A great burst of noise and clatter came from the doomie area, and Sidney turned to see them jostling about, pulling and rattling their chains as they chanted rhythmically:
Crazy are we, no. . . .
The comet’s in the sky!
Fire will rain upon us—. . . .
And surely we will die!
“Get ’em!” a stocky Security Brigade sergeant yelled.
Black-uniformed guards and Bu-Med attendants rushed the doomies and overpowered them with numbers. Sedative injections were administered, and the doomies passed out in a heap on the floor.
Shortly afterward, the HLLV left Earth’s atmosphere and Sidney felt a momentary weightless sensation. It excited him when he was lifted a few centimeters off the floor before dropping back gently as the ship’s gravitational system began to whir.
His studies told him what would happen next. Soon they would reach the staging area for transfer to an Inter-Orbital Transport Vehicle. The HLLV would release its passenger module for pickup by the transport, a lighter craft that never touched planetary surfaces. It would take the group to the orbiting L5 city and therapy habitat of Saint Elba.
That afternoon, Tom Javik stood alone in a gold and white Space Patrol uniform at the base of the Shamrock Five. He glanced up at the shimmering black-and-silver Akron class cruiser, thought how fortunate he was to be assigned to it.
He watched Colonel Peebles short-step out of a computer-operated limousine parked at the edge of the landing pad. A woman with hair cut boot-military length followed. The pair moto-shoed toward the waiting ship’s captain.
“Jeez!” Javik said in a low tone out of the side of his mouth. ‘That woman is UG-LY!” He smiled, picked food out of his teeth from a just-completed afternoon meal.
“This is Madame Bernet,” Colonel Peebles said as they arrived. “She will be Onboard Systems Coordinator for the mission.” Javik detected a sneer in the colonel’s expression.
“This wasn’t mentioned previously,” Javik said.
“Oh, wasn’t it?” Peebles said, feigning innocence. “It’s quite standard now. But then you wouldn’t know that . . . having been out of touch for two years.”
Disregarding the remark, Javik studied the Madame intently and saw a clear, lineless face with a sloping, weak chin and a bulbous nose. She was quite short, and seemed lost in a loose-fitting white-and-gold dress emblazoned with the Space Patrol crest. Her hands remained in pockets at each side, and her smile never touched her eyes.
Glad I didn’t stumble into this Madame’s pleasure dome, Javik thought, attempting humor to allay the inexplicable fear he felt.
Madame Bernet saluted crisply. “Request permission to board, Lieutenant Javik.”
“Very military,” Javik said. A gust of wind blew his amber hair across his eyes. He pushed the hair back.
A look which Javik could only describe as murderous flashed across the Madame’s face. “Request permission—”
“Permission granted,” Javik said, scowling at the Madame.
As Madame Bernet short-stepped onto a boarding elevator, Javik turned to Peebles and said, “She’s a meckie. Nicely done, I might add.”
Peebles lowered his eyelids and asked: “What makes you say that?”
“The eyes. They never lie. The eyes are not human.”
“I see. And that is a professional opinion?” Peebles shifted uneasily on his feet as he watched the boarding elevator ascend.
“Yes. I assisted Bu-Industry several years ago in a meckie experiment where human-like meckies were given tasks onboard ship.”
“Re-e-e-ally?” Peebles said, a strange grin on his face.
“No matter how they were programmed, there always seemed to be an emergency they could not handle. Your Madame Bernet is a meckie,”
Peebles’s grin faded. “All right,” he said, irritably. “It is a meckie. But that really doesn’t make any difference on this mission. It will be coordinating the cappy work crews, tending to them so that you can operate the ship without distraction.”
“Show me the program trade,” Javik said, looking up to watch Madame Bernet roll off the entry platform and enter the ship.
“There won’t be time for that,” Peebles said. “It’s not accessible without special tools.”
“How convenient,” Javik said. He scowled as he moto-shoed around chrome thrust deflector fins to a spot beneath the Shamrock Five. There he inspected a trailer release mechanism.
