Alan Rayner

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Design Fault

A Scientist's Fiction

by Alan Rayner

 

1

AUGUST

Badly ruffled, Dr Macheno Mistaco searched for vestiges of the soul that he had fed byte by byte into the depths of his computer for the past five years. Pupils dilated. Throat constricted. Mind swirled. Cold dampness spread across his forehead. A surge of heat drove deep between his shoulder blades. Fingers ploughed through a backswept luxuriance of short, black, curly hair. Sporadically they rattled bursts of machine code through the keyboard. Byte upon byte, sequence upon sequence of information streamed out, draining energy from the turbulent centre where Macheno's heart palpitated. But no sense came out. All that registered on the monitor screen was an assortment of disconnected dots that in no way added up to the semblance of real life he had planned and expected.

For, despite his exalted position as Controller of the Centre for Biological Rationalism, and the mental precision that he so prided in himself, Macheno had done the unthinkable - or so at least it seemed to him. He had made an error. He had taken his analysis just one step too far, and the whole fragile composition that was the object of his simulation study had simply, and irretrievably, disintegrated.

For the first time in his life - as far as he could recall - Macheno experienced uncertainty.

Surely I must have miscalculated, he mused, but if so, then where - and when? Was it here, in the opulent concrete and glass prism of my office, or was it there, in the secure brickwork that I call my home, even though I really only go there to continue to work, eat and sleep? Was it just now, or could it have been all those years ago when the project started? Besides, I never miscalculate - not after all that rigorous training and self-discipline that have made me into the supremely precise and competitive authority that I am! How could I go wrong? How did I destroy such beauty, such perfect symmetry?'

On the point of feeling remorse, Macheno was brought up short by a more immediate concern.

Theres going to be Hell to pay, he correctly calculated.

His Centre had needed funds to get started. Funds had needed investors. Investors needed products and a predictably rewarding future. Now all he had to show for their stake in his future was an incoherent matrix of dots with no more predictability - and a lot less marketable hope - than the National Lottery. Cursing both his luck and his judgement - because he wasn't sure which of these to blame - and with rising levels of adrenaline in his bloodstream urging him to fight or flight, Macheno telephoned the airport.

 

The ripples on the sea loch broke the sunrise's reflection into a myriad of disconnected dots. Macheno's mood darkened. A few days away from the concrete, glass and bricks of his everyday context should have been all he needed to restore some 'order' to the 'chaos' that had erupted in his soul. But, if anything, he was only more confused. What was worse, he was hung over. Worse still, he had made a fool of himself. Now, urged by the plangent clamour of the dawn chorus to clear his head, he had staggered out to sit on this lochside rock only to find himself the object of the sun and sea's unbidden mockery, taunting him with the memory of what had brought him to this pass.

 

Macheno had made his escape to this remote part of Scotland on the pretext of visiting two acquaintances from his college days. Heather, who had once made the error of contributing one of the 5.5 notches on Macheno's trouser belt, liked to make love accompanied by Jimi Hendrix's 'Purple Haze' and dreamt of putting down roots on some misty mountainside. Timothy, like Macheno, had been a biology student, but unlike Macheno loved life for its exuberance of form and pattern rather than its amenability to analysis when ground to a pulp at the bottom of a test tube. When Macheno had gone off after getting his inevitable first class degree to do a stint in a prestigious American laboratory in the early days of gene cloning, Timothy had been content to stay in East Anglia to pursue his doctorate in grassland ecology.

