Christopher Priest - The Glamour

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THE GLAMOUR

by Christopher Priest

Flyleaf:

You are about to enter a bizarre and unfamiliar world -- the underworld

of "the glamour." It's a place both seductive and sinister, where men and

women possess enviable powers. A world of alternating states, a world that

exists on the edge of reality, behind a viel of invisibility.

In the world they call the glamour, Richard and Susan meet and fall very

much in love. For Richard, the victim of a terrorist bombing, fighting to

piece together his shattered memory, it is a love both strange and new. But

for Susan, a woman fighting for their future, it is a love that began long ago

in Richard's forgotten past. Now she must help him to remember the past they

share -- and the power they possess. It is a power that allows them to cloak

themselves in a mysterious aura or glamour. Poeopel who possess it can fade in

and out of sight. The glamour is a power they can use for good or for evil.

Yet for Richard and Susan, it is becoming a power they must escape, or be

haunted by forever.

As sophisticated as it is provocative, _The Glamour_ is a mesmerizing

novel of psychological suspense that dares to probe the powers of the mind,

ESP, and the ways in which people see -- or fail to see -- each other. Both a

captivating love story and a haunting metaphor of modern life, it is a

unforgettable reading experience.

Christoper Priest's previous books include _The Perfect Lover_ and _An

Infinite Summer_. He has been praised by John Fowles as "one of our most

gifted," and by Ursula Le Guin as "a versitile, autonomous writer from whom we

can expect nothing expectable." An internationally known novelist, Priest was

recently named one of England's best young writers. He lives in London with

his wife, novelist Lisa Tuttle.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

FIRST EDITION IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For their invaluable help, the author wishes to thank:

Robert and Coral Jackson

Marianne Leconte

Stuart Andrews

Alan Jonas

All characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to actual

persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 0-385-19761-6

To Lisa

THE GLAMOUR

Part I

I have been trying to remember where it began, thinking about my early

childhood and wondering if anything might have happened that made me become

what I am. I had never thought much about it before, because on the whole I

was happy. I think the reason for this was that I was protected from knowing

what was really going on. My mother died when I was only three, but even this

was a blow that was softened; her illness was a long one, and by the time she

actually died I was used to spending most of my time with the hired nurse.

What I remember best was something I enjoyed. When I was eight I was

sent home from school with a letter from the medical office. A viral infection

had been attacking many of the children at the school, and after we had all

been screened it was discovered or decided that I was the carrier. I was

placed in home quarantine, and was not allowed to mix with other children

until I ceased to be a carrier. The outcome was that I was eventually admitted

to a private hospital, and my two perfectly good tonsils were efficiently

removed. I returned to school shortly after my ninth birthday.

The period of quarantine had lasted nearly six months, coinciding with

the best part of a long hot summer. I was on my own for most of this time, and

although at first I felt lonely and isolated I quickly adapted. I discovered

the pleasures of solitude. I read a huge number of books, went for long walks

in the countryside around the house, and noticed wildlife for the first time.

My father bought me a simple camera, and I began to study birds and flowers

and trees, preferring their company to that of my friends. I constructed a

secret den in the garden, and sat in it for hours with my books or

photographs, fantasizing and dreaming. I built a cart with the wheels of an

old pram and skittered around the country paths and hills, happier than I had

ever been before. It was a contented, uncomplicated time, one in which I built

up personal reserves and internal confidence, and it changed me.

Returning to school was a wrench. I had become an outsider to the other

children because I had been away so long. I was left out of activities and

games, groups formed without me, and I was treated as someone who did not know

the secret language or sighs. I hardly cared; it allowed me to continue with a

reduced form of my solitary life, and for the rest of my time at school I

drifted on the periphery, barely noticed by the others. I have never regretted

that long, lonely summer, and I only wish it could have lasted longer. I

changed as I grew up, and I am not now what I was then, but I still think back

to that happy time with a kind of infantile longing.

