Presently the murmuring of the audience quieted, and a man in a flowing gold robe took the stage. He began his speech with a catalog of the nation’s ills, finally working up to his point. “We are very close to the end of a century—the end of a millennium. At midnight Friday, as the President speaks to us, I want you to greet the year 2000 with the new power, the new religion, that drugs offer. We will pass among the crowds that day, handing out samples so that everyone can greet the dawn of a thousand years of the drug culture!”
“Let’s go,” Tommy whispered in Cathy’s ear. “I’ve heard enough of this nonsense.”
As they edged through the crowd to the door, Tommy saw a familiar face. “It’s Blakestone, from Spandown U.! What’s he doing here?”
Blakestone stood behind the last row of seats. He seemed to be watching an older man at the far side of the auditorium. As they approached he said, “Good to see you again, Parker. This your girlfriend?”
Tommy introduced Cathy and asked jokingly, “Are you recruiting among the Flippies? They’d sure liven up some of those conservative professors at Spandown!” As soon as he spoke, Tommy wondered if Blakestone might be one of those conservatives himself, wondered if he might be there spying on the Flippie rally.
But Blakestone’s face relaxed into a grin and he said simply, “Think over my offer,” avoiding an answer to Tommy’s question. His eyes had already returned to the older man standing against the far wall.
Outside, Cathy said, “He didn’t seem very friendly, Tommy. Is that the sort of recruiter the colleges send out?”
“Apparently. Come on, let’s get something to eat.”
But a few moments later, as they were crossing the street, Cathy tugged on his arm. “There’s your friend again.”
Tommy looked around to see two burly men come out of the door behind Blakestone and wrestle him to the pavement. Almost at once a little electric car pulled up alongside them.
“He needs help. Stay here!”
“Tommy—be careful!”
He broke into a run and headed for the struggling group. But already Blakestone had gone limp between the men and was being dragged to the waiting car. “Stop!” Tommy shouted. “Let him go!”
The car door slammed just as he reached it, and Tommy flung himself across the hood, trying to block the driver’s vision. The electric motor purred into life and the car moved forward with Tommy still clinging to the hood. He tried to hang on, but as the car picked up speed his fingers began to slip along the smooth metal. When it rounded the first corner he was thrown free, landing hard on his side.
Cathy came running up, gasping for breath. “Are you hurt?”
He stood up with some difficulty. “I think I’m all right. But I didn’t even get the license number. Did you?”
“No,” she admitted. “What’ll we do?”
“Call the police. Come on!”
The police sergeant who answered the call listened to their story with interest but without a particular sense of urgency. “We’ll issue a bulletin to our patrols,” he said. “Too bad you didn’t get the license number.”
In the morning Tommy searched the newspaper and the telenews print-out for word on Blakestone, but there was nothing. Attention was focused on the forthcoming celebration, and there was little news of anything else.
* * * *
Friday dawned with a sense of growing excitement. Tommy had all but forgotten about Blakestone, though his side was badly bruised from his fall. It was hard to think of anything else when the papers screamed in glotype, “Tonight’s the Night!” and “2000 Here We Come!” Already groups of young people roamed the streets, preparing for the festivities.
He drove over to Cathy’s house before noon and found her waiting out front. “l’m so excited!” she said.
Vendors on miniscooters were everywhere, selling pennants and fireworks and huge plastoid balloons that proclaimed, “Happy 2000-Century Day” or “Happy 21st—The Century the Earth Comes of Age!”
The center city was a growing pandemonium, with streets already blocked to traffic. Stores and businesses were closed, and even jet flights from the airport had been curtailed because of the big sky banners. Everywhere there were colors—glowing, vibrating, revolving in dizzying patterns.
“Have the police found Blakestone yet?” Cathy asked.
“I guess not. I haven’t heard a thing.”
They were pushed forward in the surging crowd, and Cathy held tight to Tommy’s arm. The day had become a swirling entertainment of people and music and voices that threatened at any moment to turn into a stampede. Here and there a fight broke out along the vast midway of rides and shows, but few people had the urge to battle this day. “Peace!” some signs screamed—though no one gave much thought these days to the little wars being fought half a world away.
A girl in a brief dancer’s costume ran up to them, throwing her arms about Tommy and kissing him. “You’d think she’d freeze in that outfit,” Cathy snorted, pulling her own scarf a bit tighter around her slender neck. Her gaze rested on the TV truck recording the scene.
“Jealous?” he asked with a grin.
“Of that cow?”
He chuckled and they were swept on, joining for a time with a group of students drinking beer from a sidewalk vending tap. Here and there the bearded Flippies roamed, passing out pink capsules for the midnight turn-on; but they were largely ignored.
Tommy and Cathy passed a church and were surprised to see it crowded. Tommy remembered reading somewhere that men had long believed, in some strange corner of their minds, that the world would end in the year 2000. Perhaps these people chose to spend the day in prayer for that reason.
Night came early, and now the sky exploded with a spectacular light show that dwarfed the glow of daytime. Arc lights, skyrockets, and the ever-present advertising banners all contributed to the fantastic display.
