“I’ve got the gist. Do you work for Hurt or something?”
“I don’t understand. Clearly I’m dreaming. There could be no other explanation. I’m working out my own Individuation in some sort of mystical representation of the Human Collective Unconscious!” the man said enthusiastically.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t catch your name. Mine’s Angharad.”
“My name,” the man said, “is Jung. Dr. Carl Jung.”
Angharad shook her big head and sighed. “I was aFreud of that.”
“NAME?”
“Charles Harrington Haversham.”
“Biocheck code and brain-scan ID numeral readout?”
Charley Haversham rattled off the letters and numbers in mnemonic singsong. The security person played a concert of clicks on a sophisticated keyboard. This was the new kind of brain-scan, Charley realized. A helmet wasn’t necessary. They just focused a beam on your brain and zap! Instant identification verification.
On the slanted screen, colors swirled and swayed, eventually coalescing into an obscure language which the bored-looking man in the plaid jump suit noted briefly, then wiped.
“Yes, Mr. Haversham. We’ve been expecting you,” one of the security men—chap with a bushy mustache and stooped shoulders—said. “You’ve cut it fine, though, I must say. Last shuttle, and you’ve barely made it in time.”
“Yes, had a spot of trouble with my ground-effect car.”
“Brain-scan matches perfectly, Al,” the security man at the computer console piped. He swiveled his chair to face the new arrival. “So. You’re the new maintenance man for the Star Fall. Lucky dog. I put in for assignment on that boat myself. Ever been up there?”
“No. My first time.”
“Pretty incredible stuff. Check out the Floating Gardens and the Waterless Ocean. Paradise. Oh.” The man pointed down at the omnicleaner that had just thrummed up to Haversham’s leg like some obedient dog. “What is that?”
“New model robocleaner. I designed it specially for heavy-duty repair work on the Star Fall’s sewage system. I thought I had made the necessary preparations to allow it to accompany me on the shuttle. We’re pals, you see.” Haversham petted the unit. The robot squeaked as though with pleasure.
The two security men exchanged knowing glances.
“Just a minute. I’ll check,” Al said, examining his readout board. He pressed buttons. New information squiggled. “Well, my goodness. Right you are, Mr. Haversham. If you don’t mind, we’ll just have to a quick analysis of your—uhm—friend.”
“Of course. But I don’t want to keep the shuttle waiting.”
“Just have to make sure you haven’t got some antimatter, right Al?”
“We don’t want another Ort Eath,” the other returned.
“No,” Charley Haversham said. “Of course we don’t.” That had been a rum business, he’d heard. He certainly hoped that the second voyage of the Star Fall would be nowhere near as eventful as the maiden voyage had been. No, all Charley Haversham wanted was to do his work and enjoy the cruise on his spare time.
Fidgeting a bit, Charley started to check his wristwatch.
Funny. Wasn’t on his arm. He could have sworn he’d slipped it on before he left the Mune in Joisy. As far as he could tell, he had his bags and everything else. You dufus, he scolded himself. Just goes to show. You always forget something.
Still, he’d never forgotten his wristwatch before. And the amethyst ring that Debbie had given him last week! Gone too! Extreme annoyance passed through him, then suddenly it didn’t bother him at all. Strange.
“No bombs,” Al announced. “If you and your, uhm, pal will just pass along on up that ramp, you’ll be seated and the robot situated for the shuttle flight up. Have a nice journey, Mr. Haversham.”
The other security man grinned. “Yeah, you lucky bastard.”
Charley Haversham hefted his luggage and began the climb up the ramp to the shuttle. The robocleaner scampered behind him, emitting squeaky code-pulses. “Okay,” Charley said, “you carry the baggage.” He set his handled pack down on the omnicleaner, which industriously buzzed up the slope. At the top, the robot deposited the luggage in the plainly marked bin, which promptly processed and swallowed the bag, excreting it no doubt in the shuttle’s bowels.
