Chapter Three
UP CLOSE WITH THE MASTER, FOR FURTHER READING AND DISCUSSION
“I feel complete. This is my legacy to the nation.”
Remarks made by Uncle Rosy to his personal secretary, Emmanuel Dade, concerning the recently completed Black Box of Democracy. Uncle Rosy disappeared three days later (on May 16,2318) after personally supervising selective memory erasures on everyone involved with the project. (From E. Dade’s unpublished notes.)
Friday, August 25, 2605
“What the hell happened?” General Munoz demanded. His orange mustache bristled as he glared at Dr. Hudson. “Another miscalculation?” Munoz stood in the center of his living room module with his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of a dark brown robe. His new gold cross hung about his neck, outside the robe. It was well past midnight, the first hours of Garbage Day minus seven, and his hair was sleep-tousled. A brass table lamp near the window cast yellow light against the General’s side, leaving half his face in shadow.
A fair-haired, taller man of perhaps thirty-five stood in a gold robe at the General’s side. Hudson recognized Colonel Allen Peebles, the General’s adjutant and lover. The younger man had pale blue eyes which to Hudson seemed to look at some indeterminate point in an unfocused distance, as if Hudson was not there. Hudson had long since learned to control his thoughts of revulsion in the presence of these two, since they, like Hudson, were fitted with mento transceivers.
“We have problems,” Dr. Hudson said, a bit out of breath. He removed his overcoat, slung it over the back of a white nauga chair and slumped into the chair. “As I told you on the phone, our biggest concern is that the comet’s speed has increased dramatically. We now estimate its arrival in seven days rather than thirteen.”
“Oh damn!” Colonel Peebles said, speaking in an exaggerated lilt. He took a seat in an adjacent chair, crossing his legs gracefully.
“I hate surprises,” Munoz said. Continuing to glare at Hudson, he popped a sleep-sub pill and washed it down with a water capsule.
“And I’ve just discovered a second computer error,” Hudson said.
“The new Comp six-oh-two?” Munoz asked.
“No. This time it was the Willys twelve-forty that calculated the comet’s ETA . . . off by six hours.”
“In the wrong direction, I presume?” Munoz said.
“Naturally.”
Munoz shook his head, stared glumly at the floor.
“The comet is not behaving according to known laws of physics,” Hudson said, rubbing the fringe of black hair on one side of his head. “Just one hour ago, it made a ninety-four degree turn, veering off into space for a time. Then it made another sharp turn, back to a collision course with Earth.”
“How odd!” Peebles said. “What are we to do?” He sat sideways in the chair to look at Hudson, an arm draped across the chair back.
“Silence!” Munoz commanded, shooting a fiery glance at his adjutant. “I have to think!” Munoz moto-slippered to the couch, sat down with his hands grasping his thighs. “How could the comet change like that?” he asked, staring at the floor.
Hudson shrugged. “I don’t know. This thing’s a complete mystery to all of . . .” He stopped as Munoz looked up and glared at him. Such words had been spoken before.
“Get out new orders, Allen,” Munoz said. “Have the crew ship ready three days earlier . . . by Tuesday afternoon at fourteen hundred hours.” He turned to Hudson.
Hudson spoke as Munoz was formulating a new thought. “I’ll call Saint Elba and have the mass drivers moved up too.”
“Right,” Munoz said. “And tell ’em to double-check the E-Cell charging bays. We don’t want any last minute problems.”
“I’ll reiterate that.”
“Anything else?” Munoz asked.
“We’ll have to set up new recharging stations along the route in deep space,” Hudson said. “The others are placed incorrectly for the new course and time. I’ll refigure it right away.”
“Good,” Munoz said. “We still have the matter of the pilot. There’s no time left . . .”
“Have any more garbage balls spoken to you?”
“What do you mean by that?” Munoz snapped.
“Maybe you were tired. The mind and eyes can play tricks. . . . ”
“It was in flames, and came right at my face! I was there! And listen to the clincher: there is a Sidney Malloy!”
“Yeah?”
“He’s a nobody in the Presidential Bureau—Central Forms.”
“You’re not actually thinking of using him?” Hudson asked.
“I have a strong feeling—call it intuition, I don’t know. Something tells me. . . . ”
“We need to go on more than intuition,” Hudson said. “Everything rides on this mission, Arturo. This calls for the best, only the very best.”
“I know.”
“Did it occur to you that your trash can magic trick might have been performed by the Black Box?”
“No,” Munoz said. “I’m sure they had nothing to do with it.”
“On what evidence? You puzzle me, Arturo—relying so heavily on intuition for critical decisions.”
The General’s black pupils became steely hard. “And you are a man of facts, Dr. Hudson. Precise scientific facts.” Munoz fingered the burnished gold cross which hung from his neck.
“I am—and there is a concise scientific answer for every question.”
“Don’t be so sure of that. I’ll tell you one thing. Anyone that can make a ball of burning trash speak to me has my undivided attention. The voice told me to use Malloy, and I’m damn sure not going against its wishes. Hell, Dick—maybe that was God himself. Speaking to ME!”
“Okay, okay. This Malloy—can he be trained?”
“Anyone can be trained,” Munoz said. “You know that. And Malloy knows a pilot—one of the three-hundred on whom we have files.”
“Oh?”
“Javik,” Colonel Peebles said. “He’s a ruffian.”
“Funny thing though,” Munoz said. ‘This Javik is sharp, maybe the best we can find. He knows the Akron class space cruiser and has exceptional reaction times.” Munoz lifted a manila folder from the coffee table, handed it to Hudson.
Hudson thumbed through Javik’s dossier file. “He’s had mass-driver mechanics training, too. Odd that he’d know Malloy. They went to high school together. . . . ”
“Javik is bull-headed and quick-tempered!” Peebles said.
Hudson nodded. “Poor attitude quotient,” he said, reading from the report. “Gets in fights all the time.”
