“Welcome home, sir,” the robutler said. “If you will sit, I will serve your supper.”
Feerman sat down, thinking about his plans. There were a lot of details to work out, but Flynn was right. Hole up, that was the thing. Stay out of sight.
“I’ll want you to go shopping first thing in the morning,” he said to the robutler.
“Yes sir,” the robutler said, placing a bowl of soup in front of him.
“We’ll need plenty of staples. Bread, meat . . . No, buy canned goods.”
“What kind of canned goods?” the robutler asked.
“Any kind, as long as it’s a balanced diet. And cigarettes, don’t forget cigarettes! Give me the salt, will you?”
The robutler stood beside the stove, not moving. But Speed began to whimper softly.
“Robutler. The salt please.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the robutler said.
“What do you mean, you’re sorry? Hand me the salt.”
“I can no longer obey you.”
“Why not?”
“You have just gone over the red line, sir. You are now plus ten.”
Feerman just stared at him for a moment. Then he ran into the bedroom and turned on the Sanity Meter. The black indicator crept slowly to the red line, wavered, then slid decisively over.
He was plus ten.
But that didn’t matter, he told himself. After all, it was a quantitative measurement. It didn’t mean that he had suddenly become a monster. He would reason with the robutler, explain it to him.
Feerman rushed out of the bedroom. “Robutler! Listen to me—”
He heard the front door close. The robutler was gone.
Feerman walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. Naturally the robutler was gone. They had built-in sanity reading equipment. If their masters passed the red line, they returned to the factory automatically. No plus ten could command a mechanical.
But he still had a chance. There was food in the house. He would ration himself. It wouldn’t be too lonely with Speed here. Perhaps he would just need a few days.
“Speed?”
There was no sound in the apartment.
“Come here, boy.”
Still no sound.
Feerman searched the apartment methodically, but the dog wasn’t there. He must have left with the robutler.
Alone, Feerman walked into the kitchen and drank three glasses of water. He looked at the meal his robutler had prepared, started to laugh, then checked himself.
He had to get out, quickly. There was no time to lose. If he hurried, he could still make it, to someplace, any place. Every second counted now.
But he stood in the kitchen, staring at the floor as the minutes passed, wondering why his dog had left him.
There was a knock on his door.
“Mr. Feerman!”
“No,” Feerman said.
“Mr. Feerman, you must leave now.”
It was his landlady. Feerman walked to the door and opened it. “Go? Where?”
“I don’t care. But you can’t stay here any longer, Mr. Feerman. You must go.”
Feerman went back for his hat, put it on, looked around the apartment, then walked out. He left the door open.
Outside, two men were waiting for him. Their faces were indistinct in the darkness.
“Where do you want to go?” one asked.
“Where can I go?”
“Surgery or The Academy.”
“The Academy, then.”
They put him in a car and drove quickly away. Feerman leaned back, too exhausted to think. He could feel a cool breeze on his face, and the slight vibration of the car was pleasant. But the ride seemed interminably long.
“Here we are,” one of the men said at last. They stopped the car and led him inside an enormous gray building, to a barren little room. In the middle of the room was a desk marked RECEPTIONIST. A man was sprawled half across it, snoring gently.
One of Feerman’s guards cleared his throat loudly. The receptionist sat up immediately, rubbing his eyes. He slipped on a pair of glasses and looked at them sleepily.
“Which one?” he asked.
The two guards pointed at Feerman.
“All right.” The receptionist stretched his thin arms, then opened a large black notebook. He made a notation, tore out the sheet and handed it to Feerman’s guards. They left immediately.
The receptionist pushed a button, then scratched his head vigorously. “Full moon tonight,” he said to Feerman, with evident satisfaction.
“What?” Feerman asked.
“Full moon. We get more of you guys when the moon’s full, or so it seems. I’ve thought of doing a study on it.”
“More? More what?” Feerman asked, still adjusting to the shock of being within The Academy.
“Don’t be dense,” the receptionist said sternly. “We get more plus tens when the moon is full. I don’t suppose there’s any correlation, but—ah, here’s the guard.”
A uniformed guard walked up to the desk, still knotting his tie.
“Take him to 312AA,” the receptionist said. As Feerman and the guard walked away, he removed his glasses and stretched out again on the desk.
THE GUARD led Feerman through a complex network of corridors, marked off with frequent doors. The corridors seemed to have grown spontaneously, for branches shot off at all angles, and some parts were twisted and curved, like ancient city streets. As he walked, Feerman noticed that the doors were not numbered in sequence. He passed 3112, then 25P, and then 14. And he was certain that he passed the number 888 three times.
“How can you find your way?” he asked the guard.
“That’s my job,” the guard said, not unpleasantly.
“Not very systematic,” Feerman said, after a while.
“Can’t be,” the guard said in an almost confidential tone of voice. “Originally they planned this place with a lot fewer rooms, but then the rush started. Patients, patients, more every day, and no sign of a letup. So the rooms had to be broken into smaller units, and new corridors had to be cut through.”
“But how do the doctors find their patients?” Feerman asked.