As the whisky brought by the air hostess began to take the edge off the panic that had driven him to take his flight north, Macheno's lips drew into a smile at the prospect of seeing Heather and Timothy again. His chest began to swell. Timothy was, after all, the perfect foil against which to display the sharpness of Macheno's intellectual edge. For one thing, Timothy just couldn't bear Macheno's stringently objective reasoning, and so would invariably rise to the bait that would draw him into an adversarial 'discussion'. And then, although Timothy could generally parry and even temporarily overwhelm Macheno's arguments, his sensitivity and sense of his own fallibility would sooner or later cause him to drop his guard, allowing Macheno to move crowingly in for the kill. And when Timothy unwittingly fell in love with Heather, the jewel amongst Macheno's 5.5 conquests, he relinquished the psychological advantage to his adversary for good. In fact the only thing Timothy ever did to take the lustre off Macheno's self-image was, inexplicably, to get a slightly better first class degree. But that was only a blip, soon to be expunged by his unfashionable research interest and willingness to allow Heather's lust for the mountains to lure him out of the meadowland habitat that he flourished in. He became, in most people's eyes - and certainly Macheno's - a dropout, content to drift and survive on the income from his wife's paintings of barren landscapes.

 

Armed with two bottles of 20-year-old Islay malt whisky, Macheno knocked expectantly at the cottage door. Time passed. A toilet flushed. He knocked again, just as the door began to open. Heather's cheeks were pink, then the colour drained from them. Her eyes were quizzical, rather alarmed.

Just dropped by, Macheno announced casually.

Youd better come in, then, Heather affected nonchalance. Timothys gone for one of his walks. I dont expect hell be back for a couple of hours or so, when his stomach re-establishes communication with his brain.

As he followed Heather inside, Macheno wondered briefly whether he might be able to take advantage of this situation. Maybe he could rekindle an old fire. But something about Heather's frostiness penetrated even his thick skin. His confidence in his welcome evaporated. Doubts crowded into the vacuum where that confidence had been. Maybe he had miscalculated how Heather would react to his surprise visit. Maybe he had overlooked something. Maybe the intended pleasant surprise was an unpleasant shock. Maybe the unexpected wasn't at all what was wanted. How could he have been so presumptuous? He became a small child in disgrace. Cornered. Expectations of affection transformed into fear of rejection. He began to dig a hole for himself.

I was always surprised that you and Timothy decided not to have children, Macheno blurted, trying desperately to find something to say that would break the ice.

We didnt; I couldnt, Heather replied bleakly. Then she blushed and elaborated I was pregnant once, before I knew Timothy, but it all went wrong and now I cant.

Macheno tried to make light out of this surprising admission. 'Oh well, every cloud has a silver lining - in this case the absence of nappy linings - at least you've still got some freedom.' The hole deepened.

Id better take you to the spare room, Heather grimaced. Then after youve settled yourself in, perhaps you could make your self useful by preparing some potatoes for dinner.

Chastened to the kitchen sink, Macheno eyed the soil-encrusted tubers suspiciously. It was years since he had been forced into such close contact with nature in the raw. He had got used to dealing with potatoes that had been cut and dried into regimented packs of individually packaged, microwaveable chips. How was he supposed to deal with these inconveniently irregular excrescences that so muddied the water?

God, youre pathetic, Heather said impatiently, oblivious of the possibility of being divinely misinterpreted, I thought you were supposed to be a biologist!

Yes, but a rational.. Macheno began to answer before being pushed aside and treated to a demonstration of the delicate art of applying scrubbing brush and scraper.

Just then, Timothy appeared, earlier than Heather expected and looking very pleased with himself. He dumped two carrier bags full of parasol mushrooms on the kitchen table. Then he noticed Macheno skulking in the shadows and took a step backwards.

What on earth are you doing here?' Timothy exclaimed, eyes wide, jaw trembling. Then his expression changed from startled to impish. 'By the way, have you met Lepiota procera?' he asked, gesturing at the brown and white, scaly contents of the carrier bags. He knew Macheno's ignorance and detestation of Latin names only too well.

No, I havent, and why should I want to? Macheno replied. I just dropped by, he added, returning to the casual pretence that he had affected earlier that afternoon.

Just dropped by to see how the local friendly dropout was faring how very kind, Timothy rejoined. Well, not so bad, I supposeand not short of some excellent wild food as you see. He emptied the contents of the first carrier bag onto the table. I suppose youll be joining us for supper or had you only planned for a cup of tea before jetting back to Birmingham?

