(It was hoped in the research labs of the Companies that the goo never discovered what it wanted to become.)
“Killed,” it was a tasty meal.
Harvesting factories—the TexasTowers—were erected by each of the Companies, and harvesters were trained. They drew the highest wages of any nontechnical occupation in the world. It was not due to the long hours, or the exhausting labor. The pay was, in fact, legally referred to as “high-hazard pay.”
Joe Pareti had danced the educational pavane and had decided the tune was not nearly sprightly enough for him. He became a harvester. He never really understood why all the credits being deposited in his account were called high-hazard pay.
He was about to find out.
It was a song that ended in a scream. And then he woke up. The night’s sleep had held no rest. Eleven hours on his back; eleven hours of helpless drudgery; and at last an escape, an absurd transition into exhausted wakefulness. For a moment he lay there, he couldn’t move.
Then getting to his feet, he found himself fighting for balance. Sleep had not used him well.
Sleep had scoured his skin with emery paper.
Sleep had polished his fingers with diamond dust.
Sleep had abraded his scalp.
Sleep had sandblasted his eyes.
Oh dear God, he thought, feeling pain in every nerve ending. He stumbled to the toilet and hit the back of his neck a sharp, short blast with the needle-spray of the shower head. Then he went to the mirror, and automatically pulled his razor out of the charge niche. Then he looked at himself in the mirror, and stopped.
Sleep had: scoured his skin with emery paper; polished his fingers with diamond dust, abraded his scalp, sandblasted his eyes.
It was barely a colorful way of putting it. Almost literally, that was what had happened to him while he had slept.
He stared into the mirror, and recoiled from the sight. If this is what sex with that damned Flinn does to a guy I’m going celibate.
He was totally bald.
The wispy hair he recalled brushing out of his face during the previous on-shift was gone. His head was smooth and pale as a fortune teller’s crystal ball.
He had no eyelashes.
He had no eyebrows.
His chest was smooth as a woman’s.
His pubis had been denuded.
His fingernails were almost translucent, as though the uppermost layers of dead horn had been removed.
He looked in the mirror again. He saw himself...more or less. Not very much less, actually: no more than a pound of him was gone. But it was a noticeable pound.
His hair.
Assorted warts, moles, scar tissue and calluses.
The protective hairs in his nostrils.
His kneecaps, elbows and heels were scoured pink.
Joe Pareti found that he was still holding the razor. He put it down. And stared at himself in horrified fascination for several timeless moments. He had a ghastly feeling he knew what had happened to him. I’m in deep trouble, he thought.
He went looking for the TexasTower’s doctor. He was not in the sickbay. He found him in the pharmacology lab. The doctor took one look and preceded him back to sickbay. Where he confirmed Pareti’s suspicions.
The doctor was a quiet, orderly man named Ball. Very tall, very thin, with an irreducible amount of professional ghoulishness. Normally he was inclined to gloom; but looking at the hairless Pareti he cheered perceptibly.
Pareti felt himself being dehumanized. He had followed Ball into the sickbay as a man; now he felt himself transformed into a specimen, a diseased culture to be peered at under a macroscope.
“Hah, yes,” the doctor said. “Interesting. Would you turn your head, please? Good...good...fine, now blink.”
Pareti did as he was told. Ball jotted down notes, turned on the recording cameras, and hummed to himself as he arranged a tray of shining instruments.
“You’ve caught it, of course,” Ball said, almost as an afterthought.
“Caught what?” Pareti demanded, hoping he’d get some other answer.
“Ashton’s Disease. Goo infection, if you like, but we call it Ashton’s, after the first case.” Then he chuckled to himself: “I don’t suppose you thought it was dermatitis?”
Pareti thought he heard eerie music, an organ, a harpsichord.
Ball went on. “Your case is atypical, just like all the others, so, really, that makes it typical. It has a rather ugly Latin name, as well, but Ashton’s will do.”
