Point Ultimate

by Jerry Sohl

  “Maybe.”

  Gniessin crawled on the massage table with some difficulty, sprawling out on top of it like a giant bug ready to be pinned. He sighed. “You don’t have to do too much, Keyes.”

  Emmett oiled him and started to knead the man’s shoulder muscles the way Dr. Smeltzer had taught him, finding them soft and yielding. How could a man ever let himself get into such a condition? It revolted him to massage the flaccid flesh.

  “The back of your hand,” Gniessin said. “The striking. That’s the best.”

  Emmett changed to the percussion stroke, rapping the loose muscles sharply with the edge of his hands, up and down the back, the buttocks, the legs.

  “Harder. Harder, Keyes!”

  Emmett obliged. Gniessin grunted and winced, his breath short and rasping. But he did not tell him to stop. Emmett pounded even more furiously. It amazed him how much the fat man could take.

  When Emmett’s own muscles tired, he changed to the friction movement, rubbing the legs briskly. But Gniessin would have none of this. He rolled over, sat up, and waved him to stop. "Enough. I'll shower now. Lots of things to do.”

  He slid off the table into clog shoes Jascha had ready for him. "Jascha here tried to give me a massage once, Keyes. He only needed to be told once how to do it, but he couldn't control the power of his pounding. Nearly broke my legs. Had black and blue marks for weeks.” He laughed. "And Jascha’s supposed to go with me everywhere, but you notice he doesn’t go into the steam bath. He tried to do that once, but he almost didn’t make it to the door to get out. When they built Jascha they didn’t compensate for such extremes in temperature and such humidity. In that one respect my body is better than his. But don’t let that give you any ideas, Keyes,” he said, giving him a sidelong glance, "because Jascha stations himself at the door. And there is only one door.”

  "Dr. Smeltzer has the vial now, sir,” Jascha announced.

  "Good,” Gniessin grumbled. "I hope he’ll be feeling better soon.” He paused as he started for the shower, turning to Emmett. "It’s not that you don’t do a good job, Keyes. It’s that I have more important things to do on Saturday. As a matter of fact, you’re better than Smeltzer.”

  "Thank you,” Emmett said stiffly.

  There was no sense in ruffling the man. Let him think Emmett Keyes had given up all thought of escape, that he was beginning to adapt himself to the villa environment. Then some day when Gniessin would awaken, the robot would tell him that Emmett Keyes was no longer in the villa.

  The doctor may have given up trying to get out of here, he told himself, but I never will. There is a way out; it is just a matter of finding it. No single thing could be so perfect there isn’t a flaw somewhere.

  Even if it takes years? he asked himself. Even if it takes years. And then he thought of Ivy and her black, flowing hair and he realized he had been thinking a lot of her lately. Years, indeed. It wouldn’t take years. It must not take years. It had to be soon. Because of what he had to do. And because of Ivy.

  Rounding a hallway corner after the massage, Emmett came upon Bradshaw and Smeltzer talking animatedly. As he approached them, the two stopped to glance at him.

  Emmett had left Smeltzer pale and shaking as if with a chill. And here he was as ruddy as ever, the very picture of health! “That stuff Gniessin sent down to you certainly did the work,” Emmett said. “What the devil was wrong with you?”

  “I feel much better now, thanks,” the doctor said.

  Bradshaw leered. “I'll say he’s better, Keyes. He was afraid Gniessin was goin’ to forget again, weren’t you, Doc?”

  Smeltzer’s face darkened perceptibly. “You keep that mouth of yours shut, Bradshaw, or--”

  “Or what?” Bradshaw laughed. “Pretty brave guy now, ain’t

  you? But half an hour ago--”

  “You shut up, Bradshaw,” Smeltzer snapped.

  “Ever see a dope addict, Keyes? Take a look at the Doc here. He ain’t worth a damn without the stuff.”

  Smeltzer’s hands whipped from his sides and reached for the cook’s throat. Bradshaw moved, but not quickly enough. When the hands found their mark, the bulging eyes protruded even farther as the doctor’s grip tightened, the thumbs exerting tremendous pressure on Bradshaw’s Adam’s apple.

