"Brothers and Sisters!" the notice began, "The many-tentacled octopus of Capitalism is striking at the heart of the Workers again. The Chapel has learnt that Wright's, that Enemy of the People, intends to introduce New Technology to all magazines and newspapers forthwith and immediately. This will result in huge savings for the bosses, but extra work for the members of this Chapel, not to mention grave health risks.
The members of this Chapel are hereby called to an Extraordinary Plenum Session of the Full Chapel to respond to this unwarranted provocation, and to formulate an adequate response. The meeting will take place in the Surrey Hall at the Happy Vacation Hotel, Southdon (behind the library).
As an official Extraordinary meeting as defined in Section IV, Paragraph 3b of the Wright's House Agreement of July 1986, company managers may not refuse permission to attend this meeting. If any Brother or Sister has problems they should let Chapel Committee members know.
Signed
Ron Feltham
Father of Chapel"
Ron himself had brought round the notes. He loved handing them out, as if they were official confirmation of his power. "This is the big one," he said as he passed them round the office of The Business.
Bernice rather feared it was. The issue of New Technology was one of the most explosive in the industry. How it was implemented would set the pattern of working conditions for many years to come. She knew that the union would dig its heels in over this one, and that the company would too. The result was only too easy to predict: confrontation. The team - apart from Yasmeen who was up at a press conference in town - went to Achilles' to discuss the matter over lunch.
Achilles' by now had become a second home - or at least office - to them. Neither it nor its occupants ever seemed to change: it was like some modern Greek temple occupied by timeless if rather rumpled gods. In fact they could not even imagine it changing. Other than the addition of new and even more bizarre sandwich combinations.
"Make mine a guacamole and trifle please," said Wobs, "and we'll also be taking a couple of pasta and pickles as well as the others we ordered.
They sat down to chew through the sandwiches and the issues facing them.
"Well, I say they can keep all this modern technology lark," said Terence, by now well in his stride as a sub and not really wanting to have to unlearn his skills as he feared he might have to.
"The company aren't going to give us that option," said Mowley, "it's not whether but on what terms."
"What's so important about all this New Tech stuff?" asked Chris, who couldn't see what all the fuss was about. "I quite like the idea of using space-age computers." Nearly half a generation younger than Tel, Chris had used computers, albeit primitive ones, at school. As a result, he was quite unthreatened by the thought of their introduction.
"Well, as ever, it's largely about saving costs: through direct input of copy onto a micro by a journalist you can cut out most of the typesetting costs," explained Mowley, sniffing and coughing hoarsely. After Pete had left, George had soon been struck down with the flu, presumably a parting gift from their ex-Ass. George, being more fragile and perhaps more sensible than most of his younger colleagues, had taken a week off - the workload hardly changed, Bernice noted ruefully - and was now back. Dave, though, looked and sounded like he was on the way out.
"You can also save time in the production process by missing out the galley stage and going straight to make-up on screen," said Bernice.
"I don't really get all this onscreen stuff." said Wobs, "I can't work without my tools on a board. I need something real in my hands." Bernice too was worried about how Wobs, who seemed to have a very intuitive approach, would take to the new ways of doing things - which she knew would come, whether they wanted it not.
"I'm with Wobs on this one," said George who was dreading the thought of having to learn new tricks at his age, of making a fool of himself.
"But what about you, Queenie, do you want this New Tech stuff?" asked Chris who was now nearly back to his old self.
"Well, yes and no," she replied unhelpfully. "I mean it's clearly the way of the future, so we've got to come to terms with it - and there could be benefits for all of us. On the other hand if the company just sees this as a way of squeezing more work out of journalists then clearly we must fight for an orderly introduction. I'm just worried that the company is going to be awkward over this one."
"And that means?" asked Terence.
"That could mean a confrontation - a strike," said Bernice.
A strike: it conjured up such romantic images of workers against the bosses, of solidarity, of sharing mugs of steaming tea on the picket line. But for Bernice it meant all of these plus something else: the almost certain closure of The Business. A strike would mean lost issues; without continuity they would lose readers, especially if New Business were launched soon. Their sales would plummet, advertisers would desert, losses mount and the company would close The Business.
Kate had no doubts about her course of action.
"Well, whatever happens," she said, her face set, "I'm not using one of those bloody screens - they're deadly."
"How do you mean?" asked Chris.
"They give out all kinds of rays," said Kate.
