The Ambassador by Edwina Currie Page B

stuff?’ he inquired. ‘And what do you do with it?’
    The proprietor prodded Matt. ‘Concerned citizens bring it in; we get it by the pantechnicon from IBM and other big corporations. Over forty million computers are retired every year, you know, in Europe alone. Plus users like the banks and the NHS. One of our jobs – and we’re bonded to do it – is to clean out confidential info before we recycle. Don’t want your DNA details ending up in anyone else’s printout, do we?’
    ‘Dismantling must be a big task,’ Strether ventured.
    The man laughed. ‘Nope. All you need to disassemble a computer are a Phillips screwdriver and the floor. Everything comes apart with screws: they’re required to by law, better than the old hermetic seals, which didn’t separate. But we use the floor when we have to.’
    With a sudden movement he picked up the Apple Mac chassis and swung it heavily down on to the concrete. The cover splintered and cracked. Strether winced. The bearchuckled. ‘You can’t break it – it’s already broken. Worth about five cents a kilo like that, but there’s money to be made if we dismantle.’ He turned to one of the scrap heaps. ‘We’re nonprofit . Got everything here. This is a 400-megabyte C80 251. Used to be the industry standard. Now it’s almost worthless except as scrap. Alas, poor Yorick!’ He moved to another bin. ‘Slow modems. These are 2400-baud. No use here, but they like ’em in Guyana where the phone lines can’t handle high bandwidth. We’ll fix up the machines with a Union grant then the Red Cross’ll ship ’em.’
    ‘Amazing,’ Strether murmured.
    ‘And these.’ He indicated the silvery Intel processors. ‘Last forever, they do. Computers don’t die, they become obsolete. Not because the hardware don’t work – some of these are fifty years old, recycled a dozen times. Integrated circuits turn up here, still functional, beautifully made. But the configurations can’t cope with the new software they bring in every year. That’s why they do it, see? The more programmes, the more so-called consumer choice, the slower your machine works. So you have to upgrade to get back to the speed you want.’ He slurred so-called with a curl of his lip. ‘Then it starts all over again. I found a refurbished Compaq Contura 420 the other day dating from 2015 and it was fabulous, still working. But where’d you find software for it? Nowhere. Deleted. Patents self-destruct every ten years. Bloody racket, if you ask me. The government oughta do something about it.’
    ‘It’s been a problem since the things were invented,’ Matt agreed. He bent and retrieved a sliver of the Apple Mac.
    ‘Huh!’ the man snorted. ‘When petrol cars first became popular, manufacturers ignored safety rules to sell more cars. Once buyers insisted, cars got safer. They could do the same thing with PCs, hardware and software. Insist on durability. Make simple options available. But they don’t.’
    The man suddenly lost interest and turned up the music once more. The Americans beat a retreat.
     
    They re-emerged into the hazy light at ground level near a clutch of open stalls.
    ‘The flea market,’ Matt said. ‘Don’t you just love this stuff?’
    The two men lingered at a bookstall. ‘I wish they still made these,’ Strether remarked as he picked up paperbacks with lurid covers. ‘Sure, I can download anything I want on my powerbook or on the wall-screen at home. Multi-media, pot-boilers, thrillers, films, holograms, music, live theatre broadcasts, the lot. I like novels read to me by audiobook if I’m feeling idle. But to curl up with the real thing – to turn the crumbly paper pages in your hands. That’s something special.’
    ‘With respect, sir, you’re betraying your age,’ Matt teased. He moved on to the next stall. ‘Wow! I haven’t seen these except in museums. D’you remember them?’
    Strether allowed himself to sound mildly offended. ‘I’m not that ancient,