Asimov’s Future History Volume 6

by Isaac Asimov

  Derec and Ariel nodded solemnly, more than a little nervous at the thought of Earthly diseases.

  “You will also need identification, ration slips and tags, and money,” said R. David decisively when that was done. Moving clumsily, it opened the door to the closet in the sitting room. It was jammed with things, from a bookviewer and boxes of records to compact duplication devices. Derec recognized these as Spacer-made, and surmised that it would be no great feat to duplicate Earthly ID symbols.

  In this he was correct. R. David lowered the blank thing on the wall — a folding table — and spent an hour or so producing numerous bits of plastic and metal bearing their pictures, long numbers, various obscure statements about them, and of course a complete ID workup, including fingerprints, footprints, retinal scans, corneal images, ear pictures, and blood analysis.

  “Dr. Avery procured comparatively large sums of Earthly money when he first landed,” R. David explained. “He traded rare metals for it. Of course, money as such is of little value on Earth, as it can only be used to purchase nonessentials such as book recordings. Food, housing, clothing, and so on, are rationed.”

  “Frost,” said Ariel nervously. “I wouldn’t want some poor Earther to starve because I got his rations.”

  “There is no danger of that, Miss Avery. There is ample margin. It does no harm to anyone to provide you with Earthly ID, as Dr. Avery has more than paid for the consumption of Earth’s scarce resources with his rare metals. Rationed items are available in amounts and qualities controlled by the individual’s rating.”

  “Rating?”

  “One’s position in Earthly society. I understand that things are not greatly different in any human society, but on Earth such things have been formalized to a much higher degree.”

  “It’s true that in the Spacer worlds the most important people usually get the best of what’s going,” said Ariel wryly. “Maybe Earth is actually more honest in admitting this. What kind of government does Earth have? Is it democratic, aristocratic, or what? Do the higher ratings run everything?”

  “In answer to your last question, yes, to a degree. Earth is a democratic syndicalism, with elections to Parliament made from location — in the lower house — and from industry to the upper house, or senate.

  Elections are democratic in those areas, but most of the administration is by appointed officials, these being people who have passed certain tests and worked their way up from less important offices.

  Syndicalism means that industry — primarily the feeding, housing, and clothing of the population — dominates the government.”

  “I can see how that would be necessary,” said Derec, watching the robot’s big, clumsy hands proceed delicately at their task. “How many ratings are there, and what’s the highest?”

  “Currently there are twenty-one ratings. The rating A is usually considered the highest. It is rarely bestowed. Only ten million humans are in this rating category.”

  One out of ten, Derec thought automatically. Then he caught himself. No: on Aurora, or most of the Spacer worlds, ten million would be ten percent of the populace. But Earth had

  “What’s the population of Earth, R. David?” Ariel asked, having paralleled Derec’s thought.

  “Eight billion, Miss Avery.”

  Eight billion! They looked at each other. The population of eighty Spacer worlds — and there were only fifty.

  “Who is in the A rating? Government officials?”

  “No, this rating is reserved for entrepreneurs who solve large problems, for inventors, heroic spacemen, and other adventurers. It may be conferred by popular acclaim, as in the case of certain beloved entertainers. Recipients of the A rating have many privileges, among them the right to adorn their doors with laurel.”

  A high honor, like the Medal of Aurora. Derec nodded; the details — what was laurel? — didn’t matter.

  “What’s the next lowest rating?”

  “B rating is reserved for planetary and continental governmental officials, both elected and appointed. C refers to City officials. D is for industry officials. From there it becomes complex and not obvious. There are fifteen steps in each rating, the lowest being step one.”

  “So, what rate and step are you preparing for us?”

  “I am preparing identification for T ratings, as I did for Dr. Avery, as I assume you will wish to remain anonymous as Spacers. It will certainly facilitate your investigations of Earthly society if you pass unremarked, and the T rating is the best for that purpose.”

  “What kind of people normally are assigned T ratings?” Ariel asked.

  “The ‘T’ stands for ‘Transient.’ Any person whose duties require him or her to travel may be assigned this rating, unless the rating itself allows of that eventuality, as do B ratings and many A ratings. Salesmen, for instance, may be rated D or T but usually T as D is assigned to administrative duties.

  “In your cases,” R. David continued, “I had considered assigning you S ratings — students — but I judged it not advisable, as students have certain restrictions, and I would be forced to specify a school.”

  Interesting as all this was, Derec found the hour it took to prepare the ID dragging. The tiny-roomed apartment, with only two rooms, was a prison more confining than any he had viewed in historical novels.

  Even the dungeons of the ancient times on Earth had seemed larger. The varying mechanical drone seemed to grow louder and louder until he was forced to speak, whereupon it faded at once to its actual low level.

  It was the sound, he thought in some awe, of the City — a sound no Earthman could avoid, from birth to death. For they never went outside their Cities.

  Finally, the ID was completed, and R. David explained the uses of the various pieces. “This is your ration tag for food; your home kitchen is 9-G. Personals are also assigned, but you may use any you see.

  Derec, take care not to speak to or look at anyone in Personal; there is a strong taboo for men on Earth.

