“I don’t recall saying anything like that,” Peebles said, lifting and dropping his eyebrows. “You must have misunderstood.” He rolled out of the room hurriedly with this thought: What I wouldn’t give to watch the Madame do her slicing routine on that insolent bastard!
Peebles just retreated, Javik thought. Wonder how that weakling got to be an officer. . . .
Alone in his office, Dr. Hudson mulled over what he had to do. A half-eaten donut lay on a napkin at the right side of his green desk mat. He stared at the donut disconsolately.
Munoz has gone crazy, he thought. I’ve got to get off a message to Nancy. She can keep that blasted cappy off our ship. . . .
Hudson formulated the wording of an electronic letter in his mind. I’ll send it myself after hours, he thought. Then I can destroy all record of it on this end.
But Hudson understood too well the hardest part: in his presence, Munoz could read his thoughts. I’ll have to control every thought when he’s around, Hudson thought. I’ll clutter my head with other things. He’d kill me for this. . . .
* * *
A slushpile of humanity was assembled in the cool morning shade of the passenger rocket. Sidney Malloy stood in their midst, wearing a light green hospital gown. He shivered at a gust of wind, squeezed the gown collar shut around his neck with his good hand. Having lost track of the shots given him by attendants since his capture, Sidney felt numb and wobbly.
For a moment, he wondered if Javik had really visited him in the sleeping room, or if it had been a drug-fogged dream. It happened, Sidney told himself. It happened!
Blind and crippled babies cried incessantly in the arms of white-uniformed Bu-Med attendants, next to people who had met similar fates by accident or disease in their later years. They leaned on moto-crutches and sat in wheelchairs, drooling, chewing, grimacing, having convulsions and throwing up. Sidney breathed through his mouth because of the stench, looked from face to face at forlorn eyes and hopeless expressions on all sides. These were the traditional clients of Bu-Med.
Another group of clients waited to be taken aboard for the trip to Saint Elba. These pale-skinned men and women stood apart in handcuffs and chains, surrounded by black-uniformed Security Brigade guards. Moments earlier, Sidney had heard an attendant explain that they were “doomies,” the dangerously insane who demonstrated against Freeness and the AmFed Way. The attendant said this type always searched for causes, and now their cause was a comet which allegedly would destroy the planet. The doomies spoke in angry tones, lunging and pulling at their chains in great clatters and surges of fury. Some had rebellious, angry eyes that glared at anyone daring to look upon them. Others were heavily sedated, and their eyes rolled up and around, not focusing upon anything.
A sea of white-uniformed attendants surrounded and far outnumbered these groups of clients. Sidney overheard two female attendants talking nearby:
“You volunteered?” said one. “I was assigned to this rotten duty by the Job Board.”
“I don’t think it’s rotten,” the other said. “We can help these poor creatures.”
“You’ve got a strange attitude, sweetie,” the first said. Sidney detected cruelty in her voice.
A small hoy with straw-yellow hair screamed suddenly and fell to the pavement at Sidney’s feet, writhing and kicking spastically. Sidney started to reach down to him, when a female attendant rushed over and administered an injection in the boy’s arm. Sidney felt a sharp pain in his own twisted left arm, as if the needle had punctured his skin too. He rubbed the arm. Feeling a little dizzy, he shook his head to clear it.
When Sidney’s head cleared, he watched the boy’s jerking motions gradually slow and subside. The boy lay there unconscious on his side, with a twisted, pained expression on his thin face. Two attendants placed him on a moto-cot and rolled him to one side.
“Is this craft spaceworthy?” an attendant asked. Sidney did not hear another attendant’s reply. Voices were drowned in the whir and clank of an approaching entry lift.
Hearing a mumble to his left, Sidney looked down at a hunchbacked old man whose lips were moving slowly. The man had sparse grey hair, deeply creased skin and dark age splotches across his face and on the backs of his hands. A single black hair grew out of a mole on the old man’s chin.
