chapter three

Andrew woke up. There was a narrow column protruding from his left shoulder, it was matt black and ran parallel to his neck; at the end of it, level with his ear, was a sphere of the same colour. The sphere was about four inches in diameter and this, he somehow knew, was his 'Adviser'.

The last words he had heard, before he blanked out, were still floating around in the back of his mind; "Just a tranquillizer - can't be too careful in this job", but as he sat up and looked around they scuttled away and hid in a dark corner, never to be remembered again.

He was back in the bed where he had first met Brian. This time, he was relieved to note, he was on his own. He was unusually composed and  confident. He felt he could cope with anything the day might throw at him. Sadly, he was quite wrong. This particular day had a stockpile of disconcerting missiles just waiting to be hurled in his direction.

"Ah, so you're awake," said Brian, smiling as he entered the room. "How do you feel?"

"I feel great," said Andrew exuberantly.

"Apparently, your Acceptance Factor was very low. Acute Scepticitis, the Doctor called it," Brian smiled. "He was amazed that I managed to stop you cracking up completely," said Brian proudly. "Anyway, that's all fixed up now."

"I think I did go a bit off the rails. I even imagined that you said we were married!" laughed Andrew.

"But we are," said Brian earnestly. "I know how you feel, though; it was a big surprise for me too. But now, with the aid of hindsight, I can see that I was building up to it for some time. The relationships I had with women were never very satisfactory, I found myself joining a soccer team and hanging around in airport bars. I thought I was just trying to get fit and wangle a few cheap flights; it didn't occur to me that I was slowly turning Gay."

"Now hold on a minute! I am n-" said Andrew, but he was interrupted by a voice speaking into his left ear.

"Wait!" the voice was deep and full of authority; it was coming from the black sphere. "Before you continue, there are things which you should know."

"You're telling me there are!" said Andrew.

"What?" said Brian.

"The first thing you should know is that Brian can't hear me," said the Adviser.

"Why not?" asked Andrew.

"Why not what?" said Brian.

"Sorry, not you, I was talking to the Adviser."

"You are the only one who can hear me, because, in order to advise you, I may have to say things which would be considered heresy by anyone else. Some of your attitudes are entirely inappropriate for this society, and it's up to me to put you straight. For instance; the one you were about to express would be interpreted as the first sign of insanity," said the Adviser.

"How do you know what I was going to say?" said Andrew, and motioned to Brian that he was still talking to the Adviser.

"Because I am trained to deal with immigrants. Your initial response to any awkward situation is to say; it's all a big mistake, or words to that effect. The concept that everything‑is‑not‑as‑it‑should‑be is altogether alien to Brian, and everyone else. These people believe that everything will happen the way it is meant to happen, consequently words like Injustice and Luck have no meaning here. Fate has put you in this situation and fate does not make mistakes. So don't try to tell Brian that you are not supposed to be his wife. You are his wife and you'll just have to get used to it."

Andrew had the feeling that, previous to this morning's operation, he would have greeted these statements with more than a little disbelief. But now he simply accepted the ideas without question. There was, after all, something very persuasive about a small black sphere, especially when it was surgically attached to your shoulder.

"All right, I'll try," said Andrew.

"Be careful what you say," warned the Adviser. "Remember; Destiny is King in this world and it rules the people with an iron hand."

Andrew winced at the Adviser's over‑theatrical turn of phrase, and directed his attention to the problem of sleeping with Brian, or rather, how not to.

"Look, Brian, I'm still a bit uncomfortable about this Gay business. It's nothing personal, but do you mind if we lay off the physical stuff - just until I get settled in?"

"No, not at all, it took me a while to get used to it, but it was a tremendous relief to finally discover my true sexuality. I'll try not to rush you. There's a spare bedroom so I'll sleep there until you feel you're ready," said Brian. "Now, why don't you get dressed and I'll give you a lift down to the Department of Life and Death. You have to register immediately - you know."

Brian walked over to the built‑in wardrobe and slid back one of the doors. "Oh good" he said reaching in and pulling out a floral dress, "women's clothes."

"What!" cried Andrew.

"Careful," warned a voice at his ear.

"I'm so glad you're a transvestite; it makes it so much more interesting," said Brian pulling out a whole armful of clothes and throwing them onto the bed. "Now, what are you going to wear?"

The Adviser explained to Andrew what this society did to people who were branded insane, and two hours later Andrew was standing in front of the mirror admiring himself. He'd shaved - his face, arms, legs and armpits. He was wearing a blonde shoulder‑length wig and was wondering what shade of lipstick would go with the red dress he had on, when Brian walked in.