  Ariel, women have no such taboo; you may speak in Personal. Your ratings do not grant you stall privileges. You must supply your own combs, brushes, and shaving equipment.”

  R. David droned on, provided them with a map of the local area. There was an attempt to put everything on the same level, they learned. Their quarters were low-status, and so they had to go up or down to Personals and commissary.

  At length the robot gave them hats and let them go, obviously worried. Ariel opened the door and stepped out, Derec following.

  The same oyster-white walls as the interior; they might have been in a very cheap hotel, and in fact, Derec surmised, they were. A youth with long, elaborately coiffed hair and gaudy cheap clothes gave them a sullen look from down the corridor as he entered an apartment. An older woman, heavy and squarish and short, passed them, carrying an open bottle and exhaling the odor of mousey beer. She did not so much not look at them as not see them.

  Turning to the right, Derec led them toward a gleam of brighter light. Behind them, two men exited from an apartment, talking casually together about a sports event, oddly called “boxing.” Moments later, Derec and Ariel were at the junction.

  A wider, busier corridor crossed theirs at right angles. Ariel pointed out the sign that told them that theirs was Sub-Corridor 16. They had just entered Corridor M. Turning left, they followed a small crowd, which quickly resolved itself into an accidental grouping. There must have been fifty people in view at any given moment, Derec estimated, and was slightly staggered.

  Abruptly, on the right the wall became transparent and they looked into an open space in which children raced about and bounced balls. A playground. The inside of the wall had crude bits of childish art affixed to it; posters boasted of obscure triumphs, and “recitations” were advertised. It was strange, yet Derec found it familiar. Sometime in his forgotten past he had played in such a playground, though nothing specific came through.

  One thing, though, he missed: the gleam of attentive robots along the wal
l and amid the yelling mobs.

  Corridor M terminated at a large circular junction. In the angles, four escalator strips spiraled — two up and two down. Beyond, according to the signs, was another subsection: theirs was Sub-Section G.

  Perhaps a hundred men, women, and children were visible, Derec thought. He and Ariel, awed, slowed their pace and drifted to one side of the center of the junction, avoiding both the mouths of the corridors and the escalators. A hundred — and not the same hundred. Moment by moment, people filtered in and filtered out, up or down, away along the corridors, or in from either direction.

  Derec supposed wildly that within ten minutes a person might see — oh — five hundred people. Frost! Maybe a thousand!

  And now that the playground had alerted him, he noted that none of them were robots.

  There were small tables with uncomfortable-looking benches before them, at which people sat, some playing chess. Other benches without tables, equally uncomfortable in appearance, harbored other people. Not far from them an old fellow like a wrinkled apple smiled cherubically at everything he saw; beside him on the bench was an uncapped bottle wrapped in brown paper up to the neck. Others who sat about were also old. Some played chess or other board games at the tables; some snacked on various foodstuffs.

  The walls under the escalators had identifying marks high up, but lower down there were large boards with papers affixed to them, announcing various events. Below that still were wide strips running from escalator to corridor mouth, on which crude, vigorous murals had been painted. At one corner an earnest group of youths, younger than Ariel or Derec, were touching the mural lightly with flat appliqué boards, painting a new mural over the old. Watching them was a young woman all in blue. She looked short, square, sturdy, and wore an odd cap with a bill of translucent blue that threw a blue shadow over her face; above the bill was a golden medal.

  She turned and they saw that she had the label C-3 on her upper left chest, and a tool of some sort dangling from her left side: it was half a meter long and had a sturdy grip. C ratings were City functionaries, Derec remembered. Then he realized that the tool was a neuronic whip. No; it was far too big and heavy; the neuronic whip might be in that buttoned-shut pouch in front. The tool had to be a club.

  A policewoman. Her eye took them in, paused, went on, and she crossed to speak to one of the old parties at a table. Derec stared in fascination. He had never, to his knowledge, laid eyes on one whose duty was to apply force to other human beings.

  “Standing here as we are, we stand out; she’s probably trained to notice people who act oddly,” Ariel said in a low voice.

  Derec agreed wordlessly, started toward the down escalator, reflecting that no one could understand them from a little distance if they spoke normally, so great was the noise of people and the murmur of the escalators.

  Each escalator flattened out where it met the floor, and there was a three-meter strip of level surface.

  Ahead of them, Earthmen strode forward and stepped on without breaking stride, then turned about to face their direction of travel. Derec and Ariel tried to imitate that confident stride. At least the example taught them to enter against the direction of travel, a thing Derec wouldn’t have guessed. They stepped on with only a slight flexing of the legs and a quick shuffle to retain balance. They turned around and looked down, just as the strip dived down behind the wall.

  The escalator, they saw, was not actually a stairway, as they had expected; it was a flat, moving ramp.

  Overhead was a sloping ceiling from which came the muted rumble of drives; one of the other strips, Derec supposed, probably an up strip. The down escalator did a complete half-circle clockwise, then the wall to their right opened and they were on the other side of the junction at the next level down.

  One more half-circle, another junction, then there came a full circle with no exit, and they were at the bottom. The murmur became thunderous. The escalator dived into a slit in the floor, and, Derec presumed, ran “underground” for a few meters, only to reverse itself and climb backward, out of the floor and up. There were only two strips, not four, each going both up and down simultaneously.

