Star Science Fiction Stories No. 2

by Frederik Pohl

  * * * *

  When Rose was satisfied with her appearance she went across the street to see Anne Peters. Anne opened the door, looking as pretty as a picture. She was twenty-five, married to a Program man.

  Rose said cheerfully, “Hello, Anne dear. I’ve come to borrow your gyro again.”

  The Peters were well-to-do. They could afford to keep two gyros on their Program salary, and they would be allowed two, possibly three children.

  Anne’s eyes widened. “The Clinic?”

  “Yes,” Rose said, and smiled.

  “This is your second visit,” Anne said. She looked at the older woman in horror.

  “Don’t worry, dear. It’s going to be perfectly all right.”

  “Oh, God,” Anne said. “Oh, God.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear.”

  “I’ll get the keys,” Anne said. When she came back she was deadly white, as if she had been sick.

  “Thank you,” Rose said. “You’re awfully sweet.”

  Anne burst into tears.

  * * * *

  They’re building some world, Scott thought as he walked to Consolidated Communications. The Program. The young men who had ousted the oldies, and had gone on to reorganize everything in the light of their own visions. Ruthless, relentless, untiring young men whose vision was fixed on the stars.

  At the reception desk in the huge foyer a lovely young blonde smiled at him and said, “May I help you?”

  Scott said brightly, “Good morning. I have an appointment with the Personnel Director, Mr. Painter.”

  Something strange happened to her face, a hardening of the perfect features. Her long blue eyes were cold and unwelcoming. She said, “I’m sorry. Mr. Painter is no longer with us.”

  “No!” Scott exclaimed. “No!” His body went weak with disbelief.

  The girl turned away.

  Scott said quickly, “My appointment is for nine-thirty. I’m sure the new Personnel Director will see me.”

  “One moment, please.” She left him indifferently, and returned a few moments later. “You may go up. Take the elevator to the sixty-eighth floor, turn right.” She moved away, as if she were irritated by his presence.

  Half-a-dozen men were sitting in the waiting room of Personnel. He could not bring himself to look at them. The blonde behind the barrier said wearily, “Yes?”

  “I have an appointment here for nine-thirty.”

  “May I have your Program Security Card.” -

  Scott handed her the small plastic rectangle.

  She glanced at it and said, “Please take a seat.”

  He sat down, his back to the other men. He knew too much about them already. They were all images of himself —men over forty; and probably they had all come to see Painter with the same high hopes improbably they were all now frightened in the same terrifying way.

  * * * *

  The receptionist at the Clinic was exquisite, Rose thought: slim, with the sweetest blue eyes and lovely straight fair hair. The only trouble with her was that she seemed to have lost the ability to smile. Why were girls so serious these days? What had happened to them?

  Rose said gaily, “Good morning, nurse.”

  “Good morning.”

  “I have an appointment, you know, with that nice young doctor.”

  The nurse said, “May I have your Marriage Card?”

  Rose gave it to her.

  “The doctor will be with you directly, Mrs. Dewar,” the nurse said. “Please take a seat.”

  Rose said quickly, “Oh nurse, do you know-”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to discuss any matters relating to the tests.”

  Rose sighed, and sat down.

  * * * *

  The new Personnel Director was a typical Program man, dark, built like a quarterback, with a small handsome head on an immensely powerful neck. He sat at a big desk, and there was nothing on it except Scott’s security card lying exactly in the center of an immaculate white blotter. The office was large, hygienic, functional—a machine for working in.

  He asked politely, “Do you have copies for your resume, sir?”

  “I sent eighteen copies, as requested, to Mr. Painter.”

  “Mr. Painter is no longer with us.”

  What the hell happened to Painter, Scott wondered savagely. He was sweating slightly.

  The young man walked out of the office, and returned with a pink folder. He sat down again and read the papers inside the folder, his face completely expressionless; and then he said quietly, “Yes. Now what can I do for you, sir?”

