Paul Theroux - O-Zone

He rid his mind of that image by thinking: I want that weapon for my catalog.

Even that seemed tame — his company, his catalog. He laughed to think that he had once been excited by it and had woken up in the morning with new ideas to try. He was the owner of a mail-order business. He had inherited the family chain of department stores, while Hardy — older and more serious — had gone into weather management. There had been almost five hundred stores — most of the old shopping malls had had an Allbright's. But with progressive deterioration, as one city became too dangerous, and another too poor, and another lost its power supply, and yet another lost its population, Hooper rid himself of the retail outlets and changed over to mail order. He was warned — by Hardy among others — that he would probably fail. The warnings liberated him and made him bold; Hardy's tentative cautions meant that if he succeeded he would owe his brother nothing. The only way to get free of the paralyzing grip of family was to break out and risk everything — to frighten the family into disowning him, and then to succeed. By risking everything, Hooper knew he would have everything to gain, and what had seemed a humdrum and predictable business became risky and made him imaginative.

His best idea had been to close the stores and start a catalog. But instead of printing it he put it on tape and film and relayed it to subscribers on cable television. He used still pictures as well as the data in the margin. He also used videos of some products: he knew that some men subscribed merely to watch women's underwear being modeled. Indeed, there was something for everyone: Allbright's Discount Cable Sales was famous for the liveliness of its visual catalog — its drama, its humor, its erotic content. The catalog claimed to sell everything: Allbright's for All Bright Things. The sales operations were performed on a computer line, the subscriber ordering his merchandise and paying for it using his own tube and cable link. Allbright's depots and warehouses were scattered throughout the country in secure industrial estates, but as the catalog was available throughout the world, it was a global business — Allbright's sold worldwide to anyone who had dollar credit.

It was a vast but simple business. There was no head office — no office at all. Hooper worked from a computer terminal in one room of his Coldharbor unit. The rest of his staff also worked from home, using mainframes; but the daily operation was little more than updating the catalog, reviewing new videos, ordering merchandise from subcontractors, adding and deleting items, and auditing the cash flow. Hooper seldom saw his employees — it was not necessary, since their performance showed clearly on the computer record. He never saw his customers and he had ceased to take much interest in his merchandise. Because of the credit arrangements he demanded of customers, he was guaranteed payment before an item was shipped. All sales were firm. The problems were usually associated with deliveries. Many delivery points were unsafe for ground vehicles or were far from airports. Yet Hooper prided himself on being able to ship anywhere.

Converting the family business to mail order, and building it up, had been a physical act. He had followed his instincts, and he had been encouraged by all the warnings that he would fail. He could see no point in action unless that action involved risk.

It had all paid off. When asked what his net worth was, Hooper showed the gap in his front teeth and stuck out both hands and cried, "Ten digits!"

He had become a billionaire by including in his catalog just the sort of innovation that Murdick's weapon was. It was a foolproof, all-purpose item. It was a camera, it was a rifle, it worked in the dark, it had thermal imaging; it was more accurate than the person firing it, and its effect was devastating. It contained no bullets: a light particle pulverized the victim, and there was nothing left. No wonder the camera was so important: the trophy existed only on film, which was housed in a cartridge that was small enough to hide in your fist.

I won't put it in my catalog, he thought, and was suddenly very angry that such a diabolical weapon existed. It had no business in any catalog! What if weapons like this were common? It was bad enough, as Fizzy had said, that some Skells had rockets — and it was well-known that though Starkies were always naked, they were also very well-armed.

Hooper felt that by keeping the weapon out of his cable catalog he was helping to keep it a secret. Putting it into the catalog was like giving it to the world,

He went through the mechanical motions of approving some catalog changes, authorized an inventory in one warehouse and a stock shift in another depot. He answered some staff queries, and he reviewed the Christmas sales and the year-end figures. And then he stood up, hating the mouse in his hand that controlled his terminal; hating his room, hating his tower, hating the prison of this garrison, Coldharbor. It struck him that they had broken the rules — they had committed murder; and they had not simply gone home from the New Year's party — no, they had been expelled from O-Zone. It was a dismal thought, because it left Hooper feeling powerless and poor. What was all the money in the world if you couldn't have the one thing you wanted?

He hated being alone in this city. All everyone said — its only praise — was that it was safe. But not even that was completely true. The limited degree to which it was true was the result of a dreary succession of security checks, one valve after another, at every garrison block and on every bridge: the ID examination, the showing of the pass, the scan, the sniffers.

He had fled Coldharbor, he was walking fast downtown.

"You've got something in your pocket, sir."

Was there always a security check at Eightieth and Madison?

"A film cartridge."

"You'll have to show it to us, so we can scan it," the guard said. "And I'll require an ID."

"I'm walking down the street," Hooper said, and sensed he was about to lose his temper. "And you—"

"Without an ID you have no legal existence."

"Don't lecture me," Hooper said, and his temper was gone. He was shouting now, and his anger seemed to have a life and logic of its own that had broken loose from him and was flapping in the face of this uniformed man. It was not even his own voice. "You private security people have no legal standing," the voice was saying. "Half of you guys are crooked. I know all about those body searches you carry out. I know—"

"Most people tell us it makes them feel better," the guard said. He had inserted Hooper's ID in a scanner, he had turned the film cartridge over to another man to be sniffed.

He was still talking; he had interrupted Hooper. Was there anything more infuriating than being interrupted only to be contradicted?

"— That's what most people tell us."

"I am not most people," the voice said, issuing from Hooper's mouth. "I am some people. I'm a few people — very few people!"

He snatched his ID and the cartridge and continued on his way. He was photographed at a checkpoint on Sixty-first, and there was another very strict check at the Midtown Mall when he entered the Greenhouse. He was scanned, he was sniffed, he was made to wait until his ID was flashed; and he realized, waiting in a narrow cubicle, that he was being photographed again.

"Are you jokers looking for someone?" the voice said. "Listen, I'm an Owner!"

He walked a few steps and called back, "You porkers!"

Then he recognized the voice, and realized his affinity with Fizzy. That was what had changed. He was uneasy, he was lonely, like the boy.

Inside the Greenhouse he saw a naked woman — naked-naked.

She was walking toward him, her flesh riding gently upon her as she walked, shaking with each footfall, the up-and-down of her thighs, her trembling belly and nodding breasts — all skin and motion. They usually wore jewels, but she was young; she wore only a gold chain around her waist, and sandals and a mask — a snout — but nothing else. He saw that the mask was gilded, and possibly gold, but it was her nakedness, not the mask, that suggested that she was probably very wealthy. And if you covered your face you didn't have to cover the rest of your body.