“Stuff all that,” Pareti said angrily. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Why do you think you get high-hazard, why do you think they keep me on-board? I’m no G.P., I’m a specialist. Of course I’m absolutely sure. You’re only the sixth recorded case. Lancet and the AMA Journal will be interested. In fact, with the proper presentation Scientific American might care to publish an article.”
“What can you do for me?” Pareti snapped.
“I can offer you a drink of excellent prewar Bourbon,” Dr. Ball said. “Not a specific for your ailment, but good for the whole man, so to speak.”
“Stop screwing around with me. I don’t think it’s a ha ha. Isn’t there anything else? You’re a specialist!”
Ball seemed to realize for the first time that his black humor was not being received with wild enthusiasm. “Mr. Pareti, medical science admits of no impossibility, not even the reversal of biological death. But that is a statement of theory. There are many things we could try. We could hospitalize you, stuff you with drugs, irradiate your skin, smear you with calamine lotion, even conduct experiments in homeopathy and acupuncture and moxibustion. But this would have no practical effect, except to make you very uncomfortable. In the present state of our knowledge, Ashton’s is irreversible and, uh, terminal.”
Pareti swallowed hard at the last word.
Oddly, Ball smiled and added, “You might as well relax and enjoy it.”
Pareti moved a step toward him, angrily. “You’re a morbid son of a bitch!”
“Please excuse my levity,” the doctor said quickly. “I know I have a dumb sense of humor. I don’t rejoice in your fate...really, I don’t...I’m bored on this desolate Tower...I’m happy to have some real work. But I can see you don’t know much about Ashton’s...the disease may not be too difficult to live with.”
“I thought you said it was terminal?”
“So I did. But then, everything is terminal, even health, even life itself. The question is how long, and in what manner.”
Pareti slumped down into a Swedish-designed relaxer chair that converted—when the stirrups were elevated—into a dilation-and-curettage brace-framework for abortions. “I have a feeling you’re going to lecture me,” he said, with sudden exhaustion.
“Forgive me. It’s so dull for me here.”
“Go on, go on, for Christ’s sake.” Pareti wobbled his hand wearily.
“Well, the answer is ambiguous, but not unpromising,” Ball said, settling with enthusiasm into his recitation. “I told you, I believe, that the most typical thing about the disease is its atypicality. Let us consider your illustrious predecessors.
“Case One died within a week of contracting the disease, apparently of a pneumonic complication...”
Pareti looked sick. “Swell,” he said.
“Ah! But Case Two,” Ball caroled. “Case Two was Ashton, after whom the Disease was named. He became voluble, almost echolalic. One day, before a considerable crowd, he levitated to a height of eighteen feet. He hung there without visible support, haranguing the crowd in a hermetic language of his own devising. Then he vanished, into thin air (but not too thin for him) and was never heard from again. Hence, Ashton’s Disease. Case Three...”
“What happened to Ashton?” Pareti asked, a vapor of hysteria in his voice.
Ball spread his hands, without an answer.
Pareti looked away.
“Case Three found that he could live underwater, though not in the air. He spent tw
o happy years in the coral reefs off Marathon, Florida.”
“What happened to him?” Pareti asked.
“A pack of dolphins did him in. It was the first recorded instance of a dolphin attacking a man. We have often wondered what he said to them.”
“And the others?”
“Case Four is currently living in the Ausable Chasm community. He operates a mushroom farm. He’s become quite rich. We can’t detect any effect of the disease beyond loss of hair and dead skin (in that way, your cases are similar, but it may be just coincidence). He has a unique way with mushrooms, of course.”
“That sounds good.” Pareti brightened.
“Perhaps. But Case Five is unfortunate. A really amazing degeneration of the organs, accompanied by a simultaneous external growth of same. This left him with a definitely surrealistic look: heart hanging below his left armpit, intestines wrapped around his waist, that sort of thing. Then he began to develop a chitinous exoskeleton, antennae, scales, feathers—his body couldn’t seem to decide what it was evolving into. It opted at last for earthwormdom, an anaerobic species, quite unusual. He was last seen burrowing into sandy loam near Point Judith. Sonar followed him for several months, all the way to central Pennsylvania.”