  Isn’t it obvious? Scott thought angrily. He said, “I’m looking for a job. As you see I’ve been working on micro-transistors-”

  “We already have a group researching microtransistors,” the Personnel Director said. “No openings exist there.”

  “Sigma klystrons-” Scott began.

  “We have stopped production of sigma klystrons.”

  They looked at each other. For several moments there was complete silence. “I have a pretty good background,” Scott said. “Surely there’s something I can do for you.”

  The young man’s voice became dry. “May I ask if you’ve done any work on the Holtzman spectrum?”

  “No,” Scott said. He did not even know what the Holtzman spectrum was. The Program did not encourage the publication of scientific studies.

  “Do you have P-electronics status?”

  “No,” Scott said. “I was just a couple of years late for the P-electronics study project-”

  The young man interrupted him. “I see from your P-security card that your age is forty-one.”

  “Yes,” Scott said, and sat back. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. We have an age limit here.” The Personnel Director’s eyes were dark and hostile, as if he were protecting something vital. The new world, the Program’s world, the world in which oldies were not wanted. And there was something else—an anger, a bitterness that was common to all Program men when they confronted older men.The oldies nearly destroyed the world, the Program preached: they were responsible for all the wars in history, they barred all progress. Never will we allow the oldies to hold power again.

  Scott said, “I thought with my record-”

  “Your record is excellent, sir. We simply have no openings for men with your qualifications at present.”

  “Look,” Scott said angrily. He turned his coat lapel, showing a little gold insignia representing an upraised hand. “Rocket Squadron 101. You’ve heard of Rocket Squadron 101?”

  This was the last card he could play. Rocket Squadron 101 had saved New York in World War III. There was even a column dedicated to it in Central Park, a hundred and one feet high.

  The young man said, “Of course, Mr. Dewar. We owe everything to Rocket Squadron 101.”

  “In that case-”

  The young man smiled. “Your country hasn’t forgotten, sir. You don’t have a single thing to worry about, really. You can be sure the Program will take care of your needs.”

  Scott felt the blood rushing to his brain. He took his Program Security Card off the unsullied white blotter and hurried out.

  * * * *

  The doctor was so handsome, Rose thought. So charming and romantic. He and the blonde nurse would make a darling couple—if only they would smile sometimes: smile and laugh.

  “Ah, Mrs. Dewar. We’ve completed our tests.” He shuffled some papers in his hand.

  “Yes?” Rose whispered.

  He handed her a red card. “Please be careful not to lose it.”

  On the card was printed,Program Fertility Test. Beneath that was Rose’s name, the date, and one word in bold letters at the bottom: Negative.

  “No,” Rose said. “Oh no, I beg of you-”

  “The tests are conclusive,” the doctor said stiffly.

  “But I’ve had two children already, doctor. They’re working on Project Juno, wonderful, intelligent, beautiful children. Please listen to me: I’ve had two childre
n, I’m still young-”

  “Thirty-seven,” the doctor reminded her. He forced himself to be gentle. “You have done your duty, Mrs. Dewar. Your country is grateful. And you don’t have a worry in the world, you know: the Program will take care of you.”

  He saw the look of terror on her face, and turned with clinical decisiveness. “Nurse. Give Mrs. Dewar a sedative.”

  Rose moaned, “No. No. No.”

  * * * *

  I’m not quitting,Scott thought. I’m going to break through, I’m going to show these boys that I’m not finished.

  But I’ll have to work fast, he thought: because they work fast.

  Outside Consolidated Communications he called a tri-cab. He said to the driver, “Program Auxiliary Services. Make it snappy,” and the hackie said, “Yes, sir,” with a curious smile, a curious intake of breath. After they had driven a few blocks through the shining streets the hackie asked, “Jobhunting?”

  Scott swallowed his anger. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be out to pasture myself in a week,” the hackie said. “They just clipped the ceiling on drivers. Thirty-four. I’m thirty-six.”

  “Too bad,” Scott said.

