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  Bikie spent about ten minutes cursing the Agency and its standardized technologies. What outraged him most of all was the almost complete loss of variety, even for the most primitive things, there was no choice at all.

  “Those who have downloaded their OE have it even worse. God forbid I should ever turn into a Veggie,” said Isaac.

  “Well, even when they were alive the Veggies were all but stupid fucks,” Bikie snorted.

  “No, you’re wrong there. My friend sold his creativity for love.”

  “That's like cutting your dick off for love ‘cause it didn't get hard at the right time.”

  Isaac tried to explain to Bikie about Pascal, but Bikie said he didn’t watch TV serials, read political newspapers, and didn’t listen to stories about stupid fucks.

  “Listen to this then, will you! I almost became one of them, I just happened to be lucky, or unlucky, I don’t know.”

  Isaac began to tell Bikie his story.

  Bikie tried to listen carefully, but his head was gradually drooping and he was dozing off. When Isaac finished his story, Bikie raised his eyes, looked at him and said slowly.

  “I propose a toast to… Elvis! For making an effort! To his resistance!”

  Isaac had been expecting a toast to Vicky’s health, to his own story, to anything at all, but no way for the crazy hobo.

  Spotting Isaac’s expression, Bikie cleared his throat and added:

  “For rebellion and to Elvis! And we’ll drink to you too now, boy.”

  “To Elvis,” said Isaac, raising his glass.

  “I vowed long ago to destroy this evil, and you came in very handy. To have enough balls for fighting these days you have to be mad as a hatter or really, truly tough. As for me, I’m ready to fight and I will!”

  And Bikie wacked the table so hard, his glass hopped up and broke.

  The Collective Mind Agency reacted fairly calmly to the protest demonstrations, which in time petered out almost completely. Violations of the law were a matter for the police and the Agency tried to keep out of things and not participate in any open conflicts. People who had been cured of fatal illnesses came out voluntarily in support of Collective Mind: they and their relatives were the Agency’s most aggressive supporters, often showing up at meetings of protesters with poster saying: “You are advocating our death”.

  The relatively harmless attack carried out by Mr. Elvis-Henri was stridently branded an “act of terrorism” by the press, which discussed it for a whole week. The flames of interest were fanned by the site of the crime – calm, respectable Monaco, which in former times had hardly ever figured in the crime reports.

  When the Department of Orange Energy of the Paris police received the summary investigation report of the Monaco incident, basically no one took much interest in it. Only Commissioner Pellegrini, as the head of department, was obliged to familiarize himself with the document, and he started leafing through the file. A standard case of an attack carried out by a solitary fanatic. Boring.

  Pellegrini’s father was Neapolitan; his mother was a Frenchwoman from Bordeaux. He was born and grew up in Paris, but he considered himself an Italian who had inherited the character traits of both nations. When necessary, his rapid, impulsive, Italian-style gestures coexisted quite comfortably with his subtle French tact.

  Pellegrini’s face seemed rough-hewn out of heavy granite, with powerful cheekbones and a large forehead. The broad stripes of the bags under his small, brown eyes lent his face a masculine brutality and intense astuteness. The deep folds on his slightly sunken cheeks and around his mouth created the impression that his mind was constantly engaged in strenuous thought. He was tall and stately, and his bearing made it clear that he was an ex-army man. Pellegrini had served in Africa for a long time before coming to work in the Drug Control Department of the police.

  He worked very efficiently and could have become the department chief, but it didn’t happen.

  But despite everything, he did eventually rise to become the head of the new, prestigious Department of OE. Now everything was sure to change. Pellegrini thought he could really spread his wings and show everyone what he could do… How very wrong he was.

  Six months later his friend Gautier downloaded his creativity out of patriotic considerations. He tried to persuade Pellegrini to go along with him and other officers. He pictured to him how they would have a wonderful life by the sea, somewhere in Bordeaux, while their creativity would continue working for the good of their homeland and the world. Pellegrini refused: he had realized his dream at least in a new department with such a promising future, and he wasn’t willing to abandon with his new position.

