Point Ultimate

by Jerry Sohl

  The robot was at a disadvantage at such close range. If it had stood across the room or in a darkened area, Emmett might have mistaken it for a human being, for it was dressed in villa clothes and was otherwise human in size and shape. But at this distance, how different it was from Jascha!

  “What time is it?” Emmett said, climbing out of bed and wondering if the robot would answer.

  “Six forty-five, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Emmett stretched, looked out the window and saw the bright day. He wondered if the robot had a clock among the profusion of wires and muscles and tendons inside. He glanced at the robot who stood unmoving at the bedside.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Igor, sir.”

  “Spell cat.”

  “C-a-t.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  “Go to hell.”

  There was no response.

  “You may go, Igor.”

  The robot shuffled out.

  “You’re two minutes late, Keyes,” Gniessin said sourly from the head of the table. The ever-present Jascha stood behind him. The fat man glared at Emmett as he approached the table. “Breakfast is served at seven o’clock sharp.”

  Bradshaw goggled at Emmett.

  A pity I’m leaving here this morning, Emmett thought as he sat down next to Dr. Smeltzer, or I’d push those teeth of yours down your throat, Bradshaw.

  Smeltzer said, “Good morning. How’s the wrist?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  Emmett brought up the left wrist. The doctor examined the area where the plastic bracelet Gniessin had given him the night before had been sewn in. There was a dark line of cut, crisscrossed with stitches.

  “It’s healing nicely.”

  “You may serve now, Boris,” Gniessin said to a waiting robot. It was a bountiful breakfast: Orange juice, ham and eggs, fried potatoes, toast and jelly, biscuits and butter, and coffee.

  “Well, Keyes,” Gniessin said, helping himself to a large share of ham and eggs from the platter the robot held before him, “you're one of us whether you like it or not, now that you have your coded identity ring. I hope I don’t have to remind you breakfast is at seven, lunch at noon and dinner at six. You will be informed of any deviation.”

  “Punctuality,” Dr. Smeltzer said, “is a Gniessin fetish, Keyes, as you will learn.”

  “It is a virtue, not a fetish, Doctor,” Gniessin replied. “As a doctor you ought to know its value. I learned it as a colonel in the army. Troops are more efficient if there is regularity. And troops are people. The body adjusts itself to such things, seems to work better that way.”

  “It’s a pity your body doesn’t know that,” the doctor said. “Particularly in regards to elimination.”

  “You’re the doctor,” Gniessin said. “It’s your business to see that it does.”

  “I do my best, but sometimes I think it’s a losing battle, considering what I have to work with.”

  “The doctor feels chipper this morning, Keyes,” Gniessin said, smiling thinly. “Maybe we ought to do something about that. Something like short rations, perhaps. Eh, Doctor?”

  Dr. Smeltzer was silent.

  Bradshaw nodded. “Mr. Gniessin is right. About regularity making efficiency, I mean. I run the kitchen that way. Back at the hotel you had to run things that way or you’d get nowhere. That’s where I learned it.”

  Gniessin plastered butter on a biscuit until it was an inch thick. “I presume you slept well last night, Keyes?”

  “I slept all right.”

  “Better than trying to sleep under the stars, don’t you think?” He shook his head as he ate. “Nobody should be forced to sleep outside. Do you like your room?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “If you get tired of it, there are a dozen others you can sleep in.

  “This house,” Smeltzer said, “has more bedrooms than anything else. You might ask Bradshaw about that. He’s tried them all.”

  “You ought to get in on it,” Bradshaw said. “Or is your heart still in Peoria?”

  “When it comes to filth,” Smeltzer said, “you can’t beat Bradshaw. He has yet to arise from among the lower animals.”

  “Come now,” Gniessin said, “let’s not bare our collective breasts to Mr. Keyes. He will learn all about us soon enough as it is. Breakfast ought not be a time of recrimination. Let’s have some of that lofty discussion of yours, Doctor.”

