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Eighty Minute Hour
Brian Aldiss
A Space Opera. An ambitious, incredible - Space Opera!A science-fiction story which occasionally breaks off into song - a genuine space opera.Quite possibly Aldiss’s strangest novel, and that is saying something.
The Eighty Minute Hour
BRIAN ALDISS
Contents
Title Page (#u84a11f68-5068-5bbd-bea4-bd3985161e17)
Introduction
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Also part of The Brian Aldiss Collection
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
Introduction (#u3c328d58-fbdc-5028-a5e4-2912748e8ae5)
The opening paragraph of this space opera has frequently been quoted, if only by me:
Four things one particularly notices after wars of any respectable size: preparations for the next one, confidence that armed conflict is finished for ever, starvation, and feasting.
The text is operatic; I was attempting to write a space opera.
My original American publisher, Doubleday, explained everything clearly on their dust jacket, and I loved them for it: ‘Seldom has a novel been more crammed with crazy but plausible ideas, awful jokes, and nutty people. Oh, we forgot to mention the latest technological advance, the ecopicosystem. And total contraception. And all the singing and dancing. And the massive drinking scene. And the updated Adam and Eve bit … The Eighty Minute Hour is delightful entertainment – with a pinch of chilli and Attic salt added.’
I wrote the novel paragraph by paragraph while travelling with my friend Harry Harrison round the USA, pausing only to dine with Ray Bradbury, one evening by the coast.
That may account for the way the text is interspersed with songs – elaborate songs at that; songs far too elaborate to reach the charts.
Well, I was younger then.
Or, as my current publisher might put it, I’m older now.
I (#u3c328d58-fbdc-5028-a5e4-2912748e8ae5)
Four things one particularly notices after wars of any respectable size: preparations for the next one, confidence that armed conflict is finished for ever, starvation, and feasting.
First, take a romantic setting.
In the stolid old castle of Slavonski Brod, on the night in which determinism forces me to open the story, feasting was the thing. Outside the grounds, over the walls, across the sea – all about – rumours of more terrible things were scudding like cloud. For a few hours, they had been shut out, fended away chiefly by dint of the personalities present at the roistering, by the languorous bravado and genial nature of Mike Surinat, whose castle it now was (his parents having died during the war); by the beauty and sweet perceptive nature of Becky Hornbeck, who now lived at the castle; by the cheeky dearness of my little sister, Choggles Chaplain; by the stolid capability of Mike’s C-in-C, Per Gilleleje; by the hard work behind scenes of such loyal friends as Devlin Carnate; and of course by the glamour of the many guests, at the castle to celebrate Mike’s simultaneous demobilisation from the army and appointment to diplomatic rank in the councils of the Dissident Nations.
Among those guests, I need mention only three. First and foremost is the peerless, glamorous figure of Glamis Fevertrees, about to embark on a perilous mission for the D.N. She is old enough to stand for me as at once sex-symbol and mother-figure. She dances with Per, and I wish I were able to glide across the great marble floor with her in my arms, out into the courtyard with its marble patterns, swirling among the pergolas and lanterns!
Mine are not the only eyes to fix on Glamis. A slight comedy goes among the other two most noted guests, the epicene genius of dream, Monty Zoomer, and his companion – who hastens to leave him – the stately and leather-skinned Sue Fox. Monty came with Sue and has eyes only for Glamis. Not that Sue cares – she is a woman who plainly hates sheep’s eyes.
Sue and Monty, of course, are not on our side. Yes, you might put it that way. They are not on our side of the political fence. They stand for the USA–USSR merger, the so-called Cap-Comm Treaty; we are against it. But as yet – or during this evening of festival – Sue and Monty are being nice to the minions of the D.N. Sue Fox can afford to be nice; she’s on the World Executive Council.
So much for the cast. Move nearer and hear what three of the groups are saying on this beautiful evening.
First, let’s go to the little pavilion perched at the end of the estate, on top of the wide stone wall, long ruined, now built up with a wooden ramp for this occasion. Go up the ramp! Observe that the pavilion has been repainted.
Inside, a little man in Hungarian gipsy costume plays a fiddle. He is a Hungarian gipsy. His melodies, gay but full of an irreparable loss, float out across the grounds. Only three people are in the pavilion, and they are not listening.
This first group consists of Becky Hornbeck, Sue Fox, and Choggles. Becky, like Mike, is in her late twenties and still somewhat mystical. Sue is older and a good deal grimmer, though not in a grim mood tonight. My dear Choggles is – herself. But I will stop talking so that they can be heard.
Sue Fox said, ‘As you say, the world is tightening up after the war. Dwight Castle and I were remarking the other day how work on the World Executive Council gets heavier week by week. And now the Computer Complex intends to introduce the concept of the eighty-minute hour …’
She caught the expression on Becky’s face.
‘I’m sorry, Becky – I shouldn’t be talking politics. Perhaps I only do it because – well, perhaps there is a little guilt there, especially when I find you and me on different sides of the fence, politically. Your mother and I were such great friends.’
Becky smiled. ‘We have always been great friends, Sue. We must not let politics alter that. I realise you hold your beliefs as honestly as we do ours.’
‘Of course. The world must unite, must forgo one single central government, and the Cap-Comm Treaty is a way of beginning … No, no, not a word more! I’m not propagandising, merely justifying myself!’
They both laughed, and the gipsy began a passionate lament to death, roses, Smederevo, red wine, white hands, and the passing of time.
More relaxedly, Sue Fox said, ‘They were telling me you found the Koh-i-Nor, Becky. How incredible!’
