_{Chapter Four}

BACKGROUND MATERIAL, FOR FURTHER READING AND DISCUSSION

Dr. Hudson: “I started where Uncle Rosy left off, so the mento transmitter is as much a credit to him as it is to me. Uncle Rosy was a brilliant man of science, you know. He made many pioneering discoveries in the area of thought-transmission for the purpose of operating consumer products.”

Student: “Uncle Rosy was motivated by economics, was he not, Doctor Hudson?”

Dr. Hudson: “Mentoing and increased consumption go hand in hand. But in reviewing copies of his lab diaries, I detected a reverence for the mysteries of the brain. Listen to this excerpt: [after pause] ‘Our technology cannot begin to approach the beauty, the precision, the wonderful balance of the human brain.’”

Minicam transcript from Dr. Hudson’s Boston College classroom, October 8,2587 (six months prior to Hudson’s appointment as Bu-Tech Minister).

 

Saturday, August 26, 2605

Garbage day minus six arrived without Sidney’s knowledge. Understandably, this information was kept on a “need-to-know” basis.

Sidney awoke early in the morning to a jangling telephone next to his bed. When he opened his eyes sleepily, a cordless tele-cube floated in the air above his face. Carla was on the line, announcing she could not make it to the reunion. Her doctor had diagnosed a virus.

“Why don’t you take two Happy Pills?” Sidney suggested as he stared up at the cube. He brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Maybe you’ll feel well enough to—”

“I don’t want any more pills for awhile,” Carla’s tele-cube voice said firmly. “I need rest.”

“There are sleep-sub—”

“Real rest,” she interjected.

This sounded strange to Sidney. He could not recall a day when she did not take a pill. But he decided not to argue.

“Goodbye,” Carla said.

Sidney watched the tele-cube float back to its cradle on the phone, thought, Our relationship stinks!

He and Carla had known each other nearly all their lives. Their parents had been close friends, and he had been her datemate since high school. But Carla always seemed to treat him more like a brother than a boy friend . . . and there had never been any physical intimacy. Sidney had been counting on the reunion to put their relationship on a new track. He had planned it all out. I was going to be so suave and sophisticated, Sidney thought.

He felt his entire body shaking. I mustn’t become upset, he thought. Sidney closed his eyes and lay back on the bed, recalling his father’s exact words, spoken so many years earlier. . . .

“. . . It is absolutely imperative that you remain calm. The incorto injector I have surgically implanted in your body is not available to the public.”

“I have the only one?” the nine-year-old Sidney had asked.

His father had nodded. “Its development was ordered stopped many years ago as a Bu-Med Job-Support measure. The device has not been perfected.”

“Why not?”

“The injector has a major deficiency. Its operation can be blocked if your adrenalin level rises too much. This would result in a massive breakdown of your nervous system—”

Sidney sat up on one elbow and as he recalled the conversation he gazed at a picture of his father on the dresser. A glint of synthetic sunlight touched the shiny gold electroplate frame and reflected off the polished plastic surface of the dresser top. He saw the same eyes and nose as his own, but the features were not so soft as Sidney’s. His father smiled faintly in the picture, but there was deep concern in the eyes . . . possibly a fear of what the world had in store for Sidney.

I don’t want a massive breakdown, Sidney thought.

Unable to return to sleep, he lay back and watched artificial dawn sunlight filter into his bedroom module through a single overhead sun-lite panel. He longed for the mercy of slumber. How attractive to remain there and not face the world! Like a whirligig, this thought rotated in his mind. But then he recalled the strange voices which had interrupted his ego pleasure dream two nights before. When will they come again? he wondered.

Old thoughts mixed with new ones. I wish I had a dashing career in the Space Patrol, he thought. Carla would be my permie then, This brought on a disturbing realization, as it occurred to him that his latent disability was the key to all his problems. If not for the affliction, life could have been so perfect!

In his despondency and anger, Sidney mentoed for his pleasie-meckie. The closet door popped open, and the scantily-clad meckie began to roll forward. But Sidney felt an inexplicable surge of guilt and resolved to overcome his sexual cravings.

Get back! he mentoed angrily.

After the pleasie-meckie returned to its closet station, Sidney lay in bed thinking and wishing for the rest of the morning. During several moments, he even found himself questioning the AmFed Way . . . for the first time in his life. Maybe his disability was not to blame after all. Maybe it was the system.

I can function in society! he thought, tormented. But the system won’t allow it, won’t give me the opportunity!

Eventually he discarded such thoughts, trying to see the good side of things. For deep inside, Sidney Malloy believed in the AmFed Way. And in the Doctrine of Greatest Good.

When Sidney finally arose, he felt numb and more down than up. Thinking of the voices and of his depressed state, he considered going to a drive-in psychiatrist’s window. But he discarded the idea in favor of a Happy Pill. There had been rumors that the psychiatric windows actually were fronts for therapy recruitment, that the resident analyst could declare anyone incompetent and have him sent to a therapy orbiter.

People had been known to disappear.

