by T. J. Bass
‘I’m not sure that it was a meteor crater,’ said Don.
‘Oh?’
‘No tektites. No nickel-iron. Nothing. Could have been some sort of explosion in the high megaclosson range,’ suggested Don.
‘Megaclosson? There’s nothing on Earth that—’ began Val. He sat down thinking – intelligence, benevolent – it added up to something he didn’t like to admit. Thanking Don, he took the reports and went to visit old, fat Walter.
Bitter admitted him to the sick room. Retirement had taken away Walter’s flavors – now beri-beri and pellagra added to the cyanosis of heart failure. Swollen and stuporous, he sat propped in his cot. Val showed him the reports. He took them with weak, trembling hands – squinting with tired, rheumy eyes.
‘I see the hand of Olga in this,’ old Walter gasped.
Val smiled and patted his old friend on the arm.
‘I knew you would. Keep the reports. They’re yours. Get some rest now.’
Walter pressed the reports in his ESbook and dozed off.
9
GITAR
Kaia, the last five-toed hominid on the continent, awaited death stoically. Battle scars and the heavy burden of age had prevented him from making the trek to The River. Now he was alone. Weedy vines climbed the towers and fouled the optics of Big ES. Skies were free from Huntercraft. Now he could hobble about openly – nibbling kumquat, citron and cran. Agromecks waved, commenting on his white beard. He napped in the sun. Time was short.
Gitar sang in the mountains.
He sang by the sea.
He sang in the Gardens,
A place no Nebish could be.
Gitar sang in a shaft cap.
Twelve followed Outside.
They were only four-toed.
At sun-up they died.
Val scratched his head. The reports on the suicide flower reaction puzzled. A dozen flowers were found clustered around a shaft cap in SE Orange. Their brains were negative for both IA and MR. He ran a statistical cross-check on the phototropic catalepsy deaths – flowers – and found a pattern. When map-projected it showed a geographic linearity that could not be random. Citizens had been leaving their shaft cities in groups and dying on the Outside – usually so soon that their bodies formed clusters – peeling and baking in the solar actinics. Samplers had investigated and Neuro could find nothing wrong with their serotonin buttons. Temporal analysis indicated another was due. If the linear sequence continued, fat Walter’s shaft city was a good possibility for the next cluster.
Using the pretext of suicide prevention, Val put a team of Watchers in several of the shaft caps in the area. He went down to Hunter Control and crawled around in the piles of dusty bins, checking the surface BD’s. Less than 10 per cent were scanning around Walter’s city. He turned them on by hand and switched the incoming signals to Walter’s meck dispenser. Scanner’s bins were empty. Then he went over to Walter’s to wait.
Edema fluids gave Walter three-pillow orthopnea. His domino mask of cyanosis was dark and gray. Val explained about the new type of flower – flower clusters.
‘Neither IA nor MR occurs in clusters,’ said Val.
‘Clusters—’ murmured old Walter. His mind wandered around blank pools of anoxia and tried to sort memory molecules. Clusters associated with tektites. Olga?
Walter fumbled for his ESbook and took out the maps showing meteor clustering at river beds. Val handed him a new map showing the flower clusters proceeding from city to city.
‘They seem to be heading this way,’ said Val. ‘I’m afraid your city might be next.’
‘Headed this way!’ shouted Walter – delirious. ‘Olga is returning for me.’
The edematous, old, fat man tried to leave his bed. Val and female Bitter restrained him with hands and soothing words.
‘If Olga wants you,’ said Val, ‘she will come for you right here in bed.’
Gitar’s sixty-centimeter oval shield rested flat on the ground supporting a hundred-centimeter tubular body. Optic and auditory sensors scanned while his ego slept. His Q bottle rested. For several days he stood like a fossil parking meter. Agrifoam came and went. Green sprouts fuzzed soil. Bulky Tillers carefully avoided touching him.
It was time to move. His tubular body flexed flat as he assumed his more usual guitar shape. Walking field was activated by cooling cryogel around the peanut magnet and sputtering charged particles into the sandwich magnetic field. The particles gave hardness to the field and lifted him a few inches. He glided off. A ballad resonated from his shield.
I was born on a wandering star.
