| abstract
| - (In tribute to Eric Frank Russell) Published in Contemporary Science Fiction 2014 The first place the CIA took a special interest in was Davey in southern Idaho, administrative seat of Brunton County, population in the last census 10,345, area 4.2 square miles, 25 per cent of the under-18 population living below the poverty line. John Hill was the agent on whose desk the file and attached special report was dropped by Stanton, the boss of the division. “Hey,” complained Hill as the papers impacted his desk with a slap, “I’m already working on three different cases.” “Forget them,” growled Stanton with aggressive authority. “This one takes precedence.” “But I’ve worked for five months on the Morgan case, and I’m close to getting enough evidence for an arrest,” complained Hill bitterly. “Well poor you, Hilly Boy, now you ain’t gonna get no arrest there, are you? Pass that one on to Agent Clifford – and before you open your mouth, that’s an order!” “Why me?” whined Hill, staring at the new file as though it were something with a very nasty smell. “Because I wanted to get under your skin and make you itch,” growled Stanton. “What do you think? Listen -- that’s your next case you’re drooling over down there, and as far as you are concerned, and as of right now, that’s your only case. The only one you need, the only one you want, and the only one you get.” He turned to walk away to his office, then turned back to look at Hill, who was still staring daggers at the new file. “I mean now, Agent Vacant!” he snarled. Hill sighed in resignation and picked up the file to read, starting with the appended report. He noted that it was headed “Top Priority” and decided it might be a form of backhanded compliment that it had been earmarked for him. This mollified his angst enough to lower his blood pressure back down to merely “high”. He read in silence. “Give Priority to Urgent Investigation” was at the top, then; “Minimum Personnel Involvement Until Otherwise Authorized.” This meant he would be acting strictly as a one-man-band with no backup except by long-distance phone call. Great! Not for the first time, he wondered with some spleen why he had chosen this career instead of something less demanding, like, say, a NASA test pilot. Then, after a few other official codes and references, he came to the nitty-gritty of the report itself. Slowly he settled into his chair more comfortably and unwound his hypertensions as he began to grow interested in what he read. It was, of course, from Langley H.Q. by internal secure delivery and addressed personally to Stanton, his boss. “Divisional Director Stanton, you are instructed and authorized to depute this investigation to your most aggressive and non-cooperative agent, with Priority Level A. The agent will be required to immediately drop any other cases he or she may be working on. It is believed that a well-developed ability to ruffle people’s feathers and to display the persona of an awkward, rude and cantankerous character may be essential in furthering this investigation.” Hill smiled cynically to himself. At least he knew now why it had landed on his desk with the aim of a marksman. He continued reading. “The Director, Homeland Security, is concerned with some very unusual statistical developments from Davey, Idaho. We believe these statistics are sufficiently unusual as to indicate either a potential or an actual threat to national security. Complete and detailed reports are in the attached file. Here follows a condensed appraisal of the nature of the findings which are interesting this Agency. “(1) In year ending 31st December 2 years ago, the total number of criminal offences, including traffic offences, attributable to local citizens, committed in the Davey area of jurisdiction of the Brunton County Sheriff Department, was 1,956. A high proportion of these were drugs-related (see file for complete breakdown and all details). This figure, and the breakdown of categories, was considered perfectly average in respect of the typology of the town, its demographic population and its regional circumstances. “(2) In year ending 31st December last, the total number of criminal offences, including traffic offences, attributable to local citizens, committed in the Davey area of jurisdiction of the Brunton County Sheriff Department, was 5. Of these, 4 were relatively trivial traffic offences all committed in January of that year, while 1 was a minor drug offence (smoking a cannabis joint) in April and was committed by 18-year-old John Pope who had returned to his parent’s home the previous day after spending 6 months in a residential college in Canada. “(3) The Davey, Pine Falls and Lupert Television Broadcasting Company (DPFL-TV), in May last year, announced in local newspapers that it was no longer going to transmit any movies containing nudity, partial nudity, sexual innuendo, swearing & bad language, supernatural elements of any kind, violence of any kind (even what is commonly defined