He felt better after the pill, and kept himself busy that afternoon inside the videodome. The dome was a room-within-a-room, a place where reality could be forgotten. Sidney Tele-Charged several products that were advertised on the screen. He felt better with each purchase.

 

Early in the evening of the same day, Sidney rolled off the elevator at Parking Level One wearing a black paper tuxedo with no hat. He unlocked the autosedan door with its plastikey and slid into a bucket seat which swiveled invitingly to meet him. The seat clicked into place as the door closed. A shoulder harness snapped shut across his body. Dashboard dials lit up . . . green, red and blue.

Sidney mentoed a destination into the car’s computer, felt cool vinyl against his paper clothing as he sat back in the soft seat. The vehicle’s sexless computer voice blared, its tone high-pitched and irritating to him: “Destination . . . Sky Ballroom . . . thirty-nine twelve American Boulevard. Confirm please. . . . ”

Sidney did not hear the instruction, was thinking about the reunion and about Carla.

“Confirm please,” the computer insisted. “Confirm please. . . . ”

“Yes, yes,” Sidney said irritably, sitting forward and focusing his eyes on a red “CONFIRM” light that blinked rapidly on the dashboard. “Confirmed.”

The autosedan began to move, and Sidney again sat back. It darted up a ramp to street level and surged unhesitatingly through automatic doors, its collision sensors probing the darkness ahead.

Minutes later, he moto-shoed off an elevator at the entrance to the Sky Ballroom. A gold and blue wall banner above a long reception table carried this announcement:

WELCOME NEW CITY HIGH GRADS! CLASS OF ’85.

Sidney paused at the reception table, and in a moment was watching himself in the magik-mirror while a woman fastened a plastic nametag to his lapel. It was a full-length mirror, showing a reflection of the side of his body that was away from the glass. Sidney concealed his right hand from the mirror, held it behind his protruding stomach and wiggled the fingers. The image wiggled its fingers. When the woman finished fastening his nametag, Sidney faced the mirror and stuck out his tongue. It reflected only the back of his head and body, as if he were standing behind himself.

Sidney became aware of a fair-haired man in a Space Patrol uniform who stood along a side wall. The man seemed to be watching Sidney with pale, unfocused eyes, and Sidney recognized the eagle pin of a full colonel on his lapel. A nametag below that read: “PEEBLES.”

Is he really looking at me? Sidney wondered. Or at something else? Sidney turned his head the other way, saw only a bare wall.

Sidney put the man out of his mind and rolled through double swinging doors into the main ballroom. There were happy crowd sounds in this room, and a band tuning its instruments. He searched for familiar faces.

It was a crystal clear night, with twinkling stars and a crescent sliver of moon which shone through an overhead glassplex dome. People played talking video games, electronic dice and galactic pool along one wall. Sidney paused to watch as a man he did not recognize auto-shot a ball into one of the side pockets of the galactic pool table. A wallscreen above the table lit up with brilliant flashes and spades of orange and blue as the ball disappeared into the pocket.

“The synthetic black hole pockets are clever, don’t you agree?” a man to Sidney’s left asked. “They consume matter almost as voraciously as real ones.”

Sidney turned toward the voice, nodded to a tall, amber-haired man in a white, long-sleeved Greco tunic. Trimmed in gold braid, the tunic had military epaulets and a Space Patrol crest on each sleeve. “Tried to bring back a real black hole one time,” the man said, studying Sidney’s round face closely. “Damn near killed me!”

“Is that right?’ Sidney said, interested.

“Say,” the man said, looking down at Sidney with an eyelid flicker of recognition, “aren’t you Sidney Malloy?”

“Yeah. I am.” Sidney noted the man had deeply-set blue eyes and a straight, sharp nose. The features were distantly familiar. Suddenly the identity jumped out at him. “Tom!” he said, half yelling with excitement. “You’re Tom Javik!”

“How ya been, buddy?” Javik asked, embracing his old friend.

“All right,” Sidney said as they pulled apart. “Who else is here tonight?’

“Just got in. Let’s find a table.”

They selected a window table. From his chair there, Sidney could see why this was called the Sky Ballroom. It “kissed the very boundary of the heavens,” just as the advertisements had promised. New City stretched out below in all directions, “a sea of lights beneath a universe of stars.”

A dance floor and slightly elevated stage occupied the center of the room. Above the floor a delicate aquamarine crystal chandelier seemed sky-suspended. Fifty-one musicians onstage tuned their guitars and practiced the hip gyrations they were allowed to perform.

“Whatcha been up to?” Javik asked. He rubbed an ingrown hair sore on the side of his neck.

“Not much. I’m a G.W. seven-five-oh in the Presidential Bureau. Central Forms. You’re still in the Space Patrol, I see.”

“Naw. I borrowed this tunic from a friend. I got in big trouble—had to take garbage shuttle duty in the Transport Corps.” Javik wrinkled his nose angrily.

