Delos 2 - Futureworld

by John Ryder Hall

  “How do I look?” she asked the reporter.

  “Just fine,” he said, but before he could add anything a handsome man appeared in a doorway. Chuck sensed at once it was a robot he was looking at and the figure’s first words authenticated the impression.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, please?” The smile was wide, polite, and revealed twin rows of perfect teeth. “My name is Eric and I will be your guide into Futureworld.” A murmur rose from several of the older women present, but Eric continued smoothly: “Now if you will follow me, we will take the tram to the launch area.” He gestured toward the portal with a slight bow and the group started forward. “Please stay with the group and do exactly as you are instructed.” Before the visitors got to him, Eric turned and went through the door, saying, “Now if you will follow me.”

  The guests filed out and went down an escalator to the tram station, just as a three-car shuttle filled with tired but happy guests in medieval garb arrived. Chuck watched the medievalists stagger off the tram, some quite drunk, some tired, some somewhat battered, some chattering, some silent. The young reporter stepped onto the tram and sat down next to Tracy. Immediately, his eye was caught by a branching service tunnel, where technicians and service personnel drove small electric cars in their ceaseless, twenty-four-hour maintenance duties of the huge robotic playground. Then the tram started out smoothly and they were going down a brightly lit tunnel, with sleek white-plastic walls. The speaker in each tram car began a recorded message.

  “. . . Those of you who have chosen Futureworld are en route to the Aries II space shuttle, which will take you to a rendezvous with the Voyager Starship now in orbit. Aboard the starship you will be able to walk in space and on the surface of the Moon. You will ski the Martian ice caps, ride an asteroid, and experience all the thrills of deep space.”

  Chuck leaned toward Tracy and whispered, “Including vertigo, acrophobia, agoraphobia, terminal sunburn, and—”

  “Oh, shut up!” Tracy hissed.

  Chuck grinned. “Brought to you by White Knuckle Spaceways—!”

  Her glare was diamond-hard.

  “Ooo! Zapped by the Video Queen!” Chuck groaned, clutching at his chest.

  The tram slipped through the tunnels, past colorful doors with letter and number designations as well as DO NOT ENTER signs. Delos personnel, colorfully garbed were almost uniformly attractive, well-built, and neat. Then the little electric train crept to a halt before a wide blue door flanked by more charming, smiling, efficient Delos attendants.

  Getting down from the tram, they entered the blue door, which hissed open pneumatically, and boarded an elevator. The pressure and time elapsed told Chuck they had risen quite a distance before the elevator came to a smooth stop. The door slid back, revealing a lighted area. Eric stepped out and lead the way toward a massive blue door which began rising as they approached.

  They heard the faint hum-whistle of heavy machinery and smelled the delicate odor of machine oil. Under the still-rising door they passed, and into a massive, high-ceilinged room dominated by a hatch that was high enough to admit a rocket. The giant, round door hummed and began to swing open as they approached. Chuck had to admit that it was impressive: the door or hatch or port was thick, heavy, well-constructed, and the machinery that moved its tremendous weight was immense.

  A P.A. system buzzed “. . . We are at T-minus-eighteen and counting. All systems are in a Go status.”

  Chuck lingered behind the others moving toward the giant airlock door, his eyes noting and cataloguing, his ears listing the sounds and dialogue, his nose sensing the tang and ozone and oil.

  “Come on,” Tracy said with faint irritation.

  • • •

  Duffy entered the Delos Master Control through a side door. His eyes went at once to the large color-television screen that dominated the room, ignoring the banks upon banks of satellite screens manned by serious-faced operators. The room was a maze of control panels, screens, banks of colored buttons, vernier dials, and other control equipment. The only sound was a babble of technical dialogue proceeding from the controllers to various monitors, subtechnicians, and other operators of equipment.

  Duffy crossed the darkened room toward the big screen, his eyes focused on its image and not observing any of the scenes from the various parts of Delos shown on the subsidiary screens. He stopped behind the main controller and put his hands upon the back of his seat.

