The Metallic Muse

by Lloyd Biggle Jr

  “I’d like to talk with Donald.” “I’ll call in.”

  Pete went over to a control point to make his call, and he came back shaking his head. “Donald’s in the Tank, but they don’t know where he is. He probably didn’t make any special request. Sometimes a writer just looks around until he finds something that interests him.”

  “I see,” Kalder said. He’d studied the writers’ production records with care, and he had a hunch that Donald could give him a clue as to what was wrong. Donald had been the most prolific man on the staff, even though his output had fallen along with that of the others. A month before, his work had suddenly stopped altogether. Kalder tried to get in touch with him and found that he had entered the Tank and stayed there. He had signed in, and he had not signed out. Kalder wanted to know what he was doing.

  “Donald has been in here for a month,” he said to Pete. “Isn’t that a little long to be just looking around?”

  “Well,” Pete said, “he’s a writer.”

  An elephant trumpeted in the jungle, and a rifle shot rang out. Down on the lake a rowboat came into view rounding a point. Pete handed Kalder his binoculars. “It’s Jeff Powell,” he said.

  Kalder watched the awkward movements of the man rowing the boat. “Where would be a good place to look for Donald?” he asked.

  “Couldn’t say. If he hasn’t asked for anything special, he could be anywhere. It’s a big place.”

  “I think I’d better talk with Barney,” Kalder said.

  He went to the control point and asked Barney to have his men keep a lookout for Walter Donald. Barney said he’d check with the concessionaires; if Donald had been in the Tank for a month he had to be getting food from somewhere or he was dead.

  Kalder returned to the hilltop, sat down in the thick, simulated grass, and watched the man in the boat. Jeff Powell was getting ready to fish. Kalder had seen enough films to vaguely understand the process. In fact, he thought he could have given Powell a few pointers.

  After several timid gestures, Powell managed a feeble cast. As his lure hit the water the lake boiled and erupted. Powell knelt in the boat, pole bent double, and battled the monstrous fish.

  A trio of shark fins crossed the lake in precise formation and circled the boat. Powell hauled valiantly on his line. The fish sounded, returned to the surface, and suddenly shot away under the boat. Powell spun, lost his balance, and toppled overboard.

  “Damn,” Pete said. “There he goes again.”

  Kalder raised his binoculars and watched Powell drown.

  It was a drawn-out process. He gurgled and threshed, and his pathetic cries were frightening. Finally he sank out of sight.

  “Barney said one more time would be the end of it,” Pete said. “We’re not going to let him near the water again until he learns how to swim. The Board is complaining about our resuscitation bills.”

  Two men came hurrying along the shore. They splashed into the water, hauled out Powell, and carried him away.

  “We ought to leave him be dead,” Pete said. “He don’t write nothing but romances anyway.”

  “If he writes anything at all, we need him,” Kalder said.

  An airplane roared overhead. Kalder watched it curiously, saw a man jump, saw a parachute billow out. The man floated down toward the lake, and the shark fins headed for him the moment he hit the water. He got a raft inflated and pulled himself in just as the sharks made their rush.

  Pete chuckled. “If Barney ever put teeth in them sharks, you’d be missing a lot of writers.”

  Kalder continued to watch the airplane, which cut its motors abruptly and was lowered to the ground behind the trees on the other side of the lake.

  Another shot rang out in the jungle. “Ready to move on?” Pete asked. Kalder got to his feet obediently, and they circled the lake.

  At the next control point Kalder called Barney. “Donald is hanging out around Area Five,” Barney said. “You can probably see it from where you are. It’s the big forest.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “Don’t know. That’s where he’s been eating. One of the concession men knows him. If you want to find him, tell Pete. He’ll help you look.”

  Beyond the lake they came to a desert. They plodded onward, sinking deeply into loose sand, and in a small ravine they happened on a dying writer. His clothing was ragged, his figure emaciated. He croaked after them, “Water! Water!”

