by Robert Bloch
Graham bit his lip and stepped back against the wall as the door opened and Sigmond stepped back into the room. The door closed again, quickly, as the Psycho strove to readjust his vision in the darkness.
“Graham,” he called. “Where are you, Graham?”
“Right here.”
Sigmond turned, noting the body on the floor for the first time.
“What—”
The stunner flicked on. Sigmond’s mouth froze along with the rest of his body. Graham wondered, momentarily, how the autonomous nervous system managed to function in maintaining circulation and respiration in spite of the stunner’s effect. Then he dismissed the question: it was certainly not important now.
What was important was to push Sigmond’s immobilized body back against the wall, to square his own shoulders, take a deep breath, and open the door.
Graham stepped into the other office and extended his idento with a smile.
“Krug?” he murmured. “Mellot reporting for duty.”
The Brass nodded, not bothering to glance at the idento. “How’d you get into Sigmond’s office?”
“They gave me directions outside. I came in through the other entrance. He said you were waiting for me here.”
“Right.” Krug put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Well, let’s be on our way. We’re due to leave for Miami in an hour.”
FLASHBACK: OLD HOME WEEK
The landing operation had gone off without a hitch—every step of the procedure televised, all primary data transmitted, all secondary observations recorded. Stevens and Craig had made a spectacular haul of samplings too.
Of course if you figured the cost of the hardware, including the computers and gadgetry for back-up, you had to admit this mission wasn’t exactly cheap. Fifty billion for approximately fifty pounds of dust and rocks—it came out to a billion dollars a pound. And to pay that kind of money you’d have to have rocks in your head.
He never thought he’d go that route and neither had anyone else; if they had, he would have been scrubbed for sure. Matter of fact, he’d have opted out himself. But you never know until the time comes and the shots are called and the chips are down.
Well, the time had come, the shot had been called—called successfully—and the chip had touched down and now it was up again. Little silver chip floating in space, and him floating inside it. Floating inside it with fifty pounds of dust and rocks. Mission accomplished, and nothing left to do but think.
So quiet, so very quiet. Conducive to reflection. Reflection, as in a mirror, or the surface of Walden Pond. But Walden Pond had no reflection now; Walden Pond was covered with oil-slick and dead fish.
What on earth ever put such a thought in his head?
Nothing on earth of course. He was in space. Outer space. Made you conscious of inner space. Every astronaut his own philosopher.
All right, philosopher—you with your high IQ and your low pain threshold, your psychological conditioning, your checked-out reflexes, your orientation and testing and training and briefing—you’re so goddamn smart, suppose you tell us what it means to be conscious.
Let us grant consciousness to a watch-spring. It’s aware of its world inside the watch-case. But does it know what’s happening when it’s being wound? Or, as it reacts, what is happening to the watch outside the case?
He was outside the case now, and things looked different. You can’t be a cog in the wheel and comprehend the machinery—you’ve got to be free of the machine. And he was free. Forget mechanistic philosophy. Forget the world of automation, abandon astrophysics and examine the human condition.
How many people had seen him on television—in living color? Three hundred million, six hundred million, a billion? Back to that billion again. You can’t get away from mathematics. It rules our lives, rules our thoughts.
But not mine, baby. Not out here. This is where it’s at. Here, in space. Far enough away from humanity to be able to see people.
Individuals. That’s what it was all about. Individuals, and individual relationships. Person-to-person. This is what counts, and not in the mathematical sense of the term either.
Hundreds of millions of people had seen him, and not one of them knew him. Really knew him, that is. He was just an image. An image on a screen—the heroic, clean-cut navigator of a daring space mission, symbol of man’s eternal challenge of the unknown.
Yet he himself was truly unknown. They’d analyzed him, calibrated him, classified him, reduced his measurable qualities to statistical components and fed them into a machine that came up with convenient labels. But the labels weren’t him, the name is not the thing, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Calling him a watch-spring didn’t explain what made him tick.
He wondered if Melinda had watched him on the tube, then shook his head, irritated by his own momentary naïveté. Of course Melinda had seen the TV broadcast of the mission, and so had Stevens’ wife and Craig’s. Astronauts’ wives always watched television, and television in turn watched them—it was part of the show, giving full coverage to the gallant women who waited behind. Human interest, tug at the old heartstrings, do you have any message for your husband up there? Oh, she’d watched him, that’s for damn sure, and they probably gave her a script too. There was always a script. Probably always had been.
ANNOUNCER
We’ve gotten through to your husband. Go ahead, please, Mrs. Columbus.
MRS. COLUMBUS
Oh, Chris—me and the kids are so proud of you. Now you be sure and take your vitamin C, you don’t want to catch any scurvy. And watch out for those Indians. I hear there’s a lot of syphilis going around.
Very funny.
Only there hadn’t been any television in 1492, and Columbus wasn’t married at the time of his voyage.
He wondered how funny people would think it was if they knew he wasn’t married either. Legally, yes, but that didn’t count. Marriage in name only, sharing his bed and bored. Bored enough to contemplate divorce—“We’ll talk about it when you come back.”