  On the big screen was a wide shot of the passenger compartment of the rocket in Futureworld. Tracy, Chuck, and others began filing into the round, rather spartan interior and taking their seats. Duffy then moved to a side screen, where a series of monitors, arranged in banks, were showing different areas of Spa World.

  In one monitor several young men and women were leading the elderly Karnovskys through the “Magic Garden” area, where lovely flowers and lacy trees made a fairy-like atmosphere over velvety-green lawn and mosaic walks. The smiling attendants directed the Russians toward a pool of remarkable blackness, a basalt-edged small lake of mirror-smooth water. Around the edge of the pool, reflected in its still waters, stood two young women holding golden goblets. The faintest of mists wandered through the trees and flowers, softening everything into a somewhat unreal atmosphere. The two elderly Russians walked along the pool, looking into it, then stopped near the goblet-bearing duet.

  A technician near Duffy spoke. “We will begin the golden-goblet sequence on my mark. Three . . . two . . . one . . . Mark!”

  The young men and women began to dance around the elderly Soviet general and his wife, bringing them to the very edge of the pool. The two young women came to them, graceful and smiling softly, but solemnly extending the golden goblets.

  The Russian couple took the goblets, turning to smile at each other, then clinked the containers together. Each drained the contents of the golden vessel.

  The attendants then took the goblets and the two Russians clasped hands and looked down into the dark water, where they saw the foreshortened reflection of themselves, aged and stocky, wrinkled and gray.

  Nevertheless, as they stared, their reflections shimmered and rippled as though the water was disturbed. When the black pool ceased to ripple, their reflections were that of a young couple. He was dressed in the white, beribboned, bemedaled, gilt-edged uniform of the Tsar’s Hussars; she was wearing a beautiful Edwardian gown, trimmed with lace and pearls, crisp and neat, which displayed her figure excellently. They looked at each other, then embraced passionately.

  Across the room from Duffy, a technician had monitored his camera to General Karnovsky’s right eye. Now he shifted the camera to the left eye. He reached down to the flat front of the console in front of him and made some hurried notes, then panned the TV camera onto the general’s nose . . .

  Meanwhile, Duffy moved away from the Spa World monitors to those of Medieval World, where knights were suiting up, checking swords and morning-star maces, and fighting. On other screens women were being sung to by handsome troubadours strumming lyres, being embraced by bold knights who carried their colors tied around their upper arms or to their winged, horned, or crested helmets. Duffy glanced back at the Spa World screens, where the young Karnovskys were moving down a path, the youths of the “Magic Garden” dancing around them.

  Duffy returned his attention to Medieval World and now saw richly carved doors swing open to reveal the interior of an elevator. Takaguchi and his party of armored friends emerged from the elevator behind the medieval guild. The Control technician pulled back the zoom to show that they were in a medieval street with perfect blue-sky reproduction overhead.

  This technician, just below Duffy’s position, now muttered into his microphone: “Begin Saxon-knight sequence on my mark . . . Three . . . two . . . one . . . Mark!”

  Duffy looked at another screen and saw a burly, flaxen-haired knight step out of a doorway. He swaggered onto the cobblestones and approached the party of Japanese businessmen arrogantly. Along th
e street bakers hurried with baskets of steaming fresh bread, bosomy milkmaids carried wooden buckets of milk in yokes, a tinker ambled along with a great backpack of clinging pots and pans, as well as a pair of bushy-browed woodsmen with axes over their shoulders, a few housewives in earth-colored clothing, and other scene-setting characters.

  The knight stopped before Takaguchi and his party, blocking their way. He sneered at the three men and sniffed. “I smell heathen pig!”

  Takaguchi eyed the knight and smiled thinly. In perfect Oxford English he said, “No doubt, sir. You smell yourself.”

  The Saxon’s sword hissed from its scabbard and his legs took up a steady, widespread position. His weapon glinted in the artificial sunlight. But Takaguchi’s own blade was out almost as quickly.

  The burly knight advanced aggressively onto the much smaller Oriental, but the tiny man’s intensity and verve made up for his size. Their blades met and clashed noisily and the people on the street fled from the scene with little cries, hiding in doorways and peeking out. A few upper windows opened and full-breasted housewives leaned out to watch. A child was snatched back into a house.

