The Age of the Pussyfoot

by Pohl Frederik

  “There are ineluctable aspects to the syndrome ‘love,’ which we cannot distinguish, Man Forrester.”

  “Hell, I don’t expect you to. You’re a machine. But I thought Adne was a woman.”

  “I can only surmise from the evidence of her responses that she did not comprehend or accept your behavior either, Man Forrester.”

  “I have to admit you’ve got a point there,” sighed Forrester, putting down the goblet and getting up to roam around. “Well, never mind.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then waved a hand; a mirror appeared, and he studied his face in it. He looked like a bum. Hair unkempt, beard beginning to grow again. “Oh, hell,” he said.

  The joymaker made no answer.

  What Forrester really wanted to know—whether anyone had come to suspect him of being the one who had let the Sirian escape—he dared not ask. The questions he did ask, on the other hand, turned out to have answers as confusing as the questions were. Even simple questions. He had asked after his friend among the Forgotten Men, Jerry Whitlow, for example. He had not been surprised to find out that Whitlow was dead—he had seen that happen; or to learn that his revival was problematical; but he still did not know what the joymaker meant by saying that Whitlow was “returned to reserve.” It seemed to mean that Whitlow’s body had been used as raw material, perhaps in one of the organic lakes like the “Sea of Soup,” from which the world’s food supplies came; but Forrester was too repelled by that notion to follow it any further, and even so he could not understand why Whitlow’s revival would then be “problematical.”

  “How many messages today, joymaker?” he asked idly.

  “There are no messages for you today, Man Forrester.”

  Forrester turned to look at the thing. That was a welcome surprise—any change was welcome—but it was worrisome, too. Had everyone forgotten him?

  “No messages?”

  “None that you have not already refused, Man Forrester.”

  “Doesn’t anyone want to talk to me?”

  “As far as indicated by the message log, Man Forrester, only Man Hironibi wishes to talk to you. He left special instructions in regard to forwarding of communications. But that was six days ago.”

  Forrester was startled. “How the devil long have I been here?”

  “Nineteen days, Man Forrester.”

  He took a deep breath.

  Nineteen days! How little his so-called friends cared for him! he told himself with self-pity. If they really liked him they would have broken the door down, if necessary.

  But it was not all bad. Nineteen days? But surely, if he were going to be arrested for helping the Sirian escape, it would not have taken this long. Was it safe to assume the heat was off? Did he dare go back into the world of men?

  He made up his mind rapidly and, before he could change it, acted at once. “Joymaker! Get me cleaned up. Shave, bath, new clothes. I’m going outside!”

  His resolve lasted him through the cleaning-up process and into the condominium hall, but then it began to dissipate.

  No one was in the hall; there were no sounds. But to Forrester it seemed like a jungle trail with unknown dangers on every side. He ordered an elevator cab to take him to slideway level, and when the door opened he entered it cautiously, as though an enemy might be lurking inside.

  But it too was empty. And so—he found a moment later—was the wide hoverway. There was simply nothing there.

  Forrester stared around, unable to believe what he saw. No pedestrians—well, that was understandable. There were seldom very many, and he had no idea what time of day it was. No hovercraft? That was harder to accept. Even if for a moment none were in sight, he should be able to hear the hissing roar of their passage somewhere in the city. But to see no aircraft, no sign of life at all—that was flatly unbelievable.

  Where was everybody?

  He said, with a quaver in his voice, “Get me a cab.”

  “One will arrive in two minutes, Man Forrester.” And it did—a standard automated aircab; and Forrester still had not seen a human being. He climbed in quickly, closed the door, and ordered it to take him up—not up to any place in particular, just up, so that he could see farther in all directions.

  But no matter how far he looked, no one was there. Words forced themselves out. “Joymaker! What’s happened?”

  “In what respect, Man Forrester?” the machine benignly asked.

  “Where did everybody go? Adne? The kids?”

