A History Maker by Alasdair Gray Page A

societies, the F.B.I., C.I.A., K.G.B.D., M.I.5 which lied and tortured, robbed and killed in ways their employers could publicly deny. And people had been robbed and killed by Al Capone’s mob, the Mafia and the I.R.A. which were also secret forms of government. Wat’s head ached with efforts to imagine reasons forsecrecy on an earth whose largest government was the family and where each family had what it needed.
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    After a few seconds he left the bed by creeping carefully to the foot. By the glowing calendar on a screen he saw Myoo and Myow roll into the space he had left and embrace each other without wakening. He softly tapped a message regretting his poor response to their welcome and asking if one of their children would return his pony to Dryhope common. Then he dressed and left by a door onto the veranda.
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    After a few steps on the shore path under the trees his foot struck something soft. He stopped and peered. There was not much light in the sky but the path was pale enough to show a small black body near the toe of his right sandal and two or three others irregularly placed on the path ahead: booby traps? Stooping down he saw the nearest body thrust a limb backward and lurch an inch forward.
    â€œHave more fun than I did,” he told it and walked on taking care where he placed his feet. A minute later he said, “Whoever hears me may like to know that my last remark was addressedto a puddock. This is the night of the year when puddocks trek to the nearest fresh water for their annual nooky fair; but I doubt if natural history interests you Ms. Bitch. Are you listening? No need to speak; a tiny tinkle will do for yes, silence for no.”
    He listened and heard only leaves and water stirred by the pre-dawn breeze. The anger which had come to him on that path four hours earlier returned. In a sing-song voice he said, “I think I’ll tell my friend Archie that someone’s using a vast amount of public energy for a private seduction.”
    His wristcom worked as usual while he dialled the first Crook Cot digits, then it buzzed briefly like an angry wasp and the soft English voice said quickly, “What’s a puddock?”
    â€œI’ve forgotten the English word but the French is crapaud ,” said Wat, looking at a row of zeroes on the dial where the source of a message was usually indicated, “You sound like a woman who’s just been wakened. There must be at least two of you listening.”
    â€œYou are being tracked,” said the voice, yawning slightly, “By a sensor beam linked to my wristcom. It shocked me awake with the first word you spoke.”
    â€œWhen will we meet?”
    â€œBefore you leave the path. Meanwhile I’llamuse you with a suggestive poem.
    The times are racked with birth pangs. Every hour
    Brings forth some gasping Truth,
    But Truth new born oft looks misshapen,
    The terror of the household and its shame —
    A Monster coiling in the mother’s lap
    That she would starve or strangle,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  yet it breathes,
    And suckled at a hundred half-clad breasts
    Comes slowly to its form, staggers erect,
    Smooths the rough ridges of its Dragon scales,
    Changes to shining locks its snaky hair,
    And moves transfigured into angel guise,
    Welcomed by all who cursed its hour of birth.
    â€” What do you think of that?”
    â€œNot much. The stale imagery suggests the nineteenth century. Was it written by someone heralding socialism?”
    â€œIt was written by an American judge heralding fascism.”
    â€œIsms are the dullest bits of the historical midden. Why resurrect them?”
    â€œBecause we are about to give birth to the future and I am an agent of Shigalyovism which is organizing a political