This Other Eden (14 page)

‘I mean
you don’t
want
to do it, for God’s sake. Do you?’ they all said.

‘Nobody
wants
to do it.’

Of
course, as students they had all been deeply opposed to Claustrospheres. Natura
was big on campus and when their parents had slowly begun to think about buying
an Eden One they had all reacted with horror. Referred to their dear old mums
and dads as ‘Pollution Fascists’ and ‘Planet Traitors’. However, when they
themselves reached maturity, the situation looked a bit different.

Dying
of consumption.

The Earth just wasn’t
getting any healthier. How could it? The one single and abiding criterion by
which the success of countries is judged is in terms of their ‘growth’. Each
year the great nations agonise over how much they have ‘grown’. How much more
they have made, how much more they have consumed.

Consumer
confidence is actually considered a measure of a country’s relative economic
strength. When a load of poor deluded sad-acts are down at the shops running up
debts on their credit cards, finance ministers claim that the economy is
‘growing’ and start celebrating. Recessions are deemed to be over the moment
people start spending money which they don’t have on things that they don’t
need. Consumption is synonymous with ‘growth’ and growth is good. It is always
good, whenever and wherever. Hence, clearly consumption is good, all
consumption, anywhere, anytime. Judged by the logic of world economics, the
death of the planet will be the zenith of human achievement, because if
consumption is always good, then to consume a whole planet must be the best
thing of all.

Acting
sensibly.

And so, faced with the
fact that the world was growing to death, slowly but surely people began to buy
their Edens. Just as their grandparents and great-grandparents had moved out of
the dirty inner cities into the countryside. Nobody wanted to do it, but on the
other hand, things were as they were and privately martyring yourself was not
going to change things.

Every
night Jurgen Thor and all the other self-righteous greenies were on the TV,
banging on about planet death. What were you supposed to do? It was obvious:
send Greenpeace a donation and start digging the foundations for your Claustrosphere.

It was,
of course, self-perpetuating. The more people bought them, the more difficult
they were to resist. Those who had taken the plunge became Claustrosphere’s
most passionate advocates. Every time another tanker sank or a nuclear power
station went pop, they would silently congratulate themselves on having made
the right decision. They scarcely liked to admit it even to themselves but
there was almost a grim satisfaction to be had out of the daily worsening
eco-statistics.

‘I see
that two-fifths of Russia is no longer habitable,’ they would say to each other
over breakfast. ‘I knew getting a Claustrosphere was a sensible decision. I
mean nobody
wants
the Earth to die, but you only have to look at the
papers… I wonder what Mr Holier Than Bloody Thou next door will say when
it’s two-fifths of the bloody Home Counties you can’t live in? I know what
he’ll bloody say. He’ll say, “Any room in your Eden for me and the wife?”’

The
question of what non-Claustrosphere owners would do in the event of planet
death added considerable piquancy to the delicate social politics of the whole
issue. In the early days those who owned a ‘Sphere were in the minority and
they had looked rather selfish and anti-social, but as Claustrospheres became
more and more common, the moral balance switched. So that it was those without
a shelter who began to appear selfish. Once it came about that there were only
a few houses left in any street without a Claustrosphere, the majority became
obsessed with what those people would do if the Rat Run was announced. More and
more, those who held out (be it for moral or financial reasons) began to look
like the irresponsible, anti-social ones. In many communities, those who were
neglecting to take due precautions to ensure a future for themselves and their
families in the event of Eco-death, came to be held in contempt.

‘It’s
all very well being green, we’re
all bloody green,’
people would say.
‘But they’ll be banging on my door trying to get in when the Rat Run starts. I
know they will.’

These
debates were even more heated when it came to flat dwellers. Many people in
communal living situations had begun to band together to purchase land out of
town and commission larger, group Claustrospheres. The question of who was in
and who was out divided previously friendly neighbourhoods.

Finally
the whole community became involved in the issue as politicians began to plan
for mass, public Claustrospheres, for the use of the broader population. They
claimed that they were concerned for the wellbeing of all citizens in the event
of Eco-Armageddon, but the real reason was of course fear of the mob. If you
have a nice back-garden Claustrosphere, just right for you and your family, and
up the road there is a housing estate containing thousands of people with no
eco-cover whatsoever, then you’re going to get a little nervous about what all
those people are going to do on the day of the Rat Run. Therefore, in order
that the rich might feel confident about using their Claustrospheres
unmolested, some arrangement had to be made for the poor. Right across the
industrialised world, borders began to be reinforced and legislation passed to
make it a local government responsibility to provide basic eco-cover. The
Community Claustrosphere became as much the responsibility of City Hall as the
roads and the police.

Everyone
could see which way this type of thinking was leading. It didn’t need a Jurgen
Thor to spot it. The more effort that went into what would happen
after
planet
death, the less effort people were putting into preventing that death. Coupled
with which, the Claustrospheres themselves consumed colossal Earth resources in
their actual production. The extraordinary irony was clear to all but the
stupidest. The world was actually hastening its own destruction in order to
survive it.

Some
people like Nathan and Flossie agonised over this paradox; other people said,
‘Shit happens.’ Everybody made sure they had access to a Claustrosphere.

Discussing
death.

As Plastic Tolstoy led an
astonished Nathan into his palatial

Claustrosphere,
Plastic’s most public and bitter enemy, Jurgen Thor, was being sewn back
together after the explosion of the European parliament.

Jurgen
allowed only local anaesthetics to be used. This was partly because he wanted
to keep his mind clear to consider the implications of the outrage, and partly
because the press were outside the room and he wanted to look tough. It never
does a politician any harm to be seen showing physical courage, and also it helps
when trying to get laid.