“At least you’re flying,” Sidney said, furrowing his dark eyebrows thoughtfully. “I’d trade places with you in a minute.” Sidney studied a swiveling song request panel mounted at the table center. “They’ve got old tunes here,” he said. “Remember the Space Boogie?”

“Hey hey!” Sidney detected sadness in Javik’s tone. “How about the Gimme Gumbo Rock Waltz?” Javik asked.

Sidney searched the list, pointed. “Yeah. It’s here.”

Javik laughed and looked around. He squinted to look across the room, then pointed and said: “Near the wall. That guy in the blue tux is Jerry Sims!”

“Oh yeah,” Sidney said, unenthused. “I didn’t know him as well as you did.” Sidney looked back at the song request panel, mentoed it to see another reader-card.

“Excuse me a minute, Sid,” Javik said, rising to his feet. “I just want to say ‘hello.’” He moto-shoed to the table and spoke with his friend for several minutes.

When Javik returned, he asked about Carla. Sidney thought of his pleasie-meckie which resembled Carla, and he smiled with some difficulty. “We’re still datemates,” he said. “She was supposed to be here tonight, but called and said she wasn’t feeling well. Had a new dress picked out, too.”

“Too bad.” Javik’s deeply-set blue eyes flashed mischievously. “Hey, we should have bought renta-dates for the night!”

“Naw,” Sidney said, laughing. “Those girls giggle too much.”

“Know what you mean.”

Just then, a waitress in a striped black and yellow tigress outfit rolled over, flopping her pointed mechanical ears joyfully. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she purred. “What would you like to have?”

Javik glanced at Sidney and winked, then replied, “Raspberry fizzle.”

“Make it two,” Sidney said. He studied her figure when she was not looking, then glanced at Javik and saw him wink back. They watched the waitress’s long slinky tail drag behind her as she left.

“Know what I wanted to say to ask her for,” Javik said, smiling as he locked gazes with Sidney.

Sidney smiled uneasily in return, watched Colonel Peebles slide into a seat several tables away. Peebles stared at Sidney with unfocused, glazed eyes.

“That guy over there,” Sidney said, nodding his head to one side. “He seems to be staring at me.”

Javik turned in the direction Sidney had designated, then quickly snapped back to look at Sidney. “Peebles,” he hissed. “What’s that bastard doing here? He wasn’t in our class!”

Sidney shrugged, stared at the song request panel. “Where do you know him from?” he asked.

“The a-hole testified at my discharge proceedings. Made the Space Patrol toss me out on my butt. He’s a fairy, you know, like the pretty-boy Major I punched out.” Javik glanced around nervously.

Sidney did not ask for further details. The two men fell silent, then looked up at the stage where a man in a white tuxedo spoke into a microphone: “We are about to begin your program, grads! Make your song requests now. Keep in mind that musical performance is a Job-Support profession, and as such is exempt from the Conservation of Motion Doctrine. . . . ”

 

As Sidney and Javik watched the program, Carla stood at her vanity mirror, thinking of Billie Birdbright.

Birdbright would arrive in a few minutes, and she pictured his handsome, bronzed face in her mind . . . the strong, dimpled chin and wavy, bright yellow hair . . . those playful, smoke-grey eyes. She used a small brush to paint a tiny black beauty mark on her left cheek, turned her face slightly to admire it from a different angle.

I have a right to be happy, Carla thought, thinking for a fleeting moment of Sidney as she placed the brush on her makeup table. I couldn’t be expected to pass this chance up.

She sprayed perfume on her neck and practiced smiling in the vanity mirror. Carla saw moist lavender lips that matched the color of her eyes, bun-swirled golden-brown hair with a godiva fall and a black ruby clasp to one side. The evening dress was lavender mache, with the bodice cut in a long narrow vee, exposing portions of her bust and midriff. She pulled some of the fall hairs forward over each shoulder, and they cascaded over her breasts.

Carla moto-spun approvingly before the mirror. She knew she would be Birdbright’s bedmate that evening just as the other girls had been. With this in mind, she selected every article of clothing and toiletry with care. A quiet time in the videodome watching a roller rock concert along with vi-do dinners and wine capsules would start the evening off well—

The doorchime rang.

Oh! Carla thought with a start. I’d better start dinner!

She moto-hurried into the kitchen module and took two ceramic vi-do trays of porkchops with applesauce and synthetic baby peas from the freezer. She popped them into the microwave oven.

 

Sidney mentoed nine song request buttons, with instructions to run a tab in his name. The bandmembers began to perform, gyrating their hips wildly as they did a hard-driving rock song with an oboe lead.

“It’s Space Boogie time!” Sidney exclaimed, thinking of Peebles but forcing himself not to look in that direction.

“Wouldja look at that!” Javik said excitedly, pointing at a man with short-cropped saffron yellow hair who was moto-shoeing down a nearby aisle. “Hey Bob!” Javik called out, waving his hands. “Over here!”

Javik turned to Sidney. “It’s Bob Maxwell!”