  Initially, Pellegrini’s work had been interesting and new technologies made catching criminals easy. But pretty soon the Agency grew so powerful that Pellegrini’s job became pure routine. And not only his job, but practically all police work.

  Pellegrini read the report of the attack without much interest, thinking that it would be good to feel the tenderness of the southern sun right now. He decided to take a trip to the scene of the “notorious terrorist attack” while the tracks were still fresh, while there was still something to delve into and someone to talk to. He phoned the Monaco branch of the Agency and asked them not to touch anything, explaining that he was on his way to conduct a supplementary investigation.

  Isaac woke up close to midday. Despite his thirst and the hangover pounding at his temples like a sledgehammer, he got up quickly, for he was too hyped up to keep still. He downed two glasses of water and felt better. The adrenalin from yesterday’s successful meeting flowed back into his bloodstream again, arousing a pleasant excitement. Isaac prowled round the apartment like a lion in a cage and couldn’t really get to do anything.

  Bikie didn’t show up until one.

  “What a dump,” he grunted instead of saying hello.

  “What?” asked Isaac, puzzled.

  “I said, you live in a real dump.” He paused for a moment and added: “Seriously, Isaac, it’s like I just walked into my own place.”

  Isaac rewarded his irony with a wry grin.

  They walked over to the computer, which was already switched on. Isaac opened a file and showed Bikie the database. Bikie whistled.

  “Oh, wow! Data bases are my soft spot, my true love,” he said with a hint of smugness. I see a data base, get inside, find the weak spots and crack it.”

  Bikie plumped down on the chair in front of the computer and ran rapidly through the list.

  “Ah,” he said disappointedly. “Nothing needs cracking here.”

  Isaac took the mouse from Bikie, moved it to find the cursor and explained that the data base was useful for finding accomplices. It was where he had found Bikie and he had seen other people in it who thought like him. Isaac explained about Wolanski and the other candidates. He felt too embarrassed to mention the girl though.

  Before Bikie had even heard him out, he was hammering on the keyboard and digging through the social networks.

  “Look at this dude Charles. A bit older than us, from a family with deep pockets. Moves in the highest circles, no problems with money. Yes, I remember, I remember,” he said, once again interrupting Isaac, who was trying to say something. “You’ve already set your sights on this what’s his name – Wolanski. But check it out – this guy’s got a Harley. He’s one of us, and there’s an excuse for getting to know him.”

  “Just a rich showoff, I reckon,” Isaac objected. “Bet you, he only bought a Harley because he read somewhere how cool it is to have one.”

  “What are you saying, bro, where do you think they write that it’s cool to have a Harley? The Ducati Sport, now, that’s never been like a Harley, and it shouldn’t look like one, and that’s why…”

  “Okay, Bikie! But how are you planning to hob-nob with someone from his circle? ‘Hello, I’m a barman with a Harley, what year’s your machine? Are you against Collective Mind? Me too!’ I suggest that if it’s a no go with Wolanski, then we can co
ntact this guy too.”

  “Isaac, if you’ve already decided everything, then say so.” Bikie snapped, “I figure a normal guy will make normal conversation, with money or without. Although, what the heck you consider normal these days, if ridding yourself of your soul has become the norm. Eh? Especially if you don’t happen to have any better way of doing as well as this guy with the Harley.” Bikie was so sure that Link’s invention would ruin the world that it charged Isaac with confidence. Bikie regarded financial inequality and disparity of opportunities as the main reasons why it had become popular to be a donor. That way everyone got a chance, whether they were from Europe, Asia or Africa. The important thing was how well your head worked. While before, being from Fiji one could expect only the finger.

  The first massive wave of creativity downloading came about in countries with negligible opportunities for fighting your way up without heavy connections, for earning enough for your own house, or for getting rich. A large flow of elderly but intelligent people followed from countries with a poorly developed social sphere, in Latin America and Asia.

