Hannah had programmed this line of questioning specially for the Festival of Choice. It wasn’t a festival, so much as an electoral referendum, but it embodied the spirit of the day better, according to Strategy.
– Look, sweetheart, said the customer. This isn’t easy.
– I’m listening, said Dolly. I value what you have to say.
– I’m in danger, the customer blurted. His voice shook slightly. Dolly attracted masturbators.
– Does your problem relate to the Festival of Choice? asked Dolly. Her voice had gone husky and soft. She encouraged masturbators.
He took another deep smoker’s breath.
– I’m in danger of putting my cross –
– In the wrong box? Dolly responded, after three seconds of silence. I can help you with that. If you’d like to tell me more …
As the customer droned on about his phoney indecision, Hannah considered giving Dr Crabbe glasses. But like hands, they were hard to do.
– Nice talking to you, sweetheart, finished the customer finally. I feel a lot better.
– You’ve made the right choice, said Dolly.
A nice touch, that. Hannah had thought of it herself. As the next call kicked in, she lowered the volume and let her eyes flicker to the window. The forecast for the Festival of Choice was good. Clear blue skies and clear blue water , the weather channel said. From this floor the panorama was never less than stupendous. The big, shining coil of the Hope River snaking into the estuary, flanked by the Makasoki bubble-buildings, translucent egg-boxes of reflected light. Above them, dancing rainbows, condensing and dissolving like pastel sugar, pale and buffered by distance. The light they cast – a pellucid yellow – spread with a shimmer out to a glassy sea dotted with ships and tankers bringing in cargoes of waste. Even from this height, separated by fathoms of glass and chrome, you could still feel the city’s electric zing like a shiver in the blood; and still subliminally hear the distant honk of ships, the sing-song whisper of the Frooto windmills, the smooth hydraulic whish-whish of trams. The island tattooed itself on you; a great techno-organic edifice in perpetual motion, its infrastructure jewelled with sports centres, malls, and waste facilities, its simple geography zigzagged with transport systems, and fringed with lush plantations of coconut, pineapple, and lemon grass. Beyond Harbourville, the fried-egg island lay circular and gently humped by the swell of St Giddier’s Mount. Beneath the crust of the artificial land-mass, the deep invisible mechanics of the waste-disposal system, feeding the hungry rock below. And all around, the clear blue ocean – wide as the sky.
The phone rang.
– Customer Care? answered Hannah.
– It’s me, said Tilda. Have you chosen yet, or aren’t associates allowed to?
Immediately, Hannah’s thoughts contracted and she began drawing small, tight squiggles next to Dr Crabbe on her pad. It looks so unprofessional, being phoned at work by yourmother. If someone came in – someone like Wesley Pike – it would be embarrassing.
– I’m just about to, said Hannah.
– I did, first thing, said Tilda. And they were round an hour later with the most gorgeous bunch of flowers – they’re giving them to all their VIP Customers, to say thanks. And I got a box of chocolates! Tilda couldn’t hide the pride in her voice. So are you coming to St Placid? Better hurry up, before I’ve eaten my way through them.
– Yes, sighed Hannah. While other departments worked overtime, staff in Munchhausen’s had been given a half-day off. She had promised Tilda a visit.
– I’m on my way. I’ll be there by lunchtime. Must go now. Got to choose.
Unlike the customers heading for the malls and parcs today, Hannah preferred to do her admin electronically. It saved time, and it saved bumping into people. She typed in her password, and the questions appeared on screen.
A. Do you want Atlantica to continue being serviced by the Liberty
– Look, sweetheart, said the customer. This isn’t easy.
– I’m listening, said Dolly. I value what you have to say.
– I’m in danger, the customer blurted. His voice shook slightly. Dolly attracted masturbators.
– Does your problem relate to the Festival of Choice? asked Dolly. Her voice had gone husky and soft. She encouraged masturbators.
He took another deep smoker’s breath.
– I’m in danger of putting my cross –
– In the wrong box? Dolly responded, after three seconds of silence. I can help you with that. If you’d like to tell me more …
As the customer droned on about his phoney indecision, Hannah considered giving Dr Crabbe glasses. But like hands, they were hard to do.
– Nice talking to you, sweetheart, finished the customer finally. I feel a lot better.
– You’ve made the right choice, said Dolly.
A nice touch, that. Hannah had thought of it herself. As the next call kicked in, she lowered the volume and let her eyes flicker to the window. The forecast for the Festival of Choice was good. Clear blue skies and clear blue water , the weather channel said. From this floor the panorama was never less than stupendous. The big, shining coil of the Hope River snaking into the estuary, flanked by the Makasoki bubble-buildings, translucent egg-boxes of reflected light. Above them, dancing rainbows, condensing and dissolving like pastel sugar, pale and buffered by distance. The light they cast – a pellucid yellow – spread with a shimmer out to a glassy sea dotted with ships and tankers bringing in cargoes of waste. Even from this height, separated by fathoms of glass and chrome, you could still feel the city’s electric zing like a shiver in the blood; and still subliminally hear the distant honk of ships, the sing-song whisper of the Frooto windmills, the smooth hydraulic whish-whish of trams. The island tattooed itself on you; a great techno-organic edifice in perpetual motion, its infrastructure jewelled with sports centres, malls, and waste facilities, its simple geography zigzagged with transport systems, and fringed with lush plantations of coconut, pineapple, and lemon grass. Beyond Harbourville, the fried-egg island lay circular and gently humped by the swell of St Giddier’s Mount. Beneath the crust of the artificial land-mass, the deep invisible mechanics of the waste-disposal system, feeding the hungry rock below. And all around, the clear blue ocean – wide as the sky.
The phone rang.
– Customer Care? answered Hannah.
– It’s me, said Tilda. Have you chosen yet, or aren’t associates allowed to?
Immediately, Hannah’s thoughts contracted and she began drawing small, tight squiggles next to Dr Crabbe on her pad. It looks so unprofessional, being phoned at work by yourmother. If someone came in – someone like Wesley Pike – it would be embarrassing.
– I’m just about to, said Hannah.
– I did, first thing, said Tilda. And they were round an hour later with the most gorgeous bunch of flowers – they’re giving them to all their VIP Customers, to say thanks. And I got a box of chocolates! Tilda couldn’t hide the pride in her voice. So are you coming to St Placid? Better hurry up, before I’ve eaten my way through them.
– Yes, sighed Hannah. While other departments worked overtime, staff in Munchhausen’s had been given a half-day off. She had promised Tilda a visit.
– I’m on my way. I’ll be there by lunchtime. Must go now. Got to choose.
Unlike the customers heading for the malls and parcs today, Hannah preferred to do her admin electronically. It saved time, and it saved bumping into people. She typed in her password, and the questions appeared on screen.
A. Do you want Atlantica to continue being serviced by the Liberty
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