as “mild violence”), rogue police or government officers, ill-treatment of animals (including CGI and in cartoons), and any elements of science-fiction, fantasy or situations of personal danger or implied jeopardy. “(4) Since adopting the above policy, DPFL-TV has broadcast very severely censored versions of the movies “You’ve Got Mail”, “Out of Africa”, “Pret A Porter” and “How To Make An American Quilt” 36 times each during a 12 month period, and at peak viewing times. No other movies have been broadcast by the station. “(5) Figures compiled by a sponsor’s and advertiser’s database agency and based on a series of comprehensive house-to-house surveys, indicate that during that same period, viewing figures in the transmission area went up by 84%. “(6) Station MCX, which both relays more distant radio stations and also transmits its own local-made programs to the general Davey and Brunton County transmitter catchment area, has banned the broadcasting of Punk music, Rap, Hiplife, Hiphop, Reggae, K-pop. J-pop & C-pop, Blues, Deathcountry, Hellcountry, Rockabilly, Psychobilly, Synthcore, Electronic Rock, Garage, Heavy Metal, Motswako, Grunge, Doom Metal, Cowpunk, Noisegrind, Gothic, Ska, Musique Concrète and 187 other specified types and varieties of music. “(7) Station MCX now only broadcasts music by classical composers (except Stravinski, who is banned), and its own classification type, “Elevating Music” which, despite its suggestion of uplifting and soaring themes, is actually the pre-recorded background music one hears in elevators. “(8) When another survey indicated that the audience figures for Station MCX have risen by 87% during that same period, the CIA Homeland Statistical Cultural & Media Analysis Section recommended the Agency should conduct an immediate covert investigation as a matter of some urgency.” Hill spent a little time studying the papers in the attached file which gave the nitty-gritty details of these facts and surveys. Then he decided how best to commence his investigation. As required by the protocols of the Department, he filled in an “IPA”, an Immediate Plan of Action form outlining how he intended to proceed, which would be placed in Stanton’s “in” tray so that his proposed movements would be on record. This involved some minimal research in maps and directories of the region in question. Having done this to his satisfaction, he took the completed procedural plan to Stanton’s office and went straight in. “Don’t you ever knock?” snarled Stanton, not bothering to look up from the papers littering his desk. “Only when I’m appearing at a séance,” Hill growled back with a sullen frown. “Here’s my IPA.” He dropped the form directly on top of the papers Stanton was engrossed in. “I can’t wait to get out of this dump.” Without even glancing at it, Stanton used a finger and thumb to pick up the form as though it were contaminated and drop it in his “in” tray. Still reading his paperwork and not glancing up, he commented; “And this dump can’t wait to see you gone. Close the door behind you. Soon.” The pressures inherent in the work of the Department inevitably resulted in a superabundance of frisson between those who were obliged to work closely together on tough, frequently life-threatening tasks yet were forbidden to mention their day to anybody in the bar after work, or to any family or friends. Unwinding was a luxury not available in that career. It was therefore recognized that polite conversation and mutual deference between co-workers in the same office went out the window. The only respect was successfully completing an assignment; the only insubordination was failure to do so. The directories had shown there was a local airport at Davey, small with two runways and suitable for small planes; it had been built in 1940 for Dakotas. There was a passenger service. Hill flew to the town that afternoon. After stops at Frankfort, Kentucky, St. Joseph, Kansas and Idaho Falls, he touched down in Davey at eight in the evening as the sun was setting over the farms. A few cabs were waiting by the exit gate to cater for disembarking travelers, most of whom seemed to be business people returning home. Hill dragged his feet and suitcase in the wake of five people dressed in smart suits, including the two women. All were smiling and talking quietly together. Being last in the line, Hill found only a single cab waiting. As he lugged his suitcase through the small airfield’s wire gate and approached the vehicle, the driver sprang out like a sideways jack-in-the-box and energetically trotted over, grasping Hill’s luggage and smiling broadly. “Allow me, sir,” he said, then almost by way of an explanation, “it’s all part of the service.” He placed the suitcase on the back seat, then jumped round to open the front passenger door even as Hill reached his hand out to it. “There we go, sir.” Then the driver settled behind the wheel and smiled broadly at his passenger. “Where can I take you, sir?” Hill found the driver’s polite