"Oh you're not wearing that, are you! It makes you look such a tart!"

Andrew was growing increasingly perturbed about how quickly Brian was adapting to his new role; he was getting camper by the minute.

"It's taken me an hour to get into this lot; I'm not going to get changed again now. The important thing is do I look like a woman, or do I look like a drag‑queen?"

Brian spent a few moments scrutinizing Andrew from all angles.

"Drag‑queen," he pronounced.

"Couldn't you be more constructive? Where have I gone wrong?"

"Well, let me see ... your breasts; they're pointing much too high for a woman of your age. You'll have to pluck your eye‑brows; they're far too bushy. Oh, and paint your finger‑nails."

An hour later Andrew had finished the final touches - he still looked like a drag‑queen but Brian didn't have the heart to tell him.

"Now then, don't forget your badge - pin it on the dress where everyone can see it," said Brian as he fussed around Andrew, pulling stray threads off the dress and straightening the hem line.

Eventually they were both ready. They left the house, got into a car which was parked nearby, and drove off down the road.

Andrew was surprised that everything looked so normal. The street was typical of any uninspiring suburb, the car was typical of any characterless hatch‑back, and the pedestrians were typically uninspired characters.

They were driving towards the centre of the city, the gardens and trees gave way to petrol stations and car sale yards.

Suddenly there was a screech of tires behind them and Andrew turned his head around in time to see a car, of exactly the same colour and type as theirs, swerving from a side street into their lane.

At almost the same moment Brian's personality underwent a drastic change. His eyes bulged, his lips curled back, and he breathed noisily through his nose - he was now a blood‑thirsty homicidal maniac. He rammed the gear‑lever forward, forcing the car into a lower gear, and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The car leapt ahead, its gear‑box screaming. Andrew began screaming too when the back window shattered. Through the hole in the broken glass he could see that the driver of the car behind was holding a gun out of his window and aiming it at them.

"He's trying to kill us!" shouted Andrew over the roar of the engine.

"Not us, just me. But he's only got ..." Brian glanced quickly at his watch, "another two minutes."

"What? How do you know?" said Andrew, cowering below the level of the seats.

"He has to be at work by nine," said Brian as he wrenched the steering wheel to left.

The car squealed around the corner into a narrow lane which ran behind a row of shops. Up ahead a large stationary garbage truck blocked the road.

"Oh shit!" said Brian smashing his foot onto the brake pedal, bringing the car to an abrupt halt. "Stay in the car; you'll be perfectly safe. I'll be back in a few minutes." He jumped out of the car, and disappeared through the back door of a hairdressing salon.

Too stunned to do anything but obey, Andrew sat in the car. A few seconds later the pursuing vehicle pulled up behind him. A man got out, rushed up to Brian's car, and flung open Andrew's door.

"Where did he go?" demanded the man.

Andrew pointed, automatically, to the door Brian had chosen. The man grinned briefly to himself and walked over to a door opposite the one Andrew had indicated. The man tried to open it, but it was locked. He looked at his watch, thumped the door with his fist and yelled, "I'll get you next time!" He walked back to his car, nodding to Andrew as he passed, got in and reversed back down the lane.

Minutes later, Brian returned smiling, his former gentle personality restored.

"Hey, that was a good trick you pulled back there, Andrew, quick thinking."

"Trick? Oh yes, sending him to the right door because I knew he wouldn't believe me. Yes, I use it all the time."

Brian looked at Andrew dubiously, before driving away down the now clear lane.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" said Brian and began to hum tunelessly to himself.

"That man," said Andrew speaking slowly and emphasizing each word, "was trying to kill you. He shot a hole in the back window of your car."

"Humm, yes, it is a bit of a mess. He'll pay for that," said Brian unconcerned, then he added with a smile, "in more ways than one!"

"Shall I explain?"

Andrew jumped at the sound of the Adviser's voice, and then nodded.

"The man attempting to kill Brian was his personal assassin; he has now become his personal victim. Everyone under the age of 45 and over the age of 18 is matched with a person of similar background, social standing, physical attributes and opposing personality. These matched pairs then take it in turns to try to kill each other. In this way, the population is kept reasonably low, people enjoy and appreciate life to its fullest, and everyone leads an exciting, if sometimes short, existence. Another advantage is that the reservoir of anger and frustration, which builds up as a result of day‑to‑day city living, can be drained, regularly, through a single, controlled channel. This has proved remarkably beneficial in improving mental health and reducing violent crimes. I warn you, do not question anyone about the morals of this sport, it is considered a perfectly natural part of life. The fear of death is the spice in the birthday‑cake of life."

