THE CUPLARD LOOK An allegory by Paul Cardin In darkness, the luddites moved towards the dimly-lit factory, stealth and caution in every footstep. The leader froze momentarily. Ahead, the enemy could be heard at work. The noiseless advance continued, alien sounds filling the air as they crept in closer. They felt no fear. Why should they? They had come prepared - to smash and plunder - to rid the village of the hulking monster, the beast that flashed and buzzed, spitting out the valued product and robbing them of their livelihoods. The leader grunted an order and two masked figures came swiftly forward. The pack of six maintained a strictly-observed anonymity. Tonight's action was their first direct attack and the prospects of capture and identification were too serious to contemplate. The men were given their instructions. One skirted the building slowly, eventually reaching the rear exit where he crouched down in nearby bushes. The other sprang nimbly onto a wall and peered furtively through the factory window. Seconds later, he was down, reporting to the leader, "It's Cuplard." Ian Cuplard worked with feverish excitement this night. With every shift, the process had improved, and now it ran well. Admittedly, there were teething troubles at first - when every finished article came out identical. "What's wrong with that?" you may ask, "Surely that's good production?" Not in this case. Ian Cuplard strove for originality with each completed item - a perfectionist to boot, and merciless in his hunting down of the elusive bug - the creature whose role in life was to thwart the process at every turn. In the weeks since the installation of the Gilcloth machine, Ian had monitored, coaxed and cajoled; his finger on the pulse of production - scanning this dial, tweaking that one, hands playing lovingly over the input control panels. Not that the machine demanded love, no! It settled for your complete and undivided attention, eventually giving what you asked, but not without some form of remittance - you paid the price in sweat. Laborious effort, long hours and sleepless nights were the norm. Sweat it out to the end of the shift. See it through. Then - and only then - would the machine yield the spoils - and damned hard you'd worked for them too. But the pleasure. Oh, the sheer pleasure it gave to see the garment in its final, completed form. Ian had realised at once - with this system, hard graft was rewarded in full. The process, once up and running and monitored by the experienced Op, gradually made life easier. Ian found he had time on his hands - time to think - the bounds of creativity were pushed back and wonderful new ideas poured into the process, as in a flood. This was the beauty of the system - he could hover at the output end, watching his thoughts take shape and form, unfurling in the most colourful and intricate of patterns. In the dark days it was not so. The process worked from the mind to the hands of the operator and God! it was hard. The output of two weeks manual weaving could be matched or surpassed in two hours on the new Gilcloth machine. Granted, the manual process did have some advantages - every item was largely different; finer detail could be sewn in, placing a stamp of originality on the product, but the speed of production (or the lack of it) was the great weakness. With the introduction of Gilcloth, however, the process became easier and more accessible. In effect, the market was opened to the 'unskilled' man in the street, as long as he forked out for the system. The manual weavers were taken unawares, yet quick to recognise the threat. They set about finding ways to protect their interests. The luddites were formed. In their early days, it was rumoured that they secured substantial monetary backing from the portly figure of Sir Stephen Hereward- Torch, one-time printing magnate, now sole owner and controller of the largest soft-wear mills in the land. A man at the pinnacle of his chosen career and an awesome presence that often cut a ridiculous aspect, wallowing in its superiority over countless underlings in the soft-wear industry. At first, the luddites' tactics were cautious and indirect. They approached the finishing companies, some of whom had their own weaving systems in-the-house, advising them of the unsuitability of the new style cloth for a discerning market - how unfashionable it was and how their customers wouldn't be seen dead in it. They'd never buy such shoddy, badly-designed outfits. They even told how the cloth had been 'thrown together' solely by a machine, with little or no professional/manual input! Sadly for Cuplard, the finishing companies bought these fabrications (believed the lies, that is) and failed to support the efforts of the Gilcloth textile-only weaver. Hard as he tried, he found himself being forced onto the streets to sell his wares through more down-market outlets. His good quality products were not reaching the masses and only a lucky few could sport the Ian Cuplard 'look'. Admittedly, it was a bad time for this type of cloth in general - Manual or Gilcloth-pored. There had been a gradual movement away from cloth which could be explored in detail, to another where the purchaser assumed the role of a character in that cloth (8 knit or 16 knit). The greater part of the market was choked with the more gaudy 'Turtle' look - a cloth which demanded no use of grey matter in both its design and wearability. This cloth, rather than striving for originality, aimlessly followed the commercial trend of copying onto cloth, scenes from the latest theatrical releases. Neither the manual weavers nor Cuplard saw anything to excite them in this area - after all, where's the sense in mindlessly joggling the 'stick of joy' that went with the cloth? And so, the luddites sought to protect their crumbling monopoly, yet had to admit a grudging respect for the new machine. The wiser ones amongst them conceded defeat, and moved, largely into character-role fabric. The remainder, running short on work, made their own systems by accumulating pieces of available machinery and cobbling it all together. These 'patchwork quilt' efforts were dogged by problems. The usually elusive bug came out into the open, running riot over the fabric and laughing insanely in the faces of the operators. The finished cloth was full of holes or inconsistencies in pattern, and the makers' reaction was one of anger and frustration - their pitiful screams often rent the quiet air of the village. It was this angry group that had descended upon the factory, intent upon destruction and plunder - they would destroy the system, take it away, then reassemble it later in disguised form. Inside, Ian was busy wrapping soft-wear packages for dispatch when he heard a sudden volley of screams. He threw himself to the floor instinctively, awaiting further sounds. Sounds which never came. He leapt to his feet, turning to see a masked figure flash past the window. With a peculiar mixture of both fear and anticipation, he inhaled deeply to calm his racing heart, then proceeded tentatively towards the main door - it was swinging ajar, his elaborate intruder mechanism tripped. Taking up a torch, he advanced towards the open door and played the beam just beyond it - a large black hole gaped in the ground, twelve feet by twelve. He relaxed slightly, flicking his torch towards the field, where the masked figure fled towards the village. He eyed the hole once more, advancing slowly to stand at the edge, then lowered the torch beam, peering down into the gloom, his face creasing into a smile of satisfaction. Below, the leader stood, surrounded by his men, with one arm raised in a gesture of defiance. "Remove that mask", Ian commanded. "Shan't", lisped the leader, effeminately. "REMOVE IT, I TELL YOU, LEST I FILL IN THIS HOLE!" The defiant arm faltered for a moment, then came down quickly, the hand reaching to draw off the mask in one swift action. Ian gasped with shock and pitched forward, falling towards the hole, his feet scrabbling the dirt at the pit's edge. He felt himself going down, inexorably down, but at the last moment, managed to throw his weight backwards and reel dizzily away, steadying himself against the door jamb. Finding his bearings once more, he looked around, closely eyeing the man in the pit with something approaching reverential fear. The luddites' leader was...Sir Stephen Hereward-Torch!