Nemo

by Ron Goulart

“An old type of black music known as blues,” explained Lang. “That’s why Blind Lemon and Cripple Clarence live down here in Bluesville. I think, you know, you’ll like them as much as I do. You’ll probably like Bessie and Ma and Trixie and Ida and—”

  “I might,” said Ted, “but I’ve been thinking. We’re not that far from Lowell, Massachusetts, so I’m going to head for Utopia East.”

  Lang’s nose wrinkled. “You won’t like it. Not that I’ve ever been there, but I have the impression Utopia East is very tranquil and very dull.”

  “Exactly right. I need some dull, tranquil place to sit and collect my thoughts about—”

  “I should think your recent life in New Westport and environs would have provided enough dullness and tranquillity to last you a—”

  “No, now, my life there wasn’t all that . . . well. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I suppose it really hasn’t been much,” he admitted as they reached the outskirts of Fightown. “Did I ever tell you about Mr. Swedenberg?”

  “No, is he another one of your employers?”

  “He’s the guy who used to own our house in Brimstone, company transferred him to China-3. Every time he comes to New England on business he makes a special trip to visit our place. He just likes to look at the house. I’ve always thought Swedenberg was kind of foolish, trying to recapture the lost past. But I realize now the biggest puzzle, though I never admitted it to myself, was how anybody could ever have been happy in our house. Because I never have.”

  “You’re making progress,” said Lang, nodding her head. “Seems a shame to waste your time at Utopia East when you—”

  “I’ve been promising myself someday I’d go there, now I’m going to do it.”

  Amplified guitar music, mournful, was filling the air. There were saloons and bistros all around on the river-front street.

  “Blind Lemon lives up above that joint there, Big Mama’s. This time of day, though, he’s likely to be rowing out on the riv—”

  Wham!

  The rocking explosion came from the river. A large hydro excursion boat was spewing up black, sooty smoke out of its middle.

  “There’s Lemon’s canoe overturned,” cried Lang. “The concussion must have—”

  “He’s clinging to it,” said Ted, pointing. He bit at his lower lip, concentrating on the river.

  The damaged canoe, with a long, lean Negro holding to its side, rose up out of the water and came floating through the air toward Ted and Lang.

  The growing street crowd commenced making awed and perplexed sounds.

  Ted ran forward, fists clenching, furrows cutting across his brow. The big excursion boat stopped sinking, stayed where it was. The passengers were, one by one and then in pairs, lifted from the damaged craft and deposited on land. No one else moved for several minutes. Then, careful not to get close to Ted, they came to the river edge to the rescued passengers.

  Putting his hands in his pockets, Ted walked back to Lang.

  “That’s quite an accomplishment,” said the dripping Blind Lemon. “Lang’s been telling me about you, Ted. It occurs to me we could certainly use a fellow who—”

  “Uses for me keep occurring to people,” Ted told him. “At the moment, though, I’m not accepting any new offers.”

  “You’re really going to that drab Utopia place?” the girl asked.

  “I am. Leaving now.” He held out his hand.

  Ignoring the hand, Lang jumped forward to hug him. “Okay, I hope you work everything out. When you do, look me up. Most likely I’ll be here in Black Boston for awhile, or if I’m not Lemon can tell you where I’ve wandered to.”

  Ted disengaged himself from the girl, stepped clear of her. “All right, goodbye.” He was there, then he wasn’t there.

  “That’s some exit,” observed Blind Lemon.

  Chapter 17

  “I don’t think,” Haley said, “I want to see him.”

  “This puts me in a somewhat awkward position,” said the house. “Since I’m obliged to allow him access whenever—”

  “What?” Haley pushed out of the coffeenook, the syncaf splashing up in the cup in her hand. “What do you mean Jay Perlberg has access to our house?”

  “Oops,” said the voice of the house computer. “Ever since the mister put the whammy on me I’ve developed a tendency to blurt—”

  “What did Ted have to do with this house breaking down?” The house remained silent.

