by Jim Stark
He knows I'm a Human Two, she said to herself. He knows I won't be able to avoid suspecting his motives for luring me out into the bush, but if I take out my Sniffer and start fishing around for the truth, he'll just feel sorry for me and walk me back home. It bothered her to find herself referring to Victor-E as “home,” even in the privacy of her thoughts ... especially in the privacy of my thoughts, she felt. She'd done that a couple of times since she got back from the Caribbean, and that was ... what? Stupid, she decided, especially now that most Evolutionaries don't even talk to us WDA types any more.
They turned a corner on the bank of a stream they'd been following for the last few minutes. It was called Dora's Creek, Lars had mentioned earlier, and apparently it ran all the way to Wilson Lake, on the Whiteside's estate (and beyond, to the Quyon River and the Ottawa River and eventually, the Atlantic). The way Lilly felt right now, if she'd had a bottle, she would stick a hateful note in it, cork it, and drop in into the creek in the faint hope that it would get fished out by Michael. The creak emptied out right beside his little cabin, she knew, and—
"There it is,” cried Lars, excitedly.
Lilly saw the old gray shack, and she couldn't help wondering who had built it, and why. It was perhaps seven yards square, and by the look of the faded, decaying boards, it had to be ... a hundred years old, she guessed. There was a single stair in front, and no door—just a doorway. The worn plank floor looked as if it had been swept recently. She wondered whether Lars had done that, and if so, why.
There were square holes in the east and west walls, where glass likely used to be. An ancient cast iron stove sat by the middle of the back wall, and its chimney pipe lay on the floor, tucked against the south wall. It was rusted completely through in places. One short chunk of chimney pipe hung precariously from a slumping roof above the stove, refusing to abandon its assigned duties.
Lars put a finger to his mouth and beckoned to Lilly to park herself in a back corner, on the floor. She complied, sitting cross-legged, and wiped a touch of perspiration from her forehead. Lars lit two Mini-Jays and simply handed her one. She hadn't expected this wrinkle, but she accepted, and she toked as she watched the lad go about his business.
He had picked up a twig during the walk, and now he took out a large hunting knife and began whittling in the doorway. Lilly had noticed similar wood chips around the stair outside, undoubtedly from past safaris, and concluded that this was part of the ritual ... or served some purpose that she would learn about in due course.
When he put away the knife, the twig was about a foot long, with a small “Y” at one end. He sat on the floor near Lilly, tied one end of the string around the bottom of the twig, untangled the rest of it—it was about eight feet long—and gave the other end to Lilly, reminding her with an upright finger to his lips that speaking was now forbidden. He got onto his knees, turned the cardboard box upside down and propped one end on the crotch of the twig. Then he butted his joint and, with a dramatic flourish, he opened the paper bag and pulled out...
"A peanut?” said Lilly as she snuffed out her Mini-Jay on the floor.
Lars shook the shell, rattling the peanuts inside, and placed it under the middle of the box. He put another peanut right beside the bottom of the twig, and crawling across the floor, he put six more in a straight line leading to the open doorway, with the ninth and last one ... Lilly was counting ... on the small step, just outside. Then he folded the paper bag, stuffed it in his vest pocket and crawled back to sit down beside his guest, throwing her a big grin and leaning against the back wall.
Lilly put a questioning look on her face, and partially pulled the string, as if to ask if that's what she was supposed to do.
Lars just tilted his head and flipped his eyebrows. It wasn't a “no,” but it wasn't a “yes” either. It was more or less: “You decide.” He then folded his arms and stared at the doorway, motionless.
After about ten minutes had passed, a brown squirrel peeked over the stair, and then jumped onto the stair. The little animal stood on its hind legs, and with its front paws barely touching each other, it looked like a jittery grandmother who'd been interrupted while knitting. The underside was a dull gray. It had large round eyes that seemed as confused as they were black, and its face wore a gray mask and a tiny white muzzle. It took only two seconds to survey the situation through a series of head-flicks, and then it scampered off. “It's called a red squirrel,” Lars whispered, “even though it's brown ... and gray ... don't ask."
A minute later, it reappeared, and in a lightening move, it scooped up the outermost peanut in its tiny black paws, tucked it into a cheek, and ran. Lars looked at Lilly, smiled, and held up one finger.
After another few minutes had passed, the squirrel returned. The next peanut was right on the threshold of the old shack. The creature was up on his haunches, its tail flicking nervously, staring inside at the two hunters. Lilly was amused by its dilemma, its indecision. It ran away and disappeared for several seconds, but then it reappeared and took the calculated risk, escaping unscathed. Lars held up two fingers.
The next peanut was a foot or so inside the door, and when the squirrel came back, it seemed to change its mind half a dozen times. Lilly stared into its eyes as it looked at her, looked at the peanut, retreated, returned, looked at Lars, and finally made its decision. It sprinted in, scooped up the peanut, shoved it into its cheek and raced for freedom. Lars held up three fingers.
