“I think we can,” said the counselor indifferently. “You don’t know the efficiency of our laboratories. You’ll talk.”
* * * *
When Putsyn had been removed, Borgenese turned. “Very good work, Luis. I’m pleased with you. I think in time you’d make an excellent policeman. Retro detail, of course.”
Luis stared at him.
“Didn’t you listen?” he said. “I’m Dorn Starret, a cheap crook.”
In that mental picture of Starret he’d had, he should have seen it at once. Left-handed? Not at all—that was the way a man normally saw himself in a mirror. And in mirror images, the right hand becomes the left.
The counselor sat up straight, not gentle and easygoing any longer. “I’m afraid you can’t prove that,” he said. “Fingerprints? Will any of Starret’s past associates identify you? There’s Putsyn, but he won’t be around to testify.” He smiled. “As final evidence let me ask you this: when he offered you a share in his crooked scheme, did you accept? You did not. Instead, you brought him in, though you thought you were heading into certain retrogression.”
Luis blinked dazedly. “But—”
“There are no exceptions, Luis. For certain crimes there is a prescribed penalty, retrogression. The law makes no distinction as to how the penalty is applied, and for a good reason. If there was such a person, Dorn Starret ceased to exist when Putsyn retroed him—and not only legally.”
Counselor Borgenese stood up. “You see, retroing a person wipes him clean of almost everything he ever knew—right and wrong. It leaves him with an adult body, and we fill his mind with adult facts. Given half a chance, he acts like an adult.”
Borgenese walked slowly to stand in front of his desk. “We protect life. Everybody’s life. Including those who are not yet victims. We don’t have the death penalty and don’t want it. The most we can do to anyone is give him a new chance, via retrogression. We have the same penalty for those who deprive another of his memory as we do for those who kill—with this difference: the man who retrogresses another knows he has a good chance to get away with it. The murderer is certain that he won’t.
“That’s an administrative rule, not a law—that we don’t try to trace retrogression victims. It channels anger and greed into non-destructive acts. There are a lot of unruly emotions floating around, and as long as there are, we have to have a safety valve for them. Retrogression is the perfect instrument for that.”
Luise tried to speak, but he waved her into silence.
“Do you know how many were killed last year?” he asked.
Luis shook his head.
“Four,” said the counselor. “Four murders in a population of sixteen billion. That’s quite a record, as anyone knows who reads Twentieth Century mystery novels.” He glanced humorously at Luis. “You did, didn’t you?”
Luis nodded mutely.
Borgenese grinned. “I thought so. There are only three types of people who know about fingerprints today, historians and policemen being two. And I didn’t think you were either.”
Luise finally broke in. “Won’t Putsyn’s machine change things?”
“Will it?” The counselor pretended to frown. “Do you remember how to build it?”
“I’ve forgotten,” she confessed.
“So you have,” said Borgenese. “And I assure you Putsyn is going to forget too. As a convicted criminal, and he will be, we’ll provide him with a false memory that will prevent his prying into the past.
“That’s one machine we don’t want until humans are fully and completely civilized. It’s been invented a dozen times in the last century, and it always gets lost.”
He closed his eyes momentarily, and when he opened them, Luise was looking at Luis, who was staring at the floor.
“You two can go now,” he said. “When you get ready, there are jobs for both of you in my department. No hurry, though; we’ll keep them open.”
Luis left, went out through the long corridors and into the night.
* * * *
She caught up with him when he was getting off the belt that had taken him back to the Shelters.
“There’s not much you can say, I suppose,” she murmured. “What can you tell a girl when she learns you’ve stopped just short of killing her?”
He didn’t know the answer either.
They walked in silence.
She stopped at her dwelling, but didn’t go in. “Still, it’s an indication of how you felt—that you forgot your own name and took mine.” She was smiling now. “I don’t see how I can do less for you.”
Hope stirred and he moved closer. But he didn’t speak. She might not mean what he thought she did.
