A Matter for Men watc-1

by David Gerrold

  There were no armed guards waiting for me when the elevator doors slid open. I let out the breath I had been holding all the way up.

  I went back to the room they had assigned me and checked in at the terminal. "Request instructions."

  The screen cleared, then flashed: "Please wait at this location until further notice."

  What did that mean?

  I sat in front of the terminal and waited, staring at the screen. How long?

  Had Wallachstein and the others already met and decided my fate? While I hadn't been there to speak for myself?

  I went into the kitchen and got myself some tomato juice, then I came back to the keyboard and sat down again. Still nothing. I thought of Marcie. I could still smell the honey-warmth of her hair. It made me feel warm and toasty inside-until I remembered the bitterness of my abrupt exit. I wondered if she'd forgive me.

  Well, maybe I could do something while I waited. I cleared the screen and punched for Library Service. The screen flashed: "Sorry. This terminal is locked."

  Huh?

  I tried again. Same answer.

  I pulled my card out of the reader-slot and went to the door. It wouldn't open. "Invalid code."

  I came back into the room, stood in the center of it and looked around for another way out. The balcony?

  I opened the sliding door and stepped out, leaning out over the railing to see how high I was. Too high. Thirteen stories. It wasn't the fall that was dangerous, it was the abrupt stop at the end.

  What about climbing over the railing to an adjacent balcony? Not possible. The balconies were isolated for privacy. Another service of your security-conscious Marriott.

  I looked down again, then went back into the room and took inventory. Two sheets, king size. Two blankets, king size. Not enough. Even with the drapes, I'd probably be four stories short.

  I sat down in front of the terminal again and began to drink my tomato juice. It was tart. It made the salivary glands at the back of my mouth hurt. Did I have any other options?

  I couldn't think of any.

  Why did I want to escape anyway? Because they had locked me in. And why had they locked me in? Because they were afraid I might try to escape.

  And what did that imply? That they had made a decision? That they had something planned for me that I might not like? And I had rushed from Marcie's bed to come here? No wonder so many people thought me a fool.

  I downed the rest of the juice in a few quick swallows, then sank back in the chair and glowered at the implacable screen of the terminal.

  It was totally disconnected. Before it would respond again, it would have to be cleared by someone with a priority code.

  I thought about Marcie and my promise to call her. I wouldn't even be able to do that.

  I thought about Wallachstein and his barely veiled threats. Had I failed the psychiatric examination?

  What if they did decide to make me disappear? Wasn't I entitled to a fair trial--or had I already had it? How would they do it? Would I get any warning? How did they make people disappear anyway?

  I realized I was sweating. I couldn't sit still. I got up and searched the room again, the balcony, the door-

  The door beeped.

  I started to call, "Who is it?" and then stopped. What if it were a firing squad? Would they do it here in the room? Or would they take me somewhere else to do it?

  I stood there, debating whether to holler for help or try to hide. Before I could make up my mind, the door slid open. "May I come in?"

  "Huh? Who-?" And then I placed him. Fromkin. The man who ate strawberries and lox while talking about global starvation. The pompous asshole.

  "I said, `May I come in?' I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

  "Uh, no-I-uh, how did you open the door?"

  He held up a card with a gold stripe on it for me to see. "Oh," I said.

  I made room, he stepped inside and the door slid closed. I looked at it, wanting to see if it would open for me now, but I resisted. I followed him into the room and we sat down. He sank into his chair with easy grace. How old was he, I wondered?

  He studied me for a moment with sharp dark eyes, then he said, "I'm here because a mutual friend of ours suggested that I talk to you. Do you understand?"

  "No names, huh?"

  "That's right." He repeated, "Do you understand?" Wallachstein had asked the same question several times. A phrase floated into my mind: the comprehension of the defendant. It was an important legal consideration. There had been a Supreme Court decision about it once. I wondered, was this part of my trial too?

  "Is this official?" I asked.

  He looked annoyed. "Unless you answer my question, I have to leave. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," I said quickly. "I do. I understand. Now answer my question. Is this an official visit, or what?"

  "If you want to look at it that way, yes. Our mutual friend thought we ought to have a little chat. It's to your benefit."

  "Is it? Really?"

  Fromkin looked annoyed, but otherwise he ignored the question. He said, "In case you're wondering, yes, I did see your performance this morning-and yes, I also remember you from last night. For someone who only got in town yesterday, you've certainly let people know you're here." I must have looked embarrassed, for he added, "To be fair, it's not all your doing. This city is just another small town these days. The number-two indoor sport is gossiping about the number-one indoor sport-and who's playing which position. You and your boyfriend just got caught in the middle, that's all."

  "We're not boyfriends. The middle of what?"

  Fromkin scratched his head. "Uh, let me explain it this way. There's a certain group of people; rumor has it that they're very important. Although nobody knows who's in the group, or even who does what, or even what the group is supposed to be doing, everybody suspects that anybody who knows anything must be in that group. It just so happens that some of those suspicions are very accurate. So when one of those supposed-to-be-important individuals is suddenly called away from her-ah, personal affairs-to bring in a Very Important Delivery, well, then, naturally there's going to be a great deal of interest in that delivery."