I don’t like unknowns, Javik thought, touching the cool metal surface. But God I want to fly this gorgeous ship . . . and I promised Sidney. . . .
Something troubled Javik about the meckie. But he put all such thoughts out of his mind.
An hour later, a six-armed Union Maid meckie discovered the bodies of General Munoz and Colonel Peebles at Munoz’s country condominium. Water covered the floor of the bedroom module, and the men were found in a lovers’ embrace on top of the waterbed.
Finding no life signs, the meckie automatically went to Emergency Mode. “Rule one-one-nine,” the meckie said in its halting tone while rolling into the hallway. “Report death of ministerial personnel directly to the President.”
Nineteen minutes later, the meckie stood in President Ogg’s sunny office giving its report. “Product failure,” the meckie said, waving its six mechanical arms demonstrably. “Minister Munoz died of electrocution when his water-filled mattress ruptured, causing liquid to come in contact with an electrical heating coil.”
“Who programmed you?” Ogg demanded, his blue green eyes flashing angrily. “Report the ministerial death only! A forensic team will determine the cause of death!”
The oval office fell into shadow momentarily as a small cloud passed in front of the sun.
“I was programmed by Bu-Tech,” the meckie said as the sun returned, “with input from Bu-Med enabling me to substantiate human death.”
“Well they went too far! It’s bad enough that they’ve got you cleaning AND playing doctor. Now you’re an entire police team too!”
The meckie did not respond. Its arms fell disconsolately to its sides.
“What else can you do?” Ogg asked angrily, rising out of his chair. His voice throbbed with emotion as he asked, “How many citizens are you putting out of work?”
“I am a complicated mechanism,” the meckie replied.
“Meckies!” Ogg gruffed. He rolled to the meckie’s side and mentoed to open the control box on its top. Scanning the switches inside he thought: There it is. He mentoed a combination of numbers to activate the meckie’s selective memory erasure feature. No memory of the Munoz incident, the President thought, wishing he could destroy the mechanical servant. He kicked it, causing a dull thud.
Billie Birdbright entered as the meckie left.
“I want a full confidential investigation into the cause of death of General Arturo Munoz,” Ogg said. “His body is at his country condominium . . . on Kingsgate Road near Lake Ovett.”
Surprised, the dimple-chinned Birdbright said, “Yes, Mr. President.”
“Send in an entire forensic team by autocopter fleet. I want a preliminary report before quitting time today!”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Not a minute later, Birdbright! You know how I feel about working after five o’clock!”
The Shamrock Five cleared Earth’s atmosphere minutes after takeoff. Javik checked the flight-clip and mentoed course coordinates to the ship’s mother computer. The sleek space cruiser rolled gently to starboard and accelerated in the vacuum of space.
“What a beautiful bird!” Javik said.
“Handles sweet,” Madame Bernet agreed. She sat in the copilot’s seat, stared dispassionately at Javik.
“I’m at the controls of the finest ship ever built!” Javik exclaimed. “Had a couple of good ships before, but this baby tops ’em all!” But when Javik glanced to his right at Madame Bernet, his elation faded. That damned meckie keeps staring at me, he thought.
Madame Berne
t grunted, did not take her eyes off Javik.
“Shamrock Five,” the radio blared. ‘This is H.Q. What are your coordinates?”
Javik looked at the gleaming control panel and responded: “Twenty-nine degrees, sixteen minutes, fourteen-point-seven A.T. We’ve just set course for Saint Elba. Speed twenty-one thousand K.P.H. and accelerating.”
“Very good, Shamrock Five. Over and out.”
Javik snapped his gaze toward the meckie. It was not staring at him now, seemed interested in a red plastic ball attached to the instrument panel. The meckie’s fingers darted forward to touch the ball. A red sign below the device proclaimed: “LEAVE NO SECRETS—SQUEEZE TO DETONATE.”
“HEY!” Javik barked. “Get away from that!”
The meckie withdrew its hand, then stared at Javik insolently with cold and inhuman eyes.
Plasto-cyanide bomb, Javik thought, recalling his military days. Could blow this ship to powder! “You’re no co-pilot,” he said tersely. “I want you out of here immediately. Get in the passenger cabin.”