friendliness infectious; he hated it. Actually, Hill hated everybody in a sort-of general manner of great equality. Long ago, at about the age of five, he had begun to understand that forming a liking for people was a weakness which gave them power over you. This became the basic instinct of his development. He was not popular at high school or university, but on the other hand, because he did not permit himself any kind of social distractions he graduated with brilliant qualifications and lots of certificates, including his prized and framed “Most Hated Student At Bakersville High”. “How the hell should I know where you can take me,” he snarled gruffly at the driver. “I just arrived. I’ve never set foot in this backwoods dump before. Take me anywhere I can pay for a meal and a room.” The driver was entirely unaffected by Hill’s surliness. He smiled broadly and started the engine. “Certainly sir. I think I know just the place. We have a small motel just as you reach the outskirts of town. It’s very clean and well-run. Will that suit you, sir?” “It better!” grunted Hill, doing his best to try to unsettle the cab driver. He failed conspicuously to do so. The motel was two miles from the airport and for the whole trip the driver kept up a polite and very cheerful conversation which Hill answered with deliberate curt rudeness and monosyllables. Meanwhile, his sharp eyes also noticed that the driver never once let the speedometer pointer rise above an exact 55 miles per hour, even on a deserted straight highway running between fields and with no billboards behind which a speed cop could be lurking. Soon the cab was turning into the drive of a motel. Before Hill could even open the door and emerge, the driver had sprung out and was hefting his suitcase up a few wooden steps to the door of the reception office. Despite his innate cynicism and rather to his annoyance, Hill was impressed. This did not often happen. “Here.” Hill grudgingly handed the driver the fare plus a decent tip. The driver examined the cash, then handed half of it back with a broad and cheery smile. “Oh, no sir, you have given me too much. I’ll just take the exact fare.” With that, he bounded back to his vehicle and drove away through the fields, seemingly still at exactly fifty-five miles per hour, leaving Hill dumfounded. He entered the motel office, his eyes automatically looking for a bell to ring to announce that a customer had arrived -- but as he entered, an inner door opened at the same moment and a very tastefully dressed middle-aged lady took her position behind the counter. “Good evening sir, do you require a room?” Her voice was pleasantly trilled and cheerful. Suddenly Hill got a creepy feeling that he had somehow arrived inside a 1950s TV show where everything had to be approved by the censors and where “darn” was considered strong language and the word “damn” was a prohibited profanity. Mentally he took a tighter grip on himself. “Yeah,” he snapped, “I do -- get someone to shake the cobwebs out of a room with a shower, if there’s any water laid on out here.” The lady -- she could not merely be called a woman -- remained perfectly poised and charming. “By all means, sir. Even our empty rooms are cleaned out thoroughly twice a day, and we have had showers fitted recently in every one.” She produced a tagged key ring from beneath the counter. “I think number twelve will suit you admirably, sir. You must be hungry after your flight, and number twelve is closest to the restaurant.” Hill took the offered key, then paused as something struck him. “Just how the hell do you know that I flew in?” he demanded. “Why, I saw Barny driving you in from the direction of the airport,” she replied, “and I’m sure we didn’t walk here across twenty miles of fields, did we sir?” She laughed sweetly and offered Hill the register to fill in and sign, then she opened a flap in the counter and came through. Hill was very reluctantly on the point of telling her not to lift his heavy suitcase, and had already reached out an arm toward it, when a young man of about twenty stepped through the door exactly on cue and lifted it with ease. “Thank you,” said the lady sweetly. Then, to Hill; “This is my son. He helps me run the place. He will show you to your room and carry your luggage, Mister Hill.” Hill was beginning to grow weary of the persistent cheerfulness and politeness of everyone he encountered in this town. He gave the young man a jaundiced eye. “Your name wouldn’t be Norman Bates by any chance, would it?” he growled insultingly. “No sir,” replied the young man earnestly. “I’m Jerry Watson, sir. This is my mother Mrs. Alice Watson, and of course, this is Watson’s Motel.” “Thank God for that!” muttered Hill as they headed out of the office. Next morning Hill examined details given on the CIA report that Stanton had dropped on his desk. He then paid a visit to an address in a different part of the town, a neat and well looked-after modern house with a long front lawn sloping