the end of the world. At least the end of our old world. We can see the collision of the new ultra-crystalline giga-culture with the old gradient of exhaustion. The swelling of the new info-sphere is totally bursting the old envelope of industrial transactions.’
A friendly newt grin. ‘But here I am, preaching to the converted. I have to save this stuff for the boys in the boardroom. Only way to get them to shower us with gold. Anyway, nice meeting you, Frank. Welcome aboard.’
Pratt looked up as Fellini left. Then he noticed Fred.
‘Yeah. OK, come in tomorrow and you can jump right in. You’ll be grabbing on some parsing algorithms we need.’
Fred nodded, too dazed to reply. At the door, he managed to croak. ‘Pleased to meet all of you,’ but no one heard. Pratt was hissing something about the Metal Man.
‘… who are not with me in build priorities are against me, the words of good old JC. The Metal Man will not tolerate enemies, neither will he …’
His letter-box was jammed with mail. There was a sample tampon and an offer of lightning insurance (‘Edd McFee kissed his wife and children goodbye that morning, loaded his fishing rod and tackle in the car, and set out for a lazy day on the lake.
He never returned
. Every year, dozens of fishermen like yourself are killed by lightning. Ask yourself if any risk, however slight, is really worth taking …’). There were three envelopes marked URGENT, which turned out to be circulars from local supermarkets. He examined all of this, just in case a letter from Susan had slipped into the pile. There was nothing even like a letter in the pile, unless you counted the envelope marked:
Congratulations, Manfred E. Jones, YOU MAY ALREADY HAVE WON ONE MILLION DOLLARS!
Finally, for want of some communication, he opened that envelope:
Dear Manfred E. Jones,
Yes, ONE MILLION DOLLARS has already been won by someone. Could it be Manfred E. Jones? YES !!! Manfred E. Jones of Mpls, MN, replying to this letter could be the luckiest thing you ever did!
On the special label is your name, Manfred E. Jones, your Mpls, MN, address, and your LUCKY PRIZE NUMBERS. Don’t delay! Detach the special label today, affix it to your order entry form and send it to me – Johnny Goodluck. You don’t have to order any cassettes of famous British actors reading best-selling novels but, if you do,there is an extra bonus of ONE MILLION DOLLARS, making a total of TWO MILLION DOLLARS waiting for you!
But you must hurry! If we don’t receive your label by the printed date, Manfred E. Jones, the ONE MILLION DOLLARS goes to an alternative winner.
Fred’s basement bedsitter was depressing enough by day; night-time brought out additional rich browns in the carpet and curtains, highlighted the heap of unwashed dishes next to the tiny sink, and emphasized the narrowness of the studio couch. Good job he wouldn’t be staying here for long. Just let him get his feet on the ladder of success – the classless American ladder – and he could kiss this place goodbye. Not that anyone would want to kiss anything around here, all of it deeply impregnated with deadly diseases.
Why so glum? he asked himself. A nap would fix it. He lay down on the unmade couch, loosened his tie, and dozed off.
He dreamed of an American football team in a huddle. When they broke away from it to approach the line, all of them had insect faces beneath the heavy helmets. They were making some sort of insane chittering sound, which he understood to be their plan for taking over Hyde Park. There they meant to dig down, open up the old plague-pits, and set the rotting dead free to walk the streets of London.
He jumped awake. In the laundry room next door, someone had loaded the washing machine with shale and started it up. Like a political prisoner under long-term torture, Fred had been allowed to sleep five whole minutes.
He had already found American bars supremely satisfying. Of all institutions in this country,
A friendly newt grin. ‘But here I am, preaching to the converted. I have to save this stuff for the boys in the boardroom. Only way to get them to shower us with gold. Anyway, nice meeting you, Frank. Welcome aboard.’
Pratt looked up as Fellini left. Then he noticed Fred.
‘Yeah. OK, come in tomorrow and you can jump right in. You’ll be grabbing on some parsing algorithms we need.’
Fred nodded, too dazed to reply. At the door, he managed to croak. ‘Pleased to meet all of you,’ but no one heard. Pratt was hissing something about the Metal Man.
‘… who are not with me in build priorities are against me, the words of good old JC. The Metal Man will not tolerate enemies, neither will he …’
His letter-box was jammed with mail. There was a sample tampon and an offer of lightning insurance (‘Edd McFee kissed his wife and children goodbye that morning, loaded his fishing rod and tackle in the car, and set out for a lazy day on the lake.
He never returned
. Every year, dozens of fishermen like yourself are killed by lightning. Ask yourself if any risk, however slight, is really worth taking …’). There were three envelopes marked URGENT, which turned out to be circulars from local supermarkets. He examined all of this, just in case a letter from Susan had slipped into the pile. There was nothing even like a letter in the pile, unless you counted the envelope marked:
Congratulations, Manfred E. Jones, YOU MAY ALREADY HAVE WON ONE MILLION DOLLARS!
Finally, for want of some communication, he opened that envelope:
Dear Manfred E. Jones,
Yes, ONE MILLION DOLLARS has already been won by someone. Could it be Manfred E. Jones? YES !!! Manfred E. Jones of Mpls, MN, replying to this letter could be the luckiest thing you ever did!
On the special label is your name, Manfred E. Jones, your Mpls, MN, address, and your LUCKY PRIZE NUMBERS. Don’t delay! Detach the special label today, affix it to your order entry form and send it to me – Johnny Goodluck. You don’t have to order any cassettes of famous British actors reading best-selling novels but, if you do,there is an extra bonus of ONE MILLION DOLLARS, making a total of TWO MILLION DOLLARS waiting for you!
But you must hurry! If we don’t receive your label by the printed date, Manfred E. Jones, the ONE MILLION DOLLARS goes to an alternative winner.
Fred’s basement bedsitter was depressing enough by day; night-time brought out additional rich browns in the carpet and curtains, highlighted the heap of unwashed dishes next to the tiny sink, and emphasized the narrowness of the studio couch. Good job he wouldn’t be staying here for long. Just let him get his feet on the ladder of success – the classless American ladder – and he could kiss this place goodbye. Not that anyone would want to kiss anything around here, all of it deeply impregnated with deadly diseases.
Why so glum? he asked himself. A nap would fix it. He lay down on the unmade couch, loosened his tie, and dozed off.
He dreamed of an American football team in a huddle. When they broke away from it to approach the line, all of them had insect faces beneath the heavy helmets. They were making some sort of insane chittering sound, which he understood to be their plan for taking over Hyde Park. There they meant to dig down, open up the old plague-pits, and set the rotting dead free to walk the streets of London.
He jumped awake. In the laundry room next door, someone had loaded the washing machine with shale and started it up. Like a political prisoner under long-term torture, Fred had been allowed to sleep five whole minutes.
He had already found American bars supremely satisfying. Of all institutions in this country,
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