  The Saxon drove the Oriental businessman back down the street, but a flurry of parries and thrusts brought Takaguchi out of defense and into a brilliant offense. One of his Japanese friends slipped a Nikon from under his cloak and began taking photographs of the action.

  “Who authorized that camera?” Duffy snapped.

  “No one, sir,” the technician answered. “They were told not to bring them.”

  The knight was being driven back. He stumbled over the tongue of a hay wagon and almost fell, but caught Takaguchi’s blade just in time.

  “Well, don’t make an issue of it,” Duffy said. “Program the Queen to steal it tonight, expose the film to light in the usual ‘camera failure’ way, and return it to him when he leaves.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With a parry that broke the Saxon’s defense, followed by a splendid lunge, Takaguchi skewered his opponent, who expired in a bloody and satisfying manner. The Japanese turned to smile broadly into his friend’s clicking camera.

  Duffy stepped to another set of screens, showing a part of Roman World. Al and Ed were being led into a huge bath area, their only garments sheets wrapped around them. Duffy leaned forward and picked up a set of earphones to listen in.

  “When do we get to the or-gee?” Al asked, an eager whine in his voice.

  “First we bathe,” his female companion informed him.

  Without a trace of embarrassment she slipped out of her filmy chiton and stood nude. She gave the gaping human a long look, then walked down into the huge pool, which steamed warmly. She gestured at the businessman and he let the sheet unwrap and drop to the simulated-marble floor.

  “Hot damn,” he said and waded in. “Oh-oh! It’s hot!”

  The beautiful Roman girl embraced him warmly and reached for a poolside bar of soap. She began to soap him up and left no area untouched. He giggled and hollered out to Ed.

  “Ed! Leave that chicky alone and come in here! Man, this is living!”

  Ed unclasped his hands from his companion’s generous curves and waded in, naked. His girl splashed in after him. Around the pool other male guests were being bathed by naked girls and all were smiling.

  After being carefully washed, Al hung his elbows on the edge of the pool and grinned at Ed. “Think they got a place like this for the women? Hey, honey, they got something like this for the girls?”

  She nodded, pressing her body up against Al. “Yes, master, they do.”

  “Master?”

  Her eyelashes dropped seductively. “Yes, master. Aren’t you my master . . . ?”

  Al’s chest swelled. “You betcha, babe! Hey, what is your name, anyway?”

  “Claudia, master.”

  “And yours?” Ed asked his equally ripe-bodied “slave.”

  “Octavia, my lord.”

  Ed glanced over at Al. “Say, I think you had the right idea in coming here. I’ll try the other worlds next trip.”

  Al laughed. “Right, ol’ buddy! Now, hey, when does the or-gee start, Claudia?”

  She dimpled, and ducked her head modestly. “Does my master wish to participate in a regularly scheduled orgy, or would he prefer something more . . . intimate?”

  Ed interrupted before Al could answer. “Let’s do the big affair first, Al! We can always—you know—do the one-on-one thing anytime.”

  “Yeah, let’s get in on the big-time or-gee first!” He slapped Claudia on the rump. “Let’s get it on, Claudia, honey!”

  Duffy put the monitoring earphones down and moved back to the main screen of the Futureworld level, where Mort Schneider waited for him.

  The gaunt, serious-looking scientist looked all of his apparently forty years as he asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, I think so,” replied Duffy.

  “You spend too much time here,” Schneider said, meaning the Master Control room.

  Duffy tipped his head toward the big screen. “These people are important. I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

  Schneider looked especially solemn. “Nothing can go wrong.”

  Duffy gave him an equally solemn look but said nothing.

  On the main screen was a long-distance shot of hoses being dropped away from a giant rocket. Nearby, a technician flipped a series of red, green, and white switches and announced: “. . . We are at T-minus-five and counting.”

  • • •

  “This is an exact replica of the Apollo Command module,” Tracy said nervously into the microphone inside her white bubble helmet.