Actually, I had hoped to stay a few days, Macheno confessed. Something strange has come up at work, and I need some peace and space to unravel it. I thought you and Heather might be able to help, he continued, with surprising candour. I know Ive taken a bit of a liberty, but I didnt know what else to do.

Taken aback, Timothy caught a glimpse of something in Macheno's eye that suggested, of all things, vulnerability. He glanced across at Heather, whose jaw had also visibly dropped. 'In that case,' he ventured 'we'd better stock up: how would you like to help me bring in some Scomber scombrus?'

So long as you show me where you grow it and Ive brought some fine old malt with me to wash it down with, Macheno responded obligingly, bringing an amused smile to Timothys face and a frown to his own. What was happening to him? How could he be so obsequious? Perhaps the last two days events had taken more out of him than hed calculated.

An hour or so later, drifts of salt spray moistened Macheno's bemused face. His detachment from reality was heightened by a world in motion all around him. He felt his own centre of gravity lurch disconcertingly. He had to will his stomach contents to stay out of his buccal cavity. He kept his lips pressed tightly together.

Killer whales here last week, Timothy announced as he piloted the boat out towards the Sound.

At least hes dropped the Latin names for the moment, Macheno consoled himself.

Here, take this. Timothy handed Macheno a length of fishing line with six hooks and assorted bits of shiny metal attached. Let it run out behind the boat, and when you feel a tug, pull it in.

Being in no position to argue - out of his element amidst the elements - Macheno did as he was told. A child, put in its place, unknowing, unsure, but in that state receptive, alive, ready to be thrilled. It wasn't long before a tug on the line came so unheralded and violent that it made his heart thump. He brought in the line, complete with four flailing Scomber scombrus. The iridescent beauty of the mackerel, so different from the pallid corpses on the fishmonger's slab, took his breath away.

I had no idea they were like that, Macheno burbled.

Real life is full of surprises, Timothy pontificated, if you allow yourself to get close to it and start noticing as well as seeing

At these words, Macheno's brief spell of awed humility evaporated. He determined to get the better of Timothy in the evening's argument that he was planning to bolster his ego.

 

Macheno allowed himself a few moments to savour the contemplative mellowness induced by the combination of old whisky and food freshly culled from three biological Kingdoms - animal, vegetable and fungal. Then he trailed his coat.

Why do you have to call everything by its latin name? he queried. Whats the point? Surely, its just your way of gaining power over nature and showing off?

Heather surveyed the ceiling, longing for emancipation from what she knew was to come. Timothy's face, at first pacific, began to contort, then to quiver.

Youre the one to talk! Timothy exploded. You with your brutalistic, building-block view of life. You who reassures himself of his own cleverness and certainty by pretending that everything can be reduced to a Legoland of discrete units which you can count, measure and weigh so that you can calculate their future. Its you who tries to gain power over nature by ignoring its dynamic qualities. Its you who takes the beauty out of life by analysing it to death. Its you who equates fluidity with mysticism. It would serve you right if one day one of your precious digital computer assemblies teaches you a lesson by disintegrating into a mass of incoherent dots! That would show you just how hard-edged life isnt if you let it that is, because knowing you, you would just assume that it was some kind of design fault and end up blaming someone else, or maybe even a virus!

Stunned by this outburst, and by Timothy's apparent prescience, Macheno resorted to his favourite counter-attack - belittlement.

Good grief, whatevers in those mushrooms? Macheno snorted. No wonder you dropped out of the scientific community. If I started wittering on about qualities and beauty and fluidity, theyd close my Centre down tomorrow! Theyd think I was losing my competitive edge, if not my marbles! You cant make sense of life like that; it would be like going back to the Dark Ages. Think of the trouble all that ignorant superstition used to cause! Now at last we are beginning to understand how life is designed by the action of natural selection on units of genetic information. Everything else is just noise. Its all so simple, really, and its turning biology into a proper, hard, quantitative, mechanistic science founded on intellectual rigour!

