the road was covered with a mesh of small rubber studs, spaced progressively farther apart in each of the lanes so that the tyre hum resonated exactly on 40, 50, 60 and 70 m.p.h. Driving at an intermediate speed for more than a few seconds became nervously exhausting, and soon resulted in damage to the car and tyres.
When the studs wore out they were replaced by slightly different patterns, matching those on the latest tyres, so that regular tyre changes were necessary, increasing the safety and efficiency of the expressway. It also increased the revenues of the car and tyre manufacturers. Most cars over six months old soon fell to pieces under the steady battering, but this was regarded as a desirable end, the greater turnover reducing the unit price and making more frequent model changes, as well as ridding the roads of dangerous vehicles.
A quarter of a mile ahead, at the approach to the first of the cloverleaves, the traffic stream was slowing, huge police signs signalling ‘Lanes Closed Ahead’ and ‘Drop Speed by 10 m.p.h.’. Franklin tried to return to the previous lane, but the cars were jammed bumper to bumper. As the chassis began to shudder and vibrate, jarring his spine, he clamped his teeth and tried to restrain himself from sounding the horn. Other drivers were less self- controlled and everywhere engines were plunging and snarling, horns blaring. Road taxes were now so high, up to thirty per cent of the gross national product (by contrast, income taxes were a bare two per cent) that any delay on the expressways called for an immediate government inquiry, and the major departments of state were concerned with the administration of the road systems.
Nearer the clover-leaf the lanes had been closed to allow a gang of construction workers to erect a massive metal sign on one of the traffic islands. The palisaded area swarmed with engineers and surveyors, and Franklin assumed that this was the sign Hathaway had seen unloaded the previous night. His apartment was in one of the gimcrack buildings in the settlement that straggled away around a near-by flyover, a low-rent area inhabited by service-station personnel, waitresses and other migrant labour.
The sign was enormous, at least a hundred feet high, fitted with heavy concave grilles similar to radar bowls. Rooted in a series of concrete caissons, it reared high into the air above the approach roads, visible for miles. Franklin craned up at the grilles, tracing the power cables from the transformers up into the intricate mesh of metal coils that covered their surface. A line of red aircraft-warning beacons was already alight along the top strut, and Franklin assumed that the sign was part of the ground approach system of the city airport ten miles to the east.
Three minutes later, as he accelerated down the two-mile link of straight highway to the next clover-leaf, he saw the second of the giant signs looming up into the sky before him.
Changing down into the 40 m.p.h. lane, Franklin watched the great bulk of the second sign recede in his rear-view mirror. Although there were no graphic symbols among the wire coils covering the grilles, Hathaway’s warnings still sounded in his ears. Without knowing why, he felt sure that the signs were not part of the airport approach system. Neither of them was in line with the principal air-lines. To justify the expense of siting them in the centre of the expressway — the second sign required elaborate angled buttresses to support it on the narrow island obviously meant that their role related in some way to the traffic streams.
Two hundred yards away was a roadside auto-mart, and Franklin abruptly remembered that he needed some cigarettes. Swinging the car down the entrance ramp, he joined the queue passing the self-service dispenser at the far end of the rank. The auto-mart was packed with cars, each of the five purchasing ranks lined with tired-looking men hunched over their wheels.
Inserting his coins (paper money was no longer in circulation, unmanageable by the automats) he took a carton from the dispenser. This was the only brand of cigarettes available — in fact there was only one brand of everything though giant economy packs were an alternative. Moving off, he opened the dashboard locker.
Inside, still sealed in their wrappers, were three other cartons.
A strong fish-like smell pervaded the house when he reached home, steaming out from the oven in the kitchen. Sniffing it uneagerly, Franklin took off his coat and hat. His wife was crouched over the TV set in the lounge. An announcer was dictating a stream of numbers, and Judith scribbled them down on a pad, occasionally cursing under her breath. ‘What a muddle!’ she snapped. ‘He was talking so quickly I took only a few things down.’