  They walked on. “That’s Bill Morris,” Pete said. “He asked Barney what it felt like to die of thirst, and Barney told him to go out in the desert and find out.”

  Kalder nodded. Some of the writers used the Tank as a direct source of information. Others seemed to use it as a diversion—Jeff Powell, for example, coming in for adventure but never writing about it. Bill Morris would be getting an excellent idea of what it would be like to die of thirst in a desert, but it seemed to Kalder that there must be quicker ways of discovering what a writer would need to know. Morris certainly had been there for several days, and that was a big investment in time to acquire the background for one short scene in an hour film.

  They left the desert and crossed gently rolling farm land. Cattle grazed by a small, meandering stream. Oddly enough, they were real cattle. Never having seen any, Kalder stopped to stare and discovered that they weren’t grazing. They were eating cakes of something or other that had been dyed green to match the synthetic grass.

  Pete guided Kalder to the right, and they entered the forest. “Area Five,” Pete announced. “Shouldn’t be hard to find him.”

  They examined the forest from one end to the other. The large synthetic trees were widely spaced, short synthetic grass covered the ground, and there was no undergrowth. Neither was there any sign of Donald.

  They retraced their steps. This time Kalder stopped in a central clearing to examine what looked like an enormous post. He thumped on metal. “What’s this?”

  “Vent,” Pete said. “Or maybe it’s an air intake or a solar power inlet. They’re all over the place.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “Machinery and stuff.”

  Kalder started around the enormous circumference. Because he was watching the surrounding forest, he was completely surprised when his hand came in contact with a door handle.

  He opened the door and staggered backward, hands clasped to his eyes. The vent stretched upward an interminable distance and ended in a blaze of light. It was a moment before Kalder’s vision returned to him, and when it did he saw, a couple of feet below the door, a metal grating that spanned the vent. On the grating lay a man. Pete had caught up with him, and he looked in and exclaimed, “That’s Donald!”

  It was a big man with blond hair, but his skin was burned black. Kalder said in alarm, “Donald?”

  “Leave me alone,” Donald said. “Get the hell out of here.”

  He lay face down on the grating. He was nude, and he did not move when he spoke.

  “Maybe he’s sick,” Pete said. “He don’t look so good. Shall we take him out?”

  Donald sat up. “Sick?” The dark skin of his face twisted with convulsive bitterness. “You’re the sick ones. The dead Ones. I’m getting some sunshine. This is one of the few places on this cursed planet where any can be had. Care to join me? Then get out!”

  Kalder introduced himself, explaining that he was concerned because Donald had been in the Tank for a month and because he wasn’t writing. Would Donald mind telling Kalder what he was trying to do?

  “I’m trying to bore myself,” Donald said. He lay down again and added, “It isn’t easy.”

  Kalder and Pete withdrew quietly and closed the door. “Where’s the nearest exit?” Kalder asked, and Pete obligingly led him away.

  That night Kalder sought out his father, to the older man’s intense surprise. Dr. Kalder had wanted his son to study medicine. Kalder knew only too well the deadly monotony of the medical profession, and he had no difficulty in finding more amusing ways of spending his
time. It was only when he learned that June Holbertson’s family sternly disapproved of a young man of twenty-seven who had no occupation or profession that he decided to go to work.

  Dr. Kalder was on night duty at a small branch clinic. There were no patients, and he had sent his interns off to bed. “How’s the job going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kalder said. “Tell me, Dad, what’s the value of TV?”

  The doctor said thoughtfully, “My guess is that without it we’d have a serious situation on our hands in a matter of days, if not hours. Maybe a revolution. Why?”

  “Tell me why,” Kalder said. The doctor regarded him perplexedly, and he quickly added, “I just want to hear someone talk about it.”

  Dr. Kalder sighed. “So you’re discouraged already. You’ll have to learn to apply yourself, Bruce. What will happen to the human race if you youngsters shirk your responsibilities? When the big move comes there won’t be enough educated and professional people to keep things going.”