More like rigor mortis,' Timothy mumbled. Then, catching Heather's warning glance, he backed off. 'Yes, I know,' he said. 'I'm sorry I attacked your way of thinking just now, but, then, you were attacking mine. I don't dispute the validity or usefulness of your approach. I just don't think it's all there is to life. Also, I think that if you take it too far you end up with a dispiriting, gene-centred message that can only exacerbate the pain and mistrust that we already have in superabundance in the world.'

Macheno only registered the words 'sorry', 'validity' and 'usefulness', taking them as evidence of Timothy's old weakness, and so assumed that his own argument was on the ascendant. 'But you haven't answered my first question,' he said amiably, 'come on, tell me what's in a name?'

A pattern, Timothy replied, without a moments thought. A recurrent theme that can be identified and related to others, just as we use our own names to indicate recognition and ancestry. In principle, theres no difference between using Timothy Fielding to identify me and my parental origins, and using Lepiota procera to indicate the species and genus of a parasol mushroom - except, of course, that the name order is reversed. So, when I use a latin name, it's like recognizing a friend - a familiar pattern amongst the enormous range of possibilities that is out there in the real world. It's not about power - if anything it's about love. I know it's a shame that convention forces us to use latin, but in its way, that too is an expression of being in-common with others across the globe who speak a different language. We are bound together by our need to express recognition in a lingua franca that transcends our cultural differences. That's it, really: the name signifies a theme, a kind of fundamental Platonic essence or Idea if you like, that transcends differences - and to me it's as moving as music.'

A thoroughly esoteric and inaccessible kind of music if you ask me, Macheno grumbled, and one which gets in the way of too many peoples appreciation of biology when its forced down their throats! No, I dont like it. Besides, whats all this waffle about pattern? Whats the difference between your pattern and my design?

Well, thats an interesting question, Timothy engaged, and it shows that underneath it all we are both striving for the same thing to understand the apparent complexity of life by trying to identify some basic, simplifying principles. But our perspectives are different. To my mind, a design is something that is instigated by some agent or agency. Something that has been designed is therefore something that has been assembled according to some basic plan or blueprint from individual components, following a set of rules or calculational procedures that you might call algorithms. For you, genes are the agents and natural selection is the agency for assembling a living Legoland of life forms. A pattern, on the other hand, is something that emerges as the consequence of the input of energy into some kind of system or context with an expandable but variably resistive boundary that forms a reactive interface with its surroundings. Like a river, for example. In systems like rivers, patterns can't be exactly reproduced because their context is always changing. In living systems, though, the existence of copyable genetically based information within a watery context does allow particular sets of boundary properties - and therefore particular patterns - to be reiterated from one generation to the next. Genes therefore provide the wherewithal for living systems to harness and repeat patterns, and natural selection the means to channel these patterns along particular pathways - like an irrigation engineer. But neither genes nor natural selection are instigators of pattern - rather, they influence the physical boundary properties that regulate the flow of energy into, through and out of living systems. In fact, come to think of it, I have some difficulty with the word, 'selection', because it seems to imply the presence of some external judge making choices about 'good' or 'bad'. Perhaps something like 'inclusion' might be better, giving more of an enveloping feel to the process. So that is the difference between us. You see genes as instigators of design; I see them as regulators of pattern. Where you see evolution as a process of elimination and survival of the fittest in an intolerant environment that must be adapted to, I see it more as a process of relational transformation through the close attunement of content and context. I don't see the complete separation between what is inside and outside a thing - the space within it and the space beyond it - as you appear to do.'

Heavens, those mushrooms really are strong,' Macheno retaliated, 'it's all a bit subtle and mystic for me! I prefer hard science myself - and concrete evidence. So you think all us Darwinists are wrong, do you; you think we should give it all up and get back to some good old spiritualism and superstition?'

Not at all, Timothy replied, but I think you might find some re-orientation of perspective helpful and enriching.

And what exactly do you mean by that?' Macheno snorted. 'Come on, be precise. Then I might bother to listen.'

Timothy didn't reply. The tide that had driven him against Macheno's brick wall was ebbing fast. He was exhausted and despondent that he had once again allowed himself to be baited. What was the point of even trying to describe the way that his ramblings had made him come to think? Perhaps he really was just a misguided romantic. He felt lonely.

