"Gradley? You are not by some chance the son of Bernard Gradley? 
Our fathers did business, | think." Maria offered her hand to Edward, 
who found himself at a loss as to what to do with it. To let it go 
seemed rude—shaking it, terribly gauche. In the end he opted to 
bring it to his lips and offer a kiss—David turned away immediately, 
bringing a hand up to his mouth in a feigned yawn. 


"And this is Lady Alexandra Penelope." David ushered Maria aside. 
The tall blonde was somewhat older than Edward—perhaps 30— 
and elegantly beautiful in a ruffled yellow dress. She favoured him 
with a smile but did not offer her hand; Edward made a mock bow 
instead. 


"Edward—so, are you a man of leisure, or making your way in the 
world like David?" Lady Penelope asked, fixing him with very light 
blue eyes in which the pupils stood out like pinpricks. Edward 
sighed. One more time, ladies and gentlemen... 


Fifteen minutes later, the group had found their place by one of the 
log fires and were chatting over honeyed sausage entrées and 
glasses of a sparkling white wine as though they had known each 
other for years. The conversation had drifted onto business, where 
Edward had shared his thoughts on labour and leisure, and Maria 
had begun expounding her own theory. 


"Surely /eisure," she said, "is merely doing any project or task which 
you enjoy doing, and which you direct. This last seems to me to be 
most key—it's all very well talking about getting a job you love, but 
unless you work for yourself, you're doing what someone else tells 
you to do. This seems incompatible with leisure—there is always 
that gap between the two. Labour is what earns leisure and it's 
foolish to talk about making your job your hobby." 


So speaks a woman who has never worked, thought Edward wryly. 
"There's some truth to that," he ventured, "but a competent 
employer will recognise that he is hiring an employee to do 
something he cannot—or rather, satisfaction is to be gained in 
attaining such a role where it is recognised; work becomes leisure if 
a man is allowed to act freely, to use his reason to decide the best 
course of action and act upon it. If an employer comes to think that 
all those who work for him are are simply extra hands—people who 
do the jobs he doesn't have time to do at an inevitably lower level of 
quality than if he were to do it himself—then he sets himself up to 
fail. Aman who makes himself the final arbiter of everything his 
employees do, who requires his approval for any task, no matter 
how minor—who seeks to micromanage them to that extent—must 
be immaculately logical and fair, otherwise he is abolishing truth and 
logic in his company. People who work for such an employer will 
ultimately no longer care about truth, only what he wants to hear—if 
their own initiative isn't valued, why should they exercise it? A man's 
creativity can only be exercised by his own free will and for a cause 
he believes in—I find it incredible that private companies think they 
are any different from the state in that regard." 


"Oh, he's darling!" exclaimed Lady Penelope. "Where do you find 
these firebrands, David?" 


"They all start out like that," grinned David. "It's the natural state of 
man." 


"And long may it continue," proclaimed Maria. "To idealism." She 
raised her glass and the others drank with her. 


There was a sleek glossy catalogue on the table and Edward flicked 
through it idly. From what he could gather it represented a place for 
members to buy and sell antique goods as well as advertise 


services. Very little of it made sense to him; it was written in an 
overwrought, hyperbolic fashion that made each item seem like the 
Second Coming. Take this one—"A statue which has an orientation 
that cannot be altered." How was that supposed to work? The statue 
itself was nothing special; a craggy sculpture of ahuman arm and 
hand, fifty centimetres tall. He took a look at the price tag and almost 
snorted Chateau d'Yquem out of his nose. If | was paying that much 
it would face whichever way | wanted, thank you very much. 


The evening's entertainment started shortly afterwards; various 
illusionist and acrobatic acts led up to a final spectacular piece 
where a truly talented magician-aerialist appeared to fall apart in 
mid-flight; one by one his limbs seemed to detach from his body and 
continue the act unaccompanied—at times interacting with his body 
in ways that should have been impossible if they were still attached. 
By the end he seemed to have been reduced to a quadruple 
amputee, still arcing above the stage in partner acrobatics with what 
were purportedly his own limbs. Finally, the performer's 
disembodied arms and legs maneuvered his torso into position for 
one final gruesome trick; looping the ribbon around his neck as 
though preparing him for execution. A second later, both head and 
body fell to the ground with the other seemingly lifeless limbs. The 
curtain closed, and the performer did not re-emerge—though Maria, 
perhaps noticing Edward's pallor, whispered to him that she had 
seen the act several times previously, including versions of the trick 
where an assistant put him back together on-stage afterwards. 
Edward prided himself that he had a logical mind and could usually 
work out the mechanism between most magic acts. The severed- 
limb trick, however, defied explanation—he supposed there must 
have been at least four other acrobats on stage, with the rest of their 
bodies somehow concealed from view; how the performer had 
seemingly severed his own head in full view of the audience 
however went beyond the best of Copperfield. The only clue, to his 
mind, lay in the fact that each division of the magician's body had 
occured in an area wrapped in the white ribbon. The man needed 
his own TV show, Edward thought, he'd kick the shit out of Dynamo. 