They had reached 312AA. Without answering, the guard unlocked the door, and, when Feerman had walked through, closed and locked it after him.
It was a very small room. There was a couch, a chair, and a cabinet, filling all the available space.
Almost immediately, Feerman heard voices outside the door. A man said, “Coffee then, at the cafeteria in half an hour.” A key turned. Feerman didn’t hear the reply, but there was a sudden burst of laughter. A man’s deep voice said, “Yes, and a hundred more and we’ll have to go underground for room!”
The door opened and a bearded man in a white jacket came in, still smiling faintly. His face became professional as soon as he saw Feerman. “Just lie on the couch, please,” he said, politely, but with an unmistakable air of command.
Feerman remained standing. “Now that I’m here,” he said, “would you explain what all this means?”
The bearded man had begun to unlock the cabinet. He looked at Feerman with a wearily humorous expression, and raised both eyebrows. “I’m a doctor,” he said, “not a lecturer.”
“I realize that. But surely—”
“Yes, yes,” the doctor said, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. “I know. You have a right to know, and all that. But they really should have explained it all before you reached here. It just isn’t my job.”
Feerman remained standing. The doctor said, “Lie down on the couch like a good chap, and I’ll tell all.” He turned back to the cabinet.
Feerman thought fleetingly of trying to overpower him, but realized that thousands of plus tens must have thought of it, too. Undoubtedly there were precautions. He lay down on the couch.
“The Academy,” the doctor said as he rummaged in the cabinet, is obviously a product of our times. To understand it, you must first understand the age we live in.” The
doctor paused dramatically, then went on with evident gusto. “Sanity! But there is a tremendous strain involved in sanity, you know, and especially in social sanity. How easily the mind becomes deranged! And once deranged, values change, a man begins to have strange hopes, ideas, theories, and a need for action. These things may not be abnormal in themselves, but they result inevitably in harm to society, for movement in any direction harms a static society. Now, after thousands of years of bloodshed, we have set ourselves the goal of protecting society against the unsane individual. Therefore—it is up to the individual to avoid those mental configurations, those implicit decisions which will make him a dangerous potential for change. This will to staticity which is our ideal required an almost superhuman strength and determination. If you don’t have that, you end up here.”
“I don’t see—” Feerman began, but the doctor interrupted.
“The need for The Academy should now be apparent. Today, brain surgery is the final effective alternative to sanity. But this is an unpleasant eventuality for a man to contemplate, a truly hellish alternative. Government brain surgery involves death to the original personality, which is death in its truest form. The Academy tries to relieve a certain strain by offering another alternative.”
“But what is this alternative? Why don’t you tell it?”
“Frankly, most people prefer not knowing.” The doctor closed and locked the cabinet, but Feerman could not see what instruments he had selected. “Your reaction isn’t typical, I assure you. You choose to think of us as something dark, mysterious, frightening. This is because of your unsanity. Sane people see us as a panacea, a pleasantly misty relief from certain grim certainties. They accept us on faith.” The doctor chucked softly.
“To most people, we represent heaven.”
“Then why not let your methods be known?”
“Frankly,” the doctor said softly, “even the methods of heaven are best not examined too closely.”
“So the whole thing is a hoax!” Feerman said, trying to sit up. “You’re going to kill me!”
“Most assuredly not,” the doctor said, restraining him gently until Feerman lay back again.
“Then what exactly are you going to do?”
“You’ll see.”
“And why doesn’t anyone return?”
“They don’t choose to,” the doctor said. Before Feerman could move, the doctor had deftly inserted a needle into his arm, and injected him with a warm liquid. “You must remember,” the doctor said, “Society must be protected against the individual.”
“Yes,” Feerman said drowsily, “but who is to protect the individual against society?”
The room became indistinct and, although the doctor answered him, Feerman couldn’t hear his words, but he was sure that they were wise, and proper, and very true.
WHEN HE recovered consciousness he found that he was standing on a great plain. It was sunrise. In the dim light, wisps of fog dung to his ankles, and the grass beneath his feet was wet and springy.
Feerman was mildly surprised to see his wife standing beside him, close to his right side. On his left was his dog Speed, pressed against his leg, trembling slightly. His surprise passed quickly, because this was where his wife and dog should be; at his side before the battle.
Ahead, misty movement resolved into individual figures, and as they approached Feerman recognized them.
They were the enemy! Leading the procession was his robutler, gleaming inhumanly in the halflight. Morgan was there, shrieking to the Section Chief that Feerman must die, and Flynn, that frightened man, hid his face but still advanced against him. And there was his landlady, screaming, “No home for him!” And behind her were doctors, receptionists, guards, and behind them marched millions of men in rough laborer’s clothing, caps jammed down over their faces, newspapers tightly rolled as they advanced.
Feerman tensed expectantly for this ultimate fight against the enemies who had betrayed him. But a doubt passed over his mind. Was this real?
He had a sudden sickening vision of his drugged body lying in a numbered room in The Academy, while his soul was here in the never-never land, doing battle with shadows.