Macheno interpreted Timothy's silence as a sign of victory and raised his glass. 'Well, at any rate, here's to success - however we might view it,' he toasted, which was just about the most conciliatory thing he could think of saying.

The storm over, Macheno concentrated on helping Timothy to finish off the first bottle of malt. He loved that peaty, smoky flavour and began to mellow. But while the whisky was softening his aggression, something else was eroding his self-assurance. What lay behind Timothy's apparent prescience and the moody, withering silence that Heather had maintained all evening? As his insecurity grew, he moved gradually, inexorably, towards the quivering, vomiting state that awaited him at the end of the drinking session.

I think youre both babies, Heather said grievously as she saw Macheno to his room. And to think I might have had your baby!'

 

So it was that Macheno found himself sitting on that loch-side rock, in mourning for his lost soul - and in mourning for his lost genes. Had he heard right? Had barren Heather really once not only been the receptacle for his lust but also the receptacle for his immortality? Why had she never told him until now, now of all times when for the first time in his life he felt really vulnerable? And how had Timothy - meek, weak Timothy - somehow known what had befallen him at the Centre? Surely, Timothy couldn't have had anything to do with it? No, it must just be coincidence.

He stared into the water. There was a curious fringe of orange-brown weed trailing out from the rock and gently swaying in the languid current. Anchored to the rock, but free at the tips of its branches, and pregnant with curious egg-like bladders, the weed seemed to echo in its flexuous movements the rebukes that Timothy had made the previous evening. Drifting just beyond the weed, in what was truly a state of suspended animation, were some huge, orange jellyfish. Uncharacteristically, Macheno wondered what species they might be: no doubt Timothy would know and come up with some ridiculous double-barrelled name for them.

He suddenly recalled a Sherlock Holmes story that had once frightened him when he first read it as a child. The story had touched a nerve, somehow symbolizing the deep mistrust with which he was to come to regard nature. The jellyfish of the story was a murderer - though perhaps in a court of law it might be found guilty only of the lesser charge of manslaughter. Trapped on an ebbing tide in a deep rock pool, the creature's tentacles had entangled an unwary swimmer. A man had fallen foul of jelly! The thought had repulsed Macheno: the pinnacle of evolutionary refinement brought low by primitive, consciousless liquidity. How stingingly, fearsomely undiscerning life could be when cornered! And now, he too had been stung, humiliated by the uncontrollable in the Control Centre. What had Conan Doyle's story been called? From some deep recess in his memory, the answer emerged: 'The Lion's Mane,' that was it.

The Lions Mane, Macheno exclaimed aloud, jolted from his brown study by the recollection.

I see youve recognized our friend Cyanea capillata,' Timothy said. 'Very abundant in these waters at this time of year. Best to stay out of its way.'

Timothy, too, had risen early, with the aim of clearing his head, and ambled out to the loch-side to imbibe the tranquillity of the early morning scene. Despite, or perhaps because of the last night's events, and his headache, Timothy had woken in a surprisingly ebullient mood. It had dawned on him, quite literally, that the verbal lashings that Macheno' had dealt him, were in fact only desperate, defensive lashings out. It wasn't he, who had nothing to lose besides a little pride, but in fact Macheno who had been behaving like a frightened, cornered wild animal with everything to lose.

For the first time in his life - as far as he could recall - Timothy actually felt sorry for Macheno and realized that, despite his horny, bullish exterior, he had always rather liked him. In fact he couldn't stop imagining Macheno as a sort of soft-centred rhinoceros trapped in a thicket! Perhaps Macheno had acquired his thick skin and strident manner more as a protection from the hostility that he saw in the world than as the vehicle for his own aggression. After all, hadn't Macheno's parents fled for their lives from Mussolini's oppression just before the war? What must it have been like to have been raised and educated against such a backcloth? Don't all victims of oppression dream of freedom through some kind of self-protective struggle? Can they ever trust anyone? Can anyone ever trust them?

