off a tough limb or stringy piece of flesh from one of them.

Long sprays, shimmering with reflections, crossed the area diagonally to purify the air. The smoke, metal dust and warm oil condensed around these sprays and rose in tall thin columns above each machine. Chick looked up. The pipes were still going along with him. He reached the cage of the descending platform, went in and closed the door behind him. He took one of Heartre's books from his pocket, pressed the button, and read as much as he could before he reached the bottom.

The platform landed on the metal buffer with a dull thud and wrenched him from his reverie. He stepped out and went to his office. It was a feebly lit glass box from which he could see across the workshops. He sat down, opened his book again, and went on reading from where he had left off and was soon gently lulled to sleep by the throbbing fluids in the pipes and the noises of the machines.

A discordant note in the midst of the hubbub made him suddenly open his eyes and look up. He looked round to see where the odd note might be coming from. One of the purifying sprays had stopped dead in the middle of the shed and stayed rigid in the air as if it had been cut in two.
The four machines which it had stopped serving began to quake. From afar you could see them slowing down and a vague silhouette sink before each of them. Chick put down his book and rushed out. He ran to the board that controlled the sprays and hurriedly pulled a lever. The broken spray did not move. It was like the blade of a severed scimitar. The smoke from the four machines curled in the air like rival whirlwinds. He left the control-board and rushed over to the machines which were slowly running down. Their operators were lying on the ground, their right legs bent under them at an awkward angle because of the iron rings, and their four right hands were sliced off at the wrists. Their blood boiled as it spilt on the metal of the chain and a horrible smell of burning living flesh spread across the shed.

Chick unlocked the rings holding the bodies down with his key, and stretched them out in front of their machines. Then he went back to his office and ordered the duty stretcher-bearers over the phone. Then he went straight back to the control-board to try to get the spray working again. There was nothing doing. The liquid shot straight out but, when it reached the position of the fourth machine, it simply disappeared. The break in the spray was neat and clean as if it had been chopped through by an axe.

Annoyed, and feeling in his pocket to make sure that his book was there, he went off to the main office block. As he left the workshop he stood aside to let the stretcher-bearers pass with the four bodies that they had piled on to a little electric trolley ready to dump them into the main sewer.

He took a different corridor. Far ahead of him the little trolley skidded and turned with a dull hum, sending out occasional sparks. The low ceiling reverberated with the sound of his footsteps on the metal floor. The floor began
to slope upwards slightly. In order to get to the main office block he had to go through three other workshops and Chick meandered along his way. At last he reached the main block and went into the personnel officer's department.

‘There's been some damage to numbers seven hundred and nine, ten, eleven and twelve,' he told a secretary behind a desk. ‘There are four men to be replaced and I think their machines will have to be scrapped. Can I have a word with the personnel officer?'

The secretary pressed a few red buttons on a varnished mahogany board and said ‘Go in. He's expecting you.'

Chick went in and sat down. The personnel officer gave him a puzzled look.

‘I need four men,' said Chick.

‘OK,' said the personnel officer, ‘you can have them in the morning.'

‘One of the purification sprays has stopped working,' he said.

‘Nothing to do with me,' said the personnel officer. ‘Go next door.'

Chick went out and through the same formalities before going into the chief engineer's office.

‘One of the purification sprays has broken down,' he said.

‘Altogether?'

‘It won't reach to the end,' said Chick.

‘Couldn't you repair it?'

‘No,' said Chick. ‘There's nothing doing.'

‘I'll get your workshop looked over,' said the chief engineer.

‘Hurry,' said Chick. ‘My production's going down while I wait.'

‘That's nothing to do with me,' said the chief engineer. ‘See the production manager about that.'

Chick reached the next block and went in to see the production manager. The office there was brilliantly lit and on the wall behind the desk a red line, like a caterpillar on a leaf, was slowly crawling upwards to the right of a large matt glass panel. Underneath the chart the needles on large circular indicators were going round even more slowly under their chrome-edged glasses.