Munoz shook his head in exasperation, spoke tersely to Peebles: “His bull-headedness . . . as you call it . . . was actually independent decision-making. He took out an entire enemy fighter squadron with one star class cruiser—”
“And a Major’s jaw with one punch,” Peebles said. “I saw him knock Neil Smalley down. In fact, it was my testimony that got Javik tossed out of the service.”
“The decisions he made were absolutely correct,” Munoz insisted. “His only error was in striking an officer. Major Smalley shouldn’t have pressed him about procedures.”
“It won’t matter anyway,” Peebles said, raising his blond eyebrows. “He’s on a six-day pass and is nowhere to be found . . . I’ll bet he’s shacked up.”
“You’re going to send Javik and Malloy on this mission together?’ Hudson asked, looking at Munoz.
Munoz nodded, then glanced at Peebles. “You’ll find Javik, Allen,” Munoz said, smiling knowingly, “ . . . when you hear what I have in store for him.”
Peebles did not reply, stared at the General impertinently.
“The ejection pods on his ship will be disconnected, and the rocket engines will have a certain . . .” Munoz paused, glanced at Hudson with a mischievous smile.
Hudson returned the smile. “I believe planned obsolescence is the term for which you were searching, General,” he said. “The radio has been prepared similarly.”
Peebles brightened. “That sounds pretty good. . . . ”
“And no rescue craft anywhere in the vicinity,” Munoz said. ‘The world will never know that a comet really threatened us, or that he stopped it.”
“What about an enforcer?” Peebles asked.
The General raised an eyebrow. “An enforcer?”
“Yessss,” Peebles said, his voice a cruel purr. “Conceivably, Javik could repair anything you disconnect. And we don’t want any chance of him getting off a distress call.”
“True.”
“Let’s send along Madame Bernet.” An evil, purse-lipped smile danced along Peebles’s mouth.
“Ahh!” Munoz caressed his mustache. “The Montreal Slasher!” He turned to Hudson. “The meckie is available?’
“Yes,” Hudson said. “Just back from a mission. Madame Bernet silenced eight guys on that one . . . permanently.”
“This will be delicious,” Peebles said, smiling like a death’s head. “But alas,” he added sadly, “it will be the last mission for our finest killer meckie.”
Munoz rubbed his temple. “Bring Malloy and Javik to me,” he said.
Four hours later, inside the Black Box of Democracy . . .
With his ankles crossed beneath his body, the tall fat man known as Onesayer Edward sat naked on a blue and gold prayer rug with one hand resting on each knee. Soft morning rays of sunlight from an overhead skylight warmed his bare shoulders and the back of his shaved head. Flicking a downward glance at his pendulous stomach and at the great folds of flesh which cascaded to the rug from every part of his body, he imagined that he must resemble a wallowing hippopotamus. Onesayer grimaced at a surge of pain from one ankle, tried to think the things he was supposed to think.
The prayer rug was on a loft of Onesayer’s private Black Box of Democracy penthouse, and in the background he heard the soft, lilting notes of the Hymn of Freeness. Uncle Rosy had written that tune. It was the theme song of the Sayerhood.
Gazing at a burnished bust of Uncle Rosy which rested on the leading edge of the rug in a pool of sunlight, he noted the floating red arrow at the sculpture’s base pointed straight ahead and sharply down. This indicated the precise location of Uncle Rosy’s immense chair on the main level of the building. An inscription on all four sides of the bust’s pedestal carried the admonition: “Keep The Faith.”
I cannot get into this, Onesayer thought. And it used to be so easy! He sighed twice, causing his flabby chest to rise and fall like an undulating wave, then stared at the sculptured, cherubic face of Uncle Rosy.
He thought back to his boyhood on the asteroidal sayer’s retreat of Pleasant Reef, and upon the two hundred eighty-seven years he had spent in the Black Box. Remembering the first day he had seen Uncle Rosy sitting upon the great chair, he recalled being in awe of the Master’s presence. To Onesayer, Uncle Rosy seemed godlike, always sitting in the shadows and never revealing his face.
Flicking a fly off his leg, he thought, I was one of the original sixty-six. . . . the Master brought me from Three-Sevensayer to Onesayer in ninety-three years, skipping me ahead of others, putting me in slots that became available. . . .
Onesayer glanced at his onyx class ring angrily, recalling Uncle Rosy’s exact words to him, spoken nearly two centuries before: “I will step down within fifty years, Onesayer Edward. You will become Master. Be patient, and all will come to you.”
Be patient! Onesayer thought bitterly, looking up at the ceiling in dismay. How long do I have to wait? I know all about Freeness and Sharing For Prosperity. . . . I have served on twenty-seven bureau monitoring teams—
Uncle Rosy’s words came back once again: “You will be the Protector . . . the Chosen One. . . . ” Onesayer lowered his gaze. Ha! he thought, glaring at the bust of Uncle Rosy. He is always coming up with new excuses for not stepping dawn, saying I have much to learn. . . .
His thoughts were interrupted by an intercom buzzer whose rapid-fire tones told him the Master was calling. Onesayer mentoed the circuit to open it, replied aloud, “Yes, Master?”
“The new Bu-Industry Tower, Onesayer. You are prepared for our ten A.M. dedication?”
“Yes, Master. There is plenty of time.”
“See that you are prompt.”
“I have never been otherwise, Master.”
There was a long silence at the other end of the line, followed by, “Our new Lastsayer will meet you at the helipad.”
“I am aware of this, Master. He will be trained properly.”
“Very well, Onesayer. And do not forget to show him the Bureau Monitoring Room afterward.”
Onesayer Edward rose wearily after the conversation ended and short-stepped across a hardwood floor. He rode the escalator downstairs, then made his way across the cool blue slate of his dining room module to the bedroom module. There he looked at a row of identical friar brown robes in the closet and said to himself mockingly, “Let me see now. . . . Whatever shall I wear today?”
Mayor Nancy Ogg stood at the Hub Control Room viewing window, watching as two space tugs pulled containers of raw materials to a loading dock near the newly enlarged double doors leading to Hub Sections A and B. It was midmorning Friday, and she had supervised all night as meckie and human workcrews enlarged the doors, tore out partition walls and removed work in progress to make room for assembly of the mass drivers.