‘I tell
you, this was a company job, and we go public with the story.’

Jurgen
was addressing a small group of senior Natura officials, announcing his theory
that the bomb blast had been aimed at him as part of a seasonal Claustrosphere
marketing push. He spoke through gritted teeth as the laser surgeons worked to
sew his massive limbs back on. ‘Hey, take it easy with that,’ he shouted as his
colossal Nordic penis was unpacked from the ice and prepared for surgery. ‘It’s
the basis of my legend.’

‘You’re
lucky we saved it at all,’ the surgeon said. ‘It landed in the
smörgåsbord
at
a reception given by the Norwegian fisheries people. It was a chilled plate and
the rollmops kept it cool.’

‘You
mean my prick’s been saved by the whaling lobby!’ Jurgen roared with laughter.
‘Imagine what all the earnest little hippies who vote for us would think?
Jurgen Thor had his dick in a whaler’s
smörgåsbord.
Ha, ha! Maybe I
won’t get so lucky with all the “right on” girls! What will they say?’ Jurgen
affected a high squeaky tone, ‘No, Jurgen, you cannot rumpy-pumpy me! Your wang
has the blood of innocent whales upon it!’

Jurgen’s
great frame shuddered with amusement at his own jollities. The chief surgeon
looked up from her delicate work.

‘Mr
Thor, I am trying to sew your penis back on, here. Could you kindly lie still?’

‘Ha!
Doctors! You pretend you are such special people!’ Jurgen laughed. ‘We all know
the Robo-surgeon does the difficult bits.’

‘Even
Robo-surgeons have to be programmed, Mr Thor. I would hate for you to walk out
of here with your penis disappearing up your backside.’

Jurgen
felt this was a good point and decided to stop cracking gags for a minute, much
to the relief of all concerned. The brief respite gave a chance for Natura’s
Chief of Press Liaison to observe that Jurgen’s theories regarding the source
of the bomb were unsubstantiated slander.

‘The
police say the blast could have been planted by one of any number of
nationalist groups. What on earth makes you so sure that the company tried to
hit you, Jurgen?’

‘Hey,
groover, two things for a start. First, as a rule of your thumb, right?
Whatever the Belgian police say, you take the opposite. Right? OK? Ciao, baby,
wake up and smell the flowers. Second, the bomb was indiscriminate, no? Too big
by far to have been targeted at any one group. In fact every group suffered causalities,
right? You think people plant bombs to kill themselves? I don’t think. No, the
bomb was designed to breach the security screen which protects the speaker. The
speaker was me, OK, babe? But I was lucky, the screen was strong, and so am I.
All that happens is my love pump got a little damaged.’

‘It
certainly did,’ said the surgeon, again looking up from her work, ‘Look, there
are burn marks on it.’

‘Hey,
baby,’ Jurgen smiled. ‘Those burn marks didn’t come from no bomb, OK? Right? You
know what I’m saying here!’

Jurgen
rarely failed to make a strong impression on women and this occasion was no
exception. The micro-surgeon would have liked to have taken that big long fat
dick of which Jurgen was so clearly proud and throttle him with it; but she was
a professional and so she returned quietly to her work, making a mental note to
put it about that she had actually seen the great Jurgen Thor’s legendary
appendage and it was tiny.

‘I’m
telling you,’ Jurgen continued, ‘that bomb was meant for me.’

‘Well,
maybe,’ conceded the Chief of Press Liaison. ‘If it was, you sure are lucky
they installed such a tough screen.’

‘Oh
yes, that’s for sure and certain, OK? They designed it for when the British
hold the presidency… everyone in Europe wants to kill them, right?’

‘But
the company?’ The press officer protested. ‘It would be pretty audacious, I
mean, it could easily backfire. Killing you could provoke a green backlash.’

‘Not if
I got killed by someone else’s bomb! Look, it’s simple, man. Claustrosphere
want me dead, right? They always have, but they know that if I die, bang!
Immediately I’m a martyr. The Guevara syndrome, right? OK? Unless, of course, I
die stupidly, like getting blown up by someone else’s bomb. Then it’s kind of a
stupid, embarrassing way to die, like those people who get sucked into airline
toilets. So what do they do? Wait till I’m addressing the European Federation,
bomb capital of the damn Universe, Goddamn and dammit, and hit me with a bomb
so big that every nationalistic zealot will be crying foul. They want me dead!
I am more than a mere man, I am an idol, an inspiration, a prophet! In many
people’s eyes I am just too wonderful to be allowed to live.’

The
surgeon raised her head from her work again.

‘I can
certainly understand people wanting to kill you,’ she said.

‘Exactly.
Of course the Claustrosphere Company will kill me if they can do it safely.
Believe me, babe, I am lying here today  in fourteen separate pieces because
Claustrosphere
have added murder to their marketing strategy.
I want you
to knock up a press release explaining our opinion. They won’t sue, I’m telling
you.’

‘But it
seems so wild, I mean…’

‘Listen,
man, ask yourself this: if one of our people got the chance to knock off
Plastic Tolstoy. Wouldn’t they take it?’

A
meeting to kill for.

‘Hey, how would you like
to meet Plastic Tolstoy?’ Max asked Rosalie. It was a last-ditch attempt to
interest her.

Max was
already halfway smitten by Rosalie. She was exciting. She had purpose. He
wondered whether her sweet face and pale, slightly freckled skin could possibly
be real. It wasn’t that she was perfectly constructed like Krystal or anything,
far from it, but Max was aware that some girls deliberately had slightly
flawed, kooky face-jobs done, so that people would think it was natural. Having
lived in Hollywood all his life, Max was only vaguely aware that there was a
big world outside where people did not have themselves routinely reconstructed
to suit their clothes.