by Damon Knight
Artie wandered up and down aisles half a city block long, between steel racks three stories high. Scuffling around in his orthopedic nylon shoes, sidestepping pallets loaded with unshipped orders, hopping over jack-handles, Artie explored nooks he’d never even noticed. Inventory tags slid through the focus of his tired eyes. Moonbase Pogocraft. Sunbat Kiteship. Tripontoon Carrier with Conshelf ScubaSled. p-14737. p-14800. Customize Your Own SST. Model T Ford. Stilt-Man. The Human Ear. The Human Lung. Reptiles of the World. Insects of the World . . .
Artie thinking, I’ll never find anything in all this crap.
Artie up-angled his eyes, yearning for a clock to say quitting time. Above him, two stories of dusty air and hooded fluorescent tubes. No cranking skylights. He set his elbows on the shelf behind him, hands hanging limp. He bowed his head and stared at his prosthetic, drowsing off, wondering whether it slept when he did.
Artie got to thinking about how he lost his first right hand, the one that came with the rest of him. He thought about the details of the accident. A classic industrial accident.
It was before he worked in shipping—back when he worked in production. Part of his job was mixing colorant powder into barrels of polystyrene granules. His face and arms were always covered with colored dust. Ruby, amber, black, avocado . . . The day of the accident, the injection-molding machines were running amber, and the compression presses were taking ruby. Artie’s cheeks were smeared with yellow. His hands looked like sweaty lobster claws.
His main job was feeding the big machines. If their hoppers ran out of plastic, they overheated and broke down. They molded miniature parts, day and night, parts of model kits for kids. Numbered components clustered on stems. Flat twigs of mock machinery. Halves of pistons. Sections of fuselages. Deck A. Wing flap 20. Turret R-l. The presses never stopped crapping them out, heating and recycling, mold and eject, hissing and pounding, water-cooled and pneumatically powered.
Artie was on a stepladder, shoveling granules into the hopper of a compression press. It was steadily turning out a single part for the Mega-Manbot Water Strider set. A very popular model. All the heroes of modern youth seemed to be high-powered machines.
Artie stared into the collection bin of the press, trying to figure out what piece of the Manbot model he was looking at. It couldn’t be the cockpit bubble; it wasn’t translucent.
Artie figured it out. It was what went inside the cockpit bubble; the pilot. The head and shoulders of a man, mostly covered by helmet, headphones, and goggles. A firm jaw. A resolute mouth.
Hot water trembled inside a rubber hose that hung near Artie’s head. It fed under an enamel casing where a temperature gauge was almost in the red. Not his job to fix it. He’d report it to the foreman. He climbed down the stepladder. When the upper side of the mold lifted, he peered in at the lower. One Manbot pilot was mashed on top of another Manbot pilot pancaked over another Manbot pilot that had failed to eject. If the pileup got much bulkier, the mold could be damaged.
He pulled his screwdriver out of his pocket and bent over to dislodge the jam before the next compression cycle. The jam was a stubborn bugger.
Then, instead of his screwdriver at the end of his wrist, he had a compression-molding machine. And a closed mold.
The steady rhythms of factory noise echoed and merged into a buzzing drone in his ears. The hissing of the coolant tube was constant, pure, idiotic. The crack of bones reverberated, a clang of metal bulks not quite touching. With distinct kinesthesia, he felt the skin on his wrist pop and rip, a sliced sausage. Bones crushing themselves to gravel made a crackling in the bursting stink of charred skin and pressure-cooked sinew and the styrene stench of the factory.
He felt molten plastic pump up the veins of his arm. Hot plastic and blood spattered everywhere. The cleanup crew would be mopping and scraping for a week!
Just when he felt his knees give out, some bright foreman saw fit to smash the glass out of a fire-alarm box. An emergency’s an emergency, right? The sprinkler system showered him with a fine mist, while he hung by his wrist, until the ejection cycle. They carried him to the loading dock, soaked in grimy broth, for his ride to the hospital.
There he saw a lot of white machines with rubber hoses and tubes and plastic masks and polished metal canisters and white formica counter tops and plastic drinking tumblers and rubber undersheets and rubber bibs on radiologists and see-thru smocks on specialists and a rubber mat on the lobby floor that led to a revolving door, and the next thing he knew, he was stepping through a sliding glass electric-eye door into the plush showroom of the largest prosthetics outlet in the city.