Pareti shuddered. “Did he die then?”
Again, Ball spread his hands, no answer. “We don’t know. He may be in a burrow, quiescent, parthenogenetic, hatching the eggs of an inconceivable new species. Or he may have evolved into the ultimate skeletal form...unliving, indestructible rock.”
Pareti clasped his hairless hands, and shivered like a child. “Jesus,” he murmured, “what a beautiful prospect. Something I can really look forward to.”
“The form of your particular case might be pleasant,” Ball ventured.
Pareti looked up at him with open malice. “Aren’t you the smooth bastard, though! Sit out here in the water and laugh your ass off while the goo nibbles on some guy you never met before. What the hell do you do for amusement, roast cockroaches and listen to them scream?”
“Don’t blame me, Mr. Pareti,” the doctor said evenly. “You chose your line of work, not I. You were advised of the risks—”
“They said hardly anybody caught the goo disease, it was all in the small type on the contract,” Pareti burst in.
“—but you were advised of the risks,” Ball pressed on, “and you received hazard-bonus accordingly. You never complained during the three years that money was being poured into your account, you shouldn’t bellyache now. It’s rather unseemly. After all, you make approximately eight times my salary. That should buy you a lot of balm.”
“Yeah, I made the bonuses,” Pareti snarled, “and now I’m really earning it! The Company—”
“The Company,” Ball said, with great care, “is absolutely free of responsibility. You should indeed have read all that tiny type. But you’re correct: you are earning the bonuses now. In effect you were paid to expose yourself to a rare disease. You were gambling with the Company’s money that you wouldn’t contract Ashton’s. You gambled, and unfortunately, seem to have lost.”
“Not that I’m getting any,” Pareti said archly, “but I’m not asking for your sympathy. I’m only asking for your professional advice, which you are paid—overpaid, in my estimation—to give. I want to know what I should do...and what I ought to expect.”
Ball shrugged. “Expect the unexpected, of course. You’re only the sixth, you know. There’s been no clear-cut pattern established. The disease is as unstable as its progenitor...the goo. The only pattern—and I would hesitate even to suggest that it was a pattern—”
“Stop waltzing with me, damn it! Spit it out!”
Ball pursed his lips. He might have pressed Pareti as far as he cared to press him. “The pattern, then, would appear to be this: a radical change of relationship occurs between the victim and the external world. These can be animate transformations, like the growth of external organs and functional gills; or inanimate transformations, like the victim who levitated.”
“What about the fourth case, the one who’s still alive and normal?”
“He isn’t exactly normal,” the doctor said, frowning. “His relationship with his mushrooms is a kind of perverted love; reciprocated, I might add. Some researchers suspect that he has himself become a kind of intelligent mushroom.”
Pareti bit his thumbnail. There was a wildness in his eyes. “Isn’t there any cure, anything.
Ball seemed to be looking at Pareti with thinly veiled disgust. “Whimpering won’t do you any good. Perhaps nothing will. I understand Case Five tried to hold off the effects as long as he could, with will power, or concentration...something ludicrous like that.”
“Did it work?”
“For a while, perhaps. No one could be sure. In any case, it was strictly conjecture after a point; the Disease finally took him over.”
“But it’s possible? “
Ball snorted. “Yes, Mr. Pareti, it’s possible.” He shook his head as if he could not believe the way Pareti was taking this. “Remember, none of the cases was like any other. I don’t know what joys you can look forward to, but whatever they are...they’re bound to be unusual.”
Pareti stood up. “I’ll fight it off. It isn’t going to take me over like the others.”
Ball’s expression was of disgust. “I doubt it, Pareti. I never met any of the others, but from what I’ve read of them, they were far stronger men than you seem to be.”
“Why? Just because this has me shaken?”
“No, because you’re a sniveler.”
“You’re the most compassionless mother I’ve ever met!”