So perhaps it began there, and this story is the rest. At the moment I

am only "I" although soon I shall have a name. This is my own story, told in

different voices.

Part II

The house had been built so that it overlooked the sea. Since its

conversion to a convalescent hospital, two large wings had been added in the

original style, and the gardens had been relandscaped so that patients wishing

to move around were never faced with steep inclines. The graveled paths

zigzagged gently between the lawns and flower beds, opening out onto numerous

leveled areas where wooden seats had been placed and wheelchairs could be

parked. The gardens were mature, with thick but controlled shrubbery and

attractive stands of deciduous trees.

At the lowest point of the garden, down a narrow pathway leading away

from the main area, there was a secluded, hedged-in patch, overgrown and

neglected, with an uninterrupted view of the bay. In this place it was

possible to forget for a while that Middlecombe was a hospital. Even here,

though, were precautions: a low concrete curb had been embedded in the grass

to stop wheelchairs rolling too close to the rough ground and the cliff

beyond, and fairly prominent among the bushes at the back there was an

emergency signaling system connected directly to the duty nurse's office in

the main block. Very few of the patients visited this place. It was a long way

to walk down or back, and the staff were unwilling to push wheelchairs as far

as this. The main reason, though, was probably that the steward service did

not extend much beyond the terrace or the top lawns.

For all these reasons, Richard Grey came down here whenever he could.

The extra distance exercised his arms as he worked the wheels of the chair,

and anyway he liked the solitude. He could get privacy inside his room where

there were books, television, telephone, radio, but when actually inside the

main building there was subtle pressure to mix with the other patients.

He had always been an active man, and although he had been at

Middlecombe for a long time, he had still not fully adjusted to the idea of

being a patient.

Although there were no more operations to come, it seemed to him that

his recovery was interminable. His days in the hospital were on the whole

unpleasant. The physiotherapy was tiring, and left him aching afterward. On

his own he was lonely, but mixing with the other patients, many of whom did

not speak English well, made him impatient and irritable. Lacking friends, the

gardens and the view were all he had to himself.

Every day Grey would come down to this quiet place to stare at the sea

below. This was a part of the coast known as Start Bay, the western extremity

of Lyme Bay, on the South Devon coast. To his right, the rocky headland of

Start Point ran out into the dismal sea, sometimes obscured by mist or rain.

To his left, just visible, were the houses of Beesands, the ugly neat rows of

holiday caravans, the silent waters of Widdicombe Ley. Beyond these, the

cliffs rose again, concealing the next village from him. The shore here was

shingle, and on calm days he would listen to the hissing of the waves as they

broke insipidly at the bottom of the cliff.

Above all, he wished for a stormy sea, something positive and dramatic,

something to break his routine. But this was Devon, a place of soft weather

and temperate seasons, the climate of convalescence.

It all reflected his state of mind, which had become unquestioning. His

body had been severely injured, his mind less so, and he sensed that both

would repair in the same way: plenty of rest, gentle exercise, increasing

resolve. It was often all he was capable of--to stare at the sea, watch the

tides, listen to the waves. The passage of birds excited him, and whenever he

heard a car he felt the tremor of fear.

His sole aim was to return to normality. Using sticks he could stand on

his own now, and he was sure the crutches were permanently in his past. After

wheeling himself down the garden he would lever himself out of his chair and

take a few steps leaning on the sticks. He was proud of being able to do this

alone, of not having a therapist or nurse beside him, of having no rails, no

encouraging words. When standing he could see more of the view, could go

closer to the edge.

Today it had been raining when he woke, a persistent, drifting drizzle

that had continued all morning. It meant he had had to put on a coat, but now

it had stopped raining and he was still in the coat. It depressed him because

it reminded him of his real disabilities--he could not take it off on his own.

He heard footsteps on the gravel, and the sound of someone pushing

through the damp leaves and branches that grew across the path. He turned,

doing it slowly, a step and a stick at a time, keeping his face immobile to

conceal the pain.

