Iain Banks - Whit

'Well hell yes ! Service matters. This country used to be cute and quaint and kinda socialist; it's got a bit better now since your Mrs Thatcher; people are more polite, they know their jobs are on the line and there are other people who'll do them, they know there are other corporations who'll do the same thing for less money or just plain better, so you're sort of on the way, you know? But you still got a long way to go. And you lost a lot of the cuteness along the way, believe me. You abandon cuteness, you better make damn sure you're pretty goddamn efficient or you're down the tubes, baby. And all this ye olde fuckin' heritage shit ain't gonna fool people forever.'

'… Is that a blue flashing light behind us?'

'Say what? Ah, shee-it…'

'… Now, you see? That was a case in point; if you had on-the-spot fines those traffic cops could have taken me for a couple of hundred bucks; help pay for that fancy bear-mobile there. Instead, what do I get? A ticking-off. I mean, that's sad.'

'I think being American helped,' I said, watching the needle swing back up across the speedometer. 'Are American miles really shorter than British ones?'

'I think so, aren't they? Same with gallons, I think…' Yolanda waved one hand dismissively. 'What the hell; it worked. They let us go; probably thought of all the paperwork involved.'

'Hmm. Anyway…' (I'd been thinking.) '… is efficiency really the best way to measure this sort of thing?'

'What?'

'Well, if you can do a job more efficiently with fewer people, that's all very well for that one particular company, but if you all still have to live in the same society, does it matter? We could probably do a lot of things more efficiently with fewer people at the Community, but that would just leave the people put out of work hanging around feeling useless. What's the point in that? You can't throw people off the farm or lock them up or kill them, so why not let them all have a job, even if that's less efficient?'

Yolanda was shaking her head. 'Honey, that's what the communists used to do, and look what happened to them.'

'Well, perhaps that happened for other reasons. What I'm saying is that efficiency is a strange way to evaluate how a society is doing. After all, the most efficient thing to do might be to kill everybody as soon as they grow old, so they won't be a burden, but you can't do that either because-'

'The Eskimos; the goddamn Inuit; they used to do exactly that,' Yolanda said. 'But it wasn't when you got to a certain numerical age, it was once you couldn't pull your weight. If you looked after yourself you could go on a long time.'

'Maybe they had no choice. But my point is that morality outranks efficiency. And, anyway, extreme efficiency would dictate less choice in the end; the most efficient thing would be for everybody to drive the same sort of car due to the economies of scale. Or for there not to be any private cars at all. You wouldn't like that, would you?'

Yolanda grinned and shook her head. 'You don't really understand Capitalism, do you, Isis?'

'From what I've heard, the best economists in the world don't understand Capitalism either, or do they all agree nowadays, and there are no more booms and slumps, just a steadily rising growth rate?'

'Child, no system is perfect, but this one's the best we got, that's the point.'

'Well, I think our system works better,' I said, settling myself primly in my seat with my hands clasped in my lap. 'The High Easter Offerance estate is a model of archaic working practices, inefficiency, over-manning and job-duplication, and everybody is extremely happy.'

Yolanda laughed. 'Well, good for you guys, Isis, but I don't know that would scale up too successfully.'

'Perhaps not, but it is my belief that contentment speaks for itself and has no need to worship at the altar of monetary efficiency's false and brazen idol.'

'Whoa,' Yolanda said, glancing over at me with narrowed eyes. 'You speaking ex-cathedra there, oh Elect one?'

'Let's just say that when the Community passes into my charge, as it sadly must one day, there will be no change in the way the farm and the Order is run.'

'Good for you, honey; you do it your way. Don't let me persuade you no different.'

'Whatever you say,' I said.

We had returned to Bath from Dudgeon Magna to discuss what to do next. We had another margarita. We suspected that Morag might have returned to La Mancha, Mr Leopold's home in Essex; Yolanda attempted to call the house, but the number was ex-directory and I had not thought to look for the number when I'd had the chance, in the hallway by the phone when Tyson was distracting the young man.

'How far's Essex?' Yolanda asked.

'A hundred and… fifty miles?' I hazarded. 'Beyond London.'

'Wanna go, or d'you want to head north now?'

'I don't know,' I confessed, pacing up and down the sitting room of Grandmother Yolanda's suite, my hands clasped behind my back. I was in a quandary. I really didn't like the sound of the way things were going back at High Easter Offerance, and my first instinct was to return there as quickly as possible to discover what was going on and do whatever sorting out might be required. Nevertheless, I was here on an important mission, and Morag/Fusillada's trail had not yet gone totally cold. My duty remained as it had been: to attempt to track and intercept my cousin and reason with her. I continued pacing. My new leather trousers creaked and squeaked, and I kept wanting to giggle at this. Which reminded me. I stopped and looked Yolanda in the eye. 'Are you fit to drive, Grandma?'

Yolanda raised her glass. 'Almost up to operating level.'

'Maybe we should get the train.'

'Nonsense. But where are we going?'

'Essex,' I decided. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my fancy trousers. 'Do you think my old clothes are ready yet?'

La Mancha was dark, silent and locked. It was evening by the time we got there and we'd have seen any lights on inside. There was no sign of Tyson or the young man or anybody else.

We stood on the back lawn, looking into a smoked-glass conservatory which held a huge round bath. The light faded slowly from the skies above.

'They're outa town, we're outa luck,' Yolanda growled.

'Oh dear.'

We stepped back and walked round the side of the house. A small bright light came on under the eaves. 'Ah-ha!' I said.

'Ah-ha nuthin',' Yolanda said, shaking her head. 'Those are security lights, child; automatic. Must of just got dark enough.'

'Oh.'

We returned to the car, past the painted plough, cartwheel and buggy, which I realised now were just ornamental. The gate had been padlocked so we had to get back over as we'd got in, over the top.

'Well, hell ,' Grandma Yolanda said, settling into the driver's seat of the hired car, 'we'll just be forced to go into London, stay at the Dorchester, eat at Le Gavroche, catch a show and party the night away in some grotesquely expensive club drinking vintage champagne.' She made a clicking noise with her mouth and fired up the car. 'I hate it when that happens.'

'How's your head?'

'It feels like the china shop just after the bull's paid a visit.'

'What, full of bull shit? Haw haw haw.'

I opened my eyes and gave my grandmother what was supposed to be a withering look. She glanced at me over the top of her Wall Street Journal and winked. The grey-suited chauffeur slid the car -a 'Jag-waar' according to Yolanda - into a gap in the mid-morning traffic near Harrods. We were heading for Heathrow Airport. I shifted on my Sitting Board, making the leather trousers squeak. I'd had little choice over what to put on that morning; the hotel in Bath had not been able to extricate my old clothes from the laundry in time for us leaving for London. We had left the Order's address and been assured they would be forwarded, but it meant I had to wear the gear my grandmother had bought for me, which didn't seem altogether suitable for a return to the Community. However, I was in no state to try to find different clothes. Yolanda wore boots, dark blue culottes and a short matching jacket.