Weather forecasting wasn’t all that well paid. They saw him as a famous biologist. His mother had visions of the Nobel Prize. Stockholm. Steady, sincere, unemotional applause. It would be hard to tell them, especially after all these years, especially after it had grown into such a secret ambition.
A new leaf, blown on warm zephyrs. A new life. A new Pegasus. New business and personal interests. A limitless prospect. You’re going to miss out on all this, Paula.
The sky was heavy and colourless. Night would creep up unobserved. Pegasus sat on the seat, rather drunk, rather cold, thinking about Paula.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember her legs, slightly on the short side. She was a little round-shouldered but very desirable, unless his memory was playing him false. He thought of his lips flecking the inside of her arm just below the armpit, and of licking her left ear, in Academy One, during the Czech cartoon.
Soon his eyes filled with tears and his lips moved a little as he appealed to her.
Paula, Paula, how could you do it? I would have adored you for ever. Any impression you may have received to the contrary was caused by the tension which is inseparable from an intimate relationship between two tender and passionate souls. How could you leave me for anyone, let alone a man who translates Ogden Nash into Latin as a hobby? How could you make such a nonsense of my life, my darling rubbery lovely utterly …
Hell! A light silent rain was beginning to fall from the still, grey February sky. He was getting wet, because he had brought no raincoat, because his father had told him that the fine weather would continue.
2
Some of the slides had a man in them, and when one of these was shown the pigeons would find food. Some of them had no man in them. This meant that the pigeons would find only buttons and hard objects in the bowls.
When this pattern had been fully established, when man in slide equalled goodies even to the most retarded pigeon, Cummings would insert the algae. Some untreated, some flavoured, some mixed with pesticides, some from the outflow of nuclear power stations. Then Bradley and Pegasus would correlate the results.
Pegasus was merely a cog in all this. Miss Besant brought him his instructions from Mr Colthorpe, he got his results, Miss Besant took his results back to Mr Colthorpe. His little piece of work was fitted into someone else’s grand design.
Bradley passed through now.
‘Fantastic,’ said Bradley.
‘Yes?’
‘The cats given the fish-flavoured weed from the Yorkshire Ouse are doing fantastically well. Twelve per cent heavier than the cats fed on normal cat food.’
‘Fantastic.’
This was progress. Vast immovable growths of weed-guzzling cat. Must make the break today, while Cousin Percy’s prediction is fresh in my mind.
Pegasus had often alleviated the boredom and distastefulness of his work by trying to convince himself that it was in the national interest, that he was a dedicated man, patriotically resisting the brain drain.
At other times, when he was wanting to persuade himself to give up and become a chef, he’d tried to convince himself that it wasn’t in the national interest, or that the national interest wasn’t in the world interest, or something, anything helpful.
He had never yet convinced himself of anything.
He began to go through the arguments again, the same old arguments, so familiar that he thought of them in note form nowadays.
He thought: Food, research into new sources of. For: increased use of earth’s resources. Elimination of starvation. Against: increased depletion of earth’s resources. Elimination of starvation could lead to even worse population problems, hence to even worse starvation.
Conclusion as regards value for mankind of nutritional experiments: no conclusion.
Miss Besant was typing — smoothly, lightly, efficiently, by way of contrast with her plump figure and red legs. She lodged in Willesden with two friends, kept her personality in the bank and only withdrew it at week-ends.
The coffee came round. Have one on me, Miss Besant. Nice momentarily to feel generous. Vile coffee. Niceness gone. No air. Stifling. Poor old pigeons. Dancing helplessly to man’s absurd tune. Slides in one of the cages not coming through. Sort that out. Coffee now cold. Resume arguments.
To hell with the arguments. Make the break now.
‘Miss Besant?’
The clacking stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘Will you do me a favour? Go and get me a copy of the Caterer and Hotel Keeper, if you can find one.’
The decision had been made at last.
It was National Pig Week, and a display of pig products had been laid out in Reception. A double track model railway wended its way among the scenic gammon, and two pork pies rode slowly round and round, one in each direction, from nine till five-thirty.
Mr Prestwick, personnel manager of Wine and Dine Ltd, averted his gaze from this exhibit as he made his way back to his tiny, hot office high above the Euston Road.
‘Send Mr Baines in, Miss Purkiss,’ he said into the intercom.
His ulcer was playing him up, his rise hadn’t materialized, his wife had sent a van for all her furniture, he was living alone in half-empty rooms, he had never felt less like managing personnel.
Baines entered, with all the absurd hopes of youth. A tall, slim, quite good-looking young man with slightly stick-out ears and a surprisingly solid face.
‘So you want to work for us?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Baines, and Mr Prestwick envied him his steady unaffected middle-class voice. Something was going wrong with Mr Prestwick’s voice. It didn’t always stay tuned in quite right. Sometimes there was a low whistle, or a hum, or a crackle.
‘One or two questions, just make sure you know your French irregular herbs,’ said Mr Prestwick.
Baines managed some kind of a smile. They usually managed some kind of a smile.
‘Are you familiar with our organization?’
‘Not really.’
‘You’re aware that we’re synonymous with quality?’
‘I imagine you would be.’
‘Do you want bouillabaise in Barnsley or moussaka in Macclesfield? Then dine and wine at your nearest Wine and Dine house. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Visit the Golden Galleon, Aylesbury, and enjoy the best of British Duck?’
‘No sir.’
Those idiots in 117 had been wasting their time. Mr Prestwick laughed inwardly, hurting his ulcer.
