by Roger Elwood
“Some day the probes would be coming home,” Harrison pointed out. “What about our denial then?”
“By that time,” said Univac, “it would be—how do you humans say it—a new ball game.”
“May I say something, sir?”
“Why, of course, Mr. Harrison. What made you think that you should ask?”
“It is simply this,” said Harrison. “You have shown yourself to be as low-down and sneaky as any human ever was. I would not have thought it of you.”
Univac chuckled at him, a ghastly chuckle. “One thing you forget,” he said. “Humans made me.”
“But that’s not good enough,” Harrison told him, sharply. “Human is not good enough. We had hoped for something better. We made you, certainly—we built you through the years. We based a culture on you, not, perhaps, because we wanted to, but because we were forced to do so. Perhaps you were no more than the least objectionable alternative, but you were all we had. We had hoped we had acted wisely and perhaps we did. But where we had no alternative before, we have none now. We are stuck with you and you, if you have a personality, an identity, a sense of I, as I think you have, likewise are stuck with us.”
"I have identity,” said Univac.
“Then, for the love of God,” said Harrison, “stop being so damn human.”
“Mr. Harrison,” asked Univac, “what would you have me be? It was you who created me and . . .”
“We created religion, too,” said Harrison. “And what did it ever do for us—the kind that we created? Not one man's concept of God, whatever it might be, but the concept of religion as created by our culture. For years we slaughtered one another in religion's name . . .”
“You created me and used me,” said Univac, “for your human purposes.”
“And you resent this?”
“No, I do not resent it. I am glad of it and, awkward as it may be for me to say it, rather proud of it. But since we're being truthful, let's be truthful all the way.”
“O.K., then,” said Harrison, “we created you and used you. We had allowed the profit motive to run away with us. We sold people things they didn't need and we built into these things imperfections so that people bought these things not once, but many times. And we changed the styles and we preached the gospel that one could not be out-of-date without, at the same time, being socially unacceptable. We improved our products and we hammered home the fact that the old models or old styles should be junked for the sake of these improvements, most of which were questionable improvements. And in order to turn out all these things for which we had created a psychological demand, we poisoned our air and water and used up our natural resources and there came a time when we had to call a halt, not to pollution so much as to the economic system that caused pollution, to that factor of our society that was eating up our coal and oil and gas.”
“But, if you recall, Mr. Harrison, I also was created by the profit motive.”
“That is true, of course. Perhaps it was somehow written in the stars that we must continue with the profit motive until we had developed the capacity for your creation.”
“You believe events may be written in the stars?”
“I don't know,” said Harrison. “But let us say that somehow, by whatever special dispensation, we were granted a second chance. That second chance was you. Today we live in cities that are you, without great demands being made upon our limited natural resources. Today we specialize in services; we take in one another’s washing. None of us is rich and none expects to be. We never think of monetary riches. And I think we may be much the happier for it. So now you must stand with us. If you don’t, we’re finished. I know there must be a million ways you could bring us to disaster.”
“You must mistake me, Mr. Harrison. I have a sense of duty, perhaps of gratitude.”
“The thing I must point out,” said Harrison, “is that the quickest way for you to ruin us is to strive too much toward humanity. We need someone who thinks a little differently, someone who may understand and sympathize with our human needs and aims, but who can stand off a little distance and tell us when we’re wrong and why we happen to be wrong. We would not, as I say, give up human judgment or any shred of our humanity, but now we need someone else, another kind of judgment to balance against our human judgment.”
“You think this matter of immortality . . .”
“That’s exactly what I mean. I came as close as I could. I think no human could come closer. But there is something, some blind wall, intruding from the human past, that makes human judgment in this area quite impossible. Here we need another kind of judgment, not to negate human judgment, not to rule it out, but to correlate with it. A survey panel, let us say.”
“I could think on it,” said Univac. “I could let you know. But I feel uncomfortable .. .”
“I know you do,” said Harrison. “I know exactly how you feel. Don’t you think I feel it, too? I giving up something that was an exclusively human function; you taking on something that is a small step beyond your province. But if we are to make it, if we are to carry on the human dream, each of us must do it. For this is not the only case. This may be the first one, but there will be others, many others as the years go on.”
"I hope that you are right, sir.”
“I hope so, too,” said Harrison.
“I will let you know.”
“Thanks,” said Harrison. “I’ll look forward to it.”
The face of Univac faded and Harrison rose from his chair and went into the living room.
“It was a hard day, sir,” said Harley.
“Yes, Harley, I think you could call it that.”
“And now another drink?”
“That would be very fine.”
“You are sure that is all.”
“Quite sure. No beach, no ski slope, no . ..”
“I am aware of that,” said Harley, hastily. “I thought perhaps a little music.”
“I want to think,” Harrison said, sharply.
“But man has thought so long,” said Harley, “of so many things.”
“That is right,” said Harrison, “and he’s never going to quit. The best that he can hope for is a little help to keep his thinking straight.”
He sat in the chair in the tiny living room, with the drink in hand.
Sellout, he wondered, or a big stride forward?