“I cannot pretend grief that you’ve contracted Ashton’s. You gambled, and you lost. Stop whimpering.”
“You said that before, Dr. Ball.”
“I say it again now!”
“Is that all from you?”
“That’s all from me, to be sure,” Dr. Ball said, snidely. “But it’s not all for you, I’m equally sure.”
“But you’re sure that’s all you have to tell me?”
Ball nodded, still wearing the insipid grin of the medical ghoul. He was wearing it as Pareti took two quick, short steps and jacked a fist into the doctor’s stomach, just below the heart. Ball’s eyes seemed to extrude almost as the goo extruded, and his face went three shades of gray toward matching his lab smock. Pareti held him up under the chin with his left hand and drove a short, straight right directly into the doctor’s nose.
Ball flailed backward and hit the glass-fronted instrument case, breaking the glass with a crash. Ball settled to the floor, still conscious, but in awful pain. He stared up at Pareti as the harvester turned toward the door. Pareti turned back momentarily, smiling for the first time since he had entered the sickbay.
“That’s a helluva bedside manner you’ve got there, Doc.”
Then he left.
He was forced to leave the TexasTower within the hour, as the law proscribed. He received a final statement of the back pay due him for the nine-month shift he had been working. He also received a sizeable termination bonus. Though everyone knew Ashton’s Disease was not contagious, when he passed Peggy Flinn on his way to the exit lock, she looked at him sadly and said goodbye, but would not kiss him farewell. She looked sheepish. “Whore,” Pareti murmured under his breath, but she heard him.
A Company lift had been sent for him. A big fifteen-passenger job with two stewardesses, a lounge, movie theater and pocket billiard accommodations. Before he was put on board, the Projects Superintendent, head man on the TexasTower, spoke to him at the lock.
“You aren’t a Typhoid Mary, you can’t give it to anyone. It’s merely unlovely and unpredictable. That’s what they tell me. Technically, there’s no quarantine; you can go where you please. But realistically, you can appreciate that your presence in the surface cities wouldn’t be welcome. Not that you’d be missing much...all the action is underground.”
Pareti nodded silently. He was well
over his shaken reactions of earlier. He was now determined to fight the Disease with the strength of his own will.
“Is that it?” he asked the Projects Super.
The man nodded, and extended his hand.
Pareti hesitated a moment, then shook it.
As Pareti was walking down the ramp to the lift, the Projects Super called after him. “Hey, Pareti?”
Joe turned back.
“Thanks for belting that bastard Ball. I’ve been itching to do it for six years.” He grinned.
It was an embarrassed, brave little smile that Joe Pareti returned, as he said goodbye to who he was and what he was, and boarded the lift for the real world.
He had free passage to the destination of his choice. He chose East Pyrites. If he was going to make a new life for himself with the money he had saved in three years working the goo fields, at least he was going to do it after one king-sized shore leave. It had been nine months since he had been anywhere near excitement—you sure as hell couldn’t call Peggy Flinn with her flat-chest excitement—and there was time for fun before the time to settle down.
One of the stewardesses, wearing an off-the-bosom jumper with a “kicki” skirt, paused beside his seat and smiled down at him. “Care for a drink?”
Pareti’s thoughts were hardly of liquor. She was a high-breasted, long-legged item with light turquoise hair. But he knew she had been apprised of his ailment, and her reaction would be the same as Peggy Flinn’s.
He smiled up at her, thinking of what he would like to do with her if she were amenable. She took his hand and led him back to one of the washrooms. She led him inside, bolted the door, and dropped her clothes. Pareti was so astonished he had to let her undress him. It was cramped and close in the tiny bathroom, but the stewardess was marvelously inventive, not to mention limber.
When she was done with him, her face flushed, her neck spotted with little purple love-bites, her eyes almost feverish, she mumbled something about being unable to resist him, gathered up her clothes without even putting them on and, with acute embarrassment, floundered out of the bathroom, leaving him standing there with his pants down around his shoes.
The Robot Who Looked Like Me Page 14
