The Stork Factor

by Zach Hughes

  But she still longed for the peaceful languor of Trang and for the thrilling endlessness of love. Communication was not in words. It was in concepts passed directly into her mind. However, the information conveyed by the computer, in contact through sub-space with the central memory bank on A-l, concerned the destination planet. She absorbed the information with a certain interest. She would, at least, know what manner of sub-beings she was going to destroy. Not destroy. No? She was of the race. She was in command, in spite of the fact that she was, seemingly, directed in every action by machines. Machines were creations of the race. Thus, she was the last word. Sample, check, learn. There was no time to do those things. She had to get back. Her partner, alone. A commitment to be made. A thousand thousand sleeping, Trangized worlds, the race, threatened. How threatened if she destroyed the offending planet completely? So

  they had even developed a primitive planet-killer, or at least the potential of one. So how much good would that do if she swept in from the depths of

  interstellar space and killed all their planets before they could suspect that they were not alone in the universe? Special conditions. Others involved. If one developed such a weapon, could the others? A hundred scattered planets at vast, unreachable distances, placed there—selected—for their remoteness. Examine. Test. The fate of the race, protected and guarded by the vast, undying network of machines, now directed by her. Acceptance. Fury. Why had the race allowed such a situation to develop? Bleeding-heartism. Short-sightedness. Consideration for those who did not deserve it. She had the urge to destroy and destroy but she bowed to the wisdom of those who had programmed the machines which kept the race in their ultimate stage of development. For they had foreseen the present possibility and had made plans to counter it before they, the master planners, retreated to their secluded structures and pressed the Trang button for endless pleasure. Yes, she would do as they wished. She would observe and test and then, when she had done all that, she would come back. Yes, even that. She would leave the lovely Trang time once again to ensure that she would never have to leave it again. She would leave it on a heavily armed ship of the line and with her, spreading to the far corners, the remote areas, would be a hundred other ships, all manned by the race, sacrificing a period of Trang to utterly destroy the last possible threat to eternal joy. However, she did not communicate these thoughts to the computer network. That would come later, when the race gave orders to its machines. Then the machines would obey, of course. She saw the stars wink out and felt the slight change indicating the departure of the ship from normal space. When she felt the next change, the offending system was spread ahead of her, a rather pretty system with nine planets and a small but efficient sun. She began to make preparations. In the midst of her preparations she was struck with an intriguing possibility. Out there on Planet 3 were beings, beings of the race. They were, true, inferior beings, but they were, originally, of the race. That meant males. A delicious tingle warmed her. Well, it was a possibility. CHAPTER TEN The first night was bad. They had used Caster's name. It was as good as any. Mr. and Mrs. Luke Caster, immigrants from South City by permission of the Brothers, Fares. The papers provided by one of Zachary Wundt's young men worked. They were assigned a room within smelling of the big, open sewer of a river which ran on the eastern edge of the city. It was a typical Fare room, with one bed, one chair, one small table, a sink, a sanitary facility separated from the living area by a moveable screen. It measured ten by ten. It had no window. It crawled with insects of various types. Luke insisted that Caster take the bed. He slept in his clothing. He started in the chair and ended upon the floor with a cockroach slowly

  crawling across his lips shortly after he first began to doze. He slapped the disgusting insect away and then he could hear Caster breathing evenly. She was asleep. It was bad. He'd never been in the same room with a female. Even though he was fully clothed and she was sleeping in her clothing, too, he knew it was wrong. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed that the intent of the mission would make up for the sin of sleeping in the same room with a female. Finally, long after the factory horns blew midnight, he dozed. He awoke with a headache. His limbs were stiff. His hipbone felt as if he'd been sleeping on rocks. Caster, awake before him, had a meal ready. Fish meal and coffee. After the decent food of the underground, it was terrible. In the streets, they were assailed by the ever-present noise, harsh, ear-achingly persistent. Their lungs felt the burning, acrid fumes which closed the city from the sky. Around them people moved in streams. The streets crawled with ground cars belching more smoke into the already overladen air. They walked, caught up in the hopelessness of the city, a feeling Luke had never experienced. Before the Brothers had taken him to the Hall of Justice, he'd known no life but the city, if one discounted his brief stay at the University. He had accepted it. There was the knowledge