“Luis and Luise Obispo,” she said softly. “Very little change for me—just add Mrs. to it.” She was gazing at him with familiar intensity. “Do you want to come in?”
She opened the door.
Crime was sometimes the road to opportunity, and retrogression could be kind.
MEZZEROW LOVES COMPANY
Originally published in Galaxy Science Fiction, June 1956.
The official took their passports, scanning the immense variety of stamps he had to choose from. He selected one with multicolored ink that suited his fancy and smeared it against the small square of plastic.
“Marcus Mezzerow?” he asked, glancing at the older man and back at the passport. His lips quivered with amusement at what was printed there. “There seems to be a mistake in the name of the planet,” he said. “It’s hard to believe they’d call it Messy Row.”
“There is a mistake,” said Marcus heavily. “However, there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s listed as Messy Row on the charts.”
The official’s face twitched and he bent over the other passport. He was slow in stamping it. “Wilbur Mezzerow?” he asked the young man.
“That’s me,” said Wilbur. “Isn’t it a terrible thing to do? You’d almost think people on Earth can’t spell—or maybe they don’t listen. That’s why Pa and me are here.”
“Wilbur, this man is not responsible for our misfortune,” said Marcus. “Neither can he correct it. Don’t bore him with our problems.”
“Well, sure.”
“Come on.”
“Welcome to Earth,” said the official as they walked away. He caught sight of a woman coming toward him and cringed inwardly before he recognized that she, too, had just arrived from one of the outer worlds. He could tell because of the absence of the identifying gleam in her eyes. On principle he’d stamp her passport with dull and dingy ink.
Wilbur scuffled along beside his father. He hadn’t attained his full growth, but he was as tall though not as heavy as Marcus. “Where are we going now?” he asked. “Get the name changed?”
“Don’t gawk,” said Marcus, restraining his own tendency to gaze around in bewilderment. Things had changed since his father had been here. “No, we’re not. It’s simple, but it may take longer than we think. We have to act as if Earth is an unfriendly planet.”
“Hardly seems like a planet.”
“It is. If you scratch deep enough under those buildings, you’ll find soil and rock.” Even Marcus didn’t know how deep that scratch would have to be.
“Seems hard to believe it was once like—uh—Mezzerow.” Wilbur was looking at the buildings and pedestrians streaming past and the little flutter cars that filled the air. “Bet you can’t find any place to be alone in.”
“More people are alone within ten miles of us than you have ever seen,” said Marcus. He stopped in front of a building and consulted a small notebook. The address agreed, but he looked in vain for a name. There wasn’t a name on any of the buildings. Nevertheless, this ought to be it. They’d been walking for miles and he had checked all the streets. He spoke to Wilbur and they went inside.
It was a hotel. The Universe over, there is no mistaking a hotel for anything else. Continuous arrivals and departures stamp it with peculiar impermanency. A person might stay twenty years and yet
seem as transient as the man still signing the registry.
A clerk sauntered over to the Mezzerows. He was plump, but the shoulders of his jacket were obviously much broader than he was. “Looking for someone?” he inquired.
“I’m looking for the Outer Hotel,” said Marcus.
“This is a hotel,” the clerk said, raising his shoulders and letting them fall. One shoulder didn’t come down, so he grasped the bottom of the sleeve and pulled it down.
“What’s the name?”
The clerk yawned. “Doesn’t have a name—just a number. No hotel has had a name for the last hundred years. Too many of them.”
“My father stayed at the Outer Hotel fifty years ago, before he left to discover a new planet. It was at this address.”
The clerk, wary of his shoulder pads, shrugged sideways. It gave him a bent look when one shoulder stayed back. “Maybe it wasn’t a hundred years ago,” he said to his fingernails. “Anyway, they don’t have names now.”
“This must be the old Outer Hotel,” Marcus decided. “We’ll stay here.”
The clerk’s aplomb was not as foolproof as he imagined. It slipped a trifle. “You want to stay here? I mean really?”
