by John Brunner
“But don’t you think you should have known it?” Austin Train inquired gently.
Petronella woke the morning of the show—or rather, afternoon, because her day was askew—with the muscles of her cheeks strained toward cramp; she had smiled so long and hard in her sleep.
Then it all stormed in on her: what they expected her to do tonight.
She sat up, afraid of drifting back to those tempting dreams, to that other impossible world where the ground was clean and the trees were green and the sun beamed down after the pure rain. She reached for a cigarette from the bedside shelf to distract herself, and instead of lighting it turned it over and over between her hands, frowning.
The present-day world was still here: the air on the Manhattan streets you breathed at your peril, the food in the Manhattan stores it was safer not to buy, the rain from the Manhattan sky that smirched a new dress in a moment and kept the dry-cleaners in business on wet days, the noise, the rush, and now and then a bang—an SST overshooting Kennedy, a saboteur taking revenge on a building, a policeman trying to stop a fleeing suspect.
Hell, she’d been conned. That other world could never have existed. It was simply a pipe-dream of paradise.
Though if Train’s imagination could conjure up that kind of vision, it was small wonder he wouldn’t touch drugs.
He didn’t need them.
She reached finally for the phone and called Ian Farley, and said, “Ian baby! I’ve been thinking. The people we need for the second show, the crucifixion ...”
Yet, in spite of everything, the vision haunted her. As the echo of her regular greeting died away— “Hi, world!” —and the star commercials of her sponsors went up on the monitor, she looked at them without her normal pride. Filtermasks? We evolved on this planet; why should we have to strain its air before we fill our lungs? Steam cars? Why cars at all? Ground is there to be walked on. A man, an athlete from England, had crossed North America on foot to show it could be done—and so, come to that, had relays of people protesting ... something. (It had happened years ago and she had forgotten the reason. Likely something to do with a war that got aborted.)
And Puritan. She was worried about that account. Train had said in his simple dogmatic fashion that the Trainites were going to ruin them. It might be politic to dissociate from Puritan ... though not until the current contract ran out. The Syndicate could be brutal.
She’d wanted to interview someone from the Denver wat that got burned. Of course, with Puritan as a sponsor she hadn’t been able to—
And she should have been able to! Suddenly, in the space of less than a minute, she reversed all her decisions about the handling of the show tonight. He had come to take his place beside her, soberly dressed in green—well, it had to be, didn’t it? And she was in sky-blue and white. Overtones, baby. And the backdrop: a panorama of a snow-capped mountain range for the first set, then a vast long palm-fringed beach, then a forest, then a rolling wheat-field ...
Right! The hell with the crucifixion team. Their turn can be later. Much later. I want to know if that charisma of his will go across.
Because I shall never get another chance to find out.
She felt instantly calm, absolutely in control, whereas moments ago she had been more nervous than the first time she was allotted her own show. She looked up, not at the prompter, but at the audience, wondering how they would respond. Heaven only knew how many distinguished guests they had here tonight: in every row she seemed to recognize a dozen faces, ABS’s own stars and several senior executives of the network, the entire group Body English who were currently number one in the charts and Big Mama Prescott who was number three, a couple of academics, an author, a movie director, a fashion photographer, a psychoanalyst, an Olympic runner, the highest-paid call girl in New York ...
She wanted to rub her hands as she thought of the admass out there, drawn to their TV sets by the twin compulsions of thirty spot announcements a day during the past week and the nationwide shortage of cash which always followed Labor Day.
A breath, not too deep, for the simple introduction she’d planned to consist of two words: “Austin Train!”
And—
Like a physical wound. Like a stab penetrating her back just below her left shoulder-blade and entering her heart. Something not right. Something happening in the studio in full view of how many millions? Guards! Where the hell are those guards? Why did they let these three men in, who are tramping down the aisle and attracting everyone’s attention? One in black, one in gray, one in blue.
They separated, black turning to right, gray to left, the leader in blue marching stolidly toward her, holding a large sheet of white paper with writing on it.
And spoke, before she could.
“Austin Train?”
“What?” she whispered, dazed by the interruption, incapable even of using the mike in the back of her chair to call Ian Farley.
“I am an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the man said. He had a good voice; it carried right to the microphones in front of Petronella and Austin, which were live for the admass to hear them by.
“This is a warrant for your arrest on charges of complicity in the kidnapping of Hector Rufus Bamberley, a minor, and of conspiracy to deprive him of his civil rights, specifically his personal liberty and his good health, in that you connived at his infection with”—drawing himself up a little, conscious that some of the words he had to utter were not common fare on television—“hepatitis, syphilis, gonorrhea and other dangerous diseases. I apologize for interrupting your show, Miss Page, but I am required to execute this arrest. Miss Page ... ?”
“I think Miss Page has fainted,” Austin said, rising and offering his wrists for the handcuffs.