  “TV,” Kalder reminded him. “Why?”

  “It’s rather obvious, isn’t it? Most people have nothing to do. It keeps them occupied.”

  “It seems to me that there’s lots of things people could be doing. We keep hearing about the housing shortage. I saw a mob of people moving out of Q tunnel over in Section Twenty-seven. I don’t know where they went unless they moved in with friends and relatives. People have all the time to watch TV. Why doesn’t someone put a few of them to digging out more living space?”

  “It’s been tried,” the doctor said. “They won’t do it. That’s what brought on the last riot. That was seven—no, eight years ago.”

  “Why won’t they do it?”

  “They’re satisfied the way things are. The four hours of work a week they accept, because it’s always been that way. As long as we’re able to feed and clothe them, and they’re healthy, and they have fifteen films to choose from every hour, they’re satisfied. They won’t demand more, but they won’t take less! Oh, they’d like better quarters and less crowding if someone else would make it possible, but as for doing it themselves—why, the men grumble about that four hours a week, and the women grumble about the time they spend away from TV waiting to buy their supplies.”

  “I see,” Kalder said. He got to his feet. “How many doctors will we have thirty years from now?”

  “Enough for the present situation. Health is pretty much under control down here.”

  “Supposing we were able to go back to the surface?”

  “Then we wouldn’t have enough of anything.”

  “I wish someone had spelled this out to me ten years ago.”

  “I tried, Bruce. I tried my best. Maybe I didn’t spell very well.”

  “Maybe I didn’t listen very well,” Kalder said.

  Before he returned to his own plush quarters in the bachelor’s Club of Section 317—the section of the wealthy—he walked around for a long time in a maze of passageways, looking through doorways at the flickering TV sets.

  Paul Holbertson bent over the graphs and traced a configuration thoughtfully. “Mmm, yes. We didn’t try this. Getting anywhere?”

  June leaned forward anxiously, her hands clasped.

  “I can state the problem,” Kalder said.

  “The problem is that they’re not writing.”

  “No. That’s merely a result. The problem is that they’ve lost interest in their subject matter, and they’re regaining their contact with reality.”

  Paul Holbertson grinned slyly. He said to June, “You’ll have to keep this boy away from the library.”

  “I’ve done very little reading,” Kalder said, “but I’ve done a lot of talking with writers. With a recorder. Listen.”

  The voice was Walter Donald’s—bitter, accusative. “I shall write no more comedies about pirate ships. Or the private lives of queens. Or romances about knights in armor. Or adventures in space. God, what a laugh that is— man in space, when he can’t even get out of a hole in the ground! We’re drugging the people and ourselves with stories of things that aren’t and can’t be. I’m beginning to doubt that they ever were. Those things I can’t write, and I won’t. What I can write I don’t know.”

  Kalder touched the switch. The president of Solar Productions said soberly, “I knew the problem was serious, but I had no idea—are they all like that?”

  “Either they are or they soon will be. Are our competitors having the same trouble?”

  “Naturally they don’t tell us their troubles, but I’m certain that they are. Only yesterday I suggested to Roger Atley that we might be willing to give up one of our wires so we could concentrate on quality productions. He begged me not to think of such a thing, which means that the government would have a tough time finding a replacement. Where do we go from here?”

  “There are two possible approaches. Either we renew their interest in their subject matter, or we find new subject matter that they are interested in. By the way, I wont be ready to face the Board tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think it’ll be necessary. Leave the graphs with me. I’m especially interested in your comparison of scripts produced with hours spent in the Tank. Obviously the Tank helps production up to a point, and too many writers are using it beyond that point. Wouldn’t it solve the problem if we limited writers to eight hours a week?”

  “No, but if the Board needs something to talk about you can suggest that. I’ll have definite recommendations ready for the next meeting.”