Andrew groaned, but the Adviser continued unabashed. "These assassin/victim partnerships are set‑up and controlled by the Department of Life and Death, and I believe we have just arrived at its regional office."

"I hope you're as lucky as me," said Brian. "My assassin likes to keep the weekend free for his family, so he only ever attacks on his way to, or from work."

"Now look, Brian, things have been moving pretty swiftly; don't you think it's too soon for me to register for this assassin/victim thing?"

"Don't be silly; you'll enjoy it. It's just what you need to take your mind off things, and help you relax," said Brian patting Andrew's knee reassuringly.

The building in front of which they had parked was drab and unimpressive. It was six storeys high; half way up the concrete front was a large sign: "Department of Life and Death"; below that was a montage depicting two figures locked in combat, and, below this, the inscription: "From Death Comes Richer Life".

They stepped out of the car, walked up a short flight of steps and entered the building through a revolving door. Inside was a large hall; at the opposite end were some lifts and in front of these was a man sitting behind a desk. A small queue of people was waiting in front of the desk.

"Well," said Brian, "I'm going to have to leave you here, sweetheart. Some of us have to go to work. Now, I've written down our address, and here is some money so you can get a taxi home. Don't worry, everything will be just fine. I'll see you later."

Before Andrew could jerk away, Brian kissed him lightly on the cheek, turned, and left.

"Bye, Bye."

"Yeah, see you later," said Andrew wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

"Incredible," said Andrew shaking his head. "He really thinks he's Gay."

"He is," said the Adviser.

Andrew walked over to the desk and joined the end of the queue. He knew that registering with the Department of Life and Death was not a smart move but what else could he do? He was a stranger in a very strange land. It might be safest to side with the system, at least until he got to know how it worked.

A short elderly man, standing ahead in the queue, turned to Andrew and hissed, "pervert!"

Some people have mastered the art of dealing with this kind of situation. They have an arsenal of scathing replies hidden up their sleeves, one for every occasion. Andrew was an ad‑libber. Often he composed a comeback so humorous, so incisive, so pertinent that the recipient could do nothing but wilt in admiration. However, this was a very rare event - not many people were prepared to wait for two or three hours while Andrew formulated his response. In this case Andrew spent a few moments feeling hurt by the unprovoked abuse, and then lashed out with his traditional stopgap.

"Piss off!" he said.

The man muttered something under his breath and turned away.

After several very self‑conscious minutes of waiting, Andrew reached the front of the queue. The man at the desk shuffled a few sheets of paper from one pile to another, looked up, and smiled. "Good morning ... umm .. Madam, how can I be of service?"

"Good morning, I'd like to register, please," said Andrew, uncomfortably aware of how deep his voice sounded.

"Yes of course. Take the lift to the second floor and ..." the man inspected a row of lights on his desk, "ah yes, Interview Room Three is available now. Look for the sign on the door - you can't miss it."

"Okay, thanks," said Andrew and walked over to the queue waiting for the lift.

As predicted, when he got to the second floor, he had no trouble locating Interview Room Three - it was the only door in sight. He knocked on the door and walked in.

Behind a worn, scratched, metal desk sat a middle‑aged woman, her face lined by a life‑time of dedicated scowling, her hair tied in a neat angry bun at the back of her head. She was tapping away at the keyboard of a computer which lay on one side of her desk. On the front edge of the desk was a name plate which read: Mrs C Cook. As Andrew closed the door behind him, she looked up in unmistakable annoyance. "Did I say you could come in?"

"Yes," lied Andrew.

For some reason, probably Andrew's outrageous appearance, the woman decided not to take the matter any further. "Very well, sit down, I'll be with you in a moment," she made a few more key‑strokes, nodded approvingly at the screen, and turned to Andrew. "Name?" she queried briskly.

"Andrew Smith."

"Take this, and run the end of it along your badge," she passed him what looked like a fat pen, one end of which was attached to a wire which ran off to the back of the computer; the other end had some kind of lens in it.

Andrew did as he was told and handed the device back to the woman, who pressed a couple of keys then sat back in her chair and studied the screen.

"So ... Homosexual ... Transvestite ...  Married ... twenty‑five years old - Really? You look much older. Well, anyway the machine has all your details now. I need some more information on what we, here at the Department, like to call your variables. Do you have a car?"