It was Dave, one of the nurses. "Can you manage, Mr. Grey?"

"I can manage to stay upright."

"Do you want to get back in the chair?"

"No . . . I was just standing here."

The nurse had stopped a few paces away from him, one hand resting on the

chair as if ready to wheel it forward quickly and slide it under Grey's body.

"I came to see if you needed anything."

"You can help me with my coat. I'm sweating under this."

The young man stepped forward and presented his forearm for Grey to lean

on while he took the sticks away. With one hand he unbuttoned the front of the

coat, then put his big hands under Grey's armpits, holding his weight, letting

his patient remove the coat himself. Grey found it a slow, painful process,

trying to twist his shoulder blades to get out of the sleeve without

compressing his neck or back muscles. It was impossible to do, of course, even

with Dave's help, and by the time the coat was off he was unable to conceal

the pain.

"All right, Richard, let's get you into the chair." Dave twisted him

around, almost carrying him in the air, and lowered him into the seat.

"I hate this, Dave. I can't stand being weak."

"You're getting better every day."

"Ever since I've been here you've been putting me in and out of this

damned chair."

"There was a time you couldn't get out of bed."

"I don't remember that."

Dave glanced away, up the path. "You don't have to."

"How long have I been here?" Grey asked.

"Three or four months. Probably four now."

There was a silence of memory inside him, a period irretrievably lost.

All his conscious memories were of this garden, these paths, this view, this

pain, the endless rain and misted sea. It all blended in his mind, each day

indistinguishable from the others by its sameness, but there was that lost

period behind him too. He knew there had been the bedridden weeks, the

sedatives and painkillers, the operations. Somehow he had lived through all

that, and somehow he had been signed off, dispatched to convalescence, another

bed from which he could not get out by himself. But whenever he tried to think

back to beyond that, something in his memory turned away, slipped from his

grasp. There was just the garden, the sessions of therapy, Dave and the other

nurses.

He had accepted that those memories would not now return, that to try to

dwell on them only hindered his recovery.

"Actually, I came down about something," Dave said. "You've got some

visitors this morning."

"Send them away."

"You might want to meet one of them. She's a girl, and pretty too . . ."

"I don't care," Grey said. "Are they from the newspaper?"

"I think so. I've seen the man before."

"Then tell them I'm with the physiotherapist."

"I think they'll probably wait for you."

"Can't you do something, Dave? You know how I feel about them."

"Nobody's going to force you to see them, but I think you should at

least find out what they want."

"I've nothing to tell them, nothing to say."

"They might have some news for you. Have you thought of that?"

"You always say that."

While they had been speaking, Dave had leaned down on the handgrips and

swung the chair around. Now he stood, pushing gently on the grips, rocking the

chair up and down.

"Anyway," Grey said, "what news could they have? The only thing I don't

know is what I don't know."

Dave let the chair tip down onto its two small wheels at the front, and

moved around to Grey's side.

"Shall I wheel you up to the house?" he said.

"I don't seem to have any choice."

"Of course you have. But if they've come all the way from London, they

aren't going to go back until they've seen you."

"All right, then."

Dave took the weight of the chair and wheeled it slowly forward. It was

a long, slow climb up to the main house because of the uneven path. When

propelling himself Grey had already developed an instinct about jolts and

their effect on his back and hip, but when someone else pushed him he could

never anticipate them.

They entered the building by a side door, which opened automatically at

their approach, then rolled gently down the corridor toward the lift. The

parquet flooring had a satin-smooth sheen, with no signs of wear. The whole

place was always being cleaned; it smelled unlike a hospital, with polish and

varnish, carpets, good food. The acoustics too were muted, as if it were

really an expensive hotel where the patients were pampered guests. For Richard

Grey it was the only place he knew as home. He sometimes felt he had been here

all his life.

