Guaranteed to be what? Hendrik Schultz looked just like Santa Claus minus the beard and not at all like my friend Enrico, so I keyed him out-reluctantly, as I felt kinship with the Reverend Doctor. "Gwen, he's not in the directory, or not in it by the name on his Golden Rule ID. Does that mean he was never in it? Or that his name was removed last night before his body was cold?"
"Do you expect an answer? Or are you thinking aloud?"
"Neither one, I guess. Our next move is to query the hub- right?" I checked the directory, then called the office of immigration at the hub. "This is Dr. Richard Ames speaking. I'm trying to locate a habitant named Enrico Schultz. Can you give me his address?"
"Why don't you look him up in the directory?" (She sounded just like my third-grade teacher-not a recommendation.)
"He's not in the directory. He's a tourist, not a subscriber. I just want his address in Golden Rule. Hotel, pension, whatever."
"Tut, tut! You know quite well that we don't give out personal information, even on marks. If he's not listed, then he paid fair and square not to be listed. Do unto others. Doctor, lest ye be done unto." She switched off.
"Where do we ask now?" inquired Gwen.
"Same place, same seatwarmer-but with cash and in person. Terminals are convenient, Gwen... but not for bribery in amounts of less than a hundred thousand. For a small squeeze, cash and in person is more practical. Coming with me?"
"Do you think you can leave me behind? On our wedding day? Just try it, buster!"
"Put some clothes on, maybe?"
"Are you ashamed of the way I look?"
"Not at all. Let's go."
"I give in. Half a sec, while I find my slippers. Richard, can we go via my compartment? At the ballet last night I felt very chic but my gown is too dressy for public corridors at this time of day. I want to change."
"Your slightest wish, ma'am. But that brings up another point. Do you want to move in here?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Gwen, it has been my experience that marriage can sometimes stand up against twin beds but almost never against twin addresses."
"You didn't quite answer me."
"So you noticed. Gwen, I have this one nasty habit. Makes me hard to live with. I write."
The dear girl looked puzzled. "So you've told roe. But why do you call it a nasty habit?"
"Uh... Gwen my love, I am not going to apologize for writing... anymore than I would apologize for this missing foot... and in truth the one led to the other. When I could no longer follow the profession of arms, I had to do something to eat. I wasn't trained for anything else and back home some other kid had my paper route. But writing is a legal way of avoiding work without actually stealing and one that doesn't take any talent or training.
"But writing is antisocial. It's as solitary as masturbation. Disturb a writer when he is in the throes of creation and he is likely to turn and bite right to the bone... and not even know that he's doing it. As writers' wives and husbands often learn to their horror.
"And-attend me carefully, Gwen!-there is no way that writers can be tamed and rendered civilized. Or even cured. In a household with more than one person, of which one is a writer, the only solution known to science is to provide the patient with an isolation room, where he can endure the acute stages in private, and where food can be poked in to him with a stick. Because, if you disturb the patient at such times, he may break into tears or become violent. Or he may not hear you at all... and, if you shake him at this stage, he bites."
I smiled my best smile. "Don't worry, darling. At present
I am not working on a story and I will avoid starting one until we arrange such an isolation chamber for me to work in. This place isn't big enough and neither is yours. Mmm, even before we go to the hub, I want to call the Manager's office and see what larger compartments are available. We'll need two terminals also."
"Why two, dear? I don't use a terminal much."
"But when you do, you need it. When I'm using this one in wordprocessing mode, it can't be used for anything else- no newspaper, no mail, no shopping, no programs, no personal calls, nothing. Believe me, darling; I've had this disease for years, I know how to manage it. Let me have a small room and a terminal, let me go into it and seal the door behind me, and it will be just like having a normal, healthy husband who goes to the office every morning and does whatever it is men do in offices-I've never known and have never been much interested in finding out."
"Yes, dear. Richard, do you enjoy writing?"
"No one enjoys writing."
"I wondered. Then I must tell you that I didn't quite tell you the truth when I said that I had married you for your money."
