The areas on either side of the expressway were wasteland, continuous junkyards filled with cars and trucks, washing machines and refrigerators, all perfectly workable but jettisoned by the economic pressure of the succeeding waves of discount models. Their intact chrome hardly tarnished, the metal shells and cabinets glittered in the sunlight. Nearer the city the billboards were sufficiently close together to hide them but now and then, as he slowed to approach one of the flyovers, Franklin caught a glimpse of the huge pyramids of metal, gleaming silently like the refuse grounds of some forgotten El Dorado.
That evening Hathaway was waiting for him as he came down the hospital steps. Franklin waved him across the court, then led the way quickly to his car.
‘What’s the matter, Doctor?’ Hathaway asked as Franklin wound up the windows and glanced around the lines of parked cars. ‘Is someone after you?’
Franklin laughed sombrely. ‘I don’t know. I hope not, but if what you say is right, I suppose there is.’
Hathaway leaned back with a chuckle, propping one knee up on the dashboard. ‘So you’ve seen something, Doctor, after all.’
‘Well, I’m not sure yet, but there’s just a chance you may be right. This morning at the Fairlawne supermarket…’ He broke off, uneasily remembering the huge black sign and the abrupt way in which he had turned back to the supermarket as he approached it, then described his encounter.
Hathaway nodded. ‘I’ve seen the sign there. It’s big, but not as big as some that are going up. They’re building them everywhere now. All over the city. What are you going to do, Doctor?’
Franklin gripped the wheel tightly. Hathaway’s thinly veiled amusement irritated him. ‘Nothing, of course. Damn it, it may be just auto-suggestion, you’ve probably got me imagining—’
Hathaway sat up with a jerk. ‘Don’t be absurd, Doctor! If you can’t believe your own senses what chance have you left? They’re invading your brain, if you don’t defend yourself they’ll take it over completely! We’ve got to act now, before we’re all paralysed.’
Wearily Franklin raised one hand to restrain him. ‘Just a minute. Assuming that these signs are going up everywhere, what would be their object? Apart from wasting the enormous amount of capital invested in all the other millions of signs and billboards, the amounts of discretionary spending power still available must be infinitesimal. Some of the present mortgage and discount schemes reach half a century ahead. A big trade war would be disastrous.’
‘Quite right, Doctor,’ Hathaway rejoined evenly, ‘but you’re forgetting one thing. What would supply that extra spending power? A big increase in production. Already they’ve started to raise the working day from twelve hours to fourteen. In some of the appliance plants around the city Sunday working is being introduced as a norm. Can you visualize it, Doctor — a seven-day week, everyone with at least three jobs.’
Franklin shook his head. ‘People won’t stand for it.’
‘They will. Within the last twenty-five years the gross national product has risen by fifty per cent, but so have the average hours worked. Ultimately we’ll all be working and spending twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. No one will dare refuse. Think what a slump would mean — millions of lay-offs, people with time on their hands and nothing to spend it on. Real leisure, not just time spent buying things,’ He seized Franklin by the shoulder. ‘Well, Doctor, are you going to join me?’
Franklin freed himself. Half a mile away, partly hidden by the fourstorey bulk of the Pathology Department, was the upper half of one of the giant signs, workmen still crawling across its girders. The airlines over the city had deliberately been routed away from the hospital, and the sign obviously had no connection with approaching aircraft.
‘Isn’t there a prohibition on — what did they call it — subliminal living? How can the unions accept it?’
‘The fear of a slump. You know the new economic dogmas. Unless output rises by a steady inflationary five per cent the economy is stagnating. Ten years ago increased efficiency alone would raise output, but the advantages there are minimal now and only one thing is left. More work. Subliminal advertising will provide the spur.’
‘What are you planning to do?’
‘I can’t tell you, Doctor, unless you accept equal responsibility for it.’
‘That sounds rather Quixotic,’ Franklin commented. ‘Tilting at windmills. You won’t be able to chop those things down with an axe.’
‘I won’t try.’ Hathaway opened the door. ‘Don’t wait too long to make up your mind, Doctor. By then it may not be yours to make up.’ With a wave he was gone.
