Point Ultimate

by Jerry Sohl

  Bradshaw looked up in surprise. “Where you been? You knew Jascha was a robot, didn’t you?"

  “No." That explained the unnaturally stiff walk, the lightning movement when Jascha grabbed his wrist! He had heard there were such things as robots, but he hadn’t really believed it until now.

  “There’s a dozen of ’em around here. I call ’em zombies because they got a faraway look in their eyes. All but Jascha.”

  Bradshaw placed a piepan upside down on the rolled dough and cut it with a pastry wheel. “Took me a long time to get used to ’em. They still give me the willies once in a while, these guys, the way they walk around with that vacant look."

  “Jascha doesn’t have a vacant look.”

  “No, he don’t, just as I said. He’s the best looking and most natural actin’ one of the bunch. But you oughta see the others. Jascha’s warm, but the skin of the others—if you want to call it skin—is cold. His eyes are almost human and his voice sounds better than the rest. Jascha’s been here only four years. The others were here when I came.”

  Bradshaw made the last cut of crust, held the pan aloft and eyed it critically. Satisfied, he put it down and stared thoughtfully at the far end of the kitchen. “I’ll never forget the day Jascha came. Mr. Gniessin brought him down here and he said, ‘Bradshaw, I want you to meet a friend of mine.’ And then he introduced Jascha. I shook hands and didn’t think nothing about him not smilin’ or nothing because Mr. Gniessin’s friends ain’t the smilin’ kind. Then Mr. Gniessin started to laugh and told me what a big joke it was. He told me Jascha was a robot."

  “How long have you been here, Bradshaw?"

  “Ten years. See that stuff back there?" He waved a hand at the equipment at the other end of the kitchen. “That’s the pushbutton kitchen. We don’t use it much any more. Oh, it does a good job on some things, but it can’t whip up very good crab souffle or crepes au Kirsch, and Mr. Gniessin goes for fancy dishes. No machine can outdo a human when it comes to making stuff like that.

  “I was working at the Hotel Ingles in the East—maybe you heard of it—when Mr. Gniessin walks in. He was stayin’ there for a couple days. He comes back to the kitchen and tells me I’m supposed to start workin’ for him. No self-respectin’, exclusive joint like the Ingles would think of offering robot-made food, but nobody realizes it. That’s what drew me to Mr. Gniessin right away, because he tasted the difference. He’s a connoisseur, Mr. Gniessin is.”

  “He looks as if he enjoyed eating,” Emmett conceded.

  “You know what he was doin’ before I came here? He was tryin’ to cook. You never seen such a messed-up kitchen. But I cleaned it up and started right away. You know the first thing he asked for? Danish beefsteak, with crepes caviar as an appetizer, a tossed salad, and a lemon meringue pie like the one I’m makin’ now, for dessert. I told him, I said, We ain’t got no caviar and I can’t find no garlic for the salad.’ He just nodded. In half an hour there was some in the kitchen. It’s been like that ever since. He makes out the menus days ahead of time, and I tell Jascha what I need. I never have to worry about whether I’ll have so much of this or so much of that to cook with.”

  Bradshaw put the pastry shell in a small oven behind him, set the controls and turned to shelves where he gathered up a mixing bowl and some ingredients with which he started to work on the table. “It really means something to a guy like me to have somebody appreciate what I make. Mr. Gniessin never lets a meal pass without sayin’ how good it is.”

  “Back where I come from,” Emmett said evenly, “we had trouble getting sugar, to say nothing of garlic. I don’t believe we ever had any of that.”

  Bradshaw didn’t get the point. “The hotel had trouble, too.

  Sometimes I forget how things are on the outside. Where did you come from?”

  “Spring Creek.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “South of Springfield.”

  “Why’d you leave down there?”

  “Because I thought things might be better someplace else.” Bradshaw paused in his stirring to look up. “You mean things were bad?”

  “Oppression’s bad anywhere. It just seemed worse in Spring Creek.”

  “Oppression ain’t a nice word, Keyes. I don’t think of it that way.”