  “I hear they take good care of you,” the hackie said. “They don’t leave you to starve, like in the bad old days.”

  “Oh, sure, sure,” Scott said.

  When he reached Program Auxiliary Services he walked briskly into the public employment office; and at once his heart sank, the courage went from him. A stainless steel barrier divided the big room, with a young guard at either end. Behind the barrier were the desks of the interviewers. In front were four crowded rows of benches. There were seventy or eighty men ahead of him.

  One of the guards sauntered over to him and wrote down his name and address. “Okay,” the guard said. “Take a seat. We’ll call you.”

  He squeezed on to the end of the last bench, and after a little while he grew calm, passive, watching the interviewers and the interviewees, the young men and the other men who all looked like himself. He noticed that the Program boys were extremely polite. They listened carefully, they asked courteous questions, they jotted down notes, they consulted files and directories, they made frequent calls on their telesets. But they never smiled. The cool expressions on their handsome faces never altered. They were like troops behind a fortification: armed, trained, self-confident. I won’t quit, Scott thought: by God, I won’t quit.

  Suddenly he recognized one of the men coming away from an interview, a big heavily-built balding man; and he stood up and called, “Clem!”

  “You there,” a guard snapped. “Quiet!”

  He remained standing. The other man grinned and nodded, and then gestured at the exit. Scott left his place and went out.

  In the corridor Clem said, “Well, Scott. Hi.”

  “Hi, Clem.”

  “You’re wasting your time, pal.”

  “Yes,” Scott said. “I guessed that already.”

  “I was going to try Hydro-Utilities,” Clem said, “but I have a better idea now. Let’s go have a drink.”

  “Why not?” Scott said. There was no point in waiting here.

  They went out into the midday sunshine, and by tricab to a house in the Seventies. On the third floor there was a pleasantly furnished room where a dozen men were drinking quietly. “My hideout,” Clem said. “I come here to forget the Program.”

  There was a small bar, and behind it a one-armed man who smiled at Clem and then at Scott.

  Clem said, “Joe, meet Scott Dewar.”

  “Hi, Scott,” Joe said, and stuck his hand out with a grin.

  “Joe was in the Nautilus XII,” Clem said. “Remember the old Nautilus XII, Scott?”

  “Sure,” Scott said. “Those old barrels. Filled with lead.”

  Joe chuckled proudly.

  Clem turned the lapel of Scott’s jacket, showing the gold insignia, the upraised hand, symbol of strength and defiance.

  Joe said in recognition, “A hundred and one!”

  “This guy was my section commander,” Clem told him. “Twenty years ago.”

  Joe shook his head in wonderment. “Gosh! We certainly owe everything to you.” It was the stock salute to survivors of Rocket Squadron 101, the boys who saved New York.

  “Tell it to the Program,” Clem said. “But shake up two martinis first, Joe. We need them in the worst way.”

  “Two martinis,” Joe said.

  While they waited, Clem asked, “Anything new at your end, Scott?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing here to report, either. Weren’t you due to see Consolidated Communications?”

  “Yeah,” Scott said. “I was supposed to see Painter this morning, but he’s no longer with the outfit. I saw the new boy. Nothing doing.”

  Clem said softly. “I heard about Painter through the grapevine. It’s very interesting.”

  “What’s very interesting?”

  “Painter was a good man. Helpful. He was trying to do all he could for our age-group. He was thirty-five himself.”

  “Go on,” Scott said.

  “He’s been put out to pasture,” Clem said. “The thirty-fives aren’t considered reliable any longer. All the signs point to a new age limit.”

  “But God Almighty!” Scott cried: “Where’s it going to end? These kids can’t run the world. They don’t have enough experience.”

  “The demand for manpower is tapering off,” Clem said. “More autofeeds, more calcu-mechs, less and less men.”

  “So there’ll be more and more mono wrecks,” Scott cried, “more and more rockets disintegrating on take-off, more and more lives wasted-”

  “Easy,” Clem said.

  Joe slid the martinis very carefully across the counter.