Mommy Loves Ya
DAVID H. CHARNEY
Karen stood behind the twisted steel girder and watched the kids gang up on the old lady. It was a warm, crisp smelling, October day and the naked children screeched with laughter as the old one tried to avoid the rocks and sticks. Each time a rock hit her she would do a spastic dance and the children would double over, holding their sides and gasping for breath. She shook a fist at them, cursing from her toothless mouth.
“Rat meat, rat meat! Not even good enough to eat,” the little ones chanted, throwing more sticks and stones.
Karen’s son, Tommy, stayed on the outskirts of the crowd. He wasn’t laughing with the others. His face kept puckering up. He wanted to cry but was holding it in. Karen had taught him that four-year-olds never cried but Tommy was like his mother, too emotional.
One of the bigger children pushed him forward shouting, “Lookit, lookit!”
The old woman had fallen to her bony knees and was scrambling on all fours trying to get over the camp barrier. The children redoubled their efforts, still laughing, but a hysterical note crept in.
Tommy turned and ran from the crowd, tears stinging his eyes. The sound of chanting followed him. “Rat meat, rat meat! Not even good enough to eat.” He ran back to where Karen stood. “Mommy, Mommy,” he cried.
Karen felt her own eyes fill with tears. “Tommy,” she crooned. “It’s all right, honey. Mommy loves ya. Don’t cry, it’s all right, it’s all right.”
“Mommy, I’m scared. Why do they do that? Why, Mommy?”
“It’s all right, honey. When you’re older you’ll understand.
Come on, dear. Let’s go to Daddy.”
Karen took Tommy’s hand and led the way through the debris. The camp area on Sixty-seventh Street was protected by stone barricades on all sides. Each family of the tribe had its own living unit hidden in the square block. Only the steel girders and heavy cement foundations of the original buildings still stood. Karen went by a tortuous route till she came to her place. She knocked at the entry till her husband let her in.
Harold was one of the strongest of the “midtowners.” He and his family ate regularly and his cave was well protected. It was in the foundation of an old building. A trapdoor with a solid drop bolt guarded the entrance. The area was large but dark. Electrical connections were on every wall but no current had run in them for over fifty years. The furniture was sparse, a table of wood and seats scavenged from old car wrecks. The chimney never worked so the room always smelled of stale wood smoke.
Karen was happy there. She had Tommy to love, and Harold was good to her. She had been taken in a raid uptown over five years ago and already her memories of childhood had faded. She was taller and darker than most of the midtowners. Her long, black hair fell over a thin, sensitive face. Her broad cheekbones accentuated the pointed chin. At the ripe age of eighteen, with a child of four, she had no real complaints. Harold was a good provider even if he didn't show the affection she had been used to as a child. She made up for the lack by lavishing attention on Tommy. The boy was a miniature of his mother, reproducing her heart-shaped face and mirroring her emotional volatility.
Harold was eating a rat thigh, the fat making matted patches on his beard. “How come you’re back so early?” he asked.
“Tommy didn’t want to run with the kids anymore.”
“He’s getting to be more like you everyday. He’d better toughen up. If he don’t somebody is gonna grab him for dinner one day.”
Karen made a face. “Things aren’t that bad yet,” she said. “We’ve always had plenty of rat meat. I don’t like , to talk about eating people. I think it’s disgusting.”
“Your folks, uptown, could afford to feel like that. They had plenty to eat, but when you’re hungry for protein, people taste pretty good.”
Karen shuddered. “Let’s talk about something else,” she said.
Harold wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Karen couldn’t help admiring the sleek look of him. Harold was almost fat; no ribs showed and his stomach actually protruded.
“Tomorrow we re crossing town for a meat hunt. One of the scouts found a big rat’s nest in a parking garage. There should be enough meat to last into winter.”
“Harold, I’ve got a bad feeling about tomorrow. You be careful.”
“You and your feelings.” Harold laughed. “They wasted your time teaching you when you were a kid. Maybe I can’t read or write but I learned how to hunt and fight. That’s what you need in this world.”
Karen said, “Someday things will be different again, if
we don’t forget we’re human. We can have a good world just like it used to be.”
“I know the old stories about when cars rolled and men flew. They don’t mean a thing now.” Harold started polishing his axe as if it were not already gleaming.
Karen sat with her arms around Tommy, watching. “Don’t put me down because you have no feelings.”
“Hell.” Harold raised his axe. “This is the only feeling I have to know. A sharp edge and a good arm.”
“Love is more important. Your love for me and Tommy. You do love us, don’t you?”
“Karen, you keep saying love.’ Look around and see what love did to our world. A hundred years ago we had animals, birds, and fish. No more! We killed them all off; now it’s just us, the rats, and the bugs. Don’t say love to me. You, Tommy, and my axe are all I have; you belong to me and don’t forget it.”
Harold grabbed her arm and squeezed till her face crumpled in tears. “I don’t care what you say,” she sobbed. “I love you and always will.”
The next day the tribe set out across town. Karen, with the other women and children, brought up the rear, while the male hunters led the way. Scouts ranged ahead of the column checking the abandoned cars that filled the streets. Their neighbors would be happy to pick off stragglers for anything they could get.
