Downtime - Marc Platt [64]
He had borrowed the university’s helicopter to get to his lunch date. There had been no choice. He had flown over a frozen city. Every road was a seam of trapped metal. The trip was a gamble, but he doubted that Victoria, obsessed with the imminent arrival of the Chancellor, would even notice.
Anyway, he’d tell her it was business, which, of course, it was.
‘You’re one of the first people to use the new helipad,’ said Pennington.
‘I’m duly honoured,’ Christopher nodded humbly. The half lobster in cream and brandy sauce was a marked improvement on the food served by the university caterers.
‘Good.’ The Education Secretary had restricted himself to a light salad. ‘Your Miss Waterfield was...’ he searched for a word, ‘... enthusiastic, shall I say?’
‘Naïve?’ suggested Christopher, but Pennington frowned.
‘That doesn’t disallow her heart to be in the right place.
Even so, I felt that she does not really grasp the sheer potential of New World University.’
‘Exactly my feelings,’ said Christopher.
‘Then you must tell me what its real agenda is.’
New World’s Marketing Facilitator helped himself to the wine bottle. ‘The computer is the cutting edge. That’s where the real potential lies. Its mainframe is self-analytical. It makes other computers look like counting-frames.’
‘I think we’ve had enough of computers today,’ said the MP
‘It’s not affected,’ Christopher reassured him. ‘It has built-in immunity. It hasn’t been touched by all this virus business.’
‘Then who controls it?’
‘Anyone who’s in charge. It was designed by the university’s founding Chancellor, but it’s outgrown the initial programming long ago.’
‘I see.’
‘It redesigns itself as it goes along.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘And with more extensive funding the sky would be the limit.’
Pennington tapped his fingers on the table for a moment.
‘There is, of course, another consideration. The computer’s British. And that’s extremely important.’
Christopher took another swig of the Burgundy. ‘I think it could prove a real powerhouse for the government... in the right hands.’
‘Yes,’ Pennington said slowly. Tut there’s one thing that still bothers a lot of us. This mystical business that goes with the New World package. It’s Tibetan, isn’t it? These days, Britain is a multi-cultural society. God knows, we’re never allowed to lose sight of that. But the power base is still C of E.
And hippy chanting instead of morning prayers won’t go down too well in the Home Counties.’
Christopher smirked. ‘It’s a quirk of both the Chancellor and the Vice Chancellor,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m sure I can deal with that. Miss Waterfield always listens to me.’
‘Ah.’ Pennington suddenly appeared to shrink in his seat.
‘Word gets round fast in this place. I’m afraid we may have company.’
Clive Kirkham, the Burncaster Bruiser, was standing in the far doorway surveying the diners. He was still wearing his brown checked jacket. As soon as he saw Pennington he started to weave through the tables.
‘Well, this is very cosy, I must say,’ he gibed. He studied the remains of Christopher’s crustacean. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Rice. If everyone at that New World reception of yours returns the compliment, you’ll be eating out till next Christmas.’
Pennington made a show of topping up Christopher’s glass.
‘No one to have lunch with, Kirkham?’
‘Plenty, thanks. Do I take it we’re going to see another radical reform in teaching structures after this?’
‘Meaning?’
‘All schools and colleges, sorry universities, furnished with a single national curriculum computer?’
‘We’d have to ask parents and teachers first.’
‘Oh. Oh. You’ve heard of them, then?’
Pennington had been beating a Devil’s Tattoo on the table.
‘If you want to make a spectacle of yourself, Kirkham, why not do it in the Chamber and get a bigger audience?’
A look of gleeful smugness slid across Clive Kirkham’s face. ‘Not seen this evening’s Standard yet, then?’
Pennington sighed. ‘I suppose you’ve written a piece for them. I hope they paid your expenses.’
‘Bloody typical!’ exploded Kirkham.