Later, when she had been brought round, Ian Farley said furiously, “Kidnapper! Torturer! Christ knows what else—murderer, maybe! And you were going to make a hero out of him! Don’t deny it! I could see it in your eyes!”
TO NAME BUT A FEW
Opaque and pale as tissue paper the sky overlay America.
Everywhere the voices of people saying in a doubtful tone, “But it didn’t use to be like this, did it?”
And others saying with scorn, “Don’t give me that shit about the Good Old Days!”
The mental censors rewriting history, not through rose-colored glasses, but gray ones.
Reading, as you might say, from the top down:
Dead satellites.
Discarded first and second stages of rockets, mainly second.
Fragments of vehicles which exploded in orbit.
Experimental material, e.g. reflective copper needles.
Combustion compounds from rocket exhausts.
Experimental substances intended to react with stratospheric ozone, e. g., sodium.
Very light radioactive fallout.
CO2.
Aircraft exhaust.
Medium fallout.
Rainmaking compounds.
Smoke.
Sulphur dioxide.
Lead alkyls.
Mercaptans and other bad smells.
Car exhausts.
Locomotive exhausts.
More smoke.
Local fallout.
Products accidentally vented from underground nuclear tests.
Oceanic fluorine.
Nitric acid.
Sulphuric acid.
Sewage.
Industrial effluents.
Detergents.
Selenium and cadmium from mine tailings.
Fumes from garbage incinerators burning plastic.
Nitrates, phosphates, fungicidal mercuric compounds from “compacted soils.”
Oil.
Oil-derived insecticides.
Defoliants and herbicides.
Radioactives from aquifers contaminated by underground explosions, chiefly tritium.
Lead, arsenic, oil-well sludge, fly ash, asbestos.
Polyethylene, polystyrene, polyurethane, glass, cans.
/> Nylon, dacron, rayon, terylene, stylene, orlon, other artificial fibers.
Scrap.
Garbage.
Concrete and cement.
A great deal of short-wave radiation.
Carcinogens, teratogens and mutagens.
Synergistic poisons.
Hormones, antibiotics, additives, medicaments.
Drugs.
Solanine, oxalic acid, caffeine, cyanide, myristicin, pressor amines, copper sulphate, dihydrochalcones, naringin, ergot.
Botulinus.
Mustard gas, chlorine, Lewisite, phosgene, prussic acid.
T, Q, GA, GB, GD, GE, GF, VE, VX, CA, CN, CS, DM, PL, BW, BZ.
CO.
—to name but a few.
CONSPECTUS
Philip Mason in his office at Prosser Enterprises: burdened with work that had occupied him clear through the holiday weekend, just about getting on top of it, but bothered since a few days ago with this slight but recurrent ache in the joints, especially the knees and ankles. At the edge of his awareness a scrap of information gathered during his brush with the clap: among the minor symptoms are aches in the joints.
But Doug gave me a clean bill of health. Let it not, please not, be arthritis! At thirty-two? (Well, coming up to thirty-three ...)
“Brothers and sisters, we are gathered together in the sight of the Lord and the presence of our friends to mourn the passing of Thich Van Quo, whom so many of you knew as Thad. Though, through no fault of his own, he was so grievously afflicted in body, he endeared himself to us all by his geniality, good nature and long-suffering spirit. We hoped that he might spend long among us, but it was not to be.”
Ah, shit, another gate guard gone sick. Which of ’em this time, and complaining of what? (Not that it made much odds. Most likely a hangover, as usual.)
“You’re Mrs. Laura Vincent? Sit down, please. Well, as you certainly know, there’s an ordinance in the State of Nevada which requires that any person against whom a complaint has been recorded concerning the transmission of a social disease must be compulsorily hospitalized, and in your case I’m sorry to say we have five.”
PRESCRIPTION
Mr./Mrs./Miss/child Felice Vaughan (patient)
......................................................... (address)
Rx 30 caps. Salveomycin x 250 mg. 4 per diem
Squiggle (doctor)
Halkin.—In loving memory of Roger, Belinda and Teddy, victims of a cruel and unprovoked attack by a maniac on this our beloved country. RIP.
In his office at the Bamberley Trust Building (it still had an unmended crack across the ceiling, but that wasn’t relevant): Tom Grey, cursing. He was seldom a profane man. But there was a painful whitlow on his right forefinger, and it had just caused him—for the eighth or ninth time today—to mis-hit a crucial key on the computer reading he was using.
Dear Mr. Chalmers: Enclosed please find our check for $14,075.23 in respect of your claim against this company concerning the regretted demise of your son William. The delay in settlement is regretted but recurrent illness has handicapped our staff in recent months
“Angie? Denise here. Is Doug—? ... Yes, of course, it must be awful for him right now. But if he’s going to be in his office this afternoon? ... Fine. Nothing serious, no. Just this headache, and nausea with it ... Yes, but I never suffered from migraine in my life.”