"And I didn't quite believe you. We're even.**
"Yes, dear. I really can afford to keep you as a pet. Oh, I can't buy you yachts. But we can live in reasonable comfort here in Golden Rule-not the cheapest place in the Solar System. You won't have to write."
I stopped to kiss her, thoroughly and carefully. "I'm glad I married you. But I will indeed have to write."
"But you don't enjoy it and we don't need the money. Truly we don't!"
"Thank you, my love. But I did not explain to you the other insidious aspect of writing. There is no way to stop. Writers go on writing long after it becomes financially unnecessary... because it hurts less to write than it does not to write."
"I don't understand."
"I didn't either, when I took that first fatal step-a short story, it was, and I honestly thought I could quit anytime. Never mind, dear. In another ten years you will understand. Just pay no attention to me when I whimper. Doesn't mean anything- just the monkey on my back."
"Richard? Would psychoanalysis help?"
"Can't risk it. I once knew a writer who tried that route. Cured him of writing all right. But did not cure him of the need to write. The last I saw of him he was crouching in a comer, trembling. That was his good phase. But the mere sight of a wordprocessor would throw him into a fit."
"Uh... that bent for mild exaggeration?"
"Why, Gwen! I could take you to him. Show you his gravestone. Never mind, dear; I'm going to call the Manager's housing desk." I turned back to the terminal-
-just as the dum thing lit up like a Christmas tree and the emergency bell chimed steadily. I flipped the answer switch. "Ames here! Are we broached?"
Words sounded while letters streamed across the face of the CRT, and the printer started a printout without my telling it to-I hate it when it does that.
"Official to Dr. Richard Ames: The Management finds that the compartment you now occupy designated 715301 at 65-15-0.4 is urgently needed. You are notified to vacate at once. Unused rent has been applied to your account, plus a free bonus of fifty crowns for any inconvenience this may cause you. Order signed by Arthur Middlegaff, Manager's Proxy for Housing. Have a Nice Day!"
IV
"I go on working for the same reason a hen goes on laying eggs.**
H. L. MENCKEN 1880-1956
My eyes grew wide. "Oh, goody goody cheesecakes! Fifty whole crowns-golly! Gwen! Now you can marry me for my money!"
"Do you feel well, dear? You paid more than that for a bottle of wine just last night. I think it's perfectly stinking. Insulting."
"Of course it is, darling. It is intended to make me angry, in addition to the inconvenience of forcing me to move. So I won't."
"Won't move?"
"No, no. I'll move at once. There are ways to fight city hall but refusing to move is not one of them. Not while the Manager's Proxy can cut off power and ventilation and water and sanitary service. No, dear, the intention is to get me angry, ruin my judgment, and get me to make threats that can't be carried out."
I smiled at my darling. "So I won't get angry and I'll move right out of here, meek as a lamb... and the intense anger that I feel down inside will be kept there, out of sight, until it's useful to me. Besides, it changes nothing, as I was about to apply for a larger compartment-one more room, at least
- for us. So I'll call him back-dear Mr. Middlegaff, I mean."
I keyed for directory again, not knowing offhand the call code of the housing office. I punched the "execute" key.
And got a display on the screen of 'TERMINAL OUT OF SERVICE."
I stared at it while I counted ten, backwards, in Sanskrit. Dear Mr. Middlegaff, or the Manager himself, or someone, was trying hard to get my goat. So above all I must not let it happen. Think calm, soothing thoughts, suitable for a fakir on a bed of nails. Although there did not seem to be any harm in thinking about frying his gonads for lunch once I knew who he was. With soy sauce? Or just garlic butter and a dash of salt?
Thinking about this culinary choice did calm me a bit. I found myself unsurprised and not materially more annoyed when the display changed from 'TERMINAL OUT OF SERVICE" to "POWER AND POWER-DEPENDENT SERVICES WILL TERMINATE AT 1300." This was replaced by a time display in large figures: 1231-and this changed to 1232 as I looked at it.
"Richard, what in the world are they doing?"
