The Eighty Minute Hour
BRIAN ALDISS
Contents
Introduction
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Also part of The Brian Aldiss Collection
About the Publisher
The opening paragraph of this space opera has frequently been quoted, if only by me:
Four things one particularly notices after wars of any respectable size: preparations for the next one, confidence that armed conflict is finished for ever, starvation, and feasting.
The text is operatic; I was attempting to write a space opera.
My original American publisher, Doubleday, explained everything clearly on their dust jacket, and I loved them for it: ‘Seldom has a novel been more crammed with crazy but plausible ideas, awful jokes, and nutty people. Oh, we forgot to mention the latest technological advance, the ecopicosystem. And total contraception. And all the singing and dancing. And the massive drinking scene. And the updated Adam and Eve bit … The Eighty Minute Hour is delightful entertainment – with a pinch of chilli and Attic salt added.’
I wrote the novel paragraph by paragraph while travelling with my friend Harry Harrison round the USA, pausing only to dine with Ray Bradbury, one evening by the coast.
That may account for the way the text is interspersed with songs – elaborate songs at that; songs far too elaborate to reach the charts.
Well, I was younger then.
Or, as my current publisher might put it, I’m older now.
Four things one particularly notices after wars of any respectable size: preparations for the next one, confidence that armed conflict is finished for ever, starvation, and feasting.
First, take a romantic setting.
In the stolid old castle of Slavonski Brod, on the night in which determinism forces me to open the story, feasting was the thing. Outside the grounds, over the walls, across the sea – all about – rumours of more terrible things were scudding like cloud. For a few hours, they had been shut out, fended away chiefly by dint of the personalities present at the roistering, by the languorous bravado and genial nature of Mike Surinat, whose castle it now was (his parents having died during the war); by the beauty and sweet perceptive nature of Becky Hornbeck, who now lived at the castle; by the cheeky dearness of my little sister, Choggles Chaplain; by the stolid capability of Mike’s C-in-C, Per Gilleleje; by the hard work behind scenes of such loyal friends as Devlin Carnate; and of course by the glamour of the many guests, at the castle to celebrate Mike’s simultaneous demobilisation from the army and appointment to diplomatic rank in the councils of the Dissident Nations.
Among those guests, I need mention only three. First and foremost is the peerless, glamorous figure of Glamis Fevertrees, about to embark on a perilous mission for the D.N. She is old enough to stand for me as at once sex-symbol and mother-figure. She dances with Per, and I wish I were able to glide across the great marble floor with her in my arms, out into the courtyard with its marble patterns, swirling among the pergolas and lanterns!
Mine are not the only eyes to fix on Glamis. A slight comedy goes among the other two most noted guests, the epicene genius of dream, Monty Zoomer, and his companion – who hastens to leave him – the stately and leather-skinned Sue Fox. Monty came with Sue and has eyes only for Glamis. Not that Sue cares – she is a woman who plainly hates sheep’s eyes.
Sue and Monty, of course, are not on our side. Yes, you might put it that way. They are not on our side of the political fence. They stand for the USA–USSR merger, the so-called Cap-Comm Treaty; we are against it. But as yet – or during this evening of festival – Sue and Monty are being nice to the minions of the D.N. Sue Fox can afford to be nice; she’s on the World Executive Council.
So much for the cast. Move nearer and hear what three of the groups are saying on this beautiful evening.
First, let’s go to the little pavilion perched at the end of the estate, on top of the wide stone wall, long ruined, now built up with a wooden ramp for this occasion. Go up the ramp! Observe that the pavilion has been repainted.
Inside, a little man in Hungarian gipsy costume plays a fiddle. He is a Hungarian gipsy. His melodies, gay but full of an irreparable loss, float out across the grounds. Only three people are in the pavilion, and they are not listening.
This first group consists of Becky Hornbeck, Sue Fox, and Choggles. Becky, like Mike, is in her late twenties and still somewhat mystical. Sue is older and a good deal grimmer, though not in a grim mood tonight. My dear Choggles is – herself. But I will stop talking so that they can be heard.
Sue Fox said, ‘As you say, the world is tightening up after the war. Dwight Castle and I were remarking the other day how work on the World Executive Council gets heavier week by week. And now the Computer Complex intends to introduce the concept of the eighty-minute hour …’
She caught the expression on Becky’s face.
‘I’m sorry, Becky – I shouldn’t be talking politics. Perhaps I only do it because – well, perhaps there is a little guilt there, especially when I find you and me on different sides of the fence, politically. Your mother and I were such great