Deep carpets of spun nylon. A wall of grey plexiglas overlooking the parking lot. Recessed fluorescent lights in acoustical ceiling panels. And wood-grain shelves and shelves above and shelves below and more shelves filled with prosthetics, all attractively displayed in styrofoam holders. Here was a patent-pending big toe. Here was an expensive knee, which left the client free to choose the foot of his personal preference. What a selection! Artie thinking, wish I’d brought a date.
All of a sudden, the meditechnical team were all over him with calipers and tape measures.
Wait until you see it, they told him. The Mechand trademark hand is tops in the field. Absolutely. This baby’s got every extra in the catalog, they told him. It’s more than a hand. It’s a job asset. Your earning power is going to soar. And wait until your friends feel your new grip!
Have a look at this photo spread, they told him. The motorized spin-thimble built into the index finger will sink screws or power a wide range of light power tools. The reinforced thumb supports seventy pounds! But most important is the feel. To appreciate that, you’ve got to try it out at home. No obligation. Only minor implants. A few tests for voltage levels at your motor arcs. A fitting for your shoulder harness. And you’re set for life. Guaranteed.
Artie asked for a credit estimate.
Price is no object, they told him. All on the company tab, they assured him. Covered under the group policy.
Artie thinking, I bet I could wangle six fingers out of this deal. Or a secret compartment. Or a decoder ring.
They asked him if he realized how lucky he was to work at a plant with such a generous employee health program. They told him, these babies cost plenty, retail. Plus, you get a month’s layoff with full salary to use as a period of adjustment.
Artie thinking, nice idea. I’ll learn to jack off lefty.
The first thing he did after installation was to flex his new fingers in and out and listen to the tiny motors whir, forward and reverse. Then he figured out how to crack his knuckles. The report carried a city block.
Artie would get to wondering what happened to the hand the interns removed. Was it floating in ajar for med students to gawk at? Or did they throw it away?
Artie thought about that for a while. Somewhere, in some zip-locked plastic bag of hospital garbage, in with the pussy swabs and the left-over biscuits . . .
Artie thinking, why do I even think about this?
0,-14738. The inventory tag was dangling from a steel upright across the aisle from Artie. Fine! A start. But there was no pallet of 0,-14738 boxes at ground level.
Artie dragged a stepladder to the spot and stepped up for a look at the second shelf. No luck.
Artie fetched an aluminum staircase on coasters that would let him read the stenciling on top of the boxes at the third level. The coasters snagged on some loose excelsior, but he wrestled the thing into position and climbed it. No q,-14738.
He’d need somebody to ride him up to fourth level on the fork lift.
Artie cupped his palms to his mouth and bellowed. “Hey, Kid!” One thing you had to give the New Kid: he could handle a lift truck like it was part of him—steer around any jam, swivel that fork into the tightest spaces, drag an overloaded pallet back out a narrow aisle, full throttle reverse, all the time lowering the merchandise without even looking at it. The Kid could drive.
The truck rumbled aroun
d a corner and slammed to a standstill inches behind Artie’s back. The heat rash on his neck prickled in a wash of exhaust.
The Kid slung his leg over a canister of propane fuel. “Need a lift?”
“Can we put a pallet up front?”
"Psh… You scared to fall off? Come on. I want to punch out.”
Artie clenched his hands. His right gave a bleat and a whimper, resealing itself.
“Aw, Art, we got the little thing upset! You still want to look for your sample?”
Artie set his left shoe on the right prong of the truck. The prong was no wider than the shoe. He stepped onto the other prong.
“We’re off!” the Kid yelled, and the truck lunged down the aisle, motor knocking. Artie clamped his hands to the rumbling chassis.
“No, I just want to go up!”
“Too late. You got a free ride coming.” The Kid shook his hair out behind him. Propane fumes reeked. The truck took two abrupt corners in one whirl of front-axle steering. “Hold on tight. Letting her out on the stretch.”
The roller-wheels jumped a smashed carton. Artie could see himself bucked off his perch. He grabbed the safety bars that caged the driver’s platform.
“Once around the racks, Art, that’s all you’re good for. Going up.”
With no framework of boards beneath his feet, only the steel fork, Artie was heading for the ceiling. The lift engine whined. The cold cement floor and the Kid’s grinning face shot away below him. No hand-holds to brace him, only the shelves rushing past. His shoes vibrated, rising beneath him, then jolted to a dead stop. He was standing at the fourth level.