Maxwell smiled as he saw them and rolled to their table. “Well!” he said in the old familiar husky voice. “You fellows are a welcome sight!” He pulled a chair from an adjacent unoccupied table and sat down.

They stack-clasped hands like school chums. It came naturally, as if there had not been twenty intervening years.

Sidney looked at Maxwell, noted a big man with tiny metallic blue eyes, a small mouth and a weak chin. A few lines around the mouth, but otherwise he had not changed much. “You look to be in pretty fair shape, Bob,” Sidney said. “Been working out?”

“Some. Maybe a couple of kilos heavier than in high school.” Maxwell paused and touched a belt button to auto-clap with the crowd as they did a New City High yell. Sidney and Javik joined in too.

“We are tops. . . . Class of eighty-five!” the partyers chanted. “We are tops. . . . ”

“Remember the pranks we used to pull?” Maxwell asked as the chanting died down. He looked across the table at Javik. “Like the time I dropped a dehydrated sponge in your glass of milk?”

Javik sat back and belly-laughed. “Scared the hell out of me when it puffed up! I was madder’n hell!”

Sidney laughed too, adding, “And the time we went to Liberty High with buckets of Markesian slime. . . . ” He nudged the table in his mirth, causing it to rock.

“The funniest damn thing!” Javik said, beginning to gasp as he laughed. “We greased . . . the hallways while they were in class, then . . . ha! . . . watched as they fell all over the place!” He broke down laughing.

“No way for ’em to catch us,” Maxwell recalled, revealing small, even teeth as he smiled. “The harder those Liberty High punks tried, the more they fell! Your idea, wasn’t it, Sid?”

“Guess it was,” Sidney said.

“Sid always had the imagination,” Javik recalled. “How about those stories he made up to scare the girls when we parked at Lookout Rim?’

Presently, the waitress arrived with a tray containing two red drinks in tall glasses. She placed the drinks in front of Sidney and Javik, then turned to Maxwell.

“Nothing for me,” Maxwell said. He waved a hand to send her away.

They listened to wailing band music for several minutes while Javik and Sidney sipped their drinks. After a while, Sidney tapped his foot to the music unconsciously.

“What’s that tapping noise?” Maxwell asked.

Sidney stopped tapping, felt hot in the face.

Maxwell leaned over to look under the table, then straightened and glared at Sidney with unfriendly little blue eyes. “Was that you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sidney admitted sheepishly. “Guess it was.”

“Energy conservation,” Maxwell said officiously. “Do it in the gym, man, not here!”

Javik swallowed a sip of his drink, wrinkled his nose in anger. “Criminy,” he said. “Ease up, Bob. We can relax the rules a little tonight!”

Maxwell flashed a cool look at Javik, then turned to watch the band as it began to play a rock waltz. The lights dimmed for the number, and couples took to the dance floor, where they short-stepped onto disco spinners. Each couple grabbed an invisible force field pole at the center of their spinner, causing the device to start slowly into motion . . . whirling one way and then the other in time to the music. Some dancers wore lighted disco shoes in various colors, and soon the floor became a blur of lights.

Javik asked a woman at another table to dance. Sidney watched Javik roll by Peebles’s table, saw Peebles’s expression turn to hatred as Javik passed. Then Peebles’s cool, emotionless eyes took over once more as Javik and his partner reached the dance floor.

Sidney heard Maxwell say something, turned to face him. “What?”

“Tom’s the same old operator,” Maxwell said.

Sidney sipped his drink through a straw, tasted the sharp bite of iced raspberry liqueur. “Yeah,” he said. “Say, what line of work you in?”

Maxwell stiffened. “Spent some time as a shredding machine operator in Bu-Cops. Then I volunteered for another assignment . . . in cooperation with Bu-Med.”

“Oh yeah?” Sidney said casually, watching the disco dancers perform. “What’s that?”

“Can’t say, really. It’s classified.” Sidney noticed that Maxwell’s facial muscles were tight.

“Sounds interesting, Bob.”

Moments later, Javik returned to the table. It was break time for the band, and the ballroom lights brightened. “Nikki Johnson,” Javik said. “Says she’s been permied and divorced four times.”

Sidney swallowed a sip of liqueur, looked over the top of his drink at Javik. “You got her life story in five minutes,” he said, laughing. “See what you can get out of Bob here. Says his job is classified.”

“Is that right?” Javik asked, his curiosity peaked. He reached across the table, patted Maxwell on the shoulder and said, “You can confide in us, Bob. We’re old pals, remember?”

“Well,” Maxwell said, wriggling uncomfortably. He chewed at his upper lip, looked around. “It’s the reason I don’t drink anymore.” Maxwell thought for a moment, then removed a tiny brass-plated computer from his jacket pocket. “Carry this everywhere,” he said nervously, leaning forward and dropping his voice to a whisper.

“What is it?” Javik asked, reaching out in an attempt to touch the unit.

Maxwell pulled it away, said flatly: “A bio-medical surveillance monitor.”

Javik rested his hand for a moment on top of the song request panel at the center of the table, then pulled it back as he asked, “What the hell is that?”

