chapter five

That evening Andrew returned home to find Brian jumping up and down on a packet of fish‑fingers.

"Brian! What on earth are you doing?"

"I'm just opening these fish‑fingers," said Brian pausing for a rest.

"Opening! I'd hate to see how you get into a can of sardines." Andrew bent down, picked up the packet and tried to tear open the flap at the end of the box. The flap wouldn't budge.

"You won't open it like that."

"Nonsense." Andrew picked up a bread knife and began sawing at the flap. After several minutes of vigorous activity the blade had made no impression. "What the hell is this box made of?"

"Why don't you let me handle dinner tonight?" said Brian, retrieving the fish‑fingers, as Andrew's eyes roved about the kitchen in search of a handy chain-saw. "Go into the sitting‑room and let your Adviser explain."

"All foods," began the Adviser, when Andrew had settled himself in a padded arm‑chair, "are wrapped according to their energy content. It's a well-known fact that people consume far more than they need. So rather than stop them from eating whatever they want, the packaging ensures that at least sixty percent of the energy derived from the food is actually expended before the food is eaten. Each kind of food has a different exercise associated with it. Fish, for instance, is good for the legs. Once the required energy has been applied, the package is then easy to open."

"I could be wrong, but I don't think I've ever heard a more ludicrous idea. I suppose if you fancy a bar of chocolate, you have to call in a team of weight‑lifters to help you unwrap it?"

"This ludicrous idea, as you call it, has been responsible for adding ten years to the average life‑expectancy. Health and fitness are tremendously beneficial to the quality of life, and play a major part in reducing mental illness and depression. It also restores the natural balance of the food chain."

"What, in God's name, is natural about tap‑dancing on a packet of frozen fish‑fingers?"

"Before the days of computer‑designed, mechanically‑processed, electronically‑tested, radioactively‑sterilized, plastic‑wrapped food, man was forced to hunt or grow his own. The more protein the food contained, the more work man had to do to get it. A whole tribe would spend days stalking a mammoth, but only a few were needed to grow vegetables - there was a balance between effort and return. Now that natural balance has been restored. There are some vegetables which don't need to be packaged at all; the energy you use peeling, chopping and cooking them is enough."

"All right, I'll admit it's a nice idea ... in theory. But it can't possibly work in practice, or are you going to tell me there is no such thing as a restaurant in this world?"

"There are millions of restaurants and inside each one is a gym. You go in, order your meal and while it's being cooked you work off your quota of calories on the exercise bicycle."

"It sounds dreadful."

"Not at all," said Brian as he swept into the room carrying two plates; piled high with fish‑fingers, peas and chips. "It's a great way to work up an appetite."

After dinner Andrew sat dozing in a chair, having exhausted himself unwrapping some ice‑cream from the freezer and opening a bottle of wine. Brian was in the kitchen doing the washing‑up, evidently going out of his way to be the perfect house-husband.

Andrew was woken up by the sound of the door‑bell.

"I'll get it," called Brian, "it's probably your assassin."

Andrew rubbed his eyes and stood up, wondering how to greet someone who twenty‑four hours later would be trying to kill him.

Brian entered the room followed by what Andrew could only describe as the most loathsome creature he had ever seen.

The man embodied everything in the world that Andrew detested. He was the perpetrator of all the cruelty, treachery, and bad‑driving that Andrew had ever witnessed, or even read about.

Before Andrew could say anything - not that he was capable of saying anything, he was so revolted - the man turned on his heels and quickly left.

Andrew slumped back into the chair, the intensity of his aversion had drained what little energy his dinner had provided.

"My God! Did you see that guy? I've never felt so much hate in all my life. It was appalling ... I almost threw up," said Andrew once he had recovered some of his composure.

"Well of course," said the Adviser, "you wouldn't want to have to kill someone you liked, would you?"

"He seemed quite nice to me," said Brian, "but you should have seen his face when he saw you! I thought he was going to kill you on the spot."

"Quite nice! He was the most repulsive person I have ever seen; the world will be a much better place once I've wiped him off the face of it."

"Unfortunately, he gets to use the face‑cloth first," said Brian regretfully.

"Oh yeah that's right ... hey don't I need a gun or something?"

"You will when it's your turn to be the assassin; victims aren't allowed to carry weapons, and there's no point in buying one if you're going to get killed before you have the chance to use it," said Brian.

"Well thanks for your encouraging optimism. What about a bullet‑proof suit?"

"That's not allowed either. The victim is allowed no special form of defence nor to engage in any unusual behaviour likely to improve his expectations of survival," quoted Brian.

"So I'm going to die," Andrew stated flatly. "Tomorrow," he added in an attempt to fend off the nauseating clichè that 'nobody lives forever'.

"It's possible. The thing to do is to live life to its fullest. You know," said Brian, his face taking on the wistful expression of someone about to utter what they consider to be a profound piece of home‑spun philosophy.

Andrew gritted his teeth in preparation.

"I don't think red suits you. Why don't you try the blue dress tomorrow?"

Andrew buried his face in his hands and groaned.

Brian moved across the room and sat on the arm of Andrew's chair; he draped his own arm across Andrew's shoulder. "Why not come to bed, and I'll take your mind off it?" he said in a husky voice.

"How can you think of sex at a time like this?" said Andrew leaping to his feet. "No, I won't be going to bed tonight ... I've got to plan ... got to think of every possibility ... leave nothing to chance ... an answer for everything," he said as he paced up and down the room.

"You'd better talk to your Adviser about that," said Brian clearly annoyed by the rejection. "I'm going to bed." He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Well?" said Andrew.

"You're forgetting that this world revolves around destiny. Whether you are killed tomorrow, or not, is out of your hands. Either you will be or you won't; nothing you do can change that fact," explained the Adviser.

"But I can improve my odds by preparing counter‑moves for whatever tricks the assassin might use against me."

"You simply don't understand, do you? The outcome of tomorrow's conflict has already been decided - nothing you do will make any difference. You must accept this basic principle or you will never enjoy yourself," answered the Adviser patiently.

"Who has already decided? Why wasn't I consulted?"

"Now you're just being fatuous. Fate is a book that has already been written."

"Do you have to keep saying things like that?" said Andrew.

"Like what?"

"Oh you know, those pompous phrases. What are they, quotes or something?"

"Give me an example."

"Okay, Destiny is King and rules the people with an iron hand. Don't you think that is just a trifle pretentious."

"I think it's a whole dessert‑trolley pretentious. That's why it's so effective. It's a basic trick of advertising: give the punter something that is so sickeningly puerile that he can't forget it, no matter how hard he tries. And it works; you remembered it word for word."

"I don't care how well it works, I find the whole thing most offensive. You treat me like a mindless puppet, and I won't have it!"

"I'm just trying to indoctrinate you with the rules of this society, and I'm doing it in the fastest way I know how."

"I don't want to be indoctrinated, I just want to learn naturally."

"What's the difference?"

"Well, I don't know, but indoctrination has a very unpleasant ring to it," said Andrew, "and I've got enough problems without trying to figure out what tricks you're using to manipulate me."

"Oh cheer up! You shouldn't waste time worrying; just enjoy life; you could be dead tomorrow. Assuming this is your last night, what would you really like to do?"

"Go to bed with two beautiful women," said Andrew hopefully.

"Okay, let me put it another way, which would you most like to do: have sex with Brian, or open another bottle of wine?"

"Where's the cork‑screw?"

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