It’s going well so far, she thought, yawning as she stared at a box of sleep-sub pills on the console. A hunger pang shot across her midsection.
Mayor Nancy Ogg glanced to her left at a tap-tap-whining sound, watched a floor-mounted electronic mail terminal spew out a letter. One of three electronic mail terminals, this unit was reserved for classified correspondence. A flashing blue light on the machine indicated it was a Priority One transmittal.
Gliding gracefully to the terminal, she tore the letter off and examined it.
From Dick, she thought angrily, reading the heading. Well I don’t care to hear from him! She rolled the letter into a ball and hurled it across the room.
Mayor Nancy Ogg returned to the viewing window, watched through tear-glazed eyes as the space tugs released their containers on the loading platform and then left via the docking tunnel to retrieve additional containers.
She turned to stare at the ball of paper as it lay on the floor near the Control Room’s bank of C.R.T. screens. I’d better look at it. Duty before personal matters.
She knew this was a rationalization. Actually, the personal aspect interested her more than any professional message the letter might contain.
Mayor Nancy Ogg unrolled the ball of paper and pulled at the sides to flatten crinkles. This is what she saw:
CONRDENTIAL—FOR EYES ONLY
TO: HON. N. OGG, ST. ELBA MAYOR, L,. EARTH QUADRANT
FROM: DR. R. HUDSON, BU TECH MINISTER, NEW CITY, EARTHHAVE M.D. SHELLS READY TUES NOON STED POLL FRI—ASSIGN DISPENSABLE CAPPY CREWS TO FIN INT WORK IN FLIGHT. PERSONAL—DO NOT REPEAT—EXTREME DANGER—KILLER MECKIE ON SH V. WILL SILENCE CREW AFTER MISSION. KEEP PATIENCE. CHANGES SOON. TOLD YOUR BRO HE IS BIGOT. LOVE YOU.—DICK
Mayor Nancy Ogg wiped tears from her cheeks, mentoed this response via the same terminal:
CONFIDENTIAL—EYES ONLY
TO: DR. R. HUDSON, BU-TECH MINISTER, NEW CITY. EARTH
FROM: HON. N. OGG, ST. ELBA MAYOR, L5, EARTH QUADRANTWILL DO BEST. AVOID CHANCES-WELCOME HERE IF MISSION ABORT. BRING BIGOT WITH YOU. I FEEL SAME!—NANCY
* * *
Ninety-three years later, these electronic letters would be reprinted in a Sayers’ history primer. . . .
Sayer Superior Lin-Ti held the volume after reading from it and gazed around the Great Temple ordinance room at youngsayermen who eagerly awaited the continuance of his reading.
It was late fall on the domed asteroid of Pleasant Reef, and through a tiny northeast window Lin-Ti could see golden brown leaves dropping one at a time from a gnarled old oak. Already, he had read the new history primer twice—so he knew what came next.
“I will skip the following section,” Lin-Ti said, touching a button on the book to flip several pages. “Nothing of note occurred at the meeting demanded by the Alafin of Afrikari. He sent a projecto-image of himself to the oval office on the morning of Garbage Day minus seven. You can read details of the meeting if you wish on your own time. Suffice to say that President Ogg and the council ministers denied the projected Alafin’s charge of a comet heading toward Earth along the same path as the AmFed deep space garbage shots. A malfunction of the Alafin’s telescope was suggested.”
Lin-Ti glanced up at the ceiling as he recalled the story: “A confrontation occurred during the meeting when a projectoimage of the Atheist Premier demanded inclusion in the meeting, fearful that the other two nations of Earth were plotting against him. His projection was permitted to enter. After learning of the alleged comet, the Premier made his customary complaints, alleging that the AmFeds had overcharged the Union of Atheist States for E-Ceils. As usual, the Premier felt the AmFeds were sabotaging his nation’s energy development programs for the purpose of keeping them economically captive. We will discuss the ‘Economics of Freeness’ next week. For the present, we will pick up our studies immediately after the meeting. . . . ”
* * *
Hudson and Munoz moto-shoed across Technology Square after the meeting with the Alafin of Afrikari. Deep in thought, Hudson scarcely noticed bits of paper from the prior day’s doomie demonstration which swirled in a gentle breeze at his feet. “Have you spoken with that office worker yet?” Hudson asked. “What’s his name?”
“Malloy. No. We’re waiting for them to find Javik. The guy’s a real carouser—we lost his trail at the pleasure domes.”
Hudson focused upon the giant Uncle Rosy meckie perhaps twenty-five meters to his left, saw it rise and stand with its hands clasped in front. “It’s time for the hourly address,” Hudson said, slowing his shoes. He glanced right at the much smaller Munoz.
“Keep rolling,” Munoz said irritably. “Another minute of horse—”
“Arturo!” Hudson rasped in a low tone, catching Munoz by the arm. “Remember appearances!”
General Munoz scowled, stopped reluctantly with Hudson to watch the meckie. The meckie spoke loudly in the kindly voice of Uncle Rosy, recorded three centuries earlier.
“Right living means consumption, citizens. It means buying and using the fruits of another person’s labor. As you use what another man has wrought, keep in mind that he also uses what you have wrought. This is a wonderfully balanced system, but it depends upon YOU.”
With these words, the meckie pointed a bulky forefinger down at the people who stood in the square. It closed with an appeal for all to report shirkers to the Anti-Cheapness League, then resumed its seat.
“I’m skeptical about the comet intercept plan,” Hudson said, glancing down at Munoz. “Two mass drivers with fire probes on each side of the nucleus, attempting to shift a comet’s direction. . . . ”
“We’ve done it before,” Munoz replied, staring at the Uncle Rosy meckie. He resumed moto-shoeing. Hudson fell in at his side.
“Sure,” Hudson said, “In the lab and on seventeen small comets that followed predictable courses. But this thing’s huge and jumps all over the place. I wouldn’t bet on it being cooperative.”
Munoz shook his head. “You’re a chronic worrier, Dick. Comp six-oh-two worked it all out.”
“A computer. We know why the six-oh-one was scrapped.”