“It’s beautiful,” Cathy said, and Tommy had to agree.
On and on it went, toward midnight. Strangers kissed and children got lost. Drunks cried and politicians spoke. A huge telescreen, suspended from the front of the newspaper building, showed a panorama of events throughout the country and around the world. There were shots of the newly domed Times Square area, of rebuilt San Francisco, and of London, where the magic midnight hour had already passed.
Bonfires were burning now, some of them started by college students and other young people. Tommy and Cathy paused before one, watching the flames change color as packets of chemical powder were thrown on them. “It’s beautiful,” Cathy repeated. “It makes me hope for the future.”
Tommy gestured toward a nearby Flippie, handing out his packets of capsules. “Will the future be any different from the past? Won’t people still seek escape through drugs?”
“Even so, we made it through the last century.”
“Just barely, judging by the history books.”
Someone shouted, “Ten minutes till midnight!” and a cheer went up. It was New Year’s Eve a thousand times over. It was the night of the millennium.
Then Tommy felt a tug at his sleeve and he turned to see Blakestone standing there, his face bruised and puffy. “You’ve got to help me, Parker,” he mumbled through swollen lips. “They’re after me.”
Tommy put out a hand to steady him. “Blakestone—what happened? The police have been looking for you. Who were those men—?”
“No time now. Got to get away!” He glanced back at a movement in the crowd, and they saw a burly man break into view, body tense and eyes searching.
Tommy saw that he had to act. “Come on! Into this alley!”
Blakestone stumbled in after them, Tommy tugging him along by the arm. “Thanks,” he breathed finally, when they were deep within the alley and out of sight. “And thanks for trying to save me the o
ther night.”
“What is all this? Why are they chasing you?”
Blakestone looked from Tommy to Cathy, then sighed and began to talk. “It’s a plot to discredit the whole Flippie movement—to destroy them. Some of those men handing out packets are fakes. Their capsules are powerful mind-changing drugs that’ll turn the celebration into a riot scene. There’ll be deaths, and the Flippies will be blamed.”
“But why do such a thing?” Cathy asked.
“And how did you learn of it?” Tommy wanted to know.
“The man behind the scheme is Professor Vandon, head of the chemistry department at Spandown. He’s a highly reactionary thinker, still living a half-century in the past. He’s against the Flippies because of their drug-oriented life style. He wants to destroy them utterly, and he sees this as his chance. I saw him acting suspiciously and followed him to the Flippie rally Wednesday night. His past speeches have called for the use of any means to destroy movements like the Flippies. When I saw some of the people he had with him, I knew immediately he was up to no good. I remembered some capsules he’d been making up in the chemistry lab one day, and I began to suspect a plot. When I challenged him, his strong-arm people kidnapped me and beat me up.”
“But why bring you here?” Tommy wondered.
“I was to be the first victim of the rioting. They were going to make certain of that!”
“Tommy, it’s just five minutes before midnight.” Cathy held up her digital watch. “There’s no time to do anything! The people with those Flippie capsules are scattered all over the city by now. We couldn’t begin to find them in five minutes!”
“The only thing to do now is save ourselves,” Blakestone decided. “If we can get out of here without being spotted by Professor Vandon’s people.”
Tommy hesitated. “We can’t just do nothing. People will be killed.”
“But we only have four minutes!” Cathy insisted. “There’s nothing we can do!”
“There’s always something,” Tommy said. “Come on—both of you follow me!”
Then they were back in the midst of the crowd, struggling through the groups clustered around the big telescreens for the President’s midnight speech. It was three minutes to midnight.
Almost at once Tommy spotted his goal—the big portable television studio that was recording the crowds at this point. But just as quickly Blakestone said, “There’s Vandon! He’s spotted us!”
Professor Vandon was a large man with a tiny, mouselike face. He shouted something that was lost in the crowd noise and then started running toward them. Two heavyset men were right behind him, and one had pulled something from his pocket that looked like an illegal laser pistol.
Tommy bounded up the steps into the TV truck. He had only two minutes to convince the technician there.
“You’ve got to cut out the President’s speech and let me make an announcement to the crowd! It’s a matter of life and death!”
The TV technician glanced up at him. “Beat it, kid, before I call the police.”
“It’s the truth,” Blakestone added, out of breath from their run. “Poisoned pills have been passed out to the crowd. If people take them, there’ll be a riot.”
The technician simply shook his head. “I can’t cut off the President.”
Behind him, Tommy heard Cathy scream. He whirled toward the truck door and saw Professor Vandon yank her aside. “Don’t listen to Blakestone,” Vandon cried. “The man is mad!”
There was less than a minute to act. Tommy saw the technician reach for a switch that would cut out the live coverage and bring in the Washington speech. He swung a wild punch, catching the man on the side of the jaw. It did little damage, but the technician fell from his chair. Tommy grabbed one of the cameras and turned it around, aiming at Blakestone. “Start talking and make it good. You’re on the air!”