“As you wish, Lieutenant,” the meckie said, rising to its feet.
After Madame Bernet left, Javik lit a chromium tintette and blew a thoughtful puff of silvery yellow smoke through his nostrils. That thing gives me the creeps, he thought.
He shivered.
“Don’t think about it,” Javik murmured to himself as he flipped on the auto-pilot. ‘They’re not going to send someone . . . or something . . . along to screw up the mission.”
But Javik wondered if the perfume of the new ship had blocked the stench of the mission. Something did not seem right.
Chapter Eight
UP CLOSE WITH THE MASTER, FOR FURTHER READING AND DISCUSSION
April 8, 2299 through April 21, 2299: Uncle Rosy’s famous “Long March,” in which he led a moto-shoe procession from New City to Philadelphia for the cause of newness, collecting old consumer goods for disposal.
Monday, August 28, 2605
To President Ogg, quitting time was as sacred a moment as starting time. Glancing irritably at his watch, he thought, Seven minutes past five. The preliminary forensic report on Munoz should have been here twenty-two minutes ago!
He rose angrily and rolled into the outer office. Crisis or no crisis, he thought, I’m not staying any longer!
Two minutes later, he rolled out of the elevator at the rooftop helipad. While crossing the pad to reach Autocopter One, Ogg heard the elevator doors open behind him. He turned to see Billie Birdbright rush out, face flushed, carrying a sheet of paper.
“Mr. President!” Birdbright gasped, holding the sheet up. “The report! It just came in!”
“And?” Ogg said, raising a bushy eyebrow impatiently.
“I glanced at it in the elevator. Product failure, sir. Munoz was electrocuted when his waterbed sprung a leak. Apparently the water touched a hot wire.”
“Just as the meckie said. . . . ”
“What was that, sir?” Birdbright rubbed a fat cheek nervously with one finger.
“Nothing, nothing. Get the committees set up first thing tomorrow. I want a full investigation into—”
“Mr. President, Munoz was found in an embrace with Colonel Peebles.”
“Dammit,” President Ogg said, his enthusiasm deflated. “Can’t afford a scandal. Not with the election tomorrow.”
“What shall we do, Mr. President?”
“Keep the committees out of this one.” Ogg scowled, hardly believing he had spoken these words. “We can’t release this to the public. Don’t mention it to anyone.”
“It WAS a product failure, sir, and they are entitled to posthumous Purple Badges.”
“I suppose that’s true. Uncle Rosy wouldn’t want them denied full honors.”
“That’s right, Mr. President.”
“We’ll set up a different scenario for their deaths,” Ogg said, smiling as if a light had just gone on inside his head.
Birthright’s smile reflected that of his superior. “Another product failure, sir?”
Ogg nodded. “Have the bodies placed in Munoz’s autolimo after dark tonight. The car is to be pushed off Saint Patrick’s Bridge. That’s on a little-used road near Lake Ovett.”
“And the death certificates will be documented to show the story the way you want it told.”
“Correct.” Ogg turned toward the autocopter.
“Brilliant, Mr. President!”
“That’s why I’m Head of State, Billie,” Ogg said, beaming proudly. He short-stepped into Autocopter One. The machine’s rotors whirred to life.
During the flight home, Ogg worried over the decision he had just made. The Black Box couldn’t have arranged the waterbed failure, he thought, nervously. Surely they would have made the deaths more palatable . . . more readily acceptable to the public.
But as the autocopter prepared to land at a private helipad on the landscaped roof of his condominium building, it occurred to Ogg that the Black Box of Democracy may have wished to discredit Bu-Mil, feeling too much power had gravitated to that arm of government.
Did I interfere? he thought. Will I incur the wrath of the Black Box?
Autocopter One made a crisp landing on top of the building.
It was late Monday afternoon when the Inter-Orbital Transport Vehicle picked up Sidney’s passenger module.
“We’re only a few hours from Saint Elba now,” the blind man sitting across from Sidney said.
“That so?” The retardo woman seated next to the blind man smile-grimaced as she spoke.