“Uh huh,” Munoz said, rolling around a pebble. “The trajectory error on our garbage shots. But we don’t know for sure that this error caused a pile of junk to come back at us. We used it as an excuse.”
“And don’t forget the E.T.A. miscalculation by the Willys computer,” Hudson said ominously.
“Freaky errors that will never happen again. The odds have to be in our favor now.”
“You’re an expert on odds, Arturo . . . at the Knave Table. But this is no card game.”
“I have a feeling,” Munoz said. “Call it the intuition of a winner.”
Hudson rubbed an itchy eyelid and fixed his gaze with the other eye on a woman in a red taffeta dress who stood in the motopath ahead feeding pigeons from a package of vendo-crumbs. “I wish to hell we had more time to figure this out,” Hudson said. “Everything’s too damned rushed.”
“I agree with you there.”
“Consider this, Arturo. We know a great deal . . . can control voting patterns, even the world’s weather and economy. But stop to think. What don’t we know?”
“I don’t see what you’re driving at.”
“Start with the comet—and those strange voices that give you commands.”
“Commands?” Munoz said, haughtily.
“Suggestions, then.”
“It’s true we don’t know the comet’s origin,” Munoz said, slowing to roll around the woman in the red dress.
Hudson followed, again falling in at the General’s side. “Or why it follows an erratic path,” Hudson said.
They looked up at the sound of thumping rotors, watched an auto-heliwagon as it landed in front of the new Bu-Industry Tower several hundred meters ahead of them. “More security monitors from the Black Box of Democracy,” Munoz said.
“How do they work?” Hudson asked. All we know is that they come from the Black Box and are required at the entrances to all buildings.”
“You’re the scientific whiz,” Munoz said, scornfully. Penetrate the Black Box . . . or get one of those monitors into your lab.”
“One doesn’t go about tearing into Uncle Rosy’s creations indiscriminately. They’re sacred, you know.”
Munoz spit on a plastic petunia garden beside the motopath. That’s what I think of Uncle Rosy,” he said. Dr. Hudson glanced around nervously. “You shouldn’t do that,” he said in a low tone.
“You told me they use indoor surveillance units the size of a pin tip,” Munoz said. “If that’s true, I can say anything I please outside!”
“I said I thought they were doing it that way. I have no proof! A beam might be trained on us right now, picking up every word. We don’t know how it’s being done.”
“Or IF it’s being done. This whole Black Box thing smacks of bluffery to me.”
The card game expert again . . .”
“Well, find out, dammit! You can check anyplace for bugging equipment . . . on the premise that an enemy of the state might have put it there.”
“We shouldn’t talk this way,” Dr. Hudson said. He rolled along silently, and as he watched, four security monitor units slid off the rear of the heliwagon and rolled to positions at the building entrances. Dr. Hudson glanced at Munoz and mentoed: We’ve taken hundreds of specks to the lab. All have turned out to be paint or dirt. They could color the micro-units to match any paint color . . . and with today’s signal camouflage technology. . . .
“Jesus!” Munoz said.
Hudson glared down at him, mentoed: And add Uncle Rosy’s disappearance to the list.
“Suicide,” Munoz said. He picked up Hudson’s glare, mentoed reluctantly to finish his statement: He didn’t want to grow old; he arranged for someone to hide the body.
Maybe, Hudson mentoed. And maybe not.
They took a narrow side motopath toward the Bu-Mil and Bu-Tech towers, watched through widely spaced plastic poplar trees as two men in brown friar robes touched a security monitor unit and then raised their hands heavenward.
Hudson shook his head, looked away. He had seen the ceremony many times and had no idea what it meant.
“They don’t speak,” Munoz said, feeling his words were safe. “Rumor has it they’re mute.”
“Impossible,” Hudson said. “Uncle Rosy would never permit cappies to remain on Earth.”
Munoz picked at a front tooth with his forefinger. He nodded without saying anything.
They watched as the robed men rolled up a ramp to enter the heliwagon. When the men were inside, the heliwagon rose swiftly into the air, banked and flew off in the direction of the Black Box of Democracy.
Moments later, Dr. Hudson rolled alone up an entrance ramp to the Bu-Tech Tower. He pressed his palm against the electronic security monitor’s black glass identity plate, mentoed: GW one, Dr. Richard Hudson, Bu-Tech Minister.
He felt a strong vacuum against his hand. Then it released, and a red light on the monitor turned to green.
As Dr. Hudson stood at the security monitor, two sayermen wearing brown-hooded robes rose above Technology Square in a pilotless heliwagon. Onesayer Edward squinted in sunlight from the east, extended his left hand to Lastsayer Steven, who sat to his right. “Peace be upon you,” Onesayer said, raising his voice over the thump of rotors.
Lastsayer touched his brown-and-gold onyx ring to a like ring worn by the other man, coughed and replied, “Peace be upon you, Onesayer. Thank you for instructing me in the Holy Order,” Again, he coughed.
“Nasty cough,” Onesayer observed.
“Felt it coming on yesterday,” Lastsayer sniffed, looking at Onesayer’s wide, puffy-fat face. “I have been tired since arrival.”
“Rocket lag. I see it all the time.” Onesayer reached into his robe pocket, removed a chrome pillbox. He selected two yellow pills and handed them to Lastsayer. ‘Take a Happy Pill and a water capsule,” Onesayer instructed. “You’ll . . . uh . . . you will feel better.” My speech, Onesayer thought. It slips into apostrophes . . . another sign of my break with the Master. . . .
Onesayer watched the younger man hesitate and then accept the pills. Lastsayer had clear, wrinkle-free skin, like that of all sayermen. Moderately plump, he had an upturned nose and light green eyes that darted nervous glances around the edge of his hood. He looks so innocent, Onesayer thought, recalling a time nearly three centuries earlier when he had been the same way.
Lastsayer held the pills in an open palm, looked at them inquisitively. “These are allowed?” he asked. “I have heard—”
“They are not allowed” Onesayer said, “but take them anyway.” He smiled, adding, “We do not take many of them, you understand . . . maybe seven or eight a day. You never had one?”