"Oh, come on Kate," said Bernice, "there's not much evidence that they're dangerous - it's only if you are pregnant that you need to worry - and you're not pregnant, are you?"
"Says who?" said Kate almost defiantly.
"What?!?" said Bernice, bowled over by her friend, about whom she realised she still knew so little, "are you serious?"
"Sure, what's the problem?" Then, conscious that she had rather snapped out the news, she added: "I am in production, after all...." As everyone congratulated her, she turned red and seemed on the point of tears - whether purely hormone-induced or because she had blurted out such an intimate secret, it was hard to say. In any case, though Bernice longed to ask the obvious question, she felt restrained by a delicacy that she knew would be appreciated by Kate at the moment. Noting this and Kate's obvious reticence on the subject, the others followed suit, and reined in their natural journalistic inquisitiveness for the sake of their friend's feelings as they congratulated her warmly.
And so after lunch they filed over to the local hotel, a particularly plastic place, where the staff always had the air of not being entirely serious about their roles, as if they did it only for fun, and had another 'proper' job elsewhere. In the restaurant, for example, you always felt that the waiter was about to sit down and join you.
The hall was modern and without distinguishing features. At one end, in front of a blind wall screened off by curtains, there was a small stage on which sat the members of the Chapel Committee.
As Bernice looked around the hall, nearly full now, she realised that this was the first time she had really seen Wright's all together. She had passed probably hundreds of her fellow journalists in the corridors, but had never really seen them as such. Now she had before her a kind of concentrated vision of journalism, as if all the possible variations on a theme had been tried out and brought together for comparative purposes.
She was surprised at the diversity of her fellow scribes: there were those, like her, dressed in suits; others, still smart, in casuals; and others still who looked more like refugees than professionals. She noted that there were more men than women, and that the number of non-white faces was minimal - Mr Scowcroft's noxious influence perhaps. So much for the profession's nominal liberalism.
She was surprised too at how few of the faces she recognised, let alone could put a name to. She realised that she had been very introverted at Wright's, her world stopping more or less at the door of her office. She wondered whether realistically this was likely to change much bearing in mind the various challenges that faced them. And yet she regretted this resignation she felt, and sensed that within this hall was a wealth of possibilities, ones that she would probably never be able to explore.
Finally the meeting began. As an Extraordinary Plenum Session much of the usual time-wasting formalities of union meetings were dispensed with. Ron Feltham, clearly in his element, got straight to the point.
"Brothers and Sisters," he began, "we have before us today a clear-cut situation. Management are callously trying to impose New Technology, without consultation and without remuneration. We must fight this. We are meeting now to formulate our response. I have drafted a resolution that I hope expresses the rightful aspirations and abomination of this Chapel. To wit:
This Chapel, cognisant of the company's efforts to steamroller the implementation of New and untried Technology to the detriment of the Union's membership, hereby resolves to refuse to use any such Technology until satisfactory additional remuneration is agreed for all of its members. The Union is prepared to go to all lengths, including strike action if necessary, to resists any attempts by the company to bully members into using said Technology.
Now, do I take it that there are no dissenters to the basic and fundamental and irrevocable rejection of the Management's attempt to force through this measure?" he asked rhetorically, expecting no one to be so reprehensible as to espouse the company's position.
"Do Ron," a union stalwart at the front of the hall dutifully cried.
"Do Ron Ron," a wag at the back echoed.
But Ron was wrong: a figure even more unkempt than Mowley, if that was possible, had put his hand up to signal that he had something to say. Ron made little effort to conceal his contempt for this misguided reactionary behaviour as he reluctantly handed over the official Union microphone to this presumptuous upstart.
"Who is he?" whispered Bernice to Mowley and George, who were nearby, as this ill-looking figure began talking excitedly.
"One of the journo's from the company's computer titles," said Dave.
"I didn't know we had any," said Kate.
" - Well, they're kept out of sight at the end of some corridor so that their staff don't frighten visitors to the building."
"But does anyone buy these magazines?" asked Terence, still unimpressed by the idea of technology and unable to imagine people reading about it voluntarily.
"Certainly do," said Mowley, "lots of people, in fact - they're some of the most profitable books in the portfolio. Actually the comparative tests that they do on equipment are quite an interesting idea - "
But Bernice by now was no longer listening to him. She was watching the strange figure on the stage who was gesticulating wildly in support of his fast-flowing if disorganised ideas.