down to the road. The lawn had been striped with mathematical precision by a mower. Hill had now rented a car and he parked right in front of the place. Getting out, he looked about himself to try and get a feel for the neighborhood. There were maybe ten houses on each side of the quiet residential street. All of them were perfectly maintained. All of them had mathematically striped lawns. Hill shuddered, although he did not know exactly why, and squaring his shoulders he walked up the crazy paved footpath to the front door. It was in his job description to notice the tiniest details. He registered the fact that any moss or small clumps of stray grass had been meticulously weeded out of the multitude of cracks joining the crazy paving. He rang the doorbell. It was brass. It had been recently polished. A nice-looking woman in her late thirties opened the door. She was wearing a gingham dress which came to her ankles, a blouse with slightly puffed shoulders and a spotless apron. Even though she was indoors and evidently coming from her kitchen, he noticed she was wearing high-heeled shoes. She reminded Hill of a typical advertisement poster from around 1953. “Sorry to bother you, Mam,” he said, holding up his open CIA identity wallet, “but I need to have just a few words with John Pope, if he’s at home today.” Even as he said this, Hill somehow knew exactly what the woman would say, two seconds before she said it. “Oh my goodness, I hope he’s not in any kind of trouble, officer.” Word for word what Hill had predicted. It just seemed to go with the stereotype. Two months ago he had said the same thing to a woman in New York whose partner he needed to question, who had very loudly advised him to perform a sexual act that was physically impossible and slammed and bolted the door in his face. That, he could understand. That was what happened in the real world. This, he could not understand. This was not like the real world, or at least it was not the real world he was used to. “No trouble at all, Mam,” Hill replied, forcing a smile to arrive like a bewildered jet-lagged tourist on his face. “It’s just the paperwork regarding his... recent misdemeanor.” Hill had been about to say “his recent crime” but the overwhelmingly respectable and innocent uprightness of the woman was somehow undermining his normal insolent manner. “I just need to ask a couple of incidental questions, that’s all.” “Well, you’d better come in, officer,” she replied in a voice tinged with worry. She indicated a tasteful living room through an open door. “You can wait in there. I’ll call John down.” The living room was precisely what Hill had bet himself it would be. Tasteful magazines like a fan of playing cards were placed with casual precision on a coffee table; spotless carpet; picture rail just below the ceiling; polished wooden dressers filled with tasteful china; curtains with cord tie-backs. While the woman was out of the room he licked a finger, reached up and ran it along the top of the picture rail for a couple of feet. It came back spotless and dust-free. He heard her call out with polite quietness; “John, could you come down here for a minute please?” This contrasted strongly with the woman in New York who, once his threats and drawn gun had persuaded her to open the door and let him in to question her man, had screamed down the hallway like a harridan from Hell; “Jason, you get your ugly great ass down here. Now!” There was the sound of soft footsteps coming down a carpeted staircase and a young man in his late teens entered the room, closely followed by his mother. The teenager wore pressed grey trousers, not jeans, and a white shirt with a college tie. He stood almost to attention as he faced Hill and said; “Good morning, sir. How can I help you?” Hill’s ingrained and calculatedly ill mannered interrogation style seemed suddenly to hide itself in a cellar and refuse to come out. The whole setup threw him off balance. Suddenly he realized exactly what it was that was rattling him. Everything was so nice and normal that it became sinisterly abnormal. This boy should have had a modern hairstyle perhaps with jell or wax, maybe an earring, maybe a stud in his nose, maybe a black T shirt with something anarchic printed on it, maybe jeans with designer holes in them, maybe trainers on his feet, maybe a sullen attitude. He was a good-looking and robust young man; any college football team would have been proud of him; there was nothing of the sissy or dork about him at all. And he was wearing shined black shoes, and with tie-up laces for heaven’s sake, not slip-ons; indoors; at home. And he had not sat down, for the reason that his mother and their visitor had not yet sat down, thereby making it impolite for him to do so first. For the first time in this assignment, Hill suddenly felt a cold chill run down his spine, although he still could not precisely define the cause. Just as an experiment, he slowly and deliberately sat down in an armchair. At once the