They ascended to the next floor and Dave propelled the chair to one of

the lounges. Unusually, no other patients were there. At a desk in the alcove

to one side James Woodbridge, the senior clinical psychologist, was using the

telephone. He nodded to Grey as they came into the room, then spoke quickly

and quietly and hung up.

Sitting by the other window was Tony Stuhr, one of the reporters from

the newspaper. As soon as he saw him, Grey felt the familiar conflict on

meeting this man: in person he was likable and frank, but the paper he worked

for was a tabloid rag of dubious reputation and immense circulation. Stuhr's

by-line had appeared in the past few weeks on several stories about a royal

romance. The newspaper was delivered every day to Middlecombe, especially for

Richard Grey. He rarely did more than glance at it.

Stuhr stood up as soon as Grey entered the room, smiled briefly at him,

then looked at Woodbridge. The psychologist had left the desk and was crossing

the room. Dave stepped on the foot brake of the wheelchair and left the room.

Woodbridge said, "Richard, I've asked you to come back to the house

because I'd like you to meet someone."

Stuhr was grinning at him, leaning over the table to stub out his

cigarette. Grey noticed that his jacket was falling open and a rolled-up copy

of the newspaper was stuffed into an inner pocket. Grey was puzzled by the

remark, because Woodbridge must have known that he and Stuhr had met on

several previous occasions. Then Grey noticed there was someone with Stuhr. It

was a young woman standing beside him, looking at Grey, her eyes flicking

nervously toward Woodbridge, waiting for the introduction. He had not seen her

until this moment; she must have been sitting with the reporter, and when she

stood up had been behind him.

She came forward.

"Richard, this is Miss Kewley, Miss Susan Kewley."

"Hello," she said to Grey, and smiled.

"How do you do?"

She was standing directly in front of him, seeming tall but not really

so. Grey was still not used to being the only person sitting. He wondered

whether he should shake hands with her.

"Miss Kewley has read about your case in the press, and has traveled

down from London to meet you."

"Is that so?" Grey said.

"You could say we've set this up for you, Richard," Stuhr said. "You

know we always take an interest in you."

"What do you want?" Grey said to her.

"Well . . . I'd like to talk to you."

"What about?"

She glanced at Woodbridge.

"Would you like me to stay?" the psychologist said to her over Grey's

head. "I don't know," she said. "It's up to you."

Grey realized he was unimportant to this meeting; the real dialogue was

going on above him. It reminded him of the pain, lying in the intensive care

unit in the London hospital between operations, dimly hearing himself

discussed.

"I'll call back in half an hour," Woodbridge was saying. "If you need to

see me before then, you can just pick up that phone."

"Thank you," said Susan Kewley.

When Woodbridge had left, Tony Stuhr released the foot brake on the

chair and pushed Grey to the table where they had been sitting. The young

woman took the chair closest to him, but Stuhr sat by the window.

"I've nothing to talk to you about," Grey said.

"I just wanted to see you," she said.

"Well, here I am. I can't run away from you."

"Richard, don't you remember me?"

"Should I?"

"Well, yes. I was hoping you would."

"Are we friends?"

"I suppose you could say that. Just for a time."

"I'm sorry. I can't remember much about the past. How long ago was it?"

"Not long," she said. She looked at him only infrequently when she

spoke, glancing down into her lap, or at the table, or across to the reporter.

Stuhr was staring through the window, obviously listening yet not

participating. When he realized Grey was looking at him, he took the newspaper

from his pocket and opened it to the football page.

"Would you like some coffee?" Grey said.

"You know I--" She checked herself. "No, I only drink tea."

"I'll get it." Grey propelled himself away from her and went to the

phone, asserting a sense of independence. When he had ordered the

refreshments, he went back to the table. Stuhr picked up his newspaper again;

obviously, words had been exchanged.

Looking at them both, Grey said, "I might as well say that you're

wasting your time. I've nothing to tell you."