‘Your production's gone down by seven per cent,' said the production manager. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Four machines out of order,' said Chick.

‘When it reaches eight per cent you get your cards,' said the production manager.

He swung round on his chromium chair and looked at the indicator.

‘Seven point eight per cent,' he said. ‘In your shoes I'd have started getting my things ready.'

‘It's the first time anything like this has happened to me,' said Chick.

‘I'm sorry,' said the production manager. ‘Perhaps we could transfer you to another shift …'

‘I'm not very keen on that,' said Chick. ‘I'm not even very keen on work. It's not my favourite pastime.'

‘Nobody has the right to say that,' said the production manager. ‘You're fired,' he added.

‘I couldn't help it,' said Chick. ‘Where's your sense of justice?'

‘Never heard of it,' said the production manager. ‘Anyway, I'm too busy to waste my time talking to you.'

Chick went out of the office. He went back to see the personnel officer.

‘Can I have my money?' he asked.

‘Number?' said the personnel officer.

‘Workshop 700. Engineer.'

‘Just a minute.'

He turned to his secretary and said, ‘Do the necessary.'

Then he spoke into an internal speaker.

‘Hello!' he said. ‘Send a replacement engineer, type 5, to Workshop 700.'

‘Here you are,' said the secretary, handing an envelope to Chick. ‘A hundred and ten doublezoons.'

‘Thank you!' said Chick, and he went out. He bumped into a tired-looking, thin, fair, young man. This was the engineer who was going to replace him. Chick went to the nearest lift and stepped into the car.

‘Come in,' said the record-maker.

He looked up at the door. It was Chick.

‘Good-morning,' said Chick. ‘I've come to collect those recordings I brought in.'

‘I'm just doing your account,' said the record-maker. ‘For cutting thirty sides, making special tools, engraving twenty numbered copies by pantograph on each side … I make it that you owe us a hundred and eight doublezoons in all. I'll let you have the discs for a hundred and five.'

‘Here you are,' said Chick. ‘I've got a cheque for a hundred and ten doublezoons – I'll endorse it and you can give me back five doublezoons in cash.'

‘Agreed,' said the record-maker.

He pulled out his drawer and gave Chick a brand new five-doublezoon note.

The flames in Chick's eyes – that were the light of his face – flickered out.

Isis got out. Nicholas was driving the car. He looked at his watch and followed her with his eyes as she went into Colin and Chloe's house. He had a new white gaberdine uniform and a white leather cap with a peak. He had grown young again, but some deep inner disturbance showed through the lines of worry in his expression.

The width of the stairs suddenly diminished when they reached Colin's floor and Isis could touch the banisters and the cold wall at the same time without putting out her arms. The carpet was nothing more than a thin fluff which hardly covered the boards. She reached the landing, slightly out of breath, and rang.

Nobody came to open the door. There was no sound on the staircase, apart from an occasional creak followed by a plop every time a tread gave way.

Isis rang again. On the other side of the door she could hear the tiny trill of the little steel hammer on the metal bell. She gave the door a push and it burst open.

She went in and tripped over Colin. He was stretched out on the floor with his arms straight out … His eyes were closed. It was dark in the doorway. A halo of light could be seen round the window, but it did not come in. He was breathing quietly. He was asleep.

Isis bent down, knelt by his side and touched his cheek. His skin trembled a little and his eyes moved beneath their lids. He looked at Isis and seemed to fall asleep again. Isis gave him a little shake. He sat up, put his hand over his mouth, and yawned. ‘I was asleep.'

‘So I see,' said Isis. ‘Don't you sleep in bed any more?'

‘No,' said Colin. ‘I wanted to stay here and wait for the doctor, then go and fetch some flowers.'

He seemed to have no clear idea of what he was doing.

‘What's the trouble?' said Isis.

‘It's Chloe,' said Colin. ‘She's started coughing again.'

‘It's probably a little irritation still there,' said Isis.

‘No,' said Colin. ‘It's the other lung.'