The next several peanuts brought similar results, and Lilly had to admit to herself that this was fun, that she was truly enjoying the bizarre trap that her ... friend, she supposed he was ... had laid for the hapless little beast. She was accustomed to power, but this was different. There was no law saying that what they were doing was right or wrong. It was just the way it was. Soon she would use her power of intellect to win an irrelevant victory over a tiny dumb animal. Maybe, she reminded herself. I haven't won yet, and it's not for sure that I can keep from laughing.
By the time the squirrel got to the second-last peanut, the one beside the base of the twig, it seemed to have decided that these two humans were no threat. The box, however ... well, that was another matter. It was darker in there, and the squirrel's approach this time was frantically fitful, full of reversals and uncertain glances at Lilly, Lars, the box, the doorway and the peanut. It finally lunged for the prize and fled, faster than ever.
There was one peanut left, the one that was right under the box. Lars held up one flared hand and three fingers of the other. The ninth peanut—and the hunters—waited. What will the squirrel do? Lars wondered. What will Lilly do?
The squirrel didn't return for several minutes, and when it did show up, it made its way to a position a few inches from the box after only a little hesitation. But then it went back half way to the door-opening three times, each time using its eyes to check out all the relevant factors—the box, the escape route, the eyes of the dormant humans. Lilly felt her heart racing, and she had to struggle to keep her breathing even and quiet ... and to not laugh.
All of a sudden, the squirrel made a mad dash for the peanut, and Lilly pulled the string so hard the twig flew backwards and almost hit her in the face. “Gotcha!” she shouted. Lars collapsed in laughter as the box started moving jerkily around the floor. Lilly was laughing too, and the more they laughed, the more the box scooted this way and that, emitting squeaks and panicky scratching sounds.
Lilly crawled across the rough floor to the twitching box, laughing all the way. “So ... should I let it go?” she asked Lars, but her fellow hunter was not inclined to give her advice. He just shrugged. “Freedom!” hollered the WDA agent as she lifted the box and watched the terrified squirrel bolt for the doorway ... without the peanut.
"And next time be more careful, eh?” shouted Lars after the long-gone quarry. “We humans are not to be trusted."
Chapter 50
WORLD IDENTITY BANK
Thursday, March 17, 2033—12:30 p.m.
Mich
ael showered and shaved at the manor, and then he dressed for the trip to the office. Nothing much ever changed on the estate, with the single exception of Victor's recent revivification out at the lodge, and the ex-hermit was being absurdly secretive about his activities, so even this major change hardly counted.
But that was not to say that nothing had changed for the Whiteside family! Michael had made mental notes of the several things he had to discuss with Becky. At the top of the list was the fact that their son had shaken up the world pretty heavily a few days ago. Michael couldn't understand why Randy hadn't called or returned his messages since Sunday, and he had no idea how the boy had suddenly become the president of USLUC, or why he'd agreed to do that without talking it over with his parents. And Michael didn't know how his son had arrived at that idea for stopping the demonstrations, or why he had assumed the WDA was guilty when he'd called for civil disobedience on a global scale.
Also, Michael had to go over the sale of the company with Becky, and his reasons for accepting the nomination for the Liberal leadership, and the dicey question of what role she would play, if any, in the campaign. He needed to tell Becky why he had allowed the company to participate in Sheena Kalhoun's Netcast three days ago, and then there were all the details he had to go over with the Board—details Becky really should know about if she was to meet her own “due diligence” obligations. And ... he had to talk to Becky and the Board about the implications of Gil Henderson's new column, the one in which he explained the basis for his February 14 “accusation” against Sheena Kalhoun. Take a week off, and the world does a goddam somersault, Michael thought as he reviewed his appearance in the mirror. And ... and I have to talk to Becky about Lilly at some point.
When Michael had first arrived home, his young daughter Venice was there, waiting for him—it was a “P.D.” day, a professional development day, at her private school. She had patiently endured her grandmother's inevitable whining session with him, and then she told him about school stuff, about her friends, about her visits with Victor out at the lodge, and about how “my own dad could have at least told me he'd be gone away for a whole week."
Now, after his apologies and ablutions, Michael was freshly attired and felt like a new man, except for the knot of guilt in his stomach. “Do you want to come to the office with me in the helicopter?” he asked hopefully when he found Venice still waiting outside his bedroom door. “We can be back home by suppertime."
"No thanks,” she said. She'd never said no to that invitation before. It hurt her to see the disappointment in her father's eyes—and yet it pleased her, somehow. “I got a bunch of Netstuff to do this afternoon."
"Really,” said Michael as he headed down the spiral staircase, holding his daughter's hand. “School stuff?” he asked.
"Nope,” said Venice. “I've started to record my life profile on the Net. They said with the wib opening up soon, it's a—"
"What the Dickens is a ‘wib'?” Michael cut in. (He knew, of course, but he wanted her to explain her perception of the thing.)
"W—I—B ... the World Identity Bank,” explained Venice in that special children's tone that means: “Everybody knows that—sheesh."
"Ah, a new acronym?” asked Michael. Just what the world needs, he thought.
"Anyway, they said it's a good idea to start young, eh?” Venice carried on, ignoring her father's test word “acronym,” which she knew from the Netshow Jeopardy anyway. “And then after I'm dead my kids and grandkids can see me talking all about my life and times when I was at all different ages! Starting now, when I'm twelve! Neat eh?"