Timothy's own background couldn't have been much more different from Macheno's. His seemingly idealistic, comfortably-off parents had always impressed upon him that all deep relationships depended on trust. He had never had to face 'real hardship' and he had been encouraged into the gentle pursuit of flowers rather than achieving prowess on the sports field like many of his peers. Consequently, he lacked resilience of any kind, and was submissive and self-effacing when challenged. He wasn't really a coward, but he could always see good sense in taking what appeared to be the easy way out. He loved to co-operate, but had no idea when, where or even if there was a need to assert himself. Above all, he feared rejection, and as the hostilities of the real world inevitably impressed themselves on him, he found more and more fault with himself. In the end he let his fear overwhelm him, and gratefully accepted the chance that Heather offered him to withdraw - in more ways than one, as it turned out! He didn't know whether to hate or admire Macheno's machismo.

Now Timothy suddenly saw that he and Macheno were complements. Both of them were searching for evidence of their own worldview in nature, and in isolation both had gone astray. Of course, Macheno had proved to be by far the more ostensibly 'successful', what with his jet-setting and inordinate influence on other people's purse strings and ways of thinking. But now Macheno looked hunted, as though he had fallen prey to his own success. Something must have gone badly wrong. Macheno had come close to admitting as much already - and, in any case, what else could explain his unannounced visit. And what about his amazing disgrace from consuming excess spirit last night? Timothy had never known Macheno undone by Scotch. He saw a rhinoceros in trouble - a dangerous, but irresistible beast that needed his help.

Oh dear, you do look the worse for wear, Timothy sympathised as he surveyed Machenos sorrowful state, Im sorry that last night got so out of hand I should have realized what was happening and laid off a bit

Macheno admitted that he felt bad. 'I'm afraid I rather abused your hospitality,' he said.

You still havent said what really brought you here, Timothy said, come on, tell me your tale of the unexpected happening at the office.

Macheno considered for a few moments how much he should give away. He didn't like the idea of being beholden to Timothy, but he calculated that he didn't have much choice. If he was to enlist their help to escape the wrath, let alone the litigation of his investors, he had to confide in Timothy and Heather - otherwise they wouldn't, couldn't, appreciate the gravity of his predicament. Besides, he had never known the pathetically keen-to-please Timothy to take advantage of anyone: Timothy was one of life's victims, not one of its manipulators - he wasn't a threat.

Macheno opened up. 'To be honest,' he began, implying that he was about to say something unusual, 'it all began six years and ten days ago.'

Macheno went on to describe how he had become frustrated by the stifling inertia of the biotechnology corporation that he worked for, and set out on his own to establish his Centre. During his time with the corporation he had made sufficient contacts to ensure some sound investment in his future, especially as he had had such a marketable idea.

He had worked out, so he calculated, a way of predicting the behaviour of complex living systems using an innovative, self-assembling, self-refining computer simulation. This simulation plotted the outcome of counteraction between the proliferation and competitive selection of self-replicating units of discrete information. Once perfected, it would do away with the need for messy studies of real living systems forever. It would invest human beings with a new power to control life, from cells in a test tube to whole societies - and eliminate uncertainty for good.

The only problem was that once up and running, the simulation couldn't be stopped and restarted - a quirk in the design meant that it could not be preserved on back-up files. It could be analysed and manipulated, yes. Its 'parameter space' could be varied, yes. But if deprived of informational fuel for even a few moments it would burn itself out. Perhaps that was, after all, what made it seem so life-like: it couldn't lose power for a moment, or it would die and become a fast-fading memory. So the only safeguard was to ensure that there was no disruption to the power supply.

But that was a problem that could easily be glossed over when persuading potential investors about the huge benefits that his research would bring. Investors loved to hear a person with full foreknowledge of where his 'research' would lead, and Macheno was happy to supply them with the flow charts and timetables that they craved showing exactly when each stage of his project would be accomplished.