The chefs had emerged from the kitchens shortly before serving to 
explain the theme of the repast—the public school dinner, gourmet- 
style and eaten with oversized cutlery to recreate an authentic 


atmosphere. It was the right venue for it, thought Edward. He could 
scarcely credit the notion that Marshall, Carter & Dark had even 
contrived to get the owner of the Fat Duck and the Hell's Kitchen 
star around the same stove let alone produce something coherent. 
The result, however, was indescribable; a fusion of subtle 
undertones and a few big explosions of colour and taste that made 
him wonder if he could ever go back to his microwave ready meals. 
No wonder David keeps Mr Stathopoulos in such good business, 
Edward thought, savouring a shepherd's pie made with Kobe beef 
and topped with a selection of artisan cheeses. The serving staff— 
all young, attractive men and women in formal attire—were silent 
and efficient, if a little glassy-eyed. No wonder, if this is typical of 
what goes on here—I'd be perpetually shell-shocked if | worked here 
too. Or perhaps, like him, they'd just had a long day. 


"So David," he asked his companion, currently gorging himself on 
waffles made from whole Tasmanian seed potatos and a take on the 
Turkey Twizzler whereby Bowman Landes free-range turkey meat 
was cut directly into the shape of the twizzler and breaded using 
vapor-deposited batter. "If you don't mind me asking, how much 
does membership at this place set you back?" Edward wasn't sure 
exactly how much David Went made at Cooper Drake, but he 
doubted it placed him in the same league, as say, Richard Branson, 
who he was fairly sure he'd seen disappearing into one of the 
Members-Only siderooms earlier in the evening. 


"More than you could afford," was the reply. David must have seen 
something in Edward's expression as he rapidly amended himself. "| 
mean, more than | could afford too. | have limited access and some 
guest privileges; I'm not really a full member as such." 


"And in return, they get?" Edward prompted. 


"Payment in kind—look, | really don't want to get into it right now. 
Come on, you'll upset my stomach." 


"Sorry." Edward turned his attention back to his shepherd's pie and 
the cheese-crusted leeks that formed his side dish. 


If Edward had thought that the meal formed the climax of the 
evening, he was mistaken. As guests drifted back to their seats 


a single swift blow to the back of the subject's head. 


Addendum: SCP-572 was retrieved from the home of a 

Upon being apprehended for violent drunken and disorderly 
behavior, Mr. attempted to charge the arresting officers while 
brandishing SCP-572, screaming that he would "take their heads, 
and with it, their power." As Mr. was overweight and badly out 
of shape, officers successfully pacified him using TASERs and 
flexible baton (beanbag) rounds fired from a 12-gauge shotgun. 
Upon retrieving the weapon, Officer was heard muttering about 
the effectiveness of SCP-572, claiming that if Mr. had managed 
to score a hit, one of the officers would have lost a limb: this despite 
the fact that the weapon had an edge blunter than a butter knife. 


An SCP deep-cover operative assigned to the precinct discovered 
SCP-572's unusual properties and retrieved it from Evidence 
Storage. An identical weapon from the original manufacturer was 
procured as a replacement. As of the writing of this article, no further 
weapons from the same manufacturer have shown any anomalous 
properties. 


« SCP-571 | SCP-572 | SCP-573 » 


around the edge of the room a DJ in a vaguely sinister helmet 
resembling a neon Mickey Mouse with blank, empty eyes conducted 
an electronic tidal wave of sound from a podium atop two huge, 
illuminated glass slabs rising out of the floor. What kind of 
gentleman's club has guests dancing in full evening dress to house 
music? Edward wondered, finding himself plucked out of his seat 
and thrown between a number of young women. The guests danced 
in graceful loops, spotlights picking out white collars, silver ties and 
lacy décolletage. 


As anew song began—upbeat but with a hint of something very 
dark underneath, like most of the Du's set thus far—Edward found 
himself face to face with Maria. He must have looked as out of depth 
as he felt, for she just beamed at him, took his hand and led him 
confidently over the floor. 


"Can you understand any of the lyrics to this?" he shouted. 
"It makes more sense if you assume the ‘Russian unicorn’ is heroin." 