  When the doctor said nothing, Gniessin said, “For your information, Keyes, Dr. Smeltzer is one of those who believes that progress died in nineteen sixty-nine.”

  “It did as far as I’m concerned,” Emmett said.

  “I’m sure you know all about it. Flow old were you at the time?”

  “I’ve heard about it.”

  “And that makes you an expert of course. But Dr. Smeltzer goes you one better. He believes there can be progress only when there are wars.”

  “That’s not at all what I believe,” Smeltzer said. “It’s true we made technical progress during wars, but it is also true there has hardly been a time when we were without wars.”

  Gniessin smiled as he chewed. “I suppose our advances in the field of robotics are nonexistent because there have been no wars.”

  “We were on the eve of important discoveries when you people took over.”

  “The earth satellite, I suppose. The rocket to the moon. I’m afraid that was not progress-to-be for the sake of society, Doctor. That was for the military and the axiom about who controls the moon controls the earth.”

  “It has been man’s dream to conquer space, even such an infinitesimal part of it as from here to the moon, and the Communist victory prevented it from becoming reality.”

  “We could have done it if we had wanted to,” Gniessin said smugly.

  “Why didn’t you then?”

  “It was no longer necessary. We conquered the world without it.”

  “It’s you who look at it from the point of view of the military. You just proved it by what you said.”

  “Ha! And you Americans didn’t, eh, Smeltzer?”

  “Some of us, perhaps. But you haven’t seen the end of it all yet. While you are sitting around getting fat, there are a lot of people who are getting tired of being trodden on. You know what happened to Rome.”

  Gniessin laughed, dabbed at his thick lips with his napkin. “Unfortunately, Doctor, there are no barbarians to overthrow us.”

  “And what a pity it is!”

  Gniessin laughed again. “You see, Keyes? The doctor thinks nothing of parading his carefully nurtured prejudices before us all. It makes for lively conversation, don’t you think?”

  “What he says is true. There will come a day when you people will be run out of the country.”

  “What a revolutionist you’d make, Keyes! It’s a pity you weren’t born at a time when it could be used to advantage. As it is, you are only ridiculous trying to combat a perfect system, a smoothly co-ordinated occupation that was going on before you were even born.”

  “I hope it goes on forever,” Bradshaw said. “The world has never had such security.”

  “And you’ve never had such Saturday nights, have you?” Smeltzer said.

  Gniessin raised his hand. “Let’s not start that again, gentlemen. We have other things to think of. Such as what duty our new guest shall perform. Do you know anything about massage, Keyes?”

  Emmett shook his head.

  “You will,” Dr. Smeltzer said. “Gniessin’s been looking for a masseur for years. I’m afraid I haven’t quite filled the bill.”

  “You have been fair, Doctor. But I need someone I can depend on. Someone young and strong and willing to learn from scratch. I know you always considered it beneath your dignity.”

  “That's not all I thought of it.”

  “I know what you think about men
who feel they need massage, Doctor. But it's merely an opinion. Take a look at Keyes's hands. They're big and so is he. It seems to me he should be an able pupil. Will you teach him?”

  “I’ll be glad to let him take over.”

  “Good. Then this afternoon we shall start at the usual time.” He looked up to Jascha, saying, “The chair, Jascha.” Jascha slid the chair out as Gniessin got to his feet. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse us, Keyes and I have a little walk to take.”

  Gniessin lumbered along the corridors like a great bear, puffing and wheezing with effort and occasionally stopping to get his breath. Jascha was a silent shadow.

  Emmett followed, wondering where Gniessin was leading him. It was some time before he realized the district director was taking him on a tour of the house, opening doors of rooms as he went, watching Emmett's face for a sign of interest as he showed him the architectural splendor of such places as the ballroom on the third floor, the comfort and serenity of the Tri-D viewing rooms, the variety of bedrooms. What ease there was here! If only some people he knew in Spring Creek could tour the place as he was—how their eyes would pop! And how they'd change, too. They'd no longer try to convince others of the magnificence of the commie program. What his mother could have done with one of those robots!