That wasn’t in the script. The script said he was a hero and Melinda was the hero’s faithful wife, and they had three wonderful youngsters.
The little bastards.
Well, that’s what they would have been if he could have proved it. And he could have proved it if he’d insisted on the blood tests. But oh no, he had to play noble, and besides he knew a divorce would wash him out, spoil the image. If he wanted an astronaut’s assignment, he had to put up with an oversize space helmet, one big enough to accommodate the horns. Two sets of horns, or perhaps three. He never could be sure if Mike and Harry were the only ones Melinda had been playing around with.
Now, sitting in the silence, he could see it for what it was. A marriage of inconvenience. All the discomforts of home.
Strange, wasn’t it? A marriage license costs two bucks. A divorce costs a fortune.
Marriage license. Even in the most benighted areas, a man must pass a driving test in order to operate an automobile. The only test for marriage is a Wasserman. You can’t drive if you can’t see, but love is blind. Marriage is like buying a pig in a poke, or vice versa.
Okay, over and out. There were more important things to think about, if he could only remember them.
Important. What was important—fifty pounds of dust and rocks? The whole earth would soon be nothing but dust and rocks if pollution wasn’t halted.
It didn’t make sense. But then, human beings weren’t interested in sense. The metric system, a thirteen-month calendar, simplified spelling, a universal language—the idiots fought them all. Tyrants butchered and enslaved, and men memorialized them in monuments. But where is the statue of the man who invented indoor plumbing? For that matter, what was his name? And what’s the name of your Congressman, smart-ass?
On the other hand, indoor plumbing led to pollution, and just how would you spell “simplified” in the new manner, and who really cares? That’s the way the misfortune cookie crumble
s.
Cookies. Now there was something important. The taste of cookies. Fresh cookies, hot from the oven. The look of them, the smell of them, the sharing of them with the kids. Even the crumbs, put out in the snow for the birds. Birds chattering in the sunshine, and the icicles melting from the eaves, each droplet of water a rainbow world of its own. See, hear, touch—that’s important. To know the worth of trivia through our senses.
Outer space lends the perspective for proper evaluation. The earth is a speck and the drop of water on it is a speck within a speck. Inside the drop of water are other specks, micro-organisms which in turn contain smaller particles of matter, and these particles are composed of still more minute molecules.
Philosophy? He’d learned this in grammar school, everyone knows it.
Knows, perhaps, but doesn’t accept. We—our world, our solar system, our galaxy, our universe and everything in it, consist of the selfsame trivia. Conscious or unconscious, animate or inanimate, perceiver or perceived: all are one. When you got this far out, size didn’t matter. If you could go further, perhaps you’d reach a point where there’d be no difference between the sentient and the immobile. Life and death are the same. Both are illusions.
Stevens and Craig would know, but there wasn’t any point in asking, because the dead can’t break their silence. Both of them had died hours ago, when all the systems went out. Died in the airlock, leaving him here alone on a bummer, a real bad trip. Alone with his fifty pounds of dust and rocks, and the meaningless weight of his philosophy.
Lights were going, air was going, he’d be going soon now himself. Another stage in the journey. Suppose death were merely an extension of perception, one which freed you of the illusion of space and time?
It was something to think about, and he did think about it, as he hurtled on and the ship began its plunge into the sun . . .
CHAPTER 7
By the time they arrived at Jetport, the Farewell was in full swing.
The Jets stood alone under the lights of the launching platforms on the big field, separated from the runways by barricades. The Technos were readying them for takeoff, while Krug checked with them by means of his audio-relay. He stood on the edge of the Administration roof, looking down at the activities of preparation.
But Graham, at his side, had eyes only for the mob behind the barricades. He was watching the Farewell.
The friends of the Socially Secured milled about, singing and shouting their good-bys, shaking hands and extending farewell gifts to the group which stood apart in single file before the gates.
Graham recognized their enthusiasm; realized, too, that it was only a pale shadow of the emotion which suffused the faces of the Socially Secured themselves.
They waited impatiently, garbed in the special dress donned for Departure—the golden robe worn only by those who had been found to be fit and fifty. Most of them had handtrucks to convey their belongings—Graham was surprised at the amount of luggage some of these elderly people were taking with them. His own father had departed virtually empty-handed, except for a few personal microfilm files. But then, his father was a Talent, not a worker. The workers were different. They were great accumulators. People with fantasies of projection, pride of ownership. The Psychos were doing their best to gradually stamp out the viewpoint—they’d outlawed Jags and Caddies for everyone except Technos many years ago, for example. But still the workers clung to material possessions. Some of the Socially Secured would be taking new things into the South, too; there would be fishing tackle and other unusual items. Graham had heard that in some Resorts they even permitted hunting.
Krug barked something into the audio-relay and the gates opened beneath them. Shouting and waving, the line of Socially Secured moved across the field, escorted by Brass guides. The handtrucks rolled with smooth, electrified precision.
Krug glanced at his assistant and nodded. “Quite a sight, isn’t it?” he commented.