Lastsayer smiled nervously, coughed again. “No, but I see no harm . . . if you approve.” He popped the pills in his mouth and swallowed them.
“How are things on Pleasant Reef?” Onesayer asked.
“In turmoil. Our women have demonstrated the past two weeks. Can you imagine? They demand positions in the Sayerhood!”
They share the Sayerhood now!” Onesayer said angrily. “Is it not enough for them to raise the youngsayermen of our order?”
“Apparently not.” Lastsayer gazed out the window, saw a white Product Failure van speeding along the expressway below, red lights flashing. He was unable to hear the sirens over the thump of rotors.
“And Sayer Superior Lin-Ti . . . He is well?”
“Yes. He spent countless hours tutoring me.”
“Your tutelage is far from complete. Uncle Rosy even reminds me that I have much to learn.”
Lastsayer nodded. Presently he said, “I saw the Uncle Rosy meckie on its feet as we landed.”
“A message on right living.”
“The history primer told me of this, Onesayer. The meckie holds a cross and a machine gear, and I was taught the significance of these symbols.”
Onesayer looked out the window, saw the Black Box of Democracy two blocks to the right. Feeling a need to say the correct things, he said, “You studied the near civil war between the Christian Church and the technologists, I presume?”
“Yes,” Lastsayer said. “Two armed camps . . . bitter feelings. . . . ”
“Over petty matters, as the Master pointed out at the time. He brought the adversaries together.”
“By protecting the economic base of each side,” Lastsayer said, demonstrating his knowledge. “In the end,, it all boiled down to economics, with each side wanting more followers and more property.”
“It is good that you paid attention to your lessons. That is why you were selected for Earth duty.” Onesayer watched another heliwagon prepare to take off from the roof of the Black Box while their craft circled half a block away, waiting for clearance.
“Thank you, Onesayer. But it is more than the text which interests me now.”
“How so?”
“A story was told to me on Pleasant Reef . . . by one of the child-bearing women . . . that Uncle Rosy met with the Christian cardinals privately after the truce.”
“What did you hear about that?” Onesayer snapped, realizing the emotion of his response was more automatic than real. “That Uncle Rosy attempted to convince the cardinals to give up the cross symbol . . . in favor of a human brain design. According to the story, Uncle Rosy felt the brain—as a miraculous and basically mysterious entity—was a more proper symbol of the universal God.”
Onesayer scowled, glared out the window. Presently he said, “Uncle Rosy is a complex man, at once a great economist and a man of the cloth. What you heard is true, but this was not supposed to be mentioned on Pleasant Reef.”
“I will give you the name of the woman.”
“Good. The Master prefers to tell that story himself.” I don’t really care about this, Onesayer thought. Let Uncle Rosy’s whole damned system fall into disarray.
“I did not know,” Lastsayer said.
“Act as if you are not familiar with the story when the Master relates it to you.”
“Yes, Onesayer.”
“The cardinals were a stubborn lot, Lastsayer, and became extremely upset at Uncle Rosy’s suggestion. Our Master decided to back down upon seeing their reaction, fearful that he might upset the delicate truce.”
“Thank you for telling me this.”
“You have an alert mind, Lastsayer. I like that.”
Lastsayer Steven did not respond. He watched the other heliwagon take off. Their craft began to descend.
“Symbolism is very important, Lastsayer. Tragically, the cross Uncle Rosy’s meckie holds may have led to the Holy War of twenty-three-twenty-six.” Another of the Master’s errors, Onesayer thought.
Lastsayer’s green eyes flashed intently. “How is that?” he asked.
“As you know, the first Council of Ten was formed in the negotiations between Uncle Rosy, the scientists and the cardinals.”
“I know: equal input from the cardinals and the scientists. But that was formed seven years before Uncle Rosy withdrew to the Black Box.”
“Correct. After Uncle Rosy’s withdrawal in twenty-three eighteen, a popular movement fanned by Cardinal John of Atlantic City and other Christian zealots demanded a holy war against all other religions. They said the cross held by Uncle Rosy was a sign of approval from the Master.”
“I was not aware of that,” Lastsayer said, watching the glassite roof of the Black Box grow closer while their craft descended. “Did Uncle Rosy approve, considering his feelings about a universal, rather than a Christian, God?”
“Uncle Rosy has always been torn between religious and economic issues. He likes to say economic considerations are more important. . . . ”
“But you are not so certain?”
“I too have much to learn.”
Lastsayer thought he heard bitterness in the other man’s tone. He thought for a moment, then said: “Should Uncle Rosy have stepped in before the holy war started? I mean no disrespect.”
“He wanted to give the AmFeds free reign, except in the case of a government overthrow attempt. He did not wish to meddle too much, but when he saw the destruction being caused by AmFed bombs . . .” Onesayer fell silent. Dust swirled on the rooftop from the wind of the helirotors.
“He saw the economic futility of destroying foreign markets,” Lastsayer said. “That would have put millions of AmFeds out of work!”
Onesayer sighed. ‘The AmFeds became so emotional over their holy war that they forgot about economics entirely.”
“So the Master intervened, with you as emissary. Sayer Superior told me of your important role.”
The heliwagon jolted as it landed.
A smile moved across Onesayer’s large mouth. “I merely delivered a written bull to the Council of Ten reminding them of their economic responsibilities,” he said. “I did not speak a word to them, of course. We are not permitted to address common people.”
“The bull spoke of the Principle of Economic Captivity, I presume,” Lastsayer said. He heard the heliwagon’s engines begin to whine down.
“Yes,” Onesayer said. Their safety harnesses snapped off automatically. He placed a hand on the front of each armrest. “The bull also specified that three nations would be established on Earth . . . the American Federation of Freeness, Afrikari and the Union of Atheist States. In its public version, this became known as the Treaty of Rabat. It survives to this day. Christian, pagan and atheist.” Lastsayer pursed his lips thoughtfully. He rose when Onesayer did, added, “What a great man the Master is! I look forward to my first session with him!” Onesayer led the way down the aisle, said with a turn of his hooded head to throw words over one shoulder: “You will never see his face, of course. No one has, since he entered the Black Box.”