"No."

"Any form of transport?"

"My feet," said Andrew, unable to resist the temptation to be awkward. It was nothing personal against Mrs Cook - he always felt that way in the face of bureaucracy.

"If you were crippled, Mr Smith, it would have shown on your badge. Please try to answer the questions without being flippant. Am I to take it that you have no other form of transport, aside from your feet?"

"Yes."

"Yes, you have no other form of transport or yes, you do have another form of transport."

"Yes I have no other form of transport. Kindly try to construct your sentences in a way which will not lead to an ambiguous reply," he said pompously.

Mrs Cook produced one of her most fearsome scowls. "Do you own a weapon?" she said stiffly.

"No."

"Have you ever been trained in any kind of self‑defence?"

"No."

"Mr Smith, since you are a new immigrant, you will assume the role of victim. Your assassin will call at your house tonight to introduce himself; the duel will commence at dawn the next day. Your Adviser will answer any questions you have concerning the rules of the contest." She pressed a few more buttons on the keyboard and continued: "Now, your employment. According to your P.P. badge you-"

"P.P.?"

"It stands for: Personality Profile. Really," she huffed, "is your Adviser working correctly?"

"I'm not sure How is it supposed to work?"

"If it talks - it works. Try asking it a few questions; you might learn something about the world around you," she lectured.

"It's been fairly hectic so far, I haven't had time -"

She waved aside his excuses with a flick of her hand. "To continue, your personality profile says that you are friendly, extroverted, very witty with a great ability to empathize with others - having an off‑day are we?" The woman paused, long enough for Andrew to think that a reply was required, but not long enough for him to actually make one. "The most suitable job we have available is that of Agony Aunt at the local radio‑station. You will begin this morning; your Adviser will tell you how to get there."

"Agony Aunt! Don't you have something else? Say, slightly less suitable."

"Watch it," warned the Adviser.

"Um, I think the challenge would be good for me," added Andrew.

Mrs Cook looked startled, "So this is the wit coming out is it? A little too degenerate for my liking. As I said if you have any questions your Adviser will be able to fill you in," she looked at Andrew expectantly.

Andrew did what was expected, which was to stand up, leave the room and stop wasting her time.

Outside the building, Andrew sat down on the steps to try to figure things out. "Adviser, tell me about the badge."

"The Personality Profile Badge, usually known as the P.P. badge, is a complex representation of the wearer's personality. Decoding of the badge depends not just upon the colours used but also upon their sequence and their relationship to each other within the spectrum. Consequently it is not possible to determine someone's personality profile without the aid of a computer. However it is widely known that people having badges where the last three colours match will be perfect sexual partners. It has become a custom on meeting someone who shares your last three colours to immediately find a secluded spot and make love."

"Wow," said Andrew, "what a great idea! But what happens at work? Productivity must be pretty low if people are sneaking off to the stock‑room every time they feel the urge."

"Obviously, potential employees are screened to prevent that situation."

"Shame."

"You and Brian share the last five colours, which means that you are ideally suited for marriage."

"Aha that-" began Andrew.

"Hush," interrupted the Adviser. "You're quite wrong. This does not mean that people can control their own destinies - simply by changing the colour sequence of their badge. The people of this world would no more think of changing their badge than they would of building a church. Because they know there is no god and there is no way to alter fate."

"I wasn't going to say that," said Andrew, "I was about to say that I now know why I'm stuck with Brian and why I've been given such an unsuitable job."

"Because it's your destiny."

"No, because I changed my badge."

"What!" screamed the Adviser, its case vibrating with the surge of power through its loud‑speaker.

"When I was in the briefing, I dropped it and it broke. There's no way I could have put the colours back in the right places."

"Ah yes, but it was fate which broke the badge and it was your destiny to put them back in the way you did," pointed out the Adviser, now sounding less panic-stricken.

"Well, maybe - but at least I'm not Gay."

"You could still be Gay."

"Yes, that's true, but it's not definite."

"What's wrong with being Gay?"

"Well, nothing. It's just that they get a pretty rough deal."

"Not in this world. People don't care if you're Gay or straight."

"Oh that's good."

"It's the transvestites they really hate."

"Great."

"They're not too keen on immigrants either."

Andrew stood up and began strolling aimlessly down the street.

"Where are you going? You have to be at the radio‑station by 10:30," nagged the Adviser.

"There are a lot of things I don't understand; let's go to a quiet park, and you can explain it all to me."

"Okay, turn left here."

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