Gland IV. Edinburgh

Edinburgh, Scotland.

You may not have heard of Edinburgh but it has probably heard of you. This ludicrously picturesque city – cityplanners for West Aio take note – was the home of the eastern arm’s Central Information Service. The entire city was populated by CIS employees, the bosses lived in – honestly – the castle, the managers lived in the Edwardian terraces, and the drudge-workers stomped home to the semi-detached suburbs. At its peak, the CIS employed over 400,000 people and handled the personal information of eighty billion individuals. Thankfully, the majority of the CIS office was built underground, which means the old city is still in pretty good nick.

There are some tell tale signs that the galaxy’s most closely guarded database existed here: magnetic card readers at the entrance to every park, public lavatory and pub; defunct movement sensors on the roads; casually aggressive hoardings that demand that you Have A Good Weekend.

It is Friday afternoon. I try to imagine the floods of workers, swilling down the grid of cobbled streets.

Nowadays, the CIS is based on one of the largest free-sailing satellites – in Lis they call it a Bureaucrat’s Eclipse when the CIS ‘moon’ slides across the face of the sun. On a satellite populated exclusively by your colleagues, I can’t imagine there’s anywhere that the lowly workers can go to get away from their all-hearing all-seeing employers.

When the CIS was based here in Edinburgh, at least employees could go to a pub and, when it was sufficiently noisy and over-crowded, they could say rude things about their bosses, say the things they’re not supposed to say, without fear of recrimination. Having spent a couple of bleak years as an International Tribunal court writer, I know how difficult it can be – in a high-security job – to find the all important time to slag off your superiors.

Every work space should have its loopholes, its shortcuts, its cheats. That’s half the fun. Edinburgh was once full of stuffy, wonky pubs, full of snugs, booths and nooks – perfect spots for a pint of McEwans 80 and a chat about the file you weren’t supposed to look in.

Because of the CIS’s security protocols – and what with it being underground – its workforce escaped largely unscathed from the GF outbreak. There were under a thousand casualties.

So what happens to a city that’s entire population deserts it to go and live and work on a satellite? Well, weirdly, not much.

The level of contamination here is low. We wander around wearing only masks. But the city remains almost deserted. We explore the castle at our leisure. There is only one pub here still open. I want to go in just to find out how on earth – ha! – the place is still in business. We are served ‘safe’ beer by a man with neck glands like Frankenstein’s bolts. He tells us that his pub used to be one of the most popular with the CIS big wigs.

“I bet you heard a few things you shouldn’t have,” I say. He stares for a while, sussing me out.

“You’re either a bad journalist or a terrible spy,” he says.

“A journalist,” I tell him.

“Right,” he says, disappearing beneath the counter. He reappears holding a dusty bottle.

“A magnum of our finest champagne then. Put it on your expenses. Tell them it’s the only way you could get me to say something interesting.”

Without waiting for a reply, he lines up three grubby-looking flutes, pops the cork and pours.

As the evening winds on, it turns out that the landlord was not lying. He tells me things about the CIS’s information gathering techniques that would make you careful what you sing in the shower. I’m probably on a blacklist already but, still, I don’t want to make things worse for myself. If you want to know the sordid details, you’ll have to come here yourself. The vintage 2007 Veuve Clicquot cost $850 a bottle.

Pim Tandor will be reporting from Britain for the next two weeks. Next week: West coast of Ireland. Flights to Ely, England run once a week from Aio and twice monthly from Lis. A guide is essential and can be arranged in advance.