by Jerry
Mortonson ground out his cigarette and saw that it was his last. No more until he got back to his pension. Christ! He had to get on with this! Life is Hesitation? Desire? Longing? Sorrow? Preparation? Fruition? Coming together? Moving apart?
Mortonson rubbed his forehead and said in a loud but somewhat shaky voice, “Life is Conflagration!” There was an uncanny silence. After what he judged was a proper discretionary wait. Mortonson asked, “Uh, was that right?”
“I’m trying it out,” the noble and tremendous voice boomed. “Conflagration is too long. Blaze? Fire! Life is Fire! That fits!”
“Fire is what I meant,” Mortonson said.
“You really helped me out.” the voice said. “I was stuck on that one. Now maybe you am help me with seventy-eight across. I need to know the middle name of the inventor of the friction less star drive. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite get it. The third letter is D.”
Mortonson had been prepared for some freaky revelations, but playing Cosmic Crosswords was not his idea of where anything was at, spiritually speaking. He just couldn’t relate to it, even though it was definitely an extraordinary experience.
He relates that he thereupon turned and walked away from the voice and the higher mysteries and returned to his pension in Katmandu. Now he has gone back to his job as expediter in his father s gristle-processing plant in Skowhegan, and he takes his vacations in Majorca.
1977
THE STEEL GUARDIAN
Tom Godwin
. . . David Marmon first presented Technorder—Technological Order—in 2007; his propagandists using as their selling point to the world the claim that only the data-filled Sociological Computers, possessing all the knowledge of Mankind with none of Mankind’s emotion-caused faults such as greed, hatred, prejudice, could ever have the wisdom to comprehend the complexities of a Twenty-first Century civilization, to render all decisions with absolute justice and impartiality, and to unite Earth’s bickering four billions into a society of Utopian peace and happiness . . .
. . . and so, by 2030, the power of Technorder was complete and the world’s last wistful dream of a Utopia was gone. Conjecture upon the fact that Marmon had, at first, seemed to sincerely want his plan to succeed was of little comfort. A new plan had replaced it as his power grew and life for all but Technorder officials and Technorder Guards had become a cheerless existence of work quotas and ration cards. The remnants of the die-hard underground, the Freedomists, were all that remained to object to Technorder rule. Marmon’s computers had served him as well in directing his robot bomber fleets and other military forces against certain nations which had belatedly comprehended and tried to resist his true plan as they were to have served in bringing about a social Golden Age . . .
. . . by this time Marmon was growing old and he had already given his computers another task to perform for him: the discovery of a method of prolonging his life. Immense cybernetics and geriatric centers were built on Earth and Venus. By 2035 his death was almost at hand and the Freedomists, those who had survived more than a decade of a ruthless program of extermination by the Technorder Guards, prepared to strike on the day when the tight organization of Technorder might be loosened a little as a new leader took the seat of power. The Technorder oligarchy, suspecting, reinforced its already powerful defenses and waited . . .
Then, in rapid succession, a way was found to give Marmon near-immortality, the entire Freedomist plan of attack was learned by the Technorder Guards, and an overlooked law of Nature manifested itself with a bloody savagery that no one had anticipated . . .
—From the introduction to D.C. Clifford’s The Forbidden Triumph
The quick ominous whisper of sound came from somewhere behind them, at first so faraway and faint that Johnny Lancer could not be certain of it as he and Nona walked along the dark roadside toward their Work Corps cabin on the outskirts of Venus City. He waited for it to come again.
“I’m cold, Johnny,” Nona said. She shivered and drew her thin blouse closer around her against the steady drizzle of rain. “For ten years Technorder has kept us here in this never-ending fog and rain and cold. I wish we could see Earth again as it was before Technorder set up its police state over us all; see the bright sun and blue sky once more.”
He did not answer as he listened for the sound. It came again, perceptibly closer and unmistakable.
It was the sound that meant a Freedomist was going to die.
He saw that Nona had not heard it. He looked back where Patricia, Nona’s sister, had stopped to kneel in the wet grass and tie her sandal and he saw that Patricia had not heard it either.
They walked on. The road swung in a curve and a huge poster, already lighted by automatic switches, loomed dead ahead of them. On it a uniformed Technorder Guard stood looking down at them, tall and stern as a god, his finger pointing at them like a pistol. Underneath, in letters of yellow fire, were the words:
HELP US PROTECT YOU—REPORT AT ONCE ANYONE
YOU SUSPECT OF FREEDOMIST SYMPATHIES.
“Johnny.” Nona looked up at him, her voice tight with worry. “Patricia joined the Freedomist underground last night, didn’t she? And you, you’ve been a Freedomist a long time, haven’t you?”
He put his arm around her shoulders and said, “What makes you think that?”
“I can tell. Patricia is only seventeen, so young to have to hate and kill and die. And you—they would kill you tonight if they even suspected you were a Freedomist.”
The sound came again from somewhere behind them, much closer than before, the quick wail of a Technorder Guard siren at an intersection. Nona’s grip tightened on his arm.
“Now, even now those might be the ones coming to kill you. I wish you were out of it, both of you.”