Forgetting his own situation momentarily, Sidney was repulsed by the sight of such a decrepit human specimen. He’s not far from the Happy Shopping Ground, Sidney thought, dismayed that anyone had to reach such a loathsome state. Then Sidney asked, “What did you say?”
The old man cleared his throat, hawked and swallowed. “This is a bunch of shit,” he said in an angry, gravelly voice.
Sidney stared down at a broken front tooth as the man spoke, then asked, “What do you mean?”
“The good things in society are reserved for normal, youthful people.” The voice was bitter. “They’re throwing us away, like someone’s garbage.”
Sidney wanted to tell the man he was going to be in the Space Patrol with Tom Javik, but decided against it and said, “I’m sure they’ll take good care of us.” He watched the entry lift lock into place against the passenger rocket.
“My son hid me out for years,” the old man said, rubbing the mole on his chin. “But finally his wife . . . the bitch . . . turned me in.”
“You should be thankful for having such a wonderful son.”
“Thankful? There’s nothing to be thankful about! I couldn’t go out in public! They don’t want people like me around!” The old man started to lose his voice, coughed.
“There are a lot of good things about the American Federation,” Sidney said.
The old man wiped saliva and phlegm from his chin with his gown collar, then glared up at Sidney and demanded, “Name just one.”
“Freeness.”
“Ha!”
“There were terrible depressions before Freeness,” Sidney said, “with millions of people out of work. They stood in souplines and begged for survival.”
“Employment for everyone isn’t worth the price,” the old man said, coughing and hawking again. “Now leave me be!”
Sidney stared at the old man in disbelief, for Sidney still believed in the AmFed Way. It was not a perfect society, he told himself, but it was the best ever devised. Then a distant, wafting voice in Sidney’s brain said, “The old man is right, fleshcarrier. The AmFeds don’t give a damn about you! And they’ll never let you near the cockpit of a Space Patrol ship!”
“Tom promised me,” Sidney said, aloud.
“Sure, but the AmFeds will find a way to keep you in your place. You’re worth more to them as a cappy.”
“You’re wrong!”
“Each institutionalized cappy supports seven-point-three-two-five government employees.”
“Who are you?” Sidney asked. “And why do you call me fleshcarrier?”
“We live in the Realm of Magic,” the voice said, “where there is no flesh. You live in the Realm of Flesh . . . where there is no magic.”
“What do you mean?”
There was no further response from the voice, and Sidney noticed a paunchy male attendant looking at him strangely. “Mental case,” the attendant said, glancing at a brunette female attendant next to him.
She nodded.
Sidney flushed red. He saw a white driverless limousine approach and pull to a stop near the passenger rocket. A tall, black-robed priest short-stepped out onto an expando-platform. As the platform rose straight up in the air, the priest stood with white-gloved hands clasped in front of his round belly. When the platform stopped just above the height of his limousine, he raised his arms and spoke in a tone that was at once powerful and soothing.
“Let us pray,” the priest said.
Everyone except the doomies bowed their heads.
“We are gathered here to embark upon a great journey of mercy,” the priest said. “May Uncle Rosy grant us the ability to heal these broken bodies, to calm these troubled spirits.”
Then the priest
said “Amen” and came down to moto-shoe through the group, laying gloved hands upon the clients’ shoulders and heads.
“Oh thank you, father!” a leper woman cried out. ‘Thank you!”
Pausing in front of Sidney, the priest reached down with gloved hands to touch his shoulders and said, “May Uncle Rosy bless you and make you well, my son.”
Sidney looked up into the holy man’s clear brown eyes, saw sincerity and eyes that were close to tears. I’m going to get on that ship, Sidney thought. The voice was wrong.
Onesayer Edward grasped the edge of his Basin of Youth and peered down into the mirror-like surface of the holy water there. Blast it to Hoover! he thought, looking at the skin around both eyes. The lines are deeper today!
It was mid-morning Monday, and he stood at a greystone basin which had been designated with his name. The basin felt rough to his touch, was closest to an arched entrance to the central chamber, one of sixty-six basins along the same wall. Brown-robed sayermen stood silently at each basin with their hoods thrown back, revealing shaved heads. They splashed holy water on their faces and drank the sacred elixir from red plastic cups.
