Sneak Preview

by Robert Bloch

  A revolution is staged.

  A million men go forth, sweeping in human waves that crest to crush against the granite wall of the eternal Establishment, then subside.

  We see the revolution, but to actually appreciate its scope and significance we must observe the individuals involved. Each rebel must be reached and revealed in terms of motivation, conflict, personal fate. To measure human history merely in generalities of themes, of movements, of towering tempo and climactic crescendo is to see without understanding.

  The symphony of revolution, then. Each note, resolved or unresolved, a living thing . . .

  In the birth-conditioning complex of the Denver Dome, a hundred and thirty-four life-support capsules stood untended as the sirens screamed. Medics had long since scuttled off to safety—or to seek their illusion of safety, in the savage streets. When the sound of the sirens finally faded, there was only a faint mechanical humming there in the vast, darkened room. After an interval, it ceased. The oxygen-inputs and the waste-cycle attachments no longer functioned. Now only the stereo system continued to pour soothing sound into the compartments housing each individual infant. To the crooning accompaniment of a lullaby, the babies turned blue and died . . .

  The Pitts farmarea Dome was like a transparent inverted tureen churning with a thick soup. In the central valley the hydroponics tanks had overflowed when the main reservoirs beneath them burst. Tidal waves gushed forth while blue-clad Technos fought frantically and futilely to dam the inundation with sandbags. But the water rose. And on its roiling surface bobbed plants and fronds and bubbling masses of foodstuff so that it was indeed soup—a steaming hell’s broth.

  The Technos sought higher ground as the water brought the roofs down around their heads. And the rising current roared on, melting the earth beneath their feet as they scrambled away, sweeping them down into the tangled, twisted mass covering the seething surface. Ropy skeins of vines enmeshed them, and they strangled in the clinging strands amidst the rising, racing waves.

  Brandon watched it happen from the observation post on the hillside. There was nothing he could possibly do to help them. The water might rise another five or six feet, he estimated, but no further. He was safe here. Safe in his domain—the poultry unit.

  Behind him on the hillside were the supercoops. Twenty white-roofed, circular structures, each housing five thousand fowl. A hundred thousand hens, producing an average total of eighty-nine thousand eggs per day. Each hen in its nest, the floor of each nest automatically opening into a rubber-lined egg-drop which deposited the eggs on the exterior conveyor belts. Everything in the darkened hen-pens operated automatically—the temperature-controls, the sanitary sprays, the individual grain-dispensers were all programmed, fully computerized. A single Techno, here on the observation post, could regulate the entire operation merely by monitoring a simple panel unit.

  For eight years now, Brandon had been one of those men, working a four-hour shift. And he was still working today, when the others had fled; here, on duty with the machine.

  Brandon didn’t give a bomb about the machine. Its functions had failed hours ago. He didn’t give a bomb about the chickens, either—in fact he hated them.

  During all these years he’d scarcely ever entered a supercoop. That was a job for the cullers, moving down the nest-rows in the crimson dusk of the heat-lamps. They were used to the duckings and the smell and the actual feel of a fluttering fowl beneath one’s fingers. To Brandon all this was distasteful, even nauseating. And an ordinary white domestic hen could be almost frightening in a way. Something about its shrill squawk, its brainless stare, its sudden and seemingly unmotivated movements—these phenomena disturbed him. There was something hysterical, something actually insane, about chickens. The cullers said that if a bird suffered an injury and a drop of blood appeared, its companions went mad and pecked it to death. Apparently the scent turned them into cannibals. Brandon could well believe it, and he loathed the creatures.

  But a hundred thousand hens laid eighty-nine thousand eggs a day, and the machine regulated their output, and Brandon regulated the machine. Doing a good job meant eventual promotion, and promotion meant moving from the observation post into Technobility headquarters here under the Pitts Dome. During all these years no one had noticed him in his menial task, but he had faith in the future. He’d cultivated patience, bided his time.