  Bradshaw twisted, his clawing hands searching Smeltzer’s head and face for a vital spot. The pair fell heavily to the floor and rolled over. Then Bradshaw’s fingers found the doctor’s eyes. Smeltzer grunted, let go of the neck and grabbed Bradshaw’s wrists, tried to pull the hands away from his eyes.

  “All right, Bradshaw,” Emmett said, “let go.”

  “You—keep your—goddam nose—out of this,” Bradshaw hissed through his teeth. The doctor winced and cried out.

  It was an unequal match now. Emmett’s fist caught Bradshaw on the cheek. He fell sideways to the floor. The doctor scrambled away, his hands still shielding his eyes.

  The cook, stunned, looked at Emmett vacuously. Then, with a cry of rage, he leaped from the floor toward him, arms flailing. Emmett stepped back a little, aimed for the nose and connected with a satisfying spat. The man was sent back to the floor on his rump.

  Bradshaw did not get up. He looked darkly at Emmett, tried to stem the flow of blood from his nose with his sleeve.

  “You son of a bitch,” he cried. “You just wait. Just wait. I’ll fix your wagon.”

  He got up from the floor, still holding his sleeve over his nose, and moved down the hall.

  “Thanks,” Smeltzer said, getting up. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. I’m no match for him; I’m not match for anybody. You heard what he said.”

  “Yes. I heard.”

  “Well, now you know.” He sighed, ran hands over his gray hair, avoided Emmett’s eyes. He looked up at the scanner in the ceiling. “I hope Gniessin enjoyed it. He always tries to get Bradshaw and me to go at it. Gives him kicks, he says.”

  “He was in the shower, I think. I left him there.”

  “I was just coming down to see how you were getting along. I couldn’t go without the—stuff. Sometimes I think I’ll go crazy when Gniessin holds out on me like that.”

  “How long have you been on dope?”

  Smeltzer smiled ruefully. “I didn’t play fair with you before. How do you suppose I could perform all those operations, all those abortions? I had to have something so I could live with myself. I thought I could give it up whenever I wanted to. But I can’t. At first Gniessin let me administer the shots to myself whenever I wanted to, but lately he’s been doling them out, trying to keep me in line, he says. That’s why I don’t try to escape any more. I couldn’t get any on the outside. And that’s also why I can’t help you. Do you understand now?”

  “Yes,” Emmett said, feeling helpless before the man’s addiction. 1m sorry.

  “Don’t be sorry for me. I have only myself to blame.”

  By six o’clock Saturday more than ten sleek, new turbos were lined up in the parking area and the roof was full of expensive-looking fliers. Emmett had imagined that only Gniessin and the villa had more than enough of everything, but now he saw there were areas of plenty elsewhere.

  He stood at a second floor window watching the turbos roll up to the house and discharge passengers. He was surprised to find all the men dressed in black suits, shiny, black shoes, black bow ties and white shirts. What kind of nonsense was this?

  Then he saw the women. What women! He forgot the men as soon as he saw the first one. Each was more beautiful than the last, all young and dressed in colorful, low-cut gowns, wearing silver and gold high-heeled shoes, and each wearing a flower above the left breast.

  “Pretty, aren't they?”

  The voice startled him. He looked around, found Dr. Smeltzer at his side, also looking down at the newest group heading for the house.

  “They’re beautiful. Who are they?”

  “This is a formal occasion,” Smeltzer said. “The men have come to do obeisance to the king.�
�

  “Gniessin?”

  “That’s right. Most of them are county directors, loyal party workers and their—guests.”

  “The women?”

  “A few are wives. But they and their husbands know enough to leave early. The rest are—girls, that’s all. Haven’t you ever seen girls before?”

  “Sure.” Emmett reddened. “But I never saw any like these!”

  Smeltzer looked at him curiously. “I suppose this is a strange thing for you. As I recall, there aren’t very many formal dances or parties in the hinterland any more.” He gestured to the people below. “These girls are lucky—at least they think they’re lucky. They managed to make it to one of Gniessin’s parties. They get a lot of special favors for that. Personal favors and privileges for their families. The sky’s the limit. It’s a variation of the oldest profession. . . .”