No q-14738. Artie hunkered over and rummaged. Nothing. He lifted his eyes.
Overhead, the worn slats of a skewed fiberboard pallet.
Who’d put a pallet on top of the whole rack? Who’d invent a fifth level, just for him? Without looking down, he shouted, “Can you take me any higher?”
A faraway voice: “Can’t be done.”
He’d have to climb. So he climbed. A firm two-handed grip on the topmost strut of the rack, three stories tall. A heave. A hoist of the leg. He rolled onto his back on the pallet. It didn’t teeter. The ceiling was a yard away.
He turned his head. One carton. No label. He reached for it to break it open and look inside.
“Art? You still up there? What would you do if I knocked off work for the day, ha ha ha?”
“What would you do if I dropped a box on your head?”
“I don’t have to listen to insults!”
The Kid revved up the truck and rolled away.
What crap, Artie murmuring and reaching to wedge his fingers under the carton flap.
Just then a finger tapped Artie on the neck.
Funny, the things that ran through Artie’s head sometimes.
Like the time he walked into the downtown prosthetics workshop, late for his periodic manual maintenance check. Before he could even take a number, the meditechnical team had him laid out on a foam rubber couch. Trained professionals jostled around him, a precise blur of smocks, tongue depressors, ammeters, jowls, bifocals, forceps, a test-your-grip machine . . .
How’s the old Mechand holding up, they asked him. Bet it doesn’t respond the way it used to. Hm. Got a deep bruise on the Mount of Jove.
A sticky drawer, Artie explained.
A meditech in a white cap shook her head over Artie’s palm and told him there wasn’t much future in the hand.
They shook it. It rattled.
Of course, they could overhaul and realign. But would it be worthwhile in the long run, they asked.
Artie explained that he was still making payments on the Radio Feedback Package for the hand.
Do you really want to be stingy about your own hand, they asked. Our suggestion? Replace the old and move up to the latest: the Synthand. A unique achievement in software. The Synthand’s movement mechanism is a sinewy net of hydrodynamic mesh, responsive to your wrist through a chemosensitive pad applied over the tiniest of neurolectric cyber-fiber implants.
No printed circuits. No noisy motors. No recharging. Fantastic styling. The sleek line of the thumb. The manicure.
Artie flipped through the brochure. Fashionable! Women prefer . . . Sensual dermal tonus! Executive material tells . . .
There are people these days, they told him, people who beg for an amputation every time they so much as gash their knuckles.
And why? They’d like to be toting a Synthand.
Granted, the period of adjustment is delicate. The instrument is delicate! It has to attune itself to your Na’K balance, your biorhythms, your reflex arcs . . . But it’s worth it.
Artie thinking, I feel like I’m getting married.
He only wanted to know one thing: What happens to the Mec-hand?
Reconditioning. It can be sold used. It’ll sure help you finance the Synthand. Somebody’s bound to want a strong hand. Look in the classifieds. There’s a Wanted To Buy list a yard long of crippl—disabl—prosthetized persons.
It’s progress, they told him. Personal progress. What else is there in life but self-improvement?
There was definitely a finger tapping Artie’s neck. It seemed to want his attention. So he rolled onto his other elbow to have a look.
At the edge of the pallet, the abandoned Mechand stood on its stump, poised in a nest of frayed straps and rusty buckles, oil smears glinting across flesh-tone tatters in the glare of buzzing fluorescent fixtures.
Artie scrambled back onto his knees and nearly banged his head on a pipe.
Artie thinking, well, well, I didn’t expect to meet you here. The last time I saw you, they had you laid out in subsections at the workshop. I guess you’re still tuned to my frequency. What a surprise.
The Mechand’s gestures were considered and precise. It curled its index finger, beckoning Artie, then pointed straight between his eyes, and revved its drill bit.
Artie edging away, thinking, you don’t seem happy. Rough trip crosstown? Anything I can do for you? Anything at all?
Artie dropped the box of Q,-14738. It rattled out of sight through a gap between the pallet’s slats.
The Mechand shaped itself into a vise and crouched over the nearest slat. Fiberboard buckled. Splinters curled. The Mechand wrenched up a length of slat and began a slow, steady pounding on the pallet.
Artie trying to think, I appreciate your loyalty, old hand, but honestly, all positions have been filled. Where would I put you? An elbow . . . My left . . . You can’t.