boy’s mother sat down as well, and then the lad finally permitted himself to sit down; a perfect display of nice manners. “John,” began Hill, for once adopting a friendly manner which was completely alien to his nature, “I just need to ask you a couple of questions about your conviction in April for smoking cannabis. Please let me emphasize, this has nothing to do with any fault of yours or any possibility of further proceedings or developments. The plain fact is, a routine check of the paperwork showed that one of the police clerks had failed to file one of the papers and now it appears to have been lost. We think a cleaner put it in the garbage.” He forced himself to chuckle benignly. He had never before in his life chuckled benignly, but he had seen it a few times in the movies and knew how it was done. Somehow, he immediately despised himself for doing it. “So, what I am doing, is trying to save the office the embarrassment of having to admit that they have lost a routine paper from a file. If you wouldn’t mind just answering a few straightforward questions, I can file your answers and that will be an end to it –- and you will be doing everyone a big favor.” “Sure,” nodded John Pope at once. “I’ll be glad to assist in any way I can, sir.” Again came the icicle in Hill’s backbone. “All right,” he responded, leaning back and crossing his legs in an attempt to appear relaxed and casual. Something within him made him feel the necessity of adding pleasantly; “That’s very nice of you.” My God, he thought, their manners are infectious. He concentrated on his questioning. “John, first up, did you obtain the cannabis in Canada before you boarded the plane home, or in the US after you reached the terminal? I just want to find out whether it was Canadian in origin, or our own home grown stuff, that’s all.” “A college friend of mine gave me a lift to Toronto airport,” he answered. “He gave me a joint as a farewell gift, that’s all. I lit up as I left the terminal at Twin Falls, but an off-duty police officer coming back on the same flight walked past me and smelled the smoke.” “Right,” said Hill, “that’s fine. Say, John, was there much of that stuff going round in your college? Just out of interest – it’s not our jurisdiction.” “Well,” admitted John, “let’s say there was no real shortage.” “Have you had any since the airport?” “No sir!” came the answer in shocked seriousness. “I don’t do that any more, sir. In fact, I gave up smoking altogether as soon as I reached home, even ordinary cigarettes.” His mother leaned forward in her armchair and added sweetly; “We don’t smoke in this house, officer.” “Well, that’s fine Mam. That’s about all I need to know.” He looked at John. “By the way, son, what were you studying at college?” “Commercial art, sir,” came the reply. Again his mother leaned forward politely. “John is a brilliant artist and we’re all very proud of his skill.” “That’s understandable,” nodded Hill in a friendly way. “Say, just before I go, could I see some of your work? That sort of thing interests me.” “Sure, I’ll fetch down a few samples,” answered John, rising to his feet and walking from the room. His mother also rose to her feet and smiled nicely at Hill. “Since you’re staying for a while longer, Officer Hill, would you like a cup of coffee, or some tea?” “Well, that would be very nice,” he answered. “May I have coffee please, white, no sugar?” “We’re looking after our waistline are we?” she laughed gaily. “I’ll be right back. Please make yourself at home.” After a few minutes, John Pope returned with a large bound portfolio and placed it on a dining table near the room’s bay window. “Here you are Mister Hill, these are some examples of my work.” Hill did not know exactly why he had asked to see John Pope’s artwork. Partly it was an excuse to remain chatting to him and his mother for a little longer in order to see if anything new might jump out of the woodwork; partly it was something else – some investigator’s instinct that acted deep inside him and compelled him to do some more probing. And then there was something else again... something completely unfathomable which was so foreign to his normally crusty and ill-mannered nature that he could not even identify it with a name, let alone understand it. He stooped over the portfolio as John opened it. As the sheets of paper were slowly turned over, he saw a succession of very beautiful and technically brilliant pieces of artwork. There were landscapes in pen-and-ink and in watercolor, a fantastic portrait of John’s mother in pastels, sketches of religious themes, detailed line drawings of animals and highly competent pen-and-ink technical studies of fossils. Despite himself, Hill was very impressed. Just then Mrs. Pope came in wheeling a small trolley bearing coffee and cakes. She handed Hill a dainty plate. “Here’s your coffee, Officer Hill, and some home-made cakes. Feel perfectly free to help yourself.” “Thank you,” replied Hill feeling somehow dreamlike and unreal. He