He saw that Patricia had stopped to stare back down the road as he was doing. Nona’s grip on his arm tightened.
“Why did you make me be alone, Johnny, why didn’t you tell me so I could have joined the Freedomists, too?”
“You wouldn’t have belonged,” he said.
“I belong with you, wherever you go, whatever happens to you.”
“No,” he said and brushed the golden hair back from her face. “You are a person who could never hurt anyone, Nona, never understand why it is sometimes necessary to hate and kill.”
“Johnny, all I have is you, and Patricia. Without you I would have nothing to live for. I’m going to join and not be left alone.”
“Johnny!”
Patricia came running up to them, her dark eyes wide with alarm.
“The guard car. It’s coming up this road, without lights.”
Nona’s hand went to her throat. “No!” she whispered, and it was the cry of one who knew already she was looking at them for the last time.
“Run!” he said to Patricia. “Into the trees. Go to the lake!”
She would have protested and he gave her a shove that sent her staggering. “Run!”
She obeyed and he swung back to face the curve in the road. The police car hurtled out of the fog as he did so, its lights flashing on. Its tires screamed and it slowed to a stop beside them.
Three of the guards were out of the car and around him almost instantly, moving with swift efficiency. He did not resist, knowing beyond any doubt that if he did so Nona would try to help him and would be shot at once. One of them thrust a pistol hard against his back and the harsh voice of another said:
“Where’s the other one?”
A spotlight on the car flicked to Nona, standing wide-eyed and frozen, and beyond her. It caught Patricia’s back as she ran across the last open space short of the trees. The harsh voice spoke again:
“Drop her!”
The thick arm of the man behind him was around his throat like a vise and the muzzle of his pistol pressed harder as the pistols of the other two came up. He twisted sideways with all the strength and suddenness within his power. He broke free of the arm as the pistol cracked, burning his side. His hand ca
ught the barrel of it before it could fire again.
He was vaguely aware of the movement of the fourth guard in the car as he fought for possession of the pistol. The other two guards were shooting in a drum roll of fire and he saw Patricia lurch and fall. She staggered up again, a target the pistols could not miss.
Then Nona threw herself forward, deliberately, into the hail of fire that was seeking the life of her sister. He saw the bullets strike her, jerking at her as they tore through her. He saw her fall, her white face turned frightened and imploring toward him, trying to see him against the blinding glare of the spotlight.
It seemed to him he could hear a voice like his own, cursing in a sobbing snarl as he fought for the pistol. He tore it from the hand of the guard and shot him a fraction of a second later. He shot one of the guards who had killed Nona as the first guard was still falling.
Then a red tongue of flame lashed out at him from the car and something smashed at his skull. He tried to fire once more, to kill the other guard who had shot Nona, but consciousness and will were suddenly gone in a wave of blackness.
He was on a narrow bed in a white, barren hospital cell when confused awareness returned. A male nurse was watching him and a hypodermic needle stung his arm as he tried to sit up. Once again the blackness came.
His mind was clear when consciousness returned the second time and he had the feeling that he had been in drug-induced sleep for many hours. A wooden-faced guard, heavily armed, had replaced the male nurse. The guard stood up at once.
“Get on your clothes,” the guard ordered.
“Nona, my wife, she’s dead, isn’t she?” he asked.
“No questions, Freedomist. Just do what I said.”
He obeyed silently, hoping for a chance to overpower the guard. But the guard was too wary and was joined a minute later by another heavily armed guard.
They took him outside and he saw that he had been in the medical wing of the grim mass of concrete and steel that was Venus Prison. He was shoved into a guard car and ten minutes later they were driving into Venus City.
He wondered what their destination might be, wondered if Patricia had escaped, and knew it would do no good to ask either question.
He wondered if he was seeing Venus City for the last time and felt no sense of loss. As usual, the street traffic consisted only of Technorder official cars, guard cars, and trucks from the various Work Centers. The sidewalk traffic consisted almost entirely of workers, men and women, trudging wearily along, no one ever laughing or smiling.
Large signs were at every intersection:
DON’T LOSE YOUR PRIVILEGE TO BE A FREE TECHNORDER
WORKER—FILL THAT WORK QUOTA!
LET’S WORK HARD TO KEEP THE THREE Ps THAT DAVID
MARMON GAVE US: PROGRESS—PEACE—PROSPERITY!
LOYAL, DILIGENT TECHNORDER WORKERS ARE HAPPY WORKERS,
PROUD OF THEIR RESPONSIBILITIES—AND TECHNORDER
IS PROUD OF THEM!
They passed by a street on which an arrowed sign read:
TECHNORDER WORKERS’ REHABILITATION CENTER
That would be the road that led to the slave labor camp, where Technorder Workers who failed too often to fill their quota, regardless of health or any other reasons, were sent.
They passed by the Ration Center, where a line of Workers two blocks long was very slowly passing through. Above the entrance was an immense sign on which a painting of David Marmon was done in such a manner that the hard, selfish lines of his face were gone and he was a saint-like old man, his white hair like a halo. Underneath were the words:
WITHOUT HIM YOU WOULD NOT HAVE THIS DAILY BREAD.
