Fantastic Metropolis

3. NONE

“But, until man is willing to pay the cost of peace he will pay the price of war, and, since they must be precisely equal, I ask you to consider for how many more ages you think man will be striking balances with battles?... But recollect that, to have peace, congresses will be compelled to appropriate for others as generously as they do now for our armies, and the taxpayers will have to pay as willingly, and as many heroes will have to dedicate their lives to the maintenance of tranquillity as are now risking them to restore it.

—Philip Wylie, Generation of Vipers

“Man is still so far from considering himself as the author of war that he would hardly tolerate a vast paid, public propaganda designed to point out the infinite measure of his private dastardliness and he would still rather fight it out in blood than limit the profitable and vain activities of peace in order to study his personal conscience.”

—Philip Wylie, ibid.

“Once you get [your market economy] in place, you’ll take off like a rocket.”

—Bill Clinton to the Russian Duma, 1st September 1998

“THEY MUST HAVE felt wonderful, bringing the benefits of German culture to a world united under their benign flag.” The three had strolled out to what was probably the Reichstag or possibly a cinema. The set, so spectacular in its day, had received one of the first strikes specifically aimed at Disney. Jerry picked up a fluffy dumbo.

“These aren’t Germans,” Trixibell tucked everything back in. “These are Americans.” She remassaged her hair.

“Did I say Americans? They loved the Nazis, too. I remember when I worked for Hearst in 38. Or was it CBS? Good old Putzi. A Harvard man, you know. Or Ford? Or Goebbels? Or 49? Uncle Walt admired the art-work and slogans, but he thought he could make the system function better over here. And they were, indeed, far more successful. Still, the patterns don’t change.”

“You have to take the jobs where you find them.” Trixibell, in sharp black and white, pouted her little mouth. In her day she had firmly enjoyed the ears, tongues and privates of cardinals and presidents. She was a prettier, modern and more aggressive version of her old mum, who had been bought by a passing trader.

“It’s what the fourth estate is all about.

“It’s what the public says.

“It’s what we say.

“I mean, this is what we say, right?” Felix was having some trouble getting his sentence going. He didn’t like the look of Mo’s elaborate ordnance. “Are those real guns?” His melancholy nose twitched nervously above prominent teeth, a glowering dormouse. Tough cotton shirt, serviceable chinos, jumper, jacket, all bearing the St Michael brand. Marks guaranteed middle-class security. Lands End. Eddie Bauer. Oxfam gave him the shudders. He was strict about it. His life was nothing if not exclusive.

He withdrew into his clothing as if into a shelter. It was all he had left of his base.

“Oh bum. Oh piss. Oh shit.

“Oh bum. Oh piss. Oh shit.

“Oh bum.”

“Hallelulla,” said Jerry. He was beginning to feel his old self. “Or is that Hallelujah?”

“Bum again?” Trixibell scented at the wind. “Was that Felix. Or you?”

“Childish bee. Where’s the effin loo, lovey?” Jillian Burnes hefted her magnificent gypsy skirts and stepped lushly into the shaft of light coming through the roof. “Must be the Clapham Astoria.” For years she had survived successfully on such delusions. “I used to be the manager here.” She swung her borrowed mane. She fluttered her massive lashes. She smacked her surgical scarlet lips. “This is what comes of moving south of the river. What actually happened to the money?”