‘Probably deliberate,’ Franklin commented. ‘A new panel game?’
Judith kissed him on the cheek, discreetly hiding the ashtray loaded with cigarette butts and chocolate wrappings. ‘Hello, darling, sorry not to have a drink ready for you. They’ve started this series of Spot Bargains, they give you a selection of things on which you get a ninety per cent trade-in discount at the local stores, if you’re in the right area and have the right serial numbers. It’s all terribly complicated.’
‘Sounds good, though. What have you got?’
Judith peered at her checklist. ‘Well, as far as I can see the only thing is the infra-red barbecue spit. But we have to be there before eight o’clock tonight. It’s seven thirty already.’
‘Then that’s out. I’m tired, angel, I need something to eat.’ When Judith started to protest he added firmly: ‘Look, I don’t want a new infra-red barbecue spit, we’ve only had this one for two months. Damn it, it’s not even a different model.’
‘But, darling, don’t you see, it makes it cheaper if you keep buying new ones. We’ll have to trade ours in at the end of the year anyway, we signed the contract, and this way we save at least five pounds. These Spot Bargains aren’t just a gimmick, you know. I’ve been glued to that set all day.’ A note of irritation had crept into her voice, but Franklin stood his ground, doggedly ignoring the clock.
‘Right, we lose five pounds. It’s worth it.’ Before she could remonstrate he said: ‘Judith, please, you probably took the wrong number down anyway.’ As she shrugged and went over to the bar he called: ‘Make it a stiff one. I see we have health foods on the menu.’
‘They’re good for you, darling. You know you can’t live on ordinary foods all the time. They don’t contain any proteins or vitamins. You’re always saying we ought to be like people in the old days and eat nothing but health foods.’
‘I would, but they smell so awful.’ Franklin lay back, nose in the glass of whisky, gazing at the darkened skyline outside.
A quarter of a mile away, gleaming out above the roof of the neighbourhood supermarket, were the five red beacon lights. Now and then, as the headlamps of the Spot Bargainers swung up across the face of the building, he could see the massive bulk of the sign clearly silhouetted against the evening sky.
‘Judith!’ He went into the kitchen and took her over to the window. ‘That sign, just behind the supermarket. When did they put it up?’
‘I don’t know.’ Judith peered at him. ‘Why are you so worried, Robert? Isn’t it something to do with the airport?’
Franklin stared at the dark hull of the sign. ‘So everyone probably thinks.’
Carefully he poured his whisky into the sink.
After parking his car on the supermarket apron at seven o’clock the next morning, Franklin carefully emptied his pockets and stacked the coins in the dashboard locker. The supermarket was already busy with early morning shoppers and the line of thirty turnstiles clicked and slammed. Since the introduction of the ‘24-hour spending day’ the shopping complex was never closed. The bulk of the shoppers were discount buyers, housewives contracted to make huge volume purchases of food, clothing and appliances against substantial overall price cuts, and forced to drive around all day from supermarket to supermarket, frantically trying to keep pace with their purchase schedules and grappling with the added incentives inserted to keep the schemes alive.
Many of the women had teamed up, and as Franklin walked over to the entrance a pack of them charged towards their cars, stuffing their pay slips into their bags and shouting at each other. A moment later their cars roared off in a convoy to the next marketing zone.
A large neon sign over the entrance listed the latest discount — a mere five per cent — calculated on the volume of turnover. The highest discounts, sometimes up to twenty-five per cent, were earned in the housing estates where junior white-collar workers lived. There, spending had a strong social incentive, and the desire to be the highest spender in the neighbourhood was given moral reinforcement by the system of listing all the names and their accumulating cash totals on a huge electric sign in the supermarket foyers. The higher the spender, the greater his contribution to the discounts enjoyed by others. The lowest spenders were regarded as social criminals, free-riding on the backs of others.
Luckily this system had yet to be adopted in Franklin’s neighbourhood — not because the Professional men and their wives were able to exercise more discretion, but because their higher incomes allowed them to contract