  “Adne Bensen and her children, Man Forrester, at present are being processed for storage in Sublake Emergency Facility Nine. However, it is not as yet known whether space will be available for them there on a permanent basis, and so the location must be considered tentative pending the completion of additional facilities—”

  “You mean they’re dead?”

  “Clinically dead, Man Forrester. Yes.”

  “How about—” Forrester cast about in his mind— “let’s see, that Martian. Not Heinzie, the one with the Irish name, Kevin O’Rourke; is he dead, too?”

  “Yes, Man Forrester.”

  “And the Italian ballerina I met at the restaurant where the Forgotten Men hung out?”

  “Also dead, Man Forrester.”

  “What the hell happened?” he shouted.

  The joymaker replied carefully, “Speaking objectively, Man Forrester, there has been an unforecast increase in the number of commitments to freezing facilities. More than ninety-eight point one percent of the human race is now in cryogenic storage. In subjective terms, the causes are not well established but appear to relate to the probability of invasion by extra-Solarian living creatures, probably Sirian.”

  “You mean everybody committed suicide?”

  “No, Man Forrester. Many preferred to be killed by others; for example, Man Heinzlichen Jura de Syrtis Major. He, you will recall, elected to be killed by you.”

  Forrester sank back against the seat. “Holy sweet heaven,” he muttered to himself. Dead! Nearly the whole human race, dead! It was more than he could take in at once. He sat staring into space until the joymaker said apologetically, “Man Forrester, do you wish to select a destination?”

  “No—wait a minute, yes! Maybe I do. You said ninety-eight percent of the human race is dead.”

  “Ninety-eight point one, yes, Man Forrester.”

  “But that means there are some who are still alive, right? Are there any I know?”

  “Yes, Man Forrester. Certain classes are still in vital state in large proportion because of special requests made for their services—e.g., medical specialists working in the freezer stations. Also, there are others. One you know is Man Hironibi. He is not only in vital state but has, as you know, given special instructions in regard to receiving messages from you.”

  “Fine!” cried Forrester. “Just take me to Taiko, right away! I want to see someone who’s alive!”

  Because—went the unspoken corollary—he didn’t want to see the ruins left by the dead. Not as long as he was so completely convinced that it was he himself who had killed them.

  Sixteen

  But, as it turned out, the cab did not take him to see Taiko after all.

  It did what it could. The joymaker programmed it properly enough, and Forrester found himself high in a building of bright ruby crystal, in front of a door inscribed THE NED LUD SOCIETY. Inside was what he supposed was the latter-day equivalent of an office—although it was warm and damp and a fountain played among ferns. But no one was inside.

  “What the devil’s the matter with you, joymaker?” he demanded. “Where’s Taiko?”

  “Man Forrester,” said the joymaker, “there is an anomaly here. My records indicate Man Hironibi’s presence at this place, but clearly they are wrong. My records have never been wrong before.”

  “Well, let me talk to him. You said he’d left special instructions about that.”

  “Yes, Man Forrester.” Pause. Then Taiko’s voice came on. “That you, Charles? Glad to hear from you. I’m busy
now, but I’ll be in touch when I get a chance—only don’t refuse my message this time, will you?”

  That was all. “Wait a minute,” cried Forrester. “Taiko!”

  The joymaker interrupted him. “Man Forrester, that was a recording.”

  Forrester growled profanely. He walked around the office, examining it, but without finding anything that would help him locate Taiko. “Well, hell,” he said. “Let’s see. Is anybody else I know still alive?”

  “Man Forrester, Edwardino Wry is also ambient. Do you consider that he is known to you?”

  “I doubt it, because I never heard of the son— Wait a minute. Was he one of the ones that beat me up?”

  “Yes, Man Forrester.”

  “Well, I don’t want to see him. Forget it, joymaker,” said Forrester. “I guess I’ll just wait for Taiko.”

  Three or four times he thought he saw people, but he was only able to get close to one of them, and it said civilly, “We are not human, Man Forrester. We are merely a special-purpose service unit diverted to aid at the cryogenic facilities.” It had looked like a pretty young blonde in a bikini, perhaps a barmaid somewhere, Forrester thought; but was too dispirited to inquire further. Apart from those, there was no one in sight in Shoggo.