  It took me a moment to translate that, and then it took another moment for it to sink in. Right. It was worse than I thought. I said, "Ted and I are not boyfriends. Or any other kind of friends. And I don't know how important our delivery was or wasn't-we were told it wasn't."

  "I don't know about that." Fromkin spread his hands wide in a gesture of innocence. "That's not what I want to talk about anyway. Do you mind if I record this?" He held up his unit. I shook my head and he switched it on. "Did you see any of the playbacks of the conference sessions?"

  "Only a little. I heard some of it while I was driving back here this evening."

  "What did you hear?"

  "A lot of uproar. About how to deal with the worms. Apparently there's a faction that wants to try to establish peaceful contact."

  "Do you believe that's possible?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  I blinked. "Uh, you don't know much about the Chtorrans, do you?"

  "That's not germane. I'm asking your opinion."

  "I never saw a Chtorran who wanted to stop and chat first. We never had any choice but to kill them."

  "How many Chtorrans have you seen?"

  "Live or pictures?"

  "Total."

  "Um, well-I've seen the Show Low photographs-"

  Fromkin nodded knowingly. "Go on."

  "-and I've seen the nest I mentioned this morning. The one with the fourth Chtorran. The one I burned."

  He waited expectantly. "Is that all?"

  "Um-no, there was one more. The one here at the Science Center."

  His eyes narrowed. "Tell me about that," he said slowly.

  I shook my head. "It was just ... there."

  He looked into my eyes and said, "I know about those sessions, son. Is that what you saw, one of them?"

  I nodde
d. "There were some dogs. They fed them to the Chtorran. Live. Do you know about that?"

  Fromkin said, "They say that Chtorrans won't eat dead meat -they have to eat their prey live."

  "That's true. At least, as far as I know it is."

  "Mm hm. And those are all the Chtorrans you've seen?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you an expert on Chtorrans?"

  "No, of course not. But I've had more experience than most other people have had-at least those who've lived to tell about it. Some of those assholes this afternoon were talking about making friends with Chtorrans. And that's no more possible than a steak making friends with a dog-except from the inside."

  "Couldn't it be that your experience with Chtorrans is limited, and that's colored your perceptions of them...?"

  "You mean, maybe there are peaceful ones, but I don't know about it?"

  He nodded.

  I weighed the possibility. "Well, yeah-maybe there are peaceful ones. I've never heard of any. And I don't think anybody else has either-or else we'd have heard about it by now. Somebody would have said something this afternoon. Somebody would know about it, wouldn't they?"

  Fromkin didn't answer.

  "What's this all about, anyway?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "Just for information. Raw material. You know. The truth can only be seen when looked at from many points of view at once."

  I shook my head. "You're not asking for information. You're digging for something specific."

  "You're too suspicious. I'm a civilian, son. Can we go on?"

  "There's more?"

  "Just a little. This afternoon, you stood up in front of a crowd of people and said you had to burn a man because he was being attacked by a worm."

  "Yes, I did." Part of me was insisting that I put up a defensive barrier against this man's probing, but another part was insisting on telling the truth, no matter who heard it. The only way we would defeat the Chtorrans would be by telling the truth.

  I added, "It was the kindest thing I could do."

  "Kindest-?" He raised an eyebrow at me. "How do you know that?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  His expression had turned hard. "Have you ever been on the receiving end of a flamethrower?"

  "No, I haven't."

  "Then where do you get your information?"

  "That's what I was told by Shorty."

  "Who's Shorty?"

  "The man I had to burn. Sir." I said that last deliberately. Fromkin was silent for a moment at that, turning the information over to see if it was mined.

  Finally he said, "I'm told-by someone who knows-that death by fire has to be the most horrible thing imaginable. When you're hit by napalm, you can feel your flesh turning into flame."

  "Sir," I said stiffly, "with all due respect, when a wave of fire from a flamethrower hits you, there isn't time to feel either the heat or the pain. It's a sudden descent into unconsciousness." Fromkin looked skeptical.

  "I was there, sir. I saw how quickly it happened. There wasn't any time for pain."

  He studied that thought for a long moment. "How about guilt?" he asked finally. "Was there time for that?"

  "Huh?"

  "Do you feel guilty about what you did?"

  "Guilt? I did what I had to do! What I was told to do! I never questioned it! Hell, yes, I feel guilty! And ashamed and shitty and a thousand other things that don't have names!" Something popped for me. "What's-this all about anyway? Are you judging me too? Listen, I have enough trouble living up to my own standards-don't ask me to live up to yours! I'm sure your answers are better than mine-after all, your integrity is still unsullied by the brutal facts of practicality! You've been sitting around eating strawberries and lox! I'm the guy who had to pull the trigger! If there is a better answer, don't you think I want to know? Don't you think I have the first right to know? Come up to the hills and show me! I'd be glad to find you're right. But if you don't mind, I'll keep my torch all charged and ready-just in case you're wrong!"