  that he'd lived half or more of his life, true. There was the knowledge that the lung sickness or his heart would kill him, but, before he went underground and learned that there were alternatives, he had been only one of a billion people who faced the same fate and he had not asked why. He had accepted it as God's will. Now he found himself asking why and suffering guilt for having asked it. For one does not question God. «You forget,» Caster said, after they'd walked for blocks in silence. He knew she meant the city, the teeming, hopeless life, the ear-hurting

  noise, the lung-searing air, the jostling and fighting for a place to stand. «Somewhere west there's a place where they work on nothing but space

  travel,» Caster said. «They think that would be the answer, to ship millions of people to other planets, give those who are left a chance to breathe and move.» «Watch what you say,» Luke said. «You're not underground.» «Sorry.» Two ground cars collided. Thin metal crumpled. Heavy engines broke loose, crushing the people in one car, one engine bouncing along the street into a crosswalk, mangling pedestrians. They halted. Luke accepted it as a matter of everyday course. Caster was appalled. Wrecking machines came. Cars were lifted, crushed, moved toward the big barges which would carry them down the river to the dumping grounds in the gulf. Bodies were tossed into other vehicles. The wounded, if unable to walk, were taken to—Luke paused in his thoughts. Taken where? He'd never thought about that before. What became of seriously injured accident victims? Once he'd seen an aid station in Old Town. Those with nonfatal injuries were given Newasper. Broken arms were set roughly by aid attendants and wrapped in slings. But what happened to the more seriously injured victims? There was a neighbor who had been hit by a ground car in the street in front of Luke's building in Old Town. He'd been taken away. Luke never saw him again. Were such people given the benefit of medicine? Near them, as they watched the bodies and the wounded being taken away, stood a woman with a horribly scarred face. One eye was raw and protruding with deep, livid scars running away from it. Her mouth was twisted and scarred. Her cheeks were pocked and rutted. And, looking around, Luke saw others. He felt like crying. He could imagine the agony those people went through, healing from such injuries with only Newasper to help. «I've just decided that I hate them,» he said. «Yes,» Caster said. «I mean the Brothers.» «Yes.» That night they found a small park. Caster stood in the shadows while Luke, armed with a permit from the local Brotherfuzz, preached. He was shy, at first. Then, standing on a rock, he began to see that Middle City was no different. It was like Old Town, without the tall, crumbling skyscrapers. The people were the same. They spoke the same. Regional accents had long since been replaced with a speech patterned after the countrywide viewscreen network, the great leveler. People in Middle City were the same, Fares, Techs, Lays. He preached. He talked quietly about the Lord and his promise of everlasting life. A Tech, high on Soul Lifter, razzed him, grew bored, moved on. Two old Fares nodded and said, «Amen.» The Tireds moved in close, some with the bloodfleeks of the lung sickness on their lips, others looking up at him with glazed eyes, drinking in the promises. «Amen, brother.» «You tell it so sweetly, brother.» «Prais
e the Lord!» And Luke crying inside thinking of them going through each day not even knowing that there was another way. And then crying openly and

  they, his little audience, thinking he was in a religious ecstasy and saying «Amen» and «Praise the Lord» and Caster standing in the shadows looking on sadly. And Luke talking about faith and how it could move mountains. But man could and had moved mountains to build the sprawling, acid infections called cities and no one wanted to move mountains but faith could do more. It could heal man of his ever-present miseries and, come forward, brothers and sisters, come and give me your faith and be healed and then laying on his hands and not feeling it and looking up and praying through his tears for help and not getting it. Back in the room, tired, lying on the floor with Caster breathing evenly from the bed. «Oh, God, look down on me and send me a sign.» And, bitterly: «In your mercy, help us. Help us overcome them and help us be human again.» And only the sounds of the city outside seeping through the thin walls. And the people next door high on Soul Lifter yelling and singing and banging things against the wall. Uneasy sleep. Caster and the morning meal. She was dressed in a Fare one-piece, her hair wrapped in a faded cloth. She looked as young as a girl. They ate in silence. It was raining outside. The meal finished. Caster washed the two plates at the