Rioting at New Fillmore East. Body English didn’t show for their scheduled concert. Acute pharyngitis.
“Master Motor Mart, good morning ... No, I’m afraid he’s in the hospital. He got badly burned when the Trainites bombed us.”
NANETTE’S BEAUTY CENTER: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
In the Prosser warehouse: Pete Goddard with acid indigestion. Doubtless due to worry. He hadn’t felt it right to bother Doc McNeil what with the typhus outbreak. So he just kept gulping tablets from the box he’d bought at the drugstore. Anti ... something.
“Ah, shit! Okay, here you are—another pack of filters!”
Thank you for your recent letter addressed to Mr. Stacy. Unfortunately Mr. Stacy died in 1974. No doubt our present managing director, Mr. Schwartz, will be pleased to deal with your inquiry directly he returns from Mexico. However, we have just learned he is indisposed and will not be well enough for the trip before the end of the month.
INTESTACY:—Stanway, Brian Alderson, B.Med. Any person having a claim against the estate of the above-named should at once contact ...
In her sleazy hotel room: Peg Mankiewicz, boiling mad and saying so by way of her typewriter. Bare to the waist for the heat and resenting even the panties she had on because it was her period.
Bad this month. Funny. Mostly she got off lightly, but this was the ninth day of bleeding. Some time soon she ought to see a gynecologist. Right now, though, painkillers. She had urgent work.
They were holding Train incommunicado. Of course they denied it—said he himself was refusing to see or talk to anyone, even a lawyer. Dirty liars! (Though of course if the shock had caused a recurrence of his former trouble, a second and more severe breakdown ...)
No. They were lying. She was convinced, and had to say so loudly to anyone who would listen. Half the country was already of that opinion anyway.
Now and then, when she broke off from the typewriter, she scratched the inflamed spot on her left wrist.
“Zena, honey! Zena! ... Oh, God. How much longer before that stinking doctor gets here?”
IN MEMORIAM ISAIAH JAMES PRICE WILLIAMS, BORN 1924 IN CARDIGANSHIRE, WALES, FOULLY MURDERED IN GUANAGUA, HONDU (remainder deleted. By a mortar shell.)
... as well as can be expected, according to his personal medical attendants. Unofficially, the President is said to be suffering from ...
Esteemed Señor: While we appreciate that the situation in your country is currently very difficult, we must now INSIST on an answer to our letters of May 2, June 3, July 19 and August 11. It was our son Leonard’s special wish that he should be interred in our family vault if anything awful happens to him.
“These cramps are killing me! You’ve got to give me another shot or I can’t make tonight’s show.”
“You won’t make it if I do give you another shot, Miss Page. You might very well fall asleep on camera.”
Three hundred and sixty thousand fans turned out in Nashville for the funeral of Big Mama Prescott, dead in New York of pneumonia aggravated by extreme obesity.
“Next! ... Ah, hell, you again, Train! A’right, sit down and hit me with some more of your jawbreaking words. Me, I’m just a poor ignorant prison doctor! What’s given you the collywobbles this time? Something else about jail your delicate constitution can’t—? Hey! Get up! I said GET UP—that’s an ORDER!
“Hey! Nurse! Quick!”
An American Hero: Jacob Bamberley ........................33
A Personal Account of his Last Days, by Gaylord T. Elliott
(Reprinted from Colorado Patriot)
In a Howard Johnson’s which still bore the scars of a recent price riot: Hugh Pettingill. Even without his mask, which he wished he didn’t have to take off to eat because the stench here was pretty bad, the plaster he wore to protect the weeping sores around his mouth disguised his features. Nonetheless he kept glancing anxiously around as he forced down the hotcakes which were the only item available from the menu today.
The coffee was awful. Probably wasn’t coffee at all. Since the jigras, they said in lots of places it was burnt corn kernels or even acorns.
Another two or three mouthfuls and he’d be on his way. Not too soon. Christ, if only the car held out ...
FOLLOWING THE REGRETTED DEMISE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE ANGEL CITY INTERSTATE MUTUAL INSURANCE CORPORATION DEALINGS IN THE STOCK OF THE COMPANY ARE HEREBY SUSPENDED UNTIL TUESDAY NEXT.
Name: BURKHARDT Baird Tolliver
Address: 2202 S. Widburn
Grounds for claiming: DECEASED (heart failure)
°Person receiving benefit: Widow
(°If not above-named)
Darling Lucy! It’s so long since I heard from you! I know this isn’t exactly the best place in the world for postal services, but it’s among the few highlights of a two-year tour here when the mail plane comes skidding in. Do please write to me soon. I look forward every day to seeing you when I come back to Auckland, away from this eternal polar whiteness.
In re: Dependents of OBOU, Hippolyte (Major), aet. 24, deceased Noshri, verdict shot.
Ruled: Unentitled to pension, death not having occurred on active service.
“What’s your name? ... Please, I’m trying to help you! Name! Who you? Name!”
