“It makes things bad when there aren’t enough women,” continued Marcus. “Some men leave when they can’t find anyone to marry.” He crumpled the old chart in his hands. “It’s not merely that, of course. Simple justice demands that a great man’s name be properly honored.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place for justice,” said the official. “P-CAF doesn’t make this kind of an adjustment. Let’s see if I can’t refer you to someone else.” He rested his head on his hand. Then he straightened up, snapping his fingers. “Of course. If you want the name of a planet changed, you go to Astrogation; charts, errors, locations of.”
“You do?” Marcus asked dubiously. Life on Mezzerow had not prepared him for the complexities of governmental organization.
“Certainly,” said the official, happy that he had solved the problem. “Don’t thank me. It’s what I’m here for. Go to A-CELO.”
“Where is it?”
The official frowned importantly and turned to the great vertical file that Marcus was learning to associate with all departments of the government. He stabbed his finger at a space, but nothing opened. “Seem to be all out of reference slips,” he said with a casual lack of surprise. “Come back tomorrow and I may have some. It’s quitting time now.”
“Do I have to come back? A-CELO may be on the other side of the city from here.”
“It may be,” said the official, reaching for his jacket. “If you don’t want to waste time, buy a map from an infolegger. It’ll be a day old, but chances are it should be accurate on most things.” The plate snapped off, leaving Marcus and his son staring at nothing.
Marcus got up and left the booth. “What’s an infolegger?” asked Wilbur as he followed him.
“They move things fast on Earth,” said Marcus tiredly. He hadn’t realized how wearing it could be to chase down the thread of responsibility in a government that had many things to look after. “An infolegger doesn’t know any more about it than you do, but he’ll sell you information that you can ordinarily get free from the government.”
“But who buys from him?”
“Fools like me who get tired of running around. We’d better get back to the hotel.”
“I wish we were on Messy—Mezzerow,” said Wilbur wistfully. “Ma would have dinner ready now.”
“I keep forgetting your appetite. All right, we’ll eat as soon as we find a restaurant.”
* * * *
They found one a block away. It was easy enough to walk there. It was stopping that was hard. Marcus made his way to the side of the street and hauled Wilbur in out of the stream of pedestrians. Inside there was one vacant table which they promptly took, oblivious to the glares of those who were not so fast afoot.
Marcus studied the menu at length. To his disappointment, there was no lot 219 steak listed. Instead there were two other choices, a lot 313 and a miscellany steak. Marcus looked up to see that his son had already dialed his order. Questioning revealed that Wilbur had missed his afternoon snack and thought that a full portion of one steak and half of the other would compensate for his fast. “Vegetables, too,” said Marcus.
“Pa, you know I don’t like that stuff.”
“Vegetables,” said Marcus, watching to make sure his son selected a balanced diet. After deliberation, he decided on a high protein vegetable plate for himself, though ordinarily he liked meat. He couldn’t get that idea out of his mind.
The low rectangular serving robot scurried up and began dispensing food with a flurry of extensibles. Marcus noted that the steaks were identical with those served in the hotel. “Waiter, what is the origin of those steaks?”
“The same as all meat. Hygienically grown in a bath of nutrients that supply all the necessary food elements. Trimmed daily and delivered fresh and tender, ready for instant preparation.”
“I’m familiar with the process,” snapped Marcus, wincing as his son chewed the gray, watery substance. “What I asked was the origin, the ultimate origin. From what animals were the first cells taken?”
“I don’t know. No other protein source is so free from contamination.”
“Will the manager know?”
“Perhaps.”
“Tell him I would like to see him.”
“I’ll pass the request along. But it won’t do any good. The manager can’t come. It’s a robot attached to the building.”
“Then I’ll go to it,” said Marcus, rising. “Keep the food warm. How do I get there?”
“The manager shouldn’t be disturbed,” said the robot as it placed thermoshields over the food. “It’s the small room to the rear, at the right of the kitchen.”
Marcus found the place without difficulty. The manager lighted up as he came in. The opposite wall blinked and a chair swung out for him. “Complaint?” said the manager hollowly. The manager was hollow.
“Not exactly,” said Marcus, repeating his request.
The manager meditated briefly.
“Are you an Outer?”
“I am.”
“I thought so. Only Outers ask that question. I’ll have to find out some day.”
“Make it today,” said Marcus.
“An excellent thought,” said the manager. “I’ll do it. But this is a chain restaurant and so you’ll have to wait. If you don’t mind the delay, I’ll plug in one of our remote information banks.”
Marcus did mind delay, but it was worse not knowing. He waited.
* * * *
“I have it,” said the robot after an interval. “There is great difficulty feeding a city this large. In fact, there is with all of Earth—it’s greatly overpopulated.”
“So I understand,” mumbled Marcus.
“The trouble began forty-five or fifty years ago with the water supply,” said the robot. “It was sanitary, but there was too great or not great enough concentration of minerals in it. Information isn’t specific on this point. The robots in control of the tanks found that beef, pork, lamb and chicken in all their variety would not grow fast enough. Many tanks wouldn’t grow at all.
