“You lost,” Blake told the Bigshot. “Every step shows that. If you hadn’t lost—if your younger self, when you stood in my position, here—hadn’t remembered that you lost, you wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of getting my mind drawn here to attempt to exterminate me. I should have seen it sooner, but that doesn’t matter; you have to lose.”
“If I hadn’t taken on Ainslee…” the Bigshot began, but his face was drawn now.
“There aren’t any ‘ifs,’” Blake told him remorselessly. “You lost. You’re fighting with no hope at all. You can try anything you want to, but the end is already written; you lost.”
He had no idea of what would happen, and yet he knew it was inevitable. Then, slowly, the answer came. He should have seen it from the beginning. No man can accept predestination within himself—yet the Bigshot knew now that there was no answer save predestination. He had to solve a completely impossible problem, and no mind could stand that.
“You lost.” Blake repeated it, emotionlessly; “You lost.”
And slowly, the Bigshot crumpled. He dropped his hands on his knees, and then brought his head down against them, sobbing softly.
Sarnoff stepped in quickly. “Stop it, Tom. Stop it. You don’t have to solve anything now. It’s all over; you don’t have to solve anything.”
The Bigshot looked up then, with tears streaming from his eyes, staring forlornly at the two men. “I’m lost,” he said miserably. “I don’t like this place. I don’t like you. I want my mama!”
Blake turned to the window, while Sarnoff led the Big-shot out of the room. There, forty years from now, was the end of his own plans—the reward for all his hopes and struggles.
CHAPTER 10
Sarnoff found Blake finally, down in the laboratory, lying on the cot where his mind had first come into the future.
“The council of the head Guards and the rebel leaders want you, Tom,” he said quietly. “They’ve already published the plans for turning two of the citizen guns into a single complete one, in case your curiosity is still working.”
Blake nodded. He’d asked for that—the only thing he could do for this tangled future; his decision was the only one he could make. Human nature couldn’t be changed, and compulsory improvement was something which might not be good. But no society could be healthy where one group enjoyed a terrible power that the other group could not have.
There were guns enough for all to make the conversion—and that way, the fanatics would find the rest of the world shielded by the time they got their own shields made and were ready to go out killing or converting others. It was a problem that had always plagued him somewhat, since a total weapon in the hands of a crackpot could wreak incalculable damage if there were others without such a shield.
His only function, after all, had been to make sure that his original plan went through—that all men had such guns. It had been his basic motivation for going into politics, but it had only succeeded when he’d driven himself completely out of such politics.
“I suppose you’ll be the next dictator,” he told Sarnoff bitterly.
“Pro-tem president,” the man answered. “But only pro-tem; I prefer to have Ainslee take over, if anyone has to. There’s no real advantage to absolute power, and I’m still an opportunist. I’m in solid—but behind the scenes, where I’d rather be. I suspect we’re in for a period of democracy, anyhow.”
They’d have to be, if Silas McKinley had been right—and for a long, long spell of it—at least until something greater than the stasis gun and shield could come along.
“Then send my mind back,” Blake decided. “They can get along without me.”
Sarnoff began moving the machines along their tracks. And the sight of the action suddenly focussed Blake’s thoughts on what the return would be like—and the paradoxes his own inability to accept predestination involved.
He couldn’t be such a fool as the Bigshot had been; with all he remembered, he couldn’t.
“This body will be left a complete idiot, of course,” Sarnoff said. “But your mind should snap back to your own body—and if I’m right, it will be only a few minutes in your time after you left. There’s no real time barrier for the mind—and no reason to expect the time spent here to be equalled by elapsed time in a trance back there. Maybe you can help by focussing your thoughts on when you want to return; I don’t know.”
Blake had wondered about that. He tried to think of his body just after his mind had left it, while Sarnoff adjusted the mind-burner. Then, without preamble or wasted farewells, the scientist depressed the switch.
