Congratulations! You have found the last will, testament and
confession of
George Albert Hall, itinerant scientist and batchelor of this
parish. Since
I have no way of knowing whether you are one person, as I rather
hope, or a
group, which I think more likely, I'm sure you will forgive my
impersonal
address. Whoever and however many you are, again congratulations.
Well
done!
As you now know, I have hidden this message to the best of my
abilities.
Now I am dead, I can safely claim that these abilities were
considerable.
If I were still alive, you wouldn't have found this, and to hide
something
that so many people are looking for is, without boasting, no mean
achievement. Do what you like with the body; I'm not sure whether
you'll
stuff it, pickle or burn it, but I doubt you'll just throw it
away. Prove
me wrong, if you like. I don't care.
Now I am dead, I have no secrets left; I might as well make a few
definitive statements. I know that second-guessing my actions has
been a
profitable, even popular way for certain folks to make a living.
Removing
all the doubt should hopefully throw them back on the shitheap
where they
belong. What the hell, it's way too late to worry about
appearances, so
it's with the greatest glee that I do this. Bet you can't stop
reading.
Firstly, everything I've done has been with reason. I've read the
theories;
that I've managed through luck, intuition or the backing of some
great,
unseen organisation, but these ingenious ideas are all wrong.
Completely
and totally, without even the faintest shadow of truth, absolute
concoctions. Elsewhere, I've hidden my diaries -- there are clues
in this
message as to their location, to give all those newly unemployed
pundits
something to do. Like my life, every detail of this text is
considered,
every comma and break and pause in rhythm, all the shapes of the
words and
invisible breathing, even the lengths of these paragraphs -- and
these
detail how my exploits happened. When revealed, these will topple
governments, alter the course of history and doubtless form the
basis for
the folklore of the next ten thousand years. I have absolutely no
reason to
be modest, not now, as well you know. I might be wrong, although
I doubt
it. I don't care.
Still, something to whet your appetites, one thing I cannot
resist gloating
over because you came so close to catching me yet missed the
point
entirely. Read this, you dullards; read it and scratch your
lumpen heads.
Case 1. A planet, warm and free, a comfortable billion people
living with
little effort, the machines did the work and the humans did the
talking.
Cute. I hate cute. On that planet -- you find out the name, you
lazy sods
-- lived and still live a tribe, unaware of themselves. I know
they're
there, even if they, and only now, dully suspect it themselves.
Even that
little awareness comes from what I did; I couldn't do any more
without
giving the game away, and you're so good at that yourselves. I
can't
compete against you all, not without changing the rules.
The planet, full of happy people, was run by one man. That man
was fat.
Before he sat down to type he sprinkled talc between his fingers
to stop
them rubbing together and coming red-raw from the writing. His
sitting was
an enormous thing. He took what he wanted and kept the peace, a
clever man
who knew how things worked. It was a quiet planet, with peaceful
cities.
Clean.
It's only in cities like that that you can walk around without
money. It's
a very strange feeling, to leave the house without a penny in
your pockets
and no cards, no ID, no social levers. If you get into trouble,
you're on
your own. You ignore the shops, the restaurants, the newsstands;
there's no
point in weighing up one magazine against another, or wondering
whether you
should have that food or not, because you can't buy one damn
thing. If you
get hungry, then that's how you stay. If you get tired of
walking, then
you'll walk and be tired. The wonder is, none of this happens.
You get
hungry, sure, but it goes away; if you can't do anything about
it, it isn't
important. You walk and walk and walk and the taxis whizz past
and you
ignore them, or laugh at the people missing the show. You walk
and walk and
walk; clothes hanging loose, no metal or paper or plastic or
advantage, as
free as if you were naked in a lonely forest. I bet you can't do
it; I bet
you couldn't take out the map, pick a point ten minutes distant
and walk
out and back with not a shred of credit on you. Try it -- try
opening the
front door, and going to the end of your street. It's
exhilarating. You
think of different things.
That's how I did my best work, walking around, free. No cost. So
I got to
thinking, and then to doing, how the links work, how the people
live with
each other to a private end, each with their own life only
slightly
affected by the rest. It's a technical society now, since we
learned to be
technicians, and we've given our ideas to machines that can do
them so much
better. I like technical. The abdication of thought. If you care
to
understand the machines, you can get in at level one and play
with the
ground rules. That's how I found the fat man, although not
without screwing
things up to the point where the planet closed down. People died.
I suppose
I killed them, me more than anyone. I'm sorry about that. I wish
it were
otherwise, but nothing to be done. Anyway.
There are so many clues there. That was the last time I was
surprised, when
nobody caught up with me and there I was, sitting in the ruins of
the
place, surviving well when the fat man, the guy in charge, was as
dead as
the rest. Impossible. There it was. I figured I'd have to do it
again. I
got good, of course, and once you'd done the impossible once,
who's to stop
you?
Ah, enough of this generosity. You're standing here, in your holy
of
holies, shocked enough by a body where no body could be. You can
dismiss
anything I say as madness, but here I am. Ignore that. Ignore
this, blink
and shake your head. Still here, isn't it?
There are three impossible things here. Nobody can die like this,
not here;
nobody can build the machine you now hold in your hands, and
nobody can
project this message into your mind, not like this. It's
happening, though,
isn't it? Close that slack, drooling jaw, why don't you, and wrap
your
ape-like intellect around this: believe me, because that's what I
tell you.
There are a thousand machines like the one you hold, here, there,
everywhere, part of the great intersystem streams of data, hidden
in the
computers that guide your money, your diversions, your every
waking moment.
A thousand machines; a thousand copies of me. I am going to make
Your Life
Hell. It's all going to go wrong, as if some mad magician had
unleashed a
million daemons with cutters and solder and guides to the wiring.
Why? Because I love you, you idiots. Because you're children all,
squabbling as you do, sleeping without care, stealing each
other's teddy
bears and giving each other kisses. This is a beautiful nursery
we've
built, as fine as any can be, the sort of place every kid should
have when
they're five. I'm not the first to look out of the window, and
I'm not the
first to find the door locked. Others have been here, as you'll
realise
when you find those diaries, but they all have got it wrong. Some
have
escaped without a backwards look, the selfish buggers. Some
others have
stood up and bawled at the top of their voices that there's a
door! We're
all prisoners! Who'd listen? This is a nice nursery, a cute place
to live;
outside is no place for a tot.
Time to grow up. There's work to be done. If you won't go through
the door,
some bastard's going to have to break the windows, pull the roof
off, tear
down the wallpaper with the bears and the balloons and the
primary colours
and kick in the walls. Because if I don't, you'll stay here until
you
suffocate, starve, grow into senility. I will not let that
happen, because
I hate cute and I know how to kill it.
More than that. I love you.
(c) rg