  In the prosperous countries, the young took up downloading. In Hong Kong, Greece, Italy and France, graduates who could not find a good job easily surrendered to it. Yesterday’s students quickly discovered how difficult it was to support themselves independently, let alone to earn enough for a decent house, start a family and live a stable life, no matter what high-level specialists they were. Most of the big-time positions were taken, and some had disappeared altogether thanks to the Einsteiner-generated technologies. Sure, you could scrape by on social support payments, but the money received for OE offered a real opportunity of never having to worry about anything again. That was what they had studied and developed their brains for, you could say. In America, masses of prisoners volunteered to sell their creativity. And it went on and on. After three years it was already pointless to single out specific groups. Everybody everywhere was downloading.

  Collective Mind successfully campaigned for the abolition of capital punishment. Rather, an alternative was offered – the downloading of one’s energy instead of electrocution or gassing: “Let every person serve the society.” It was a shame to waste the resource, if someone got executed his energy would be lost forever. Collective Mind was keenly interested in increasing the Einsteiner volume, and didn’t want a drop of Orange Energy to be wasted. It equipped prisons with download technology, and continuously increased the capacity of the network. Prisoners who downloaded their OE were offered significantly more comfortable conditions.

  A lavish Hollywood movie was made. About a talented young guy, a 3D architect who through a series of failures takes the wrong path in life. His actions become more and more contemptible and mean, and he loses his job. Computer hacking and doing drugs eventually lead him to homicide. The car he is driving while high on cocaine hurtles off the road and two passengers are killed. Unintentional, but still a homicide. He sunk lower and lower and eventually became a killer. The hero became an antihero. The viewers eventually lost sympathy for him. But in the second half of the film, his profound repentance and his study of the strong and weak sides of prison life lead him to voluntarily donate his energy, in order to improve the lives of prisoners. His OE rating was huge – a valuable contribution to society.

  We do not know what this man’s real contribution to the innovations was. But it all looked really great, the movie won an Oscar, and the criminal was even pardoned, although he voluntarily remained in the boarding house since he didn’t want to live anywhere else.

  Hollywood is an ideal propaganda mechanism, it treats the public like a lover, who twists a man round her little finger and gets everything she wants out of him by putting him through incredibly profound emotions. The viewers cry and laugh, they live other people’s lives, and then they are ready to accept Hollywood’s ideas and messages in real life.

  Isaac and Bikie’s chosen land of residence also had a chance to experience this miraculous quality of Hollywood. In 1956 the wedding of the famous American film star Grace Kelly and the Prince of Monaco brought floods of tourists from all over the world to the Principality instantly making it a beneficiary of the world’s “Dream Factory”.

  Whether a beautiful life or drama, cops who are corrupt or honest, the mafia or patriotism, Hollywood has always steered people’s hearts and minds any way it liked, and the movie “Energy of Prison” helped many skeptics change their mind about Collective Mind and increased the flow of people wishing to download their creativity.

  Of course, there were still exceptions. There were not very many donors among Russian Orthodox Christians and Israelis. Israel and Silicon Valley rapidly lost their positions on the high-tech market, surrendering leadership to Collective Mind.

  The opposition to Collective Mind was gradually disappearing. The opponents of downloading and pooling creativity did not have serious arguments in any case.

  It took a long time for the official Church to come up with a specific position; by and large it remained neutral. It was difficult to go against the fact that the world was being purged of a great number of sins.

  “You know what?” Bikie said eventually. “Why don’t I phone this Charles anyway? The guy with the Harley. Maybe he’ll be OK. We won’t lose anything, and I promise to be very careful. And if it’s a flop – we’ll go to Wolanski.”

  For the sake of an amicable, collaborative relationship Isaac did not argue.