“Why not?” growled Marcus. “You have room, don’t you? It seems like a decent place. I don’t have any other recommendations.”
“Certainly it’s decent and we have room. I thought you might be more comfortable elsewhere. I can recommend an exclusive men’s hotel to you.”
“We are plain people and don’t want anything exclusive,” said Marcus. “Register us, please.”
“I don’t do menial tasks,” said the clerk with an offended laugh. “I’m here for the sole purpose of imparting class to the hotel. Take your registry problems to the desk robot.”
Wilbur looked curiously at the pudgy clerk as he walked away, smiling coyly at the passersby. “Pa, how can a man like him make this place seem classy?”
“Son, I don’t know,” said Marcus heavily. “Earth has changed since your grandfather described it to me. I don’t propose to find out what’s the matter with it. We’ll just take care of our business and go home.”
* * * *
They signed at the desk, giving their baggage claim checks to the robot, who assured them that everything would be zipped straight to their room from the spaceport.
In spite of Wilbur’s protests that he wasn’t tired, that he was just getting used to walking again after being cramped in the ship, they went to their rooms to freshen up. Thus they missed the noontime exodus of workers from the buildings around them.
Marcus had food sent up, but didn’t eat much, though initially he had been hungry. The lot 219 steaks were excellent in appearance, nicely seared and thick. Inside, they were gray and watery, with an offensive taste, obviously tank-grown. After a few bites, Marcus abandoned the meat and ate vegetables. These, though ill-flavored and artificially colored, he could eat without suspicion.
Wilbur consumed everything before him, ending by looking hungrily at the steak on his father’s plate. Marcus hastily shoved the trays in the disposer slot. If he had time before he left Earth, he meant to find out what a “lot 219” steak was. He hoped it wasn’t what he thought.
When they were ready, they dropped to the ground floor. The clerk who gave class to the hotel was nowhere in sight. They went out into the street and headed for the tall spire of Information Center. It was a landmark they couldn’t miss. Every human who thought of visiting Earth was familiar with it. If a question couldn’t be answered there, it was beyond the scope of human knowledge.
There were many more women than men on the streets. Marcus noted it, but didn’t think it unusual. He had heard that women had more free time in the middle of the day on planets that had been settled for a long time. He walked on with a long stride, oblivious to the feminine glances he and his son attracted.
At Information Center, he consulted the index at the entrance, jostled by people from thousands of planets who were doing the same. The red line on the floor led to the planet section, which was what he wanted. Keeping check on Wilbur, who showed a tendency to wander, he followed it to the end.
The end was an immense room with innumerable small booths. Instinctively, Marcus distrusted booths; more than anything else, they resembled vertical coffins. Growling to Wilbur to stay close by, he went inside and closed the door. He inserted a coin and made the selection.
A harried face appeared on the viewplate. “Does your question require a human answer?”
“It certainly does,” said Marcus. “I didn’t come nine hundred and forty-seven light-years to be befuddled by a robot.”
The harried face barked something unintelligible in another direction and then turned back to Marcus. “Very well. Question?”
“I want to request a change. My planet—”
“Planet? Change?” repeated the face. It disappeared and a finger took its place. The finger rifled rapidly down a vertical index. It stopped and stabbed and the index popped open. “Go to building P-CAF.” The finger snatched a slip out of the open space and dropped the slip in a slot. “Go to the platform at the rear of this building. Take any tube with P-CAF on it. Apply at that building for the change.”
Marcus wasn’t surprised, but he felt annoyed. “Can’t you make the change here? I don’t like being shoved around.”
“We are not authorized to make changes. We are merely what our name implies; we have the information to direct you to the proper sources. The slip I gave you is a map of the general vicinity of the place you want. You can’t get lost.”
“You gave me no map,” snapped Marcus. The voice didn’t answer him, though the finger still waved on the viewplate. He couldn’t argue very well with a finger. The plate burped and a slip dropped out of the slot below it. Only then did he release the lever, allowing the finger to vanish.