‘It was incredible,’ Becky agreed. ‘But I expect incredible things. In fact, it was an old associate of my father’s, a man called Youings, who found the jewel on a beach near Bordeaux, France, washed ashore. He posted it to me as a Christmas present, wrapped up in an old newspaper!’
Choggles, who had been sitting with them and gazing silently over the Pannonian Sea, said, ‘The newspaper was called the Trafalgar Square – I’ve still got it, Becky. Let me keep it as a souvenir.’
‘Of course you can.’
‘You’re going to keep the diamond?’ Sue asked Becky.
‘I regard it as a souvenir of England. It’s in my suite. You must come and have a look at it.’
‘What fantastic things do happen!’
‘They aren’t fantastic if you believe in determinism. Recent brain research has proved that free will does not exist –’
‘Becky, I am not of the generation to believe in determinism. I refuse to believe, and facts will not sway me. I prefer your mysticism. Tell me more about the Koh-i-Nor. It was in British hands?’
‘Yes, ever since the British conquered India in the nineteenth century. It was on display in the Tower of London for many years – before the war.’
‘Hard luck about Britain … What are you going to do with it? What’s it worth now?’
‘I thought I’d keep it. When it was first heard of in history, one of the Moghuls – Humayan, I believe – that was in the early sixteenth century – claimed that it was valuable enough to feed the whole world for two and a half days!’
Sue Fox smiled. ‘Now the population has gone down a bit, it might do so again!’
‘That stone – well, it’s an emblem with no precise financial value – it has woven in and out of history like a needle through fabric. At one time, it spent six weeks in the waistcoat of a Victorian politician!’
A second group, a larger group, all male except for a pregnant Miss Dinah Sorbutt, who sat unobtrusively in the background, sprawled over a dinner table smoking cigars and every now and again summoning a fresh bottle of brandy or Perrier water. There were six of them – Mike Surinat himself; two of his staff, Carnate and Per Gilleleje; two guests, the Brazilian Geraldo Correa da Perquista Mangista, and a Japanese politician, Sanko Hakamara; and Becky’s old frail father, George Wainscott Hornbeck, retired industrialist. They were talking politics. Oh – and Choggles was also there; she had already heard the history of the Koh-i-Nor, and moved on elsewhere to avoid hearing it again.
Da Perquista Mangista was laughing at something Mike had said. ‘You are just a romantic, Mike. You should have worked as I have, for many a long year, in São Paulo, and then you would see how hard people really work!’
‘I could say the same about Tokyo,’ Hakamara said.
‘I know, I know,’ Mike said, laughing also. ‘Europe is now more or less played out, and the Eastern seaboard of the United States the same. We have recently witnessed the establishment of a Pacific Community, with California, Japan, South Korea, China, all labouring away hammer-and-tongs. I’ve no real objection to work, except that it now means work-plus-deadly-monotony. With the establishment of a single world-state, work-plus-deadly-monotony is going to rule the roost, rammed home by computerised arguments about “efficiency”, such as C.C. is now using to ram in its Eighty-Minute Hour schedule. I’m for inefficiency, smaller nations, slack in the machine, chaos, and all the other things for which I founded the I.D.I., my own personal club!’
Da Perquista Mangista said, draining off another large brandy, ‘Mike, I love you, and I love the totally out-dated concept of I.D.I…. You are a gaudy figure and the beleaguered Dissident Nations will surely need you as we get more beleaguered in the years ahead. But do not use that argument of yours in public – not, for instant, at the Dissident Nations economic conference I’m organising in Friendship City. Because the world on the whole believes in order and efficiency, even the nations of the D.N.’
‘Them especially,’ Hakamara agreed. ‘Japan, Yugoslavia, and Brazil are cases in point. Recall the legend on the Brazilian flag – “Order and Progress”. Our nations have become great through work.’
‘If you’ll allow an old man to express his point of view,’ George Hornbeck said, ‘I believe that work is mankind’s worst vice and affliction, killing more people year after year than all your drugs and automobiles combined. Even worse, it exhausts the planet as well as mankind. Of course, that’s only my view. Order and Progress lead to war. But then – I was born in the First World War.’
Mike Surinat smiled warmly at the old man. Since the death of his own father, since he had invited the Hornbecks, father and daughter, to live in Slavonski Brod Grad, he had come more and more to love them both. The old man’s philosophy was particularly sympatico.
‘Determinism saps our will not to work,’ he said. ‘The Cap-Comm merger merely gears everyone to work harder.’
Choggles piped up. ‘It will make the world like a police state, won’t it, Mike? Particularly with crooks like Attica Saigon Smix running the American end – he was involved with my father, and you know how awful Daddy was, introducing ZPG and everything.’ She glanced at Dinah Sorbutt’s greatly enlarged body. ‘Sorry, Dinah, old horse, almost ZPG – the human race has got to keep going somehow, hasn’t it?’
Dinah said, ‘Choggles, old horse, your zippy comments are rather out of place in a political discussion. Why don’t you buzz along, like a good girl?’
The Brazilian politician threw Dinah an admiring and grateful glance.
‘Suits me!’ Choggles said. ‘Politics isn’t as interesting as sex, is it?’
As she drifted off, Per Gilleleje laughed and said, ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings! She is correct, of course, about both Smix and her father, Auden. Auden Chaplain is dead now, but both he in scientific circles and Attica Saigon Smix in managerial circles showed genius. World-units have grown so large that we need genius, even when it is evil – that’s to say, against humanity. And it is this need for the anti-human which has led to the take-over of human affairs by the computer complex.’
‘Unfortunately, C.C. represents a genuine human desire to repress its humanity,’ Carnate said. ‘How else can you explain the atrocities of World War III, and all those poor wretches shipped out to Mars?’
‘My daughter among them,’ sighed Hakamara.