  They watched another car drive up, and Smeltzer said, “See those men? See how they smile? In a moment they’ll be inside

  and there’ll be handshaking and backslapping. Just like the old Rotary Club meetings. Each one will make it a point to greet Gniessin effusively and tell him how well he looks. And when they leave they’ll tell him what a wonderful time they’ve had. But if they could get away with it, Keyes, any of them would be glad of a chance to knife Gniessin in the back.”

  “You mean they hate him?”

  “He’s an Enemy, isn’t he? A member of the occupation forces. They hate him first of all for that, even though they might pretend not to. And then he’s the top dog and they hate him for that. And then they hate each other, too. But you’d have to see them in action downstairs to believe it.”

  “If they hate him, why do they come?”

  “It’s part of the old game for power, the mad scramble for authority. Sometimes new positions are created here on Saturday nights, and old ones eliminated. And often the men along with them. A dog-eat-dog existence, really. Gniessin is king, don’t you see, Keyes? And the king can do no wrong, even if this whole affair is immoral. I don’t know if parties like this are held anywhere else, but I do know Gniessin, and this is his idea of a good time. Most of the people here despise him and his parties. And still they come. Why? Because they’re afraid not to.”

  Emmett looked out to where the lawn ended in the distance. Another car was coming up the winding road to the house. An idea was beginning to take form in his mind.

  “Can any of these people leave when they want to?”

  I suppose.

  “How do they get by the barrier?”

  “Well, when they come in, there’s a robot at the entrance that hands them a bracelet. The brain keeps track of them all easily. Jascha tells Gniessin who’s coming and going. And when Gniessin gets so loaded he doesn’t care any more, Jascha doesn’t tell him. He just goes ahead, and he and the brain take over for him.”

  “What would happen,” Emmett said, turning from the window, “If you cut out the bracelet I have and I substituted it for one of theirs?”

  “Let me ask you instead what would happen to me if I did?” “Yeah. I see what you mean. But if I did it myself?”

  “You’d have to put on one of those monkey suits to get out the door—if you could pass the robot at the door and the robot at the end of the road and if the brain wasn’t watching you at the time you made the switch, which it would be, and if it’s not listening to you right now, which it probably is.”

  Emmett turned back to idly view the occupants of the newest turbo arrival. Then he glanced at a flier that was making a long arc through the sky toward the roof. Maybe it did present unusual difficulties, the exchange of identity bracelets, but it was worth remembering. . . .

  CHAPTER - 12

  The fountain room buzzed with talk and rippled with laughter. Beautiful women stood everywhere, nodding and chatting, smiling, exposing white teeth, long, tanned arms and backs and perfect shoulders. The men were not handsome, but they were clean-shaven and immaculate in their black suits. Some of the guests helped themselves to drinks being circulated on large trays by robots; others preferred to order their own from the bar.

  Emmett had never seen such elegance, such a wonderful display of feminine loveliness, such social grace. Neither had he ever breathed such exotic perfumes. He wandered among the assemblage like a man in a daze, absorbing the sights and sounds and smells.

  Once he passed a stately blonde sitting alone on a lounge chair beside a piece of black statuary, and, as he did so, she looked up at him in a friendly and inviting way. He found himself blushing and hurried past.

  Then he saw Gniessin, bright-eyed and flushed, the center of a large group of men and women at the fountain’s edge, talking and gesturing and laughing now and then. And every time he laughed, those around him laughed with him, some more heartily than he.

  And once he saw Bradshaw. The stocky cook was bent over a comely girl on a lounge, a drink in his hands, engaged in lively discussion. The girl did not seem to care that his hand brushed her hair once in a while.

  Emmett saw others talking together, some in small groups, some in pairs, and the sound of it all filled the room.

  He was approached by a robot waiter, took the offered drink. It was sweet-tasting and burned a little, but once it was down it seemed to clear his head and made the people less exalted, much more real and friendly.

  He looked around, saw the blonde again. She was still alone, and she caught his eye. Then she crossed her legs daintily, her long, pink formal hanging in folds nearly to the floor, only the gold slipper showing beneath it. She rocked the foot fetchingly and smiled.