"Still trying to drive me out of my skull, I surmise. But we won't let them. Instead we'll spend twenty-eight minutes- no, twenty-seven-clearing out five years of junk."
"Yessir. How can I help?"
"That's my girl! Small wardrobe out here, big one in the bedroom-throw everything on the bed. On the shelf in the big wardrobe is a duffel bag, a big jumpbag. Stuff everything into it as tightly as possible. Don't sort. Hold out that robe you wore at breakfast and use it to make a bundle out of anything that you can't jam into the duffel bag; tie it with its sash."
"Your toilet articles?"
"Ah, yes. Plastic bag dispenser in buttery-just dump 'em into a bag and shove them in with the bundle. Honey, you're going to make a wonderful wife!"
"You are so right. Long practice, dear-widows always make the best wives. Want to hear about my husbands?"
"Yes but not now. Save it for some long evening when you have a headache and I'm too tired." Having dumped ninety percent of my packing onto Gwen I tackled the hardest ten percent: my business records and files.
Writers are pack rats, mostly, whereas professional military leam to travel light, again mostly. This dichotomy could have made me schizoid were it not for the most wonderful invention for writers since the eraser on the end of a pencil: electronic files.
I use Sony Megawafers, each good for half a million words, each two centimeters wide, three millimeters thick, with information packed so densely that it doesn't bear thinking about. I sat down at the terminal, took off my prosthesis (peg leg, if you prefer), opened its top. Then I removed all my memory wafers from the terminal's selector, fed them into the cylinder that is the "shinbone" of my prosthesis, closed it and put it back on.
I now had all the files necessary to my business: contracts, business letters, file copies of my copyrighted works, general correspondence, address files, notes for stories to be written, tax records, et cetera, and so forth, ad nauseam. Before the days of electronic filing these records would have been a tonne and a half of paper in half a tonne of steel, all occupying several cubic meters. Now they massed only a few grams and occupied space no larger than my middle finger-twenty million words of file storage.
The wafers were totally encased in that "bone" and thereby safe from theft, loss, and damage. Who steals another man's prosthesis? How can a cripple forget his artificial foot? He may take it off at night but it is the first thing he reaches for in getting out of bed.
Even a holdup man pays no attention to a prosthesis. In my case most people never know that I am wearing one. Just once have I been separated from it: An associate (not a friend) took mine away from me in locking me up overnight-we had had a difference of opinion over a business matter. But I managed to escape, hopping on one foot. Then I parted his hair with his fireplace poker and took my other foot, some papers, and my departure. The writing business, basically sedentary, does have its brisk moments.
The time on the terminal read 1254 and we were almost through. I had only a handful of books-bound books, with words printed on paper-as I did my research, such as it was, through the terminal. These few Gwen stuffed into the bundle she had made from my robe. "What else?" she demanded.
"I think that's all. I'll make a fast inspection and we'll shove anything we've missed out into the corridor, then figure out what to do with it after they turn out the lights."
"How about that bonsai tree?" Gwen was eyeing my rock maple, some eighty years old and only thirty-nine centimeters high.
"No way to pack it, dear. And, besides, it requires watering several times a day. The sensible thing is to will it to the next tenant."
"In a pig's eye, chief. You'll carry it by hand to my compartment while I drag the baggage along behind."
(I had been about to add that "the sensible thing" has never appealed to me.) "We're going to your compartment?"
"How else, dear? Certainly we need a bigger place but our urgent need is any sort of roof over our heads. As it looks like snow by sundown."
"Why, so it does! Gwen, remind me to tell you that I'm glad I thought of marrying you."
"You didn't think of it; men never do.**
"Really?"
'Truly. But I'll remind you, anyhow."
"Do that. I'm glad you thought of marrying me. I'm glad you did marry me. Will you promise to keep me from doing the sensible thing from here on?"
She did not commit herself as the lights blinked twice and we were suddenly very busy, Gwen in putting everything out into the corridor while I made a frantic last go-around. The lights blinked again, I grabbed my cane, and got out the door just as it contracted behind me. "Whew!"