Admittedly he had had to use a bit of licence and make a few calculated guesses, but that was only to be expected, and up until two days ago everything had been going very much to plan. He had been able to hold quarterly day conferences for the investors to attend, and on each occasion he had been able to boast that he had reached the milestone identified at the previous session. The next conference was due in five days, and in order to achieve the objective he had set this time, Macheno had put himself under undue pressure. His simulation was proving unusually resilient to the manipulations he was trying to impose on it. At this rate, he wasn't going to reach his milestone. His milestone was becoming a millstone. He reacted to the pressure by applying more pressure, more analysis. He would drive his simulation into submission.

Then his worst nightmare materialized, or, rather, dematerialized as his simulation exploded (or imploded - he wasn't sure) into dots. It was reminiscent of the Space Shuttle disaster, though fortunately it was only careers and not lives that were on board his mission. Like a poor old experimental rat that had endured years of probing, his simulation had had a heart attack. Fibrillating incoherently, it was now unable to deliver the 'deliverables' that had been promised, and so threatened to curtail a multi-million pound research effort.

He didn't want to have to convey this news at the next quarterly conference, just when he had raised expectations so high. The investors would want their money back. They would accuse him of deception. 'We're not charities' they would exclaim self-righteously, 'we don't pay you to be wrong - we pay you to increase our profit margins.'

Macheno fell silent. He lowered his head, as if to fathom the depths of the loch. A minute or so passed. Then, suddenly, his gaze lifted out of the water as if reeling in a fish, and he giggled. 'The blood-suckers will demand their stake back,' he joked, 'but I have already burned it. They will hound me like rabid vampires in pursuit of their just desserts!'

Timothy had listened to all this with an odd, intoxicating mixture of fellow-feeling for the frustrated ambition of his old adversary and relief that the simulation had failed - much in the way that he might himself have predicted. 'Oh, Macheno,' he sympathized, not entirely disingenuously, 'I'm so sorry. No wonder you felt so desperate last night.' But inwardly, Timothy's heart was aglow. He was warming, as he always did, to the thought of coping with someone else's crisis - and on this occasion it was someone that he had regarded as invincible, the epitome of forceful certitude. He became practical, and started to cluck.

Did you tell anyone you were coming here? Timothy asked.

No, I just locked up, turned everything off and left, Macheno replied.

You turned everything off including the computer? Timothy queried, incredulously.

Yes, it seemed best, Macheno said dismally.

Timothy gasped. Macheno was certainly an all-or-none merchant. Normally so certain of his success he was now so certain of his failure that he was prepared to cut off his only, if infinitesimally slim, chance of salvation irrevocably.

So, what will you do? Timothy asked.

I dont know, Macheno confessed, I suppose Id better try to lie low for a while, and hope that the hue and cry dies down.

Hmm, I rather doubt that it will do that, Timothy said, youre too much of a celebrity or at least you will be as soon as all this comes out. Still, with any luck, theyll waste some time dredging the local canals for you before deciding that youve scarpered. Come on lets get some breakfast. It might help us to think.

 

It looks like Macheno will be with us for some days yet, Timothy told Heather with just a trace of a smile. He really is in serious trouble and needs to lie low.

Why, what has he done murdered someone? Heather asked truculently. Im not sure that I want to be accused of harbouring a criminal being responsible for a miscarriage of justice! Heather shot a dark look towards Macheno.

Oh no, not that bad or, on reflection, perhaps rather worse, Timothy said. Macheno, perhaps youd better tell Heather yourself.

Macheno grimaced, then repeated the story that he had told Timothy.

