Hello America by J. G. Ballard

Author:J. G. Ballard [J. G. Ballard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2010-05-30T04:00:00+00:00

19 The Hughes Suite

Later, after a brief struggle, Wayne remembered being manhandled out of the hotel by the group of teenagers, past the silent roulette and blackjack tables into the brilliant, sudden night. Countless neon signs glowed through the jungle foliage that clustered around the great casinos of the Strip, lighting up the undersides of millions of leaves. A trio of black sedans were parked outside the Sahara, radiator grilles like chromed harmonicas. Wayne recognised them immediately, sleek and wide-bodied vehicles from the last great age of the automobile, a real Buick, Pontiac and Dodge of the 1960s.

An armed squad of uniformed youths waited by the cars, talking in a friendly way to the four frightened nomads. A white-doored police car roared at speed down the Strip, followed by Pepsodent’s astonished eyes. GM protected his wife and baby from the wailing siren, arms around them as they crouched over the fading warmth of the fire-box, while a nervous Heinz tried to answer the young Mexicans’ questions about the pistons and valve-gear of the steam-cars.

‘Right, we’ll pick your friends up later.’ Paco pushed Wayne into the front passenger seat of the Pontiac, then climbed into the back as Ursula took the wheel. Without any need to steam up, the engine kicked instantly into life. Wayne caught a last glimpse of Anne Summers and McNair being bundled through the open doors of the Dodge. Then they were away into the night, speeding along the shores of an illuminated jungle lake. A mushy light dissolved in the water, reefs of sugar candy that flowed from the façades of vast night-clubs like lurid cathedrals.

As the spray struck the windshield Ursula switched on the dashboard radio. There was a buzz of static and intercom chatter. A flight controller with a child’s voice discussed the cloud cover above the Rockies, then recited a list of fuelling points in Flagstaff and Phoenix. Ursula touched a tab, and immediately Elvis Presley filled the car with his powerful beat. An old-style disc jockey cut in, his commentary a high-pitched gabble of show-business gossip, airline information and plugs for a local automobile dealer.

‘Ursula, for God’s sake…’ Paco gripped the reverberating bowl of his helmet. ‘We’re supposed to be on duty.’

Ursula grudgingly reduced the volume, her vivid eyebrows raised for Wayne’s benefit. ‘Paco, you’re too serious…all the time that Stravinsky, Stockhausen and John Cage. When are you going to come dancing? Wayne, I’ll show you my jive steps. Or maybe you’re the tango type?’

‘Maybe,’ Wayne agreed promptly. He was eager to please this broad-shouldered beauty in her goggles and combat gear. ‘A radio station—that’s impressive. How many of you are there here?’

‘Not enough,’ Paco replied with some gloom. ‘A hundred, maybe more. We need new recruits, but nobody likes America. I’m not surprised. That headache music is a century old, a tape we found of a local radio programme. How did they stand it?’

‘Well, it has vitality,’ Wayne pointed out. It had never occurred to him to criticise the United States, and Paco’s moody appraisals unsettled him.

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