"Do you know what it's costing my paper to keep you in this place?"

Stuhr said.

"I didn't ask for that."

"Our readers are concerned about you, Richard. You're a hero."

"I'm no such thing. I just happened to be there."

"You were almost killed."

"And that makes me a hero?"

"Look, I'm not here to argue with you," Stuhr said.

The tea arrived on a silver tray: pots and crockery, a tiny bowl of

sugar, biscuits. While the steward arranged them on the table, Stuhr returned

to his newspaper, and Grey took the opportunity to look properly at Susan

Kewley. He remembered that Dave had described her as pretty, but that was

hardly the right word. What Grey noticed most about her was that she lacked

distinctive features. She was probably in her mid to late twenties. She was

plain, but plain in a pleasant sense of the word; neutral was perhaps better.

She had a regular face, hazel eyes, pale brown hair which grew straight,

slender shoulders. She sat in a relaxed way, resting her narrow wrists and

hands on the arms of the chair, her body erect and comfortable. She would not

look at him, but stared at the crockery on the table as if avoiding not only

his eyes but his opinion too. Yet he had no opinion, except that she was

there, that she had arrived with Stuhr and therefore must be associated,

directly or indirectly, with the newspaper.

How had he known her in the past? What _kind_ of a friend? Someone he

had worked with? A lover? But surely he would remember that, of all things?

For a moment it occurred to him that she might have been brought here by

Stuhr as some kind of stunt, to provoke a response he could write about in the

paper. MYSTERY WOMAN IN LOVE BID would be about par for the newspaper's

course, and as true to the facts as most of the stories it ran.

When the steward had left, Grey said to her, "Well, what is it we have

to talk about?"

She said nothing, but reached forward and pulled a cup and saucer toward

her. Still she did not look at him, and her hair was tipping forward,

concealing her face from him.

"As far as I can remember, I've never seen you before in my life. You'll

have to give me more to go on than that."

She was holding the saucer, pale veins visible beneath her translucent

skin. She seemed to be shaking her head slightly.

"Or are you here because _he_ brought you?" Grey said angrily. He looked

at Stuhr, who did not react. "Miss Kewley, I don't know what you want, but--"

Then she turned toward him, and for the first time he saw all of her

face, slightly long, fine-boned, wintry in color. Her eyes were full of tears,

and the corners of her mouth were twitching downward. She pushed back her

chair quickly, toppling the saucer with its cup on the table, colliding with

the wheelchair as she pushed past him. Pain jabbed down his back, and he heard

a gulping inhalation of breath from her. She ran across the room and went into

the corridor.

To stare after her would mean turning his head against the stiffness of

his neck, so Grey did not try. It felt silent and cold in the room.

"What a bastard you can be." Stuhr threw aside his newspaper. "I'll call

Woodbridge."

"Wait a minute . . . what do you mean?"

"Couldn't you see what you were doing to her?"

"No. Who is she?"

"She's your girlfriend, Grey. She's come all the way down here in the

hope that if you saw her again it might trigger some memory."

"I don't have a girlfriend." But he felt again the helpless rage of his

lost weeks. Just as he tried to avoid memories of the pain, so he shrank away

from the weeks before the car bomb explosion. There was a profound blankness

in his mind, one he never entered because he did not know how. "And if she is

someone I know, what the hell is she doing here with you?"

"Look, it was an experiment."

"Did Woodbridge cook this up?"

"No . . . listen, Richard. Susan approached _us_. She saw the stories in

the paper, and she came forward. She said that you and she had once had an

affair, that it was all over, but that seeing her might help you regain your

memory."

"Then it is a stunt."

"I won't deny that if you regained your memory I'd write about it. But

really, this time I'm just here to drive the car."

Grey shook his head, and stared angrily through the window at the sea.