  sink and put them on the rack to dry. Luke was sitting silently in the chair. «It makes me feel guilty,» Caster said, wiping her hands on her one-piece not looking at Luke. «Huh?» «I mean, I see them and I know what they are and how they live and

  then I think that for twenty-five years I've been living, I mean really living, not just getting past one day after the other the way they do. I've been eating good food and I've had proper medical care and filtered air to breathe and they breathe this stinking air every day, not just one time in twenty-five years the way I'm doing.» «It's not your fault,» Luke said. Inside, he cringed. Whose fault was it, then? God's? He would not allow it to form, that terrible thought. «Oh, I know that,» Caster said. «I've told myself that I wasn't even alive

  when it all started. I've told myself that it was the people, themselves, who threw it all away. God knows they were warned. I've read and seen how the thinking men warned us. They warned about the dirtying of the waters and the air and about overpopulation and about excesses in the name of freedom. No one listened, because it was all so good then, when it all

  started. I guess when a person lived in a whole house all to himself and his immediate family in the good, green countryside he couldn't get too excited because people were being crowded into the ghettos of the cities and because chemical plants went into the good, green countryside and built and poured wastes into clear rivers. And knowing that people in West City couldn't breathe sometimes was terrible, but it didn't touch those who didn't live in West City and who didn't know that gradually the city was creeping outward like some kind of all-devouring monster to take

  up the good, green countryside and to spread its poisoned air over the hills and then the very desert and all. They were warned, God knows, but they didn't listen and it isn't my fault except that I am a member of the race and I can do some little something, maybe, to help make it better.» «Oh, sure,» Luke said. «Everyone does what he can.» But he spoke without conviction. «But you can get into trouble caring about people,» Caster went on. «It's

  all so complicated. I read where, back in the First Republic, they paid sort of Fare checks to people who couldn't find work or who wouldn't work. I find it hard to believe, but there were women who had children—uh—without being married.» She swallowed. Luke looked away in silent embarrassment. «And the government paid them so much for

  each child. They were trying to help, you see, because the women, after all, were human and they couldn't help it, they said, because they, uh, had children and—well, anyhow, you see what I mean. They were encouraging the growth of population when that was one of the main problems, so while trying to help they were really bringing us to this.» She spread her hands to the ten by ten cubicle. «And back in those days families might have as many as five or six or even more children and—» Luke was cringing. She'd promised not to talk dirty. «Oh, stop it,» Caster said. «You've got to grow up sometime, Luke.» «I don't like that kind of talk,» he said, almost angrily. «Don't you ever have the feeling that you're missing something?» she asked. «No.» «I'm not talking dirty I'm talking about life. I'm wondering how it came to be this way. There was a time, Luke, when a woman married and had a home and had children and the old books talk about this as if it were something wonderful. I read one which said giving birth is one of the natural functions of a woman and I've always wondered if that isn't so.» «You're talking in circles,» Luke said. «First you talk about overpopulation and then you talk about having—children—being the natural order of things. You're not making sense.» «Does any of it make sense? This world used to be a good place to live. That made sense. And why did God make us different? Why in all that's holy did he make men and women?» «The Fares have children.» «Yes. And they die at birth and when they're babies and they get killed on the streets and they die of sickness and the lung thing and there's something terribly wrong with all of it. Something should be different.» «I don't know,» Luke said.

  «All I know is that I don't feel as if I've lived a full life, Luke. Oh, I'm no pervert. I'm not going to be bad. God knows, the very thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. But I am a female. Am I just supposed to live out my life and do what I can, nursing the underground people, waiting for that long-distant day when something can be done?» «Don't fight it too hard,» Luke said. «You do understand a little of what I'm saying?» «I think I do. I know that I'm not satisfied,» Luke said. «I was, once. Just one time. The night I made that Fare whole again I felt, well,

