The Final Programme Read online

  There is no enclave secure against time. No style has a permanent lock on the shape of the world. No tune can last, certainly not as played on Jerry’s dismal guitar. If you ask whether or not it is possible to maintain homeostasis in a decaying world, the answer is that all art constantly aspires towards the condition of Muzak. Entropy rots your heart out. There is a lot of ageing going on.

  But that’s not the final point of the novel, for Jerry Cornelius has, after all, survived the lacerating light-shows of our portion of the century, and in the intensest of venues; and at times his Pierrot heart fills with love that transcends his sustaining self-pity. From his scummy little balcony, he speaks to us at these times. SF, which is the least urban of genres, likes to tell us how to live in the Wild West, in case the need arises, and loves to show us how to hate Utopian city-states constructed by Utopian city-haters who live in suburbs behind hedges. In the Jerry Cornelius tetralogy Michael Moorcock has tried to tell us how to stay alive in the places where so many of us truly live. He has tried to tell us how to live here, in the deep cities of this world, in the years of their dying.

  John Clute

  London, February 1977

  NOTE TO THE READER

  Although these books may be read in any order, the reader might wish to know that the structure of the last volume reflects the structure of the overall tetralogy.

  PRELIMINARY DATA

  In Cambodia, a country lying between Vietnam and Thailand on the map, between n and zero on the time chart, is the magic city of Angkor, where once the great Khmer race lived. In the nineteenth century a French explorer rediscovered it in the jungle. It was subsequently resurrected by French archaeologists. The simple-living inhabitants, descendants of the Khmers, had two theories about the city—that it had been built by a race of giants and that the city had created itself when the world was created. Writing about Angkor in the Sunday Times (10/1/65) Maurice Wiggin said: “Did the citizens of Angkor have the future they wanted? Hardly. Yet they seemed adaptable, switching pragmatically from Hinduism to Buddhism, building to last. (‘The most impressive ruins in the world.’) But the great kings of Khmer are dust.”

  Built not merely to last but to exist for its age, towering over the huge statues and ziggurats of Angkor, stands the Angkor Hilton. According to the simple-living descendants of the Khmers, it is the chief evidence for the second theory.

  On the roof of the Angkor Hilton is a glass conservatory or observatory, not unlike a miniature version of the old Crystal Palace. The building is the particular property of one of the hotel’s regular customers. It contains a bed, a metal locker, a large astronomical telescope, and a marine chronometer dating from the eighteenth century. The chronometer is beautifully made, of steel and brass, and is probably one of the original clocks constructed in 1760 by John Harrison, the first man to make a really accurate marine chronometer. It stands on top of the locker, and below it, hanging from the handle, is a calendar. The year is 196–.

  The owner of this equipment, Jerry Cornelius, was not in the observatory at that moment. He was wandering the grassy paths that wound among grey and brown statues or below the leafy branches of big trees where monkeys peered down at him and chattered. Cornelius was dressed incongruously for the place and climate, and even in the West his clothes would have had a slightly old-fashioned look about them; the high-heeled elastic-sided boots, for instance, were not at all in style, nor had they been for several years.

  Cornelius was on his way to keep a date.

  Serene and carved in ancient rock, the faces of Buddhas and the three aspects of Ishwara looked from terraces and archways; huge statues, bas-reliefs—probably the greatest clutter of deities and devils ever assembled in one place. Beneath an extravagantly bloated representation of Vishnu the Destroyer, one of Ishwara’s three aspects, a tiny transistor radio played. It was Cornelius’s radio. The tune was “Zoot’s Suite” by Zoot Money’s Big Roll Band.

  Beside the radio, in the green-gold early-afternoon sunshine, a man sat at leisure while mosquitoes buzzed and chattering gibbons leaped from one half-reconstructed terrace to another. A Buddhist priest passed by, shaven and saffroned, and a group of brown children played among the massive statues of forgotten heroes. It was a pleasant afternoon, with a slight breeze fanning the jungle. A good time for idle speculation, thought Cornelius, sitting down beside the man and shaking hands.

  They sat in the fallen stone palm of some minor Hindu divinity and took up the conversation where they had left off earlier.

  Jerry Cornelius was a young man, with long, fine black hair that flowed to below his shoulders. He wore a black, double-breasted car coat and dark grey trousers. His tie was of black wool and his white shirt had a high collar. He was slim, with large dark eyes and large, long-fingered hands. The other man was an Indian, owlish and pudgy—perpetually smiling, no matter what he said—in shirtsleeves and cotton trousers.

  Jeremiah Cornelius was a European of many parts; the Indian was a Brahmin physicist of some reputation, Professor Hira. They had met that morning while touring the city. It had been love at first sight.

  The Brahmin physicist patted at the mosquitoes settling on his arms. “The Gnostics possessed a cosmology very similar, in many ways, to the Hindu and Buddhist. Interpretations varied, of course, but the figures were very close.”

  “What figures exactly?” Jerry asked politely.

  “Well, for instance, the mahãyuga. Both Hindus and Gnostics give the figure as 4,320,000 years. That is an interesting coincidence from any point of view, eh?”