Once he had discovered he was suffering from retroactive amnesia because of

the concussion, he had been trying to come to terms with it. At first he had

probed the feeling of blankness, thinking that if he could somehow find a way

he would penetrate it, but to do so made him profoundly depressed and

introspective. What he was doing now was trying not to think about it, to

accept that the weeks he had lost would stay lost.

"Where does Woodbridge come into this?"

"He didn't set it up. He agreed to it, The idea was Susan's."

"It was a bad idea."

Stuhr said, "That's not her fault. Look at yourself-- you're totally

unmoved by this! The only reservation Woodbridge had was that you might be

traumatized. Yet you're sitting here as if nothing has happened, and the

girl's in tears."

"I can't help that."

"Just don't blame her for it." Stuhr stood up. He thrust his newspaper

back into his pocket.

"What are you going to do now?" Grey said.

"There's no point carrying on with this. I'll call and see you in a

month or so. You might be more receptive then."

"What about the girl?"

"I'll come back this afternoon."

She was there, standing beside his wheelchair, a hand resting on the

grip behind his left shoulder. At the sound of her voice, Grey started with

surprise, jerking the stiffness in his neck, a completion of the movement he

had failed to make when she left. How long had she been standing there, just

beyond the periphery of his vision? Stuhr had given no indication she had

returned.

Stuhr said to her, "I'll wait for you in the car."

He moved past them both, and again Grey felt that unpleasant sensation

of everyone being taller than him. Susan sat down in the chair she had

occupied before.

"I'm sorry about all that," she said.

"No--I'm the one who should apologize. I was very rude."

"I won't stay now. I need time to think, and I'll come back later."

Grey said, "After lunch I have to go for physiotherapy. Could you come

again tomorrow?"

"It might be possible. Tony's driving back to London this afternoon, but

I could stay."

"Where are you?"

"We were in a guest house in Kingsbridge last night. I could probably

stay another night or two. I'll arrange something."

As before, she was not looking at him when they spoke, except in short,

darting glimpses through the strands of fine hair. Her eyes had dried but she

looked paler than before. He wanted to feel something for her, remember her,

but she was a stranger.

Trying to give her something warmer than this cold exchange of

arrangements, he said, "Are you sure you still want to talk to me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Tony said that we--I mean you and I--were once . . ."

"We went out together for a while. It didn't last long, but it mattered

at the time. I'd hoped you would remember."

"I'm sorry," Grey said. "I really don't."

"Let's not talk about it now. I'll come back tomorrow morning. I won't

get upset again."

Wanting to explain, he said, "It was because you were with Tony Stuhr. I

thought you worked for the newspaper."

"It was the only way I could find out where you were. I didn't

understand the situation." She had picked up her bag, a canvas holdall with a

long strap. "I'll come back tomorrow." She had laid one of her long hands

lightly on his. "Are you sure you'd like me to?"

"Yes, of course. Come well before lunch."

"I should have asked you straight away: are you in much pain? I didn't

realize you would be in a wheelchair."

"I'm better now. Everything happens very slowly."

"Richard . . . ?" She still had her fingers resting on the back of his

hand. "Are you sure--I mean, you really can't remember?"

He wanted to turn his hand so that she would touch his palm, but that

would be an intimacy he knew he hadn't deserved. Looking at her large eyes and

her clear complexion he felt how easy he must once have found it to be with

her. What was she like, this quiet-spoken woman who had once been his

girlfriend? What did she know about him? What did he know of her? Why had they

split up, when their relationship had mattered to them both? She was from

beyond the coma, beyond the pain of ruptured organs and burnt-off skin, from

the lost part of his life. But until today he had had no idea she even

existed.

He wanted to answer her question truthfully, but something prevented it.

"I'm trying to remember," he said. "I feel as if I know you."

Her fingers briefly tightened. "All right. I'll see you tomorrow."

She stood up, went past his chair and out of his sight. He heard her

footsteps soft on the carpet, then more distinctly in the corridor outside.

Still he could not turn his head, without the pain.