You’ve heard my name;
I’m called Gitar.
I’ve come to Earth, mankind to find.
I’ll search canal—
And spiral wind.
Kaia lifted his shaggy white head. Odd – a song echoing off the foothills. Gitar’s sensors locked on the humanoid form. Singing cheerfully, the little meck floated up and assumed a parking-meter position. Colored geometrics rippled over his tubular body.
Kaia raised a hand in a weak gesture.
‘Welcome, vagabond meck. Your song soothes.’
The songs continued – restful and light – while acute sensors probed the aborigine’s aging body. The rolling base was adjusted to 268.39 hertz to match the resonance of Kaia’s pulmonary air-water interface. Harmonic waves reached the vagus. The throb of the music was matched to myocardial systole. Kaia smiled and began to tap a finger ever so lightly. Gitar was encouraged by the rapid entrainment of skeletal muscle. Decibels were added to the base. Subcortical neuronal systems locked onto the rhythm. Thoracic autonomies resonated. Gitar’s music acted on Kaia’s medulla – modifying the pacing of his neurohumoral axis – entraining cardiovascular, endocrine, metabolic, neurological and reproductive functions. Gitar moved Kaia’s pulse up and down with ease. He increased to 120 decibels and added words to his audiogenic stimulation—
The five-toed man desires to be free.
He runs and swims and climbs the tree.
Autonomic tone brought strength to Kaia – capillary beds tightened pericytes. His vision sharpened as Bruche’s and Muller’s ciliary muscles focused his lens and cornea.
Gitar sang on – personal words – a song to Kaia. Why should he die this year? Why not try to live one more season?
Mate and run and live alone.
Chew meat and marrow from a bone.
Kaia sat up – a touch of enthusiasm gleamed.
‘But there are no more coweyes,’ he said.
‘Come with me, my five-toed man, and I’ll take you to meat and mates – in the shaft cities.’
‘The Nebish?’ exclaimed Kaia.
‘The Nebish,’ said Gitar. ‘You are the only five-toed I have found. But the five-toed gene may still be present in the Nebish stock – one in a thousand, or one in a million. They all look like four-toed, hypogonadal dwarfs; but the gene is there someplace. Come with me. We will search for it.’
Kaia got to his feet slowly, weakly.
Busch looked in on Walter and Val.
‘Job calls,’ he said.
Bitter gave him a ritual hug and he left. Garage duty was an easy way to earn one’s flavors – companion-monitor to some Agromecks sleeping at their energy sockets. He settled down in front of a viewscreen.
At dusk two mecks returned reeking of plant juices. Door stood open while the bulky machines maneuvered into their bays. A pale sunset glinted orange light off Busch’s face.
Suddenly, his pupils dilated. Small hairs stood and prickled the back of his neck. There was a flower in the fender – a pretty blossom with its delicate stem neatly threaded into one of the meck’s lift holes – the work of human fingers and the mind of a flower lover. A five-toed mind!
‘Shut, Door. Shut!’ he screamed.
Door closed. Busch sighed. As he wiped his forehead, the lid of the weed hopper stirred. A shaggy white head appeared. Busch turned to dash for the spiral. He was much too slow.
Val ran upspiral, a
rriving dyspneic and eccrine-soaked.
‘A buckeye? Are you sure?’ he gasped, catching his breath.
Nodding with its knob of neurocircuitry, the Agromeck repeated the report, adding – ‘You’ve seen the optic records.’
‘Yet, you allowed him to hunt, here, in the garage?’
The meck was silent. Prime directive. Machines do not take an active part in hominid conflicts. Val continued to bluster around, insulting the meck’s class eight intelligence. Finally the meck spoke in a detached tone:
‘I just do my job, sir. I try to be objective about protoplasmic creatures. If one hominid eats another, I try to understand. It is difficult; but, then, I have never known protein starvation.’
Val sputtered for a few minutes. Calming himself, he walked over to Busch’s remains. It had been a buckeye. That was certain. Only one of those brutes could draw and quarter a citizen like that. Only the liver and the right hind quarter was missing. Five-toed footprints led back out into the gardens. He reported his findings to the Watcher and asked for permission to reactivate Hunter Control.
