Before 24 Billion and Counting

Chapter 1 Part 1 Charles is intrigued

It was a dreary June Monday in winter. Going to my office in Auckland New Zealand was no elevating experience. Squeezed with other damp suffering commuters in the monorail, I again wondered whether we should maintain the office set up by my grandfather in the city a hundred and twenty years ago. 

My colleagues wanted to move to the suburbs with the rest of the company in the modern industrial unit we leased as studios and design offices. I was reluctant to let go of the tradition of the city centre office for our publishing house, where we were close to the hub of the country's world of art and commerce. 

We were momentarily compressed into more intimate contact as the mono stopped at my station, and on clattering heels or silent sneakers we walked our separate ways to our day's work. 

I reached the early 1930's block, built solidly in stone, and protected from alteration by the City Administration. Inside, aging light oak paneling and brass gave a feeling of being securely anchored in time. I greeted Kelly, my assistant of some ten years, as I passed through to what I still thought of as my father's office, for his portrait and that of my grandfather were on the wall of the boardroom. 

The first task was the mail. 

For the most part it was routine. I accepted the computer's assessment of junk, and then looked at the read-now material. Most would be looked after by my colleagues and I was really monitoring the performance of the company. There were a few manuscripts, no-one seemed to have invented a better term for newly created material even if it were in an electronic medium, which I skimmed, added a preliminary thought to, and directed elsewhere. 

Then I tackled the items that had been automatically data-based - examining titles and summaries and occasionally digging deeper. The objective of our multimedia publishing company was to prise out from the murk, that rare spark of novelty that would help fill the hundreds of satellite, cable and broadcast TV and hologram channels, disc and download, that all over the world kept the billions anaesthetized at their screens or in Virtual Reality nets, ready for the advertisers to ply their trade. The enormous demand diluted the creative content of what was transmitted, and this made me question the value of what we were achieving. I felt there must be more to being in the creative world than endless pap built mostly for teenagers. 

This was why I continued with my searches for the unusual, gave lectures on old science fiction, republished in different media some of the mid- to end-twentieth century classic SF, and maintained an E-library and collection of some of the best SF art I could get. It made moderate cash for some effort - some board members grumbled that it was effectively reducing their salaries. However, none of us could measure the cachet associated with these activities and this held the argument in the air, ready to break out at times of stress but not resulting in all out conflict. Doubtless - if I had not owned the company, and had not a similar policy held by my father underpinned past success, my pet projects would have been curtailed. As it was, I was indulged. 

Kelly came into the office to share her coffee time with me, and we gossiped for a while. By noon I was finished, apart from one title that obstinately refused to come on screen. I called through the open door to Kelly, "Have you given a code to 'From Ms A. England' that I can't get into?" 

I heard her tap the keys and then her brisk step into the office. 

"Sorry, this one's been delivered." 

She dropped a cream inlay paper envelope onto the desk in front of me. 

"I didn't think people still used ordinary letters - how did it get here?" 

"DHL sent it in one of their small parcel packs." 

"Seems a very expensive way to go, and awfully slow." I mused, "Thanks Kelly."