" - And so, you see, once you've got a GUI with true WYSIWYG and pre-emptive multi-tasking, you can use the pull-down menus with the mouse to cut and paste to your heart's content, boiler-plate, mailmerge - can't you understand how great this is? - I mean, it makes writing kind of trivial - not to mention spellcheckers, thesauruses and word counts - I mean, journalism is kind of the question that computers are the answer to. You should get them now - like us - don't fight against them, fight for them. Then you'll see what I mean - what, well, what fun it is - and come to love them as we do, almost like people...."
He stopped, his eyes shining brightly with this vision of the future that he had sketched for them. There was little reaction from the hall, most of which had been lost by the third sentence.
"Thank you, Brother," said Ron with withering sarcasm as he took back the sacred Union microphone from the gaunt figure as he shambled back to his seat. "Well, I don't think I need say much in reply to that display. - Except that this kind of talk is precisely the trap that Management want us to fall into. Computers - easy, fun to use, make work trivial: hardly the point, is it? We're talking about fundamentals here, of why we come into our offices everyday. We don't go there to enjoy ourselves: that's why it's called 'work' and not 'play'. No, we go there to obtain a fair day's wage for a fair day's work. It's all about justice. The fact is, computers mean more profits for the Bosses, profits born of the sweat of our brows. We have a moral right to that money, nay, a duty to demand it. I rest my case. Anyone else?" Ron concluded, almost defying anyone to be so foolhardy.
There was a long silence, until Bernice heard a noise near her. As she turned to look, she was surprised to see Mowley rising to signal that he wanted to speak. What on earth was he doing? thought Bernice, who was on the point of telling him to sit down when she remembered that she had no authority over him or anyone here. Here, they were all Brothers and Sisters....
"Look," began Mowley after he had ascended the stage and taken the microphone, his eyes desperately searching the hall for somewhere to rest his gaze where there would be no eye contact with the hundreds of staring journalists, "I'm not going to argue in favour of the immediate unconsidered introduction of computers, but neither can I subscribe to the union's current Luddite attitude of blind rejection." He paused as a violent fit of coughing overcame him.
"We need to look at this coolly and calmly, to examine the larger issues at stake here," he began again, as if settling in for one of his lunch-time disquisitions that Bernice had come to appreciate so much. But she knew that a union meeting was not the right place for such dispassionate analysis and that what was needed to move the crowd was the kind of rhetoric - empty, bombastic, hectoring as it was - practised by Ron who, for all his enormous faults and failings, was a past master of this petty demagoguery.
"We are not talking about computers," Dave went on nasally, sniffing like a snotty schoolboy from time to time, "we are talking about a fundamental paradigm shift in twentieth century business. Computers will arrive on every desk, that is certain, though the outcome of today's meeting may well affect when and how that happens. This is not important. What is important is how computers are used, who controls them, and to what extent they are truly personal computers. For if we accept them and make them ours, then they magnify our powers and strengths. If, instead, we resist them as tools of the management, they become not suits of armour but straitjackets that will cramp our freedom of movement, indeed our cherished freedom of expression."
"So," he concluded as the meeting started getting restless at this rather abstract train of thought, "I don't say how or what you should vote, but just ask you to bear in mind the ramifications of your choice. OK." He handed back the microphone and left the platform looking particularly woebegone - though whether this was due to the reaction of the meeting to his words of just his cold beginning to take its toll was not clear.
"Thank you, Brother," Ron said, dismissing Dave's important points at a stroke. "Do I take it that we can finally get down to the important business of this meeting?"
"Do Ron," the same voice from the front called out.
"Do Ron Ron," the same wag at the back echoed.
"So, if we could proceed to the vote?" he glared around the hall, as if threatening instant annihilation for anyone who dared for the third time to thwart the legitimate will of the Workers. Nobody stirred.
"Those for the Motion?" he said brightly as if asking for volunteers for salvation. A forest of hands went up and the other members of the Chapel Committee, hitherto silently concording with everything Brother Ron said, now equally silently moved throughout the hall, each counting the hands in certain rows. They then wrote the number down.
"Right, thank you. And now..." he paused significantly, "anyone against?" pronouncing the word as if a vile blasphemy. A few hands went up sheepishly, and the tellers moved in quickly, scribbling in their little books as if taking names for further action.
"Abstentions?" asked Ron, theoretically almost. One or two hands went up, rather uncertainly, as if undecided whether to abstain from the abstention vote.