  “What about the kalpa? I thought that was your word for a time cycle.”

  “Ah, no, that is a day or night of Brahma; 8,640 million years.”

  “As little as that?” said Jerry, without irony.

  “The mahãyuga is divided into four yugas, or ages. The current cycle is nearing its end. The present age is the last of four.”

  “And what are they?”

  “Oh, let me think… The Satya Yuga, the Golden Age. That accounted for the first four tenths of the cycle. Then we had the Tretã Yuga, the Second Age. That took care of another 1,296,000 years. The Third Age—the Dvãpara Yuga—can you hear the echoes of an ancient common language?—lasted for only two tenths of the whole cycle. I think that’s right, don’t you? How much we rely, these days, on our calculating machines. The Kali Yuga, of course, is the current age. It began, as I recall, on February eighteenth, 3102 BC.”

  “And what is the Kali Yuga?”

  “The Dark Age, Mr Cornelius. Ha! Ha!”

  “How long is that supposed to last?”

  “Just one tenth of the mahãyuga.”

  “That gives us plenty of time.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Then at the end of the manvantara the cycle repeats itself, does it? The whole of history all over again!”

  “Some believe so. Others think that the cycles vary slightly. It is basically an extension of our convictions concerning reincarnation. The strange thing is that modern physics begins to confirm these figures—in terms of the complete revolution of the galaxy and so on. I must admit that the more I read of the papers published these days, the more confused I become between what I was taught as a Hindu and what I have learned as a physicist. It requires increasing self-discipline to separate them in my mind.”

  “Why do you bother, professor?”

  “My career, old man, at the University, would suffer if I let mysticism influence logic.”

  The Brahmin spoke slightly sardonically, and Jerry smiled. “Yet the cosmologies mingle and absorb one another,” Jerry said. “There are people in Europe who believe that the Vedas describe a prehistoric civilisation as advanced, or more so, as our own. That would tie in with your first age, wouldn’t it?”

  “Some of my friends have wondered about that, too. It is possible, naturally, but not likely. Exquisite parables, Mr Cornelius, but nothing more. Not the mythical vestiges of a great science, I fear. The embroidered remnants o
f a great philosophy, perhaps.”

  “Pleasant embroidery.”

  “You are kind to think so. Perhaps I should not say so, but it occasionally crosses my mind to wonder why, in all the mystic cosmologies, even in some of the modern so-called parasciences, our own age is always described as the age of chaos and contention. A comment, my logical side argues, on why people turn to mysticism. The past age was always better.”

  “Childhood is the happiest time of life except when you’re a child,” said Jerry.

  “I understand you. True.”

  “Whereas your philosophers produced beautiful metaphors that were not ‘true’, maybe?”

  “You are pushing me too far; but you have studied the Vedas? It seems that more Westerners study Sanskrit than we. And we read Einstein.”

  “So do we.”

  “You have more time for everything over there, old man. You are at the end of your manvantara, eh? We have begun a new one.”

  “I wonder.”

  “I do not speak seriously—as a Hindu—but there are shorter cycles within the ages. Several of my more metaphysically inclined acquaintances have predicted that we are at the end of such a cycle.”

  “But our affairs diminish in significance compared with a span of even 432,000 years.”

  “That’s a Western idea, Mr Cornelius.” Hira smiled. “What is Time? How long is a millisecond or a millennium? If the old Hindus were right, then we have met in Angkor before and shall again—and the date will always be today’s, October thirty-first, 196–. Will anything have changed, I wonder, in the next manvantara? Will gods walk the earth? Will man be—?”

  Jerry Cornelius got up. “Who knows? Let’s compare notes then. I’ll be seeing you, professor.”

  “This time next manvantara?”

  “If you like.”

  “Where are you off to now?” The Indian also rose, handing Jerry the little radio.

  “Thanks. I’m going to Phnôm Penh Airport and then to London. I want to order a guitar. And see my mum.”

  Hira followed him through the ruins, climbing over slabs of stone. “You’re at the Angkor Hilton, aren’t you? Why not stay one more night at the hotel?”

  “Well, all right.”

  * * *

  That night they lay in bed together, talking and smoking. A heavy mosquito net had been drawn round the bed, but they could see through it, and through the glass beyond, to the still sky.

  “It makes you wonder just how close we are to finding the great equation.” Hira’s voice hummed like an insect through the warm air. Jerry was trying to get to sleep. “The total equation. The final equation. The ultimate equation, drawing all the information together. Will we ever?”

  “The climate seems right,” said Jerry sleepily.

  “In your terms it is time for a new messiah—a messiah of the Age of Science. I suppose that is blasphemy. Has the genius been born yet? Will we recognise him when he comes?”

  “That’s what they all wonder, don’t they?”

  “Ah, Mr Cornelius, what a bewildering, topsy-turvy world this is.”

  Jerry turned over to his side, his back to the professor. “I’m not so sure,” he said. “The world seems to be steering a fairly straight course at last.”

  “But to where?”