  “At least,” Clem smiled, “the Program is taking care of us. Distinguished service, etcetera, etcetera. We don’t have a thing to worry about.” He raised the glass. “I give you a toast, section commander: the Purple Fields.”

  Scott said shakily, “The Purple Fields.”

  * * * *

  “Here are your keys, dear,” Rose said to Anne Peters. “Thank you so much for letting me use the gyro.”

  Anne said, “How—how was it?”

  “How was what, Anne?”

  “The—the Clinic.”

  “Oh, they were charming, my dear, perfectly charming. The nicest young people. They couldn’t have been nicer. Really, they couldn’t possibly have been-”

  She couldn’t go on, even though she didn’t want to frighten Anne. This girl was growing older, too, and in time the same thing would happen to her; but you had to keep the knowledge from her, as you keep certain facts from children. Rose turned unsteadily and walked across the street to her own house.

  Anne stood staring, still staring even after Rose’s door was closed.

  * * * *

  Scott caught the 5:03 mono back, and this time he was rather drunk and he did not trouble to fasten his safety belt. A Program boy said politely to him, “Your safety belt, sir,” and Scott said, “-my safety belt,” and the Program boy sat back as if he had been nipped by a scorpion.

  But for some reason the future looked good to Scott. Tomorrow, he thought: tomorrow I’ll really get going. He began to plan his calls: Hydro-Utilities, Electro-Calc, IMX, Greatorex, perhaps even Monorails. There were a dozen possibilities more.Sure, he thought: I’ll find something. There must be something for a guy with my background. I’ll find it. He had tapped a reserve of courage, of optimism.

  When he entered the house Rose was watching telerama, and she said in her usual gay voice, “Darling! Oh hello, darling. Hello, my sweet.”

  He walked over and kissed her, and she sniffed at him and said, “Hmmmph. Where were you before you came home, my friend?”

  “I met Clem.”

  “Dear old Clem. Why didn’t you bring him home for dinner, silly?” She looked into his eyes. “Did you have a good day, Scott?”

  “Nothing special,” he
said. “But tomorrow—you know, I have a big hunch something big is going to break tomorrow.” He sat down and put his arm around her shoulder. He was still a little drunk and his voice grew with animation. “I’ve a hundred ideas. Tomorrow, I tell you-”

  She rubbed her cheek against his hand. “I’m sure of it, darling. I’m sure of it.”

  He was about to kiss her again when the telerama screens went blank and a buzzer sounded three times very loudly— the signal that the local Program office was coming through.

  Scott said roughly, “Switch it off.”

  “No,” Rose cried. “Scott! You know the penalty!” She held him back.

  The screens became bright again, and they saw and heard a Program man talking. He was particularly handsome, and his voice was soft, velvety.

  “Good evening,” he said. “I am privileged to bring a special message from Program, V Division, for Mr. and Mrs. Scott Dewar. Are you listening?”

  “Yes,” Rose said breathlessly.

  “For distinguished services,” the young man said smoothly: “It is my great pleasure to inform you that you have been elected today to enter the Purple Fields-”

  “Oh,” Rose whispered. “Oh.”

  Scott gripped her shoulder.

  The voice continued, gentle, warm. “. . . Beautiful abode . . . perpetual summer ... all comforts. We are most anxious that there shall be no delay in this transition to this exciting new phase of your lives. Transport will call for you at eleven-thirty tonight, and I would suggest that each of you pack one small overnight bag. This office will take care of all your other belongings, and of course you can trust us to handle them with the utmost care. Will you please be ready at that time, Mr. and Mrs. Dewar?”

  “Yes,” Scott said.

  “Thank you. And permit me to offer my congratulations. A happy, happy trip.” Scott switched the set off.

  Rose said, “Well, I suppose I’d better see to dinner. Will you come and help me, dear? You could set the table.”

  He accompanied her to the kitchen, and she said, “We have an old bottle of California burgundy, you know, dear. Shall we open it, or take it with us?”