  June took his arm as they went out, and in the corridor he placed an affectionate kiss on her forehead and one considerably more affectionate on her lips.

  “Going to save the family business?” she asked.

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Every hour on the hour we have to have four new films ready. One comedy, one romance, one adventure and one miscellaneous. That’s ninety-six deadlines to meet every day. We’ve had to sneak an old film in now and then just to pad things out, but people have terribly long memories and we’re taking a frightful risk. Yes, it’s that bad.”

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Kalder said. “Things are much worse than that.”

  In spite of the fact that there were different writers there, or writers doing different things, the Tank always seemed the same. The one unchanging element was Walter Donald, who was in his usual place in the Area Five vent. Kalder prodded him with his foot. “I have a problem,” he said. “I need your help.”

  Donald rolled over onto his back. The pattern of the grate was deeply impressed upon his dark skin. “Will you help me?” Kalder asked. Donald did not look up. “What kind of problem?” “I’m trying to get a script written. It’s about a writer. He and his family live in a small room over in Section Four ninety-five. He’s the only writer that lives there, and all the other men are factory workers. This writer’s family can’t understand why his work takes so much time. The other men work for an hour, and then they come home and watch TV with their families. The writer works long hours and has to spend days in the Tank looking for ideas. He earns good wages and his family can have luxuries the other families can’t afford, but his children just can’t understand why he’s never home to watch TV with them. I can’t think of a way to end it. Can you help me out?”

  Donald said flatly, “Nuts. Didn’t you ever read the Code? They’d never film a thing like that.”

  “Of course they would if I could get it written. The question is, could you write it? I realize you’ve never done anything like that, and if you don’t think you can handle it just say the word. I’ll ask someone else.”

  Donald sat up. He stared dully at Kalder, his scowl wrinkling dark lines in his dark forehead. The sunlight had bleached his hair to startling whiteness. He said, “I know the Code forward and backward. I could get fired for wasting time on something like that.”

  “I’m taking the responsibility,” Kalder said. “Could you write it?”

  “I don’t know.” Donald pushed himsel
f to his feet and climbed out of the vent. “A writer, you say. How many children?”

  “That’s up to you. How many children do you have?”

  “Three. Three children. They want him to watch TV with them, you say. But he hates TV because he writes scripts for TV, so whenever they turn it on—”

  He pulled on his clothing and wandered away muttering to himself.

  At the edge of the forest Kalder found Jeff Powell lying on his back staring up at a tree. Kalder sat down beside him, and Powell spoke without looking at him.

  “In the autumn, the leaves turn color. Nature paints a masterpiece in the forest. By and by the leaves fall to the ground. If I wait here long enough, do you suppose these leaves will change color and fall?”

  “Those leaves are phony,” Kalder said. “They’ll never change.”

  Powell winced and regarded Kalder gravely. “Friend have you ever seen a tree? No, not this junk. A real tree. Have you ever felt one? I’ve put lots of trees into my scripts, but I never saw a tree. Isn’t that ridiculous? What does a tree feel like? What does it taste like? Do trees have a taste?”

  “You write romances, don’t you?”

  “When I write, I write romances. Romances with trees. Meet me under the green willow tree, my love. The weeping green willow tree. Do you know what a weeping green willow tree looks like? Production doesn’t. I went to the library and found a picture. Production made my weeping green willow tree into an oak.”

  “According to the records, you’ve written a few comedies, too. Do you think you could handle a romantic comedy?”

  “I’m not feeling very funny these days. For that matter, I’m not feeling romantic, either.”

  “This would be a different kind of story. There’s this man who works in a factory, and he can’t get along with his foreman. They hate each other, and they’re always squabbling about something. Then the foreman’s son falls in love with the guy’s daughter. The two mothers get to know each other, and they try to help the kids while the two men are trying to keep them apart. I suppose it would be a tricky job to keep it funny. If you don’t think you can handle it—”