‘No,’ said Watcher. ‘I’m sorry. But there are no funds for hunting unless the crops are in danger. A lone buckeye just does not warrant the expenditure. You can’t even be spared from Suicide Prevention Center with jumpers hitting shaft base at a rate of three-per-day-per-city. However, in view of your inactive rank in Sagittarius, you could hunt on foot – when you are off duty.’
Val hurried back to Hunter Control and dug out a long bow and a case of arrows. He climbed around in the refuse looking for an operative wrist BD. None were left. Bird Dog sat with empty sockets. He patted a gritty fender.
‘Certainly could have used you today,’ he said.
When he returned to Walter’s cubicle, female Bitter eyed the archery gear nervously.
‘You’d better get a permit from the Sharps Committee if you’re going to carry weapons around inside the city,’ she said.
Val nodded curtly. He walked in to see Walter. Foamy sputum streaked the corners of his mouth. His feet were swollen and translucent. Val sat down. It looked like a death bed. He spoke calmly, explaining what he planned to do. Walter stared at the ceiling – breath rattling. Bitter sat helplessly by the door.
‘Watcher will tell me the instant he hears of the next flower reaction. I’ll tube over and try to find out why they go Outside. I suspect today’s buckeye has something to do with it. Busch’s murder is on the same map line as the flower clusters.’
‘Taking Busch’s death kind of hard, aren’t you?’ commented Bitter.
‘It’s not that,’ said Val. ‘It is the flower clusters. IA and MR I can understand. A bucket of mud will stop Inappropriate Activity by eliminating the house dust mite – Molecular Reward can always be withdrawn if it becomes too much of a problem. But I don’t know what causes the flower cluster. I am afraid it may be something new – perhaps epidemic. It would be very serious if we were witnessing a human reaction like the lemming migrations. Imagine, everyone going Outside at once – crushing crops – dying in the actinics.’
Bitter nodded.
Fat Walter’s eyes focused. ‘It is Olga’s way of cleansing the planet of pagan four-toeds. Olga wants to start over again with Her Children.’
Val didn’t want to disagree with the dying man, but he didn’t think it was fair to ask a citizen to accept a deity that was planning to erase him. Neutral Arthur interrupted.
‘Would you like to meet an applicant for Busch’s place in our family?’
Val and Walter turned and saw a very beautiful female standing in the doorway. She was almost as tall as a coweye, and just as well formed. Delicate nose and chin, bright eyes, long lashes, abundant black hair. She smiled with bright painted lips, took a dainty step into the cubicle and opened her tunic. Her body gleamed with pseudo-flesh – glistening pink curves, large symmetrical breasts tipped by prominent areolas, long waist and plump buttocks. Faint scars marked her belly and axillae. She closed her tunic dramatically and stepped back into the doorway. Val swallowed.
‘She has a good job,’ said Arthur. ‘Will she do?’
Walter nodded weakly.
‘Oh, thank you. Thank you,’ she said effusively – running to his bedside and touching his hand. ‘I just know I’ll relate well in your meldasms. Your family is just what I’ve been searching for.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘As you can see, I am one of the augmented Venus models – entertainment contract. Channels pay good flavors.’
‘Glad to have you, Venus,’ gasped Walter.
Her smile faded as she studied Walter’s face more closely – transverse fissures at the angles of the mouth, pink vascular eyes, flaking nose.
‘Open your mouth – please,’ she said.
Magenta tongue.
She pressed a thumb into his left foot – denting the edematous tissues.
‘Lost the feeling in your legs?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘Hands tingle and burn? The deficiency state has really got a hold on you this time,’ smiled Venus. She patted his parakeratotic cheek and walked to the dispenser. ‘Know just what you need.’ She ordered thick barley soup, wheat germ biscuit and a B-complex tonic. The machine took several minutes to check her credits and then issued the items. Venus called Dee Pen over and showed her how to serve it.
‘Offer him the tonic first. The alcohol might perk up his appetite. Crumble up the biscuit. Sprinkle it on the broth like croutons. Spoon it into him. Make him eat it all, if you can. Now that we are family, my flavors can feed his enzyme systems.’