  Bikie dialed the number and introduced himself. He said he was from a local club and would like to meet Charles to talk about the rare Harley model that Charles owned and take a few photos for the club’s site. Everything went smoothly and they agreed on seven o’clock that evening. Bikie made thorough preparations. He found a pair of old, tattered jeans, a black t-shirt with the sleeves crudely torn off and a biker jacket. He put on a bandana with a red Harley Davidson logo and a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. He looked really menacing and Isaac liked it. For this special occasion Bikie washed his bike and pulled out a pretty good Leica camera from somewhere.

  “You know what I think, why don’t you skip the meeting and go straight to Hollywood? They’ll put you in the movies without any screen-tests. Did you know that Harrison Ford worked as a carpenter up until he was spotted by George Lucas? When you end up meeting Lucas or Tarantino, at least text me to say that Bikie won’t be back.”

  Bikie smiled his huge, broad smile and winked. He was happy with the way he looked too. He had taken his time, dressing, with loving care. He didn’t get to go into town dolled up like this very often.

  “Admit it, Bikie, you chose this candidate especially so you could have a costume party.”

  “You're the Carnival! The time will come when I’ll always be dressed like this. On a Harley, with a busty blonde on back. You’ll see.”

  “Land this guy for us first. And then I promise you two busty blondes.”

  “Everything will be okay. Don’t shit yourself!”

  Hours later Bikie returned to the apartment quite despondent.

  “First of all, that asshole was almost an hour late,” he told Isaac disappointedly. “Then he spent a solid hour telling me how fucking cool he was. He didn’t let me get a word in, peacocking his plumage like he was trying to impress some bimbo. I soon realized he was a trashy banker after all; the speedometer on his super-rare Harley didn’t even have a thousand kilometers on it. A beautiful thing but just gathering dust. Although better to gather dust than carry a dumb fuck like that. I tried about ten times to start a conversation about OE and Einsteiner, but the dick kept harping on about how bored he is and what he does to avoid getting rusty: Saint Barth, the Maldives, Bora-Bora, that sort of crap. He told me about all his chicks and how crazy they all about him. Maybe there’s some kind of error in your data base? Or is all his creativity wasted on his stupid stories? I’ve never seen such a clown before.”

  “Don’t let it bother you, Bikie, you looked like a million dollars, so he spread his plumage to im
press you.”

  Bikie brightened up a bit.

  “No shit, Isaac, you’re one of the few normal guys I’ve met just recently. They’ve all gone cuckoo. Rushing about, no clue what they want in life. No goals, no ideals. Cardboard people. Let’s do some booze today, what you say? Got any more whisky?”

  “No whisky, but there’s some awesome Seychelles rum.”

  “Never heard of that kind, but rum’s even better.” “At this pace I will quickly become an alcoholic!”

  "In vino veritas, my friend. This is my way of protesting. I'd rather drink my creativity away than get downloaded. After I fought my drug-addiction, booze for many years has been my only ally and the way to forget that I one day was supposed to be a great programmer. By the way, if you don't feel like drinking, that's fine, I'm not going to force you.”

  “Well, in this aspect I cannot but drink!” Isaac, who decided to befriend Bikie, found it wise to keep him company. “Tomorrow we’ll get round to this Wolanski of yours. And I promise to take it completely seriously. We can’t just go visiting anyone and drawing them into our plans. That way we could come unstuck. We don’t need anyone else. A bit of money won’t hurt, but we’ll somehow manage the rest...”

  That night, drinking and reasoning, Isaac suddenly realized that is was not just the pure idea that was guiding him, but anger and revanchism for not being able to find his place in this society. His failures, hard times with Vicky, his poverty. Looking at rageful Bikie he for a second saw himself, his feeling in the day of the attack. The failure with Charles has got his companion seriously wound up – Bikie was so full of hate towards Einsteiner that he even started to deny its undoubtful achievements. Isaac suddenly felt scared to have this weird outcast as his only ally, whose aggression made him actually defend the Agency, his enemy. As he was getting drunk his thoughts started to scatter. Finally, having decided this all to be but a moment of weakness, he chased the unbidden doubts away.