“Oh, but just to be near him. The thrill of it!”
Onesayer nodded as he rolled onto an exit ramp, recalling a time long before when he had felt the same way.
Sidney turned sleepily in bed, throwing one arm over a rubber-skinned pleasie-meckie that lay beside him. “Carla,” he whispered in an awakening haze, “I love you, Carla.”
His eyes popped open, and when he became aware of reality, Sidney cursed at his misfortune. He pushed the meckie away.
The naked pleasie-meckie had fine-toned muscles like Carla’s, with an aquiline nose and shoulder-length, golden-brown hair.
Sidney mentoed it to life. Away, he commanded tersely. Return to your station.
Obediently, the pleasie-meckie rose and dressed quickly in undergarments which lay in disarray on the floor. Then, as Sidney watched, it rolled into the closet and took a standing position to one side. He turned away, stared at the spray-textured ceiling. Sidney heard rustling in the closet for several moments. Then the meckie closed the closet door and Sidney was left alone.
He stretched and yawned. As usual, it was late morning when he awakened, and Sidney could see synthetic sunlight through the open doorway of the bathroom module. Moments later, he stood naked from the waist up at a grooming machine in the bathroom.
The tiny modular room was warm and cheerful, with a planter box of plastic marigolds along one wall beneath a sun-lite panel. White synthetic light from the panel warmed his left side.
Thinking about his strange space dream of the night before and of the haunting, recurring voices, Sidney waited while an electric shaver at the end of a right-handed meckie-arm trimmed the stubble off his face. The U-shaped grooming machine, Sidney’s height overall, peered back at him with its mirror face between seeing-eye meckie-arms on each side. An array of brightly colored buttons above the machine’s sink could be mento- or hand-activated. Gold lettering across the top of the mirror proclaimed: “UNCLE ROSY LOVES US.”
Sidney turned his face to one side when the shave was finished, trying to find a better angle in the mirror. This made his ears seem to protrude less, but the pug nose looked worse. He sighed, wondered sadly, Why can’t I be better looking? I’m not even average!
The meckie-arms took Lemon Delight Shaving Lotion from a dispenser next to the mirror and patted Sidney’s face. The lotion stung; his eyes watered. Sidney always resented mechanical grooming, but held up his arms cooperatively while deodorant spray was pumped all over his pear-shaped torso.
In the next grooming maneuver, Sidney knew he had to be careful. He watched with trepidation as the left meckie-arm grasped a toothbrush and took on a load of Shiny Bright Toothpaste from a wall dispenser. A smiling picture of President Ogg looked back at Sidney from the dispenser with a message printed across perfectly even, sparkling white teeth: “VOTE FOR OGG.”
The toothbrush darted into Sidney’s open mouth and surge-scrubbed every tooth. Several times recently, not paying sufficient attention, Sidney had failed to open his mouth. The disastrous result: sticky white paste rubbed all over his nose and chin. Not this time, he told himself. The meckie finished with an automatic rinse, gargle, face wash and set of Sidney’s curly black hair, all accomplished without strangling, drenching or costing him the loss of any hair.
After breakfast, Sidney moto-shoed across his small condominium unit to the living room module. This too was a cheerful room, despite the location of Sidney’s unit at the building core where it could not receive natural light. Bright splashes of gold and orange washed furnishings and walls with color. An orange, plastic-encased videodome dominated the room’s center, directly beneath a ceiling-mounted sun-lite panel.
He rolled past the videodome, pausing in front of a wall decorated with a gold and black checkerboard design. Concentrating upon one of the squares, he mentoed an unseen combination dial and heard the click of tumblers as he projected each number. The square slid away, revealing a lighted wallsafe filled with leatherbound scrapbooks and an assortment of personal treasures. He selected two volumes and an old-style pen, went with them to the couch.
Sidney sat down pensively, stacked both volumes on the coffee table and opened the cover of the top one slowly. A handwritten title had been scrawled across the yellowing first page in large, childish script:
MY PILOT LOG, VOLUME ONE
Property of Captain Sidney Malloy American Federation Space Patrol
He turned the page, read his fantasy: “I joined the Space Patrol as a lad often, assuming the duties of cabin boy on the Star Class Destroyer AFSP Nathan Rogers. Within six months, my leadership abilities became so apparent that I was promoted to Captain and given command of the ship.”
He looked away, smiling as he thought, Did I really write this?
Sidney continued reading: “My first assignment: seek and recapture the escaped arch-criminal Jed Laredo. Laredo is wanted for detonating a powerful ice bomb following his escape from the asteroid colony at LaGrange Six. Twelve-thousand inhabitants perished in the explosion. He is believed to be hiding near an abandoned mining base at Agarratown on the Celtian planet of Redondo. . . . ”
He flipped the ensuing pilot log pages, read the successful and heroic conclusion of his fantasy mission. Other fantasies followed, entered meticulously beside blueprints and specifications on a variety of spacecraft.
In one sense, the space scrapbooks seemed childish to him now, but still he felt the longings he had experienced as a youth. The exploits were not real . . . he had always known this . . . but the adventures contained a spirit of hope . . . a certain innocence and naiveté concerning his future. This morning, as he prepared to write about his confused ego pleasure dream of the prior evening, Sidney still had hope . . . but it was not so bright and untarnished as it once had been.
He sighed, placed Volume One to one side and opened the next scrapbook, his fourteenth. Flipping to a blank page, he began writing: “While patrolling the Signus XX-4 Quadrant in the Summer of 2605, I received urgent word . . .”
How can I get this down? he wondered, rubbing the pen thoughtfully against his lower lip. Those strange, maddening voices. . . .
Interrupted by the doorchime, Sidney mentoed his new singing wrist digital. A sultry female voice sang to him cheerfully in a sing-song tone: “A.M., ten-forty-one-point-three-four.”
Wonder who’s there? he thought, welcoming the interruption. He replaced the volumes in the wallsafe and reseated the panel.
