The Cartoons

Two lawyers at a table the length of the panel. Between them, one sheet of paper. Behind each of them, a filing cabinet the height of the room.

The sheet, close. Two lines, both in capitals. THE PARTY DOES NOT ADMIT WRONGDOING. THE PARTY ADMITS THE MARKETING MATERIALS CONTAINED INCOMPLETE INFORMATION.

The two lawyers shaking hands. Both are satisfied. Both are correct.

Outside, in the rain, the two banks who bought the thing stand holding a photocopy. One of them says: "It's true, though."

A Sumerian scribe, stylus in hand, finishing a tablet. He hesitates at the last line.

He writes: AND THE FAULT WAS NOT WITH THE WORKMEN. He looks pleased with himself.

Two hundred and ten other scribes, at two hundred and ten other desks, all writing the same line at the same moment. None of them can see the others.

Four thousand years later, a reporter alone in a reading room, one hand over her mouth.

A vast committee room. Thirty figures at a horseshoe table. At the centre, a single enormous lever labelled EVERYTHING.

A man in a cardigan approaches the lever with a clipboard. The others watch. Caption: "Item four."

He does not pull it. He attaches a small brass plate to it. The plate reads: NOT IN THIS CONTRACT.

The room, empty. The lever, still up. A cleaner dusts it, carefully, the way you dust a thing you have been told not to touch.

A stenographer at a vast table, typing furiously. Around her, thirty empty chairs.

She types the last line. Caption: "Adjourned, 11:40."

A hand reaches in and takes the pages. Only the hand.

The room, later. On the table, one sheet. It reads, in full: "NO MINUTES WERE TAKEN."

A press room. A podium. Behind it, a very tall being in a very ordinary suit, seven feet of it, with three eyes.

It reads from a card: "We can confirm nothing at this time."

A journalist, hand up: "Can you confirm what you are?"

The being, patiently: "We can confirm nothing at this time." Behind it, a second being nods, taking minutes that will not be released.

A reporter in waders, standing in a river at 4 a.m., holding a clipboard. Caption: "Night 1."

Same shot, same reporter, more rain. Caption: "Night 40."

Same shot. The reporter is now a beard with a clipboard. Caption: "Night 188."

The front page, next morning. Headline, forty-eight point: "NOTHING HAPPENED." Below it, in six point: "Full 188-night log inside."

The newsroom. An enormous sack of money on the floor, tied with string. A label hangs off it: NO CONDITIONS.

Five editors stand around it in a ring, arms folded, at a respectful distance.

One of them leans in and reads the back of the label. It says: "(Antarctica, 1947, the moon — but only if you were interested anyway.)"

The ring, unchanged. Nobody has moved. Caption: "Vote: three to two. Again."

A curator holds up a clay tablet. Behind her, a chain of hands stretching off the page, each holding the tablet, each smaller.

Halfway along the chain, a gap. One pair of hands is missing. The tablet floats there, unheld, for eleven months.

The curator, brightly: "And then it came to us."

The gap, alone, framed and hung on a gallery wall. A small label beneath it reads: FEBRUARY–DECEMBER 1974. ARTIST UNKNOWN.

A reporter at a desk, typing. Above her head, a small tidy box labelled WHAT WE KNOW.

Beside it, a second box, three times the size, labelled WHAT WE COULD NOT CONFIRM.

She reaches for the second box. It does not fit through the door of the first.

The finished page. The small box is at the top. The enormous box is at the bottom, in six-point type, and is the only thing anyone has ever written to us about.

A vast switchboard. One operator. Thirty-one lights, all blinking.

She pulls a plug. Light one goes dark. Caption: "Declined."

She pulls twenty-one more. Caption: "Declined, declined, declined."

One light still on. She stares at it. Caption, small: "Somebody said yes and now I have to actually do the interview."

A front doorstep, early. A woman in a dressing gown has picked up the paper and is reading a short item near the bottom of the page. Behind her, in the hall, her husband is waiting to be told. Caption: "They've printed that they were wrong about the thing you were wrong about. So that's both of you."

A field at night, from behind. Two camping chairs, one thermos, two people in coats, both looking up at an empty sky. Between the chairs, on the grass, a notebook, open, with nothing written in it. Caption: "Fourth night. Nothing again. Best fourth night I've had in years."

A kitchen table. A man of about seventy has covered it with printouts, arranged in a fan. His daughter, coat still on, has opened a laptop and is entering his printouts into a spreadsheet. He is watching her do it with an expression that is not hostile. Caption: "I'm not saying you're wrong, Dad. I'm saying let's find out together, and then one of us has to buy dinner."

The same window. An older man slides a form across. It is a 12-B. It is complete, and it is signed in two places.

The clerk, reading it properly, taking her time. "This is right." She turns to a screen he cannot see. "It was destroyed in 1973. Under the schedule. Everything of that class was."

The man on the pavement outside, still holding the receipt she gave him for a thing that does not exist. Through the glass, the clerk is helping the next person. On the door, in gold: THIS OFFICE HAS NEVER REFUSED A CORRECTLY COMPLETED REQUEST.

A service window. A woman on the public side holds a folder against her chest with both arms. The clerk is already reaching for it, pleasantly, the way you reach for something forty times a day.

The top sheet, close. The clerk's finger rests on the box in the corner. "This is a 12. You want a 12-B." She is right. It is a 12.

The woman at a writing shelf along the wall, filling in a 12-B. Through the window behind her the clerk is helping the next person, pleasantly. Above the shelf, a small framed notice: THIS OFFICE ANSWERS EVERY REQUEST IT RECEIVES. That is also true.