“The robots communicated this fact to higher authorities and were told to find out how to correct the situation. They investigated and determined that either the entire water-system would have to be overhauled, or a new and hardier protein would have to be developed. Naturally, it would require incalculable labor to install a new water-system. They didn’t recommend it.”
“Naturally,” said Marcus.
“The situation was critical. The city had to be fed. The tank robots were told to find the new protein. Resources were thrown open to them that weren’t hither-to available. In a short time, they solved the problem. About half of the tanks that were not growing properly were cleaned out and the new protein placed in them. The old animal name system was outmoded so the new lot number system was devised and applied to every tank regardless of its ultimate origin.”
“Then nobody has any idea what they’re eating,” said Marcus. “But what was that new protein? That’s what I want to know.”
“It was hardy. It came from the most adaptable creature on Earth,” said the robot. “And there was another factor in favor of it. The flesh of all mammals is nearly the same. But there are differences. The ideal protein for a meat-eating animal is one which exactly matches the creature’s own body, eliminating food that can’t be fully utilized.”
Marcus closed his eyes and grasped the arm of the chair.
“Do you feel ill?” inquired the managing robot. “Shall I call the doctor? No? Well, as I was saying, there was already a supply of animal tissue on hand. It was this that the robots used. It’s funny that you’re asking this. Not many people are so curious.”
“They didn’t care,” snarled Marcus. “As long as they were fed, they didn’t ask what it was.”
“Why should they?” asked the robot. “The tissue was already well adapted to growth tanks. Scrupulously asceptic, in no way did it harm the original donors who were long since dead. And there was little difference i
n the use of it, anyway. No one would hesitate if he were injured and needed skin or part of a liver or a new eye. This was replacement from the inside, by a digestive process rather than a medical one.”
“The robots took tissue from the surgery replacement tanks,” said Marcus. “Do you deny it?”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you,” said the robot. “A very clever solution considering how little time they had. However only about half of the tanks had to be replaced.”
“Cannibals,” said Marcus, nearly destroying the chair as he hurled it away from him.
“What’s a cannibal?” asked the robot.
But Marcus wasn’t there to answer. He went back to the restaurant, under control by the time he reached the table. He couldn’t tell Wilbur because Wilbur had finished eating except for the vegetables which were mostly untouched. Marcus sat down and took the shields off the food, looking at it gloomily.
“Pa, aren’t you going to eat?” asked Wilbur.
“As soon as I get my breath back,” he said. It wasn’t bad when he ate, but the mere thought of food was distasteful. He glanced sternly at his son. “Wilbur, hereafter you may not order meat. As long as we are on Earth, you will ask for eggs.”
“Just eggs?” said Wilbur incredulously. “Gee, they’re real expensive here. Anyway, I don’t like them without a rasher of—”
“Eggs,” said Marcus. Another thought occurred to him. “Sunny-side up. No cook can disguise that.”
* * * *
The sky was dark when they left the restaurant. After work, traffic had abated and the entertainment rush hadn’t come on the streets, which were now curiously silent and deserted. Marcus caught sight of the tall spire of Information Center glistening against the evening sky.
“Where are we going?” asked Wilbur.
“To the hotel. We have a hard day’s work tomorrow.”
“Can we walk? I mean, we can’t see anything in the tubes.”
“It’s a long walk.”
“It’s right over there. I’ve walked farther before breakfast.”
Marcus noted with approval that Wilbur had used the Information Center as a landmark to deduce the correct location of the hotel. His training showed. Even in the confusion of the city, he wouldn’t get lost. “It’s farther than you think, but we’ll walk if you want. It may be our last evening on Earth. At least, I sincerely hope so.”
They went on. In time they saw what there was to see. It was a city, vast and sprawling, but still just another city Man had created. The buildings were huge, but constructed as all buildings had to be, out of stone and steel, concrete and plastic. Women were beautiful, tastefully gowned and coiffured, but it was easy to see that they were merely women. Shops were elaborate and fanciful, but there was a limit to what they displayed, an end to the free play of fancy.
By the time they realized they were tired, they were close to the hotel. There wasn’t any use in seeking transportation, since they’d get where they were going almost as fast either way. They had kept to the main thoroughfares since there was more to see. But Marcus had quickly accustomed himself to the pattern of streets and as they neared their destination he saw a short cut which they took.
It was getting late and the street was dark. He began to wonder whether they should have come this way. He decided they shouldn’t have. A faint red flash from the doorway indicated that his tardy decision was sound but useless. His knees tingled where the red flash struck him and in the middle of a stride he felt he didn’t have any feet. He fell forward, trying to shield Wilbur. Wilbur was falling, too, and they collided on the downward arc.
Hands seized him, lifting him up. He was in no condition to struggle. Besides it wasn’t safe. A tingler wasn’t a lethal weapon, but it could have unpleasant effects if used carelessly or hastily. He didn’t think they were in any real danger and it was best not to provoke their captors.
* * * *
By the time he had recovered sufficiently to be aware of what was going on, he found he had been carried to a space between two buildings, hidden from the street by a masonry projection. Wilbur was sitting beside him and a dim light played on them.