Christ, thought Michael, that WIB thing sure gets kids thinking about the big picture, the long term. And ... and ... the thought caused a peristaltic wave of ice to slither up his backbone and shrink his scalp ... and it sure puts me on my best behavior, to know that there'll be a video record of how I was perceived by my children at different ages. Yet another chill passed through him ... and by everyone else who knew me, or thought they did. “Well,” he said, “I'm going to watch this new WDA Netcast with Mom, and then I'll be leaving, so if you change your mind..."
Venice went dancing off to ... well, it used to be her playroom, but now she called it her “office,” apparently. Michael went into the den that had been his dad's favorite room, and found Becky waiting. Delicious images of Lilly's writhing body flashed through his mind. God, she's so ... so wild! He smiled, bent over from behind her chair and kissed his wife's cheek. “How've you been, my dear?” he asked out of habit and courtesy ... he did not want to know about her body writhing around with one of her “friends,” as she called them. Good for the gander, good for the goose, he thought ... I suppose.
"Just fine, dear,” she said, smiling. “How was your trip with Lilly?"
She's probably guessing about Lilly, Michael figured, but no point in lying. “Very ... nice,” he lied. “I'm glad to be out of the company,” he said, moving the focus away from his Caribbean tryst, “but I've got all sorts of details and loose ends to sort out ... with the Board ... this afternoon."
"Me too,” said Becky. “I mean ... not with the Board, but for my own life, you know. Now that all our money will be liquid ... well, that will be—uh—interesting, for us."
Michael didn't know exactly what she'd meant by that, but it was almost time for Sheena Kalhoun's appearance on the Net, so he ordered the sound on and left all else for later. “Wonder what she's got up her sleeve,” he said absently as Kalhoun's hefty image filled the huge screen.
People of all nations, citizens of Earth. I have five announcements to make today, so I'll try to be brief.
Number one. I expect you've all heard about the World Identity Bank that we've set up in the desert in California, USA. Well, it's now in operation on a limited basis. There may be some delays getting your entries archived or retrieved at first, but we will be smoothed out in a week or so, I expect.
Now the World Identity Bank ... or “the WIB,” as we've come to refer to it around here ... this is another free service of the WDA, and it represents your opportunity to leave your life story for future generations of your family ... well, for whomever you please, actually. Of course the contributions that you make will be held by the WIB in confidence, and access is limited to the people you select ... maybe only your direct descendants, or maybe anyone who wants to browse, or maybe nobody at all for a hundred years after your death ... whatever and whomever you say. It's entirely up to you, and makes no difference to the WIB.
With our new Z-chip arrays, storage space just isn't a problem. If everyone on Earth recorded all their waking hours every day of their lives, the current installation that we have built would still last for three hundred years. So enter as much as you want, or as little. You can always take stuff out later, if you want, and of course you don't have to use this service at all. We just wanted to offer you another concrete program that reflects the WDA Charter, the sentence—it's in Article Seventeen, for those who want to look it up—that says that every human life has great value and should be protected and preserved in all possible ways. We took that word “preserved” to be a serious obligation, as you can see by what we have now done.
Sheena Kalhoun paused, checked her watch, and raised her eyebrows to realize she'd already used up almost two minutes of time ... two minutes times ten billion people, she calculated. How many lifetimes is that?
I want to move along, but I feel compelled to mention a few more things about the WIB.
The human race existed for hundreds of thousands of years before you and I arrived on the scene, and it's too bad that all those billions of life stories from the past are lost forever. We can't change the past, but we can certainly lay the groundwork for a better future.
Family has always been the cornerstone and the basic building block of society, but most of us only get to know seven generations or so. With the average life span now approaching ninety-one for women and eighty-seven for men, most of us get to know our parents, our grandpa
rents, and our great-grandparents—at least when we're young. And we get to know our own generation—a brother or a sister and whatever cousins we have. As we get older, we get to know our child or children, our grandchildren, and our great-grandchildren. And of course all those we get to know get to know us. But it's worth considering just how many men and women of the distant future will be interested in your life profile. Some of them just won't be interested, of course, but let's look at the numbers.
With our ZPG policy—zero population growth—most couples have two children. That means most people will have four grandchildren, eight great-grandchildren, sixteen great-great-grandchildren ... you see how the number of descendants gets to double every generation? The chart that's now on your screen shows you what the next seven hundred years will look like.
If we assume two kids per couple and three generations per century, then a hundred years after your birth, your four grandchildren will have had eight new kids—your great-grandchildren—who are your direct descendants. In three generations more, two hundred years after your birth, that number will have doubled three more times, so there will be sixty-four kids born who are your direct descendants. Then three hundred years after your birth, there will be, say, five hundred kids born who are your direct descendants. Four hundred years after your birth, there will be perhaps four thousand kids born who are your direct descendants. Five hundred years after your birth, there will be thirty-two thousand kids who are your direct descendants. Six hundred years after your birth, there will be approximately two hundred and fifty thousand kids born who are all your direct descendants. And seven hundred years after your birth, here will be about two million kids born who are your direct descendants. And ... well, you get the idea.