  And now the time had come. The time of opportunity. He knew it the moment he heard the news; knew what would happen, even anticipated that the others would flee. The others were no better than chickens themselves. The same idiot outcries, the same fearful flutterings at the first hint of danger.

  They hadn’t stopped to realize what Brandon realized—that there was no danger here on the hilltop. The water was below, and while it was rising now, it would soon subside. When it did, order would be restored under the Dome. The Technobility would return, and when they did they would find Brandon here at his post. They would recognize his devotion, his dedication to duty. They would reward him for safeguarding the source of eighty-nine thousand eggs per day.

  So it was well that the fools had run off. Let them waste their time trying to rescue other fools from the flood. Let them waste their lives.

  Brandon turned away from the spectacle below and went over to the panel unit. Once again he punched the emergency-buttons, but nothing happened. The mechanism was still dead as it had been for hours. No more temperature-balancing, no more spraying, no more movement of conveyor belts, no more grain-dispensing.

  No more grain-dispensing.

  Brandon frowned and scrabbled through loops of tape. When was the last feeding-operation recorded? He found the data he was looking for, scrutinized it. Units One Through Twenty—6:48 AM.

  But that was early this morning! And they were fed every two hours. Had to be. They could survive without spraying, without the conveyor belts moving their eggs; exist in a much lower temperature, if necessary. But without food they wouldn’t produce eggs; without food, they would soon sicken and die.

  Brandon’s frown deepened. What value would his superiors place on his decision to remain here if they returned to find him stupidly safeguarding a useless machine when the chickens were dead?

  Bomb it, they couldn’t die! They had to be fed, somehow. And there must be a way.

  Brandon racked his memory of the mechanism, the function of the feeding-units. The grain was stored in the hollow walls of the supercoops, the supply kept constant by an automatic replenishment funnelled from depositories outside. At timed intervals, the wall-slots opened momentarily, just long enough to release a measured amount of grain into a series of troughs inside the nests so that the chickens, in their individual partitions, could turn and feed.

  If the machine no longer controlled the operation, there must be a way of opening those wall-slots by hand. The grain was there, waiting to drop into the troughs. All he had to do was find an emergency control that operated manually—surely a possible power-failure had been anticipated when the system was set up.

  Brandon tried to remember if he’d heard anything about such arrangements from the cullers. He couldn’t recall, but there had to be something of the sort. Most likely it would be a release-lever controlling the circular wall of each individual supercoop.

  If so, he’d better find those levers, now. Those chickens must be fed.

  Brandon turned and started towards the nearest white-roofed supercoop. Behind and below him the water rumbled in the valley, and he imagined he could hear faint screams sounding amidst the relentless roar. But that wasn’t his concern; the chickens must be fed.

  He moved up to the side of the supercoop, examining the wall area near the door. Perhaps the manual controls were placed outside; he certainly hoped so, because already he was faintly repelled by the acrid odor emanating from the structure. The very wall seemed impregnated with the smell of the creatures within. But the whitewashed surface was bare.

  Brandon circled the supercoop, slightly su
rprised at its size. Still, after all, there were five thousand birds in each of these units. Five thousand birds, huddled in the fetid, stinking darkness, from the time of their impregnation until the time the cullers came to pluck them forth to their death. Cluck and ovulate, feed and die, there in the dark. A henhouse was a madhouse. He didn’t want to think about it.

  Brandon didn’t want to think about it, but he had to, now. Because he’d come full circle around to the entrance again and found the wall completely bare. Which meant the manual feeding-controls had to be inside, if there were any.

  There must be, he told himself. There had to be, for the chickens must be fed.

  And he would have to go inside.

  Brandon moved up to the door. It was secured only by a bolt, and he slid it back. Just standing there with the door still closed, the sour, reeking scent almost gagged him. He shook his head, trying to ignore the smell. The thing to do was to concentrate on the future. Consider the supercoop merely as an unpleasant anteroom leading to the luxurious quarters of the Technobility beyond. But in order to reach it, the chickens must be fed.