“In fisherman’s English, it’s a cappy-finder.”

Sidney swallowed hard, listened as Javik said, “A cappy-finder?”

“Yeah. I could turn it on right here and walk around until the yellow light starts blinking. That would indicate we have a shirker on our hands, someone with a medical problem he isn’t revealing . . . or a person with a problem he doesn’t know about himself.”

Sidney’s blood ran cold with fear. He coughed, felt a shiver run down the center of his back.

“You okay, Sid?’ Javik asked.

“Yeah.” Sidney coughed again. “Got a little swizzle down the wrong pipe.”

“Turn it on,” Javik urged, looking back at the little brass computer.

Sidney stood up hurriedly, felt himself becoming unglued. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice faltering. “I’ll be right back.” He scurried away, consumed with the necessity to flee.

But Maxwell flipped the device on before Sidney got away. A yellow light on the unit blinked rapidly, then stopped as Sidney escaped down the aisle. Maxwell’s gaze followed Sidney.

“What does it mean?” Javik asked.

“Our Friend has a problem,” Maxwell said, rising to his feet. “And he acts like he knows about it.”

“Sid looks healthy enough to me. Maybe your monitor needs adjustment.”

“Just calibrated it,” Maxwell said, replacing the unit in his jacket pocket. “Can’t let this rest, you know. The man needs therapy.” He watched Sidney slip into the restroom.

Javik jumped to his feet, said in a low. angry tone: “Why? He’s not hurting anyone!”

Maxwell rolled away from the table in the direction Sidney had taken. Javik was close behind. “He’s hurting employment,” Maxwell said, glancing over his shoulder. “Each therapy client supports seven point-three-two-five Bu-Med employees. I’ve seen the figures.”

“Hang the figures!” Javik rasped in Maxwell’s ear. “We’re talking about Sid Malloy. He’s a friend, not a god-damned statistic!”

“Friendship has nothing to do with it,” Maxwell said coldly, turning a corner and rolling to a stop outside the restroom. “It’s my sworn duty to take him in. Look, Tom, I had no idea this was going to happen.”

“Then forget it.”

“Can’t. Rules are rules.”

Presently, Sidney rolled out of the restroom. When he saw Maxwell waiting for him with an all-knowing expression, Sidney thought, Now I’ve had it. His legs began to shake. Quickly, the knees seemed ready to give way.

An attack, Sidney thought. I’m having a breakdown!

“Malloy,” Maxwell said in an authoritative tone. “I’m going to have to . . .”

But Sidney grew woozy and did not hear the ensuing words. His knees folded, and he leaned against the wall for support.

Javik rolled to Sidney’s side and held him up by the right arm. “You’ll be all right,” Javik said. He pulled at Sidney’s arm. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s get out—”

Maxwell pushed Javik in the shoulder. “Can’t let you do that,” he said.

Javik shook him off angrily, shoved past and went toward the elevator bank with Sidney.

Sidney felt his left arm shaking uncontrollably now, only half saw Javik and Maxwell through seizure-glazed, unfocused eyes. The Space Patrol crest on Javik’s sleeve came into focus, then blurred.

Sidney saw the outlines of people as they turned their heads to watch, felt the prying press of eyes he could not actually see. Then Sidney’s vision cleared momentarily, and he saw an angry Maxwell blocking the path, his arms folded across his chest and his face contorted in angry determination. Maxwell’s lips moved, but Sidney swooned and the words sounded garbled to him, as if spoken underwater: “Hold . . . it . . . Tom . . . you’re . . . not . . . go . . . ing . . . a . . . ny . . . far . . . ther!”

Upon hearing this, Javik’s mind went blank with rage. He pushed Sidney to a sidechair. “Rules be damned!” Javik yelled, grabbing Maxwell by the collar. “I’ll kill you, you rotten son-of-an-atheist!” He hit Maxwell in the face with a roundhouse right and fell to the floor pommeling his opponent with unanswered punches.

Sidney saw the unfocused images of people all around, pointing at him and turning their faces to the side in revulsion. “A cappy,” one man said, his tone lilting and cruel. Sidney rolled his eyes in that direction, saw the lapel tag and shoulder epaulets of Colonel Peebles.

Sidney tried to control his left arm, but it flailed wildly. He glanced down at it, saw that it was contorted at the elbow and wrist joints, bent in a horrible manner like pictures he had seen of clients on therapy orbiters.

“Isn’t it disgusting!” Peebles exclaimed.

“Let Bu-Cops through!” a woman said. “Make room!”

“How interesting,” Peebles said. “Look at his face. . . . It’s twisted on the same side as the arm!”

“We shouldn’t have to look at this!” a woman said indignantly.

In his pain, the voices Sidney heard became increasingly distant, increasingly muddled. “Don’t fight it, fleshcarrier,” he thought one said. “This could save you!”