"| generally assume every song is about drugs until proven 
otherwise." 


"Oh, now where's that idealism?" 


They arced over the floor, Maria subtly correcting his occasional 
stumble. Edward found himself wishing time would—not stop—but 
loop, right in this moment. Gradually reality reasserted itself and his 
mind cleared a little. 


"| should return you to David. | don't want him jealous." 
"Yes, he does get so protective of his new recruits." 
"Very funny." 


She spun away from him elegantly, moving towards David, who had 
evidently run out of breath and was waiting at their table. Edward 
waited just a little longer, just standing on the dancefloor, before he 
followed her. 


As David made his bows for the evening and led them back out 


through that shadowy reception area, Edward was almost 
unsurprised to hear, distinct but unmistakable behind him, that the 
last song in the set, apparently without any sense of irony, was a 
remix of 'All The Right Moves’, though as the grim-faced porter 
cautiously let them back through that great front door into the night 
he noticed that 'we' and 'they’ were reversed. 


Edward had expected to wake up the next morning—well, later the 
next morning—with a splitting headache. Instead he rose after no 
more than three hours' sleep with a sense of clarity, feeling 
energised and enriched for the experience. You have to make an 
outlay to profit, he thought—perhaps that also applies to time? 


On the way to work, he noticed that the unannounced roadworks 
that had blighted traffic in the area all month with their shoddy 
diversions had disappeared overnight. Now if only the damn rain 
would clear up, he thought. Nothing seemed to have been done to 
the roundabout at the centre; in fact, it seemed in worse shape than 
before, with several pieces of the edging removed and left broken at 
the centre in a pile of dirt and rubble. Edward resolved, as he had so 
many times before, to write to the borough council and demand to 
know what firm the works had been hired out to. He supposed, 
though, that even if he remembered he would give up after trying to 
find their complaints form online. He was sure the council hired 
someone specifically to redesign their website on the fly to remove 
the information you most needed. 


The next couple of days, buoyed by his promotion and experience at 
David's club, Edward was walking on air. Every deal he touched 
seemed to turn into gold. Even his mistakes seemed to come right in 
such a fashion that they looked like visionary thinking on his part; 
Edward had shorted stocks in Quadrant Turbines, an elderly firm 
that seemed to be going nowhere, when the news came through 
that it was to receive a one point five billion dollar contract from the 
US Department of Defense. His team had barely finished 
commiserating him when Liz sprinted in, flushed and out of breath, 
begging him to hold his position just a little longer. Half an hour later, 
it was being widely reported that the contract had fallen through and 
that Quadrant itself had made a surprise announcement that it was 


to be placed into administration. As it turned out, the bad news was 
a false flag—circulated by bloggers most likely in the pay of 
Lockheed Martin—but the effect was to send Quadrant's shares into 
a death dive. By the end of the day it had become a self-fulfilling 
prophecy and Quadrant were seeking bankruptcy. 


In one month Edward had his first review. The review, to the 
investment banker, was God—a magic force that examined your life 
and blessed the worthy. Or perhaps it was like the lottery—one 
where every player expected to win every time, more each year than 
the year before. Whilst the firm didn't punish its traders for deals that 
turned out poorly, provided they were based on solid research, the 
size of your bonus would depend on the profit you'd generated for 
the organisation. A growing bonus would indicate to others in the 
organisation that you were going places and worthy of another rung 
on the ladder to partnership. A stagnant bonus—or no bonus— 
would indicate a poor performer, someone to pass over or even 
push out. 


Edward already had a solid profit margin, but he didn't want to be 
‘solid’. He wanted the verdict on that gold slip to read 'exceptional’. 
By age twenty-five his father already owned his own factory. 
Edward's calculations said that if he wanted to outdo Bernard 
Gradley he would need to make partner in the next year. In any 
other profession and in almost any other city this was almost 
unthinkable—but this was the City of London. And no firm could fail 
to advance a trader who outstripped all his peers. 


So it was that Edward went in search of a magic bullet—a deal that 
would in one month make him the crown prince of Cooper Drake. He 
took piles of papers from the Research team home with him and 
scoured them for something truly special. And after a couple of days 
he believed he had found it. A burgeoning EU antitrust investigation 
into Cliffes Aeronautic and Ballistics, premised upon alleged 
collusion between Cliffes and a couple of other aerospace 
semiconductor manufacturers to control the European import 
market. Cliffes' CEO, Martin Jacques, would be called to give 
testimony on September Fifth—that was when Edward would make 
his play. A firm's share value typically dipped between one point 
nine and four point eight percent during an investigation; Edward