A stewardess met Charley with a smile and conducted him to his seat. A robo-steward met the omnicleaner and deposited it in the specially prepared robot quarters. A-Is are the niggers of the universe, thought Charley Haversham, settling down. A pretty waitress promptly filled his drink order for a vodka tonic liberally sprinkled with a drug that would prevent antigrav sickness. He strapped himself into his plush seat, then peered about at the last shipment of passengers and crew heading up for the luxury cruise. Now that the Star Fall was privately owned, the fares had increased significantly. Charley had examined the fliers a dozen times, awed by the glossy pictures and dreamy descriptions of the experiences awaiting him.
That this voyage was a trumpeted Arts Cruise did not particularly interest him. Now that the Star Fall was pure high-class, its owner had apparently decided to go more for the fine-arts cultural audience, reasoning no doubt that the Star Fall should be some kind of floating, living museum, carting the best of human artistic achievement all over the galaxy.
Charley Haversham could care less. Charley was there for the ride past the planets in their stately dance about the sun. Charley was there to see the mind-blowing light shows of Underspace first hand. Charley wanted to taste the air of different planets, place his groundhog feet on soil forged by alien suns. Charley wanted to gawk at the aliens, light the trip fantastic with his enthusiastic eyes and have a walloping good time. Oh, sure, he’d have to work. More than usual, true. But what things he would learn! What glorious experiences he would have between the plumbing and mucking out.
Somewhat over two hours later (Charley couldn’t tell—time had lost all meaning, what with the vodka and the wonder of viewing the Earth from space) the Star Fall hove into view, dazzlingly bright and majestic. Its reflective surfaces shone with the sun. Automatically, a filter flicked over the vu-plates.
The Star Fall had always looked to Charley Haversham like a hive built by technological bees zoned out on drugs. Its geometry seemed all wrong, out of kilter with how things were supposed to look. Nonetheless, it owned a weird splendor, an alien majesty that somehow fit Charley’s concept of how things must be on different planets.
Different than I’ve ever imagined.
Billions of humans inhabited Earth. Occasionally some were siphoned to a new colony of planets, but those folks were given strictly third-class, almost blind passage. Few people ever got the opportunity to really experience the universe any way except second hand. Charley Haversham was getting that chance now, and he was thrilled.
With a gentle thunk and vague clang, the shuttle docked with an access port of the Star Fall. Passengers were hustled off. Only a few hours separated the Star Fall from its departure for its second voyage. Final preparations had to be made; the hatches had to be battened down, Charley thought.
The technician found his luggage, breezed through a second security checkpoint, then rode a pneumatic car down to the maintenance department. He felt a little queasy, now, about to check into an unfamiliar work detail staffed by people he’d never met before.
The little car swooshed to a stop. The door popped open.
The maintenance level was like no janitors’ quarters Charley Haversham had ever seen before. Plush carpet wall to wall. Attractive secretaries at the reception desk. Exotic flowers bloomed here and there, tastefully placed beside the equally colorful operation screens which charted the functions of the department, using detailed schematics of the Star Fall. Lights blipped dazzlingly.
Charley wandered, stunned, to the front desk.
“May I help you?” a pretty blonde in a spa
ngled jump suit chirped. I wouldn’t mind jumping that suit, Charley thought.
Absently, Charley produced his plastoid ID card. “I’m going to work here. Just got in on the last shuttle.”
Crisply, the blonde slotted his card. The display screen wiggled, conjuring sudden letters and numbers. “Ah yes. Mr. Haversham. Welcome. You’re expected. If you’ll wait just one moment, I’ll print out your lodging details and your work shifts.”
Paper cranked from a nearby machine. The receptionist sleekly wheeled to another machine, where she manufactured a special key.
She returned with a mound of plastic veined with flashing lights. “This, Mr. Haversham, is your personally programmed magnetic key. Your compartment is in L Section, just down that corridor. It’s good to have you with us.”
“Oh. I almost forgot. My colleague, the omnicleaner mentioned on my papers. Where can I pick it up?”