They continued on, through Venus City, and to the guarded gates of the huge complex that was known as Technorder Cybernetics Center. They were passed through and he thought he knew what they were going to use him for. It was not a pleasant thought.
This particular cybernetics center had been built on Venus because the hazardous occupations of the Workers provided a continual supply of injured and dying for the computer-directed experiments and research. But there had been rumors for several weeks that the demand was exceeding the supply. Marmon was dying and the doctors and technicians were working day and night in an all-out effort to find a method of saving him. The live, healthy body of a Freedomist would be welcome.
The car stopped before what appeared to be an administrative building and he was ordered to get out. They were admitted by guards and he was taken down a corridor and into a large room.
Two men were seated at desks in the room, waiting for them. Both wore the star-and-cornucopia insignia of Technorder’s upper ranks, which meant they were from Technorder Capital on Earth.
The guard stopped him before the desk of the first one; a gaunt, gray man with a hard, thin-lipped mouth and eyes like frosted steel. Johnny recognized him—he was Home, next to Marmon the most powerful man in Technorder.
The other Technord stepped over to stand beside Home’s desk; a thick, muscular man with muddy brown eyes in a broad, swarthy face. He would be Felder, Home’s lieutenant and successor-to-be.
Home spoke without preamble, quick and hard, like the cut of a file into steel:
“You have been subjected to the hypno-drug, as was the girl. We are now familiar with all the details of your Freedomist activities.”
It was, of course, their death sentence. He did not answer or change expression.
“But your executions have been temporarily postponed,” Home said. “How long they remain postponed depends upon how well you cooperate with us and how long your cooperation is needed.”
“Cooperation?” he asked. He thought of Nona, lying small and alone and still in the cold grass, and said, “I’ll see you in hell first.”
Felder’s muddy eyes gleamed and he looked at the guards, nodding to them.
The police club of the guard on his right lashed him across the cheekbone, vicious and unexpected, in a blinding blaze of pain.
“In the future,” Felder said, “be careful to speak with respect.”
“I think you will cooperate with us,” Home continued, as though no interruption had occurred. “It concerns your wife. She is alive.”
He forgot the pain, forgot to breathe. Nona . . . alive? It was something so unexpected, so wonderful, that it was hard to comprehend. Nona alive, not killed that night.
“The adjustment of your wife has been perfect so far,” Home said. “But the doctors insist that nothing interfere with its continuance. So, until they consider it no longer necessary, you and her sister are needed to visit her and help maintain the atmosphere of quiet and normalcy the doctors have created for her.”
He felt the chill of premonition. “What do you mean? What have you done to her?”
“The doctors could save her life but not her body. Her brain has been transferred into a specially designed robot body.”
For twenty-four hours they left him in a prison cell with his tortured, conflicting emotions and the wooden-faced guard. Then he was taken again to Cybernetics Center.
It was to a different building that time. He was led down a maze of corridors and to a plain white door beside which stood a guard.
The guard stepped aside and his own guard stopped short of the door.
“You will go in alone,” his guard said. “But remember, spy-ray pickups in there will record everything you say and do.”
He went to the door, feeling his heart pound hard and slow. For a day and night he had thought of nothing but the meeting with Nona, wondering how it would be and what they would say, telling himself that he had only to pretend it was still Nona in the flesh and say to her the things he would normally say. But now the time had come and he knew it could not be like that.
He opened the door and went into the room. The door swung shut behind him and he saw her.
She was standing by the barred window, waiting for him. They had given her a body that was small and graceful, as hers had been in life, and a face that was
beautiful in the way that the hard, cold curve of steel was beautiful. But it was her own soft, gentle voice that spoke to him:
“Hello, Johnny.”
“Hello, Nona.”
And then there was nothing he could say to her. He could not say, “You look nice,” nor say, “Your own body was more beautiful.” He could not even say, “How do you feel?” Metal did not have feelings.
He went to her and stopped before her, thinking, In the past I would have kissed her. And then, God—the mockery for us both of kissing a steel face plate.
But it was still the same Nona behind the barrier. He touched her shoulder, his hand directed by the instincts of the past, and that, too, was a mockery. Her shoulder was cold metal that could not feel his touch. The Nona he had known was forever separated from him and there were no-words for him to say he was sorry in the way he wanted to say it.
“I wanted to see you, to come sooner,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me.”
“The operation was over and I was just like I am now only four hours after I last saw you,” she said. “But they’ve been testing me to make sure I’m all right.”
“They told me you were the same.” It was not what he wanted to say. “Your voice is the same. It’s as beautiful as it ever was.”
“They gave me all kinds of modulation controls so that I could speak just like I always did. I could even sing like I did before.”
Then she added, in a tone that seemed to hold the sudden, sardonic ring of brass:
“If I should ever want to.”
He had to know and he asked her:
“Are you happy, Nona?”
“Happy?” She answered slowly. “They saved my life and changed me into something different. Now I’ll live at least a thousand years like this. Shouldn’t I be happy about that?”