There’s nothing wrong with me! In a moment of utter clarity Feerman understood that he had to escape. His destiny wasn’t here, fighting dream-enemies. He had to get back to the real world. The Status Quo couldn’t last forever. And what would mankind do, with all the toughness, inventiveness, individuality bred out of the race?
Did no one leave The Academy? He would! Feerman struggled with the illusions, and he could almost feel his discarded body stir on its couch, groan, move . . .
But his dream-wife seized his arm and pointed. His dream-dog snarled at the advancing host.
The moment was gone forever, but Feerman never knew it. He forgot his decision, forgot earth, forgot truth, and drops of dew spattered his legs as he ran forward to engage the enemy in battle.
• • • THE END
MILK RUN
What are Smags, Firgels and Queels? Cats in a bag . . . and Gregor was holding the bag!
“WE can’t pass it up,” Arnold was saying. “Millions in profits, small initial investment, immediate return. Are you listening?” Richard Gregor nodded wearily. It was a very dull day in the offices of the AAA Ace Interplanetary Decontamination Service, exactly like every other day. Gregor was playing solitaire. Arnold, his partner, was at his desk, his feet propped on a pile of unpaid bills.
Shadows moved past their glass door, thrown by people going to Mars Steel, Neo-Roman Novelties, Alpha Dura Products, or any other offices on the same floor.
But nothing broke the dusty silence in AAA Ace.
“What are we waiting for?” Arnold demanded loudly. “Do we do it or don’t we?”
“It’s not our line,” Gregor said. “We’re planetary decontaminationists. Remember?”
“But no one wants a planet decontaminated,” Arnold stated.
That, unfortunately, was true. After successfully cleansing Ghost V of imaginary monsters, AAA Ace had had a short rush of business. But then expansion into space had halted. People were busy consolidating their gains, building towns, plowing fields, constructing roads.
The movement would begin again. The human race would expand as long as there was anything to expand into. But, for the moment, business was terrible.
“Consider the possibilities,” Arnold said. “Here are all these people on their bright, shiny new worlds. They need farm and food animals shipped from home—” he paused dramatically—“by us.”
“We’re not equipped to handle livestock,” Gregor pointed out.
“We have a ship. What else do we need?”
“Everything. Mostly knowledge and experience. Transporting live animals through space is extremely delicate work. It’s a job for experts. What would you do if a cow came down with hoof-and-mouth-disease between here and Omega IV?”
ARNOLD said confidently, “We will ship only hardy, mutated species. We will have them medically examined. And I will personally sterilize the ship before they come on board.”
“All right, dreamer,” Gregor said. “Prepare yourself for the blow. The Trigale Combine does all animal shipping in this sector of space. They don’t look kindly upon competitors—therefore, they have no competitors. How do you plan to buck them?”
“We’ll undersell them.”
“And starve.”
“We’re starving now,” Arnold said.
“Starving is better than being ‘accidentally’ holed by a Trigale tug at the port of embarkation. Or finding that someone has loaded our water tanks with kerosene. Or that our oxygen tanks were never filled at all.”
“What an imagination you have!” Arnold said nervously.
“Those figments of my imagination have already happened. Trigale wants to be alone in the field and it is. By accident, you might say, if you like gory gags.”
Just then, the door opened. Arnold swung his feet off the desk and Gregor swept his
cards into a drawer.
Their visitor was an out-worlder, to judge by his stocky frame, small head and pale green skin. He marched directly up to Arnold.
“They’ll be at the Trigale Central Warehouse in three days,” he said.
“So soon, Mr. Vens?” Arnold asked.
“Oh, yes. Had to transport the Smags pretty carefully, but the Queels have been on hand for several days.”
“Fine. This is my partner,” Arnold said, turning to Gregor, who was blinking rapidly.
“Happy.” Vens shook Gregor’s hand firmly. “Admire you men. Free enterprise, competition—believe in it. You’ve got the route?”
“All taped,” Arnold said. “My partner is prepared to blast off at any moment.”
“I’ll go directly to Vermoine II and meet you there. Good show.” He turned and left.
GREGOR said slowly, “Arnold, what have you done?”
“I’ve been making us rich, that’s what I’ve done,” Arnold retorted.
“Shipping livestock?”
“Yes.”
“In Trigale territory?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see the contract.” Arnold produced it. It stated that the AAA Ace Planetary Decontamination (and Transportation) Service promised to deliver five Smags, five Firgels and ten Queels to the Vermoine solar system. Pickup was to be made at the Trigale Central Warehouse, delivery to Main Warehouse, Vermoine II. AAA Ace also had the option of building its own warehouse.
Said animals were to arrive intact, alive, healthy, happy, productive, etcetera. There were heavy forfeiture clauses in event of loss of animals, their arrival unalive, unhealthy, unproductive, etcetera.
The document read like a temporary armistice between unfriendly nations.
“You actually signed this death warrant?” Gregor asked incredulously.
“Sure. All you have to do is pick up the beasts, pop over to Vermoine and drop them.”
“I? And what will you be doing?”
“I’ll be right here, backing you all the way,” Arnold said.
“Back me aboard ship.”
“No, no—impossible. I get deathly sick at the very sight of a Queel.”
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