The receptionist examined the readout board. “Section Z, Mr. Haversham.”
Still riding the vodka-and-shuttle-grav high, Charley leaned casually on the desk. “Any chance of a lonely groundhog getting a personal guided tour?”
The receptionist smiled sweetly. “That’s very nice, but the rule is, no intradepartmental intersexing.”
“I never heard of that before. Who came up with that?”
“Our illustrious ruler, Earnest Evers Hurt. I almost forgot: Here’s the rule book.” She gave him a booklet.
“Who does this Hurt guy think he is, anyway—God?”
“I do believe he has aspirations, Mr. Haversham.”
* * *
Todd Spigot woke up, facedown in the grass.
His head hurt. His body ached terribly.
A gentle spring night still filled the sky. Lifting himself, he called out, “Cog? Cog, where are you?”
No sign of an omnicleaner. No sign of a leg.
Crickets chirped in Todd’s ear.
The shuttle! he thought. He was supposed to catch the shuttle. What time was it?
He glanced at his wrist. Luminous dials sparkled. Funny ...
Two A.M.! Why that was about the time ...
In the distance, a boom blasted, waving sound across the land.
Todd wheeled about. Riding a column of fire, a ship streaked rapidly into the night sky.
He’d missed the last shuttle to the Star Fall.
He moaned and staggered to the roadway, head pounding with its peculiar pain.
“Cog?” he moaned. “Cog, where are you? You can’t just leave me!”
How long, how far he walked, he didn’t know. A dazed confusion seemed to fill him. The next thing he knew, a floater cruised down, pulling beside him.
“You have an ID, mister?” a uniformed man demanded.
“Yes,” Todd replied. “I have an idea. Take me home. I want to park myself before a three-dee unit, drink beer, go to sleep, and get up and work on my mining computer and—”
“Uh, pal. I mean identification.”
Todd patted his pockets. An odd sensation of unfamiliarity with the placement passed over him. No, wait. Of course he didn’t have an ID. He’d been wearing prison clothes.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, well, we’re going to have to brain you and—”
“Police brutality!” Todd cried.
“No. We just gotta do a brain scan, mister. You know, check your Identity Pattern. We all got unique Identity Patterns, and they’re all on file with Earth Central. You’re on Classified Government Land without an ID, which gives us the right to ‘brain’ you. Okay, Howie. Hoist out the helmet.”
Abruptly, Todd sat down in a miserable heap. “Don’t bother,” he said, hands to face. “My name is Todd Spigot. You’re looking for me. You think I killed a shrink, and I escaped because you want to scrub my brain, and I really don’t care now anyway, because I just want to forget I’m even alive—”
“Hey, fella. Take it easy. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” The policeman patted his shoulder. “You don’t look like much of a killer to me. We’ll just do a quick scan on you, confirm your story, then take you down to headquarters, where you can have a nice cup of kaff.”
The officer helped him to the floater, where Howie fitted him with cap and wires. Buttons were pushed, switches nudged. Lights flashed, static hummed. “Yep,” Howie said. “The scan matches up to Spigot, Todd, and we got an alert to pick him up.”
“Well, at least I won’t have to go back on the Star Fall. At least I’ll never had to deal with that maniac leg again.”
Their faces puzzled in the ghostly pink glow, the officers glanced at each other. Then the brainscan machine beeped frantically.
“Hey, Al,” Howie said. “For the love of—Look at this!”
Todd turned away and slumped back into a seat.
Whatever it was, he didn’t want to look.
* * *
Earnest Evers Hurt sat on the bridge, watching Operations smoothly under way. He sat quietly excited, in his private cubical with its unique atmosphere mix. The comfortable feeling of control coursed through his veins like effervescent adrenaline. Finally, the old man thought. Finally, the true beginning of my life.
A bell chimed softly from a panel. A pink light registered its presence in the dimness of the little room. A gentle warning. He was getting too excited.
Then the spell hit.