  Gniessin talked on and on about the house, but Emmett's mind soon wandered from it and its wonders. He was thinking instead of the broad expanse of lawn outside the house and how far it was to the road. What he was seeing made him only more impatient to be off, to get as far from the villa as possible—at least to Cornwall and the gypsies he hoped would still be there. The gypsies. . . and Ivy. His breath shortened every time he thought of her.

  At length Gniessin led him to a large room lined with shelves of books—more books than Emmett had ever seen outside of a public library. And Gniessin turned to watch him as he looked at them.

  He was impressed more by the number of books than by the fact that they were books, for he had never developed much taste for reading. Most library books harped on what a privilege it was to be a member of the working class, and told over and over how brilliant the Enemy mind was, suggesting again and again that the Western world follow the Communist lead. He had read enough of that stuff in school.

  The few works of fiction he had been forced to read invariably ended with the conversion of the hero—or heroine—or both—to the Communist point of view, with their ultimate dedication to greater things, usually better co-operation with the occupation forces and a boosted energy output for increased production. The moral of it all was that this brought great peace of mind.

  He had once secretly read a worn, ragged volume of The Federalist a friend had passed to him, but he didn’t understand it.

  “Take a look around,” Gniessin said. “Look at some of the titles.”

  Emmett moved to the shelves, expecting to see some of the books he had escaped reading in school. But he was surprised to find these weren’t books like any he had seen before. For one thing, they were all shapes and sizes and each was bound differently. In public libraries nearly all the books were the same size, bound with the same brown cloth and marked with a red star on the binding. He didn’t see a single red star here.

  He looked closer, saw one volume entitled Discourse on the Origin of Inequality by Rousseau. He wondered what it was about. Nearby was Meeting of East and West, by Northrop. He crossed over to a shelf across the room, saw Magnificent Obsession by Douglas, Tom Jones by Fielding and The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway.

  “Well,” Gniessin said, “what do you think of them?”

  “Biggest collection I ever saw.”

  “These books represent twenty years of painstaking collecting, Keyes. I’ve found them hidden away in attics, in cellars, trunks, walls, safes, in the upholstery of furniture—almost anywhere you can imagine.” The fat man strode to a shelf and took down a thick volume. “I’ve even got one of these. Ever seen one before?” “What is it?” Emmett asked, taking a step toward him.

  “A Bible.”

  “No,” Emmett said truthfully, “Eve never seen one.” He didn’t add that he understood old families usually managed to keep a Bible or two cleverly hidden away.

  Gniessin returned the book to the shelf. “People don’t read much any more.”

  “Can you blame them with the tripe the libraries are stuffed with?”

  “Even if these books were in the public libraries, I think people would rather watch their Tri-D.”

  “People around Spring Creek don’t watch Tri-D. They don’t even have sets.”

  “Spring Creek’s pretty far out in the country, Keyes. You have to go to the city to find Tri-D to amount to anything. And despite what you’re thinking, the people who have the sets there can really afford them.”

  “Are any of them non-collaborators?”

  Gniessin snorted. “Your world is divided into collaborators and non-collaborators, isn’t it? Why don’t you divide it into those who respect the laws and those who do not?”

  “Why should we obey your laws? We didn’t make them!” Gniessin shook his head resignedly. “You have a fixation on that subject, haven’t you? Behold, the aggrieved nationalist!”

  “I only know what is fair and what is not.”

  “I will give you credit, Keyes. You are more voluble than most of your kind. I will even go so far as to say that you show considerable intelligence. But intelligence alone isn’t everything. It doesn’t tell, for example, what has gone on before.”