  Emmett took in the soft flesh, the well-fed look of the man, and for the first time realized Bradshaw didn’t have that hopeless look in his eyes either. He was on the point of making a tart reply when he remembered his experience with Gniessin. He said only, “How do you think of it?”

  “As sort of being under their protection,” Bradshaw said firmly. “We proved we couldn’t handle our own business and now they’re handling it for us.”

  “When was the last time you were any place but here—out among the people to see how they’re living their lives?”

  “I’ve been out. I seen it.” Bradshaw stirred his mixture a little faster.

  “Did the people look happy?”

  “It’s the people’s own fault if they ain’t happy,” the cook said stubbornly.

  “Yeah,” Emmett said drily, “they all can’t have plushy jobs cooking for the district director.”

  Bradshaw stopped stirring and glared at him. “That’s a dirty thing to say, Keyes.”

  “If you ask me, it’s a dirty thing to be so hand in glove with a man like Gniessin.”

  “Don’t you go sayin’ nothin’ against Mr. Gniessin. He’s been more than kind to me.”

  “He’s a Communist, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, sure he’s a Communist. So what?”

  “He’s the Enemy, Bradshaw, that’s what. He’s a Communist and a member of the occupation forces.”

  “The Enemy? Maybe you don’t know it, but the war’s over. It’s been over for thirty years. And with the conquerors here there’s goin’ to be no more wars. They’ll handle things right. Why, we was lucky they took things over. Otherwise we might all be dead. You might never even have been born if things went on the way they were. You ask Gniessin about it. He’ll give you the straight dope. The way things are now we ain’t got a thing to worry about. Let them do the worrying, see? Ain’t it better that way?”

  “Didn’t you ever hear of a thing called freedom, Bradshaw?”

  “You mean the way things used to be? I don’t want any part of that.” Bradshaw separated the yolks and whites of several eggs.

  “What about the people on the outside?” Emmett asked, finding it difficult to keep his voice under control. “The people who have to work themselves to death trying to scrape together enough money to pay the taxes, to get a marriage permit, housing permit and all the other permits the Enemy sells, do you suppose they’re happy?”

  “They ain’t worried about bombs, are they? The only thing they got to do now is work, and it goes against their grain that for once in their lives they got to work. I’ve seen unhappy people all right, Keyes. They are the lazy people, the people who want something for nothin’.”

  “What about being denied their boosters because of some mistake, just to serve as a gruesome example to others? And what about the men—the fathers, husbands and young men—who have been sent to the labor camps in Utah? I suppose that’s all right too?”

  “There’s laws,” Bradshaw said, never stopping his steady stirring of the mix. “They are supposed to be obeyed. The happiest people are those who do.”

  “Enemy laws. Occupation laws. Everything for the Enemy and party members and nothing for the rest of us.”

  “Those who obey the laws get along best. You ever tried going along, obeying the laws and payin’ respect where you’re supposed to? You’ll find it much easier than getting all riled up about it. Why don’t you count all the good things and try to go along with the way things are? You’ll never get into no trouble that way. You might even find yourself getting a kick out of it.”

  Emmett turned away. He couldn’t look at the smug face, and he didn’t want Bradshaw to see his anger. “Thank God everyone’s n
ot like you. If they were, there never would be a chance of making this a free country again.”

  “The trouble with you,” Bradshaw said, “is that you ain’t got the vinegar worked out of your system yet. After you’ve been here a while you’ll settle down.”

  “I don’t intend to be here that long”—and anger suddenly exploded—“you goddam commie.”

  The mixing spoon hit the side of the bowl. Bradshaw leaned on the table, his face coloring. “You watch what you say, Keyes. Nobody calls me a goddam nothin’.”

  “Maybe traitor would be a better word,” Emmett said, turning to face him. “Or should I say commie lover?” He mouthed the words as if they were unclean.

  The eyes were wide now, the face white. Slowly the hands moved from the table and one of them rose to the knife rack overhead. Bradshaw brought down a long knife.

  “You just say one thing more, Mister,” he said, laying the knife carefully on the table, the point of it toward Emmett. “Just one thing more.”