 

When the police stormed in, Colonel Peebles rolled forward to guide them. “Over there,” he said, motioning to Javik, who was rising to his feet, apparently tired of hitting the prone form of Maxwell. Bloody and bruised, Maxwell dragged himself along the floor to get away. Then he tried to stand, but slipped back to the floor.

Two policemen grabbed Javik, but he broke free, knocking both of them down. Three more cops rushed over now with electro-sticks, and they shock-pummeled Javik to semi-consciousness.

“Kill him!” Maxwell yelled from his position on the floor. “Kill the bastard!”

“This man is my prisoner,” Peebles announced as Javik was subdued. Peebles flashed a red Bu-Mil priority card. ‘Take him to Compound Five at the Bu-Tech Space Center.”

“Yes sir,” a police corporal said.

“And put the cappy in Therapy Detention,” Peebles ordered. “Don’t lose track of him, corporal. General Munoz wants to be kept advised of his whereabouts at all times—”

 

Later that evening, Carla stood in the bathroom doorway of her condominium in a lavender bathrobe with a white-and-gold rope sash. Fluttering false eyelashes at a bare-chested man who sat on her waterbed with covers drawn across his lap, she asked, “May I offer you a tintette?”

“Yes,” Billie Birdbright said. He smiled. “Thank you.”

Carla removed a packet from her robe pocket, lit a lime tintette and puffed on it for a moment. Then she moto-slippered to the bed, trailing pale green smoke behind her. Carla sat on the edge of the waterbed, placed the tintette in his mouth.

Only moments before, she had been consumed by animal passion, had known Birdbright’s strong and tender embrace. A fantastic bedmate, she thought, kissing him on the cheek. She studied Birdbright’s profile as he smoked. The high cheekbones, tan skin and firm jaw gave him a virile appearance. Birdbright was the handsomest man she had bedmated.

In her thoughts, she compared Birdbright with the male pleasie-meckie she kept in the closet. Birdbright was the first man she had known whose sexual abilities approached those of the machine. Billie may even be a little better, she thought.

The words of a girlfriend spoken ten years before came back to Carla as she recalled being self-conscious at first about the ownership of a pleasie-meckie: “Even permies have them,” the friend had said. “It isn’t discussed much, of course, and the meckies do arrive in plain unmarked boxes. . . . ”

Carla smiled at the recollection. Since that time, she had traded in her pleasie-meckies twice a year, always Tele-Charging the finest, strongest model available. I owe it to myself, she thought.

Birdbright tapped the tintette on a nightstand ashtray, looked at Carla inquisitively. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“That wouldn’t interest you,” Carla said with a smile. “Tell me what a Chief of Staff does. You’re a G.W. three, aren’t you?”

“Two.” He set the tintette on the ashtray. “I assist the President in all areas. He likes me to delegate as much as possible, of course.”

“Job-Support,” she said.

“Precisely. But some matters are . . . rather delicate in nature.” He beamed.

“How exciting!”

“I can give you one example, I suppose, without revealing exact figures—Recently, I reviewed the forms budget for the year twenty-seven-sixty-two.”

Carla did a quick mental calculation, then exclaimed, “A hundred fifty-seven years from now? But there must be a million variables between now and then! How can you account for every one of them?”

Birdbright smiled confidently as he explained: ‘Through charts and projections on the activity in every governmental office, we know exactly how many people will be employed in each bureau that year, what they will be doing, where they will live. . . . ”

“And their names as well?” she remarked with a teasing smile and a toss of her golden-brown hair over one shoulder.

His smoke-grey eyes flashed, but he smiled quickly. “All except that,” Birdbright said. “Names don’t matter anyway.”

“How can you be sure of the projections?”

“Bu-Tech’s Stat Division provides us with mega-reams of data. I can tell you that the American Federation of Freeness controls its destiny very tightly. Technology has mastered everything imaginable!”

“Intriguing,” Carla said. Recalling the pleasie-meckie in her closet, she thought, Not quite everything . . . now that I’ve met you.

“Freeness has been charted for the next thousand years,” Birdbright said. “It can take only one path, the path chosen by Uncle Rosy.”

 

As Birdbright spoke, Onesayer Edward stood in the dimly lit Central Chamber of the Black Box of Democracy. He gazed up at Uncle Rosy across the internally illuminated pages of an open book, saw a hulking shadow of a man in a hoodless robe seated upon the chamber’s only chair. Onesayer had seen tuxedo meckies carrying the Master’s laundry, so he knew the robe was white—but it was made to appear light yellow by a row of tiny soft yellow overhead bulbs which cast weak shadows around the room.

It was silent in the chamber, except for a soft, almost imperceptible humming sound which came from Uncle Rosy’s lips. Onesayer recognized the melodic, lilting notes of the Hymn of Freeness. Uncle Rosy loved that tune. He had composed it himself.

Uncle Rosy’s chair was immense, suitable for the size of its occupant, and rested upon a raised platform to one side of the room. Threesayer and Twosayer stood to each side of Onesayer, holding open volumes as well, dressed as he was in hooded dark brown friar robes without jewelry.