  The director gestured with his arm to include all the books in the library. “Since man first learned to write he has been concerned with such questions as victory and defeat, good and bad, liberty and tyranny, dictatorship and self-government. Millions of words. Millions of ideas. And you talk as if you’ve just discovered something. Believe me, Keyes, it’s old. Older than you. Older than I. It’s as old as man himself. And the matter with which man was so concerned for so many centuries was finally settled in 1969. The Communist victory liberated him.”

  “That’s not what most people call it,” Emmett said, moving away to look at book titles again. “They talk about the time before you came and their eyes glow.”

  “Old people are always talking about the good old days. They do in my homeland, too. It doesn’t mean a thing, except their joints are aching, their blood is slow, and they remember a day when it wasn’t so.”

  Emmett forced himself to look at book titles. Did Gniessin really think times were better since his kind came? That kind of talk angered him. But he did not want to jeopardize his position by allowing it to show.

  “What you need, Keyes, is a historical perspective.” Gniessin walked to the end of the room. “Here’s Hans Kohn’s famous book, The Twentieth Century, a Midway Account of the Western World. You ought to read it. It takes you up to nineteen forty. And here’s an even better one.” He drew out a thick book. “This takes you up to the very end. Dr. Otto Listenheim’s Two Centuries of Crisis: U.S.A., 1769-1969. It’s very comprehensive. Of course you should balance the propaganda in it with a few authoritative Communist volumes.”

  Emmett took the book. “It looks as if it would be pretty stiff going,” he said, mostly because Gniessin seemed to demand some remark at this point.

  “You have to pay for everything in life, Keyes,” Gniessin said, running a pudgy finger along the binding of a row of books. “Education is no exception.”

  “I have all the education my kind can get. Eight grades and high school. If I had wanted to take a fealty oath I could have gone on.”

  “You can go on here. I have no objection to your reading. Here’s Milton’s Areopagitica. He was an aristocratic republican, a humanist by taste and training. In the book he makes a classic defense of freedom of speech.”

  He walked backward, inspecting titles. “Here’s Toynbee’s A Study of History. You might try that, though it’s often dark and brooding. Cellini’s Autobiography. Enlightening. Want to know something about the eight
eenth century? Locke’s your man.

  “And how about some light reading? Here’s Mead’s Coming of Age in Samoa. It’s about the sexually blissful maidens of that South Pacific isle. And here’s a couple of Frank Harris books. You aren’t educated until you’ve read these.”

  Gniessin seemed to forget Emmett was there. He moved about the library, pulling out a book here and there and telling Emmett he ought to look into them, exclaiming ecstatically over some, damning others, until he had more than a score of books jutting over the shelf ends.

  Then he turned to Emmett and said, “But you won’t read them all, I suppose. Maybe you won’t read any. However--”

  “A turbo is at the south entrance,” Jascha announced with such suddenness that Emmett jumped.

  “Who is it?” Gniessin asked.

  “It’s Mr. Sunberg.”

  “I will leave you here,” Gniessin said. “You can lose yourself among the books until lunchtime.”

  Emmett breathed a sigh of relief when Gniessin was gone, waited five minutes, then moved out of the library.

  There would never be a more opportune time for escape.

  CHAPTER - 10

  Emmett encountered no one on his way outside. Doors opened as he pressed their red studs and he passed through. Once outside, he didn’t hurry. He wandered over the lawn near the house, his movements slow, his manner casual. He wanted to give the appearance of a man on an inspection tour.

  He walked in widening circles, past flower beds, pools and arbors, losing himself now and then among the hedges, bushes and trees. Once he came upon a robot operating a lawn mower. The robot never glanced up at him.

  When he had gone several hundred yards, he chanced a look back at the house and saw a bright white building in the sun with a gleaming silvery spire projecting a hundred feet into the air. It had a number of glistening metal arms that Emmett guessed were part of the electronic system. On the roof he could see several fliers and wished he had one of them now so he could fly over the warning system. Just what he would do when he reached it, he didn’t know.