  “Come on,” warned Haley, “you tell me or I’ll have a repair squad in here and I’ll report you to Colonel Beck or maybe even—”

  “Perhaps if you allow Mr. Perlberg to enter, rather than cool his heels without, he’ll be able to explain many—”

  “All right, okay. Let him in.” She strode through the house to the living-room area, slammed her cup down atop a walltable. When the front door opened to admit the handsome Perlberg she was standing there facing him. “So start explaining.”

  “Good evening, Haley darling.” Perlberg took a few tentative steps into the room. “I have the impression you’ve been avoiding me since you were teleported home from High World. I must say I—”

  “How come the house has orders to let you in?”

  Perlberg raised his attractive eyebrows. “Beg pardon, Haley?”

  “The house, it tells me it’s supposed to turn off our security system when you show up on the doorstep.”

  “This damn computer’s been talking too much ever since Ted—”

  “You know about that, too?”

  Perlberg went two careful steps nearer to the angry girl. “I’m certain, Haley darling,” he said, “I explained to you your husband possesses certain unusual abilities. We’ve established beyond a doubt it was Ted who was at High World the same time you and I were sharing our exciting weekend—”

  “You already told me Ted had telekinetic powers.”

  “Well, he’d have to, wouldn’t he? To toss me around in such an embarrassing way? To transport, to teleport actually, you back here the way he did?”

  “But you won’t tell me how he all of a sudden developed such powers and why, when he found out the terrible things I was doing, he—”

  “Really, Haley darling, ours has been a wonderful relationship. Not at all terr—”

  “You know a hell of a lot more about Ted than you’ve told me,” Haley accused. “You probably even know where he is, why he hasn’t come home.”

  Perlberg asked, “You really don’t have any notion where he is?”

  “I imagine he’s left me, not that I blame him. That’s all I know.”

  “You’ve really, Haley darling, got to stop talking about our relationship as though it were some sinful episode. This is the twenty-first century after all, marriage is by no means a solemn contract which—”

  “There’s something else going on. The Repo Bureau wouldn’t. . . .” She shrugged. “You’re involved, you and Ted, in something much more complex than repossession, Jay.”

  Perlberg attempted a smile. “Haley, darling, I can assure you—”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “They wouldn’t have sent me to you if I knew that.”

  “They? Who do you mean?”

  Making an annoyed tisking sound, Perlberg said, “There was a hope in my heart, Haley darling, I wouldn’t have to do this.” From inside the jacket of his three-piece casualsuit he took a small stungun.

  The gun buzzed, Haley stiffened, then collapsed to the floor with a bouncing thump.

  “She’s never going to like me after this,” Perlberg said to the men who came into the house.

  One of them was Karew. “We’ll fix it so she won’t even remember you were here, pretty boy.”

  “Shooting one’s friends,” murmured Perlberg, while slowly putting his stungun back in its place, “isn’t the sort of thing I rel—”

  “It’s a mug’s game we’re in.” Karew pointed a thumb at the fallen girl, ordering two of the men. “Pick her up and to
ss her on that floating sofa. Can you work there, Doc?”

  Dr. Dix said, “Yes, of course. These are all simple operations.” Perlberg started for the door. “I’d rather not watch the rest of this.”

  “You’ll stay,” Karew told him.

  “Miss?”

  Lang Strayton stopped, looking back over her shoulder. “Yes, what is it?”

  A small black man in a spotless two-piece white worksuit was standing a few feet from her on the night street. He’d apparently followed her when she left Blind Lemon’s flat to walk down to the Sunflower Club. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, grinning. “I’m Philip José Shamba, a roving reporter for Timelife Newsdiscs.”

  The blonde girl started walking again. “I don’t really believe I’m interested in subscribing.”

  Shamba chuckled. “No, no, I don’t wish to sell you anything. I simply want to interview you about the incredible event which took place on the Charles River earlier today.” He caught up with her, walked along at her side.

  “Incredible things are always happening in Black Boston.” There were a few other people on the street, none that she knew, though.

  “I’m alluding to the amazing rescue of the passengers of the excursion boat.”

  “Oh, yes, that. I didn’t actually see much of that, Mr. Shamba.”