III

Both of Richard Grey's parents were now dead. He had no brothers or

sisters. His only relative was his father's sister, who was married and living

in Australia. After leaving school, Grey went to Brent Technical College,

where he took a diploma in photography. While at Brent he enrolled in a BBC

training scheme, and when he had won his diploma he went to work at the BBC

Television film studios in Ealing as a camera trainee. After a few months he

became a camera assistant, working with various crews in the studios and on

location. Eventually he graduated to full camera operator.

When he was twenty-four he left the BBC and went to work as a cameraman

for an independent news agency based in North London. The agency syndicated

its news film throughout the world, but principally to one of the American

networks. Most of the news stories he was assigned to were in Britain and

Europe, but he traveled several times to the States, to the Far East and

Australia, and to Africa. During the 1970s he made several trips to Northern

Ireland, covering the troubles there.

He established a reputation for courage. News crews are frequently in

the thick of dangerous events, and it takes a particular kind of dedication to

continue shooting footage in the middle of a riot or while under fire. Richard

Grey had risked his life on several occasions.

He was twice nominated for a BAFTA Award for documentary or news

filming, and in 1978 he and his sound recordist were given a special Prix

Italia for film reportage of street fighting in Belfast. The commendation

read, "For obtaining unique and shocking pictures under conditions of extreme

personal danger." Among his colleagues, Grey was popular, and in spite of his

reputation he never found people unwilling to work with him. As his stature

grew it was recognized that he was not foolhardy, endangering himself as well

as others, but used skill and experience and knew intuitively when a risk

could be taken.

Grey lived alone in the apartment he had bought with the money his

father had left him. Most of his friends were people he worked with, and

because his work involved so much travel he had never settled down with a

steady girlfriend. He found it easy to drift from one encounter to the next,

never forming ties. When he was not working he often went to the cinema,

sometimes to the theater. About once a week he would meet some of his friends

for an evening in a pub. He generally took solitary holidays, camping or

walking; once he had extended a working trip to the States by renting a car

and driving to California.

Apart from the deaths of his parents, there had been only one major

disruption to his life, and that had happened about six months before the car

bomb. Richard Grey worked best with film. He liked the weight of an Arriflex,

the balance of it, the quiet vibration of the motor. He saw through the reflex

viewfinder as if with an extra eye; he sometimes said he could not see

properly without it. And there was something about the texture of film itself,

the quality of the picture, the subtlety of its effects. The knowledge that

film slipped through the gate, halting and advancing, twenty-five times a

second gave an intangible extra feel to his work. He was always irritated if

people said they could not tell the difference, on television, between a film

sequence and one recorded on an electronic camera. It seemed to him that the

difference was manifest: video "footage" had an empty quality, a brightness

and sharpness that was unnatural and false.

But for a news medium film was slow and unwieldy. Somehow the cans had

to be taken to a lab, then to a cutting room. Sound had to be synched in or

overdubbed. There were always technical problems during transmission,

especially when a local news studio had to be used or if the film had to be

sent by satellite to one of the syndicating stations. The difficulties were

increased when working abroad or in a war zone; sometimes the only way to get

the story out was by taking the unprocessed film to the nearest airport and

putting it on a plane to London, New York or Amsterdam.

News networks around the world were changing over to electronic cameras.

Using portable satellite dishes, a crew could transmit pictures direct to the

studio as they were being shot. There they could be edited electronically and

transmitted without delay.

One by one the news crews were going over to video, and it came,

inevitably, to Grey. He went on a retraining course and thereafter had to use

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THEGLAMOURbyChristopherPriestFlyleaf:Youareabouttoenterabizarreandunfamiliarworld--theunderworldof"theglamour."It'saplacebothseductiveandsinister,wheremenandwomenpossessenviablepowers.Aworldofalternatingstates,aworldthatexistsontheedgeofreality,behindavielofinvisibility.Intheworldtheycalltheglamour,...

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Christopher Priest - The Glamour

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