“Don’t move,” said a voice that made an effort to be rough and hard, but failed by an octave. Now that Marcus thought of it the hands that had lifted him were small and soft. Their captors were women. The disconnected impressions of the city seemed to fall into a pattern. He was not greatly surprised at what was happening.
The light moved closer and Marcus could make out the figure of the woman who held it. Behind her were others—all women. But even delicate hands were capable of leveling a tingler. “Don’t say anything,” he said to his son in a low voice. Wilbur nodded dazedly.
“No whispering,” barked the soprano, shining the light directly in his eyes. “Now, are either of you married?”
Marcus sighed; so that was it. Poor Earth was in a bad way when a pudgy unattractive clerk could get a high-salaried job solely because he was male.
“Answer me,” demanded the high unsteady voice. “Are either of you married? On Earth, I mean.”
Marcus could see her clearly, now that his eyes had become accustomed to the light. She was young, barely out of her teens.
“What kind of question is that? When you’re married, you’re married. It doesn’t matter where you are.” On Earth, apparently, it did.
“Outers,” she exclaimed happily. “I’ve always hoped I’d find one. They’re real men. Now let’s see, which one shall I take?” She flashed the light on Wilbur, who squirmed and blinked.
“He’s younger and will probably last longer,” she said critically. “On the other hand, he’ll be clumsy and inexperienced.”
She turned to Marcus. “You need a shave,” she said crisply. “Your beard is turning gray. I think I’ll take you. Older men are nice.”
“You can’t have me,” said Marcus. She was near and he could have taken both the weapon and the light from her. But he couldn’t stand, much less walk, and there were other women in the background, all armed probably, watching the girl who seemed to be their leader. “You see, I am married. Wilma wouldn’t like it, if I took another wife.”
“Not even just for the time you’re on Earth? It isn’t much to ask.” She turned the light on herself. “Am I unattractive?”
She was not outstandingly beautiful, but since she was dressed as scantily as law allowed and fashion decreed Marcus could see her desirability. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Old enough,” she said. “In eleven months, I’ll be twenty-one.”
“You’re pretty,” said Marcus. “If I were fifteen or twenty years younger—and not married—I’d come courting.”
“But you did,” she said in amazement. “Why did you come down a dark street, if you weren’t looking for romance?”
* * * *
This, it seemed, is what passed for romance on Earth. Men must be outnumbered at least three to one. It tied in with what he had so far observed. “I’m sorry for your trouble,” he said.
“But you must remember that we’re Outers. We’re not familiar with your customs. We were merely taking a short cut to our hotel.”
She gestured in sullen defeat. “I suppose it was a mistake. But why can’t I have him, then? He’s not married.”
“He isn’t, nor will he be for some time. He has barely turned seventeen. I won’t give my permission.”
“He’s your son? Then you are experienced. Are you sure you won’t reconsider me—just while you’re on Earth? I told you I don’t like young men. Maybe that’s because my father was an older man.”
“I’m sure he was,” said Marcus. “However that’s no reason to find me irresistible.” He tried to stand, but his legs were rubbery and he sat down quickly.
She looked at him with concern. “Does it hurt? I guess we gave you the strongest charge.” She handed him the light and went to the women who were standing some distance behind her. He heard her whispering. Presently she cam
e back.
She knelt beside him and began rubbing his legs. “I sent them away,” she said. “They’re going to look for someone else. It was my turn to propose to whomever we captured, but now you spoiled it.”
He smiled at her earnestness. “I’m sure you deserve better than you’re apt to find with these strange methods of courtship. However I think you should help my son. You gave him a charge, too.”
“I bet I did,” she said scornfully. “Don’t worry about him. Kids recover easily.”
“Should I clout her, Pa?” asked Wilbur as he stood up, bending his knees gingerly. “She had no business shooting us.”
“She didn’t, but you have no business talking like that. Touch her and I’ll wallop you.”
The girl ignored Wilbur, putting her arms around Marcus and helping him to his feet. From the girl’s reaction to him you’d never think so, but he was getting old. The first step was proof of it. He could walk unaided, but it felt as if someone were pulling pins out of his legs at the rate of two or three a second.
“I’ll go with you to the hotel,” said the girl. “There are probably other marriage gangs out. If they see me with you, they’ll think I’ve already made my catch.”
Marcus frowned in the darkness. Wilbur was getting entirely the wrong idea about women. He’d find it difficult to adjust to the different conditions at home. Marcus told the girl their names and asked hers.
“Mary Ellen.”
“That’s all, Mary Ellen?”
“Of course, I have a last name, but I’m hoping to change it.”
He sighed in resignation. “Mary Ellen, we won’t discuss marriage again. Is this clear? However I have plans for you. I’ll get in touch with you before we leave Earth.” They were nearing a brightly lit thoroughfare and he felt safer.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said wistfully. She dug into a tiny purse and handed him a card. “You’ll notice there’s another name on it, too. That’s Chloe, my half-sister. She’s smart and I like her, but I hope you don’t like her—not better than me, anyway.”
The Eleventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack Page 20