Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [210]
Nobody but a fanatic would suggest that the material of time is moral, but on occasions like the present, when the boundaries of the most stable continents seem melting into intercalendrical mist, it appears probable that a working timescale needs a higher proportion of common decency than the science of chronology has hitherto assumed. Decency is a vague term, and at present we suggest no more by it than a little more brotherhood between colleagues of equal or nearly equal standing.
The authority of the council has always depended on the support of the creature, and until recently it was widely felt that Monboddo’s connections with the Algolagnics-Cortexin group merely ratified his standing as a strong president. Recent disclosures, however, by the fiery energy chief Ozenfant show that recent loans of creature energy have been absorbed by the lord president’s office to the almost total exclusion of the normal power corridor network.
Although respect for the president director and respect for the decimal hour are not connected in logic, they seem to feed irrationally on each other in a state of collapsing confidence. There is deep alarm in council corridors that speculation against the new timescale has now exceeded the boundaries of reason and may no longer be susceptible to rational remedy. Only one thing is certain. The swift dismantling of a certain darkened district, which once seemed a daring and debatable act of rationalization, has become a matter of urgent necessity.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Gow. “There are hundreds of darkened districts. What conceivable reason have you for thinking they’ve chosen Unthank?”
“I came here to tell you that,” said Grant. “Nearly two days ago a Cortexin tanker and an Algolagnics transporter collided at the intersection. All incoming traffic is diverted to Imber. We have food supplies for three more days. By ‘day’ I mean the old fashioned solar day of twenty-four hours, with roughly seventeen hundred heartbeats an hour.”
“Pull yourself together, Grant!” said Ritchie-Smollet. “Do you suggest these vehicles were smashed in a criminal plot between Algolagnics and the council? That is pure paranoia. The council is sending experts to deal with the damage.”
“You don’t need a plot to cause crashes on a motorway,” said Grant. “They happen all the time. When they happen on the council’s doorstep they’re cleared at once. Why the delay with us?”
“Because we are not on the council’s doorstep. From the council’s viewpoint we are a remote and unimportant province, but that does not mean they are out for our blood. The council traffic commissioner has talked to me on the phone. His clearance teams are fighting an imbalance at the Cortexin cloning plant. Half West Atlantis will sink if that isn’t stabilized first. But he’s moving heaven and earth to get the right men quickly here too. He said so. I know him. He is an honest man.”
“Haven’t you seen how the council works in peacetime?” asked Grant. “It never behaves badly. It never destroys a country of peasant villages, for example, but it lets the creature turn whole forests into paper so there are no roots to hold the water back. And when an accidental storm arises (as they always will), half a million people drown or die in the following famine, and the council helps the survivors, and the helpers organize the country’s industry in ways the creature finds profitable. I’m sure your traffic commissioner honestly wants to clear the intersection. I’m sure his honest experts have more urgent work to do. And I’m sure that three days from now, when our administration crumbles and the city is a horde of starving rioters, the council will introduce an honest emergency-aid programme and honestly evacuate Unthank down whatever gullet the creature offers.”
There was a long silence.
“It is true,” said the slow-voiced lady softly, “that with efery passing moment a broken nerf circuit of the new Algolagnics model becomes a more dangerous object. Virst ve haf only the fibrations, but after two days, on the old timescale, sublimation