  “At least you haven’t lost your self-respect,” Emmett said, rising warily, his eyes on the other. He was larger than Bradshaw; he had that advantage. But Bradshaw had the knife, and a wicked-looking knife it was, with a foot-long blade and a gleaming edge. But somehow Emmett couldn’t find it within himself to care, for Bradshaw was suddenly a symbol of all that he had come to hate: the fickleness and inconstancy of people, their abandonment of ideals for an illusory security, justifying their cowardice and weakness by saying their overlords could manage their affairs better than they themselves could.

  For all these reasons Emmett was ready to do battle.

  But the battle never began.

  The door through which Emmett had passed what seemed an eternity ago suddenly hissed open and through it came a grayhaired man attired in what Emmett by now presumed to be the dress of villa dwellers: a white shirt with ample sleeves and tailored at the waist, black trousers and black shoes.

  The man was nearly as tall as Emmett, well-proportioned, large-shouldered, but carrying the heaviness of middle age. His face was ruddy, his eyes bloodshot. There was perspiration on his high forehead, circles under his eyes.

  He did not come to them. He stopped halfway, and as he saw them, Emmett on one side of the table and Bradshaw on the other, a faint smile played at the ends of his lips.

  “Quite a tableau,” he said. His voice was low and well modulated. “I only hope Gniessin was watching you. Too bad I had to interrupt.”

  Bradshaw glanced toward the ceiling. Emmett followed his gaze and saw the button there.

  “It must have been much more interesting than the Tri-D programs tonight,” the man said, advancing to the table. “What was the question? Right versus wrong? Or shall I make a shrewder guess and say democracy versus tyranny?”

  “I just hope he was watching,” Bradshaw said thickly. “I hope Mr. Gniessin heard every word.”

  “He knows how you feel, doesn’t he, Bradshaw? He needs no re-evaluation of your loyalties. But of young Keyes, here, the incident, I’m sure, only corroborates what he has already discovered about him.” The man smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Smeltzer.”

  Emmett took the hand. He was surprised to find it cold and moist. But the grip was strong. There was a brightness about the eyes he had not seen at first. There was something else there too, but he could not determine what it was. Something in the glance, or in the way the man looked that was not right.

  “I must apologize for taking away your intended victim, Bradshaw,” the doctor said, “but you no doubt would have botched the job with the knife anyway.”

  “The quicker you get the hell out of here,” Bradshaw said surlily, “the better IT1 like it. That goes for both of you.”

  “You just tend to your cooking. I'll take care of the butchering.”

  Bradshaw glared as they left the kitchen.

  Emmett Keyes had been in a doctor's office only once, and that as a child. His mother had taken him there when he had become so feverish he had lost his senses. But he had recovered in the office and recalled it as a dusty, bare place, and the doctor an old man in a dirty white coat. He could even now picture the old leather examination table and the stuffing that showed through the many cracks in it. Dr. Smeltzer’s office was nothing like that. This one was filled with gleaming chromium, stainless steel, lucite and an endless array of devices the functions of which he could not even guess.

  The doctor had been silent on the way to the office, leading him down hallways, leaving Emmett to stare at the back of his neck as they walked.

  Now the door slid closed behind them and the doctor said tersely, “Sit down, Keyes, and take off your shirt.”

  When he did not sit down at once, the doctor said, “I’ve got to give you your bracelet. But first I’d better check you to make sure you’re all right, though you’re about as healthy a specimen as I’ve ever seen.”

  Puzzled, Emmett sat on the white metal stool Smeltzer had indicated, and took his shirt off. “What’s this about a bracelet?”

  The doctor appeared not to have heard, saying, “I’d better mix the anesthetic.” He opened a small plastic cabinet, withdrew a bottle, uncorked it and shook some powder into a small screwtop vial which he then filled with water. He screwed the top in place, set it in a machine. He pushed a button and the vial vibrated furiously, the raucous buzzing filling the room.