  “No need to be modest with me, no need to let my Timelife aura intimidate you,” said Shamba. “I’ve already established the fact you were accompanying the fellow who performed the miraculous feat.”

  “Even so, I don’t really wish to talk about it.”

  “What sort of attitude is that? There are twenty-six million Newsdisc users who’ll love to see something about the astounding events of this day.” Shamba gripped her arm. “No, you’d better—”

  “We’d also like to know, Miss Strayton,” he said as he shoved her into a darkened doorway, “if, as we suspect, your companion was Ted Briar.”

  “You’re not from Time —”

  Shamba’s stungun hummed. The girl fell back against the door.

  The gray landcar, which had been following them at a discreet distance, rolled swiftly along the dark street to stop directly opposite the doorway.

  Chapter 18

  Sunlit fields of yellow grass stretched in every direction. Beyond them rose gently rolling hills. Cottages with slanting thatch roofs dotted the fields, nestled in pools of deep shade provided by the sturdy trees. Birds sang in the golden brown branches, a drowsy stillness pervaded the midday landscape.

  “I didn’t quite hear your last few words,” Ted told his escort.

  “The entrance fee, to look around Utopia East, is seventy-five dollars,” repeated the pleasant-faced old man who’d met Ted at the toll gates of the idyllic community and escorted him this far. “If you want lunch, too, it’ll run you either ninety-five or a hundred and five.”

  “There’s a choice on the lunch?”

  “You get the tour of the community and the Pond Lunch for ninety-five, the Peak Lunch’ll set you back a hundred and five.”

  “Pond or peak?”

  “Seemingly you’re not familiar with the contemplation areas here at Utopia East,” said the old man in the crisp two-piece walking suit. “If you care to contemplate a woodland pond while lunching, that’s ninety-five dollars. Should you prefer contemplating on a mountain peak it’s a hundred and five. We’re running short on ponds today, so should that be your choice I advise you to sign up quickly.”

  “Not really that hungry. I guess I’ll take the tour and skip lunch.”

  “Suit yourself.” The old man held out his hand. “We accept Banxchex or multicards.”

  Ted produced the multicard he’d acquired this morning while en route to Utopia East. This time he’d telekinetically swiped one from a branch office of the multicard company. Standing, in the gray dawn, a block from the office, he’d caused the computer to print him up a new card in the name of Theo Bruin. Then he’d fiddled with the various other machines and mechanisms so that no one would be able to tell Theo Bruin hadn’t existed until today. Should have done that in the first place, but you have to make a few mistakes before you get a new system worked out. He could stay at Utopia East as long as he cared to, provided the guided tour made the favorable impression Ted was fairly sure it would. TSA would never be able to find him.”Yes, here’s my card.”

  The old man left him by a flowering bush, went trotting through the waving grass to the nearest tree. He thrust the card into a slot in the tree trunk, depressed several bark-colored buttons, and stood back to wait. After a moment a tiny speaker in the bole of the tree began to squawk quietly.

  From the dustless road Ted couldn’t catch any of the communication. The old man glanced over at him several times before returning to the road. “Well, sir, you’re in for a particular honor, young fellow,” he announced.

  “I only want the seventy-five dollar—”

  “Turns out, and I should have guessed, you’re exactly our one-hundredth visitor today,” continued the gatekeeper of Utopia East, “meaning you are to be given a free special Honored Pilgrim Tour. Yes, and your guide will be none other than Dr. Norbert Perola himself.”

  “That’s an honor sure enough, although—”

  “Lo, he’s fast approaching now.”

  Jogging along the road toward them was a huge man, his bald head flashing in the sun. He wore the same sleeveless tweed tunic and one-piece lycra worksuit Ted had become familiar with through his early-morning watching of the TV wall.

  “Hi, chum,” called Dr. Perola when he was yet fifty yards off. “Good to see you.”

  “It’s an honor. . . .”

  “Never shake hands,” explained the giant philosopher when he drew up in front of Ted. “Only salute, casually, like so. You’re Theo Bruin, eh?”