During the weeks that followed, Val labored in SPC mopping up rose-water stains. Flower clusters continued to occur sporadically, but he always arrived on the scene too late. Tubeways were slow. Actinics killed the unprotected Nebish in less than six hours. The dead could not tell him why they went flower.
Augmented Venus and Dee Pen poured barley, yeast and wheat germ into Walter until his toes wiggled. Strength returned to his old hands.
Watcher relayed a callgram to Val. It came from a city on the dark continent – ten thousand miles away. A buckeye sighting. His Sagittarius rank helped him obtain a permit for a hobby Hunt. He packed his Cl-En suit, helmet, archery gear and staple foodstuffs, and set out for a long tubeway journey.
Only three of the undersea conduits were operational, so he had an eighteen-hour delay at the coast. After he adjusted to the press of the crowd, he was able to enjoy the view. On the shelf there were still many transparent spots on the walls. He studied the bright, empty waters overhead. Nothing big enough to see. The sea food chain had been broken a long time ago. Below he saw only brownish rocks with an occasional tag of brown algae or a tiny mussel. Deeper ocean was dark. Again barren.
After twelve tubeway changes and more delays, he arrived at the city where the sighting was made. The local Watcher, an elderly twenty-seven-year-old, nodded. Yes, there had been a sighting. No, it was not a buckeye. It was a coweye, and she was up there now – eating their crops. Val started to unpack.
‘I wouldn’t be too anxious to go out there if I were you, sonny,’ he cackled.
‘Why?’ asked Val.
‘She’s a big ’un.’
Val sat down and reviewed the optic records. She was smaller and younger than the one he had encountered while tracking Tinker. He was confident.
‘Anyone could handle her,’ boasted Val. ‘One shot from this, and she’ll fall into reflex hibernation. I’ll just slice into her left carotid. Easy trophy.’
‘Reflex hibernation?’ said the Watcher, scratching his chin whiskers. ‘Now, can’t say I’ve ever heard of that before.’
‘Come along – watch on the remote,’ invited Val.
The sunny gardens appeared shadowy and gray with the helmet on step-down. The Cl-En suit was fully charged – cooling well. He sipped water as he stalked. The quarry was supposed to be a mile away, but without a wrist detector he couldn’t be sure. Bow ready, he crept through dense vegetation. He saw her.
She was about a hundred yards away, sitting among low berry bushes – munching. No cover for him there. He began to circle the patch in the taller triple-crop. A spidery Harvester danced among the bushes making distracting noises. At fifty yards he decided he had a clear shot through a screen of mint leaves. It was near the limits of bowshot range for his weight bow, but he was counting on her to hibernate. He propped his second arrow on the case, planning on getting two shots off before she realized he was there. She was sitting with her right shoulder towards him. He put one arrow in the air and renocked the second. Too high. She heard it arc into the foliage. Jumping up, she turned to run. The second arrow struck her solidly in the back – over the left scapula. The impact was loud. She reached around with her right hand and pulled out the dangling shaft. He fumbled for a third arrow. She charged toward him. The bow slipped from nervous gloved fingers. He pulled his knife.
The coweye crunched in Val. His right forearm and two ribs snapped when he bounced off her heavy frame. His sensorium clouded. Optics recorded a succubus ride.
Val’s trip through semiconsciousness became more painful. His optic fibers pulsed with a red octopus of retinal blood vessels. Retinal pigments bleached. Skin burned. He awoke to an orange world without contrasts. Cool earth touched his back while the blazing sun leaned on his chest. He tried to cover his face, but his right arm fell flail. His left arm moved, covering his eyes and bringing a reassuring darkness. The heat rapidly blistered his skin. He felt the blisters grow, burst and begin to peel. Screaming, he tried to sit up. Rib fragments stabbed his lungs, throwing him back down. The sharp bone spicules prevented him from screaming again.
Abruptly his orange boiling world became cool and dark as nervous Meditecks threw a wet blanket over him. A balloon splint was wrapped around his right arm and painfully inflated. He was placed face down on a stretcher and jogged back into the shaft cap.
The Mediteck deftly nailed an ulnar wire through his fracture to stabilize the fragments. Segments of shattered rib were excised through small incisions. Eyes were bandaged. Skin oiled. The repair work finished, he was left alone. He waited and dozed.