Onesayer dipped a hand into the warm water, rubbed liquid against the creases on his face. He waited for the water to grow calm, then again peered into the reflective surface. It was definite. The lines around his eyes had grown deeper. He shook his head sadly.
“What is it?” Twosayer William asked, looking over from the adjacent basin. A noticeably consumptive sayerman, his oval face was punctuated by a prominent hooked nose. Twosayer wiped holy water from his eyebrows with two fingers, awaited a reply.
“Nothing,” Onesayer replied. He leaned over and threw holy water on his face.
Twosayer rolled closer, said, “You are certain?”
Onesayer flicked a quick glance up out of the corner of one eye, saw Twosayer standing erectly over him, looking down inquisitively with grey green eyes. Onesayer looked down quickly, closed his eyes and splashed holy water on his face. Get away from me! he thought.
Twosayer was the shorter of the two, by at least half a head, and to Onesayer seemed the sort who was always trying to gain advantage over the next sayerman. Twosayer looked for weaknesses in others or tried to position himself so that he appeared taller than he actually was . . . standing on the higher portions of sloping ground or floor whenever he had the opportunity.
Onesayer felt an open hand on his back. “You can confide in me,” Twosayer said in a tone that seemed false to Onesayer’s ears.
“I am fine,” Onesayer said forcefully. Grasping the basin edge tightly, he stared angrily at the ripples of water. Onesayer was startled to see a tiny blotchy shadow on the back of one hand. He dipped the hand into the water quickly. Did he see it? Onesayer wondered. Then Onesayer spoke without looking up, “Please . . . I will talk with you later.”
Onesayer felt the hand leave his back.
“All right,” Twosayer said slowly. “But if I can . . .”
“Peace be upon you,” Onesayer said irritably. He watched peripherally as Twosayer rolled back to his own basin after he returned the blessing. Twosayer drank holy water from a red cup and then threw the cup into a wall-mounted disposa-tube. Machinery inside the wall whirred.
Onesayer wiped his face dry with a towel, then straightened and turned away from Twosayer. Feeling warm under the presumed gaze of Twosayer, he rolled away hurriedly into the Central Chamber. The low light of the chamber felt refreshing to him. It protected him from enemies.
Chapter Seven
BASIC DISINTEGRATION THEORY, FOR FURTHER READING AND DISCUSSION
1. Wherever possible, the product or a key component is constructed of a fragile material; 2. Ideally, the product should self-destruct, taking other products with it; 3. Never rely on one part to break down—systems should be designed so that several key components fall apart at once.
Monday, August 28, 2605
It took an hour for the priest to complete the blessings.
When Sidney rode an entry lift up the side of the HLLV passenger rocket with a group of clients and attendants, he thought about how old and dingy the rocket appeared. Dull silver flecks of EZ-plating hung from the great bird’s skin, barely reflecting sunlight, and numerous dents gave the ship an anachronistic appearance. Some rivets were missing. Others hung loose, ready to fall at any moment.
“Why do you suppose this ship hasn’t been replaced?” a man behind Sidney asked. Sidney turned his head to look at the speaker, a thin man in a green client’s smock.
“I was just wondering the same thing,” Sidney said, scratching one of his black, bushy eyebrows. “Something got bogged down in red tape, I guess.”
The lift came to a stop, and the attendants escorted their clients through an oval doorway into the ship’s worn interior. Like Sidney, some clients moto-shoed under their own power. Others had to be carried or pushed, and some rolled in shakily on moto-crutches.
As Sidney entered the rocket, an overwhelming stench burned his nostrils. The odors made him nauseous. They were an amplification of the unwashed crowd smells he had experienced since being taken into detention. Trying to breathe through his mouth, he glanced around the compartment while awaiting instructions.
All seats in the passenger module had been removed, and the grey creme painted walls had a wide, dark green stripe along the bottom. An attendant told Sidney to sit on the floor against one wall beneath a tiny porthole. Sidney brushed away rust flakes from the dirty metal floor, then sat down cross-legged. The floor was cool under his thin smock. His twisted left arm ached.