  He walked aimlessly, shaking his head.

  His long days of self-imposed exile had let most of the guilt evaporate from him. He no longer felt either fearful of discovery or humiliated; the Sirian had used him as a tool, true, but if it had not been him, it would have been someone else. Anyway, he was more concerned about this world. The year 2527 was a great disappointment to him. He could think of no other age when the response of the populace to a threat of death would have been such universal suicide. It was simply crazy. . . .

  Of course, he reminded himself, death was not the same to these people as it had been to his contemporaries. Death was no longer necessarily permanent. It was like fleeing to a neutral country to sit out a war, and heaven knew there were lots of twentieth-century examples of that.

  Nevertheless, in Charles Forrester’s opinion the world of 2527 A.D. was chicken.

  Forrester filled his lungs and shouted, “You are all cowards! The world’s better off without you!” His voice echoed emptily among the tall, hard building faces.

  “Man Forrester,” said the joymaker, “were you addressing me?”

  “I was not. Shut up,” said Forrester. “No, cancel that. Get me a cab.” And, when it came, he took it back to the broad hovercraft way where he and Jerry Whitlow had hidden out as two of the Forgotten Men. But there were no more Forgotten Men in evidence, not wherever he looked, no matter how loudly he called out. “Take me to Adne Bensen’s home,” he commanded, and the cab flew him into the entrance port at the midtower level of the building they had shared, but there was no one visible there, either. Not in the streets, not in the halls, not even in the apartment, after Forrester had commanded the joymaker to let him in.

  He ordered himself a meal and sat on the edge of a sort of couch in the children’s room, feeling put-upon and sad. When he had finished eating he said, “Joymaker, try getting Taiko for me again.”

  “Yes, Man Forrester. . . . There is no new message, Man Forrester.”

  “Don’t give me that! Say it’s priority, like you’re always doing to me.”

  “You do not have the authority to classify a message priority, Man Forrester.”

  “I do if I say I’m planning to kill him,” Forrester said cunningly. “You have to notify him of my intentions, right?”

  “I do indeed, Man Forrester, but not until you have filed appropriate bonds and guaranties. Until you have done so, your notice cannot be effective. Do you wish to file, Man Forrester?”

  “Well,” said Forrester, thinking about filling out forms and signing documents, “I guess not, no. Isn’t there any way I can get through to him?”

  The joymaker said, “I have a taped message from him, which I can display on the view-wall if you wish, Man Forrester. It is not, however, directly addressed to you.”

  “Display the son of a gun then,” ordered Forrester. “And make it snappy!”

  “Yes, Man Forrester.”

  The view-wall lighted up, obediently; but what appeared on it was not Taiko Hironibi. It was a tall, largely built woman with a commanding presence, who said, “Girl Goldilocks and Terror of Bears!”

  The joymaker said apologetically, “There is a malfunction, Man Forrester. I am investigating.”

  Forrester was startled. “What the devil!” he cried. The voice went on. “Bears! Think of bears. Great biting creatures, shaggy-haired, smell of animal sweat and rot. A bear can kill a man—crunch, crush his head; smash, crash his spine; zip, rip his heart.” At every word the woman’s image acted out crunching, smashing, ripping.

  “Hey,” said Forrester, “I didn’t order any bedtime stories!”

  The joymaker said, in the same tone of apology, “Man Forrester, the technical difficulty is being analyzed. I suggest you permit this tape to finish.”

  And meanwhile the woman was orating. “A girl child, little as you. Littler. Little as you used to be when you were little. Call the girl . . . give her a name. . . . Let her be called, oh, Goldilocks. Golden hair; locks of gold. Sweet, small, defenseless girl.”

  Forrester snarled, “Will you turn this damn thing off?”

  “Man Forrester,” admitted the joymaker, “I can’t. Please be patient.”