Oh well, thats OK then a few social parasites bled to death, Heather remarked. But by now even she was affected by Machenos plight. The edge began to come off her resentment. She saw that Macheno had pushed himself into a corner. But the corner wasnt entirely of Machenos making. It was the product of a pushy culture, a culture that saw virtue only in success, and success as the reward for worth derived either from good genes or good luck. By sharing in the philosophy of the pushy culture, Macheno had brought about his own downfall. But what was the alternative? Look what happened to anyone who didnt acquiesce to the cultures expectations Timothy, for example, whose sensitivity led him to wander aimlessly amongst the heather, a wasted, impotent talent. How often had she tried to persuade Timothy to assert himself? If only Timothy could be a bit more like Macheno...her body warmed to the thought. If only Macheno could be a bit more like Timothy...her mind leapt at the idea. But instead they were both babies undeveloped in one respect or the other and unwilling or unable to grow up. She didnt want babies approaching 40 years old. She wanted babies approaching one year old, but couldnt have them one of the 5.5 notches on Machenos belt had seen to that. Then the thought struck her that it was the notch, not Macheno, which had caused her pain. The notch was what gave Macheno the egotistic reinforcement that he had needed to thrust his way through a pushy world. Meanwhile, kind, self-effacing, faithful Timothy had sought, but never received, the reassurance that his wandering imagination needed to be kept on an even keel, so that he lurched into self-disrespect. If she couldnt have both in one person, why not have both in the same cottage or even the same bed now that the opportunity presented itself? After all, what was the difference between two men in a bed and a bed with two men in it? It was only a question of stretching the boundary that you used to define one self a bit! Maybe they could even grow together! That way, they might even be able to go some way towards satisfying her! She saw her past pains becoming transfigured into her future prospects. She became practical.

Did you tell anyone you were coming here? Heather repeated the question that Timothy had asked of Macheno half an hour ago.

No, replied Macheno, why do you ask? Strangely enough, Timothy asked the same question when I told him my bad luck story half an hour ago.

Because if youre going to stay here, you ninny, Heather explained, we dont want anyone to be able to trace your whereabouts.

Least of all a horde of rabid vampires! Timothy chirped in.

Macheno wasn't used to being called a ninny, but then he wasn't used to using his imagination. He had hardly begun to think through the consequences of his flight, and the danger of leaving a trail in his wake. 'Oh, I see what you mean,' he admitted.

How did you pay for your flight? Heather enquired.

Macheno now saw the self-protective significance of the strange urge that had caused him to forsake plastic and withdraw three thousand pounds, in cash, from the bank. He had used a small portion of this to pay for his ticket, and travelled under the assumed name of Charles Brown. He might not have imagination, but at least he had instinct. He described what he had done.

Thank goodness for that, said Heather, though I must say Im impressed I never imagined you displaying foresight.

Do you think anyone would have any reason to connect you with us? Heather continued.

I dont think so, Macheno replied. To be honest, this was the second time that day he had used this phrase perhaps thats why I decided to come here, though I would like to think I had better motives. I hardly speak to anybody about my college days now Ive wiped that slate clean.

Why, youre not ashamed of those days are you dont tell me that the fact that Timothy got a better first class degree than you still rankles? Heather taunted.

Well I must confess that I never understood how he did that perhaps he bribed the examiners, Macheno bridled, anyway, what about you is there any reason that anyone would connect you with me?

Not unless theyve psychoanalysed my paintings, Heather said, causing a look of mystification to replace the look of hurt that had appeared on Timothys face.

Thats perfect, then, said Macheno.

Im surprised you see it that way, Heather said.

Well of course its not perfect, Macheno corrected, if it was I would still be back at the Centre, with my soul intact and the investors happy. But as things are, at least it means I can stay here undetected for a while.

And what makes you think wed want you to stay here, especially after last night? Heather challenged.

Oh my God, Im sorry, I took that for granted, Macheno grovelled, please can I stay? Ive brought the cashI can pay my way.

Couldnt you always isnt that just your solution for everything? Heather chided. Then she relented, and Timothy chimed in. Of course you can stay, they both said, each for their very different self-fulfilling reasons.

The chaotic triangle of attractors, the ancient recipe for creative and destructive instability, was set.

 

 

Go to Chapter 2

 

 

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My Hope: To help develop a more empathic, more fulfilling way of thinking/feeling about relationships amongst ourselves, other organisms and our living space, which acknowledges the fact that the boundaries we inhabit are not absolute and fixed but rather inform dynamic, interactive domains that allow a rich variety of patterns to emerge and transform our lives

A D M Rayner