  “There’s a scanner and a microphone in this room,” the doctor said, wrapping the blood pressure band around Emmett’s bare arm. “But that vibrator makes so much noise Gniessin can’t hear what I’m saying. But he can still see us.” His head was so close Emmett could see the pores in his perspiring face. “So just nod once in a while. Don’t look interested. And talk only if you have something important to say. There’s not much time. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” Emmett said dubiously, but willing to go along under the circumstances. The doctor pumped the rubber bulb, watched the pressure indicator.

  “When the robots brought you in last night, I anesthetized the forepart of your brain and awakened you from the effect of the sleeper with another drug, as Gniessin ordered me to. The procedure rendered you partly conscious, but the anesthetic reduced your inhibitions and judgment to zero. You answered every question, told him everything, why you left home, what you hoped to do, the fact that you killed a man—you even told him who and what he was—and some vague story about meeting a group of people running through the woods. Despite his questioning, Gniessin couldn’t get much from you about them. After the session, which you couldn’t possibly remember, I put you to sleep again.”

  So Gniessin hadn’t checked into his past! He, Emmett, had told him instead, and Gniessin hadn’t learned what he knew the mysterious way the leader in the implement shed had. And Gniessin hadn’t got very far either, he realized, because his later question showed he didn’t know the details about the gun and the currency. It was safe to assume he had heard nothing about Mrs. Tisdail; otherwise he would have surely mentioned her. As far as the group in the woods, what could Emmett have told him about them?

  “I’m telling you this,” the doctor went on, “because I want you to know I’m on your side. I was going to warn you about Brad-

  shaw, but I see you’ve already found out about him. He’s dangerous, Keyes. And he’s a tattler. So watch yourself. He carries a lot of weight with Gniessin.”

  The doctor deflated the arm band.

  “If you want to be a friend of mine,” Emmett said, “then tell me how I can get out of here.”

  “There is no escape. Believe me, Keyes, there is no escape.”

  “Think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “I’ll get out. . .somehow.”

  “I’m warning you not to try. Gniessin will send you to a camp if you do. Now I’ve got to turn that damn vibrator off. I didn’t need it anyway, but Gniessin won’t know the difference.”

  He went over and clicked off the machine, saying, “Blood
pressure’s O.K.” He came back with a stethoscope. “How’s the heart?” He put the cup to Emmett’s chest and listened. “Fine heart you have there.”

  The doctor sighed, rose, put the stethoscope away and picked up the vial from the vibrator, working with it over his desk. When he turned around he had a hypodermic syringe in his hand.

  “That bracelet I mentioned a little while ago—it’s a thin and narrow band you’ll wear around your wrist. The flesh will grow over it in a few days. I’ll have to deaden the tissue while I make the cut for it.”

  Before Emmett could protest, Smeltzer pressed the viewphone key. In a moment, Gniessin’s face appeared there.

  “I’m ready with Keyes, Mr. Gniessin.”

  “Bring him in then.” The face vanished.

  “Each of us,” the doctor said, injecting an anesthetic beneath the skin of Emmett’s left wrist, “carries a coded identity bracelet on his wrist. Mr. Gniessin will put yours on and from then on the electronic brain that runs this villa will know who you are and what your privileges are. Otherwise every time you stepped outside the robots would let you have it with a sleeper. They’re

  not very efficient visually, you see, but their scanner eyes can read one of these bracelets a half mile away.”

  Smeltzer used a scalpel to make a shallow cut around the wrist. Emmett was surprised to see so little blood. He could feel the pressure of the knife, could feel it cut, but felt no pain. “Were ready for Gniessin now,” the doctor said, rising.

  CHAPTER - 9

  At the first touch of the hand on his shoulder Emmett jerked up to a sitting position, alarm shocking him to wakefulness. What he saw swept the last shreds of sleep from his brain.

  It was a face like a Halloween mask, and it belonged to the creature who stood at the side of his bed. The flesh of the face was of porcelain consistency, the cheeks fiery red and the eyebrows too thick and black.

  “Breakfast,” the robot said harshly. Emmett was startled to see the lips move clumsily in simulated speech.

  He looked at the eyes and saw what Bradshaw meant about the vacant stare. They were like a doll’s eyes, immovable and unexpressive. But they were not unseeing, for Emmett could look into the lenses.