  “That, professor, is the snag.”

  “She was talking about the final equation, this woman I met in Delhi last year. A passing affair, you know, and I’m glad it was. She gave me some very interesting food for speculation, this Miss Brunner, old man. She seemed to know…”

  “Bully for her.”

  “Bully? Yes…”

  Jerry Cornelius fell asleep.

  PHASE

  1

  1

  It was raining.

  The house was in south-east London, in Blackheath. It stood back from the main road, looming out of its overgrown garden. The gravel drive was weedy, and the house needed painting. It had originally been painted a light mauve. Through the grimy ground-floor windows Jerry Cornelius could glimpse five people seated in a big front room, full of dark furniture and poorly lit. The fire gave more light than the standard lamp in one corner. The faces were all shadowed. On the mantelpiece stood a baroque figurine of Diana holding two candlesticks; there were two candles in each stick.

  The garage door slammed, and Jerry made no effort to become any less visible, but the bulky tweed-coated man didn’t notice him as he patted water from his heavy black beard, took off his hat, and opened the door. He wiped his feet and went inside. Jerry had recognised him as Mr Smiles. Mr Smiles owned the house.

  After a moment Jerry went up to the door and took out his key ring. He found the right key and opened the door. He saw Mr Smiles enter the front room.

  The hallway smelled a little damp, in spite of the radiator burning close to the hat rack; and the walls, each painted a different colour (tangerine, red, black, and blue), were all cold as Jerry leaned on first one and then another.

  Jerry was dressed in his usual black car coat, dark trousers and high heels. His hair was wet.

  He folded his arms and settled down to wait.

  “What’s the time? My watch has stopped.” Mr Smiles entered the room, shaking rain off his Robin Hood hat and still patting at his beard. He walked to the fire and stood there, turning the hat round and round to dry it.

  The five others said nothing. All seemed introspective, hardly aware of his arrival. Then one of them got up and approached Mr Smiles. His name was Mr Lucas. He had the decadent good looks of a Roman patrician. He was forty-five and a successful casino owner. Except for Mr Smiles (who was forty-nine), he was the oldest.

  “Twelve-forty, Mr Smiles. He’s late.”

  Mr Smiles concentrated on drying his hat. “I’ve never known him not to do something he said he’d do, if that’s any comfort,” he said.

  “Oh, it is,” said Miss Brunner.

  Miss Brunner was sitting nearest to the fire. She was a sharp-faced, attractive young woman with the look of a predator. She sprawled back in her chair with her legs crossed. One foot tapped at the air.

  Mr Smiles turned towards her.

  “He’ll come, Miss Brunner.” He gave her a glare. “He’ll come.” His tone was self-assuring.

  Mr Lucas glanced at his watch again.

  Miss Brunner’s foot tapped more quickly. “Why are you so certain, Mr Smiles?”

  “I know him—at least, as well as anyone could. He’s reliable, Miss Brunner.”

  Miss Brunner was a computer programmer of some experience and power. Seated closest to her was Dimitri, her slave, lover, and sometime unwilling pimp. She wore a straight fawn Courrèges suit and matching buttoned boots. He also wore a Courrèges suit of dark blue-and-brown tweed. Her hair was red and long, curving outward at the ends. It was nice hair, but not on her. He was the son of Dimitri Koutrouboussis, rich, with the fresh, ingenuous appearance of a boy. His disguise was complete.

  Behind Miss Brunner and Dimitri, in shadow, sat Mr Crookshank, the entertainers’ agent. Mr Crookshank was very fat and tall. He had a heavy gold signet ring on the third finger of his right hand. It gave him the common touch. He wore a silk Ivy League suit.

  In the corner, opposite Mr Crookshank, nearer the fire, sat dark Mr Powys, hunched in his perpetual neurotic stoop. Mr Powys, who lived comfortably off the inheritance left him by his mine-owning great-uncle, sipped a glass of Bell’s cream whisky, staring at it as he sipped.

  The fire did not heat the room sufficiently. Even Mr Smiles, who was usually unaffected by cold, rubbed his hands together after he had taken off his coat. Mr Smiles was a banker, main owner of the Smiles Bank, which had catered to the linen trade since 1832. The bank was not doing well, though Mr Smiles couldn’t complain personally. Mr Smiles poured himself a large glass of Teacher’s whisky and moved back to the fire.

  None of them was well acquainted, except with Miss Brunner, who had introduced them all. They all knew Miss Brunner.

  She un
crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt, smiling up unpleasantly at the bearded man. “It’s unusual to find such confidence these days.” She paused and looked round at the others. “I think…” She opened her handbag and began picking at its contents.

  “What do you think?” Mr Smiles spoke sharply. “When I first put this deal to you, Miss Brunner, you were uncertain about it. Now you’re impatient to get started. What do you think, then, Miss Brunner?”

  “I think we shouldn’t include him in our plans. Let’s get going now, while he’s not expecting anything. He could be planning some kind of double-cross. We stand to lose too much by hanging about waiting for Cornelius. I don’t trust him, Mr Smiles.”