Graham nodded. “This is all new to me,” he answered. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“Well, you might as well enjoy yourself tonight. Next time we make a run, I’m putting you in with the crew, to pick up general procedure. But this trip is just for orientation.”
Graham nodded. The talk of “next time” disturbed him. He’d have to make plans quickly. Granted that he’d be able to get away with this before somebody at Psychocenter discovered what had happened and relayed the information here.
He glanced nervously over his shoulder, half expecting the arrival of a messenger—and guards. But the roof was empty. Maybe he’d be leaving in time. He wished they’d take off now.
“Any questions?” Krug was asking.
Graham blinked. He remembered that he was Mellot now; he had a role to play. The new assistant. What would the new assistant ask at a time like this?
“One thing does surprise me,” Graham said, slowly. “They all seem to be so happy. Don’t any of them ever have any regrets at leaving here?”
Krug shook his head. “Why should they? What’s so wonderful about being an agriculturist or a laborian or an industrician that anyone would be sorry to quit? Oh, they’re all adjusted, but think of the benefits they’re going to get. Maybe fifty years of taking it easy at government expense, thanks to geriatrics. Isn’t that better than the old way they tell us about—when a man had to slave at a job until he was ready to drop, and then be dependent on a small pension or whatever he could manage to lay away?”
“I wasn’t thinking of that,” Graham persisted. “I was thinking about giving up friends, family ties—”
Krug looked at him sharply, and he realized he’d made a mistake.
“What do you mean, family ties?”
“Well, extended mating-arrangements, for example—”
Krug’s glance didn’t soften. “Where’d you take training?” he asked.
“Sanmonica, of course.” Graham remembered there was a Brass schooling-center there, and hoped it was the right answer.
“Didn’t they tell you that all mating-arrangements for workers terminate in the forty-sixth year?”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten.”
“Well don’t forget. That’s important. At forty-six the special conditioning begins. Class-therapy, one night a week. Indoctrination courses for Social Security. They’re taught what to expect when they go South. Usually, their jobs are switched around too, and they’re moved to a new living-area, just so old ties can be broken. After a few years, they adapt. And of course they know that once they arrive in the South, they can free-mate all they please. That’s one of the reasons they look happy about leaving now.”
Graham nodded. “Don’t they ever allow them to stay with mates? I mean, if both reach the age of fifty at the same time?”
Krug spat over the edge of the roof. “Why should they? Might as well expect them to take their own offspring along. The whole point of conditioning is to eliminate all the dangers of the oldstyle family setup, with ‘romantic love’ and ‘marriage’ and such aberrations. I’m no Psycho, boy, but you know as well as I do what that meant. Why, almost all our troubles in the old days came from the dangers of just that sort of thing. The very roots of psychic disorder stemmed from those family situations—with permanent parents, the Oedipus complex, sibling rivalry.”
Graham half listened as he watched the Socially Secured file up the ramps into the waiting Jets. He glanced behind once more. All clear.
Krug noticed his movements. “Anxious to get started? So am I. Let’s go down. We’re on First Jet, of course.” He guided Graham to the vator. On the way down he checked details through his audio-relay. Apparently satisfied, he switched it off as they reached the field and walked through the gates to the waiting Jet in the foreground.
“That’s part of it, of course,” he continued, taking up the thread of the conversation without interruption. “The rest, as you should know, was a matter of the old-time rivalry between youth and age. The family situation only helped to keep it ali
ve: father against son, mother against daughter, younger children against the eldest. And you know what it did to the community. Before Planned Society you saw it everywhere. The young who went out to fight and die resented the old who stayed behind to pick up the profits in safety. It wasn’t until the Psychos came along and hit on the solution of separating the two groups that we got stability. Today all those tensions are gone. We don’t worry about parents or our elders or bigger boys or any of that nonsense. When we’re young, we stay with our own age-group, in a Big Family Unit. We work with our own age-group, leave with our own age-group when we’re Socially Secured. There’s nothing left behind to cause us any regrets.”
Krug cleared his throat. “Of course, I’m just speaking figuratively, you might say. You and I, we don’t have to bother. We’re exempt from being Socially Secured at fifty or any other age. We can keep on going until we’re eighty or ninety, even.”
He paused at the foot of the Jet-ramp and placed his hand on Graham’s shoulder. “I want you to remember that tonight, because it’s important. No matter what you think, just keep on remembering—you’ll never be Socially Secured.” He shook his head emphatically. “Look at me. I’m sixty-four. Hard to believe, isn’t it? But it’s true. And I’m good for another twenty years. Just keep in line and the same holds true for you.”
A buzzer sounded on his audio-relay and he switched it on. Graham gulped, but the voice was merely reporting the successful boarding of the Jets and clearing with Krug for take-off.
“This way.” The Brass led him forward to the cabin. The pilot was already working at the instrument-panel, while the co issued instructions to their passengers in the space behind. Each of the six Jets carried a full complement of nine hundred. Huge as they were, Graham couldn’t help but feel sorry for the Socially Secured—they must be crowded back in there. Even an hour long flight would be an ordeal.
Krug, apparently, had no such compunctions. He conferred with pilot and co, then sent a final message to Control through his audio-relay.