Free The Condition of Muzak by Michael Moorcock

the master switch to make every television monitor screen work at once, showing a clinic now satisfyingly busy. He was particularly pleased with the way in which the nuns had adapted to their new nursing work. He looked for a moment at the reception desk where guests were cautiously signing their names (mostly fictitious) in the gold-embossed green leather register. Their faces, haunted by hope and anxiety, were familiar to him. For many of them the treatment, even if partially successful, could not come too soon.
    The thing he was looking forward to, however, was the ball. It had been a long while since the Deep Fix had played together. As soon as he could he would go down for the soundcheck. It would be good if he could get some rehearsing in before the event.
    His eye was drawn back to the screen. He was sure he had seen the old military-looking character quite recently. He recognised the frayed cuffs. “We are all offered a selection of traditional rôles,” he murmured. “The real problem lies in finding a different play. In the meantime we attempt to console as many of the actors as possible by finding them the parts in which they can be as happy as possible.” His voice was carried over the PA to all parts of the building, interrupting the Muzak.
    “You’re becoming a regular telly freak, ain’t ya, Mr C.”
    Shakey Mo Collier now stood there, arms folded, most of his weight on one leg. He was wearing a yellow-and-red paisley shirt, a light suède waistcoat, filthy with the remains of a thousand fruitful meals, a tattered green-and-blue Indian silk scarf, patched and faded jeans and scuffed cowboy boots with white decoration. His hair was longer than when Jerry had last seen it and he had grown a mandarin moustache. Jerry was pleased to see him. “Where have you been, Mo? The first I heard you were around was when someone brought me your postcard.”
    “I’ve been asleep, haven’t I?” said Mo. “Up in the Lake District mostly. It’s nice up there. Good roads. Plenty of shale. All dead. Lovely. You want to go.”
    “I know it. Grasmere. Daffodils and dope. Or that’s the way it used to be.”
    Mo was unusually astute. “That scene’s shifted, hadn’t you heard? To Rydal. But the best days are over.”
    “Well, a word’s not worth much these days. I heard the town had gone all chintzy.”
    “Quincey?”
    “Chintzy.”
    They giggled together. Mo sat down on the posh carpet, cross-legged, and began to roll himself a joint. “Anyway you seem to be doing all right with this lot.”
    “I can’t complain. There’s no profit in it, though.”
    “Aren’t they paying?”
    “All the takings go to my sleeping partner, Mr Koutrouboussis.”
    “Well, well.” Mo licked his papers. “So, really, you could leave here any time you liked?”
    “I’ve got responsibilities, Mo.”
    Mo looked at him in some disappointment. “Blimey!”
    “How long has the group been back together?”
    “Not long. We all met up in Ambleside. Tried out a few things—acoustically, of course. You can get some of those old reed organs to sound just like electronics if you work at it. But we needed power, so we trucked back to London, hoping we’d find some. Of course we hadn’t realised everything was coming alive again. We picked just the right time, for once. We must be the only beat group around. We’re getting a lot of work. Too much, really. The tensions…”
    “It’s done your ego a lot of good,” said Jerry. “You’re your old cocky self again.”
    “Thanks. I feel cocky. Yes.” His grease-stained fingers explored a waistcoat pocket for a match. He lit his joint. “I just wish they’d bring back the money system. All this fucking bartering’s getting beyond a joke. Half our wages rot before we can eat them and we can’t trade them because nobody’s got the kind of stuff we need.”
    “I don’t know what you want.”
    “Cheap tat, of course. And weapons. Just like the old days. Colour tellies. But