chapter four

Andrew was lying flat on his back in the middle of a large, sloping lawn. The mild spring sun was shining down, gently warming his skin.

"Do you, now, understand the tremendous benefits that the badge has brought to society?" asked the Adviser.

"Yeah, sure, it's much easier to find a good lover."

"I thought not. No that's just a useful spin‑off, though it has greatly improved the mental stability of the population by removing all traces of sexual frustration. The real value of the badge is that it guarantees that people never have a relationship with someone who is unsuitable. Without the badge people waste months, or even years, getting to know someone, only to discover that they squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube. The badge saves all those wasted hours of mutual reassurance, you don't have to bother about saying: I love you, because the badge says it for you. You don't have to be anxious about whether your partner is still interested in you, because the badge shows he is."

"She is," corrected Andrew.

"And of course if your lover's badge does change, it doesn't matter, because you know that they are no‑longer the ideal person for you."

"Yeah, it sounds good," said Andrew cautiously.

"It doesn't stop with sexual relationships. It's easy to pick your friends, and your children will grow up with good parents."

"Uh, you mean the badge ensures that people likely to become bad parents never have any kids?"

"Not exactly. As soon as a child begins to develop a personality it's taken to the Department of Life and Death, and issued with a badge. If the colours don't fit‑in with the rest of the family then the child is sent to another family where it does."

"All right then, correct me if I'm wrong. These badges accurately describe the personality of the wearer, but, as you said, personalities change - does that mean you have to take your badge back every six months to have it updated?"

"No, no. These badges are far more advanced than you realize. They change with the personality; yours is probably already changing to reflect your real character. There are some schools of thought which say that people with weak identities never change because their persona doesn't have the strength needed to affect the badge. Now, in your case; if you happen to have a weak personality, it's quite possible that you would change to fit the badge. In other words, you would become a transvestite Agony Aunt."

"Don't be ridiculous, my character is as strong as an ox," said Andrew, more from indignation than conviction.

"You look very comfortable, lying there in the sun."

"I am, it's very relaxing."

"Do you think that, twenty‑four hours ago, you would have felt comfortable lying in the middle of a park dressed in women's clothing?"

Andrew sat up quickly, and tore the badge from his dress.

"Wait!" cried the Adviser urgently, "I was only joking. You're not concerned because your Acceptance Factor has been increased."

"Joking! You're my Adviser; you're not supposed to joke," chastised Andrew, his fear quickly turning into annoyance.

"As your Adviser, I am supposed to strike up a friendly, working, relationship with my pupil. Studies in psychology show that a good way to break‑down the barriers between two strangers is through the use of a technique known as ribbing. In this technique, a small joke is made by one person at the expense of the other. This is usually followed by a reversal of the roles, and in no time at all a bond of friendship has formed. This technique presupposes a sense of humour in both parties. From your response I conclude that either you have no sense of humour at all, or you are so arrogant that you think you have no need of friends."

"Don't get upset. We're getting along just fine, and we'll get on even better if you lay‑off the textbook psychology," said Andrew trying to mend the rift. "I just wasn't expecting a computer to start telling jokes, that's all."

"Computer! Hah!" snorted the Adviser.

"Oh, sorry. You see we haven't been properly introduced, I just assumed ... I mean you look ... you're the Adviser; you should have told me. So ... um ... what - I mean who are you? You are a machine, aren't you?"

The Adviser remained silent.

"Knock, knock, anybody home?" said Andrew tapping his finger‑nail on the side of the sphere.

"Don't do that!" snarled the Adviser. "Whilst it is true that I am made, primarily, of electronic components, it does not logically follow that I am not a sentient being."

"And are you?"

"Yes of course I am, or at least I think I am - and that's good enough," said the Adviser smugly.

"Okay, okay," said Andrew, he pinned the badge on his dress, lay back on the grass, and closed his eyes. "Advise me about the badge. What do you think I should do?"

"It's very straightforward: just go to work, live with Brian, and after about six months your badge will have caught up with your personality."

"Six months!"

"Well, from what you tell me, your badge is totally out of sync' with your personality. Personalities are normally unwieldy beasts; when they change they do it slowly and obstinately. The badge is designed to cope with these gradual changes, but not with sudden dramatic ones. It will respond, but it'll take time."

"What if I changed it myself? I could pick someone on the street, someone who looked fairly normal, and copy the pattern from his badge to mine," said Andrew.

"I told you these things are very complicated; each colour bar on the badge is not a primary colour, it's a specific shade of that colour. The likelihood of your finding someone with exactly the same shades as you have is practically zero. But supposing you did: where would you live? At the moment Brian is looking after you; you don't even have any money."