Disintegration. Crystalline consciousness, hard, brittle—cracked ... shattered ... pieces of alien planets ... collected, fused ...
Dizziness swarmed in his head. Disorientated, he groped for himself ...
... Star Fall ... Core ... biobot ... I am, I am, I am ...
Hurt held tenaciously to his identity, like Jacob to the heels and robes of the departing angel, and he wrestled, he clung. Strange visions and alien emotions whirlpooled within him
... I am ... I am ... earnestevershurt Earnest Evers Hurt ...
He exhaled violently. He pushed his arm past the monitoring sensors, into the maintenance slot. Needles jumped, measuring. The computer considered the necessary biochemical noodling, the electrical pulse necessary to return Hurt’s neural system and brain to the homeostasis that allowed him to outlive his normal human lifespan.
With a soft buzz, the machine worked. He could feel the familiar spritzing of hypo-sprays, smell the increased air ionization as the machines adjusted his brain activity aura. At this stage of his plan, he could not afford the week-long hangover that the inebriation of enthusiasm would cause.
A blue light, a chime: signals for renewed equilibrium.
Hurt drew his arm from the machine, absently rubbing it as he leaned to his comm-unit, breathing easier. “Status report.”
He had to get his mind on business. That had been a bad attack.
“Last shuttle docked, delivered passengers, departed,” the Arachnid biobot, his personal liaison with Operations, said.
“Departure time from Earth orbit?”
“Undeviated from schedule,” the biobot answered. “In all aspects.”
“You have what you want then?” Hurt said.
A pause. “Yes. Sweetheart, old pal, snoogums, you were entirely right. My previous desires were too blunt, unsubtle. I delight in the cavorting courses of your devious brain. I anticipate future events ... greatly.”
“That pleases me. Without your intrinsic cooperation, all my preparations and wishes would be for naught.”
“Glad to be of help, chum. I’m in for the fun, you know.”
And the revenge, thought Hurt.
“We make a good team. How are things on the bridge?”
Hurt glanced casually at a screen. “Fine, dear fellow. By the way, I have cut all communications to and from the Star Fall.”
“Won’t that cause suspicion? Inquiry?”
“You forget. I do not intend to r
eturn. The Fabrication is already in generation. Random signals may interfere. Can you erect some sort of blanking shield?”
“We’ll have to pulse at least an explanation or they’ll try to board. I’ll come up with something. You’ll have to let that out.”
“I believe that can be arranged.”
“Thou hast spoken, O master!” the Arachnid said mockingly. “I only obey. Over and out.”
A smile played on Hurt’s dark features.
Fortunate the thing was a touch mad.
Madness had its uses, no question. As he patiently watched the crew go about their business with their crisp bland uniforms, their short hair, their efficient motions, Hurt considered madness.
He was a little mad himself. Hurt realized that, used it. Though perhaps madness was the wrong term.
Obsessed.
Yes. Better. This obsession had motivated him, defined his existence for so many years, formed his present state, created the now of Earnest Evers Hurt.
He knew the terms for it. Curiosity. Egoism. Fanaticism. The Faust Complex. But he also knew that when his body needed food, that was called hunger. Knowing the term, knowing the biological reasons for the desire, did not dim the physical necessity one jot. The same was true with his mental urges.
Earnest Evers Hurt did not want to die.
He courted immortality.
Most humans, after discovering death and the personal possibilities, did one out of three things. They ignored it and went about their lives. They accepted it as their personal end and simply used it as a second margin to their existence. Or they latched on to some religious or philosophical discipline which promised personal survival after the heart stopped beating, the brain stopped functioning.
Not Hurt. He had no intention of going gently into that good night as Dylan Thomas had termed it.
He had been born into the Hurt empire, genetically manufactured by his father specifically to become the most powerful businessman in the known galaxy. Fashioned from the raw chromosomal material of Artemus Hurt, molded in a unique educational discipline devised by the old man himself, Earnest Evers Hurt had been drilled from his very conception in the art of power and control.
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