  He opened the door and stepped into darkness as it swung shut behind him. For a moment its depth surprised him; he’d forgotten that the infra-reds were off now that the power had failed. And this was a darkness unlike any he’d ever encountered; a darkness that filled his nostrils with its sable stench, assaulted his ears with a stealthy, rustling sound. A darkness that was alive.

  Brandon fumbled at the waist of his blue tunic, reaching for the flash clipped to his belt. Snapping it on, he directed the beam forward, then wished he hadn’t.

  Because there in the darkness were the eyes. Ten thousand little red eyes, peering up at him from the five thousand nesting-spaces circling the walls. Row upon row of tiny, unwinking eyes gleaming in the gloom. Curved orange beaks opened and closed in response to mindless impulse, and from the puffed, plump throats a harsh clucking issued and echoed. The chickens edged forward to the front of their nest-units, ringing him above and below in an encircling stare. Wherever he turned he saw the eyes, dazzling and dizzying in their red reflection, watching and waiting. Waiting to be fed.

  He swung the light to the wall beside the door. The beam swept over a flat surface. No controls here. He moved away, to the other side of the door, directing the flash before him. The wall was bare.

  Bomb it, the controls had to be here! Perhaps there was an opening leading directly to the slots.

  Brandon moved along, almost to the edge of the tiers of nest-units. The chickens perched at its outer rim squawked angrily and flapped their wings as they drew back. They were afraid of the light—good. But there were other rows behind him now, and these were in darkness; here the fowl peered out at him boldly, clucking shrilly in unnerving unison. Because they were hungry, of course. They were hungry, and he must feed them.

  But how, if there was no control? Could he possibly find a slot-opening which led to the grain-supply and do it by hand? Impossible—not five thousand individual feedings? And yet there had to be a solution, the chickens must be fed, if only he could think of a way—

  Brandon stumbled over a ridge in the center of the flooring, and the flash dropped from his hand. He recovered his balance without falling, but the flash rolled away, its beam extinguished. The chickens fluttered in fright, but Brandon couldn’t see them now. He could sense them all around him, he could smell them, he could hear them. But in order to see them, in order to see anything, he had to find his flash.

  Stooping cautiously, Brandon extended his hand in a semicircular sweep across the surface of the floor. His fingers encountered the rough ridge against which he had stumbled—a pile of boards, apparently. Suddenly he felt a sting and drew his hand back quickly. A splinter had scratched his palm—no, not scratched it, cut it. A shallow cut, but he could feel the wetness of the gash. Blood. He was bleeding.

  Bleeding—

  Brandon straightened quickly, trying to stem the flow, trying to peer through the darkness and find the door. He turned and took a stumbling step as the rustling rose around him, the noisome air billowed to the flapping of myriad wings.

  One drop of blood and they go mad and peck—

  Brandon screamed, but the crazed cackling rose in five thousand throats to drown the sound. Brandon ran, but the fluttering forms swooped down upon him from all directions and buried his body so that in the final moment he caught only a single, shadowy glimpse of thousands of glaring red eyes and thousands of curved, cruel beaks.

  And it was then, there in the shrieking darkness, that Brandon finally fed the chickens . . .

  In a lounge and recreation area of a Big Family Unit under the ToleDome, Hill watched the cast with the other residents. Like himself they were all oldsters whose mating-arrangements had terminated, assembled in residence here for final indoctrination courses before being Socially Secured. Hill sat watching the screen beside his best friend, a frail white-haired man named Hendricks.

  At the sight of the clips showing the Socially Secured plunging down into the sea there was general pandemonium. The crowd rose, babbling and cursing. In the darkness, Hendricks screamed and sprang to his feet, flailing blindly through the crowd and out of the room.

  Hill tried to follow, but the crush was too great. More than a quarter of an hour passed before he managed to fight his own way through the now-hysterical horde and hasten along the corridors that led to Hendricks’ quarters.