  “Imagine this girl doing a naughty thing!” cried the woman. “Imagine her going where she should not go, where her mother/father told her not to go. Imagine her rejecting their wise counsel!”

  Forrester sank back on the couch and said glumly, “If you can’t turn it off, at least get me a drink while I’m waiting. Scotch and water.”

  “Yes, Man Forrester.”

  The view-wall was showing real bears now, large and ferocious grizzlies, while the woman chanted, “And Goldilocks goes to the bear lair—roaring, biting, slashing bears! But they are not home.

  “They are not home, and she eats their food. She sits where they sit, lies where they lie, and sleeps.

  “She sleeps, and the bears come home!”

  Forrester’s drink appeared; he tasted it and glowered, for it was not Scotch. As best as he could tell from the flavor, it was a sort of salty applejack.

  “The bears come home! The bears come home, and their muzzles foam; the bears come back ready to attack, the bears come in with their jaws agrin!

  “Red eyes glowing! (She sleeps, unknowing.)

  “Claws that rend (is this the end?), paws that break (she starts to wake), teeth that bite—

  “And Goldilocks opens her eyes, screams loudly, leaps to her feet and takes flight.”

  The woman on the view-wall paused, staring sorrowfully straight into Forrester’s eyes. Her oratorial stance relaxed; her eyes seemed to lose their dramatic glow, and she said conversationally, “Now, you see? What a terrible thing to happen to a little girl, and all because she rejected her parents. She ran and ran and ran and ran, a long, long time, and then she got back to her father/mother and promised never to reject them again, and made a good adjustment. Now please prepare to answer questions on the theme: ‘Is it wise to take chances on going to places your father/mother do not approve?’ ” She smiled, bowed, and vanished.

  The joymaker said, “Man Forrester, thank you for waiting. There are certain nexial recursions malfunctioning at the present time, and we regret any inconvenience.”

  “What was that? One of Adne’s kids’ bedtime stories?”

  “Exactly, Man Forrester. Our apologies. Shall I attempt to display the Taiko tape again?”

  “I think,” said Forrester, with a sense of foreboding, “that I am beginning to feel kind of lonesome.”

  “That is not due to any malfunction on our part, Man Forrester,” said the joymaker with dignity. “That is due to—”

  Silence.

  “What did you say?” demanded Forrester.

/>   “That is due to— That is due to—Awk,” said the joymaker, as though it were strangling. “That is due to the flight of many persons to freezing facilities.”

  “You sound as though you’re breaking down, machine,” said Forrester apprehensively.

  “No, Man Forrester! Certain nexial recursions are not operative, and some algorithms are looping. It is a minor technical difficulty.”

  The machine paused, then said in a different tone, “Another minor technical difficulty is that certain priority programs have not been executed on schedule. My apologies, Man Forrester.”

  “For what?”

  “For not delivering a priority notice regarding your imminent arrest.”

  Forrester was jolted. “The devil you say!”

  “No, Man Forrester. It is a true message. The coppers are coming for you now.”

  Seventeen

  The door opened with a thwack, and two coppers plunged into the room. One of them grabbed him, rather roughly, Forrester thought, and glared into his eyes. “Man Forrester!” it cried. “You are arrested on sufficient charges and need make no statement!”

  As if he could, thought Forrester, whirled off his feet as the coppers flanked him, one on each side, and half carried him out into the corridor and down to the fly-in, where a police flier was waiting for him. He shouted to them, “Wait! What’s it all about?”

  They did not answer, merely thrust him in and slammed the door. It must be the Sirian business, he thought sickly, staring back at them as they watched the flier bear him away. But why now? “I didn’t do anything!” he cried, knowing that he lied.

  “That is to be determined, Man Forrester,” said a voice from a speaker grille over his head. “Meanwhile, please come with us.”

  The “please” was totally sense-free, of course; Forrester had no choice. “But what did I do?” he begged.

  “Your arrest has been ordered, Man Forrester,” said the quiet, unemotional voice of the central computation facility. “Do you wish a precis of the charge against you?”