In crossing the dead streets the group made regular detours around areas where car bodies blocked the streets. The city had never cleaned up after the violence of July, 2052. In one hot summer week over a hundred thousand cars had been overturned or smashed in the streets. Lack of gas and oil had already made the vehicles almost obsolete, and the week of welfare riots had only hastened the death of the city.
The women kept a constant watch for anything usable as they trailed the hunters, but fifty years of scavenging had left little to be found.
When the group finally reached its goal, Martin, the leader of the hunters, had the women and children positioned where they could watch but stay out of the way.
The hunters quickly surrounded the underground parking lot. Each exit was covered by at least two armed men. At a signal from the leader, the main group slipped into the Sixty-fifth Street entrance. They started moving through the parked cars, banging on the hoods with their weapons. The noise echoed from the cement walls. Different cars made different notes and the effect was that of a giant orchestra tuning up for a concert. Dust clouds rose from the metal bodies, forming and reforming, as the men climbed by them. The stale smell of rat excrement, carried by the dust, clogged their nostrils.
Most of the cars were stripped down to the barest chassis; every usable bit of leather and rubber had been ripped out. The metal parts were covered with scabrous layers of rust, the paint long gone.
The point man shouted. The first rat had been sighted. The beaters moved faster, starting a pincer movement. They were all shouting now, sweat gleaming on their scrawny, near naked bodies. Karen could see their tangled hair and beards bouncing as they leaped over the wrecks, closing in on the game.
The rat pack swung toward the Columbus Avenue side where Harold was stationed. The men sped up, running along the junk-strewn walkways. A grey flood erupted from the sea of wrecks and poured towards the exit. The rats ranged from six-inch babies to three-foot monsters all blindly driving to escape.
Karen saw Harold's partner swamped in the first wave. He sank silently beneath the tide of hairy bodies. For a moment his kicking feet were visible before he disappeared. The women were all screaming encouragement as Harold swung his axe with demonic fury, holding the rats off till the others could wade in and help.
A giant rodent leaped under the axe blade and sank its teeth into Harold’s thigh; its naked tail twitched even after he smashed its skull.
Karen saw Harold’s face twist with pain. He pried open the dead jaws and hobbled along the wall away from the slaughter. “Oh, my God,” thought Karen. “He’s hurt bad.”
Martin blew a note on his horn and the hunters pulled back. There were over sixty dead rats lying by the gateway. A mountain of protein! The tribe fell on the bodies, sorting them into groups and tieing their tails so they could be carried easily.
Harold’s companion lay at the bottom of the grey mountain, his throat tom by the rodent teeth.
Karen turned away in disgust as she saw his body added to the food supply. The hunters now moved noisily, but quickly, eager to get the meat back to camp.
Karen picked up Tommy and slipped away. She had seen Harold dragging his bleeding leg to a toll booth, his expression agonized. “My poor dear,” she thought, realizing what a serious wound could mean.
Karen knew she would stay with her man, no matter what. She hid in one of the wrecks, whispering over and over to Tommy, “Mommy loves ya. Mommy loves ya.”
When the last of the tribe was gone she pulled Tommy to where Harold had disappeared.
“Harold, Harold, are you still in there?” she asked, raising her voice.
“Yes . . .” he called weakly to her.
He had ma
de a tourniquet of his waistband and bandages of the loincloth, using spit to clean the wound. His naked body was covered with a mixture of fine dust and sweat. The area around the bite looked purple and swollen where the poison from the rat’s jaws had spread.
“Mommy, I don’t like it here,” said Tommy.
“Shut the kid up and get in here. I need help.”
Karen gasped when she saw the wound close-up. “Lie down,” she ordered. Tearing off the dirty bandage, she bent over the thigh and sucked at the poison. She forced the blood to flow again and kept drawing it into her mouth and spitting it out. When she felt it was clean enough she replaced the bandage.
“What’ll we do now?” she asked.
“I can’t cross town this way. We’ll have to wait and see if we can get back tomorrow. Find a place for yourself and the kid. I’ll sleep in here.”
They were all hungry from the day without food but so tired from the strain of the hunt that sleeping should have been no problem. Karen and Tommy found a booth nearby and the baby fell asleep in her arms. She stayed awake a long time, listening to Harold tossing and turning in discomfort. Eventually he, too, fell asleep and she let herself relax.
The next day Harold walked with difficulty. His leg was swollen and discolored and he complained that his knee was stiff and painful. Tommy, hungry and afraid, was crying constantly. Karen, ignoring her own hunger, helped Harold along the broken streets. The skeleton city hovering over their heads held few dangers except from other men; they made their home block long before dark.
The outpost guard, sighting them from the barricade, called back into the camp. Almost immediately a group of men and boys ran, noisily, to the walls. Martin, the block leader, climbed the barrier and signaled for silence.
“What happened?” he called down.
Harold, hobbling slowly toward the camp, pointed to his leg. “Rat bite,” he said. “Pretty bad, but I think it’ll be all right soon.”
“Stop right there.” Martin held up one bony hand. “We can’t afford to feed cripples. Protein is too hard to find. Stay away from camp. If you’re O.K. next spring, you can come back.”