  Poor old bastard, he thought. Somebody’s got to help him, it hit him so hard. Bad enough for the rest of us, but a worse shock for him. Been counting on retirement for so long, that’s all he ever talked about. From the look on his face, he might have had a heart attack—

  But when he thrust his head through the doorway of Hendricks’ room he found the elderly man standing quietly beside the bed. He was smiling to himself and humming as he folded a stack of clothing neatly into an open container.

  “You all right?” Hill murmured.

  “Of course.” Hendricks didn’t look up as he carefully arranged a shirt on top of a slacksuit.

  Hill frowned. “What are you doing?”

  Hendricks glanced at him now, still smiling. “I thought I told you. I’m Socially Secured, you know. My flight’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

  “But there won’t be any flights!”

  Hendricks reached for another shirt. His smile was unchanged. “I’ve got my permit and seating-number right here,” he said. “That makes it official.”

  Hill moved forward, shaking his head. “You’re not going anywhere, don’t you understand that?”

  Hendricks shrugged. “I’m fifty years old. When you’re fifty you’re entitled to go. Entitled. That’s the law.”

  “Listen to me—”

  Hendricks slid the shirt into place. “Thirty years I worked. Thirty years I waited. Now I’m free to go. No more Domes. Just outdoors, fresh clean air. Do what I please. Sit in the sunshine.” The smile was fixed on his face as though he were staring at something far away.

  “Sunshine?” Hill shouted. “How can you talk about sunshine? You saw the cast—”

  Hendricks looked up. For a moment his gaze went blank and the smile faltered; then his eyes brightened and the smile became a ghastly grin.

  “What cast?” he whispered. “There was no cast.”

  Hill turned and stumbled out of the room. Behind him, still grinning, Hendricks picked up another shirt. As he placed it in the travel case he began to hum again, thinking of the sunshine tomorrow . . .

  “What are you doing?” In a scholasticity dorm in the Sanfran Dome, a naked girl raised her head from the pillow to stare at a naked boy who had risen from the bed to grope for a hypo syringe resting on the nightstand. As he poised the puncturing point above his flexed forearm, the girl gasped and shook her head quickly. “No more Libidose! You’ve had too much already—”

  The boy shrugged, then plunged the needle home, emptying the syringe into the throbbing vein. “You kno
w we’ll be out of air in less than an hour now,” he murmured. “Might as well die happy.” He lowered himself to the bed and took the girl into his arms.

  Three minutes later he was hemorrhaging from all bodily orifices; then, with a moan, he died. And this is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper . . .

  CHAPTER 15

  Graham was still unconscious. Hix and Dean carried him as Sigmond led them away from the copter and across the rooftop to the door of the stairs descending into the Sadie.

  Sigmond opened the door, then motioned to Archer. “You take Dean’s place,” he said. “I want him to go first, with the stunner, just in case.”

  Reluctantly, Archer grasped Graham’s feet. Dean, relieved of his burden, nodded at Sigmond and entered the doorway. He peered down the stairs ahead.

  “All clear,” he said.

  They started their descent, Dean in the lead, with Sigmond bringing up the rear.

  The stairs terminated on a balcony which circled the huge central arena below. Open cubicles lined the outer wall of the balcony and Sigmond glanced towards the largest one on their left.

  “Administration office,” he said. “That’s what we’re looking for.”

  They moved along the otherwise-empty balcony corridor and entered the room. “Air and power-units seem to be functioning.” Sigmond nodded approvingly. He turned to Hix and Archer, gesturing. “Put him over there.”

  The two men lowered Graham to a contour-couch, then moved up to join Sigmond and Dean before the glass viewing-wall at the far end of the office. Together, they stared down into the Sadie below.

  As Archer had predicted, it was nearly deserted. Apparently the attendant personnel had fled at the first warning, together with the officials who had occupied these offices above.