As Sidney opened the hall door, Bob Hodges, his tall and thickly-muscled downstairs neighbor, rolled in without an invitation. “Hi Sid,” he said cheerily. “How ya doin’?” Hodges was puppy-friendly, thoughtless but well-meaning.
Sidney regrouped his thoughts and returned the greeting. Then he led the way down a woodgrain linoleum hallway to the living room module.
“How about a little video?” Hodges asked, seeing the videodome as they entered the room.
Sidney grunted in affirmation, rolled directly into the videodome without another thought and sat in his favorite bucket seat, one of four inside. He sank into the videodome chair, consumed by the billowing softness of authentic Corinthian vinyl. Mentoing a channel selector to the left of his seat, Sidney watched a green button on the selector depress.
“Have to make sure you watch enough home video,” Hodges said, laughing. “Hear you had a recent visit from those folks at the Anti-Cheapness League.”
Sidney heard the videodome door slide shut. An overhead light dimmed. “It was nothing,” he answered matter-of-factly. ‘They were investigating a faulty videodome report. Someone did a line test seconds after one of my dome circuits blew. With no repair order in on my set, they were concerned that it might have been down for several days.”
“Oh,” Hodges said. “No big deal.”
“Naw. I gave them details on the video programs I’d been watching before the blowout, signed their form and they left.” Sidney mentoed channel forty-seven on the selector.
Sidney watched three-dimensional screens all around light up, giving viewers the illusion of being seated in a crowded auditorium. People chattered at nearby seats, and Sidney made out details of their conversations.
“Jimmy Earl is next,” a young man in the crowd said, “with the latest from Rok-More. Then the Mister Sugar Follies.”
“How exciting!” a woman in a fur coat said.
Spotlighted at center stage, a man in a white sequin Western outfit spoke excitedly into a handheld microphone. “The latest from Rok-More Records!” he said, waving an arm to his rear toward a mini-stage containing a spotlighted record cube display. “Donna Butler’s in the Happy Shopping Ground, folks, but her songs will never die! Supplies are limited, so order ‘Donna’s Greatest Hits’ now! As a bonus for those of you in our home video audience, I’ll throw in this delightful little ‘Heart of Gold’ pendant.” He held the pendant up, added in a voice grown suddenly tender, “Donna’s signature is on the back, folks. Won’t you pledge your undying love for Donna? Order now!”
The audience auto-clapped and cheered as a product number appeared on a sign above the record cube display. Sidney felt a chill in his spine from the patriotism of the moment, and mentoed the number into a Tele-Charge board that was connected to an arm of his chair. He signed the board with a transmitting pen, noting that Hodges was doing the same.
With glazed eyes, Sidney watched the Mister Sugar Follies now, a group of twelve men clad in blue-and-white soft drink cans. After an explanation by one that they were permitted to expend energy since it was Job-Supportive, the men danced stiffly in a row like tin dolls to a twangy tune. As they kicked their feet in near unison, Sidney noticed his throat gone dry. The subliminal receiver in his brain had been activated.
“You thirsty?” he asked, glancing at Hodges.
“And how!” came the reply. “Feel like I’m out in the desert!”
Sidney mentoed for drinks, and presently two frosty cans of Mr. Sugar popped out of a table compartment between their chairs.
As Sidney drank the icy cola, an unbearable itching sensation took over his body.
“Quickly!” Hodges said, feeling the same thing. “Mento for your Itcho-Spray! The commercial’s on!”
Sidney had barely noticed the Itcho-Spray Man on stage, and he quickly mentoed for the product.
“You DO have some on hand?” Hodges asked, near panic.
“Certainly. But I think . . . I’m going to have to scratch—”
“Don’t do it! You have to use the product! Hang tough, man! Hang tough!”
“Aaaagh!” Sidney grunted, fighting an overwhelming urge to claw his back, chest and legs.
A white ball of Itcho-Spray popped out of the table compartment and floated in the air above their heads. It exploded in a little “pop,” showering them with clear liquid droplets.
They sighed in unison as the itching crisis subsided!
“Relief is just an Itcho-Spray away!” the Itcho-Spray Man said.
The spotlight shifted to a smiling President Ogg now, who stood at a podium bearing the Great Seal of the President of the American Federation of Freeness. Sidney felt the videodome vibrate as the crowd auto-clapped and roared its approval.
“Employment and consumption are at record levels under my administration!” the President boomed. “A vote for me is a vote for prosperity!” He delivered a short speech concerning his past accomplishments and promises for the future, then short-stepped to one side of the podium and bowed. He blew kisses and waved as the curtain closed.
“Who you gonna vote for?” Hodges asked, leaning toward Sidney to be heard over the crowd noise.
“I don’t know,” Sidney replied. “Probably Ogg again. Ben Morgan may be all right, but we don’t know much about him.”
“Better the evil that we do know?”
Sidney laughed.
“Think I’ll go with a punch-in this time,” Hodges said. “I like General Munoz.”
Hodges’s last words seemed exceedingly loud to Sidney, as the crowd noises had subsided quickly. Another commercial was onstage now, a chorus line of dancing soap bubbles selling laundry detergent. “But I’ve heard he isn’t interested,” Sidney said.
“Maybe not,” Hodges concurred, shrugging his shoulders. “But I have to vote my conscience. It came to me last night like an inspiration. I’m convinced he’s the only man for the job.”
Sidney glanced at his wrist digital, mentoed it to activate the sexy-voiced time singer. She reported that it was eleven twenty-nine. “Time to get ready for work,” Sidney said.
* * *
Another holy water break approached. Before dismissing the class, Sayer Superior Lin-Ti explained the mechanics of the subliminal transmitting device:
“Following Dr. Hudson’s instructions, General Munoz established the vote percentile he desired. One-hundred percent would be too obvious, of course, so he chose something more reasonable—around fifty-seven percent. Then he touched the cross with both hands instead of the one-hand method used for weather control. While touching the cross, Munoz transmitted his auto-suggestion.