  He waited patiently until I ran down. And even then, he didn't answer immediately. He got up, went to the kitchen and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He took a glass, filled it with ice and came back into the living room, slowly pouring the water over the cubes. He eased himself back down into his chair, took a drink and studied me over the glass. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and calm. "Are you through?"

  "Yeah. For now."

  "Good. I want to ask you some questions now. I want you to consider a couple of things. All right?"

  I nodded. I folded my arms across my chest.

  "Thank you. Now, tell me this. What difference does it make? Maybe it's a kindness to burn a man, maybe it isn't. Maybe he doesn't feel a thing-and maybe it's the purest form of pain, a moment of exquisite hell. What difference does it make, Jim, if a man dies crushed in the mouth of a Chtorran or burned by napalm? He's still dead. Where does it make a difference?"

  "You want me to answer?"

  Fromkin said, "Go ahead. Take a crack at it."

  I said, "It doesn't make a difference-not the way you ask it."

  "Wrong," he said. "It does. It makes a lot of difference to the person who has to pull the trigger."

  I looked at that. "I'm sorry. I don't see how."

  "Good. So look at it this way. What's more important? Killing Chtorrans or saving lives?"

  "I don't know."

  "So? Who do I have to ask to find out?"

  Huh? Whitlaw used to ask the same question. If I didn't know what I thought, who did? I said, "Saving lives."

  "Good. So what do we have to do to save lives?"

  I grinned. "Kill Chtorrans."

  "Good. So what happens if a human being gets in the way? No, let me rephrase that. What would have happened if you had tried to save-what was his name, Shorty?"

  "We'd have both bought the farm."

  Fromkin nodded. "Good. So what's more important? Killing Chtorrans or saving lives?"

  "In this case, killing Chtorrans."

  "Uh huh. So does it matter what justification you use?"

  "Huh?"

  "Does it matter whether you believe that a man dies painlessly under the flame or not?"

  "Well, no, I guess not."

  He nodded. "So how do you feel about it now?"

  I shook my head. "I don't know." I felt torn up inside. I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  He gave me another raised eyebrow. "I don't know," I repeated.

  "All right," he said. "Let me ask it this way. Would you do it again?"

  "Yes." I said it without hesitation.

  "You're sure of that?"

  "Yes."

  "Thank you. And how would you feel about it?"

  I met his gaze unashamedly. "Shitty. About like I feel now. But I'd still do it. It doesn't matter what the policy is." I added, "The important thing is killing Chtorrans."

  "You're really adamant about that, aren't you?"

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  He took a long breath, then switched off his recorder. "Okay, I'm through."

  "Did I pass?"

  "Say again?"

  "Your test-this was no interview. This was an attitude check. Did I pass?"

  He looked up from his recorder, straight into my eyes. "If it were an attitude check, what you just asked would probably have flunked you."

  "Yeah, well." My arms were still folded across my chest. "If my attitude leaves something to be desired, so does the way I've been treated. So we're even."

  He stood up and I stood with him. "Answer me something. Are there peaceful Chtorrans?"

  He looked at me blankly. "I don't know. What do you think?" I didn't answer, just followed him to the door. He slid his card into the lock-slot and the door slid open for him. I started to follow him out, but there were two armed guards waiting in the hall.

  "Sorry," said Fromkin. For the first time, he looked embarrassed.

  "Yeah," I said, and stepped back. The door slid shu
t in front of me.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I STOOD there staring at that goddamned door for thirty seconds without saying a word.

  I put my hands on it and pressed. The metal was cold.

  I rested my head against the solid wallness of it. My hands clenched into fists.

  "Shit!"

  And then I said a whole bunch of other words too.

  I swore as long as I could without repeating myself, then switched to Spanish and kept on going.

  And when I finally wound down, I felt no better than when I had started.

  I felt used. Betrayed. And stupid.

  I began to pace around the apartment again. I kicked the terminal every time I passed it. Useless hunk of junk. I couldn't even use it to call room service.

  I wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge-it was surprisingly well stocked. But I wasn't hungry. I was angry. I started opening drawers. Someone had thoughtfully removed all of the carving and steak knives.

  And swearing didn't do any good anymore. It only left my throat dry. And me feeling foolish. The minute you stop, you start to realize how silly it looks.

  What I really wanted to do was get even.

  I walked back into the living room of the suite and gave the terminal another kick. A good one-it nearly toppled off the stand, but I caught it in time. And then I found myself wondering why. The damn thing wouldn't communicate with me-I didn't owe it any favors.

  I shoved it off the stand and onto the floor. It hit with a dull thud.

  I picked it up and shook it. It didn't even sound broken.

  "I know-" I carried it out to the balcony and threw it over the side.

  It bounced and scraped down the sloping side of the building and shattered on the concrete below with a terrifically satisfying smash.

  I threw the stand after it. And then a chair.

  And a lamp.

  And a small table.

  The TV screen was bolted to the wall. I hit it with the second chair-it took three tries to smash it-and then threw the chair after its companion.

  Bounce, bounce, scrape, slide, crash, smash. Great. What else?

  The microwave oven.

  The nightstand from the bedroom. Three more chairs.