  complete. I felt, I dunno, I guess I felt as if I'd finally done something.» The rain stopped at midafternoon. In the early evening, Luke preached again in the small park. He laid his hands on an aging Tired and prayed for the healing power. When it wouldn't come, he felt despair. He walked away. Caster took his arm. «You can do it,» she said. «You can do it if you believe.» But he couldn't. He tried. He tried night after night. A Lay woman said she was healed. She sang and praised God. She danced. But Luke hadn't felt it. Her faith alone had made her feel better, he thought. Not his. Caster was encouraged. For the first time she took out her instruments, small, compact things hidden in a bedraggled shoulder bag, and measured Luke's bodily processes. She found no change. Two weeks after they had entered Middle City as man and wife, Luke realized that he had come to like Irene Caster better than he'd ever liked another human being. Their long, soul-searching conversations in the tiny room had become a source of pleasure. He looked forward to them. For the first time in his life he was entering a new day with expectations of something pleasurable. Breakfasts, fish meal and coffee, were not just the tasteless meals of the past. They were made almost enjoyable by the presence of Caster. They talked and ignored the bitter taste of the fish meal and laughed and dreamed together about what would come to pass when the Brothers were overthrown and the world was made into a better place. They walked, exploring the city. They visited the museums and walked along the great, stinking river, their nostrils now numbed to the

  smells, their lungs taking in the black, evil pollution of the poisoned air. Caster developed a cough. Her lungs, hit once by the lung sickness, were more sensitive than Luke's. Concerned, he told her she would have to go back. She said she would be all right. She would not leave him and she would not allow him to go back until he'd rediscovered the power to heal. Luke preached. He prayed. He looked for his sign and he put his hands on the weak and the sick and said, «Heal!» In his mind, he screamed, «Heal, damn you, heal,» but there was no sign. After three weeks, Caster's cough was bad. One morning, when they first went down into the streets, she coughed blood. Luke held her arm and she leaned on him weakly. When the spasm passed, she smiled. «It's all right. When we get back they can fix it. Don't
worry.» «Let's go back to the room. You can rest.» «No. I don't want to. I don't want to sit inside on a day like this.» It was a beautiful day, as days went. The ever-present smog had lifted to a height which made it seem that there was clear air above them. Luke held her arm, no longer embarrassed by personal contact with a female. After all, it was only his friend Caster. And she needed his support. She seemed to be recovered from her coughing spasm and she talked brightly, helping Luke plan what he would preach that night. Luke walked a half pace ahead, pushing his way through the swarms of people, making a way for her. Traffic was unusually dense. Ground cars and huge landships roared and smoked and stopped and growled into motion. At an intersection, they joined a swarm waiting for the lights to change. When the light went green, they joined the crowd moving in hurried masses across the street, being pushed, spilling out of the crosswalk, hurrying, fighting, looking nervously up as the pent vehicles roared in impatience and eased forward until their bumpers brushed the crowd and then, like a scream from hell, a Brotherfuzz vehicle roared through, zigzagging in and out of traffic, ignoring the massed people in the crosswalk, scattering them, coming directly toward Luke and Caster. «Watch out!» Luke yelled, reaching for her arm. Panicked people pushed him, engulfed him, as the Brotherfuzz vehicle screamed and its engine roared and it leaped forward and just as Luke went down under the panicked crush of people he saw Caster, eyes wide, mouth open, being felled by the speeding vehicle. He screamed. His fingers were stepped on as he crawled, pushed, fought his way toward her. People yelled and cursed and screamed and the lights changed and the waiting vehicles leaped forward. She was lying in a pool of her own blood, her hair falling from under the faded cloth, blood matting it. He lifted her, the way suddenly cleared as people ran, scratched, fought their way to the safety of the sidewalk. A huge, red groundship growled toward them. Luke lifted her, finding the strength with the aid of massive injections of adrenal fluids into his bloodstream. He dodged the landship, danced through a maze of roaring, honking ground cars, reached the sidewalk, and then he could pause, his lungs spasming for air, his heart pounding, his stomach aching with the force of the glandular action. Her head had been crushed. Her hair was matted with blood and, when he put her gently down onto the sidewalk and felt her head, there was an open wound through which he could see the white of bone and the frightening, fatal gray of her very brain matter. She was gasping, her body still except for spasmodic jerkings. She was, he realized with a painful certainty, dying. He screamed. He raised his fist. He cursed. «I hate you,» he screamed. «God, I hate you. And I hate them. All of them. I wish they were all dead and I wish you were dead and—» And he could look at her and see the fatal wound and know that sharp pieces of skull had pierced her brain and that only the last, desperate efforts of her being kept her breathing in those fitful gasps and then he saw, with his stomach spasming with the rush of adrenal fluid, the order