White Matter

Beatnik Central

Beatnik Central turned out to be an ordinary suburban house. Passing inside had the character of entering through a time warp: left behind were megachurch battlegrounds and CEOs with megaphones, in their place something more akin to morning tea after the early service at a village church. Faded carpet, pastel wallpaper, a cicada hum of overlapping conversations, groups of now-hatless protestors scattered across lounge and kitchen, spilling out through the open french doors and into a back garden. Or perhaps like tea and biscuits after a funeral, to choose a simile with which I've had slightly more experience. That same sense of quiet yet earnest post-mortem discussion of the morning's events.

All of these elements were present, but they weren't what grabbed my attention. What grabbed my attention was a familiar face across the room. To have missed him among the drably dressed protestors would have been impossible: his shirt looked like something by Picasso and his trousers were baggy enough to have belonged to the artist himself. He looked like a eunuch from a psychedelic harem, the brightest object in the room (the khaki monk was a distant second). It was Kohei. What the hell was he doing here?

A clever cat would have smelt the rat about now, but I was still distracted by Graeme's words and my need to talk to my hosts. From artist to writer, and now actor. I was certainly getting to cover all the creative bases.

It wasn't that I had any intention of taking up Graeme's suggestion of playing spy; I was just intrigued by the idea that Spurious D's activities had spawned a resistance movement. I wanted to find out what this mind-reading business was all about, what exactly it was I had got myself into. It was true that I needed this job – I had debts to repay – but I also had my own conscience to think about. No doubt I would be getting the case in favour at work, but if anyone could provide the counterargument then surely these guys could. As for spying, the possibility of their telling me any revealing secrets was too remote to take seriously. It was just as likely that they didn't have any, that they were no more than what they appeared to be: a group of people justifiably scared by the consequences of this new technology and its potential to intrude into the most private of spaces.

"You work there?"

"Hey, I had no idea. I only started today." I had been introduced to yet another uber-protestor or high priest or terrorist mastermind or whatever. His name was Bill and he viewed me with stern disdain. A university academic was my guess. I didn't let this bother me though: observing the contours of his face, I was left with the feeling that it was one that didn't smile often, no matter who was standing in front of him.

"Do you know what they do?"

I explained once again that I was new to the job, was still figuring things out.

"Won't they be expecting you back at work?"

I explained what I had been hired to do, how my contract came with flexible working hours.

"You mean they've hired you to write propaganda?"

"That's not how I would put it."

His response to this was a spontaneous laugh, his expression softening in the process. "No, I don't suppose you would. Well let me put something to you, one propagandist to another. We're in a war. It's not our choice of terminology: it was the establishment who started talking about the war on terror, the war on drugs, culture wars, ... but if the other side declares war, then war is what it is, whether you like it or not.

"Of course, there's also the battle for hearts and minds. But that was a battle the establishment lost years ago; and we won. Nobody believes the hype any more, at least none of the people who give enough of a damn to hold an opinion. It was the protest movement that achieved all that. We have a right to feel proud.