  “Named after an uncle,” said Ted. Up close Dr. Perola seemed even larger than he did on the wall. “I’m interested in your community, Doctor, thinking of settling here for a bit.”

  “Smart idea, chum,” said Perola. “Never slap on the back, but consider yourself warmly congratulated for your decision.” He made a go-away gesture at the old man. “Back to your post, Fritch, and your meditations.”

  “Yes, as you say, Dr. Perola.”

  Dr. Perola asked Ted, “Tranquil here, isn’t it?”

  “Very much so, yes, which is one of the reasons I—”

  “The invention of noises was yet another of so-called civilization’s follies. Come along this way, Theo. Who needs noise, chum? Nobody really, yet many feel it’s a necessary byproduct of progress. Not so.”

  The enormous Perola led him up from the main road onto a path which wound through the grassy fields. “As I was saying,” said Ted, “the quietness here was one of the—”

  “You’ll be wanting lunch first.”

  “Not really. I—”

  “We’ve all been led astray in the chow department, too, chum. People starving here, there, everywhere. Supposed to make us feel guilty. You sit down to a nice thick juicy texturized vegpro steak smothered in synonions and gluten gravy and you’re supposed to feel ashamed. What about all those poor slat-ribbed jigs over in someplace I never heard of? What of those skinny, sad-eyed greaseballs down in some smelly South American country not worth the powder to blow it up? Well, they can go farb themselves. No reason why they couldn’t have figured out how to fill their bellies as good as us. No reason they couldn’t invent a tangy ice-cold bottle of nearbeer instead of standing around rattling their cup for a handout. That reminds me, we’ll have ice-cold nearbeer with our lunch. Right in here.” They’d arrived at a cottage, the door stood a few inches open. Dr. Perola booted it wide with one of his enormous feet.

  “Be okay with me if we see your setup first and then—”

  “Plenty of time after we tie on the feedbag, Theo.” The parlor of the cottage was blue, with blue walls, blue rugs, blue furniture, blue light mobiles. “Everything’s been color-coordinated, helps you relax.
”

  Two places were set on a blue table.

  A blue door swung open, admitting a blue serving robot. “Two tangy ice-cold bottles of nearbeer,” it said, bobbing its ball-shaped head in the direction of the blue tray it was carrying. The robot rolled to Ted.

  “I’m not really thirsty.”

  “Take one, chum. We’ll drink a toast to your arrival at Utopia East.”

  “Well, okay.” Ted allowed the blue robot to unzip a bottle and pour it.

  “Don’t believe in clicking glasses,” said the philosopher, “but you can take the word for the deed. Bottoms up.”

  Ted drank half of his nearbeer, set the glass on the blue table. “I’ve watched your show, Doctor,” he said. “I don’t think, though, you’ve ever mentioned what exactly the rates are here.”

  “We have several plans, chum, several plans. The basic weekly rate is six-hundred dollars, which doesn’t include any frills. You get a pallet on the floor, breadsub, neowater, a. . . .”

  Ted noticed the room was changing color, sliding from blue to green. A very nasty green, glaring, yellowish. He blinked, the green darkened. “I’m . . . I. . . .”

  “Feeling poorly, Nemo?”

  “You . . . you’re. . . .”

  “Right you are, chum. You are directly atop a Total Security Agency installation. Once you conk out from the micky in your brew I’m going to haul you down there so they can get to work on you. You don’t think you would have watched my nerd of a show of your own free will? It was programmed into you when—”

  “No, I’m not going . . . not going to stay here.”

  The huge doctor approached the swaying Ted. He opened his arms, grabbed him in a powerful hug. “Don’t like touching people, but I’ll make an exception. You’re too far gone to pop off, chum.”

  Ted’s fists clenched. “I am. . . .” He concentrated, trying to will himself out of there. Minutes drained away, the room grew black, he remained in the grip of Dr. Perola. “No, damn it, you’re not going to keep me here!”

  The air exploded, the philosopher found himself hugging nothing. “Oops!”

  Hundreds of tiny American flags went falling from the work table, flapping and fluttering like a huge flock of patriotic butterflies.