“Put her over there,” a burly male attendant said. Sidney watched two white-uniformed attendants guide a saggingly heavy retardo client to her spot on the floor. Stringy brown hair almost covered her face. She sat facing Sidney with her knees hunched up, lolling her head from side to side and appearing to laugh uncontrollably without uttering a sound.
Sidney laughed too, then looked away to watch the attendants leave. Presently, he looked back at the woman. The smiling mouth changed now, almost imperceptibly, to a grimace. She seemed to be screaming out in silent pain, and it was no longer funny.
“Is there anything I can do?” Sidney asked her.
The woman did not reply. She continued to smile and grimace. Then she rocked forward and back, her hands clasped together about bruised and scabby shins.
All the clients were told to take seats on the floor, and Sidney felt the suffocating press of humanity all around him. The doomies were pushed and dragged into the compartment. They sat in an area near the door, still chained together and accompanied by Security Brigade guards. Other clients were directed to an elevator for placement in upper and lower passenger compartments.
It took perhaps an hour and a half to load the ship. By the time the heavy metal door rang closed, Sidney was not feeling at all well. The air was close and hot. His deformed arm twitched spasmodically. Stinging sweat trickled down his brow and into his eyes.
As the rocket engines surged, Sidney detected the licorice odor of G-gas filtering into the compartment. The rocket rumbled into the blue, nearly cloudless morning sky, and Sidney watched the skyline of New City through a large porthole on the opposite side of the compartment.
“This ship is so slow!” someone said. “How could they be concerned about G-forces?” A tittering of laughter lasted several seconds, then subsided.
Sidney closed his eyes. He tried to calm himself by recalling his scrapbooks and dreams of space travel. Javik’s words came back to him: You and me on a big mission, Sid. We used to dream this day would come!
As the ship settled into flight, some of the attendants tried to cheer their clients by organizing singing commercials, and Sidney participated in a mediocre round of the “Shiny New Song.” It went:
Our land is full of pretty things,
Cars and homes and plastic rings;
Shiny New! All Shiny New!
Happy times for me and you!
T
he doomies refused to take part, and sat to one side talking in low, angry tones. Finally the attendants gave up their effort, and the clients slipped into silent thought, each to his own remorseful, self-pitying corner of consciousness.
Sidney had such feelings as well, but felt better when he realized his days of boredom as a G. W. seven-five oh working five hundred floors underground were gone forever. I’m going to a zero-gravity region! he thought. Sidney’s ill feelings and twitchings subsided now, and he told himself that a positive attitude would make him feel better.
The retardo woman facing Sidney dozed off and leaned her head against a large, ruddy-faced blind man who sat next to her. The sightless man wore dark wraparound sunglasses and had a tuft of unkempt dark brown hair that appeared not to have been combed for days. A small mouth and high cheekbones appeared oriental to Sidney, although he could not determine the shape of the man’s eyes behind the sunglasses.
The blind man allowed the woman to slip her head onto his lap as she fell into a deeper sleep. Her grimace-smiles subsided in slumber, and soon she appeared more at peace. Sidney looked around to stare at the disjointed jerks and unusual mannerisms of crip-clients. And he listened to the haunting, guttural grunts of retardos. A tow-headed boy with only one arm sat to Sidney’s left, staring straight ahead.
Sidney rose to his knees with a bit of difficulty. Not so easy with only one good arm, he thought. He peered through a tiny porthole on the wall. The HLLV was traveling through a region of sparse cirrus clouds, and Sidney saw a fleet of Atheist sky mining ships working the area. They looked like giant potbellied beetles, with scores of anteater-like vacuum snouts swishing the air on all sides.
Sidney had studied the ships as a boy. He knew the snouts collected recyclable minerals and chemicals which were in the atmosphere as pollutants. He had always wondered how such a resource retrieval system could be practical, considering the E-Cell fuel such ships must consume. They must be spy ships, he thought, working busy AmFed shipping lanes.
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