Paul Theroux - O-Zone

But at a hastily set-up checkpoint in the West Thirties his patience failed him. It was perhaps the arbitrariness of it, the temporary-looking barrier and booth, that made him feel victimized. He was subjected to a thorough body search and made to wait.

"I'm just looking for clearance," the young guard said, seeing that Hooper was exasperated.

Was anything happening on the screen? Hooper's number had been keyed in. The guard was blinking at it.

"Won't be a minute."

"I'm going," Hooper said, and started forward in a brawling gesture. He knew he would not be able to open the door, but he wanted to make a scene. He needed to be angry.

"My boss won't like this."

"Don't you know who I am?" Hooper shouted. "I am your boss! I pay your salary. I'm an Owner, I'm a taxpayer. You work for me! Now get out of the way and let me through!"

"We're not Federal, sir. We're private."

The city was full of private armies of security guards!

"This street's private, sir. This checkpoint's going to be permanent." Before Hooper could react, the guard said, "You're clear."

And they were all robots!

Hooper did not feel sorry for himself, and he knew better than to waste his sympathy on New Yorkers; but this rare experience of walking left him wondering how these millions of people endured this policing day after day. For Hooper it seemed a milder form of the crime it claimed to have eliminated.

Upstairs, in the lab, the technician said, "I couldn't touch this. It's probably classified. Anyway, the case is sealed — I can't get into those."

"What's so special about these cartridges?"

"They're safe. They're used for highly sensitive visual data." The technician was turning the small thing in his fingers. "Whose is it?"

The question inspired Hooper. He said, "It belongs to my boss."

"He sent you here?"

Hooper nodded. "His name's Allbright."

"It would be," the technician said, and smiled as he weighed the cartridge in his hand.

"You know him?"

"No," the man said, and his beaming expression was the pressure of his memory building behind his face. "But I've seen some stuff he's sent here for copying. They were choice items. Very special, very wild."

The man did not seem to notice that Hooper had fallen silent and had recovered his cartridge.

"I used to do some of the copying. I'd say, 'Now I've seen everything.' But I was wrong, because a week or two later he'd send us something else — something fantastic!"

Hooper had put the cartridge into his pocket. He said, "I don't think Mr. Allbright would like it if he knew you were saying irresponsible things about his private tapes."

The man was unmoved. He had become possessed by the memory of what he had seen, and that remembrance was so powerful it overwhelmed the present. All he saw in Hooper was a mildly complaining runner with an impenetrable film cartridge.

Hooper was indignant, but the man was still smiling.

"I wish I could help you," he said, "because I'd love to see what's on that film."

Hooper left feeling that he had only one choice left. Of course the weapon had been special, and it was understandable that the cartridge was sealed. This film was the only record, for whatever the weapon destroyed was gone forever. What was it that Willis had said? Regulation Godseye, Murdick was a trooper!

Light was safety and darkness danger even here, and especially at night. But New York was famous for its skylights, the long high cones of sharply bent-back light that were particularly dazzling at the margins of the island — at the bridges and wharves and designated entry points. Tonight, diffused and smoky from the cloud cover, five cones shone down on Mur-dick's garrison in the peripheral district of Midwest.

The garrison was called Wedgemere and comprised four tall towers nicknamed the Bolts. That name had stuck. They were threaded throughout half their height, like bolt shafts, and their tops seemed modeled on the heads of machine bolts, six-sided and thick, for rotors.

"The Murdicks are on thirty-seven North Tower," the guard said. "They're expecting you."

"Don't tell me things I know," Hooper said. "Just open the door."

"I'm getting a shadow." The guard looked up from his screen. Hooper saw the man's blank face as insolent. "We'll have to run it through the scanner."

It could only have been the cartridge. "It's film," Hooper said, and he resented having to reply to the guard. "It's harmless."

"Everything goes through the scanner, sir."

"That sounds like an order. I don't take orders — I give them. So get out of my way, soldier."

As he spoke, the main door opened, but it was not to let Hooper through. It was Holly Murdick, leaving the building. She said, "Willis is waiting for you."

"This robot won't let me through! He wants to look through my pockets."

"Open that door," Holly said, "or else this is your last day on the job."

The guard's face remained impassive — nothing in the mouth, nothing in the eyes; and his body hardly moved as he flashed the door open.

Hooper said, "This is a sealed city. We've got skylights. We've got aerial patrols, gunships, and barriers. I've been going through security checks all day! It's all obstructions! And what is it with these security guards? Why do we let them run our lives?"

"Willis always says, 'Don't blame the guards — blame the aliens for making the guards necessary.'"

Now that the door was open, Hooper deliberately delayed entering. Who exactly was in charge here?

"I'm an Owner," he said. He turned to the guard. "And you're not."

"Relax," Holly said, and took Hooper's arm. Leading him to the door, she spoke to him gently, as if trying to calm him; but when Hooper realized that this was probably her purpose, he became only more agitated. "I'm real sorry you didn't come to see me," she was saying, "'Different people mean different sex.' I liked that a lot."

How annoying it was to be quoted: it was such a tiny mirror. Hooper stared into Holly's little witchy face, and then mentally he tipped her onto her back. But it didn't work, he wasn't interested, she looked too eager. That eagerness meant she wanted everything, and that he did not matter much to her indiscriminate lust.

He said, "I've got a little problem."

"Sometimes people with problems are the most fun," Holly said. "Hey, I know all about your moviemaking!"

Her saying this so lightly, in an excusing tone, made him feel worse than if she had screeched at him for being perverted. She was treating him as blamelessly crazy.

"Too bad I've got a date," she said hurriedly, seeing the anger she had provoked — Hooper's eyes blazed at her. And calling back at him, "I'm seeing Moura. Wasn't that a great time? I got a good feeling in O-Zone. I'm meeting Moura to prolong it a little."

But upstairs her husband seemed to take a different view. "I didn't think I'd be seeing you for another year," he said, and stared at Hooper. "I mean, we saw so much of each other in O-Zone."

Hooper said, "And yet, I had a feeling I was seeing everyone for the first time."

At this, Murdick winced, wrinkling his face as if he had heard a loud noise. He looked away from Hooper, pretending that he had just seen something out of the window. It was seven o'clock, a winter evening, but nearly daylight. The skylights dazzled-the river was on fire with them, and speckled with the insect shadows of rotors landing on barges and the patrolling gunships lumbering back and forth. No stars over the city — only the smoky glaze of skylights deflected through cloud.

"Especially you," Hooper said.

Murdick was trying to hide his face by looking away. But Hooper could see his reflection in the window: wounded eyes, hurt and trembling lips. Hooper was fascinated by the skinny face, the bareness of it, and Murdick's little head and fragile-looking ears. The man was so ugly without his mask!