"What if I go back to wherever I emigrated from? Hey, where did I come from? What am I doing here anyway? Why can't I remember anything? What the hell is it all about?" said Andrew with mounting agitation.

"Those are normally the first questions people ask their Adviser."

"Yeah well, I haven't had a chance, things have been happening too quickly."

"That's the beauty of this world, you never have time to wonder about the unanswerable questions of life - there's just too much going on."

"Well, there's plenty of time now."

"No, I don't think so; it looks like you've found an admirer," said the Adviser unable to keep the amusement out of its voice.

Andrew opened his eyes and saw a man in a stylish business‑suit standing in front of him. He was looking at Andrew appreciatively, and smiling.

"Hello, honey," said the man in a slightly breathless voice.

"I'm afraid you've made a mistake," said Andrew and then lowered his voice to a more confidential level, "I'm actually a man."

"Well, of course you are," said the man grinning. "You must be a new immigrant. Look," he pointed to his badge, "the last three bars of our badges match, and you know what that means ..." the man waved his eye‑brows suggestively.

"But, but ... I'm a married man," said Andrew.

"That doesn't help," whispered the Adviser.

"And and ... I'm incredibly late for work; sorry about that. Maybe next time, eh?" Andrew was up and walking. He didn't look back until he got to the park‑gate. "Phew, that was close! That's the trouble with men; they're only after one thing."

Andrew caught a taxi to the radio‑station, where he was met by the producer of the show. The man introduced himself as Dorian, at which point Andrew quickly compared their badges; he was relieved to see they were different.

Dorian took Andrew into a small room and sat him down at a desk; he showed him how to wear the earphones and how to switch on the microphone. He explained that this was a talk‑back show; people would phone up and tell Andrew their problems. All Andrew had to do was to sound sympathetic and offer a few words of advice.

On the desk was a box with two buttons - one button selected the next caller, and the other played four advertisements followed by a jingle. Also on the desk was a list of charities and government departments to which he could refer people. On the wall was a sign which lit up when he was on‑the‑air. There would be a break for news on the hour, every hour, and he must use the advert button at least five times an hour.

Andrew practised pushing the buttons for ten minutes before he started the broadcast. Then, without warning, the light came on, he looked at it for a couple of seconds, unable to move, and then recovered enough to push the advert button. He could hear the commercial playing in his earphones as he was desperately trying to think of something to say. When the jingle came on it was so unbelievably inane that he lost his train of thought. He pushed the button again. When the second jingle had finished he took a deep breath and began the show.

"Good afternoon. My name is Andrew and I'm your new Agony Aunt. So if you have any problems ... er ... about which you can't talk to anyone else about, about anything at all, then call me up and ... um ... we'll talk about it and if it's something about which I know nothing about then I'll put you in contact with the people who know all about what ever it is your problem is about," he stumbled. "Now let's take the first caller," he said, and pushed the advert button.

After the third jingle something in his mind snapped, his hands stopped shaking, and his mouth ran off of its own accord.

"Well I'm sure we've all heard enough of those wonderful ads; now, let's hear some of those tragic problems that we all like to laugh about. Okay, caller number one, let's hear it, and remember there are ten thousand people out there just waiting for you to make a fool of yourself." He stabbed the caller button with a flourish. "Well, come on, come on, speak up."

"Oh ... er ... hello Andrew, am I on now?" stammered the voice of an adolescent girl.

"You certainly are love, the whole city can hear you. Now what piece of trivia is troubling your pathetic little mind?"

"I'm pregnant and -" she began.

"Oh, is that all! I suppose you think you're something special. Do you know how many teenage girls get pregnant every year? Hundreds. Thousands, but do they phone me up with a sob story? No. You're damn right they don't. We're all responsible for our own bodies; it's no good trying to blame the poor fish who knocked you up and then left you. I'd do the same to a self‑centred little bitch like you. So what have you got to say to that?"

"Well, my husband asked me to call. We heard the start of your show and thought Andrew would be a lovely name for the new baby. So I said we should phone you up and ask if you'd mind us naming him after you."

"Oh really, how nice, I'm touched. It's always heart‑warming to hear from sincere folk like yourselves. Let me tell you the sentiment has brought a tear to my eye. Thank you for sharing that with us. Aaaah, now. Let's take the next call."

"Hello," It was a mature male voice this time.

"Hello there. How can I help you with your meaningless existence?"

"Um ... Well ... It's a bit hard to say, I -"

"I'm sure it is. Someone with a vocabulary as limited as yours would find it hard to hold a conversation with a two‑year‑old. Just pull yourself together and get on with it."

"I'm having trouble with my partner. He ignores my sexual advances and shuns any physical contact. What can I do to seduce him into my arms?"

"Brian, don't ever call me at work again."

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