“There will be no further reading today, Uncle Rosy said in a kindly, resonant voice which echoed off the black glassite surrounding walls. “Onesayer, I will hear your report.”

Onesayer closed his volume, slipped it into a robe pocket and moto-shoed forward. Looking at Uncle Rosy from this new position, he tried unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of the Master’s facial features. He had never seen the Master’s face in person, remembered decades earlier when he used to imagine what a glorious countenance it must be. Lately Onesayer’s thoughts had been altogether different. He had grown tired of waiting for the Master to step down and turn the holy duties over to him. It was cool and damp in the chamber. Onesayer shivered.

“Your report?” Uncle Rosy said, with the tiniest bit of impatience.

The corpulent Onesayer nodded, and with a graceful turn to one side extended an arm toward the center of the chamber. As he did this, a circular floor screen flickered on, revealing a view of galactic space. Uncle Rosy leaned forward, studied a fiery purple and yellow fireball which moved silently across the star-dusted expanse.

“The view from Drakus Ohm,” Onesayer said, “one of AmFed’s deep space observation stations.”

“I know what Drakus Ohm is,” Uncle Rosy said. This time Onesayer detected more than a hint of irritation in the tone. It surprised him. Never before had the Master displayed such an emotion.

Onesayer heard the whir of fast-approaching moto-shoes, watched a tuxedo meckie carry a tray of food up a ramp behind Uncle Rosy’s chair. The meckie had six little blinking white lights down the front of a black headless metal body, with an oblong speaker box on each side. Its mechanical arms had a rim of white dress shirt at the wrists which appeared dirty yellow in the low light. The meckie placed the tray on a mini-table to one side of the great chair. It waited several seconds for further instructions. Not receiving any, it left the chamber.

“The comet continues to behave erratically, Learned One. It turns one way and then the other, always returning to a collision course with Earth.”

“As if it had a life and brain of its own,” Uncle Rosy said. He leaned to the right, resting an arm on one of three chrome handles beside the chair.

“Yes. It is strange indeed. Bu-Tech and Bu-Mil are combining in an effort to stop the comet, but . . .” Onesayer fell silent, clasped his hands behind his back and gazed up at the distant row of yellow bulbs along the ceiling.

“But?” Uncle Rosy prodded.

Onesayer dropped his gaze, looked at the Master. “I have been in the Bureau Monitoring Room since midday, reviewing all the lifelog and minicam tapes on Dr. Hudson and General Munoz.”

“And?”

“I do not think much of their plan. No back-up provision or evacuation contingency. And now Munoz has some wild idea that an office worker named Malloy—a man with absolutely no space experience—should pilot the ship. We have checked the lifelog tapes on Malloy, Master. The fellow is pathetic—a real loser.”

“I see,” Uncle Rosy said.

“They are sending along another man who has experience . . . he’s been doing garbage shuttle duty the past couple of years. So far, they can’t locate him.”

Uncle Rosy said nothing, sat leaning to one side.

Onesayer noticed the chrome handle moving down slowly beneath the weight of Uncle Rosy’s arm. “Master!” he yelled. “The Zero Handle! You are leaning on it!”

“Oh,” Uncle Rosy said absent-mindedly, pulling his arm away from the handle. “Suppose I was.” Uncle Rosy pushed the handle back into place.

Onesayer took a deep breath, resisted an urge to shake his head in dismay.

“Foolish of me,” Uncle Rosy said cheerfully. “Another five seconds and Earth would have gone boom!”

“Yes, Master. That reminds me. . . . What would you think

of using the second handle at this time?”

“The Orbital Handle?” Uncle Rosy said, placing his hand on the central chrome handle. “You hope Earth can elude the comet by modifying its orbit?”

“That is the obvious benefit, Master. But there is another.”

“Which is?”

“The AmFeds have always been pretentious, thinking that their technology can deal with any situation.”

“It has worked well for them in the past,” Uncle Rosy said in his resonant voice.

“And the past is always a precursor of what is to come?”

“Ah, Onesayer Edward,” the Master said, pleased. “You are learning!”

False encouragement, Onesayer thought bitterly. “On this pretentiousness, Master, the AmFeds do not know of the existence of our Orbital Handle.”

“Nor of the other handles. It would cause them to stop and think, eh, Onesayer?”

“It would be healthy if they were forced to re-evaluate assumptions.”

“Under normal circumstances, I would agree, Onesayer.” Uncle Rosy removed his hand from the Orbital Handle. “But this is quite a different situation.”

“Then why did you install the handles? I understand number one, the Zero Handle. As Master, you may find it necessary to detonate the planet. And number three . . . our army of ten thousand armadillo meckies that can fly, swim and break through walls. But number two, Master . . . I cannot think of a more opportune occasion to use it for the first time.”

“Continue as I have instructed, Onesayer. Dr. Hudson and General Munoz are to be eliminated.”

“At least hear me on one point, Master. Hudson could improve the odds of stopping the comet. We should not kill him yet.”