* * * *
Marcus studied the map. P-CAF (Planets; changes, apply for) was between M-AVO (Marriages; alternate variations of) and M-AAD (Marriages; annulment and divorce).
Hastily, he stuffed the map in his pocket as Wilbur pressed the door, trying to look at what he had in his hand. It was nothing for a growing boy to see.
It wasn’t a good map, since it didn’t show where the building was in relation to the rest of the city. The transportation tube would take him there, but he’d have to find his own way back.
The tube that whisked them to P-CAF was occupied mainly by Outers, a circumstance that made the crowded uncomfortable trip more bearable. Marcus didn’t talk to the others—their interests were worlds apart—but he felt closer to them than to the strange, frantic people of Earth.
P-CAF was neo-drive-in classical, a style once in vogue throughout the Universe. With Wilbur following, Marcus plunged in. It seemed strange that he had come nine hundred odd light-years for a matter that, once stated, would only take a few matters of some minor official’s time. And yet it was necessary. For years, he had been writing requests without results.
It was not as crowded as Information Center. The booths were wider and Marcus decided they both could squeeze in. It was a historic moment: Wilbur should be present. After several trials, they did get in together.
The official who came to the plate was as relaxed as the other had been harried. “Planets; changes, apply for,” he said. He had perfected the art of raising one eyebrow.
“That’s why we’re here,” said Marcus, fumbling in his jacket. He was jammed against Wilbur and couldn’t get his hand in his pocket.
“Land masses reshaped, oceans installed, or climate recycled?” asked the official.
“We don’t want the climate changed,” said Wilbur. “We’ve got lots of it—rain, hail, snow, hot weather. All in the same day—though not in the same place. It’s a big planet, nearly as big as Earth.”
“Wilbur, I’ll do the talking,” declared Marcus, still struggling to reach his pocket.
“Yes, Pa. But we don’t want the continents reshaped. We like them
as they are. And we’ve got enough oceans.”
“Wilbur,” Marcus said sharply, pulling his hand free. He held up a tattered chart.
“Are you sure you know what you do want?” asked the relaxed man with a yawn.
“I’m coming to it,” said Marcus. “Fifty years ago, my father, Mathew Mezzerow, discovered a planet. Things being the way they were then, planet stealing and such, Captain Mezzerow didn’t come back and report it. He settled on it right there, securing for his heirs and descendants a proper share of the new world.”
“What do you expect for that, a medal?”
“He could have had a medal. Being practical, he preferred a part of the planet. Since then, we have become a thriving community. But we’re not growing as fast as we should. That’s why I’m here.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place,” said the man. “P-EHF is what you want.”
“Planets; economic help for? No, we don’t want that kind of aid. However, there is one insignificant mistake that has been hindering us. People don’t settle the way they should. You see, though Captain Mathew Mezzerow didn’t return to report his discovery in person, he did send in a routine claim. That’s where the mistake was made. Naturally he named the planet after himself. Mezzerow. Mezz—uh—row. The second e is almost silent, hardly pronounced at all. But what do you think somebody—a robot, probably—called it?”
“I can’t guess.”
“Messy Row,” said Marcus. “It maligns a good man’s name. We’re stuck with it because somebody bobbled.”
* * * *
“I admit it isn’t pretty,” said the official with a cautious smile. “But I can’t see that it affects anything. One name is as good as another.”
“That’s what you think,” Marcus retorted. “I can see how the robot made the mistake and I’m not blaming it. My father sent in a verbal tape report. Mezzerow could sound a little like Messy Row. Anyway, it’s had a bad effect on the settlers. Men come there because it sounds easy and relaxed, which it is, of course, to a point. But women avoid it. They don’t like the sound of the name.”
“Then it’s really women you’re concerned with,” said the official. A cold glazed stare had replaced his indifference. “In any event, you’ve come to the wrong place. We reconstruct planets. Names are out of our jurisdiction.”
The Eleventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack Page 19