For a moment, it was horrible, as it had been before. Then the full power seemed to snap his thoughts out into a roaring nothingness. Something pulled at him. Unlike the force trip into the future, the move back was almost instantaneous.
Thomas Blake found his arm halfway to the light switch. He dropped it, and looked at the clock; but the faint sounds of the party still going on downstairs convinced him. He was back in his own world—and almost no time had elapsed there.
Sarnoff, Sherry, assassination…
He could feel it slipping from him. There was no machine here to intensify his thoughts, and to force them onto his brain cells and channel them into his permanent memory, as had been done by Sarnoff when his mind first touched the brain of Jed.
And the brain cells could not absorb what had happened during long days, now in these first few seconds of awakening. But now, whatever his mind matrix was, it was slipping back into relation with those cells. It was like a dream that seems to be completely intense and to span hours, but which slips out of the mind almost as soon as that mind awakens.
Blake jumped for the wire recorder, and began spouting the bits he still remembered into it, before they could go. But he found curiously little to dictate; he’d been in the future where he’d tried to kill himself. There’d been a girl named Sherry. And he’d had hairy hands—aside from that, he had no idea of what he’d looked like. He’d never seen a reflection of his face.
He dredged up other bits, but most of it was gone, except for the general realization that it had not been a dream. But what he had dictated was still more than he could have remembered—it was already more than he had known as his older self.
Then he glanced down to see that the recorder was still turning—but without effect. He’d forgotten to replace the spool of wire!
Gideon Pierce came into the office of Governor Blake, shaking his head. “You were right, Tom. They had a deal cooked up, just as you thought; I must be getting old.”
Blake grinned at him, but he secretly agreed. Pierce should have spotted the opposition move. In time, you could get used to such business, and learn to expect the moves before they came. He’d have to watch Pierce from now on; the man had been loyal enough, but still…
Well, Blake thought, I’m not naive any more. Idealism is a good thing, the only important thing. But a man has to be a realist, too. Like that business of the gun James had invented. It had to be given to the people, of course—but they had to be protected from the crackpot who might seize on it first. It was a problem and one that could only be faced realistically.
“Forget it, Gideon,” he said; “we all slip sometimes. Go back down there and keep them whipped into line. We’ve got to put that across, if I’m to get the nomination for President this time.”
He watched Pierce leave, and consulted his calendar. There was only an appointment with the mathematician—a brilliant man, even if a bit too starry-eyed. Still, if his theory of cause and effect could be proved, it should make a difference. It began to look as if all the predestination he’d been worrying about was as much nonsense as the argument about how many angels could dance on the head of a pin.
But that appointment could be postponed. He flipped through his book, until he came to another name. Then he reached for his intercom.
“Call up Professor Houton, Miss Brightly, and ask him if he can change that appointment to next week at the same
time,” he instructed. “Then get hold of Ainslee—you have his number—and tell him it’s urgent I see him this afternoon. As soon as he can make it.”
Ainslee should be a good man to replace Pierce. A little cold-blooded, perhaps but he got things done.
RIPENESS IS ALL, by Jesse Roarke
He was disturbed, but he did not know it. Murky, agitated waters crept up in his vast subconscious world, and sought the threshold, the mouth of the pit, the slope of the clean shore; little rainbows of light now and then flashed over the waters. They heaved, and against the sluice-gates they beat, sullenly. There was a yielding, but the great force was contained.
He left his Pad, curiously mopping his brow a little, and furrowing it between the eyes. It came to him that he was hungry. He stepped to the curb, pushed the button, and leaned against the post, as if waiting, or in thought. Almost immediately a Car appeared, in a cheery orange and green. He almost shuddered, and he almost knew that he did so. Then he brightened, stepped into the car, and voiced his desire.
He was carried at a moderate pace through clean, broad streets and past bright, shiny buildings and smiling parks and gardens. He came to the top of a high hill, saw the sparkling blue bay in the distance, and thought vaguely of sailing upon it. On his face he felt a brisk spray, and the air was tanged with salt. Then a warmed, faintly perfumed glow dried and composed him, and the Car shut off all its machinery and glided to a stop. He got out, ever so comfortable, and entered a luxurious Kitchen, in which he had not dined for several days.