“This caused a powerful beam to enter the brains of millions of AmFed consumers, tapping their subliminal receivers and forcing them to vote as the General wished. To reinforce the auto-suggestion, he re-broadcast several times a day in the days preceding the election—
* * *
“This is much more than a room,” Onesayer Edward said as he and Lastsayer Steven rolled into the Bureau Monitoring Room at a little past one o’clock Friday afternoon. “Actually, it takes up the entire second floor of the Black Box.”
“Most impressive,” Lastsayer said. He looked around the room curiously, watched sayermen scurrying about with microcomputer printouts. Other sayermen sat on high stools at consoles along each wall, operating CRT screens, minicam receivers and computerized memory terminals. A background hum of pink sound muffled most of the noises, making the room seem relatively quiet.
“You are versed in Rosetran, I presume?” Onesayer asked.
“I know fifteen computer languages,” Lastsayer said, gazing up with light green eyes at a large “Keep the Faith” sign on one wall beneath a sun-lite panel.
“You will begin at Station Five,” Onesayer said, nodding toward a workstation along the wall to their left. A large red Arabic numeral “5” on the wall marked the station. He looked down at the smaller Lastsayer, saw him nod.
“This is a highly efficient operation,” Onesayer said as he led the way to Station Five. “We accomplish a great deal with very few sayermen. Sophisticated machines do most of the work. Sayermen scrutinize problem areas flagged by the machines.”
Lastsayer noticed it was a bit warm in the room, and said, “I believe I am familiar with everything here. We had a mockup on Pleasant Reef.”
One of two stools at Station Five was occupied by a hooded sayerman who sat with his back to them mentoing entries on a console keyboard. The keys moved up and down without being touched. Onesayer and Lastsayer stopped a meter behind the occupied stool, continuing their conversation.
“Every citizen of the American Federation works for the government,” Onesayer said. “So they regularly pass through our electronic security monitors. There, cell readers pick up every memory in their lifetimes. . . . ” He paused at Lastsayer and smiled broadly. “I am sorry. You did mention being familiar with everything.”
Lastsayer smiled in return, nodded confidently.
“You understand the drawback of the electronic monitors, do you not?” Onesayer asked.
“The delay factor. Citizens who do not pass through the cell reader for a time have a gap in their lifelog files.”
“Right. This gap can range from a few hours to several days. Even today, people stay home sick with common colds.”
Lastsayer looked at Onesayer closely, noted a red streak in the corner of one eye. “Odd is it not, Onesayer Edward? All the terrible diseases modern medicine can cure, but the common cold remains a mystery.”
The sayerman on the stool turned abruptly at the mention of Onesayer’s name, looked startled. “Oh!” he exclaimed, nearly falling off his stool in an effort to stand up. “I did not see you there, sir!”
“Quite all right, Ninesayer,” Onesayer said.
Ninesayer stood up straight to face Onesayer and extended his left hand. Onesayer and Lastsayer extended their hands as well, and the three men touched class rings, murmuring in unison, “Peace be upon you.”
Ninesayer had large, loose cheeks and tiny blue eyes which peered back at Lastsayer from beneath an oversized hood. He seemed a friendly sort, and smiled pleasantly while Onesayer introduced them.
“Lastsayer will be working with you,” Onesayer said.
“I could use some assistance,” Ninesayer said, glancing at his battery of electronic equipment. “We have two rather large problems at the moment.”
“I had not heard,” Lastsayer said, wrinkling his brow in concern. “Life on Pleasant Reef is rather sheltered.”
Onesayer explained about the garbage comet and told of the plot to overthrow the AmFed government. Then he turned to Ninesayer and said, “Show us General Munoz. He worries me.”
Ninesayer nodded, mentoed Munoz’s consumer identification number. A darkened minicam screen on the wall flickered on, revealing General Munoz seated alone at his desk. Munoz rubbed the cross which dangled from his neck with both hands, smiled craftily.
“Run the tape back five minutes,” Onesayer instructed. “Let us see what he has been up to.”
Ninesayer mentoed the machine, causing the tape to roll back.
“All right,” Onesayer said. “Hold it right there!”
The sayerman watched as General Munoz closed his eyes and held both hands to the cross. An intense expression came over the General’s mustachioed face, and he sat motionless for perhaps a minute.
“He is using the subliminal transmitter again!” Onesayer said excitedly, “making voters punch in his name for President!”
“We obtained details on its operation from C.M. . . uh, from cell memory readings on his co-conspirator, Dr. Richard Hudson,” Ninesayer explained, glancing at Lastsayer. “Munoz’s first broadcast occurred last night.”
“You can use the term ‘C.M.R.’ around me,” Lastsayer said.
“Munoz is power-mad,” Onesayer said, “and has access to dangerous technology. According to his C.M.R., he intends to destroy Afrikari and the Union of Atheist States with earthquakes and other . . . ‘natural’ . . . disasters the minute he feels he can get away with it.”
“Without regard for the economic havoc it will cause to the AmFeds?” Lastsayer exclaimed. “Hoovervilles will spring up all over the landscape!”
“The man is extremely dangerous,” Onesayer said, closing his olive eyes momentarily in abhorrence. “Eighth generation radical Christian.”
“A direct descendant of Cardinal John of Atlantic City,” Ninesayer said.
“And the last in his line,” Onesayer said. His words were measured and angry.
“Homosexual,” Ninesayer explained, glancing at Lastsayer.
“Oh,” Lastsayer said.
“And . . . he will he dead within seventy-two hours,” Onesayer said. “Uncle Rosy has placed a contract on him. It will be a nasty accident.”
“Product failure?” Lastsayer asked.
“Of course!” Onesayer said, smiling. “Uncle Rosy never misses an opportunity to help the economy!”
* * *
It was early morning on Pleasant Reef, following the daily prayer to Uncle Rosy, and Sayer Superior Lin-Ti stood considering the lesson. A youngsayerman entered the ordinance room late, taking his seat sheepishly under the glare of Lin-Ti. It was the tall, fat one whose appearance was so reminiscent of Onesayer Edward. Lin-Ti scowled at the offender, then opened his history primer, removing a bookmark ribbon. . . .