  “I know,” Chuck confirmed glancing at her.

  There were reflections on the spherical surface of Tracy’s helmet from the banks of lights and controls. He thought she looked a little panicky and was starting to say something reassuring when Eric popped his head in.

  Tracy looked at him and licked her lips. “Am I . . . am I doing all right?”

  “You’re doing fine,” Eric said pleasantly. “Just stay with the program as Chuck reads it off.”

  He smiled at her and pulled back. The hatch closed behind him with a bonging sound and the dogs began to close down.

  Chuck fingered the plastic-covered list in his hand. “Okay, Socks, master cyclinder switch—on.”

  Tracy looked around, found it, and reached toward it, but her thick gloves seemed awkward. She tried again and flipped the switch. “Got it. What happens if I hit the wrong one?”

  “Let’s not find out,” Chuck said. “I . . . I think this is a game, but”—he looked around; everything seemed absolutely perfect—“but right now I’m not sure.” He pored back over the list. “Oxygen release switch—open. You should have a green light.”

  “Right,” Tracy replied. “Got it!”

  “You’re terrific.”

  The P.A. system announced: “. . . We are at T-minus-four and counting.”

  • • •

  Ron Thurlow was strapped into a seat next to an elaborate communications panel. Eric poked his handsome head through the airlock door near him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked the rather frightened Ron.

  Dry-mouthed, Ron nodded. “Sure,” he gulped. “Sure . . . But what do I do?”

  “Stay in touch with base or we may never find the starship again.” Eric then slapped Ron on the shoulder and said, “Happy landings!” He ducked back out and the hatch closed with a clang.

  Ron twisted around as the hatch dogs were closing. “Hey, wait a minute! This is supposed to be a vacation.” He looked sick. His eyes roamed the terribly real interior of the cramped compartment. “This does not look like the ‘Spaceman’ set or even an old ‘Star Trek,’ ” he mumbled, eyes wet. “I mean, hey, it looks real—!”

  The radio in Ron’s helmet came alive. He heard a few seconds of static, then, “. . . Hello, shuttle, this is Houston Control. How do you read us?”

  Suddenly aware that the lights o
n his control panel were changing, Ron twisted around to stare at it. He swallowed, and threw some switches. “Hello, Houston, this is me—Ron—Ron Thurlow . . . Hello . . . ? Hello—? Anybody . . . ?” His voice trailed off as he stared at the complex of switches and buttons. “Oh, Jesus!”

  • • •

  Eric entered the passenger compartment of the big rocket, smiling. Erica, a beautiful female counterpart, was helping the guests get settled into the acceleration couches and making certain they were strapped in. Individual readout screens and a few buttons were by each passenger’s seat.

  Eric moved along the tank-like room’s aisles, checking and double-checking solicitously. The voice on the speaker said, “. . . T-minus-one and counting.”

  Mrs. Reed was beginning to have second thoughts. Even though she knew it was all a simulated flight, there was a certain irrevocable aspect that disturbed her. As Eric passed, she reached out to touch him, her voice nervous and shaky. “This is so real . . . I—” She gulped and fidgeted, then spoke too loudly. “I . . . I change my mind!”

  She tried to rise but the seat belt restrained her. “I want to go to Medieval World!” she wailed loudly, the hysteria rising in her voice. “My husband is in Medieval World!”

  Eric said comfortingly, “Nothing can go wrong.” Mrs. Reed looked at her fellow-passengers, most of whom smiled back just as comfortingly. The Arab dignitary next to her sympathized, “It is only a simulation.”

  Mrs. Reed nodded, still trying to rise against the seat belt. “I know,” she said, “I know, I know . . .” Then she gave up with a sigh and sank back.

  The Arab reached over and pressed a button on her console. The screen lit up with a long shot of the rocket. Wisps of white smoke were drifting away from the ship. The picture changed to a shot down through the scarlet gantry at the white, curving side of the rocket.

  “See, everything is fine,” the Arab said. He pressed another button and Mrs. Reed saw Tracy and Chuck in the command capsule. “We are almost ready, madam,” the Arab said soothingly.