The doors opened automatically, and a smiling android, gaily featured and clothed, conducted him to a table. She was a soothing sight: yes, that’s what it was. He ordered a sumptuous meal, rubbing his ample waistline in anticipation.
“Dig dig!” crooned the waitress.
He patted good-naturedly her well-moulded behind as she turned; she glowed sweetly back over her soft and delicate shoulder. He wondered if Meg was enough, and decided that, well, for the time being, he guessed she was. No use hurrying things. The waitress returned and served the meal. As always, it was excellent. He finished with a leisurely bottle of wine and a cigar, pinched the waitress’s firm yet ever so yielding thigh, and departed.
Then a deep stirring almost took hold upon him. Yes, that was what he needed. It had been several months now. He pushed another button, and a rosy pink Car appeared to his service. “Take me to a House, you know what I mean?” he said, as he arranged himself upon the pearl grey cushions. The Car glided away.
* * * *
On and on along the shore of the ocean they pleasantly careened. At length they turned into a rich garden bower, and stopped in front of a great mansion overlooking the waves. He alighted; the Car departed. Profusely bloomed scarlet and golden and azure flowers, everywhere; succulent and bright was the lavish green. The doors opened, and a Woman received him. She was past child-bearing, motherly, and smiling.
He smiled back, and said, “You got one, huh?”
“Of course,” she answered.
He sat down to wait.
And while he waited, he almost thought. Meg was good, all right, but why wasn’t she enough, sometimes? He tapped his thumb-nail against his teeth in a few moments of near perplexity, and then desisted. Soon a bevy of charming Girls entered the room and paraded for him, laughing and smiling. He settled upon a petite brunette with cherry lips. She stripped him of his clothes, and they went walking in a private garden.
In an inner bower they sat down to a rustic table, and were served by robot with a heady aphrodisiac wine. On the grasses and the petals of flowers, overlooking the sea, they entwined their limbs and their bodies, and he nearly enjoyed her. He thought that once he had enjoyed this activity indeed, and wondered whether it were so.
He sat looking over the waters, trying to muse. The androids were physically perfect, flesh meeting flesh, clinging to it, thrilling with it. They were warm, they whispered, they strained and cried. They were freely available, for every man and woman. None need be unsatisfied.
But he did not know all of this, history and psychology were lost to him and he could never keep a connected train of thought; his being unsatisfied could not penetrate to his consciousness. He did not quite know that flesh cried out for something more than flesh, and had always done so. He did know, more or less, that there was the matter of population, and that real men and real women had, at mysterious intervals, to copulate. That was the way it was. He had once spent some time in a House himself, meeting the requirements of an endless variety of Girls. He supposed that some of them had borne the issue of his seed, though he did not suppose it in these terms. But it was better not to know these things for certain, and not to have anything to do with the rearing of children, after the early mother-feeling was over. The Schools could take care of that better than people could.
She snuggled against him.
“What say, Man?” she said: “What’s eatin yuh?”
He did not know how to answer. He tried to talk, tried to break through, to clarify.
“What’s it, huh?” he nearly pleaded. “All this, I mean. Like what’s it for?”
She stretched out on the grass and looked at him a moment.
“Search me,” she ventured. “I guess maybe what you need’s a Bed.”
He guessed she was right.
* * * *
They went back to the mansion through the twilight, and established themselves in one of the rooms. The soft curtains were drawn, the Bed was large, the sheets were silky and creamy. She reclined on her back, and the mattress moulded itself perfectly to her form.
He lay down beside her, and caressed her. She clasped him tight to her breast. And he was clasped also by an invisible but very palpable field of energy, that directed his movements and charged him with an inexhaustible and ceaseless power. He held her tight, and the force entwined them. They were one throbbing ecstasy, and only at the very last endurable moment were they given release.