He pressed the Synthand to his forehead. It whinnied and trembled, covered in gooseflesh. The Mechand tossed aside the slat and clutched at it. Artie held the hand over his head, where it hissed and sputtered. Three stories below, the slat hit cement.
The Mechand snapped its fingers demandingly with a resounding clang and flying sparks.
Artie getting a firm left-handed grip on the Synthand, thinking, all right, Artie will ride the Mechand on his arm, but only for a while. You’ll have to take turns.
He worked the limp Synthand loose, against all its noisy sucking. When the last adhesive snapped, it felt good as picking an old scab.
The Mechand opened its palm to him. Artie heaved the Synthand whistling through the dusty air. The Mechand hopped up and snagged it, a perfect catch, and fell on its back. The two hands lay in a pile, knitting and reknitting their fingers. A whiff of ethyl alcohol mingled with the smell of burnt oil.
Artie thinking, go on, fight it out between you. I never cared for either one of you.
The fingers disengaged. The hands lay on their sides, joined at the wrist. The two-handed wrist stood up on its ten fingers and scuttled to the brink of the pallet.
Artie watched them flip-flop all the way down the side of the rack, holding onto the steel upright with the Mechand, then the Synthand, letting go with the Synthand, then the Mechand. He glimpsed the two of them scurrying down the aisle. They broke stride for a caper, somersaulted a zigzag and rolled on their axis. Artie closed his eyes, fee
ling dizzy, thinking, I don’t blame them, I don’t blame them. A lovely couple.
Artie wondered how the two became attracted. A freak complementarity of hormones and guidance telemetry? A certain scent? What did they have in common? Artie’s motor nervous profile? Or had they sensed each other from afar, even in the factory, before he came between them?
Artie imagined the heroic journey of the escaped Mechand— hiding on rooftops, hanging under bridges, clambering across phone lines. They would do very well without him. They would thumb a ride to a forest preserve and set up housekeeping in a cozy dovecote, on top of a post with an embossed plastic label to tell all the tourists their names.
He didn’t blame them. They had no use for him.
He stretched out on the pallet, scratching his back on the slats. He pulled a smoke from his shirt pocket and a matchbook from his pants. Striking a light was a challenge, one-handed, but he managed. He scratched his wrist. It hadn’t been uncovered for months. He rubbed it hard. It felt good.
Artie wondered how he was going to get down.
“THEY MADE US NOT TO BE AND THEY ARE NOT”
Perhaps Kona was a planet where knowledge had not yet “brought death into the world, and all our woe.” In that case—and you will have to draw your own conclusions about this—could the Serpent be represented by a group of squabbling, irritable little people who only wanted to get back to Earth?
Philippa C. Maddern
Biren was worried about the shuttle’s power pack, and was preparing to dismantle it; but that was no reason for the others to be idle. Erring volunteered to help Biren, and the rest set off on foot; Alissin and Gerold to collect plant and rock samples respectively, and Jon and Hanna to contact the Konans. Kona was a very quiet planet. Though they were walking in opposite directions, Hanna could hear Gerold’s voice for a long time, as he proved conclusively to Alissin that the rule that no explorer should work alone on a Class B planet was outmoded, impractical, and unnecessary. Nevertheless, Hanna noticed, he kept beside Alissin all the time. She thought how glad she was that this was the last planetfall of the tour. The prospect of not having to put up with the idiosyncrasies of five other people in close association—not Gerold’s carping, nor Erring’s incessant and excessive helpfulness, nor even Biren’s habitual little grunt—was like daylight at the end of a steep stony tunnel. A very interesting tunnel, thought Hanna, entered of one’s own free will, and not nearly so monotonous as life on postwar Terra—but confining, nonetheless. I could be home in six weeks or so, she thought; but knew instantly that the word “home” was mockery from the subconscious. Postwar Terra, with the great rice-producing plains of Asia still wasting year by year from the effects of Enemy bombardment, and the worry over fast-dwindling food sources apparent everywhere in mean-minded husbanding of resources, was a poor cold home to go to. The castle of the victorious, crammed with brand new instruments and ships of war; but with empty larders, and surrounded by salted fields. Words floated into Hanna’s mind from a poem written by one of her Linguistic Course friends—“An alien sower came forth to sow our Earth/ With killing seed; it fell upon good ground/ And yielded up a minus-thousand-fold . . . "