But as he listened to the old man warning him that sooner or later he would add to these terminal moraines, Halloway had been exhilarated by the scenes around him. Far from disfiguring the landscape, these discarded products of Twentieth-Century industry had a fierce and wayward beauty. Halloway was fascinated by the glimmering sheen of the metal-scummed canals, by the strange submarine melancholy of drowned cars looming up at him from abandoned lakes, by the brilliant colours of the garbage hills, by the glitter of a million cans embedded in a matrix of detergent packs and tinfoil, a kaleidoscope of everything they could wear, eat and drink. He was fascinated by the cobalt clouds that drifted below the surface of the water, free at last of all plants and fish, the soft chemical billows interacting as they seeped from the sodden soil. He explored the whorls of steel shavings, foliage culled from a metallic christmas tree, the bales of rusting wire whose dense copper hues formed a burnished forest in the sunlight. He gazed raptly at the chalky whiteness of old china-clay tips, vivid as powdered ice, abandoned railyards with their moss-covered locomotives, the undimmed beauty of industrial wastes produced by skills and imaginations far richer than nature’s, more splendid than any Arcadian meadow. Unlike nature, here there was no death.
Lulled by this vision of technology’s Elysian Fields, Halloway sat halfasleep behind the commissioner’s desk, dwarfed by the leather-backed chair. When he woke he found that the TV monitor was again showing a jumble of interference patterns. Part of the excitement of city life was the constant breakdown of these poorly designed appliances, and the difficulty of getting hold of a repairman. In Garden City, every piece of equipment, every washing machine and solar-powered kitchen stove, functioned for ever with dismaying perfection. In the rare event of even the smallest malfunction the designer would appear on one’s doorstep as fast as his bicycle could carry him. By contrast, the metropolis operated an exciting knifeedge away from total collapse.
Leaving the station, Halloway saluted the two eighteen-year-old policemen sitting in their patrol car. There were ten officers under his command, an over-large proportion of the total number of inhabitants, but all Halloway’s scrutiny of the commissioner’s records confirmed that a large police force, like pollution and a high crime-rate, was an essential feature of city life.
Besides, they might well be useful sooner than he expected. As he stepped into his car to drive the fifty yards to Olds’ garage — Halloway never walked, however short the distance, and often U-turned his car to get from one side of the road to the other — a gang of teenage boys tumbled with a chorus of obscenities from a nearby amusement arcade. They clustered around a large motorcycle with extended forks and a lavishly chromed engine. All wore black leather jackets strung with sinister ornaments — iron crosses, ceremonial daggers and death’s heads. The driver kick-started the machine with a violent roar, then lurched in a circle across the sidewalk, knocking down part of a tobacco kiosk before veering into Halloway’s path. Without apology, he drummed his fist on the roof above Halloway’s head and roared off down the street, weaving in and out of the shouting pedestrians.
As Halloway expected, most of the workers on Olds’ production line had packed up early. The thirty vehicles mounted on their movable trolleys had come to a halt, and the few mechanics left were plugging the batteries into the overnight chargers.
Olds was seated in his glass-walled office, moodily playing with his collection of pocket calculators, slim fingers flicking out fragments of some strange dialogue. As life for him had become increasingly complex, with all the problems of running this automobile plant, he had added more and more calculators. He placed the instruments in a series of lines across his desk, and seemed to be working towards a decision about everything, laying out the elements of this reductive conversation like cards in a game of solitaire.
He gazed up at Halloway, as if recognizing him with difficulty. He looked tired and listless, numbed by his work on all the projects which Halloway pushed forward ruthlessly.
‘Olds, it’s only six. Why are we scrapping the evening shift?’
There are not enough men for the line.
‘They should all be here.’ When Olds sat back, shuffling the calculators with one hand, Halloway snapped, ‘Olds they need the work! They’ve got to pay back their wage credits!’
The mute shrugged, watching Halloway with his passive but intelligent eyes. From a drawer he pulled out his old flying-helmet. He seemed about to question Halloway about something, but changed his mind.
Halloway, they lack your appreciation of the value of hard work.