Onesayer saw the shadowy head of Uncle Rosy shake slowly from side to side. There was no other response.

Onesayer shifted nervously on his feet. “He is a genius, Master. You have often said this.”

“He is dangerous, Onesayer. We cannot tolerate someone who reads the thoughts of the citizenry and forces them to vote as he wishes!”

“I see that, Master. But . . .”

“There are no buts to be considered. When I thought of mentoing, I saw it as an aid to the economy . . . making consumption easier . . . more automatic. In my early lab work, I hoped thought transmission would make life more pleasurable for my people.”

“Hudson IS evil, but we can get him later.”

“No, Onesayer!” Uncle Rosy said angrily. “He has gone too far!”

“Learned One, you speak with anger. But the AmFeds can ill afford to lose him now . . . in the presence of such grave danger.”

“No matter, Onesayer. I have given my orders.”

“But Master—”

“You HAVE instructed our operatives to sabotage the products used by General Munoz and Dr. Hudson?”

“Uh, the contract is out on Munoz.”

“And Hudson?”

“Uh, not yet, Master.”

“I gave that order YESTERDAY, Onesayer. Why was it not completed yesterday?”

“I had hoped you might reconsider—”

“Onesayer Edward!”

“Forgive me for arguing, Learned One, but the Thousand Year Plan . . . the glory of Freeness and the AmFed Way . . . all could be destroyed! Surely this matters!”

“Much remains for you to learn, Onesayer,” the hulking shape said. “Some things can be controlled. Others cannot.”

Onesayer did not reply. He glanced at the two sayermen standing silently nearby in the hope that one would speak up on his behalf. But they said nothing, making Onesayer feel very much alone.

“They will stop this comet themselves,” Uncle Rosy said, “or it was not meant to be done.”

“I have never heard you speak this way, Master.”

“And you are disturbed?”

“I am concerned. We are responsible for the work of many lifetimes . . . for tradition and honor . . . for dreams brought to reality.”

“Well put, Onesayer. But there are forces at work here even I do not understand. I have never admitted such a thing before, and it is not to go beyond this chamber.”

“Yes, Learned One. I will follow your wishes.”

“One more thing, Onesayer. Tomorrow morning you are to notify President Ogg of the electoral conspiracy against him. Show him that they thought-speak, and assure him that we are in control of the situation. But say no more.”

As the conversation ended and Onesayer rolled out of the chamber, he felt centuries of suppressed anger coming to a head. I must kill the Master, he thought bitterly. He will never step down . . . and besides, he has gone mad! If I can hide the body and take his place . . . no one will know the difference!

For a fleeting moment, it occurred to Onesayer that there might be no body. Uncle Rosy might be a projecto-image. No, he thought. The Master leaned on one of the handles—Still, it could be a meckie. The Master might be somewhere else, watching. Or he may be dead already, and another sayerman has taken his place.

The range of possibilities nearly drove Onesayer mad.

 

It was late Saturday evening when Onesayer took the elevator to the top floor of the Black Box, rolled along a long hallway and entered his suite. As he rode the escalator to his prayer loft for the final daily prayer, Onesayer felt emotions different from any he had ever experienced before.

He reached the prayer loft landing and short-stepped off. This has always been automatic for me, he thought, but I feel . . .

Onesayer could not form the feelings into coherent thoughts. He stood for a moment staring at the bust of Uncle Rosy which rested in its usual position on the leading edge of the prayer rug. An overhead mini-spot illuminated the bust, and Onesayer recalled feeling that this gave it an inspirational appearance in the surrounding shadows of night. But the bust did not look inspirational to him now. There was something insidious about it.

I should be on that rug by now, he thought, pledging myself anew to the Master—

Onesayer rolled slowly to the sculptured bust, felt hot with anger as he reached it. I have prayed to this idol for the last time! he thought, glaring down at a “Keep the Faith” inscription on the pedestal. His foot darted forward swiftly, dealing a powerful blow to the bust. The little sculpture flew a meter and a half into the air, crashed and shattered as it fell to the hardwood floor.

Uncle Rosy’s fate as well, he thought, staring bleakly at the broken pieces. A portion of the bust’s pedestal remained intact, along with its “Keep the Faith” inscription. Words echoed in his brain: Keep the Faith . . . Keep the Faith . . . Keep the Faith. . . .

Onesayer lifted the pedestal piece angrily and hurled it to the floor. There! he thought as the piece shattered. I am free of it!

A shudder ran through his body.

* * *

The youngsayermen were gathered in the high-ceilinged gallery of the Great Temple at Pleasant Reef. They stood around Sayer Superior Lin-Ti at a glass display case, watching intently as he unlocked the case.

“This is the actual cross worn by General Munoz,” Lin-Ti said, lifting out a burnished gold cross and chain.

“Does it still work?” a youngsayerman asked.

“Oh yes,” Lin-Ti said. “Of course, we are too far from Earth to change their weather or votes. This is a mechanical device, you know. It is not spiritual. . . . ”