Then the Bed slowly soothed them, massaged them, and invigorated them once again. Throughout the night it continued, activity and repose, until toward the dawn he fell into a dead sleep, which lasted until the following morning.
He did not know that he dreamed. He did not consciously remember any of it. He only knew, as he ate his ample breakfast, that he was not so thoroughly at peace as he should have been. And he knew that it was useless to ask the Woman, or one of the Girls.
But the Woman’s androids did well by her, it seemed. Maybe he had better go home to Meg.
“What the square, anyhow?” he said to himself. A little more rest in his familiar surroundings, and he would be all right. A Bed always took a lot out of a man. He arose to go.
“Goodbye, dear,” the Woman said, as he came to the head of the main path. She was serene and smiling.
He adjusted his tunic, and smiled in reply. Yes sir, the old world was in good shape, just like always. He signaled for a Car. The bright ocean again passed by him, and the broad sands, and he dozed.
* * * *
The dreams were more importunate, this time. When he awoke, with a blank start, the Car was cruising aimlessly. He looked around, and broke into a sweat. There was a button he had to push, somewhere, there was a handle he had to take hold of. He stammered out “Stop—now!” and stepped onto the curb. The car sped away, to another summons. He was before an Emporium, but he did not enter. Instead, he did an unprecedented thing: he went for a walk, through the streets of the City. This was not done, and none of the occupants of the passing cars observed him.
He was really wondering, now. Could something be wrong? This possibility, with all its full horror, had never entered his mind before; indeed, he did not even have the conceptions of rightness and wrongness, and yet there was the inescapable word, “wrong”. His agitation increased. He found himself with the hardly formulated idea that a school was a place where one learned something, and he did not know what this could mean.
He thought of the School that he
had attended. All the young people of the District of Fransco attended it: they had been told that there were other Schools, in other districts, and that they were all the same. He had believed it, and forgotten about it. What did it matter? One district was as good as another. He had never travelled. He knew a Man who had gone to the District of Shasta, but he had not been interested in hearing about it. He remembered that the Man had said it was all the same thing, not worth the bother. One had everything he needed, in his own place. But now it seemed that he needed something more, something nobody had ever heard of. He walked on, thinking about the School.
Everybody was born in a House, and kept there till he was weaned, and could walk. Then he was taken to the School. There he grew up in an atmosphere of Group Living, and was gradually showed everything that he needed—everything that there was. The hes and shes played together; they were instructed in the Ways of Life.
As they grew older, they were taken around the City. They were showed the places that the Cars could take them; they were showed how to push the buttons. Of course the robots did a perfect job of instruction. There were Kitchens, in which one could eat. There were parks and gardens, in which one could stroll and lounge. There were Emporiums, in which one could get clothes and things. It was all—as it was.
When one reached puberty, he was taken from the School, and given a Pad. There he lived, listening to the soft music that came from the walls, eating and sleeping. And doing. He selected his android from an Emporium, and did her as he pleased. She was his company, the Warmth of his Pad. She shopped in the Emporium for him, she fixed him cozy little meals, and brought him his pipe or his cigar. She spread the depilatory cream upon his face in the morning, and wiped, with so soft a touch, his beard away; and she bathed him, in the scented waters.
* * * *
He remembered that after a year or two, he had felt almost restless. From his touch, Meg had understood. She had whispered “House” to him, and he had gone out and instructed a Car. That had been his first experience of a Girl. He supposed that it had been the same with the others. He had never inquired. In the garden bower the idea of children had come to him, and his mind had been at rest. He had not tried a Bed until the fifth or sixth time. He had, he supposed, taken for granted that the Girls lived in the same way that he did. They had their own androids, their own Pads. They never associated with the Men, except in a House. Men got together sometimes, and ate and drank, and had android orgies; no doubt the Girls did likewise.
The Seventh Science Fiction Megapack Page 69