“I remember not so awfully long ago,” the blind man said, “when it took much longer . . . before G-gas allowed passengers to travel at high speeds.”
Sidney leaned forward to touch the blind man on his bulky arm and asked: “Were you in the Space Patrol?”
“I sure was!” the blind man said, excitedly. His wraparound sunglasses slipped. He adjusted them. Then his voice slowed and the words slurred as he added, “Until we had an explosion. . . . I was checking an argonium gas leak in the E-Cell compartment of a turbo-bomber hangared at New City Field. . . . ”
“You were in maintenance?”
“Uh huh. Left pilotry to the glamour boys.”
“You were lucky to survive an explosion.”
“Funny thing,” the blind man said. “I remember seeing a brilliant flash of orange light. They found me fifty meters away. Didn’t have a scratch on me, but the eyes were gone.”
Sidney stared at the blind man for several minutes without thinking of anything to say. He did not want to sound patronizing and was afraid Javik would not want him to mention the important mission they were going to share. This is a stranger, Sidney thought. He may be a spy.
The blind man kept his face pointed in Sidney’s direction for a couple of minutes, and Sidney saw the man’s lips quiver twice, as if he had a thought but then decided against saying anything. Presently, the blind man turned his face away from Sidney, and his features grew rigid.
Most of the passengers slept during the IOTV flight. They leaned on one another or against walls. A few found places on the floor to curl up in tight balls. Sidney dozed off too, for short periods. Each time he woke up, he looked at the blind man.
The blind man continued to stare straight ahead, or Sidney assumed he was staring behind the dark wraparound sunglasses.
“No more bathroom privileges for clients!” a female attendant called out at one point. “All clients wait until Saint Elba!” Sidney recognized the voice. It was the same attendant he had heard earlier at the field . . . the one with the cruel voice.
“Our Johns are on the fritz and the lousy bastards don’t wanna touch the same toilet seats we do!” the blind man yelled.
“How much longer?” clients called out.
“Three hours more,” an attendant replied. Presently Sidney heard “two hours,” then “one hour.” The quarters began to smell of ammonia and excrement to Sidney, and in the close hotness he felt he might throw up at any moment. He too ha
d to use the bathroom, but tried to think of other things.
The side porthole over his seating area occupied his attention almost totally during the last hour of flight. Sidney pressed his face against the glass, trying to get a first glorious glimpse of the habitat. The porthole was prismatic, allowing him to see forward along the ship’s course by adjusting a wall-mounted lever.
In the blackness of space ahead, Sidney knew one of the bright stars was not really a star. He watched until one began to grow dramatically in brightness.
The Saint Elba habitat! he thought, realizing it was reflecting sunlight from its position between the orbits of the Earth aid the Moon. Gradually the habitat’s brilliance far exceeded that of the stars beyond. Then it became a narrow band of reflected sunlight.
Within minutes; Sidney could make out identifying features. He recognized the burnished solar collector suspended above Saint Elba, and then the central hub, spokes and tubular outer rim. Saint Elba appeared to be graceful and serene, at once in harmony with itself and with the heavens.
For a time, Sidney was surprised at how small Saint Elba appeared, but as the IOTV matched the habitat’s orbit and approached, he began to realize the immensity of the structure. A thick glassplex and titanium outer rim resembled a balloon bicycle tire. He saw twinkling lights and buildings through glassplex on one side of the outer rim, then lost sight of the interior as the IOTV dipped to the habitat’s south side.
“Note that the spokes are rotating about the central hub,” an attendant said. ‘This creates pseudo-gravity in the outer rim.”
The attendant spoke while looking through another porthole two meters to Sidney’s left. Sidney looked at him, saw folds of pink flesh popping out of the man’s smock and hanging over his belt.
“I don’t see any movement in the outer rim,” Sidney said, raising his voice to be heard over the rustlings of people who were awakening.
“A thick cosmic shield is on this side,” the attendant said, glancing at Sidney. “The habitat rotates inside it. That shield is made of millions of metric tons of compacted Moon slag and dust.”
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