Linked with Lateinos and Romiith’s master computer now currently in production, the system is expected to be instituted nationally within the next six months.
Norman whistled as he weighed up the concept. It was certainly ingenious: no-one could steal your money if you never carried any, or use your banker’s card if they found your wallet in the street. With your own personal number printed on your forehead they’d have to cut your head off and pass it across the bank counter to get at your wealth. And with no money there would be no paperwork. No more monthly accounts, the money would pass invisibly, simply at the wave of a light-pen. The more Norman thought about it the more impressed he became. And the more miffed that he hadn’t thought of it first.
He scribbled “15 Balfour” on to the first paper and turned it aside without giving the rest of the news even a cursory once-over. As it happened, there was little else but for wars and rumours of wars and a continuance of the black fly plague, so he certainly hadn’t missed much.
In the curtained alcove in the kitchenette his duplicate sat staring into space and thinking absolutely nothing whatsoever.
Neville the part-time barman stirred in his pit. He blinked open his good eye and stared up at the ceiling, which unaccountably appeared to have lowered itself by a couple of inches during the night. Drawing back his continental quilt, he set a monumental foot upon the worn Axminster. He yawned, stretched and considered his hands. “Gross,” he thought. The wrists appeared massive, swelling from his pyjama sleeves to join great five-pound hams with pork sausages glued on to them. Whatever was happening to him was doing it at an accelerated rate of knots. “It’s getting out of control,” said Neville, as to the accompaniment of groaning floorboards, he arose from his bed. He would give up eating, he told himself, live exclusively on scotch, crispbread, and the occasional lime to stave off scurvy.
Neville staggered across the floor; pictures rattled upon the wall in time with his tread, and the entire upper storey of the pub seemed dangerously near to collapse. Why would nobody admit to seeing the state he was in? It had to be part of some enormous conspiracy aimed at ousting him from the Swan. Neville pawed at his swollen skull with a preposterous forefinger. Was that it? Was it the brewery having a go? That nest of vipers? Most horrors which befell him were directly attributable to them. Possibly they were bribing his patrons to ignore his plight? Or possibly they were hypnotizing him while he slept? Neville had read of slimming courses you got on cassettes and played while you were asleep. He’d never quite figured out how you turned the tape recorder on if you were fast a-kip, but it was a thought. He would search his apartments for hidden speakers as soon as he’d had his morning shower.
He struggled to squeeze himself through the bathroom doorway. Whatever it was, he would have to suss it out pretty rapidly or the entire building was going to come down about his ears.
Old Pete ambled along the Ealing Road, his tatty half-terrier, as ever, upon his heels. He had just paid his weekly visit to each of Brentford’s two sub-post offices, in order to cash the two pension cheques the post office’s errant computer chose weekly to award him. “God bless the GPO,” the old reprobate had been heard to utter upon more than one occasion.
The ancient shuffled cheerfully along, rattling his stick noisily across Mrs Naylor’s front railings in a manner calculated to rudely awaken the insatiable lady librarian from her erotic dreams. Young Chips chuckled to himself and gave the lampposts a bit of first-thing nasal perusal. Norman’s new paperboy bustled out of the corner-shop, the heavy bag upon his shoulders, and mounted his bike. Chips momentarily bared his teeth, but it was early yet and he hardly felt up to making the effort.
Pete steered his way between the posts supporting Norman’s shopfront and thrust open the temporary door. “Morning Norman,” said he. The shopkeeper tucked away the copy of Donkey Capers he had been ogling and turned to seek out Pete’s weekly quota of tobacco.
“How’s the bed, Pete?” he asked. “To your satisfaction I trust?”
“Magic,” said Old Pete.
“I’m so glad. Two ounces of Ships is it?”
“And a copy of the Mercury.” Old Pete pushed a crisp fiver across the counter.
“Ever had a credit card, Pete?” Norman rang up the sale on his cash register.
Old Pete shook his head. “Don’t think so. I have a membership card for the British Legion, and a special doo-dad which lets me travel free on the buses, other than that…” Old Pete scratched his snow-capped head. “Had a pack of nudie playing-cards I bought in Cairo during the last lot. What does it do then?”
Norman did his best to explain.
“Oh no,” said Pete. “Never had one of those. Mind you, I’ve never had a bank account. You selling them now, then?”
Norman shook his head. “I was just reading this article. It seems that they are now obsolete. The Government are taking to stamping the numbers on people’s heads.”
“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Old Pete. “Here now, what is this?” He pointed to his tin of tobacco.
“What is what?”
“This.” Old Pete indicated a series of little lines imprinted upon the lid. “They weren’t there last week. What are they?”
Norman took the tin and examined it. “That’s the lads,” said he. “Computer bar coding, it’s called. That’s what I was trying to explain. All commodities are now being printed with them. They tell you the price and the date you purchased the item and all that sort of thing. You pass a light-pen over them and it logs all the information straight into some master computer. The Government are simply taking the process a logical step further.”
“I don’t like the smell of that,” said Old Pete. “After all, you know when you purchased it and how much it costs, what do you need the lines for?”
Norman shrugged. “Progress,” he said. “We must all move with the times you know.”
“You must.” Old Pete snatched back his tobacco. “For myself, I say a pox on the times. Now don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against computers, one in particular there is which I hold in the highest esteem. But for progress in general…” Old Pete made the appropriate two-fingered gesture, snatched up his paper, which unbeknown to him bore a not dissimilar set of lines upon it, and shuffled from the shop.
“Daft old fogey,” said Norman to himself; but squinting around it did occur to him that every item he had ordered during the last few weeks possessed similar markings. No doubt it was all for the common good. There could not possibly be anything sinister at the back of it, surely? No, it was all part of a great masterplan to free society of crime and bring prosperity to all. Norman went off about his business, whistling, “The Rock Island line is a mighty fine line”.
Jim Pooley was already upon his favourite bench. He had accosted Norman’s paperboy and wrung from his clammy grip a copy of the Sporting Life. Yesterday had been a total disaster. His life savings, in the biscuit tin on the mantelpiece, were sadly depleted. In the dubious excitement of the night before, he and Omally had actually forgotten to ask Soap for the thirty quid. Such events were wont to dash any hopes Jim had for the future. He would simply have to pull off The Big One today and that was that.