"Right then, tellers...?" he commanded as his cohorts came surging back, bringing their tallies. As they conveyed their respective counts, they gathered tightly around Ron rather like motor mechanics frantically changing a wheel on a Formula 1 racing car during a pit stop. A few tense minutes' slow arithmetic ensued, as if the wretched wheel was proving rather stubborn. This was followed by a sudden dispersal of the Chapel Committee to allow Ron room for his announcement of the result.
"Well, Brothers and Sisters," said Ron, smiling broadly now that he had his wheel-change, "the result of the Extraordinary Plenum Session is, For the said Motion, 546 ..." - he paused to glance around the hall with satisfaction - "Against, 14..." - another pause - "with two abstentions. Well, Brothers and Sisters, can I say how proud I am to be the humble representative of such an overwhelmingly solid Chapel" - here he glanced round the hall as if picking out the 14 capitalist lackeys - "and that fortified by this vote I shall now go back to the Management to obtain Justice." And with that Ron declared the Session closed, mightily pleased with the result and himself.
Although the result was not a surprise, Bernice found its tone very worrying. It seemed to make a clash inevitable. Mowley too looked very troubled, though after his heroic attempt in the meeting he now said nothing as they returned from the hotel. When they got back to the office Bernice decided to go along to Martin to talk through the issues with him.
She explained her position and her divided loyalties. Martin listened but without much sympathy. As he knew from his own experience, micros actually made work easier; his view was that workers should be demanding New Technology, not fighting it. He saw the current mood as totally unrealistic and irresponsible. Like Bernice, he too was worried about the implications of the motion just passed for The Business, knowing even better than her that closure was almost certain if a strike took place and was supported by Bernice's staff.
"I have a suggestion," he said finally. "Why not go along to see Ron Feltham and explain the situation. I know that in certain cases exemptions have been granted to bans on the use of technology. He might be understanding." Fat chance, thought Martin, but it's worth a try.
Bernice was not sure whether this was some kind of trick, but felt ultimately that Martin might have been many things, but devious was not one of them. It was worth trying Ron - she had nothing to lose.
After she had fixed up a time to see him in his little office, she went along and explained the situation. He seemed appalled - not that she had come to ask for an exemption, but that she had spoken to Martin about the result of the meeting.
"Do you realise that as soon as you left the office he would have been on the phone to his bosses? Don't you understand that there is a due process to be gone through with these motions, that meetings with negotiators must be arranged, formalities completed? We can't just have information leaked willy-nilly, hither and thither." Ron was really upset: he loved his formal meetings with management, especially when he had a surprise to spring on them. And now Bernice had spoilt all his fun by blabbing about the results. He was well and truly miffed.
Bernice, on the other hand, couldn't see what the problem was. After all, management doubtless knew already what the result was - they probably had their own informants in the meeting. And her discussion Martin had been in very general terms. She was annoyed that Ron was making her feel that she had erred seriously in cutting across the hierarchy in this way. Nonetheless, she decided to press on.
"Look, I'm sorry, Ron, if I've upset things - though I don't believe I have. But what about the possibility of some kind of special exemption, given the particular circumstances of our title?"
"Wee-ell, Bernice," said Ron, moving round to sit on the edge of the desk in front of her, "that could be a bit tricky. I mean everyone could think of good reasons why they also were special cases and deserved an exemption. Giving one to you would cause a lot of problems." He paused, a rather strange expression playing across his face.
"OK, if it can't be done, I'll just have to grapple with my conscience," she said resignedly. She rose to go.
"Now hang on," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder and pushing her down on the seat again rather too forcefully. His hand remained there. "I didn't say that it was impossible, just difficult. Now of course, if we could find some reason to give this to you, perhaps if you could help me in some way, if you know what I mean?"
"Help you?" asked Bernice not understanding, or hoping that she didn't understand. She was very conscious of his hand on her shoulder.
"Come on, Bernice, you're not some simpering little girl, you're a woman of the world," he said more insistently. "Nobody gets something for nothing. If I help you, you help me. If I scratch your back, your scratch mine - you get my drift?" His expression had by now definitely turned into a leer. He was much too close for comfort.
"I think I had better go, Ron," she said, her face stern. "Let's just drop it, right?" She stood up, forcing him to lift his hand.
Ron saw that he was not going to make much progress here. Pity, he thought, pretty.
Bernice left without saying another word, too shocked at this gross abuse of power. She returned to the office fuming, wondering whether she had plumbed the depths yet.