  Two dozen people got off below them, then they got off, and fifty more followed them, dispersing briskly in all directions, fighting through hundreds of people going eight different ways. This junction was four times as busy as the ones they’d seen above. Derec and Ariel tried not to gape.

  Light and noise came through the arches that replaced the corridor mouths above, and they saw people whirling past. If before they’d seen hundreds, now they saw thousands!

  Derec swallowed a small knot of fear. So many people! He got the distinct impression he’d never seen that many people together before. He realized he was making quick calculations of how much air they were using, and, more importantly, how much was left for him. No, he thought, if there’s enough for eight billion, there’s enough for me.

  To right and left, moving strips hurtled past, faster and faster and higher and higher as they got farther from the junction. High overhead were glowing, Crawling signs like worms of light, the largest saying WEBSTER GROVES. Before and behind them, the other two arches opened on the non-moving space between the strips. It was dotted with kiosks — some being communications booths, some being the heads of strips that came up from below. Far away down the concourse was another wide tube coming down from the ceiling, with its four escalators. Behind, at the limits of sight, was another.

  They drifted out, read the signs, awed. People swarmed about them, the noise was continuous and not so loud as it seemed, the air was warm and humid and thick with the odor of thousands, hundreds of thousands, of people.

  “So this is Earth.”

  Chapter 4

  THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME-KITCHEN

  HESITANTLY, DEREC LED the way to the expressway that ran west, as it proclaimed. The lightworrns overhead proclaimed KIRKWOOD EXITS NEXT.

  They mounted the first strip. It was traveling at about half walking speed, and each succeeding strip was that much faster than the previous. A fat old man skipped nimbly across three strips in a practiced motion that would have sent Derec tumbling. Sedately, he and Ariel crossed three strips, then she gasped and gripped his arm.

  Hurriedly they recrossed the strips, going down, and were carried only a little way past their destination.

  They had gotten nowhere near the fast lanes of the express.

  Once between the ways again they were a little puzzled, but there was a kiosk not far away, from which people emerged. Entering it, they found strips to carry them down to a cross-corridor that would take them under the ways. They surfaced on the other side of the express strips, where there was a set of localways, rode the second-slowest strip back for a short distance and got off, to dive into a huge corridor.

  It was lined with shops of various kinds, but they didn’t stop to look. Thousands of people were peering through the transparent walls at bright displays of goods.

  At the second cross-corridor was the symbol for the Personal. It wasn’t the one to which they were assigned; they must have passed that within minutes after leaving the apartment. At Ariel’s questioning look, Derec nodded, but he felt a qualm though he walked firmly toward the door to the Men’s Personal.

  For the first time, they were separated.

  Don’t look at or speak to anyone, R. David had said. He pushed open the door and found himself in an anteroom. No one lingered there, so he also passed on, through a door ingeniously arranged not to be in line of sight of the first. Inside he saw a series of small hallways lined with blank doors, about half with red lights glowing. Some of these little cubicles were four times as large as others, and as a man exited one he glimpsed such felicities as laundry facilities. The stalls, he supposed, to which he had no access.

  The tiny cubicle his keyed plastic strip got him into had a crude john, a metal mirror, and below it a wash basin. There was no towel, merely a device to blow hot, dry air. The showers
were at the other end.

  He felt better when he left. After a lengthy wait, Ariel reappeared, looking radiant.

  Derec stared. Certainly she was looking better than she had in days on shipboard. He had a wild hope that she was not really sick after all, or that she had experienced one of those mysterious remissions that still baffled doctors. Then he realized that he was letting his wishes rule his reason, and cursed himself for setting himself up for a reaction.

  “Shall we go?” she asked, smiling and taking his arm.

  It was not far to the section kitchen to which they were assigned. As T-4s they could go to any kitchen they happened to be near, but that would entail accounting difficulties for the staff of the kitchen, and might draw attention to them.

  Three lines of people formed up at the door, right, left, and center. They joined one of the lines, readying their metal ration tags. Ahead of them the Earthers — talking and laughing uninhibitedly, as was their wont — filtered forward, inserting their tags into slots and after a moment recovering them and striding into noisy confusion, removing their hats. There was a strong, pleasant odor of unfamiliar food.

  “Hey, Charlie!” came a raucous cry from behind them, making them jump a little. Someone in the line behind them had recognized someone in the next line. “Back from Yeast Town, hey?”

  Charlie answered incomprehensibly, something about being good to be back. “Right!” bellowed the man behind them. “No kitchen like home-kitchen, eh?”

  Considering that they all must serve food from the same source, Derec thought, that must just be familiarity, not the food. Come to think of it, if everybody ate in such kitchens three times a day, they’d soon get to know their neighbors at the nearby tables.

  They moved forward, Derec’s tag slippery in his hand. With nothing better to do, he counted the people passing through the entry. Each line filtered diners through at about one per second. Sixty per minute. At least a hundred and eighty per minute for the three lines. Frost! he thought. And we’ve been in line for five minutes!