  This time Emmett did not blush as he neared her.

  “Are you alone?” he asked. Her hair, he decided, wasn’t really blonde. It was golden and it shimmered in the light. Her face was heart-shaped, she had a tiny nose and petulant lips.

  “Not really,” she said in a throaty voice. “But I am for the moment. Won’t you sit down?” She patted the seat beside her.

  He sat down, saying, “Why were you smiling at me like that?”

  “Because you are the best-looking man here.”

  In spite of himself, Emmett felt the beginnings of a new blush. “What about the man you’re with? Isn’t he good-looking?”

  “Mr. Henderson?” She laughed. “No. Not unless you think glasses and a bald head are what make a man handsome.”

  “Where is Mr. Henderson?”

  “He’s gone after a drink for me. He’s probably hung up somewhere. Or he’s getting an extra for himself. He has quite a capacity.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Mr. Henderson?” She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, he’s the county director for Logan. But who are you? I haven’t seen you before.”

  “Do you come to these parties often?”

  “I haven't missed the last dozen or so. But let's talk about you.” She laid a cool hand over his, and smiled.

  “I stay here at the villa."

  “At the villa?" She sounded as if it were incredible.

  “What's wrong with that?"

  “Oh, nothing. Only . . .” For a moment her warmth had dissolved, but it came back stronger than ever. “Really," she said, patting his hand, “there's nothing wrong with that. It’s surprising, that's all. That little man with the popeyes is the only one I've heard of who stays here, outside of Mr. Gniessin. He’s the cook, they tell me. What do you do?"

  “I really don’t have any special job yet.” How could he tell her he was Gniessin’s masseur? “What’s your name?"

  “Shirley Lynn."

  “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

  “Well, you can be gallant!"

  “Where are you from, Shirley?"

  Just then a short man with a red face, a bald-headed man with glasses, stopped before them. He glared at Emmett as he handed a glass to Shirley.

  “Mr. Henderson," Shirley said. “This is Mr. Keyes. He’s been entertaining me while you were gone."

  Emmett rose, offered a hand. It was shaken loo
sely. The man grunted an answer and turned to talk to the girl.

  Emmett drifted away. After all, there were many girls.

  The sound of a gong reverberated through the room. It was followed by a momentary lull in conversation. Then everyone in the fountain room started talking at once more excitedly than ever, hurriedly finishing their drinks and canapes, and heading toward double doors that had slid open. There was much giggling and laughing and pushing and shoving during this movement, and once a dark-haired girl grabbed his arm and said, “Come on, Handsome. Cheer up. This is a party!” There were chuckles in the immediate area. And then her male companion pulled her away.

  Emmett was jostled toward the doorway, people talking and yelling to each other inches from his ear, some blowing their breath in his face. His pulse quickened with the feel of the crowd, the shouting, the excitement, expectancy, the release of restraint, and the warmth that the three drinks had given him. It was an occasion. He smiled.

  Dinner was served in the third-floor banquet room. It was an uproarious dinner at first—until the initial course had been consumed. There was much laughter, some isolated shrieks and resulting roars. Then things quieted down as people started to eat in earnest.

  Emmett ordered roast turkey and all the trimmings. He found it easily the most wonderful meal he had ever eaten. Looking around, he found a young girl opposite him avidly consuming her fried chicken as if she were afraid she’d never get another meal. And he wondered how she fared between Saturdays. And even as he wondered, he paused to watch others. This meal was something special for nearly all of the girls. You could tell that from the way they tied into it. The men were a little slower and seemed to savor it less. He guessed food was no problem for them the other six days of the week. He looked for but could not find the blonde.

  After the meal there was a period of sober talk while the robots cleared the tables. The beetling-browed, mustached man to his right, who had eaten noisily during all courses, introduced himself importantly. I’m Taylor,” he said, offering his hand, “director for McLean County,” and, without waiting for Emmett to identify himself, went into a long harangue about the obdurate peasantry and how, even after all these years, they were still unable to see the simple beauty and wisdom of communal life.