"Steady there, boss. Breathe slowly. Count ten before you exhale, then let it out slowly." Gwen patted my back.
"We should have gone to Niagara Falls. I told you so. I told you."
"Yes, Richard. Pick up the little tree. At this gee I can handle both the bag and the bundle, one in each hand. Straight up to zero gee?"
"Yes but I carry the duffel bag and the tree. I'll strap my cane to the bag."
"Please don't be macho, Richard. Not when we're so busy."
" 'Macho' is a put-down word, Gwen. Using it again calls for a spanking; use it a third time and I beat you with this here cane. I'll damn well be macho anytime I feel like it."
"Yes, sir. Me Jane, you Tarzan. Pick up the little tree. Please."
We compromised. I carried the duffel bag and used my cane to steady myself; Gwen carried the bundle with one hand, the bonsai maple with the other. She was unbalanced and kept shifting sides with the bundle. Gwen's proposed arrangement was, I must admit, more sensible, as the weight would not have been too much for her at that acceleration and it fell off steadily as we climbed up to zero gee. I felt sheepish, a touch ashamed... but it is a temptation to a cripple to prove, especially to women, that he can so do everything he used to do. Silly, because anyone can see that he can't. I don't often give in to the temptation.
Once we were floating free at the axis we moved right along, with our burdens tethered to us, while Gwen guarded the little tree with both hands. When we reached her ring, Gwen took both pieces of luggage and I did not argue. The trip took less than a half hour. I could have ordered a freight cage-but we might still be waiting for it. A "labor-saving device" often isn't.
Gwen put down her burdens and spoke to her door.
It did not open.
Instead the door answered, "Mistress Novak, please call the Manager's housing office at once. The nearest public terminal is at ring one-hundred-five, radius one-thirty-five degrees, acceleration six-tenths gravity, next to the personnel transport facility. That terminal will accept your call free of charge, courtesy of Golden Rule."
I cannot say that I was much surprised. But I admit that I was dreadfully disappointed. Being homeless is somewhat like being hungry. Maybe worse.
Gwen behaved as if she had not heard that dismal announcement. She said to me, "Sit down on the duffel bag, Richard, and take
it easy. I don't think I'll be long."
She opened her purse, dug into it, came up with a nail file and a bit of wire, a paper clip, I believe. Humming a monotonous little tune she started to work on the compartment's door.
I helped by not offering advice. Not a word. It was difficult but I managed it.
Gwen stopped humming and straightened up. "There!" she announced. The door opened wide.
She picked up my bonsai maple-our bonsai maple. "Come in, dear. Better leave the duffel bag across the threshold for now, so that the door won't pucker up. It's dark inside."
I followed her in. The only light inside was from the screen on her terminal: ALL SERVICES SUSPENDED
She ignored it and dug into her purse, brought out a finger torch, then used its light to get into a drawer in her buttery, took out a long, slender screwdriver, a pair ofAutoloc tweezers, a nameless tool that may have been homemade, and a pair of high-pot gloves in her slender size. "Richard, will you hold the light for me, pretty please?"
The access plate she wished to reach was high up over her microwaver and was locked and decorated with the usual signs warning tenants against even looking cross-eyed at it, much less touching it, with incantations of "Danger! Do Not Tamper- Call Maintenance," etc. Gwen climbed up, sat on the oven top, and opened the access plate with just a touch; the lock apparently had been disabled earlier.
Then she worked very quietly save for that monotonous little hum, plus an occasional request for me to move the torch light. Once she produced a really spectacular fireworks display which caused her to cluck reprovingly and murmur, "Naughty, naughty. Mustn't do that to Gwen." She then worked most slowly for a few more moments. The compartment's lights came on, accompanied by that gentle purr of a live room- air, micromotors, etc.
She closed the access plate. "Will you help me down, dear?"
I lifted her down with both hands, held on to her, claimed a kiss for payment. She smiled up at me. "Thank you, sir! My, my, I had forgotten how nice it is to be married. We should get married more often."
The Cat Who Walked Through Walls Page 4