gestured to her son’s artwork. “You and your husband must be very proud of John.” A brief shadow of sadness passed across her eyes. “My husband passed away eleven years ago, Officer Hill,” she whispered softly. “The doctors couldn’t save him.” Then she brightened a little. “I know he was proud of John, and I know in my heart he would be even more proud of him today.” “I’m sorry,” responded Hill, suddenly feeling awkward; another new experience for him. “I did not mean to say anything out of place. And please, it’s John as well, just like your son, not ‘Officer Hill’ – I’m not in the office now.” She smiled at him. “No offence taken, John. You weren’t to know.” Strangely embarrassed - new experiences seemed to be clocking-up fast - Hill turned back to John Pope’s artwork. The boy had now stopped turning the papers over. Hill pointed at the portfolio. “Let’s see some more of them,” he invited. “Oh, you don’t want to see those others,” replied the lad. “They are my earlier work.” “Sure I do,” encouraged Hill. “Never hide your talent under a bushel.” “Go on John,” said Mrs. Pope, standing close beside Hill. A trifle reluctantly, John Pope turned over the pages. At once Hill could see the difference. These were largely influenced by typical comic artwork, but they were still very skillfully executed. Figures of battling superheroes, raging dinosaurs, spaceships, aliens, strange infernal machines wielded by super-villains, war scenes with soldiers and tanks, rock stars striking aggressive poses with jagged electric guitars and so on. In short, the fairly normal output of a skillfully artistic typical teenaged boy. “I call these my ‘early period’” admitted John Pope somewhat bashfully. “I’ve come a long way since then.” Each paper was signed and dated in the bottom corner. Hill noted that “since then” was just three months ago. “I like the direction your work seems to be going in now,” praised Hill. “So do I,” agreed Mrs. Pope. “It’s much nicer.” “Well, I really need to be on my way now Mrs. Pope. Thank you so much for your charming hospitality.” “It was my pleasure, John” she replied with a shy smile. “And please, call me Ann. That’s my name.” “I shall, Ann. And... and...” “Don’t be bashful John.” “May I have the great pleasure of taking you out to dinner tomorrow night, if you have no other commitments?” “Why, how nice. Certainly you may, John. I would like that very much.” “Shall we say eight O’clock then, Ann? “That would be fine John. I shall be looking forward to it.” Her son stepped forward. “Allow me to show you out, sir.” “That’s very nice of you,” said Hill. As he got into the car, Hill’s mobile phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket. “Hill,” he stated flatly. “Hill? This is Stanton at HQ. I have an urgent update for all agents. You need to know this!” “Go ahead, fill me in.” “Reports have begun to come flooding in. Over seventy towns and cities in the USA are now reporting the identical strange facts associated with that file on Davey I sent you to check out. Crime down by nearly one hundred percent, TV and radio stations only broadcasting nice music and nice movies, populations growing more satisfied and seemingly more relaxed about stuff. The list of affected places is growing by the minute. The same thing is happening in other countries all round the world. Now the news has come in that the bio-research lab has identified the cause as a new genetically engineered virus which is spreading throughout the world like wildfire - a niceness-producing virus for Chrissake... Are you hearing me, Hill...?” Hill sighed, rolled down the car window and dropped the still-squawking mobile phone down a drain grid in the gutter. Then he drove off to get measured for a nice new suit for his date with Ann Pope. # Two weeks later a small, neat spaceship landed just outside the White House, carefully avoiding damage to lawns and flowerbeds. General Qal stepped from the hatch as it opened and walked toward the famous building. He was humanoid, but not human. As he removed the helmet of his space suit he flexed the cramped antennae that protruded above his eyebrows. He walked into the White House as though he owned the place. Guards who had never seen him before saluted nicely as he passed. As he approached the Oval Office, a uniformed Marine with white gloves bowed nicely and opened the door for him. “Thank you so much,” said General Qal politely. “Not at all sir, my pleasure” responded the guard equally politely. Inside the Oval Office the President rose to his feet as General Qal entered. Qal saluted then shook hands nicely with the President. “Mister President,” said General Qal politely, “would you mind awfully if we take over your entire nation, and, indeed, your entire planet?” “Not at all, my dear sir,” said the President, stepping politely aside from his desk to allow General Qal to sit down. “That would be very nice. Feel perfectly free to help yourself.”
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)