Vandon moved then, but not soon enough. Cathy swung one of the weighted sound booms. It bounced off the wall of the truck and hit Vandon on the back of the head. He went down, sprawling, as a great clock somewhere started to chime the new century.
The face of President Prince filled the screen for just an instant. Then Tommy found the right knob and the President faded from view, replaced by Blakestone. In the doorway, one of Vandon’s men raised his laser pistol.
It was midnight, and the air was suddenly filled from all sides with the ringing of bells, the blowing of whistles. The noise startled the gunman long enough for Cathy to slam the door in his face. “Hurry!” she yelled.
Blakestone began to speak. “This is an emergency! Do not—I repeat—do not take the capsules distributed by the Flippies today. They are dangerous. Throw them in the nearest bonfire!”
Outside the TV truck utter madness reigned in the streets. Tommy could see people screaming, kissing, laughing, shouting. He wondered if any of them were even watching the giant telescreens. Blakestone repeated his messages and gradually the crowd quieted. Tommy saw a girl hurl something at the fire, then saw the bright spark of color as it ignited.
“There’s another!” Tommy shouted. “They’re doing it! They’re throwing them away!”
“Thank God,” Blakestone breathed.
The door of the truck was yanked open and police officers crowded in. One of them had the gunman in custody. “What is all this?” a plainclothes detective demanded. “What’s that message you cut in on the President’s speech? And what was this man doing with a laser pistol?”
“Trying to kill us,” Tommy said. “And so was that man.” He pointed at the floor where Professor Vandon was just beginning to rise.
“If you’ll collect some of those Flippie capsules and examine them,” Blakestone said, “you’ll find they contain a dangerously high concentration of synthetic narcotics. They would have turned this whole scene into a riot, with the Flippies being blamed.”
“You’d better all come along with us while we sort this out,” the detective said. He bent down and snapped a pair of handcuffs on Professor Vandon’s wrists.
* * * *
It was nearly dawn when Tommy and Cathy were finally allowed to leave the great gray building that housed police headquarters. A quick chemical test of the capsules had verified Blakestone’s charges, and Vandon and his men were being held for the grand jury. Only one person had swallowed some of the dangerous capsules after the warning was issued, and he’d been rushed to the hospital in time.
“I owe you a great deal,” Blakestone told Tommy when he joined them outside the building. “They would have killed me, and a great many other people, too. That was fast thinking, taking over the TV cameras.”
“I’m glad it worked,” Tommy said. “Perhaps it wouldn’t have, except that the crowd was so high on the excitement of the moment that they didn’t need any drugs.”
“Speaking of excitement,” Cathy grumbled, “we missed it all.”
“Not quite all,” Tommy reminded her. “We had some of our own.”
Blakestone held out his hand. “Will you be coming to Spandown in the fall, Parker?”
Tommy smiled. “I think I’ve had enough of Spandown people to last a lifetime.”
When they’d left Blakestone and were strolling down toward City Center Park where the last of the crowd was breaking up, Cathy asked, “Does that mean you’ve decided on med school, Tommy?”
He looked toward the east, where the sun was rising for the first time on the year 2000. “Who knows? We’ve got a whole new millennium ahead of us. And after last night, maybe I should think about a career in television!”
ABOUT “THE HOMESICK CHICKEN”
The first of two stories featuring cyber-sleuth (although Hoch didn’t use that term) Barnabus Rex looks at corporate espionage in the world of genetic engineering. It’s also probably the world’s most intricate answer to the old riddle
about why the chicken crossed the road.
First Publication—Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Spring 1977.
THE HOMESICK CHICKEN
Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get on the other side, you’d probably answer, echoing an old riddle that was popular in the early years of the last century.
But my name is Barnabus Rex, and I have a different answer.
I’d been summoned to the Tangaway Research Farms by the director, an egg-headed old man named Professor Mintor. After parking my car in the guarded lot and passing through the fence—it was an EavesStop, expensive, but sure protection against all kinds of electronic bugging—I was shown into the presence of the director himself. His problem was simple. The solution was more difficult.
“One of the research chickens pecked its way right through the security fence then crossed an eight-lane belt highway to the other side. We want to know why.”
“Chickens are a bit out of my line,” I replied.
“But your specialty is the solution of scientific riddles, Mr. Rex. This certainly is one.” He led me out of the main research building to a penned-in area where the test animals were kept. We passed a reinforced electric cage in which he pointed out the dated turkeys being bred for life in the domes of the colonies of the moon. Further along were some leggy-looking fowl destined for Mars. “They’re particularly well adapted to the Martian terrain and environment,” Professor Mintor explained. “We’ve had to do very little development work; we started from desert roadrunners.”
“What about the chickens?”
“The chickens are something else again. The strain, called ZIP-1000, is being developed for breeding purposes on Zipoid, the second planet of Barnard’s Star. We gave them extra-strength beaks—something like a parrot’s—to crack the extra-tough seed hulls used for feed. The seed hulls in turn were developed to withstand the native fauna like the space-lynx and the ostroid, so that—”
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